Archive of Our Own

At twenty-two, Napatsakorn Pingmuang was already tired of living. Not because he didn’t dream, or because he didn’t have talent—if anything, he was one of the most gifted students at Bangkok University’s Culinary School. His pastries were whispered about, his hands worked like a sculptor’s, and his desserts carried flavors that could make even the coldest heart feel warmth. But no one at university cared about his hands, his skill, or his talent. They only cared about one thing.

A video.

A four-year-old video, grainy but mercilessly clear, of a boy with flushed cheeks and trembling eyes. Of Namping, looking vulnerable, helpless, and forever branded. The truth had been carved out of it, edited away, erased. The laughter, the force, the way he had begged and cried for it to stop—gone. What remained was only his face: pretty, young, gasping in ways that strangers wanted to believe meant pleasure.

It was a lie.

It was the lie that ruined him.

When he was seventeen, naïve and soft-hearted, he had thought love was something fragile, something sweet like sugar spun into candy. His then-boyfriend, Pawat, had been older, charming, worldly. He had promised protection, affection, a taste of adulthood. Instead, he had drugged him, used him, and left him with scars no one could see. Worse, he had filmed it. Edited it. Spread it. And while Pawat went on to live untouched by consequences, Namping was left carrying a scarlet letter burned across his name.

Slut. Whore. Attention-seeker. Those words became his daily soundtrack.

By his third year in culinary school, he had learned how to shrink. He wore oversized sweaters to cover his fragile body, kept his gaze fixed on the floor, and spoke only when necessary. His voice, soft and trembling, was almost never heard.

But people never forgot him.

They never let him forget.

“Hey, Namping, when’s your next movie?” boys jeered as he walked into class.

“You look tired—been busy filming at night?” girls whispered behind hands painted with manicured nails.

Some were cruel enough to mimic the sounds from the video in the hallways, fake moans echoing until his hands shook so badly he dropped the books he was carrying.

Every day was survival. Every class was a battlefield.

And yet—he stayed. Because pastry was the only thing that still felt like his. When he kneaded dough, he could control how it rose. When he tempered chocolate, he could watch it shine under his care. In sugar, butter, and flour, he found silence. No whispers. No laughter. Only creation.

But even sugar couldn’t erase the bitterness inside him.

At night, when he lay in his dorm room staring at the ceiling, tears often slipped from the corners of his eyes. He hated himself for crying so easily, hated how weak he seemed. He wished he could be angry instead, wished he could fight back, wished he could scream the truth. But whenever he tried, whenever he thought about standing up, his throat closed and his chest burned like fire.

Who would believe him anyway?

Pawat had money, influence, a powerful family name. He had twisted the story so well that everyone believed Namping had begged for it, had liked it, had wanted it. That he was a boy hungry for attention, desperate enough to sell himself. That he was a disgrace.

And over time, Namping began to believe them too.

Maybe I am dirty. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe this is what I am.

These thoughts haunted him as much as the video did. He couldn’t look in the mirror without seeing the version of himself people whispered about. The slut. The whore. The boy from the video.

Still, under the layers of shame and fear, a tiny flame of yearning remained. What he wanted wasn’t much, not compared to others. He didn’t crave riches, fame, or even recognition for his desserts. He wanted something simple.

Peace.

A quiet life.

Someone who would believe him.

But those things felt as unreachable as the stars.

So he carried on, day after day, his eyes lowered, his lips trembling in forced silence. He carried his textbooks against his chest as though they were shields. He carried his piping bags and whisks like weapons of defense. But none of them could stop the way his classmates laughed when they brushed past him, whispering things they knew he could hear.

There were days when he thought about quitting. Dropping out, leaving Bangkok, disappearing where no one knew his name or his story. But then he thought of the kitchen—the sound of butter sizzling in a pan, the sweetness of cream whipped to soft peaks, the smell of warm bread—and he knew he couldn’t give that up.

It was all he had left.

And so, Namping endured. With tear-stained cheeks, trembling hands, and a heart heavy with scars, he endured.

But what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t yet imagine—was that life had a strange way of turning. That somewhere beyond the humiliation, beyond the endless cruelty, someone was watching him. Someone powerful enough to change the course of his life.

For now, though, Namping was only a boy carrying the weight of a lie too heavy for his fragile shoulders. A boy broken by a cruel world, yet still standing—barely, but still standing.

And that was the unfortunate truth about life.

____________________________________________

Bangkok University had never been kind to Namping. But some days, the cruelty carved deeper than others.

The girls always struck first. Their weapons weren’t fists or hands—they were words, smiles, and paper slips passed from desk to desk. Their laughter was light and lilting, almost sweet, but Namping knew the venom hidden beneath.

He sat at his workstation in culinary class, hands trembling as he tried to pipe cream onto a cake. His wrists were delicate, his fingers precise, but they shook too much whenever the giggles rose around him.

“Hey,” one girl whispered loudly enough for him to hear, “do you think he moans like that in real life? Or was it only for the camera?”

The table around her erupted into stifled laughter. Another girl, prettier, sharper, leaned forward. “No, I think it was real. Didn’t you see how red his cheeks were? He probably begged for it. Who would’ve thought someone so innocent-looking was such a slut?”

A folded piece of paper landed on his workstation. His throat went dry. He didn’t want to open it. He knew what it would say. But curiosity, fear, and shame forced his hand.

“Can you make a dessert that tastes like you? Bet it’s sweet and dirty.”

His vision blurred. He quickly stuffed the note into his pocket, as if hiding it could erase the words. His piping bag trembled, squeezing too much cream onto the cake. The swirl collapsed under his mistake, just like his chest collapsed under the weight of their whispers.

“Look, he ruined it,” a girl giggled, pointing. “Guess he’s only good at one thing.”

The laughter followed him even as class ended. Notes shoved into his apron, insults carved onto his desk with pens, mocking voices humming fake moans whenever he passed. The girls didn’t need to touch him—their words were enough to dig under his skin and poison him from the inside.

But the boys—they were different. They didn’t stop at words.

Walking down the corridor later that day, arms full of textbooks and ingredients, Namping kept his head low. He thought if he moved quickly, if he stayed silent, maybe they would ignore him.

He was wrong.

“Hey, pretty boy,” a voice called, slick and amused. “Going to film another video today?”

The group of boys lounging against the lockers smirked as he walked past. One of them reached out, pinching his waist sharply. Namping gasped, nearly dropping his books.

“Soft,” the boy chuckled, his friends snickering. “Bet the camera loved that.”

Another boy stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Taller, broader, with a grin that made Namping’s stomach twist. He reached out and cupped Namping’s cheek like a lover might—except the grip was too tight, the touch mocking.

“Smile for me,” he sneered, fingers digging into Namping’s soft skin. “C’mon, don’t you smile for the camera? Or do you only cry?”

His friends laughed. One mimicked fake sobs, another fake moans. The sound surrounded him, suffocating.

“P-please…” Namping whispered, tears already welling. “Don’t…”

But begging only made them bolder.

“Don’t? Don’t what?” the boy pressed, his thumb brushing dangerously close to Namping’s lips. “Don’t touch you? Or don’t stop?”

The laughter grew louder. One reached for his apron tie, tugging it loose, while another leaned close to whisper, “Bet you’d look so good on your knees right here.”

Namping’s tears spilled. His shoulders shook as he tried to clutch his books tighter, tried to escape, but the group closed in. The corridor suddenly felt like a cage.

“Cry, pretty boy. Cry for us,” someone jeered.

And he did. His tears streamed freely, his lips trembling, his sobs catching in his throat.

The boys laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. One pinched his waist again, harder this time, while another tugged at the collar of his sweater.

“You should be grateful,” one said mockingly. “We’re giving you practice for your next movie.”

His knees almost buckled. His books slipped from his hands, scattering across the floor. The sound of them hitting the tiles echoed louder than his sobs, but no one stopped to help. Students passing by only glanced, some with pity, most with amusement, none with action.

Because to them, this was normal.

This was Namping’s life.

Eventually, the boys grew bored. They shoved him lightly, just enough to send him stumbling back against the lockers, cheeks wet, chest heaving with sobs. They walked away laughing, their voices trailing off.

He sank to the floor, arms wrapped tightly around his books as if they could shield him from the cruelty of the world. His vision was blurry, his cheeks stung where fingers had pressed too hard, his chest felt crushed beneath invisible weight.

It wasn’t new. This had happened before. It would happen again. And yet—every time, it hurt just as much.

Every insult, every pinch, every laugh—it carved the memory of that video deeper into his soul. He couldn’t escape it. No matter how many times he whispered to himself that it wasn’t his fault, no matter how much he tried to remind himself of the truth, the voices around him were louder.

The girls’ words, sharp as glass.

The boys’ hands, heavy as chains.

Both tearing him apart in their own ways.

And in the quiet aftermath, as he picked up his fallen books with trembling hands, the thought returned to him. The same thought that haunted him every single day.

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe I am dirty.

Maybe this is all I’ll ever be.

His tears fell onto the cover of his textbook, staining the paper. He clutched it tighter, wishing he could disappear into the pages, into flour and sugar and butter, into a world where sweetness drowned out cruelty.

But reality was cruel.

Reality was this.

And Namping, fragile as glass, had no choice but to keep breaking and breaking until there was nothing left.

____________________________________________

In his first year, Namping had believed the kitchen classroom could save him.

Professors were different from classmates, he had thought. Professors weren’t cruel or childish. Professors judged by skill, not by rumor. Professors were adults who could see through lies.

For a time, that was true.

When he was seventeen, still trembling from the aftermath of the video, his culinary professors had gathered around him like a protective circle. They praised his delicate hands, the precision of his piping, the creativity in his flavor combinations. They told him that one day he would become one of Bangkok’s finest pastry chefs. They encouraged him to submit desserts for competitions, to believe in himself, to keep pushing despite the whispers.

And Namping, fragile and broken as he was, had clung to those words. He had thought: Maybe the world is cruel, but at least my professors believe in me.

But time has a way of corroding faith.

By his third year, the whispers had grown too loud. The rumors, too heavy. And one by one, the professors who once rooted for him began to pull away. Their voices changed—from gentle encouragement to sharp-edged remarks that cut deeper than knives.

It started small.

“You’re late again, Namping,” Professor Arun scolded one morning, though he had arrived only two minutes after the bell. “If you have time to… play around at night, you should have time to arrive on time for class.”

The entire room had snickered. Namping had bowed his head, cheeks burning.

Then it grew worse.

During a practical exam, Namping’s cake collapsed in the oven. The batter hadn’t risen properly; his trembling hands had measured the flour wrong. He stood frozen in front of the sunken sponge, trying to breathe through the panic rising in his chest.

Professor Malee clicked her tongue. “For someone who claims to love pastry, you don’t seem to take it seriously. Or maybe you’re distracted with other… performances.”

The class erupted in quiet laughter. Namping’s heart sank lower than his cake.

Day after day, the comments sharpened.

“Your work lacks discipline. Maybe you should stick to entertaining rather than baking.”

“Your hands shake too much—unless they’re holding something else?”

“You think you’ll ever open a shop with this reputation? No one would buy from you.”

Each word was a lash against his fragile self. Coming from professors—mentors he had once idolized—it cut deeper than anything his classmates had ever said.

Once, after presenting a tray of macarons, he stood nervously as Professor Arun inspected them. The shells were smooth, glossy, perfect by any standard. But the man sneered as he bit into one.

“Sweet,” Arun said. “But I suppose that’s expected, isn’t it? You’ve had plenty of practice being sweet.”

The classroom roared with cruel laughter. Namping stood frozen, clutching the tray so tightly his knuckles turned white. His throat closed, tears pricking his eyes, but he bit his lip until he tasted blood.

He couldn’t cry here. Not in front of them.

But the tears came anyway. Hot, unrelenting, sliding down his cheeks as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Sorry for what? For baking? For existing? For being the boy in the video? He didn’t know anymore.

It wasn’t just words. Professors began docking his grades for the smallest mistakes, ignoring his raised hand in class, refusing to pair him with other students for group projects. He was isolated, marked, branded even in the place he loved most.

Where once they had been his supporters, now they were his executioners.

And the betrayal hurt worse than any shove, worse than any pinch, worse than any note scrawled with cruel words. Because professors were supposed to be different. Professors were supposed to protect him.

Instead, they sharpened their tongues like knives and carved him open with them.

One afternoon, after yet another humiliating lecture, Namping sat alone in the empty classroom. His tray of pastries lay untouched on the counter. He stared at the perfect éclairs he had piped, the glossy chocolate glaze, the delicate dusting of powdered sugar.

They were beautiful. They tasted divine. He knew this. He had poured his heart into them.

And yet, the professors had dismissed them with a laugh. “Looks good, but I can’t help wondering if you used the same mouth as in the video to pipe the cream.”

The words echoed in his skull, louder than the tick of the clock.

His hands shook violently as he picked up an éclair. He wanted to smash it against the wall, wanted to scream that he wasn’t dirty, that he wasn’t who they said he was. But instead, he sank to the floor, clutching the pastry to his chest, sobbing until his throat burned.

What was the point anymore?

Why bake?

Why try?

Why keep enduring when even his biggest supporters had abandoned him?

He wanted to disappear. To crumble like sugar under water, to vanish like flour sifted into the air.

But even as the thought of quitting clawed at him, something fragile kept him tethered. A whisper deep inside: Pastry is all you have left. Don’t let them take this too.

So he picked himself up. He wiped his tears with flour-dusted hands. He cleaned the counters, boxed the éclairs, and left the classroom with swollen eyes and a hollow chest.

The world was cruel. His classmates were cruel. His professors were cruel.

And Namping—broken, soft, delicate Namping—was left alone to carry the weight of it all.

The boy who once dreamed of opening a bakery now dreamed only of survival.

And that, he thought bitterly, was the cruelest truth of all: even the people you trust most will turn against you.

____________________________________________

When Keng Harit Buayoi set foot on the campus of Bangkok University, the world shifted.

It was subtle at first: a ripple through the student body, a tremor of whispers, a sudden buzz that spread from classroom to cafeteria to lecture hall. By the end of the first morning, it wasn’t subtle at all. The name “Keng Harit” was on everyone’s lips.

Because how could it not be?

He wasn’t just another student, another law major hiding behind textbooks and caffeine. Keng Harit was already a legend, and legends didn’t walk through campus gates quietly.

At twenty-two, he had already played for some of the most prestigious football clubs across Asia and Europe. He had scored goals that brought nations to their feet, interviews that made journalists stumble over their words, and photoshoots that graced magazine covers across the continent. He was the golden boy of Thai football: fast, precise, terrifyingly focused.

But he wasn’t only a player. He was a Buayoi.

The Buayoi family was power incarnate—money, politics, law, reputation. The kind of family name that made doors open before you even knocked. And Keng wasn’t the spoiled heir people expected him to be. He was the son who had chosen to major in criminal law, the athlete who studied statutes between practices, the boy who had memorized legal codes while his teammates memorized party schedules.

A rare creature. Beautiful, powerful, untouchable.

And now, he was here. On their campus. A student among them.

The first day of his arrival felt like a festival. Girls lined the hallway outside his lecture room, clutching books they didn’t intend to read. Boys tried to act casual but found themselves sneaking glances, muttering his name as though invoking luck. Professors straightened their backs, smoothed their shirts, and pretended not to glow with pride at having him in their classes.

Keng noticed all of it—and cared for none of it.

He had the face of someone who had been stared at his whole life and had long grown bored of it. Sharp jawline, warm bronze skin, dark eyes that smoldered even when he was silent. His hair was neatly styled but never too polished, like he had rolled out of bed perfectly put together. His body carried the athletic grace of a man who trained daily, broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, each movement precise and effortless.

But it was his aura that made people stumble. Confident without arrogance, playful without softness, a smile that made you question whether he was teasing or flirting—or both.

Keng Harit Buayoi walked like he owned the ground beneath his feet.

“Harit, my boy!” one professor greeted too eagerly, clapping him on the shoulder as though they’d been lifelong friends. “We are honored to have you here in our law program.”

Keng flashed a grin, charming and easy. “I’m honored to be here, Ajarn. Just a student like everyone else.”

Everyone else. The lie almost made him laugh.

Because he wasn’t like everyone else. Not even close.

In the cafeteria, his tray remained untouched as he scrolled through case briefs on his tablet. A group of girls sat down at the next table, their giggles constant, their eyes darting to him every other second. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He could feel the weight of their attention like the heat of the midday sun.

When one finally gathered the courage to ask if he’d like company, he glanced up with a smile that made her blush crimson. “I’m flattered,” he said smoothly, “but I like to eat alone.”

Not cruel. Not harsh. Just a boundary delivered so effortlessly that she could only nod, heart racing.

He had that effect on people.

Despite his fame, Keng wasn’t reckless. He had discipline stitched into his bones, a soldier’s mentality honed from years of training. Wake at dawn, train until sweat burned his skin, study until his eyes blurred, repeat. He didn’t waste time with distractions. Women, parties, alcohol—none of it mattered. He had goals, and he chased them with ferocity.

But behind that discipline, behind the golden-boy smile and polished interviews, lay a streak of mischief. He enjoyed teasing, pushing buttons, making people stumble with a single smirk. He liked being admired, but he liked being underestimated even more. There was nothing sweeter than proving people wrong.

That was Keng Harit Buayoi.

The golden boy. The prodigy. The law student with the heart of a warrior.

Yet, for all his perfection, Keng was restless. Fame was a glittering cage. Every goal, every magazine cover, every chant of his name in stadiums felt like a chain around his ankle. He wanted more than just the roar of the crowd. He wanted impact, justice, something that mattered beyond the scoreboard.

That’s why he was here—back in Bangkok, back in school, trading stadium lights for classroom fluorescents. He wanted to understand the law, to wield it, to make it his weapon. His parents had been surprised when he enrolled, but Keng had smiled and told them, “Football is my talent. Law will be my legacy.”

And though whispers swirled around him—about the parties he refused, the girls he ignored, the arrogance people assumed—Keng remained unfazed. Let them talk. Let them speculate.

Because Keng Harit Buayoi didn’t live for their approval.

He lived for the game. For the fight. For the thrill of standing on the edge and knowing he could tip the balance either way.

And though he didn’t know it yet, fate was preparing to hand him a fight unlike any other. A fight not on the field, but in courtrooms and corridors. A fight that would lead him straight into the path of a fragile boy with tear-stained cheeks and trembling hands.

But for now, Keng Harit was simply a king arriving in his kingdom, unaware that somewhere within these very walls lived a boy whose life had been painted in cruelty.

Unaware that their fates were already tangled.

____________________________________________

The boys were relentless today.

Namping sat at the edge of his seat in the lecture hall, notebook clutched tight, praying for invisibility. His professor had just dismissed class, and like clockwork, the boys from the back row descended. They weren’t loud at first—never loud enough for faculty to notice—but their presence was suffocating.

“Oi, cutie,” one sneered, plopping down beside him, too close. “Why don’t you smile for us, hm?” His fingers brushed Namping’s cheek as though he owned it.

Namping flinched, pulling back, clutching his bag tighter.

Another boy leaned in from behind, pinching his waist cruelly. “So soft. You sure you’re not made for something else? Movies, maybe?” The word movies dripped with a mocking edge, an echo of the viral clip that had ruined him.

Their laughter stabbed into him like knives.

He whispered, “Please stop…” but his voice was too quiet, swallowed by the pounding in his ears.

“Aw, look, he’s gonna cry,” a third boy teased, cupping Namping’s chin mockingly. “Go on, sweetheart. Give us a show.”

And just like that, the dam broke. His eyes blurred, his throat tightened, and hot tears slid down his cheeks before he could stop them. He hated it—hated how easily they won, how his body betrayed him every time. His sobs were soft, broken things that only fueled their amusement.

The classroom emptied around them. Some students looked away, pretending not to see. Others whispered, smirked, shook their heads. No one helped.

Namping’s chest heaved. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stay here another second.

Grabbing his bag, half-shoving his notes inside, he bolted. His vision swam, his feet stumbled, and all he wanted was to escape—to run until the voices disappeared. His tears fell faster than he could wipe them, blurring the hallway into streaks of white and gray.

And then—impact.

He collided hard with someone coming around the corner. His body bounced back, his bag slipping from his shoulder, papers scattering across the polished floor like snowflakes. He fell to his knees, palms stinging as they hit the ground.

“I—I’m sorry—” His words broke off into another sob.

The stranger crouched down instantly, large hands already gathering the mess of fallen notes and pens. His voice was steady, warm, almost commanding. “Hey, slow down. You okay?”

But Namping couldn’t look at him. His shame was a suffocating blanket, his tears uncontrollable. He snatched papers with trembling hands, shoved them into his bag, and avoided eye contact. The stranger’s touch brushed his knuckles as they both reached for the same page, and it sent a jolt through him—not of fear, but of something unfamiliar.

“Here,” the man said gently, holding out the last of the scattered notes.

Namping took them with shaking fingers, muttering a broken, “Thank you,” before scrambling to his feet. His sobs betrayed him, loud and raw in the quiet corridor. He clutched his bag to his chest like armor, bowed his head, and ran again—disappearing around the corner before the man could speak another word.

Keng Harit Buayoi stood frozen, the last sheet of paper still in his hand. His dark brows furrowed. The boy hadn’t looked at him once, but the image of those tear-streaked cheeks and trembling shoulders etched itself into his mind.

His gaze dropped to the floor. That’s when he saw it.

A small hair clip, shaped like a strawberry, glimmered under the fluorescent lights. Innocent. Childlike. A piece of softness dropped in the middle of chaos.

Keng bent down and picked it up. Turning it over in his fingers, he imagined the boy wearing it, imagined those shaking hands once carefully pinning it into soft hair.

His chest tightened.

“Who was that…?” he murmured to himself.

He slipped the strawberry clip into his pocket before straightening, his jaw tense. Something about the encounter clung to him, refusing to let go. That boy hadn’t just been sad—he had looked shattered.

And what Keng didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that dozens of eyes had seen.

Students in the hallway, a few lingering near classroom doors, caught every second of the collision. They saw Keng Harit, the golden boy, kneeling on the ground, helping the university’s most ridiculed student gather his things. They saw the strawberry clip glint before disappearing into Keng’s hand.

Whispers began before Namping’s sobs had even faded down the hall.

“Did you see that? Keng picked up his stuff—”

“He was crying so hard. And Keng helped him.”

“Do you think they know each other?”

“No way… but Keng kept the clip. I saw it.”

The story would spread like wildfire by sundown.

And though Namping would crawl into bed that night, burying his face in his pillow to muffle his sobs, convinced the world had only seen his weakness again—Keng Harit Buayoi would lie awake, staring at a strawberry clip on his nightstand, wondering about the boy who had collided with him like a storm.

The boy whose sadness had imprinted itself on his soul.

The boy he couldn’t forget.

____________________________________________

The video clip hit the internet before the clock even struck midnight.

It wasn’t the original nightmare—the one that had haunted Namping’s life for years. No, this one was new. Just a shaky phone recording of him colliding with Keng Harit Buayoi in the university corridor. But even with its low quality, it carried enough weight to ignite chaos.

A boy, crying, trembling, scattering his books.

A star athlete bending down to help him.

A strawberry clip glinting before disappearing into Keng’s hand.

That was all it took.

By morning, hashtags swirled across Line, TikTok, and Instagram:

#KengAndTheCryingBoy

#StrawberryClipBoy

#AttentionSeeker

The campus gossip boards went feral.

“Not him crying ON PURPOSE just to get Keng’s attention 💀 pathetic.”

“He always cries. It’s like his only talent.”

“Mark my words, he staged that. No way it’s a coincidence.”

“Keng is an international athlete, why would he ever want someone like that near him?”

“Lmao strawberry clip boy really thinks he’s Cinderella.”

The cruelty wasn’t new, but the volume was louder. Amplified. Namping’s name—mocked, dragged, chewed apart—trended among students and locals alike.

The “debates” quickly spiraled beyond the campus. Memes flooded group chats: Namping’s crying face pasted on movie posters, his strawberry clip photoshopped into ridiculous scenarios. Threads analyzed his every movement, his tears, his history.

Half the university accused him of trying to taint Keng’s reputation.

“Keng is too perfect, they’re trying to drag him down with pity stories.”

“Strawberry clip boy is desperate. He wants fame, sympathy, anything.”

“He knows how to use his tears. Disgusting.”

The other half defended Keng—not Namping, never Namping.

“I trust Keng, but he should be careful. That boy’s a trap.”

“Stay away, Keng. Don’t ruin yourself over someone everyone hates already.”

“Didn’t you hear? There’s a video from years ago… he’s not innocent.”

The old wound resurfaced with new venom. The four-year-old clip resurfaced in private chats, re-shared with mocking captions, weaponized again. Screenshots of distorted images began circulating, painting him as a predator when he had been the victim.

And Namping never saw it.

He had deactivated all his accounts months ago, long before this mess began. He had learned the hard way that every notification was a dagger. Now, he lived in silence—oblivious to the wildfire spreading his name, convinced that if he avoided the internet, he could at least keep one small corner of his life untouched.

But silence didn’t mean safety.

Even without his presence, the voices reached him indirectly. He could feel the stares in the cafeteria, the mocking snickers in the hallways. Classmates whispered louder than usual, notes folded and tossed into his lap with cruel sketches of crying faces.

His absence online made him easier to sculpt into a villain. Without his voice, the world was free to decide who he was.

And somewhere across the campus, Keng Harit Buayoi sat in his apartment, scrolling through the chaos.

His phone screen glowed with post after post, thousands of comments dissecting a boy he didn’t even know. The more he read, the more his chest tightened. He had expected whispers after the hallway incident—he wasn’t blind to how obsessed people were with him—but this… this was beyond anything he’d imagined.

He watched memes loop endlessly: Namping’s shoulders shaking, his head bowed, exaggerated with clown emojis and captions like “When the Academy is looking for Best Actor.”

He read accusations: that Namping was manipulative, that he was a slut, that he had trapped older men before. Stories mutated like viruses, half-truths reshaped until they became gospel.

But through the noise, one thing was clear.

Nobody was talking about Namping like he was human.

Keng leaned back on his couch, thumb frozen on the screen. His jaw clenched. He could almost hear the boy’s sobs again—the raw, broken sound that hadn’t felt staged at all. No camera could capture the way his hands had trembled, the way his chest had heaved like it was collapsing inward.

Those weren’t the cries of an actor.

Still, he didn’t type a word. Didn’t like or share or defend. He knew better than to step into the flames. One comment from him could tilt the entire storm, but it could also drown the boy deeper.

So he watched. Observed. Collected every shard of information the internet threw his way.

And quietly, in the back of his mind, he wondered:

Who are you, Strawberry Clip Boy?

Meanwhile, the university cafeteria buzzed like a hive that afternoon. Screens glowed at every table, laughter bubbling as students passed phones around. A group of girls leaned close, giggling over a TikTok edit of Namping crying set to dramatic music.

“Look at his face. He lives for this kind of attention.”

Another snorted. “And Keng, poor Keng, probably thought he was just helping a stranger. Bet he regrets it now.”

Across the room, a cluster of boys howled with laughter, shoving one another’s shoulders as they scrolled. One mimicked crying sounds, exaggerated and mocking, while another shoved a strawberry into his mouth and said, “Look at me, I’m Strawberry Boy, notice me Keng!”

The cafeteria erupted in laughter.

Namping sat alone at the far corner, hunched over his tray, picking at a cold sandwich. He didn’t know the source of the laughter, didn’t know his image was looping on screens across the room. But he felt it—the weight of invisible fingers pointing, the ache of being a punchline. His stomach turned until he couldn’t swallow.

He excused himself quietly, tray untouched, and slipped out before the laughter reached him.

Outside, the sun was warm, the campus alive with chatter, but he felt none of it. He just pressed his forehead against the cool metal of a stairwell railing, clutching his bag to his chest. His body trembled as though it knew something he didn’t—that the world had once again painted him into a villain.

And far away, in his silent apartment, Keng scrolled one last time before locking his phone. He tapped his pocket, feeling the strawberry clip resting there.

The boy might have disappeared from the internet. But the internet hadn’t disappeared from him.

And Keng wasn’t ready to look away.

____________________________________________

The campus courtyard was buzzing with its usual midday chaos. Students lounged across benches, balancing coffee cups and textbooks, gossip spilling into the air like perfume. Everywhere Keng Harit Buayoi went, eyes followed him—admiring, curious, hungry. Most days, he let it roll off his shoulders. But today, he was restless.

The image of a crying boy colliding with him still clung to the back of his mind. And worse, the wildfire of gossip had painted that fragile figure into something far more sinister. He needed answers.

Crossing the lawn, he spotted a group of girls from the engineering faculty—bright skirts, manicured nails, their laughter sharp as glass. They were exactly the type who knew everything about everyone.

He approached with the easy confidence people expected of him. “Excuse me,” he said, voice calm, low.

Their heads snapped up in unison. One girl nearly dropped her phone, her cheeks pinking. “K–Keng Harit?” she stammered, while the others giggled behind their hands.

“Yeah,” he said casually, hands shoved in his pockets. “I wanted to ask… about that boy. The one from culinary school. The one who…” His words trailed, but the weight of his gaze made it clear.

Their smiles widened like cats catching a mouse. “You mean him,” one girl sneered, twirling her hair. “The strawberry clip crybaby.”

Another leaned in conspiratorially. “You should stay away, Keng. He’s trouble. Everyone knows it.”

Keng tilted his head slightly. “Trouble? How?”

The girls exchanged glances, thrilled to have his attention, and then unleashed.

“He pretends to be innocent,” one said, voice dripping with disdain. “Always crying, always acting like a victim. But four years ago? He showed who he really is.”

“He seduced an older guy,” another cut in quickly, her voice louder, juicier. “Got him to sleep with him, and then—” she snapped her fingers dramatically—“he leaked it. Made the guy look bad. Totally ruined his reputation.”

“Slut,” a third girl giggled. “That’s what he is. Can’t keep his legs closed.”

Their laughter was cruel, the kind that carried, making nearby students glance over with knowing smirks.

Keng’s expression didn’t change. His face remained smooth, polite, unreadable. But deep inside, something sharp twisted.

“Show me,” he said evenly, voice steady as stone.

The girls blinked. “Show… you?”

“The video,” he clarified, his tone leaving no room for refusal.

They squealed, covering their mouths like schoolgirls, exchanging excited looks. Then one pulled out her phone, fingers tapping quickly before she turned the screen toward him.

The video began.

It was grainy, poorly lit. A younger Namping—seventeen, with softer features and innocence still clinging to his face—lay sprawled across a bed. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, his body clearly sluggish under something unseen. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even there. But the way the video was cut, the way it zoomed only on his face, told another story.

The moans that echoed were edited, unnatural, dubbed to sound like pleasure. His tears—real tears—were spliced between frames to look like cries of ecstasy. Every detail was designed to humiliate.

The girls giggled as it played. “See? Look at his face. He loved it.”

“God, he’s disgusting. Seventeen and already a whore.”

“No wonder everyone treats him like trash now.”

Keng didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but his pupils had darkened, his stare heavy as lead. His jaw twitched once, barely noticeable. His hand tightened in his pocket, fingers closing around the strawberry clip he’d kept since the hallway.

He watched until the end, silent. When the video finally cut off, the girls looked at him eagerly, waiting for his reaction.

“Well?” one pressed, smirking. “Now you understand why people hate him, right?”

Keng lifted his eyes slowly, meeting theirs with a calm so cold it burned. “Thanks for showing me,” he said softly.

They giggled again, triumphant. “Anytime, Keng!”

He left without another word.

—

Back in his dorm, silence pressed against him like a weight. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced against his knees, the strawberry clip dangling from his fingers.

The video replayed in his mind. Not the giggles, not the cruel commentary, but the truth beneath the edits. He had seen it—clearer than anyone else. The sluggish eyes, the unfocused expression, the trembling tears. Those weren’t the signs of pleasure. They were the signs of someone who had been drugged. Someone too young to fight back. Someone broken.

And yet the world had eaten it up as entertainment.

His jaw clenched again, harder this time. The rage simmered low, dangerous, like a fire barely restrained. He had seen athletes crumble under pressure, rivals cheat their way to glory—but this? This was something else. This was cruelty dressed up as fact, a lie weaponized until it became unshakable truth.

He was probably the only person who hadn’t mistaken Namping’s tears for lust.

And that thought rattled in his chest like a promise.

Keng stared at the strawberry clip until his vision blurred. He could still hear the boy’s sobs from the hallway, raw and real, nothing like the fabricated soundtrack of that cursed video.

A vow formed silently in his mind, dark and heavy: he would find out what really happened. And when he did, the world that laughed at Namping would regret every word, every jeer, every scar they carved into him.

For now, he sat in the shadows of his dorm, clip in hand, rage festering quietly.

And in that quiet, Keng Harit Buayoi—the golden boy, the untouchable star—was no longer just curious.

He was dangerous.

____________________________________________

The cafeteria was too loud. Namping hated it.

The clatter of trays, the shrieks of laughter, the squeak of sneakers on the polished floor—all of it pressed against his fragile nerves until he wanted to curl up small, disappear, fold himself into a corner no one could touch. He sat at the very edge of the room, a single seat tucked against the wall, a plastic tray of untouched food in front of him.

He wasn’t hungry. He rarely was these days. Food only reminded him of how empty he felt, how even flavors seemed dulled by the constant pressure of eyes, whispers, giggles.

It was no surprise, then, that he didn’t notice the shadow falling across his table until a low voice broke the hum around him.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Namping’s head snapped up, wide eyes blinking through long lashes still slightly damp from his earlier crying spell in class. His throat went dry.

Keng Harit Buayoi stood there.

Even dressed casually—in joggers and a black hoodie—the aura of him was overwhelming. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome in a way that didn’t feel real. His presence drew the room’s attention without effort. Students glanced up, some openly staring, some whispering, some pretending not to watch but unable to look away.

Namping’s pulse spiked. He gripped the edge of his tray so tightly his knuckles whitened. “W-Why… why would you sit here?” His voice came out small, broken, trembling.

Keng tilted his head slightly, almost like he was puzzled by the question. “Because I want to.”

He slid into the seat across from him before Namping could protest further, setting his own tray down. He didn’t push food toward Namping, didn’t comment on his untouched plate, didn’t crowd him. He just… sat. Calm. Solid.

For Namping, the silence was unbearable. His body screamed at him to run, to escape before this turned into another trick, another trap where laughter would follow and the world would collapse again. He swallowed hard, tears already burning at the edges of his eyes.

“You shouldn’t,” he whispered.

Keng blinked. “Shouldn’t what?”

“Sit here. Be near me.” His voice cracked on the last word. “People will… will laugh at you. They’ll say things.”

Keng leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze steady. “Let them.”

That simple answer pierced something deep in Namping’s chest. He shook his head quickly, curls bouncing. “No. You don’t understand. They’ll twist everything. They’ll—” His breath hitched, panic rising like a wave. “This is just another way to humiliate me, isn’t it? Pretend to be nice, then—then laugh with your friends later?”

The words came out like knives, sharp and defensive, but his trembling hands betrayed the truth. He wasn’t angry. He was scared. Terrified.

Keng’s chest tightened at the sight. The boy looked like a porcelain doll on the verge of shattering—one wrong touch and he’d break into pieces too small to glue back together.

“No,” Keng said softly, firmly. “That’s not what this is.”

Namping bit his lip until it almost bled, eyes flickering down to the strawberry clip pinned at the corner of his bag strap—the one he hadn’t noticed was missing yet. His whole body trembled, the cafeteria sounds blurring into white noise around them.

Keng reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the little clip he’d been carrying since the hallway. He almost pulled it out, almost placed it on the table between them, but stopped. Not yet. Instead, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I just thought… maybe you’d want a friend.”

Namping’s head jerked up, his tear-filled eyes blinking at him like he’d spoken in another language. “A… a friend?” The word tasted foreign on his tongue, as though he’d forgotten its meaning.

Keng nodded, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Hi, I’m Keng. Wanna be friends with me?”

The line was silly, boyish even, like something out of a primary school playground. But Keng meant it. Meant every word.

For a split second, Namping almost believed him. Almost. But then the memory of cruel laughter, of mocking hands grabbing his waist, of professors spitting venom—of that cursed video—crashed over him. His throat closed. His tears spilled.

“You’re lying,” he whispered hoarsely. “Everyone lies.” He shoved his chair back, the scrape loud in the cafeteria. “I don’t… I don’t want this.”

And before Keng could stop him, Namping grabbed his tray, dumped it on the return rack, and fled—his sobs leaving a trail the whole room could hear.

Eyes turned, whispers rose.

“Knew it.”

“He’s pathetic.”

“Imagine thinking Keng would actually be his friend.”

But Keng didn’t look at them. He sat there, jaw tight, fingers curling into fists on the table. He could still feel the weight of Namping’s fear, could still see the way those words—You’re lying, everyone lies—had torn themselves from his fragile chest.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the strawberry clip. Setting it on the table, he stared at it in silence, the cafeteria noise fading into nothing.

He didn’t know how yet. Didn’t know when.

But Keng Harit Buayoi had decided something in that moment.

He would be Namping’s friend. Even if it took time. Even if it took breaking down walls one by one. Even if the boy screamed, sobbed, and pushed him away a thousand times.

Because Keng had seen something no one else had.

Those weren’t the tears of an actor.

They were the tears of someone begging to be saved.

And Keng had never been one to turn away from a fight worth winning.

____________________________________________

Namping thought the cafeteria incident would be the end of it.

He had made himself clear—he didn’t want friendship, didn’t want kindness, didn’t want anyone dragging him into another cruel joke at his expense. The humiliation of running out sobbing while the entire cafeteria whispered behind their hands was still raw, still gnawing at him every night before he fell into restless dreams.

So why was Keng Harit Buayoi still around?

At first, it was subtle. Too subtle for anyone but Namping to notice.

A heavy lecture hall door that normally stuck halfway open—suddenly pushed wide before Namping could struggle with it.

A seat in the back row, always empty until the very moment Namping arrived—saved, silently, without fuss.

A tray of food set down at the far end of the cafeteria table where Namping sat alone—not beside him, but close enough that he knew he wasn’t completely invisible.

Keng never spoke. Not at first. He didn’t ask again. He didn’t force. He simply… showed up.

Day after day.

And Namping hated it.

Or at least, he told himself he did. Because every time he saw Keng’s tall figure at the edge of his vision, every time he caught the faintest hint of cologne in the hallway, his chest tightened in a way that was not just fear. It was something else—something warmer, something dangerous.

It made him feel noticed.

And being noticed had always been his curse.

One rainy afternoon, Namping sat in the library, his notes spread across the table in neat little rows. His fingers trembled as he flipped pages, the words blurring together. He wasn’t studying anymore. He was hiding. The sound of laughter from the hall earlier still echoed in his ears—boys taunting him, girls smirking as they passed.

He jumped when a chair scraped against the floor across from him.

Keng. Again.

This time, though, he didn’t just sit. He set something down on the table—a packet of strawberry milk, condensation still clinging to the plastic. Without a word, he pushed it across to Namping, then opened his own notebook and began scribbling equations as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

Namping stared at the drink. His lips parted, but no sound came.

It was such a small thing. Silly, even. But strawberry milk had been his comfort since childhood. Sweet, soft, pink. The kind of thing people mocked him for loving, but also the one thing he couldn’t give up.

How did Keng know?

“Why?” Namping finally whispered, his voice trembling in the quiet of the library.

Keng looked up from his notebook, dark eyes calm. “You looked like you needed it.”

Namping’s breath caught. His fingers itched to grab the drink, to hold it, to let himself believe for one foolish second that someone had noticed something he liked without turning it into a weapon against him.

But then the voices in his head returned. They’re all the same. He’s playing with you. You’ll drink it and later, he’ll laugh.

With shaking hands, Namping pushed the milk back across the table. His eyes brimmed with tears. “Stop… stop doing this. Please.”

Keng didn’t frown. Didn’t argue. He simply pushed the milk right back, slow and steady, until it touched Namping’s fingertips again.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Keng said quietly. “But I’m not taking it back.”

And then he went back to writing, as though the conversation were over.

For the rest of the hour, Namping sat frozen, staring at the little pink carton like it was both salvation and poison.

He left the library with the milk clutched in his bag.

⸻

Keng’s persistence was not in grand gestures. It was in the quiet repetition, the small acts that wove themselves into the edges of Namping’s days.

A seat. A door. A drink.

Every time, Namping resisted. He rejected, he cried, he whispered pleas for Keng to stop. And every time, Keng didn’t. He never pushed harder than necessary, never cornered him, never raised his voice. He simply stayed.

Like a shadow.

Like gravity.

One evening, as the sun dipped low over the campus, Namping sat alone on a bench beneath the sakura trees. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, his face buried in his hands. He hadn’t noticed the footsteps until a quiet voice broke the air.

“You dropped this.”

He looked up through blurry eyes. Keng stood there, holding out a folded piece of paper.

Namping took it with trembling fingers. When he opened it, his stomach dropped. It was another cruel note, the kind slipped onto his desk by giggling girls—this one scrawled with obscenities and laughter at his expense.

He looked up, expecting mockery.

But Keng’s expression was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes dark. “Don’t listen to them.”

Namping’s lip quivered. “You don’t understand… everyone listens to them. Even me.” His voice cracked, a sob slipping free.

Keng didn’t reach out. Didn’t touch. He simply sat down on the other end of the bench, silent, steady. Close enough to be felt. Far enough not to scare him.

For the first time in years, Namping’s sobs echoed into the evening air with someone there to hear them.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel completely alone.

⸻

Keng Harit Buayoi was persistent. Not in the way that demanded or forced. But in the way of mountains, of tides, of things too strong to be shaken by fear.

Slowly, brick by brick, he was building something around Namping.

Not a trap. Not a cage.

A shelter.

____________________________________________

For days, Namping had been watching the edges of his life crumble.

He thought he could ignore Keng if he kept his head down, if he never responded, if he stayed buried behind trembling hands and wet lashes. But ignoring Keng Harit Buayoi was like ignoring the sun—it didn’t matter how much you squinted, how much you shielded yourself, his presence was undeniable.

Keng never raised his voice. Never mocked. Never demanded. He simply remained. And that—more than cruelty—was what unsettled Namping the most.

Because kindness had always been the sharpest blade.

⸻

It was late evening when the shift came. The culinary labs were emptying, students rushing out with laughter clattering through the halls. Namping stayed behind, wiping down his workstation with quiet precision. His body ached, his chest heavy with exhaustion. His professors had been unusually cruel today, turning every little mistake into a cutting remark. His classmates hadn’t been much better—one had tugged at his apron strings until they snapped, leaving him exposed and red-faced.

He just wanted to finish and disappear.

But as he turned to leave, his path was blocked.

Keng leaned casually against the doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, looking effortlessly composed even in the fluorescent kitchen light.

Namping froze, heart lurching into his throat.

“W-what are you doing here?” he whispered, clutching his bag strap like a lifeline.

Keng tilted his head, studying him. “Waiting for you.”

The words hit like a spark.

Namping’s pulse raced, his stomach twisting. Fear. Confusion. A flicker of something else he didn’t dare name. “Why? I told you—I don’t want—”

“You don’t want a friend,” Keng finished, voice even, calm. “I heard you. Twice.”

“Then why—”

“Because I don’t listen to lies.”

Namping’s breath caught. His lips parted, but no words came. He wasn’t lying. He couldn’t want this. He shouldn’t want this.

Before he could scramble away, Keng moved.

Not fast. Not threatening. Just steady. He stepped forward, closed the space between them, and reached out.

Namping flinched, bracing for cruelty—for a shove, a grab, the kind of touch that always carried sharp edges.

But Keng’s hand only brushed his wrist. Light. Barely there. His fingers curled slowly, gently, guiding Namping’s hand away from his death grip on the bag strap.

The contact was electric.

Namping gasped, tears stinging his eyes. “D-don’t—”

“I won’t hurt you,” Keng murmured. His voice was low, almost tender. “Not ever.”

He eased the bag from Namping’s shoulder, letting it slip down and rest safely at their feet. Then, with deliberate care, he lifted Namping’s trembling hands away from his chest and held them between his own.

Warmth. Firmness. Not suffocating—anchoring.

Namping’s world tilted. His breath came in shallow bursts. Every muscle screamed at him to run, but his body betrayed him. He couldn’t move. Not because of fear. Because of the gentleness.

No one had ever held him like this.

No one had touched him without trying to take.

“You don’t get to decide when I give up,” Keng said softly, his thumbs brushing over the back of Namping’s hands. “You can push me away a hundred times. I’ll still be here the next day.”

Namping’s lips trembled. “Why?”

“Because you don’t deserve to be alone.”

The words shattered something inside him. A sob clawed up his throat before he could swallow it down, raw and ugly and loud. His knees buckled, but Keng was already there—an arm sliding around his waist, firm and unyielding yet impossibly gentle, lowering him to the edge of the counter.

Namping buried his face against Keng’s chest, shaking violently. Every instinct screamed that this was dangerous, that touch was a weapon, that people always twisted softness into cruelty. But Keng’s arms never tightened too hard. His grip never turned sharp.

It was a cage, yes. But one made of warmth.

And for once, Namping didn’t feel trapped. He felt… held.

⸻

Minutes passed—maybe hours.

When his sobs finally slowed, Namping pulled back just enough to look up. His cheeks were streaked with tears, his lashes wet, his lips swollen from crying. He expected to see smugness, pity, or disgust.

But Keng only looked at him steadily, eyes dark but soft, as though he were holding something fragile and sacred.

“You don’t know me,” Namping whispered, voice hoarse.

“Not yet,” Keng replied. “But I want to.”

Namping’s chest ached, his head screaming at him to run. But his body remained where it was—hands still caught between Keng’s, trembling, but not pulling away.

For the first time, he wondered if maybe… just maybe… he didn’t want to.

⸻

That night, alone in his tiny apartment, Namping pressed his palms to his chest and felt the ghost of Keng’s warmth still lingering there.

It terrified him.

But it terrified him more how badly he wanted to feel it again.

____________________________________________

The courtyard was emptying for the evening, the amber light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the pavement.

But in the corner near the vending machines, a small crowd had gathered—half hidden, half entertained by the cruelty unfolding.

Namping’s back was pressed against the wall, his bag clutched tightly to his chest, trembling like a trapped rabbit as three boys from the law faculty circled him. Their grins were wide, their voices cruel.

“Come on, pretty boy,” one of them sneered, pinching Namping’s cheek hard enough to leave a red mark. “Give us the same performance you gave back then. I heard you were quite the star.”

The others laughed, one reaching to tug at his strawberry hair clip, another brushing fingers along his waist, slipping underneath the fabric and bruising the flesh. 

Namping shook his head violently, choking on his own sobs. “P-please… stop—”

“Stop? What’s the fun in that? You’ve been begging for years, haven’t you? Always crying. Maybe it’s the only way you know how to get attention.”

The words cut sharper than any knife. His chest heaved, shame pouring into every vein. He tried to shrink smaller, but their shadows loomed too large.

And then—

“Enough.”

The voice was low, commanding. It made the laughter falter.

Keng Harit Buayoi stood just a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, his tall frame blocking the fading sunlight. His gaze was sharp, his presence heavy, the kind that made even the boldest boys hesitate.

The crowd’s whispers grew. It’s Keng. He’s stepping in.

One of the boys scoffed, trying to save face. “Relax, superstar. We’re just joking around.”

“That didn’t sound like a joke,” Keng said flatly, his eyes flicking to Namping—red-faced, shaking, tears streaking down his cheeks. His jaw tightened. “Get lost.”

The weight of his words, the sheer authority in them, made the boys falter. One muttered a curse under his breath, but they slunk away, dragging their smirks with them.

The crowd began to scatter too, disappointed the show had ended.

That left only Keng and Namping.

Namping’s chest heaved with shallow breaths, his eyes still wet, his body trembling so violently his bag almost slipped from his hands. Keng took a careful step closer, his hand half-raised to steady him.

But before he could touch him—

Smack.

The sound rang out in the empty courtyard.

Namping’s palm stung from the force of the slap, his tears falling harder now. He pushed at Keng’s chest with shaking hands, voice breaking between sobs.

“Why—why are you doing this to me?” His words tumbled out like broken glass. “Why are you breaking me more than I’m already broken? By being nice to me?”

Keng didn’t flinch from the slap. He didn’t shove back. He only stood there, breathing slow, eyes never leaving Namping’s tormented face.

“I want to help you,” Keng said quietly.

“You can’t!” Namping shouted, voice shrill with despair. “You don’t know me, you don’t know what I’ve been through, you don’t know anything!”

“Then tell me,” Keng replied steadily.

Namping froze, his sobs catching in his throat. His lips trembled, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“I—” His voice faltered, choked.

Keng took a step closer. “Tell me.”

Namping shook his head furiously, pressing his hands to his ears as if he could block out the demand. “No, no, no… you’ll hate me, you’ll think I deserved it—like everyone else—”

Keng’s hand shot out, not rough, but firm. He gently pulled Namping’s wrists away from his ears, grounding him, holding him steady. His voice was softer now. “Look at me.”

Namping’s tear-filled eyes lifted.

“I’m not everyone else,” Keng said. “So tell me.”

The dam broke.

Namping’s body convulsed with the force of the scream that tore from his throat. “HE DRUGGED ME!”

The words ripped through the air, raw and jagged. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his bag tumbling beside him. His sobs were animalistic, desperate, each word spilling like poison he had carried too long.

“He—he gave me a drink, said it was just juice, and then—” His voice cracked, his hands clawing at his chest as though he could tear the memory out. “I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe, but I could feel everything—and he—he touched me, and I couldn’t stop him—”

His screams echoed off the walls, his face twisted in agony, his throat raw. “And then he RECORDED IT! He cut out everything, left only me, my face, my cries—so they all thought I was— I was—” His words dissolved into choked sobs.

Keng’s jaw clenched. He knelt down, eyes dark, but he didn’t interrupt. He let the storm rage.

“For FOUR YEARS—” Namping’s voice was hoarse, shredded. “Four years, I’ve lived with that video. Four years, every whisper, every laugh, every note, every—every time they touch me in the halls. I can’t breathe, I can’t live—I wish I’d died that night. H-he raped me Keng, and—and everyone thinks I asked for it! That I-I asked Pawat for i-it!”

The scream broke into a sob so loud it hurt. He collapsed onto the pavement, his shoulders shaking violently.

Keng moved then. He pulled out his phone, not to scroll, not to text—but to take a voice recording. His hand didn’t shake, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burned like coals.

Every word, every broken cry, every confession—captured. Evidence. Truth.

When Namping finally ran out of breath, he was left trembling in silence, his cheeks wet, his body curled in on itself.

Keng slid the phone back into his pocket. Then he reached out, slowly, deliberately, and pulled Namping into his arms.

The boy resisted at first, weakly pushing at his chest—but Keng’s hold was firm, grounding, not suffocating.

“Shhh,” Keng murmured, his voice low, steady. “You’re safe.”

Namping’s sobs tore through him, muffled against Keng’s shirt. His fists clenched the fabric as though he were drowning, clinging to the only thing keeping him afloat.

For the first time, he had said it aloud. The secret that had eaten him alive. And for the first time, someone had listened—not with judgment, not with disbelief, but with unyielding steadiness.

Keng held him until the sobs softened, until the trembling slowed, until the courtyard was nothing but shadows and silence.

And when Namping finally whispered, “You’ll leave me too,” Keng tightened his arms around him, his voice like iron.

“Not a chance.”

____________________________________________

The night after the confession stretched on endlessly, as though the clock refused to move.

Namping lay curled on his bed, blanket pulled tightly to his chin, but no warmth could chase away the chill in his bones. His pillow was damp, his throat raw from hours of crying, but the tears still leaked stubbornly from the corners of his swollen eyes.

Every time he closed them, he saw himself again—on the cold pavement, screaming, sobbing, broken wide open in front of Keng.

He wished he could tear the memory out of his mind. He wished he could claw back every word.

Why did I say it? Why did I tell him?

The shame pressed on him like a heavy weight. He could still feel Keng’s arms around him, hear that steady voice whispering “You’re safe” like a vow. But in the aftermath, that comfort turned into humiliation.

Keng had seen him at his weakest. His ugliest. His most pitiful.

And now, what?

Now Keng knew the truth. Keng knew the filth that stained him, the reason everyone whispered, laughed, pointed. How could he ever look at him again?

By the time dawn broke, Namping’s body was exhausted but his mind wouldn’t stop. He dragged himself out of bed, avoiding the mirror, too ashamed to look at his reflection.

When he left his dorm room for class, his movements were sluggish, his head bowed, his strawberry hair clip missing. His eyes darted down every corridor, praying, begging that he wouldn’t see him—

But of course, fate had other plans.

Keng was waiting.

He stood casually by the campus gate, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small plastic bag. His tall frame was impossible to ignore, his presence commanding even when he wasn’t trying.

Namping’s steps faltered. His stomach twisted. He almost turned around.

But Keng had already seen him.

Their eyes met, and something in Keng’s softened. He pushed off the wall, approaching slowly, not rushing him, not cornering him.

Namping’s hands fumbled with the strap of his bag, panic rising in his throat. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide.

When Keng finally reached him, he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he held out the bag.

Inside were two strawberry milk cartons and a neatly wrapped bar of chocolate.

“I figured,” Keng said gently, “you probably cried yourself sick last night. Thought this might help.”

Namping froze. His throat tightened. His first instinct was to refuse, to shove the bag back, to scream don’t pity me.

But his hands betrayed him. They reached out, trembling, and took it.

Keng didn’t comment on the tears threatening to spill from Namping’s eyes. He didn’t say you look like hell or I heard you crying. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, as though offering strawberry milk in the early morning was the most natural thing in the world.

Namping’s lips trembled. “Why… why are you doing this?”

Keng tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Because I want to.”

The answer made Namping’s chest ache. He stared down at the milk cartons, blinking furiously. “You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be here. Not after…” His voice cracked, shame boiling over. “Not after everything I told you.”

Keng stepped a little closer, enough that his warmth brushed against Namping without crowding him. His voice dropped lower, steadier.

“You think your truth would make me walk away?”

Namping flinched, his tears spilling now. He shook his head weakly, but the words poured out anyway, his shame too heavy to keep inside. “It was disgusting—I was disgusting—and you heard it, all of it—why would you want to stay near me after that?”

Keng’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening—not at Namping, but at the thought of anyone making him believe such things. His hand lifted, hovering before it finally rested gently against Namping’s hair. His thumb brushed over the space where the clip usually sat.

“You,” Keng said softly, “are not disgusting.”

Namping’s breath hitched. His knees almost gave way.

Keng leaned just slightly closer, his voice almost a whisper now, meant only for him. “What happened to you doesn’t make you filthy. It makes them filthy. It makes them cowards.”

Namping pressed his lips together, fighting another sob, clutching the bag of strawberry milks like a lifeline.

“And me?” Keng continued, his eyes never wavering from Namping’s. “I’m not going anywhere. Not after last night. Not after hearing what you’ve carried all this time. If anything—” he let out a faint breath, almost like a vow, “—it makes me want to stay even more.”

The words shattered something inside Namping. His shoulders shook, and before he could stop himself, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow, muffling the sobs that refused to stay silent.

Keng didn’t force him to look up. He didn’t grab him or drag him. He simply stayed beside him, a steady presence, patient as always.

And when Namping finally dared to peek up through swollen eyes, Keng was still there—calm, warm, holding out one of the strawberry milks he had already opened.

“Drink,” Keng said quietly. “You’ll feel better.”

Namping’s fingers trembled as he took it. The first sip was cold and sweet, and though it didn’t erase the shame, it softened the ache in his throat.

Keng watched him with the faintest of smiles. Not pity. Not mockery. Just a quiet kind of fondness that Namping couldn’t understand, couldn’t accept, but couldn’t look away from either.

And for the first time since last night’s confession, the storm in his chest eased—just a little.

____________________________________________

The change didn’t happen overnight.

Namping still carried the weight of his past, the shame that gnawed at him whenever he caught his reflection. Black and grey clothes clung to him like armor, a way to disappear into the background. His hair was plain, his nails bare, and his strawberry hair clips sat forgotten in a box on his desk, gathering dust.

But Keng noticed.

He noticed the way Namping’s eyes lingered whenever they passed a shop window with pastel displays. He noticed the soft sighs, almost inaudible, whenever Namping flipped through his old notebooks and saw the doodles of outfits he once wore with pride. He noticed the way his hand twitched toward his bag, as though reaching for a hair clip that wasn’t there anymore.

And Keng decided to do something about it.

It started small, with words.

One afternoon, as they sat under a tree near the far corner of campus, Keng broke the silence.

“You know,” he said casually, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers, “I can’t picture you in all this black.”

Namping blinked, startled. He glanced down at his dark sweatshirt, his black jeans. “Why not?” he muttered, defensive already.

Keng tilted his head, studying him. “Because it doesn’t match you.”

Namping frowned. “What do you mean?”

Keng leaned back, his tone calm but certain. “Black hides. But you? You don’t belong in the shadows. You belong in light colors. Bright ones. Pastels. Colors that… feel like you.”

Heat crept into Namping’s cheeks. He looked away, fingers tightening on his notebook. “That was before,” he whispered. “I don’t… I can’t anymore.”

Keng didn’t argue. He only said, softly, “You can. You just don’t believe it yet.”

The words lodged in Namping’s chest.

The next day, Keng surprised him again.

Namping returned to his dorm to find a small box sitting neatly on his desk. No note. No name. Just a box, tied with a simple ribbon.

His heart raced as he untied it, lifting the lid. Inside lay a collection of hair clips—delicate, colorful, shimmering in pastel shades. Strawberries, daisies, stars, even tiny bows. Each one looked new, expensive, carefully chosen.

Namping’s hands trembled. His throat closed.

Only one person could’ve done this.

When he saw Keng the next morning, the boy said nothing about it. He only offered his usual nod, his steady gaze, his faint smile. But Namping caught the slight lift of his brow, as though asking, did you like them?

Namping couldn’t speak. He only ducked his head, cheeks burning.

Days later, it happened again—this time with nail polish.

Keng invited him over under the pretense of “studying.” But when Namping arrived, he found an array of pastel bottles lined up on the desk: soft pinks, sky blues, mint greens, lilacs, yellows like sunshine.

Namping stared, wide-eyed. “What… what is this?”

Keng leaned against the desk, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I did some digging. You used to paint your nails, didn’t you?”

Namping’s lips parted, but no words came. His eyes shimmered with something between shock and longing.

“Sit,” Keng said gently, pulling out a chair.

Namping hesitated, but the firmness in Keng’s voice left no room for refusal. He sat, palms sweating, watching as Keng picked up a pastel pink bottle.

Keng uncapped it carefully, his large hands surprisingly steady. Then, without asking further, he took Namping’s hand in his own. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as though he were holding something fragile and precious.

Namping’s breath hitched.

“Relax,” Keng murmured, dipping the brush into the polish. “I won’t mess it up.”

The first stroke of color on his nail made Namping’s chest ache. His throat closed around a sob he barely contained. He watched in silence as Keng carefully painted each nail, focused and precise.

When he finished one hand, he glanced up, meeting Namping’s teary eyes. “See? Perfect.”

Namping blinked rapidly, his lips trembling. “Why… why are you doing this for me?”

Keng set the bottle down, holding Namping’s hand still in his. His voice was steady, calm, but firm. “Because you deserve to feel like yourself again. Not the version they tried to break, not the shadow you’ve been hiding in. You. The boy who loves colors. The boy who wears strawberry clips. The boy who shines.”

The words pierced Namping’s heart. He broke then, not with shame this time but with something softer—hope. Tears spilled freely, but he didn’t pull away. He let Keng hold his hand, let the warmth seep into him, let himself believe just a little.

By the end of the week, Namping walked onto campus wearing a pastel yellow sweater. His nails were soft pink, his hair pinned back with a daisy clip.

People noticed.

Whispers followed him through the halls—not cruel this time, but shocked, confused, curious. Wasn’t he always in black? Why is he smiling a little now? What happened?

They didn’t know the answer. They didn’t know about the boy with steady hands who painted his nails. They didn’t know about the hair clips gifted with silent care. They didn’t know about the words spoken in quiet corners, telling him he was allowed to shine.

But Namping knew.

And though his steps were still hesitant, though his heart still carried scars, a little bit of sunshine had begun to return to his life.

All because of Keng Harit Buayoi.

____________________________________________

The world hadn’t magically turned kind. Namping still felt the stares when he walked through the halls in his pastel sweaters, his daisy clips, his pink-tipped nails. The whispers hadn’t vanished.

But they felt quieter now.

Or maybe it was because Keng’s presence drowned them out.

Everywhere Namping turned, he found the athlete lurking close by—not suffocating, not overwhelming, just near enough that his presence was a comfort. A steady shadow who never judged, who carried strawberry milks in his bag just in case, who didn’t laugh when Namping’s voice wobbled mid-sentence.

It was strange. For years, sweetness had been something others used to bait and break him. Now, it had subtly become… safer. Realer. Sweeter.

And Namping didn’t know what to do with it.

⸻

That evening, they sat side by side on a quiet bench tucked away behind the law building. The sky had dipped into a watercolor sunset, shades of pink and orange bleeding into the horizon.

Keng sipped on a sports drink, while Namping cradled a chilled bottle of strawberry milk. He’d protested at first when Keng handed it to him—you don’t have to keep buying these for me—but Keng only shrugged, as though it wasn’t a big deal.

It was, though. For Namping, it was huge.

He stared down at the bottle, tracing the condensation with his thumb, then blurted out the question that had been eating him alive for days.

“Why?”

Keng glanced at him. “Why what?”

“Why are you… doing all of this?” Namping’s voice was small, trembling. His nails dug into the edge of the bottle. “The hair clips. The nail polish. The… everything. Why are you bringing colour back to me?” 

Keng’s gaze softened, his jaw flexing as though the answer was obvious. He leaned back against the bench, his eyes catching the fading sunlight.

“Because,” he said simply, his voice low but steady, “I want to see you smile again.”

The words slammed into Namping’s chest like a tidal wave.

He stared, wide-eyed, lips parting. The tears lingered but this time he didn’t let them fall—stupid, traitorous tears. He ducked his head, blinking furiously. But the warmth in Keng’s eyes was unbearable, overwhelming, too much.

Before he knew what he was doing, Namping leaned forward. His heart pounded, his hands shook, his breath trembled.

And he pressed his lips to Keng’s.

It was clumsy, quick, trembling. His eyes squeezed shut, his body stiff with terror and anticipation.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back.

Horror flooded him. His cheeks blazed, his throat locked up. “I—I—oh my god, I’m sorry—”

He scrambled to stand, intent on fleeing, his bag already half off the bench.

But Keng’s hand shot out, firm and sure, catching his wrist.

“Where are you going?” Keng asked, voice calm but with an edge that made Namping freeze.

“I—I shouldn’t have—” Namping stammered, his breath shallow, his chest heaving.

Keng stood, tugging gently but insistently until Namping turned back toward him. Their eyes locked—Keng’s dark and steady, Namping’s wide and panicked.

“You think I’m going to let you run after doing that?” Keng’s tone was quiet, but it carried the weight of unshakable certainty.

And before Namping could protest, Keng leaned down.

The kiss this time was different.

It wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It wasn’t trembling or unsure. It was steady, grounding, filled with warmth and something deeper—something Namping had never been given before. Respect. Care.

Keng kissed him like he was fragile, yes—but not broken.

Namping’s knees went weak. His hands clutched at Keng’s shirt instinctively, holding on as though the world might slip away otherwise. His smile spilled through again, but soft this time, melting into the kiss

When Keng finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against Namping’s.

“Don’t run,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

Namping trembled, lips still tingling, his heart racing so hard it hurt. But for the first time in years, the fear wasn’t the only thing he felt.

There was something sweeter, softer, blooming quietly inside him.

Something that made the world a little less dark.

⸻

That night, lying in bed with his fingers pressed to his lips, Namping couldn’t stop the tiniest, shyest smile from forming.

Keng Harit Buayoi had kissed him back.

And the world—against all odds—felt just a little bit sweeter.

____________________________________________

The rumors spread like wildfire.

Namping and Keng were seen together too often now—walking across campus, sitting on the same bench, sharing strawberry milks. And then the whispers: someone had spotted them behind the law building. Too close. Too intimate. Too something.

The students of Bangkok University didn’t need proof. They only needed fuel.

And they burned it gladly.

⸻

It began with the girls.

Notes slipped onto Namping’s desk, folded neatly like origami, only to unfold into venom. “Did he pay you to kiss him?” “Do you think he actually loves a slut like you?” “Maybe you’ll ruin his life like you ruined your own.”

They laughed behind their manicured hands, eyes glinting cruelly.

Namping ignored it. Or tried to. His chest ached, his hands shook as he shoved the notes into his bag.

But the boys? They weren’t content with just words.

They cornered him outside the culinary lab one afternoon, four of them circling him like hyenas. Their grins were sharp, their voices loud enough to draw a crowd.

“So, Namping,” one sneered, grabbing Namping’s ass roughly. “Keng’s newest toy, huh? Guess crying works after all.”

Another snickered, pinching his waist hard enough to bruise. “Bet he likes it when you sob. Maybe we should try. You could make us cry too, yeah?”

The third boy reached up, yanking at Namping’s strawberry clip until it snapped. “What a joke. Pastel colors on a whore.” He threw the broken clip against the floor shattering it more. 

Laughter roared around him, echoing off the walls.

Namping’s tears spilled instantly, his body curling in on itself. His pleas came out broken, gasped, but the boys didn’t stop.

They never stopped.

Until a shadow fell over them.

⸻

The air shifted, thick with danger.

Keng.

His bag dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. His eyes—usually calm, dark, steady—were burning now, void-like, sharp enough to cut bone. His jaw twitched once, twice, then stilled into terrifying neutrality.

“Move,” he said.

The boys froze. Then laughed nervously. “Oh, come on, Keng—just playing around—”

They didn’t get to finish.

Keng’s fist connected with the nearest boy’s nose in a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed, screams erupted. Before the others could react, Keng was on them—precision, power, rage dressed in athletic grace.

A jaw cracked under his elbow. Another boy hit the ground clutching his stomach. A third tried to run but Keng caught him by the collar and slammed him against the wall, teeth bared in something feral.

The crowd shrieked. Phones flew into the air, recording the chaos. Gasps, curses, disbelief rippled like wildfire.

And in the center of it all, Namping stood trembling, tears streaming, as Keng destroyed them one by one.

This wasn’t the golden soccer star they worshiped.

This was a storm.

⸻

When it was over, three boys lay groaning on the floor, clutching their injuries. Blood stained the concrete, the smell sharp in the air. The fourth cowered against the wall, eyes wide with terror as Keng released him at last, letting him crumble into a heap.

The campus was silent.

Keng wiped his bloodied knuckles against his jeans and turned. His gaze softened instantly as it landed on Namping.

He stepped forward slowly, carefully, as though approaching something fragile. His hands, still bruised and trembling, reached up to cup Namping’s cheeks, brushing away the tears.

“Sunshine,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, gentle in contrast to the chaos around them. “Don’t cry. Not for them.”

Namping sobbed harder, burying his face into Keng’s chest, shaking violently. He clutched at Keng’s shirt, unable to speak, unable to breathe. The weight of everything—four years of torment, of humiliation, of cruelty—crashed down all at once again. 

But Keng held him through it. Tight. Protective. Untouchable.

Around them, whispers rose. “What the actual fuck…” “He just—he broke his nose—” “Is he insane?” “For him? For Namping the slut!?”

Keng ignored it all. His entire world was the trembling boy in his arms.

Finally, when Namping’s sobs dulled into shaky breaths, Keng pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. His thumb brushed tenderly across a tear-streaked cheek.

“Sunshine,” he said softly, but his tone carried a weight that froze the air. “Pawat has to go to jail. Yes or no?”

⸻

The silence that followed was deafening.

And for the first time, Namping realized—Keng wasn’t asking for information. He was asking for permission.

____________________________________________

The question hung in the air like a guillotine.

“Sunshine, Pawat has to go to jail. Yes or no?”

Namping’s breath caught in his throat. His wide, tear-soaked eyes darted up to Keng’s, searching, pleading, trembling. For a moment, all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears and the faint ringing left behind by the chaos.

His lips parted but no words came. Instead, his body flinched backward, away from Keng’s protective hands.

“You…” his voice cracked, almost inaudible. “…you want to send him to jail?”

Keng didn’t blink. “Yes.”

The answer was steady, simple, absolute.

And it made Namping’s knees buckle.

He stumbled back a step, hands curling against his chest as if he were trying to hold himself together. The shame came in waves—thick, suffocating. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. He shook his head frantically, choking on sobs.

“You can’t—” he rasped, his voice breaking, “Keng, you can’t. Don’t say that. Don’t even think that.”

The rawness of his pain cracked the calm around them. Students watching from the distance whispered, unsure of what they were witnessing, but Keng didn’t care. His eyes never left Namping.

“Why not?” Keng asked, voice low, steady, dangerous in its patience.

Namping’s hands fisted at his shirt. “Because if you send him to jail then everyone will know!” His scream ripped through his throat, loud and jagged. “Everyone will know what he did, what happened to me—and then—then they’ll look at me the way they already do. Like I’m disgusting. Like I wanted it. Like it’s my fault.”

His knees gave out entirely this time, sending him crashing to the ground. He pressed his palms over his face, sobbing so violently it tore through his body. “Why would you say that? Why would you make me remember? Why would you betray me like this?”

Keng froze. For a second, just a second, he looked as though Namping had actually stabbed him. Hurt flickered across his face—but he was quick to drop to his knees in front of Namping, taking his wrists gently, pulling his trembling hands away from his face.

“Sunshine,” Keng whispered, and this time his voice cracked too. “No. No, no, no. Don’t you dare think that. I would never betray you.”

Namping’s tear-stained eyes glistened, desperate and broken.

Keng cupped his face firmly, forcing him to look at him, to see him. His thumbs brushed at the tears that kept falling, soft yet unrelenting.

“I want to protect you,” Keng continued, his words sharp with conviction. “Not break you. Not hurt you. I want to bring you justice, Sunshine. Because what he did—what they all did—was wrong. It was cruel. And it was not your fault.”

Namping’s lips trembled. He shook his head again, weaker this time. “But the world doesn’t see it like that. They never did. They laughed. They said I asked for it. They said I—”

Keng pressed his forehead against Namping’s, cutting him off with that closeness, grounding him.

“The world is full of assholes,” Keng said softly, fiercely. “But that doesn’t change the truth. You were hurt, Namping. You are innocent. And they? They’re monsters. They’re predators. You—” his voice thickened, breaking into something more vulnerable— “you are the victim. Not the predator. You hear me?”

Namping’s sobs quieted, replaced by harsh, uneven breaths. His lashes fluttered, his entire body shaking under the weight of the words.

Victim.

Not predator.

The sentence dug into his heart, breaking down walls built of guilt and shame. For years, he had convinced himself otherwise. That he was dirty. That he had brought it on himself. That he had deserved it.

But Keng’s voice, steady and unwavering, shattered that belief.

Namping’s lips parted, a soft, broken whisper escaping. “I’m… the victim…”

Keng’s eyes burned with something fierce and tender all at once. “Yes. Always. Only. The victim.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the shift of a lifetime.

Namping’s hands shook as he clutched onto Keng’s wrists, his tears falling freely once more—but this time, they carried a different weight. A release.

He hesitated—God, he hesitated so long—his mind screaming a thousand reasons to say no, to hide, to run. But somewhere beneath the fear, there was a seed of something else. The tiniest flicker of courage.

Slowly, shakily, his lips formed the words.

“…Yes.”

Keng stilled.

Namping’s eyes lifted, wet and shining, terrified yet resolute. “Yes. He has to go to jail.”

For a moment, all Keng did was stare. Then, slowly, a small smile touched his lips. Not a victorious one, not a cruel one—but a soft, aching smile that carried a promise.

“That’s all I needed to hear, Sunshine,” he murmured, pulling Namping into his arms again. “Just that one word.”

Namping buried his face into Keng’s chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and strong against his ear. And for the first time in four years, beneath all the pain and fear, a small part of him believed it.

He was the victim.

Not the predator.

 ____________________________________________

The lamp in Keng’s dorm room flickered against the darkness, throwing shadows across the walls. Midnight had already passed, yet he sat at his desk, posture sharp, jaw clenched, his pen scratching against paper with a speed and precision that betrayed his inner fire.

Books on criminal law and evidence procedure were sprawled open around him—references, statutes, case precedents—but he barely needed them. His mind was a weapon all on its own.

Because tonight, Keng Harit Buayoi wasn’t just a student.

He was a man in love, and love had made him a little crazy.

The first sheet of paper was laid out neatly, his handwriting immaculate and deliberate:

Formal Complaint

To: Dean of Law, Bangkok University

CC: University Disciplinary Board, Faculty of Criminal Justice

From: Harit Buayoi, Fourth Year Student, Faculty of Law

Subject: Formal Complaint Against Mr. Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit

Respected Board,

I hereby submit a formal complaint against Mr. Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit, a student whose actions four years ago constitute sexual assault, defamation, and sustained harassment against Mr. Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang.

On the night of [06.09.2021], Mr. Sirirattankul committed non-consensual acts against Mr. Pingmuang, documenting the incident in a recording that was deliberately edited to publicly humiliate the victim. This recording was circulated widely among university students, resulting in systemic bullying, social ostracization, and emotional trauma that persists to this day.

The victim’s repeated attempts to seek support have been ignored, and the perpetrator continues to leverage his social influence to evade accountability.

In light of this, I request:

1. Immediate investigation by the University Disciplinary Board.

2. Temporary suspension of Mr. Sirirattankul pending the outcome of proceedings.

3. Coordination with legal authorities for criminal prosecution under relevant sections of the Thai Criminal Code regarding sexual assault, harassment, and defamation.

Respectfully submitted,

Harit Buayoi

Fourth Year Criminal Law Student

⸻

Petition for Criminal Proceedings

To: Office of the Criminal Court of Bangkok

From: Harit Buayoi, Student, Faculty of Law (acting on behalf of Mr. Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang)

Subject: Petition for Prosecution of Mr. Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit

Honourable Court,

I respectfully petition for the initiation of criminal proceedings against Mr. Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit for the following offenses:

1. Sexual Assault – acts committed against Mr. Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang without consent.

2. Distribution of Obscene Materials – deliberate recording and circulation of said act.

3. Defamation and Harassment – ongoing emotional trauma and reputational damage inflicted over four years.

Evidence Submitted:

• Original video footage of the incident (verified for authenticity).

• Witness testimonies confirming the circulation of the recording within the university.

• Written statement of the victim detailing emotional and psychological impact.

• Compiled records of bullying, both verbal and physical, arising from this incident.

• Social media archives showing public humiliation directly linked to the video.

• Psychiatric evaluation reports evidencing long-term trauma.

• Documentation of attempts by the perpetrator to manipulate university administration and evade accountability.

The gravity of this case is compounded by the perpetrator’s social prominence and misuse of influence to maintain impunity. To allow him to continue unchecked would perpetuate injustice.

I request that the Honourable Court summon Mr. Sirirattankul for trial and that justice be served on behalf of the victim.

Yours sincerely,

Harit Buayoi

Fourth Year Criminal Law Student

⸻

Evidence File

Keng’s evidence file was meticulous, almost obsessive.

1. Screenshots of group chats and private messages where the video had been shared—each screenshot timestamped, usernames traced, corroborated by student ID verification.

2. Testimonies of anonymous witnesses who had seen the video circulated or overheard conversations about it.

3. Photographs of Namping pre-incident, full of color and life, contrasted with the subdued, traumatized student he had become.

4. Medical and psychiatric documentation detailing the emotional, psychological, and physical impact of sustained bullying.

5. Copies of harassment notes, messages, and posts from both the perpetrators and bystanders.

6. Social media archives where the video had been reposted, commented on, or used as material for humiliation.

7. Evidence of intimidation by the perpetrator towards potential witnesses and university staff.

Each page was labeled, tabbed, and annotated with precise references to Thai criminal code sections and legal precedent. The file was a weapon in paper form—sharp, methodical, impossible to ignore.

⸻

Keng leaned back in his chair, scanning his work. His dark eyes were bright, almost predatory, reflecting the lamp’s glow. A bead of sweat ran down his temple—not from exhaustion, but from the raw, pulsing intensity of his purpose.

He imagined Pawat standing in court, smirking like he always did, thinking he was untouchable. And Keng wanted to prove just how wrong he was.

Not for victory.

Not for fame.

But for Namping.

The man had been broken. The boy had been silenced. And now Keng was a weapon forged by love, rage, and obsession—and he wouldn’t stop until the world saw the truth.

Keng closed the final folder with a snap, a satisfied, terrifying grin curling at the corner of his lips.

“This… is for you, Sunshine,” he whispered, voice low and trembling, almost worshipful.

And in that moment, he wasn’t just a law student.

He was a force of nature.

A man in love.

And utterly, dangerously unhinged.

____________________________________________

The room was cold, sterile, and impossibly tense. Polished wood reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, bouncing off the suits of trustees, deans, and judges who lined the room like a tribunal of power. At the head of the table sat the Dean of Law, his hands folded neatly over a stack of documents, flanked by the Dean of Engineering—Pawat’s department—whose glare could slice through steel.

Keng sat at one end, posture rigid, hands on the polished surface, eyes dark and unyielding. Across from him, Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit’s family gleamed in designer suits, muttering indignantly. Pawat himself lounged with arrogant ease, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the faintest trace of nerves.

And in the middle, sitting slightly behind Keng, was Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang. He was trembling, fingers interlaced in his lap, clutching his strawberry clip (the new one Keng bought for him) like a lifeline, eyes darting nervously between the tables of power and the boy who haunted his nightmares.

⸻

The Dean of Law cleared his throat. “We are gathered today to review the formal complaint submitted by Mr. Harit Buayoi against Mr. Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit. Copies of the complaint, supporting letters, and evidence have been provided to all parties.”

Pawat’s mother’s voice was sharp. “This… this is preposterous! My son is a young man of impeccable character. How dare anyone—”

The Dean raised a hand. “Please, Mrs. Supasit. Let us review the facts before passing judgment.”

Keng, calm, cold, and deliberate, pushed the complaint forward, letting the gravity of the documents fill the room. “If I may,” he said smoothly, voice low but resonant. “I submitted this complaint on behalf of Mr. Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang. All evidence presented is factual, documented, and legally verifiable.”

Pawat smirked. “Oh? And what exactly are you claiming here, Mr. Buayoi? That I… what? Hurt little Namping? Made a fool of him? Poor baby.” His words dripped with mockery as he leaned toward Namping, eyes sharp and taunting. “Remember that night? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already. You loved it, didn’t you? Everyone said how much you enjoyed it…”

Namping’s hands flew to his face, shoulders trembling as he tried to hide the sobs threatening to escape. The whispers in the room were instantaneous—an almost palpable murmur of shock, disgust, and tension.

Keng’s jaw twitched—just barely. One flex, and someone might end up with a broken face. But he controlled himself, leaning forward instead, voice low, precise, and deadly calm.

“Mr. Sirirattankul,” Keng said, every word deliberate, every pause a blade, “those are baseless accusations. They are defamatory and have no bearing on legal proceedings. What you are attempting is intimidation, harassment, and continued emotional abuse toward the victim. I will not allow this.”

Pawat’s smirk faltered. He opened his mouth, then stopped. Keng’s eyes had darkened like a void, unwavering and impossibly cold. A chill ran through the room, and even the judges shifted uncomfortably.

“My client,” Keng continued, tapping the table lightly, “has submitted corroborated evidence, including verified video, witness testimonies, psychiatric evaluations, and documented history of bullying and defamation. Every item is indexed and legally valid. Any attempt to belittle, threaten, or humiliate him further will be considered obstruction of justice.”

The board murmured. Pawat’s father slammed a hand on the table. “This is absurd! Our son is being persecuted for… what? A misunderstanding?”

Keng’s eyes flicked to the man, dark, lethal, and terrifyingly precise. “Not a misunderstanding. A deliberate crime. Sexual assault, harassment, and defamation. The evidence is not circumstantial—it is direct, verifiable, and substantial. Mr. Sirirattankul is no longer a free man in the eyes of law if the court deems the evidence credible.”

Pawat’s fingers twitched. His eyes darted to Namping, who was sobbing silently, trying to shrink into himself. “You…” he hissed, voice low but venomous. “You’re using him against me?”

Keng leaned back, tapping his pen against the table like a metronome of justice. “No. I am using the law. And the law clearly supports my client.”

The room felt like it was going to combust. Trustees whispered frantically, judges exchanged glances, and the Supasit family fumed, their mouths opening and closing without sound.

Pawat slammed his hand against the table, leaning forward. “You think a piece of paper can ruin me? You think—”

Keng’s hand shot up, stopping him mid-sentence. “I do not think, Mr. Sirirattankul. I know. And I am not here to speculate. I am here to execute justice. You will answer for your actions. The victim has been silenced for too long. Your influence does not grant you immunity. It grants me the right to pursue this without hesitation.”

Pawat’s knuckles went white, his face contorted with rage. He lunged forward slightly, but the Dean of Law raised a hand, holding him back. Namping whimpered, curling slightly in his seat, clutching his strawberry clip.

Keng’s eyes softened momentarily as they met Namping’s, and the tension in Namping’s body eased just slightly. The protective shield around him was palpable, unshakable.

“And,” Keng continued, voice lowering just enough to make the room shiver, “any attempt to intimidate the victim during these proceedings will be documented and used as evidence against you. Including your threats here today.”

Namping’s tears fell freely, but this time they were mixed with a faint trace of relief. Someone—Keng—was fighting for him with everything he had.

Pawat, chest heaving, sank back into his chair, lips tight with fury. His family looked like they were about to explode, but no one dared speak over Keng. He was too… exact, too confident, too coldly logical.

The Dean of Law finally cleared his throat. “We will consider the complaint, petition, and evidence submitted. A date for formal proceedings will be scheduled. Meanwhile, all parties are expected to refrain from harassment, intimidation, or interference.”

Keng’s dark gaze lingered on Pawat, barely contained heat coiling in every fiber of him. His hand lightly brushed Namping’s shoulder—not touching aggressively, but a silent, possessive claim that made it crystal clear: I am yours. No one hurts you.

When the room finally began to disperse, Keng’s voice dropped low, just to Namping.

“Sunshine,” he murmured, dark and steady, “this is just the beginning. But I promise you—whatever comes next, I will stand between you and them. Always.”

Namping blinked, trembling. “K-Keng…”

And Keng’s eyes burned into his, full of dark promise, dangerous love, and unrelenting determination.

____________________________________________

The black luxury car hummed quietly through the streets of Bangkok, its interior dark but comfortable. Namping clutched his bag tightly against his chest, heart still pounding from the morning’s board meeting. His palms were clammy, and every time he thought of Pawat’s smirk or the venom dripping from his words, he shivered.

Keng glanced at him from the driver’s seat, one dark eyebrow raised. “You’re tense,” he noted, voice calm but sharp.

Namping forced a smile, shaky and unconvincing. “Yeah… I guess it’s been… a lot today.”

Keng’s hand brushed his gently, possessive and grounding. “You’re safe now. I won’t let him touch you again. Not a single step. Not a single word.”

Namping swallowed hard, trying to hold back tears, and nodded. The weight of four years of shame and fear pressed down on him so heavily that even sitting silently in Keng’s car felt like a relief.

⸻

When the car pulled up to the gates of the Buayoi estate, Namping’s eyes widened. The mansion was breathtaking—tall pillars, immaculate gardens, fountains that glittered in the sunlight—but what struck him more was the feeling that radiated from within.

As Keng led him inside, the door opened to reveal a woman with warm eyes, an easy smile, and an aura that immediately dissolved Namping’s anxiety.

“Namping!” she said, kneeling to bring her arms around him. Namping froze at first, hesitant, unused to such affection, but the comfort in her voice, the gentleness of her embrace, made him finally relax. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and she didn’t flinch. She simply held him, whispered softly, “You’re safe here. You’re loved.”

Keng’s mother wasn’t the only one. From the other side of the room, Keng’s father stepped forward. His hands were strong, but his expression was soft, authoritative, and unjudging. “Namping,” he said, voice steady, “what happened to you is not your fault. You did nothing wrong. Here, we will help you advocate for yourself. You have the right to speak, to stand up, and to reclaim your life.”

The words were so simple, yet they hit Namping harder than anything anyone had said in years. He nodded mutely, his lips trembling. For once, no one blamed him. No one judged him. No one treated him like a scandal or a joke.

⸻

Then came the younger boys—Joong and Pond. They bounded forward, not with pretension or caution, but full of energy and openness. Joong handed him a strawberry milk bottle with a cheeky grin. “You’re cool,” he said plainly, “and if anyone gives you trouble, I’ve got your back.”

Pond, younger but equally warm, pulled Namping into a side hug, patting his back. “I like you already,” he said simply. “You don’t even know how strong you are, sunshine.”

Namping blinked. Warmth pooled in his chest, a strange unfamiliar sensation that made him feel… seen, accepted, safe. He let himself sink into the love and embrace that this family offered, almost dizzy from the contrast to the harshness and cruelty of the outside world.

Keng stood a few steps back, arms crossed but a satisfied glint in his eyes. Watching Namping let himself be embraced, watching him relax just slightly, softened something hard inside him.

“You’re home now,” Keng said quietly, voice low but intimate, meant only for Namping. “Here, nobody can hurt you. Nobody will. Ever.”

Namping turned toward him, eyes shining with unspilled tears, and whispered, “Thank you…”

Keng’s hand found his again, brushing against it with careful reassurance. “No, Sunshine. Thank you. You’re brave. You’re strong. And you deserve every bit of safety and love this world can give you.”

For the first time in four years, Namping felt it—the kind of support, love, and embrace that didn’t carry judgment, fear, or cruelty. It wrapped around him like a warm blanket, steady and unshakable.

And in the center of it all, holding him close, Keng was a constant reminder that he was no longer alone.

Here, in this house, with Keng and his family, Namping finally understood what it truly meant to be cared for… without condition, without shame, and without fear.

____________________________________________

The boardroom was silent, but it wasn’t peaceful. The polished table reflected the tense faces of trustees, legal advisors, and the Buayoi family, all frozen in a mix of disbelief and worry. Keng sat at one end, posture rigid, but the dark storm in his eyes betrayed a mind racing faster than anyone could follow.

At the head of the table, a senior legal advisor cleared her throat. “Mr. Napatsakorn Pingmuang’s complaint is… complicated,” she began carefully, her voice clinical, almost cruel in its precision. “Because the alleged incident occurred when Mr. Napatsakorn was seventeen, he falls under what is known—colloquially—as the Single Influence Law.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. Namping’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. He barely understood what it meant, but the panic rising in the room was palpable.

Keng’s father, normally composed, leaned forward, voice tight with concern. “Single Influence Law? Explain this clearly.”

The advisor nodded, adjusting glasses. “In essence, the law provides that minors—defined as anyone under eighteen—are considered under a ‘single influence.’ They are not deemed to have fully independent judgment or the legal capacity to bring forward cases that might significantly impact their mental health or wellbeing without the backing of a legal or personal guardian. Any petition or complaint filed without a recognized partner, legal guardian, or advocate could be deemed invalid or dismissed. In practical terms: your son—Mr. Pingmuang—cannot pursue this case alone. He has no partnership support in the eyes of the law.”

A tight silence fell across the room. Namping froze, staring down at his hands, trembling. He’d finally felt hope after the chaos of the board meeting, and now it felt like it had been yanked away.

Keng’s mother, seated closest to Namping, reached across instinctively, brushing his hand with gentle reassurance. “Sunshine… we’ll find a way,” she murmured. Her voice shook slightly, betraying the panic beneath her calm.

But Keng wasn’t panicking. Not yet. Instead, his mind was moving faster than anyone else in the room could comprehend. He leaned forward, elbows on the polished wood, eyes dark with calculation.

“It’s simple,” he said, voice low and commanding, drawing the attention of everyone. “If the law requires a partnership, then the only way to legally and effectively fight this case is for me… to be that partner.”

The room froze.

Keng’s father blinked. “You… what?”

Keng’s jaw tightened. “I will marry Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang. By law, this will grant him the necessary partnership support to pursue his complaint against Pawat Sirirattankul. This is the only solution that guarantees he can take action without risking dismissal or legal technicalities. Without it… the case collapses before it even starts.”

Namping’s face turned pale, eyes wide. “Marriage?!”

“Yes,” Keng said flatly. His dark gaze swept over the room, unflinching. “I know it sounds extreme. But this is the law we’re working under. Without a formal legal partnership, his case will be invalid. And the nature of the complaint—sexual assault, harassment, defamation—is heavy. It could destabilize his mental health entirely. If we don’t act now… he loses everything.”

Keng’s mother, hands tightening around her pen, looked between her son and Namping, a mix of worry and reluctant understanding crossing her features. “It’s… drastic, but I see the logic,” she admitted quietly.

Keng’s father cleared his throat, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “And by force?”

Keng’s gaze darkened, jaw stiff. “Yes. I can’t allow him the choice of saying no. This isn’t about coercion in a personal sense—it’s about legal necessity. If he refuses, the law will crush him before Pawat ever faces consequences. I will protect him. And to do that, I have to act decisively.”

The room went quiet again. Panic was seeping through the Buayoi household, but the sheer certainty in Keng’s voice, the dangerous calm behind his words, was impossible to ignore.

Joong and Pond, seated nearby, looked alarmed but didn’t interrupt. They knew when Keng had decided something, there was no backing down.

Namping, still shaking, whispered, “K-Keng… I…”

Keng’s hand reached for his, gentle but firm, anchoring him. “Shh. I know, Sunshine. I know this is terrifying. But I promise you—this isn’t about control. This is about protecting you. This is about justice. And I will not let Pawat or the law take away your right to fight.”

His voice softened slightly, the intensity dimming just a fraction. “Everything else… we can face together. But this step… it must happen. There’s no other way.”

Namping’s lips trembled, unsure, overwhelmed, and confused. His entire life had been chaos, shame, and fear. And now, the man he trusted more than anyone was telling him… they would be bound in a way that would forever change everything.

The advisors whispered quietly amongst themselves, scribbling notes, but Keng ignored them. His focus was absolute. His decision was made.

He turned to his father, voice steady. “This is the plan. I will marry Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang. By force, if necessary. The law leaves us no other option.”

Keng’s father’s eyes widened, but he nodded slowly. “Then you have our support. Just… proceed with caution. He must be protected in every sense.”

Keng’s gaze shifted to Namping, who looked back at him, wide-eyed, trembling, unsure if he should be terrified or relieved.

Keng’s voice dropped to the lowest, most intimate whisper he could manage:

“Sunshine… this is for you. And I will not let anyone—ever—harm you again.”

And with that, the room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would come next.

____________________________________________

The air in the Buayoi estate’s study was electric, thick with tension. Keng stood at the edge of the polished mahogany table, his dark eyes locked on Namping, who sat frozen in the high-backed chair, trembling, hands clutching the straps of his bag.

“You… you’re going to… marry me?” Namping stammered, voice barely audible. His wide eyes flicked from Keng to the folders on the table, to the mountain of legal documents proving the necessity of this arrangement.

Keng didn’t flinch. His voice was low, deliberate, almost hypnotic. “Yes, Sunshine. By law, this is the only way your case can proceed. By law, this is the only way I can protect you.”

Namping’s lips parted in a ‘O’. “But… I… I can’t… I don’t understand—why… why by force?”

Keng stepped closer, his presence overwhelming but not threatening. Every move was calculated, yet gentle. “Because, if you refuse… the law will crush you before Pawat ever faces consequences. This is about your rights, your safety, your justice. I will not allow anyone to take that from you. Not him. Not the law. Not the world.”

Namping’s hands shook, curling around each other in his lap. Tears threatened, spilling over despite himself. “I… I…”

Keng knelt slightly, lowering himself to Namping’s level, his dark gaze softening just a fraction. “Sunshine… I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for you. To make sure you have a fighting chance. To make sure you survive this… with me by your side.”

Namping’s breath caught. His chest heaving, he whispered, “I… I don’t know if I can…”

Keng reached out, brushing a trembling hand across Namping’s shoulder, grounding him. “You don’t have to know how. You just have to trust me. I will never hurt you. Only protect you.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with uncertainty, fear, and something unspoken, something deeper. Then, slowly, Namping’s hands unclenched. His wide eyes met Keng’s, searching, hesitant, yet a flicker of trust began to spark.

⸻

The Legal Formalities

The next day, the Buayoi estate’s private law chambers were prepared. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old leather, a quiet contrast to the storm outside. Papers were spread across the table: marriage certificates, affidavits, witness statements, notarized legal forms.

Keng signed each form with meticulous precision, eyes never leaving Namping, who stood stiffly beside him. The lawyer overseeing the process cleared his throat.

“Mr. Buayoi, do you fully understand the legal implications of this marriage?” the lawyer asked, voice clipped and professional.

“I do,” Keng said, unwavering, dark intensity burning in his gaze. “And I consent on behalf of my partner, Mr. Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang, to protect his legal rights under the Single Influence Law.”

Namping froze, heart pounding, cheeks flushing red. He hadn’t expected the phrasing to sound so… final. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Keng noticed the panic flicker across his face and reached for Namping’s hand, intertwining their fingers gently. “I will be your partner in every sense that matters, Sunshine. You are safe with me. Trust me.”

Namping’s lips trembled. Finally, a whisper escaped, barely audible: “O-okay…”

The lawyer nodded and continued, guiding them through each step. Witnesses signed, documents notarized, the process legal, binding, and irreversible.

⸻

The Moment After

When the paperwork was done, Keng finally let himself exhale slightly. He stepped close to Namping, brushing back a loose strand of hair from his face. “You’re mine now, legally,” he said, voice low and teasing but still possessive. “Not that I ever wanted anything else.”

Namping blinked, cheeks red, hands fidgeting. “I don’t know if I’m ready…”

Keng’s grin was soft, dangerous, and utterly full of adoration. “You’ll get there. I’ll give you all the time you need. But right now… we face this together. Nothing else matters.”

Namping’s breath caught, chest tightening as he realized the truth. The boy who had spent four years hiding, crying, trembling… was now bound, in every legal sense, to the man who had promised to protect him no matter what.

Keng leaned forward, careful, deliberate, and kissed him—gentle, grounding, claiming without harm. Namping froze, then instinctively leaned into him, allowing himself a single trembling sigh of relief.

When they pulled apart, Keng’s dark eyes bore into his, whispering a promise that needed no words:

“I’ve got you. Always. No one will hurt you again.”

And in that instant, with legal papers binding them and the world still chaotic outside, Namping felt the first taste of safety, of being loved, and of having someone fight for him with every fiber of their being.

____________________________________________

The Buayoi estate was alive with quiet chaos. Keng sat at the long oak desk in his private study, papers strewn in meticulous disarray, laptop open, and phone buzzing with messages from law clerks and university contacts. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned witness statements, legal precedents, and transcripts. Every line of text was analyzed, every possible loophole considered.

Life as a law student fighting a case against someone as influential as Pawat was brutal. Keng barely slept, living in a constant haze of legal strategy, meetings, and preparation. But he thrived in it. Every motion filed, every legal loophole closed, every strategic step forward fueled the fire inside him. And all the while, he was protecting his Sunshine—the only person in the world who mattered more than winning.

⸻

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Namping was the picture of soft domestic energy. Apron tied neatly around his waist, pastel-colored hair clips in his hair, a splash of flour on his cheek, he moved with practiced precision, whipping up custards, cookies, and delicate soufflés.

“Sunshine, do you realize you’re making half the house smell like heaven?” Joong exclaimed, peeking around the kitchen doorway. Pond followed, eyes wide, sniffing the air dramatically. “It’s… dangerous. How can anyone survive this and not eat everything?”

Namping blushed, smiling faintly. “I just want to… cook for him.” His hands shook slightly as he plated delicate macarons in neat pastel rows, adding a small chocolate heart to each.

Keng’s dark figure appeared in the doorway, exhaustion heavy in his posture, suit rumpled from a long day of meetings and court preparations. His eyes softened immediately when they fell on Namping.

“My husband,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough from fatigue but full of warmth.

Namping froze mid-plate, heat rushing to his cheeks. “H-Husband?” he whispered, as if saying the word aloud made it real.

“Yes,” Keng replied, dark eyes twinkling slightly, lips quirking with a half-smile. “Officially. And deliciously.” He stepped closer, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Namping’s temple. “You’ve been cooking for me… for us?”

Namping’s hands tightened around the whisk he’d been holding. “I… I want to. To… make you happy. And everyone else too, if they’ll eat it.”

Keng’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Well, you’ve already made me very happy, Sunshine. And you know… a husband who cooks for me gets extra points.”

⸻

Hours passed in a blur of sweet domestic chaos. Namping baked, plated, and perfected desserts while Keng reviewed legal motions and arguments, occasionally asking small questions or commenting on the pastries with dry, teasing precision.

“You added too much vanilla,” Keng noted, tapping a cookie. “I like them sweet, not… scented like a perfumery.”

Namping huffed, cheeks pink. “I thought you’d like it…”

“I do,” Keng said, voice softening. He reached over, brushing a stray crumb from Namping’s cheek. “But I also like you to know you’re being observed… critically.”

Namping gasped, stepping back slightly, though his heart was racing. “O-Oh. Observed… critically?”

“Yes,” Keng said, dark humor in his tone. “Very critically. And… deliciously.” He leaned closer, dark eyes locking on Namping’s, making the boy’s stomach twist in a mix of panic and excitement.

⸻

The day turned into night, and the house filled with the scent of warm cookies, soft cakes, and delicate desserts. Keng finally leaned back in his chair, stretching, and allowed himself a rare moment to breathe. His eyes softened when he looked at Namping, still hovering over the stove, carefully drizzling chocolate over a row of macarons.

“You know, Sunshine,” he said, voice low and intimate, “being married to you is… chaotic in the best way. You’re soft, sweet, stubborn… and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Namping’s hands froze mid-drizzle, heart thumping. “Keng…”

He crossed the small space between them, gently taking the whisk from Namping’s hands, and brushed a light kiss across his forehead. “My pretty Sunshine,” he whispered again, tone possessive and tender. “Don’t forget it. You’re mine now. And I… I’ll fight for you, protect you, and… maybe steal a few kisses while you bake.”

Namping felt his knees weaken just slightly, cheeks flushing as he whispered, “I… I want that too…”

And in that warm, chaotic kitchen, surrounded by laughter, scents of sugar and chocolate, and the quiet hum of family life, Namping finally understood: being Keng’s husband wasn’t just legal—it was emotional, protective, and wildly intoxicating.

He was home. And this… this was just the beginning.

____________________________________________

The courtroom smelled of polished wood, leather, and tension so thick it could be sliced with a knife. Lawyers, judges, and trustees filled the seats, murmuring quietly as the first proceedings of the case against Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit were called to order.

At the plaintiff’s table, Keng sat upright, posture immaculate, suit crisp, and dark eyes focused, sharp as daggers. Namping sat beside him, hands fidgeting in his lap, his diamond wedding ring clutched like a lifeline. Though his heart pounded, the presence of Keng beside him—the solid, unyielding wall—gave him courage he hadn’t felt in years.

Across the courtroom, Pawat lounged with a smug arrogance, but his smirk faltered as the defense lawyer entered.

Tawan.

Keng’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. The man was infamous in legal circles—not just a brilliant lawyer, but a rival who had tormented Keng during moot court competitions and in previous high-profile cases. Now he stood poised across the room, adjusting his cuffs, eyes glinting with a sharp, competitive fire.

“Well, well,” Tawan said, voice smooth and cold, carrying an edge that sent a shiver through the air. “Buayoi. I didn’t expect to see you defending… this case. How interesting.”

Keng’s dark eyes met his without a flicker of hesitation. “Tawan. Always a pleasure. I assume you’ll be doing everything in your power to lose today?”

Tawan smirked, unbothered, and turned his attention to the judges. “Your Honors, we are here to protect my client’s reputation, to ensure that no frivolous claims ruin a young man of promising potential. We will present evidence that shows this case lacks merit.”

Keng leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. “Your Honors, what we will demonstrate is not frivolous, not meritless, and not dismissible. The evidence we present is factual, verified, and legally binding. My client, Mr. Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang, has been a victim of sexual assault, defamation, and harassment, and the law allows us to bring this case forward—under partnership representation, which I provide.”

⸻

The proceedings began. Witness statements were read aloud, psychiatric evaluations were submitted, and documented instances of bullying and harassment filled the room. Every time Namping’s trembling voice was required, Keng’s steady hand covered his, guiding him, grounding him.

Tawan, however, was relentless. Every point Keng made was countered with sharp, precise logic, attempting to cast doubt, to poke holes, to intimidate.

“Objection, Your Honor,” Tawan said, voice dripping with practiced superiority. “The alleged ‘witness’ statements are biased. The videos presented—taken years after the incident—cannot serve as reliable evidence for my client’s conduct.”

Keng’s dark gaze fixed on him like a blade. “Your Honor, the videos are corroborated by multiple independent witnesses, and the statements are verified. Any attempt to discredit the victim is an act of intimidation and has no bearing on the law.”

A judge nodded subtly, the room hanging on every word.

⸻

Meanwhile, Namping tried his best to focus, cheeks flushed, hands clammy. But every time Pawat smirked at him, every time Tawan’s cold eyes flicked toward him, he felt the old fear rising. His breath hitched, and tears threatened to fall—but Keng’s hand squeezed his just slightly, firm but gentle, anchoring him.

“You’re doing fine,” Keng whispered, voice low, almost intimate. “Look at me. Just me. Nothing else matters.”

Namping swallowed, nodding slightly, letting himself be guided. For the first time in years, he felt like he could face the world—and the man who had haunted him for so long—without collapsing.

⸻

As the day progressed, objections flew, documents were scrutinized, and both sides presented their arguments with a precision that left the room tense and electric. But every time Tawan tried to shake the room, Keng remained a constant, calculating force, every move deliberate, every word measured.

Finally, after hours of heated arguments, the presiding judge called for a recess. The room buzzed with whispers, but Keng didn’t take his eyes off Namping.

“You did well today,” Keng said softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Namping’s temple, a subtle claim of reassurance. “I’m proud of you, Sunshine. Very proud.”

Namping’s lips trembled into a small, shy smile. “I… I couldn’t have done it without you,” he whispered.

Keng’s dark eyes softened ever so slightly, but the edge never left his tone. “No. You did it with me. And we’re not finished yet. Tawan will try to crush us, Pawat will try to intimidate us—but we’ll fight. Together.”

Namping nodded, determination flickering behind his tears. For the first time, he felt like he had a true partner—not just a husband by law, but a protector, an ally, a man who would fight with him through every storm.

And as Tawan’s smirk lingered in his mind, Keng’s hand brushed Namping’s, a silent promise: I’ve got you. Always. No one touches you.

______________________________________________________

The courtroom was colder today, though maybe it wasn’t the air conditioning. Maybe it was the tension. The kind that slithered across skin and pressed down on every chest, leaving people breathless before anyone even spoke.

Keng Harit Buayoi walked in with his case files pressed tight against his chest, black suit and crisp tie immaculate, jawline sharp enough to cut. Beside him, Namping walked nervously, fingers brushing the sleeve of Keng’s jacket as if seeking silent reassurance. Pawat was already seated, his smirk obnoxious, his arrogance practically leaking from his pores.

And then—Tawan entered.

The rival lawyer’s stride was confident, smooth, calculated. His smirk mirrored Pawat’s but carried something sharper, darker—because unlike Pawat, Tawan knew how to wield his power. His eyes slid over Keng and locked onto him like the predator he’d always been.

“Ready to lose, Buayoi?” he murmured just loud enough as he passed the plaintiff’s table, lips twitching in mockery.

Keng didn’t flinch. His dark eyes followed Tawan calmly, a mask of professionalism concealing the storm brewing beneath. “The only thing I’m ready for, Tawan,” he replied softly, “is watching you choke on your own arrogance.”

Namping’s eyes widened at the venom laced in his husband’s voice. For a moment, the fragile boy forgot his nerves—caught between awe and fear at how cold Keng could sound.

⸻

When the judges entered, the proceedings began immediately.

Tawan rose, file in hand, voice smooth as silk. “Your Honors, my client has been dragged into this circus of accusations, and it’s time we remind ourselves of something simple—there is no hard evidence tying Mr. Supasit to these alleged crimes. Hearsay, dramatized statements, and emotionally biased witnesses do not constitute fact.”

A murmur ran through the room. Tawan’s words were venom wrapped in velvet, persuasive and dangerous.

Keng stood slowly, buttoning his jacket, and when he spoke, his voice was deep, steady, controlled. “Your Honors, what my learned colleague fails to acknowledge is that the law does not ignore patterns of behavior. Nor does it dismiss corroborated testimony from multiple parties. We have medical evaluations, timestamped messages, and verified video evidence—”

“Which,” Tawan interrupted smoothly, “were conveniently surfaced years later. Perhaps one might argue that someone stands to benefit from painting my client as a villain. Sympathy can be very profitable, after all.”

The insinuation hung in the air like poison. Namping flinched as if slapped. His hands shook beneath the table, strawberry milk forgotten at his side.

Keng’s jaw twitched, the faintest movement betraying his rage. His eyes, however, remained locked on Tawan’s with a predator’s calm.

“Profit?” Keng’s tone was low, dangerous. “Tell me, Tawan—what profit has my client seen? The loss of his reputation? The years of ridicule? The constant harassment? Or maybe you’re suggesting he enjoys the trauma that was carved into his life at seventeen? Be careful with your words, or you might just expose what kind of man you really are.”

Gasps echoed across the courtroom. Even the presiding judge shifted slightly, brows raised.

Tawan’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “I suggest, Buayoi, that your emotions are clouding your judgment. You speak like a lover, not a lawyer.”

And there it was.

The room tensed, whispers flaring like sparks. Namping’s face flushed crimson, panic and shame colliding, but before he could crumble, Keng spoke again.

“Yes.” His voice carried, steady as a blade. “I am speaking as someone who will not allow this courtroom to forget that behind every legal file and every case number is a human life. My client isn’t just a name. He’s a person—a person whose truth I will defend until the last page of this case is written.”

For the first time, Tawan’s smirk faltered. Only slightly—but it was enough.

⸻

The back-and-forth continued, each objection met with fire, each submission dissected with precision. Their rivalry had stopped being academic years ago, but now, in this courtroom, it bled raw. Every word was a duel, every glance a battle, and the judges could feel it—the weight of two forces clashing, neither willing to yield.

Namping sat trembling, torn between fear and awe. He’d never seen Keng like this. Never seen anyone stand for him like this. His heart thudded painfully, and though the words were brutal, though the atmosphere suffocated him, he couldn’t look away from the man beside him.

By recess, the air was so charged it felt like lightning might split the room.

As they stood, Tawan leaned in close, voice low enough for only Keng to hear. “Careful, Harit. You’re getting sloppy. Sooner or later, your little Sunshine will realize you’re using him as much as anyone else ever did.”

Keng froze mid-step. His hand tightened around his file until the edges bent, but when he finally turned, his voice was calm, controlled, lethal.

“Say his name again, Tawan, and I’ll break this rivalry outside the courtroom—with my fists.”

Tawan’s smirk returned, sly, amused, but his eyes flickered with something else—uncertainty.

And as he walked away, Namping tugged at Keng’s sleeve, voice trembling. “Keng… why does it feel like you and him… hate each other more than you hate Pawat?”

Keng paused, dark eyes softening for just a moment as he looked at his Sunshine. “Because, Namping… Tawan knows how to hit where it hurts. And I’ll never let him use you to wound me.”

Namping’s lips parted, breath catching, as the weight of Keng’s words settled into his bones.

____________________________________________

The courtroom no longer felt like a battleground for justice—it felt like quicksand. Every step Keng Harit Buayoi took, every argument he carefully built, seemed to sink under the weight of Tawan’s cunning counterattacks.

Proceeding after proceeding blurred together in Namping’s memory, each one ending the same: Keng standing tall, arguments sharp as blades, and then Tawan’s silken voice unraveling those blades like thread.

⸻

First Proceeding:

Keng laid out his case with conviction, presenting timestamped chats and the medical evaluation from four years ago. He spoke clearly, logically, his confidence radiating.

But then Tawan rose.

“With due respect, your Honors, what my colleague presents is an incomplete picture. These messages—though timestamped—lack full context. Was my client not in a relationship with Mr. Napatsakorn at the time? Is it not possible that the medical evaluation speaks not of assault, but of a consensual encounter between a younger man and his older partner?”

Namping’s blood froze. The way Tawan twisted everything, the smirk on Pawat’s face—it was as if four years of pain were being written off as a choice.

Keng objected, but the judge allowed the line of argument. And just like that, the barricade of truth cracked.

⸻

Second Proceeding:

Keng presented witness accounts—classmates who remembered Namping fleeing in tears that night, friends who tried to console him after the video leaked.

Tawan listened, patient, almost amused. When it was his turn, he stood with perfect composure.

“Your Honors, these witnesses are not neutral. They are emotional, biased individuals who cannot separate memory from sympathy. Memory, after all, is malleable. With four years passed, how can we be sure these recollections are not simply stories influenced by gossip?”

The witnesses faltered, shaken by his words. One even stammered, unable to answer a follow-up question.

The courtroom murmured, and Keng felt his arguments fracture further.

⸻

Third Proceeding:

This time, Keng went for the jugular—the infamous video itself. He played the clip, his voice steady as he pointed out the deliberate edits, the way the focus had been cut to show only Namping’s face, removing all context.

It was their strongest evidence. Their most damning weapon.

But Tawan, ever the viper, leaned forward with a sly grin.

“Your Honors, let us not pretend the video is fabricated. It is real. Authentic. What my colleague argues is that it was manipulated. But even manipulated, it shows one truth—that Mr. Napatsakorn is hardly the innocent he claims to be. The camera does not lie. The body does not lie.”

The cruel implication made Namping choke on his own breath. His hands shook so violently that Keng had to cover them with his own to steady him.

And when the judges recessed, their expressions unreadable, it felt like ice water poured down everyone’s spines.

⸻

After the third proceeding, in private:

Namping sat hunched in their shared quarters, face buried in his trembling hands. “We’re losing, Keng. Aren’t we?” His voice was small, almost broken.

Keng sat beside him, silent for a long time. His jaw was tight, his knuckles pale from the way he clenched his fists.

“…We are,” he admitted finally, voice low and heavy. “For now.”

The words pierced Namping deeper than any insult. Because Keng never admitted defeat. Never.

And yet—here they were.

⸻

Fourth Proceeding:

Keng tried a different approach—highlighting Pawat’s history of intimidation, the subtle threats he had made toward Namping even years after the incident.

But Tawan anticipated it.

“Your Honors, what my colleague calls intimidation, others might call mere jest. Young people exchange sharp words, even crude ones. Are we to criminalize banter now?”

The judges did not smile. But neither did they condemn the words outright.

And with every turn, Keng felt the noose tighten.

⸻

By the time the week’s proceedings ended, the air in the courtroom felt suffocating. Pawat walked out with his family triumphant, shoulders squared and smirk wide.

Keng remained behind, standing still at the plaintiff’s table long after everyone else left. His hands gripped the edge, veins bulging, eyes dark voids that threatened to consume everything.

Namping stood nearby, trembling. “Keng… maybe we should stop. Maybe this… this was a mistake.”

The words made Keng snap his head up. His expression—God, it wasn’t rage. It was worse. It was anguish.

“Don’t say that, Sunshine,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Please. Don’t ever say that. I’ll bleed in this courtroom before I let him walk away untouched. But…” His jaw tightened again, the words choking him. “…right now, Tawan’s winning. And I don’t know why.”

For the first time, Keng Harit Buayoi looked less like an unshakable giant—and more like a man cornered.

____________________________________________

Keng Harit Buayoi had never known the taste of defeat until now.

The courtroom echoed in his skull like a cruel reminder of his failure. Tawan’s voice still rang sharp, tearing down every carefully built wall. Each loss left fissures in his confidence, and though he wore the mask of calm, inside he was burning alive.

He sat in his office long past midnight, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. Papers were scattered across his desk, lines of statutes and notes blurred beneath his exhausted gaze. His jaw was locked, his hands raked through his hair again and again, until finally, he slammed his fist against the oak surface.

“Fuck!” The word ripped out of him raw, loud, enough to shake the stillness of the night.

From the doorway, two small figures shifted. Joong and Pond, his younger brothers, had been lingering outside his office for an hour, whispering to each other, too worried to sleep.

Joong, the sharper one, spoke first. “P’Keng… you’re going to break yourself before this trial does.”

Pond nudged his twin, eyes softer, round with worry. “We… we think P’Ping knows something. Something he’s not saying.”

Keng’s head snapped up, dark eyes narrowing. “What?”

“He’s protecting you,” Joong said bluntly. Sixteen and already able to see through people’s shields. “He doesn’t want you humiliated in court. But he’s hurting himself instead. P’Keng… he knows something important.”

Pond nodded, whispering, “We don’t think it’s small, either. It’s big. Painful. The kind of truth that breaks you if you hold it alone.”

Keng’s chest tightened. He had suspected it—there were moments when Namping’s eyes carried a weight heavier than what had already been revealed. But the thought of pushing him had always stopped Keng. He wanted Namping to come willingly, not be forced.

Still, Joong’s words cut deep. “If you want to save him,” his little brother said softly, “you need to let him save himself first.”

⸻

That night, the silence of the Buayoi mansion was broken again when Namping padded down the hall, drawn by some invisible tether toward Keng’s office. His peach hair clip barely clung to his messy locks, his oversized sweater swallowing his delicate frame.

Keng looked up the moment the door opened. His Sunshine stood there, trembling in the faint light, clutching the fabric of his sleeve like he was holding himself together.

“Keng…” His voice cracked.

Keng stood immediately, crossing the room, steadying him by the shoulders. “Sunshine, what’s wrong?”

Namping’s lip quivered, and the tears came faster than his words. He tried to turn away, but Keng caught his chin gently, tilting it up.

“Talk to me,” Keng whispered. His voice was so soft, it almost broke Namping more than cruelty ever had.

The boy collapsed into the chair, covering his face with both hands. The words spilled between sobs, raw and jagged.

“That night… when Pawat—when he—” His whole body shook, breath hitching so violently it sounded like he was drowning. “I got pregnant, Keng. I was seventeen and I got pregnant.”

The words shattered the room.

Keng froze, every muscle in his body locking. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms until they threatened to draw blood. Pregnant. His Sunshine—his fragile, beautiful Sunshine—forced into something so cruel at an age where he should have been dreaming, not surviving.

Namping kept going, unable to stop once the dam had burst.

“He didn’t want anyone to know. He… he dragged me to a clinic. He forced me to—” His voice broke, the word unspoken but heavy. “I didn’t even get to choose, Keng. He decided everything for me. And then he laughed. He said I wasn’t even good enough to be ruined properly.”

His sobs tore the silence apart. His whole frame convulsed with grief that had been buried for years, hidden beneath trembling smiles and soft excuses.

Keng’s chest heaved, rage a living fire beneath his skin. He wanted to kill. To strangle Pawat until the smirk never returned. But above all, his heart ached so violently he thought it might split in half.

Namping peeked through his fingers, terrified of what he’d see. “You’re disgusted, aren’t you?” His voice was so small it was barely audible. “You think I’m broken. Dirty. A boy who got pregnant—what kind of freak does that make me?”

Keng dropped to his knees in front of him, so that their eyes were level. With a trembling hand, he pulled Namping’s hands away from his face. His thumbs brushed the tears away, one by one.

“Don’t ever call yourself that,” he whispered, voice hoarse but steady. “Don’t ever think that.”

Namping shook his head violently. “But it’s true, Keng. I’m ruined. Nobody will ever—” “I will.” 

Keng silenced him with a fierce, trembling embrace. His arms wrapped tight around Namping’s fragile body, one hand pressed to the back of his head, the other clutching his waist like he would never let go.

“You are not ruined. You are not dirty. You are not a freak.” Keng’s voice cracked now, thick with unshed tears. “You are my Sunshine. You survived something no one should ever endure. And I swear to you, Namping Napatsakorn Buayoi, I will burn the world before I let you carry that pain alone ever again.”

Namping sobbed into his chest, fists gripping Keng’s shirt desperately. For the first time, he didn’t try to hide, didn’t try to run. He let the pain pour out, and Keng bore it with him, every tear, every cry.

And in that dimly lit office, amidst shattered truths and broken hearts, something solidified between them. Something unshakable.

Keng wasn’t disgusted. He was devastated—because his Sunshine had suffered alone for too long. And now, he would make sure the world paid for it.

____________________________________________

The courtroom was too quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peace—it was pressure, thick and suffocating, like the air before a storm.

On one side, Tawan sat with his client, Pawat. Both were smug, as though the last string of victories had already secured their crown. Pawat leaned back in his chair, arms folded, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He looked untouchable, invincible—like he had broken Namping once, and could do it again through the law.

Across the aisle, Keng Harit Buayoi sat stiffly at his table, jaw clenched, files lined up in meticulous order. His black suit seemed darker than usual, sharp enough to cut. His eyes—cold, unyielding—never once strayed from the defense table.

Beside him, Namping shifted in his seat, pale but composed, as though holding himself together by invisible threads. Joong and Pond sat quietly in the beside Namping, with Keng’s parents in the back row, their teenage eyes sharp, waiting for the moment they had pushed their brother’s husband toward.

The judge cleared his throat. “We will now resume the proceedings of Pingmuang versus Sirirattankul. Mr. Buayoi, you may continue with your witness.”

Keng stood. Every movement was deliberate, slow, calculated. He adjusted his cuffs, smoothed his tie, and stepped into the center of the courtroom with a controlled confidence that made the spectators lean forward in their seats.

“Your Honor,” he began, his voice even, “before calling my witness, I’d like to submit new evidence that pertains to the foundation of this case. Evidence, I must stress, that was not available during our prior sessions because my client—” his eyes flicked briefly to Namping, then back to the judge “—had been protecting the very man who assaulted him.”

Tawan arched a brow, lips twitching upward. “New evidence?” His tone was mocking. “Or is this just another attempt to stall?”

Keng didn’t even glance his way. “I’ll let the evidence speak for itself.”

A hush fell as he retrieved a slim folder from his briefcase. The rustle of papers sounded far louder than it should have. He set the folder on the evidence stand, opening it with measured precision.

“Three years ago,” Keng said, turning to face the courtroom, “after the assault committed by Pawat Sirirattankul, my client discovered something that changed the course of his life. He was seventeen years old. Vulnerable. And alone.”

Namping’s hands twisted in his lap, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

Keng’s voice deepened, steady as a blade. “He found out he was pregnant.”

The words rippled through the courtroom like thunder. A gasp came from the spectators’ section. Even the judge blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.

Pawat’s smirk faltered. Just slightly. But Keng saw it.

“He was carrying the child of his rapist,” Keng continued, voice unrelenting. “And rather than supporting him—or giving him the dignity to choose what to do with his own body—Pawat dragged him to a clinic, forced him to terminate the pregnancy, and then mocked him for it.”

Tawan was on his feet instantly. “Objection!” His voice cracked like a whip. “Your Honor, this is slanderous. There is no proof—”

“There is,” Keng cut in sharply, not even glancing his way. “Medical records. Signatures. Witness statements from the clinic staff who remember a terrified seventeen-year-old boy being escorted by Mr. Sirirattankul. All filed under the Single Influence Law loophole, which ensured no guardian oversight was present. And all—” Keng snapped open the folder, displaying copies of forms with trembling hands that belonged to Namping once upon a time “—signed with Pawat Sirirattankul’s name as the sole decision-maker.”

Silence. A silence that wasn’t disbelief—it was horror.

The judge leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. “Mr. Buayoi, are you asserting that the defendant made a medical decision on behalf of the plaintiff, despite not being his guardian?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Keng replied, unwavering. “A decision that not only robbed my client of agency but compounded his trauma. At seventeen, my client should have been allowed recovery, counseling, safety. Instead, he was coerced into erasing the evidence of his assault so that his abuser could continue parading his innocence.”

Pawat’s face had drained of color. He leaned toward Tawan, whispering harshly, but Tawan kept his gaze forward, jaw locked tight. His confidence was cracking.

Keng paced slowly, deliberately, across the courtroom. His voice grew heavier, louder, infused with the weight of every sleepless night he had endured.

“What kind of man,” he said, each word measured, “looks at the child he forced upon his victim and thinks, I’ll erase it? What kind of man strips away the choice of someone already violated?” He stopped abruptly, turning, eyes blazing. “What kind of a father does that?”

Gasps echoed. Even the court stenographer’s fingers faltered on the keys.

Keng’s gaze locked on Pawat, unblinking, merciless. “Because that’s what you were, wasn’t it? The moment you forced yourself on him, you became a father. And instead of taking responsibility, instead of even acknowledging what you had done, you doubled your cruelty by forcing my Sunshine—my husband—into a procedure no seventeen-year-old should endure. You silenced him, humiliated him, and laughed at his pain.”

The word husband dropped like another hammer. People whispered. Murmurs rose. Namping’s eyes widened, filling with tears as he watched Keng tear the mask off Pawat’s face in front of the world.

Tawan finally stood, slamming his palms onto the desk. His smooth composure cracked, frustration dripping into his tone. “This is irrelevant to the case at hand! We are here to determine whether or not an assault occurred—”

“And this,” Keng snapped back, “is the proof of it.”

The tension was unbearable now. The spectators leaned forward. Even the judge had lost his mask of indifference, eyes heavy with the gravity of what had been revealed.

Keng turned once more, his voice softening now, though it carried no less weight. He looked directly at Namping.

“He thought he was protecting me by hiding this truth. By bearing the shame alone. But there is no shame for him. The shame belongs to the man who calls himself a father while destroying lives. And today, the court sees him for what he is.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

For the first time since the trial began, Tawan’s smirk was gone. For the first time, Pawat’s hands trembled.

And for the first time, Namping looked at Keng not with fear, but with awe.

____________________________________________

The morning after the revelation, Thailand woke up differently.

It wasn’t just another case in a courtroom anymore. No—it was the case. The scandal of a prominent family’s son, the bravery of a culinary student-turned-survivor, and the unrelenting fire of a criminal law student who was both husband and defender.

It began with whispers, then a few screenshots of transcripts. But by noon, the entire country was talking about one thing.

#JusticeForSunshine trended at number one.

#FatherOrFraud trended at number two.

And not far behind was #KengHaritLawyerKing.

Clips of Keng’s words in court spread like wildfire. Someone slowed down his line—“What kind of father does that?”—added heavy music, and uploaded it with captions. In less than an hour, it had over three hundred thousand shares.

On TikTok, edits popped up:

• Keng standing tall in his black suit, overlaid with fire effects and text reading “A man in love is unstoppable.”

• Namping smiling faintly when Keng called him my husband, paired with pastel hearts and soft music.

• Pawat looking cornered, his hands trembling, turned into a meme with captions like “When you realize Daddy’s money can’t save you”.

The internet was divided into two loud, messy factions:

Team Sunshine & Keng – who saw bravery, love, and justice.

Team Pawat – who clung to wealth, power, and denial.

Some people, bitter and cruel, dismissed Namping’s trauma. They called him an opportunist, a liar, someone “too soft” to be believed. But their voices, though loud, were slowly drowned by the sheer passion of those who stood by him.

Because this wasn’t just about one boy anymore. It became a mirror for thousands. Survivors, hidden behind usernames, began posting:

“Hearing Namping speak… it felt like he was speaking for me too. I’ve been silent for years. Today, I cried.”

“Keng Harit isn’t just fighting for his husband. He’s fighting for all of us.”

⸻

At home, the Buayoi family gathered in their expansive living room. Phones buzzed nonstop, notifications flashing every second.

Joong and Pond, both sixteen, were glued to their devices.

“Joong,” Pond said, wide-eyed, scrolling through Twitter. “Look—look at this edit. Someone made P’Keng’s line into a Marvel-style trailer.” He shoved the phone toward Joong, who burst out laughing.

Joong, always sharper with his words, tilted his head. “No, but listen to this.” He read aloud from a tweet: ‘Keng Harit isn’t just husband goals. He’s redefining what justice looks like.’

Keng, sitting on the sofa with his laptop balanced on his knees, tried to stay focused on reviewing documents. But his ears were red, and the way his fingers trembled slightly on the keyboard betrayed him.

Their mother, sitting beside Namping, reached over and squeezed the boy’s hand. “Do you see, Sunshine?” she whispered softly. “You thought you’d be alone. But look—the world sees you. They believe you.”

Namping lowered his gaze, overwhelmed, his lashes damp. “But… some people hate me too. And I’m trying to block it out but it’s not working and—and I don’t understand why I’m so affected by what’s not the truth.”

Before Keng could answer, Joong slammed his phone down with uncharacteristic force. His sharp voice cut through the air: “Sunshine, listen to me—weak? You’ve survived things most people couldn’t even imagine. You’re here, telling your story. That makes you stronger than any of them.”

Pond jumped in immediately, his tone softer but just as fierce. “They don’t know you. But we do. And if anyone thinks they can call you weak, they’ll have to go through us first.”

The twins moved almost in sync. Joong crossed his arms, chin tilted defiantly. Pond slid closer to Namping, wrapping an arm around him.

“You’re our brother now,” Joong added matter-of-factly. “You don’t fight alone anymore. You’ve got P’Keng, you’ve got us, and you’ve got thousands of people out there screaming your name in support.”

Namping’s throat tightened. He hadn’t cried yet that morning, but the dam broke. He leaned into Pond’s shoulder, trembling, while Joong reached over and awkwardly patted his back, muttering, “Stop crying, or people online will think P’Keng’s dumbass made you sad.”

That made Namping choke out a watery laugh, muffled against Pond.

Keng looked up at them then—his family, his Sunshine—and the sight was enough to burn something permanent into him. This wasn’t just about winning in court. This was about rewriting an entire narrative.

⸻

On social media, the Buayoi family was being hailed as “The Unexpected Heroes.” Screenshots of Joong’s posts blew up:

“Namping isn’t weak. He’s stronger than anyone calling him names from behind a screen. Watch him rise. #JusticeForSunshine”

And Pond’s Instagram story, showing Namping cooking breakfast with the caption: “Our Sunshine cooks better than anyone else. Haters can starve ”—went viral, pulling millions of likes.

The contrast was sharp. On one side, Pawat’s family scrambled, issuing vague press statements about “privacy” and “false allegations.” Their attempts to intimidate the narrative only fueled more anger.

On the other side, the Buayoi household wasn’t hiding. They posted, they laughed, they cooked together, and slowly—so slowly—the tide of the internet shifted.

People began to see Pawat not as a victim of slander, but as exactly what he was: a predator with money. And they saw Namping not as a boy drowning in shame, but as a survivor finding the light again—because someone refused to let him sink.

⸻

That night, as the family gathered for dinner, Joong lifted his glass of soda with a grin. “To Sunshine,” he declared dramatically.

Pond raised his own. “And to P’Keng, the hottest lawyer in Thailand.”

Their parents laughed. Namping flushed scarlet. And Keng—stone-faced, serious Keng—allowed the smallest, shyest smile to break through.

The world was still ugly. The case was still dangerous. But for the first time, it felt like the light was stronger than the shadows.

____________________________________________

The courtroom was not just a courtroom anymore.

It was a stage, an arena, a battlefield where truth and power collided, and the entire nation sat at the edge of their seats waiting to see who would be swallowed and who would rise.

Namping sat with trembling hands folded in his lap, his strawberry hair clip glinting faintly under the courtroom lights. He had worn it for courage, because Keng had pressed it into his palm that morning and whispered: “Sunshine, wear this for me. I want the world to see you—not their lies.”

Across from him sat Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit, polished in a tailored suit, flanked by his high-profile family and the ever-smirking Tawan, his defense lawyer. But even Pawat, arrogant as ever, couldn’t completely disguise the twitch of his jaw, the restless shifting of his fingers on the table.

Because this was it.

The last day.

The verdict.

⸻

The prosecution had spoken.

The defense had argued.

Every piece of evidence—from the old video to the medical records of the abortion, from eyewitness accounts to the cruel messages once passed around Namping’s university—had been laid bare.

Now the courtroom was silent. The judge, flanked by two senior jurists, nodded gravely and stood.

“The jury will deliberate,” he announced.

And with that, twelve men and women rose, their faces unreadable, and disappeared behind heavy oak doors.

⸻

What followed was agony.

The courtroom remained. The audience buzzed with nervous whispers. But at the center, two boys—victim and predator—sat in silence.

Namping’s heart hammered so loud he swore the entire room could hear it. Keng sat beside him, posture straight, eyes forward, one hand lightly covering Namping’s knee beneath the table. A silent promise: I’m here. No matter what.

Across the aisle, Pawat leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, lips twitching into a cold smirk. His eyes slid to Namping, then down, as though deliberately reminding him of the night that had destroyed him.

Namping flinched. His breath caught. And he felt the burn of tears prick at his eyes.

But then Keng squeezed his knee—once, firm, grounding. His lips moved, barely a whisper: “Sunshine, breathe.”

⸻

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then another.

The jury’s absence stretched like a blade across the room. Every shuffle of paper, every cough, every sigh felt magnified. The country outside waited too—streets where cafés and offices had the case playing live on their screens, phones clutched tightly as notifications buzzed with updates.

Thailand wasn’t moving. Thailand was waiting.

⸻

Behind the closed doors, the jury argued.

Some doubted. “There was no footage of the act itself. Only aftermath.”

Others countered. “The evidence of coercion, the medical records, the testimony of his mental health… it’s too strong to ignore.”

One older juror shook his head gravely. “This isn’t just a boy’s shame. It’s a predator’s crime. Look past the power, past the money. Look at the truth.”

The vote began.

One by one.

Slow. Reluctant. Resolute.

Until the tally was set.

⸻

The doors opened.

The jury filed back in. Faces grim, unreadable, heavy with the weight of justice.

Namping’s breath caught. His hand clutched the hem of his shirt so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Keng’s hand moved over his again, strong, steady.

The judge cleared his throat. The courtroom stilled. The air itself seemed to freeze.

“In the case of The State vs. Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit,” he began, voice booming yet deliberate. “The jury has reached a verdict.”

The pause that followed was unbearable.

Namping thought he might faint.

Pawat leaned forward, knuckles pressed against the table, eyes hungry for victory.

And Keng—stoic, unreadable Keng—watched with the calm of a man who had already prepared for war, no matter the outcome.

The judge’s lips parted.

The words that came next split the world in two.

⸻

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Pawat Sirirattankul Supasit…

The silence stretched—so long it felt cruel.

Namping’s chest seized. His ears rang.

“…guilty.”

⸻

The courtroom erupted. Gasps, shouts, cries—reporters scrambling, cameras flashing. Pawat’s mother shrieked, lunging toward the bench, while his father slammed his hand on the table, demanding order.

But no one could hear over the roar of the verdict.

Namping crumpled, sobs breaking free as his hands covered his face. His whole body shook, every wound of four years spilling out in a torrent of tears that were finally, finally not just grief—but relief.

Keng was there instantly. His arms wrapped around Namping, pulling him against his chest, pressing kisses into his hair as he murmured, “It’s over, Sunshine. You did it. You’re free.”

Across the aisle, Pawat’s mask shattered. His composure crumbled as guards approached, placing cold steel cuffs on his wrists. He snarled, thrashed, shouted Namping’s name in fury—“You ruined me! You ruined my life!”

But no one listened. His power, his arrogance, his wealth—it all fell apart under the weight of a single word. Guilty.

⸻

The judge’s gavel slammed. “Order in the court!”

But it was already decided.

History had already been made.

The Sunshine Files, as the media had named it, would be written in textbooks, discussed in classrooms, whispered about for years to come.

And at its heart, a boy who once thought his voice was meaningless, now stood as proof that even the most broken whispers can shake empires.

⸻

Later, when the chaos had settled and the cameras turned away, Namping stood outside the courthouse with Keng’s arm wrapped firmly around his waist.

The crowd outside roared their names. Strangers shouted support, holding signs that read Justice Won and We Believe You Sunshine.

Namping tilted his face toward Keng, tears still wet on his cheeks. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered.

Keng kissed his temple softly. “Believe it. This is your justice, Sunshine. And no one can take it away.”

For the first time in four years, Namping let the warmth of the sun touch his face—and this time, he didn’t hide.

____________________________________________

The courtroom verdict had been the thunderclap that shattered four years of silence. But what came after was not thunder—it was sunlight, slow and steady, seeping into corners that had long been dark.

For the first time in years, Namping woke without the weight of fear crushing his chest.

The morning after the trial, he lay in Keng’s bed in the Buayoi family home, the strawberry clip pinned neatly in his hair, his nails freshly painted pastel pink by the very man curled against his side. He woke to the smell of warm jasmine tea and the sound of birds outside the window.

And Keng’s voice.

“Good morning, Sunshine.”

Namping blinked up at him, eyes still swollen from yesterday’s tears, but there was something new in his gaze—relief. He whispered, “Good morning… P’Keng.”

The word was shy, trembling, but it made Keng’s lips curl into a grin so wide it could’ve split the sky.

⸻

Healing wasn’t simple.

There were still nights when Namping woke shaking, drenched in sweat, the memory of Pawat’s threats replaying in his mind. There were still days when crowds made him nervous, when he flinched at the sound of laughter that felt too sharp, too pointed.

But the difference now was this: he wasn’t alone.

When he woke trembling, Keng pulled him close, whispered stories until his breathing slowed, and kissed the crown of his head as if to press away nightmares.

When he doubted himself, when guilt clawed at him, it was Joong and Pond who climbed onto his bed and said things only eighteen-year-olds could say—blunt, silly, but full of truth.

“You’re not gross, P’Ping. You’re like… a cinnamon roll. A broken one. But still sweet.”

“Yeah! And Pawat? He’s like mold. And mold belongs in the trash.”

Namping had laughed through his tears that night, something he never thought he could do again.

⸻

At university, the winds shifted.

It didn’t happen overnight. At first, people whispered cautiously, unsure of how to treat the boy they had bullied for years. Some still avoided him out of guilt, unable to face the reflection of their cruelty.

But slowly—slowly—they came.

A girl from the engineering faculty approached him outside the canteen, bowing low. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, hands trembling. “For the notes. For the names. I thought… I thought it was funny. It wasn’t. I was cruel.”

Boys who once teased him now muttered apologies, some awkward, some raw. One even cried, begging forgiveness.

Professors who had lashed out at him in lecture halls sought him privately, admitting their shame. “I was wrong,” one confessed, voice breaking. “You were the strongest student I had, and I let rumours blind me.”

Namping didn’t forgive them all at once. Healing wasn’t about forgetting. But hearing the words, seeing remorse—it planted seeds in soil that had long been barren.

⸻

And then came the sweetness.

For the first time in years, Namping let himself dress the way he loved. Pastel sweaters, lavender shirts, mint-green pants. Clips shaped like strawberries, peaches, tiny kittens. His nails glimmered with glossy blues and yellows.

People stared—but differently now. Not with mockery, but with warmth. Some even complimented him.

“Cute clip, P’Ping.”

“Your nails look so good!”

“Teach me how to do those desserts again?”

And when he blushed, when his smile crept timidly across his face, the entire university seemed to brighten.

Because for once, the sunshine wasn’t being mocked.

It was being celebrated.

⸻

Through it all, Keng remained at his side—his anchor, his shield, his lover.

He was still Keng Harit Buayoi, the international athlete, the law student with a brain sharp enough to slice through lies. But with Namping, he was also just Keng—the man who carried his husband’s bag when he felt tired, who painted his nails when his hands shook too much, who kept strawberry milk stocked in the fridge because he knew it was his comfort.

“Why do you always do this for me?” Namping asked one evening as they sat on the balcony, the Bangkok skyline twinkling behind them.

Keng tilted his head, leaned closer, and kissed the corner of his lips. “Because I want to see you smile again. Always.”

Namping blushed, tears prickling his eyes as he whispered, “I love you.”

Keng’s smile was soft but steady. “I love you more, Sunshine.”

⸻

The Buayoi family never stopped surprising him either. Keng’s mother insisted he call her mae, pressing his hands between hers and telling him, “You are my son now. Not by law, but by heart.”

His father taught him patience, telling him often: “Justice is not about revenge, child. It is about truth. You carried yours bravely.”

And Joong and Pond? They made TikTok edits of him, clips of Namping cooking with pastel filters, calling him #OurSunshineChef. The videos went viral, with comments flooding in: “He’s so precious!” “Protect this boy at all costs.” “Namping supremacy.”

For the first time, social media wasn’t a weapon against him.

It was a shield.

⸻

Months later, when graduation arrived, Namping walked across the stage in his culinary whites, the applause thunderous. He looked out into the crowd—his husband, his family, his classmates all cheering.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t cry out of pain.

He cried out of joy.

⸻

Life wasn’t perfect.

Scars didn’t vanish, nightmares didn’t dissolve completely, and healing was a process that took patience. But Namping no longer carried it all alone.

With Keng’s hand in his, with the Buayoi family at his back, with a world finally listening instead of mocking—he had found his place again.

The sunshine was no longer dimmed.

It was brighter than ever.

And as everything fell back in place, Namping realized: he had never been the predator. He had never been the shame. He had always been what Keng called him—his sunshine.

And now, the whole world could see it too.

____________________________________________

Epilogue: 🍓

Five years later, the Sunshine Files were no longer whispered in fear or shouted in rage. They were remembered as the case that changed the way universities treated survivors, as the trial that gave a voice back to those silenced.

But for Keng Harit Buayoi and Namping—now Buayoi too—it wasn’t just history. It was the foundation of the life they built together.

The pastel-painted shop on Sukhumvit Road smelled of sugar and butter, warm cinnamon and vanilla. A bell jingled above the door, and each time it rang, Namping’s face lit up with the same shy smile he wore at eighteen.

The sign above the bakery read in gold script:

Sunshine’s Kitchen.

Inside, glass displays were filled with delicate éclairs, strawberry shortcakes decorated with candied flowers, soft bread rolls glazed with honey, and cakes topped with pastel buttercream swirls.

But the true charm wasn’t the pastries—it was Namping himself. Clad in his white apron embroidered with a tiny strawberry, his nails still painted soft shades, he moved behind the counter with effortless grace, humming as he worked. Customers came as much for him as for the sweets.

“Two strawberry tarts and a pastel lemon roll?” he’d chirp, voice as gentle as whipped cream.

“Yes, P’Ping!” they’d beam.

And the bell never stopped ringing.

Because Namping was no longer just sunshine—he was sweetness incarnate.

Of course, the bakery had two VIP customers who made the most noise.

Joong and Pond, now twenty-two, burst in nearly every other day, still dressed like chaotic university seniors, and still as feral as ever.

“P’Ping! We’re dying! We need three dozen cinnamon rolls—STAT!”

“It’s a medical emergency, P’!”

“You two,” Namping would sigh, wiping flour from his hands, “are going to get diabetes before you’re twenty-five.”

“Worth it!” Pond grinned, stuffing a bun in his mouth before even paying.

The twins had grown into taller, wilder versions of themselves, but to Namping, they would always be the boys who saw through his pain, the ones who made him laugh when everything hurt. Now they were his loudest cheerleaders, recording TikToks of his pastries and proudly declaring him “#Thailand’sBestSunshineChef.”

And when the bakery won a small culinary award in Bangkok, Joong and Pond celebrated harder than anyone—dragging Namping onto Instagram live, declaring, “We told you he’s the best!"

Keng, true to his word, never abandoned either of his dreams.

By day, he strode into courtrooms as Lawyer Harit Buayoi, sharp-suited, voice commanding, his arguments precise and devastating. His reputation grew quickly—clients whispered about the young lawyer with both brilliance and bite, the one who could sway even the sternest judges.

By night, he laced his boots on the soccer field, the stadium roaring with chants of “Keng! Keng! Keng!” as he scored another goal. Sports magazines called him the Golden Boy of Thai Soccer.

And yet, no matter how prestigious his cases or how bright the stadium lights, Keng always returned home to the same place: Namping’s kitchen.

More than once, reporters caught photos of him sitting in the pastel bakery after practice, suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, feeding cake to his husband like it was the most normal thing in the world. The caption always read: “Lawyer by day, striker by night, lover always.”

And then came their sweetest creation of all.

Khemmika Harit Buayoi was four years old, with Keng’s sharp almond eyes, his mischievous smile, and a temper that reminded everyone of her father’s infamous stubborn streak. Her hair was tied into two tiny pigtails, and she already had a collection of strawberry hair clips to match her papa’s.

If Namping was sunshine, Khemmika was pure starlight—bright, mischievous, and impossible to ignore.

“Khemmikaaa, don’t climb the counter!” Namping yelped one morning as the toddler scrambled onto the bakery display case.

“But Papa, I want cakeeee!” she pouted, cheeks puffing adorably.

Before Namping could scold, Keng swooped in, lifting his daughter up onto his hip. “Cake before breakfast?” he teased. “You’re definitely my kid.”

Khemmika beamed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Dada loves me more than you, Papa.”

“You!” Namping gasped, playfully swatting Keng’s arm. But even through his mock-scolding, his heart melted every time he saw the two loves of his life together.

And then there were her uncles.

Joong and Pond were obsessed, declaring themselves her “favorite uncles” and spoiling her rotten. They taught her silly TikTok dances, snuck her candy when Namping wasn’t looking, and carried her on their shoulders through the streets of Bangkok like she was a princess.

“She’s OUR baby,” Pond declared proudly once, kissing her cheek.

“No,” Keng countered, pulling her back into his arms. “She’s mine.”

“Mine!” Khemmika squealed, not understanding but loving the chaos.

The bakery became her second playground, and customers adored the sight of little Khemmika toddling around in a pastel apron, helping Daddy decorate cookies (mostly by eating the icing).

Keng’s mother still treated Namping like her own son, often showing up at the bakery with fresh fruit or flowers. “For my Sunshine,” she’d say warmly, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

His father, retired but still respected in politics, visited often, scooping Khemmika onto his lap and teaching her to play chess while muttering, “You’ll be sharper than your father one day.”

Together, the Buayoi parents had become the foundation of love Namping once thought he’d never know.

⸻

🍓

One late evening, after closing the bakery, Keng wrapped his arms around Namping from behind as he piped icing roses onto a cake. Flour dusted the air, sugar clung to the counters, and Khemmika slept upstairs with her uncles watching over her.

“You’re still so beautiful when you bake,” Keng murmured against his husband’s neck, making him shiver.

Namping laughed softly, cheeks turning pink. “And you’re still distracting.”

“Good,” Keng whispered, spinning him gently to steal a kiss, deep and unhurried.

Namping’s heart raced the same way it had years ago when this man first defended him with fire in his eyes. But this kiss wasn’t desperate. It was steady, warm, infinite.

“You know,” Namping said softly, brushing icing off Keng’s cheek, “life really is sweet.”

“Mm,” Keng grinned, pressing his forehead to his. “Like icing.”

And in that quiet bakery, with love thick in the air, they both knew—

the storm had ended, the wounds had scarred over, and what remained was something even stronger.

A family.

A future.

A sweetness that would never fade.

The End.