Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wedding hall was cold, no matter how many white roses decorated the altar or how golden the light streamed through the stained-glass windows.

Bible stood stiff in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, jaw clenched, eyes burning holes through the man walking down the aisle. Jes, in black, of course. Not traditional. Not subtle. Never had been. He looked like sin dressed in silk, and he wore the smugness of someone who knew exactly how much Bible hated this.

“I now pronounce you—”

“Don’t,” Bible said sharply, stopping the priest mid-sentence.

Jes didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, mouth curling into that damned half-smile. “What, Bible? You don’t want to kiss your beloved husband?”

Bible’s hands clenched at his sides. “This isn’t a marriage. It’s a contract.”

Jes tilted his head mockingly. “Same thing in our world, isn’t it?”

They both knew what this was. Their families, enemies for years, had finally struck a truce—but only under one condition. A symbolic union. Two heirs. One marriage.

Jes leaned in, breath brushing Bible’s ear. “Unless you want to back out now and let your father start another war.”

Bible didn’t respond. His father sat in the front row, stone-faced. So did Jes’s. They’d kill each other with or without bullets if this fell apart.

The priest, awkward and sweating, cleared his throat. “I… I now pronounce you husbands. You may… seal it with a kiss.”

Jes turned to Bible, pausing, daring him.

Bible grabbed his collar, pulled him in, and crushed their lips together.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was war.

Teeth clashed. Breath hissed between them. It was anger, heat, frustration, and the sick, unbearable tension that had been building since they were teenagers—since their first fight, since Jes pushed him into a fountain and Bible broke his jaw in return.

They pulled apart, breathing hard.

Jes licked his bottom lip, where Bible had bitten too hard. “That all you got?”

“You’ll regret this,” Bible growled.

Jes smiled. “I already do. But I’ll enjoy making your life hell.”

—

Later, in the hotel suite—cold, elegant, impersonal—they stood on opposite sides of the room.

“You take the couch,” Bible snapped.

Jes laughed, low and dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re cute when you think you’re in charge.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m not touching you, Bible. Relax.” Jes shrugged out of his jacket, muscles flexing under his shirt. “But keep talking to me like that, and maybe I will.”

Bible turned away, throat tight.

Why did Jes have to be so goddamn infuriating? Why did every word from him feel like a knife that cut too deep, too easily?

And why, despite it all, did part of him want to pull Jes back into another kiss, this time slower… with less anger and more truth?

Jes’s voice broke through the silence, quiet this time. “You think I wanted this any more than you did?”

Bible didn’t answer.

Jes exhaled. “I don’t want your loyalty. Or your pity. Just… don’t pretend you’re the only one who lost something today.”

Bible’s fists loosened slightly.

For the first time since the ceremony, he looked at Jes—not as the enemy, not as the arrogant bastard he’d grown up hating—but as someone just as trapped.

Maybe they’d never love each other. Maybe they’d burn everything down first.

But maybe… maybe they’d burn together.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind them with the soft finality of a trap sealing.

Bible stood still for a long moment, hands at his sides, fists clenched. The luxury suite was too quiet, too big — cold marble, gold lighting, and an untouched bed that loomed like a threat.

He didn’t move to sit. He didn’t even take off his jacket. He just stared ahead like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or burn the place down.

Jes, of course, was the first to break the silence.

“You’re sulking,” he said, walking past Bible like this was just any other night. “It’s unattractive.”

Bible let out a breath through his nose, calm and sharp. “You used me.”

Jes stopped mid-step.

Bible turned his head slowly, eyes burning into him. “Don’t play dumb now. You wanted this. You pushed for this. All those boardroom smiles, those polite nods in front of the families — you knew what you were doing.”

Jes tilted his head slightly, voice flat. “It was your father who proposed the deal.”

“And it was you who agreed without blinking.”

Jes moved to the minibar, pouring himself a drink with the casual grace of someone who’d already won. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to protect both our families from another decade of bloodshed.”

Bible’s laugh was humorless. “Don’t insult me.”

Jes looked up.

“You didn’t do this for peace,” Bible said. “You did it for power. For status. Because being the man who tamed the Watcharat heir was better than being the one who was always in his shadow.”

Jes took a sip, not answering. Bible could see it — the slight twitch in his jaw. Good. Let it sting.

“I’ve known you since we were kids,” Bible said, voice rising slightly. “And not once — not once — have you ever done anything that didn’t serve your own interests. So don’t stand there and pretend this was noble.”

Jes’s gaze sharpened. “And you think I’m the only one who benefited from this?”

Bible stepped forward. “I didn’t want this.”

Jes’s voice stayed cool. “You didn’t say no.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Bible snapped, finally breaking. “You think I would have agreed to tie myself to you — you — if there was any way out?”

Jes’s silence was answer enough.

Bible turned away, running a hand through his hair, pacing like his skin was too tight.

“You’re not stupid,” he muttered. “You knew they’d use us as symbols. You knew the headlines it would make. Jes and Bible — enemies turned allies, bloodlines united. Perfect for the press. Perfect for your father’s image.”

Jes placed his glass down gently. “It’s just politics, Bible.”

Bible whirled on him. “It was my life.”

Jes didn’t flinch.

“My name, my freedom, my dignity — traded like it meant nothing.” Bible’s voice dropped into something cold, low, vicious. “But I bet you loved every second of it. The cameras. The applause. The photos of you kissing the man you’ve spent years trying to outmaneuver.”

Jes’s lips curled. “You really think I needed a marriage to beat you?”

“No,” Bible growled. “You needed a show. You needed a leash around me to prove to them you’d finally won.”

Jes took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Do you ever hear yourself talk? You sound like a victim.”

Bible laughed once, sharp. “And you sound like a man who thinks manipulation is a skill worth bragging about.”

They stood there, barely a breath between them, tension snapping like electric wire in the air.

Jes’s voice dropped. “You’re angry. I get it. But you’re not blameless here, Bible. You could’ve walked away. You didn’t.”

“You think I stayed for you?” Bible barked. “I stayed because walking away would’ve meant war. And for all your smugness, I’m not willing to let my people bleed for my pride.”

Jes blinked. “And I am?”

Bible stared at him.

Jes’s voice was quieter now. “You think I liked this? That I wanted to sign my name beside yours, parade around like this is some happy fucking ending?”

“I think you liked the headlines,” Bible said. “I think you liked the idea of finally being seen as my equal — no, not equal. My replacement.”

Jes didn’t speak.

Bible’s voice softened, but only in tone — the venom stayed. “You’re not my partner, Jes. You’re my father’s favorite puppet. And when this little charade ends, that’s all you’ll ever be.”

Jes looked at him then — really looked at him — and for a split second, something flickered in his eyes. Hurt. Regret. But then it was gone, buried under years of armor.

“I won’t apologize for doing what was necessary,” Jes said flatly.

Bible stared at him. “Neither will I.”

And without another word, Bible walked past him. He stripped off his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself down on the velvet couch across the suite — not the bed. He would sleep there if it killed him.

Jes didn’t stop him. Just stood there for a long moment, watching, unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned off the lights and disappeared into the bedroom.

The door clicked shut.

And Bible lay in the dark, heart racing, hands clenched into fists.

He had never felt so betrayed. So humiliated. So used.

This wasn’t marriage. This was a transaction with a pretty suit and a kiss that meant nothing.

At least, it should have meant nothing.

He closed his eyes.

And tried not to remember how real it had felt — even for a second.

Chapter Text

Jes had learned long ago how to wear masks.

Smile for the politicians. Nod for the shareholders. Let enemies believe they were friends, and keep your real thoughts locked behind your teeth.

But nothing in his years of training had prepared him for the taste of Bible’s rage.

It still lingered.

Last night’s words had hit like shrapnel, digging beneath the surface, festering. Jes had told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t care what Bible thought — what Bible felt.

But the truth scratched at him in the dark: it did.

He hadn’t wanted to marry him. But he hadn’t wanted to see him like that either — betrayed, furious, empty.

And yet here they were.

Tonight was the first reception after the wedding — hosted by Jes’s family, surrounded by their “new allies.” A hundred powerful people under one golden chandelier, all waiting to see how long this forced peace would last.

Jes adjusted his cuffs as the car pulled up to the estate. Bible sat beside him, stone-faced, wearing a black-on-black tux that fit like a second skin and a glare that could freeze the sun.

Jes didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

When they stepped out, the cameras clicked. The crowd whispered. Bible’s posture was perfect. His eyes weren’t.

Jes knew those eyes — alert, scanning, already calculating exits and threats. Always the soldier. Even in a silk tie.

Jes hated that Bible looked so alone, even standing next to him.

Inside, the reception was noise and gold and false praise. Family friends and distant uncles shook Jes’s hand, toasted to the union, told him how proud his father must be. Jes smiled through every word, barely listening.

His eyes were on Bible.

Bible had been cornered by a group near the far end of the hall — older men, powerful ones. Politicians. Bankers. Men who respected his family’s bloodline but never fully accepted the man himself. Jes could see it already in their body language: the way they stood too close, the way they laughed a second too long.

He moved before thinking.

By the time Jes reached them, one of the men — a senator, fat with power — had placed a hand on Bible’s back.

Jes didn’t hear what he said.

But Bible’s face was a dead giveaway.

Jes stepped in.

“Everything alright here?” His tone was light, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

The senator looked up, unfazed. “Just congratulating your husband. You’re a lucky man.”

Jes’s eyes flicked to his hand, still resting on Bible’s back.

Then he smiled, and slipped between them.

“Very lucky,” he said, gently but firmly moving Bible a step behind him, like a shield.

The senator chuckled, oblivious or foolish. “He’s a firecracker, isn’t he?”

Jes’s voice dipped to velvet. “Only those who like getting burned find out.”

The man raised his brow but backed off, his smirk fading under Jes’s stare. The moment passed. The group scattered, drinks in hand, looking for easier prey.

Jes turned to Bible.

Bible’s jaw was clenched, eyes furious. “I can handle myself.”

Jes nodded. “I know.”

“Then don’t act like you own me.”

“I’m not.”

Bible stepped closer, whispering tightly. “You think just because you put a ring on my finger, you get to play hero?”

Jes stared at him. “No. I just didn’t want to see you surrounded by men who’d sell their own daughters for power. They don’t see you, Bible. They see a symbol. A prize.”

Bible blinked.

Jes continued, softer now. “But I see you. And I know how fast you shut down when you feel cornered. I wasn’t rescuing you. I was—” he caught himself. “—reminding them they don’t get to touch what they don’t respect.”

Bible didn’t respond for a long moment.

Then: “You think that line makes you noble?”

Jes’s voice stayed even. “No. I think it makes me human.”

Bible stared at him, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. Not forgiveness. Not softness. But maybe, just maybe, recognition.

Jes stepped back.

“Drink?” he offered.

Bible didn’t say yes. But he followed him to the bar.

They stood side by side, not speaking, just breathing in the space where something unspoken had shifted.

Jes didn’t touch him again. Not out of fear — out of respect. For once.

And in that quiet moment, surrounded by flashing lights and empty smiles, Jes realized something:

He didn’t hate Bible.

He hated the way the world treated him. Like a weapon, a bargaining chip, a name to control.

And Jes would burn that world down before he let them do it again.

Chapter Text

They hadn’t spoken in two days.

Not since the suite. Not since Bible had said, “Don’t ever step in for me again unless I ask.”

Jes had taken the words like a blade between the ribs and never asked to pull it out.

He’d kept his distance.

No dramatic outbursts. No smug retorts. Just cold, practiced silence — like strangers learning to walk in the same house.

The mansion was too big for two people trying not to see each other. Still, somehow, they always ran into each other.

In the kitchen, when Bible made coffee at 5 a.m.

In the hallway, when Jes came back late from another meeting with his father.

In the library, once, when they both reached for the same book and touched the spine at the same time.

Jes had pulled away first. Bible hadn’t looked up.

And yet…

Today, it rained. Not the soft kind. The hard, punishing kind that blurred the windows and drowned out thought. Jes sat on the wide window bench of their shared room, sleeves rolled up, reading a file he’d barely absorbed a word of.

He hadn’t noticed Bible come in.

But he saw him in the glass reflection — soaked from the storm, shirt clinging to his frame, hair dripping water down his temples.

Jes stood immediately. “Where the hell were you?”

Bible looked at him, unfazed. “I went for a ride.”

“In that storm?”

Bible shrugged, heading toward the dresser. “It’s quieter out there.”

Jes crossed the room. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“And?” Bible pulled out a dry towel. “Would that have been more convenient for you? A clean widow, pity headlines, tragic husband?”

Jes’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

Bible turned to face him, still wet, still unreadable. “No, Jes. What’s not fair is being stuck in a marriage with someone who doesn’t know how to stop pretending he doesn’t care.”

Jes didn’t respond.

Just watched a drop of rain slide from Bible’s jaw down his neck. And hated himself for noticing it.

“You think I’m cold,” Bible said quietly. “But I’ve had to be. Because if I let anything in, I wouldn’t survive this.”

Jes’s throat tightened. “And you think I haven’t?”

Bible’s voice cracked. “You chose this.”

Jes stepped forward. Slowly. “I chose it so they wouldn’t choose for us.”

Silence.

The storm outside softened slightly.

Jes was close now — too close — but didn’t touch him. The distance was fragile, like a hairline crack across glass.

“I’ve been trying to stay away,” Jes said. “Because I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Bible’s eyes finally met his. “Then why does it feel like everywhere I go, you’re already there?”

Jes let out a soft breath. “Maybe because no matter how far we walk from each other, the world keeps finding new ways to tie our ankles together.”

Bible didn’t laugh. But he didn’t step away either.

His voice was low, tired. “So what happens when the string snaps?”

Jes said nothing at first.

Then, with a faint bitter smile: “I guess we fall. Either into each other… or apart.”

Bible’s breath hitched — so small, Jes wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching for it.

But he was always watching.

Still, no one moved. No one dared to touch.

The room was quiet again.

Except this silence had a pulse.

Chapter Text

It was just a cut.

Barely that.

Jes found him in the hallway — Bible, slouched against the wall, breathing shallow, one hand pressed tightly against his side. Rain still soaked his clothes, his shirt stained darker near the hem, where crimson bloomed like spilled ink.

Jes froze.

“Bible.”

Bible looked up, startled. His face was pale. Too pale.

“It’s nothing,” he said hoarsely. “I—I came off the bike wrong. Clipped something on the road. It’s just a scratch.”

Jes was beside him in two strides.

“Sit,” Jes ordered, guiding him toward the edge of the console table. Bible hissed under his breath but didn’t resist.

Jes tugged up the wet shirt without waiting for permission.

The gash ran across his ribcage. Shallow, but angry. Red, raw, the skin around it already purpling. Jes swallowed hard.

“Stay still.”

He disappeared and returned with the first-aid kit from the guest bathroom. Neither of them spoke as Jes knelt down in front of him.

Bible’s breathing was uneven.

Jes opened the antiseptic and held a gauze pad. “This is going to sting.”

“Everything already does,” Bible muttered.

Jes paused.

Then pressed the cloth gently to the cut.

Bible flinched but didn’t pull away. Jes’s hands were steady, but inside, he was shaking. He’d seen injuries before. Dealt with worse. But this—seeing Bible like this, vulnerable, hurt, breathing through gritted teeth but refusing to ask for help—it did something to him he couldn’t explain.

“You’re reckless,” Jes said quietly.

“You’re controlling.”

Jes smiled bitterly. “Maybe we deserve each other.”

Bible’s jaw twitched. “Or maybe that’s the curse.”

Jes didn’t answer. Just kept working.

For a while, the only sound in the hallway was the slow rhythm of Jes’s breath and the soft sting of medicine on skin. He wiped away the blood, cleaned the wound, and pressed a fresh bandage across the ribs with the care of someone who was pretending not to care.

“You always do this,” Bible said suddenly.

Jes looked up. “Do what?”

Bible’s eyes met his — tired, honest, frayed at the edges. “Show up when I least want you to. Say the thing I can’t argue with. Make it worse by making it better.”

Jes blinked. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Jes sat back, the bandage done. His hands hovered, unsure what to do now. Touch felt both dangerous and necessary.

Bible let out a shaky breath. “When I fell… I didn’t think about the pain. Or the road. I just thought… If something happened to me, would you even care?”

Jes didn’t answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was low.

“I would’ve lost my mind.”

Bible looked at him.

Jes’s throat tightened. “You think I’m calm because I don’t feel anything. But I’m calm because if I let anything out, it’ll wreck everything.”

He took a breath.

“I care, Bible. Too much. I just don’t know how to show it in a way that doesn’t scare you.”

Bible didn’t reply. But Jes could feel the shift — something softening, slowly, painfully.

Jes stood. “You need to rest.”

“I can walk.”

“I know,” Jes said. “But I’m staying.”

Bible blinked. “Why?”

Jes gave a small, broken smile. “Because I don’t want to leave you again when you’re hurting.”

Bible didn’t argue.

He let Jes help him up. Let him guide him to the bed. Let him sit nearby, quiet, the storm now outside and inside both finally settling.

And maybe — just maybe — the silence between them wasn’t so heavy anymore.

Maybe it was starting to hold room for something else.

Chapter Text

Jes didn’t get a warning.

He just looked up from his third espresso of the morning to the sharp click of shoes on marble and the slow, syrupy voice of his aunt entering the estate.

“Jes! Darling. Where’s that beautiful husband of yours? We came to see the newlyweds.”

Jes closed his eyes briefly. Counted to three. Then opened them again.

“Of course you did.”

Behind her trailed three more family members — a distant cousin, his uncle from Chiang Mai, and worst of all, his father’s advisor, who smiled like he’d already prepared a report on how the marriage was going.

Jes straightened his collar, forced a smile, and excused himself before they could ask where Bible was.

He found him in the garden.

Sitting beneath the awning, still healing, dressed in loose cotton and warm sun, looking at peace for once.

Jes hated what he was about to do.

“Bible,” he called, approaching.

Bible glanced up, instinctively on guard. “What now?”

Jes sat beside him. “They’re here.”

Bible’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Family. My aunt. The strategist. The ones who ask the questions that don’t sound like threats but are.”

Bible groaned. “And let me guess. They expect affection.”

Jes hesitated. “They expect… performance.”

Bible ran a hand through his hair, annoyed. “So we pretend.”

Jes gave a small nod. “Unless you’d rather not come. I can cover—”

“I’m not hiding,” Bible said before Jes could finish.

Jes looked at him.

“And,” Bible added, standing slowly, “you’re not doing this alone.”

Jes didn’t let the warmth rise to his face. He stood too, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves.

The sitting room was all smiles and sugar-coated questions.

Jes took the leather armchair. Bible, to Jes’s mild surprise, chose the space beside him — not across, not distant — close enough that their knees brushed when he shifted.

It was the first time they’d sat like this in front of others.

Aunt Supalai leaned forward, inspecting them like art.

“You two look…” she paused, searching, “...comfortable.”

Jes smiled. “We’re managing.”

Bible tilted his head. “We’re learning.”

Jes glanced at him. The softness in Bible’s voice wasn’t entirely fake.

“Isn’t that lovely,” the aunt cooed, hand fluttering. “Jes, dear, you always were so private. I worried your marriage would feel... sterile.”

Jes’s fingers twitched. Bible noticed. Jes didn’t think anyone else did.

So Bible reached out. Rested a hand gently on Jes’s knee. Slow, natural, practiced. But Jes felt it everywhere.

“We have our own language,” Bible said smoothly. “Just not the kind most people speak.”

Jes blinked.

His aunt beamed. “Oh, I love that.”

Jes didn’t say a word. But when he looked at Bible again, there was something different in his gaze.

Something real.

Later, the house was quiet again.

Jes leaned against the kitchen counter, breath slow, brain tired.

Bible walked in behind him. Silent, for once.

Jes spoke first. “That was good. You were... convincing.”

Bible leaned beside him. “You didn’t flinch when I touched you.”

Jes’s eyes met his. “Would you believe me if I said it didn’t feel fake?”

Bible looked down at the counter.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he admitted. “Or what’s supposed to be.”

Jes turned slightly. “What feels real?”

Bible was quiet.

Then: “You, helping me when I was bleeding. You, last night, staying in the room even when I didn’t ask. You today, looking at me like…”

Jes held his breath.

“Like I’m not a mistake.”

Jes’s voice was low. “You’re not.”

Bible looked up again, that old shield flickering.

“You still want out of this?” Jes asked.

Bible didn’t answer right away.

But he didn’t walk away either.

Instead, he whispered, “I’m starting to forget where the performance ends.”

Jes exhaled, something warm blooming in his chest.

“Maybe,” he said, “we stop pretending when no one’s looking. See what’s left.”

Bible didn’t reply.

But his hand brushed Jes’s again — not as part of a show this time.

Just... because.

Chapter Text

Bible used to be good at silence.
He'd spent years perfecting it — in training, in boardrooms, in his father’s house. You don’t flinch, you don’t soften, you don’t let them see how deep the knife went. That was how you survived.
But silence around Jes had become something else.
Not cold. Not safe.
Now it was filled with half-felt things and the echo of words Jes never said — not quite apologies, but never indifference either.
Bible lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. The rain had stopped. The house was still. But his mind wasn’t.
He could still feel Jes’s hand under his, from the kitchen earlier.
A brush. A flicker. Not part of the act.
And that was the part that scared him.
Jes was slipping through the cracks Bible had worked so hard to build. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t playing savior. He was just… being there. Quietly. Consistently. Like he meant it.
That made it worse.
Because Bible knew how to survive cruelty. He knew how to fight enemies, how to reject grand gestures and lies. But kindness? Softness?
That was the real weapon.
Jes was becoming the kind of ache that couldn’t be iced away.

The next morning, Bible caught a glimpse of Jes through the glass walls of the private gym. Jes was alone, sweating through a routine, focused and sharp — but there was something tight in his movements. Something tense.
Bible didn’t mean to stay.
But he didn’t walk away either.
Jes didn’t see him at first.
And maybe that’s why it felt honest.

Later, over breakfast, they barely spoke. Jes pushed toast around his plate. Bible stirred his tea too long.
It should’ve been easy — silence again.
But it wasn’t.
Because Jes looked at him like he was still thinking about yesterday. Like the memory of Bible’s hand over his hadn’t left either.
And Bible hated that his chest tightened just from being looked at like that.
Like he was wanted.
Not as a symbol. Not as an heir.
But as him.
He’d told himself this was war. Marriage, forced. Hatred, mutual. Protection, survival.
But Jes’s care — soft, patient, genuine — it was beginning to rot through Bible’s armor.
And worst of all?
He wanted to let it.
Even when it scared the hell out of him.

He found himself walking past Jes’s office that evening.
He stopped at the door.
Jes’s voice was low inside, talking on the phone.
“Yes, but if we move that meeting, the press will speculate. And I’d rather not give them any more fuel.”
A pause. Then:
“No. Bible doesn’t need to be dragged into this unless absolutely necessary.”
Bible’s heart stilled.
Jes was protecting him again.
Not publicly. Not performatively. Just… in quiet conversations Bible was never meant to hear.
It was easier when Jes was cruel. Easier when he was calculating.
This version — the quiet, caring, broken Jes who guarded him even in absence — was dangerous.
Bible stepped back from the door.
He didn’t go in.
He just leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing deep.
And realized something he didn’t want to admit:
Jes wasn’t his enemy anymore.
He was his weakness.
And that was worse.
Because weaknesses break you slow.
And Jes? Jes was breaking him gently.
One soft glance at a time.

Chapter Text

It started with a vibration.
Jes’s phone buzzed once, then again — persistent, sharp. The room was still dark, just past 6 a.m., and for a moment he thought it could wait.
Until it buzzed again.
He reached for it blindly.
And froze.
[Trending: “Jes & Bible — Leaked Footage Raises Questions About Marriage Authenticity”]
The notification was from a gossip site, but that didn’t matter — not when it had already spread.
Jes tapped it open.
The clip was grainy. A security recording, clearly leaked. From the reception a week ago. It showed Bible pulling away from Jes after a whispered exchange. Jes’s hand had briefly touched Bible’s lower back, but Bible had stepped away coldly.
There was no sound, but the video didn’t need it. The body language screamed distance. Rejection. Hostility.
The caption below did the rest.
“Sources close to the Watcharat family say this wasn’t a love match. Arranged? Political? What is Jes hiding behind the smile?”
Jes sat up straight in bed. His heart wasn’t racing — not yet. But he could feel the pressure building under his skin.
Because this… this wasn’t just tabloid fodder.
This was a loaded gun in a public square.
He heard the door open.
Bible stood in the frame, shirt clinging to his chest from his morning run. His eyes met Jes’s instantly.
“You saw it?”
Jes nodded once.
Bible stepped inside, grabbing the remote and switching on the news.
It was already playing.
Clips from the wedding.
“Analysts are calling the Jes-Bible union a facade designed to strengthen family alliances.”
Jes’s jaw locked.
Bible’s arms folded tightly. “Your family’s going to ask if we’ve broken the contract.”
Jes didn’t answer.
Because he already knew: they would.
And worse — if it fell apart in public, both families would bleed. His reputation. Bible’s dignity. The careers they’d built. The fragile peace between old rivals.
All of it would crumble under one shaky clip and a thousand whispered lies.
Jes stood. “We can’t let them control the narrative.”
Bible narrowed his eyes. “What do you want to do?”
Jes looked at him — at the man who once hated him more than anyone alive, but was now the only person Jes trusted inside this storm.
And said, “We hold this together. You and me.”
Bible raised a brow. “You mean fake the love?”
Jes stepped closer. “I mean fight for something that finally feels real.”
Bible didn’t reply.
Not with words.
But his fingers didn’t flinch when Jes reached for them.

The first attack came from inside.
Jes’s father called within the hour. Cold. Blunt. “Fix it, or don’t bother showing up at the shareholder gala.”
Bible’s own brother — rarely heard from — texted: “I told you this would happen. You should’ve never let them tie your name to theirs.”
But by mid-afternoon, they stood together at the impromptu press briefing in their home.
The reporters fired questions like bullets:
“Is the marriage real?”
“Was it arranged?”
“Do you even live together?”
Bible stood beside Jes in a charcoal suit, hands calm, eyes direct.
And Jes didn’t let go of his hand — not once.
When it was Jes’s turn to speak, he leaned into the mic and said, “People think they know everything from a clip. A step back. A look. But love isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s work. Sometimes it’s messy.”
He looked at Bible.
“And sometimes it starts in the most unlikely place and grows… when no one’s watching.”
Bible didn’t look away.
Neither did the cameras.

That night, the silence returned.
But it wasn’t empty anymore.
Jes sat on the edge of the couch, exhausted. Bible stood behind him, arms crossed, watching the flicker of their own faces on the news cycle.
Jes didn’t speak.
Until he said softly, “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”
Bible stepped forward, slowly. “It’s happening to us.”
Jes looked up.
Something fragile passed between them.
And Jes, for the first time, whispered, “Do you ever wish we’d said no at the beginning?”
Bible didn’t hesitate.
“No,” he said. “But I wish I’d told you earlier… that I was scared. Not of the marriage. But of what it might make me feel.”
Jes swallowed hard.
“I was scared too.”
They sat together in the dark, the hum of news static fading.
This time, Jes didn’t reach for Bible.
Bible reached first.
Their hands met — not for press, not for family, not for pretending.
But because they were both finally done pretending.

Chapter Text

They were almost okay.
Not fixed. Not healed. But almost — in the kind of way that made Jes pause outside Bible’s door at night, hand raised to knock, before walking away.
In the kind of way Bible sometimes made two mugs of tea, then claimed one was “extra” when Jes passed by.
In the kind of way that didn’t need words.
Until the betrayal.
It came in a velvet envelope. Gold crest. Jes’s personal family seal. Hand-delivered.
Bible brought it in while Jes was finishing a call.
Jes didn’t look up at first. “Just leave it on the desk.”
Bible hesitated. “You might want to open it now.”
Jes turned, caught the tension in Bible’s voice.
He opened the envelope slowly.
Inside, a single folded page.
Bible watched Jes’s face go blank — not with confusion, but with something colder. Older.
A silence that had weight.
Jes read the letter twice. Then again.
Then he said, flatly, “This is a trap.”
Bible stepped forward. “What is it?”
Jes held the paper out without looking at him.
Bible read it once.
Then twice.
And felt the pit open in his stomach.
It was a formal invitation.
From Jes’s father.
To a reconciliation dinner.
With none other than: Tawan Saengtham.
Bible’s hands curled around the paper.
Jes’s ex.
His once-rumored fiancé.
The man Jes had almost married before this alliance changed everything.
Jes spoke, voice clipped. “He’s in town. My father invited him. Says it’s ‘for appearances.’ That we should attend—together.”
Bible’s voice was low. “To prove you’ve moved on.”
Jes didn’t answer.
Bible folded the letter slowly. “Does your father know what he’s doing?”
Jes met his eyes. “Of course he does.”
Because this wasn’t about dinner.
It was a message.
Jes’s father never liked that this marriage had turned… emotional. Soft.
That Jes was choosing Bible even in private.
Tawan was the reminder.
The weapon.
This is who you were supposed to be with.
This is the man you left behind for a scandal-wrapped secretary’s son.
Bible exhaled. “We don’t have to go.”
Jes was already shaking his head. “We do. If we don’t, they’ll spin the story. Say we’re avoiding him. That you’re insecure. That I’m not over it.”
Bible’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “And are you?”
Jes looked at him like he’d been slapped. “No.”
Bible blinked.
“I’m not over him,” Jes continued, voice steady, “because I never loved him. That kind of clean ending doesn’t leave a scar.”
He stepped closer.
“But you—you’re the one I can’t get over. Because I feel things I don’t understand when I’m around you. And it terrifies me.”
Bible didn’t know what to say.
So he didn’t.
Jes took a breath. “But we’ll go. We’ll play the part.”
Bible finally spoke. “Then we go on our terms.”
Jes nodded.
But neither of them said what they were thinking.
That this dinner could undo everything they’d barely begun to build.
.
The dinner was three nights later.
Tawan was beautiful, charming, and sharp. Dressed in silk. Smiling like he already knew the outcome.
“Jes,” he said warmly, kissing both cheeks. “You look... comfortable.”
Bible stood beside Jes, silent. Observing.
Jes only smiled. “Married life suits me.”
Tawan’s eyes drifted to Bible. “I’ve heard.”
Dinner was long, formal, riddled with subtle digs.
Bible held his own — polite, elegant, unreadable.
But Jes? Jes never once stopped watching him. Not Tawan. Not his father. Not the snide cousin across the table.
Jes’s attention never left Bible’s face.
When dessert came, Tawan leaned in with a familiar lilt. “Do you remember Florence?”
Jes tensed, just slightly.
Bible caught it.
Tawan smiled. “You always said you wanted to go back. You and I.”
Jes opened his mouth, but before he could speak—
Bible let out a quiet sound. Barely a scoff. More breath than voice.
“Must’ve been nice,” he murmured, tone flat but unmistakable. “To have been part of the version of him everyone approved of.”
It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even loud.
But it cut.
Tawan blinked. His wine glass paused halfway to his lips.
Jes turned sharply toward Bible.
But Bible just sipped his own wine, eyes on the table, shoulders loose — like he hadn’t just laced the air with tension.
Jes saw it then — in the angle of Bible’s jaw, the stillness in his eyes.
Not jealousy.
Not anger.
Just the faint flicker of something he’d never seen in him before:
The fear of being temporary.
Of being the compromise.
Of being the one the world never wanted him to be chosen over.
Jes’s hand tightened slightly around his fork.
He wanted to reach for Bible’s.
Wanted to say something — anything.
But Bible had already gone quiet again.
He didn’t speak for the rest of the dinner.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a storm this time.
It wasn’t shouting or broken glass or slammed doors.
Just silence. Familiar. Hollow.
Jes woke up to an empty bed.
He reached out before remembering — Bible hadn’t slept beside him since the dinner. Not that night. Not the one after. They hadn’t spoken more than two full sentences in three days.
Jes sat on the edge of the mattress, staring down at his hands.
It was stupid — how easily everything had cracked.
They had built something. Not love, maybe. But something living. Breathing. Trust, if nothing else.
And then Florence.
One name. One memory.
Jes hadn’t even said anything to feed it — but Bible had still pulled away. Quietly. Fully. Like a hand slipping from his without a word.
.
Bible was already in the garden when Jes stepped outside.
Tea on the table. Unread book in his lap. Back straight, posture closed off. Jes didn’t announce himself — he just stood in the doorway, letting the weight of everything press against the back of his throat.
Finally, Jes spoke. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Bible didn’t look up. “You’ve been easy to avoid.”
It wasn’t cruel. Just... factual.
Jes stepped out further. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Bible flipped the page of a book he wasn’t reading.
“You don’t have to. Some things just... show themselves.”
Jes’s voice sharpened. “Like what?”
Bible finally looked up. His gaze wasn’t angry.
It was worse.
It was disappointed.
“Like where I stand in your story,” he said.
Jes froze.
“You think I still want him?” Jes asked, incredulous.
“I think,” Bible said quietly, “that if someone offered you the version of your life that didn’t come with me in it... you’d take it.”
Jes stepped back like he’d been hit.
Bible’s voice didn’t waver. “And I wouldn’t even blame you.”
Jes looked at him — really looked — and realized something gutting:
Bible had already made peace with being left.
That’s why he didn’t fight. That’s why he’d gone quiet. That’s why the distance had come back so easily — not because he wanted it. But because he expected it.
Jes didn’t know what to say to that.
Didn’t know how to argue with a wound that old.
So he didn’t.
He just sat down across from Bible.
And the silence stretched between them — heavier now.
Not anger.
Not hate.
Just the unbearable sense that they were both holding on wrong, and it was slipping anyway.
.
.
That night, Jes walked past Bible’s room.
He paused at the door, hand raised to knock.
Then lowered it again.
He kept walking.
The house was quiet.
And they were back where they started — two strangers in a house full of unspoken things.
But this time, it hurt.
Because now, Jes knew what it felt like to have something real.
And worse — what it felt like to lose it anyway.

Chapter Text

Jes didn’t know what he was doing.
Not exactly.
He wasn’t trying to apologize. Not for something he didn’t say. Not for a past he couldn’t rewrite. Not for a look on Bible’s face that still haunted him — the one that said you’d leave me if it were easier.
But Jes was trying to say something else.
That he didn’t want the easier version anymore.
He just didn’t know how to say it with words.
So he tried other things.
.
The first time, it was breakfast.
He got up early. Made it himself — not the sterile spread their staff usually prepared, but what he remembered from one of their early mornings: crispy rice cakes, warm honey, thick coffee with too much condensed milk.
He laid it out neatly.
Bible didn’t come down.
Jes didn’t wait.
He just left the tray on the dining table with a single white napkin and the teeniest, most reluctant note scribbled in his handwriting:
“You always took your coffee too sweet.”
Later, when Jes passed through the kitchen, the tray was empty. The note was gone.
Bible didn’t say anything.
But Jes called it a win.
.
The second time was harder.
Bible had stopped wearing the jade ring Jes had gifted him at their wedding — the one Jes had commissioned personally, the one carved with delicate waves like the ocean Bible once said he missed from his childhood home.
Jes had noticed it gone after Florence.
He said nothing.
But that afternoon, he stopped by the jeweler. Quietly. Asked for something new. Not flashy. Just familiar. Meaningful. The shape of the sea still present — but this time, the band was brushed silver, simpler. Stronger. Less ceremonial.
Less for show. More for him.
He left it in Bible’s drawer.
Bible didn’t wear it the next day.
Or the one after.
But three days later, at a finance briefing, Jes looked down and saw it — gleaming faintly under the cuff of Bible’s sleeve.
Jes didn’t say a word.
But his heart, traitor that it was, ached with relief.
.
Then came the books.
Jes knew Bible liked to pretend he only read for strategy — legal texts, global policy, the occasional market breakdown.
But Jes had seen the worn pages of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle tucked behind those hardcovers one night. A secret favorite.
So Jes started leaving new ones around the house.
Not wrapped. No notes.
Just… placed.
On the arm of the sofa. On the side table by the garden.
Books with quiet pain and impossible longing. Books about people who said nothing but felt everything.
Jes hoped Bible would understand what he was saying without ever opening his mouth.
Some nights, he caught him reading.
Some nights, he didn’t.
But Jes kept leaving them.
Like breadcrumbs back to something softer.
.
One evening, Bible walked into the living room where Jes was working.
He didn’t say anything.
Just placed a book gently on the table beside Jes’s laptop. One Jes had left near the guest piano room the week before.
Jes looked at it.
Then up at him.
Bible shrugged. “You forgot this.”
But his voice had lost that edge.
Jes nodded. “Thanks.”
Bible hovered.
And then left.
No invitation. No fight.
But for the first time in days, Jes didn’t feel like a ghost.
.
That night, Jes sat in the hallway outside Bible’s door.
Not knocking.
Just breathing.
He pressed his head back against the wall, eyes closed.
He didn’t want to win Bible like a game. Didn’t want to fix them like a project.
He just wanted to be allowed in again.
Even if it was slow.
Even if it meant unlearning every sharp edge he’d spent his whole life mastering.
He didn’t know what tomorrow would look like.
But tonight — just for now — he sat there.
Quietly choosing him.
Again.
And again.

Chapter Text

Bible had been called many things in his life — cold, precise, unreadable.
He'd learned how to carry those things like Armor. How to retreat into silence and stay there until everyone stopped asking what was wrong.
It had always worked.
Until Jes.
Jes didn’t fight silence. He filled it — not with words, but with things.
Too-soft coffee. A familiar book left out like a secret invitation. That goddamn ring, shaped like the sea.
And now, worse: kindness without demand.
Bible hated it.
Because it was working.
He wasn’t supposed to notice.
But he did.
Every morning Jes got up just a few minutes before him, not enough to be dramatic — but just enough to make sure Bible didn’t have to walk into a room already occupied. Every time Jes refilled the tea kettle but didn’t mention it. Every small absence that felt… like space being made for him.
Like Jes was learning how to stay without pressing too close.
.
The book was what did it.
Bible found it on his bed one night.
Not on the shelf.
Not left casually somewhere in the shared parts of the house.
On his pillow.
It was one he’d mentioned offhand a month ago. Something out of print. Something impossible to find.
Jes had found it.
No note. No message.
Just the book.
Bible stared at it for a long time.
His fingers hovered over the cover.
He didn’t open it.
Not yet.
He wasn’t ready to see what Jes had underlined.
.
He told himself this was temporary.
That Jes was playing a long game — guilt turned into courtship, maybe. Emotional maintenance so the fragile peace didn’t break.
But Jes wasn’t asking for anything.
He wasn’t touching Bible unless Bible touched him first. He wasn’t prying. He wasn’t performing.
He was just… showing up.
Like he meant it.
And that was the worst part.
Because Bible remembered what it felt like when Jes didn’t care. When Jes saw him as a name on paper. A pawn on a game board.
Now, Jes looked at him like he was made of glass and holy things. Like even the tension between them was worth staying inside of.
.
At a family brunch that Sunday, Bible caught Jes watching him from across the table.
Jes wasn’t smiling.
Wasn’t acting.
He just… looked worried.
Bible’s hand twitched slightly, stilling his spoon.
He averted his eyes.
Later, Jes caught up to him in the hallway as they were leaving.
“You didn’t eat,” Jes said, not accusing — just soft.
Bible shrugged. “Wasn’t hungry.”
Jes paused. “Was it the room?”
Bible didn’t answer.
Jes nodded. “Next time I’ll—”
“Stop,” Bible said, sharper than intended.
Jes went quiet.
Bible’s voice dropped. “Stop trying to make everything easier for me. It won’t change anything.”
Jes’s jaw worked. “I’m not doing it to change your mind.”
“Then what?” Bible asked.
Jes’s reply was immediate.
“Because I remember what it’s like when someone stops trying.”
Bible looked at him then — really looked.
And saw it.
The same thing he was carrying.
Not regret.
Not guilt.
Just that awful, fragile hope.
Bible looked away.
He didn’t say thank you.
He didn’t soften
But that night, he picked up the book Jes left him.
Opened the cover.
And read the first line Jes had underlined:
“Some people hold your hand without touching you. That’s how you know it’s them.”
Bible closed the book.
Pressed it to his chest.
And for the first time in weeks —
He missed Jes out loud.

Chapter Text

The rain had started around midnight.
Jes didn’t notice it until it softened the corners of the windows, turning their house into something hazy. Blurred. As if it, too, didn’t know what they were anymore.
He found Bible in the living room — curled up sideways in the corner of the couch, legs folded, a blanket tossed lazily across his lap.
He didn’t look up when Jes entered.
Didn’t speak.
Jes didn’t sit right away. He stood near the window instead, watching the water streak the glass.
Minutes passed like that. Two bodies, two silences, and one heavy question Jes had been holding in his chest for days.
He didn't plan on saying it.
But his voice came anyway — soft. Careful. Almost too quiet to catch.
“Do you want me to stop trying?”
The words sat in the room like a small animal. Shivering. Alive.
Bible didn’t look at him.
Jes didn’t press.
He just let the rain answer for a while.
When Bible did speak, it wasn’t an answer. Not directly.
“Why now?”
Jes walked slowly over and sat across from him, leaving space between them.
“Because I don’t know what’s hurting you more,” Jes said quietly.
“Me trying… or me not knowing when to let go.”
Bible closed his eyes.
“It’s not you,” he said, after a long pause. “It’s… everything before you.”
Jes blinked. “I know.”
“You shouldn’t,” Bible murmured.
Jes leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Then tell me.”
Bible didn’t.
But his hand moved.
Slowly.
A hesitant twitch under the blanket — fingers curling like they wanted to reach out, but didn’t know how to ask.
Jes saw it.
Didn’t touch.
Didn’t move closer.
He just said, voice breaking just slightly, “I’ll stop if you ask me to.”
Bible finally looked at him.
And Jes saw it in his eyes.
Don’t stop.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
But what Bible said out loud was:
“I can’t ask for things I’m scared I’ll lose.”
Jes nodded once.
He understood.
Then he leaned back on the couch, folding his arms close, and whispered,
“Then don’t ask. Just… let me stay.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time.
It settled. Like breath. Like gravity.
Like maybe, for now, they’d found a way to hold the space between them — not as a wall, but a thread.
And in that quiet room, with the rain soft against the windows and no one else watching, Bible didn’t reach for Jes.
But he didn’t turn away either.

Chapter Text

It was late when it happened.
Too late for conversation, too early for sleep.
Jes had been working in the study when the power flickered once, then went out entirely. The silence that followed was deep and full — the kind that makes you listen.
He didn’t need light to know where Bible would be.
And he was right.
Bible was sitting in the upstairs hallway, legs drawn to his chest, lit faintly by the emergency lights tucked under the stair edge.
Jes didn’t say anything at first.
He just sat down across from him, back to the opposite wall, the space between them familiar now.
Bible’s voice was quiet.
“I don’t like the dark.”
Jes looked at him.
“I didn’t know that.”
Bible gave a soft huff — not a laugh. Just breath.
“No one does.”
Jes said nothing. Just waited.
And maybe that’s why Bible continued.
“My mother used to say I was born with too much silence in me. That I made rooms colder just by being in them.”
Jes felt something sharp press under his ribs.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he said softly.
Bible looked at him. Not guarded. Just tired.
“Then why do people keep leaving?”
Jes’s throat tightened. “I’m still here.”
Bible turned his face away.
Jes leaned forward slightly.
“You don’t have to give me anything you’re not ready to. But… I want you to know, you don’t scare me. Your silence. Your distance. Your edges. I’ve lived with sharper things.”
Bible was quiet for a long time.
Then he spoke — slow, like it cost him something.
“You’re not what I expected.”
Jes smiled faintly. “Neither are you.”
A small silence passed.
Not heavy this time.
Jes shifted, sitting beside him instead of across. Their shoulders brushed, but neither pulled away.
“You ever think,” Bible murmured, “that some people don’t need to define what they are… because the fact that they stay is already enough?”
Jes looked over.
Bible didn’t meet his eyes, but he leaned a little closer. Not in invitation. Just… presence.
Trust.
Jes nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think about that a lot lately.”
Another pause. Jes’s shoulder barely touched his now.
“I don’t think we can be friends,” Jes added, voice almost too low to hear.
Bible didn’t flinch. “I know.”
Jes turned to him. “But I think we’re something I don’t want to lose.”
Bible looked at him then.
Soft. Clear. Real.
And for the first time, there was no fear in his gaze.
“Me too.”
Neither said anything after that.
They just sat together in the dark, the quiet between them no longer a wound — but a place to rest.
And for once, it didn’t feel like they were on opposite sides of a war.
It felt like they were on the same floor.
Same silence.
Same ache.
Same trust.
Finally.

Chapter Text

The power stayed out longer than expected.
Jes didn’t mind. Neither did Bible.
They sat for a while longer on the hallway floor, trading quiet glances, half-spoken thoughts, and stillness that wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just easy.
At some point, Jes leaned his head back against the wall and sighed.
“If this were a movie, this is where the confession would happen.”
Bible looked over at him, amused. “This isn’t a movie.”
Jes smiled faintly. “Yeah. Real life’s messier.”
Silence again.
But it wasn’t tense. It was tired. Soft.
Jes let his eyes fall shut. “We should probably go to bed.”
Bible didn’t answer.
Jes opened his eyes again — and found Bible already looking at him.
Not reading him.
Just… watching.
“We should,” Bible agreed.
But neither of them moved.
Eventually, Jes stood. “Come on. I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”
Bible hesitated — then followed.
.
Jes’s room was dim, the blackout curtains muffling what little light the emergency system gave.
He pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the chair, walking toward the bed without thinking.
“You can crash here if you want,” he said. “No pressure.”
Bible didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then:
“Okay.”
Jes blinked. “Really?”
Bible shrugged. “It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before.”
Jes didn’t mention that all those times had been different — cold, guarded, married-for-appearance kind of nights.
This was the first one that felt... voluntary.
He slipped into the right side of the bed. Bible took the left.
They lay in silence.
Too aware of the air between them. Too aware that it was far less than a foot.
Jes turned on his side, facing away.
A minute later, he heard the rustle of sheets. Felt the shift of weight.
Bible was moving closer.
Not touching.
Just... close enough to share warmth.
Jes didn’t breathe for a second.
Then—
A hand.
Resting lightly between them. Not reaching. Just… there.
Jes looked at it in the dark.
Then, wordlessly, his own hand inched forward. Fingers brushed.
Stayed.
Neither of them pulled away.
Bible spoke first, voice rough from exhaustion and honesty.
“I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jes whispered back,
“Me neither.”
Another pause.
“But I’m okay with this.”
Bible’s fingers curled slightly, holding Jes’s hand in the softest way possible.
Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
Jes squeezed back — just once.
Permission.
And maybe forgiveness.
They fell asleep like that.
Not facing each other.
Not needing to.
Just hands tangled in the dark.
Like trust made real.
Like something they weren’t ready to name yet.
But would no longer pretend not to feel.

Chapter Text

The morning came gently.
Jes stirred first, still half-buried in the warmth of the shared bed, the room hushed in soft grey light.
He didn’t open his eyes at once.
Didn’t need to.
Bible was still beside him — he could feel the weight of him in the mattress, the slow rhythm of his breathing. The space between them was warm, and for once, not empty.
Jes turned slightly — just enough to see the side of Bible’s face.
His lashes fanned against his cheek, dark and soft. His lips parted slightly in sleep. And something about that quiet, unguarded expression made Jes feel like he’d been punched in the heart with a feather.
He didn’t move.
He just let himself look.
Like maybe he’d earned the right to.
And then — Bible stirred.
Jes quickly closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.
There was a pause. A soft intake of breath.
Then Jes felt it — Bible’s hand, brushing lightly against his arm as he shifted.
Too light to be an accident.
Jes’s breath caught.
Not enough to be obvious.
But not unnoticed, either.
Bible’s hand lingered just barely, fingers ghosting along the edge of Jes’s forearm like he was trying to memorize it by texture alone.
Jes fought a smile. A stupid, fluttering thing in his chest. Something young and embarrassing.
Eventually, Bible pulled his hand back.
Jes stayed still.
But he didn’t fall back asleep.
.
Later that day, they ended up in the library together — not talking. Just existing. Jes at the couch, flipping through an old book without reading it. Bible across from him, scrolling absently through his tablet.
It was the kind of silence that hummed with too much awareness.
Jes shifted.
His knee brushed Bible’s under the coffee table.
Neither of them moved.
Jes should’ve pulled away.
He didn’t.
And a minute later — Bible’s foot nudged his. Softly.
Jes blinked.
Then looked up.
Bible was pretending to read.
Jes smiled, biting the inside of his cheek.
He let his foot stay there.
Pressed back.
Just the tiniest bit.
It was nothing.
And it meant everything.
.
That night, Jes stood at the sink brushing his teeth when Bible came into the bathroom.
Jes mumbled, “Didn’t mean to hog the space,” with foam in his mouth.
Bible chuckled. “You didn’t.”
Jes rinsed.
Bible stepped closer — close enough that their arms brushed as he reached for the faucet.
Jes froze.
Bible didn’t move away.
Jes didn’t either.
And when Bible turned slightly, his shoulder nudged Jes’s — not accidental. Not deliberate. Just natural.
Jes looked at him through the mirror.
Bible met his eyes for half a second.
Then looked away.
Jes let out a slow breath.
The air between them had shifted.
Not thick.
Not tense.
Just…
fluttering.
.
They didn’t talk about it.
Not when Jes handed him tea that night and their fingers brushed longer than necessary.
Not when Bible sat beside him on the bed instead of the chair like he usually did, letting their thighs touch.
Not when Jes yawned, and Bible quietly passed him a blanket — tucking the edge over Jes’s shoulder without a word.
Not when Jes let his head fall lightly against Bible’s arm while half-watching a documentary neither of them was paying attention to.
They didn’t speak.
But they felt it.
The tiny shifts.
The soft burns.
The way trust had turned into something tender.
Tentative.
Hopeful.
And for once, Jes didn’t overthink it.
He didn’t pull away.
And Bible didn’t shut down.
They stayed close.
Hands barely apart.
Hearts a little braver.
Breaths shared.
Butterflies everywhere.

Chapter Text

Jes should’ve known something was off the moment Bible walked out of the dressing room.
He wasn’t doing anything special.
No exposed skin. No daring fashion.
Just… a deep black silk shirt, fitted but not tight, tucked neatly into dark tailored trousers that framed his waist a little too well. The first two buttons were undone, collar loose and soft. Hair pushed back off his face.
No earrings. No accessories.
Just Bible — effortless, glowing.
Jes blinked once.
Twice.
Tried to remember how to breathe.
“You’re staring,” Bible said dryly, grabbing a watch off the dresser.
Jes cleared his throat. “I’m not.”
Bible turned, face unreadable. “Then stop doing it so loudly.”
Jes wanted to say something clever.
He ended up saying nothing.
Because the only thought in his head was:

You look like sin dressed in satin.

The event was bigger than expected — some corporate anniversary Tawan’s father was throwing, all glass walls and champagne towers.
Jes wasn’t worried about Bible being in the same space as Tawan.
He was worried about everyone else.
Because suddenly, everyone noticed him.
The way he walked.
The way his voice sounded when he said polite nothings.
The way the silk of that damn shirt moved against his skin when he reached for a flute of wine.
Jes watched it happen — the second glances, the subtle lean-ins, the light touches on Bible’s arm when people tried to get his attention.
And Bible?
Bible didn’t notice any of it.
Or he pretended not to.
Jes wasn’t sure which was worse.
At one point, a woman with too-red lipstick laughed too loudly and leaned too close.
Jes’s jaw flexed.
She touched Bible’s elbow.
Bible smiled, that small professional tilt of his lips.
Jes took a sip of his drink.
It tasted like poison.

Later, Jes caught Bible alone near the bar, scrolling through his phone.
Jes walked over, cool voice barely containing the heat in his blood.
“You enjoying the attention?”
Bible glanced up. “Excuse me?”
Jes’s fingers twitched around his glass.
“Just asking. You’ve got half the room trying to undress you with their eyes.”
Bible stared at him.
Then slowly, smirked.
“What, jealous?”
Jes stepped closer.
“Should I be?”
Bible tilted his head. “Are you?”
Jes’s gaze dropped to his lips for one dangerous second.
“I’m wondering how long you’re going to keep pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
Bible’s breath hitched, barely.
“And what exactly am I doing?”
Jes’s voice dropped an octave.
“Looking like that. Letting them look at you like they could have you.”
Bible’s eyes darkened, pulse flicking visibly at his throat.
Jes leaned in — not touching, but close enough to let his breath warm Bible’s ear.
“Next time you dress to kill, at least warn me. So, I don’t lose my mind trying to pretend I’m not two seconds from dragging you out of here.”
Bible’s fingers clenched at his side.
Jes pulled back, just enough to catch the flicker in his eyes.
“Not jealous,” Jes said, voice like gravel. “Just possessive.”
And with that, he walked away.
Leaving Bible breathless in the glittering dark.
.
.
The laughter caught Jes off guard.
He wasn’t listening at first — just drifting through the crowd again, drink in hand, smile mechanical.
Then he heard it.
“—doesn’t even belong here.”
A woman’s voice. High, amused.
Jes froze.
“He’s playing dress-up,” another voice added, dripping with mockery. “You can put silk on a servant but it still creases like cheap linen.”
Laughter again.
Jes’s blood turned to ice.
“You think Jes actually sleeps with him? Please. He's using him like a placeholder until someone from his level comes along.”
“If not already. Look at him, following Jes around like a pet.”
Jes didn’t breathe.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t see red.
He became it.

He found Bible near the bar again, sipping water, unaware.
Jes walked straight up, jaw clenched.
“We’re leaving.”
Bible blinked. “What?”
Jes took his wrist — not hard, but firm. “Now.”
People watched.
Jes didn’t care.
Bible didn’t protest, just narrowed his eyes and followed, heels clicking across the marble as Jes dragged him out, through the corridor, into the private garage reserved for VIPs.
Jes let go of his hand the second they were out of sight.
Bible yanked his arm back.
“What the hell was that?”
Jes’s shoulders rose and fell with his breath. Rage still curled in his stomach like smoke.
“They were talking about you.”
Bible scoffed. “Who?”
Jes turned, finally looking at him. “People who think they matter. Who think you don’t.”
Bible's jaw tightened. “And you stormed out of a nationally photographed gala because of them?”
Jes stepped closer. “I don’t care about them.”
“Then what is this?” Bible snapped, gesturing. “What are we doing, Jes? You don’t get to pull me away like some precious object you suddenly decided you give a damn about!”
Jes’s voice dropped, sharp. “I’ve always given a damn.”
Bible laughed bitterly. “Then say it. Say what this is.”
Jes’s hands fisted at his sides.
Then loosened.
He took a step forward.
Bible didn’t move.
“Should I kiss you?” Jes asked, voice raw. “Would that make it real?”
Bible blinked.
Jes’s voice turned quiet, trembled like a knife edge.
“Would that finally stop the noise in my head? Or make it worse?”
Bible didn’t answer.
He just stepped closer.
Jes’s breath stuttered.
“You’re not just some placeholder,” Jes whispered. “You’re the only thing I can’t fake.”
A beat passed.
Bible reached up and curled his fingers gently into Jes’s lapel.
“Then stop asking,” he murmured. “And kiss me.”
Jes did.
Fast. Desperate. Unsteady.
Their mouths crashed, not soft, not smooth — just years of tension and swallowed words and half-meant glances bursting out in one overwhelming breath.
Jes’s hands cupped Bible’s jaw, pulled him closer, tilting his head like he needed to memorize the shape of him.
Bible kissed back like it hurt — fierce, shaky, like he'd been waiting just as long.
Jes pushed him gently against the side of the car — not forcefully, just to hold him still, to ground himself.
They broke apart once — gasping.
Jes whispered, “This is insane.”
Bible smirked faintly. “Finally, something we agree on.”
Jes kissed him again.
Slower this time. Less rage. More ache.
And when he pulled back, forehead pressed to Bible’s, eyes shut tight —
Jes knew:
He’d already fallen.
And Bible?
Bible had already caught him.

Chapter Text

The car ride home was silent.
Not cold.
Just… quiet.
Jes’s hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. The inside of the car still smelled like Bible’s cologne.
Still tasted like that kiss.
Jes exhaled slowly, turning onto the private road toward their shared estate.
He didn’t look at Bible.
But he could feel him — sitting in the passenger seat, legs crossed, one hand resting against the window.
Jes wanted to say something.
Anything.
But his throat ached with everything he couldn’t name.
.
Bible broke the silence first — barely.
“You drive too fast.”
Jes smirked, just slightly. “I was trying to outrun something.”
Bible’s voice stayed soft. “Did it work?”
Jes didn’t answer.
But when their eyes met in the reflection of the rearview mirror, neither of them looked away.
.
.
Inside the elevator, Jes pressed the button to their floor.
Bible reached for it at the same time.
Their fingers touched.
Just a brush.
But neither of them moved.
Jes felt a pulse at the tip of his ring finger.
Tiny. Insistent.
He didn’t pull his hand away.
And neither did Bible.
The elevator moved.
Slow. Too slow.
Jes could feel his own heartbeat in his teeth.
Bible’s fingers curled slightly under his.
Barely-there contact.
But it felt like the loudest thing in the world.
When the doors opened, Jes stepped out first — but his hand dropped back, instinctively brushing against Bible’s as if saying:
You here? Still following?
Bible did.
Without a word.
.
Their apartment was dark, save for the light over the kitchen.
Jes dropped his keys on the console, exhaling like he hadn’t breathed properly all night.
He shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over the back of the chair, and leaned on the counter.
Behind him, Bible toed off his shoes.
Jes turned around.
“Do you want—” he started.
Then stopped.
He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
Bible tilted his head slightly. “Do I want what?”
Jes shrugged. “Water. Tea. To pretend none of that happened.”
Bible smiled faintly. “I’m fine.”
Jes watched him.
The lines of Bible’s neck. The soft flush still sitting on his skin.
The memory of Bible’s breath against his cheek still lived in Jes’s chest.
He suddenly felt too warm.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Jes said, almost too fast.
Bible nodded.
But as Jes passed him on the way to the bedroom, his arm brushed Bible’s.
Again — not an accident.
And this time, Bible’s fingers ghosted over Jes’s wrist. Just once.
A reminder.
A promise.
Jes didn’t stop walking.
But when he reached the bathroom, he leaned against the door with his forehead.
He smiled.
Quietly.
Stupidly.
Dangerously.
Because they weren’t just circling anymore.
They were falling.
And now that they’d touched the fire, neither one was pulling away.

Chapter Text

It started with little things.
Jes asked Bible if he wanted to go out for dinner — not to some high-profile gala or family function, but a tucked-away rooftop restaurant where no one would know them.
“Just food,” Jes said.
Bible raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Let’s pretend.”
So they went.
Jes let Bible choose the wine. Bible let Jes steal fries off his plate.
There was no press, no eyes on them — just the sound of clinking cutlery, soft jazz in the background, and the occasional graze of knees under the table that neither of them apologized for.
Jes laughed — really laughed — when Bible told him about his failed attempt at making mochi as a teenager.
Bible smiled — real, quiet — when Jes ranted about a business meeting and ended it with, “But I thought of texting you halfway through. You’d have made it bearable.”
They didn’t call it a date.
But it was one.
.
Another night, Bible knocked on Jes’s door with a movie USB and a smug grin.
“It’s terrible, but you’ll love it.”
They sat on the couch, shoulders pressed.
Halfway through the film, Jes shifted, and Bible didn’t move away. Jes’s arm ended up behind Bible’s back, not quite holding him — but there.
Warm.
There.
Bible leaned his head against Jes’s shoulder at some point.
Jes didn’t breathe for five whole seconds.
They didn’t talk about it.
But when the movie ended, Jes said, “Stay,” in a voice so soft he barely recognized it as his own.
Bible did.
Not in Jes’s bed. Not that night.
But close enough.
.
.
And then there was tonight.
Rain again.
Always the rain with them.
The power flickered just after dinner, and instead of splitting into their usual routines, they both lingered in the kitchen.
Jes sat on the counter, barefoot, holding a half-finished glass of wine.
Bible stood near him, sipping tea.
The quiet between them had grown familiar. Not tense. Not heavy.
Just home.
Jes looked over, eyes slightly hazy.
“What are we doing?” he asked, not accusatory — just lost in it.
Bible shrugged. “Being.”
Jes looked down at his hands. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to want anymore.”
Bible stepped between his legs, resting both hands lightly on Jes’s thighs. Not claiming. Just grounding.
“Then start small,” he said. “Start with asking for what you need tonight.”
Jes looked at him.
The words came slowly, clumsy in their honesty.
“I don’t want to sleep alone.”
Bible didn’t tease.
Didn’t question.
He just whispered, “Okay.”
.
It wasn’t planned.
Jes didn’t light candles. Bible didn’t fold his clothes neatly.
It was messy. Tired. Real.
Jes lay on his side, facing the window, when Bible slipped into the bed behind him.
No touching at first.
Just warmth.
Breath.
Then, in the softest, smallest movement — Bible’s arm reached across, curled around Jes’s waist. His forehead tucked gently between Jes’s shoulder blades.
Jes exhaled.
His hand covered Bible’s where it rested on his chest.
“This, okay?” Jes whispered.
Bible nodded against his back. “Yeah. You?”
Jes let his thumb trace slow circles over Bible’s knuckles.
“Yeah.”
Neither of them said anything more.
They didn’t kiss.
They didn’t need to.
But somewhere between midnight and dawn, their fingers intertwined.
Legs tangled.
Breaths synced.
Jes turned in his sleep and ended up facing him.
Bible’s nose brushed his. His hand slid to Jes’s chest.
And Jes — half-awake, completely honest — pressed a light kiss to Bible’s temple.
No fireworks.
No music.
Just two people who never meant to love anyone like this…
Finally falling asleep with someone, not beside them.
And for once, neither of them dreamed alone.

Chapter Text

The morning light was shy.
Jes woke up before Bible did, which surprised him.
He was usually the one who slept like the dead.
But this morning, he woke up to warmth.
Bible, still curled into his side, face pressed into Jes’s chest. Their legs tangled. Jes’s arm, somewhere in the night, had draped itself across Bible’s waist. He didn’t remember doing that.
He didn’t move.
He just looked.
And it hit him — how peaceful Bible looked when he wasn’t being watched by the world. How quiet the edges of him could be.
Jes didn’t let himself think too much.
He just brushed a strand of hair from Bible’s cheek.
And when Bible stirred moments later, blinking up at him, Jes murmured, “Hey.”
Bible smiled — slow, soft.
“Morning.”
They didn’t rush out of bed. They didn’t pretend the night hadn’t happened.
Jes made coffee. Bible wore one of Jes’s old shirts — too big, sleeves brushing his knuckles. He didn’t seem to notice.
Jes did.
He noticed everything now.
.
The days after felt different.
Subtle shifts.
Jes let Bible choose the music in the car. Bible started leaving his books in the living room. Jes made dinner without being asked. Bible made the bed every morning, like it was their home, not just Jes’s house.
They didn't define it.
They didn’t dare.
But the tension between them had changed.
It wasn’t unspoken desire anymore.
It was closeness.
Tethering.
A comfort that felt suspiciously like belonging.
.
One night, Jes walked into the kitchen with wet hair, dressed down in sweats and a black tee, and Bible — curled up on the couch with his laptop — felt something thud in his chest.
Jes yawned and said, “You look tired,” before handing Bible a glass of water.
Bible blinked.
Not at the water.
At the tenderness in Jes’s voice.
Jes walked off to sit across from him, stretching lazily, then casually reached over and rubbed Bible’s calf with his foot under the blanket — absentmindedly, affectionately, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Bible felt warmth bloom beneath his skin.
And then fear.
Because this? This was almost too much.
.
.
Later that night, Jes fell asleep on the couch, a book half-open on his chest.
Bible watched him for a moment.
His guard dropped in sleep.
Mouth slightly parted. Fingers twitching every now and then. Chest rising and falling steadily.
Bible shifted closer.
He didn’t touch him.
But he looked.
And felt.
All the quiet gestures. All the things Jes didn’t say but showed instead.
The way he let Bible in — not dramatically, but fully.
Bible’s fingers curled into the throw blanket.
He whispered, more to himself than to Jes:
“This feels like love.”
Jes stirred but didn’t wake.
And Bible sat there in the dark beside him, heart full and trembling, scared of the truth in his chest.
Because it wasn’t just that he could fall in love with Jes.
It was that he already was.

Chapter Text

The evening was unusually quiet.

Jes had cleared his schedule without even realizing it. For the first in weeks, he wasn’t being pulled into an event or a call. No red carpet, no camera flashes, no expectations — just him and Bible sitting across from each other on the couch, an untouched takeout box between them, and the distant hum of the city outside.

It felt... strange. In a good way. Like breathing without pressure.

Bible sat curled on one end, hair slightly tousled from the wind. He hadn’t spoken much since they came home. Jes hadn’t pushed.

Jes shifted, crossing one leg over the other.
“Do you ever think about what your life would’ve been if you weren’t in this world?”

Bible looked over, blinking once. “What world?”

Jes motioned loosely. “The public one. The spotlight. All of it.”

Bible’s lips twitched. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I’d be better at being someone else either.”

Jes laughed softly, resting his elbow on the couch back. “Fair.”

There was a pause. Then Jes said, more quietly, “I used to think everything I did — all the sacrifices — would be worth it if I finally made it. If people knew my name. If I reached the top.”

Bible tilted his head, studying him.

Jes met his gaze. “But now I’m there… and I don’t know if I even like the view.”

Bible didn’t respond immediately.

Jes continued, voice lower, more vulnerable. “It’s exhausting. Fighting to prove you belong. Every room you walk into — you know they already decided who you are. You either outshine them or they outlast you. There’s no in-between.”

Bible watched him quietly, and for once — Jes didn’t flinch under the silence.

“I used to think being ruthless was strength,” Jes admitted. “But now I wonder if it’s just… fear. Of being ordinary. Of not being enough.”

Bible’s expression softened. “You’re not ordinary.”

Jes looked at him.

Bible added, “But you’re allowed to be. You don’t have to earn your place every second. Not with me.”

Jes felt something in his chest tug. “That’s the thing. I don’t know how to be that version of myself anymore.”

Bible reached for his hand, slow and steady. “Maybe you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

Jes let their fingers rest together.

There was a moment — quiet and warm — where neither needed to say more.

Then, Bible spoke again. “I know I don’t talk much about… me. My life before this. But there are things I’ve kept to myself not because I don’t trust you. Just…”

Jes nodded gently. “Because you’re not ready.”

Bible’s eyes flickered. “Yes. But I want to be.”

Jes waited.

Bible took a breath. “My family—well, parts of them—don’t talk to me anymore. Not because I did anything, just because I didn’t turn out the way they wanted. I never talk about it because I hate giving them space in my head. But… it shaped me. The silence. The rejection.”

Jes reached over, thumb brushing Bible’s knuckles.

Bible said, barely above a whisper, “Sometimes I wonder if everyone will leave. Eventually.”

Jes gripped his hand tighter. “I won’t.”

Bible smiled. It was small. Real.

Jes leaned back. Let the silence fall again.

It didn’t feel heavy now.

It felt shared.

That night, they didn’t kiss. Didn’t touch beyond the fingers laced quietly between them.

But something shifted.

Not in dramatic declarations.
Not in fireworks.

Just in the simple, quiet recognition —

That whatever this was becoming…

It was more than just survival.

It was beginning to feel like trust.