I searched the entire campus for Johan like a madman. That man—he was infuriating. Slipping through my fingers like smoke, vanishing whenever I needed him most.

I’d asked P’Arthit, P’Hill, and even P’Tonfah, but they all gave the same helpless shrug.

"No idea," they said. "He’s been off the grid lately."

Of course. The university festival was looming close, and everyone had their own deadlines, responsibilities, and chaos to manage. The campus was alive with activity—students running between buildings, decorations half-hung, makeshift booths being tested for the tenth time.

But I wasn’t focused on any of that.

I opened my phone and tapped open our chat.

Me
Phi… where are you?

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering, unsure whether to send it or not.

Just as I was about to hit delete, a ping made my phone vibrate softly in my hand.

(P'Johan)
“Parking.”

Just one word.
Short. Blunt. Typical Johan.

But it was enough.

I was already on my feet before I realized I had even stood up. My legs carried me across the campus almost on instinct, weaving through clusters of students and noisy festival prep, my heart pounding with something I couldn’t name.

When I finally reached the parking lot, there he was.

Leaning against his bike like a scene straight out of a movie—smoke curling lazily from the cigarette between his fingers, his head tilted back just slightly, eyes half-lidded beneath messy strands of dark hair.

His presence alone made the air feel heavier, like something electric waiting to crackle.

He noticed me and exhaled a thin stream of smoke, the corner of his lips twitching—not quite a smile, not quite disinterest.

Why the hell did my heart feel like it was about to leap out of my chest?

Still, I made myself walk forward.

“Phi… here,” I said, holding out the lunchbox I'd been carrying like it was a peace offering. “I hope you like it. I tried making it... not annoying.”

I added a grin, even tossed in a wink to make it light-hearted. Playful. Maybe distracting enough to hide the storm inside me.

Johan studied me for a second with that unreadable gaze of his before taking the box from my hands. One hand. Effortless. Like he didn’t even need to try.

Then he did something strange.

He subtly flicked his gaze downward and raised his eyebrows. Once. Toward the front pocket of his jeans.

I blinked.

What…?

He didn’t speak. Just tilted his head slightly and lifted one brow higher, like he was waiting for me to catch up.

My eyes followed his gaze—his hand wasn’t moving. His pocket was just there. Front pocket. Tight jeans. His expression was pure challenge.

I froze.

Oh.

Oh.

Wait.

"You—you want me to take something out of your pocket?" I asked, voice faltering halfway through the sentence.

He smirked, just barely. A slow, wicked curve of the lips.

That was a yes.

My face went crimson in an instant. The heat rushed up my neck and bloomed across my cheeks, ears burning.

"You could just—hand it to me like a normal person," I mumbled, but I still took a step closer. Cautiously.

His body was so close now, radiating warmth, tension, and something else—something that made the tips of my fingers buzz before I even touched him.

Tentatively, I reached forward, hesitating just before my fingers brushed against the fabric of his jeans.

God.

My hand slipped into his front pocket. It was warm. Close. And far more intimate than I had anticipated.

The sensation made my breath catch in my throat. My fingers brushed against the metallic outline of his keys—but also the firm line of his thigh.

I swallowed hard.

My face must have looked like a tomato by now. I dared not glance up at him. I could feel his gaze on me like heat on skin, deliberate and unblinking.

This bastard. He was enjoying this.

I fumbled for the keys, grabbed them, and yanked my hand back like I’d touched fire. I turned away slightly, holding the key tightly in my palm, refusing to meet his eyes.

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. Without a word, he stepped forward, took the key from my hand with a casual grace, and mounted his bike.

“Get on,” he said, voice low and direct.

I blinked at him, caught off guard.

“Huh?”

He looked over his shoulder, dark eyes locking onto mine with something that pulled at my chest.

“Helmet’s in the back,” he added, voice rougher now, “unless you’re planning to run after me on foot.”

My heart jumped.

I moved before I could think, grabbing the helmet and slipping it on, the scent of leather and engine oil filling my nose. I climbed onto the bike behind him, hands hesitating above his sides.

“Hold on,” he murmured without turning around.

I let my arms wrap around his waist.

His back was solid against my chest. Warm. Alive. My fingers curled against the hem of his shirt, and I could feel the vibration of the bike engine beneath me and—underneath that—a deeper, slower rhythm.

His breathing.

Mine.

And something dangerously close to anticipation.

The wind stung gently against my cheeks as the bike roared down the open road, the world blurring past us in streaks of color and sound. I clung to Johan’s back tightly, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His scent—cool leather and a faint trace of smoke—wrapped around me, and somehow, it didn’t suffocate. It fit.

I thought we’d be heading somewhere in town.

But after about thirty minutes and two turns into roads that felt almost abandoned, the surroundings changed. Asphalt gave way to gravel, fences rose up on both sides, and the world grew still. The air turned quieter here. Like it knew to hush.

And then we stopped.

He turned off the ignition, the engine sputtering to a soft halt, and I swung off the bike, blinking up at the view in front of me.

It was... a race track.

Long, sprawling, quiet, majestic in its solitude. The lines of the track glimmered faintly in the sunlight, and in the distance, a line of gleaming bikes stood still like sleeping beasts. Metal, speed, silence. There were no other people around.

I stepped forward slowly, mouth falling slightly open.

“Whoa…” I breathed. “Is this…?”

Johan was already off the bike, unbothered, walking like this was nothing out of the ordinary. He moved to a shaded chair beneath a steel awning and dropped into it, exhaling as though he’d finally been allowed to breathe.

I glanced back at him, and then returned to the track, my sneakers crunching gently on the gravel as I stepped closer.

There was something almost sacred about it.

“Wait, wait—Phi!” I turned back to him, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me this place belongs to you?”

He didn’t look up, just popped the lid off the lunchbox with one hand and picked up a piece of the omelet I’d made, chewing slowly.

“Mm,” he said, mouth full, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

I blinked again, stunned.

“You own a race track?” I said, voice climbing higher with disbelief. “How? Why? Who just casually owns a whole-ass racetrack?!”

“Family” he replied.

That was all he gave me. One word. Just like the text.

I stared at him—utterly, completely, violently stunned—and then turned back toward the track, bouncing on my feet with new energy.

This was unreal.
This was amazing.

Everything here felt like a dream: the smooth curve of the track, the quiet elegance of the waiting bikes, the breeze brushing through the open expanse of the sky.

I spun around slowly, arms wide.

“I feel like I’m in a video game,” I muttered to myself, grinning.

Johan watched from his seat, unmoving, chewing steadily. Eyes fixed on me with a strange quiet.

I didn’t notice at first. Too swept up in the moment.

“Can I—can I take pictures?” I turned toward him, breathless, already pulling out my phone. “Please, this place is insane. I won’t post anything with your face or whatever, I swear—just the bikes and the track and—”

I froze mid-sentence.

Because Johan was looking at me.

Really looking at me.

Something unreadable passed behind his eyes, the kind of look that wasn’t harsh or annoyed—but heavy. Slow. Like his thoughts had paused somewhere between a fork in the road and hadn’t decided which way to go.

His lips parted slightly, then closed again.

“…What?” I asked, my voice faltering a little.

He blinked once. The look was gone.

“Sure,” he said, shrugging like nothing had happened. “Knock yourself out.”

I laughed, back to buzzing with excitement, brushing off the moment like it was nothing.

I wandered around the track like a kid in a candy store—no, a museum. Every little thing amazed me. The bikes gleaming under the sun like trophies. The light wind stirring the air. The paint lines on the track so sharp and clean they looked freshly drawn.

I even found a tucked-away room with helmets stacked like glossy black skulls and a control panel I didn’t dare touch. I made a dramatic gasp when I saw a vending machine that worked. Who has a vending machine at their private racetrack?

Eventually, with my excitement finally beginning to settle, I returned to where Johan sat—lunchbox almost empty, legs stretched out, and cigarette tucked behind his ear like he’d forgotten about it.

I plopped down beside him with a wide smile, practically glowing.

“So, Phi…” I started with mock seriousness, “Tell me about yourself.”

He barely looked at me.

“No, wait! Actually—” I leaned forward, waving my hands dramatically, “I should go first.”

He gave a sigh like he’d just been burdened with a small animal. Still, I could tell he was listening.

“I am North Natchanan,” I declared proudly, holding out my hand like we were meeting for the first time.

“I know,” he said flatly, cutting me off before my monologue could reach its prime.

“ Rude.” i muttered a pout forming on my lips.

He didn’t apologize.

I nudged his arm gently with mine. “Okay fine, then you tell me about yourself.”

Then, before he could answer, I raised a finger quickly, interrupting him again.

“Wait! Before that—tell me if you liked the food!”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. That unreadable expression again, sitting heavy on his face like fog.

“Just so you know…” I continued, voice a little softer now, “I’ve never cooked before. Like, ever. Mama used to do everything for me. She babied me. Totally pampered.”

I smiled at the memory and turned to him again. “I learned to cook just for Phi.”

That made him pause.

He looked at me again, slowly, like he was trying to see through my face and into the why of what I just said.

I tried to hold his gaze, but it was too intense, so I looked at the gravel instead.

Finally, he said, “It’s okay.”

My mouth dropped open. “Just okay?!”

He didn’t answer.

“Fine,” I grumbled, crossing my arms, puffing out my cheeks. “I slave over a stove for you, almost burn my eyebrows off, and all I get is an ‘okay.’ What kind of thankless man are you, Phi?”

He shrugged.

I side-eyed him dramatically, and he gave the tiniest smirk. I caught it. But I didn’t say anything. Not yet.

“Anyway,” I said, nudging his thigh with my knee, “Tell me about yourself now. Properly. No cryptic one-word answers.”

He leaned his head back slightly, looking up at the blue sky. Thinking, or pretending to think.

“Hmm,” he said finally. “I’m rich. I like sex. And I hate short brats like you.”

My jaw dropped.

“PHIIIII—!” I half-yelled, half-laughed, smacking his arm. “You—you’re impossible! That’s not a real answer!”

“It’s the only one I’ve got,” he said, calmly picking a grain of rice off his shirt.

“You hate me?” I pouted, clutching my chest dramatically. “After I risked my life in the kitchen?”

He gave me a sideways glance, then took the cigarette from behind his ear, twirling it between his fingers but not lighting it.

“I didn’t say I hated you,” he said slowly.

“I said I hated short brats like you.”

I blinked.

Wait.

Was that… was that a distinction?

I stared at him. He didn’t clarify.