Johan POV

“God bless me,” Hill muttered, letting out a dramatic sigh as he sipped from his coffee cup like it personally carried the weight of the universe.

“If it weren’t for me, you two wouldn’t have been eating each other’s faces in the middle of the damn field,” he added, waving a lazy hand in my direction.

I didn’t look up from my phone.

Across the table, Arthit let out a groan loud enough to earn a few side glances from the next table over.

“Why do people in love make me physically ill,” he complained, flopping sideways on the bench like someone had stabbed him in the chest.

“You’re just bitter because no one wants to date someone who argues with campus security for fun,” Tonfah said without looking up, still flipping through the stack of research notes in front of him.

“I have standards,” Arthit shot back defensively.

“No, you have a superiority complex,” Tonfah replied, calmly highlighting a passage with a red pen before flicking it across the table and smacking Arthit on the arm.

“Ow—what the hell was that for?!”

“For being insufferable,” Tonfah said flatly.

Hill chuckled into his cup.

“Anyway,” Arthit said, now massaging the spot where the pen had landed, “when will I find someone like Nong North? You know, sweet. Loyal. Hot.”

I finally looked up.

Arthit grinned at me knowingly.

I didn’t take the bait.

Instead, I checked my watch—class would end soon.

I stood up.

Hill noticed. “Where are you going?”

“Track,” I replied shortly.

Arthit eyes lit up. “Oh, man, can I come? We haven’t raced in ages. I’m dying to watch you get smoked again.”

I gave him a flat look.

He raised his hands in surrender and flopped back into his seat. “Okay, okay. Damn. You’re scary when you’re emotionally compromised.”

As I turned to leave, I heard him say—loudly—“Tonfah, would you date me?”

There was a brief pause.

Then a smack.

A loud one.

I glanced back over my shoulder just in time to see Tonfah calmly retract his hand after slapping Arthit across the back of the head with his open notebook.

Hill rubbed his temples, laughing.

Arthit was still whining about love. Tonfah was back to pretending he didn’t exist.

I shook my head.

Idiots.

    ✿✿✿

North POV

I waited by the campus gate, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, my fingers fiddling with the hem of my shirt. The late afternoon sun was dipping lower, casting warm gold across the pavement, and I could already feel my nerves beginning to twist themselves into knots.

Then I heard it—the familiar low rumble of his bike.

Johan pulled up smoothly, the sleek black of his motorbike catching the sunlight as he slowed to a stop in front of me. He swung his leg over the seat with practiced ease, stepping off like a scene from a drama he’d pretend he wasn’t the star of.

“Get on,” he said, voice low, expression unreadable—classic Phi Johan.

I grinned, already moving to hop on behind him—

—but before I could, he reached out and grabbed my wrist gently.

I blinked up at him.

Without a word, he turned me to face him. Then, with infuriating calm, he placed the helmet over my head and began adjusting the strap beneath my chin with careful fingers. His touch was steady, deliberate, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath for a fleeting second.

Once it was snug, he brushed my cheek lightly with the back of his hand and murmured, “Now sit.”

I pouted, crossing my arms. “So controlling.”

His lips twitched, like he was holding back a smile, but he didn’t take the bait. He simply turned, mounted the bike again, and waited.

And soon—we were flying.

The world blurred around us, wind howling past my ears as I clung to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso. I could feel the strength in his back, the tension in his shoulders, the steady beat of his heart through the layers of his shirt.

There was something strangely peaceful about it—just the two of us, cutting through the wind, suspended in a moment that felt suspended from everything else.

No questions.

No past.

Just now.

We reached the track in less than ten minutes. He parked in his usual spot, engine purring into silence.

I slid off the bike, cheeks flushed from the rush and wind, hair a tangled mess beneath the helmet. I pulled it off, strands sticking out in all directions, and huffed dramatically.

“Phi, can you not try to kill me with your speed next time?”

He looked at me with a tilt of his head and rolled his eyes. Classic Johan.

“Hey!” I protested, frowning as I attempted to flatten my hair.

Still an annoying bastard.

But then I broke into a grin despite myself and skipped forward, catching him by the arm like it was second nature. His body tensed slightly at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he shifted just enough so I fit beside him more easily as we walked.

“Phi, why are we here?” I asked, tilting my head up at him, eyes squinting against the sun.

He looked down at me, his gaze softening for a heartbeat.

“You said you wanted to spend more time with me,” he said. “To understand me better.”

I blinked, lips parting slightly.

“Mm,” I hummed, trying—and probably failing—to hide the smile stretching across my face.

He reached out and gave my nose a small, playful pinch.

“Come on. I’ve got some things to check on. You can watch.”

I followed him, our footsteps echoing faintly across the concrete track lanes. The field was unusually active—several people were milling about, some carrying equipment, others inspecting the turf.

“The track seems busier than usual today,” I observed, looking around with curiosity.

“We’re making some changes,” Johan said casually. “Maintenance. Resurfacing. New lighting. Father wants it all handled before next season.”

I nodded, silently watching him interact with the space like he belonged to it—and it to him. His presence here was different than anywhere else. More grounded. More in control. It was the same look he had on the field: composed, focused, quietly intense.

He led me past the lanes, through a small side path that opened up to a two-story building I hadn’t really paid attention to before. It looked older, utilitarian, tucked into the far corner of the stadium.

He unlocked a plain white door and gestured for me to enter.

I stepped inside.

The room was cooler, lined with filing cabinets, athletic schedules pinned on a corkboard, and a desk cluttered with rolled-up blueprints and spare cleats. A long window overlooked the track outside. I realized, with a small jolt, that this must be Johan’s office—or at least the place he worked from when he was here.

I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.

“You have an office?” I asked, amused.

He shrugged, stepping in after me and closing the door with a soft click.

“Umm.”

He moved toward the desk, unrolling one of the maps with practiced ease, revealing a layout of the track field, marked with notes in tiny, neat handwriting. I wandered over to stand beside him, watching the way his brow furrowed as he studied it.

“Are you in charge of the renovations?”

“Sort of. Father trusts me to handle the logistics,” he said.

That made my heart thump strangely.

Because of course Johan would be good at this too. Of course he’d be the kind of person people relied on—not just on the field, but behind the scenes. Quietly competent. Steadily dependable.

I watched him work for a while, chin resting in my palm as I leaned against the edge of the desk.

There was a serenity in the silence.

Then, after a few minutes, he looked up at me.

“You bored yet?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not even a little.”

He gave me a look.

“No, really,” I added, grinning. “Watching you do serious people things is kind of hot.”

He rolled his eyes but turned away too quickly to hide the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Victory.

I glanced out the window. The sun was beginning to dip lower. The whole field glowed orange, and the silhouettes of people moving around outside looked like shadows in a dream.

I turned back to him. “Phi…”

He looked at me again, that same unreadable expression flickering in his eyes.

I hesitated. Then said softly, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

✿✿✿

Outside, the low hum of the track activity continued—distant footsteps, shouts, the occasional echo of a whistle—but in here, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Johan sat with one leg crossed over the other, head bent over his notes, a faint crease between his brows as he reviewed a blueprint. He looked focused—untouchable, almost. But something in me itched. I didn’t want just this version of him. The one who always had everything under control. I wanted to know what he looked like when the control slipped.

When he trusted someone enough to show the mess underneath.

So I shifted slightly, nerves tapping along my spine. “Phi…”

His pen paused. “Hmm?”

I kept my tone soft. “Can I ask you something?”

He glanced at me briefly. His face didn’t change, but his shoulders stiffened just a little.

He nodded once. “You can.”

I licked my lips, heart thudding. “I want to know about your family.”

There was a pause. Long enough that I thought maybe I’d overstepped.

But then Johan leaned back in his chair slowly, setting the pen down beside the map. His fingers interlaced, elbows resting on the arms of the chair as he looked straight ahead—not at me.

He was quiet for several seconds before he finally spoke.

“My father,” he said, and his voice had changed. Lower. More distant. “The man who gave me his name… he left when I was eight.”

I didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“He didn’t say goodbye,” he continued, gaze fixed on the window but clearly seeing something far older. “One day he was there. The next, he was just… gone. My mom tried to protect me from it. She told me he had to leave for work. That he’d be back. But I already knew.”

He exhaled, not bitter, not angry—just tired.

“He wasn’t coming back.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“I used to wait for him,” Johan said quietly. “By the door. Every evening, I’d sit there and pretend like I was just playing with my toys, but I was really listening for the sound of his keys. I even kept a pair of his shoes by the door, thinking maybe that would make him feel like he still had a reason to come home.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh.

“I think the worst part wasn’t him leaving,” he added, his voice rougher now, “it was how fast he forgot us. There were no calls. No visits. No child support. He just erased us from his life like we’d never existed. Like I hadn’t once been his son.”

My chest ached.

“And it broke my mom,” he continued, his fingers tightening. “She didn’t show it—not to me—but I could see it. In the way she never sat down. In the way she stopped laughing. She was always working. Always tired. I remember lying awake at night and hearing her cry in the kitchen.”

He paused.

“And I hated it,” he said, sharper now. “Not her. Him. I hated that he made her cry. That he made her feel like she wasn’t enough. That he left her alone to raise me while he disappeared into a new life somewhere.”

I didn’t realize my hands were clenched until I forced myself to breathe.

“But then,” Johan said, more softly, “years later… she met him. My stepfather. The man you met too.”

There was a shift in his tone. A gentler edge. A kind of reverence.

“He wasn’t loud. Or flashy. He didn’t try too hard to win me over. He just… stayed. Showed up. Helped her with groceries. Waited for her after work. Fixed the leaky pipes when no one else would. At first, I didn’t trust it. I was sure he’d leave too. But he didn’t.”

Johan’s gaze finally dropped from the window to his hands.

“He taught me how to throw a baseball,” he said with a faint smile. “Took me to my first track meet. Showed me how to tie a tie. I remember the first time I called him ‘Dad’—he didn’t say anything. Just put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.”

He inhaled deeply, then looked up—this time, at me.

“I never thought I’d live like this,” he admitted. “With security. With people who depend on me, not because they have to—but because they trust me. I never thought I’d be this comfortable. Or this loved.”

The room fell into a heavy silence.

I hadn’t moved. I couldn’t. My throat was tight, and I felt something wet slip down my cheek before I even noticed I was crying.

Johan noticed before I could turn away.

He frowned—and then reached out and flicked me lightly on the forehead.

“Hey. Don’t cry,” he muttered. “That’s annoying.”

I let out a watery laugh, rubbing my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt.

“Too late,” I whispered.

He sighed like I was the dramatic one, but I saw the way his expression softened—the way his eyes held something warmer now. Something bare.

So I stood up and walked toward him without another word.

And wrapped my arms around his neck.

He froze under my touch—just for a second—but he didn’t pull away. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, like he didn’t know where to place them.

Then, slowly, he shifted.

He pulled me down gently onto his lap, arms encircling my waist. I could feel the strength in his grip—steady, quiet, grounding.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

I rested my head against his shoulder, and he let his chin come to rest on mine.

And in that quiet, golden-lit office, surrounded by blueprints and memories and things too painful to say out loud, Johan let me hold the pieces of his story—and I held them like they were my own.

Because maybe they were.

Because love wasn’t always loud or poetic or easy.

Sometimes it was just this,

A boy who had been abandoned.

A boy who stayed.

And the quiet between them—filled, finally, with something safe.