Now speak—between your version and mine, handed over earlier—which shows wave after wave smashing into rocky shores, wild and unrelenting? That storm didn't just come; it breathed, howling through timber and stone, while downpours slammed against transparent barriers so hard it seemed seawater hungered for the interior.
Curled up in the living room's corner, I hugged my knees while flashes ripped across the clouds, turning palms into jagged shadows for just an instant. A deep boom followed, shaking the ground under me, pulsing through rock and skin alike. Out of nowhere, the bulbs twitched—once, then again—before dying completely. Darkness crashed down, heavy and total, folding over every inch like it had never been lit.
"Lalin?"
Light burst suddenly, tearing across the shadows like a warning. Phakin spoke—his tone edged, tighter than before, cutting the silence clean. The flashlight he held punched brightness into every corner, unforgiving. Several steps back, he stayed rooted, clothed in deep gray wool, sleeves pulled low. His hair stuck up in uneven clumps, uncombed. Under that sudden glare, his skin looked washed out, almost colorless.
"The generator is down," he said quickly, already moving toward me. "The storm exceeded projections. The structure is reinforced, but the lower core is safer if the wind velocity increases. We need to move. Now."
That moment held no orders, just closeness. My hand moved into his, squeezed hard, pulsing with need. Warmth spread from his skin, though his fingers stayed stiff, locked. Without checking whether I kept up, he started forward. The dark hall swallowed our steps as he steered us deeper into the house, heading for a heavy metal door that dropped below ground—where bottles aged and storms were outwaited.
Boom cracked above, shaking the ground under our feet. Air jumped out of my lungs, one leg sliding across slick timber. Not waiting for fear to take hold, he moved fast. Chest met mine, his grip locking tight around my middle.
His voice came sharp, a quiet promise wrapped in grit. My cheek pressed close, feeling each wild beat beneath his ribs—thudding, urgent, as if his chest might burst open.
A gust shrieked above ground, sharp as ripping steel, right when we hit the basement steps. Phakin jammed the bulky door shut, sliding each bolt home without pause. Metal clunked tight—locked—we were boxed in. Outside, fury dropped to a muffled growl; inside, silence pressed down, cracked only by far-off booms and breath fogging the dark.
Down went the flashlight onto a wooden box, tilted to shine up. Light climbed the rough stone and caught rows of empty racks fixed high into the wall. Dusty glass lined every shelf, coated by years without touch. Tight corners closed around me, close enough to feel breathless. Oak soaked the breeze, mixed with soil—then a whisper of sugar underneath
Phakin spoke first. His fingers stayed pressed into my shoulders, firm yet slow to let go. Did something ache?
"I'm okay," I murmured, even as my hands wouldn't stay still. His face came into focus when I lifted my gaze. Dark shapes pulled at his cheeks, giving depth to quiet eyes. "Your arms are twitching," I added low. "Phakin, your whole frame is trembling."
Heat shot through his fingers, making him pull back fast. Away from her, he started moving along the tight stretch of floor. A sharp word came out—"Adrenaline"—then silence. Just that, nothing more
I sat on a low wooden bench, the cool surface grounding me. "You hate this," I said. "Not knowing what will happen. Not being able to control it. The storm doesn't care who you are or what you own."
He stopped abruptly, leaning back against a wine rack. His head tipped against the stone wall, eyes closing. For a moment, he looked unbearably tired. "The day the mall collapsed," he said, voice rough, "it was raining like this. My mother hated thunder. She said it made the walls feel alive. My father told her it was just the sky rearranging furniture." A broken laugh escaped him. "Minutes later, the ceiling became the floor."
The words hit me harder than the storm. I stood and moved closer, stopping just inches away. "I remember that day too," I said softly. "My father came home soaked. He didn't speak for days. He sat in his office, staring at his drawings as they had betrayed him. I think something inside him shattered, too."
Phakin's eyes snapped open, fury flaring bright and sudden. "Don't," he said sharply. "Don't compare his silence to their deaths. He chose shortcuts. They paid for them."
"I'm not comparing," I said, reaching out. My fingers brushed the sleeve of his sweater, tentative but sincere. "I'm saying we're trapped in a cellar because of a storm, and we're still fighting ghosts from ten years ago. Is this really what you want? To punish me until the pain fades?"
Down went his eyes to my hand on his sleeve. His palm lifted then, like it did not want to but had to. Not once did he move from under my touch. Between us, his fingers found their way into mine—each shift so tight, so close, air slipped out of me without warning.
"I don't know how to be anything else," he whispered.
A tremor ran through me when he spoke, truth in every syllable. Closer now, his shape blocked the light, drawing darkness around my shoulders. One hand lifted, slow, calloused thumb grazing the edge of my mouth—no claim here, only need, quiet and raw.
"Lalin," he murmured.
A hush hung there, my face close to his, air shared like a secret. Not just anger lived in that moment—ten years heavy with sorrow, bitterness simmering—but underneath, something sharper. Quiet. Tense. A thread pulled too tight.
"If I cross this line," he whispered against my mouth, "I lose. Everything I built loses."
"Then let it fall," I breathed.
Thunder cracked above just as he yanked me close, pressing me hard into his chest. Not a word was spoken, yet his grip tightened through the fabric of my shirt, fingers clutching like holding on for balance. My arms found their way around his neck without thinking. The sky groaned again while we stayed frozen, two bodies refusing to let go.
Still we stood, tangled close, our hearts beating fast like one. Outside, the wind howled through cracks in the old stones. Just then, he wasn't the person who
A city once answered to him. Yet now he sat, simply clutching heat while shadows pressed close.
"When this ends," he whispered into my hair, voice breaking, "when the contract is over… I don't think I'll be able to let you go."
A tremor ran through the silence. Backing away just slightly, his face came into view. Wide open, his eyes showed something beyond anger—something scared. My fingers rose on their own, touching the side of his face.
"Just stop," I whispered.
The air stilled, his breath warm on my skin - then broke. From overhead came a sharp beat, repeating without pause. Static snapped through the speaker, then words forced their way out.
"Khun Phakin? This is security. The storm has passed its peak intensity. We're clearing the vault door now."
Back he moved, quick, plates locking tight. Gone—the softness—like it was never there at all. His fingers brushed skin, then he looked elsewhere.
"The performance is over," he said flatly. "Prepare to leave. We return to Bangkok at dawn."
The moment light spilled through the doorway, I saw his fingers tighten beside him. Not once did he turn around.
Truth was something I already held close.
Storms never scared Phakin Rattana.
Fear crept in when he saw how things shifted between us.
Cliffhanger: A sudden turn in Bangkok—Lalin stumbles on evidence that could unravel Phakin's plan. Not just his mission, but the person behind it hangs in the balance.
That night, darkness did not come gently. Instead, it crept in like a stain spreading across skin. Around midnight, what was a calm sea turned heavy, its color swallowed whole. The island sat under a weight no one saw coming.