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Bad Romance

The Silence of a Closing Door

JJ surfaced from sleep like a man drowning, his lungs burning for air as the heavy, velvet darkness of the hotel room pressed down on him. His eyes snapped open, darting frantically across the unfamiliar ceiling. For a heartbeat, he didn't know where he was. Then, the weight of a heavy arm draped across his waist anchored him to a reality that made his stomach turn.

He turned his head slowly, his neck stiff. Beside him, Net Siraphop was asleep.

In the dim, filtered morning light, Net looked terrifyingly human. His usually sharp, predatory features were softened by sleep, his dark lashes casting long shadows against his cheekbones. He looked peaceful. He looked like the respected, untouchable actor the world believed him to be.

But JJ could still feel the phantom heat of Net’s skin, the bruising grip of those hands, and the way Net’s voice had dropped into that dark, possessive growl. *You belong to me. You’ve always belonged to me.*

The memories hit JJ like a physical blow—the gin, the blurred edges of the hallway, the way his trust had been dismantled piece by piece until there was nothing left but the raw, overwhelming reality of Net’s obsession. He felt a wave of nausea. This wasn't the "ghost" he had fallen for. Or was it? Was the anonymous savior who sent silk scarves and air purifiers always this man? The realization that his sanctuary had been built by his predator made JJ want to scream.

Panic, sharp and cold, flooded his system. It was a pure, animal instinct: *flee.*

He moved with agonizing slowness, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly he was sure it would wake the man beside him. He extracted himself from the bed inch by inch, holding his breath as Net shifted slightly, his arm falling onto the empty space where JJ had been a second before.

JJ didn't look for his phone. He didn't look for his wallet. He saw a pile of clothes on the floor—a mix of his own discarded tuxedo and a soft, expensive sweater that smelled unmistakably of Net. He didn't care. He pulled on his trousers and the borrowed sweater, his hands shaking so violently he could barely manage the zipper.

He didn't take the elevator. He couldn't risk the wait, the ding of the bell, the chance of the doors opening to reveal someone who would recognize him. He found the heavy steel door to the service stairs and slipped through.

He ran. He took the stairs two at a time, his bare feet slapping against the cold concrete. By the time he reached the ground floor and burst out into the humid Bangkok morning, his lungs were searing. He didn't stop. He hailed a taxi with a desperate wave, sliding into the back seat and barking his address at the driver before crouching low, hiding his face in the collar of Net’s sweater.

The door to Net’s hotel room clicked shut in his mind over and over again, sounding like a gunshot.

***

Net woke slowly, his consciousness expanding into the quiet room. He didn't open his eyes immediately; instead, he reached out, his hand sweeping across the mattress to pull JJ back into his warmth.

His palm met cold, empty silk.

Net’s eyes snapped open. He sat up in one fluid motion, the sheets pooling at his waist. The room was silent, the air still smelling of the night before—of gin, sweat, and the sharp scent of his own triumph.

"JJ?" he called out, his voice raspy.

No answer.

He checked the bathroom. Empty. He checked the closet. Empty. He walked to the balcony and looked down at the street, his jaw tightening until the muscles ached. JJ’s clothes were gone, save for the discarded tuxedo jacket that Net now picked up, pressing it to his face.

The expression that crossed Net’s face wasn't one of heartbreak. It wasn't even worry. It was a dark, simmering irritation—the look of a collector who had found a display case unlocked.

"You think you can run," Net murmured to the empty room, his eyes dark and fixed on the door. "After I finally brought you home?"

He didn't rush. He didn't panic. Net Siraphop was a man of infinite patience and meticulous planning. He showered, dressing in a crisp black shirt and tailored trousers, his movements surgical in their precision. He looked in the mirror and saw the faint scratch marks on his chest—souvenirs of JJ’s desperation. He smiled, a slow, terrifying curve of his lips.

He knew exactly where JJ was. There was nowhere else for him to go.

***

The hotel lobby was a hive of activity as the crew checked out. Net moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of minnows, his presence parting the sea of assistants and stylists. He spotted JJ’s manager, P’Aum, standing by the concierge desk, surrounded by a mountain of luggage.

"Aum," Net said, his voice the perfect blend of casual and tired.

"Oh, Khun Net! Good morning," Aum said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Rough night? The wrap party was a bit much, wasn't it?"

"A bit," Net agreed, leaning against the marble counter. "I was looking for JJ. We were discussing some script notes for the reshoots last night, and I think he left his copy in my room. I wanted to return it before he headed out."

Aum sighed, gesturing to a small bag on the counter. "He’s already gone. Left at the crack of dawn. He called me sounding like he’d seen a ghost, said he was exhausted and needed to sleep in his own bed. I’m just gathering the rest of his things to drop off at his place."

Net’s eyes flickered to the bag. Inside, he could see JJ’s tablet, a charger, and a spare set of keys.

"I’m actually heading to that neighborhood now," Net said, his tone helpful, almost neighborly. "I have a meeting with a producer just a few blocks away. Why don't I drop those off for you? Save you the trip through this traffic."

Aum hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Are you sure? I don't want to trouble you."

"It’s no trouble at all, Aum. JJ and I... we’ve become quite close during this shoot. He actually gave me a spare key months ago when we were rehearsing, so I can just leave it inside for him."

It was a blatant lie, but Net delivered it with such effortless sincerity that Aum didn't even blink. The industry knew Net was private, but they also knew he was a man of his word.

"That would be a lifesaver, Net. Thank you," Aum said, handing over the bag and the spare key he had just retrieved from the hotel safe. "Tell him to turn off his phone and just sleep. He looked terrible."

Net took the key, the metal biting into his palm. "I’ll make sure he gets exactly what he needs."

***

Inside his apartment, JJ was falling apart.

He had checked the locks on his front door three times. He had pushed the heavy armchair in front of the balcony door. He was pacing the length of his living room, his heart a frantic metronome.

His body ached. Between his thighs, there was a dull, pulsing heat that reminded him of every moment he wanted to forget. He looked down at the sweater he was wearing—Net’s sweater—and felt a jolt of revulsion. He tore it off, throwing it into the corner of the room as if it were a venomous snake.

"It was the alcohol," he whispered to the empty air, his voice cracking. "It was just a mistake. He was just being... he was just helping."

But the letters in the wooden box under his bed told a different story. The gifts, the air purifier hummed in the corner, the "anonymous" protector who knew his every breath—it was all Net. The realization was a trap that had been closing around him for five years, and last night, the teeth had finally sunk in.

He thought about calling the police. *Hello, one of the most famous actors in Asia is stalking me and he just...*

Just what? JJ had gone to his room. JJ had let him in. The industry would eat him alive. They would call him a liar, a clout-chaser, or worse. And Net... Net had power. Net had the kind of influence that could erase a person from the map.

A chime sounded on his phone. A text from Aum: *Net is dropping off the stuff you left at the hotel. He said you guys were talking scripts? Rest up, kid.*

JJ’s blood turned to ice.

"No," he gasped, his eyes darting to the door. "No, no, no."

He scrambled toward the door, intending to slide the deadbolt, to shout through the wood that he was sick, that he was sleeping, that he couldn't see anyone.

But he was too late.

The sound of a key turning in the lock was the most terrifying sound he had ever heard. It was smooth, practiced, and authoritative.

The door swung open.

Net stood in the threshold. He wasn't wearing the mask of the helpful colleague anymore. He stood framed by the hallway light, JJ’s bag in one hand, his silhouette tall and imposing. His eyes swept over the room, landing on the discarded sweater in the corner, then moving up to JJ’s pale, trembling face.

JJ took a step back, his hands coming up instinctively to cover his bare chest. "P’Net... Aum said... you were just dropping things off."

Net stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, final click. He didn't move to put the bag down. He just stood there, his gaze heavy and suffocating.

"You ran away, JJ," Net said. His voice wasn't loud, but it held a vibration of controlled fury that made JJ’s knees weak. "We were having such a lovely morning, and you ran away without saying goodbye."

"I... I had to go. I wasn't feeling well," JJ stammered, backing away until his heels hit the edge of the sofa.

Net dropped the bag on the floor. He began to walk forward, his steps slow and deliberate. "You left wearing my clothes. You left with my marks on your skin. Did you really think a door would be enough to keep me out?"

"Please," JJ whispered, his back hitting the wall. "Net, please. Just leave the stuff and go. I need space. I need to think."

Net reached him, placing a hand on the wall on either side of JJ’s head, boxing him in. The scent of sandalwood and cold ambition filled JJ’s senses. Net leaned in, his nose brushing against JJ’s temple, his breath hot against JJ’s ear.

"I’ve given you five years of space, JJ. I’ve watched you from the shadows, protected you, curated your life so nothing could hurt you," Net whispered, his voice a dark, intimate caress. "Last night wasn't a mistake. It was the beginning."

JJ looked up, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. "You’re the one... the letters. The gifts. It was always you."

Net pulled back just enough to look JJ in the eye. His expression was terrifyingly tender. "Who else would love you enough to become a ghost for you? Who else would burn the world down just to make sure you could breathe?"

"It’s not love," JJ choked out, his voice trembling. "It’s... it’s stalking. It’s wrong."

Net’s hand moved down, his thumb stroking JJ’s bottom lip, pressing firmly until JJ was forced to look at him.

"Is it?" Net asked softly. "Then why did you keep the letters? Why did you sleep with them under your bed? Why did you moan my name when I touched you last night?"

JJ let out a broken sob, his head dropping forward against Net’s chest. He hated how much he wanted the attention, how much he had craved the feeling of being watched until it finally happened. He was addicted to the very thing that was destroying him.

Net wrapped his arms around JJ, pulling him flush against his body, his grip turning possessive and hard. He buried his face in JJ’s hair, inhaling deeply.

"You don't get to run anymore, JJ," Net promised, his voice dropping to a low, final command. "I’m not a ghost anymore. I’m the man who owns you. And I’m never going to let you out of this house again until you understand that."

He reached out and turned the deadbolt, the sound echoing through the silent apartment like a final sentence.

JJ shivered, his heart racing with that same frantic, terrifying rhythm, trapped between the man he feared and the obsession he couldn't live without. Outside, the world went on, oblivious to the fact that one of its brightest stars had just been swallowed by the dark.