Private not secret
Micro-Expressions and Other War Crimes
**[DMD STAY HOUSE S3 — LIVESTREAM FEED: BEDROOM A]** *Day 1, 07:00:03 AM* *Active Viewers: 214,890*
**livechat_mod:** "Livestream is now ACTIVE. Good morning, residents!" **user092:** "WE ARE SO BACK." **netprophet:** "Is that Bedroom A? Who’s under the mountain of duvets on the left??" **jj_archive:** "Wait, there are only two king beds in Room A. Tommy and Nat took the one near the window… which means…" **solarsoul:** "ZOOM IN ON THE RIGHT BED. I REPEAT, ENHANCE."
On the primary camera feed of Bedroom A, the morning light filtered weakly through gauzy linen curtains, painting the messy duvet in muted grey tones.
Beneath the heavy covers, a tangled lump shifted.
A pale, bare arm emerged first, blindly reaching toward the nightstand to silence a vibrating phone. Finding nothing, JJ let out an audible, muffled groan into the mattress. Before he could retreat back beneath the down comforter, a long leg swung over his waist, pinning him flat with casual, practiced weight.
JJ didn't scream. He didn't gasp. He merely opened one bloodshot eye, stared at the beige ceiling for three seconds, and delivered a vicious, calculated elbow strike directly into the ribs of the man sprawling across him.
"Ow," Net muttered into JJ’s shoulder blade, voice gravelly and thick with sleep. He didn't move the leg. If anything, he burrowed deeper into the crook of JJ’s neck, his unruly black hair tickling JJ’s jawline. "Violence before seven in the morning is a spiritual flaw, JJ."
"You have six seconds to remove your femur from my spleen," JJ rasped, his morning voice sandpaper-rough, "or I am using your fancy designer cardigan as a bathmat."
"You wouldn't dare. That knit was five figures."
"Try me."
Net chuckled, a low, rumbling vibration that pressed straight through JJ's thin cotton t-shirt. With deliberate slowness, Net dragged his foot down JJ’s calf, hooking his toes around JJ’s ankle before lazily rolling onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes to block out the ceiling lights.
"You're intolerable in the morning," Net sighed.
"You're intolerable in every time zone," JJ fired back, throwing off the duvet and sitting up. His hair stood up in three distinct directions, wire-rimmed glasses askew on his nose. He glared down at Net, who was peering at him through parted fingers with a ridiculously fond, half-formed smirk. "Get up. The red light on the ceiling camera has been flashing for five minutes."
Net’s smirk widened into something sharp and awake.
"Did you hear that, Thailand?" Net announced loudly to the ceiling mic, stretching his long arms until his knuckles popped. "JJ Radchapon threatened my wardrobe within ninety seconds of consciousness. Please send legal aid."
JJ picked up the spare decorative pillow and planted it directly over Net’s face with both hands, pressing down with mild force until Net started laughing into the feathers.
***
**[X (Twitter) – Day 1, 07:15 AM]**
**@troll_net_club:** “NET GOT SMOTHERED WITH A PILLOW BEFORE BREAKFAST PLEASEEEEEE 😭💀”
**@bl_enthusiast:** “The way JJ didn't even look surprised that Net was draped over him like a golden retriever??? He just sighed and accepted his fate like an exhausted husband of thirty years.” ↳ **@phornpinit_files:** “Correction: an exhausted husband who immediately committed assault with a pillow.” ↳ **@solarsoul:** “No but can we talk about Net’s morning voice? And the fact that Net was literally snuggling into JJ’s neck before he got clocked in the ribs??” ↳ **@matchalover99:** “Episode 1 and they’re already feeding us pure domestic hostility.”
***
The downstairs kitchen at 8:30 AM was a zone of controlled chaos. Tommy was attempting to fry bacon without splattering oil across his white hoodie, Nat was industriously cutting papaya, and the rest of the house was slowly migrating toward the smell of caffeine.
JJ stood by the counter, leaning heavily against the marble island, typing a revision note on his phone. He looked like an overworked graduate student who had wandered onto a fashion shoot by accident.
A heavy ceramic mug was suddenly placed in front of him with a dull thud.
JJ didn't look up. His left hand instinctively reached out, curled around the warm handle, and brought it to his lips. He took a long, steady sip, swallowed, and kept typing.
"Oat milk?" JJ asked the air.
"Obviously," Net replied from the stove, flipping an omelet with an absurd, theatrical flourish of the pan. "Two shots. No sugar. A drop of vanilla syrup because you get grumpy if it’s too bitter."
"I don't get grumpy."
"You told P'Aof his plot structure looked like a flattened roadkill frog during yesterday's meeting."
"It *did* look like a flattened roadkill frog," JJ muttered, finally pocketing his phone and wrapping both hands around the warm mug. "The second act had no tonal spine."
"Drink your coffee, Shakespeare." Net slid a plate across the marble surface. It held two sunny-side-up eggs, their yolks bright and unbroken, seasoned precisely with white pepper and three drops of Maggi soy sauce—not a drop more.
Nat paused his fruit slicing, blinking between the two of them. "Wait, P'Net… did JJ even ask you to make that?"
Net paused, a momentary flicker of calculation crossing his eyes before he smoothly recovered, flashing Nat his signature television smile. "If I don't feed him, he starts chewing on the drywall. It's a preventative safety measure for the production deposit."
JJ picked up a fork, pointed the tines directly at Net’s throat, and said, "I will chew through your jugular first."
Then he ate the eggs in silence, finishing every single bite.
***
**[DMD STAY HOUSE S3 — EPISODE 1 CLIP CUT]** *Title: "Poolside Trivia: Who Knew JJ Had an Olympic-Level Spite?"* *Timestamp: 14:40*
The afternoon challenge required the ten residents to divide into pairs and answer pop culture and agency trivia while balancing on floating foam pads in the villa’s infinity pool.
To no one's surprise, the production crew had assigned Net and JJ as partners.
"Question four," Tommy read from the laminated card, sitting safely beneath a poolside umbrella. "Name the exact year Domundi released its first collective concert DVD."
"Twenty-twenty," Net said immediately, balancing effortlessly on his knees on the yellow float.
"Twenty-nineteen," JJ corrected sharply from the blue float next to him.
"It was twenty-twenty, JJ. We filmed the final show in February."
"The *release* was twenty-nineteen, Siraphop. The digital pre-orders shipped in December." JJ narrowed his eyes, adjusting his wet hair out of his face. "I literally edited the liner notes for the booklet. Do you think you know my own bibliography better than I do?"
"I know your brain is fried from staring at screens," Net grinned, shifting his weight. The movement caused a ripple in the pool, rocking JJ's float precariously.
JJ wobbled, his arms windmilling for a frantic second before he managed to steady himself. "Net. Don't."
"Don't what?" Net asked innocently, swaying his hips just enough to send another wave across the turquoise water. "I'm just stretching my calves. It’s an athletic necessity."
"Net Siraphop, I swear to God—"
Net leaned forward, reaching out as if to catch JJ’s hand to stabilize him, but his fingers deliberately tapped the edge of the blue foam pad instead.
With a loud, undignified splash, JJ tipped sideways into five feet of chlorinated water.
The entire pool deck erupted into screams and laughter. Tommy fell off his chair, and Nat was clapping frantically.
For three seconds, the water’s surface was still.
Then JJ surfaced, water streaming down his face, glasses pushed up into his drenched hair. His expression wasn't just annoyed; it was a portrait of lethal, targeted vengeance.
Net was laughing so hard he was wheezing, clutching his stomach on his yellow float. "Your face—JJ, your face looked like a wet owl—"
Before Net could finish the sentence, two hands shot out of the water, gripped the edge of his float, and yanked downward with terrifying leverage.
Net went down like an anchor.
A massive plume of water showered the nearby cameras. When Net broke through the surface, sputtering and wiping water from his eyes, JJ was already standing on the pool steps, wringing out the hem of his oversized t-shirt with calm, cold dignity.
"Twenty-nineteen," JJ stated cleanly, stepping out of the pool without looking back. "The answer was twenty-nineteen. Write it on your grave."
***
**[DMD STAY HOUSE S3 — LIVESTREAM FEED: LIVING ROOM]** *Day 2, 09:45 PM* *Active Viewers: 310,450*
The living room lights were dimmed to an ambient amber. Most of the cast was sprawled across the oversized sectional sofa, watching an action movie on the projector screen.
JJ sat on the floor, his back resting against the base of the couch, an open bag of spicy dried mango resting between his crossed legs. He was watching the film intently, absentmindedly chewing on a slice of fruit.
Behind him on the sofa, Net was lounging sideways, one arm draped over the backrest.
Slowly, without taking his eyes off the television screen, Net’s hand dropped. His long fingers reached down, slipped into the open bag in JJ’s lap, and pulled out a strip of mango.
JJ didn't turn around. He just reached up, blindly pinched the meat of Net’s forearm between his thumb and index finger, and twisted.
"Ow, ow, ow," Net hissed in an undertone, not letting go of the mango. "Rude."
"Get your own food, leech."
"Yours tastes better."
"It's from the communal pantry, it’s the exact same brand."
"The packaging on yours has your aura of pure resentment, it adds flavor."
JJ made a quiet scoffing noise, but his fingers released Net’s arm.
Instead of pulling his hand away, Net casually rested his wrist on JJ’s shoulder. His thumb moved—tiny, subtle, barely noticeable—brushing a feather-light rhythm against the side of JJ’s neck, right below his earlobe.
JJ stiffened for half a heartbeat. Then, almost imperceptibly, his head tilted a fraction of an inch to the side, leaning into the contact just enough to settle into it.
Neither of them looked at each other. They kept watching the movie.
***
**[X (Twitter) THREAD – Day 2, 10:15 PM]**
**@dmd_detective:** “Okay, we need to have a serious, academic discussion about the couch scene at 21:48. THREAD 🧵👇”
1/5 “First of all, look at the way Net takes the dried mango. He doesn't ask. He doesn't look. His hand just goes straight between JJ’s thighs where the bag is resting. JJ pinches him, Net whines, but NEITHER OF THEM MOVES AWAY.”
2/5 “Now zoom in on Net’s hand at 21:50. [Slow-mo GIF attached] Net’s wrist drops onto JJ’s shoulder. Look at his thumb. LOOK AT HIS THUMB. He is literally stroking JJ’s neck.”
3/5 “And what does Radchapon do? The man who threatened to drown Net in the pool four hours ago? HE LEANS HIS HEAD INTO IT. HE RELAXES.”
4/5 “I have been NetJJ’s biggest beef-watcher since 2022. I thought they were just chaotic frenemies who loved ragebaiting each other for clicks. But friends don't have that kind of sensory muscle memory????”
5/5 “They are too consistent to be ‘just friends.’ If my homie touched my neck like that while watching John Wick, we are having a conversation about our wedding registry.”
↳ **@solarsoul:** “I’ve been saying this! The bickering is loud, but the quiet moments are terrifyingly intimate.” ↳ **@beef_collector:** “Nah y’all are overanalyzing, Net is just tactile with everyone.” ↳ **@solarsoul:** “TACTILE WITH EVERYONE??? Show me one clip of Net stroking Tommy’s neck while Tommy eats snacks, I dare you. I double dog dare you.” ↳ **@thaienthu_99:** “The silence from the doubters is deafening lmaooo.”
***
By the afternoon of Day 3, the humid Kanchanaburi heat had driven most of the residents into a collective lethargy.
The house was noticeably quieter. Tommy and Nat were taking an afternoon nap upstairs, Tutor and Yim were playing a board game in the dining room, and the production team had announced a four-hour break from scheduled challenges.
On the shaded wooden back deck overlooking the river, JJ sat cross-legged on a low daybed, a pair of wireless noise-canceling headphones resting around his neck. His laptop was balanced on his knees, screen covered in lines of dialogue for an upcoming project.
The sliding glass door clicked open, sliding shut with a soft chime.
Net walked out onto the deck. He had discarded his polished television wardrobe for a simple oversized grey tank top and loose linen shorts, a white bath towel slung over one shoulder. His hair was slightly damp from a recent shower.
He didn't make a grand entrance. He didn't start with a loud, sarcastic one-liner for the cameras mounted in the corners of the porch railing.
Net simply walked over, kicked off his slides, and climbed onto the wide daybed, settling down behind JJ.
JJ didn't look up from his screen, but his shoulders lowered by a fraction of an inch.
"You're blocking my breeze," JJ said, his tone lacking any real heat.
"There is no breeze," Net replied smoothly. "It’s thirty-four degrees and ninety percent humidity."
Net reached into the pocket of his shorts, pulling out a small tube of lip balm and an insulated tumbler of iced water. He set the water tumbler down right next to JJ’s knee, directly within reach, before uncapping a bottle of sunscreen.
"Sit up straight," Net murmured.
"I’m working, Net."
"And your neck is red from the pool yesterday. Sit up straight before you peel."
JJ let out a quiet, resigned exhale through his nose, saving his document before pressing the spacebar to lock the screen. He sat up, rolling his shoulders back.
Net squeezed a dollop of white cream into his palms, rubbed them together to warm it, and placed his hands firmly on the back of JJ’s neck.
The contact was steady, practiced, and unhurried.
Net’s long fingers worked the lotion into the pale, sensitive skin at the base of JJ’s skull, smoothing over the tight muscles of his shoulders with firm, knowing thumbs. It wasn't the tentative, polite touch of a coworker, nor was it the exaggerated, performative shove of a variety show rival. It was the touch of someone who knew exactly where the tension gathered after a long writing session—the exact spot at the base of JJ’s neck that always knotted up after three hours at a keyboard.
JJ closed his eyes. His head dropped forward slightly, allowing Net better access, an involuntary, quiet sigh slipping past his lips.
"Told you you were tight," Net murmured softly, leaning in until his breath ghosted across JJ’s ear. "You've been clenching your jaw all morning."
"The second scene isn't working," JJ murmured back, his voice small, stripped entirely of its usual theatrical thorns. "The pacing is dragging."
"The pacing is fine," Net said, his thumbs pressing into the small hollow beneath JJ's collarbone from behind, drawing slow, soothing circles. "You always think the second scene is dragging. You said the same thing on episode four of the last drama, and it ended up being the highest-rated broadcast."
JJ was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached up with one hand, his fingers loosely catching the wrist of Net’s right hand where it rested against his shoulder. He didn't push it away. He just held it there, thumb resting over the steady, rhythmic beat of Net’s pulse.
"You're being annoyingly reasonable today," JJ whispered, his thumb moving slightly. "It makes me nervous."
Net chuckled, soft and warm against the shell of JJ’s ear. His other hand slid down, resting casually against JJ’s ribcage, his chin coming to rest gently on JJ’s shoulder.
"Can't have you dying of heatstroke," Net murmured, his eyes drifting lazily toward the high-definition camera perched under the wooden eave just fifteen feet away.
The little red recording light was glowing steadily.
Net didn't pull away. In fact, he tightened his arm around JJ's middle just a fraction, pulling him back against his chest until there was no daylight left between them.
"Ten days is a long time, Radchapon," Net whispered, a slow, dangerous smile curving his lips against JJ’s skin. "We might as well get comfortable."
JJ didn't move away. He just stared out at the quiet river, his fingers tightening slightly around Net’s wrist, the silence between them suddenly louder than any argument they had ever staged.