Chapter Text
If anyone ever asked what Namping liked most about Keng, he would answer without hesitation that it was the older's eyes.
His eyes.
Keng had deep, hazel-toffee eyes, the kind that pulled you in before you realized you were being measured. They were usually cold. Calculating. Always watching, always thinking, as if he were three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
But that wasn’t how Namping had first seen them.
The first time their eyes met, there was no sharpness in them at all. Keng was smiling. Not with his lips, but with his eyes, soft and warm and openly adoring. Not at Namping. No, never at Namping.
At his cat.
“That’s my cat! Thief!”
Sixteen-year-old Namping’s voice rang shrilly across the garden as he bolted forward, heart already racing. Just moments ago, he’d been lounging on the grass in their grandmother’s garden, Dairy curled against his side, warm and heavy and content. His white, chubby cat. His baby.
And then she was gone.
He’d just begun scanning Dairy’s usual hiding spots when a sharp, unmistakable hiss sliced through the air.
Dairy.
Panic hit instantly. He turned, and there it was. The sight that would etch itself permanently into his memory.
A man.
A tall man.
Wearing a royal blue suit.
Holding his cat.
Now, if you hear your daughter, which Dairy very much was in this scenario, hiss like that, your first assumption isn’t maybe she’s being cuddled by a stranger. Your first assumption is that some tall, cruel man is hurting her. Because Dairy didn’t hiss without reason. Ever.
Obviously.
So Namping ran.
He ran as fast as his long legs could carry him, which unfortunately wasn’t very fast at all. His limbs had length but no coordination to match. All knees and flailing arms, fueled by pure outrage and misplaced heroism.
By the time he reached them, breathless and ready to commit a crime, his chest was burning, his dignity already halfway gone.
And that was when he looked up.
Into those eyes.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
But smiling, fond, utterly enchanted.
Keng Harit Buayoi, holding Dairy like she was something precious, looked down at him with a softness Namping wouldn’t see again for years.
And just like that, sixteen-year-old Namping forgot how to breathe.
“You must be the youngest, Napatsakorn Pingmuang?”
Namping winced. Hearing his full, government name from a stranger felt like being scolded without knowing what he’d done wrong. Still, he nodded, eyes stubbornly fixed on the man’s face. And because Namping had always liked beautiful things, and because he had absolutely no self-preservation at sixteen, the words slipped out before he could stop them.
“You have pretty eyes.”
Silence.
The stranger blinked, clearly taken aback. Namping watched, mortified and fascinated all at once, as the man’s lips twitched, as if he were fighting the urge to smirk. Or smile.
“Thank you,” he said finally, voice calm and smooth, like he hadn’t just been ambushed by an unfiltered compliment from a teenager. “I believe this is your cat.”
He shifted slightly, adjusting his hold on Dairy, who had already begun to relax against his chest like she’d known him her entire life. Traitor.
Namping wasn’t sure if the man was avoiding the compliment out of shyness or kindness. Either way, the faint warmth creeping into his own cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by himself, unfortunately.
Then he remembered the hiss.
His gaze snapped to Dairy, concern overriding embarrassment. “Did you step on her or something?” he asked, voice dropping, suddenly small. “I think I heard her cry.”
The man’s expression softened immediately, seriousness replacing amusement.
“No,” he said gently. “I didn’t hurt her. She hissed because I startled her, that’s all. I found her sleeping under the bushes and thought she was lost.”
Namping exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath.
Dairy, unbothered and perfectly comfortable, chose that moment to nuzzle closer to the stranger’s chest.
Namping stared.
“…She never does that,” he muttered, equal parts offended and betrayed.
Dairy purred.
Not softly. Not politely. She melted into the stranger’s arms, round body relaxing completely, eyes slipping shut as if she’d decided this was where she belonged now.
Namping stared, horrified.
“She doesn’t do that,” he said again, louder this time, as if Dairy might hear him and remember her loyalties. “She hates strangers.”
The man’s eyes flicked down to the cat, amusement warming them. He smiled then, properly this time, just a little, and something in Namping’s chest gave an unfamiliar lurch.
“Well,” he said mildly, “I’ll take that as an honor.”
Namping swallowed. His mouth suddenly felt dry.
He reached out, intending to take Dairy back, but hesitated halfway. The distance between his hand and the man’s arm felt oddly significant, like crossing it would mean something he wasn’t ready to name. He pulled his hand back instead, curling his fingers into his palm.
Why is my heart doing that?
He shifted his weight, acutely aware of himself. Of his messy hair. His grass-stained clothes. Of how put-together the man looked in comparison, all clean lines and quiet confidence. He felt young in a way he usually didn’t.
The man glanced at him again, head tilting slightly, studying him with open curiosity. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… attentive.
And that was worse.
Namping felt it then. Not attraction, not exactly. Something more unbalanced. Like stepping too close to the edge of a pool and realizing the water was deeper than expected.
He didn’t know why his chest felt tight.
Didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to be interesting.
Didn’t know why he wanted that attention to stay on him a second longer.
All he knew was that something had gone wrong in a way that felt quiet and irreversible.
He took a small step back.
“Uh,” he said, brilliant as ever. “She… likes you.”
The man’s eyes flickered back to Dairy, then to him.
“So it seems,” he replied.
And for reasons Namping couldn’t explain, a strange thought settled into his mind, unwelcome and impossible to shake.
He was sixteen when he met Keng Harit.
Sixteen when he liked him.
Seventeen when he finally understood what that liking meant.
Nineteen when he learned that his first love was going to marry his sister.
Namping had accepted it long ago.
Accepted that Keng Harit was never meant for him. That the version of Keng he met on that random Sunday in the garden, smiling softly at a white, traitorous cat, had never been his to keep. That boy hadn’t been meant for Namping at all.
He had been meant for Janis.
And now this.
He had crossed shit and oceans to come to terms with that truth, swallowed it whole and lived with the ache it left behind, only to be told that he would replace her.
The irony tasted vile.
“Have you lost your mind, mae?”
The words came out low and sharp, deliberate. Namping made sure they cut. He wanted them to sound rude. Wanted them to sting enough to force reality back into place. His eyes burned as he stared at her, disbelief pulling them wide.
Then he turned to Tle.
His cousin stood beside his mother, visibly uncomfortable, shifting his weight like a man already looking for an exit. He looked like he wanted to drop this mess and disappear before it detonated.
“You’re in this?” Namping asked. “Seriously?”
He waited. Waited for Tle to meet his gaze. To say it outright. To admit he was part of this plan, that he supported this madness, that he had agreed to reduce Namping to a stand-in.
A substitute, for fuck’s sake.
Tle was supposed to be the sensible one. The brilliant one. The man known for calculated decisions and flawless investments. The one people praised for always having a plan, for never risking anything without certainty.
I only do things with certainties, Ping.
Those words echoed now like a cruel joke.
“Namping,” Tle said finally, voice careful, eyes still refusing to meet his, “it’s for the family.”
Something inside Namping snapped.
The room felt smaller. The air heavier. His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape before he was forced into something irreversible.
“For the family,” he repeated quietly, incredulous. “So I’m what now? I'm suddenly part of the family? Why? Cause I'm the solution to the problem your favorite has created?”
His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He laughed once, sharp and hollow, because if he didn’t laugh he might actually start screaming.
“You’re asking me to stand at an altar,” he said, voice shaking despite himself, “and marry the man…” he halted, marry the man I spent years learning not to love, “marry the man meant for Janis.”
No one answered.
“Namping, we supported your artistic endeavors. We didn’t force you into anything…”
His mother’s voice was low, unsteady, but resolute. Determined to make him understand. Determined to be right.
And that, somehow, hurt more than if she’d been cruel.
Supported?
Didn’t force?
The words echoed bitterly in his head.
You never stopped me, no. You just made it painfully clear how disappointed you were every step of the way. Every choice that wasn’t convenient. Every dream that didn’t fit neatly into the Pingmuang name.
Namping swallowed hard, jaw tightening. His chest felt hollow, scraped clean.
“Then I’ll repay the money I owe you,” he said through clenched teeth.
The words tasted metallic. His eyes burned, vision blurring just slightly, but he refused to let the tears fall. He wouldn’t give them that. Not now. Not here.
“I’ll pay everything back,” he continued, voice trembling despite his effort to steady it. “Every tuition fee. Every allowance. Every expense you think counts as support.”
His hands shook at his sides.
He was their son.
Their son.
Why did it feel like he was negotiating terms instead of speaking to his parents? Weren’t they supposed to provide for the children they brought into this world? Or did that obligation expire the moment they got what they wanted? An eldest son to carry the name. A younger daughter to complete the picture.
Where did that leave him?
His mother looked at him for a long moment. Too long.
Then she spoke.
“Then repay us by marrying Keng.”
The words landed softly.
That was the worst part. No anger. No raised voice. Just finality.
Namping felt something inside him go very still. The burning in his eyes sharpened, his vision glassy but unbroken. He stared at her, breathing shallow, as if any deeper breath might shatter him.
So this was it.
Not love.
Not obligation.
A transaction.
He nodded once, slow and controlled, forcing his spine straight.
“Fine,” he said quietly.
His voice didn’t crack.
He didn’t cry. He won’t fucking cry.
…
Namping wanted to cry.
The urge pressed hard behind his eyes, hot and humiliating. Why did he agree? How did he let it get that far? He’d been so caught up in the heat of the moment, so overwhelmed by anger and hurt and disbelief, that he’d actually said it.
Fine.
Fine?
You dumb bunny, he scolded himself viciously.
Don’t get him wrong. He was still angry. Livid. His hands were still trembling, his chest tight with the residue of the confrontation. Anger and sadness twisted together inside him, impossible to separate. But now there was something else creeping in, quieter and far more dangerous.
Regret.
He barely had time to drown in it before the wedding planner appeared, clipboard in hand, smile carefully polite. “Is everything alright?” she asked, eyes darting between them.
Tle stepped in quickly, too quickly, explaining that there had been a change in the event.
A change.
The change?
The fucking bride.
In any other circumstance, Namping might have laughed. He might have doubled over at the sheer absurdity of it all. A runaway bride? A substitute? It sounded like something ripped from a badly written drama.
But he wasn’t an audience member.
He was the replacement.
And he was here.
The murmurs began to swell outside. Excited voices. Anticipation crackling through the air. The wedding was about to start.
Namping stood hidden behind thick white curtains, the fabric heavy and opaque, cutting him off from the garden and the guests beyond. This was supposed to be the moment everyone waited for. The grand reveal. When the bride appeared for the first time, radiant and breathtaking, when the groom’s breath caught and his eyes filled because wow, this is the woman he’s about to marry.
The thought hit him like a blow and Namping froze.
His heart stuttered, then slammed violently against his ribs.
How… how would Keng react?
The question echoed, multiplying, growing sharper with every second. How would those beautiful eyes look at him? Those hazel-toffee eyes he had loved quietly for years. Would they widen in shock? Harden in confusion? Fill with something like betrayal?
Would Keng even recognize him immediately?
Would he smile?
The stupid idea made Namping’s stomach churn.
His fingers curled into the fabric of his clothes, knuckles whitening. He swallowed hard, throat dry, breathing shallow as the music began to cue outside.
Then the curtain moved and the first thing that Namping saw was Keng’s eyes.
Not his face. Not the crowd. Not the garden glowing with afternoon light. Just those hazel-toffee eyes, lifting instinctively, ready for the bride they were meant to receive.
Confusion crossed them instantly.
It was subtle, a brief flicker, but Namping caught it. He always did. The way Keng’s brows knit just slightly. The way his focus sharpened, recalibrating, as if his mind was racing to make sense of something that shouldn’t exist.
When the confusion passed, what remained was something colder. Sharper. His eyes traced Namping’s face with careful precision, as if confirming reality piece by piece. His lips parted, then pressed together again.
Then Namping took a step forward.
And another.
The aisle opened before him, long and merciless, every eye in the garden shifting as realization began to ripple outward. There was no mistaking it now. No illusion left to cling to.
It was him.
A murmur rippled through the guests.
At first, it was confusion, of course. Heads tilted. Smiles faltered. Someone leaned forward in their seat. Whispered questions darted between rows like startled birds.
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t that—”
“What’s going on?”
Then recognition.
The whispers grew louder, sharper. Faces shifted from polite curiosity to stunned disbelief. Some gasped. Others frowned, scanning for answers that weren’t coming. Phones were lowered, forgotten in trembling hands.
Realization swept through the garden in uneven waves.
That wasn’t the bride.
That was the bride’s brother.
Namping felt the weight settle into his bones, heavy and suffocating. Each step toward the center felt like sinking deeper into water. He kept his chin level, his back straight, moving because stopping would shatter him.
Keng’s gaze stayed locked on him.
For a fleeting moment, something unguarded slipped through. Not anger. Not heartbreak.
Understanding.
And beneath it, disappointment, heavy and unmistakable.
The shift was devastating in its restraint. No visible recoil. No dramatics. Just the quiet withdrawal of warmth, like a door closing without a sound. Namping felt it settle over him like a second skin, the collective awareness pressing in from all sides. He resisted the urge to fold inward, to disappear. He kept his spine straight, his steps measured, even as his chest burned.
Anger would have been easier.
Anger meant betrayal. Anger meant outrage at what his sister had done, at the chaos she’d left behind. Anger could have been loud and righteous, something Namping could brace himself against.
But that wasn’t what he saw.
It was disappointment.
And that was worse. Far worse.
Because disappointment wasn’t aimed at Janis. It wasn’t about the wedding unraveling or the plans collapsing. It settled, quietly and unmistakably, on him. Namping.
Disappointment because it was Namping standing there.
Because of all the possibilities, of all the people it could have been, it was him who walked down that aisle. Him who took her place. Him who made this choice visible.
The realization pressed into his chest, heavy and suffocating. He could have endured anger. He could have understood it.
But disappointment meant something else entirely.