Autumn is a second spring

164. What are we? 2.0

Boun stared at Prem as if he were seeing him for the first time.

"So what were we, then?" he asked quietly. His voice didn't rise, didn't shake, but it carried something brittle underneath. "If we weren't boyfriends or a real couple... what were we? Lovers? Bed buddies? A fling?"

A humourless laugh slipped out of him. It sounded wrong, hollow, as if even he didn't believe it belonged to him.

"We lived together," he went on, more to himself than to Prem now. "We raised a child together." His eyes drifted away, unfocused. "And in your eyes, we weren't even boyfriends."

He shook his head slowly. "God, I must have been really dumb not to realize that." His lips twitched again, bitter. "So dumb that I even listed you as Bew's other parent at his daycare. Signed your name right next to mine. No hesitation."

Prem felt a creeping helplessness settle in his chest as he watched Boun struggle to keep himself together. Boun's jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff, but no matter how hard he tried, tears still slid down his cheeks. He wiped them away roughly, as if annoyed with his own weakness, then looked straight at Prem again.

"So this is it, huh?" Boun said, voice steadier now, almost clinical. "For three years, the version of me in your head was some jerk who was scared of commitment. Someone who used your affection to keep you around—emotionally, physically—so you would stay and help raise the kid I adopted."

Prem's heart sank. Regret flooded him, thick and heavy. He wished—desperately—that he had never started this conversation.

"That's not what I meant," Prem said quickly. "Hia, that's not—"

"What else did you mean?" Boun cut in, eyes sharp but fragile. "Tell me." His voice softened suddenly, dangerously. "Did you ever... even once... feel that my love for you was real?"

"I never said you didn't love me," Prem said, his own voice trembling now.

Boun let out a short breath. "If you believed in my love," he asked quietly, "then what else did I have to do to be called your boyfriend?"

Prem looked lost, cornered by the question. His fingers clenched into his palms. "You... you should have asked me," he said finally. "You should have asked me to be your boyfriend."

Something flickered in Boun's eyes—annoyance, disbelief, exhaustion—but he swallowed it down.

"So what," he asked tightly, "I was supposed to get down on my knees and ask you? Like that?"

Prem bristled too, frustration bubbling up. "Yes," he shot back, voice rising a few octaves despite himself. "You should have. The same way you proposed to James."

That did it.

Boun dragged both hands down his face, fingers digging into his skin as if trying to physically hold himself together. He took a deep breath, then another, forcing the anger down before it exploded.

"Why do you keep bringing James into this?" he asked, voice strained. "Why?"

He dropped his hands and looked at Prem, eyes burning. "When you rejoined the national team, James got more involved in my life and Bew's life—not because I suddenly grew interested in him. It was because I was drowning."

Prem froze.

"You left for training," Boun continued, words spilling out now. "And suddenly it was just me. Work at the office, acting shoots, schedules, deadlines—and a kid who needed me. I tried hiring help. It didn't work out. People quit. People couldn't handle Bew, or my schedule."

He laughed shortly. "Then James joined the company as a secretary. He didn't know much about office work, but he was good with kids. Good with household stuff. So I asked him to help—with Bew, with personal errands, with things outside my acting career."