Me and Thee: English translation.

Wake-up call #2

 

The man stood just an arm's length away. Now that he was standing at full height, it was even more apparent how tall he was, probably brushing 190 centimetres. Broad shoulders and a solid frame made him look like a mixed-race athlete. Under the clearer light, his smoky grey eyes were even more striking, almost mesmerising. His strong jawline, faintly shadowed with stubble, added to his intimidating aura. Sure, he was handsome—no denying that—but the dangerous vibe he radiated completely overshadowed any attraction. It wasn't so much swoon-worthy as run-for-your-life scary.

 

"You're not gonna manage to open that with your hand like that," the man said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, extending a hand expectantly.

 

Peach blinked, confused. His guard was still up, but after a moment's hesitation, he handed over the bottle of water. More than anything, he felt a strange sense of familiarity with the man in front of him, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite place it.

 

"Thanks," Peach muttered as the guy easily twisted the cap off and handed the opened bottle back. Peach stepped aside to make sure the water wouldn't splash on anyone, then tilted it to pour over his wound, letting it rinse away the blood.

 

"That's what you get for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," the man commented, his deep voice carrying a faintly scolding edge. Peach paused for a split second, the water slowing to a trickle. Then he smiled faintly and resumed cleaning his wound, his voice light and easy as he replied.

 

"Yeah, you're right. It's none of my business. But what can I say? I couldn't just leave that kid like that. If there's something I can do to help, I'll probably do it." He shrugged and grabbed some tissues to gently pat his arm dry. The wound wasn't too bad-just a scrape, nothing deep, but he'd still need to get a tetanus shot, no question.

 

"Ever think that helping others might just land you in trouble?" The tall, broad-shouldered man folded his arms, narrowing his eyes with clear disapproval radiating off him.

 

"I'm always in trouble, so yeah, pretty used to it." Peach chuckled softly under his breath, pausing briefly before adding in a resigned tone, "But seriously, could you not try to lure the kid? I'd rather not deal with him fighting with his... situationship or whatever. Every time they have drama, it's me who gets caught in the middle." The other man's expression hardened instantly. His already intimidating face grew even darker, and his tone, laced with barely suppressed anger, came out sharp.

 

"There's nothing I want that I can't have."

 

The weight of his words hung in the air for a tense moment before Peach suddenly broke into uncontrollable laughter. He tried to stifle it, but it only made him choke, coughing and laughing at the same time. Finally, he managed to compose himself, though the other man's glare was growing darker by the second.

 

"Sorry, sorry," Peach said, raising a hand in mock surrender, his voice still shaky with amusement. "I didn't mean to laugh; it just caught me off guard. Like, who even says stuff like that in real life? It's so... over the top. Bossy and completely tyrannical."

 

The man's scowl deepened, and the growing irritation on his face screamed not amused. Peach, realising he might've pushed too far, quickly raised both hands in a gesture of apology, his wide grin fading into something more sheepish. Damn my big mouth, he cursed inwardly.

 

"If you're really into Ran, why not just approach him properly?" Peach suggested, trying to shift the mood and deflect any incoming wrath. "I mean, those two aren't officially a thing yet, right? Aran's still single. If you just go for it like a normal person, it might actually work."

 

The scowl didn't budge. If anything, the guy looked even more annoyed, his jaw tight as he glared down at Peach.

 

"Why would I waste my time on something like that?" the man replied, his arms crossed even tighter, his entire demeanour practically screaming mafia-boss energy. His piercing gaze carried an edge of disdain as if the idea of playing by the rules was beneath him. Looking at him now, this guy wouldn't be out of place in one of those alpha male romance novels, the type of slap-and-tickle Mafia. Yeah, this guy had all the markings of that trope.

 

Peach nodded to himself a couple of times. Yeah, he'd read this kind of novel before. The hero in these stories was always the same— aggressive, loud, bossy to the point of being a control freak, and maybe a little unhinged. Honestly? This guy was hitting all the right notes.

"Get a grip, man. Who in their right mind likes being bossed around or strong-armed? Unless they're into masochism, of course." Peach shook his head, leaning casually against the side of his little car.

 

The way this conversation was shaping up, it was going to take way longer than he'd planned. He still had work to finish tonight, but clearly, that wasn't happening anymore.

 

"It's just a one-night stand. Why make it such a big production?"

 

"Even if it's just a one-night thing, sex should be about mutual satisfaction. It's about enjoying the moment together, not one person taking what they want while the other is just dragged along for the ride, or, worse, using it as a bargaining chip. Where's the fun in that?" Peach's tone was serious now, his expression as earnest as he could manage.

 

To him, sex was something that should happen between two consenting, willing parties. The idea of forcing someone, pressuring them, or even throwing money around to get your way—it all made his skin crawl.

 

"It's just sex," the mafia wannabe muttered, though he sounded a little less fiery this time. Still irritated, sure, but calmer.

 

"Have you ever actually tried it?" Peach shot back, cocking an eyebrow. "Sex where you're both into it, both having fun—not just rushing through to get it over with? I bet it'd feel a hell of a lot better." He sounded like an expert, but his experience was almost laughably minimal.

 

He'd had three relationships, none of which had gone all the way. Sure, he'd had a couple of one-night stands back in the day, but that felt like a lifetime ago. These days, he was too busy to even think about hooking up.

 

Mr Mafia's face went blank as he sank into deep thought, his dark eyebrows furrowing like he was trying to solve some impossibly complex puzzle. Peach could only stand there, waiting. Unable to help himself, he let out a quiet yawn. He'd been running on fumes for days, staying up late and working non-stop. Today had started with an early morning photo shoot and dragged on until... well, now.

 

Peach wanted to tell Mr Mafia to go home and think things over. He'd like to head home himself, honestly—he was about to pass out from sheer exhaustion.

 

"Hand over your phone."

 

Peach, who was on the verge of dozing off where he stood, snapped back to attention. He blinked at the outstretched hand, baffled about how their conversation had somehow pivoted to his phone.

 

When the guy barked the command again, his deep, authoritative tone bringing no argument, Peach sighed and fished out his phone, unlocking it without protest.

What could he say? The guy was at least twice his size, had two bodyguards flanking him, and, oh yeah, both of them were packing guns. Whatever this mafia-type guy was up to, he definitely wasn't trying to steal a beat-up old phone like his.

 

Peach stood there, watching as the man fiddled with his phone. Those smoky grey eyes held a strange familiarity, a sense that tugged at the edges of Peach's mind and refused to fade. It only grew stronger as the seconds ticked by. When his phone was handed back to him, Peach took it absentmindedly, his exhaustion mixing with that nagging feeling of recognition. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

 

"You seem really familiar. Have we met before?"

 

Mr Mafia froze, a flicker of something disappointment, maybe—flashing in those grey eyes before it disappeared behind a wry smirk. "That's the lamest pickup line I've ever heard. What, have you been binge-watching too many soap operas?"

Peach blinked a couple of times, then burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that left him doubled over and wiping at his eyes. His genuine amusement wiped away the other man's smirk in an instant, replacing it with a frown of confusion.

 

"Sorry, sorry," Peach said quickly, trying to calm himself down before things got dicey. The last thing he needed was for Mr Mafia to get offended and start waving his gun around.

 

"I didn't mean to laugh at you—it's just, man, that was so over-the-top. I swear I wasn't trying to hit on you or anything. Cross my heart." He finally managed to reel in his laughter, though the grin stuck stubbornly on his face.

 

"I asked because you genuinely look familiar. I feel like I've seen you somewhere before, maybe in a magazine? Your eyes, that smoky grey colour... they're really striking. I guess they just stuck in my head."

Mr Mafia relaxed his frown, the sharp edge in his eyes softening as if deep in thought. Peach stood there, waiting. He wanted to beg for permission to go home and sleep, but was too scared he might end up sleeping permanently. Not an option. He still had a ton of work waiting for him.

 

"T'll think about it," the mafia boss said at last, then turned and walked away with his men trailing behind him. Peach didn't let out the breath he'd been holding until they were completely out of sight. The relief hit him so hard it felt like a mountain had been lifted off his chest.

 

That whole time they'd been talking, he'd been terrified he'd end up dead. But between his usual personality, a hint of alcohol still buzzing in his system, and sheer exhaustion, he'd somehow managed to act braver than he really was. At least he hadn't done anything too reckless. That was what he told himself as he got into his car and headed back to his condo. Right now, all he could think about was his soft bed and the sweet, icy blast of the AC.

 

Theerakit Kian Arseny was a businessman in his early thirties who was currently making waves in the public eye. Not just because of Arseny, his wildly popular brand of perfumes and jewellery, but also thanks to his striking good looks and his ever-changing string of celebrity girlfriends. But few people knew the truth about the Arseny family. The perfume and jewellery business wasn't their first venture. The Arseny name had been a big deal in the black market for years as one of the largest suppliers of Russian weapons. They didn't just trade weapons, either—they invested heavily in research and development, advancing new technologies.

Started as arms dealing, expanded into tech dominance, and now, with the eldest son of the Arseny family at the helm, they have a legitimate brand in luxury goods. 

 

On the surface, it was just a front, but the massive profits exceeded expectations, turning the business into one of the crown jewels of the Arseny empire. With everything going for him—power, wealth, influence —it was no surprise that the man often referred to as "the mafia boss" rarely encountered anything he wanted but couldn't have.

 

He slowly tapped his fingers rhythmically on the desk, letting the document on the screen remain unsigned. For the first time, he couldn't focus on work. His mind was tangled with thoughts he couldn't shake off, no matter how hard he tried. That small, fiery model had caught his eye: those big, expressive eyes, flushed cheeks, and that bold mouth. There was a defiance in his demeanour that was almost challenging, wrapped in a petite frame that seemed so easy to dominate. He had to admit he was intrigued. He couldn't help wondering how it would feel to have that stubborn little thing pinned beneath him, writhing and yielding to his control.

When he wanted something, he should get that thing. And the more someone resisted, the more satisfying it was to conquer them.

 

But it's really strange. The image of that model lingered in his mind, refusing to fade. Yet, oddly enough, another thought had begun creeping in—a warm, soothing voice, calm and steady like a gentle stream. Just a few words, paired with a bright, genuine laugh, had somehow managed to extinguish his simmering temper in an instant.

 

The one who had laughed at him bluntly told him to calm down and stood his ground without pissing him off. If anything, the guy's unyielding but disarming demeanour had made him relent. No one else had ever talked to him like that and walked away unscathed. Yet here was this photographer, still very much alive and in one piece.

 

He wasn't even that remarkable at first glance. Not stunningly beautiful, not someone you couldn't tear your eyes away from. And yet, being near him had been... oddly calming.

 

"Sir, here are the background reports you requested." His assistant approached, placing two files on the desk. Each had a name written clearly on the cover.

Thee hesitated. Honestly, he'd been second-guessing himself ever since last night, when he'd ordered the background checks. He had fully intended to dig into the model's history. But somehow he'd also told them to look into the photographer.

 

Even now, a part of him wondered what the hell he wanted with that photographer's file. Yet, when his hand moved, it bypassed the report on the model he was so sure he wanted and picked up the one on the photographer instead. The other file was left sitting untouched on the desk.

 

Thee pursed his lips a bit while flipping through the pages. The photographer's record was spotless, almost to the point of being frustrating. No scandals, no skeletons in the closet. Just a simple life. As the eldest son of the family, his parents' names weren't even listed in the file.

 

The young mafia boss's eyes lingered briefly on the section listing favourite foods. Then, as if making a decision, he picked up his phone, scrolled to the number he'd saved the night before, and called without hesitation. The line barely rang before the other side picked up. The groggy voice that answered made him glance at the clock. Almost 10 a.m., wasn't it?

 

"Be downstairs in an hour. I'm picking you up," he said, short and to the point, out of sheer habit. The person on the other end, however, clearly wasn't used to Such curt commands.

 

[Pick me up? Go where? Wait, who is this?]

 

"For breakfast," he clarified, though he only said as much as he felt like explaining. It annoyed him a little that the other person didn't remember who he was, but he let it slide. Considering the half-asleep tone of the guy's voice, it was too early for his brain to process anything properly. Oddly enough, instead of being irritated, he found the confusion and drowsiness in the voice amusing.

 

The person on the other end still sounded bewildered, but Thee didn't give him a chance to ask more questions. He hung up and turned his attention to the documents on his desk. The paperwork, which he'd found irritating earlier, now felt a little less grating. He could actually focus on it. Maybe the photographer's suggestion to take it slow and "start with flirting" wasn't such a bad idea after all. 

 

He'd start with a little recon and gather some intel on the pretty-faced model. They seemed close enough that he could dig up something useful. Thee was noticeably in better spirits, though he wasn't aware of it himself. Meanwhile, his secretary and the bodyguards stationed nearby exchanged silent, uneasy glances. Questions filled their minds, but no one dared voice a single one.

 

No one was stupid enough to risk provoking their boss into one of his infamous outbursts. If that happened, there wouldn't be anyone left standing to calm the storm.