My Special Omega

The voice of his father echoed like a curse: "You have two week."

Phayu slammed the glass onto the marble bar counter of his penthouse. It didn't shatter but the sound was sharp enough to pierce the silence.

His mind spun with politics, duty, and the suffocating expectations of a family built on control. He hadn't been home since that conversation, hadn't responded to their follow-up texts. And he hadn't slept—not really.

The only thing that brought him even a moment of peace?

Mek.

He reached for his phone and texted one word.

Phayu: Come.

The reply came ten seconds later.

Mek: I'm already outside.

Phayu smiled faintly.

He opened the door just as Mek stepped off the private elevator, wearing a loose white shirt that slid off one shoulder and soft grey shorts that barely counted as pants.

"Someone missed me," Mek teased, walking past him like he owned the place.

Phayu didn't answer. He grabbed Mek by the waist and kissed him hard, deep, tongue claiming, hands gripping.

Mek melted instantly.

There were no words.

Not yet.

Phayu carried him to the bedroom, dropped him onto the bed like he was lighter than breath, and kissed his way down Mek's chest with a hunger that wasn't romantic—it was survival.

They didn't even make it under the covers.

The next three days blurred.

They didn't talk much.

But Mek kept coming back.

Every time Phayu called, Mek came. Every time Phayu needed him, Mek let him in. They didn't eat together. They didn't cuddle after. But the sex was rougher, needier, and sometimes… longer than either of them expected.

Once, Phayu tied him up again but gentler this time, with kisses to every mark. Another night, Mek rode him on the kitchen counter, gasping against Phayu's ear while the city lights shimmered behind them.

And once… Phayu just held him.

Not for long.

Not enough to be called anything serious.

But Mek noticed.

And it scared him.

"You're seeing him again?" Peach squinted as she stirred her ramen.

Mek, wearing Phayu's stolen hoodie and nothing else, lay sprawled on Peach's couch. "Technically, I haven't left his place since Tuesday."

Peach blinked. "Babe. It's Friday."

"I know."

"You're being sexed into submission."

"It's working."

Peach tossed a pillow at him. "Are you catching feelings?"

Mek didn't answer.

Which was an answer.

Meanwhile, at an exclusive bar in Sathorn, Phayu sat at a private table with three of his closest friends—sons of other enigma families. If anyone knew the weight of legacy, it was them.

"You look like shit," said Kit, the heir of the Vorasut family.

Phayu sipped his whiskey. "Stress."

"Parents again?" asked Arm, a pretty-faced menace in a red blazer.

Phayu nodded. "They want me to bring an omega to the gala."

"Don't you already have one?" Third, the quiet one, raised a brow. "The one you've been screwing all month?"

"He's not mine," Phayu muttered.

Arm leaned forward. "But he's consistent. Obedient. Hot. You trust him?"

Phayu hesitated.

And that hesitation said too much.

"I didn't say no," he added.

Kit tilted his glass. "Then bring him. Even if he's just your bedfriend. That's better than showing up solo and looking like you can't land a mate."

Phayu exhaled slowly.

"It's not that simple."

"Why?" Arm grinned. "Scared he'll say no?"

Phayu said nothing.

The table went quiet.

Then Kit smiled. "You like this one."

"I don't."

"You do."

Phayu looked away.

He did.

But he'd never admit it.

Especially not to himself.

That night, Mek lay beneath him again.

Phayu kissed him like he needed to forget everything—his family, his father's voice, the pressure, the threat of legacy.

And Mek took it all.

He let Phayu sleep with him slow. Then fast. Then slow again.

And when it was over, Phayu stayed on top of him for a moment longer than usual.

Mek touched his jaw softly. "Bad day?"

Phayu didn't answer.

But he didn't get up either.

And that was enough.

The next morning

Phayu stood at the window, shirtless, drinking coffee.

Mek stretched on the bed, sheet barely covering his hip. "You didn't leave after round two. That's new."

Phayu smirked. "You complain too much."

"No. I just notice things."

Silence.

Then Mek sat up. "You okay?"

Phayu stared out the window. "What would you say if I asked you to pretend to be my lover?"

Mek blinked.

"What?"

"Just pretend."

"Why?"

Phayu turned. "Because my family is suffocating me. And they want a nice little omega beside me at a stupid enigma gala."

Mek didn't answer.

He looked down at the sheet. Fidgeted.

"You said pretend," Mek whispered. "For how long?"

"One night."

Mek forced a smile. "Then you can pick any omega. Why me?"

Phayu stepped closer, expression unreadable. "Because you don't bend to anyone."

"You literally tie me up every other night."

"That's not the same."

Mek laughed—quiet and bitter. "You think I can stand in front of your royal family and smile like I belong in your world?"

Phayu didn't reply.

Because that was the fear.

He didn't think Mek would say yes.

And worse…

He wasn't sure if he could handle it if he said no.

Mek's laughter had faded, but the chill lingered between them like fog refusing to lift.

He looked at Phayu, truly looked—at the sharp lines of his chest, the subtle tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers clenched his coffee mug like it was the only thing grounding him. This man wasn't unshakeable. Not right now.

"You're really asking me to lie to your parents?" Mek finally asked.

Phayu's eyes didn't flinch. "Yes."

Mek sat forward, dragging the sheet higher around his waist. "You want me to play the good little omega who knows when to smile and how to hold your arm like we're in some romance novel?"

Phayu remained still. "Yes."

"And after that?"

"It ends."

Mek hated how fast his heart sank. "So one night."

"One night."

Mek was quiet for a long time.

Then, with a crooked smile, he murmured, "You're scared of them, aren't you?"

Phayu scoffed but didn't deny it.

"I mean, not like you'd admit it out loud," Mek added, stretching, "but it makes sense. Why else would someone like you need to fake something so basic?"

Phayu put down his mug. "Because I don't fall in love."

Mek raised a brow. "That's what you call basic?"

"No," Phayu said, voice low. "That's what I call inconvenient."

The words hung there like a warning.

Mek swallowed. "You don't have to convince me. I already know you're emotionally constipated."

Phayu almost smiled at that.

Almost.

"But you're not the only one who doesn't do love," Mek said, tone softer now. "You think I want to stand beside some cold-hearted mafia prince and wave to his family while they silently judge me for not being pure enough?"

"You are," Phayu said suddenly.

Mek blinked. "What?"

"You're more than enough."

That caught Mek off guard.

More than the sex.

More than the money.

Those words felt heavier than all of it.

He looked away, heart racing. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not stupid enough to fall for someone who can't fall back."

Phayu didn't reply. He didn't need to. The silence screamed the truth.

Still, Mek's voice was quieter when he asked, "When is this gala?"

"Four days."

Mek groaned and flopped back against the bed. "You're lucky you're hot."

Phayu arched a brow. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a 'maybe if I survive this week without emotionally combusting.'"

"I'll take it."

That night, they didn't have sex.

It wasn't out of avoidance. It wasn't tension.

It was because Phayu stayed.

On the bed. Fully dressed. Leaning against the headboard while Mek curled beside him with his head on his thigh, watching trash TV and pretending not to enjoy the quiet company.

They didn't touch.

Not like before.

And somehow, that made it worse.

The next day

Phayu found himself in the training room at the Akkaraj family compound, sparring with Kit while Arm and Third lounged on the leather benches, nursing iced teas and mockery.

"You look distracted," Kit said, ducking a punch and landing one on Phayu's ribs.

"Just tired."

"From what?" Arm teased. "Omega-riding marathons?"

Third smirked. "Word is, you've kept the same one around for over a month."

Phayu didn't respond.

Kit adjusted his gloves. "You're taking him to the gala?"

"I asked."

"And?"

"He hasn't said yes yet."

Arm laughed. "And you haven't made him?"

Phayu paused. "He's not someone you make do anything."

That got them quiet.

Kit grinned slowly. "Then you really like him."

Phayu's jab missed on purpose. "Shut up."

Meanwhile…

"I'm going to pretend to be his fake lover," Mek said, stabbing his noodles with unnecessary force.

Peach looked unimpressed. "You say that like it wasn't obvious from the beginning that you would."

"He could've asked someone else."

"But he asked you."

"He could've picked someone prettier. Softer. Someone with no mouth and more manners."

"Exactly," Peach said with a smirk. "But he didn't. He chose the one omega who slaps with words and walks like trouble."

Mek sighed. "Peach… this wasn't supposed to go this far."

"Then stop."

"I can't."

"Then admit it."

Mek's throat tightened. "Admit what?"

Peach reached across the table and touched his hand. "That it's no longer just sex."

Mek looked down at the bite of noodles he no longer wanted.

"I'm scared," he whispered.

"Of getting hurt?"

"No," Mek murmured. "Of wanting to stay."

Back at the penthouse

Phayu stood in front of the mirror, tying his cufflinks with robotic precision. His suit was charcoal black. Sharp lines. Tailored control.

But his eyes…

They weren't as cold anymore.

He turned when he heard the door open.

Mek walked in, dressed in loose joggers and an oversized tee, a duffle slung over his shoulder.

"I'm not ready to say yes," Mek said. "But I'm not leaving either."

Phayu said nothing. Just nodded once.

Mek stepped closer, dumped the bag by the wall, and folded his arms. "You'll owe me."

"I always do."

Mek looked at him like he wanted to fight and kiss him at the same time.

Then he smiled.

"I want flowers."

Phayu tilted his head. "You hate flowers."

"Exactly. Now you'll owe me double."

Mek's fingers curled around the edge of Phayu's blazer, dragging him forward by the lapels.

"I want flowers," he repeated, lips brushing the older man's.

Phayu smirked. "That all you want?"

Mek tilted his head, deliberately letting his tongue flick against Phayu's bottom lip. "Not even close."

The rest happened fast.

Phayu's jacket hit the floor.

Mek's shirt was tugged over his head in one smooth pull, followed by warm palms trailing fire down his chest. Their mouths never separated. Teeth nipping. Breath clashing.

Mek gasped as Phayu pushed him against the cool glass window, the Bangkok skyline glittering behind them.

"Do you want this?" Phayu whispered, voice low and rough, already unbuttoning Mek's joggers.

Mek nodded, breathless. "Always."

Then Phayu dropped to his knees.

Mek's head thudded against the glass as Phayu took him in his mouth with practiced precision—slow, deep, relentless. His hands gripped Mek's hips firmly, holding him in place as pleasure unraveled him from the inside out.

"Phayu…" Mek moaned, trembling, his fingers burying in that dark hair.

But Phayu wasn't done.

He stood, kissed Mek fiercely, and swept him into his arms like he weighed nothing.

They didn't make it to the bedroom.

Phayu tossed him onto the couch, yanked his own shirt over his head, and climbed on top.

Their lips collided again, but this time with hunger laced in something more dangerous—emotion. Desire with weight.

Phayu entered him slow, deliberate, keeping his eyes on Mek's the entire time.

Mek choked out a sound between a gasp and a curse.

"You're okay?" Phayu asked, voice hoarse.

"I can take it," Mek whispered, locking his legs around him.

Phayu moved with power and control, but unlike before, it wasn't about domination. It was about connection. He kissed Mek's neck, his collarbone, the inside of his wrist where bruises once lived.

And when Mek came, it wasn't from roughness. It was from how seen he felt in that moment.

Phayu followed seconds later, collapsing against him, their breaths syncing like they'd practiced it.

Later, wrapped in sheets and tangled limbs, Mek lay with his head on Phayu's chest, fingers idly tracing the scar above his heart.

"You never told me where this one came from," he murmured.

Phayu, half-asleep, answered, "Rooftop knife fight. Bangkok. Six years ago."

Mek huffed. "Romantic."

"Don't worry. I won."

"I wasn't worried," Mek whispered. "You always win."

They were quiet for a while. Mek shifted slightly to face him, hair mussed, eyes soft.

"You know," Mek began, "if I go with you to that gala people will talk."

"They always do."

"They'll say you brought home a used omega. One who wears crop tops and curses in three languages."

Phayu opened his eyes slowly. "And?"

Mek hesitated.

Then said it.

"Okay. I'll do it."

Phayu blinked. "You will?"

Mek nodded. "One night. Just the gala. But I'm not going to act like your pet. If I go, I go as I am."

Phayu touched his cheek. "That's the only version of you I want."

Mek looked away, cheeks pink.

"I'll need something to wear," he mumbled. "Your people will probably expect me in a gown or something ridiculous."

"We'll go shopping," Phayu said. "I'll send someone."

"And I want spicy shrimp rolls. From that street vendor near my uni."

Phayu chuckled. "Done."

"And I get to punch anyone who insults me."

"You'll probably have to punch my uncle."

"Even better."

Phayu leaned down, pressed a kiss to Mek's shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Mek didn't reply.

But he didn't pull away either.