Chapter Text
— Chapter 1 —
The scent of industrial-grade disinfectant and stale sweat usually felt like home to Santa.
But ever since Perth Tanapon had strolled through those glass doors six months ago, the gym felt more like a cage.
In truth, Santa had hated Perth for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t just a workplace grievance; it felt ancestral, a deep-seated irritation that predated their professional lives.
They had grown up in the same circles, attended the same schools, and every memory Santa had of his youth was tainted by Perth’s effortless perfection.
While Santa had worked twice as hard to earn his stripes, Perth had always glided by on a silver tongue and a devastating smile.
Seeing that familiar, smug face inside his sanctuary—the gym where Santa had built his reputation—was the final straw.
It had been civil at first. Perth was unnervingly nice during his first week, acting as if their shared history was a bridge rather than a battlefield.
He’d offered soft greetings and small talk, but Santa knew better than to trust the facade.
Sure enough, as soon as Perth felt comfortable, the mask slipped.
The “niceness” soured into a targeted, calculated arrogance. Perth didn’t act like an asshole to the clients or the management; he saved that side of himself exclusively for Santa.
Now, their rivalry was the gym’s main attraction—a cold war fought in sets and reps.
Santa adjusted his grip on a fifteen-pound dumbbell, his knuckles white. Across the turf, Perth was leaning against a squat rack, effortlessly charming a regular who usually trained with Santa.
He had that kind of face—all sharp jawlines and a smile that belonged on a billboard, not a man who spent his days spotting meatheads.
“Focus, Santa,” he muttered to himself.
“Don’t let him win.”
But Perth never made it easy. He’d “accidentally” overbook the equipment Santa needed or offer unsolicited advice right in front of Santa’s high-priority clients.
“Actually, if you tuck the chin more, you’ll save your lower back. Right, Santa?” He’d offer a wink that felt like a slap in the face.
“You’re staring again,” a voice drawled.
Santa jumped, nearly dropping the weight. Perth was suddenly standing two feet away, smelling of expensive cologne and exertion.
“I’m monitoring the floor,” Santa snapped.
“It’s my job.” Perth stepped closer, invading Santa’s personal space.
“You look tense, Santa. Same look you had in high school whenever I beat your times on the track. You really should learn to let go of the past.”
“I’ll let go of the past when you stop being a condescending prick,” Santa hissed, stepping forward until their chests almost touched.
For a second, the air between them sparked with something that wasn’t quite anger. Perth’s eyes dropped to Santa’s mouth, his smirk faltering.
The hate was there, thick and heavy, but it was beginning to feel a lot like fire.
“Keep telling yourself it’s hate, Santa,” Perth whispered, leaning in close.
“It’s been working for you this long, hasn’t it?” As Perth walked away, Santa realized his hands were shaking.
From where Perth stood by the leg press, the view was perfect. He wasn’t looking at the equipment or his own reflection; he was watching Santa.
Santa was currently assisting a client with their deadlift form, his face a mask of professional concentration.
But Perth knew exactly how to shatter that mask. He had been doing it since they were sixteen, and frankly, he’d turned it into an art form.
He could still remember the very first time he realized he held that power.
It was back in high school, during a grueling track practice. Santa had been pushing himself to the brink, his chest heaving, desperate to take the lead.
Perth had simply accelerated in the final stretch, gliding past him with a casual wave.
When he looked back, he saw it: that specific, pathetic, angry look on Santa’s face. The furrowed brow, the flared nostrils, and the way his ears turned a deep, delicious crimson.
Perth had been hooked on that expression ever since. He shifted his weight, his lips curling into a slow smirk.
When he’d seen Santa’s name on the staff roster for this gym, he hadn’t felt annoyed—he’d felt a surge of adrenaline. It was like finding a favorite old toy you weren’t finished playing with yet.
At first, he’d played the “nice guy” card. It was entertaining to watch Santa squirm under the weight of his politeness, unsure of how to react to a Perth who wasn’t actively trying to ruin his day.
But the “asshole” persona was much more rewarding. It was the only way to get Santa to truly look at him.
Perth pushed off the rack and began a slow, predatory saunter across the gym floor. He waited until Santa was mid-sentence before he cut in.
“Hips a bit lower, Auntie,” Perth said smoothly, stepping into their space and nodding at the client.
“You want the power coming from the glutes, not just the hamstrings. Right, Santa? Or are we teaching the ‘lower back strain’ method today?” He felt the heat radiating off Santa before the younger man even turned around.
When Santa finally did, his eyes were flashing with that familiar, beautiful fury. His knuckles were white against his clipboard, and his jaw was set so tight it looked like it might snap.
“I have it under control, Perth,” Santa hissed, his voice low enough so the client wouldn’t hear, but sharp enough to cut.
Perth stepped closer, close enough to see the tiny flecks in Santa’s irises. He leaned down, pitching his voice for Santa’s ears only.
“You look like you're about to pop a vein, Santa. It’s a pathetic look for a professional.” He watched with clinical satisfaction as Santa’s chest rose and fell in jagged breaths.
The anger was so thick he could practically taste it.
To everyone else, they were just two competitive trainers having a spat.
To Perth, this was a masterpiece.
“Keep staring at me like that,” Perth whispered, his smirk widening as he saw Santa’s pupils dilate.
“It almost makes me think you actually missed me.”
He didn’t wait for a retort. He turned on his heel and walked away, knowing Santa’s eyes were burned into his back.
He didn’t care if Santa hated him; in fact, he preferred it. As long as Santa was angry, he was paying attention.
And as long as Perth was the one causing that look, he was the only person in the room who mattered.
The locker room was a narrow, fluorescent-lit tunnel of cold metal and the lingering scent of cedar spray.
For Santa, it was a gauntlet he had to run at the end of every shift. He knew Perth’s schedule as well as his own—a side effect of a lifelong obsession fueled by spite—and he knew that this was the moment their paths would inevitably collide.
Hate was a strong word, the kind people usually cautioned against, but Santa embraced it like a second skin.
He hated Perth Tanapon with a bone-deep marrow-frequency that had only intensified since high school. It was a permanent fixture of his identity, a vow he had made to himself: as long as he was drawing breath, he would be Perth’s greatest hater.
When Santa swung his locker shut, the metallic clang echoed through the empty room. Perth was already there, leaning against the row of lockers opposite his, peeling off a sweat-soaked compression shirt.
The silence between them was heavy, pressurized like the air before a tropical storm. Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them made a move to acknowledge the other’s presence with a “hello” or even a grunt of recognition.
Santa kept his eyes fixed on his gym bag, zipping it up with unnecessary force, while Perth remained a blurred, looming figure in his peripheral vision.
The quiet was suffocating, thick with years of unspoken grievances and the lingering heat of their earlier confrontation on the gym floor.
Santa slung his bag over his shoulder, his face a mask of practiced indifference. He took a sharp breath, staring straight ahead, and began to walk toward the exit.
He was three steps away from freedom when Perth moved.
It wasn’t a fast movement, but it was deliberate. Perth shifted his weight, his broad shoulder hitting the doorframe just as Santa reached it.
He didn’t say a word, simply planting his arm across the exit, his hand gripping the opposite side of the frame to create an unbreakable physical barrier.
Santa stopped dead, his chest nearly brushing Perth’s bare, damp skin. The heat radiating off the older man was an affront, a physical intrusion that made Santa’s blood boil instantly.
“Move,” Santa said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
Perth didn’t budge. Instead, he looked down at Santa, his eyes dark and unreadable, though a familiar, infuriating smirk began to play at the corners of his mouth.
He was close—too close—and he was clearly savoring the way Santa’s breath hitched in genuine, concentrated fury.
“You’re always in such a rush to get away from me, Santa,” Perth drawled, his voice echoing in the small space.
“After all these years, I thought you’d be used to me standing in your way.” Santa looked up, his knuckles whitening around the strap of his bag.
“I’m not playing your games today, Perth. Get out of my way before I make you.” Perth leaned in, his shadow swallowing Santa whole.
“I’d love to see you try.”
Santa wasn’t one to back down, and he certainly wasn’t going to let Perth have the last word in a locker room standoff.
He looked up at the barrier of Perth’s arm, then at the smug curve of the older man’s lips. He was in a rush—his shift was over, and he had things to do—but he knew Perth Tanapon was a wall that wouldn’t crumble for a simple “please.”
So, Santa decided to play dirty.
He leaned in, closing the few inches of space between them until he could feel the damp heat coming off Perth’s torso.
He tilted his head, his lips hovering just a fraction away from the shell of Perth’s ear. He could smell the salt and the faint, expensive musk of Perth’s skin.
“You know,” Santa whispered, his voice a silky, deceptive purr that masked the venom underneath.
“You really should keep the shirt off more often. You’re actually... incredibly hot like this.”
It was a blatant lie, a maneuver designed to catch Perth off guard. Santa expected him to flinch, to laugh, or at the very least, to puff out his chest in a moment of distracted vanity so Santa could duck under his arm and bolt for the door.
He was wrong.
Instead of pulling back, Perth’s smirk deepened into something darker, something predatory.
Before Santa could register the shift in the air, a large, warm hand shot out and clamped firmly around Santa’s slim waist.
Santa’s breath hitched—this time not from anger, but from pure shock—as Perth’s fingers dug into the soft skin just above his hip bone, giving a firm, possessive squeeze.
“Is that so?” Perth’s voice had dropped an octave, vibrating right against Santa’s jaw.
He didn’t move his arm from the door; if anything, he used the grip on Santa’s waist to pull the younger man even closer, forcing their chests to align.
“Funny. I was thinking the exact same thing about you, Santa. Though I think you’d look even better if you followed my lead and lost the shirt, too.” Santa’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
This wasn’t the “pathetic angry look” Perth usually went for; this was a complete collapse of the boundaries they had built over years of hatred.
Perth leaned his head back just enough to lock eyes with Santa, his gaze heavy and undeniably flirtatious.
“What’s the matter, Santa? You started this. Don’t tell me you can't handle the heat.”
The “ice king” facade Santa spent years perfecting was melting fast. He had tried to bait a trap, but as Perth’s thumb traced a slow, rhythmic circle against his side,
Santa realized he was the one who had just walked right into the cage.