Chapter 25 - Stupid, Stubborn, Alive

The afternoon in Kanchanaburi had that heavy gold to it — like heat sitting on your shoulders, not quite bothering to pretend it wasn't there.

They hadn't done anything complicated. Lunch at a place by the water where the chairs wobbled a little but the food didn't. A walk through a kitschy "family activity village" where all the signs were pastel and everything had a cartoon mascot. A stall where you could paint your own ceramic animal for an extra eighty baht. A man by the gate selling fruit in bags and calling everyone "you handsome boy" with no discrimination whatsoever.

Now it was late, slow-thick, and the four of them were back at the rental house.

The house itself felt like it had been built by someone who loved pale rectangles. Big breathable rooms. Polished concrete floors. White walls. Sliding glass all along the back looking out at a small pool, the flat sheet of water cut clean by palm shadows. Even the way sound travelled felt curated — echo but no chaos, quiet but not burial.

Imel had his bag open on the sofa. He wasn't packing frantically. Just... checking. Phone charger. Wallet. A folded black T-shirt. A second one because one shirt was arrogant. Keys. Portable battery. His notebook. Headphones. He zipped, unzipped, zipped again because the rhythm gave his hands something to do.

From the open kitchen island, Kamon watched him the way you watch someone tighten their laces before going out the door. Not hovering. Present.

"Time?" Kamon asked without looking up from the containers he was filling.

"Six-something," Imel said. "Train's at seven-twenty. I'll be back in Ratchaburi around nine. I left the car in the lot by the station. I'll drive straight in."

"Text," Kamon said. He didn't make it a question.

"Mhm."

The kitchen smelled warm — garlic, lime, that mellow fat sweetness from meat that's been kissed by heat properly. Kamon had a big pan going earlier. Now that pan had been scraped into neat, travelable portions.

"Too much," Imel said, nodding at the stack of containers.

"It's not too much, it's one meal that accidentally turned into three," Kamon said, completely straight. "One is for on the train. One is for when you get home and pretend you're not hungry. One is for when you admit you're hungry."

"I am capable of feeding myself," Imel said, which was untrue in the way everyone in the room understood.

"That's why I packed cutlery," Kamon said, sealing the last lid. 

Imel huffed, almost a laugh, and reached for the carrier bag. He put the containers in carefully, like they were part of his kit.

From down the hallway, a door opened. Soft feet on polished floor. Fah came through first, barefoot, hair up, one sleeve pushed to the elbow, scrolling through something on her phone. Behind her, a small shape in shorts and a cloud-print T-shirt followed on quick, decisive steps.

Charoen didn't barrel. He approached like a very tiny official coming to audit them.

"Lung," he said, standing by the sofa, looking at the half-zipped bag like it had personally offended him.

Imel looked up. "Mm."

"You go work?" Charoen asked. His mouth rounded around the word work like it was both accusation and accepted fact.

Imel nodded once. "I go work."

"Now?" The child squinted at him like that was rude.

"In a bit," Imel said. "I'll come back. Just not sleeping here."

Charoen went silent for a second, processing that. You could see the small gears line up. He didn't pout. He just took that information and held it like something to balance against the rest of his evening.

Then he held his hands out.

Imel lifted him in one motion, the way you do when you've done it so many times your body doesn't think about mechanics anymore. Charoen hooked one arm round his neck, casually, settled on his hip, and leaned in like that was obviously where faces go.

"You pack," Charoen declared, peering into the bag as if he had authority. "Where shoes?"

"By the door," Imel said.

"Where brush-teeth?"

"In here," Imel said, tapping the bag.

Charoen nodded, satisfied that basic hygiene had been accounted for.

Fah leaned against the other end of the sofa, one hand resting on the back cushion, taking them in. She didn't smile big. She didn't coo. She just watched her little family like she was ticking off an internal checklist.

"You're not forgetting anything?" she asked.

"My charger," Imel said automatically, then checked, found it exactly where he'd put it, and made a face at himself.

Kamon slid the bag of containers across the island with a fingertip. "Food," he reminded.

"I was going to take it," Imel said, but without bite.

Kamon didn't look up from wiping the counter with a cloth. "I know. I'm saying it out loud so I have proof I said it when you somehow get distracted and leave it."

Fah exhaled — which from her was basically laughter. She pushed off the sofa and walked into the kitchen, leaned over by Kamon's shoulder, looked down at whatever pan residue he was still scraping. She tilted her head the way she always did when she was acknowledging effort.

"Good," she said.

Kamon's mouth twitched into quiet pride. He didn't ask, "yeah?" He knew.

Imel watched that without looking like he was watching. It sat warm in his chest and made something low in him loosen.

Charoen shifted against him, then stretched one hand out towards the coffee table where Imel's tote bag sat, the fabric still creased from the market.

"Toy," he said.

"Ah," Imel murmured. "Wait."

He crouched, balancing Charoen easily on one thigh, rummaged in the tote with his free hand, and pulled out a small box. Bright printed plastic. A ridiculous little wind-up van with eyes and a ridiculous grin.

He held it up. "For you."

Charoen made a soft sound — not quite a gasp, more like an intake of approval. He reached both hands, took it very solemnly, examined the box like instructions were sacred text.

"For me?" he clarified, because you always confirm.

"For you," Imel said.

"Why," Charoen asked, direct.

"Because you liked it," Imel said. "And you looked at your dad like you were going to attempt a negotiation."

From the kitchen: "Mm," Kamon said, which in Kamon-language meant he had indeed clocked that negotiation and been one breath away from caving anyway.

Charoen nodded. That answer satisfied him. He tucked the box to his chest with both arms, then leaned forward and pressed a quick, clumsy kiss to Imel's cheek. Transaction complete. He wriggled, which was toddler for put me down, I've got inventory to file.

Imel set him gently on the floor. Charoen toddled off to the coffee table, sat on the rug like a little old man, and began trying to open the packaging with the intensity of someone trying to disarm a bomb.

"Don't use your teeth," Fah said without looking.

"I no teeth," Charoen muttered, which was objectively false.

"Use the scissors," Kamon said, already walking round to fetch the small blunt pair from their tote of "stuff-that-keeps-him-busy".

"I do it," Charoen said, accepting them like ceremonial blades.

The music they'd left on earlier — something low, lazy, R&B drift with bass that sat in the ribs instead of the ears — ran in the background. The pool filter hummed. Outside, some insect choir had already started up.

Imel stood again and zipped his bag properly. It sounded final this time.

"You're sure you're okay on the train?" Fah asked, not hovering, just auditing logistics.

"It's an hour and a bit," Imel said. "I'll eat. I'll listen to something. I'll text when I'm in Ratchaburi. I'll text when I get to the café. I'll text when I get to the residence."

"Good," Fah said.

"Do I get a 'good' for the food?" Kamon asked.

"You already got yours," Fah said.

Kamon clicked his tongue, satisfied.

Imel slid the strap over his shoulder. He took the carrier bag from the counter in his other hand. He looked, for a second, like he was going to say something large. He didn't. He just nodded once at both of them.

"I'll see you in a few days," he said.

"Mm," Fah said, which from her meant: I heard that, I'm holding you to it.

"Send a picture," Kamon said.

"Of what."

"Of you not passing out on the train," Kamon said. "So I can show her you didn't fall asleep holding a spoon."

"I don't sleep holding cutlery," Imel said.

"You have been known," Kamon said pleasantly.

Imel scoffed under his breath.

Charoen didn't run to the door like a drama. He walked there, box in both hands, and waited, because exits are official business. Imel crouched again by the entryway to change into his trainers. The house had a small step down before the front door; shoes lived lined up neatly there.

When he'd tied the last lace, he looked up. Charoen had stopped inspecting the toy long enough to just... look at him. Not upset. Just looking.

"I'll come back," Imel said quietly.

"You go work," Charoen repeated, because that wrapped it up neatly in a way his world understood.

"I go work," Imel agreed.

Charoen seemed satisfied with that. He pressed the box to his chest again, thought for a beat, and then lifted his little free hand and did a small, serious wave. "Bye-bye."

Imel felt something tighten in his throat that he didn't have words for and didn't plan to excavate in front of anyone. He bumped his knuckles very gently against Charoen's forehead, soft. "Bye-bye."

Fah came to the doorway then. Kamon moved behind her, one palm resting warm and easy at the small of her back. It wasn't a claim or a performance. It was just: I'm here.

"Text," Fah said.

"I will," Imel said.

"Eat," Kamon added.

"I will," Imel said again.

"Don't argue with the wall at Roenfé tonight," Kamon said.

"It started it," Imel murmured.

Kamon smiled, slow. "Still. Be nice."

Imel's mouth tipped, betraying him with a ghost of a smile. "I'll try."

He lifted the carrier bag. "Thanks."

"Shut up," Fah said, which in her language meant you're welcome, don't act like we're strangers.

Imel nodded once more, turned, unlocked the front door, and stepped out into the warm evening air.

The door clicked softly behind him.

Korn was already working when the text came through.

On good days it was called "managing the building". On bad days it was "doing absolutely everything because if I don't do it, it doesn't exist". Today sat somewhere in the middle.

He'd claimed the office behind reception — technically "staff office", realistically "Korn's brain with walls" — and had three screens going.

Screen one: a spreadsheet with occupancy, cleaning rota, maintenance tickets, and three things that should've been logged by other staff and were instead handwritten in a slanted panic on a takeaway napkin and left under his keyboard.

Screen two: CCTV feed of the lifts, the foyer, the car park, mostly to catch if anyone weird tried to tailgate inside behind a resident because he refused to be That Place.

Screen three: a draft message to their electrician with the subject line "light in stairwell flickering again PLEASE FIX IT BEFORE IT BECOMES A HORROR FILM".

His phone buzzed face down twice, then a third time harder — Imel's tone.

Korn flicked his eyes to screen two, clocked that downstairs was empty, then grabbed the phone.

Imel: train early. be back 19:00~21:00.

Imel: car's at the station so I'll drive in after

Imel: need you to do something for me

Korn leaned back in his chair and let his head hit the wall lightly.

He thumbed back: at your service 🫡

Imel: I'm going to ask him today.

Korn stared at that for two full beats, grin already creeping up.

Korn: ABOUT TIME

Imel: hn.

Korn: you know what you're doing?

Imel: no.

Korn snorted.

Korn: do you want grand, lights, fireworks, mariachi band, "will you be mine" in sparklers off the balcony

Imel: no.

Korn: do you want to read him a novel with metaphors about moonlight and fate and "since I first saw you standing under the fluorescent bulbs in that cursed hallway I knew—"

Imel: absolutely not.

Korn: then just do it how you are. if you fake a style you'll hate it tomorrow and overthink it until you're dust. don't act pretty. just be you.

There was a pause. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Stopped again.

Imel: you'll see when it arrives.

Korn let out a low whistle.

Korn: oh we're doing "mysterious chef drops a parcel". i'm delivery boy now?

Imel: whatever fits for you.

Korn blinked, then grinned harder.

Korn: owner sounds better

Imel: mm. guess you kept it a secret.

Korn: 👍 send me the thing and the instructions and I'll do it like a loyal dog

Imel: never say that again.

Korn: 🐶

Imel: I hate you.

Korn: love you too.

He dropped the phone back on the desk, still grinning, still shaking his head.

On screen one, he added a small line under "Tasks": 18:00 – pick up ??? from Imel / deliver to 4F.

He didn't write Tawan's name. He didn't need to. His brain already had it lit up.

He stretched the back of his neck with one hand, cracked his knuckles with the other, and went back to answering an email about water pressure like he hadn't just been handed a front-row ticket to a moment half the building was emotionally over-invested in.

Dan and Saint woke up the way people wake up after they've already been awake and then dared to nap too close to evening: slow, disoriented, limbs slightly wrong.

The curtains in Dan's room were half drawn, letting in a flat wash of late light from the car park side. The AC hummed. Somewhere faintly, you could hear the whine of a scooter taking a corner too fast.

Saint was half on Dan's chest, half draped down his side, one leg swung over Dan's hip like he'd been trying to claim territory in his sleep.

Dan blinked up at the ceiling for a second, then ran his palm down Saint's back, slow, up and down, up and down, until Saint made a small noise against his T-shirt and shifted.

"You awake?" Dan asked, voice low, unused.

"No," Saint said into his shirt.

"Mmm," Dan said. "You lying?"

"Extremely," Saint admitted, rolling onto his back and then onto his side so he could face Dan properly on the pillow. His hair was a mess. It made him look young in a way he would absolutely hate if anyone said it out loud.

They lay like that for a breath. Two breaths. Saint looked at him like he was trying to download him through his eyes.

"Are you going back to the studio tonight?" Dan asked.

Saint nodded, once. "I have to," he said. "I've got... a lot."

"A lot," Dan repeated. "Like: normal a lot? Or: your version of a lot, which is 'I'm doing seven things and pretending it's one so you don't worry'."

Saint huffed. "My 'a lot'," he admitted.

Dan's mouth quirked. "Do you want me to come?"

Saint's eyes flicked, quick.

"That means I can be quiet. I can sit. I can... I don't know. Watch. Bring food. I can mind my business," Dan said, which was his careful way of offering without shoving.

Saint exhaled slowly through his nose, thinking. He always thought about these questions like he was defusing something. He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling for a beat like it had subtitles, and then rolled back.

"I don't... really let people in there," he said, voice softer than usual. "Not because you'd break anything. You wouldn't. You'd fold yourself to fit, I know that. Just... my head. It's loud there. Sometimes if someone's in it, my head starts running around them instead of doing what it's supposed to. Then I get angry at myself for that, and then the whole thing goes sideways and I can't even look at the piece I'm doing without wanting to set it on fire, and then... yeah."

He waved one hand, a small helpless circle in the air.

Dan listened. He nodded, slow. He didn't interrupt. He let the shape of it land.

Saint kept going, which was already unusual. "And also," he said, words coming like he'd practised them silently on repeat, "sometimes when I really care about someone, my brain... like... walks on eggshells around them before anything even happens. Pre-emptively. 'Don't say that, you'll scare him.' 'Don't knee-bounce, you'll annoy him.' 'Don't go quiet, he'll think you're mad at him.' It's stupid. My brain does way-too-much, like always. And then I start obsessing over their reaction and forget to eat and forget the sculpture and then I'm crying in a corner because somebody ignored me and— it's... it's embarrassing."

He made a face, like he hated even telling the truth.

Dan reached up and cupped the side of his face. Thumb soft over cheekbone. "That's not embarrassing," he said plainly.

Saint's eyes flickered. "Feels embarrassing."

"Yeah, because your head is violent," Dan said. "But the thing you're describing isn't weird to me. I can't promise I'll never step on one of those eggs. I'm me. I'll get it wrong sometimes. I'll say something shit by accident because my mouth outruns my fear. I'll shut down. I'll overthink. I'll be quiet in a way that doesn't look gentle. I know that. I'm not going to sit here and tell you 'I'll never trigger you' because that's a lie and I don't want to lie to you."

Saint watched him like oxygen.

"But I like you," Dan said, steady. "I like you loud, and clingy, and poking me, and singing when you can't hit the note. I like you when you're working and you ignore me and I have to just sit there and stare at your stupid sexy shoulders like a fan. I like you when you get dramatic for two seconds and then pretend you didn't. I like you when you say 'I'm fine' and you're obviously not fine and then three hours later you crawl into my lap and tell me the real thing without saying the words for it."

Saint swallowed.

"I can't fix your brain," Dan said. "And I wouldn't try. It's yours. But I'm not scared of it. I don't want you to try to sand yourself down for me. I don't want a quieter you or a less-much you. I want you. That's it. Even the bits that make you spiral. Especially those, actually, because those are the bits you usually hide and I don't like you hiding from me."

Saint blinked hard. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He let out a breath almost like a laugh. "That was a lot of words for you."

"I've been rehearsing," Dan said.

Saint snorted, wet. "You nerd."

Dan smiled, small. "Yeah."

Saint stared at him, and Dan could see the exact second something unfurled. Not relief. Not solved. Just... allowed.

Saint nudged closer, until their foreheads touched. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay. I can do 'you're not scared of me'."

"I'm not," Dan said.

Saint breathed him in for a second, then pulled back just enough to look at him again. "Your turn," he said quietly.

"My turn?" Dan echoed.

"Mm," Saint hummed. "You asked me a million questions the other night. Now I get you. Basic level pack. Name, star sign, nonsense, whatever."

Dan let out a soft huff. "You already know mine."

"I know Danuphob and December and 'giant man who looks like security but is actually romantic'," Saint said. "That's not data. Give me data."

Dan rolled his eyes, but his mouth fought a smile. "You'll be disappointed. I'm boring."

Saint poked his chest. "You're not boring. Don't insult my taste."

That dragged an actual laugh out of Dan.

He exhaled. "Fine. My name's Danuphob Saetang. My birthday's December tenth, Year of the Tiger. I grew up in Phetchaburi. I like design. I like fixing rooms so people feel like they can breathe in them. I like... clean lines. I like when light sits right on a surface. I like when something sturdy looks soft — like a sofa that looks stern but feels generous when you actually sit. That makes me... weirdly happy."

Saint watched him like a student at the best class.

"I don't really have favourite foods," Dan admitted. "I'll eat nearly anything if you hand it to me with confidence. I like sleep. I like showers that stay the exact same temperature the whole way through. I like when people tell me where to stand, actually. Makes my head quiet. And... I like being touched when I haven't had to ask for it. Not in a horny way. Just. I like being held. Makes me feel real."

His voice had gone quieter on that last bit without meaning to. He glanced down, then back up.

Saint's face softened, all the way down to his mouth.

"Okay," Saint said. "I can do that."

Dan nodded once, throat tight. "My family is... complicated," he added, voice even lower. "You already know I don't really talk about them. That's on purpose. If I start I might not stop and I don't... I don't know how to do that without—" He cut himself off, jaw flexing. "My brother—"

He stopped again. It was an instinctive wall, like a hand up.

Saint didn't push it. He didn't even tilt his head. He just said, easy, "Not today."

Dan looked at him, and something in his shoulders dropped by a millimetre. "I like that about you," he murmured.

Saint grinned, attempting to deflect the sudden heat in his own chest. "So you love me," he said, mock-offended, hand to his heart.

Dan rolled his eyes so hard it could've been structural damage. "Don't start."

Saint laughed, then tucked his face into Dan's throat for a second, breathing him in, grounding. "Okay," he mumbled into skin. "Okay. I'll go work. You'll pretend to do emails and actually stare into space thinking about furniture. We'll reconvene later. Deal?"

Dan tapped his lower back twice with his fingers. "Deal."

Saint pulled back just enough to kiss him. It wasn't frantic. It was warm and slow and sure, like he was memorising shape with his mouth. Dan's hand slid up into his hair. Saint made a low, pleased sound against his lips.

When they parted, Saint stayed close, forehead resting against Dan's for a second longer. Then he smirked. "Why are you chasing me out of bed?"

"Because," Dan said, deadpan, "you're being cringe and I need you to leave immediately."

Saint cackled, scandalised. "Me? Cringe? Never."

"Out," Dan said, shoving at his shoulder with no force.

Saint rolled off the bed dramatically and sat on the edge to pull his clothes back on: loose vest, joggers he didn't mind ruining with clay. He ran a hand through his hair. Dan watched him openly.

"Stop objectifying me," Saint said without looking, lips quirking.

"No," Dan said.

Saint's ears went pink. "Pervert."

Dan just smiled, slow, satisfied.

Saint leaned back in for one more kiss, quick, right at the corner of Dan's mouth. "I'll call you later," he said.

"Mm," Dan hummed.

"Try not to miss me too pathetically," Saint added, already standing.

Dan scoffed. "Get out."

Saint grinned like a deviant and slipped out the door.

Fourth floor, late afternoon.

Saint swiped himself back into his own room long enough to grab his bag, then padded down the hall and, on instinct, stuck his head into Tawan's doorway.

He didn't even have to punch the code. The door was already just barely not latched — Tawan's version of "I'm in, you can come in if you're one of mine."

The room was dim. The curtains were mostly drawn. Tawan was in bed, still half on top of the covers, one arm crooked under his head, the other arm flopped across his stomach, phone face-down on his chest.

Saint let out an obnoxiously dramatic whisper-shout. "Why are you hibernating like a bear?"

Tawan made a sound into the pillow that could've meant anything from "die" to "I'm awake, leave me alone".

Saint walked in anyway and flopped onto the end of the bed, bouncing it on purpose. "Rise and confess, my little scandal."

Tawan groped for the nearest pillow and chucked it at his head without opening his eyes.

Saint caught it against his chest and gasped. "Violence."

Tawan cracked one eye. His voice was rough with sleep. "You're loud."

"You're glowing," Saint shot back.

That got him a second eye. Tawan blinked, slow, and then — against his will — the corners of his mouth twitched up.

"I hate you," he muttered, but it didn't land.

Saint grinned like a feral cat. "He's back tonight. You excited?"

Tawan tried, he really tried, not to smile properly. The effort failed. His ears went pink fast.

"Get out," he said, which meant stop staring at me before I combust, not actually get out.

Saint kicked at his calf lightly. "I'm going to the studio. If you die before he gets here, I'll kill you."

"That doesn't make sense," Tawan murmured.

"It does in my heart," Saint said, dramatic. "Also. Don't forget to tell P'Aye when we're going out. He's waiting. He's already emotionally attached to me. Obviously."

Tawan snorted. "Obviously."

Saint stood, still smiling. "Okay. Sleep. Shower. Whatever. Try to look less like you've been horizontal for twelve years before lover boy arrives."

Tawan lifted his hand and made a lazy shooing motion.

Saint bowed like an idiot and left.

In the corridor, door soft behind him, he exhaled a little laugh and shook his head to himself. He could already imagine the group chat tonight. Chaos pending.

Downstairs, he waved at Korn in passing, got a half-distracted salute back, and headed out to his car.

The studio sat on the other side of town, in an old low building that used to be some kind of industrial storage before it became Saint's brain.

It still looked like nothing from the outside — ugly metal shutter, faded sign from three tenants ago, one strip of tinted glass — which Saint liked. Nobody walking past had any idea the inside of that unit was a full collision of colour, sound, and devotion.

Inside: high ceiling, exposed beams, concrete floor pockmarked from previous lives. Half the space had been claimed by Saint and bent to his shape. Work tables. Drop cloths layered with paint ghosts. Shelving full of clay and armatures and weird tools that only made sense if you'd watched him use them. Speakers on a rolling trolley. A cheap flatscreen propped on milk crates for noise. A fan that rattled like a loose coin. The air smelled like plaster, acrylic, sweat, and something faintly metallic.

One sculpture sat in the middle under a standing light: armature already built, bulk already there, form already emerging from the mass. Human scale. Shoulders, ribcage, neck — not finished, not polished. You could tell it was a body before you could tell whose. The lines were taking shape.

Saint dropped his bag on the nearest clear-ish surface (which was to say: the least cluttered disaster zone), toed off his decent trainers, swapped for studio sliders, and pulled the loose overshirt he used for clay work over his vest. He pushed his hair back with the metal hair band from his bag.

Before he even reached for the clay, he thumbed his phone and opened his food app. He'd already placed the order on the drive over, timing it like muscle memory. As he bent to uncover the sculpture — peeling back plastic sheeting like he was unwrapping a warm secret — he heard the distant pop of a motorbike outside, then knuckles on the shutter.

He jogged over, cracked it just enough to grab the bag from the rider and shove cash in his hand, shut it again. Back to the table. He set the takeaway on the low bench next to his stool and didn't touch it yet. He'd eat as he worked. He always did.

He hit play on the speaker with his knuckle. March by SEVENTEEN rolled through the room, percussion first, bass underneath, vocals coming in layered and urgent. He turned it up. Silence made him agitated. Noise gave his hands somewhere to go.

He sat on the low stool in front of the big piece. Hands already moving. Smoothing. Adding. Carving in with fingertips, knuckles, edges of palm. He worked the clay at the clavicle, thumb digging and pulling to suggest tendon, to imply weight. He leaned back, squinted, leaned in again, altered an angle at the jaw.

Most people, coming into this room for the first time, would try to talk. They'd say "wow" and "what's that?" and "how do you even start?" and "is this your process?" and then Saint's brain would start sprinting in circles reacting to them instead of doing the thing it needed to do.

Dan hadn't come here. Dan didn't know this air. Dan didn't know these pieces yet — not the sculptures, not the textile drape pinned and waiting in the corner, not the music-sheet optical concept sketched out in the notebook face-down under his bag.

Nobody did. And Saint liked that. He liked having something that was still his before it became everyone's business. He liked knowing that when it was time, he'd open the doors and the people here now — Dan, Tawan, Imel, the ones who'd earned their way into his orbit — would walk in and see themselves in it, whether they expected to or not.

He dug his fingers into the clay again, breath syncing with the song without meaning to.

His phone buzzed by his thigh on the workbench.

He wiped his hands on a rag, grabbed it with the least-filthy part of his fingers, glanced at the screen.

Imel.

Saint smirked and hit accept, putting it on speaker and propping it up against the takeaway bag.

"What," he said by way of greeting, already back to the sculpture.

"Nice way to answer," Imel's voice came, dry through train background noise.

"Hello, my beloved friend, light of my life," Saint corrected blandly. "Why are you calling me."

"Where are you," Imel asked.

"Working," Saint said. "Where are you."

"Train."

"I can hear," Saint said. "You sound like public transport."

"Shut up."

Saint grinned to himself. "You back soon?"

"Yes," Imel said. "Where's Tawan."

"Asleep," Saint said instantly. "Face down like a corpse, clutching his phone like a lifeline. I checked. He's breathing."

There was a small, almost silent exhale on the other end that only someone who knew Imel would've clocked.

"Thank you," Imel said.

"You're welcome," Saint said lightly, then made his voice dramatic. "Anyway, I have very serious news that will shake the nation. Are you sitting down."

"I'm literally in a train seat," Imel deadpanned.

"Good," Saint said. "I, Santisuk Niran, am officially off the market. Dan asked. I said yes. Boyfriends. We're disgustingly official. You may applaud."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with absolute flat sincerity: "Finally," Imel said.

Saint choked on a laugh. "That's it? That's your speech? No tears? No 'my son is all grown up'?"

"I'm on a train," Imel said. "I'm not giving you a performance in front of strangers."

Saint kicked at the stool leg in delight. 

"I have to hang up," Imel said. "What time is it."

"Half five," Saint said, glancing at the wall clock.

"Tell him I'll be there around seven," Imel said.

"I am not your PA," Saint said.

"You are," Imel said.

Saint rolled his eyes, smiling. "Fine. I'll tell your little man that his big man is inbound."

There was a low, quiet noise on the other end. Almost a huff. Almost fond. "Don't call him that," Imel muttered.

Saint grinned even wider. "Oh, you're shy. It's sick. I hate it. I love it."

"I'm hanging up," Imel repeated, and the line clicked just as Saint started to cackle.

He dropped the phone back on the bench, shaking his head, warmth lodged under his ribs.

"Finally," he mimicked under his breath, grinning. "Rude."

He hit skip on the playlist with a clay-marked knuckle. BIGBANG kicked in — that old loud party energy, something brassy and cocky. It filled the studio with motion. He ate two bites of noodles between shaping the curve of a shoulder and the start of a throat, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and went back to work.

Outside, the light shifted. The shadows from the high window crawled across the concrete floor. His phone buzzed twice — a group chat exploding about nothing. He didn't check yet. He was already thinking about edges, about weight, about how to make something feel like it was breathing without it being cliché.

The clay under his hands warmed.

Korn was half in, half out of the reception desk when the delivery turned up.

The motorbike guy came in with a branded Roenfé carrier bag looped on his wrist and a second drink carrier hanging from two fingers like it had been entrusted to him by a deity. Korn straightened so fast his chair wheeled back and knocked lightly into the office doorframe.

"Careful," Korn muttered, reaching.

"Phi said don't tilt it," the driver said, reverent like he'd been warned of death.

"Yeah, yeah," Korn said, already trading cash for cargo and giving the bag a look like it contained explosives.

The carrier bag was heavier than it looked. He could smell cinnamon from the drink. He could smell glaze and sugar and fried dough — the Roenfé smell, warm and smug.

He carried everything like holy offering to the lift, thumbed the up arrow with his elbow, and rode to four.

The lift dinged. He stepped out cautiously, hands spread, walking like a man balancing national secrets.

He nearly tripped on the hallway rug, recovered with a whispered "shitshitshit—", then kept going. Fourth door on the left. Tawan's keypad.

He knocked, quick, then adjusted his grip and knocked again.

For a couple of seconds: nothing.

Then soft movement, the small thud of bare feet on floor, a pause, a click. The door opened just enough to reveal Tawan, hair a little crushed from sleep, vest rumpled, eyelids heavy. He blinked at Korn like the light was rude.

Korn arched a brow. "Hey, early bird."

Tawan squinted at him. "It's evening."

"Exactly," Korn said. "Hold this before I drop it and become a villain in your love story."

Tawan's gaze dropped to the bag and the drink, and for half a second he didn't move. He just stared like his brain was buffering. Then he snapped out of it and reached, careful. He took the drink first, then the bag, cradling both like they were breakable.

"What is it," he asked quietly, already sounding like he knew.

Korn smirked. "Oh, you'll see."

Tawan blinked again, something waking up behind his eyes. "I'll see," he repeated.

"Yes, you'll see," Korn said, backing toward the lift again in tiny steps so he could keep his hands free in case of emergency. "Now go. Before ants from the heavens arrive."

Tawan made a soft sound in his throat that might've been a laugh if he'd had more oxygen. "Okay."

Korn lifted his chin, smug. "And, Tawan—"

Tawan looked up.

"Don't scream," Korn said, and went.

The door clicked shut.

Inside, Tawan just stood there for a second in the quiet of his room, the air still cool from the AC, the edges of sunlight already leaving the floor.

His heart had picked up. Stupid fast. Loud in his throat, at his temples.

He set the drink on the low table next to his bed. He took one long pull through the straw — cinnamon, cold, sweet-bitter, familiar, perfect — and his shoulders dropped an inch in automatic pleasure. He swallowed, licked his lips, and actually let out a little sound that would've embarrassed him if anyone else had heard.

Then he focused on the bag.

The carrier was a deep red, rich, almost lacquered-looking, with a repeating white mark printed all over it — Roenfé's name stylised into a little heart-shaped motif, over and over, like wallpaper.

Tawan stared at it. The back of his neck prickled.

He didn't even realise he was smiling until his cheeks started to ache.

Carefully, almost ceremonially, he lifted the box out.

Same red. Same white Roenfé hearts. There was a round white sticker sealing the lid shut.

His hands actually shook.

Stop it, he told himself, half-laughing silently at his own absurdity.

He set the box on the bed. Sat down in front of it, cross-legged, the way you sit at a low table for offerings. He put his phone on the mattress beside him, screen up. He peeled the sticker back as if it might scream.

He lifted the lid.

He didn't make a sound at first. He just inhaled like someone had punched the air out of him.

Inside, nestled in neatly cut parchment, were doughnuts. Fresh-glazed, glossy, soft. Each one piped and filled and shaped, each one forming a letter.

C O U L D

I

B E

Y O U R

B O Y F R I E N D ?

Every letter was its own doughnut, cut and fried deliberate. The filling peeking at the seams was pale — cookie cream, the one he always ordered. Some of the letters had tiny flecks of cinnamon at the edges. Some had a light dust of sugar. They were stupidly perfect. And placed on the inside of the lid, stuck clean at the top so it didn't touch the icing, was a note in Imel's straight, economical handwriting:

meet me on the roof at 8.

– Imel

Tawan's hand flew to his mouth. He wasn't crying — not properly — but his eyes flooded so fast his vision actually shimmered.

He got up. He walked in a small circle because he had to move or he was going to combust. He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum like maybe he could calm his heart down with manual pressure.

Then he came back and looked again just to check he hadn't dreamt something stupid.

Still there. Doughnuts spelling it out like a headline. Imel's handwriting, clean. The drink sweating on the table like evidence.

He let out a half-laugh, half-noise and grabbed his phone with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. He took a picture of the closed box on his bed. Then one of the open box, note visible, letters clearly readable. Then, because his brain had wires for two people specifically, he hovered in his chat list.

Aye.

Saint.

He hesitated a half second.

Then he made a new group chat. Named it "don't screenshot or I'll kill you".

He dropped both photos in, no caption.

The typing bubbles exploded instantly.

Saint: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Saint: HES INSANE

Saint: HES INSANE

Saint: TAWAN. TAWAN. SUNSHINE!!!!!!!!!!!

Aye: OPEN THE CAMERA NOW.

Aye: NOW.

Aye: NOWWWWWWWW

Before Tawan could even wipe his face, the phone was already vibrating with an incoming video call.

He sniffed, swore under his breath, and answered.

Saint's face filled half the screen immediately — too close, chaotic, hair up, eyes huge. Aye filled the other half, grinning like he'd just watched his team score in stoppage time, eyes wet.

"TURN THE CAMERA AROUND," Aye demanded.

Tawan huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh if his throat wasn't tight. His ears were burning. He flipped the camera to show the bed.

Aye actually clapped. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god."

Saint was screaming. Not words, just noise.

Tawan flipped it back to himself.

He couldn't stop smiling. He physically could not. His dimples were so deep they hurt. His eyes were glassy. His ears were scarlet. He looked dazed in the best way.

"I..." he started, voice wrecked.

Aye's expression shifted instantly, softening. "Breathe," he said gently.

Tawan let out a shaky laugh. "Guys," he whispered, like he was telling them a secret under a blanket. "It's official. I'm getting married."

Saint let out another scream, immediately followed by, "I'M BUYING A SUIT."

Aye started laughing so hard he snorted. "Okay, calm down, celebrity," he said to Saint. Then, back to Tawan, softer: "Are you happy, Wan?"

Tawan swallowed. His mouth trembled around the smile. "I can't feel my hands," he admitted, laughing weakly. "So. Yeah."

Saint clutched his own face. "TAWAN. TAWAN. TAWAN. I'M SO PROUD OF YOU. I LOVE THIS FOR YOU. I LOVE THIS FOR ME."

Aye nodded solemnly like this was now a binding legal situation. "Yeah. We approve."

Tawan laughed, wet, shook his head. "Shut up. Both of you."

Aye's grin softened. "Go," he said. "We'll talk later."

Saint nodded, suddenly gentle too. "Yeah. Go. And if you don't send at least one photo of his stupid face I will break into your phone at night."

Tawan rolled his eyes, wiped his face with the heel of his hand, and hung up before he could start actually crying like an idiot.

He sat back down on the bed. He looked at the box again for one more second, because he couldn't not. His vision blurred again, then cleared. He took a very small bite out of the question mark doughnut, because it felt illicit to ruin any of the sentences yet. Cookie cream hit his tongue and he made a helpless little sound into his palm, eyes closing.

Then he texted.

To: Imel

meet you at 8.

He added a red heart. Deleted it. Sent it.

He had twenty-eight minutes.

His stomach flipped.

He stood so quickly the mattress bounced.

The communal kitchen had gone a weird kind of quiet around early evening. Post-day, pre-night, lights on but not harsh.

Dan had claimed one end of the long table with his laptop and a pile of printed floor plans he was annotating. A pencil was tucked behind his ear. His glasses had slipped a touch down his nose in that way that made him look like trouble even when he was doing deeply boring things.

Korn had raided the fridge and emerged with a tub of ice cream, a spoon in his mouth, and the general air of someone who'd been running on caffeine and spite for twelve hours.

"Guess who," Korn said around the spoon, flipping his phone so Dan could see.

It was a photo. Grainy, fluorescent-lit, definitely from the security cam angle behind reception. Imel, blurry but recognisable, in a black long-sleeve half-buttoned, hair tied back. Holding a carrier bag in one hand and a clinking bag of drinks in the other. Face neutral. Ears just faintly pink.

Dan's jaw dropped. "He's back?"

"He's back," Korn said. "And he brought enough sugar to hospitalise an adult elephant. So if you want dessert, get in while it's hot, because this floor? Piranhas."

Dan blinked at the photo, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling. His mouth tipped. "It's happening tonight, isn't it."

"Oh, absolutely," Korn said gleefully. "History. Fireworks. Nations will fall."

Dan let out a noise that was more breath than laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck. For a second, his eyes went distant.

Korn clocked it immediately.

"Hey," Korn said, softer. "Hey. Where did you just go."

Dan blinked, like he'd been yanked back from a long hallway. "Nowhere."

"Mm," Korn said, unimpressed. "Define 'nowhere'."

Dan sighed. He let his forearms rest on the table. He looked at the laptop screen instead of Korn. "I asked him," he said, meaning Saint, not bothering to disguise it. "Yesterday. I said... all the things I said. You know. And it was... I don't know. It was simple. It was just me. It wasn't—" He gestured vaguely with one big hand, searching for something he didn't have the vocabulary for. "It wasn't... that." He nodded at Korn's phone. "I didn't do... boxes and letters and... spectacle. It was just. Talking. And for a second I thought it was fine. But then you show me that and I'm like... should I have... I don't know. Done more. Given him more."

Korn watched him for a long, assessing beat. Then he set the ice cream tub down and leaned his elbows on the counter.

"Okay," Korn said calmly. "I'm going to fix your head a tiny bit because if I don't you're going to chew on this all night and make yourself ill."

Dan huffed out a small laugh despite himself. "Alright."

"One," Korn said, raising a finger, "you and Saint are not Imel and Tawan. You are not running the same software. You aren't supposed to present the same way. If you tried to do some Roenfé doughnut stunt you'd look like you were cosplaying someone else, he'd smell that immediately, and it would feel wrong to both of you by sunrise."

Dan's mouth twitched.

"Two," Korn said, "what you did? That was you. That's the point. You didn't read him a script. You didn't build him a stage. You just... sat there and opened your chest and said 'here, this is the mess, I want you in it anyway'. That's big. That's disgusting. That's romantic. That's you. And if you think for one second that boy didn't nearly spontaneously combust when you did it, you haven't been paying attention."

Dan let out an involuntary sound, almost a groan. "He did cry," he muttered, half hiding his face with one hand.

Korn slapped the table lightly. "See."

Dan scrubbed his face. "But what if he wanted—"

"If he wanted different," Korn cut in, "he would've told you. You know he's got no filter when it actually matters. If he'd wanted balloons or poetry or some insane performative nonsense he'd have given you a Pinterest board and a deadline. He didn't. He said yes. He curled up on you like you're home. That's the answer."

Dan went very still at "home".

Korn watched that land, then nodded, satisfied. "So don't do that to yourself. Don't make your good thing into trash in your own head because someone else had a good thing that looks louder. Your lane is your lane. Their lane is theirs. Everybody gets to be disgusting in their own dialect."

Dan let out a breath that sounded like he'd been holding it for an hour. His shoulders dropped a fraction. "You're good at this," he muttered.

"I'm incredible at this," Korn corrected without shame. He picked the ice cream back up and dug his spoon in. "Now. You want some before Imel claims it all as celebratory tax?"

Before Dan could answer, footsteps padded into the kitchen doorway.

Imel.

They both turned.

For a second, all three just looked at each other.

Imel had that just-arrived look — travel on him, city on him, heat on him. He'd swapped his travel shirt for a black long-sleeve that sat open at the collar, two buttons undone, silver chain just visible at his throat. His hair was tied back clean, a few shorter strands loose at his temple. One hand held a plastic carrier bag from a convenience store — clink of bottles, the faint label flash of beer and soda. The other held another Roenfé drink, condensation running down the side. He had a second tote looped over his wrist, crinkled paper bags peeking out — pastries, probably, and the kind of savouries the café did when Imel got bored and "accidentally" developed a side menu.

He had a faint pink along his cheekbones and ears. Whether from the heat or the train or his own adrenaline, unclear.

Dan's eyebrows went up, impressed. "You're alive."

"Barely," Imel said. His voice always went a shade lower when he was tired. "Hi."

Korn leaned back in his chair, put both hands dramatically to his mouth, and stage-whispered, "Oh my god, it's the groom."

Imel closed his eyes for one long second like he was pleading with some invisible higher power.

When he opened them, Korn was still grinning at him like a menace.

"Shut up," Imel said flatly.

Korn gasped, fake wounded. "I deliver your love offerings and this is the thanks I get."

Dan made a low noise that was absolutely a laugh.

Imel put the carrier bag of cans down on the counter with a soft clink. "For after. Not for now," he said, pointing at Korn's hand before Korn even reached. Then he set the tote of pastries and savouries next to it. "These you can eat. There's the pandan thing my brother in-law made. Don't spill it, he'll sense it from Kanchanaburi and text me insults."

Korn immediately reached in like a raccoon. "Yes, chef."

Dan peered into the bag too. "Is that the cinnamon thing? The one with the cream in the middle?"

"Yes," Imel said.

"Oh, bless you," Dan muttered, reverent.

Imel shifted his weight, drink still in his hand. Up close, Korn could see his pulse going a little fast at his throat.

"You alright?" Korn asked, softer, because beneath the teasing he did in fact have eyes.

Imel exhaled through his nose. "He said yes," he said quietly.

Both Dan and Korn froze for a microsecond.

"You already asked him?" Dan blurted, genuinely stunned.

Imel's ears went a deeper pink. "We..." He cleared his throat. "We spoke."

Korn slapped Dan's arm without looking away from Imel. "OH MY GOD."

Dan started laughing, helpless, hand over his mouth.

Imel frowned immediately. "Don't call attention to it," he muttered, which only made Korn grin harder.

Korn clapped, silently at first, then with actual hands. "I'm so proud of my little disasters," he said, fake wiping a tear.

Dan joined in, slow-clapping in exaggerated mock ceremony, because if you can't bully your friends when they're happy, when can you.

Imel dragged a hand down his face. "You're both terrible."

Korn leaned in, elbows on the counter, chin in his palms, positively gleaming. "You're going to the roof still?"

Imel nodded once. "Later. After he... changes. He wanted to... breathe."

Korn's grin softened into something fond. "Good."

Dan nudged Korn with his elbow. "We'll clear out," he said, aiming it at Imel. "No audience. Promise."

Imel's eyes flicked up at that, quick, like gratitude and relief and terror all at once. He nodded. "Thank you," he said, low.

Korn made a little shooshing motion with his fingers. "Go get ready, Romeo," he said. 

"Imel," Dan called after him.

Imel paused, looked back.

Dan smiled — small, honest. "Congratulations," he said.

Imel's mouth twitched, and for a heartbeat the usual reserve cracked wide enough to show something unfiltered. It sat warm, raw, a little scared, a lot full.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Then he was gone.

Korn turned back to Dan with eyes like saucers. "WE'RE IN A DRAMA," he hissed.

Dan actually laughed out loud.

19:55.

The rooftop always felt like a different part of the building — same concrete skeleton, same view of the river and the low sprawl of Ratchaburi's lights, but thinner air, wider quiet, like the city agreed to hold its breath up here.

Imel had been up for a few minutes already. Long enough to walk the perimeter once with his hands in his pockets. Long enough to set Tawan's still-cold cinnamon coffee on the low table by the wall. Long enough to check his phone twice, fail to type anything, lock it again.

Now he stood by the parapet, palms resting on the warm concrete edge, looking out over the water. The river moved slow, black-green, carrying the last smear of daylight on its back. You could hear scooters in the distance, voices floating up street-level, the low hum of a boat somewhere upstream.

His heart hadn't settled. It was ridiculous. He could keep his hands steady while calibrating machines that cost more than his car. He could juggle four deliveries and an entitled customer and a leaking pipe without blinking. But standing here waiting for one person made his chest feel too small.

He exhaled through his nose. Tried to roll some tension out of his shoulders. Failed.

He checked the time again.

20:15.

He frowned at the screen, then slid it back into his pocket.

He wasn't angry. He wasn't even annoyed. But the longer he stood, the more his head started to build answers that didn't exist. He didn't like that. His brain had always liked running off with a half-sentence and dressing it in doom.

The lift dinged somewhere below.

He didn't move.

Another thirty seconds passed.

He heard soft steps behind him. The roof access door opened with that low scrape it always made when the hinge needed oil.

He turned.

Nothing. No one.

He blinked.

Then, abruptly, his phone buzzed in his pocket again. He didn't check it.

He heard a soft, breathless "shit" from the stairwell.

Imel's mouth finally curved.

"Tawan," he called, voice low, already moving.

Tawan had tried to leave his room three times and failed all three.

The first time, he'd grabbed his phone, grabbed the drink, made it all the way to the door, and his knees had just... gone loose with adrenaline. He'd had to sit on the edge of the bed and breathe through it.

The second time, he'd made it into the hallway. He'd even got to the lift. He'd pressed the button. Then the doors had slid open and he'd seen his own reflection in the brushed steel and his heart had jumped so violently it actually made his breath stutter. He'd panicked that he'd walk in there and his legs would just stop working and he'd fold to the floor like a documentary about tragic fainting goats.

The third time, he'd opened the door, stepped out, pulled the door shut behind him — and nearly walked face-first into a chest.

He yelped. Full body. It wasn't dignified.

Reflex took over. He stumbled back, hand slamming to his own sternum as if he could physically keep his heart from leaping out and legging it down the hall. "Oh my god," he gasped. "I— I—"

Imel lifted both hands, palms out, like approaching a skittish animal. "It's me."

"I KNOW IT'S YOU," Tawan managed, voice high and wrecked.

Imel's mouth twitched. "Breathe."

"I AM TRYING," Tawan said, because he was. He bent slightly at the waist, one hand braced on his knee, one hand on his chest, eyes squeezed shut, dragging a breath in and letting it out in slow counts like his therapist had drilled into him ages ago. In, two, three, four. Hold. Out, two, three, four, five, six.

He felt, distantly, Imel's presence in front of him, steady. Not touching. Just there.

After a few rounds, the ring in his ears faded enough to hear his own voice again.

"I was coming," he said, still panting a little. "I swear I was coming. It just took me a second to— I don't know. Get my body to stop acting like I'm being hunted in the jungle."

"It's okay," Imel said quietly.

Tawan's eyes snapped up. "No, don't— it's not like— it's not that I don't want to. I want to. I just— my heart went 'oh, we're dying?' and my lungs went 'copy that' and I had to—"

"It's okay," Imel repeated, firmer, a little closer now. "I know."

Tawan swallowed. He nodded, fast, like he was trying to convince his own nervous system. He sagged back against his own closed door for a second. His laugh came out shaky. "This is so stupid."

"It's not stupid," Imel said.

Tawan huffed a breath that could've been a laugh or a sob. "I feel like I'm about to faint."

Imel made a tiny sound in his throat. "Do you want water," he asked.

"I— yes," Tawan admitted, because his mouth felt dry like paper.

Imel set the iced cinnamon coffee aside on the little hallway table without even looking. He pulled the cap off a plain bottle he'd tucked into his back pocket (of course he'd brought water, of course he had) and offered it.

Tawan took it with a small, shaking laugh. "You're ridiculous," he muttered, and drank.

The first swallow hit, cool and grounding. He took another. His breathing evened out, slow. Colour settled back from panic-flush to just excited-flush.

When he lowered the bottle, Imel was still there, crouched now so they were closer to eye level. He'd gone down into an easy squat like his body didn't even think about it. His face was open in that particular way he only did when he forgot to guard it — focus, softness, a line between his brows that was more concern than tension.

"You okay," Imel asked quietly.

Tawan nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. "I feel like my bones are humming," he admitted, almost laughing at himself.

Imel's mouth tilted. "Same."

That made Tawan's brain stutter.

"Really?" he blurted.

Imel lifted one of Tawan's hands — the one not holding the bottle — and placed it against his own chest, flat over his sternum.

Tawan felt it. Fast, hard, insistent. Imel's heart was hammering.

His own breath hitched.

"Oh," he said softly.

Imel's gaze flicked down to his mouth, then back up. "Yeah," he said.

For a second neither of them moved. The corridor hummed faintly. Somewhere down the hall, the AC unit kicked on with a soft click. The whole building felt like it had gone very, very still on purpose.

Then Imel reached up, slow, lifted his hand to Tawan's face, and brushed his knuckles along his cheekbone. "Look at me," he murmured.

Tawan did.

"I have something I need to ask you," Imel said.

Tawan's stomach flipped so hard he almost laughed, because what do you mean ask I saw the doughnuts.

Still, he nodded, throat tight. "Okay."

Imel's voice stayed low. Not dramatic. Not decorated. It was just clean.

"Could I be your boyfriend?"

The world did a weird soft tilt.

For a half second Tawan genuinely thought his knees were going to go. He made a small noise that absolutely wasn't dignified and bit his lip and then laughed into it because his body couldn't decide between scream and melt.

"Yes," he blurted.

Imel's mouth moved — the start of a smile he couldn't hold down.

Tawan let out a breath that felt like it came from the base of his spine. He leaned in and closed the distance, hands finding Imel's shoulders like he'd been doing it for years, and kissed him.

It wasn't careful, not at first. It was relief. It was oh finally, out loud. It was weeks of held-back layered under his tongue.

Imel kissed him back like gravity.

They didn't rush. They also didn't pretend this was casual. Tawan opened for him, easy, and Imel took his mouth slow, thorough, tasting in unhurried lines. Tongues slid. Breath caught. Someone made a low noise — Tawan didn't know if it was him or Imel and didn't care.

When they finally parted, both of them a little breathless, foreheads close, Tawan was already smiling again. He couldn't stop. His cheeks hurt. His ears burned. He didn't care.

"I missed you," he whispered, voice frayed at the edges.

"I missed you more," Imel said, immediate.

Tawan made a noise that was half laugh, half dying whimper, and ducked his face into the curve of Imel's neck to hide. Which was a mistake, because then Imel tilted his head and put his mouth against Tawan's throat, open, warm.

Tawan's whole body jolted. His head went back against the door with a soft thud. A sound that was basically ohgod slipped out before he could stop it.

"Careful," he managed, voice thin.

Imel pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker than usual, warm. "Do you want to go upstairs?" he asked. "Roof?"

Tawan swallowed. He shook his head fast. "No. Here's fine. Anywhere's fine. I just— can we— just. Be. Together. I don't care where."

Imel's mouth did that almost-smile again. "We can do that."

He stood, pulling Tawan up with him in one motion. Tawan went willingly, legs catching up to the rest of him. They moved into the room together, Imel reaching back to nudge the keypad with his knuckles. The door beeped and slid shut.

Inside, the air felt cooler, calmer. The bed was made again, neat from Tawan's frantic straightening earlier. The Roenfé box sat open on the covers, doughnut letters still spelling out the question mark-less part of the sentence. His empty drink cup sat on the table.

Imel looked at it and huffed softly. "Did you like them," he asked.

Tawan made a strangled sound. "I ate the question mark."

Imel blinked, then let out a laugh, quiet and real. "Of course you did."

"I couldn't... ruin the sentence," Tawan said, almost defensive. "It's too pretty. It's... too much. I— I actually— I don't know if I can eat them. I feel like I'm vandalising evidence."

Imel shook his head, amused. "We'll figure it out."

Tawan hovered for a second in the middle of his own floor like he didn't know what to do with his arms. Then his body answered for him. He stepped in, hands finding Imel's waist, sliding under the hem of his shirt to warm skin, and pressed in close, chest to chest.

Imel let out a breath that sounded like surrender. He wrapped both arms round Tawan's back and just held him there, full, firm, no space.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was thick, settled, full.

Eventually Tawan tipped his head back just enough to look up at him again. His voice dropped to something softer than whisper. "You look good."

Imel's ears went pink again. "So do you," he said. His gaze dipped, unapologetic, taking in the white T-shirt, the dark jeans, the amulet at Tawan's wrist. "You smell..."

Tawan made a small mortified face. "Don't," he warned, already going redder.

"...good," Imel finished, like the word itself had weight.

Tawan made a helpless tiny noise and covered his own face for a second with one hand. "Stop," he mumbled through his palm.

"I'm telling the truth," Imel said.

"That's worse," Tawan groaned.

Imel laughed under his breath, low.

They kissed again. Slower this time. Less like an answer, more like a thing they now just... did. Tawan tasted faintly of cinnamon and sugar. Imel tasted like mint and travel and something warm.

It went a little deep, then softer, then playful at the edges — a slow drag of lip, a small nip, a hum into each other's mouths. Every time it edged towards that point where both of them knew they'd stop pretending to be calm, one of them pulled back just enough to breathe. It felt like holding the edge of a cliff with confidence instead of panic.

When they finally eased apart again, Tawan pressed his forehead to Imel's shoulder and exhaled. "What do you want to do now?" he asked, voice muffled against fabric. "Food? Go out? Stay? I don't care. I just want you."

Imel's hand traced slow up and down his spine, steady, grounding. "We can go get something," he said. "You should eat something that's not... question mark doughnut."

Tawan let out a tiny laugh against his shoulder. "Yeah."

"Get dressed," Imel added quietly. "I'll go change too. I'll get my keys. Five minutes."

Tawan nodded into him. "Okay."

Imel pressed his mouth once to Tawan's temple. Then he stepped back, reluctantly, like peeling two magnets apart.

"I'll be right back," he said.

Tawan nodded again, throat working. "Okay."

Imel slipped out.

The second the door clicked behind him, Tawan scrambled.

Shower, fast. Teeth, fast. Face, fast. Lotion, fast. He moved like his body had been wound and released.

He dressed with intent, not performance. White T-shirt, clean, fits right. Dark straight jeans. Trainers. The amulet Imel had bought him at that night market looped on his wrist, cool against his skin. The bracelets from Aye on his other. He rubbed a thumb over the metal without thinking. Then a light touch of gel through his hair, pushing it back off his face. Reading glasses shoved up, resting on his head. Lip balm. Fragrance.

He didn't spray light.

He never sprayed light.

Within seconds the room held him — that push-pull of spice and smoke and resin and sweetness, saffron and oud and amber and something burnt-sugar round at the edges. He could already imagine Saint making some silly comment. He didn't care. He felt like a lit match.

He checked himself once in his phone camera. He blinked at his own reflection, actually a little startled by it. For a second he let himself look — really look. The jaw. The shoulders. The tattoos peeking where his sleeve lifted when he moved. The way the scent curled round him like possession.

"Not bad," he muttered to himself, and then immediately rolled his eyes at his own vanity, cheeks heating.

He grabbed his wallet, slid it into his back pocket. Lip balm in his side pocket. Phone in hand. He scooped one of the doughnuts — the "B" — and took a reverent bite on his way out because he refused to leave the house without at least trying.

He locked his door behind him, keypad beeping confirmation. As the lift doors opened, he brushed a few crumbs off his jeans with his free hand and quietly begged the universe not to let any cream hit his shirt.

When the lift dinged at six, he stepped out, chewing the last of the bite, and knocked.

The door swung open on the second knock.

Imel stood there half-dressed. Literally half. Shirt on but unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair tied in a clean low knot. Bare chest visible where the fabric hung open, warm skin catching the low light. The silver chain at his throat glinted.

For a second Tawan forgot his own name.

Imel inhaled.

The scent hit him first — smoke-saffron-oud-warm-skin — and something in his eyes actually darkened.

"You smell..." he started, then stopped, actually laughed once, quiet. "Good," he finished, softer this time, like his mouth didn't quite trust itself with anything bigger.

Tawan's ears went nuclear. "So do you," he muttered. Then, because his brain had just fully abandoned him: "Even when you're... unclothed."

Imel blinked. Then his mouth curved slow. "Let me finish getting dressed," he said, voice a shade lower than before.

"Yeah," Tawan said way too fast.

He stepped in, slipping his trainers off by the door without being asked. Imel disappeared into the bedroom for a second. Tawan exhaled and tried not to have an out-of-body experience in the middle of someone else's living room.

Imel came back out in all black: long-sleeve pulled on and buttoned enough to be decent but still loose at the collar, black jeans, trainers in one hand, keys in the other. He'd twisted his hair up into that short knot he did when he wanted it off his neck. His lips were soft, a little shiny — lip balm. Of course he'd put on lip balm. Of course.

Tawan just stared for a full beat.

Imel noticed. His ears went pink again. "What," he said, suspicious.

"You look good," Tawan said before his mouth could stop him.

Imel blinked. Something pleased flickered over his face so fast you'd miss it if you didn't know how to watch him. "You too," he said.

Tawan had to look away, grinning helplessly.

Imel grabbed a black jacket from a hook by the door. "In case you get cold," he said simply, like that wasn't the most lethal sentence Tawan had heard all week.

Tawan's lungs forgot how to operate for a second.

They stepped out together.

Downstairs, the foyer lights had gone softer for evening. Korn was behind the desk again, tapping something into the computer, reading glasses low on his nose.

They didn't mean to walk in sync but they did. Side by side, not touching, not holding hands, just close. The perfume trail hit first — Tawan's scent announcing them before they even reached the bottom of the stairs. Korn looked up, eyebrows already lifting because, okay, what is this entrance.

He actually had to take a step back. "Holy—" He clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide, then let his hand drop. "I require a photo," he declared.

Before either of them could object, he'd already lifted his phone and clicked.

"Don't—" Imel started, too late.

Korn looked at the screen and made a noise like a dying animal. "Oh my actual god. You two look like a magazine spread. Tawan, what is that smell. I'm in love. You're both disgusting."

Tawan made a strangled little laugh and brought a hand up to half-hide his face, dimples stabbing deep. Imel rolled his eyes to the ceiling like maybe if he stared long enough, divinity would strike Korn silent.

"Where are you going, lovebirds," Korn asked, pure mischief.

"It's a secret," Imel said.

Tawan, who had spent the last thirty minutes running on adrenaline and sugar and romance like a drug, could only manage a tiny, silent nod. His ears had gone red again. He did not correct the word lovebirds.

Korn smirked like a man who already knew he was about to terrorise several group chats. "Be safe. Send pics. Don't do anything illegal. Or do, just don't get caught."

Imel made a low noise that might've been a growl if he allowed himself theatrics. "Goodnight, Korn."

"Night, Romeo," Korn said.

"Goodnight," Tawan mumbled, still red.

They stepped out into the warm night air, and both of their phones buzzed at once.

They looked.

The group chat — the cursed one with all 5 of them in it — had already lit up.

Korn: GUESS WHO

Korn: 5...

Korn: 4...

Korn: 3...

Korn: 2...

Korn: 1 😇

Underneath: the photo. Them, side by side in the foyer lights. Imel in black, looking like controlled fire. Tawan in white and dark denim, glasses on his head, bracelets flashing at his wrist, perfume written in the air. The way they were angled in toward each other without even trying. The way Tawan's smile was soft and feral at the same time. The way Imel was looking at him instead of the camera.

Saint: I'M SCREAMING

Saint: I'M SCREAMINGGGGGGGG

Saint: WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE A DRAMA POSTER

Saint: DROP THE PERFUME NAME RIGHT NOW

Dan: 😳

Dan: 💥

Dan: I'm actually unwell

Korn: You're welcome.

Tawan let out a helpless noise that was half groan, half laugh. "Saint," he muttered, shaking his head.

Imel just shook his own head once and locked his phone again. "We'll answer later," he said.

"Yeah," Tawan said, breathy.

They crossed the car park together. Imel hit unlock. The headlights blinked. He opened the passenger door for Tawan without even thinking about it — just did it, like muscle memory, like of course.

Tawan paused for half a second, hand on the doorframe, and looked at him.

It wasn't a big look. It wasn't dramatic.

It was just grateful. Soft. Open.

Imel held his gaze.

Something in both of them settled.

Tawan slid in.

Imel rounded the bonnet, dropped into the driver's seat, started the engine. Low music came up through the speakers. He pulled them smoothly out onto the road.

They didn't talk for the first couple of minutes. They didn't need to. The city slid past — river, bridges, lit signage, the dark lace of trees against neon.

Tawan reached over. He didn't grab Imel's hand. He just set his palm, open, on Imel's thigh.

Imel glanced down. Then he covered Tawan's hand with his own.

No commentary. No flare.

Just steady.

By the time Saint got back, the building had gone soft with night.

He parked badly, like always. Killed the engine. Sat for a second in the dark car with Today by G-Dragon still humming low through the speakers and his own pulse still running high from the photo.

He grabbed his bag, locked the car, and jogged inside, using his keycard on muscle memory.

The lobby smelled faintly of something sweet and cinnamon and — weirdly — a trace of Tawan's perfume still hanging like a ghost in the air. Saint inhaled like a gremlin.

Korn was in the back office now, light on, glasses on his head, typing like a man filing a lawsuit against exhaustion.

Saint waved through the glass. Korn flicked two fingers back in a lazy salute without looking up.

Upstairs, Saint dumped his bag in his room, stripped, showered quick and hot until the clay smell was off his skin. He towel-dried his hair into chaos, pulled on Dan's spare pyjamas — the soft set that had clearly been expensive at some point until Dan decided clothes are for sharing, not hoarding — and padded barefoot back out into the corridor.

He didn't even pretend to go to bed first.

He went straight to Dan's door and knocked.

There was a pause long enough for Saint to think, okay, he's asleep, I'll go back, it's fine, it's— and then there was a muffled crash from inside, a hissed curse, and hurried footsteps.

The lock clicked. The door cracked open.

Dan stood there, hair a mess like he'd run his hands through it, T-shirt creased from sleep, eyes heavy, blinking at the light from the hall. He looked both gigantic and small in a way that did obscene things to Saint's chest.

"Hi," Dan mumbled, voice low and rough, like he'd swallowed sleep and hadn't fully come back up yet.

Saint couldn't help it. He smiled. "Hi."

Dan tipped his head in the universal get in.

Saint stepped, and Dan's arm was already coming round his waist, pulling him in close as they crossed the threshold. Dan shut the door behind them with his free hand and steered them to the sofa without letting go.

"What happened to your foot," Saint asked quietly, clocking the way Dan was favouring one side.

"Tripped over my own shoes like an idiot," Dan muttered. "Shut up."

Saint grinned. "Never."

They sat. It wasn't even a discussion. Dan dropped onto the sofa and Saint folded into him like gravity. Dan guided him so that Saint's legs swung across his lap, so that Saint's back could lean into the back cushions and Dan's chest could curve round him from the side, arm over him, big palm resting warm and grounding on Saint's thigh.

Dan reached automatically for Saint's face, thumb brushing his cheekbone, jaw, as if checking for damage. "You okay?" he asked.

Saint nodded. "Yeah. Just... wanted you."

Dan's mouth softened. "Good," he murmured.

Saint relaxed fully, letting the weight of the day slide out of his shoulders like liquid. His head tipped to rest against Dan's chest. He could hear his heartbeat there, steady, slow.

After a long, comfortable beat, Dan spoke again, quietly. "Can I say something," he asked.

Saint hummed. "Say it."

Dan exhaled. "Earlier, with... us. I've been thinking about it. And I hate that I'm thinking about it, because I know how my head goes. I start tearing apart good things until they look cheap because that's easier than letting myself have them. I do that. I know I do that. And I don't want to do that to this. I don't want to... start apologising for how I asked you. I don't want to act like it wasn't enough because it was just words. I don't want to take the thing we built and make it small because someone else had balloons or whatever."

Saint turned his face up, eyes searching his.

"But my head already started doing it," Dan admitted, voice low with frustration. "Just a little. So I need to say out loud I don't want to. Because if I catch myself doing it later, you have permission to hit me with a shoe."

Saint blinked. Then he laughed, soft, and reached up to catch Dan's hand.

He laced their fingers together and held, thumb stroking lightly over Dan's knuckles. "Hey," he said, and his voice, for once, dropped all the bright. "Listen to me."

Dan swallowed, attention locked.

"There is no version of that moment," Saint said, slow, deliberate, "that I would've liked more than what you did. None. Zero. You could've written my name in fireworks. You could've hired a choir. You could've dropped from the ceiling with a ribbon in your teeth. I would've laughed. I would've loved it because it's you. But the thing that made me feel like my ribs were going to snap was you sitting there, looking me in the face, saying 'I want you. All of you. I'll try.' That's it. That's the whole thing. You gave me you. Not some soap opera version. You. That's the only thing I want."

Dan's eyes actually shone a little at that. He ducked his head, sniffed once, huffed a shaky laugh like, don't you dare make me cry again, you menace.

Saint tightened his grip on his hand. "So don't start cheapening it in your head because you think it's not cinematic enough. It was cinematic for me. I nearly died. Look." He pointed dramatically to his own chest with his free hand. "I'm still recovering. It was very rude. Ten out of ten. Would experience again."

Dan laughed. It cracked a little in the middle. He lifted his free hand and cupped the back of Saint's head, pulling him in until their foreheads touched.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

Saint smiled against him. "Good. Now hold me."

Dan made a soft noise like that was the easiest request anyone had ever made. "Always," he said, without thinking about the word he'd just chosen.

Saint's heart kicked hard. He didn't comment. He just tucked himself in, closer, settling his legs across Dan's lap, letting Dan's arms wrap him up.

They sat like that until Saint could feel Dan's breathing slow again, until his own eyes started to drop. Dan leaned down once more, pressed his mouth to Saint's hairline, then his temple, then the corner of his lips.

"Stay," he murmured, already sliding into that soft pre-sleep voice.

Saint nodded against him.

Dan exhaled, content, and let himself fall.

Saint closed his eyes and let the day finally, finally let go.

Floating market at night.

The water moved like dark silk under cheap bulbs.

Some stalls had started packing away already — aunties wiping down grills, kids stacking plastic stools, a teenager counting crumpled cash. Others were still very much alive. Skewers kissing flame. Woks snapping. A boat ladled bowls of boat noodles so fast her wrist looked mechanical. Lanterns reflected on the river, the colours stretching and breaking every time a longtail slid past.

Their boat wasn't a tourist paddle with umbrellas and commentary. It was just a small flat one, low and steady. The driver had seen Imel's look when they walked up and understood it without words: privacy, not spectacle, thanks.

Imel stepped in first, easy, one foot then the other, hand braced on the side. Then he turned and held his hand out.

Tawan didn't hesitate. He placed his palm in Imel's and let himself be guided down into the boat, body instinctively leaning into the offered steadiness. The jacket Imel had grabbed earlier was looped over Imel's arm.

They sat near the back, close enough that their thighs brushed. The boat pushed off, quiet, gliding.

For a minute they just looked.

The air smelled like char and sugar and river. A speaker from somewhere was playing some old luk thung ballad with too much reverb. Laughter carried from a stall at the bend, bright and mean in that affectionate Thai way.

Imel reached into the plastic bag by his foot and pulled out one of the peeled prawns he'd been working on before they even pushed off. He'd already done the annoying bit — removed the shell, cleaned it, dipped it in the spicy-sour sauce that came with. He held it up.

"Taste," he said.

Tawan made a face like don't feed me, I'm not five and then, because he absolutely wanted to be fed, leaned in and took the bite straight from Imel's fingers.

The flavour hit — smoke from the grill, sweet from the river flesh, chilli, lime, the clean bite of coriander stalk. He closed his eyes on instinct, humming low. "Good," he managed around it.

Imel's mouth tipped, pleased. "Good good?"

"Good good," Tawan said, nodding solemnly.

Imel handed him another, then reached for a dumpling, dipped it in the sauce he'd designated as "this goes with literally anything" and popped it in his own mouth. He chewed, nodded once to himself like he'd just approved his own work, and kept going. He wasn't fussing. He wasn't hovering. He was just doing what he did — sorting food, passing it over, making sure Tawan's hands weren't empty for too long.

They ate like that. Casual. Shared. Mess managed with the packet of wipes Imel had produced from nowhere, the little bag for rubbish he'd tied at his ankle. It was instinctive care, not smothering.

When the prawns were down to shells and the dumplings reduced to sauce smears, Imel tied off the rubbish bag neatly and hooked it behind them. He wiped his hands, then reached over and, with his thumb, wiped a tiny smear of sauce from the corner of Tawan's mouth.

Tawan went still at that small touch. His eyes half-lidded. His breath hitched.

Imel's thumb lingered a second longer than necessary. His gaze flicked briefly to Tawan's mouth, then back up.

"Pretty," he said quietly.

Tawan made a noise that was entirely cringy in public and looked away fast, ears flaming. "Stop," he muttered, which at this point they both understood meant don't stop at all.

Imel let himself smirk, just a little.

The boat turned slightly, sliding between two lines of stalls. The lights draped overhead in warm loops. Reflections rippled in streaks of red, gold, electric blue across the black water. Voices layered and blurred into a low, human hum.

Tawan reached for his phone and snapped two, three photos — the lights on the water, the way the lanterns bled into the current. "It's so pretty," he said, quietly reverent.

Imel leaned in to look at the screen with him. "Mm."

"Do you want one?" Tawan asked, flicking to the front camera, already angling it up.

"Of you," Imel said immediately.

Tawan blinked, already flushing. "Just one."

"Just one," Imel agreed.

Tawan lifted the phone, tried for neutral, failed completely. His dimples betrayed him instantly. He looked... happy. Not performative happy. Just soft. Alive.

Imel leaned in at the last second and pressed his mouth to Tawan's cheekbone just as the shutter clicked.

Tawan made a noise, half-scandalised, half-delighted. "You can't just—"

Imel sat back like nothing had happened. "Another," he said, blinking at him with fake innocence.

Tawan huffed and took another. Imel didn't kiss him this time. He pretended to bite instead, teeth playfully at Tawan's cheek, eyes cut sideways. The photo came out stupidly good.

Tawan stared at the pictures, a helpless grin pulling at his mouth. "You look the same in all of them," he muttered.

Imel frowned, genuinely perplexed. "What do you mean."

"You make the same face in photos," Tawan said. "Like... your 'I'm pretending I'm not aware there's a camera' face."

Imel blinked. "What else am I supposed to do."

"Anything," Tawan said, laughing softly. "Smile. Frown. Stick your tongue out. Blink?"

"No," Imel said, scandalised.

Tawan laughed again, quietly overjoyed. He swiped to the first photo, the one with the kiss. He looked at it for a long beat, thumb hovering over the screen like he wasn't sure if he should save it somewhere secret or tattoo it on his chest.

Imel watched him, expression going softer than anything he'd let anyone else see. He reached down, slid his hand across the bench between them, and took Tawan's free hand in his.

No theatrics. No speech.

Just fingers laced, palm warm against palm, knuckles settling.

Tawan's breath caught. He glanced down at their hands, then back up at Imel with something like awe flickering across his face.

He let his head tip, slow, until it settled against Imel's shoulder. His body relaxed into that lean like it had been waiting all day for permission.

Imel angled his chin, resting it lightly against Tawan's hair. His thumb traced once across the back of Tawan's hand.

They sat like that as the boat moved through light and dark, noise and quiet. The market thinned behind them. The river widened a touch. The air cooled by a degree.

The night held. The city moved. Their hands stayed linked.