The bus shuddered to a stop a block from Godji’s, and Phuwin stood, the movement automatic. His legs felt like someone else’s. He tucked his phone away, the screen gone dark, the kiss sealed inside it.
The evening air was cooler now, the streetlights just flickering on. He walked the familiar pavement, past the closed tailor’s, the noodle vendor packing up, the stray cat that always slept on the warm electrical box. His feet knew the way.
The bell above the cafe door chimed, a soft, high note. The smell hit him first—sugar crusting on baking sheets, the bitter tang of espresso grounds, the underlying scent of butter and flour. It was the smell of home, of safety, and for a second it was so thick he could barely breathe through it.
Godji was behind the counter, wiping down the glass display case with a damp cloth. She didn’t look up at the bell. Her shoulders were set, her movements precise. Then she did look up.
Her eyes found his across the dim, empty cafe. They held for a full three seconds. She took in the hollows under his eyes, the way his mouth was a little too soft, a little too open.
She tossed the cloth into the sink. Without a word, she turned to the small silver espresso machine, but she didn’t pull a shot. She reached for the milk steamer, poured whole milk into a small copper pot, and set it on the burner. She took a ceramic mug from the shelf—the one with the chipped rim he always used—and dropped two squares of dark chocolate into it.
Phuwin let his backpack slide off his shoulder. It thumped against the leg of a chair. He walked to the counter and climbed onto his usual stool, the wood warm from the day’s sun through the window.
Godji brought the pot over just as the milk began to froth. She poured it over the chocolate, the steam rising between them in a soft cloud. She set the mug in front of him, then leaned her elbows on the counter, her flour-dusted forearms crossing.
He wrapped his hands around the mug. The heat was almost too much. He held it anyway.
“You didn’t get the milk,” she said, her voice quiet.
He looked down into the swirling brown and white. “Forgot.”
“Mm.”
She watched him. He could feel her gaze on the top of his head, on his hands tight around the ceramic. He took a sip. The chocolate was too sweet, the way she always made it for him when he was small.
Her hand came down over his, covering it completely. Her skin was rough from work, warm from the stove. She didn’t squeeze. She just covered.
“You’re hurting yourself, baby,” she said, softer than the steam.
Phuwin’s throat tightened. He stared into his hot chocolate. A tear plinked into the foam, disappearing instantly.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
Godji waited. The cafe was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.
He shook his head, his brown bangs falling forward. “I don’t know who I choose.”
“Choose?” she asked. Her thumb moved, a slow stroke across his knuckle.
“Dice came back.”
Godji’s hand stilled. “Dice,” she repeated. It wasn’t a question. “Like Dice. That you had a crush on in high school. Your best friend who went abroad for school and hasn’t talked to you since.”
“Yes.” Phuwin’s voice felt thin. “That Dice.”
He took another sip, the sweetness cloying now. He set the mug down. “He… he still has feelings. For me. Or he says he does. But it’s not like… it’s not like what I feel for Pond. I love Pond. So much. We’re in a talking stage. Me and Pond.”
“And Dice?”
Phuwin wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “He wants what we had before. You remember what my relationship with Dice was.”
Godji’s eyebrows lifted. It was a question, but also a statement. “Sex buddies?”
He nodded, his face hot. “He’s back for that. But he’s also… he’s trying to test Pond’s patience. He keeps trying to get me… seduced. By him. It’s really uncomfortable.”
Godji sighed, a long, weary sound. She pulled her hand back and folded her arms. “Have you had sex with Pond yet?”
Phuwin’s head shot up. “No. Only kissing.”
“Maybe,” she said, her voice shifting into that practical, mischievous tone she used for terrible advice, “if you tried to get you and Pond into that situation, you’d get close. To the point where you’d want to date already. Not rushing things too much, but… moving.”
“I don’t know,” Phuwin said, the words rushing out. “I think… I think Pond doesn’t like me like that. Not really. Not enough.”
“Bullshit.”
“It feels like bullshit,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Like dating is making my brain go crazy. And it hurts. So fucking much.”
Godji’s face softened. She reached across the counter and brushed his bangs from his forehead. “Your ex,” she said, the word careful. “Cinse. Was such a fucking asshole to you. It was very abusive. I understand. I don’t want to see my nephew hurt in any way again.”
Phuwin’s breath hitched. He remembered the sound first—the sharp crack of a palm against his cheek. The shock, more than the pain. The way Cinse’s face had gone cold and flat when Phuwin had whispered *no*, had pushed his hands away. The second slap had been harder. Then the grip on his arm, the shove against the wall. *You think you get to say no to me?*
Another tear tracked down his face. He didn’t wipe it.
“I will do anything for you,” Godji said, her voice firm now. “Anything.”
Phuwin sighed, a ragged sound, and ran a hand through his hair. He let the tear fall.
Godji watched it land on the counter. She picked up her cloth and wiped the spot away. “You should see your parents in Chiang Mai soon. Get some fresh air. Have fun with your life before you end up getting too overwhelmed and stressed you might die.”
A weak laugh escaped him. “I’ll try. I still have things to finish here. In my art faculty.”
“Okay,” she said, as if that settled it. “I’ll be on vacation next week. Up north. I want you to sell and make my money while I’m away. Open the shop early, like always. And look at the directions before you burn the place down or almost kill someone from giving them too much caffeine.”
He managed a small smile. “I’m not that bad.”
“You are,” she said, deadpan. “I don’t want you going to campus until I come back. It’s too much stress and work for you right now.”
“Godji—”
“I remember,” she cut in, her eyes glinting, “when you shit yourself at the temple fair. You were ten. You were so embarrassed you wouldn’t come out of the bathroom. I had to bathe you and clean you.”
Phuwin groaned, dropping his forehead onto his arms on the counter. “My ass is just fine,” he mumbled into his sleeve, making a face she couldn’t see.
“Since you are tired and stressed,” she continued, her voice shifting to a lighter, teasing lilt, “I’ll bathe you. Like I did when you were younger. When your parents were always at work and not taking care of you.”
He lifted his head. “I’m just fine.”
Godji grinned. A real, wide, mischievous grin. She pushed off from the counter and walked around it, her steps deliberate.
Phuwin’s eyes widened. He slid off the stool. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Godji, I’m twenty-two.”
“And you look like a haunted little ghost.” She kept coming.
He took a step back. Then another. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his own face, cutting through the weight in his chest. He looked at her—the flour in her black hair, the warmth in her brown eyes, the apron tied around her waist.
He grinned.
Then he turned and bolted for the staircase at the back of the cafe.
Godji’s laugh echoed behind him, loud and full. “You little shit!”
His socks slipped on the polished wood floor. He grabbed the banister, hauled himself up the first few steps. Her footsteps pounded after him, not running, just a fast, determined walk.
“You can’t run from me! I changed your diapers!”
He hit the upper landing laughing, breathless. He fumbled for the door to their living quarters, shoved it open, and stumbled into the dim hallway. His room was at the end, past the bathroom.
He didn’t make it.
A strong hand closed around the back of his oversized hoodie and yanked him to a stop. He yelped, spinning, and found Godji right there, not even winded, her grin triumphant.
“Got you.”
“This is assault!” he cried, still laughing, trying to wriggle out of her grip.
“This is a deep-clean,” she corrected, and her fingers went to the hem of his hoodie.
He batted at her hands, but he was laughing too hard to put up real resistance. She pulled the hoodie up and over his head, his arms trapped for a second before he freed them. The cool air of the hallway hit his skin.
“Auntie, come on—”
She unbuttoned his jeans, yanked them down his legs. He hopped, trying to keep his balance, and she pulled them off, tossing them aside. His t-shirt followed, a quick tug from the back.
And then he was standing there in the hallway, in just his briefs, his skin pebbling in the cool air, his chest heaving from laughter and the run.
Godji surveyed him, hands on her hips. “See? A little ghost. All skin and bones.”
“I have curves,” he protested, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You have a pencil for a waist and the ass every man on campus licks his lips at,” she said matter-of-factly. She pointed to the bathroom door. “In. Now.”
He backed up, still smiling, a flush high on his cheeks. He wasn’t embarrassed, not really. This was Godji. She’d seen him at his worst, his messiest, his most broken. This was nothing.
He backed into the bathroom. The white tiles were cool under his feet. The room was warm, steam still lingering from her own shower earlier.
She followed him in, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
Before he could say another word, her hand came down in a swift, sharp smack against his bare ass.
The sound was loud in the tiled room. A crack.
Phuwin yelped, more from surprise than pain, and scrambled forward, clutching his stinging cheek. “Hey!”
Godji was already laughing, turning on the taps, testing the water with her hand. “For running. Now get in. Before I decide you need a scrub down with the stiff brush.”
He stood there for a moment, naked and breathless, watching her bend over the tub, her shoulder-length black hair falling forward. The sting faded into a warm throb. The weight of the day—the photo on the bus, the memory of Cinse’s hands, the torn feeling in his chest between Pond’s waiting and Dice’s pushing—it all felt distant, blurred by the steam and her laughter.
He stepped into the stream of hot water.
It washed over him, and he let out a long, shuddering breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Godji hummed to herself, picking up the loofah, squeezing body wash onto it.
The night ended with the sound of the shower, the scent of lavender soap, and their laughter echoing against the tiles, clean and loud and whole.