Phuwin wakes to light. Not the harsh, white kind from his ceiling fan at Godji's—this is golden, pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, catching dust motes that drift like slow confetti. The city sprawls beyond the glass, glittering and distant, and for a moment he forgets where he is. Then the arm around his waist tightens, and he remembers.
Pond's chest is warm against his back. His breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that feels permanent, and Phuwin doesn't move—doesn't want to break whatever spell this is. The duvet is soft against his chin. The shirt he's wearing—Pond's shirt—smells like him, clean and faintly spicy, and Phuwin buries his nose in the collar and lets himself exist in it.
The phone on the nightstand buzzes.
It's a short vibration—maybe a notification, maybe nothing—but it pulls him out of the warmth. He shifts carefully, trying not to wake Pond, and stretches an arm toward the nightstand. His fingers find the phone. He squints at the screen.
Three messages from Godji. The last one sent ten minutes ago: "Morning, baby. Everything okay? You didn't come home."
Guilt slides through him, cold and sudden.
He forgot. He forgot to text her, forgot to say he was staying at Pond's, forgot that she'd be waiting up for him with the kitchen light on and a plate of something she'd saved from dinner. He pictures her sitting at the small table in the bakery, phone in hand, worrying. The image makes his chest tight.
He glances at Pond—still asleep, face relaxed, lips slightly parted. One of his hands is splayed across Phuwin's stomach, fingers curling gently against the fabric. His bicep is a solid curve of muscle under the sleeve of his own shirt, and Phuwin feels a flush of something tender and absurd—this man, who looks like a statue carved by someone who was showing off, is wrapped around him like a koala.
Phuwin types: "I'm fine. Talk later."
His thumb hovers over send.
The words feel thin. Incomplete. Godji will read them and know something's off—she always does. But what is he supposed to say? I stayed at my boyfriend's penthouse. We had sex. I forgot about you. Sorry. The thought makes his stomach turn.
Beside him, Pond shifts.
The arm around his waist pulls tighter, drawing him back against that solid chest. Pond mumbles something—soft, unintelligible, a sound from the edge of sleep—and his nose presses into the back of Phuwin's hair. The warmth is immediate, enveloping, and Phuwin's eyes flutter closed for a second.
He puts the phone face-down on the nightstand.
The conversation can't be delayed forever. He knows that. But right now, with Pond's breath warm against his scalp and the city glittering outside like something out of a dream, he lets himself pretend it can.
He turns slowly, careful not to jostle, until he's facing Pond. Up close, he can see the faint lines at the corners of Pond's closed eyes. The slight part of his lips. The way his brow furrows a little, like even in sleep he's thinking too hard. Phuwin reaches out, barely breathing, and brushes a strand of dark hair off Pond's forehead.
Pond's eyes open.
It's gradual—a slow swim to the surface, his gaze unfocused and soft. Then it lands on Phuwin, and something in his face changes. A smile, small and private, pulls at the corner of his mouth.
"Hey," he says. His voice is rough with sleep.
"Hey."
"How long have you been awake?"
"Not long." Phuwin's hand is still on Pond's forehead. He lets it trail down, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. "You sleep okay?"
Pond's eyes drift closed for a second, like he's savoring the touch. When he opens them, they're clearer. More awake. "Best sleep I've had in months."
"Liar."
"I'm serious." Pond's hand slides up Phuwin's back, fingers pressing gently into the space between his shoulder blades. "You're comfortable. And warm. And you smell good."
Phuwin laughs, quiet. "I'm wearing your shirt. Of course I smell good."
"Fair point." Pond leans in, presses a kiss to Phuwin's forehead. The gesture is so casual, so natural, that it takes Phuwin a second to register it. By the time he does, Pond is already pulling back, looking at him with that soft, unguarded expression that makes Phuwin's chest ache. "Morning, baby."
The word lands somewhere deep. Phuwin swallows. "Morning."
They lie there for a moment, just looking at each other. The city hums below. The sheets are tangled around their legs. Outside, a siren wails somewhere far away, and traffic murmurs, and life is happening without them. But here, in the golden light, it feels like they've stepped out of time.
"I have to go home," Phuwin says. The words come out before he can stop them.
Pond's expression flickers—just a fraction, just a second—before he smooths it over. "Yeah. I figured." He runs a hand through his own hair, messing it up further. "I can drive you. After breakfast."
"I should go soon. Godji's worried."
"Then after breakfast." Pond's voice is gentle but firm. "I'm not letting you leave without eating something. You barely ate last night."
Phuwin opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. Pond's right—he was too nervous, too tangled up in the feeling of Pond's hands on him, to eat more than a few bites of the noodles Pond had ordered. And Godji would kill him if she knew he was skipping meals.
"Fine," he says. "After breakfast."
Pond smiles—that easy, lopsided smile that makes him look younger. "Good. I make good omelets."
"You make omelets?"
"I make good omelets."
The confidence in his voice makes Phuwin laugh. "Okay. Show me."
Pond kisses him again—this time on the lips, soft and quick, like a seal on a promise—then rolls out of bed. The duvet falls away, revealing his bare chest, the cut of his shoulders, the way the morning light catches the curve of his bicep. He stretches, arms above his head, and Phuwin watches with the kind of attention that should probably embarrass him.
Pond catches him looking. His smile turns knowing.
"See something you like?"
Phuwin feels his ears go red. He looks away, grabbing a pillow. "Shut up."
Pond's laugh is low and warm. He disappears into the bathroom, and Phuwin hears water running, the click of a toothbrush cap. The domesticity of it—the simple, ordinary sound of Pond brushing his teeth—makes Phuwin's heart do something strange. Something too big for his ribs.
He looks at his phone.
The message to Godji is still unsent. The cursor blinks at him, patient.
He reads her messages again. "Morning, baby. Everything okay? You didn't come home." The second one, sent five minutes later: "Phuwin?" And the third, another five minutes after that: "Call me when you wake up."
He types: "I'm fine. I stayed at Pond's. I'll explain later. Love you."
His thumb hovers over send. Then presses down.
The message whooshes into the void. Immediate. Irreversible.
Godji's response comes within seconds: a string of emojis—wide eyes, a smiling devil, a heart, and what looks like a cup of coffee. Then: "Bring him for breakfast. I want to meet him properly since he's been your boyfriend."
Phuwin stares at the screen. Then he laughs, quiet, shaking his head.
Pond emerges from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges. He's wearing a fresh shirt now—black, simple, stretched across his chest like it's trying to contain something it wasn't built for. "What's funny?"
"Godji. She wants to meet you."
Pond's eyebrows shoot up. "Now?"
"For breakfast. She says bring you."
For a moment, Pond looks genuinely alarmed—like he's been asked to stand in front of a firing squad. Then his expression settles into something determined. Resigned. Almost eager. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. I want her to like me."
Phuwin blinks. "She already likes you."
"I want her to really like me. Like, 'you can date my nephew' like me." Pond crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and takes Phuwin's hand. His fingers are warm, calloused, steady. "I'm in this. All the way. I want your family to know that."
The words hit Phuwin somewhere fragile. He feels the sting behind his eyes and blinks it back.
"Okay," he says. His voice comes out smaller than he meant. "After breakfast."
Pond squeezes his hand. "After breakfast."
He stands, pulling Phuwin up with him. The duvet falls away, and the morning air hits Phuwin's legs. He's still in Pond's shirt, the hem hitting mid-thigh, and he feels exposed and safe at the same time. Pond's hands settle on his waist, thumbs tracing gentle circles over the fabric.
"You look good in my clothes," Pond says. Soft. Like it's a secret.
Phuwin's mouth goes dry. "You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
Phuwin kisses him—quick, before he can think too hard about it. Pond's lips are soft, surprised, then smiling against his. When Phuwin pulls back, Pond is looking at him like he hung the moon.
"Come on," Pond says, taking his hand. "Omelets. And then I'm going to charm your aunt."
Phuwin lets himself be led out of the bedroom, through the wide living room with its leather couches and abstract art, into a kitchen that looks like it's never been used. The counters are spotless. The stove gleams. A single coffee mug sits in the drying rack, evidence of a life lived mostly alone.
Pond opens the fridge, pulls out eggs, bell peppers, cheese. There's something methodical in the way he moves—cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking with quick, practiced strokes—and Phuwin watches from a stool at the counter, chin resting on his palm.
"What?" Pond says, catching his gaze.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"You're pretty sexy when you cook."
Pond's ears go pink. He ducks his head, focusing on the pan. "Shut up."
Phuwin grins. The phone in his pocket buzzes—Godji again, probably—but he doesn't check it. He lets the buzz fade into the background, lets the smell of eggs and butter fill the kitchen, lets the morning sunlight pool across the marble counter.
Outside, the city hums with traffic and voices and the thousand small dramas of other people's lives. Inside, Pond flips an omelet with way too much flourish, and Phuwin laughs, and the conversation with Godji hovers at the edge like a cloud that hasn't decided to rain.
He'll answer her properly when he gets there. He'll explain—about last night, about Pond, about how it felt to fall asleep in someone's arms and wake up still wrapped in them. He'll let her tease him, maybe let her embarrass him a little. It's what family does.
But right now, Pond is sliding an omelet onto a plate, setting it in front of him with a proud, expectant look, and Phuwin picks up his fork and takes a bite.
It's good.
Pond's grin is so bright it could power the building.
"Told you," he says.
Phuwin rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "It's okay."
"Okay? It's okay?"
"You said you make good omelets."
"This is a great omelet."
Phuwin takes another bite. Chews. Lets the silence stretch just to watch Pond squirm. Then: "Fine. It's good."
Pond pumps a fist in victory, and Phuwin laughs so hard he almost chokes.
After breakfast—after they've cleaned the dishes and Pond has texted his address to Godji, who replied with a series of exclamation points and a single word: "COME"—Phuwin stands in the bedroom, folding Pond's shirt and placing it neatly on the bed. He changes back into his own clothes from yesterday, the ones that smell like the mall and boba and Pond's car.
Pond appears in the doorway. "Ready?"
Phuwin looks at the shirt on the bed, then at Pond. "Can I keep this?"
Pond's expression softens. "I was going to ask if you wanted to."
Phuwin grabs the shirt, presses it to his chest. "Then yes."
Pond crosses the room, cups his face, and kisses him—slow, deep, like they have all the time in the world. When he pulls back, his thumb traces the line of Phuwin's jaw. "Let's go see your aunt."
Phuwin nods. The phone in his pocket feels heavy, but the weight is familiar now. He takes Pond's hand, and they walk out together into the morning.