Santichai navigated the crowded market with his head down, eventually securing enough supplies to last him a week. His plan was simple: retreat to his apartment, bolt the door, and disappear from the world until the shadow of Asnee faded. Fon, ever the supportive boss, hadn't hesitated to grant him the time off; he was her most reliable worker, and he looked like he was on the verge of a collapse.
As he reached his floor, struggling with the heavy grocery bags, he rounded the corner and stopped dead.
Someone was sitting on the floor directly in front of his door.
Santichai's heart skipped, then began a frantic, thundering gallop against his ribs. He retreated instantly, ducking behind the corner of the hallway and sinking to the floor. Is it him? Did Asnee find me already? He squeezed his eyes shut, praying the figure would just give up and leave.
"Why are you hiding here?"
The voice froze the blood in Santichai's veins. He couldn't even lift his head. "Why don't you go home?" the voice asked again, softer this time.
Santichai slowly looked up. It wasn't the dark, possessive eyes of Asnee looking back at him. It was KK.
"Pi Fon said you were sick," KK said, his eyes scanning the heavy bags of fresh produce and meat in Santichai's hands. "You look remarkably strong for someone at death's door."
"I..." Santichai tripped over his words, the air finally returning to his lungs.
"I confirmed with Pi Fon that I had the right number," KK continued, standing up and dusting off his trousers. "Why didn't you answer my calls? I even texted you, and you told me I had the wrong person."
"I... I didn't know it was you," Santichai whispered, his voice trembling.
KK didn't look angry; he looked determined. "Are we going to keep standing in the hallway, or are you going to invite me in?"
Santichai fumbled for his keys. "I'm sorry... please, come in."
Once inside, the weight of the bags finally became too much. As Santichai started to lower them, KK's hands were suddenly there, taking the burden from him.
"Where do you want these?"
"On the coffee table... thank you," Santichai murmured.
KK set the groceries down and immediately turned back to the door. He retrieved the large box he had left in the hallway—the fan from the mall. Without asking, he sat on the floor and began to assemble the base.
Santichai stood in the kitchen doorway, a glass of water gripped tightly in his hands. He couldn't look away. The sight of a man sitting on his living room floor, focused on fixing something for him, sent a sharp, bitter ache through his chest.
He had seen this before. He remembered a time, years ago, when the sun was still bright and the "demon" was still an "angel." He remembered Asnee sitting just like that, brow furrowed in concentration, fixing a broken fan so Santichai could sleep in the heat.
The past and the present were overlapping, and it terrified him.
It had been mid-June, and a brutal heatwave had settled over Asia, turning their cramped apartment into an oven. It was the only place Santichai could afford on the meager wages of two jobs. He had walked away from his dreams of becoming an accountant, dropping out so he could fund Asnee's tuition and keep a roof over their heads after Asnee's parents had cut him off.
Asnee had been hunched over their only fan, his face slick with sweat and twisted in a frantic frown. "Chai, this stupid thing is dead! Can we just buy another one? I can't fix this piece of shit anymore!"
Santichai had stepped over, pressing a glass of ice-cold water into Asnee's hand. "We don't have the budget for a new one yet, Asnee. I'll take it to the repair shop tomorrow."
"People take cars to shops, Chai! Not five-hundred-baht fans!" Asnee snapped, his temper fraying in the stifling air.
Santichai didn't get angry. He simply smiled and picked up a discarded newspaper, using it to manually fan the heat away from Asnee's face. "Don't be mad. The very first extra money I get, I promise—I'll buy you a new one."
Asnee's expression softened instantly. He reached out, pulling Santichai into his lap and pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. "Chai... I'm sorry," he whispered, patting Santichai's hair. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"We both started in accounting," Asnee said, his voice thick with guilt. "But you're the one working yourself to death because of me."
"Your success is my success, Asnee," Santichai replied, meaning every word.
Asnee pulled him closer, his eyes bright with a promise that felt like a vow. "I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will never leave you. Your sacrifice today... it won't be in vain. I'll make it up to you."
"You gave up your family for me," Santichai whispered. "How can my sacrifice compare to yours?"
"Because I love you," Asnee murmured, kissing him again before his stomach let out a loud growl. "Chai, I'm starving. What's on the menu tonight?"
"You have two choices," Santichai teased. "Instant noodles with a boiled egg, or fried cabbage with a boiled egg."
Asnee laughed, the sound filling the small, hot room. "I'll take the cabbage. Go cook, and I'll keep fighting with this useless fan."
The memory of the old June heat faded, but for a split second, the man sitting on the floor looked so much like the Asnee of ten years ago that Santichai felt his heart fracture. He missed those days—the version of them that was young at heart and unafraid to fight the world as one. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, hot and stinging as they mingled with the sweat on his face. If he could find a way to rewind time, he would live in those days forever, back when a rainy afternoon felt as bright as a sunny day at the beach.
But as the blur in his vision cleared, the reality of the present took hold. KK's strong hands tightened the final screw on the new fan, a sharp reminder that those happy moments were ghosts, and the man before him was a stranger.
KK looked up, noticing Santichai hovering with the water. "Are you going to give me that glass or just keep it for yourself?"
"Oh... sorry..." Santichai handed it over, his fingers brushing KK's. "Since you're already here... do you want to stay for dinner?"
"Of course," KK said, downing the water in one go.
"Wait, I'll cook something—"
"Since you're 'sick'?" KK interrupted. He stood up, and before Santichai could protest, he gently but firmly pushed him down onto the sofa. "I'm going to cook. You sit here and enjoy your new fan." He placed the empty glass back in Santichai's hands and flashed a handsome, confident smile. "What do you want to eat?"
The question hit Santichai like a physical blow. He stared at KK, his mind going blank. For as long as he could remember, no one had ever asked him what he wanted. It was always about what Asnee liked, what Asnee needed, or what Asnee could afford. To Santichai, this simple question was more difficult, more terrifying, than the day Asnee had asked him to be his boyfriend.
"I... I don't know," he stammered, his voice small. "I just bought groceries. Cook... whatever you want."
Santichai sat on the edge of the small sofa, watching the general surgeon navigate his tiny kitchen. He knew KK could save lives in an operating theater, but he hadn't expected him to look so at home peeling vegetables. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board and the steady whir of the new fan acted like a lullaby. Without meaning to, his heavy eyelids closed.
He didn't know how long he had been out. He only woke when he felt a damp, cool towel being pressed gently against his forehead.
"Sorry," Santichai whispered, blinking his eyes open. "I fell asleep."
"You have a fever," KK said softly, his voice echoing with professional concern. He held out a small bowl of white porridge, the steam rising in gentle curls. "Eat this. You need something in your stomach before you take the medicine."
Santichai looked at the bowl, then at the two pills and the glass of water waiting on the coffee table. A lump formed in his throat. It was the first time in his life someone had actually cared for him while he was down.
Memories of the flu years ago began to surface—back when he and Asnee had first moved. He had been working himself to the bone at a construction site until his back gave out, forcing him into the sewing company by day and a gay bar's kitchen by night. When the flu had ripped through the factory, he had been the first to fall.
The flu had turned the world into a spinning, nauseating blur. Santichai had spent the entire day drifting in and out of a fever dream, his skin shivering despite the heat. He was barely conscious when the bedroom door was flung open, hitting the wall with a sharp crack.
Asnee stood in the doorway, his silhouette imposing and cold. "Chai, I'm hungry. Why haven't you cooked anything?"
Santichai forced his eyes open, the light from the hallway stabbing into his brain. "Asnee... I'm so dizzy. Every time I try to sit up, the room spins. Can we... can we just order takeout tonight?"
Asnee let out a heavy, theatrical sigh of displeasure. "Why didn't you call me and tell me you weren't preparing dinner? I could have just stayed out and eaten with my colleagues instead of coming home to nothing."
"I'm sorry," Santichai murmured into his pillow, his voice thick with sickness. "I'll call next time."
Asnee didn't ask if he needed water. He didn't check his temperature. He simply slammed the bedroom door, followed seconds later by the thunderous boom of the front door closing. He had gone to find a meal, leaving Santichai alone in the dark.
Hours later, Santichai was jolted awake by the blare of the television. His head throbbed, but the old fear of being "useless" took over. He dragged his aching body out of bed, leaning against the walls for support as he shuffled into the living room.
"Asnee... I feel a little better," he lied, his voice trembling. "I'll go and cook for you now."
Asnee didn't even look away from the screen. He shoved a handful of chips into his mouth, the crunching sound deafening in the small room. "Don't bother. I went out with Frank and the guys." He swallowed, finally glancing at Santichai. "I brought you something on the table. You can go eat. I'm taking a shower and going to bed."
Asnee stood up, clicking the TV off. "Oh, by the way, my parents are coming into town this weekend."
A familiar, sharp ache bloomed in Santichai's chest. He knew what that meant. "Okay... I'll book the usual hotel."
"Mmm," Asnee replied, walking toward the bathroom. He stopped at the door, not to offer a kind word, but to give an order. "And remember to tape up all your boxes before you go. I don't want them seeing your things."
Santichai stood alone in the dark living room, tears finally spilling over his cheeks as he nodded to an empty hallway. "Mmm."
Santichai's breath hitched as the memory receded. He looked down at the warm bowl of porridge in his hands and then up at KK, who was waiting patiently for him to take a bite.
There were no boxes here. No one was asking him to hide.
KK reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray tear from Santichai's cheek. "Why are you crying? Is the fever that bad?"
Santichai wiped his eyes quickly, his voice thick and shaky. "It's nothing... I think the fever is just getting higher. My eyes are watering from the heat."
It was a weak lie, and they both knew it. After Santichai finished the last of the porridge, KK replaced the bowl with a glass of water and two white pills. Santichai swallowed the medicine, the cold water soothing his throat, and set the half-empty glass on the table. The whir of the new fan was the only sound in the room.
"Mr. KK," Santichai said, staring at his own lap. "Can we... can we just be friends?"
KK didn't flinch. "I told you I wanted to chase you. That is still my intention."
The dam finally broke. Santichai burst into tears, his shoulders shaking with the weight of a decade of disappointment. "Relationships... they're just short-lived happiness," he sobbed. "Once the spark dies, the love dies with it. And then you're just... in the way. Friendship lasts longer. It can last a lifetime without someone getting hurt."
KK moved from his chair to the sofa, sitting close enough for Santichai to feel his warmth but giving him space to breathe. He reached out and took Santichai's hand, his grip steady and grounding.
"Santichai Kittibun," KK said, using his full name to command his attention. "I don't know the specifics of what you've been through, though I can guess it was dark. But I'm asking you to give me a chance—and more importantly, give yourself a chance—to believe in something again."
He squeezed Santichai's hand gently. "People say the grass is always greener on the other side, but they usually say it as a warning. I'm telling you it as a promise. Sometimes, one in a billion chances, the grass really is greener over there. I know this is true..."
He smiled softly, looking into Santichai's tear-filled eyes, his voice barely a whisper but filled with conviction. "...because the grass on my side has already started to turn green from the very first day fate brought us together."