The fans hummed from opposite corners, doing their best to fight the weight of heat that had settled overnight. The air was thick, syrupy, humid enough that even standing still felt like work.
Tawan leaned against the counter, hair damp from a too-cold shower, shirt clinging to his back in patches. Imel stood at the stove in a black vest and loose knee-length shorts, slides slapping softly against the floor each time he shifted his weight. Saint sat cross-legged on the counter beside the bread basket, scrolling through his phone, the toaster working overtime beside him.
Dan arrived last, yawning, eyes still sleepy, laptop under his arm, grey shorts hanging just low enough to make Saint glance twice before pretending he hadn't.
"You know," Saint said, still half asleep, "since we all moved in, I don't think any of us have used our own kitchens."
Tawan smirked into his mug. "You're saying that like you're surprised."
"I'm saying that like I'm worried," Saint replied.
"Four grown adults, one shared pan. That's not domestic, that's co-dependency."
Imel turned slightly, spatula still in hand. "It's not a bad pan."
"That's the problem," Saint said.
"It's too good. We're addicted."
Dan poured himself water, settling beside the counter. "Just say you like company," he murmured, low but clear enough for Saint to hear.
"I like witnesses," Saint said, grinning.
"Keeps me from committing crimes."
"Not doing great so far," Tawan muttered.
Saint threw a slice of toast at him; Tawan caught it with an effortless swipe, bit into it, and kept his straight face while Saint stared in mock outrage.
The kitchen was alive in that familiar half-chaos—the air smelled like butter and burnt toast, the sound of the fan clicked in rhythm with the light tapping of utensils. Dan reached over Imel's shoulder to steal a piece of fried egg; Imel didn't even look, he just swatted blindly, hitting his hand.
"Animals," he murmured.
"Don't you love us," Saint sang, swinging his legs.
"Questionable," Imel replied.
"Provably true," Saint countered, and the room filled with quiet laughter.
The heat rose higher, but no one moved to leave; it was the kind of heavy morning that made the simplest moments feel like something you could live inside.
"We should eat upstairs sometime," Saint said suddenly.
"Rooftop's been ignored."
"Because last time it almost flew away," Dan said.
"Now it won't," Imel replied, glancing up from the stove.
"It's hot, but calm. Could be good tonight."
Tawan nodded, stirring his coffee.
"Barbecue. Grill. Something small."
"We'll need food," Imel said.
"And actual charcoal."
"We'll go," Tawan said, jerking his chin toward him.
"You and me."
"Fine," Imel agreed, sliding an omelette onto a plate.
"Saint?"
"I'll supervise," Saint said, "quality control."
Dan raised an eyebrow.
"Meaning nothing."
"Meaning everything," Saint shot back, elbowing him lightly.
By mid-morning they scattered, each melting into their own rhythm. Tawan and Imel stepped out into the blinding brightness of Ratchaburi streets, the pavement still glistening with the ghost of last night's rain. The air tasted faintly metallic, like sunburned tin. Tawan's shirt hung loose, his collarbone catching the light; he'd rolled his sleeves and kept his vape tucked between his fingers. Imel wore dark sunglasses and a sleeveless black top that somehow made him look cooler despite the heat.
Market noise surrounded them—plastic bags rustling, vendors calling out discounts, the smell of chilli smoke and lemongrass threading through everything.
"You sure you know what to buy?" Imel asked.
"Of course," Tawan said.
"List's in my head."
"Dangerous place to keep it."
"You've been there?"
"Long enough to know it's messy," Imel replied.
They stopped at a stall where meat hung glistening from hooks, bought a tray of marinated beef, then vegetables, fruit, and too many spices that neither needed but Tawan wanted.
"It's called preparation," Tawan said.
"It's called overthinking," Imel said, handing the vendor notes.
"Same thing," Tawan said.
At a vape stall, he paused to examine rows of colourful bottles lined under glass.
"Try this one," the vendor said, and before Imel could protest, Tawan took a drag.
He coughed so hard his shoulders shook. Imel leaned forward, trying not to laugh, failing entirely.
"You must think you look cool doing that?"
"I am cool," Tawan rasped.
"Tragically wrong," Imel said.
Their fingers brushed when they exchanged the bag, light and quick but electric in the humidity. Neither moved back. The air pressed closer, and for a moment it felt like even the sun was holding its breath.
They ducked into Imel's café for a reprieve. The rush of air-conditioning felt holy. Imel set the groceries on the counter, tying his hair back.
"You want to learn how to make coffee properly?" he asked.
"You think I don't know?"
"You don't," he said simply, already grinding beans.
Tawan leaned against the counter, eyes following every motion.
"So I've been doing it wrong the whole time?"
"Tragically wrong," Imel repeated.
"That's twice you've used that today."
"Because it fits."
Steam hissed; the smell of roasted beans filled the room. Imel showed him how to swirl, pour, stir.
"Here. Taste."
Tawan took the cup, sipped, blinked once.
"It's good."
"It's coffee," Imel said.
"You just met it properly."
"I might fall in love with you for this." Imel paused, almost smiling.
"Small mercies."
"You've been saying that a lot lately," Tawan said.
"Because some things are too good to last," Imel said quietly.
"That coffee's one of them."
"I don't think I'll get tired of either." Imel looked up at him, eyes dark, unreadable.
"You will."
"You think?"
"Everyone does," he said, tone even.
"That's how we survive."
Back at the residence, Saint had turned the lounge into chaos. Folding chairs everywhere, extension cords tangled across the floor, fairy lights wrapped around his neck like jewellery. Dan walked in, holding a toolbox.
"You're one spark away from electrocution."
"Then catch me," Saint said, grinning as he climbed onto a stool.
Dan rolled his eyes but stepped closer to steady him. His hand rested on Saint's waist automatically, firm, grounding.
"You've got it?"
"Got it," Saint said, twisting a bulb.
"Don't look down."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were."
"I was admiring craftsmanship."
"Of the lights or me?" Saint asked, smirking.
"You," Dan said, almost without thinking, then looked away quickly.
Saint's grin faltered just a fraction. "Don't drop me."
"Not planning to."
The stool wobbled once, Dan's grip tightened, and for a second, they were still—breathing the same air, hearing the faint laughter echoing from somewhere else in the building. Saint's lips parted as if to say something, but the bulb flickered to life and broke the moment.
"Light of my life," Dan said dryly.
"I should electrocute you," Saint muttered, climbing down.
Later, while Dan fetched more cable, Saint sat on the couch, scrolling. Music played softly from his phone, his half-finished playlist looping through songs. Dumond's "Glass Tongue" came on, the one Saint had written. He stared at the screen until impulse won. He opened messages and typed one word to Korn: Thanks. No context. He turned the phone face down, exhaled, and watched sunlight flicker through the blinds. For once, calm didn't feel suspicious—it just felt quiet.
Evening came heavy and slow. The heat hadn't broken; it had settled, syrupy and golden. Tawan and Imel returned carrying too many bags.
"Mission accomplished," Tawan called out.
Saint peeked into one. "You bought half the market."
"That's called preparation."
"That's called anxiety shopping," Saint said.
"Don't project," Imel murmured, unloading vegetables.
Dan filled pitchers with cold water, and Saint queued music on the speaker. The first sizzle of meat hit the grill, smoke curling into the soft orange of sunset.
Dinner unfolded in rhythms of laughter and mild chaos. Saint dropped a plate; Dan caught it mid-air. Imel's precision cooking clashed with Tawan's improvisation.
"That's not how you flip it," Imel said.
"It's flipped now," Tawan replied.
"It's burnt now," Imel corrected.
"Adds character," Tawan said, grinning.
Saint clapped. "Domestic tension, my favourite side dish."
"Saint's banned from utensils," Dan muttered.
"Saint's banned from existing," Imel said.
"Excuse you," Saint protested. "I bring joy."
"You bring noise," Tawan murmured, smoke curling from his vape.
"Same thing," Saint said, lifting his chin.
The music softened. Between the chatter, there were small silences—good ones, lived-in ones.
At one point, when Saint reached for a bowl, his gaze flicked to Imel's neck. "You missed a spot shaving," he said idly.
Imel frowned. "Didn't shave."
"Then you've got… interesting shadows," Saint said, tone teasing.
Tawan froze mid-sip. The corner of Saint's mouth twitched.
"Oh," he said, drawing the word out.
"Never mind."
Tawan's jaw flexed; the tips of his ears went red, even if his expression didn't change.
"Eat your food," he said evenly.
"Can't," Saint replied, smirking. "Too spicy."
"Then stop talking," Imel said, but his mouth curved slightly, betraying him.
Later, when they started cleaning up, Saint leaned close to Dan as they stacked plates.
"You've been quiet today."
"You've been loud enough for both of us."
"Deflection," Saint said softly.
Dan smirked. "Observation."
"Do you always have to win?" Saint asked.
"Not always."
"So let me?" Dan glanced at him, face softening.
"You already do." Saint blinked once, then looked away quickly.
"Don't say stuff like that when I'm holding glass."
"You'd drop it anyway," Dan said, and Saint laughed.
When the plates were empty and the air stilled to a lazy warmth, Saint murmured, "We survived the week."
"We're still surviving," Tawan said, voice quiet.
Imel nodded. "Small mercies."
The phrase landed heavy this time, grounding them. Dan looked at each face in turn—Saint's hair sticking to his temple, Tawan's calm stillness, Imel's quiet control—and said softly, "Guess that's all we need tonight."
They lingered. The rooftop lights blinked lazily, the grill cooling to embers. Saint leaned into Dan's shoulder, the distance between them gone. Dan's hand found his easily, thumb tracing idle circles until Saint turned his hand palm-up. Without saying anything, Dan lifted it and pressed his lips to Saint's knuckles. Saint inhaled sharply but didn't pull away. Across the table, Imel leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching the city. Tawan pulled out Ton's lighter, turned it once, and handed it to him.
"Hold this for me," he said.
"Just for now." Imel took it, fingers brushing Tawan's.
"Okay." No promises, no questions—just okay.
The sky had deepened to that bruised blue of late evening. Crickets hummed below. The city moved quietly beneath them, alive but far away. Tawan reached for his vape; Imel stopped him with a hand around his wrist.
"Don't go," he said softly.
"...Stay here a bit."
"You planning to confiscate me?"
"Planning to keep you."
Tawan looked at him for a long second, then set it down.
"You…"
Imel leaned in, kissed the side of Tawan's neck, light as breath. It lingered, enough to make Tawan's hand twitch. Their foreheads met for a brief second, nothing more.
Saint caught it from the corner of his eye and smiled to himself.
"You two are sickening," he said, voice lazy, teasing.
Tawan didn't look up. "You're one to talk."
"Fair," Saint said.
"Still true."
Dan turned to him, raising an eyebrow.
"Want me to make it worse?" Saint blinked.
"Worse?" Dan tilted his head, grin small, almost shy.
"Yeah."
And before Saint could make a joke, Dan leaned in and kissed his temple. Quick, sure, warm "There," Dan said. "Now it's worse."
Saint stared at him for a second, eyes wide, then huffed out a breath.
"You're insufferable."
"I know."
"And confident."
"That too."
"Dangerous combination."
"You don't like it?" Dan asked.
"Shut up," Saint replied, smiling.
By the time the music faded and only the city's hum remained, all four sat in a quiet line—two pairs, two different kinds of calm. The heat still clung to them, but it no longer felt heavy. Tawan glanced at Imel, whose thumb was tracing idle patterns against his hand. Saint leaned against Dan, head resting near his shoulder, eyes half closed. The night stretched on, soft and endless. For the first time in weeks, no one reached for escape. They were already where they needed to be.