Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air was thick with tension, the silence pressing down on them like a weight neither could escape. Mon and Khun Sam sat on the couch, inches apart but feeling miles away, knowing that what was about to be said would alter everything.

“Don’t worry about what Grandmother said to me, Khun Sam,” Mon spoke first, her voice steady despite the pain in her heart. “It’s nothing compared to what you’ve been through your entire life.”

Khun Sam sat with her head slightly bowed, her gaze fixed on the floor, as if the very act of meeting Mon’s eyes would make everything more real. “Aren’t you... mad at me?”

Mon’s heart ached at the question. She reached across the small distance between them, her fingers trembling as she took Khun Sam’s hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. Khun Sam’s hand was cold, lifeless almost, as though she had already resigned herself to this painful reality.

Mon stared down at their hands for a moment, the weight of Khun Sam’s words settling over her, before she finally spoke. “I’ve understood everything. Tee and the others told me everything already.”

Khun Sam's voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and she still couldn’t bring herself to look at Mon. “I have to marry Kirk.”

Mon felt a cold lump form in her throat, her pulse quickening as she absorbed the weight of Khun Sam’s words. She knew. She had known this was coming, but hearing Khun Sam say it aloud was like a dagger to her heart.

Khun Sam’s gaze met hers, and Mon saw the pain, the guilt, the helplessness in her eyes.. “I can’t go against her. Mon…I do not love Kirk. The one I love is you. I have to marry Kirk because I have to do what Grandmother wants.”

The words hung in the air between them like a thick fog. Mon’s heart broke with every syllable.

“I have negotiated with her. She agrees to leave you alone if I marry him.” The words hung in the air between them like a thick fog. Mon’s heart broke with every syllable.

Khun Sam's hand slipped from Mon's grasp as she leaned closer, gently cupping Mon’s face between her hands. Her thumbs brushed against Mon’s cheeks, tenderly wiping away the tears that had fallen. Mon’s breath hitched at the warmth of Sam’s touch, the care in her gesture cutting through the ache in her chest.

“I know it’s selfish of me,” Khun Sam began, her voice trembling with emotion. “That we have to keep our relationship secret. I know you are hurt badly. I’m also hurt. But I don’t know what else to do, Mon. I don’t want to be away from you.”

Khun Sam’s words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. Mon’s tears didn’t stop, but she leaned slightly into Khun Sam’s touch, craving comfort even as her heart broke.

Without hesitation, Khun Sam pulled Mon into a firm embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around her as if letting go would mean losing her forever. Mon buried her face against Khun Sam’s shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric of her shirt.

“The reason why I didn’t call, text, or talk to you,” Khun Sam murmured, her voice soft but resolute, “was that I wasn’t sure… what I did was the best. I love you so much. It’s okay if you can’t accept this. This might not be the best solution, but having you by my side is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I want to tell you ‘I love you’ every day, before bed and when we wake up. I love you.”

Mon clung to her, her hands gripping the back of Khun Sam’s shirt as if the strength of her hold could change their impossible reality. Khun Sam’s words filled the space between them, a bittersweet confession that made Mon’s heart ache even more.

But the pressure inside Mon’s mind began to build, spiraling with everything unsaid and unresolved. She pulled back slightly, her breath hitching as her hands dropped to her lap, trembling.

“I… I don’t understand,” Mon whispered, her voice trembling as she stared down at her hands. “You love me, but you’re marrying Kirk. You say I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you, but you want me to stay hidden? How am I supposed to be okay with this, Khun Sam?”

Khun Sam’s face crumpled, her hands instinctively reaching out, but Mon leaned away slightly, her arms wrapping protectively around herself. “Mon, please—”

“No,” Mon shook her head, tears streaming down her face as she tried to breathe through the chaos. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to love you like this. You’re asking me to be okay with so much—too much—and I don’t know if I can be that person.”

Khun Sam’s lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. She lowered her hands, her fingers curling into fists as she fought back her own tears.

“I know it’s too much,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “I don’t know how to fix this. I’m trying, Mon. I’m trying so hard to make this work without losing you, without losing everything else I’ve fought for my entire life.”

Mon pressed her hands to her temples, her breathing shallow as she tried to process it all. The love in Khun Sam’s words clashed violently with the reality of their situation. It was too much—too many contradictions, too much pain.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Khun Sam,” she whispered, her voice cracking as fresh tears slid down her cheeks. “I don’t know if I can live like this, always hiding, always being second.”

“You’re not second,” Khun Sam said fiercely, moving closer on the couch, her hands trembling as she hesitated before placing them gently on Mon’s shoulders. “You’re everything to me, Mon. Everything.”

“But I’m not,” Mon said, shaking her head. “Not when you’re marrying someone else, not when your grandmother gets to decide your life and mine.”

She looked at Khun Sam, her heart breaking at the sight of the woman she loved sitting there, so close yet so far away. “I love you, Khun Sam. But loving you shouldn’t hurt this much.”

Khun Sam flinched at the words, her composure cracking as she pulled Mon closer again, closing the space between them.

“No,” she whispered fiercely. “I’m not losing you. I can’t. I’ll fight for us, Mon. I’ll find a way.”

Mon’s breath hitched as Khun Sam’s arms wrapped around her once more, the strength of the embrace making it impossible to move. For a fleeting moment, she let herself sink into it, her cheek pressed against Khun Sam’s chest. She could feel the erratic beat of Khun Sam’s heart, could hear the desperate sincerity in her words.

“You keep saying that,” Mon said softly, her voice muffled against Khun Sam’s shoulder. “But it always comes back to this. To what you can’t do. To what you have to do for everyone else.”

Khun Sam pulled back just enough to cup Mon’s face again, her thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

“I mean it this time,” she insisted, her voice shaking with emotion. “I’ll talk to Grandmother again. I’ll make her see reason. I’ll find a way to be with you without hurting you.”

Mon searched Khun Sam’s face, her heart warring with her mind. She wanted so badly to believe her, to believe that the love they shared could overcome everything. But the cracks in her resolve had grown too deep.

“What if you can’t?” Mon whispered, her voice breaking. “What if it’s always like this, Khun Sam? What if I’m always the one waiting, the one hiding? What if I’m never enough to make you choose me over everything else?”

Khun Sam’s hands trembled as she held Mon’s face, her tears rapidly falling. “You are enough,” she said, her voice firm even as it wavered. “You are everything, Mon. I’ll choose you. I promise.”

Mon shook her head, her hands coming up to cover Khun Sam’s. “You keep promising me things you can’t give,” she said, her tone heavy with heartbreak. “And I can’t keep holding on to promises that hurt me more than they help.”

Khun Sam’s grip faltered, her composure slipping further. “Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “Please, Mon. Don’t give up on me. On us.”

Mon closed her eyes, a fresh wave of tears escaping as she tried to steady her breathing. “I’m not giving up on us,” she said quietly. “I’m giving you the space to figure out if you really can fight for us. Because right now, I don’t think you can. And I can’t keep hurting myself waiting for you to figure it out.”

Khun Sam’s hands fell away from her face, and Mon felt the absence like a cold wind cutting through her. Khun Sam’s silence was deafening, and Mon knew her words had struck a chord. Khun Sam’s expression crumbled, her shoulders slumping as though the weight of everything was finally too much to bear.

Mon sat back on the couch, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, struggling to contain the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She wanted to reach out, to comfort Khun Sam, but her own heart was too raw, too fragile to offer solace.

“You’re right,” Khun Sam finally whispered, her voice hoarse and trembling.

“Everything you said… it’s true.” Khun Sam gripped Mon’s hand tightly as if it were the only thing anchoring her to the moment. “I’ve been so afraid of losing you, Mon, that I’ve only made things worse. I don’t know how to choose—between what’s expected of me and what my heart wants.”

Mon’s chest tightened as she felt Khun Sam’s desperation in every word. Her heart ached for Khun Sam, for the impossible situation she was in. It was so clear now—the conflict that had torn Khun Sam apart, the love that had been pushed aside for duty. The words she longed to say caught in her throat. She wanted to tell Khun Sam it didn’t have to be this way. That love, real love, shouldn’t have to be sacrificed. But instead, all she could manage was silence.

Khun Sam’s eyes met hers, and for the first time, there was no pretense, no guarded walls. Just raw vulnerability. “You’re my happiness,” Khun Sam said, her voice cracking. “But I’m trapped, Mon. Trapped in a life I never wanted. And now, I’m hurting the only person I’ve ever truly loved.”

Mon’s chest tightened further, and she looked away, unable to meet Khun Sam’s gaze for a moment. Her mind raced, every word Khun Sam had said echoing through her thoughts. How had they ended up here, at this place of hurt, of uncertainty?

The silence that followed felt like a chasm between them, an insurmountable distance neither knew how to cross. Mon’s heart felt like it was breaking all over again, the weight of everything they were about to lose settling heavily in her chest.

“I wish…” Khun Sam’s voice faltered, and she swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “I wish it could be different.”

Khun Sam was shattered, and Mon knew she couldn’t piece her back together—not now, not like this.

Mon’s fingers trembled as they lightly closed around Khun Sam’s hand, the familiar warmth almost unbearable now. She looked at Khun Sam, taking in the woman who had been her everything—her idol, her mentor, her love. The weight in Mon’s chest felt insurmountable, a storm of emotions warring within her: love and heartbreak, loyalty and self-preservation, yearning, and the desperate need for clarity.

Her mind screamed for her to stay, to fight for what they had, but her heart knew the truth. She couldn’t keep holding on to something that felt so impossibly fragile, so suffocating under the circumstances that surrounded them. Every moment with Khun Sam was both a balm and a wound, and Mon didn’t know how much more of herself she could give without losing everything.

“I wish it could be different, too,” Mon whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of unspoken words. Her eyes searched Khun Sam’s, hoping to find an answer, a solution, anything that could make this easier. But all she saw was the same ache she felt mirrored back at her.

Her voice faltered as she continued. “I need to go, Khun Sam. I need to step away from… this, from us. I need time to think, to figure out who I am without everything else pulling at me.”

The words felt like they were tearing her apart as they left her lips, and yet, there was a small, quiet part of her that whispered this was the right thing. Even as her heart screamed in protest, even as she saw the pain in Khun Sam’s eyes, Mon knew she couldn’t keep moving in circles, trapped between what was and what couldn’t be.

Her grip on Sam’s hand loosened, but she didn’t let go just yet, her touch lingering as if to savor what might be their last moment together for some time.

Khun Sam looked up at her, her face streaked with tears, and Mon could see the pain in her eyes. “Don’t go, Mon,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “Please, I need you. I love you.”

Mon closed her eyes for a moment, taking a shaky breath. She could feel her heart breaking in a way it never had before. She wanted to stay, wanted to believe that they could find a way through this. But she knew she couldn’t keep pretending.

Mon leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on Khun Sam's cheek. The kiss lingered for a moment, a quiet, tender gesture that spoke louder than words. Sam flinched slightly, as though the simple touch had sent a shock through her, but she didn’t pull away.

Mon pulled back, her gaze filled with both sorrow and finality. “I love you, I’m sorry.” 

Without another word, Mon gathered her courage and made her way to the front door. Each step felt like it was pulling her further from the life she had wanted, further from the love she had thought would be enough. The door clicked shut softly behind her, but the silence that followed felt louder than any sound could ever be.

And as Mon walked out, she wondered if she would ever be able to come back to the love that had once felt like everything.

Mon had spent days in a numb haze, barely able to get out of bed, let alone face the world. Her mom and stepfather hadn’t pushed her to talk, respecting her space, but Mon could feel the quiet concern in the house. The silence was heavier now, punctuated by the occasional sound of her mom and stepfather moving through the house, doing what they could to keep the normal rhythm of life going. But it felt off as if everything in Mon’s world had shifted, and nothing would be the same again.

The weight of leaving Khun Sam still pressed heavily on her chest. It was as if her heart had been torn in two, and now, there was only a hollow ache where love had once lived. The world outside seemed so distant, a place she couldn’t quite reach anymore. She had practically lived at Khun Sam’s house for so long that it felt like home. And now, she was here, at her parent's house, trying to figure out what to do next.

Staying in Bangkok felt suffocating. Khun Sam was so close, but Mon couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t. The ache in her chest was constant, a heavy reminder of the relationship that had slipped away. She could still feel Sam’s presence in the air, like a phantom of something she would never have again, and it was killing her slowly. But what hurt the most was the realization that, even though Khun Sam was so close, Mon could never return to what they once had. The decision had been made, and no matter how much her heart ached, it was final.

Then, one afternoon, the phone rang, cutting through the silence. Her dad’s name appeared on the screen, and she hesitated. Mon and her dad spoke regularly—he had always been a steady presence in her life, despite the physical distance.

“Hey, Dad,” Mon said, her voice a little hoarse, a little quieter than usual.

There was a pause on the other end, a moment where Mon could almost hear him searching for the right words. “Mon, hey. How are you? I’ve been thinking about you.”

Her dad’s voice was warm and familiar, a comfort that only made the ache in her chest grow sharper. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to steady herself.

“I’m okay. I’m... getting by,” she said, her tone not entirely convincing.

“I got a call from your mom earlier. She’s been worried about you. Everything okay?”

Mon was taken aback by the mention of her mom.

“She called you?” Mon asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” her dad replied, a note of concern creeping into his voice. “Your mom’s worried about you. She didn’t say much, just that she feels you need both of us right now. Is everything okay?”

Her heart gave a small, confused twist at the thought of her mom reaching out to her dad, considering how long it had been since they’d spoken directly. Her mom had always been fiercely independent, and asking for help wasn’t something she did often. The fact that she’d contacted her dad—especially after so many years of minimal communication—was enough to make Mon feel like the weight of everything was becoming too much to carry alone.

She felt the tears welling up, spilling over before she could stop them.

“I... I don’t know, Dad,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “I just... I’m so lost. I don’t know what to do. Everything feels... broken. I don’t know how to fix it.”

The sobs came in waves, each one more gut-wrenching than the last. Her hands shook as she gripped the phone, her heart raw. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t hold it all in anymore. The loneliness, the heartbreak, the confusion—it all poured out in a flood of emotions she had kept buried for so long.

Her dad’s voice softened, full of the kind of empathy only a parent could offer. “Mon, I hate hearing you like this,” he said. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Mon whispered, her voice barely holding together.

He paused, letting her cry, his helplessness palpable.

“That’s okay,” he said finally, his tone steady and deliberate. “Just one thing. What’s hitting you the hardest right now?”

“I left her…” She hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t meant to reveal that part of her life at all. The confession tumbled out before she could stop it, and now it hung there, heavy and raw, between her and her dad. Her stomach twisted into knots, and she felt a wave of panic rush through her.

She hadn’t told him about Khun Sam. She hadn’t told him about the relationship that had become the center of her world. She hadn’t told him she was dating a woman, or that she even liked women.

Now, she had said it. And with those three words, a floodgate had opened. She hadn’t meant to reveal this to him like this, so suddenly, without warning. The weight of the secret she’d carried for so long felt unbearable, and now it was out in the open, uninvited and raw. She felt exposed, and vulnerable, her heart racing in her chest.

"Mon... I didn't know," he said, his voice carrying the weight of processing the revelation. "But you're my daughter, and I love you. That hasn't changed."

Mon's chest loosened slightly at his words, relief washing over her. She had feared his reaction would be worse than silence, but his reassurance acted as a safety net to catch her before she fell too far. The weight on her shoulders began to lift, if only for a brief moment.

"Thank you, Dad," she whispered gratefully.

His response was filled with the strength only a father could provide. "You don't have to thank me, Mon. You've always had me."

Despite the comfort of those words, Mon's mind still raced with conflicting thoughts about her past and future. His reassurance had provided some relief, but she couldn't shake off the weight of everything weighing down on her.

Her dad’s voice broke through the silence once more, gentle but persistent. “Mon, I know it’s not easy, and I don’t want to push you, but I need to ask, whatever you are comfortable telling me, what’s going on?”

Mon took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts as she prepared to share just enough to explain, but not too much. She didn't know how to fully put her feelings into words, and there was still so much she wasn’t ready to say.

“It’s... complicated with her,” Mon began quietly, her voice cracking slightly. “We were close. Really close. But things... changed. I thought I could make it work, but the reality was harder than I imagined. It felt like we were stuck in a place where nothing was going to change, but I couldn’t keep living like that.”

She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she held the phone, as if needing to ground herself. “I had to walk away. I thought it was the right thing, but now I feel... lost. I don’t know if I made the right choice. But I couldn’t stay, and I couldn’t keep hiding everything. It hurt too much.”

Mon’s dad didn’t press her for more details—he knew that this was as much as she was ready to share. But even in her vagueness, he could sense the weight of what she was carrying.

“Mon,” he said, a hint of warmth in his tone.

Mon’s fingers tightened around the phone, her mind swirling with uncertainty. "I just… I don’t feel like I can stay in Bangkok," she admitted, her voice quiet, as though saying it aloud might make it too real. "I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel like I’m just drifting."

There was a pause on the other end, and Mon could hear her dad’s deep breath like he was carefully choosing his words.

“Well,” he began, his tone thoughtful but light, “I don’t have all the answers, but if you need a change of scenery, why not come here for a while? Come to London. It’ll give you time to breathe, and to think, and you can take a break from all this. You could even stay as long as you need. You know you’re always welcome.”

Mon was quiet for a moment, the offer hanging in the air between them. She didn’t know how to respond at first, but the thought of a fresh start—however temporary—felt like a small glimmer of hope.

Her dad’s voice broke through her thoughts, lighthearted and teasing, “Hell, if you want to stay forever, you can. I’ve got room, and I could use some company.”

Mon couldn’t help herself. A soft laugh bubbled up from her chest, a sound she hadn’t heard in days. It was shaky and tentative, but it felt good to release some of the tension.

Then, as if her dad’s words had opened a door, he asked, "So, what’s her name? Your girlfriend?"

Mon blinked, surprised by the question, but the words came naturally. “Her name’s Khun Sam.”

There was a moment of awkward silence on the other end of the line before her dad burst out laughing. "Oh my God, is it the Khun Sam? The one who you would not shut up about because she smiled at you once?"

Mon froze, feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment. Her dad had always known how much Khun Sam meant to her, but to hear him put it so casually... She took a breath before answering.

“Yeah, that’s her,” she said, her voice quieter now, unsure how her dad would take this new revelation.

Her dad let out a low whistle, clearly still processing, but there was a lightness to his tone. “Well, that’s a plot twist I didn’t see coming. I knew she’d have an impact on you, and now, here you are, telling me you’re... with her?”

Mon’s heart skipped at the words, the reality of it all still feeling surreal. She felt a slight rush of emotion—gratefulness, anxiety, and love—all jumbled together.

“I guess it makes sense,” he continued, still teasing, but there was affection in his tone. “You always said she was ‘perfect’.”

Mon felt the edges of another laugh at the absurdity of it all—being here, talking to her dad about her girlfriend, of all things—somehow made it feel a little less overwhelming. The tension that had been coiled so tightly inside her began to loosen, and for the first time in a while, she found herself genuinely smiling.

“You know, Mon, I do miss you. More than I let on sometimes,” he said, his voice softer now. “You can come stay with me in London. Stay as long as you need.”

Mon’s heart squeezed at his words. She felt a pull, but uncertainty weighed her down. “But I don’t know how long I’ll need,” she murmured. “And I don’t want to impose on you.”d

“You’re not imposing,” he said, his tone unwavering. “You’re my daughter, My home is your home. All I care about is that you’re okay.”

“Thank you, Dad,” she whispered. “I think I need this. I think I need to leave, at least for a little while.”

“Good,” he said gently. “Pack your things, book a flight, and let me know when you’ll arrive. I’ll be at the airport waiting for you.”

As the call ended, Mon set her phone down and stared at the half-packed suitcase she had barely touched since her friends had brought her what she had left at Khun Sam’s. London wasn’t an answer, but it was a start. A chance to step away from the chaos and maybe, just maybe, find some clarity.

Chapter Text

The hangers in the open closet rustled softly, like a symphony of loneliness.

Sam stood frozen in front of them, her jaw dropping as she took in the barren space where Mon's vibrant and eclectic wardrobe used to be. The closet that was once adorned with colorful patterns and fabrics now seemed dull and lifeless, matching Sam's own monochromatic attire. She could almost still hear the jingling of Mon's numerous earrings that always added a touch of whimsy to her outfits. But now, with everything gone, it was as if a part of Mon's free-spirited essence had been sucked out of the room. And Sam couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the sight before her.

With a heavy heart, Sam retreated to the edge of her bed, clutching a lone relic: a bright pink scarf, forgotten amidst the disarray. The bright pink scarf is a stark contrast to the dull and colorless room, a reminder of Mon's boldness and individuality. As Sam presses it to her face, the fabric is soft and well-worn, with slight wrinkles from being forgotten in the closet.

She brought it to her face, inhaling deeply, as though she could summon Mon's very essence from its fibers. The scent of jasmine and citrus, Mon's favorite perfume, still clung faintly to the fabric, transporting Sam back to their stolen moments of bliss.

She recalled the night they had danced in this very room, swaying to the muted strains of a love song playing from Mon's phone. Mon had twirled her, laughing, her eyes sparkling with adoration. "You're so beautiful when you let yourself be free," Mon had whispered, pulling Sam close. In that moment, Sam had felt truly seen, truly loved, for the first time in her life.

The memory stirred something deep within Sam's chest, a longing so profound it threatened to overwhelm her. She clutched the scarf tighter, as if it were a lifeline to those happier times. But the fabric offered no comfort, only serving as a stark reminder of what she had lost.

Sam's gaze drifted to the window, where the Bangkok skyline stretched out before her, a tapestry of lights and shadows. The city pulsed with life, oblivious to her inner turmoil. How many times had she and Mon stood here, arms entwined, dreaming of a future together? Those dreams now seemed as distant and unreachable as the stars that struggled to shine through the city's glow.

"Will I ever find my way back to you?" Sam murmured, her gaze drifting across the empty room. Each piece of furniture seemed to mock her with its stoic silence, a cruel reminder of what she had lost and the suffocating expectations that threatened to engulf her.

"Love is never easy," Mon had once said, her eyes shining with a fierce determination. "But if it's worth fighting for, we'll find a way."

As Sam stared at the barren walls, the weight of family duty and ancestral expectations pressing down upon her, she couldn't help but wonder: would they ever find a way to bridge the chasm that now separated them? Or was their love destined to remain a whispered confession, a fleeting moment of tenderness in a world of unyielding tradition?

In the quiet solitude of that lifeless room, Sam clung to the vibrant pink scarf, as though it were the last vestige of hope in an otherwise despairing existence. And perhaps, just perhaps, it could be.

The silence of the bedroom pressed against her chest, heavy and unyielding. She couldn’t stay here—not amidst the shadows of what once was.

Rising to her feet, she let the scarf slip through her fingers and fall onto the bed, a reluctant surrender. Her steps were slow as she crossed the threshold, the quiet hum of the city outside filtering faintly through the walls.

The transition to the living room felt jarring. The once-vibrant space, filled with Mon’s laughter and their shared moments, now greeted her with a suffocating stillness.

She stood at its threshold, the shadows cast by the fading evening light creating a somber atmosphere that seemed to mirror her own desolation. Her gaze was inexorably drawn to the couch, a once innocuous piece of furniture now imbued with memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

Sam's mind reeled with the memory of their first time, a passionate encounter that left her breathless and dizzy with desire. She could still feel the tender brush of lips against hers, the intoxicating mix of vulnerability and lust that had consumed them both in that stolen moment. The sensation of Mon's lips pressed against hers, the tender brush of fingertips on her cheek, the taste of whiskey lingering on their tongues—it all came flooding back, sharp and vivid as though it had happened only yesterday. But it was the look in Mon's eyes afterward, filled with a love so fierce and unwavering, that had truly struck Sam to her core. For the first time, she had felt seen, understood, and cherished without reservation.

With a heavy sigh, Sam moved towards the couch, her fingers brushing against the cool fabric as she lowered herself onto its cushions.

Her finger gently followed the faded edge of a crimson blotch, a reminder of a time when perfection was expected and flaws were hidden away. But now, thanks to Mon, she embraced the imperfections and cherished the memories they held. The stains no longer represented mistakes, but rather moments of joy and love that could never be erased.

Sam's eyes lingered on that crimson stain, her mind drifting to the night it had appeared. They had been curled up on the couch, Mon's head resting in her lap as they shared a bottle of red wine. Sam had been expressing her concerns about the demands of being a CEO and how she still hadn't reached the goal she set in order to keep the company running, despite her grandmother's insistence. Mon had listened intently, her warm brown eyes filled with empathy and understanding.

"You don't have to be perfect, Sam," Mon had whispered, reaching up to cup Sam's cheek. "Your flaws, your doubts - they're what make you human. They're what make you beautiful."

In that moment, overcome with emotion, Sam had leaned down to kiss Mon. The wine glass, forgotten, had tipped over, spilling its contents onto the pristine white fabric. Sam had jumped up in a panic, frantically trying to clean the stain.

But Mon had gently caught her wrist, stilling her frantic movements. With a soft smile, she had pulled Sam back down onto the couch, enveloping her in a warm embrace.

"Leave it," Mon had murmured, her breath warm against Sam's ear. "It's just a couch. This moment, right here with you, is what matters."

And so they had stayed, wrapped in each other's arms, the spilled wine forgotten. As the night wore on, their whispered conversations had given way to tender caresses and passionate kisses. The stain had set, a permanent reminder of that night when Sam had begun to let go of her need for perfection and embrace the messy, beautiful reality of love.

Now, alone on that same couch, Sam traced the outline of the stain with trembling fingers. The memory of Mon's touch, her warmth, her unconditional acceptance, washed over Sam like a bittersweet wave. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to sink into the depths of remembrance, even as the pain of loss threatened to overwhelm her.

The silence of the apartment, once a comforting respite from the chaos of the outside world, now felt oppressive. Sam found herself straining to hear the echoes of Mon's laughter, the soft padding of her feet across the marble floors, the gentle humming that always accompanied her morning routine. But there was nothing—only the muted sounds of the city beyond her windows and the hollow thud of her own heartbeat.

In that moment, seated on the very couch where their love had first blossomed, Sam couldn't help but be struck by the cruel irony of it all. The walls that once bore witness to their joy and intimacy now loomed over her, a silent testament to the yawning chasm that had opened between them. And in the quiet solitude of her once vibrant home, Sam was forced to confront the stark reality of her life without Mon—an existence devoid of color, warmth, and the simple, unadulterated happiness that had once been her salvation.

The darkness surrounding her seemed to mock her, a constant reminder of how lost she truly felt. She could feel time slipping away, leaving her with no clear path forward. Where do I go from here? It was a question that echoed in her mind, filled with confusion and doubt.

With a sigh, she pushed herself up from the cushions and wandered into the kitchen. The sunlight filtering through the window cast an eerie glow over the countertops, the soft hum of the refrigerator serving as a hollow soundtrack to her loneliness.

Her gaze immediately falling on the chipped coffee cup still sitting by the sink. It was Mon’s favorite—a cheerful pink mug with a small butterfly design near the handle. Its bright hue, now dulled by disuse, was a sharp contrast to the sterile, empty silence of the space.

She reached for it, her fingers brushing the rim, and in an instant, she was transported to one of their lazy Sunday mornings.

“Stop laughing and help me!” Mon had exclaimed, her voice a mix of frustration and amusement. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, flour streaked across her cheeks and down the front of her shirt. A misshapen lump of dough sat on the counter, a testament to her overconfidence in baking without a recipe.

Sam, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re a disaster,” she teased, her tone light and affectionate.

Mon had turned to her then, narrowing her eyes playfully. “And yet,” she said, stepping closer with a mischievous glint, “you still love me.”

Sam had laughed, shaking her head as she reached out to wipe a smear of flour from Mon’s cheek with her thumb. The touch lingered for just a moment too long, their eyes meeting in a quiet, shared moment of intimacy amidst the chaos.

The memory faded, and Sam was left staring at the cup, her chest tightening. The kitchen, once a lively space filled with laughter and the scent of Mon’s experimental cooking, now felt cold and desolate. Even the sound of the refrigerator humming in the background seemed to mock her, a monotonous reminder of how lifeless the room had become.

Sam placed the cup back on the counter, her hand trembling slightly. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and stepped back. The vibrant energy Mon had brought into this space, into her life, was gone, leaving behind only echoes that clung to the corners like ghosts.

The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, had become a tomb—silent and oppressive, filled with the haunting reminders of a life that was no longer hers.

By the doorway, Sam stopped, her gaze landing on the shoe rack. There they were—Mon’s bright pink sneakers, untouched since she’d left. The sight of them was a punch to the chest, a small, stubborn reminder of Mon’s vibrant presence in her life.

Sam knelt down slowly, her fingers brushing against the fabric. The shoes still carried faint smudges from their last outing together—a walk along a muddy park trail that Mon had insisted on taking, despite Sam’s protests about ruining her polished image.

“They’re just shoes,” Mon had said with a laugh, nudging Sam playfully. “A little dirt never killed anyone.”

Sam had grumbled at the time, but secretly, she’d loved the way Mon found joy in the simplest things. Now, the shoes felt like relics of another life, a stubborn reminder of Mon’s defiance and the vibrant energy she had brought into every corner of Sam’s world.

For a moment, Sam considered moving them. Clearing the rack would be practical, orderly. But the thought was unbearable. Leaving them felt like the only way to keep Mon’s presence alive in the sterile void the apartment had become.

The echoes of her grandmother’s voice drifted unbidden into her mind as she stood.

“Family comes first, Sam. Always.”

It was the mantra of the Anuntrakul family, drilled into her since childhood. Every decision, every step she took, was weighed against the expectations of a lineage that demanded perfection and tradition.

When she’d fallen for Mon, she’d believed her love might be enough to sway her grandmother. She had envisioned a future where the strength of her feelings could outweigh the rigid demands of duty.

But the engagement to Kirk had shattered that hope. It wasn’t a choice—it was a chain, forged long before she’d even met Mon. Her grandmother’s expectations were immovable, like the walls of the apartment that now felt more like a prison than a home.

Sam clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as the realization sank deeper. She had been naïve to think love could conquer everything.

The weight of it all finally brought her to the window, where she gazed out at the bustling streets of Bangkok. The city moved on, vibrant and alive, a stark contrast to the stillness that had taken root in her life.

She watched as the neon lights blurred into the darkness, the hum of the city a distant backdrop to her thoughts. Without Mon, her world felt muted, its vibrancy stripped away. But amidst the quiet despair, something stirred—a flicker of determination.

If the city could keep moving, maybe she could too. Maybe she could find her way back to the life she truly wanted—the one she had let slip through her fingers.'

A shaky breath escaped her lips, and for the first time in days, she whispered into the silence, “Mon.”

The name lingered in the air, a delicate wisp of sound that seemed to reverberate through the empty apartment. Sam closed her eyes, allowing the echo of Mon's name to wash over her, a bittersweet balm to her aching heart. For a moment, she could almost believe that uttering those three letters would summon Mon back to her side, filling the hollow spaces with her warmth and laughter once more.

But reality crashed back upon her with merciless force. The silence remained unbroken, save for the distant hum of Bangkok traffic filtering through the windows.

A war raged within her, duty and desire locked in a relentless struggle. The weight of generations pressed down upon her shoulders, a mantle of expectation she had worn for so long it felt fused to her skin.

Sam dragged herself toward the bedroom, her limbs heavy with the weight of the day’s memories. The apartment seemed to stretch endlessly around her, the echoes of her own footsteps the only sound accompanying her. Each step felt like trudging through thick mud, her body betraying the exhaustion that pressed down on her like a lead blanket.

When she reached the bed, it loomed large before her, far too vast for one person. The neatly tucked sheets and pillows, untouched since that morning, only added to the sterile coldness of the space. She crawled under the covers, her fingers brushing against the edges of the mattress as if to search for a presence that wasn’t there.

Without Mon, the bed felt impossibly big, its emptiness magnified by the silence that filled the room. Sam turned onto her side, staring at the pillow Mon had once claimed as hers. She could almost see the faint imprint of her head, and hear the soft, uneven snores that had once filled the darkness with life.

Sam had always teased Mon about her snoring. “You sound like a train,” she’d said once, only to be met with Mon’s sleepy smile and a playful, “And yet, you still love me.”

Now, the silence was deafening, a stark reminder of how hollow the space had become without her. Sam reached for the pink scarf lying on the bed beside her, clutching it tightly to her chest. She buried her face in its soft fabric, inhaling the faint traces of Mon’s perfume that still lingered. It wasn’t enough, but it was all she had.

As her eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion finally overtaking her, Sam whispered into the quiet, “I miss you.”

The words dissolved into the stillness as sleep claimed her, the scarf held firmly in her grasp like a lifeline. The bed was cold, the space beside her untouched, but for the first time that night, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

Sam stirred from sleep, her head still heavy from the emotional exhaustion that had weighed her down the night before. The muffled buzzing of her phone, persistent and relentless, dragged her from the fragile cocoon of slumber. She blinked into the dim light of the room, disoriented, the scarf still clutched tightly in her hands.

Her phone sat on the nightstand, its screen glowing faintly. She reached for it hesitantly, her stomach twisting with a familiar dread. The name on the screen confirmed her worst fear: Grandmother.

Sam let the phone buzz, its vibrations rattling against the wood. She could picture her grandmother sitting at her desk, her expression composed but her tone sharp and unwavering. The call wasn’t just about catching up; it was about arrangements .

The wedding to Kirk loomed closer with every passing day, and Sam knew this call would be filled with expectations, reminders, and plans she had no intention of fulfilling.

The buzzing stopped, and for a brief moment, there was silence. Then it started again, the sound cutting through the room like a knife. She turned the phone over, letting it face the bed, and pressed her hands to her temples.

The ringing stopped, only to be replaced by the soft ping of a text message. Sam didn’t need to check to know who it was. Her grandmother would follow up with a carefully worded message, reminding her of her duties and the importance of family.

The silence was short-lived. Another name flashed on the screen, this time Kirk . Sam groaned softly, pressing her face into her hands. Kirk’s calls were always measured, his voice calm and even, as though he were trying to soothe an irrational child.

She imagined what he would say. “Just checking in, Sam. Have you spoken to your grandmother? She mentioned you haven’t finalized the guest list yet. Let’s get together soon to discuss the details.”

Sam didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She let the phone buzz until it stopped, leaving a small pile of missed notifications to join the growing list.

The quiet didn’t last long. A series of texts began pouring in, one after another, the soft chime punctuating the stillness of the room.

Her friends.

Sam finally picked up the phone, not to respond, but to read.

[Jim]: Hey, you okay? Haven’t heard from you in a while.

[Kade]: How’s it going?

[Tee]: Need a break? Let’s grab lunch sometime. My treat!

Each message felt like a small, well-meaning jab to her already fragile state. She didn’t respond to any of them, her fingers hovering over the keyboard before locking the phone and tossing it back onto the nightstand.

She leaned back against the headboard, the room closing in around her. There were no texts from Mon, of course. There never would be. But still, she had hoped. A tiny, foolish part of her had wished for a message, a sign, even though she knew better.

Sam stared at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing down on her. With each ignored call and unanswered text, the isolation wrapped tighter around her like a vice. The walls of her apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage.

What was she doing?

She had spent so much time convincing herself that this life—the one built on duty and family expectations—was worth the sacrifices. She had told herself that love could wait, that Mon could wait, and that she would find a way to make it all work.

Sam had lost Mon, and it was all her fault for not speaking up sooner. She had let fear and insecurity control her, and now she was left with a gaping hole in her heart. The thought of having Mon as a ‘mistress’ had seemed like the perfect solution to their problems at first, but now Sam couldn't help but feel like an idiot. How could she have been so naive? She longed for Mon's presence by her side, yet at the same time, she was angry at herself for not standing up for her own desires. Now, she was left struggling to make sense of a life that felt incomplete without Mon.

The phone buzzed again, and Sam flinched, the sound grating against her frayed nerves. She reached for it impulsively, her finger hovering over the screen, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she watched as her grandmother’s name disappeared, replaced by yet another text notification.

Her reflection stared back at her from the black screen, and she barely recognized the woman she saw. Her heart, long silenced by duty and tradition, began to whisper truths she could no longer ignore.

You can’t keep living like this.

The thought struck her like a thunderclap. She couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine, couldn’t keep shouldering the weight of expectations that weren’t hers to bear.

Without Mon, this life felt hollow, devoid of meaning. The things she had once valued—her career, her family’s approval, the meticulously curated image of perfection—now felt like chains, binding her to a version of herself that no longer existed.

Sam’s breathing quickened as the realization took hold. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest, trying to ground herself. She couldn’t go on like this. Not without Mon.

Her mind replayed Mon’s laughter, the way her presence had filled every corner of Sam’s world with light and color. Mon had been her anchor, her partner, her reason for believing that love was possible even in the face of tradition’s iron grip.

Tears pricked at her eyes, spilling over as she whispered into the silence, “I can’t do this without you.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and raw, but they carried a weight that she could no longer ignore.

Sam wiped her cheeks, her heart pounding as the whispers in her mind grew louder. For so long, she had silenced them, burying her desires beneath layers of duty and propriety. But now, they demanded to be heard.

You have to choose yourself. Choose Mon.

As terrifying as it was, she couldn't deny the quiet resolve that filled her. She had spent years living for her grandmother's expectations, but now she knew she needed to start living for herself. The thought of breaking away from her family's wishes was both exhilarating and heart-wrenching, but she knew deep down it was something she had to do.

It was a daunting decision to make. Facing her grandmother's disapproval would be like walking through a never-ending storm, and Kirk's composed front would inevitably crumble. But what other choice did she have? To live a mundane existence, devoid of love and purpose?

Sam took a deep breath, her mind reeling with uncertainty. She wasn't sure of the next steps to take, but she knew one thing for sure: she couldn't keep living in denial. The thought of facing the truth terrified her, yet she couldn't continue to hide and pretend everything was fine.

Her phone buzzed again, its relentless vibration like a pulse against the silence. She didn’t flinch this time. Instead, she let it hum on the nightstand, her gaze fixed on the scarf still lying on the bed beside her. She reached for it, fingers brushing the soft fabric, and pressed it to her chest.

The faint trace of Mon’s perfume was barely there now, but it was enough. Enough to pull her into a memory, vivid and inescapable.

They had been lying together, tangled beneath the sheets, sunlight filtering through the curtains. Mon had rolled over, her face inches from Sam’s, her voice groggy but soft as she murmured, “I wanna see you there when I wake up. Every morning. Forever.”

Sam had smiled, her fingers brushing Mon’s cheek. “Forever is a long time.”

“Not with you,” Mon replied, her grin sleepy but radiant. “Cupid didn’t know what he was making, Teerak .”

Sam had laughed then, but the words had stayed with her. Even now, in the quiet solitude of her room, they echoed in her mind—a reminder of what she had once been so sure of.

Mon’s voice, so soft and full of conviction, came back to her. “Match made in heaven,” she’d said, her lips brushing against Sam’s temple. “Don’t you think? Or did Cupid just get lucky?”

“Definitely lucky,” Sam had teased, wrapping her arms around Mon and pulling her closer.

But Mon had pulled back just enough to look at her, her expression shifting to something serious. “I’m serious, Sam. You’re it for me. No question. No doubts. And no matter what anyone else thinks…”

Sam had pressed a kiss to her forehead, silencing her. “I know,” she had whispered. “You’re it for me too.”

Now, as she sat alone in the dim light of her room, those words felt like a distant echo. She clutched the scarf tighter, her chest aching with the weight of everything they had lost.

Mon had been her match made in heaven, no matter how imperfect the world around them had been. And yet, even heaven hadn’t been enough to protect them from the forces pulling them apart.

Sam closed her eyes, letting the memory fade. The silence of the room was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of her phone vibrating again. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t care who it was. No one could reach her now, not when her heart was so irrevocably tied to the person who wouldn’t call.

“Cupid didn’t know what he was doing to me,” she whispered into the darkness, her voice trembling. “Don’t let her be taken from me.”

The words hung in the air, fragile yet defiant. And for a fleeting moment, amidst the quiet chaos of her thoughts, Sam felt the faintest flicker of hope.

For the first time in weeks, Sam allowed herself to truly feel the depth of her love for Mon, letting it wash over her like a warm, cleansing rain.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn brushed against the horizon, spilling through the kitchen window in soft, shifting hues. Mon’s fingers curled tightly around her ceramic mug, the faint warmth bleeding into her palms, grounding her against the stillness of the morning. Across the table, her mother sat quietly, her gaze steady but tinged with unshed tears. The silence between them was heavy, laden with the weight of unspoken words.

Mon’s thoughts drifted to the mornings she had shared with Khun Sam, a routine so seamless it had felt like second nature. She could still picture Khun Sam moving through the kitchen with effortless grace, her hair damp from a quick shower, the scent of her favorite coffee mingling with the crisp morning air. They worked in sync—Khun Sam would pour the coffee while Mon buttered toast, their movements a silent conversation. Those mornings had been their haven, a quiet moment to themselves before the chaos of the day intruded.

Now, the memory felt like a weight pressing against her chest, the ache of Khun Sam’s absence fresh and unrelenting. Mon’s gaze dropped to her mug, her grip tightening as though holding onto the past could anchor her. The gentle tick of the clock broke through the quiet, its steady rhythm a reminder of the present.

“I wish you could stay, my dear,” her mother said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion beneath it. “But more than anything, I hope your heart finds peace.”

The words wrapped around Mon like a familiar shawl, comforting and bittersweet. It was a love rich with years of shared laughter and quiet moments, woven together with threads of motherly wisdom and unwavering support. Her mother’s calloused hands cradled hers, steady and grounding.

Locking eyes with her daughter, she spoke in a gentle yet firm tone. "Remember, Mon, no matter what challenges you face in life, always follow your heart. It will guide you through even the most uncertain paths."

A lump formed in Mon’s throat, and she nodded, her mother’s words sinking deep into her core. The memory of afternoons in this kitchen—a place filled with the scent of jasmine tea and quiet guidance—surfaced instinctively, mingling with her mother’s steady warmth. Yet the thought of leaving weighed heavily, each beat of silence amplifying the enormity of what lay ahead.

"I'll try, Mae," Mon whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just... I don't know if I'm strong enough."

Her mother's eyes softened, the corners crinkling with a mixture of love and sorrow. "Strength isn't always about standing firm, my dear. Sometimes, it's about allowing yourself to bend with the wind." She reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Mon's ear, her touch as light as a butterfly's wing.

"I named you Kornkamon because it means 'strong' and 'resilient'—a beautiful strength, full of grace," her mother continued, her voice steady yet tender. "It wasn’t just a name, Mon. It was a wish, a promise, and a belief that no matter what life threw at you, you would find the strength to endure and the grace to rise."

Her hand lingered for a moment, a silent reassurance. "You have more strength than you know, Kornkamon. It's there, waiting for you to embrace it."

"But what if I've bent too far?" Mon whispered, her voice barely audible. "What if I've lost my shape entirely?"

Her mother's hand found Mon's cheek, thumb brushing away an errant tear. "Then you reshape yourself, my love. Like clay in the potter's hands, you mold yourself anew."

Mon closed her eyes, letting her mother's words wash over her. The clock’s gentle tick and Bangkok’s distant hum filled the silence. In that moment of stillness, Mon felt the weight of her decision press upon her - the choice to leave behind all she knew, to seek refuge in her father's London home.

Her mother shifted in her chair, reaching for the teapot she had prepared earlier. With practiced ease, she poured more tea into Mon’s cup, the delicate aroma of jasmine swirling in the air—a comforting reminder of the home Mon was preparing to leave behind.

Mon's gaze fell to her hands, remembering the feel of Sam's fingers intertwined with her own, the softness of her skin, the strength in her grip. She could almost hear the low timbre of Khun Sam's laugh, see the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled—truly smiled, not the mask she wore for clients and colleagues.

"I thought..." Mon's voice trailed off, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. She took a sip of tea, its warmth a fleeting comfort against the chill of her sorrow. Her mother waited patiently, her presence a silent anchor in the storm of Mon's emotions.

"I thought we could overcome anything," Mon finally whispered, her words barely audible. "That our love was enough to weather any storm."

Her mother's delicate hand found hers across the table, her fingers lacing through Mon's as if they were holding on for dear life. Her eyes were filled with a deep understanding as she squeezed Mon's hand, a silent message passing between them.

"Love is powerful, my dear," her mother said, her voice soft and soothing. "But it's not always simple."

Mon closed her eyes, taking in the warmth of her mother's words. They reminded her of the larger story between her and Sam. It was a tapestry of stolen glances, shared laughter, and whispered promises. It was the way Khun Sam's brown eyes softened when they were alone, the gentle caress of her fingers against Mon's skin, and the tender moments of vulnerability that no one else was allowed to see.

But beneath all of that was the weight of expectation that hung heavy on Khun Sam's shoulders. Mon knew the pressure that came with being from a prestigious family like Khun Sam's. They had created their own little world within the chaos of expectations and duty.

In those moments, Mon had felt invincible, certain that their love could conquer any obstacle. But as time went by, she couldn't ignore the invisible chains of duty that bound Khun Sam to a path not of her own choosing. And in those moments, their love was tested in ways she never thought possible.

The automated announcement welcoming passengers to Heathrow crackled over the intercom, jolting Mon from her thoughts. The airport’s cool efficiency—its steady stream of hurried travelers and sharp English accents—stood in stark contrast to Bangkok’s lively chaos, and for a moment, Mon felt utterly displaced.

Her feet carried her forward mechanically, navigating the terminal with a sense of detachment, as though she were a spectator in her own life.

Her heart, weighed down by the fragmented pieces of a love story shattered by reality, still beat with a quiet rhythm. It was faint, but it was there—a reminder that life continued, even in the wake of heartbreak.

She paused briefly, standing still amidst the constant movement, surrounded by strangers with their own stories and destinations. A disconnection settled over her, a liminal state caught between the familiarity of her past and the uncertainty of her future.

Every step toward the arrivals hall felt like walking through the labyrinth of her own thoughts. She could almost feel herself letting go piece by piece—of the dreams she once held, of the comfort of the life she’d known—and preparing for the unknown that lay ahead.

As the crowd jostled around her, Mon caught sight of a familiar figure. Her father stood near the arrivals hall, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning the crowd. When their gazes met, his gentle smile broke through the haze of exhaustion, and Mon felt herself moving toward him before she even realized it.

Relief surged through her, swiftly followed by an overwhelming wave of exhaustion that threatened to bring her to her knees.

"Dad," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the din of the airport.

He opened his arms without hesitation, and Mon stepped into his embrace, her body sagging against him as though surrendering the weight she’d carried all this time. His arms wrapped around her securely, grounding her in a way she hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that felt like warmth spreading through her chest.

As they pulled apart, Mon caught the concern etched into his face, the faint lines that deepened when he looked at her. Without a word, he reached for her suitcase, his hand brushing hers in a silent gesture of reassurance.

“Let’s get you home,” he said gently, his tone steady and calm.

Mon nodded, unable to speak past the lump forming in her throat. She followed him toward the exit, her steps slow and uncertain, but her father’s presence a steadying anchor. As they made their way to the car, Mon leaned ever so slightly into his quiet strength, grateful for the comfort he offered without question.

The drive home passed in a blur of streets and landmarks, some familiar and others just faint echoes of summers and holidays spent in London. Mon gazed out the window, the sprawling cityscape unfolding before her in a mix of nostalgia and detachment. The winding streets, the brick facades, and the occasional red double-decker bus stirred memories of carefree vacations—days spent exploring parks, museums, and bustling markets with her father.

But the familiarity didn’t bring the comfort she hoped it might. Instead, it only deepened the ache of realizing how far she’d drifted from those simpler times. The city had once felt like an adventure, a place where her world expanded. Now, it was merely the backdrop for her uncertain future, a reminder of how much had changed.

Her father’s voice broke through the quiet, a steady stream of local updates and small anecdotes as he navigated the busy streets. “That bookstore on High Street closed down last year,” he mentioned with a hint of wistfulness. “But there’s a new café that’s quite good—I think you’ll like it.”

Mon nodded faintly, her gaze lingering on the passing scenery. The cadence of his words blended with the hum of the car, grounding her amidst the storm of her thoughts. His voice was a steadying presence, one that reminded her she wasn’t completely untethered, even as her life felt like it was shifting beneath her feet.

The familiar bridge over the Thames came into view, the river glinting under the late afternoon sun. Mon let out a slow breath, the weight in her chest still present but softened slightly by her father’s quiet, comforting strength. Though the road ahead felt daunting, at least for now, she wasn’t facing it alone.

As the car turned into a quieter street, the familiar facade of her father’s home came into view. The house hadn’t changed much since the last time Mon visited. Its ivy-covered walls and small, manicured garden were exactly as she remembered, a snapshot of stability amidst the chaos of her life. Yet stepping back into this world felt strange as if she were seeing it through a lens clouded by the weight of everything she’d left behind.

Her father parked the car and stepped out, grabbing her suitcase from the trunk before Mon could reach for it. She followed him up the stone path to the front door, the soft click of her shoes on the pavement echoing in the quiet neighborhood.

Inside, the house smelled the same—an inviting blend of polished wood, fresh flowers, and something faintly citrusy, like the cleaning products her father had used for as long as she could remember. The familiar warmth of the place wrapped around her like a well-worn blanket, tugging at memories of cozy winters and lively summer dinners.

“I’ve kept your old room ready,” her father said, leading her up the staircase. His voice was casual, but the care behind it wasn’t lost on Mon. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I left everything as it was.”

Mon nodded, managing a small smile as they reached the door to her room. It opened with a faint creak, revealing the space she had once called hers during her visits. The walls were still painted a soft cream, the bed neatly made with the same floral duvet she’d picked out years ago. Her bookshelf held the novels and knickknacks she’d collected during her childhood holidays, untouched but not forgotten.

Her father placed the suitcase gently by the bed, giving her a moment to take it all in. “I’ll let you settle,” he said softly, lingering in the doorway. “If you need anything, just call.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Mon said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind him. Mon stood in the center of the room, the silence enveloping her. The weight of her journey, both literal and emotional, pressed down on her, and for a moment, she simply stood there, unsure of what to do next.

Finally, she moved to the window, pulling back the sheer curtains to look out at the quiet street below. The golden light of late afternoon bathed the neighborhood in a serene glow, and she let out a long, unsteady breath. This was her new beginning, she reminded herself—a chance to find clarity, to rebuild, to rediscover the strength her mother had assured her she had.

But even as she tried to focus on the promise of what lay ahead, her thoughts drifted back to Bangkok, to the kitchen with her mother, and to Khun Sam. The ache in her chest returned, sharp and unyielding. Mon closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass, letting the emotions wash over her. For now, all she could do was let herself feel—grieve what was lost and slowly, piece by piece, find her way forward.

Mon lingered at the window a moment longer, staring at the quiet street below. The ache in her chest returned, a dull but persistent thrum, like a wound that refused to heal. She moved to the window, resting her forehead against the cool glass, letting the emotions crash over her like waves. The loss was raw, heavy, and unavoidable, but Mon allowed herself to feel it. Grief, she knew, was the only way forward, no matter how much it hurt.

Eventually, she turned to unpack, her movements deliberate, as though each item might anchor her in this unfamiliar space. Each item she unpacked carried echoes of a life she was leaving behind—but with each placement, she felt the faintest hint of something new taking shape.

Her fingers brushed against the soft fabric of a familiar sweater, and a memory surfaced involuntarily: Khun Sam’s arms around her on a chilly evening, the gentle press of her lips against Mon’s temple, the sound of their shared laughter echoing softly. The ache deepened, and Mon clutched the sweater tightly to her chest, inhaling as if searching for any lingering trace of Khun Sam’s presence.

The light outside faded, the room growing dim and painted in muted twilight. Mon sat on the edge of the bed, the half-unpacked suitcase beside her, the sweater still pressed to her chest. Time felt suspended as she sat there, letting herself be carried by the tide of memories. Yet, after a moment, she forced herself to move again, each item pulled from her suitcase a step closer to grounding herself in the present.

At the bottom of the suitcase, her fingers found something cool and metallic. Her heart clenched as she pulled out the charm bracelet, its delicate silver chain catching the soft glow of the lamp. The heart-shaped charm dangled before her eyes, heavy with memory and meaning. Mon’s throat tightened as she held it in her palm, the bracelet impossibly light yet weighted with the love and promises it symbolized.

Her fingers faltered, and the bracelet slipped, landing softly on the carpet. The silver links formed a coiled shape, and the heart-shaped charm refracted the light in broken beams. Mon stared at it, her vision blurring as tears welled up. She reached down, cradling the bracelet as though it were something fragile, her fingers trembling as she held it close.

Frantically, she began rummaging through her suitcase, clothes, and toiletries scattering in her urgency, until her hands found a small, plastic ring. Its garish pink stood starkly against her belongings, and Mon let out a shaky breath as the memory surfaced. The impromptu "wedding" at Cher and Risa’s hotel felt as vivid as yesterday—Khun Sam’s rare, uninhibited laughter ringing in her ears, the silly exchange of vows that had filled her heart to bursting. In that moment, with that ridiculous token of love, Mon had never felt more whole.

But now, the bracelet and ring felt unbearably heavy in her hands. Symbols of love and joy that had once defined her life were now reminders of everything she had lost. She stared at them, the weight of their significance pressing down on her chest. The question of how they had ended up here—broken, apart—hung in her mind, unanswered and unrelenting.

With a deep breath, Mon stood and walked to the dresser. She opened the top drawer, her fingers trembled as she placed the bracelet and ring inside—a painful but necessary act of letting go.

"Not today," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can’t... not yet."

The drawer clicked softly as she closed it, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Sliding the bracelet and ring into the drawer felt like pressing pause on a story she wasn’t ready to finish. For now, they would rest, safely hidden away from the weight of her grief.

But as the drawer clicked closed, a strange sense of lightness followed—a small space opening where the heaviness had been, as if she was finally making room for something new.

Mon caught her reflection in the mirror—her tired eyes, her slumped shoulders—and paused. This was her, raw and unguarded. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the glass as though trying to connect with the person she used to be.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence, and Mon looked up as her father stepped inside, a steaming mug of tea in his hands. The comforting aroma of Earl Grey filled the room as he placed it gently on the nightstand. He didn’t say anything at first, settling beside her on the bed with the ease of someone who knew when words weren’t needed. His presence alone was a balm to the unease simmering within her.

“I remember when you were little,” he began after a moment, his voice low and thoughtful. “You’d sit right here and tell me all about your dreams for the future. You had this certainty about you, this unstoppable belief that you could do anything.”

Mon felt her throat tighten as the memory unfolded between them. She leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder, the weight of her recent losses pressing harder. The dreams she had shared with Khun Sam, the life they had imagined together, felt like they had slipped through her fingers like sand.

“I don’t know who I am anymore, Dad,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Everything I thought I wanted, everything I thought I knew about myself—it’s gone. It’s like... I’m not me anymore.”

Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his touch steady and grounding. “You’re still you, Mon,’ he said, his voice firm but kind. ‘Maybe you’re feeling a little lost right now, but that doesn’t mean you’re gone. You’ll find your way back. And if you need help, well, that’s what I’m here for.”

They sat together in silence as the room darkened, the last light of the day fading into the deep blue of evening. Mon reached for the tea, the warmth of the mug against her hands a small comfort amid her turmoil. She sipped slowly, her father’s words a quiet anchor in her storm of emotions.

When he finally stood, he pressed a soft kiss to her temple before heading downstairs, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She turned back to her suitcase, her hands steady as she unpacked. Each item she placed in its new home felt like laying a stone on a path she wasn’t sure where it led—but at least it was a path forward.

A soft knock at the door pulled Mon from her thoughts. “Mon?” her father called gently, his voice laced with concern. “Dinner’s ready, if you feel like gracing me with your company.”

She managed a faint smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. “I’ll be down in a minute, Dad,” she replied, her voice hoarse from disuse.

As his footsteps retreated, Mon glanced once more at the closed drawer where the bracelet and ring now rested. With a sigh that felt heavier than it should, she turned away and made her way to the door. Each step was slow, her body reluctant to leave the cocoon of her grief, but the promise of her father’s warmth drew her forward.

The scent of shepherd’s pie greeted her as she descended the stairs, rich and familiar. In the dining room, the table was set with meticulous care—gleaming silverware, neatly folded napkins, and a vase of flowers that looked suspiciously like they’d been hastily plucked from the garden. Mon’s lips twitched at the thought of her father hovering over the flower bed, trying to pick the “right” ones.

“It smells wonderful, Dad,” she said as she sat down, managing a weak but genuine smile.

“Of course it does,” he replied with mock indignation, serving her a generous portion. “It’s your grandmother’s recipe, perfected by yours truly. You’re looking at years of culinary genius right here.”

Mon let out a small, surprised laugh. “Years of culinary genius, huh? Is that what you call accidentally substituting salt for sugar in a pie?”

Her father placed a hand over his heart in feigned offense. “That was one time, and I was under duress. Your grandmother was very persuasive when it came to peeling potatoes.”

Mon’s laughter bubbled up again, a sound she hadn’t realized she missed. Her father smiled, clearly pleased to see her spirits lifting, even if only for a moment.

“I thought you could use some comfort food,” he said, softening. “If you’re going to mope, at least do it properly—with a plate of shepherd’s pie. It’s tradition, after all, like you pretending my cooking isn’t half bad”

The warm, savory smell of the pie reminded her of happier times when family gatherings filled the room with laughter and love. She hesitated before taking a bite, feeling a rush of emotions flood her chest.

“I’m not sure even grandma's pie can fix this,” she murmured.

Her father nodded, his humor giving way to gentle understanding. “No, probably not,” he admitted. “But it might make it a little easier to bear. And if not, at least you’ll be too full to cry for a while.”

Mon chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You have a point.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the steady rhythm of forks and knives filling the room. Finally, her father cleared his throat. “Mon,” he began gently, “I know you’re hurting. And I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything—whenever you’re ready. No rush.”

Her throat tightened, and she stared down at her plate. The kindness in his voice was almost too much, threatening to unravel her fragile composure. “Dad,” she said softly, “I thought I understood love.”

He leaned back slightly, his expression shifting to one of open curiosity. “I think we all do—right up until we don’t. What happened?”

Mon hesitated before speaking, her voice trembling. “Being with Khun Sam was… intense. It was like being swept up in a hurricane. Everything felt alive and electric like she truly saw me. But now it’s gone, and I feel… lost.”

Her father nodded thoughtfully, his face a mixture of empathy and humor. “Ah, hurricanes. Beautiful, thrilling, and guaranteed to leave a mess in their wake. Love can be like that.”

Mon managed a small laugh through her tears. “That’s… not the worst analogy.”

“See? Culinary genius and poetic wisdom—I’m the full package,” he said with a playful grin, earning another laugh from Mon.

Her laughter faded, and she leaned forward, her voice small and hesitant. “How do I find my way back, Dad?”

“You don’t,” he said simply, reaching across the table to place a comforting hand over hers. “You find your way forward. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll chart a whole new course together.”

The sincerity in his words settled over her like a balm. She didn’t feel whole—far from it—but for the first time in weeks, she felt the faintest spark of hope. Healing wouldn’t be easy, but maybe, just maybe, it was possible.

The night passed in fragmented stretches of uneasy sleep for Mon, punctuated by frequent moments of wakefulness. Each time her eyes opened, they wandered to the unfamiliar patterns of shadow on the ceiling of her childhood room—shapes she hadn’t seen in years.

When dawn finally broke, casting soft hues of lavender and gold across the sky, Mon surrendered to the morning light. The gentle chirping of London sparrows filtered through the window, their delicate calls a world apart from the vibrant cacophony of Bangkok’s tropical birds.

For a while, she remained still, letting her senses adjust. The crisp sheets carried a faint hint of lavender from her father’s detergent, cool against her skin as she slowly stirred awake. The room was suffused with a muted, diffused light, so unlike the sharp brightness that flooded Thai mornings. Everything about the moment felt quiet and subdued, as though the world was offering her a fragile reprieve.

Slowly, Mon pushed herself upright, her body heavy with the lingering weight of jet lag and emotional exhaustion. She crossed the room on bare feet, her movements quiet, and pulled back the curtains. The view of the quaint, tree-lined street below greeted her, bathed in the soft glow of early morning. The neighborhood stirred gently, its pace unhurried, a stark contrast to the relentless energy of Bangkok mornings.

For a moment, she stood there, taking it in. The quiet streets outside seemed at odds with the storm swirling inside her. The stillness felt almost mocking, a reminder that the world moved on even when hers felt stuck in place.

The familiar creak of the old wooden stairs seemed to groan in welcome as Mon made her way to the kitchen. There, she found a note propped against a mug of tea, now lukewarm at best. Her father’s familiar handwriting brought a flicker of warmth to her chest.

“Mon,
I’m sorry I couldn’t be here when you woke—work called. There’s fresh bread and jam in the pantry, and I promise it’s not the stale stuff I usually keep for emergencies. I’ve left some pocket money on the counter—spend it wisely, or recklessly, I won’t judge. London’s waiting to be rediscovered, and so is your appetite.
Love, Dad.
P.S. If the tea’s too strong, don’t complain—it’s character-building.”

Mon couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her. The humor in the note, so quintessentially her father, tugged at her heartstrings in a way that felt both comforting and bittersweet. Picking up the mug, she inhaled the familiar scent of Earl Grey and let the steam curl around her face. The warmth was grounding, a small but meaningful comfort.

Mon leaned against the window frame, the early morning light casting soft shadows on the street below. A cyclist zipped past, their bright jacket a flash of color against the gray. The hum of the city waking up felt distant, like a melody she was no longer part of but couldn’t help but notice.

Mon’s thoughts drifted inevitably back to Bangkok, to the quiet, cherished mornings she had spent with Khun Sam. Those moments, stolen before the day began, had felt sacred. She could still picture Khun Sam’s sleep-soft smile, her hair a tousled mess catching the first rays of sunlight. The memory of Khun Sam’s arms encircling her from behind, her lips pressing a tender kiss to Mon’s neck in a wordless good morning, was so vivid it made her chest tighten.

Mon gripped the edge of the windowsill, the cool glass grounding her for a fleeting moment. She exhaled slowly, willing the memory to fade, but it lingered like an unwelcome shadow.

With a sigh, she turned from the window, her gaze falling on the folded bills her father had left on the counter, held down by a small, decorative paperweight. The quiet thoughtfulness behind the gesture brought a fresh wave of emotion. She was grateful for his support, yet it only highlighted how different this homecoming was from what she had once imagined for herself.

Mon’s fingers hovered over the money, the thought of retreating back to bed tempting her. But her father’s note—with its cheeky reminder about ‘character-building tea’—nudged her toward the door, pulling a faint smile from her lips. Outside, London waited—familiar yet strange, filled with echoes of carefree summers and the promise of new beginnings.

Mon inhaled deeply, steeling herself. She moved to her room, dressing quickly, the rhythm of the routine a grounding force amidst the uncertainty swirling within her. Each movement felt deliberate, though the knot in her chest refused to loosen.

At the front door, she paused, her hand resting on the cool metal of the doorknob. The world outside loomed vast and uncertain, its enormity intimidating. The safety of her childhood home called to her, offering an escape from the unfamiliarity of what lay ahead. But in the quiet, she could hear her mother’s voice in her mind, calm and sure, as if speaking directly to her.

“You can do this,” Mon whispered, echoing the words that had bolstered her so many times before. With a deep breath, she opened the door to the crisp London morning. Each step felt tentative but necessary, a reminder that moving forward didn’t have to mean leaving everything behind.

London sprawled out before Mon, a maze of unfamiliar streets teeming with faces that didn’t know her. She drifted through the crowd, finding a strange comfort in the anonymity of it all. There was no one here with expectations, no one who knew her past or her pain. Her eyes skimmed over faces, their expressions fleeting and unknown, a quiet release from the weight of recognition.

The realization was bittersweet. Her world, once vast and brimming with potential, had shrunk to the dimensions of her grief. And yet, in the expanse of this sprawling city, she felt a faint glimmer of possibility—an inkling that she might find space here to heal, to redefine herself.

Mon stopped at a viewpoint, her breath catching as she took in the cityscape. London sprawled out before her, its gray hues and historic charm a stark contrast to the glittering, chaotic skyline of Bangkok. It was beautiful in its own way—calmer, quieter. Instinctively, she pulled out her phone and snapped a photo, framing the rooftops and distant spires against the pale morning light.

Her fingers moved almost automatically, opening Instagram. She selected the photo and began editing, adjusting the brightness and adding a subtle filter to bring out the muted colors of the scene. A caption started to form in her mind—something reflective, just vague enough not to reveal too much.

As Mon’s mind wandered, she couldn’t help but think of Khun Sam. Would she see it? Probably not. Khun Sam wasn’t one for social media, her accounts existing mostly for work and occasionally showcasing sleek, polished content for Diversity’s campaigns—content that was, more often than not, curated by Kade.

Her personal Facebook wasn’t much better. With only four friends—Tee, Jim, Kade, and Mon—it was practically a digital ghost town. The rare posts Khun Sam did make were either hilariously awkward or downright infamous, like the infamous “Wanna suck mouth?” post or the bold (and slightly mortifying) “Bragging. I did it with Mon” update. Mon couldn’t help but laugh at the memory, shaking her head at Khun Sam’s complete lack of online finesse.

Even so, Mon doubted Khun Sam ever scrolled through feeds or watched stories unless it had something to do with business. The odds of her stumbling across this post were slim to none. Yet, despite the improbability, the idea gave Mon pause, her thumb hovering over the "Post" button as she debated whether to share this small piece of her life.

The cool autumn breeze cut through Mon's cheeks as she quickly darted into a quaint café, its fogged windows offering a glimpse of warmth in the otherwise dreary streets of London. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and buttery pastries welcomed her, enveloping her in a sense of comfort that contrasted with the unfamiliarity of the city.

Mon settled into her booth, the latte cradled between her hands as her phone buzzed. Yuki’s name flashed on the screen. She opened the message, already bracing herself.

Yuki: "How’s London? Found anything edible yet, or are you living on tea and sadness? You know the British conquered the world for spices but refused to use any of them."

Mon huffed a laugh, her lips curving into the faintest smile. She typed back quickly.

Mon: "Tea and sadness. How’d you guess?"

Yuki: "Because I know you. And because you’re dramatic. Eat something with flavor, please. Your soul is depending on it."

Mon: "I’m trying. It’s harder than I thought. Everything feels so… heavy."

Yuki’s reply came almost instantly.

Yuki: "Of course it’s hard. But if anyone can handle London’s weather and heartbreak, it’s you. London’s got terrible food, great bookstores, and even better people-watching. Stick to the bookstores and avoid anything labeled ‘traditional.’ You’ll thank me."

Mon: "Fine. But if I eat something awful, I’m sending you a detailed review."

Yuki: "Do it. I’ll add it to my ‘Reasons to Never Visit London’ list. Take care of yourself, okay? And call me."

Mon stared at the screen for a moment, warmth blooming in her chest. Even from a distance, Yuki had a way of making her feel supported. "I will," she typed back, then set her phone down with a small smile.

As she set her phone down, her gaze wandered to the window. Outside, a couple strolled hand-in-hand, their soft laughter and quiet conversation carried by the breeze. The sight struck something sharp within her—a pang of longing mixed with bittersweet ache. Nearby, a group of friends laughed together at a table, their joy an unintentional contrast to the weight Mon carried.

Without thinking, Mon opened the group chat with Tee, Jim, and Kade. Her fingers hesitated for a moment, then began to type, carefully crafting the words.

Mon: "I’m in London, trying to sort things out. Please don’t tell Khun Sam—I don’t want her to worry."

She hit send and waited, her chest tightening with nerves. The replies came almost immediately.

Tee: "London? Look at you, fancy pants! Bring me back a dapper top hat or something."

Kade: "Fancy pants? More like Heartbreak Houdini. Also, bring me back some tea and crumpets or something posh."

Jim: "I have the strength of steel when it comes to keeping secrets—unless my princess asks me to spill. Then, sorry, you're out of luck."

Tee: "Yeah, it's game over if Honorable Stupidity breaks out the big guns. You'd confess your darkest secrets before she could even finish saying 'please'."

Kade: "Seriously, if Sam pulls out the 'baby, tell me' card, you might as well just hand over your wallet and phone."

Mon snorted, shaking her head as she typed back.

Mon: "If you three are my protection detail, I’m doomed."

Jim: "Rude. But accurate."

Mon couldn’t help but laugh, the banter lifting her spirits. It wasn’t much, but their humor and care reminded her she wasn’t alone, even from a continent away.

Later, Mon found herself wandering aimlessly through London’s streets, the city’s rhythm both unfamiliar and oddly soothing. The crisp autumn air nipped at her cheeks, the gray skies overhead a stark contrast to Bangkok’s relentless brightness. She weaved through the bustling crowd, her steps slow, her thoughts heavy.

Turning a corner, she stumbled upon a quiet park tucked away from the noise of the city. It was small but inviting, with golden leaves carpeting the paths and a scattering of benches nestled beneath towering oaks. Drawn to the serenity, Mon stepped inside, her boots crunching softly against the fallen foliage.

She found a bench near the edge of a pond, its surface rippling with the soft caress of the breeze. Mon sat, the cool wood grounding her as she wrapped her coat tighter around herself. The faint chatter of children echoed in the distance, their laughter mingling with the rustling of leaves.

For a moment, Mon closed her eyes and simply breathed. The sounds of the park—so gentle, so natural—felt like a balm to her weary soul. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small reminder that the world still held moments of calm, even amidst chaos.

Her gaze drifted across the park, lingering on the amber and crimson hues of the trees. The scene felt almost like a painting—peaceful and detached, yet vibrant in its quiet way. Mon’s thoughts, though still heavy, seemed to soften in the face of this beauty. The ache in her chest didn’t vanish, but it dulled, replaced by a faint flicker of something else. Something she wasn’t sure she could name yet.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Mon felt the pull of familiarity guiding her steps back to her father’s home, the park’s brief solace fading into the quiet comfort of ivy-covered walls.

Mon pushed open the heavy oak door to her father’s home, the comforting scent of old books and Earl Grey tea drifting out to meet her. It wrapped around her like a hug from someone who didn’t ask questions—just warmth and quiet understanding. For a brief moment, the ache in her chest loosened its grip.

She slipped off her shoes, glancing down to nudge them into place when something silver caught her eye. On a side table wedged between two precarious stacks of novels sat a simple frame. Intrigued, Mon picked it up, her fingers tracing its edges as her gaze landed on the photograph inside.

A younger version of herself beamed back, gap-toothed and glowing, a pink bow perched on her head like a slightly off-kilter crown. Her eyes, wide and sparkling, radiated an innocence that had long since been eclipsed by life’s sharp edges. Mon couldn’t help but smirk at the sight. How did her father keep a straight face that day?

“I remember that,” came her father’s voice, startling her enough that she nearly dropped the frame. He stood in the doorway, a steaming mug in hand and a teasing smile on his face. “Your first trip to London after your mum and I separated. You insisted on wearing that ridiculous bow. It was pouring rain, but you wouldn’t hear a word of reason.”

Mon laughed softly, shaking her head. “I was convinced Big Ben would appreciate the effort.”

Her father chuckled, stepping closer. “You were always so dramatic. A gap-toothed queen ready to conquer the world, one rainy landmark at a time.”

Mon grinned, but it faltered as she stared down at the photo. The girl in the picture felt like a stranger, her boundless energy and optimism almost alien.

“I don’t know if I can find her again,” Mon whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “That girl feels so far away.”

Her father’s hand rested on her shoulder, firm and reassuring. “She’s still in there, Mon. Maybe a little bruised, maybe a bit more cautious, but that spark? It hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Later that night, Mon curled up in the window seat of her childhood bedroom, the lights of London twinkling faintly beyond the glass. The photograph lay in her lap, and she couldn’t help but smile at the memory of her younger self, undeterred by rain or common sense.

It wasn’t happiness—not yet—but as she traced the outline of her childhood grin, she felt something stir deep in her chest. Something warm, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

"Maybe," she thought with a quiet smile, "just maybe, I can find my way back to her. Bow and all."

Chapter Text

The Anuntrakul estate’s formal living room loomed around Sam like a gilded cage, its opulent Thai silks and gleaming teak furniture, its beauty as stifling as it was imposing. The timeless elegance that once filled her with pride now felt like a relentless reminder of the traditions that bound her. Wedding planners moved about with determined efficiency, their chatter weaving an air of anticipation that grated against the quiet turmoil roiling inside her.

Her grandmother stood at the center of it all, a figure of resolute authority. Draped in an exquisite Thai silk dress, every gesture of her bejeweled hand commanded attention. "The flowers must be orchids," she declared, her tone final and immovable. "They symbolize love and beauty—perfect for a union."

Sam’s gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers brushing the bracelet hidden beneath her sleeve. Their bracelet—a symbol of a connection that once felt unbreakable. The silver chain rested like ice against her wrist, a chilling reminder of the life she had abandoned.

Before Mon, her world was black and white: duty, tradition, expectation. Mon had brought pink into her life—vibrant and unapologetic. It seeped into every corner, from her clothes to the small touches she left behind in Sam’s home. Sam hadn’t just learned to love pink; she’d learned to love what it represented—Mon’s boundless joy and warmth, a stark contrast to the cold perfection she was used to.

Now, the bracelet’s weight seemed heavier, as if it were trying to remind her of all she had lost. She thought back to their wedding at Cher and Risa’s—a quiet, intimate ceremony filled with love and defiance. It wasn’t the grand celebration Mon deserved, the one filled with cherry blossoms or pink carnations, colors bursting with life, celebrating not just their love but the world they had built together. It was the wedding Sam had wanted for Mon, for them, but she had let that dream slip away.

The memory of her confrontation with Kirk weighed heavily on Sam. It had been two days after her intimate wedding with Mon—a moment meant to be theirs alone—when Kirk blindsided her. He fired Yha and Chin in front of the entire office, citing the company’s relationship rule, a rule Sam had quietly ignored. Furious, she stormed into her office, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“Why did you not consult me before firing my employees?” she demanded, her anger barely contained. Kirk’s response was maddeningly calm, each word fanning the flames of her fury.

He insisted he was simply enforcing her rules, claiming it was for the good of the company. Sam had snapped back, accusing him of targeting her and Mon under the guise of professionalism. But Kirk, doubled down: rules are rules. His words struck like a challenge, and in that moment, Sam made a rash decision—to fire Mon herself. Not as punishment, but as a way to remove the restrictions keeping their love in the shadows.

Before she could act, her grandmother intervened, leaving Mon shaken and full of doubt. Grandmother’s words had been sharp and deliberate, eroding Mon’s confidence and planting seeds of insecurity. Sam had done her best to reassure her, holding her tightly and promising they would fight together. "Don’t be afraid," she had whispered. "I’ll go talk to her. We’ll definitely get through this."

The next day, determined to fight for their love, Sam went to her grandmother. She pleaded, reasoned, and begged for understanding. But her grandmother’s response was as cold as it was final.

"Listen to me, Sam," her grandmother said, her voice smooth but as cold as the diamonds on her hand. "By marrying Kirk, you will have a perfect family and a perfect life. He loves you. There is no way he will make you sad."

Sam’s fists clenched at her sides, the sharp pain of her nails digging into her palms grounding her. "Could you please let me choose my own path?" Her voice wavered, the cracks in her composure slipping through.

Her grandmother’s expression darkened, disappointment etching deeper lines into her face. "If you weren’t turning yourself into a homosexual like this, I wouldn’t rush you to marry. You leave me no choice, Sam."

Her grandmother’s words cut deep, severing the fragile thread of hope Sam had clung to. She had tried to argue, but it was futile. Her grandmother’s ultimatum was clear: she was bound to a wedding filled with white orchids and gold accents, a room buzzing with expectations and sacrifices.

Now, seated in the Anuntrakul estate’s formal living room, surrounded by wedding planners and suffocating expectations, the consequences of those decisions wrapped around her like an unrelenting chain. She had failed Mon, failed herself, and the gilded cage around her felt tighter than ever. Her fingers brushed the bracelet hidden beneath her sleeve—a small, bittersweet tether to the love she had promised to fight for.

"Khun Sam," the wedding planner’s eager voice broke through her thoughts. "What do you think of these color combinations?"

Sam blinked, forcing her focus back to the present. She straightened her spine, summoning the poise she had mastered so well. "They’re fine," she said evenly, her voice devoid of feeling.

Her grandmother’s disapproving gaze bore into her. "You must be more attentive, Samanun. These decisions reflect not just on you, but on our entire family."

Sam nodded stiffly, her hands clasped so tightly her nails bit into her palms. "Of course, Grandmother. The orchids are lovely. Perhaps a deeper gold to complement them." The words felt sharp and bitter, scraping against the raw edges of her carefully buried defiance. Each syllable tasted of betrayal—not just of Mon, but of herself.

Lady Grandmother nodded approvingly, her sharp gaze lingering on Sam for a moment before turning back to the planners. The chatter resumed, but Sam remained still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression unyielding. Inside, though, she was unraveling.

She wanted to rip through the meticulously arranged perfection, to shatter the illusion of control, to fight for the life she had once promised Mon. But instead, she sat there, present in body if not in spirit, unwilling to let the cracks show. Not here. Not now.

Her fingers brushed the bracelet again, its cool metal biting into her skin. She imagined Mon’s reaction if she were here now—her warmth, her infectious optimism. Mon would have looked at the absurdity of the situation with a soft smile, her hand finding Sam’s to steady her. That thought brought a flicker of light to the suffocating room, but it was quickly extinguished by guilt. Sam had failed her, had let herself be dragged back into a life of appearances and submission.

"Remember, Samanun," Lady Grandmother’s voice rang out again, a steel blade wrapped in velvet. "Appearances are everything. This is what sustains our family."

The façade she had spent her life perfecting was all that remained. But as the planners discussed linens and floral arrangements, a small spark inside her flickered once more. Mon had shown her a life filled with color, with joy, with love. She wasn’t ready to let that go—not yet.

The city lights of Bangkok twinkled beyond Sam’s apartment windows, cold and indifferent. Fractured patterns of artificial light spilled into the room, offering no solace, no warmth. She stood frozen in the center of her living room, the silence broken only by the faint ticking of the clock—a cruel reminder of the hours dragging her closer to a future she didn’t want.

Her voice barely broke the stillness. “What am I doing?”

Her gaze fell on the bar cart in the corner, the crystal decanter glinting faintly in the dim light. She poured a measure of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light and sparking a memory she couldn’t suppress—Mon’s eyes, warm and alive, filled with quiet encouragement during the moments Sam doubted herself. The first sip burned, but it was nothing compared to the ache hollowing her chest. Her fingers tightened around the glass as she closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the vulnerability she could only afford here, in the solitude of her apartment.

Mon’s presence clung to every corner of the room. The couch, where they had spent countless evenings tangled together, Mon’s head resting in her lap as they laughed at movies they barely watched. The kitchen counter, where Mon had perched with swinging legs, teasing her over yet another cooking disaster. "Good thing I’m here to keep you fed," she had laughed, her voice a balm to Sam’s carefully guarded heart.

The desk by the window, where Mon had once found Sam sitting late at night, the glow of her laptop casting soft shadows across her face. Mon had woken up to find the bed empty, the cool sheets beside her a stark reminder of Sam’s restless tendencies. With a sleepy sigh, she padded into the living room, her bare feet soft against the floor, searching for the woman who couldn’t seem to switch off.

“Sam,” Mon murmured, her voice warm and soft, still heavy with sleep as she appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? It’s late. Come back to bed.”

“I just need to finish this,” Sam replied, her tone distracted as her fingers moved across the keyboard. “Go ahead without me.”

Mon lingered in the doorway, her hands resting lightly on the frame as she studied Sam for a moment. Then, with quiet determination, she crossed the room and, without a word, slid onto Sam’s lap. Without warning, she slid onto Sam’s lap, wrapping her arms loosely around Sam’s neck and resting her head on her shoulder. “Fine,” she said dramatically, her voice teasing. “If you won’t come to bed, I’ll just sleep here.”

Sam stilled, her hands instinctively resting at Mon’s waist. “Mon, you’re being ridiculous,” she said, though her voice carried a hint of fondness.

“Ridiculous? No,” Mon said with mock seriousness, tilting her head to look at Sam, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Practical? Yes. This chair is so cozy. Who needs a bed?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Practical? You’ve been fidgeting like a toddler. Is that what passes for cozy now?”

“It is for me,” Mon countered, her grin widening as she snuggled closer. “And if you don’t carry me to bed, I’m going to start snoring right here. Loudly. And I’m not responsible for any drooling.”

Sam let out a soft snort, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stubborn,” Mon quipped, lifting her head just enough to meet Sam’s eyes, the mischievous glint in her gaze unmistakable. “But you love me.”

“Debatable,” Sam replied dryly, though the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “What’s in it for me if I give in?”

Mon tilted her head, her fingers toying with the collar of Sam’s shirt as a sly smile spread across her face. “Oh, I don’t know,” she teased, her voice dipping into a playful whisper. “I might make it worth your while.”

Sam blinked, her resolve teetering as she fought back a grin. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though the faint curve of her lips betrayed her crumbling defenses.

“Impossible to resist,” Mon quipped, leaning in to press a playful kiss to the corner of Sam’s mouth. “So, what’s it going to be? Another night with your boring laptop or me?”

Sam let out an exaggerated sigh, her hands settling firmly at Mon’s waist as she stood, lifting her effortlessly. “Alright, you win. But this better be good.”

“Oh, trust me,” Mon murmured, her breath warm against Sam’s neck as she nestled closer, her arms tightening playfully around Sam’s shoulders. “You’ll love it. I told you I’m very persuasive.”

“Fine,” Sam replied, her tone teasing as she carried Mon toward the bedroom. “Just don’t complain if I drop you halfway there.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Mon laughed, her head resting against Sam’s shoulder as her laughter spilled into the quiet night.

“Try me,” Sam shot back, though her softened grin betrayed the emptiness of the threat. Together, they made their way to bed, the banter and warmth between them dissolving the weight of the day. In Mon’s embrace, Sam let herself go, her restless thoughts fading into the quiet intimacy of their love.

But that warmth was a memory now, and Sam’s eyes opened to the cold reality of her apartment. She stared at the whiskey swirling in her glass—a poor substitute for the fire Mon had brought into her life. The space around her felt cavernous, each shadow a ghost of what they had shared. She wandered aimlessly, her footsteps muted against the wooden floor, refusing to turn on the lights. The darkness mirrored the emptiness inside her, an unwelcome but familiar companion.

Her grandmother’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and unrelenting: Marry Kirk. Forget this crazy thing ever happened. Mon’s softer words, so full of life and defiance, had always drowned out that noise. Now they were little more than whispers, fading beneath the weight of expectation.

Sam pressed her fingers to her temple, as if she could silence the memory. Every expectation shackled her, dragging her further into the life she never wanted.

Her chest tightened, the ache coiling tighter with every passing second. How did I let it come to this? The question burned, but she left it unspoken, letting it hang in the suffocating quiet.

Dusk settled over Bangkok’s skyline, painting the horizon in fading hues of gold and red. The warmth and light felt distant, unreachable—just like Mon. Just like the life she had let slip through her fingers.

The glass doors of Diversity’s headquarters parted with a soft hiss, and Sam stepped into the sleek, modern lobby. The hum of ringing phones and clicking heels surrounded her, a familiar rhythm she no longer truly heard. Her heels struck the polished floor in sharp, deliberate beats, her eyes locked on the tablet in her hand.

"Good morning, Mhom Boss," the receptionist greeted brightly.

"Morning," Sam replied curtly, her tone clipped as her gaze stayed fixed on the screen. She moved briskly through the lobby, her presence cutting through the bustling activity like a blade. Conversations quieted as employees stole glances at her, wary of the sharp edge in her demeanor.

She stepped onto the main office floor, her gaze flicking briefly to the desk where Mon once sat. The surface, now bare and sterile, was stripped of Mon’s pastel sticky notes and whimsical trinkets. It was as though the vibrant energy Mon brought had been erased entirely, leaving only a hollow void in its place. Sam’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t linger. She couldn’t afford to.

Inside her office, Sam shut the door firmly behind her, the frosted glass windows enclosing her in solitude. The noise from the office floor dulled, replaced by the hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of her blouse as she dropped her tablet on the desk. The sound reverberated in the stillness, a stark reminder of how lifeless this space had become.

Sinking into her chair, she tapped the keyboard, waking her computer. The screen glowed to life, a flood of emails demanding her attention. Sam’s hand drifted to her sleeve, her fingers brushing the bracelet hidden beneath the fabric. She refused to take it off. It was her one act of rebellion, a quiet tether to Mon and the person she had been when they were together.

Mon had filled this office with her energy, her sketches and proposals spilling across the desk like pieces of her boundless creativity. Sam could still hear her voice in the quiet moments: "What do you think, Khun Sam? Is this bold enough for us?" Mon would lean against the desk, her eyes alight with ideas too infectious to ignore. Now, the silence pressed in, heavier and colder than Mon’s presence ever was.

Sam’s fingers tightened around the bracelet, as if drawing strength from it. Mon’s optimism had always been boundless, a sharp contrast to the unyielding rigidity of Sam’s life. The irony wasn’t lost on her—how Mon’s absence felt heavier than her presence ever had.

A knock at the door broke her thoughts. "Come in," she called, her voice sharp and professional, the mask firmly in place.

Noi entered with a folder in hand. "The team is ready for you, Mhom Boss."

Sam nodded, rising from her chair. "Thank you. I’ll join them shortly."

Noi hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to speak further, then exited. Sam glanced around her office, her gaze briefly landing on the empty spot near her desk where Mon used to stand. The memory of their lively discussions hovered in the room, vivid and persistent. Straightening her blouse, she smoothed her expression into something cold and controlled. Her fingers brushed the bracelet again, hidden beneath her sleeve but never far from her thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it was hers—a quiet reminder of the connection she couldn’t let go.

As Sam stepped out of her office, her heels clicked purposefully against the floor. Each step was measured, deliberate, but beneath the surface, she clung to the weight of the bracelet, drawing from it the strength she needed to keep going.

On her way to the conference room, a flash of pink beneath Mon’s old desk stopped her in her tracks. Her breath hitched as she crouched, her fingers brushing against a small sticky note. The cheerful, rounded handwriting was unmistakable: Be bold today! A tiny heart nestled in the corner, so quintessentially Mon it felt like a fist tightening around Sam’s chest.

Her throat constricted as she stood, the office noise fading into a distant hum. She stared at the note, her fingers trembling slightly, the words pulling her back into a memory of Mon’s voice—warm, encouraging, and alive.

"Khun Sam? The meeting?" Noi's voice called from the hall, pulling her sharply back to the present.

Sam folded the note carefully, slipping it into her pocket as though it might shatter. She straightened her blouse with deliberate precision, her movements methodical, the mask of control settling back over her features. "I’m coming," she said, her tone cool and clipped.

Each step toward the conference room felt heavier than the last. The note pressed against her like a quiet challenge, grounding her even as it accused her. Straightening her spine, she pushed her emotions down, locking them away behind the polished exterior her employees expected.

When she entered the meeting, her composure was flawless, her confidence unshaken. "Let’s begin," she said crisply. "We need to finalize our approach for the new Diversity Pop campaign."

Her team launched into their presentations, their voices forming a steady rhythm. But something had changed. Her employees spoke with more confidence now, unafraid to challenge her decisions. Sam knew why. They had watched Mon do it—defying her with charm and conviction, leaving every meeting with a smile instead of a reprimand. They didn’t know the cost of that boldness—or the void it had left behind.

As her team debated, Sam’s focus wavered. The sticky note in her pocket seemed to pulse with every beat of her heart, whispering at the edges of her consciousness: Be bold today! Her fingers brushed against it through the fabric, the familiar presence grounding her even as her thoughts drifted.

"Mhom Boss?" A sharp voice cut through her reverie. "What do you think of this concept?"

Sam blinked, scrambling to focus. "It’s... interesting," she said, her voice slower than usual. "But I think we need something more authentic. Something that truly resonates with our audience."

Her employees exchanged surprised glances. They weren’t used to this softer, more contemplative side of her. Sam forced herself to meet their eyes, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second before she tightened it again.

"Let’s move on," she said briskly, her tone decisive and final. "What else do we have?"

The meeting continued, but the energy in the room was subdued, a far cry from the lively debates Mon used to spark. When the discussion finally ended, Sam gathered her notes quickly, avoiding eye contact as her team filed out.

Back in her office, Sam locked the door behind her and slumped into her chair. The sticky note rested innocuously on her desk, but its cheerful handwriting seemed to taunt her: Be bold today!

She picked it up, her fingers trembling as she traced the rounded letters. Mon’s voice echoed in her mind: "Khun Sam, you can do anything you set your mind to."

A lump rose in her throat. She closed her eyes, gripping the note tightly. Her employees might see her as formidable, unshakable, the leader Mon had envisioned. But they didn’t know the truth. She wasn’t bold. She never had been.

With a shaky breath, Sam tucked the note into her planner, hiding it like a secret she wasn’t ready to share. For now, it would remain there—a reminder of the person she had been with Mon, and the boldness she still struggled to find.

Sam lay in bed, the faint light of the city filtering through the curtains, casting muted shadows across the room. The silence pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating. What am I doing? The thought cut through her like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, where she clutched two small objects: the bracelet with its heart-shaped charm and the soft pink wedding ring from her ceremony with Mon. The silver chain was cool against her palm, the charm catching the faint light, while the ring felt almost warm—a delicate, painful reminder of what she had lost. Her fingers traced their familiar shapes, the ache in her chest intensifying with each pass.

Her eyes flicked to the wedding planner’s folder on the side table, its pristine edges perfectly aligned as if mocking her. Anger simmered beneath her surface, rising with every breath. This life, these choices—they weren’t hers. They had been shaped by others, leaving no room for the woman she longed to be. Every decision felt foreign, as though she were a guest in her own existence.

Her hand moved instinctively, grasping the folder. Its weight was tangible, oppressive. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, but the rage surged unchecked. With a sharp motion, she flung it across the room. It struck the wall with a crack, scattering its neatly arranged pages like broken promises. The chaos mirrored the turmoil inside her.

Sam’s breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts as she sat upright, her grip tightening on the bracelet and ring. The mess on the floor did little to calm the storm raging within her. Instead, it fanned the flames of her frustration—frustration at herself, at her grandmother, at a world that demanded so much and gave so little.

Her mind conjured a memory, vivid and unbidden. It was a weekend morning, one of the rare times she had stayed in bed past sunrise. Mon had been beside her, warm and soft, her head resting against Sam’s shoulder. Sunlight poured into the room, painting it in gold as Mon’s arm draped lazily across her stomach.

“Stay,” Mon murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “The world can wait.”

Sam had laughed then, a sound she hardly recognized in herself, and let her head fall back against the pillow. Mon grinned, propping herself up on one elbow, her messy hair glowing in the morning light. Her warm, mischievous eyes studied Sam intently. “You’re not just Khun Sam, you know. You’re my Khun Sam. And who I love.”

The warmth of that memory was swiftly followed by another, sharper and just as bittersweet. Mon had been lying on her stomach beside her, a book open in her hands, her voice animated as she read aloud. Sam had been pretending to check emails, feigning focus.

“You’re not even listening,” Mon teased, her voice soft and melodic. She nudged Sam’s arm, glancing pointedly at the phone Sam was pretending to scroll through. “You’re terrible at faking it, you know.”

Sam smirked but didn’t look up. “I’m multitasking.”

“No, you’re being rude,” Mon countered, plucking the phone from Sam’s hand and setting it out of reach.

“No work in bed,” she declared, her tone teasing but firm. “This is our time.”

Sam let her façade slip. “What are you going to do about it?”

Mon leaned closer, her breath warm against Sam’s cheek. “This.” She pressed a soft kiss to Sam’s jaw before settling back against the pillows and returning to her book. Her voice filled the room, weaving the story with a warmth and ease that melted Sam’s carefully maintained walls.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam murmured, her tone betraying the affection she tried to hide. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Mon’s face, earning a radiant smile that lingered in her mind.

The memories hit her like a wave, leaving her breathless. She clutched the bracelet and ring tightly, as though they might anchor her against the tide of emotions threatening to pull her under. Her gaze drifted to her phone on the nightstand, glowing faintly in the dim room. Her thumb hovered over Mon’s contact, the familiar name a lifeline and a torment.

The urge to call was overwhelming. She wanted to hear Mon’s voice, to tell her about the folder and the mess she had made, about the suffocating weight of her grandmother’s expectations. But fear held her in place—fear of rejection, of vulnerability, of hearing in Mon’s voice the possibility that she had moved on.

Sam’s eyes fell to the scattered papers on the floor, and a flicker of defiance surged through her. Maybe it’s not too late. The thought was small and fragile, but it was there.

Sitting back against the headboard, she tightened her grip on the bracelet and ring. These weren’t just symbols of love; they were fragments of the life she had shared with Mon, pieces of herself she couldn’t bear to lose. The chaos on the floor was a reflection of the turmoil within her, but it was also a reminder that not everything had to stay perfectly in place.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sam scrolled past Mon’s name, her chest tightening with each swipe until she landed on Neung’s. The contact photo stared back at her—a number she’d only recently added after Mon had shared it, a silent reminder of how much she had let slip away before everything unraveled.

Maybe it’s time, she thought, her finger hovering over the call button. Her thumb pressed down, and the phone rang, each tone stretching into eternity. Sam’s grip tightened, her knuckles stark white against the phone’s dark surface. Her breath hitched, her chest heavy with guilt and shame. She needed to say it, to admit what she had done, even though the words would taste bitter on her tongue.

When the ringing stopped, Neung’s voice came through, sharp and tinged with impatience. “Sam? What is it? Calling this late—what happened?”

Sam’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “Mon’s gone.”

The pause that followed was suffocating, heavy with everything left unsaid. Then Neung exhaled sharply, her frustration palpable. “And whose fault is that?”

“I tried,” Sam said quickly, her voice cracking under the weight of her confession. “I tried to ask Grandmother to let me be with Mon. I told her I’d still be a good granddaughter, that I’d done everything she ever asked of me. I begged her, Neung. I begged her to let me have this one thing—to love Mon openly, with her approval. But she refused. She said the only way she’d leave Mon alone was if I married Kirk. I thought… I thought that would be enough.”

A stunned silence followed, then Neung’s voice erupted, filled with disbelief and anger. “Are you serious? That was your solution? You thought marrying Kirk would somehow make this okay? Good hell, Sam, how could you even accept that? And if you actually proposed that to Mon, then you’re not just spineless—you’re an idiot.”

Sam flinched, Neung’s words hitting like blows. “I thought it was the only way to protect her,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I thought—”

“You thought?” Neung cut her off sharply. “What exactly did you think, Sam? That Mon would sit quietly in the shadows while you publicly married someone else? That she’d wait for scraps of your attention like some dirty secret? God, Sam, what were you thinking?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Sam pleaded, desperation creeping into her voice. “I was trying to keep Grandmother happy, to keep Mon safe—”

“You weren’t keeping anyone safe,” Neung snapped. “Least of all Mon. You were trying to appease Grandmother, and in doing so, you betrayed the one person who actually loved you for who you are. And for what? For her approval? For some twisted idea of duty? Sam, wake up. You can’t keep living like this and expect anything good to come of it.”

Sam’s breath hitched, tears streaming down her face as Neung’s words cut through the last of her defenses. She had thought she was protecting Mon, but now, faced with Neung’s brutal honesty, she realized she had only been protecting herself—from the pain of standing up to her grandmother, from the fear of losing everything.

“I love her,” Sam whispered, her voice barely audible. The words trembled under the weight of guilt and regret. “I still do.”

“Then stop being a coward,” Neung shot back, her tone cold and unyielding. “Love isn’t about sacrificing the person you care about to keep Grandmother happy. It’s about standing up, fighting for her—for what you both deserve. If you ever want a chance to make this right—if you even deserve one—you’d better start proving it, Sam. Because right now, it’s not just Mon you’re losing. It’s yourself.”

Neung’s words were relentless, a blade cutting deeper with every syllable. “Do you even hear yourself? You let Grandmother manipulate you—again. You let her dictate your life, your love, your everything. And now Mon is gone. Just like I told you she would be.”

“I didn’t know how!” Sam shot back, her voice cracking with desperation. “You think it’s easy to throw away everything I’ve been raised to be? To stand up to her when all I’ve ever known is how to obey?”

Neung’s voice didn’t soften. “Don’t you dare make excuses. Do you think it was easy for me when she burned my art? When I had to leave everything I loved behind because I refused to live under her rules? Do you think it was easy for Song, when Grandmother couldn’t accept that she loved a woman? Do you think it was easy for her, Sam?”

Sam’s breath hitched, her chest tightening painfully, but Neung pressed on, her voice unwavering. “Song is dead because of Grandmother. She pushed her too far. If they hadn’t fought, if Song hadn’t felt like she had to leave, she wouldn’t have been on that road. She wouldn’t have—”

“Stop,” Sam pleaded, her voice cracking, tears streaming freely. “Please, Neung, stop.”

“No.” Neung’s voice was razor-sharp. “You need to hear this, Sam. This is your future if you don’t fight back. Grandmother doesn’t stop. She won’t stop until she destroys everything you love, until she owns every part of you. And right now? You’re letting her.”

Sam’s tears fell unchecked, her chest heaving as she choked out, “I don’t know what to do, Neung.”

“Then figure it out,” Neung said coldly, her tone steady and unforgiving. “Because love isn’t just a feeling, Sam. It’s a choice. It’s a fight. If you’re not willing to fight for her now, then you’re letting Grandmother win. And if that happens, she won’t stop until she’s taken everything—Mon, your future, and what’s left of you. There won’t be anything left to save.”

Neung’s words echoed in the silence, louder than Sam’s own heartbeat. She had tried to reason with Grandmother, but it was never enough. It would never be enough. And now Mon was gone—because Sam had failed her. Failed them both.

She couldn’t undo the past, but she could choose the future. If she could find the strength to stand up, to truly fight back, maybe—just maybe—she could fix this. She could reclaim herself—not as the perfect granddaughter, but as the person Mon deserved. The person she deserved to be. And if Mon would let her, Sam vowed she would spend the rest of her life proving she was worth it. 

Chapter Text

Mon's fingers hovered over the laptop keys, her reflection shimmering in the polished wood of her father's antique desk. Outside, London rain tapped steadily against the window, a rhythmic echo of the storm within her.

She adjusted the pink bow in her hair, channeling the fearless energy of her younger self - the girl with a gleam in her eye that her dad believes is still there - as she refocused on the computer screen. The half-written email glared back at her, devoid of any words or ideas.

I can do this, she told herself, though her chest tightened with doubt.

Her fingers hovered, then began typing: "To Whom It May Concern." She paused, the words feeling like they belonged to someone else. Her hands dropped to her lap as a memory surfaced, unbidden—Khun Sam’s teasing smirk as Mon fretted over an email at Diversity.

"Stop overthinking," Khun Sam had said, leaning over Mon’s shoulder. Her voice had been playful, but her presence steady. "You’re brilliant, Mon. Just write it."

Mon swallowed hard, the ache in her chest twisting sharply. Khun Sam had always been her biggest champion, effortlessly cutting through her self-doubt. Now, without her, Mon felt like she was groping in the dark.

She straightened in her chair, forcing her fingers back to the keyboard. Khun Sam’s voice lingered in her mind, but this time, it pushed her forward instead of holding her back. Her fingers moved, crafting a narrative of her skills and accomplishments. With each line, the gap between the person on the page and the one at the desk seemed to close just slightly.

By the time she hit "send" on the final email, a small sense of relief washed over her. “It’s a start," she whispered, leaning back in her chair.

Mon leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. The rain had slowed to a gentle mist, and a ray of sunlight peeked through the clouds, casting a warm glow across the room. She smiled, seeing it as a sign of brighter days ahead.

The soft padding of footsteps drew Mon's attention. Her father appeared in the doorway, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners as he observed her hunched over the laptop. He paused, leaning against the frame, a steaming mug of tea cradled in his hands.

"You're working hard, sweetheart," he said softly, his British accent a comforting reminder of her dual heritage. "Everything alright?"

Mon's fingers stilled on the keyboard. She turned, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Just... trying to figure things out, Dad."

She watched as her dad took a small sip of his tea, a teasing twinkle in his gaze. "Take your time. But don’t forget to brush up on your English. I'm afraid you’ll be switching between sawatdee ka and ‘cheers’ in the same sentence."

Mon snorted, swiveling her chair to face him. "Seriously, Dad? I always speak English with you, and half my work has been in English. Fluent, remember?"

"Fluent, sure," he said with a shrug. "But let’s not forget the text where you spelled ‘organisation’ the American way. Traitorous, really."

She gasped in mock horror. "That was autocorrect! I’d never betray the Queen's English like that."

"Good to hear," he replied with a grin, lifting his mug. "Carry on, then, Shakespeare."

She rolled her eyes, turning back to her screen. "Don’t worry, I’ll make you proud, Churchill."

Later, Mon paced her room, her laptop open on the desk. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, the cursor resting on the button to start a video call with her friends in Bangkok. The thought of seeing their faces filled her with a mix of longing and apprehension. What if they were too busy? Or worse, what if reaching out made her seem like she couldn’t handle things on her own?

Her reflection in the darkened screen caught her eye, her uncertainty mirrored back at her. They’re your friends, she reminded herself firmly. They care about you. Let them help.

With a deep breath, Mon clicked the button to start the call. The dial tone stretched endlessly, her palms clammy as she waited. Finally, Tee, Yuki, Jim, and Kade’s faces filled the screen, their warm smiles instantly making her chest loosen with relief.

"N’Mon!" Tee exclaimed, leaning closer. "It’s about time we saw your face! Texts don’t count as real communication, you know."

Jim, fork in hand, took a bite of what looked like noodles before gesturing with it. "Yeah, N’Mon. Two months in London, and now you finally call? Are we supposed to feel special or something?"

"Let her talk!" Kade interjected dramatically, flipping her hair with flair. "N’Mon, are you calling to tell us you’ve started eating crumpets and shouting ‘cheerio’ at strangers?"

"Or maybe you’ve become a royal watcher?" Yuki added with a grin. "Have you memorized all the Queen’s favorite tea spots yet?"

Mon burst out laughing, the knot in her chest loosening. "No crumpets, no ‘cheerio,’ and definitely no royal tours. But," she added, tugging the blanket around her shoulders, "this weather is not for me. I’m counting down the days until spring—it’s been rough adjusting."

"Aw, poor N’Mon," Kade said, smirking. "Our tropical queen, dethroned by British weather."

"It’s not funny!" Mon replied, laughing despite herself. "How do people function when it’s this cold all the time?"

"Layers," Jim said, taking another bite. "And snacks. Both are lifesavers."

Mon grinned, relaxing into the call. "What about you guys? How’s everything back home?"

"Work’s the same," Tee said, leaning back. "Nothing too exciting. Jim, though, is stealing the spotlight these days."

Jim groaned, stabbing her fork into her noodles. "Spotlight? Try waddling everywhere and feeling like a human pack mule. My back is killing me, and I’ve still got four months to go."

Mon’s laugh bubbled out, her tone sympathetic. "You’re waddling already? Isn’t it a little early for that?"

"Tell that to my body!" Jim retorted, throwing up her hands. "It’s like, ‘Oh, you’re halfway there? Cool, here’s some back pain and a waddle for good measure.’"

"Sounds like you’re thriving," Yuki teased.

"Thriving is one word for it," Jim muttered, taking another bite.

Mon grinned, the lighthearted teasing helping her relax further. "I miss you guys. Like, a lot. Even the teasing."

"Aww," Jim cooed. "We miss you too! Now, spill. How’s everything really going over there?"

She struggled to articulate her emotions, her heart torn between conflicting feelings. "I try not to let thoughts of Khun Sam consume me anymore. It still stings, but I'm making an effort. Being here with my dad has been a blessing - I didn't realize how much I missed him. He's been so understanding and supportive through it all. And yet, in this beautiful city that I love, I still feel trapped and uncertain."

She paused, unsure if she was truly feeling better or just putting on a facade. "But maybe that's just part of the process."

The silence that followed Mon's admission hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the lighthearted banter of moments before. Her friends' faces on the screen softened, concern etching their features as they absorbed her words. Mon felt a twinge of guilt for dampening the mood, but the relief of finally voicing her struggles outweighed it.

Mon paused, searching for the right words. "But I don’t want to just sit around while I figure it out. Being idle sucks, and it doesn’t help me actually move forward. I need to do something, to feel like I’m taking steps in the right direction."

Her friends nodded, their expressions warm and encouraging.

"I’ve been taking a lot of photos," she added with a small smile. "That’s about all I do—watch TV, twiddle my thumbs, and take walks everywhere. London’s so beautiful, even in the cold. I’ve been capturing little things I forgot I loved about it—the way the light hits the buildings at sunset, the cozy cafés when it’s raining, even the empty streets at dawn."

Tee leaned forward, her brow furrowed slightly but her smile warm. "You’re doing more than you think, N’Mon. Just going there and starting fresh is a big step. Don’t sell yourself short."

"Yeah," Yuki agreed, her grin widening. "And let’s talk about those photos—you’ve been holding out on us. Why haven’t we seen any of them yet?"

Mon laughed softly, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. "I don’t know... most of them are just little moments I captured while wandering around."

"Little moments or not, we want to see them," Kade said, flipping her hair dramatically. "You’re ridiculously talented, N’Mon. Stop hoarding all the beauty for yourself."

Jim nodded, gesturing with her fork. "Seconded. Send them over. I need something pretty to distract me from my back pain and the fact that I now waddle like a duck."

"Fine, fine," Mon said, her grin widening. "I’ll send you some. Just don’t expect anything groundbreaking. They’re just... for me, you know? Something to keep me grounded while I figure everything else out."

"Groundbreaking or not, they’re yours," Tee said gently. "And that makes them worth seeing."

Yuki tilted her head, her curiosity evident. "Why haven’t you posted any of them? You used to all the time."

Mon hesitated, fiddling with the edge of her blanket. "Honestly? I didn’t want to accidentally see anything about Khun Sam," she admitted, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I know it’s silly, but... I just wasn’t ready for that. Taking a break from social media felt safer."

"It’s not silly," Jim said gently. "Sometimes protecting yourself is the smartest thing you can do."

Mon nodded, but her gaze lingered on her friends’ faces. The urge to ask about Khun Sam bubbled up, stronger than she wanted to admit. Did they know how she was doing? Had they seen her? Had she mentioned Mon?

The questions sat heavy on her tongue, but every time she tried to form the words, they stuck in her throat. She wasn’t ready to know—not yet. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to push the thoughts aside.

"I sent my portfolio and resume out this morning," she said, her voice gaining a little strength. "Mostly for social media and content work. I’m planning to freelance while I’m here."

"Freelancing?" Yuki asked, raising a brow. "That’s a great idea. Why freelance, though?"

Mon straightened slightly in her chair. "Because it’s flexible. A steady income would be amazing, but I don’t want to tie myself down to anything long-term. I don’t know how long I’ll actually stay here, so freelancing just makes more sense."

"Smart," Kade said, nodding approvingly. "And it gives you room to figure things out without being stuck somewhere."

"Exactly," Mon said. "And since I’m freelancing, I can work with people all over the world. Which is where you guys come in."

Tee raised an eyebrow, his expression softening into a grin. "Oh, so this is the part where you ask us for something."

Mon let out a nervous laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll admit it, I'm guilty. But seriously, if you come across anyone who could use assistance with social media or content creation, please keep me in mind."

"Mon," Yuki said with a grin, "you’re brilliant at this. Of course, we’ll help."

Mon sighed before she began speaking. "I hate to burden you with this," she said with a hint of frustration in her voice, "but it just feels pathetic."

Jim gestured with her fork. "Don’t be ridiculous. We’re your friends. You need something? We’re here."

"Exactly," Tee said firmly. "We’ll spread the word. If anyone we know needs your help, they’re going to hear all about you."

"If London doesn’t appreciate your genius," Kade added, flipping her hair, "we’ll fly over and start the Mon Appreciation Club ourselves."

"Or just threaten them," Jim deadpanned, drawing laughter from the group.

Mon couldn’t help but laugh, her heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. "You guys are the best. I mean it. Thank you."

"Of course," Yuki said warmly. "You’ve got this, Mon. And we’ve got you."

After the call ended, Mon sat in her room, a small but genuine smile on her lips. The weight of doubt and uncertainty lifted from her shoulders, replaced by determination fueled by the unwavering faith of her friends.

Sliding back in her seat, her gaze landed on her phone, where she could see the images she had captured earlier. The streets of London, drenched by rain, appeared tranquil and quiet with their soft tones and glimmering reflections. She flicked through them, experiencing a small surge of satisfaction at the results.

Khun Sam would’ve had something to say about these.

"Another rainy street photo?" Khun Sam’s teasing voice echoed in her mind. "What’s next, Mon? A whole series called ‘Melancholy in Motion?’"

Mon had always rolled her eyes at Khun Sam’s jokes, but she knew the teasing had never been malicious. Khun Sam loved her photos.

"Okay, fine," Khun Sam had said once, scrolling through Mon’s shots. Her tone had softened, her smile lingering. "You make the ordinary look like magic."

The memory tightened Mon’s chest. Khun Sam had always supported her creativity, even when Mon doubted herself.  

Mon exhaled slowly, blinking away the memories as she stood and headed downstairs for dinner. Her friends’ voices still echoed in her mind, their encouragement a lifeline pulling her back to the present.

At dinner, the warmth of the call lingered. Mon found herself more animated than usual, gesturing with her chopsticks as she recounted her plans and the support of her friends.

Her father listened intently, his eyes twinkling with pride. As the conversation lulled, he leaned back, a contemplative look on his face. "So," he started, "how are things coming along? Resumes, portfolio, all that?"

"Good, I think," Mon replied, setting her chopsticks down. "I sent out a few applications today, and I talked to my friends back in Bangkok. They’re helping me find freelance gigs."

"That’s a solid start," he said, nodding. "You’re putting yourself out there, and that’s the hardest part."

Mon smiled faintly. "Yeah, it feels good to be doing something again. I just… I want to contribute, you know? You’ve been covering everything since I got here, and I hate that."

Her dad leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Mon, you don’t need to worry about that. I’m your dad—it’s my job to help you out. You’re here to figure things out, not to stress about expenses."

"I know," she said softly, her fingers toying with the edge of her napkin. "But it’s not just about the money. It’s about doing something that feels meaningful. I need to prove to myself that I can do this."

Her dad studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. I admire your determination. But just remember, you don’t have to rush. You’ve got time."

"Thanks, Dad," Mon said, her voice warm. "That means a lot."

After cleaning up dinner, Mon and her dad settled on the couch, a lighthearted sitcom playing on the TV. She sat cross-legged with a blanket draped over her, scrolling through her photo gallery on her phone.

Her dad glanced over, catching sight of the screen. "What’s got you so focused?"

Mon turned the phone toward him, showing an image of a rain-drenched London street. The glow of the streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, creating a moody yet serene composition.

"Just some pictures I’ve been taking," she said casually. "Nothing fancy, just stuff around the city."

Her dad leaned in, squinting at the image. "Nothing fancy? That’s a beautiful shot, Mon. You’ve got a real eye for this. Didn’t you take photography classes in school?"

She nodded, a small smile creeping onto her face. "Yeah, I did."

"And didn’t your teachers love your work?" he pressed, a glint of pride in his eye. "I seem to remember hearing a lot about how talented you were."

Mon chuckled softly. "They said I had potential. But I haven’t done much with it since then."

Her dad leaned back, folding his arms as he studied her thoughtfully. "Well, it’s still there. These photos are proof of that. Have you thought about picking it up again? Not as a job or anything—just for fun. Something for yourself."

She blinked, caught off guard. "I guess I haven’t really thought about it like that."

"You should," he said warmly. "It’s obvious you enjoy it. And sometimes it’s nice to have something that’s just for you—not tied to work or responsibilities."

Mon swiped to another photo, this one of a café with steam rising from a coffee cup. "Maybe you’re right. It’s been fun playing around with my phone, at least."

"Well," her dad said, sitting up straighter, "I’ll buy you a proper camera and whatever software you need. A photographer needs proper equipment!"

Mon raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. "Dad, no. I’m not letting you do that. I’ll save up once I get a few freelance gigs."

"Mon," he said, mock offended, "I’m your dad. It’s my job to spoil you. Let me live my dream of being the generous, supportive father."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I thought your dream was sitting on a boat somewhere sunny, sipping tea?"

Her dad deadpanned. "I can have more than one dream. And besides, a camera costs a lot less than a boat. Let me have this."

Mon shook her head again, her smile softening. "I appreciate it, but I really want to do this on my own. It’ll feel more earned if I work for it."

"And here I thought I raised a pushover," he said with an exaggerated sigh. "But fine, I’ll wait. Just know, the moment you so much as blink, I’m buying you the fanciest camera on the market."

Grinning, Mon leaned back into the couch. "Blink and you’ll miss it, because I’m saying no. For now, my phone works fine."

Her dad sighed dramatically, leaning back as well. "Alright, stubborn child of mine. But the offer stands, and when you change your mind—and you will—just tell me. Until then, I’ll just sit here quietly, imagining you lugging around some massive professional camera."

Mon laughed, nudging him lightly. "If it comes to that, I’ll make sure to let you carry the gear for me. You wanted to be supportive, right?"

"Always," he said with a smile. "And when you’re a famous photographer, I’ll tell everyone I was your first sponsor. Don’t ruin my narrative, okay?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Fine, you can take some credit. But only if you don’t embarrass me at my first exhibit."

"Oh, that’s non-negotiable," he said, grinning widely. "I’ll be in the front row, loudly telling everyone I’m your dad."

"Deal," Mon said, her laughter bubbling up. "But only if you promise not to bring a camera of your own. One amateur in the family is enough."

"Fine," her dad said, raising his tea mug in a mock toast. "But I can’t promise I won’t make everyone uncomfortable with my enthusiasm."

Mon leaned back into the couch, the conversation settling into her thoughts. As the night stretched on, her father’s words mingled with the lingering echoes of Khun Sam’s encouragement.

You make the ordinary look like magic.

Maybe it was time for Mon to believe it herself.

A few days later, Mon stepped into her room after another walk and froze. Sitting on bed was a sleek black box, its polished surface a striking contrast to her comforter. Her eyes locked onto it, curiosity and disbelief flickering across her face. Leaning against the box was a crisp white envelope, a handwritten note scrawled across it that caught the late afternoon light.

"You didn’t blink, but you did leave the house. Close enough. Use this to create something amazing.

Love, Dad."

A laugh bubbled up in Mon’s chest, equal parts exasperation and affection. She set her bag down with a soft rustle and stepped toward the bed, her movements deliberate and hesitant. Her fingers brushed the envelope as she picked it up, the note written in her dad’s unmistakable handwriting bringing warmth to her chest.

She glanced toward the hallway. "Dad," she called, half-scolding, "what did you do?"

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," her dad’s voice floated back, cheerful and unapologetic.

Shaking her head, Mon set the envelope aside and reached for the box. Her fingers brushed the cool, smooth surface of the camera as she lifted it from its foam cradle. Its weight was solid, grounding, yet it sparked something weightless inside her—a quiet reminder of the girl who used to see the world through a lens with wonder.

Memories of Khun Sam surged, softening Mon’s grip on the camera.

"Do you really need twenty photos of this coffee cup, Mon?" Khun Sam had teased once, lounging in their favorite café with an exaggeratedly bored expression. "What are you trying to capture—its existential crisis?"

"You’ll thank me one day," Mon had replied, snapping another shot with purpose.

The ache of the memory was still there, but this time it didn’t weigh her down. Instead, it felt like a gentle nudge forward.

Her dad appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a proud grin. "What do you think?"

Mon turned to him, her voice incredulous. "I told you I didn’t need this."

"And I told you resistance was futile," he said with a shrug, his grin unapologetic. "Think of it as an early birthday present. Or late. Or whatever justification works for you.

"You’ve got too much talent not to use it, Mon. Think of it as something just for you—no pressure, no strings. Just fun."

Her fingers traced the edge of the camera as she looked back at him. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

"Only when it comes to my daughter," he replied with a wink. "Now, go on—try it out."

Mon hesitated for a moment before powering up the camera. The faint click as it came to life felt oddly grounding. She turned it over, examining the buttons and dials, her fingers itching to start experimenting.

"You’ve got everything you need," her dad said, nodding toward the table. "And I made sure to get you top-of-the-line software. Good luck figuring out how it works—I hear it’s a rite of passage."

Mon glanced up at him, her eyes soft. "You thought of everything, didn’t you?"

"Of course," he said with a grin. "That’s what dads do. Now, before you get all sentimental, go take some photos. And don’t even think about making me your first subject."

She raised an eyebrow, already lifting the camera. "Too late."

Her dad groaned playfully as she raised the camera to her eye. Through the viewfinder, she focused on him, capturing his exaggerated look of defeat. The shutter clicked, and Mon couldn’t help but laugh as she lowered the camera.

"How do I look?" he asked, straightening up.

"Like someone who’s better at being a dad than a model," Mon teased, grinning.

"Good enough," he said, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now, go outside and see what else you can capture. And don’t worry about lugging that gear around—I’ll be happy to carry it for you."

Mon laughed, warmth blooming in her chest as she glanced back at the camera in her hands. For the first time in months, the spark wasn’t fleeting. It burned steady and bright—a quiet flame waiting to grow. This—this was hers to nurture.

Mon's fingers danced across her laptop keyboard, her eyes flicking between the screen and the new camera beside her. The familiar ping of incoming emails set her heart racing, each notification a potential lifeline in her quest for freelance work. She opened them with bated breath, her chest tightening as she scanned the contents.

"Oh my god," she whispered, a smile blooming on her face. The café had chosen her to revamp their Instagram. The boutique wanted her for a promotional campaign. And there, nestled among the rest, was an email from Tee about a client project.

Mon's mind whirred with possibilities. She reached for her pink notebook, its pages already filled with scribbled ideas and hastily sketched layouts. As she brainstormed content for the café, her fingers brushed against the camera, tracing its contours absentmindedly. It felt grounding, yet it stirred something else—memories she’d been trying to keep at bay.

"You’re doing it again," Khun Sam had said one evening, her voice laced with amused exasperation. She’d been leaning against the counter of her kitchen arms crossed, watching as Mon crouched by the island, her phone poised to capture a perfectly arranged plate of mango sticky rice.

"Doing what?" Mon had replied without looking up, adjusting the angle.

Khun Sam had smirked. "Making food wait for its photo shoot. You’re like a fashion photographer for noodles and dessert."

"Someone has to document your terrible plating skills," Mon had shot back, grinning.

Khun Sam had laughed, pushing off the counter to sit beside her. "Terrible plating, huh? Then don’t eat it." But instead of leaving it at that, Khun Sam had leaned closer, peering at Mon’s phone as she snapped another shot. 

The memory softened Mon’s grip on the camera, her chest tightening with a mix of longing and quiet resolve. She shook her head, dispelling the ache, and returned her focus to the present. Hours slipped by unnoticed as she immersed herself in her work. She crafted captions that sparkled with wit, and experimented with photo compositions that made even the simplest latte look like a work of art. With each completed task, a small ember of confidence flickered to life within her.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Tee: "You nailed it. They loved your campaign ideas."

Mon leaned back in her chair, staring at the pink notebook now cluttered with ideas and sketches. Her camera sat beside her, its sleek body gleaming in the soft light of her desk lamp. The projects on her screen—a café’s Instagram revamp and a boutique’s promotional campaign—were the kind of work she’d dreamed of. But the thought of integrating her love for photography into her freelance content creation sparked something deeper.

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced down. Another text from Tee: "You’ve got this. They’re excited for what you’ll come up with!"

Mon smiled, her confidence bolstered by her friend’s unwavering support.

She turned her attention to the café’s project first. Ideas flowed effortlessly as she jotted down content strategies. Aesthetic latte art photos, behind-the-scenes shots of the baristas, and moody, cozy angles of the café’s interior all filled her mind. She grabbed her camera and snapped a few test photos of the steaming cup of tea her dad had left her earlier, experimenting with light and shadow.

Her photography wasn’t the core of her freelance work, but as a hobby, it enriched her creativity in ways she hadn’t expected. Each photo she took gave her ideas for captions, visual themes, and storytelling that went beyond a simple image.

Hours passed as she worked, alternating between crafting captions, sketching layouts in her notebook, and experimenting with her camera. She uploaded a few drafts to her laptop, editing them just enough to bring out the vibrancy of the colors and the textures of the tea. When she pieced everything together into a polished mockup for the café, her chest swelled with quiet pride.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was an email notification. The boutique team had approved her initial ideas for their campaign and wanted to move forward with her full plan. Her heart leapt as she reread the email twice to let it sink in.

"I’m doing it," she whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief and excitement.

As she closed her laptop for the night, the camera caught her eye again. She picked it up and headed to the window, the lights of London stretching into the night. Framing a shot, she captured the interplay of light and rain on the slick streets below.

This wasn’t just work; it was joy. Photography was her way of seeing the world differently, of finding beauty in the details others might miss. And now, it was helping her carve out a niche as a content creator—a way to blend her hobby and her work into something uniquely hers.

The familiar sound of her dad’s footsteps brought her back to the moment. He peeked into the room, his teacup in hand. "Still working?"

Mon turned to him, her grin hesitant at first but growing as she spoke. "Not just working—creating. The café and boutique projects are lined up, and Tee’s client loved my ideas." She paused, her fingers brushing against the camera. "And this... I don’t know, Dad. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve felt something other than sadness or... or heartache. It’s like I’m finally doing something that’s just for me. Something that makes me happy."

Her dad’s expression softened, his pride laced with understanding. "I told you, Mon. You’ve always had the talent. You just needed the space—and maybe a little nudge—to find your spark again."

Mon felt a lump rise in her throat, her emotions bubbling to the surface. Without a word, she set the camera down carefully and stepped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him. "Thank you, Dad," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "For being here, for everything. You’ve been amazing through all of this. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

He held her just as tightly, his hand resting gently on her back. "That’s what dads are for, sweetheart," he said softly, a slight catch in his voice.  

Mon pulled back after a moment, blinking away the dampness in her eyes as she smiled. "Really, though," she said, her voice steadier now. "You’ve done so much for me. I’m... I’m just really grateful."  

He smirked, trying to lighten the mood. "I’ll take the credit. But don’t forget, this is all you. I just gave you the tools."  

Mon nodded slowly, her gaze drifting back to the camera in her hands. She realized her chest didn’t feel so weighed down anymore, the suffocating heaviness that had lingered for so long finally easing, replaced by the quiet hum of possibility.

"Well," she said with a small laugh, "you’re the best tool-giver I know."  

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, go on. Show the world what you’ve got."  

Mon squeezed her dad in another tight embrace, the warmth and strength of his arms enveloping her with comfort and gratitude. As she held on, she felt the tension in her chest dissipate, the suffocating weight that had plagued her for months lifting like a fog. In its place was a gentle hum of hope and anticipation, signaling new beginnings and endless possibilities. She never wanted to let go, never wanted this moment to end.

It was as though the suffocating heaviness that had lingered for so long was finally easing, making room for a soft and gentle hum of possibility. In this moment, surrounded by the familiar smell of her father's cologne and the sound of his steady heartbeat, Mon knew that everything would be okay. She closed her eyes, letting herself get lost in the warmth and safety of their embrace.

The café hummed with quiet activity, the gentle whir of espresso machines mingling with the low murmur of conversations. Mon crouched near a corner table, angling her camera to capture the perfect shot of a steaming cup of coffee adorned with intricate latte art. The soft afternoon light filtering through the window illuminated the rustic wooden table and added a golden warmth to the shot. She clicked the shutter, the crisp sound breaking the ambient noise, and adjusted her angle for a few more photos.

As Mon rose to review her shots, her fingers brushed the camera’s body, grounding her in the moment. But the weight of it triggered a memory, one that caught her off guard.

"You’re taking another photo of a coffee cup?" Sam’s voice echoed in her mind, teasing and familiar. "Do you think it’ll look different from the last fifty you took?"

Mon had been crouched by their table in Bangkok, her phone poised to capture the perfect angle of Khun Sam’s untouched cappuccino. "It’s not just a coffee cup," Mon had said with mock indignation. "It’s about capturing the atmosphere, the vibe."

Khun Sam had leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her smirk equal parts playful and admiring. "Atmosphere, huh? You’re going to have to teach me how to see all this ‘vibe’ you’re talking about, because right now all I see is a drink getting cold."

Mon had rolled her eyes, snapping one last shot before sitting down. But later, when they scrolled through the photos together, Khun Sam’s teasing had faded into something softer. "Everything you touch becomes pure art."

The memory lingered as Mon glanced at the preview on her camera’s screen. She felt the familiar ache of missing Khun Sam, but there was something else now—something quieter, steadier. She could almost hear Khun Sam’s voice nudging her forward: "You’re good at this, Mon. You’ve just got to let yourself believe it."

A voice broke into her thoughts, pulling her back to the present.

"That looks amazing," a woman remarked, nodding toward Mon's camera. "Are you a photographer?"

Mon looked up and met the woman’s gaze. She had long, dark brown hair cascading in loose waves, framing her effortlessly polished features. Her white crop top and grey sweatpants struck a perfect balance of comfort and style.

"Not really," Mon replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I do social media work for places like this, but photography’s more of a hobby."

The woman smiled, her expression easy and confident. She stood and stepped closer, extending a hand. "I’m Char. I work in marketing and art curation."

"Mon," she replied, shaking Char’s hand. Her grip was firm but friendly, and Mon couldn’t help but notice the faint shimmer of gloss on her lips as she spoke.

Char gestured toward Mon’s camera. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Sure," Mon said, handing it over. Char leaned against the edge of Mon’s table, her crossbody bag shifting slightly as she scrolled through the photos. Her brows furrowed slightly, a thoughtful look settling on her face.

"These are incredible," Char said after a moment, her tone warm. "You’ve got such a good eye. Seriously, this is professional-level work."

Mon felt her cheeks heat up, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "Thanks. I guess I’m still figuring out how much of this I want to do."

"You should figure it out quickly," Char said with a playful smirk. She folded her arms, her cropped top shifting slightly with the movement. "There’s a photography exhibit opening next week. You should come—it’s a great way to meet other creatives and maybe get inspired."

Mon hesitated, the suggestion both intriguing and intimidating. "I don’t know… I’m not really part of that world."

Char tilted her head, studying Mon with an encouraging smile. "You don’t have to be part of the world to show up. Trust me, it’s low-pressure. I’ll be there. Come as my guest."

Before Mon could respond, Char grabbed a napkin from the table, scribbled down the exhibit’s details in looping handwriting, and slid it toward her. "Think about it," she said, her warm brown eyes meeting Mon’s. "You’ve got something special. Don’t be afraid to let people see it."

With that, Char returned to her seat, leaving Mon holding the napkin. She glanced at the scrawled address, her heart racing slightly. The weight of her camera in her hand felt different now—not just a tool, but a potential bridge to something new.

She glanced back at the table where Char sat, the napkin still pressed between her fingers. Everything—the café, the projects she was working on, and this chance encounter—felt like a quiet push forward. Khun Sam’s voice echoed faintly in her mind, not as a source of pain this time, but as a nudge.

You’ve got this, Mon.

Mon's fingers hovered over her phone, her heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The vibrant street scene she’d captured earlier that day filled her screen—a kaleidoscope of London life, all bustling energy and muted golden light. She took a deep breath, crafting a caption that felt both vulnerable and hopeful:

"Walking 'round London town 🇬🇧"

With a hesitant tap, she pressed "post." It felt strangely significant, like she was announcing her tentative step forward to the world—or at least to her corner of it. A small part of her still clung to the safety of her old life, where she and Khun Sam had worked side by side, their days blending seamlessly into nights of whispered plans and stolen touches. But another part of her—the part Char had encouraged, the part her dad had bolstered with his gift of a camera, the part her friends believed in—was beginning to lean into the possibility of something new.

Minutes later, her phone buzzed with notifications. Mon’s breath caught as she scrolled through the comments, her friends’ words wrapping around her like a warm embrace.

"So proud of you, Mon!" Yuki’s enthusiasm practically leapt off the screen.

"Killing it already!" Jim’s comment made Mon’s lips curve into a smile.

Mon's heart raced as she scrolled through the comments, a mix of emotions swirling within her. The support from her friends filled her with warmth, but a part of her couldn't help but wonder if Khun Sam would see the post. What would she think? Would she care?

Mon’s chest tightened briefly, but she exhaled, grounding herself. The ache of missing Khun Sam lingered, a quiet hum instead of a sharp pain. It didn’t overshadow her progress anymore; it simply existed alongside it. Mon let herself believe that healing could mean holding onto pieces of the past while still moving toward the future.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Sam sat in her condo, enveloped in darkness. The blackout curtains muted the city’s glow, leaving her in a void she’d always feared. Even in adulthood, the dark unsettled her, its stillness alive with imagined terrors. She had always slept with the lights on, even if dimmed—until Mon left. Since then, she’d let the darkness take over, an unspoken acknowledgment of her own emptiness. Now, the darkness wasn’t just an absence of light; it was an entity, a judge and executioner, sentencing her to relive every mistake.

Tonight, it felt like an ally—a silent cocoon shielding her from the world’s judgment.

Her phone screen flickered to life, briefly illuminating her face. Sam hesitated, her thumb hovering over the app store icon. Her hands trembled, the cool surface of the phone suddenly heavy. It wasn’t just about seeing Mon—it was about confronting a world she no longer belonged to. Sam had always dismissed Instagram as a frivolous distraction, laughing when friends tried to convince her to download it. But now, the urge to see Mon’s world—to feel connected—was irresistible.

The app loaded, and her heart raced. She typed Mon’s name into the search bar and paused, her breathing shallow. Finally, she pressed enter. Mon’s profile appeared, and Sam’s chest tightened. The most recent post was a vibrant London street scene. Red double-decker buses, cheerful pedestrians, and a sunlit sky filled the frame. The caption read: “Walking ’round London town 🇬🇧.”

Sam stared at the post, her world shrinking to that single image. It radiated life, color, and energy—everything her own existence lacked. The vibrancy mocked her isolation, sparking an unbearable question: Was London a temporary escape? Or was it permanent?

The thought clawed at her. She wanted answers but feared them just as much.

Unable to stop herself, Sam began scrolling through Mon’s feed. The second-most recent post was a photo of the beach when they had stayed at Cherisa’s, the sun rising in soft hues of orange and pink. Mon’s caption read: “Morning after magic ❤️.”

The memory hit like a wave, achingly beautiful yet raw. Back then, the future had stretched endlessly before them, as warm and bright as the rising sun. Now, every step Sam took felt like trudging through shadows, the horizon forever out of reach. She could almost feel the sand beneath her feet, the warmth of Mon's cheek against hers. They had laughed that day, basking in their newfound love with reckless abandon. It felt like an eternity ago, and yet it could have been just yesterday.

Each post was a fragment of their shared past, now reframed through Mon’s eyes. Mon had been the one to teach her to see beauty in imperfection, to find solace in vulnerability. But now, those lessons felt like cruel echoes of a life Sam could no longer touch.

With a heavy sigh, she shut off her phone and placed it on the side table, creating a physical barrier between herself and the overwhelming outside world. Yet even in the safety of her condo, there was no escape. The unrelenting onslaught of memories refused to fade into silence.

Sam sank into the plush pillows of her bed, her eyes roaming over the intricate patterns on the ceiling. She allowed herself to be consumed by thoughts of the past, each memory washing over her until it became too overwhelming to bear.

Tears streamed down Sam’s face as the truth settled over her, heavy and unrelenting: she had not just lost Mon—she had lost the person she might have been with her. The love they had shared, genuine and without judgment, had been her guiding light.

Before Mon, she had been closed off, a fortress of self-reliance and guarded emotions. Vulnerability was something she avoided like the darkness she once feared. But Mon’s warmth had been relentless, whether through small gestures like leaving her notes in the kitchen or gently coaxing her into sharing stories about her childhood. Slowly, Mon had chipped away at her defenses, piece by piece.

Mon had a way of turning the simplest moments into something extraordinary. She didn’t just see beauty in the mundane—she uncovered it, piece by piece, until Sam could see it too. A quiet walk through Bangkok’s bustling streets would turn into an adventure under Mon’s gaze, her delight at small details—flowers peeking through cracks in the pavement, the comforting hum of a street vendor’s cart—transforming the mundane into something beautiful. Mon didn’t just see the world differently; she taught Sam how to see it too.

Sam remembered one afternoon when the two of them had sat on the couch, sipping tea while rain lashed against the windows. It had been such an ordinary moment, yet with Mon, it felt different.

“Rainy days are the best for tea,” Mon had said casually, her fingers tracing lazy circles on Sam’s wrist. “Nothing beats being cozy while the world gets soaked out there.” At the time, it had felt like nothing more than an offhand remark, but now Sam clung to it. It was another small piece of Mon’s world she hadn’t fully appreciated until it was gone.

But now, Mon was gone, and the lessons she had left behind felt like shards of glass—beautiful but painful to hold. The joy Mon had introduced to her life was undeniable, but without her, it felt like a sick joke, a reminder of what she had failed to protect.

She didn’t want this to be the end, not for Mon, not for herself. Somewhere beneath the suffocating grief, there was a small, flickering ember—a part of her that refused to accept this as the final chapter. Mon had believed in her, had seen something worth loving in her, and that thought was both unbearable and sustaining.

For now, though, she let herself sit in the darkness. It wasn’t her enemy tonight. It was a place to rest, to gather the scattered pieces of herself and decide which ones were worth holding on to.

Sam stared at her phone for what felt like hours before typing out the message. The words were awkward, stilted—an invitation that felt foreign coming from her. She hated having people in her space, hated the vulnerability of opening her door to anyone, even close friends. But the thought of leaving the condo was unbearable.

Sam: Lunch at my place? 1 PM. Bring whatever you want.

She hit send to Tee, Jim, and Kade before she could second-guess herself.

When Tee, Jim, and Kade arrived at Sam’s condo, they immediately noticed how drained she looked. Sam had always been the picture of composure—sharp, poised, and distant. But now, she seemed hollow. Her hair was pulled back haphazardly, and the shadows under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights. Her usually immaculate outfit was replaced with loose, nondescript clothes that hung off her frame.

“Sam,” Tee said softly as she opened the door, her voice laced with worry. She hesitated before stepping inside, exchanging a concerned glance with Kade and Jim. The condo, typically pristine, felt cold and lifeless, as if the air itself was weighted with unspoken grief.

“Thanks for coming,” Sam said, her voice flat, her movements mechanical as she gestured toward the dining table. She had set out plates and glasses but hadn’t prepared anything herself. Kade placed a bag of pastries on the counter while Jim carried a container of takeout, their warmth a stark contrast to Sam’s icy demeanor.

As they settled in, her friends tried to fill the silence with casual chatter, but the atmosphere was thick with unease. Tee kept sneaking glances at Sam’s untouched plate, Kade noticed the faint tremor in her hands, and Jim, who was never one to mince words, finally broke the tension.

“Sam,” she said, her voice steady but firm. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. When’s the last time you ate? Or slept?”

Sam stiffened, her fork hovering midair. “I’m fine,” she said curtly, her voice sharp and dismissive. But her friends weren’t convinced.

“Fine?” Tee echoed, her brows furrowing. “You don’t look fine, Sam. You look like…” She hesitated, searching for a gentler way to phrase it, but Kade stepped in.

“You look like you’re falling apart,” she said bluntly, her tone laced with concern. “And we’re worried about you.”

Sam exhaled sharply, her shoulders slumping as cracks began to show in her carefully maintained exterior. “I’m just tired,” she muttered, staring down at her plate. “That’s all.”

The silence stretched on until Sam finally broke it, her voice soft but carrying an edge. “Did you know Mon was in London?”

Her friends froze. Kade and Jim exchanged uneasy glances before Tee let out a slow sigh. “Yeah,” Kade admitted carefully. “We knew. But… Mon asked us not to tell you. She didn’t want you to worry.”

Sam’s fork slipped from her fingers, clattering onto her plate. She leaned back in her chair, her chest tightening as the weight of their words settled over her. She looked away from them, blinking hard against the tears that threatened to spill.

“She didn’t want me to worry,” Sam said finally, her voice cracking. A bitter laugh escaped her, shaky and hollow. “She’s always worrying about me. Always trying to make everything easier for me. Even now.”

Kade leaned forward. “Sam—”

“No,” Sam interrupted, her voice rising, trembling with the anger she could no longer suppress. “She’s in London because I didn’t fight for her. I let her feel like she didn’t matter. And now I’m supposed to pretend it’s fine? That I’m fine?”

Tee shook her head. “Sam, this isn’t just on you. Mon—”

“Mon didn’t give up on me,” Sam said, her voice breaking. “I gave up on her. I didn’t fight. I just… let her walk away.”

Her voice wavered, and the fight drained out of her as quickly as it had come. Tears spilled over, and her shoulders slumped. “And now she’s gone, and I don’t even know if I deserve to miss her.”

Kade stood and moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her. “You didn’t let her go, Sam,” she said softly. “You just… didn’t know how to hold on. That doesn’t mean it’s too late.”

Sam sat silently, wiping the tears from her face with trembling hands. Her friends’ reassurances floated around her, soft and steady, but they barely registered. The ache in her chest was unbearable, twisting tighter with every breath. She missed Mon so much it felt like her entire body was hollow, a fragile shell barely held together. She missed her laugh, her warmth, her uncanny ability to calm the chaos that Sam couldn’t contain.

But worse than missing her was the not knowing. Did Mon miss her too? Or had she moved on, her new life in London bright and vibrant, free of the weight Sam had placed on her shoulders? The thought struck like a blade, sharp and merciless. Sam’s fingers curled tightly around the bracelet on her wrist, her thumb brushing over the small charm. She felt selfish even wondering. How could I ask that? After everything, after failing her, how could I want her to still think of me?

But, God, she did. She worried about her constantly, even now. She loved her still, with an ache that hadn’t dulled in the slightest since Mon walked away. The guilt clawed at her as she fought the words that rose in her throat, desperate to stay silent, to avoid the shame of voicing her need.

And yet, she couldn’t help it. The question pushed past the flood of emotions, a tiny whisper, raw and trembling. “Do you think…” Sam hesitated, staring down at her lap, her voice catching in her throat. “Do you think she misses me?”

The silence that followed was heavy, stretching far too long, until Kade finally spoke, her voice gentle and sure. “Sam, she misses you. Of course she does.”

Tee nodded, her voice steady. “She asked us not to tell you because she didn’t want you to worry, but it was never because she stopped caring. She loves you, Sam.”

Jim chimed in, her voice unusually serious. “You’re not out of her mind. She’s still thinking about you. I know she is.”

Sam’s chest tightened as their words settled over her, fragile and delicate, a flicker of something like hope sparking deep inside her. She didn’t deserve to ask, and she wasn’t sure she deserved the answer—but she clung to it all the same. Her thumb brushed over the bracelet again, her tears falling silently as she tried to breathe through the overwhelming tide of guilt, love, and longing.

Sam sat in silence for a long moment after their reassurances, her fingers trembling as they traced the familiar edges of the bracelet on her wrist. The tension in the room grew heavy, and her chest tightened as the emotions she’d tried so hard to suppress clawed their way to the surface. Finally, she exhaled shakily, her voice breaking as she began to speak.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice raw and trembling. Her hands clenched in her lap as tears streamed down her face again. “I want her back—God, I want her back so badly. But how can I… how can I do that when everything else is standing in the way?”

Her friends exchanged quiet, concerned glances but said nothing, letting her continue. Sam’s words came faster now, spilling out in a desperate torrent.

“This whole thing with Kirk, my grandmother’s expectations—it's like I’m trapped. Like no matter what I do, I’m failing someone. I know what she wants from me. I’ve always known. But it’s killing me—trying to be this perfect version of myself that she’s built up in her head. The one who does what’s best for the family, who sacrifices herself without complaint.” Her laugh was bitter, choking on the tears in her throat. “But what about what’s best for me? What about what makes me happy?”

She paused, her voice trembling as she stared down at her lap. “Mon… she painted my world. Before her, everything was so… dull. It was just work. Just obligations. She was the one who made me see there was more to life than being perfect or keeping the peace. She made me feel things I didn’t think I could feel. And now…” Her breath hitched, and she shook her head. “Now I’m stuck in this gray space again, and it’s unbearable. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

Her friends leaned closer, their faces etched with worry. Tee reached out, placing a steadying hand on her arm. “Sam, you don’t have to live like this,” she said gently. “You can fight for her. For yourself.”

“But how?” Sam’s voice cracked, and her head snapped up, her tear-filled eyes meeting his. “How do I do that? I know what it takes. I know it means standing up to my grandmother. And if I do that—if I lose her—then what am I left with? I can’t bear the thought of losing Mon, but losing my grandmother?” She shook her head violently. “That’s unbearable too.”

“Sam…” Kade said softly, leaning forward. “Your grandmother loves you. But she doesn’t get to dictate your happiness. She doesn’t have to live your life—you do. And you know Mon makes you happy. You’ve always known.”

“I do,” Sam whispered, her voice breaking. “I know. I know she makes me happy. Happier than I ever thought I could be. But what if it’s not enough? What if I lose everything and it still doesn’t fix anything?”

Jim sighed, her voice unusually serious. “Sam, what you’re doing now? Trying to keep everything together while breaking yourself in the process? That’s what’s not enough. You can’t keep living like this, not when you already know what you want. Mon. Your happiness. A life that’s yours.”

Her lips trembled, and the weight of their words settled over her like a fragile comfort. “I’m scared,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve spent my whole life doing what’s expected of me. Standing up to her… it’s like I’d be undoing everything I’ve worked for. Everything she’s worked for.”

Kade reached out, her hand gentle as she squeezed Sam’s. “But you’d be building something new. Something you want. And Sam, I don’t think Mon’s given up on you. Not yet. But she won’t wait forever.”

Sam let out a long, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she whispered, tears spilling over once more. “I don’t know if I can risk everything.”

Her friends didn’t answer immediately, their presence a quiet strength as Sam finally gave voice to everything she’d been carrying. They knew they couldn’t decide for her, but they stayed, offering her a space to fall apart and rebuild—one small piece at a time.

Sam’s fingers tightened around the bracelet, her eyes staring at it as if it held all the answers she couldn’t find. Her voice was quiet, trembling with anger and hurt as she spoke. “I talked to Neung. She called me a coward. Said I was spineless. She wasn’t wrong.”

Her friends stilled, Kade exchanging a glance with Tee and Jim. “Neung’s… not exactly subtle,” Tee said cautiously, trying to tread lightly. “But she has a point.”

Sam looked up sharply, her tear-filled eyes blazing. “So you think I’m spineless too?”

“Sam, it’s not about being spineless,” Kade said gently, leaning forward. “It’s about recognizing what’s been done to you. Your grandmother—she’s dictated your whole life. You’ve been fighting for her approval since you were a kid. That’s not being weak. That’s being trapped.”

“And she hates all of you,” Sam muttered bitterly, looking between her friends. “She’s always hated you. Mon. Neung. Anyone who doesn’t fit into her perfect little plan for my life.”

“She does hate us,” Jim said, her tone blunt. “And you know what? We don’t like her either. We never have. Because we see what she’s done to you, Sam. She’s taken everything and made it about her expectations. And now, she’s got you thinking you can’t live without her approval.”

“You don’t owe her your happiness,” Kade added, her voice firmer now. “Sam, she’s kept you in a box your whole life. You can’t stay there just because it’s what she wants.”

Sam let out a harsh, bitter laugh, shaking her head as tears slipped down her cheeks. “And Kirk. God, Kirk. He’s the perfect little puppet, isn’t he? Always saying the right things, doing the right things, agreeing with her every word. He’s her golden boy.”

Tee frowned. “He’s exactly what she wants for you. But is he what you want?”

Sam’s hand slammed down on the table, startling them. “No! I don’t want him! I never wanted him! But does it even matter? Because that’s what she’s decided. That’s what’s best for me. And apparently, my happiness doesn’t factor into it.”

“Sam, it matters,” Kade said firmly, her voice cutting through the anger that filled the room. “Your happiness matters. Your life matters. You don’t want Kirk, and you don’t have to want him. You want Mon. You’ve always wanted Mon.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped, and the anger began to give way to something more fragile, more painful. “I want Mon,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I want her so much. But what do I do? How do I even… How do I stand up to her? She’s my grandmother. She’s my family.”

“She’s also controlling your life,” Jim said gently but firmly. “And if standing up to her means losing her, then maybe… maybe it’s worth it. Because if you don’t, you’ll lose yourself. And Mon.”

Sam’s tears fell freely now, her hand trembling as it moved to the bracelet on her wrist. “She’s been everything to me for so long. I don’t even know who I am without her approval.”

“Maybe it’s time to find out,” Kade said softly. “You don’t have to be the version of yourself that she wants, Sam. You can be you. The version that Mon sees. The one she loves.”

Sam shook her head, the weight of it all pressing down on her. “But what if I lose everything? What if I lose her?”

Tee placed a steady hand on her arm, her voice quiet but sure. “Then you build something new. Something that’s yours. And Sam, if Mon sees you standing up for yourself? If she sees you fighting for her? She’ll be there.”

Her thoughts spiraled, doubt creeping into every corner of her mind.

“What if she’s not?” Sam whispered, her voice trembling. “What if I stand up to my grandmother and lose everything, and Mon still doesn’t… What if she doesn’t want me back? What if it’s too late?”

Her friends looked at her, their concern palpable, but Sam pressed on, her voice growing more frantic. “I mean, what if I’m wrong? What if she’s already moved on? She’s in London, for God’s sake. She’s probably… she’s probably better off without me. I pushed her away. I let her leave.” Her fingers fidgeted with the bracelet, twisting it nervously. “And my grandmother—she’s not going to just let me go. She’ll cut me off. I’ll lose her. I’ll lose everything.”

“Sam,” Kade said, her voice firm but gentle, “you’re spiraling. You can’t think like this.”

“But what if I’m right?” Sam countered, her voice rising. “What if standing up to her just makes everything worse? What if it’s all for nothing?”

“Then you rebuild,” Tee said quietly, leaning forward. “You’re stronger than you think, Sam. You’ve built things from nothing before.”

Jim hesitated, glancing between Sam and Kade before she spoke. “What about the deal with your grandmother? The one about your company?”

Sam froze, her fingers going still as her mind latched onto the familiar weight of that promise. “What about it?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“If your company hits fifty million baht in revenue, you don’t have to shut it down, right?” Jim reminded her. “That’s still on the table.”

Sam blinked, her throat tightening. The deal was still in place—a faint light in the suffocating darkness of her grandmother’s expectations. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “That was the agreement.”

“So why not focus on that?” Kade suggested, her tone cautious but encouraging. “You’ve worked so hard for it, Sam. You’ve built that company from the ground up. If you can hit that goal, it’s leverage. It’s proof you don’t need her to make decisions for you.”

Sam let out a shaky breath, her mind racing. The company had always been her escape—her way of carving out something that was hers. It had been her refuge when everything else felt out of control, but now, it felt like it could be something more. A chance. A way out.

“But what if it’s not enough?” she asked, her voice small. “What if I fail?”

“Then you fail knowing you fought,” Tee said firmly. “And that’s better than giving up before you even try.”

Kade nodded, leaning closer. “And you’re not alone in this, Sam. We’re here. We’ll help you however we can.”

Kade sighed, standing abruptly and heading toward the kitchen. “Okay, enough of this,” she said firmly. “Sam, you’re dehydrated, and you haven’t eaten. You’re not going to make any decisions or figure anything out if you keel over first.”

Sam frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Kade shot back, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. She returned to the table, setting it in front of Sam. “Drink.”

Sam stared at the glass of water in front of her, her fingers twitching against the table’s edge. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of this—the water, the food, the blanket of concern her friends had draped over her without permission. Her throat felt tight, raw from crying, and she wasn’t sure if she could drink even if she tried.

“Drink, Sam,” Kade’s voice cut through the haze, sharp but steady. Sam glanced up to see her friend’s expectant expression, arms crossed as if daring her to argue.

Sam sighed, her hand reaching for the glass almost against her will. The water was cool as she sipped, her throat protesting at first before the relief set in. She set the glass back down, her movements mechanical, and looked away.

“Happy?” she mumbled, her voice low and flat.

“Not yet,” Jim said, and Sam could hear the scrape of her chair as she stood. “You need to eat something too.”

Sam stared at the plate of food in front of her, her stomach churning at the thought. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Kade replied, her voice leaving no room for argument. “You don’t have to eat the whole thing. Just a few bites.”

Sam’s chest tightened, frustration bubbling up alongside the grief that hadn’t left her since Mon walked away. “This isn’t going to fix anything,” she muttered.

“No,” Kade admitted, her tone softening, “but it’s going to help you survive long enough to figure it out.”

Jim placed a container of takeout in front of her and popped it open. The smell of food filled the room, making Sam’s stomach churn, but not with hunger. She hesitated, picking up her fork reluctantly. Her hand moved to the fork reluctantly, and she picked at the food, forcing down a few bites. It didn’t taste like much, but it settled the gnawing ache in her stomach she hadn’t realized was there.

“You don’t have to like it,” Jim said, her tone lighter but still firm. “You just have to eat. A few bites, and we’ll stop nagging.”

Sam rolled her eyes but speared a piece of chicken. She chewed slowly, the taste bland against the lingering heaviness in her chest. After a few more bites, she set the fork down and gave them a pointed look. “Happy?”

“Not yet,” Kade said, her hands on her hips. “Shower.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“You heard me. Shower,” Kade repeated, gesturing toward the bathroom. “You’ll feel better. Just do it.”

“Kade, I’m fine,” Sam insisted weakly, but Tee cut her off.

“Sam, come on. Let us take care of you for once,” she said. “You’ve been running on fumes. Just humor us.”

With a heavy sigh, Sam stood, muttering under her breath as she shuffled toward the bathroom. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, staring blankly at the tiled wall. The silence pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating, but she pushed herself forward, turning on the water. The rush of the shower filled the space, its sound almost deafening in the quiet of her thoughts.

As the hot water cascaded over her, Sam let out a shuddering breath. She rubbed her hands over her face, her skin still tender from crying. What am I even doing? The question echoed in her mind, relentless and sharp. Her friends were trying to help, trying to pull her back from the edge she didn’t want to admit she was teetering on, but it all felt… futile. The water did nothing to wash away the heaviness pressing on her chest.

She tilted her head back, letting the water soak her hair as she clenched her jaw. You’re pathetic, she thought bitterly. Can’t even take care of yourself, let alone figure out what to do about Mon or your grandmother. Her throat tightened, and she gripped the edge of the shower wall for balance.

Mon’s face flashed in her mind—the way she used to smile, the soft warmth in her eyes that made Sam feel like everything would be okay. But that was gone now, wasn’t it? Mon was gone, walking around London while Sam fell apart in Bangkok. And her grandmother… Sam’s chest tightened further as she thought about the deal. The looming revenue goal. The endless demands. The quiet but relentless reminders of what would happen if she failed.

I’m not strong enough for this, she thought, a tear slipping down her cheek, mingling with the water. I’ve never been strong enough. Neung was right. I’m a coward. I just… I don’t know how to fix any of this.

Her hands trembled as she washed the soap from her skin, the water scorching but still not enough to shake the numbness that had taken hold of her. The idea of standing up to her grandmother made her stomach churn. How could she face that? How could she risk losing everything—the life she’d built, the approval she’d chased her whole life, the foundation that felt like the only thing keeping her grounded?

And yet… hadn’t she already lost so much? Mon had been her happiness. Her escape from the grayscale of duty and obligation. Mon had painted her world in colors Sam hadn’t known existed, and now that she was gone, it felt like the world had gone gray again.

Sam pressed her forehead against the cool tile, her tears flowing freely now. I want her back, she thought desperately. I love her. But what if I can’t get her back? What if I try, and I lose everything? The fear twisted sharply in her chest, warring with the faintest flicker of hope. A hope that maybe, just maybe, she could still find a way to fight.

She stayed there, under the water, until her tears stopped and the heat began to fade, leaving her skin red and raw from the scalding spray. Finally, she shut off the shower, her body heavy with exhaustion, and wrapped herself in a towel. The steam clung to the air, swirling in the dim light as she turned toward the mirror.

For a moment, the fogged glass distorted her reflection, blurring the lines and softening the edges. But as her hand swiped across the surface, clearing a streak, she finally saw herself. And what she saw made her stomach churn.

Her face was gaunt, her cheeks hollow, the angles of her jaw sharper than she remembered. The dark circles beneath her eyes were deep and pronounced, stark against her pale skin. Her lips, once full and warm, were cracked and dry, the faint remnants of her own teeth marks visible where she’d bitten them in restless thought. Her hair, damp and clinging to her face, lacked the shine and care it once had; it hung limply, framing her face like a curtain too heavy to lift.

Sam’s fingers trembled as she pressed them to her collarbone, where her skin stretched tightly over the delicate bones that now jutted out more than she remembered. She hadn’t realized how much weight she’d lost until now, hadn’t truly taken in the toll the past few months had taken on her. The towel felt heavy against her shoulders, and she adjusted it, noticing how loosely it wrapped around her frame.

Her eyes lingered on her own, the dark, tired hollows that stared back at her from the mirror. Once, they had held sharpness, command, a spark of determination that could silence a room. Now, they seemed dull, vacant, like they belonged to someone else entirely. Her lips quivered, and her breath hitched as a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill.

This is who I am now, she thought bitterly, her reflection almost unrecognizable. She remembered Mon’s voice, teasing her once about being too meticulous, too polished. Mon had always found a way to coax a smile out of her, even when Sam pretended she didn’t want to. But now? She wondered if Mon would even recognize her like this, so hollow, so far from the person she used to be.

Her fingers moved instinctively to her wrist, brushing against the her bracelet. It sat there, a faint glimmer of silver against her pale skin, the only piece of her life that still felt real, still tethered her to who she was before everything fell apart.

Sam exhaled shakily, leaning forward to rest her forehead against the mirror’s cool surface. The condensation smeared beneath her skin, blurring her reflection again. For a long moment, she stayed there, her breath fogging up the glass as the tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over.

I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know where to start. Her chest tightened, the weight of everything—her grandmother’s demands, the company, Kirk, and most of all, Mon—pressing down on her like a crushing tide. But I can’t stay like this. I can’t keep breaking like this.

She straightened, her movements sluggish, and swiped her hand over the mirror again, clearing the streaks of fog and tears. Her reflection stared back at her, hollow and broken, but in her eyes—just for a moment—she thought she saw the faintest flicker of something else. A glimmer of the strength she had buried deep, waiting to be found.

Wrapping the towel tighter around her, Sam turned away from the mirror and stepped out of the bathroom, her body still heavy with exhaustion but her thoughts slightly clearer.

As Sam stepped out of the bathroom, the cool air prickling against her damp skin, she hesitated. The hum of quiet voices carried into the hallway, grounding her in their presence. She took a breath, steeling herself before rejoining them.

When she returned to the living room, her friends were sitting on the couch, waiting silently. Sam hesitated before joining them, curling up at the far end, her damp hair clinging to her neck. She pulled a blanket over her lap, not meeting their eyes.

“So,” Kade said carefully, “the deal with your grandmother. Let’s talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about? She made it perfectly clear—fifty million baht in revenue by the end of the year, or I shut it down.” Sam’s voice cracked, frustration laced in every word. “This company is the one thing that’s mine. It’s proof that I can create something for myself, without her rules. And now, even that’s slipping away.” Her hands trembled as she gripped the bracelet.

“And how close are you?” Kade asked, her tone cautious.

Sam stared down at her lap, her voice quiet. “Thirty-five million so far.”

“That’s good,” Kade said, but Sam cut her off with a sharp shake of her head.

“It’s not good enough,” Sam muttered. “It’s never good enough for her. Even if I hit the goal, she’ll just find something else to criticize, some other way to control me.”

The anger flared suddenly, sharp and hot. “She’s been doing this my whole life. Pushing, pulling, demanding, controlling. And Kirk—” Her voice broke, and she pressed her hands to her temples. “He’s everything she wants. Perfect. Predictable. Someone who doesn’t challenge her or question her.”

She let out a shaky breath, her tears threatening to fall again. “I don’t want him. I’ve never wanted him. But what choice do I have? I cTn’t lose her. I can’t lose everything.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Sam’s chest tightened under the weight of her grandmother’s expectations. The memories of Mon—the life they could’ve shared—twisted guilt and anger into something almost unbearable.

“I want Mon back,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But I don’t know how. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fight for her.”

Kade shifted on the couch, her voice gentle but steady. “How much time do you have to meet the goal?”

Sam blinked, her hands fidgeting with the bracelet on her wrist. “Seven months,” she said quietly, her throat tight. “Seven months to reach fifty million baht in revenue.”

“That’s not bad,” Tee said, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. “You’re already at thirty-five million. That’s totally doable.”

“I don’t even know if that number’s accurate anymore,” Sam admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “The latest figures were given to me, but…” She hesitated, her chest tightening further. “I couldn’t make sense of them. I—I don’t understand them like I used to. It’s like my brain… stops working when I look at them.”

Her admission hung in the room, raw and vulnerable. Sam wasn’t used to feeling helpless and out of control. Numbers and projections had always been her strength—a way to ground herself when everything else felt chaotic. But now, even that had slipped through her fingers.

“You’ve been overwhelmed,” Kade said softly, her tone understanding. “It makes sense that it’s harder to focus right now. You’re carrying so much.”

Sam let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “That’s just another excuse, isn’t it? I should be able to handle this. I’ve always been able to handle this. But now, I look at those reports, and it’s like they’re written in another language.”

Jim leaned back against the couch, her arms crossed. “So, we help you,” she said simply. “We go over the numbers with you, break them down until they make sense again.”

Sam frowned, her fingers tightening on the bracelet. “I don’t know if that’ll help.”

“It will,” Tee said firmly. “But first, we’ve got to get you out of this mindset. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own, Sam. You need help. And that’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay,” Sam murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “It feels like I’m failing. Like I’ve already failed.”

“You haven’t,” Kade said gently but firmly. “You’re still here, still fighting—even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. And we’re here too. We’ll figure this out together.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped, her exhaustion pressing down on her like a physical weight. “I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, tears welling up again. “There’s so much to do, and I’m already so far behind.”

“Then we start small,” Kade said, her hand resting lightly on Sam’s arm. “One step at a time. We go over the numbers and see where things stand. You’ve got seven months, Sam. That’s time to turn this around.”

Sam shook her head, her fingers twisting anxiously around the bracelet on her wrist. “I don’t want to use the full seven months,” she said, her voice trembling. “I can’t. That’s too long. Dragging this out… it’ll just make everything worse.”

Her friends exchanged worried glances, but Sam pressed on, her words spilling out faster now, edged with panic. “The wedding planners are already in full force. They’re picking out flowers, venues, menus—stuff I don’t even care about. My grandmother won’t stop calling, asking for updates, reminding me of what’s expected. And Kirk…” She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Kirk keeps asking my opinion on things like this is some fairy tale romance we’re planning together. He doesn’t get it. None of them get it.”

Kade leaned forward, her brows furrowed with concern. “Sam—”

“I’m suffocating,” Sam interrupted, her voice cracking as she gestured helplessly. “I’m drowning in all of this. My grandmother. Kirk. The weight of everything I didn’t do to keep Mon. And Mon…” Her voice broke, and tears welled in her eyes.

Mon is everywhere. A ghost in every corner, a song in the background, a touch lingering in the air. She’s inescapable, yet unreachable

She clenched her jaw, her tears spilling over as she stared at her lap. “She’s everywhere, but she’s not here. And it hurts. I can’t breathe half the time. Seven months of this?” She shook her head violently. “I can’t do it. I’ll break.”

Tee spoke gently, her voice calm but firm. “Then don’t use the full seven months, Sam. Push hard. Tackle this head-on. You’ve already done so much with the company—you can get to fifty million faster than you think.”

Sam’s lip trembled as she looked up at him. “And what happens if I do? Even if I hit the goal, what changes? My grandmother will still have something to say, some new way to remind me that I’m failing her. She’ll still push me toward Kirk. And Mon…” Her voice softened, barely a whisper now. “What if it’s already too late for Mon?”

“It’s not,” Kade said firmly, leaning closer. “But you have to act, Sam. You’re right—you can’t let this drag on. Do what you can, as fast as you can. Not because you’re running out of time, but because you need to give yourself a chance to breathe again. To take control.”

Sam nodded faintly, though the fear in her chest didn’t subside. She felt trapped, pulled in every direction, unable to escape the weight of her grandmother’s demands, Kirk’s relentless optimism, and the haunting absence of Mon. The memories cut deep, each one a reminder of what she’d lost and what she still wanted desperately to get back.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” Her voice cracked, trembling under the weight of her confession. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Kade reached out, resting a hand on Sam’s arm. “You start by deciding what matters most to you. Forget your grandmother. Forget Kirk. What do you want, Sam? What’s worth fighting for?”

Sam swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the bracelet again. Mon’s absence burned in her chest, and the weight of her grandmother’s expectations pressed down like a vice. But beneath it all, she felt the faintest flicker of something—something small but insistent.

“I want the life I had with Mon.”Her fingers tightened around the bracelet, her tears falling freely now. “That brief moment where life felt like it was worth it. Where it wasn’t just about duty or expectations. It was mine. A world where I got to make my own decisions, not ones made for me.”

Her voice cracked, and she pressed her trembling hands to her face, her words muffled but no less desperate. “I want that life back. I want it with Mon—if she still wants me. God, I hope she still does. But even if she doesn’t… I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want the version of life my grandmother wants for me. I don’t want Kirk. I don’t want to suffocate under the weight of things I never chose.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, her friends watching her with quiet understanding as she struggled to piece herself back together. Kade finally broke the quiet, her voice steady but gentle. “Mon fueled that fire in you. She showed you what life could be. But, Sam, she can’t be the only reason you want this. You have to want it for yourself too.”

Sam looked up, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “I do want Mon,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She made everything feel alive. She painted my world with colors I didn’t know existed. She made me… better.”

Sam stared at her, her chest tightening as her words sank in. “What if I can’t?” she murmured. “What if I only feel alive because of her? Because of what she brought into my life?”

Tee leaned forward, her voice calm but firm. “Mon might’ve opened that door for you, Sam, but you were the one who stepped through it. You were the one who started building that life, even if it was just for a moment. And you’re the only one who can keep going.”

Sam’s lip quivered as fresh tears welled in her eyes. “But what if it’s not enough?” she whispered. “What if I can’t hold onto that life without her?”

Kade reached out, placing a hand on Sam’s arm. “It’s scary, I know,” she said softly. “But Mon saw something in you—something worth fighting for. She believed you could do it. And you have to believe that too. Not just for her, but for yourself.”

The weight of their words pressed against Sam, sharp and unrelenting. She wanted to fight for Mon, to fight for the life they could’ve had together. But more than that, she realized she wanted to fight for the person she’d been with Mon—the person who dared to dream of a life beyond the gray walls of duty and expectation.

Sam exhaled shakily, her fingers brushing over the bracelet again. She looked up, her gaze flickering with the faintest trace of determination. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she murmured, her voice cracking. “But I’m done waiting. I have to try—for Mon. For myself. For the life I want.”

“You do,” Kade said softly, squeezing her arm. “And we’ll be here every step of the way.”

Sam let out a shaky breath, her tears slowing as their words settled over her. She didn’t have all the answers, and the weight of her guilt and fear still pressed down heavily. But for the first time, there was a small sliver of clarity: she couldn’t keep waiting for the inevitable to crush her. She had to move, to act, to fight—not just for Mon, but for herself.

There was a quiet pause, and surprisingly, Sam didn't break it. She allowed herself to acknowledge the heaviness of her doubts and fears, and the slight hope that she was too scared to admit. It was the first time in months that she felt a spark of optimism breaking through the heavy weight on her chest. Though it was small, it gave her the determination to continue fighting and not succumb to fear.

Chapter Text

Mon stepped out of the cab, smoothing the front of her white skirt as the cool evening air kissed her skin. The glow from the gallery ahead spilled onto the pavement, mingling with the distant hum of city life. She adjusted the gold chain of her shoulder bag and took a deep breath, steadying herself before moving forward. Her simple off-shoulder white top and flowing skirt swayed gently with each step.

Through the large glass doors, Mon spotted Char leaning casually against a tall table. Char's blush pink dress draped effortlessly over her figure, blending elegance with ease. She exuded confidence, her black heels tapping idly against the floor. When their eyes met, Char's lips curled into a bright grin, and she lifted a lazy hand in greeting. The subtle sparkle of earrings peeking from beneath Char’s dark hair caught the light, adding understated glamour to her relaxed posture.

A small smile tugged at Mon's lips in return. She straightened, letting a flicker of confidence settle in, and pushed open the door. Warm jazz music and soft conversation enveloped her. The gallery buzzed with life—small groups lingered by framed photographs, voices blending into the ambiance. The pristine white walls carried stories in every frame, each piece breathing its own quiet narrative. The scent of fresh paint mixed with hints of wine and hors d'oeuvres, creating an atmosphere both sophisticated and inviting.

Char's heels clicked softly as she approached. "Finally!" she teased, eyes gleaming. She gave Mon an approving once-over. "Look at you. All in white and ready to steal the show."

Mon chuckled, letting her eyes trail over Char’s figure. "Please, I should be saying that to you. That dress is doing dangerous things."

Char smirked, tilting her head. "Dangerous, huh? And here I thought we were here for the art. But if I’m distracting you, well… I won’t apologize."

Mon laughed, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Guess we’ll call it even then."

Char grinned and hooked her arm through Mon’s. "Come on, I’ve already scoped out the best pieces. And you're lucky I waited."

They strolled deeper into the gallery, their footsteps quiet against the sleek floor. Mon let her gaze wander across the photographs—some raw and stark, others soft and wistful. Each one tugged at her in different ways, the captured moments feeling both distant and intimate. One piece depicted a weathered fisherman gazing into the sea, his lined face speaking volumes of resilience and solitude.

Char stopped in front of a particularly abstract piece—a swirl of colors that seemed both chaotic and deliberate.

"Okay, but seriously, what do you think this is supposed to be?" Char leaned in, squinting.

Mon tilted her head, smirking. "Looks like someone dropped a paint can and called it art."

Char laughed, a genuine, bright sound that echoed softly in the space. "Finally, someone who gets it! I thought I was the only one pretending to understand."

They moved on, pausing at a black-and-white photograph of a rain-drenched London street, cobblestones glistening under a flickering streetlamp. A lone figure lingered in the mist, half-lost in the haze.

"Now, this one," Char murmured. "It feels like it’s still moving. Like we’re intruding."

Mon studied the photo, the blurred figure blending with light and shadow. "It’s lonely. But honest."

Char nodded. "Exactly. It’s not trying to be anything. It just is."

Mon lingered, an unexpected ache blooming in her chest—a mix of longing and understanding. It reminded her of moments she'd tried to capture—not perfect, but real.

Char nudged her gently. "Your photos have that same energy."

Mon blinked. "What?"

"Your photos. They breathe like this one. That alleyway shot in Soho you posted? It made me want to be there."

Warmth crept into Mon’s cheeks. "That was just a quick shot. I didn’t think it was anything special."

"That’s why it was special," Char said. "You should submit your work here. They’re accepting submissions for the next show."

Mon tensed, an instinctive objection rising in her throat. But a flicker of curiosity broke through the fear.

Char raised a finger. "Don’t. You belong here."

Mon looked back at the photograph, imagining her own work on these walls. The thought tightened her chest—part fear, part exhilaration.

They wandered through the gallery, pausing at vibrant bursts of color, minimalist compositions, and raw, intimate portraits. The space felt like a living map of emotions. They paused at a quirky photo of a pigeon perched on a cafe table, staring directly into the camera.

Char smirked. "Ah yes, the true ruler of London. Should we bow?"

Mon giggled. "Only if it demands tribute."

Later that night, Mon sat at her desk, the lamp's soft glow casting a golden hue across the room. Her camera rested nearby, and her laptop hummed quietly. Her portfolio lay open—images staring back at her, each holding its own story. Her hand hovered over the trackpad. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Click.

The submission form appeared. She attached three photos and paused.

I don’t have to be perfect. Just honest.

She hit send.

Her heart raced—but for the first time in weeks, it wasn’t fear. It was possibility.

Mon adjusted her laptop, angling the camera just right before clicking the video call icon. The familiar ringtone echoed softly in her room until her mom’s face filled the screen.

"Mon! There you are," her mom greeted warmly. "How’s London treating you? Your dad mentioned you’ve been busy."

Mon blinked in surprise. "Wait… Dad told you that? You two have been talking?"

Her mom chuckled. "Of course we do. We didn’t work as a couple, but we’ll always be in each other's lives because of you."

Mon leaned back, absorbing the thought. "Huh. I guess I didn’t realize you two were...civil."

Her mom gave a soft smile. "Our marriage didn’t work out, but we both love you more than anything. That’s what matters."

Mon’s expression softened. "It’s kind of nice knowing you’re both looking out for me."

"Of course, my dear."

Mon brightened. "Something amazing happened this week."

Her mom leaned in. "Oh? Do tell!"

"So, I met this girl, Char, at a café. She saw me taking photos and struck up a conversation. We clicked, and she invited me to this local photography exhibit. It was incredible. Char even convinced me to submit some of my photos for the next show."

Her mom raised an eyebrow. "Char? Like a friend or… a friend?"

Mon groaned, laughing. "Mae! Just a friend. But she’s been encouraging me to put myself out there. I submitted my photos, and people are actually noticing them. A local café even reached out about displaying my prints!"

Her mom’s eyes lit up. "Mon, that’s wonderful! You’ve always been talented, but I’m proud you’re finally sharing it."

Mon smiled. "It feels good to finally move forward. Dad even spoiled me with some new editing software."

Her mom laughed. "Of course he did."

"Tell this Char friend I said thank you for encouraging my daughter."

Mon laughed. "I will. Maybe I’ll even send you one of my prints once it’s up."

"I’ll hold you to that," her mom teased.

Her mom’s smile softened. "So… how are you holding up with everything? With Khun Sam, I mean."

Mon’s smile faltered but didn’t fade. "It still lingers, but it’s not as heavy anymore. I’m starting to find myself again—with my work, my future. But yeah… I miss her. Some days more than others."

Her mom nodded. "It’s okay to miss her. Just remember to take care of yourself first."

Mon smiled gratefully. "I know. Thanks, Mae. I needed that."

"Always, sweetheart. Now, show me more of those photos!"

Mon chuckled and began sharing her screen, walking her mom through the images she’d poured her heart into—feeling, for the first time in a while, like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

The soft hum of London life buzzed around them—distant chatter, the rustling of leaves, the occasional bark of a dog. The world felt full of life, a quiet contrast to the heaviness Mon had been carrying. It was the middle of spring, and the park was alive with color. Fresh blooms dotted the landscape, and the trees swayed gently in the breeze. Mon and Char sat on a worn wooden bench beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree, sipping coffee from paper cups.

Char stretched her legs out in front of her, tilting her face toward the sun. "This weather is too nice to stay inside. Good call on the park."

Mon smiled, taking in the vibrant scene around them. "Yeah, it feels good to be out."

Char shot her a sideways glance. "You’ve been pretty busy lately. I thought I'd have to drag you away from your laptop."

Mon chuckled. "I’ve been getting steady freelance work. Social media management, photo shoots—it’s a lot, but it feels good. Still… I’m waiting to hear back from the gallery submission. It’s been weeks. I check my email every five minutes."

Char leaned back, crossing her arms. "Mon, they probably have tons of submissions. But your work deserves to be there. You know that, right?"

Mon hesitated. "I want to believe that. But what if this is it? What if I’m not good enough, and I’ve been fooling myself this whole time?"

Char shook her head. "No way. It just means they have bad taste. Besides, people are already reaching out to you. That’s not nothing."

Mon watched a pair of kids chase each other through the grass, their laughter echoing between the trees.

Char softened. "And Sam? Have you thought about her much lately?"

Mon let out a slow breath. "Yeah… I have. I still love her. I miss her. But it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. I can remember the good parts without breaking apart."

Char leaned forward. "That’s huge. You’re feeling it without letting it define you."

Mon nodded. "I thought love meant giving everything until there was nothing left. I didn’t see how much of me I was losing."

Char nodded thoughtfully. “But remember, it wasn’t just Sam. You didn’t get to this point alone. There were pressures all around you—family, work, expectations. You weren’t just navigating a relationship; you were managing everyone’s expectations of you. That’s a lot for anyone."

Mon sighed. "No, but I never stood up for myself. I let her avoid breaking up with Kirk, I stayed quiet when things got bad, and I thought if I just kept giving, she’d choose me. I didn’t realize I was letting myself disappear."

Char smiled sadly. "You’re realizing your part in it, and that’s important. But that doesn’t make it all your fault. Love isn’t about losing yourself to make someone else happy. Sam had her faults, but so did you, and you’re owning that. That takes guts."

Char paused for a moment, then leaned back against the bench. "But you know who really didn’t help? Kirk. He made it worse. He put you in an impossible position."

Mon sighed. "I know. I thought I was just being helpful, keeping the peace. But looking back, he used his authority to corner me. I couldn’t say no without feeling like I was risking everything."

Char's expression darkened. "Exactly. He manipulated the situation. Whether he meant to or not, he took advantage of your need to please people. That’s not on you. He knew you wouldn’t push back."

Mon frowned, her grip on her coffee cup tightening. "I thought it was just part of the job. But now I see how much pressure I was under, and how I let it happen."

Char gave a small, reassuring smile. "No, you were being taken advantage of. And you’re starting to realize that. That matters. You’re not the same person now, and that’s a good thing."

Char hesitated for a moment, then glanced at Mon. "Can I ask you something? If Sam wasn’t engaged... if things were different... do you think you’d go back to her?"

Mon froze, staring down at her coffee.

"I'm not sure," she hesitated. “Maybe someday, but everything would have to be different for both of us. And even if I did consider it, she would have to be single. I wouldn't even think about it... that's a line I won't cross."

Char nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I was just curious if you had considered it, rebuilding something under the right circumstances."

Mon sighed. "I need to keep focusing on myself right now. I can’t lose myself again. If something happens in the future, then maybe. But I can’t put my life on hold for a possibility."

Char smiled softly. "That’s healthy. You’re growing, and that’s what matters."

Mon gave a faint smile. "Yeah... one step at a time."

Char nudged her. "Okay, deep feelings break is over. Coffee refill? My treat."

Mon laughed. "Only if you promise not to psychoanalyze me."

Char smirked. "No promises. But I will throw in a pastry."

They stood, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as they walked toward the coffee cart. The breeze was lighter, and for once, so was Mon.

Tee's face popped up on the screen as the video call connected, with Yuki, Jim, and Kade squeezing in to get a better view.

“Mon! Look at you, thriving in London!” Kade teased, grinning.

Jim smirked. “Seriously, how are we even on your schedule? We figured we’d need to book an appointment.”

Mon chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Please. I’m not that busy. I’ve just been juggling freelance work—social media gigs, photography. It’s been nonstop, but it’s going well."

Yuki leaned forward, grinning. “That’s amazing, Mon! Told you your work would take off. So, what’s been the most exciting project so far?”

Mon smiled thoughtfully. “Honestly? Probably the gallery submission. I submitted some photos for a local exhibit here. Still waiting to hear back, though. It’s been weeks.”

Tee’s eyes widened. “Mon, that’s huge! They’d be crazy not to feature your work."

Mon sighed, stirring her tea. “I don’t know. I keep checking my email, but nothing yet. It’s nerve-wracking."

“Hey, even if they don’t pick it up, you’ve already got clients. That says something,” Yuki encouraged. “You’re building something real."

Mon smiled softly. “Thanks. I’m trying to focus on that.”

The conversation flowed easily, full of jokes and light teasing, until Jim laughed and then hesitated. “Well, at least you’re… doing better than Sam was.”

Silence. Jim’s eyes widened as the words hung in the air.

Mon’s stomach twisted, her grip tightening around her mug. “Wait… what?”

Kade elbowed her. “Jim!”

Tee shot Jim a sharp look but sighed. “Mon, it’s… complicated. Sam’s been—well, she was struggling. But she’s getting better now."

Mon’s pulse quickened. “Struggling how?”

Jim shifted uncomfortably. “We didn’t realize how bad it was until she reached out. She invited us for lunch a while back… and she just looked… exhausted. Like she hadn’t been sleeping or eating properly. She’d been isolating herself. If it wasn’t for work or Lady Grandmother, she barely left her condo.”

Tee nodded, voice softer. “It was like seeing a ghost. We thought she was managing, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. She’d just… given up.”

Mon stared at them, the weight of their words sinking in. Guilt clawed at her chest. She hadn’t let herself think about how Khun Sam might be coping, and now it felt unbearable. Khun Sam, always so composed, had fallen apart.

“I didn’t think she’d fall apart like that,” Mon whispered. “I know it’s not all my fault, but… I left. I didn’t check-in. I didn’t even think about how she might be after everything.”

Her voice faltered. “I should’ve known. Maybe I could have done something.”

Jim gave her a sympathetic look. “She hides things well. We didn’t see it either.”

Tee softened. “But she’s slowly getting better now. It’s slow, but it’s progress.”

Mon stared at the screen, conflicted. She wanted to reach out—but was it even her place?

After a pause, Mon’s voice trembled. “If she ever asks about me… could you tell her something?”

Kade leaned in. “Of course. What should we say?”

Mon hesitated. “Tell her I’m… doing okay. And that I’m proud of her. For trying. For taking care of herself. But… don’t make it sound like I’m asking for anything.”

Tee nodded. “We’ll tell her.”

Mon offered a small, grateful smile. “Thanks. Really.”

Jim clapped her hands, eager to shift the mood. “Okay, enough heavy talk. Can we focus on how Mon’s about to become a famous photographer?”

Mon chuckled, the tension in her chest easing slightly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

As they drifted back into laughter and light conversation, Mon’s mind stayed elsewhere. No matter how much she tried, thoughts of Khun Sam crept back in—a quiet ache of remorse, distant worry, and that familiar pull she wasn’t ready to face.

The gentle clink of china echoed softly through the quiet kitchen as Mon cradled a warm cup of tea in her hands. The warmth contrasted with the tight knot in her chest, a quiet reminder of the unease she couldn’t shake. Across the table, her dad sat with his own mug, the early evening light casting a golden hue across the space. The scent of steeped Earl Grey filled the air, mingling with the distant hum of London beyond the window.

“So,” her dad began, breaking the comfortable silence, “how's work going?”

Mon smiled softly, swirling her tea. “Work’s been steady. Instagram is picking up a bit. Nothing huge, but it feels good.”

Her dad raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Ah, the glamorous life of an Instagram star. Should I expect paparazzi outside?”

Mon laughed. “Yes, Dad. Any minute now, they’ll be begging for my beauty secrets.”

He chuckled, leaning back. “But seriously, have you heard back from that gallery? Or are they too busy fawning over their Monet replicas?”

Mon sighed dramatically. “Not yet. I keep refreshing my inbox like a lunatic, but nothing. Maybe they accidentally deleted my submission.”

Her dad chuckled. “Oh yes, because prestigious galleries lose things all the time. More likely they’re intimidated by your talent.”

He leaned forward, his smile softening. “It’s good to see you chasing what makes you happy. I’m proud of you.”

His words warmed her more than the tea in her hands. She looked down briefly, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. “I think I might need to come back here more often. London feels… different now. More like home.”

Her dad’s eyes softened. “I’d like that. This house is always open for you.”

The warmth in the room shifted as Mon hesitated, staring into her tea.

“There’s… something else,” she said quietly.

Her dad’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Mon sighed, setting her cup down. “I had a call with Tee, Jim, Yuki, and Kade. They accidentally told me Khun Sam’s been struggling. A lot more than I thought.”

Her dad sat silently, letting her continue.

“Apparently, she wasn’t eating, barely left her condo unless it was for work or her grandmother. They said she looked… hollow. Like she wasn’t even herself.”

Her throat tightened. “I didn’t think—I didn’t let myself think it could be that bad. I thought she’d be okay. I left and didn’t even consider how she’d handle it. And now, knowing she spiraled that much… it’s hard to process.”

Her dad took a slow sip of his tea. “Mon,” he said gently, “you can’t carry this all on your shoulders. You couldn’t have known. And that doesn’t make it your fault.”

Mon swallowed hard. “But I can’t pretend I didn’t contribute to it. I didn’t communicate. I let it fall apart.”

“And you left because you needed to. You can recognize your part without blaming yourself.”

He studied her for a moment. “Do you want to reach out to her?” he asked gently. “It doesn’t have to mean more than checking in.”

Mon’s grip tightened on her mug. “I don’t know. Part of me does. But what if it makes things worse? What if it opens something neither of us is ready for?”

Her dad nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fair. But let me ask—do you want her in your life, in any way? Even just as a friend?”

Mon’s mind spun with conflicting thoughts. She wanted to say yes, but doubts crept in. If circumstances were different—if they both had changed—maybe. But now, with Khun Sam still engaged, it felt impossible. Yet the thought of losing her completely was unbearable.

The weight of it all crushed her chest until it was too much. Her breath hitched, and hot tears blurred her vision.

“I—I can’t stop thinking about how she must have felt. And I hate that I wasn’t there…”

Without hesitation, her dad moved and wrapped his arms around her. Mon collapsed into his embrace, the tears coming in harsh, uneven breaths.

“It’s okay, Mon. Let it out,” he whispered, holding her tightly.

She clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder. “I didn’t want to hurt her, Dad. I didn’t want any of this.”

“I know,” he murmured. “You did what you had to do. That doesn’t make you selfish—it makes you human. But if you want her in your life, even just a little, don’t wait too long. Some doors don’t stay open forever.”

Mon didn’t answer. She only clung tighter, as if grounding herself in his words.

Mon sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft hum of London traffic barely audible through her window. Her laptop sat unopened on her desk, and her phone lay untouched beside her. The quiet of her room felt heavier than usual tonight.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the small wooden box on her nightstand—something she hadn't dared to open in months. Slowly, she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled against the velvet lining, lay the delicate silver bracelet Khun Sam had given her and the plastic, garish pink ring from their playful wedding at Cher and Risa’s hotel.

Mon's breath caught in her throat. The bracelet’s heart-shaped charm dangled from its silver sliding chain, catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp. It seemed impossibly light in her palm but carried the weight of promises and moments she couldn’t forget.

Her vision blurred, and suddenly she was no longer in her dimly lit bedroom. The memory overtook her—vivid and whole.

The sheets cocooned them in a warm, giggly bubble. Mon's hair was a wild mess, and Khun Sam couldn't help but laugh as she tried to balance both their plastic rings on one finger. "Look, now we’re twice-married. Legally binding, obviously."

Mon snorted, holding back laughter. “Because that’s how that works.”

Khun Sam grinned and held up her wrist, the silver bracelet glinting in the soft light. "You're mine, Tua," she whispered, brushing her lips against Mon's temple. "Legal or not, I’d follow you anywhere. You’re it for me."

Mon traced the heart charm on Khun Sam's bracelet with her fingertip, feeling the steady beat beneath it. "We can handle anything, right? Work, family… even our obnoxious friends."

"Especially our obnoxious friends. We’re unstoppable. Dynamic duo. Partners in crime." Khun Sam paused, grinning. "Except not actual crime. I’d look terrible in an orange jumpsuit."

Mon laughed, snuggling closer. "Good thing I’m the brains of this operation. I’ll keep us out of trouble."

Khun Sam smirked. "Oh, absolutely. My clever, brilliant wife."

Mon playfully poked Khun Sam's nose. "You don’t need to keep winning me over. You already have my heart, ChamCham."

But Khun Sam’s voice softened, threading between them like a promise. "Forever and always?"

Mon smiled, heart full. "Forever and always."

The memory faded, leaving Mon breathless in the stillness of her room. The bracelet in her hand now felt impossibly heavy—not from the silver, but from the echo of promises made in warmth now sitting in the cold quiet of her room.

Her dad's voice echoed in her mind: "Do you want to be part of her life in any way? Even as a friend?"

Did she?

Her gaze drifted to her phone. The dark screen reflected her own conflicted expression. She picked it up, her thumb hovering over the screen.

What if reaching out only reopened old wounds? Was this about Khun Sam, or was she easing her own guilt?

But then, a softer voice whispered from the past: Forever and always. We’re a team now.

Slowly, carefully, she typed:

Mon: Hey… Jim mentioned you’ve been going through a lot. Please don’t be too mean to her—she looked guilty enough. I’m really happy to hear you're getting better. If you ever want to talk—or not—I’m around. No pressure.

She stared at it for a long moment, her heart pounding. It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest.

Mon exhaled and hit send.

The plastic ring remained in the box, untouched. That part of the past could stay there—for now.

Mon leaned back against her pillows, the bracelet snug and comforting on her wrist. Tomorrow might bring clarity. But tonight, sitting with her memories was enough.

Chapter Text

Sam sat in the thick, unmoving quiet of her condo, the city lights casting faint, fractured shadows across the walls. The untouched dinner on the counter had gone cold hours ago, the scent of garlic and soy now stale in the air. She hadn’t even noticed when her appetite disappeared—just like every other night.

It had been five months since Mon left.

But things were slowly changing. Since having lunch with her friends, Sam had been trying—really trying. She was eating more regularly, even if it wasn’t much. She'd managed a few solid hours of sleep here and there, and the crushing exhaustion that had once anchored her was beginning to lift, if only slightly. Small steps, but they were hers.

Still, there was a heaviness in her chest that even the best nights of sleep couldn’t loosen. The space Mon used to occupy remained achingly empty.

Her phone vibrated on the table, breaking the quiet.

For a brief second, her breath stalled.

It was a message.

From Mon.

Mon: Hey… Jim mentioned you’ve been going through a lot. Please don’t be too mean to her—she looked guilty enough. I’m really happy to hear you're getting better. If you ever want to talk—or not—I’m around. No pressure.

Sam stared at the screen, her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers hovered over the phone, motionless. She read it once, twice—a dozen times. The words blurred, but the meaning was sharp and clear.

Mon had reached out.

Her other hand pressed against her wrist, thumb brushing over the cool metal of the bracelet she hadn’t taken off. A reflex. A habit. A lifeline. The weight of it grounded her, kept her from unraveling at the edges as she read the message again.

For months, Sam had imagined what it would be like if Mon ever spoke to her again. But now that it was real, she didn’t know what to do.

Her chest tightened—not with anger or regret—but something softer.

Hope.

And fear.

Her fingers hovered over the screen.

I’m here.

The words were simple, casual—too casual. Did she mean them? Did she want to talk? Or was this just Mon being kind, giving her something soft to hold onto before... before what?

Sam didn't want to think about that.

Her hand trembled as she set the phone down, exhaling slowly. She pressed her palms to her face, grounding herself.

She needed advice.

Without thinking, she called Neung.

The line barely rang twice before her sister picked up.

“Sam? Everything okay?”

Sam hesitated, then sighed. “Mon texted me.”

A pause. “She what?”

“She texted me. Out of nowhere. She said Jim told her I was struggling, and that she was happy I was getting better.” Sam ran a hand through her hair. “She said… she’s around if I ever want to talk. No pressure.”

Neung let out a thoughtful hum. “And?”

“And what?” Sam muttered.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Sam exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. I mean, I do know. I want to talk to her. But what if she’s just being nice? What if I respond and she regrets reaching out? What if I say the wrong thing?”

“Sam.” Neung’s voice was firm. “Stop overthinking this. If she reached out, that means she wants to talk. Don't let your hesitation consume you—just text her back before you spiral.”

“I am spiraling,” Sam admitted, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And I can’t afford to screw this up.”

Neung's words were direct and unyielding.

“Sam, stop. Don't focus on second-guessing her motives. She reached out to you because she cares, and now it's up to you to decide if fear will control you or if you'll take a chance.”

“What do I even say?” Sam asked, frustration bubbling over. “How do I fix this? How do I even start?”

Neung’s tone softened, but remained resolute. “You can’t fix everything with one text, Sam. This isn’t about fixing; it’s about showing up. Be honest and grateful that she reached out. Start there.”

Sam’s grip on her phone tightened as she considered Neung’s words. “What if I mess it up? What if she doesn’t reply?”

“Then at least you’ll know. And if she doesn’t reply, at least it won’t be because you were too afraid to try,” Neung said, voice even. “But if you don’t text her, if you sit on this until it’s too late—don’t expect any sympathy from me.”

Sam’s fingers curled around the phone, her grip tightening with every second that passed. Fear. Doubt. Regret. Longing. Each one pushed against her ribs, climbing her throat, squeezing her lungs.

She had been here before—on that couch, with Mon, moments before she walked away.

“I love you, Khun Sam. But loving you shouldn’t hurt this much.”

Sam had watched Mon leave. Had let her go.

What if this was the last chance she’d ever have?

Her thumb moved idly over the bracelet, circling it, pressing the metal against her skin like it could steady her.

Neung was right—this wasn’t about fixing things. It was about showing up. Taking the chance.

Still, her fingers refused to move toward the keyboard.

Neung’s voice softened. “Sam. What do you want? ”

Sam swallowed. “I want Mon back,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to talk to her. I want… I just want a chance.”

“Then take it,” Neung urged. “Because if you wait too long, that chance might not be there anymore.”

Sam nodded, even though her sister couldn’t see her. “You’re right.”

“I usually am,” Neung said lightly, her tone lifting the tension for a moment. “Just don’t overthink it. She doesn’t need you to be perfect; she needs you to be real.”

A faint smile touched Sam’s lips. “Thanks, Neung.”

"You’ll be fine," Neung said firmly. "Now, go send that text."

Ending the call, Sam wiped her clammy hands on her pajama pants, staring at Mon’s text. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simple. Open-ended. No pressure.

But still, her hands trembled as she typed.

Sam: Jim’s officially lost her title as Best Secret-Keeper. I’m doing better. How about you?

She hit send.

A long, unsteady breath left her.

She had taken the first step.

Now all she could do was wait.

Her phone vibrated. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet of her condo.

Her stomach twisted.

Mon: Ha, yeah. Jim is terrible at keeping secrets. I’m really happy to hear you’ve been doing better.

Sam exhaled, fingers tightening around her phone.

Sam: It’s been a process, but I’m getting there.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Then reappeared.

Sam’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around her phone.

Then, finally—

Mon: I walked past a café today and thought of you. Everyone was sipping overpriced coffee and radiating quiet stress. Felt like I stumbled into your native environment.

Sam smirked despite herself.

Sam: Classic. But tell me—did any of them manage to pull it off with my level of grace and effortless beauty?

Mon: Well, that would be impossible.

Sam’s breath caught in her throat. Warmth crept into her chest.

Sam: Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.

Mon: Almost? I’ll have to try harder next time then.

It was easy , despite the awkwardness that lingered around the edges. The foundation was still there—a little cracked, a little uneven—but it was something.

And for now, that was enough.

Sam smiled, setting her phone down beside her.

One step at a time.

Sam leaned back in her chair, fingers curled around her drink as the midday buzz of the restaurant hummed around them. It had been months since she let herself sit like this—no urgent calls, no looming crises, just lunch. But, of course, her friends wouldn’t let her off that easily.

"You’ve been suspiciously… not miserable lately," Kade noted, squinting at her. "Should we be concerned?"

"Must be work," Jim added, shifting in her chair and resting a hand on the small swell of her belly. "Or, you know, someone. "

Sam rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her drink. "It’s work."

"Uh-huh," Tee deadpanned. "And your phone obsession is because...?"

Sam’s phone buzzed right on cue, and Jim nearly choked on her iced tea. "Oh, this is too good," she said, laughing. "Let me guess—Mon?"

Sam shot them all a warning look, but her fingers had already picked up the phone. She didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

"Wow. She didn’t even deny it," Kade said, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "It’s worse than I thought."

Sam ignored them, looking down at the message.

Her bracelet caught the light as she shifted, the silver gleaming against her skin. It had become second nature to twist it when she was nervous—except she hadn’t realized she was doing it until now.

Her thumb traced the metal, the familiar shape pressing into her skin. Still there. Just like always.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a commitment. It wasn’t even something Mon had asked her to keep.

But she had.

And now, as she read Mon’s message again, something warm settled under her ribs.

Mon: It’s so foggy today, the Tower Bridge looks like it’s floating. Wish you could see it.

Sam exhaled, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Sam: Send me a picture.

She had always teased Mon about taking too many pictures, but the truth was—she loved them. Mon didn’t just take photos; she caught things other people missed. A flicker of light, the quiet poetry of a rainy street, the kind of beauty Sam had never noticed until Mon made her look.

When they were together, Sam couldn't help but notice the small details, like how sunlight filtered through windows or how rain glistened on the pavement under streetlights. Even the most ordinary things became beautiful in Mon's photos. But after Mon left, everything went back to being dull and lifeless. The colors faded, the details blurred.

Now, for the first time in months, Sam was given the opportunity to see the world through Mon’s eyes again.

Seconds later, Mon sent a photo. The bridge barely peeked through the thick mist, its silhouette looking almost ethereal. Sam stared at it a little too long.

Sam: You’re really committing to the whole ‘mysterious artist’ aesthetic, huh? Should I start calling you Mon-drian?

Mon: Someone has to. If I don't document the world, how else will future generations know how dramatic the fog in London is?

Sam: I'm pretty sure London will always be foggy.

Mon: And if it's not?

Sam: Then you can say "I told you so."

A beat passed before Mon’s next message.

Mon: You used to say I took too many pictures. Thought I should branch out from coffee cups and rainy streets.

Sam: I was just giving you a hard time. I liked seeing the world through your eyes. Thank you for sharing this with me.

A pause.

Mon: Yeah?

Sam: Yeah.

Another pause, this one stretching longer.

Mon: Guess I’ll have to keep sending you things, then.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding, but before she could respond, Tee stole a fry from her plate. "You’re smiling. It’s disgusting."

Sam sighed, setting her phone down. "Okay, fine. Yes, we’ve been talking. Happy?"

Tee, Jim, and Kade exchanged knowing glances.

"Thrilled," Kade said, grinning. "But I want details. Everything. No leaving anything out."

Jim, ever the instigator, nodded toward her wrist with a smirk. “Guess it’s safe to say you never really let her go, huh?”

Sam didn’t look down at the bracelet—she didn’t need to. It had been there every day, through every miserable night, through every attempt to convince herself she was fine.

It was a habit now. A lifeline. A quiet, constant reminder of something she should have let go of, but couldn’t.

Kade nudged her gently, her voice softer than before. “We know, Sam.”

She didn’t have to ask what they knew.

That she wasn’t over Mon.

That she had never even tried to be.

It was good to be back with her friends, even if they were mercilessly teasing her.

"Alright, alright," Sam sighed, throwing up her hands. "I’ll spill, but only because I value my sanity more than my pride."

Sam held nothing back as she recounted the events to her friends. She shared everything: the text messages, the pictures, and the rollercoaster of emotions she had been feeling. She talked about the daunting uncertainty, the underlying fear, and the glimmer of hope that kept her going.

Jim listened with one hand resting on her stomach, occasionally glancing between Sam and her drink like she was calculating whether or not she was allowed to have this much excitement in one sitting.

When Sam finally finished, a rare silence settled over the table. Jim, Tee, and Kade exchanged looks—like they weren’t quite sure how to handle a Sam who wasn’t rolling her eyes or deflecting with sarcasm. For a second, Sam almost regretted saying so much.

Then Tee leaned forward and grinned. "Wow. So you do have emotions."

Sam swatted her arm playfully. "Shut up, Tee."

But she couldn’t deny the truth. Sharing her story with her friends, even with their teasing, made it feel more real, more tangible.

"So, what now?" Jim asked, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Sam shrugged, a smile playing on her lips. "I don't know. We'll see what happens."

Kade teased Sam, "Are you going to pour your heart out and express your love for her?"

Sam playfully rolled her eyes. "I already did that."

Her friends chuckled, but they also understood the seriousness behind Sam's actions this time. She was taking a different approach, allowing herself to be open and vulnerable in the hopes of a better future.

A warmth spread through Sam's chest, a feeling she had almost forgotten. Her love for Mon was not something easily confessed or easily ignored; it was an integral part of who she was. And even if things didn't work out as planned, she knew she would never regret taking this chance and letting herself be vulnerable once again.

“Hey, what other exciting updates do you have for us? How's the progress on Diversity? Are you close to reaching your goal?" Jim prodded excitedly.

Sam beamed. "I have a meeting with the accountant tomorrow to crunch the numbers, but... I have a feeling we're going to make it."

Her friends shared a knowing look, and Kade leaned in. "You know, Sam... despite your tough exterior, we've been secretly rooting for you."

Sam paused for a moment before letting out a laugh. "Gross."

"Let’s not get all sentimental," Tee said, wrinkling her nose. "You’re ruining your brand."

Sam inhaled deeply, the rare feeling of gratitude settling over her. "Fine. Thank you. For everything."

Jim, resting a hand on her belly again, grinned. "I’d like to say pregnancy made me soft, but honestly? I think I’ve always been rooting for you two idiots."

Sam rolled her eyes but smiled.

"We'll be here for you every step of the way," Jim added, her voice warm with conviction. "No matter what happens, we'll support you."

Sam's heart swelled as she looked at her friends, their unwavering support steadying her in a way she hadn't expected.

With them behind her—and Mon still on the other end of those messages—maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.

Sam skimmed through the department reports, her mind half on the numbers—until a five-figure expense she hadn’t approved made her pulse spike.

Her jaw tightened as she clicked deeper into the records, scanning the figures.

Budgets redirected. Teams shuffled. Contracts renegotiated.

All under Kirk’s name.

Without her fucking approval.

Her fingers curled around the folder as she flipped further. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t oversight. It was a pattern. A deliberate, calculated pattern.

The anger started slow—just a flicker beneath her ribs—but with every report, every unauthorized adjustment, it burned hotter.

And then, it hit her.

This wasn’t just about business.

It was Kirk.

The secrets. The lies.

The trust he had shattered.

He had played his part so well —standing beside her, pretending to be her ally , while feeding into every single crack in her life. With Mon. With the company. With everything.

Her free hand found the bracelet at her wrist, fingers brushing over the cool metal. A habit. A reflex. A reminder.

She had clung to it for months , running her thumb over its surface when the weight of everything threatened to pull her under.

Now, it steadied her.

She had already lost Mon, but she wasn’t about to lose this.

Her grip tightened around the reports.

Kirk was done.

Sam stormed into Kirk’s office without knocking, the door slamming behind her.

Kirk barely looked up. "Morning to you too, Sam."

She dropped the folder onto his desk with a sharp thud.

"What the fuck is this?" she asked flatly.

Kirk blinked at her, then looked down at the folder like he had no idea why she was shoving it in front of him. "What is what?"

Sam tilted her head, voice calm but sharp. " Why the fuck do I have to find out through financial reports that you’ve been restructuring the company behind my back?"

A beat. Then, with practiced ease, Kirk leaned back, offering her a patient smile, like he was indulging a tantrum.

"Come on, Sam. You’ve had a lot on your plate. I figured you trusted me to keep things moving."

Her nails pressed into her palm. Of course , that’s how he was going to play this. Not a direct denial, not an outright admission—just soft, measured condescension. Like she was being unreasonable.

"So that’s what you call it? Keeping things moving?" She let out a short, humorless laugh. "You didn’t just move things, Kirk. You made damn sure I wouldn’t notice."

He sighed like this was exhausting for him.

"Sam, I didn’t lie to you. I did what I had to do to help you."

He spread his hands, exasperated but patient, the perfect, understanding business partner.

"You were dealing with so much. I was trying to lighten the load."

Her fingers curled tighter against the bracelet, pressing the cool metal into her skin. Steady. Stay steady.

"You played me," she said. "You fucking lied to me. You made sure I was distracted while you did whatever you wanted with my company."

Kirk let out another slow breath, shaking his head. "You’re making this into something it’s not."

Her stomach twisted.

Of course he still thought he had control.

He had watched her unravel over the last few months, measured exactly how much weight she could carry before breaking. She had let him. She had let herself be pulled in too many directions—her grandmother, Mon, this company—while Kirk had played the part of the patient, steady hand.

It had worked.

Right up until it didn’t.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," she said quietly. "You waited until I was too distracted—too caught up in everything with my grandmother, with Mon—to fight you on it."

Kirk sat forward, his expression unreadable. "Sam, I don’t know what you think this is, but I was never trying to go behind your back. I was protecting the company. Our company."

She tilted her head slightly. "Not ours. You may have a title, Kirk, but this isn’t your company. It’s mine. "

His smile didn’t waver. "Ours. That’s what being partners mean, Sam."

Her fingers clenched around the bracelet.

"No, Kirk. Partners communicate. Partners consult. Partners don’t make unilateral decisions like they’re the only one in charge. And you? You haven’t been acting like a partner. You’ve been acting like someone waiting to take over."

She watched him carefully, waiting for a flicker of recognition, for some part of him to realize how thin the ice beneath him had become.

Nothing.

Of course nothing.

Kirk still believed he could talk his way out of this.

He still thought she could be managed.

His expression remained carefully neutral, but the tension in the air shifted. "You’re making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be."

Sam’s nails dug into her palms. "And you’re acting like this is nothing. You’ve been making these decisions behind my back, treating my company like your personal playground, and now you want to pretend I’m overreacting?" Her voice dropped, cold and cutting. "Don’t do it again."

She saw nothing shift in his expression.

He still thought this was an argument to win, something she would yell about now but let go of later.

He had no idea.

"Or what?" he asked after a pause, still playing the role of level-headed mediator.

Sam smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. "Or you’ll find out exactly how fast I can make you irrelevant."

She turned on her heel and walked out.

She barely made it to her office before she exhaled shakily, gripping the desk as the anger rattled inside her.

She had wasted so much time— waiting, hesitating, grieving.

But no more.

Her fingers curled around the bracelet again, but this time, it didn’t feel like a lifeline.

It felt like a reminder.

Of who she was.

Of what she had lost.

Of what​​ she wasn’t willing to lose again.

She wasn’t just reacting anymore. She was fighting.

This wasn’t just about budgets. Or numbers. Or even Kirk. It was about control. About how everyone—Kirk, her grandmother—kept trying to carve pieces out of her, shape her into what they wanted.

And Sam? Sam was done being manipulated.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Sam sat across from Mr. Jirapat, the faint scent of paper and ink lingering in the air. Her hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles ached, but she barely noticed.

She had spent the past hour combing through the financials herself, scrolling through reports, trying to find the cracks. Kirk had been making decisions behind her back, shifting resources, approving deals— rewriting the company without her. The numbers looked fine, but she didn’t trust them. Not anymore.

Jirapat adjusted his glasses, flipping through the latest reports. The silence stretched unbearably long before he finally met her eyes.

"You’re close, Khun Sam. So close. Just 100,000 baht away from 50 million."

Sam blinked, her breath catching. “ Just 100,000?”

He nodded. " With the current projections, you should be able to close that gap within the next quarter, possibly sooner if the growth trend continues."

Relief crashed into her, sharp and dizzying. She had spent years chasing this number, let it define her worth, her future. And now, she was standing on the edge of it—one final push, and she’d be free.

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling shakily. "That’s… good news. Really good news."

Jirapat gave a small smile. " You’ve worked hard for this. You should be proud."

Proud. The word felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to her. She had spent so long chasing perfection, trying to be enough , that she rarely stopped to acknowledge her own success. But this? This was hers.

"The recent budget shifts," she said, straightening. "The financial moves Kirk has made… have they actually helped? Or has he just been throwing things around and hoping for the best?"

Jirapat hesitated, just for a second.

"Most of Kirk’s changes have been neutral at best," he admitted. "Some were unnecessary. Some risky. But none of them were what got us here."

Sam’s jaw tightened. "Then what did?"

Jirapat tapped a line on the report. " Diversity Pop."

Her fingers stilled against the desk.

"Diversity Pop?"

He nodded. " That project changed everything. The engagement, the branding, the accessibility. It skyrocketed the company’s growth. Without it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now."

Sam barely heard him. She was already somewhere else.

Mon, curled up on Sam’s couch, laptop balanced on her thighs, her face illuminated by the screen long after Sam had dozed off beside her.

Mon, sitting cross-legged on Sam’s bed, one hand gripping her tablet, the other absently brushing against Sam’s arm as she murmured, "I just need to finish this one part."

Mon, showing up at Sam’s place under the guise of working , only for them to inevitably end up wrapped around each other, distracted, laughing. But some nights, when Sam would wake up in the middle of the night, Mon would still be at it—scrolling through endless data, making quiet notes to herself, actually working.

"I have to stay late anyway," she had said more than once. "Might as well do it here."

And Sam—who had never let anyone linger in her space—had let her. Had wanted her to.

Diversity Pop wasn’t just some business success story. It was them. The nights in her condo, the endless brainstorming over takeout, the moments where Sam would catch Mon smiling at the screen like she could already see the future they were building.

Sam had given it a name. Had signed off on the vision.

But Mon had built it.

And she wasn’t even here to see it succeed.

Sam exhaled slowly, pressing her thumb against the bracelet, tracing the familiar metal like it could bring back something already gone.

"Thank you, Mon." The words never left her lips, but she felt them settle in her chest.

She nodded, then straightened. "One more thing," she said, voice cool, controlled. "From now on, Kirk doesn’t sign off on anything without my approval. Not a baht moves unless I say so."

Jirapat gave a sharp nod. "Understood. I’ll inform the finance team immediately."

Sam clenched her jaw.

The fact that she even had to say that made her stomach turn. That Kirk had maneuvered himself into enough power that she was now undoing it instead of stopping it before it happened.

She inhaled sharply. Not anymore.

As Sam stepped back into her office, her phone buzzed. She barely glanced at the screen, expecting another work email. Instead, it was Mon.

Mon : Just walked past a bakery that smelled so good I saw my life flash before my eyes. Thought you should know in case you feel a shift in the universe.

A second later, another message appeared.

[Photo Attached]

The picture was of a charming little café with pastel seating and a display case full of perfect pastries. Sam blinked, then huffed out a quiet laugh—caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Sam : You should have gone in. Isn’t resisting good food against your core beliefs?

Mon : Normally, yes. But I figured someone has to be responsible.

Sam : Tragic. You’ve changed.

Mon : Oh? And what was I before?

Sam hesitated for only a second before replying.

Sam : Someone who dragged me into cafés against my will and made me try five different pastries just to prove a point.

Mon : And did I ever steer you wrong?

Sam : No. But I’ll deny ever saying that.

Mon : Good. Because next time, I won’t let you off easy.

Sam’s fingers hovered over the screen. Next time.

The words settled into her chest, warm and a little dangerous in their familiarity.

She could almost see it—Mon, dragging her into a bakery she would have walked right past, eyes lighting up at the sight of golden croissants and delicate pastries. Sam standing behind her, arms crossed, pretending to be unimpressed but already knowing she’d let Mon order for her.

Mon had always been like that—turning small, everyday things into something worth remembering.

Mon: You’d like this place—quiet, overpriced, aesthetically pleasing in an “I pretend I don’t care about aesthetics but secretly do” way.

Sam rolled her eyes.

Sam: You talk a lot of nonsense for someone who used to drag me into cafés just to take a hundred pictures of a single latte.

Mon: First of all, it was never a hundred.

Sam: Right. My mistake. Ninety-nine.

Another pause.

Mon: I was making memories, Khun Sam. Someone had to.

Sam exhaled.

She hadn’t loved the food.

She had loved Mon.

She didn’t have a good response to that, so instead, she let the moment settle before finally typing:

Sam:  Guess that means you’ll have to keep sending me things. You know, for the memories.

This time, the dots hovered for a long time.

Mon: I guess I will.

Sam locked her phone and let her head rest against the back of her chair.

For the first time in months, she wasn’t afraid to let Mon in.

And that? That felt like progress.

She glanced at her phone again, fingers hovering over the screen.

She wanted to tell her. Wanted to type it out— Diversity Pop worked. It didn’t just work, it changed everything. Jirapat told me today that it’s the reason we’re on track to hit 50 million. The company is thriving because of it. Because of you.

But she didn’t.

Maybe because this —this easy, weightless back-and-forth—felt too fragile to burden with everything left unsaid. Maybe because telling Mon would mean acknowledging the distance between them, the reality that she had walked away before she could see what she built.

Or maybe, Sam realized, she wasn’t sure what she wanted Mon to say back.

So instead, she let the words settle in her chest, where they were safe.

The estate loomed before her, as grand and imposing as ever. For years, walking through these doors had meant walking into judgment. Expectation. Surrender. But not today. Today, she was here to fight.

Her pulse was steady, her mind sharp. She had everything she needed—the numbers, the reports, the proof that she didn’t need Kirk. That she didn’t need this marriage. That she didn’t need them.

Her fingers tightened around the bracelet at her wrist. 

Because even now, standing in the shadow of the house that had shaped her, surrounded by expectations that threatened to pull her under, Mon was still with her.

This wasn’t just about breaking free from her grandmother’s grasp.

It was about claiming her own life.

It was about living the way she wanted—without permission, without apology.

For the first time, she wasn’t stepping into this house to surrender.

She was stepping in to win.

The maid barely had time to announce her before she was already stepping into the grand dining room.

Her grandmother sat at the head of the table, perfectly composed, always in control.

But not today.

Sam bowed. " Grandmother."

Her grandmother barely spared her a glance, fingers resting delicately on the rim of her teacup. “Samanun.” A pause. A sip. “To what do I owe this… visit?”

Sam placed a neatly bound folder on the table beside her. “I wanted to discuss my future. My future.”

Her grandmother’s lips barely twitched. “Oh? And here I thought that had already been decided.”

Sam inhaled slowly, reminding herself to stay calm. “I’m 100,000 baht away from the financial goal you set for me.” She straightened, keeping her voice firm. “Diversity is thriving. Profitable. Sustainable. At this rate, I’ll hit the goal by the end of next quarter—probably sooner.”

Her grandmother lifted her teacup with infuriating patience, taking a slow sip before responding. “That’s wonderful news, dear. But it doesn’t change a thing.”

Sam’s nails dug into her palm. 

Her grandmother exhaled sharply, finally setting her cup down. “And yet, you haven’t met the goal yet, have you?”

“I will.” Sam’s nails dug further into her palms. “I don’t need to wait for an arbitrary number to prove I can stand on my own. I already know I can. And I don’t need Kirk, or a husband, or you to make that happen.”

Her grandmother tilted her head, considering her. "You could." A pause. "But you won’t."

Sam’s grip on the bracelet tightened. "Excuse me?"

“Did you really believe this was ever about the money?” Her grandmother sighed, almost pitying."Sam, money is fluid. A legacy is permanent. And yours was decided long before you thought you had a choice."

Sam blinked. What?

"The marriage was never about security. It was about duty. Your place in this family has never been about your success. It has been about the family’s success. And that means marrying Kirk and stepping into your proper role."

Sam’s stomach twisted. "My proper role?"

“As a wife,” her grandmother said plainly. “As a mother. As someone who understands that sacrifice is the foundation of tradition.”

Sam forced a laugh, shaking her head. “Sacrifice?” she repeated. “You mean obedience. You mean giving up everything I built just because it doesn’t fit into your vision of what a ‘proper’ woman in this family should be.”

Her grandmother’s expression remained eerily calm. “It’s admirable that you think this little company of yours makes you independent. But you are still bound by the expectations of this family. You will marry Kirk. You will fulfill your duty. That is final.”

Sam exhaled sharply, a breathless, humorless laugh escaping her lips.

“And what about my happiness?” she asked, her voice sharp, cutting. “Do you even care about that? Or have you just convinced yourself that as long as I’m doing what you want, nothing else matters?”

Her grandmother’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture stiffened.

“You don’t understand yet,” she said evenly.

“No,” Sam snapped, “I do understand. I understand that nothing I do will ever be enough for you. Not my work, not my success, not me. You won’t be happy unless I’m living a life I don’t want.”

She exhaled shakily, then pushed forward, her voice quieter but no less cutting.

“And because of you, because of all of this—I lost Mon. I lost her because of you. Because you made me believe that love was weak. That happiness was selfish. That I wasn’t allowed to choose.”

A flicker of something—brief, fleeting—crossed her grandmother’s face.

“She was never going to be part of this world," her grandmother said simply.

Sam’s stomach twisted.

She gripped the bracelet tighter, holding on like it could keep her steady.

"Neither was Song."

For the first time, her grandmother’s mask of indifference cracked—just slightly.

“You lost Neung. You lost Song. You shoved them out, forced them to run, and you tell yourself they left on their own. But they didn’t. You pushed them away. You made it impossible for them to stay.”

Her grandmother exhaled, her fingers tightening slightly around her teacup.

"Song made her own choices."

" No ," Sam seethed. "You made them for her. And now you’re trying to do the same thing to me. Tell me, Grandmother, do you really want to lose another granddaughter? The last one you have left?"

Her grandmother’s fingers went still.

"Thailand does not recognize same-sex marriage, Sam. You speak as if your life with that girl could have amounted to anything real."

Sam stared at her, breathless with rage.

"Do you even know what real love is?"

Her grandmother didn’t answer.

"Love isn’t power. Love isn’t sacrifice. Love is… waking up and choosing someone, every single day. Love is freedom. And I finally understand that now. I love you, Grandmother. But I won’t love you on your terms anymore."

Silence.

Her grandmother didn’t react. Didn’t argue. She simply set down her teacup with a quiet, deliberate clink.

"Kirk has been transitioning into leadership, just as I instructed."

Sam’s pulse roared in her ears.

"Excuse me?"

Her grandmother remained composed, as if she were discussing anything but the theft of Sam’s entire future.

"Once the marriage is finalized, your shares in Diversity will belong to Kirk. As they should."

The words hit like a blow.

Her grandmother had known. Had planned it.

Every deal Kirk pushed through. Every department he quietly took over. Every decision he made under her name. It was never about helping her. It was about removing her.

"Did Kirk not tell you?"

Her breath locked in her chest.

She had confronted him today, furious, demanding an explanation, and he had played dumb. But now she understood.

He hadn’t just been acting without her. He had been waiting for this.

"You told him to undermine me?" Her voice shook with fury.

Her grandmother didn’t flinch.

"You were going to step down anyway. Better to start the transition now."

That’s why Kirk had been doing all of it.

Not because he was impatient. Not because he thought he knew better.

Because he was securing his place.

She thought back to the conversations, the easy reassurances, the way he always told her he was just helping.

The way he had smiled at her this morning.

The way he had lied to her face.

And he could have refused.

That was what made her stomach churn, her fingers tighten painfully around the bracelet.

He could have told her. He could have warned her. He could have chosen her.

But he hadn’t.

He had made his choice.

He had let her walk into the fire blind, knowing she would burn, knowing he would be the one to take everything from her in the end.

Her grandmother took another slow sip of tea, her voice smooth, impassive. "Kirk will be a fine leader. At least he knows how to respect tradition."

Sam’s pulse thundered in her ears.

He had known. And he had done it anyway.

She gritted her teeth, her grip on the bracelet grounding her.

She had lost Mon because she hadn’t fought for her.

And now, Kirk was proving that he was never going to fight for Sam, either. She had given him trust, opportunity, partnership.

And he had given her betrayal.

The weight of it settled deep in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

She had spent her whole life being shaped, molded, told who she was supposed to be. She had spent years trusting the wrong people, bending under the weight of expectations that had never been hers to carry. She had let herself believe that if she just obeyed, if she just endured, if she just proved herself, she would finally be enough.

But she was done waiting to be enough for them.

Her fingers curled tightly around the bracelet, grounding herself, pulling strength from it—from Mon, from herself, from the life she was choosing.

Her breath shook, but the words came anyway, landing heavier than anything she had ever said in this house.

"You don’t get to define my happiness anymore." Her breath hitched, but when she spoke again, her voice didn’t waver. "That’s mine now. It always should have been."

She took a step back.

A slow, deliberate step away from the weight pressing down on her. Away from the expectation that had wrapped itself around her since birth, squeezing her into something she never wanted to be.

A step toward the life she was claiming for herself.

Her grandmother said nothing. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to stop her.

And that silence was louder than anything else.

Sam let out a breath, her pulse steadying.

But it hurt.

God , it hurt.

She had come here to fight, to stand her ground, and she knew—deep down—this moment might come. That she might have to walk away.

But she hadn’t wanted to think about that.

Not really.

Not when she had spent her entire life trying to be enough.

Not when she had already watched Song walk out that door for the last time.

Not when she had been standing in that hallway, right beside her grandmother, as the doctor came out.

Not when she had watched his mouth form the words that shattered everything.

"We did everything we could."

Everything had blurred after that. The cold hospital walls, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the muffled sound of Ice sobbing, her body shaking so hard she could barely stand.

Sam had watched, frozen, as Ice—who had loved Song more than anything—had begged. Had apologized. Had told their grandmother, through gasping, broken cries, that it should have been her that died instead.

None of it had mattered.

Their grandmother had turned to Ice, eyes sharp, lips pursed, and blamed her.

As if it had been Ice’s love , not the car, that had killed Song.

She had never forgiven her.

And she had never mourned Song, not really. Not as a granddaughter. Not as a person. Only as a lost piece of the family she wanted to build.

And then there was Neung.

Neung, who had stayed and fought. Fought too hard and for too long. Fought as their grandmother burned her art in front of her. Piece by piece, reduced to ash, as if it had never existed. Fought until she had nothing left. Until disappearing was the only choice left to make.

Sam swallowed hard, forcing down the ache clawing its way up her throat.

"I am not you," she whispered, her voice thick with something too heavy to name. "I will not live my life as you did. I will not sacrifice my happiness for your duty, your legacy."

The air in the room pressed down, thick with history, with expectation, with the weight of every choice that had been made for her before she ever had a say.

But she wasn’t a choice to be made.

She wasn’t a role to be filled.

She wasn’t hers to control.

She would not be like Song, walking out into the night, never to return.

She would not be like Neung, fighting until she had nothing left, disappearing because there was no fight left to win.

She would walk out of here by choice.

She would leave knowing exactly who she was.

And this time—no one would take that from her.

She had barely reached the entryway when her grandmother’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

“Samanun.”

Sam stopped.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t bow her head.

Didn’t lower her gaze.

Not this time.

“Don’t think for a second that this is over,” her grandmother said, her voice low and simmering, a quiet warning. “You may have your little company, but you are still a part of this family. And you will fulfill your duty.”

Sam’s hands clenched at her sides.

For a brief moment, she almost laughed.

Even now, her grandmother still thought this was about business. About duty. About some inevitable return to obedience. As if this were just another game of control.

As if Sam hadn’t already won.

She took in a slow, deep breath, her grip on the bracelet easing, her shoulders squaring. And then—without a word, without a glance back—

She walked out.

She left behind her grandmother’s words, her grandmother’s expectations, her grandmother’s world.

She barely remembered getting to the car. One second, she was stepping outside, the next, she was gripping the wheel, the engine running, the air thick and suffocating.

Her fingers dug into the steering wheel, her knuckles burning, but she couldn’t loosen her grip. The road outside blurred—headlights streaking past, too fast, too bright.

Her grandmother’s voice coiled around her, pressing in, sharp and suffocating, echoing in the hollow space of her chest.

"You were never meant to win."

"It was always going to end, Sam."

"She was never going to be part of this world."

The lines on the road blurred. The noise in her head roared.

She wasn’t breathing.

She wasn’t thinking.

Her vision blurred, her fingers trembling on the wheel.

She barely registered pressing the call button. Barely realized what she was doing until—

"Khun Sam?"

Oh shit.

Her stomach dropped.

She hadn’t heard Mon’s voice in five months.

And now, in the middle of a full-blown spiral, her body—her goddamn instincts —had reached for her first.

The realization hit her harder than the panic.

She hadn’t thought. She hadn’t hesitated.

Even after everything, her fingers had searched for Mon on instinct, like they had never forgotten the way.

And Mon? Mon had answered.

“Khun Sam, what’s wrong?”

Sam blinked rapidly, her vision swimming. The headlights streaked past, too fast, too bright. Her breath came too short, too shallow.

She barely felt the car moving.

Barely felt anything.

“Khun Sam?”

Mon’s voice was soft at first, worried—but then sharper, cutting through the panic like a blade.

“Are you driving?”

Sam tried to respond, but the words tangled in her throat.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t think.

Everything was spinning.

The road blurred, the hum of the engine fading beneath the rush of blood pounding in her ears.

“Khun Sam.”

The sound of Mon’s voice shifted—no longer just worried.

Tight. Sharp. Bordering on fear.

“You have to pull over.”

A beat of silence.

Then—harsher, urgent, pleading.

“Right now.”

No response.

"Khun Sam!"

Still nothing.

And then—

Something broke in Mon’s voice.

Not just urgency. Not just anger.

Panic.

"Sam, goddamn it —" Her voice cracked, like she had stopped breathing herself. Like she was terrified.

"Pull over!"

It hit harder than the headlights. Harder than the breath she couldn’t catch.

Mon wasn’t just telling her to pull over. She was begging.

Sam gasped, forcing her fingers to move, her knuckles aching as she jerked the wheel into the exit lane.

“I’m—” She sucked in a sharp breath, blinking fast as she fought to stay focused. “I’m pulling over.”

Mon exhaled loudly, but she didn’t sound relieved. Not yet.

Sam’s hands shook violently as she maneuvered onto the shoulder, the car jerking slightly as she finally brought it to a shuddering stop.

The engine hummed beneath her, vibrating through her bones.

Her pulse still slammed against her ribs.

She could have crashed.

She could have died.

And she hadn’t even been thinking.

Silence.

Except for her ragged breathing. And the soft sound of Mon breathing on the other end of the line.

Sam’s vision blurred as she squeezed her eyes shut, her forehead dropping against the steering wheel.

Sam had reached for her. Clung to her. Dragged her into the wreckage of a life Mon had no place being in. Again.

She had no right to do this. No right to pull Mon into this mess.

Mon’s breath was rapid, sharp with fear. "Khun Sam? Please… just tell me you’re okay."

Sam’s heart raced as the weight of Mon’s words pressed down on her. She wanted to reassure her, but her voice trembled, the panic still thick in her chest. "I’m parked. I’m okay.”

Mon sighed softly on the other end, the sound frayed at the edges.

"You scared me," Mon’s breath faltered, the fear creeping in even deeper.  "I could hear the cars... I didn’t know if you could hear me. I didn’t know if—" She cut herself off, inhaling sharply. "I didn’t know if you were going to stop."

Then, after a moment—so quietly, like she was still catching up to what had just happened.

“I couldn’t— I couldn’t do anything.” 

Another breath, uneven, rattling. 

"Don’t ever do that again."

Sam squeezed her eyes shut, guilt pressing in from every angle.

“I promise,” she whispered. “I won’t do that again.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy, filled only with Sam’s uneven breathing.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled," Mon murmured, her words heavy with the same tension, the same panic that had wrapped around them both. 

Sam let out a weak, breathless laugh. "I deserved it."

"No, you didn’t."

Tears burned behind Sam’s eyes. "I shouldn’t have—"

"Don’t." Mon’s voice was quiet but firm. Final. "Don’t say you shouldn’t have."

Sam swallowed hard. "But—"

"But nothing." A pause. "You were panicking, Khun Sam. I’d rather you call me than—"

She didn’t finish, but Sam knew.

Than crash.

Than spiral alone.

Sam exhaled slowly, the weight in her chest pressing down—not as sharp, but still there.

She hadn’t heard Mon’s voice in five months, and now, hearing that soft inhale, the way Mon’s voice wrapped around her name—

Texting was one thing, but this? This was different.

It ached.

And worse, hearing Mon’s soft, shaky breathing on the other end, the way she hadn’t hung up, the way she stayed with Sam—through her panic, through the chaos—only made Sam feel the full weight of the fear she’d caused.

Sam swallowed hard, her chest tight with guilt, her thoughts swirling. She had made Mon feel helpless.

Her throat tightened. "I'm sorry."

"You’ve already said that."

Sam exhaled softly, frustration building. "I know, but it feels like I should keep saying it."

Mon was quiet for a moment, her breath still shaky but steadying. "You don’t need to keep apologizing."

Sam shook her head, her grip on the steering wheel tightening as if it were the only thing holding her together. "I do." Her voice grew firmer, more resolute. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen."

Mon exhaled, the sound softer now. "I know."

Sam's chest tightened at the gentleness in Mon's voice. She swallowed, trying to breathe through the weight of it.

Sam pressed her lips together, eyes burning, breath still uneven. “I’m sorry I called you.”

Mon was quiet for a moment, her voice soft when she finally responded. "I’m glad you did."

Sam squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the pressure building in her chest. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

It was such a simple question. A reasonable question. But it nearly broke her.

Sam squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her from shattering. No.

She was unraveling, falling apart piece by piece, and Mon wasn’t supposed to hear that.

Her chest ached, her skin too tight, her throat closing like she was drowning in the weight of it all. She hadn’t even realized she was shaking until she felt her her nails biting into her palm so hard she thought they might break skin.

Sam exhaled sharply, her breath shaking. 

Mon waited.

She wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding answers. She was just there.

Sam opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The words lodged in her throat, trapped beneath the weight in her chest.

"I don’t even know where to start," Sam admitted, voice raw. 

"It's okay," Mon said softly, her voice a soothing balm against the storm raging inside Sam. "Take your time. I’m not going anywhere."

And that was it.

It wasn’t a conscious choice. It wasn’t something she could hold back.

The dam broke.

A ragged sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. Her free hand covered her mouth, as if she could physically shove it back down, but it was too late.

Sam shook, tears spilling hot and fast, her shoulders trembling under the weight of it all.

She had held it together for so long..

And yet, here she was, breaking apart in the most pathetic way—on the phone with the woman she had hurt the most, the woman she loved with every fiber of her being, the woman who shouldn’t still be here, but was.

Sam closed her eyes and took a slow, steadying breath. The sound of Mon’s breathing, faint but steady on the other end of the line, anchored her. 

Her fingers brushed the bracelet on her wrist. The cool metal, the weight of it, steadied her. She imagined Mon there beside her, not in London, but close—close enough to reach.

Sam squeezed her eyes shut, letting that feeling settle into her bones. She let the memory of Mon’s closeness, the steadiness of her breath, give her the strength she needed.

When she finally caught her breath, she started.

She told Mon everything.

About Kirk. About her grandmother’s betrayal. About how, even after everything, she was still expected to give in.

How her grandmother laughed at the idea that Sam’s love for Mon had ever been real.

How she had told her that duty mattered more, that she was born to sacrifice for this family, that Mon was just a distraction —an inconvenience that had never been meant to last.

How, even after fighting back, even after standing her ground, she still felt like she was fighting against something impossible.

Her voice shook as she spoke, raw and unfiltered, her breaths coming in short bursts between sentences.

Mon listened.

No interruptions. No judgment. Just the steady, quiet sound of her being there.

And maybe—for the first time—she wasn’t holding anything back.

No filtering. No hesitation. No trying to frame it the right way to avoid conflict or seem composed.

She bared herself in the most fragile way.

And part of her—the part that still ached for something she couldn’t name—hoped Mon was proud of her.

That she could see that Sam was trying.

That Sam was fighting.

That she was finally doing what she should have never been too afraid to do.

She swallowed hard, throat tightening. "I asked her if she really wanted to lose another granddaughter. The last one she had left."

The words pressed against her ribs, heavy, suffocating.

"I needed her to see I wasn’t backing down." A shaky inhale. Her voice wavered.

"But, Mon—" She swallowed hard. "Saying it out loud… it made it real."

A pause, then softer—raw, unguarded.

"And I think that scares me more than anything."

It wasn’t just a threat. It was real.

And real meant final.

She had told her grandmother the truth. Told her what love was, what it wasn’t. Told her she wouldn’t love her on her terms anymore.

And her grandmother had just set down her teacup.

Like it had never mattered.

Like Sam had never mattered.

Her whole life, she had belonged—to something, to someone, to expectation.

Now?

She belonged to nothing.

No safety net. No way back.

And that kind of freedom—terrifying, untamed—was lonelier than she expected.

Losing Mon had been agony. But this?

This was something else entirely.

It was unmaking everything she had been raised to be.

The pain of it coiled inside her, sharp and aching, but what choice had she had?

She couldn’t go back to being that version of herself—the one who folded, who obeyed, who let herself be shaped by other people’s expectations.

She wouldn’t live like that anymore.

The silence between them shifted—not just heavy, but full of something unspoken, something fragile.

"Khun Sam…" A breath, unsteady. "God, that’s a lot."

"I can’t believe she—" Mon’s voice caught, tightening around the words before she could finish. She exhaled sharply, like she was steadying herself. 

Sam let out a weak, breathless laugh, rubbing her hand over her face. "Yeah."

"And after all that—she still planned to take your company from you?"

Sam exhaled. "She never planned to let me keep it."

The words sat between them, heavy and suffocating.

Mon was quiet.

Too quiet.

When she finally spoke, her voice was sharp, contained—like something edged in glass.

"That woman—" Mon’s breath hitched. "She was never going to—" She cut herself off, exhaling sharply, like forcing the words out might shatter something. But once the dam cracked, there was no stopping it.

"I used to think maybe she was just… extremely traditional." The words came out cold, edged with something bitter. "But no. It wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just about who you loved, Sam. It was about the fact that you dared to love anyone she couldn’t control."

Sam’s stomach twisted, but Mon wasn’t done. "She didn’t just want you to follow her rules—she wanted to make sure you never even thought about breaking them. She wanted to mold you into something she could show off, something obedient, something she could use. And when you wanted something else, something for yourself, she made sure you felt like you were betraying her just for thinking it."

Sam shifted in her seat, the weight of Mon’s words pressing down on her.

"And us?" Mon’s voice shook now, anger and heartbreak woven so tightly together that they felt indistinguishable. "What were we, Khun Sam? Just another thing she could rip apart to remind you who actually had the power? Just something she could dangle in front of you before making you throw it away?"

Her breath came sharp, ragged, but she wasn’t finished. "She made you believe that choosing me—choosing yourself—was selfish. That happiness was selfish. That love was something you had to earn, like a goddamn business deal."

Sam swallowed hard, but she couldn’t speak.

"She knew exactly what she was doing." Mon exhaled, unsteady. "And she didn’t care. Not about me. Not about us. Not even about you. She just wanted to win."

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.

Mon exhaled again, softer now, but still filled with a quiet, aching rage. "And she almost did."

Sam flinched.

Not because Mon was wrong.

Because hearing it out loud made it real.

Because the quiet rage in Mon’s voice wasn’t just anger—it was disbelief.

Her frustration simmered, sharp and unrelenting.. And it wasn’t just about her grandmother.

"And Kirk." Mon practically spat the name. "That manipulative, spineless bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t just stand by while she tore you apart—he helped. And worse?" Her breath hitched, exhaling sharply, like forcing the words out might shatter something. "He used me to do it."

Sam’s chest tightened, the words cutting through her.

"He asked me to keep his secrets from you." The anger in Mon’s voice was razor-sharp, but beneath it, something else was breaking. "And I did. I did because I thought I was helping. Because I was stupid enough to believe him when he said it was for your own good."

She let out a sharp, bitter breath. "I fell for it. I let him convince me that keeping you in the dark was somehow protecting you. That lying to you was better than telling you the truth. And I am so, so sorry for that, Khun Sam."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, like the fight had been drained from her all at once. Like, now that she had said it, now that she had let all of it out—the anger, the grief, the guilt—there was nothing left but exhaustion.

The silence that followed was thick, stretching long between them.

Sam should say something.

She should tell Mon that it wasn’t her fault, that Kirk had manipulated her too, that she never blamed her.

But she couldn’t.

Because all she could feel, all she could think, was how much she had hurt Mon.

And how she didn’t deserve this.

Not Mon’s anger. Not her protectiveness.

Mon should be mad. She should be furious. They hurt her. That was what mattered. That was what Mon should be angry about. Not… not Sam.

Mon had every right to hate them for what they did to her. But she had no reason to be here, voice shaking, breath uneven, angry because of what they had done to Sam.

Sam didn’t deserve that.

And yet, here Mon was. Furious. Protective. Unyielding.

And God help her—Sam had never heard her like this before.

Mon had always been steady. Soothing. Soft, even in the worst moments.

But now? Now her voice was sharp. Cutting. A little scary.

And Sam—in some twisted, inexplicable way—loved her more for it.

Wanted her more for it.

A low, heated kind of want. One that curled deep in her stomach, pooling low and heavy, making her breath hitch.

She didn’t even know that was possible.

Because Mon was already everything. The most perfect person Sam had ever known. The most beautiful. The only person who had ever made her feel like this—who had ever made her want like this.

And yet, hearing her like this, furious, unrelenting, wrecked on Sam’s behalf—it made something sharp and unbearable tear through her, something Sam had no idea how to hold, how to name.

She squeezed her thighs together instinctively, her breath catching, heat coiling in ways that felt almost wrong, almost unbearable.

It wasn’t the time for this.

God, it wasn’t the time for this.

But fuck, when had she ever been able to stop wanting Mon?

Even now—especially now—Mon had her. Had her so completely it was devastating.

And Mon had no idea.

Her breath shuddered. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against the bracelet, like it could hold her together.

"I'm sorry, Mon." A whisper. Then, rougher, cracking under the weight of it—

"I'm so, so fucking sorry."

Her chest tightened. "I should have fought then. When I was begging her to let me live my life the way I wanted. To end the stupid fucking engagement. To be happy. To love you—without conditions, without fear. Freely. Fully. The way you deserved."

Her voice faltered. "The way you deserve."

The silence stretched, heavy, unspoken.

Her fingers curled tighter around the bracelet.

"I should have done it before I lost you."

Silence.

"You deserved it too, Khun Sam."

Soft. Steady. Unshaken by doubt.

"You always did."

Mon said it like it was simple. Like it had always been true.

Sam’s throat tightened.

Sam swallowed, her throat tight, her chest aching.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Mon asked, quiet but steady.

Sam inhaled shakily, her fingers curling tighter around the bracelet.  "For answering."

Mon didn’t hesitate. “For you? I’ll always answer.”

The warmth of it settled in her chest like something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Something steady. Something solid in the middle of all the impossible things she had endured.

Sam squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the bracelet against her skin. "I don’t know what happens next." The words slipped out before she could stop them. "I don’t know how to fix everything, how to fix me—"

And what else was there to do now, besides keep going?

Besides cut herself open completely—not for the sake of vulnerability, but because she had already come this far, already given Mon everything else?

Besides bare every fragile, aching piece of herself to Mon, to the possibility of losing her again?

Because hadn’t she already been losing her? Hadn’t she already spent five months drowning in the absence of her, in the space she used to fill?

And maybe—maybe the last few days had given her just enough courage to finally say it.

The texts. The conversations, however careful, however hesitant.

The teasing that slipped in too easily, like muscle memory.

The lightness she hadn’t felt in months, tucked between perfectly chosen words, between messages that always lingered just a little too long before being sent.

Mon answering.

Mon staying.

Mon’s anger for her. 

Hadn’t that meant something?

Hadn’t it given Sam something she hadn’t had in a long time?

Possibility.

So, she didn’t stop herself this time.

She let the words come, steady and certain, because this was the choice she had made—the one thing she could still do.

"How to fix us."

A beat.

Then—a breath, deep and careful, like Mon was measuring her words before releasing them.

"We don’t have to figure it all out tonight."

Sam’s breath hitched.

Not you.

We.

Not your problem to solve alone.

Ours.

Mon exhaled softly, and when she spoke again, her voice had shifted—not hesitant, not distant. Just steady. "But if we're fixing us… we should probably start with getting you to stop having breakdowns on the side of the road."

Sam let out a sharp breath that was almost—almost—a laugh. "Fair point."

A pause.

Something lighter. Easier.

"And we need to out how to navigate a time difference."

It should have been nothing. A small joke. A throwaway comment.

But Sam’s stomach tightened.

Because Mon said we.

Because Mon was still here, still talking like there was a future—like they were still something to consider, something that could be figured out, something that wasn’t already lost.

And fuck—Sam felt it, deep and low, curling into something unbearable, something warm and aching and sharp all at once.

Hearing her like this—not just furious anymore, but steady, present, slipping back into something Sam thought she’d lost forever—it made her breath hitch, made her body react before she could stop it.

A sharp inhale. Too sharp.

And Mon caught it.

"You good?"

Mon let the silence stretch just long enough to make it worse.

Then—soft, amused, but intentional now—

"You always did get kind of quiet you were trying not to think about something."

Oh. 

Oh, fuck off.

Sam’s entire body tensed.

Her ears burned instantly, heat crawling up her neck.

"You’re imagining things," she muttered, shifting in her seat, gripping the phone a little tighter.

Mon hummed, the sound light, teasing, too knowing. "Am I?"

Sam clenched her jaw, staring at the darkened dashboard like it could somehow pull her out of this.

Because Mon knew her.

Of course she knew.

There was no guessing, no maybe she understands, maybe she doesn’t.

Mon had heard her wrecked, breathless, begging. Had felt the way Sam came undone under her hands, her mouth.

Had learned exactly how to unravel her, how to ruin her.

And now?

Now, even from an ocean away, Mon was still doing it.

Sam wet her lips, because she couldn’t think about that.

Not now.

Not after everything today—after Kirk, after Grandmother, after breaking down on the side of the road, after stripping herself raw in this conversation.

Mon let the silence stretch again, let Sam sit in it.

Then—like she was feeling for the edges of something uncertain, something unspoken—

"Missed me, did you?"

Sam nearly choked.

Because Mon wasn’t just teasing anymore.

There was something beneath it now. Something Sam wasn’t sure either of them were ready to acknowledge.

Her stomach flipped, heat flashing through her, pooling low and hot between her thighs before she could stop it.

And maybe, before, she would have laughed it off.

Would have changed the subject. Would have let Mon win.

But today had been long.

Today had ripped her open in every possible way.

And she was so goddamn tired of holding everything in.

So, fuck it.

She exhaled, let herself smirk, let herself feel the thrill of it, the rush of knowing exactly how to pull something out of Mon.

"Oh, you have no idea."

Silence.

And then—

A sharp inhale.

Soft, barely audible. But there.

Sam heard it.

Felt it.

And that was all she needed.

Yeah. Still got it.

The relief settled somewhere deep, grounding her in a way she wasn’t expecting.

Because if Mon wasn’t affected—

Well.

She was not going to think about that.

Ever.

Mon cleared her throat, trying to be unaffected but not quite getting there.

"Careful, Khun Sam."

Sam tilted her head, grinning now, because she wasn’t letting this go.

"Why?"

Mon paused, just for a second.

Then—soft, deliberate, just a little slower than before—

"Because if you start flirting, you might not be able to stop."

And fuck.

Fuck.

Sam’s stomach dropped, twisted, and heated all at once.

She was done for.

Completely done for.

Her pulse thundered beneath her skin, her entire body thrumming with something heavy, something intoxicating, something she had spent months pretending didn’t exist.

She could play this off.

Could let Mon have the last word.

Could let it go.

Or—

"And if I don’t want to stop?"

Silence.

A heartbeat.

Then—

"Then maybe I don’t want you to."

Sam’s breath stalled.

Sharp. Sudden.

Heat spilled low and sharp in her stomach, curling around her ribs, climbing up her throat.

Because that—that was real.

Not teasing. Not a throwaway comment.

Real.

And after everything today—after Kirk, after Grandmother, after breaking down on the side of the road, after opening herself up in ways she never had before—this was somehow the thing that threatened to undo her the most.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against the bracelet, because she needed something to hold onto, something to ground her.

Mon was in London.

They had had just started communicating again. Were still figuring out what this even was.

And yet—in this moment, Mon was right here.

Then, like she wasn’t about to let Sam spiral, Mon’s voice came back—lighter now, easier, slipping effortlessly back into something warm.

"I actually found a place you’d love today."

Sam blinked, still recovering, still catching up to whatever the hell was happening between them.

"Yeah?" she asked, clearing her throat, trying to force her voice back to something normal.

Mon hummed, her voice slipping into something softer, something almost indulgent.

"Yeah. Little restaurant, tucked away, quiet but not too quiet. Good wine, the kind you’d pretend not to care about, but you’d secretly love. And the food, Khun Sam—" she sighed dramatically, "I think you’d die for it."

Sam let out something like a chuckle, her stomach twisting into something almost painful.

Because Mon wasn’t just describing a restaurant.

She was painting a picture.

Them in London.

At this restaurant.

Together.

Flirting.

Laughing.

Sharing food.

Drinking wine.

Just being.

Being together.

And being better.

For themselves. For each other.

Sam swallowed, pressing the bracelet against her skin.

She exhaled, forcing herself back into the present, into the warmth of Mon’s voice.

Sam let out something like a chuckle. "Sounds perfect."

Mon hummed. "Mmm. You should come see it."

Silence.

Then—Mon inhaled sharply, like she just realized what she said.

Sam felt it instantly.

The way the air between them shifted, turned over, became something else entirely.

Mon was quiet.

And Sam?

Sam just smirked.

"You inviting me to London, Mon?"

Mon exhaled through her nose, slow, deliberate, like she was trying to gather herself.

"No," she said, but she didn’t sound convincing.

Sam let herself smile, let herself hold onto that, just for a second.

Because Mon had thought about it.

Even if it was just for a second, even if she took it back—she had thought about it.

Because she was taking her life back.

She would finish the fight with Kirk.

She would stand her ground against whatever else her grandmother threw at her.

She was going to keep Diversity.

She was going to live exactly how she wanted.

And, hopefully—

She was going to love the woman she loved.

If Mon wanted her back—if she wanted them back—then—

Then, God, she would love her—fully, completely, loudly, proudly.

"If you asked, I’d go."

Mon didn’t answer right away.

But she didn’t dismiss it, either.

For now, that was enough.

For now, Sam would hold onto that hope.

Because hope—that hope—would give her the courage to fight for everything else.

And if Mon ever asked, she’d be on the next flight out—no hesitation.

Because she had a lot to make up for—to herself, and to Mon.

And if Mon wanted her—really wanted her—Sam would become the person she deserved.

No matter what it took.

A beat of silence, then—Mon’s voice, softer now, lingering, like she wasn’t ready for the conversation to end. And really, if Mon wanted to keep talking, Sam would stay on the phone for as long as she asked—because, God, when had she ever been capable of denying Mon anything?

"Where did you even pull off to?"

Sam blinked, glancing around at the dark, empty stretch of pavement outside her window.

“Uh… the shoulder of an exit.”

Silence.

Then—Mon exhaled sharply. "Wait. You’re on the shoulder? Of an exit?"

Sam winced at the immediate shift in Mon’s tone—concern sharpened with exasperation.

“Wait—so this whole time, you’ve just been sitting there? In a terrible spot? Are you insane?”

Sam squeezed her eyes shut, exhaustion creeping in again. "Technically, I’m off the road—"

"That doesn’t make it better!" Mon’s voice spiked, her breath catching. 

Sam lifted a brow, shifting slightly in her seat. "I mean, the road isn’t that busy—"

"Sam."

That tone. The "I am done with your bullshit" tone.

For the first time since pulling over, Sam really took in her surroundings—headlights passing too fast, the rush of air too loud, the realization that, yeah, maybe this wasn’t the safest spot to have a breakdown over the phone with her ex.

She sighed, still shaken, but lighter now, the weight shifting under Mon’s presence.

"Fine, fine. I’m moving." She reached for the gear shift, glancing at the nearest exit. "Do I need to text you my exact GPS coordinates, just in case I spontaneously disappear while driving a whole fifty feet to a parking lot?"

Mon let out a frustrated sigh, but Sam could hear it now—the barely-there smile at the edges of it.

Her hands steadied on the wheel, her breath no longer so sharp, so fragile.

She pulled back onto the road, driving carefully, her fingers tapping against the wheel in a way that wasn’t entirely anxious anymore.

A few minutes later, she pulled into an empty parking lot, the neon glow of a restaurant sign flickering in the distance. The place was dark, long closed for the night, but the lot was quiet, empty save for a couple of parked cars. She put the car in park and exhaled, rolling her shoulders.

"Happy now? I’m officially parked in a much safer, non-life-threatening location."

Mon let out a breath, softer this time, something almost like relief. "Yeah. Much better."

"Wait. Where?"

Sam glanced around at the dimly lit lot, the glow of the empty restaurant casting long shadows against the pavement.

"Some restaurant off the highway, I think."

"You think?" Mon asked, amusement creeping into her tone. "You don’t know where you are?"

Sam shrugged. "I pulled into the first empty lot I saw. Didn’t exactly check for landmarks."

A long, calculated pause. Then, Mon made a small, disbelieving sound.

"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," she said. "You had a breakdown, called me, and now you're sitting alone in a random parking lot at—"

She paused, and Sam could practically hear the gears turning in her head.

"—nine o’clock at night?"

Sam blinked, then smirked. "And?"

"And that means you pulled over for a crisis in a dark parking lot when it’s nighttime."

Sam snorted. "Would it be better if I did this at an appropriately dramatic hour?"

"I hate you," Mon muttered

Sam grinned, leaning in without hesitation. "Lies. You adore me."

A sharp exhale. "Loathe. Despise."

"Favorite person," Sam countered, her smile widening.

Mon scoffed. "In your dreams."

Sam gasped, mock-offended. "Excuse me? Is this how you treat your boss?"

Mon snorted. "You’re not even my boss anymore."

It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did.

But it did.

She wasn’t. Not anymore.

It was the truth—a simple, irrefutable fact. But somehow, hearing Mon say it out loud made it feel heavier.

Made it feel real.

She could have let the moment stretch, could have let herself sit in it—but she didn’t.

Instead, she forced a smirk, pushed past the weight in her chest, and threw herself back into what was familiar.

"Well… you’re still my favorite employee of the month."

Sam tilted her head, considering. Then, her eyes widened slightly—like she’d just had the most groundbreaking realization.

"Actually—favorite employee of the year."

Mon let out a dramatic, suffering sigh. "Oh god."

Sam grinned, clearly just getting started. "The decade."

Mon groaned, dragging out her name like a warning. "Khun Sam—"

"The century."

"Khun. Sam." More forceful now, but there was no real bite to it.

"The millennia."

Mon groaned. "Stop."

Sam grinned. "Best employee in the history of existence."

Mon huffed. "Your standards are in the gutter."

Sam gasped, deeply offended. "Excuse me? I have excellent taste. You’re proof of that."

Mon let out a snort. "That’s unfortunate for you."

Then, before Mon could stop herself, a sharp, incredulous laugh escaped. "This is ridiculous."

Sam nodded solemnly, completely unfazed. "Ridiculously true."

Sam should probably stop talking.

But she doesn’t.

Because Mon deserves this. She always did. And Sam wants her to know—she’s trying. For herself. For her friends. For Mon.

So she lets herself keep going.

"But it doesn’t mean I was wrong about you." Another pause. "Doesn’t mean you’re not the best thing I ever chose."

Sam tilted her head slightly, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.  "Starting to think I owe you an award for this. Not just for this, actually. For a lot of things."

Mon didn’t say anything at first.

Then, finally—a sigh, quieter this time.

"...You’re impossible."

Sam grinned, softer now. "Maybe. But I mean it, you know."

Mon let out another slow breath, something unreadable in it.

Sam could hear it—the hesitation, the way Mon was letting the words settle.

She wasn’t expecting an answer. Didn’t need one.

Sam let out a breath, something almost like a laugh, but too soft to be teasing. "And I don’t think I ever said it enough."

Mon exhaled again, a little more unsteady this time.

"Sam…"

Sam smiled faintly, hearing the hesitation in Mon’s voice.

"Relax," she teased, just enough to lighten the weight settling between them. "You’re still getting your award."

Mon let out a breath that was almost—almost—a laugh.

"I really, really hate you."

Sam grinned wider, warmth creeping into her chest. "No, you don’t."

A pause.

Then—"No. I don’t."

Her lips parted, but no words came.

The humor softened, and the moment shifted, just enough for it to turn quieter, heavier.

Sam swallowed hard, her pulse slowing but still uneven. It had been so long since she’d heard Mon’s voice—long enough that she shouldn’t still crave it, shouldn’t still find solace in it.

But even now, it felt like the safest thing in the world.

Sam swallowed again, her grip tightening on the phone, like it might slip through her fingers—like she might slip through her own hands if she let go.

“Can you—” Her voice cracked, and she forced herself to steady it. “Can you just stay on the phone? Just for a little while?”

A pause. Barely long enough to notice, but enough for Sam to brace herself. Then—

"Yeah. I can do that."

Sam exhaled slowly, leaning back against the headrest, letting the warmth of Mon’s voice settle into the spaces where the cold had lived for too long.

Chapter Text

Silence.

The call had ended, but Mon hadn’t moved.

Her phone was still pressed to her ear, like if she held it there long enough, she might hear Khun Sam’s voice again.

But the line was dead.

The telltale click of a door shutting. The soft exhale of relief.

"I’m home. I’m safe."

Khun Sam’s voice had been quiet, steady—but Mon had heard it.

The exhaustion. The unraveling.

The panic attack had cracked something open, but neither of them were ready to reach inside and touch it yet.

Her screen dimmed.

Still, she stared at it.

As if it might light up again.

As if Khun Sam might say something else.

But the line was silent now.

The house was silent.

Too silent.

The weight of everything settled over her like an iron press, heavy and unrelenting.

Khun Sam’s panic attack had ended, but Mon was still feeling the aftershocks.

Her limbs locked in place.

Her chest tightened.

Her breath came too shallow, too uneven.

Her fingers loosened, and the phone slipped from her grip, landing on the desk with a dull thud.

It barely registered.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Her entire body felt wrong—untethered, floating just outside of herself, like she had been dropped into a space too big, too empty, too much.

A thought hit her so hard it knocked the air from her lungs.

What if something had happened?

Her stomach clenched.

Because Khun Sam had been alone.

Because Mon had heard it—the way her breath had shuddered over the line, the way she had struggled to speak, to stay grounded, to hold herself together.

Because for one horrible, terrible moment, Mon had felt completely, utterly helpless.

She took a slow breath in.

Then out.

But it didn’t help.

The thought was already in her head, looping, growing heavier.

What if she had passed out?

What if she couldn’t breathe?

What if she hadn’t called?

Khun Sam was fine.

She got home.

She was fine.

But what if next time, Mon wasn’t there to pick up the call?

She shook her head, trying to shake the thought loose with it.

But it was there now, and it wasn’t letting go.

She gasped—fast, sharp, a sound barely escaping her throat.

Her chest wouldn’t expand.

Her lungs burned, desperate for air that wouldn’t come.

Her ribs locked up, squeezing too tight, a pressure curling in on itself, unbearable.

She didn’t realize she had moved.

One second, she was gripping the desk.

The next—

She was sinking.

Folding in on herself, knees hitting the edge of the bed.

Her breath hitched—sharp, broken, painful.

Too tight. Too much. Too fast.

Tears burned behind her eyes, hot and unrelenting, streaking down her cheeks before she could stop them.

She pressed her hands against her ribs, trying—desperate—to force air back into her lungs.

But it wouldn’t come.

Wouldn’t settle.

Wouldn’t let her go.

"Pull over."

"Sam, goddamn it—"

"Please."

Her own desperation sliced through her, sharp and unrelenting.

She could still hear Khun Sam panicking, her breath hitching, her words faltering.

The image of Khun Sam behind the wheel—vulnerable, spiraling, struggling—flashed in her mind.

She had yelled.

Begged..

And then, finally, Khun Sam had listened.

Mon rocked forward, curling in on herself, her breath gasping, uneven, sharp as her chest locked up completely.

Her mind kept spinning.

Because she had held it together on the phone.

She had been steady.

She had been what Khun Sam needed.

But now—

Now, she was breaking.

Now, she was the one unraveling.

Tears streaked hot and relentless down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric of her sweater, her shoulders trembling under the weight of everything she had kept inside.

She sobbed for the fear, the helplessness, the distance.

For everything Khun Sam had lost.

For everything they had lost.

For everything she could’ve lost.

She had almost lost her.

Hadn’t been there.

Wouldn’t have known—until it was too late to do anything but grieve.

Time blurred around her, minutes slipping by in long stretches of silence, her body too tired to shake, her breath still coming in hiccups.

Her sobs slowed after a while, but the ache remained.

Her body still felt raw.

Her chest still felt too tight.

Her hands were still trembling.

She hadn’t expected tonight.

And she sure as hell hadn’t expected how much she still needed her.

Mon couldn’t escape it—the tremor in Khun Sam’s voice that night, fragile yet blazing with unspoken truths.

"I don’t know how to fix us."

The words clung to her, curling into the hollows of her ribs, a weight she carried through sleepless nights and curated days.

It wasn’t just the panic or the helplessness she remembered, but the rawness beneath Khun Sam’s hesitation. The longing. The hope.

 Khun Sam, who wielded silence like armor, had cracked open her heart.

And Mon—Mon had let her.

Had answered with a fragile "we," a word that felt too easy, too dangerous. A promise to defer the reckoning.

They hadn’t resolved anything that night.

Yet, in the weeks since, something had shifted.

Their words had softened. Khun Sam’s texts came later at night. Mon checked her phone more often.

Texts arrived in the predawn hours— "Did you eat?" —simple words that unraveled her.

Laughter still flickered between them, but now it bordered on something perilous, charged.

Silences stretched taut, heavy with all they refused to name.

Mon noticed the pauses where Khun Sam’s wit once flowed, the way her own breath snagged at every notification.

They were circling something, picking at sealed edges, as if their messages were shovels digging toward a truth neither dared grasp.

By day, Mon buried herself in work.

She edited photos until her vision blurred, smoothing shadows, saturating hues—curating control where none existed.

She posted, curated, charmed followers with sunlit illusions—grinning selfies, vibrant lattes, a life staged to charm strangers.

Each like felt like a lie.

Proof she was moving forward , she told herself.

Yet no matter how many hours she poured into her photos, her phone lingered.

And so did Khun Sam.

Mon noticed it now, the way Khun Sam did.

The way Khun Sam’s messages came a little too fast, like she had been waiting for a response.

The way her usual quick wit faded into nothing when something heavier pressed at the edges of her mind.

The way Mon could tell— just tell— when Khun Sam was reaching for her but not quite saying it.

Because Mon wasn’t the only one keeping tabs anymore.

Because Khun Sam wasn’t just watching.

They were digging.

Carving a door into corners they had both sealed shut.

And still, Mon hovered.

Between courage and fear. Between silence and truth. Between what they had been and what they might still be.

Suspended, in the echo of us.

Sam : Have you eaten today?

The glow of the screen seared Mon’s tired eyes. Her thumb hovered, trembling faintly—from caffeine or guilt, she couldn’t tell.

A simple question. Not the usual teasing about morning tea or her vampire-like editing hours. Just—this.

Direct. Uncomplicated. Impossible to sidestep.

Mon’s thumb hovered. Typed. Erased. Typed again.

Five minutes passed before she finally replied.

Mon : Yes, mom.

Sam : That was a suspiciously delayed answer. What did you eat?

Mon : Food.

Sam : Mon .

She sighed, the sound swallowed by the hum of her laptop, and pressed send. Defeat tasted like peanut butter and stale bread.

Mon : A sandwich.

Sam : What kind?

Mon : The edible kind?

A lie. The crust had gone stale hours ago, but Khun Sam didn’t need to know that.

Silence stretched—one heartbeat, two—before Khun Sam’s reply.

Sam : Fine. Starve. See if I rearrange my entire day to DoorDash you soup again.

Mon huffed a laugh, but it caught in her throat. Something splintered in her chest—a fragile warmth, like sunlight filtering through a windowpane she’d forgotten to close

Khun Sam had always cared, but before, it had been wrapped in sarcasm, tucked into jokes. Now, it lay bare—a raw, tender thing, glaring as the sun she’d been avoiding through her closed curtains.

Sam : You’ve been quiet today. Busy or tired?

Mon hesitated.

Because Khun Sam noticed.

She always had—but never like this.

Now, if Mon didn’t reply, Khun Sam reached out first. No space left to wonder, no waiting for Mon to break it first.

Mon : Both .

A pause.

Sam : Don’t overwork yourself.

Mon frowned at the screen.

Before, Khun Sam would’ve said Don’t burn out your eyes on Lightroom or Try stepping outside like a normal human for once .

Now, she said it straight. No jokes. No sidestepping.

No hiding behind teasing.

She meant it.

Mon : Who are you and what have you done with Khun Sam?

Sam : Just looking out for my favorite overachiever.

Mon scoffed, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Mon : Flattery will get you nowhere.

Sam : Says the person who still hasn’t denied it.

Mon rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

Mon : Fine. I won’t deny it.

And then, because it felt natural—because she wanted to know—

Mon : What about you? Busy or tired?

She didn’t expect an immediate answer, but it came anyway.

Sam : I’m fine.

Mon stared at the screen. Two words. Too easy. Too practiced.

Mon : Liar .

A beat. Then—longer this time.

Sam : Didn’t sleep much.

Mon let out a slow breath, staring at the message.

Sam never admitted things like that before. She never used to let Mon see her tired.

Mon : I’m shocked. Truly. A groundbreaking revelation.

Sam : Sarcasm? From you? No way.

Mon : I know, it’s rare.

She stared at the screen for a moment before typing again.

Mon : Try to get some rest, Khun Sam. You’re allowed to.

She watched the typing bubbles flicker in and out before a response finally came.

Sam : If you say so.

Mon : I do. So go to sleep.

Sam : Only if you do too .

Mon rolled her eyes, but warmth curled in her chest, settling deep. A quiet, steady thing. She couldn’t name it, but she didn’t want to let it go.

It was late.

They had been on the phone for hours.

Long enough that Mon’s room had gone from dimly lit to completely dark.

Long enough that exhaustion tugged at her limbs, heavy and insistent, but her mind refused to quiet.

She was too wired.

Too awake.

Because this conversation—this moment, this night—felt different.

And she wasn’t ready to let it go.

"You’re quiet tonight," Mon said, breaking the silence.

Khun Sam exhaled softly. "Yeah."

Mon waited. She knew Khun Sam would talk when she was ready.

"Diversity is close," Khun Sam murmured. "Closer than it’s ever been."

Mon frowned. "Yeah?"

She heard Khun Sam shift, as if grounding herself. "Yeah. Really close. A little under 100,000 baht close."

"And you know why?" Khun Sam continued. "Because of Diversity Pop. Because of our project. Our baby."

Mon exhaled, letting that sink in.

"It’s working," Khun Sam said, her voice soft but steady. "The thing we built—our baby—it’s doing exactly what we wanted it to do."

Mon hadn’t thought about it like that in a long time.

Not as something separate from them.

Not as just a project.

But as something they built, together.

Their names. Their hands. Their vision.

It was theirs.

And it was working.

"Our baby, Mon."

Mon’s grip on her blanket tightened.

"So, what does that mean? What does that mean about... Kirk?"

A pause. Then Khun Sam sighed, long and slow.

"It means he’s almost out."

Mon’s chest tightened. "Almost?"

"Legal is handling the final steps," Khun Sam explained. "There’s still paperwork, and we’re finalizing his severance agreement, but… it’s happening. He’ll be gone soon."

Mon let out a sharp breath.

She remembered.

How Kirk had wormed his way into her trust.

How he had smiled, reassured, lied.

How she had believed him—just long enough for it to hurt.

"And after that? You really think he’ll just disappear?"

"He has no choice," Khun Sam said, her voice sharp. "I’m not letting him near Diversity again."

Mon frowned. "You’re still avoiding him, right?"

"Obviously." Khun Sam’s tone was flat. "If I have to sit in a meeting and look at his smug face, I might actually murder him. And I’d rather not deal with the legal ramifications of that right now."

Mon snorted. "I mean… I wouldn’t stop you."

"Good to know I have your moral support."

"Always."

A pause.

"But really," Mon pressed. "Does he know yet?"

"No."

Mon blinked. "What?"

"He doesn’t know yet," Khun Sam repeated, calm but firm.

Mon froze. "Khun Sam—"

"I’m blindsiding him," Khun Sam admitted. "The same way he blindsided me."

Mon let that settle.

"Khun Sam—"

"I’m done playing fair with him, Mon. He never gave me that courtesy."

She wasn’t wrong.

Kirk had made his moves behind her back. Had tried to rip everything out from under her. Had counted on her being too afraid to push back.

But this time?

Khun Sam was the one in control.

"So when he finds out—"

"It’ll already be done," Khun Sam finished. "No warning. No second chances."

Mon exhaled, something warm curling in her chest.

"Good," she muttered.

Khun Sam’s voice held a quiet amusement. "That’s it? Just ‘good’?"

"Good," Mon repeated, firmer. "Because I’m tired of him existing."

"Same." Khun Sam’s voice softened. "But this time, it’s real. He’s done."

A pause.

"Your grandmother?"

"Still calling. Still texting. Still pretending like I didn’t mean what I said to her." A beat. Then, quieter, almost to herself—"Like she didn’t hear me."

Mon closed her eyes.

Because that was exactly it. It wasn’t that her grandmother didn’t believe her.

It was that she refused to.

"I’m not going back."

The words hit Mon like a shift in the air—heavy, real.

Mon sighed, frustrated. "She’s not just going to let this go, Khun Sam."

"I know."

"And if she tries? If she does something worse?"

A pause.

Then—

"I’m not scared of her anymore, Mon."

The words settled like a tremor—small but seismic.

Because that was new. That was real.

And it was Khun Sam who had said it. Not just thought it. Not just implied it.

But said it. Out loud.

Like something that could never be undone.

"Why?" Mon pushed.

Khun Sam took a slow breath. "Because she can’t take anything from me that I’m not willing to give anymore."

Mon felt that everywhere.

Khun Sam had never spoken about her grandmother like that before. Had never stood up like this before. Had never walked away like this before.

Mon had spent so much time imagining this—Khun Sam choosing something different, choosing herself, choosing to break free.

And now, here she was. Actually doing it.

And yet—Mon had no idea what to say. No idea what to do with this new version of Khun Sam—untethered, uncertain, standing at the edge of something unknown.

"I just don’t know what the hell I do now."

"You don’t have to know," Mon found herself saying. "Not yet."

"Feels like I should."

"Why?"

Khun Sam let out a sharp breath. "Because I just set fire to my entire fucking life, Mon."

Mon’s fingers curled tighter around her blanket, her heart lurching at the words.

She exhaled slowly. "Maybe it needed to burn."

A pause.

"And maybe you needed to watch it burn."

Silence.

Then—softer, rawer—

"Yeah. Maybe it did."

Mon didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to tell Khun Sam that hearing her say those words—really say them—did something to her chest.

So she said nothing.

And then, Khun Sam spoke again.

Something quieter.

Something careful, deliberate.

"But I think I know what I want."

The air in Mon’s lungs turned to stone.

Because this wasn’t about Kirk.

Or the company.

Or the war Khun Sam was waging against the people who had shaped her into someone she was trying to unlearn.

This—this was about Mon.

Khun Sam wasn’t saying it outright.

But she didn’t have to. Mon heard it. Felt it.

Felt it in the way Khun Sam had been reaching for her, in the way their calls stretched longer, in the way Khun Sam hadn’t pulled away.

She was saying something.

Not fully. Not completely.

But enough.

And Mon was getting impatient.

Because if Khun Sam was thinking about it—if she was already kind of, sort of talking about getting Mon back—

Then why wasn’t she saying it?

Why wasn’t she doing something?

And then Mon realized—

Neither was she.

The words slipped out before Mon could stop them.

"What do you want?"

Silence—the weight of the question, the weight of everything surrounded them.

Khun Sam exhaled, sharp but measured. Not caught off guard. Not surprised. Because she had known Mon would ask. Because maybe she had been waiting for it.

She didn’t know what answer she wanted. Didn’t know if she was ready for it.

But she had asked.

And now, she had to hear whatever came next.

A pause. A shift. A breath that sounded just a little too measured.

"I made an Instagram account."

Mon’s brain short-circuited.

She wasn’t sure what she had expected Khun Sam to say—

But it sure as hell wasn’t that.

Not—this.

"You—" She swallowed, voice catching.

"I made it months ago."

"…For what?"

She could hear Khun Sam exhale. Then, quieter—softer. "To look at your profile."

Mon felt something unravel inside her.

"I never liked anything. Never commented. Just… looked."

It pressed against her ribs like a weight.

This wasn’t just curiosity.

This wasn’t just Khun Sam keeping tabs.

This was Khun Sam—Khun Sam—who didn’t even do social media.

Who barely texted, never posted anything herself.

Making an entire account just to look.

To hold on.

To keep Mon in her orbit, even from an ocean away.

And somehow, that undid her more than anything else.

"What’s your username?"

Silence.

Then—so quiet Mon almost didn’t hear it. "…ChamCham."

Mon stilled. Breath caught.

The name hit her like static in the air—sharp, electric, too much all at once.

A shock to the system.

The first time she had called Khun Sam that—

Khun Sam, looking at her with too much sincerity, saying, “I can be anything you want me to be.”

How Mon told her she wanted her to be a dog. 

And Khun Sam—fucking Khun Sam the Simp—had dropped to her knees and barked.

Mon pressed her fingers to her lips, choking on laughter.

Of course. Of course it was ChamCham.

She could look.

She could see for herself.

But she didn’t.

This was already enough.

Because she knew what it meant.

Because Khun Sam had been looking first. Searching. Holding on in her own way.

And maybe—Mon wasn’t ready to hold on quite that tightly. Not yet.

So instead, she murmured into the phone, teasing but softer—

"So… what exactly did you do on my profile, Khun Sam?" she asked, voice dipping into something playful. "Just scrolled? Lurked? Admired from afar?"

A pause.

Then flat, unamused. "I hate you."

Mon grinned, slow and wicked. "Oh, I know. But tell me—how far back did you go?"

Silence.

Then—a barely-there hitch in Khun Sam’s breath.

Mon smirked. Gotcha .

"Far enough," Khun Sam muttered.

"Far enough for what?"

"Far enough to regret this conversation."

Mon barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “Too late, ChamCham.”

Silence.

And Mon felt it.

The weight of that name.

The way it settled between them, thick, unspoken.

Like something neither of them were ready to say out loud.

Like something that had never really left.

Like something waiting to be acknowledged.

It started midday.

Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

At first, Mon ignored it—buried in edits, half-distracted by work. But then, another notification.

And another.

And another.

She sighed, ready to mute whatever group chat was suddenly active, but then—she saw it.

Instagram.

The second she opened the app, she noticed it.

The account—ChamCham.

And then, slowly—her brain caught up.

Because it wasn’t just her latest post.

Oh no.

It was her entire goddamn feed.

Every year.

Every trip.

Every mildly embarrassing attempt at aesthetic food photography.

And the worst part?

Khun Sam didn’t just like.

She commented.

Mostly emojis.

🔥 under an old travel photo.

☕ under a tea shop shot.

👀 under a sunset she had posted three years ago.

Mon stared. This wasn’t just a casual scroll. Th is wasn’t just a quick peek. This was intentional.

Khun Sam had gone back. Had gone through everything. Had left a trail.

A neon sign blinking I WAS HERE.

Mon did not hesitate. She immediately texted Khun Sam.

Mon: So. You just went through my entire Instagram archive like a stalker?

Sam: ...Shut up.

Mon grinned.

Oh, this was too easy.

Mon: Not just lurking, huh? Liking everything? Commenting?

Sam: I hate you.

Mon laughed, but she wasn’t done.

Mon: 🐶? Is this your way of finally admitting you’re my loyal pet?

Sam: Absolutely not. Go to jail.

Mon: Bit late for that, ChamCham.

Sam: Mon. Jail. Immediately.

Mon: You say that, but you’re the one who just left a trail of devotion all over my feed.

Sam: I hope your phone combusts.

Mon : And 🍜 under my noodles? You want me to ship you some?

Sam : You’re unbearable.

Mon : And 💫 under my blurry photo? What was that, Khun Sam? A metaphor? Were you feeling poetic?

Sam: I hope your phone dies.

Mon cackled.

Oh, this was fun.

Mon: You scrolled all the way back to 2017, Khun Sam. Did you get whiplash?

Sam : I hope your phone dies twice.

Mon grinned, biting her lip.

Mon: Awww. So much aggression from someone who just spent an entire afternoon thirst-liking my pictures.

Sam: I’m actually blocking you.

Mon smirked.

Oh, this was dangerous territory.

Because Khun Sam could pretend all she wanted.

Could act unaffected. Could throw out half-hearted defenses. Could try to play this off like it was nothing.

Mon knew better. 

But the teasing didn’t stop the feeling curling, slow and deep, in her chest.

This wasn’t just a casual scroll. This wasn’t a passing thought.

This was Khun Sam—who didn’t do social media, who barely liked things in real life, let alone online—leaving a trail, a neon sign blinking I WAS HERE.

She hadn’t just looked.

She had been there.

For months .

And now—now, she wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Mon was still grinning when her phone buzzed again.

Another notification.

She glanced at the screen, expecting more of the same.

ChamCham liked your photo.

ChamCham commented: 💗🌅🔗

Her grin froze, her fingers stilling over the screen.

This wasn’t just a stray like on a travel post or a coffee shot.

This wasn’t just Khun Sam being playful.

This was something else.

Mon stared at the comment.

💗🌅🔗

Her chest felt too tight.

Because this wasn’t just a picture.

This was a night. A moment. A piece of them, frozen in time.

And Khun Sam had reached back for it.

A beach at sunrise, pink and orange spilling over the water, the tide pulling in slow and steady.

The air had been cool, tinged with salt, carrying the soft hush of waves against the shore.

The sand had been warm beneath their feet. Khun Sam’s fingertips had been warmer against Mon’s skin.

Mon had thought about that post a lot before sharing it.

She hadn’t overanalyzed the caption, hadn’t obsessed over the filters—but she had thought about it.

She couldn’t be direct, of course. She couldn’t tag Khun Sam. Khun Sam didn’t even have an Instagram back then.

Even if she had wanted to, there had been no way to make it theirs —no way to tether it to Khun Sam in any real, public way.

But that had been the whole point, hadn’t it? They had never been public. They had never been allowed to be.

But this? This was hers to share.

Something that meant everything to them, but to anyone else? It was just a pretty picture.

A sunrise. A quiet moment on the sand. A caption that was light, effortless.

"Morning after magic ❤️."

She had meant every word. Because the night before?

It had been magic .

That had been something else entirely.

Because in those hours, in the quiet intimacy of the beach, with nothing but the moonlight and the sound of the waves, they had been free.

No expectations. No grandmother. No company. No engagement looming over them.

Just them.

Just love.

The soft, tender love between them.

Mon still remembered the warmth of Khun Sam’s arms around her—the quiet weight of them, the way she had held on like she was afraid to let go.

The soft, shuddering breath against her collarbone.

The whisper, barely a sound, brushing against Mon’s skin—

'Tell me this is real.'

And Mon had smiled, slow, certain, pressing her forehead against Khun Sam’s, holding her steady.

'It’s real. It’s us.'

And that was it.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Just them.

Mon had kissed her first.

Had tilted Khun Sam’s chin up, let her lips linger, slow and deep, letting Khun Sam feel every ounce of certainty she had. Pushed her hands into Khun Sam’s hair, gripping, tugging, needing her closer, needing her everywhere. Whispered her name against Khun Sam’s mouth, against her skin, against every place she could touch.

Khun Sam had responded like she was unraveling—breathless, soft, reverent, like she wanted to memorize every inch of Mon.

Like she was afraid Mon might disappear.

But Mon had pushed back—had shown her, over and over, that she was there.

That she wasn’t going anywhere.

Fingertips trailing down Khun Sam’s spine. Mouth pressing against her collarbone. Hands tracing every familiar line of her body, rediscovering, relearning, reloving.

The way their fingers had intertwined as Khun Sam kissed her like a vow, like a promise she was terrified to break, like she was something fragile, something to be held, something treasured.

The way Khun Sam had looked at her that night. 

The way Khun Sam had whispered, "You’re everything," against her skin.

The way Mon had whispered it back, lips pressed against Khun Sam’s shoulder, against her pulse, against the place where her heart beat fastest.

Because in that little cocoon of happiness, nothing else had mattered.

It had been them.

Wrapped in love.

In joy.

In forever.

Now, staring at her screen, seeing ChamCham beneath it—

Seeing Khun Sam reach back for it—

It did something to her.

💗🌅🔗

Simple. Subtle.

But not to her. Not to them.

Khun Sam wasn’t just commenting.

She was saying something.

She was remembering, acknowledging, reaching.

Mon let it hit her.

Like a thread pulling tight between them.

Like something waiting to be unraveled.

It slammed into her, sharp and undeniable.

The warmth. The ache. The way the past and present blurred together, pressing against her ribs, curling into something she couldn’t ignore.

She felt Khun Sam.

Still here. Still reaching. Still hers—if she wanted.

And for the first time—

She didn’t want to hide behind teasing.

She just wanted to feel it.

It wasn’t like Mon was waiting for a response.

Not really.

She was just… checking her phone more than usual.

Her phone buzzed against the table.

She didn’t need to check the screen. She already knew who it was.

Still, she hesitated for half a second before picking it up, unlocking the screen with muscle memory.

Sam : You asleep?

It was 2 PM.

Mon rolled her eyes but still found herself smiling.

Mon : In the middle of the day? Who do you think I am?

A moment passed.

Sam : Someone who stays up too late and refuses to acknowledge time zones like they exist.

Mon huffed out a small laugh.

Mon : Pot meet kettle.

Sam : Okay. Fair.

Mon was mid-text reply when Char sighed dramatically.

"You know, for someone who claims she’s not tangled up in anything, you sure have been glued to your phone a lot."

Mon didn’t look up.

"I’m working."

Char snorted. "Right. Because your job requires you to smile at your screen like you’re in a rom-com montage."

Mon rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

"So… what has the famous Khun Sam done now?"

Mon’s fingers stilled over her phone.

A flicker of something sharp twisted in her chest.

Because she had an answer.

One she had been holding onto for days.

Mon exhaled, reaching for her tea instead of her phone. "She made an Instagram."

Char’s eyebrows shot up. "Okay, didn’t see that coming. And?"

Mon sighed, setting her cup down. "Months ago. Just to look at my profile."

Char blinked. "Oh. Damn." She leaned back, grinning. "Yeah, she’s down bad."

Mon groaned, pressing her hands into her face. "Shut up."

"Mon. You look like you just got secondhand embarrassment for her."

"Because I did ."

Mon sighed, dropping her hands from her face, fingers drumming against the table. She had barely let herself sit with the weight of it—of Sam , making a whole damn Instagram just to watch from a distance. Just to see her . The thought alone made her stomach twist, a mess of emotions tangled too tightly to unravel. Because what was she even supposed to do with that? With the knowledge that Sam had been there, just out of reach, looking but never touching, holding on in the quietest, most Sam way possible?

And now—now, she had chosen to be seen.

Mon exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she reached for her tea again.

That was when Char spoke up, tone entirely too amused.

"No, no, hold on." Char tapped a finger against the table, amusement flickering in her eyes. "She made an Instagram? Khun Sam? Just to stalk—sorry, I mean, ‘look at’—your profile? And never liked anything? Never commented? Just silently lurking in the background like some tragic, heartbroken ghost? Yeah. That’s ‘in love with you’ behavior."

Mon threw a sugar packet at her head. " Stop ."

Char laughed. "I’m just saying!"

"You’re saying too much."

"I mean, you’re the one practically giggling over her texts."

"I don’t giggle."

"Mmm, sure."

Char took a slow sip of her drink, then tilted her head. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

Mon froze.

Because she didn’t have an answer.

And, unfortunately, Char wasn’t about to let her off the hook.

"Mon." Char leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, gaze steady. "We’ve been talking about this for months. You, wondering what she’d do. If she’d ever get out from under her grandmother. If she’d ever finally make a choice that wasn’t about duty. And now? She did it."

Mon swallowed.

"She called you during a panic attack," Char continued, voice sharper now. "She texts you. She calls you. She left her grandmother. She called her out. She’s kicking Kirk to the curb—rightfully so. She’s doing everything she should have done forever ago."

"That doesn’t erase everything else," Mon muttered.

"No one’s saying it does."

Mon swallowed. "She’s still engaged, Char."

That finally made Char pause, but only for a second.  "Yeah. And? What, you think she’s just going to marry him?"

Mon’s fingers curled tighter around her cup, jaw tense.

"I don’t know," she muttered.

"No, you do." Char leaned forward, voice sharper now. "You know exactly what’s happening, Mon. She’s not with him. She doesn’t love him. She never did. And you know that. So what is it? You waiting for her to hand you a signed breakup contract? For a neon sign to drop out of the sky saying, ‘Khun Sam’s free now, go get her’?"

Mon exhaled, frustration curling in her ribs.

"It’s not that simple, Char."

"No shit, it’s not simple," Char shot back. "None of this is. But you’re acting like she’s sitting back, doing nothing. She’s doing everything, Mon. Everything. She’s choosing herself. She’s fighting. She’s burning everything down to rebuild it the way she wants. And part of you knows—she’s not just choosing herself. She’s choosing you."

Mon’s stomach twisted, but Char wasn’t done.

"So what? Now that she’s doing it, now that she’s finally becoming the person you always wanted her to be, you’re too scared to meet her there?"

Shit .

Maybe she was.

"It’s complicated."

"Everything is complicated," Char shot back. "That’s not an excuse."

Mon shook her head, finally looking up. "I’ve built something here, Char. I have work. I have a life."

"I know."

"It’s not like I can just—" She stopped herself.

Char tilted her head. "Just what? Just leave? Just run back?"

Mon exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I don’t know."

"Mon, let’s not pretend you were ever planning on staying in London forever."

Mon’s stomach flipped. "That’s not—"

"You’ve said it yourself. You always planned on going back to Bangkok… eventually."

Mon pressed her lips together, fingers tightening around her cup.

"Eventually." She let the word settle between them, but it didn’t feel steady in her mouth anymore.

"And now?" Char asked.

Mon shook her head.

"I just—" she exhaled, frustrated, "there’s so much. It’s all tangled up. I don’t even know where to start unraveling it."

"So start here," Char said, tapping the table for emphasis. "Start with what you want."

Mon swallowed.

She knew what she wanted. She just didn’t know if she could have it.

"I just don’t want to get hurt again," Mon admitted, voice quieter.

"No one does," Char said simply. "But that doesn’t stop you from wanting her."

Mon closed her eyes.

"And I don’t know if she’s ready—if she can actually do this."

"Then ask her."

Mon blinked.

Char shrugged. "If you don’t know where she stands, ask. If you don’t know what you’re doing, ask yourself why. If you don’t know if you’re ready, figure out what’s holding you back."

Then, softer, but just as firm—

"But stop sitting in this place of waiting. Because she’s not waiting anymore, Mon. She’s choosing something different. She’s choosing you."

Mon exhaled, but it didn’t feel like relief.

It felt like weight.

Like the past five months collapsing onto her all at once.

Char was right.

And Mon knew it.

She just wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Because acknowledging it—really acknowledging it—meant she had to face everything.

What she wanted.

What Khun Sam wanted.

What this was.

And Mon wasn’t sure she was ready to survive that answer.

So she did the only thing she could.

She reached for her tea, took a slow sip, and muttered—

"I hate you."

Char grinned, utterly unbothered. "No, you don’t."

Mon sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “Unfortunately.”

Mon stared at the man across the café, lips twitching.

White shirt. Navy blazer. That same effortless authority—like he was born knowing how to issue ultimatums.

Too familiar.

Her fingers hovered for only a second before she sent the text.

Mon: I think I saw someone wearing your exact work outfit today. Crisp white shirt, navy blazer, an air of authority that says "I will fire you if you disappoint me."

Sam: So, a person of great taste, clearly.

Mon: Or a corporate drone like you.

Sam: Rude. Some of us have businesses to run.

Mon: Yes, I heard you’re very important.

A longer pause. Then—

Sam: Does this mean you were thinking about me while staring at some stranger in a blazer?

Mon rolled her eyes.

Mon: Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t nearly as tragic as your version.

Mon smirked, satisfied.

Victory.

Or so she thought.

Until another message appeared.

Sam: So you admit you remember my version.

Her stomach twisted.

Because, yes.

She did.

The sharp click of heels on marble.

The faintest smirk curled at the edges of Khun Sam’s mouth.

The way she had leaned in once—too close, too confident—voice low and teasing, ‘Tragic? You love my version.’

Mon swallowed hard.

She remembered everything.

Mon scrolled through her phone, barely registering the kitchen around her—the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic, the shuffle of movement just out of frame.

The world felt too far away.

Her focus kept slipping.

Circling back to something else

Someone else.

"You’ve been on that thing a lot lately."

Her dad’s voice was casual, but the weight of it landed immediately.

She blinked, snapping out of it, only to find her dad standing by the counter, watching her.

When she didn’t respond, he took a slow sip of his drink, raising an eyebrow.

Mon sighed, setting her phone down on the table, though her fingers lingered on the edge of it. "It’s nothing."

Her dad just looked at her.

Mon huffed, rubbing her temple.

"Dad."

"Kid." He took another sip of his drink, unbothered. "I’m just saying, that’s a lot of ‘nothing’ to be staring at."

Mon rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair.

"You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start guessing?"

"There’s nothing to tell."

"Mmm." He nodded, thoughtful. "Is that the ‘I have nothing to tell’ tone or the ‘I have everything to tell but don’t want to talk about it’ tone?"

Mon groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

"I hate this conversation."

"Then stop making it so easy for me."

Mon shook her head, staring at the table like it could somehow get her out of this. "Is it work?"

“No." 

"You in trouble?" 

"No." 

"You finally getting into underground street racing?" 

Mon snorted despite herself. "What? No." 

"Damn. There goes my retirement plan." She rolled her eyes, but she could feel the tension easing—just a little.

Her dad leaned against the counter, watching her for another long moment.

"So, is it Khun Sam?"

Mon’s fingers tightened around her phone.

She should say no.

Should roll her eyes, deflect, pretend it’s nothing.

But the answer sat heavy on her tongue.

Her dad exhaled, slow and knowing, setting his drink down like he had already made peace with the answer. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

Mon swallowed, fingers tapping absently against her mug.

"You wanna tell me why?"

She sighed. "It’s so complicated, and I don’t know what to do."

Her dad didn’t say anything. Just let her talk.

She swallowed. "I don’t know what she wants to do."

A long pause.

"And here I am, talking to my dad about my ex-girlfriend."

Her dad hummed, nodding slowly. "Well, I suppose stranger things have happened."

Mon let out a weak laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah. Like this conversation."

Her dad smirked, but his gaze stayed steady. "So… what are you gonna do?"

Mon stared down at her mug, running her fingers along the rim. "I don’t know."

"Do you want to know?"

Mon frowned, glancing up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you want an answer? Do you want to figure this out? Or are you just hoping it’ll all make sense on its own?"

Mon swallowed, fingers curling tighter around her cup.

"I’m scared of the answer."

Her dad sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "That’s human, kid."

Mon groaned. "Fantastic. Thanks for the wisdom."

"You’re welcome." He smirked, but then his voice softened. "Look, I know it’s messy. I know it’s complicated. But if you’re going to see where this goes, don’t make it about what it was. Let it be about what it is now. Otherwise, you’ll just be chasing something that doesn’t exist anymore."

Mon exhaled slowly, staring at the swirls of coffee in her mug, watching as they settled.

"And what if I don’t know what it is now?"

Her dad tilted his head, considering her for a beat. "Then maybe that’s your answer. Maybe you don’t need to know yet. Maybe you just need to let yourself sit in it first."

Mon swallowed, the weight of it pressing against her ribs.

Her dad didn’t push. He just let it linger, let her sit with it.

"Mon."

She looked up.

"I don’t have to ask if you still love her," he said, voice steady, careful. "I already know the answer."

Mon swallowed, staring down at her hands.

"Dad—"

"You don’t have to say it," he continued. "I was there, remember? I came home that night, and you—" He exhaled, shaking his head like the memory still sat heavy in his chest. "You couldn’t even speak. You just—"

Her dad sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"You just broke." His voice was quiet, careful, but firm. "And I sat there and held you, and you didn’t even try to tell me you were okay, because you weren’t."

Mon clenched her jaw, fingers gripping her mug a little too tightly.

"I didn’t know what to do." His voice was quieter now, rougher. "I didn’t know what had happened. All I knew was that my little girl was breaking, and all I could do was hold you and hope it was enough."

Mon squeezed her eyes shut.

She hadn’t thought about it from his side. How he had come home to find her wrecked. How he had held her as she fell apart, not knowing why, not knowing what had happened—just knowing that she needed him.

How helpless he must have felt, not being able to fix it.

"Dad—"

"I was scared too, Mon." He exhaled, rubbing his face like he was trying to shake off the memory. "I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to help you. But I knew—"

He hesitated, then looked at her, voice firm. "I knew it had to be her."

Mon’s breath caught.

“And now?" he continued, softer now. "Now, I see you checking your phone every two seconds. I hear you on the phone with her late at night. I see the way you look when her name pops up on your screen."

"I just—" She hesitated. "I don’t know if I can do this again."

“Just let yourself feel it first. Before you decide what happens next. Before you try to control every possible outcome. Just let yourself be here. With her. With whatever this is."

Her dad let the weight of it settle between them for a moment, watching her carefully. Then—just when Mon thought he might push further—he smirked.

"So… does this mean I can start telling people my daughter is—potentially—dating someone from the Thai royal family?"

Mon choked.

Actually choked.

"Oh my god."

Her dad grinned. "What? It’s a great conversation starter."

Mon pinched the bridge of her nose. "Dad, she’s a Mhom Luang—that’s barely royal."

"Mmm. Still sounds impressive." He took a slow sip of his drink. "I feel like I should start practicing my formal greetings. Maybe learn how to bow properly. Should I be worried about curtsying?"

Mon groaned. "I swear to God."

"You have to admit, it has a certain ring to it. ‘Oh, my daughter? Yeah, she’s dating Thai nobility. No big deal.’" He nodded to himself, grinning. "Yeah, I like it."

"I am absolutely not having this discussion."

Her dad just grinned, completely undeterred.

"Too late, kid. I’m already telling everyone."

Mon groaned, shoving her chair back. "I’m leaving."

Her dad just laughed.

Because they both knew she wasn’t denying it.

Mon hadn’t been expecting anything.

Not anymore.

It had been weeks since she sent in her submission. Weeks of waiting, hoping, overanalyzing—until eventually, she had forced herself to let it go. Convinced herself it wasn’t happening.

Char had told her once that these things take time, had insisted she would get it, that she was too damn talented not to.

Mon had wanted to believe that. But hope was exhausting.

​​And disappointment? That was easier when you braced for it. When you saw it coming.

So she had stopped checking. Stopped refreshing her inbox like it would change something.

And that was why, when the email appeared at the top of her screen at 7:04 PM, she almost didn’t register it.

She had already started scrolling past when something in her brain caught up.

“Official Selection: Your Photography Featured in Hartwell Gallery’s June Exhibit"

Mon froze.

Her pulse jumped as she clicked into the email, scanning the details as fast as her brain could process them.

We are pleased to inform you that your work has been selected for our upcoming exhibition.

The Exhibit: Beyond the Frame: Emotion in Contemporary Photography

The Theme: Capturing the intangible—moments of intimacy, connection, and raw human emotion through visual storytelling.

The Date: June 12, 2024

The Time: 6:30 PM – 10:00 PM

The Venue: The Hartwell Gallery, London

Her stomach flipped.

The Hartwell Gallery.

A real gallery. A real exhibit.

Her name. Her work. Framed. Hung on pristine walls.

People stopping. Looking. Seeing .

Her pulse kicked up, sharp and fast.

This wasn’t just a small feature on a website.

This was real.

Her breath caught as she read further.

"Selected artists will have the opportunity to present their work in an evening dedicated to visual storytelling and artistic dialogue. We are thrilled to invite you to join us for this event and celebrate your contribution to this year’s showcase."

Mon stared at the words.

Then reread them.

Then reread them again.

Her heart was racing, slamming against her ribs.

She got it.

She actually, fucking got it.

A rush of relief slammed into her—so sudden, so overwhelming that she had to grip the edge of the desk. Like if she didn’t hold onto something, she might float away.

Excitement. Disbelief.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to process it, trying to sit with the moment.

But she didn’t sit with it.

Didn’t let herself overanalyze.

Didn’t let the fear creep in.

Her fingers were already moving before she even realized it.

Before she could stop herself.

Before she could ask if she should .

She just called.

Her phone barely had time to register the outgoing dial before she realized what she was doing.

But she didn’t stop herself. Didn’t hang up. Because for the first time in a long time—something felt right.

Something good had happened, something real, and before she could talk herself out of it, she had reached for Khun Sam.

The call was already ringing when the thought hit her like a train.

Shit.

It was 2 AM in Bangkok.

A terrible time to be doing this.

Maybe she should hang up.

Maybe she should at least pretend she hadn’t just called Khun Sam in the middle of the night, half-hysterical, completely unhinged.

Her thumb hovered over the end button.

But she didn’t press it.

Didn’t second-guess it the way she had second-guessed everything else.

The call rang once.

Twice.

Her heart pounded.

Then—

A shift.

The tiniest rustle of blankets. A quiet inhale. A low, groggy voice, slow and heavy, thick with sleep.

“Mmm… Mon?”

Mon stopped breathing.

Oh.

That voice.

It hit her before she could name it.

Like the edge of a dream slipping between her fingers—too thick, too heavy, too real to shake off.

Like a slow, rolling wave, curling at her edges, pulling her under.

She felt it before she understood it—before she could fight it.

Before she could rationalize the way her stomach flipped, the way something deep inside her curled tight.

Because she knew that voice.

Not just now—slow, heavy, tangled in sleep.

But then.

The way it had murmured, soft and amused—half-laughing, half-asleep— 'Five more minutes,' before pressing into the curve of her shoulder, warm, steady, hers.

The way it had groaned—deep, wrecked, needy—against her lips when Mon had kissed her first thing in the morning, stealing whatever was left of her sleep.

The way it used to sound against her skin. Thick with heat, with want.

The way it had whispered her name—low, desperate, ruined—the nights Mon had taken her apart, piece by piece.

The way Khun Sam’s hands had trembled—gripping, pulling, clinging—like Mon was the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely.

The way her breath had hitched—a plea, a surrender, a confession, all at once.

The way she used to murmur her name, wrecked and breathless, fingers pressing deeper, lips against her ear.

This wasn’t just memory.

It was muscle-deep. Bone-deep.

Not just something she remembered—something she still carried.

Something stitched into her skin, woven into her breath, carved into every part of her that had ever been touched by Khun Sam.

Something she could never undo.

Something she wasn’t sure she even wanted to

 Khun Sam sighed into the receiver, voice slow and heavy with sleep—

"Mmm… what’s going on?"

Mon’s stomach dipped.

Because fuck.

She had missed this.

Missed the warmth of it, the way Khun Sam sounded when she was still half-dreaming, when her defenses were lowered and everything about her felt closer. The way it wrapped around her, familiar and effortless, like something she had no business still craving.

Mon swallowed, forced herself to steady.

"Uh—sorry, I didn’t think. I—"

"Don’t be sorry." Khun Sam’s voice was quiet, still thick with sleep, but sure. Warm. "I don’t mind losing sleep for you."

Her heart stuttered—a beat too slow, a beat too fast.

Because Khun Sam said it like it was easy.

Like it was natural.

Like it was still true.

Heat curled low in Mon’s stomach, spreading slow, thick—settling deep.

She should say something.

She should move past it.

But for just a second—she didn’t want to.

She exhaled slowly, gripping her phone a little tighter.

“Do you—" Mon hesitated, then pushed forward. "Do you remember that submission I told you about? The art gallery?"

 Khun Sam hummed, voice still laced with sleep. "Of course I remember."

The words hung in the air for a moment, suspended.

And then, in a tone so tender it felt like a touch, Khun Sam added, “I remember everything about you.” 

The weight of it settled deep in Mon’s chest, heavy and unrelenting.

It seeped into her skin, curling into every corner she had tried to ignore, every space she’d thought was safe.

She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat refused to budge.

Mon’s grip on her phone tightened, her knuckles whitening.

She should say something.

She should move past it.

She should—

“I got the spot.”

The words felt electric, crackling in the air the moment they left her lips. They took shape, becoming something real, something tangible.

She had been waiting for this moment.

And now—it was here.

It was real.

A beat of silence stretched between them, fragile and charged.

“Mon.”

Just her name. Soft. Full.

Like it was carrying something heavier than words.

Mon’s breath caught.

She shut her eyes, letting herself feel it—the weight, the warmth, the ache of it.

“It’s mine, Khun Sam."

A sharp inhale on the other end. Khun Sam’s voice softened, barely above a whisper. “You did?”

Mon nodded before realizing Khun Sam couldn’t see her. "Yeah." 

Khun Sam exhaled, slow, warm. "That’s amazing."

And Mon let it settle deep—the weight of being seen.

A slow inhale. The sound of soft rustling—like Khun Sam shifting under the weight of sleep. “Tell me everything.”

Mon smiled.

Because Khun Sam said it as though it mattered.

As though it was important.

As though she was important.

She curled her fingers around the edge of the desk, grounding herself. “It’s in June. The exhibit is called Beyond the Frame, and it’s all about capturing emotion, human connection—everything that lingers beneath the surface.”

Khun Sam hummed, as if committing every word to memory. “Sounds perfect for you.”

Mon let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” Khun Sam’s voice was quiet but certain, the kind of certainty that made Mon’s stomach flip all over again.

Mon swallowed, pressing forward before she lost her nerve. “It’s at the Hartwell Gallery. It’s an actual exhibit, Khun Sam. My work is going to be displayed. People are going to see it.”

“They’re lucky to.” She said it as though it was simple. As though it was obvious. As though there had never been a doubt in her mind.

As though she had always believed in Mon—always seen her as someone who deserved to be recognized, to be known, to be celebrated.

And fuck .

Mon felt like she needed to stand, to move, to do something—but she stayed rooted to her chair, her legs unsteady even as she sat.

Instead, she laughed, a little breathless. “God, I wasn’t even expecting the email. I had basically convinced myself I didn’t get it, and suddenly—”

“You got it.”

“Yeah.” Mon grinned, her fingers gripping the edge of her desk. “I got it.”

Khun Sam sighed again, her voice sleepy but warm. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Mon’s stomach dropped.

The words hit her like a wave—slow at first, then crashing, pulling her under.

Heat curled up her spine, something impossible settling under her skin.

It pressed into her ribs, heavy and unrelenting, filling every hollow place she had tried to seal shut.

A moment stretched, sharp and heavy, the air between them thick with unspoken weight.

It wasn’t baby.

It was all of them.

The way Khun Sam used them so effortlessly, as though they were second nature.

The way each one carried its own meaning, tied to a moment, a memory, a feeling.

Baby .

The casual ones—effortless, automatic, like breathing.

"Baby, where’s my charger?" —voice muffled, half-distracted, digging through the nightstand. The one that had become Mon's. 

"Did you eat yet, baby?" asked while Khun Sam scrolled through emails, pretending not to care even though she absolutely did.

The sleepy ones—murmured into warmth, into comfort, into home.

“Just stay, baby,” Khun Sam murmured, her voice thick with sleep, lips brushing Mon’s temple as her arms tightened, pulling her closer into the warmth of the sheets and the quiet promise of home.

"Come closer, baby," murmured into the quiet, fingertips tracing lazy circles against Mon’s back, grounding her.

The teasing ones—sharp-edged, knowing, designed to unravel her.

"You sigh like I’m exhausting, but you always let me pull you closer. " Smiled into her hair, voice full of knowing warmth. "Admit it, baby—you like being close to me.”

"You’re pouting, baby." Said with an easy grin, tilting Mon’s chin up with a finger. " Go on, deny it. I dare you."

The wrecked ones. Ones that were never said outside the dark.

Desperate. Ruined. Spoken like a prayer.

“Baby—" gasped, ragged, a plea, a confession—torn from her throat, unguarded.

Fingers trembling, clutching at Mon’s back, gripping like she might disappear.

Holding on for dear life.

"Oh, fuck, baby—" Khun Sam’s voice breaking apart as Mon pulled her under, as she let go completely.

"More, baby—"

A whisper, a plea, a breaking point.

"Please. More."

Said like she would die without it.

Honey .

Playful. Intentional. Said with weight, meant to linger.

"Honey, if you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to start thinking you have something to confess," Sam teased, nudging Mon’s foot under the table, watching as she quickly looked away.

"​​Honey, you can keep pretending you don’t want to be cuddled, but we both know how this ends," Sam teased, already pulling Mon closer, grinning when she didn’t resist.

My Love.

A confession. A promise. Spoken like something permanent.

"You make everything quieter, my love," Sam admitted, tracing absent patterns against Mon’s skin. "Like the whole world softens when you’re near."

"Rest, my love," Sam whispered, brushing her fingers through Mon’s hair, voice warm, steady. "I’m right here."

Like Mon was something precious, something irreplaceable, something holy.

My Everything.

Rare. Precious. A truth spoken only once—but never undone.

"You don’t even realize it, do you?" Sam whispered, voice warm, fingers brushing against Mon’s cheek. "You’re my everything."

Soft. Bare. Said like a vow.

The weight of all of it crashed over her, sudden and undeniable. A confession not meant to be taken back.

She should steer them away, pull them back onto safer ground. Shouldn’t let Sam’s voice—warm, quiet, sleep-soft—wrap around her like it still belonged there.

" Shit." A quiet exhale. "I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. It just slipped out."

Mon blinked.

Khun Sam sounded… almost uncertain. Almost tentative.

Almost like she was worried, afraid Mon would pull away.

"It’s okay," Mon murmured, softer now, but sure. "I didn’t mind."

Mon said it without thinking, the words slipping out like second nature.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, wasn’t awkward—just there, waiting.

She heard Khun Sam breathe, a slow inhale like she was sitting with it, turning it over in her head.

Mon wasn’t sure what she expected in return.

"I wasn’t expecting that," Khun Sam admitted, voice softer now.

Mon swallowed, fingers tracing the edge of the desk.

"Neither was I."

Another pause, this one warmer. Lighter.

"But you meant it," Khun Sam murmured, quiet but certain.

"Yeah," she said, voice just as soft. "I did."

The words settled between them, warm and fragile, stretching out into the quiet.

Mon could hear her breathing, slow and measured, like she was feeling it too. And maybe that’s what made something in Mon’s chest tighten.

This was different. Khun Sam wasn’t hiding behind anything.

And neither was she.

Mon exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. "Khun Sam."

"Mmm?"

“What the fuck are we doing?"

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t accusing.

It was just… real.

And now, she had to hear the answer.

"I don’t know."

The words landed softly, but they carried weight, stretching between them, wrapping around everything they had been circling for weeks—maybe even longer.

"That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one I have."

Mon exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. God.

"Khun Sam." She wasn’t mad. Not really. Just—frustrated. Curious. Restless.

Because what was this?

"We didn’t talk for five months." Her voice wavered, caught between disbelief and something raw. "Five months, Khun Sam. We didn’t text. Didn’t call. Didn’t exist to each other."

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head.

"And now? Now, we’re—" she gestured, even though Sam couldn’t see her, "doing whatever the fuck this is."

She let the words settle between them.

"We were never like this before. Not even when we were—" Mon hesitated, searching for the right words, "when we had each other."

Because that’s what it was.

They had belonged to each other.

Even when they couldn’t say it. Even when the world told them they shouldn’t.

"Not even then."

Her grip tightened around her phone.

"And now we’re talking every day. Now we’re open. Now we’re vulnerable in ways we never have been. Now we’re saying things we never used to say."

"Mon—" Sam exhaled, voice careful, hesitant. "That’s not—"

"No," Mon cut in, sharp, insistent. "Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like we’re not both aware of what’s happening."

"I’m not pretending." Khun Sam’s voice was steady. Quiet.

"Then what, Khun Sam?" she pushed, frustration curling at the edges of her voice. "What is this? Because it’s not nothing. And you know it."

Khun Sam didn’t answer right away.

And that—that—made something twist deep in Mon’s chest.

Because Khun Sam wasn’t running.

She wasn’t deflecting.

She was thinking.

Mon exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against her forehead.

"Five months," she said again, voice raw, as if saying it out loud would make any of this easier to grasp. "We went five months without speaking. And then you called me. And now—now we’re here. And we’re acting like—"

She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.

Khun Sam was silent. Waiting.

Mon let out a sharp breath, fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater. "Like a couple."

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t speculation. It was the truth sitting between them, waiting to be acknowledged.

Mon clenched her jaw, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. " Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?"

Not in the way they used to be—stolen moments, quiet admissions, the weight of things unsaid pressing into every second.

But now.

In the way Khun Sam reached for her first.

In the way Mon always answered.

In the way they talked every day, the way their teasing slipped into something deeper, something that lingered.

In the way Khun Sam said her name like it still belonged to her.

The way Mon let her.

Her breath wavered, fingers curling tighter around her phone. "The texts, the calls, the way we still—" she sucked in a breath, "we still reach for each other, still talk like we never stopped, still push like we’re waiting for the other to just—just say it."

She could hear Sam breathing on the other end of the line, steady but uneven, like she was feeling this too.

"Mon."

Just her name. Nothing else.

Not denial. Not correction.

Not a single argument against what she had just said.

Mon exhaled, voice quieter but firm. "Tell me I’m wrong."

Mon swallowed, waiting.

"You’re not."

The words hit her like a shift in the air. Something grounding. Something real.

"I don’t know what this is either," Khun Sam admitted, voice careful, measured. "But I know I don’t want it to stop."

Mon’s breath caught. Something pulled tight inside her chest, wound itself around her ribs.

"You don’t want it to stop." She repeated the words back to Khun Sam, like she needed to hear them again, like she needed to make sure she wasn’t imagining them.

"No." Soft. Steady. Certain.

Mon squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against her temple. "Khun Sam—"

"Do you?" Khun Sam’s voice cut through the silence, gentle but firm. "Do you want this to stop?"

Mon exhaled sharply, like the question had knocked the breath out of her.

No.

She didn’t want it to stop.

Not the teasing, not the late-night phone calls, not the way Sam spoke to her now—open, unguarded, real. Not the way Sam reached for her first. Not the way Mon always answered.

Not the way it felt so easy to fall back into this, even after everything.

"I don’t know what we’re doing," Mon admitted, her voice quieter now. "I don’t know where this leads. And maybe I should be scared of that."

"Are you?" Khun Sam’s voice was softer, something vulnerable threading through it.

"No."

Silence stretched, but this time, it was warm.

"Okay," Sam murmured.

The warmth in Khun Sam’s voice settled deep inside Mon’s chest, curling into the spaces she hadn’t realized were still aching.

She had spent months thinking about all the things she and Khun Sam had never said to each other. Now, here they were, saying them. Slowly. Carefully. Like they were still afraid of breaking something too fragile to hold.

But Mon wasn’t afraid.

Not of this.

Not of Khun Sam.

She exhaled, pressing her fingers against her forehead. "That night—" she hesitated, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. "The night you called me."

Khun Sam didn’t say anything, but Mon could feel her listening.

"I was so scared, Khun Sam." The words left her in a whisper, hoarse, frayed at the edges.

Khun Sam inhaled sharply. "Mon—"

"No." She shook her head, gripping her phone tighter. "Just let me say it."

Because she hadn’t said it before.

Not like this.

Not without pushing it down, without forcing herself to be steady, without trying to make it easier to bear.

"Hearing you like that— panicked, breaking —I didn’t know what to do." Her voice wavered. "I wasn’t there. I couldn’t reach you. And I—"

She stopped, trying to steady herself, but the words kept pressing at the edges of her ribs, clawing their way out.

"If something had happened to you, Khun Sam—" Her breath hitched. "I would’ve found out about it after it had already happened."

The confession hit the air like a stone sinking into deep water.

Khun Sam let out a slow breath, the weight of it pressing into the silence.

Like Khun Sam didn’t know how to carry this either.

Like she was feeling this just as much.

Mon’s fingers curled further into the fabric of her sweater. "I didn’t tell you, but—" She swallowed, trying to push through it. "After we hung up, I—"

The words got stuck.

But she needed to say them.

"I had a panic attack."

She wasn’t sure if she had ever admitted that out loud before. Maybe she had been too ashamed. Maybe she had wanted to pretend she was stronger than that.

But it was true.

For the first time since she had left, since she had convinced herself that distance was what she needed, she had realized—

Khun Sam could have died .

And Mon wouldn’t have been there.

Wouldn’t have known.

Khun Sam sucked in a sharp breath, and suddenly, Mon wasn’t sure she wanted to hear whatever she was about to say.

So she kept going.

"I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I just kept thinking—what if you hadn’t called? What if I had lost you? What if I had to read about it secondhand, through someone else, because I wasn’t—" She stopped, forcing in a sharp breath. "Because I wasn’t there."

Mon pressed her knuckles against her forehead, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.

"I thought leaving was supposed to help," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I thought distance would make it easier. But that night—Khun Sam, that night, I—"

Her voice cracked.

"I don’t think I’ve ever felt more helpless in my life."

She had held it together for her—had stayed steady on the phone, had been what Khun Sam had needed.

Afterward, Mon had crumbled.

Her own sobs, raw and gasping, had ripped through the quiet of her bedroom. Her hands had trembled for what felt like hours. Her body had felt the absence of Khun Sam’s breath on the other end of the line, felt the silence like a weight pressing against her chest.

She had been wrecked.

She had broken.

Because Khun Sam had needed her, and she hadn’t been there.

Khun Sam let out a slow, careful breath. "Mon."

Mon inhaled sharply. "What?"

"I’m sorry."

The words settled between them, quiet but full. Mon shut her eyes, letting them sink in.

"I know."

She knew Khun Sam meant it.

Knew Khun Sam was trying, had been just as scared that night.

"But it still wrecked me, Khun Sam." Mon let out a slow breath. She had finally said it. Finally let it out.

Khun Sam’s voice was quiet. Careful. “I know.”

Not brushing past it, not trying to make it easier—just accepting it.

"That night… I’ve never felt like that before," Khun Sam admitted, and Mon could hear it—the weight of it, the way the words felt like they had been sitting heavy in her chest, waiting to be let out. "I lost control, Mon. I don’t—" She stopped, let out a slow breath. "I don’t lose control."

Mon’s stomach twisted.

Khun Sam didn’t let herself lose control. Ever. Not at work, not in public, not even when it came to her own life. She had spent years holding herself together, making decisions that weren’t her own, following a script that was written for her before she even had the chance to choose differently.

And that night?

She had broken.

Not just in the panic attack.

But in calling Mon. Reaching for her without thinking.

"It was instinct, Mon." Khun Sam’s voice was quieter now, like she was trying to make sense of it herself. 

"I didn’t even know who I was calling." Khun Sam exhaled, something raw bleeding into her voice. "Not until you picked up."

Mon stilled.

"I was just—God, Mon, I was gone. My brain wasn’t working, my body wasn’t working, I—" Khun Sam broke off, inhaling sharply. "And then I heard your voice."

Mon’s chest tightened.

"And it hit me," Khun Sam admitted, voice quieter now, almost disbelieving. "That it was you. That I had called you."

Mon swallowed.

"And I was scared," Khun Sam continued. "Not just because of—of everything, or the fact that I was falling apart. But because I didn’t even hesitate. I didn’t think, I didn’t second-guess it—I just needed you."

Her breath hitched, like she was still making sense of it. "And I think… I think that scared me most of all."

Mon’s breath caught, the weight of Khun Sam’s words pressing into her chest, curling around her ribs like something she couldn’t quite shake loose.

Because Khun Sam didn’t say things like this.

Not when they were together, not when they were falling apart, not even when Mon was standing in front of her, begging for something, anything that felt like a choice.

Now, she was saying it freely.

Now, she was giving it.

Now, she was telling Mon that even when she was breaking, even when she wasn’t thinking—Mon was the person she had reached for.

Khun Sam had been vulnerable. Had cracked herself open in ways she never had before. 

And Mon—Mon wasn’t used to this version of her.

Not because she didn’t believe Khun Sam could be this way, but because it had never been safe for them before.

But things were different now.

And for the first time, Mon let herself think about it.

Let herself want.

Mon wanted to see her. Not through a phone. Not through messages. In person.

She wanted to see Khun Sam as she was now.

To hear her voice without the filter of distance.

To look her in the eyes and see if this— whatever this was —felt the same when they were standing in front of each other.

And before she could second-guess it, before she could talk herself down, before she could remind herself that they still had so much to figure out—

It slipped out. Like it was natural. Like it was inevitable.

"So come to London." She squeezed her eyes shut, panicking.

Silence.

Mon’s stomach dropped.

Her brain caught up.

Shit.

“Go to the gallery with me," she added quickly, like it would somehow make it better, like it would make her sound less insane.

She had invited Khun Sam to London.

She had already Khun said it. There was no taking it back now.

Khun Sam let out a slow breath. "You really want me to come to London?"

Mon swallowed. Yes. But she didn’t say that.

"Bangkok felt suffocating for me," she murmured instead. "Like I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see myself clearly until I stepped away. And now…" She trailed off, biting her lip.

Because now, everything felt different. Because now, she had built something here. Because now, distance had helped her figure out who she was without all of it hanging over her head.

"Maybe it could help you too."

Another stretch of silence.

And then Khun Sam sighed, long and slow. "Mon… there’s still so much left. My grandmother. Kirk. The company. I can’t just—"

"You could." Mon cut in, firmer now. "For a little while. Just for a few days."

Khun Sam hesitated. "I don’t know if I can just leave all of that behind."

"You wouldn’t be leaving it behind," Mon pushed. "You’d just be stepping away long enough to see things clearly. To breathe."

Khun Sam exhaled, but something about it felt heavier.

"I just set fire to everything," Khun Sam murmured, almost to herself. "And now you want me to go halfway across the world?"

"Just for a little while."

"And then what?" Sam’s voice was quieter now. "You know what this could turn into." 

That was the real question. 

Mon closed her eyes.

Because yes.

She knew exactly what could happen.

She knew how easy it would be—how terrifyingly simple it would be—to slip back into old habits.

To fall into the way they had always been.

To let herself have Sam again.

Because that’s what she wanted.

To touch her. 

To pull her in, feel her again— 

It wouldn’t just be soft. 

It wouldn’t just be love. 

It would be anger. 

Because Mon was angry. 

For all the ways Khun Sam hadn’t fought. 

For breaking them when she should have held on. 

For making her learn how to live without her. 

And that—that was what burned most. 

But despite everything—despite all of it— 

She still wanted her

Still ached for her. 

Still fucking loved her. 

And when Khun Sam finally touched her again— 

When she finally gave in— 

Mon wouldn’t hold back. 

She would take. 

Would press her down, kiss her deep, pull every sound from her, make up for lost time. 

"I should make you beg for it."

Would mark her the way she had marked Mon’s heart . 

Would ruin her.

"You’re mine." 

And Khun Sam would let her. 

Would whisper it back, breathless— 

" Yours." 

"Only ever yours." 

And Mon would break. 

Because they were wrecked, desperate to feel something real again —and they would .

The anger would burn down, leaving only love.

They would hold each other through the wreckage, through the healing.

Because beyond the anger, there was the dream .

The possibility of just being.

Walking through London, fingers tangled, arms draped over shoulders, an ocean away from everything that had kept them apart.

Leaning into Khun Sam’s side when the night cooled, murmuring quiet things, just theirs.

Kissing on a sidewalk because they could.

Lazy mornings, tangled in bed, sunlight streaming in, Sam’s sleepy murmurs against Mon’s skin.

Sitting in a café, knees touching, fingers brushing—like it had never been taken from them.

A love without fear.

A love without weight.

A love that was free.

"Come to London, Khun Sam." The words slipped out—soft, uncertain, but there. 

"Be here with me." And then, quieter, without thinking—"Even if it’s just for a little while."

She waited. Heart pounding. Breath shaky.

"Okay."

"Okay?" she repeated, as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

"Okay," Khun Sam said, like it was simple. Like it was obvious. Like Mon hadn’t just changed everything.

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying.

Because this was happening.

Khun Sam was coming to London, nothing between them except the truth.

No walls. No weight pressing down on them.

But with the distance gone, what the fuck happened next?

Chapter Text

Sam stared at the confirmation screen, her heart pounding as the email appeared: Your flight to London is confirmed.

It was real. It was happening.

She had just booked a three-week trip—away from everything she had ever known, from the company she had built, from the mess she still hadn’t cleaned up. Three weeks. Longer than she had ever been gone.

Her stomach twisted, a mix of exhilaration and sheer panic washing over her.

She pushed the laptop away and exhaled, staring up at the ceiling. What the hell was she doing?

Her phone vibrated beside her. Sam grabbed it instinctively, half-hoping it was Mon.

It wasn’t.

An email from the airline—flight details, baggage policies, reminders to check in early. As if she didn’t already know. As if she hadn’t spent the last hour memorizing every detail, double-checking every option, making sure she would be ready for anything.

Prepared.

The word felt foreign, because no part of this felt prepared.

Her mind flickered back to their conversation.

You wouldn’t be leaving it behind. You’d just be stepping away long enough to see things clearly. To breathe.

Sam ran a hand down her face. She could hear Mon’s voice, the way she had said it—genuine, certain. Like she knew what Sam needed better than Sam did.

Maybe she was right.

But then there was the other part. The part neither of them had said out loud.

And then what? You know what this could turn into.

Sam swallowed hard, closing her eyes as a tightness settled in her chest.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? That was what had been clawing at her ever since she said yes.

Because this wasn’t just a trip. It wasn’t just about stepping away, seeing an art exhibit, or breathing easier for a few weeks.

This was Mon.

This was seeing her again after six months of distance, of absence, of pretending that she wasn’t still in love with her.

This was walking into something she couldn’t define, something she wasn’t sure she was ready for, but something she wanted—desperately.

Sam rubbed her hands over her face and forced herself to move. She needed to do something, to shake off the weight of it all. Her gaze flickered to the bathroom.

A bath. That would help.

She stood, padded over to the tub and turned the water on hot. She moved through the motions—lighting candles, pouring wine, grabbing a plush towel.

It had been a long time since she had done this, since she had allowed herself the luxury of sinking into a bath after work. She used to do it every day—until Mon left. Then showers had felt easier. Quicker. Less time to think.

But now, she let the water fill, let the warmth settle into her skin as she lowered herself into the tub.

The tension in her body uncoiled, bit by bit.

And, as always, the memories surfaced.

Their first day as a couple. The way Mon had looked at her—hesitant but sure—when Sam had suggested they take a bath together. The tenderness of it—just them, wrapped in warmth, learning each other in ways they hadn’t before. And then, later—after that—how it had turned into something else entirely.

Love, slow and charged, hands exploring, lips brushing damp skin. Some nights, they had just been there, soaking, talking, existing in the quiet comfort of each other. Other nights, Sam had traced her fingers over Mon’s body with purpose, had pressed her against the cool porcelain, had whispered her love into every inch of her skin.

Sam swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the tub.

She had stopped taking baths after Mon left.

Because every time she did, she thought about this. About her .

Now, with London so close, she thought about all the things they could do. Walking through the city, getting breakfast, lunch, dinner—arguing about where to eat because Mon always had an opinion, laughing over something ridiculous, falling back into old patterns that were too easy, too dangerous.

Just being around each other.

But then, there was the other side of it.

The what ifs .

What if this blew up in their faces? What if stepping into this only made things worse? What if they crossed a line they couldn’t come back from?

What if Mon looked at her and saw a mistake?

What if they realized they were better off apart?

What if Mon had moved on in ways Sam hadn’t even considered?

What if London—this city that had given Mon a fresh start—only made it clearer that Sam didn’t fit into her life anymore?

And worse—what if Mon still wanted her, but they couldn’t get it right?

What if they fell back into the same cycles, the same push and pull, the same heartbreak waiting at the end of it all?

What if Sam ruined everything, all over again?

Sam exhaled, taking a slow sip of wine.

You’re already going.

There was no backing out now. No undoing the moment Mon had said, Come to London.

Sam let her head rest against the edge of the tub, staring at the flickering candlelight.

She was doing this.

In four weeks, she would find out what it meant—whether this was a beginning, an ending, or something far more tangled.

But London wasn’t an escape.

It wasn’t an end.

It wasn’t even a clean break.

Everything she was leaving behind would still be there when she returned.

Kirk. The company. Grandmother.

And Mon.

Her stomach twisted at the thought of Kirk. He still walked around the office like he belonged, like he was the steady force holding everything together.

She wondered if he even suspected what was coming. If he had noticed the slow unraveling of his influence, or if he was too wrapped up in his own self-importance to see the inevitable.

She had almost told him outright, just to watch the shift in his expression, to see the exact moment he realized he was losing.

But she held back.

He would find out soon enough.

And the company—

God, the company.

Three weeks was a long time. The longest she had ever been away. She told herself they were capable, that she had hired the right people, but doubt crept in anyway.

She closed her eyes.

Four weeks.

And then, she would see Mon again.

Sam walked into the office building at exactly 9 AM, phone in hand and a smile tugging at her lips. Mon had been texting her nonstop since she woke up, their playful banter carrying her through the morning commute.

Mon: So, what’s on the agenda today, CEO? World domination? Or just paperwork?

Sam: Paperwork, unfortunately. But I’ll pencil in world domination for tomorrow.

Mon: Priorities, Khun Sam. Fun stuff first.

Sam: Says the one who’s awake at 2 AM. What’s your excuse?

Mon: Work, obviously. I’m helping this small business with their social media. They’re a tiny bakery trying to compete with the big chains. It’s kind of adorable.

Sam grinned, imagining Mon passionately explaining social media strategies to a bewildered baker. It was so her.

Sam: Adorable? Or are you just hungry?

Mon: Both. Their croissants are life-changing. 

Sam: Now you’re just being cruel.

Her stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh, buttery croissants. Mon had a way of making everything sound like a necessity rather than a craving.

Mon: Exactly. And when you inevitably fall in love with them, I expect a full thank-you speech—public, dramatic, and preferably with tears.

Sam: I have a feeling you’d have it pre-written just in case.

Mon: Obviously. Someone has to make sure you give me the credit I deserve.

Sam climbed the stairs, phone buzzing again as she reached the office floor. She paused, leaning against the railing to read Mon’s latest message.

Sam: How’s the exhibit coming along? Have you picked your final five yet?

Mon: Ugh, don’t remind me. I need to submit them by the end of the week, and I’m still torn. It’s impossible.

Sam: Want me to decide for you? 

Mon: As tempting as that is, I think I have to suffer through this on my own.

Sam: You could at least give me a preview.

Mon: Nope. You’ll see them when everyone else does.

Sam sighed, tapping her fingers against her phone. Mon and her surprises.

Sam: You’re killing me.

Mon: Good. Keeps you on your toes.

Sam typed out a quick reply, still grinning—then looked up, and just like that, the warmth vanished.

Kirk.

Of course.

He was leaning against the wall outside her office, dressed in one of his signature turtlenecks—this one a particularly offensive shade of beige—and his lazy smile only added to her irritation.

Her fingers tightened around her phone as she typed out a quick message.

Sam: Kirk’s here. I’ll text you in a bit.

She hit send quickly, barely suppressing the irritation bubbling up at the sight of him. Just seeing his smug expression sent a flash of annoyance up her spine. It was the same look he always wore—self-satisfied, like he still had control. Like he still thought he was untouchable.

Mon’s reply was immediate.

Mon: Ugh. Punch him for me. Just once. I’ll bail you out.

Sam smirked, the image almost too tempting. Mon always knew exactly what to say to break the tension.

His arms were folded, his smile relaxed. Effortless. Too effortless.

“Good morning, Sam. Right on time, as always.”

Sam didn’t break stride. She breezed past him, phone still in hand, and pushed open her office door. “It’s 9 AM, Kirk. That’s not ‘on time.’ That’s late for most people.”

He followed her inside, uninvited, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the room like he owned it. Maybe he still thought he did.

“What do you want?” Sam asked, setting her phone face down on her desk. She didn’t sit. She didn’t offer him a seat either.

Kirk leaned against the edge of her desk, his posture relaxed, his smile never wavering. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello? Check in on my favorite fiancée?”

Sam’s jaw tightened. "No, you can't."

Kirk chuckled, unfazed. “Come on, Sam.”

Sam leveled him with a stare. “What do you want, Kirk? I’m busy.”

He sighed, feigning disappointment. “Fine, fine. I tried to sign off on the financials this morning, but apparently, I don’t have the authority anymore. Care to explain?”

Sam tilted her head, considering him. Then, smoothly: “You don’t have signing authority anymore.”

She watched it land.

A tiny pause. A flicker of realization. But Kirk? Kirk was good.

Kirk’s expression didn’t change.

But she saw the flicker.

The tiny shift in his eyes.

"So," he said, "is there a reason for that?

"I made an executive decision," Sam said evenly, her tone measured. "You know, like the ones you’ve been making for months."

He pushed off the desk, rolling his shoulders like this was all casual conversation. "Come on, Sam. I wasn’t doing this for fun."

He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head like this was all a minor misunderstanding. "I was keeping things steady while you—well, while you took a step back. Someone had to keep it all running smoothly."

He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets, his smile never fading. "I was doing what needed to be done. And I figured, once things settled, we'd pick up where we left off."

Her eyes narrowed.

Because that was Kirk. Always pretending he was on her side. Always making it seem like he had been rooting for her this whole time. Like this was all just a misunderstanding.

"I wish you would’ve told me first. We’ve always worked well together, Sam. No reason to make things messy."

"Messy?" she repeated, amused.

"Unnecessary friction," he clarified. "We both know I’ve been here since the beginning, helping build this company into what it is."

Sam hummed.

"Helping."

His eyes narrowed just slightly.

"Of course," he said, keeping his voice even. "And I think we can agree that working together is still in everyone’s best interest."

"We don’t agree on much, actually."

"Come on." He let out a small, indulgent chuckle, as if she was being dramatic. "Let’s not make this a power struggle. We’re partners, aren’t we?"

And there it was.

The we.

The us.

Like she was supposed to still be in this with him.

Like they were on the same side.

Her fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into her palm. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured. He was baiting her, waiting for a reaction. She wouldn’t give him one.

"Are we done?" Sam said coolly, as if this didn't piss her off. 

Kirk didn’t move. He tilted his head slightly, studying her, as if trying to gauge just how much of a fight she was willing to put up.

“You’re tense,” he observed, the words smooth, measured. “This doesn’t have to be like this, you know.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Hostile.” He shrugged, casual, like he wasn’t the one who had spent the last few months undermining her. “You don’t have to shut me out completely. We’ve worked well together before.”

She let out a quiet exhale, slow and measured. "You keep saying that, Kirk. But I don’t think you realize that what worked for you doesn’t work for me."

His smile didn’t falter. "We remember things differently because we had different roles. And, like it or not, those roles got us here."

Sam leaned back slightly, arms still folded. "Right. Because you were the one everyone liked." Her voice was flat, controlled. "And me? I was the ice-cold CEO who got things done. And somehow, that worked—until it didn’t."

Kirk let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "And it still could, you know. You act like everything about it was wrong, but it wasn’t."

His gaze flicked to her, easy and knowing. "You handled the logistics, the strategy—I made sure everyone stayed on board. That’s why we worked."

He gestured vaguely, like this was just a friendly discussion. "I know you want to prove something, to show you can do this on your own. I respect that. But that doesn’t mean everything has to change overnight. You don’t have to do this alone, Sam."

Sam didn’t blink. She let the silence stretch, let the weight of his words settle between them. Then, finally, she exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Kirk watched her for a beat, then exhaled, shaking his head like she was making things harder than they needed to be.

"I never left you hanging, Sam."

He he lets out a breath, still relaxed, still looking at her like she’s making a mistake she’ll regret.

Then he gives her a slow nod, and steps toward the door.

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Sam let out a slow breath, shaking off the last remnants of the conversation.

Then, her phone buzzed.

Mon: If you’re not texting me back, I’m assuming you killed him.

Sam: No homicide today. Just an excruciatingly long conversation.

Mon: Ugh, disappointing. I had a whole escape plan ready for you.

Sam: Appreciate the effort. Maybe next time.

Mon: You joke, but I’m keeping it on standby.

Sam smirked, tension slowly ebbing away as she typed.

Mon: Now go be the badass CEO I know you are. Don’t let his turtleneck-wearing self get in your head.

Sam: Deal. But only if you actually get some sleep. That's an order.

Mon: Yes, ma’am. But seriously, if he’s being a jerk, just once. Right in the jaw. I’ll start a GoFundMe for your bail.

Sam laughed again, shaking her head. Let him try. Let him think he still had a shot. He’d learn soon enough—she wasn’t his to control anymore.

Not now. Not ever.

Sam was scrolling through emails when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, a small, involuntary smile tugging at her lips, and answered without hesitation.

"Hey," she said, leaning back in her chair.

"Hey," Mon’s voice came through, warm and familiar. "So… when are you flying in?"

Sam smirked. "In four weeks. Three days before the exhibit."

"Good. Gives you time to settle in. Where are you staying?"

Sam hesitated for a second. "A hotel. One-bedroom suite—not quite a penthouse, but let’s just say, it’s in the same tax bracket."

Mon scoffed. "A hotel ? No penthouse? No private villa? No five-star residence where they greet you by name and bring you gold-plated breakfast in bed?"

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. "I like to keep things practical."

"Uh-huh. Your version of practical is still expensive, I bet."

"…I decline to comment."

Mon chuckled, and Sam could hear the teasing in her voice. "Do you want me to pick you up? Or are you going full luxury and hiring a driver?"

Sam paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek. There was a selfish part of her that wanted to say yes immediately—wanted Mon to be the first person she saw when she stepped into arrivals. But another part—the cautious part—wasn’t sure if that was too much, too soon.

Before she could second-guess herself, she said, "Yeah. If you want to."

"Of course I want to," Mon said instantly, like it wasn’t even a question.

Sam exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into her chair. "I land early afternoon, your time."

"Alright. I’ll be there. With a sign and everything."

Sam groaned. "Do not make a sign."

"Too late. It’s already in the works. Thinking something bold. Maybe glitter."

Sam closed her eyes and sighed dramatically. "You’re impossible."

Mon laughed. "I know."

The meeting with legal had been exhausting. Sam sat at the long mahogany table, fingers tapping against the smooth surface as the lawyers talked in circles. The conference room felt stuffy, the air thick with corporate jargon and cautious legal phrasing. Everything was in motion—Kirk's severance, the finalization of his departure—but it wasn’t moving fast enough for her. It was never fast enough.

She rolled her shoulders, forcing herself to keep her expression neutral, though her patience was already stretched thin. 

"How much longer?" she interrupted, her voice sharp enough to slice through the legalese.

One of the senior attorneys, a graying man with thin-framed glasses, glanced at her over his notes. "We’re on track to finalize everything within five days. The paperwork is airtight. He won’t have grounds to contest."

Sam exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to press her knuckles into the table. "Good. I want him out the moment the ink is dry."

"We understand," another lawyer chimed in, more cautiously. ""But you should prepare for resistance. He’s not going to leave quietly."

Sam’s jaw tightened. "He doesn’t have a choice. Make sure of it."

The senior attorney cleared his throat. "There is always the possibility he’ll try to delay. We’ve structured the severance agreement to minimize leverage on his end, but—"

"I don’t want possibilities," Sam cut in, her voice cold. "I want guarantees. The moment this is locked in, he’s done. Out of my company. Out of my life. Out. Period."

A beat of silence before one of the younger associates nodded hesitantly. "We’ve included clauses ensuring that once he signs, he forfeits all remaining influence. Contesting would be… unwise."

Sam leaned back, arms crossing over her chest. "Unwise isn’t enough. I want him gone so completely that when people mention his name here, it feels outdated."

Another lawyer, a woman who had been quietly flipping through documents, finally spoke. "The severance package is generous. It’ll be in his best interest to take it and walk away."

Sam scoffed. "Best interest? He’s not rational enough to see it that way. He thinks this company belongs to him. He still thinks I need him."

The senior attorney hesitated. "And do you think he knows he’s lost?"

Sam tilted her head slightly, considering it. "Not yet. But he will."

She let the silence hang for a moment, then straightened. "Does he have to sign anything?"

The woman who had spoken earlier glanced at the senior attorney before responding. "Technically, no. The severance and termination go into effect regardless. But if he refuses to sign, he loses any leverage he might try to hold onto. It would be in his best interest to cooperate."

Sam smirked. "I’d love to see him try."

A flicker of something between amusement and unease passed through the room before the senior attorney continued. "We’ve ensured Kirk has been removed from all company operations and legal documentation. Given the company’s structure, this was a multi-step process. With a two-shareholder executive structure, no single party could unilaterally remove the other without a unanimous vote or an agreed-upon dissolution of authority."

Sam narrowed her eyes slightly. "So how did we get around that?"

The woman who had been flipping through the documents took over. "Your ownership of over fifty percent gave you the upper hand, but it wasn’t enough to completely remove him on its own. The bylaws previously required joint approval for any major structural change, which would have kept Kirk tied to the company indefinitely. However, by leveraging the severance terms, we nullified his executive privileges, stripping him of his ability to vote or hold any decision-making power before this move was finalized."

"So before he even knew what was happening, he legally had no say?"

"Exactly," the senior attorney confirmed. "Once his executive rights were voided, your controlling interest allowed you to move forward with the restructuring without his input. That included his removal from all financial, operational, and governance roles."

Sam leaned back, considering. "And the bylaws? The governing structure? I don’t want any loopholes. No possibility for him to find a way back in."

The attorney nodded. "We reviewed everything. There is no scenario in which he can return in any capacity. The updated bylaws prevent any former executive or shareholder who has been severed from ever rejoining in any role—executive, board member, or consultant. Further, any attempt to claim previous ownership stakes has been nullified through the restructuring agreement."

Sam exhaled, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t lessen. "And if he tries to delay? What if he refuses to vacate his office?"

The woman exchanged a glance with the other attorneys before responding. "Legally, the moment the severance is finalized, his access will be revoked. His accounts, his credentials—everything will be disabled. If he refuses to leave the premises, security will escort him out."

Sam sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in. It was airtight. Legally sound. And yet, Kirk always found ways to be a problem. A presence. A stain she couldn’t scrub out.

"Send me a final breakdown," she said at last. "I want to review everything before I hand him the papers."

"Of course. We’ll have it sent over by the end of the day."

She pushed her chair back and stood. "Good. Because I can’t wait to see his face when I do."

With that, the meeting wrapped up, but the tension coiled inside her didn’t ease. Kirk was almost gone. Almost. And yet, she still felt the weight of him looming. The remnants of his presence still lingered like a stain she couldn't quite scrub out.

She stepped out of the office, the cool air hitting her face as she exhaled. Five days. Just five more days, and Kirk would be out of her company, out of her life, for good.

The thought should have been satisfying. Instead, it felt like an itch she couldn’t scratch until she saw it happen—until she handed him the papers herself.

But she had bigger things to focus on.

London.

Mon.

She checked her phone as she walked to her car, fingers hovering over Mon’s name before she even realized it. The weight of everything pressed against her, coiling around her ribs like something unresolved. Kirk was almost gone, but it wasn’t done. Not yet.

She needed something else to anchor her—something lighter, something not drenched in years of resentment and power struggles. And Mon—Mon was that something. That someone.

With a quiet inhale, she tapped the screen, letting the phone ring.

It only rang twice before Mon picked up. "Khun Sam?"

Sam hesitated, staring at the steering wheel. She hadn’t really thought this far ahead. She just needed to hear Mon’s voice, needed something to pull her away from the weight of Kirk, the company, the legal battles that felt endless. "Just got out of a meeting with legal."

Mon let out an exaggerated groan. "Ugh. I already feel bad for you."

Sam huffed a small laugh. "It was exhausting. So much technical talk, so much paperwork—"

"And absolutely none of it made sense to you, I bet."

Sam smirked. "Not a damn word."

Mon laughed. "At least you’re self-aware. I know nothing about the law, but I know you don’t either. I feel bad for whatever poor lawyer had to sit through that."

"Oh, they were thrilled," Sam deadpanned. "I only interrupted them like… six times. Maybe seven."

"Truly, you’re a model client."

"Obviously."

Mon hummed. "And now you’re calling me to recover?"

"Something like that."

"You just need someone to tell you you’re still smart, don’t you?" Mon teased.

Sam grinned, relaxing into her seat. "Wouldn’t hurt."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not convincing me you have a secret law degree."

"Damn. And here I was, about to start drafting contracts."

Mon snorted. "For what? Your highly illegal business empire?"

"Exactly. And guess who’s going to handle all my social media PR when it inevitably goes south?"

Mon sighed dramatically. "Why do I feel like that would be a full-time job?"

Sam smirked. "Because it would. And you’d do it brilliantly."

Mon huffed, but Sam could hear the smile in it. "Obviously. And I’d make you pay me an obscene amount."

"Naturally," Sam said. "Nothing but the best for my highly illegal business empire."

"Good. I’ll need hazard pay." 

A pause. Then Mon asked, "So, how’d it go? The meeting? Tell me Kirk’s finally getting what he deserves."

Sam sighed, rubbing her temple. "Almost. Five more days. Everything’s lined up. Just waiting for the last signatures, then he’s out."

"And now?"

Sam exhaled. "Now, he’s done. No shares, no voting power, no seat at the table. Nothing. No way for him to claw his way back in."

Mon let out a low whistle. "Damn. You really did it."

"I really did." Sam let the words settle between them, but something in her chest still felt tight. "I won’t believe it’s real until I see his face when I hand him the papers."

"You’re going to savor that moment, aren’t you?"

Sam grinned. "Absolutely."

Mon laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "I’d pay to see it."

Sam chuckled, shifting in her seat. "I’ll record it for you. Frame by frame. Maybe even slow motion."

"I expect nothing less."

A comfortable silence stretched between them. For the first time in hours, Sam felt like she could breathe.

The final approval came in the form of a mail courier. The legal team had gone over everything—airtight, foolproof. Kirk was finished. All that was left was to shove the severance agreement in his face.

Sam didn’t wait. She snatched the envelope, stormed straight to his office, and threw the door open without knocking.

Kirk looked up, oblivious as ever, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to outright shock. "Sam?"

She slammed the envelope onto his desk, the sound cracking through the room. "This severs all ties between you and this company. Consider it your eviction notice—your services are no longer required. This is what you get for thinking you could control me. Now get out."

Silence stretched as he stared at it, then at her. He let out a short, bitter laugh, disbelief twisting his face. "You’re joking."

"I’m not."

His lips curled into a sneer, shaking his head. "You seriously think you can do this? That you can just waltz in here and—"

"I don’t think. I know. It’s done, Kirk. You’re done."

His face darkened as he picked up the envelope, tearing it open. His eyes scanned the contents, his jaw tightening. "You’re actually serious? You’re giving me severance like I’m some disposable employee?" He looked up, sneering. "I built this company with you, Sam. And you think a couple of legal loopholes are going to make me disappear?"

"They’re not loopholes," she said, her voice like ice. "They’re binding. And you’re out. For good."

His grip on the papers tightened. "You can’t do this."

"I already did."

His voice rose, sharp and desperate. "After everything I did for you—"

"For me?" Sam cut in, her voice like a blade. "You did this for yourself. You used me. Exploited my grief. Manipulated me when I was at my weakest. And now? You’re out. For good."

Kirk scoffed, throwing the papers onto his desk. "You’re actually insane. You think you’re making some big, bold move? That everyone’s going to stand by and watch you push me out without consequences?"

Sam grabbed the doorknob and wrenched the door open. "There are consequences, Kirk. For you." She stepped into the hallway without hesitation.

Kirk was after her in an instant. Loud. Unhinged.

"You need me, Sam! This company needs me! You’ll fall apart without me!"

The office floor fell into stunned silence. Employees stopped mid-task, heads turning, whispers starting. Kirk’s voice was loud, shaking with anger.

Sam didn’t stop. "You need me, Sam! This company needs me! You’ll fall apart without me!"

He laughed again, louder, desperate. "You think you can handle this without me? You think you’re strong enough? You’re a fucking joke, Sam. You were never the brains behind this. I built this with you. I was there through everything. And now you’re throwing me out like I’m nothing?"

Sam turned on her heel, her patience gone. "You stood by my side because you thought I was weak enough to let you stay. You thought I’d be too broken to fight back. You relied on that. You needed me to be vulnerable so you could play the part of the loyal business partner. But the truth? You’ve been working against me this entire time. You tried to partner with Nita behind my back. You played your little Ronaldo Gogowa games and thought I wouldn’t notice. You tried to manipulate everyone around me, and now? Now, you’re the one losing. And you’ll keep losing, Kirk. Because I’m done letting you win."

Kirk’s smirk twisted. "That’s what this is about? That I didn’t fall in line? You think you can just rewrite history? I was there for you, Sam. I backed you when no one else would. Me and your grandmother both."

Sam’s jaw locked. "Of course you did. Because I was useful to you."

Kirk scoffed, shaking his head, his voice dripping with mockery. "And what, you’re suddenly above it all? You and I were supposed to build something together. But instead, you snuck around behind my back with your girlfriend."

The words exploded through the office like a grenade. The air seemed to freeze, the hum of keyboards and phones cutting off abruptly. Heads snapped up, eyes widening, whispers erupting like sparks. Girlfriend. The word hung in the air, heavy and damning.

Because no one had known. Not about her. Not about Mon. Because Sam and Kirk were engaged.

Her vision blurred with rage, and when she looked back at Kirk, his smirk was razor-sharp, triumphant. "That’s right. You are engaged to me, and you ran around behind my back like a fucking cheat."

Sam’s hands curled into fists. "You don’t get to twist this. You don’t get to act like she was some secret, some mistake. You don’t get to turn her into something ugly just because you lost."

"Why not?" Kirk cut in, his voice slick with venom. "Isn’t that what she was? Some dirty little secret? Some mistake you couldn’t let go of? If she meant so much, why is she gone?"

Something inside Sam shattered. "Because of you!" Her voice tore through the office, raw and unrelenting. "Because of you and Grandmother and every goddamn thing you did to make me feel like I had no other choice! Because you went behind my back, tried to partner with Nita, manipulated her into keeping your fucking Ronaldo Gogowa bullshit a secret. Now you’re standing here, acting like I was the one sneaking around? Like I was the one who betrayed someone?"

Kirk’s sneer faltered, just for a second, but it was enough.

Sam stepped closer, her voice dropping into something low and lethal. "I never cheated on you, Kirk. Because there was never an us. There was a contract. There was control. There’s nothing between us."

She inhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling with the force of her anger. When she spoke again, her voice rang out, clear and unapologetic, cutting through the stunned silence of the office. 

"But Mon?" Her name left Sam’s lips, deliberate and defiant. She let it hang in the air, let it echo off the walls, let it sink into every corner of the room. "Her name is Mon. Say it, Kirk. Say it. Because I’m not hiding it anymore. I never should have. She is not something to be ashamed of. We were never something to be ashamed of. You think you can throw girlfriend at me like it’s a weapon? Like it’s supposed to hurt? It doesn’t. It never will."

She took another step forward, her presence filling the room, her voice unwavering. "Mon was everything. She still is. And I will never let you, or anyone else, reduce what we had to something dirty. To something shameful. To something that should have been hidden. She deserves better than that. We deserved better than that."

Her words carried through the silence, sharp and unyielding. "So go ahead, Kirk. Say her name. Say Mon. Because I am damn proud to."

Kirk’s smirk twisted, his voice dropping into something low and venomous. "Proud? Proud of what? That she left? That she didn’t think you were worth staying for? You can stand here and throw her name around all you want, but at the end of the day, Sam, you’re still alone. Maybe that’s all you’ll ever be—alone, and pathetic."

Sam didn’t flinch. Instead, she let out a slow, humorless laugh, her eyes burning with something far deeper than anger. "Alone? That’s where you’re wrong. Because the difference between you and me, Kirk, is that I know what love actually is. It’s not control. It’s not manipulation. It’s not whatever the hell you think loyalty looks like."

She stepped forward, her voice unwavering, absolute. "I will always say her name with pride, because she was worth it. She still is. And you? You’re not even worth remembering."

Kirk’s hands clenched into fists, his face twisting in fury. "You’re going to regret this, Sam. You think you’re winning, but you have no idea what’s coming."

His nostrils flared, his jaw tightening as his hands curled into fists at his sides. "You think this is over?"

"It is."

"You can’t just erase me!" Kirk barked, his voice sharp, cracking with something raw and desperate. "This company was ours! We were supposed to run it together!"

"There is no we. There never was. Not in business. Not in life. Not in anything. Whatever illusion of a partnership we had? It’s done. The engagement? Done. You’re done here." Her voice was steady, final, and utterly unyielding. 

He stared at her, breathing heavily, his face a storm of rage and disbelief. The entire office was watching, wide-eyed, silent, the weight of her words hanging between them all like a guillotine.

She straightened her blazer, lifted her chin, and looked him dead in the eye. "So pack your shit and get out. And if I ever see you near this company—or me—again, I’ll make sure you regret it more than you already do."

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned on her heel and walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, each step a punctuation mark to her finality. Behind her, Kirk stood frozen, his face red, his fists trembling at his sides. The office was silent, the air thick with the weight of what had just happened.

Sam didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could feel it—the shift, the victory, the end of something that had been poisoning her for far too long. Kirk was nothing now. Just a ghost she was finally exorcising.

And as she walked away, she felt the first real breath of freedom she’d had in years.

The company’s conference room was packed, the weight of unspoken questions pressing against the walls. The air was thick—not just with tension, but with something quieter. Uncertainty. Suspicion. Curiosity.

When Sam stepped forward, the low hum of murmurs faded instantly. Her presence commanded the room, but for once, it wasn’t just about authority. It was about expectation.

She cleared her throat. “I know there’s been a lot of speculation about Kirk’s departure.” Her voice, crisp and steady, sliced through the silence. “Let me be clear: this was a necessary decision for the future of this company. Kirk is no longer with us, and we’re moving forward.”

A ripple moved through the crowd. Some employees exchanged side glances, hushed whispers barely audible. Others sat rigid, waiting for whatever came next.

A junior employee—eyes darting nervously—raised a hand. “Does this mean there’ll be more changes? Are we… safe?”

Sam’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second before she steadied it. “Change is inevitable, but it doesn’t have to be something to fear. My priority is ensuring this company thrives, and that means supporting all of you. Kirk’s departure doesn’t change that.”

Another hand. A senior manager this time. “What about the projects he was overseeing? Are they still on track?”

Sam nodded. “Everything is being reassigned to capable hands. I’m personally reviewing all transition plans to ensure nothing falls through the cracks. That brings me to another important update.”

She paused, measuring the energy in the room. There was tension, but also something new—a flicker of confusion, of expectation shifting.

“I’ll be leaving for London in three weeks and will be gone for three weeks. During that time, I’ll still be available as needed, but I’m putting clear structures in place to keep things running smoothly in my absence.”

Silence. Then murmurs. Then another manager near the back leaned forward, frowning. “Who’s going to be signing off on social media post proposals?”

“I’ll be delegating responsibilities accordingly,” Sam answered smoothly. “Department heads will receive a full transition plan later this week. If you have concerns about specific projects, now is the time to bring them forward.”

A marketing lead cleared her throat. “So… you’re trusting us with this?”

It was a simple question, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Sam met her gaze, unwavering. “Yes.”

The room stilled.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Some employees leaned back, others glanced at their neighbors as if waiting for someone to call her bluff. Mhom Boss? Trusting us?

A finance analyst finally spoke. “And budget approvals?”

“I’ll be reviewing outstanding approvals this week. Anything urgent, send it to me directly.”

Another long pause. It wasn’t just about the logistics anymore. It was about the change in her .

Sam straightened. “Are there any further questions?”

Silence again. But this time, it was different. The skepticism hadn’t faded, but something else was settling in its place. Possibility.

Sam let the quiet stretch before nodding once. “Alright.” She glanced across the room, knowing what they were all thinking. Is this real? Does she mean it?

“This company was built on hard work and innovation. Kirk’s departure doesn’t change that. My absence doesn’t change that. If anything, these next few weeks are an opportunity for all of us to step up, refocus, and prove what we’re capable of.”

She stepped back, signaling the meeting’s end.

There was no rush to leave, but slowly, movement rippled through the room. Some employees pushed off the cushions, stretching their legs before making their way toward the exits. Others lingered, hushed conversations picking up as they descended the steps. A few stayed seated, watching Sam as if waiting for her to say something else.

She exhaled slowly, her mask of confidence slipping—just for a moment.

They weren’t just questioning the transition.

They were questioning her.

With a sharp inhale, she straightened her blazer and walked out.

Head high.

The hallway outside Kirk’s old office was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that felt deliberate. The door was slightly ajar, the room beyond it dark and still.

Sam paused just outside, her hand hovering over the handle. The metal was cool beneath her fingers, a stark contrast to the heat curling in her chest. For a moment, she considered walking away—just leaving it be.

But she didn’t.

She pushed the door open, stepping inside as the silence pressed down on her. The office felt hollow, stripped of its former occupant. The once-cluttered desk was bare. The shelves, emptied. The walls, devoid of the framed photos and self-congratulatory awards Kirk had always been so proud of. It didn’t even look like the same space anymore, and yet, it still reeked of him.

Sam crossed the room, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She stopped at the window, staring out at the city skyline. The glass reflected her faintly, a ghost of herself superimposed over the glowing buildings.

This was his kingdom, she thought bitterly. And now it’s just… empty.

Her fingers trailed absently over the edge of the desk, feeling the smooth surface—until she reached a small, jagged scratch near the corner. The memory hit instantly.

Kirk had done that during one of their arguments, slamming his pen down so hard it left a permanent mark. She remembered the sharp sound of metal against wood, the way he’d leaned back afterward, smug, amused. Like he enjoyed getting under her skin.

Her jaw tightened. Is that what he’s doing now? Sitting somewhere, plotting, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?

The thought coiled in her mind, refusing to let go.

She shook her head, forcing it away. No. He’s gone. I made sure of that.

And yet, standing there now, she felt it—his presence, like an imprint burned into the walls. The weight of all the fights, the power struggles, the moments where she almost—almost—let herself believe he could be reasoned with.

But Kirk had never been the type to go quietly.

She turned, ready to leave, but something stopped her. Her reflection stared back at her in the window—pale, tense, shoulders stiff. Her eyes were sharper, harder. She looked like someone who was still fighting a battle she thought she’d already won.

Her hands curled into fists.

I’m not letting him haunt me. Not anymore.

Straightening, she squared her shoulders and strode toward the door. With one final glance around the empty office, she gripped the handle and pulled it shut behind her. The lock clicked into place with a firm, decisive snap.

The sound echoed down the hallway, a final punctuation mark.

But as she walked away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Kirk’s shadow was still there, lurking in the corners, waiting for her to let her guard down.

The city hummed quietly outside Sam’s window, but inside her apartment, everything was still. The clock on her nightstand read 2:47 AM, the numbers glowing dimly in the dark. She didn’t know how long she had been lying there, staring at the ceiling, but sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t for days.

Her mind was too loud.

London.

Grandmother.

Mon.

Each thought circled, collided, then looped back again, refusing to settle.

Her phone sat on the nightstand, face down, but she knew if she flipped it over, there would be something. A message. A link. A subtle, carefully chosen reminder .

Her grandmother didn’t demand. She didn’t yell. She didn’t even ask .

Instead, she sent things. A news article about an upcoming society wedding. A photo from a gala Sam was supposed to attend. A clipped, I heard the engagement is off. Hope you’re doing well, from an old family friend who wouldn’t have known unless—

Kirk.

Of course he told her.

Sam clenched her jaw, staring at the ceiling.

She had ended it. The engagement, the charade. She had walked away from all of it.

And yet, her grandmother’s shadow still lingered, pressing in from all sides.

She turned onto her side, exhaling slowly. She should deal with it. Call her, get it over with, fight whatever battle was coming. But the thought of another confrontation, another slow, drawn-out war of words where every move was already accounted for, exhausted her.

Not tonight.

Instead, she focused on what she could control—work, delegation, logistics. The company would run smoothly in her absence. The transition plans were in place.

London.

She was leaving in two weeks. She should be preparing. Making lists, planning out every detail. But she hadn’t even pulled out her suitcase. Hadn’t even thought about what she was bringing.

Because London wasn’t just a trip. It was Mon.

Her stomach tightened.

Mon, with her teasing texts. Mon, who still lingered in her mind in ways Sam couldn’t shake. Mon, who had sounded so there that night on the phone—sharp, familiar, alive.

The memory of her voice cut through the haze of everything else. The way it had softened, then turned sharp when she’d panicked. The way it had anchored Sam when she felt like she was unraveling.

And now?

Now, Sam was going to London. And Mon would be there.

She closed her eyes. It didn’t help. The voices were too loud. Too much.

Her fingers twitched.

She could text. Keep it light, keep it distant. Pretend she wasn’t this . Pretend she wasn’t lying awake at three in the morning needing something as stupid and pathetic as—

She grabbed her phone before she could talk herself out of it.

Her thumb hovered over Mon’s name.

Texting wouldn’t be enough.

She needed—

God.

She needed Mon’s voice.

She hated herself for it.

But she pressed call anyway.

It rang twice before Mon picked up, her voice thick with sleep but still so familiar. “Sam?”

Sam’s breath hitched.

Mon’s voice was warm with exhaustion, dipped in something slow and unguarded. It was softer like this, lacking the sharp edges she wielded so effortlessly in the daylight.

It knocked the air from Sam’s lungs, how much she felt it.

Because she knew this voice.

She had memorized it in all its forms.

Mon, teasing and playful, her voice light as she poked at Sam’s ridiculous need for control.

Mon, angry, sharp words cutting through the air like a blade.

Mon, whispering against her skin, the heat of it lingering long after she had pulled away.

Mon, breaking. Mon, crying.

Mon, telling her she loved her.

Sam squeezed her eyes shut.

What the hell am I doing?

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

A rustle of sheets. A yawn. “What time is it?”

Sam glanced at the clock. “Late.”

Mon hummed, her voice still slow, still warm. “No kidding.” A pause. “What’s wrong?”

Sam hesitated. She could lie. She should lie.

But her pulse was too fast, her chest too tight, and Mon had already heard it.

“…I couldn’t sleep,” Sam admitted, the words quiet, raw in a way she hadn’t intended.

Mon didn’t say anything at first. Not in judgment, not in impatience—just listening. Sam could feel her listening, even across the miles.

Then, soft and sure, Mon said, “Okay.”

That was it. No pressing, no prying. Just okay—an acknowledgment, a grounding force.

Sam let out a slow breath.

“Tell me something.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Tell me something,” Mon repeated, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Anything.”

Sam exhaled, tension leaking out of her chest. It was so Mon, this simple, quiet way of pulling her in without demanding more than she could give.

Sam let out a breath, letting her head fall back against the pillow. “I’ve been trying to delegate.”

Mon hummed, the sound slow and familiar. “Oh?”

“I leave in two weeks,” Sam muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I have transition plans in place. Meetings scheduled. Final approvals set before I go. But it feels like—” she exhaled sharply, “—like I can’t step away without everything falling apart.”

Mon was quiet for a moment. Not in judgment, not in impatience—just listening.

Then, voice light, amused, she said, “You know normal people don’t try to singlehandedly run their companies before a vacation, right?”

Sam groaned. “It’s not a vacation.”

“It’s three weeks, Sam.”

“It’s London .”

Mon hummed again, and Sam could hear the teasing smile in it. “Mmm-hmm. And the world will definitely stop spinning if you’re not there to personally oversee every minor decision for twenty-one days.”

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“You would .”

“You make it easy.”

Sam huffed, but the tightness in her chest had loosened, just a little.

Mon’s voice shifted again, softer now. “Are you in bed?”

Sam swallowed. “Yeah.”

Mon hummed, the sound sinking deep into Sam’s bones, a tether pulling her back to the present. “Close your eyes.”

Sam hesitated. But then, slowly, she did.

Mon’s voice was quieter now, like she had settled back against something. “You should get some sleep.”

Sam exhaled. “I know.”

A beat. Then—

“It’s okay,” Mon murmured. “Sleep, Khun Sam.”

And for the first time in days, she did.

Sam stood in front of her suitcase, hands on her hips, staring at the meticulously arranged clothes inside. She’d already double-checked the weather in London—mid-June, averaging in the high sixties, maybe low seventies—but she couldn’t shake the need to be sure. She refreshed the forecast again, just in case, and bit her lip. Sunny now, but rain was always a possibility. She grabbed an extra light jacket, added it to the neatly folded stack, then reached for another sweater. Just in case.

Her outfits were planned down to the last detail. Crisp trousers, tailored blazers, silk blouses—everything refined, effortless, just the way she wanted. But then there were the summer dresses. Something flowy, something light, something that felt like she was actually on vacation. Because she should be able to enjoy this, right? Even if she was incapable of truly letting go, she could at least have the option to try. She packed shorts, too—practical, easy to pair with anything.

Sam pulled open the drawer, her fingers skimming over neatly folded clothes, searching for something else entirely when—

She froze.

The fabric was soft under her fingertips, barely there, like a ghost of a memory. Pale pink, delicate, almost fragile.

She lifted it slowly, her breath catching in her throat.

This nightgown.

It wasn’t just any nightgown. It was the nightgown. The one Mon had been wearing that night—the night they had… that night.

Heat curled at the base of her spine, spreading through her like an old flame that had never fully gone out. The memories came in pieces, fragments that slammed into her all at once.

The way Mon had looked at her, wide-eyed but certain. The way she had whispered Sam’s name, soft but edged with something deeper, something raw. The way Sam had traced her fingers along the hem, teasing, before finally sliding it up, up, over Mon’s head—

Sam exhaled sharply, gripping the fabric tighter.

She should have gotten rid of it. She thought she had.

But no—she had kept it. Why had she kept it?

She swallowed, forcing herself to move, to think. It was just fabric. Just another piece of clothing. But it wasn’t.

Because the moment she had touched it, the memory had swallowed her whole.

Mon, bare beneath her.

Mon, trusting her.

Mon, letting her have all of her.

And Sam had—

Fuck.

Sam’s grip tightened, her knuckles going white.

She shouldn’t bring it. There was no reason to. It was just a piece of fabric. Just a thing that didn’t belong in her suitcase.

But still—

She folded it carefully, placing it inside.

Then came another challenge—the Art Exhibit.

She spent far too long staring at her closet, running through every possible option. She always looked good—effortless was second nature to her—but this? This wasn’t about her. It was Mon’s night. Mon was the one who deserved to shine, who deserved to have the spotlight entirely on her. Sam wouldn’t take that from her. Not that she could, because Mon was—

Perfect. Beautiful. The most breathtaking person in any room.

And Sam would never ruin that. Never.

Still, she picked something elegant, understated. Something that said she was there, but wouldn’t take up space that wasn’t hers to take. She laid the outfit carefully into the suitcase, smoothing out invisible wrinkles before stepping back.

Her phone rang.

She knew who it was before even looking.

She hesitated for only a second before answering. "Hey."

"Hey," Mon said softly. "How’s packing going?"

Sam exhaled a small laugh, running a hand through her hair. "Slow. I may or may not have three suitcases."

Mon made a sound that was somewhere between amused and exasperated. "Three? You do realize this isn’t a permanent relocation, right?"

"I like to be prepared."

"For what? A business conference? An arctic expedition? A spontaneous gala?"

"All of the above."

Mon laughed, warm and familiar. "Of course. And let me guess—one suitcase is just for shoes."

Sam smirked. "Obviously."

Mon hummed knowingly. "And the other two?"

"Clothes, essentials, and—" she hesitated, glancing at the suitcase with the pink satin nightgown tucked inside.. "Other things."

"Other things?" Mon teased. "What could possibly be so important it needs its own space?"

Sam hesitated for only a second before deflecting. "It’s classified."

Mon scoffed. "Uh-huh. Let me guess. A separate compartment just for skincare?"

"I have to maintain my standards, Mon."

"You’re a nightmare." Mon was grinning, Sam could hear it in her voice. "Bet you even have an emergency blazer in there."

"Two, actually."

Mon laughed. "Unbelievable. What exactly are you planning for?"

"Everything."

Mon scoffed. "You’re ridiculous."

Sam leaned against the edge of her bed, the phone pressed to her ear, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "Ridiculous, but efficient. You’ll thank me when I show up perfectly prepared for whatever London throws at us."

Mon laughed again, the sound light and effortless, and Sam felt something in her chest loosen just a little. "I’m sure I will. But seriously, Khun Sam, you don’t need to overthink this. It’s just a trip. Just… us."

Just us. The words hung in the air, simple but loaded. Sam’s smile faltered for a moment, her fingers tightening around the phone. "I know," she said quietly. "I just… want to get it right."

There was a pause on the other end, and for a second, Sam wondered if she’d said too much. But then Mon’s voice came through, softer now. "You don’t have to get it perfect, Khun Sam. You just have to show up. That’s enough."

Sam swallowed, her gaze drifting back to the suitcase, to the faint outline of the nightgown beneath the neatly folded clothes. "I’ll be there," she said, her voice steady but tinged with something deeper. "I wouldn’t miss it."

"I know," Mon said, her tone warm. "You don’t need three suitcases to impress me. You could show up in a trash bag, and I’d still be happy to see you."

Sam snorted, the tension in her shoulders easing. "A trash bag? Really? That’s the bar?"

"Yep. So feel free to leave the emergency blazers at home."

"Not a chance," Sam said, her smirk returning. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Mon groaned dramatically. "Of course you do. You’re allowed to relax. To have fun. To… I don’t know, wear something that doesn’t scream ‘CEO.’"

Sam raised an eyebrow, even though Mon couldn’t see it. "Are you saying my wardrobe screams ‘CEO’?"

"Uh, yes. Loudly. And with a PowerPoint presentation."

Sam laughed, a genuine, unfiltered sound that surprised even herself. "Fine. I’ll consider packing something… casual. But no promises."

"That’s all I ask," Mon said, her voice teasing but fond. "Now, go finish packing. And for the love of god, don’t bring a fourth suitcase."

"Too late," Sam deadpanned. "I already started on it."

Mon groaned again, and Sam could picture her rolling her eyes, the way she always did when Sam was being particularly stubborn. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you’re still picking me up from the airport."

"Unfortunately," Mon said, but there was no bite to it. Only warmth. "And just so you know, the sign is already done. Glitter and all."

Sam groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You didn’t."

"Oh, I did.”

Sam shook her head, but she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. "You’re the worst."

"Your worst," Mon corrected, her voice light and teasing. "And don’t pretend you’re not secretly impressed by my dedication to embarrassing you."

Sam rolled her eyes, though Mon couldn’t see it. "Impressed isn’t the word I’d use."

"Sure it is. Admit it—you’re already imagining the look on your face when you see it."

"I’m imagining how fast I can pretend I don’t know you," Sam shot back, her tone dry but amused.

Mon laughed, the sound bright and unapologetic. "Too late. I’ll be waving it so hard, everyone in the airport will know exactly who you are."

"Great," Sam said flatly. "Just what I need—a public spectacle."

"Exactly," Mon said, clearly pleased with herself. 

Sam sighed, but there was no real annoyance in it. "You’re impossible."

"But still coming to see me," Mon said, her tone smug.

"Unfortunately," Sam muttered, though the smile on her face betrayed her.

"See you soon, Khun Sam," Mon said, her voice softening just a fraction before she hung up.

Sam set her phone down, shaking her head. Mon was, without a doubt, the most infuriating person she knew. Then, as she zipped up her suitcase and glanced at the clock, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of anticipation.

Three days. Just three days, and she’d be in London. And Mon would be there, glittery sign and all.

She groaned again, but this time, it was almost fond.

The airport was a whirlwind of noise and motion—rolling suitcases, echoing announcements, and the low hum of conversations blending into a chaotic symphony. Sam stood near the first-class check-in counter, her three suitcases lined up neatly beside her, her carry-on slung over one shoulder. She adjusted the strap, her fingers tightening around the handle as she glanced at her watch.

Sam checked in at the airport, the weight of her suitcases feeling heavier than they should. Her hands were steady, her breathing even, but her pulse? Rapid. She went through the motions—handing over her passport, tagging her luggage, nodding when the airline employee told her the gate number.

She was fine.

Totally fine.

Except she wasn’t.

The moment she stepped away from the counter, nerves clawed their way up her spine. This was happening. She was getting on a plane. She was flying to London. And in less than a day, she would be standing in front of Mon. After six months of nothing, then phone calls and texts.

She exhaled sharply and moved toward security, slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans as she focused on her breathing.

She knew exactly what she was doing—she was keeping herself busy, going through the motions so she wouldn’t have time to think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking meant overanalyzing, meant doubting, meant allowing that stupid, lingering fear to whisper in her ear. So she moved.

Security. Shoes off. Laptop out. Jewelry in the bin. Efficient. Quick. Her heart hammered as she stepped through the scanner, but she kept her expression neutral.

Cleared.

She pulled her things together and walked toward the first-class lounge, fingers tightening around the handle of her carry-on. The moment she stepped inside, the quiet luxury of the space settled around her—soft lighting, plush seating, the faint hum of conversation. But none of it made her feel at ease.

She sat down in one of the lounge chairs, exhaling as she unzipped her carry-on.

Checklist. She needed to go through her checklist.

Travel toothbrush? Check. Hairbrush? Check. Straightener? Check. Sleeping pills? Absolutely. Without them, the anxiety and excitement would keep her wired for the entire flight.

She smoothed her hands down her thighs, trying to shake the restless energy buzzing under her skin. It was ridiculous, really. She was a grown woman. She had been on more flights than she could count. But this wasn’t just any flight. This was the flight that would take her back to her.

She wanted to feel put together when she saw Mon. She needed to. Even though she knew Mon wouldn’t care. Even though she knew Mon would take her in whatever state she arrived in.

She inhaled deeply and leaned back into the chair, tapping her fingers against the armrest.

Just a few more hours.

Then she would be in the air.

And then? Then, she would see Mon.

For the first time in six months.

She exhaled slowly, trying to steady the flutter in her chest. This was it. No turning back now.

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through her emails to distract herself. Work, as always, was relentless. But even as she typed out a quick reply to one of her employees, her mind kept wandering. What would it be like, seeing Mon again after all this time? Would it be awkward? Easy? Would Mon still look at her the same way, with that mix of warmth and mischief that always made Sam feel like she was both in control and completely out of her depth?

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen. It was Mon.

Mon: At the airport yet? Don’t tell me you’re already regretting this.

Sam smirked, typing back quickly. 

Sam: Regretting the three suitcases? Maybe. Regretting the trip? Not a chance.

Mon’s reply came almost instantly. 

Mon: Good. Because the glittery sign is almost done.

Sam groaned, though she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. 

Sam: You’re the worst.

Mon: 🤗

Sam stared at the message for a moment, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name. Excitement? Nerves? Both? She tucked her phone away and leaned back in her seat, her gaze fixed on the plane outside, its massive frame gleaming under the airport lights.

A server approached, offering her a glass of champagne. Sam hesitated for a moment before accepting it, the bubbles fizzing gently as she took a sip. The crisp, dry taste grounded her, pulling her back to the present.

Three weeks in London. Three weeks with Mon.

And for the first time in a long time, she let herself feel the full weight of what that meant. Not just the work she was leaving behind, or the chaos she was stepping into, but the possibility of something new. Something real.

The boarding announcement crackled over the speakers, and Sam stood, slinging her carry-on over her shoulder. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward.

No turning back now.

Boarding was called, and Sam gathered her things, moving through the terminal with precise, practiced ease. She walked onto the plane, storing her carry-on in the overhead compartment before settling into her first-class seat—spacious, private, absurdly comfortable. The kind of comfort she was used to, but tonight? It did nothing to settle her nerves.

She pulled out her phone.

Sam: Seated.

A response came almost immediately.

Mon: How extravagant is it?

Sam smirked.

Sam: Spacious, private, fully reclining seats, noise-canceling headphones, pajamas, a skincare kit. 

Mon: So, hell.

Sam: The worst kind of suffering.

Mon: Truly tragic. I’m devastated for you.

Sam: They also have steak, lobster, Din Tai Fung dumplings. 

Mon: You’re so brave. A true inspiration.

Sam chuckled, tension easing just a little. But then the flight attendant came by, instructing everyone to switch their phones to airplane mode. Sam typed out one last message.

Sam: I’ll text you when I land.

She turned her phone to airplane mode and exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the armrest.

She flagged down a flight attendant for wine. Then another glass. And another.

Eventually, when the warmth of the alcohol settled in her chest and the cabin lights dimmed, she reclined the seat into a fully flat bed, pulling the blanket over herself, adjusting the noise-canceling headphones. Then, finally, she took a sleeping pill, knowing she needed it—otherwise, the anticipation, the nerves, the sheer want would keep her awake the entire flight.

By the time she reclined her seat and curled beneath the blanket, the alcohol had dulled the sharp edges of her nerves. She closed her eyes, and her dreams took her somewhere softer.

Hand in hand with Mon, walking through a sunlit street, stopping to kiss her at a crosswalk because she could. Because there was no fear, no hiding, just love. Mon laughed, tugging her along, their steps easy, unhurried. The warmth of the afternoon wrapped around them, but nothing compared to the warmth of Mon’s palm against hers. Sam pressed against her side as they sat on a park bench, the quiet rhythm of the city buzzing around them, distant and unimportant. All that mattered was this—Mon leaning in, brushing her nose against Sam’s, lips barely ghosting over hers, teasing, savoring.

"You’re staring," Mon murmured, eyes alight with mischief.

"Can you blame me?" Sam whispered back, and Mon just smiled, curling fingers into the fabric of Sam’s sleeve, pulling her closer.

Then the dream shifted—

Mon in her hotel room, standing by the window, bathed in the golden glow of the city lights. Sam approached slowly, heart hammering, watching as Mon turned to face her, eyes soft, knowing. Sam reached out, fingertips grazing Mon’s jaw, tracing the curve of her cheek. Mon leaned into her touch, exhaling slowly, and then—

Lips met, gentle at first, then deeper, a slow unraveling. Mon’s hands slid beneath the fabric of Sam’s shirt, fingertips trailing fire in their wake. Sam shivered as Mon’s lips brushed over her collarbone, lingering, savoring. She let her head tip back, surrendering, lost in the sensation of Mon’s hands roaming, guiding, claiming. The bed was soft beneath them, sheets cool against heated skin, limbs tangled in the hush of the dimly lit room. There was no rush, no urgency—just slow, deliberate touches, whispered confessions, the kind of love that unraveled her in the best way possible.

Sam stirred in her sleep, body curling inward, chasing the warmth of a dream she wasn’t ready to wake from. The plane hummed softly around her, the cabin dark and quiet, but in her mind, she was still there—with Mon, in that sunlit street, in that golden-lit room, in that place where everything felt possible.

When she finally drifted back into a deeper sleep, her lips curved into the faintest smile.

The plane touched down with a gentle bump, and Sam’s stomach lurched in response. She gripped the armrests, her knuckles whitening as the aircraft taxied to the gate. The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, smooth and professional, but Sam barely heard it. Her heart was pounding, her thoughts racing, her palms damp against the leather of the seat.

Oh god. It was here.

Six months apart. Six months of hurt, of missing, of longing. And now, in just a few minutes, she’d see Mon again.

The seatbelt sign dinged off, and passengers began to stir around her, gathering their belongings, shuffling into the aisle. Sam stayed seated, her breath shallow, her mind spinning. She forced herself to move, unclipping her seatbelt and standing on unsteady legs. She grabbed her carry-on from the overhead compartment, her movements mechanical, her thoughts a chaotic blur.

The walk through the terminal felt surreal, like she was moving through a dream. The signs for baggage claim and arrivals blurred together, the noise of the airport fading into a distant hum. Her chest tightened with every step, her pulse quickening as she neared the exit.

Sam had thought about this moment a hundred different ways.

She had imagined every possible version of this moment—Mon waiting for her, Mon late, Mon standing there with that familiar tilt of her head, unreadable expression in place.

But nothing—nothing—prepared her for this.

She was standing near the arrivals gate, holding a glittery sign that read “Khun Sam” in bold, sparkly letters. Her hair was shorter than Sam remembered, falling just below her shoulders in soft waves. She was wearing a simple white blouse and jeans, her posture relaxed but her eyes scanning the crowd with an intensity that made Sam’s breath catch.

For a moment, Sam froze, her feet rooted to the ground. The sight of Mon—real, tangible, here—hit her like a tidal wave. All the emotions she’d been holding back came rushing to the surface: the hurt, the missing, the longing. It was overwhelming, dizzying, and for a second, she wasn’t sure she could move.

Mon had always been sunlight and sharp edges. Had always been something that pulled her in, something that kept her steady.

But now, she looked different and the same all at once.

Like time had passed, like things had changed, but not enough to make her unfamiliar.

Sam hadn’t expected that to hurt.

Hadn’t expected to look at her and feel something so sharp, so overwhelming, so undeniable.

Because Mon looked like she belonged here.

Like London had settled into her bones, like she had made a life for herself in this city, like she had figured it out .

And Sam didn’t know where she belonged in that life now.

Didn’t know if there was space for her anymore.

Didn’t know if Mon even wanted there to be.

That uncertainty sat heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

But then Mon’s gaze found hers, and everything else faded away.

Mon’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise, and then—she smiled. A real, genuine smile that lit up her entire face. She lowered the sign, her expression softening as she took a step forward.

Sam’s feet moved before her brain could catch up. She walked toward Mon, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure everyone in the airport could hear it. The distance between them felt endless and yet not enough, each step bringing her closer to the person she’d missed more than she could put into words.

When they were finally face to face, Sam stopped, her breath hitching. Up close, Mon was even more beautiful than she remembered. Her eyes were warm, her smile tentative but hopeful, and Sam felt something inside her crack open.

“Hi,” Mon said softly, her voice trembling just a little.

“Hi,” Sam replied, her own voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Six months of distance, of silence, of longing—it was all there, in the space between them, palpable and raw.

Mon was the first to break the silence. She held up the glittery sign, her smile turning sheepish. “I told you I’d do it.”

Sam laughed, the sound shaky but genuine. “Of course you did.”

Mon’s smile widened, and she lowered the sign, her eyes searching Sam’s face. “You look… good.”

“So do you,” Sam said, her voice thick with emotion. “Better than good.”

Mon’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down for a moment, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the sign. When she looked up again, her eyes were glistening. “I missed you,” she said quietly, the words raw and honest.

Sam’s chest tightened, her own eyes burning. “I missed you too,” she whispered. “So much.”

Mon exhaled sharply, like she’d been holding her breath, and then—she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Her arms wrapped around Sam in a tight hug, her face burying into Sam’s shoulder. Sam froze for a second, her body stiff with surprise, but then she melted into the embrace, her arms coming up to hold Mon just as tightly.

It was like coming home.

Mon’s warmth, her scent, the way she fit perfectly against Sam—it was all so familiar, so achingly right. Sam closed her eyes, her throat tightening as she fought back tears. She didn’t know how long they stood there, holding each other in the middle of the airport, but she didn’t care. For the first time in six months, she felt whole.

When they finally pulled back, Mon’s eyes were wet, but she was smiling. “Welcome to London,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

Sam laughed softly, wiping at her own eyes. “Thanks for the glittery welcome.”

Mon grinned, her usual mischief returning. “You’re welcome. Now, come on. Let’s get your bags before you start crying and embarrass us both.”

Mon said, linked her arm through Sam’s and tugging her toward baggage claim. 

Sam let herself be pulled along, her heart lighter than it had been in months. 

As they approached the baggage carousel, Mon glanced at Sam’s ticket and raised an eyebrow. “You really brought three suitcases?”

Sam shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but failing to hide the faint blush creeping up her neck. 

Mon laughed, the sound light and carefree. “If you expect me to help you carry all of this, you’re out of luck.”

“I’ll manage,” Sam said, though she was secretly relieved when a porter appeared with a luggage cart. Mon shot her a knowing look but didn’t say anything, her smirk saying it all.

They took a cab.

Sam had expected the train. Had half-prepared herself for the quiet sway of it, for the strange normalcy of sitting beside Mon while the city blurred past them.

But Mon had just looked at her, at the exhaustion weighing heavy in her bones, and without a word, she led them toward the taxi queue instead.

Sam didn’t argue.

She let Mon take the lead, let herself follow, let herself trust that Mon knew what she needed even when she didn’t say it out loud.

And maybe that was dangerous.

Maybe that was exactly why this felt so familiar.

The cab smelled like leather and faintly like someone else’s cologne. The city was alive with lights and movement, but Sam barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on Mon—the way she tapped her fingers against her knee, the way she smiled faintly at something outside the window, the way she seemed so effortlessly herself.

The cab pulled up to the hotel, and Sam stepped out, her eyes scanning the grand entrance—polished marble, gleaming glass, and a doorman who looked like he’d stepped out of a period drama. Mon followed, her gaze sweeping over the building with a mix of awe and disbelief.

"Of course."

Sam exhaled. "Don’t start."

"Khun Sam, this place is—" she gestured vaguely at the entrance.. "Overpriced."

Sam smirked, her grip tightening around the handle of her suitcase. “You act like I booked an entire penthouse.”

Mon snorted, throwing her an unimpressed look. “Did you?”

Sam tilted her head, considering. “Technically, no.”

Mon rolled her eyes. “Right. Because technically , it’s just a ‘luxury suite,’ which is totally reasonable and not at all excessive.”

Sam sighed, adjusting her bag. “Would you rather I stay somewhere mediocre?”

“There’s a difference between mediocre and this, Khun Sam.” Mon gestured vaguely at the opulence surrounding them—the towering glass doors, the sweeping entrance, the kind of quiet wealth that didn’t need to announce itself. “This is the kind of place where they probably charge extra for breathing the air.”

Sam hummed, unimpressed. “I like nice things.”

Mon shook her head, exhaling in disbelief. “God, you really haven’t changed.”

That made Sam pause.

Something flickered behind Mon’s eyes—something she wasn’t saying, something that lingered between them like an unspoken challenge.

Sam studied her, then said, carefully, “Neither have you.”

Mon stilled, just for a second.

Then she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Come on. Let’s just check in.”

Sam let it go, for now.

The doorman opened the doors for them, and they stepped inside, the cool, perfumed air wrapping around them instantly.

Mon exhaled, looking around. “Your room is probably ridiculous.”

Sam smirked. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Mon arched a brow. “Will I?”

Sam glanced at her, expression unreadable. “You are helping me settle in.”

Mon huffed, shaking her head, but Sam didn’t miss the way she lingered—the way she hadn’t said no .

The room was exactly what Sam had expected—spacious, modern, too luxurious, the kind of place meant for someone with money to waste.

But none of that mattered.

Because Mon was here.

Standing near the window, arms loosely crossed, looking out at the city like she wasn’t sure what to do next.

"This view is incredible."

Sam joined her, standing a few feet away as they both looked out at the city skyline. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them like a thread—delicate but unbroken.

Finally, Mon turned to her, a small, warm smile playing at her lips. "Hungry? We should order dinner."

Sam nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah. Let’s do that."

They ended up ordering room service—a mix of dishes that Mon insisted on picking. Sam let her.

They ate at the small table by the window, their conversation easy, familiar, effortless. It felt comforting, but at the same time, new all over again—like something rediscovered, rather than picked up where it left off.

But eventually, Mon glanced at the clock and sighed. " It’s getting late. You look tired. You should get some rest."

Sam blinked, surprised by how quickly time had passed. "Yeah. I guess I should."

Except—neither of them moved.

Mon leaned back in her chair, fingers tracing the rim of her glass, her gaze fixed on the city lights outside. Sam watched her, the quiet stretching between them—heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that spoke louder than words.

And before Sam could stop herself, the words slipped out. "It’s late. Maybe you should just… stay here."

Mon froze, fingers stilling on the glass. She looked at Sam, eyes wide, searching. "Stay?"

Sam’s heart pounded, but she didn’t back down. "Yeah. I mean… it’s a big room. And it’s late. You shouldn’t have to go all the way back tonight."

She didn’t want this night to end.

Didn’t want to wake up tomorrow with only memories of tonight.

Mon hesitated, gaze flickering to the king-sized bed, then back to Sam. "Are you sure?"

Sam nodded, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. "Yeah. I’m sure."

Mon’s lips quirked, but there was something else beneath it—something quieter, something carefully weighted.

"Well, if I stay over, does that mean I get to pick breakfast?" Her tone was light, easy, teasing.

But Sam heard it.

The pause.

The loaded weight beneath the words.

The quiet hum of possibility.

She swallowed, felt the warmth creep up her neck, settle somewhere behind her ribs, curl up in the space that had been empty for months.

Mon just held her gaze.

Not pushing.

Not pulling away.

Just waiting.

And Sam—

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

Mon’s smile didn’t falter.

Didn’t flicker.

She just hummed, quiet and knowing. "Then I hope you’re ready for whatever I pick."

Sam didn’t realize how deeply she had missed moments like this—simple, ordinary things—until she was standing at her suitcase, unzipping it with slow, deliberate hands. The hotel room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside and the occasional sound of Mon shifting on the bed behind her.

She reached for her sleepwear—a black silk nightgown, of course—but her fingers brushed against something else. Something soft. Something pink.

She froze.

Her breath caught as she pulled it out slowly, the fabric slipping through her fingers, lighter than air. She turned, holding it up.

Mon was sitting on the bed, legs crossed, her hair slightly tousled from running her fingers through it. She looked up at Sam, tilting her head slightly. Not questioning. Just waiting.

Sam exhaled, her voice steady but softer than she intended. “Here. You can wear this.”

Mon blinked, her gaze dropping to the nightgown. Then she looked back at Sam, and her lips curved into a smile. Not the teasing, smug smile she’d worn earlier. This was different. Warmer. Deeper. A smile that said, I see what you’re doing, and I’m letting you.

She reached for it, her fingers brushing against Sam’s as she took it. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t call Sam out on the fact that she still had it. Didn’t ask why Sam had brought it in the first place. She just—

“Thanks.”

And then she stood, slipping past Sam toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut, and Sam let out a slow, shaky breath. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding in her chest.

Because this—this was dangerous.

But Mon had smiled. Had taken it. Had chosen to wear it.

Sam didn’t know what to do with that.

So she changed. Slipped into her own pajamas. Waited.

The bathroom door opened with a quiet click.

Sam wasn’t looking at first. She was sitting at the edge of the bed, her back to the door, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the way her skin still felt warm from her own thoughts. She heard Mon step out, the soft sound of bare feet against the plush carpet.

And then—she looked.

Fuck.

Mon still looked so good in it.

Sam couldn’t look away. Her throat went dry. Her fingers twitched against the sheets.

Mon smiled. Not teasing. Not smug. Just gentle. Just knowing.

Because of course she knew. Of course she saw the way Sam’s gaze lingered for a second too long. Of course she felt it too.

But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t call Sam out on it. Didn’t make this into something heavier than it already was. She just walked over to the bed, slipping under the covers like she had done this a thousand times before, like it was just another night.

Like it wasn’t the first time in months.

Like Sam wasn’t still looking at her.

And then—settled, easy—

“Are you getting in, or are you just going to keep staring?”

Sam exhaled, a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. Then, low and soft: “Shut up.”

Mon smirked.

Sam turned off the light.

And finally—finally—slipped into bed beside her.

The darkness settled between them like something tangible. Like something waiting. The soft glow of the city lights filtered through the curtains, casting faint, golden shadows against the walls. The room was quiet—too quiet—but not empty.

Because Mon was right there.

Close enough that Sam could hear the steady rhythm of her breathing. Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, even without touching. Close enough that it made everything harder.

This was dangerous.

This was Mon in that pink nightgown, looking too soft, too familiar, too much like something Sam had let herself believe she could have once.

Now, she didn’t know where she belonged. Didn’t know if she had the right to be here. Didn’t know if Mon was keeping space for her or if this was just borrowed time, a fragile moment that would slip through her fingers the second the sun came up.

Sam swallowed. Stared up at the ceiling.

And then—soft, barely above a whisper—

“You’re thinking too much.”

Sam let out a slow breath. Turned her head slightly, just enough to see Mon’s profile in the dim light. She was lying on her side, her body turned toward Sam, one hand tucked under her cheek, the curve of her shoulder peeking out from beneath the covers.

She looked—

God.

She looked so good. So close.

Sam almost laughed, but it came out quiet, breathy, a little wrecked. “How do you always know?”

Mon’s lips curved—soft, easy. Like she wasn’t trying to do anything. Like she wasn’t undoing Sam just by existing. “Because I know you.”

The words hit deeper than they should have. Like a truth Sam had been running from. Because Mon did know her. Better than most people ever had. Better than Sam sometimes even knew herself.

And it was terrifying. It was—too much.

Sam closed her eyes. Tried to will away the ache, the weight of everything unsaid, the months apart, the fact that she still wanted Mon, and Mon was still right here.

Then, there was movement. Soft, slow. The sheets shifted. A warmth pressed closer.

Sam opened her eyes just as Mon reached out, her fingertips brushing lightly against Sam’s wrist. A touch so faint, so careful, that it sent a shiver down Sam’s spine.

“Can I?”

A simple question. A quiet one. One Sam didn’t have an answer to, but she did.

Yes. Always.

She swallowed. Nodded.

Mon moved closer. Not much. Just enough that their arms brushed beneath the covers. Just enough that Sam could feel the way Mon’s warmth seeped into her skin, the way her breath was steady, measured, like she wasn’t sure how far she could go. Like she was waiting for Sam to stop her.

Sam wasn’t going to stop her. Not tonight. Not when everything felt like this.

So she stayed still. Stayed here. Stayed with Mon.

And for the first time in months—she let herself belong.

Chapter Text

Mon blinked awake, the hazy glow of morning filtering through the curtains. The unfamiliar ceiling took a moment to register. Hotel. Right. Khun Sam’s hotel.

She shifted, only to realize—she couldn’t.

A solid warmth pressed against her, unmoving. An arm draped over her waist. A leg tangled with hers. A slow, steady breath ghosted against the back of her neck.

Oh. Oh.

Her heart stuttered.

Khun Sam.

She hadn’t meant for this to happen, for them to fall asleep like this, but now Khun Sam was here, really here, tangled in the quiet of the morning. Her body had naturally found its way to Mon, and Mon—Mon couldn’t decide whether to pull away or stay like this forever.

It wasn’t lost on her how perfectly their bodies fit together. It felt like a familiar ache, as if no time had passed between them. Yet, at the same time, everything felt different. She’d woken up alone so many times, spent months imagining what it would be like when Khun Sam returned. And now, here they were, in the fragile aftermath of a night that felt too big to contain, with everything left unsaid lingering in the space between their quiet breaths.

The memories of the night before flooded her thoughts in waves. That first real moment they’d shared again, seeing Sam after six months of silence and distance. The look in Khun Sam’s eyes as Mon had held up the glittery sign, her voice trembling when she said, “Hi.”  

The way Khun Sam had looked at her—like she was seeing a ghost, as if Mon weren’t real. As if no time had stretched between them.

Now, lying there with Khun Sam’s arm draped over her waist, Mon replayed the moment in her mind.

“You really haven’t changed.”

The words echoed in her head, softer now, less accusatory. Had she meant them as a compliment? A gentle tease? Or had they simply slipped out, unbidden, because seeing Khun Sam again had unraveled something in her?

And Khun Sam’s response— “Neither have you.”

What had she meant by that? Mon had brushed it off at the time, too focused on the absurdity of the hotel and the way Khun Sam’s presence had already begun to unsettle her. But now, with Sam’s warmth pressed against her, the words took on a new weight.

Had Khun Sam meant it as a reassurance? A reminder? Or had it been a quiet acknowledgment of the tension—and the tenderness—that had always simmered between them?

And that was the problem. Because Sam, despite everything, was still the person she remembered, the one who had made her feel things she wasn’t ready to face again. And here they were—right back where they started. The familiarity of it was suffocating and comforting all at once.

Mon’s chest tightened, but not with fear this time. With something else. Something she couldn’t quite name.

This was all so new. They were figuring it out, step by step, word by word. They were open now, in a way they hadn’t been before. Everything was different.

Except the love she had for Khun Sam.

Except—maybe that was different too.

It was deeper somehow. Fuller. Like it had grown roots in the time they’d spent apart, anchoring itself in places she hadn’t even realized were empty.

It felt… wrong. 

In a way, it felt like nothing had ever changed, but at the same time, everything had. They were different now—shaped by time and distance, broken and rebuilt in ways they were still learning to navigate. And that made everything so much harder.

Now, as she lay tangled in Khun Sam’s arms, Mon couldn’t shake the feeling that everything— everything —had changed. 

They hadn’t just missed six months. They had missed each other, and those missing pieces were impossible to ignore. It was like a part of her had been asleep, waiting for Sam, and now that she was here, Mon wasn’t sure if she was ready for all of it.

But Mon knew she couldn’t stay in this cocoon forever. She had to get up. She needed space. The silence was heavy, and she could feel the familiar tension building in her chest—the pressure to figure things out, to know what this meant.

She shifted slightly, trying to ease herself out of Khun Sam’s hold. She didn’t want to disturb her, but the urge to distance herself was strong. She was in too deep. The closeness was too much, and she could feel the edges of the pain from the last few months tugging at her. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for this.

But before she could slip fully away, Khun Sam’s arm tightened around her.

“Baby, stay,” Khun Sam whispered, her voice still thick with sleep, and Mon froze. The words were soft, almost a plea, and they melted the wall Mon had been trying to build.

Mon inhaled sharply, her breath catching. She turned slightly, looking down at Khun Sam’s face, her eyes still closed, the familiar soft curve of her lips forming the word again, a quiet plea that Mon could never resist.

“Khun Sam,” Mon murmured, trying to pull away again, but Sam’s grip tightened once more.

“No,” Khun Sam said simply, not even fully awake but pulling Mon closer with ease, like it was second nature. Khun Sam’s face nuzzled into the curve of Mon’s neck, her breath warm against her skin.

Mon’s heart skipped a beat at the sensation, and for a moment, she let herself relax into it, feeling the comfort of Khun Sam’s touch. She didn’t want to let go of this, but her mind still raced with all the things unsaid, all the fears, all the uncertainty about what came next.

And Mon couldn’t help it. She let herself stay. Because, for once, there was no need for words, no need to figure anything out right now. There was just this—the warm press of Khun Sam’s body against hers, the quiet comfort of being tangled up together, the weight of Khun Sam’s presence that she had missed so much.

In that moment, with Khun Sam’s arms around her, Mon realized something—maybe they didn’t need to have all the answers right now. Maybe it was enough to just be here, to just stay.

Mon didn’t remember falling back asleep, but when she blinked awake again, the room was brighter, the sunlight now spilling across the sheets in golden streaks. Khun Sam was still there, her arm still draped over Mon’s waist, her breath still steady against Mon’s neck.

But something was different.

Khun Sam stirred, her fingers flexing slightly against Mon’s hip, and Mon held her breath, unsure if she should pretend to still be asleep or face whatever came next.

Khun Sam’s voice broke the silence, soft and rough with sleep. “Morning.”

Mon’s heart skipped. She turned her head slightly, just enough to see Khun Sam’s face. Her eyes were half-open, her hair tousled, and there was a softness in her expression that made Mon’s chest ache.

“Morning,” Mon replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The weight of everything—the night, the months apart, the way they’d fallen back into each other so easily—settled around them like a heavy blanket. Mon could feel it pressing against her chest, the need to say something, to address the elephant in the room. But the words stuck in her throat.

Khun Sam shifted, propping herself up on one elbow, her gaze searching Mon’s face. “Did you sleep okay?”

The question was so ordinary, so mundane, that it almost made Mon laugh. 

Almost. 

Instead, she nodded, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of the sheet. “Yeah. You?”

“Better than I have in a while,” Khun Sam admitted, her voice quiet. There was something in her tone, something raw and unguarded, that made Mon’s breath catch.

They lapsed into silence again, the air between them thick with everything they weren’t saying. Mon’s mind raced, trying to find the right words, the right way to start this conversation. But how did you even begin to untangle six months of silence, of distance, of longing?

Mon swallowed, staring at the way the sunlight caught in Khun Sam’s hair, how it softened the sharp lines of her face, made her look almost... at peace.

Because Mon could see it now—the tension creeping in, the careful way Khun Sam was watching her, like she was bracing herself for something.

Like she knew this moment couldn’t last forever.

Neither of them spoke.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it wasn’t easy either. It was full—too full—with unspoken words, with the weight of everything they’d been avoiding since the moment Mon Khun Sam at the airport and smiled at her.

She didn’t think Khun Sam would show up and everything would tilt like this, like six months of distance hadn’t changed a thing, like they could slip into old rhythms too easily, too dangerously.

She didn’t think she would wake up next to her, wrapped up like nothing had ever broken between them.

Now they had to deal with it.

Mon exhaled, letting the tension settle. She could feel the weight of everything still hanging between them, thick and unresolved—but instead of pushing, instead of reaching for something heavier, she let herself pivot.

Because lighter was easier.

And right now, she needed easy.

So, she cleared her throat, shifting onto her side and reaching for the bedside table. “Well,” she said, voice forcibly casual, “since I am the guest here, I believe you promised me breakfast.”

Khun Sam blinked at her. “I did?”

“Yes,” Mon said with full confidence, even if she wasn’t entirely sure if Khun Sam had actually meant to agree to this. “And as the guest, I get to choose.”

Khun Sam huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over her face. “Okay, sure. Go ahead, then.”

Mon grabbed the room service menu, flipping it open as she settled back against the pillows. She scanned the options, her eyes flicking down the page—only to pause.

Her brows furrowed.

She flipped to another page. Then another.

Her expression twisted in mild horror.“Khun Sam.”

Khun Sam hummed in response, stretching her arms above her head like she hadn’t just shattered Mon’s entire worldview.

“There are no prices,” Mon said flatly.

“I know,” Khun Sam replied, completely unfazed.

Mon squinted at her.

“No, but—there are no prices. Anywhere. Not on the breakfast page, not on the drinks page, not even on the stupid ‘seasonal fruit selection’ page.”

She flipped the menu around, jabbing at it for emphasis. “Who does that?”

Khun Sam smirked, barely cracking an eye open. “Rich people.”

Mon’s jaw dropped. “I—” She gestured wildly at the menu. “How do you just—just order things without knowing how much they cost?”

Khun Sam let out a slow, indulgent stretch before giving her a lazy smile. “Because if you have to ask, Mon, you probably can’t afford it.”

Mon let out a scandalized gasp. “Are you calling me poor, again? ”

Khun Sam laughed, actually laughed, and Mon hated the way it made something warm curl in her chest.

“Just pick something,” Khun Sam said, tilting her head back against the pillows. “I’m not letting you starve over an existential crisis about menu prices.”

“This is not an existential crisis,” Mon argued, even though it absolutely was. “This is me having a very normal and reasonable reaction to food with a mystery price tag.”

Khun Sam snorted. “Mon.”

“I’m just saying—what if I accidentally order something ridiculous? What if I end up with, like, a twenty-pound smoothie?”

Khun Sam smirked. “Then I guess you’ll be drinking a very expensive smoothie.”

Mon groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “This is terrifying.”

Khun Sam turned her head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s breakfast.”

“It’s breakfast with no financial accountability!”

Khun Sam laughed again.

And damn it.

That sound—it was too easy .

Too natural.

Like before.

Mon swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they still were. How they were tangled up in sheets, arguing about rich people nonsense, like this was just another morning together.

Like this wasn’t dangerous.

Khun Sam was still looking at her, still smiling in that way that made Mon’s stomach flip.

So she did the only thing she could do.

She huffed dramatically, turned back to the menu, and said, “If I accidentally order something outrageously expensive, I’m not even gonna feel bad about it—that’s on you.”

Khun Sam smirked, completely unbothered. “Mon, you could order the entire menu , and it still wouldn’t be a problem.”

She stretched lazily, tilting her head toward Mon with that infuriatingly smug look. “Actually, go ahead. Make it hurt. Get the most obnoxiously expensive thing on there. Really test the limits.”

Mon rolled her eyes but flipped through the menu anyway, determined to at least pick something she wouldn’t have to agonize over later.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if the coffee comes in some ridiculous gold-plated cup, I’m taking it with me.”

Khun Sam huffed out a quiet laugh. “Stealing from the hotel now? That’s bold.”

Mon shot her a look. “Oh, please. If they can afford to not put prices on the menu, they can afford to lose one cup.”

Khun Sam chuckled, sitting up fully now, the sheets pooling around her waist. “You really are struggling with the concept of rich people breakfast, huh?”

“I’m struggling with the concept of financial chaos,” Mon corrected, still scanning the menu like the prices might magically appear if she glared hard enough.

Khun Sam shook her head, clearly amused. “Just pick something. I promise you, whatever you choose, I’m not gonna go broke over it.”

Mon sighed, muttering under her breath as she finally landed on something. “Fine. Waffles. And coffee. And maybe some fruit.”

Khun Sam raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Mon pursed her lips. “Yes, that’s it.”

Khun Sam leaned closer, voice dropping playfully. “Not even the caviar omelet?”

Mon gasped, whipping her head toward her. “There is a caviar omelet?!”

Khun Sam bit her lip, clearly holding back a laugh. “There is now.”

Mon groaned, shoving the menu against Khun Sam’s chest. “You are absolutely unbearable.”

Khun Sam caught the menu effortlessly, smirking as she leaned back against the pillows. “No, I’m rich. There’s a difference.”

Mon gasped, eyes narrowing. “That is not the point.”

Khun Sam smirked. “Sounds like it might be.”

Mon dropped her head back against the pillows, dramatically exhaling. “I cannot believe I invited you to London.”

Khun Sam chuckled, reaching for the phone. “Too late for regrets, Mon. Now, are we sticking with waffles, or should I throw in some financially irresponsible extras?”

Mon peeked at her, lips pressing together in thought. “You know what? Surprise me.”

Khun Sam’s smirk softened into something quieter, something almost fond.

“I can do that.”

Mon snatched the phone from Sam’s hand before she could dial. “I’ll do it.”

Khun Sam raised an amused eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about room service.”

Mon ignored her, sitting up straighter as she scrolled through the options again. “If I’m about to order a breakfast with a secret price tag, I’m at least going to be the one making the choices.”

Khun Sam smirked, leaning back against the pillows. “By all means. Go wild.”

Mon narrowed her eyes at her but turned her attention to the phone. She pressed the call button, waiting as the line rang. A moment later, a polite voice answered.

“Hi, yes,” Mon started, trying to sound completely unbothered by the fact that she had no idea how much this breakfast was about to cost. “I’d like to order breakfast for two.”

She glanced at Khun Sam, who was watching her with far too much amusement. Mon resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her.

“We’ll have the waffles,” she said, then hesitated before adding, “and the seasonal fruit platter. And coffee. Two.”

Khun Sam gave her a knowing look but didn’t interrupt.

Mon scanned the menu again, debating. Screw it. If Khun Sam insisted money wasn’t a concern, she might as well test it.

“Oh, and the fresh pastries,” she added. “And—” her eyes flicked down the menu again, landing on something that made her pause. “Wait. Do you guys really have a truffle omelet?”

Khun Sam’s smirk grew.

“Yes, madam,” the voice on the other end responded.

Mon let out a slow breath. Rich people.

She glanced at Khun Sam, who raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Fine.

Mon straightened her back, forcing confidence into her tone. “Then we’ll take one of those too.”

Khun Sam’s expression turned downright delighted.

The person on the phone confirmed the order, and Mon hung up, placing the phone carefully back on the nightstand before turning to Sam.

Khun Sam was watching her, expression smug. “So?”

Mon sighed, flopping back against the pillows. “I think I just ordered the most expensive breakfast of my life.”

Khun Sam’s smile turned smug. “That’s the spirit.”

Mon groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I can’t believe this is my life right now.”

Khun Sam stretched, looking far too satisfied. “You still ordered the truffle omelet.”

Mon threw a pillow at her.

Mon sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at the spread in front of them. The tray was ridiculous—a full silver setup with steaming cups of coffee, golden waffles stacked high, an elegant bowl of fruit that looked too perfectly arranged to be natural, and, of course, the infamous truffle omelet.

She picked up her fork, eyeing it suspiciously. “This is the most absurd breakfast I’ve ever had.”

Khun Sam, sitting beside her, casually spread butter on a croissant like she hadn’t just fed Mon’s growing existential crisis. “It’s just food, Mon.”

Mon pointed her fork at her. “It is not just food. It’s food that costs an undisclosed amount of money. That makes it inherently terrifying.”

Khun Sam smirked. “Then I guess you better eat it before you start overthinking again.”

Mon huffed but took a bite of her waffle anyway.

And damn it.

It was good.

Like, stupidly good. The kind of good that made her angry, because no waffle should be this perfect.

Khun Sam watched her with amusement. “That’s your ‘I hate how good this is’ face.”

Mon swallowed, glaring at her. “I’m having a moral dilemma.”

Khun Sam chuckled, sipping her coffee. “Eat your overpriced waffle, Mon.”

Mon sighed dramatically but took another bite. “I’m never gonna be able to eat a normal waffle again.”

Khun Sam hummed in mock sympathy. “That’s the real rich people trap. Once you taste luxury, there’s no going back.”

Mon rolled her eyes but reached for her coffee, taking a sip—only to pause mid-drink.

She lowered the cup slowly. “Khun Sam.”

Khun Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Mon stared at the cup, then at Sam. “Why is this coffee so good?”

Khun Sam grinned. “Because you let me pay for it.”

Mon groaned, setting the cup down like it had personally betrayed her. “I hate this. I hate how much I love this.”

Khun Sam tore off a piece of her croissant, entirely too pleased. “It’s okay, Mon. Just accept that you have expensive taste.”

Mon muttered something under her breath but ultimately kept eating.

And damn it, the truffle omelet was really good too.

Mon let out a slow, uneven breath, dragging her fingers through her hair as she stared at her reflection.

Breakfast was over, the remnants of their meal still sitting on the tray by the door, the scent of coffee lingering in the air.  But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing here, in this .

Her hair was a mess, her skin still carrying the warmth of the morning, and the pink nightgown—soft, familiar, devastatingly significant—clung to her like it had a hold on her, like it knew exactly what it meant.

She swallowed hard, fingers brushing over the fabric like she could smooth out the weight of it. But she couldn’t. It was too much. Too intimate. Too damn charged with everything she was trying not to feel.

She hadn’t said anything when Khun Sam handed it to her last night. Hadn’t questioned why she still had it.  

The way Khun Sam hesitated before giving it to her, like she wasn’t sure she was ready to let go of it. The way her voice had softened, barely noticeable but there . The way Mon had looked at her, seen right through her, and still—still—had simply taken it.

Her throat tightened.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe past the ache blooming inside her.

She exhaled sharply, willing the heat rising to her face to disappear. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change the fact that she had nothing else to wear.

From the bedroom, Khun Sam’s voice floated in, amused and light. “Are you having an existential crisis in there?”

“Yes,” Mon called back without hesitation.

A beat. Then—“Is it about the coffee again?”

Mon scowled, pushing off the counter before stomping back into the room. “No, it’s about the fact that I don’t have any clothes, and I am not walking around London in the same thing I wore yesterday.”

Khun Sam, already dressed—white T-shirt, black shorts, effortlessly composed—perched on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, looking impossibly at ease.

“That is a problem,” she said, with absolutely no concern whatsoever.

Mon narrowed her eyes. “You’re being so helpful.”

“I try.”

Mon inhaled sharply through her nose, exhaling just as sharply. “Okay. Options. I could go home and change, but that’s a whole trip across the city—”

Khun Sam hesitated.

It was quick—so quick that Mon might have missed it if she weren’t watching her so closely. Just the slightest pause, the barest flicker of something unreadable in her expression, before she spoke.

“Or,” Khun Sam said, voice deliberately even, “you could just wear something of mine.”

Mon stilled.

For a moment, she could only stare, her brain short-circuiting at the suggestion.

She caught it— all of it. The way Khun Sam’s fingers twitched slightly against her coffee cup, the way her jaw tensed just enough to betray her casual tone, the way she said it too easily, like she was trying not to care.

Mon blinked. “Excuse me?”

Khun Sam shrugged, perfectly composed now. “You’re tiny. It’ll be a little big, but it’s better than wearing the same outfit two days in a row.”

Mon opened her mouth. Closed it.

Because—no. Absolutely not. That was a terrible idea.

Wearing Khun S am’s clothes? Clothes that smelled like her, carried her warmth, draped over Mon’s body like a memory she wasn’t ready to hold?

Bad. Very bad.

Khun Sam, now looking entirely too unaffected, gestured lazily toward her suitcase. “Take something.”

Mon narrowed her eyes.

Khun Sam was not as neutral about this as she was pretending to be.

But instead of calling her out on it, Mon swallowed down whatever this was and moved toward the suitcase.

Because acknowledging it? Would be worse.

She rifled through the neatly packed clothes, her fingers brushing against expensive fabrics, structured jackets, and crisply pressed shirts. Everything was either too much or not enough , too tailored or too oversized, too Khun Sam for Mon to pretend it meant nothing.

Finally, she found something acceptable—a plain black T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

She hesitated, holding up the denim with deep suspicion.

Khun Sam in jeans was rare. Unbelievably rare. The fact that these weren’t tailored within an inch of their life made them almost... normal.

Mon turned, eyes narrowing. “You own jeans?”

Khun Sam, still sipping her coffee by the window, barely looked up. “Evidently.”

Mon pursed her lips, still skeptical, before shaking her head and heading toward the bathroom to change.

As soon as she shut the door, she took a deep breath, staring at her reflection.

This was fine. Fine. She was just borrowing clothes. It wasn’t a thing.

But as she pulled on the T-shirt—soft and undeniably Khun Sam—and stepped into the jeans, she let out a long, long sigh.

The fit was all wrong. Too loose around her waist, sitting too low on her hips, too much like they belonged to someone else.

She needed a belt.

With zero hesitation, she swung the door open. “Khun Sam.”

Khun Sam glanced up, and Mon caught it— that pause. The way her gaze dropped, taking in the outfit, lingering just long enough to make Mon’s breath hitch.

She stilled.

Just for a second.

Mon pretended not to notice.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a belt?”

Khun Sam’s lips twitched. “Why?”

Mon glared. “Because these jeans are trying to fall off my body, and I would prefer to walk around London without constantly holding up my pants.”

Khun Sam hummed thoughtfully, setting her coffee down. “I don’t know, Mon. I think they suit you like that.”

Mon grabbed the nearest thing—a hotel robe—and tossed it at her. “Belt. Now.”

Khun Sam caught it effortlessly, her smirk growing as she walked over to her suitcase. She dug around for a moment before pulling out a simple black leather belt and tossing it over.

Mon caught it, threading it through the loops with a muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Khun Sam leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, watching her with far too much amusement.

Mon huffed, striding toward the door. “Just buy me coffee and try not to be annoying for the rest of the day.”

Khun Sam followed, still way too pleased with herself. “That’s asking a lot.”

Mon shot her a glare over her shoulder. “Try.”

Khun Sam chuckled, holding the door open for her. “Fine. But if we’re out all day, I get to pick where we have lunch.”

Mon scoffed. “We both know you were going to do that anyway.”

Khun Sam smirked, slipping her sunglasses on as they stepped out into the hallway. “True.”

Mon sighed, already bracing herself for whatever the day had in store.

The city moved around them, vibrant and alive, but Mon barely registered any of it. The morning rush had thinned out, leaving behind a steadier rhythm—footsteps against pavement, the distant hum of conversation, the occasional sound of a bus pulling away from the curb. It should have made her feel grounded.

It didn’t.

Because Khun Sam was walking beside her.

Because they were here, together, like it was nothing.

Like the last six months hadn’t happened.

Like Mon hadn’t spent so many nights wondering what it would feel like to have Khun Sam this close again, to walk beside her with no real destination, to reach for her—if she could.

Now, they were heading into a café Mon had claimed as her own, but even that felt different, like the space had shifted just because Khun Sam was in it.

She pushed open the door, the scent of fresh coffee wrapping around them as they stepped inside. The café wasn’t crowded, just a few people scattered across tables, tucked into their own quiet worlds. It was why she liked this place—small, intimate, easy.

Except today, nothing felt easy.

Mon stepped toward the counter, scanning the menu even though she already knew what she wanted. Beside her, Khun Sam did the same, her brows drawing together slightly in concentration.

Mon knew that look.

It wasn’t that Khun Sam couldn’t order for herself—she could. But she didn’t like hesitating, didn’t like searching for the right words while someone waited. Didn’t like the way people’s faces sometimes shifted when they realized she wasn’t fluent.

So Mon just glanced at her, easy and casual. “What do you want?”

Khun Sam exhaled, shoulders loosening just a little. She told Mon, quietly, and Mon nodded before turning back to the cashier, slipping effortlessly between languages like it was second nature.

“Can I get two oat milk lattes? One iced, one hot. And a croissant.”

The barista nodded, tapping in the order. Then—smiled a little too much.

“Oh, I like your accent,” they said, eyes flicking toward Khun Sam. “Where are you from?”

Mon stilled.

Khun Sam blinked, mildly surprised at the sudden attention. “Thailand.”

The barista’s smile widened, leaning slightly against the counter. “That’s cool! How long have you been in London?”

Mon’s jaw clenched.

Khun Sam opened her mouth to respond, but Mon didn’t let her.

“She’s visiting,” Mon cut in, voice a little sharper than necessary.

Khun Sam turned to her, one brow raising. The barista blinked, then glanced at Mon, as if just now realizing she existed.

Not jealous. Nope. Definitely not.

The barista chuckled, clearly unbothered, and handed over the receipt, eyes flicking right back to Khun Sam. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time here.” Their voice was just a little too soft, their smile a little too inviting.

Mon didn’t give Khun Sam the chance to react. She snatched her wallet and paid before Khun Sam could even think about reaching for hers.

Khun Sam exhaled a small, amused hum, watching her.

Mon’s jaw tightened, but she refused to acknowledge it. The barista had handed their drinks over with a little too much lingering eye contact, and Mon could practically feel the tension building between them.

The barista smiled at Khun Sam, a little too friendly, a little too eager.

“Here you go,” he said with a nod, his gaze flickering from Khun Sam to Mon. “Enjoy your coffee.”

Khun Sam gave him a polite smile, but it was obvious—Mon noticed the way the guy held the cup just a little longer than necessary, how his gaze lingered just a bit too long on Khun Sam’s smile.

Mon couldn’t help the way her muscles tensed. He was definitely looking at her like that.

Khun Sam straightened, taking the coffee from the barista with a smile and a soft thank you, but Mon could feel the quiet, unspoken tension building in her chest. She was getting worked up over nothing. She knew it. And yet…

“They were cute.”

Mon whipped her head toward her. “Are you serious?”

Khun Sam tilted her head, eyes dancing. “Why? Do you think they were cute?”

Mon’s nostrils flared. “Oh my god.”

Khun Sam just chuckled, clearly reveling in this, and started toward the door.

Mon followed, grumbling under her breath, gripping her cup a little too tight.

Unbelievable. Unbelievable.

And when they finally sat down, Mon had to take a long sip of coffee just to keep herself from saying something truly, incredibly stupid.

The silence stretched.

They’d been joking all morning, but now? Sitting here, just the two of them, with the weight of everything between them—it was different.

Mon kept her eyes on the street, on the people passing by, trying to will away the ridiculous heat creeping up her spine.

She wasn’t jealous. That would be ridiculous. That would imply she had any claim to Khun Sam.

And she didn’t.

They weren’t together anymore.

She had no reason to feel like this.

Except—Khun Sam had flown to London. She was sitting here now, across from Mon, drinking coffee that Mon had paid for. It felt impossible to ignore the way she slotted herself into Mon’s space like she belonged there.

And maybe that was the real problem.

Because Mon wasn’t sure when she had stopped trying to convince herself that this didn’t mean something.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, movement.

She turned her head just in time to see the barista stepping outside, wiping their hands on a rag before tossing it over their shoulder. They lingered near the doorway for a moment, then spotted them—and, more specifically , spotted Khun Sam.

Mon’s stomach tightened.

What kind of barista even comes outside to check in on customers? What the fuck?

“Hey,” the barista said, flashing a small smile. “How’s the coffee?”

Khun Sam blinked, caught a little off guard. “Good.”

Mon did not move.

The barista nodded, leaning slightly against the doorframe, their gaze flicking between them. “You here long?”

Khun Sam barely had time to glance at Mon before answering, “Three weeks.”

The barista grinned. “That’s a good amount of time. Plenty to explore.” Their gaze flickered to Mon for the briefest second, then settled back on Sam. “You should let me know if you need recommendations.”

Mon’s grip on her coffee cup tightened.

Oh. Absolutely not.

Who was this person? Baristas don’t do this. They don’t just wander outside to flirt with customers in broad daylight like this is some kind of rom-com.

Khun Sam hesitated, lips parting slightly, like she wasn’t sure how to respond.

Mon responded for her.

“She’s already got a guide,” she said, voice even, casual. Not jealous at all. Nope. Definitely not.

Khun Sam exhaled, barely covering a laugh as she took a sip of her drink.

The barista raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Lucky her.”

Mon’s jaw locked.

Khun Sam, smirking now, just a little, gave a polite nod. And with that, the barista finally stepped back inside.

For a moment, Mon said nothing.

She did not glare at the doorway where the barista had disappeared.

She did not stew over the words Lucky her.

And she absolutely did not care that Khun Sam was still sitting there, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t just been flirted with right in front of her.

Nope.

She was perfectly fine.

Khun Sam took another slow sip, watching her over the rim of her cup, something too knowing in her gaze. Then, with an almost lazy curiosity, she asked, “Are you always this territorial, or just with me?”

Mon’s fingers froze around her coffee cup.

Her pulse skipped , then raced.

“Excuse me?”

Khun Sam tilted her head slightly, a smirk teasing at the corner of her lips. “You paid for my drink before I could. You answered for me when the barista was being friendly. And—” she took another sip, her eyes glinting with amusement, “—you’re making that face.”

Mon scowled . “I am not making a face.”

Khun Sam just smirked harder. “You are. Very serious.”

Mon exhaled sharply through her nose, setting her coffee down with force. “It’s called being a good host. ”

Khun Sam hummed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Mon grabbed a piece of her croissant aggressively. “Yes.”

Khun Sam chuckled, shaking her head. “Alright, Mon.”

Mon shoved the croissant into her mouth, refusing to engage further—even as her stomach churned with something stupidly warm.

She needed to move. To do something.

Because if she sat here any longer, she was going to have to face the fact that jealousy wasn’t just a reaction. It was a reminder .

That she still wanted Khun Sam.

That she had never stopped.

Swallowing, she wiped her hands on a napkin and said, way too quickly, “So. What’s next?”

Khun Sam let her get away with the change in subject, but the smirk on her face said everything.

“You’re letting me choose?”

Mon exhaled, standing up. “You said you wanted to see London. Let’s go.”

Khun Sam stood smoothly, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her lap, and— fuck.

Mon felt it hit her all over again.

She’d seen this outfit this morning. Wide awake. Fully aware. Had clocked it immediately—the casual ease of it, the effortlessness, the way Khun Sam just existed in her own skin like it had never been a battle.

And Mon had been fine.

Or, at least, she’d told herself she was.

But now—after the barista, after watching someone else look at Khun Sam like that, after hearing the lingering interest in their voice—now, she wasn’t fine at all.

Because it wasn’t just seeing Khun Sam anymore.

It was feeling the weight of someone else seeing her too.

And Mon hated that it made something coil tight and uneasy in her stomach. Hated that it made her chest feel hot, too full, too much.

Like she’d forgotten —for just a second—that Khun Sam wasn’t hers to be annoyed over.

She tore her gaze away, grabbing her bag a little too forcefully and slinging it over her shoulder. “Come on.”

Khun Sam, who had definitely noticed, took her time slipping on her sunglasses, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Her voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something beneath it—something that made Mon’s pulse spike. “Where are we going first, guide ?”

Mon exhaled, too sharp, too aware. “Somewhere you won’t get distracted.”

Khun Sam hummed, amused. “Impossible.”

Mon ignored the way that sent something sharp and unsteady through her chest.

She walked faster.

Khun Sam— of course —kept pace, easily falling in step beside her, the city moving around them, streets narrowing as the morning stretched toward afternoon.

London was always alive, always shifting—people weaving in and out of the sidewalks, pressing too close, forcing them closer.

Their shoulders brushed. Once. Then again. And again. And again.

Mon swore she could feel every point of contact, every fleeting press of warmth, like Khun Sam was leaving invisible marks on her skin.

She should’ve gotten used to it by now—should’ve adjusted, should’ve ignored it.

But then— their hands.

The first time, it was nothing. A quick, accidental graze.

The second time, Mon pulled away on instinct, fingers twitching, heart slamming into her ribs too fast, too hard.

The third time…

Neither of them moved away.

Mon forgot how to breathe.

She told herself it was the crowd, the way people were packed too tightly on the sidewalk, shifting, making space, taking space.

But then—Khun Sam looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And just like that, with no hesitation, no question—Khun Sam took her hand.

Mon’s pulse stuttered, then skyrocketed, crashing into itself.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just about touching her anymore.

It was about the way people looked at Khun Sam.

The way the barista had looked at her.

The way someone passing by might look at her now.

Like she was available.

Like she wasn’t already something else.

And Mon hated how much she cared.

Hated how good it felt—the quiet certainty of Khun Sam’s fingers curling around hers, the unspoken message in it, the way it told everyone that she was with Mon.

It was almost possessive.

But not quite.

Because it wasn’t a claim. It wasn’t a performance.

It was just Khun Sam.

Holding her hand like it was easy. Like it was natural. Like she didn’t even have to think about it.

They should let go.

They should.

But they didn’t.

They kept walking, hand in hand , like it was nothing.

But it was.

It was everything.

Mon stared straight ahead, fingers locked with Khun Sam’s, her entire world narrowing to the warmth of Khun Sam’s palm against hers, the way their hands fit together so effortlessly.

Like they belonged there.

Like Mon wanted them there.

What the fuck.

Khun Sam didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at her, didn’t falter, didn’t let go.

She just held on.

And Mon let her.

They kept walking, like it was normal. Like it was easy. Like Mon wasn’t spiraling internally, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest, trying not to squeeze Khun Sam’s hand just to see what she’d do.

She needed to ground herself. She needed something familiar, something easy.

So, she led them to a market.

The market was alive, bustling with movement and noise—a sprawling, vibrant place full of fresh produce, baked goods, and handmade crafts. The kind of place Mon loved. The kind of place where she could get lost.

Except she wasn’t lost.

She was too aware of the person beside her.

Of Khun Sam, walking next to her with that impossible ease, scanning the booths like she belonged here—even though Mon knew she didn’t.

Khun Sam had never been the type to stroll through markets like this. Not really.

But now, she moved between the stalls like she’d done it a thousand times before.

Mon glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “Didn’t think this was your kind of place.”

Khun Sam smirked. “What? You think I only go to places with white tablecloths?”

Mon gestured at her entire existence. “Yes.”

Khun Sam chuckled, shaking her head. “I like this.”

Mon wanted to believe her.

But deep down, she knew that Khun Sam was learning to like things for different reasons now. She liked them because they had nothing to do with her old life. Because they were new, separate—and Mon didn’t know whether to be relieved or sad about it.

She hummed, turning toward a fruit stall to distract herself. She reached for a basket of berries, but before she could, Khun Sam was already handing it to her.

It was such a simple thing. A small gesture.

But it wasn’t .

Not when their fingers brushed again. Not when Khun Sam did it so easily, like this was just how things were now.

Mon swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

Khun Sam’s gaze flickered to hers, something unreadable in her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Mon turned away before she drowned in it.

A little later, they wandered to a flower stand.

Mon wasn’t even sure how it happened, but suddenly, Khun Sam was standing there, looking at the delicate displays with mild curiosity.

Mon crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Are you planning to buy flowers?”

Khun Sam shrugged, too casual. “Maybe.”

Mon scoffed, half-smiling. “For who?”

Khun Sam turned her head toward her, her expression impossibly unreadable.

Then, without hesitation, she plucked a single flower from the display and held it out toward Mon.

Mon stared at it.

Then at Khun Sam.

Then back at the flower, her heart hammering.

“What—”

Khun Sam smirked, placing it gently in Mon’s hand before she could protest. “For you, obviously.”

Mon felt her world tilt .

What the hell was she supposed to do with this?

With Khun Sam, standing there so smug, handing her a flower like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t everything.

Mon exhaled way too sharply, her grip tightening on the stem, her heart racing in a way that made her dizzy. “Unbelievable.”

Khun Sam grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Mon shoved the flower into her bag, walking away with more force than necessary, as if running from the reality of what just happened.

And then—

“You know, that’s a lucky flower.”

The voice was warm, easy, belonging to the vendor—a young woman with bright eyes and an even brighter smile.

Mon turned, catching the way she was very much looking at Khun Sam.

Oh, come on.

Khun Sam blinked, polite but slightly confused. “Is it?”

The vendor nodded, leaning slightly over the counter, her smile shifting into something more.

“Mmhmm. It’s supposed to bring love and happiness to whoever gives it.” She tilted her head, gaze flickering briefly to Mon before sliding back to Khun Sam. “Though, I guess that depends on who you give it to.”

Mon’s fingers clenched tight around the strap of her bag.

This was ridiculous.

Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

What was it with people today? Was Khun Sam wearing some kind of invisible flirt with me sign?

Mon could feel Khun Sam glance at her, like she was checking for a reaction.

She refused to give one.

Instead, she plastered on a too-sweet smile and slammed a few coins down on the counter. “We’ll take it, thanks.”

The vendor’s smile faltered for half a second before smoothing over again. “Oh, no charge. It’s just a little superstition.”

Mon did not care.

She grabbed Khun Sam’s wrist— gently , but firmly—and started pulling her away. “Great. Have a nice day.”

Khun Sam let her, though Mon did not miss the way she was very obviously laughing under her breath.

When they were a good distance away, Mon finally let go.

Khun Sam, of course, immediately smirked. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Mon bit out, yanking her bag higher on her shoulder.

Khun Sam hummed. “You seemed… eager to leave.”

Mon didn’t look at her. “We have things to do.”

Khun Sam laughed—full, bright, like she was having the time of her life.

Mon hated her.

Mon hated that she loved the sound of it.

She hated that her hand still felt warm where she’d grabbed her.

And most of all, she hated that she kept replaying the vendor’s words in her head.

It’s supposed to bring love and happiness to whoever gives it.

Mon scowled at the ground, walking faster.

Khun Sam, of course, kept pace.

They were near the river, standing at the edge of a pedestrian bridge that overlooked the water. The afternoon light reflected off the surface, shimmering in shades of gold and blue, and the city stretched out around them, alive with a quiet hum of movement.

Mon had suggested they stop here—part to slow down, part to give herself a moment to breathe. She wasn’t sure it was helping.

Because Khun Sam was still holding her hand.

They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the market. There had been no need. Everything had settled into a space that was comfortable but not quite safe , familiar but not quite normal.

The longer they stood there, the more Mon felt the weight of the day—the weight of Khun Sam’s hand in hers, the weight of everything she wasn’t saying. The space between them was thick with words unspoken, and Mon had never felt more aware of the quiet tension pressing down on her.

And the worst part?

Khun Sam was enjoying this.

Like she wasn’t even slightly affected, like Mon dragging her away from yet another overly friendly stranger was the most amusing thing that had happened to her all day.

Like Mon wasn’t still feeling the ghost of her hand around her wrist, like her heart wasn’t still beating too fast, too loud, like she wasn’t—

Mon exhaled sharply through her nose, focusing on the movement of the water, trying to ground herself in anything outside of her thoughts.

That’s when she noticed him.

Across the street, leaning casually against the railing.

He wasn’t just passing by. He wasn’t glancing briefly at the scene.

He was looking.

At Khun Sam.

Too obviously. Too long.

Mon’s grip tightened instinctively, pulling Khun Sam’s hand a fraction closer to her own. The gesture was small, but it was immediate. Unthinking.

Khun Sam noticed . She tilted her head slightly, like she was about to ask something, but Mon spoke first.

“Do you want to go?”

Her voice came out tighter than she intended, sharp with something she wasn’t ready to admit to herself.

Khun Sam blinked, glancing around, trying to figure out what Mon was reacting to. “We just got here.”

Mon didn’t know how to explain the tightness in her chest, the uneasy feeling crawling under her skin. She didn’t know how to say that she could feel the weight of the man’s gaze, how it made her want to do something irrational.

Protective.

She didn’t know what to do with the way her fingers were still gripping Khun Sam’s, the way her chest felt too full, too tight.

And Khun Sam—of course—was just standing there, completely unbothered.

Because of course she was.

Because somehow, somehow, Mon was the only one losing her mind over this.

Khun Sam turned back to her, smirking slightly. “Mon.”

“No.”

Khun Sam let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low, too knowing. “Are you jealous again?”

Mon scowled. “Oh my god.”

Khun Sam squeezed her hand, like she was actually having fun with this. “I’m just saying—”

“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

Khun Sam just laughed, infuriatingly soft, infuriatingly warm.

And then—

Her thumb brushed lightly against the back of Mon’s hand.

Just a soft, thoughtless caress.

It was the kind of touch that was possessive without meaning to be.

Mon’s breath hitched, the sound almost a stifled sigh, and she hated the way it made her chest squeeze, the way her fingers twitched but didn’t pull away.

She hated that she still felt like she was holding her hand.

She hated that she had liked the way people had looked at them when she did.

And most of all—she hated that she wanted to do it again.

She turned away, pretending to focus on the river, trying to dismiss the confusion swirling inside her.

She didn’t know what to do with any of it.

So she didn’t let go.

And Khun Sam didn’t either.

The walk back to the hotel felt endless.

The city moved around them, people weaving in and out, voices blending into a hum of background noise. The streets narrowed, the river faded behind them, but Mon barely registered any of it.

Because she was still holding Khun Sam’s hand.

Because, of course, she was.

Because they had just kept walking like this—like it was normal, like it was fine.

Like Mon wasn’t losing her mind over it.

She was still thinking about the barista. About the vendor. About that man on the bridge. About the way all of them had looked at Khun Sam like she was available.

Like Mon wasn’t still feeling the way jealousy had crawled under her skin, sinking in too deep, too fast, setting up camp in her chest like it belonged there.

And she shouldn’t be feeling this way.

It had been six months.

Six months since everything fell apart.

Six months since she packed up her life and left. Since they stopped talking. Since the only thing tying them together was the space between them.

And now they were here.

Now they were walking side by side, holding hands, with no explanation, no conversation, no acknowledgment of what the hell this even was.

And Khun Sam was just—

Khun Sam.

Unbothered. Effortless. Walking next to her with that same impossible ease, like she wasn’t completely shattering Mon’s ability to function.

Like this was just a thing they did now.

Like she hadn’t left Mon spiraling back there on the bridge, pressing their hands closer together without even thinking about what it meant.

Mon exhaled sharply, barely catching herself before she groaned out loud.

Khun Sam glanced at her, the shift in her gaze immediate. “Are you okay?”

No.

"Fine."

Khun Sam hummed, slow, thoughtful.

Mon ignored it.

She focused on the pavement instead, on the sound of their footsteps, on anything other than the way Khun Sam’s thumb was still brushing against the side of her hand, absentminded and infuriating.

This wasn’t normal.

This wasn’t nothing.

They needed to talk about it.

But the thought of breaking this, of pulling away and forcing words into the space between them—it made Mon’s stomach twist.

Because the moment they talked about it, it would become real.

And Mon wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

So instead, she just kept walking.

And Khun Sam just kept holding her hand.

They were halfway to the hotel when Mon snapped.

One second, she was walking, overthinking, trying to keep her head above water while Khun Sam just existed beside her like this wasn’t everything.

Then she stopped.

Stopped walking.

Stopped thinking.

Stopped pretending like she wasn’t losing her fucking mind over this.

Khun Sam barely had time to react before Mon grabbed her.

Before she turned, fisted the front of Khun Sam’s stupid, perfect white T-shirt, and kissed her.

Hard.

Khun Sam made a soft, surprised noise—just a breath, just a second of hesitation—before she melted into it.

Before she kissed her back.

Before she grabbed Mon in return, hands firm, grounding, tilting her head like she wanted more.

Mon didn’t know what she was doing—only that she couldn’t stop.

Six months had been too long.

Jealousy still burned in her chest, unshakable.

Khun Sam held her hand like it was nothing—like it wasn’t wrecking Mon, like she wasn’t hers.

They hadn’t talked about what this was.

Mon didn’t care anymore.

Not when this —finally, undeniably real —was right here, within reach.

She kissed her deeper, pressing in, hands sliding up to hold her there, as if letting go might make Khun Sam disappear.

She needed this.

She needed her.

A breath, a heartbeat—then, a low, warm laugh, right against her lips.

Mon froze.

Khun Sam smirked, fingers ghosting along her jaw, tilting her chin up just slightly.

Khun Sam, smug as ever, murmured, “So you were jealous.”

Mon shoved her. “Oh my god.”

Khun Sam laughed, easily catching her balance.

Mon groaned, turning away and stomping toward the hotel. “I regret everything.”

Still grinning, Khun Sam caught up without effort. “No, you don’t.”

Mon didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Her heart was still racing. Her lips still tingled.

And Khun Sam was right.

She didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

The city stretched ahead, the streets quieter now, the weight of the day settling between them.

Mon’s grip on Khun Sam’s hand hadn’t loosened.

She told herself it was just easier this way, that after holding on for so long, it felt more natural than letting go. But she knew better.

Glancing over, she caught the way Khun Sam was still watching her—wide-eyed, lips parted—like she hadn’t quite processed what had just happened.

Mon wasn’t sure she had either.

But one thing was clear—

She didn’t want to stop.

Not now. Not after this.

She had missed her. The warmth of her touch, the way she kissed without hesitation, the way the world had faded in an instant.

A shaky breath filled Mon’s lungs. Khun Sam was still too close, the heat of her skin lingering, the air between them charged with something undeniable.

She swallowed, voice quiet but firm.

“Let’s go.”

Not back to the hotel. Not pretend that didn’t happen.

Just—

“Let’s go.”

The door had barely clicked shut before Mon pressed Khun Sam against it, her body pinning Khun Sam to the wall with a force that left no room for hesitation.

Khun Sam let her. Let her press her back against the cool surface, let her swallow every sound, let herself fall into it like there was no other choice. And maybe—maybe there wasn’t.

Because Mon had spent months pretending she didn’t want this, didn’t need this.

But now? Now, Khun Sam was here, and there was no more pretending.

Mon kissed her again—deeper, slower, as if she were memorizing every second, making up for every moment they had spent apart.

And God, Mon absorbed it all. The way Khun Sam was just as wrecked as she was, the way her fingers trembled against Mon’s waist, the way she waited—for Mon, for whatever came next.

Mon’s pulse pounded, deafening, impossible to ignore. She pulled back just enough to see her—really see her. Khun Sam’s lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark and heavy with something Mon couldn’t name.

Couldn’t name, because she was too far gone.

But then—Mon’s thoughts sharpened. This wasn’t just reckless. It wasn’t just wanting. It was more.

If they did this—if they went there—there would be no going back. 

No pretending it hadn’t happened. No walking away and acting like it didn’t change everything.

And—fuck.

“If we do this—” Mon started, her voice low and rough, “there’s no going back.”

Khun Sam blinked, something sharp and wrecked flashing in her eyes. But she didn’t hesitate. “I don’t want to go back.”

Mon tightened her grip on Khun Sam’s shirt and started leading them to the bed. She pressed forward, nudging her back, step by step, until Khun Sam’s legs hit the edge of the mattress.

She landed with a soft thud, her hands still clutching Mon’s shirt, fingers twitching—like she wasn’t sure whether to pull Mon down or push back. 

Mon didn’t give her the choice. She climbed over her, pressed forward, guided Khun Sam onto her back, and pinned her there. Made it clear—this was hers. 

She had spent months wanting this, months pretending she didn’t, months trying to forget the way Khun Sam felt beneath her, the way she broke so beautifully when Mon pushed just right .

Khun Sam’s gaze locked on Mon like she was trying to memorize every second of this. Like she had never seen Mon like this before. Like she had never been looked at like this before. 

She kissed Khun Sam—hard, desperate. Months of longing, of wanting, of missing poured into it—no hesitation, no careful buildup.

Khun Sam whimpered against her mouth, tilted her head, let Mon take exactly what she wanted.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was only this—the heat of their bodies, the sound of their breathing, the way Khun Sam’s lips moved against hers like they were rediscovering each other.

Mon’s heart raced, her thoughts scattering as she lost herself in the moment. She could feel the tension in Khun Sam’s body, the way she clung to Mon like she was afraid she might slip away.

But Mon wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. Khun Sam’s eyes were dark, her lips swollen, and Mon could see the same hunger reflected in her gaze. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was charged, heavy with everything they hadn’t said, everything they hadn’t done.

Mon’s lips brushed against Khun Sam’s jaw, against the unsteady pulse in her throat, against the softness of her skin that Mon had craved for too damn long.

God. 

Mon wanted all of it.

Every touch, every breath, every moment she had been denied. But now, with Khun Sam here, with her body pressed against hers, Mon could finally do something about it. 

She could take what she had ached for, what she had longed for during all those empty months. 

She could make Khun Sam feel the weight of everything she had left behind—the ache, the longing, the emptiness that had haunted Mon for so long.

And she would. She wouldn’t hold back. Not this time. Not when Khun Sam was finally within reach, finally hers again. 

Her hands move with purpose, stripping away the layers between them until there was nothing left but skin. 

Mon kissed her again, pressing in, pressing closer, drinking in the quiet, breathless sound Khun Sam made when their bodies met.

Mon dragged her hands down Khun Sam’s sides, slow and deliberate, mapping out every inch of her like she had the right to.

Because she did.

Because she had always known this body, every curve, every dip, every place that made Khun Sam shudder under her touch.

She let her fingers linger, pressing just enough to pull a reaction, to feel the way Khun Sam tensed beneath her.

The shift in her breath. The way her grip on Mon’s waist tightened, fingers digging in just enough to make Mon feel anchored and reckless all at once.

Khun Sam tried to flip them, tried to take control, tried to tip the scales 

But Mon was ready.

The second she felt Khun Sam shift beneath her, muscles tensing in preparation, she pinned her down—hands pressing firm against her wrists, holding her there.

Her fingers twitched against Mon’s hold, testing, searching for an opening.

Mon didn’t let her.

Didn’t let Sam press her back, didn’t let her take control, didn’t let her pretend for even a second that this was going to go the way she wanted.

Because no.

No, Khun Sam didn’t get to lead.

Didn’t get to set the pace.

Didn’t get to act like she hadn’t let so much time slip through their fingers.

She tightened her grip, pressing her weight down just enough to remind Khun Sam who was in control.

"Don’t," Mon warned, voice low, steady.

Khun Sam stilled.

Not in surrender.

No, never that.

But something in her shifted.

The fight left her muscles—not in defeat, but in something else. Something deeper, something charged, something that settled low between them, thickening the air, making it impossible to ignore the space they weren’t leaving.

Khun Sam looked at Mon, lips parted, eyes blown wide, waiting.

Waiting for what?

For Mon to take?

To punish her?

To make her remember?

Because Mon wanted her.

Had missed her.

But she was angry.

Angry that Khun Sam had made her let go.

Angry that she had spent months forcing herself to breathe without her, forcing herself to move on, forcing herself to pretend that she could live in a world where Khun Sam wasn’t hers.

And now—now Khun Sam was looking up at her like this —

Like she still wanted her.

Like she was waiting for her.

Like she had always been waiting for her.

“You made me wait.”

Khun Sam shuddered, her breath shaky, her fingers twitching beneath Mon’s grip.

Mon leaned in, lips brushing just against Khun Sam’s ear. “You made me miss you.”

A sharp inhale, a barely restrained sound caught in Khun Sam’s throat.

Mon smiled against her skin, teeth grazing her jaw,

Mon wasn’t going to make this easy for her.

Khun Sam had made her wait.

Made her ache.

Made her spend months without this, without her, without the way Khun Sam felt, the way she sounded when she was like this .

No, if Khun Sam wanted this—if she really wanted this—she was going to have to say it.

Going to have to feel every second of it.

Going to have to break for her.

Mon wanted her desperate.

She was going to take what was hers, and she was going to make sure Khun Sam never forgot it.

“I should make you beg for it,” Mon whispered, her voice low and rough, each word carrying the weight of every unspoken moment, every lingering ache between them.

“You don’t get to rush this,” Mon murmured, her breath hot against Khun Sam’s skin. “Not after everything.”

She leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to Khun Sam’s collarbone, her lips just barely ghosting over her skin.

Khun Sam was shaking beneath her now, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Her hands trembled where they gripped the sheets, like she was holding herself back, like she was fighting the urge to beg.

Mon’s touch was deliberate, her fingers trailing slowly up Khun Sam’s thigh, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. She could feel the tension in Khun Sam’s body, the way her breath hitched as Mon’s hand moved higher, brushing against the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

Khun Sam’s body arched under her, a soft whimper escaping her lips, but Mon didn’t give her the satisfaction of easing the tension. She needed Khun Sam to feel this—to feel how badly she needed it, how much Mon was willing to make her wait.

Mon leaned in, her lips barely brushing Khun Sam’s ear as she whispered,  “You’re not begging, my love.”

Khun Sam’s breath hitched, her body tensing.

For a second, she didn’t answer.

Too proud. Too stubborn.

So Mon dragged it out more, her fingers trailing lower, lingering, her mouth pressing a kiss just below Khun Sam’s jaw, her teeth grazing the delicate skin.

Then—another pause.

A cruel pause.

She pulled back, hovering just out of reach, her hands still, her breath steady.

Khun Sam whined—actually whined, her head tipping back against the pillows, her jaw tight as she fought for control.

Mon grinned.

Because she knew exactly what she was doing.

She knew exactly what Khun Sam needed.

But she wasn’t going to give it to her.

Not yet.

Not until Khun Sam said it.

“Come on,” Mon murmured, voice sickeningly sweet, her fingers pressing just barely against Sam’s hip. “I know you want to.”

Mon wasn’t letting her win.

Not this time.

Her fingers skimmed higher, brushing lightly against the damp warmth between Khun Sam’s legs, and she felt Khun Sam’s whole body tense in response. 

“I want to hear you beg for it.”

Khun Sam groaned, her fingers tightening around the fabric beneath her.

Another pause.

Then, her voice breaking, raw and wrecked—

“Please.”

And God—Mon loved this.

Loved that she could do this to her.

That she was the only one who ever had.

“See?” she murmured, lips brushing against Khun Sam’s ear. “You can beg.”

She pressed her lips against Khun Sam’s skin, her hands sliding down, her touch finally—finally—giving Sam everything she had been holding back.

Mon’s fingers moved with purpose now, circling Khun Sam’s clit in slow, deliberate strokes, each touch just enough to make Khun Sam’s breath catch but not enough to give her what she needed. Khun Sam’s hands gripped the sheets, her hips lifting instinctively, seeking more friction, but Mon held her down with her other hand, her grip firm.

She could feel the tension in Khun Sam’s body, the way her breath hitched with every stroke, the way she trembled beneath her touch. But Mon didn’t relent. She wanted to see her come undone, to hear her voice break as she finally gave in.

Her fingers slid lower, slipping inside Khun Sam with ease, and she felt her body clench around her in response. Mon’s movements were slow at first, teasing, but she could feel Khun Sam’s desperation building with every thrust of her fingers. She curled them just right, hitting that spot that made Khun Sam gasp.

“You’re mine,” Mon murmurs against Khun Sam’s skin, her voice low, possessive.

Khun Sam’s response is a broken whisper, her voice shaking with emotion. “Yours,” she breathes. “Only ever yours.”

Mon’s lips captured Khun Sam’s in a deep, hungry kiss as her fingers moved faster, harder, driving Khun Sam closer and closer to the edge. 

When Khun Sam finally came, it was with a soft cry, her body shuddering as waves of pleasure washed over her. 

Mon watched Khun Sam come down from her high, her body still trembling faintly beneath her. She could see the way Khun Sam’s chest rose and fell, her breath uneven, her skin flushed with the aftermath of pleasure. 

Mon doesn’t stop. She can’t. Not when Khun Sam is falling apart beneath her, not when she’s finally here, finally hers again.

Mon's lips trailed down Khun Sam’s chest. She pressed a soft kiss to Khun Sam’s stomach, her hands sliding up to grip Khun Sam’s hips firmly.

Mon took her time, savoring the way Khun Sam squirmed beneath her, the way her hands twitched—not grabbing, not pushing, just clutching at nothing, like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

She wanted to draw this out, to make Khun Sam feel every second of the anticipation.

Slowly— painfully slowly—she pressed a kiss to Khun Sam’s hip, dragging it out, making sure Khun Sam felt the heat of her breath, the ghost of her lips—

But not enough.

Never enough.

She pressed a kiss to the inside of Khun Sam’s thigh, soft, almost sweet. She could feel the way Khun Sam shuddered, how her thighs tensed, how her fingers twitched, useless against the sheets.

Still, Mon didn’t give in.

Didn’t let Khun Sam have it.

Not yet.

Instead, she hovered—just close enough to tease, to make Khun Sam ache for it.

And Khun Sam—God, Khun Sam was wrecked.

Her head tipped back against the pillows, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in sharp, desperate breaths.

Her breath was warm against Khun Sam’s skin as she finally leaned in, her tongue brushing lightly against Khun Sam’s clit.

A deep, broken sound ripped from her throat, her hips arching off the bed, her hands grabbing at the sheets, her entire body tensing—

Mon groaned.

Because fuck, she had missed this.

Missed the way Khun Sam tasted.

Missed the way she reacted, how she melted beneath her.

Missed how easy it was, how natural.

Mon’s hands tightened on Khun Sam’s hips, holding her in place as she began to explore in earnest. Her tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles, teasing and tasting, and she could feel Khun Sam’s body responding, her hips lifting instinctively, seeking more. But Mon didn’t give in so easily. 

“Fuck,” Khun Sam whimpered, her voice breaking on the word, and Mon felt a thrill run through her. 

Mon’s tongue dipped lower, teasing at Khun Sam’s entrance before sliding inside, and she felt Khun Sam’s body clench around her in response. A sharp gasp escaped Khun Sam’s lips, her hands instinctively reaching out—only to freeze midair, her fingers curling into fists.

Mon smirked against her, her lips curving into a slow, satisfied smile as she felt Khun Sam’s restraint, the way her body trembled with the effort of holding back. 

She took her time, savoring every sound, every shudder, every way Khun Sam’s body responded to her touch. Her tongue moved with purpose, slow and deliberate, drawing out every reaction, every gasp, every whimper that escaped Khun Sam’s lips.

“Mon—” Khun Sam choked out, her voice trembling, her hands gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Please—”

Mon pulled back just enough to glance up, her lips glistening, her eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Please what?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a teasing edge. “Use your words, Khun Sam.”

Khun Sam’s cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she struggled to form a coherent thought.

“Please—” she started, her voice breaking, her body arching as Mon’s tongue dipped lower again, teasing her. “Please don’t stop.”

Mon’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile, her gaze locking with Khun Sam’s.

“That’s better,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “But you’re going to have to do more than just ask nicely.”

Khun Sam whined, an actual, helpless whine, her hands fisting in the sheets, her head tipping back against the pillows, her chest heaving.

“Mon—” she gasped out, her body trembling on the edge. “Please—I need—”

Mon’s smile widened, her lips trailing lightly up Khun Sam’s thigh, her touch feather-light but deliberate. “You need what?” she asked, her voice playful. “Tell me.”

Khun Sam groaned, eyes squeezing shut, her hands twitching like she wanted to grab Mon and make her move, make her stop this torturous game—

“I need you,” she whispered, her voice rough, her body trembling on the edge. “Please, Mon—”

“That’s all you had to say,” she murmured, her voice soft but certain.

When Mon turned her focus back to Khun Sam’s clit, her tongue pressed in firm, deliberate strokes, each one more insistent than the last. Khun Sam’s body stiffened under her touch, her breaths turning shallow and ragged, each gasp catching in her throat.

Mon could feel it—the tension coiling tighter, the edge drawing nearer. She didn’t slow down, didn’t hesitate. Her hands gripped Khun Sam’s hips harder, anchoring her in place as she pushed her further, relentless in her rhythm.

Khun Sam’s body tensed, her voice cracking as she gasped out Mon’s name, the sound raw and desperate.

“Mon—”

Her back arched, her breath hitching as Mon’s movements remained firm, unyielding, giving her exactly what she needed. 

Mon doesn’t stop.

Not yet.

Not when Khun Sam was still hers to claim.

She keeps going, her hands, her lips, her tongue driving Khun Sam higher and higher until she’s gasping, begging.

“Mon,” Khun Sam gasped, her voice shaking. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can," Mon murmured. "Come for me, my love."

And Khun Sam does. She falls apart again, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Mon holds her through it, her hands gentle now, her lips soft against Khun Sam’s skin.

Khun Sam’s chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.

She pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Khun Sam’s thigh before moving, crawling up, slow, deliberate, letting her hands drag over Khun Sam’s skin, feeling the aftershocks still rippling through her.

And then—finally—she kissed her mouth.

Long.

Slow.

Deep.

Khun Sam gasped into it, still too wrecked to fully respond, still too dazed to do anything but let Mon have her.

And Mon—God, Mon could’ve stayed here, could’ve kept kissing her, could’ve let herself sink into the heat of it, the familiarity of it—

But she wanted more.

Needed more.

So she pulled back, just enough to look at her.

Khun Sam was still breathing hard, her pupils blown, her lips parted—

And Mon—fuck, Mon had never wanted anything more in her life.

Without a word, Mon shifted, straddling Khun Sam’s hips, her hands resting on Khun Sam’s shoulders to keep her pinned to the bed. Khun Sam’s breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly as she realized what Mon was about to do. 

Khun Sam gripped Mon’s thighs instinctively, like she couldn’t help herself, like she needed to touch her, to ground herself.

Mon smiled, satisfied as she shifted her hips, positioning herself just above Khun Sam’s mouth. 

Khun Sam's hands tightened desperately around Mon’s thighs, her breath hot against her.

She sank down, shivering at the first brush of Khun Sam’s lips, at the way Khun Sam groaned beneath her like this was something she’d been starving for.

Mon’s head tipped back, fingers tangling into Khun Sam’s hair as she let go, as she let herself take.

Khun Sam’s lips parted instinctively, her tongue brushing against Mon in a tentative, almost reverent touch. Mon’s breath hitched, her grip tightening in Khun Sam’s hair as she felt the first flick of Khun Sam’s tongue against her clit.

“Fuck,” Mon murmured, her voice trembling slightly as she felt Khun Sam’s tongue begin to move in slow, deliberate circles. 

Khun Sam’s tongue was relentless, circling and flicking with a rhythm that was both teasing and insistent, driving Mon closer and closer to the edge. 

Mon’s breath came in short, uneven gasps, her grip on Khun Sam’s hair tightening as she felt the pleasure building inside her. But it wasn’t just pleasure—it was something more. Something raw and unfiltered.

Mon’s hips moved, grinding against Khun Sam’s mouth as she felt the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside her. She could feel the anger, the frustration, the weight of everything she’d been holding onto, and it all seemed to gather in her chest, pressing against her ribs, demanding release.

“Don’t stop,” Mon whispered, her voice trembling with need.

Khun Sam obeyed without hesitation, her tongue moving faster, more insistently, as she felt Mon’s body begin to tremble above her. Mon’s hips moved with a rhythm that was almost punishing, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

There was no control, no restraint—just a raw, aching release that stole the breath from her lungs, that left her shaking, gasping, wrecked in a way she hadn’t let herself be in months.

She didn’t know how long it lasted. Didn’t know when she started saying Khun Sam’s name—pleading for more, pleading for something she couldn’t name. Didn’t know when Khun Sam moaned against her skin, when the sound shook through her, when it sent her spiraling—

But then she was coming undone, body arching, breath breaking, a low, shuddering cry escaping her lips. 

It wasn’t just a cry of pleasure—it was a release, a catharsis, a letting go of everything she’d been holding onto. 

The anger, the frustration, the weight of it all—it all seemed to pour out of her in that moment, leaving her trembling and spent.

Khun Sam held her through it. Let her ride it out, let her take what she needed.

And when it was finally over, when Mon was breathless and wrecked and barely holding herself up, she stayed there for a second—

Tried to catch her breath, tried to slow the pounding in her chest.

Then—gently, shakily—she reached down and tilted Khun Sam's face up.

Khun Sam looked ruined.

Completely. Absolutely.

Her pupils blown, her breath coming in short, heavy pants as she stared up at Mon like she would do it all over again if Mon just asked.

And Mon almost let her.

Almost let her take again.

But God was she exhausted.

The moment her back hit the sheets, Khun Sam was there, hovering over her, pressing kisses to her jaw, her throat, the space between her ribs.

Mon’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and heavy-lidded, and— fuck —Khun Sam was looking at her like she had never seen anything more beautiful.

Mon’s chest rose and fell, her body still humming from the aftershocks, her muscles still loose, spent.

She should say something.

She should tease.

Should smirk, should throw a comment out there—something light, something easy, something that would make Khun Sam roll her eyes—

But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a breathless, "Jesus Christ."

Khun Sam grinned, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Not quite."

Mon groaned, pushing her hands over her face. "Shut up."

Sam laughed, warm and content, and Mon felt the sound settle low in her chest, wrapping around her like something dangerous.

Something too close.

Something that still felt like home.

Khun Sam hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to Mon’s shoulder, her breath still uneven, still catching like she hadn’t fully recovered yet.

And after a few moments, she spoke, her voice soft but full of concern. “Are you okay?”

Mon blinked, her eyes meeting Khun Sam’s, a little taken aback by the question. She was still catching her breath, still feeling the weight of everything that had just happened—the rawness, the vulnerability, the depth of what had been shared between them. And now, Khun Sam was asking if she was okay.

Mon furrowed her brow, her voice a little hoarse as she responded,

“You’re asking if I’m okay? After everything I just—” She stopped herself, her thoughts catching up to her words. "I just—I'm the one who should be asking if you’re okay."

Khun Sam’s gaze softened, her expression full of quiet understanding. She shifted closer, her thumb brushing over Mon’s cheek. The touch was soft, almost hesitant, like she was afraid to break the fragile peace they had found in each other. 

“Are you okay?” she asked again, her voice gentle, full of the same care that had been present in every word, every action they had shared.

Of course Sam would care. Of course Khun Sam would want to know if she was okay. But it wasn’t just the question. It was the softness in her tone, the way she looked at Mon—as if she was fragile, as if she hadn’t just let herself go completely. 

Mon’s throat tightened, her heart heavy as a rush of doubts and regrets hit her. She had been so consumed by her own need, her own pain, that she hadn’t stopped to consider what Khun Sam might need, what she might feel.

Mon had taken everything from her—pushed her, broken her down, undone her in ways she didn’t think possible. But Khun Sam… Khun Sam hadn’t fought back.

She had let Mon take from her—let Mon own her, let Mon tear down the walls she had built, let Mon wreck her. Khun Sam hadn’t hesitated. She hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t demanded anything in return.

And yet… Khun Sam was still here.

Not just broken, not just torn apart, but soft.

She wasn’t flipping the dynamic, wasn’t trying to take control back, wasn’t seeking revenge. She wasn’t pushing Mon away, wasn’t trying to regain the power she had willingly surrendered.

Mon broke the silence, her voice quiet, raw. “Did I hurt you?”

Khun Sam’s breath hitched, her lashes fluttering as she held Mon’s gaze. And God. Mon nearly drowned in it.

Because Khun Sam’s eyes weren’t just soft. They were warm. Loving. Holding none of the exhaustion Mon expected, none of the devastation that should’ve been there. Only tenderness. Only affection. Only her.

“No,” Khun Sam whispered, so sure, so steady. “You didn’t hurt me.” 

Her lips twitched, something almost amused—almost fond—dancing at the edges of her mouth. She leaned in slightly, a playful glint in her eyes. “If anything, I think you’ve ruined me, Mon. In the best way possible, of course.”

Mon blinked, still processing Khun Sam’s words, her brain a little scrambled from everything that had just happened. 

“Wait... what?” she stammered, still a little breathless. 

Khun Sam’s smile stretched, her eyes gleaming with mischief, clearly enjoying Mon’s confusion. She leaned in a little closer, her fingers gently brushing over Mon’s arm.

“Yep,” she said, voice low, but full of teasing intent. “You absolutely ruined me.”

Mon blinked again, trying to get her bearings. 

“Destroyed me,” Khun Sam said, her grin widening as she saw the wheels turning in Mon’s head. “Mon, you made me—”

Mon slapped a hand over her mouth. "If you finish that sentence, I will actually kill you."