Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thame hated Mondays.

But this Monday had a special kind of venom—sharp, unrelenting, almost poetic in its cruelty.

His email pinged just as he was walking into the glass-and-steel lobby of Halberd Tech. The kind of corporate behemoth where everything smelled faintly of burnt espresso and ambition.

> “Please welcome our new Product Strategy Manager: Po Valerio.”

Thame’s thumb froze on the screen.

Po.

That Po?

The name sat heavy on his tongue, unspoken but unforgettable. His stomach twisted in on itself the way it used to in high school—whenever Po passed him in the hallway with that stupid mole above his upper lip and that stupid smirk that made Thame forget how to breathe.

“Thame?”

It was Kelsi from HR. “You good?”

Thame shoved his phone into his pocket and nodded too quickly. “Yep. Great. Just… reading about the new guy.”

She laughed. “Oh, him? You two actually went to the same high school, didn’t you? Small world.”

Thame’s heart thudded against his ribs like a warning bell. “Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile. “Small world.”

Po Valerio looked... older.

Not in a bad way. In the way that meant he'd lived a little. Grown into his face. Filled out his frame. The boyishness of high school was still there, but now it was softened by something quieter, heavier.

Confidence? No, not quite. Something else.

Thame spotted him across the meeting room—button-down rolled to the elbows, a sleek laptop open in front of him, lips curved in polite amusement as someone from Sales told a joke. And then, as if pulled by a thread, Po looked up.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, time collapsed into itself.

A hallway.

Fluorescent lights.

Thame’s trembling fingers gripping the strap of his backpack.

“I like you, Po.”

Po had blinked at him like he’d spoken in a foreign language. And then—"Is this a joke?"

Thame had laughed it off. Pretended. Recoiled.

And never looked back.

Until now.

Po was walking toward him. Slowly. Like he wasn’t sure the floor would hold.

“Thame?”

His voice was exactly the same. A little husky. A little too careful.

Thame cleared his throat. “Po. Wow. It’s been a while.”

“A while,” Po echoed. “Ten years, right?”

“Give or take.”

They stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. Colleagues brushed past them, chatting about KPIs and onboarding plans and lunch.

Po’s eyes flicked down to Thame’s badge. “So... Department Manager now?”

Thame raised an eyebrow. “You too.”

Po smiled, and Thame hated that it still made something flutter inside him. “Rival departments,” Po said, like it was funny. Maybe it was.

“Well. We’ll have to be civil,” Thame replied, tone carefully dry.

“I’m not the one who wasn’t civil last time.”

The words were soft, but they hit like thunder.

Thame blinked. “Sorry, what?”

But Po was already walking away, throwing a smile over his shoulder that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good to see you, Thame.”

Thame stood still, spine stiff.

This was going to be a long quarter.

Chapter Text

The worst part was that Thame had almost forgotten what Po’s voice sounded like.

Almost.

But now, back at his desk, with a sad cup of reheated coffee and a spreadsheet open like a cruel joke, the sound echoed in his head like a song stuck on loop.

“Good to see you, Thame.”

It was stupid. It shouldn’t have meant anything. People said that kind of thing all the time. He said it just this morning to the woman who restocked the kitchen with instant oatmeal.

But Po hadn’t said it like a throwaway line.

He’d said it like it meant something.

And Thame didn’t know what to do with that.

---

Ten years.

That was enough time to forget someone’s laugh. To blur the edges of old memories. To convince yourself that high school hadn’t mattered that much.

Thame had spent a decade mastering the art of pretending.

Pretending the confession hadn’t been serious.

Pretending he hadn’t meant it.

Pretending Po hadn’t shattered something inside him when he looked confused and asked, “Is this a joke?”

Thame had laughed then. Loud enough to echo down the hall. Loud enough to sound real.

“Obviously,” he’d said. “You really think I’d like you?”

Po had nodded. Slowly. Then left.

And that was that.

---

Now Po was sitting three floors down in the same building, eating catered sushi and drafting roadmaps like they hadn’t left that moment frozen in the hallway.

Thame spun slowly in his chair, ignoring the soft ping of Slack notifications piling up like snow.

He hadn’t expected to see Po again. Not like this. Not ever.

And yet.

There was something different in Po’s face now. Something older, yes, but also softer. Not as guarded. Like time had worn down the edges of whatever had kept them apart.

That stupid mole above his lip was still there. He used to stare at it during math class, completely unaware that his pencil had stopped moving.

He had written songs about it once.

Or, well—about him. About Po. In vague lyrics and metaphors and chords he never dared to show anyone.

He still had the notebook.

God help him, he still had it.

---

Later that night, Thame sat on the floor of his apartment, the old composition book in his lap like a loaded weapon.

The cover was frayed, the pages curling slightly from years of humidity and guilt. He flipped through half-finished lyrics, chord progressions, doodles in the margins.

miled with something just left of center—

I tried not to look too long.”

He closed the book.

Po had probably forgotten all of it. High school. That hallway. The moment.

Thame hadn’t.

And now he had to spend the next quarter—maybe longer—working across departments with the one person who still made his heart stutter.

This was going to be a disaster.

Chapter Text

The first time Po heard it, he thought he was imagining things.

It was late—later than it should’ve been. Most of the office lights had dimmed to their nighttime setting, casting the open space in a soft blue haze. The cleaning crew had already vacuumed through. He’d stayed behind to wrap up some onboarding notes—new team, new chaos—but now the silence was starting to crawl under his skin.

That’s when he heard it.

A melody. Barely there. Piano keys, low and careful, like someone wasn’t sure if they were allowed to play.

Po stood, quietly stepped into the hallway, and followed the sound like it was a thread tied around his ribs.

Down the corridor.

Past the framed mission statements.

To the old, rarely-used break lounge with the out-of-tune upright piano someone had insisted was “a quirky company perk.”

Someone was playing it.

And that someone was Thame.

---

He didn’t see Po. Not at first.

He was hunched slightly, sleeves pushed up, fingers moving with a hesitant grace. The kind of grace you don’t show anyone unless the music is meant just for you.

The song was... haunting.

Not sad exactly, but full of something wordless. Nostalgia, maybe. Longing.

Thame paused. Pressed a key. Adjusted the chord. Repeated a measure like he was trying to get it just right.

Po leaned against the wall, something sharp and unnameable catching in his throat.

He remembered Thame’s voice—not the sound, but the way it felt when he said “No. I get it. It’s okay.”

God.

Po had remembered that moment differently for years. Convinced himself Thame had laughed it off. Made him believe it was a prank. He'd told himself that story over and over, because it hurt less than the truth.

But seeing Thame now—bent over the piano, lost in his own world—Po realized that wasn't what happened.

Not really.

Thame had meant it.

And Po had said nothing.

Had just let him walk away.

---

The music stopped.

Thame turned suddenly, startled, hand hovering midair.

Po straightened reflexively, guilt heating his face.

“Oh,” Thame said, blinking like he wasn’t sure if Po was real. “Didn’t know anyone was still here.”

“I could say the same.” Po nodded toward the piano. “You’re good.”

Thame’s expression shuttered a little, protective. “Old habit.”

“Didn’t know you played.”

“You didn’t know a lot of things.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just... heavy.

Po stepped inside the room, hesitating at the edge of the carpet. “That song… is it yours?”

Thame looked down at the keys, shoulders stiffening. “Yeah. Not finished.”

“It sounds finished.”

“It’s not.”

Po nodded, quietly. He didn’t know what else to say. How do you talk to someone whose heart you once cracked without even touching it?

After a beat, Thame stood, sliding the cover back over the keys.

“I should go.”

Po stepped aside, and Thame walked past him without looking back.

The air in the room still pulsed with music.

Po stood there alone for a long time, replaying every note.

Chapter Text

Thame hated cross-departmental initiatives.

They were always billed as collaborative opportunities, but in reality, they meant endless meetings, mismatched timelines, and vague agendas where someone inevitably suggested "revisiting the deliverables."

This one was no different—except for the fact that Po was co-leading it.

The Digital Sync & User Flow Redesign sounded impressive on paper. But what it really meant was two teams, ten overworked analysts, and one joint presentation due in six weeks.

Thame sat in the first kickoff meeting with his jaw tight and his pen tapping against his notepad.

Po, of course, was already talking. Confident. Clear. Leaning just enough on the table to look relaxed but invested. He was always good at that—taking up space without crowding it.

“…And we’ll probably need signoff from UX before the second phase, but I don’t think that’s a blocker,” Po said, glancing over at Thame. “What do you think, Thame?”

It was the first time he'd addressed him directly since the piano night.

Thame looked up. Po’s eyes were on him—not teasing, not smug. Just... waiting.

Everyone else turned to him.

Thame cleared his throat. “Agreed. We’ll need to align with their priorities, but if we’re clear on the user journey now, we can front-load a lot of that.”

Po smiled. Not the cocky kind. The quiet kind. Like he appreciated the answer.

Thame looked away, pretending to recheck his notes.

---

They started working more closely after that.

Planning sessions turned into brainstorming huddles. Huddles turned into late evenings reviewing dashboards, scrubbing through Figma links, and arguing gently over the best way to onboard a new user.

To Thame’s surprise, Po listened. Not just politely—but deeply. He asked questions. Considered his input. Sometimes pushed back, but never dismissively.

It was strange. Familiar. Comfortable.

And dangerous.

---

One evening, Thame stayed behind to finish a slide deck, only to find Po had ordered dinner for both of them—pad thai and Thai iced tea, Thame’s favorite.

“How’d you know?” Thame asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Po looked smug. “You mentioned it once in high school. After chem lab.”

Thame blinked.

“You remember that?”

Po shrugged. “I remember a lot of things.”

The room felt too warm all of a sudden. The hum of the lights too loud.

Thame took the takeout box and sat down, avoiding Po’s gaze. “Well. Thanks.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Then Po asked, casually, “Do you still write music?”

Thame paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.

“Sometimes,” he said carefully.

“You’re really good.”

Thame let out a soft breath. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

Their eyes met. And for one long moment, the years between them melted away. All that was left was a shared memory of what could’ve been.

Thame broke the gaze first.

“We should finish the deck.”

Po nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

But the spark had already lit.

And neither of them could pretend they didn’t feel it.

Chapter Text

Thame liked control.

He liked ordered lists. Forecast models. Clean slides. Defined processes. Anything that made the mess of life feel manageable.

Po didn’t work that way.

Po improvised.

He’d jump into ideas half-baked and bring them to life with energy alone. He'd bounce between strategy and aesthetics like his brain ran on three tempos at once.

It drove Thame insane.

Which is why, three weeks into the project, Thame was standing in a conference room trying not to completely unravel.

"You changed the roadmap presentation ten minutes before the stakeholder review?" Thame hissed.

Po held up his hands. "I made it better."

"You made it chaotic."

“I made it human.”

“It was already human. It just had structure.”

Po stepped closer, not backing down. “We’re not selling a spreadsheet. We’re selling an experience.”

Thame narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have to make everything poetic, Po. Some of us are just trying to hit targets.”

The words came out sharper than he intended.

Po froze. Just for a beat.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Playing pretend?”

Thame exhaled through his nose. “No. I just think you should stop treating this like... like it’s a stage.”

Po’s jaw tightened.

They stared at each other, tension thick between them.

And then—just as quickly—Po looked away.

“I’m not pretending,” he said, voice quieter now. “Not anymore.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

Thame sat at his desk, tension lodged like a splinter in his spine. He wasn’t even mad, not really. He was unsettled. Off-key. The same way he felt when a song hit the wrong chord but kept going anyway.

He thought about the music he’d been writing. The unfinished piece. The way the final bridge never quite landed right.

He hadn’t written since the piano night.

He hadn't dared to.

Po sat in his own office, staring at a sticky note with Thame’s handwriting on it—an old meeting reminder he’d kept without meaning to.

He kept replaying Thame’s face in high school. Not the hallway moment—no. That memory had come back differently now. Sharper.

It wasn’t a joke. Thame had meant it. And Po had stood there frozen, too scared to say anything.

Now here they were, grown and successful and still completely out of sync.

Po let his head fall back against the chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

He wished he had chased after him.

He wished he still could.

Chapter Text

Thame didn’t mean to stare.

But God, that mole.

Right above Po’s upper lip, small and perfect and unfairly distracting. It had always been there—part of the face he couldn’t forget if he tried. But now, under the glow of a shared monitor during their working session, it was… closer. More noticeable.

More dangerous.

Thame shifted in his seat, trying to focus on the UX mock-up they were reviewing.

“And here,” Po was saying, pointing at a hover state, “the tooltip should fade in, not slide. Subtle movement, less distraction.”

“Right,” Thame muttered. “Subtle.”

His eyes betrayed him again.

The mole.

He remembered staring at it during history class, doodling it into the corner of his notes without realizing. He remembered wondering what it would feel like to kiss just beside it. Or to trace it, like punctuation at the end of a sentence only he understood.

Po turned to him suddenly. “You okay?”

Thame looked up—too fast. “What? Yeah. Fine.”

Po’s expression softened a little, his lips twitching into a knowing half-smile. “You’ve been zoning out for the last five minutes.”

Thame looked away. “I’m tired.”

“Mmhmm.”

Po leaned back in his chair, stretching. The fabric of his shirt pulled slightly at the shoulders. Thame didn't dare look long.

“You ever gonna tell me what that song was about?” Po asked, casual like it didn’t matter—but his voice dipped into something more curious. Something gentle.

Thame hesitated. “No.”

Po tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Because,” Thame said, “you’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“That it was always about you.”

Po didn’t respond right away.

Then, softly, “I was hoping it was.”

Thame’s breath hitched.

It was the first time either of them had acknowledged the space between them—not just the old hallway silence, not just the piano, not just the glances across glass-walled offices. But this now.

“I thought you were joking,” Po said, voice lower now. “Back then. I thought you were… testing me. Or worse—trying to out me.”

Thame’s head whipped toward him. “I would never—”

“I know that now. But I didn’t know how to handle it then. I was scared.”

“I was too,” Thame said. “But I still meant it.”

Po looked at him for a long moment, like he was memorizing him.

“That mole,” Thame muttered before he could stop himself, “drove me crazy in high school.”

Po blinked. Then laughed—soft and stunned. “That’s what you remember?”

“It was right there,” Thame said, weakly gesturing. “Mocking me.”

“Mocking you?”

“You had no right to be that distracting at sixteen.”

Po smiled—slow, wide, and real.

“Guess it’s still working.”

Thame flushed and buried his face in his hands.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Shut up.”

But his heart was hammering like a metronome gone rogue.

Chapter Text

Po showed up the next morning with green tea.

No explanation. No teasing.

Just walked into Thame’s office, placed the cup on his desk like it was the most natural thing in the world, and said, “You looked like you needed something calming.”

Thame blinked. “Thanks.”

Po hesitated like he might say more, but then he gave a small nod and left.

The tea was warm. Perfectly steeped. Not too bitter.

Thame stared at the cup for a long time before finally taking a sip.

That night, Thame found the old notebook.

It was buried in a box labeled "UNI STUFF — DO NOT OPEN". Dusty. Edges frayed. Inside were fragments of music, old verses, half-written lyrics that made him cringe and ache in equal measure.

But between them, scribbled in rushed pen—barely legible—was Po’s name.

Over and over.

Sometimes in cursive. Sometimes blocked in all caps.

He had written it like he was trying to manifest something.

And maybe, in some quiet, cosmic way… he had.

He flipped to a page near the back. There was a short phrase underlined twice:

> You make the silence louder when you're not around.

Thame closed the notebook and sat in stillness.

He didn’t cry. But he did let himself feel something close to it.

Po, meanwhile, was at home with his own memory box.

High school yearbooks. Photos. A crumpled playlist printed from LimeWire days. And wedged between two torn sheets of loose leaf paper, a folded note in Thame’s handwriting.

He remembered this.

Thame had slipped it into his locker the day after the confession.

Po had never opened it.

He’d been too afraid. Back then, everything felt dangerous.

Now, his hands trembled as he carefully unfolded it.

> I meant what I said. I’m sorry if that scared you. I just wanted you to know.

You don’t have to say anything back. You don’t even have to look at me.

But I hope one day you’ll remember this and know it wasn’t a joke.

—Thame

Po sat there in stunned silence, throat tight.

He had kept this all these years. And he hadn’t even realized why.

The next time they met at work, Thame was quiet.

Not cold. Just quieter than usual.

Po didn’t push.

But as they left the meeting room, Thame murmured, “Thanks for the tea. It helped.”

Po smiled. “Anytime.”

They didn’t say more.

But the air between them had changed again.

Less static.

More gravity.

Chapter Text

Thame hadn’t meant to look. He really hadn’t.

But as he stepped into the lobby that morning, fresh coffee in hand, the sight stopped him cold.

Po stood by the glass doors, half-shielded by a potted ficus, talking to someone Thame didn’t recognize. The stranger was striking — all confident posture, sleek jacket, and the kind of easy grin that made people stop and notice. His hand lingered on Po’s forearm, fingers brushing Po’s sleeve as he said something that made Po laugh — really laugh, head tilted, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Thame froze.

The coffee in his hand suddenly felt too hot, too heavy. He forced himself to look away, heart pounding in his ears, and strode toward the elevators like he hadn’t seen anything at all.

By the time Po made it upstairs, Thame was at his desk, eyes glued to his monitor. He didn’t glance up when Po passed by, didn’t risk another glimpse of that familiar face with the mole above his lip. Didn’t dare.

Po hesitated at his office door, sensing the change in the air, but said nothing. He disappeared inside, closing the door softly behind him.

The day dragged.

Every meeting felt longer. Every email harder to focus on. And when Thame finally had a moment to himself, he found his mind looping back to that scene in the lobby. The way Po’s hand had rested, almost comfortably, against the other man’s arm. The easy way they’d smiled at each other.

He’s moved on. Of course he has. Why wouldn’t he?

Thame tried to shake the thought. But it clung, stubborn and sharp.

Po, meanwhile, sat at his desk, staring at a blank document, fingers hovering over his keyboard.

Nico had just been passing through, or so he claimed. In town for a conference. Wanted to say hi. Catch up. Maybe grab a drink.

Po had smiled, been polite, kept it light. But when Nico’s hand lingered too long, when his voice dropped into that familiar low murmur — the one that used to make Po’s stomach flutter — Po had felt… nothing.

Nothing, except maybe the faintest wish that the person standing across from him had been Thame instead.

By late afternoon, they were stuck in a joint planning session — Po’s team, Thame’s team, a room full of chatter and whiteboard markers squeaking over glass.

Po watched Thame. Watched him avoid his gaze, keep his comments clipped, his posture stiff.

And he knew.

He knew Thame had seen.

When the meeting finally broke, Po caught up to him in the hallway.

“Hey,” he said, trying for casual. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Thame said, too quickly. “Fine. Just—busy.”

“Right.”

They stood there in the quiet hum of the corridor, neither sure what to say next.

Po swallowed. “That was Nico, by the way. In the lobby.”

Thame didn’t look at him. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I know.” Po hesitated. “But I want to give you one anyway.”

Thame’s grip on his laptop bag tightened.

“He’s… no one. I mean, we went on a few dates. A long time ago. It didn’t go anywhere. It was never serious.”

Thame finally met his eyes then — and Po’s chest ached at the flicker of relief he saw there.

“Okay,” Thame said softly.

Po smiled, small and real. “Okay.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like they might say more.

Then a coworker rounded the corner, calling out for Thame, and the moment broke.

That night, Thame sat at his keyboard at home, trying to capture the melody that had haunted him all day.

But the notes wouldn’t come.

His fingers hovered over the keys, hesitant.

And in the silence, he realized: it wasn’t jealousy that had thrown him. It was the reminder that he’d wasted so many years staying silent. Letting fear win. Watching from the sidelines while life happened.

He didn’t want to do that anymore.

Meanwhile, across town, Po dug out his old guitar. His fingers fumbled through rusty chords, strings out of tune.

He didn’t care.

He played anyway, soft and slow, thinking of Thame’s sad smile, of the way his eyes softened when he let his guard down.

And for the first time in years, he started writing a song of his own.

Chapter Text

Monday arrived with a strange heaviness.

Po stood by the large windows of the break room, watching early sunlight streak through the glass. Below, the city hummed to life. But inside, all he could focus on was the memory of Thame’s face—guarded, polite, distant.

Did I push too hard?

Was the tea, the late nights, the long looks — too much?

He hadn’t meant to be so obvious. Hadn’t meant to unsettle Thame. But something in Thame’s eyes lately… it was like trying to read music on a smudged page. Po kept misinterpreting the notes.

And maybe Thame didn’t want to be read at all.

Their first meeting of the day was small — just Thame, Po, and a few others mapping out the next phase of the project. But it felt… off.

Every time Po spoke, Thame kept his eyes fixed on his notebook or the screen. When their shoulders brushed as they leaned over the table, Thame shifted away, subtle but unmistakable.

And the worst part?

Po noticed.

And it stung.

Afterwards, as people filed out, Po lingered. “Thame?” he tried, soft.

Thame looked up, smile polite, eyes tired. “Yeah?”

“I—nothing. Just wanted to say good job on the roadmap.”

The words felt clumsy coming out. Too formal. Too... wrong.

Thame nodded. “Thanks. You too.”

And that was it.

Po watched him leave, throat tight, heart sinking.

I’m messing this up, he thought. I waited so long for this chance — and now I’m ruining it.

Meanwhile, Thame ducked into his office, closing the door behind him. He pressed his palms to the desk, head bowed.

He hadn’t meant to be cold. Hadn’t meant to pull back. But seeing Po smile at that man in the lobby — no matter how much Po had explained — it had left a knot in his chest he didn’t know how to untangle.

It wasn’t Po’s fault.

It was his own.

His own insecurities. His own fear of wanting too much, too fast.

Don’t ruin this, he told himself. Don’t ruin this because you’re scared.

But when Po passed by his glass door an hour later, Thame still couldn’t bring himself to look up.

That night, Po stayed late, alone in his office.

He sketched out a plan for their next team presentation — but his mind kept drifting, lines of the document blurring into half-formed lyrics.

He grabbed a scrap of paper and started scribbling.

> If I’m too loud, I’ll quiet down

If I’m too close, I’ll step away

But don’t mistake my heart for silence

I’ve been singing your name all day.

Po stared at the words, sighing.

Too much. Too soon.

He folded the paper, tucked it in his notebook, and turned off the light.

Across town, Thame sat at his piano, fingers resting on the keys. The melody that had haunted him for months was clearer now — but still unfinished.

Like him.

Like them.

He closed his eyes, played a few bars, and let the notes trail off into the night.

Chapter Text

The rain came suddenly — heavy sheets against the tall glass windows, the kind that turned city streets into rivers and blurred headlights into soft smears of gold.

By late afternoon, the office felt cocooned, wrapped in the sound of it. A steady drumbeat against the roof, like the world was trying to drown out the noise inside their heads.

Po stood by the window, watching the storm. His reflection in the glass looked tired, too serious, shadows under his eyes betraying the sleepless nights. He’d been up late again, thinking of Thame, of how easily he’d slipped back into old patterns — longing from a distance, second-guessing every word, every glance.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

“Still here?”

Po turned, startled — and there was Thame, leaning in the doorway, damp at the edges from his dash back inside. His hair was mussed, his shirt clinging faintly at the shoulders.

Po’s heart clenched at the sight.

“I could say the same to you,” Po said, trying for lightness, but it came out softer than he meant.

Thame gave a faint smile. “Didn’t feel like heading out in that.” He nodded to the storm. “Figured I’d wait it out.”

“Good plan,” Po said. He hesitated, then gestured to the empty chair by his desk. “You can stay. If you want.”

For a breath, Thame looked like he might decline. But then he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and sank into the chair, exhaling like he hadn’t let himself all day.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy this time. Just... quiet.

Outside, thunder rolled low, distant but steady.

Po cleared his throat. “You seemed... distracted today.”

Thame didn’t answer right away. His gaze traced the raindrops racing each other down the window.

“Sorry,” he said at last. “It’s not you. I mean — I didn’t mean to be—”

“Cold?” Po supplied gently.

Thame winced. “Yeah.”

Po leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “You weren’t. Not really. Just... far away.”

Their eyes met, and Thame felt the tension in his chest loosen, just a little.

“I guess I’ve been in my head,” Thame admitted. “About... a lot.”

Po smiled — a soft, understanding thing. “Yeah. Me too.”

They sat that way for a while, listening to the storm, the office around them emptying as people braved the downpour or gave up and called rides.

Po glanced at him, the words tumbling around in his mouth, unsure how to form them.

“Thame,” he said finally, quiet. “About the other day. Nico.”

Thame shook his head, but Po pressed on.

“I didn’t want you to think... I don’t know. That I’m taken. Or that I’m not — not interested.”

The last part came out fast, like he was afraid to say it but more afraid not to.

Thame’s breath caught.

“Po...”

“I didn’t know how to tell you in school,” Po went on, voice low but sure. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone. I was scared. I thought — I thought when you confessed, it had to be a joke. That you couldn’t mean it.”

Thame closed his eyes, the memory washing over him — Po’s shocked face, his own sad smile, the weight of that lonely walk away.

“I meant it,” Thame said. “Every word.”

Po’s heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice.

“I know,” he said. “I know that now. I just... wish I’d chased after you that day.”

Outside, the storm seemed to soften, the rain a gentler rhythm against the glass.

A long moment passed, and Thame drew in a shaky breath.

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I understand why you didn’t.”

Po’s gaze searched his face. “Do you?”

Thame managed a smile, small but real. “Yeah. I do.”

And somehow, that smile undid Po more than any words could have.

Thunder rumbled again, farther off now.

Po stood, crossing to the window, and Thame followed.

Together they watched the city blur into watercolor, streetlights glowing through the rain like distant stars.

Po’s shoulder brushed Thame’s, and this time, Thame didn’t move away.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

When the rain finally eased, they left together — not saying much, but walking side by side into the fresh, clean night, as if the storm had washed something new into the space between them.