Archive of Our Own

The air in the condo felt softer after the storm of it—quiet like a cathedral, the kind of hush that makes every small sound feel bright: the slow tick of the antique clock, the hum of the city through double-paned glass, the lazy exhale Thee pressed into Peach’s hair. The sheets were new and too expensive, but they smelled like Thee—bergamot and ink and the faint singe of his cologne. Peach lay on his side, tucked into Thee’s chest, his cheek over the steady thrum of Kian’s heart.

Thee’s hand had settled, without thinking, over Peach’s stomach. He wasn’t even stroking—just covering, claiming, the way you cup a candle so the flame won’t go out. Every few breaths his thumb traced a slow circle, almost reverent.

“Good boy,” he murmured, voice rough with contentment. “My little one.”

Peach smiled into his skin. “You always say that when you’re proud of me.”

“I am always proud of you.” Thee kissed his temple, lazy and possessive. “Especially when you call me Kian like you do when you want something.”

Peach huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe I do want something.”

Thee’s chest shook under Peach’s ear. “Name it and it’s yours.”

“Dangerous words for a CEO,” Peach said, eyelids heavy. “You’ll buy me the moon and then scold me for staying up late to photograph it.”

“I’ll buy you two moons so you can sleep under one,” Thee said, the smile in his voice obvious. Then he tipped Peach’s chin up and kissed him again—unhurried, adoring—until the joke melted into a sigh.

When they parted, Thee looked down at his own hand where it still covered Peach’s belly. His thumb drew another absent circle. “Do you know what my mother said in her old dramas?” he asked, slipping into that warm, theatrical cadence he loved to use. “‘when someone whispers your name like it’s a home, a house appears.’” His eyes flicked up. “You are my house, Peach.”

Peach’s throat went hot and tight in that way Thee caused without even trying. He tucked closer. “Kian.”

Thee’s mouth tilted, but his gaze had gone thoughtful. “I was too much tonight,” he said, somewhere between apology and pride. “I always am with you. I keep… wanting all of you. Wanting to stay inside you forever.” His thumb stilled, and his smile turned wicked in that familiar way. “Careful, my little one, or I’ll fill you so deep you’ll finally keep something of me.”

Peach’s face went scarlet immediately, the heat racing to the tips of his ears. He swatted Thee’s chest; Thee laughed, catching Peach’s wrist and kissing his knuckles one by one. The laughter faded, but the hand on Peach’s stomach didn’t move. His expression softened into something unguarded, risky.

“I’m only half joking,” he said, a degree quieter. “If there were a way for you to carry a piece of me, I would give it to you without thinking. I would worship you for it.”

The room seemed to draw a breath. Peach swallowed, pulse skipping. “Don’t tease me like that,” he whispered. “Not with that.”

Kian’s eyes sharpened. “Tell me.”

Peach looked down at where Thee’s long fingers covered his belly—big, warm, protective. For a moment he saw a future framed in that touch: mornings with sunlight in a nursery; Thee, ridiculous and tender, reading poetry to a bump; tiny feet pressing against his palm; Plub crying from joy and scolding him for lifting anything heavier than a pillow. The vision dropped through him like a stone into clear water, and the ripples were all longing.

“If it was possible,” Peach said, voice unsteady but brave, “I would be the happiest. I’ve always wanted a family, Kian. Even when I told myself it was stupid to want things like that, I wanted it.” He breathed, steadying. “If I could carry a piece of you… if this body could keep you that way… I would want it more than anything.”

Thee went very still, then bowed his forehead to Peach’s. His lashes were ridiculously dark, his eyes gleaming the way they did when he saw a perfect photograph before he took it. “Say it again,” he asked, not as a command but as a prayer.

Peach did, surer this time. “I want a family with you.”

Something in Thee’s shoulders unclasped. He kissed Peach’s brow, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Then I will build it,” he said simply, like a vow. His accent thickened, the Thai and Russian twining in his voice. “I will make the world bend for you. If the world says no, we will write our own rules.”

Peach laughed wetly. “You can’t bribe biology, Kian.”

“Watch me,” Thee said, and somehow it was only half a joke. “I have doctors who never ask questions. I have security who never sleep. I will create a nest for you—silk sheets and soft shirts that smell like me, mango with sticky rice at 3 a.m., a bath already drawn before you even think of one.” He pressed a kiss to Peach’s stomach through the sheet, a touch so tender Peach’s eyes stung. “And I will keep you safe. From everything. From everyone. From me, if I ever forget myself.”

Peach’s hand trembled as he carded fingers through Thee’s hair. “No violence,” he said softly, the old fear surfacing and receding like a wave. “I can’t—”

“I know.” Thee’s voice gentled at once. “No violence around you. I will make sure my world can’t touch you. I’ll keep it at the door and let it starve there.” Another kiss to Peach’s belly, longer. “All that crosses this threshold is love.”

Peach’s chest hurt with how fiercely he believed him. Thee was ridiculous and dramatic and could be terrifying when he wanted to be; he was also the man who quietly changed the light bulbs before they burned out because he hated the thought of Peach reaching for anything high. He was the man who set two glasses of water by the bed—one chilled, one room temperature—because he liked watching Peach choose.

“You’ll spoil me until I turn into a pillow,” Peach said, the smile creeping back, “and then complain that I’m heavy.”

“I’ll train my arms,” Thee said solemnly, flexing just to make Peach roll his eyes. “I will carry you everywhere like a prince from an old lakorn. Look at me.” He held Peach’s gaze; his own had gone bright and unwavering. “If this becomes real, I will be there every step. Every craving. Every appointment. Every fear. I will talk to you here”—he tapped Peach’s belly with two knuckles, tenderly—“and here.” He tapped Peach’s heart. “And when you’re tired of hearing me, I will sing terribly until you laugh.”

“Your singing is criminal,” Peach said, watery with laughter now.

“Then arrest me.” Thee kissed the laughter from his mouth. “I’ve already surrendered.”

They drifted for a while in that soft orbit—Peach tracing idle lines on Thee’s forearm; Thee murmuring endearments like he couldn’t help himself. When hunger nudged them, Thee insisted on feeding Peach first: toasted rice porridge and shredded chicken he warmed himself, a sliced mango he arranged with the precision of a jeweler. Peach perched on his lap in the kitchen, stealing bites and kisses, the world narrowed to the golden pool of the pendant light and how Thee’s palm kept straying back to his stomach, as if gravity lived there.

After, Thee drew a bath and washed Peach’s hair, fingers slow and careful, praising him for leaning back into his touch, for trusting him to rinse the suds from his eyes. Peach’s spine softened under those big, patient hands; the fear that used to spring up at thoughtless movements stayed quiet.

Back in bed, Thee handed Peach one of his softest shirts. It fell to mid-thigh on Peach and smelled like Thee’s closet—cedar and starch and something metallic and expensive. Thee slid in behind him and gathered him close again, chin hooked over Peach’s shoulder.

“I meant it,” Thee whispered into the curve where neck became shoulder. “I want a family with you too. However it comes. Whatever we must do. You, me, and a little one who knows they were wanted long before they were born.”

Peach’s eyes prickled. “Kian.”

“Yes, my little one.”

“If it never happens… promise me you’ll still say it like this,” Peach said, voice small. “That I’m your house.”

Thee exhaled, a sound like a vow. “You will always be my house,” he said. “But listen—” His hand covered Peach again, steady and warm. “I have the very bad habit of getting what I want when I want it. And what I want is you, safe and laughing, with our child kicking against my palm while I quote lines that make you groan.”

Peach groaned on cue. “You’re insufferable.”

“I am yours.” Thee nuzzled his nose into Peach’s hair. “Sleep, Peach.”

He did. And as his breathing evened out, Thee lay awake, one arm banded around him and the other guarding what he suddenly couldn’t stop imagining. He whispered to the quiet: an old line from a drama, softened into a promise. “my home—will be filled with small footsteps.”

Peach shifted in his sleep, sighing, and Thee’s palm curved instinctively, protective and sure, over the place where someday—somehow, some way—there might be a heartbeat answering his own.

~~~~

The first thing Peach notices is his back.

It starts as a soft ache the morning after a late shoot—nothing dramatic, just a tug behind his ribs when he leans over his laptop to cull files. He shifts on the dining chair, stretches, and blames Kian with a private, pink-cheeked smile. They’d been… thorough last night, and it wasn’t exactly like Kian had shown restraint in the way he folded Peach close and held him there.

He texts anyway: my back is whining. your fault.

Kian’s reply is instant: My little one, I will take responsibility. Heating pad in your office drawer. Use it.

A second message follows. Also: water on your left, room temp. Right: cold. Drink both.

Peach laughs, warms his lower back, and keeps editing. The ache eases and returns like a tide. He chalks it up to too much crouching for low angles, promises himself he’ll stretch properly before bed, and moves on.

⸻

Two days later, he wakes before sunrise for a rooftop portrait session—the light’s going to be perfect, thin and pearly over the skyline. He pads into the kitchen, reaches for his coffee canister, and freezes. The smell hits him like a slap.

Coffee has always been comfort: the rich, bitter steam, the promise of heat. Now, the scent turns his stomach on a dime. He clamps a hand over his mouth, confused, and reaches for water instead. It doesn’t help. By the time he’s loaded batteries into his camera bag, he’s on his knees in the bathroom, retching up the nothing he’s had.

It passes quickly but leaves him shaky. He rinses his mouth and hates the taste of mint. He hates the taste of everything.

He doesn’t hide it. He never hides from Kian.

Peach: threw up. weird. maybe the coffee was bad?

Kian: Where are you?

Peach: home. have a 6:30 shoot. i’m fine.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Kian: Stay on the line with me while you pack. Breathe slow. Take the ginger chews in the top pantry bin. I put them there last month because you said you liked the spicy ones.

Peach: i did like them. now they taste like betrayal.

Kian’s low laugh pours through the phone speaker. “My good boy,” he says softly, “no more coffee today. After the shoot, come straight home. I’ll have congee ready.”

Peach wants to protest, but the word home unwinds something in his chest. “Yes, Kian.”

He shoots beautifully despite the unsettled stomach—muscle memory, eyes finding the light the way birds find north. On the ride back he keeps his face pressed to the open window, swallowing hard against the diesel smell of the morning. The driver (one of Kian’s, polite and quiet) goes the long way to avoid traffic like it’s a matter of national security.

When Peach steps into the condo, a bowl of toasted rice porridge is cooling on the counter next to wedges of green mango and a small dish of prik glaab. Kian is in shirtsleeves with the cuffs rolled, tie yanked loose, as if he forgot halfway through getting dressed and never went back to finish. He takes one look at Peach and opens his arms.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m breakable,” Peach says, but he goes anyway, presses his nose to Kian’s collarbone and lets himself be held.

“I’m not looking at you like you’re breakable,” Kian murmurs into his hair. “I’m looking at you like you’re mine.”

⸻

By midweek, a pattern emerges. Morning becomes the enemy. Peach wakes up with a head full of static and a stomach that rejects the idea of food on principle. The ginger chews help until they don’t. Brushing his teeth is a gamble. The smell of Kian’s espresso machine—the one Peach used to steal sips from—sends him back to the sink. He glares at the machine like it’s personally betrayed him.

Kian notices. He notices everything.

On Thursday, Peach finds a handwritten note propped in front of the espresso machine: Temporary exile. He will be forgiven and reinstalled when my little one stops glaring at him like a jealous ex. The machine is gone by evening, replaced with a sleek electric kettle and neatly labeled tins—ginger, chrysanthemum, barley. There’s also a ginger ale lineup in the fridge, two brands Peach has never heard of and one from a Japanese market that tastes like real root and heat.

At lunch on set, he opens a packet of the cinnamon breadstick snacks he always keeps in his bag—his favorite guilty crunch between frames—and recoils at the first smell. Cinnamon suddenly reads as sweet chemical fire. He snaps the packet shut and swallows hard.

His assistant for the day—someone the studio loaned him, the type who wears all black and calls everyone P’—looks concerned. “P’Peach, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Peach manages, forcing a smile. He tucks the packet away and texts Kian instead. betrayal update: cinnamon sticks now enemies.

Kian: They are dead to me. I will inform the pantry.

Peach: you’re impossible.

Kian: I am yours. Did you eat something else?

Peach: rice. cucumber. water.

Kian: Good boy.

That night, Kian clears the cupboards with the efficiency of a campaign. Anything with cinnamon, strong coffee, or aggressive scents disappears. In its place: crackers, mild yogurt, plain rice, fruit cut into geometric perfection because Kian can’t help himself. There’s a chiropractor appointment on the calendar he pretends is about “professional posture,” a delivery of a camera harness that redistributes weight from Peach’s back, and a heated lumbar cushion in the passenger seat of the car.

“You think you’re subtle,” Peach says, amused, when the cushion lights up under him.

“I think I’m effective,” Kian replies, buckling him in like the seatbelt is a tender thing. He kisses Peach once, brief and grounding. “Text me if the ache returns.”

“It’s just from work,” Peach says. “And maybe because someone kept me in one position for too long on Monday.”

Kian’s eyes flicker, pleased and unrepentant. “I will write a public apology to your lower back.” He leans in, voice a velvet hush. “You were perfect, my little one.”

Peach’s ears go pink. He looks out the window and grins at his reflection.

⸻

By Friday, the nausea has a personality. It arrives in the morning like a nosy neighbor, knocks around until eleven, then takes a lunch break. Peach adapts: shoots in the late morning, editing in the afternoon, long showers when the steam helps. He avoids the studio’s break room because someone’s microwaving fish, and the smell is a weapon.

He doesn’t hide any of it. When Kian calls between meetings, Peach tells him the truth. When Kian texts in the middle of the day—How’s my heart?—Peach answers honestly: queasy. grumpy. want mango. Kian responds by sending a courier with mango sticky rice and an apology he didn’t make it himself.

“You’re out of control,” Peach tells him that night, sitting cross-legged on the bed with his bowl.

“Correct,” Kian says, loosening his cufflinks. He slides in behind Peach and rubs his palm slow and steady over the ache in his back. “The world is cruel and I have money. Why would I not use it.”

Peach tips his head back onto Kian’s shoulder, soothed in a way that feels bone-deep. “I love you.”

Kian’s arms tighten. “I love you more.” A beat, and then, more carefully: “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

Peach hesitates. It’s been a week of small oddities, and they’re beginning to add up, but his mind refuses to leap. “Maybe let’s see if it passes,” he says. “If it’s a bug, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

Kian is quiet for one long heartbeat. “It is never a waste of anyone’s time to take care of you,” he says, soft and absolute. “But I will follow your lead. For now.”

He follows Peach’s lead by overcompensating in every other direction. Security shadows become noticeable only because they suddenly carry his gear. A memo goes out to the building staff (Peach only knows because the lobby smells different): No heavy perfumes in common areas. The housekeeper’s cinnamon broom disappears. The night market run they’d planned morphs into Kian building a picnic on the living room rug: plain grilled chicken, jasmine rice, a gentle soup, sliced guava with chili-salt he grinds himself in the marble mortar, every piece arranged like a still-life he hopes Peach will eat.

Peach eats. He doesn’t throw up. Kian kisses his forehead with the relief of a man who just negotiated peace.

⸻

Over the weekend, morning takes another swing. Peach gets through half a glass of water before his stomach flips. Kian is already beside him, thumb at the back of his neck, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me. In, out. Good boy. Again.”

It’s over quickly, but Kian looks like he might dismantle the city brick by brick to find the culprit. He wipes Peach’s mouth with a warm cloth like it’s a ritual from an old drama. “I’m going to buy the sky and tell it to be gentler,” he mutters, half to himself.

Peach laughs, small and tired. “You can try.”

He dozes on the couch while Kian reads emails in a murmur, free hand never leaving the slow stroke at Peach’s spine. Every so often he quotes something ridiculous and poetic because he knows it makes Peach roll his eyes and relax. “The body knows before the heart does,” Kian says at one point, too casually, and Peach’s eyes flicker open.

“What’s that from?” Peach asks.

“A lakorn my mother loved,” Kian says, not meeting his gaze. “It sounded true.”

Peach studies him. There’s a tension at the corners of Kian’s mouth he only sees when things matter. Boxes start appearing at the door that afternoon—ginger candies, plain crackers, a pregnancy-safe tea set Peach refuses to comment on because the label could just be marketing, right?—and Kian pretends very hard he wasn’t the one who ordered them all at three in the morning.

“You’re not sleeping,” Peach says softly that night when he catches Kian scrolling on his phone in the dark.

“I am gathering data,” Kian says, which is a lie and also true. He sets the phone aside and gathers Peach closer, palm finding its new home over Peach’s stomach like a compass needle settling north. “Tell me every strange thing. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones.”

Peach nods against his chest. “Smells are weird now. Coffee is an enemy. Cinnamon is treason. Fish sauce is… aggressive.”

“Banished,” Kian says immediately. “From the house, from our lives, from the planet if possible.” He feels Peach’s laugh against his ribs and relaxes by degrees. “What tastes good?”

“Cold rice,” Peach says after a moment. “Green mango. Plain things. Your mouth.”

“Always,” Kian says, smiling into Peach’s hair. He doesn’t kiss him then, just breathes him in like a promise.

⸻

On Monday, Peach tries to work through it. He has a fashion campaign shoot—white cyclorama, models who never blink, a client who wants effortless intimacy. Peach can do effortless intimacy in his sleep. The morning, unfortunately, has other plans. He makes it through the first setup, calls for a five-minute break, and ends up bent over a trash bin backstage, mortified.

By the time he straightens, one of Kian’s assistants is there with cold water, another with a cool cloth for the back of his neck, both professionals who pretend that nothing at all is happening. Peach stares at them. “How did you—”

“Mr. Arseny asked us to keep an eye on you today,” one says calmly. “Only to carry things. And to bring water. And to call him if you—” She stops herself, offers a soothing smile. “Would you like a chair, P’Peach?”

Peach presses the cloth to his face and laughs helplessly. “I would like to survive my own stomach.”

He texts Kian anyway. don’t fire anyone. i’m okay.

Kian: I will give them raises for moving gently around you. Tell me where it hurts.

Peach: it doesn’t. just… mornings hate me.

Kian: Mornings are foolish and will be punished.

He gets through the rest of the day by force of will and crackers. When he finally keys into the condo, the lights are low, the air warm, music soft. Kian steps out of the kitchen wearing an apron Peach has never seen before—linen, slate gray, indecently handsome—and holds up a spoon like a peace offering.

“Taste,” he says. “Just a sip. It’s a broth from my childhood. Very gentle. No violence.”

Peach tastes. Somehow the broth lands like kindness and stays. He closes his eyes. “This is cheating.”

“Winning,” Kian corrects, relieved. He feeds him at the counter, slow and steady, eyes flicking to Peach’s face like he’s measuring color returning to his cheeks. When Peach is full, Kian cleans the bowl himself and won’t let Peach help.

Later, in bed, Peach rolls to face him. “Kian.”

“Yes, my little one.”

“If it’s still like this by the end of the week,” Peach says carefully, “maybe we should call someone. A doctor.”

Kian’s breath catches, just once. “We will,” he says, instantly, quietly fierce. “We’ll go wherever you want, with whoever you trust. Discreet, gentle, no white coats if you don’t like them.”

Peach touches his cheek. “I’m not scared.”

“I am,” Kian says with a crooked smile. “I am terrified of anything that makes you pale.”

Peach thinks of the congee and the ginger tea, the emptied cupboards and the reorganized pantry, the way the espresso machine vanished like a disgraced courtier. He thinks of Kian’s hands on his back, steady and sure. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, fond and aching.

“I am in love,” Kian answers simply.

They turn off the lights. Kian curves around Peach the way he has every night lately, a living shield, palm covering his lower belly like the beginning of a promise he doesn’t dare say aloud yet. Peach drifts, half-asleep, and hears Kian whisper into the dark in the cadence of those old dramas he loves: “If the house is to be blessed, let the morning be gentle with the one who lives in it.”

The city hums outside. Morning is a few hours away, waiting with its questions. For now, they breathe together, and Kian’s hand stays right where it has learned to rest.

~~~~

Week three arrives with the same queasy dawns, but it brings new companions: a heaviness behind Peach’s eyes and a warmth under his skin that refuses to fade.

He tries to outpace it. He wakes early for a product shoot and tells himself the sluggishness is just bad sleep, the heat a leftover from the shower. He loads batteries, clips on his strap, and realizes he is blinking too long between movements. Light that normally sharpens him feels soft at the edges. He finishes the first setup only because muscle memory is stubborn.

At 11:13 a.m., he gives up pretending.

Peach: heading home. feel weird. heavy. can’t keep my eyes open.

Kian: I’m coming home.

Peach: no—finish your meeting. i’m just going to nap.

Kian: Meetings can be moved. You are irreplaceable. Text when you’re in the car.

Peach texts when he’s in the car. He texts when he’s in the elevator. He means to text once he’s in bed, but sleep drags him under before the message is sent.

—

Kian walks into the penthouse like a shadow with a purpose. The house is quiet; the staff have melted away because they know when to give the boss privacy. He finds Peach by gravity rather than sound—bedroom door half-closed, room dim, the shape of his boy a small hill under the covers.

Kian stops. He breathes. Then he moves with care.

He pads to the bedside, checks the thermostat, lowers the lights to a softer gold. He kneels and presses the back of his fingers to Peach’s cheek, then to his forehead. Warm, not burning. The relief is small but real, and he swallows it down so it doesn’t turn into a tremor in his hand.

“Sleep,” he whispers, though Peach is already gone. “I’m here.”

He sets a glass of water on the nightstand. A small bowl of ice. Ginger ale. Crackers, because—just in case. He pulls the spare quilt away so the bed isn’t too hot, tucks the sheet smooth. He takes the digital thermometer from the drawer he’d stocked last week and sets it within reach. He puts his phone face down and silences every alert that isn’t Peach.

Then he does what he does best: he keeps watch.

He sits in the chair by the window where he can see both the door and the bed, the city spread like circuitry below the glass. He answers three emails with five-word sentences that make department heads sit up straighter. He declines a board dinner. He texts security to keep the corridor quiet. He texts the kitchen to keep the house free of aggressive smells. He makes a list in his notes app titled Peach — week three and adds: fatigue (sudden), temp (low-grade), nausea (mornings).

Every few minutes he gets up and checks Peach’s breathing just because he needs to. He brushes hair off Peach’s forehead. He kisses his knuckles when the hand appears above the sheet. He rests his palm on the familiar curve of Peach’s belly, not pressing, just there—the way he has every night since the talk two weeks ago—like a seal over a secret.

Hours pass in that small radius of worry and devotion. The sun goes down, the city lights up, and the penthouse becomes an island. Kian doesn’t leave the room. He orders dinner to be left outside the door and forgets to eat it. When his phone rings, he answers in a whisper. When people push, he pushes back harder with ice-water politeness that means don’t try me today.

Peach sighs awake when the sky is almost fully dark. He blinks, disoriented, then turns his face toward the shape he always finds first. “Kian?”

Kian is already leaning in. “I’m here, my little one.” His thumb is cool at Peach’s hairline. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m full of sand,” Peach rasps. He licks his lips and grimaces at the taste of sleep. “How long—?”

“You came home before noon.” Kian helps him sit just enough to sip water, patient as gravity. “It’s past seven.”

Peach makes a face. “That’s rude of my body.”

“It needed rest.” Kian taps the thermometer against his palm, asking without asking. Peach nods. Kian slips it under his tongue, watches the numbers with the focus of a man defusing something delicate. The reading steadies: not alarming, but higher than Peach’s usual. Kian’s mouth tightens for a fraction of a second before he smooths it away.

“Still warm,” he says quietly. “Not high. How’s the nausea?”

“Less now,” Peach admits. “Mornings are still a horror movie.” He glances at the water, sips again. The coolness helps. He looks up, sees the lines around Kian’s eyes, and gentles. “I’m okay.”

Kian huffs out a soft, unbelieving sound. “You are many things, Peach. Stoic is one of them. Okay is not the measure I’ll accept.” He brushes Peach’s cheek with the back of two fingers. “Do you want to try congee? Just a little.”

“Maybe later.” Peach leans into the touch, then catches Kian’s hand and kisses the palm because he knows what that does to him. “You stood guard, didn’t you.”

“I sat guard. Occasionally paced. Tried not to bribe the sun to set faster.” Kian shakes his head at himself, then surrenders to a smile that’s equal parts fond and ridiculous. “I failed to eat dinner. You will scold me.”

Peach yawns. “Consider yourself scolded.”

They sit like that for a minute: Peach propped against pillows, Kian half on the bed with one knee on the mattress so he can be close without crowding. Outside, the helipad across the neighboring tower blinks, a slow heartbeat of light.

Peach blows out a breath. “Kian.”

“Yes, my heart.”

“I think… maybe we should go to a doctor.” He says it carefully, like setting a fragile glass down. “The new stuff—this heat, the way I crashed today. It feels like more than a bug.”

For a heartbeat, Kian is stone-still, as if someone has just said a password he’s been waiting to hear. Then he nods, once, a soldier receiving orders he already wrote. “We will.”

He reaches for his phone with the economy of a decision already made. The screen illuminates his jaw, the small scar near his ear Peach always kisses for luck. Kian doesn’t even open his contacts; he hits a starred number and speaks in a voice Peach rarely hears—quiet, steel-lined, the one that moves mountains because it assumes mountains will move.

“Yes,” he says without preamble. “I need a private consultation for my partner tomorrow. Morning. First slot. Private entrance. Minimal staff. No scents. No press. Full discretion. Prepare labs but nothing invasive without consent. Send me the list of attending physicians and their files in ten minutes.” He listens, eyes on Peach. “Good. Thank you.”

He ends the call, thumbs out a handful of messages with the speed of a pianist. Peach watches his mouth move into that cool, efficient line and feels… safe. Startled, a little. But safe.

“You didn’t even ask which clinic,” Peach says, somewhere between awe and exasperation.

“I asked three days ago and finished yesterday,” Kian admits, caught. He looks almost sheepish—which on him reads as a brief, human crack in the armor. “I hoped I was being dramatic. I prefer to be dramatic only for romance.”

Peach snorts. “You prefer to be dramatic for everything.”

“Correct.” Kian puts the phone facedown, done. The command in him goes soft again, replaced by the lover Peach knows. He cups Peach’s face with both hands, thumbs sweeping slow at his cheeks. “Tomorrow,” he says, and there’s a promise wrapped around the word, a ring around the date. “No excuses. We’ll get answers. And whatever they are, I will make the path gentle.”

Peach searches his eyes. “You’re not… scared?”

“I am always scared when you’re not at full color,” Kian says simply. “I am heir to ugly men who make ugly choices. But the power is good for something.” He tilts his head, kisses Peach’s forehead like sealing a pact. “Let me spend it on softness.”

Peach’s throat tightens. “Okay.”

Kian settles him back against the pillows, fusses with the sheet until Peach threatens to bite his wrist if he smooths it one more time. Kian laughs under his breath, then slides in beside him and tucks Peach against his chest. His hand finds its home—steady, possessive—covering the warm plane of Peach’s lower belly.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “I’ll keep watch.”

Peach closes his eyes. The temperature still hums under his skin, the fatigue tugging at him like tide. But the weight of Kian’s palm is an anchor, the kind that says stay, you are guarded. Peach listens to Kian’s heart until the beat blurs into the city’s distant thrum.

Before he falls, he hears Kian murmur an old-lakorn line into his hair, softened into a vow. “เมื่อรักเป็นบ้าน—when love is a house—I stand at the door.”

Tomorrow will be hospitals and answers. Tonight, the house has a sentinel, and morning—if it wants him—will have to ask permission.

~~~~

Morning came soft and gray, and Peach dressed for mercy instead of style—sweatpants that didn’t press anywhere and one of Kian’s luxury hoodies that swallowed him whole. The cuffs fell over his hands; the fabric smelled like cedar and the faintest after-echo of Kian’s cologne. He tugged the hood up on the ride over and let his cheek rest against Kian’s shoulder while the city slid by.

Everything was discreet by the time they arrived—private elevator, unscented hallways, a receptionist who spoke in the hush you use in libraries. Kian had seen to it. Peach felt the invisible net of it around them: the way doors opened without being touched, the way nobody stared too long, the absence of perfume and coffee.

Inside the exam room, the paper on the table crackled when Peach sat. Kian paced three precise steps one way, three back, suit jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled. He kept glancing at Peach’s hands like he needed proof they were still warm.

“You’re making the tiles dizzy,” Peach said, trying for light.

Kian stopped immediately and came to stand between Peach’s knees, thumbs bracketing his jaw. “Better?” he asked, too earnest.

“Better,” Peach conceded, smiling, and smoothed the line between Kian’s brows with his fingertip. “Kian.”

“My little one.”

“I’m okay.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Kian said, but his mouth softened.

The doctor came in a beat later: mid-forties, steady-eyed, wearing a plain white coat and a gentleness that felt practiced but genuine. “Khun Peach? Khun Arseny?” he greeted, palms pressed together briefly. “I’m Dr. Woraset. I understand you’ve been feeling unwell these past weeks.”

Peach went through the list—nausea in the mornings that could knock him sideways; the back ache that came and went; the new heaviness behind his eyes; the warmth under his skin that wasn’t a fever but wasn’t nothing either. The doctor nodded, asked a few quiet questions, typed. Kian listened like every answer was a passcode. When Peach faltered on a date or detail, Kian supplied it without interrupting.

“I’d like to start with a full screening,” Dr. Woraset said when they’d finished. “Nothing invasive. My nurse will take your vitals, draw some blood, and collect a urine sample. We’ll talk again once we have the rapid results.”

Peach nodded. He didn’t let go of Kian’s fingers until the nurse was inside.

She moved through the ritual quickly and kindly: cuff around Peach’s arm for blood pressure; pulse oximeter on his finger; counting breaths while she pretended to tidy the tray; thermometer at the temple. She called out numbers as she went, and Peach watched Kian catalog them with a face that gave away nothing and everything at once.

“Blood pressure’s good,” she said, cheerful but quiet. “Oxygen ninety-nine, pulse a bit fast—common with fatigue—respirations normal, temperature just a touch warm.” She noted his weight—unchanged from his last checkup—and asked if his clothes felt tighter. “Just… wrong,” Peach admitted, embarrassed, tugging at the band of his sweatpants.

She swabbed the crook of his elbow and drew vials of blood. “For STIs, general panel, and the genetic screen the doctor requested,” she said, labeling each tube with deliberate hands. Then she walked Peach to the bathroom for a urine sample and waited in the hallway like a quiet guard.

When they were alone again, the room exhaled. Kian slid the exam-table stirrups back into their hidden slots with a click that felt like reclaiming the space. He tugged the hoodie down over Peach’s hips, then pressed a kiss to the knuckles of the hand he held.

“You’re hovering,” Peach murmured, fond.

“I am standing,” Kian corrected gravely. “The hovering is in my heart.”

Waiting always felt longer in rooms with a calendar no one ever changed. Peach swung his sneakered feet and watched the second hand on the wall clock make its precise loop. The thin paper under him rasped each time he shifted. Kian tried to sit in the chair; lasted fifteen seconds; gave up and opened his arms. Peach slid off the table without thinking and settled into Kian’s lap. Instantly, everything felt easier—the hoodie, the air, the waiting.

Kian wrapped him up and arranged him, one arm banded around Peach’s waist, the other hand settling, like instinct, over Peach’s lower belly. Peach tucked his head into the crook of Kian’s neck and breathed him in. Outside the door, footsteps went by and didn’t stop. Inside, Kian hummed some melody he probably didn’t realize was from an old drama, off-key and soothing.

“I keep thinking of you in my hoodie,” Kian murmured into Peach’s hair, “and it feels like a prophecy.”

Peach pinched his thigh through the slacks. “Don’t start.”

“I will always start,” Kian said, unrepentant, and kissed his temple.

The latch snicked. They straightened.

Dr. Woraset returned with a folder and the calm of someone who knew how to deliver anything. He took the chair, set the folder on his knees, and looked at Peach first. “Thank you for your patience,” he said. “I have preliminary results.”

Kian’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly around Peach. Peach slid his hand down Kian’s forearm—there, I’m here—and nodded for the doctor to continue.

“Your screens for sexually transmitted infections are negative,” Dr. Woraset began, methodical. “Your urinalysis looks clean—no evidence of a urinary tract infection. The genetic panel we ran for common abnormalities shows no flags. Your vitamin levels are within normal limits except for iron, vitamin D, and B12, which are a bit low. That could contribute to fatigue, and is common in… well.” He hesitated just a breath, then opened the folder and cleared his throat. “In certain conditions.”

Peach held very still. Kian’s hand on his stomach went quiet, warm and steady.

“What concerns me—and puzzles me—is the level of hCG in your blood,” the doctor continued, meeting Peach’s eyes as if bracing him with honesty. “Men typically have very low or undetectable levels of hCG. Your level is markedly elevated in the range we usually see in women—pregnant women, specifically.”

Silence opened like a door.

Peach heard it before he felt it: the soft inhale Kian took against his ear, the way the air changed around them. Kian didn’t squeeze, not hard, only the smallest increment tighter, as if to say I’m here; don’t float away. Peach leaned back into it because it was the only thing that made sense.

He tried to speak and found his mouth didn’t know which word to choose. Impossible? Hope? Both?

Dr. Woraset’s voice gentled. “I know that may be unexpected. And hCG, while suggestive in this context, is not a diagnosis on its own. Given your symptoms and this lab value, I would like to perform an ultrasound—abdominal first. It will allow us to see what, if anything, is present.”

“What do you think is present?” Kian asked, and his tone was careful in a way Peach had only ever heard in front of mirrors and old graves.

The doctor folded his hands. “I have a working hypothesis,” he said, honest again. “But I prefer certainty before I name things.” He stood. “If you’re comfortable, I’ll bring the machine in. We can proceed right away.”

Peach nodded. His throat felt like it had narrowed to a straw. Kian helped him scoot back onto the table, the paper crinkling, the wheels of the stool scuffing lightly against tile. Peach pushed the hem of the hoodie up to his chest, exposing his abdomen to the cool air. The room felt brighter suddenly, or maybe it was just the way everything in him had sharpened around the possibility.

Kian took his place at Peach’s side like a knight takes his station in a story: as if this was always where he was supposed to be. He laced their fingers together and pressed a kiss to Peach’s forehead, lingering.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered. “In. Out. Good boy.”

Peach breathed. The room steadied. He angled his face toward Kian until their noses almost touched. In Kian’s eyes he saw the exact thing he felt in his own—a flash of unbelieving hope, bright and terrifying and tender.

A knock at the door. The soft squeak of wheels in the hall.

They didn’t look away from each other.

And on the hinge of that moment—their hands linked, hearts pitched forward—while the future waited just on the other side of the door.

~~~~

Dr. Woraset returned with the ultrasound machine and the same nurse from earlier trailing him, wheels whispering over tile. “I’ve asked Nurse Ploy to remain as a neutral observer,” he explained, kind but matter-of-fact. “It’s standard whenever findings could be… significant.”

He dimmed the lights a fraction, logged into the console, and tugged the cart closer. “A little gel first,” he warned.

The gel was cool enough that Peach flinched and let out a tiny laugh. “Oh—”

“Apologies,” the doctor said, half sheepish, already smoothing it over Peach’s lower abdomen and just into the dip of his pelvis. “It helps the sound travel.”

Kian never left his side. One hand stayed threaded with Peach’s; the other combed slowly through his hair, steadying. “Breathe with me,” he murmured. “In. Out. Good boy.”

The transducer touched down. The pressure was gentle, a slow, careful sweep. On the monitor, the grayscale world bloomed—grain and snow, shadows that meant nothing, then maybe something, then nothing again as the doctor adjusted his angle.

Peach didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Dr. Woraset stopped and made a small, pleased sound in his throat. Nurse Ploy’s mouth softened into a smile.

“There,” the doctor said softly.

In the center of the screen: a small, perfect black circle set in softer gray.

“I’m going to explain this as I would to a woman,” Dr. Woraset said, tone careful and warm. He lifted the capped end of the probe for a moment and pointed. “What we’re seeing is a tiny pocket of fluid within the lining of your uterus. That pocket is the very beginning of a pregnancy—it’s called a gestational sac.”

Peach stared at the screen, then at the doctor, then back again. Kian’s fingers tightened around his, not crushing, just anchoring.

“Pregnancy?” Peach whispered. “Are you telling us that I’m… pregnant? How is that even possible?”

The doctor took a small breath, as if setting a book open to the right page. “We all begin from the same template in the womb,” he said. “In very rare cases, some of the tissue that would normally regress in males does not do so completely. In your case, there is a small but functioning uterus present inside your body. That’s why your blood showed high hCG, and why the ultrasound shows this—your uterus has provided a place for the pregnancy to implant. Most people with this anatomy don’t know unless there’s a reason to look, which is why it’s often discovered by surprise.”

Kian came back to himself with a sharp inhale. He bent and kissed Peach’s hair, voice roughened with relief and awe. “So what you’re really saying,” he managed, “is that Peach is growing something beautiful inside him.”

Both the nurse and the doctor smiled outright at that. “It’s early,” Dr. Woraset said. “Too early to be exact about timing, but judging by the size of the sac and your symptoms, I would estimate around three to four weeks from conception.” He moved the probe just enough to take a measurement, clicked twice, and nodded to himself. “I’d like to see you again in two weeks. By then, we should be able to confirm more—build a proper timeline for the pregnancy, and if all continues as expected, identify the yolk sac and, perhaps, cardiac activity.”

Nurse Ploy tapped a few keys, then the printer chirped. She tore off a glossy strip and, with the kind of ceremony that belongs to firsts, handed it to Kian.

He looked at the tiny black circle like it was a sunrise only he had paid for. “We’ll need more copies,” he said softly, already reaching to pass it to Peach, then catching himself and tucking it into Peach’s palm like a secret. “One for the house. One for my wallet. One for the safe.”

Dr. Woraset clicked the machine into standby and stood, wiping the probe. “I’d also like you to start a prenatal vitamin—iron and folic acid are essential, and given your lab results, choose one that includes calcium and vitamin D as well.” He moved toward the door, then turned back and let the professional calm open into something warmer. “Congratulations, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Peach said, the words thin and bright.

The nurse moved with practiced care: gel wiped away with a warmed towel, hoodie tugged back down, the paper crinkle smoothed flat. She sat at the computer and repeated the plan in a clear, even cadence. “Two-week follow-up is scheduled for Tuesday at 8:00 a.m. Private entrance again. Start the prenatal today if possible. Keep meals small and frequent. Hydration. If you have sharp pain, heavy bleeding, or fever, call us immediately.” She printed the after-visit summary, slid it into a folder, then added two extra ultrasound prints without comment and a discreet smile. “Here. For your… safe.”

Kian’s mouth quirked; caught.

Peach slid off the table. His legs felt a little like they weren’t sure about gravity anymore. Kian’s hand was there, at his elbow, his waist, his lower back—light, constant. They stood a foot apart and then the space collapsed because the only thing that made sense was to fit together.

They looked at each other.

Kian’s eyes were blown wide with joy and a kind of reverence Peach had only ever seen turned on art. Peach’s own vision blurred at the edges; the happiness was too clean to hold without spilling. He laughed once, helplessly, and the sound broke into a breath that shook.

“My little one,” Kian said, voice gone husky, a man who had trained his whole life to keep the world out—now learning how to let this in. “Look what you’ve done.”

Peach pressed his palm over Kian’s, right where that small circle would be if you drew a line through skin and bone. “Look what we did,” he whispered, eyes shining. “Kian… we did it.”

Nurse Ploy pretended very hard to update the chart. The doctor, on his way past the door, paused just long enough to incline his head, as if blessing the moment.

Before they left the room, they didn’t move at all. They just held on—Kian full of wonder, Peach brimming with hope—while the first picture of their future cooled between them, glossy and real.

~~~~

The elevator doors slid open straight into their foyer, and the moment the lock clicked behind them, Peach turned—arms looping around Kian’s neck, face tucked against his jaw. He didn’t say anything at first. He just held on, the ultrasound printout a warm square between their chests.

Kian wrapped around him at once, big and sure, palms smoothing down Peach’s spine like he could iron the world flat. Then those hands slipped lower, confident and careful, and he bent to catch Peach behind the thighs. Peach rose without thinking, legs locking around Kian’s waist like they’d practiced this a hundred times—because they had, in a different context, for different reasons. This time the reason was simpler: closer.

Kian carried him through the golden hush of the penthouse—past the console table where he would later, inevitably, place the photo in a too-expensive frame—straight into their bedroom. He set Peach on the edge of the bed, leaned back only far enough to see his face, and kissed him deep. Not hungry. Not frantic. Just absolute—like breathing after holding your breath too long.

When he finally drew back, Peach had that dazzled, soft-lazy smile that always undid Kian’s spine. “Kian,” he said, happy and awed, as if the name itself were a blessing.

Kian’s fingers found the hem of the oversized hoodie and lifted. “May I?”

Peach lifted his arms, the hoodie whispering up, baring warm skin and the soft rise of his still-flat belly. Kian let the garment fall to the floor without ceremony and went to his knees between Peach’s knees, his hands spanning Peach’s hips, his face pressing into the new center of their universe.

He nuzzled there, breath warm, reverent. For once he didn’t say anything. He just listenedwith his cheek, as if sound might travel through skin and secret to meet him halfway.

Peach’s hands flew to Kian’s hair, fingers threading tight. Tears stung hot and bright. He blinked and they fell anyway. “Peach is very happy,” he whispered, voice wobbling.

Kian pulled back enough to look up at him. He looked like a man who had wandered into a holy place and found his own name carved in the stone. Awe. Wonder. Joy. A reverence so naked it made Peach laugh-cry at the same time.

“My little one,” Kian said, voice gone rough with it. “You are… impossible. Miraculous.” He kissed the center of Peach’s belly, then the left, then the right, like points of a compass learning new north. “You’re growing our light.”

Peach cupped his jaw. “I never thought…” He swallowed, the confession rising like a tide. “I never let myself think I could have a family outside of Plub. Not really. Not after—” He didn’t have to finish. Kian knew the shapes of those shadows.

Kian’s hands tightened, the promise blazing up fast and quiet. “I know.”

“Thank you,” Peach breathed. “Even if it’s early. Even if we have to be careful. Thank you for giving this to me.”

Kian pressed his forehead to Peach’s belly, laughter breaking on a prayer. “You did this. You,” he said, kissing again. “But I accept the job of guardian, provider, and shameless worshiper.”

He stayed there and spoke into Peach’s skin, his accent thickening, poetry slipping out of him like reflex. “Listen to me, my small miracle,” he told the place where hope lived now. “I will take care of you and the house you live in. I will protect you both with everything I am and with everything I own. No harm, no rough voice, no careless hand will ever come near you. I will make the air gentle and the mornings kind. I will make the world soft under your mother—” He paused, corrected without flinching, voice even gentler. “—under your Peach’s feet.”

Peach choked on a laugh and a sob all at once, tugging Kian’s face up to kiss him. Salt and relief, mouths clumsy with smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am in love,” Kian said against his lips, as if that explained the physics of everything. “And I am yours.”

They rested there for a long moment—their foreheads touching, breaths syncing, the city a distant hum. Peach slid his palms down and cradled his belly like it might answer back. Nothing moved, nothing changed, and yet everything had.

Kian stood abruptly, a live wire in a beautiful suit. The switch flipped in him—the ruthless executive with a heart made of copper and fire. “All right,” he said, already pacing. “Childcare. Education. Supply chains. I’m buying the quiet and the future.”

Peach blinked, then started laughing, wiping his cheeks with the heels of his hands. “Kian—”

But Kian was in motion, sleeves pushed up, tie askew, CEO brain boiling over with love. “We will invest in the companies that will touch our child’s life. Not just buy their products—own the decision-making. Daycare standards. Early education pedagogy. Materials sourcing. Textile safety.” He was counting on his fingers now, the way he did when building empires. “Air purifiers for nurseries. Soundproofing. The stroller with the best suspension. No branding anywhere near chemicals. We will set up a foundation for scholarships—prenatal research grants—no, two foundations, one in your name and one in mine, and the first initiative is smell-free medical wings so no one ever gets sick from coffee again—”

Peach folded over, giggling, then lay back on the bed, hands cupping his still-flat tummy. “You’re going to buy the alphabet so our child can learn to read, aren’t you.”

“If the vowels don’t behave, yes.” Kian stopped long enough to grin at him, feral and delighted. “And bottles. Glass, not plastic. Narrow neck for slow feed or wide? We will buy both lines and measure flow rates ourselves. Formula? We’ll bring in a nutritionist who can lecture me until I cry. Cloth diapers—no, we’ll research a service that doesn’t use harsh detergents. Car seats with five-point harnesses and steel frames. Carriers with spinal support approved by every physiotherapist in Thailand and Switzerland. Cradles with no sharp corners and breathable mesh. Humidifiers that don’t grow anything alive.” He thought for a beat. “And a rocking chair that doesn’t squeak. I’ll have one made.”

Peach watched him with a smile so bright it lit the room. “Kian,” he said gently, “you’re nesting.”

Kian paused, hand over his chest, as if surprised to find his heart there. He softened all at once, coming back to the bed, to Peach, to the small center that organized his chaos. He knelt again, put both palms over Peach’s hands where they cupped his belly. “I am building a house,” he said simply. “A real one, inside the one we live in.”

Peach tugged him up and kissed him once, slow. “Come build it right here for a minute,” he murmured. “With me.”

So Kian did what he was best at: he focused. He eased Peach back against the pillows, then lay beside him, half on his side so he could keep his hand where it belonged—warm, protective, spread over the place where their future had staked a flag. He talked softer now, plans turning into lullabies.

“We’ll frame the picture tonight,” he said. “One for your nightstand, one for the safe. I’ll call your favorite carpenter about the nursery shelves—no, I’ll call him tomorrow. Tonight I will order the vitamins the doctor wants, the ones with gentle iron so your stomach won’t revolt. I’ll have the kitchen plan small meals and snacks—mango, plain rice, the broth you liked, coconut water. I’ll move the espresso machine to Siberia.” He kissed Peach’s temple. “Security will update their protocols. No strong scents on this floor. Fresh flowers only if they ask you first. Elevators cleared in the morning so you don’t have to wait if you feel sick. I will build a tunnel from our bed to the bathroom if it helps.”

Peach laughed, watery and happy. “You’re out of control.”

“I am yours,” Kian corrected again, grinning into Peach’s hair. He sobered, thumb stroking once at Peach’s lower belly, voice dropping to that vow-soft place he carried from old dramas and older promises. “Listen to me, Peach. For the rest of my days, I will take care of you and our miracle. You will never be wanting, never be unsafe. If the world knocks, it will knock on me first. If anyone raises a hand, I will take it away. If fear comes near you, I will starve it.”

Peach’s breath hitched; he pulled Kian down and kissed him, tasting salt and laughter and certainty. “I love you,” he said, simple and enormous.

Kian smiled against his mouth. “I love you more.”

The pacing returned for exactly thirty seconds while Kian snapped a photo of the ultrasound on his phone, texted the house manager three practical orders (vitamins, broth, frame), and opened a blank note titled Baby Arseny (working title; Peach may veto). Then he abandoned the phone on the dresser like it offended him and climbed back into the only plan that mattered.

They lay there a long time—Peach cradling his still-flat tummy, Kian’s palm covering his, both of them wearing the same expression: joy that didn’t know how to fit inside their faces. At some point the city lights stitched themselves across the windows; at some point Kian muttered a threat against cinnamon sticks that made Peach snort into his shoulder.

“I keep thinking,” Peach said finally, quiet in the dim. “If you hadn’t made the world so gentle these past weeks, I might have been too scared to see today. Thank you.”

Kian kissed his hair. “I meant what I said at the doctor’s,” he murmured. “Congratulations, my heart.”

Peach turned his face up, eyes shining. “Congratulations, Kian.”

They didn’t frame the photo yet. They didn’t call anyone. They didn’t plan the next decade (much). They just stayed exactly where they were—two people and a brand-new third thing, held between palms and promises—while the house learned the shape of a new kind of quiet.