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The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioner and the distant hush of waves curling onto sand.
Evening light spilled through the gauzy white curtains in long, amber streaks, softening the edges of the room in gold and dusky rose. The hotel—nestled along the edge of a quiet seaside province—was all pale wood and warm stone, designed to feel more like a retreat than a resort. Through the large glass doors leading to the balcony, the sun hung low above the horizon, its reflection trembling on the sea. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the cove below shimmered like melted glass.
Inside, the room glowed in the low light. The walls, the color of sand and linen, caught the warmth of sunset. A woven rug softened the polished floorboards. On a nearby side table, a ceramic vase held dried sea lavender, their muted petals casting long shadows. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingling with warmth, skin, and something faintly floral—Khemjira’s perfume, maybe.
Scattered near the bed—half atop the rug, half sprawled across the wooden floor—were the remnants of the hours before: Khemjira’s soft cotton shirt, Rin’s navy silk blouse, a tangle of bra straps and pale underwear. Clothes abandoned without hesitation, the way only two people who stopped pretending could do.
Praenarin lay curled on her side in the king-sized bed, her bare back half-draped by a linen sheet and half-draped by Khemjira’s arm, which had no intention of letting go. Their legs remained tangled beneath the soft covers—warm skin against warm skin, their bodies still loose and humming from the rhythm they’d shared again and again. Both were spent now, even Khemjira, who’d moved with that quiet, focused intensity that had left Praenarin breathless every time. She’d long since lost count—of how many times they came together, of how many times she’d gasped Khem’s name into her ear like it was the only thing she knew how to say.
Breathless, but not rushed. There was no urgency anymore. Only the quiet pulse of peace. Only the sound of waves beyond the glass, and the slow, steady rhythm of a love that had finally found its way—held now without fear, without doubt.
Khemjira pressed a kiss to Praenarin’s shoulder, just above the curve of her spine, her lips lingering like a punctuation mark. “Khun Rin,” she murmured, voice low and teasing, “you’re thinking too much again.”
“I’m not,” Praenarin replied, though her voice—hoarse from sleep and softness—betrayed her. She didn’t move, but her breath hitched slightly when Khem's fingers brushed her side.
“You are,” Khem said with a knowing smile, nudging closer until their chests met and the linen sheet shifted between them. “I can feel it. You’re twitching.”
Praenarin huffed lightly, but said nothing. Khemjira grinned against her skin.
“Should I distract you again?” she whispered, lips brushing along the back of Rin’s neck now, slow and unhurried. “Or are you going to admit that you’ve been thinking about round... what, six? Seven?”
“I stopped counting,” Praenarin muttered, her tone flat but ears betraying her with a flush of pink. “And it’s not twitching. It’s... residual muscle tension.”
Khemjira laughed softly, the sound warm against her skin. “Poor thing,” she teased, fingers trailing down Praenarin’s waist, featherlight. “Want me to help you stretch it out?”
“That’s not what you’re offering and you know it,” Praenarin said, and this time her voice was laced with amused exasperation.
Khemjira just kissed her shoulder again, smug and affectionate. “Mm. But you didn’t say no.”
Praenarin didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached back and curled her fingers around Khem’s hand, still resting lightly at her waist. Her grip was soft, but steady.
“I don’t want to be distracted,” she said quietly.
Khem’s smile faded into something gentler, more attentive. She shifted just enough to see Rin’s profile, her brows lowering slightly in concern. “Hey... did I push too much?”
“No,” Praenarin said, almost immediately. Then she turned onto her back, slow and a little hesitant, so she could look at Khemjira properly. Her hair fanned across the pillow, her eyes catching the last of the sun’s fading gold. “You didn’t push. I just... I don’t want to forget this. Any of this.”
Khemjira stayed close, her hand now resting over Rin’s stomach, thumb brushing idly against her skin. “You won’t. I won’t let you.”
“I’m serious,” Praenarin said, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It still feels unreal. Like I’ll wake up tomorrow and you’ll be gone again. Like I’ll go back to that quiet bedroom and pretend I never—” She cut herself off, her throat tightening.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” Khemjira whispered, voice steady. “I have you now, I’ll hold you until you fell asleep everynight.”
Praenarin exhaled shakily, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I’m sorry I made you leave.”
As the words left her, she reached up slowly, her fingers finding Khem’s face with hesitant care—like she was still learning how to be gentle with her own tenderness. She traced the curve of Khem’s cheekbone with the backs of her fingers, then turned her hand to cup her face fully, thumb brushing just beneath her eye.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again, quieter this time. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Khemjira leaned into Rin’s touch, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as if anchoring herself there—cheek in palm, body pressed close.
“You know,” she murmured, voice low and fond, “for someone who slapped me and made me cry, you sure do touch me like I’m precious.”
Praenarin let out a soft, startled laugh—part guilt, part disbelief. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true,” Khem teased, opening her eyes and grinning. “This is maybe the most dramatic week of my life.”
Praenarin rolled her eyes and tried to withdraw her hand, but Khemjira caught it gently and held it in place against her cheek.
“Hey,” Khemjira said, her voice softening again as her thumb traced gentle circles over Rin’s knuckles. “I didn’t leave because I hate you. I left because I thought you needed space. And because... yeah, the slap didn’t help.”
Praenarin groaned softly and covered her face with one hand. “You must hate me.”
“I never hated you—not even for a second. And even if I had—which I didn’t—I would’ve forgiven you. Again and again.”
Rin’s throat tightened, her fingers trembling slightly against Khem’s cheek. “You’re too good to me.”
Khemjira leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of Rin’s palm. “I’m exactly good enough for you. And you—Khun Rin with her steel spine and marshmallow center—you’re finally learning how to love like you mean it.”
That earned her a quiet scoff from Praenarin, but Khemjira caught the smile that followed.
“So don’t apologize anymore,” Khemjira whispered. “Just stay.”
Khemjira leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm, like she was saying I know without needing to speak. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t hungry—it was deep and grounding, the kind of kiss that steadied more than it stirred. Their lips moved in quiet rhythm, mouths parting just enough for breath and warmth and the kind of closeness that made words unnecessary.
Rin’s hand, resting on Khem’s chest, began to move—almost absently. Her fingertips brushed against the back of Khem’s hand, then found the ring she’d slid onto her finger just hours earlier. She touched it like she wasn’t even aware of doing it, running her thumb gently over the band, again and again, like she needed to feel that it was still there. Still real.
Khemjira smiled against her mouth, sensing it, savoring it. She pulled back just far enough to murmur, “If you keep touching me like that, Khun Rin, I might assume you're inviting another round.”
Praenarin let out a soft breath, part laugh, part groan. “I thought you were exhausted.”
Khemjira smirked. “I am. But I’m also highly motivated.”
Praenarin arched a brow, lips brushing Khem’s again. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And yet,” Khemjira murmured, kissing her again—slower this time, deeper—“you keep insisting on being married to me.”
****
The room was filled with the soft light of early morning, pale and cool, slipping through the sheer curtains like a whisper. Outside, the waves lapped gently against the shore, steady and slow, as if time itself had finally decided to move without urgency. Praenarin stirred first.
She blinked her eyes open, groggy but clear enough to recognize where she was—wrapped in warmth, tucked under a linen sheet that smelled faintly of salt and skin and something distinctly Khem. Her body ached in the best way, slow and satisfied, her limbs heavy with the kind of comfort that only came from being loved completely.
She shifted carefully, not wanting to wake the woman beside her. Khemjira slept on her side, facing Rin, hair a messy halo across the pillow. Her breathing was soft and steady, lips slightly parted, one hand loosely curled between them like she'd fallen asleep mid-reach. Even in rest, she looked stubbornly beautiful—brows relaxed, expression unguarded, peaceful in a way that Praenarin rarely got to see.
Praenarin reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from Khem’s forehead, fingers barely grazing her skin. She let her hand linger, her thumb tracing the curve of Khem’s cheek with aching tenderness.
This younger woman—who had loved her from day one. Who had chased her, married her, stayed beside her through silence and slaps and cold shoulders. Who had waited patiently even when it hurt, even when Praenarin had given her nothing but walls. Rin’s throat tightened.
Khemjira had suffered more than she ever should have. Not because Rin hated her, but because Rin hadn’t known how to love her well. She’d thought distance was protection, that detachment was strength. She’d let her fear turn into cruelty, and all Khem had done was hold on.
“I’m sorry,” Praenarin whispered, voice caught in her throat.
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Khem’s temple—soft and lingering.
“No more waiting,” she murmured against her skin. “No more hurting. I’ll make you happy from now on. I swear I will.”
A slow breath left her lungs. She curled a little closer, careful not to wake her, and let her hand rest gently over Khem’s where it lay on the sheet.
Morning could take its time.
Praenarin was still watching her when Khem’s lashes fluttered, her face scrunching slightly like she could feel the weight of Rin’s gaze in her dreams.
“Mmm…” Khemjira murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “You’re staring at me again, Khun Rin. That’s either romantic or a little creepy.”
Praenarin didn’t flinch. She simply smiled, warm and soft. “You talk too much for someone who just woke up.”
Khemjira cracked one eye open, groggy but grinning. “Can’t help it. I’m married a woman who watches me sleep like I’m going to disappear.”
“I wasn’t watching,” Praenarin said, which was a lie.
Khemjira stretched with a sleepy groan, her arm brushing across Rin’s waist before settling around her. “Liar,” she mumbled, burying her face into Rin’s neck. “Were you thinking about last night?”
Praenarin stiffened slightly, the tips of her ears immediately flushing warm. “No,” she said too quickly, her voice caught somewhere between dignified denial and complete fluster.
Khemjira chuckled sleepily against her skin. “You’re such a bad liar, Khun Rin.”
“I was thinking about what we’re having for breakfast,” Praenarin muttered, attempting composure but failing, especially when Khem’s smile widened against her throat.
Khemjira made a noise of mild protest. “Ugh. That’s even more suspicious.”
Praenarin laughed softly, her hand instinctively reaching up to comb through Khem’s messy hair, fingertips threading through the strands with absent tenderness. “Come on. Get up. You promised me coffee on the balcony.”
“I promised under duress,” Khemjira said, still refusing to move. “I was weak. Naked. Vulnerable.”
“You still are.”
“Flattered,” Khemjira muttered. “Still not moving.”
But eventually, with much lazy groaning and dramatic stretching, she did.
A little while later, they sat side by side on the balcony, wrapped in oversized hotel robes. The morning breeze was gentle and cool, carrying the scent of seawater and fresh earth. Below them, the beach was quiet, the tide low and glistening in the sunlight. A lone fishing boat drifted lazily out on the horizon, and the world, for once, didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush.
Praenarin wrapped her hands around a warm ceramic mug, fingers curling over the heat. Khemjira sat cross-legged in the rattan chair next to her, toast in hand, eyes on the sea. She looked effortlessly content—hair still damp from a quick shower, skin fresh and bare, a little sun-kissed already from yesterday. Neither of them spoke much at first. It wasn’t silence born from tension, but from fullness—like there was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been said with hands and closeness and sleep-warmed promises.
It was Khemjira who broke it, eventually. “You know,” she said, nibbling on the toast’s corner, “if every fight ends with hotel sex and room service, I might start misbehaving on purpose.”
Praenarin sipped her coffee calmly. “Try it and I’ll put you in a different room next time.”
Khemjira leaned over, resting her chin on Rin’s shoulder, grinning against her skin. “Then I’ll just sneak in. You’re not that hard to seduce.”
Praenarin rolling her eyes and gave her a sidelong glance. “You think you’re charming.”
“I know I’m charming,” Khemjira replied, shameless. Then her voice softened a little. “But I’m also really happy right now. Just so you know.”
Praenarin turned her head, their foreheads brushing. “Me too,” she said quietly. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
Later, when the sun climbed a little higher and the coffee pot ran dry, Khem tugged on Rin’s hand with a grin. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go down before it gets too hot.”
Praenarin didn’t protest, but she hadn’t packed anything to stay—hadn’t planned for two more days, hadn’t expected to want them. So now she stood in the doorway of the balcony, wearing one of Khem’s cotton shirts and short, slightly oversized and soft with wear, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. It smelled faintly of Khem’s skin and last night’s warmth, and that alone felt like enough.
“You’re going to scandalize the locals,” Khemjira said as she grabbed the sunscreen from the table, eyes drifting down Rin’s legs with a dramatic flourish.
“It’s your fault I don’t have anything else to wear,” Praenarin replied, not looking the least bit scandalized.
“That shirt’s seen better days.”
“Then I’ll keep it,” Praenarin said, slipping her hand into Khem’s. “Consider it stolen.”
They left their robes behind, walking barefoot down the winding path from the hotel to the beach, the stone warm beneath their feet. The air smelled of brine and sun, the ocean just over the rise, growing louder with every step. The sand was fine and pale, still cool in the shadows. The tide had pulled back, revealing tide pools and ribbons of seaweed, scattered shells glinting like half-buried treasure. Khemjira walked ahead a few steps, then turned and held out her hand again. Praenarin took it without a word.
Her fingers looked smaller in Khem’s, knuckles still marked faintly by where she’d gripped too tightly during the night. Neither of them mentioned it. They walked along the waterline in silence, salt air tousling their hair. Khemjira occasionally nudged Praenarin with her shoulder; Praenarin just smiled and bumped her back. They paused to watch a crab scuttle sideways across the sand, paused again when Khemjira found a stone shaped loosely like a heart and pressed it into Rin’s palm.
“It’s not perfect,” Khem said. “But it’s yours.”
Praenarin looked down at it—then at Khemjira, squinting against the sun. She wrapped her fingers around it, thumb brushing over the smooth curve.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Khemjira grinned. “You owe me a better souvenir next time.”
When the sun grew warmer and the breeze picked up, Praenarin gave a small tug on Khem’s hand.
“Let’s go back,” she said. “You need sunscreen.”
“You just want an excuse to rub lotion all over me.”
“I’m wearing your clothes,” Praenarin said, entirely deadpan. “I think subtlety is out the window.”
Khemjira laughed—loud and unguarded—and together they turned back, hand in hand, bare feet sinking into the sand with every step.
Back in the room, the midday sun spilled through the windows, lighting the soft folds of the sheets still tangled from that morning. Khem tossed her sandals aside and flopped dramatically onto the bed, while Praenarin more composed, sat on the edge and picked up her phone.
“Ready to call him?” Khemjira asked, her voice muffled by the pillow she was half-hugging.
Praenarin gave a short nod, then took a breath and dialed. Wasin picked up on the second ring.
“Rin?” His voice was immediate, alert—worried, despite everything.
“It’s me,” she said. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
There was a long pause, and then: “Is Khem with you?”
“I am, Pa,” Khemjira called out, sitting up now. “Alive, well, and annoying her as always.”
That made Wasin chuckle, a quiet breath of relief audible even through the speaker.
“We’re thinking of staying two more days,” Rin added, her tone careful. “If that’s okay.”
“You don’t need to ask,” Wasin said without missing a beat. “Stay as long as you want. Just take care of each other.”
Praenarin blinked, a little stunned by the ease of his answer.
After a few more words and another reminder to wear sunscreen (“Both of you, not just Khem,” he insisted), they ended the call. The room fell into a comfortable hush again, broken only by the buzz of the air conditioner and the distant crash of waves. Praenarin slipped the phone onto the nightstand and turned, folding her legs beneath her on the bed. “It still surprises me,” she said quietly. “How he never takes my side or yours—he just wants us to stop hurting.”
Khem nodded, her expression softer now. “He’s a good dad. The kind who knows love isn’t about taking sides.”
She reached out and tugged gently on Rin’s hand—not forceful, not urgent—just enough to pull her down into her arms. Rin followed without resistance, letting Khem guide her until they were lying side by side again, limbs loosely tangled atop the crumpled sheets. No kisses, no teasing. Just the quiet sound of their breaths evening out as they pressed together chest to chest, forehead to cheek, heart to heart. Praenarin closed her eyes and let her fingers trail along Khem’s arm, slow and thoughtful. Khem’s hand rested at the small of her back, steady and warm, like a promise that didn’t need to be spoken anymore.
They just lay there like that—no distractions, no distance. Only the hum of the air conditioner and the faint crash of waves beyond the balcony. The quiet rhythm of we’re here now. The comfort of we stayed. After a long moment, Praenarin opened her eyes again. Her gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight gleamed faintly off the sea.
“Pai hasn’t contacted me,” she said.
Khemjira glanced at her, but didn’t interrupt.
“Not a single call. Not even a message,” Rin said, not bitter, not sad—just stating a truth.
Khemjira took a breath, then reached out and placed her hand over Praenarin’s. “I used to think I hated her,” she said. “But it wasn’t her I was angry at. It was the way you still looked like you were standing in the past every time her name came up.”
Praenarin’s mouth twitched. “I was.”
“I know,” Khem said. “And I didn’t make it easier. That day in the, when we fought... I wasn’t just hurt—I was pissed off, and I didn’t stop to listen. I didn’t even try.”
She shifted closer now, their knees brushing.
“If I’d stayed calm—just sat down and asked you to explain—maybe all of this wouldn’t have happened.”
Rin looked at her then, eyes soft but clear. “It happened because we didn’t know how to talk to each other. But we’re learning now.”
Khemjira exhaled, then nodded once. “Yeah. We are.”
There was no need to say more. Not in that moment. Khem laced their fingers together and leaned in until their foreheads touched, skin warm and breath steady between them.
“I’m really glad you stayed,” Rin whispered.
“I’m really glad you asked me to,” Khem whispered back.
Khemjira broke the quiet first, her fingers sneaking under the hem of Rin’s borrowed shirt—her shirt—and brushing across bare skin with the kind of idle affection that made Rin's breath hitch, even now. “Khun Rin,” Khem murmured, her lips hovering near Rin’s ear, “do you realize we’ve barely left the room since you got here yesterday?”
Praenarin hummed, her hand slipping over Khem’s waist. “We’re tired. Emotionally and physically.”
Khem grinned. “We’re in a beach town. I should take you out for seafood, make us pretend to be tourists.”
“We had toast,” Praenarin replied, eyes narrowing playfully.
“Oh, wow. So cultured,” Khem said dryly, her smile tugging wider. “Should I at least show you where the actual ocean is later?”
Praenarin chuckled softly, just as Khem shifted to hover above her, their legs brushing, their bodies sliding easily into that now-familiar rhythm of closeness. Khemjira leaned down and kissed her—slow at first, lips parted just enough for breath and heat to mingle between them. “You want to explore?” Praenarin murmured against her mouth. “We can go out later.”
“Later, maybe,” Khemjira murmured before kissing her again—deeper this time, slow and lingering. Her voice was low and teasing between the warmth of their mouths. “But right now, I was thinking of exploring something else.”
Praenarin rolled her eyes, but her fingers were already curling around the back of Khem’s neck, pulling her closer with a quiet, knowing smile. “Of course you were.”
Khem’s grin widened. “Well, you keep wearing my clothes like that. What do you expect me to do? Behave?”
Praenarin laughed—light, real—and then the sound melted into a quiet sigh as Khem’s wet kisses trailed lower, softer, slower, as hands began to move with more purpose, relearning familiar lines, mapping new ones. The waves outside kept their quiet rhythm, steady and soothing.
Inside, clothes were peeled away again, breath turned heavy, and the room filled not with words but the unspoken language of two people choosing—again and again—to stay. Later, when the sun was lower and the sea turned gold, they lay tangled in the sheets once more. Skin warm against skin. Hearts slow, steady. Khem’s fingers trailed lazily over Rin’s back while Praenarin rested her head on Khem’s chest, listening to the heartbeat she knew she’d follow anywhere.
They drifted like that—drowsy, sated, safe. Wrapped in each other, and finally at peace.