Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Phin never planned to come home.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered. Thailand had always been a thread she carried in her cooking—lemongrass oil brushed over seared duck, green mango tangled with shaved fennel—but her world had long outgrown Bangkok’s skyline.

She had clawed her way up the culinary ladder from the bottom. After graduating top of her class from The Culinary Institute of America, she landed a cutthroat internship under Chef Dominique Crenn in San Francisc—a notoriously brutal perfectionist with a steel palate and no tolerance for hesitation. Phin learned to fillet blindfolded, reduce a sauce to its molecular essence, and survive sixteen-hour services without crying. Barely.

From there, her name began to echo through the fine-dining circuits. New York. Tokyo. Berlin. Eventually Chicago, where she made her mark: bold, unapologetic Thai-forward cooking layered with technique and chaos. Her signature? Dishes that punched first and hugged after. It was in Chicago that she met Jordan DeSantis, her colleagues chef with too much ink on his arms and a laugh that rattled the ceiling tiles. He became her sous chef, her right hand, and her best friend. The only one who could keep up with her tempo—who matched her fire with calm precision. They fought like siblings, cooked like lovers, and dreamed like fools.

Together, they started sketching the bones of their own place. A Thai fusion restaurant, but nothing stuffy. Phin wanted it loud, modern, grounded in memory but free to roam.

Black terrazzo floors. A walk-up bar slinging grilled pork skewers and smoky crab fried rice. A seasonal tasting menu in the back—mango green curry foam in May, fermented fish bone broth in October.

They were one week away from signing the lease. The contractor had already walked the space. The liquor license was in motion. They had a shared Pinterest board full of lighting ideas and ridiculous paint swatches—Phin wanted turmeric yellow walls, Jordan had fought for charcoal black tile,  It was finally happening.

And then Jordan died.

A heart attack in his sleep. Thirty-six. No warning. No goodbye. Just… gone. Phin got the call at 5:42 a.m. from his boyfriend, Tom, voice ragged with disbelief.

“He... he just didn’t wake up,” he’d choked out. “Phin, I don’t know what to do.”

She didn’t remember much after that—just the cold clarity that came with shock. She took over logistics like a soldier. Called the rest of their crew. Helped plan the service. Ordered funeral food. Picked out the damn flowers because no one else could stop crying long enough to think about color palettes. She didn’t cry at the funeral. She stood in black, hands steady, face blank. Hugged people. Accepted condolences. Ate nothing. Spoke once—to give a short, clipped eulogy about the only man who ever made her stop mid-service to laugh.

It hit her two days later in the walk-in fridge at her consultancy gig. She had opened a box of kaffir limes, the scent flooding her senses—and suddenly, she was sobbing into the stainless steel shelves like she couldn’t breathe. Jordan had been her tether. Her editor. Her echo. Without him, everything sounded hollow.

She stayed in Chicago for the funeral. Cleaned out the test kitchen. Canceled the tasting for potential investors. Put the lease on hold. The space they had nearly claimed as their own remained empty, hollow—like a room waiting for a voice that wouldn’t return. She kept Jordan’s favorite paring knife in her drawer. The handle was worn from his grip, the blade slightly chipped, but she couldn’t bear to touch it. The sketchbook they shared—splattered with soy sauce and annotated with inside jokes—stayed open on her kitchen counter for weeks.

“Jungle curry risotto???” he’d scrawled, circling it like it was the most brilliant crime.

She helped Tom—Jordan’s partner—sort through his things. They folded flour-dusted aprons and bubble-wrapped spice jars Jordan had smuggled home from every trip they’d taken.

One night, they sat on the floor of Tom’s apartment, legs tangled in packing paper and grief. Gin in coffee mugs. A bag of shrimp chips between them, uneaten.

“I keep expecting to hear his playlist in the morning,” Tom said quietly, staring at the dark window. “That stupid remix of ‘Kiss from a Rose’ he swore made the pancakes fluffier.”

Phin didn’t laugh. She just nodded, the burn in her chest sharp and familiar. “I miss his sambal,” she murmured. “The one that tasted like rage and sunshine.”

They didn’t cry often. Grief came in strange ways. It curdled slowly, like milk left too long in the heat. Tom tried, once, to push her gently back toward the plan. “You could still do it,” he’d said, folding one of Jordan’s aprons into a neat square. “Open the place. In his name. He’d… he’d like that.”

Phin looked at the sketchbook on the table, the turmeric-stained pages curled at the edges. “I couldn’t season it right,” she said. “Not without him.”

She tried to go on. Finished her final consultancy contract. Cooked what she had to. Posed for photos. But the flavors were off. She over-salted everything. Nothing tasted like hers anymore. She told herself she just needed a break. A few weeks off to clear her head, maybe fly somewhere warm. She booked a ticket to Oaxaca and canceled it. Booked another to Seoul. Never packed.

Her friends checked in. They brought her takeaway dumplings and fresh produce, pretending not to notice the untouched rice cooker in the corner. She smiled. She thanked them. But grief stayed in her kitchen, tucked between the mortar and pestle, the empty teacup, the burner she never turned on.

She tried to write recipes again. Got as far as:

fish sauce—1 tbsp?

Then scratched it out.

who cares.

Eventually, she deleted the business plan. Archived the emails. Stopped replying to the architect. She was tired of people telling her to be strong. Of hearing, “He’d want you to keep going.” Of course he would’ve. But he wasn’t here to remind her how.

And then the call came.

She almost didn’t answer. It was an unfamiliar number—Bangkok country code, a muted Sunday afternoon—and for a second, she nearly let it ring out. But something in her gut told her to pick up.

“Phinya,” said the voice, calm and precise. “It’s Dhanin.”

She sat up straight. Chef Dhanin Tansakul.

Thailand’s culinary titan. A household name, the kind of chef whose face appeared on premium fish sauce bottles and international press covers alike. Born in Nakhon Pathom, trained in Paris, crowned with every award from Asia’s 50 Best to a Lifetime Achievement medal from UNESCO for cultural preservation. The man was as much a myth as he was a master.

He wasn’t just a celebrity chef—he was the chef. The architect behind KIN KAO, the global restaurant group known for honoring Thai cuisine without compromising its soul. No gimmicks. No bastardized pad thai. His food hit like a memory and lingered like prayer.

Phin had interned with him once, briefly, during her second year of culinary school. A three-month stage in his flagship restaurant in LA. She’d barely spoken to him beyond clipped “yes, chef” and “thank you, chef,” but she remembered how sharp his eyes were. How he noticed everything. How he’d stopped her once—only once—to say, “That broth? You seasoned it like someone who’s been hungry before.”

That sentence had stayed with her for years. Now here he was, calling her directly.

“I heard about Jordan,” he said. No condolences. No softened voice. Just quiet acknowledgment. “I won’t pretend to understand the shape of that kind of loss.”

Phin didn’t answer. Her throat was too tight. There was a pause.

“Come home.”

A beat.

“Bangkok doesn’t need another celebrity chef. It needs something real again. And so do you.”

She sat frozen on the couch, the city outside her window blurring with winter haze.

“Why me?” she asked, finally.

“You were always too loud for Europe,” he replied dryly. “Too honest for L.A. You have teeth, Phinya. Teeth and heart. And the next generation needs both.”

She let out a shaky laugh.

“You’re really selling this.”

“I’m not selling anything,” he said. “You either want to cook again, or you don’t.”

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t flatter. He gave her the offer and the silence to sit with it. A new role at his Bangkok location. Creative oversight. Her own team. A kitchen that wouldn’t demand she dilute herself. She almost said no. She could’ve vanished into Lisbon. Could’ve buried herself in a quieter life somewhere no one knew her name or Jordan’s. But something about the call—about being seen again, not as a brand or a headline but as a chef—settled into her chest like the first deep breath she’d taken in months.

She booked a one-way ticket back to Thailand that night.

She didn’t tell anyone right away. Not her old mentors. Not her agents. Not even her mother. Her relationship with her family had always been... tender in its own way. After her parents’ divorce when she was eight, Phin had lived with her mother, a literature professor who kept a tidy apartment filled with books and jasmine tea. Her mother supported her ambitions—but from a distance. They loved each other, but neither knew quite how to say it out loud.

Her older sister, Sam, now thirty-four, had taken the academic route like their mother—PhD in political science, meticulous with her words, always two steps ahead in conversation. Her younger sister, Lin, was still figuring things out. Barista. DJ. Occasionally a poet, depending on her mood.

They texted. They checked in. But Phin rarely let them get close to the corners of her life that hurt. She hadn’t planned to tell them she was moving home. Not yet. Not until it felt real. But then Lin called. It was late in Chicago—morning in Bangkok. Lin had seen a food article mentioning Jordan in memorial and had sensed something. She always did.

“You okay?” she asked gently, not pushing. “You’ve been quiet.”

Phin hesitated. She almost said she was fine. Almost defaulted to her usual “just busy.” But the weight in her chest was too heavy for pretending.

“I’m... leaving Chicago,” she said.

A pause. Lin didn’t ask why, not right away. She just let the words settle.

“I’m going back to Bangkok,” Phin added. “For work.”

That last part was a lie. Or at least, not the whole truth.

Lin exhaled. “Mom’s going to cry.”

“She cries over her potted orchids,” Phin muttered.

“She’ll still cry. So will Sam.”

There was a soft smile in Lin’s voice. “You coming home means something, Sis. Even if it’s just for a while.”

Phin stared at the ceiling, suddenly twelve again, sitting at the kitchen table with her mom correcting papers and Lin flipping flashcards.

“Don’t make it sentimental,” she said.

“Too late,” Lin replied.

Phin hung up ten minutes later, a little quieter. A little less alone.

Phin didn’t pack much—just what mattered. Her favorite knives, wrapped in their leather roll like old friends. Two worn cookbooks filled with scribbles and sauce stains. A small tin of Jordan’s smoked chili salt, tucked between her clothes like a secret. The rest she gave away: coats that wouldn’t survive Bangkok heat, furniture she didn’t care for, a life she no longer wanted to hold onto.

She packed Jordan’s knives separately—his custom Japanese set, the ones he only let her touch when they were working late and trust had already been earned. She polished each one, slow and careful, wrapped them in soft cotton, and placed them in a wooden box. Then she wrote a note, short and honest, and shipped the whole thing to Tom’s apartment in Andersonville.

That night, she called him. Not to explain. Just to say goodbye. They didn’t talk long. Grief had hollowed out too many words between them. But when Tom asked, “Will you still cook?”

Phin said, “I’ll try.” It was the only promise she could make.

She closed her apartment herself, boxed the memories with steady hands. When the day came, she wore linen pants and a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled, no makeup. Just her red nails, her passport, and a plane ticket home. At O’Hare, she paused before security—one last glance back at the city that had given her everything and taken more. And then she exhaled, adjusted the strap of her knife bag, and stepped forward. Toward Bangkok. Toward the heat. Toward whatever came next. Bangkok.

She landed at Suvarnabhumi Airport just after sunrise. The humidity hit her like a kiss and a slap—thick, familiar, unapologetic. Her younger sister, Lin, was waiting at arrivals, bouncing on the balls of her feet, a cloth tote slung over her shoulder and a cold drink in hand. She didn’t say much—just pulled Phin into a tight hug that smelled like sunscreen and jasmine.

“Welcome home, Chef America,” Lin teased.

“Don’t start,” Phin groaned, but her smile broke through anyway.

Lin helped her get settled into a hotel near Phrom Phong for the first few days—a minimalist, boutique place with clean sheets, quiet air conditioning, and room service that didn’t ask questions. The kind of place where no one looked twice if you came in smelling like chili oil at 11 p.m. She spent her mornings wandering—sunglasses on, bag slung across her shoulder, no plan but to walk until her feet ached. The buzz of the city was half-comforting, half-overwhelming: motorcycles weaving through traffic, monks collecting alms at dawn, an endless stream of noise and scent and movement.

She hadn’t been back in years, and yet the sound of street vendors calling out for grilled pork or khao mun gai stirred something old in her chest. Something that hummed low and bittersweet.

One day, she dedicated entirely to food. Just food. She started with rice porridge and deep-fried dough sticks at a stall off Sukhumvit Soi 38, chased with hot soy milk in a plastic cup. By midday, she was perched on a stool under a tarp, slurping kuay jap—rolled rice noodles in peppery broth with crispy pork that snapped between her teeth. Her face was slick with sweat. She couldn’t stop smiling.

She bought grilled bananas on a skewer, mangosteen from a cranky aunty near Asoke, and a plastic bag full of spicy som tum that nearly made her cry. Everything burned. Everything healed something she didn’t realize needed mending. By the time the sun dipped low, she was sitting by the Chao Phraya, sipping from a paper cup of cha yen and licking fish sauce from her thumb. It didn’t fix everything. But it reminded her why she’d come home.

And still—she saved the best for last.

That night, when the city had cooled and the bars had started to empty, she made her way down a quiet soi tucked behind a 7-Eleven. The noodle stall only opened after dark. She hadn’t been there in years, but the setup was exactly the same: a low table stacked with condiments, red stools that wobbled slightly on uneven pavement, a glowing bug zapper hanging from the tarp. The auntie didn’t recognize her at first. But then— “Oi! nong!”

Phin grinned. “Hi, Auntie, Uncle.”

“You just got back, huh? I knew that face looked familiar. Still take your noodles with extra white pepper, same as before?”

She nodded, heart unexpectedly full. “Please. And the soft egg, if you still have it.”

She ate with her elbows on the table, sweat at the back of her neck, the broth spicy enough to make her nose run. A dog wandered past. Somewhere nearby, someone was singing karaoke off-key. And when the auntie brought her a second bowl without asking, she accepted it without protest.

Within a week, she signed a lease on a condo downtown—high-rise, corner unit, close enough to the restaurant but far enough for space. Neutral walls. Open kitchen. Enough sunlight to keep her sane. And then came the meeting. She had expected a sleek office. Maybe a hotel boardroom. Some glass-walled restaurant with a wine fridge in the background and air conditioning set to Arctic Cold. Instead, Chef Dhanin invited her to a folding table at a night market in Banglamphu.

It was past eight, the heat easing into something more bearable, and the stall they sat at was glowing under a string of flickering bulbs. The vendor was an older woman with cropped hair and a serious wok game—char lines on her apron, chili paste under her nails. Phin recognized the scent of real boat noodles before she even sat down.

“Order what you want,” Dhanin said, already halfway through his bowl. “They close when the broth runs out.”

He didn’t look like a culinary legend here. No crisp chef whites, no signature pin on his collar. Just a button-down shirt, rolled sleeves, and a gold watch that had seen better days. But he still carried that quiet gravity. The kind that made people glance twice and move out of his way without knowing why. Phin sat across from him and ordered. Beef boat noodles, extra blood. The good kind.

“I thought we’d be in an office,” she said.

“I thought you’d be taller,” he replied, deadpan.

Phin snorted. “Guess we’re both a little disappointed.”

She picked up her chopsticks, then added with a grin, “Honestly, I should be honored. Word is you’re always in Tokyo or London. I half-expected this meeting to be over Zoom with someone named Ploy taking notes in the background.”

Dhanin huffed a soft laugh. “You caught me in a rare moment of stillness. I’ve been on planes for two months straight—Singapore, Melbourne, back to Bangkok to remind them the chili’s supposed to hurt.”

“Well, thank god for chili,” she said, slurping her first bite. “Because this broth is criminally good.”

They ate in relative silence for a while, the clatter of the market filling the air—woks hissing, chopsticks tapping, a toddler crying somewhere nearby. The noodles were phenomenal. Dark, peppery, rich with star anise. Her fingers twitched for a pen to jot down notes. When they finished, Dhanin wiped his mouth with a tissue and finally looked her full in the face. “I read your last interview,” he said. “You sounds tired.”

“I was.”

“You still are.”

She didn’t answer.

“I won’t give you some big speech,” he continued, softer now. “You’re not a kid anymore. You know how this works. But I think you still have something to say through food. I think you’re not done.”

Phin looked down at her empty bowl. Her chest ached, but not in a way that scared her. “I don’t want to run a factory kitchen,” she said.

“Good,” he replied. “This isn’t a factory.”

He reached into his bag and handed her a folder. Inside was the proposal: her position, the Bangkok flagship, full creative control of the seasonal menu, flexible hours—within reason—and a note scribbled in blue ink at the bottom: "No press until you're ready."

“You’ll need to coordinate everything through Busaya Methin,” he added, matter-of-fact. “My right hand. She’s precise. Keeps things sharp.”

“Busaya,” Phin repeated. “I don’t think I know her.”

“You will,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Dhanin gave her a look, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. Then, as the vendor began stacking chairs around them, he stood, placed a few bills neatly on the table, and turned to her.

“Welcome to the team, Phinya. Try not to scare them on your first day.”

*****

It was 38 degrees by noon.

The kind of Bangkok heat that wrapped around you like a wet blanket and refused to let go. Motorbikes darted between taxis like dragonflies on a mission, and every street corner smelled like sizzling garlic, ripe mango, diesel, and ambition. Street vendors shouted over traffic, fans spun lazily in open shophouses, and the sky had that pale white haze that meant either rain or just another unforgiving day.

In the back of the taxi, Phin sat with one arm resting on the open window, sunglasses shielding her eyes, one ankle casually hooked over the other knee like she wasn’t sweating through every stitch of fabric. Her outfit was unassuming: old jeans, scuffed black sneakers, and a fitted white T-shirt that hugged her frame and clung slightly from the humidity. No jacket. No fancy chef’s coat. Nothing about her screamed "James Beard Award winner." She could’ve been a college kid, a food runner, a Line courier off shift. Her only tell was the leather knife roll slung across her shoulder—worn and sun-darkened from years of kitchens. “Turn left at the black gate,” she said to the driver in Thai, tilting her head toward the understated signage just ahead:

KIN KAO – กินข้าว

Simple, elegant, matte gold letters embossed into textured slate-gray concrete. There was no fanfare, no flashy awning—just an intentional quiet confidence that said: if you know, you know.

The restaurant was tucked behind tall bamboo fencing, almost hidden from the street. A narrow stone path led to the entrance, bordered by a koi pond and lush potted herbs—holy basil, pandan, lemongrass. The building itself was a blend of old and new: polished teakwood panels, clean architectural lines, and large folding glass doors that opened fully during service hours to let the evening air in. It looked more like a gallery than a kitchen. Minimalist, curated, designed to soothe and impress all at once.

The neighborhood around it was a paradox: sleek condos and boutique wine bars pressed up against decades-old noodle stalls, car repair shops, and a tiny shrine wedged between two electricity poles. Gentrification was doing its dance here—but KIN KAO had carved its own space with ease, like it had always belonged. Bougie as hell. Exactly Dhanin’s style.

Phin exhaled through her nose and stepped out of the taxi. The heat hit her full force. She didn’t flinch. She adjusted her shirt, slung her knife roll over her shoulder, and walked toward the doors. She walked past the small lantern-lit garden, pushed open the carved wooden door—and immediately got flagged by a young, sharply dressed maître d’ with a clipboard in one hand and an earpiece tucked behind one ear.

“Excuse me—deliveries go around the side,” he said quickly, all efficiency and zero warmth. Phin paused. Then smiled.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Didn’t mean to go the wrong way.”

“Not a problem,” the maître d’ said, already stepping aside to gesture toward the back. “Just head through the alley—right through that black gate. There should be a staff entrance open.”

She nodded, adjusted the strap of her knife roll, and walked off without another word. Let him think what he wanted. She followed the narrow side path, lined with potted lemongrass and ginger leaves. At the far end was a discreet steel door—ajar. She pushed it gently and stepped inside. It was cooler here. Quiet. The kind of quiet that buzzed just beneath the surface. She passed a small utility room, then a hallway of neatly labeled storage shelves, and finally came to a windowed corner that opened into the back of the kitchen.

Phin stopped. The heart of KIN KAO pulsed in front of her—sharp, sleek, efficient.

It was a dream. The kitchen was all black tile and brushed stainless steel. Bright LED lights hummed overhead, clean and clinical. The stations were perfectly arranged: prep, hot line, garnish, plating. A glass divider framed the open kitchen view to the dining floor, where tables were still being set for the afternoon.

There were no wasted movements. No chaos. Just precision. Timing. Craft.  Prep cooks moved like clockwork—silent, focused. A junior sous was searing off a line of scallops with steady hands, while someone else spiralized mango with alarming speed. A runner passed by with a tray of herbs. Over the stove, steam curled into the air like incense.

Phin took a slow breath, eyes sweeping the room. This was her new battlefield. And she hadn’t even met the general yet. She leaned one shoulder against the doorway, her grin slow and wicked. This was going to be fun. Phin stepped into the kitchen like she owned it.

Well—no. Not owned. Just… understood it. The space, the heat, the rhythm. All kitchens spoke the same language: metal, motion, timing. And KIN KAO’s was fluent. She moved slowly past the cold prep station, past the wall of knives glinting like a gallery installation. Everything was immaculate—measured, labeled, quiet. Not a single cook yelling across the room. Not even the gentle thud of a cleaver on wood. Just focus. At the far end of the room, someone had just finished prepping a tray of fresh herbs and condiments. A small ceramic bowl of something thick and deep red caught Phin’s attention. She paused. Tilted her head. Nam prik. Smoky. Maybe roasted chili and makhwaen pepper. She didn’t think. Just dipped her finger in like muscle memory, and tasted. A rush of salt, heat, garlic, just the edge of funk. Not bad.

“Are you lost?” The voice came from behind her—cool, level, and dry enough to slice air.

Phin turned around, finger still in her mouth.

The woman standing across from her wasn’t in a chef’s jacket. Instead, she wore a perfectly tailored black blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, her sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow. There was a silver pen clipped at her collar, a phone in one hand, and an air of authority that radiated louder than any shouting could. Everything about her said control. Clean lines. Sharp tone. Eyes like a blueprint, scanning and assessing in seconds.

“Or do you just have no concept of hygiene?” the woman added.

Phin blinked, then licked her fingertip thoughtfully. “Hmm. Not bad. But you could go heavier on the shrimp paste.”

The kitchen didn’t go silent—it froze. In that uniquely restaurant way, where sound still moved but no one dared to speak. The woman—Bua, though Phin already had her pegged—stepped forward, jaw tight.

“Who let you in?”

Phin shrugged. “Maitre d’. Thought I was a courier, I think. I didn’t correct him.”

Someone behind her coughed and quietly moved a tray of eggs out of splash range.

“This is a Michelin-level kitchen,” Bua said, her voice low and tight. “You don’t just walk in and touch things that aren’t yours—especially not someone’s prep.”

“Technically,” Phin said, smile widening, “I didn’t wander. I came in through the back.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“Am I?” She tilted her head. “Sorry. Just… curious.”

Bua’s eyes narrowed. “Get out.”

“Before you do that,” Phin said, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out the slim folder Dhanin had given her, “maybe check this.”

She handed it over, casual as anything. Bua took it sharply, eyes scanning. And then—just barely—her shoulders shifted. Not much. Just enough. Phin leaned one hip against the counter, loose and amused.

“I’m Phinya Thananont. New head chef. Dhanin sent me.”

Bua lifted her gaze from the page. “This is how you introduce yourself?”

Phin grinned. “Well. I was hungry.”

A pause.

“I don’t care who you are,” Bua said evenly. “This is my kitchen. You want to lead here? Start by acting like you belong in it.”

Phin straightened up slowly. “Duly noted.”

Her tone didn’t change. But her eyes were sharp now, matching Bua’s step for step. “You must be Busaya Methin.”

“And?”

“And,” Phin said, adjusting her knife roll over one shoulder, “can I call you Baibua?”

That landed like a dropped wineglass. Bua didn’t blink.

“No.”

Phin raised an eyebrow. “You sure? It suits you.”

She didn’t see it on any schedule. Didn’t hear it from Dhanin. She made it up—Baibua. In Thai, it meant lotus leaf—soft, graceful, too delicate for someone this tightly wound. Too pretty for someone this cold. Which, of course, made it perfect.

“I don’t care what you think it suits.” Flat. Final. Not a single crack in her tone. Behind them, someone stifled a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. A spoon clattered against a metal tray. Bua didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Her focus stayed locked on Phin, sharp enough to flay. Phin let out a low whistle, clearly delighted. “Alright then. Busaya.”

Still no reaction. She was already turning away, calm as ever—like Phin was just another thing to schedule and file.

By the time their first meeting ended, Phin knew exactly three things:

1. Busaya Methin didn’t like her
2. Busaya Methin absolutely did not appreciate finger-tasting, nicknames, or charm.
3. Which, unfortunately for her, made Phin want to try harder.

Chapter Text

The restaurant had long since emptied out.

No voices. No clatter. No low whir of the espresso machine. Just silence—and the soft, even rhythm of Busaya Methin’s heels clicking across the tile floor. The kitchen of KIN KAO gleamed under the low evening lights, sleek and surgically precise. Stainless steel counters wiped down until they caught the reflection of her silhouette. Utensils in their place. Knives lined edge-to-edge in their magnetic strip like obedient soldiers. A single cloth towel folded near the sink.

Bua moved like someone on a mission she’d done a thousand times before—because she had. Every night before she went home, after the last server had clocked out, after the last pot had been scrubbed clean, she walked the perimeter. Alone. Quiet. Sharp-eyed.

The head chef didn’t even know she did it every night. She checked the burners. One by one. Turned each knob to be sure it was locked off. Ran her palm near the pilot lights—not close enough to burn, just enough to feel the ghost of heat. Checked the prep fridges. Touched the walk-in door to confirm the seal. Glanced at the circuit breakers near the back.

It wasn’t about control. It was about protection.

A gas leak could kill a kitchen. An unnoticed flame could raze a restaurant. One stupid oversight could take everything down with it. And not just the building. Not just the name on the front door, or the stars in the guidebook, or the carefully curated legacy that Chef Dhanin trusted her to uphold. People got hurt when kitchens failed.

Grease fires didn’t wait for the line to clear. Knives didn’t care who slipped. Burns didn’t ask if you were tired before branding you. One forgotten pilot light, one faulty valve—and it wouldn’t be just her losing sleep. It could be Jai, who came in at dawn to prep broth. Or Jep, the intern on the dish pit. Or Chai, who had three kids and still covered closing shift like clockwork. So she checked everything. Every night. Quietly. Without fanfare. Not because she didn’t trust her staff. But because she refused to trust luck.

She passed a stack of tasting spoons, perfectly dried. One of them was slightly crooked. She nudged it straight with a single finger. When she finally stopped, it was at the center station—the line where the magic happened. Where food left the pass and disappeared into the rhythm of service. Her hands rested on the steel edge. And for a moment, her reflection in the counter didn’t look like her. It looked younger. Tired. With her hair tucked into a tight knot and a burn across her left forearm, red and raw and still blistering. Her fingers curled slightly.

Five years ago. Lyon. Early spring.

After graduating from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, Bua had landed a rare internship at one of the most prestigious restaurants in Lyon—three Michelin stars, notoriously brutal, run with military precision and zero tolerance for weakness. It was the kind of place most cooks only dreamed of. And she had made it in.

The pressure was constant: eighteen-hour days, barked orders in clipped French, cuts and burns treated with ice water and duct tape. Knives flew when mistakes were made—literally. One missed cue and the chef de cuisine would whip a pan across the pass like a warning shot. Bua never gave them reason to throw anything. She kept her head down, learned fast, stayed sharp. That night was supposed to be a triumph.

The restaurant was packed—press, critics, influencers, a private event for an ambassador’s entourage. There was even a visiting diplomat’s wife who sent back her pigeon consommé twice because it didn’t “taste expensive.”

And then the sous chef quit midweek, hours before the biggest service of the season. Bua had already finished her prep shift, technically done for the day. But when the call came down that they needed hands on the line, she stepped up. Of course she did. Because when everything went wrong, Bua always stepped in.

Twelve hours in. The pastry was late. The jus had reduced too far. A young commis burned the brioche. The garde manger forgot the fennel garnish for table six. And then someone dropped the plate. She remembered the sound. Porcelain on tile. A shattering crack that made even the senior chefs freeze. Bua didn’t flinch. She just moved. She reached for the backup—but it wasn’t ready. She told herself she’d fix it. Fast. Right. She turned sharply toward the hot line to grab the garnish—

And collided with the commis carrying a pot of boiling oil. It tipped.
Spilled across her dominant hand and forearm. Pain tore through her instantly. But her body didn’t respond. She froze—rooted to the tile as the pot clattered, oil spitting across the floor, her skin blistering. Around her, the kitchen noise warped—voices echoed, flames roared, boots scrambled, someone cursed in French—but none of it landed.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t drop. Didn’t react.

Until someone shoved her aside, out of the way. Someone else took control. Her station was on fire. So was she. The burn was deep and immediate. She was rushed out of the kitchen and into first aid. A sous chef wrapped her arm in sterile gauze while muttering about ruined service and timing delays.

She didn’t remember the rest of the night. Just that she was back the next morning, silent, face pale, a medicated cream thick across her arm. She told herself it was fine. That she’d heal. That it wasn’t that bad. That a real chef didn’t give up over one accident.

She told herself that every night while lying flat on her back, eyes on the ceiling of her cheap studio in the 9th arrondissement, arm wrapped in sterile gauze and pulsing with a deep, molten ache that painkillers couldn’t quite touch.

It hurt. God, it hurt. Not just the skin—the angry red, the tight scabbing, the itch of healing—but something deeper. The kind of pain that made her fingers twitch involuntarily in her sleep. That made her wake up breathless, reaching for knives she could no longer hold.

She watched the burn peel and scar. Forced herself through the physio. Practiced gripping a paring knife again, then a ladle, then a sauté pan—shaking the whole time. No one at the restaurant asked how she was doing. No one slowed down. This wasn’t a kitchen for kindness. They didn’t hug. They didn’t speak softly. They worked.

And Bua understood that. She didn’t want pity. She wasn’t there to make friends or find comfort. She was there to earn her place.
So she returned in silence, shoulders square, jaw tight. Told the chef she was ready to be back on the line.

He gave her a nod. That was it.

She sharpened her blades like nothing had happened. Tied on her apron with her left hand. Pulled her sleeves down low. And then someone slammed a sauté pan too hard against the stove. The sound cracked through her like a whip. The open flame roared to life. Her eyes caught the flicker of blue-orange. Her breath caught mid-lung.

Suddenly she wasn’t in the kitchen. She was back there—oil on her skin, skin on fire, heat blistering her memory. She couldn’t breathe. She backed up, stumbled, her shoulder thudding into the walk-in door. Her heart punched against her ribs. Her throat tightened. Her hands trembled against her apron, trying to remember where she was—who she was.

And they saw it. The brigade. Every single one of them. They didn’t say anything. No one reached out. They just stared. Then looked away. That night, Bua packed her knives slowly, precisely, wrapping them in the leather roll with hands that still hadn’t stopped shaking.

She walked out without saying goodbye. Didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. She never cooked on the line again.

Back in her apartment, for the first time in weeks, she let herself stop pretending. The kitchen was quiet. The knives untouched. The smell of burn ointment clung faintly in the air. She sat at the window for hours with a cup of cold coffee pressed to her wrist—not for the pain, but for the weight. Her left arm was still wrapped, healing in patches. The doctors said she was lucky. No nerve damage. Clean second-degree burns. But it still hurt like hell to move, and the bandage changes stung worse than the flames ever had.

Twice a week, she went to a clinic near Place Bellecour for debridement and red light therapy. She said thank you too politely and clenched her jaw through every session. Her French was good enough to understand when the nurses whispered la fille asiatique est trop calme. The quiet Asian girl. Too calm.

They didn’t know she wasn’t calm. She was gutted. Watching the rain blur the city outside, she thought about heat and control and the difference between the two. She thought about how quickly everything could be taken—how the same fire that powered her also burned her down.

She thought about her family restaurant in Yaowarat. The chaos of street food. The ease of her mother’s wok hand. Her father’s way of barking orders with a grin. How her little sister, Pim, used to sneak duck skin from the chopping block when no one was looking. And for the first time in years, she let herself wonder if maybe going home wouldn’t mean giving up. Maybe it could mean starting again. Thailand wasn’t home anymore. Not really. But Paris never had been.

France had been a goal. A dream she’d spent years chasing through late-night shifts, scholarship essays, and culinary textbooks annotated in the margins. And for a while, it was everything she’d wanted—discipline, rigor, the kind of excellence that left no room for weakness.
But after Lyon, after the fire, after her hands stopped shaking and started remembering the shape of a knife again—she realized the damage wasn’t just on her skin.

She walked the Seine alone in the early mornings, when the light was soft enough to make her feel invisible. For weeks after the accident, she didn’t work at all. Couldn’t. Her left arm was wrapped in gauze, the skin beneath still angry and swollen, healing in slow, stubborn layers. The doctors warned her about nerve damage, about tightness in the joints, about pain that might never fully go away.

She listened. She healed. As much as she could.

She learned to do things again: grip a pen, button a shirt, peel a soft mango without flinching. The bandages came off eventually, but the skin on her forearm remained taut and shiny, a patchwork of pinks and pale brown. Some days, the burn itched. Other days, it throbbed without warning. And through it all, she kept moving—carefully, deliberately, pretending that each step was a choice, not an act of endurance. France had stopped tasting like ambition. It started tasting like avoidance.

She didn’t go back into a kitchen—not properly. She picked up small freelance jobs, things she could do with one hand and half her focus. Menu advising. Cost control. Supply chain audits for boutique hotels. No pans. No pass. No fire. And Bangkok... she hadn’t let herself miss it.

But sometimes, in the quietest moments—waiting for the tram, folding an apron she no longer wore—she’d think about the wet markets at dawn. Her father’s voice calling out orders over the clang of the cleaver. The scent of five-spice clinging to the curtains in their Yaowarat shop house.

She told herself she wasn’t running anymore. But she wasn’t staying either. So she made a decision. Quietly. Cleanly. On her own terms. She gave two weeks’ notice on her last gig. Sold her books to a secondhand shop in Montmartre. Donated half her clothes. Packed the rest. The knives went in last—carefully, methodically, like she’d learned to bandage her own skin. The leather roll still made her stomach twist, but she slipped it into her suitcase anyway.

At Charles de Gaulle, she boarded with only a small suitcase and a list of things she still wasn’t sure she wanted—clarity, maybe. Distance. Or just something that didn’t hurt to hold.

She arrived in Bangkok just after dusk. The heat hit her like a second skin—thick, familiar, unforgiving. She didn’t flinch. Just adjusted the strap of her bag, hailed a cab, and gave the address she hadn’t said out loud in years. Home.

Not to some hotel or sleek rental tower. But to the narrow old house above Heng Lao, the family restaurant in Yaowarat. Where the scent of five-spice and char siu clung to the curtains. Where the stairs creaked in the same spots. Where the bathroom light still flickered if you didn’t slam the switch just right.

They remembered, just as she did, the version of her who returned from France—not as the ambitious young woman with stars in her eyes, but as someone hollowed out. A soldier back from war with no medals. Burnt wounds wrapped carefully beneath long sleeves. A stiffness in her right wrist that would never fully go away. And in her eyes—a quiet, exhausted kind of grief.

Her father just looked at her like she was a miracle that had walked through the door, her mother didn’t ask questions that first night. Just left a towel on the foot of her bed and a bowl of rice porridge on the table, still warm.

She hadn’t spoken much that first week. Just slept, ate whatever her mother made, and sat in the back of the restaurant, watching the duck fat drip into roasting pans like it used to when she was a girl.

Her family never pried. Never demanded she “get back out there.” They simply made space. Her mother set aside soft towels for the scarring. Her father gave her back the extra key to the upstairs room. And Pim, for all her teasing, made a habit of bringing home cold milk tea without saying a word. It was in that quiet—over broth and jasmine rice, between dinner rushes and family meals—that Bua found the edges of herself again.

She didn’t want to cook, not anymore. Not like before.

But she still loved kitchens. Still loved the rhythm, the order, the discipline. She loved seeing things run like clockwork. Loved knowing she could protect it—even if she wasn’t the one holding the knife. So slowly, she decided. If she couldn’t be the one at the stove, she’d be the one who made sure the stove never went out of control again.

She stayed there for two months—long enough to catch her breath, to regroup, to begin rebuilding the pieces of her life. Eventually, she took a job with a luxury hotel group’s food and beverage division. Admin work, mostly: scheduling, logistics, supplier contracts, coordinating events with kitchens full of chefs who didn’t know her name and didn’t need to.
That was the point. No heat. No flames. No knives. Just structure. Just silence. Just enough distance from who she used to be. But kitchens were kitchens, no matter the office title. She saw everything.

She flagged fire hazards no one else noticed. Reorganized the back-of-house prep flow in three hours flat. Predicted when two rival sous chefs would implode—down to the week. She never raised her voice. Never asked for credit. She just worked. And people noticed.

They didn’t say much, of course. This was still the food industry. Praise was doled out like saffron—sparingly. But the silence around her began to shift. Chefs looked twice. Managers called her into meetings. Her emails started getting copied to the regional director.

She didn’t ask for attention. She didn’t explain her qualifications. She just worked—and watched everything. It was at a vendor tasting event that she first crossed paths with Chef Dhanin Tansakul.

He wasn’t in chef whites. Just a tailored shirt with the sleeves half-rolled and the calm, unreadable face of someone who didn’t need to introduce himself. Everyone knew who he was. KIN KAO. Five cities. Eight Michelin stars. And a reputation for disappearing off the radar when he wasn’t building empires. Bua didn’t approach him. She didn’t need to.

He noticed her during a tasting for new catering partners, where she stood off to the side, arms crossed, silently watching a guest chef mangle a classic Thai crab curry into something unrecognizable.

When someone asked her opinion—mostly to fill a silence—she had replied flatly, “If you’re going to strip it of identity, at least salt it properly.”

Dhanin heard her. Smirked. Didn’t say anything that day. Two weeks later, she got a call. No assistant. No screening. Just a voice on the line:

“This is Dhanin Tansakul. I’d like to meet.”

They didn’t meet in his office. Not in a sleek glass tower, not in a private tasting room, not even in a restaurant that required reservations. He asked her to join him at an old-style khao man gai stall in Banglamphu, tucked behind a temple wall and sandwiched between a shoe repair shack and a karaoke bar. The kind of place locals knew but never posted about. Where the chairs wobbled, the floor was uneven, and the air smelled like jasmine rice, fish sauce, and engine fumes.

The tin tables were scratched and dented. The stools mismatched. Menus were sun-bleached and sealed under warped glass, one corner still sticky with something sweet and mysterious. A fan buzzed weakly in the background, doing nothing to cut the humid night.

Motorbikes screamed past every few minutes. Neon signs blinked unevenly above their heads. Somewhere, a toddler was crying. Somewhere else, someone was deep-frying pork intestines in a vat of recycled oil. And yet—Dhanin looked completely at ease. He wore a gray linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a scuffed leather watch, and the expression of a man who had sat at too many Michelin-starred tables to care anymore. No security. No assistants. No clipboard.

He ordered without looking. So did she. Poached chicken, rice, extra broth, no chili. They both knew the system. He ate quietly. So did she. It was absurd, if she thought about it. A global culinary icon, sitting under a flickering string of fluorescent bulbs, talking to her over plastic bowls and chipped porcelain spoons. No ceremony. No performance. Just sweat, steam, and street-level honesty.

Then he said, “I’ve read your file. You’re not on any lists. Not in any press. But your kitchens don’t break.” Bua just nodded.

He didn’t stop there.

“I had to dig to find it,” Dhanin said, setting his chopsticks down, neatly parallel across his bowl. “You're thorough about cleaning your tracks.”

He studied her for a moment, not unkindly. “You were a rising star back then. I remember hearing your name from a French supplier I used to work with. Said there was this Thai girl in Lyon who could slice brunoise faster than most sous chefs and held her station like a general.”

He leaned back slightly, voice quieting. “And then—nothing. You vanished. Like a ghost.”

Bua didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. But she didn’t answer either.

“Most people assumed you quit,” he continued. “Burned out, washed out, walked out. I wasn’t sure. But I kept the name.”

She didn’t answer. Just lifted her tea and took a slow sip. Let him keep talking. “I talked to someone who worked the line there with you,” he added. “Said you didn’t flinch when others panicked. Until the night it all caught up.”

A flicker passed behind her eyes, but nothing else moved.

“You know,” he continued, “most chefs leave kitchens for ego. Or drama. Or burnout. But you left because you didn’t want to risk someone else getting hurt.”

Still, she said nothing.

“I think that was the right call,” he said, simply. “But also—” he leaned back a little, watching her— “it’s a damn waste.”

That got a reaction. Just a tilt of her head. Cautious. Curious.

“You could’ve made it,” he said, not unkindly. “Top of the line. Maybe your own star someday. But you walked out. And you never looked back.”

“Because kitchens burn people,” she said, voice even. “And I’m done pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Dhanin didn’t argue. Didn’t offer pity. He just gave her a long, slow nod—like he understood more than he let on.

“I’m not asking you to come back to the line,” he said. “That’s not what this is. I don’t need another tortured genius plating petals with tweezers. I need someone who keeps the fire burning without setting the building on fire.”

He let the words settle.

“You know how kitchens work. You know how chefs think—how they spiral, how they hide mistakes, how they forget people when they're chasing stars. But you don’t forget. You see every crack before it becomes a break.”

He slid a simple folder across the table. No logo. Just her name written neatly on the front.

“I want you to run my restaurant in Bangkok,” he said. “Not cook. Not consult. Not smile for food festivals. Run it. Build the bones. Make it so tight they don’t notice it’s bleeding until the bleeding stops.”

Her fingers hovered over the folder. She didn’t open it.

“You’re not a chef,” he added. “Not anymore. But you still can be the sharpest knife in the kitchen.”

For a long moment, they just sat there—two people who knew too well what kitchens could take from you if you let them.

Then she spoke, quiet but clear.

“If I say yes, I set the rules.”

Dhanin gave her a small nod. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“And I don’t want PR. No interviews. No name on the wall.” “Just results,” he said.

She reached for the folder but didn’t open it right away.

“You should know,” he added, wiping the edge of his bowl with a napkin, “KIN KAO Bangkok already has its Michelin star. One. Solid. Earned before the pandemic.” He looked at her then—really looked. “And I want the second under your watch.”

She raised an eyebrow, not out of surprise but calculation. That kind of upgrade wasn’t just a promotion. It was a gauntlet.

“I’m not the one on the line,” she said.

“No,” Dhanin replied, “but you’ll be the one who makes sure the line never slips.”

There was no bragging in his voice. No pitch. Just conviction—like he was naming something already true. She opened the folder.

The terms were clear. Authority over staff structure. Oversight of procurement, scheduling, front-of-house coordination, back-of-house safety. Full autonomy in kitchen systems, hiring, and service management. A clean slate. And a challenge.

She didn’t say yes that night. But she didn’t say no either.

Present Day — Bangkok. 11:47 PM.

The same counter. The same steel. But the reflection staring back now had steadier eyes. Bua blinked once, slowly, and the image of that younger girl—burned, frozen, unsure—faded like steam on glass. She was here. Now. Standing in the kitchen she helped rebuild, not the one she left behind. Her hands, no longer trembling, rested flat against the cold metal as she looked out across the kitchen.

The room was empty, but she moved through it like it wasn’t—eyes sharp, hands brushing over surfaces, double-checking gas valves, hood vents, the fire suppression switch. Bua paused at the main pass, fingers brushing the edge of the cold stainless-steel counter. From here, she could see the entire kitchen—the brigade's battlefield during service. It looked peaceful now. Like nothing ever burned. But tonight’s quiet wasn’t just routine. It was earned.

The second Michelin star had arrived eleven months ago. A short email from the Michelin Guide office. A follow-up call. A couriered plaque in velvet-lined packaging that Bua never bothered to unbox herself. It hadn’t felt like triumph. It felt like permission to aim higher. Two stars meant excellence. Three meant immortality. In all of Thailand, only one restaurant had ever earned that third star. Globally? It was an elite tier—so few, you could name them off one by one.

But Bua had already mapped out what needed to change. Not just the seasonal menu, but the wine program, the service flow, the acoustic dampening, the consistency of plating from lunch to dinner, the entire philosophy of pace—how long a guest waited between their amuse bouche and their next course. Every second mattered now.

Not for prestige. For precision.

Because if she was going to do this—if KIN KAO was going to become one of the rarest restaurants in the world to earn a third star—she wouldn’t let it be by luck or marketing. It would be because she built it that way.

She straightened a towel that had been folded with a corner slightly off. Clicked the cooler door shut one more time. Made a mental note to ask the pastry sous if the thermometer by the chocolate storage had been recalibrated—again.

And then, finally, she turned off the last light. Her heels echoed across the tiles. She walked past the front-of-house—now stripped of linens and dimmed to near-dark, the centerpiece flowers removed, chairs upside down on tables—and unlocked the staff exit with a practiced swipe of her card.

Bangkok’s night hit her like it always did: dense, humid, alive.

 Bangkok, Day Off – Yaowarat Road

Bua didn’t take many days off. Not real ones. Not the kind where she left her phone face down and didn’t mentally rework the staff schedule between spoonfuls of rice.

But sometimes, when the air was thick with Bangkok heat and the craving for something specific hit her right in the chest, she found herself walking the winding alleys of Yaowarat. Not as the manager of KIN KAO, not as the woman chasing a third Michelin star—but as Busaya Methin, daughter of the Methin family and second-born to the kind of restaurant that didn’t care about tasting menus or wine pairings.

Just food. Hot, fast, and unforgettable. The Methin family restaurant didn’t have a formal name—at least not one the locals ever needed to say out loud. The gold Thai lettering above the entrance simply read:

เฮงเหลา – Heng Lao, short for “lucky roast house.”

And for as long as anyone in Yaowarat could remember, Heng Lao had lived up to its name. It was a neighborhood landmark—part kitchen, part time capsule, the kind of place locals whispered about with reverence and expats longed for after one too many winters abroad. The glass front was fogged with steam and the sizzle of duck fat. The awning was always just a little crooked. And still, every seat was filled before sundown. Every day. Always.

The restaurant’s crown jewels? The crispy pork belly and roasted duck.

The recipe had come from her grandfather—passed down through Supoj Methin, her father, with no shortcuts allowed. The pork belly was dry-brined for two days, scored with a fishbone skewer, then air-dried under a whirring fan before being deep-roasted until the skin bubbled into glass. The duck? Glazed in a secret blend of soy, honey, and Chinese herbs, then hung to roast until the skin crisped and the meat stayed tender and sweet.

Everyone in Yaowarat knew the flavor. It was the taste of home. It was the place you took visiting cousins. The shop you queued for during Lunar New Year. The only food stall old-timers from the neighborhood still trusted, no matter how many glossy new spots opened down the road.

It was legendary. Even now, Bua could smell it before she even stepped inside—the unmistakable combination of five-spice and garlic, soy and peppercorn, mingling with the sharper edge of vinegar dipping sauce and the hiss of hot steel against chopping boards. She pushed open the swinging glass door just before dinner rush.

Inside, the air-conditioning struggled against the heat, but the atmosphere was loud and alive. A middle-aged man barked orders from the front as he waved his cleaver like punctuation. Kids darted between chairs. A server shouted for more rice. The clatter of ceramic bowls and the chop-chop-chop of heavy blades kept tempo like a kitchen orchestra.

Behind the counter, her father, Supoj Methin, stood in his usual spot—white apron over a threadbare polo shirt, cleaver in hand, smiling as he greeted a regular.

Her mother, Wannee, ran the back like a drill sergeant in flip-flops, checking every tray, tasting every sauce, scolding the prep boy for skimming fat off too early. And her sister, Pim, was busy with receipts at the register, furiously battling the stubborn card machine like it had personally wronged her.

Bua stepped inside, the sounds washing over her like heat from a freshly opened oven. It didn’t matter that she worked in one of Bangkok’s most prestigious restaurants, or that KIN KAO had two Michelin stars and a waiting list three months long. Here, she was just Bua. Busaya. Big sister and daughter. And for tonight, that was enough.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Pim called from behind the register, where she was fighting with the credit card machine again.

“Still haven’t fixed that thing?” Bua asked, raising an eyebrow.

Pim scowled. “You want to come back here and do it?”

“No,” Bua said, already slipping behind the counter and heading to the back. “I just want my pork belly plate. Extra sauce.”

In the back kitchen, Wannee Methin was elbow-deep in morning glory and oyster sauce, flames licking up the sides of her seasoned wok. She didn’t look up when Bua stepped in—just jerked her chin toward the door and said, “Don’t try to rearrange anything again. And if you open the freezer again, I swear I’ll put a padlock on it.”

Bua chuckled but didn’t answer right away. She stepped in fully and brought her palms together in a polite wai.

“Sawasdee ka, Mae.” Her voice was soft—gentler than the clipped tone she used at work. Then, without fanfare, she leaned in and placed a brief kiss on her mother’s cheek—quick, familiar, just enough to draw a small grunt of acknowledgment from Wannee.

Wannee finally glanced at her. “Hmph. Still thin. You don’t eat enough.”

From the pantry, Supoj called out, voice muffled by hanging bundles of herbs and vacuum-sealed duck bones. “She reorganized the spice shelf last time, remember? Took me two days to find the damn cinnamon.”

Then, appearing with a sack of dried shiitake mushrooms slung over his shoulder, he added with a grin, “Our Bua’s brain was born laminated and alphabetized.”

Bua gave him a small wai too, murmuring, “Sawasdee ka, Por.”

Supoj waved her off affectionately, already reaching for the duck glaze. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her mouth twitching in the direction of a smile—one of the rare ones, the kind she didn’t waste at work. Dinner was a shared table behind the kitchen, as it always was—set low with mismatched chairs and an old fan buzzing in the corner. Plates of Chinese kale with oyster sauce, soft-boiled duck eggs with soy, jasmine rice, and two heaping bowls of the house’s signature crispy pork over rice filled the center.

The smell was intoxicating—familiar, grounding. The kind of meal that asked for nothing but your attention. They talked about nothing and everything. Pim leaned across the table, eyes sparkling. “You will not believe who came in two days ago.”

Bua raised an eyebrow. “Another food blogger with a ring light?”

“No. Better.” Pim dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Them.”

Bua blinked. “Who’s them?”

Pim rolled her eyes like it physically hurt. “The GL actresses. From the GL series that nearly broke YouTube—nine hundred million views or something insane like that. You know them! I told you about their fanmeet I went to last year.”

Bua gave a vague grunt of recognition, which Pim took as permission to continue.

“They came in together. Just the two of them. Sat by the wall near the fan. Super low-key. No entourage, no makeup. I almost didn’t recognize them—but then she laughed, and I knew.”

“You didn’t say anything?”

“Of course not! I’m not a gremlin. I gave them their space.” Pim’s grin widened. “But inside? I was dying. I think they’re dating for real. You should’ve seen how the older one was pouring tea for her.”

Bua snorted softly. “Maybe she just has manners.”

Pim leaned back smugly. “Nah. That was girlfriend pouring.”

Supoj chose that moment to brag about a Thai TV food show that wanted to feature their duck. “Channel 5! Prime time! That host with the loud shirts—what’s his name? The one who cries when he eats.”

Wannee rolled her eyes. “If you raise the prices again, we’ll lose all our old customers. This isn’t some Michelin place with tiny plates.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Supoj shot back, already grinning.

Bua listened more than she spoke. Ate everything on her plate. Drank her tea slowly. But her mother wasn’t done.

“You’re not getting any younger, you know,” Wannee said, spooning more rice into Bua’s bowl. “Thirty two already. Do you know how old I was when I married your father?”

“Twenty-four,” Bua replied.

“Exactly. And look, we’re still alive. It’s not a crime to have a life outside of work.”

“I have a life.”

“You have an apartment and a rice cooker,” her mother muttered.

Supoj chuckled, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “If she’s happy, that’s enough. Let her be.”

He turned to Bua with a smile that always made her feel five years old again—when she used to stand on a stool next to the chopping board, watching him carve duck with the precision of an artist.

“She’s doing what she loves,” he said, his voice warm with quiet pride. “Not everyone gets that. And not many parents can say their daughter ended up running a Michelin-starred kitchen.”

The words made Bua still, just for a second.

“She’ll figure the rest out when she’s ready,” he added, reaching for his tea. “Our Bua always does.”

Her mother clicked her tongue. “She still needs someone who’ll bring her soup when she’s sick.”

“Let her eat her pork first,” Supoj said with a laugh.

The conversation moved on, but the pride never left the room—it clung to the walls, literally. Behind the front register and just above the laminated menu board, a small gallery of framed photographs had quietly built itself over the years. Celebrities and TV hosts grinning over plates of duck. Local politicians. A handwritten thank-you note from a famous singer.

And tucked between them, like a badge of honor: Bua in her chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, standing outside Le Cordon Bleu with a scroll in her hand and Paris light on her face. Another of her, younger still, plating roast duck at a school competition with the intensity of someone already dreaming in Michelin stars. A third—her and Pim as kids in aprons too big for their bodies, sitting on overturned crates, grinning through missing teeth.

Customers often paused to look at those photos. Some would point. Some would smile in recognition. And when they asked—“Who’s the beautiful Thai girl in the chef’s coat? Was that taken in France?”

Wannee always answered first, beaming like she’d won something herself. “That’s my eldest. Busaya. Graduated from a famous culinary school in Paris. She’s a manager now. Michelin stars, you know.”

And if Supoj was nearby, he’d always add with a proud little grin, “She used to roast duck right here with us. Now she’s running one of the best restaurants in Bangkok.”

They never said it with arrogance. Just pure, unfiltered parental pride—like they were still a little amazed by her. Bua never corrected them. Never told them to stop, or that it embarrassed her. Because deep down, even with all she’d accomplished, even after all the pressure and burn and recovery—those moments were the kind that stuck the longest.

Now, years later, her scars were still there. So was the steel. But in this tiny restaurant where she once learned to sharpen cleavers and count duck orders by heart, the pride in her parents’ voices softened something in her she rarely let anyone see. Because here, no one asked her to be impressive. Here, she just got to be Bua.

“I need you to stop trying to set me up with the niece of your pharmacist,” Bua said dryly. “She texts in cat stickers and doesn’t eat gluten.”

Wannee sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. But someday, you’ll want more than stars and rice cookers.”

Bua just shook her head, but her eyes softened. This was routine. Comfortable. The same script, delivered with the same affection, every few visits. And honestly, she didn’t mind. Not really.

And then her phone vibrated on the table. Chef Dhanin.

She excused herself quietly and stepped outside, into the night market noise—neon signs blinking across shopfronts, teenagers sharing skewers by the curb, old men playing cards on folding tables by the drain.

“Bua,” Dhanin said, his voice smooth and easy. “Enjoying your day off?”

“Trying to,” she replied, dry as ever. “What’s wrong?”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Why do you always assume something’s wrong when I call?”

“Because usually, it is.”

“Fair.” There was a brief pause, then the sound of him sipping something—probably overpriced cold brew. “But not today. Today, I’ve got good news. I found our new head chef.”

Her hand tightened slightly around her phone.

“Oh?” she asked. “Another one from Tokyo?”

“No. Local. Well—returning local.”

He paused. For dramatic effect, she suspected.

“Phinya Thananont.”

Bua blinked. “That James Beard winner?”

“That’s the one.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes tracked the street. A kid biked past with a basket full of steamed buns. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted about mango sticky rice.

“She’ll arrive next week,” Dhanin added. “I already sent her your contact for onboarding.”

“Of course you did,” Bua muttered. “Does she know she’s not walking into a circus?”

“I expect she’ll try to make one anyway,” he said lightly. “Keep the lions in check, will you?”

“Always.” Bua’s voice was calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity now in her eyes—just enough to make Dhanin smile on the other end.

“Didn’t doubt it,” he said. There was a pause, just long enough to mean something.

“Thanks. I know the place runs because of you.”

Then, just like that, the line clicked. No goodbye. No drawn-out farewell. Because between the two of them, that was never needed. Trust was the default. And Bua, already pocketing her phone, was already planning what time she'd stop by the restaurant tomorrow. Just to make sure the kitchen was ready. Just to see what kind of mess this new chef would bring through the door.

Chapter Text

From the moment Phinya Thananont stepped into the kitchen at KIN KAO, it became very clear she had no interest in fitting in quietly.

She didn’t look like someone who had won a James Beard Award. No sharp suit. No pristine chef whites pressed to perfection. Instead, Phin showed up in a soft, faded black t-shirt that might’ve once said something cheeky in English—now obscured by time and fish sauce splatters—and a loose pair of drawstring linen pants that cinched at the ankle. Her sneakers were old, bordering on tragic.

And then there was the bandana.

Phin wore it like armor. A dark blue one today, tied tight around her head, wild curls pushed back into a manageable chaos. She had a whole drawer of them, apparently—each with its own superstition, each stained with stories. Some chefs wore toques. Phin wore rebellion on her forehead.

Her apron was clean at 10 a.m. By 10:45, it was a war zone of turmeric, coconut cream, and shrimp paste. Her station looked nothing like the others. While the rest of the kitchen gleamed in organized symmetry—labels perfectly aligned, ladles hung with military precision—Phin’s corner was its own ecosystem. Pans on the left instead of the right. Handwritten notes taped to the counter, one of which had a doodle of a chili with a smiley face. A tiny Bluetooth speaker, perched between spice tins, buzzed out slow jazz and then abruptly switched to 90s hip-hop like it had a mind of its own.

And the chili oil stain across her cutting board? Permanent, probably. Like a signature. She moved like she was on the street, not inside a Michelin-starred flagship. Flicking fish sauce with her fingers. Tossing herbs without measuring. Grilling over flame like it was second nature. And it was. Her technique wasn’t sloppy—just unorthodox. Quick, precise, bold. A quick flick of tamarind paste, mid-toss. A flick of pepper while talking over her shoulder to the line cook beside her. When she called out instructions, they came with a grin and usually a nickname.

“Jin, less salt. This isn’t a breakup dish.”

“Jai, try that duck again—but this time with feeling!”

She wasn’t just cooking. She was performing. And everyone was watching. Everyone except Bua, who stood across the kitchen, arms folded tight, expression unreadable. To Bua, it wasn’t performance—it was disruption. A direct threat to the precision that kept her Michelin-starred kitchen running like clockwork.

“Hey, Jin—try this,” Phin said, offering a spoonful to one of the younger line cooks, who looked like he might faint from the attention. “Too much galangal?”

Jin shook his head, wide-eyed. “No, Chef. It’s… kind of perfect.”

Phin winked, then went right back to torching a banana blossom without looking down. At the far end of the kitchen, Bua watched it all in silence. Her arms crossed. Her lips thin. Her perfectly aligned mise—sorry, prep station—just behind her. The sous chef standing nearby didn’t even try to hide his glance at her expression.

“This isn’t a food truck,” she muttered, low enough that only he could hear. “You don’t improvise at this level.”

He didn’t respond. Because technically, nothing Phin did broke the rules. Not yet.

But the kitchen was tense. The staff hovered in a strange limbo between Bua’s famously strict routines and Phin’s “sure, go ahead and riff that nam phrik” attitude. No one wanted to be the first to pick a side. Then the first tasting plate went out. A reimagined gaeng som—traditionally sharp and spicy, now layered with grilled mackerel, pomelo pulp, and a slow-cooked tamarind broth that shimmered like amber. Phin drizzled a bitter orange reduction over the top and added a few fried holy basil leaves that crackled when they hit the heat. The moment it hit the pass, the smell was enough to quiet the room. Bua didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched as the server lifted the plate and vanished into the dining room. And then… applause. Only a few seconds of it. From the VIP table. But enough.

Bua’s jaw clenched.

Phin, unbothered, licked a drop of broth off her thumb, then leaned into the back area where Dishwasher Auntie sat on her low stool with her usual lunch of plain rice and a hard-boiled egg.

Phin crouched beside her and held out a spoon. “Too sweet?”

Auntie Song took a bite. Chewed. Tilted her head.

“A little,” she said.

Phin nodded. “I’ll fix it.”

Simple as that. Bua saw it all. The way Phin listened. Really listened.

And it worked. Which, somehow, made it worse.

It had been almost two weeks since Phinya Thananont stormed KIN KAO like a typhoon in worn jeans and a bandana. Twelve  days. That’s all it took to throw Bua’s carefully tuned, Michelin-honed kitchen into low-grade chaos.

Her schedule? Ignored.

Her plating guides? Adjusted on the fly.

Her service order system, which she’d spent six months optimizing with military precision?

Phin rewrote part of it. In red marker. On the wall.

Bua watched it all unfold with the quiet fury of someone whose domain had been invaded—not by a rival, but by a force of nature with a James Beard award and a grin that made sous chefs second-guess their loyalties. And worst of all—the food was good. Too good. Enough to make critics raise their eyebrows and regulars ask if something had “gotten even better recently.”

So when pre-service briefing came that Friday, Bua had reached her limit. She stood by the whiteboard in the back kitchen, arms crossed, a clipboard tucked tight against her chest like a shield. “We need to talk,” she said, voice even, sharp enough to slice galangal.

Phin was crouched near the cooler, tying her bandana behind her head. She looked up. “About how I’m single-handedly improving morale? Or the fact that the staff finally smiles before prep?”

Bua ignored that. “You’ve been altering the menu without clearance.”

Phin stood slowly, brushing chili flakes off her apron. “I’m improving it.”

“Tom Yum panna cotta is not improvement. It’s dessert confusion.”

“Table nine loved it.”

“The fermented lotus curry?”

“Table seven ordered seconds.”

Bua’s jaw tightened. “And the duck confit?”

Phin actually looked smug now. “Tamarind glaze. Crispy skin. You tasted it, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Bua admitted. “It was technically perfect.”

“And?”

“And irrelevant,” Bua snapped. “You don’t change dishes in a Michelin-starred kitchen without testing, documentation, and approval. We don’t gamble with stars.”

Phin’s smirk widened. “They won’t drop. Not if you let the food breathe a little.”

There was a pause. The kind that sizzled hotter than oil in a wok.

Then, like it meant nothing at all, Phin added, with a grin that was pure provocation, “Relax, Baibua. I’ve got it under control.”

She started to turn, then paused—leaning in, voice just low enough for only Bua to hear. “Unless…” she drawled, “you like watching me make a mess of your kitchen. Is that what this is?”

Bua blinked. “Excuse me?”

Phin shrugged, all innocence. “You keep hovering. Checking my station. Scowling at my spices. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were obsessed with me, not the kitchen.”

Bua’s jaw ticked. “I’m trying to prevent a disaster.”

Phin winked. “Then stop looking at me like I’m one.”

And just like that, she walked away, rolling up her sleeves and heading toward the line—leaving behind the scent of kaffir lime, tamarind, and pure gasoline poured straight onto Bua’s internal fire. A nearby junior line cook—Poom, a boy barely out of culinary school and clearly enchanted by Phin’s madness—whispered to his station partner, “She cooks like a drunk auntie with too much talent.”

Jin snorted. “Yeah, but like… the kind you’d follow into a burning kitchen.”

Bua scowled. And yet, when she glanced across the room, the staff was laughing. Not loud. Not wild. But lighter. Looser. As if something in the kitchen had started to exhale after holding its breath for far too long. It irritated her more than anything. Not because she didn’t understand it. But because she did. Because once—years ago—she had been that kind of chef. The one who made people laugh while they chopped, who slipped extra herbs into someone’s sauce just to make it sing, who believed the kitchen could be both brutal and beautiful at the same time. Before the burns. Before the panic attacks. Before she learned the hard way that joy didn’t always survive the fire.

Now, order was her armor. Precision was her peace. Cleanliness, control, consistency—those were the things that kept her upright. And Phinya Thananont was all chaos wrapped in charm. That’s what bothered her. Not the music. Not the mess. Not even the nickname. It was that something in her chest—the part she’d spent years freezing—was starting to thaw. And she hated it.

*****

The notification came during cleanup—when the kitchen was half-dimmed and the air still clung to the scent of lemongrass and scorched palm sugar. Bua’s phone buzzed on the corner of the prep table. She ignored it at first, wiping down the last tray with practiced precision. But it buzzed again, then again, in rapid succession. With a sigh, she glanced at the screen. Three mentions. Two tags. One DM from their social team. Her thumb hovered, then tapped.

@bangkokfoodchronicles
“KIN KAO’s red curry bisque is amazing. Playful, bright, confident. Whoever’s in the kitchen right now—keep them there.”
1,200 shares in twenty minutes. Comments flooding in. “That tamarind-glazed duck confit? Unbelievable.” “Didn’t expect this much personality from such a polished place. Michelin AND fun? Who knew.”

“Who’s the new chef? We’re obsessed.”

Bua’s jaw clenched. But beneath the annoyance, a colder fact settled in her gut. It was working. The chaos. The deviations. The so-called “drunk auntie with too much talent” routine. It was resonating. She didn’t like it. But she couldn’t ignore it either. She need to do something.

Bua's office at KIN KAO wasn’t large, but it was precise—like everything else Bua touched. One wall was all dark walnut cabinetry, custom-built for efficiency: supplier invoices in color-coded folders, wine lists stacked with surgical neatness, a tiny espresso machine gleaming in the corner. The window looked out over the alley, not much of a view, but Bua liked knowing who came and went. Her desk was a minimalist slab of matte-black metal with a single potted plant and a brass pen holder—everything else was sharp lines and sharper order. The only thing out of place was the half-stapled stack of paperwork in front of her. Untouched. The light above buzzed faintly, a fluorescent hum in a room too still.

Then came the knock. Quick. Not tentative. And before Bua could even answer, the door creaked open. Phinya Thananont strolled in like she owned the place. Her white chef coat was rumpled, the sleeves haphazardly rolled up to her elbows. A red-and-white bandana pushed her straight, shoulder-length hair back from her face, and a kitchen towel hung from one shoulder like it had grown roots there. A faded tattoo curled beneath her left ear, just visible when she tilted her head—and another inked line peeked out from the inside of her wrist as she leaned casually against the doorframe.

“You called, Baibua?” Phin said, voice syrupy-sweet—like she was asking if Bua missed her.

Bua’s jaw twitched. She didn’t respond to the nickname. Didn’t rise to it. But her pen, which she hadn’t been using, was suddenly aligned a little too sharply against the edge of the desk.

“Shut the door.”

Phin did, kicking it gently closed with the heel of her shoe before strolling in like the room belonged to her. Bua didn’t flinch. But her nostrils flared ever so slightly.

“I said come in, not take over,” she said, voice flat.

Phin pushed off the frame and sauntered in, cool and loose-limbed. “Can’t help it. You always look so serious in here. Like the walls would cry if a chili flake landed out of place.”

Her eyes did a slow lap around the office, exaggerated admiration in every glance. “God. It’s like a Michelin inspector and a tax auditor had a baby.”

“I don’t think you’re funny.”

“Not trying to be.” She plopped into the chair across from Bua’s desk, flipping the towel behind her like she was settling into a VIP tasting. “You rang, boss lady. What’s the verdict? Am I being fired? Promoted? Given my own reality show?”

Bua leveled her with a look that could have chilled stock in seconds. But Phin only smirked wider.

Bua didn’t waste time. “Four dishes.”

Phin blinked. “Sorry?”

“You get four rotating slots. Weekly. Seasonal. Yours.” She tapped the desk. “A tasting flight too. ‘Phin’s Picks.’ Labeled clearly. You play, but within boundaries.”

Phin tilted her head. “And the rest of the menu?”

“Stays as is. No altering the signatures. Not the duck. Not the scallop miang. Not a single damn thing that helped us earn those stars before.”

There was a beat of silence. Phin looked like she might argue—but then she smiled instead. A real one, not her usual smirk.

“If they flop, I’ll yank them myself.”

Bua leaned forward slightly. “If they endanger the restaurant, I’ll yank you myself.”

Another pause. Then Phin extended her hand across the desk. “Deal,” she said, with a wink that absolutely no one asked for.

Bua stared at the hand like it was a health violation. Or worse—a trap. Phin wiggled her fingers. “Unless you’re afraid to touch me, Baibua.”

Bua’s gaze didn’t so much as blink. She took the hand. One shake. Firm. Dry. Efficient. Like sealing a contract with a corporation, not a person.

“Disappointed?” Bua asked coolly.

Phin grinned, unbothered. “A little,” she admitted. “But I like a slow burn.”

No smiles exchanged. But something else flickered in the air. Not quite warmth. Not yet. But maybe—maybe—something close to mutual respect. Or a mutual understanding: that this kitchen was big enough for both of them—but only if neither blinked first. Phin was halfway out the office door before she turned back, tossing a towel over her shoulder like she’d just finished a pickup game.

“Thanks for the trust, Baibua.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

(She absolutely would.)

*****

The next day, Monday, the restaurant was closed—a built-in breather in the middle of the week meant for deep cleaning, supplier calls, or pretending, briefly, that she didn’t run one of the most tightly wound kitchens in Bangkok. Instead, Bua found herself at an airy corner café in Ari, seated across from Fang.

Fang, who had known her since high school, was sipping a coconut Americano and raising a suspicious brow as Bua picked at her rice bowl with the look of someone digesting more than food. They’d been friends since they were sixteen—bonded over shared eye-rolls during physics class and secret snack stashes during exam week. Where Bua had always been precise, intense, a little intimidating even as a teenager, Fang had been her counterweight: relaxed, intuitive, effortlessly charming. The kind of girl who wore mismatched earrings on purpose and got away with it.

Even now, their lives couldn’t be more different. Fang worked in advertising—branding campaigns, lifestyle shoots, fancy presentations. She went to art shows, had group chats, wore bold lipstick even on weekends. She had a boyfriend she actually liked, and though she hadn’t tied the knot yet, she talked about it like it was a brunch menu option. Not pressured. Just... planned.

And somehow, despite the miles of adulthood and chaos in between, Fang was still one of Bua’s constants. One of the few people she saw outside of KIN KAO or family dinners. They met up maybe once every two weeks—sometimes for drinks, sometimes for ramen, occasionally just to sit in a park and complain about how everyone else seemed to be having more fun. It wasn’t loud or dramatic or particularly sentimental. It was just solid. Like them.

“You’ve been talking about this woman for—” Fang glanced at her phone “—fifteen straight minutes.”

Bua scowled into her iced tea. “I’m venting.”

“You’re obsessing.”

“She rewrote my service order system in marker on the wall, Fang.”

Fang tried to look sympathetic but failed. “And you didn’t fire her?”

“She’s—” Bua paused, stabbing a cucumber slice, “—annoyingly competent.”

Fang grinned. “Uh huh. Competent. Go on.”

“She wears these tragic bandanas like she’s auditioning for a cooking show hosted by street racers. She changes dishes mid-service. She plays hip-hop during prep. She calls me Baibua. Like we’re friends.”

“Sounds awful.” Fang’s voice dripped with amusement. “Is she cute?”

Bua blinked. “What? That’s not the point.”

“So… yes?”

“She’s chaotic.”

“Still yes.”

Bua groaned and leaned back. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Fang said brightly. She pulled out her phone, typing fast. “What’s her full name?”

Bua hesitated, but answered. “Phinya Thananont.”

Click. Tap. Scroll.

Then Fang let out a low whistle. “Oh. Oh, she’s hot.”

“Fang—”

“No, like dangerously hot. And this résumé? James Beard Award, two years under Dominique Crenn, keynote speaker at a global food summit? Babe, you’re picking fights with someone who’s probably been profiled in Kinfolk and photographed holding a bunch of heirloom carrots.”

“She torched a banana blossom without blinking.”

“And now you’re spiraling about her over lunch with your oldest friend. Do you hear yourself?”

Bua’s only answer was the loud crunch of her pickled radish.

Fang leaned in, her teasing gentler now. “Look. I know it’s been a long time since someone got under your skin like this.”

“I don’t like her.”

“Yeah? Keep saying it, and maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

Bua shoved another bite of rice in her mouth. Fang laughed, smug and satisfied, and reached for her drink. In the background, the café buzzed with quiet chatter, utensils on ceramic, and the clink of glass. But at their little table, between decades-old friendship and a brand new fire, something had begun to shift. They let the topic drift for a while after that, the way they always did—looping in and out of half-finished stories, complaints about Bangkok traffic, and which cafés had gotten too expensive for what they served.

Fang updated her on her latest project—a skincare campaign with an influencer who allegedly refused to be filmed from the left side—and how her boyfriend, Jay, was starting to talk about wedding venues despite not having officially proposed yet.

“We might just elope in Chiang Mai,” she said, picking at the last of her fries. “Or in Italy. Or just sign the papers and throw a party with a taco truck. I don’t know.”

Bua nodded. “You’d look good in white. But I’m picturing you in gold and giant earrings.”

Fang beamed. “You get me.”

Then Fang leaned in, a glint in her eyes. “Oh—by the way, I went to Heng Lao the other night. Took Jay.”

Bua raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Food’s still amazing. Your dad gave Jay a whole ten-minute speech about the difference between moo grob and ‘that crunchy pork nonsense on TikTok.’ Jay almost cried. In a good way.”

Bua snorted. “That sounds like him.”

“Oh, it gets better. Your mom came out with extra soup and grilled duck like we were royalty. Then she sat down at our table, smiled sweetly, and asked us—very casually—if we were married yet.”

Bua groaned. “Of course she did.”

“We just laughed. Jay said something about getting around to it after the rainy season, and your mom pretended to be scandalized. Said we’re not getting any younger.”

“She says that to me every week.”

“I know. But this time she had a fresh target.” Fang grinned. “Then—after a few more questions about Jay’s job, family, cholesterol levels, and whether he can eat durian—she turned to me.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Fang leaned closer. “She sighed, looked at the floor, and said—‘Fang, why doesn’t Bua ever bring anyone home? I’m not saying she has to get married tomorrow. But she never introduces us to anyone. Always working. Never dating. Does she even go out? Do you think she’ll be alone forever?’”

Bua covered her face with both hands. “God.”

“And then—she slipped me a little piece of paper under the edge of the table like she was passing a bribe. Told me to give it to you. Apparently, it’s the number of her friend’s daughter. Works in finance. Nice girl. Went to Chulalongkorn. And—this is the best part—‘doesn’t mind quiet girls.’”

Bua buried her face in her hands. “She’s matchmaking through you now?”

“She’s diversifying her strategy,” Fang said solemnly. “And honestly, I respect it. Ten out of ten for sneaky auntie energy.”

Then, softer but still teasing, she added, “Most parents want their daughters to marry a nice man, have two kids, get a house with a white fence. Yours? They just want you to be happy. Doesn’t matter if she’s a florist or a banker or a chef who wear bandana and grills fish with her bare hands.”

Bua lowered her hands, eyes narrowed. “Are we back to Phinya already?”

Fang raised both palms innocently. “I said chef and grills fish. You’re the one who filled in the name.”

Bua glared. Fang sipped her coffee, triumphant. They sat like that for a moment—just two women on a Monday afternoon, old friends tangled in the complicated, messy, absurd beauty of life. The sun filtered through the windows. Someone’s dog barked from the sidewalk. And for once, Bua allowed herself to be still, letting the noise of the kitchen fall away.

Later that night...

Bua returned to her apartment around nine. The city was quieter by then, or maybe just muffled by the layers of concrete and curtain-drawn windows that made up her high-rise. She slipped off her shoes at the door, lined them up with mechanical precision beside the others—three pairs, all black, all practical.

Inside, the space was spotless, almost sterile—warm wood floors, charcoal gray walls, a modular couch that barely looked used. A small bookshelf sat beside a low table, holding cookbooks, notebooks, and a single framed photo of her and her family, taken last New Year’s. The kitchen was compact but immaculate: knives on a magnetic strip, tea canisters arranged by type, fridge humming quietly like it knew better than to make a fuss.

Bua changed into loose cotton pants and a long-sleeved shirt, tied her hair back, and moved through her usual Monday-night routine. She watered the basil on the windowsill. Refilled the Thai rice canister in the cupboard. Made a cup of lemongrass tea and set her meal prep for the next day in tidy glass containers—grilled chicken, brown rice, blanched bok choy.

There was comfort in the repetition. The quiet. No chaos here. She was folding laundry when her phone buzzed. The name on the screen made her pause.

Chef Dhanin.

She sat on the edge of the couch before answering. “Chef.”

“Evening, Bua,” came the smooth, low voice on the other end. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Just doing laundry,” she said. “What’s going on?”

A short pause. Then: “I got a call from Krit. You remember him—does reviews for Bangkok Food Table, also moonlights as a royal pain in the ass.”

Bua allowed a faint smile. “I remember.”

“Well, he had lunch at KIN KAO yesterday. Couldn’t stop talking about the red curry bisque. And the tamarind duck. He said—and I quote—‘Whoever’s behind this is clearly insane, but also possibly a genius.’”

Bua sighed. “Let me guess. He asked who made it.”

“Oh, he didn’t have to ask,” Dhanin said, amused. “Apparently, he cornered Nam during dessert and asked if the new chef with the bandana had any more surprises coming.”

Bua groaned softly. “Of course he did.”

There was a low laugh on the other end. “You sound thrilled.”

“She’s a menace,” Bua said, standing to carry her folded clothes to the bedroom. “Her station looks like a spice bomb went off. She rewrote the prep schedule with a red marker. She cooks like she’s got a train to catch. And don’t get me started on the music.”

“She always did bring chaos with her,” Dhanin said, voice tinged with nostalgia. “But the kind of chaos that wakes people up.”

“She’s not subtle,” Bua muttered.

“She’s not meant to be. Neither are we.”

That made Bua pause. She leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting lightly on the stack of laundry in her arms. The silence stretched for a beat, then Dhanin added, “You’ve built something tight at KIN KAO. Solid. Disciplined. It runs because you made it that way. That’s why I trust you.”

“I won’t let that fall apart,” Bua said immediately.

“I know,” he replied. “And I didn’t put Phin there to rattle you. I put her there because I knew you’d hold the line—even if she started coloring outside of it.”

Bua exhaled slowly. “You could’ve warned me she’d take that literally. She wrote on the damn wall, Chef. With a red marker.”

Dhanin laughed again. “I figured you’d handle it. And you are. But keep me posted, yeah? I know sparks are flying. I just want to make sure the kitchen doesn’t catch fire.”

There was something underneath the words—not quite family, no warmth-for-warmth’s sake, but mutual respect. A rare thing in kitchens like theirs.

“I’ll manage her,” Bua said. “And I’ll protect the restaurant.”

“I never doubted it,” Dhanin said simply. “Get some rest, Bua. I’ll see you next month.”

She ended the call and sat there for a moment, phone still in hand. The quiet returned—hum of the fridge, soft whir of the city outside. But something felt off-kilter again. Not in the room. Not in her routine. In her. She picked up her tea, now only lukewarm, and looked out the window. Somewhere out there, Phinya Thananont was probably listening to jazz and torching vegetables in a kitchen that looked like a battlefield. And somehow, impossibly, KIN KAO was still standing.

Later that night, Bua was brushing her teeth when her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at it, half-expecting another supplier update or a reminder from her calendar.

1 new message. From: Phinya Thananont

She raised an eyebrow.

It was a photo—taken at a strange angle, a bit of steam still rising from a shallow bowl of something rich, golden, and suspiciously well-plated. Red curry bisque, she realized. Topped with seared scallop, a delicate curl of kaffir lime zest, and—was that grilled pineapple?

Below the photo was a message:

“For the record, I didn’t write on the wall today. Just taped a new schedule next to it. Baby steps.”

“Also, this version? Might be my best yet. Too spicy for critics. Perfect for control freaks.”

Bua stared at the screen, lips twitching despite herself.

Another ping followed.

“If you ask nicely, I’ll save you a bowl tomorrow. No smiling required.”

She should’ve ignored it. She should’ve gone to bed. She should’ve reminded Phinya not to text her off-hours without a work-related reason. Instead, she typed back:

“That sounds more like a disaster than a compliment.”

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then reappeared.

“Flirting and insults? Baibua, I’m blushing.”

Bua rolled her eyes, but the faint, traitorous smile stayed on her face as she put the phone down. The kitchen was hers. But suddenly, she wasn’t the only one setting the rules.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Monday mornings in Bangkok were usually chaos.

But not today. Not in this apartment, not in this slow hour that smelled like coffee and lemongrass, the city outside still muffled behind thick glass. Phin moved barefoot across the cool tile floor, loose shorts and a faded concert tee hanging off one shoulder, her hair pulled into a lopsided bun. Her studio apartment sat on the 14th floor of an aging building near Ari—quiet, unpretentious, with just enough of a view to catch the morning haze sliding off the skyline.

The space was open, bright, cluttered in a way that only made sense if you’d ever lived inside a kitchen too long. Her favorite knives hung on a magnetic strip above the counter. A stack of notebooks sat beside the rice cooker. Dried herbs, spice tins, sticky notes, and four different kinds of soy sauce lined the windowsill like a shrine to impulse cooking.

The open-plan kitchen was the heart of the place—big by Bangkok standards. A full stainless steel prep table ran across one wall, and a scarred wooden counter took up the rest. Her fridge was covered in postcards, scribbled ideas, and a photo of her mom holding a giant durian with a thumbs-up.

Phin leaned on one elbow and flipped through her recipe notebook, a pencil tucked behind her ear. Most of the page was a mess of lines and crossed-out ingredients, but the phrase “gaeng som risotto??” was still circled twice. She snorted to herself.

“That’s probably illegal.”

No real plans today. No staff. No shouting. No twenty-minute plating meetings. Just… this. Just her. Alone with her ingredients and her overactive brain.

She started breakfast just before 10 a.m.—some weird fusion idea she’d been playing with: a Thai-style shakshuka with prik gaeng curry, cherry tomatoes blistered in shrimp oil, and two eggs nestled in the center like little suns. Toasted brioche with makhwaen butter on the side.

The whole thing looked incredible on the plate. Tasted even better.

She took one bite and grinned, pleased. Grabbed her notebook and jotted down the ratios before she forgot. But after the second bite, her pace slowed. Something hollow moved in the silence.

She sat back, fork hovering, chewing slower. And thought—not for the first time—about how much better this would taste if someone else was here to try it. Someone she could cook for.

Her gaze drifted across the small table to the opposite chair—currently occupied by a large, offensively bright yellow banana plushie, propped up like it was her mute, happy breakfast date.

A welcome gift from Lin, her younger sister, who had insisted it was “for emotional support or kitchen failures, whichever comes first.”

Phin had tried to give it back. Lin had blocked her on LINE for three hours in protest. So the banana stayed. It leaned smugly against the chair back now, its stitched grin and wide eyes beaming with relentless optimism. A stupid thing, really—but… comforting, somehow. Phin snorted and took another bite, chewing slowly. “Glad one of us is enjoying this,” she muttered.

She stared at the plushie longer than she meant to, fork dangling in her fingers, eyes unfocused. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet, maybe. She imagined someone sitting there instead. Someone real. Someone with opinions and a sharp tongue and absolutely no patience for overly cheerful bananas.

Someone who’d give her a look and say, “This is too spicy,” just before finishing the whole plate anyway. And just like that— There she was. Busaya Methin.

The image came uninvited, vivid and whole.

That look she gave when something actually impressed her but she refused to say it. The way she ate like she didn’t want anyone watching. That stupid perfect hair, even when it was stuck to her forehead in the kitchen. Her sharp eyes, her sharper tongue. Phin blinked. Shook her head. Let out a short laugh.

“Nope.”

She pointed her fork at the banana like it had said something snide.

“Don’t start. It’s not like that.”

A beat passed. The banana, as always, offered no comment. Phin sighed and went back to her food.

“I just like messing with her. That’s all.”

Still, when she reached for her phone out of habit… She hovered over LINE for a second longer than she meant to.

Just long enough to notice she hadn’t deleted their last chat.

The afternoon sun was just starting to sneak past her curtains, pouring long, drowsy stripes of gold across the floor, when Phin found herself doing something deeply unproductive. And, maybe, a little pathetic.

She was sitting cross-legged on her couch, laptop balanced on one knee, sipping the last of her lukewarm coffee when she typed the words:

“Busaya Methin + KIN KAO”

She told herself it was professional curiosity. Research. Context. The kind of thing any chef would do about their new manager. But her fingers hovered a little too long on the keyboard. Her thumb tapped the spacebar like she was stalling. And when the results came up—she didn’t skim. She read.

The first thing she found was a years-old blog post from a culinary conference in Chiang Mai. Bua had been one of the guest speakers on a panel about “Women in the Industry.” The photo was grainy—Bua in a black blazer, expression unreadable, seated between two hotel F&B directors. She wasn’t smiling. Phin squinted. Typical.

But what caught her wasn’t the photo—it was the bio underneath.

“Busaya Methin is a Bangkok-based restaurant operations manager, trained at Le Cordon Bleu Paris, and a former sous chef in Maison Pic under Chef Anne-Sophie Pic.”

Phin blinked. “Wait, what?”

She clicked again, digging deeper. An old alumni highlight from the Cordon Bleu site confirmed it: Bua had graduated with distinction. There was even a quote from her—short and overly formal, thanking the program for giving her structure and precision. No personal details. No smile in that photo either. But Anne-Sophie Pic?

Phin sat back a little. Maison Pic was no joke. Holding three Michelin stars in France, and run by one of the most influential female chefs in the world. Getting a kitchen spot there—let alone lasting a full year—meant something. But after that? The trail went cold.

No interviews. No mentions in food magazines. Nothing on Bua ever opening a place of her own. Just a clipped LinkedIn-style profile listing five years in restaurant management back in Bangkok—first at a high-end hotel group, then eventually at KIN KAO. Phin frowned.

Why would someone with that kind of training stop cooking?

It wasn’t the kind of career pivot that happened by accident. You didn’t walk out of Maison Pic and end up in admin unless something had gone very right… or very wrong. She tapped her pencil against her knee. Chewed on the inside of her cheek.

Something didn’t add up. She leaned forward to search again—but before she could hit refresh, her phone buzzed. Twice. Then again.
LINE call. Lin.

Phin squinted at the screen, yawned into the crook of her elbow, and accepted the call. “If this is about your cursed banana,” she said instead of hello, “it’s still alive and still judging me.”

Lin’s voice came through like static wrapped in sarcasm.

“It’s not a cursed banana, it’s your emotional support. And you’re welcome.”

Phin smiled despite herself. “What do you want?”

“I’m near your place. Wanna get coffee?”

Phin blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now. You’re not doing anything.”

“That you know of.”

“I know you. You’ve probably been cooking for an invisible judge and talking to my plushie again.”

Phin glanced across the apartment at the banana still slumped in the chair.

“…It wasn’t a full conversation.”

“Great. Get dressed. There’s this new café on Soi Ari 2. I want to check it out.”

“Wait. Why?”

“To drink coffee. And maybe…” Lin paused, then added in a singsong voice, “To ask about barista openings.”

Phin sat up straighter. “You’re applying?”

“Maybe. Don’t overreact. Just come meet me there. You’re buying.”

Before Phin could argue, Lin hung up.

Later that afternoon — Soi Ari 2, Cafe White Noise

The place was small and aggressively minimalist—white walls, pale wood, soft ambient music that sounded like it had been recorded in a forest. Plants dangled from the ceiling like they were curated on purpose. The baristas wore linen aprons and pretended not to notice when Lin snuck extra napkins “for scientific reasons.”

Phin sipped her iced black coffee and watched Lin circle the counter area like she was casing the place. “You’re not being subtle,” she said.

Lin flopped into the seat across from her. “I’m observing workflow. You know, to be prepared.”

“You mean stalking the espresso machine.”

“Same thing.”

Phin grinned, legs stretched under the table. “So… you really want to do this?”

Lin shrugged, but her eyes sparkled. “Yeah. Maybe. I mean, it’s part-time, and it’s not like I want to open a café or anything, but... I like it. I like making things with my hands. I like people. Mostly.”

“Careful,” Phin said. “That sounds dangerously close to responsibility.”

“Oh no,” Lin deadpanned. “Am I growing up?”

They both laughed. There was something easy about sitting here, out of the heat, no kitchen clocks ticking in her head. Just her and Lin, sipping iced drinks and talking about nothing. The kind of moment that reminded Phin what she’d missed while living oceans away. About twenty minutes later, a familiar voice cut through the clink of cups.

“God, I thought I’d never find parking.”

Sam, their eldest sister, strolled in—sharp blazer, tinted sunglasses, and a tote bag full of who-knows-what. The click of her low heels echoed just enough to turn heads. She spotted them instantly and made a beeline toward their table, sighing as she dropped into the seat beside Phin.

“You’re late,” Lin said with her mouth full of cake.

“You didn’t tell me the café didn’t have valet,” Sam replied, pulling off her sunglasses. “Do you know what it’s like to find street parking on a Monday in this city?”

Phin smirked. “Hi to you too.”

Sam ignored her and launched into her next complaint. “Also, who the hell hangs out at 3 p.m. on a Monday like it’s the weekend? Don’t either of you have jobs?”

Lin grinned. “We’re creatives.”

Phin raised a brow. “I’m on my day off.”

“Oh, right. You service industry types with your mysterious schedules and loose relationship to the calendar.” Sam shook her head. “Some of us still live in the real world. Where Monday means emails, back-to-back meetings, and trying not to kill our coworkers.”

She finally turned to Phin, eyeing her oversized hoodie and slightly tangled bun. “Hi, baby chef.”

Phin gave her a half-smile. “Hi, terrifying overachiever.”

Sam leaned over and kissed the top of her head before stealing a sip of Lin’s drink. “You’re both still a mess,” she said fondly. “But a cute one.”

“Flattered,” Lin said, poking her straw at Sam’s wrist like a child. “You’re the one who raised us.”

“No,” Sam said dryly. “I managed you. There’s a difference.”

Sam had barely finished commenting on Lin’s cake-to-coffee ratio when Phin leaned back in her chair, eyes squinting toward the soft light filtering through the window.

“So,” she said, “how’s Mae?”

At that, both sisters slowed slightly.

Lin shrugged, sipping the foam off her drink. “Still obsessed with her orchid wall. Still feeding the soi cats even though she swears she’s not.”

“She yells at them and then sneaks out grilled fish an hour later,” Sam added. “The neighborhood cats love her and fear her. It’s deeply confusing.”

Phin smiled. “Sounds about right.”

“She’s been asking about you, by the way,” Lin said, poking a fork into the last bite of her cake. “Keeps saying that maybe you should stop being mysterious and come home for dinner more than once a month.”

“I’ve only been back for a few weeks.”

“Mae counts in emotional dog years,” Sam said.

Phin exhaled a soft laugh. “Fair.”

“You planning to visit her soon?” Lin asked.

“Maybe,” Phin said. “Depends on my schedule.”

“Which you control,” Sam pointed out.

“I don’t control the chaos,” Phin replied. “I just stir it.”

Lin rolled her eyes. “That’s your excuse for everything.”

Phin smirked and took another sip of her coffee. “So, how’s it going being Mae’s full-time roommate-slash-personal assistant?”

Lin groaned. “Don’t remind me. I signed up for free rent, not a second job. At this point, I should be charging her a babysitting fee.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “For?”

“The dogs, Sam. Obviously. Two of them. One with separation anxiety and the other with a god complex.”

“Don’t talk about Mom like that,” Sam said dryly.

Phin nearly choked on her drink.

“Two very spoiled, very dramatic dogs,” Lin confirmed. “One of them sleeps diagonally across my bed like she pays rent, and the other barks if I look like I’m about to sneeze. They follow Mae around like her personal royal entourage. Except when she has errands—then suddenly I become the royal staff.”

Sam snorted into her coffee. “I heard she asked you to make their meals from scratch one week.”

“She gave me a laminated feeding schedule,” Lin said, deadpan. “With timestamps. Timestamps, Phin.”

Phin wheezed. “Oh no.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about invoicing her for babysitting?” Lin muttered. “I should be getting paid for emotional labor and dog wrangling.”

“You could just move out,” Sam offered sweetly.

“And miss out on unlimited durian chips and side-eye over my dating life? Never.”

Phin grinned, her heart oddly warm. “I forgot how ridiculous you two are.”

“You didn’t forget,” Sam said. “You just missed us.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Sam sipped her americano. “And I see her at work. At least once a week in the faculty lounge. She still forgets I have my own office.”

“She just likes claiming you,” Phin said.

Sam shrugged. “I’m very claimable.”

They all laughed. A comfortable pause fell between them. Sunlight stretched longer across the wooden floor. Sam was the one to break it, glancing sideways at Phin. “So. Work. How’s the new kitchen? Still trying to tame the chaos?”

Phin leaned back in her chair. “I’m not taming it. I’m riding it like a wave and hoping no one drowns.”

“Comforting,” Sam muttered.

“No, but seriously,” Phin continued, “it’s intense. High-pressure, big reputation, but the team’s good. Or… getting there.”

“Still being dramatic in the group chat?” Lin asked, licking her fork clean.

“Only when necessary.”

“Which is always.”

Sam raised a brow. “And the famous head manager they stuck you with—what’s her deal again?”

Phin hesitated a second too long. “She’s… sharp,” she said finally. “Focused. Knows her stuff.”

Lin squinted at her. “Focused and knows her stuff? That’s not how you usually describe people. You usually say things like ‘might be a reformed assassin’ or ‘Disney villain in disguise’”

“Maybe I’m growing,” Phin said, deadpan.

Sam snorted. “Unlikely.”

Then Lin leaned in, voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “Okay but—real question. Anyone worth dating yet? Come on. Spill. Bangkok’s full of women with tattoos and tragic playlists. Surely one of them’s made you feel something.”

Phin made a show of checking her watch. “Oh no. Look at that. It’s time for me to evaporate.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “We get one sister brunch and you’re already trying to dodge emotional intimacy.”

Lin gasped. “Wait. Is it someone at work? Is it the pastry chef? It’s always the pastry chef in movies.”

Phin rolled her eyes. “Nam? Please. She’s twenty-six and already has more chaos than I can handle.”

“Exactly your type,” Sam muttered into her coffee.

“Hard pass,” Phin said. “I see enough fire in the kitchen. I don’t need it in my dating life.”

“Okay then,” Lin teased. “Is it the line cook? The sommelier? Someone brooding with knife skills and a tragic past?”

Phin held up her hands. “No dating updates. No scandals. I’m just making food and trying not to die under prep lists. That’s all.”

“Boring,” Lin sighed. “But fine.”

Phin smirked and let the moment pass. Then, almost casually, she said,

“You guys should come try the restaurant sometime—just you two and Mae.”

Lin raised an eyebrow. “Like KIN KAO?”

Phin nodded. “Yes. Come for dinner. I’ll make a reservation. You’ll actually get to eat real food I cook instead of my leftovers in plastic containers.”

Sam gave her a long look. “You’re offering to feed the family for free? This feels like a trap.”

“It’s not,” Phin said, smiling. “Okay, maybe a little. But I want to. Mae, too, if she wants.”

Lin blinked. “Whoa. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Phin said, rolling her eyes. “It’s just food. A meal. My treat.”

Sam grinned. “Fine. But I’m ordering the expensive wine.”

“Good,” Phin said. “I’m the one who paired it.”

By the time the sun started dipping behind the tall buildings, their coffee cups were mostly empty and the cake was long gone. The café had filled with the quiet murmur of other people’s lazy afternoons, but the sisters had already started shifting in their seats—checking phones, stretching legs, pulling sunglasses back on.

Sam stood first, brushing imaginary lint off her blazer. “I need to swing by the faculty building. Left some papers on my desk and if I don’t get them tonight, I’ll regret it tomorrow.”

Lin groaned. “Look at you. Responsible. Academic. Oppressing the rest of us with your punctuality.”

“You could try it sometime,” Sam said, kissing the top of Lin’s head and tapping Phin’s shoulder as she passed. “See you both soon. And don’t forget—Mom wants a group photo next time.”

“God help us,” Phin muttered.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re in focus,” Sam called over her shoulder.

Lin stood next, slinging her bag over one arm. “I have to get back too. If I’m even five minutes late, Mom will guilt me by feeding the dogs shrimp and saying, ‘They deserve better than neglect.’”

Phin laughed. “She really knows how to weaponize seafood.”

They stepped out onto the sidewalk together, the air turning cooler, street lights flickering on one by one.

“Let’s do dinner later this week,” Lin said as she unlocked her bike. “A real one. Not just coffee and cake.”

Phin nodded. “Yeah. My place or KIN KAO. Your choice.”

“Your treat, obviously,” Lin grinned.

Phin saluted her lazily. “Obviously.”

They parted with quick hugs and sarcastic waves, the city swallowing them in opposite directions.

Evening — Bangkok Streets

Phin didn’t go home right away.

Days off were rare enough, and she had a habit—half research, half therapy—of walking wherever her feet felt like going. Bangkok had a rhythm she liked best at night: street vendors setting up for dinner, motorbikes weaving through narrow sois, grills hissing and oil popping as satay sizzled. The scent of garlic, char, and nam jim sauce hit her like nostalgia.

She wandered through a night market in Saphan Kwai, weaving past racks of knock-off sunglasses, hand-sewn tote bags, and bubble tea carts that boasted QR codes and five-minute waits.

At a grilled mooping stall, she paused. The skewers were neat, evenly glazed, slightly charred at the edges. Not bad.

Maybe something like this—palm sugar glaze, a punch of white pepper, but finish with lime leaf smoke.

She made a mental note.

That’s when she heard someone call her name.

“Phin?”

She turned and spotted Nam—KIN KAO’s pastry chef—emerging from a takoyaki stall with a lanky guy in a denim shirt, clearly her boyfriend. Nam grinned, cheeks full.

“Didn’t peg you for a market lurker,” she said.

“I’m a researcher,” Phin corrected.

Nam snorted. “You’re always on the clock, aren’t you?”

“I could say the same to you.”

“I’m off duty,” Nam said. “You?”

“Just wandering. Stalking flavor trends.”

They exchanged a few more words—casual and brief—before Nam waved goodbye and melted back into the crowd with her partner. Phin moved on. By the time the night had deepened and the lights grew brighter, she found herself near Yaowarat. Chinatown.

The place buzzed like always: red signs glowing overhead, sugarcane machines humming at the corners, tourists lining up for oyster omelets and roasted chestnuts. She wasn’t looking for anything, exactly—but something tugged her feet forward. Familiar. Almost instinct.

Eventually, she stopped in front of a narrow, two-story shophouse tucked between a gold shop and a herbal medicine stall. Warm golden light spilled from the windows, casting a soft glow onto the cracked pavement. A small red sign hung above the door, its gold-lettered name painted with quiet pride:

Heng Lao.

The scent hit her first—deep and layered. Five-spice, dark soy caramelizing, something citrusy underneath. And then— Roast duck.

Not just any roast duck. The kind that had been tended for hours—hung, dried, glazed, roasted until the skin crisped like lacquer and the fat turned silky underneath. She didn’t even realize she’d stepped closer until her stomach gave a loud, almost indignant growl. She winced and looked down at herself.

Okay, fine. Maybe research could wait.

She took one last look at the glowing interior, then reached for the door handle. She didn’t know it yet—didn’t know the history, didn’t know whose family ran the place. She only knew it smelled like something she didn’t want to forget. So she stepped inside.

The door creaked open with the soft jingle of a brass bell, followed by the low hum of a fan overhead. The inside of Heng Lao was narrow but deep, the kind of space that had seen generations come and go without needing to change much. Wooden tables, worn smooth from years of elbows and laughter, filled the room in neat rows. On the walls hung old black-and-white photos in mismatched frames—family portraits, market stalls, a grainy picture of what might’ve been the restaurant in its earliest days.

No frills. No gimmicks. Just steam and heat and history.

The air inside was thick with the scent of simmering broth and roasting meat. In the corner, a woman in a faded apron was ladling soup into bowls with practiced ease, not even glancing down as she portioned out just the right amount of duck liver and crisped garlic. Behind a glass counter sat a half-carved roast duck, its mahogany skin glistening under the light, next to a stack of crispy pork belly with sharp, golden crackle lines along the top.

Phin took a seat by the window, close enough to the open kitchen to hear the hiss of oil and the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of cleavers against wood. There was a quiet ballet to how everything moved—no shouting, no chaos. Just quiet efficiency and muscle memory.

A laminated menu slid across the table moments later, followed by a polite voice: “We’re out of the braised fish maw, but everything else is available. Take your time.”

Phin nodded absently, eyes already fixed on the top corner of the menu.

Signature Duck Over Rice. House Chili Vinegar. Optional Soft-Boiled Egg.

She didn’t need time.

“One duck rice. Extra chili. And chrysanthemum tea, if you’ve got it.”

The server smiled and disappeared into the back.

Phin leaned back slightly, soaking it in. There was no music. Just the clatter of plates, the rustle of newspaper, and someone slurping soup at the next table. It was the kind of place people didn’t stumble into unless they already knew it existed. A neighborhood spot. Local. Lived-in.

And the food—

The plate landed in front of her not five minutes later, steam curling upward like a promise. Neatly sliced duck arranged over jasmine rice, skin still glistening, meat barely resisting the edge of her spoon. A small dish of chili vinegar sat on the side, seeds visible in the murky red.

She didn’t speak. She just ate.

And with the first bite, her shoulders dropped. Fat rendered cleanly beneath the skin, meat tender and fragrant with star anise and mandarin peel. The rice wasn’t just filler—it had soaked up duck juices like it had a job to do. The chili vinegar cut through it all like a sharp exhale.

Phin blinked slowly, chewed again.

Holy hell.

She didn’t say it out loud, but it was written all over her face. Whoever ran this place knew exactly what they were doing. Phin didn’t rush the meal. She rarely did when it was this good.

The flavors stayed with her between bites—duck skin crisped just enough to resist, then give. The rice, hot and clumping just right, caught the drippings and carried the sauce. The vinegar’s sharpness sliced through the fat with clean edges, leaving her wanting another bite, and another.

A small dish of pickled mustard greens sat off to the side, clearly homemade. Tart, slightly funky, with a crunch that grounded the richness. Not a flashy touch—just thoughtful.

She didn’t look at her phone. Didn’t scribble notes in her pocket notebook. For once, she let herself be just a diner, not a chef, not a perfectionist, not someone trying to stay three steps ahead of her own reputation. Just someone… hungry.

The table next to her filled with an older couple who didn’t even need menus. The uncle in the far corner slurped his soup with one hand while scrolling the news with the other. Staff moved in and out like clockwork—setting teapots, bussing trays, chopping duck with the same practiced rhythm.

There was something deeply comforting about it.

Not nostalgic, exactly. Phin hadn’t grown up eating this kind of food in this kind of place. But it felt familiar, like a muscle memory she didn’t realize she had. Maybe it was the precision. Maybe it was the care in each small thing. Or maybe, if she were honest with herself, it was the kind of food someone like Bua might respect. She blinked at that thought, startled by her own brain.

Okay. Weird.

Phin finished her plate to the last grain of rice, set her spoon down, and exhaled. Her stomach was warm. Her mind… quieter than usual. She stood, stretching slightly, and made her way to the cashier.

The counter was clean, worn with time. A stack of handwritten receipts sat under a glass paperweight shaped like a lotus. A faded calculator rested beside a basket of change. But it was the wall behind it that caught her eye.

Photos—dozens of them—lined up in crooked frames. A mix of black-and-white and full color. Some were of food: glistening roasted meats, bowls of soup, endless arrangements of family dinners. Others showed staff from different eras, some in aprons, some in uniform whites.

Her eyes scanned past them, casually at first. Then paused. Middle row. Just to the left of the faded portrait of the storefront in 1972. It was her. Bua.

Younger, but unmistakable—sharper jawline, slightly longer hair, still pulled back in that practical, clipped way. She stood beside an older woman—round face, short curly hair, apron around her waist, hand resting on Bua’s shoulder like she had claimed the sun itself.

Both of them were smiling. Wide, genuine, proud.

A small brass plate was screwed into the bottom of the frame:

“Busaya Methin — our girl from Le Cordon Bleu Paris. With Mae.”

Phin stared. Everything clicked—and then unraveled. Heng Lao was her family restaurant. The duck. The rice. The pickles. The precision.

Of course it was. Phin let out a quiet, disbelieving breath and leaned slightly closer to the frame, as if that might help make sense of it.

Busaya Methin, you mysterious, maddening, perfectionist marvel.

Phin was still standing there—staring at the photo—when a soft voice broke through the quiet hum of the restaurant.

“You know our daughter?”

Phin turned, blinking. Behind the counter stood the woman from the photo. Wannee Methin, unmistakably older now but with the same warm eyes and steady presence. She wore a clean apron and had a towel tucked into her waistband like it had been there since 1995. Her hair was streaked with silver, cropped close to her face. Kind, but watchful.

Phin opened her mouth—then hesitated. “I—uh. Not really. She just looks… familiar.”

Wannee stepped out from behind the counter, following Phin’s gaze to the frame. Her face softened immediately, shifting into something proud and glowing.

“That’s my daughter,” she said, tapping the edge of the photo with one knuckle. “Busaya. She trained in France. Le Cordon Bleu. Spoke hardly a word when she left, came back sharper than a fish knife and ten times more stubborn.”

Phin smiled faintly. “Yeah?”

Wannee chuckled. “Worked under a very famous chef, I forgot her name, Only a year, but that time, its enough to scare the rest of us every time she came home and corrected our plating.” She shook her head, not annoyed—just endlessly amused. “Even tried to ‘refine’ my duck soup once. I told her if she touched my fish sauce again, I’d throw her into the wok.”

Phin laughed, unable to stop herself. Wannee glanced sideways at her, warmth still blooming in her voice. “Now she’s running one of the best kitchens in Bangkok. Big name. Michelin stars. I don’t always understand the menus, but I see the photos. I hear the way people talk.”

She folded her arms, gaze returning to the photo.

“Everything she learned here—every hour she spent watching her father slice pork belly, or helping me wrap chives into dough—it stayed with her. She doesn’t say it often, but I know. This place is in her bones.”

Phin didn’t answer right away. She looked at the photo again, and something in her chest tightened—complicated, warm, impossible to name.

So that’s where she came from, she thought. And here I was thinking she came out of the ground fully formed, like the Greek goddess Athena.

Finally, she said softly, “She must’ve made you proud.”

Wannee smiled, eyes crinkling. “Every day.”

Then she clapped her hands once and turned back toward the kitchen. “If you liked the duck, come back next time for the rice noodles. We make them fresh every morning. I’ll give you extra broth.”

Phin just chuckled and stood there for another beat, heart just a little off rhythm. Then she gave a wai and small bow, murmured her thanks and a quiet promise to return , and stepped out into the Bangkok night with something new tugging behind her ribs—something halfway between admiration and trouble.

Chapter Text

It had been nearly two months since Phinya Thananont stepped into KIN KAO’s kitchen and turned the whole place on its head.

In that time, the staff had gone from guarded silence to something like uneasy cooperation—and lately, even genuine collaboration. They’d learned the difference between Phin’s chaos and her control, that her impulsiveness was rarely without purpose. Her instincts were sharp. Her flavors? Sharper.

Every dish she touched bore her signature: bold, irreverent, delicious in a way that made you sit up straighter. Dishes that shouldn’t work—coconut-smoked duck with tart tamarind glaze, pickled morning glory with grilled beef tendon—landed not just on the palate, but in conversation. Her amuse bouches had started getting name-dropped on food blogs. A few regulars came back just to see “what the loud one behind the pass cooked this week.”

Word had spread beyond the dining room. Quiet murmurs of “Phinya Thananont is back” began creeping into Bangkok’s culinary circles. A few industry veterans blinked twice when they heard her name again. And when a visiting French critic casually noted her “confident hands and surprising restraint beneath all the swagger,” it had been quoted, translated, and posted on three different food forums within the day.

Back in the kitchen, though, none of that made her easier to work with. She cracked bad puns while garnishing fish. She sneakily plated extra tuiles onto dessert trays when Nam wasn’t looking. She offered unsolicited feedback with the same energy she gave compliments. She could charm and infuriate someone in the same minute. Some cooks resented her for it. Others worshipped her.

And then there was Busaya Methin, who said very little—but whose silences spoke volumes.

Their dynamic had settled into something strange and electric—a push and pull that never fully relaxed. Bua corrected Phin’s plating with a silent eyebrow raise or a clipped, “Fix that.” Phin would grin, comply, and then do something slightly unapproved the next day just to see if Bua would catch it. She always did.

They weren’t fighting anymore. But they weren’t… not fighting, either. The staff noticed. Nam had even started a silent bet with the dishwashers: kiss or fistfight before Songkran. Odds were split down the middle.

Word came early that morning: Chef Dhanin was in Bangkok again and would be dropping by for a full walkthrough of the kitchen before service. No one panicked, exactly. But the energy in the restaurant shifted immediately. Even the floor team ironed their aprons with trembling fingers. Dhanin Tansakul wasn’t just the name behind the KIN KAO empire—he was a myth. A ghost with sharp eyes and a sharper palate, and an unpredictable habit of either giving praise or asking "Why are you still here?" before moving on.

Bua took the news like she took everything: silent and efficient. She ran through the prep schedule twice. Reviewed the seasonal menu. Checked the vendor delivery list. Corrected a plating error on table eleven’s amuse-bouche before the lunch service even started.

Phin, on the other hand, took it with a cocked eyebrow and a second espresso. “Is he going to make me do a talent show?” she asked Nam, who only said, “Don’t tempt fate.”

By the time Chef Dhanin walked through the back doors of KIN KAO, the kitchen was silent—too silent. Everyone had known he was coming. That didn’t make it easier.

He wore his usual: tailored black shirt, no tie, pressed slacks, sleeves rolled to the forearm, and the kind of watch that probably cost more than a new salamander oven. His presence always came with a certain weight, like gravity bent slightly around him. Tall, lean, unreadable. The kind of person who could say very little and still make the room hold its breath.

Phin was the first to spot him. She didn’t straighten her posture, didn’t stop slicing galangal. She simply smiled and said, “Well, well. Bangkok’s sharpest knife.”

Dhanin paused. Then—unexpectedly—smiled back. “Thananont.”

That was all. No handshake. No pleasantries. Just mutual  acknowledgment between professionals who had known each other long enough not to waste breath. Bua approached with her clipboard in hand, nodding in greeting. “Chef.”

Dhanin’s eyes scanned the room. Every detail. Every cook. The clock. The placement of prep trays. The temperature on the sous-vide monitor.

“Looks cleaner than last time,” he murmured. “Less stiff.”

Bua didn’t quite smile. “We’ve adjusted.”

He gave a noncommittal hum and gestured toward the rest of the space. “Show me around.”

Dhanin moved through the kitchen like a surgeon. He asked no questions—but the few times he paused beside a station, the staff answered anyway, nervous and eager. He sampled a spoonful of braised oxtail stock, nodded once. Tasted Nam’s passionfruit and Thai tea gelée, then said nothing for a long moment before offering, “Good acidity. Not over-sweet.”

Nam visibly exhaled. He hovered over the line long enough to watch Phin finish searing a piece of duck breast—skin blistering just right, juices locked in. She plated with practiced grace, barely reacting to his scrutiny.

“You’ve settled in,” Dhanin said, more observation than compliment.

Phin grinned. “That’s one way to say you’re still watching me.”

“I always watch,” he replied.

Just as Chef Dhanin was rounding out the kitchen walkthrough—after inspecting Nam’s prep trays and nodding silently at the precision of Jai’s line—he paused. Near the back of the kitchen, behind the prep sink and the stacked metal racks, stood a woman in a pink floral apron, rubber gloves on both hands and a white scarf tied around her graying hair. She was elbow-deep in a sink full of hot, soapy water, humming faintly under her breath like the clatter and noise of the kitchen never touched her. Auntie Song.

She didn’t notice him at first. But when she turned, eyes bright and lined from years of smiling—she blinked. Then her whole face lit up.

“Chef Dhanin!” she gasped, immediately drying her hands on her apron. “Look at you—still handsome, still making people nervous.”

Phin, nearby, raised an eyebrow. Dhanin’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “Auntie Song,” he greeted, his tone noticeably softer. “Still running this place behind everyone’s back?”

“You know me,” she said, beaming. “Can’t fry an egg without burning it, but I’ve got dish soap magic.”

“You were the first person who ever asked me for a job in slippers,” he recalled.

“You were the first person who gave me one anyway,” she shot back with a wink. “Didn’t care that I didn’t know what mise en place meant.”

“You said, ‘I’ll clean the grease traps if it means I can eat lunch.’”

“I meant it too.”

A quiet ripple of amusement passed through the staff nearby. Even Bua, watching from a distance, looked momentarily less tense. Dhanin gave a respectful incline of his head. “You’ve been part of this place longer than most of the recipes.”

“Don’t remind me,” Auntie Song said, laughing. “My knees already know.”

Then, a little softer: “I’m happy here, Chef. Still am.”

“I’m glad,” he replied.

She stepped back to her post, humming again as if nothing had happened—but her smile lingered longer than before. Then he turned to Bua. “Office?”

In the quiet of Bua’s office—a small, clean space with neat stacks of paperwork and a whiteboard calendar already filled out a month in advance—Dhanin finally let the silence stretch.

Bua waited. Finally, he sat. “How are things running?”

“Smoothly,” she replied. “Numbers are stable. Critic feedback last month was positive. We've held pace with last year’s seasonal bookings.”

He glanced toward the office window, which looked out over the edge of the kitchen. “And the kitchen team?”

Bua followed his gaze. “Adjusting.”

“To Phinya?”

“To everything,” she said simply.

Dhanin studied her for a moment. “I brought her here because this place needed something. A reset. You know that.”

Bua didn’t argue.

“She’s reckless,” he continued, “but not careless. And she listens—eventually.”

“She’s also disruptive.”

“Sometimes disruption is necessary.” A pause. “You’re adaptable, Bua. You don’t like change, but you make room for it when it’s useful. I knew you’d find the rhythm.”

Bua’s expression didn’t shift, but her fingers tapped once against her knee. “What are you actually asking, Chef?”

Dhanin’s gaze sharpened—mildly amused.

“Is she making your job harder… or more interesting?”

Bua looked away—just briefly.

Then: “Both.”

That made him laugh, a dry, quiet sound. “Good. I’d be worried if she wasn’t.”

He stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his shirt.

“I’ll stay through the first half of service later. Don’t adjust anything for me. I’ll take the standard dinner set and taste quietly from the pass.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“And Bua—” he paused “—don’t overcorrect her edges too soon. She’s sharp for a reason. Lets call her in, I have something to talk about with both of you”

**

A junior runner appeared at the edge of the kitchen, breathless. “Chef Phinya, Chef Dhanin’s asking for you. He’s in Khun Busaya’s office.”

Phin arched an eyebrow mid-swipe of her cutting board. “Am I in trouble?”

The runner looked panicked. “I—I don’t know, Chef.”

That only made Phin grin. She patted Jai’s shoulder on the way past and tossed her towel into the linen bin before disappearing down the corridor.

She didn’t bother knocking—just cracked the door open and leaned in.
“You rang?”

Inside, Bua was already seated at her desk, planner open, pen in hand. Her posture was straight, expression calm but alert. Chef Dhanin stood by the whiteboard, arms folded, his sharp gaze flicking briefly toward Phin before gesturing to the empty chair beside Bua.

“Come in. Close the door.”

Phin did as asked, slipping into the room with her usual deliberate calm. She dropped into the seat like she owned it, one leg crossed over the other, hands in her lap. Her body language screamed unbothered. Bua didn’t even glance at her.

“We have a situation,” Dhanin began.

Bua clarified: “Not an emergency. An opportunity.”

Dhanin nodded once. “Next Thursday night, KIN KAO will host a high-profile private dinner. It’s part of a charity initiative coordinated by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This year, we were selected to represent modern Thai cuisine.”

Phin tilted her head. “Sounds like a good kind of headache.”

“It will be attended by members of the royal family,” Dhanin continued, “along with select foreign delegates and embassy staff.  Twenty-Five guests in total including myself. No media, but every plate will be noticed. Every misstep will be remembered.”

Phin sat up slightly. “No pressure.”

“I want a five-course tasting menu. Regional roots. Modern execution. Bold, but polished.” He looked between them. “You two will handle the menu development and wine pairings with Jamie. I expect tastings by Monday. Full access to the kitchen. No service that day—consider it a test run.”

Bua nodded, already flipping to the appropriate week in her planner.

“Any restrictions?” Phin asked.

“One vegetarian,” Bua answered without looking up. “And no beef for the royal party.”

“No allergy notes yet,” Dhanin added. “They’ll confirm those within the next forty-eight hours.”

Phin leaned back in her chair, smiling faintly. “Can I light something on fire for drama?”

Dhanin gave her a long stare. “Not if it ends in smoke detectors.”

“I’ll be tasteful,” she promised. “Mostly.”

Bua shot her a warning glance. Dhanin ignored it.

“I brought you here because this restaurant needed a pulse again,” he said to Phin. Then he turned to Bua. “And I trusted you to keep it steady. This event is an opportunity to show you can do both—surprise and sustain. Don’t waste it.”

They both nodded. And with that, he left—The door clicked softly shut behind Chef Dhanin, leaving the two of them in the quiet hum of Bua’s office. The whiteboard still had red marker stains where the calendar ended. Her planner sat open, half-filled with notes. Bua tapped her pen once, thoughtful. Phin didn’t move.

Instead, she turned slightly in her chair, leaned one elbow on the armrest, and said—much too casually—

“So, Baibua, Should we schedule some… private time to discuss the menu?”

Bua didn’t look up. “Private time?”

“You know,” Phin said, voice low and playful. “For brainstorming. Collaborating. Tasting.”

Bua gave her a flat stare. “You mean work.”

Phin smiled. “Sure. With a dash of tension and mutual admiration.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

Bua sighed, but there was a faint twitch in the corner of her mouth—almost a smile, if you squinted. She clicked her pen closed and stood up, gathering her notes.

“We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon to discuss the menu.”

Phin stood too, slower. “I was thinking how about tonight? After service? with maybe a bottle of wine and a rooftop view.”

“I was thinking stainless steel and silence.”

“God, you’re so romantic,” Phin muttered.

Bua opened the door. “Get out of my office.”

Phin didn’t move. Not right away. She just grinned and leaned in, voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a secret.

“You know you’re stuck with me for this, right?”

Bua’s voice was cool, steady. But not cold. “I’m aware.”

Their eyes held for just a moment too long—then Phin stepped past her with a wink and disappeared down the hallway.

**

The last of the staff filtered out just before 11pm, voices trailing off into the soft clatter of chairs being tucked in and the low buzz of the dish pit winding down. Auntie Song called out a sleepy goodnight. Nam flashed a double peace sign on her way out, mouthing something about “don’t burn the place down.”

And then it was quiet.

Bua stood at the kitchen island, now cleared of its usual chaos, with a fresh notepad in front of her and a pen in hand. Her sleeves were still rolled up. Her hair was pinned back, not one strand out of place. Always precise, always composed.

Phin was barefoot now—she’d kicked off her shoes an hour ago—and sat cross-legged on the counter, a half-empty can of Thai milk tea in one hand, a marker in the other. The air smelled faintly of lemongrass, smoke, and exhaustion.

“Okay,” Phin said, tapping her marker on the stainless steel. “Five courses. Regional flavors. Modern techniques. No beef. One vegetarian. And it needs to impress royalty without looking like it’s trying too hard.”

Bua didn’t look up. “So no fire-breathing prawns.”

Phin pouted. “You wound me.”

“I’m saving the fire for when you do something stupid again.”

“That’s not very charitable,” Phin said, grinning.

“I’m not cooking for charity yet. I’m planning.”

Bua flipped a page and wrote something in careful block letters.

Phin watched her from the corner of her eye. “You know,” she said after a moment, “we actually work pretty well together. Once you stop treating me like a tornado.”

“Only because I’ve learned how to board the windows in advance.”

“Ouch.”

They fell into a rhythm—Phin tossing out wild ideas, Bua trimming them into elegant possibilities. Bua proposed a southern-inspired amuse with betel leaf and cured mackerel; Phin countered with a fermented chili foam and tiny lime pearls. Somewhere in the middle, they landed on something neither would have thought of alone.

They scribbled. Rewrote. Erased. Tested flavor pairings with leftover mise. Time stretched. At some point, Phin leaned over to look at Bua’s notepad and said softly, “You write like you cook. Controlled. Confident. A little scary.”

Bua didn’t move, but the edge of her mouth quirked. “And you talk like you cook. Loud and annoying.”

“You’re not wrong.”

They worked until nearly midnight, the kitchen echoing only with their quiet movements and the scratch of pen on paper. And when they finally stood side by side at the pass, reviewing the rough outline of the five-course tasting menu taped to the wall, there was a stillness between them.

Something shifting. Something settling in. The kitchen had settled into stillness. Notes scrawled across Bua’s planner and a taped-up five-course draft on the pass were the only signs of how hard they’d worked tonight. The hum of the walk-in. The distant tick of the convection oven cooling down. Phin glanced sideways at Bua, who was busy scribbling a note in the margin of their draft menu—something about balance in the second course.

“You know,” Phin said quietly, voice stripped of its usual teasing, “you never miss.”

Bua didn’t look up. “Miss what?”

“An idea,” Phin said quietly. “A balance. A correction.” She traced a slow line along the edge of the countertop with one finger, pretending not to watch too closely. “Doesn’t matter what region I throw out, or how weird I get with fermentation—you always know where to rein it in. Not just technically, but instinctively.”

She paused. Let the silence breathe.

“Most managers I’ve worked with wouldn’t know the difference between the tamarind from turmeric.”

That earned her a flicker of a glance. Sharp. Measured.

“So…” Phin continued, voice still light, still gentle, “how do you know all this?”

Bua’s pen paused mid-stroke. Just for a second. Barely noticeable.

“I trained in culinary school,” she said evenly.

Phin hummed. “Yeah?”

A nod.

“Which one?”

Another pause. Bua set the pen down.

“Le Cordon Bleu.”

There it is, Phin thought. Like finding the answer to a question she’d already solved—but wanted to hear aloud. Still, she kept her expression carefully neutral. She didn’t say I know. Didn’t say I saw your picture on the wall at Heng Lao. Didn’t mention the proud look in her mother’s eyes or the framed photo with Anne-Sophie Pic in the background.

She just leaned back slightly and said, “Figures. Explains the control. The plating. The death glares.”

That earned the faintest twitch of Bua’s mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“I don’t really talk about it,” Bua added.

Phin shrugged. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. Not until you want to.”

She let her voice drop, just a little.

“When you’re ready to tell me the whole story… I’ll be ready to hear it.”

Their eyes met—quiet and unblinking across the stainless steel. Something unspoken flickered between them. Trust. Maybe. Or the beginning of it. And just like that, Bua stood, closing her notebook with a soft snap. Phin didn’t let it.

She followed suit, slower, casually tossing her empty milk tea can into the bin across the kitchen. “Nice shot,” she murmured to herself. Then louder: “So… what I’m hearing is, you’re secretly intimidating and pedigreed.”

Bua gave her a side glance as they walked toward the back door. “I thought you already found me intimidating.”

“Oh, I do,” Phin said easily, holding the door open. “But now I have actual credentials to back up the fear.”

Bua walked through it, chin high, but her ears were pink.

Outside, the night wrapped around them like warm velvet—humid, quiet, still holding the weight of the day. Bua folded her arms loosely as they walked toward the side exit where the staff parked their bikes. Phin fell into step beside her, far too comfortable for someone who had just pulled a sixteen-hour shift.

“I’m thinking of making a reservation,” Phin said after a beat.

Bua glanced sideways. “For what?”

“One day, after the charity event. When things calm down. I want to bring my family in. My mom, my sisters.”

Bua raised a brow. “You want me to manage your family’s dinner service?”

“Well, yeah,” Phin said, grinning. “I trust no one else to scare the servers into getting it right.”

She added, more seriously, “My mom’s tough to impress. Sam will definitely interrogate you. And Lin will probably cry halfway through dessert. It’ll be great.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Always.”

They walked in silence for another moment, the buzz of neon signs bleeding faint light into the alley. Then Phin started talking again, this time quieter—less performative.

“Lin’s already tried to guess who I have a crush on. She thinks it’s the pastry chef.”

“It’s always the pastry chef,” Bua muttered.

Phin laughed. “Exactly what I told her. But no, Nam’s not my type. Actually, I like terrifying women who pretend not to notice me but secretly track my every move like I’m a suspicious ingredient in their mise.”

Wait.
Was that—?

Bua stopped. Turned. “I’m not tracking you.”

“You are,” Phin said, stepping just a little closer, grinning. “You just have that surveillance-level calm. It’s very attractive.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I?”

Bua didn’t answer, but her heart betrayed her—beating faster, not from annoyance, but something she refused to name. She looked away, focused on a crack in the pavement. On the flicker of a distant motorbike passing on the main road. Anything but those eyes.

Phin’s voice softened. “You’ve been smiling more, you know.”

Bua didn’t look at her. “I’m just tired.”

“Sure,” Phin said. “It’s the exhaustion. Not the charming head chef standing next to you.”

“I should dock your pay for flirting after hours.”

“Please do. I’d love to explain that deduction to HR.”

Bua’s lips twitched before she could stop them. Phin caught it like a spark to dry kindling. “There. That—was that a smile? Should I call the press?”

“It was a reflex,” Bua said flatly, though her voice was already betraying her—low, uneven.

Phin tilted her head. “You’re cute when you pretend not to like me.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Phin said, still grinning, voice light like it always was with her—like she didn’t realize she was stepping right over the edge.

Bua shot her a look. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Only when I’m kissing someone.”

That did it. Bua’s breath hitched—barely—but Phin caught it. Like a shark scenting blood. Her grin widened.

She leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What? Statistically speaking, silence and kissing are highly correlated in romantic scenarios. I mean, obviously not causation, but strong correlation. Especially when one party is criminally attractive and the other is deeply in denial about—”

Bua turned on her heel.

“—their feelings, which is fine, totally fine, I respect emotional timelines, I really do, but you should know that in some studies—”

“Phin.”

“—like, legitimate peer-reviewed studies, the tension between two people often manifests as—”

She didn’t get to finish that sentence. Because Bua grabbed her by the collar and kissed her. Hard enough to cut her off mid-sentence. Quick enough that Phin didn’t see it coming. Her words stuttered to silence with a surprised sound caught in her throat. Her body went still—utterly frozen for half a second, her mind clearly short-circuiting. She’d been expecting another quip. A glare. Maybe a threat. Not this.

Not Bua’s lips—firm, urgent, soft all at once. Not the press of her palm against Phin’s chest like she was both anchoring herself and pushing off. Not the rush of heat, instant and disarming, that surged between them.

Then—Phin moved. Instinct taking over.

Her mouth softened, lips parting slightly, matching Bua’s pressure with something steadier, deeper. She kissed her back slowly, like the world had narrowed to just this moment, just this warmth. Her hands hovered, unsure where to land, not wanting to startle her further. But her body leaned in. Just a little. Enough to say I’m here. I feel this too.

Bua made a quiet sound—surprised at herself, maybe—and that was when she pulled away. Abrupt. Like she remembered who she was. Eyes wide. Chest rising too fast. Phin’s breath caught as Bua stepped back, like she'd just touched something dangerous and didn't know how to handle the burn.

“I—” Bua swallowed. “I shouldn’t have—”

Phin didn’t say anything. She was still processing, lips slightly parted, heart pounding in the silence Bua left behind.

“I have to go,” Bua said, barely looking at her.

And before Phin could gather words, Bua was gone—disappearing into the shadows outside the staff parking, like the kiss hadn’t just broken whatever invisible line they’d been dancing around for weeks.

Phin stood there for a long moment. Blinking. Hand brushing her own lips. Then she let out a slow, breathless laugh—a little stunned, a little wrecked—and whispered to no one, “Well. That escalated quickly.”

**

Bua had barely made it to the edge of the lot when she saw someone walking just beyond the gates—hands in her pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, bright pink sneakers flashing with every step.

She squinted. Phin.

Alone. On foot. In this heat?

Bua frowned and called out before she could stop herself. “Where’s your horrible red scooter?”

Phin turned, instantly grinning. “You mean the beautiful, radiant cherry-red beacon of urban convenience?”

Bua gave her a look. Phin sighed dramatically. “She’s in the shop. Something about the throttle. Or the brakes. Or both. She’s sensitive.”

“You’re walking home?”

Phin shrugged, swinging the helmet lazily by its strap. “No big deal. I’ll find a tuk tuk or bribe a motorcycle taxi if one rolls by. Worst case, I walk until I evaporate into Bangkok humidity. Very cinematic.”

Bua’s frown deepened. Phin caught it—of course she did. “Wait,” she said, voice lifting. “Is that concern I hear? Baibua, are you worried about me?”

Bua rolled her eyes, but her pulse was already kicking up again. Phin stepped closer, still smug, still dangerous. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that kiss, would it?”

Bua’s ears went red. Phin leaned in just slightly, like she was whispering to a secret. “You kiss me once and suddenly I’m a priority. I feel so—what’s the word—protected.”

“Get in the car,” Bua snapped.

Phin blinked. “Wait, what?”

Bua had already unlocked the door and yanked it open, not looking at her. “I said get in. I’ll take you home.”

A pause.

Then: “Because of the kiss?”

“No,” Bua bit out. “Because four weeks ago, you gave me a ride home when my car broke down. This is just—repayment.”

Phin grinned, smug as ever. “So transactional. So cold. I love it.”

“Get in before I change my mind.”

“I knew it,” Phin said as she slid into the passenger seat, still smiling like a woman who’d just won something. Bua slammed the door shut with a little more force than necessary. As she rounded to the driver’s side, she muttered under her breath—but even she couldn’t deny the warmth crawling up her neck. Because no matter what she told herself— she was definitely, absolutely worried. And Phin knew it.

The hum of the car engine filled the silence for a moment, a low, steady sound between them. Bua’s hands were firm on the wheel. She didn’t glance over once. Phin, of course, noticed.

She shifted in the passenger seat, stretching out her legs like she owned the space. “You know,” she said casually, “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s passenger princess.”

Bua stared straight ahead. “What does that even mean?”

Phin tilted her head dramatically against the window. “It means I sit here looking pretty while you drive me around. Bonus points if I get snacks and you adjust the air-con for me.”

“Keep talking and I’ll open the door and push you out.”

Phin chuckled. “Too late. I'm already in. And clearly adored.”

“You’re tolerated,” Bua muttered.

“Same thing,” Phin said cheerfully. “Love is just long-term tolerance with kisses.”

Bua nearly missed a turn. Phin caught it. “Too soon?”

“Too delusional.”

A beat passed. Phin leaned forward, one hand casually rubbing her stomach. “Okay, real talk? I’m starving.”

Bua glanced at her. “You had staff meal before service.”

“That was hours ago,” Phin said, with all the wounded drama of a soap opera heroine. “And you know I have a very emotionally driven metabolism.”

Bua narrowed her eyes. “You also had half of Nam’s tartlets before service.”

“And they were bite-sized. Barely counted.” Phin sighed deeply. “It’s tragic, really—chef surrounded by food, and still underfed. Starving, actually. Emotionally. Nutritionally. Spiritually.”

“You’re not underfed,” Bua said flatly. “You’re just an opportunist.”

“Fine. Just let me waste away in silence. Like a sad little garnish no one asked for.”

Bua didn’t miss a beat. “More like a soggy microgreen someone forgot to plate properly.”

Phin gasped. “That hurts. I thought we shared something tender...before.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t kicked you out of this car.”

“And yet, you’re still driving. Is this what love feels like?”

Bua groaned. “Fine. Where do you want to eat, Your Highness?”

“I hope we can go to that noodle stall,” Phin said sweetly. “You know, the one with the auntie who thought we were dating? She makes the best broth this side of the river.”

Bua narrowed her eyes. “You tricked me last time.”

“Yeah, but you liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

Phin gave her a wide-eyed, hopeful look. “Come on. Feed your passenger princess. She might faint.”

“I hope she does.”

But Bua was already taking the turn that led away from the main road. Toward the side street with the noodle stall glowing under the same flickering yellow light. Phin tried not to smile too wide.

Bua saw it anyway and groaned. “This is not a date.”

“Absolutely not,” Phin agreed. “Just two coworkers sharing a warm bowl of noodles under the moonlight while avoiding the truth of their feelings. Totally professional.”

“Shut up.”

“I love it when you tell me that.”

The noodle stall was right where it always was—perched at the corner of the small alleyway just off the main road, under a crooked canopy of corrugated tin and string lights, half of which flickered like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to live or die.

It was after midnight, but the place was still alive. The sizzle of a wok. The clatter of chopsticks. Muffled laughter from the plastic tables jammed along the sidewalk. The scent of broth, garlic, soy, and vinegar hung thick in the air. A fan whirred somewhere, barely making a dent in the humidity. As they approached, the auntie behind the cart spotted them and brightened immediately.

“Oy!” she called, voice cutting over the chatter of the street. “The pretty girls again! Come back for more, hmm?”

Bua immediately stiffened. Phin grinned.

The auntie waved them over like they were long-lost grandchildren. “Come, come! Same as last time? Two bowls? I remember your orders, I remember everything. My fish balls are even better tonight, you’re lucky!”

Phin beamed. “How could we resist?”

The uncle chuckled and tossed in a few extra fish balls without waiting to be asked, ladling broth with a flourish like he was serving royalty. “So good to see you two again. I was just saying to my wife—such a cute couple! Always polite, always hungry. You’re still together, right?”

Bua opened her mouth—too slow.

“Of course they are,” the auntie said, already moving on. “I can tell. The energy. That look.” She winked.

Phin just smiled and gave the auntie a wai in thanks, letting the comment slide like it was a warm breeze. Bua shot her a sharp glare the second they stepped away from the cart with their bowls.

“You’re not even going to correct her?”

Phin slurped a fish ball. “About what?”

“You know what.”

Phin shrugged. “Why ruin a good thing? Auntie’s thrilled. She gets to believe she’s feeding young love under the stars. Why would I stomp on that?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m considerate.”

“She thinks we’re dating.”

“She thinks we’re adorable,” Phin corrected. “And she’s not wrong.”

Bua narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

She stalked toward one of the small empty tables under a flickering light. Phin followed, smug and content, setting down their bowls like this was just another normal night. They sat at a plastic table under the flickering glow of a streetlamp. It buzzed softly overhead, casting halos of gold over their bowls.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just the clink of chopsticks, the steam curling up between them, and the hum of late-night traffic somewhere down the road. It was quieter here—slower than the kitchen, softer than the city. Bua took a sip of broth, then glanced at Phin across the table.

“How do you even know this place?”

Phin leaned back, blowing gently on her noodles. “Came here all the time. Whenever I was back in Bangkok during breaks. Even when I was living abroad, I always made time for it.”

“The auntie remembers you.”

“She’s got a photographic memory when it comes to regulars and spice levels,” Phin said fondly. “Once I came here three nights in a row after flying in from L.A. with jet lag. She gave me soup, meds, and told me to stop working so much.”

“She sounds like she adopted you.”

“She kind of did.”

Phin grinned and picked out a plump fish ball with her chopsticks. Then, without hesitation, dropped it gently into Bua’s bowl. “Here. You only got two. That’s criminal.”

Bua blinked. “I don’t need your pity fish ball.”

“Too late. It’s a gift. From someone adorable.”

Bua rolled her eyes but didn’t push it back. She ate it quietly. It was perfect—peppery, springy, somehow richer in taste than the others. Maybe just because it came from her.

They didn’t say much after that. Just slurped and chewed, elbows close but not quite touching, the kind of silence that had grown oddly comfortable between them.

When they were done, they returned their bowls to the cart. The auntie waved them off with a cheerful “Come back again, lovebirds!”

Bua scowled, but Phin just blew her a kiss.

Back in the car, Bua fastened her seatbelt with a sigh. “Where’s your place?”

Phin reclined dramatically in the seat. “The artsy part of Sukhumvit. Very chic. Very rent-controlled.”

Bua raised a brow. “Do we need to take a detour to a 7-Eleven, Big C or laundromat? Or maybe another surprise food stop?”

Phin laughed. “Not tonight. No detours. You’ve been generous enough with your chariot.”

“I should start charging you.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You like my company too much.”

“You talk too much.”

“And you like that too.”

Bua turned on the ignition, pretending she didn’t hear that. When they finally pulled up in front of Phin’s building, she didn’t get out right away.

She looked over at Bua, mouth tugging into a sideways smile. “So…”

Bua gave her a side-eye. “What.”

“About that kiss earlier.”

“Don’t.”

Phin leaned her chin in her hand. “You caught me so off guard. I think I forgot how to speak for a second.”

“Miracle,” Bua muttered.

“I liked it, though.”

Bua turned fully now, eyes narrowing. “Do you ever stop?”

“Only when I’m kissed speechless,” Phin said with a wink.

Bua, to her own horror, felt her face heat up. She scoffed and reached across the console to swat Phin’s arm—just once, quick and sharp, like a reflex.

Phin grinned wider. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You can be both.”

“Get out of my car.”

“Say goodnight first.”

Bua sighed, deadpan. “Goodnight, Phinya.”

Phin beamed like she’d just been awarded a medal. “Goodnight, Baibua.” She opened the door, but paused dramatically. “If you dream about me tonight, just know it’s mutual.”

“I won’t.”

“That’s okay. I’ll carry the emotional weight for both of us.”

“Phin.”

“Leaving now,” she said cheerfully, and shut the door.

Bua sat in the sudden silence, staring at the now-empty passenger seat. She didn’t move for a moment. Then her phone buzzed.

[Phinya]:
Hey. Quick question. Is that kiss legally binding? Or can we do it again just to confirm the results? For science.

Bua blinked, caught off guard, like the phone had buzzed with a fire alarm instead of a message. She stared at the screen, frozen. Her ears were warm. No, hot. She tilted the screen slightly away from herself, as if someone might peek in and read it from the sidewalk. Then, after an internal war that involved several sharp exhales and a near-deletion of her entire contact list:

[Bua]:
No.
Also no.

[Phinya]:
Okay but is that “no” as in “never again” or “no” as in “I’m shy, ask me later in a dark hallway”?

[Bua]:
I'm blocking you in the morning.

[Phinya]:
So we’re talking again in the morning? Cute.

Bua locked her phone with a sharp sigh and tossed it facedown on the passenger seat. But not before her mouth tugged—just a fraction—at the corners. God help her. Because Phin clearly had no intention of stopping from now on.

Chapter Text

Phinya woke up smiling.

No, grinning.

Phin lay there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling of her studio apartment in Sukhumvit, the early light filtering in through sheer curtains that swayed with the quiet breeze from the open window. The whole place still smelled faintly of lemongrass and toasted garlic from the lunch she’d cooked for herself the morning before—something quick but comforting before work. The scent clung to the air, layered with the soft sweetness of jasmine rice and the sharp citrus of lime zest she’d grated over everything at the last second.

Sheets tangled around her legs, one bare arm flung over her forehead, hair a wild, slept-on mess. She was still in her black silk camisole and matching boyshorts, the kind she wore not for anyone else, but because it made her feel good—soft, cool against her skin. She stretched, long and slow, her figure a natural curve of hips and waist and muscle softened by comfort. Her thighs shifted over the wrinkled sheets, and she caught sight of herself in the mirror mounted on the far wall: a little flushed, a little messy, and undeniably feminine in the quiet, unfiltered way mornings allowed.

She looked ridiculous, grinning like that.

But how could she not?

Because Bua kissed her.

Not just a kiss. Not just a polite, polite little thank-you peck or a tipsy misfire. A real kiss.

A full-bodied, brain-frying, breath-stealing kiss. Lips moving in sync, her heart stumbling over itself when Bua leaned in like she meant it. The shock of it had nearly short-circuited her. And the way Bua’s mouth had moved—sure, unhurried, and oh-so-soft—like she’d been thinking about it for a while. Like she’d wanted it.

Phin groaned and dragged a pillow over her face. God. Her lips still tingled. She wasn’t making that up. Of course, Bua had shut it down immediately after—told her to get out of the car like she hadn’t just rearranged Phin’s entire nervous system. Like she hadn’t left her sitting on the curb in front of her building, absolutely smitten and dazed.

She kicked her legs under the blanket and let out a strangled, muffled squeal into the pillow like some love-struck schoolgirl. Her cheeks were burning. She couldn’t stop smiling.

She was giggling. Giggling. Like an idiot.

“Pull yourself together,” she whispered to the ceiling, grinning so hard her face hurt.

But something had shifted. Phin knew it in her chest, in her spine, in the way her whole body still buzzed even now. Last night changed something between them—and no matter how hard Bua might pretend today like it didn’t happen, Phin wasn't about to let her.

She rolled out of bed, feet padding against the cool wood floors of the open-plan apartment. Her kitchen sat in the middle of everything—a sleek, functional island surrounded by hanging copper pans and shelves lined with glass jars and cookbooks. The place was lived-in but intentional. An old record player perched near the window. Two plants had somehow survived in the corner, despite her neglect.

She filled the kettle, still humming to herself, hair sticking out in uneven waves, her camisole strap sliding off one shoulder. Everything about her was soft-edged this morning—loose, content, but humming with purpose.

“God,” she murmured aloud with a laugh, reaching for her coffee, “I like her.”

The words landed heavier than she expected. Like an admission she hadn’t let herself fully voice until now. She liked Bua. Genuinely. Not just because she was beautiful—though, holy hell, she was—but because she was sharp, and maddening, and principled, and quietly kind in ways she thought no one noticed.

What started as a challenge—a game to get under Bua's skin—had become something else entirely. Phin didn’t just want her attention anymore. She wanted her. And this morning, that meant one thing: food.

She gathered ingredients from the fridge like it was a love language—because for her, it was. A quiet offering. A small, edible declaration.

Sticky rice, steaming and hot. Grilled moo yang, marinated in garlic, coriander root, palm sugar, and just enough fish sauce to make it addictive. Crisp pickled greens for balance. A charred chili nam jim jaew—not too fiery, but bright, smoky, and deep. She added a soft wedge of Thai custard for sweetness, wrapping it in a folded banana leaf the way her mother used to do.

She’s making a lunchbox for Bua, and it came together like something sacred. Each part neatly packed, sauce container secured. A napkin folded just so. She tucked in a silly bright pink fork and spoon set from Daiso, because Bua would roll her eyes at it. And maybe, if Phin was lucky, she’d smile too.

By the time she tied a little ribbon around the box (a leftover from a holiday gift, don’t ask), Phin was already planning her next move. Today, Bua is going to eat her food.

And if she dared to act like last night didn’t happen?

Phin was ready to kiss her again—just to prove her wrong.

**

By the time Phin arrived at KIN KAO’s staff entrance, she was practically glowing. Grin stretched ear to ear. Lightness in her step. She even sang under her breath as she swung open the service door, backpack slung over one shoulder, humming some old 90s Thai pop song like she was in a rom-com montage.

The clatter of prep and soft radio static from the back kitchen met her like usual—but so did a few lingering stares. Jamie glanced up from where they were organizing the wine list and blinked slowly. “God help us. Why are you singing?”

Phin didn’t even flinch. “Because it’s a beautiful day, Jamie. Birds are chirping. Soup is boiling. Love is real.”

Nam peeked her head out from pastry, blinking. “Who gave you sugar this early?”

“You want some?” Phin twirled, dropping her bag beside the low lockers and throwing them a wink. “I’m on a generous streak.”

Auntie Song, who was slicing lemongrass near the sink, narrowed her eyes at her like a hawk. “You’re in love.”

Phin dramatically gasped. “Auntie!”

“Don’t you ‘Auntie’ me.” She pointed her knife at Phin, not unkindly. “You’re glowing. You’re whistling. You’re being helpful. You’ve either fallen in love or committed a crime.”

“Why not both?” Phin quipped. “I multitasking queen.”

Laughter bubbled around the kitchen, but even as the morning rolled into full swing, the change in Phin didn’t go unnoticed. Sure, she was always loud, always cheerful—but today there was a softness to her edges. A skip in her step. Something less performative. Less pushing. More… hopeful.

She ducked into the back hallway and stashed her backpack in her locker, the lunchbox she’d packed with surgical precision still tucked safely inside, wrapped in a checkered kitchen towel. She planned to microwave it just before lunch—timed perfectly so it’d still be warm when she dropped it into Bua’s lap. If Bua even let her get that far.

Because strangely—Bua was nowhere to be seen.

By 11 a.m., the kitchen was a blur of motion prepping for lunch service. Line cooks yelling for towels, prep boards covered in finely chopped herbs, pans clattering, timers beeping. Even Heng had shown up early for once, sleeves already rolled up, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The stockpot on the back burner bubbled like a low drumbeat.

Phin called out corrections, adjusted plating charts, double-checked fish deliveries. But every time she turned toward the corner where Bua usually stood—arms crossed, eyes sharp, micromanaging everything—she found only empty space.

No click of heels. No clipped observations. No lingering glances.

Weird.

Bua wasn’t one to hide. She was a hoverer—the kind who needed to supervise everything even when she pretended not to care. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. She was avoiding her.

Oh, Baibua, Phin thought, smirking as she stirred a pot. You kissed me and now you’re hiding from me? Adorable.

The grin stayed on her lips all the way to lunch hour.

At 11:30 sharp, Phin slipped out of the kitchen. She passed Jamie without a word and veered straight toward the staff break room to microwave the lunchbox, carefully peeling back the banana leaf wrapping on the custard just enough to let the steam rise through. The smell of grilled pork, tangy herbs, and roasted chili filled the small space.

She packed everything back with care, secured the lid, and smoothed the ribbon. Then she picked it up, turned on her heel, and headed toward the front offices. Her knuckles rapped twice on the glass door before she pushed it open—without waiting for a response.

Bua was at her desk, stiff-backed, pretending to type something. Too fast. Too focused. The way someone types when they’re trying to look busy and unaffected. Phin shut the door behind her with a little click.

“Well, well,” she said cheerfully, holding up the lunchbox like a prize. “Look who’s not in the kitchen micromanaging the pickled radish slicing this morning.”

Bua didn’t look up. “I had emails.”

“Sure you did.”

“And inventory.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the liquor license audit this week.”

“Is that why you’re red in the ears?”

That made Bua finally glance up, glare sharp enough to kill a lesser woman.

Phin beamed. “Hi.”

Bua sighed through her nose. “Why are you here? Don’t you have a kitchen to run?”

“To feed you, obviously,” Phin said brightly, sauntering over to the desk. She set the lunchbox down like it was a peace offering—if peace offerings came wrapped in ribbon and smug satisfaction. “Handcrafted with love. Home-cooked with alarming talent. Delivered with a wink, a smile, and zero shame. You’re welcome.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You say that every time. Then I catch you stealing someone’s crackers.”

Bua narrowed her eyes. “Did you break into my office just for this?”

“I knocked. Politely. And you didn’t say no. That’s consent in this economy.”

“Phinya.”

Phin lit up like it was her favorite song being played. “Yes, darling?”

Bua gave her a look—flat, unimpressed, laced with warning.

Phin just leaned in, resting her chin on her hand, undeterred. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend nothing happened last night?”

Bua’s expression didn’t flinch. “Nothing did happen.”

“Oh?” Phin leaned in, elbows on the desk now, her smile all teeth and trouble. “So, you didn’t kiss me like you were trying to short-circuit my soul?”

Bua stared. Blinked once. Then promptly looked away, as if the wood grain on her desk had suddenly become fascinating. Phin smirked. “Thought so.”

She let the silence stretch just enough to make Bua squirm. The air between them felt charged—like static before a storm, sharp with something unspoken. Phin could see it in the way Bua’s fingers tapped once, then stopped. In the way she didn’t look back up, didn’t argue.

Phin tilted her head. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

No answer.

“And for the record,” she added, voice dropping just slightly, “you kissed me. I was minding my business. Being adorable. Radiating charm. And then boom—ambushed.”

“Phin!” Bua warned again, this time quieter.

Phin smiled at the sound of her name like it was the first bite of dessert. “Yes, darling?”

Bua groaned under her breath, but her cheeks were suspiciously pink. Then, gentler now, Phin nudged the lunchbox forward. Her voice softened—still teasing, but threaded with something warmer. Realer.

“Seriously. Eat the food, Baibua.”

She waited, eyes on her.

“I know you forget sometimes. Or say you’re not hungry. But I made this for you. Because I care.”

That got Bua to pause. Phin leaned back just enough to give her space, but her gaze stayed steady, unflinching. “Let me feed you. Just this once. No strings. No jokes. Okay—well, some jokes. But mostly carbs.”

Bua eyed the box like it might explode. “Is that… custard?”

“Made it just for you. It’s not poisoned. Probably.”

A pause. Bua looked up, jaw tight. But her eyes had softened, just a little.

“And the pink fork?” she asked dryly.

“Felt like you’d enjoy the irony.”

Another pause. A breath. And finally, finally, Bua muttered, “Fine.”

Phin grinned. Victory had never smelled so much like grilled pork and vindication.

*****

By noon, the kitchen was in full swing—pots boiling, pans clattering, knives flashing against cutting boards with practiced rhythm. The scent of garlic, chili, lemongrass, and ambition filled every corner of KIN KAO’s steel heart. Nam leaned casually on the pastry counter, watching Phin from the corner of her eye while pretending to zest lime over her coconut panna cotta.

“Okay,” she said under her breath, “what exactly is going on with her?”

Jamie, who stood nearby scribbling notes on the wine pairing board, didn’t look up. “With who?”

Nam tilted her head toward the pass. “Her. Our fearless, chili-slicing head chef.”

Phin stood near the prep line, humming—not just idly, but with feeling. The kind of humming that usually came from people who either got laid, won the lottery, or were dangerously in love. Possibly all three.

She was moving with suspicious grace. Whistling a tune no one could place. Slicing fresh bird’s eye chilies into perfect little rounds while smiling at nothing. Nam narrowed her eyes. “That’s not normal. She doesn’t even like slicing chili.”

“She made me do it yesterday,” Jamie muttered.

“She made everyone do it yesterday.”

Phin, oblivious, swayed a little on her feet like she had music in her bones. A red bandana dotted with tiny love emojis held her hair back—ridiculous, endearing, and somehow very her. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat—and maybe something else. She moved through the kitchen like someone carrying a delicious secret, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth every time she called out a time check.

Jamie finally glanced over, one brow raised. “Did she win the lottery or just fall in love?”

Nam made a face. “Both are horrifying. I’m voting door number three: she kissed someone.”

“Oh God.” Jamie exhaled like they’d just cracked a cold case. “Do you think it was—?”

“Our manager?” Nam whispered.

They both turned to look at each other slowly, like characters in a horror movie realizing the ghost was in the house the whole time.

“No way,” Jamie muttered. “She would kill her.”

“Unless she kissed her first.”

Jamie blinked. “That’s even more terrifying.”

Nam grinned. “And kinda hot.”

Jamie narrowed their eyes, thinking. “Wait. No. Okay. Listen. I saw her sneak into the manager’s office before service.”

Nam’s head snapped around. “What?”

Jamie nodded. “Around eleven-thirty. Lunch hadn’t started yet. She had something in her hands. Pink ribbon. Very suspicious.”

Nam gasped. “You’re joking.”

“I wish. She had this little smug-ass strut too. Like she was delivering contraband.”

“Oh my God. What if she made her lunch?”

“That’s worse than kissing,” Jamie said, dead serious. “That’s intimacy.”

Nam slapped a hand over her mouth like she was scandalized. “Do you think she fed her? Like, actually watched her eat?”

They both turned again to watch Phin, who was now gently correcting Jai’s plating with the patience of a saint. Not yelling. Not snarking. Not threatening to kick anyone in the shin.

“She’s glowing,” Nam whispered. “Like, post-kiss, post-satisfaction, maybe-even-cuddled glowing.”

Jamie hummed. “Or post-smug. She is very smug.”

“But cutely smug,” Nam pointed out.

Jamie scrawled another note in the corner of the service board:
SOMETHING IS DEFINITELY GOING ON.

“Bet?” Jamie said.

“Loser does dishes?”

“You’re on.”

Lunch service began on the dot, and somehow, things just… worked. The flow was smooth. Plates came out on time. Timing was tight, plating was sharp, and Phin didn’t bark a single correction that wasn’t necessary. She was focused—still playful, but with a different kind of energy.

Balanced. Settled.

Jamie leaned against the wall near the cold station, arms crossed, watching the scene with a faint smirk. “She’s not just in a good mood,” they murmured. “She’s been fed.”

“Or she fed someone else,” Nam corrected.

As if on cue, Bua appeared near the edge of the kitchen. She didn’t enter fully—just stood in the shadows by the prep area, arms crossed as usual, observing. Classic Bua behavior.

Except…

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t nitpick. Didn’t hover too long. She watched the service roll through three tables, nodded once—and then smiled. It wasn’t much. Barely a twitch at the corner of her mouth. But it was enough.

Nam elbowed Jamie. “That’s her post-lunch face. You see it?”

“I felt it. The temperature rose by two degrees.”

Bua turned and disappeared down the hallway again, but not before her eyes flicked—just briefly—to where Phin stood calling orders at the pass.

**

A moments ago before the lunch service start.  

Bua stared at the closed door for a full five seconds after Phin left her office, the echo of her cheerful voice still bouncing around the room like perfume that wouldn’t fade.

“Enjoy, boss lady,” Phin had said, smug smile in place as always, lips curved like she already knew Bua would eat every bite. “Have a good day.”

And then—just like that—she was gone. No dramatic flourish. No push for conversation. Just that infuriating wink and her scent lingering in the air, some combination of kaffir lime and cockiness. Bua glared at the lunchbox like it had personally offended her.

It was still warm, carefully packed, every container labeled and perfectly portioned. The grilled pork glistened under the thin sheen of its marinade, sticky rice tucked beside it like a little pillow. Even the dipping sauce came in a separate leak-proof container—homemade, from the smell of it. Spicy. Sour. Balanced.

She waited ten more seconds. Just in case. Maybe Phin would double back and say something else stupid. She didn’t.

With a huff, Bua unwrapped the banana leaf, popped the lid, and picked up the ridiculous pink fork. The first bite—pork, dipped lightly in the nam jim jaew—was so good she nearly groaned.

Goddammit.

She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until now. She’d skipped breakfast. Barely touched her coffee. Had been too busy pretending everything was normal when her entire emotional equilibrium had been sucker-punched by one kiss.

And now Phin was feeding her. With grilled pork that was charred just right. Sticky rice steamed to perfection. Pickled greens cut thin and balanced. Even the custard—smooth, subtly sweet—tasted like something out of a memory Bua didn’t know she had.

By the time she looked down again, the box was empty. Not a grain of rice left. Not a drop of sauce. She’d eaten all of it. Quietly. Methodically. Like someone who didn’t want to admit she was enjoying it.

She set the pink fork down and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, glaring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed her. It wasn’t the food she was sulking about.

It wasn’t even Phin’s smug little face or the way she had strolled in here like she owned the place—like she hadn’t been kissed breathless in the front seat of Bua’s car just hours ago. No, the problem was Bua herself.

Because she didn’t regret the kiss. Not even a little.

She didn’t hate Phin—not the way she thought she should. Not the way she used to. Not the way she tried to convince herself every time Phin said something ridiculous and charming and too honest for her own good. And that—more than anything—was the part Bua couldn’t stand.

She sighed, rubbed her temples, and muttered under her breath.

“…Damn her.”

Because somehow, without even trying, Phinya Thananont was slowly, methodically, cooking her way into Bua’s heart.

By the end of service, everything had gone maddeningly well.

Too well, if Bua were being honest.

The kitchen had run like clockwork—no missed tickets, no plating disasters, no fire alarms or near-fistfights. Phin was in her element, calling out orders, darting between stations like she was born for this, that damn ponytail swinging with every step. She laughed with the pastry team, high-fived a nervous junior cook after a perfect duck breast, and somehow still found time to adjust garnish on the final plate of the night.

Bua watched from the doorway of dry storage for a while—arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending she wasn’t watching. Pretending she didn’t notice the way the team responded to her. How even Jamie, usually as expressive as a brick wall, had cracked a smile when Phin praised the wine pairing. Or how Nam—traitor that she was—had started humming along to whatever Phin had been singing earlier that morning.

It was like everyone had eaten the same love-struck soup and gotten tipsy on it. Except Bua.

She’d eaten the damn lunch. Every single bite. And she was still sulking about it.

Back in her office after service, she sat at her desk, arms folded over a half-finished spreadsheet. She should’ve been reviewing the inventory summary or finalizing the prep budget for next week, but instead, she was thinking—again—about how Phin had looked at her before leaving her office earlier. Not cocky. Not even smug, really.

Pleased.

Like she'd made something and hoped Bua liked it. Like she cared. Bua reached for her phone just as it buzzed.

Phin:
You survived my lunch. I’m proud of you, BB 👩🏻‍🍳💖🍖

Bua stared at it. Blinked. Considered throwing her phone across the desk. Another message came in immediately after.

Phin:
...Also. I can’t stop thinking about the duck dish we tested. You free to talk menu?

That, unfortunately, made Bua pause. The duck. Right. The one they’d tested the night before. Pre-kiss. Pre-chaos. The seared breast with tamarind jus and wild mushroom rice—Dhanin had specifically asked for something “refined but rooted in flavor,” and they’d come up with something close to magic. It just needed one final tweak before they could present it for Chef Dhanin on Monday.

So she typed back:

Bua:
Come to the office. And keep the emojis to yourself.

Phin didn’t knock this time—just walked in with that same maddening ease, sleeves rolled up, hair damp from a quick post-service rinse, and a bottle of soda in each hand.

“Peace offering,” she said, holding one out like a bribe. Bua took it without a word.

They worked for a while—actually worked. Phin spread out her notes from the tasting on the desk, talking through flavor balance, plating tweaks, timing for prep. Her tone shifted into something more focused, less flirtatious. Still warm, still her, but this was the side of Phin that had earned awards, that made people want to follow her into fire.

Bua hated how much she respected that.

“This mushroom rice,” Phin said, tapping her notebook, “we can bring in a smoked note with grilled shallot oil. It’ll deepen the flavor, keep the texture light.”

Bua nodded slowly. “And serve it with the jus poured tableside?”

Phin smiled. “Very dramatic. Chef Dhanin loves drama.”

There was a brief pause—quiet settling between them like dust. Bua tapped her pen. “We’re good then. I’ll print the finalized sheet tomorrow and run the costings.”

Phin didn’t move.

“Something else?” Bua asked, without looking up.

“Yeah.” Her voice was softer now. “You’re not mad at me, right?”

Bua’s eyes lifted slowly. “Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know,” Phin shrugged. “Maybe because you kissed me. Or because I kissed you back. Or because you ate my lunch and now you can’t stop thinking about me.”

Bua gave her a flat look. “Really, Phin?.”

Phin leaned against the edge of the desk. “And you’re not denying it.”

“I’m not entertaining it, either.”

“But you let me in.”

Bua set her pen down. “You mean into my office?”

“I mean in,” Phin said simply. “Even if just a little.”

Silence stretched again. Something unspoken curled between them. Bua took a long sip of her soda, then muttered without meeting her eyes, “Don’t get used to it.”

Phin grinned. “Too late.”

*****

Later that night, Bua lay in bed, the lights off except for the soft glow of her bedside lamp. Her laptop was open beside her, half-forgotten, spreadsheet idle on the screen. She’d showered, changed, done her skincare like a perfectly responsible adult.

And yet—she hadn’t stopped checking her phone every five minutes like a complete idiot.

Across the city, in a very different, slightly messy Sukhumvit studio, Phin lay on her stomach with her legs kicking behind her, wearing an oversized tank top and a sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead like a crown. She was scrolling through memes, humming to herself, not even pretending she wasn’t waiting for Bua to text her first. She waited two more minutes.

Then cracked her knuckles dramatically and fired off the first message.

Phin:
Hey. Just checking in to make sure you haven’t died from emotional intimacy. 💋

No response.

She waited.

Then sent another:

Phin:
Also. If you were wondering, yes—I do accept kisses as valid forms of  communication. Just putting that out there. 💋📝📲

Across the city, Bua stared at the message. She rolled her eyes. Then, because she was weak—and possibly under the influence of grilled pork and pink forks—she typed back.

Bua:
It’s midnight. Go to sleep, Phinya.

Phin:
I can’t. I’m haunted by the ghost of your kiss. 😔👻💄

Bua:
You’re haunted by your own delusions.

Phin:
Delusion? BB, that was a season finale kiss. I’m just waiting for the next episode. 🎬💋

Bua stared at the screen, eyes narrowing as her cheeks warmed.

Bua:
Keep dreaming.

Phin:
Oh, I will. Can’t wait for our next kisses. Plural. With tongue, if you're feeling generous. 😇👅💘🔥

Bua:
Phinya.

Phin:
Yes, darling?

Bua:
Go. To . Sleep.

Phin:
Only if you promise to text me again tomorrow. Or kiss me again. Either works. 💌💤💋

Bua:
Goodnight.

Phin:
Sweet dreams, BB. Try not to dream about me too much. (Or do.) 🌙😚💤

Bua turned her phone screen down, face warm in the dark. She did not dream about Phin that night. Not that she’d ever admit it if she did.

Across the city, in her tiny Sukhumvit apartment where the A/C hummed softly and dishes from her post-service snack still sat untouched in the sink, Phin lay flat on her back in bed, grinning like an idiot.

She stared at the last message from Bua like it was a personal award. Not because it was sweet. Not even because it was flirty. But because—so far—Bua had never once corrected her when she called her Baibua or BB in text. Or darling, said with just enough affection to make anyone else roll their eyes.

No dry retorts. No sarcastic spelling corrections. No death threats via emoji. Just… silence. Which, in Bua-speak, was practically permission. Phin laughed quietly to herself and threw an arm over her eyes. “God, she’s so into me.”

She knew it wasn’t going to be easy—Bua was made of steel and routines and probably a hundred little emotional padlocks—but something had shifted. And Phin felt it. The same way she felt it when a dish was almost perfect, when the flavor was right there on the edge of something unforgettable. She know she was getting closer.

Chapter Text

Bua woke up with her sheets tangled around her legs and a stubborn ache in her chest she refused to name. Not a bad dream. Not a good one either. Just… Phin. Not that she dreamed about her. Of course not. Absolutely not.

She pushed the thought away before it could settle and threw the covers off with more force than necessary. The early Bangkok light filtered through the curtains—bright, already hot. It was Monday. An important Monday. And she needed to focus.

She padded barefoot through her small but tidy apartment, flipping on the kettle with one hand while tying her hair up with the other. The floor was cool under her feet. A row of tiny succulents lined the windowsill above her sink, half of them gifts from Fang, all of them somehow still alive. She rinsed her face at the kitchen sink instead of the bathroom, made black coffee, ignored her phone, and stood in silence while it brewed.

Still not thinking about her. She needed to move.

The jog helped. Sort of. Her usual route around the neighborhood was quiet that early—just a few food carts setting up, monks collecting alms, the occasional dog watching her with sleepy disinterest. She ran harder than usual, like she could sweat out the memory of that stupid smirk on Phin’s face when she left her office. Or the text messages. Or the word darling echoing in her head like a curse.

When she returned, she was damp with sweat and slightly less irritated at the universe. She showered, made toast, ate one half of it standing up, and was just about to reach for her phone when it buzzed in her hand.

Pim :
Are you coming tonight? Mom already bought ingredients for that pumpkin curry you like.

Bua stared at the screen, biting the inside of her cheek. It was Monday, and most Mondays—when she wasn’t drowning in work—she went home for dinner. A ritual of sorts. One night to eat with Pim, see their mother, pretend everything was simple.

But today wasn’t simple. She thumbed out a reply.

Bua:
Not sure. Big menu tasting today. Chef Dhanin’s coming in.

A pause.

Pim:
Sounds serious. You okay?

Bua:
I’m fine. I’ll let you know later.

She tossed the phone onto the couch before she could get another gentle sibling check-in and started packing her notes and tablet into her bag.

The restaurant was closed to the public but buzzing with quiet purpose.

Phin had arrived earlier than necessary—again—and was already setting up the tasting station with Jai and Jin, who she’d personally roped into coming in on their day off, Nam also there working on the dessert. The front of house was dim, chairs stacked, windows sunlit. Only the kitchen glowed with the focused energy of something important brewing.

Bua arrived twenty minutes early. She didn’t greet anyone right away—just slipped into the kitchen like a general checking the perimeter. Sharp eyes. Neutral expression. Clipboard in hand. But something was different.

Her hair was down.

Not messy, not casual—but not in its usual tight, surgical bun either. Instead, it fell loosely past her shoulders in soft waves, tucked neatly behind one ear, the ends still a little damp from her shower. It was the kind of hair you wore on a day off. The kind of hair that said, I’m relaxed. I’m not here to intimidate you. The kind of hair Phin immediately wanted to tangle her fingers in.

Phin looked up just as Bua stepped inside—and promptly grinned like an idiot. “Morning, boss,” she said, like she hadn’t just been punched in the chest by the sight of a slightly more human Busaya Methin.

Bua nodded, distracted by the mise en place on the center station. “Everything ready?”

Phin didn’t answer right away. Her gaze was still on Bua’s hair. Loose, flowy, Unsecured.

God help her. She cleared her throat. “Jai’s prepping the duck, Jin’s locking in plating setup, and I’ve got the timing down for the full sequence. We’re golden.”

Bua scanned the kitchen. “Good. Dhanin’s punctual. He won’t wait.”

Phin leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, still grinning like she knew something she wasn’t supposed to know. “So... the hair.”

Bua didn’t look up from her notes. “What about it.”

“Bold choice.” Phin’s voice dropped just a touch. “Almost like you’re trying to impress someone.”

Bua froze for half a second—barely noticeable—but Phin caught it. Of course she did. She rolled her eyes without looking up. “It’s my day off. I don’t owe the kitchen battle armor.”

“Mmhm,” Phin hummed, completely unconvinced. “So it has nothing to do with me?”

“Absolutely not.”

Phin bit back a smirk. “So you’re saying this—” she gestured vaguely toward Bua’s hair, her face, her everything “—this whole effortlessly-hot-off-duty-boss vibe… not for me at all?”

Bua finally looked up, gaze flat as ever. “Phinya.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Focus.”

Phin winked. “On you? Always.”

Bua resisted the urge to throw her clipboard at her.

**

Just pass 1:00 p.m., the front doors opened.

Chef Dhanin Tansakul stepped into the empty dining room like he owned every inch of space he walked on—which, technically, he did. Today, he wore his usual pressed charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled just once, and a slim silver watch that somehow still ticked in rhythm with the tension in the air. His presence was quiet, but undeniable—the kind that didn’t need raised voices or flair to be terrifying.

Phin straightened immediately, pulling off her apron and wiping her hands with surgical precision. Her posture shifted into something sharper, more formal—but her eyes still sparkled. This was her kind of pressure.

Bua stepped up beside her, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable as always, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. They were both professionals. They’d both been through a hundred tastings. But this was Chef Dhanin. The man could make or break an entire seasonal menu with one glance and a raised brow.

“Morning,” he said as he approached. “Let’s see what you’ve built.”

Bua offered a clipped nod. “We have six dishes today. Three mains, one seasonal starter, one dessert, and a vegetarian option for the new brunch segment.”

Phin added, “All based on Thai core flavor principles, but restructured through a modern lens. We stayed tight on ingredients—no showy imports, all local sourcing.”

Dhanin raised a brow. “You finally speaking my language, Thananont?”

Phin grinned. “Figured it was time.”

They began with the starter: chilled watermelon and fish sauce granita, a dish that shouldn’t have worked on paper—but somehow did.

Presented in a shallow, frosted ceramic bowl, the dish was a play on contrasts. The granita was vibrant red, flaked with sea salt and fermented fish sauce that hit the nose before the spoon even touched the lips. Scattered on top were crushed crispy rice clusters and whisper-thin slices of Thai cured river fish, translucent and glossy. A drizzle of shallot oil pooled along the edges, grounding the sweetness in something savory and unexpected.

Phin spoke while Chef Dhanin tasted, her voice steady. “The granita is made with watermelon juice reduced with lime leaf and a touch of palm sugar. The fish sauce is aged—same producer we use for the prik nam pla. We wanted the cold to shock the palate first, then mellow into umami and fat from the oil.”

Dhanin didn’t respond at first—just hummed low in his throat while spooning another bite. Then he wrote something down. That was either good or terrifying.

Bua, seated to his left with a clean notepad and pen, glanced up. “It’s the kind of dish that risks imbalance. But it pulls through with the texture play,” she offered.

Dhanin gave a small nod. “Agreed. Needs a better balance of temperature control—granita was already melting. But it’s smart.”

Phin tried not to smile. She also tried not to look directly at Bua, but failed miserably.

Next came the duck. The one Phin had poured her obsessive soul into.

The plate was minimalist, letting the colors speak: rich mahogany duck breast, skin rendered crisp and scored in clean diagonal lines; earthy wild mushroom rice shaped into a small mound, flecked with garlic oil and grilled scallion tips; and a glossy tamarind jus—served separately in a hand-glazed ceramic pourer.

Phin poured the sauce herself. “The duck is dry-aged for three days. Pan-seared, then finished in the oven. Rice was cooked in a mushroom stock reduction—shiitake and hed thop. The jus is tamarind-heavy with grilled chili, fish sauce, and a touch of palm sugar for balance. Inspired by the som tam flavor wheel—without actually serving som tam.”

Chef Dhanin tasted everything separately first, then together.

He chewed slowly. Picked up the fork again. Tasted the rice again.

Finally, he set the fork down and reached for his pen.

“Fix the rice texture. You’re 85% there.”

Phin nodded sharply. “Noted.”

What she didn’t say: she’d cooked that rice herself, twice, after scrapping the first version last night in a silent meltdown. What she didn’t show: the flicker of anxiety blooming in her chest.

Then came the vegetarian main: grilled baby eggplants stuffed with spicy yellow curry paste, served over jasmine rice crisped in coconut oil, garnished with pickled mustard greens and toasted mung bean crumbles. It was deceptively simple. Bua’s design.

“This one’s Bua’s favorite,” Phin said before she could stop herself, earning a side-glare.

Chef Dhanin looked at Bua. “Yours?”

She cleared her throat, calmly. “Conceptually. I designed the pairing matrix—Phin built the flavor.”

He nodded. “Very clean. Balance is solid. Curry paste is aggressive, but that works here.”

The fifth dish, Steamed Grouper with Fermented Citrus Broth  arrived in a shallow black stone bowl, elegant and understated. A delicate fillet of steamed grouper, perfectly opaque and buttery, floated in a light fermented citrus and lemongrass broth. Shaved pickled green mango topped the fish like a crown, finished with a splash of chili oil and fresh sawtooth coriander.

Phin stepped in to explain, voice calmer now, more confident with each course.

“This is our seafood reset. A cleaner dish after the heavier duck. We used line-caught grouper from Trat, steamed low and slow. The broth’s base is fermented som saa peel, lemongrass, and fish bone stock reduced overnight. The acidity cuts through the fat of earlier dishes and preps the tongue for what’s next.”

Chef Dhanin took one spoonful of the broth, closed his eyes briefly, then tasted the fish. The pickled mango made his brow twitch slightly.

“Unexpected.”

Bua leaned in. “Too much acid?”

“No. Just the right amount.”

He set his spoon down.

Phin didn’t breathe again until he scribbled a small check mark on his page.

Then the brunch wildcard: a grilled river prawn benedict over sweet potato rösti with a nam jim hollandaise. The yolk was cured. The sauce smoked. It was dramatic—and risky.

Phin took a breath before explaining. “We wanted a modern brunch option that doesn’t feel Western-for-the-sake-of-Western. The hollandaise is infused with roasted garlic and a touch of nam jim seafood—lime, fish sauce, chili, palm sugar. It’s punchy, but creamy. The rösti gives texture without going full bread.”

Chef Dhanin sliced into the prawn cleanly. Tasted. Licked a smear of sauce off his thumb.

Then said, “Interesting.”

Which, in Dhanin-speak, was the equivalent of applause.

Finally, dessert. Nam’s wild mango custard.

It arrived looking unassuming—just a round set custard with toasted coconut, brittle shards of black sesame, and a lime leaf sugar tuile.

Dhanin took one bite. Then a second.

“Keep it as is,” he said. “She’s talented.”

“Don’t let her hear that,” Bua murmured, scribbling a star next to dessert.

When the final notes were made, Chef Dhanin stood, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.

“It works,” he said simply. “We’ll roll it out. I want full prep sheets by Tuesday”

And then—he looked at Phin. “You ran a tight kitchen today. Clean execution. Good command.”

Phin straightened. “Thank you, chef.”

As he left, the kitchen seemed to collectively exhale.  Jai sat down like his knees gave out. Jin grinned into her apron. Bua didn’t say anything right away. But she sat back slightly in her chair, scribbling one last note before setting the clipboard aside. Phin turned and caught her eye for just a second. That little flicker of something—relief? pride?—softened Bua’s face before she blinked it away.

“Fix the rice,” she said.

Phin grinned. “On it, boss.”

But her heart was hammering for an entirely different reason. Because Chef Dhanin’s approval meant a lot. But Bua’s was the one she actually wanted.

Phin was back at the stove, checking the duck jus reduction she’d saved, moving with the same practiced ease—but something about her posture had shifted. Confident. Comfortable. In her element. Commanding.

Bua hated that she noticed. She hated it even more that it made something warm coil in her chest. Because Phin didn’t just cook—she led. Her voice carried authority without bark, correction without humiliation. She cracked jokes between directives. Encouraged Jai when he stumbled on the garnish timing. Thanked Jin for her plating instinct. She even teased Nam (who had appeared from the pastry kitchen just in time to shamelessly steal leftover custard).

And the team—Bua’s team—responded. Not just with respect. With trust. Bua watched from her quiet corner, lips pressed tight, arms folded loosely over her chest. She wouldn’t say it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even to herself. But maybe… just maybe… she wasn’t the only one making the restaurant better.

By the time the last prep sheet was printed and signed, the tasting kitchen had long gone quiet. Jai and Jin had packed up and left around four-thirty. Nam had popped in for gossip and mango custard, then vanished just as quickly—though they’d left behind a suspicious half-finished iced coffee on the host stand.

Phin was the last one out. Well, almost. She lingered in the staff hallway with her backpack slung over one shoulder, sneakers untied, a finger tapping rhythmically against the railing as she debated with herself for a solid thirty seconds. Then she doubled back.

The door to Bua’s office was slightly ajar. She was at her desk, half-shadowed by late-afternoon light, pen in hand, reading glasses perched low on her nose. She didn’t look up when Phin pushed the door open wider and leaned on the frame with what she hoped was casual charm.

“Baibua, You know it’s almost five, right?” Phin said.

“I do,” Bua replied, not even glancing at her.

“And you’re still here. On your day off.”

“I’m aware.”

“Tragic,” Phin sighed dramatically. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to grab dinner. I promise it’s not a date. No candlelight. No slow jazz. Just carbs.”

That earned her a glance. Not warm. Not icy either. Somewhere in  between.

“I have paperwork,” Bua said.

“You’re holding a pen and a spreadsheet. That’s five more minutes, max.”

“And then I have somewhere to be.”

Phin pouted. “You wound me.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“But barely.”

Bua exhaled through her nose, the corners of her lips twitching—almost—but not enough to reward her. “Goodnight, Phin.”

Phin lingered a moment longer, watching her like she was trying to memorize her. She didn’t push, didn’t force her presence—just stood quietly, as if waiting for a sign that wouldn’t come. Then, with a small smile tinged with disappointment she masked well, she pushed off the doorframe. “Next time, Baibua” she said lightly, “I’m bringing dumplings.”

“Bring silence.”

“No promises.”

And with that, she was gone.

Phin didn’t go home.

Instead, she hopped on the MRT and transferred lines like a woman on a mission, navigating Bangkok’s rush hour with a weird kind of giddy purpose. By 6:00, she was rolling into Yaowarat like she’d been coming there her whole life. Because, at this point, she almost had. The first time she came here, it was curiosity. The second time, it was because she couldn’t stop thinking about the roasted duck. Now?

Well. Let’s just say the food wasn’t the only thing pulling her in.

She slid into her usual table in the back—small, round, pressed against the wall under a faded framed photo of someone’s great-grandfather—and grinned as soon as Auntie Wannee, Bua’s mother, spotted her from behind the counter.

“Phinya Dear!” she called, already grabbing a plate. “You came alone again?”

“Solo as always, Auntie” Phin said. “But very hungry.”

“Sit, sit. I’ll make you the crispy pork belly and duck combo. With extra tamarind sauce as usual?”

“You know me so well already.”

They chatted while she waited. About food mostly. And about the neighborhood. About how Auntie Wannee started the business from a street cart and used to sell out before 11 a.m. back in the day. And sometimes, when she was feeling nostalgic, she’d sit across from Phin and talk about old recipes she didn’t make anymore.

Phin listened. Genuinely. She liked her. The way she spoke, her casual pride. Her quiet warmth.

Sometimes Bua’s dad would shuffle out from the back, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping and then jumping in with his own one-liners. And once, when Phin stayed long enough, Bua’s younger sister Pim showed up late from tutoring, took one look at Phin grinning at her mother and said flatly, “Is she trying to get adopted, or…?”

Phin just winked. “I wouldn’t mind being another favorite child.” Then she tilted her head meaningfully toward the wall, where a few faded photos hung—one of Bua, younger, beaming at her graduation from Le Cordon Bleu beside her mother. “She’s clearly the favorite,” Phin added, nudging her chin toward the frame, grinning. “I’d settle for runner-up.”

Auntie Wanne just laughed. Pim, predictably, looked horrified. Then they laughed. They had no idea. No idea Phin already knew Busaya Methin far too well. No idea that she wasn’t just some loyal customer who liked sauce refills and steamed jasmine rice. No idea their daughter kissed her and how Phin had been spiraling ever since.

At 6:30 pm, the door opened again—and Bua walked in.

She looked tired. Still in her crisp slacks and loose white blouse, hair swept into a low ponytail. The moment she spotted her mother—and Phin—sitting at a corner table, chatting over empty plates, her steps slowed.

Phin smiled at her brigthly and Auntie Wannee turned, her face lighting up. “Look who finally decided to show up. I thought you weren’t coming—Pim said you were busy.”

But Bua’s eyes had already zeroed in on the very last person she expected—or feared—to see. Phin sat casually at the table, sipping from a tall glass of tea like she hadn’t just ambushed her at her own family’s restaurant.

Phin grinning as soon as she spotted her. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Bua’s glare could’ve melted concrete. “Are you stalking me?”

“I prefer the term serendipitous dining,” Phin said, all smooth charm.

Across the table, Auntie Wannee blinked, glancing between the two women with an increasingly amused expression, like she’d just tuned into a very juicy lakorn mid-episode.

“You two know each other?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Before Bua could shut it down, Phin flashed an innocent smile. “We’ve crossed paths.”

Auntie Wannee chuckled, clearly entertained by whatever this was. “Well, she’s a polite one,” she said, giving Phin’s shoulder an affectionate pat. “Always finishes her plate—and never forgets to compliment the sauce.”

Bua, mortified and outnumbered, muttered something under her breath and made a beeline for the counter—pretending she didn’t hear her mother whisper to Phin, “Are you always this cheeky?”

“Only with you, Auntie.” Phin said, grinning cheekily—just loud enough to be heard.

Bua grabbed her dinner plate from the counter, trying very hard not to let anyone see the tips of her ears turning red. She wasn’t mad. Not really. She was something else. Something far more dangerous. Because Phin wasn’t just showing up at the restaurant, in her kitchen, in her texts— Now she was in Bua’s home turf. Her family. And worst of all—her mother genuinely seemed to like her. Bua had no idea how to get rid of her now.

By the time Bua made it to the table, her usual seat at the end was already—of course—occupied. Phin grinned up at her, mid-chew, mouth full of crispy pork belly, and patted the empty chair beside her. “Room for one more.”

Bua stared. Then stared at her mother, who was happily spooning soup into bowls like this was perfectly normal. The scene looked like a sitcom she hadn’t agreed to be part of.

“You’re eating,” Bua said flatly, narrowing her eyes.

Phin swallowed and picked up another piece of duck with her chopsticks. “I am. Again.”

“You just ate.”

“I know. Isn’t life beautiful?”

Bua gave her a look—half exasperation, half disbelief. “That was less than an hour ago.”

Phin grinned wider, absolutely unfazed. “What can I say? You know I have a very healthy appetite.”

Auntie Wannee laughed like she’d just heard the best punchline of the week. “She eats like your father did when he was younger. Always happy, always asking for second helpings.”

“I like her already,” Bua’s dad muttered through a mouthful of rice.

Bua sat down slowly, like she wasn’t sure if she was joining dinner or walking into a well-laid ambush.

“You knew she works with me?” Bua asked suspiciously.

“I do now,” Auntie Wannee said brightly. “Isn’t that lovely? What a small world.” She glanced at Phin, beaming. “You didn’t say you knew my daughter.”

Phin, completely unrepentant, dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Didn’t want to scare you off, Auntie. Thought I’d win your heart first, then reveal the plot twist.”

Auntie Wannee laughed, the sound full of warmth. “You’re terrible,” she said, but her voice was laced with unmistakable affection—the kind that softened the edges of every word. “You’re staying for dessert.”

Bua opened her mouth to protest, but her mother shot her a look—the kind that meant Don’t embarrass me in public, I raised you better than this—and that was that. She sat.

Phin, of course, looked far too pleased with herself. “Guess I’m adopted now.”

“You wish,” Bua muttered, stabbing a piece of bitter melon from her bowl.

Her father glanced up from his soup with a spark of recognition in his eyes. “So you’re the one who came up with that chili hollandaise Bua talked about last month?”

Phin perked up. “That’s me. Brunch rebellion.”

He grunted in approval. “It’s strange. But good strange.”

They dove into an animated discussion about fermented lime, sauce reduction, and duck fat crisping techniques like long-lost kitchen comrades. Meanwhile, Pim, seated across the table, kept sneaking glances at Phin like she was watching a real-life Netflix chef documentary. At one point, she leaned toward Bua and whispered, “She’s kinda cool.”

Bua glared at her. Pim grinned wider. Then—the worst part.

Her mother turned to her with that suspiciously sweet smile, eyes glinting like she was putting puzzle pieces together. “She called you ‘sweetheart’ before.”

Bua froze.

“She does?” her father blinked.

“She does,” Pim confirmed, absolutely traitorous.

“And you didn’t yell at her. Or correct her,” Mae Wannee said, taking a thoughtful sip of soup like she was examining a case file. “Interesting.”

“I was... distracted,” Bua mumbled, suddenly very interested in the grains of her rice.

Next to her, Phin sat up a little straighter, barely containing a smug grin. She didn’t say a word—but the way her eyes sparkled, the way her thumb casually brushed against Bua’s under the table like it meant something, made it infinitely worse. She was enjoying every second of this.

Bua closed her eyes. And mentally calculated how many weeks she could avoid coming home before her mother called in reinforcements. Because now? Now they were doomed.

Now Phin wasn’t just at her job. She was at her family dinner table. Charming her father. Earning her little sister’s admiration, and getting extra bowl of soup from her mother.

And her mother—the terrifying, all-seeing, extremely meddlesome matriarch—was absolutely, one hundred percent, going to turn this into a project. Bua was so doomed.

Dinner stretched longer than usual. Bua barely touched her soup, chewing in slow, mechanical bites while everyone around her—especially Phin—seemed to grow more comfortable by the minute.

Phin, who hadn’t even planned to stay, was now planted firmly at the dinner table, elbows on the worn wood, chatting animatedly with Mae Wannee about dried shrimp ratios in chili pastes and regional variations of khanom jeen nam ya. Her eyes lit up when Bua’s mother described the coconut milk her own mother used to squeeze by hand.

Bua wanted to disappear into the floor. By the time the rice cooker had been unplugged, dessert bowls stacked, and tea brewed, it was past nine.

Bua stood up abruptly, gathering her dishes, her bag, anything to signal she was leaving. “I have to go. Early morning tomorrow.”

“You always say that,” Pim muttered.

“I always mean it.”

As she moved to the kitchen, her mother’s voice rang out casually over the clatter of plates. “Phinya, where’s your scooter tonight? Didn’t see it outside.”

“Oh,” Phin rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “Still in the shop. Gearbox issue. I took the MRT.”

Mae Wannee blinked once. Then looked at Bua. And raised a single eyebrow.

Bua squinted. “…What?”

Her mother smiled, far too sweet. “You should drive her home.”

Phin, across the room, blinked innocently. “Oh, I don’t want to trouble anyone—”

Then made puppy eyes at Bua and her mother. Real, shameless, full-power puppy eyes.

Bua groaned like she’d been cursed. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s late,” Mae Wannee added helpfully. “You said yourself she eats well. We don’t want her to get snatched by some bad guy.”

“I don’t want to get stuck in traffic,” Bua grumbled.

“There is no traffic. It’s 9:20 p.m.”

Pim coughed something suspiciously like “just say yes” into her sleeve.

Phin clasped her hands in front of her like she was praying. “I’ll owe you. Big time.”

Bua stared at her. Then at her mother. Then back at Phin’s stupid, grinning face. “…Fine. Let’s go before she makes you pack leftovers too.”

Phin was already on her feet. “You’re my favorite, you know that?”

“Get in the car before I change my mind.”

As they stepped out into the night, Bua let out a long, suffering sigh. And Phin—bouncing a little on her heels, practically glowing—thought she might actually be the luckiest girl in Bangkok.

The car ride started quiet.

The city was winding down around them—Soi lights flickering low, neon signs humming above shuttered shops. Motorbikes zipped past in streaks, but the roads were mostly clear, the air thick with that warm, late-night stillness only Bangkok seemed to master. On the radio, some old Thai ballad crackled low and sentimental, the kind you didn’t admit you liked, but never changed when it came on.

Phin sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with the strap of her bag, sneakers tucked up on the edge of the seat like she lived there. She was still smiling, but softer now. Not smug—content.

Bua glanced sideways at her, then back to the road. “Where’s your scooter?”

Phin blinked. “In the shop. I told your mom.”

“I’ve seen you ride that bright red thing every single damn day before.”

Phin’s smile widened. “Didn’t think you noticed.”

“You park it like you’re in a product placement ad. It’s hard not to.”

“Well, the gear shifter’s acting up. I didn’t want to risk dying before dessert.”

Bua snorted. “Convenient. And how now, I’m the one driving you home.”

Phin tilted her head, clearly trying to look innocent and failing miserably. “Feels a little like fate, doesn’t it?”

“Feels like a conspiracy.”

“You’re not wrong,” Phin said cheerfully.

Bua muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like "unbelievable.”

And then, finally—eyes back on the road, voice a touch too casual—she said, “You really didn’t have to stay for dessert.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Phin said simply. “But your mom liked talking to me. And you—well, you looked like you needed moral support.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Bua glanced at her. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet here you are, driving me home like a reluctant rom-com  protagonist.”

“That’s because my mother threatened to guilt-trip me into next year.”

Phin leaned her cheek against the window, eyes twinkling. “Admit it, though. You were a little charmed.”

Bua didn’t answer. Which, in itself, was an answer. They drove in silence a little longer, the kind that wasn’t awkward—but slow, deliberate. Charged with the knowledge of everything unsaid between them, everything simmering since that night in the car outside Phin’s building.

When they finally pulled up to her apartment, Phin didn’t move. She looked at the building. Then at Bua. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—teasing, but with something tender under the surface.

“You know… you could stop pretending you don’t want me.”

Bua kept her eyes on the steering wheel, knuckles tight.

Phin didn’t push—just continued, softer now. “Because I like you. You know that, right? I’ve stopped pretending a while ago.”

Silence.

“And I think…” Phin tilted her head, watching her carefully, “you feel the same.”

Bua finally turned to look at her. No glare this time, no eye roll. Just—quiet.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it, that kiss” Phin said, cutting gently through her protest. “And I really hope it’s not the last.”

Her eyes met Phin’s—and there it was again, that same open, terrifying honesty. No jokes to hide behind. No convenient deflections. Just Phin, sitting in her car, in her space, saying things that made Bua’s pulse stutter in her throat. In this tiny car, on this quiet street, she had nowhere to run. No busy kitchen. No paperwork excuse. No walls to hide behind.

Her heart pounded like it wanted out of her chest.

There was nowhere to hide from it—not with Phin sitting beside her, voice soft and steady, like she’d been holding those words in for days and had finally decided to stop playing it cool. Not with the air in the car thick with things unsaid, unsorted.

And Phin, completely aware of the tension stretching between them, didn’t press—just smiled, like she knew exactly how much space to leave.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said again, voice quiet. “I just wanted you to know.”

That was it. No pressure. No follow-up. But somehow, that made it worse.

Because now Bua was stuck in her own car, in her own silence, with her own wildly traitorous heartbeat thudding so loud she was sure Phin could hear it. She turned slightly, finally facing her, and there was something raw in Phin’s expression—hope, maybe. Or certainty. Or both.

And that was all Phin needed.

She reached across the console, slow enough to be stopped, gentle enough to be misread—but Bua didn’t stop her. Didn’t even flinch.

Phin’s hand found her cheek, fingers brushing warm and light, and then—

Her lips caught Bua’s.

Softer than the first. Deeper. Steadier. Wanting. Not a dare this time. Not a test. Not a heat-of-the-moment impulse. Just real.

And Bua—Bua didn’t push her away.

She kissed her back, almost automatically, almost like she’d been waiting for permission. Her hand curled into the front of Phin’s shirt, fingers fisting tight in the soft cotton, and she yanked her closer across the console with zero concern for logistics. The gearshift dug into Phin’s hip. The space between them was cramped, awkward, full of limbs and breathless tension—but none of that mattered.

Not when their mouths found each other again—this time slower. Deeper. Phin let out a soft sound, something between a hum and a gasp, when Bua’s lips parted just enough. When her tongue flicked out, tentative at first. Testing. And then not-so-tentative anymore.

Phin responded instantly, hands bracing against the passenger seat, kissing her like she’d wanted to for days—with intent, with heat curling at the edges, lips parting wider, tongue sliding in to meet hers, slow and deliberate, until the kiss wasn’t soft anymore—it was molten.

It was the kind of kiss that left no room for denial.

Bua’s pulse thundered in her throat. Her head spun with it. With Phin’s taste, with the way her fingers skimmed lightly down the side of her neck. With how her laugh had disappeared and turned into something quieter, hungrier. They broke apart only because breathing became a necessity.

Even then, they stayed close—foreheads touching, breath mingling, the scent of tea and heat between them. When they finally broke apart, Bua stayed still, eyes closed, hand still fisted in Phin’s shirt like she hadn’t realized she was holding on.

Phin didn’t move either.

“Just so we’re clear,” she murmured, lips still close enough to brush against Bua’s, “I’m definitely will kiss you again.”

Bua didn’t answer right away. But she let go of her shirt slowly, like waking up from a dream, then leaned back into her seat, staring out at the road like she needed to remember how to function. Phin didn’t push it. She just lingered a beat longer, still smiling—like she was memorizing the way Bua looked in the low, flickering streetlight. Then she unbuckled her seatbelt with a soft click.

Bua rolled her eyes. “Go.”

But Phin didn’t go just yet. Instead, she leaned back in, hand braced lightly on the door, and kissed Bua on the cheek—soft and quick, just a brush of warm lips against skin. Bua froze.

Not because she was caught off guard (though she absolutely was), but because she could feel the heat rushing up her neck. Her cheek wasn’t just red—it was on fire. Not that anyone could see, thank God, because the car was dim and the only light came from a blinking sign across the street. Phin, clearly pleased with herself, grinned like a fool.

“Goodnight, Baibua,” she whispered, using the nickname with just enough sweetness to be dangerous. And then, before Bua could retaliate or throw something at her, she slipped out of the car with a bounce in her step and disappeared into the lobby.

Bua sat there. Alone. Quiet. Staring at the empty passenger seat like it had personally betrayed her. Her lips were still tingling. And then she saw it. Phin’s jacket—slung casually over the seat like it lived there. Worn denim, soft at the edges, sleeves half-crumpled. Of course she left it. Deliberately. No one accidentally forgets a jacket when they make a whole dramatic production of unbuckling a seatbelt and leaning in for one last cheek kiss.

Must’ve left it on purpose, Bua thought, narrowing her eyes. Of course she did. This is Phinya we’re talking about.

Still. She reached for it anyway.

Fingers brushing over the fabric, tentative at first, like it might burn her. It didn’t. It was warm from where Phin had been wearing it, and it smelled like her too—lemongrass and galangal, maybe a hint of mint shampoo and something that was just... Phin.

Bua stared at it for a beat longer. Then, with a sigh, she brought it to her face and—completely, completely against her better judgment—inhaled. Deep. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Dammit.

She dropped the jacket onto her lap a second later and gripped the steering wheel like it might anchor her sanity—before she did something even more humiliating, like call Phin in the middle of the night or, God forbid, admit she liked being called Baibua.

She didn’t stop smiling the whole drive home. But she didn’t move the jacket either. It stayed right there on her lap the entire way—warm, familiar, and far too comforting for something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

—

Across the city, Phin dropped her bag by the door, spun once in her tiny kitchen like a cartoon character, and flopped face-first onto her bed—barefoot, starry-eyed, and absolutely still grinning.

She didn’t even try to tone it down. Didn’t pretend to be cool. Didn’t even care that she’d left her jacket in Bua’s car. Because Bua kissed her back. And that was going to carry her straight through till morning.

—

Bua, meanwhile, told herself it was the food that made her feel warm. That pork belly had been particularly good. And the soup. And the rice. That had to be it. Definitely not the kiss. Or the second kiss. Or the cheek kiss. Or the way Phin said her name like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely just dinner.

That was her story. And she clung to it as she pulled the blanket over her head, lips twitching despite herself. Because then later—she went to sleep smiling, too.

Chapter Text

Tuesday had come and gone without incident. No kisses. No breathless glances in doorways. No fingertips brushing on purpose. Neither of them tried. Not really.

The day had been packed—delivery issues, prep delays, last-minute supplier calls, and a walkthrough for Friday’s charity event that ran longer than it should have. Bua buried herself in logistics like her life depended on it, while Phin—surprisingly—kept her distance. No wink. No flirtatious lean against her desk. No “Good morning, sweetheart.”

Not that it meant she’d stopped thinking about it. Bua wasn’t stupid. She saw the way Phin looked at her when she thought she wasn’t watching—like she was already drafting a hundred different plans to steal another kiss.

And Bua? She was thinking about it too. Not that she’d admit it. Not even under oath. They hadn’t talked about it. Not Monday night, not Tuesday. Phin hadn’t brought it up, and Bua sure as hell wasn’t going to. Maybe they could just go back to normal. Whatever normal even meant now.

Its Wednesday morning, and Bua woke up ten minutes before her alarm. Again.

She lay still, staring at the ceiling fan, one arm flung over her forehead like she could press the dreams away before they lingered too long. Not that she dreamed of anything. Certainly not red lips and denim jackets or smug smiles that tasted like roasted chili paste.

She turned over with a grunt.

It was Wednesday. Middle of the week. Middle of the month. A day just like any other—except it wasn’t, because something had shifted, quietly, insistently, and now her apartment felt different. She hadn’t touched Phin’s jacket since Monday night, but it still sat draped over the chair near the counter, like it had claimed squatters’ rights. Like it belonged there.

Bua glared at it while brushing her teeth. Then she got dressed.

Her usual black button-up felt too stiff today, too sharp. She chose a soft olive blouse instead—short sleeves, slightly loose, collar open. Something about it made her feel… more herself. Or maybe just less defensive. She left her hair down too, half-dry from the shower, and told herself it was because she didn’t feel like bothering with a bun.

Not because anyone would notice. She was finishing her coffee—black, no sugar—when her phone lit up with a notification.

Phinya Thananont : Just checking if my jacket’s still alive. Tell it I miss it. Also. Morning, BB 💋

Bua stared at the message, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. But she didn’t reply. She picked up her keys instead, slid her sunglasses into her bag, and left the apartment with a huff—like she could outrun the heat rising to her cheeks.

*****

The lunch service that Wednesday had gone off without a hitch—smooth, steady, even a little boring by KIN KAO standards. No near-fires, no shouting matches over garnish placement, not even a single missing supplier crate. Bua was almost suspicious.

By four o’clock, with the last pans scrubbed and service stations wiped down, the energy in the kitchen had shifted. Prep for the Friday charity event was in full swing—Jai double-checking inventory, Jin chopping herbs in rhythmic focus, Nam hovering near the pastry station testing custard temperatures like it was an Olympic event.

Music hummed from a speaker tucked behind the spice rack, soft and jazzy, almost too calm for a kitchen. And in the middle of it all: Phin.

She didn’t have to cook staff meal that day—Jai was on the schedule—but Phin had rolled up her sleeves, tied her apron, and commandeered two burners like it was a battlefield.

“Let me spoil you,” she’d said, entirely too pleased with herself, while tossing chopped garlic and bird’s eye chilies into a hot wok.

Now the kitchen smelled like holy basil, cracked peppercorns, and sizzling pork belly—bold, sharp, and unfairly inviting. Exactly the kind of scent that turned heads and softened moods. A bribe in edible form.

Meanwhile, in her office, Bua sat hunched over invoices and final order forms. She was rereading the same spreadsheet for the third time when there was a knock.

“Busy?”

That voice.

Bua didn’t even look up. “Always.”

“Perfect,” Phin said, poking her head in with a grin. “I’m here to ruin your schedule.”

“Shocking.”

“I made food.”

“You remembered you’re a chef. I’m impressed.”

“This one’s for you,” Phin said, stepping fully into the office like she owned the place. “Basil stir-fried pork belly. Fried duck egg. Extra chili—because I love you.” Bua arched a brow.

Phin grinned wider. “Platonically. Professionally. Calm down.” Bua gave her a long, deadpan stare.

“I have paperwork.”

“You also have a stomach. And eyes that look mildly dead inside.”

“You’re very rude.”

“Come on,” Phin added, her voice softer now. “Everyone’s there. It’s not a trap. It’s just food. I made it because I care. And because I know you’ll skip meals if no one reminds you. So—consider this your reminder. A delicious, charming, extra-chili reminder.”

Phin continued, “Ten minutes. You don’t even have to talk. I promise I’ll behave”

“You never behave.”

“I’ll behave while chewing. That’s something.”

Bua stared at her, weighed the options, and sighed like it was the hardest decision she’d ever made. “Fine. Just for ten minutes.”

“Victory,” Phin said, fist-pumping as she backed out. “Don’t make me come drag you out. I will do it. And it will be adorable.”

When Bua entered the kitchen a few minutes later, the reaction was… immediate.

Nam paused with a spoon halfway to her mouth. Jamie did a double-take so sharp it almost sprained their neck. Even Auntie Song lifted her eyebrows like she’d just seen a UFO.

Phin, seated at the center of the long prep table, scooted over dramatically and patted the empty chair beside her. “Reserved for royalty.”

Bua gave her a look that promised murder, but she sat anyway—right beside her. She nudged the chair an inch away, subtle but deliberate. Close, but not that close.

“She came,” Nam whispered to Jamie behind her hand.

“She followed her,” Jamie corrected, eyes gleaming. “That’s different.”

The meal itself was, of course, incredible—simple but packed with flavor in that obnoxiously effortless way Phin had. The pork belly was perfectly crisp around the edges, slick with sweet heat from basil and chili oil. The rice was fluffy and fragrant, with just enough garlic to make it dangerous. And the fried duck egg—runny yolk spilling like golden lava—sat right on top like a crown.

Bua didn’t say a word about any of it. But she start eating.

Phin, seated beside her, didn’t even try to hide the way she watched her eat—grinning like a fool when Bua took the first bite and then, without pausing, the second. She added another fried egg onto Bua’s plate halfway through, completely unprompted.

Bua didn’t thank her. Didn’t even blink. She just kept eating.

Phin slid a glass of water in her direction next and nudged it toward her. Still no thanks. Still no comment. Just a quiet sip between mouthfuls, like this was completely normal. And somehow… it was.

They weren’t speaking. But something unspoken was happening anyway. Something soft and full of heat—uncomplicated in this moment. It was like Phin had pulled Bua into a different rhythm, a quieter orbit. Her orbit. Their own little world carved out between bites of pork and mouthfuls of jasmine rice. No one around them missed it.

Nam was openly smirking. Jamie gave an exaggerated blink like they were witnessing a solar eclipse. Jai shot a look across the table that said Should we leave? while Jin kept shoveling food into his mouth like none of it concerned him in the slightest.

But Bua didn’t notice. And Phin didn’t care.

She leaned back slightly in her chair, still grinning like she’d won something, and picked at her own plate. Every now and then, her knee brushed Bua’s under the table—not enough to be obvious. But definitely not accidental.

And Bua?

She didn’t move away.

*****

Friday Morning – Charity Event Day

The sun wasn’t even fully up when Bua arrived at KIN KAO. The city outside was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes, but inside the restaurant, everything was already in motion—staff moving in coordinated silence, trays clinking softly as prep work began, the low murmur of final instructions being exchanged over folded linens and polishing cloths. The scent of starch, jasmine garlands, and freshly mopped tiles hung faintly in the air.

Today wasn’t just any service.

The restaurant had been exclusively closed for a high-level charity dinner, hosted by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in collaboration with a regional humanitarian foundation. The event aimed to raise awareness and funds for cross-border nutrition and food security initiatives in Southeast Asia—specifically programs supporting access to clean water, education, and sustainable agriculture in underserved rural communities.

Though the dinner wasn’t covered by press or open to the public, the guest list read like a Who’s Who of the region’s elite: foreign ambassadors, a former prime minister, royal family members, and senior policy officials from Thailand’s diplomatic and cultural sectors. All twenty-four guests were seated between two long communal tables—a subtle statement about unity and shared responsibility.

It wasn’t the first time KIN KAO had hosted a discreet but diplomatically significant affair. The restaurant’s name had long become synonymous with modern Thai cuisine elevated with purpose—a place where tradition met innovation, and where the food was as politically resonant as it was beautiful.

For Chef Dhanin, the event was deeply personal: he’d once grown up in a province affected by food scarcity. And for Phin, it was more than just a chance to shine—it was a test of vision, execution, and leadership under pressure. The weight of that wasn’t lost on anyone in the kitchen.

And for Bua, it was about precision. Control. Her job was to make sure every moving part—service, flow, presentation, timing—fit together like an orchestra with no room for discord. She wasn’t just the manager tonight; she was the firewall between chaos and perfection. With dignitaries and diplomats seated just meters away from her staff, even the smallest mistake could echo louder than any compliment. She thrived in high-pressure environments—but tonight, even she felt the hum beneath her skin. It mattered. To all of them.

The menu for the evening, curated by Phin and approved earlier in the week, leaned into the theme of “Shared Harvest”—drawing inspiration from regional ingredients and family-style roots, reimagined through a modern lens. Each course told a story of balance: land and sea, spice and softness, past and present.

There would be no press, no influencers or camera flashes. Just discreet, high-stakes diplomacy served across six flawless courses.

Bua stepped inside wearing tailored black slacks and a crisp, open-collared white shirt—still sharp, still her—but with an edge softened by intent. Her hair was loose, swept behind her ears instead of wound into her usual unforgiving bun. Mauve lipstick—not bold, but noticeable—caught the light when she passed beneath the hanging brass fixtures. She looked like she had somewhere important to be. Which she did.

And it didn’t go unnoticed. Phin nearly walked into the prep counter when she saw her.

She’d been mid-conversation with Nam about the plating logistics when Bua strolled past the front station, clipboard in hand, sleeves rolled just high enough to show the silver of her watch. Effortless. In control. Lethal. Phin blinked. Then blinked again. And then turned fully around, eyebrows raised, a slow, idiotic grin spreading across her face like someone had just lit the fuse.

Nam elbowed her sharply. “Focus. Sauce spoons first. Staring later.”

Phin didn’t reply—just hummed under her breath, low and pleased, like she was trying not to skip across the kitchen.

Out in the dining room, the transformation was already well underway. KIN KAO’s usual stripped-down, modern elegance had been elevated into something quietly opulent for the night. The lighting had been softened to a golden glow. Jasmine garlands curled around the bases of flickering candles, and delicate white orchids had been carefully tucked into each table setting. Crisp white linens dressed the two long banquet tables, their folds knife-sharp, and the polished flatware gleamed under the chandeliers. It smelled faintly of floor polish, gardenia water, and anticipation.

The maître d’, moved with quiet authority now—leading the front-of-house team like a conductor. Every server’s movement was timed, precise, practiced. He stopped occasionally to consult with Bua, who stood near the host station with a tablet in hand, her expression focused but calm. She approved small changes with a nod here, an adjustment there. Nothing escaped her.

Jamie, at the bar, was deep in final glassware inspection, lifting each wine glass to the light and checking for even the faintest smudge. Their tie was knotted perfectly, and their silver sommelier pin gleamed under the downlights. The wine pairings had been chosen with diplomatic tact and exacting taste, and Jamie would be the one navigating every pour throughout the evening—flawlessly, as always.

Somewhere near the back, Auntie Song barked orders about napkin folds like national security depended on them. Everyone knew what today was.

Back in the kitchen, Bua made a round, checking inventory deliveries for the event menu—everything from duck breast to kaffir lime to the custom dessert trays for Nam’s wild mango custard.

Phin entered the cold room right behind her.

“Morning, boss,” she said, easy as anything.

“You’re early,” Bua replied without looking up.

Phin leaned against the edge of the fridge. “Big day. Wanted to make sure the chillers didn’t explode overnight.”

Bua gave her a look. “Or to make sure I saw you looking like you stepped out of a food magazine shoot?”

Phin grinned, red lipstick sharp against her skin. “It’s for the donors. And possibly one very particular restaurant manager.”

Bua clicked her pen and turned back to the checklist, but the corners of her mouth threatened betrayal.

Back in the kitchen, Phin had rolled up her sleeves and tied her apron tight, her chef whites already dusted with rice flour and turmeric. She stood at the center of the prep line like the eye of a storm—calm, alert, commanding. The kitchen buzzed around her: trays shuttled in and out of the blast chiller, sauces were reduced and labeled, garnishes trimmed with tweezers. Every station was fully manned, but all eyes kept flicking to her, waiting for cues.

“Check the curry paste again,” Phin said, without looking up. “And make sure the kaffir lime is evenly blitzed this time—I don’t want a single bite tasting off-balance.”

Jai nodded and moved immediately. Jin was slicing galangal so precisely it looked like a textbook diagram. Even Nam, usually the most chaotic presence in the pastry corner, was focused, bent over a sugar sculpture with her tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

The six-course menu was a reflection of KIN KAO’s culinary philosophy: deeply Thai, rooted in memory, elevated by precision. A reinterpretation of childhood flavors made to impress diplomats.

Phin’s hands were steady, but she felt every tick of the clock press against her skin. Not panic—she thrived under pressure—but this was different. She wasn’t just showing off technique. She was telling a story. And Bua… Bua would be watching.

Across the restaurant, in a quieter part of the building, Bua was already in motion, tablet in hand, phone in her back pocket. She moved through the dining room with her usual quiet authority, scanning every detail with a practiced eye: floral placement, water levels, napkin creases. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she moved down each aisle between tables like she could hear the whole night ahead of time.

She stopped once to speak to the maître d’, voice low, measured. “Table One—switch out the seat closest to the balcony for a sturdier chair. That guest had surgery last year.” He nodded and made the note instantly.

She checked the sound system levels next—no feedback, jazz playlist queued. Then the restroom signage, the backup power supply, the fire extinguisher access. Nothing was too small.

By the time she stepped into the kitchen—just briefly, to do her last round—Phin looked up from her station, their eyes meeting for a beat.

Bua didn’t smile. But she gave a small nod. Phin smiled anyway.

Service would begin in less than an hour—thirty minutes before the guests were set to arrive. The dining room was nearly ready. Candles flickered to life, casting soft glows across linen-draped tables. Orchids swayed gently in the filtered air. Final checks had been completed. In the hallway, the jazz quartet tuned their instruments, warm notes drifting in like a promise.

Phin stood just outside Bua’s office, hands dusted clean, jacket freshly pressed. She raised her hand once, paused, then knocked lightly.

“Come in.”

The door clicked shut behind her. The hum of the restaurant dimmed. Inside, Bua was at her desk, posture straight but not rigid, her blazer already hung behind the door. She looked up—and this time, she didn’t frown. Didn’t raise a brow. Just met Phin’s gaze with something quieter. Something almost warm.

“You okay?” she asked, setting her tablet down.

Phin let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Honestly? I might throw up. But apart from that—thriving.”

Bua’s mouth twitched. “Don’t throw up. We already polished the floors.”

Phin laughed, stepping further inside. “I keep going over the sequence in my head. Sauce pours. garnish placement. The mango custard… God, I hope that brittle sets.”

“It will,” Bua said, without hesitation. “You’ve checked it six times.”

“Seven,” Phin corrected, hands on her hips. “Which I feel is a healthy number for panic.”

Bua stood slowly, walked around her desk, and leaned back against it. No arms folded, no cold armor—just her. Crisp white shirt slightly rumpled, lipstick still intact, eyes watching her like she was trying to see through every layer of bravado.

“I can’t stop thinking about whether the duck will come out right. Or if that mango custard is set enough. Or if the soup bowl rim is too shallow for the—”

“Phin,” Bua interrupted gently.

Phin bit her lip. “Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

And she did. Just once. But it helped.

Then, voice low and a little sheepish, she said, “Can I ask something dumb?”

Bua blinked. “You’re going to anyway.”

“I think I need… a hug. Just. For nerves. Not trying to seduce you.” She raised both hands as if swearing it. “Mostly.”

There was a beat of silence. Bua didn’t roll her eyes this time. She just looked at her. Looked at her for a little too long. And then—quietly, like it didn’t cost her anything—she said, “Come here.”

No smirk. No teasing. No sarcastic retort.

Just that: Come here.

Phin didn’t wait. She stepped in, carefully, like approaching something fragile. And Bua met her halfway.

The hug wasn’t fast. Or awkward. It was slow—arms winding around waists like it was the most natural thing in the world. A soft curve against soft curve. Feminine warmth pressed together, not clashing but fitting. Holding. Not too tight. Not too long. But perfect.

Phin’s face tucked against Bua’s shoulder. Bua’s hand settled between Phin’s shoulder blades, steady and warm. Neither of them moved for a long moment.

“You’ll be brilliant,” Bua said, softer now, her voice muffled against Phin’s shoulder. “Just cook. That’s what matters.”

Phin smiled into her shoulder. “I’ll try. But if I set something on fire, I hope you lie to the royal family for me.”

“Absolutely not.”

That earned a quiet laugh as Phin finally, reluctantly, pulled back. Phin studied her for a second, her chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

“You’re staying in the kitchen tonight?” she asked.

Bua nodded. “I’ll be watching from the pass. Not hovering. Just… there.”

“Good,” Phin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I like knowing you’re there.”

Their eyes held. The weight of the night pressed in from all sides—but for one second, the only thing between them was something steady. Unspoken. Sure.

Then Bua cleared her throat and stepped back. “Alright. Show time.”

Phin saluted. “Yes, boss.”

And as she walked out the door, Bua allowed herself one small smile behind her hand—before grabbing her headset and getting ready to face the evening head-on.

More guests began to arrive—quiet but unmistakably high-profile. Their presence didn’t need announcement. Elegant suits, silk gowns, subtle jewels. An ambassador from one of the EU nations offered a gracious nod to Bua as he passed. A member of the royal family, escorted discreetly by security, was seated near the head of one of the two long tables. The air inside KIN KAO seemed to shift with every new arrival—richer, heavier, threaded with expectation.

The maître d’, in a perfectly pressed black suit, moved like clockwork between the doors and the tables, confirming names, giving cues to the waitstaff, and finally offering a soft but firm announcement that prompted the beginning of the evening: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be inviting you to take your seats shortly. Thank you for being with us.”

Waiters—flawless in their white shirts and crisp aprons—glided between tables, assisting guests as they took their assigned seats. The sound of soft jazz now floated from the quartet tucked near the back wall, strings and brass warm and unobtrusive.

Bua stood near the service entrance, clipboard in hand, watching every detail. Her eyes swept the room—table placements, staff spacing, the timing of the champagne pour. She gave a subtle nod to Jamie, who adjusted the wine sequence with a flick of the wrist, already reading the room with practiced ease.

Then, one of the ministry officials stepped forward, welcomed the guests on behalf of the Foreign Affairs office, and offered a few words about the night’s purpose: a fundraising effort to support sustainable agricultural development in drought-affected provinces in Northern Thailand. It was not the first time the Ministry had partnered with Chef Dhanin’s foundation—but it was, by all accounts, their most ambitious dinner to date.

“Tonight,” the speaker said, “we are reminded that food is not only sustenance—but memory, community, and responsibility.”

Soft applause followed.

Chef Dhanin rose next, simple in tone but commanding in presence. “Thank you for being here at KIN KAO,” he began, voice calm and grounded. “Tonight’s menu is built around heirloom Thai ingredients—many of which are being preserved or re-cultivated in the very provinces this charity supports. The flavors will be bold. Sometimes nostalgic. Sometimes unfamiliar. But always intentional.”

He glanced toward the kitchen doors.

“My head chef this evening—Phinya Thananont—has crafted a menu with her team that reflects our country’s past and future. We hope you enjoy it.”

Another round of polite applause followed. The maitre d’ glanced toward the kitchen. And behind those doors—hidden from the flicker of candlelight—Phin stood just inside the cold line, hands flexing at her sides. She could feel the tempo of the room shifting. Everyone around her had taken their positions. It was almost time.

Her favorite yellow banana-print bandana—lucky, ridiculous, and knotted tight across her head—was already in place. She wore it like armor. It made Nam grin and Jai roll his eyes every time, but tonight it grounded her.

She inhaled once, slow and deep. Show time.

She turned toward the service window—and through the thin slit in the door, her eyes found Bua. Just for a second.

Bua was already looking at her. No clipboard. No notes. Just her.

And something passed between them—steady, wordless, and quietly electric. You’ve got this, her eyes seemed to say. Phin’s shoulders eased. Her fingers curled once. Then she nodded, barely visible, and turned back to her station. Behind her, the first call rang out from the pass.

“Fire amuse.”

Service had begun.

Service began with reverent hush. Napkins were lifted, wine glasses tilted in soft clinks, and the low hum of the quartet settled into the corners of the room.

First course: the chilled watermelon and fish sauce granita. A dish that shouldn’t have worked, but did—bright, sweet, savory, and bizarre in the best way. The sharp scent of fermented fish sauce hit the table before the servers even explained the dish. Guests hesitated at first, but the first spoonful sparked curious murmurs. Across one table, a foreign ambassador muttered something impressed in French. Someone else whispered, “What is this—and why does it taste like magic?”

Phin, hidden in the kitchen, kept her head down. But Nam peeked through the service window, smirked, and whispered, “They’re into it.”

Back in the kitchen, the rhythm was relentless—but precise.

As the guests enjoying the first course—Phin and her team were already preparing course two. That was the dance of fine dining: while one dish hit the table, the next was already on the fire. Timed down to the second. No delays. No dish sitting too long in the pass. The temperature had to be perfect, the plating clean, the flavor consistent across every plate. The kitchen ran like a well-rehearsed symphony. Phin worked the meat station, checking internal temperatures on the duck with one glance.

When the time is up, course two was also up. Phin’s voice was steady but sharp, guiding her team through final plating like a conductor at the crescendo of a symphony. “Wipe the rim—clean. Garnish tight. Sauce in the pourer, not on the duck.”

Dark, glistening slices of dry-aged duck breast fanned out like lacquered ribbons across each plate. Beside them, a small mound of mushroom rice—flecked with grilled scallion tips and garlic oil—held its shape like a polished stone. A tiny hand-glazed pourer of tamarind jus nestled beside each setup, rich and gleaming.

Jai adjusted the final plate. Phin nodded once. “Go.”

And like choreography set to the beat of adrenaline, the food runners moved—balancing two plates each with practiced grace. Their path toward the dining room was almost a dance: pivot, glide, lift. The pass cleared. Course two was on its way.

Out in the dining room, servers stepped forward with fluid synchronicity, gently pouring the tamarind jus tableside, the scent of grilled chili and palm sugar hitting the air just before the first bite. Candles flickered. Silver cutlery paused in elegant hands.

Chef Dhanin, seated at the second table, cut into the duck without a word. He chewed slowly. Thoughtfully. Then, on the second bite, his lips quirked upward. Just slightly.

Bua caught it. From her post near the entrance, half-shrouded in shadow, she watched that almost-smile like it was gold. No one else would’ve noticed. But she did. That was approval. In his language, it was nearly effusive. She didn’t grin. But she did curl her fingers into quiet fists at her side—a reflex of pride, sharp and bright and impossible to suppress.

Phin, in the eye of the storm, moved from station to station—tasting, adjusting, leading. There was no time for nerves now. Her voice was low, focused. “Grouper gets pulled in five. Broth needs to be hot enough to bloom the aromatics—no lukewarm shortcuts. Let’s go.”

As course two hit the floor, course three was already mid-prep.
No one sat. No one checked their phones. This was the rhythm of a six-course service for high-ranking officials and royalty—a ballet of heat, plating, timing, and perfection.

By the time the last tamarind jus had been poured and the final bite of duck savored, the kitchen was already moving—seamless, efficient, humming like a living thing.

Course three: the palate cleanser wrapped in elegance.

Steam rose gently as black stone bowls were lined up across the pass, their matte surfaces contrasting with the luminous broth within. Phin moved along the line with focused calm, adjusting garnishes with long tweezers and a steady hand.

Each bowl held a delicate fillet of steamed grouper, the flesh gleaming white and perfectly opaque, perched like a jewel in the center of a fermented citrus and lemongrass broth—light but deeply aromatic. There was something haunting in the scent, like memory folded into flavor.

On top, shaved pickled green mango curled like pale petals, crowned with a careful splash of chili oil and a scattering of fresh sawtooth coriander—sharp, fragrant, almost wild.

“Go,” Phin called, softer now, but clear.

The food runners returned, gliding through the kitchen and into the candlelit dining room, where the air had shifted—conversation quieter, glasses half-full. A subtle hush fell as the servers placed the bowls, the aroma of citrus and lemongrass drifting forward before the bowls even landed.

Spoons dipped. Broth rippled. One ambassador leaned over to murmur something to his dining companion—an appreciative nod, a shared smile.

And again, Bua saw it all.

She stood just beside the threshold, clipboard forgotten at her side, her gaze trained on the table where Chef Dhanin sat, watching him with the kind of intensity most people reserved for life-or-death decisions. He picked up his spoon, and he went back for a second taste. And that, too, was something.

If the grouper had been elegance in a bowl, the fourth course was a showstopper.

Grilled river prawn benedict over a crispy sweet potato rösti, crowned with a slow-cured yolk and doused in a bold nam jim hollandaise—smoky, spicy, unapologetic.

The dish walked the tightrope between fine dining and pure fun, its golden yolk glinting under the pendant lights, sauce cascading in glossy ribbons as it was spooned tableside. It was brunch, reimagined. Dramatic. Risky. Pure Phin.

The servers moved with practiced grace, their trays gleaming under the dining room’s softened lights. From where Bua stood—half-shadowed by an arrangement of white orchids—she could see the ripple of surprise as the plates landed. A few raised brows. Curious smiles. Then: forks dipped, broke the yolk, lifted the rösti.

And laughter. Delight.

A man seated near the end of the left table leaned over and said something loudly enough that others turned. It was in Thai, but with a clipped accent—someone from the diplomatic corps, clearly. His glass was raised. “Chef Dhanin,” he called. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Dhanin, who had just dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, gave the man a slow smile. Then he tipped his glass in return.

He didn’t take credit. He didn’t need to.

Everyone at his table already knew who was running the kitchen tonight.

From her place near the entrance, Bua caught herself grinning—like an idiot. She wasn’t usually one for open pride, but damn if she wasn’t glowing. Her arms were crossed, her clipboard tucked under one elbow, but her eyes—her eyes were locked on the pass.

Phin was visible for a moment between trays—her hair damp with kitchen heat, sleeves pushed up, a small splash of nam jim hollandaise on her apron. She didn’t look up. Didn’t see the smile aimed her way. But Bua smiled anyway. Beamed, even. And told herself it was just professional pride. Totally, absolutely professional.

The fifth course was rustic by design—grilled baby eggplants, halved and charred just enough to blister their skins, stuffed with a house-made yellow curry paste rich with galangal and turmeric. On top: pickled mustard greens, sharp and bright, and a scatter of toasted mung beans for bite.

The room quieted again. It wasn’t flashy. No smoke. No pour-over drama. But the flavors did the work—deep, nostalgic heat with an edge of something almost homely. A few guests paused between bites to whisper to each other. One ambassador leaned over to toast Chef Dhanin across the table with his wine glass, offering a small salute before returning to his plate. Dhanin didn’t smile, but he inclined his head, and that meant something.

From her place just beyond the dining room doors, Bua watched it all—shoulders drawn but eyes gleaming. Every plated course was a step closer. Every clear dish that came back was a promise fulfilled. No mistakes. No dropped spoons. No garnish missing. Perfect execution, start to finish. And then—finally—dessert.

The wild mango custard made its entrance with deceptive quiet. No glitter, no height, no flourish. Just a round, set custard, warm yellow in color, nestled on matte porcelain. The top was dusted with toasted coconut, a brittle shard of black sesame perched like sculpture, and a delicate lime leaf sugar tuile balanced with impossible elegance. It looked like restraint. It tasted like summer. There was no need for notes or corrections. The guests dipped in, and the reaction—muted, reverent—said enough.

Bua finally exhaled. Not a small breath. A real one. The kind that started in her belly and softened her entire frame. Her hand dropped from her earpiece. Her shoulders eased down a notch. It was done. She slipped into the kitchen.

Inside, it was like the aftermath of a storm—messy, loud, and somehow glorious. Laughter floated above the clang of pans being stacked. Someone popped open a soda. Auntie Song was already untangling her apron, complaining about her back, but smiling like she’d won the lottery.

Nam leaned against the fridge, cheeks flushed, smiling wide when she spotted Bua. She mouthed, “We did it,” and raised both fists in victory. Jai and Jin mimed a double high-five across a counter, still wired, still glowing. And at the far end, near the back door, stood Phin.

Her bright yellow bandana was still knotted on, though her hair had all but escaped it. Her chef jacket was soaked down the back, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a smear of sauce on the collar. She was bracing herself against the prep table, breathing deep, like she didn’t quite believe it was over yet. Then she looked up—and saw Bua.

Their eyes caught. And this time, Bua didn’t look away. She smiled—really smiled—soft and slow and full of something that didn’t need to be named. Pride. Admiration. Maybe more.

Phin blinked like she was afraid to move. And then her mouth curved into a wide, crooked, stunned grin. No words passed between them. But something did. It buzzed through the quiet hum of the cooler, through the metallic scent of steam and steel, through the soft scrape of a spoon somewhere behind them. A shared truth, hanging in the space between:

They did this. Together.

*****

The building had fallen quiet. The candles in the dining room had long burned down. The scent of lemongrass and tamarind still lingered in the air, clinging faintly to the walls, the uniforms, the corners of Bua’s collar. Most of the staff had clocked out an hour ago, laughter trailing with them as they peeled off into the Bangkok night.

Only Bua remained. She always was the last to leave. Final checks, signed invoices, a sweep through every room. Control was her comfort. She turned off the last light near the host stand and grabbed her keys—when she saw someone waiting near the back exit. Leaning casually against the glass door, still in her chef whites, jacket unbuttoned halfway, bandana now slung loose around her neck— Phin.

She straightened when she saw Bua, then smiled. Not that smug, cocky grin she usually wore in the kitchen. This one was... softer. Calmer. Like the kind of smile meant just for her.

“Thought you’d vanished into your paperwork forever,” Phin said, voice low and teasing.

“I was about to vanish into my car,” Bua replied dryly, one brow lifting. “And maybe into a coma.”

Phin pushed off the glass door with a lazy stretch. “Need company? I’m excellent at silently judging parking techniques. Five stars on Grab”

Bua gave her a long look. “I bet you talk through the whole ride.”

“Only if the driver’s cute,” Phin said, eyes glittering.

Bua snorted. “You're impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Phin’s grin widened. “Also: I smell like duck fat and tamarind jus, and I think I pulled something plating that stupid rösti. I deserve noodles or a ride. Preferably both.”

“Emotional blackmail?”

Phin pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “It’s not blackmail. It’s charm.”

Bua sighed—loudly, exaggerated, like this decision was physically painful. Then tilted her head toward the lot. “Get in before I change my mind.”

Phin blinked. Then beamed. “Yes, sweetheart.”

She jogged to the passenger side like a golden retriever who just got invited up on the couch.

The car was quiet at first, save for the soft hum of the engine and the faint click of Bua’s fingers adjusting the air conditioning. Phin didn’t speak right away, just leaned her head back against the seat and exhaled like the whole night had finally caught up to her.

“I’m trying to decide if I’m hallucinating,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “Or if you actually invited me into your car. Willingly. Without threats.”

Bua flicked on her signal. “There’s still time to push you out at the next red light.”

Phin cracked one eye open, grinning. “There she is. I was worried you got replaced with a soft clone.”

They drove without needing directions—Phin noticed that right away. Bua took the right turns instinctively, like her hands already knew where they were going before she’d made the choice.

And when she pulled up beside the familiar noodle stall tucked under the flyover—fluorescent lights buzzing, red plastic stools stacked and ready, broth already scenting the air—Phin’s smile practically split her face. “You’re taking me to our spot.”

Bua didn’t reply, just parked like it meant nothing. Like she hadn’t just invited her into something intimate and familiar—into a habit. Phin laughed softly under her breath and unbuckled her seatbelt. “You know, you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like me.”

The second their feet hit the sidewalk, the scent of peppered broth and pork bones hit them like a warm slap—familiar, comforting, almost nostalgic. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a slightly bluish tint, but the red plastic stools and folding tables were still exactly where they always were.

The noodle auntie looked up from her station and beamed when she saw them. “Eh! Late tonight,” she called, already reaching for two bowls with practiced instinct. “You want same?”

Phin stepped forward, hands clasped together like she was about to deliver a formal announcement. “Auntie, we have just completed a very important mission involving six courses, two dozen VIPs, and zero disasters. We deserve your finest noodles.”

The auntie laughed, loud and full, pointing a ladle at her. “You always talk like that—like TV chef. Sit, sit, I make you double egg tonight.  Celebration!”

Phin gasped like she’d won a lottery. “Double egg? Auntie, I knew you loved me.”

“Don’t push it,” the auntie said, already stirring noodles into boiling broth.

Bua lingered half a step behind, quiet as usual. But her eyes tracked the way Phin leaned casually on the counter, chatting with the auntie like they’d known each other for years. She watched the way the older woman beamed at her, nodding proudly as Phin recounted some (probably dramatized) detail about tonight’s event.

“And she didn’t yell at me once,” Phin added, jerking a thumb toward Bua. “That’s how you really know it was a good night.”

Bua let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a snort, and looked away—like maybe the streetlamp across the road was suddenly fascinating.

But her mouth was twitching.

Just barely.

Auntie set the bowls down with a satisfied clink, wiping her hands on a floral-print towel tucked at her waist. “Two bowls for my favorite couple,” she said cheerfully, already turning back toward the bubbling pots.

Phin nearly choked on her first bite—not from surprise, but from trying not to laugh. “See?” she muttered behind her chopsticks. “She gets it.”

Bua didn’t look at her. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t correct the auntie, either. She just reached for the chili flakes. The auntie bustled past them again, dropping off a little side dish of pickled greens with a wink. “Eat up, you two. You both look tired. Don’t work too hard, love each other long time, okay?”

Phin grinned like a child handed extra dessert. “Auntie, if I propose here, will you officiate?”

“I’ll throw in free pork belly if you do,” she said, completely serious, vanishing back to her stall. Bua let out a soft sound—almost a scoff, almost a breathless laugh—but still didn’t say a word to set the record straight. She just stirred her noodles, head ducked slightly lower than usual, like she was shielding something warm and dangerous behind her face.

Phin glanced at her sideways. “You’re not going to tell her we’re not a couple?”

Bua didn’t look up. “She’s old. Why confuse her?”

Phin’s brows shot up, amused. “So that’s your excuse?”

Bua finally met her gaze, chopsticks pausing mid-air. “Why is this on me now?”

Phin blinked. “Because you didn’t correct her?”

Bua gave her a look. “You didn’t correct her last time. Or the time before that.”

Phin grinned, utterly shameless. “Yeah, but I was busy manifesting.”

Bua scowled, only half-heartedly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m eating spicy noodles.”

“You’re blushing while eating spicy noodles.”

Bua huffed and returned to her bowl, eyes stubbornly focused on her food, like maybe the noodles could rescue her from the trap she’d walked into. But her neck was pink. Her ears too.

Phin didn’t press it. Just smiled and quietly nudged the shared dish of pickled greens a little closer to Bua’s side. The auntie passed by again, humming to herself, and neither of them said a word to change her mind.

Because maybe—just maybe—there wasn’t anything to correct  anymore.

*****

They got back in the car with full stomachs and the scent of garlic and chili still clinging to their clothes. The windows fogged faintly with the humidity, and the radio murmured low in the background—some mellow jazz station Bua had forgotten was on.

Phin sat in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under her, absently sipping the last of her iced chrysanthemum tea. Her gaze flicked to Bua, then to the quiet road ahead, then back to Bua.

“So,” she said casually, like she wasn’t about to turn the night on its head. “We could go to your place.”

Bua didn’t flinch, but her hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Excuse me?”

Phin turned fully toward her now, utterly unfazed. “I left my jacket there.”

Bua didn’t look at her. “It’s been three days.”

“I know.” Phin’s voice was all innocence. “You could’ve brought it to work. But you didn’t.”

“Forgot.”

“Every day?”

Bua exhaled through her nose. “So now you want to invade my apartment because of a jacket.”

“Technically it’s my jacket. And if I don’t get it back soon, I might believe you’re holding it hostage.”

Bua gave her a look. “You’re very dramatic.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“I didn’t hear a question.”

Phin leaned in, her voice lower now, the tone dipped in mischief. “Can I come over?”

The question hung in the air. Not just words. Not just about the jacket. The car suddenly felt smaller, warmer, filled with more than just body heat and noodle broth. Something thick and charged curled between them. Bua didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t need to. Her silence was answer enough. Still, she let out a long sigh, the kind that only meant fine, but I hate how much I want to say yes.

“Fine. But you’re in and out.”

Phin beamed. “Of course. Just jacket retrieval. Very professional.”

“And if you try anything—”

“You’ll kiss me again?”

Bua side-eyed her, ears pink. “I’ll throw you out the window.”

“Still worth it,” Phin said, already grinning like she’d won.

By the time they pulled up in front of Bua’s apartment, the tension between them was humming—sharp, sweet, and impossible to ignore.

Bua cut the engine. “Jacket. Then leave.”

Phin unbuckled her seatbelt with the kind of slow, teasing click that sounded almost suggestive. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep ignoring it.”

“Exactly.”

They stepped out of the car—and into something they both knew wasn’t just about forgotten clothing anymore.

The elevator ride up was quiet—too quiet for Phin, who bounced on her heels while Bua stared fixedly at the floor numbers. Ding. Fifteenth. Bua’s floor. She unlocked the door, and Phin slipped in behind her, eyes going wide.

The place was pure Bua: minimalist, immaculate, but dotted with tiny clues she had a soul—succulents lined on the sill, a stack of well‑thumbed cookbooks, a single framed photo of Bua and her sister laughing over coconut ice cream. Even the air smelled like her: clean linen and kaffir lime.

Phin grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. “Your apartment is exactly how I imagined it—spotless, terrifyingly organized, and somehow still cute. Kind of like you.”

Bua ignored the compliment and yanked the denim jacket off the back of a dining‑chair, thrusting it into Phin’s chest. “Jacket retrieved. Mission accomplished.”

Phin clutched it to her heart with an exaggerated gasp. “Wow. Not even a celebratory drink? That’s cold, Manager Methin.”

“Try room‑temperature,” Bua deadpanned, kicking off her heels.

Phin slipped the jacket on—too warm, a little damp—but she didn’t care. She flopped onto the sofa like she owned it. “Just water, then? I did cook six courses for royalty tonight.”

Bua bit back a smile, went to the kitchenette, and filled a glass. “Here. Hydrate and leave.”

“Hydrate and linger,” Phin corrected, taking a sip. “You know, re‑acclimate to civilian life.”

“Phinya.”

“Yes, Sweetheart?”

Bua’s eyes narrowed—though the heat in them had nothing to do with annoyance. Phin spotted the faint blush creeping up her neck and pressed on.

“Besides,” Phin added, voice dipping lower, softer now, “you still owe me for emotional damages. You smiled at me in the kitchen. With teeth. I’m still recovering.”

“That was a one-time event,” Bua said flatly, but there was no bite in it.

Phin leaned back into the couch, arms resting along the backrest, but her expression wasn’t smug. It was easy, fond. Like she wasn’t just trying to win something—just wanted to stay close.

“You say that before ,” Phin murmured, “but then we kissed again in your car.”

Bua froze. Just for a moment.

Phin continued gently, “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

Silence stretched between them. Phin tilted her head, watching Bua from where she sat—her gaze steady, voice quiet but clear. “I know I joke a lot. But I wasn’t joking then. I’m not really joking now.”

Bua didn’t respond. She was standing just a few steps away, arms crossed—but not like a shield. More like she didn’t know what else to do with them. Phin rose slowly, fluidly, closing the distance between them with quiet purpose. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just enough to feel the shift in the air. The space between them crackled—hot and taut and fragile.

“I just…” Phin’s voice dropped even softer. “Didn’t want to leave without saying I want to stay.”

Her words hung there, suspended between heartbeats. Bua blinked. Her throat worked. She didn’t back away. The tension between them was palpable—heavy and intimate, the kind of thing that had its own gravity.

“Phin,” Bua said, low and uneven, her voice catching on something sharp and unspoken. Phin didn’t move. Just waited.

“Shut up,” Bua whispered—and stepped in.

She didn’t need to cross the room. She was already there. One hand slid to the back of Phin’s neck, the other curling into the front of her shirt, and she kissed her like she meant it—like she’d meant to for days, maybe longer. And Phin kissed her back instantly, breath catching, hands coming up to Bua’s waist, then her back, like she was holding on for dear life.

No more pretending. No more space between them.

Bua kissed her like she was silencing every smart remark Phin had ever made—until breathing became inconvenient, until the jacket slipped from Phin’s shoulders and hit the floor with a soft thud. When they finally parted, both breathless, Bua kept her forehead against Phin’s.

“You talk too much,” she whispered.

Phin’s answering smile was wicked and wondrous. “Then keep shutting me up.”

“Gladly,” Bua said—and pulled her back in.

Whatever happened next, one thing was certain—Bua was done pretending.

Chapter Text

The air between them was thick with everything unsaid.

They didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, barely a breath apart—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hearts racing so loudly they could feel it in their fingertips. Phin’s hands stayed loose at her sides, like she didn’t dare reach again unless invited. Bua’s hands, however, hovered—half-curled near her own chest, like she didn’t know where to put them, like she was still catching up to what she’d just done.

Their foreheads touched and a long, shivery breath passed between them. Their chests rose and fell in sync, caught in that suspended moment where time held still and only the two of them existed.

Bua blinked slowly, then stepped back—just a little. Just enough to see Phin clearly. She studied her face, the curve of her lips, the way her eyes had gone so incredibly soft and open. There it was—the question hanging between them.

Are we doing this?

And Phin, still barely breathing, took one small step forward. She didn’t lunge. Didn’t joke. She just let the space close naturally, like gravity was pulling them in.

“You can still kick me out,” she said, voice low but steady.

“I don’t want to,” Bua replied. The words surprised even her with how easily they came out.

Phin’s throat bobbed, her eyes flickering to Bua’s mouth. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then tell me.”

Bua hesitated—just a heartbeat—and then, softly, so quietly she almost didn’t hear herself, she said, “I want you.”

That was all Phin needed to hear. She stepped in, her hands finally reaching—one cupping Bua’s cheek, the other ghosting along her waist as if asking permission. Bua leaned into it. Their lips met again—slow, deliberate. No more surprises. No more pretending.

It wasn’t frantic, not this time. It was deep. Intimate. A kiss that curled into something more the longer it lingered. Phin’s lips parted just slightly, inviting. Bua responded like it was second nature—her tongue brushing against Phin’s, tentative but hungry. She moaned into her mouth, low and breathy, the sound raw and sudden.

It startled both of them—but in the best possible way. Phin groaned softly in return, pressing forward until Bua’s back gently met the wall behind her. Not hard. Just enough for Bua to feel the anchor of it, the reality of what was happening. Her hands finally moved—one grasped the hem of Phin’s shirt, the other sliding up along her spine. She held her there. Grounded and greedy.

They kissed again. Deeper now. Slower. Like they were trying to memorize the way this felt. Tongues sliding, breath mingling, hands tightening. Bua’s head tilted just enough to deepen the angle, her lips parting wider, body pulling Phin closer with each second.

The apartment was quiet but for them—their breathing, the soft wet sounds of kissing, the quiet hum of Bangkok traffic behind double-glazed glass. Warm lamplight cast them in soft gold. The air smelled faintly of lemongrass and something floral from Bua’s diffuser, grounding them in her space. Her world.

Phin’s fingers slipped under Bua’s shirt—lightly, reverently—not rushing, just wanting to touch more. Feel more. And Bua let her.

The first brush of fingertips against her bare waist was enough to make her inhale sharply, like the contact had stolen the air right out of her lungs. Her skin prickled under the touch—goosebumps blooming instantly along her ribs, her stomach twitching slightly at the sensation.

It wasn’t even bold, not yet. Just the pads of Phin’s fingers, warm and slow, tracing a path along the curve of her waist, like she was learning her by touch alone. Bua’s hand shot out—reflex, instinct—grabbing hold of Phin’s arm just above the elbow. Not to push her away. To steady herself.

Because her knees weren’t entirely reliable anymore. She could feel everything. The weight of Phin's palm, the drag of her skin, the gentleness behind every movement. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. It was patient, almost tender.

At some point—neither of them entirely aware how—they shifted, bodies tangled and slow-moving, until they sank into the couch together. Bua’s back met the cushions with a soft thud, Phin following without hesitation, her knee brushing Bua’s thigh, her weight warm and welcome. The room around them faded. Only the closeness remained.

Bua blinked slowly, breathing through parted lips, her body betraying every emotion she refused to speak out loud. Still—she didn’t stop her.
If anything, she shifted minutely, just enough to give Phin more room. More skin. More yes.

And Phin, for once, didn’t say a word. She just leaned in, kissed Bua again—soft, open-mouthed, grateful—and let her hand keep moving. Like they had all the time in the world.

When they finally paused for air, their foreheads touched. Neither opened their eyes right away. Phin was smiling. “You made a very sexy sound.”

“I know,” Bua whispered, her voice husky. “Shut up.”

“I liked it.”

Bua groaned into her shoulder. But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to.

Bua pulled back just enough to breathe. Her lips were red, slightly swollen, her breath shallow. Phin looked at her like she was trying to memorize the moment—like if Bua asked her to stop now, she would. No questions, no pressure. But Bua didn’t stop.

She stared at her for a long, deliberate beat, then said quietly voice low but certain, “we’re not doing this on the couch.”

Phin blinked, caught between surprise and delight. “No?”

Bua shook her head once, firm but calm. “Bedroom.”

The word settled between them like a spark catching dry tinder. Something shifted—something deep and unmistakable. The air grew heavier, warmer. It hummed with anticipation, with want.

Phin’s breath caught for half a second, her eyes searching Bua’s like she couldn’t quite believe she’d heard it right. But Bua didn’t flinch. She held her gaze, steady and open. The weight of her desire no longer tucked behind clipped words or careful distance—it was there now, in the way she stood, the way she waited, unguarded.

Phin stood slowly, every movement deliberate. Her hands found Bua’s waist as she rose, fingers brushing along the edge of her shirt like she was still memorizing every inch she could. Then She leaned closer, lips ghosting near Bua’s cheek, not quite touching. “Show me, You haven’t given me a tour yet—I have no idea where the bed is.”

Bua didn’t answer with words. She simply reached for Phin’s hand—fingers curling around hers with a surety that stole the breath right from her lungs—and turned, walking toward the hallway with the same quiet authority she wore in the kitchen.

Except this time, she didn’t look back. Phin followed without hesitation, her hand still held in Bua’s. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, every nerve lit up like the fuse had already been lit. She was already undone—and they hadn’t even made it to the bedroom yet.

Bua led Phin into the bedroom, hand still gently curled around hers, guiding her through the dim hallway. The moonlight filtered in softly through the window, silhouettes of curtains and city lights stretching across the floor.

Phin paused, her eyes sweeping the space. A chef’s white jacket hung neatly from a wall hook, still tucked inside a clear garment bag—like a suit kept for special occasions —bored of the kitchen yet somehow still charged with memory. On a display rack near the window rested a well‑worn knife bag, its supple leather aged from use. Phin noticed but didn’t comment. Not now. Not tonight.

Her breath caught when Bua slipped her hands free. Without a word, Bua reached up and lifted her shirt over her head, letting it fall silently to the floor. She stood in the moon‑washed glow—bra on, pants still on.

Phin’s breath hitched.

For the first time, she saw all of Bua: not just the curve of her collarbone or the soft swell of her waist, but the burn marks that traveled from her shoulder, down her arm—walls of delicate, raised skin etched in pale, silvery lines. They didn’t detract from her beauty—they were part of it. A testament of survival, of history, of quiet resilience.

Burn scars from a third‑degree injury often become pale or lighter than regular skin, shiny, and stiff—sometimes raised or discolored from normal tone Bua’s scars, though healed four years ago, still bore that textured, luminescent quality. Beautiful.

Phin didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Instead, she moved forward, breath slow, reverent. She lifted her own shirt with a practiced, gentle motion and draped it over a chair. Then she stepped toward Bua, fingertips trailing down her arm first—soft circles across the burn scars, as if mapping Bua for the first time.

Her hand lingered at the curve of Bua’s waist, then drifted to her shoulder, where she pressed a slow, lingering kiss. Her mouth was warm. Her touch was tender. She didn’t rush. As if she were telling Bua wordlessly: I see you. All of you. And I want you.

Bua’s breath trembled. She didn’t pull away. She let Phin’s lips linger, her hands come to rest on Phin’s waist. Phin’s kisses grew bolder, trailing along the scars, gentle worship in every trailing touch. Bua closed her eyes, lips parting, letting herself feel seen in a way she’d never let anyone see—there was trust, and something even more fragile. Release.

Neither of them said a word as they sank onto the bed, sheets cool against their legs, hearts stretched open in unexpected ways. Tonight, pretending was over.

The kiss resumed slowly, differently now, deeper and more certain, with the weight of everything unspoken lingering in the space between breaths. Bua lay back, letting Phin hover above her, their mouths moving in rhythm, hands tangled and greedy but still careful, like they were savoring the rare taste of something long denied.

Then Phin paused. She pulled back just enough to look down at her, lips parted, eyes searching for hesitation—and finding none.  And without a word, she sat up on her knees and reached for the button of Bua’s pants.

Her fingers worked slowly, deliberately—not rushing, not assuming. The soft sound of the zipper filled the quiet, punctuated only by Bua’s breath catching in her throat. Phin looked up, as if asking again. Bua said nothing. She simply lifted her hips.

While Phin slid the fabric down, Bua reached behind herself and unclasped her bra with one practiced motion, letting the strap slip down her arms and fall to the floor. And then she was bare. Completely.

Phin froze, for a heartbeat—maybe more.

She sat there, breathless, biting her lip, Her eyes roamed gently—unapologetically, over every inch of the woman in front of her—from the elegant curve of Bua’s throat to the soft rise of her chest, the swell of her breasts and the dusky pink of her nipples, the gentle slope of her waist, the quiet strength in her thighs, and the way the moonlight caught the faded burn scars she hadn’t tried to hide. And still—everything about her was beautiful.

There was nothing hesitant in Phin’s gaze. No flinch, no pause, no calculation. Just awe. Something warm settled deep in her chest, low and aching, like reverence. Like the kind of hunger that came with care, not just want. She breathed out slowly, voice soft. "You’re so beautiful."

Bua blinked, caught off guard, and instinctively reached for the sheet beside her, but Phin caught her hand gently, kissing the inside of her wrist. Not to stop her—just to remind her: don’t hide. Not from me.

Not tonight. Not ever again.

Phin’s throat tightened. There it was again. That ache in her chest like a string pulled tight, some invisible thread winding between want and wonder. This wasn’t just attraction. This was something else. Something deeper.

Bua looked away then, the faintest flush creeping into her cheeks. Her fingers twitched like she didn’t know where to place them. But she didn’t hide. She didn’t cover herself. She just breathed—and let herself be seen.

Phin leaned in again, her lips finding Bua’s with a kind of hunger that had been simmering for weeks—months, maybe. Now there was nothing in the way. No pretending. No one to perform for. Just them.

She’d shed her own clothes with quiet efficiency between kisses, and now their bodies met fully—bare skin against bare skin, all soft curves and aching heat. Bua gasped into the kiss when their chests pressed together, the sensation like being struck by lightning and then held by it, warmed from the inside out.

Phin’s hand cupped Bua’s cheek, fingers brushing behind her ear, her thumb sweeping gently across her skin. Her mouth didn’t stray far—pressing soft, lingering kisses along Bua’s jaw, down the curve of her throat, to the swell of her breast.

When her lips closed around one dusky nipple, sucking slowly, reverently, Bua let out a sound—low, breathy, and utterly helpless. A moan that escaped before she could catch it, rough at the edges, like the pleasure had startled her.

Her fingers tangled in Phin’s hair, tightening with each pull of Phin’s mouth. The other hand found its way to her untouched breast, kneading softly, almost absently, like she couldn’t bear to leave any part of her unloved.

Phin froze for a split second, eyes fluttering shut at the sound. It punched the air from her lungs. She pulled back just enough to look down, to really see her. “God, Baibua,” she whispered, her voice thick, reverent. “You’re making me crazy.”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t performative. It was a truth—raw and aching—like Bua had unraveled her with nothing more than that sound, that look, that body letting go beneath her. And Bua didn’t reply. She pulled her in and kissed her again—desperate now. Like the words had unlocked something in her. Something hungry. Something bold.

Bua’s breath hitched. Her hands, once tentative, now roamed with more purpose—up Phin’s spine, across her back, pulling her closer. Needing more.

“You okay?” Phin murmured between kisses, voice low and uneven. “Tell me if you need to stop.”

Bua looked up, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen, chest heaving. “Don’t stop.”

The answer hit Phin somewhere deep in her chest. She kissed her again—slower this time, but deeper. And when her hand slipped down, over the curve of Bua’s hip and along her thigh, Bua arched into her, her breath trembling in the space between them.

Phin paused for only a moment, her hand hovering over the warmth between Bua’s thighs. Then she dipped her fingers gently, teasing, and feeling the slick heat, the way Bua’s body responded—soft and eager, walls tightening around her touch. Her voice dropped to a whisper, rough with want and reverence.

“You’re so wet for me, Baibua.”

A moan slipped from Bua’s lips, soft and breathy, her head tipping back slightly into the pillow. “It’s feel so good,” she murmured, voice shaky but sure. “Don’t stop.”

That sound—quiet, urgent, like a plea—unraveled something in Phin. Her breath caught, low in her throat. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to the edge of Bua’s jaw, whispering against her skin, “Not planning to.”

Her voice was hoarse, reverent—like Bua had just given her something sacred. “You have no idea how sexy you are right now,” she added softly, her touch never faltering.

Bua made a sound—quiet, urgent, like a plea. Everything after that was heat and softness and the sound of Bua’s moans pressed into Phin’s skin. Phin took her time. She learned every response like a language—soft breath caught in Bua’s throat when her lips brushed the hollow just below her ear, the quiet gasp when she dragged her mouth along the curve of her throat. She followed the sound of Bua’s moans like a compass, testing, adjusting, reading each shift of breath and tension with reverent focus.

She noticed the way Bua’s hips tilted when her fingers stroked just a little deeper, how her thighs tensed and her hand gripped Phin’s shoulder tighter when the rhythm changed—slow to firm, teasing to sure. She found the spot that made Bua’s breath stutter, that pulled a raw, helpless sound from her lips, and returned to it like a promise.

When Bua needed gentleness, Phin softened her touch. When she craved more, Phin gave it—unhurried but unrelenting, coaxing each wave of pleasure with intention. Every motion was deliberate. Tender.  Worshipful. As if Phin was mapping her with hands and mouth and memory, learning what it meant to love her like this—fully, and without fear.

They moved together like a slow tide—rising, crashing, curling into each other in steady, aching waves. Bua’s skin flushed warm under Phin’s hands, her breath hitching, her fingers digging into Phin’s back like she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let go. And Phin, wholly focused, met the rhythm of her hips with reverence, every touch of her fingers and motion attuned to Bua’s breath, her sounds, her need. Like nothing else existed. When release neared, Bua’s arms wrapped tighter around her, pulling her in—chest to chest, mouth to mouth.

“I’m close,” Bua whispered, voice catching on a breath.

Phin’s gaze never wavered, steady and full of heat. “I know,” she murmured, lips brushing her cheek. “You’re doing so good. Just stay with me.”

She needed her close, needed to be kissed, anchored. And when she finally came, it wasn’t loud or unruly—it was intimate. A soft, breathless moan tore from her lips as her body twitched beneath Phin’s, trembling through the peak.

Phin held her through it—steady, gentle, Bua clung to her like she was the only solid thing left in the world. And maybe, in that moment, she was.

*****

Later, they lay tangled together in the soft quiet of Bua’s bedroom, both still bare beneath the rumpled sheets. The moonlight poured in through the window—dim, silver-edged—just enough to catch on skin and shadows, to illuminate the shape of them curled into each other like they belonged nowhere else.

It hadn’t stopped with just one kiss. Or even just one release.

There had been a pause—a shower, half-laughed and half-steamy, stolen kisses under warm water, fingers skimming over damp skin, the softness of shared soap and breathless teasing pressed against cool tile. They hadn’t talked much. They didn’t need to. The language between them had shifted into touch, into quiet gasps and low murmurs and yes, again.

Back in bed, they’d found each other all over again—slow this time, almost reverent. The kind of love-making that asked nothing but gave everything. Bua’s walls, carefully constructed over years, had cracked wide open somewhere between Phin’s hands and her mouth, and she hadn’t bothered to rebuild them.

Now, hours later, their bodies were quiet. Their breathing steady. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was full. Laced with warmth. Satisfaction. That faint, golden hum of something real settling in the bones.

Phin lay on her back, one arm folded behind her head, the other lazily tracing patterns across Bua’s bare shoulder. Bua was half-draped over her, a sheet tangled low at her hips, her cheek resting against the dip of Phin’s collarbone. Neither of them had spoken in several minutes. Neither had moved. But they didn’t need to.

Everything that mattered had already been said—with lips, with hands, with the space they’d willingly let the other one in.

“Can I just say,” Phin murmured, breaking the silence with a slow grin in her voice, “I had a lot of dreams about this moment. And not a single one prepared me for how stupidly hot you are when you’re being bossy in bed.”

Bua didn’t move, her cheek still resting against Phin’s shoulder. “You’re insufferable,” she murmured—then bite lightly into the curve where neck met shoulder.

Phin yelped, a startled, breathless sound that landed somewhere between pain and arousal. “Ow—! What was that?”

Bua didn’t lift her head. “Next time you say something stupid, I’ll bite harder.”

Phin laughed, practically glowing. “If that’s your version of a warning, I’m definitely in trouble.”

Bua hummed in mock agreement, fingers lazily tracing circles on Phin’s hip. “You’ve been warned.”

Phin stretched, utterly content. “And yet, here I am. Not kicked out. Not slapped. Just thoroughly ravished. Twice.”

A beat passed. Then Bua’s hand lazily slid across Phin’s stomach, fingers trailing just under the sheet. “Three times,” she corrected under her breath.

They fell quiet again, the rhythm of their breathing syncing. Phin’s hand drifted gently along Bua’s bare back, the tips of her fingers mapping soft, slow circles—until they followed a familiar path down her arm. She hesitated only slightly when her fingers brushed over a patch of raised, textured skin near Bua’s shoulder.

Her tone softened. “Hey,” she said, thumb tracing gently around the edge of one of the old scars, “can I ask…?”

Bua didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

She just stared ahead at nothing for a moment. Then nodded once. “You’re already touching it.”

Phin paused, careful. Her fingers continued, slow and reverent. “I saw them before. I just didn’t want to say anything unless you were ready.”

Phin leaned in and kissed the top of her shoulder, then another kiss to a patch of scarred skin near her bicep. “It doesn’t scare me,” she whispered against her. “It never did.”

“I know,” Bua murmured. And for once, there was no tension in her voice. No wall. Just a soft, open truth. “That’s why I let you stay.”

Phin’s smile was a little wobbly, a little overwhelmed. She buried her face into Bua’s hair and exhaled, heart thudding like she was falling all over again.

Phin didn’t speak. Her hand just rested lightly on Bua’s waist, fingers splayed over bare skin, warmth shared in the quiet. She waited. And after a beat, Bua finally spoke. Her voice was low, not guarded but… careful. Like she was stepping barefoot into old glass.

“It happened in Lyon,” Bua began, her voice low. “Four years ago.”

Phin’s fingers went still against her side.

“It wasn’t a fire. Not exactly. A commis was rushing—carrying a pot of boiling oil.” She inhaled sharply, like the memory still stung. “It tipped.”

Phin didn’t breathe.

“Spilled straight across my right hand. Down my forearm.” Bua’s gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, her hand curled lightly over the sheet. “Third-degree burns. I passed out before I hit the floor.”

Silence stretched between them, soft but heavy. Phin didn’t move, just let her thumb trace slow, gentle circles against Bua’s wrist. She didn’t interrupt.

“There was surgery. Grafts. Months of rehab. I couldn’t even hold a knife at first,” Bua said, quieter now. “And when I could again… I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was terrified.”

Her voice wavered, just slightly. “Not of getting hurt again. Of failing. Of not being good anymore.”

“So I left. Came home. Stayed out of the kitchen. Told myself managing was enough.”

Phin’s hand tightened gently around hers. Phin didn’t speak right away.

Instead, she lifted her head from the pillow and leaned in, brushing her lips against Bua’s—soft, unhurried, not hungry this time but something else. Something careful. Something meant.

Bua didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She kissed her back just as slowly, letting it happen, letting it soothe. When Phin finally pulled back, her voice was a whisper. “Thank you for surviving. For coming home. For staying.”

Her fingers traced lightly along the curve of Bua’s jaw, reverent. “And for not giving up on the fire in you, even if you thought you did.”

Bua’s hand came up, gently wrapping around Phin’s wrist. She turned her face slightly and pressed a kiss to Phin’s palm—slow, quiet, almost like a thank you. A gesture so tender it made Phin forget how to breathe.

Phin’s lips parted, a small inhale catching at the back of her throat, but she didn’t say a word.

Bua stared at her for a moment—caught, just barely holding back something in her chest—and then, without a word, shifted closer until their foreheads touched.

Phin smiled, eyes still half-closed. “That jacket in the corner—” she tilted her head toward the neatly wrapped chef’s whites on the rack near the window “—you kept it.”

“And the knives,” Bua murmured. “Yeah.”

There was no shame in it, just quiet honesty.

“I tried to put them away once. In a drawer. Couldn’t do it.” A pause. “So I left them out. I don’t know... maybe to remind myself I didn’t imagine that part of me.”

Phin ran a hand down her arm—carefully, lingering over the faded skin of the burn, a silent testament—and said softly, “You didn’t.”

Bua let out a breath, slow and even. Her fingers curled slightly over Phin’s wrist, grounding. “I have a lot I wish I did differently,” she admitted. “But… I’m not miserable. Being a manager—running the place—it’s not second-best like I used to think. It’s not cooking, but…” She looked at Phin then, really looked at her, eyes a little glassy. “It’s enough. I’m enough.”

Phin didn’t say anything. Just beamed. Like the sun had risen right there between them. Then she tucked herself closer again, arm around Bua’s waist, nose brushing her shoulder. “That,” she murmured, “is the sexiest thing you’ve said all night.”

Bua snorted, eyes rolling. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly into you,” Phin corrected, eyes closed, voice already heavier with sleep. “Big difference.”

They stayed there in the hush of the room, limbs tangled, warmth shared between bare skin and slow breaths. Moonlight filtered through the curtain, soft and silver. Phin’s thumb stroked along Bua’s hand, thoughtful. Then, in the quiet, she asked—gently, careful not to disturb the fragile calm between them:

“Do you ever think about cooking again?”

Bua didn’t move right away. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling. Then she said, softly, “I still cook.”

Phin blinked.

Bua’s lips twitched—just slightly. “In my own kitchen. When I’m in the mood. Where there’s no pressure. No flaming pans or piping-hot oil flying at my face. Just… peace.”

She turned her head then, looked at Phin directly. “But I don’t miss the rest of it. That part of me—it's not gone. But it’s not the same anymore.”

Phin nodded slowly, listening.

“I’ve made peace with it,” Bua added. “What I have now—the schedules, the systems, running the floor—I like it more than I ever thought I would. It keeps me steady.”

Then her tone shifted, firmer. “And I don’t want your pity. Just because you know now.”

Phin met her gaze without flinching. Her voice was low, steady. “It’s not pity.”

Bua held still.

“It’s respect,” Phin said simply. No teasing. No smile. Just truth.

Silence again—warm, but charged. Something unspoken settled between them, solid and certain. Bua exhaled slowly. Then, without quite meaning to, she shifted even closer and whispered, “I believe you.”

And Phin, heart full, kissed her temple in return.

That night, they fell asleep wrapped around each other—bare, warm, and utterly unguarded. Phin lay with her nose tucked just beneath Bua’s jaw, one arm slung across her waist, fingers resting over the soft slope of her hip like she meant to stay there. Bua’s hand rested between Phin’s shoulder blades, holding her close, their legs tangled beneath the sheets.

No tension. No careful space between them like before. Just skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat. There was no regret in the way they held each other. No hesitation. No pretending.

Only breath, and warmth, and the slow, certain rhythm of two women who had stopped running—from the past, from themselves, from each other. Sleep found them easily that night. And for the first time in a long while, Bua didn’t feel alone.

*****

Phin woke to the pale wash of morning light filtering through Bua’s half-drawn curtains and the quiet hush of a still apartment. For a moment, she didn’t move—just lay there, grinning like an idiot, the smile creeping in slow and unstoppable.

They’d actually done it. Not just the sex (though, wow), but the everything—the openness, the softness, the not pretending. She turned her head slightly and there she was: Bua, still asleep, one bare arm curled against her own stomach, the covers shifted down to her waist, her hair messy and fanned across the pillow.

Phin reached out, unable to resist, and gently brushed her fingertip along the edge of Bua’s nose, barely a whisper of contact. Then, with a soft little laugh caught in her throat, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek—just below her temple.

“Still real, I didn’t dream it” she whispered to herself, before slipping carefully out of bed.

Bua didn’t wake right away. The bed was still warm, the air soft, and she might have drifted back under completely if not for the sharp, cheerful buzz of a phone vibrating beside her ear. Groggily, eyes still closed, she reached for it on instinct. No thinking. No checking. She thumbed the green button and pressed it to her ear.

“Mmmhello?”

There was a pause.

Then, a woman’s voice—bright, curious, and just a bit teasing. “Um… okay, so… this is new. Who’s this?”

Bua’s eyes flew open. She sat bolt upright, heart instantly leaping into her throat as she realized this wasn’t her phone.

Shit.

“I—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, instantly more awake. “This isn’t— I didn’t mean to answer—”

The woman on the other end laughed softly. “Relax. You don’t sound like a home invader. Just a little sleepy.”

Bua blinked, still groggy, still clutching the phone like it might bite her. “…Sorry, who is this?”

“Ah,” the voice replied, amused. “So you’re not just sleepy—you’re new.”

Bua froze.

“Let me guess,” the woman continued, gentle curiosity laced with a smile. “You’re the reason my sister isn’t answering her phone.”

Bua’s heart dropped straight into her stomach. Oh no.

“…Your sister?”

“Mhm.” A pause, then: “Just tell Phin that Lin called. And that she owes me a call back—and possibly an explanation.”

The woman’s voice was light, almost teasing, with the unmistakable cheer of someone who couldn’t wait to share this juicy little detail with the rest of the family. “Before I tell Sam. And maybe Mom.”

Bua sat bolt upright. But the line had already gone dead.

Click.

Bua stared at the phone like it might spontaneously combust. Then she let out a quiet, mortified groan and flopped back onto the pillow, covering her face with one hand. From the kitchen, the clink of mugs and the faint hum of Phin’s voice carried softly into the room.

The door creaked open.

“Morning,” Phin called out cheerfully, padding into the room wearing one of Bua’s plain black T-shirts and a pair of drawstring shorts that definitely didn’t belong to her. “I made breakfast, but you really need more snack options, by the way. I’m making a list—”

She stopped mid-sentence. There on the bed, Bua—still bare under the covers, blanket drawn up to her waist, hair sleep-tousled, eyes wide with something between guilt and horror. In her hand was Phin’s phone.

Phin blinked. “Um… did you—did my phone do something wrong, or…?”

“I picked it up,” Bua blurted. “It rang, I wasn’t fully awake, and I didn’t check—”

Phin raised an eyebrow, amused now. “And?”

“It was your sister,” Bua said flatly.

Phin choked on a laugh. “Lin?”

Bua nodded, clearly mortified. “She asked who I was. And she said you owe her a call. And… an explanation. Before she tells Sam and your mother.”

Phin stared at her for a second—and then burst out laughing, hand over her stomach. “Oh my god,” she said between wheezes. “You met Lin. Over the phone. Naked. This is—this is better than I ever imagined.”

Bua narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to kill you.”

“I’m the victim here!” Phin grinned, plopping down onto the bed beside her.

As she landed, Bua instinctively raised one hand and looped it around Phin’s neck, pulling her in with mock menace—but her fingers settled there gently, like they belonged.

“My innocent little sister just got traumatized because my very sexy not-girlfriend answered the phone after ravishing me senseless last night.”

Bua groaned, dropping the phone onto the blanket. “Please stop talking.”

“No promises,” Phin said, leaning in to press a kiss against her cheek, still grinning. “But seriously… good morning.”

Bua muttered something into her shoulder, but her face—despite the flush—was soft. And maybe even a little happy. Phin nuzzled into the crook of Bua’s neck, voice warm and teasing against her skin. “Just think—this is how your mornings could start more often.”

Bua sighed, but she didn’t pull away. Her fingers found the hem of Phin’s borrowed T-shirt and toyed with it absently. “Only if you stop talking before noon.”

Phin grinned. “Never.”

Phin eventually peeled her face away from Bua’s neck, only to rest her chin lightly on her shoulder instead. “By the way,” she murmured, smug but somehow still sweet, “I made breakfast.”

Bua let out a groan that sounded more like a warning. “Who sounds this cheerful this early in the morning?”

“I’m amazing,” Phin said. “Come eat with me?”

“I’m still tired,” Bua muttered, stretching one leg under the blanket. “You wore me out.”

“I take full credit.” Phin’s smile widened. “But really—how am I the one who’s up first? I feel like I should be the wreck here.”

Bua cracked one eye open and gave her the flattest look she could manage. “Because You run on caffeine and smugness.”

“And dreams,” Phin added, voice light. “Except now reality’s better than my dreams, so who needs sleep?”

Bua huffed softly, the kind of exhale that almost turned into a laugh. Her hand slid from Phin’s neck to rest against her shoulder, fingers warm and slow.

They stayed there for a while, the world outside muffled and slow. Morning light spilled in pale gold across the sheets. Phin’s borrowed T-shirt had ridden up her thigh, and Bua—still entirely, unapologetically naked beneath the covers—didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

Phin certainly didn’t mind either.

She let herself admire the view, eyes tracing every curve with something far deeper than desire. Her hand wandered across Bua’s bare skin—slowly, reverently—fingertips brushing the dip of her waist, the softness of her hip, the line of her thigh. Shameless. Unapologetic. Like she couldn’t stop reminding herself this was real.

And Bua didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn away or hide beneath the blanket. She just breathed slow and deep, letting Phin touch her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then Phin’s tone shifted, quieter. “If you’re still sleepy, though, it’s okay. Go back to bed for a bit. We don’t have to be in until noon.”

It was one of those rare mornings when the restaurant didn’t open for lunch service. After big events, the KIN KAO staff had what they called a “reset day”—a few extra hours to recover, clean, and reassemble the dining room to its usual layout. Nam wasn’t due in until ten, and front of house wouldn’t need her or Phin until just before dinner prep began. They had time. Plenty of it. Bua melted just a little deeper into the bed. That simple fact might’ve been the best thing she heard from Phin all morning.

Eventually, Bua’s breathing evened out again.

Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing her cheeks as she tucked herself a little closer beneath the blanket, one arm still loosely draped around Phin’s waist. The warmth of the bed, the softness of morning, the lingering ache in her limbs—it all pulled her back under in slow waves.

Phin didn’t move.

She just lay there, watching her. One hand still resting lightly on Bua’s hip, her thumb drawing idle, invisible patterns on bare skin. Her chest rose and fell in rhythm with Bua’s. Their legs tangled beneath the sheets like they belonged that way. And for a long moment, Phin didn’t think. She just felt.

She felt a quiet joy humming low in her chest, an impossible tenderness curling behind her ribs. The disbelief still lingered—that this was real. That this woman, strong, guarded, and achingly beautiful, finally wanted her just as much. That she had let her in, had touched her, held her, and kissed her like she meant every second of it.

She smiled faintly to herself, brushing a strand of hair from Bua’s forehead with the back of her fingers. She didn’t say it aloud—wasn’t sure if she was allowed to yet—but the feeling bloomed all the same.

She was falling in love with her.

And if this was how every morning with Bua could be—quiet, sunlit, and full of the kind of intimacy words couldn’t quite capture—she never wanted to wake up anywhere else.

Chapter Text

The city moved around them in a drowsy midday haze, sunlight glinting off windshields and motorbike mirrors as Phin eased Bua’s car down the expressway. The air conditioning hummed softly, the windows cracked just enough to let in a whisper of Bangkok heat. Now, traffic moved in slow midday waves as Phin drove with one hand on the wheel and a grin she hadn’t even tried to hide since they left the apartment.

“You look smug,” Bua muttered, not turning her head.

Phin didn’t miss a beat. “And you sound grumpy for someone who came twice on my mouth before we had breakfast.”

“Phin!” Bua looked like she might physically combust.

Phin laughed, utterly unrepentant. “Don’t look at me like that. You were there.”

Bua huffed—an actual huff—and leaned back in her seat like she was reconsidering every life choice that led to letting this woman into her apartment. “You’re the reason we’re late.”

Phin tilted her head, amused. “You were the one who took forever in the shower.”

“I was rinsing shampoo,” Bua said flatly, like she was stating the minutes of a meeting. “Not inviting an ambush.”

Phin’s grin widened, eyes still on the road. “You left the door unlocked.”

“It’s my own apartment.”

“And you own a very inviting shower.”

Their “short shower” had lasted exactly four minutes before turning into a very wet, very breathless make-out session against the tiled wall. And then—against all reason—almost 30 more minutes of flushed skin and slippery limbs and Bua gasping her name against the glass partition.

Phin, later after shower—feeling generous—had offered to drive. “It’s only fair,” she’d said, pulling a soft plain T-shirt from Bua’s wardrobe and tugging it on like it was the most natural thing in the world. She hadn’t brought a change of clothes the night before—hadn’t really planned on staying, though clearly that plan had gone out the moment Bua dragging her into bed last night. Borrowing a shirt wasn’t even a question. Just another quiet line they’d already crossed.

From the doorway, Bua watched as Phin adjusted the hem absently, half-listening to herself talk. The sight hit her in that odd, unsettling way good things sometimes did: Phin barefoot in her apartment, wearing her clothes like they belonged. Bua looked away before the feeling could settle in too deep.

Which brought them here: Phin behind the wheel of Bua’s car, looking way too pleased with herself, while Bua attempted to forget how many times she’d moaned in the past twelve hours.

Phin cleared her throat lightly, voice dipping into something more casual. “So... I called Lin back.”

Bua glanced sideways, just once. “And?.”

“She was very calm about it,” Phin said.

Bua arched a brow. “Phin.”

Phin winced. “Okay. She grilled me like I was a suspect.”

The flashback came easy. Lin’s voice, too bright for morning, had crackled over speaker as Phin padded barefoot around Bua’s apartment.

“So. Who was that?”

“That,” Phin said carefully, “was no one.”

“She answered your phone.”

“...Okay, so she’s not no one.”

“Phin,” Lin hissed, “are you in someone else’s apartment right now?”

“Technically, I’m in her apartment.”

“Did you spend the night?”

“Define ‘spend.’”

“I swear to god—”

“It’s not what you think.”

“So you didn’t sleep with her?”

“...It’s exactly what you think.”

Lin groaned so loudly that Phin had to pull the phone slightly away. “Okay, I won’t tell Mom,” she said, exasperated but clearly amused. “But you do realize you just soft-launched your love life through a sleepy stranger answering your phone, right?”

Phin smirked. “I never said it was a stranger.”

“Oh my god.” Lin dragged the words out. “You’re unbearable. You’re not even denying it.”

“I didn’t say I’d deny it. I just didn’t say I’d explain it either.”

“Well, you’d better tell Sam before she finds out from me by accident. I can’t be held responsible if it slips out over dumplings.”

“You’re assuming I want to tell anyone anything.”

“No, I’m assuming you’ll want to tell her when it stops feeling like a secret.” A pause. “Which, based on your tone, might be... now.”

Phin didn’t say anything for a beat. Just smiled to herself, eyes soft.

Then: “Thanks for calling, Lin.”

“I always do when mystery women answer your phone at barely 8 a.m.”

Lin had only called that early because she’d found a flash sale on those stupidly expensive Japanese knives Phin had been lusting over. It was barely 7 a.m., but the sale had a countdown timer and Lin, still wrapped in her blanket burrito, felt a surge of righteous sibling duty (and a little chaos). Figuring Phin would be awake—or could be woken up for a 40% discount—she dialed without thinking.

She did not, however, expect a very groggy and very unfamiliar voice to answer. And just like that, knives were forgotten. Because clearly, her sister hadn’t spent the night alone.

Back in the car, Phin exhaled, lips twitching at the memory. “She found a flash sale on some knives I like and panicked. Also—she said she likes your voice.”

Bua shot her a sideways glance. “She doesn’t even know who I am.”

“She knows you sound sexy half-asleep.”

Bua groaned and leaned her head against the window. “Next time I see your phone ringing, I’m throwing it into the nearest canal.”

 “So glad to know there’s going to be a next time.” Phin said brightly.

A long pause. Bua didn’t answer. But her lips quirked—just enough to give her away.

*****

By the time Phin and Bua strolled into KIN KAO, it was nearly half past twelve. Lunch service was off the table today—reset day—but the back kitchen buzzed anyway with prep for dinner. The team was scattered, reorganizing shelves, deep cleaning stations, polishing glasses like they hadn’t just worked a massive service the night before.

Nam spotted them first—Phin leading the way through the staff entrance, looking smug and far too energetic for someone who claimed to hate mornings, and Bua trailing a step behind, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. Nam leaned in dramatically to Jamie, who was reorganizing the wine shelf with military precision.

“Did you see that?” she hissed.

Jamie didn’t look up. “See what?”

“They came out of the same car.”

That got Jamie’s attention. They turned just slightly, raising a brow. “Define ‘same car.’”

“As in... one car. One driver. Same arrival time. Same vibe.”

Jamie made a thoughtful sound. “Interesting.”

Nam nodded, already electric with conclusions. “Also—our manager’s wearing sneakers. You know what that means.”

Jamie deadpanned, “That she didn’t have time to change into heels because she was busy?”

Nam gasped. “Exactly.”

Jamie smirked, finally abandoning the wine bottles to cross their arms. “I told you. First she starts smiling around her. Then staff soup. Then last night’s service magic. And now? They’re rolling up like an off-duty power couple.”

“I give it a week before one of them shows up in the other’s clothes,” Nam whispered.

Jamie arched a brow. “One week? You’re being generous.”

From across the room, Phin paused mid-step and looked directly at them—like she knew. She didn’t say a word, just lifted a brow and kept walking, which somehow made it worse.

Nam yelped and ducked behind a shelf. “Abort! Abort mission! She has ears like a bat!”

Jamie, cool as ever, just chuckled. “If they weren’t dating before, they are now.”

Nam peeked out. “And honestly? About damn time.”

The rest of the afternoon passed without much fuss. No deliveries delayed, no last-minute prep disasters, no screaming about mislabeled stock in the walk-in. A small miracle. Even Bua, usually sharp-eyed and quick-tongued, moved through the kitchen with a rare sense of calm.

When the clock edged closer to four, signaling the usual time for staff meal, Bua stayed in her office, finishing a last check on invoices and prep sheets for the weekend. She wasn’t surprised not to be called for the meal—she rarely was. What did surprise her was the knock.

Then the door creaked open. Phin peeked in, holding a bowl with one hand and balancing a small bottle of chili vinegar in the other.

“I come bearing soup,” she announced.

Bua raised a brow. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Phin said, already walking in. “Nam tried to carry this to you but she nearly tripped over a crate of mushrooms and I didn’t want your lunch ending up on the ceiling.”

It was said with such confidence, such theatrical flourish, that it almost sounded believable. Almost. But Bua raised an eyebrow—just one—and gave her a look that said clearly: Really?

Even Phin had the decency to look only mildly sheepish. The truth was obvious to everyone. There had been no mushroom crate. No near It was a flimsy excuse—one that not even Nam herself would bother backing up. Disaster? Please. Nam was the most coordinated person in the kitchen and hadn’t so much as grazed a counter since Phin arrived.

But Phin wasn’t there because of soup. Or logistics. Or lunch at all. She just wanted to see her.

Wanted to stand in the same room without an audience. To touch her. Maybe steal a kiss. Maybe two. She wanted that quiet moment before dinner service turned the kitchen into a war zone—a few minutes where it was just them. No line cooks. No shouting. No clattering pans or clipped instructions. No need to be professional. Or careful.

And Bua… she saw right through her. Of course she did. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t raise an eyebrow. Didn’t send her away.

Phin set the bowl down on the desk, then tilted her head, watching Bua from beneath her lashes with a slow, smug smile. “I was careful with the chili this time,” she said, voice low and casual. “Didn’t want to make you cry and moan too early.”

Bua blinked, caught mid-sip, the water catching in her throat as Phin’s words landed. She coughed once—sharp and sudden—more from surprise than anything else, then set the glass down and gave Phin a narrow look, trying and failing to keep her ears from flushing.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, focusing hard on her clipboard.

Phin only grinned wider. “But effective.”

Bua didn’t even look up from her clipboard. “How considerate.”

“Mm. Only for you,” Phin murmured, stepping a little closer.

Bua glanced at her now, dry as ever. “That’s a low bar.”

“I’d lower it further if it meant you’d smile at me.”

That earned her the faintest flicker of amusement in Bua’s eyes. “Desperate, aren’t we?”

“I prefer persistent,” Phin said, voice light, but her gaze softened as she reached out—fingers brushing gently along Bua’s temple, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’ve been in here too long. Thought I’d remind you someone still likes to see your face once in a while.”

Bua rolled her eyes, but she didn’t lean away. “It’s a very punchable face, I’ve been told.”

“Lucky me,” Phin whispered, “I like a challenge.”

And then she kissed her. Soft. Slow. Like a question with no pressure behind it. Bua didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. She kissed her back. Just as softly. Just as slow. Not like someone afraid to be caught—but like someone finally, quietly, allowing herself to want.

No hesitation, no sharp tongue, no pretending she doesn’t want Phin anymore. She pulled Phin a little closer by the waistband of her apron, her fingers brushing warm skin underneath the hem of her shirt. Her mouth found the corner of Phin’s, the edge of her jaw, her lips again—like she was just now letting herself touch all the places she’d wanted for too long.

Phin practically sighed into her lips. “I missed you,” she whispered.

“You saw me two hours ago,” Bua said, but her voice was quieter than usual. Not deflecting. Just a little breathless.

Phin kissed her again, slower. “Still.”

Bua’s hands slid around her waist now, but only for a second before she gently pushed her back. “Don’t get carried away,” she murmured, lips brushing against Phin’s. “You have dinner service. And I’m not letting you be the reason we fall behind.”

Phin grinned, eyes gleaming. “Fine. But I reserve the right to pine dramatically until I see you again.”

“Five hours.”

“That’s forever.”

Bua didn’t reply—but just as Phin turned to leave, she gave her a light smack on the butt with the invoice clipboard. Not hard, just enough to make a point. Phin yelped, grinned over her shoulder like it was the best thing that had happened all day, and practically floated back into the kitchen, glowing like she’d won a damn award.

*****

Dinner service ran like a dream. Orders came in like clockwork, plating was smooth, no one cried on the line, and not a single curse word was thrown louder than absolutely necessary. But the real show? Phin. She glided through the kitchen like she was walking on clouds. Humming. Smiling. Offering compliments that didn’t sound sarcastic for once.

Jai, sweating over the grill, gave Nam a look. “Is she... singing?”

Nam, plating dessert components, didn’t even blink. “She got laid.”

Jamie, who’d just walked in with a bottle of orange wine for testing, raised a brow. “Correction. She got laid well.”

Phin, from across the kitchen, caught Jamie’s eye. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” Nam sang, not even trying to hide the grin. “Focus on your foam, Chef!”

Phin winked at her. “Always.”

And Bua—watching it all from the pass—just shook her head and looked away, but not before anyone could miss the tiniest, rarest, most damning thing: She smiled.

Not the clipped, professional kind she used with investors. Not the thin-lipped tolerance she wore during staff meetings. No—this one was quiet, unguarded, the kind that slipped through before she could catch it. She caught herself a second later, schooled her face back into something neutral, and checked out the next order. But the warmth lingered, curling at the edge of her mouth and deeper still, somewhere just below her ribs.

Because the truth was… it hadn’t crept up all at once. There was no single moment she could point to—no lightning bolt, no grand epiphany. Just a slow, quiet shift. A series of small things.

Bua didn’t even notice it at first. That softness blooming under all her careful edges. That steady tug pulling her toward something she hadn’t meant to want. And now—somehow—Phin was under her skin, in her thoughts, wrapped around her sheets and her pulse, like she'd always been meant to be there.

And Bua… she wasn’t trying to fight it anymore. Not really.

Now, when Phin was near, her pulse stuttered a little. A glance across the kitchen. A touch on her back as she passed by. A quiet smile over staff meal. They were small things. Ordinary things. But they stirred something in her—soft and wanting and maddeningly tender.

There had been a time, not long ago, when she’d imagined tossing a hot spoon at Phin’s head. Now she imagined kissing her instead.

And maybe it didn’t happen all at once. Maybe it wasn’t the night at the noodle stall or the first time Phin texted her, or even when she showed up outside her office with lunch box and excuses. Maybe it was all of it. The way Phin remembered how she liked her coffee—black, no sugar, but only if it was from the old silver machine near the prep station, not the newer one everyone else used. The way she talked to Auntie Song in the dishwashing pit like she was the heart of the kitchen—not just a staff member, but a colleague with stories worth listening to. The way she touched Poom, the youngest line cook’s shoulder before his first solo service, steadying him with nothing more than a quiet “You’ve got this, okay?”—and meant it.

The way she never forgot how much chili Bua could tolerate—just enough for a kick, not enough to make her nose run—and adjusted the heat in the staff soup accordingly. The way she smiled like she already knew Bua would roll her eyes, and still hoped she'd smile anyway. And when she looked at Bua like she meant it—like she saw her and liked what she saw.

All of it. Those little things. Bua noticed them. Maybe she always had.
And maybe—just maybe—that was why, somewhere between annoyance and something she still didn’t have a word for.  It didn’t feel like a fall. It felt like a slow lean. A tilting in, so gradual Bua didn’t realize she’d moved until she was already touching. And now… now there was no pretending.

Not when her heart beat faster every time Phin called her name. Not when Phin smiled at her from across the kitchen like she was the only person in the room. Not when she looked at her like that—like this might be something worth keeping.

*****

As the last of the plates went out and the kitchen slowly wound down, staff began peeling off one by one—untying aprons, scrubbing hands, cracking tired jokes as they clocked out. The hum of post-service cleanup settled into something quieter, more domestic. Nam tossed her towel into the laundry bin, already halfway out of her coat when she spotted Phin still hovering by the counter, aimlessly wiping down a spotless section of stainless steel for the third time.

Nam leaned against the prep table, arms crossed. “You good, Chef?”

Phin didn’t look up. “Mhm.”

“You need a ride or something?”

Phin shook her head, still too casually busy with her pretend task. “Nope, all good. Just finishing up.”

Nam watched her for a beat, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Finishing up what, exactly? That spot’s been wiped cleaner than Jamie’s bar cart.”

Phin kept her eyes on the counter, pretending to inspect a non-existent smudge. Nam stepped closer, one brow arched. “You do realize you’re the Head Chef, right? Nobody expects you to clean anything after service—hell, half the time we can’t even get Jai to rinse his knives properly, and he’s not the one in charge.”

Phin shrugged, still playing it cool. “Just trying to set a good example.”

Nam snorted. “Right. Setting an example by detailing the prep station like you’re prepping for a health inspection after everyone’s gone home.”

Phin didn’t answer.

Nam leaned in, voice dropping to a knowing murmur. “You’re waiting for her.”

Phin finally stopped, resting both palms on the counter and exhaling through her nose. Her ears were pink.

“I’m not—” Phin started, then gave up. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Nam beamed. “God, you’re so obvious. It’s cute. Gross, but cute.”

Nam then continued like she’d just hit jackpot. “Called it. I knew something was up the second you two rolled in together like some undercover couple from a spy movie. One car, one driver, sunglasses indoors. You’re lucky Jamie didn’t start a conspiracy board.”

Phin laughed. “You’re imagining things.”

“I literally watched she smile at you with teeth, Phin. That woman has two smiles—‘you’re fired’ and ‘I’m in love.’ That was not a firing smile.”

Phin scrubbed her hand over her face. “Nam…”

Nam slung her bag over one shoulder, clearly delighted. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make it a thing or tease you. Just happy for you. And her. She’s... softer lately. Less murdery.”

“She’s always been soft,” Phin said under her breath.

Nam blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Right. Sure she has. I guess you’d know.”

Phin only grinned. Nam started toward the door but paused, glancing back. “Seriously though—take care of her, okay? She pretends she doesn’t care, but we all know better.”

“I know,” Phin said, quieter this time.

A minute later, Phin wandered out too, slipping past the prep stations and through the corridor that led to the back office. The place was quiet now, shadows stretching long under the fluorescents. Just as she rounded the corner toward the staff lockers, she spotted Bua standing at the front desk, half-turned toward the door, signing out for the night.

 “Baibua, you finally emerged. I was starting to think you planned to sleep in your office and turn into a vampire.” Phin said lightly as she approached, tilting her head.

Bua didn’t even look up, but a faint breath of amusement escaped her. “Mm. Keep talking and I just might start haunting you.”

Phin grinned, letting her shoulder brush Bua’s as she leaned beside her. “Let me walk you to your car.”

That got a glance from Bua—brief, sideways, unreadable. But her voice softened just a little. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late,” Phin said easily, blunt and shameless as ever, falling into step beside her. “We passed weird the moment you let me kiss you.”

Bua gave a quiet huff, but didn’t push her away. Phin walked with Bua down to the parking lot. It was late—the kind of late that made the city hum low and quiet, like it, too, had finally given in to exhaustion. Their footsteps echoed in the garage, the clack of Bua’s heels softened against concrete, Phin’s sneakers dragging just a little like she wasn’t in a hurry.

They reached Bua’s car, but neither of them made a move to open a door. Instead, there was a beat. A silence. A look. “Missed me yet?” Phin asked, voice low, more honest than teasing now.

Bua’s eyes flicked up to hers. Then—softly, almost like a confession—she said, “Maybe.”

Phin’s breath caught, lips parting. “Yeah?”

But Bua was already looking away again, jaw tense like she’d said too much. “Don’t get smug about it.”

“Never,” Phin whispered, then leaned in and kissed her—once, then again. Soft. Slow. Lingering. The first was gentle, a question in the shape of lips; the second, a quiet answer. Bua didn’t move at first—just breathed in, her heart rattling somewhere behind her ribs. But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t stop it. Her hand curled into the fabric of Phin’s shirt, fingers tightening just slightly, like she didn’t realize she was holding on until she already was and enough to say: I want this, too.

And Phin, reading it without words, kissed her deeper. And when it finally ended, when Phin pulled back just enough to look at her, Bua still hadn’t moved. Only her lips parted—just slightly, as if the absence of the kiss felt louder than the kiss itself. Something had shifted. Quietly. Irrevocably.

Phin stepped back with a half-smile, her voice softer now but still teasing around the edges. “Drive safely, Baibua,” she said, “And don’t forget to miss me.”

Bua rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched—and she didn’t deny it. Not this time.

And then… they didn’t go home together. It wasn’t even a discussion. Just a pause, a look, and a quiet goodbye. Bua slid into her own car. Phin watched her taillights disappear.

She told herself it was better this way. But the echo of Phin’s touch stayed with her—long after the parking lot had emptied.

*****

By the time she reached her apartment, the city had quieted into its late-hour hush. The elevator ride was slow, humming gently, and she leaned against the wall with her eyes closed, shoulders heavy from a day that had ended too strangely, too tenderly.

The silence hit immediately.

Bua shut the door behind her, kicked off her shoes with one foot, and stood there for a long moment, keys still in hand. Her apartment, normally a haven after a long day, felt off tonight. Too quiet. Too still.

She exhaled, slow and shallow, as if even that might disturb something. She glanced around the living room. The throw pillow Phin had used to prop her feet on the night before was still slightly out of place. A glass—hers, not Phin’s—sat rinsed but not yet dried in the sink. The faintest, softest scent of lemongrass and smoke lingered in the air, clinging like memory. It shouldn't feel like anything. But it did.

Bua moved through the apartment on muscle memory—lights on, air conditioning adjusted, hair tied up loosely. Her fingers were steady, precise. But something in her chest felt strange. Unsettled. Like the shift had already happened and now her body just hadn’t caught up yet.

She paused at the doorway to her bedroom. And there it was again. That pull. The sheets were still slightly wrinkled from where Phin had laid beside her. A tshirt—Phin’s, not hers—hung on the corner of the bedframe like it belonged there. And the scent—Phin’s scent—was unmistakable. Clean skin, heat, a trace of her shampoo. Bua’s throat tightened.

The night before played back in fragments, one after the other. The hesitant laugh as Phin stepped inside. The lazy way they kissed on the couch. The shift—when things turned quieter, needier, less playful and more real. The look in Phin’s eyes before she touched her. The sound of her name, breathed against her throat. The way she reached for Bua like it meant something. It did. It had. And Bua… she hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t wanted to.

Now, standing in the empty hush of her apartment, all she could think about was the shape of Phin’s hand around her waist, her voice in the dark, how everything about it felt—impossibly—like hers.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Ran her fingers over the place where Phin had slept. Her chest ached. Not painfully. Not yet. Just enough to let her know something had changed. She missed her.

She wanted her here. In her bed. In her kitchen. In her arms.

But saying it felt like handing over a piece of herself—unguarded, open, exposed in a way she wasn’t used to. Wasn’t ready for. Except she was ready.

Fresh from the shower, Bua padded quietly into her bedroom, towel-drying her hair with one hand. The faint scent of her jasmine shampoo clung to her skin, mixing with the warmth of clean cotton. She had changed into her softest pajamas—an old, oversized tee and flannel shorts—comfort worn into every thread. The kind she never wore in front of anyone.

She dropped onto the bed with a sigh, legs folding underneath her as she reached for her phone. The screen lit up on the nightstand.

Phin:
BB, miss me yet?

Bua stared at the screen, trying—and failing—not to smile. Her first instinct was to deflect. Dodge. Say something dry. Instead, her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating… then she typed:

Bua:
What makes you think I miss you?

The response came back immediately.

Phin:
Because I do. And I’m much more charming.

Bua rolled her eyes—but her heart did something traitorous in her chest. She started typing again.

Bua:
Overconfident. Annoying. Loud.

Phin:
And still your favorite.

Bua:
Debatable.

Phin:
So that’s a yes.

Bua didn’t reply right away. Her fingers hovered over the screen, then typed:

Bua:
Go to sleep, Phinya.

Another bubble popped up right away.

Phin:
...Can’t. I’m outside.

Bua blinked.

Bua:
What.

Phin:
Your apartment. I’m parked downstairs.

Phin:
Before you ask, yes I brought my overnight bag.

Phin :
Say the word, and I’ll either come up—or head back to my place. Your call.

Bua stared at the screen, heartbeat crawling up her throat. Say the word. Just one. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She should say no. She wanted to say no. Not because she didn’t want to see Phin—but because she did. Too much. It was getting harder to pretend otherwise, harder to tuck the feeling into neat little boxes and pretend it was just a passing thing. She glanced at the door. At the faint echo of her own heartbeat in her ears.

Bua exhaled. The fight drained out of her, replaced by something warm and inevitable. Her fingers moved before her brain could argue again.

Bua:
Come up. Try not to wake the neighbors. And don’t forget your stupid toothbrush.

Later there was a knock—soft, almost polite. Bua opened the door without a word. Phin stood there, slightly windblown, hair a mess like she’d driven without a helmet. She was holding a small overnight bag in one hand, and in the other—true to her word—a toothbrush still in its packaging, wagging it like a peace offering.

“I come bearing dental hygiene,” Phin said, grinning.

Bua rolled her eyes, but something in her chest fluttered. She stepped aside to let her in.

Phin didn’t rush. She walked past slowly, her eyes brushing over the room like she remembered it all—where Bua kept her tea, the sound of the hallway clock, the scent of her shampoo still hanging faintly in the air. She paused halfway to the couch, then turned. Bua hadn’t moved.

They stared at each other for a second too long. Then, quietly—almost sheepish now—Phin asked, “Still not tired of me?”

Bua didn’t answer. She stepped forward instead, tugged gently on the collar of Phin’s shirt, and kissed her. Once. Firm and sure.

Then she whispered, “Shut up. And kiss me now.”

Chapter Text

It had been almost two week since that night—the night Phin crashed at Bua’s place and somehow just… didn’t stop. No official conversation, no dramatic confessions. One minute she was making herself tea in Bua’s kitchen, and the next, she was brushing her teeth with her own toothbrush like she’d always lived there. Most nights since, Phin ended up back at Bua’s apartment, slumped sideways across the bed like a heat-seeking blanket, arms around her waist, cheek pressed to her shoulder. “You sleep better when I’m here,” she’d say, smug and half-asleep. Bua would roll her eyes, but she never argued or pushed her away. Because it was true.

Phin was the clingy one—obviously. Bua would say it with a scoff, but she didn’t exactly pull away when Phin wrapped herself around her like an octopus. Bua was the one who acted like she didn’t need it, but she always left the hallway light on for Phin, always cooked extra rice in case she came by late.

Like last Tuesday, when Phin stayed behind for a surprise tasting with the wine supplier and a few regular VIPs, then dropped by Bua’s at midnight with the smell of pinot noir still clinging to her shirt and her first words being, “Don’t kill me, but I’m starving.”

Bua had pretended to scold her for not texting first, arms crossed at the doorway, but the rice was already in the cooker, still warm. On the stove, a small pot of clear tofu soup with glass noodles and baby bok choy was gently simmering—light, savory, something Bua always made when someone needed comfort without heaviness. Next to it was a dish of omelet with cha-om, still fluffy in the pan, and a tiny bowl of nam pla prik waiting on the side.

Phin beamed like she’d won something. “You love me,” she teased, slinging her bag onto the couch like she lived there.

Bua just rolled her eyes and muttered, “Eat first. Talk later.”

They hadn’t said the word relationship yet, but it was walking and talking like one. And everyone at KIN KAO was starting to catch on.

The staff had picked up on the shift like bloodhounds. Bua, who used to keep three feet of distance from anyone unless she was correcting a plate, now let Phin lean over her shoulder during prep. Once, in the middle of plating for the lunch service, she’d taken the boxed meal Phin handed her without a single comment—and even smiled. Jamie had nearly choked on her coffee whispered, “Are we soft-launching?” to Nam, who didn’t answer but raised an eyebrow like finally.

There were no official rules against dating in the restaurant handbook, but let’s be real—the manager and the head chef? If anyone was going to screw things up and make the gossip columns, it’d be them. So Bua still tried to keep it professional. Straight spine, even voice, no touching. But her eyes kept giving her away. And Phin? Phin didn’t even try to pretend.

“Just so we’re clear,” Phin murmured one afternoon, voice low and teasing as she reached over to brush a stray basil leaf from Bua’s shoulder. “I’m not sleeping with my boss. I’m sleeping with the woman I might be falling for—big difference.”

They were sitting side by side on the worn leather couch in Bua’s office, a quiet bubble away from the clatter of the kitchen. The late lunch rush had finally eased, and while the staff crowded around the prep table for their daily staff meal—cracking jokes and fighting over the last fried mackerel—Phin had slipped away with two plates and a thermos of soup.

It wasn’t the first time.

Sometimes she ate with the team, loud and laughing, chopsticks moving fast between bites and stories. But other times, like today, she found Bua buried behind invoices and supplier emails, too focused to realize she hadn’t eaten since they left the apartment. So Phin would bring the food to her, uninvited but always expected.

Today it was rice, stir-fried eggplant, and a side of spicy mushroom larb with mint—simple, hearty, and warm. Bua had resisted for all of thirty seconds before giving in with a sigh and letting Phin sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

“They’ve been talking since you showed up here often,” Bua muttered, not meeting her eyes. But her voice lacked heat. It was too soft to be annoyed. Too full of something else entirely.

Phin smiled into her spoon. “Let them talk.”

*****

Phin was meeting her family that Monday.

It was supposed to be her thing—just a quiet lunch with her mother and sisters, now that her schedule had finally opened up. Bua had planned to spend the day off like she usually did: catching up on supplier invoices, maybe reorganizing her spice cabinet if she felt particularly wild. But then Phin after shower that late morning, barefoot and grinning, rifling through her fridge like she paid rent, and dropped it casually:

“So… want to come with me?”

Bua paused mid-sip of her coffee. “To lunch? With your family?”

“Yeah. Just a small one. You’ve already met Lin—well, heard her,” Phin said, nudging her with her hip. “Through that delightful accidental speakerphone call.”

“Oh God,” Bua groaned, covering her face. “Don’t remind me. She must be traumatized.”

Phin chuckled, shameless. “Please. She loved it. She’s going to bring it up over lunch, just wait.”

“Then why, exactly, would I want to go?”

“Because you like me,” Phin sing-songed, already pulling out the rice cooker like she owned the place. “And because my mom probably knows about you already anyway—thanks to Lin’s deeply noble gossiping tendencies.”

Bua sighed and leaned her head back against the cabinet. “You do realize what it means—to meet your family? Your mother?”

Phin turned and leaned against the counter, grinning. “Perfect time to start. Sam will ask too many questions, Mom will try to feed you everything, and Lin will flirt just to make me squirm. It'll be chaos. You’ll love it.”

“That’s not helping your case,” Bua said flatly.

“Come on. It'll be fun,” Phin grinned. “Sam and Mom rarely have free time together, so it’s the full chaos squad.”

Bua gave her a look. “I wasn’t invited.”

“I’m inviting you now.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You’re not saying no.”

Which… was true. Bua sighed, letting her head fall back against the couch cushion. “Phin.”

“What? I’m already spending every night with you, half the staff knows, Lin’s probably given my mom a full PowerPoint presentation about you, and your family treats me like I’ve already been adopted. What’s left to hide?”

Bua raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “They like you, yes. But they don’t know we’re together.” Her voice was quiet, but she didn’t pull away. “Not officially.”

Phin tilted her head, grinning. “Are we still pretending we’re not? Because from where I’m standing, this feels very together.”

She stepped closer, slid her arms around Bua’s waist, and let her voice drop just enough to make Bua’s breath catch. “And after my last time at your family’s restaurant, I’m pretty sure your mom wouldn’t mind that I’m dating her daughter. Like… at all.”

Bua huffed a laugh, gave in, and rested her forehead against Phin’s. “Fine. We’re together.”

Then Phin leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Bua’s ear. “Then the only thing left to do is tell them.”

And she bit—just softly, teasing. Bua groaned. She had the point.

Then, after some quiet tender moment, softer now, Phin added, “But you don’t have to come with me if you’re not ready. I mean it.”

Her grin faded into something quieter—still warm, but without the teasing edge. She looked at Bua the way she always did when it really mattered. “It’s just an invitation. Not a test, not a trap. If it feels like too much, too fast… you can say no. I won’t be mad. I won’t push.”

Her hands stayed light at Bua’s waist, not holding, just resting. A steadying touch. “I want you there because I want to share this part of my life with you. But only if you want it, too.”

Bua bit her bottom lip, heart doing a quiet, nervous spin in her chest. She knew Phin meant it. That if she said no, Phin would smile, drop the subject, and never make her feel guilty about it. And that only made it harder.

It would’ve been easier to laugh it off, to say no with a wave and blame her schedule, her mood, anything else. But she didn’t. Because the truth was—this was a big deal.  Her family had come to know Phin slowly, almost accidentally. She’s not responsible for that.

But this? This wasn’t casual.

Meeting Phin’s family—on purpose—was different. It wasn’t soft launching. It wasn’t hiding behind the chaos of work or the comfort of mutual interest. It was intentional. Clear. It meant stepping forward, not sideways. It meant… admitting she was all in.

Bua exhaled slowly. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it was trying to reason with her—warn her, maybe—but her body had already decided. She leaned in without a word, hands curling lightly around the edge of Phin’s shirt, and pressed a soft, certain kiss to her lips. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—just quiet and steady, like sealing a promise neither of them had dared to name out loud.

Then she pulled back, just enough to meet Phin’s eyes. “Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll come with you.”

Phin blinked, just for a moment, like she hadn’t expected that answer so easily. Then her face lit up in that unfiltered way Bua was starting to crave.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bua said, quieter this time. “Just… don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Phin leaned in, brushing her nose against Bua’s cheek. “No promises.”

*****

By late morning, they were out the door, with Phin humming through traffic and Bua pretending she wasn’t nervous. Phin kept one hand on  the wheel and one hand resting near Bua’s knee the entire ride, like she couldn’t help herself. “Just be yourself,” she said casually. “Unless your ‘self’ decides to interrogate Lin about her last situationship. That’s my job.”

Bua snorted. “I’ll be silent and smile politely.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

What Bua didn’t know was that earlier that morning—before she'd even said yes—Phin had already dropped a message in the family group chat:

Phin:
Coming with someone today. No dramatics, please. 😐

Lin, of course, replied within two seconds:

OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.  Do NOT tell me it’s HER.

Are we HARD LAUNCHING??? LETTUCE PRAY 😭💍🔥

Sam followed up with a single text:

RAMEN! 🙏

I’ll make sure Mom come with me

Their mother simply sent a string of flower emojis and a thumbs-up.

So yeah. Lin had come thrilled and fully prepared—heels, attitude, and emotional fanfare included.

“They’re going to love you,” she said. “They already do.”

When they arrived at the Café, it was already loud.

Tucked beneath the canopy of a rain tree on a quiet side street in Ari, the café was known for its mismatched vintage furniture, strong coconut cold brew, and the kind of weekend crowd that talked with their hands. They had picked a quiet Monday lunchtime to avoid the chaos—though Phin’s family, clearly, was the chaos.

Lin was busy playing game in her phone and Sam was seated calmly beside her mother, sipping iced tea while their mother beaming as she showed Sam photos on her phone— of her two golden huskies in matching flower crowns.

The moment Phin stepped into view, Lin gasped. “Finally! I was about to send a search party. And—oh my God, is this her?”

Phin barely had time to answer before Lin launched herself forward, arms wide like she was greeting a celebrity instead of someone she’d only heard over speakerphone. “I’ve been waiting to meet you. And yes, I do remember your voice—vividly.”

Bua blinked, caught somewhere between alarmed and amused, offering a polite wai as she bowed slightly.

Lin grinned. “You’re even prettier in person. No wonder Phin’s been insufferable.”

“Lin,” Sam warned without looking up.

“I’m being welcoming!”

Phin chuckled under her breath, then gently placed her hand on the small of Bua’s back and guided her closer. Her smile was different now—not teasing, not cocky. Just proud. Like she couldn’t believe her luck.

“Mae,” she said, turning to her mother, “this is Bua.” Her voice softened around the name.

Her mother’s eyes lit up, warm and curious. “So you’re the famous girl Lin heard over the phone,” she said, reaching out to squeeze both of Bua’s hands.

Phin let out a quiet laugh beside her, fingers brushing against Bua’s lightly—barely there, but grounding all the same.

Bua swallowed, then offered a small smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Khun Mae.”

“I’ve been hoping Phin would bring someone home for years,” her mother said, eyes twinkling with happiness as she glanced at her daughter. “I was starting to think I’d have to arrange a blind date through the temple aunties.”

Phin rolled her eyes. “Okay, enough.”

But she was still beaming. Like just having Bua here, beside her, with her family, was everything she hadn’t dared ask for.

The rest of the meeting went surprisingly well—better than Bua had dared to hope.

Once the greetings settled and everyone had taken their seats at the shaded outdoor table, they ordered lunch: khao soi for Phin and Lin, grilled chicken and som tum for Sam, and a spread of shared appetizers in the middle. Bua kept it simple with pad kra pao and jasmine rice, grateful to have something to anchor her hands while the conversation picked up speed around her.

It was loud, a little chaotic, but warm—like stepping into a rhythm that already existed and finding a place in it.

Phin’s mother turned to Bua halfway through the meal and smiled, leaning in just a little. “So, Bua, tell me—how do you survive her?” she said, nodding toward Phin, who was too busy stealing a piece of chicken from Lin’s plate to notice. “I hear stories about her in the kitchen before. Naughty behavior, very stubborn.”

“Mae!” Phin groaned, eyes wide.

“Oh, please,” her mother waved her off with a dramatic flick of her wrist. “I gave birth to you. I know what you’re like.” Then she turned to Bua with a playful, exaggerated sigh. “I apologize in advance. I hope she’s not driving you mad.”

Bua smiled, amused. “She tries.”

“She has a real talent for that,” her mother said with a chuckle. “Sometimes she forgets she’s an award-winning chef and acts like a freshly graduated student on her first day—climbing on counters, making a mess of her apron, running around like she’s five.”

“She still does,” Bua laughed, glancing at Phin with mock exasperation. “Every single day.”

Phin groaned, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Mae, please.”

“Oh, I’m just saying! You won James Beard Award, put your name on the map and suddenly everyone forgets you still eat like a teenager and refuse to wear matching socks.”

“That was one time,” Phin muttered.

Sam raised her iced tea with a deadpan smile. “It’s every time.”

Bua covered her mouth to hide her laugh, but her eyes sparkled as she leaned in just a little closer to Phin—fond, maybe a bit smug. And Phin, for all her mock protests, looked happier than Bua had ever seen her.

They kept chatting as—little stories, bits of history. Sam asked about KIN KAO with genuine curiosity, and Bua found herself explaining the day-to-day operations, how the team worked, even how she and Phin had started as not-quite enemies before things… shifted.

At some point, the topic turned to family.

Phin casually mentioned that Bua grew up in a restaurant family herself. “Their place is in Yaowarat. Heng Lao, Crispy pork belly, roast duck, packed every single day.”

“Wait. Heng Lao in Yaowarat?” Phin’s mother gasped, hand flying to her chest. “You’re from that place? The one with the green awning and the duck that sells out by noon?! I’ve eaten there for years!”

Lin perked up. “Oh, I know that place too! I thought it sounded familiar!”

“Of course it’s familiar,” their mother said, leaning in now with wide-eyed enthusiasm. “Everyone in Bangkok knows that place—you don’t get pork belly that crispy by accident.” She turned to Bua, eyes warm and delighted. “No wonder you’re doing so well managing KIN KAO.  Food is in your blood.”

Bua flushed, unsure how to handle the praise, but Phin reached over under the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Just once. And just like that, the last of her nerves melted away.

They lingered over lunch for another hour, letting the plates grow cold as the conversation meandered—from food to travel to the tragic state of Bangkok traffic. Lin managed to slip in a dramatic retelling of her latest breakup (which Sam visibly tuned out for), and Phin’s mom made them all laugh with a story about Phin’s first disastrous attempt at baking when she was ten.

But eventually, the moment came when real life crept back in.

Sam checked her watch, sighed, and said she needed to head back to the university—she was giving a late afternoon guest lecture. Their mother, of course, was going with her, apparently determined to sit in and “offer moral support” (which Sam insisted meant heckling from the front row).

Lin stood, brushing invisible dust from her pantsuit. “I’ve got an interview at the coffeshop down the road. Wish me luck this time”

Phin raised a hand. “Good luck, Sis.”

They all rose, chairs scraping gently against the patio tile. Hugs were exchanged, promises tossed around, then Phin’s mother turned to Bua with a warm smile and opened her arms. “Come here, darling.”

Bua stepped into the hug—slightly stiff at first, but relaxing quickly as the older woman’s arms wrapped around her with maternal ease.

“Keep her grounded, will you?” she murmured, just loud enough for Bua to hear. “Don’t let her make a mess in the kitchen. Both yours and KIN KAO. You seem like the only one who can actually handle her.”

Bua pulled back and laughed, eyes crinkling. “I’ll do my best.”

Phin groaned from behind her. “Mae!”

“I’m just saying,” her mother said innocently, patting Bua’s arm before turning away. Phin covered her face with both hands, half-laughing, half-mortified as the group began to disperse.

“I am never bringing you to meet my family again,” she muttered.

Bua just smiled—smug, a little flushed—as they walked back toward the car. “Too late. They already have my number and started a group chat without you.”

The afternoon sun was still soft when they left the café, a gentle golden glow stretching across the city like a warm sigh. With the family goodbye behind them, Phin reached over and laced her fingers through Bua’s as they walked back toward the car—casual, easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” she said, nudging Bua lightly with her shoulder. “Since we’ve survived the family hard launch… want to try something wild and new?”

Bua raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Phin grinned. “Being a normal couple. You know—go on an actual date?”

Bua blinked. “We see each other every day.”

“That’s not the same,” Phin said, swinging their hands a little. “I mean doing what normal couples do on their day off. Stroll through a market, eat too much, pretend we’re not looking for food inspiration but absolutely are.”

Bua gave a reluctant smile, already softening. “You just want snacks.”

“And maybe you,” Phin said without missing a beat.

They ended up at the Or Tor Kor Market, one of Bangkok’s cleanest and most upscale food markets—perfect for two people who couldn’t turn off their culinary brains even if they tried. Phin dragged her from stall to stall, pointing out strange imported fruits, tasting tamarind candies and fish sauce tastings, making Bua try things with a quiet “just one bite, trust me” until her hands were full of little paper cups and plastic bags.

For someone who rarely let herself slow down, Bua found it surprisingly… fun. Refreshing. She wasn’t in heels. She wasn’t giving instructions or answering her phone. Phin kept making her laugh, poking fun at ridiculous food names and insisting they buy matching keychains shaped like tiny chili peppers. Bua rolled her eyes and said no, but her smile never left her face.

Then, just as Phin was debating between two types of grilled river prawns, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Phin! Oh hey, didn’t expect you meet you guys here”

Bua froze like she’d been caught shoplifting. Turning slowly, she saw Nam—standing just a few feet away, grinning ear to ear, a plastic cup of iced matcha in one hand and her boyfriend’s arm in the other.

Phin, completely unfazed, waved. “Nam! Hey!”

Nam leaned in with a smirk. “You said you were busy today. Market research, huh?”

Phin chuckled. “Technically still true.”

Bua, still half-tense, gave Nam a polite nod. “Hi.”

Nam tilted her head and smiled, just respectful enough to not push too far. “Nice seeing you outside of the kitchen, Boss.”

Then she looked between them, clearly amused, and gave Phin a quick, conspiratorial wink. “You two have fun. And if she pretends she doesn’t eat sweets, she’s lying—I’ve seen her steal my coconut tart.”

Phin laughed. “Oh, I know.”

They walked away, and Bua let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Phin bumped her shoulder gently. “You okay?”

“She’s going to gossip to everyone,” Bua muttered, a touch of dread in her voice.

“So what?” Phin said lightly. “We’re not doing anything wrong. If anything, I should be the embarrassed one—you're the terrifying manager everyone’s scared of.”

“And not once, you look terrified,” Bua shot back.

“I’m very brave,” Phin said solemnly, smiled while leaned in kissing her cheek. “And I really like you. That helps.”

Bua tried not to blush. She failed. But the universe wasn’t done yet.

Because ten minutes later, while they were sharing a bag of grilled squid and arguing over whether the sweet chili sauce was too sweet, a voice called out from behind them:

“Well, well, well. Look who’s out here pretending to be human.”

Bua turned—and this time it was Fang, arms crossed and grinning like she’d just caught someone red-handed. Her eyes flicked from Bua to Phin, then back again, practically glowing with satisfaction.

“Didn’t you just spend the last month complaining about her?” she asked Bua, nodding toward Phin.

Before Bua could come up with a retort, she sighed dramatically and muttered, “Why is everyone here today?”

Fang smirked. “Maybe it’s karma.”

Phin gave a casual wave and stepped forward, extending a hand. “You must be Fang. I’ve heard… very edited things about you.”

Fang took her hand with a firm shake, eyes narrowing playfully. “That’s funny—I’ve heard unedited things about you.”

Bua let out a long-suffering sigh. “Please don’t start.”

“Relax,” Fang said with a grin. “I like her already.”

Phin nudged Bua gently with her elbow. “See? I’m winning people over.”

“You’re exhausting,” Bua mumbled, but her voice was too fond to land the insult properly. Phin took a bite of squid, then leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of Bua’s ear. “I don’t mind running into people,” she murmured, voice warm and lazy. “But if you’re really over it, we can always spend our next day off in bed. No pants. No market. No audience.”

Bua elbowed her in the ribs, cheeks warming. “Phin.”

Fang raised an eyebrow. “Do I want to know what she just said?”

“No,” Bua said, eyes pointedly on the grilled squid.

“Definitely not,” Phin added, laughing and licking chili sauce off her thumb.

And just like that, the tension dissolved again—into laughter, teasing, and a kind of lightness Bua hadn’t known she’d been missing. Maybe being seen wasn’t so terrifying after all. Not when it was like this.

They ended up exploring the market together—Bua and Phin, now joined by Fang and her boyfriend, Mark, who showed up moments later with a half-eaten skewer of grilled chicken and a shy smile.

Phin and Mark hit it off immediately over a stall selling vintage soda bottles, while Fang dragged Bua toward a stall with handmade chili pastes, insisting she needed a second opinion on which one would “make Mark cry just the right amount.”

They moved slowly through the maze of stalls, sharing bites of kanom krok and roasted chestnuts, laughing over ridiculous food names, and pointing out strange pickled things in jars. It was chaotic and a little loud, but warm and oddly perfect.

Eventually, as the sky began to shift into soft golds and pinks, they all stood at the edge of the parking lot, saying their goodbyes.

“Thanks for letting us third-wheel,” Fang teased, slinging a bag of produce over her shoulder. “And don’t worry, Bua—I’ll only gossip a little.”

Bua gave her a tired look. “I’m deleting your number.”

Mark laughed and waved at both of them. “See you guys soon.”

Once they were alone again, Phin glanced at the time, then back at Bua. The mood shifted—quieter, more hesitant.

“I know you’re heading to Yaowarat,” she said casually, eyes scanning the sky. “I can hop on the BTS from here. No big deal.”

She didn’t offer to come with her. Didn’t ask. And Bua noticed that immediately. Phin was giving her space, letting her lead. Like she always did when it came to anything personal.

Bua nodded slowly, pretending to check her phone, even though her thoughts were already spiraling. It had been almost three weeks since she last went to her family’s restaurant. She’d been busy, yes—but she’d also been avoiding it. Avoiding this.

Because taking Phin there now wasn’t just a casual stop for dinner. It was intentional. It was real. No more hiding, no more sidestepping. And there would be no walking backwards from that moment.

Her heart thudded with quiet panic. But beneath that… was something else. Something warmer. She looked at Phin—who was pretending to scroll her phone now, acting like she didn’t care, even though Bua knew her well enough to see the quiet hope tucked beneath her calm.

Bua cleared her throat. “You, uh…” she began, eyes darting everywhere but at Phin. “You like our roast duck, right?”

Phin blinked. “Yeah?”

Bua shrugged, fingers tugging at the strap of her bag. “My mom usually makes extra food on Sundays—her special soup, that kind of thing. If… if you want to come with me.” She hesitated, then added quickly, “You don’t have to. I mean, it’s just… I haven’t been back in a while, and they’ll probably ask about you anyway, so…”She trailed off, flustered now. “But it’s fine if you’re tired.”

Phin blinked again, then smiled—slow and wide, eyes glowing with something unmistakably soft.

“Baibua,” Phin said, her voice soft with something dangerously close to awe. “Did you just inviting me to eat with your family?”

Bua groaned, covering her face with one hand. “Don’t make it weird.”

Phin just grinned harder, taking a step closer. “I would love to eat soup with your mom.”

Bua rolled her eyes, cheeks pink. “You’re so annoying.”

“Lucky for you,” Phin said with a grin, “I’m annoyingly charming.”

And just like that, hand in hand to the car, to Yaowarat—toward the next step, the next leap, and whatever came after.

*****

They arrived at the restaurant just as the evening crowd began to trickle in, the familiar scent of roasted duck, soy, and garlic-soaked broth greeting them like a welcome-home hug.

The green awning above the entrance fluttered gently in the breeze, the golden lettering on the sign gleaming in the dusk light. From inside came the clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, and the unmistakable sizzle of something hitting the wok in the back kitchen.

As they stepped through the front door, Bua’s mother looked up from where she was wiping down the front counter—and her face lit up like the Bangkok skyline at New Year’s.

Her eyes went straight to Bua, then to Phin beside her. There was no surprise there, not really. Just a quiet kind of joy that had been waiting patiently for its moment.

She didn’t say a word at first—just beamed, absolutely beamed, like her daughter had finally come home from a long trip she didn’t even know she’d taken.

“Ma,” Bua said, voice soft as she stepped forward and leaned in to kiss her mother’s cheek.

“You came,” her mother said, drying her hands on her apron as she approached, practically glowing. She glanced at Phin, eyes warm with recognition. “And you brought someone. Finally.”

Phin offered a slight wai, grinning. “Hello again, Khun Mae.”

Her mother beamed even wider at that, reaching out to clasp Phin’s hand briefly in both of hers. “Phinya, you don’t have to be so formal with me anymore. I’m always happy to see you here.”

Even before Phin came in with Bua, she had already carved out a quiet place for herself at Heng Lao.  Bua’s mother had taken a liking to her from the start.

“I had a feeling I’d be seeing you more often from now on.”

Her mother said with a little smile, stepping forward to gently touch Bua’s arm in that quiet, grounding way only mothers can. Her voice softened.

Bua opened her mouth to reply, but her mother was already ushering them both further inside like they were expected—like Phin had always belonged in this space. No questions. No raised eyebrows. No awkward pause. Just the kind of welcome that said: I already know, and I’m happy about it.

Across the room, Bua’s father was busy at his usual station, barking orders to the kitchen and greeting regulars between pouring bowls of soup. He gave them a distracted wave without looking up, entirely in his element.

Behind the counter, Pim was perched on the high stool like always, tapping away at the POS screen. She looked up when she heard the door, spotted Phin, and gave her a small smirk—nothing unfriendly, but definitely knowing.

Bua sighed.

Phin leaned in, whispering, ““I have a feeling your mom already likes me more than you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Bua muttered, though her hand brushed gently against Phin’s as they followed her mother toward the back table. It was warm. Familiar. A little loud. A little chaotic. And somehow, just right.

Dinner was served not long after, and the warmth of the restaurant bled into the family table tucked at the far end of the shop—where the clatter of woks and ringing of the cashier softened into the quieter sounds of bowls clinking and laughter shared between loved ones.

Bua’s father, usually glued to the front counter or shouting orders toward the kitchen, let his staff take over for the evening. He sat down with both of his daughters (and now Phin too) at the table for the first time in weeks, a rare moment of pause, chopsticks in hand, his smile wide and genuine.

“Finally,” he said after a bite of roast duck, glancing at Phin with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Now her mother can stop trying to set Bua up with every daughter of her friends. Otherwise, I was about to start collecting phone numbers from my friends’ daughters too.”

“Pa!” Bua hissed, face hot.

Her mother just laughed into her soup. The table was covered with dishes Phin recognized instantly—crispy pork belly, roast duck with rice, a claypot of glass noodles with shrimp, fried egg with cha-om, and a large bowl of her mother’s radish and pork bone soup, its gentle aroma anchoring the whole meal. A plate of sliced mango with sticky rice waited in the middle like a quiet promise.

Conversation flowed easily—work stories, neighborhood gossip, playful arguments about which supplier was overcharging for garlic again. Bua sat back at one point, watching them all with a quiet kind of awe.

There was no grand announcement. No dramatic pause. Her mother didn’t ask for a speech, didn’t make one either. She didn’t need to. Phin was already sitting at the table and eating with them. And that said enough.

When dinner was done, Bua started to rise, but Phin was already collecting dishes before anyone could stop her.

“I’ll help,” she said, stacking plates expertly. “You’ve fed me enough times to earn free labor.”

Bua’s mother moved to grab the platters, but Phin was quicker. “Let me. I insist.”

They disappeared into the small family kitchen in the back—cozy, cluttered, filled with the quiet rhythm of routine. Phin rolled up her sleeves beside the sink, sleeves wet halfway up her forearms as she rinsed one plate after another, side by side with Bua’s mother.

For a moment, it was just the two of them in the warm hush of water and ceramic. Then her mother spoke, voice soft and almost casual. “She’s lighter these days, you know.”

Phin blinked. “Sorry?”

“Bua,” her mother clarified, passing her another plate. “There’s something softer around her lately. Still sharp, still focused. But… lighter. Happier. I see it in the way she eats. The way she laughs. It used to be rare.”

Phin’s hands paused in the rinse water.

Her mother continued, “And I know she’s always been strong—stronger than most people know. After she came back from France, she did everything to prove she was fine. She kept moving forward. Never complained. But I’m her mother. I knew something hurt, even if she didn’t say it.”

Phin swallowed. The lump in her throat was sudden and tight.

“I worried about her for years,” her mother said quietly. “Not because I didn’t think she’d survive—I always knew she would. But surviving isn’t the same as living. And now… now she looks like she’s really living again. I have a feeling that has everything to do with you.”

Phin turned slightly, her hands still submerged in the sink. “That really means a lot to hear, Khun Mae. I care about her—so much.”

Her mother tilted her head, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “How much?”

Phin smiled back, a little sheepish but certain. “I know I love her.”

There was a pause—brief, but heavy with emotion.

“Good,” her mother said, placing the final bowl in the drying rack. “Because she deserves someone who sees all of her, not just the polished parts. Someone who love her even when she’s hard to reach.”

Neither of them noticed Bua standing just outside the doorway, half-hidden behind the curtain. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—she’d come to get another bowl—but stopped cold the moment she heard her name.

Now, her cheeks were burning, and her heart thudded like a drum against her ribs. She took a step back before they could spot her and leaned against the wall, covering her face with one hand.

And for a long, quiet moment, she simply stood there—flushed, shy, and completely undone. But smiling.

*****

It was just past 9 p.m. by the time they stepped into Bua’s apartment, the door clicking shut behind them with a soft finality. The night was quiet, the hum of the city muffled by high windows and thicker walls. Bua toed off her shoes by the door, shrugging off her light jacket. Phin followed suit, stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied sigh.

Heart full. Belly full. Everything—just enough.

But it wasn’t the roast duck or her mother’s soup Bua kept replaying in her mind. It was Phin’s voice, quiet and certain in the kitchen at Heng Lao. “I know I love her.”

The words looped over and over in her head like a favorite song on repeat. Bua tried not to smile, but failed miserably, lips curving without permission as she padded into the kitchen to fill a glass of water.

Phin caught the look immediately, leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes glinting. “You’ve been smiling like that since we left your parent’s.”

“I’m not—” Bua started, flustered.

“You are,” Phin teased, stepping closer. “And it’s cute. I’m flattered.”

Bua rolled her eyes and handed her the glass. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here I am,” Phin said with a grin, taking the glass and pressing a loud, exaggerated kiss to Bua’s cheek. “Too late now—you’re stuck with me.”

After a few lazy minutes, clothes were peeled off and tossed into the hamper, and they ended up under the warm stream of the shower, pressed close and giggling as steam curled around them.

“We’re just saving water,” Phin said, innocent voice and wicked smile.

“Sure you are,” Bua replied, deadpan—right before Phin pushed her gently against the tiled wall and kissed her breathless, deep and unhurried, but full of purpose. Bua gasped softly as Phin’s hands moved with familiarity and intention, water running down their bodies as they fit together like muscle memory. Skin against skin, slick with heat and steam and laughter between gasps, it wasn’t planned—but neither of them minded.

Bua’s fingers found Phin’s hair, tugging just slightly as her head fell back against the tile. Phin’s mouth trailed along her jaw, down her neck, her touch reverent but undeniably bold. It was clumsy in places, heated and breathless in others, but nothing had ever felt more right—more them.

When it was over, they stood under the stream for a moment longer, forehead to forehead, catching their breath through quiet laughter. Phin pressed a kiss to Bua’s shoulder and whispered, “Still counts as saving water.”

And Bua just shook her head, lips curving, heart pounding, too full to argue.

By the time they made it to the living room, they’d just finished drying each other’s hair in the bathroom—still damp, the scent of conditioner lingering in the air. Both collapsed onto the couch in nothing but oversized t-shirts and shared exhaustion, legs tangled, skin still warm from the shower. The TV played in the background—Hell’s Kitchen, of course—Phin’s favorite.

Phin had the remote, but she wasn’t really watching. Phin stretched out with her head on Bua’s lap, her eyes fluttering shut as Bua absentmindedly combed through her hair with gentle fingers. One of Phin’s hands rested on Bua’s knee, tracing slow, lazy circles on her skin as, Gordon Ramsay was shouting at some poor contestant about raw scallops. They were tired, warm, and a little stained—but perfectly content.

Bua snorted. “Why do you like this ridiculous show?”

Phin blinked, as if the answer was obvious. “Because it’s chaos, it’s petty, and also—he’s a genius.”

“You think he’s a genius?” Bua raised an eyebrow.

“He’s terrifying and inspiring. Like you, actually,” Phin said, smirking.

“I don’t scream at people like that,” Bua muttered.

“No, but you give death glares that could make a line cook cry. And you once made Poom almost resign over garnish placement.”

Bua scoffed. “That was not garnish. That was a full mint bouquet.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, the kind that only came from shared days and soft nights. The kind that felt like home. The soft buzz of the TV filled the space, Gordon Ramsay ranting in the background about someone’s overcooked scallops. Bua shifted slightly, one hand absently resting over Phin’s hips, her thumb stroking in idle, thoughtless motions.

“I heard you,” Bua said softly, eyes on the screen even though she wasn’t really watching.

Phin turned her head, caught the shift in her voice. “Heard what?”

“In the kitchen,” Bua clarified, still not looking at her. “When you were talking to my mom.”

Phin blinked, surprised, and reached for the remote and turned down the volume, letting the last of Gordon Ramsay’s shouting fade into quiet. She turned back to Bua, expression gentle, touched with something quieter than her usual spark.

“You did?” she asked, her voice warm, almost careful.

Bua nodded. Phin didn’t rush in to explain, didn’t try to lighten the moment with a joke like she might’ve weeks ago. She just watched Bua for a second longer, then smiled—soft and real.

Phin watched her for a beat, then smiled—tender, a little shy, but steady. “I meant it,” she said. “Every word.”

“I know” Bua finally looked up at her then, eyes full of unspoken things.

“You don’t have to say anything.” And Phin didn’t ask for more. She never did. She only gave what she had, and waited—for Bua, for the walls to lower, for whatever would come next.

Phin could feel it—had felt it for weeks now. In the way Bua always kept her hallway light on for Phin. In the extra rice she made without asking. In the quiet way she leaned into Phin at the end of a long shift, even when no one else was around to see it. Love wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was just the gentleness in a touch, the smallest soft look when she thought no one was watching.

“I just wanted you to know,” Phin added, thumb brushing lightly over Bua’s knuckles. “That I love you. That’s all.”

And just like always—like in the kitchen, like in the restaurant, like every quiet moment between them—Phin let Bua lead. And Bua—quiet, overwhelmed, but full of more than she knew how to say—curled her fingers around Phin’s hand. She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she leaned in slowly, resting her head against Phin’s shoulder, her other arm slipping around Phin’s waist in a loose, instinctive embrace. Like her body already knew what her mouth wasn’t ready to say.

Phin exhaled, the tension in her chest melting all at once as she turned her head and pressed a kiss to Bua’s hair. They sat there in silence, wrapped around each other, the soft hum of the city outside, the flickering light of the muted TV casting a gentle glow across the room. And Bua held her close, like it was the most natural thing in the world—because it was.

Chapter Text

Another morning. Another busy weekend.

The kind that started not with alarm clocks, but the clatter of bowls in the kitchen and the hiss of a coffee machine. The kind where Bangkok’s humidity crept through the open balcony doors before dawn, curling around bare ankles and the hems of old cotton shirts.

Bua moved through her apartment in quiet, economical movements—habitual and deliberate. She rolled up her sleeves, tied her hair back, and moved through the kitchen like it was muscle memory. Two mugs were already out on the counter. One was hers—clean lines, muted beige, no handle. The other was Phin’s, some hideous ceramic thing with a smiling pig and chipped lip, now permanently occupying the front row of her dish rack.

Phin herself hadn’t slept in her own apartment in weeks. She swung by every few days to check on the plants and grab new clothes, but she always came back by nightfall. Sometimes with new books. Sometimes with pastries. Once with a toaster she insisted was better than the old one Bua already had.

“I’m nesting,” she’d said, unbothered, while Bua stared at the second toaster in disbelief.

The apartment didn’t look like it belonged to just one person anymore. Phin’s tote bags hung on the back of the dining chair. Her sneakers were kicked under the shoe rack—never lined up. A half-empty bag of her favorite granola was wedged beside Bua’s carefully stacked rice containers. Hair ties that didn’t belong to Bua clung to doorknobs and mugs like soft, accidental footprints. And her wardrobe—God, her wardrobe—had been quietly infiltrated over the past few weeks.

It started innocently enough. One T-shirt left behind after a shower. Then a second one, “just in case,” folded and tucked at the back of the bottom drawer. Now, half of the lower shelf held a chaotic stack of Phin’s clothing: band tees with logos Bua didn’t recognize, shorts with cartoon fruit prints, the worn denim shorts Phin insisted were “vintage, not old.”

A bright yellow sock peeked out from behind a row of neatly pressed work blouses. A crumpled black cap hung off the corner of a hanger like it belonged there. And yesterday, Bua found one of Phin’s pink bras folded neatly beside her silk slips and had to sit down for a moment.

It was domestic creep at its most insidious. And yet—she hadn’t stopped it. She hadn’t said a word.

At first, Bua kept folding Phin’s T-shirts and stuffing them into a drawer she rarely used. Out of sight, out of mind. A temporary situation, she told herself. A convenience. Phin was just staying over a lot because it was easier. Because work ended late. Because traffic was hell.

But then came the sleepwear.

Bua opened her closet one morning and found a pair of flannel pajama pants—blue plaid, completely out of season—slumped over her drawer handle like it had fainted from heatstroke. The next day, it was a silk camisole and matching shorts in coral pink, the tag still on. A week later, she discovered a lace-trimmed tank top stuffed into her laundry hamper alongside one of her blouses.

There was no logic to it. One night Phin slept in an old concert tee and boxer briefs. The next she wore a camisole set that looked like it belonged in a boudoir shoot. And once, just to top it off, she wore that same flannel pair with mismatched ankle socks and a pineapple-print scrunchie.

“Comfort and chaos,” Phin declared once, arms wide. “That’s my aesthetic.”

Bua had merely blinked at her. It was ridiculous. Maddening. Completely Phin. And Bua didn’t throw any of it out.

At one of their Monday off, she finally gave up.

Quietly. No ceremony. No announcement. She cleared the bottom left shelf of her wardrobe—the one that used to hold coats she never wore, scarves from trips she barely remembered. Folded her own clothes tighter. Rearranged her storage boxes. And started placing Phin’s things there instead. Neatly. Deliberately.

T-shirts, pajama sets, camisoles, pants, underwear.

And when she was done, Bua shut the wardrobe door and stood in the quiet, staring at the handle for a long moment. She didn’t feel invaded. She didn’t even feel flustered anymore.

Just… settled.

Like she’d finally acknowledged a truth her heart had already accepted: Phin was staying. Not just in the apartment, not just for the convenience. But here. With her.

She didn’t say anything to Phin about it.

But the next mornings, she caught Phin standing in front of the open wardrobe, blinking at the neatly folded stack on the left. Her things. All of them in their own little corner.

“You moved your coats,” Phin said, trying to sound casual, but her voice softened at the edges.

“Too humid to wear them anyway,” Bua replied, spooning sugar into her coffee.

Phin looked at her for a moment longer, like she wanted to say something—something with weight, something with gratitude—but instead, she just stepped up behind Bua, rested her chin on her shoulder, and whispered “I’m going to care about you so much it’s annoying.”

Bua didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t push her away.

She just passed her the other mug and said, “Drink. We’re already late.”

“Do we have to go?” she mumbled.

Bua arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to be the one explaining to Chef Dhanin why you didn’t show up on the most important dinner service of the quarter?”

“Mm. Hard pass.”

By the time they left, the city was already awake and pulsing. Phin smiled the whole way to the restaurant—keys jingling in her pocket with every step. The sound had become familiar lately, part of the rhythm of their mornings. Metal against fabric. A soft, everyday reminder of something that wasn’t small at all.

Because those keys were hers now. To the apartment. To the car. And not because she asked. It happened quietly, like most of their big moments did. No big conversation. No negotiation. Just: Here. Take this. Come and go as you want.

One late evening, they were rushing out the door—running behind for a reservation Phin had made for them and already forgotten the time for—when Bua stopped by the shoe rack, rummaged in the ceramic tray by the door, and pulled out a small silver keyring. No explanation. No ceremony. Just held it out in her palm. One key for the apartment. One for the car.

Phin blinked. Took it slowly, almost unsure.

She hadn’t asked. Never had. Despite being the more aggressive one in the relationship—quick to flirt, quick to tease—Phin had always let Bua move on her own terms. Never pushed. Never rushed. Just waited, patiently, for when Bua was ready.

And this—this was Bua ready.

It wasn’t just a practical gesture. It was permission. Trust. A quiet kind of yes. One that spoke louder than anything else she could’ve said.

*****

KIN KAO was already humming when they arrived.

The kitchen buzzed with an undercurrent of alertness. Not frantic, but alert. Like the team had read the group chat last night and knew today wasn’t a normal dinner shift.

Because tonight was the private dinner. Six courses. Fourteen guests. Bangkok socialites, a couple of food bloggers with obnoxious followings, and—most importantly—one discreet but extremely well-connected investor with ties to a major hotel group. One good impression tonight could mean expansion. A new branch. More press. More money. Maybe even a new rooftop project Dhanin had only vaguely hinted at in meetings.

Everything had to be perfect.

Bua stood at the kitchen pass in crisp whites, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp beneath the slim arch of her brows. The entire kitchen had gotten the same warning before service.

“Stick to the menu,” she’d said, voice level. “No deviations. We don’t impress them by gambling. We impress them by precision.”

And everyone nodded. No one argued. Not even Nam, who once tried to sneak yuzu gel into a menu that never called for it. Even she kept her head down, hands moving with careful intent through trays of quenelles and tempered chocolate.

Phin, though. Phin noticed something else.

Poom, the youngest line cook, was moving with a steadier rhythm these days. Knife work cleaner. Steps more efficient. No more glancing sideways to double-check plating before sliding dishes into the window. Just focus and flow. Confidence—not arrogance, not yet—but something blooming close to it.

She watched him from the corner of her station as he handled the grilled river prawns with a level of focus that reminded her of herself, once. Hungry to prove, desperate to matter. Her instinct twitched. He was ready. Maybe not for a spotlight. But for trust. For a shot. For something.

But Bua’s words still rang in her head. Stick to the menu. Phin wiped her hands on her towel and said nothing.

Not yet.

*****

The VIP guests arrived exactly on time—of course they did.

Fourteen of them, escorted in sleek black cars and styled in tailored linen, statement jewelry, and the kind of expensive perfumes that carried notes of power. They were the kind of guests who didn’t have to flaunt their influence—Bangkok socialites, second-generation business heirs, food bloggers with a million followers, and one clean-cut investor with a watch that cost more than most people’s yearly salary.

Their private room was set just off the main dining space—close enough to showcase the open kitchen, distant enough for privacy. They moved in like they belonged there. Because they did. KIN KAO wasn’t just dinner for them. It was currency. Conversation. Clout.

Bua met them with the kind of calm polish that made people shut up and pay attention. Her uniform was immaculate, posture precise, voice low and even. She addressed each guest by name. Asked after families. Mentioned last visits and remembered preferences.

In Bangkok’s fine dining scene, Busaya Methin was a known name—respected, if not always fully understood. She had a reputation for being exacting, composed, and near-impossible to impress. But to those who’d worked with her, dined under her direction, or crossed paths at tastings and industry events over the years, she was the kind of professional you remembered. Several of the VIP guests greeted her like old friends.

“Khun Busaya, it’s been far too long,” said a woman in a midnight blue wrap dress, air-kissing her cheeks. “Are you still refusing to open your own place?”

“Still not a fan of ulcers,” Bua replied smoothly, drawing a laugh.

Another guest—a food critic known for his brutal reviews—grinned as she approached. “If you’re here, I know the kitchen’s in good hands.”

One of the older men—the hotel investor, sharp-eyed and silver-haired—shook her hand firmly and said, “Last time I saw you, you were still at the Four Seasons. It’s good to see you here now—running a real kitchen.”

Bua gave a rare smile. “Thank you, Khun Viroj. We hope tonight’s meal lives up to your expectations.”

“I’m sure it will,” he said, glancing toward the open kitchen. “You’ve always had taste.”

From her station behind the pass, Phin leaned forward on her elbows and grinned. Watching Bua do her job was like watching a perfectly tuned machine glide through chaos. Efficient. Elegant. Unflappable.

“That’s my girl out there,” she murmured to no one in particular.

Nam made a low ooooh sound under her breath. Jin didn’t look up from his prep, but his mouth twitched. Jai chuckled quietly, muttering, “We get it, Chef. You’re in love.”

****

The gossip had started almost immediately after Phin and Bua arrived at KIN KAO one morning from the same car months ago. And not because Phin said anything—she wasn’t the type to broadcast her private life—but because she was so obvious.

And Bua—responsible as ever—had gone straight to Chef Dhanin to inform him during one of his regular check-ins and meetings at KIN KAO a few weeks ago.

She told him clearly, calmly, that she and Phin were now dating. That they’d kept things professional since the beginning. That she understood the optics, the complications, and the expectations—and that if anything changed the quality of their work, she would be the first to address it.

“We’re adults,” she had said. “And professionals. I’m not asking for approval, but I do think you deserve transparency.”

Chef Dhanin had laughed—dry and low, the way he did when something amused him more than he let on.

“I have no business with your personal life, Bua,” he said, waving a hand. “Two women in love is hardly a scandal, and I don’t run my kitchens like a soap opera. As long as the food is excellent, and the team is sharp, I don’t care if you marry her on the pass.”

Bua hadn’t laughed, but she did exhale—quietly—and gave him a nod of thanks. And that was that.

Still, despite whatever was going on between them, they stayed professional where it mattered. There were no public displays. No slip-ups in the chain of command. Bua gave orders, Phin executed them. Phin made decisions on the line, Bua backed her. Whatever personal history they shared never bled into service.

But the staff at KIN KAO weren’t blind.

Bua, for her part, kept her composure. She was still the manager, and she carried herself like it—professional, unreadable, and clearly uninterested in entertaining workplace gossip. She didn’t offer explanations, didn’t indulge speculation. And yet, slowly, inevitably, everyone figured it out.

No one said anything to their faces anymore. The whispers had faded into something quieter—less curiosity, more acceptance. Like most things in the kitchen, once the novelty wore off, it just became part of the rhythm. No one cared anymore. Or maybe, they just accepted it—because neither Phin nor Bua ever let their relationship get in the way of the work. Mostly.

****

Phin rolled her shoulders, focus snapping back to her station. Back in the kitchen, the heat had settled into its usual rhythm. Focused. Pressurized. Alive.

The VIP dinner service was well underway, each course moving with clockwork precision. The first two plates—a delicate amuse-bouche of chili-cured scallop in a puffed rice cup, followed by a smoked eggplant salad with fermented crab and crispy shallots—had landed perfectly. Clean plates returned from the dining room. The guests were engaged, talking, smiling, drinking.

Course three had just gone out: grilled river prawn over a chilled watermelon-tomato consommé with basil oil and fried betel leaf. A nod to summer. Light. Playful. Executed beautifully.

From the pass, Bua moved between the kitchen and the dining room like a metronome, steady and measured. She greeted guests, checked timing with the servers, adjusted pacing when needed. But her eyes kept drifting back to the pass—specifically, to Phin.

Phin, sleeves rolled up and eyes laser-focused, Her hands moved with confident grace, fingers exact in their placement, posture alert but unhurried. She was in her element—commanding, fluid, alive.

Bua watched her for a moment too long. Phin looked up, caught her eye, and gave the smallest nod. A silent promise: We’ve got this.

Bua exhaled. She didn’t smile, not outwardly, but something eased in her chest. She knew Phin—her rhythms, her thresholds, the subtle set of her jaw when she was balancing risk. And as much as Phin exasperated her, pushed her, drove her half-mad—Bua trusted her.

She turned back toward the dining room, but the image of Phin remained behind her eyes. That same easy confidence. That maddening brilliance. Bua didn’t always say it—she rarely did—but watching Phin work stirred something deep in her chest. Not just admiration. Not just affection. Pride.

She’d seen a thousand chefs fall apart under pressure. But Phin? Phin thrived in it. She danced in it. And Bua, who had spent years holding her standards up like shields, found herself caught off guard—again—by how effortlessly Phin rose to meet them.

Sometimes, when she wasn’t careful, she caught herself just… watching. Mesmerized.

Course three cleared without a hitch. Plates wiped clean. Compliments relayed from the servers. The team was in sync—front and back. Even the tempo in the kitchen felt sharp but balanced. Controlled chaos, but no fires to put out. Yet.

They were on to course four now—the dry-aged duck breast with tamarind glaze, pickled mustard leaves, and duck-fat crumb. A dish built on contrast: sweet and sour, rich and bright, crispy and yielding.

Phin rolled her shoulders, focus snapping back to her station.

Course four was the turning point of the evening. The main protein. The dish most likely to leave a lasting impression. Technically demanding. Visually stunning. Logistically brutal. The sear had to be just shy of char, the glaze lacquered in a perfect sheen, the crumb added seconds before service so it stayed crisp. The resting time for the duck was sacred—miss it by two minutes and the juices bled out, ruining the plate.

And yet, she felt calm.

She glanced across the kitchen at Poom, who was already lining up the warmed plates, glancing occasionally at the timer they’d set. He moved with practiced intent. Not perfect, but cleaner than he had been. His confidence had grown—steadier hands, sharper focus. No second-guessing. No wasted motion.

Phin narrowed her eyes, watching him slice. He'd done this dish before—during slower weekday service. She’d walked him through every part of it. Drilled him on glaze consistency. Made him redo his crumb twice until it sang. Tonight was bigger. The stakes were real. But he wasn’t flinching.

He was ready.

She made a decision.

“Poom,” Phin said, loud enough to be heard over the low hum of kitchen noise. “You’re plating half the portions for this course.”

The room stilled for half a second. Not completely. But just enough for the shift to register. Nam paused with her tongs mid-air. Jin blinked, then resumed brushing sauce. Even Jai’s knife stilled for a breath.

Poom looked up. “Chef?”

“You’ve practiced this. You’ve got the timing. You plate half, I plate the rest. It’ll move faster.” She looked him in the eye. “I trust you.”

From across the pass, Bua turned. She’d caught the tone in Phin’s voice, the subtle shift in rhythm. Her gaze cut across the kitchen. Found Phin. Found Poom.

And then narrowed. She didn’t say anything. Not yet. But her jaw tensed, and the look she gave Phin said everything: Now? Tonight?

Phin didn’t flinch. She met Bua’s eyes and gave her the same nod she had earlier. Assured. Certain.

We’ve got this.

And Bua—despite the tightness in her spine—didn’t intervene. Because she trusted Phin. Even when it scared her.

At first, everything moved as planned.

Poom stepped into the pass, gloves on, tongs steady, plating beside Phin with quiet focus. The duck breasts were resting under low heat lamps, the glaze bowls still warm. Phin handled the timing. Called the orders. Checked the crumb. Everything was aligned.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with a small slip—a flicker of hesitation when Poom reached for the next plate. The tray of duck breasts had been shifted closer to him, and when he reached for one, his grip faltered. The piece of meat, still warm, glossy with tamarind glaze, slipped from the tongs and landed on the floor with a muted, terrible thud.

The entire kitchen seemed to inhale at once.

Phin moved quickly. Grabbed another duck breast, kept plating like nothing had happened. Poom replaced the dropped portion without a word. No one said anything, but the air around them tightened.

They were lucky—barely. Phin had ordered an extra portion fired earlier, just in case. A quiet habit she’d picked up over years of working under pressure: never trust a flawless night, always prep for a mistake. That spare duck breast, now seared and resting off to the side, saved them from having to halt the line.

But Bua saw it all. And she didn’t believe in just in case. Then Bua stepped back into the kitchen.

She clocked it immediately—the faint smear of glaze on the pass, the tension in Poom’s shoulders, the way his hands hovered too long over the crumb. Her eyes scanned the plates already completed. Two of the duck breasts had clearly rested too long. Still warm, but the texture had dulled. The skin, once tight with rendered fat, had gone just slightly slack. Not ruined. Not cold. But not perfect. Not KIN KAO perfect.

Bua’s mouth tightened. She didn’t say anything in front of the others. But she waited until the last of the plates went out, then gestured to Phin with a single, crisp tilt of her head.

Phin wiped her hands, set down her tweezers, and followed. They stepped just outside the kitchen corridor, into the narrow hall between dry storage and the back prep sink. Quiet. Far from the staff. But not far from the tension. Bua’s voice stayed low. Professional. Icy.

“You let him send out an over-rested plate.”

Phin didn’t blink. “One plate. Maybe two.”

“One is too many tonight.” Bua’s eyes were sharp, controlled, but her voice tightened with each word. “You saw him drop the protein. He panicked. You should’ve pulled him back.”

“He recovered.”

“It wasn’t good enough.”

Phin didn’t flinch. “He’s still learning. He’s not going to get better if you don’t let him try.”

“This,” Bua hissed, stepping half a pace closer, “is not the night for learning. These people out there? They decide who gets booked next quarter. They decide who gets written about. They talk. They remember.”

“I know exactly who’s out there.”

“Then why gamble on him?” Her tone sharpened further. “He’s not your project, Phin. This is not your personal kitchen.”

That stopped Phin. Her jaw tightened, just for a second. But she didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t argue. She just went quiet. No retort. No teasing grin. No sharp comeback. Just... silence.

Bua felt it immediately—that drop in temperature. That stillness behind Phin’s eyes. Not anger. Not even hurt. Just a retreat. A slow pulling back, like a door quietly closing. It unnerved her more than anything else would have. Phin gave a single, professional nod and turned back toward the kitchen.

And Bua, left standing in the corridor, felt the weight of her own words settle in her chest like a stone.

The fifth course went out without a hitch.

Grilled lamb saddle, rubbed with toasted rice and lemongrass, served over smoky eggplant purée and young jackfruit relish. Complex but earthy. A dish that spoke softly but lingered—an unexpected detour from the brightness of the duck, but one that made sense as the night deepened.

The kitchen moved in practiced silence, plating with precision. The line was tight, every garnish exact. Even Poom, still visibly shaken, kept his hands steady under Phin’s quiet watch. No one faltered. No one slipped.

And when the last plate for the fifth course left the pass, there was a moment of stillness. A breath. The hardest part was over.

Then came the sixth and final course—the dessert.

A chilled pandan semifreddo with compressed longan, coconut cream, and a thin sugar tuile that cracked like delicate glass beneath a spoon. Balanced. Clean. The kind of ending that left people refreshed and impressed. Plates came back scraped clean, murmurs of pleasure rippling through the room like a satisfied tide.

No one had said anything about the duck.

Not a single complaint. No offhand remark. No returned plate. And still—everyone in the kitchen prayed, silently, that the two imperfect portions hadn’t landed in front of the critic or the investor.

Or worse—both.

Bua moved through the dining room with practiced grace, her face a mask of calm assurance. She stopped by the VIP table, exchanged pleasantries, answered questions about the wine pairing and where the duck was sourced. Laughed at a well-timed joke. Thanked them, warmly, for visiting.

"Everything tonight was exquisite," one of the guests said, raising their glass.

Bua bowed her head slightly. “We’re honored. Thank you for trusting us.”

Then she signaled Jamie with a look as she passed. “Something nice,” she murmured. “Open another bottle for the table.”

Jamie nodded, already reaching for the reserve list.

Bua didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t afford to. Not yet. But under her composed exterior, she was still turning the duck course over in her mind—minute by minute, step by step. Wondering. Calculating. Silently willing the rest of the night to shine brightly enough to drown out that small, but sharp imperfection.

After all, it wasn’t just about one plate.

It was her name. Phin’s name. And KIN KAO’s reputation—one they’d both bled for.

Back in the kitchen, the energy had changed.

The adrenaline had faded, but the usual post-service buzz was missing. No clapping. No laughter. Just the rustle of cleaning cloths and the hiss of burners being shut off. Poom looked crushed.

He was scrubbing his station too hard, jaw tight, eyes low. He hadn’t said a word since service ended. Phin approached him quietly. Put a hand on his shoulder.

“You made a mistake,” she said softly. “It happens.”

Poom didn’t look up.

“You also plated six perfect portions. You moved with the team. You stayed in it. That matters too.”

Still no response.

Phin crouched down slightly, trying to catch his eyes. “You’re going to have nights like this. The only way out is through. You got better this week. You’ll get better next week.”

He nodded, finally. Barely.

Phin gave him a small pat and stood again. But the usual spark in her eyes—the bounce, the heat—it was dim tonight. Tucked away under a hard, professional shell. She didn’t look over at Bua once.

Bua waited, as she always did, standing near the back office while the kitchen team slowly wound down. Normally, Phin would come over. Nudge her shoulder. Say something stupid or smug. A bad joke. A food pun. Something.

Tonight, she didn’t.

Phin wiped her hands, grabbed her bag, and walked out the staff entrance without a word. Bua pretended not to notice.

She checked the cleaning schedule. Double-checked the reservation list for tomorrow. Said a few words to Nam and Jai. Smoothed her blouse. Stayed an extra fifteen minutes.

Then twenty. Then finally left.

Alone.

*****

The apartment felt colder than usual.

Not literally—Bangkok’s summer heat still pressed faintly at the windows—but in the way empty rooms tend to hum when they’ve been recently vacated by someone else’s presence.

Bua unlocked the door and stepped inside without turning on the lights. She didn’t need to. Her body knew the layout: keys dropped into the ceramic dish by the shoe rack, blazer hung neatly on the hook, shoes aligned with practiced precision.

Only tonight, there were no sneakers beside hers. No open tote bag slouched at the corner. No trail of Phin's chaos—her hoodie draped on the back of a chair, or a phone charger dangling half out of a socket. Just quiet. Stillness. And space. Too much of it.

She walked into the kitchen out of habit. Boiled water for tea she didn’t want. Poured it anyway. Then stood by the sink staring out at the skyline without seeing it.

She’s probably just cooling off, Bua told herself. Needed space. Needed a reset.

She could understand that. She respected that.

But it didn’t stop the ache.

It was the first time in weeks—maybe longer—that they hadn’t gone home together. Not like the nights when Phin swung by her own apartment to check in, only to return to Bua’s place later. This was different. No car ride. No quiet debrief over service. No small argument over whether to eat leftovers or stop for noodles. No soft slurping sounds from the other end of the couch while Bua caught up on spreadsheets and Phin watched Hell’s Kitchen with the volume too low.

Not even a text.

Bua glanced at her phone, still charging on the table. Nothing. She hadn’t texted either, of course. That would’ve meant giving in. Admitting the silence mattered. Admitting she wanted to reach across the gap first. She turned and leaned against the counter, the tea growing cold in her hands.

The apartment didn’t look like hers anymore—not entirely. Phin’s things were everywhere now. Her flannel pajamas tucked behind Bua’s folded linens. A half-finished crossword book sitting under a dog-eared food magazine on the coffee table.

There were two toothbrushes in the bathroom, and her wardrobe still smelled faintly of Phin’s laundry detergent.

And standing in the middle of it all, with the lights still off and the city breathing faintly outside the windows, Bua felt the weight of it hit her—not like a wave, but like the tide pulling back, slow and undeniable.

She loved her. Of course she did. She had known that for a while now.

She loved Phin’s laugh when something absurd happened mid-service. She loved how Phin could read her mood just by the way she walked into the kitchen. How she always plated Bua’s food first during staff meal without asking. How she respected Bua’s boundaries—but always left the door gently ajar. She loved the way Phin challenged her. Softened her. Held her gaze without flinching, and never asked her to be anyone other than exactly who she was.

She missed her.

Not in some vague, passing way. But in a quiet, aching, specific way. The way you miss something that’s become part of your routine without realizing it, until its absence rings like a bell through everything you touch. She set her cold tea aside. The silence lingered.

Bua stared at her phone for a long time before finally moving.

No messages.

She told herself not to overthink it, but by the time the clock neared midnight and the apartment was soaked in shadows, she grabbed her keys and her wallet. She didn’t even change clothes—just slipped on her jacket and sandals, hair still in the low knot she’d worn all day.

She was halfway to Phin’s place when she pulled into the 7-Eleven near the corner. She didn’t need anything. Not really.

But her feet carried her through the aisles anyway, familiar like muscle memory. Without thinking too hard, she grabbed a pack of roasted seaweed, Phin’s favorite. Then matcha Pocky sticks. A bottle of jasmine tea she knew Phin always finished in two gulps.

She had no idea why she was doing it.

But she did it anyway. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe it was a peace offering. Maybe it was just something to hold in her hands when words might fail. And then—without planning to—she turned down a quieter side street and parked near the noodle stall.

Their noodle stall.

The one tucked beside a 24-hour laundry, its red plastic stools still warm from the last round of customers. Bua approached the stall, tucking her hands into her pockets while she waited. Auntie lifted her head from the boiling pot and grinned.

“Eh? Only you tonight, Manager-nong?” she called out. “Where’s the loud one?”

Bua’s lips twitched. “At home,” she said. “We… had a long shift.”

Auntie hummed knowingly, then waved her ladle. “I pack two. Spicy level same like always?”

“Yes, please.”

A few minutes later, Auntie handed over the plastic bags—two bowls, perfectly sealed. Then she gave Bua a look that was all warmth and no judgment.

“You two take care of each other, na? Don’t stay mad too long. Love and noodles—both don’t taste good cold.”

Bua blinked, surprised by how the words stung just a little. She nodded, bowing her head slightly.

“We’ll be back,” she said quietly.

“You better be,” Auntie huffed. “You're both are my best couple.”

Back in her car, Bua set the noodles gently in the passenger seat, beside the 7-Eleven bag. The weight of everything—the food, the quiet, her own stubbornness—settled around her chest like steam.

When she reached Phin’s building, it was nearly midnight. But for the first time all night, she knew exactly what she needed to do. By the time she stood in front of Phin’s apartment door, her heart was beating louder than it had during service.

She knocked once. And waiting.

The door opened slowly, light from the kitchen spilling into the hallway. Phin stood there, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired but not angry.

“You’re not here to fight again, are you?” she asked, voice low.

Bua shook her head. “No. I’m here because I don’t want to sleep without knowing we’re okay.”

Phin blinked once. Then stepped aside, letting her in. Bua had been here a few times before—never for long. Usually just tagging along when Phin needed to grab something, feed her plants, or check her mail. Always in and out. Always together.

But tonight, stepping in alone, the space felt different.

The apartment smelled faintly like lemongrass. A half-finished tub of ice cream sat on the counter. The living room was dim, except for the soft blue glow of the TV screen paused on some home renovation show neither of them actually watched.

Bua set the plastic bag down on the table.

Phin peeked inside. “Noodle?”

“You’re still a gremlin after midnight,” Bua muttered. “I figured you might need your fuel.”

That got a smile. A small one. But real. They didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, awkward in the quiet, two women too used to being composed. Then Bua exhaled.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not like that. It wasn’t just about the duck. It’s—” She paused, searching for the words. Then tried again. “Sometimes I’m scared. That we’ll fail. That I’ll miss something, and everything we’ve built will fall apart. I don’t want to be the reason it does.”

Phin’s eyes softened, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I’m used to control. I trust you—I do. But sometimes my fear talks louder than my sense.”

Phin crossed the space between them slowly. Her voice was gentle.

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I just—” Phin paused, looking down at her hands. “When I was younger, I kept waiting for someone to take a chance on me. To say I was ready before I even believed it. No one did. I had to do it alone.”

She looked up.

“I don’t want the people under us to feel that. Not if I can help it.”

Silence stretched again—but it wasn’t sharp this time. Just heavy with understanding.

Bua swallowed hard. “I know that. I think it’s time I stop trying to win every time—and actually listen.”

Phin tilted her head. “Are you saying I talk too much?”

Bua didn’t smile, but her eyes flickered. “You talk loud. There’s a difference.”

They stood that way for another beat—close now, the air between them softening. Then Bua said it. Quiet. Certain. Unmistakable.

“I know I love you, Phin. I probably did before I had the nerve to admit it. But I don’t want to love you in silence if we can’t talk through the hard parts.”

Phin didn’t flinch. She had always known—quietly, stubbornly—that Bua loved her. But hearing it out loud for the first time still made something inside her go still and warm. She stepped forward, wrapped both arms around Bua’s waist, and pressed her forehead to hers.

“Then let’s keep talking,” she whispered. “Even when it’s ugly. Even when I piss you off. I love you always.”

“You do that very well,” Bua murmured, arms folding around her.

They finally kissed.

At first, it was slow—just the brush of mouths, tentative and searching, like a pause between heartbeats. But when Bua leaned in closer and Phin cupped her cheek, it shifted. The tension they’d both carried, the silence that had sat between them all evening, unraveled in the space of a breath.

Bua opened to her. A soft sigh, lips parting just enough for Phin to taste the words she hadn’t said. Phin’s hand slipped around her waist, pulling her in with the kind of quiet certainty that made Bua melt forward, letting herself be held. Their mouths moved in sync—warm and open, tongues brushing, gentle but insistent. Not rushed. Not trying to make up for lost time, but savoring the closeness they’d missed.

It wasn’t about heat. Not yet. It was about knowing.

Knowing how Bua exhaled through her nose when she was trying not to feel too much. How Phin’s thumb always found that spot behind Bua’s ear and rested there like an anchor. How they both leaned in just a little too long before pulling back, reluctant to let the moment end.

Their arms wrapped tight around each other, bodies pressed close in the hush between heartbeats. Their feminine curves met in all the right places—soft against soft, familiar weight and warmth fitting together like something remembered by the skin. Phin’s face tucked naturally into the crook of Bua’s neck. Bua’s hand slid under the back of Phin’s hoodie, palm resting at the dip of her waist like it belonged there.

Not rushed. Not frantic. Just relief blooming between them like something long overdue.

A slow pull into each other’s orbit, as if the distance between them—just a few hours—had been too long, too wide. Long enough to miss the rhythm of one another. Long enough to feel the cold without it.

Phin’s hands found the small of Bua’s back, familiar in their weight. Bua’s fingers curled gently into the edge of Phin’s hoodie, grounding herself in something warm and real.

Neither of them were good at being apart anymore.

Not after all the nights spent cooking side by side, all the shared mornings in a too-small kitchen, all the laughter and tired silence at the end of long shifts. A few hours might not sound like much. But when you’re used to someone—really used to them—it’s long enough to feel the empty space where they should be. They weren’t perfect. But they were here. And that was everything.

They stayed that night at Phin’s apartment.

Neither of them said it out loud—there was no dramatic invitation, no question of are you staying?—but when Phin cleared space on her counter for the noodle bags and nudged one toward Bua, it was understood.

They ate on the floor, backs against the couch, too tired for anything else. The soup had gone lukewarm, but neither of them cared. They ate anyway—chopsticks clicking gently against the plastic bowls, soft slurps filling the space between glances.

Bua took a slow bite of her noodles, then nodded toward the corner of the couch where the giant yellow banana plushie sat, half-crushed under a throw pillow. “So,” she said, eyebrow lifting, “have you and your fruit friend been having deep, emotional conversations while I wasn’t around?”

Phin smirked. “Obviously. He’s been very supportive through this hard time.”

“Mm. Should I be worried?” Bua asked, tone light but teasing. “He does take up a suspicious amount of bed space.”

They both laughed—easily, openly, the kind of laughter that came from knowing each other down to the smallest ridiculous habit. The kind that loosened the last knots in their chests.

Phin bumped her shoulder lightly against Bua’s. “You’re just jealous he gets more cuddles tonight.”

Bua snorted. “He sheds stuffing. I don’t trust him.”

That set Phin off again, her head tipping back as she laughed, full and unguarded. Bua tried to look unimpressed but failed miserably, her own grin breaking through as she nudged Phin’s knee with hers.

It felt good—easy. Like they weren’t just partners or coworkers or girlfriends navigating a complicated life. Like they were also each other’s best friend. The kind who knew exactly how to make each other laugh, and exactly how to hold each other up after a long, hard day.

Loving and teasing, tangled up in the same breath.

Phin reached for the seaweed halfway through, tore open the pack, and handed Bua the first strip.

"You brought the matcha Pocky too," she said, almost like an afterthought.

Bua looked at her, expression unreadable. "You always get grumpy when you forget your snacks."

Phin grinned. “I like it when you think about me.”

“I do,” Bua said simply.

That was it. No dramatic declarations. No swelling music. Just two tired women, noodle broth and seaweed between them, sitting in the quiet comfort of what they’d almost risked tonight—what they’d managed to hold onto.

Later, Bua took a shower while Phin cleaned up. Phin tossed her a towel and told her the hot water pressure was terrible. Bua told her to fix it. Phin just laughed.

When Bua stepped out, her clothes still folded neatly near the front door, she found a mismatched pair of Phin’s pajamas laid out on the bed: soft flannel pants covered in tiny pineapples and a worn tank top with a faded cooking school logo across the front.

She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Phin shrugged from the kitchen. “You love me. You’ll survive.”

The pants were too long. The top gaped a little at the armholes. Bua looked ridiculous. But she didn’t change.

The bed smelled like lemongrass and laundry detergent, just like the rest of the apartment. Phin joined her a few minutes later, flopping onto the mattress with a soft grunt. She looked over, eyes half-lidded but content.

“We’re okay, right?” she murmured.

Bua didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she reached across the sheets and took Phin’s hand, threading their fingers together beneath the covers. Then, without a word, Bua lifted their joined hands and pressed a soft kiss to Phin’s palm—slow, deliberate, lingering like a promise she didn’t know how to say out loud just yet.

“We’re okay,” she whispered.

They didn’t make love that night. Neither of them had the energy. They were worn down—physically, emotionally, in all the quiet places conflict likes to bruise. But the love was still there, full and solid between them, steady in the silence.

Bua drifted off first, Phin’s thumb brushing gently over the back of her hand. She lay curled close, her breath soft against Phin’s shoulder, lashes fluttering faintly, one arm draped across Phin’s waist like she was still holding on—even in sleep.

Phin watched her quietly in the dim room, the soft spill of city lights tracing the curve of Bua’s cheek, the rise and fall of her chest. Everything about her looked a little softer when she slept. Less guarded. Almost fragile, but not quite.

She kissed the top of Bua’s head gently. I really love you, she thought, with a kind of ache she didn’t know how to name. Maybe it had been a hard night. Maybe they’d both said too little, too late. But they’d found their way back. Phin held her closer, her thumb still brushing faint circles over Bua’s knuckles beneath the covers.

I won’t mess this up, she promised herself. Not with her. Not with us.

She closed her eyes then, finally letting herself rest. Wrapped in silence, in warmth, in the quiet certainty that love—real love—was still here. Still holding on.

Chapter Text

Sunday night at KIN KAO came with its own weight. Not the quiet, thoughtful weight of a weekday dinner, but the full-tilt gravity of a restaurant in demand. Every table booked. Walk-ins politely turned away at the door. Glassware clinked, silverware flashed, and beneath it all, the subtle choreography of the staff moved like clockwork.

Bua stood at the host stand, earpiece in, tablet in hand, voice low and firm as she gave direction to a junior server who looked like he might forget the wine pairing if she blinked too hard.

“Table four still waiting on amuse,” someone said in her ear.

“Send Jamie. And tell kitchen to hold eight—they just sat.”

She didn’t look up as she said it. She was everywhere and nowhere at once, in her element. This kind of night didn’t leave space for distraction. Her heels barely touched the ground as she moved from entryway to service lane, checking tables, reading cues in body language, timing her presence like a well-rehearsed monologue.

Then the Maitre’D voice came through her earpiece again—calm, amused, maybe a little smug.

“Boss, heads up. Walk-in VIP. Looks like Phin’s family.”

That made her pause. Bua glanced toward the entrance—and there they were.

Professor Araya Thananont, tall and poised in a simple navy blouse and wide-legged cream trousers, her short hair salt-and-pepper neat, the lines of her face softened by the kind of intelligence that didn’t need to announce itself. The kind of woman who asked sharp questions without raising her voice.

Next to her stood Sam, equally composed in a tailored dress, her resemblance to their mother sharpened by the way she carried herself—serious, perceptive, the kind of person who probably corrected your grammar without meaning to. She taught at the same university, Bua remembered, though Phin rarely brought it up unless pressed.

And on Sam’s other side was Lin—bright-eyed, bangled wrists, some oversized graphic tee tucked into a silk skirt in that effortlessly chaotic way Gen Z girls made look intentional.

****

Just a few nights ago...

It was nearly 11:30 p.m. when they finally made it through the apartment—Phin trailing behind, bag slung over one shoulder, humming tunelessly under her breath. The kind of hum Bua had learned meant too tired to speak, but not unhappy.

Their nights usually ended like this: quietly. Soft shoes off by the door, keys dropped in the ceramic bowl. Sometimes they brought food home from a nearby stall, too tired to even plate it properly. Sometimes they collapsed on the couch and ate with their fingers out of a bag. Sometimes, though, like tonight, Bua moved toward the kitchen first—unasked, unfussed—and started pulling ingredients from the fridge while Phin made a beeline for the shower.

It wasn’t a rule. Just… rhythm. Whoever had more left in their tank did the thing.

Phin had run the line almost entirely solo that night, stepping in for Jai—her sous chef, who’d called in sick—and still managed to smile through two wine pairings, a private kitchen tour, and a table who asked if she’d ever been on Hell’s Kitchen or work with Gordon Ramsay.

So Bua cooked.

Not much—just warm jasmine rice reheated gently on the rice cooker, spooned into bowls with slivers of leftover roasted duck and crispy pork they’d brought back from their last visit to Bua’s family restaurant. Her mother had insisted—all but packed it herself—muttering about how both of them looked too skinny and overworked. Bua had pretended to protest, but she’d quietly made space in the fridge that same night.

She blanched a small handful of baby bok choy and morning glory, just enough to cut through the richness of the meat, then added a drizzle of soy sauce, tossed in some stir-fried greens from a container at the back, and topped it all with a soft-boiled egg.

Nothing fancy. But in their world—where people dined on twenty-course tasting menus and perfection came plated in microgreens—this was what mattered.

Which was why their shared meals at home, no matter how small, had become emotionally significant. Even reheating rice had turned into a kind of love language. Quiet. Practical. Steady. The kind of thing Bua didn’t say out loud, but did. Again and again.

Phin emerged from the shower wearing one of Bua’s oversized T-shirts, her hair damp and curling at the ends. She crossed the living room barefoot and beelined for the counter like a moth to warmth.

“You made food,” she said, eyes already gleaming.

“You showered,” Bua replied, sliding a plate toward her. “We all contribute something.”

Phin chuckled and kissed her cheek before sitting down. “God, you’re romantic.”

Bua flushed. “I just reheating the food.”

“Exactly. Marriage-level romance.”

Bua turned away to hide the small, ridiculous smile tugging at her mouth. She pretended to busy herself with the second plate.

They were sitting on the couch, plate in hand, the late-night quiet wrapping around them like a blanket. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. Just the soft clink of chopsticks, the distant hum of the fridge, the occasional shuffle of Phin’s knee nudging against Bua’s.

Halfway through her rice, Phin looked over, almost too casually.

“Hey—think you could squeeze my family into the reservation list this week?” she asked, chewing slowly. “Or… I don’t know, is Sunday dinner service already packed?”

Bua tilted her head slightly, already reaching for her phone on the coffee table. “Your mom and sisters?”

Phin nodded, balancing her bowl on one knee. “Yeah. I didn’t make it a big thing. Just said we’re doing the summer menu. Mom looked all proud. Sam asked if the tamarind duck’s still on. Lin wants dessert.”

Bua didn’t flinch. She unlocked her phone and pulled up the reservation system, her thumb scrolling through the grid of names and time slots with instinctive ease.

She didn’t ask for more details. Just trusted that if Phin was asking, it mattered.

“I can open the Chef’s Table for them,” she said simply, already flagging the slot. “Yeah, no problem. Sunday, August 8th”

Phin blinked. “Really? You’re sure?”

“That slot’s free this Sunday,” Bua replied, eyes still on the screen. “And I was going to keep it blocked anyway in case we got another walk-in VIP, but—your family works.”

That wasn’t a regular table—not something guests could book online or request through charm alone. The Chef’s Table sat tucked into a corner of the open kitchen, set apart by a low wood partition and soft, indirect lighting. From there, diners could watch the entire choreography of service: the plating, the fire, the language of the line. It was usually reserved for VIPs—investors, food critics, or close friends of the house.

Offering it to Phin’s family wasn’t just thoughtful. It was intimate.

Phin was quiet for a moment, then grinned—soft and crooked. “You must really love me”

Bua rolled her eyes, setting the phone down and nudging her bowl back into her lap. “I’m just doing my job.”

“You’re feeding me crispy pork and giving my mom VIP seating. I’m pretty sure this counts as love.”

Bua didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at Phin’s face—like she was memorizing it without meaning to, letting her eyes linger a little longer than usual.

Then she set her bowl down, leaned her shoulder just slightly into Phin’s, and said, low but certain, “It is.”

No teasing. No hesitation. Just that: calm, steady truth.

Phin stared at her for a beat, blinking like she’d just been stunned into silence. Then, grinning through the quiet, she picked up the last piece of crispy pork from her own bowl and dropped it onto Bua’s plate with dramatic flourish.

“Here. Take my heart. And my cholesterol.”

Bua snorted, blushing despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you love me,” Phin said, resting her head on Bua’s shoulder.

They didn’t talk about it after that. They didn’t need to.

*****

Back to present time

Bua stepped forward from behind the host stand, smoothing her palms down the front of her blazer—pointless, really, her posture was already perfect.

“Khun Mae,” she greeted warmly, dipping her head slightly and making polite wai gesture in the way she always did with guests she genuinely respected. “Welcome to KIN KAO.”

“Bua Darling,” Araya smiled, stepping forward and pulling her into a brief but genuine hug. “Thank you for fitting us in. Phinya said it’s been a full house all week.”

“We’re always happy to make room for family,” Bua replied, voice smooth but not rehearsed.

Behind Araya, Sam offered a small wave. “Thanks for making this happen. Phin’s been talking about the new menu like it’s going to change our lives.”

“It might,” Bua deadpanned, then added with a small smile, “She’s been working on it for weeks.”

Lin leaned closer to her older sister and stage-whispered, “Okay, but can we talk about how cool she looks when she’s working? I feel like I just walked into a K-drama restaurant drama where the scary boss is actually secretly in love.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Lin snorted. Araya’s eyes twinkled. Bua, to her credit, didn’t blush—but she did tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, which in her case was basically a confession.

“Please,” she said, stepping aside with professional grace, “allow me to show you to the Chef’s Table.”

As they followed her, the restaurant buzzed around them—soft ambient music floating over the low hum of conversation and the muffled rhythm of the kitchen just behind the partition wall. The lighting grew warmer toward the back, where the Chef’s Table sat tucked into its corner: a sleek wooden table with a clear view into the kitchen, close enough to catch the fire from the wok station, the flash of plated garnishes, and Phin herself—already in motion, sleeves rolled, laughing as she barked something at Nam across the pass.

Bua gestured toward the table with a soft flourish. “Here we are. It’s the best seat in the house.”

“Wow,” Sam murmured, eyes scanning the view. “You weren’t kidding.”

Araya turned to Bua with a knowing smile. “You really didn’t have to go this far.”

“I wanted to,” Bua said simply. And then, after a beat, “She deserves it.”

The noise of the dining room rose and fell behind them, the kind of charged, layered hum that only came with a full house. And as Bua stepped back slightly to let them settle in, she caught it—Phin, turning just long enough to spot her across the kitchen. Their eyes met for a second, and Phin’s grin stretched wide, unmistakable.

And yet, as warm as it all was, something in Bua’s chest shifted. Just slightly. She didn’t have time to dwell on it. Not yet.

Bua didn’t linger at the table. She gave them a warm, professional smile, promised their amuse-bouche would be out shortly, and excused herself just as a server waved her over for a question about table nine’s shellfish allergy.

By the time she circled back through the kitchen pass, Phin had already peeled herself away from the line, apron still on, forearms lightly dusted with flour and spice. She was moving fast—half a bounce in her step—but there was unmistakable light in her eyes when she turned toward the Chef’s Table.

“Look who’s here,” Phin grinned, wiping her hands on a towel as she approached the corner table. “My three favorite women—who all happen to judge me harder than Michelin judges.”

“Only because we love you,” Sam said dryly, accepting a quick one-armed hug.

Araya gave her daughter a long, approving look before returning her hug with both arms. “You look well, Phinya. Confident.”

Phin beamed, then leaned down and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Blame the kitchen gods.”

“Oh, we do,” Lin cut in with a smirk. “But also, major points for the bandana. You look like the poster girl for a rebellious culinary school prospectus.”

Phin struck a mock-heroic pose. “Good. That’s exactly the look I was going for—‘Michelin-starred pirate chef.’”

Phin was mid-laugh when she suddenly glanced around—eyes scanning the kitchen and dining room like she was looking for something. Or someone.

The moment she spotted Bua—standing just near the edge of the pass, reviewing the floor plan on her tablet—her whole face lit up.

She caught Bua’s eye and made a quick, unmistakable gesture: come here.

When Bua approached the table, heels quiet on the polished floor, Phin turned toward her with a grin that was all mischief and warmth.

“Babe,” she said, casual as anything, “can you ask Jamie to open one of our best bottles tonight? That white Burgundy he’s been hoarding. My treat.”

Bua didn’t miss a beat. No eyebrow raise, no deadpan comeback. Just a soft, almost-smile as she nodded. “I’ll let him know.”

There was no hesitation. No need to question it. Just something settled between them—automatic, easy, real.

“Thanks,” Phin said, her voice dropping just slightly as her gaze lingered on Bua a second longer than necessary. There was nothing flashy in it, but the warmth in her eyes was unmistakable.

Behind her, she heard Lin whisper loudly, “Oh my god, they’re disgustingly cute.”

Phin didn’t deny it. She just laughed.

*****

The night was running like a well-oiled machine.

Service moved in tight, practiced rhythms. The front of house was humming, the kitchen a controlled flame. Plates came out hot, servers glided between tables, and the Chef’s Table—tucked in the back corner of the open kitchen—was alive with clinking cutlery and soft laughter.

Phin’s family was clearly enjoying themselves.

Araya had just tasted the second course—a cured river fish served with green mango and a burnt chili dressing—and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like “You could teach this technique at Chula.”

Sam nodded in quiet appreciation, taking a sip of the white Burgundy Jamie had decanted personally. “Okay, yeah. This pairing’s unfair.”

And Lin, wide-eyed, had already posted two Instagram stories captioned “my sister is feeding us like royalty, send help” and “chef’s table slay.”

Phin had stopped by twice between courses—checking the plates, stealing a fried shallot from Lin’s dish, whispering something in her mom’s ear that made Araya laugh and shake her head. She looked content. Confident. Like someone exactly where she was meant to be.

And Bua, watching from the edges, felt… steady. Almost.

Until another guest walked in. Wila Siripong.

She didn’t announce herself—just gave her name at the host stand with the kind of unhurried confidence that suggested she never needed to explain who she was. The maitre’d, recognizing her, flagged Bua immediately.

Tall, polished, tailored in cream linen with a structured belt and heels that clicked like punctuation. Her hair was swept up in an artful twist, her earrings gleaming against skin like she spent her mornings under spa lights and her afternoons tasting wine in silk.

Her presence didn’t need to be loud to be noticed—Bua noticed, because guests like her always stood out.

Next to her was a second figure: a sharp-eyed man in black slouch trousers and a tucked graphic tee that read STARCHILD EATS. His camera bag slung casually over one shoulder, phone already in hand, scanning the dining room with practiced curiosity.

“Walk-in?” Bua asked the maitre’d, subtly adjusting her posture.

“RSVP,” He replied. “Confirmed yesterday. Name on the list—Wila. Table for two. She added a guest late last night.”

Bua scanned the floor plan on her tablet and gave a professional nod.  The woman—Wila—caught her gaze then and smiled.

“Oh,” she said warmly, stepping forward. “You must be the manager. This place is beautiful. I’ve heard incredible things.”

Bua returned the smile, cool and polished. “Welcome to KIN KAO Miss Siripong. We’re glad to have you.”

“I brought a friend—” Wila turned to gesture at the man behind her. “Nino Jirawat. He does food content, but he’ll behave. Promise.”

“I’m harmless,” Nino said, raising two fingers in mock-scout salute. “Mostly just here to eat.”

“Low-light photos are fine,” Bua said automatically. “Just no flash near the kitchen.”

“Understood,” Wila said, her tone amused. “We won’t get in the way.”

Professional, composed, unremarkable. That’s all it was.

Wila smiled and stepped inside toward the Chef’s Table with graceful ease, leaving her guest to settle in. Her gaze swept the room—polite, professional—until it caught on a familiar figure. For the briefest moment, her posture eased, surprise flickering behind her composed expression.

She stopped just short of the table and offered a poised wai, palms pressed together with a respectful nod. “Sawasdee ka, Professor Araya,” she greeted warmly. “It’s so lovely to see you again. It’s been a while.”

Professor Araya returned the gesture with ease, resting a hand lightly on Wila’s forearm as she beamed up at her. “Wila! It’s so nice to see you again. How are your parents?”

“They’re doing well,” Wila replied warmly. “Mae’s busy with her new shop, as always. You should stop by sometime.”

“For sure,” Araya said, nodding—then added, almost offhandedly, “You know, the last time I saw you, I was convinced you and Phin were going to get married.”

There was a beat of silence.

Not dramatic—just that slight shift in the air, the kind of quiet tension that registered even beneath polite smiles.

“I was honestly a little sad when I heard you two broke up,” Araya went on, still fond. “It felt so sudden—”

Lin coughed. A pointed, strained sound. Sam reached across the table and gently touched their mother’s wrist. Just once. A subtle reminder. And that’s when Araya seemed to remember—seemed to register the quiet figure standing just behind the partition wall, well within earshot.

Bua.

Standing with her tablet at her side, half-turned toward the kitchen, her face unreadable.

Araya’s expression didn’t falter, but it did reset—just slightly. Like a professor remembering she was still mid-lecture. Wila just laughed softly, unbothered. “Life takes people in different directions. But I’m glad to be here. I’ve heard Phin’s been doing incredible things.”

She smoothed her voice with grace and turned toward Wila and her guest. “Well. I’m glad you came. Enjoy the food. It’s better than ever.”

Wila bowed her head politely, just a flick of amusement in her eyes. “Thank you, Professor. I’m glad to see you again.”

And with that, the moment passed—on the surface. Bua didn’t say a word. She simply turned, calm as always, and walked back toward the pass. But her fingers around the tablet were clenched now. Her jaw tighter. Something in her chest pulled taut.

Wila. The woman her mother thought Phin might marry. The one who still made her laugh like that. She hadn’t known. But now she did.

And their table—of course—was seated just close enough that Bua would see them all night.

Service didn’t stop for awkward reunions. In fact, it only got more complicated.

Just as the dining room began resetting for final seating, another VIP reservation quietly arrived—two women in understated designer wear,  accompanied by a discreet assistant and one security staff member who lingered by the entrance.

Bua had already noticed them the moment they stepped inside. She didn’t need to be told who they were. Everyone knew who they were.

Famous pair, GL actresses with countless projects together. Both are Brand Ambassadors for luxury brands, fashion icon, and the kind of celebrity pair that launched a thousand Twitter threads and fan edits, who never confirmed anything but always showed up together in just the right way. Whispers of something real beneath the curated image.

And tonight? It felt real.

The reservation had been made under an alias—standard procedure, being lowkey—but the notes had been clear and deliberate: corner table, maximum privacy, low visibility, no public interaction. A final line had been highlighted in bold: "Custom dessert, special message, occasion not to be missed."

A celebration. Quiet, but intimate. Carefully planned. Bua didn’t ask questions. She simply greeted them herself and guided them to a quiet corner booth of the dining room—semi-enclosed by tall shelving and low candlelight, tucked far enough from the kitchen to feel secluded, but still part of the restaurant’s warm glow.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate,” she said, calm and composed. “The chef will be sending a few extras, on the house.”

One of them smiled, showing off her dimples, relaxed but clearly used to being watched. As Bua stepped back into the flow of the floor, Nam intercepted her near the pass, clutching a small notepad like it was a state secret, her voice already dropping into an excited whisper.

“Those two,” she hissed, barely containing herself. “That’s who the pastry note was for?”

Bua gave her a short glance, not slowing. “Yes.”

“I knew it,” Nam breathed, eyes wide. “I knew they were dating. I told Jamie this weeks ago and she said I was delulu shipper, but look at me now!”

Bua didn’t flinch. “Nam.”

“What?” Nam blinked, only halfway sheepish. “I’m not posting about it.”

“No,” Bua said, voice quiet but firm. “You’re not talking about it either. Not here. Not to anyone. You know the rules.”

Nam straightened a little, chastened. “Right. Guest privacy is sacred. KIN KAO doesn’t leak.”

Bua nodded once, satisfied, her tone easing just a touch. “Keep that section tight. Low profile. No fan moments. No errors.”

Nam gave her a mock salute. “Understood. We’ll treat it like a black-tie tasting menu. Full sparkle.”

“Good,” Bua said, already scanning the floor again. “And quiet sparkle.”

Nam pressed her lips together, fighting a grin. “Sparkle in silence. Got it.”

Back at the Chef’s Table, Phin’s family was still enjoying themselves, the conversation light and unhurried. Wila sat at a nearby table with her guest, sipping wine and occasionally glancing toward the kitchen.

But Bua didn’t look in their direction again. She had service to run. She had a reputation to uphold. She had important people depending on her precision. And she had no time to feel anything.

Not the slow chill she’d felt earlier. Not the lingering echo of the words: “I thought you and Phin were going to get married.”

Just the rhythm of the room. The timing of the courses. The perfection of every plate. And dozen more to go. It’s gonna be a long night.

The hum of the dining room faded the deeper Bua moved down the back corridor, clipboard in hand. She wasn’t avoiding anything, not exactly—she was checking the kitchen’s supplemental inventory sheet, doing a headcount on the dessert station’s pacing, reviewing the lighting request for the corner VIP table, and maybe giving herself two full minutes not to be seen.

She took a steadying breath, fingers gripping the clipboard just a little too tightly. The chill from the nearby wine fridge seeped faintly into the hallway. Footsteps approached from the opposite direction. Bua looked up just in time to avoid a collision—and froze.

Phin’s mother.

Elegant, composed as ever, had just turned the corner from the restrooms, dabbing her hands on a folded paper towel.

“Oh,” she said with a quiet laugh, halting just in time. “Sorry—I didn’t see you there.”

Bua immediately straightened, stepping aside. “Oh Khun Mae, I didn’t mean to—”

Before she could retreat, Araya gently reached out and took her hand.

“Bua.” Her voice was low. Measured. Kind. “Can I say something?”

Bua’s spine went taut. She hesitated, then gave a small, polite nod. Araya didn’t let go. Her fingers curled just slightly around Bua’s own—cool, elegant, but grounding.

“You don’t have to be so composed around me, you know,” she said softly. “I saw your face earlier. When I said that thing about marriage.”

Bua’s throat worked. “It’s fine,” she began automatically, professional reflex kicking in. “You didn’t—”

But Araya gently squeezed her hand, quieting her.

“I didn’t think,” she said, voice touched with regret. “I slipped. Wila’s family and ours go back a long way. That’s why I sounded closer than I should have. It wasn’t about her. She was never the right fit. Not for Phin.”

Bua didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her chest felt tight in that strange, unfamiliar way—like someone had peeled back a layer she hadn’t even realized she was hiding behind.

Araya gave her a small smile then, softening every line of her face. “But you, Bua… you’re the one who’s made her different. I haven’t seen Phin this steady, this grounded, in years.”

She tilted her head, studying her the way a mother might study a painting she hadn’t expected to love. “It’s written all over her. And I know it has everything to do with you.”

Bua let out the smallest breath of a laugh, quiet and fragile. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. “Thank you.”

Araya brushed her thumb once more over the back of her hand, then finally let go.

“She might be bold, but she’s loyal,” she said, stepping back with a gentle finality. “And she’s in love with you, no matter who’s sitting at that table.”

Then, with the same poise she’d entered with, Araya turned and walked off down the hall, leaving Bua blinking—still standing where she’d been left, clipboard forgotten at her side.

Her heart ached. But it also steadied.

Something in her chest, held too tightly all evening, began to loosen. Just enough to breathe again. When Bua stepped back into the dining room, the soft buzz of conversation greeted her like static against skin. The lights were dimmed to their golden setting, dessert courses beginning to trickle out in waves—graceful, controlled, almost effortless.

She adjusted her blazer and lifted her clipboard, face composed again. She was fine. Or at least, she was doing a damn good job of looking like it. Then she looked up.

And saw Phin, standing just outside the kitchen pass, smiling as she approached Wila’s table. She wasn’t surprised to see her, clearly. In fact, her whole body relaxed into the moment like she’d expected it. Wila rose from her seat with that same polished grace, and they met in a brief but easy hug—familiar, practiced, the kind that said we’ve done this before.

Phin said something that made Wila laugh, hand brushing her arm in a way that didn’t seem calculated but landed, anyway. They stood close. Close enough that Bua couldn’t help noticing how Phin always leaned in just slightly more than necessary.

It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was something. And it twisted hot and sharp under Bua’s ribs. Her expression didn’t crack. Not entirely. But her eyes darkened. Her lips pressed just slightly tighter. And the clipboard in her hand? Her fingers curled around it like it might splinter.

She didn’t say anything. Because she was still at work. Because she was still herself. Professional. Steady. Unshakeable. Even if something in her chest suddenly felt a little raw again.

—

A few feet away, Lin noticed.

Of course she noticed. She watched Bua for a beat—saw the way her gaze narrowed ever so slightly at the corner, the way her jaw ticked before she smoothed it away.

Lin turned to her sister and leaned in close enough to whisper, hiding a smirk behind her wine glass.

“Uh huh,” she murmured. “Looks like our fearless sister chef has something to explain to her girlfriend later.”

Sam didn’t even look up from her dessert. “Lin.”

“What?” Lin whispered, pretending to be scandalized. “You saw that hug. That was definitely an ex hug.”

“She’s working.”

“Yeah, and she’s jealous,” Lin said under her breath. “Which is kinda hot, actually.”

Sam sighed, but didn’t argue. Because she saw it too.

And across the room, Bua forced herself to turn back toward the kitchen, giving one last glance to the table where Phin and Wila still exchanged quiet words.

A tight smile. And then back to work. Even if her pulse hadn’t quite settled.

Dinner service eventually winding down. The final desserts had been served, their chocolate scripts carefully piped and plates polished to a gleam. Some tables were already emptying out—diners slipping away into the night with the satisfied, mellow air of a well-fed Sunday.

Bua stood near the entrance, clipboard in one hand, the other behind her back as she thanked guests with quiet poise, nodding at compliments, bowing slightly when a regular praised the pacing of the new summer menu. Her smile was impeccable. Unbothered. Cool as polished marble.

Even when Wila passed by, offering a pleasant “Thank you for a lovely night,” Bua’s expression didn’t waver. She inclined her head with professional warmth—just enough to acknowledge, not enough to invite conversation.

Phin’s family was the last to leave.

Professor Araya took Bua’s hand with familiar grace, offering her a warm smile and a quiet, “Thank you again, Bua—for the flawless coordination tonight. Everything was exquisite.”

Before Bua could respond, Sam stepped in and gave her a quick hug—efficient, but sincere. “Really impressive work,” she said simply. “You run this place like clockwork.”

And then, Lin threw both arms around Bua, less restrained than her older sister. “Okay, you are so cool when you’re in work mode,” she said with a laugh, muffled slightly against Bua’s shoulder. “Like, terrifyingly competent. It's kind of hot.”

Bua flushed, but she didn’t pull away. She only managed a small, modest, “Thanks for coming.”

Just then, Phin emerged from the kitchen, still in her bandana and chef coat, cheeks flushed with lingering heat and the faint sheen of a long night’s work.

“There you are,” Araya said fondly.

“Here I am,” Phin replied, already moving in for a hug. She wrapped her arms around her mother, resting her chin on her shoulder for a second longer than necessary. “Thanks for coming, Ma. And not scaring my girlfriend too badly.”

Araya huffed a quiet laugh. “She’s a keeper. The only one I know who can actually handle you.”

Phin grinned, then turned to hug her sisters in turn—Sam steady and brief, Lin loose-limbed and dramatic.

“Hang again next week?” Lin said, pulling back with a raised brow.

“Totally,” Phin said, already walking them toward the door. “I’ll cook. You bring wine.”

Lin threw a finger gun over her shoulder. “Don’t tempt me.”

But just before she stepped outside, she leaned close to Phin, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Hey,” she murmured, a sly edge in her grin. “Before you head off all smug and glowy… just so you know—Mom kinda slipped earlier. Said she thought you and Wila were gonna get married back in the day.”

Phin blinked. “She said that?”

“Yup,” Lin confirmed, clearly enjoying this. “Right in front of your girlfriend’s salad. Bua totally heard it. It was awkward. Thought you should know.”

Phin opened her mouth, baffled.

Lin just clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

Then she was gone, trailing after her sisters and mother out into the warm Bangkok night.

Phin stood by the door for a beat, eyebrows still up, processing. Then she glanced toward the back, where Bua had disappeared to her office not long after. The door closed behind her.

A different kind of silence settled over the restaurant.

By then, the staff had started clocking out. Nam slung her bag over her shoulder, yawning as she joked with Jamie by the back hallway. Jai and Jin had already left. The kitchen lights dimmed, one by one, leaving only the glow of the office hallway.

Phin stood still for a moment, staring into the quiet. Then turned toward the back. Bua was still in her office.

The light was on behind the glass window. Her silhouette half-curled over her desk, tablet screen glowing faintly as she reviewed closing numbers, invoices, and notes from the night.

The office door creaked open.

Bua didn’t look up at first. She was still half-pretending to review the floor schedule for next week, even though the numbers were starting to blur. Her stylus hovered, unmoving, above the tablet screen.

“Hey,” came Phin’s voice, gentle but unmistakably smug. “Room for one emotionally exhausting chef?”

Bua sighed, not lifting her head. “You’re not emotionally exhausting.”

“Oh? Just generally exhausting, then?” Phin leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, still in her chef coat but with the sleeves shoved up and her bandana slightly askew. Her grin was lazy. Disarming. “Because I can work with that.”

Bua finally glanced up, narrowing her eyes. “You’re here to gloat or to clock out?”

“Neither,” Phin said, pushing off the frame and crossing the room. “I’m here because I miss my extremely composed, terrifyingly capable manager-slash-girlfriend and how she has been giving me the same smile she gives investors all night, and I’m smart enough to know that’s not good.”

She slid one hand onto the edge of Bua’s desk. The other found its way lightly to Bua’s shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of her jacket.

Bua’s lips twitched, just faintly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I won’t.” Phin leaned in, kissed her temple. “I’m here to grovel.”

That earned her a side-eye. “Grovel?”

“Mhm.” Another kiss, this time at the edge of her hairline. “Apologize for crimes I didn’t technically commit.”

“Such as?”

Phin grinned. “Being charming. Having a past. Hugging an ex who appeared out of nowhere wearing expensive shoes and a wine-scented agenda.”

Bua gave a small, unimpressed huff—but she didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t know she was coming,” Phin said more seriously now, tone softening as she brushed her fingers lightly along the back of Bua’s neck. “And if I’d known my mom was gonna say that marriage crap—”

Bua stiffened. Phin stopped, giving her space. “Lin told me. Just now. That you overheard it.”

There was a pause.

Then Bua murmured, without looking at her, “I wasn’t upset.”

Phin snorted. “You were jealous.”

“I was not.”

“You were. And it was cute. Sexy, even.”

Bua turned, finally meeting her eyes. “Phin.”

Phin softened immediately, brushing Bua’s hair gently back from her face. “Hey. Seriously. It meant nothing. Wila and I… that was old news even before I moved back.” She paused, her voice quieter now, steadier.

“But you? You’re the only one I want to hug before and after service. The one I willingly give my last piece of crispy pork to. The one I love everyday. Always.”

Bua’s expression shifted, just slightly—but it was enough. The smallest crack in her armor. The faintest tug of something warm behind her eyes.

“I know that,” she said quietly.

Phin leaned down until their foreheads touched. “But I’m gonna keep saying it. Loudly. Shamelessly. And possibly while half-naked in your kitchen. So you never forget.”

Bua sighed again, this time softer. “You’re annoying.”

Bua's fingers curled in the front of Phin’s coat, gripping a little tighter now. Her jaw clenched, just once. And there was something in her eyes—darker, sharper. It flared, hot and unspoken, across her face. Her voice was quiet, almost flat.

"Did you ever spend the night at her place?"

Phin blinked, caught off guard. “What? No. Of course not.”

Bua stared at her for another second—like she was weighing the answer, testing it for cracks. Then her hand fisted tighter at Phin’s collar.

“Don’t ever flirt with someone else like that again,” she murmured, each word slow, deliberate.

And before Phin could even process it, Bua pulled her in by the collar of her chef’s coat and kissed her. Hard. Phin gasped against it, lips parting as Bua pressed her back, shoving her firmly against the wall behind the desk. The office lights buzzed faintly overhead, the glass pane still lit behind the blinds, the night outside sealed off.

Phin’s hands flew instinctively to Bua’s hips, trying to catch up. “Whoa,” she managed, breathless, when their mouths broke apart for a second.

But Bua wasn’t done.

Her voice was rough, almost hoarse. “Mine. You hear me?”

Phin nodded, lips already searching again. “Loud and clear.”

There was something in her eyes now—darker, sharper. The jealousy she’d been burying all night stopped pretending. It flared, hot and unspoken, across her face. Phin gasped against it, lips parting as Bua pressed her back, shoving her firmly against the wall behind the desk.

“Whoa,” Phin managed, breathless, when their mouths broke apart for a second.

But Bua wasn’t done.

Her hands were already at Phin’s shirt, tugging it untucked and dragging the fabric up with zero ceremony—fingertips grazing warm skin, dipping just under the hem of her undershirt. She kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand braced near Phin’s neck, the other sliding boldly up her side.

“Okay,” Phin said, half-laughing, half-breathless, her lips just grazing Bua’s as she tried to catch her breath, pulse pounding like a drum beneath her skin. “So this is happening. We’re actually doing this. In your office.”

Her grin spread slow, wicked.

“God, you’re hot when you’re jealous.”

Bua didn’t respond. Not with words. She bit Phin’s lower lip instead.

Phin groaned, a low sound that vibrated in her throat, one hand already gripping the edge of the desk for balance. She felt herself giving in completely—not that she ever stood a chance.

They’d never done this here before. Too risky. Too improper. Too unlike Bua. But that was the point.

Tonight, something had cracked. Something possessive and raw. And it was burning off her usual calm like fog under heat.

And Phin was not about to stop her.

“Tell me what you want,” Phin whispered, her voice low and ragged. Bua’s breath hitched, lips brushing the edge of Phin’s jaw as her fingers fisted tighter in her shirt.

“I want you out of this.” Her voice was rough. Demanding. Like she didn’t just want closeness—she needed it. And that was all it took.

That was all it took. Phin’s breath caught, her pupils darkening with heat as she held Bua’s gaze. Then, slowly—deliberately—she began unfastening the buttons of her chef’s coat. One by one.

The soft click-click-click of each undone button echoed faintly in the hush of the office. Her hands moved with purpose, but there was a tremble in her fingers, a rush in her chest she couldn’t quite slow.

Bua didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She just watched.

Watched as Phin slipped the coat from her shoulders and let it fall onto the couch beside her. Watched the rise and fall of her chest, the bare skin revealed beneath the thin tank top clinging to her from the heat of service. Her hair was messy, cheeks flushed from adrenaline, lips already kiss-swollen. She looked—God—utterly wrecked and completely beautiful. Half-breathless and fully hers.

Phin exhaled shakily, eyes still locked on Bua’s as she slid the tank up and over her head, tossing it to the floor.

Then, with fingers that moved slower now—intentional, inviting—she undid the button of her pants and eased them down over her hips, revealing the familiar curve of her thighs, the worn waistband of underwear that made Bua's throat go dry. She stepped out of them without breaking eye contact.

There was no performance in it. No teasing.

Just the quiet, unspoken offering of someone saying: I trust you. I want you. And Bua—still fully dressed, still straddling the line between self-control and surrender—felt her heartbeat spike in her throat.

“I want you to look at me,” she said softly, almost reverent.

“I am,” Bua murmured.

She was. With the kind of intensity that made Phin feel like she was being seen down to the bone.

Something about the way Bua looked at her now—like she was trying to memorize everything, every inch, every inch of skin that had once belonged to no one and now felt claimed—it made Phin feel wild and wanted all at once.

“Your turn,” Phin whispered, smiling just a little, voice rough around the edges.

But Bua didn’t smile back. She didn’t need to.

Her fingers moved silently to the buttons of her blouse, unfastening them one by one—precise, controlled, but anything but indifferent. The soft fabric slid from her shoulders with a quiet rustle, joining Phin’s clothes on the couch.

Phin didn’t blink. She watched her like she couldn’t look away—shamelessly, reverently. Every inch Bua revealed was familiar, but in this light, in this moment, it felt entirely new.

Bua undid her slacks next, the motion fluid, practiced. She stepped out of them with quiet confidence, her gaze never leaving Phin’s, as if daring her to look away. She didn’t.

Phin's breath hitched. God, this woman—so calm on the surface, so composed and distant to everyone else—and yet here, in the low light of her office, she was raw and real and undeniably hers.

“You’re so beautiful,” Phin murmured, almost without meaning to.

Still no smile from Bua. But she reached forward, gently shoved Phin back until her spine touched the cushion—and then climbed into her lap again, settling in like it was exactly where she belonged.

And this time, when she kissed her—slow and deep and hungry—it wasn’t about possession or jealousy. It was about knowing exactly who she wanted.

Heat surged between them, sharp and immediate, their bodies slotting together like muscle memory. Their bodies came together—bare skin against bare skin, the press of curves aligning with startling intimacy. Softness against softness, the arch of hips, the slope of waists, the delicate heat of breast against breast— a friction that made them both gasp. They fit. Like a rhythm they’d known all along. Like muscle memory, tender and electric.

Phin kissed her back—hard, desperate, her hands sweeping down Bua’s back, clutching her close, unable to get enough. The heat between them surged—sharp, immediate, consuming.

There was nothing gentle now—only breath and skin and the frantic, beautiful rush of two people who knew each other deeply, who chose each other every day, and tonight, were reminding themselves just how much. Bua wanted all of her. Right here. Right now. And Phin gave herself over completely.

Phin’s heart pounded beneath her ribs. She let out a breathless laugh against Bua’s lips, “God, you’re so sexy when you’re like this,” she murmured, voice hoarse and full of awe.

Bua didn’t answer. She only kissed her again—deep and deliberate—before starting a slow descent.

Her mouth traced down Phin’s jaw, each kiss a little wetter, a little rougher. Then lower, to the side of her neck—where she bit gently, then sucked. Phin gasped, her fingers clenching into Bua’s back.

That mark would show later. There was no question about it. But neither of them cared. Not in that moment. Not in that heat.

Bua didn’t stop. She pressed closer, grinding down slowly, the soft heat between her legs pressing against Phin’s thigh—warm, aching, perfect. The contact made them both shiver.

Phin let out a quiet, broken moan, tilting her head back to give her more room.

“You drive me insane,” she whispered.

Bua’s only reply was the press of her body and the way her teeth grazed just below Phin’s ear—claiming, tender, and utterly hers. Phin let herself fall into it—completely, willingly. She'd never seen Bua like this. And it was hot. Terrifying. Intoxicating.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, as Bua’s lips moved back to her neck.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Bua replied—low, rough, and certain.

Bua shifted without a word, her hands firm at Phin’s hips as she urged her down, guiding her to lie flat on the couch. Phin went willingly, breath catching, her body already arching in anticipation. Then Bua followed—slow, deliberate, a silhouette of control and hunger, rising over her, skin brushing skin. She hovered just long enough to make Phin’s chest rise toward her, and then she kissed her again—mouth hot, breath uneven.

Down her neck.

Lower still, teeth grazing her collarbone before she opened her mouth and latched onto one pink nipple, drawing it in deep. Not soft. Not slow.

Possessive. Wanting.

Phin cried out, sharp and helpless, her back lifting off the couch at the jolt of sensation. Her hands flew to Bua’s shoulders, gripping tight.

“Baby—”

But Bua was already moving lower, trailing her mouth across Phin’s ribs, fingers following the path in a lazy, almost taunting drag. Her hand slid down, fingers sweeping across the curve of Phin’s stomach, dipping lower. Slow. Teasing. Almost cruel in how gently she moved. Then—finally—her fingers slipped lower, brushing against the heat pooling between Phin’s legs, wet, slick and undeniable.

Phin let out a breathless, wrecked sound, her hips instinctively lifting into the touch, chasing more. The reaction was immediate, raw—like her body had been aching for this all night.

That’s when Bua looked up—eyes dark, lips kiss-swollen, her mouth curving into a slow, knowing smirk.

“You missed me this much?” she murmured.

Phin's laugh came out strangled, half-moan. “You’re evil.”

“Only when it’s you." Bua’s smile deepened, but her voice was low, almost tender.

Phin shivered—at the words, at the way Bua said them like a promise.

“Good.”

And with that, Bua moved her fingers just right, and Phin stopped speaking altogether. Her fingers moved with practiced certainty—not rushed, not fumbling, but with the quiet command of someone who knew exactly how Phin’s body responded.

She moved deeper, her touch firm, focused, curling just right. Every motion drew out another gasp, another ragged noise that Phin didn’t seem capable of swallowing back. And through it all, they never broke eye contact.

Phin’s gaze locked onto hers—wild and shining, pupils blown wide, like she was falling apart and couldn’t look away while it happened.

Bua didn’t blink.

She watched every flicker of pleasure cross her lover’s face, felt it echoed in every clench beneath her fingers. She chased it—with slow precision, and then faster, when Phin’s breath began to stutter. Phin bit her lip hard, stifling a moan, then gasped, “There… right there. Harder. Faster”

Bua’s mouth curled into a quiet smirk—not smug, but sure. Intimate. Like she’d been waiting for that cue all night. Bua could feel it—the way Phin’s body tightened, the way her breath hitched unevenly with every thrust of her fingers. The way her thighs trembled slightly beneath her grip. She was close. So close.

Bua adjusted the rhythm with quiet precision—not faster, just deeper, more deliberate. She knew this climb, knew how to draw it out without breaking it. How to guide her right to the edge and hold her there.

Phin’s head fell back for a second, her lips parted, chest rising in frantic waves—but Bua didn’t let her fall. Not yet.

Still watching her—dark eyes locked to Phin’s flushed, desperate gaze, she leaned closer, voice low and steady:

“Tell me, chef,” Bua murmured. “What do you need?”

Phin’s answer was barely a breath, a whimper caught on fire.

“You. Always you. Don’t stop.”

That was enough. Bua leaned in and kissed her hard, swallowing Phin’s moan as her fingers curled just right—deep, sure, devastating. And Phin—already trembling—came undone in her arms, gasping into Bua’s mouth, the sound raw and helpless, her release crashing over her in waves.

Her hands clutched at Bua’s back, searching for anchor as her body arched, legs tightening around her.

Bua held her through it—kissing her through it—softening the rhythm only when Phin’s gasp for air turned into a slow, wrecked exhale, the kind that made her whole body sag with the weight of it.

For a long moment, the only sound in the office was Phin’s breathing—shaky, uneven, like she’d just run a race barefoot and blindfolded. Eyes closed, skin still damp, heart still pounding against ribcage and palm.

Bua didn’t move at first. And when she finally eased her fingers out, Phin made a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sigh—that pulled at something deep in Bua’s chest.

She just held her—one hand steady at Phin’s waist, the other brushing damp strands of hair back from her forehead with surprising gentleness. Her lips pressed a quiet kiss to Phin’s temple, then lingered there, breathing her in. Eventually, Phin let out a broken laugh. Low, rasping. Still catching her breath.

“You really don’t mess around when you’re jealous,” Phin muttered, still breathless.

Bua made a low, noncommittal sound against her skin. Something like a hum. Something like yeah, and?

Phin tilted her head just enough to glance up—grinning like she’d just survived something thrilling and slightly illegal. Her hair was a mess, lips still kiss-swollen, and she looked absolutely delighted.

“I mean,” she said, voice still hoarse, “if this is what happens when you get a little territorial… we might need to start working jealousy into the weekly schedule.”

Bua let out a quiet chuckle, then leaned down and rested her head on Phin’s bare chest, right over her still-racing heart.

Phin beamed wider. “I’m just saying. Stress relief. Team-building. Very efficient.”

Bua didn’t dignify that with an answer. She simply shifted her weight, eyes steady on Phin’s face, and let her fingers trail downward—sliding over Phin’s arm, then down to her wrist, lacing their fingers together before gently guiding her hand lower. Slow. Certain. Like she knew exactly what she wanted Phin to do, and exactly how to ask for it without saying a word.

Phin’s grin faltered into a shiver. “Oh.”

Then, a beat later—half laugh, half gasp:

“Wait—now we’re doing me again?”

Bua finally spoke. “No,” she murmured, brushing her mouth against Phin’s jaw, smirking now.

“Now,” she said, soft and wicked, “we’re doing you doing me.”

Phin’s eyes widened, heat sparking again. “God, I love our management style.”

Phin barely had time to catch her breath before Bua kissed her again—slow and deliberate, all heat and intent. Each touch was a command wrapped in silk, each motion unhurried, assured. Around them, the air grew thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and skin and something that felt like worship. Phin let herself sink into it, into her—fingertips trailing, mouths finding familiar paths, bodies learning new ones. No more teasing, no more talking. Just the sweet, aching language of yes, and more, and don’t stop.

Chapter Text

These days, the mornings belonged to them.

Which was funny, considering how long Bua had tried—and failed—to convince Phin to join her jogs. For weeks, Phin had waved her off with a groan, burying herself deeper under the blankets. “Go be impressive without me,” she’d mutter, tugging Bua back into bed with a wicked grin and no hint of shame. “The only cardio I care about is pinning you down and making you come—twice—before you even find your shoes.”

And sometimes, it worked. Sometimes Bua stayed, breathless and ruined and late to stretch, the morning sun barely up while Phin smirked into her shoulder, triumphant. Other days, Phin would fall back asleep halfway through her own seduction, arms curled around Bua’s waist like a koala, and Bua would just sigh, kiss her temple, and go jog alone.

But then, one morning, she showed up. Sneakers on, curls tied back, grinning like she’d invented the concept of effort. Bua had narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “You finally caved.”

Phin only shrugged. “Figured I should try being healthy...you know. Live longer, so I can hug you, love you longer too.” She’d said it casually, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t knock Bua off balance for the rest of the run.

And now? It was a routine. Bua still didn’t talk much before coffee, and Phin still tried to get her to laugh before kilometer three. Somewhere between the sweat and the silence, something had settled—steady, solid, theirs.

By mid-morning, the chaos of KIN KAO had not yet begun. It was one of those rare slivers of calm before the gears shifted into lunch prep. The prep list had already been checked. The usual rhythm. Familiar. Predictable. Except now, everyone was also used to the sight of their two bosses arriving together.

By now, it wasn’t scandalous. Just… a fact of life. Their manager and the head chef are dating. But still being professional. Calm. Efficient. Sometimes affectionate. Like today.

Phin leaned in at the hallway fork, just before they split—Bua to her office, Phin toward the kitchen entrance. “See you later, I love you” she murmured with a crooked smile, and pressed a kiss to Bua’s cheek, soft and easy like it was part of the routine. Bua didn’t even flinch anymore. Just gave a barely-there smile and kept walking, like her heart hadn’t just stuttered in her chest.

The kitchen door swung behind Phin, and the day began.

*****

The staff meal later that day was nothing fancy—fried rice with fried chicken, a big pot of clear soup with winter melon, and someone had sliced up watermelon from the back fridge. They ate together in the kitchen like they always did, tucked into stools or crouched by the counters, the usual din of chopsticks, banter, and complaints about prep work filling the air.

And Bua was there.

Which, these days, was less of a surprise.

Bua didn’t always join staff meals, but when she did, no one made a fuss anymore. What they did notice—though most pretended not to—was how Phin always prepared Bua’s plate herself. It had become its own quiet ritual, something almost reverent in the way she did it. A perfect scoop of rice, a bit of each dish arranged just the way Bua liked. Always warm, always just right. Like feeding her wasn’t just an act of care—it was a declaration.

Nam teased her about it constantly.

“Should we all line up and let Head Chef serve us like that too?” she’d whisper behind her hand, grinning. “Or is that a lovers-only policy?”

Phin would roll her eyes, but never stop what she was doing. And Bua, as usual, would pretend she didn’t hear any of it—except for the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Today, Phin handed over the plate wordlessly, like always. Bua took it with a quiet nod and sat beside her, eating slowly, listening more than speaking.

It was warm, that moment. Loud and ordinary and good.

Then Phin’s phone buzzed.

She didn’t reach for it right away—just glanced, mid-bite, before something in her expression stilled. Her fingers hovered over the screen. Then she opened the message.

[ In Bangkok for a few days. Can I stop by?]

The name on the top made her breath catch. Tom.

She hadn’t heard from him in nearly a year.

Phin stared at the screen longer than necessary, as if the words might change. Her thumb tightened slightly around the edges of the phone. When she finally set it down, her hands shook just a little—enough that she quickly tucked them under the table.

Bua had seen it.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just watched the flicker of tension that passed through Phin’s shoulders, the way her gaze dropped to her rice but she didn’t take another bite.

“Just old friend from Chicago,” Phin said lightly, too lightly. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s just passing through.”

No one else at the table seemed to notice. But Bua saw everything.

And she didn’t press. She just nudged her foot a little closer, her knee brushing against Phin’s beneath the table—silent and steady. Phin finally picked up her spoon again. But her appetite had faded.

****

Phin had told her once—late at night, after too many glasses of wine, when the lights were low and her defenses even lower. Her head had been resting in Bua’s lap, Bua’s fingers gently threading through her hair, patient and unhurried. She’d spoken in fragments at first, circling around the truth like it still hurt to look at directly.

About Chicago—how cold the winters were, how loud the trains, how she used to work twelve-hour shifts in a bustling kitchen that played old jazz during cleanup when she just graduated. How she met Jordan and how he had been her best friend for years, her anchor, the one person who could match her stride for stride in the kitchen and still laugh with her after. They’d planned a restaurant together for years. Sketched menus on napkins. Argued about plating styles. Took turns daydreaming out loud about the name, the vibe. They’d saved for years, taken meetings, signed a lease. She even remembered the paint color they chose for the walls: something called Warm Clay that looked different in every light.

And then there was the James Beard award.

“I didn’t even think I was going to win,” Phin mumbled, eyes closed, her voice blurred slightly by the wine but sharpened by memory. “I remember sitting there in this stupid borrowed backless dress with Jordan next to me, squeezing my knee every time someone else’s name got called. And then they said mine.” A pause. “I think I blacked out a little. Everything felt too loud. I walked onstage, gave this weird breathless speech, and then after—suddenly I was being photographed and interviewed and congratulated like I was… I don’t know. Arriving.”

She huffed a small laugh. “People kept calling Jordan my boyfriend that night. Whispering about how supportive he was, how cute we were.”

She tilted her head slightly against Bua’s thigh, eyes flicking up. “They didn’t know he was gayer than a glitter parade. His actual boyfriend—Tom—was back in their apartment watching the livestream with popcorn and texting us both memes the whole night.”

Bua smiled at that, the corners of her mouth tugging up. “So you had a whole queer kitchen power trio going.”

Phin grinned, just a little. “Basically. Tom made Jordan wear SPF indoors because he burned even under fluorescent light. And Jordan once threw a spoon at me for over-salting his post-shift ramen.” She fell quiet again, “I loved them. Both of them. Jordan was my person. Tom still… is family, in a weird way.”

“Must’ve been nice,” Bua said softly. “To be that known. That loved.”

Phin blinked up at her, something raw flickering across her face. “It was.”

And Bua, who never filled silences just to ease them, lift her hand and kissed her palm gently and said, “You are still loved. You still get to be known.”

One of Bua’s hands moved slowly through her hair—steady, unhurried, not brushing so much as grounding. The other rested flat and warm over the center of Phin’s chest, just above her heart, where her breath stuttered unevenly beneath the fabric of her T-shirt. Phin’s hand came up and wrapped around Bua’s, holding it there. Holding it close.

She didn’t say please stay or don’t go. She just clung. Like that was the only thing still keeping her anchored.

Bua hadn’t tried to fix it. She hadn’t offered any hollow promises or platitudes. Instead, her hand had stilled gently in Phin’s hair, and her voice—when it came—was soft but steady.

“I think,” Bua said, “you kept going longer than most people could have. I think that counts for something.”

Phin hadn’t spoken right away. But Bua had felt the way her breath caught, then slowly steadied again—like something fragile in her chest had been held together just long enough to take one more breath.

“You don’t have to be okay with it,” Bua continued. “Not now. Maybe not ever. But you’re here. You’re cooking again. That’s not nothing.”

And then, more quietly, with a tenderness that didn’t ask for attention:
“I’m glad you came back.”

Phin had closed her eyes at that, her cheek pressing closer into Bua’s lap. She didn’t say thank you, didn’t need to. The weight of her body softening in Bua’s arms said enough.

*****

Dinner service had ended in its usual blur of fire and finesse—orders flying, pans clattering, the kitchen humming with orchestrated chaos. By the time the last dessert plate left the pass and the final ticket was marked, the staff had begun their slow exhale into cleanup mode. Now, the restaurant was quiet. Lights dimmed, the floor mopped down, stations wiped until they gleamed. Phin stood near the back sink, toweling off her hands, hair tied up in a loose knot that had frayed through the shift. She looked tired. Not just the usual post-service exhaustion, but something older, quieter, curled beneath her collarbones.

Bua leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her. It was just the two of them, and the city beyond the kitchen door waiting to swallow them up again.

“Hey,” Bua said softly.

Phin glanced over. “Hey.”

She looked quiet in a way she rarely was—not worn-out or dazed from service, but withdrawn. Like her thoughts had gone somewhere far off and she hadn’t quite made it back yet. And then, instead of answering, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Bua. It wasn’t a playful I missed you kind of hug. Not a flirt, not a tease. It was a hold me kind of hug. A don’t ask yet, just stay here with me kind of hug.

Bua stilled for half a second, surprised by the weight of it—how tightly Phin clung to her, how her face pressed into the curve of Bua’s shoulder like it was the only safe place left in the world. So Bua held her. Arms steady, palms slow over Phin’s back. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed. When Phin finally pulled away, her eyes were a little red, but she was already blinking it back.

“You gonna tell me who texted you today?”

Bua asked, voice low, not pushing. Just steady. Gentle. Phin blinked. Her smile flickered and dropped.

“You saw.”

“I saw you stop breathing,” Bua said. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But… I know it wasn’t nothing.”

Phin didn’t answer right away. She leaned back against the counter, staring down at the floor. Her fingers flexed once at her side, then stilled.

"Tom,” she said finally.

“Jordan’s boyfriend.” Bua nodded once. Quietly. She knew the name.

“I haven’t heard from him in almost a year,” Phin continued, voice thin.

And then today he just… shows up in my inbox. Says he’s in Bangkok. Wants to stop by.”

She gave a small, breathless laugh. “Like we’re all still the same people. Like nothing exploded.”

Bua stand beside her, quiet through it all. At those words, she reached out and wrapped an arm gently around Phin’s waist—not pulling, not demanding. Just a steady, silent touch. A reminder. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

“Are you going to meet him?” she asked.

Phin didn’t answer. Just shrugged, but her shoulders were too tight for it to be careless.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Part of me wants to see him. Just to… I don’t know. Just to know he’s okay. That we’re okay. That that whole part of my life wasn’t a dream.” Her eyes met Bua’s then. “But I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Bua studied her quietly, then stepped in—close enough to feel Phin’s breath catch. She reached up, cupped her cheek, and pressed a soft kiss there first, just beneath her eye. Then another, slower one on her lips.

When she pulled back, her voice was low but sure. “I love you,” she said.

Phin didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were glassy, her breath shallow. But she leaned into Bua’s touch, forehead resting against hers like a silent thank-you. They didn’t say much after that. They didn’t need to.

Outside, the air was warm and sticky with late-night Bangkok humidity. They had parked just around the corner, and now walked hand in hand down the quiet soi toward the 7-Eleven. Not in a rush. Not saying much. Just moving in step, fingers loosely intertwined—like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way they did, these days.

fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as they moved through the aisles in easy sync—Phin grabbed toothpaste and body wash, Bua double-checked the rice shelf like she didn’t already know which brand they always bought. Phin added a pack of tamarind-flavored candy to the basket, then threw in a bottle of cold green tea for Bua without asking.

It was mundane. Utterly ordinary.

But in its own way, it felt more intimate than anything that had come before. Two people choosing each other, again and again, even in the softest, smallest ways.

At the checkout, Phin cracked a joke about how domestic they’d become, and Bua rolled her eyes—but she was smiling when she did it. Outside, Phin bumped her shoulder lightly into Bua’s and said, “Thanks for tonight.”

“For what?” Bua asked.

“For not pretending I’m fine when I’m not,” Phin said. “And for buying the good rice.”

Bua didn’t reply. Just nudged the plastic bag into Phin’s hand and started walking. Phin followed. Of course she did. At home, the stillness wrapped around them like a blanket.

Their apartment was dim, quiet but lived-in—shoes by the door, half a fruit tart in the fridge, a pile of folded laundry that neither had the energy to put away. The kind of space built not just for sleeping, but for sharing. Phin kicked off her sneakers and headed straight for the bathroom with a yawn, and Bua followed behind, trailing the familiar rhythm of their end-of-day routine.

They stood side by side at the sink, brushing their teeth in silence. Their shoulders bumped once, then again, until Phin leaned over and pressed a foamy kiss to Bua’s cheek, earning a quiet glare that didn’t stick.

Later, Bua sat on the edge of the bed, plugging in the hair dryer with one hand and flicking the switch on with the other. Phin padded in, towel slung around her shoulders, damp curls dripping lazily down her back.

“This again?” she said, more fond than annoyed.

“Sit,” Bua said, already patting the space in front of her.

It had become a habit, somewhere along the way. Bua had noticed early on—back when Phin first started staying over—that she never bothered to dry her hair before bed. “It’ll dry on its own,” Phin had shrugged, flopping face-first into the pillow with her curls still damp. “I’ll live.”

But Bua hadn’t liked it. Not the careless chill of it, not the idea of Phin going to sleep cold and damp and half-tired. So the next night, she’d brought out her hair dryer, sat on the bed, and told Phin to park herself on the floor in front of her. She hadn’t stopped since.

Now, Phin sat down with a small groan, back against Bua’s knees, and let her work. The warm hum of the dryer filled the room, the air growing cozy and soft. Bua moved carefully, guiding her fingers through damp curls, checking for tangles as she dried each section with methodical care.

Halfway through, Phin spoke—quiet, but sure.

“I’m going to meet him.”

Bua’s hand slowed. “Tom?”

A small nod.

“I’ll text him tomorrow. Set something up.”

Bua turned off the dryer. The quiet pressed in around them again.

She didn’t ask if she was sure. Didn’t ask if she was okay. Instead, she leaned forward, wrapped her arms gently around Phin’s shoulders, and kissed her temple.

“If you need me there,” she murmured, “just tell me.”

Phin didn’t reply right away. She just rested her hands over Bua’s, head tilted back against her knee. Then, softly: “Okay.”

Later that night, the lights were out and the fan whirred gently overhead. The city murmured in the distance—traffic, dogs, the occasional motorbike—but inside their room, it was all stillness and slow breaths.

Bua had fallen asleep first.

Phin watched her, propped up on one elbow, the blanket half-draped across her chest. Bua's hair had started to dry in soft waves, a few strands clinging to her cheek, her lips parted slightly in sleep. She looked younger like this. Softer. The sharpness she carried through the day had melted away, leaving only warmth and quiet.

Phin leaned in and kissed her gently—just the corner of her mouth. Barely there.

“I love you,” she whispered, barely more than breath.

It had become a habit. Something she only ever said when Bua was already asleep. Not because she was afraid, but because it felt sacred, like a charm to guard the night. Her version of a lullaby.

She stayed like that for a moment longer. Let the words settle in the dark.

But sleep didn’t come.

Carefully, Phin slipped out of bed, trying not to jostle the mattress. Bua didn’t stir. She reached over the nightstand, unplugged her phone, and padded barefoot into the living room, screen dimmed low as she sank onto the couch. The message was still there. Waiting. She stared at it again for a second before typing.

Hey, Tom. Got your message. Monday works—I’ve got the day off. Want to meet for lunch?

She hesitated. Then added:

It’ll be good to see you. Let’s catch up properly. There’s a place near the river I like—simple Thai food, quiet. Baan Sakun. 12:30?

She hit send before she could second-guess it. Then turned the screen face down and let her head fall back against the couch.

The message was out. The decision made. She was still scared—but under that, there was something steadier now. Not quite peace, but close. Close enough.

Eventually, she returned to the bedroom. Slipped back under the blanket. Bua shifted slightly in her sleep, and Phin curled around her, tucking her face into the warm curve of her shoulder.

*****

That Monday Morning

Their day off began like most Mondays now did—slow, sun-warmed, and domestic in a way that still surprised Phin sometimes with how much she loved it.

They started the morning the way they often did on their day off—making breakfast together without needing to say a word. Bua sliced up mango and papaya while Phin whisked eggs with a dash of fish sauce and white pepper. The smell of garlic hitting hot oil filled the kitchen as she stir-fried leftover jasmine rice with egg and spring onion, finishing it with a generous spoonful of crispy shallots—just the way Bua liked it.

They sat at the table by the window, sunlight spilling across their plates. No rush. No phones. Just quiet conversation between bites, and the kind of silence that only felt comfortable with someone you trusted.

When Phin started picking out the crispy shallots from her own plate and putting them on Bua’s, Bua gave her a look.

“What?” Phin said, mouth half full. “You like them more than I do.”

Phin grinned and stole a slice of mango in retaliation.

By late morning, the sun had turned sharp against the windows, and Bua glanced at the clock.

“What time are you meeting him?” she asked, her voice gentle but direct.

Phin was drying her hands at the sink. She didn’t flinch—just nodded, like they’d already rehearsed this. Because they had.

“12:30. He’s meeting me at Baan Sakun, the place by the river.”

They’d talked about it that morning, Bua had offered to come with her from the start—quiet, steady, never pressing. It had to be Phin’s call. Her pace. In the end, they agreed: Phin would meet Tom alone at first. She needed that space. But she also wanted Bua there—wanted to share this part of her life, too.

“Okay..I’ll swing by near the end,” Bua had said, her voice low but certain. “We’ll head to Heng Lao together after.”

That, too, had become part of the rhythm—Monday dinners with her parents, casual and familiar. Bua’s mom had started setting aside Phin’s favorite side dishes without being asked.

Phin let out a soft breath and smiled. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For letting me be nervous without making me feel weak.”

Bua didn’t say anything. Just walked over, pulled her into a hug from behind, and rested her chin lightly on Phin’s shoulder.

“You’re not weak,” she murmured. “You’re just human. Annoying one. But I love you.”

Phin’s arms tightened around her. Chuckled, “I know.”

*****

Phin plan to take the BTS to the meeting.

Her scooter, once her main way of getting around, now sat parked in the basement of her old apartment, quietly gathering dust. Sometimes Lin borrowed it when she need it. But these days, Phin commuted almost exclusively with Bua. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really needed the scooter anyway.

Bua had offered the car—twice, even dangling the keys in front of her with a raised brow—but Phin waved her off with a grin. “I need the extra steps. I feel like I’m getting fat,” she said, stretching her arms overhead like she was preparing for a marathon.

Bua didn’t even blink. “You’re not fat,” she said flatly. “You’re just dramatic.”

Phin gasped, hand to her chest. “So rude. This is why I have body image issues.”

“You have issues because you eat three portions of dessert and call it research.”

“And because my girlfriend bullies me.”

Bua rolled her eyes and tucked the keys back into the drawer. “Go. Walk. Be healthy. But if you come home whining about sore feet, I’m not massaging them.”

Phin smirked as she fixing her hair on the mirror “You say that now, but wait until I’m in your lap, pouting, smelling like sweat and existential clarity.”

Bua sighed, unimpressed but fond. “I really don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

Phin grinned. “Whatever it was, I’m so glad you did.”

She grab her tote bag from the hook by the door, slinging it over one shoulder as she padded barefoot across the tile.

“Phone?” Bua asked, glancing up from her coffee, the picture of calm domestic efficiency.

“Yup.”

“Wallet?”

Phin patted her bag. “Check.”

“Keys? BTS card?”

“Yes, mom,” Phin teased, grinning as she leaned over to kiss the top of Bua’s head. “I’m a fully functioning adult woman.”

Bua didn’t even flinch. “One who once went to work with only a whisk and a pack of gum in her bag.”

“That was one time.”

“And you still tried to pay for iced coffee with the gum.”

Phin just laughed, dropping her sneakers to the floor. But as she straightened up again, she didn’t reach for the door immediately. Instead, she turned back toward Bua—taking in the way the morning light hit her hair, the way she looked so at home in this space they’d quietly built together. Then Phin stepped in, closed the distance between them, and kissed her.

It started soft—just a brush, barely there—like she was giving Bua time to pull away if she wanted to. But Bua didn’t. Her fingers curled at Phin’s hip, grounding her.

And that was all the permission Phin needed. The kiss deepened slowly, as if neither of them were in a rush to break the spell. Her hand slid to the back of Bua’s neck, fingers weaving through her hair, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. Their bodies moved in that quiet, familiar way of people who had already learned each other’s rhythms. Like they'd done this a thousand times and still couldn't get enough.

By the time Phin pulled back, she was smiling, flushed and a little breathless.

“Okay,” she murmured, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Bua’s mouth. “Now you can miss me.”

Bua just blinked at her, visibly recalibrating. Phin turned, grinning to herself, and slipped out the door with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they’d just rendered their girlfriend completely useless for the next five minutes.

****

The train was packed, humid and slow, but Phin didn’t mind. Earbuds in, head leaning lightly against the glass, she let the blur of the city pass by while her mind drifted.

Baan Sakun was tucked into a quiet soi near the river—an understated Thai fusion café with ferns hanging from the eaves, soft wood tones, and open windows that let in the breeze. The kind of place Jordan would’ve loved: serious about food, unserious about itself.

Phin arrived early. Just ten minutes, not enough to seem anxious. But she was. When Tom walked in, she almost didn’t recognize him.

His hair was longer now, sun-streaked and tied back in a loose ponytail. He wore an off-white linen shirt and a canvas sling bag, and the tired weight he used to carry around his shoulders seemed noticeably lighter.

He looked good. Really good. Happy, even.

“Phinya,” he said, smiling—soft, surprised, warm.

“Hey, Tommy.”

They hugged, briefly. Awkward, but genuine.

Over pandan tea and grilled river prawns, they caught up. Tom was in Thailand on holiday with some college friends—Chiang Mai, then Phuket, then Bangkok for a few days. No fixed plans, just a slow trip, a soft way to heal.

“You’re still in Chicago?” Phin asked.

“Not really. I moved to Portland last fall. Working less. Cooking more. Nothing fancy, just pop-ups and R&D for small restaurants.”

“You look… different,” she said.

Tom smiled. “So do you. Saw your face in a write-up a few months ago. KIN KAO’s got two Michelin stars now?”

“Gunning for the third,” Phin said, a little sheepish but proud.

“Damn,” he said with a low whistle. “Jordan would’ve lost his mind.”

Phin’s smile faltered, then softened. “I think about that every day.”

They talked about him for a while. Not in heavy grief, but in memories—how he used to sing badly while doing prep, how he had no tolerance for bland food, how he once cried eating fermented crab salad in Isaan.

Then Tom leaned back, swirling the ice in his glass. “Can I say something that might come out wrong?”

Phin raised an eyebrow. “You always can.”

Tom exhaled. “I’m proud of you. But sometimes I wonder if you ever really grieved.”

Phin didn’t answer at first. Her fingers tapped against the glass, then stilled. “I didn’t know how,” she said finally. “One day we were planning the restaurant, and the next…” Her voice trailed off. She took a breath. “He was just gone.”

Tom nodded. “I remember. I was there.”

Phin’s eyes dropped. “And I wasn’t. I mean, not really. I was a ghost after it happened. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t cook. And then I just… left.”

“You disappeared,” Tom said, not unkindly.

She winced. “I know. I abandoned you.”

He hesitated. “I was angry, back then. I didn’t get it. I thought—we were both grieving. But you left me alone with it.”

“I know,” Phin whispered. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it your burden too.”

“You didn’t,” Tom said. “I just wish we’d talked more before you left. You were his person too.”

Phin nodded. “I think about that a lot. That I never said goodbye properly. Not to him. Not to you.”

Silence settled for a moment between them—heavy, but not bitter.

Then Tom said softly, “He loved you like a sister, Phin. You know that.”

“I loved him too,” she said. “I still do. Everything I’m building now… it started with what we dreamed of. It’s different now, but it still comes from that same place.”

Tom smiled, faintly. “I know. I see it. But Jordan used to say… if anyone could make fearless Thai food that still earned the stars, it was you.”

“I’m proud of you,” he said again. “But I hope you don’t forget what you used to want. Your dreams. Before the stars. When you and Jordan used to talk about cooking without rules. Fearless food. Big flavors, no boundaries.”

Phin blinked.

Tom continued, “You’re one of the most instinctive cooks I’ve ever known. You and Jordan both. But even he used to say… if anyone could make something loud and proud and Thai and still earn the stars, it was you.”

Phin looked down at the table. “I think about that sometimes. Whether I’m cooking for the stars now. Or for myself. Or for what I used to believe in.”

She paused, then added quietly, “Or maybe… who I’m doing it with.”

Tom tilted his head, curious. “Yeah?”

Phin smiled into her tea. “There’s someone,” she said softly. “She manages KIN KAO—so yeah, we work together. But we’ve been seeing each other for a while now.”

Tom raised his brows. “You’re dating your coworker?”

Phin laughed. “Don’t make it sound like a scandal.”

“No judgment,” Tom leaned back, watching the way her voice shifted—how it softened.

And just like that, the conversation shifted. Her whole face changed when she talked about Bua. She tried to stay casual—downplaying it with dry humor and phrases like “we keep it professional enough at work”—but the warmth in her voice betrayed her. Her eyes softened every time she said Bua’s name. There was so much quiet pride, so much awe wrapped up in the way she spoke about her.

Tom smiled. “So that’s why you’re glowing.”

“She’s…” Phin trailed off, eyes unfocused for a second like she was sifting through a hundred memories at once. Then she gave a quiet laugh and shook her head. “I don’t even know how to explain her. But yeah. She’s everything.”

Tom smiled, watching her. “Sounds like someone’s got it bad.”

Phin didn’t deny it. She just sipped her tea again, a small, hopeless smile tugging at her mouth. A moment later, she added, almost offhand, “By the way, would you mind if Bua joined us later? She’s picking me up. We’re going to visit her parents later this evening.”

Tom blinked. “Wait—you’re meeting the parents already?”

Phin raised an eyebrow. “I’ve met them before. It’s kind of a regular thing now. Monday night dinner.”

Tom let out a low whistle, grinning. “Damn. You’re deep in it.”

Phin laughed. “Apparently.”

“That’s not a coworker situation anymore,” he teased. “That’s practically married.”

Her smile turned a little sheepish but didn’t fade. “Yeah, well. Feels like home.”

Right then, the front door chimed. Bua stepped in—calm and composed in a soft navy blouse and wide-legged pants. She scanned the café once, spotted them, and walked over. Phin stood to greet her, reaching for her hand as naturally as breathing.

“Tom,” she said, turning to him with a smile. “This is Bua. Bua, this is Tom— an old friend from the States.”

Tom stood too, offering a hand. “It’s really nice to finally meet you,” he said.

“You too,” Bua said politely, but her gaze flicked to Phin, just checking. Making sure she was okay. Phin gave her the smallest nod. "I’m good."

They sat for a while longer—long enough for Bua to order a drink and for the conversation to shift to travel and traded stories of their most chaotic food poisoning episodes—Tom’s revenge-by-squid in Mexico, Phin’s bad oyster in New Orleans, and Bua’s suspicious roadside moo ping during a long drive to Surat Thani. And the weird things foreigners said about Thai spice levels.

Tom laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink when Bua mimicked a Western food vlogger’s stunned face mid-spoonful of tom saep. “‘Is this supposed to be this spicy?!’” she deadpanned, “As if they’d been personally betrayed by the chili.”

“God,” Tom wheezed. “Jordan would’ve loved you.”

Bua didn’t quite know how to respond to that—so she just offered a gentle smile and another clink of her glass.

Outside, dusk had started to settle over the city. Hours had passed without any of them really noticing—just stories traded back and forth, laughter echoing between bites, the kind of time that passed easily when it was well spent.

Eventually, Tom stood. “Well I guess I should let you two get to your family time,” he said. “Thanks for making time, Phin. Really.”

She hugged him. Tighter this time. Not painful—just final. A closing of a chapter.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said.

“You too.”

Tom turned to Bua, gave a short nod. “Take care of her.”

“I will,” Bua said simply. “Every day.”

And they meant it, both of them.

Once he was gone, Phin let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Bua reached over and slid her hand into hers.

“Ready?” she asked.

Phin nodded.

They left the café hand in hand, walking out into the golden softness of Bangkok’s early evening.

“Mae is going to scold us for being late,” Bua said as she unlocked the car.

“Let her,” Phin replied, sliding into the passenger seat. “I just survived emotional whiplash and a lunch full of feelings. I deserve extra dessert.”

“You’re getting soup. That’s it.”

“But—”

“No but.”

Phin laughed, leaning back in her seat, full of a thousand thoughts—but for once, not drowning in any of them.

They arrived at Heng Lao just before sunset, the restaurant already buzzing with the early dinner crowd and the clatter of plates echoing from the kitchen. Familiar smells greeted them at the door—grilled pork neck, jasmine rice, stir-fried greens with garlic—and so did the woman who never missed a Monday.

Wannee Methin was already waiting at their usual table, purse tucked beside her, arms crossed in a way that said you’re five minutes late—but her face broke into a grin the second she saw them.

“There they are,” she beamed, rising from her seat. Her eyes lingered on Bua first, fond and proud, then flicked to Phin with that particular shine she always got when seeing them together.

“Mǎe,” Bua muttered under her breath, flushing lightly as she leaned in to kiss her mother’s cheek—a quick, respectful press, but warm.

Phin followed suit without hesitation, placing a soft kiss on Mae Wannee’s other cheek with a grin. “Good to see you, Mǎe,” she said brightly.

Mae Wannee looked positively radiant, like having both of them there—happy and in sync—was better than dessert. “Look at you two,” she said, waving them in like a proud aunt hosting a homecoming. “Honestly, sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. My daughter’s in love, she has a good job, she’s not a hermit anymore”

Bua groaned softly, cheeks flushing as she ducked her head. “Mǎe, please,” she muttered, clearly wishing for the ground to open up.

Mae Wannee is not done yet, “And Phinya—dear! You’re charming, polite, you love my cooking, and love my daughter? What did I do to deserve all this?”

Phin only laughed, sliding into the seat beside her and accepting a glass of water with a grateful smile. “She just means she’s happy for you,” she whispered, nudging Bua’s knee gently under the table.

Dinner unfolded with the usual rhythm—plates of food shared in the center, stories passed between bites, Pim teasing Bua across the table while their father scrolled through his phone looking for that one article he wanted to show everyone. Phin kept pace easily, offering up a few sarcastic comments and letting the comfort of this borrowed family settle around her like a familiar jacket.

Midway through a story about one of Pim’s coworkers getting locked in the storeroom by accident, Mae Wannee casually dropped a bomb between bites of rice.

“Oh—Phinya,” she said, reaching for the chili fish sauce, “your mother stopped by last week.”

Phin blinked. “My mother?”

“Yes, her! She came with one of her coworkers. Said they were in the area and your mother decide bring them here. Lovely woman. Very composed. We ended up having lunch together.”

Phin sat back slightly, caught off guard. “She didn’t tell me.”

Mae Wannee smiled like a cat who’d just scored front-row seats to her favorite soap opera. “I wouldn’t have known who she was at first. Then, right after placing her order, she leaned over and whispered in my ear—‘Guess what? Our daughters are dating.’”

Bua choked slightly on her water. Phin froze, chopsticks mid-air.

“She said it so smug, like she was letting me in on state secrets.” Mae Wannee beamed, clearly enjoying herself.  She added, eyes twinkling. “Told me your full name, clear as day. My daughter, Phinya. So proud, like she was presenting a royal decree.”

Bua was already turning toward Phin, slowly, realization dawning in real-time. There was a beat of stunned silence around the table—before Pim burst out laughing.

Phin buried her face in her hands, groaning, face red but smiling despite herself, “Oh my god.”

Mae Wannee reached across the table and patted Bua’s hand like she was wrapping the whole moment in a bow. “See? Now I’ve met her, she’s met me. We’re practically in-laws.”

“Mǎe,” Bua hissed under her breath, glaring half-heartedly.

Pim cackled. Their father, still working his way through a plate of stir-fried greens, gave an approving grunt without looking up.

They passed dishes back and forth with easy familiarity—crispy catfish salad, sticky rice, spicy curry. Pim launched into a rant about one of her classmates who tried to convince a professor that Gucci slides counted as appropriate lab footwear, while Mae Wannee insisted everyone try the homemade chili dip she’d brought from a coworker’s farm.

“No fighting today,” Phin said at one point, reaching forward and gently turning the platter so the last piece of grilled fish pointed at Mae Wannee. “That one’s yours.”

Mae Wannee blinked, clearly touched. “You’re sweet,” she said, pretending to fan herself. “No wonder my daughter’s in love.”

Phin glanced toward Bua, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Bua, face warm, said nothing—just nudged a piece of fried tofu onto Phin’s plate in silent retaliation.

The night stretched comfortably from there. Full bellies. Full hearts. Familiar arguments over leftovers. Their father insisting Bua take more rice. Mae Wannee sneaking dessert into Phin’s bag like a mother-in-law who’d already made up her mind.

When they finally stepped out into the soft Bangkok night, the air was thick and sweet with the scent of rain on concrete. Bua and Phin walked side by side towards their car, hands brushing once, then quietly linking together. A quiet rhythm. A family meal. A future unfolding—softly, steadily, like the city around them.

Chapter Text

KIN KAO had earned its second Michelin star just over a year ago.

It hadn’t been a surprise, not exactly. The food had always spoken for itself—clean, bold, elegant in its restraint—and the service under Bua’s guidance had become something sharp-edged and quiet, like a knife honed over years. But it still hit hard when the call came. When the seal appeared beside their name in the guide. When the buzz started to build and the bookings became impossible to control.

Not long after that, the old head chef announced he wouldn’t be renewing his contract. There was no scandal, no fallout—just a calm, mutual parting between two professionals who knew the restaurant had reached the end of one chapter. He and Chef Dhanin had agreed over coffee and numbers and a handshake: no renewal, no hard feelings. The chef left with grace and a thank-you dinner. A week later, his knives were gone, his name removed from the website. KIN KAO didn’t falter—but it did fall quiet for a while.

That’s when Dhanin had pulled Bua aside.

“You’re not stopping at two, are you?”

She’d raised a brow. “You want three.”

“I want three,” he confirmed, eyes gleaming. “But only if you do too.”

She didn’t say yes, not right away. She wasn’t the type to chase stars. But something in her—it wasn’t hunger, not exactly—refused to settle. KIN KAO had more to give. She knew it. She could taste it.

Still, she’d played it careful. She told Dhanin, “Then we need someone who cooks like she’s never been told no.”

He laughed at that—deep, pleased, already scheming. And three weeks later, Phinya Thananont walked through the kitchen doors with a grin, a suitcase full of knives, and the kind of swagger that made the air shift.

Since then, she had changed everything. The menu. The rhythm. The temperature in the room. And Bua. Especially Bua.

The morning air inside KIN KAO was cool and heavy with the scent of lemongrass stock and polished steel. Bua walked in through the back, as she always did, slipping past the half-cracked door of dry storage and into the prep kitchen without a sound.

She was early. But not the first.

Nam was already stationed at the pastry counter, posture unusually stiff, muttering something to herself as she inspected the height of her coconut dacquoise. Across the kitchen, Jamie leaned over the wine ledger, scribbling furiously and mouthing varietals like incantations. And Jai—ever meticulous—was halfway through rewriting the prep rotation board for the third time this week.

Everyone was working a little harder. Staying a little longer. No one said it aloud, but the tension had a flavor now. It lingered behind the smell of kaffir lime and rice vinegar. It tasted like waiting.

And then there was Phin.

She was by the vegetable station, hunched slightly as she peeled shallots with clockwork rhythm. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, apron already spotted with prep stains, a red bandana looped loosely around her neck. She hummed under her breath—tuneless, content—as if she had all the time in the world. As if she didn’t feel the eyes of the Guide watching.

Bua stood quietly for a moment, watching the light shift across Phin’s face. She looked younger in the mornings, before the heat of service turned her wild and sharp—before the orders and the fire and the weight of the line carved shadows under her eyes. Here, now, in the hush of prep, she was all softness: mussed hair, rolled sleeves, a little smear of chili paste near her temple she hadn’t noticed yet.

There was something that always caught Bua off guard about seeing Phin like this—completely in her element. Confident. Methodical. Her hands sure and steady, her brow furrowed just slightly in concentration. She moved through the kitchen with a quiet gravity, like she belonged to it. Like she was made for it. And maybe she was.

But what amused Bua—what made her lips twitch now, just faintly—was how different this version of Phin was from the one who made omelets barefoot in their kitchen. That Phin wore mismatched pajamas and left spoons in the sink. That Phin cursed softly when she spilled fish sauce and sometimes burned toast while dancing to 2000s pop. That Phin didn’t look like a head chef or a James Beard winner or someone gunning for a third star.

She just looked like Phin. Her girlfriend. And Bua loved her—both of her. All of her. And it terrified her, a little, how deep that love went. How easy it was to see a future and not flinch.

She stepped closer. “You’re humming again.”

Phin didn’t look up. “I hum when I’m dangerous.”

Bua raised an eyebrow. “You hum when you’re smug.”

“That too,” Phin said, grinning as she slid another peeled shallot into the bowl. “But you like me dangerous.”

Bua didn’t answer. Just watched her with that unreadable calm, though the corner of her mouth gave her away.

Phin looked up then, eyes catching hers—dark, bright, too knowing. “You feel it too, don’t you?” she said, softer now. “Like something’s coming. Like the kitchen’s holding its breath.”

Bua met her gaze, steady. “I think you just like the drama.”

Phin leaned in slightly, voice low. “Only when you’re in it.”

Bua didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Phin’s waist—just once, grounding her, grounding them both. The contact was small but electric. Enough to make the shallots blur for a beat in Phin’s vision.

Bua pulled back. “Let’s just hope it’s not another power outage.”

Phin huffed a laugh and tossed another shallot into the bowl. “If it is, I’m making som tam by candlelight.”

******

The call came just before lunch service, as Bua was checking the herb deliveries by the back loading area. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Chef Dhanin. She wiped her hand on her towel and answered without hesitation.

“Right on schedule,” he said, voice warm, faintly amused. “Still running the place like a Swiss watch?”

“I try,” Bua replied. “Where are you now?”

“Lisbon. Some food congress I can’t pronounce. Panels, handshakes, tiny canapés. No fire, no noise. Honestly, I’m bored out of my mind.”

She allowed the corner of her mouth to lift.

“I take it this isn’t just a social call.”

“No,” he said. “I’ve got something you'll want to know…”

She heard the clink of glass in the background, maybe coffee, maybe something stronger. The connection crackled once.

“I won’t take long,” he said. “Just wanted to say—keep your eyes open from now on.”

“Always do.”

There was a pause. Then:

“I’ve heard from someone I trust. Michelin’s in the region. One was seen in Chiang Mai. Another’s been eating quietly through Bangkok since last week.”

Bua didn’t flinch. “You sure?”

“As sure as we ever get with them. No bookings under the usual aliases, but one of my contacts at Somkhwan spotted a solo diner with a habit of not looking at the menu and asking for chef’s choice. Sound familiar?”

It did. That’s how they moved. Quiet, precise. No fanfare, but always watching.

“I know we said this would be a long game,” he went on. “Twelve, maybe fifteen months. But if they’re here now—this could be it. They could be walking in tomorrow or next week.”

Bua leaned against the wall, gaze drifting back through the swinging door toward the kitchen, where she could see Nam adjusting garnishes with exacting care. “We’ve been ready.”

“Good,” Dhanin said. “Because this time, the third star is actually within reach. You can feel that, don’t you?”

She didn’t respond. Not directly.

“She’s doing well?” he added after a moment.

“Yes.”

“No implosions?”

“Nothing fatal.”

That made him laugh. The sound was warm, knowing.

“Good. Keep her focused. Keep the team tight. Don’t let the pressure warp what’s working.” He paused, then added more gently, “And take care of each other in there, yeah? I know you and Phin aren’t just colleagues anymore. But I trust both of you to keep it professional when it counts.”

Bua didn’t say anything at first. But she didn’t bristle, either.

“You’ve always known how to draw the line when it matters. Just… keep drawing it. For her too.”

“I will,” Bua said. Quiet, steady.

“You’ve built something special. Don’t blink now.”

She glanced down at her watch. “Service starts in twenty.”

“Then go lead. I’ll call again after dinner rush.”

“Thank you, chef,” she said softly.

******

KIN KAO had run like a machine that night—fluid, fast, no dropped passes. Even Jai stayed locked in, sharp-eyed and efficient. Phin called the final orders with cool command, and Bua handled the floor like she always did—present without hovering, firm without noise.

There’s some incident from earlier that night—when a woman at Table 6 flung her wineglass in a sudden, tearful rage. Something about a phone left face-up, a husband’s text lighting the screen at the wrong moment. There had been shouting, a half-shoved plate, and an entire duck curry dumped down someone’s front.

Bua had stepped in before anyone else. Calm, efficient. She got them to a corner, called a cab, comped the meal without blinking. Not about the food, she reminded herself later. Just people. Messy, unpredictable people.

And when the last plate left the pass and the team began their quiet breakdown, there was a shared look between them. Something quiet and satisfied. No victory, not yet. But no regrets, either. They left together just before midnight.

The apartment was quiet when they got home.

Phin kicked off her sneakers and stretched with a groan, cracking her neck. “You hungry?”

Bua arched a brow, already unbuttoning her cuffs. “You’re not?”

Phin grinned. “I’ve got enough left in the tank for noodles.”

That was an understatement. As soon as she stepped into the kitchen, something in her shifted—shoulders loose, hair falling out of its clip, already humming to herself as she rummaged through the fridge like a woman on a mission. Within minutes, garlic was sizzling and leftover pork belly was crisping in a pan. She moved barefoot, still in her kitchen pants, but nothing about her felt like a Michelin-chasing chef right now.

Just Phin. The woman who somehow made even frying eggs look joyful.

Bua sat at the small dining table, chin in hand, slouched slightly in her chair. She didn’t have it in her to shower yet. Not even to change. Her body was tired in the way only service could make it: bone-deep and quiet, like someone had wrung her out and left her to dry.

So she just sat there. Let herself be still. And watched Phin.

“Here,” Phin said now, sliding a bowl of garlicky noodles in front of her. “I went heavy on the fish sauce. You look like you need it.”

Bua gave her a tired half-smile. “I had to talk a woman out of stabbing her husband with a dessert spoon.”

Phin blinked, then snorted. “Was it over the nam prik?”

“His text messages.”

“Oof.”

They ate quietly, cross-legged on the couch with the fan humming nearby. Phin’s noodles were spicy and and not too salty, just the way Bua liked them.

After the last bite, Phin reached over, wiped a speck of chili oil from Bua’s lip with the pad of her thumb, then licked it off her own finger with zero shame.

“God, I love feeding you,” she said casually.

“I’ve noticed.”

They stayed that way for a while—leaning into each other, legs tangled, the tension slowly bleeding out of their bodies.

It was Bua who broke the silence.

“Chef Dhanin called me earlier.”

Phin’s eyes flicked toward her. “Everything okay?”

“He’s fine. Still overseas. But he said a Michelin inspector was spotted in Bangkok last week. And Chiang Mai before that.”

Phin didn’t move. “So… it’s happening.”

“He said we have to assume they could walk in any day now. No warning. Just sit down and order.”

Phin exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Alright.”

They both knew what that meant. Michelin inspections were never announced. Inspectors dined anonymously—never once revealing who they were, never asking for special treatment. And when a restaurant was being considered for a new star—especially the elusive third—it wasn’t just a one-off visit. It could mean four to six separate inspections, spread over weeks, sometimes months, by different inspectors flown in from various countries. Each one ordered, ate, and judged in silence, their collective reports weighed against each other to ensure consistency and fairness.

No second chances. No reset buttons. Just one dinner at a time. And every single one had to be excellent.

“No spiraling?” Bua teased gently as she moved closer, reached for Phin’s left arm, lifting it with ease and draping it over her own shoulder. Then she leaned in, fitting herself against Phin’s side like it was second nature, her head resting in the familiar crook between shoulder and collarbone.

Phin let out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and tightened her arm around Bua in response.

“Tempting. But no,” Phin said. “You?”

“I already spiraled. Handled a food-and-wine domestic situation mid-service. I’m done for the day.”

Phin laughed, and then her tone softened. “We’ve got this, you know. Together”

Bua nodded. “I do.”

They sat in the quiet for a while longer, the hum of the fan mixing with the faint city sounds beyond their windows. Neither spoke. There was no need. Then Phin shifted slightly, turning toward her. She reached out and took Bua’s hand—gentle, unhurried—fingers lacing together with quiet certainty.

“You're going to fall asleep sitting up,” she murmured, thumb brushing softly across Bua’s knuckles.

“I might.”

Phin smiled, eyes crinkling just a little. Then she leaned in and kissed her—slow and warm, with the kind of tenderness that didn’t need to prove anything. It wasn’t hungry or urgent. Just honest. Just hers.

When she pulled back, she let her forehead rest lightly against Bua’s. “Come shower with me,” she said softly. “We’ll get it over with faster. Then we can actually rest.”

Her voice was casual, but the look she gave wasn’t. It lingered, just a beat too long, mouth quirking in that way Bua had come to recognize—half affection, half trouble.

Bua huffed out a quiet laugh. “You say that like we’re not going to get distracted halfway through.”

Phin only shrugged, already tugging at the hem of Bua’s shirt with a familiar ease. “Just a little distracted,” she said innocently. “Quick rinse. Minor detour.”

She stepped back, walking them both toward the bathroom with a lazy sort of confidence. Her hand slid around Bua’s waist, then lower—decidedly not innocent. Bua didn’t protest.

She just let out a long breath, let herself be guided, and followed. Skin to skin, warmth to warmth, heartbeat syncing with heartbeat under the falling water.

No declarations. No dramatics. Just this—trust, laughter, and a rhythm they knew by heart. Two people who had built something steady. And knew exactly how to enjoy it.

******

The kitchen at KIN KAO felt unusually still that morning.

The kitchen was quieter than usual that morning. Not silent—there was always the sound of knives on boards, running water, the low hum of the hood vents—but there was an undercurrent of something else. Something taut.

Bua stood beside Phin at the center of the main prep area—arms crossed, spine straight, her gaze sweeping slowly across the team. Phin mirrored her stance, the usual spark of mischief gone from her face. Even the red bandana tied neatly around her head felt less like flair and more like armor.

“Alright,” Phin began, her voice cutting clean through the low buzz. “Pre-service huddle. Listen up.”

The team gathered around quickly—Jai already alert, Nam balancing a ramekin in one hand, Jamie nursing their third espresso, Poom clutched his notebook with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t.

“We’ve got rumors confirmed,” Phin said, calm and measured. “A known Michelin inspector was seen in Bangkok last week. Same guy was in Chiang Mai before that. Another one had dinner at SENSE two nights ago.”

A beat passed. Jamie raised an eyebrow. Nam mouthed shit over the rim of her coffee cup.

“They don’t announce themselves,” Bua added, her tone bone-dry. “No reservations under ‘Inspector Michelin.’ They’ll just walk in, sit, eat, and vanish.”

Jai made a strangled sound that might’ve been a gasp. Nam gave him a nudge with her elbow.

“This is not our first rodeo,” Bua continued, scanning the room. “We’ve trained for this. You all know your stations. You all know what clean service looks like. We don’t chase stars—we chase precision. And consistency.”

Phin nodded. “So don’t spiral. Don’t guess. Don’t try to get fancy for the ghost in table nine. Cook like you always do. Do it clean, do it sharp, do it together.”

Nam raised a hand. “What if I start seeing shadowy figures in the pass? Is that part of the training or—”

“Nam,” Bua said without looking at her.

“Yes, Boss.”

That pulled a ripple of laughter, low but real.

Phin let the moment breathe, then said, “Alright. Deep breath. Service as usual—but tighter. Don’t leave gaps. Watch each other’s backs. That’s it.”

As the team began to scatter toward their prep stations, she lingered beside Bua, letting the noise swell around them. Their eyes met—not dramatically, just enough.

It was the same wordless check-in they’d mastered over months of chaos. The same small, grounding exchange before the night began.

******

The next few days passed in a quiet, sharpened rhythm. No dramatic shifts, no unannounced inspectors. Just the steady heartbeat of service—tight, precise, unrelenting.

There were bumps, of course. A sauce that broke in the middle of dinner rush. A last-minute allergy alert that sent Nam scrambling to replate dessert without sesame. One night, the oven on the fish station flared too hot, nearly overcooking the seabass fillets. But they adjusted. They moved like a unit. No one cracked.

And through it all, Phin and Bua kept to their rhythm.

They jogged in the mornings when they could, ate breakfast and curled up on the couch when they couldn’t. Phin cooked more often now—sometimes elaborate, sometimes just instant noodles with too much lime and soft-boiled eggs, but always with that same quiet joy. Bua didn’t always have the energy to match her, but she tried. Tried to soften. Tried to meet her there. Something was blooming between them—something steadier than adrenaline and quieter than lust. A life, maybe.

Their physical rhythm deepened with it. No more awkward hesitations or second-guessing—just familiar touches in passing, kisses that lingered a little too long before work, and the way Bua would sometimes tug Phin close by the waist while brushing her teeth.

Some nights, they were too tired to do more than crawl into bed tangled together, bare legs pressed under the sheets, Phin’s arm always finding its way around Bua’s middle. Other nights, they made time for each other—late, slow, half-whispered things that left Bua’s nails digging into Phin’s back and Phin grinning into her skin like she’d just won something.

The excitement never dulled, even as the days blurred with service and stress and back-to-back prep. It stayed—quiet and electric—in the way Bua’s breath hitched when Phin kissed the curve of her neck in the kitchen, or how Phin always looked at her a beat too long after a shared joke, like she still couldn’t believe she got to have this. It was steady. It was messy. And It was theirs.

Then came Thursday dinner service.

It started like any other midday service—half-full dining room, soft hum of conversation, Jamie talking wine pairings with a pair of regulars at Table 2.

And then they walked in. Table 7. Dinner for two.

She swept into the dining room on the arm of a much younger man, her posture regal, her gaze already skimming the space like it didn’t quite meet her standards. Mid-forties, tall, poised, with glossy black hair twisted low at the nape of her neck and cat-eye sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. A deep red lip, a high-neck black blouse, tailored trousers, and gold bangles that chimed softly as she moved. She looked like the villain in a high-budget soap opera—polished, predatory, and utterly unbothered.

Her companion, easily fifteen years her junior, wore a cocky smirk and a designer shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off a tan and a gaudy gold chain. His bleach-blond hair was slicked back with too much product, and he walked like he’d just come from lounging by a pool he didn’t pay for.

She clung to his arm like she owned him. Boyfriend? Trophy date? Kept man? Hard to say—but the dynamic was clear. She commanded. He coasted.

Together, they sat with the confidence of people who expected to be impressed—and had no qualms making it known if they weren’t.

She ordered confidently, barely glancing at the menu. But the complaints started before her appetizer was even cleared.

“This curry is too sweet,” she told the server. “It’s not supposed to be sweet, is it?”

Five minutes later: “The texture of the fish—it’s dry. No, not dry. Overcooked. Can I have something else?”

And then: “Actually, I changed my mind. The broth on the seafood dish is far too salty. Did the chef even taste this?”

Each time, the staff handled it with grace. Each dish was replaced, comped, re-fired. The floor team moved carefully, their smiles polite, their eyes starting to flick toward the pass.

Her companion—lounging back with one arm draped across his chair—made no effort to smooth things over. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the attention. “You’d think a place this expensive would at least know how to make fish,” he said casually, just loud enough for the tables nearby to hear.

By the third return—a lemongrass curry she’d barely touched but claimed was “unbalanced and lukewarm”—Phin’s jaw had tightened. The dish came back to the kitchen with the same notes as the others: “Not to her taste.” No specifics. No clear request. Just a pattern.

Phin stared at the bowl a moment too long, then exhaled sharply through her nose. “Alright,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a towel and pulling off her apron with a single, practiced motion. “That’s three. I’m going out.”

Jai looked up from the grill. “You sure?”

“She wants the chef? She’ll get the chef.”

No sarcasm in her tone this time. No cocky grin. Just quiet resolve as she smoothed her sleeves and stepped out of the kitchen, head high.

“I’ll go,” she said. Bua, from her usual spot at the pass, just gave her a short nod.

Phin emerged into the dining room with calm, deliberate steps, wiping her palms on her chef’s coat. When she reached the woman’s table, she offered a smile—small, neutral, practiced.

“Good afternoon, M’am. I’m the head chef. I heard there were some concerns with your meal?”

The woman looked up—and blinked. Surprise flickered across her face, quickly masked. “You?” she said. “I thought I asked for the chef.”

Phin’s smile widened a fraction. “You did.”

From the pass, Bua watched—arms crossed, eyes sharp. She could read every beat of it. The faint irritation in the woman’s voice, the way her expression curdled as Phin remained unfazed.

They spoke for a few minutes. Nothing hostile—yet. Phin explained, listened, nodded at all the right times. But the woman wasn’t interested in solutions. She wanted to be right.

The waiter emerged from the kitchen, carrying the dish with both hands like it was made of glass. Phin was still standing there, composed but sharply focused. This time, she handed it off herself—She wanted to see it through herself.

“This version was prepared without garlic oil,” Phin said evenly, nodding toward the plate. “We also adjusted the sauce—less vinegar, slightly sweeter. I tasted it myself just now.”

The woman didn’t look up at first. She studied the dish as if it might betray her. Then finally, she glanced at Phin. “Let’s hope you got it right this time.”

The waiter set the plate down gently, stepping back with practiced grace. Phin remained where she was, hands clasped lightly in front of her, eyes steady.

The woman picked up her fork. Slowly. Deliberately. Took one bite. And then her nose wrinkled. Then frowned again. “Still smells off.”

Phin didn’t move. “That scent might be the palm sugar caramelizing in the sauce. But if you’d like us to adjust it again—”

Before Phin could finish, the woman reached across the table for her wine glass, too quickly. Her elbow clipped the edge of the plate, jolting it forward. Sauce splashed. The shrimp slid an inch toward the edge.

She gasped sharply and turned on the waiter, who was still hovering nearby. “This is why I didn’t want her handling my plate again! Can you not train your staff to move properly?”

The waiter flinched, cheeks flushed. “I—I didn’t even touch—”

The woman slammed her napkin down. “I want a manager. Now. This is ridiculous.”

A hush spread across the dining room. The air prickled with tension. Phin’s jaw tightened—but she stayed rooted.

And then Bua stepped out from behind the pass.

She didn’t need to hear every word to understand what was happening—she’d clocked the dynamic the moment the woman walked in, all red lip and predatory calm, clinging to the arm of that smug little boy-toy like a status symbol. This wasn’t about the food. It never was, with people like her.

She wasn’t the first entitled guest KIN KAO had hosted. And she wouldn’t be the last. Bua had seen the type before: the ones who ordered with theatrical confidence, then complained with even more flourish. The ones who came not to dine, but to test. To rattle. To parade their power and wait for someone to flinch.

But Bua didn’t flinch.

She stepped out from behind the pass with the same economy of motion she brought to everything—no wasted energy, no unnecessary expression. Just presence. It was enough. Conversations at nearby tables quieted as she crossed the room.

Her tone, when she reached the table, was calm. Low. Crisp enough to slice paper.

“Good evening, M’am” she said. “I’m the Manager. I understand there’s a problem?”

The woman turned toward her, already winding up, eyes gleaming like she’d just been handed her next target.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” she said coolly. “This is my third plate, and it’s still wrong. And now your waiter can’t keep his hands off the dishes—”

“He didn’t touch your plate,” Bua interrupted. Still polite. Still neutral. But firmer now. “I saw everything from the kitchen pass. What happened was an accident—unfortunate, but not caused by him.”

The woman bristled. “Excuse me?”

Bua didn’t blink. “We’ve adjusted each dish to your notes. You’ve had three replacements so far, all prepared by our head chef. And still, nothing is to your satisfaction.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“May I suggest we conclude your meal here? There will be no charge, of course.”

That startled the woman. “You’re kicking me out?”

“I’m offering to end your experience before it continues to cause distress—to you, to my team, and to our other guests.” Bua’s eyes flicked once toward the room, where diners were still pretending not to watch.

The young man opened his mouth, likely to offer some smirking retort, but Bua turned her gaze to him next—flat, unreadable—and he thought better of it. Silence stretched.

Finally, the woman gave a sharp little laugh. “Fine. If that’s how you treat paying customers…”

Bua only inclined her head. “Our staff will pack up anything you’d like to take with you. You’re welcome to finish your wine while we prepare it.”

Then, as smoothly as she’d entered, Bua stepped back. Not triumphant. Not flustered. Simply done. Phin was still standing near the table, her expression unreadable. Their eyes met for the briefest second. And Phin exhaled. Just a little.

A few tables away from the chaos of Table 7, a man in a navy blazer lifted his spoon with quiet precision. He was alone. No phone. No notebook. Nothing to mark him as different from any other midweek diner savoring a solo meal. But his gaze was sharp, measured. Watching everything.

The inspector—because that’s what he was, though no one in the room knew it—had ordered with careful intent. The lemongrass curry with grilled tiger shrimp, the same dish the woman at Table 7  sent back. Three times.

He took a spoonful now, letting the flavors settle on his palate. The shrimp were perfect—tender, just translucent at the center, with a subtle char from the grill. The broth, a glossy ochre, was light but layered: the tang of lemongrass, the sweet earthiness of palm sugar, a slow-building heat from bird’s eye chili that never overwhelmed.

Balanced.

Elegant.

And absolutely nothing wrong.

He had noticed Table 7 the moment they walked in. A woman in her forties, commanding and sharp-shouldered, her arm linked with a younger man who reeked of expensive laziness.

And then the complaints began. First the curry. Too sweet, she claimed. Then the fish. Overcooked, apparently. Then the shrimp.

Each time, the staff responded with professionalism so polished it almost looked rehearsed. He noted that. The pacing of the courses. The seamless coordination between the kitchen and the floor. No dish re-fired without urgency. No attitude. No cracks. But the third return shifted the air in the room.

From his vantage point, he could see the chef emerge. A younger woman—early thirties, maybe. Straight-backed. No theatrical energy, just quiet command. She spoke directly, calmly. Offered the adjusted dish herself. Watched the reaction with the focus of someone used to owning the outcome.

He liked that. He also noticed how the woman at Table 7 made a show of disapproval. How her hand, not the waiter’s, had caused the spill. How the younger man said something snide under his breath and smirked like a child on a power trip. And then—the manager.

She stepped out of the kitchen like someone who had seen this all before. No raised voice, no fake smile. Just clarity. Authority. She listened, addressed the guest, then drew a firm, polite boundary.

“We’re ending your meal here. You won’t be charged. We wish you a pleasant evening.”

It wasn’t theatrical. It was decisive. And more importantly, it was correct.

He took one last bite of his shrimp, set his spoon down, and let the hum of the restaurant settle again. No one knew who he was. They never did. But that was the point. He made a mental note.

Handled with restraint.  Kitchen consistent under pressure. Strong leadership presence, both front and back of house. Worthy of further attention.

Then he asked for the dessert menu. Just to be sure.

*******

The rest of the night unfolded with the cautious rhythm of a team recovering from a sudden drop.

Table 7 had become a cautionary ghost—cleared, wiped down, reset—but for a while, eyes still flicked toward it like muscle memory. The air had shifted. A charge had been released. The line cooked quieter now, but tighter. More focused. The front-of-house team smoothed their smiles back into place like silk napkins.

Phin returned to the kitchen without a word. Bua followed a moment later, nodding once at Nam, who gave her a discreet thumbs up from the pastry station. Someone had to break the tension.

“Alright,” Phin said finally, glancing at the board. “Fire next course for Table 12. Let’s move.”

And they did. As if nothing had happened.

By nine-thirty, the hum of service settled into a quieter rhythm. The clatter softened. The plates slowed. Guests lingered over wine, over shared desserts and late coffee. No sign remained of the earlier disturbance.

Except one man, now rising calmly from Table 4. He left no tip. That wasn’t unusual. Inspectors didn’t want to be remembered.

He gave no glance toward the kitchen pass, no lingering look of approval or disapproval. Just a short nod to the maitre’d as he walked out into the warm Bangkok night, the last flicker of candlelight catching the corner of his jacket as the door closed behind him. No one noticed.

And that was exactly how it was meant to be.

No one at KIN KAO knew he’d been there. Just as they hadn’t noticed the woman who came alone during Tuesday lunch five days ago, dressed in casual linen and asking quiet questions about the provenance of the produce. Or the older man who sat at the counter during Saturday’s packed dinner service, observing the flow of the kitchen with a quiet intensity between courses. Or the young couple on Wednesday evening—tourists, by all appearances—who lingered over every dish with murmured commentary and shared glances that were less about romance than calibration.

Four visits. Four different faces. Four sets of notes.

Phin didn’t know. Bua didn’t know. None of the kitchen staff suspected a thing. And that was the point.

Because stars weren’t awarded to choreographed performances, or fluffed-up service done for show. They were earned in the unnoticed moments—in consistency, in truth, in how a team responded to pressure when no one was supposed to be watching. And someone was always watching. Just not when you expected.

*****

The day ended like so many before it. Chairs tucked, lights dimmed. The kitchen had been scrubbed back to stainless steel calm, the heat and clang of service cooled to silence.

Out front, the floor team had already clocked out with murmured goodnights, laughter trailing down the back stairwell. And then there were two. As usual.

Phin and Bua stayed behind, not because they had to—but because they always did. The quiet at the end of service belonged to them now, a ritual made not of necessity but comfort. No audience, no performance. Just the low hum of the overhead fan, the scent of spent lemongrass and steam still clinging to the air, and the shared silence of people who had survived another night together.

Phin was still at her station, bent over a small tray of leftover herbs she hadn’t been able to throw out yet—tiny purple basil leaves too pretty to waste. She didn’t hear the footsteps until Bua set down two mugs beside her, one faintly steaming.

Phin glanced up. “You made me tea?”

“I made tea,” Bua said, easing onto the counter beside her. She nudged one of the mugs toward Phi, eyes warm. “This one might’ve been thinking about you.”

Phin let out a low chuckle, pushing her sleeves up again now that she could breathe. Her hands smelled like galangal and soap.

“She wasn’t going to be satisfied with anything,” Phin said, finally. “We could’ve plated her a damn miracle.”

“No,” Bua agreed quietly. “She didn’t come here for the food.”

A pause stretched between them. Comfortable, like an exhale.

“I wasn’t trying to cause a scene,” Phin said after a moment, voice lower now.

“I know,” Bua said. “You were just doing your job.”

Phin looked at her, that familiar flicker of something unreadable behind her eyes. Admiration. Fatigue. A little pride. Maybe something more.

Outside, the street buzz was low and far away. Inside, there was just this: the hum of the fridge, the warmth of chamomile, the quiet thrum of two people who’d made it through another night.

Unseen, above them, a Michelin inspector was already writing notes. But in here, for now, there was no scrutiny. Just the two of them, side by side, letting the adrenaline settle.

They clocked out together later, the soft beep of the machine marked the official end, though the weight of the night still clung to their shoulders. Phin stretched with a groan, arms overhead. “Remind me again why we chose this glamorous life over, say, being baristas in Iceland?”

Bua didn’t even glance over. “Because you can’t steam milk to save your life.”

“That was one time,” Phin protested, draping an arm around Bua’s shoulders as they walked toward the parking lot. She bumped into her lightly, letting her weight lean just enough to be annoying. “You’re never letting it go, are you?”

Bua finally turned to her, eyes warm. “Never.”

Phin gave a dramatic groan, tightening her arm for a second into a half-hug. “Harsh. I’m being bullied by my own girlfriend.”

“Such a drama queen,” Bua said with a quiet chuckle, amusement softening her voice despite the long night behind them. She glanced at her girlfriend, and for a moment, the tension of the evening felt like a distant thing.

The banter hung there a second longer—until Phin leaned in and kissed her, slow and quiet. A soft press, the kind you give someone when the night is over but you’re not quite ready to let go. Bua’s hand lingered at Phin’s waist a beat longer before she let go.

Outside, the Bangkok air was thick with night. Still hot, still humming with traffic and neon, but softer now somehow. The two of them slide in the car easy rhythm.

“Want noodles?” Bua asked.

Phin’s face lit up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Later they turned the corner onto a smaller street where the lights were warmer, more lived-in. The familiar glow of their favorite noodle stall came into view, tucked under a faded awning like a secret. The metal stools were still out, the aroma of broth and garlic oil drifting through the air.

The auntie behind the cart looked up and smiled the way she always did—like she’d been waiting just for them. “Late again,” she said, not unkindly. “You two must be feeding half the city.”

“Just the rich and dramatic ones,” Phin replied, and Bua snorted.

The auntie laughed and waved them to their usual spot. “Sit. I’ll make your usual.”

Bua gave her a faint smile as they sat down. “No rush, Auntie. We finally clocked out before midnight—feels like a holiday already.”

The auntie chuckled. “Then I’ll make it extra big, hm? Celebration bowl.”

Bua nodded, a little more relaxed now than she might’ve been months ago. “Extra fishballs, please. Someone stole mine last time.”

Phin placed a hand dramatically over her chest. “Accusations this early in the night?”

“Just facts,” Bua murmured, but the corner of her mouth curved. The auntie grinned as she stirred the pot, already ladling broth with the kind of practiced care that only came with years of feeding tired people at ungodly hours.

Steam rose gently from their bowls, fogging the night air in soft spirals. Phin slurped a mouthful of noodles, then leaned in with a grin to steal a fish ball from Bua’s bowl, who smacked her hand away—too slow to stop the theft, but quick enough to shoot her a mock glare. They sat close, shoulders brushing, their laughter quiet but frequent, rising and falling like a familiar rhythm.

The auntie behind the cart watched them with an amused shake of her head, stirring broth with one hand and waving a fly away with the other.

“You two always like this?” she teased, ladling soup into a fresh bowl. “Arguing and smiling like newlyweds.”

Phin just grinned and said, “Depends on the day.”

Bua didn’t correct her. No need to anymore—not that she ever really tried before. But she didn’t shift away or bristle the way she might have, months ago. Instead, she just leaned in a little, let their knees touch beneath the table, and kept eating her noodles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Once in a while, she even laughed—soft and genuine—at something Phin said, or tossed a dry joke of her own back at the auntie, who cackled with delight. There was no awkwardness left. No need to dodge assumptions or explain anything. Not here. Not anymore.

The noise of the city receded a little, tucked behind the comfort of familiarity. Here, there were no stars to chase, no fires to put out. Just broth and noodles, steam rising between them, and the quiet certainty of coming home together.

Chapter Text

Three years later, Bangkok was still hot, still loud, still smelling like jasmine and diesel and whatever someone was grilling on the corner. But inside ROONG, the air hummed with something softer—lemongrass, charred scallion oil, toasted rice. Not fine dining, not quite casual either. Something in between. Something like them.

The restaurant sat tucked into a narrow soi near the Chao Phraya River—close enough to catch a breeze, just far enough to stay off tourist maps. In the mornings, monks passed by in orange robes. In the evenings, office workers came for the grilled pork collar and stayed for the sticky rice doughnuts. It was loud, warm, lived-in. A love letter to Thai food that didn’t whisper. It laughed. It clattered.

The front shutters rolled open just after ten. Sunlight slanted through tall glass panes framed in matte black steel, catching on the hand-blown glass pendant lights and the mismatched tile that crept up from the bar like a watercolor. The bar itself was cement and reclaimed wood, stocked with natural wines, small-batch Thai spirits, and a rotating list of craft beers that Phin claimed to personally vet with great suffering.

The walls were whitewashed brick. The ceiling, left raw and open, was strung with hanging pothos and trailing herbs. The seating was all mixed: some high tops near the front, low benches in the back, old school chairs at communal tables that ran down the center. A stack of folding stools leaned casually in a corner, ready for the lunch rush.

The open kitchen gleamed—stainless steel and open flames, pots stacked neatly beside mortars and pestles blackened from use. No separation between cooks and guests. You could see everything: the mess, the magic, the muscle behind the food. Every now and then, someone from the kitchen would lean over the pass to yell a thank you for a compliment shouted from the bar.

A playlist that was ninety percent Phin and ten percent whatever Bua had snuck in crackled to life overhead. Thai funk, 90s R&B, some bossa nova with zero explanation. The concrete floors stayed cool underfoot. Someone popped a Singha in the back while slicing shallots.

ROONG wasn’t a monument like KIN KAO. That place was quiet, exacting, revered—especially after it earned its third Michelin star nearly two years ago. It was shortly after that when Chef Dhanin, impressed and half-exasperated by Phin’s stubborn brilliance, offered her a partnership: full creative control, a blank slate, and a new space to do something entirely different.

This one—ROONG—breathed.

The chalkboard menu changed daily. There was no tasting menu, no amuse-bouche, no polite whispering in the dining room. Diners sat elbow to elbow over tables lined with stainless steel and teak, eating grilled river prawns dunked in tamarind butter, banana blossom fritters dusted in chili salt, and bowls of warm rice laced with crab fat and lime.

Phin called it “chef’s choice,” but everyone else just called it today’s mood. The chalkboard stood near the kitchen pass—scuffed, chaotic, often smeared with fingerprints and oil splatter. It was where she wrote whatever dish had been haunting her brain since sunrise. Sometimes a recipe Bua’s mother made with canned sardines. Sometimes a riff on moo ping glazed in fish sauce caramel. Sometimes something entirely new.

The core menu rotated every few months, not because they had to, but because staying still made Phin twitchy. It kept the team sharp. Kept the regulars curious. And gave Bua endless headaches whenever a new dish required sourcing ten obscure ingredients from three different provinces.

They served cold beer in iced mugs, and their sommelier offered skin-contact Thai orange wines like it was the most natural thing in the world. Phin still hated doing interviews, so Bua made sure the PR team did the talking. They had a no-reservations policy. They had a waitlist that sometimes ran two hours.

Phin’s family was coming that evening—her mother, her sisters Lin and Sam, and Sam’s girlfriend. Bua’s parents would be there too, along with Pim, her younger sister, who had already texted twice to ask if Phin could make that viral dessert she’d posted about last month. It wasn’t anyone’s birthday. It wasn’t even a holiday. But ROONG had just hit its one-year anniversary—and for the first time in a long time, both families had managed to clear a night to celebrate what they’d built together. Not just the restaurant. But all of it. So it’s a special day today.

Phin came out of the walk-in with a crate of lemongrass and kaffir lime and promptly kicked it open by accident.

“You could wait for help, you know,” Bua said while eyeing Phin from her clipboard.

As Phin knelt to gather the scattered stalks, Bua stepped over, and absently smoothed a hand over the frizz that had started curling at Phin’s temple—tucking a loose strand behind her ear like it was second nature. Like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

“You know I don’t believe in help,” Phin said, crouching to salvage the mess.

Bua rolled her eyes but crouched beside her anyway. “You also don’t believe in labeling things.”

“They have vibes. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s never enough,” Bua muttered, but the corner of her mouth curled.

Their relationship had settled into something quieter now. Not soft, exactly—but sure. Familiar. The edges were still there: Phin’s relentless opinions, Bua’s silences when she was annoyed. But the tension didn’t hold like it used to, years ago. These days, they bickered like old married couples—rhythmic, inevitable, oddly graceful. Over who left the fan on all night. Over how many chili plants could realistically survive on the balcony. Whether the towels should be folded or rolled. Whether pad krapao counted as breakfast.

But the fights never stuck. One would grumble, the other would huff, and then someone would quietly drop a peeled orange into the other’s hand without looking. Eventually, someone always reached out. They always did.

They’d moved in together not long after ROONG opened—into something bigger, with more light and an actual kitchen they both complained about but secretly loved. The new place had two shoe racks, five pepper mills, and one key hook that neither of them used. It felt like theirs.

Their physical rhythm had deepened with time, evolving into something slower, more knowing. Familiar, but never stale. The spark hadn’t dimmed—it had settled into something warmer, slower-burning. And at night, it was never quite the same twice—sometimes playful, sometimes reverent, always deliberate. They knew each other’s bodies the way they knew each other’s moods: intimately, instinctively, with the kind of fluency that only came from time and choosing each other again and again.

There was still heat between them. Still hunger. But it no longer rushed. It lingered. Took its time. When Phin undressed Bua now, she did it like she was opening a gift she already knew by heart—but still thrilled to unwrap. And Bua, in turn, had learned to lean into it, to let herself be known. They didn’t just sleep together. They memorized.

Phin still made it her mission to get Bua to laugh—really laugh, with that snorting sound she swore she didn’t make. Her jokes were awful on purpose. Her timing, unfairly good. And Bua, for all her eye-rolling, always gave in eventually. She always had.

Phin brushed a piece of lemongrass off Bua’s sleeve. “So. Big dinner tonight. Think we’ll survive?”

Bua raised an eyebrow. “We survived you trying to sous-vide duck with a hairdryer last week. I think we’ll be fine.”

Phin laughed, loud and unbothered. She leaned in, bumped their foreheads together—just briefly—then glanced around to make sure no one was looking. With a quick, secret grin, she kissed Bua’s lips.

“Noted.”

The staff began to trickle in, voices and footsteps growing louder behind them. Prep would start soon. Service would follow. And later tonight, the room would transform—lights warmer, tables set, both their families gathering under one roof for the first time in too long.

But for now, the smell of lime leaves lingered in the air. The music was a little too loud. And the restaurant—ROONG—was waking up.

*****

A glimpse back to where it all began.

It was during the national holiday celebrating King Maha Vajiralongkorn’s birthday when KIN KAO had closed its doors for the day. Chef Dhanin had invited them both for a rare day trip—“no meetings, no suits,” he’d said—with the vague promise of good food and better wine.

They ended up in Khao Yai, where the air was cooler and carried the smell of wet soil and flowering citrus. The winery sat nestled in a valley just outside the national park, run by a married couple who split duties with the kind of ease that made it look simple— One handled the vineyard: boots muddy, sleeves rolled, hands stained faintly purple from crushing grapes that morning. The other ran the restaurant, weaving through the open kitchen with a speed that left the young cooks scrambling to keep up. There was a rhythm to them—gruff affection, dry humor, quiet touches when they passed each other by the oven.

They wandered rows of trellised grapes, the air cool and clean, soil soft underfoot. One of the owners led them—a sharp-eyed woman in muddy boots and rolled sleeves, her hair pulled back with a pencil. She spoke fast, knew her vineyard like the back of her hand, and didn’t bother pretending not to care what they thought.

She took them on a private tasting in the barrel room—Syrah still aging in oak, a floral white blend with sharp citrus notes. Bua took one sip and muttered, “Okay, that one’s dangerous.”

The owner just smirked. “Good. That one’s mine.”

Dhanin was quietly impressed. He and the vintner dove into a long discussion about soil pH, fermentation curves, and native yeast strains. By the time they returned to the restaurant for lunch, Phin had already started sketching a new wine pairing in her head.

“These could work for KIN KAO,” Dhanin said, almost absently. “Or something new.”

Phin arched a brow. “Something new?”

He didn’t answer. Not yet.

Lunch was served in the vineyard’s restaurant—a breezy, open-air space with creaking ceiling fans and woven bamboo shades. A massive mango tree stood beside the building, its branches spilling shade over a few worn wooden tables set outside, where locals lingered over lunch like they’d been doing it for years.

The place didn’t need signage. Everyone who mattered already knew. It had the quiet confidence of somewhere well-rooted—respected, not flashy. A legendary spot for Thai food in the area, passed down in conversations and cravings.

They shared a table with the owner, a bottle of chilled rosé sweating between them. Lunch was simple, but unforgettable. Som tam with salted crab, grilled river fish topped with lemongrass and lime leaves, nam prik num with smoky eggplant, a fluffy khai jeaw sliced into quarters. There were deep-fried catfish with green mango salad, and a duck dish braised in five spice and orange peel until it practically melted off the bone.

And in the center of the table, the restaurant’s signature—khao kha moo, slow-braised pork leg over rice, with pickled mustard greens and a perfectly jammy egg. The skin glistened, rich and dark, and the sauce had that quiet depth that only comes from hours of patience.

Bua went quiet after the first bite. Phin just nodded, already imagining it in her dreams.

They sat under the high eaves, where the air moved slow but steady. The mango tree outside threw shifting shadows across the tile floor, and the buzz of insects hummed in the background. One of the owners—the vintner—joined them at the table, still in her vineyard boots, pouring them each another glass of chilled rosé.

“This is technically a business trip,” she said, nudging a bottle toward Dhanin. “So drink like you’re working.”

Dhanin chuckled. “That’s the plan. I’m hoping to use your whites for our next pairing menu—KIN KAO, and the new place.”

Phin glanced at him but said nothing yet.

From the kitchen, her wife’s voice rang out—sharp, clear, focused—and the clatter of woks followed. Their son, Ton, thirteen-year-old tall handsome boy, darted through the room with a tray full of food and a determined scowl. His t-shirt was stained with tamarind sauce and pride. When he reached their table, he set down a bowl of spicy duck soup and squinted at Phin.

“Are you the pirate star chef my ma keeps talking about?”

Phin raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. Do I sound scary or cool?”

“She said you wear a bandana like a pirate when you cook.”

Phin grinned. “Then I guess it’s true.”

Ton shrugged and turned to go, but the vintner — his mae called him out.

“Ton,” she said, half stern, half amused. “Go change your shirt upstairs before you turn into a walking menu. You’ve got sauce all over your chest.”

“It’s called flavor,” Ton shot back over his shoulder. “I’m marinating!”

He groaned dramatically but obeyed, dragging his feet just enough to make a point. Once he was out of earshot, Bua let out a soft chuckle. “He’s funny. But a good kid.”

The woman’s face softened. “My Kid. Chaos on legs—but all heart.”

Later, the vintner’s wife came out from the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel, cheeks still pink from the heat. She introduced her wife with casual pride, a hand resting lightly on her back. “This is my wife,” she said with a smile that softened every line on her face. “The real boss around here.”

She offered a wai and a quick, almost sheepish smile. “I didn’t know our guests today were from Bangkok,” she said, eyes darting between them. “Let alone—”

“Please don’t apologize,” Phin cut in, her grin easy. “Your food’s incredible. Don’t change a thing.”

The vintner’s wife ducked her head with a shy laugh, clearly not used to compliments from visiting chefs, let alone ones with stars attached. Her wife gave her hand a quick squeeze beneath the table—affectionate, grounding—but before she could fully turn away, the vintner reached out and gently brushed a loose strand of hair behind her wife’s ear. A quiet, habitual touch. She barely reacted, only smiled and, in turn, then she was gone, the door swinging softly behind her.

Bua watched them go, something soft unfurling in her chest. It made her glance at Phin without thinking—at the way she was still scraping the last of the nam prik num onto her plate like it was gold. And suddenly the world felt very small, and very lucky.

After lunch, the plates were cleared, wine glasses topped off one last time. The afternoon had ripened into something golden and slow, cicadas buzzing in the trees.

Phin, Bua, and Chef Dhanin made their way outside, drawn by the shade of the big mango tree beside the restaurant. A few open tables sat nearby, but they settled on a low bench beneath the branches. The air smelled faintly of ripe fruit and charcoal from the kitchen.

Dhanin leaned back, legs stretched out, a glass of rosé dangling from his fingers. “You know,” he said, almost casually, “KIN KAO will stand tall, its three stars a legacy no time can dim.”

Phin didn’t answer right away. Her gaze followed the shifting leaves overhead, sunlight dancing across Bua’s shoulder.

“But I’ve been thinking about what comes next,” Dhanin continued. “Something looser. Warmer. Less pressure, more heart.” He glanced at her. “Something that feels like you and my vision”

Phin blinked. “Is this a sabbatical or a therapy session?”

Dhanin chuckled. “Neither, I’m afraid.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Am I being fired?”

“Quite the opposite.” He sat up a little. “I’m offering you a partnership. Full creative lead. From the ground up. If you want it.”

Bua didn’t say anything, but her hand found the small of Phin’s back—steady, grounding. Phin turned slightly, brows raised. “You knew about this?”

Bua met her eyes calmly. “Not exactly. I knew he was planning something—another restaurant, eventually. I just thought it’d be in another country or one of those cities he keeps scouting.”

Phin narrowed her eyes. “So you didn’t know he was planning to rope me into it?”

Bua shook her head, lips curving just a little. “I only know as much as you do. Maybe less.”

Dhanin held up his hands, amused. “I was saving the pitch for the right moment. Good wine, good weather, a mango tree. Seemed like the time.”

So that’s how its began.

The deal was made that late afternoon beneath the mango tree, where rosé ran low and the breeze carried the scent of ripe fruit and charcoal smoke from the kitchen. There was no contract yet, just a quiet nod between chefs and the weight of something real shifting into place.

The official papers came a week later—neatly printed, legally binding, full of clauses and signatures. That’s when it started to feel real. For Phin, it was the first time her name appeared next to owner on anything. For Bua, it was seeing the address printed on the top corner of the letterhead, not KIN KAO but a new name, a new start. Something they would build, together.

The new restaurant would be in Bangkok but far from the gleam of Sathorn towers or riverfront gloss—something tucked into a corner of the city where people still argued over food stalls and drank tea from bags. Casual, warm, a little loud. A place where clay pots sat next to wine glasses, where Isaan spice met old recipes and new joy. The name would come later, but the feeling was already there. It would be hers. Every grain of salt, every burn on her hand, every note on the menu—Phin’s alone.

Bua didn’t hesitate to offer her help. She’d open the place with Phin, manage it through the launch and the chaos that would surely follow. But she’d stay tethered to KIN KAO too. That was home, after all—hers before it was Phin’s. The staff knew what to do, even when she wasn’t watching—but she still would be. Over time, she brought in a new manager to handle the day-to-day service, someone sharp and reliable. She began to split her weeks between both restaurants, commuting with clipped efficiency and a perfectly organized notebook, always ten steps ahead of whatever could go wrong. The system she’d built at KIN KAO was strong enough to stand without her constant presence. And while she never intended to juggle both forever, for now, she could. Long enough to steady one ship while launching another.

She told Phin, plainly and without fuss, “You don’t have to worry about the rest. Let me handle it.”

Phin didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. That was their rhythm—Bua anchoring the ship, Phin steering the fire. Permits, payroll, scheduling headaches—Bua would take care of all of it.

“The only thing you need to focus on,” she said, tapping Phin’s recipe notebook, “is the food. That’s your job. That’s what you’re best at.”

And so they worked like that—Phin with her ideas and her fire, Bua with her calm precision and unshakable grip on reality. Each holding up their end, exactly where they were strongest.

Phin remained at KIN KAO while construction began. She wanted to be there—to finish what she started, to make sure the transition was clean. And she had faith in her team. They knew the food. They knew her expectations. Jai, her sous chef, was given a trial run to lead the kitchen in her stead. She trusted him. Maybe more importantly, she wanted him to trust himself.

But after a few months, it became clear Jai wasn’t quite ready. Not yet. Phin didn’t panic. Neither did Dhanin. A restaurant was never just one person. They brought in someone new—quietly, carefully. No drama. Just another piece of the team falling into place.

The name ROONG (รุ่ง) in Thai means to rise, to thrive, or to shine. It evokes the sense of dawn breaking, a new beginning, or something blooming into its full potential, as it would later be called, began to take shape slowly—like dough proofing under a damp cloth. Not rushed. Not forced. Just rising.

******

Back in the present.

ROONG was already humming with life by the time Bua’s family arrived. Mae Wanne came in first, her arms full of snacks she insisted the kitchen didn’t need—wrapped mangoes, sticky rice in banana leaves, and a whole tray of grilled pork skewers. “Just in case your fancy food run out,” she told Bua with a wink. Her dad trailed behind her, marveling at the open kitchen design and immediately inspecting the pendant lights like he was conducting a surprise building inspection.

Pim—Bua’s relentlessly curious younger sister—poked her head behind the pass and stage-whispered, “This where the magic happens?” before asking if she could take a selfie with the chefs. “For content,” she said, already posing. “This place gives soft-core Michelin energy.”

Not long after, Phin’s family rolled in like a well-rehearsed sitcom entrance. Lin was juggling two tote bags and a tray of egg tarts. Sam and her girlfriend Mon showed up mid-argument about whether durian belonged in desserts. And Professor Araya Thananont entered last, regal and composed, until she spotted Bua—and grinned like a teenager.

“I trust you’re still taking care of my daughter,” she said, enveloping Bua in a firm hug.

“I’m—doing my best,” Bua managed, blinking.

Phin strolled over in time to hear that. “Too good, actually. I haven’t seen a spreadsheet in six months.”

“You’re welcome,” Bua said flatly, without missing a beat.

Professor Araya gave a long-suffering sigh and turned to Bua with a mock-serious look. “Well, I hope you know—You can’t return her anymore, no returns, no refunds. You’re stuck with her now.”

Bua lifted an eyebrow. “That was not in the fine print.”

Phin, grinning, leaned her head on Bua’s shoulder. “Too late. You signed the contract with your eyes.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” Bua deadpanned.

Professor Araya shook her head fondly. “Honestly, you two are worse than my students.”

“Probably louder, too,” Sam called from the table.

“And definitely not graded on a curve,” Mon added, raising her glass.

Laughter rippled through the room as Bua just sighed and patted Phin’s hand—still curled around her waist like it belonged there.

Phin’s mother then greeted Bua’s parents with the same quiet warmth she used on first-year students and foreign dignitaries—hands clasped, posture straight, but eyes twinkling.

“Khun Por, Khun Mae,” Araya greeted warmly, giving Wannee a gentle squeeze on the arm. “I was hoping I’d see you again—P’Wannee, are you still making that tamarind candy I couldn’t stop eating?”

“Only if you brought a proper container this time,” Wannee shot back with a wink. “Last time you shoved it in a napkin.”

They both laughed, already settling into that easy rhythm that made them look like co-conspirators more than in-laws.

It didn’t take long for the two mothers to claim a corner table with glasses of wine in hand, already whispering like old friends. Wannee had just started recounting—loudly and with full dramatic flair—the embellished story of how Phin and Bua first met at KIN KAO.

“She hated her. Ohh, hated her,” Wannee said, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.

Phin, passing by with a tray of grilled pork collar, shot back without missing a beat, “I was irresistible. She was just in denial.”

“You were late on your first day. And you dipped your finger straight into the nam prik,”  Bua said mildly from the other side of the room.

“Fashionably,” Phin replied, grinning. “I changed your whole life. You’re welcome.”

Professor Araya sipped her wine, watching the two with narrowed, amused eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know how you both survived each other, but we are so glad you did”

The two mothers burst into laughter, already half a bottle into their private corner chat. “I was this close to giving up,” Wannee went on, holding up two fingers. “I tried to set Bua up with every daughter of every friend I had. Teachers, doctors, one lawyer—beautiful girl, terrible taste in music.”

The corner quickly became its own universe of auntie banter and whispered matchmaking theories. Araya raised an eyebrow and murmured, “So, P’Wannee… how soon is too soon to plan a wedding?”

“Already picked the color scheme,” Wanne said, sipping her wine. “Thai gold and duck-egg blue.”

And just like that, the anniversary night continued—somewhere between family reunion, inside joke, and loud, bustling love letter to everything they’d built.

Elsewhere, Lin was teaching Pim to flirted with the bartender while Sam hovered nearby, trying in vain to keep both moms who is now interrogating Mon.

“She’s a high school teacher, not a spy!” Sam hissed, trying to wedge herself between Mon and their overly curious mothers.

Mon, for her part, looked completely unbothered as she sipped her drink and answered Professor Araya’s third question about her long-term intentions with Sam like it was a job interview.

“Well, I do own a car and I’m great with teenagers, so I think I qualify,” she said smoothly, earning a delighted gasp from Wannee and an approving nod from Araya.

“I like her,” Wannee declared.

“She’s ours now,” Araya agreed.

Phin and Bua had invited Auntie and Uncle from their favorite noodle stall too. As soon as Auntie spotted them, she marched over, cupped Phin’s face, and declared, “Still skinny. What are you cooking in this fancy place—steam?”

“She eats twice my portion,” Bua said, shaking her head.

“Doesn’t show,” Auntie said, patting Phin’s cheek. Then she leaned closer. “I tell everyone, you know. That the famous star chef and her boss-girlfriend eat my noodles every week. Even made a laminated sign.”

Uncle nodded proudly. “She made the delivery guy put it on the fridge.”

“Best kind of PR,” Phin said, laughing.

They were barely settled when Fang arrived, strolling in with her now-husband Mark. The two looked effortlessly elegant in matching linen and low voices, radiating that annoyingly serene glow of people fresh off a road trip—or a honeymoon—or both.

“Still married?” Phin called out, grinning as she pulled Fang into a hug.

“Miraculously,” Fang deadpanned. “Though Mark did ask if we could name our first kid something food-related.”

Phin burst out laughing. “Please say you’re going with ‘Basil.’ Or ‘Yum Woon Sen.’ Go big or go home.”

Mark, ever game, raised a brow. “She vetoed ‘Durian.’ Rude, honestly.”

“That’s love,” Phin said, still laughing. “Compromise is not naming your child after a fruit that can clear a room.”

Fang rolled her eyes fondly and slipped her hand into Mark’s. “We’ll see. Ask us again in three years.”

Fang glanced around after the laughter died down. “Where’s your work wife slash girlfriend? Or did you finally run her off with your charm?”

Phin smirked. “She’s around here somewhere, probably threatening a waiter for using the wrong glassware.” She stood on tiptoe, scanning the room, then cupped a hand around her mouth. “Babe! Fang’s here!”

From across the floor, Bua turned from a conversation with Phin’s mother, Her expression softened the moment she spotted Fang. She made her way over, already reaching out to pull her old colleague into a hug.

Phin lingered just a beat longer, watching them with a crooked smile, then slipped back behind the counter. The open kitchen buzzed with organized chaos—servers sweeping past with dishes, the back station prepping the next wave of grilled eggplant and claypot rice, her team moving like clockwork. She greeted them with nods and quick praise, checking seasoning with a practiced flick of her wrist.

Her phone buzzed against the counter. Without thinking, she wiped her fingers on a side towel and glanced at the screen.

Tom.

She hadn’t heard from him in years, not since he left Bangkok again. She opened the message.

Saw the photos. ROONG looks beautiful, Phin. Happy anniversary!
It feels just like something you and Jordan used to talk about back when it was all just a dream scribbled on napkins.

He would’ve been so proud of you. You know that, right?

I’m proud of you too. Just thought you should hear it.

Phin froze—not for long, just a second or two—but long enough for the clatter of plates and bursts of laughter around her to feel suddenly far away. Tom’s words were kind, simple, and devastating in the way only grief knew how to be.

Jordan would’ve loved this night and this place. He would’ve teased her for the wine choice, tried to charm her mother, made Bua laugh till she cried. He would’ve stood right next to her, arms crossed, proud as hell. She could almost hear him.

For a breath, she let herself miss him. Then she straightened, turned off the screen, and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Across the kitchen, Bua glanced over. Her eyes found Phin’s for a moment—something sharp and quiet in her gaze, like she’d caught the shift in the air. She didn’t say anything. Just offered the smallest nod, like a hand resting on the small of her back.

Phin gave her a half-smile in return.

Then the timer dinged, and someone shouted for plating, and she turned back to the present. There was joy to catch up with. And there was still the rest of the night ahead.

Chef Dhanin couldn’t attend—he was abroad again, handling his ever-expanding restaurant empire—but he sent a towering bouquet of orchids, a rare bottle of vintage Champagne, and a handwritten card that simply read: To ROONG. Don’t burn it down. Love, D.

ROONG had never aimed for Michelin stars. That wasn’t the point.

When Chef Dhanin first approached Phin with the idea in that Vineyard in Khao Yai—full creative control, no fine-dining formality, no rules—he had called it a love letter to Thai food, for Thai people. A place that could be loud and playful and deeply rooted, a restaurant that felt like Bangkok itself: messy, proud, beautiful in motion. And to Phin, that vision felt like a match struck in her chest. They weren’t chasing elegance—they were chasing truth. Flavor. Fire. Joy.

The space was loud, colorful, unapologetically Thai. The music was always a little too upbeat, and the steam from the kitchen drifted into the dining room on purpose. Dishes arrived with messy edges and bright heat, no tweezers or silence. The food—bold, joyful, deeply comforting—spoke for itself.

Phin’s name on the door had drawn the buzz, sure. But the flavors kept people coming back. Over time, ROONG became more than a restaurant. Critics couldn’t pin it down, so they stopped trying. The place didn’t fit neatly into a category—and that, too, was part of its charm.

It was built from memory and instinct, built for noise and sweat and stories traded between bites. It was everything Phin had dreamed about in kitchens she couldn’t breathe in. Everything Dhanin had wanted to return to after years of sterile perfection. Together, they created something that felt alive.

By the time the music dimmed and the last bottle of wine ran dry, the chaos had softened into something quieter, sleepier. The families lingered a little longer. There were goodbye hugs that turned into long squeezes, and promises shouted across the room like declarations of loyalty. Lin had more or less adopted Pim by dessert, arms slung casually around the younger girl’s shoulders as she offered to teach her all the necessary life skills—how to spot a bad date, fake confidence, and take tequila like a champ.

“Lin,” Phin said warningly, sidling up as they said their goodbyes. “If you corrupt Bua’s little sister, I’ll make you eat the fermented crab nam prik with a spoon.”

“No promises,” Lin said, smirking.

Pim grinned wider. “Too late.”

Earlier in the night, Auntie and Uncle had slipped out first—after hugging them both and pressing leftover sweets into their hands like blessings. “Don’t forget to visit,” Auntie had said, cupping their cheeks one last time.

“We’ll come soon,” Bua had promised.

Sam had left early too, gently herding Mon out with an arm around her waist and a deliberately casual, “Uhm... we’ve got something to take care of,” that fooled absolutely no one.

Phin narrowed her eyes at them. “Disgusting,” she declared. “Lovebirds. Gross. What’s it like being in a healthy, supportive relationship? Sounds awful.”

Mon just grinned and blew her a kiss. “We’ll tell you when you grow up.”

“Sam is literally just like you,” Bua said, laughing.

“Lies. I have depth. Mystery.”

“You have dirty thoughts and dirty laundry.”

Fang and Mark followed soon after, elegant even in exit. Bua walked them out with her mother, who kept patting Mark’s arm and saying things like “Such strong shoulders—you’ll make a strong healthy baby with her.”

Phin stood behind Fang, stage-whispering, “Run.”

Fang just smirked and accepted another hug from Bua.

Eventually, the dining room emptied. The floor was littered with the good kind of mess—crumpled napkins, scuffed chair legs, the last bite of fried fish someone was too full to finish. In the kitchen, the team had already begun their smooth, familiar cleanup dance: wiping down, stacking containers, scrubbing stainless steel back to shine. It could’ve been any other night.

Phin let them box up the leftovers, waving off protests. “Take everything. Extra cake, too. If it’s here tomorrow, I’ll eat it and hate myself.”

There was laughter. A few more tired hugs, and they were the last to clock out. The front lights dimmed, the shutters drawn halfway. From the kitchen, soft laughter echoed as the last of the staff trickled out with bags of leftovers and promises of “see you tomorrow.”

Phin and Bua didn’t rush. They made their way out the side door and onto the small garden terrace that wrapped around ROONG—more decorative than functional, but with a single long wooden bench tucked beneath a frangipani tree. They settled there like they had so many nights before, the way they used to at KIN KAO: shoulder to shoulder, shoes half-off, legs stretched out, letting the day melt from their bones.

Phin tipped her head onto Bua’s shoulder with a soft, contented sigh.

Bua laced their fingers together, idly tracing the back of Phin’s hand with her thumb. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t awkward or heavy. It was earned—thick with history, years of laughter and fights and quiet mornings and long services. The city hummed in the distance, but here, it was just the two of them.

Then, gently: “The message earlier,” Bua murmured. “From Tom?”

Phin blinked, then chuckled softly. “You always notice everything.”

“Of course I do,” Bua said simply, giving her hand a squeeze.

Phin hesitated, then shifted slightly so she could see Bua’s face. “He wrote to say happy anniversary. Said Jordan would’ve been proud, seeing this. Seeing us.”

Bua nodded, her gaze distant for a moment. “He would’ve. He is.”

There was something steady in her voice, like granite softened by time. “You know… ROONG isn’t just yours. Or Dhanin’s. Or even mine. It’s Jordan’s too. It’s a love letter—from all of us. And I’m proud to be part of it with you.”

Phin swallowed hard, then leaned in. Her kiss was unhurried—slow and thorough, deep and certain. She kissed Bua with everything she didn’t know how to say. For the years they built together, for the grief they carried and turned into something alive, for the home they created between plated dishes and stolen glances and the quiet strength of showing up, every single day.

When they parted, Phin pressed her forehead to Bua’s. “I love you.”

Bua smiled, the kind of smile that lived in her eyes more than her mouth. “I know,” she whispered. “I love you too.”

They sat like that a little longer, letting the cool night air wrap around them. Eventually, Phin stood with a groan, stretching until her spine popped. “Okay. Let’s go before I fall asleep right here and scare the morning shift.”

Bua rose more gracefully, slipping her hand into Phin’s out of habit.

They made it as far as the curb before Phin paused. “Wait. Can we stop at 7-Eleven? I want that mango mochi thing.”

Bua rolled her eyes but laughed, warm and fond. “Do you even realize how much you ate tonight? And now you want mango mochi?”

“Two separate stomachs,” Phin said solemnly. “It’s science.”

They walked the last few steps to the car in comfortable silence, fingers brushing once, then intertwining without a word. The celebration had faded, the lights at ROONG dimmed behind them, but something fuller lingered in the air—contentment, perhaps. Or simply love made ordinary, in the best possible way.

The night ended the way so many of theirs had: not with fireworks, but with shared steps, sleepy jokes, a grocery bag swinging between them, and a long, quiet ride home. Nothing dramatic. Nothing extraordinary. Just them. Just love.

---FIN---

Chapter Text

Bua unlocked the door to KIN KAO just past nine. The city outside was already thick with heat, but inside the restaurant, it was quiet, cool, and still. The way she liked it before the storm of service began.

She walked the length of the dining room in silence—checking the linen folds, adjusting a crooked vase of orchids by the host stand, and running her fingers lightly along the polished edge of the counter. She did this every morning. Not because she had to. But because this place had become hers—not by name, not by title, but by something deeper. Something earned.

Halfway through her walk, she passed the cleaning crew mopping near the bar.

“Good morning, Khun Chai,” she said, pausing just long enough to nod at his spotless bucket and raised mop handle. “Try not to let the new kid drown back there.”

Chai chuckled. The younger cleaner grinned sheepishly.

“Morning, Auntie Fon,” Bua added as she passed the older woman wiping down the baseboards. “You’re early.”

“Only because I knew the manager would come around with sharp eyes,” Auntie Fon replied.

Bua smirked, but her gaze swept over the freshly vacuumed carpets all the same, sharp and approving.

By the time she reached the front again, the maître d’ was already reviewing the reservations board. Bua stopped beside them and pointed to a small note scribbled next to one of the VIP bookings.

“Table 3 needs better spacing. If the Charoens are bringing their daughter again, she’ll be in a wheelchair—move them to Table 7 and bump the walk-ins if we have to.”

The maître d’ nodded quickly, already reaching for the floor plan printout.

Satisfied, Bua made her way toward the back kitchen.

The scent shifted as she passed through—the citrus and linen of the front giving way to steel and garlic and the faint mineral bite of raw fish. One of the delivery guys was just unloading a foam box of still-twitching mantis shrimp near the back door.

“Khun Aek,” Bua greeted without hesitation. “You’re early today. Didn’t get stuck in Bangna traffic?”

He grinned. “Got lucky. And got you the good stuff—look.”

She crouched beside him, peering into the box. The shrimp gleamed. Fresh, alive, clear-eyed.

“You always deliver the good stuff when I’m the one signing the cheque,” she said mildly.

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t tell Phin.”

Bua raised an eyebrow. “She’ll know the second she tastes it. She always does.”

She stood, dusting her hands on her slacks, and took one last slow look around—at the kitchen waking up, at the prep stations gleaming and empty for now, at the quiet, precise order of things before they came alive.

She didn’t need a clipboard to know what was where. Didn’t need to micromanage or bark orders. She knew this restaurant the way a musician knows a score—every beat, every rhythm, every hand that helped bring the music to life.

And when it moved in sync, when it sang, it was more than food.

It was a world.

It was hers.

KIN KAO wasn’t just her job.

It was the place that cracked her open and let her begin again.

She hadn't planned to stay in this industry. After stepping away from the line, she thought the hunger in her had been put to rest—quieted, if not gone. But the first time she walked into KIN KAO, before the stars, before the press, before the buzz, something in her clicked back into place.

Not the cooking. Not anymore.

What lingered was the love. The thrum of a kitchen in motion. The tension and heat of service. The choreography. The chaos. The way a team, when moving right, could feel like a single body—dozens of voices and hands and minds in sync. Like a perfectly tuned orchestra with knives instead of strings.

That was what she loved more than the food:
The symphony.
The fire.
The charge of creation, night after night.

And she was good at it. God, she was good at it.

By 15:30, she was upstairs in her office, flipping through invoices and staffing schedules, earbuds in but no music playing—just the illusion of silence. Outside the window, the Bangkok sun bounced off traffic and rooftops. Below, the clatter of dinner prep had begun. The familiar rhythm grounded her.

Then—knock knock.

The door opened without waiting.

Phin stepped in, carrying two bowls of rice and something steaming in a cracked ceramic pot. Bandana off, her hair was pulled back, Chef coat slightly flour-dusted, and she had that smug little tilt to her mouth that always meant trouble.

“Is this what it takes to get you to eat something before 9PM?” Phin asked. “Physical delivery?”

Bua raised a brow. “If it’s Nam’s soup again, I’m calling the dentist in advance.”

“It’s not. It’s mine. Which means it’s actually seasoned.”

That earned her a small, reluctant smile from Bua. Phin set the bowls down and flopped beside her on the couch, kicking off her shoes.

“I added extra pork belly,” Phin said, already digging into her own bowl. “You get that little line between your eyebrows when you’re overthinking. I’m trained to neutralize it with food.”

Bua rolled her eyes but took the bowl, shifting slightly to press her shoulder against Phin’s. The soup was good—brothy, spicy, clean. The pork belly melted like it knew it had one job and was determined to do it well.

They ate like that for a while—companionable silence, heads tilted toward one another, bowls balanced on knees.

At one point, Phin leaned in and murmured, low and wicked, “You know, I still think about what we did on this couch. Every time I sit down here.”

Bua almost choked.

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, cheeks warming.

Phin only grinned. “Not my fault you’re fun when you’re jealous.”

Before Bua could find a retort, the phone on her desk rang.

Her desk phone never rang. Not during prep.

She blinked, set the bowl down carefully, and walked over.

Phin kept eating, but her eyes flicked up—watching.

“This is the Michelin Guide’s Singapore office,” a calm voice replied. “Am I speaking with the General Manager of KIN KAO?”

Bua’s palm tightened around the handset; she dipped in and out of composure. Fighting the urge to breathe too fast, she said,

“Yes. You are speaking with her.”

Another pause.

“My name is Claire Tan. I’m calling on behalf of the Michelin Guide. We wish to congratulate you that KIN KAO has been awarded three Michelin stars in the upcoming guide.”

The words landed like fireworks.

In the background, Bua heard the faint clink of spoons from the couch downstairs.

The caller continued:

“This news is confidential, until we officially publish the guide next month. Furthermore, we would like to invite you, Chef Phinya Thananont, and the owner—Chef Dhanin—to our award ceremony in two weeks. Formal invitations will follow.”

Another pause.

“Congratulations, Ms. Methin. Your team’s dedication has been acknowledged on the global stage. We look forward to welcoming you to the ceremony in Bangkok.”

She swallowed. “Thank you,” she said, voice calm but low, almost reverent. “We’re honored. Truly.”

“We look forward to welcoming you.”

A small pause. Her fingers clenched tighter around the phone.

“I… appreciate the call,” she said. “We won’t take it for granted.”

Click.

She set the receiver down with a care usually reserved for antique porcelain. For a second, she just stood there—hand resting on the desk, back still turned to the couch where Phin sat, still chewing slowly, watching her with quiet curiosity. Bua exhaled through her nose. Composed. Precise.

Then she turned. And the corner of her mouth betrayed her: just the tiniest, stunned curve of a smile. She closed her eyes, letting the moment stretch, before quietly smiling.

“We got it.”

Just the faint hum of the air conditioning. The sound of Phin chewing—then stopping. Phin stood up slowly, bowl forgotten on the table, eyes wide with disbelief. “No.”

Bua nodded once. Phin grinned—exploded into a grin, wide and luminous, full of something too big to name.

“Holy shit.”

Phin exploded into a grin—wide and luminous, all dimples and disbelief, like someone had just handed her the moon with a side of fried garlic.
“Holy shit.”

Bua breathed out. Then smiled too, her eyes stinging and her chest full of something electric and impossible. For all the years she’d poured into this place—for every quiet compromise, every unseen fix, every night she stayed long after everyone else had gone home—this was the moment. The one no one could take away from her.

And Phin was here. Not just here, but part of it. The chaos and the laughter. The impossible climb. The woman who had barged into her kitchen and her life like a storm that somehow cleaned the windows.

She’d always known that if the third star ever came, it would mean everything. She just didn’t know it would feel like this. Like a future cracking open in her chest.

Phin crossed the room, still blinking in disbelief—and then let out a breathless, delighted sound that barely qualified as a laugh. She grabbed Bua and lifted her clean off the ground in a full-body hug, arms tight around her waist as she spun them both once, like she couldn’t contain the joy bursting out of her.

Bua laughed—helpless, startled, breathless. And then they were laughing together, messy and giddy and loud in the quiet office, like kids who’d just gotten away with something impossible.

Phin finally set her back on her feet, but didn’t let go—just pulled her in close, still grinning like a lunatic. Then she pressed her lips to Bua’s temple, her cheek, then her lips, warm and careful. Her voice dropped to something gentler.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “You hear me? This—this is your moment.”

Bua tried to scoff, but it came out shaky.

“I mean it,” Phin said, cupping her jaw so she couldn’t look away. “You built this place from the inside out. You held it together when nobody was watching. Don’t deflect. Don’t act like it’s just another Thursday.”

Her voice gentled, the teasing gone. “Let it be real. Let yourself be happy.”

Bua closed her eyes. Her throat burned. The weight of the moment pressed down—fierce and bright. She hadn’t let herself imagine this—not really. But now that it was here, now that Phin was looking at her like that—

Phin blinked, still grinning. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not,” Bua said. Her voice was suspiciously hoarse. “Shut up.”

Phin still had her arms looped tight around her waist. She leaned in, mouth brushing Bua’s ear, her tone dropping into something warm and low and unmistakably smug.

“Busaya Methin,” she whispered, eyes gleaming. “General Manager of a three-star restaurant. And also my girlfriend—the one I come home with every night. No big deal.”

Bua huffed a laugh, her lips twitching despite herself. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Phin said, still grinning like an idiot—wide and unrepentant, like nothing in the world could dim it.

The bowl of rice sat forgotten on the table. The couch waited. The city roared on outside. But for now, it was just them. And the moment.
And the star that had landed, impossibly, exactly where it belonged.

Eventually, the laughter settled. The silence returned—soft, golden, stunned. They stood there for a moment longer, forehead to forehead, hearts still racing from the high of it all. Then, quietly, reality filtered back in. The low hum of prep downstairs. The dull clatter of trays being loaded. The smell of fish stock simmering, distant but persistent.

Phin pulled back, eyes still shining. “We should tell them.”

Bua hesitated, the weight of it still anchoring her to the floor. “Not yet.”

Phin tilted her head. “Why not?”

“Because if we do it now, no one will be able to focus for the rest of the day,” Bua said, the voice of reason returning. “Dinner service comes first.”

A beat. Then Phin nodded, smiling. “You’re right. After service, then.”

Bua glanced toward the clock. “I need to call Chef Dhanin too.”

Phin kissed her again, quick and soft. “ and I’ll go act normal in front of ten people who definitely already think I’m weird.”

“Try not to burn the kitchen down.”

“No promises.”

Then she was gone—back into the rhythm and noise and knives. Leaving Bua alone in the quiet office, surrounded by papers and the memory of something seismic.

She took a breath, settled herself. Then picked up her phone. The international dialing tone beeped once, twice, before the call connected.

“Bua?” came Chef Dhanin’s familiar voice, tinny over the line but unmistakably calm. “Is everything alright?”

“Where are you?” she asked, her voice still laced with the soft glow of disbelief.

“Copenhagen,” he said. “Guest lectures and some scouting. Why?”

“You need to come back to Bangkok,” Bua said. “In two weeks.”

A pause.

“I take it this isn’t about a plumbing issue.”

She smiled faintly. “It’s Michelin.”

That silenced him.

“They called this morning. It’s official,” she said, the words still tasting surreal. “We got the third star.”

Nothing.

Then, sharply: “We did?”

Her chest tightened. “We did.”

A long exhale from his end. Then a low laugh, disbelieving “Holy shit,” Dhanin breathed. “We got it?”

“We got it.”

“No press leaks? No whispers? They just called you direct?”

“Just now, literally 15 minutes ago. I took the call in the office. Phin was here.”

Another pause. Softer now. “You earned this. All of you. But especially you.”

Bua swallowed. “The ceremony in two weeks, You need to be here with us, Chef.”

A beat.

“You’re gonna have to put up with me in a suit again,” he teased.

Bua huffed a laugh, the pressure in her chest easing just a little. “No sneakers this time.”

Dhanin chuckled. “Deal. I’ll move my flight. And Bua—”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. And I can’t think of a better person to pick up that plaque.”

Her throat went tight again. “Thanks, Chef.”

They ended the call not long after. No fuss. Just quiet understanding. And for a few minutes, Bua stayed where she was—surrounded by ledgers and invoices and crumpled post-it notes—heart hammering in a way it hadn’t in years. They would tell the team tonight.

And after that, nothing would be the same again.

*****

Phin walked back into the kitchen like she’d just been crowned Miss Universe, won the lottery, and slept eight uninterrupted hours all in the same night. Her face was practically glowing, grinning like someone had slipped pure serotonin into her morning espresso.

Nam looked up from torching a tray of meringue crisps and immediately narrowed her eyes. “Oh no. What did she do.”

Jamie, arms folded as they leaned against the lowboy fridge, sipped their third espresso of the evening and tilted their head. “Either she got laid in the office, or someone just confessed undying love. No in-between.”

Phin didn’t say a word. Just winked. Kept walking. Smug.

Nam whipped her towel at her. “She definitely got laid. That’s a post-orgasm face if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I second that,” Jamie said. “That’s not just a glow. That’s a radiance. Did she give her a promotion and a kiss?”

Phin only hummed—low and obnoxious—before disappearing into her station like the world’s most unbearable secret-keeper.

Nam turned to Jamie. “Something happened in that office.”

Jamie: “Yup. And I’m going to find out before midnight.”

The dinner service that followed felt... charmed.

Like the kitchen had slipped into a rhythm higher than human precision. Plates came out hot and perfect. The grouper hit the table with crisped skin and silky broth, timed to the second. The duck was fire-seared with just the right balance of funk and salt. The pastry station ran like a dream—no melting sorbet, no collapsing quenelles, no backup orders.

No customers sent anything back. No complaints from the floor.

Even the notoriously grumpy wine rep complimented the pacing between courses, muttering a rare “good flow” to the maitre d’ as he left.

It was as if—without saying it aloud—they were already cooking at a three-star level. Because they were. They just didn’t know it yet.

Hours passed. The final course hit the tables. The music dimmed. Slowly, the kitchen cooled—bodies loosening, towels slung over shoulders, the clatter of cookware replaced by the soft, clean rhythm of breakdown and reset.

Someone had turned on a playlist. Jamie was singing softly to something vintage and heartbreaky. Nam had taken off her apron and was sitting cross-legged on an upturned crate, finishing the leftover dessert scraps. The youngest line cook, Poom, was scrubbing down the sauce station with his usual speed and very little finesse.

That was when Bua stepped into the kitchen.

Everything stilled, just for a second. She hadn’t been around since pre-service, and her reappearance now—hair pinned back, a slight pink in her cheeks, still in heels—turned a few heads.

Phin, halfway through rewrapping herbs for tomorrow’s prep, looked up and saw her. And immediately grinned. That same idiot grin.

She wiped her hands on her towel and moved to Bua’s side without a word, bumping their shoulders gently.

Bua raised an eyebrow. “Ready?”

“Born ready.”

She turned to the crew, now half-watching, half-suspecting something was up. Bua cleared her throat. “Team,” she said—calm but warm, with that same quiet authority they all respected. “Before you clock out tonight… we have some news. A great news”

Phin stepped in, practically vibrating with excitement. “We didn’t want to say it before service because we didn’t want anyone fainting into the fryer.”

Nam perked up, eyes wide. “What?”

And Poom—sweet, overwhelmed, youngest line cook Poom—blurted out the first thing that entered his brain:

“Are you two getting married?!”

The kitchen froze.

Jamie choked on their espresso. Nam dropped a spatula. Jai turned slowly like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly.

Phin’s eyes went huge. “What?!”

Bua blinked. “I—excuse me?”

Poom’s face went crimson. “I just—uh—I thought—because you both looked really happy—and sometimes people, you know—make announcements—”

Nam was wheezing. “Oh my god. You absolute baby. Poom, they’re not getting married—not yet anyway!”

Jamie coughed. “You’d better get invited if they do. You just fast-tracked your way onto the guest list.”

“I’m gonna die,” Poom mumbled, covering his face with his sleeve.

Phin was still trying not to laugh, her face pink from holding it in. “Okay. Wow. That’s not the announcement—but now I kind of feel bad it’s not.”

Bua shot her a sideways look. “Do not encourage him.”

Phin raised a hand. “Okay. Take two.”

She glanced around the room, all eyes now locked on them with fresh, chaotic curiosity.

“This afternoon,” she said, voice soft but shining, “we got the call.”

Bua nodded. “It’s official. We’ve been awarded our third Michelin star.”

This time, the silence hit like a dropped pin in a cathedral.

And then—

The kitchen exploded.

Nam screamed. Jamie whooped. Someone banged a spoon on a prep table like it was a drum. Auntie Song smiled—openly—and just said, “Finally.”

Poom looked like he might pass out from relief and joy all at once.

“You mean we’re—we’re really—”

“Three stars,” Bua said, steady as always. But even she couldn’t hide the shimmer in her eyes. “It’s real.”

Jamie raised their coffee cup like a toast. “To the happiest not-proposal I’ve ever witnessed.”

Phin groaned. “Oh my god.”

“Three stars and a wedding allegation,” Nam said, grinning. “Best night ever.”

The celebration rolled on, warm and wild and full of love. And under the laughter and teasing, a deeper current hummed through the air—something earned, something lasting.

The laughter didn’t stop for a while. But under all of it, something had shifted. They all felt it—that quiet, electric pulse of joy, of earned pride. Of we did it.

And tomorrow, they would get back to work.

But tonight, they had earned this. Every laugh. Every stupid joke. Every stunned smile. They had done it.

KIN KAO was now three-star.

*****

The noise eventually tapered off. The last pots were scrubbed, aprons hung. One by one, the team clocked out, still glowing from the news—lingering longer than usual, as if reluctant to let the moment end.

Before anyone left, Phin and Bua gathered them for one last note. The team had earned the truth first, but the news wasn’t public yet. The Michelin announcement wouldn’t be official until the ceremony in two weeks. Until then, it had to stay inside the walls of KIN KAO.

No posts. No leaks. Just theirs—for now.

The room didn’t lose its joy, but something gentler settled in its place. A shared understanding. A quiet pride. Heads nodded. Smiles stayed.

Nam slapped a fluorescent sticky note on the walk-in door that read: 3-STAR, BITCHES, in her trademark block letters. Jamie pocketed a wine cork from service, muttering something about preserving culinary history. Someone turned the speaker back on just long enough to blast a triumphant burst of music before they shut everything down for the night.

Eventually, the kitchen dimmed. The team filtered out, laughter trailing behind them like steam. And as always, Phin and Bua were the last to leave.

They stepped out into the soft Bangkok night, hand in hand. The kitchen hum still clung to their skin—oil, heat, adrenaline—but outside, it was quieter. The city had pulled back a little, like it knew what kind of night it was.

Phin bumped their shoulders as they walked toward the car. “So. Married, huh?”

Bua gave her a look. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m just saying,” Phin said, eyes gleaming. “Poom’s clearly a prophet. Maybe he sees the future.”

“I will kill you.”

“You say that with love.”

“I don’t.”

Phin grinned. “Liar.”

Bua was still rolling her eyes when Phin tugged her hand and kissed her. Just a quick thing—soft, unexpected—but it left them both blinking at each other, a little breathless. Then Bua laughed. Phin kissed her again. Laughed again.

By the time they reached the car, they were leaning into each other like gravity had plans of its own. Phin backed her against the passenger door and kissed her properly this time—slow and thorough, like she had all the time in the world. Her fingers slipping beneath the hem of Bua’s shirt like she already forgot they were in public.

The kiss deepened, soft turning into something hungrier. Their mouths opened in sync, tongues brushing, tasting, teasing. Bua made a quiet sound against her lips, and Phin smiled into it—smug and gentle, like she’d won a dare only she had issued.

For a moment, the parking lot blurred away—the yellow floodlight above them, the humidity curling around their ankles, the rest of the world. It was just them. Bua’s hand tangled in the front of Phin’s shirt, Phin’s palm curving at her waist, mouths locked in a kiss that said everything the day hadn’t had time to.

Eventually, they broke apart, just barely, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. And then they laughed—quiet, winded, still grinning like fools.

“Phin,” Bua murmured, breath hitching.

“Just a second,” Phin said against her neck. “We earned this.”

Bua laughed. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t how Michelin expects you to celebrate.”

“Oh, Michelin can suck it,” Phin said, grinning into another kiss.

They finally peeled themselves apart long enough to unlock the car, breathless and rumpled and grinning like teenagers.

Once they were inside the car, the world suddenly felt quieter—like it had expanded around them, waiting. Phin reached over and tangled their fingers together, her palm warm against Bua’s.

“Three stars,” she said softly, almost like she was trying it out loud again.

Bua glanced at her, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Still real.”

Phin let out a breath. “I was thinking… we should do something. Just us. Celebrate properly.”

Bua looked at her, curious. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Phin said. “Something that’s not this.” She gestured vaguely at the dashboard, the backseat, the takeout napkins still stuffed in the door. “No kitchens. No timers. Just us, out in the world.”

Bua leaned her head back. “Massage and sleep.”

“That’s not a date,” Phin argued, mock-affronted. “That’s a medical necessity.”

They both laughed.

Then Phin said, more thoughtful this time, “What if we started with a boat ride?”

Bua turned her head. “A boat ride?”

“Yeah. Longtail on the river. Around golden hour.” Phin shrugged, suddenly shy. “We’re always stuck inside. I want us to see the city from the water. No traffic. Just breeze. Light.”

Bua considered it. “That sounds… actually kind of perfect.”

“And after that,” Phin added, testing the waters, “we find a little bistro. Some place quiet. No white tablecloths. Just good food. Let someone else plate the fancy things for once.”

Bua smiled. “We sit. We order wine. We pretend we don’t know how to julienne a damn thing.”

Phin grinned, eyes lighting up. “Exactly. Let them serve us. For once.”

They sat in that warm pause together, the idea settling between them—slow and golden and real.

“Monday,” Bua said finally.

Phin squeezed her hand. “Monday,” she echoed. “Boat ride, dinner, and us being disgustingly well-behaved customers.”

Bua chuckled. “You? Behaved?”

Phin leaned over and kissed her soundly. “For you? I’ll try.”

Neither wanted the night to end just yet. The city outside their windshield still shimmered with possibility.

“Want noodles?” Phin asked, grinning like it wasn’t even a question.

Bua didn’t roll her eyes this time. Just let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Obviously.”

They turned down familiar streets without needing to speak, the route to the noodle stall etched into muscle memory. It had been a while—weeks, maybe—but the craving never left. Not really. And somehow, it felt right. Like the only fitting way to close out a night like this.

The old stall was still open, humming with late-night stragglers and that same comforting clatter of pots, oil, and chopped greens. The smell hit them before they even parked: garlicky broth, peppery pork, the faint crisp of fried wontons.

The auntie looked up from behind her bubbling pot, squinting into the darkness. Then her face lit up.

“Well, well,” she called out, loud enough for the whole block to hear. “The fancy ladies finally remember me!”

Phin gave her a dramatic bow. “Auntie. We missed you.”

“Missed my noodles, you mean.” But she was already waving them to their usual plastic table, the one half-hidden in the corner beneath the creaky fan.

Bua sank into her seat with a soft groan of relief. “Both.”

The auntie snorted but her eyes gleamed fondly. “You two show up like this every time something happens. Last time was what—after the fire alarm fiasco?”

“Don’t remind me,” Phin said, covering her face.

“And the time before that, when you”—she pointed a ladle at Bua—“threatened to fire her for nearly poisoning a customer with chili.”

“It was one dried chili!” Phin protested.

“You’re dramatic,” Bua murmured, sipping her water.

“Ah,” the auntie said knowingly. “Good news tonight, then.”

Neither of them answered, but both were smiling too much not to confirm it.

Their bowls arrived—one dry, one with soup, both exactly the way they liked without needing to order. They dug in like it was ritual, the kind of silence that needed no explanation. Noodles slurped, broth sipped, the auntie’s radio murmuring golden oldies in the background.

“Still the best,” Phin said around a mouthful, eyes fluttering shut like she’d been handed a five-course tasting menu.

“You’d better say that,” Auntie called over her shoulder from the cart. “I brag about you girls to the other customers all the time. ‘That chef and manager from the famous restaurant—yes, the Michelin one—they like my noodles!’ You should see their faces.”

Uncle, lounging taking his break beside the cart with his tea, chuckled without opening his eyes. “She talks about you like you're her grandkids.”

Auntie hovered a moment longer, then reached out and gently patted both their hands—hers warm and rough with years of ladle work.

“You know,” she said, quieter now, “you remind me of me and this stubborn man when we were young.” She nodded toward Uncle, who gave a lazy salute without looking up. “Always bickering, always laughing. Holding hands when we thought no one saw.”

Phin glanced sideways at Bua. Her chest tightened, a little.

Auntie gave their hands another soft pat. “Take care of each other, hmm? That’s all. Be kind. The world’s already cruel enough—don’t let it make you cruel to each other.”

There was a pause, thick with unspoken gratitude.

Then Auntie sniffed and shook her head. “Look at me. Getting mushy like I’m on one of those lakorn. Next thing I’ll be crying into the broth.”

Uncle finally cracked an eye open. “Already happened yesterday, remember?”

“I chopped shallots, you useless man,” she snapped, but her eyes were shining.

Phin laughed, but her voice caught just a little when she said, “Thank you, Auntie”

“Don’t thank me,” Auntie huffed. “Just keep coming back here. And if either of you breaks the other’s heart, I swear I’ll throw my soup pot at your head.”

“I believe her,” Bua said, calmly.

“Good girl,” Auntie said, squeezing her hand once more before turning back to the cart. “Now eat up before it gets cold. You two need to stay strong—for each other.”

And they did. Ate quietly, side by side under the warm orange glow of the streetlight, the hum of city life swirling around them like background music. There was something almost sacred about the moment—two women on the edge of something great, sitting elbow to elbow on a cracked plastic bench, cheeks still flushed from kisses and laughter, quietly eating their favorite noodles like nothing had changed. Even though everything had.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a vacation. It was a professional opportunity. A good one.

Bua had been invited by Chef Dhanin to represent ROONG at 8 days-long culinary delegation in Osaka-Japan, meeting with potential investors and attending high-profile panels on regional cuisine. She hadn’t asked for it—hadn't even expected it—but she’d accepted the moment the invitation arrived. It was a big deal. An honor. Phin had been the first person she told.

It was late—after closing at ROONG, well past midnight. The staff had gone home. The kitchen was clean, the lights half-off. Bua was sitting on the counter, long legs swinging lazily while she peeled a clementine with precise, managerial fingers. Phin was wiping down the stainless steel bench again for no reason.

“So, um. Dhanin offered me something.”

“What, a new set of knives?”

“A trip. 8 days in Osaka. He wants me to go on behalf of the restaurant.”

A beat. “You said yes?”

Bua shrugged like it was obvious. “Of course. It’s a good opportunity.”

Phin paused halfway through tossing the cloth in the laundry bin.

“It’s just a week,” Bua added, seeing the flicker in her expression.

“Just a week,” Phin echoed. Smiled. Stirred her black coffee like it suddenly needed more sugar.

Phin kept telling herself she was fine. They weren’t codependent. They weren’t dramatic. SHE weren’t dramatic. They were grown adults with their own routines and life together.

A week was nothing. A blip. It wasn’t even that far away.

But still—

She started lingering longer in bed in the mornings, even when Bua got up first—or tried to. The moment Bua shifted to reach for her phone or slide out from under the covers, Phin’s arm would tighten around her waist like a band. Then came her leg. Then the other arm. Until Bua found herself pinned in a warm, determined, very naked embrace that could only be described as octopus-like.

“Phin,” Bua muttered against her pillow, already half-laughing, “I have to get up.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t. Stay. Just five minutes.”

“Five minutes with you usually turns into—”

And it did. More often than not, it wasn’t just five minutes. Some mornings blurred into an hour tangled in sheets and lazy kisses and low, breathless moans. Phin would mouth apologies between every gasp—sorry I can’t get enough of you—but Bua never complained. She’d just breathe harder, fingers curling in Phin’s hair, until neither of them could pretend it was anything but need.

It wasn’t like Phin to be this greedy. Not in bed. Not in life. But lately—lately she couldn’t help it. The thought of Bua packing a suitcase, of being gone for even a few nights, had made something ancient and soft crack open in her chest. Bua noticed, of course.

And Phin told herself it wasn’t because of that. Not the trip. Not the weeklong separation ahead. She just... liked touching her. That was all. She was just appreciating her girlfriend more these days. Right? Right.

“A week is nothing,” she told herself while restocking lemongrass one morning. “Eight days. We’ve done harder things. I’ve done solo service on a power outage day. I’ve been to funerals. This is fine.”

And it was. In theory. She didn’t say that part out loud. Not yet.

But her hands had started to tremble—just a little—while helping Bua pack, and again when she zipped up the suitcase the night before the flight.

The morning Bua left, Phin wouldn’t let her get out of bed right away.

“You’ve got hours,” she mumbled, arms tightening around Bua’s waist, legs tangled like vines. “Stay.”

Bua laughed softly, kissed her temple. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Let me,” Phin whispered—and then she wasn’t whispering at all. Just pressing kisses along Bua’s neck. Just making her stay.

That morning stretched, slow and molten, the way Phin always wanted their days to be. She kissed Bua until she sighed, until her back arched, until her name turned into a whisper and then into a moan. She took her time to make her come—twice, just to be sure—and grinned smugly when Bua finally collapsed against the pillow, flushed and spent.

“Gonna miss your boobs more than I’m willing to admit,” Phin mumbled, burying her face against Bua’s chest. “I should’ve taken a selfie with them for emotional support.”

Bua let out a breathless laugh, fingers carding through Phin’s damp hair. “Idiot.”

“I love you too,” Phin said, eyes closed, like that was all that mattered.

Afterward, Phin got up to make breakfast—congee with century egg, soft-boiled duck eggs, Thai tea sweet and creamy just the way Bua liked it. She pretended it was for both of them, but she only picked at hers. Spent more time watching Bua eat than eating herself.

She helped checked the suitcase again. Checked Bua’s passport three times. Her hands had started to tremble a little—barely noticeable, but Bua noticed anyway.

They left the apartment just after ten. Traffic was light. Phin drove them all the way to Suvarnabhumi, fingers drumming on the steering wheel when she wasn’t gripping it too tightly. She didn’t say much on the road. Just played Bua’s favorite playlist, let the silence fill up all the spaces she didn’t want to name.

At Departures, she helped unload the bag. Stood there for a beat too long, like maybe she could change the shape of time just by holding onto the handle.

Bua touched her cheek, warm and steady. “It’s just a week,” she said gently, brushing a strand of hair off Phin’s forehead. “We’re grown women. Capable. Independent.”

Phin pouted. “You say that like I’m the only one affected.”

“You are the only one pouting in public,” Bua teased, lifting an eyebrow. “Should I buy you a lollipop before I go?”

“You don’t even look sad,” Phin said, frowning now. “This is tragic. We’re being ripped apart by fate.”

Bua rolled her eyes but softened. “You’re ridiculous.” She leaned in, kissed Phin’s forehead. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Phin huffed. “Not as much as I’ll miss you.”

Then, just as Bua was about to turn toward the sliding doors, Phin reached for her wrist. “Hey—get something to eat in the lounge, okay? Your flight’s at 12:30. Don’t skip lunch.”

Bua blinked, then smirked. “You think I’m going to starve in an international airport?”

“I think you get cranky when you don’t eat,” Phin shot back, arms crossed.

Bua shook her head, affectionate. “I can take care of myself, Phin.”

But then she paused, looked at her—really looked—and softened again. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m fine,” Phin said quickly. Too quickly.

“Mmm.” Bua didn’t press. She just smiled that slow, knowing smile. “Okay. I’ll get something.”

Phin relaxed a little. Bua leaned in again, tugged her in by the apron strings of her ROONG jacket, and kissed her slow, then fast, then one more time like she was sealing something shut.

“I’ll message you when I land,” she promised, shouldering her carry-on.

“You better,” Phin muttered. “If you ghost me, I’ll give your chili plants to Sam.”

Bua laughed. “Then Sam and Mon about to have a very spicy garden.”

As she turned to walk toward the terminal doors, Phin called after her, “And don’t forget to bring me a gift!”

Bua glanced back over her shoulder, amused.

“A nice one,” Phin added. “If you still love me.”

Bua blew her a kiss and kept walking, her laughter trailing behind her.  And then she was gone. Phin stood at the terminal entrance long after the crowd had swallowed her. Then she turned back toward the car, already missing everything.

On the drive back, she kept glancing at the passenger seat, like maybe Bua had just ducked down to tie her shoes and would pop back up, grinning.

By the time she walked into their apartment that night, the air already felt different. Still and off-kilter. She stared at the kitchen clock and realized something: The silence hit like humidity after a storm.

Phin tried to keep her days full.

ROONG was running fine—of course it was. Bua had made sure of that. Before she left, she sat down with the floor manager, scheduled the week’s inventory runs, even drafted gentle reminders for the newer staff in case they forgot who was allergic to coriander or which regular hated being sat near the door. She’d handed off the entire back office like a woman who trusted the house would still stand after she locked the door behind her.

And it did. Sort of. But Phin moved through it like she was missing a limb. She ran the kitchen sharp as ever, made her calls, checked every plate before it left the pass. But she lingered longer on the balcony after closing, scrolling through old texts. Her coffee went cold in the mornings

They texted constantly. Pictures of food. Terrible memes. Quick check-ins before bed. Bua called her every night, without fail—even if she was tired, even if the time zones didn’t align.

And Phin tried to act normal. Tried not to say I miss you more than once a day. Tried to keep it breezy. Still, some nights, the missing swallowed her whole. So she’d send Bua a photo of her in bed or, late and shameless: are you wearing that black tank top? the one that makes me forget how to breathe?

Bua would send back something dry, like eat your vegetables or go drink water, but the dot-dot-dot of her typing always came fast. And once, she replied with a photo—her hand curled over the hem of said black tank top, just enough to tease.

Phin nearly short-circuited. Then spent the next hour rewatching a video of Bua explaining miso fermentation to distract herself.
Unsuccessfully.

On the fourth night, Phin had just finished closing up the kitchen. She sat in the dark on the front step of ROONG, still in her apron, legs stretched out into the streetlight glow. Her phone lit up, Bua’s name pulsing on the screen.

She answered with a grin, already leaning back, already sighing like her bones knew the voice they were about to hear.

“Hey you,” Bua said, voice warm and low. “Still in your apron?”

Phin snorted. “Are you spying on me, Baibua?”

“Your team sent me a photo.”

“Traitor.” But Phin smiled wider. “How’s Osaka?”

“Busy. Beautiful. I think I’ve eaten my body weight in sushi.”

“Good. Keep going. I like you chubby.”

“Phin.”

“I’m kidding,” she said, too quickly. “Mostly.”

Bua laughed, and Phin soaked in the sound like heat.

They talked like that for a while—easy and rhythmic. And then, just as Phin was leaning back to tease her again, she heard it— A voice, soft and male, speaking in the background on Bua’s end. Something about the schedule for tomorrow. A gentle laugh. The clink of glass. Phin froze, mid-sentence.

She listened to the way Bua responded—familiar, casual. Like old friends. There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing even suspicious. But something in Phin’s stomach turned. Just a little.

“Sorry,” Bua said, returning to the call. “That was Dennis. Chef Dhanin’s colleague. He’s in charge of coordinating the demo kitchen tomorrow. He talks too much.”

Phin let out a soft “mm,” trying to keep her voice neutral.

Bua paused. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She could feel the urge creeping in—sharp and green and ridiculous. The sudden ache to ask, Do you like him? Has he ever touched you?

She bit her tongue. Swallowed the feeling down like bitter medicine. Because she wasn’t twenty anymore. And she wasn’t going to be that kind of girlfriend.

Still, after they hung up, Phin sat there on the stoop of her restaurant for a long, long time—phone screen dark in her hand, heart crawling with a feeling she hadn’t felt in years.

She trusted Bua. Of course she did. But trust didn’t always cancel out fear. And tonight, fear sat with her like an old ghost.

The next day, Phin was sharper than usual in the kitchen. Not unkind—just quicker. Tighter. She didn’t say anything to anyone. Not about the voice she overheard. Not about how it had been echoing in her head ever since.

Man named Dennis. A soft, delicate voice. Chef Dhanin’s coworker.

And since then, his name kept coming up. In the next call, Bua mentioned him again—casually, offhandedly. Said he’d picked her up that morning to head to the venue together. Said he was funny, in a dorky kind of way. Said he accidentally spilled a full tray of spoons and somehow charmed the event staff into laughing instead of scolding him.

It meant nothing. Bua said it like she might mention a dog on the street or a waiter who brought the wrong dish. And Phin knew that. She knew.

But every time the name passed Bua’s lips, something in Phin flinched. It wasn’t even jealousy, not really. It was the reminder of possibility. The realization that nothing in life was permanent—not even something

Because Bua was… Bua.

Smart. Steady. Undeniably attractive, if Phin was being honest—which she usually wasn’t, out of sheer self-preservation.

People noticed her. Respected her. Wanted her.

And Phin… Phin was just the idiot who loved her so much it sometimes short-circuited her brain. The phone calls continued. Sweet. Steady. Familiar. But now, Phin listened harder. For background voices. For new names. For signs. There were none. Not really.

But the absence of proof didn’t ease the ache in her chest.

One night, two days before Bua’s return, Phin couldn’t sleep.

She lay awake in their bed, staring at the ceiling fan, phone on her chest like a second heart. She could still smell Bua on the sheets. Could still feel her touch like phantom heat in the hollow between her hips.

She kept thinking about how easy it would be to lose something even if you did everything right. Jordan had died. That loss had been loud, unbearable.

But this kind of loss—the imagined kind, the what if Bua changes her mind kind—was quieter. It crept in under your ribs and nested there. Bua hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet Phin couldn’t stop imagining the worst-case scenario.

The next morning, Phin cooked too much breakfast for no one. Washed the dishes too fast. Reorganized the spice shelf even though they’d just done inventory. Then she stood in front of Bua’s side of the closet and stared at the few hangers that were empty.

Before 10am, she was already out of the house. She told herself she was just going to the mall for errands—maybe pick up new dish towels, a few kitchen gadgets, something dumb and useful to quiet her thoughts.

She ended up walking to a jewelry store. She didn’t mean to stop. But the shine of gold in the window caught her. Or maybe it was the reflection of her own face—too tense, too still. She didn’t remember making the decision to step inside. Her body just… moved.

The clerk asked if she was looking for anything in particular.

“I don’t know,” Phin said, before quietly correcting herself. “Yes. A ring.”

It was the first time she’d said it out loud.

She wasn’t here for diamonds. Not for anything dramatic. She asked to see the plain bands first.

Something gold. Something light. Something that would look like it had always belonged on Bua’s hand. Something warm, but solid. Like commitment, not possession.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe twenty.

Then she saw it: A slim gold ring with a soft matte finish—just warm enough to catch the light without calling attention to itself. Set into the band was a small, pale sapphire, tucked low into a modern bezel setting. No sparkle meant to impress. Just a quiet glint—something private. Something meant to be seen up close, by the person who mattered.

There was no engraving. No flourish. Just the smallest curve on the inner band, like a crescent pressed into gold. The kind of detail no one would notice unless they were paying attention. Unless they already knew her.

It didn’t look like a ring that shouted yes. It looked like a ring that asked, softly: Will you keep choosing me, too?

Phin turned it over in her fingers.

No one knew she was here. Not Bua. Not her sisters. No one to talk her into it. No one to talk her out of it.

She thought about that guy’s voice on the phone. She thought about Bua laughing on the other end—soft, casual, easy.

And then she thought about how quiet the kitchen felt last night after she hung up. How sharp her own longing felt, edged with something she didn’t want to name jealousy but couldn’t quite deny either.

This wasn’t about panic. It wasn’t about fear of losing her. It was about wanting to choose her. Again. Fully. Loudly. Without waiting anymore.

Phin bought the ring. Didn’t ask for wrapping. Just pocketed the box and walked out of the store into the late afternoon sun, her heart beating a little too fast.

*****

Bua’s flight from Osaka landed in the late afternoon, and Phin was already leaning against the railing at Arrivals when she saw her—tired but still so stupidly beautiful, hair loose from travel, the weight of her carry-on slung across one shoulder like it was nothing. Phin didn’t wave. She just walked forward and wrapped her arms around her, letting the scent of Bua’s shampoo and airport coffee sink into her bones.

“I missed you, Baibua” Phin murmured against her ear.

“I can tell,” Bua said, but her voice was smiling.

“You smell like duty-free samples and betrayal,” Phin muttered, refusing to let go.

Bua laughed. “That’s just the complimentary towel from the airport lounge.”

“Cheater,” Phin accused. “You said you weren’t gonna love anyone else while you were gone.”

“I didn’t,” Bua said, then leaned back just enough to meet her eyes. “Unless you count the chef who gave me a free yakitori skewer and called me ‘princess.’”

Phin gasped. “Unbelievable. Was it good?”

“Embarrassingly good.”

Phin narrowed her eyes. “I see how it is. Eight days away and I’ve already been replaced by a Japanese uncle with a charcoal grill.”

Bua smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re lucky I brought you back something.”

“I hope it’s your loyalty,” Phin grumbled, taking the carry-on from her. “Because I don’t know how to fight an old man who wears crocs and commands fire.”

Bua snorted. “You’d lose.”

“I would,” Phin agreed, already leading her toward the car. “But I’d lose dramatically. In slow motion. With wind effects.”

“That’s the only way you do anything,” Bua said, letting their hands tangle together again as they walked.

The drive home was mostly quiet, except for Phin making a big deal over the bag Bua had handed her.

“You better have brought me something good,” Phin said, mock-threatening, turning it over in her lap like she might shake it open.

Bua snorted. “If you don’t like it, I’ll keep it.”

“Too late. Mine now. Finders keepers.”

Inside the bag: a delicate tin of matcha from Uji, a pair of handmade ceramic teacups glazed in soft indigo, and a big Totoro keychain, a set of vintage-style tenugui cloths printed with Osaka castle and street food motifs, All from Osaka, and all perfectly, unmistakably Phin.

Phin peeked inside and let out a soft, smug noise. “Okay… yeah. You can definitely stay.”

“Wow,” Bua said, deadpan. “Guess I’m forgiven for being gone.”

“Mostly.” Phin grinned. “Depends if you make me tea.”

At the apartment, Phin ushered her inside—then shut the door, turned around, and didn’t even pretend to wait. She kissed her.

Not a polite welcome-home kiss. Not a soft, tentative one. Just all the missing pressed into Bua’s mouth—hands on her waist, then sliding up her back, like Phin needed to make sure she was real. Bua let herself be pulled close, fingers threading into Phin’s hair, both of them drinking each other in like they hadn’t already been texting all day. It lasted longer than either of them meant it to. Quick turned slow turned desperate. And by the time they pulled apart, breathless and a little flushed, Phin’s lips were pink and her eyes dazed.

Then her stomach growled. Loudly. They both burst out laughing.

“I was gonna be smooth,” Phin groaned, pressing her forehead to Bua’s shoulder. “So much for that.”

“You’re smooth enough,” Bua said, still smiling. “Hungry girl.”

Phin grinned, pressed one more kiss to her cheek, then gently pushed her toward the bedroom. “Go take a bath. Change into something that isn’t airport-flavored. I’ll reheat dinner.”

The table was already set—braised pork belly, jasmine rice, stir-fried morning glory, and a little plate of mango with sticky rice for dessert.

“You cooked?” Bua called from the hallway, glancing over her shoulder.

“Better than takeout,” Phin said, trying to keep her voice even. Trying not to give away how much more she had planned tonight.

Bua gave her a long look, eyes soft but curious. Then she nodded and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.

When she came out, hair damp and loose around her shoulders, she looked more like herself again. They sat, they ate, and for a few minutes it was easy—catching up, laughing over the chaos of travel, the weird vending machines, the new ramen place Bua swore they had to try in Bangkok.

And then, without planning it, Phin heard herself ask: “So… how was Osaka?”

Bua nodded. “Good. Busy. The conference was—”

“And how’s Dony?” Phin cut in, her tone dipping sharper than she meant.

Bua paused, chopsticks still in hand. “Dony?”

“That guy. The one from Chef Dhanin’s team. Talks a lot. Soft voice. Whatever.” Phin waved her own chopsticks like she was brushing something off, trying for casual and failing completely.

Bua blinked. Then her brow lifted, slow and knowing. “You mean Dennis.”

“Sure. Him.” Phin didn’t meet her eyes. She took another bite she didn’t really chew.

Bua didn’t answer right away. She studied her—really studied her—saw the tension in her jaw, the way her knee had been bouncing under the table, the way she kept glancing at Bua’s phone like it might betray her.

Oh.

“You’re jealous,” Bua said softly.

Phin’s eyes snapped up. “I’m not—” She stopped herself.

Bua set her chopsticks down with deliberate care. Reached across the table, touched Phin’s wrist. Her voice was calm, but firm. “Phin. Nothing happened. Nothing for you to even think twice about.”

Phin didn’t pull away. But she also didn’t look reassured. Which was when Bua started to wonder what this was really about.

“I know,” Phin said too quickly. Then, softer: “I just—” She stopped, realized she was gripping her own knees under the table. Words kept tumbling out before she could stop them. “I thought about you being there without me, talking to him, and I hated it, and then I thought… maybe I should just—”

She stood up. Crossed to the sideboard. Pulled the small box from her bag.

Bua’s brow furrowed. “Phin—”

Phin opened it, her hand trembling. “Marry me.”

Phin didn’t know what had gotten into her, It wasn’t planned like this—not over half-eaten rice and pork belly, not with the taste of mango still in the air—but it was out now, the words hanging between them like steam.

Bua stared at the ring. Then at Phin. It took her a moment, but Phin saw it happen—saw the understanding click into place. The realization.

“You’re doing this because you’re jealous,” Bua said flatly.

“No, I’m doing this because I love you—”

“You’re doing this because you got jealous of him. Because you think I’ll just fall for the next man I meet the second you’re not around.”

Phin winced. “It’s not—”

“Phinya.” Bua’s voice was soft, but sharp enough to cut. “I’m not saying yes to something born out of panic. Not to you trying to cage me because you got scared.”

Phin’s stomach dropped.

Bua pushed her chair back, standing. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

The ring box was still open in Phin’s hand when Bua walked into the bedroom, leaving her alone at the table, the smell of dinner suddenly heavy in the air.

*****

That night, the apartment was too quiet.

Their bedtime rhythm—usually easy, familiar—felt stiff with silence. Bua brushed her teeth without a word, tied her hair back like she always did. Phin watched from the doorway, uncertain, the weight of the ring still ghosting her palm even though it was long tucked away in the drawer.

Neither of them said goodnight when they climbed into bed.

Phin got in first, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling, hands clasped over her stomach like she was bracing for something. Bua slipped in a few minutes later, her back to Phin as she reached over to flick off the light on her side.

The darkness settled over them like a wall.

“…Can we talk?” Phin’s voice was small, uncertain. “Please? I don’t wanna go to sleep with you mad at me.”

Bua didn’t answer right away. But she didn’t say no either.

“I just…” Phin took a breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I missed you so much it messed with my head. Every night I’d tell myself not to spiral, and then I’d look at the clock and wonder who you were talking to, if you were thinking of me, if I’d said I love you enough before you left. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Bua said quietly. “It’s just… not fair.”

Phin swallowed hard. “I know. I know. It’s just—I’ve never had something this good before. You’re the one I want. Every damn day. But when I imagined you meeting someone else—someone smoother, or when you realized you could have someone better than me—I panicked. I thought, if I didn’t ask you now, maybe I’d lose my chance.”

She turned toward Bua, even if all she could see was the curve of her back in the dark.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t trust you. Or like I’d try to trap you. I just… I’m scared. That’s all. Scared of being without you.”

Silence again.

Then the faint rustle of sheets. Bua shifted, turned slowly toward her. They stared at each other in the dark.

“You should’ve just said that,” Bua murmured. “Not skipped straight to a ring.”

Phin gave a small, embarrassed huff. “Yeah. Guess I’m an idiot.”

Bua didn’t argue. She shifted under the covers, inching closer until her legs brushed Phin’s. Then, without a word, she reached out—her hand finding Phin’s under the sheets, fingers lacing through hers in a quiet promise. She pressed in gently, wrapping an arm around Phin’s waist, resting her head in the crook of her neck like it belonged there.

“I’m not leaving you, Phin,” she whispered. “You don’t have to keep proving something to keep me.”

And Phin, finally, exhaled. The tension in her chest didn’t vanish, not completely—but it eased. Just enough to let her squeeze back. Just enough to let herself hope.

A beat passed. Then Bua murmured, “I’m sorry if I was too harsh earlier.”

“No,” Phin said quietly. “You were right. I was being an idiot.”

“Kind of a cute idiot.”

Phin huffed a small laugh into Bua’s hair. “Still an idiot though.”

They lay in silence for a moment, warm and tangled and breathing in sync. Then Phin added, “I’m gonna keep the ring for now. Just so you know. I’m not selling it or anything.”

Bua didn’t move, but Phin felt her smile against her skin.

“Not now,” Phin said. “Not like this. But one day—when it feels right. When you know it’s not coming from fear.”

Bua said nothing, but her hand tightened around Phin’s again. Not in warning. Not in dismissal. Just quiet, thoughtful pressure. Then she leaned up and kissed her. Not tentative. Not fiery either. Just slow and sure, like she’d been meaning to do it all day. Like her lips were answering something Phin hadn’t dared to ask. Phin startled just slightly, the guilt still etched into the slope of her shoulders. Her fingers twitched like she might pull away—but Bua’s hand caught her jaw, firm and gentle, holding her there.

“I missed you,” Bua said into her mouth. “So damn much.”

Phin melted at that. Not all at once—there was still hesitation in the way she touched back, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed. Like she was scared she didn’t deserve this, not after tonight.

Bua noticed. Of course she noticed. She pulled back just enough to see Phin’s face in the dark and whispered, low and certain, “Touch me.” Then, quieter, “Please.”

Phin made a noise like she was breaking open.

And then—slowly, carefully—they met in the middle. No rush, no edge of urgency. Just fingers learning each other again after eight long days, like they’d been starved of warmth. Mouths rediscovering the taste they knew best. A quiet kind of worship, like love that had lasted long enough to grow patient.

Phin kissed her like she didn’t want to be forgiven, only held. Bua kissed her like she’d already forgiven her hours ago. They didn’t say much. Just quiet sighs, low murmurs, the occasional stuttered “I’ve got you” or “right here” when the feelings got too big to keep in.

And when it was done, when they were tangled and spent and held together by nothing but skin and sleep and the faint smell of each other’s sweat—Phin tucked her face against Bua’s collarbone and whispered, almost bashful, “You’re everything I want, you know that?”

Bua smiled, sleepy and sated, but didn’t say anything. She kissed the top of Phin’s head.

And later, when Phin had drifted off to sleep beside her, Bua stayed awake a little longer—thinking not about the ring itself, but about the way Phin had looked when she held it out. About the future they both already lived like they shared.

She still wasn’t ready to say yes. But she had stopped thinking no.

*****

Life, as it tended to do, moved on.

They didn’t talk about Dennis again. Or the ring. Or that night—tangled up in apology and fear, and something almost too vulnerable to name.

But the ring stayed in Phin’s drawer. Beneath the mismatched socks she never bothered to fold. Tucked away, but never quite forgotten.

Their days settled into their familiar, unspoken choreography: Bua’s alarm going off before sunrise, Phin groaning into the pillow and swatting blindly in her direction. Black coffee and half a kiss before they both rushed out the door. Pre-service meetings. Quiet dinners at Heng lao when they could make time. A few arguments—about how Phin never answered her phone, about how Bua always left the lights on in the pantry. Small bumps, inevitable ones. But nothing that didn’t smooth out with sleep, or soup, or the weight of one of their hands sliding into the other under the table.

ROONG thrived like usual. Loud, warm, and a little chaotic—just the way they’d hoped. Regulars returned with friends, food critics came without notice, and the staff began to move like an orchestra: off-key sometimes, but always playing the same song.

It was on one of those seemingly ordinary days—a Tuesday, maybe, or a Thursday, Bua couldn’t quite remember after—that it happened.

Lunch prep had just begun. The kitchen buzzed with movement and Phin was at her usual spot near the line, sleeves rolled, tasting sauce straight off the ladle.

Then something was wrong.

A hiss that didn’t sound right.

A smell—sharp, chemical, out of place.

Bua turned just in time to see a flash of flame, sudden and too close, licking the air near the gas line. One of the junior cooks—Jo—froze where he stood, panic-written all over his face.

Phin didn’t hesitate.

She moved before anyone else did, body already twisting between Jo and the burst of heat, yelling for the main valve—“Turn it off, now!”—as the edge of her chef’s coat caught the flame.

It only lasted seconds. But it was enough.

Someone doused it. Someone shouted. The extractor kicked in. Someone yelled for the fire blanket while sprinted for the emergency shutoff.

And Bua—

Bua couldn’t breathe.

She stood rooted, watching smoke curl off Phin’s shoulder, the skin beneath already angry and red. And suddenly she was twenty-four again. France. A different kitchen. The sound of metal hitting tile. The stench of pain and antiseptic. Her own flesh burning.

For a second, time fractured. The past bled into the present.

And then Phin turned toward her, teeth gritted, trying to say something stupid like “I’m fine.”

That snapped her out of it.

“No,” Bua said—firm, urgent, shaking. She grabbed Phin’s uninjured arm.  No, you’re not.”

And without another word, she helped Phin out of her coat, barked at one of the staff to call ahead to the hospital, and walked her out of ROONG with a pace that brooked no argument.

The kitchen door swung shut behind them. Inside, the team stood silent, the smell of smoke still clinging to their clothes.

The drive to the hospital was fast—too fast. Bua’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, the car weaving through traffic as if sheer will could part the roads. Phin sat in the passenger seat, jaw clenched, sweat beading on her brow despite the air-conditioning. Her shirt was half off, slung around her neck to avoid pressing against the burn. Every bump in the road made her wince, though she tried to hide it.

She didn’t say much. Neither of them did.

Bua’s heart pounded louder than the sound of the tires on asphalt.

The hospital came into view in a blur of glass and fluorescent light. The emergency team met them at the curb—Phin waved them off at first, of course she did, muttering that she could walk herself in. Bua shut that down with one look. It wasn’t the time for pride.

Then she was gone—wheeled through double doors, surrounded by clipped voices and latex gloves and antiseptic.

Bua was left standing in the hallway, empty-handed.

She took a seat in the waiting area outside the pit, her hands finally free but still trembling, curled in her lap like she didn’t know what to do with them. It was just a burn. That’s what they said. But Bua had seen burns before. She had felt them.

And it didn’t matter if Phin walked out in ten minutes or needed a week to heal—what scared Bua was how fast it had happened. How an ordinary Tuesday (or was it Thursday?) had shifted in the space of a breath. They had done everything right—checked the equipment, trained the staff, followed the fire drills like clockwork. But disaster hadn’t cared. It still came. And it had come for Phin.

That was what hollowed Bua out the most. That it had been her this time. The person Bua couldn’t imagine mornings or kitchens or futures without.

She stared down at her hands. She didn’t notice the nurse who passed by. Didn’t notice how her phone buzzed with messages—She didn’t answer any of them.

Her mind was elsewhere. In the kitchen. Replaying the moment the flame surged. The sound of Phin’s voice—sharp, fearless. The look in her eyes when she turned and tried to downplay the pain, as if Bua wouldn’t see straight through her.

“I’m fine,” Phin had said.

But she wasn’t. And Bua hadn’t been either—not since.

The waiting room smelled like floor cleaner and cheap plastic. Somewhere down the hall, someone coughed. A baby cried. But the sounds felt distant, muffled, as if the world was moving behind a pane of glass.

All Bua could do was wait. And hope the person she loved most would walk back through those doors. Still Phin. Still hers. Still breathing.

They walked out of the emergency room just after dusk.

Phin’s left shoulder and part of her upper arm were bandaged in sterile white, the gauze stiff under her loose t-shirt. The diagnosis: first-degree burns, surface level, painful but not deep. No nerve damage, no scarring expected—just rest, ointment, and time.

Still, every step she took made her wince.

She tried to make a joke of it on the way to the car—something about how at least now she had an excuse to get out of prep. But Bua didn’t laugh. Phin didn’t push.

Back at their apartment, Bua helped her settle onto the sofa and handed her a glass of water and two small white pills. Phin took them without question. It was the quietest she’d been all day.

Ten minutes later, as Phin drifted off under the haze of painkillers, Bua reached for her phone.

“No,” Phin mumbled, eyes barely open. “Don’t make it a thing. Please.”

“I’m just letting them know,” Bua said softly, thumbing through her contacts.

“I’m fine,” Phin protested, weakly.

Bua didn’t answer that. Just found Sam’s number, pressed call, and stepped out onto the balcony.

She kept it calm. Clear. Told Sam what had happened, told her not to worry. It wasn’t serious. It could’ve been worse, but it wasn’t. She promised they’d keep an eye on it. She answered questions gently, said she’d send photos of the bandage later if they wanted.

She could hear the worry behind Sam’s quiet thanks. But Bua hung up knowing she’d done the right thing.

Because if things had gone differently—if it had been worse—they deserved to know. Responsibility didn’t scare Bua. Not when it came to Phin.

Later that evening, when the sky had turned a soft bruise-purple and the city had begun to hum again outside, Bua filled a small basin with warm water and carried it to the bathroom. Phin stirred when she touched her shoulder.

“Hey,” Bua whispered. “Come on. Let’s wash off the day.”

Phin was groggy and pliant, letting herself be guided. She sat on the stool as Bua gently pulled her shirt over her head, careful not to brush the bandage. The burn cream sat nearby, unopened.

Bua dipped a cloth in the water and began to clean around the edges of the injury. Her hands were steady—but her breathing wasn’t.

Phin watched her through the fog of fatigue, the wince of discomfort giving way to something else.

“Baibua,” she murmured. “What’s wrong?”

Bua didn’t answer right away. She kept moving—dabbing the cloth, unscrewing the ointment cap, smoothing it over the edges of the wound with the gentlest touch.

But when she finally spoke, her voice broke. Just slightly.

“I thought I lost you today.”

Phin blinked, eyes clearer now. “Hey. Hey, it wasn’t that serious—”

“No.” Bua looked up at her, eyes shining. “You don’t get it. One second you were there. The next, I saw the fire catch, and you didn’t flinch, you ran toward it. You threw yourself in the way.”

“I had to,” Phin said quietly. “He could’ve been—”

“I know.” Bua squeezed her eyes shut. “I know. And that’s what terrifies me.”

Her hands dropped into her lap. She didn’t cry like someone breaking apart—but like someone trying not to. Her voice was quiet, trembling.

“I’ve been through this before. I know what it’s like to stand in a kitchen and smell burning skin. I know what it’s like to think someone’s not walking away. And today—it was you.”

Phin reached out with her good arm and touched her cheek.

“I’m here,” she said softly.

“I know. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t almost happen.”

And in that moment, for the first time since the accident, Phin understood. Understood why Bua had called her sister, why she hadn’t smiled at her jokes, why she’d stood so still in the waiting room like the world had paused.

Phin had always thought Bua was the one who would walk away untouched. Stronger. Smarter. Safer. But right now, she looked fragile. Small. Real.

Tears slid down Bua’s cheeks without a sound, and Phin couldn’t look away—because this was new. Bua didn’t cry. Not like this. Not where anyone could see. And yet here she was, trembling, eyes red, her breath caught in the hollow of her chest. And it wrecked Phin—because she knew she was the one who had put that look there.

So Phin held her. Carefully, so the shoulder didn’t sting, she leaned forward and wrapped her arm around Bua’s waist, resting her head against Bua’s chest. The ointment lay forgotten between them. The steam from the basin had cooled. In the quiet, Phin made herself a promise. Never again. Never again would she be the reason Bua looked like this.

And for a long time, they just sat like that.

Later that night, the bedroom was dim but warm, the hum of the fan soft against the hush of traffic beyond the window. Phin had fallen asleep with surprising ease—likely helped by the painkillers still drifting through her system. Her breathing was steady, her mouth slightly open, one hand curled near her chest like a child. But every now and then, she winced—just barely—a tiny twitch at her brow, a short, pained breath.

Bua lay beside her, wide awake.

She’d turned off the lights an hour ago, but sleep never came. Not when her heart was still pounding from the image of fire, the sharp chemical scent of gas, the deafening chaos of the kitchen. Not when she could still feel Phin’s weight slamming into that line cook, the sound of her body hitting metal.

Slowly, carefully, Bua shifted onto her side. Her fingers brushed Phin’s hair back from her damp forehead, thumb grazing the soft curve of her cheek. The bandaged shoulder was out of reach, so she kept her touch feather-light, reverent.

“You idiot,” she whispered, voice barely air.

Phin didn’t stir.

Bua exhaled shakily, forehead nearly touching Phin’s. “You scared me,” she said, even softer this time. “Don’t you dare do that again.”

Her thumb lingered against Phin’s cheek, as if trying to memorize the warmth. “You don’t get to die before me. Not before we get married. Not before we get old and wrinkled and yell at each other about what to eat for breakfast.”

Bua stared at her face, memorizing it again like she hadn’t done that already a thousand times. It hit her again—how close it had come. How ordinary the day had started. How fast it had all turned.

You can do everything right, she thought. And something still breaks open. Something still goes wrong. She pressed her lips together, jaw tight. Her fingers lingered at Phin’s temple.

She could’ve lost her today. That thought—sharp and clean and terrifying—settled low in her chest like a stone. And yet here she was. Alive. Safe. Stubborn and infuriating and brave in all the wrong ways.

And all hers.

Bua didn’t believe in signs. But as she watched Phin sleep—still flinching, just a little, when the pain stirred—something inside her shifted. Quietly. Something that had been buried under caution and habit and fear. A small voice that said:

Maybe forever isn’t a trap. Maybe it’s a promise.

****

The days passed, and the wound on Phin’s shoulder began to heal—slowly, stubbornly, like her. The skin stayed pink for weeks, tight and tender under every shirt, but the pain dulled, faded. The bandage disappeared. The kitchen at ROONG returned to its usual rhythm: clangs and shouts, music thumping low from someone’s phone, the hiss of oil meeting flame. The accident began to blur at the edges, like a bad dream half-forgotten after waking.

Her family checked in often in the early days. Video calls, LINE messages, even a surprise visit when Sam and Lin showed up at the door with bags of fruit and a bottle of Phin’s favorite chrysanthemum tea.

Sam scolded her the second they stepped inside.

“You’re not invincible, Phinya,” she snapped, glaring at the sling that still looped over Phin’s shoulder. “You don’t have to jump into fire for everyone else.” Then, a beat softer, she added, “Ma’s worried sick, you know. Keeps asking if you’re okay.”

Phin just grinned sheepishly and let herself be fussed over, and Bua made them all noodles and tea and tried not to laugh when Sam shoved a new first-aid kit into her hands and said, “For next time. Because clearly you two are chaos magnets.”

The next morning, it was Phin’s mother who arrived—unannounced and fuming. She stormed in with a stern look and a cloth bag full of sticky rice dumplings, barely letting Phin get a word in before launching into a breathless tirade about recklessness and fire safety and what were you thinking, throwing herself like that?

“I raised you to be brave, not stupid,” she snapped, eyes bright with unshed tears. “What if you’d gotten hurt worse? What if—” Her voice cracked, and she had to look away.

Phin mumbled an apology, but her mother only clicked her tongue and shoved a thermos into her hands. “Drink this. You look pale.”

Bua’s own mother came by a few times, too—quiet and concerned, carrying tupperware full of soup and boxes of homemade jiaozi. Once, she even handed Phin a pouch of bitter-smelling Chinese herbal medicine and told her, firmly, to drink it all. Phin thanked her with both hands, then spent the next hour arguing with Bua about whether or not it would kill her faster than the burn.

—

A few months later, with Phin fully healed and life clicking back into its familiar rhythm, they stood side by side at Sam and Mon’s wedding.

It was held at Mon’s parents’ house—a sprawling home with a lush, manicured backyard that sloped into soft gardens and gentle lantern light. The air was fragrant with jasmine and night-blooming flowers, and the sunset gave everything a golden warmth.

Phin cried during the vows. Openly. Bua glanced at her with raised brows when she heard the first sniffle. By the time Mon promised to love Sam through every morning argument and late-night paperwork session, Phin had her hand over her mouth and tears sliding down both cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Bua whispered, amused. “Are you crying already?”

Phin nodded miserably. “It’s beautiful,” she choked out. “They’re so in love. It’s disgusting. I can’t.”

Bua shook her head, laughing under her breath, and slipped her hand into Phin’s. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder—when it was their turn, would Phin cry like this again? When she read her own vows? The thought should’ve terrified her. Once, it would have. But now? Now it just felt inevitable. Soft. Certain. Like the slow build of a favorite song.

Later that night, long after the cake was cut and Mon’s dad had made a tipsy speech about patience and Mon’s childhood mischief, the music turned low and golden. Phin led Bua to the grass near the string lights where couples swayed and spun in slow circles. One arm careful around Bua’s waist, the other still mindful of her own shoulder.

“Do you think we’d dance like this at our wedding?” Phin asked softly as they moved.

“I think you would cry through the whole first song.”

“Fair,” Phin sniffed. “Okay, but what if we made a whole playlist? Like one of those where every track is exactly us. And we make everyone suffer through it.”

“You already make everyone suffer through your kitchen playlist,” Bua deadpanned.

Phin laughed. “Okay, but imagine—our song playing under the stars. At the beach, maybe. Or on a rooftop. Or—ooh—on a boat. Like, a dinner cruise down the Chao Phraya.”

That made Bua laugh out loud. “What, with tourists watching us exchange vows between buffet stations?”

“I’m just saying. Views.”

“Well,” Bua said, chin resting lightly on Phin’s shoulder now, “you know that vineyard in Khao Yai? The one we get the Syrah from?” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t know… it’s quiet, beautiful. Feels a little like us.”

Phin blinked, caught off guard—but smiling. Bua just shrugged lightly, as if it were nothing. As if she hadn’t just named a future.

Phin stilled, just for a moment. Then she pulled back enough to look at Bua’s face. “You said ‘when.’”

“No, I said ‘if.’”

“You meant when.”

Bua smiled. And didn’t correct her. Because one thing was clear now: she wasn’t afraid of marriage anymore. Not when it was with her.

*****

ROONG had long since emptied out for the night. The lights were dimmed, the kitchen spotless, the silence stretching comfortably between two women who had lived a thousand noisy nights together.

Bua sat on the front counter, one foot tucked beneath her, the other swinging lazily. She was still in her manager’s attire, blazer long since shrugged off, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her low bun was coming undone, wisps of hair falling loose around her face.

She was eating ice cream straight from the pint with a plastic tasting spoon. Phin had told her it was a terrible habit. Bua did it anyway.

Phin, meanwhile, was across the kitchen pretending to clean. She rearranged the already perfectly aligned glassware. Adjusted a tray. Fiddled unnecessarily with the espresso grinder. Anything to keep her hands busy.

It was the night before Songkran holiday start—the Thai New Year and one of the rare long holidays when nearly every restaurant in the city, including ROONG, shut down. They’d planned this break for months. six full days of no work, no prep lists, no deliveries. Just sunshine, salt air, and sleep.

Bua had booked their flights to Phuket ages ago, complete with beachside hotel and backup plans in case of rain. Sam and Mon were joining them two days later, turning the solo getaway into a mini family vacation.

“Do you think they’ll let us do the boat tour on the first day?” Bua asked, between bites of mango ice cream. “Or should we go full tourist mode and hit the elephant sanctuary first? Sam said Mon wants to do a beach picnic but also the spa, and honestly—if I have to pick, I’d rather get sand in my food than strangers touching my feet.”

Phin chuckled—nervous and warm. “You’ve put way too much thought into this.”

“I’ve had the itinerary saved in three apps and printed on the fridge for two weeks. You’re lucky I didn’t laminate it.”

Phin wiped her palms on a dish towel, drew a breath, and crossed the room.

“Baibua.”

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?”

Bua looked up, eyebrow cocked. “I mean… I’d be worried if you didn’t by now.”

Phin smiled, heart hammering. “I do. I love you when you’re bossy and when you’re tired and when you’re threatening to fight a delivery driver for forgetting the basil.”

“That happened one time.”

“I love you when you’re stress-eating ice cream on the counter like a gremlin,” Phin said, taking another step closer, “and when you yell at me to drink water and stop wiping knives on my apron.”

“You’re stalling,” Bua said, spoon still in her mouth.

“I am,” Phin admitted. Then she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

Bua blinked. Her spoon paused mid-air.

“I almost messed this up before,” Phin said quietly. “That night when you back from Osaka? That was panic. But this—this is not panic. This is me knowing that you’re the one. That I want every ordinary night and every long weekend and every boring prep shift and every sweaty lunch rush with you.”

She opened the box.

“So, Baibua… will you marry me? For real this time. No panic, no pressure—just love. I mean… you can say no, but I’m really hoping you’ll say yes.”

Phin said it in a rush, all in one breath, like she was afraid she’d lose her nerve halfway through. Then she promptly squeezed her eyes shut—tight—like a kid bracing for a surprise. After a beat, one eye popped open, peeking sideways at Bua with a mix of hopeful panic and sheepish mischief, the corners of her mouth twitching. Like someone who’d just tossed their heart on the table… and now really, really needed to know if it would be okay.

Silence.

Then Bua’s spoon clattered softly onto the counter. She stared at the ring for one long heartbeat. Then at Phin. Then she laughed—quiet and breathless and full of everything.

“You’re such an idiot,” Bua said, sliding off the counter and standing in front of her.

Phin looked at her, eyes open and wide, hands still slightly trembling. “Is that a yes?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Bua didn’t answer right away. She reached up, cupped Phin’s face with both hands—thumbs brushing gently along her cheeks, tears welling in her own eyes. And then, with a soft laugh through the emotion, she swatted Phin lightly on the arm. “You could’ve proposed to me at the beach, you know. Like in a movie. Sunset, waves, dramatic violins.”

Phin let out a breathy laugh, smile crooked and full of affection. “Yeah, I could’ve,” she murmured. “But I know you. You hate grand gestures. And this kitchen… we built this. Every long day, every fight, every laugh, every late-night snack. It just felt right. Like it should be the one to witness our forever.”

She paused, then pouted just a little. “You still haven’t said yes.”

Bua’s smile wobbled, but didn’t break. Her eyes shimmered as she leaned in, forehead resting against Phin’s. “Of course it’s a yes.”

And then she kissed her—fierce and steady and full of promise. It wasn’t rushed. Phin’s hands found Bua’s waist, holding her close, grounding herself in the one person who had never once let go. Bua’s fingers curled into Phin’s shirt, tugging her in like a lifeline, like an answer she already knew. The kiss deepened, slow and certain, as if sealing something unspoken between them—not just a proposal, but everything they’d carried, built, fought for, and come through together.

Somewhere in the background, the fridge compressor hummed. A faint drip echoed from the dish rack. The last pots were still drying on the shelf. The aprons hung neatly by the door. The scent of lemongrass and toasted rice still lingered faintly in the air, a memory of the dinner rush long past.

And there they stood—in the soft lamplight of their shared dream—wrapped in each other, quiet and laughing, hearts thudding in sync. Just two women in love, in the kitchen they built with their own hands, at the end of another long day that somehow marked the beginning of everything else.

They stayed like that for a while, swaying gently in place, as if dancing to a song only they could hear.

The night was still young. But their forever had just begun.

*****

A few months later, Phin and Bua said their vows (Phin crying, of course) at that beautiful vineyard in Khao Yai, surrounded by rows of Syrah grapes and everyone who loved them. Right where the journey of ROONG—and everything after—first began.