Archive of Our Own ^beta

It turned out there was a lot of paperwork to do when your only two surviving family members were murderers. There was even more to do when one of them practiced black magic—for real, who still did that kind of thing?—and both of them had been involved in numerous shady deals using the family business. That wasn’t even getting into how both of them had tried to kill Home, or that the family lawyer was an accomplice to his uncle’s crimes. Home’s long-unused business degree was getting a workout reading through whatever Kan put in front of him. He would skip out on it, but then she would frown at him, and Pangpang would scold him for making things hard for Kan, and Peach would look at him with those sympathetic eyes and probably say something nice because he was still coddling Home a little, but Home would know that inside Peach was disappointed.

Today they were doing deposition practice, which was maybe worse than reading paperwork because he couldn’t even skim. And if he made jokes, Kan would look at him with a penetrating stare and say, “Please remember you’re testifying about an attempted murder. Of you.”

Home remembered.

“My head hurts,” he told Kan finally, tone verging on whining. He had gone over his understanding of the events leading to the first (first!) attempt to kill him at least ten times now. At this point, he was probably repeating his testimony in his sleep, not that he or anyone else would know. “Can we stop for today?”

Kan looked up from her notes, eyebrows already drawn together—Pangpang and Home had both warned her she was going to get wrinkles, but she ignored them—but whatever she saw on Home’s face forestalled her objections. She sighed and straightened her papers before setting them aside on the desk. “All right. We can come back to this in a few days.”

“Thanks, khun!” he said in his best cheerful voice. Kan didn’t look convinced, but then she rarely did. “I’m going over to the restaurant. Want a ride?”

“I have more work to do,” she said. “I’ll come over later.”

He pointed at her accusatorily. “You’d better. It’s family dinner night.”

“I know,” Kan said. “Pangpang has reminded me three times already.”

Well, if Pangpang was on the case, Home had nothing to worry about. Left to her own devices, Kan might lose herself in work until late, but Pangpang was strict, even dictatorial, about everyone’s presence at their bimonthly dinners. Home often complained, loudly, that it was hardly necessary to have scheduled time together when they still saw each other all the time, but privately he liked the formality of it. It was reassuring.

Home got to his feet and picked up his iPad, swiping off the legal documents with a sense of relief. “I can have P’Suradech come pick you up,” he offered.

“I have my own car, Home,” Kan reminded him.

“All right, all right.” Home raised his free hand in defeat. “I’ll see you, then.”

He left her cramped office, tucked into the back of a shared co-working space, and stepped outside right as it started to rain. Swearing under his breath, he covered his head and made a run for the car, where Suradech was waiting for him and reading a translation of a Korean novel that the back cover promised was “haunting” and “emotional.” Sure enough, there were tear stains on Suradech’s face when Home knocked on the window. Suradech wiped his face with his sleeve and unlocked the doors, tucking the book under the seat as Home got in on the passenger side.

“Good book?” Home asked, scrupulously buckling up. There had been signs in America about that—“Click It or Ticket.” He always liked the way that sounded.

“It’s beautiful, khun noo,” Suradech said solemnly. “Where to?”

“To the restaurant!” Home said, pointing dramatically out the windshield.

Suradech nodded and pulled out of the parking space before doing a u-turn and driving in the opposite direction. Home settled back into his seat and gazed out the window as they launched themselves into Bangkok traffic.

Peach was in the kitchen when they arrived at the restaurant, which was where he usually was these days—he was on a traditional Thai cooking kick and had been testing out new recipes. Home had eaten more Thai food in the past two weeks than he had in years; he had never been able to stomach it when he lived in America. Somewhat unusually, Peach wasn’t alone.

Best ate a bite of noodles from the skillet and made a thoughtful face. Judging from his collared black dress shirt, he was either on the way to or coming back from work. His sleeves were folded up to his elbows, revealing his forearms and a watch Home knew was expensive. Home snorted to himself. Pangpang was right about this guy; he did look smug. And pretentious. Who wore a watch like that to cook? Why was he here, anyway? Didn’t he have his own restaurant?

“I think maybe more lime juice,” Best said. He held out the fork he had just used for Peach to taste. Home’s face twisted in disgust. Come in, at least wipe it off! That was unsanitary, Peach wouldn’t—

Peach leaned forward and ate the rest of the food from Best’s fork. Home’s stomach went sour. Disgusting. Ugh, he was going to be sick.

“You’re right,” Peach said to Best after he swallowed. “Lime and maybe some fresh basil.”

“Oh, yes!” Best beamed like Peach had said something impossibly innovative. “This is why you’re doing so well.”

“We’re not doing that well,” Peach said. “Don’t believe Pangpang’s videos. She loves to exaggerate.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Best said. “People have been talking about this place. Though I think the name is confusing people.”

“What’s so confusing about it?” Home burst out, unable to contain himself. “It’s a great name!”

Best and Peach both turned in his direction as Home came through the door. Best looked, as usual, smug, a faint smirk at his lips. Peach, on the other hand, smiled brightly and waved.

“Ai’Home, you’re here! I didn’t know you were coming by so soon. Dinner isn’t for another couple of hours.”

“Kan and I finished early today,” Home said. “Didn’t know you already had company.”

“Best just dropped by to help recipe test,” Peach said. He used the back of his wrist to push up his glasses and shook his hair out of his eyes. “Ugh, I should have grabbed a hair tie from Pangpang.”

“You need a haircut,” Best said with a faint air of disapproval. “Why do you wear it like this, anyway? You never did before the—” He stopped, glanced over his shoulder at Home, who shrunk in on himself instinctively at the reminder of the accident, and reworded what he was about to say. “You didn’t used to, I mean.”

“I got in the habit,” Peach said with a shrug. “It’s less work like this, and people don’t pay as much attention to me.”

“Yeah, because you’re ridiculously handsome,” Best said. “Except now between this and the glasses, no one can see your face.”

Peach laughed, but Home bristled at the implication that Peach wasn’t ridiculously handsome as it was. Sure, he dressed like he was making merit and looked like a nerd with those glasses, but he was still perfectly good-looking! Any idiot could see that.

“Just help me get it out of my face,” Peach said. He turned toward Best, chin tilted down expectantly.

Best tsked. Still, he ran his hands under the faucet before reaching out to comb wet fingers through Peach’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead and revealing Peach’s face. Home’s stomach lurched like he had missed a step on the stairs. He stared fixedly at the movement of Best’s fingers through Peach’s hair, feeling tingles run through him as though Best were stroking his hair. Something was bubbling beneath his skin; he wanted to knock Best’s hand aside, or leave the room, or–

“Wait a second,” Home said, crossing the room to reach them. He picked up a rubber band that must have come from some bunch of vegetables and gestured for Peach to face him.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Peach asked skeptically even as he bent his head to Home’s hands.

“It isn’t complicated,” Home said. He gathered a handful of Peach’s thick hair and wrapped the rubber band around it until he was confident it wouldn’t come loose. “There.”

He stepped back and looked Peach over. Peach’s glasses were slipping down his nose again, and some of the water had splashed onto the lenses. Sighing, Home took them off his face and set them aside.

“You don’t even need these,” Home said. “Why are you wearing them here? No one else is around.”

Peach blinked at him, wide-eyed with surprise. Between that and the sprout of a ponytail sticking up from his head, he looked about ten years old. Home snorted and patted the top of Peach’s ponytail. “Cute.”

At that, Peach scowled and batted Home’s hand away. “Are you making me look stupid?”

“Do you need much help with that?” Home asked. “Go cook or whatever.” He waved Peach on and leaned back against the opposite counter, inadvertently making eye contact with Best as he did. Best grinned at him, like they were friends or something. Gross.

Luckily, Best didn’t stay much longer, excusing himself a few minutes later to go to his own restaurant. Home waggled his fingers goodbye and then scowled as soon as Best turned his back. Peach caught him at it and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Home smiled brightly and drifted over to the stove to look at what Peach was cooking.

“Need any help?” he asked, bumping his elbow against Peach’s arm. Peach had rolled his sleeves up over his shoulders, the muscles flexing attractively as he moved around.

“Sure,” Peach said. “Could you dice these onions?” He pushed two toward the cutting board with the back of his knife before flipping it around so he could hold it out to Home, handle first.

Home took the knife and set about his task, feeling Best’s phantom presence in the room as he did. There was a second apron draped over the edge of the counter, an abandoned glass of water. Best probably diced onions into perfectly uniform cubes. Who named their kid Best, anyway? Seemed pretty arrogant.

“Ai’Home, what’s that?” Peach asked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

Home glanced up to find Peach looking at his cutting board. He looked down at the small pile of admittedly haphazardly cut onion and back up again. “What?”

“I know I taught you better technique than that,” Peach said. The words were scolding, but his voice was soft and fond. “Do you need me to show you again?”

He came to stand behind Home without waiting for an answer, reach around him to place his hand over Home’s on the handle of the knife. Home went hot all over, smug and pleased at Peach’s attention. Best probably never had Peach like this, speaking quietly into his ear as Peach coached him in how to move the blade efficiently. Well, Best probably already knew how to do it, but still.

“And tuck your fingers in,” Peach said, tapping the knuckles of Home’s left hand. “I’m not taking you to the hospital if you cut your finger off.”

“Of course not,” Home said, knowing Peach would. “Like this?”

“Good,” Peach said approvingly. Home preened, and let Peach guide him through the next few dices until Peach was satisfied with his work.

Peach stepped away, leaving Home’s back cold. He lifted his head to whine about it and caught sight of Pangpang and Suradech sitting at one of the tables and watching them avidly. Pangpang let out a little “oui!” and covered her mouth with one hand.

“Don’t mind us,” she called. “I promise I’m not filming!”

“You know that saying that is more suspicious than if you just didn’t say anything at all, right?” Peach asked. He lifted his hand as if to push up his glasses, then stopped, hand hanging awkwardly in air before he settled on pushing a few rogue locks of hair off his foreheads.

“The hair is so cute, hia!” Pangpang said. “I think we should make this your look. What do you think, P’Home?”

Home looked at Peach with his cute little sprout of hair and imagined what the commenters on Pangpang’s channel would say. No, no, no one else should see Peach like this. This was just for him. Them.

“Don’t ruin his image like that,” Home said. “He’s the hot ghost-hunter-slash-chef. He can’t be seen like this.”

“You’re the one who did this to me,” Peach said in exasperation. He reached up as if to pull the rubber band out. Home’s hand snapped out and grabbed his wrist without him consciously deciding to.

Peach was strong, but he was slim, almost delicate at times, and his wrist felt small in the circle of Home’s fingers. The firm beat of pulse beneath Home’s thumb, calm and relaxed but picking up speed. Home stared at his hand, then up at Peach, who was looking back at him in surprise, mouth slightly open.

“Uh,” Peach said. “Home?”

Home blinked, tried to think of something to say, and settled on, “You’ll get your hair in your eyes again. What if it gets in our food?”

“Have you ever found my hair in your food?” Peach asked, exasperated. “Come on.” He gently tugged his hand free of Home’s grip, but didn’t reach up to his hair again. “When you’re done with the onion, I need your help with the peppers.”

“Yes, chef!” Home saluted. Peach flashed him a quick, sweet smile; something small and hot burst like fireworks in Home’s chest. Maybe heartburn.

Kan arrived just a few minutes before dinner was ready, settling into the chair next to Pangpang with a heavy sigh. Pangpang reached over and started rubbing her shoulders, face scrunched up sympathetically.

“Busy day, mae?” Pangpang asked.

“Every day is busy,” Kan said. Home poured her a glass of water and brought it over, feeling slightly guilty about leaving her with all her work. “Thank you. But today it was good busy. I finally got some of the files I need from Khun Somphorn’s lawyers right before I was about to leave.”

“That’s good!” Pangpang said enthusiastically. “Information is power!”

Home sat opposite Kan, having been shooed from the kitchen now that only the actual cooking was left, and reached over to snag a nut from the bowl in front of Suradech. “What about you, Pangpang? What were you doing today?”

Pangpang launched into a convoluted explanation of her latest venture, only pausing when Peach brought over the food: peanut noodles, vivid pink shrimp peeking out from beneath bright strips of carrot and pepper; fragrant somtam, speckled with chilis; freshly cooked water spinach, still steaming from the skillet; and clear soup and rice to finish it all. Home, who hadn’t been particularly hungry, was suddenly ravenous.

“Oh, hia, this looks great!” Pangpang said. “Are you adding these to the menu?”

“Try it first,” Peach said. “And Home helped. So did Best.”

Pangpang wrinkled her nose as she reached for the somtam. “Best was here?”

“Pangpang, really,” Peach said with a sigh. “Best is great! And he actually came by to ask for our help.”

“Another haunted house?” Pangpang asked sourly. “What, did he buy another one?”

“Well, yes. Not the second house thing, but it is a ghost.” Peach took Home’s plate and began piling it with food. “A friend of his thinks his apartment complex is haunted. I know we aren’t in the ghost hunting business anymore, but I thought maybe we could go take a look.”

“Not me,” Kan said immediately. “I’ve got too much to do. But if you need information, I suppose you can call me.”

“Can I film?” Pangpang asked. “It could be great content. A sequel to our viral hit!”

“I suppose, if Best’s friend agrees,” Peach said. He set the now-loaded plate in front of Home. “Home? You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but since you can hear them, it might be helpful.”

Home looked at Peach’s soft, earnest expression, unimpeded by glasses. He had finally taken down his hair, which fell now in soft curls over his forehead.

“Sure,” Home said. He blinked, thought back a second, then gave in. “Why not? We can do some charity work.”

Peach snorted and handed Home a bowl of rice. “If you want to think of it that way. P’Suradech?”

Suradech nodded solemnly. “I go where Khun Home goes.”

“Woo!” Pangpang punched the air. “Welcome back Vimarnsukmun Ghost Hunting Co. Unlimited! Watch out, ghosts!”

“Thank you,” Peach said earnestly. “Enough of that—eat!”

The food was delicious, the noodles rich and savory, the somtam crisp and tangy. Home cleared his plate and went back for seconds, eating until he was full, almost too much so. He sank back in his seat and looked around the table, at Pangpang telling Kan about some lakorn she was watching while Suradech nodded along, to Peach, who was watching them eat with a pleased expression. Peach caught his look and smiled, warm, and Home thought he could do this every night, the five of them here in the sanctuary of Cooking Long Lasting.

Once they all finished eating, Home and Kan ended up on dish duty, Kan washing while Home dried. They worked in silence at first before Kan eventually said, “Best. He was the one from the first house, yes?”

“You haven’t seen him when he’s come by?” Home asked. “Hah. Lucky you. He’s so—ugh.”

Kan raised her eyebrows. “Really.”

And that just encouraged Home to recount the whole thing to Kan, who listened without ever lowering her eyebrows, though she snorted a couple of times. When he got to the part about Best “fixing” Peach’s hair, she even shook her head and sighed.

“See!” he said, vindicated. “He’s the worst!”

Kan turned to face him, tilting her head to one side. “You sound jealous,” she said.

Home sputtered. “Jealous? Who do I have to be jealous of? I’m handsome, rich, funny, I have great fashion—”

“Peach,” Kan said.

That was even more confusing. “Why would I be jealous of Peach? I don’t want Best putting his hands all over me.”

Kan rolled her eyes and stomped her foot impatiently. “No, you’re jealous over Peach. You got jealous seeing someone else be close with him.”

“But that’s stupid,” Home said. “I’m with Peach all the time.”

“Yes,” Kan said, in a tone like that should mean something to him. “You are.”

Home squinted at her suspiciously. Kan had a real knack for making him feel stupid at times. Right now she was staring at him with a kind of come-on-already expression, but all Home could think was, well, Peach was his best friend, and he was pretty sure he was Peach’s best friend too–hadn’t he said so? But maybe Peach was one of those people who had lots of best friends, like one of Home’s ex-girlfriends back in New York. Did he think of Best that way too?

“Peach is my best friend,” Home said slowly.

Kan rolled her eyes and flicked her hair over her shoulder. “That isn’t it,” she said, exasperated. “You like Peach.”

“Of course I like Peach,” Home said. “I just said he’s my best friend.”

“No, you like him. Romantically. Obviously.” Kan shook her head. “Even I can tell, and I’ve been told I have the romantic inclinations of a plank of wood.”

“Okay, first of all, rude, whoever told you that is a jerk,” Home said. “And second of all, no, I don’t! That’s ridiculous! Also, keep your voice down.” He thought he sounded admiringly calm for how fast his heart was suddenly racing. Like? Peach? Him?

Kan rolled her eyes again, somehow even more emphatically than before, but obligingly lowered her voice. “I’m just saying, Home, you and Peach have been close for a while now. I mean, he forgave you for running him over.” Home winced. “And you gave him this restaurant, his literal life’s dream.”

“He saved my life,” Home said.

“Sure,” Kan agreed. “He did. But this restaurant specifically? I’ve been reading through your family’s paperwork for months now, Home. I know what this place meant to you. Your grandfather gave it to you specifically, and you gave it to Peach. You might as well have given him your heart.”

From the way Home’s heart was thumping, maybe he should give it to Peach. It was clearly defective. “So what are you saying? That I’m in love with him?” He said the last part sarcastically, expecting a laugh or a clarification.

“Yes,” Kan said.

“Oh.”

“Mm.” Kan returned her attention to the remaining dishes in the sink. “I don’t know what your dating history is like, so maybe this is a surprise to learn about yourself, but you should think about doing something about it. I’m pretty sure Peach feels the same.”

Now that was an even more terrifying thought. “He does?”

“Like I said, I’m pretty sure.” Kan shrugged. “You, I see every day. I don’t know him as well.”

“No,” Home said. “That can’t be true. There’s no way.”

Because it would be stupid of Peach to like Home. At least, to like him like that. Home knew Peach liked him as a friend, that he valued their relationship and their connection. Even without talk of karma and destiny and all that, Peach obviously liked spending time with him, or he’d do it less. Peach never had any qualms about telling Home to get lost in the past, and that was when Home was employing him.

But liking him, romantically? That would be crazy. Peach was a catch, handsome and good-natured, and an incredible chef to boot. The seeing ghosts thing might be a turn-off for some, but there were tons of people out there who wouldn’t mind, and some who might even think that was cool. If Peach ever decided to put himself out there, he’d be drowning in options before the end of the day. All Home really had going for him was his money, and these days there was less of that than before. His complicated family situation and his lack of a real job would deter any normal person, and if it didn’t, Home would honestly be suspicious of why not.

In the past, it hadn’t bothered him when his partners dated him because of his name or his money. Maybe in university, when he had a string of short-lived partners who he quickly realized were more interested in what he could buy them than in his personality, but that was a long time ago now. If people wanted to date him for his money, then fine.

But Peach didn’t care about Home’s money. And Home had a great personality, thank you very much, but he was well aware that he and Peach were incredibly different. Not to mention the fact that Home had killed him. So yeah, Peach would have to be insane or stupid to like Home romantically, and while the jury was still out on the former, he definitely wasn’t stupid.

“If you say so,” Kan said, the skepticism dripping off her tone. “But as for you—think about it. Don’t give Best a hard time just because you’re jealous.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Home waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. I’m not jealous.”

Two days later, as he watched Best and Peach hug hello, both beaming like they hadn’t just seen each other, he had to admit that he might, possibly, be a little jealous.

It was just that Peach was his best friend. He had put in the work! He saw Peach nearly every day! But no, Best got the hugs and the big huge smiles. Home watched them, arms crossed over his chest, and tried not to scowl when Best made a joke that made Peach laugh. Beside him, Pangpang had her arms crossed, too.

“I’m already regretting this,” she said under her breath. She turned on her phone camera, lifting her selfie stick to get a better angle, and plastered on a grin. “Hey, everyone, it’s Pangpang here—”

Home took the opportunity to look around the building while she was giving her spiel to the viewers and Peach and Best were gossipping or whatever. His best guess was that it had been built sometime in the nineties and converted to condos within the last ten years; he had seen enough places like this to recognize the design trends. Whoever had renovated it had done a pretty nice job—while it wasn’t luxury, it felt modern and sleek without being too cold. Not exactly the kind of place he’d expect to find a ghost hanging out, but he’d learned over the months since briefly dying that ghosts could be anywhere.

In some ways, he was luckier than Peach; for the most part, he could ignore the whispers he heard from time to time. If he put headphones in, it could even be enough of a distraction that he could pretend they weren’t there at all. It didn’t work to drown them out—apparently he wasn’t hearing the ghosts with his literal physical ears—but at least he could rock with Jennie while speedwalking away.

And despite what some people thought, there weren’t actually ghosts everywhere. Peach said ghosts that actually lingered were rare; often they’d hang around for a bit after they died, but would leave once their services had been carried out. That did mean that the ones who stayed were the angrier, more stubborn ones, but as long as they didn’t go walking into anywhere they knew was haunted, both of them were usually fine.

Home didn’t hear anything just then, though, and judging by Peach’s expression as he looked around (the glasses were back on, much to Home’s annoyance), there weren’t any ghosts around to see. Peach caught his eye, and Home shrugged, trying to communicate with his eyes that this was all a waste of time and probably some nefarious plot by Best. To what end? Who could say with someone like him, who would come in and steal a poor rich kid’s best friend? Who cares if he’d known Peach first? Home and Peach had gone through life and death situations together!

The building elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal a slender young man, maybe a couple of years younger than Best, who nervously approached them and offered a tentative wai. “P’Best?”

Best turned, and something in his body language changed, seeming to become taller? Broader? His expression, when Home edged around Pangpang to see, had softened, his gaze fond as he looked at the newcomer. “Wiew, hi. Sorry we’re a little early, but these are the people I told you about.” His voice had gentled as well, enough that Home glanced at Pangpang to see if she was having the same thought as him. Judging from the way she waggled her eyebrows at him, she was.

“Hi,” Wiew said, performing another polite wai and smiling, a little nervously “I’m Wiew, Best’s junior from high school. It’s nice to meet you. You’re P’Peach, right?”

All right, Home was annoyed again. “Yep,” he broke in, moving in to drape his arm around Peach’s shoulders. Peach stiffened and gave him a confused look, which, honestly, insulting. “He’s Peach and I’m Home. Our camerawoman is Pangpang, and our man-of-all-trades is Suradech.” He nodded over to Suradech standing in the corner by the door, who struck an intimidating pose and lifted his chin.

“Oh,” Wiew said, nodding slowly. “But—P’Peach, you can see ghosts?”

“Yes, and Ai’Home can hear them,” Peach said. Home preened at that, a little pleased by how Best looked at him in surprise. “Would you tell us about the ghost you think is here?”

According to Wiew, it was common knowledge among the residents that their building was haunted. He had even been warned when he moved in, but had thought maybe they were trying to scare him off.

“Besides,” he said, taking them into the elevator, which was a tight squeeze with five people, “no one could agree on anything about the ghost, except that it usually shows up right around sunset.”

It was only a few weeks after Wiew moved in that he first heard it: the stairwell door opening and closing, over and over. But when he went to look, all he saw was the door swinging shut, and when he peeked into the stairwell, he didn’t see or hear anyone. “I started to think that was why people said different floors,” he explained. “Everyone heard it on their own floor, but didn’t know where the sound was coming from. But I live right across from the stairwell.”

On the fifth floor, he showed them the stairwell where he’d first heard the ghost. It came back irregularly, but just frequently enough to be a concern. Wiew was putting on a good front, but Home could see him shivering as he demonstrated how the door would slam. Best put a protective arm around him when Wiew came back into the hallway, tucking him against his side.

“So?” Best asked them. “Do you think you can help?”

Peach poked his head into the stairwell, then glanced back at Home. Home shook his head; he didn’t hear anything. But then, it was still early, maybe an hour until sunset. Peach looked at Wiew. “Do you know anything about the history of the building?”

“Not much,” Wiew said. “Just gossip, you know? There was a woman who disappeared from here maybe seven years ago, but most people think she just eloped with her partner, and there’ve been people who died here, but, like, old people, not anything out of the ordinary.”

Peach nodded thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said. “Wiew, is it okay if we use your kitchen?”

Once in Wiew’s apartment, Peach and Best put their heads together, talking very fast about food and what they could make from Wiew’s fridge. Home scowled at them and threw himself onto Wiew’s admittedly very comfortable sofa with a hmmph. Wiew hovered just past the end of the sofa, eyes very big as he looked from the chefs to Home, Pangpang, and Suradech.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Water, or…?”

“Water would be great,” Home said, just as Pangpang said, “We’re fine.” They looked at each other, then at Wiew, who looked even more uncertain.

“Water,” Home said firmly. “P’Suradech, could you help him?”

“Oh, I don’t need—”

Suradech patted Wiew on the shoulder in a way that was probably intended to be comforting but instead seemed to cause Wiew more anxiety. “I will help.”

Home watched them go and relaxed slightly when he saw how Best’s attention was immediately diverted from Peach the moment Wiew came into sight. Wait, why was he relieved? It didn’t matter, did it, that Best seemed to like Wiew? Were they dating? It didn’t seem like they were dating, Best introduced him as a friend. Did Wiew know? Why did Home care? Oh god, was Kan right? Was he jealous of Best because he took up Peach’s attention? Because Home liked Peach?

“Hey, Pangpang,” Home said, trying to sound casual. “Do you think it’s possible to fall for someone and not know it?”

Pangpang jerked up from her slump in the corner of the sofa and whirled around to face him. She clasped her hands under her chin. “P’Home,” she said, eyes wide and sparkling. “Are you in love?”

“No!” Home hissed. Pangpang frowned and dropped her hands, leaning in toward him until he had to grab a book from Wiew’s coffee table to push her off. “Stop it. What are you doing?”

“I need to look you in the eye,” she said. “Sit still! I can see these things, you know.”

“What, Peach can see ghosts and you can see love?”

“Absolutely!” Pangpang said. “Now stop moving.”

“Hey, stop!” Home seized her by the shoulders and held her at arms length. “It’s about Best.”

Pangpang wrinkled her nose. “Best? First of all, no thanks, and second of all, I think you’re out of luck. He seems pretty into Labubu Smile in there.”

Home couldn’t help his laugh at that; Wiew’s smile did kind of look like that. “Yeah. I mean, that’s what made me ask.” He tried to figure out how to deflect so she wouldn’t figure out what was bothering him; while she had mostly given up on shipping them, she still tagged photos of him and Peach with #peachhome and #peachhomeisreal. “Seeing him with Wiew, I was wondering. He said they’re friends, but do you think he knows, uh. That he doesn’t see them as friends?”

Pangpang leaned away from him, frowning. “Uh, I wouldn’t know. Best and I aren’t exactly BFFs. But if I had to guess…” She glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen, where Best was hovering just past Wiew’s shoulder as he poured two glasses of water. “I think he probably has an idea.”

“What if he thinks it’s just normal friendship feelings?” Home asked. “Maybe he doesn’t know.”

Pangpang turned her frown on him now. “P’Home,” she said. “You’re being very suspicious.”

“What? No,” Home said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s, you know, idle curiosity. Anyway, has Kan texted? Do we know anything more about the building?”

It turned out Kan had, in fact, texted with a list of the tenants who had died in the building. It was a pretty short list, with only three from around the time the ghost had first appeared. Home made a note of the names and ages, sent her a text back saying thank you, and went to check out what Peach was doing.

“Since we don’t know what the ghost likes, I figured I’d do something simple,” Peach said when Home glanced at the pan. “Everyone likes tom kha gai, right?”

It already smelled heavenly; Home wanted to steal a spoonful, but he knew from experience that it would be a bad idea, both because he would burn his mouth and because Peach would scold him. “I always did.”

Peach flashed him a smile, and Home couldn’t help but smile back. He felt warm and fuzzy for all of about two seconds before Peach’s expression changed and he asked, “Hey, by the way—what kind of food did your parents like?”

Home went still, suddenly cold. “What?”

“Oh—I’m sorry, that was a bad segue, wasn’t it?” Peach laughed awkwardly and scratched at the back of his head. “Back at your grandfather’s cremation service, I happened to notice their plaques. The anniversary is coming up soon, isn’t it? I thought I’d cook the offerings for you and thought it might be nice to give them something they liked.”

A wave of icy grief washed over Home, followed swiftly by the humiliating sensation of tears prickling his eyes. He quickly ducked his head to hide his face; he felt as though his mouth were stuffed with cotton. It was stupid—his parents had died over two decades ago, after all. He hadn’t exactly forgotten that the anniversary was coming up, but he generally tried not to think about it. The last three years, he had made offerings alone in his apartment; before that, he had always gone with his grandfather. Part of him had been expecting to go alone this year, and now Peach was standing here, saying not only would he go with him, but that the offerings wouldn’t be storebought; he could send his parents real, delicious home-cooked food.

“Ai’Peach,” Home said, too softly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to, though,” Peach said. He squeezed Home’s elbow and went back to stirring. “You can think about it. We have a few weeks.”

“Yeah,” Home said. His heart was beating very fast; he stared at Peach’s profile, his chest full of things he wanted to say in reply. But there was no time for any of it, not when they had a ghost to meet. “I—thank you.”

Peach smiled without looking up. “Of course,” he said.

A little after sunset, Home and Peach went to the stairwell with their bowl of tom kha gai and a stick of incense. They sat cross-legged on the landing opposite each other and both bowed their heads to pray as Peach lit the incense and carefully placed it inside the bowl.

“Spirit, whoever you are, we bring this soup in offering,” Peach said, voice steady. He had come so far since Home first met him. “We would like to help you, if we can.”

Silence. The air was very still, the scent of the tom kha and incense filling the stairwell. Home waited, eyes closed, long enough that he started to wonder if there was any ghost coming. But then he heard it: the sound of soft slippered footsteps, a woman’s voice humming a tune he didn’t recognize.

“Do you hear that?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“Hear what?”

“I think I hear her,” Home said. The footsteps were getting closer now, rising up to where they were sitting. He opened his eyes, but of course saw nothing, though he thought he could feel something different in the air. Peach, on the other hand, was looking just past the railing to the oncoming stairs. His jaw was tense, a muscle twitching just below his ear, though otherwise calm “You see her?”

“I see her,” Peach said quietly. “She looks older. Maybe in her sixties?”

Home thought back over the list Kan had sent him. “It must be Lalita Sirikul,” he said, voice hushed. “She slipped and fell down the stairs one night.” He turned in the direction Peach was looking and said, “Auntie, come eat. Tell us what you’d like to see.”

The steps reached him, and a moment later Home watched as the soup began to drain from the bowl, a centimeter at time. Peach was still pale and tense, enough so that Home reached out to squeeze his ankle. Peach shot him a quick look and asked, “Is she saying anything?”

“No,” Home said. “Auntie? Is there anything we can do for you?”

Lalita was quiet a moment before she began to hum again. She had a pleasant voice, though she wasn’t entirely in key; Home found himself nodding along to the rhythm of it, until she abruptly stopped and said, “—rest of it—he—still practicing.”

“Who?”

A whispery sigh. “—grandson—”

Her voice cut off there, the something in the air fading away. Home waited another minute before looking at Peach for confirmation.

“She’s gone,” Peach said. “Do you think…?”

“No,” Home said. “I think she’ll be back. She said something about her grandson.”

“We should ask Kan,” Peach said. “Come on.” He got to his feet and offered Home his hand. Home took it, letting Peach haul him up. “Let’s go tell Best and Wiew.”

Wiew seemed unsure whether he was relieved or more scared by the confirmation that there was, indeed, a ghost, albeit the ghost of a grandma who seemed on the whole to be pretty well-behaved. Best thanked them both profusely, giving Peach another hug that raised Home’s hackles before offering Home a firm handshake.

“It isn’t over,” Home said, squeezing Best’s hand for emphasis. “We’ll be back probably in a few days.”

“Oh,” Best said, faltering slightly. “I guess that’s still good? You have an idea?”

“We have an idea,” Peach confirmed, giving Home a look that said can’t you speak nicer? “I’ll let you know when we know more.”

“Thank you, phi,” Best said warmly. “I really appreciate it.”

He accompanied them to the elevator, but seemed reluctant to leave Wiew behind, which, clingy much? But Home was pleased to wave goodbye and get to be alone with Peach again. Well, alone, plus Suradech and Pangpang, which was almost like being alone, in a good way.

“That’s so sad,” Pangpang said as the elevator lurched into action. “I thought maybe it would be a dramatic diva ghost who wanted attention, but it sounds like your grandma ghost was just looking for her family.” She sniffed and brushed under her eyes. “I hope I don’t end up a ghost. It seems so lonely.”

“If you became a ghost, I’d become one too,” Peach said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “You won’t have to be alone.”

Pangpang scoffed. “First of all, no way am I dying first,” she said. “I’m way more young and sprightly than you. Second of all, you’d be with P’Home. Your karma is too tightly bound, bro, you’re never getting rid of him.”

Peach glanced over at Home, mouth quirked in a smile. “Is that okay with you, Ai’Home?”

“It’s our karma, like she said,” Home said. “I’d probably have to make merit for six months straight to be free of my debt to you, if not more.”

“No,” Peach said, suddenly intense, gaze fixed on Home’s. “You don’t owe me anything, Home.”

Home opened his mouth to say that, actually, Home owed him quite a few things—after all, Peach had literally saved his life—but before he had a chance to speak, his phone rang. He held up his finger and pulled his phone out. “Oh, it’s Kan.”

“I found Khun Lalita’s grandson,” Kan said as soon as he answered.

“Hello to you too,” Home said. “And wow, that was fast.”

“It wasn’t very hard,” Kan said. “He’s very famous, actually.”

Khun Lalita’s grandson was now in his thirties, just a bit older than Peach and Home, and had made a name for himself as a classical sueng player. In the car back to the restaurant, Home found a series of concert videos where he performed old northern folk songs. One of them he recognized about halfway through and had to hit pause, eyes stinging as he heard Lalita’s faded voice humming the melody a few keys higher.

“P’Home?” Pangpang asked from the backseat. She touched his arm, jogging him back to the present. “Are you okay?”

“It’s him,” Home said. “Kan said she’ll try to get in touch with the family, but I don’t know if they’ll listen. How do we convince them?”

“Can’t you just pay him to come?” Pangpang suggested. “Say you want a special private concert. Ooh, say it’s for Best and Wiew! Like the rich CEO who hires a violinist for his date!”

“Classic,” Suradech said approvingly.

“I know, so romantic, right?” Pangpang clapped her hands. “P’Home, have you ever done that before?”

“What? No,” Home said. “My life isn’t a webtoon!”

“I don’t know, your life has been pretty dramatic,” Pangpang said. “If you weren’t so tall and broad, your tragic life would make you the perfect uke.”

“Pangpang!” Peach hissed, horrified. “What are you saying?”

“I’m rich, though!” Home protested. “Doesn’t that automatically make me the seme?”

“Please stop,” Peach said, sounding actually pained now. “Don’t encourage her.”

“As for you, hia—mmph!” Home jolted forward as Pangpang kicked the back of his seat. He looked in the rear view mirror to see Peach apparently attempting to suffocate Pangpang. Smiling, Home turned to gaze out the window and wondered how to convince someone to come place a song for their grandma’s ghost.

As a kid, Home had idly believed in ghosts the way most Thai people did. He had slept with his lights on for his early childhood, up through until his parents had passed away. Then he had kept them off in the hope that would encourage his parents to visit him, but they never had. He tried to take reassurance in that, telling himself it was because they had no resentments to resolve, but wasn’t he still here?

Over the years, ghosts had faded to the background of his mind, and while he never exactly stopped thinking they existed, he didn’t really believe either. In America, ghosts felt much farther away, more fantastical; certainly none of his friends there had seemed to believe in them. Sure, they’d happily make jokes about somewhere being haunted, but no one was scared of them the way Home remembered being.

Even after meeting Peach, he was skeptical all the way up until Peach said things he shouldn’t have been able to know about the construction worker who had died in Best’s house. Since then, of course, they’d had plenty of experiences between them to erase any doubt in Home’s mind—well, except for Kan, who always seemed to be in another room when the most undeniable ghost activity happened, and even she seemed to believe at least somewhat after everything with her dad.

Most people, he suspected, were probably like he used to be: believing in theory, but skeptical in practice. And when it came to something this personal—a family member, a friend—they were likely to be even more so. After all, it was easy to believe in ghosts when they were strangers. To be told your grandmother was haunting the stairs of her condo building would seem at best like a scam. But they’d have to try. If nothing else, maybe they could play Khun Lalita the video of her grandson and hope it worked.

After dropping Peach and Pangpang off at the restaurant—Peach had an evening sitting tonight, ten people total—Suradech and Home returned to the house. Home was still trying to figure out what to do with the mansion and the little house, neither of which he particularly liked staying in, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving them empty, either. Despite everything, this was where he grew up, and there were still more good memories than bad.

“Want to order something to eat?” Home asked Suradech. “Or, actually, you should go home. You’ve already worked a long day.”

“We can eat, khun noo,” Suradech said. “I’ll go home after.”

Home suspected Suradech was taking pity on him, but the thought of eating alone in the empty mansion always gave him the creeps, so he opened the GrabFood app and started reading options aloud to Suradech. He was in the middle of describing a Vietnamese noodle restaurant when an incoming text from Pangpang flashed at the top of his screen and he reflexively swiped it open.

We didn’t finish our convo earlier phi so since you wouldn’t let me look in your eyes, try this!

Below that was a link to a website Home vaguely recognized as a teen magazine. He clicked the link and was immediately assaulted with bright blue type reading, THESE TEN QUESTIONS WILL TELL YOU IF YOU LIKE YOUR FRIEND!!

“Gah!” Home flung his phone away as if he had been burned. Suradech’s arm shot out and the phone thudded harmlessly into his hand. Home clutched his chest, heart racing, and wondered if he should flee the country and change his name. What did she know? Did she know that Home kept looking at Peach and thinking, wow, he really is handsome? And that ever since Kan had planted the idea that he was jealous, he had been trying very hard not to think about what there was to be jealous of?

“Khun noo?” Suradech asked.

“I’m fine,” Home said. “Uh, you pick a place. Just—no, wait!” He lunged forward as Suradech started to look at Home’s phone and seized it back. He hastily closed the browser window and Pangpang’s text, and for good measure put his phone on Do Not Disturb. “Okay, you’re good. I’m going to take a shower, so order whatever you want.”

He fled to his room where he took a boiling hot shower until he couldn’t stand it anymore and had to hop out for a breather. It took a while for him to feel steady on his feet again, so by the time he made it back downstairs, Suradech had not only ordered and received a massive amount of Chinese food, he had already eaten nearly all of the pork and chive dumplings and was reaching for the last one as Home came in the room.

“Hey!” Home lunged forward and snatched it up. “No fair, P’Suradech.”

“You snooze, you lose,” Suradech said firmly.

Home retried his phone and cautiously checked his messages, but Pangpang hadn’t sent any follow-ups. He decided to blacklist her for a while anyway, out of principle.

Over the following week or so, Home split his time between Kan’s deposition prep and trying to get in touch with Khun Lalita’s grandson, who was proving surprisingly elusive. In the evenings, Home would go to Cooking Long Lasting to see what Peach was making that day and meet the guests. Though they were technically still in the “soft launch” phase, they had plenty of reservations, enough that Pangpang was starting to hint, very unsubtly, that Peach might want to get some additional help in the kitchen.

“And some actual waitstaff,” she added, flopping down on one of the couches after the evening’s diners had left. “Not that I’m not happy to help, hia, but I didn’t leave Phetchabun to wait tables.”

Peach sighed. “I know. It’s just that it feels kind of strange, inviting someone we don’t know to work here.”

Home agreed; how would they explain the inspiration and concept of their restaurant to someone who hadn’t been through everything with them? But Pangpang was right, too. They were already outgrowing their whole DIY vibe.

“We can take our time,” Home said. “Until then, I can help out—”

“No,” Pangpang and Peach said in unison.

“Hey! I’m pretty good at talking to people, you know—”

“You can’t carry a tray of plates without dropping one—”

“What do you mean you’re good at talking to people, half the time you say something insane—”

“No one’s ever gotten mad—”

“Excuse me?”

As one, they all turned toward the door to see a casually dressed man hesitantly hovering in the doorway to the restaurant.

“Oh, sorry, we’re closed,” Pangpang said. “But you can come back later if—”

“Wait,” Home said. “You’re Narong Sirikul, right?”

“You can call me Nat,” he said. “Are you Home? My manager said you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

Nat, it turned out, had been at a musician’s retreat in the mountains with no internet or phone service for the past month, and had only returned to Bangkok the day before. He had seen the name of Cooking Long Lasting in Home’s email and decided to come by, wanting to meet the person who had been persistently messaging him.

“Your emails weren’t very clear regarding what you wanted to speak to me about,” Nat said over a plate of turmeric fish leftover from that night’s seating. “But you mentioned something about my grandmother?”

“Ah, right.” Home glanced at Peach and Pangpang, who both shrugged at him. Pangpang gave him a little go on gesture. Home glared back, before turning a smile he hoped came across as gentle and sympathetic on Nat. “When you were young, your grandmother Lalita lived in a condo building Din Daeng, is that right?”

“We lived there too,” Nat said, nodding. “Up until I left for college. But I came home most weekends to practice—my roommate would get annoyed if I practiced in our room.”

“We know someone who’s living there now,” Home said. “And—I know this is going to sound, well—but we met your grandmother’s ghost there.” Nat’s expression started to harden, his posture going stiff and guarded. Home hastily fumbled for his phone and pulled up a video of Nat playing. “She was humming this song.”

As soon as the music started, Nat’s face softened again, the lines of his forehead smoothing out. He took the phone from Home’s offering hand and watched the video with a soft, distant look in his eyes. “I—I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but this is the song I was practicing when she died. She was so excited to hear me play it because she remembered hearing it when she was young.” Nat fell silent then and the four of them quietly listened to the rest of the song, the lovely sound of the sueng undiminished by the phone’s weak speakers.

When the video ended, Nat handed Home the phone back and asked, “Why did you ask to meet me? Just to tell me?”

“No,” Home said. “With your help, we’d like to…guide her home.” He gestured around at the photos of the people they’d helped in the past. “I can give you the contact details for any of these people if you’d like to ask someone else about what we do. But I promise this isn’t about money, or fame, or anything like that. We just want to help.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peach smiling proudly; Home looked steadfastly ahead, unsure if he could take looking directly at Peach when he looked like that. Nat bit his lip, then nodded and said, “I’ll take those numbers, if you don’t mind, and get back to you.”

“Totally fine,” Home said.

“And think of something your grandmother would like to eat,” Peach said. “We’ll make it for her.”

“You’re the chef, right?” Nat asked, turning to Peach with an open, friendly expression. “This is delicious.”

Home’s mood soured as Peach ducked his head shyly, accepting the compliment with a soft comment on how beautifully Nat played. And okay, yeah, Home had more or less figured out that he was jealous, but he had kind of hoped it was confined to Best. Apparently not so much.

Nat left a little bit later with a short list of numbers to call, and Home sent out a few quick texts to let their friends know he might be in touch. Peach clapped Home on the shoulder, squeezing lightly, and said, “Maybe you are good at talking to people,” his voice low and warm, and Home dropped his phone in his lap in surprise.

Peach took Nat’s cleared plate to the table, leaving Home and Pangpang alone. She was eyeing him with a knowing expression that he did not like.

“Take that test yet, P’Home?” she asked.

“What test?” Home asked.

“Hmm.” She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “I see you’re still in denial.”

“Denial about what? Oh look, Kan is calling,” Home said, waving his phone. “I better go take this.”

“Your screen is black, phi,” Pangpang said. Home stuck his tongue out at her and fled into the back room to recover himself.

Nat called Home the next day, having already spoken to Phoom and Thansai. “P’Phoom was particularly effusive with his praise,” Nat said, sounding amused. “So I suppose I will trust you on this. Let me know when to be there and I’ll come.”

“Thank you,” Home said, warm with success.

“And if you don’t mind, could I get Peach’s number? I thought of something he could make for yai.”

All the warmth left him immediately. “Fine,” he said sourly. “Just one minute.”

With Nat on board, there was no reason to delay any longer, and so, exactly two weeks from when Best had come to ask for their help, the seven of them—Best, Wiew, Peach, Home, Pangpang, Suradech, and Nat—gathered in Wiew’s now pretty cramped apartment to lay Khun Lalita to rest. Nat had brought his sueng, a beautifully crafted instrument with a surprisingly rich resonance, and was hunched in one corner warming up. Peach and Best were once again together in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the mango sticky rice Khun Lalita once loved.

As the sun set, Peach, Home, and Nat went out into the stairwell, the others remaining behind in the hall, and lit the incense before settling in to wait. Nat nervously drummed his fingers along the body of his sueng, plucking idly at the strings every now and then. Peach was praying, his eyes shut; Home shut his eyes too, and listened.

She was quicker to arrive this time; perhaps the promise of a favorite treat had drawn her sooner. The soft, slippered footsteps, her soft humming—Home reached out to touch Peach’s arm, giving him a short nod. Peach looked around and seemed to see her, tensing slightly.

Nat asked, “Is she here?”

“Yes,” Peach said. “Nat, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Nat took a deep breath and began to play.

Classical music wasn’t really Home’s thing, but as the first notes drifted out, echoing around the stairwell, a shiver went down his back, something in him coming to attention. Khun Lalita’s humming paused for a moment before picking up the tune and joining in joyful now as she harmonized with Nat’s playing. Home chest went tight, and when he looked at Peach, he saw Peach had tears in his eyes too.

The song came to an end, the final refrain fading out into the stairs, and the air went still. Khun Lalita sighed, whispering something Home couldn’t quite catch, and then she was gone, the sense of her presence disappearing. Peach looked around, caught Home’s eye, and gave him a quick nod.

“She’s gone,” Home said softly.

Nat bowed his head over his sueng and sat like that for a moment, shoulders trembling. When he was able to sit up again, his eyes were red, but he was composed, calm. “I felt her,” he said. “I swear I did.”

“She looked very happy,” Peach told him. “I think she was glad to see you doing well.”

Nat nodded, then brushed the back of his hand over his eyes. “Wow. I, uh—thank you. Thank you so much, I—I’m glad I was able to play for her one last time.”

Out in the hall, their waiting crowd cheered when they emerged and gave them thumbs up. Pangpang threw her arms around Peach and Home’s shoulders, announcing that she knew they could do it. “Let’s go back to the restaurant,” she said. “All of us! It’s family dinner night anyway, and we have something to celebrate now!”

So they all went to Cooking Long Lasting and Peach and Best set to cooking, Home managing to wiggle his way into sous-chef position next to Peach, which worked out since Best was distracted by Wiew, who was far more cheerful and lighthearted now that he knew his building was no longer haunted. Kan arrived a little later, shortly followed by Phoom, a surprise that became somewhat less of one when Nat greeted him with a big smile.

“He said to let him know if it went well,” Nat explained, standing closer to Phoom than strictly necessary with someone he’d just met. Phoom, for his part, seemed a little overwhelmed by the intensity of Nat’s attention. “I hope it’s okay that I invited him.”

“We’re always glad to have him,” Pangpang said. She popped between the two of them, linking her arm through theirs. “Come on, P’Phoom, you’ve been here before–give Nat the tour!”

Home smiled to himself, watching her bustle them around the restaurant with the kind of sincere manic energy that only Pangpang could muster. “This all went surprisingly well,” he remarked to Peach. “No one fainted this time.”

“It’s been a while, huh?” Peach passed Home a carrot, already peeled, and gestured for him to start chopping. “You seem to be doing better with hearing them. Does it not hurt anymore?”

“It does when they’re angry,” Home said. “But she wasn’t angry. Just sad.”

They both looked over to Nat, who was listening attentively to a flustered Phoom, and Pangpang, who was watching them like a tennis match. “That’ll be interesting,” Home remarked. “Between them and Best, maybe we can start a side hustle in matchmaking.”

“A little premature for that, I think,” Peach said, but he was smiling. “We can always host singles nights here.”

“Hard pass,” Home said. “I’ve been to those, and they’re always so depressing.”

“Well, it’s a way to meet people,” Peach said. “Don’t you want to get out there and meet someone?”

Something in his tone made Home look over, but Peach was focusing intently on the cucumber he was cutting up. “I’m not really looking right now,” Home said carefully. “I don’t feel like I need to.”

“Hm. Me too.” Peach pushed aside his perfectly cut cucumber matchsticks. “Do you think you will, though?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Home said. “Hey, by the way, I thought of something.”

“You? Thought?”

“Hey,” Home protested.

“Fine, okay, what is it?”

“When you were making sticky rice earlier, it reminded me of something.” Home bit the inside of his lip to stave off the swell of grief. “When I was young, as a treat when I got home, my mom used to make coconut sticky rice. But she’d always eat half of it herself, so I think she really just wanted an excuse to make it. I was thinking that might be a good offering for her.”

“Of course,” Peach said, soft. “I’d be happy to, Home.”

Home looked down at his hands. “You don’t have to,” he reminded Peach. “It’s my responsibility as their son.”

“And you’re my responsibility now,” Peach said. He flashed Home a smile. “Our karmic debts to each other, remember?”

“Oh, shut up,” Home said, half-laughing. “You have got to stop saying that. Neither of us owe each other anything, can we just agree on that?”

“You first,” Peach said, which, okay. Fair. Home wasn’t sure he could promise that, though, so he just patted Peach on the back and asked him what to do next.

Dinner was a raucous, cheerful affair. Nat went out to his car for a guitar and took song requests, fumbling through the ones he didn’t know. Phoom proved to have a surprisingly good tenor singing voice and a fondness for late nineties ballads, while Best and Wiew, who also sang well, tended towards western rock and kpop, respectively. Home and Wiew bonded over the most recent Blackpink album and made a pact to go to their next Bangkok concert together, while the girls talked about wanting to see GOT7. And the whole time, Home was aware of Peach beside him, of his fond smile and unrestrained laugh, of how happy and at ease he seemed, and how much that simple fact pleased Home.

By the time Suradech dropped Home off at the mansion, it was late. Home crawled into bed with his phone in hand, intending to spend an hour or two scrolling TikTok before falling asleep, but as he was about to open up a video, his open internet tab caught his attention.

THESE TEN QUESTIONS WILL TELL YOU IF YOU LIKE YOUR FRIEND!!

He stared at the bright letters, then slowly scrolled down the page, a strange, anxious nausea stirring in his chest. Maybe, maybe there was a chance that the way he felt about Peach was normal friend stuff. It could happen! He took a breath and opened the first question.

1. You feel an instant connection.

“Ha!” Home snorted. Did seeing Peach getting attacked by a ghost on a livestream and immediately wanting to strangle him count? Instant connection? Please. No matter how you sliced it, their first meeting was anything but pleasant.

But then again—the quiz didn’t say it was a good connection. And Peach was always going on and on about their karmic bond, and okay, yeah, Home had also floated the idea that it was destiny, so maybe that did count.

He hit yes.

2. You think of them all the time.

This one seemed a little unfair. Peach and Home were business partners, of course he thought about Peach a lot. They saw each other all the time! It wasn’t like Home spent his free time idly thinking about Peach, except for, like, right now. What did all the time even mean? What was the minimum requirement?

He pressed no.

3. You steal a glance at them every time you get a chance.

Okay, they got him on that one. Yes.

4. You’re in a better mood than usual when you’re with them.

Isn’t that what friends were? If he felt shitty every time he saw Peach, why would he willingly hang out with him? Scowling, Home hit yes.

5. You want to get closer to them and know more about them.

Home paused. It did hit him, sometimes, how little he knew about Peach. It was part of why he always felt awkward when Best was around; the two of them shared years of history that Peach and Home simply didn’t have. Peach knew basically everything about Home at this point, had met his family (for what that was worth), knew where he’d gone to school and what he had studied. Home still didn’t even know what had happened to Peach and Pangpang’s parents; he had started to ask a few times before chickening out. He knew from experience how hard it could be to answer that question.

Yes.

6. You want their attention.

Another low blow.

Yes.

7. You want to take care of them and make them happy.

Kan had said Home might as well have given Peach his heart when he gave him the Cock(tail) Lo(u)ng(e). Home hadn’t thought of it that way, had only thought, I can give Peach two of his dreams at once; a home, and a restaurant. Sure, it wasn’t the dream house he and Pangpang had up on their vision board, but it was something that belonged to them. It was in writing, even, that they co-owned it along with Home.

And it wasn’t just guilt that had compelled Home to do that. Sure, guilt had been part of it—he was confident that without the accident, Peach would have been a successful chef already, though Peach insisted that he had been too timid and uncertain and that he had needed the time to grow—but more than that, he had wanted to give Peach a place he could call his own. Not to work as a chef in someone else’s kitchen again, but to do what he truly loved.

All right, fine. Yes.

8. You don’t like it when you see them with someone else.

Had Kan written this quiz? Yes.

9. Your heart beats fast when you’re near them.

Home gritted his teeth and selected yes.

10. You want to change yourself and face your fears because of them.

Here Home paused. It was undeniable that he had changed since meeting Peach, though Home didn’t attribute that only to him. It wasn’t so much that Peach made him want to change as much as Home changing because of him. And perhaps part of it was that Peach was kind, and that he was generous, and Home wanted to be like him, wanted to open up that part of himself again after keeping himself back for so long. The kind of people who wanted to hang out with rich Khun Home wanted to see the party boy energy, the carelessness and the cool attitude.

Around Peach, Home didn’t have to try, because Peach didn’t care about those things. All he ever wanted was for Home to be genuine with him, and so Home had become that for him. And he liked himself better this way, was happier and more at ease.

As for his fears—well, with Peach at his side, his fears seemed pretty minor. Peach had saved his life, had broken hospital rules and nearly gotten kicked out performing a ritual to bring him back. What fears could stand up to that?

Home sighed and hit yes, already knowing what the quiz would tell him.

Congratulations!!! You have feelings for your friend!!!

We know it’s hard sometimes figuring out if what you’re feeling is friendship or something more, but we feel pretty confident in saying that your feelings aren’t just platonic. It can be tough having feelings for a friend, but don’t worry—we have advice for you, no matter what you choose to do next.

Want to move on and find someone new? Here are our 8 Tricks for Magicking Away Your Crush.

Or, if you’re feeling more optimistic, how about 7 Ways to Confess to a Friend?

And if none of those help, you can always write in to our advice column!

Home closed the web browser, laid his phone face down on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling. Well. Okay, it wasn’t a surprise, not really; over the last two weeks, he had been slowly accepting that Kan had been right on the money when she accused him of being jealous, and that his jealousy probably stemmed from liking Peach. And yeah, Peach was attractive, Home had always thought so, even when Peach was doing his nerd cosplay to the max. And he was kind, and sometimes very funny, and there had been a while where Home had started to feel, well, more attracted to him.

He had tamped all that down as soon as Peach had recounted the story of his car accident, because the thought of feeling that for someone he had wronged so badly felt gross and exploitative. But it had been simmering there underneath this whole time, and now their lives were so entwined that instead of feeling guilt, he was afraid of ruining what they had.

Kan seemed to think that he had a chance, though, and he didn’t think Pangpang would push so hard if she truly thought Peach didn’t like Home. As much as she clearly enjoyed teasing them, she wasn’t the type to encourage something that made Peach uncomfortable or upset. So maybe it was worth trying. Face his fears and all that. But how to do it?

“P’Suradech,” Home said the next day, gazing up at the parlor ceiling with his head on Suradech’s leg, “I want to do something nice for Peach.”

Suradech looked down at him. “What kind of thing, khun noo?”

“That’s where I need your help,” Home said. “You aren’t married, are you?”

Suradech shook his head and gazed off into the distance. “I could have been, once.”

Now that was clearly a story for another time. Home tucked that thought away for the time being and said, “So you’ve, uh. Courted someone.” He immediately cringed at his own wording.

“Are you courting Peach?” Suradech said. Wow, it sounded even more cringe coming out of his mouth.

“I guess I am,” Home said. “I mean, I’ve dated before. Flowers are always good, right? He isn’t really a jewelry person, and he doesn’t wear designer clothes or anything. I guess a nice watch? I dated a guy in university who liked watches.”

“A gift should reflect both the giver and the receiver,” Suradech said, very seriously. “Is that something Peach would want?”

No, that wasn’t the kind of thing Peach wanted. Pangpang would like something fancy, as long as it were shiny and cute, but Peach would probably reject anything expensive as being too much. The things Peach wanted were, in a lot of ways, very simple: a job he loved; a home for him and his sister; freedom to cook as he liked. Home had given him all those things already.

Home thought of their bimonthly dinners at Cooking Long Lasting, when the restaurant was closed to outsiders and it was the five of them, maybe with a friend or two, eating whatever Peach had made that day. Peach always looked so happy when he watched them eat, satisfied purely by their enjoyment. He always ate less than the rest of them, insisting that he felt full just seeing them eat.

Maybe that was the answer. Home had tried to cook for Peach before, and while the results hadn’t been great, surely he had picked up something since then. He could make something. Nothing too fancy, but something Peach liked. What did Peach like?

“P’Suradech,” Home said. He sat up, almost knocking his head into Suradech’s face as he did. “We need to go to the grocery store.”

For as much time as Home spent at Cooking Long Lasting, he should really know his way around Peach’s kitchen better. But here he was, opening drawer after drawer trying to find a damn zester because the recipe he had pulled up required him to zest a lime. Why did people even zest things? The peel was the grossest part of any fruit! If only he hadn’t sent Suradech home—he could have asked him to find it, or to go buy one if they couldn’t.

“What are you doing?” came Peach’s voice.

Home whirled around, clutching a meat tenderizer to his chest. “Ai’Peach!” he exclaimed. “Make some noise when you walk!”

“I called your name,” Peach said, coming in through the open doorway and dropping his messenger bag on the nearest table. “I didn’t know you were coming by today.”

“I thought you were busy too,” Home said. “Pangpang told me you were doing an interview with some food blogger.”

“I was,” Peach said. “That only took, like, an hour.”

“But it’s your day off!” Home said. “You should be going out, seeing the sights!”

“Seeing the sights? I live here.” Peach approached the kitchen, looking curiously at what Home had laid out. “Are you cooking?”

“Don’t look! This is a surprise!” Home set the meat tenderizer down and hurried around the counter to grab Peach by the shoulders. “You should, I don’t know, go do something fun. What do you do for fun, anyway?”

“These days, mostly, I hang out with you,” Peach said. Home’s heart swelled in his chest, warming him all over. Wow, he really liked Peach a lot. Ugh.

“Well, fine,” Home said. “But you can’t be here right now.”

“I’m not letting you work unsupervised in my kitchen,” Peach said. “Are you crazy? You’ll burn the place down.”

“I’m not that bad anymore!” Home protested. “I’ve learned from you, haven’t I?”

Peach didn’t seem impressed by that logic judging by how he resisted Home trying to push him back toward the door. “Ai’Home, come on. Let me help. What is this for, anyway?”

Home dropped his hands, exasperated now, and said, “It was supposed to be a gift for you, idiot!”

Peach froze, shoulders tensing up. Slowly, he turned around to face Home, expression caught between surprise and a somewhat insulting amount of disbelief. “A gift?”

“What?” Home crossed his arms defensively. “Is that crazy?”

“Why would you give me a gift?” Peach asked. “Do you want something? Did you do something bad?”

“I want to do something nice for you, okay?” Home said. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Peach stared at him for a moment before his expression softened. “No,” Peach said. “I’m just surprised you wanted to cook me something. That’s—sweet of you.”

Home’s face got hot and he had to turn away to keep Peach from seeing. “You’re always cooking for me—for us,” he said. “I thought for once you could take a break.”

“All right,” Peach said. “Then surprise me, Chef Home. But I’m going to sit here and supervise.”

“No backseat cooking,” Home warned.

“I promise,” Peach said. “Just here in case anything goes wrong.”

True to his word, Peach didn’t say anything as Home went back to ransacking the kitchen, eventually finding the zester under a pile of wooden spoons. Home set it beside the rest of the tools he had laid out along with his ingredients—Peach called this meese in place. Or something like that. It was pleasing to look at, everything together and ready. Now he just had to do the hard part. Cooking.

He had picked a relatively simple recipe, one he had seen Peach do many times before: pork krapao, with a fried egg on top and prik nam pla on the side. He had read the recipe five times on the way to the grocery store, and it was pretty easy. Just a lot of stirring things in a wok. The egg would probably be the hardest part; Home had never successfully flipped an egg without breaking the yolk.

But the rice was steaming away in the cooker, and his garlic was pre-minced, and he’d even found some of Peach’s homemade stir-fry sauce already in the fridge. The rest was the chilis and the sauce. Home pointed at the bundle of hot red chilis and said, “You’re up.”

A small part of him—well, honestly, a pretty big part of him—wanted to show off a bit, try flipping the knife around like he’d seen Peach do before, but then he imagined catching it wrong and cutting himself, which seemed likely to happen, and that would just ruin the vibe. So he restrained himself and used the cutting technique Peach taught him to carefully chop the chilis and set them into little piles. He zested the lime into a small bowl, added its juice along with some of the chilis, a dollop of fish sauce—ugh, the smell—and a carefully sliced clove of garlic, mixing it up with a fork before setting it aside.

Now came the harder part: actually cooking the pork. He let some oil heat up first before adding the chilis and minced garlic, inhaling the thick steam as he did and then immediately coughing from the strength of the chilis. From there, he slid the block of ground pork into the pan, jumping back to avoid splashing himself with oil. Behind him, Peach made a quiet noise.

“No backseat cooking!” Home reminded him firmly.

“Fine,” Peach said, long-suffering. “Try not to burn yourself, okay?”

Home gave him a thumbs up and returned his attention to the pork, which was already starting to brown around the edges. It took some effort to break it all up with his spatula, by which point some of it was starting to look a little too brown. He hastily stirred it around to even it out, heart racing like he was on a tightrope. He couldn’t make dozens of this the way he had with the pancakes.

Carefully, feeling like he was performing surgery, he poured Peach’s stir-fry sauce into the wok, letting it run down the sides to coat the pork. A gorgeous, delicious smell rose with the steam, and Home felt his entire body relax. Okay. He could do this.

One handful of basil later, the pork was done, and he was left facing down two eggs, sitting docilely on a plate next to the stove. Home bit his lip, glanced over at Peach, who was watching him patiently, and then back at the eggs. Finally, he sighed, and said, “Ai’Peach.”

“Yes?”

“Will you teach me how to flip an egg?”

Peach laughed, bright and surprised. “Of course.” He got up and came around the counter to stand beside Home. “Go ahead and start. I’ll help you.”

Step by step, Peach walked Home through frying an egg: the best way to crack it so the yolk didn’t break on the way out of the shell; how high the heat should be to get the crispy edges on the whites; how long to wait before wiggling the spatula in beneath it and how to gently turn the egg over without incident. He circled around to Home’s other side at one point, guiding Home’s hand, and Home recalled just two weeks ago, Peach at his back, helping him cut. Except now he recognized the feeling in his chest as longing.

“There you go,” Peach said as Home triumphantly slid the first egg out onto a plate. “Now you try.”

The second egg came out a little less photogenic—Home left it a bit too long on one side—but Peach called it perfect, which made Home light up from the inside. He probably looked like an idiot, beaming at Peach like he’d just said something wildly profound, but Peach’s praise was like a cool drink on a hot day, sinking down into him and satisfying a need he hadn’t realized he had. From there, Home served the food, gently nestling his eggs atop the pork, and added an uneven scoop of rice to each.

“That looks really good, Home,” Peach said, sitting back down at the counter.

Home privately thought that his plating could use some work—it looked nothing like even the casual meals Peach threw together—but he accepted the compliment. “Thanks,” he said, setting the plates down. He grabbed the fresh prik nam pla and set it between them. “Hopefully it tastes just as good.”

“Even if it doesn’t, I really appreciate this,” Peach said. “But I was watching you. I think you did good.”

As if to prove his point, he dug into the pork and took a bite, closing his eyes as he did. Home waited, on edge, as Peach chewed, swallowed, and then opened his eyes again.

“Good?” Home asked.

Peach was smiling; that had to be a good sign. “Try it yourself,” he said.

Home frowned at him, but did as he was told. At the first taste, his eyes went wide, and he looked at Peach, who grinned at him.

“It’s good!” Home said through his mouthful of pork. And it was; not as good, perhaps, as Peach’s krapao, but it was flavorful, not too salty, and just spicy enough to feel in his nose.

“You sound surprised,” Peach said. “I believed in you.”

Home shook his head at that, but couldn’t help his answering grin. Appetite ignited, he dug in with gusto and before he knew it, he had cleared his plate. To his great pleasure, Peach had as well, using the last of his rice to soak up the remaining sauce. Home beamed at him, delighted.

“You liked it?” he asked.

“Really, Home, it was great.” Peach pushed his plate aside and turned on his stool to face Home. “So not that I’m not happy to be fed, but what’s going on? What’s the reason for this?”

Home blinked at him blankly. He hadn’t really given much thought to this part; he had kind of assumed, or hoped, that Peach would eat his cooking and miraculously understand everything Home felt. That he would feel it somehow. Which, he was realizing now, was an insane thing to have expected. Peach saw ghosts; he wasn’t psychic.

“Well,” Home said, awkwardly, “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Yes, but why?” Peach pressed. “Do you have something to tell me?”

“No! Well, yes, but—it isn’t like that, I’m not asking anything from you.” Home took a deep breath, steadied himself, and said, “Peach, I like you.”

Peach raised his eyebrows. “I like you too, Home.”

“No, I mean—ugh. Love, I don’t know, that’s, like, a really big word, and I’m still figuring that part out, but when I say I like you, I mean I could love you, one day, probably soon at the rate things are going,” Home said, the words spilling out of him. “But yeah. I mean that I like you. Not as a friend.”

Peach had gone very still at the word love. Now he was staring at Home with his mouth slightly open, which seemed like a bad sign. Maybe this had all been a terrible idea. Home should have done this a different way, but how? He had never been the one confessing before.

“Well, okay, that’s all,” Home said, cold starting to creep into his chest. “I just wanted to tell you. It’s okay that you don’t feel same—”

At that, Peach reached out and grabbed Home’s arm. “Who said I don’t feel the same?”

“You, uh,” Home said, “you didn’t say anything?”

“I needed a second!” Peach said. “But of course I feel the same, you idiot. I’ve been in love with you for ages. Which is really embarrassing, by the way.”

“Ages?” Home jerked back. “Ai’Peach, are you insane? How long?”

“I don’t know, maybe since we cooked for Chai Un?” Peach said. “I’ve known since the dance school, though.”

Home stared at him. “And finding out that I—that it was me, that I was the one who did that to you, that didn’t change your mind?”

“No,” Peach said. “You didn’t mean to do it.”

“Peach, I killed you,” Home said.

Peach, infuriatingly, just shrugged. “I got better,” he said.

“Peach—”

“Hey,” Peach said, taking Home’s unresisting hands into his. “Look at me. If you hadn’t hit me with your car, I wouldn’t see ghosts. Which means I wouldn’t have met you, or Kan, or P’Suradech. I wouldn’t have my own restaurant. And you would probably be dead, which, if you ask me, is worse all around.”

“But I ruined your life!”

“And then you fixed it.” Peach sighed at whatever he saw on Home’s face. “Ai’Home, karma works in strange ways. It doesn’t matter to me. You’ve more than made up for it. You gave me my dreams. You gave me a family again.”

Home shook his head. “No, you gave me that. You and Pangpang, and Kan and P’Suradech—without you, I’d be completely alone.”

“Okay,” Peach said. “We gave it to each other. Does that work?”

“No,” Home said. “You shouldn’t be in love with me. You’re crazy. Go find someone else, someone better—”

“I don’t think there’s anyone else better for me than you,” Peach said, and at that Home felt himself crack, tipping forward toward Peach, who hastily pulled his hands free to catch him. Home buried his face in Peach’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around Peach’s waist, holding tight enough that Peach made a noise of protest.

“I still think you’re an idiot,” he told Peach.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Peach said. “I do, too. But I don’t regret any of it.”

Home lifted his head to meet Peach’s eyes and saw that he was smiling, big and bright. He was so handsome, somehow even more so up close. One of Peach’s hands came to rest on Home’s cheek, gently guiding him forward, and Peach kissed him, soft and sweet. Home leaned into it, the remnants of spice on Peach’s lips making his own tingle.

“Hey,” Home said. “I’m not letting you back out of this, okay?”

“I told you,” Peach said. “Our karma is tied. You’ll never get rid of me, not even in our next life.”

Home snorted at that, but he found he quite liked the idea. “Maybe in our next life we won’t mess things up quite as much.”

“I don’t know,” Peach said. “I’m pretty happy with how things have turned out in this one.” He stroked his thumb along Home’s cheek, gazing at him with a fond smile that Home recognized as how he often looked at Home. It really had been right in front of him, hadn’t it? “Can I ask what made you realize you like me?”

“No,” Home said instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Peach laughed in disbelief. “Really?”

“No, it’s embarrassing!”

Peach grinned at him. “Well, now I need to know,” he said. “Or I’m breaking up with you.”

“You can’t break up with me, we aren’t dating,” Home said. “I’m breaking up with you. Pre-emptively.”

“All right,” Peach said. “Want to be my boyfriend, Home?”

“Yeah,” Home said. He slipped off his stool so he could stand closer to Peach, working one hand underneath Peach’s shirt. “I do.”

“Then tell me,” Peach said, leaning away with a cheeky grin.

Home sighed heavily. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“No promises.”

And if Home were being honest, he wouldn’t have it any other way. “Fine,” he said. “It started when Best came over to ask for our help…”

On the anniversary of Home’s parents’ deaths, Home woke up early and dressed in neat, somber clothes. Peach didn’t stir from Home’s bed until he came into wake him up, still tired from cooking late into the night, but woke easily enough, even if his eyes were bleary when he kissed Home good morning.

Suradech drove them to the temple and waited in the car while Home went to make merit, Peach at his side. They gave food offerings to the monks before accepting their blessings together, and as they did, Home recited the prayer he remembered saying with his grandfather when they used to come. Even though he knew his grandfather had passed on, he fancied he could hear his voice saying the prayer along with him.

His parents’ plaques were with his grandparents’, their photos a little faded now with age. Home greeted them respectfully before reaching behind him to tug Peach to his side.

“Mom, Dad,” he said, “meet Peach. My boyfriend. He’s the one who made all your offerings today, so be sure to eat up, okay? Unlike me, he’s a good chef.”

Peach performed a deep wai. “Hello Auntie, Uncle. I hope you will enjoy the food. Don’t listen to Home, he’s learning. And he helped.”

“Not much,” Home said. “I’m doing well, even with all the legal stuff we still have to sort out. I have good friends, and I have Peach. So yeah. I’m doing okay.”

Peach took Home’s hand and squeezed gently. “I’m taking care of him,” he said. “You don’t have to worry. He has someone looking after him.”

“I’m taking care of you,” Home protested. “I gave you a restaurant!”

“You’d starve to death without me,” Peach said.

“I can buy takeout!”

“Not every day!”

Home shook his head, laughing, and looked at his parents’ photos. “See what I have to deal with? He nags me all day.”

“You need it,” Peach retorted. “Like I said, Auntie, Uncle. I’ll look after him for you.”

Back at the mansion, they set up the altar of offerings, his mom’s favorite sticky rice front and center, and lit incense, both of them bowing their heads in prayer. They waited, but there were no whispers, no movement in the air, and Peach shook his head when Home looked at him questioningly.

“I’m sorry,” Peach said, reaching over to squeeze Home’s hand.

“No, it’s okay,” Home said. “That means they’re at rest, right? I hope this reaches them, but they don’t need to visit me down here. Let them be.” He stood and offered his hand to help Peach up. “Thank you for today. When it comes time, let me return the favor.”

Peach smiled, that soft and warm smile that he seemed to reserve for Home and Pangpang. “Of course. I’d like that.” He wrapped his arms around Home and pulled him in tight, until Home relaxed against him. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

As they were about to leave the room, Home thought he heard someone laugh, bright and delighted. He turned to look, Peach turning with him, but there was no other sound, and Peach seemed not to see anything.

“Home?” Peach asked.

“Nothing,” Home said. He let Peach lead him from the room, but couldn’t help but think the laughter had sounded an awful lot like his mother’s. He smiled to himself and hoped that somewhere, she was enjoying her sticky rice.