Chapter Text
The small grocery store was quiet, tucked between a pharmacy and a noodle shop, its single ceiling fan humming lazily in the warm air. The faint buzz of an old refrigerator filled the space — no music, no chatter, just the steady hum of stillness that came at the end of the day.
Singha had left work barely fifteen minutes ago. His shirt sleeves were still rolled up, the smell of coffee and city dust clinging faintly to him. He’d picked Maysa up from her friend’s house on the way here, promising they’d grab what they needed for dinner before heading home.
He pushed the cart slowly past the narrow aisles, scanning the shelves more out of habit than focus. He wasn’t in a hurry. He just wanted to get home, cook something simple, and maybe — finally — sit down.
He turned to ask Maysa what kind of noodles she wanted.
She wasn’t there.
His hand stilled on the cart handle.
“May?” He waited for the usual giggle, the small footsteps rushing back. Nothing. He took a few steps down the aisle, peering around the corner. “May.”
The store wasn’t big — just two short rows, one freezer, and a counter near the door — but at that moment, it felt too quiet, too wide. His pulse quickened as he scanned the empty space, calling her name again, softer this time.
Then he stopped.
A familiar voice cut through the silence — light, curious, unstoppable. He followed it to the front of the store.
Maysa stood by the cashier counter, stretching on her toes to see something on the counter — a sketchbook open between her and the boy at the register. The boy looked barely out of college, sleeves rolled up, pencil still in his hand.
For a moment, Singha just stood there, the panic still burning through him but loosening its grip. The girl he’d nearly torn the store apart for was smiling, talking animatedly, her eyes wide with fascination.
Then he caught her words.
“So, are you single?”
The boy blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Uh— yeah. I mean… yeah, I am.”
Singha exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. That was his cue.
He walked over, his tone even but carrying the quiet edge of a man trying not to sound as tired—or mortified—as he felt. “May, sweetheart. You shouldn’t bother people while they’re working.”
She spun toward him, the ponytail she’d tied herself bouncing lopsidedly. “I wasn’t bothering him! I just asked—”
The cashier lifted a hand quickly, a polite smile flickering on his lips. “She wasn’t bothering me, sir. Really. She was just curious about my drawings.”
Singha nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Right. Sorry. I was distracted for a moment.” His words came softer then, almost a sigh. “Thank you for keeping an eye on her.”
The boy shook his head. “It’s no trouble.”
Singha gave a small nod, guiding Maysa gently by the shoulder. “Come on, let’s finish up. We still have dinner to make.”
She followed, glancing back at the sketchbook. “He draws really well, you know,” she whispered.
“Mm.”
By the time they returned to the counter with their groceries, the same boy was still there. He smiled when they approached, setting aside his pencil. Singha began unloading the cart while Maysa stood close, unusually quiet — which was always suspicious. He could feel her thinking.
When the total flashed on the register, she finally asked, “What’s your name?”
The boy hesitated, surprised, then said, “Thup.”
“I’m Maysa,” she said proudly. “And this is my dad. His name is Singha.”
Singha glanced up at that, just long enough to catch the warmth in the boy’s smile. “It’s nice to meet you,” Thup said.
“Likewise,” Singha replied simply.
The second time Maysa went to that store, she didn’t go with her father. She went with her friend’s family, trailing behind the adults as they stepped inside the same small grocery store — the same hum of the refrigerator, the same lazy ceiling fan turning overhead. This time, she didn’t wander off without a word.
“I’m going to say hi to the cashier,” she announced, already halfway there.
Her friend nodded enthusiastically, grabbing her hand. The adults exchanged a glance, amused more than worried. At least they knew where the kids were going, unlike Singha.
Thup was at the counter again, sketchbook open, pencil resting between his fingers. He looked up when he heard footsteps — and smiled when he recognised her.
“Oh. Hi,” he said, surprise softening into something warmer. “You’re back.”
Maysa grinned. “Hi.” She leaned forward on her toes like last time, peering into the sketchbook. “Are you drawing again?”
“Always,” he said lightly.
Her friend gasped. “That’s so cool.”
Maysa pointed at one of the sketches. “How do you make it look like that?” she asked seriously. “Like… not flat.”
Thup tilted the book so they could see better. “Shading. And layers. You don’t draw the lines first, you build them.” He paused, then added, “It takes practice.”
Maysa nodded solemnly, absorbing every word.
They talked like that for a while. About pencils. About paper. About how some drawings didn’t turn out the way you wanted, and that didn’t mean they were bad, just unfinished.
Eventually, Maysa tilted her head, studying him. “What do you do when you’re not here?”
Thup blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Uh… not much, honestly.”
“Tell me, please,” she insisted immediately.
He laughed quietly. “Okay. I go home. I finish paintings for clients. Sometimes I stay up too late doing that.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s amazing.”
“It is?” he asked, amused.
She nodded firmly. “You make art for people. That’s important.” Then it was her turn. “My dad drops me off at school on his way to work,” she said casually. “Unless he has a complicated case.”
Thup glanced at her. “A complicated case?”
“Yeah. Then he has to stay at work overnight.” She shrugged, like it was normal. “When that happens, I stay with a friend or a neighbour.” There was no complaint in her voice. Just facts. “But he always makes time,” she added quickly. “Even when he’s tired. He makes sure I’m okay. And that we eat dinner together when we can.”
Thup listened carefully. “Is he… raising you on his own?”
Maysa nodded without hesitation. “Yep.” She straightened a little, pride slipping into her voice. “My dad’s a real hero.”
Thup smiled. “He sounds like one.”
Maysa watched his face closely. Decision forming. Gears turning.
“Can I get your number?”
He startled. “My— what?”
“So you can give me art lessons. Of course, if you agree,” she said easily, like this was the most logical next step in the world.
Thup hesitated. “I mean… if your dad’s okay with it, I don’t see why not.” He reached for a scrap of paper. “Alright. For art lessons.”
She took it carefully, like it was something precious.
In her head, the plan was already much bigger. Art lessons were just the excuse. Because right then, standing in that quiet little store, Maysa decided something very important. Thup was the one. The one for their family. She smiled to herself, clutching the paper, already imagining how everything was going to work out.
A few days passed. Long enough for Singha to notice patterns.
Maysa talked about the cashier boy every chance she got — casually at first, then with increasing enthusiasm. His drawings. The way he explained things “properly.” The way he listened.
It was suspicious. His daughter wasn’t the type to warm up to strangers so easily. She observed first. Kept her distance. And yet here she was, humming while tying her shoes, already dressed, already waiting by the door.
“I want a snack,” she said, far too innocently.
Singha glanced up from the couch. “We have snacks.”
She shook her head. “I want another snack.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Which one?”
“The honey milk buns,” she said immediately.
Singha paused. They didn’t sell those everywhere. In fact, there was only one place nearby that stocked them — a small grocery store wedged between a pharmacy and a noodle shop.
“The honey milk buns,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
“The ones that are always sold out everywhere else.”
“Yes.”
“And only that store has them.”
She smiled. Bright. Triumphant.
Singha sighed, already defeated. It wasn’t a coincidence. Not even a little. He pushed himself up from the couch, reaching for his car keys as he crossed the room toward her. “Fine,” he said, resignation clear in his voice.
The late afternoon sun spilt through the windshield as they drove. Maysa sat in the passenger seat, swinging her legs slightly, unusually quiet — which only confirmed his suspicion.
Halfway there, she spoke. “I want P'Thup in our family.”
Singha blinked. Then he laughed. “Sweetheart, don’t you think your crush is a little old for you?”
Silence. Not the playful kind. He glanced at her. She wasn’t smiling.
“Is the age gap a problem for you?” she asked instead, voice calm, curious.
Singha frowned. “Well… I wouldn’t mind it if you weren’t eight.”
She nodded slowly, as if processing that.
“So P’Thup isn’t too young for you?”
Singha’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “What?”
She turned toward him fully now. Studied his face. “You don’t get it.”
He didn’t.
“I think P'Thup is perfect to be your boyfriend,” she said plainly. “And I want him to be my papa.”
The words landed heavy and soft all at once.
Singha opened his mouth. Then closed it. His entire understanding of the situation had just been flipped upside down. He stared ahead, speechless.
Maysa leaned back in her seat, satisfied. She’d said her piece.