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The argument starts over something small.
It always does.
Not over betrayal. Not over anything dramatic. Just something tiny — a comment missed, a feeling brushed past, a sentence answered too quickly.
“You weren’t listening,” Qin says quietly.
He’s standing near the kitchen counter, hands resting on the edge like he needs something solid to anchor himself. The overhead light is too bright for how late it is.
Duang exhales through his nose, already feeling the familiar pull of irritation. Not at Qin. At the situation. At the way these moments always make him feel heavy-handed.
“I was,” he says. “I just — I don’t think it’s that serious.”
The second the words leave him, he feels it.
The shift.
Qin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise his voice. His expression barely changes.
But something closes.
“It’s serious to me.”
Duang runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t say it wasn’t—”
“You said it’s not that serious.”
Precise. Exact. Qin never argues sloppily.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
There it is.
Not a trap. Qin doesn’t set traps. He asks for clarity.
Duang suddenly feels underqualified.
“I meant,” Duang says, his voice tightening despite himself, “that we don’t have to overthink every single thing.”
Qin’s eyes flicker. It’s small. Almost invisible.
“I don’t overthink,” he says. “I think.”
And that lands exactly where it’s meant to.
Duang lets out a humorless laugh. “So now I don’t?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence spills into the room.
The refrigerator hums. A car passes outside. Somewhere upstairs, someone drops something heavy.
They’re standing too far apart. They didn’t start that far apart.
Qin’s fingers curl slightly at his sides. He wants to say something softer. Duang knows him well enough to see it — the hesitation behind his eyes. The almost.
But the hurt is sitting too high in Qin’s throat.
“I just wanted you to take me seriously,” Qin says instead.
His voice is quieter now.
That’s always worse.
“I do,” Duang says immediately.
“Then act like it.”
There’s no accusation in it. Just tiredness.
Duang’s jaw tightens. Something defensive rises before he can swallow it down. “You know what? Fine. If I’m such a bad boyfriend, maybe you should find someone who listens better.”
The air changes.
The second it leaves his mouth, Duang feels the regret — sharp and immediate.
Qin goes very still.
“I didn’t say you were a bad boyfriend.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
Qin swallows, throat working. “You don’t get to decide what I’m thinking.”
Another silence.
This one is heavier.
Not loud. Not explosive.
Just dangerous.
Qin reaches for his jacket.
It’s slow. Deliberate.
“Qin—”
“I need air.”
Duang takes half a step forward, then stops. He doesn’t know what he would even say. Sorry feels too small. Wait feels selfish.
The door closes.
Not slammed.
Just… closed.
And somehow that’s worse.
-
Duang stands there long after the echo fades. The apartment feels bigger without Qin in it. Colder.
“Idiot,” he mutters.
He drops onto the couch and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.
He replays everything.
The tone.
The phrasing.
The way Qin’s shoulders had been slightly hunched — not angry. Defensive. Like he was bracing.
Qin doesn’t fight to win.
He fights because he cares.
That’s the difference.
Duang groans and leans forward, elbows on his knees. His phone sits on the coffee table. He stares at it.
He could text.
Sorry.
Too simple.
I didn’t mean it.
Too vague.
Come home.
Too demanding.
Valentine’s Day is in three days.
He had already been planning something small. A dinner reservation. Flowers Qin pretends not to like but always rearranges carefully in water. A handwritten note.
Now it feels insufficient.
Not because he needs to impress Qin.
Because he needs to show him.
Duang stands abruptly and paces once across the living room.
Qin likes quiet places. Hidden ones. The kind of streets tourists don’t bother finding. Old brick buildings. Warm lamps. Places that feel like secrets.
He once said, half-asleep against Duang’s shoulder, that he wanted to visit a coastal city “if it’s not too touristy.”
Duang had pretended not to hear.
He heard.
He grabs his laptop. “If I can’t say it right,” he mutters, opening it, “I’ll show you.”
Flight options fill the screen. He scrolls carefully. Not the obvious destinations. Not the flashy ones. Somewhere quieter. He finds it — a small coastal town. Off-season. Mild weather. Sea cliffs and bookstores and a harbor that looks like it smells like salt and old wood.
Two tickets.
He hovers over the seat selection.
Window set.
He smiles faintly.
Qin pretends he doesn’t care about takeoff.
But every time, Duang feels him lean slightly toward the glass.
Like he’s trying to memorize the sky.
Duang books a tiny inn near the water. The pictures show white curtains and wooden floors and a balcony just big enough for two chairs. He checks the reviews obsessively. Quiet. Intimate. Good tea.
He finds a bookstore café within walking distance. The photos show mismatched chairs and warm lamps and shelves that climb to the ceiling.
He makes a reservation at a small restaurant Qin once sent him with the caption: Overrated but aesthetic.
Duang had saved the link.
He buys it all, heart pounding, not because it’s expensive but because it feels like hope.
-
Qin comes back because he hates unresolved endings.
He tells himself it’s for his charger.
It is not.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet like it’s holding its breath.
The laptop screen is still glowing on the coffee table.
He doesn’t mean to look but he does anyways.
Flight Confirmation
Departure: February 14
Passenger: Duang—
He stops breathing.
Valentine’s Day.
After that fight.
After Duang said maybe he should find someone better.
The timing feels clean. Final.
He doesn’t scroll.
Doesn’t see the second name.
Doesn’t see the inn reservation.
Doesn’t see the restaurant confirmation.
He sees February 14.
He laughs softly.
Of course.
Duang loves big gestures. Big arrivals. Big exits.
He closes the laptop carefully.
His chest feels hollow, not shattered, not dramatic, just emptied.
So this is how it ends he thinks. Quietly.
When Duang sees him later, he brightens immediately.
“Oh. You’re back.”
Qin nods.
Duang freezes. Something’s wrong. He knows that expression. composed. Too composed.
“You okay?”
“Mm.”
“I was going to text you.”
“You don’t have to.”
The politeness is worse than anger. It was controlled, measured, distant.
“I just came for my charger,” Qin says.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
The distance between them feels intentional now. Cleanly cut.
Duang watches him leave again, and this time the dread settles properly in his stomach.
-
Six hours later, Duang is knocking on Qin’s door too fast.
He didn’t plan what to say. He just knows he can’t sit with that silence anymore.
The door opens.
Qin looks tired. Not red-eyed. Not furious.
Just… drained.
“What?” he asks.
Duang steps inside before he can lose his nerve. “What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“That tone says I did.”
Qin exhales slowly, like he’s already exhausted by this.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That you weren’t already halfway out.”
Duang blinks. “What are you talking about?”
“When were you going to tell me?” Qin asks.
“Tell you what?”
“That you’re leaving.”
The air leaves Duang’s lungs.
“…Leaving?”
“I saw the tickets,” Qin says. His voice is steady, but his fingers are trembling slightly at his sides. “Valentine’s Day. Nice touch.”
And then it clicks.
Oh.
Oh.
“You think I’m leaving you?” Duang asks, disbelief breaking through his panic.
“Don’t make it sound stupid.”
“I’m not— I just— Qin, those aren’t just my tickets.”
“You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying!” His voice cracks, frustration and fear tangling together. “Why would I lie about that?”
“Then what are they?” Qin demands quietly. Not loud. Not explosive. That makes it worse.
“They’re for you.”
Silence.
Qin’s brows draw together, like he doesn’t quite trust what he heard.
“For us,” Duang says, softer now. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Coastal city. The quiet kind you like. Bookstore cafés. That restaurant you pretend you hate but still send me pictures of.”
Qin doesn’t move.
“There are two tickets,” Duang says. “Scrolled down?”
A beat passes.
“I didn’t,” Qin admits. His voice is smaller now. “I didn’t scroll.”
Duang stares at him.
“You didn’t even check?”
“I panicked.”
There it is.
No pride. No defensiveness. Just fear.
“I thought… after what you said…” Qin swallows. “Maybe you meant it. Maybe you were already tired. And this was just you doing it properly.”
Duang’s expression shifts completely. The disbelief melts into something wounded.
“Qin,” he says, stepping closer carefully, like approaching something fragile. “I would never book a breakup on Valentine’s Day.”
A weak huff escapes Qin despite himself.
“I was trying to fix it,” Duang continues. “I know I’m loud. I interrupt you. I brush things off because I don’t want things to get heavy. I say stupid things when I feel cornered. But I am not leaving.”
He closes the space between them fully now.
“I chose you,” he says, quieter, steadier. “And I won’t run from something I fought this hard for.”
Qin’s hands fist into Duang’s shirt before he seems to realize he’s doing it.
“I’ll keep choosing you,” Duang continues. “Even when we fight. Especially when we fight. Because that’s when it would be easier not to.”
Qin’s breathing is uneven now.
“I thought I pushed you too far,” he admits. “I thought maybe this time you decided I was too much.”
Duang’s face softens instantly.
“You could push me off a cliff and I’d still crawl back up.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I am dramatic.”
“But I don’t leave,” Duang adds, more serious now. “I get defensive. I get reckless with my mouth. I get scared. But I don’t walk away.”
Qin searches his face like he’s looking for cracks.
“And you weren’t even curious?” Duang asks more gently. “Not even a little?”
“I was,” Qin admits. “But I was more scared of being right.”
That hits.
Duang reaches up and cups the back of Qin’s neck, grounding instead of grand.
“If I ever leave,” he says quietly, “it won’t be like that. It won’t be hidden in a half-open laptop.”
Qin exhales shakily.
“You really booked it for me?”
“For us.”
“Window seat?” Qin asks before he can stop himself.
Duang smiles immediately.
“Obviously.”
Qin’s composure finally cracks, a soft laugh breaking through the tension.
“I hate you,” he mutters.
“You love me.”
A pause. “Unfortunately.”
And that — finally — pulls something warm back into the room.
Qin doesn’t let the moment dissolve into kissing.
“Wait,” Qin says softly.
Duang stills immediately.
Qin pulls back just enough to look at him properly. His eyes are still bright, but clearer now. Less panicked.
“We can’t just… hug this away.”
Duang exhales. Nods. “Okay.”
Qin swallows.
“I shouldn’t have assumed,” he says carefully. “I saw one thing and decided the rest of the story without asking you.”
“You were hurt,” Duang says.
“That’s not an excuse.”
Duang studies him for a moment. Then he shakes his head gently.
“No. But it’s a reason.”
Qin looks down between them.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For not scrolling. For not asking. For thinking you would leave instead of giving you the chance to explain.”
That lands heavy.
Duang’s chest tightens.
“I’m sorry too,” he says quickly. “For saying what I said earlier. That was low.”
Qin’s fingers flex slightly in his shirt.
“When you said I should find someone who listens better…” Qin’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like you were already tired of trying.”
Duang’s expression shifts immediately.
“I’m not tired of you,” he says. “I’m scared of failing you.”
The honesty hangs between them.
Qin blinks.
Duang continues, slower now.
“When you say I’m not listening, I hear that I’m not enough. And instead of fixing it, I panic. And when I panic, I say stupid things.”
Qin absorbs that.
“I wasn’t saying you’re not enough,” he says softly. “I was saying I need you to slow down with me sometimes.”
Duang nods, jaw tight.
“I know. I just… I don’t want to be the careless one.”
Qin’s brows knit.
“You’re not careless.”
“I interrupt you.”
“You get excited.”
“I brush things off.”
“Because you don’t want us to spiral.”
They fall quiet.
It’s different this time.
Not distance.
Processing.
Qin exhales slowly.
“When you minimize something that matters to me,” he says, choosing each word carefully, “it makes me feel small. Like I’m too much.”
Duang closes his eyes briefly.
“I don’t think you’re too much.”
“I know that,” Qin says. “Logically. But feelings aren’t logical.”
Duang nods again.
“Then next time,” he says, “instead of saying ‘it’s not that serious,’ I’ll ask why it feels serious to you.”
Qin studies him.
“And next time,” Qin says, “instead of assuming you’re halfway out the door, I’ll ask what the ticket means.”
A faint smile tugs at Duang’s mouth.
“Please do.”
Silence again.
But it’s softer.
“I hate that my first instinct was to protect myself,” Qin admits. “I saw the date and thought, ‘Of course. He’s leaving.’ That says more about my fear than about you.”
Duang tilts his head slightly.
“Is that what you’re scared of?” he asks gently. “That I’ll leave when things get hard?”
Qin hesitates.
“…Yes.”
There it is. Clean. Unadorned.
Duang steps closer, hands settling on Qin’s waist instead of his face this time — grounding, not dramatic.
“I don’t leave when things get hard,” he says quietly. “I get loud. I get defensive. I get stupid. But I don’t leave, not when it’s you, qin”
Qin’s throat tightens.
“I need to hear that,” he says.
“Then I’ll say it as many times as you need.”
Qin’s fingers loosen in Duang’s shirt, sliding instead to rest flat against his chest.
“And I don’t think you’re a bad boyfriend,” Qin adds. “I think you’re reactive. And sometimes reckless with words. But you love loudly. I’ve never doubted that.”
Duang huffs a small laugh. “Reckless with words. That’s nicer than what I deserve.”
“I wasn’t trying to punish you earlier,” Qin continues. “When I said I needed air. I was trying not to say something I couldn’t take back.”
Duang nods slowly.
“Thank you,” he says. “For coming back.”
“I hate unresolved endings,” Qin replies automatically.
Duang smiles faintly. “I know.”
A beat.
“Also,” Qin adds quietly, “I did miss your stupid warmth.”
Duang grins immediately. “You love my stupid warmth.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Liar.”
Qin’s lips twitch despite himself.
Duang sobers again, brushing his thumb lightly against Qin’s side.
“The trip wasn’t to fix you,” he says. “It was to show you I’m paying attention.”
“I know that now.”
“And if we ever fight again—”
“We will,” Qin says dryly.
“—when we fight again,” Duang corrects, “I don’t want you thinking I’m packing my bags.”
Qin nods once.
“And I don’t want you thinking I’m grading you.”
Duang pauses.
“…You kind of are, though.”
Qin gives him a look.
“I am not.”
“You use bullet points in arguments.”
“That’s structure.”
“That’s terrifying.”
Qin’s composure cracks fully this time, a small laugh slipping out. The tension breaks. Finally, Duang rests his forehead against Qin’s again.
“So,” he murmurs, softer now, “can we try something?”
“What?”
“When something feels serious to you… instead of saying ‘it’s not that serious,’ I’ll say ‘tell me why.’”
Qin’s eyes warm.
“And when you say something clumsy,” Qin replies, “I’ll assume you’re scared, not cruel.”
Duang nods once.
“Deal.”
They stand there for another moment — no urgency, no panic, just warmth.
Qin hugs him first this time. Not desperate, intentional.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says into Duang’s chest.
Duang wraps his arms around him fully.
“Then don’t assume I’m leaving,” he murmurs into Qin’s hair.
A pause.
“Okay,” Qin says.
Another pause.
“Okay,” Duang echoes.
And this time when they kiss, it isn’t to stop the argument.
It’s to seal the repair.