Chapter Text
The paper was lighter than Mark expected.
For something that ended seven years of marriage, it barely weighed anything at all.
Just a few printed pages. Official stamps in red ink. Signatures in blue pen. The crest of the district office at the top — formal, bureaucratic, indifferent.
He held it between his fingers like it might dissolve if he gripped too hard.
Across the desk, Junior signed his name with quick, practiced strokes.
Always efficient. Always decisive.
The officer glanced over the documents one last time before stamping them with a heavy thunk that echoed louder than it should have in Mark’s ears.
“เรียบร้อยนะครับ,” the officer said with a polite nod. “You are officially divorced.”
Officially divorced.
Mark swallowed.
Junior stood first. He always did — faster to act, faster to move forward. Mark followed a second later, his chair scraping loudly against the tile floor. He winced at the noise, embarrassed by how it sounded in the quiet office.
They stepped out into the hallway of the district office building together.
Bangkok heat wrapped around them immediately, humid and familiar. The scent of street food drifted from vendors outside — grilled pork skewers, fried garlic, chili. Motorbikes buzzed past the entrance gates. Life moving normally.
Completely normally.
Like nothing had just ended.
They stopped just outside the glass doors.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Seven years.
And suddenly they didn’t know how to say goodbye.
Junior cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, voice careful. Neutral. Polite in a way Mark had never heard directed at him before. “I guess… I’ll see you around.”
The words landed strangely.
See you around.
Like they were colleagues. Like acquaintances. Like people who might accidentally meet at a café someday.
Mark nodded automatically.
“Yeah,” he said. “See you.”
It would have been a perfectly reasonable goodbye.
Normal even. As normal can get.
Except they both walked toward the same car.
Oh, the irony.
They paused beside it at the same time — Junior’s dark grey sedan, the one they bought together after Mark’s old pickup finally died in the middle of Sukhumvit traffic three years ago.
There was a brief, ridiculous hesitation.
As if one of them might suddenly remember they weren’t supposed to go home together anymore.
Junior unlocked the car.
They both got in.
The drive was quiet.
Bangkok traffic crawled around them — taxis weaving, motorbikes slipping between lanes, vendors pushing carts along the roadside. The late afternoon sun cast long golden reflections across glass buildings.
Mark stared out the window, jaw tight.
Divorced.
And still going back to the same house.
The absurdity of it pressed against his ribs.
•- 2 months earlier -•
“So… we can’t sell it?”
Mark’s voice sounded small even to his own ears.
Across the conference table, his lawyer — Khun Siriporn; shook her head gently. Junior’s lawyer nodded in agreement.
“Not immediately,” she said. “When you purchased the property in the Baan Tawan Development, you signed an occupancy agreement with the developer. Because the home uses their experimental modular structural system and energy monitoring design, there is a five-year primary residence requirement.”
Junior frowned. “We’ve lived there three years.”
“Yes,” his lawyer said. “Which means two years remain.”
Mark felt his stomach drop.
Khun Siriporn continued calmly.
“You have three options. One of you buys the other out and remains in the house. You both remain co-owners and continue living there until the contract period ends. Or you both vacate early and pay the contractual penalty.”
Junior leaned forward. “How much is the penalty?”
A document slid across the table.
Mark saw the number.
His chest went cold.
It was impossible.
They had bought the house with a reduced price precisely because of that clause. Neither of them could afford to pay the penalty alone — not with legal fees, separate living expenses, and mortgage obligations.
Junior exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Right,” he said. “Okay.”
Silence stretched.
Then Khun Siriporn added gently:
“There is also the matter of your dog.”
That got both of their attention instantly.
“Jummo stays with me,” Junior said immediately.
Mark’s head snapped up. “No, he doesn’t. I’m home more than you.”
“I travel less than I used to,” Junior shot back.
“And I’m the one who trained him.”
“You taught him to sit,” Mark said. “I’m the one who wakes up at six in the morning because he thinks the sun personally invited him outside.”
“He sleeps on my side of the bed.”
“He sleeps wherever there’s a blanket!”
Both lawyers watched them with identical expressions of professional patience.
After several minutes of increasingly emotional debate about a five-year-old toy poodle with separation anxiety and a dramatic personality, Khun Siriporn raised her hand.
“Shared care,” she said firmly. “If you remain living in the same residence, joint responsibility is simplest.”
The realization hit both of them at the same time.
Divorced.
Still living together.
Still raising their dog.
Together.
Neither of them spoke.
But something fragile cracked quietly inside Mark’s chest.
⁎⁺˳✧⁺⁎༚˚✧⁎˚✧˚༚⁎⁺✧˳⁺⁎
The car turned into their street.
Their house came into view — two stories, modern Thai contemporary design, warm wood accents against pale concrete. The front garden Junior insisted on hiring a landscape designer for. The porch steps Mark had rebuilt himself after the first rainy season cracked them.
Home.
Junior parked.
The engine shut off.
Neither of them moved.
Then barking erupted from inside.
High-pitched. Excited. Familiar.
Jummo.
Mark’s throat tightened immediately.
Junior opened the door first. “Come on,” he muttered.
They walked inside together.
Shoes off at the door automatically. Muscle memory.
Before Mark even finished stepping onto the tile, a small blur of white fur launched across the living room.
“Hey, hey—!” Mark dropped to his knees instinctively.
Jummo crashed into his chest, tail whipping violently, whining with joy like they’d been gone for weeks instead of hours.
Junior crouched at the same time.
Their hands brushed.
Both froze.
Just for a second.
Then they pulled back.
Jummo looked between them, confused but thrilled, and licked Mark’s chin enthusiastically.
Mark laughed — a broken, startled sound he hadn’t meant to make.
God, he missed this.
Missed them.
Missed normal.
He stood slowly, eyes drifting across the room.
And then he saw it.
The framed photo on the wall near the staircase.
8 years ago.
Both of them wearing hard hats at a construction site, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, faces sunburned and grinning.
The project where they met.
The photo had been taken on the last day of the project.
Mark remembered the exact moment.
⁎⁺˳✧⁺⁎༚˚✧⁎˚✧˚༚⁎⁺✧˳⁺⁎
It had been brutally hot — the kind of Bangkok afternoon where the air felt thick enough to drink. Dust clung to their clothes, concrete powder coating their boots. Someone had shoved hard hats onto their heads and insisted on a picture for the company newsletter.
Junior had slung an arm around his shoulders without hesitation.
Mark had pretended not to notice how natural it felt.
Back then, they weren’t even dating yet.
They were still pretending they were just coworkers.
They met because of a disagreement.
A very loud one.
Mark still remembered walking into the conference room that first day — laptop under his arm, structural reports ready — and seeing Junior for the first time.
White shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. Standing at the head of the table, gesturing toward a 3D rendering projected on the wall with sharp, confident movements.
Architect, Mark had thought immediately.
Definitely an architect.
Junior noticed him too.
“You’re the structural engineer?” he asked one eyebrow raised.
Mark nodded. “Mark.”
“Junior.”
No wai. Just a brief nod. Professional. Neutral.
Then Mark looked at the design.
And immediately spotted the problem.
“You can’t cantilever that far without additional support,” Mark said, pointing at the screen.
Junior crossed his arms. “Yes, you can. Steel reinforcement.”
“Not with that load distribution.”
“You’re being conservative.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re killing the design.”
“I’m keeping it from collapsing.”
Silence fell over the room.
Everyone else watched like spectators at a tennis match.
Junior stepped closer to the screen, jaw tight.
“The whole concept depends on openness. If we add columns there, it ruins the visual line.”
“And if we don’t,” Mark said calmly, “you risk structural failure.”
They stared at each other.
Neither backing down.
That was the beginning.
˚✧˚✧˚✧˚
For the next few weeks, they argued constantly.
Meetings turned into debates. Debates turned into long technical discussions. Sometimes they’d still be talking after everyone else left, papers spread across the table, empty coffee cups piling up.
Mark started noticing things.
Junior’s intensity when he focused.
The way he chewed on his pen when thinking.
How his frustration wasn’t ego — it was passion. Pure unadulterated passion for his craft.
One night, around 9 p.m., they were still at the office reviewing revised plans.
Junior groaned, leaning back in his chair.
“You’re impossible.”
Mark didn’t look up from his calculations. “I’m right.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“You’re reckless.”
Junior snorted. “You know what your problem is?”
“What?”
“You don’t think creatively.”
Mark finally looked up, offended. “Excuse me?”
“You think within limits,” Junior said, tapping the blueprint. “I think beyond them.”
Mark held his gaze for a second.
Then he turned the paper around and started sketching.
“What if,” Mark said slowly, “we redistribute the load here… and use a concealed support beam integrated into the façade.”
Junior went still.
“…Wait,” he said.
Mark kept sketching.
The silence stretched.
Then Junior leaned closer. Very close. Close enough that Mark could feel his shoulder brushing against his arm.
“That might actually work,” Junior murmured.
Mark’s stomach flipped unexpectedly.
He ignored it.
˚✧˚✧˚✧˚
Late nights became routine.
Sometimes they’d grab food from street vendors outside the office — plastic stools, metal tables, sweating bottles of water.
One night Junior pushed a plate toward him.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Eat.”
Mark rolled his eyes but picked up the spoon.
A comfortable silence settled between them.
After a while Junior said, quieter, “You know… I’ve never worked with someone who challenges me this much.”
Mark blinked.
“…Same,” he admitted.
Junior smiled.
And something shifted.
The first time Mark realised he was in trouble was at the construction site.
It was past midnight. Floodlights cast harsh white light across concrete pillars. Workers had gone home hours ago. They were checking measurements before a morning inspection.
Junior was standing a few meters away, talking animatedly about façade materials, hands moving as he spoke.
Then he laughed.
Head tipped back.
Eyes bright.
And Mark had this sudden, overwhelming thought:
I want to see that for the rest of my life.
The realisation hit him so hard he forgot what Junior was saying.
“You okay?” Junior asked.
Mark blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It was a lie.
He wasn’t tired.
He was falling.
˚✧˚✧˚✧˚
The tension built slowly after that.
Lingering looks.
Accidental touches that lasted too long.
Conversations drifting away from work into personal territory.
One evening they were walking to the parking lot after a long day.
Junior said casually, “You know… I didn’t like you at first.”
Mark laughed. “I noticed.”
“I thought you were arrogant.”
“I thought you were dramatic.”
“I am dramatic.”
“You are.”
They both smiled.
The air felt different.
Charged.
Junior stopped walking.
Mark stopped too.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Junior said, softer, “You’re… important to me. You know that, right?”
Mark’s chest tightened.
“…Yeah,” he said.
The silence stretched.
Mark could feel his pulse in his throat.
Junior stepped closer.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Okay.”
“Are you—” Junior hesitated, unusually uncertain. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Mark shook his head slowly almost shy.
Junior exhaled.
Relief.
Visible relief.
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
Another pause.
Then Mark asked quietly, “Why?”
Junior looked at him for a long second.
And then said, barely above a whisper:
“Because I think… I might be falling in love with you.”
The world stopped.
Mark’s brain short-circuited completely.
“…You are?” he managed.
Junior huffed a nervous laugh. “That’s usually how it works, yes.”
Mark stared at him.
Heart racing.
Hope and terror colliding.
“I think,” Mark said slowly, “I might already be there.”
Junior’s eyes widened.
And then he kissed him.
Right there in the parking lot.
It was supposed to be quick.
It wasn’t.
It was warm and tentative and then suddenly desperate — like both of them had been holding their breath for weeks.
When they finally pulled apart, Junior rested his forehead against Mark’s.
“Well,” he murmured. “That complicates things.”
Mark laughed softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “It does.”
But neither of them looked upset about it.
Not even a little.
˚✧˚✧˚✧˚
They were inseparable after that.
Late nights turned into dates.
Dates turned into weekends together.
Weekends turned into moving in.
A year later, they were married. Junior proposed with a ring he made himself with the help of a jeweller friend, he met in one of his conferences. The same jeweller who created the wedding rings they once shared.
Mark had never once doubted it was the right choice.
Not once.
⁎⁺˳✧⁺⁎༚˚✧⁎˚✧˚༚⁎⁺✧˳⁺⁎
Mark blinked, dragged back into the quiet living room.
The photo stared back at him from the wall.
Two men smiling like the future was certain.
Like love was simple.
Like nothing could break them.
His throat tightened.
How did we get from there… to here?
From falling in love in a parking lot…
…to signing divorce papers in a government office?
The house felt unbearably quiet.
And for the first time since they’d gotten home, Mark wondered something that scared him more than the divorce itself.
Did Junior remember it like he did?
Or was he the only one still living inside those memories?
Mark turned, not wanting to let his gaze linger any longer, and faced Jummo, who was still actively barking for attention.
Junior was already clipping the leash onto Jummo’s collar.
“I’ll take him out,” he said without looking up.
Mark nodded.
“Okay.”
The door closed behind them.
The house fell silent.
Mark stood there alone, divorce papers still in his hand, surrounded by furniture they chose together, memories layered into every surface.
How are we supposed to live like this?
⁎⁺˳✧⁺⁎༚˚✧⁎˚✧˚༚⁎⁺✧˳⁺⁎
The evening air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to skin even after the sun had gone down.
Jummo trotted ahead, nose low to the ground, completely absorbed in the important business of sniffing leaves.
Junior barely noticed.
He stood near the gate for a long moment, one hand resting loosely on the leash, staring back at the house.
The lights were on in the living room.
Mark was inside.
That thought landed somewhere heavy in his chest.
He looked away quickly.
The neighborhood was quiet — distant traffic, a neighbor’s television murmuring through an open window, the hum of insects in the garden.
Normal sounds.
Normal night.
Except nothing felt normal anymore.
Junior exhaled slowly through his nose.
Jummo tugged toward the grass again, impatient.
“Yeah,” Junior muttered. “Okay.”
His voice sounded rough.
He cleared his throat and started walking.
⁎⁺˳✧⁺⁎༚˚✧⁎˚✧˚༚⁎⁺✧˳⁺⁎
That night the sleeping arrangements were… complicated.
Technically, there were three bedrooms.
The master bedroom.
A guest room.
And Mark’s small home office.
The guest room bed was too small for either Junior or Mark. The office had no bed. And neither of them wanted to admit that the master bedroom — their bedroom — was still the most practical option.
They stood in the doorway that night like strangers negotiating territory.
“You can take the bed,” Junior said.
Mark shook his head immediately. “No. It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“The couch is terrible for your back.”
“I’ll survive.”
Junior exhaled, frustrated. “Mark.”
The familiar way he said his name made something twist painfully in Mark’s chest.
After a long silence, Junior muttered, “We can… share. It’s a big bed.”
Mark’s heartbeat stuttered.
Share.
Like nothing changed.
Like everything changed.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
They got ready for bed in silence — brushing teeth side by side but not looking at each other, changing clothes with backs turned.
When they finally lay down, they stayed on opposite edges of the mattress.
A gulf of space between them.
The ceiling fan hummed softly.
Mark stared into the darkness, hyperaware of Junior’s presence; his breathing, the faint scent of his soap, the warmth radiating across the sheets.
Seven years of habit screamed at him to roll over. To reach out. To rest his hand on Junior’s waist like he always used to.
He didn’t.
Neither of them moved.
Somewhere in the night, Jummo jumped onto the bed and curled up exactly in the middle between them.
Mark felt tears slip silently into his pillow.
Divorced.
And still here.
Still together.
Yet not together at all.
Mark didn’t know how long he lay there.
Minutes.
Hours.
Time felt strange when you were trying not to think about the person breathing beside you.
Beside him, Junior shifted.
The mattress dipped slightly.
Mark froze.
Junior’s breathing changed — deeper, slower.
Sleep.
Or something close to it.
Mark tried to do the same.
Then Junior moved again.
A quiet sound left him — soft, tired — and his body turned slightly toward Mark.
Closer.
Mark’s heartbeat stumbled.
Junior’s arm slid across the sheets.
Slow.
Unthinking.
Like habit.
His hand reached the middle of the bed.
Fingers brushing against Jummo’s fur.
Then continuing.
Mark stopped breathing.
The hand came to rest just short of his wrist.
Barely an inch away.
Close enough that he could feel the warmth of his skin.
If Mark moved — just a little — they would touch.
His entire body screamed to close the distance.
Seven years of instinct.
Seven years of falling asleep together.
Junior’s fingers twitched once.
Like he expected contact.
Like he was used to finding Mark there.
Mark’s chest hurt.
He wanted to turn his hand over.
Wanted to lace their fingers together.
Wanted to pretend nothing had changed.
But the word echoed in his mind like a barrier between them.
Divorced.
Mark stayed still.
After a few seconds, Junior’s hand relaxed against the mattress.
Not touching.
Just… there.
Close.
Almost.
Mark didn’t know if Junior was asleep.
He didn’t know if the movement meant anything.
He didn’t know anything anymore.
Tears slipped quietly into his pillow.
Because even now—
Even after everything—
Part of Junior still reached toward him.
And part of Mark still wanted to be there when he did.