Archive of Our Own

The first thing Peach notices when he wakes up is the warmth.

Something warm pressed against his back. An arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close like Peach might try to escape in his sleep. Soft breathing against the back of his neck, slow and peaceful, with just a tiny hint of snore.

Okay, maybe more than a hint. Kian is definitely snoring. Just a little. It sounds like a very small motorboat.

Peach smiles with his eyes still closed.

Kian is still asleep. Peach can tell from the way his body is completely relaxed, heavy against him, and also from the snoring. Three months of marriage, and Peach still knows these small things. The way Kian breathes when he's dreaming—which is loudly. The way his arm tightens automatically if Peach tries to move—like a very affectionate octopus. The way he mumbles absolute nonsense if woken up too fast—yesterday it was something about pineapples and a dancing elephant.

Three months.

It feels longer in the best way. Like they've always been like this. Like waking up in Kian's arms is the most natural thing in the world. But at the same time, it still feels new. Special. Peach still gets that flutter in his chest every morning when he remembers: This is my husband. This is my life now. 

He heard from most people that marriage changes things. They said the excitement doesn't last. They said the butterflies go away and you're left with something comfortable but quieter.

Peach shifts carefully, turning just enough to look at Kian's sleeping face. His husband's features are soft in the early light, relaxed in a way they never are during the day. His hair is longer than before, messy, falling across his forehead in twelve different directions. His lips are slightly parted. A tiny bit of drool is on the corner of his mouth.

The flutter in Peach's chest gets stronger.

Maybe for other people. But not for him. Not for this adorable disaster of a man who somehow became his whole world.

He lets himself stay like that for a few more minutes. Just watching. Just feeling the weight of Kian's arm around him, the warmth of their bodies pressed together. The room is quiet except for Kian's little snores.

Then Peach's phone alarm buzzes on the nightstand, and the moment breaks.

He reaches for it quickly, silencing it before it can get too loud. But Kian stirs anyway, a small sound of complaint against Peach's shoulder. The snoring stops.

"No," Kian mumbles, his voice rough and groggy. His arm tightens, pulling Peach closer. "Too early. Five more minutes."

Peach chuckles softly. "P'Kian," he whispers, gently brushing the messy hair away from his husband's face. "It's 7:30."

"That's the middle of the night." Kian ignores him completely and pulls him closer, molding their bodies together like he's trying to become one person with Peach. His leg hooks over Peach's hip. His face burrows into Peach's neck. If he could climb inside Peach's skin, he probably would.

Peach laughs quietly. "We have to wake the kids."

"The kids can wait. They're kids. They have no appointments. No board meetings. No corporate takeovers to plan."

"But you have work. Didn't you say you have a meeting for the new collection today? The big one? With the investors?"

Kian groans and buries his face deeper against Peach's neck. His lips brush against the skin there, soft and warm, and Peach shivers a little. Kian knows exactly what he's doing, even half-asleep. He's a menace.

"Five more minutes," Kian whispers against his neck, and this time his lips part just enough to let his tongue trace a lazy line up to Peach's pulse point. "What are they gonna do if I'm five minutes late? Fire me? I own the company."

Peach's breath hitches. "If we stay five more minutes, we'll stay thirty more minutes. You know how you are. You have no self-control."

"I have excellent self-control." Kian's teeth graze the spot just below Peach's ear, and Peach's eyes flutter closed against his will. "See? I'm controlling myself so well right now."

"Yeah?" Peach's voice comes out slightly breathless. "You kept me up until 2 a.m."

"That's not a lack of self-control, Lookpeach. That's... efficient use of time." Kian's hand slides from Peach's waist, fingers spreading wide over his stomach, warm through the silk of his pajamas. "That's called… Quality time. Very important in a marriage. Besides, we're in a mansion. The kids' rooms are on the other side of the house. We have privacy. We should take advantage."

"More like quantity time. Endless quantity time."

"Mmm." Kian nuzzles into the curve of Peach's neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell good. Even in the morning. How is that possible? You should smell like sleep and that fancy toothpaste you like. But you smell like... you. Like home."

Peach's heart stumbles over itself.

He finally turns in Kian's arms to face him. Kian's eyes are barely open, heavy-lidded and sleepy, but there's something else in them now. Something warm and wanting that makes Peach's stomach flip. His hair is a disaster. His lips are slightly chapped. He has pillow creases on his cheek that say he had a good sleep.

He's the most beautiful thing Peach has ever seen.

"You're impossible," Peach tells him, but his voice is barely a whisper.

"And you love me." It's not a question. Kian says it like a fact, like gravity, like the sun rising over his estate. His hand slides up from Peach's stomach to cup his jaw, thumb tracing over his cheekbone.

"Unfortunately, yes."

Kian's smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans in and kisses Peach, slow and warm. His mouth is soft, a little dry from sleep, and he still tastes faintly like last night's toothpaste. But then the kiss deepens, and Peach forgets about things like morning breath and drool.

Kian's tongue traces his lower lip, asking permission. Peach gives it without thinking, parting for him, letting him in. The kiss turns slower, deeper, more deliberate. Kian's hand slides into Peach's hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, tugging gently. Peach makes a small sound against his mouth, and Kian swallows it like it's the most precious thing in the world.

When they finally pull apart, they're both breathing a little harder. Kian's eyes have lost their sleepiness completely. They're dark and focused and full of something that makes Peach's cheeks burn.

"Good morning my Lookpeach" Kian murmurs, his voice even rougher than before.

"Good morning." Peach's voice cracks on the second word.

Kian grins, slow and satisfied. "Did that wake you up?"

"I was already awake."

"Good. Then you're awake for this." He kisses Peach again, quicker this time but no less intense. Then again, on the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then that spot below his ear that makes Peach's whole body shiver.

"P'Kian," Peach breathes. "The kids—"

"Are still asleep. We'd hear them if they woke up." Kian's lips trail down to his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. "The monitor's right there. See? No sounds. No crying. No little feet running down the hall. Besides, their room is on the other side of the mansion. Past the library. Past the game room. Past that hallway with all the paintings. We have time."

Peach's head falls back against the pillow, giving Kian more access. "You're evil."

"I'm thorough." Kian's hand slides under Peach's silk pajama top, palm flat against his stomach, warm and calloused and perfect. "There's a difference."

"What difference?"

"The difference between..." Kian pauses to suck lightly at the spot where Peach's neck meets his shoulder. Peach gasps. "...being evil and being committed to a thorough morning greeting."

"A thorough—" Peach cuts himself off with another gasp as Kian's hand slides higher. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're beautiful." Kian lifts his head to look at him, really look at him. Peach must be a mess—hair all over the place, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed—but Kian is looking at him like he's the most precious thing in the universe. "So beautiful. Every morning. Every single morning I wake up next to you in this ridiculous mansion and I can't believe you're mine."

Peach's throat tightens. "Kian..."

"I mean it." Kian's thumb traces over his cheek again, soft and tender. "Three months of marriage, and I still wake up every day feeling like I won the lottery. Like I somehow tricked you into loving me and you haven't figured it out yet."

"P'Kian, you didn't trick me into anything."

"No?" Kian's smile is soft, almost vulnerable. "Then why do you stay? You could go anywhere. Do anything. You don't need my mone—"

Peach reaches up and cups Kian's face in both hands, mirroring his gesture from moments ago. "I stay because I love you. Because you make me laugh. Because you're terrible at cooking but you try anyway. Because you snore like a tiny motorboat and mumble about elephants in your sleep. Because you're the best father to Mhok and Marn. Because you look at me like I'm the one who's unbelievable, when it's actually you. It's always been you.You're the reason I'm here."

Kian's eyes go bright. Just for a second. Just a gleam that might be emotional before he blinks it away.

"That's a long list," he says, his voice slightly rough.

"You asked."

"I did." Kian leans in and kisses him again, softer this time. Reverent. Like Peach is something holy. "I love you. I love you so much it's stupid."

Peach laughs against his mouth. "Everyone here knows."

"Yeah? If they don’t, I'll shout it from the roof of this mansion." Kian kisses the corner of his mouth. "I love Lookpeach." Another kiss, on his nose. "I love my husband." Another, on his forehead. "I love the father of my children."

"P'Kian..."

"Say it back."

"I love you too. Obviously. You're very aware of this."

"I want to hear it every day for the rest of my life."

Peach smiles, wide and helpless. "Then you will."

Kian makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and rolls them over so Peach is on top of him. Peach yelps in surprise, bracing his hands on Kian's chest.

"What are you—"

"You're so cute." Kian's hands settle on his hips, thumbs rubbing circles through the thin silk of his pajamas. "So cute and so pretty. You love me and now you're on top of me, it's 7:45 in the morning and I have a meeting at 10 but I don't care about any of that because you're here."

Peach laughs, bright and surprised. "You're insane."

"Insane for you." Kian's hands slide down, cupping his ass through the silk, squeezing gently. "Completely, irreversibly, pathetically insane for you. Also, I own the company. I can be late. And the mansion has a helipad. I can make it."

"We really have to wake the kids soon. I don’t wanna break their habit of waking up early."

"We have time, Lookpeach." Kian's eyes are dark again, warm and wanting. "We have a little time. The staff will come at 9 on Sundays, as usual."

Peach bites his lip, considering. Kian's hands are warm on him, grounding and electric at the same time. His husband looks up at him with those eyes—the ones that always make him feel like the most important person in the world—and Peach feels his resolve crumbling.

"How much time?" he whispers.

Kian's smile turns slow and wicked. "Enough for.. this."

Fifty minutes later, Peach is in the kitchen wearing his robe—the red one from some designer Kian likes, with Kian's initials embroidered on the back in gold thread: "Theerakit Kian Lee"—trying very hard not to limp.

(He's not limping. He's just... walking carefully. There's a difference.)

Kian follows him down the grand staircase from their bedroom wing, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He's wearing blue pajamas and a robe—the matching one to Peach's, because of course Kian had them custom-made as a set, because he's that couple—and it's inside out.

Peach noticed immediately but hasn't pointed it out yet. He's saving it for later, a little ammunition for when Kian gets too cocky. Which will probably be in about ten minutes, knowing his husband.

"You're staring," Kian says from behind him.

"I'm not staring. I'm walking."

"You're walking and staring. Multitasking. Very efficient."

Peach rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it. Every step is a reminder of exactly how "thorough" Kian was, and Kian knows it. That bastard. That beautiful, perfect, smug bastard who is his husband is coming down the stairs with his inside-out matching robe.

Kian catches up to him at the bottom of the stairs—he doesn't trip, because the stairs in a mansion this expensive are wide and perfectly crafted, probably designed by someone with a PhD in stair engineering—and wraps his arms around Peach's waist from behind, pulling him close.

"Careful," Peach says automatically, even though they're perfectly flat.

"I'm always careful."

"You walked into a glass door last week. The one that leads to the pool."

"That door was too clean. That's the housekeeper's fault, not mine. She's too good at her job."

Peach leans back against him, letting himself be held for just a moment. The mansion is quiet, wrapped in morning hush. Sunlight is streaming through the massive windows, painting soft gold stripes on the polished floors, bouncing off the chandeliers and the carefully curated art on the walls. The gardens stretch out beyond the windows, perfectly manicured, the fountain catching the light. Somewhere in the kids' wing, Mhok and Marn are probably still asleep, which means they have approximately ten minutes of peace before the chaos begins.

"I like this," Peach murmurs.

"What part, Lookpeach?"

"All of it. The quiet. The sun. You being clingy."

"I'm not clingy. I'm affectionate. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Absolutely. Clingy is needy. Affectionate is..." Kian pauses, pressing a kiss to the side of Peach's neck. "...thoroughly."

Peach laughs softly. "There's that word again."

"It's a good word. Thorough. Comprehensive. Complete. I learned it from lakorn." Another kiss, higher this time. "I like being thorough with you. Especially when there's only us here."

"If you're thorough again, we'll never make breakfast."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take. We could have the chef make something. He's excellent. That's why I hired him."

Peach turns in his arms, fixing him with a look. "P'Kian. I want to make breakfast. For our family. In our kitchen. With the stove that costs more than a car and has never been properly used because you're terrified of it."

Kian has the grace to look slightly abashed. "I'm not terrified of it. I just... respect its power. It's a very expensive stove. It has feelings."

"You set water on fire."

"It was a small fire. The stove has excellent safety features. The fire suppression system worked perfectly. That's why I paid extra for it."

Peach reaches up and fixes Kian's robe—turning it right-side out—and Kian looks down at himself in surprise.

"Was it inside out?"

"Since you put it on."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you looked cute." Peach pats his chest. "Come on. Let's make breakfast. Together.I'll teach you."

Kian follows him into the kitchen with the expression of a puppy who's been promised a treat, even though this kitchen is roughly the size of that tiny house peach lived in. Marble countertops. Professional-grade appliances. A refrigerator that probably has more computing power than Peach first laptop. An island that seats eight.

Peach ties on his apron—the one that says "Kiss the Cook" in big letters, a gift from Kian that was supposed to be a joke but has resulted in approximately 847 kisses since he got it—and starts pulling ingredients from the fridge. Organic eggs from some farm that probably treats its chickens better than most people treat their children. Rice from a specific region of Thailand that Kian has imported. Vegetables so fresh they might still be growing. Everything is perfect, pristine, and expensive.

"Okay," Peach says, turning to face Kian with a whisk in his hand. "Today, you're going to learn how to make an omelette. Without setting anything on fire of course."

Kian holds up his hands. "I'm ready. I'm teachable. I'm a blank slate."

"You're a menace, but okay."

Kian comes to stand beside him at the stove, and Peach tries to ignore how good he smells—some expensive cologne that he probably put on after their… ummm little morning activities. Or maybe he always smells like that. Peach isn't sure anymore. He just knows that when Kian is close, it's hard to focus on things like eggs and rice.

"First," Peach says, "crack the eggs. But not too hard. Gentle."

Kian takes an egg. Taps it on the counter. It explodes.

"Too hard," Peach says, biting back a smile.

"Eggs are fragile. I forgot."

"Of course, P'Kian. They're just eggs."

"Everything in this kitchen is expensive. I got nervous. The eggs are probably from royalty or something."

Peach laughs and takes another egg, demonstrating. Tap, crack, drop. Perfect. He hands Kian another one.

"Try again. Like you're petting a cat. Gentle."

Kian concentrates. Taps gently. Cracks it carefully. It works.

"I did it Lookpeach!" Kian grins like he just closed a multi-billion dollar deal. "Look! No shell! Well, minimal shell. There's a tiny piece but we can ignore it."

"Good job, baby." Peach bumps his hip against Kian's. "Now do five more."

They work side by side, Kian cracking eggs (two more explosions, three pieces of shell that Peach has to fish out) and Peach whisking. It's domestic in a way their life rarely is—usually there are chefs and assistants and schedules and people handling things. But Sunday mornings are theirs. No staff until later. Just the four of them in this massive mansion, making it feel like a home.

"You know," Kian says, carefully cracking another egg, "I used to hate mornings."

Peach glances at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Alarm clocks. Traffic. Meetings. All of it." Kian's voice is soft, thoughtful. "But now? Now I wake up and you're there. And you're warm. And you laugh at my jokes. And you let me..." He trails off, grinning. "...be thorough, of course. And then we make breakfast together in our ridiculous kitchen, and it's..."

He trails off, searching for the right word.

Peach waits, letting him find it. The pan heats up on the stove.

"It's my favorite part of the day," Kian finishes quietly. "Just... this. Being with you. Even when you're bossy and make me crack eggs even though I'm clearly an eggs-cracking disaster."

Peach's heart does that thing again. That flip-flutter-squeeze thing that only Kian can make it do.

"Even when you snore?" Peach teases, because if he doesn't tease, he might actually cry.

"I don't snore."

"Ai Khun Thee, you snore like a tiny chainsaw."

"Lookpeach, I do not." Kian's eyes narrow playfully. "And don't Ai Khun Thee me. I'm your husband. Show some respect."

Peach ignores him completely. A skill he's perfected over three months of marriage. "It's adorable. I love it. But you definitely snore."

Kian grins, completely unbothered. "Okay, maybe I snore a little. But you love it."

"I love you. The snoring is just something I tolerate."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

"To me it is." Kian presses a kiss to his temple, soft and warm. "Every annoying thing about me, every flaw, every snore—you tolerate it all. That's love. That's marriage."

Peach's heart does that stupid fluttery thing again. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just don't listen because you're too busy calling me Ai Khun Thee."

"You are Ai Khun Thee."

"But to you, I'm P'Kian." Kian's voice drops, going soft and teasing. "Or 'baby.' Or 'my love.' Or that thing you moaned this morning when I—"

"OKAY." Peach's face burns. "Breakfast. Now. No more talking."

Peach laughs and turns back to the stove, but his cheeks are warm. He pours the eggs into the pan, watching them start to set. Kian moves closer, pressing against his side, watching the process with intense concentration.

"How do you know when to flip it?" Kian asks.

"Experience. Practice. Also, I can just tell."

"That's not helpful. That's magic. You're a breakfast witch."

"A breakfast what?"

"A breakfast witch. You have powers I don't understand. It's very attractive."

Peach shakes his head, smiling. "You're ridiculous."

"And you love me."

"I do." Peach says it softly, sincerely, and Kian's expression softens in response.

They stood like that for a moment, Kian pressed against his side, Peach cooking, the morning light making everything golden. Then Kian's hands find their way to Peach's waist, just resting there, warm and present.

"I like this," Kian murmurs. "Watching you cook. Being close to you. Knowing that we have all day."

"Ahem We have all morning. You have a meeting."

"The meeting can wait. The investors can wait. Everything can wait." Kian presses a kiss to Peach's temple. "You're the only thing that matters."

Peach's heart squeezes. "P'Kian..."

"I mean it. I spent so many years just... working. Building things. Accumulating stuff." He gestures vaguely at the kitchen, the mansion, the grounds beyond the windows. "And then I met you, and I realized none of it matters if I don't have someone to share it with. This house was just a house before you. You made it a home. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You and the kids. This is what matters."

Peach turns off the stove and turns in Kian's arms, facing him properly. Kian's eyes are soft, open, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets himself be.

"Kian," Peach whispers.

"I know, I'm being sappy. It's the morning. The eggs cracked well. I'm emotional."

"I don't want you to stop." Peach reaches up and cups his face. "I want you to keep being sappy forever. I want to wake up every morning and hear you say things like this. I want to make breakfast with you every Sunday for the rest of our lives, even if you set the kitchen on fire again."

"I won't set it on fire again."

"You absolutely will. And I'll be here to put it out. That's what marriage is."

Kian laughs, bright and surprised, and kisses him. It's soft and sweet and full of everything they don't always say out loud.

When they finally break apart, they're both smiling.

"Okay," Kian says. "Teach me how to flip the omelette. Safely. With no fires."

Peach grins. "Okay. Watch closely."

Then a small voice comes from the doorway.

"Papa? Dad?"

They both turn. Mhok is standing there in his pajamas—designer pajamas, because Kian refuses to let his kids wear anything less than the best, and also because they can afford it—hair even messier than Kian's, which is truly an achievement, rubbing his eyes with one tiny fist. Marn is right behind him, clutching her stuffed rabbit (which cost more than some people's first car, a fact Peach tries not to think about), looking sleepy and small and absolutely adorable.

Peach's heart grows about three sizes. It happens every time.

"Good morning, little ones," Peach says warmly. "Did you sleep well?"

Mhok nods, already shuffling toward Kian. Kian scoops him up easily, settling him on his laps like he's done it a million times. Marn goes to Peach, wrapping her arms around his legs in a sleepy hug.

"Papa," Marn mumbles against his robe. "Marn is hungry."

"Breakfast is almost ready," Peach tells her, running his hand gently over her hair. "Omelettes and fried rice. Your favorites."

Marn perks up a little. "With the runny eggs?"

"With the runny eggs."

"Yay."

"Can I have two?" Mhok asks from Kian's arms, already more awake.

"You can have three," Kian says, kissing the top of his head. "We've got plenty. The eggs are very expensive. Very fancy. They come from chickens that listen to classical music. You'll be eating luxury omelettes."

"P'Kian Stop that nonsense" Peach raises his voice to let his husband hear his scolding.

Mhok grins by the thought of getting 3 eggs. Peach's little princess Marn tugs on Peach's robe, looking up to him with her boba eyes. "Papa, can I help?"

Peach looks at the stove, then at his daughter's hopeful face. "How about you set the table? Papa's Lookmarn is the best table-setter in this whole mansion."

Marn beams and immediately runs to the drawer with the placemats—also designer, because everything in this house is designer, Peach has given up fighting it. Mhok squirms in Kian's arms until Kian puts him down, and he follows his sister, suddenly very invested in where the forks go.

Kian drifts back to Peach's side, leaning against him slightly.

"Look at them," Kian murmurs. "Our kids. Being helpful. In their 500 bath cute pajamas."

"Just for now. Give it five minutes, someone will cry about the spoons. And then someone will need a new pair of pajamas because they spilled something on it"

Kian laughs quietly. "Probably. But right now? This is perfect."

Peach looks around the kitchen. Marn carefully placing placemats on the massive dining table that seats twenty but they always crowd together at one end. Mhok counting forks with intense concentration. Kian warm against his side, watching everything with soft eyes. The smell of omelettes and fried rice filling the air. Sunlight streaming through the windows, bouncing off the marble, making everything glow.

This is his life now.

And it's more than he ever dreamed. He got the family he always wanted. The husband he never thought he deserved. The mornings he used to only see in lakorns. And yeah, the mansion and the money and the ridiculous designer everything that Kian obsess—but that's not what matters. What matters is this. The four of them. Together.

Peach turns and presses a kiss to Kian's cheek. "I love you, P'Kian," he whispers.

Kian's smile could light up the whole estate. "I love you too Lookpeach. Even though you're so bossy and made me crack eggs."

"That's called survival."

"Tometo, tomahto."

Marn looks up from the table. "Dad, Papa, are you kissing again?"

"Yes," Kian says proudly.

Marn scrunches her nose. "Again?"

"We kiss a lot," Kian explains, completely unashamed. "It's what dads do. We're practicing."

"Practicing for what?"

"Practicing for... more kissing."

Mhok looks up from his fork-counting. "That's weird."

"Love isn't weird. Love is beautiful. Also, I'm his husband, so I can kiss your Papa as much as I want."

"That doesn't make sense, Dad."

"Love doesn't have to make sense."

Marn has moved on from the kissing discussion and is now examining the placemats. "Papa, can we have the blue plates? The fancy ones with the gold trim?"

"The blue ones are in the dishwasher. How about the yellow ones? They're also fancy and have those little flowers that Marn love."

"Okay."

Peach turns back to the stove, Kian still pressed against his side. He plates the omelettes—perfectly golden, runny yolks just the way everyone likes them—and scoops the fried rice into a bowl. The coffee is brewing in a machine that looks like it could pilot a spaceship. The fruit is cut and arranged artistically because Peach has standards.

"Okay Kids." Peach announces. "Breakfast is served."

The kids scramble to their seats at the end of the massive table. Kian helps Marn with her chair while Peach pours apple juice into glasses. They settle around the table, the four of them clustered together in a mansion built for dozens, and for a moment everyone is actually sitting still.

Marn takes a bite of her omelette and sighs happily. "Papa, this is the best."

"Yeah," Mhok agrees, his mouth full. "Best ever. Better than the chef's omelettes."

Kian reaches under the table and finds Peach's hand, squeezing gently. Peach squeezes back.

They eat. They talk about nothing—Marn's dream about flying rabbits, Mhok's plan to build a fort later (there's an entire playroom for fort-building, because Kian is extra like that), Kian's meeting that he's definitely going to be on time for (he won't be, he's always late, Peach has accepted this). The morning stretches on, warm and easy and full.

When breakfast is done, the kids run off to play in their playroom—which has its own bathroom and a small kitchen and more toys than a small store and windows overlooking the garden—leaving Kian and Peach at the table with empty plates and coffee cups.

Kian pulls Peach's hand onto his lap, playing with his fingers. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For this. For everything. For marrying me. For making breakfast. For not killing me in my sleep when I snore. For putting up with my terrible egg-cracking skills."

Peach laughs softly. "The snoring is growing on me. Like a fungus."

"Umm Romantic."

"At least I tried."

Kian lifts Peach's hand and kisses his ring finger, right over the wedding band—platinum, custom-designed, worth more than Peach wants to think about. "Three months," he says quietly. "And I'm already planning the next fifty years."

"Only fifty?"

"Okay, a hundred. As many as you'll give me."

Peach looks at him—his messy hair, his inside-out robe that he still hasn't fixed, his beautiful eyes full of so much love it makes Peach's chest ache—and smiles.

"You can have all of them," Peach says. "Every single one. Every Sunday morning. Forever"

Peach's smile is worth everything. Every early morning, every meeting he's late for, every snore-filled night. Everything.

They sit there for a while longer, hands intertwined, coffee growing cold in cups that cost more than dinner for two. The sounds of the kids playing drift in from down the hall. The sun climbs higher in the sky, painting the mansion in gold.

It's just a Sunday morning in their mansion, their home.

The clock in the hall chimes 9:30, and Peach's head snaps up.

"P'Kian! Your meeting!"

Kian doesn't move from where he's sprawled in his chair, coffee cup in hand, watching Peach clear the table with the lazy contentment of a cat in a sunbeam. "What meeting?"

"The one you have at 10. The one with investors. The one you've been talking about all week."

"Oh. That meeting." Kian waves his hand vaguely. "They'll wait."

"Ai Khun Thee"

"Lookpeach."

"The helipad is on the other side of the property. You need to shower. You need to change. You need to—" Peach gestures at him helplessly. "—become a CEO instead of a very handsome sleepy disaster."

Kian grins. "You think I'm handsome."

"I think you're going to be late." Peach grabs his hand and pulls him up from the chair. "Come on. Shower. Now. I'll pick out your suit."

"You'll pick out my suit?" Kian lets himself be dragged toward the staircase, but there's a new gleam in his eye. "Does that mean you'll help me get dressed?"

"It means I'll make sure you don't show up in an inside-out robe."

"That was one time."

"It was twenty minutes ago."

Kian laughs, bright and unrepentant, and lets Peach pull him up the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, Kian emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping down his chest. Peach is standing by the walk-in closet—which is roughly the size of a small apartment—with a suit draped over his arm.

"You're doing that on purpose," Peach says flatly.

"Doing what?"

"Coming out like that. With the water. And the towel. And the..." Peach gestures vaguely at all of Kian. "You."

Kian's smile is pure innocence. "I just took a shower. I'm allowed to exist after a shower."

"Right.You're allowed to exist but with more clothes on."

"Am I, though? In our bedroom?" Kian saunters closer, and Peach's mouth goes dry despite years of exposure to this man. "I think the laws of our marriage permit me to be towel-clad in my own space."

"The laws of our marriage are going to make you late."

"Worth it."

Peach throws the suit at him. Kian catches it one-handed, laughing.

"Get dressed," Peach commands. "I'll do your tie."

Kian's eyebrows go up. "You'll do my tie?"

"I know how. I'm not helpless."

"I know you're not helpless. You're the opposite of helpless."

Kian drops the towel without shame—because of course he does, he has zero shame, he's Kian—and starts pulling on the suit pants. Peach tries very hard to look anywhere else. He fails.

"You're staring," Kian says, not looking up from zipping his pants.

"I'm supervising."

"Same thing."

Peach watches him dress—the crisp white shirt, the expensive suit pants, the way Kian's body moves under all that fabric. Three months of marriage, and Peach still can't believe this man is his. Still can't believe he gets to see this every day. Still can't believe he gets to touch.

Kian finishes buttoning the shirt and holds his arms out. "Okay. Tie me."

Peach steps forward, the silk tie already looped in his hands. He's done this before— for events, for himself. But doing it for Kian always feels different. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin.

Kian watches him with soft eyes as Peach works the silk into a perfect knot. His hands are steady, practiced. His fingers brush against Kian's collar, against the warm skin of his neck.

"There," Peach murmurs, adjusting the knot one last time. "Perfect."

Kian catches his hand before he can pull away. "Look at me."

Peach looks up.

Kian's eyes are dark, warm, full of something that makes Peach's breath catch. "You're wearing my initials," Kian says softly.

Peach blinks. "What?"

"On your robe. The back. My name is on your robe." Kian's thumb traces over Peach's knuckles. "You wear my name every morning. You made me breakfast. You're doing my tie. You're sending me off to work like..." He trails off, shaking his head.

"Like what?"

"Like a husband." Kian's voice is rough. "Like my husband. Like someone who actually loves me and—" He stops, swallowing. "I just. I love you. That's all. I love you so much it's stupid."

Peach's heart does that thing again. That flip-flutter-squeeze thing that only Kian can do.

"Come here, puppy" Peach whispers, and pulls him down by his perfect tie into a kiss.

It's soft at first. Sweet. Just a press of lips, a reminder. But then Kian makes a small sound against his mouth, and Peach deepens it, one hand fisting in the silk of the tie, the other coming up to cup Kian's jaw.

Kian's arms wrap around him, pulling him close, and Peach can feel the warmth of him through the robe, through the suit, through everything. Kian kisses like he does everything else—thoroughly, completely, like he has all the time in the world even though he absolutely does not.

When they finally break apart, they're both breathing hard.

"Okay," Kian says, his voice wrecked. "Okay. If you kiss me like that again, I'm not going to that meeting."

"P'Kian—"

"I'm serious. I'll call them, reschedule and I'll tell them my husband is too attractive and I can't possibly focus on business right now."

"You will do no such thing." Peach smooths down Kian's tie, straightens his collar, pats his chest. "You're going to that meeting. You're going to be brilliant. You're going to close the deal. And then you're coming home, and I'll be here, and we can continue this conversation."

Kian's eyes darken. "Promise?"

"Promise."

One more kiss. Quicker this time, but no less intense. Kian's hand cups the back of Peach's neck, holding him close for just a moment longer than necessary.

"I love you," Kian whispers against his lips.

"I love you too. Now go."

Kian pulls back, grinning. He looks devastating—suit perfect, tie knotted, hair perfectly styled, eyes bright with love and want and happiness. He looks like everything Peach ever dreamed of.

"Walk me to the helipad?" Kian asks.

Peach laughs. "The helipad is across the estate. You'll be even later."

"Then run with me."

"P'Kian—"

But Kian is already grabbing his hand, pulling him toward the door, and Peach is laughing and following because that's what he does. That's what he'll always do. Follow this ridiculous, wonderful man anywhere.

They run through the mansion together, hand in hand, Peach's robe flying behind him (of course, he had pajamas under it), Kian's perfect suit somehow still perfect. Staff members press themselves against walls to avoid being trampled. The kids look up from their playroom and wave. Peach laughs so hard he can barely breathe.

At the helipad, the helicopter is already warming up, rotors beginning to turn. Kian stops at the edge and pulls Peach into one last kiss.

"For luck," Kian says.

"You don't need luck. You're brilliant."

"I need you." Kian presses their foreheads together. "I'll be back before dinner."

"I'll be here."

"I know." Kian kisses the tip of his nose. "That's the best part. I always know you'll be here."

One more kiss. Quick. Desperate. Full of promise.

Then Kian is jogging toward the helicopter, climbing in, looking back at Peach with that smile—that smile that could light up the whole estate.

Peach stands there in his robe with Kian's initials on the back, watching the helicopter lift off, watching his husband wave from the window, watching until the helicopter is just a speck in the sky.

But Peach just stands there for a moment longer, one hand pressed to his chest, feeling his heart beat.

This is my life, he thinks. This is my husband. This is my home.

And it's everything.

Later that night, after the kids are asleep in their bedrooms and the moon is shining over the manicured gardens, Kian makes good on his promise.

He's very, very thorough.

The mansion has an entire wing just for them. No one will hear a thing. The walls are thick. The bed is custom-made and designed for exactly this kind of activity.

And Peach loves every single second of it.