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The air in their shared apartment was thick with the scent of expensive sandalwood candles and the faint, lingering aroma of the ginger tea Keng had prepared three times already that morning. At seven months along, Namping had become a walking paradox, a storm system of shifting pressures that Keng navigated with the cautious precision of a bomb disposal technician.
Keng sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his hands hovering inches away from Namping’s swollen abdomen. Ten minutes ago, he had been the center of Namping’s universe. Namping had been weeping softly into Keng’s neck, whispering about how he didn’t deserve such a patient, beautiful husband, and how the baby was surely going to have Keng’s perfect eyes. Keng had basked in it, stroking Namping’s hair and feeling a profound sense of protective equilibrium.
Then, the wind shifted.
"Why are you breathing like that?" Namping asked. The voice was no longer a honeyed whisper; it was a blade.
Keng froze, his lungs mid-expansion. "Like what, love?"
"Like you’re trying to consume all the oxygen in the room," Namping snapped, shifting his weight with a heavy groan. He glared at Keng’s hand. "And don't touch me. Your skin feels like sandpaper. Have you ever heard of moisturizer, or are you committed to being a lizard?"
Keng slowly withdrew his hand, placing it in his lap. He didn't argue. He knew the rules of the third trimester. "I'm sorry. I'll go into the kitchen if the breathing is bothering you."
"Oh, so now you’re abandoning me?" Namping’s eyes welled with sudden, fat tears. "I’m carrying your child, I can’t even see my own feet, and you’re going to go hide in the kitchen because I’m 'bothering' you? You’re so selfish, Keng. I actually can't stand to look at you right now."
Keng blinked, his heart doing a frantic little dance in his chest. This was the "Despise Phase," a recurring segment of their daily programming. It usually lasted anywhere from twenty minutes to three hours. During this time, Keng was everything from a "clumsy oaf" to "the reason the hallway smells like old socks."
"I'm not abandoning you," Keng said softly, keeping his voice a steady, low baritone. "I just want you to be comfortable. If my presence is irritating, I’ll give you some space."
"Your presence isn't irritating, your *existence* is irritating," Namping grumbled, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to his chest as if it were a shield against Keng’s perceived villainy. "Go away. Go do that thing where you stare at your spreadsheets and look important. Just stop being... here."
Keng stood up, nodding solemnly. He made sure to walk as silently as possible, avoiding the floorboard near the television that creaked. He retreated to the small home office, leaving the door ajar just a crack—enough to hear if Namping needed him, but not enough to be seen.
He sat at his desk, staring at a blank screen. He wasn't actually working; he was timing the cycle. He checked his watch. It was 2:14 PM. Based on yesterday’s data, he had approximately forty minutes of exile before the pendulum swung back.
The silence of the apartment was punctuated only by the occasional muffled huff from the living room. Keng spent the time reflecting on the sheer intensity of Namping’s emotional landscape. It was fascinating, in a terrifying sort of way. When Namping loved him during this pregnancy, it was an all-consuming, worshipful heat. He would cling to Keng’s shirts, inhaling his scent as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He would write little notes and tuck them into Keng’s pockets, calling him his hero, his rock, the best father in the world.
And then, the switch would flip.
The switch was usually triggered by something microscopic. A misplaced glass, a certain tone of voice, or, as evidenced today, the biological necessity of respiration. In those moments, Keng became the architect of Namping’s misery.
At 2:38 PM, the silence was broken by a soft, hiccuping sob.
Keng didn't move immediately. He waited. He had learned that rushing in too early during the transition could result in a secondary explosion.
"Keng?" The voice was small, fragile, and stripped of all the venom from twenty minutes ago.
Keng rose from his chair and walked back into the living room. Namping was sitting exactly where he had left him, but the pillow was now discarded on the floor, and his face was flushed a deep, dusty rose.
"I'm here," Keng said, standing at the entrance of the room.
Namping looked up, his lower lip trembling. "I'm a monster. I told you that you were a lizard. You’re not a lizard. You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen and I don’t know why you haven't divorced me yet."
Keng crossed the room in three long strides, sinking onto the sofa and pulling Namping into his arms. Namping practically collapsed against him, burying his face in Keng’s chest.
"I'm so sorry," Namping wailed into his shirt. "I love you so much it hurts my teeth, and then suddenly I look at your face and I want to throw a shoe at you. Why am I like this? Please don't leave me. I’ll be good, I promise."
"Shh, Namping. It’s okay," Keng whispered, kissing the top of his head. "I’m not going anywhere. I know it’s just the hormones. I’m not offended."
"But I called you a lizard!" Namping cried, clutching Keng’s biceps. "Your skin is actually very soft. It’s like silk. I’m a liar and a bully."
"It's alright. I've been called worse," Keng joked lightly, though he kept his grip firm. He could feel the baby kick against his own side—a sharp, rhythmic thumping. "Look, the little one is defending me."
Namping let out a watery laugh, reaching down to press his hand over Keng’s. "No, he’s probably kicking me for being mean to his daddy. He knows you’re the best." Namping pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden, intense adoration. "You really are, you know? You’re so patient. I watched you walk out of the room and I thought, 'That’s a saint. I’m married to a literal saint and I’m treating him like trash.'"
"You're not treating me like trash," Keng insisted. "You're just... overwhelmed. Your body is doing something incredible. If you need to hate me for an hour to get through the day, I can take it."
Namping beamed at him, a look of such pure, unadulterated devotion that Keng felt his own heart ache. "I don't want to hate you. I want to be glued to you. Can we just stay like this? Can you hold me until the baby comes?"
"I can try," Keng smiled.
For the next hour, they existed in a state of blissful domesticity. Keng fed Namping slices of apple, and Namping spent the entire time cataloging Keng’s best qualities. He praised Keng’s work ethic, the way he organized the nursery, the shape of his jawline, and the way he always remembered to buy the specific brand of sparkling water Namping liked. It was an ego boost of monumental proportions, and Keng allowed himself to soak it in, knowing the shelf life of such praise was precarious.
Around 4:00 PM, the air in the room seemed to chill.
It started with the apples.
"Are these organic?" Namping asked, staring suspiciously at a slice.
"Yes, I got them from the farmer's market on Tuesday," Keng replied.
Namping chewed slowly, his expression darkening. "They taste... loud."
Keng paused. "Loud?"
"Crunchy. Aggressively crunchy," Namping said, setting the plate down on the coffee table with a definitive clack. "It’s like you’re trying to give me a headache on purpose. And why are you sitting so close to me? It’s sweltering in here. You’re like a human space heater."
Keng felt the familiar tightening in his gut. The Adoration Phase had officially concluded.
"I can turn the AC up," Keng suggested, moving to stand.
"No, because then I'll be freezing and you'll complain about the electric bill," Namping snapped, his eyes narrowing. He looked at Keng’s shirt—a simple gray linen button-down. "That shirt is hideous. Why do you insist on wearing gray? You look like a rainy day in a corporate parking lot. It’s depressing me. My child is going to be born and the first thing he’s going to see is a man who dresses like a sidewalk."
Keng took a breath, holding it for a second before exhaling slowly. He reminded himself that Namping didn't actually hate his wardrobe. Last week, Namping had told him he looked like a movie star in this exact shirt.
"I'll go change," Keng said evenly.
"Good. And while you're at it, can you do something about your face? You have this look on your face like you’re being 'patient' with me. It’s patronizing. I’m not a child, Keng. I’m a grown man who is currently growing a human being. I don't need your pity."
"I don't pity you, Namping. I love you."
"Well, stop it!" Namping huffed, turning his back to Keng and pulling a blanket over his shoulders despite having just complained about the heat. "I can't stand the way you love me right now. It’s too... much. It’s cloying. Go away. Go to the gym. Go to the moon. Just leave me alone."
Keng retreated again. He went to the bedroom, changed into a blue shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through photos of them from before the pregnancy. They were on a beach in Phuket, Namping laughing as a wave caught him off guard, his arms wrapped tightly around Keng’s neck. They were happy. They were simple.
He knew that version of Namping was still there, just buried under a mountain of physiological upheaval.
He heard a crash from the kitchen.
Keng sprinted down the hall. Namping was standing by the counter, a shattered glass at his feet. He wasn't moving; he was just staring at the shards with a look of utter devastation.
"Don't move," Keng commanded, his voice sharp with concern. "Stay right there, I'll get the broom."
Namping didn't snap back. He didn't tell Keng his voice was too loud. Instead, he looked up, and his eyes were swimming.
"I just wanted water," Namping whispered. "And I dropped it because my hands are swollen and I’m clumsy and I’m a terrible husband and you’re going to leave me for someone who doesn't break things."
The switch had flipped mid-tantrum.
Keng carefully navigated around the glass, reaching out to take Namping by the waist and lifting him onto the clear part of the counter. "I am never leaving you. It’s just a glass, Namping. We have twelve more."
Namping grabbed the front of Keng’s new blue shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists. "I love this shirt. You look so handsome in blue. Why was I being so mean? I told you that you looked like a sidewalk. I’m so sorry. You’re not a sidewalk. You’re my whole world."
Keng leaned in, resting his forehead against Namping’s. "I know. It’s okay."
"Is it?" Namping sobbed, his voice breaking. "How do you do it? How do you stay when I’m being such a brat? I literally told you to go to the moon ten minutes ago."
"Because the moon is cold," Keng said, a small smile playing on his lips. "And you’re here. And I know that in ten minutes, or an hour, or tomorrow morning, you’re going to look at me like I’m the only person who matters. That makes everything else worth it."
Namping leaned forward, pressing a desperate, messy kiss to Keng’s lips. It tasted like salt and ginger tea. "I don't deserve you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making this up to you. Once this baby is out, I’m going to be the perfect partner. I’ll never raise my voice again."
Keng rubbed soothing circles into Namping’s back, knowing full well that within the hour, Namping would likely find the way Keng chewed his toast to be a personal insult. But for now, in this pocket of adoration, everything was quiet.
"You don't have to be perfect," Keng said. "You just have to be you."
"I love you," Namping whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I love you too."
Keng held him there, perched on the kitchen counter amidst the ruins of a drinking glass, savoring the warmth. He watched the clock on the microwave. He knew the storm would return. He knew the next "Despise Phase" was likely lurking just behind the next craving or the next uncomfortable shift of the baby’s weight.
But as Namping drifted into a light doze against his shoulder, murmuring about how Keng’s heartbeat was his favorite sound in the world, Keng decided he could survive a thousand more switches. He would be the lizard, the saint, the sidewalk, and the hero, as many times as Namping needed him to be.
He just hoped they didn't run out of glasses before the due date.