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In the quiet haze of a Bangkok, where the city lights blurred into a distant hum, Rome and Mok's room was a sanctuary of soft chaos. It had always been that way, Rome's scattered clothes and half-eaten mango sticky rice containers mingling with Mok's meticulously organized clothing and files. But lately, the air carried a new sweetness, one laced with the faint tang of prenatal vitamins and the unmistakable glow of impending life. Rome was five months along, his belly a gentle curve that turned heads in the corridors and sparked endless teasing from their circle of family. Mok, ever the stoic anchor, had taken to it all with a quiet ferocity, his world reshaping around the tiny heartbeat they both guarded like a secret melody.
It started, as these things often do in their story, in the dead of night.
The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:58 AM, its red digits mocking the darkness. Rome stirred first, a soft whimper escaping his lips as he shifted on the king-sized bed. The sheets, once a tangled battlefield of limbs and laughter, now felt like a prison of silk and cotton, too tight around his middle, too warm against his flushed skin. He pressed a hand to his belly, feeling the subtle flutter beneath, like butterflies testing their wings, or perhaps their daughter practicing her first somersault. Kitty, he thought with a sleepy smile, the nickname they'd settled on after a tearful ultrasound where the technician had sworn the profile looked just like a curious feline.
But smiles faded fast when hunger clawed its way in. Not just any hunger, the kind that whispered chocolate lava cake and mango sorbet in equal, insistent measures. Rome's mouth watered, his eyelids fluttering open to the shadowed ceiling. He glanced at Mok, who slept like a sentinel beside him, one arm draped possessively over Rome's hip, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, dark hair tousled against the pillow. Mok's face, even in repose, held that sharp beauty—high cheekbones softened only by the faint scar above his eyebrow from a long-ago guarding mishap. Rome loved that scar, it was a reminder that beneath the cool exterior beat a heart that had chosen him, fiercely and without reservation.
"I shouldn't," Rome murmured to himself, voice barely a breath. He knew Mok needed sleep—his days were a whirlwind of trying to stay on top of thee’s whims, making sure Rome’s needs were met, and the quiet domesticity of nesting. But the craving won, as it always did these days. Rome poked Mok's shoulder gently, then not-so-gently. "Mok... Mokkie..."
A low groan rumbled from Mok's throat, his eyes cracking open. "Hm? What's wrong?" His voice was gravelly, laced with concern before full wakefulness hit. One hand instinctively moved to Rome's belly, thumb tracing lazy circles over the stretched fabric of his oversized sleep shirt. "Baby okay? You okay?"
Rome bit his lip, cheeks flushing in the dim light. "I'm... hungry. Like, really hungry. For desserts. All of them." He paused, eyes wide and pleading. "The 24-hour bakery 5 minutes away? They have that new pandan custard bun, and I think... maybe some ice cream on the way back? Please?"
Mok blinked once, twice, processing. Then, without a word of complaint, he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Rome watched, heart swelling, as Mok pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie, his movements efficient but tender. "Stay here. I'll be back in twenty." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Rome's forehead, then another to the swell of his belly. "Both of you, behave."
"But it's four in the morning," Rome protested weakly, even as he snuggled deeper into the pillows. "You don't have to—"
Mok shot him a look over his shoulder, the kind that said don't argue with me on this. "I know what time it is, cutie. And yes, I do." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Rome to stare at the ceiling again, a goofy grin splitting his face. God, I love him.
True to his word, Mok returned in under twenty minutes, arms laden with a crinkling paper bag that smelled like heaven on earth. The pandan buns were still warm, steam curling from their glossy tops, and tucked beside them was a tub of ice cream, plain vanilla flavoured, and a box of mango sticky rice as well, because even in the witching hour, he anticipated everything. Rome devoured the first bun in three bites, crumbs dusting his shirt like confetti, moaning in exaggerated bliss. "You're my hero. My dessert knight."
Mok chuckled, stripping off his hoodie and sliding back into bed, pulling Rome against his side. "Flattery gets you seconds." He fed Rome a spoonful of ice cream, watching with hooded eyes as Rome's lashes fluttered in delight. They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the distant tick of the clock and the occasional lick of a spoon. Mok's free hand never left Rome's belly, as if anchoring them all in this perfect, improbable moment.
By the time the bag was empty, dawn was painting the curtains pink. Rome sighed, content and heavy-lidded. "Thank you. I love you."
Mok's response was a soft hum, his lips brushing Rome's temple. "Love you more. Now sleep, before she decides she wants round two."
---
Days blurred into weeks, the pregnancy a rhythm they learned to dance to,Mok's protectiveness a steady bassline to Rome's whirlwind highs and lows. Mornings were for green smoothies ,Rome's begrudging concession to "health", meetings where Mok would admittedly do most of the work, and then lunch while Rome half dozed on the couch, one hand cradling his bump. Afternoons brought walks in garden with his mother and sometimes Mok, where she would smile knowingly at Mok's arm around Rome's waist, steadying him over uneven paths. "You're glowing," she’s say, and Rome would laugh, but inside, doubt flickered like a faulty bulb.
It hit hardest in the evenings, when the full-length mirror became Rome's confessor. He'd stand there after showers, towel slung low on his hips, staring at the changes, the way his once-flat stomach now protruded like a ripe pomelo, stretch marks faint silver rivers across his skin. His chest felt fuller, sensitive in ways that made him blush, and his hips ached from the shift in balance. Does he still see me? The me from before? The question gnawed, born of exhaustion and hormones, amplified by the mirror's unforgiving honesty.
One such evening, after a long day of fittings for more maternity fitting clothes, Rome lingered too long. Mok found him there, shirtless and frowning, fingers splayed over his belly. "Hey," Mok said softly, appearing in the doorway like a shadow given form. "What's that face for?"
Rome startled, dropping his hands as if caught stealing. "Nothing. Just... looking." He forced a smile, but it wobbled. Mok crossed the room in two strides, hands gentle on Rome's shoulders, turning him away from the mirror and toward himself instead.
"Talk to me." Mok's voice was low, patient, the tone he reserved for only for Rome.
Rome's eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the tiles. "Does Rome still look cute even with a big belly?" The words tumbled out, small and uncertain,
Mok's breath caught, just for a second, before he cupped Rome's face, tilting it up. His gaze was intense, dark eyes searching, then softening into something achingly tender. "Rome," he said, like a vow. "You're the cutest thing I've ever seen. Belly and all." He slid one hand down, palm warm against the curve. "This? This is us. You, carrying our little one. It's... beautiful. You're beautiful. Every inch."
Rome's throat tightened, tears pricking hot and unbidden. "Even when I steal all the blankets? Or cry over that one lakorn commercial with the puppies?"
Mok laughed, a rare, full sound that vibrated through them both. "Especially then. God, especially then." He pulled Rome into a hug, careful of the bump, chin resting atop his hair. "You're not just cute, Rome. You're everything. My everything."
They stayed like that until the tears dried, Mok murmuring reassurances like a mantra, until Rome believed them, not just in his heart, but in the mirror's reflection when they finally turned back.
---
Rome's cravings shifted from sweet to frigid sweet. They'd collapsed onto the couch after dinner, pad thai from the corner stall, extra lime for Rome's puckered whims, binging reruns of old lakorn episodes for "research." Rome's feet were propped on Mok's lap, toes wiggling for absent-minded rubs, when the yen hit: Häagen-Dazs. The salted caramel kind. Now.
"Mokkie?" Rome's voice was wheedling, head lolling towards Mok. "Ice cream run? Pretty please? I'll share."
Mok, mid-scroll on his phone, glanced down. His day had been brutal—back-to-back meetings, a near-miss deal with a business partner. Exhaustion etched faint lines around his eyes. "Yeah. Sure." The words were clipped, automatic, as he set the phone aside and stood.
Rome's heart stuttered. No "cutie," no playful grumble, not even a kiss. Just... yes. He watched Mok grab his keys, the door shutting with a soft thud that echoed too loudly in the sudden quiet. Is he mad? Did I ask too much? The thoughts spiralled, Rome's hand drifting to his belly as if to shield their daughter from his rising panic. He replayed the moment, Mok's flat tone, the lack of pet names. No baby, why would I be mad? A sentence from a few nights ago ghosted through his mind, a half-remembered joke that now felt prophetic.
By the time Mok returned, bags swinging from his fingers, salted caramel secured, plus backups in case of a meltdown, Rome was a bundle of nerves on the couch, knees drawn up as best he could. "Here," Mok said, handing over the tub and a spoon, collapsing beside him with a sigh. He dug into his own, plain vanilla, ever the minimalist.
Rome poked at the ice cream, appetite soured. "Mok... are you mad at me?"
Mok paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. "What? No. Why would you think that?"
Rome's voice cracked, small as a whisper. "When I asked for the ice cream... you just said 'yes.' No 'cutie,' no nothing. Like it was a chore. And you've been quiet all day. If it's too much, the cravings or the baby or... me... you can tell me. I don't want you to resent—"
"Resent you?" Mok's spoon clattered to the coffee table, his full attention snapping to Rome like a rubber band pulled taut. He shifted closer, hands framing Rome's face, thumbs brushing away the tears that had escaped. "Baby, no. God, no." His voice broke, raw with something deeper than fatigue. "I was tired. Long day, head's spinning with deadlines. But that's on me, not you. Never you."
Rome sniffled, searching those eyes for truth. "But the pet names... you always call me something silly."
Mok's lips quirked, a ghost of a smile. "Habit, I guess. When I'm wiped, my brain short-circuits. But listen—" He leaned in, forehead to forehead, breath mingling. "I'm not mad. I'd walk to the ends of the earth for a scoop of salted caramel if it made you smile. For you. For her." His hand slipped to Rome's belly, where a kick answered, timely, insistent. Mok's eyes widened, wonder chasing away the shadows. "See? Even she knows."
Rome laughed through his tears, the sound watery but real. "You're such a sap."
"Only for you." Mok scooped a spoonful of ice cream, feeding it to Rome with exaggerated care. "And for the record? Calling you 'cutie' or 'Rome' or nothing at all—doesn't change a damn thing. You're stuck with me."
They finished the tub like that, tangled on the couch, Rome's head on Mok's chest, listening to the steady *thump-thump* that rivaled their daughter's flutters. The episode played on, forgotten, as Mok's fingers carded through Rome's hair, humming a lullaby under his breath.
---
Months later, when Kitty arrived, tiny, squalling, with Mok's dark eyes and Rome's button nose, the world didn't stop turning. It spun faster, brighter, filled with 4 AM feedings that Mok handled with the same quiet grace, and mornings where Rome, exhausted but radiant, would catch Mok staring at them both with that same fierce love.
Family gathered for the baby shower, the air thick with laughter and the scent of pandan cakes. Thee and Peach passed around ultrasound printouts turned memes, teasing Rome. "We knew you'd be the cute pregnant one," Peach said. "Mok's just the dessert-fetching machine."
Mok rolled his eyes, but his arm around Rome's waist tightened. "Guilty."
And as the sun dipped low, painting their new family in gold, Rome leaned into him, whispering, "Still cute?"
Mok's reply was a kiss, soft and sure. "Always."
In their story, cravings came and went, doubts ebbed like tides. But the love? That was the constant, the melody that played on, long after the credits rolled.