Archive of Our Own

He met Duang on a rainy Tuesday.

Not the romantic kind of rain—the kind that soaks through your shoes and makes your hair stick to your forehead in clammy strands and ruins the important papers you’re clutching to your chest. Qin was standing under a bus stop awning, watching the traffic crawl by, already calculating how late he was going to be and how much his boss was going to sigh.

Then an umbrella appeared over his head. Sudden. Dry.

"You look like a drowned kitten," a voice said. Warm. Teasing. "Here. I'm going that way."

Qin looked up and forgot how to breathe.

Duang smiled—a crooked, easy thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes—and Qin’s heart did something stupid. Something irreversible.

"I'm Duang."

"Qin," he managed.

And that was it. That was the beginning of everything.

They fell fast. The way people do when they've spent too long pretending they don't want to fall at all. Duang was patient in ways Qin hadn't known people could be. When Qin overthought, Duang waited. When Qin pushed, Duang held steady. When Qin whispered "I'm too much" one night, afraid of his own loud feelings, Duang just laughed softly and kissed his forehead.

"You're exactly enough," Duang said. "You've always been exactly enough."

Qin believed him. For the first time in his life, Qin believed someone who said I love you.

The Distance

Qin doesn't remember the exact moment it changed.

That's the cruelest part. There was no fight. No slammed door. No dramatic moment where Duang looked at him with cold eyes and said something unforgivable. It just… faded.

Like a photograph left too long in the sun. The colors still there, but blurred. Worn. You can still see the shape of the love, but the warmth is gone.

Duang used to text him good morning every day without fail. Even when they were in the same house. Even when Qin was still asleep next to him. Morning, pretty. I made coffee.

Now, Qin pours his own coffee. Drinks it alone at the kitchen table while Duang is already on his laptop, already on a call, already somewhere Qin can't reach.

It's fine, Qin tells himself. He's busy. We're both busy. This is normal.

But normal doesn't feel like this. Normal doesn't make your chest ache when your husband laughs at something on his phone and doesn't turn the screen to show you.

Qin starts keeping track.

Not on purpose. It just happens. Like counting the cracks in a ceiling when you can't sleep.

Days since Duang last held his hand: eleven.

Days since Duang last said "I love you" without being prompted: eighteen.

Days since Duang last looked at him—really looked at him, like he was seeing Qin for the first time again: Qin can't remember.

And that's the answer that breaks something inside him.

One night, Qin cooks Duang's favorite meal. He spends hours on it. Burns his finger on the pan. Doesn't even care, because he keeps imagining the way Duang's face would light up when he walked through the door. You made this? For me?

Duang comes home at 10:47 PM.

The food is cold. The candles Qin lit have burned down to nothing.

"Sorry," Duang says, dropping his bag by the door. He doesn't even look at the table. "Meeting ran late."

Qin opens his mouth. Closes it.

I made you dinner, he wants to say. I waited for you. I miss you. Do you even see me anymore?

But what comes out is: "It's okay. I'll heat it up."

Duang is already walking toward the bedroom, unbuttoning his collar. "Don't worry about it. I ate at the office."

The door closes.

Qin stands alone in the kitchen, looking at the cold food, the dead candles, the empty chair across from him.

He doesn't cry. He's not sure he remembers how anymore.

The Break

It's a Thursday when Qin finally breaks.

No reason. Just… a Thursday. Duang left for work without saying goodbye. Qin found a sticky note on the fridge—but it was a grocery list, not a heart.

And something in Qin just… snaps.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. It's more like a dam cracking. One small fissure, and then another, and then the water is rushing through and Qin can't stop it.

He calls in sick to work. He lies on the bedroom floor—their bedroom floor, the one they picked out together, the one Duang said feels like walking on clouds, just like loving you—and stares at the ceiling.

When did we become strangers?

He thinks about the beginning. The way Duang used to look at him like he'd won a lottery he didn't deserve. The way Duang would pull him close in the middle of the night, even in his sleep, like he was afraid Qin would disappear.

"You're my favorite person," Duang used to say. "My favorite everything."

Qin wonders if he's still anyone's favorite anything.

Duang comes home early that day.

Not because he knew Qin was hurting. Because he forgot his laptop charger.

He walks in, calling a distracted "Be right back," heading straight for the study. He stops in the doorway of the bedroom when he sees Qin.

Qin is still in his pajamas at 3 PM, lying on the floor, eyes red but dry.

"Qin?" Duang's voice is confused. Worried, maybe. He steps into the room. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Qin looks up at him. Really looks.

Duang is beautiful. He's always been beautiful. But there's a furrow between his brows that wasn't there before. Dark circles under his eyes. A tightness in his shoulders that suggests he's carrying the weight of the world on his spine.

When did he start looking so tired?

"Duang," Qin says. His voice comes out strange. Quiet. "Do you still love me?"

The silence that follows is the loudest thing Qin has ever heard.

Duang's face goes through several expressions—confusion, surprise, something that looks almost like pain—before settling into something Qin can't read.

"What kind of question is that?" Duang asks, but his voice is too sharp. Defensive.

"The kind I need an answer to," Qin says. Still quiet. Still lying on the floor like a broken doll.

Duang doesn't answer.

He just stands there, frozen, like a man who's been asked to translate a language he forgot.

And that's when Qin finally cries.

Not pretty tears. Not the kind that roll down your cheeks in a single, artistic line. This is ugly. This is heaving sobs that tear out of his throat without permission, his whole body shaking, his hands covering his face because he doesn't want Duang to see him like this—pathetic and desperate and so, so tired of pretending everything is fine.

"Qin—" Duang drops to his knees beside him. "Qin, stop, don't cry, please—"

"Then answer me!" Qin chokes out. "Do you still love me? Because I—I can't tell anymore. I used to know. I used to know, Duang. You looked at me and I knew. And now I don't know anything. I don't know if you're tired of me. I don't know if you regret this. I don't know if I'm just—just someone you live with now instead of someone you love—"

"Stop." Duang's voice cracks. "Stop, please."

"Then tell me—"

"I don't know how to love you anymore!"

The words hang between them. Heavy. Toxic.

Qin's tears stop. Not because he's okay, but because the world has gone very, very still.

Duang's face is white. His hands are shaking. He looks like he's the one who just got stabbed.

"I didn't mean—" Duang starts, panic flooding his eyes, but Qin shakes his head.

"No," Qin whispers. "No, you said it. You said it. So now you have to explain it."

Duang closes his eyes. His whole body is trembling now.

"I love you," Duang says, and his voice is barely there, a wrecked sound. "I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you so much that sometimes I can't breathe with it. But I don't know how to show it anymore. I don't know how to be the person you deserve. I try, Qin. I try so hard. But everything I do feels wrong. Everything I say comes out wrong. And I can see you slipping away from me, and I don't know how to hold on without hurting both of us—"

He stops. He buries his face in his hands.

"I'm not tired of you," Duang says, muffled into his palms. "I'm tired of me. I'm tired of being the reason you look at me like I've already left."

Qin reaches out. He touches Duang's wrist.

Duang flinches—and that small movement breaks Qin's heart all over again.

"Hey," Qin says softly. Gently. The way he used to talk to Duang in the beginning, when everything was new and fragile and precious. "Hey. Look at me."

Duang looks up. His eyes are red, wet, terrified.

"When did you start thinking you weren't enough for me?" Qin asks.

Duang's lip trembles. "When did you start thinking I didn't love you anymore?"

They stare at each other.

And then, somehow—Qin doesn't know who moves first—they're holding each other. Desperately. Clumsily. Qin's fingers tangled in Duang's shirt, Duang's arms wrapped around Qin's back like he's trying to fuse them together.

"I'm sorry," Duang gasps into Qin's hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel unloved—"

"I'm sorry too," Qin sobs. "I should have told you sooner. I should have—I just kept waiting for you to notice, and that wasn't fair—"

"I noticed." Duang's voice breaks. "I noticed everything. I noticed you stopped reaching for my hand. I noticed you stopped saying 'I love you' first. I noticed you started sleeping on the edge of the bed. And I thought—I thought you were the one pulling away. I thought you were getting ready to leave me, so I—I started pulling away first, so it wouldn't hurt as much when you went—"

"I was never going to leave." Qin pulls back just enough to look at Duang's face. "Never. I was just—I was so scared you didn't want me anymore. And I didn't know how to ask without sounding needy or pathetic—"

"You're not pathetic." Duang cups Qin's face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. "You're not. I'm the pathetic one. I let my own fear turn me into someone you couldn't recognize."

"I still recognize you." Qin leans into his touch. "I see you, Duang. I've always seen you. Even when you were hiding."

Duang's breath hitches. He looks at Qin with something like awe.

"Can we start over?" Duang whispers. "Not—not from the beginning. I don't want to lose what we had. But can we—can we just… talk more? Hold more? Stop pretending we're fine when we're not?"

Qin nods. "I'd like that."

"And can you—" Duang's voice drops, raw and vulnerable. "Can you tell me when I'm hurting you? Even if it's small. Even if you think it's stupid. I don't want to be the reason you cry alone on the floor anymore."

"You won't be," Qin says. "Because I won't cry alone anymore. I'll cry right here. On your stupid expensive shirt."

Duang laughs—wet and broken and beautiful. "It's your shirt too. Everything is yours."

The Talking

They move to the couch.

Not because the floor isn't comfortable anymore, but because they need to sit facing each other. Need to see each other's faces. Need to remember how to look without flinching.

"Tell me," Qin says. "Everything. All the things you've been keeping inside."

Duang exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm scared all the time," he admits. "Not of anything specific. Just… everything. That I'm not good enough for my job. That I'm failing as a husband. That one day you'll wake up and realize you could have married someone easier. Someone who doesn't work late. Someone who remembers to text back. Someone who—"

"Stop." Qin reaches across the couch, takes Duang's hand. "You think I want easier? I want you. Even when you're difficult. Even when you forget to text. Even when you work late and come home and fall asleep in your clothes because you're too tired to change."

Duang's eyes glisten. "But I make you feel alone."

"You do," Qin admits quietly. "Sometimes. But I also make you feel alone. I pull away first. I stop talking. I assume the worst instead of just asking you what's wrong."

"You shouldn't have to ask," Duang says. "I should just tell you."

"Maybe." Qin squeezes his hand. "But maybe we can both try. I'll ask more. You'll tell more. We'll meet in the middle."

Duang nods. Swallows. "I'm scared of losing you, Qin. That's the real thing. That's the thing I've been running from for months. I'm so scared of losing you that I've been… I've been preparing for it. Like if I expect the worst, it won't hurt as much when it happens."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Qin says, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just love.

"I know." Duang's voice breaks again. "I know it's stupid. I know I'm stupid. I just—I love you so much, and that feels like a weakness sometimes. Like you have all the power to destroy me, and I just have to trust that you won't."

"I won't," Qin says firmly. "I won't destroy you. I won't leave. I won't stop loving you. But you have to believe me, Duang. You have to trust me the way I trust you."

Duang pulls Qin's hand to his lips. Kisses his knuckles. Once. Twice. Three times.

"I'm trying," Duang whispers against his skin. "I'll try harder."

"No." Qin shakes his head. "Don't try harder. Just… try with me. We're a team. We've always been a team. When did we forget that?"

"When we started keeping score," Duang says quietly. "When I started counting how many times I said 'I love you' first. When I started resenting you for not noticing how hard I was working for us."

"And I started resenting you for not noticing how lonely I was," Qin admits. "We were both hurting. We just… hurt in different directions."

Duang looks at him—really looks at him—for the first time in months.

"I miss you," Duang says. "Even though you're right here. I miss you so much it feels like grief."

Qin's eyes fill again.

"I miss you too," he whispers. "Let's stop missing each other. Let's just… be here. Together. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

Duang nods. Leans forward. Rests his forehead against Qin's.

"Together," Duang echoes. "I promise. No more running. No more hiding. No more preparing for the worst."

"And no more sleeping on the edge of the bed," Qin adds with a watery smile.

Duang laughs softly. "That one's on me. You steal the blanket."

"I do not—"

"You absolutely do. Every single night. I wake up freezing."

"You never said anything!"

"I didn't want to complain." Duang pulls back, eyes soft. "I thought… if I complain about the blanket, you'll think I'm complaining about you."

Qin stares at him. Then laughs—a real laugh, surprised out of him.

"We're so stupid," Qin says.

"Monumentally," Duang agrees. "But we're stupid together."

The Crying (Real Crying)

They talk for hours.

About the small things. The way Duang stopped leaving sticky notes. The way Qin stopped making Duang's coffee in the morning. The way they both started saying "it's fine" when it wasn't fine, when nothing was fine, when the word "fine" became a gravestone for all the things they weren't saying.

And somewhere in the middle of it—Qin doesn't know when—the dam breaks again.

Not the quiet, desperate crying from before. This is different. This is relief.

He cries because Duang is holding him. Because Duang is crying too. Because they're both here, both broken, both trying, and that has to count for something.

"I thought I lost you," Qin sobs into Duang's chest. "I thought you were already gone and just hadn't told me yet."

"I'm here." Duang's voice is thick, tears dripping onto Qin's hair. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm so sorry I made you feel otherwise."

"Don't apologize anymore." Qin fists his hands in Duang's shirt. "Just—just stay. Just hold me. Just be here."

Duang holds him tighter.

They stay like that until the room goes dark. Until the streetlights flicker on outside. Until both of them have cried themselves empty.

At some point, Qin pulls back.

His face is a mess—blotchy, swollen, tear-streaked. He probably looks terrible.

But Duang is looking at him like he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"What?" Qin asks, self-conscious.

"Nothing." Duang's thumb brushes over Qin's cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. "I just… I haven't looked at you in a long time. Really looked at you. I forgot how lucky I am."

Qin's heart stutters.

"Duang—"

"I mean it." Duang's voice is soft. Reverent. "You're still the most beautiful person I've ever seen. And I'm sorry I stopped telling you that."

Qin's breath catches.

And then—slowly, carefully, like they're learning each other for the first time—Duang leans in.

The kiss was soft at first—barely a brush of lips, testing, asking. A silent question hanging in the air between them.

Qin answered by surging forward, nearly knocking Duang backward against the couch cushions. He didn't care. He climbed into Duang's lap, wrapped his arms around his neck, and kissed him like he was drowning.

Because he was. He'd been drowning for months, and Duang was the only air he'd ever known.

The Reconnection

The kiss wasn't a question anymore; it was a collision. It was teeth and tongue, messy and wet, licking into each other's mouths like they were starving. Qin rolled his hips down, grinding the bulge in his jeans against the hard ridge of Duang’s cock beneath his slacks.

The friction was electric. It was maddening. The rough denim dragged against Qin’s sensitive length, sending jolts of pleasure straight up his spine. He couldn't stop. He chased the feeling, rocking his hips harder, faster, dry humping Duang with a desperate, needy rhythm.

"Fuck, Qin," Duang gasped against his lips, his hands gripping Qin’s waist hard enough to bruise through his t-shirt. "Look at you. You're so—"

"Don't talk," Qin whined, burying his face in Duang’s neck. He licked a stripe up the column of Duang’s throat, tasting the salt and the sweat. "Just touch me. Duang, please."

"I am touching you."

"More!" Qin’s voice cracked. He ground down harder, his thighs trembling. The pressure coiled tight in his belly, hotter and faster than he expected. "I missed you so much, I missed this, I missed—oh god, Duang, I’m going to—"

"Let go," Duang growled, bucking his hips up to meet Qin’s frantic grinding. "Come on. Come for me."

It was too much. The smell of Duang, the heat of his body, the friction against his trapped cock. Qin cried out, his entire body seizing as he tumbled over the edge. He shuddered in Duang’s lap, his cock pulsing as he came, soaking his underwear with wet, sticky heat. He rutted through it, riding out the waves of pleasure against Duang’s lap until he collapsed against his chest, panting heavily.

For a moment, the room was silent except for their ragged breathing.

Then Duang’s hand came up to cup the back of Qin’s neck, stroking the damp skin there. "Good?" he whispered.

Qin let out a wet laugh against his shirt. "Messy."

"I like you messy," Duang said. He kissed Qin’s temple, then tightened his grip on Qin’s waist. "Hold on."

Before Qin could ask why, Duang stood up. Qin yelped, instinctively wrapping his legs around Duang’s waist as Duang lifted him easily, carrying him toward the bedroom.

"Duang! I'm heavy—"

"You're nothing," Duang grunted, kicking the bedroom door open. He dropped Qin onto the mattress and followed him down, covering Qin’s body with his own. "Now, clothes off. They're in the way."

They shed their clothes in a frenzy of tangled limbs. Buttons popped, jeans were kicked away, and Qin peeled off his sticky underwear with a grimace. When they were finally naked, skin against skin, the air felt charged.

Round one was different. It was the apology.

Duang settled between Qin’s legs. He kissed every inch of Qin’s face, his eyelids, his nose, his mouth.

"I love you," Duang whispered against his lips.

"I know," Qin breathed back. "Show me."

Duang prepared him with reverent care. Slick fingers stretching him gently, opening him up with patience that made Qin want to weep. When Duang finally pushed inside, it was slow, a deep, burning slide that made Qin feel full in a way he had forgotten was possible.

They moved together softly. Foreheads pressed together, hands intertwined. Duang rocked into him with shallow thrusts, kissing him softly, whispering praise into his mouth. "You're beautiful, you're perfect, I love you."

It was sweet. It was healing. And when Qin came for the second time, striping his stomach, Duang followed him moments later with a groan, burying his face in Qin’s neck.

But as they lay there in the afterglow, cooling down, Qin felt the restlessness creeping back under his skin. He felt Duang softening inside him. He felt the sticky mess between them.

He didn't want gentle. He didn't want soft. He wanted to be wrecked.

Round two started before they had even caught their breath.

"Duang," Qin whispered, kicking the sheets away. He rolled onto his side, looking at Duang with heavy, lidded eyes. "Again."

Duang laughed, breathless and surprised. "Qin, baby, give me five minutes—"

"No." Qin's hand curled around Duang's soft cock, stroking him firmly, deliberately. "Now. I need you to fuck me. Properly."

Duang's eyes darkened. He watched Qin's hand moving on him, felt the blood rushing south, felt himself responding whether his brain was ready or not. "You're insatiable."

"Well." Qin leaned down, lips brushing Duang's collarbone, then lower. "Nothing's wrong with wanting my husband endlessly." He took Duang's nipple into his mouth, bit down gently, just this side of too much. "And you promised to take care of me."

That did it.

Duang growled, low in his throat, and suddenly the gentle husband was gone. He flipped Qin onto his back, looming over him with a predatory glint in his eyes.

"If you want it rough," Duang said, his voice dropping an octave, "then you'll take it rough."

He didn't start at Qin’s mouth. He started lower.

Duang kissed a wet trail down Qin’s chest, bypassing his leaking cock to mouth at his inner thighs. He sucked a bruise into the sensitive skin there, high enough that everyone would know he was claimed. Qin gasped, his hips jerking off the bed.

"Duang, please—"

"Quiet," Duang ordered.

He ducked his head and swallowed Qin down in one go.

"Oh, fuck!" Qin arched his back, his hands flying to Duang’s hair.

It was wet and sloppy. Duang didn't hold back. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, his tongue swirling around the head before taking him deep. But he didn't stop there.

As his mouth worked Qin’s cock, Duang’s hand slid lower. He found the rim of Qin’s hole, already loose and wet from before, and pressed two fingers inside without warning.

Qin cried out, his head falling back against the pillow. The dual sensation was overwhelming. The hot, tight suction of Duang’s mouth, the ruthless thrust of his fingers scissoring inside him, stretching him open, rubbing against that spot that made him see stars.

"Duang, Duang, ah-too much, it's too much—"

Duang pulled off with an obscene pop, but his fingers didn't stop. He curved them, digging hard into Qin’s prostate.

"You can take it," Duang said, his voice wrecked. He leaned up, capturing Qin’s mouth again, forcing him to taste himself. "You said you wanted more. This is more."

"Please," Qin sobbed, his legs trembling, opening wider, inviting Duang in. "I want you inside me. Not fingers. You. Please, Duang, fuck me like you mean it."

"Get on your hands and knees," Duang commanded.

Qin scrambled to obey. He positioned himself in the center of the bed, his ass in the air, his face buried in his arms. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and so turned on he could barely think.

He heard the click of the lube bottle, the wet sound of Duang slicking himself up. And then Duang was there, gripping Qin’s hips with bruising force.

"You have no idea," Duang gritted out, lining himself up, "how long I've wanted to ruin you like this."

He slammed inside.

Qin screamed, his elbows giving out as he collapsed face-first into the mattress. Duang didn't wait for him to adjust. He set a brutal pace, snapping his hips forward, driving into Qin with animalistic force.

"Yes, Duang, yes!" Qin chanted, his voice muffled by the sheets. Every thrust punched a needy sound out of him. Duang was hitting deep, filling him up so completely it hurt, stretching him wide around the thick length of his cock.

"Look at you," Duang snarled, spanking Qin’s ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. The sharp sting made Qin clench down, and Duang groaned. "Taking me so well. So greedy for my cock."

"Only for you," Qin gasped, pushing back to meet Duang’s thrusts, needing it harder, deeper. "Duang, harder!"

Duang leaned forward, covering Qin’s back with his chest, wrapping an arm around Qin’s throat to pull him up. He bit down on the sensitive skin where Qin’s neck met his shoulder, marking him, possessive and feral.

"You're mine," Duang growled into his ear, his hips never stopping. "Mine. You're never leaving this bed. I'm going to keep you here all night, full of me, until you can't remember your own name."

Qin’s eyes rolled back. The friction was incredible. Duang was pounding into him, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, loud and lewd.

"Duang, I'm gonna come again," Qin whimpered, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Please, let me come—"

"Come then," Duang bit out, his hand reaching around to wrap around Qin’s neglected cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. "Come on my cock, Qin."

It took only three strokes. Qin shattered. He came with a silent scream, his body locking up, his hole clamping down around Duang like a vice. The sensation was too much for Duang.

With a roar, Duang slammed in one last time, burying himself to the hilt. He came deep inside Qin, pulsing hot and endless, filling him up until he could feel it leaking out.

They collapsed together, a tangled, sweaty heap of limbs. Duang’s weight pinned Qin to the mattress, his face buried in the crook of Qin’s neck. They were both gasping for air, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs.

Slowly, the world came back into focus.

Duang pressed a soft kiss to the mark he’d left on Qin’s shoulder. Qin hummed, wriggling slightly, feeling the mess between his legs.

"Hey," Duang murmured, his voice soft now, the roughness gone. "Ter, you okay?"

Qin let out a contented, exhausted sound. "Mmh. Better than okay."

Duang rolled off him, pulling the discarded blanket over them both. He wrapped an arm around Qin, tucking him into his side.

"I love you," Duang whispered, pressing his lips to Qin's forehead.

Qin smiled, closing his eyes. "I know."

Qin tucks himself against Duang's chest, ear over his heart. Listening. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Duang strokes his hair. Slow. Steady. Hypnotic.

"I'm not going anywhere," Duang whispers into the dark.

"Good," Qin whispers back, sleep already pulling at his eyelids. "Because I'd follow you if you did."

Duang laughs softly. Kisses the top of Qin's head.

He reached down, tangling their fingers together. They fell asleep sticky, sore, and exhausted, tangled in the middle of the bed—closer than they had been in years. Close. Safe. Home.

Epilogue: (Three Months Later)

Qin wakes up to a sticky note on the fridge.

Not a grocery list this time.

"Morning, pretty. I made coffee. Also, you stole the blanket again. I didn't mind. — D"

Qin smiles. He peels the note off the door and saves it in the drawer with all the others, the growing archive of their second beginning.

Duang comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Qin's waist, and rests his chin on Qin's shoulder. He presses a kiss to the side of Qin's neck, warm and slow.

"What are you smiling at?" Duang asks, his voice still rough with sleep.

"You," Qin says. "Always you."

Duang turns his head. Kisses Qin's jaw.

"I love you," Duang says. No prompting. No hesitation. Just a fact, like the sun rising.

"I know," Qin says, turning in his arms to loop his own around Duang's neck. "I love you too."

They stay like that—coffee growing cold on the counter, morning light streaming through the window, nothing special happening at all.

And it's perfect.

Back then, Qin didn't know that loving someone would be this hard.

Back then, he was happy without knowing the weight of tomorrow.

But now?

Now, he knows. And he chooses Duang anyway.

And Duang chooses him.

Every single day.