The sky had opened up without warning.
Thanom stood beneath the narrow shelter of the bus stop awning, his hoodie soaked through, water dripping from his sleeves. The rain was relentless—thick, cold, and loud against the pavement. His backpack clung to his back like a damp weight, and his phone screen glowed with bad news.
Next bus: 1 hour and 45 minutes.
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. The wind pushed sideways, misting his face. He could already feel the chill settling into his bones. His shoes squelched when he shifted his weight.
"Perfect," he muttered.
He glanced down the street, hoping for a miracle. And then—headlights.
A sleek black Ford Escape slowed as it approached the stop, the wipers slicing through the downpour. The passenger window rolled down.
Jericho.
He leaned slightly toward the opening, his matte silver glasses fogged at the edges. "You need a ride?"
Thanom hesitated. "You sure?"
Jericho nodded. "Get in."
Thanom jogged to the car, yanked open the door, and slid into the passenger seat. The warmth hit him instantly—soft jazz playing low, the scent of cedar and something citrus. He buckled in, water dripping onto the floor mat.
"Thanks," he said, voice quiet.
Jericho pulled back into traffic, the tires hissing against the wet road. For a few minutes, they drove in silence, the city blurring past in streaks of gray and gold.
Then Jericho spoke.
"You thought me and Zaria were together."
Thanom blinked. "I… yeah. I did."
Jericho glanced at him, then back at the road. "Why?"
Thanom shifted in his seat, heart thudding. "You smiled at her. You don't smile at anyone."
Jericho didn't respond.
Thanom swallowed. "I guess I noticed. And I wondered. And maybe I hoped it wasn't true."
Jericho's grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. "Why would you hope that?"
Thanom stared out the window, rain racing down the glass. He could feel the words rising, unsteady but real.
"Because I have a crush on you."
The words hung in the air like fog—soft, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Jericho didn't speak. He didn't flinch. He just kept driving.
Thanom felt his chest tighten. "I didn't mean to make things weird. I just… I've admired you for a while. You're quiet, focused, kind in your own way. And I guess I wanted to know if there was space for someone like me in your world."
Jericho's jaw shifted slightly, but his eyes stayed on the road.
The rest of the ride was silent.
No music. No words. Just the sound of rain and the low hum of the engine.
Jericho pulled up in front of The Oliver Apartments, the building glowing softly against the storm. Thanom unbuckled his seatbelt, his fingers trembling slightly.
"Thanks for the ride," he said.
Jericho nodded once, eyes unreadable.
Thanom stepped out into the rain, jogged to the entrance, and disappeared inside.
Upstairs, in his apartment, he peeled off his wet clothes and wrapped himself in a thick blanket. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft patter of rain against the windows.
He sat on the couch, staring at the wall.
The conversation replayed in his mind—Jericho's question, his own confession, the silence that followed. He didn't regret saying it. But he didn't know what it meant.
Jericho hadn't rejected him. But he hadn't accepted him either.
He'd just… driven.
Thanom closed his eyes, the warmth of the blanket doing little to calm the storm inside him.
Maybe Jericho needed time.
Maybe silence was his way of processing.
Or maybe Thanom had stepped too close to a boundary that wasn't meant to be crossed.
He didn't know.
But he knew one thing: he'd spoken his truth.
And now, he had to wait for Jericho's.
The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time Jericho pulled away from The Oliver Apartments. The windshield wipers slowed, brushing away the last remnants of the storm. Streetlights cast long reflections across the wet pavement, and the city glowed in muted golds and silvers.
Jericho kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The silence in the car felt heavier now—no music, no conversation, just the low hum of the engine and the echo of Thanom's voice in his mind.
"Because I have a crush on you."
He hadn't expected it. Not from Thanom. Not today.
Jericho had always been good at reading people—at sensing when someone wanted something from him, whether it was attention, approval, or distance. But Thanom had never asked for anything. He'd just… been there. Quiet, observant, kind in a way that didn't demand anything in return.
And now, he'd offered something Jericho didn't know how to hold.
Jericho turned onto Lindell Boulevard, the familiar route back to his apartment unfolding in front of him. The city felt different tonight—slower, quieter, like it was listening too.
He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel flattered. He felt… unsettled.
Not because Thanom had feelings for him. But because Thanom had spoken them out loud.
Jericho had spent years building walls—clean, quiet, efficient. He liked control. He liked knowing where he stood with people. Zaria had slipped through those walls with softness and patience. Thanom had knocked on the front door with honesty.
And now Jericho didn't know what to do with the silence between them.
He pulled into the garage beneath his building, parked in his usual spot, and sat for a moment before turning off the engine. The rain tapped gently against the roof. His fingers curled around the steering wheel.
He thought about Thanom's face—nervous, sincere, vulnerable. He thought about the way he'd looked out the window after speaking, like he'd already accepted whatever answer Jericho wouldn't give.
Jericho didn't owe him anything. But he felt something shift inside him anyway.
Not a decision. Not a reaction.
Just a question.
What do I do with someone who sees me that clearly?
He stepped out of the car, locked the doors, and walked toward the elevator.
The city was quiet.
But his thoughts weren't.
Jericho stepped into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The familiar hush of the space wrapped around him like a second skin—no voices, no questions, no expectations. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint scent of eucalyptus from the diffuser in the corner.
He set his keys in the ceramic dish by the door, kicked off his sneakers, and padded across the hardwood floor. The city lights outside cast a soft glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting long shadows across the minimalist furniture.
He moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at the contents without really seeing them. His mind was still in the car, still replaying Thanom's voice.
"Because I have a crush on you."
Jericho closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even surprised, not really. Thanom had always looked at him a little too long, asked questions with a softness that felt intentional. But hearing it out loud had shifted something. Not in a bad way. Just… shifted.
He poured himself a glass of water, the coolness grounding him. Then he moved to the living room, sat on the edge of the couch, and stared out at the skyline. The rain had stopped, but the streets still shimmered, reflecting the city's pulse.
He thought about Zaria—how she never pushed, how she let silence be enough. And now Thanom, who had offered his truth without asking for anything in return.
Jericho wasn't used to being seen. Not like that.
He stood, walked to his desk, and opened his sketchbook. The pages were filled with architectural lines, abstract shapes, and the occasional face—never fully rendered, always half-shadowed. He flipped to a blank page and stared at it.
Then, slowly, he began to draw.
Not a building. Not a pattern.
A pair of eyes—soft, uncertain.
Jericho sat at his desk, sketchbook open, pencil resting between his fingers. The drawing was unfinished—just a pair of eyes, soft and uncertain, staring back at him from the page. He hadn't touched it in an hour. His thoughts kept drifting.
The apartment was silent. Outside, the city had settled into its midnight rhythm—occasional sirens, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic. Jericho leaned back in his chair, rubbed his temples, and reached for his phone.
One new message.
Zaria Monroe
Hey. Hope you made it home okay.
Jericho stared at the screen. Her timing was uncanny.
He tapped to open it.
> I saw Thanom today. He looked… quiet. Not his usual kind of quiet. Thought maybe you'd know why, but I won't pry.
> I just wanted to say—whatever's going on, I hope you're okay. You don't have to explain anything. I just wanted you to know I'm here. No pressure. No expectations.
> Also, I found a new café near campus. They make these ridiculous strawberry matcha lattes. You'd hate it. I loved it.
Jericho read the message twice. Then a third time.
Zaria had a way of speaking that felt like a soft blanket—warm, protective, never suffocating. She didn't ask questions. She offered space.
He typed a reply, then deleted it.
Typed again.
> Thanks. I'm okay. Just… thinking.
He stared at the blinking cursor. Then added:
> Thanom said something honest today. I didn't know how to respond.
Zaria's reply came five minutes later.
> Honesty can be heavy. Doesn't mean you have to carry it alone.
Jericho set the phone down, the screen dimming slowly.
He didn't know what he felt. But he knew Zaria understood the weight of silence—and the shape of words left unsaid.