The computer lab was quieter than usual. The hum of machines filled the space like a low tide, and the fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over rows of monitors. Thanom sat at his usual station, fingers resting on the keyboard, waiting for the assignment to load.
He hadn't slept well. His thoughts kept circling back to Jericho—his silence, his stillness, the way he'd driven without reacting, without rejecting, without responding.
He didn't expect anything today. But he hoped.
Jericho walked in five minutes late, hoodie pulled over his head, matte silver glasses fogged slightly from the morning chill. He slid into the seat beside Thanom without a word, opened his laptop, and began typing.
Thanom glanced at him, unsure whether to speak.
Then Jericho did.
"I thought about what you said."
Thanom froze, fingers hovering above the keys. "Okay."
Jericho didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on the screen. "I didn't respond because I didn't know how. I still don't."
Thanom nodded slowly. "I wasn't expecting anything. I just needed to say it."
Jericho paused, then turned slightly toward him. "You assumed I was with Zaria. That's what started it."
Thanom met his gaze. "Yeah."
"Why?"
Thanom hesitated. "Because you smiled at her. You looked… open. I guess I wanted to know if that space was already taken."
Jericho's expression didn't change. But something in his posture softened.
"She's a friend," he said. "She understands me. That's rare."
Thanom nodded. "I get that."
Jericho looked back at the screen. "I don't know what I feel. About you. About any of this."
Thanom swallowed. "You don't have to know. I just wanted you to know where I stand."
They sat in silence for a moment, the assignment blinking on their screens.
Jericho spoke again, quieter this time. "I don't do emotions well. I compartmentalize. I build systems. People don't fit into those easily."
Thanom smiled faintly. "I'm not asking to fit. Just to be seen."
Jericho didn't respond. But he didn't shut down either.
They worked side by side for the rest of class, typing, testing, debugging. No more words. No more questions.
But something had shifted.
Not resolved.
Not defined.
Just… opened.
The sun had dipped low behind the skyline, casting long shadows across the pavement as Jericho pulled up in front of the coffee shop. The black Ford Escape idled quietly, its interior warm with the scent of cedar and faint traces of lemon from Thanom's cologne.
Thanom sat in the passenger seat, fingers curled around the strap of his backpack. He hadn't spoken much since they left campus. Jericho hadn't either. But the silence between them felt different now—not heavy, not uncertain. Just waiting.
Jericho glanced at him. "You still want coffee?"
Thanom nodded. "Yeah."
They stepped inside together, the bell above the door chiming softly. The shop was cozy—exposed brick, hanging plants, soft jazz playing from a speaker tucked behind the counter. The barista greeted them with a nod, and they ordered: a chai latte for Thanom, black coffee for Jericho.
They found a small table near the window, the light catching the steam rising from their cups.
For a while, they just sat.
Thanom stirred his drink slowly, watching the cinnamon swirl into the foam. Jericho sipped his coffee, eyes scanning the street outside.
Then Jericho spoke.
"What else do you like about me?"
Thanom looked up, startled. "What?"
Jericho's gaze was steady. "You said you had a crush. I want to know why."
Thanom hesitated, then set his cup down. "You're focused. You move through the world like you're building something, even when no one's watching. You don't waste words. You listen. You're kind in ways people don't notice."
Jericho didn't interrupt.
Thanom continued. "You make me want to be quieter. Not because I'm afraid, but because I want to hear what you don't say."
Jericho's fingers tapped once against his cup. "I don't let people in easily."
"I know," Thanom said. "I'm not asking to be let in all at once."
Jericho leaned back slightly, the light catching the edge of his glasses. "I've been thinking about you. About what you said. About how you didn't ask for anything."
Thanom nodded. "I didn't want to push."
"You didn't," Jericho said. "But you stayed."
Thanom smiled faintly. "I didn't know how to leave."
Jericho looked at him for a long moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
"You free Friday night?"
Thanom blinked. "I think so."
Jericho's lips curved—just slightly. "There's a bowling alley near Forest Park. It's quiet. Good lighting. I like the rhythm of it."
Thanom's heart thudded once, then settled. "You asking me out?"
Jericho nodded. "I am."
Thanom smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. "Then yeah. I'm free."
They sat in silence again, but this time it was full—of possibility, of breath, of something beginning.
Friday morning arrived with a crisp breeze and a sky streaked in soft blue and gold. Jericho pulled up outside Thanom's apartment in the black Ford Escape, the windows freshly cleaned, the interior smelling faintly of bergamot and mint. Thanom stepped out in a navy hoodie and dark jeans, his hair slightly tousled, a quiet smile on his face.
Jericho nodded once as Thanom climbed in. "Morning."
"Morning," Thanom replied, buckling his seatbelt. "You ready to laugh?"
Jericho gave a small smirk. "We'll see if it's funny."
They drove in comfortable silence, the city slowly waking around them. The theater was tucked between a bookstore and a bakery, its marquee flashing the title of the comedy they'd chosen: Laugh Track. A lighthearted film about two best friends navigating adulthood with awkward charm and chaotic timing.
Inside, the lobby smelled of butter, sugar, and the faint tang of soda syrup. The concession stand gleamed under bright lights, and Jericho stepped forward first.
"Popcorn," he said. "Large. Extra butter."
Thanom grinned. "Nachos. And two sodas—one cherry, one lemon-lime."
They carried their snacks like a shared ritual, balancing trays and cups as they made their way into Theater 4. The room was dim, the screen glowing with previews, and they found seats near the middle—just enough distance from the crowd to feel like their own world.
Jericho handed Thanom the nachos, then settled into his seat with the popcorn between them.
Thanom leaned slightly toward him. "Thanks for inviting me."
Jericho looked at him, eyes steady. "I wanted to see what it felt like."
Thanom smiled. "And?"
Jericho didn't answer. But he reached into the popcorn and passed Thanom a handful.
The lights dimmed. The movie began.
And for the next ninety minutes, they laughed—quietly, loudly, unexpectedly. Jericho's laugh was rare, but real. Thanom's was warm and frequent, his shoulder brushing Jericho's every time he leaned in with joy.