Work Text:
Santa Pongsapak hasn’t been having the best Saturday. Moving has been stressful.
And by stressful, he means the kind of stress that makes you question every life decision that led you to standing in the middle of an empty apartment surrounded by cardboard boxes with completely unhelpful labels.
As if it isn't stressful enough that he's living alone for the first time in his twenty two years of life, he's also starting a new job in a new city where he knows absolutely no one. He's already decided Bangkok is too bright. Too loud. Too everything.
It invades his senses even through the closed windows: traffic snarling below, unfamiliar smells drifting upward, voices layered over engines and horns. Back home, the loudest thing at this hour would’ve been Auntie Mali yelling at her chickens.
Santa wipes sweat off his temple with the back of his wrist and adjusts the bluetooth earbuds hooked into his ears.
“I still think you’re being dramatic, Ta,” Leng says into his ear, voice crisp and annoyingly cheerful. “It’s just a new city, a fun experience. People do it all the time.”
Santa bends to pick up another box, grimacing at the way it bites into his palms. “People cliff dive for fun too, Leng. That doesn’t mean it’s psychologically sound.”
He nudges the door open with his hip and drags the last box inside, the apartment door shutting with a satisfying click behind him. Final box. Officially moved in.
“Well,” his best friend continues, “congratulations either way. You're officially a grown up.”
Santa snorts.
The apartment, at least, is nice. Too nice, actually. It smells faintly of new paint and some kind of floral cleaner. The floors are warm-toned polished wood, and the walls are a soft cream that catch the afternoon sunlight pouring in through massive windows.
The windows are Santa's favorite part.
They stretch nearly from floor to ceiling, overlooking a slice of skyline and a sliver of sky. Light spills everywhere, golden and unapologetic. It makes the place feel bigger. Airier. Less like the box he emotionally feels trapped inside.
The kitchen is sleek. White counters, modern fixtures. The bedroom door stands slightly ajar, revealing an empty space waiting for a bed frame that Santa still needs to assemble. There’s a tiny balcony too, just big enough for two chairs and, eventually, some plants he’ll probably forget to water.
And scattered throughout the otherwise minimalist space are very obvious Santa touches: a neon green beanbag plopped right in the living room, LED strip lights coiled along one wall, not yet installed, but ready to turn the apartment into a gaming dungeon at night. There's also a framed pixel-art print of a beagle in knight armor and three mechanical keyboards laid carefully on the counter.
Santa stares out into the unfamiliar city. He’s never lived away from home for more than a week. Never gone a day without seeing his mom’s cooking appear magically at dinner time. Never been without his tight-knit circle of friends, the same idiots he’s known since middle school, through high school, through university.
Now he’s here. Alone. In a city that doesn’t sleep and doesn’t care.
“Now let’s stop the homesickness by reminding ourselves why you're there,” Leng says, ever the anchor.
Santa exhales and collapses onto the beanbag, which makes a loud fwump and swallows him whole. “Because I got offered a position at Innovis Tech.”
He says it with quiet pride, even if he’s trying not to.
Innovis Tech Limited. One of the top tech companies in Thailand. Clean reputation, big clients, competitive salary. The kind of place ambitious programmers dream about landing. When the offer email had arrived, Santa had stared at the screen for a full five minutes before going to grab his mom.
She’d cried. He’d pretended not to.
“You’ve wanted this since first year,” Leng reminds him. “Said it was your dream.”
“I said that hypothetically,” Santa argues. “Like how people say they’d survive a zombie apocalypse.”
“You’d die in the first five minutes.”
“That's not true.”
Leng doesn't even hesitate. “You’d get caught trying to blend in with a wall.”
“Yes, introverted camouflage. It's a thing."
“No, it isn't,” Leng deadpans. “And even it was, it doesn't work with humans, so why would it with zombies?”
Santa can only hum because he knows he's right. As per usual.
“I miss you already too, Lengsoo,” he says instead.
“Of course you do,” Leng returns confidently. “But you'll make new, less impressive friends. As long as you can crack open that shell of yours. Start with your colleagues.”
Santa makes a face. “The whole reason I code is so I can minimize human interaction.”
Leng sighs dramatically. “You need to meet more people. Be open. Maybe date.”
Santa chokes. “Date? Who?”
“Someone.”
“In Bangkok?” he sputters. “Do you know how many people live here? That’s overwhelming.”
“You’re twenty-two, Ta.”
“And?”
“And you’ve never had a proper relationship,” Leng returns flatly.
Santa mock gasps. “That’s slander.”
“The three-week situationship with that social science student who ghosted you doesn't count.”
“That was a mutual fade-out.”
Silence.
“Valentine’s is a week away,” Leng tries again. “Get a big city, corporate hotshot to spend the next one with.”
Santa scoffs. “Now you sound like mae.”
“Or maybe even get someone to spend this Valentine's with.”
Santa half chuckles. “Now that would require divine intervention.”
A soft rustling sound outside his door snaps his attention toward it.
He’s sure he brought all his things up from downstairs. He hasn’t even ordered dinner yet. Frowning, he pushes himself out of the beanbag and pads barefoot across the floor to peer through the peephole.
Empty hallway.
“What is it?” Leng asks.
“Thought I heard something outside the door.”
“Paranoid much?”
Santa opens the door anyway. The corridor stretches in both directions, lined with identical doors. No one in sight.
“Well?” Leng presses.
“There’s no one,” Santa says, about to close the door, when something catches his eye.
A red bag hangs on his door handle.
He blinks twice at it before lifting it cautiously, inspecting. It’s glossy, elegant, tied with thin gold ribbon handles. Not too heavy. No name. No unit number. No label.
“Ta?” Leng says sharply.
“There was a red bag hanging on my door,” Santa says, stepping back inside and nudging the door shut with his foot. “There’s nothing on it.”
“Open it.”
Santa frowns. “What if it’s cursed?”
“Why would it be cursed?”
“It appeared out of nowhere,” he explains. “And red is an ominous color.”
“Open. The. Bag.”
Santa flops back onto his neon green beanbag and sets the red bag in his lap. He peeks inside.
“It’s chocolate.”
“What kind?”
Santa lifts the box out fully and stares. It’s expensive. Embarrassingly expensive. The kind of imported chocolate brand he’s only ever seen behind glass displays at luxury malls and in duty free shops at airports. Dark packaging. Gold lettering. A red satin bow tied neatly on top.
He carefully flips it over. Still no name. But there’s a small note attached to the ribbon.
The handwriting is messy. Slanted, all caps, not quite cursive. Confident in a way that suggests the writer didn’t care if it was neat.
STARTING THE COUNTDOWN WITH WHAT’S MOST OBVIOUS.
-P
Santa reads it aloud for Leng's benefit.
“P?” Leng repeats. “That’s it?”
“That's it,” Santa confirms, still eyeing the words.
“Maybe it’s your secret admirer.”
“I just moved in,” Santa needlessly reminds him. “Literally no one in Bangkok has seen me except airport security, the Grab driver, and the apartment manager.”
Leng hums thoughtfully. “Maybe it got delivered to the wrong apartment.”
“That’s what I'm thinking.”
Santa inspects the box one last time before putting it and the note back into the bag. “Maybe I should hang it back outside,” he mutters.
“Or,” Leng says slowly, “you could eat it.”
Santa scowls. “Why’re you encouraging theft?”
“I’m encouraging you to seize unexpected joy.”
Santa rolls his eyes.
“Look,” Leng continues, “you’re alone in a new city, a week before Valentine’s Day. The universe sends you premium chocolate. That’s either the start of a rom-com or elaborate marketing. Either way, eat it.”
Santa huffs. “What if you’ve got the genre wrong and it's horror instead?”
“You code for a living,” Leng deadpans. “Your biggest threat is carpal tunnel.”
“I’m not eating it,” Santa decides firmly. “I’ll put it away. Then if someone comes looking for it, I have something to give.”
“Fine. Have it your boring way.”
He gets up, carries the box to the kitchen, and sets it carefully on the counter against the wall where it’s safe and, hopefully, out of temptation’s reach.
“What if,” Leng suddenly says, voice lowering mischievously, “P stands for Programmer?!”
“Goodbye, Leng.”
“You’re welcome.”
Santa pulls out one earbud just as Leng laughs and the call disconnects. The apartment falls quiet again, well, as quiet as Bangkok ever gets.
He stands there for a moment, staring at the red bag, the reflective material glowing under the afternoon sun. Just like the city, it's too bright. Too loud. Too much.
And now, apparently, too mysterious.
────────── 💌 ──────────
Sunday hurts more than Saturday.
He wakes up disoriented, momentarily forgetting he’s in Bangkok and not in his childhood bedroom, with the faint smell of his mom's favorite jasmine fabric softener drifting under the door. A motorbike backfires outside and reality kicks in swiftly.
By late afternoon, he’s trudging down the hallway toward his unit with two overloaded reusable grocery bags that feel like they weigh twenty pounds each. He’s dressed for maximum comfort and zero impressiveness: a washed-out black T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, baggy charcoal cargo pants with an unnecessary number of pockets, and his favorite chunky sneakers with bright orange laces.
Silver rings stack across three fingers. A thin chain rests at his collarbone. Small hoops line one ear; a barbell glints in the other. He’d added a tiny extra stud in university just to feel rebellious. His hair is half-pinned back with a claw clip because it kept falling in his eyes at the supermarket.
He’d told himself he was just going to grab a few essentials but may have gone a little overboard in the huge mart he followed Google Maps to.
So now he's the proud owner of three types of instant noodles, oat milk he doesn’t even like but bought because it looked mature, frozen dumplings, energy drinks, a frankly irresponsible amount of gaming snacks, and a tiny cactus. The cactus is for emotional support until he gets around to adopting the cat he’s wanted since he was six.
He reaches his door. And stops.
There’s another red bag hanging from the handle. Identical to the one from yesterday.
Santa frowns at it. “You have got to be kidding me.”
He glances down the hallway as if the mysterious “P” might be crouched behind a potted plant.
Nothing.
With a long-suffering sigh, he unlocks the door, shoulders it open, and kicks it shut behind him. The apartment already looks different from yesterday. Not fully settled, but almost lived in.
The LED strip lights are up now, lining one wall in soft, various shades of purple. His desk is assembled near the window, dual monitors glowing faintly in sleep mode. The neon beanbag has been joined by a low coffee table. His mechanical keyboards are displayed neatly. There’s a small shoe rack by the door.
And beside it, a stack of flattened cardboard boxes he hasn’t figured out what to do with yet.
He drops the groceries on the counter, then goes back for the red bag, lifting it with suspicion. It’s heavier than yesterday’s.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “What now, Khun P?”
He carries it to the kitchen and sets it beside the other bag with the chocolates, which he still hasn’t touched, thank you very much, and carefully pulls out whatever’s inside. He's not even remotely prepared.
It’s a teddy bear.
Except not plush. Crystal.
Green. Small enough to sit in his palm, but dense and weighty. It catches the light from the windows and fractures it across the ceiling in shimmering reflections. Tiny carved ears. Smooth rounded body. There’s a note again. Same messy, slanted block letters.
SINCE YOU LIKE TEAL.
-P
Santa stares at it for a full five seconds.
Then he laughs. The sound echoes through the apartment, unexpected and bright.
“First of all,” he tells the bear, squinting at it, “you are not even close to teal, buddy.”
The bear doesn't argue.
Khun P, along with being loaded and apparently committed, is very obviously colorblind. Santa almost feels bad for the guy, thinking he’s being romantic while missing the shade entirely.
“What do we do, huh?” Santa asks the crystal bear. “Your pa or mae is very sweet, but they have tragically miscalculated the address.”
His doorbell rings.
He startles so hard he nearly drops the bear.
He shoves it back into the bag beside the chocolates and heads for the door, heart thumping in mild panic. He wonders if it's Khun P maybe, and peers through the peephole.
A tall guy stands outside.
Broad shoulders. Relaxed posture. Hands tucked into the pockets of loose beige trousers. He’s wearing a fitted white tank under an unbuttoned flannel, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows. A silver watch glints on his wrist. His hair is styled back and out of his face.
When Santa cracks open the door, he decides the stranger is about his age. And handsome.
“Hi,” the guy says with an easy grin. “You’re the one who moved in yesterday, right?”
Santa only nods.
“I’m Dunk. Dunk Natachai,” he introduces, shoving a thumb to his right. “I live next door.”
His voice is warm and deep. Friendly.
“And before you panic,” Dunk adds, raising both hands slightly, “I’m not here to complain about the ruckus yesterday that may or may not have ruined my afternoon nap.”
Santa visibly shrinks. “Sorry…”
Dunk laughs. “I’m kidding. It’s a joke. I just wanted to introduce myself and establish that I am, in fact, a non-threatening individual.”
Santa opens the door wider and gives him a polite wai. “My name is Santa Pongsapak.” He hesitates, then adds, “The flannel might not be helping the non-serial-killer image you’re going for.”
Dunk blinks down at his shirt. Then grins up at him. “I like you already.”
He leans casually against the doorframe. “Welcome to the building, Nong Santa. Need help with anything?”
Santa hesitates, then gestures awkwardly toward the stack of flattened boxes. “Actually… do you know where these go?”
Dunk peeks past him. “Oh. Yeah. Recycling’s out back. Down the stairs, past the parking lot.”
“Oh.”
“I can show you. I’m heading out for a smoke break anyway.”
Santa nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
A few minutes later, they’re hauling boxes down the service stairs, Dunk carrying half despite Santa’s weak protests.
“Where’d you move from?” Dunk asks.
“Cha-am.”
“No way.” Dunk looks impressed. “In Bangkok for work?”
Santa nods. “I’m starting at Innovis Tech tomorrow.”
Dunk whistles low. “Damn. That's in Silom right? My office is there too.”
“What do you do?”
“Architecture. Firm called Siam Axis. Mostly commercial stuff. A lot of Skyscrapers.”
“Sounds cool.”
“It is,” Dunk replies cheerfully as they dump the cardboard into a recycling dumpster behind the building. “You’ll get used to Silom fast. There’s a good bar nearby Innovis I go to sometimes. We should hang out after work sometime.”
Santa hesitates.
Dunk glances at him. “So you can complain about your new job to someone who isn’t your mom.”
Santa snorts. “Yeah, okay. Sounds fun.”
Dunk lights a cigarette. Santa declines when offered one.
“I’ve got a work thing tomorrow,” Dunk says after a drag. “Let’s do Tuesday evening. Share your Line ID.”
They exchange contacts. Once Dunk finishes smoking, they round the building and head back in the elevator.
At Santa’s door, he pauses.
“Hey, Phi…” he says.
Dunk turns.
“If something got delivered to you by accident,” he asks carefully, “what would you do?”
Dunk shrugs. “Depends. What kind of something?”
Santa opens his door and gestures for him to wait, then grabs the red bags off his counter.
Dunk’s eyebrows lift when he spots the contents.
“Well,” he says slowly. “Someone’s popular.”
“They're not mine,” Santa insists quickly. “Someone’s been leaving them at my door. No name. Just signed ‘P.’”
Dunk pulls out the crystal bear. “P?”
Santa nods. “I'm thinking someone got the wrong address.”
Dunk expression shifts from confusion to recognition and understanding.
“Oh,” he says. “Wait. You’re in Khun Sara’s old unit.”
“Khun Sara?”
“Yeah. The girl who lived here before you. Model. Kept to herself mostly. Had a ridiculously rich boyfriend, I think.”
Santa blinks. “Yeah?”
“Honestly,” Dunk continues, eyeing the bear with open distaste, “it’s probably not the wrong address. It’s the old address. Boyfriend somehow missed the memo.”
“That… makes sense.”
“Yeah. He used to send stuff all the time. Flowers. Boxes. That kind of thing.”
Santa stares at the gifts in his hands.
So Khun P isn’t some mysterious admirer. He’s just… someone dating some model named Sara. Valentine’s is in six days and apparently, Santa's unintentionally intercepting someone else’s love story.
“Any idea where she moved to?” he asks hopefully.
Dunk shakes his head as he hands the bags back to Santa. “Nah. We weren’t close enough to exchange insta IDs. I just know she was busy all the time. Photoshoots and stuff.”
“Right.”
“Well,” Dunk says lightly, stepping back toward his own door, “if you get any more accidental luxury deliveries, I live next door.”
Santa snorts. “Thanks, Phi. For the boxes. And the… clarification.”
“No problem.” Dunk smiles easily as he opens his door. “I’ll text you Tuesday. We’ll find liquor strong enough to make you forget you hate Bangkok.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You will by rush hour tomorrow.”
With that, Dunk disappears into his apartment. Santa stands alone in the hallway for a moment before stepping inside his one.
He sets the bags back neatly on his kitchen counter before pulling the bear out again, light catching along its edges.
“Don’t be discouraged by Phi Dunk,” he murmurs to it. “You’re plenty pretty.”
He tilts it.
“And still more green than teal.”
────────── 💌 ──────────
Monday decides to humble Santa almost immediately.
Santa wakes up to sunlight already too bright and a clock that reads 08:07.
His brain short-circuits.
Work starts at nine. Across the city. And he’s not dressed, hasn't eaten yet. Isn't emotionally prepared.
“Okay,” he whispers to the ceiling. “Okay. Okay.”
He is, in fact, not okay.
The next twenty minutes are a blur of speed against time. Shower. Toothbrush abandoned halfway through because there's no time. Hair finger-combed into something passable. The outfit he prepared last night is hastily thrown on: a crisp white dress shirt, now wrinkled from being pulled too aggressively from the hanger, slim black trousers, and polished black loafers.
For Santa, this is corporate. For corporate Bangkok, it’s probably… mid.
He keeps his jewelry minimal. Just his usual rings, a thin bracelet with a small cat charm at his wrist, and small silver hoops in his ears. He debates taking them out for a second but doesn’t.
If he’s going to suffer, he’ll suffer authentically.
By the time he’s sprinting to the bus stop with his backpack slamming against his spine, he’s already sweating through the collar.
The bus is late. And traffic is worse.
Motorbikes weave between cars like they have a death wish. A delivery truck blocks half an intersection. The air feels thick enough to chew. All of Santa’s meticulous Sunday-night planning with routes saved, backup routes screenshot, alarm timed perfectly, all disintegrates in real time.
He checks his phone. 09:12.
His throat tightens.
“I’m going to get fired on my first day,” he mutters aloud.
A woman beside him glances over. He pretends to cough.
By the time he finally reaches the towering glass building that houses Innovis Tech, it’s 9:29 a.m. and he's officially thirty minutes late. He stops at the base, chest heaving, and looks up despite himself. The building is… unreal.
Sleek, reflective glass climbing impossibly high. Steel accents sharp and intentional. The Innovis Tech logo gleams above the entrance in minimalist chrome lettering. The lobby inside looks like something out of a sci-fi movie with polished marble floors, floating digital displays and greenery arranged in geometric precision.
It screams money. It screams competence.
It screams you are underqualified and sweaty.
Santa looks down at himself, shirt slightly crumpled, long locks rebelling at the back, breath uneven, and feels painfully plain in comparison to the people gliding in and out in tailored suits and effortless heels.
But he steps inside anyway.
The air conditioning hits him like forgiveness. Security is polite but efficient. He presents his ID email with trembling fingers and is issued a sleek white starter box embossed with the company logo. Inside there's a brand-new company laptop. His employee ID badge. A matte black insulated bottle. A leather-bound diary with Innovis Tech stamped subtly at the corner. A welcome booklet.
It’s so clean it intimidates him.
“Engineering division is on the eighteenth floor,” the security guard tells him with a professional smile.
Santa nods too quickly. “Thank you. Sorry. I mean, thank you.”
He practically speed-walks toward the elevators. The one that opens up is mirrored inside, marble tiled floors and spotless. The kind that makes it blatantly obvious how disheveled someone looks. He steps in alone and presses 18.
The doors begin to close when someone calls out, “Hold the elevator, please.”
The voice is smooth, carrying easily across the lobby.
Santa panics, shifts his starter box awkwardly and jabs at the “open” button on instinct. The doors hesitate just as the diary slides out from the top of his starter box. Followed by the tumbler and then his ID badge.
“Crap-”
The doors slide open just as Santa drops to a crouch, scrambling to gather his dignity off the floor. Polished dress shoes step into his line of sight.
“Sorry,” Santa blurts automatically, eyes on the floor.
Dress shoes squats down to help him. Santa looks up.
And promptly forgets how oxygen works as he stares into the darkest eyes he's ever seen.
Handsome. Dark hair styled back neatly, sharp jawline and tanned skin. Broad shoulders set in a navy blue pinstriped suit tailored so precisely it might’ve been sewn onto him. The fabric hugs in all the right places without looking tight. Crisp white shirt beneath. Subtle cufflinks glinting silver at his wrists.
He smells good too. Clean. Fresh earth. Expensive.
Santa drops his gaze instantly.
“Sorry,” he repeats, flustered. “I- thank you.”
The man hands him the diary, fingers brushing briefly.
“No, thank you,” he replies, voice deep and warm. “For holding the elevator.”
He smiles. It's friendly. Honest.
Santa’s heart slams against his ribs so hard he wonders, briefly, if this is a medical emergency.
Is this what a stroke feels like?
He stands quickly, clutching his box like a flotation device.
The man rises too but it's a much more graceful movement. He’s about Santa’s height but carries himself like he occupies more space. Like the room bends slightly around him. He looks at least five years older. Confident in a way that isn’t loud.
The man presses a button on the panel as the elevator begins to rise. Santa glances.
Thirty two. Top floor.
“First day?” the man asks casually as he shifts back to stand beside Santa, close enough that he's acutely aware of proximity.
Santa lets out a strained laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
The man nods lightly toward the white starter box in Santa’s arms.
“Right.”
The elevator glides upward smoothly. At the fifth floor, the doors open and two sharply dressed women waiting outside straighten immediately.
“Good morning, Sir,” they say, offering the man beside Santa respectful wais.
He nods back politely.
They hesitate. Then exchange glances.
“We’ll take the next one,” one says quickly.
The doors close. Santa blinks in surprise.
At the eighth floor, the door opens again and a man in a gray suit steps forward, then pauses. He says pretty much the same thing and the doors slide shut again.
Silence.
Santa suddenly feels like he's done something very, very wrong. He slowly turns his head.
“Should I catch another elevator too?” he asks carefully, “... Sir?”
The man chuckles under his breath. “You’re fine. It's just no one wants to ride in the same elevator as the boss,” he says lightly. “Especially when I haven't earned the title yet.”
Santa’s brain stalls.
Before he can process that information, the man glances at Santa’s ID badge still clipped loosely to the edge of the box.
“Santa Pongsapak,” he reads smoothly. “Welcome to Innovis.”
Santa bows in thanks.
The man checks his very large, very expensive-looking watch. “And try to make it on time tomorrow.”
Santa’s face ignites. “I’m so sorry. Traffic was-”
“It almost always is in Bangkok,” he replies calmly. Not unkind. “But Engineering’s pretty lax about these things. You should be fine.”
Santa exhales. Nods. Bows again, because why not. The elevator slows again, dings and it's the eighteenth floor this time.
Engineering.
The doors begin to open when something tugs sharply at Santa’s wrist. He looks down.
The cat charm on his bracelet has hooked itself perfectly into the decorative edge of the man’s cufflink.
“Oh.”
The man glances down too. They both stand awkwardly connected by jewelry and poor coordination.
“Sorry,” Santa breathes.
“Let me,” the man replies, attempting to untangle it carefully.
But then the elevator doors begin sliding shut and Santa reflexively jerks his hand forward. There’s a small metallic clink and both of their gazes drop down at the same time.
The cufflink’s decorative face has detached and sits on the elevator floor.
Time stops.
And then Santa's squatting again as he sets his box aside immediately and scoops it up.
“Oh no.”
“It’s fine,” the man tells him, crouching down as the elevator doors slide fully shut. “I have others in my office. It wasn’t that expensive anyway.”
It looks expensive.
Santa’s guilt complex activates. And an idea pops into his head.
“Wait.”
He shrugs off his backpack with frantic efficiency and digs through the front pocket.
The man straightens again. “What are you-?”
Santa pulls out a tiny tube of superglue triumphantly. The man blinks down at it.
“You carry glue?”
“It’s a necessity for the accident-prone,” Santa replies, already twisting the cap off.
He steps closer without thinking, concentration taking over. A careful dot of glue. He presses the decorative piece back into place, fingers hooking lightly under the cuff to apply pressure. His tongue peeks out slightly as he does the five second countdown in his head. The elevator continues its ascent.
He’s vaguely aware of how close they’re standing throughout those five seconds. Close enough that he can see the faint texture of the man’s suit fabric. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough to smell that woody cologne again.
“Good as new,” Santa murmurs before looking up.
And finds the man watching him with open amusement. Their faces are too close. Santa’s breath catches. The elevator dings and they're at the highest floor of Innovis Tech.
Santa jerks back, nearly trips over his box. A hand catches his waist, warm and firm, steadying him before letting go just as quickly.
“Sorry,” Santa blurts for the hundredth time, shoving the glue back into his bag and grabbing his box off the floor. “I’m really sorry.”
The man inspects his wrist as the doors slide open.
“Well,” he muses, sounding impressed as he flexes slightly, “that’s surprisingly sturdy.”
Santa turns to see four people waiting in the lobby outside, two men and two women, all straightening instantly, hands up in polite wais. The man bypasses Santa and exits the elevator.
“See you around, Khun Santa.”
Santa stands frozen inside the elevator, watching as the four fall into step beside him like a practiced formation. Then the elevator seals shut and begins descending.
It’s now 9:37 a.m. and Santa is officially forty minutes late.
It isn't until after one pm that he relaxes enough to realize something is missing. His bracelet is still there.
The cat charm isn’t.
────────── 💌 ──────────
Tuesday evening decides it wants cinematic lighting and sound effects.
By 5:47 p.m., Santa is standing under the shallow awning outside Innovis Tech, watching the sky absolutely fall apart.
It’s not rain. It’s a full-on Bangkok performance. Sheets of water hammer the pavement. Traffic crawls in shiny, miserable lines. Motorbikes surrender. Pedestrians cluster under anything that remotely resembles shelter. Every Grab taxi he tries to book disappears the second it appears on the app.
Accepting driver… Searching… Driver cancelled.
He exhales sharply.
The day, at least, had been normal.
Blessedly normal.
He’d dressed down today, still work-appropriate, but more himself. A slate-gray button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked loosely into black tailored trousers. Jewelry still the same as the first day, apart from a different bracelet. His hair parted and styled with minimal effort, soft and slightly messy.
Developer Team B had been… normal in his first two days. Awkward-new normal, but stable. His manager was exactly the kind of quirky that felt safe: slightly chaotic desk, colorful sticky notes everywhere, a tiny desk plant named Compiler. He hadn’t mentioned the tardiness beyond a teasing, “Traffic initiation ritual, huh?”
Santa appreciated that.
He’d spent most of the first two days setting up his system, reviewing starter tickets, quietly coding small fixes. As the new guy on the team, expectations were manageable at the beginning. He liked manageable. What he did not like was Bangkok’s weather sabotaging his first post-work social outing.
Dunk had texted him the address hours ago.
Velour Room.
The name alone sounded expensive.
Santa types quickly as he waits for the clouds to have mercy.
>Stuck in rain. Sorry.
The rain intensifies like it’s mocking him.
And then a sleek black Mercedes-Benz glides to a stop directly in front of him. Santa glances up absently when the window rolls down. The man from the elevator yesterday looks out at him from the driver’s seat, smile easy.
He's dressed in a navy suit again, different pattern but equally expensive. Short hair styled away from his sharp face. A watch that probably costs more than Santa’s monthly rent gleams at his wrist. Santa’s brain does that static thing again.
“Good evening, Sir,” he eventually manages, executing an extra polite wai.
Perth sighs lightly. “I guess my cover’s officially blown.”
Santa snorts before he can stop himself. “It was bad enough I didn’t know the first time.”
Perth Tanapon, the new CEO of Innovis Tech, and the heir of the Tanapon Sukumpantanasan conglomerate. Thirty years old. Newly handed the reins after his father stepped down from his position of his most beloved company.
When Santa's manager informed him on day one that he and the other recruits' introductory meeting with the new CEO had been rescheduled because of other meetings, Santa naturally googled him. And almost dropped his phone onto the floor in shock.
A corner of Perth’s mouth lifts now.
“Getting a ride?” he asks, glancing at the rain.
“Trying to.”
“Hop in.”
Santa stiffens. “Sir-”
“You're off the clock,” Perth cuts in smoothly, engine softly purring under him. “Perth will do.”
“Khun Perth,” Santa awkwardly corrects, shifting on his feet. “Thank you for the offer but I’m probably going the opposite direction.”
Perth raises an eyebrow. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Intuition,” he claims, not sure where all the confidence is coming from. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
Perth studies him for a moment, rain sliding in silver streaks over the hood of the car.
“I’d be a terrible boss,” he says finally, “if I let one of my employees get drenched outside my own building.”
“You’re off the clock too.”
“A terrible human then.”
Santa swallows. “I-”
The trunk pops open automatically before he can finish declining. Perth gestures toward the back of the car.
“At least take an umbrella.”
Santa hesitates only a second before jogging around to the trunk. Inside sits a pristine black umbrella, folded neatly. Of course it’s pristine. Of course it’s black. He grabs it and circles back.
“Thank you, Khun Perth.”
“Try not to be late tomorrow,” he replies, tone obviously teasing.
Santa huffs. “I was on time today.”
“Good to hear.”
Then the window rolls up, and the Benz glides away into traffic. Santa stands under the rain with the CEO’s umbrella in his hand for a good minute before the buzz in his pocket reminds him that Dunk is waiting and he starts heading to the bar. It's thankfully within walking distance, and about twenty minutes later, Santa shows up, mostly drenched, to Velour Room.
It’s exactly as dramatic as its name suggests. Low amber lighting. Velvet seating in deep jewel tones. A backlit bar lined with crystal bottles. Frosted windows streaked with rain overlooking the glittering city. It smells like smoke and expensive drinks.
Dunk is already seated at a high table, one long leg crossed casually over the other. He’s still in office attire, cream trousers and dark fitted shirt tucked neatly, the sleeves rolled up. The top two buttons undone. Hair styled up and away from his forehead. There’s a drink in his hand, something amber with a large ice cube.
“You finally made it,” Dunk says, grinning.
“By the grace of corporate charity,” Santa replies, setting Perth’s umbrella carefully by the table.
They order more drinks and small plates of truffle fries, sliders, something suspiciously artistic on toast.
“So,” Dunk says, sipping his drink. “How’s Innovis? Too early to tell?”
“My team seems nice,” Santa answers. “Manager’s cool too.”
“Anything noteworthy?”
Santa's smile falls, eyes drifting to the umbrella for a moment. “I may have embarrassed myself in front of my boss’s boss’s boss.”
Dunk’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah? Who's your boss’s boss’s boss?”
“The CEO. I kind of broke his cufflink.”
Dunk chokes on his drink. “For real?”
Santa nods and Dunk laughs loudly enough that someone glances over.
“That’s incredible,” he says. “Did you at least know who he was when you did it?”
“No clue,” Santa mutters. “Found out later he’s the owner's son.”
Dunk whistles softly. “Damn. You really speed-ran humiliation.”
“Thank you for your support.”
They drink more. Eat more. Conversation flows easily and Santa's shoulders relax despite the crowd. He relaxes into the hum of music and the taste of good whiskey.
By the time they catch a grab taxi later, he's slightly buzzed and the rain has softened to a steady drizzle.
Dunk nudges his shoulder. “Any more mystery gifts from P?”
After his first day at Innovis, Santa had come home to another red bag hanging off his door handle. Skin care this time; cleanser, moisturizer, toner, exfoliator and sunscreen, from a good brand Santa actually uses.
ONE NECESSITY MADE THE LIST.
-P
He’d sighed and stored it with the rest.
And obviously, there’s another bag waiting when they reach their floor.
Santa’s stomach flips. He pretends it doesn’t.
“Ah, Tuesday's gift,” Dunk remarks with outspread arms, voice wobbling from the alcohol in his system. “Khun Sara's boyfriend is consistent.”
Santa hums, noncommittal, and plucks the bag off the handle. It’s a bit lighter than yesterday's.
“Maybe you should check the CCTV cameras to see who leaves them?” Dunk suggests.
“Yeah, maybe.”
They stand in the hallway together as Santa peeks inside. He then slowly pulls out a sleek black box.
Makeup.
High-end brand. Embossed red lettering. Multiple palettes, lip products, highlighters nestled in velvet slots.
Dunk lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
As always there’s a note attached.
Same messy, slanted handwriting in block letters.
EVEN THOUGH YOU’RE PRETTIER WITHOUT IT.
-P
Santa stares at the note longer than necessary. And he doesn’t really understand the small sinking feeling in his chest. How could he possibly feel disappointed because the gift isn't for him? Of course, it's not. He shouldn’t feel anything.
This is for Sara.
Rich boyfriend. Model girlfriend. Wrong address.
He knows that. And yet…
Dunk taps him lightly. “You’re scowling at the makeup, Nong.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Santa quickly schools his expression.
“I was just thinking,” he says defensively, “that Khun P puts in a lot of effort for a rich guy.”
Dunk snorts and taps the makeup box. “Unless it’s all someone else's taste. Assistant picked the gifts. Assistant wrote the notes.”
Santa hadn’t considered that.
His shoulders droop slightly. “True.”
But for some unreasonable reason, he’s sure the words and messy writing belongs to Khun P. The thought behind the gifts too.
And it's all beginning to grow on him.
────────── 💌 ──────────
Wednesday night is when Santa decides he really, really needs to find Sara.
He comes home from work with the sort of tired resignation that only junior developers on their third day of employment can possess, already bracing himself for the now-familiar sight waiting at his door. Sure enough, hanging neatly from the door handle, like a taunt wrapped in ribbon, is another red bag.
He doesn’t even sigh this time.
He simply unlocks the door, steps inside his softly lit apartment, and carries the bag in with him as though this is part of his evening routine now. Keys hung, shoes off, and then makes his way to the kitchen area.
On the far end of the kitchen counter rests the steadily growing collection of “Sara’s Things”: The chocolates, the crystal bear, the skincare set, the makeup box. They are arranged too carefully for something he knows does not belong to him. He sets the new bag down beside them and exhales slowly.
Inside is a Cartier watch.
A genuine Cartier watch. Sleek and minimal, silver band gleaming under his kitchen lights with the sort of quiet elegance that whispers wealth instead of shouting it. Understated in a way that makes it even more expensive.
Santa gapes at it for a long moment before carefully lifting it out the note instead of the gift.
SO YOU TRY TO MEET ME ON TIME NEXT TIME.
-P
“Okay…” he says faintly.
This has moved beyond wrong-address territory now. This is no longer misplaced Valentine’s cheer. This is something that could not, under any reasonable circumstance, be left stacked in the corner of his kitchen like decorative clutter.
He looks at the watch again.
“Khun P,” he whispers solemnly to the empty room, “you are out of control.”
He stands up immediately after that, watch carefully returned to its box, and decides that enough is enough.
Sara must be found.
So he wakes up early on Thursday and hunts down the apartment manager before work.
Her office smells faintly of lemongrass and paper, the air cool and organized in stark contrast to the mess in Santa’s head. He explains, as neutrally and vaguely as possible, that the previous tenant left behind some valuable personal items, careful not to emphasize just how valuable those items actually are.
The manager listens with professional attentiveness and pulls up the lease records. Yes, the former tenant, Sara, vacated abruptly in mid-January. Yes, she left no forwarding address. A phone number is listed but the call does not go through.
The automated message stating that the number no longer exists feels heavier than it should. Santa thanks her anyway and leaves with a polite smile that drops the moment he steps into the hallway.
He goes to work mildly dejected, and is immediately told by his manager that the long-awaited introductory meeting with the CEO is happening right now. He and five other fresh recruits are escorted to the twenty-third floor, where the biggest conference room he's ever seen waits them.
The space is immaculate, floor-to-ceiling windows curving along one side to reveal Bangkok’s skyline glittering in morning light. A long, glossy black table stretches down the center, surrounded by leather chairs arranged with geometric precision. A massive digital display panel dominates the far wall, glowing softly with the Innovis Tech logo.
It’s intimidating without trying.
So is Perth Tanapon.
He's already seated at the head of the table when they arrive.
Today he’s in charcoal gray, a perfectly tailored suit paired with a crisp white shirt and dark tie. The fit is flawless, sharp lines showing off broad shoulders and a posture that is relaxed yet unmistakably authoritative. Standing beside him is a poised woman in her late forties, dressed in a structured navy ensemble, tablet in hand, clearly his assistant.
Santa himself is dressed carefully today: a pale blue button-up, properly pressed this time, sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist; black trousers; polished shoes. He’s removed most of his jewelry, keeping only small silver hoops and a thin ring. His hair is styled simply, neat without being overly deliberate.
He still feels twelve as everyone takes their seats.
Perth greets them with a composed smile and talks about innovation, about responsibility, about building upon the foundation his father laid. There is charisma in the way he speaks that's not loud or exaggerated, but steady and confident in a way that makes people listen.
When his gaze lands on Santa, it passes over him with professional neutrality. But Santa notices something else. On Perth’s wrist.
The cufflink.
The same one he glued back on.
Of all the cufflinks Perth likely owns, he’s wearing that one again.
The meeting concludes after small introductions from the recruits, a polite applause and encouragement to work hard. They’re asked to leave first, and everyone files out murmuring quietly among themselves. Santa lingers outside the doors. When Perth enters the hallway five minutes later and notices Santa, he murmurs something to his assistant, who nods and leaves ahead of him.
Perth looks at Santa expectantly after he returns his wai with a nod.
“Yes, Nong Santa?”
Santa clears his throat. “Your umbrella.”
Perth blinks once, then nods faintly. “My umbrella.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should leave it at the desk outside your office?” Santa explains, feeling absurdly formal.
“Return it to me directly,” Perth says instead. “Six p.m. tonight. In front of the building.”
Santa hesitates. “I’m not sure if I’ll have to work overtime.”
“I doubt you will,” Perth replies calmly. “If you do, tomorrow is fine too.”
Santa just nods dumbly and finds himself standing outside Innovis Tech at 6:58 p.m., holding the black umbrella like it is a diplomatic offering.
At exactly seven, the sleek Mercedes-Benz pulls up. The trunk opens automatically. Santa places the umbrella inside and circles back just as Perth rolls down the window.
“I can’t offer you a ride today for you to turn down,” he says, sounding faintly rushed, “I have an unexpected dinner I’m already late for.”
“That’s totally fine,” Santa replies quickly.
“I’ll be even later,” Perth adds, holding up a tablet with mild annoyance, “because I haven’t finished reviewing the pitch I’m presenting.”
Something in his expression has the next words leaving Santa’s mouth before filtering.
“I can drive you.”
There is the smallest pause.
“Alright,” Perth says.
They switch seats efficiently.
Santa settles into the driver’s seat, hyper-aware of the black leather interior, the ambient lighting, the polished digital dashboard. The car smells like clean leather and Perth’s subtle woody cologne.
He adjusts the mirrors with steady hands that absolutely do not reflect the chaos happening inside him. Perth sits in the passenger seat, tablet open, already skimming through slides with focused attention.
“Just follow the navigation,” he murmurs without looking up.
“Okay,” Santa replies, the car shifting forward as he pulls up onto the main road. The car purrs under him in a way he appreciates. He loves driving but doesn't get to do it often enough.
Minutes pass in silence and Santa sneaks a peak and notices the tab screen has gone dark, Perth's head now leaning back on his seat, his eyes closed.
“You don’t have a driver?” Santa asks tentatively, not sure if he is interrupting some sort of mantra.
“I do,” Perth replies without opening his eyes. “I just don't trust him enough to drive my car.”
Santa nearly misses a turn. “But… I'm driving your car?”
Perth glances at him briefly. “I trust people who are resourceful. And good at solving problems quickly.”
Santa frowns slightly in confusion. Perth lifts his wrist, letting the cufflink catch the light. Santa’s ears burn as understanding dawns.
“You didn’t have to wear it again,” he mutters as they stop at a red light. “It’s technically broken.”
“It’s good as new,” Perth insists before smiling gently. “One of my favorites now.”
They arrive at an upscale Japanese restaurant, warm wood and soft lantern light creating an atmosphere of quiet exclusivity. Valets stand near the entrance; guests dressed impeccably move in and out with ease. Santa shifts the car into park. He glances sideways just as Perth finishes jotting quick notes in block letters on his tablet.
Slanted. Slightly messy. Extremely familiar.
Santa's heart stutters.
The tablet cover snaps shut before he can look long enough to be certain.
Perth leans slightly closer then, and with a practiced, almost casual motion, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind Santa’s ear. His fingers brush against the nape of Santa’s neck for a moment and he tilts his head, watching Santa with an expression that’s equal parts fondness and something else, the corner of his mouth curling faintly.
Santa can't even react.
“Thank you,” Perth says smoothly. “I’ve already called a taxi for you.”
A car pulls up behind them as if summoned on cue. Perth steps out of the car and quickly he disappears inside the waiting restaurant.
Santa doesn't really remember much of the trip back home after, his thoughts all scrambled. And of course another red bag is waiting for him at his door, a larger one tonight. His pulse jumps despite himself.
He unlocks the door quickly, carries it inside, and sets it beside the others. He opens the bag and then the box inside.
Stiletto heels.
Black. Sharp. Elegant. Very high. The note flutters down beside them.
EVEN THOUGH THESE MAKE YOU TALLER THAN ME.
-P
The handwriting is unmistakable. The slant. The messy confidence. Exactly like the notes. Exactly like what he saw on Perth’s tablet. He grips the edge of the counter, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
P stands for Perth.
“This is insane,” he whispers to the empty room.
────────── 💌 ──────────
On late Friday night, Santa is the only one left on his floor.
It isn’t that anyone forced him to stay. In fact, his manager had leaned back in his chair that afternoon, chewing thoughtfully on a pen cap, and told him with complete sincerity that he could hand the task in anytime next week. There was no rush. It was just a foundational assessment: clean code, documentation, system familiarity. A warm-up.
But it was also Santa's first proper task. He’d wanted to do it properly, diligently. He wanted to prove he wasn’t a diversity hire, or a rushed onboarding, or the kid from a small town who somehow slipped into Innovis Tech by accident.
And now the task sits, open across both of his monitors, with only a few touches remaining.
By the time he checks his phone again, it’s 9:37 p.m.
The office floor, which had been alive with low chatter just hours ago, is now hollow and dim. Only every third row of ceiling lights remains on, casting long, geometric shadows across empty desks. The city beyond the glass walls glitters in the dark, reflections merging with the interior so that it feels like he’s suspended somewhere between Bangkok and the sky.
It’s eerily intimate in a way he didn’t expect corporate spaces to be.
Santa leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes before refocusing on the screen. His pale blue shirt is no longer crisp; he’s undone the top two buttons, sleeves rolled and bunched unevenly at his forearms. His hair, which he’d carefully styled that morning, is now pushed back from his face and secured atop his head with a hairtie.
His desk has lost the neat symmetry he’d maintained all week. A half-finished iced coffee sweats beside his keyboard. Sticky notes with shorthand reminders cling to the edge of his monitor. His notebook lies open, scrawled with diagrams and arrows that made perfect sense three hours ago and now resemble encrypted messages.
He finishes the last function, runs one final test, and exhales in quiet triumph.
That’s when his phone lights up.
Lengsooooo
“I just saw your texts,” Leng blurts immediately when he answers. “What do you mean P and your CEO are the same guy?”
Santa closes his eyes, leaning back on his chair's headrest. “I don’t mean anything. It’s just a hunch.”
“A hunch,” Leng repeats incredulously. “You never say anything off hunches. You’re sure.”
“There’s no way coincidences like that exist,” Santa argues, though the conviction sounds weaker than he’d like.
Leng hums. “You’re right. Because it’s not a coincidence. It’s destiny.”
Santa scoffs.
“Convenient destiny,” his friend insists. "Your two crushes merging into the same guy.”
Santa straightens immediately. “I do not have two crushes.”
Leng laughs. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Santa swivels his chair slowly, staring at the darkened rows of desks. “Even if, hypothetically, Khun P was Khun Perth… he’s dating someone named Sara.”
“That’s the thing,” Leng counters. “If they’re really dating, wouldn’t they have noticed the gifts going missing by now? It’s Valentine’s week. You’d think that conversation would’ve happened.”
Santa doesn’t get to respond because his phone buzzes again.
“It’s Mae,” he says quickly to Leng. “Talk to you later.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
Santa cuts the call and answers his mom's call, the brightness in his voice immediate, almost involuntary.
“Mae!”
“Ta.”
Her voice pours warmth straight through the cold office. She asks about his week, about whether he’s eating properly, whether the apartment is safe. Santa leans back, smiling softly, spinning once in his chair as he listens. She grows quiet for a moment before admitting she misses him. It’s the first Valentine’s Day they won’t spend together. She’d already bought his favorite dessert out of habit.
The words hit harder than he expects.
Santa blinks rapidly. “You’ll always be my Valentine,” he tells her gently.
She clicks her tongue. “Don’t say that. Go find a proper one and bring him to meet me next year.”
He laughs, wiping quickly at his eyes. “I’ll try.”
He checks the time again. 21:47.
“I have to go now,” he adds lightly. “Or I’ll miss the last bus.”
“You’re still at work?” her voice slips into high-pitched worry. “It was so quiet I was sure you were home! Why’re they working you so hard, Ta?”
“They’re not,” he assures her immediately. “My bosses are great.”
He ends the call with a soft goodbye, spinning once more in his chair, and nearly falls out of it.
Perth Tanapon is standing a few feet away. Hip leaned against a nearby desk. Arms crossed. Expression thoroughly amused.
He isn’t wearing his suit jacket tonight. Just a fitted grey shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, veins faintly prominent under the cool office lighting. The fabric stretches cleanly across his broad chest when he shifts his weight. His tie is gone. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone.
He looks less like a CEO and more like the cover of a fashion magazine.
“Ta?” Perth inquires, eyes lingering on his head. “A nickname for your nickname?”
Santa realizes with a grimace that he'd referred to himself as that when talking to his mother. And that he has a topknot.
“What are you doing here?” he asks instead, pulling the hair tie loose.
Perth frowns and lifts one shoulder. “I kind of own the place.”
Santa swallows. “I meant here specifically. Why are you here this late?”
Perth’s gaze flickers briefly toward Santa’s phone. “Are your bosses really so great,” he asks mildly instead of answering him, “if you’re working until ten p.m. your first week?”
Santa flushes. “I wanted to finish up something. Lost track of time.”
There’s the faintest narrowing of Perth’s eyes, as if he’s storing the information for later. He then pulls a chair over and sits opposite Santa, close enough that their knees nearly touch.
“Thank you,” he murmurs casually in that deep, calm voice of his. “For driving me the other night. The pitch went smoothly.”
“I’m glad,” Santa replies.
“How are you finding the company?” Perth asks. “The city?”
Santa huffs softly. “Is it that obvious I'm not originally from Bangkok?”
“You mentioned you were from Cha-am in the introductory meeting,” Perth’s points out, mouth curving even as Santa flushes harder. “And not being from here isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Your vibe is… fresh. Different. Better than most corporate types.”
He leans forward suddenly, brushing at something on Santa’s sleeve, lint, maybe. The gesture is so casual, so natural, that Santa nearly leans into it before catching himself.
“Nong Ta, do you have plans tomorrow?” Perth asks softly.
Santa’s about to say he spends his weekends gaming when he remembers what tomorrow’s date is. Perth's asking about Valentine's plans.
Santa’s throat tightens. “No. I’m not… seeing anyone. I’ll probably just stay in.”
Perth looks pleased by that. The expression does something complicated to Santa’s heart.
“And you?” Santa blurts, needing balance. “Do you have plans?”
“I have a dinner reservation,” Perth says evenly. “But I'm not sure if I’ll go.”
Santa's heart sinks at the first half of the sentence, and he's moving before he hears the second half. He reaches for his notepad, turning over a leaf onto a blank page.
“Can you write something down for me?”
Perth raises a brow. “An autograph? You a fan?”
“I’m checking something.”
“Okay?”
“Write… anything,” Santa tells him. “A sentence. In all caps.”
He hands over the pen and holds his breath. Perth laughs softly but obliges, scribbling on the page as instructed.
He’s memorized every note Khun P left. The slant of the letters. The way the Gs have no downstroke. The curved tails on the Ns.
Nong Ta can’t admit he’s a fan.
Santa stares at the page. Same slant, same messy confidence, same imperfect spacing.
It really is him.
Perth opens his mouth as if to say something, and then there's buzzing. He sighs and pulls his phone out. The name flashes clearly enough for Santa to see.
Sara
The air drains from the room.
Santa stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “I need to catch the last bus.”
“Santa-?” Perth starts.
But Santa is already moving, grabbing his bag, not looking back even when his name is called again. He half-runs to the stop, getting on without even checking if it’s the right bus. The ride home feels longer than usual.
When he steps into his apartment hallway, chest tight with something he refuses to label, he notices immediately that there’s no red bag on his door handle. Instead, a bouquet of roses rests neatly on his welcome mat.
Deep red. Black wrapping paper. Elegant. Understated. Expensive without trying too hard.
Very Perth Tanapon.
Santa crouches slowly in front of them, just looking at the flowers, afraid to touch. Then he reaches for the note, fingers hesitating before unfolding it.
THE BAMBOO NOOK, 7PM TOMORROW EVENING.
SEE YOU THEN.
-P
────────── 💌 ──────────
On Saturday evening, Santa’s sure he’s insane.
Clinically. Medically. Completely unwell.
There is absolutely no universe in which it is reasonable to show up at The Bamboo Nook fifteen minutes before seven on Valentine’s Day just to spy on your CEO on his date. And yet. Here he is.
Worse, so much worse, he’s brought the gifts with him. All of them.
Why? He couldn't tell you.
They sit in the backseat of the rented silver Toyota Corolla like evidence in a criminal investigation. The chocolates, crystal bear, the skincare set, the makeup, the watch, the heels. The gorgeous roses. Every carefully wrapped red bag and precious note. He’d originally rented the car so he could make a quick escape at any moment, but now it just stores his anxiety and melancholy.
This is closure, he tells himself as he parks slightly down the hill from the restaurant. This is him putting an end to his stupid little infatuation with both his CEO and Khun P. It is not pathetic. It is… decisive.
When he steps out of the car and catches his reflection faintly in the window, he realizes he may have overdressed.
He’d assumed the restaurant to be upscale and intimidating. So he’s wearing tailored black trousers that taper cleanly at the ankle, a fitted silk shirt in deep forest green tucked neatly in, the collar open just enough to reveal the silver chain resting against his collarbone. A slim black blazer hangs perfectly off his shoulders, structured but soft. Rings adorn nearly every finger, small hoops and studs line both ears, and a watch, his mother’s graduation gift, glints faintly at his wrist.
The Bamboo Nook, however, is cozy rather than upscale.
It isn’t obnoxious or dripping in gaudy decor. Instead, it’s minimalistic and warm; wooden architecture woven seamlessly into its hilltop surroundings, lantern lights strung delicately between trees, open-air seating that overlooks the city lights below. There are manicured garden paths and quiet water features, soft instrumental music drifting through the air.
The Valentine theme is subtle too. Clusters of roses at table corners, small candles flickering in red glass holders, waitstaff dressed in crisp red shirts and black aprons. It’s romantic. But not loud about it.
Most of the customers, though, are dressed up. Couples lean close over wine glasses. Someone laughs too brightly near the bar garden area. There’s no strict host stand demanding reservations; some people linger with drinks, enjoying the view.
Santa hovers awkwardly near the entrance because he has no idea where to go.
Sara would know, he thinks bitterly.
People glance at him. Not unkindly, but curiously. A well-dressed man standing alone on Valentine’s Day is either tragically stood up or devastatingly single by choice.
He feels like the former.
This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.
He turns, to leave maybe, and someone bumps into him. White wine splashes across the front of his shirt.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” a woman gasps.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Santa replies automatically, mortified at the sudden attention as nearby heads turn. He retreats quickly toward the restroom, heart pounding harder now for entirely different reasons.
Inside, the bathroom is mercifully empty as he checks his reflection. The wine stain isn’t too visible against the dark green silk, but it’s there. He leans over the sink but freezes when footsteps approach. Without thinking, he slips into one of the stalls, shutting the door quietly like an actual criminal.
He presses his forehead briefly to the cool partition, thinking he really is pathetic, as the faucet turns on outside.
Followed by a chuckle. Low and familiar.
Perth.
Santa’s entire body goes rigid.
Perth isn't alone either. There’s another male voice. Higher pitched, warm and teasing, speaking to him like they’ve known each other for years.
“Phi Ju,” Perth says fondly, voice clear and bright. “Congratulations. The place looks incredible tonight.”
The other man laughs. “Yet you show up here on Valentine’s without a date? That's bad for my business, Perth.”
No date.
Santa’s heart stutters.
“I didn’t know the reservation my assistant booked almost a year ago never got cancelled until I got the notification yesterday,” Perth explains. “And what’s wrong with showing up? I figured I deserved a good meal anyway. Your miso black cod is still the best in the city.”
Ju snorts. “Maybe it's all for the best. Nong Sara never even liked my place. Know how she's doing?”
Santa stops breathing.
“I talked to her last night,” Perth says. She's settling in well in Milan. Already has a shoot lined up.”
Milan. Italy.
Ju snorts. “She moved across the world and you’re still this calm? You’re stranger than I thought.”
Perth exhales softly. “I was a crappy boyfriend. Didn’t give her enough of what mattered. She deserved better. It’s been eight months since we split but it was amicable.”
Eight months.
Ju cooes, teasing. “Aw, our Nong Perth is such a sweetheart. Shame that grumpy face of yours keeps you from a new beau.”
Perth laughs under his breath, then pauses. “There may be someone.”
“Oh?” Ju drawls. “Do tell.”
“He's new. To the city. To the company,” Perth replies.
Santa’s pulse pounds so loudly he’s sure they can hear it through the stall door.
“Ooh, office romance!” Ju pipes up, mock glee in his tone.
“But I’m not completely sure yet if he’s into guys,” Perth admits.
“You can convert him. You've got that aura about you,” his friend assures. "Now tell me more.”
“He’s smart,” Perth says with a soft sigh, voice gentler now. “Pretty. Cute. All these badass piercings and… ridiculous doe eyes.” He chuckles, a little awkward, even through the door. “Yeah. I kind of have a crush.”
Santa’s fingers curl against his palm.
“Almost got ahead of myself and asked him out for Valentine’s,” Perth adds lightly. “Right before Sara called and derailed the moment.”
“Ooh, the ex!” Ju laughs. “Don't fret nong, you'll get him.”
“I'm cautiously optimistic.”
Santa presses a hand to his mouth as the voices fade when they exit. He waits several seconds before slipping out of the stall, staring at himself in the mirror. Cheeks flushed pink, breathing uneven, eyes wide and watery. He decides he needs to leave.
Immediately.
He keeps his head down as he exits the restaurant grounds, weaving through lantern-lit pathways until he reaches the main gate. He hurries down the hill toward the parking lot, spots his rental and digs into his pocket for the keys.
“Santa?”
He freezes.
Perth stands a few steps away, lit cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air.
He’s dressed entirely differently than usual: black leather jacket, dark jeans, boots. Sunglasses perched on his head, hair casually tousled. It's casual. Effortlessly attractive. The city lights catch on the sharp line of his jaw.
And he looks… completely stunned.
Santa blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
Perth glances at the cigarette like he forgot it was there, immediately stubbing it out against the pavement and tossing it into a nearby bin.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, gaze traveling slowly over Santa’s outfit with a confused frown. “I thought you said you weren’t seeing anyone?”
“It’s not like that,” Santa says quickly. “I just- I have to go.”
He unlocks the car and turns, gets into the driver’s seat, heart pounding. The passenger door opens immediately.
Perth slides in.
“Why are you crying?” he asks quietly.
Santa blinks.
He hadn’t realized he was.
He opens his mouth but Perth’s eyes shift to the backseat.
To the red bags. The gifts.
Recognition flickers across Perth’s features like a slow-motion car crash Santa can’t look away from.
“Wha-?” Perth breathes.
He leans back slightly, eyes returning to Santa, confusion etched into every inch of his face.
“Unit 18B, The Crest 49, Soi Klang, Khlong Tan Nuea,” Santa recites. “That's my address. That's where these got delivered to.”
Perth stares at him for a long hard minute. Then exhales loudly.
“I ordered them last year,” he explains. “Planned everything in advance. The notes. The delivery dates. Wanted to do better for Sara.” He runs a hand over his face. “We broke up shortly after. And I forgot to cancel the deliveries. Just like the reservation for tonight.”
He looks back at Santa. “How long have you known?”
“I was sure last night. After I matched your writing,” Santa admits quietly, “and saw Khun Sara’s name on your phone.”
Perth nods slowly and they sit together in silence that feels loaded and charged.
“That still doesn’t explain,” Perth says gently, gaze locking on his, “why you’re here.”
“I came to spy,” Santa blurts. “Just to make sure.”
Perth’s brows rise before his mouth curves knowingly.
“Make sure of what?”
This time when he leans in, it's with intent.
Santa’s breath catches and his eyes flutter shut, chin lifting in quiet consent.
A stuttering heartbeat later, Perth kisses him.
A light press of lips. Soft and warm. Not rushed or demanding.
His hand cups the nape of Santa’s neck, thumb brushing lightly across his flushed cheek. The faint smell of smoke and woodsy cologne, so uniquely him, engulfs Santa as the warmth of his body radiates through the narrow space between them.
Santa’s fingers twitch uselessly against the steering wheel before drifting up to clutch lightly at the leather of Perth’s jacket.
It’s careful. Tender. A whispered confession more than a bold statement. When Perth pulls back, there’s a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Maybe it’s destiny.”
Santa snorts shakily. “It’s luck. Your ex moved to Italy just when I needed a place to stay.”
Perth’s starts to nod before abruptly pausing. “Wait. How do you know Sara moved to Italy?”
Santa goes beat red, eyes going wide at his slip.
Perth goes very still.
“You were in the bathroom just now.”
It's not a question, but a statement. One Santa can't think fast enough to deny, his mind still blissfully fuzzy from the kiss.
Mortification blooms across Perth’s face. The tips of his ears turn red. Santa laughs awkwardly, equally embarrassed, as they both pull back and glance away.
“So you heard?” Perth mumbles, eyes looking straight ahead.
“Yeah.”
“Everything I said to Phi Ju?”
Santa swallows. “Yes.”
This time the silence is lighter though.
Santa watches from the corner of his eye as Perth slips a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls something out. It dangles from his fingers, a small silver trinket tied to a red string looped neatly at the top. He holds it out silently, offering it for Santa to see.
It’s a charm. A cat charm.
Santa’s cat charm.
“How…?”
“I picked it up in the elevator,” Perth says, almost sheepish. “When you grabbed my cufflink.”
Santa blinks at him, still trying to piece it together. Perth lets out a small, embarrassed chuckle.
“The clasp was broken and I didn’t have glue on me,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck briefly. “So I kept it. To get it fixed before returning it.”
Santa looks down at Perth’s open palm where the charm rests now. The clasp is secure.
“And the thread?”
“From a temple I go to sometimes,” Perth tells him. “So I wouldn’t lose it in the meantime.”
It’s so unexpectedly thoughtful. So oddly careful. Cute in a way that feels almost clumsy, like he hadn’t meant to make a big deal of it, but did anyway. The warmth in Santa’s chest overrides the lingering fluster in his stomach. He smiles without meaning to and lifts his wrist toward Perth.
Perth blinks at the gesture, confused for half a second, then shifts. His fingers move carefully, looping the red string around Santa’s wrist like a loose bracelet. He adjusts it gently, making sure it sits comfortably against his skin.
But instead of pulling back, Perth’s hand lingers. He shifts their hands together, fingers curling around Santa’s almost absentmindedly. His hand is much bigger, rougher too, calloused in a way that feels solid and real. Steady.
And he doesn’t pull away.
“Do you want to go back inside?” Perth asks quietly, thumb brushing over the back of Santa's hand. “There’s still an empty table waiting… unless it's weird?”
He says it casually, but there’s a flicker of something there, like he’s bracing for impact.
Santa glances at the backseat once more. The abandoned gifts, the past neatly wrapped in red. Then he looks down at their hands. The thread at his wrist. The future, also wrapped in red.
Then he looks at Perth. Handsome an
d expectant. Maybe a little nervous too.
“Yeah, okay,” Santa says.
Perth’s grin spreads wide and bright, relief obvious.
Santa beams back before he can stop himself.
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