Kongpob maintained seven protocols for optimal weekend recovery.

Sunday Protocol was the strictest: 
• 07:00 – Wake. 
• 07:15 – Align notes for the coming week. 
• 08:00 – Light breakfast, no sugar. 
• 09:00 – 11:00 – Theory review (silent). 
• 11:30 – Optional walk (exactly 2.4 kilometres). 
• Afternoon – Independent tasks. 
• Evening – Early bed, no exceptions.

The protocol had been in place for six years. 
It had survived three Ministry audits, two Quidditch finals, and one very loud boyfriend.

Until today.

At 07:03 the bed dipped violently. Arthit landed half on top of him, still warm from sleep, hair sticking up like he’d lost a fight with a bludger. He smelled like parchment and the faint citrus of the soap they shared.

“Morning,” Arthit mumbled into Kongpob’s collarbone.

Kongpob kept his eyes closed. “It is 07:03. Sunday Protocol dictates—”

“Protocol’s cancelled.” Arthit’s arm slid around his waist, heavy and certain. “New rule. Stay in bed until at least nine.”

“That is not a rule. That is a deviation.”

“Deviations are good for you.” Arthit pressed a lazy kiss just below his ear. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You are not a doctor.”

“Close enough. I play Seeker. Same thing—spotting problems before they crash.”

Kongpob exhaled through his nose. The protocol was already fracturing. He could feel the edges of his mental checklist fraying, each item sliding out of alignment. He catalogued the damage anyway:

• Wake time: compromised. 
• Notes: untouched. 
• Breakfast: now containing whatever chaotic thing Arthit would demand later. 
• Everything else: irrelevant.

Arthit shifted, propping his chin on Kongpob’s chest so they were eye-to-eye. That open, unfiltered look was still labelled in Kongpob’s system as “too exposed.” He had simply changed the label to “mine.”

“You’re doing the thing again,” Arthit said.

“Which thing?”

“The thing where you list every reason this is inefficient but you’re not actually moving.”

Kongpob considered lying. Then discarded it. Efficiency had evolved.

“I am calculating the exact percentage of my remaining lifespan I am willing to waste on this deviation.”

Arthit grinned. “And?”

“Seventy-three percent. Rising.”

“Good enough.”

Arthit rolled them so he was on top, elbows bracketing Kongpob’s head. The move was inelegant, all knees and momentum, exactly the kind of motion Kongpob had once filed under “predictable chaos.” Now it simply registered as home.

Outside the window the sky was the same grey it had been the day of their first match. Somewhere far below, juniors were probably already on the pitch chasing practice Snitches. Kongpob did not care.

Arthit traced one finger along the line of his jaw. “Remember when you used to watch me from the stands like I was a puzzle you were solving?”

“I still do.”

“Yeah, but now you solve me with your mouth instead of spreadsheets. Improvement.”

Kongpob’s hand found the small of Arthit’s back automatically.  The muscle there was still tight from yesterday’s match. He pressed gently, correcting without thinking.

Arthit hummed, pleased. “See? You can’t even stop optimising me for five minutes.”

“It is not optimisation. It is maintenance.”

“Same thing.”

“It isn’t.”

Arthit laughed softly, the sound rumbling between them. Then he lowered his head and kissed Kongpob like there was no protocol, no schedule, no world outside this bed. Slow. Certain. The kind of kiss that made every prior variable irrelevant.

When they parted, Arthit stayed close, foreheads touching.

“I love you,” he said, casual as breathing. The same way he said it every morning now, like it was just another fact in the air between them.

Kongpob’s chest did the small, inefficient flutter it always did. He had never removed that reaction from the system. He no longer wanted to.

“I love you,” he answered. Flat. Precise. Utterly true.

Arthit’s grin widened. “Protocol still cancelled?”

“Protocol has been deleted. New file created: Arthit Protocol. Priority: absolute.”

Arthit kissed him again, quick and bright. “Good. First item on the new protocol: breakfast in bed. With sugar.”

Kongpob closed his eyes and let the last fragments of the old Sunday schedule dissolve.

“Accepted.”

Outside, the wind picked up. Inside, the room stayed warm, loud, and exactly the right amount of inefficient.

Patterns held.

Arthit remained: 
• direct 
• reactive 
• perfectly, irrevocably his 

Kongpob remained: 
• recalibrating 
• in love 
• no longer interested in fixing anything at all.

The system was no longer optimal.

It was theirs.