“…when we’re older,” Arthit said, like it had just occurred to him and might disappear if he didn’t say it out loud.

He wasn’t looking at Kongpob.

He rarely did, when it mattered.

“We’ll probably end up in different departments,” he went on, tapping his fork lightly against the plate. “You’ll pretend you’re fine with it. I won’t pretend at all. We’ll argue. Badly. Then compromise worse.”

A beat.

“I still want a house with too many windows,” he added. “Somewhere inconvenient. Near water. And you’ll absolutely ruin it by mapping humidity levels like it’s a battlefield.”

He kept going.

Not structured. Not linear. Just—

pieces of a future, placed down carelessly, like they would arrange themselves later.

Kongpob did not interrupt.

But he also did not move.

Not even the small, habitual adjustments that marked attention.

Just—

still.

Arthit noticed eventually.

“…you’re not listening again,” he said, more observation than complaint.

“I am listening,” Kongpob replied.

“That’s what you say when you’re not.”

“I am not engaged in any parallel task.”

Arthit turned his head, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“…then what did I just say.”

A pause.

Kongpob considered the phrasing.

“…future allocation preferences.”

Arthit stared at him.

“…that is the least romantic interpretation you could’ve chosen.”

“It is structurally accurate.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

Arthit sighed, leaning back.

“Unbelievable.”

“That has been stated before.”

Arthit let it go.

He always did when Kongpob went like this—present, but sealed.

He kept talking anyway.

Because silence, with Kongpob, was never empty.

Just—

deferred.

Two weeks later, Kongpob implemented a correction.

No announcement.

No discussion.

Just—

a shift.

“Fortnight scheduling remains,” he said one evening, as if resuming a conversation Arthit didn’t remember finishing. “One fixed date. One optional.”

Arthit frowned immediately.

“We already fought about this.”

“It was not resolved.”

“It was,” Arthit said. “We said—we go when we feel like it.”

“That introduces variability correlated with absence.”

“…I’m not a missed appointment.”

“It is functionally adjacent.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

Arthit dragged a hand down his face.

“You are impossible.”

“That is not a counterargument.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

A pause.

“Then it remains,” Kongpob said.

The first date passed without incident.

Which was the point.

The proposal did not.

“…and when we’re older,” Arthit said again, weeks later, halfway through dinner, “we’ll have to figure out department overlap. Because if we don’t, travel alone is going to be a mess. That kind of thing doesn’t sustain long-term.”

Kongpob stopped eating.

Completely.

Arthit noticed immediately this time.

“…what.”

Silence.

“…did I say something wrong?”

Kongpob did not answer.

Because the statement had already been processed.

Analyzed.

Resolved.

He set his utensils down.

Precisely.

“I have evaluated your earlier statement,” he said.

Arthit blinked.

“…which one.”

“The future allocation scenario.”

“…I was talking.”

“It functions as input.”

“That is not how talking works.”

“For you.”

That landed.

Arthit leaned back slightly, studying him now.

“…okay. What did you decide, then.”

Kongpob met his gaze.

“The outcome is unacceptable.”

A pause.

“…what outcome.”

“The scenario in which you are reassigned outside sustained proximity.”

Arthit blinked.

“…that’s not even real right now.”

“It is a viable branch.”

“You’re treating a random sentence like a planning document.”

“I am treating it as data.”

Arthit let out a sharp breath.

“You can’t just optimize my offhand thoughts.”

“I do not optimize,” Kongpob said.

A beat.

“I constrain divergence.”

Arthit stared at him.

“…that’s worse.”

“Yes.”

“…Kongpob.”

“Yes.”

“…what did you actually do.”

Kongpob reached into his robe and placed a document on the table.

Sealed.

Aligned.

Final.

Arthit didn’t touch it.

“…what is that.”

“Long-term alignment framework.”

“…that sounds illegal.”

“It is compliant.”

“…of course it is.”

A pause.

Then—

slower:

“…are you proposing something.”

This time, Kongpob did not deflect.

“Yes.”

Arthit exhaled.

Long.

“…this is not how people propose.”

“It reduces ambiguity.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is the relevant constraint.”

Arthit leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“So what is this,” he said. “A contract instead of a question?”

“It is not symbolic.”

“I can see that.”

“It is binding.”

“…of course it is.”

Arthit looked at him.

Really looked this time.

“…so translate,” he said. “In normal human language. What are you doing.”

A pause.

Kongpob considered.

Then—

precisely:

“It prevents separation.”

Arthit held his gaze.

“…so,” he said slowly, “you’re saying—”

He tilted his head slightly.

“You don’t want a future where we end up in different places.”

Kongpob nodded once.

“Yes.”

Arthit’s mouth twitched.

“And instead of asking me like a normal person,” he went on, “you built a system where that doesn’t happen.”

“Yes.”

Another beat.

Arthit leaned back.

“…wow.”

A pause.

Then—

softly, but with a grin forming:

“So you couldn’t wait to bind me to you.”

Kongpob froze.

Not visibly dramatic.

But—

still.

Processing.

The phrasing.

The implication.

The accuracy.

Slowly—

he nodded.

“Yes.”

Arthit stared at him.

Then—

broke.

A laugh, bright and disbelieving.

“Merlin, you’re unbelievable.”

“That remains consistent.”

“…you didn’t even ask.”

“The probability of refusal—”

“Don’t,” Arthit cut in, pointing at him. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Kongpob stopped.

Immediately.

Arthit leaned forward again, quieter now.

“…say it properly.”

A pause.

Kongpob did not move.

“…clarify.”

Arthit’s eyes softened, just slightly.

“Ask me.”

Silence stretched.

Not avoidance.

Not deflection.

Just—

something unfamiliar.

“I did not wait for optimal conditions,” Kongpob said finally.

And that—

was the closest he could get.

Arthit stilled.

The grin faded.

Not gone.

Just—

replaced.

“…you mean,” he said quietly, “you didn’t want to wait.”

Kongpob held his gaze.

“Yes.”

Arthit’s breath hitched, just once.

Then—

the grin came back.

Wider.

Warmer.

Dangerous.

“…yeah,” he said.

Kongpob didn’t move.

But the system registered it anyway.

Arthit reached out, grabbed the document, and folded it carelessly before shoving it into his pocket.

“This is still the worst proposal in recorded history,” he said.

“That is acceptable.”

Arthit leaned in, close enough now that it was no longer a conversation for anyone else.

“You’re lucky I translate you,” he murmured.

“That is efficient.”

“…and you’re worse than inefficient,” Arthit added, smiling against his mouth. “You’re obvious.”

A pause.

Kongpob frowned slightly.

“That is inaccurate.”

Arthit laughed under his breath.

“No,” he said. “It’s really not.”

Then, softer—

but certain:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

This time—

Kongpob did move.

Just enough.

Acceptance confirmed.

Constraint stabilized.

Outcome:

Non-reversible.

Preferred.