Hearts by schedule

At the Bangkok

The Wedding Day

Setting: Sathorn Pearl Palace, Bangkok – early evening. The sun dips behind gilded domes, the Chao Phraya glows a molten orange, and music swells gently across the garden courtyard.

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The palace shimmered.

Every lotus bowl flickered with candlelight. Jasmine garlands draped the arches like fallen starlight. Guests floated through the garden in a blur of silk, sparkle, and perfume. The world had tilted into something golden—just in time for Ayan and Maki’s wedding.

Everything was perfect.

Everything—except Arcon Mahra’s chest.

He stood near the reflection pool, watching Ayan adjust his cufflinks beside a mirrored fountain. Maki’s laughter drifted on the breeze. And near the banyan tree laced in fairy lights…

…Art wasn’t smiling.

He sat alone, a camera resting in his lap, suit slightly wrinkled, nerves showing through the seams. He hadn’t spoken to Arcon since the kiss three nights ago.

He hadn’t needed to.

The silence had said enough.

But Arcon’s mind replayed the moment like a scratched record—rain, the kiss, soft words, the fear that made him pull away.

I can’t do this.

And the way Art had nodded.

I had to try.

A voice cut through the memory.

“You’re frowning at a wedding,” said Maki, suddenly beside him in her ivory-gold lehenga, eyes knowing. “That’s usually my job.”

Arcon straightened. “Just making sure everything’s running smoothly.”

Maki studied him. “Arcon… do you love him?”

He froze.

“Art,” she said gently. “Do you?”

“I… I don’t know if I’m allowed to.”

“You’re not allowed to love someone?” She tilted her head. “That’s a strange rule for a man who builds weddings for a living.”

He didn’t respond.

She touched his arm, her voice quieter.

“Ayan is my calm. But Art... he's lightning. If you love him, don’t let him pass. He’s rare.”

And then, the music began.

Guests stood. The aisle opened. Ayan waited beneath the mandap—regal, still, steady.

But Arcon couldn’t move.

Not until—

“Thought I’d find you hiding behind a pillar,” came Art’s voice behind him.

Arcon turned.

He looked—ridiculous, in the most endearing way. Tie askew. Lips dry. Eyes too soft for someone pretending not to hope.

“You’re late,” Arcon said.

“I know,” Art replied. “I was waiting to see if you’d run. Or if I should.”

A pause. Then—

“I was scared,” Arcon admitted. “I didn’t want to break this wedding.”

Art stepped closer. “You didn’t break anything. You made it more real. More… true.”

“I still don’t know how to do this.”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Art said. “Like messy centerpieces. One moment at a time.”

He held out a hand.

“Walk with me?”

And this time, Arcon took it.

Not in secret.

Not in shame.

They walked side by side—through a garden lit with floating lanterns, beneath a sky raining petals, toward a future not yet written but finally, finally real.

The wedding was still perfect.

Only now, it was honest too.