Chapter III

Baby Talk

*This ficlet takes place after chapter 13 on TWT

Most days, Jinki likes to think that he’s a perfectly decent architect. His designs are dubbed 'one of a kind' or 'dashing' or sometimes even 'sophisticated' by critics and clients alike. He also takes pride in the way he can make a space that is both gorgeous and functional. Most days, he can admit that he’s pretty great.

Today is not one of those days.

“Close it,” he groans against his pillow when Gwiboon opens the blind and sunlight streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their bedroom, piercing him right in the eyes. “Gwi, please,” he whines pitifully, rolling away from the window. Too bad the other side has windows, too, along with a glass door that connects their bedroom to their indoor garden.

“It’s 10 AM,” Gwiboon singsongs, shuffling around the bedroom whilst humming some cheerful tone Jinki doesn’t recognize. He huffs in annoyance and pulling the thick duvet up above his head once again, holding it in place so Gwiboon won’t be able to pull it down.

It’s nice and warm under the duvet, with the sunlight filtered by the dark fabric, turning the harsh glare into a soft golden glow. Jinki is out like a light once more, his grip on the duvet loosening bit by bit as his whole body relaxes and drowns further onto the soft, ridiculously comfortable bed underneath him. He lets out a long, heavy breath, emptying his mind of annoyance and discomfort and just sleep—

Body movin’, body movin’, A-1 sound, sound so soothing. Body movin’, body mo—Jinki slams his hand against the bedside table where he assumes his phone would be. It isn’t there. Figures. Gwiboon usually moves it somewhere safe and charges it because Jinki would be too tired to remember. Groaning and grumbling all the while, he finally pushes himself off the bed.

Beastie Boys is still blaring in the background, the normally pleasant jam turning to a persistent, godforsaken bowwow grating on both Jinki’s ears and nerves. He kicks the duvet off and blinks at his fiancée, pouting a little as he reaches out for his phone with a mumbled, “Who izit?”

“No one,” Gwiboon answers cheerily, her face covered in black, glossy facial mask that creeps Jinki out. She lowers herself onto the bed with Jinki’s phone in hand, no longer blasting a 70’s rock band.

“But,” Jinki frowns. “My ringtone.”

“I know,” Gwiboon hands him his phone, showing the still-opened music window, with the song paused. Jinki glares at her. “Effective, isn’t it?”

“You’re an evil, evil witch,” he throws his phone to the edge of the bed, not caring when it slips down and falls with a faint thud against the carpet below. Gwiboon purses her lips, eyes twinkling with amusement at the sight of her—no doubt—sleep-ruffled, bed-haired, puffy-faced, sulking fiancé. Jinki huffs. “It’s Sunday.”

“Yup,” she gathers him into her arms and Jinki immediately sets for nuzzling his face against Gwiboon’s s. She’s warm and smells like roses and pancakes and a little bit like his cologne. Jinki hums against her skin, smiling when he feels her rumbling laughter. “C’mon, I made breakfast.”

“I can tell,” he answers, but his mouth is still peppering kisses along her chest and collarbone, so his answer comes out muffled and incoherent. Gwiboon catches it, anyway. Or maybe she doesn’t, but she’s just really good at pretending she understands the Jinki Talk. Either way, kudos for her. “Y’smell like sugar.”

“And you smell like you swallowed a dead baby rabbit and several rotten lion meat,” she informs him sweetl