Godji set the towels on the desk, right next to the paint tubes—navy and ochre and titanium white smeared across their caps—and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, tilting Phuwin toward her by a degree. She didn't speak. Just followed his gaze to the easel, to the half-finished portrait of Pond propped there like a confession he'd forgotten to hide.
Phuwin pulled the sheet higher over his chest. The cooling wetness clung to his thighs, tacky and intimate, and he couldn't tell if the heat in his face was shame or the aftermath of what he'd done. He waited.
"You painted that from memory?" she asked finally.
The question landed heavier than any tease. He blinked at her, at the way her eyes stayed on the canvas—on the curve of Pond's shoulder, the suggestion of a jawline, the dark smudge of hair falling across a forehead Phuwin had traced with his fingertips more times than he could count.
"Yeah." His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "From a photo, mostly. But the—" He stopped. Swallowed. "The way he stands. The way he tilts his head when he's about to say something stupid. That's from memory."
Godji hummed. A low, knowing sound that made him want to pull the sheet over his head.
"It's good," she said. "You got his hands right."
Phuwin looked at the canvas. At the half-finished hand resting on the edge of the frame, fingers loose, knuckles broad. He'd painted that hand from a dozen different memories: Pond reaching across a cafeteria table, Pond gripping the strap of his gym bag, Pond's palm flat against the brick wall of the alley while his other hand slid up Phuwin's thigh.
"His hands are—" Phuwin stopped. "They're big."
"They are." Godji's voice was dry. "I've seen them."
"Auntie."
"What? I have eyes." She reached out and smoothed the sheet where it had bunched near his shoulder. "You picked a good subject. The composition works. The light on his collarbone—that's real."
Phuwin stared at her. She wasn't teasing. Her hand rested on the sheet, warm through the fabric, and she was looking at the painting like it mattered.
"I have to finish it in two days," he said. "For the festival. Professor Sminkinaelyl gave me an extension, but—" He wet his lips. "I don't know if I can."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know how it ends."
The words came out before he meant them. He felt them settle in the air between them, heavy and strange. Godji didn't answer right away. She shifted on the bed, folding one leg under herself, and the movement pulled her apron tight across her hip. Something in the pocket crinkled.
The toy.
Phuwin's face went hot again. He looked at the ceiling.
"So." Godji's voice was carefully neutral. "Are we going to talk about what I walked into, or are you going to pretend I didn't find you with a silicone appendage in your ass?"
"Auntie."
"I'm asking a legitimate question."
"Can we not?"
"We can not." She shrugged. "But the toy is in my apron, and we both know it needs to be washed, and eventually you're going to have to look me in the eye again."
Phuwin pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. The pressure bloomed red behind his lids. "I bought it to—prepare. For Pond. Because he's—" He gestured vaguely at the painting. "Large."
"I gathered."
"And I didn't want it to hurt. The first time, in the pool, it was—it happened fast. And it was good, but I could feel how much bigger he was than—" He dropped his hands. "Than me. Inside me. And I wanted to be ready. If we did it again."
Godji was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "That's very practical of you."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"What else should I say?"
"I don't know. 'Phuwin, you're a slut'? 'Phuwin, I'm disappointed'?"
"Are those the things you're expecting?"
He didn't answer. The ceiling fan clicked. The sheet was starting to dry against his skin, stiff and uncomfortable, but he didn't move to change it.
Godji sighed. She reached over and took his hand—the one he'd pressed against his own eyes—and held it in both of hers. Her palms were warm. Flour-dusted. She'd been baking before she came up here, probably, rolling dough for the morning pastries.
"Phuwin." Her voice was softer now. "You're twenty-three years old. You're allowed to want things. You're allowed to prepare for them. You're allowed to buy a silicone toy and use it in your own bed in your own room." She squeezed his fingers. "The only thing I'm disappointed about is that you didn't tell me you were nervous about his size. I could have given you advice."
Phuwin let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "What kind of advice?"
"Lube. Patience. Positioning." She said it like a grocery list. "You think I haven't been with a man who was—" She made a vague gesture. "Generously endowed?"
"Auntie."
"I'm just saying. You're not the first person to face this challenge."
Phuwin groaned and covered his face again. But he was smiling. He could feel it, the corner of his mouth tugging up despite everything.
"Your sheets are wet," Godji said, businesslike now. "You need to change them. And shower. And then we need to talk about what else is sitting in this room right now."
Phuwin's smile faded. He knew what she meant.
His phone. Face-down on the nightstand. Pond's message still unanswered.
"I know," he said quietly.
"Have you read it?" Godji asked.
"Yes."
"Have you answered it?"
"No."
She didn't push. She just held his hand and waited, the way she'd always waited, ever since he was a kid with scraped knees and a wobbling lip. She'd sit beside him on the curb outside the bakery and let the silence do its work. She knew he'd speak when he was ready.
"He wants me to be his," Phuwin said finally. "Officially. No more dancing around it."
"And what do you want?"
He looked at the painting. At Pond's half-finished face, the dark brows, the curve of his mouth. He'd painted that mouth from memory—the way it curved when Pond was about to say something cocky, the way it softened when he was being sincere, the way it felt pressed against his own, warm and insistent and tasting like the coffee he'd been drinking.
"I want him," Phuwin said. "I think. I know." He stopped. "But I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That it's too fast. That I'm going to mess it up. That he's going to realize I'm not—" He gestured at himself. "Worth the trouble."
Godji's grip tightened on his hand. "Phuwin."
"I know. I know it's stupid. But I keep thinking about Dice. About how I let him kiss me even after I knew how I felt about Pond. About how I didn't tell Pond no fast enough. About how I—" His voice cracked. "About how I hurt him. And he still came back. He still waited outside the bakery. He still said I love you."
"He did."
"And I haven't said it back."
The words hung in the air. Phuwin felt them land, felt their weight settle on his chest.
Godji didn't say "you should." She didn't say "he deserves to hear it." She just sat with him, her thumb tracing slow circles on the back of his hand, and let him feel the truth of his own sentence.
"I do love him," Phuwin whispered. "I think I've loved him for a while. But saying it feels like—like jumping off a cliff. Like once it's out there, I can't take it back, and what if he—"
"What if he what?"
"What if he uses it against me?"
Godji's hand stilled. She looked at him with something sharp and tender in her eyes. "Has Pond ever given you a reason to believe he would?"
Phuwin thought about it. Thought about the way Pond had looked at him in the alley, desperate and raw and completely undone. Thought about the way Pond had said I'll wait, over and over, like a prayer. Thought about the way Pond had walked out after seeing him kiss Tai's cheek—not to punish him, but to figure out if he was making the right choice. To be sure. To be worthy.
"No," Phuwin said. "He hasn't."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
He didn't have an answer.
Godji let go of his hand and stood. She crossed to the desk, picked up the towels, and held them out to him. "Shower. Clean sheets. Then you answer that message."
Phuwin took the towels. They were warm from the dryer, soft against his raw palm. He pressed them to his face and breathed in the scent of fabric softener and heat.
"Auntie?"
"Hm?"
"Thank you."
She was at the door, one hand on the frame. She looked back at him, at his flushed face and tangled hair and the sheet bunched around his waist, and her expression softened into something that made his chest ache.
"You're going to be okay, Phuwin," she said. "You're going to be more than okay. You're going to be happy."
She left. The door clicked shut behind her, and Phuwin was alone in the warm yellow light of his desk lamp, holding a stack of clean towels, listening to the ceiling fan click its slow rhythm overhead.
He sat there for a long moment. Then he swung his legs off the bed, felt the cool air hit his sticky skin, and headed for the shower.
The water was hot. Almost too hot. He stood under the spray and let it run over his face, his shoulders, the curve of his spine. The steam filled his lungs, and he pressed his palms against the tiles and breathed.
He thought about the painting. The festival. The deadline.
He thought about Pond's hands. The way they'd felt on his waist, his thighs, the back of his neck.
He thought about the message on his phone. The one he still hadn't answered.
What if I made you mine? Officially. No more dancing.
Phuwin turned off the water. He stood in the shower, dripping, the steam curling around him, and let the silence settle.
Then he stepped out, dried off, and wrapped the towel around his waist.
His room was the same as he'd left it. The lamp still glowing. The sheets still rumpled and damp. The canvas still propped on its easel, waiting for him to finish what he'd started.
He crossed to the nightstand. Picked up his phone.
The notification was still there. Pond's name. The words he'd read a dozen times already.
Phuwin unlocked the screen. Opened the message. Read it one more time.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Outside, the bakery was quiet. The streetlights were coming on, casting long shadows across the pavement. Somewhere across town, Pond was probably eating dinner or studying or hanging out with Taehyung, pretending he wasn't waiting for a reply.
Phuwin took a breath.
His fingers moved before he could talk himself out of it.
He typed: Yes.
Then, before he could second-guess himself: I want that. I want you.
He pressed send.
The phone buzzed almost immediately. A reply.
Pond: Yeah?
Phuwin smiled. He could hear Pond's voice in those two syllables—hopeful, cautious, barely restrained.
Phuwin: Yeah.
Pond: Can I see you?
Phuwin looked at the canvas. At the half-finished painting. At the wet sheets on his bed and the towel around his waist and the mess of emotions still tangled in his chest.
Phuwin: I don't know. After class Or the Art Festival. I need to finish something first.
Pond: I'll wait.
Phuwin stared at those two words. The same ones Pond had said in the bakery, in the alley, in every moment of grace he'd ever given him.
He set the phone down. Looked at the painting.
The canvas was waiting. The light on Pond's collarbone was still wrong. The curve of his smile needed work. The hands needed another layer, another hour, another piece of Phuwin's heart pressed into the pigment.
He had two days.
He picked up a brush.