The fluorescent lights hummed their usual frequency over the university cafeteria — that specific pitch that made Phuwin's temples ache if he listened too long. He didn't. He was too busy watching the girl three tables over: pink crop top, braids swinging as she laughed with her friends, one hand pressed to her chest like whatever she'd just heard was too much to handle. Pink nails. Pink phone case. Pink hair tie around her wrist.
He rolled his eyes so hard Santa laughed.
"What?" Santa asked, already grinning behind his glasses, a textbook open but clearly not being read. "Who's that?"
"Nobody important." Phuwin turned back to his boba, the ice already melting, diluting the brown sugar sweetness. He stabbed the straw harder than necessary.
Siyh slid into the seat across from him, tray landing with a clatter. Her eyes followed his previous gaze immediately — she missed nothing. "Who's that?" she asked, nodding toward the pink girl.
"I said nobody."
"That's not a name."
Santa adjusted his glasses. "Ryu. Mrs. Chan's daughter. She was at the bakery yesterday."
Phuwin's jaw tightened. He remembered. He remembered the way she'd laughed at something Pond said, the way she'd flipped her hair, the way Pond had delivered her mother's coffee like a good little delivery boy. He remembered standing in the kitchen, flour on his hands, watching through the window.
"Oh," Siyh said, drawing the word out like taffy. " That Ryu."
"It's not a thing." Phuwin took a long pull of his boba, the tapioca pearls sliding up the straw. "She's nobody."
Across the cafeteria, past the sea of heads and trays and backpacks slumped against table legs, Pond sat with his back to a pillar, one arm draped over the empty chair beside him. His white t-shirt stretched across his shoulders — the kind of fit that was probably accidental but looked deliberate, the fabric pulling at the seams when he moved. The silver chain around his neck caught the light, spelling his name in delicate script.
Taehyung leaned in, voice low enough that only their corner could hear. "So. Phuwin's ass."
Pond's hand stilled on his water bottle.
"Is it as thick as it looks," Taehyung continued, undeterred, "or is it like — optical illusion? Campus legend? I need data. Well it probablyisn’t, i’ve seen him in shorts."
"Shut up."
"That's not a denial."
Pond's jaw did something tight — a muscle flexing along his cheek. He didn't look at Taehyung. His eyes were already across the room, tracking the brown bangs, the curve of a shoulder in an oversized hoodie, the way Phuwin's hand wrapped around his boba cup like it was something precious.
"Four times," Pond said, flat. "We've fucked four times. Happy?"
Taehyung's eyebrows climbed. "Four times and you're still acting like you haven't?"
"Acting like I haven't what?"
"Like you're still trying to impress him. Bro, you already got him. You can relax."
Pond's thumb pressed into the cap of his water bottle, turning it, not opening it. "I'm not trying to impress him."
"You literally bench-pressed a table last week because he walked past."
"That table was in my way."
Taehyung opened his mouth to reply, but a cluster of bodies descended before he could — girls, five or six of them, phones already out, the flash already catching.
"Pond! Can we get a photo?"
"Oh my god, your arms, seriously—"
"Just one, please, we're your biggest fans—"
Pond's face shifted — the muscle in his jaw eased, replaced by something practiced and easy. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but fooled everyone who wasn't looking for the gap. He stood, pushed his chair in, and let them crowd him. Let them angle their phones. Let them giggle and press close while he stood there, hands in his pockets, biceps straining the sleeves of his tee.
Taehyung watched, arms crossed. He knew the look. He knew the smile. He knew the way Pond's eyes flicked, just for a second, across the cafeteria — checking if he was watching.
Phuwin was watching.
He hadn't meant to. His eyes had drifted, traitors, and now he was stuck watching a girl in a white sundress press her hip against Pond's side while her friend counted down from three. Flash. Another. Another. Pond's smile was easy, patient, the same smile he gave everyone.
"You're doing the thing," Santa said quietly.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stare at him like you want to kill him and kiss him at the same time."
Phuwin's grip tightened on his boba. "I don't—"
"It's fine," Santa continued, turning a page he definitely wasn't reading. "He's doing the thing too. The thing where he lets them take photos but keeps looking over here."
Phuwin looked down at his boba. The ice had melted completely. The liquid was lukewarm, too sweet, disappointing. He set it down.
A teacher appeared at the cafeteria entrance — one of the PE staff, clipboard in hand, scanning the room. His eyes landed on the cluster of girls, on the broad shoulders at their center, and he waved.
"Pond! Basketball practice. Get your team."
The girls groaned. Pond extracted himself with a murmured apology — polite, automatic — and pulled out his phone. Taehyung was already standing, stretching like the whole thing was a chore, but his eyes had found Jungkook across the cafeteria and stayed there.
Pond dialed. Taehyung's phone buzzed.
"Send the boys," Pond said when Taehyung answered. "Practice."
Taehyung's eyes were still on Jungkook. "Yeah. Okay." He hung up without saying goodbye, already moving toward the table where Jungkook sat with the others, already running a hand through his hair like he hadn't planned it.
Pond pocketed his phone. He didn't look back at the cluster of girls. He didn't look at the teacher. He looked, one last time, across the cafeteria — at the table where Phuwin sat with a lukewarm boba and a set jaw and bangs that fell over his eyes.
Their eyes met. Just for a second.
Pond's mouth twitched — the real smile, the one that reached — and then he turned and walked out, hands in his pockets, the silver chain catching the light one last time before he disappeared through the cafeteria doors.
*
The basketball court was already hot when Pond stepped onto it — the afternoon sun had been baking the outdoor concrete for hours, and the heat rose off it in visible waves. His friends were already there, some of them, running drills, the squeak of sneakers and the thud of the ball a rhythm he knew in his bones.
Tape was at the free-throw line, sinking shot after shot with mechanical precision. He looked up when Pond approached, grinned, and tossed the ball.
Pond caught it. The leather was warm, familiar, the scuff marks and wear patterns like old friends under his palms.
"One v one," Pond said. It wasn't a question.
Tape's grin widened. "You're going down."
The others backed off the court, grabbing water bottles, settling onto the benches. One of them clapped Tape on the shoulder. "Good luck, bro." Laughter followed.
Pond bounced the ball twice, feeling the weight, the give. The court was empty except for them, the sun high and unforgiving, and for a moment there was nothing but the concrete and the heat and the ball in his hands.
He drove.
Fast. Low. Cross-over that made Tape stumble, a step-back that created just enough space, and then the shot — clean, high arc, nothing but net.
"One-zip," Pond said, already grabbing the rebound.
Tape recovered, shook his head, and got into position. "Lucky."
It wasn't luck. They both knew it.
The next ten minutes were a conversation in movement — the squeak of sneakers, the slap of skin on ball, the sharp exhales that punctuated each drive. Pond played like he was burning something off, each possession a little more aggressive, each cut a little sharper. He scored from the perimeter, from the paint, from angles that shouldn't have been available. Tape held his own, quick and smart, sinking his shots with a consistency that made the others whistle from the sidelines.
Twelve to ten. Pond, by two.
They met at center court, chests heaving, sweat dripping down their faces. Tape held out his fist. Pond bumped it.
"You're in your head today," Tape said, still catching his breath. "What's her name?"
Pond wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. "His."
Tape's eyebrows went up, but he didn't miss a beat. "His, then. What's his name?"
Pond's mouth quirked. "Phuwin."
"The pretty one? With the bangs?"
"Yeah."
Tape nodded slowly, like he was filing the information away. Then he grinned. "He must be something, the way you were playing just now. Like you were trying to fuck the ball through the hoop."
Pond laughed — a real one, surprised out of him. "Maybe I was."
Taehyung arrived with the others, pushing through the gate, Jungkook a step behind him. They were laughing about something, shoulders brushing, and Pond watched his best friend fail — spectacularly fail — to play it cool. Taehyung's hand went up, landed on the back of his neck, a gesture he only did when he was nervous.
"Finally showed up," Pond called, tossing the ball to him. Taehyung caught it one-handed, barely.
"Had to round everyone up." Taehyung's eyes flicked to Jungkook, then away. "You know how it is."
"Sure." Pond's voice was dry. "Must've been really difficult."
Taehyung threw the ball at his head. Pond caught it.
*
The speakers crackled to life somewhere above the court, the sound system old and tinny. A voice — the PE teacher's — echoed across campus.
"Attention, students. Basketball games will begin in ten minutes on the main court. All students are invited to watch."
The message repeated, the teacher's voice flat and bored, but the effect on the scattered groups around campus was immediate. Chairs scraped. Conversations lifted in pitch. Footsteps started moving toward the court.
In the shade of a tree near the humanities building, Ryu touched up her lip gloss — pink, shiny, exactly the shade of her phone case — and recapped it with a satisfied click. She dropped it into her pink purse, smoothed her crop top, and stood.
"Let's go," she said to her friends, already walking. "I want front row."
Her friends exchanged looks — the kind that said here we go again — and followed.
The cafeteria emptied in waves. Tables that had been full two minutes ago were now clusters of abandoned trays and half-eaten lunches. The fluorescent lights hummed over the mess, and Phuwin sat alone at his table — Siyh had gone to grab something from her locker, Santa had wandered off to check his class schedule — and watched the last few students trickle out through the double doors.
He didn't move.
His boba sat beside him, warm and sad. He hadn't finished it. He didn't want it anymore.
"You're not going?"
Phuwin looked up. One of the cafeteria workers was wiping down the next table over, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a tired smile.
"No," Phuwin said. "I don't really—" He stopped. What was he going to say? I don't want to watch him be watched by everyone else? I don't want to see her stand front row with her pink lip gloss and her pink purse, looking at him the way I want to look at him?
"I have studying," he finished, gesturing vaguely at his empty bag.
The woman nodded, unconvinced, and
The woman nodded, unconvinced, and moved to the next table, her rag sweeping crumbs into a plastic bin. Phuwin watched her go. The cafeteria felt huge now, empty, the fluorescent hum louder in the silence. He pulled out his phone. No messages. Pond was probably already on the court, sweat already gathering at his temples, the silver chain already bouncing against his collarbone with every jump shot.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed: Good luck.
Deleted it.
Typed: Don't let the pink girl distract you.
Deleted that too.
He locked the phone and slid it into his pocket. Stood. Grabbed his bag. The warm boba stayed on the table, abandoned.
His feet carried him toward the exit before his brain caught up. Through the double doors. Down the covered walkway where the afternoon sun cut sharp shadows across the concrete. Past the humanities building, where a cluster of girls leaned against the railing, phones out, already angling for the best view of the court.
He could hear it before he saw it — the squeak of sneakers, the thud of the ball, the rise and fall of voices calling out plays. The sound of bodies in motion, the rhythm of a game he'd never really understood but had watched a hundred times because Pond was in it.
Phuwin stopped at the edge of the court, near the bleachers, where the shadow of a tree fell across the first few rows. He didn't sit. He stood, arms crossed, bag hanging from one shoulder, bangs falling over his eyes.
He told himself he was just passing by. That he had a class on the other side of campus. That he wasn't here for any particular reason.
He didn't believe himself.
The court was half-court — three-on-three, fast and aggressive, the kind of game that drew a crowd because it was more entertaining than the full-court version. Pond had the ball at the top of the key, guarded by a guy Phuwin didn't recognize, someone with a shaved head and a cocky smile. Pond was dribbling lazily, almost bored, his eyes scanning the court in a way that looked casual but wasn't.
Then he moved.
A crossover so sharp the defender's ankles buckled. A drive to the baseline. A pump fake that sent another player jumping past him. And then the shot — a floater off the glass, soft, precise, the ball kissing the backboard before dropping through the net.
The crowd cheered. Phuwin's stomach did something he refused to name.
Ryu was at the front of the bleachers, pink purse in her lap, legs crossed, her attention fixed on the court. She clapped when Pond scored, her smile bright, her lip gloss catching the light. She wasn't looking at anyone else. She wasn't even pretending to watch the other players.
Phuwin's jaw tightened.
"You're doing the thing again."
He didn't turn. He knew that voice. "Santa, I swear—"
"I'm just saying." Santa appeared beside him, glasses pushed up, a slushie in his hand — blue, melting at the edges. He took a long sip, then added, "You know you can just sit down, right? The bleachers are free."
"I'm not staying."
"Uh-huh."
"I have class."
"In twenty minutes. On the other side of campus. Which happens to be directly past this court." Santa's voice was dry, amused, the voice of someone who had known Phuwin for six years and could read him like a children's book. "What a coincidence."
Phuwin's hands tightened around the strap of his bag. "Can you not?"
"Not what?"
"Be you."
Santa laughed — a quiet sound, warm, the kind of laugh that made it impossible to stay mad at him. "Come on. Sit with me. I promise I won't say anything."
"You always say that."
"And I always mean it. For about five minutes."
Phuwin shot him a look. Santa's grin was unrepentant.
On the court, the game had paused — a foul called, players resetting, someone grabbing a water bottle from the sideline. Pond wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, exposing a strip of stomach, the definition of his abs sharp in the afternoon light. A few girls in the bleachers whistled. Phuwin's face went hot.
Pond's shirt dropped. His eyes swept the crowd — the automatic scan of someone used to being watched — and stopped.
He saw Phuwin.
The change was immediate. Subtle, but there. The way his posture shifted, just slightly. The way his mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something close. The way his eyes stayed, held, refused to look away even as Taehyung called for the ball.
Phuwin looked down first. His heart was doing something stupid in his chest, a rabbit trying to claw its way out through his ribs.
"Five minutes," Santa said, already moving toward the bleachers. "Starting now."
Phuwin didn't follow. Not immediately. He stood at the edge of the court, bag heavy on his shoulder, watching the game resume without him. Pond was back in motion, aggressive now, scoring again, his presence on the court so dominant it felt like the game was happening around him, not with him.
He looked up. Once. Quick. Checked that Phuwin was still there.
Phuwin's feet moved before he decided. He climbed the bleachers, found a spot near the top, away from the clusters of girls, away from Ryu's pink profile. He sat. His bag went on the empty seat beside him, a claim no one contested.
Santa was three rows down, talking to someone Phuwin didn't recognize. He didn't look back. He was a man of his word, for now.
The game continued. Score climbed. The sun shifted, the shadows lengthening across the concrete. Phuwin watched Pond move — the way his body knew the court, the way his passes were sharp and precise, the way he directed his teammates with small gestures, a nod, a point, a flick of his wrist. He was good. Really good. The kind of good that made you forget there were other players on the court.
Pond went up for a layup, and the defender — the same shaved-head guy — came down hard, his shoulder catching Pond in the chest, sending him crashing to the concrete. The foul was obvious, late, unnecessary. The ref's whistle cut through the air.
Pond stayed down for a second, palm flat against the court, breathing hard. Then he pushed himself up, waved off the teammate who reached for him, and walked to the free-throw line.
His eyes found the bleachers. Found Phuwin.
He winked.
Phuwin's face went red. He looked away, stared at a crack in the concrete, counted the seconds until his heartbeat slowed down. When he looked back, Pond was sinking the free throw, the ball passing through the net with a clean swish.
The game ended fifteen minutes later. Pond's team won by eight, and the crowd dispersed in waves — some heading to their next class, some lingering to talk to the players, a few bold enough to approach Pond with phones already out. He handled it the way he always did: easy, gracious, that practiced smile in place.
But his eyes kept drifting. Over the heads of the girls asking for photos. Past the teammates clapping his shoulder. Searching.
Phuwin was already standing, bag on his shoulder, moving toward the edge of the bleachers. He didn't know why he was leaving. He didn't know why he'd come. He felt stupid, hot, tangled up in something he couldn't name.
"Phuwin."
The voice stopped him. He turned.
Pond was walking toward him, still breathing hard, sweat glistening on his collarbone, the silver chain catching the light. He'd pulled his shirt up to wipe his face again, and now it was stuck, just slightly, revealing the cut of his stomach. He didn't fix it.
"You came," Pond said. His voice was low, meant for just the two of them, even though people were still milling around, even though Ryu was still sitting in the front row, pretending not to watch.
"I was passing by."
"Uh-huh."
"I have class."
"In—" Pond checked his phone, "—eight minutes. On the other side of campus." He looked up, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Cutting it close, aren't you?"
Phuwin's grip tightened on his bag strap. "I know where my class is."
"I know you do."
They stood there, two feet apart, the heat of the court rising between them. People walked past. Someone called Pond's name. He ignored it.
"Did you see the game?" Pond asked.
"Some of it."
"What did you think?"
Phuwin's eyes flicked to the court, then back. "You show off too much."
Pond's grin widened. "You noticed."
"It's hard not to."
"Good."
Phuwin's stomach flipped. He looked away, at the tree casting its shadow, at the cracks in the bleachers, anywhere but at the boy in front of him who was looking at him like he was the only person on the entire campus.
"I saw her," Phuwin said. The words came out before he could stop them.
Pond's smile didn't waver, but something in his eyes shifted — a flicker of recognition, of understanding. "Ryu?"
"Yeah."
"She's been at every game this week." Pond's voice was careful, neutral. "She sits front row. She claps when I score. She's very enthusiastic."
"I noticed."
"And?"
Phuwin's jaw worked. He didn't know what he wanted to say. I don't like it. I don't like the way she looks at you. I don't like that I'm not the only one.
"Nothing," he said finally. "I just noticed."
Pond took a step closer. Close enough that Phuwin could smell him — sweat and deodorant and something warm underneath, something that was just Pond. His voice dropped, quieter now, meant for the space between their bodies. "You don't have to worry about her. Or anyone else."
"I'm not worried."
"Okay."
"I'm not."
"I believe you." Pond's voice was gentle, teasing, the kind of gentle that made Phuwin's chest ache. "But just so you know — I didn't look at her once. Not during the game. Not after. I was too busy looking for you."
Phuwin's breath caught. He hated how easily Pond did this — how a single sentence could undo him, turn his jealousy into something warm and fluttering.
"You're ridiculous," he managed.
"I know." Pond's hand lifted, hovered for a moment, then dropped. A restraint that said not here, not yet, but soon. "I'll text you after practice."
"Okay."
"And Phuwin?"
"What?"
Pond's smile softened — the real one, the one that reached his eyes. "Thanks for watching."
Phuwin turned away before his face could get any redder. He walked toward the humanities building, bag heavy on his shoulder, heart pounding, the feeling of Pond's eyes on his back following him all the way to the door.
He didn't look back. But he wanted to.