Phuwin lay in the dark of Pond's bedroom, the city lights painting silver stripes across the ceiling. He was wearing Pond's button-up shirt — the white one with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves falling past his wrists like a costume three sizes too big. The fabric smelled like him. Sandalwood and something warm underneath.
Pond stood by the window, backlit by the glow of the skyline, wearing nothing but black boxers. His phone was in one hand. The other hand held a vape pen to his lips — he inhaled, held it, let the smoke curl out slow through his nose. The bruises on his chest caught the light differently. Purple and yellow and green, healing, still tender. Phuwin's eyes traveled down his spine, past the dip of his lower back, to the curve of his ass barely contained by the boxers, and then around to the front where the fabric stretched over his cock. Even soft. Even just standing there. It was obscene.
Phuwin bit his lip.
He should sleep. They'd just had sex. His body was heavy and satisfied, the kind of tired that usually pulled him under in minutes. But his eyes wouldn't close. They kept finding Pond. The way his shoulder blades moved when he shifted his weight. The way his jaw tightened when he exhaled. The way he existed in a room like he owned the air itself.
Phuwin sat up slowly. The shirt slid off one shoulder, pooling around his bicep. He pulled his phone off the nightstand and typed while still watching Pond.
To Godji: staying at Pond's tonight. will be home tomorrow or in a couple days. im at my man's house.
He hit send and stared at the screen. Three dots appeared immediately, then vanished, then appeared again.
From Godji: hmm 🍆 🕳️
Phuwin made a sound — half laugh, half groan — and swung his legs off the bed. The shirt rode up his thighs as he stood, and he felt the cool air hit the back of his legs where the fabric didn't reach. He knew exactly what his ass looked like right now. The shirt barely grazed the bottom curve. Everything below was bare.
Pond's head turned.
Phuwin walked out of the bedroom without looking back, phone pressed to his ear.
Godji picked up on the second ring. "That was quick. Did you at least put pants on?"
"You can't send me things like that." Phuwin's voice was flat, but the corner of his mouth was already curling. "That's my aunt. That's weird."
"I'm your aunt who knows what you're doing over there. I'm allowed one eggplant. Consider it cultural communication."
Phuwin reached the kitchen and leaned against the counter. The marble was cold against his bare thighs. "I'm serious."
"So am I. Is everything okay?" Her voice softened, the teasing edge giving way to something real. "You texted instead of coming home. That's not like you."
Phuwin was quiet for a second. He traced a line on the countertop with his finger. "Everything's fine. With us, I mean. We're good. He's good. The bruises are healing."
"Then what's the 'but' I can hear in your voice?"
Phuwin exhaled. "That girl at school. Mrs. Chan's daughter. Ryu."
"The one who keeps showing up at the shop?"
"She cornered me again. Before I came here. She keeps asking me why I'm always with Pond. Why I seem so obsessed with him. Right to my face. Like I'm the one who doesn't belong." His voice was climbing, the words coming faster. "And she said — she said Pond was hers. That I didn't have claim around here. She laughed at me, Godji. She fucking laughed in my face when I didn't know where he was, like she knew something I didn't, and she called me names, and she just —"
He stopped. His hand was gripping the edge of the counter.
"I was so fucking ready to fight that bitch," he said, quieter now. "Pond, I'm — I've been tired of her since she came to university. And I don't care anymore. If she crosses the line again, I'm not going to be nice about it."
Godji was quiet. Then: "Did you tell Pond?"
"He has enough to deal with." Phuwin's jaw tightened. "His father. The bruises. I'm not adding this to his plate."
"So you're carrying it alone?"
"I'm telling you."
A beat of silence. Then Godji sighed, but it was warm. "Okay. Here's my advice. Maybe telling her — directly, calmly — that you and Pond are together would do more than throwing a punch. It's cleaner. It doesn't get you suspended."
"I tried." Phuwin's voice cracked. "She laughed in my face. She said Pond was hers, right in front of me, while he wasn't there to defend me. She has so much audacity, Godji. Standing there, telling me I don't have claim, when I'm the one he comes home to. I'm the one he said he wants to marry."
His voice broke on the last word. He blinked hard, furious at himself for almost crying.
"She cursed my name," he said. "She said it like it was dirty in her mouth. And I just stood there."
"But you're not going to stand there next time."
It wasn't a question.
"No," Phuwin said. "I'm not."
Godji was quiet for a long moment. Then she laughed — a low, approving sound. "Alright. Then you better not come home and tell me how much you love Pond or how much you hate her. I don't need the poetry, baby. I just need to know if you won the fight."
Phuwin felt something break open in his chest — a laugh that came out wet at the edges. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. I'll call you after."
"Good. Now go back to your man. And Phuwin?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let her win anything. Not your peace. Not your temper. Not him."
Phuwin's throat tightened. "I won't."
He hung up and set the phone face-down on the counter. The kitchen was quiet. The fridge hummed. A clock ticked somewhere in the living room. He stood there for a moment, breathing, letting the anger settle into something he could use instead of something that could undo him.
Then he opened the fridge.
Eggs. Milk. Flour. Butter. He found a mixing bowl in the cabinet and started pulling things out — measuring, cracking, whisking. The rhythm helped. The motion helped. He poured the first circle of batter onto the pan and watched it spread, bubbles forming at the edges.
He was humming before he realized it. Some song he'd heard at the café last week. He didn't know the words, but the melody was stuck in his head, and he let it carry him through the motions — flip, wait, slide onto the plate. He laughed at himself once, alone in the kitchen, talking to the pancakes like they could hear him. "You look good. Yeah, you do. Golden. Perfect."
Twenty minutes later, he had a plate stacked high with pancakes, butter melting into the top one, syrup drizzled in a spiral, strawberries arranged on the side. He picked it up, careful, and turned toward the hallway.
Two arms wrapped around his waist from behind.
Phuwin startled, nearly dropping the plate. "Pond —"
"You were humming." Pond's lips found his neck, soft and warm against the skin. "I could hear you from the bedroom."
"I was making you breakfast." Phuwin's voice came out breathless. "Or — whatever time it is. Dinner. Snack. I don't know."
Pond's arms tightened. His chest pressed against Phuwin's back, and Phuwin could feel the heat of him through the thin shirt. The bruises didn't seem to hurt him anymore when he moved.
"You should be in bed," Phuwin said. "You're supposed to be resting."
"I don't want to leave you."
Phuwin smiled. He turned his head just enough to see Pond's face over his shoulder. "Daddy," he said, soft, deliberate, with a pout that he knew was devastating. "Go to bed. I'll be there in just a second."
Pond's eyebrows shot up. His mouth fell open. Then he laughed — loud, genuine, the kind that crinkled his eyes. "Did you just —"
"Go to bed."
"You called me daddy."
"I did. And now you have to go to bed. It's the rule."
"There's a rule?"
"I just made it." Phuwin turned fully in Pond's arms, the plate still balanced in one hand, and looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Go. I'll come lie down with you when I'm done."
Pond stared at him for a long moment. His eyes were dark, soft, full of something that made Phuwin's stomach flip.
"You're dangerous," Pond said.
"I know."
"I'm going to bed."
"Good."
Pond kissed him — quick, hard, a promise — and then he was gone, padding back down the hallway, his boxers the last thing Phuwin saw before he disappeared into the bedroom.
Phuwin stood there for a second, heart pounding, the plate warm in his hands. Then he turned back to the stove and slid the last pancake onto the stack.
He carried the plate to the bedroom with both hands, careful not to spill the syrup. The door was open. Pond was sitting up against the headboard, sheet pulled over his lap, phone in his hand. He looked up when Phuwin walked in, and his whole face changed — softened, opened, like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to walk through that door holding pancakes.
Phuwin set the plate on the nightstand. Before he could straighten up, Pond's hand caught his wrist and pulled. Phuwin stumbled forward, laughing, and landed half on top of him, the sheet bunching between them.
"The pancakes —"
"They can wait." Pond's hand was in his hair, tilting his face up, and then he was being kissed — deep and slow, the kind of kiss that didn't need to rush. Phuwin's hands found Pond's chest, careful of the bruises, and he cupped his face and kissed him back until they were both breathless.
Pond broke away first, forehead resting against Phuwin's. "Hi."
"Hi." Phuwin's voice was hoarse.
"You made me pancakes."
"I did."
"While wearing my shirt."
"It's comfortable."
Pond's hand slid down Phuwin's back, over the curve of his ass, and squeezed. "It's short."
Phuwin's breath hitched. "Eat your pancakes."
"Make me."
Phuwin pushed himself up, grabbing the plate from the nightstand and setting it on Pond's lap. "Eat."
Pond laughed and picked up the fork. He cut a piece, dipped it in syrup, and held it up. "Open."
Phuwin rolled his eyes, but he opened his mouth. The pancake was warm and sweet, and he chewed while Pond watched him with that soft, devastating look.
"Good?" Pond asked.
"I made them. Of course they're good."
Pond laughed and took a bite himself. They passed the fork back and forth, eating in the quiet, the city lights still painting their ceiling, the plate slowly emptying between them.
"I want a big wedding," Pond said eventually. "Not like — a million people. But everyone who matters. My brothers. Your aunt. Santa. Siyh. Taehyung. Jungkook. Everyone."
Phuwin's hand stilled on the fork. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. And I want it outside. Somewhere with trees. And string lights." He said it like it was obvious, like he'd been thinking about it for weeks. "And I want you to wear something white, but not a suit. Something that makes you look like you're floating."
Phuwin's throat tightened. "That's — that's really specific."
"I've had time to think."
"In the two days you disappeared?"
The words came out before Phuwin could stop them. The air shifted. Pond's hand paused, fork halfway to his mouth.
"I'm sorry," Pond said quietly. "I should have called. I should have told you where I was."
Phuwin looked down at the plate. Half the pancakes were gone. "You already apologized. I'm not trying to — I just meant —" He took a breath. "I was scared. When you didn't answer. I thought you'd changed your mind about us."
"Never." Pond's voice was firm. His hand found Phuwin's under the sheet. "I could never change my mind about you."
Phuwin looked up. Pond's eyes were dark and serious, the bruises on his face a reminder of everything they'd survived to get here.
"I want kids," Phuwin said. "Two. Maybe three. I want them to have your laugh and my stubbornness."
Pond's face broke into a smile so wide it crinkled his eyes. "They'd be impossible."
"Completely."
"I want a house with a yard." Pond was still smiling, but his voice had gone soft, dreamy. "Somewhere we can plant things. Not a penthouse. Somewhere with dirt and trees and space."
"In the city or outside?"
"Outside. Close enough to drive in, far enough that it's quiet at night."
Phuwin imagined it — a house with a yard, string lights in the backyard, children's laughter somewhere in the distance. Pond on the porch, older, still beautiful, waiting for him.
"Okay," Phuwin said. "We'll find it."
Pond's hand tightened around his. "Promise?"
Phuwin leaned over and kissed him — soft, slow, tasting syrup. "Promise."
They finished the pancakes in comfortable silence, passing the fork back and forth until the plate was clean. Phuwin set it on the nightstand and shifted to get up, but Pond's arm locked around his waist.
"Where are you going?"
"Text Santa. I told him to take my stuff home, but I need to —"
"Text him from here."
Phuwin smiled and reached for his phone on the nightstand. He typed quickly.
To Santa: leave me at Pond's. go home. ill see you tomorrow or whenever. thanks for driving me.
From Santa: okay. take care of him.
From Santa: and yourself.
Phuwin smiled and set the phone down. He turned back to Pond, who was already pulling him down, arranging him against his chest like he belonged there.
Phuwin's head found its spot in the crook of Pond's neck. Pond's hand found his ass again, cupping the curve like it was instinct, like he needed to be touching him. The other hand threaded through Phuwin's hair, tracing lazy patterns on his scalp.
"This is nice," Pond murmured.
"Mhm."
"I could stay here forever."
"You'd get hungry."
"I'd order delivery."
Phuwin laughed, the sound muffled against Pond's skin. "You'd get bored."
"With you?" Pond's voice was soft. "Never."
Phuwin closed his eyes. He felt the weight of Pond's hand on his ass, the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He felt the anger from earlier — the phone call with Godji, the memory of Ryu's laugh — settle somewhere deeper, quieter. It was still there. But it didn't own him anymore.
If Ryu crossed the line again, he would fight her. He meant it. But right now, in this bed, with this man, he didn't have to.
"Pond?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
Pond's hand stilled in his hair. Then it tightened, pulling him closer, and Pond's lips pressed against the top of his head. "I love you too, baby. So much it scares me."
Phuwin smiled against his chest. "Good."
Pond laughed, the sound vibrating through his ribs. They lay there, tangled together, the plate empty on the nightstand, the city lights still painting their ceiling, and Phuwin felt something settle inside him that he hadn't known was loose.
He was home. Not the bakery. Not Godji's house. Here. In this bed. In these arms.
Tomorrow, there would be Ryu. There would be school. There would be the world, waiting to test them. But tonight, there was only this — Pond's hand on his skin, the taste of syrup still on his tongue, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, he wouldn't face it alone.