The week passed like water through cupped hands—Phuwin couldn't say where it went, only that it was gone, and he was still here.
The bruises on his knuckles had faded to pale yellow. The whispers in the hallway had quieted. The disciplinary hearing had ended with a suspension that would be wiped from his record if he kept his grades up, and Ryu's family—through a lawyer, never in person—had declined to press charges. She was still in the hospital. Something about her jaw. Something about her eye. Phuwin didn't ask for details. He didn't need them.
What he needed was this: the bench by the university pond, the sun warm through the leaves, Pond's arm slung across the back of the seat behind him, their shoulders brushing whenever one of them shifted.
"You're thinking too loud," Pond said. His voice was low, easy, the voice of someone who had spent the whole week making sure Phuwin ate and slept and didn't spiral.
Phuwin turned his head. Pond's profile was golden in the late-morning light—the strong line of his jaw, the slight curve of his lips, the dark eyes fixed on the water like he wasn't studying Phuwin from the corner of his vision.
"I'm not thinking at all," Phuwin said. "That's the problem."
Pond's hand dropped from the bench back to Phuwin's shoulder, fingers brushing the collar of his oversized hoodie. "That's not a problem. That's a vacation."
Phuwin almost laughed. Almost. The sound got stuck somewhere in his chest, came out as a breath instead.
The pond was quiet. A duck paddled in lazy circles. Somewhere across the grass, a group of students was laughing, their voices carrying like distant music. Normal. Everything was so aggressively normal.
"I love you," Phuwin said.
The words came out flat, unadorned, like he was stating the time or the weather. But Pond's hand tightened on his shoulder, and when Phuwin looked at him, Pond's eyes had gone soft at the edges.
"I know," Pond said. Then, quieter: "I love you too."
They sat there for a long moment, the words settling between them like stones dropped into still water. Ripples spreading outward, touching everything.
"What were you doing before I called you this morning?" Phuwin asked. He wanted to hear Pond talk. Wanted to fill the silence with something ordinary.
Pond leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. The movement made his biceps strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt, and Phuwin definitely did not stare. "Sleeping. Taehyung woke me up at six to ask if I'd seen his charger."
"Had you?"
"No. But I had to hear about it for twenty minutes."
Phuwin smiled, small and real. "He's still not talking to Jungkook?"
"He's talking to him. He's just being an idiot about it." Pond's hand found Phuwin's, their fingers interlacing on the bench between them. "You know. Like someone else I know."
"I'm not an idiot."
"You're my idiot."
Phuwin's smile widened. He didn't pull his hand away.
They stayed like that until Phuwin's phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out—Godji's name on the screen, a single message:
Come down. Need you for something.
Phuwin sighed. "I have to go."
Pond's grip tightened before releasing. "Want me to come?"
"No, it's fine. She probably just needs help with the afternoon prep." Phuwin stood, and Pond stood with him, close enough that their chests almost touched. "I'll call you later."
"You better." Pond's voice was low, almost a growl, and his eyes dropped to Phuwin's lips for half a second before he stepped back. "Go. Before I decide to keep you here."
Phuwin felt the heat climb up his neck as he turned and walked toward the path that led back to the bakery.
The bakery was warm when he pushed through the back door, the familiar scent of sugar and butter wrapping around him like a second skin. Godji stood at the counter, her back to him, flour dusting her forearms as she kneaded dough with practiced, rhythmic movements.
"You called?" Phuwin said, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Godji didn't turn. "The flowers out back need watering. And the laundry's been sitting in the machine for two hours—hang it before it starts smelling like mildew."
Phuwin blinked. "That's all?"
"That's all." She finally glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes were warm, unreadable. "You got somewhere better to be?"
He didn't answer. Just shook his head and headed for the laundry room off the kitchen, where the washing machine sat silent and full, a pile of damp clothes waiting inside.
The work was good for his hands. The work was good for his head. He pulled the wet fabric out piece by piece—Godji's aprons, a few of his own t-shirts, a pair of jeans he'd forgotten he owned—and carried them outside into the small yard behind the bakery. The sun was high now, the heat pressing against his skin as he reached up to drape a shirt over the line, smoothing it flat with his palm.
The flowers were next. A row of pink and white blooms along the fence, their petals soft and fragile in the afternoon light. Phuwin filled the watering can at the spigot and went down the line, letting the water trickle over the soil, watching it darken and soak in.
He thought about nothing. That was the point. The rhythm of the task, the heat on his shoulders, the distant sound of a motorbike passing on the street—it pressed him into the present, held him there, refused to let him drift back to the hospital room he'd never seen or the sound of Ryu's jaw breaking under his fist.
When he finished, he stood there for a moment, the empty watering can dangling from his hand, and let himself breathe.
Then he went back upstairs.
The bedroom was quiet. His phone was on the desk where he'd left it, the screen dark. Pond had texted—a single message: Miss you already. Call me when you're free. —but Phuwin didn't open it. Not yet.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled out his phone, and opened Siyh's chat instead.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Then he typed:
Hey. Quick question.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. What kind of question?
Phuwin chewed his lip. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Is L or XL better?
The dots danced for a long time. Then: For what??
Just answer.
Phuwin.
Siyh. Please.
Another pause. Then: XL. Obviously.
Phuwin's heart was beating faster now, a flush creeping up his neck. He typed before he could think better of it:
Vibrating or non-vibrating?
The dots disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again.
Then Siyh's name flashed on the screen as she called him.
Phuwin declined the call and texted: Just answer the question.
The dots finally resolved into a single eggplant emoji followed by a question mark.
Phuwin laughed—a short, surprised sound that escaped before he could stop it. He typed back in Thai: ใช่. Yes.
Why do you need to know that??
Phuwin's thumbs hovered. He thought about the semester break trip. The Beach house in the beach. The nights that would stretch long and dark and full of possibility. He thought about Pond's hands, Pond's mouth, the way Pond looked at him when he thought Phuwin wasn't watching.
Just preparing for something, he typed.
If this is for the trip—
Yeah.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Then: I'm gonna pretend I didn't see this. We'll talk later.
Phuwin smiled and locked his phone. He shoved it into his pocket, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and headed for the door.
An hour later, he was back in his room with a small, discreet bag from a shop three blocks away, its contents hidden beneath a folded towel. He locked the door. Drew the curtains. Sat on the edge of his bed with the bag in his lap and his heart hammering against his ribs.
The first one was larger than he'd expected. Smooth, curved, silicone—a deep, neutral color that felt clinical and intentional. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it, the give of the material. Then he set it aside and reached for the second one—smaller, sleeker, with a control at the base and a curve that made his stomach tighten just looking at it.
He hadn't done this before. Not alone. Not like this.
But the trip was in two weeks. Two weeks of shared beds and dark rooms and Pond's hands finding him in the middle of the night. Two weeks of being together without the weight of campus or parents or the aftermath of what he'd done.
He wanted to be ready. He wanted to know what he was doing.