A week had passed. A full seven days of sunlight slanting through the bakery windows, of Godji's voice calling him down for meals, of Siyh's sharp texts and Santa's quiet presence in the shop below. A week of Pond's hand in his, of Pond's laughter filling his room, of waking up to a good morning text and falling asleep to a voice note promising the same thing tomorrow.
The suspension was still in place. The disciplinary hearing was still pending. But Ryu's family hadn't pressed charges, and the videos had stopped circulating, and somewhere in the machinery of the university, people were deciding what to do with a boy who had beaten a girl unconscious in the yard.
Phuwin didn't think about that part.
He sat at his desk by the window, the afternoon light warm across his shoulders, and watched Pond lean against the doorframe with that easy, cocky posture that made him want to throw a pillow at his face.
"You're staring," Pond said.
"You're in my way."
Pond grinned. "Your doorway. I'm allowed."
"It's Godji's doorway. She'd kick you out if she saw you blocking the light."
"Godji loves me." Pond pushed off the frame and crossed the room, lowering himself onto the edge of Phuwin's bed with a soft groan. "She made me eat three of those custard buns this morning. Said I was too skinny."
"You ate six."
"She kept putting them in front of me."
Phuwin laughed, the sound surprising him — a real laugh, not the hollow one he'd been practicing for the mirror. Pond's face softened at the sound, his eyes going warm and quiet.
"What?" Phuwin said.
"Nothing. Just — I like hearing that."
Phuwin looked down at his hands, the edge of his desk, the crack in the wood where he'd dropped a mug last semester. "It's been a week," he said. "I'm supposed to be better by now."
"There's no supposed to." Pond reached for his ankle, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the bone. "You get better when you get better. That's the only rule."
Phuwin watched his thumb move. The same thumb that had traced his spine, his collarbone, the curve of his hip. The same hand that had pulled him off the ground while Ryu bled beside them.
"I love you," Phuwin said quietly.
Pond's hand stilled. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Pond tugged his ankle gently, pulling him off balance, and Phuwin stumbled from the chair onto the bed beside him, laughing at the sudden motion. Pond caught him, arms wrapping around his waist, pulling him into his chest until Phuwin was half-sprawled across his lap.
"I love you too," Pond said against his hair. "Phuwin. I'm never going to let anyone hurt you."
Phuwin closed his eyes. Breathed in the smell of him — laundry detergent and something warm, something that smelled like safety.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
They lay there for a long moment, the afternoon sun painting stripes across the ceiling, the sounds of the bakery drifting up through the floorboards. Godji's voice, low and humming. The clatter of dishes. The hiss of the espresso machine.
Then Phuwin's phone buzzed on the desk.
He didn't move.
It buzzed again.
"You should get that," Pond said.
"It's fine."
"What if it's important?"
Phuwin sighed and pushed himself up, reaching for the phone. A text from Godji: Come down. Need you to water the flowers and hang the clothes.
"Godji," he said. "She wants me to do chores."
Pond laughed. "Go. I'll be here."
"You'll wait?"
"I'll wait."
Phuwin looked at him — sprawled across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, that easy smile on his face — and felt something crack open in his chest. Warm and painful and real.
"Okay," he said. "Be right back."
He left the room, padding down the stairs in his bare feet, past the kitchen where Godji was wiping down the counter, and into the laundry room at the back of the house. The wet clothes were still in the machine, a tangled heap of shirts and pants and towels. He pulled them out, basket against his hip, and carried them through the back door into the yard.
The sun was warm on his face. The grass was soft under his feet. He hung the clothes one by one — Pond's shirt from yesterday, one of Godji's aprons, his own hoodie — and watched the wind catch the fabric, making it dance.
Then he found the watering can by the back step and worked his way along the flower beds, the water glinting in the late afternoon light. Pink petals. Green leaves. The smell of wet earth.
He finished and stood there for a moment, the watering can dangling from his hand, watching the bees drift from flower to flower.
Things were going to be okay. He was going to make sure of it.
He went back inside, washed his hands in the kitchen sink, and climbed the stairs. His door was still open. Pond was still on his bed, but his phone was pressed to his ear now, his expression serious.
"Yeah," Pond was saying. "No, I understand. Yeah, I'll be there. Thanks, Mom."
He hung up and looked at Phuwin, something complicated flickering across his face.
"Everything okay?" Phuwin asked.
"Yeah. My mom. She wants me to come home for dinner tonight. Family thing."
"Oh." Phuwin stood in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. "You should go."
"I don't want to leave you."
"I'll be fine. It's just dinner."
Pond stood, crossed the room, and kissed him — soft and slow, a promise against his mouth. "I'll come back after. I promise."
"I know."
Pond left. Phuwin watched him go, then sat down on the edge of his bed and picked up his phone.
He opened his chat with Siyh.
Phuwin: Hey. Quick question.
Siyh:?
Phuwin: L or XL?
Siyh: For what??
Phuwin: Just answer.
Siyh: …XL.
Phuwin: K. Vibrating or non-vibrating?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Siyh: For WHAT??
Phuwin: Nothing.
Siyh: Phuwin.
Phuwin: Just — answer the question.
Siyh: …both??? Idk?? Depends what you need??
Phuwin: Non-vibrating.
Siyh: ok so XL non-vibrating. You gonna tell me why?
Phuwin stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then he typed: I need to prepare for something.
Siyh: …the semester break trip???
Phuwin: Yeah.
Three dots. A pause. Then: ok. I'll talk later.
Phuwin put his phone down and exhaled. Then he grabbed his jacket and slipped out the door.
An hour later, he was back in his room with a shopping bag on his bed and a lock on his door.
The bag rustled as he reached inside. Plastic and cardboard. The weight of something he had never bought before, something that made his hands tremble as he pulled it out.
XL. Non-vibrating. Dark silicone, smooth and curved, the size of his forearm.
He set it on the bed and reached for the smaller ones — a set of three, graduating sizes, and a bullet vibrator he had thrown in because Godji had taught him to always be prepared.
His heart was pounding.
He stripped off his jeans and his boxers, kicked them aside, and lay back on the bed with the smallest one in his hand. Lube from the nightstand. A pillow under his hips. The afternoon light still warm through the window.
He closed his eyes and thought of Pond.
Pond's hands. Pond's mouth. The way Pond had held him down that first time, the way his voice had gone low and rough, the way he had whispered Phuwin's name like a prayer.
He pressed the tip against himself and pushed.
The stretch was familiar now, the ache something he had learned to crave. He worked it in slowly, breath hissing through his teeth, his free hand gripping the sheets. When it was all the way in, he paused, letting his body adjust, feeling the fullness settle deep inside him.
Then he reached for the XL.
It was bigger than anything Pond had given him. Thicker. Longer. He held it in his hand, felt its weight, and felt a thrill of fear and want run through his spine.
He pulled out the smaller one, coated the XL with lube, and pressed.
The resistance was immediate. His body clenched, refusing, and he gasped, his eyes flying open. "Shit —"
He breathed. Slow. Deep. Let his muscles uncurl.
He pressed again.
This time, the tip slid in. A centimeter. Two. He moaned, low and ragged, his head falling back against the pillow. The stretch was overwhelming, almost too much, but he kept pushing, kept breathing, kept imagining Pond's voice telling him he could take it.
When it was finally seated — all the way in, his body stretched around it, the base flush against his skin — he lay there trembling, sweat beading on his forehead, his cock hard and aching against his stomach.
He reached for the vibrator.
The first buzz made him jolt. The second made him moan — a loud, broken sound that he couldn't have held back if he tried.
"Fuck —"
He turned up the setting.
The vibration traveled through his whole body, through the silicone inside him, through every nerve ending he owned. He gasped, arched, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle the sounds that kept escaping — "Oh shit, oh fuck —"
He turned it higher.
The world went white.
He came with a scream, his body convulsing around the toy, his release hot and messy across his stomach. He lay there gasping, the vibrator still buzzing, his muscles still clenching, until he finally had the presence of mind to turn it off.
The silence rushed in.
His heart was hammering. His breath was ragged. The toy was still inside him, and he could feel every inch of it, every pulse and throb of his oversensitive body.
He reached down and slowly, carefully, pulled it out.
The sound it made — wet and obscene — made him flush.
He set it aside, grabbed a towel from under his bed, and cleaned himself up. His legs were shaking. His hands were shaking. He felt hollow and full at the same time, empty and complete.
He pulled on his boxers and his t-shirt and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Downstairs, Godji heard the scream and shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. She wiped her hands on her apron and headed into her room, closing the door behind her.
The old box was on the top shelf of her closet, tucked behind a stack of blankets she never used. She pulled it down, settled onto the edge of her bed, and lifted the lid.
The smell of old paper and dust. The weight of memory.
The first photo was of Phuwin and Soònào, standing in this very yard, both of them covered in flour and dough, their faces streaked with laughter. Phuwin had been five. Soònào had been six. Godji had grabbed her slipper and chased them around the yard, shouting in Thai, and when she caught them, she had smacked each of them once — not hard, just enough to make them cry.
Phuwin had cried. Of course he had. He had given her that pout — the one he still used when he wanted something, the one that made her heart clench every single time — and she had caved, buying them lollipops and snacks from the corner shop.
She touched the photo with her fingertip. The flour on his nose. The gap in his baby teeth.
The next photo was from his graduation day. Thirteen years old. Cap and gown, that awkward adolescent smile, his arms around Soònào's neck. Soònào had worn a dress, her hair in a neat braid, her eyes bright with pride. That was the day Godji had caught Phuwin in the bathroom with an older boy — fifteen, a neighbor's son — and had found the condom wrapper in the trash.
She hadn't known what to say. She had sent the boy home, sat Phuwin down, and asked him if he was okay. He had cried and said the boy hadn't talked to him after. She had held him and told him he deserved better.
He still didn't know she had found the condom.
She turned the page.
A photo of her and Soònào on the swings at the park. Phuwin had taken it — his first time using her camera, his small fingers pressing the shutter at exactly the right moment. The sun had been behind them, turning their hair into halos. Soònào's laugh was frozen mid-air.
Another photo. Phuwin, by the flower bed in the front yard. He must have been sixteen. The sun had caught his face at exactly the right angle — illuminating his soft pink lips, the gentle curve of his nose, the way his bangs fell over his eyes. His hand was reaching for a pink flower, his fingers brushing the petals. His white shirt was glittering in the light.
Godji let a tear slide down her cheek.
She had taken that photo on a day when everything had felt heavy. Soònào was already gone by then. Phuwin had been the only one left, the only reason she got out of bed, the only reason she still opened the bakery every morning.
He was still the only reason.
She looked through the rest of the photos slowly. Phuwin learning to walk, his tiny hands gripping her fingers, his face lighting up when he managed three steps before falling. "Yayy," he had said, in that baby voice. "Yayy."
She had cried then too.
Upstairs, Phuwin's moans had faded. The cars passing by the bakery had become a distant hum. But Godji wasn't listening to any of that.
She was listening to Phuwin's laugh. Soònào's voice, yelling "Aunty!" across the yard. She was watching the way they had kicked their legs on the swings, the way Phuwin had looked at the flowers, the way his face had glowed in the sun.
She closed the box and set it beside her on the bed.
"I can't lose him," she whispered.
Not Phuwin. He was all she had left.
She wiped her eyes, straightened her apron, and stood. The floorboards creaked under her feet. The kettle was whistling in the kitchen.
She left the room, closing the door behind her, and went to make tea.