The second-floor landing of the arts building smelled exactly the way it always did—turpentine and dust and something faintly metallic, like old radiators. Phuwin's shoes scuffed against the worn linoleum as he rounded the corner, Siyh a half-step behind him, and the first thing he saw was the fluorescent light humming overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow pallor.

The second thing he saw was Pond.

He was standing near the railing, back half-turned, a white roll of tape finally in his hand—slightly scuffed, the edge catching the light. His friends Taehyung and two others Phuwin recognized from the engineering building were clustered around him, laughing and handing him posters in an endless relay. Pond's shoulders moved under his black t-shirt when he laughed, a low, easy sound that carried across the landing and settled somewhere warm in Phuwin's chest.

He stopped walking without meaning to.

"Oh my god," Siyh said beside him, her voice flat. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at him like he hung the moon and forgot to pay rent."

Phuwin's jaw tightened. "I don't look at him like that."

"You really do." She nudged his ribs with her elbow, a quick, sharp jab. "Go on. He's been standing there for ten minutes, waving that tape around like a trophy. He wants you to see him."

Phuwin's mouth curved despite himself. Pond did look ridiculous, holding that roll of tape like it was a prize he'd won, surrounded by his friends who were clearly never going to let him forget that he'd been sent on a supply run. Taehyung was saying something that made Pond's ears go red, and Phuwin felt something loosen in his chest—the knot that had been there since the cafeteria, since Give's gaze had settled on him like a weight he couldn't shake.

"He's got tape now," Siyh said, deadpan. "The wedding is back on."

Phuwin huffed a laugh and started walking before he could think better of it. The linoleum was cool through his thin shoes, the landing stretching between them in a few seconds that felt longer. Pond's back was still turned, his biceps flexing as he passed a poster to one of his friends, and Phuwin caught the faint streak of blue paint on his jaw—a smudge from some studio class he must have slipped into between tasks.

It made him look softer. Human. Like he was still covered in the day.

Phuwin didn't slow down. He closed the last few feet, bent his knees, and jumped.

His arms snaked around Pond's neck, his legs hooking around Pond's waist, and the impact was solid and warm—Pond's body bracing, then catching, his hands dropping the tape to grab Phuwin's thighs. A grunt escaped him, low and surprised, and then he was laughing, that full, unreserved laugh that Phuwin had heard a hundred times and still wasn't immune to.

"What the—" Pond staggered a step, his grip tightening. "You trying to kill me?"

Phuwin pressed his cheek against the back of Pond's head, against the short, dark hair that smelled like shampoo and something faintly green. "You took forever. I thought you'd never find tape."

"I found it." Pond turned his head, trying to look, and his voice was warm, almost proud. "Took three buildings, but I found it."

"Three buildings."

"The first two didn't have the right kind."

"There's a right kind."

Pond's laugh rumbled through his back, through Phuwin's chest where it pressed against him. "Obviously."

Taehyung let out a long whistle from the railing, arms crossed, a grin splitting his face. "Finally! Pond's been begging for you all day. 'Where is he? Is he still in the cafeteria? Should I text him again?' Can't wait to deal with you at home, huh?"

Phuwin's arms tightened. His heart was beating fast, and he didn't know if it was from the jump or the warmth of Pond's body or the way Taehyung's words landed somewhere deep in his chest, settling like something precious. He kept his cheek pressed against Pond's hair and said nothing.

Pond's hands shifted on his thighs, thumbs pressing in just slightly. "Ignore him. He's just jealous he doesn't have anyone to jump on."

"I have Jungkook," Taehyung shot back. "I'm just patient."

"Patient," one of the other friends repeated, snorting. "That's what we're calling it."

Taehyung pushed him, and the landing filled with laughter—easy, familiar, the kind that didn't need an explanation. Siyh had drifted closer, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, watching Phuwin with an expression that said I told you so without her having to open her mouth.

Phuwin let himself stay there, wrapped around Pond, the fluorescent light still humming its thin, mechanical song above them. The landing smelled of turpentine and dust and now, faintly, of Pond—warm skin and that green shampoo and something underneath that Phuwin had learned to recognize as home.

He felt the roll of tape press against his ankle where Pond had dropped it, a small, absurd detail that made his lips twitch.

"You still have posters to hang," Phuwin murmured against Pond's hair.

"I know."

"And you're just standing here."

"I'm catching my fiancé. That's more important."

Phuwin's chest tightened. He pressed his smile into Pond's hair, hiding it, and said nothing.

Taehyung cleared his throat. "Okay, lovebirds, we've got fifty more posters and a deadline. Pond, stop letting your boyfriend use you as a jungle gym."

"He's not heavy," Pond said, his hands squeezing Phuwin's thighs again. "He's perfect."

"Disgusting." Taehyung turned away, but his ears were red. "Come on, let's get these up before Professor Kim sends a search party."

The other two friends started gathering posters, their laughter settling into a low, comfortable hum. Siyh pushed off the wall and caught Phuwin's eye, tilting her chin in a silent question: you coming?

Phuwin shook his head slightly. He wasn't ready to let go yet.

Pond seemed to understand. He shifted his weight, adjusting Phuwin's position without making him move, and started walking toward the stairwell—slowly, carrying him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You're going to hang posters with me on your back?" Phuwin asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

"If I have to."

"You'll look stupid."

"I always look stupid. Might as well do it holding you."

Phuwin huffed a laugh, his breath stirring the hair at Pond's temple. The landing was emptying—Taehyung and the others clattering down the stairs, their voices echoing off the concrete walls. Siyh lingered at the top of the steps, watching them with an expression that had softened into something private, almost fond.

"I'll save you a spot," she said, and disappeared down the staircase.

The landing fell quiet. The fluorescent light kept humming. Pond's hands were warm on Phuwin's thighs, his thumbs tracing absent circles through the fabric of his jeans.

Phuwin lifted his head, his chin settling on Pond's shoulder, and looked at his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the blue paint smudge, the slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"You found tape," Phuwin said.

"I found tape."

"Good husband material."

Pond turned his head, their faces close now—close enough that Phuwin could see the brown of his eyes, the flecks of gold near the iris. "I'm trying."

Phuwin kissed him. Quick. Soft. Barely a press of lips before he pulled back, his ears burning.

Pond's smile widened, and he started down the stairs, Phuwin still on his back, the roll of tape left behind on the landing like a promise kept.

The stairs creaked under their combined weight, a sound that echoed off the narrow walls and disappeared into the stairwell's hollowness. The air changed as they descended—less turpentine, more dust and concrete, the faint underground chill that lived in the bones of old buildings. Phuwin's arms stayed locked around Pond's neck, his legs hooked tight, and he let himself feel the rhythm of Pond's steps: the shift of muscle, the controlled breath, the way his grip adjusted with each stair.

"You're going to throw your back out," Phuwin murmured.

"I'm twenty-five. I've got another decade before my back gives out."

"Bold of you to assume."

Pond's laugh vibrated through them both. "This is nothing. I've carried heavier easels across campus."

"Oh." Phuwin pressed his smile into Pond's hair again. "So I'm comparable to an easel."

"No—" Pond's voice cracked slightly. "The nicest easel. The most expensive easel. The one with the—the gold leaf and the—"

"Stop talking."

"I'm trying to compliment you."

"You're failing."

Pond's shoulders shook with laughter, and Phuwin felt it in his own chest, warm and unguarded. The stairwell light flickered overhead—one of those bulbs that had been buzzing for years, held together by campus maintenance and sheer indifference. It cast their shadows against the wall in a long, tangled shape, one body with too many limbs, moving slowly down the concrete steps.

Phuwin watched the shadow for a moment. It looked wrong and right at the same time, like something that shouldn't work but did.

They reached the half-landing, and Pond paused, adjusting his grip on Phuwin's thighs. His breathing was even, barely strained, but Phuwin felt the small tremor in his arms—the effort of holding him steady.

"You can put me down," Phuwin said.

"I know."

"At some point."

"Probably."

Pond didn't move. His thumbs pressed into the inside of Phuwin's thigh, a steady pressure that felt like an anchor. The stairwell was quiet now—their friends' voices had faded, swallowed by the building's concrete and distance. Somewhere above them, a door swung shut with a heavy click, and then there was only the hum of the light and the sound of their breathing.

"The tape," Phuwin said eventually.

"What about it?"

"You left it on the landing."

Pond tilted his head, trying to look back up the stairs. "Shit."

"Very good husband material."

"I'll get it later."

"You have fifty-one posters to hang by six in the morning."

"I have friends who will go back for it."

"You have friends who are already halfway across campus laughing at you."

Pond was quiet for a moment. "You know what, you're right. I should go get it."

"Now?"

"Now."

He started turning, his body adjusting to the weight shift, one hand leaving Phuwin's thigh to brace against the railing. The movement was careful, deliberate—Pond had clearly done this before, carried someone up or down stairs, found the balance point without thinking.

"Wait—" Phuwin tightened his grip. "You're going back up?"

"I can't leave my tape."

"You were literally walking away from it two seconds ago."

"That was before I realized my fiancé was going to use it against me."

Phuwin bit back a laugh. "I'm not using it against you. I'm pointing out a logistical oversight."

"It's the same thing."

"It is not."

Pond stopped on the step, one foot higher than the other, Phuwin's weight settled across his back. The light flickered again, casting a brief shadow that stretched and broke between them.

"I have an idea," Pond said.

"I'm nervous."

"You're going to love it."

"I'm still nervous."

Pond shifted his grip, adjusting so he could reach into his pocket. His hand emerged holding his phone, the screen cracked slightly in one corner. He tapped it, the light illuminating his face in the dim stairwell, and Phuwin watched his thumb scroll through contacts.

"Taehyung," Pond said, pressing call.

The line rang once, twice, before a tinny voice answered: " Did you drop your fiancé already? I'm impressed it took this long. "

"Tae, I need you to come back to the landing."

" Absolutely not. You left it, you get it. "

"I'll buy you dinner."

A pause. " Anywhere? "

"Anywhere under five hundred baht."

" Deal. But I'm sending you a photo of the tape on your face, and you're going to have to explain it to Jungkook later. "

Pond's jaw tightened, but he was smiling. "Fine."

" On my way. Tell your boyfriend I said he's still riding you like a horse. " The line went dead.

Phuwin pressed his forehead against Pond's shoulder, laughing silently. "He's going to hold that over you forever."

"I know."

"He's going to bring it up at the wedding."

Pond was quiet for a beat. "Probably during the vows."

"Are you going to have him as your best man?"

"Absolutely not. I'm having Santa."

Phuwin lifted his head. "Santa? He's my best friend."

"He's been my best friend for five years. He counts."

"He's my best friend of six years. I have seniority."

"We can share him."

"I don't share."

Pond turned his head, their faces close again—the dim light carving shadows across his jaw, catching the blue paint smudge. "You don't share anything?"

"Not my best friends. Not my boba. Not my—" Phuwin stopped, the word catching in his throat.

Pond's eyes held his. "Not your what?"

Phuwin's ears burned. He looked away, at the cracked paint on the wall, at the dust mote drifting through the fluorescent light. "Not my—fiancé."

The word landed like a stone in still water. Phuwin felt it in his chest first—that familiar ache that wasn't quite ache, that fullness that had no other name. On the stairs, in the dim stairwell, wrapped around Pond's back with his face half-hidden, he had said it out loud, and the world hadn't ended.

Pond's hand found his—the one braced on his shoulder—and squeezed gently.

"You're not sharing me," Pond said quietly. "You've never had to."

Phuwin nodded, his jaw tight.

Above them, footsteps echoed—Taehyung's voice calling out: " I'm here for the tape and the blackmail! You better not have moved! "

Pond huffed a laugh and started up the stairs, Phuwin still on his back, carrying him back toward the landing where the roll of tape waited in the humming fluorescent light.