The bus lurched forward, and Phuwin gripped the seatback in front of him to steady himself. The engine's rumble deepened, vibrating up through the worn vinyl and into his spine, and the whole cabin swayed as the driver pulled out of the campus lot. Through the window, the familiar buildings slid past—the arts block, the cafeteria where Give had hit him with that bag, the courtyard where Pond had wrapped him in a hug that curdled into something public and wrong.

Give settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed when the bus hit a dip in the asphalt. He smelled like something clean and citrusy, a sharp contrast to the sun-warmed dust and the faint sweet musk of sweat and sunscreen that hung in the air. "You okay?" Give asked, tilting his head. "You look tense."

"Fine," Phuwin said, and the word came out too quick, too bright. He turned his face toward the window, letting his bangs fall over his eyes like a curtain. "Just—long week."

Behind him, somewhere in the middle of the bus, he could feel Pond's gaze. It was a physical weight, a pressure between his shoulder blades that he refused to acknowledge. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to see the set of Pond's jaw or the way his knuckles had gone white on the seatback in front of him. He could feel all of it, radiating like heat off asphalt.

"Yeah," Give said, and his voice was easy, unhurried. "Campus has been intense. Lots of eyes." He paused, and Phuwin felt him shift in his seat, angling his body toward him. "I noticed you've been getting some stares lately. People talk."

Phuwin's stomach tightened. "People always talk."

"True." Give laughed, low and warm. "But not everyone handles it like you do. You just—let it roll off. I like that."

Phuwin didn't know what to say to that. He pressed his palm flat against the window, feeling the glass warm from the afternoon sun, and watched the campus gates shrink behind them. The bus picked up speed, and the buildings gave way to trees and storefronts, the world opening up into the long road that led to Camp Navigate.

Give leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against Phuwin's, and pointed past him out the window. "Hey, look—there's that noodle place I told you about. The one with the duck broth." His breath was warm against Phuwin's ear, stirring the fine hairs at his temple. "I swear, best in the province. If we get a free evening, I'm dragging you there."

"Dragging me?" Phuwin tried for a laugh, but it came out thin. He could feel the heat of Give's breath, the proximity of his body, and in the window glass he caught the reflection of the bus interior—rows of seats, heads bobbing with the motion of the road, and there, three rows back, Pond.

Pond's jaw was tight. His hand rested on the seatback in front of him, knuckles white, the tendons standing out. His dark eyes were fixed on the back of Phuwin's head, burning with a stillness that made Phuwin's skin prickle.

Phuwin looked away, down at his own hands. The gold ring was on his finger, warm against his skin. He hadn't taken it off since this morning. He'd slid it on in the bathroom of the penthouse, watching his reflection in the mirror, and he'd made himself a promise: no more hiding.

But he hadn't told anyone about the engagement. Not the campus that still whispered GivePhuwin into every corridor. The ring was a secret he wore openly, and somehow that made it heavier.

The bus hit a bump, and Give's hand shot out, landing on Phuwin's knee to steady himself. The touch was casual, almost instinctive, but it lingered. Give's palm was warm and dry through the fabric of Phuwin's jeans, and his thumb pressed in just slightly, a small, claiming pressure.

Phuwin went still. His breath caught in his throat, and he stared down at the hand on his knee like it had appeared from nowhere. The bus engine rumbled on, filling the silence, and somewhere behind him he could feel Pond's gaze sharpen into something almost physical.

"Sorry," Give said, but he didn't move his hand. "Road's rough."

Phuwin's throat worked. "It's fine."

He should move. He should shift his leg, brush the hand away, say something that would draw a boundary. But his body felt frozen, caught between the warmth of Give's palm and the weight of Pond's stare burning into the back of his skull.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

The vibration was sharp against his thigh, cutting through the hum of the engine. Phuwin's hand moved automatically, pulling the phone out, and the screen lit up with a message from Pond.

One word.

Mine.

Phuwin's thumb hovered over the screen. He could feel the weight of that single word, the possessive heat of it, and his pulse quickened. Give's hand was still on his knee, thumb tracing a small, idle circle, and the bus swayed as it rounded a curve, pressing them closer together.

He didn't reply. He didn't look back. He just stared at the word on the screen, the glow of it in his palm, and felt the bus carry them all further from everything he knew how to handle.

The phone dimmed in his hand, the glow dying until the screen went black, but the word stayed burned behind his eyes. *Mine.* It should have made him feel claimed, wanted, safe—and it did, somewhere beneath the noise of Give's thumb still moving on his knee. But it also felt like a leash, a line drawn so tight he could feel it cutting. He slid the phone back into his pocket without typing a single letter, and the weight of it settled against his thigh like a stone.

Give shifted beside him, reading something in the stillness of Phuwin's body. "Everything okay?" he asked, and his voice was soft, almost careful, like he knew he was standing on the edge of something. "You've got that look again."

"What look?" Phuwin's voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

"Like you're somewhere else." Give's hand finally lifted from his knee, and Phuwin's leg felt suddenly cold where the warmth had been. "You do that a lot, you know. Check out mid-conversation. It's like watching someone close a door from the inside."

Phuwin blinked, caught off guard by the accuracy of it. He turned his head, and for the first time since the bus left campus, he let himself look back. Pond was still there, three rows behind, his dark eyes locked on Phuwin like they'd never once looked away. His jaw was still tight, his knuckles still white, but when their gazes met, something in his face shifted—a crack in the stone, a softening at the edges that made Phuwin's chest ache.

He looked away first. He always looked away first.

"I'm fine," he said, and the lie tasted familiar on his tongue. "Just tired."

Give didn't push. He just nodded, settling back into his seat, and let the silence stretch between them. The bus hummed on, the road unspooling outside the window, and Phuwin pressed his forehead against the warm glass and watched the world blur past—trees and power lines and the distant blue of mountains, all of it rushing toward a camp he wasn't sure he was ready for.