The bus settled into stillness with a final sigh of brakes, the engine dropping to a low idle that vibrated through the floorboards and up through the vinyl seat. Around Pond, the world erupted into motion—zippers dragged, bags thumped from overhead compartments, voices layered over each other in a dozen overlapping conversations about cabins and bunk beds and who got stuck with whom. He didn't move. His hands stayed loose on his thighs, his gaze fixed three rows ahead on the profile of the boy who hadn't turned around once since the bus left campus.

Phuwin's breath fogged the window in slow, even pulses, his reflection ghosting across the glass—a pale double that blinked when he blinked, that pressed its forehead to the cold surface like it was trying to disappear into the blur of trees and mountains rushing past. His fingers were curled tight around the strap of his duffel, knuckles pale, the gold ring on his left hand catching the gray light every time he shifted. He hadn't put it in his pocket. He hadn't hidden it up his sleeve. He'd just left it there, exposed, like he'd forgotten anyone could see.

Pond watched the ring. He watched the way Phuwin's thumb moved across it, a small unconscious stroke, like he was reassuring himself it was still there. The ache in Pond's chest was a familiar weight, something he'd carried so long it had grown a shape of its own—a hollow where Phuwin fit perfectly, where he'd always fit, even before either of them had the words for it.

Somewhere behind him, Taehyung's voice cut through the noise. "You gonna sit there all day, or are you gonna go claim your wife before somebody else does?"

Pond didn't answer. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping along the line of it, and he watched Give lean toward Phuwin, saying something low enough that only the two of them could hear. Phuwin's shoulders moved—a laugh, quiet and surprised, his head tilting just slightly toward the window. Toward Give. And the hollow in Pond's chest went cold.

"Pond." Taehyung's voice again, closer now, a hand landing on his shoulder. "Hey. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Then move. Marc's already counting heads and you look like you're about to wear a hole through the back of that seat with your eyes."

Pond stood. The motion was easy, practiced—he unfolded from the seat with the kind of careless grace that had girls three rows back whispering behind their hands. He didn't notice them. He'd stopped noticing them months ago, somewhere between the first time Phuwin rolled his eyes at him and the first time Phuwin had let him close enough to count the lashes fanned against his cheeks when he slept. Everything else had gone soft-focus. Out of frame.

Marc was moving down the aisle, a cardboard box in his arms, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Alright, everyone—grab a shirt as I pass, sizes are printed on the back, don't come crying to me if you get a medium and you're actually a large. That's a you problem, not a me problem."

A ripple of laughter moved through the bus. Someone near the front called out something about Marc's motivational speaking career, and Marc fired back without missing a beat, his grin wide and easy. He moved row by row, handing out folded neon shirts, counting heads with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times.

Pond reached for his own bag, slinging it over one shoulder, but his eyes never left Phuwin. The boy had finally stirred, blinking away whatever fog had held him through the ride, and he was reaching for his duffel with both hands, his ring catching the light again as he pulled it into his lap. Give was already standing, already reaching down to help him up.

"Here," Give said, his voice warm, his hand extended. "Let me."

Phuwin hesitated. Just a beat. Just long enough for Pond to see it, for the hope to flare hot and bright in his chest before Phuwin took the offered hand and let Give pull him to his feet. Phuwin's smile was polite, a little uncertain, his bangs falling over his eyes as he ducked his head.

"Thanks," he said.

"Anytime." Give didn't let go right away. His thumb brushed across Phuwin's knuckles—a small gesture, almost accidental, but Pond saw it. He saw everything. He saw the way Give's gaze dropped to Phuwin's mouth and lingered there, the way his smirk curved like he'd already won something.

Pond's hands curled into fists at his sides. The fabric of his jacket pulled tight across his shoulders, and he forced himself to breathe, to unclench, to remember that Phuwin had chosen him. That the ring on Phuwin's finger was his. That he'd said the words on a beach under fairy lights and meant them with every cell of his body.

None of that stopped the burn.

"Pond." Taehyung again, quieter this time, stepping up beside him. "Don't. Not here. Not in front of everyone."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you've got that look—"

"I said I know."

Taehyung held his hands up, a small surrender, and stepped back. But his eyes stayed on Pond, watchful, the way they'd been since they were kids, the way they always were when Pond was about to do something stupid.

The aisle was clogged with bodies now, students pressing toward the front, bags bumping against knees, someone's water bottle rolling loose and getting kicked under a seat. Marc was still working his way back, his voice rising and falling as he handed out shirts and counted heads, his box growing lighter with every row.

Phuwin had his duffel slung over one shoulder, his other hand gripping the seat back in front of him for balance as he shuffled toward the aisle. Give was beside him, close, his arm brushing Phuwin's elbow every time the bus swayed, and Pond watched the way Phuwin didn't move away.

He didn't lean in, either. That was something. That was a small mercy, a thread of hope Pond clung to like a lifeline.

"Phuwin!" Marc's voice cut through the noise, and Phuwin turned, his face brightening when he saw the box in Marc's arms. "There you are. I've been looking for you."

"I've been sitting right here the whole ride."

"Yeah, but I lost you in the crowd." Marc grinned, rifling through the box and pulling out a folded shirt. "Here. Size small, because you're basically a twig."

"I'm not a twig."

"You're a very pretty twig." Marc shoved the shirt into Phuwin's hands, and Phuwin laughed, the sound bright and genuine, cutting through the low murmur of the bus like a bell. It was the first real laugh Pond had heard from him all day, and it wasn't directed at him. It was directed at Marc, at their easy back-and-forth, at a friendship that had nothing to do with the weight of a ring or the ache of a broken phone or the jealousy coiling in Pond's gut.

"Thanks," Phuwin said, turning the shirt over in his hands. Then, quieter, almost to himself: "I'm feeling a little sick, though. Maybe I shouldn't get so much work."

Marc's smile didn't waver. If anything, it widened, taking on a gleam that made something cold settle in Pond's stomach. "Oh, don't worry about that." He clapped Phuwin on the shoulder, his voice bright and cheerful. "You'll definitely be getting the most."

The words landed like a stone in still water. Phuwin's face froze, the smile on his lips faltering, his fingers tightening around the folded shirt. The noise of the bus seemed to dim, the world narrowing to the space between him and Marc, to the words that hung in the air with a weight neither of them acknowledged.

"Wait," Phuwin said, his voice thin. "You're joking, right?"

Marc blinked at him, all innocence. "Joking about what?"

"The work. The—the most. You're joking."

Marc's grin softened, something almost fond flickering across his face. He reached out and ruffled Phuwin's hair, a quick, affectionate gesture that made Phuwin's bangs fall even further over his eyes. "Relax, baby. I'm just messing with you. You know I'd never actually make you suffer."

"You would absolutely make me suffer."

"Yeah, but only because I love you." Marc blew a kiss at him, exaggerated and theatrical, and Phuwin's face cracked into a reluctant smirk. He blew one back, sharp and quick, his eyes rolling even as his lips curved.

"You're the worst," Phuwin said.

"You love me."

"I tolerate you. There's a difference."

Marc laughed, already moving on, his voice lifting to call out the next name. "Alright, who's next—Taehyung, stop hiding in the back, I know you're there—"

Phuwin watched him go, the shirt still clutched in his hands, and for a moment his smile lingered, soft and unguarded. Then it faded, just slightly, his gaze dropping to the shirt, to the neon fabric, to the camp logo printed across the chest. He smoothed a wrinkle with his thumb, and Pond saw the exact moment the weight of everything came back—the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his breath escaped him in a slow, quiet sigh.

Give said something, low and warm, and Phuwin laughed again—a smaller laugh this time, more polite than real. He tucked the shirt under his arm and turned toward the aisle, and Give moved with him, a shadow at his side, his hand hovering near the small of Phuwin's back without quite touching.

Pond moved.

He didn't think about it. He just stepped forward, cutting through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone used to making space for himself, and reached Phuwin's side just as he reached the aisle. His hand found Phuwin's elbow—gentle, deliberate, a claim staked in the space where Give's hand had almost been.

Phuwin looked up, startled, his eyes widening when he saw who it was. "Pond."

"Hey." Pond's voice came out softer than he meant it to, the word rough around the edges. He didn't let go of Phuwin's elbow. "We should walk together."

Phuwin blinked at him, something flickering across his face—surprise, maybe, or hope, or the ghost of the smile he'd given Marc. "Sure," he said, and the word came out easy, warm, like it cost him nothing. "Yeah. Let's walk together."

The smile that broke across Pond's face was involuntary, unstoppable, the kind of smile he couldn't have held back if he'd tried. It softened the hard lines of his jaw, brightened the dark of his eyes, and for a moment he was just a boy looking at the person he loved, the person he'd always loved, the person he'd been too afraid to reach for until the world had forced his hand.

He reached for Phuwin's duffel. "Here. Let me take that."

Phuwin pulled back, frowning. "I can carry it myself."

"I know you can." Pond's hand closed around the strap, gentle but firm. "But I can't let my wife carry his own bags. That's against the rules."

Phuwin's frown deepened, but there was a flush creeping up his cheeks, pink and pretty against the pale of his skin. "There are rules?"

"Many rules. I'll teach you all of them."

"That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous but true."

Phuwin sighed, long and theatrical, but he let go of the strap, letting the duffel slide into Pond's grip. "Fine. But only because you're being annoying and I want you to stop."

"I'll never stop."

"I know."

Pond's free hand found Phuwin's. Their fingers interlaced, slow and deliberate, the gold of Phuwin's ring pressing against Pond's palm. Phuwin's hand was smaller than his, slimmer, the bones delicate under his skin, and Pond held it like it was something precious, something he'd been given and would never let go.

Phuwin looked down at their joined hands, then up at Pond. His eyes were soft, his lips parted, and for a moment the noise of the bus faded, the press of bodies disappearing, the world shrinking to the space between them.

"Okay," Phuwin said quietly. "Let's go."

They moved together toward the front of the bus, Pond's hand steady on the duffel, his other hand holding Phuwin's like it was the most natural thing in the world. The aisle was crowded, bodies pressing in from all sides, but Pond made space for them, his broad shoulders clearing a path, his grip on Phuwin's hand never wavering.

Behind them, Give watched.

He'd stepped back when Pond appeared, his hand falling away from Phuwin's back, his smile hardening at the edges. He watched the way Phuwin's fingers curled around Pond's, the way Phuwin's shoulders relaxed, the way his cheeks flushed pink when Pond leaned down to murmur something in his ear. He watched the ring on Phuwin's finger, the gold and the Beautiful diamond catching the light, and his jaw tightened.

One of his friends—a tall boy with a sharp grin— Xian nudged him. "You're staring, man."

Give didn't look away. "I know."

"That's his boyfriend?"

"Fiancé," Give corrected, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "Apparently."

"And you're still—"

"I'm still." Give's smile curved, slow and confident, his eyes tracking Phuwin's silhouette as he stepped off the bus. "He'll be mine in no time. Just watch."