The fire popped, a shower of orange sparks climbing into the dark, and Phuwin let the heat wash over his face while the night air stayed cold on the back of his neck. Woodsmoke and damp earth filled his nose, and he breathed it in deep, the way you do when you're trying to remember a moment. Around him, the camp had gathered—students sprawled on logs, some standing with cups in their hands, voices low and laughing. The firelight caught faces in flickers, turning everyone golden and shadowed in turns.

Marc appeared at the edge of the circle, clipboard tucked under his arm, counting heads with the practiced sweep of someone who'd done this a hundred times. His brow furrowed.

"Where are Jungkook and Taehyung?"

Phuwin's hand went up before he thought about it. The motion drew eyes, and he felt the weight of them, but he kept his voice light. "Well. Let's say they have some very, very touchy unfinished business."

A ripple of laughter ran through the group. Marc's eyebrows climbed, and a slow grin spread across his face. "Unfinished business. At my camp. Fantastic." He shook his head, still smiling, and let it go. "Alright, then. Who's performing for us tonight?"

Siyh shifted on the log beside Phuwin, and he felt her elbow nudge his ribs before she spoke. "We should sing together. I'll play guitar."

"No." The word came out fast, almost automatic. "I can't."

She was already standing, her hand wrapping around his wrist and pulling him up before he could plant his feet. The log scraped against his thighs as he rose, off-balance, and she smiled at him—that sharp, knowing smile she wore when she'd already won. "You'll have to deal with it."

"Siyh—"

"You'll have to deal with it," she repeated, and there was something gentle underneath the teasing, something that said she wasn't going to let him hide tonight. "Come on. It's just us."

He rolled his eyes, but he didn't pull his wrist back. She let go only to reach for a guitar propped against a nearby log—someone's, he didn't know whose—and settled it against her thigh, testing the strings with a thumb.

"We'll sing something beautiful," she said, and the way she said it made his stomach drop.

"Not that song."

"I don't care." She smirked, and her fingers found the strings.

The first chord cut through the murmur of the crowd. It was a soft chord, a patient one, and the voices around the fire began to hush. Phuwin stood beside her, hands empty, heart beating somewhere in his throat. The fire crackled. Someone shifted on a log. He could feel the eyes on him—dozens of them, maybe more, all waiting.

And then Siyh began to play, and he opened his mouth, and the song came out.

It was SZA—"Nobody Gets Me." He'd sung it a hundred times in his room, alone, the window open, the city noise below. He'd never sung it in front of anyone. But Siyh's fingers moved steady and sure on the strings, and her voice found his like a hand reaching for a hand, and he let himself fall into it.

"I just be going through it, honestly," he sang, and the words came out low and clear, carrying over the fire. "You ain't gotta be going through it with me."

The camp had gone quiet. Even the fire seemed to listen, its crackle softer now, as if it didn't want to interrupt. Phuwin's voice rose and fell, and Siyh's harmonized underneath, the two of them weaving together like they'd done it a thousand times—because they had, in basements and bedrooms and late-night drives, but never here, never in front of this many people, never with the firelight making everything feel like a dream.

He sang about love, about the kind that doesn't make sense, the kind you can't explain. He sang about being seen, about being held. And somewhere in the middle of it, he forgot about the eyes on him. He forgot about the cold on his neck. He just sang.

When the last note hung in the air, the fire crackled loudly in the silence.

And then the camp erupted.

Whistles and applause, hands clapping, voices calling out. Phuwin blinked, the spell breaking, and suddenly he was aware again—of his hands, of his feet, of the heat in his cheeks. Siyh grinned at him, wide and proud, and he shoved her shoulder, but he was smiling too.

"His voice is beautiful," someone whispered—a girl, her voice carrying just enough for him to hear. "Like, actually beautiful."

"Right? I've never heard him sing before."

The whispers spread, and he caught the word beautiful again, and again, and he ducked his head, letting his bangs fall over his eyes. But he couldn't stop the smile.

And then he looked up, and he saw Give.

Give was sitting on a log across the fire, his chin resting on his hand, watching Phuwin with a smile that was soft and steady and entirely too warm. He wasn't clapping like the others. He was just looking, like he was memorizing the shape of Phuwin's face in the firelight.

Phuwin's smile flickered.

He looked away, fast, and his eyes found Pond.

Pond was sitting on the far side of the fire, and he was smiling—a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes. The firelight reflected in them, warm and gold, and he wasn't looking at Give. He was looking at Phuwin. Only at Phuwin.

And for a moment, the space between them felt charged with something unspoken.

Phuwin's voice caught in his throat. The applause was still washing over him, but he couldn't hear it anymore. He could only see Pond, the way the firelight softened the sharp lines of his face, the way his smile said I see you, the way his eyes said mine.

Siyh handed the guitar back to its owner, and Phuwin sat down hard on the log, his legs suddenly unsteady. His heart was still beating fast, but it wasn't from the song anymore.

"That was good," Siyh said, settling beside him. "Really good."

"You forced me."

"And you were good." She nudged him. "Deal with it."

He laughed, a small sound, and let himself lean into her shoulder for a moment. Around them, the camp was still buzzing—people talking, laughing, someone starting another song somewhere. The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks up into the dark, and Phuwin watched them climb and fade, like little dying stars.

He felt Pond's gaze on him still. He didn't look up. He didn't need to. He could feel it, a warm pressure against his skin, and it was easier to sit here, in the noise and the light, pretending he didn't notice.

But he noticed. He always noticed.

The fire burned on, and the night stretched around them, and Phuwin let himself stay in the warmth of it, in the sound of voices and laughter and the crackle of wood. He didn't think about the ring on his finger, hidden under his sleeve. He didn't think about Give's smile, or Pond's eyes, or the way his heart had caught when he'd seen them both.

He just sat there, in the firelight, and let the moment hold him.

But later—much later, when the fire had died to embers and the camp had drifted to their cabins—he would think about it. He would think about the way Pond had looked at him, and the way Give had looked at him, and the way he'd felt, for one wild moment, like he was standing at the edge of something he couldn't name.

And he would wonder which way the fall would take him.

Someone handed Phuwin a cup of something warm, and he took it without thinking, the ceramic burning his palms through the thin paper. He brought it to his lips and sipped—cocoa, sweet and a little bitter, the kind you got at camp when the night got cold. He hadn't asked for it. He didn't know who'd given it to him. But he held it anyway, letting the warmth seep into his fingers, grounding him in the noise and the light.

Across the fire, someone laughed—a loud, unguarded sound—and the group around them shifted, rearranged itself. A girl with a braid was telling a story, her hands moving wide, and the people on her log leaned in, caught by it. Phuwin watched her for a moment, watched the way the firelight caught the gold in her hair, and he felt something loosen in his chest. This was what camp was supposed to be. This was the part that was supposed to be easy.

He took another sip of the cocoa. It was cooling now, the sweetness settling on his tongue, and he let his eyes drift over the crowd without meaning to. He wasn't looking for anyone. He wasn't. But his gaze found Pond anyway, the way it always did, like a compass finding north.

Pond was still looking at him.

Not staring, exactly. He was leaning back on his log, one arm draped over his knee, his other hand holding a cup of his own. He looked relaxed, easy, like he belonged here. But his eyes were on Phuwin, steady and warm, and there was something in them that made Phuwin's breath catch—something quiet, something patient, something that said I'm still here.

Phuwin looked down at his cup. The cocoa was almost gone, just a film of brown at the bottom. He swirled it, watching the liquid cling to the sides, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

"You're doing it again."

Siyh's voice was low, meant only for him. He felt her shoulder press against his.

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you look at him and then look away like you've been caught."

Phuwin's cheeks went warm. "I don't do that."

"You literally just did it."

"I was looking at the fire."

"The fire is behind him."

Phuwin opened his mouth, closed it, and took another sip of his empty cup. Siyh laughed, soft and warm, and let her head rest against his shoulder for a moment. "It's okay, you know. To look at him. He's your—" She stopped, and he felt her hesitate, the word hanging between them. "He's yours."

Phuwin's fingers tightened around the cup. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. But he leaned into her, just a little, and let the firelight wash over them both.

The braided girl's story ended to laughter, and someone else started one—something about a snake in the showers last year, met with groans and exaggerated shudders. Phuwin listened, half-smiling, his cocoa forgotten in his hands. The fire popped, and a spark floated up, higher than the rest, and he watched it climb until it winked out against the dark.

His ring was warm under his sleeve. He could feel it, a small pressure against his wrist, and he curled his fingers around his cup to keep himself from touching it. Not here. Not with so many eyes. Not with Give sitting across the fire, still watching him with that soft, patient smile.

But he felt it there, the weight of it, the promise of it. And he felt Pond's gaze too, a different kind of weight, one that settled in his chest and made it hard to breathe.

He looked up, just once, and let his eyes find Pond again. This time, he didn't look away.

Pond's smile widened, just a fraction, and something passed between them—wordless, weightless, warm. And for a moment, the fire, the crowd, the cold night air—all of it fell away, and there was only this: the two of them, looking at each other across the flames, the way they always had, the way they always would.

The moment stretched, thin and bright as a pulled thread, and Phuwin felt the heat of it in his chest—not the fire's heat, but something closer, something that had been banked all night and was threatening to catch. He opened his mouth, not knowing what would come out, when a shout went up from the far side of the circle and the spell snapped.

Someone had produced a ukulele, and a boy with a beanie was strumming it badly, singing a song Phuwin didn't recognize with his whole chest, the words wrong in a way that made everyone laugh. The crowd's attention swung away, a tide pulling out, and Phuwin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He looked down at his empty cup, the paper soft and crumpled in his grip, and when he looked up again, Pond was no longer staring—he was laughing at the beanie boy, his head tipped back, the firelight catching the gold chain at his throat.

Phuwin watched him laugh, watched the way his shoulders shook, the way he looked younger in the firelight, unguarded. And something in Phuwin's chest ached, a sweet, familiar ache, the kind he'd stopped trying to name. He set the cup down on the log beside him and let his hands rest on his knees, palms open, and he let himself look—just look—at the boy he was going to marry, laughing in the firelight like there was nothing in the world that could touch him.

The ukulele song ended to groans and applause, and the beanie boy bowed with a flourish, nearly toppling off the log. Someone handed Phuwin another cup—cocoa again, or maybe tea, he didn't check—and he wrapped his fingers around it, the warmth seeping into his palms, and he let himself stay in this moment, in this warmth, in the sound of voices and laughter and the crackle of wood, with Pond's laugh still ringing in his ears and the gold ring warm against his wrist, a promise he carried everywhere.