The morning came in hot and bright, the kind of late-August heat that pressed down on everything before the day even got going. Phuwin had already sweat through the back of his oversized hoodie by the time he made it to the craft table, and the rough pine board under his forearms was sticky with dried sap that clung to his skin like it had been waiting for him all night.

The kids were a chaos of small bodies and louder voices, four and five years old and not a single one of them interested in sitting still. Marc had handed out paper and stubby pencils twenty minutes ago, and already half the table was smeared with graphite and the other half was using the pencils as drumsticks. Phuwin found himself smiling anyway, the way he always did around kids, the noise washing over him like something familiar.

He was kneeling beside a little girl with pigtails who was trying very hard to draw a whale, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, her small fist gripping the pencil like it might escape. Her line wobbled, went off course, and Phuwin reached out, his hand covering her small fist, guiding it gently back onto the paper.

"Like this," he murmured, his voice soft. "Slow. Let the pencil follow your hand, not the other way around."

The girl giggled, her small fingers relaxing under his, and together they drew the curve of a whale's back, the tail, the little spout of water at the top. Phuwin felt a warmth bloom in his chest, the kind he only got around kids, the kind that made him forget about everything else for a moment.

That was when he felt the breath on his ear.

Give had leaned in close, close enough that his shoulder brushed Phuwin's, his voice low and warm, pitched so only Phuwin could hear. "You're good with them. Natural."

Phuwin's cheeks flushed before he could stop them. It was just a compliment, just words, but the way Give said it—like he was telling Phuwin a secret—made his pulse skip in a way he didn't want to examine. He ducked his head, letting his bangs fall over his eyes, and smiled.

"It's not hard," he said, his voice coming out lighter than he meant. "They just need someone to show them it's okay to mess up."

Give's smile widened, and he shifted even closer, his hand reaching out toward the pencil. "Here, let me take over. You've been at this all morning."

Before his fingers could close around the pencil, another hand got there first.

Pond's hand. Big, warm, the veins standing out along the back of it, closing over the pencil with a grip that was just shy of too tight. His jaw was tight, the muscle jumping along the line of it, and his eyes were fixed on Give with an expression that was about three seconds away from becoming a problem.

"I've got it," Pond said. His voice was flat. Controlled. The kind of controlled that meant he was actively holding himself back.

Give's eyebrows rose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn't pull back, didn't give ground, just let his hand hover there in the space between them. "You draw?"

Pond didn't answer. He just took the pencil, his fingers brushing against Phuwin's as he did, and Phuwin felt that small touch travel up his arm like a current.

Phuwin laughed, light and teasing, the sound escaping before he could catch it. "Pond, you can't draw to save yourself. I've seen your doodles. They look like sad potatoes."

Pond's head turned toward him, and something in his eyes softened, just for a second, before the determined set of his jaw returned. "Watch me," he said, low, the words almost a challenge.

He set the pencil to paper.

The little girl with pigtails watched him with wide eyes, her whale abandoned, and Pond leaned over the paper, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration—a mirror of hers—and began to draw. His first line was hesitant, then firmer, and slowly, impossibly, the shape of a whale began to emerge. It was lopsided. The tail was too small, the body too round, the spout coming out at a crooked angle. But it was unmistakably a whale.

Phuwin stared. His mouth fell open a little. "Wait. When did you learn to—"

"I watched you," Pond said, not looking up, his voice gruff. "Last night. When you were sketching by the fire."

Something in Phuwin's chest tightened, a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the morning. Pond had watched him. Had paid attention. Had remembered the way he drew whales, of all things, and practiced—or at least tried—to replicate it.

The whale was still lopsided, still clumsy, but Phuwin couldn't look away from it. Or from the concentrated furrow of Pond's brow, the way his tongue poked out just a little, the careful, deliberate pressure of his hand on the pencil.

Give watched too, his smirk widening as the whale took shape. He leaned back, crossing his arms, and his voice carried just enough to reach Pond's ears. "I don't know how you chose a guy like him."

The pencil stopped moving.

Pond's hand went still on the paper, the whale half-finished, and for a second the whole table seemed to hold its breath. Then Pond was standing, his chair scraping back against the pine floor, and his hand shot out and shoved Give's chest hard enough that Give rocked back on his heels.

"Say that again," Pond said. His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of low that made Phuwin's stomach drop.

Give recovered his balance, his smirk still in place but something sharp flickering behind his eyes. "I said—"

"Stop it."

Phuwin's voice cut between them, sharp and clear, and both of them turned to look at him. He was still kneeling beside the little girl, his hand on her shoulder, and his eyes were hard as he looked from Pond to Give and back again.

"There are kids here," Phuwin said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. "Four-year-olds. They don't need to see this."

Pond's jaw worked. His hands were shaking at his sides, and for a moment Phuwin thought he might argue, might push back, might do something that would make this morning even worse than it already was. But then Pond dragged a hand through his hair, the movement rough and frustrated, and muttered, "Fuck."

He turned and walked off toward the trees, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Phuwin exhaled, a long breath that carried most of the tension out of his shoulders. He turned back to the table, forcing a smile onto his face for the kids who were staring, wide-eyed and confused.

"Okay, everyone," he said, clapping his hands together, his voice bright and false. "Let's line up. We're going for a walk to see the river, remember? Pencils down, hands washed, line up at the door."

The kids scrambled, a flurry of small bodies and excited shrieks, and Phuwin shepherded them toward the sink, counting heads as they went. He was almost to the door when he noticed the boy near the back.

He hadn't moved. He was still sitting at the craft table, his small hands in his lap, his head bowed over a piece of paper that was covered in smudged graphite. His shoulders were trembling.

Phuwin's heart clenched. He crossed the room and knelt in front of the boy, his voice dropping to something soft and gentle. "Hey. What's wrong?"

The boy's face crumpled. His lower lip wobbled, and when he spoke, it was in Thai, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't finish my giraffe."

Phuwin looked down at the paper. There was a shape there, half-formed, a long neck and a body that was too round and legs that were too short, but it was unmistakably a giraffe, and it was unfinished. The pencil lay beside it, abandoned.

"Oh, sweetheart," Phuwin murmured. He reached out and took the boy's small hand in his, his thumb brushing over the graphite-smudged knuckles. "That's okay. We can finish it when we get back, I promise."

The boy shook his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. "But I wanted to show my mom. She said I could show her when I got home."

Phuwin's chest ached. He squeezed the boy's hand gently, his voice soft. "We'll finish it together, okay? And it'll be even better than before. Your mom will love it."

The boy sniffled, looking up at Phuwin with wide, watery eyes. "Promise?"

"Promise." Phuwin smiled, warm and genuine, and the boy's face slowly relaxed, the tears drying on his cheeks. He nodded, and Phuwin helped him to his feet, leading him by the hand toward the door where the other kids were already lined up, chattering and bouncing with impatience.

Phuwin caught Siyh's eye across the room as he passed. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her face. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

The walk to the river was chaos, but the good kind. The kids ran ahead, their counselors chasing after them, and Phuwin hung back, letting the noise wash over him, the sun warm on his face. He could still feel the ghost of Pond's hand on his, the way his fingers had brushed against Phuwin's when he took the pencil. The way he'd said, "I watched you."

Give fell into step beside him, his shoulder brushing Phuwin's. He didn't say anything, just walked with him, and Phuwin felt the weight of his presence like a stone in his pocket. Uncomfortable. Hard to ignore.

"You handled that well," Give said finally, his voice casual. "Back there. With the kids."

Phuwin shrugged, not looking at him. "They're just kids. They need someone to stay calm."

"Not just the kids." Give's voice was softer now, almost gentle. "Pond. He's..." He trailed off, searching for the word. "Intense."

Phuwin's jaw tightened. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not here, not now, not with the sun beating down and the river rushing ahead of them and Give's shoulder still brushing his.

"He's protective," Phuwin said, his voice flat. "That's all."

Give hummed, noncommittal. "If you say so."

They walked in silence for a while, the sound of the kids' laughter filling the space between them. Up ahead, Phuwin could see Pond standing at the edge of the river, his back to them, his hands still shoved in his pockets. He hadn't gone far. He never went far.

Phuwin's chest did something complicated. A twist and a pull and a warmth all tangled together. He wanted to go to him. He wanted to stay here. He wanted Give to stop looking at him like he was something worth having.

The kids had reached the riverbank, and Marc was gathering them into a circle, explaining something about the water and the rocks and why they had to stay away from the edge. Phuwin slowed, letting the group pull ahead, and Give slowed with him.

"You know," Give said, his voice low, almost conspiratorial, "you don't have to settle for someone who shoves people when he gets jealous."

Phuwin stopped walking.

He turned to face Give, and for a moment, he just looked at him. At the easy confidence in his posture, the smirk that never quite left his face, the way he always seemed to know exactly what to say to get under Phuwin's skin.

"He's not settling," Phuwin said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "And neither am I."

Give's smirk flickered, just for a second, before it settled back into place. "If you say so."

He turned and walked ahead, joining the group of kids, leaving Phuwin standing alone in the sun with the river rushing in his ears.

Phuwin exhaled. He looked down at his hand, the one Pond's fingers had brushed against, and curled it into a fist. The ring was still there, hidden under his sleeve, warm against his wrist.

He looked up at the river, at the kids, at the counselors herding them back toward the camp. At Pond, still standing at the edge of the water, still not looking at him.

The whale was still sitting on the craft table, half-finished, waiting for someone to come back and finish it.