The kettle screamed. Steam fogged the screen door in a white plume, and Phuwin barely heard it over the hiss of the propane and the low chatter of students washing rice at the far sink. His knife came down through a tomato, the blade kissing the scarred wood of the counter, juice pooling in a bright red slick. He reached for another one, fingers finding the cool skin, rolling it under his palm.

"You're going to cut yourself if you keep rushing."

The voice came from behind him, low and warm, and Phuwin's hand stilled on the tomato. A body leaned over his, broad and close, and then a hand closed around his—warm, dry, fingers slotting between his own, guiding the knife he was still holding down through the tomato. The blade split it clean, juice running over his knuckles, over Give's.

Phuwin looked up. Give was bent over him, chin nearly at his shoulder, that easy smile curving his mouth. His eyes were dark and soft, fixed on Phuwin's face like he'd found something worth looking at.

"What are you doing?" Phuwin heard himself ask, and his voice came out smaller than he wanted, breath catching somewhere in his throat.

"Helping out." Give's fingers tightened around his, just for a second, just enough to feel. "You looked like you needed a hand."

Phuwin's face went hot. He could feel it, the blush crawling up his neck, warming his ears. He ducked his head, letting his bangs fall forward to hide it. "Okay," he managed. "Okay, khab."

Give didn't let go right away. His thumb brushed over Phuwin's knuckles once, twice, like he was testing the feel of the skin there, and then he released him, stepping around to the side of the counter to pick up another knife. He stood close, hip almost touching Phuwin's elbow, and started cutting tomatoes with an easy, practiced rhythm.

Phuwin stared at the board for a long second. The tomatoes were slick and red, the knife still in his hand, the ghost of Give's fingers warm on his own. He took a breath. He started cutting again.

Across the counter, at the far end where the rice was steaming in a dented pot, Pond sat on a stool with his elbows on his knees. Taehyung was next to him, talking—something about the hike tomorrow, the trails, the waterfall—but the words weren't landing. Pond's eyes weren't on Taehyung's face. They were on the other end of the counter, where Give had just leaned over Phuwin, where Give's hand had closed over Phuwin's, where Give was still standing close enough that his shoulder brushed Phuwin's every time he moved.

Pond's jaw tightened. His fingers found the edge of the counter and curled around it, knuckles going white.

"Pond." Taehyung's voice dropped, low and careful. "Calm down. Don't do anything stupid."

Pond didn't answer. His eyes tracked Give's hand as it reached for another tomato, tracked the way Phuwin glanced up at him, a small smile flickering across his face before he looked back down. That smile. That small, easy smile that Phuwin gave everyone, that he gave Give, that he had given Pond a hundred times, a thousand times, in the kitchen of the bakery while Godji laughed at them and the flour dusted their sleeves.

Pond's hand tightened on the counter until the wood creaked.

"I said don't do anything stupid," Taehyung murmured, and his hand landed on Pond's forearm, a warm, steady weight. "He's just helping him cut vegetables. That's all."

"He's standing too close." Pond's voice came out rough, scraped. "He's touching him."

"He's cutting tomatoes."

"He's touching him."

Taehyung sighed. He didn't let go of Pond's arm. Across the kitchen, at the table where the girls had gathered to peel potatoes, a few heads turned. One of them whispered something, and another one laughed, and a phone came up, half-raised, angled toward the counter where Give and Phuwin stood together.

Pond saw it. He saw the phone, and the giggling, and the way Give leaned in to say something to Phuwin, close to his ear, his lips almost brushing the shell of it. Phuwin's shoulders hunched, and his blush deepened, visible even from across the room, and he laughed—a small, breathy sound that carried over the hiss of the kettle.

Pond's chair scraped back.

Taehyung's hand tightened on his forearm. "Pond."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're standing up."

"I'm getting water."

Pond walked to the cooler in the corner, his back to the room, his hands shaking. He grabbed a plastic cup and filled it with ice water, and he stood there for a long moment, his shoulders rising and falling, the cup cold in his grip. Behind him, he could hear the laughter, the chatter, the sound of Give's voice saying something that made Phuwin laugh again.

He drank the water in one long swallow, the ice clinking against his teeth, and when he turned back, Give had moved. He was at the table now, sliding the cutting board full of tomatoes toward Siyh, who was talking and joking, her hands busy with a bag of greens. Phuwin was following, a bowl of sliced cucumbers in his hands, and Give turned to take it from him.

"Don't stretch too far," Give said, his voice carrying across the kitchen. "I'll get it."

Phuwin smiled up at him. "Chai. Okay, khab."

Pond's hand crushed the plastic cup.

Marc was at the table, watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and when Give set the bowl down and settled into the seat beside Phuwin—close, always close—Marc spoke.

"So, Give." His voice was light, almost casual. "Are you flirting with my best friend, or are you flirting with my soulmate?"

The table went quiet. Siyh's hands stilled on the greens. Phuwin's head snapped up, his eyes wide.

Give didn't blink. He smiled, that easy, crooked smile, and he turned to look at Phuwin, his eyes dragging over his face, his shoulders, the curve of his waist where his shirt had ridden up. "Maybe," he said, and his voice was teasing, devilish, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. "I'd give it a try."

Phuwin's breath caught. He could feel the heat in his face, the weight of Give's gaze, the silence of the table. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words died in his throat.

Across the kitchen, Pond heard it.

The plastic cup hit the floor.

Pond was moving before he knew it, his chair scraping back, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You piece of shit."

Every head turned. The girls at the far table froze, phones forgotten. Siyh's hands stopped mid-motion. Marc's eyebrows climbed.

Pond crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his eyes locked on Give, his hands shaking. "What the fuck are you playing at? I was the one who fucking proposed to him at that. You fucking know that, you dipshit. I don't know who you are, but stay in your fucking lane."

Give didn't flinch. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and that smirk stayed on his face—teasing, devilish, a look that Phuwin couldn't see because Phuwin was staring at Pond, his face pale, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

"I'm just helping," Give said, his voice light. "You should try it sometime."

Pond's hand shot out and shoved him.

Give's chair scraped back, his body rocking with the force of it, and for a second, his smirk flickered. But then he righted himself, and the smirk was back, wider now, his eyes glinting.

"Pond!" Phuwin's voice cut through, sharp and desperate. He was on his feet, his hands pushing against Pond's chest, shoving him back. "Stop it. Stop. Get off him."

Pond stumbled back, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. He looked at Phuwin—at the flush on his face, the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, the way his hands were still pressed against Pond's chest, holding him away.

"Phuwin—"

"Don't." Phuwin's voice cracked. He pushed again, harder, and Pond stepped back, his hands falling to his sides. Phuwin stood there, panting, his chest rising and falling, his bangs stuck to his forehead. He looked at Pond, and there was something in his eyes—something raw, something broken—that made Pond's chest seize.

Then Phuwin turned and ran.

The screen door slammed behind him.

For a second, no one moved. The kettle hissed. The steam fogged the glass. The girls at the far table whispered behind their hands.

Then Pond moved.

He crossed the kitchen in three strides, pushed through the screen door, and ran after him.

Phuwin was at the edge of the clearing, his back to the kitchen, his shoulders shaking. The river rushed in the distance, and the sun was low, casting long shadows across the grass. Pond caught up to him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him around.

"Phuwin—"

"Get off me." Phuwin's voice was raw, thick with tears. He pushed at Pond's chest, hitting him, shoving him. "Get the fuck off me."

Pond didn't let go. He pulled Phuwin in, wrapping his arms around him, holding him tight against his chest. "Phuwin—"

"I said get off!" Phuwin shoved him, hard, and Pond stumbled back. Phuwin's feet caught on a root, and he stumbled, catching himself, his chest heaving. His face was wet, tears streaming down his cheeks, his eyes red and swollen. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to just grab me and hold me like everything's fine."

Pond's hands were shaking. "Phuwin, you don't see it. You don't see how he looks at you. He's always staring at you, always touching you, always saying your name like he has a right to—"

"Everyone has a right to say my name!" Phuwin's voice broke. "It's not a private thing, Pond. It's my name. And Give is not always with me. He's just—he's just being nice."

"He kissed your hand." Pond's voice was rough, raw. "I saw it. I saw you let him kiss your hand. Why would you let someone do that when you're engaged? When you're wearing my ring? I fucking claimed you."

Phuwin stared at him. His face crumpled. "What the fuck, Pond?" His voice was barely a whisper. "You don't have a claim over me. I am myself. I lived most of my life without you, without Give, without Santa or Marc or Siyh or Jungkook or Taehyung. I have the right to talk to other men."

"But you let him touch you—"

"You let women touch you all over at university!" Phuwin's voice rose, cracking. "On the streets. At the mall. They crowd around you, they take photos with you, they grab your arms, your chest, and I don't yell. I don't confront you. I try my best to handle it." His voice broke, and tears spilled down his cheeks. "You dance. You drink. You party. You smoke. You go out. You take photos with women every single day. It isn't a problem, is it?"

Pond opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Phuwin's shoulders shook. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, but the tears kept coming. "I keep on trying to love you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "And I do. Every time, Pond. Every time, I do. But you make me feel like it's not worth it when you lash out like this."

"Because you let men rub all over you!" The words tore out of Pond, raw and desperate. "You let him touch you, you let him lean over you, you let him—"

"Pond, don't you fucking get it?" Phuwin screamed. The sound tore through him, raw and broken, and his whole body shook with it. "For fuck's sake. I can't do this anymore. Not with you."

He pulled the ring off his finger—the gold band, the diamond, the promise—and threw it at Pond's chest.

It hit him and fell to the grass.

Phuwin turned and ran.

Pond stood there, frozen, the ring at his feet, the sound of Phuwin's footsteps fading into the trees. The river rushed in the distance. The sun sank lower. And Pond was alone.