Phuwin's face pressed into Santa's shoulder, the fabric of his shirt growing damp and hot against his cheek. The sobs came in waves now, less violent than before but no less wrecking, each one pulling his whole body tight before releasing him limp again. His fingers had twisted into the cotton at Santa's chest, knuckles white, holding on like Santa was the only solid thing left in the world.

"I still love him," Phuwin choked out, the words muffled against Santa's collarbone. "I love him so fucking much, Santa. I do. Oh god."

Santa's hand came up to cradle the back of Phuwin's head, thumb stroking slow through his hair, over and over, a rhythm older than words. "I know," he said quietly. "I know you do."

"Then why does it hurt like this?" Phuwin pulled back just enough to look up, his face a ruin of tears and snot and swollen eyes, brown bangs plastered to his forehead. "If I love him that much, why can't I just—" His voice cracked, splintered, died.

Santa didn't look away. He held Phuwin's gaze with that calm, steady thing he did, the one that made people forget he was the youngest of them. "Because love doesn't mean you have to swallow everything. It doesn't mean you stop hurting when he hurts you."

Phuwin's face crumpled again, fresh tears spilling before the old ones had dried. "But I miss him. I already miss him and it's been—" He didn't finish. He didn't know how to finish. It had been an hour. Maybe less. Maybe a lifetime.

Siyh shifted on the floorboards beside them, her knees pressed together, hands hovering uselessly near Phuwin's back like she didn't know where to put them. "Okay," she said, her voice tight. "Okay, you need water. You need to drink something before you dehydrate yourself into a husk."

She reached for the glass she'd filled from the cabin sink, the one that had been sitting untouched on the floorboards for the last ten minutes. Water sloshed over the rim as she brought it up, a small spill darkening the wood grain. "Here. Drink."

Phuwin shook his head, turning his face back into Santa's chest. "I can't."

"You can." Siyh's voice wasn't soft. It was the voice she used when she was terrified and trying not to show it. "You can, and you will, because I'm not watching you pass out on us. Drink."

Santa took the glass from her, his free arm still wrapped around Phuwin's shaking shoulders. "Come on," he murmured. "Just a little. For me."

It was the "for me" that did it. Phuwin's hands unclenched from Santa's shirt, one of them coming up to take the glass. His fingers trembled so badly the water shivered against the rim, and Santa had to guide it to his mouth, one hand steadying his wrist.

Phuwin drank. Two swallows, three, then he choked, sputtering water down his chin. Siyh was there with the edge of her sleeve, wiping it away before he could even reach for it.

"Good," Santa said. "Again."

Phuwin shook his head, pushing the glass away. "I can't. I can't, I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Then you'll throw up," Siyh said flatly. "And then you'll drink more water and feel slightly less like a corpse. That's how it works."

Phuwin let out a sound that was almost a laugh, a wet, broken thing that died before it could become anything. He set the glass down on the floorboards, next to the spill, and slumped back against Santa.

The cabin was quiet around them. The river slapped against the bank outside, steady and indifferent, a sound that had been there before any of this and would be there long after. The single window had fogged with their breath and the heat of three bodies pressed into a small space, and through it the last of the dusk was bleeding into true dark.

"He feels the same," Santa said quietly.

Phuwin went still.

"I've watched him for five and a half years," Santa continued, his hand still stroking through Phuwin's hair. "I've watched the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's paying attention. The way he finds you in a crowded room before he's even finished walking in. The way he draws a lopsided whale because he saw you sketch one once."

Phuwin's breath hitched. "That was—"

"That was love," Santa said simply. "The stupid, clumsy, trying-too-hard kind. The kind that messes up because it cares so much it doesn't know what to do with itself."

Phuwin shook his head, pressing his forehead against Santa's shoulder. "He shoved Give. In front of everyone. He screamed at him—"

"I know."

"He threw my phone against a wall once. He gets jealous and he breaks things and he—" Phuwin's voice broke. "He scares me sometimes. And I still love him. What does that say about me?"

Santa was quiet for a long moment. The river kept slapping. Siyh's hand found Phuwin's knee and squeezed, once, hard.

"It says you're human," Santa said. "It says you love someone who isn't perfect, and that's not a flaw in you. That's just what love is."

Phuwin's shoulders shook. "I don't know how to fix it. I don't know if I can fix it. I threw the ring, Santa. I threw it at him and told him the wedding was off."

"I know."

"How do I take that back?"

Santa's thumb kept moving, slow and steady against Phuwin's scalp. "Maybe you don't. Maybe you don't take it back. Maybe you both have to sit with what happened and figure out if you can build something new on top of it."

Phuwin made a sound, small and lost, and pressed deeper into Santa's chest. "I can't do it alone. I can't—I can't be the only one trying. Every time I try, he—"

"I know."

"He loves me," Phuwin said, and it came out like a sob and a question at the same time. "He loves me but he doesn't know how to not hurt me. And I don't know how to make him understand that loving me isn't the same as owning me."

The words hung in the damp air, heavy and raw. Siyh's grip on his knee tightened. Santa's hand stilled on the back of his head.

"That's the thing to tell him," Santa said softly. "When you're ready. That's the thing."

Phuwin cried harder. Not the wracking sobs of before, but a quieter, more exhausted kind of crying, the kind that came from a place past words. His fingers found Santa's shirt again, twisting into the fabric, and he held on like he was drowning.

"I just want him to see me," he whispered. "Not the idea of me. Not the person he wants me to be. Just me."

Santa's arm tightened around him. "He sees you. He's terrified of losing you, and that terror makes him stupid, but he sees you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've watched him for five and a half years," Santa said again. "And I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

Phuwin's breath caught. Something in his chest cracked open, fresh and raw, and the tears came harder. He couldn't stop them. He didn't know how to stop them. They just kept coming, hot and endless, soaking into Santa's shirt like the river soaking into the bank outside.

Siyh pulled her phone out of her pocket. Her hands were shaking. "Shit," she said, her voice cracking on the word. "Shit, shit, shit."

She scrolled through her contacts, thumb jabbing at the screen. Phuwin heard the dial tone, faint and tinny in the quiet of the cabin, and then Marc's voice on the other end, groggy and confused.

"Marc. It's Siyh. I need you to call Godji. Phuwin's aunt. Tell her to come to the camp." She paused, her eyes on Phuwin, on the way his body had started to slump against Santa, heavier than before. "Tell her Phuwin's not okay."

Phuwin heard the words like they were coming from very far away. He felt Santa's hand on his back, felt Siyh's fingers still wrapped around his knee, felt the rough wood of the floorboards beneath him and the damp press of Santa's shirt against his cheek.

He was so tired. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, really slept, without waking up reaching for a body that wasn't there.

"Santa," he murmured, his voice slurring at the edges. "I love him so much."

"I know," Santa said. "I know you do."

Phuwin wanted to say something else. He wanted to say that he didn't know how to be okay, that he didn't know if he would ever be okay, that the thought of a future without Pond felt like a hole in his chest that nothing else could fill.

But the words wouldn't come. His tongue felt thick, his eyelids heavy. The river kept slapping against the bank, steady and indifferent, and the last thing he felt was Santa's hand cradling the back of his head, thumb still stroking through his hair, before everything went dark.

The silence that followed was not the quiet of peace. It was the sound of a held breath, of three people frozen in the space where a heartbeat used to be. The river kept its steady slap against the bank, indifferent to the boy who had just gone limp in Santa's arms.

Santa didn't move. His hand stayed on the back of Phuwin's head, his thumb still pressed into the damp hair, frozen mid-stroke. He could feel the weight of Phuwin's body against his chest, heavier now, boneless, all the fight and the tears and the desperate love drained out of him like water from a cracked vessel.

"Phuwin?" Santa's voice was quiet, almost gentle. He shifted his hold, one arm sliding under Phuwin's shoulders, the other still cradling his head. "Phuwin. Hey. Wake up."

No response. Phuwin's face was slack against Santa's collarbone, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. The tears had dried on his cheeks, leaving pale tracks in the lamplight, and for a moment he looked almost peaceful, like he was sleeping off a long night instead of collapsing under the weight of his own heart.

"Is he—" Siyh's voice cracked. She was still holding her phone, the call with Marc long since ended, the screen gone dark in her grip. "Santa. Is he breathing?"

"He's breathing." Santa's voice was steady, but his hands were not. He could feel the slight rise and fall of Phuwin's chest against his own, the faint puff of air against his neck. "He just passed out. He's exhausted. He hasn't slept—" He stopped, swallowed. "He hasn't slept properly in days."

Siyh's hand came up to cover her mouth. Her eyes were bright, wet, and she blinked hard, forcing the tears back down. "Shit," she whispered, the word barely a breath. "Shit, shit, shit."

Santa shifted, careful, slow, easing Phuwin's weight off his chest and onto the floorboards beside him. Phuwin's head lolled, his brown bangs falling across his closed eyes, and Santa caught him before his skull could meet the wood, guiding him down to the rough floor with a gentleness that made Siyh's throat ache.

"We need to get him on the bed," Santa said. "He can't stay on the floor."

Jungkook moved first. He had been standing in the corner, silent, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching the whole thing unravel like a thread pulled loose from a sweater. Now he crossed the room in three long strides and crouched down beside Santa, his dark eyes scanning Phuwin's slack face.

"I'll take his legs," Jungkook said. "You get his shoulders."

Santa nodded. They worked together, carefully, lifting Phuwin's limp body between them. Phuwin's head fell back, his lips parted, his arms dangling, and for a moment Siyh saw the pale indent on his ring finger, that bare strip of skin where the band had lived for so long, and she had to look away.

They laid him on the bed. The mattress sagged under his weight, the old springs creaking, and Santa pulled the thin blanket up over Phuwin's chest, tucking it around his shoulders like he was a child again, like the last six years hadn't happened at all.

Phuwin didn't stir. His chest rose and fell, slow and even, his face slack and peaceful in a way it hadn't been in hours. The tears were gone. The shaking was gone. The desperate, broken words had stopped, and all that was left was the quiet sound of his breathing and the river outside, still slapping against the bank.

Siyh sank down onto the edge of the bed, her hand finding Phuwin's, her thumb pressing into his palm. His fingers were cold, limp, and she wrapped her own around them, holding on like she could keep him from slipping any further away.

"Godji's coming," she said, her voice rough. "Marc said he'd call her. She'll be here in—" She glanced at her phone, at the dark screen. "I don't know. Soon. She'll be here soon."

Santa didn't answer. He was still standing at the foot of the bed, his hands hanging at his sides, his eyes fixed on Phuwin's face. The calm, steady thing he always carried with him had cracked, just slightly, just at the edges, and Siyh could see the fear underneath.

"He'll be okay," she said, and it came out like a question.

Santa looked at her. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he pushed them up with one finger, slow, deliberate. "He's breathing," he said. "That's enough for now."

The cabin settled into a heavy quiet. The river kept slapping. The window had fully fogged over, the last of the dusk gone, and the only light came from the single lamp on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the rough timber walls. Somewhere outside, a branch creaked in the wind, and Siyh felt the sound like a small, sharp thing pressing into her chest.

Phuwin's hand was still in hers. She could feel his pulse, faint but steady, beating against her fingertips like a small, stubborn thing refusing to give up. She held on tighter.