The knock comes sharp against the bathroom door. Three raps. Tame's rhythm.
"I'm going to be in the car." His voice is flat through the wood. Controlled. "Don't take too long."
Phuwin stares at his own reflection. The sheer black silk shirt hangs off his shoulders, translucent in the bathroom light, the fabric catching the hollow of his collarbone and the dip of his sternum. Tame bought it. Tame chose it. The shirt feels like a leash. "Okay."
Footsteps retreating. The front door opens. Closes.
Phuwin exhales. He hasn't realized he was holding his breath.
"He's gone?" Fourth's voice crackles through the phone speaker, still on the bathroom counter. "Phu. Phuwin. Answer me."
"He's in the car." Phuwin picks up his phone. Fourth and Satang are still on the call, still watching through the speaker, still the only two people who actually see him. "I'm finishing up."
"The shirt looks good on you." Fourth's voice softens. "But I can tell you don't like it."
Phuwin runs his fingers along the collar. The silk is cool. Expensive. It feels like a costume he didn't choose. "It's fine."
Phuwin grabs his purse from the counter. The leather is warm from sitting in the sun, and he loops the strap over his shoulder, adjusts it so it sits against his hip. The silk shirt shifts with the movement, catches light — black and liquid, like oil on water.
He turns back to the mirror. His hair needs fixing. He runs his fingers through it, tucks a strand behind his ear, then pulls a few loose again. The way he looks when he's nervous. The way he looked when Pond used to reach over and fix it for him.
The lip tint is next. He uncaps it, leans close to the mirror, traces the applicator along his bottom lip. Then the top. He presses his lips together, watches the color settle. Cherry. Slight sheen. He adds gloss, a thin layer that catches the bathroom light, and his mouth looks like he's been kissed.
He smiles. Test it. The color suits him. He looks — he looks like someone going somewhere. Someone someone might want to see.
His phone buzzes against the counter.
Pond: I'm at the club. Waiting for you.
A single text. No follow-up. No question. Just — waiting.
Phuwin's face flushes. The heat starts at his chest, crawls up his neck, settles in his cheeks. He presses the phone to his chest, holds it there a second, breathing. Then he smiles — wide, unstoppable — and shoves the phone into his purse.
He unlocks the bathroom door. Rushes out.
"Whoa." Fourth is still on the video call, but the phone is propped against something in the living room, and he and Satang are watching as Phuwin nearly trips over the hallway rug. "Where's the fire?"
"He texted." Phuwin grabs his keys, his purse strap, his jacket — forgets the jacket, doesn't need it, the club will be warm. "He's waiting."
Fourth covers his mouth with both hands. His eyes go wide above his fingers. "Mai jing la?"
"She's serious," Satang says, grinning. "Look at her. She's glowing."
Phuwin's already at the front door. He turns back to the phone, catches the frame — Fourth's hands still over his mouth, Satang leaning in, both of them watching him like he's about to jump off a cliff into water.
"I'll see you at the club." Phuwin's voice is breathless. "Bye."
"Wait—" Fourth starts.
Phuwin ends the call. He shoves the phone in his purse, takes a breath, and opens the door.
Tame's sedan is idling in the parking lot. The engine hums. The windows are tinted dark, impossible to see inside. Phuwin walks to the passenger door, pulls it open, slides in. The seat is warm. The air inside smells like cologne and mint.
Tame watches him. His eyes track Phuwin's face, the gloss on his lips, the way the silk shirt hangs on his shoulders. "You look good."
"Thanks." Phuwin buckles his seatbelt. "Let's go."
Tame doesn't move. "What were you smiling about?"
"What?"
"Nothing." Phuwin's voice comes out too fast. He drops his phone into his purse, the leather flap falling closed with a soft click. His fingers stay pressed against it, like he's hiding evidence.
"Nothing." Tame repeats the word like it tastes wrong. His hand moves before Phuwin can react — fingers wrapping around Phuwin's wrist, tight enough that the bones shift under the pressure. "You were smiling like that at nothing?"
Phuwin's breath catches. Not from pain — from the memory of last night, the same grip, the same angle, the same bruise blooming under Tame's palm. "Let go." His voice stays quiet. Controlled. "You're hurting me."
"Tell me who you were talking to." Tame's tone drops lower, darker, the kind of voice that doesn't ask. "Don't lie to me, Phu."
"I wasn't—" Phuwin stops. Swallows. Looks at Tame's hand on his wrist, then up at his face. "Stop yelling at me. Please. Just let go."
The silence stretches. Three heartbeats. Four. Tame's jaw works, muscle jumping beneath the skin, and then he releases — fingers opening one by one like it costs him something physical to uncurl them.
Phuwin pulls his hand back, cradling it against his chest without thinking. He doesn't look at the marks. He can feel them already, a warm throb where Tame's grip was.
"I was talking to Pond." The name comes out steady. Defiant. "Fourth and Satang were on the call too. That's it. That's all."
The car goes still. Tame's hands are on the steering wheel, knuckles white, and for a long moment he doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't blink. Then he turns the key. The engine roars to life.
"Fine." The word is flat. "Fine."
He pulls out of the parking lot too fast. Tires screech against concrete. Phuwin grabs the door handle, bracing himself as the car surges onto the main road, the city lights blurring past the window.
Neither of them speaks for the rest of the drive.
Phuwin watches the street lamps flash by, counting them. One. Two. Three. His phone buzzes in his purse — a message, probably from Fourth, probably asking if he's okay — but he doesn't reach for it. Doesn't dare. Not with Tame's knuckles still white on the steering wheel.
The club appears on the left, a low building with purple light spilling from its windows and bass thrumming through the sidewalk. Tame pulls into the drop-off zone, stops hard enough that Phuwin lurches forward against the seatbelt.
"We're here." Tame doesn't look at him.
Phuwin unclips his seatbelt. His hand is on the door handle when he pauses, turning back. "Thank you. For the ride."
He means it. He hates that he means it.
Tame says nothing.
Phuwin opens the door and steps out into the cool night air, and the first thing he sees is Pond.
Pond is leaning against the wall near the entrance, half in shadow, half in purple light, and the sight of him makes Phuwin stop breathing for an entirely different reason. The silk shirt is loose, almost sheer, hanging off his shoulders and clinging to his chest. His biceps strain against the fabric when he shifts his weight. The muscles of his stomach are visible through the translucent material, shadows pooling between each ridge, each line. His jeans are dark blue and baggy, sagging low on his hips, and a black-and-blue jacket is tied around his waist, loose sleeves brushing his thighs.
He looks like he walked out of a dream. Or a fever. Or both.
Phuwin's mouth goes dry.
Pond looks up. Their eyes meet across the parking lot. And Pond smiles — slow, warm, intimate — like he's been waiting all night for this moment.
Phuwin's feet move before his brain catches up. He crosses the sidewalk, his purse swinging against his hip, and then he's close enough to smell Pond's cologne — something clean and sharp, sandalwood and salt.
"You're here." Phuwin's voice comes out smaller than he intends. Softer.
"I said I'd think about it." Pond's voice is low, rough at the edges, the kind of voice that settles in Phuwin's chest and stays there. "I thought about it."
Phuwin laughs — a surprised, breathless sound — and steps forward, arms wrapping around Pond's waist. He has to rise on his tiptoes, his face pressing into Pond's shoulder, and for a second, a single suspended second, he lets himself feel it. The solid warmth of Pond's body. The way Pond's arms come up slowly, hands settling on his back without quite holding him. The way Pond smells. The way it feels to be this close.
"I'm happy to see you." Phuwin's words are muffled against Pond's shirt. "Really happy."
Pond's hand moves up, fingers brushing the back of Phuwin's neck — light, barely there, then gone. "I'm happy to see you too."
Someone clears their throat.
Phuwin pulls back, turning. Fourth and Satang are standing a few feet away, both of them grinning. Fourth has his hand over his mouth, eyes wide, and Satang is smiling like he just won something.
"Don't stop on our account," Fourth says, his voice muffled behind his palm. "Please. Keep going. I'm filming this for my grandchildren."
Phuwin's face burns. "I hate you."
"You love me. Now come here — we need to talk." Fourth grabs Phuwin's arm and pulls him away, steering him toward the club entrance. Satang follows, still smiling, and Phuwin lets himself be led — but he looks back over his shoulder once, catching Pond's eye.
Pond is watching him. That smile still on his face, soft and knowing.
Then Fourth drags him inside, and the door swings shut between them.
Outside, the bass dims to a distant throb. Pond turns, finds Tame standing by the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.
They're alone now.
Tame takes a step forward. The parking lot lights catch the hard line of his jaw, his shoulders squared like he's already prepared for a fight that hasn't started yet.
"You hear me?" Tame's voice is low, cut with something sharp. "Phuwin is mine now. You don't get to show up in your little outfit and pretend you still have a claim."
Pond tilts his head. Lets the silence stretch. He's good at silence — knows how it makes people fill the space with their own noise, their own fear. Tame's already doing it, shifting weight from foot to foot, fists curling at his sides.
"I'm not here to claim anything," Pond says. Soft. Almost apologetic. He lets his shoulders drop, lets his hands stay loose at his sides, lets himself look like the version of himself that doesn't know how to fight back. "He invited me. I came to support him."
"Support him." Tame laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You think I'm stupid? I saw how you looked at him. I saw your hand on his waist."
Pond blinks. Innocent. Confused. "I was just greeting him. We're friends."
Pond lets the silence stretch. Lets Tame's words hang in the air between them like smoke. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't step back. Just stands there in his loose silk top and baggy jacket, the fabric catching the club's neon spill, his body a quiet invitation that has nothing to do with the man in front of him.
"A year," Pond repeats, and his voice is gentle in a way that makes Tame's jaw tighten visibly. "I know how long it's been. I was there."
Tame steps closer. Close enough that the space between them could be crossed in a breath, in a fist, in a single wrong word. "Then you know you lost him. You gave that up. He's mine now."