Pond let the silence stretch between them in the parking lot, the bass from the club vibrating through the concrete under his feet. Tame stood two meters away, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides like he was already imagining throwing the first punch.
"You don't have a fucking heart," Pond said, voice low and steady. "Not for him. Not the way I did."
Tame's eyes narrowed. "What did you just—"
"Maybe I should make him stop." Pond tilted his head, shadows from the streetlamp cutting across his face. "Make Phuwin stop following me around. Stop getting all flustered every time I look at him. Then you'd actually have to prove you've got some claim on him. Instead of just saying it."
Tame stepped forward until they were chest to chest. Pond could smell the expensive cologne, the sharpness of anger coming off him like heat off asphalt.
"You need to stop bothering him," Tame said, each word clipped. "Stop going near him. He's done with you."
Pond laughed. Soft. Almost sad. "I can't do that."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because I'm not gonna let someone hurt him." Pond's voice dropped. "And you? You already have."
Something snapped behind Tame's eyes. His fist connected with Pond's jaw before Pond could brace — a crack of pain that bloomed hot and immediate, sending him stumbling sideways into the hood of a parked car.
Pond touched his lip. Blood on his fingers. He looked up at Tame and smiled.
"That all you got?"
Tame lunged again.
This time Pond was ready — he caught Tame's wrist mid-swing and drove his other fist into Tame's stomach, felt the air leave him in a sharp grunt. They grappled, stumbling across the asphalt, shoes scuffing, breath ragged. Pond's shirt tore at the collar when Tame grabbed it, fabric ripping, cool night air hitting his skin. He answered with a knee to Tame's ribs, felt something give.
Someone screamed from the club entrance. Then another voice. Then a crowd was gathering, phones out, shouts of stop, stop, someone call security—
Pond barely heard them. His blood was singing. Tame's fist caught his cheekbone, split the skin, and he answered with a hook that sent Tame staggering back into a lamppost with a clang of metal.
"What the fuck!"
The voice cut through everything.
Pond's head snapped toward the entrance. Phuwin stood there, Fourth and Satang flanking him, his face pale under the club lights, his eyes wide and wet.
"What the fuck," Phuwin said again, pushing through the crowd. "It's been barely four minutes. Four fucking minutes and you're—"
Tame shoved off the lamppost and threw himself at Pond again. Pond caught him, twisted, drove him down. Tame's elbow caught Pond's ribs. Pond's fist found Tame's mouth.
"Stop!" Phuwin's voice cracked. "P'Pond! P'Tame! Stop!"
He moved between them.
Pond saw it happening in slow motion — Phuwin's hand reaching out, Phuwin's body stepping into the space between two men who wanted to kill each other. Pond tried to pull his swing, tried to redirect, but momentum was already carrying his fist forward.
His knuckles connected with Phuwin's mouth.
Phuwin stumbled back. His purse hit the ground. His hands flew to his face, and when he pulled them away, they were red.
Time stopped.
Fourth was there first, wrapping an arm around Phuwin's shoulders, pulling him away from the fight. Blood dripped from Phuwin's lip, trailing down his chin, staining the collar of the sheer black shirt Tame had given him.
"Get him out," Fourth said, voice tight, steering Phuwin toward the curb.
Pond's hands dropped. Tame stopped mid-swing. The crowd went silent.
Pond shoved Tame hard — a final, wordless push — and then he was moving, crossing the asphalt, dropping to his knees in front of Phuwin.
"Phuwin. Phuwin."
Satang was already there, a cloth pressed gently to Phuwin's lip, dabbing at the blood. Phuwin's eyes were glassy, breath coming in shallow hitches.
Satang looked up at Pond, searched his face, then gave a small nod. "You want to talk to him?"
Phuwin rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Satang finished wiping the blood — a split lip, already swelling, already bruising — and stepped back.
"It's okay," Phuwin said. His voice was tiny.
Pond reached out. His hand was shaking. His thumb found the corner of Phuwin's mouth, grazing the bruise so gently it was barely a touch.
"I'm sorry," Pond said. The words felt useless. "I'm so sorry. I should've listened to you. I should've—"
Phuwin's hand came up and caught Pond's thumb. Held it.
"It's okay," Phuwin said again. Louder this time.
He took a shaky breath. His eyes were still wet, but his voice steadied. "I just want to go home now."
Pond nodded. He picked up Phuwin's purse from where it had fallen, dusted it off, handed it back. Their fingers brushed.
Phuwin pulled out his phone. His hands trembled as he opened the Uber app.
Fourth and Satang flanked him as they waited, standing between him and the parking lot, between him and the crowd, between him and Tame, who was still standing by the lamppost, blood smeared across his mouth, watching.
The Uber arrived in five minutes. Phuwin slid into the back seat. Fourth climbed in beside him. Satang took the front.
The door closed.
Pond stood in the parking lot and watched the taillights disappear around the corner.
---
In the back of the Uber, Satang twisted around in his seat. "Okay. So. Do you see it now?"
Phuwin pressed the cloth to his lip. The bleeding had mostly stopped.
"See what?"
"That Tame is not good news." Satang's voice was gentler than his words. "Like, at all."
Fourth leaned into Phuwin's shoulder. "And maybe you should consider taking Pond back."
Phuwin's laugh was wet. "You're joking."
"I'm not not joking," Fourth said. "He literally dropped to his knees for you. In the parking lot. In front of everyone."
"He hit me."
"On accident. Because he was fighting your psycho stalker—"
"Tame is not—"
"Phuwin." Satang's voice cut through. "Are you okay? Like, actually. Does it hurt?"
Phuwin touched his lip. The bruise was tender, blooming purple, a reminder of exactly how tonight had gone.
"It hurts," he admitted. "But not as much as I thought it would."
---
The condo was dark when they walked in. Phuwin flipped the lights, kicked off his shoes, dropped his purse on the entryway table. Behind him, Fourth and Satang were already bickering.
"I'm taking the bed."
"No way, I called it."
"You called it in the car, that doesn't count."
Phuwin let them argue. He walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked at himself in the mirror.
His lip was swollen. A purple bruise was spreading across his lower lip, angling down toward his chin. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a mess, the sheer black shirt wrinkled and stained with a thin line of dried blood.
He looked wrecked.
He also looked, for the first time in a year, like someone was fighting for him.
He changed into an old t-shirt and loose shorts, wandered back into the living room. Fourth and Satang had stopped arguing and were sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, scrolling through their phones.
"The ship name is real," Fourth said without looking up. "PondPhuwin. It's trending."
"People filmed the fight?" Phuwin dropped onto the armchair.
"People film everything." Satang held up his phone. "There's already a fan edit set to sad piano music. It has twelve thousand views."
Phuwin buried his face in his hands. "Oh my god."
"Phuwin." Fourth's voice went soft. "You need to stop acting like such a red flag and get your act together."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You so are." Satang sat up. "You've been pining after him for a year. He's clearly still in love with you. Tame is a walking parade of red flags. The math is not hard."
Phuwin rubbed his eyes. His lip throbbed.
"What if he doesn't want me back?"
"He dropped to his knees, Phuwin."
"He called me Phuphu." The words slipped out before Phuwin could stop them.
Fourth and Satang exchanged a look.
"When?" Fourth asked.
"In the parking lot. Before the fight. He said—" Phuwin's voice caught. "He said he wouldn't let someone hurt me."
The room went quiet.
"Make the first move," Satang said finally. "Just... text him. Tomorrow. See what happens."
Phuwin looked at his phone on the coffee table. Dark screen. Silent.
"Maybe," he said.
---
They brushed their teeth in a row at the bathroom sink, three bodies bumping into each other, complaining about toothpaste spatter and who left the cap off. Fourth claimed the left side of the bed. Satang took the right. Phuwin ended up in the middle, sandwiched between them, staring at the ceiling.
"I can hear you thinking," Satang said.
"I'm not thinking."
"You're thinking so loud you're keeping me up."
Fourth snorted. "He's thinking about Pond."
"I am not—"
"He called You Phuphu once," Fourth said. "In the club. Before everything went to shit. I heard Him."
Phuwin went still.
"He liked it," Fourth continued. "You could see it in his face. That little softening around his eyes."
"Exes are complicated," Phuwin said. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Yeah." Satang's hand found his in the dark, squeezed once. "But some of them are worth the complication."
Phuwin closed his eyes. His lip ached. His chest ached. Somewhere in the parking lot of a club he never wanted to see again, Pond had knelt in front of him with blood on his knuckles and apology in his eyes.
The ship name is real, Fourth had said.
Phuwin didn't know if he believed in ship names. But he believed in the way Pond's thumb had brushed his lip. The way Pond's voice had broken when he said sorry.
He believed in that.
He fell asleep with his phone inches from his hand, a draft message open but unsent, three words hovering in the dark:
Are you okay?