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By their third year of university, everyone in the friend group had accepted one truth with the tired patience of people forced to watch the same slow-burn drama for too long:
Pond and Phuwin were not dating.
According to Pond and Phuwin.
According to the rest of campus, however, Pond and Phuwin had been married since freshman orientation, divorced three times during midterms, reconciled during finals, and were currently raising one shared emotional support iced matcha.
It was not entirely the campus’ fault.
Pond and Phuwin were simply very bad at looking single.
They sat beside each other during shared lectures even when there were other empty chairs. Pond bought two drinks from the cafe almost every morning, one iced americano for himself and one iced matcha for Phuwin. Pond kept hair ties in his backpack even though his own hair was short and never needed tying, because Phuwin’s hair was long enough to fall into his eyes whenever he studied and Phuwin always forgot to bring one.
Pond remembered Phuwin’s class schedule better than his own. Phuwin knew exactly which convenience store sandwich Pond pretended not to like but always stole bites of. When they crossed the street, Pond walked on the traffic side without thinking. When Phuwin complained that his laptop was too heavy, Pond took his bag without asking, and Phuwin let him carry it like this was a perfectly normal service provided by very platonic friends.
Still, they were not dating.
Again, according to Phuwin.
Their friend group knew better because some of them had survived this nonsense since high school.
Pond, Phuwin, Dunk, and Satang had been in the same high school, and even back then Pond and Phuwin had already possessed the kind of dynamic that made teachers pause mid-sentence and classmates whisper, “Are they…?”
Back then, Pond was the school’s golden boy.
Tall, handsome, sunny, and annoyingly kind, he was the type of boy who carried everyone’s bags, opened classroom doors, helped teachers move tables, and smiled like it was his personal responsibility to make the world less miserable.
Phuwin, on the other hand, was the pretty honor student everyone admired from a safe distance. He had beautiful hair, perfect notes, sharp eyes, and an even sharper tongue. He looked like the kind of person who had never failed an exam, never lost an argument, and never once tolerated nonsense unless that nonsense was named Pond.
Dunk had watched them bicker over everything. Cafeteria seats, homework answers, group projects, Pond’s terrible handwriting, and whether Pond hovering around Phuwin every morning counted as friendship or a medical condition.
Satang had watched Pond give Phuwin his hoodie during a rainy sports day, then spend the rest of the afternoon cold and shivering, smiling like an idiot because Phuwin kept wearing it.
By the time they entered university, the friend group expanded like a badly managed group project.
Joong came from Dunk’s faculty, loud, handsome, and allergic to silence. Winny came from Pond’s engineering circle and behaved like a man whose primary purpose was to witness drama and report it accurately. Perth, who was Phuwin's classmate, started eating lunch with them during second year because he and Phuwin kept getting paired for presentations and discovered they worked well together if they were both allowed to be mean about formatting.
They were all the same age, all third-year students, and all scattered across different majors yet somehow, they were always together.
They occupied the same cafeteria table every lunch, the same corner of the library during exam weeks, the same convenience store after evening classes, and the same bleachers every Friday afternoon when Pond, Winny, Joong, and half the engineering faculty played basketball behind the sports complex.
They were close-knit in the loudest, most annoying way possible.
Which meant everyone knew everyone’s secrets.
Or at least, almost everyone’s secrets.
Phuwin’s secret was that he was in love with Pond.
Phuwin denied this with the conviction of a defendant representing himself poorly in court.
“Move,” Phuwin said one Wednesday afternoon, dropping his bag on the long cafeteria table.
Pond immediately shifted sideways, making room beside him.
Joong looked up from his noodles. “No hesitation.”
“He is very well-trained,” Dunk said.
Pond only smiled. “He likes this seat.”
“I like being away from the sun,” Phuwin corrected, sitting down beside him.
“We are indoors,” Satang said.
“And your point is?” Phuwin replied.
“Whatever lovebirds,” Winny said.
Pond grinned into his drink.
Phuwin kicked him under the table.
Pond did not even flinch. “What?”
“Stop smiling like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you enjoy their stupidity.”
“I do enjoy their stupidity.”
“They’re being stupid about us.”
“Are they?” Pond asked.
The table went quiet.
Every head turned.
Joong’s chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. Dunk leaned forward like a reporter at a press conference. Satang looked both delighted and afraid.
Phuwin froze for half a second.
Then he opened his laptop with unnecessary aggression. “There is no question. There is no answer. There is no us. There is only me, unfortunately surrounded by people with too much free time and too little shame.”
“And Pond?” Perth asked mildly.
Phuwin took a long sip of his drink, buying himself enough time to look calm and unaffected.
“Pond is decor.”
Pond looked offended. “Decor?”
“Expensive decor.”
Pond’s expression softened immediately. “Oh.”
Dunk slammed both hands on the table. “He called you expensive decor and you looked touched?”
“I heard expensive,” Pond said.
“Oh my god,” Satang muttered. “He’s hopeless.”
Phuwin did not look up from his laptop because if he looked at Pond, he would see that soft smile and then his ribcage would start doing embarrassing things.
Pond did that too often.
Smiled like Phuwin’s insults were souvenirs.
Smiled at their friends teasing instead of correcting them.
It was unbearable. It was also addictive.
Phuwin liked when people teased them. Secretly and shamefully. Deep in the rotten little part of his heart where hope lived rent-free, he liked it when someone said “your boyfriend” and Pond did not deny it. He liked it when the whole table groaned because Pond automatically opened Phuwin’s drink bottle before his own. He liked it when freshmen whispered about them near the campus cafe.
He liked hearing their names together.
PondPhuwin.
PhuwinPond.
Like a rumor. Like a joke. Like a possibility.
But liking it was dangerous, because Pond never confirmed anything either. Pond just smiled. Pond always smiled. Pond smiled at aunties, professors, stray cats, freshmen, security guards, and malfunctioning vending machines. Pond’s smile could not be trusted as evidence.
So Phuwin denied everything.
Then Santa came along.
Technically, they had known Santa since first year.
Everyone knew Santa.
Santa from Psychology, with his soft cheeks, bright eyes, and sweet little smile that made him look like he had stepped out of a campus brochure about kindness. He was pretty in a different way from Phuwin. Where Phuwin was striking, sharp, almost untouchable when he was quiet, Santa was soft and warm and devastatingly cute, the kind of beautiful that made people want to protect him, and possibly apologize even when he was the one at fault.
He had clear skin, plush lips, expressive eyes, and a face that looked innocent even when he was absolutely not.
That was the problem.
Santa looked like a cutie but behaved like a menace.
Phuwin disliked him on principle.
Not because Santa had ever done anything wrong.
That would have been easier. Convenient, even.
Unfortunately, Santa was nice.
He remembered birthdays. He shared snacks. He complimented people’s outfits. He once helped Satang carry equipment to the music building without being asked, then had the audacity to look cheerful about it. He laughed easily, made friends everywhere, and had the kind of soft, harmless face that made aunties want to feed him fruit.
Santa looked like a plush toy that had come to life through the power of good manners and pretty privilege.
Which was exactly why Phuwin did not trust him.
Nobody that cute should be that socially competent.
It felt suspicious and strategic.
And maybe, if Phuwin was being extremely honest with himself, which he almost never was, Santa’s niceness would not have bothered him so much if Pond had not noticed it first.
Because years ago, during freshman orientation, Pond had looked across the auditorium and said, very casually, very stupidly, “Who’s that? He’s pretty.”
Phuwin remembered the moment with unreasonable clarity.
It had been their second day of university. The entire batch had been crammed into the main hall, sweaty and confused, wearing name tags and listening to seniors explain club booths. Phuwin had been sitting beside Pond, pretending not to care about anything. Pond had been flipping through an orientation booklet until a group of Psychology students walked in to perform a welcome dance.
Santa had been in the center.
Pink cheeks, bright smile, hair falling perfectly over his forehead, looking sweet enough to cause dental problems.
Pond had leaned slightly forward.
“Oh,” he had said.
Phuwin, unfortunately cursed with hearing, had turned. “What?”
“That one,” Pond said, nodding toward the stage. “He’s pretty.”
Something in Phuwin’s stomach had done a small, ugly twist.
“Many people are pretty,” Phuwin said.
Pond smiled, still looking at the stage. “Yeah, but he has a cute smile.”
A cute smile.
A cute smile.
Phuwin had filed the phrase away in a mental cabinet labeled Evidence of Pond’s Betrayals, where it remained preserved in perfect condition for three years.
It did not help that Pond and Santa later joined the same university dance club, which meant Phuwin was forced to listen to Pond mention Santa with the casual carelessness of someone who did not know he was committing emotional crimes.
“Santa learns choreography so fast. It’s impressive.”
“Santa looks good on stage. He knows how to catch attention.”
“Santa’s timing is really clean. He makes everything look easy.”
“Santa smiles a lot during practice. It makes the whole room feel lighter.”
“Santa has really good expressions. He knows exactly when to look soft and when to look intense.”
Once, while they were eating noodles after practice, Pond had shown Phuwin a video and said, “Look at this part. Santa’s expression is really cute here.”
Phuwin had looked.
Santa’s expression was, unfortunately, cute.
Phuwin had returned Pond’s phone with enough calm to deserve an acting award and said, “Congratulations to him and his face.”
Pond had laughed.
Oblivious.
That was the key word.
Pond never said he liked Santa.
But Pond noticed him. Complimented him. Mentioned him. Looked at him.
And Phuwin, who had already been quietly, miserably falling in love with Pond, had reached the only logical conclusion available to a jealous idiot:
Pond had a crush on Santa.
Possibly even loved him.
But that thought made Phuwin’s chest feel strangely tight, so he downgraded it to crush for the sake of his own survival.
He had maintained a dignified emotional distance from Santa, which meant he was polite when necessary, civil under supervision, and mentally suspicious at all times.
Unfortunately, third year made avoidance difficult.
By then, Santa had started appearing at their hangouts more often because of Perth, which Phuwin found deeply inconvenient. Not suspicious, exactly. Just inconvenient in the way a mosquito was inconvenient. Small, persistent, and somehow always near the person Phuwin was trying to peacefully observe.
That afternoon, the group had taken over their usual spot on the bleachers overlooking the outdoor basketball court. Pond and the other boys were enjoying a casual practice game below, though Phuwin personally believed there was nothing casual about Pond running around in public looking like that.
Not that Phuwin was watching.
He was supervising.
There was a difference.
Dunk and Satang sat beside him, already acting suspiciously entertained despite nothing happening yet. Perth was a few steps away, quiet as usual, scrolling through his phone.
And beside Perth, two bleacher steps away from Phuwin, sat Santa.
Phuwin did not know why Santa was there.
Well.
Maybe he did.
On the court, Pond jogged past with the ball tucked under his arm. His hair was damp. His shirt was already clinging to his back. He looked up at the bleachers, found Phuwin immediately, and waved.
Phuwin did not wave back.
He lifted two fingers from his lap, which was already an act of generosity.
Pond’s smile widened as if Phuwin had run down the bleachers and thrown himself into his arms.
Dunk leaned closer. “Wow. Look at that. True love.”
“Shut up,” Phuwin said.
Satang nodded solemnly. “The romance of two fingers. Very moving.”
“I will remove both of yours.”
“You’re so aggressive when your boyfriend is sweaty.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Right,” Dunk said. “He’s just the guy who can identify you in a crowd faster than his own mother.”
Phuwin crossed his arms. “He has eyes.”
“And a Phuwin radar,” Satang said.
Before Phuwin could reply, Pond passed the ball, laughed at something Winny shouted, and jogged back across the court.
Two bleacher steps away, Santa rested his chin on his palm and watched him with great interest.
Then he sighed.
A soft, dreamy, absolutely theatrical sigh.
“Well,” Santa said, voice bright and sweet, “look at those arms.”
Phuwin went still.
Dunk’s eyes flicked to Satang.
Satang’s eyes flicked to Perth.
Perth, traitor that he was, kept looking at his phone, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
Phuwin’s eyebrow twitched.
He was above this.
He was mature.
He was twenty-one years old, a third-year university student, and fully capable of hearing someone compliment his friend’s arms without committing a crime.
Santa continued, “No, seriously. Look at them. That man could carry three emotional burdens, one motorcycle, and maybe my entire will to live.”
Phuwin turned his head slowly.
Santa looked back at him with his innocent little face, eyes wide and sparkling, like he had not just said something completely unacceptable in public.
“What?” Santa asked.
“Why are you speaking?”
“Because I have thoughts.”
“Keep them inside.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“So does thirsting in public.”
Santa placed one hand over his chest. “I am appreciating athletics.”
“Stop objectifying my…” Phuwin stopped so violently his teeth clicked.
Everyone leaned in.
Dunk’s eyes widened. “Your what?”
“Our friend!” Phuwin snapped.
Satang made a strangled noise.
Santa’s smile widened.
Terrible.
Awful.
Weaponized cuteness.
On the court, Pond blocked a shot and laughed. His arms flexed.
Santa made a tiny wounded sound. “Oh, the shoulders too. This is unfair. Who approved this body distribution?”
Phuwin’s smile turned dangerous. “Santa.”
“Yes, Phuwin?”
“Do not make me come down there.”
Santa glanced at the distance between them.
Two bleacher steps.
“It’s not that far,” he said.
Perth finally looked up. “Santa.”
“What?”
“Less.”
Santa pouted. “You’re no fun.”
Phuwin’s eyes narrowed.
Santa’s pout changed when Perth spoke to him. It softened.
Phuwin noticed it.
Then immediately dismissed it, because he had more important problems.
Like Santa’s mouth.
Pond caught the ball again, drove toward the basket, and jumped. His thighs tensed as he pushed off the court, the sleeveless shirt clinging to his torso. The sun caught the sweat along his neck.
Santa leaned back on his hands with a dreamy expression that did not match his sweet, innocent face at all.
“Okay,” Santa said, voice dropping into something scandalized and delighted. “Forget the arms. The thighs are the real danger.”
Phuwin’s head snapped so fast Dunk grabbed his sleeve preemptively.
“Excuse me?”
Santa blinked. “What?”
“Do not.”
“I haven’t even finished.”
“That is why I am stopping you early.”
Santa rested his chin on both hands, sweet as sugar and twice as dangerous. “I’m just saying, if those thighs locked someone in place, I don’t think escape would be the goal.”
For one perfect second, nothing moved.
“Oh no,” Dunk whispered.
Satang grabbed Phuwin’s wrist.
Too late.
Phuwin stood.
Santa looked up at him, still smiling. “What?”
Phuwin smiled back.
It was not a good smile.
“Please explain,” Phuwin said, voice soft and lethal, “why your mouth is producing content that belongs in a restricted group chat.”
Santa burst out laughing.
Satang tightened his grip on Phuwin’s wrist. “Phuwin, sit down.”
“No.”
“Please sit down.”
“No.”
Dunk grabbed the strap of his backpack. “Think of your future.”
“I am.”
“Your future cannot include assault charges.”
“That depends on Santa.”
Santa leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still smiling, still pretty.
“Relax,” Santa said. “I’m just complimenting him.”
“You are sexualizing him!”
“It was a thigh compliment.”
“It was inappropriate.”
“It was honest.”
“It was disgusting.”
“It was poetry.”
“It’s harassment!.”
Santa’s eyes glittered.
He looked at Phuwin.
Then at Pond.
Then back at Phuwin who looked as if smoke was coming out of his nose and ears.
And because Santa apparently had no instinct for self-preservation, he delivered the final blow.
“I understand now why people stare,” Santa said dreamily. “Pond is very yummy, damn those thighs.”
The word hit Phuwin’s skull like a cymbal.
Yummy.
Yummy.
YUMMY?
Pond was not a snack. Pond was a person. A stupidly handsome, emotionally dangerous, hair-tie-carrying person.
And Santa, with his innocent face and plush little smile, had the audacity to say yummy as if he was ordering from a menu.
Phuwin moved before anyone could stop him.
One second, he was standing.
The next, he was already down two bleacher steps, reaching for Santa’s shirt like an angry cat in designer sneakers.
“PHUWIN!” Dunk screamed.
Satang grabbed him around the waist.
Dunk caught the strap of his backpack.
Perth stood so fast his phone nearly fell.
Santa, the target of imminent violence, simply leaned back with wide, delighted eyes and said, “Oh, he’s fast.”
“I’LL SCRATCH YOUR FACE!” Phuwin yelled.
“Not the face!” Santa said, laughing. “It’s my brand!”
“I’LL REBRAND YOU!”
“Phuwin, no!” Satang cried. “You’ll fall!”
“LET ME FALL WITH PURPOSE!”
Dunk had both arms around him now. “You are not attacking Santa over Pond’s thighs!”
“HE STARTED IT!”
Santa pointed at himself. “I complimented a community treasure.”
“You objectified a citizen!”
“A hot citizen!”
Phuwin renewed his struggle.
By then, half the court had stopped.
The basketball players stood frozen, ball forgotten, watching the bleachers like a better sport had suddenly begun.
Pond jogged toward them, sweat shining on his skin, eyebrows drawn together in concern. Joong and Winny followed, both already grinning like finals just got cancelled.
Pond reached the bottom of the bleachers and looked up.
His eyes found Phuwin first.
“Are you okay?” Pond asked.
Phuwin immediately stopped struggling.
The concern in Pond’s voice was unfair.
Cruel, even.
“I’m fine,” Phuwin said.
Satang did not release him.
Phuwin looked down at Satang’s arms around his waist. “Let go.”
“Promise you won’t attack Santa.”
“No.”
Satang tightened his grip.
Pond climbed two steps, now close enough that Phuwin could see the sweat at his temple and the confused concern on his face. “What happened?”
Santa raised one hand cheerfully. “In my defense, I only said Pond has nice arms, dangerous thighs, and that he’s yummy.”
Silence.
There.
There it was.
Santa had said it out loud to Pond’s face with no shame. With his sweet little innocent face and his pretty little smile, as if he had not just committed public indecency in the bleachers.
Before Pond could react, Phuwin pointed at Santa.
“You were objectifying him,” Phuwin snapped. “Like he’s a piece of delicious meat on display.”
Pond blinked.
Then his mouth twitched.
Phuwin saw it happen.
The amusement.
The absolute failure to understand the seriousness of the situation.
“You think I’m delicious?” Pond asked.
The bleachers exploded.
Phuwin’s mouth fell open. “Is that the only thing you heard?”
“It stood out.”
“I was quoting a criminal!”
Santa gasped. “Criminal?”
Phuwin ignored him and turned back to Pond. “He was talking about you like you’re some buffet item.”
Pond looked at him with that terrible fondness again, amused and soft around the edges.
“You shouldn’t go trying to scratch our friend just to defend my honor.”
Everyone burst out laughing at once, loud and shameless, the kind of laughter that made Phuwin want to either disappear forever or commit a very small, very justified crime.
Phuwin’s face burned.
“I was not defending your honor.”
“No?” Pond asked.
“No.”
Pond laughed, soft and fond, and somehow that made it worse.
Because Pond was laughing.
Pond was amused.
Pond was not offended.
Phuwin, apparently, was the only person in the entire sports complex sane enough to understand how wrong and inappropriate this was.
“You’re a person,” Phuwin doubled down. “A human being. Not a snack. Not meat. Not a dessert menu. Not some campus attraction people can salivate over just because you decided to wear a sleeveless shirt and ruin everyone’s ability to behave normally.”
Pond stared at him.
For one dangerous second, Phuwin thought Pond would understand.
Maybe Pond would finally see the point. Maybe he would look at Santa and say, okay, that was too much. Maybe he would take Phuwin’s side, because Phuwin was right. He was being dramatic, yes, but he was right.
Then Pond glanced at Santa, smiled helplessly, and said, “He’s just teasing.”
Phuwin went still.
The laughter around them thinned.
Pond, clearly unaware that he had chosen the worst possible sentence in the history of language, looked back at him gently. “It’s Santa. He jokes like that.”
It’s Santa.
He jokes like that.
As if that explained everything.
As if Santa being Santa made it harmless.
As if Phuwin was the unreasonable one.
As if Phuwin had just made a public spectacle over nothing.
Heat crawled up Phuwin’s neck.
Not anger this time.
Not just anger.
Shame.
Because Pond was not offended.
Pond did not care.
Pond thought it was funny.
Santa leaned around Perth, expression softer now but still far too knowing. “If Pond doesn’t find it offensive, why should you, Phuwin?”
There it was.
The question landed harder than anything Santa had said before.
The funny, chaotic air changed so quickly it felt like someone had pulled all the sound out of the bleachers.
Phuwin opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because what could he say?
Because you don’t get to talk about him like that.
Because I hate hearing you want him.
Because I hate that maybe he likes hearing it from you.
Because he used to call you pretty and cute and good on stage, and I kept all those comments like receipts even though no one asked me to audit his heart.
Because I’ve been pretending for so long that pretending has become easier than wanting.
Because I’m jealous.
Because he’s Pond.
Because he’s mine.
Except he wasn’t.
He was not.
Pond’s smile faded.
“Phuwin,” he said, softer now.
Soft was dangerous.
Soft would ruin him.
So Phuwin became dramatic instead.
“Right,” he said, laughing once, sharp and brittle. “Of course. It’s just Santa. He’s just teasing. Everyone is just teasing. Everyone always gets to tease because it’s funny, right? It’s funny when people talk about you like that. It’s funny when everyone acts like I’m ridiculous for caring. It’s funny because I’m not supposed to care.”
The bleachers went quiet.
Phuwin’s voice shook harder, but once the words started, he could not stop them anymore.
“No, really, why should I care? I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not anything. I’m just your friend who sits beside you every day and steals your jacket and drinks the iced matcha you buy me and apparently loses his mind when someone says one disgusting thing too many about your thighs.” His throat tightened, but the hurt had already turned reckless. “And maybe that’s the problem, right? Maybe I’m the stupid one for caring when you clearly don’t. Maybe you like hearing it. Maybe it’s fine because it’s Santa saying it. Santa, who’s beautiful and cute and pretty and whatever else you called him when you thought I wasn’t listening.”
He stopped.
The bleachers went completely still.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Phuwin stopped breathing.
Pond stared at him.
Dunk’s hand flew to his mouth.
Satang whispered, “Oh my god.”
Winny, very softly, said, “That was… a lot.”
Joong, for once in his life, did not immediately joke.
Santa’s smile faded into something gentler.
Perth looked away, as if giving Phuwin privacy two seconds too late.
And that was when Phuwin realized, with absolute, soul-destroying clarity, that his denial had become decorative.
Worse, useless.
Worse, embarrassing.
Because nobody looked amused anymore. Not exactly. They looked like they had just watched him set himself on fire in public and were now trying to decide whether breathing too loudly would be insensitive.
Pond took one step closer. “Phuwin…”
“No.” Phuwin grabbed his bag before Pond could say anything else. His voice shook with rage, embarrassment, and at least six emotions he refused to name. “I am leaving this circus.”
“Phuwin,” Pond said again, softer this time.
Absolutely not.
He descended with as much dignity as possible, which was difficult while furious, humiliated, and carrying a backpack that suddenly felt like it contained every bad decision he had ever made.
Once his shoes hit the ground, he walked quickly toward the side of the sports complex.
Then he ran.
Not because he was embarrassed.
Because he was pursuing solitude aggressively.
Behind him, he heard Pond say, “I’ll go.”
Phuwin’s stomach flipped.
No.
No, no, no.
Phuwin turned the corner near the storage building and pressed his back against the shaded wall. The noise of the court became distant, muffled by trees and concrete. His heart hammered so loudly he was annoyed by its lack of discretion.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He had exposed himself by trying to attack Santa, who looked like a cherub but spoke like a restricted comment section.
Now everyone knew.
The group knew. Pond knew. The campus probably knew. Someone had probably already changed the group chat name to something horrible.
Phuwin covered his face with both hands.
He was not jealous.
He was just concerned.
For Pond’s dignity.
For public decency.
For the emotional safety of the bleachers.
Anyone would have done the same.
Except nobody else had attempted a two-step bleacher lunge with intent to scratch.
Phuwin groaned.
The worst part was not even Santa.
The worst part was Pond.
Pond had looked amused. Fond. Unbothered.
Because maybe he did like it.
Maybe he liked Santa’s attention. Maybe he liked being called handsome and yummy by someone as pretty and cute as Santa. Maybe all those comments from freshman year meant exactly what Phuwin had feared they meant.
And Phuwin had no right to be hurt by that.
He had spent years denying his feelings. He had hidden inside sarcasm and called it personality. He had loved the teasing but refused to give Pond anything clear enough to hold.
What did he expect?
That Pond would keep smiling at rumors until Phuwin found courage?
That Pond would somehow know that every time Phuwin rolled his eyes at being called Pond’s boyfriend, a secret part of him wanted to say yes?
Ridiculous.
He was ridiculous.
Footsteps approached.
Phuwin straightened immediately.
Too late.
A hand caught his wrist.
Not harshly but firm enough to turn him.
His back met the wall.
“Hi,” Pond said.
Phuwin forgot every language he had ever studied.
Pond was too close.
Pond was warm, almost too warm from the game, and the sleeveless shirt clinging to him was frankly disrespectful. His hand was still wrapped around Phuwin’s wrist, firm but gentle, and his face was so close that the tiny mole beneath his left eye looked absurdly big in Phuwin’s vision, like his whole world had narrowed down to that one impossible detail. Phuwin could see the sweat at Pond’s temple, the faint rise and fall of his breath, and the softness in his gaze that made it impossible to breathe normally.
Absolutely no one should be allowed to look like that after ruining another person’s life.
Phuwin looked away.
“No,” he said.
Pond blinked. “No what?”
“No hi.”
“You’re rejecting my greeting?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rude.”
“You chased me.”
“You ran.”
“Why are you here, go back there and bask in Santa's comments.”
Pond smiled.
“Don’t smile,” Phuwin warned.
“I like you.”
The words were so sudden, so simple, that Phuwin’s entire body froze.
“What?”
Pond’s smile faded, but he did not look away. “I like you.”
Phuwin stared at him.
There were many possible responses.
A normal person might have said, I like you too.
A brave person might have asked, Since when?
Phuwin, who was neither normal nor brave when Pond stood this close, said, “This is not the time for jokes.”
Pond’s brows drew together. “I’m not joking.”
“You smile when you joke.”
“I smile when I’m nervous too.”
“You’re never nervous.”
Pond huffed a soft laugh. “I’m nervous right now.”
“You look annoying.”
“That’s my face.”
“Yes.”
Pond shook his head, fond and exasperated. “Phuwin.”
“What?”
“Do you really not know?”
Phuwin swallowed. “Know what?”
“That I’m in love with you.”
For one impossible second, everything went quiet.
Then his heart slammed back to life so violently he almost stepped sideways.
Pond caught his hand.
Phuwin tried to pull away on instinct, but Pond only lifted it and pressed it flat against his own chest.
Under Phuwin’s palm, Pond’s heart was racing.
Fast.
Unmistakably fast.
Pond held his gaze and said, soft but steady, “In here, there’s only you.”
Phuwin’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Absolutely nothing.
His brain had unplugged itself.
Pond’s heartbeat thudded against his hand. Real. Nervous. Human. Not a joke. Not teasing. Not the careless ease Phuwin had been hiding behind for years.
Pond was nervous.
Pond was scared.
Pond was looking at him like Phuwin’s answer could hurt him.
Phuwin’s throat tightened.
“That is so cliche,” he whispered.
Pond laughed once, breathless. “I know.”
“Embarrassing.”
“I know.”
“Which drama did you copy that from?”
“Hey, it’s an original.”
“It sounds practiced.”
“I panicked.”
“You panicked romantically?”
“I chased you and pinned you to a wall. I think I passed normal panic ten minutes ago.”
Phuwin wanted to laugh.
He also wanted to cry.
He did neither because he had self-respect, barely.
Instead, he looked down at his hand on Pond’s chest. “Your heart is fast.”
“Because it’s you.”
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have defenses prepared.”
Pond’s thumb brushed over his wrist. “Good.”
Phuwin looked up sharply. “Good?”
“I’m tired of your defenses.”
The words were gentle, but there was something raw underneath them. A thread of frustration, of longing, of Pond finally reaching the limit of all the almosts between them.
“I’ve been trying,” Pond said. “For years, Phu. Maybe not with big confessions, but I thought… I thought you knew.”
Phuwin let out a broken little laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that. Everyone knows. Everyone sees. Everyone thinks. Do you know what I saw?”
Pond’s face softened. “What?”
“You saying Santa was pretty during freshman orientation.”
Pond stared.
Phuwin’s embarrassment flared, but the words kept coming now, spilling out before pride could stop them.
“You said he had a cute smile. Then you joined the same dance club. Then you kept saying he was good on stage, and his expressions were cute, and his costume suited him, and just now you liked hearing him say nice things about your thighs!”
He stopped.
Pond’s mouth parted.
For a second, he looked stunned.
Then he closed his eyes and sighed. “Oh my god.”
Phuwin stiffened. “Don’t oh my god me.”
“You thought I liked Santa.”
“You did like Santa.”
“I thought he was pretty.”
“Yes.”
“Phuwin, I think many people are pretty.”
“Terrible defense.”
“But I don’t love them.”
Phuwin went quiet.
Pond stepped closer. “I don’t buy them iced matcha every morning.”
“You’re generous.”
“I don’t save them seats beside me even when the whole table is empty.”
“You like routine.”
“I don’t keep hair ties in my backpack for them.”
Phuwin’s voice weakened. “You’re organized.”
“I don’t walk them to class even when my building is across campus.”
“You need steps.”
“I don’t pretend not to see people flirting with them while standing close enough to make everyone back off.”
Phuwin blinked.
“What?”
Pond’s jaw tightened slightly, as if he was embarrassed now. “You never noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
“When people come up to you at the cafe, I stand beside you.”
“You always stand beside me.”
“Yes, Phuwin.”
“Oh.”
“When that senior from Architecture kept asking you to help with his laptop, I started picking you up from the IT building.”
Phuwin frowned. “He did need help with his laptop.”
“He needed help asking you out.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He invited you to dinner.”
“To thank me.”
“He asked if you were single.”
Phuwin opened his mouth, then closed it.
Pond gave him a look.
Phuwin looked away. “Maybe he was doing a survey.”
Pond laughed, exasperated. “See? You’re so focused on Santa you missed everyone else.”
“I was not focused on Santa.”
“You have a mental archive of things I said about him three years ago.”
“Memory is a skill.”
“You were jealous.”
“I was observant.”
“You tried to attack him today.”
“He was being obscene.”
“He was helping.”
Phuwin froze.
Slowly, dangerously, he turned back. “What do you mean helping?”
Pond winced.
Phuwin’s eyes narrowed. “Pond.”
“I didn’t know the exact script.”
“What script?”
“The group thought if Santa teased you a little…”
“A little?”
“Okay. A lot.”
Phuwin shoved his chest with both hands. “I hate you.”
Pond caught his wrists, smiling despite himself. “No, you don’t.”
“I do. I hate you and your thighs and your friends and Santa’s innocent demon face.”
“Santa is with Perth.”
Phuwin stopped.
The sentence entered his brain.
It did not immediately process.
“What?”
Pond blinked. “Santa is with Perth.”
Phuwin stared at him.
“No, he isn’t.”
Pond stared back. “Yes, he is.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Perth?”
“Yes.”
“Our Perth?”
“How many Perths do we have?”
“Santa and Perth?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
Pond’s expression shifted into something dangerously amused. “Second year.”
Phuwin’s mouth fell open.
Second year.
Second year?
That was impossible.
Phuwin replayed every lunch, every drink, every time Santa appeared beside Perth, every sleeve tug, every jacket over Santa’s head, every private smile he had dismissed because he had been too busy watching whether Pond was watching Santa.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Dunk had once said, “Perth is picking Santa up after practice,” and Phuwin had thought it was logistics.
Satang had once said, “Santa looks at Perth like that,” and Phuwin had replied, “Like what? Annoyingly?”
Joong had once said, “At least Perth and Santa are less stupid than you two,” and Phuwin had assumed he meant in general.
Oh no.
Phuwin slowly covered his face with one hand.
Pond laughed softly.
“Don’t laugh,” Phuwin said through his fingers.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m a little sorry.”
“I built an entire rivalry with a man in a relationship.”
“With Perth.”
“With Perth,” Phuwin repeated, horrified.
“And you missed it because you were busy being jealous of him over me.”
“I’m going to walk into the sea.”
“We’re not near the sea.”
“I’ll find one.”
Pond gently pulled his hand away from his face. “Phu.”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Phuwin looked at him against his better judgment.
Pond’s amusement softened again.
He was still holding Phuwin’s wrists, but lightly now, like he knew Phuwin could pull away if he wanted to and trusted him not to.
“I didn’t like Santa,” Pond said. “Not like that. I said he was pretty because he was. The same way people say you’re beautiful every day and you never notice.”
Phuwin frowned. “People do not say that every day.”
Pond’s face did something complicated.
“Phuwin.”
“What?”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?”
Pond stared at him for a second, then laughed softly under his breath, like he could not decide whether to be amused or devastated.
“You really don’t know how you look to people.”
Phuwin shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “I own mirrors.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
Pond’s gaze moved over his face slowly, tender and wanting enough that Phuwin’s breath caught.
“I mean all this time, you thought I was looking at Santa,” Pond said quietly. “But I wasn’t. Not really. You were the only one I kept looking for. The only one I kept watching. You were just too busy having your one-sided war with Santa to notice me being embarrassingly obvious about you.”
Phuwin swallowed.
Pond stepped closer.
“I get jealous too,” he admitted. “Quietly. Stupidly. Maybe not bleacher-jumping level.”
“That was one time.”
“One very memorable time.”
“Continue before I regret liking you.”
Pond smiled. “When people flirt with you, I hate it. When someone makes you laugh too much, I want to stand between you. When you wear my jacket and someone looks at you, I feel smug because it’s mine and you’re wearing it.”
Phuwin’s heart stumbled.
Pond’s ears turned faintly red.
“I know that sounds bad.”
“It sounds…” Phuwin stopped, voice suddenly small. “It sounds like you like me.”
Pond’s expression softened completely. “I do. I love you.”
Phuwin closed his eyes.
“Say it less easily,” he whispered.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been holding it back for too long.”
There was no defense against that.
None.
Phuwin opened his eyes, and Pond was right there, so close, so honest, so clearly finished with pretending.
For once, Phuwin did not want to run.
He was still scared. Still embarrassed. Still seconds away from making a joke because sincerity felt like standing naked in the middle of campus.
But Pond’s hand was warm around his wrist.
Pond’s heart was still beating fast beneath the place Phuwin had touched.
And suddenly Phuwin could not bear the distance between them.
“I love you,” he said.
Pond went still.
Phuwin swallowed, then forced himself to continue because if he stopped now he might never start again.
“I love you. I know I denied it. I know I kept acting like everyone was stupid for teasing us, but I liked it when they did. I liked when they thought we were together. I liked when you didn’t deny it. I just… I was scared that to you it was only funny.”
Pond’s grip tightened slightly.
“And yes,” Phuwin said, glaring because vulnerability required balance, “I was jealous of Santa. Very briefly.”
Pond raised his eyebrows.
“For three years,” Phuwin corrected. “But quietly.”
“You tried to scratch him.”
“Recently not quietly.”
Pond laughed.
Phuwin looked down. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”
Pond was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “You couldn’t ruin it by wanting me.”
Phuwin’s eyes stung.
He hated that.
He hated Pond for knowing exactly where to press.
“I’ve wanted you to want me,” Pond said, voice rougher now. “So much that sometimes I thought I was imagining things. Every time you stole my jacket, every time you got annoyed when someone came too close, every time you looked at me and then looked away like you were angry at yourself for looking… I kept thinking maybe. Maybe. But then you would deny it so hard I didn’t know what to do.”
Phuwin whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Pond shook his head. “I’m not asking you to be sorry.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Pond’s eyes dropped to his mouth.
Phuwin’s breath caught.
Pond looked back up. “Can I kiss you?”
Phuwin’s entire face heated.
“You chased me, pinned me against a wall, confessed dramatically, grabbed my hand and put it on your heart, and now you ask permission?”
Pond’s mouth curved. “Yes.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“You are also sweaty.”
“I was playing basketball.”
“You are still very close.”
“You haven’t told me to move.”
Phuwin looked at him.
Pond looked back, hopeful and nervous and so painfully fond that Phuwin felt the last of his resistance crumble.
He whispered, “Don’t move.”
Then Pond kissed him like he had been waiting years and had finally, finally run out of patience.
It was not the careful kiss Phuwin had imagined from someone as gentle as Pond.
It was desperate and warm and a little messy.
Pond crowded him against the wall, one hand sliding to the back of Phuwin’s neck, the other braced at his waist. Phuwin made a small sound of surprise, and Pond answered it by kissing him deeper, like all the teasing, all the almosts, all the years of sitting too close and saying nothing had snapped at once.
Phuwin grabbed the front of Pond’s shirt and pulled him closer.
Pond made a rough sound into his mouth.
Good, Phuwin thought wildly.
Good.
Let him suffer too.
Pond’s thumb brushed under Phuwin’s jaw. His mouth softened for one breath, then pressed in again, hungry and relieved. Phuwin’s back was against the wall, but for once he did not feel cornered. He felt held. Chosen. Wanted so openly that there was no room left for doubt.
When they finally broke apart, Phuwin was breathing hard.
Pond looked wrecked.
His lips were red. His eyes were dark. His hair was a mess from Phuwin’s fingers.
Phuwin, despite everything, felt proud.
Pond leaned his forehead against his. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
Phuwin’s voice came out faint. “Probably since you saw Santa at orientation.”
Pond groaned. “Phu.”
“I’m joking.”
“Say it again,” Pond whispered.
“No.”
“Please?”
“You get one confession per academic year.”
“Phuwin.”
“Fine,” Phuwin said, cheeks burning. “I love you. Are you happy?”
Pond kissed him again.
This time, it was sweeter.
Still eager, still hungry around the edges, but gentler. Like now that Pond knew he was allowed to have this, he wanted to learn it properly. His thumb brushed Phuwin’s cheek. Phuwin clutched his shirt and tried not to melt, because melting was undignified and there were probably security cameras nearby.
“When they pulled apart, Pond rested his forehead against Phuwin’s.
“Very happy,” Pond said.
Phuwin closed his eyes.
“Disgusting,” he whispered.
“Boyfriend?” Pond asked.
Phuwin opened his eyes.
Pond looked nervous again.
Good.
Phuwin liked that.
“Ask properly,” Phuwin said.
Pond laughed softly. “Will you be my boyfriend?”
Phuwin pretended to think.
Pond pinched his waist.
“Ow.”
“Answer.”
“So demanding.”
“Phuwin.”
Phuwin looked at him.
“Yes,” he said.
Pond kissed him again before he could add anything sarcastic.
They did not return to the bleachers.
Phuwin claimed this was because he needed time to recover his dignity.
Pond claimed Phuwin’s dignity had left the moment he attempted a two-bleacher-step launch at Santa.
Phuwin threatened to break up with him.
They had been together for nine minutes.
“Fastest breakup in university history,” Pond said.
“Do not test me.”
But Pond’s hand was around his, warm and steady, and Phuwin did not let go.
Unfortunately, avoiding the bleachers did not mean avoiding their friends.
They had barely made it past the side of the sports complex, heading toward Pond’s car, when the noise started.
First, there was clapping.
Then whistling.
Then more clapping, louder this time, echoing across the field like the end of a championship game.
Phuwin froze.
Pond froze beside him.
Their hands were still linked between them.
Slowly, with the dread of a man turning toward his own public execution, Phuwin looked back.
The entire group was still at the bleachers, leaning over the railing like a row of shameless spectators. Dunk was clapping with both hands above his head. Satang was covering his mouth like he was trying to look sorry and failing terribly. Winny was whistling. Joong was making a heart with his arms.
Santa waved.
Perth, at least, looked vaguely apologetic.
And somehow, it wasn’t just them.
People nearby had turned to look. A few students clapped along without even knowing why. Someone wolf-whistled from the far side of the field. It spread in that strange, contagious way campus rumors did like everyone collectively understood something had finally happened.
Like the entire university had been waiting.
Like the entire campus had just breathed a sigh of relief at the end of PondPhuwin’s painfully obvious, ridiculously long situationship era.
Phuwin’s face went hot so fast it felt like a medical emergency.
But Pond’s hand was around his, and Phuwin did not let go.
Inside Pond’s car, it was just the low hum of the air-conditioner, filtered sunlight through the windshield, and the faint sound of their breathing.
Phuwin sat there, unusually quiet.
Pond glanced at him once, then again, like he was trying to figure out if Phuwin was about to explode or shut down.
Phuwin stared straight ahead.
His ears were still burning.
His phone had been buzzing nonstop.
He ignored it for as long as he could.
Then Dunk called.
Phuwin declined.
Dunk called again.
Phuwin declined again.
Then Satang sent one message.
“Please don’t kill us. Also congratulations.”
Phuwin stared at the screen.
Pond leaned over slightly. “What did they say?”
“Nothing.”
“You look murderous.”
“That’s my resting face.”
Pond smiled.
Phuwin opened the group chat. Big Mistake.
The chat had 247 new messages.
Then the group chat name had changed.
PONDPHUWIN ARE OFFICIALLY DATING
Phuwin stared.
“Pond.”
“Yes?”
“Hold me back.”
“From what?”
“Campus-wide murder.”
Pond glanced at the phone and immediately started laughing.
Phuwin rounded on him. “Do not laugh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are not.”
“I’m a little sorry.”
Messages continued flying.
Joong: I WAS THERE WHEN HISTORY HAPPENED.
Winny: I thought I’d earn my degree first before you guys got together.
Dunk: Phuwin’s legal team has requested privacy at this time.
Satang: They’re so quiet. They must be making out right now.
Joong: IN THE CAR????
Dunk: Respect their privacy.
Winny: You literally changed the group chat name.
Dunk: Respectfully.
Santa: For the record, Pond IS yummy.
Perth: Santa.
Santa: Sorry.
Santa: Respectfully yummy.
Perth: Santa.
Santa: I’ll stop.
Phuwin slowly looked at Pond. “Perth and Santa are really together and yet nobody told me?”
“We thought you knew.”
“I was busy suffering.”
“Clearly.”
Phuwin narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get brave. You are still on probation.”
“As your boyfriend?”
“As a citizen.”
Pond reached across the console and took his hand.
Phuwin looked down at their joined hands.
There was something strange about seeing it now. Their hands had touched a thousand times before. Pond had dragged him across streets, pulled him through crowds, warmed his fingers in cold lecture halls, caught his wrist when Phuwin tried to leave without eating.
But now it meant something.
Or maybe it had always meant something, and Phuwin had finally stopped pretending he did not understand the language.
Pond lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.
Phuwin’s brain short-circuited.
“Do not do that while I am angry.”
“Why?”
“It confuses the emotion.”
Pond smiled. “What emotion is it now?”
“Irritated affection.”
“Sounds promising.”
“Temporary.”
Pond kissed his knuckles again.
“Pond.”
“What?”
“I will combust.”
“Pond’s smile softened.
“Then I’ll hold you together.”
Phuwin stared at him.
“You are being disgusting again.”
“You love me.”
Phuwin looked away, but he did not deny it.
Outside the car, the campus continued moving. Students crossed the walkway. Someone laughed near the vending machines. The distant echo of a basketball hitting the court carried through the late afternoon.
Phuwin’s phone buzzed again.
He glanced down.
Santa: I’m sorry for objectifying your man, Phuwin.
Santa: I was serving the plot.
Perth: Apologize properly.
Santa: Fine. I’m sorry for provoking you by saying Pond is yummy even though he objectively is.
Perth: Santa.
Santa: Sorry sorry.
Santa: I’m sorry, Phuwin. I knew you liked him and I pushed too far. But also congratulations.
Phuwin stared at the message for a long moment.
Then he typed.
Phuwin: I accept your apology. If you say yummy again, I will still scratch you.
Santa: Fair.
Perth: Fair.
Dunk: Growth.
Joong: Character development.
Winny: Season finale energy.
Satang: Proud of you, friends.
Pond laughed softly.
Phuwin locked his phone. “They are exhausting.”
“They love you.”
“They love chaos.”
“Both can be true.”
Phuwin leaned back against the seat, suddenly tired. The adrenaline was fading now, leaving embarrassment, relief, and something warm he did not know what to do with.
Pond watched him quietly.
“Stop staring.”
“I’m allowed. You’re my boyfriend.”
Phuwin’s heart stumbled.
“You’re going to abuse that word.”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll revoke it.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
“Still angry?” Pond asked softly.
Phuwin considered lying.
Then he sighed. “A little.”
“At me?”
“A little.”
“At Santa?”
“Moderately.”
“At yourself?”
Phuwin looked down at their joined hands.
Pond squeezed gently.
“A little,” Phuwin admitted.
Pond kissed his cheek. “Don’t be.”
“I almost scratched someone over your thighs.”
“I’m honored.”
Phuwin turned to glare.
Pond only smiled, helpless and fond.
Then, after a pause, he said, “But for the record, if someone talked about you like that, I’d probably do worse.”
Phuwin blinked.
“You would?”
Pond’s expression turned serious. “Yes.”
Oh.
Phuwin looked away quickly, heat rising in his face.
“Violence is not the answer,” he muttered.
“You tried to scratch Santa.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“It was me.”
Pond laughed softly.
Phuwin allowed it.
Only because Pond was his boyfriend now.
His phone buzzed again.
He ignored it.
Pond looked pleased. “Not checking?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Phuwin turned toward him, lifting his chin with all the dignity of someone who had not recently tried to launch himself across bleachers over a thigh comment.
“Because I’m busy.”
Pond’s smile went soft and bright and impossibly happy.
“Doing what?”
Phuwin rolled his eyes.
Then, before Pond could say anything else, Phuwin leaned over and kissed him.
“Supervising,” he whispered.
He kissed Pond with all the want he had swallowed for years, with every stolen glance, every denied feeling, every time someone teased them and Phuwin pretended not to like it, every time Pond smiled at him like Phuwin was special and Phuwin forced himself not to believe it.
Pond tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and Phuwin lost track of the buzzing phones, the late afternoon outside, the heat in his face, the fact that their friends were probably writing dramatic witness statements in the group chat. All he knew was Pond’s mouth, Pond’s hands, Pond’s breath catching whenever Phuwin kissed him harder.
It was messy and intense and hungry in a way that felt almost embarrassing, except neither of them seemed capable of stopping long enough to be embarrassed.
Years of almosts had teeth now.
Years of restraint had hands.
Pond pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead nearly touching Phuwin’s.
“Phuwin,” he whispered.
The way he said it made Phuwin’s stomach drop.
Like a confession and a plea at the same time.
Phuwin swallowed.
“You look stupid,” he whispered, because tenderness was still dangerous and insults were still safer.
Pond laughed breathlessly. “You kissed me stupid.”
“That is not my responsibility.”
“It feels like your responsibility.”
“You are still on probation.”
Pond’s smile turned dazed and fond. “Can I earn points?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Pond kissed the corner of his mouth.
Phuwin’s eyes fluttered despite himself.
“You’re mine,” Pond murmured against his mouth.
The words landed heavily in the enclosed space of the car.
Not possessive in the ugly way.
Not like ownership.
Like relief.
Like Pond had been waiting on the other side of a locked door and Phuwin had finally opened it.
Phuwin wanted to argue.
Instead, he pulled Pond back by his shirt and kissed him some more.
Their phones kept buzzing.
Pond laughed against his mouth.
The group chat continued to destroy itself, making both their phones overheat.
Pond and Phuwin ignored all of it.
For once, Phuwin had no energy left for denial, no dignity left to defend, and no interest in pretending he was anywhere other than exactly where he wanted to be.
He had lost.
Completely.
Publicly.
Catastrophically.
And honestly, the victory tasted a lot like Pond kissing him stupid in the passenger seat.
So if Santa ever called Pond yummy again, well.
Phuwin could not be held responsible for his actions.
Luckily, this time, he had a boyfriend whose official duty was to hold him back.
~fin