Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Just once,” Phuwin whispered one night, his breath warm against the curve of Pond’s neck. “I want both of you.”

Pond didn’t respond right away. He never did, not when it came to Phuwin. Loving him had always felt like a silent surrender—something tender, and aching, and impossible to resist. Even when it chipped away at him. Even when it made no sense at all.

And Santa was just a friend. A new transfer. A classmate who had gotten too close, too fast. But not someone Pond had any real reason to resent.

So he said yes.

Even if every part of him hesitated.

Even if deep down, he already knew that there was no way this would end clean.

The night came too easily.

Soft lighting bathed the corners of the condo Phuwin and Pond shared, casting everything in a muted, golden glow. The scent of red wine lingered from the open bottle on the table. Santa sat cross-legged on the carpet, quiet and still, his hands resting gently on his knees. He glanced up as Pond entered—then quickly looked away.

But not before Pond noticed it.

That flicker in Santa’s eyes.

It had lingered on him. Drifted downward, slowly.

Pond’s shirt clung to his skin, damp from the rain outside. The fabric, a crisp white, was snug across his chest, sleeves stretched slightly over his arms, shoulders held firm and steady. And Santa had looked.

Not with hunger. Not yet.

But with something unmistakable.

Not lust.

But definitely not nothing.

Phuwin, barefoot and already tipsy, curled on the couch between them. One leg slung across Pond’s lap. The other brushing against Santa’s.

“Let’s not drag it out,” Phuwin said, sipping his wine. “Come here.”

Phuwin kissed Santa first.

It was slow at the start. Familiar. Almost careful in its gentleness, like something they had practiced before but were still learning to savor. Pond watched from across the room, frozen in place.

Santa tilted his head slightly, lips parting as one hand came up to rest at Phuwin’s waist. The gesture was hesitant, but not uncertain. Their mouths moved in quiet rhythm—wet kisses, soft sighs, the sound of breath catching between them.

Pond’s stomach twisted.

Then Phuwin turned to him.

And the kiss he gave Pond wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. Demanding. His tongue slipped past Pond’s lips with urgency, tasting him like he couldn’t get enough. Pond responded without thinking, without even knowing how not to.

He forgot how to breathe.

Clothes began to fall away in pieces. Shirts first—Phuwin’s oversized tee was tugged off and tossed aside, revealing warm, golden skin marked faintly by the bruises Pond had left on him days before. Santa’s shirt followed, the collar slipping low to reveal collarbones so sharply cut they looked sculpted.

Then Pond peeled off his own shirt.

And without hesitation, he stripped off his briefs too.

His cock sprang free—hard, flushed, and thick with arousal.

Santa stared.

He didn’t hide it. Didn’t glance quickly and look away. His gaze trailed the full length of it, slow and deliberate, eyes dark with something Pond couldn’t quite name. Admiration. Surprise. Maybe even anticipation.

And when Santa finally looked up, the expression on his face had changed.

Pond didn’t speak.

Neither did Santa.

From the couch, Phuwin moaned, his hand wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, fingertips brushing the head with lazy strokes.

“Do something,” he gasped. “Anything.”

And they did.

Santa sank to his knees in front of Phuwin without a word, his hands settling on Phuwin’s thighs as he leaned in. His lips wrapped around the flushed head of Phuwin’s cock, sucking gently at first, then taking him deeper in smooth, practiced motions. The sound that tore from Phuwin’s throat was sharp and needy, his hips bucking upward before Santa pinned them down with a steady grip.

Behind him, Pond moved into place.

He knelt quietly, hands easing Phuwin’s legs farther apart. He leaned in close, pressing a kiss to the small of Phuwin’s back, lips warm against the slick skin. Then he lowered his head, dragging his tongue down the crease of Phuwin’s ass, slow and deliberate.

Phuwin gasped—louder now, more guttural than before—as his body arched between them.

Pond licked a teasing stripe over the sensitive rim, tasting sweat, heat, and something entirely Phuwin. He pressed in with his tongue, soft and insistent, before sliding two fingers alongside it. They eased in carefully, curling as they found their rhythm. Phuwin trembled, caught between the warmth of Pond’s mouth and the relentless pull of Santa’s lips.

Santa didn’t stop. His mouth moved steadily, wet sounds filling the room as he sucked Phuwin deeper, bobbing his head in sync with Pond’s fingers.

Phuwin was shaking now, sweat clinging to his skin, his moans breaking high and breathless as both of them worked him in perfect, unspoken coordination. Their hands brushed—Pond’s and Santa’s—when they adjusted their grip on Phuwin’s thighs. Just a fleeting touch.

Their eyes met across the span of Phuwin’s writhing body.

Still, no words passed between them.

Only heat.

Only breath.

Only skin against skin, and the dizzying friction of mouths and hands and want.

Phuwin’s voice broke through the haze, strained and helpless.

“Pond,” he whimpered, barely coherent. “Inside—I need it—”

Pond pulled away, cock wet and eager, and guided himself in. The stretch made Phuwin sob, and within three deep strokes, he was coming—hands clawing at the couch, moaning so loud it echoed.

Pond didn’t stop right away. But he pulled out before he could finish. Still hard. Still aching.

Phuwin collapsed forward, completely spent. His body trembled with the aftershocks, limbs loose and useless against the couch. Sweat clung to every inch of his skin, and release glistened across his stomach, warm and slow as it dripped down his abs.

“Fuck,” he gasped, voice breaking around the word. “That was—god—”

His breath hitched, shaky and uneven. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then, slowly, Phuwin turned his head. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lips parted, the hint of a smile barely tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked at them—at Pond, at Santa—like he was seeing something he wanted more than anything else.

His voice came out wrecked. Soft. Barely more than a whisper.

“Please…” he panted, “kiss.”

A beat passed. His eyes fluttered, desperate.

“I want to see it,” he breathed. “Need to.”

Pond froze.

Santa blinked, lips red, chest rising fast.

 “Come on,” Phuwin teased, grin wider now. “Please?”

They hesitated.

They always had.

But not tonight.

Pond didn’t remember moving.

One second he was staring at Santa, chest still rising with uneven breaths and then suddenly, he was closer. His body leaned forward on instinct, pulled by something unspoken and undeniable.

Their lips met, barely.

Just a brush. Tentative. Testing. The softest suggestion of a kiss.

Then Santa exhaled shakily, open, and parted his mouth.

And Pond kissed him.

For real this time.

Mouth pressing in, slow but deep, as if trying to make sense of it through touch alone. Heat pooled in his gut, the taste of sweat and breath and something new curling into him like wildfire.

Heat bloomed between them. Tongues met in the middle. A low groan rumbled from deep in Pond’s chest as Santa leaned into him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently at the roots. The kiss turned fast—wet, unrestrained, desperate. Their lips parted wider, mouths open and hungry, tongues sliding over each other like they’d done this a hundred times before.

And then—

Phuwin joined.

One arm snaked around Pond’s waist, the other reaching to pull Santa in. Their mouths collided again—three mouths this time. Kissing, gasping, sharing breath, exchanging want with every heated press of lips and tongue. It was dizzying. Mouths trading places, tongues clashing, teeth grazing lips.

Santa moaned into it, high and wrecked.

Pond didn’t know who he was kissing anymore—Phuwin’s lips, Santa’s tongue, maybe both. It didn’t matter. Everything blurred into heat and hands and spit-slick mouths. Too much. Not enough. A tangle of skin and hunger.

Phuwin pulled back first, chest heaving, his mouth swollen, eyes dark and gleaming with mischief. That same slow, satisfied grin spread across his face as he dropped lower.

Then his hand wrapped around Pond’s cock—still wet from earlier, flushed, and slick with precome.

He stroked him once, deliberately slow.

“Still hard,” Phuwin murmured, voice low and teasing as he looked up with a pout. “You didn’t come yet?”

Pond bit back a groan, the sound caught at the base of his throat as his hips gave an involuntary twitch under Phuwin’s touch. His cock throbbed in Phuwin’s hand, heavy and aching, slick with want and nowhere to go.

Then Phuwin moved—slow, deliberate—and reached for Santa’s hand.

Their fingers brushed, and Phuwin took hold of him, gentle but certain, guiding his hand down to where Pond was flushed and straining.

“Help him,” Phuwin said.

His voice was thick with sweetness, but it dripped with something darker. Like command wrapped in silk. Like pleasure offered on a leash.

“Help him,” Phuwin whispered, voice warm and slow like melted honey.

“Can’t you see how badly he needs it?”

Santa’s fingers curled around Pond’s cock without hesitation.

Warm. Steady. More assured now—no trace of shyness, only growing confidence in the way his hand moved.

Phuwin smiled, visibly pleased, and leaned back with a contented sigh.

“You take over,” he murmured, voice laced with satisfaction. “I’ll just watch.”

He sank into the couch again, reclining like a king admiring his masterpiece. His gaze remained soft, indulgent—completely unaware.

Pond’s breath faltered.

Santa stroked him faster now. His grip firm, wrist twisting on the upstroke, thumb gliding over the slick head. Their eyes met, and something passed between them—wordless, electric. Santa leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Pond’s neck, tongue warm, breath hot.

Pond’s hand moved on instinct.

It slid down Santa’s back, fingers gripping the curve of his ass—then lower, slipping underneath. His fingertips found Santa’s rim, already slick from earlier, twitching at the first touch.

They groaned together.

Santa rocked into him, hips grinding slowly, deliberately. Their mouths met again, this time slower, deeper, more certain. Pond bit down on Santa’s bottom lip. Santa moaned into the kiss, body trembling against him.

Then Pond pushed his fingers in.

Santa clenched around him tight, hot, welcoming.

They moved together, rhythm syncing, breath stuttering in unison.

On the couch, Phuwin was still smiling, lulled by the sight, convinced this was his moment. His idea. His control.

He didn’t see it.

Didn’t see the way something shifted between them—Pond and Santa—something unsaid and stirring, rising beneath the skin like a quiet rebellion.

This was supposed to be for him.

But something else had started.

Something neither of them could name yet.

It was hours later when Pond finally stirred.

The condo was wrapped in stillness, the kind that only comes after everything has been said—or done—and nothing else is left to fill the space. The bedroom was dark, the hum of the city muffled behind thick glass. Beside him, Phuwin lay curled on his side, one arm draped loosely across Pond’s stomach, breath slow and even.

But Pond couldn’t sleep.

His throat was dry. His skin, still warm from earlier, felt too tight, too aware. There was a low ache humming through his limbs—not exhaustion, not arousal. Something else. Something quieter. Something he didn’t have a name for.

He slipped out from under Phuwin’s arm with careful precision, his movements quiet, deliberate. He didn’t want to wake him.

In the kitchen, the sudden light was too bright. He winced against it but didn’t turn it off. Instead, he filled a glass with water and drank, letting the cool slide down his throat like a slow, grounding breath.

And then—

Movement.

Santa stepped out of the hallway bathroom.

Barefoot. Shirtless. Sweatpants riding low on his hips. His hair was damp, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his skin caught the kitchen light—faintly glowing, like he'd stepped out of a dream instead of a shower.

They both stopped.

Frozen in place. Not in fear. Just suspended.

Pond’s fingers tightened around the glass. Santa blinked slow, calm but not surprised, just… watchful. His mouth parted slightly, as if trying to decide whether to speak.

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, rough and husky from disuse.

Pond shook his head. “Water,” he murmured, voice low.

Santa let out a quiet hum in response and padded across the room, heading toward the couch.

He passed close.

Close enough for Pond to catch the scent of soap still clinging to his skin—clean, fresh, something floral and unfamiliar. Close enough that his shoulder brushed lightly against Pond’s as he moved by. Barely a touch.

But Pond felt it everywhere.

His head turned, instinctively. Watching.

Santa dropped onto the couch with a soft thud, settling against the armrest like he’d been waiting for that moment all night. He exhaled sharply, the sound more like a release than a breath. His legs sprawled slightly, casual but far from careless. One arm rested behind his head, the other traced a slow, absentminded line along the seam of his pants.

He looked wrecked.

Not in a broken way, but in that effortless, infuriating way some people look after sex. Disheveled and flushed, hair damp, chest rising with steady breaths, and that sheen of sweat still clinging faintly to his collarbones. The overhead light caught on his skin, highlighting sharp angles and the softness beneath.

And Pond couldn’t stop looking.

His eyes roamed Santa’s body—over the curve of his throat, the stretch of skin at his waist, the way the fabric of his sweatpants bunched low at his hips, outlining just enough to make it impossible not to notice.

Santa never turned his head.

But he didn’t need to.

He could feel Pond’s gaze. Every second of it.

And between them, the air shifted with thick and humming with heat, with tension, with something alive and dangerous. Something they both felt but couldn’t say. Couldn’t admit.

Not yet.

The tension never left them.

Small spaces where Pond and Santa were left alone — accidentally or not — in classrooms, elevators, hallways, coffee runs.

Too much eye contact.

Too much silence.

Nothing ever said. Nothing ever touched.

But the weight of it grew heavier with every passing day.

And then came the visit.

---

Phuwin had invited Santa over again. Just a normal hangout, he said. Nothing like last time.

Santa arrived a little early. The door opened, and Pond was the one who greeted him — hoodie draped over his frame, hair still damp from a recent shower. Casual. Barefoot. Tired-looking.

 “He’s not yet here,” Pond said.

Santa blinked. “Should I—?”

“He told me to wait for you. Said he had to run a quick errand.”

So Santa stepped in and they waited on the couch.

At first, there was a cushion between them.

A safe space. A buffer.

Neutral ground in the middle of the couch.

Then, without thinking, or maybe very much on purpose, it became half a cushion. Just the edge. Legs a little closer. Arms brushing the backrest from opposite sides.

Then nothing.

No cushion. No space. Just the press of silence and too many shared glances that didn’t mean to happen.

They barely said a word.

It wasn’t the easy kind of quiet—the kind that came with comfort or familiarity.

No. This silence was thick. Taut.

The kind that settled behind your eyes and in your teeth. That made your spine too straight. Your breath too careful. The kind that made it hard to swallow without feeling it.

The television played something neither of them were watching. Pond could feel the seconds tick against his skin like static.

Then he stood.

Too fast, maybe. Too sudden. Like movement was the only way to stay sane.

He crossed to the fridge, opened it slowly, pulled out two bottles of water. The cold air hit his face, grounding him just enough. Then he turned, tossed one bottle gently toward Santa without meeting his eyes.

“Thanks,” Santa mumbled, catching it with one hand.

His voice was quiet. Almost unsure.

But it was the first sound either of them had made in minutes.

He unscrewed the cap and drank.

Pond sat down and just watched.

Watched the way Santa’s lips closed around the mouth of the bottle. The way his jaw flexed, throat working with each gulp. Watched the trail of moisture that escaped, the tongue that darted out to catch it.

Santa didn’t notice at first. But eventually, his eyes flicked over. Met Pond’s.

Held it.

Neither looked away.

Neither smiled.

The silence pulsed, stretched too long until it snapped.

And somehow, minutes later—

Santa was on Pond’s lap.

There was no moment of clarity. No “do you want this?” No shift in breath. It just happened.

Santa’s knees straddled Pond’s hips.

His hands curled around Pond’s neck.

Their mouths crashed, angry and fast.

Heat exploded between them.

Pond’s fingers slipped under Santa’s sweatpants — squeezed, grabbed, pulled.

Santa’s ass was bare. Warm. Flexing under his touch, clenching with every shift of Pond’s grip. Skin to skin now, and the contact jolted through both of them like a live wire.

Their hips rolled together, locked in a messy, frantic rhythm. Their cocks ground through thin fabric, soaked with precome, friction wet and unbearable.

Santa moaned into Pond’s mouth — broken and needy — his hands tangling in Pond’s hair, yanking hard enough to sting. Pond grunted, hips jerking up in answer, chasing more, needing more, dizzy from how good it already felt.

The kiss was savage.

All tongue. All teeth. Nothing soft. No rhythm. Just hunger and heat and too much need crammed into too small a space.

Their bodies rocked hard against each other.

Hands everywhere.

Breaths short and sharp.

The couch groaned beneath them; a quiet witness to the chaos.

Neither of them spoke.

There was nothing to say.

Their mouths said it for them. Their bodies screamed it.

And when they came — desperate and clothed, wrung out by friction alone — they collapsed into each other. Shaking. Gasping. Foreheads pressed together, lips brushing over and over like they couldn’t stop.

Softer now.

Slower.

Santa kissed along Pond’s jawline, tongue flicking beneath his ear. Pond groaned, dragging his lips down Santa’s neck, licking the salt-slick skin like he couldn’t get enough.

His hands were still clutching Santa’s ass, fingers digging in hard — possessive, insistent, unwilling to let go.

Their pants were half undone. Skin hot and sticky. The air between them charged with aftershocks.

Santa's hand slid down, tugging at Pond’s waistband, hungry for another round. Pond’s fingers slipped under the hem of Santa’s shirt, ready to pull it over his head

About to bare everything—

Click.

The front door.

A heartbeat of silence — then chaos.

Their bodies snapped apart like rubber bands pulled too tight. Air rushed in where heat had been.

Santa bolted, limbs scrambling, eyes wide as he sprinted toward the restroom without a word.

Pond staggered back, hoodie half off, tugging it on in a panic. His heart thundered as he rushed into the bedroom, slammed the door, and went straight for the shower.

He didn’t think. Just turned the water on ice-cold and stood under it, clothes still clinging to him, breath ragged, skin flushed.

Steam rose.

But the shame didn’t wash off.

Not the taste of Santa on his lips.

Not the weight of what they’d almost done — again.

When Phuwin stepped inside minutes later, tired and smiling, plastic bag in hand, he noticed nothing out of place.

Just the soft hum of the AC.

He never asked why Pond didn’t come out that evening, claiming fatigue.

But Santa knew since he could still feel Pond’s hands on his skin. Still feel the ghost of his breath, the sting of his grip, the way they had needed each other even when they shouldn’t have.

It happened that same night.

Pond lay in bed beside Phuwin, muscles stiff, eyes wide open, ceiling blurring above him in the dark. Phuwin was asleep. Peaceful. Breathing steady, arm still loosely draped over Pond’s waist.

But Pond couldn’t move. Couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t stop replaying every second of what had happened earlier — Santa’s weight on him, the taste of his mouth, the obscene friction of their hips grinding together, desperate and fully clothed.

He’d come undone too quickly, too easily.

And he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

The heat between his legs still throbbed — insistent and stubborn. His body still craved something it couldn’t name.

Something it shouldn’t.

So he reached for his phone, screen dimmed, careful not to shift too much.

Typed with trembling fingers.

"Are you still up?"

It sent.

The reply came instantly.

"Yeah."

There was no overthinking after that.

No guilt. No plan. Just heat.

Pond threw on a hoodie— no shirt underneath—slipped into sneakers, and left the condo without a word.

No goodbye.
No explanation.
Only need.

He didn’t even knock.

Santa opened the door, shirtless, his breath catching the moment he saw Pond standing there. But before he could say anything, Pond grabbed his jaw and kissed him. Deep, hungry, relentless. He pushed them both inside, step after unsteady step, until Santa’s legs bumped the edge of the bed.

The door clicked shut behind them like a warning.

Neither of them cared.

Clothes came off in seconds. Pond shoved Santa’s sweatpants down without hesitation, groaning at the sight of flushed skin. Santa tugged Pond’s hoodie over his head, fingers skating over bare, warm muscle. Their mouths never parted—biting, gasping, chasing breath they never caught.

It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was hunger.

They were already hard. Straining. Leaking. Their cocks pressed together, friction sharp and desperate. Every movement sparked another groan, another tug, another need.

Pond pushed Santa onto the mattress, climbed over him, kissed him again—rougher this time. Santa moaned into it, hands everywhere, fingers gripping Pond’s thighs, stroking over his chest, dragging down his spine.

Every nerve in Santa’s body lit up.
Every inch of him begged for more.

Pond dropped to his knees.

He didn’t rush.

He licked a slow stripe up Santa’s length first, just to watch him squirm. Then wrapped his lips around the tip, sucking gently, teasingly, until Santa’s head tipped back against the headboard.

Then deeper.

Throat open, grip tight on Santa’s thighs, Pond took him all the way in. Bobbing slowly at first—then faster, wetter, filthier. The slick sounds filled the room, matched only by Santa’s ragged breaths and the quiet curses falling from his mouth.

“Fuck,” Santa gasped, hips jerking. “Pond—shit—”

He was shaking.

He reached down and tugged at Pond’s shoulders, dragging him up—mouth messy, chin wet—and pulled him into a kiss. Tongue searching. Desperate. Tasting himself on Pond’s lips and moaning into it.

Pond clutched at him, dizzy with it.

“Condom?” he rasped, voice rough like gravel.

Santa reached blindly for the drawer. His fingers fumbled until they closed around the foil packet. He tossed it toward Pond, chest rising and falling too fast.

Pond caught it, tore it open with trembling fingers.

He rolled the condom on, hands unsteady, lube slicking his palm. His breath was shallow. Focused. Starved.

Then he grabbed Santa by the thighs, flipped him onto his back, and pushed his knees up. No hesitation. Just raw want.

Santa gasped, legs spreading instinctively, heels digging into the mattress.

Their eyes locked.

Pond leaned over him, cock lined up, pressure mounting.

“Relax,” he whispered, voice rough and shaking. “I got you.”

Santa nodded, lips parted, eyes glazed.

He pressed in slow—inch by inch—fighting for control as Santa’s body tightened around him. Beneath him, Santa arched with a sharp inhale, nails sinking into Pond’s arms.“Fuck,” he gasped, voice breaking.

Pond’s breath caught.

“So tight... shit—”

He bottomed out, hips flush, cock buried to the hilt. His entire body trembled.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Santa’s legs shook around his waist, and his hands clung to Pond’s shoulders like he’d fall apart without them. His chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths.

Only then did Pond start to move.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

Every thrust dragged a sound from Santa’s throat—gasps, whimpers, broken moans. The wet slide of skin meeting skin filled the room, obscene and raw. Their bodies slapped together, slick with sweat and lube, friction building with every grind of Pond’s hips.

Pond buried his face in Santa’s neck, biting down just enough to leave a mark. Santa cried out, arching up into him, chasing more.

“Pond—fuck, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

It was messy and fast and desperate—not because they wanted it that way, but because they had waited too long. Craved too hard. Needed too much.

Santa clenched around him, tighter and tighter, back bowing as he came with a hoarse, broken cry. His release streaked between their stomachs, untouched.

The way he pulsed around Pond shattered him.

Pond slammed in one last time, hips stuttering, groaning deep against Santa’s skin as he came hard—spilling into the condom, muscles locking, breath knocked clean from his lungs.

They collapsed together, shaking and sticky, chests heaving.

Pond didn’t move. His arms curled protectively around Santa, face pressed to his collarbone, the aftershocks still rippling through him.

Neither of them said a word.

But when their breathing finally slowed, and Santa’s hand slid up to rest gently over Pond’s heart—

Pond stayed.

He didn’t leave.

He drifted off like that: inside him, wrapped in heat and silence, Santa’s touch the last thing he felt before sleep pulled him under.

After that, they didn’t even pretend.

Pond came back the next night.

And the next.

Santa stopped asking why.

Sometimes they’d talk after.

Sometimes they wouldn’t even kiss.

Sometimes it was fast — against a door, on the floor.

Sometimes it was slow, with kisses pressed to hips and thighs and ribs.

Always quiet. Always secret.

There were quick blowjobs in university comfort rooms, silent touches under tables, stolen mornings when Phuwin left early for class and Pond stayed behind with an excuse.

Once, late at night, when Phuwin fell asleep on the couch during a movie; Pond motioned to Santa with a flick of his eyes. And Santa followed him into the bedroom. Pond bent him over the bed. Hand clamped over Santa’s mouth. Thrusting slow. Deep. Silent.

Phuwin never woke up.

And still smiled in the morning.

One morning after the supposed hang out, Phuwin yawned and stretched on the couch, rubbing his eyes with a lazy smile.

“You two woke up early,” he mumbled, not noticing the way Pond flinched ever so slightly from the kitchen.

Santa was already dressed, crouched by the coffee table, fiddling with his phone. Pond handed Phuwin a cup of coffee. Kissed his forehead.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, softly.

Santa didn’t look up.

They ate breakfast together. Talked about meaningless things — group projects, the upcoming break, where to eat for dinner next week. To anyone watching, they were just three boys.

Happy. Normal. Intact.

But every time Pond glanced up from his mug, Santa was already watching him.

Every time their hands brushed when passing utensils or plates, they paused. Just a fraction too long.

Phuwin never noticed.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he just smiled through it.

Maybe pretending was easier than asking the question he didn’t want the answer to.

---

Later that week, Pond left the condo at 10 p.m.

Said he needed fresh air.

He ended up at Santa’s dorm.

Again.