Mr. and Mrs. Pong rushed to Wichian in joy and cheering. Once they come near him, they saw something off.

“Chian! Your eyes! Are you okay?” Mrs. Pong panicked.

“I’m fine, Mom. Just tired,” Wichian answered, still looking at Sorawit.

“Let’s take him home,” Mr. Pong said, turning to Sorawit. “Wit, coming?”

A pause. Sorawit met Wichian’s gaze.

“No, Dad. I’ve got errands. I’ll be home later.”

Soon Wichian left for home along with Mr. And Mrs. Pong leaves Sorawit with his friends.

---

Evening…

Evening settled in like a hush over the city. The sky bled orange and purple through the car window as Sorawit leaned against it, his breath fogging the glass. The streets blurred past, but his mind was far from the road. He sat in the back seat, silent, distant, caught in the grip of a single memory.

Wichian’s smile.

That smile. That damn smile.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his forehead to the window. “Why am I still thinking about him?”

He tried to convince himself it was mockery—that Wichian had smiled at him just to make fun of him. That it was part of the game. But… it hadn’t felt like that. Not at all. There was warmth in those eyes. A softness. A strange peace that wrapped itself around Sorawit and refused to let go.

“That smile…” he whispered, eyes closing for a moment. “Why did it feel so real?”

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it out of his head. His thoughts kept circling back, drawn to that fleeting curve of lips, the quiet light in Wichian’s expression—like it meant something. Like he meant something.

Before he knew it, the car stopped. He was home.

Mrs. Vamika stood waiting near the doorway, her eyes lighting up when she saw him.

“Wit, good you’re back early. Get a quick shower, dear. I’ll have dinner ready,” she said with a soft smile.

Wit simply nodded, his mind still tangled in thoughts he didn’t understand. He climbed the stairs with heavy steps, showered quickly, and returned to the dining table, still lost in his head.

“Ah… where’s my dad?” he asked hesitantly, poking at his rice.

“He had to rush to the office,” Vamika replied, taking her seat across from him. “Something urgent. He said he’d be late.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” Wit said, but his voice lacked weight. He just wanted the silence.

Still, Vamika was quietly grateful. Time alone with Wit was rare. He didn’t hate her—she knew that—but there was a wall between them she never quite managed to cross.

“Wit… can I ask you something?” she ventured cautiously.

He glanced up. “Hmm?”

“Did anything happen to Wichian today? Something that made him unusually tired?”

His chopsticks paused mid-air. “Ah… I don’t think so,” he said, but his voice wavered. “Why? Did something happen?”

“Nothing serious. But… he’s running a heavy fever. He’s rarely ever sick. One match shouldn’t have done this to him.”

Wit’s stomach dropped.

“Fever?” he echoed, eyes widening slightly.

“Yes,” she said gently. “After we got home, he didn’t come out of his room. He didn’t eat dinner either.”

“He didn’t eat?” Wit asked, more to himself than to her.

“No. I asked him to, but he just said he’s tired and wanted to sleep.”

Guilt hit him like a slap.

He just wanted Wichian to lose. Maybe get upset. Not this. Not burning up in bed, alone and unfed.

He stared at the table, the taste of food turning bitter in his mouth. The image of Wichian’s flushed face, his weak body curled up alone in the dark—it was unbearable.

“…If you don’t mind,” he said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper, “can I take him some porridge?”

Vamika blinked, stunned. “Of course, Wit. I’ll make some right away,” she said, heart swelling with quiet joy.

Moments later, she returned with a bowl, the aroma warm and gentle in the air. Wit took it in both hands, cradling it like something fragile, and began walking up the stairs.

Then—

“WIT!” a booming voice rang out from the doorway.

Wit didn’t stop.

He didn’t even flinch.

He kept walking, careful and focused, as if the bowl in his hands was more important than the world behind him.

Mrs. Vamika rushed to the door, placing a finger to her lips. “Honey, don’t shout,” she whispered urgently to Mr. Pong.

“What? I just wanted to talk to him!” he whispered back.

“Listen to me. I told Wit that Wichian was sick and hadn’t eaten… and guess what? He’s taking porridge to Wichian. Wit—our Wit—he’s doing it on his own.”

Mr. Pong’s eyes widened, stunned. “What? Wit? Are you serious?”

“Yes,” she whispered, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “So don’t ruin this moment, please.”

Mr. Pong blinked, then let out a breath and smiled too. “Okay, okay. Let the boys talk… let them have this.”

And as the two adults stood there, smiling quietly like conspirators in a fragile miracle, Sorawit’s footsteps faded up the stairs—carrying guilt, confusion, and something dangerously close to care in every step.