We finally escaped. Now I truly understand why Phayu is nicknamed the "Nightmare Helper."
Toffee and Lamon exchanged weary glances, both looking like a total wreck.
Their clothes were disheveled, their hair was a messy nest, and they smelled faintly of street-side curry.
"I'm starving, Lamon…" Toffee whined.
"Me too…"
"Let's just grab something from the main canteen. I can't walk any further."
"Let's go."
Toffee looked back at the path they'd just taken, still in shock.
"I can't believe it hasn't even been an hour. Did we really just run like our lives depended on it?"
In front of the university canteen, P'Oat was standing around, clearly waiting for someone.
Just then, Artit walked right past him, looking like he was on a mission.
"Artit! Hey, Artit! Why are you all the way over here?" Oat called out.
"Getting food," Artit muttered, not stopping.
"But the Engineering canteen has way better food than the main stalls," Oat pushed, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Artit hesitated, his fingers tightening around a piece of paper in his hand. Before he could hide it, Oat snatched it away.
"Wait, is this a freshman application form? Why do you have this?"
"Give it back, Oat," Artit commanded, his voice dropping into a cold, serious tone.
"Let's see... Adirak Kittivanich? Faculty of Fine Arts? Oh, I know him! This is Toffee's, right?"
Artit nodded, though he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
"Why is his application with you?" Oat asked, a grin forming.
"His friend forgot to submit it. He's been stuck doing chores for the contest," Artit explained stiffly.
"Artit, are you bullying the freshmen?" Oat teased, though his eyes stayed sharp. "If not, then why is a freshman doing senior-level chores? Answer me."
"I don't know. Ask Kao. He's the one in charge," Artit snapped back instantly.
"Ah, but you could have submitted this through the Engineering system. Why take such a long detour to the Fine Arts building yourself?" Oat grinned wider. "Give me a real answer, Artit."
"Nosy. You're so damn nosy," Artit growled, his face darkening as if he were ready to swing at someone.
"Can't you just mind your own business for once?"
"Whoa, okay! So hot-blooded," Oat laughed, raising his hands in surrender.
"Forget I said anything. Since he's in my faculty, I'll take it. It's my fault for not looking after my juniors properly anyway."
In a flash, Artit snatched the form back before Oat could even blink.
"Hey! Artit, don't be like that…"
"Oh, P'Oat! Sawasdee khab!" Toffee's voice suddenly broke the tension.
"Oh, Toffee! Sawasdee khab."
Lamon trailed behind, keeping his head down and pointedly avoiding Oat's gaze.
Toffee noticed the heavy atmosphere but decided not to press his friend right now.
Oat blinked at the pair of them.
"Toffee, Lamon… why do you guys look like ducks that just got dunked in a pond?"
"We… uh… ran a marathon. That's it," Toffee lied quickly, his face flushing.
"A marathon? There's no marathon today."
"Just forget it, P'Oat. We're already soaked anyway."
Oat's eyes shifted toward Lamon, his expression softening with a hint of hesitation, but the younger boy refused to look up.
The air shifted the moment Toffee's voice reached them. Artit felt a jolt of electricity go down his spine, leaving him completely paralyzed. He snapped his head in the opposite direction, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. It wasn't arrogance—it was the suffocating shyness of a man who didn't know how to handle the person he'd been secretly watching from afar.
"Oh! Perfect timing," Oat chirped, completely oblivious to the war inside Artit.
"Let me introduce a legend of the Engineering Faculty.
This is Artit. Say hello, man. We're supposed to take care of our juniors' hearts, aren't we?"
When Artit remained a frozen statue, Oat laughed nervously.
"Sorry guys, Artit's a man of few words."
"It's okay, P'Oat... we're just really hungry,"
Toffee said softly, his voice trembling slightly from the cold wind hitting his wet clothes.
"But you're both soaked through," Oat noted, his eyes trailing over them. "You'll catch a fever like this."
At the word "soaked," Artit finally turned. His eyes darkened as they swept over Toffee. Seeing the thin white fabric of the freshman's shirt clinging to his skin, making it nearly transparent, sent a surge of possessive heat through Artit.
He looked furious—his eyebrows knit together in a glare that screamed both annoyance and a desperate need to hide Toffee from the world's eyes.
"I have a spare set of clothes. You're wearing them," Artit blurted out, his voice low and commanding.
Oat's jaw nearly hit the pavement. "What? Artit... did you actually just offer someone your clothes?"
Artit ignored him, his gaze boring into the junior. "Toffee, right?"
"Khab..." Toffee whispered, feeling the intensity of the senior's stare like a physical weight.
"Follow me. As for your friend... I only have one spare change." Artit's face returned to an icy mask the moment he glanced at Lamon. Without another word, he stripped off his own jacket and draped it heavily over Toffee's shoulders.
The scent of Artit's expensive cologne and warm skin instantly swirled around Toffee, making his head spin.
"Wait here. I'm bringing the car around."
Toffee stood there, drowning in the oversized jacket, looking at Oat for help.
Oat simply gave a slow, knowing nod—a silent reassurance that, for better or worse, Artit would take care of him.
As Artit pulled up, Toffee scrambled toward the car, barely having time to breathe. He and Lamon exchanged a final, frantic look—a silent "Good luck, we're in trouble"—before they were separated.
Now, only Lamon and Oat remained in the heavy silence of the canteen. Oat rubbed the back of his neck, his ears turning a deep, tell-tale crimson.
"It's... it's bad. I don't have a jacket on me. I lent mine to someone else this morning."
"It's alright, P'Oat. My skin isn't showing that much," Lamon murmured, though his wet shirt was practically a second skin.
Oat's eyes flickered down to Lamon's chest for a split second before he looked away, his pulse visible in his neck.
"Lamon, come with me. I'll lend you my sportswear from the gym locker."
"Really, P'Oat, I'm fine—"
"Lamon, don't be stubborn. Come here."
Oat didn't wait for a refusal. He reached out and wrapped his hand firmly around Lamon's wrist. The heat from Oat's palm burned against Lamon's cold skin. Without another word, the senior pulled him toward the gym corridors, his grip possessive and his pace hurried, leaving no room for escape.