Krit didn't tell Nawin.
Not because he was hiding it—because naming it would turn it into something else. Something heavier. Something that might ask for forgiveness.
And Krit didn't believe in preemptive guilt.
The first sign that the offer was real came quietly.
A missing comment vanished from his academic record.
A professor who had stopped replying suddenly asked for his input after class.
An invitation appeared in his inbox—not marked exclusive, but unmistakably deliberate.
Faculty Roundtable. Attendance requested.
Requested.
That word mattered.
Krit arrived early and took a seat at the edge of the room, posture straight, expression unreadable. He didn't scan for Tanin. He didn't need to.
Tanin arrived last.
He didn't look at Krit when he entered. He greeted the room, exchanged brief words, settled into his seat like this was routine. Like nothing had changed.
Only when the door closed did he glance sideways.
A fraction of a second.
Enough to acknowledge presence.
Not enough to imply ownership.
That was the rule in action.
The discussion moved fast—policy, metrics, optics. Krit listened, spoke when necessary, never overreached. When he challenged a point, Tanin didn't defend him.
He reframed the conversation instead.
Subtle. Surgical.
By the end, the room regarded Krit differently. Not warmly. Not cautiously.
Seriously.
When it was over, Tanin stood. "Walk."
It wasn't a question.
They moved side by side down the hall, close enough that others noticed, far enough that nothing could be accused. The tension lived in the negative space between them.
"You did well," Tanin said.
"I did exactly what I would've done anyway," Krit replied.
"That's the point," Tanin said.
They stopped outside the stairwell.
"This doesn't make us aligned," Krit said.
"No," Tanin agreed. "It makes us adjacent."
"Temporary."
Tanin smiled faintly. "Everything is."
Krit studied him. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm respecting it," Tanin corrected. "There's a difference."
Krit turned to leave.
"Krit," Tanin said.
He stopped, but didn't turn.
"You don't owe me," Tanin continued. "But you are being watched now. Use that."
Krit finally looked back. "Don't confuse visibility with consent."
Tanin's expression shifted—just a little.
"I won't," he said. "I'd never survive the mistake."
Nawin noticed the change that same day.
Not because anyone told him—because Krit stopped explaining things.
He listened more. He deflected questions. He moved through spaces like someone aware of sightlines.
Like someone calculating.
They met outside the cafeteria, late afternoon heat pressing in.
"You skipped the study group," Nawin said.
"I was busy."
"With what?"
Krit hesitated. Just once.
Nawin saw it.
"Say it," Nawin said.
"I accepted help."
There it was.
No apology. No justification.
Nawin stared at him, the words landing slow and heavy. "From him."
"Yes."
Silence.
"You said—" Nawin stopped himself. Swallowed. "You said you wouldn't bend."
"I didn't," Krit replied. "I moved."
"That's the same thing when you're the one standing still."
The accusation wasn't loud. That made it worse.
Krit exhaled. "I did this so we don't disappear."
"We?" Nawin laughed once, sharp. "Or you?"
Krit met his gaze. "I'm still here."
"But you're not with me," Nawin said quietly.
That hit.
"I didn't ask you to follow," Krit said.
"And you didn't ask me to trust you," Nawin shot back.
They stood there, the space between them suddenly wrong. Crowded. Charged.
Nawin stepped back first.
"Just don't forget," he said, voice steady despite everything, "who you were before they noticed you."
Then he walked away.
Krit didn't follow.
That hurt more than it should have.
Across campus, Phum watched the shift with interest.
He saw the way faculty leaned in when Krit spoke now. The way Tanin's presence curved subtly around him. The way Nawin lingered on the edges—unprotected, uninvited.
Phum leaned against the railing beside Tanin later that night.
"You got him," Phum said.
Tanin didn't look up. "No."
"You think he's yours," Phum continued.
Tanin's jaw tightened. "I think he's dangerous."
Phum smiled. "Same thing, different outcome."
"Careful," Tanin said. "You're starting to sound invested."
Phum shrugged. "I just know when a system's about to break."
"And whose side are you on?" Tanin asked.
Phum's smile faded. "I haven't decided."
That should have worried him.
That night, Krit lay awake, phone facedown beside him.
No messages.
No reassurance.
No permission to feel conflicted.
He had chosen leverage over comfort.
Strategy over solidarity.
And somewhere in that choice, something fragile had shifted.
Not broken.
But strained.
Above him, the ceiling fan turned steadily—unbothered, impartial.
Krit closed his eyes.
He had accepted the offer.
Now he would live with the consequences