Page 15 of Tropical Vice
There, in the stillness, Kit turned. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but his hand came up, touching the hem of Blake’s shirt. He did not tug it, only placed his fingers there, as if making certain it was real. Blake looked down at him, then touched Kit’s waist, his own hand slow and deliberate. They stood close, without tension, until Kit leaned forward and their mouths met.
The kiss was cautious. No pull, no insistence. Just the press of lips, gentle and warm. Kit’s hand came to rest at the side of Blake’s neck. Blake cupped Kit’s jaw with his palm, thumb brushing the fine sweat along his cheekbone. Their breaths mingled, tongues still sweet from the lassi. The fan above the door clicked once, then fell still again.
Blake eased Kit’s shirt over his shoulders and let it fall behind him. Kit unfastened the buttons at Blake’s collar one by one. Their clothes came off in quiet stages, careful, unhurried. Nothing was discarded with force. Nothing was torn away. Whenthey lay down together, it was on a woven mat by the far wall, its fibers coarse beneath their skin, still faintly warm from the midday heat.
The sounds narrowed. The murmur of ceiling beams, the creak of a board beneath Kit’s hip, the sound of Blake’s exhale as Kit kissed just below his jaw. Kit’s hand passed over Blake’s chest, the touch neither greedy nor idle, but certain. Blake returned the gesture, tracing the length of Kit’s back, mapping the dips of shoulder blade and spine with a tenderness that quieted everything else.
Neither of them led. They found each other by instinct, by proximity, by the slow assembling of bodies that had nothing left to defend. When Kit breathed against Blake’s throat, it was neither a question nor a command. When Blake moved closer, the answer was already there. The room was stifling, thick with the smell of skin and salt and lemongrass clinging to their hair. But they did not open the window. The closeness belonged to the heat.
Afterwards, Kit lay on his side, propped on one elbow, running his fingers through the curls at Blake’s temple. His face was neither guarded nor open, only quiet. Blake turned into the touch, eyes half-lidded, his hand resting lightly over Kit’s ribs, where the breath still moved. A strand of Kit’s hair clung to the corner of Blake’s mouth. Neither of them brushed it away.
Kit said something in Thai. His voice was low, the syllables soft-edged and unhurried. Blake did not understand, and did not ask. He answered with his mouth against Kit’s shoulder, pressing there with the kind of steadiness that required no reply.
In the stillness, a dog scratched itself just outside the kitchen. The ceiling ticked as the heat released from the plaster. Kit curled closer, letting his knee settle over Blake’s thigh. Blake did not speak. His hand moved up, thumb passing once along the hollow of Kit’s throat before coming to rest beneath his ear.
They remained like that, bare, quiet, unguarded. The back room, usually cramped and overheated, had taken on a new shape. It no longer held memory of service or tension. It became the space between them. It became theirs.
SEVEN
HOME
Blake sat alone on the villa’s veranda, phone resting face-down beside a cooling cup of tea. The tide pressed quietly against the shore. Twice, he had drafted the email. Twice, he had deleted it. Now he lifted the phone and pressed Leon’s name.
“You’re up early,” Leon said.
“I’m off the project,” Blake replied.
A beat passed, then Leon’s voice sharpened. “It’s not a project. It’s an opportunity. This place could scale if you’d stop resisting. ”
“It’s not scalable. It’s not yours.”
Leon exhaled hard. “You’re letting sentiment cloud your judgement.”
“I’m resigning.”
There was silence. Then, “You realize this could cost you your career. Your whole life.”
“Fine.”
Blake ended the call. The phone lay still. No messages came. Around him, the quiet returned, deeper now, like something granted. He breathed in. The air no longer tasted like delay.
That afternoon, he entered Sai Fa carrying everything he brought with him to Thailand. Kit was pouring coconut milk intoa pan. He didn’t look up at once. When he did, his gaze settled on the bag.
“You leaving?”
“Not unless you throw me out.” Blake placed the pack behind the counter and took up a cloth. Kit poured two drinks, slid one across. Their glasses touched without ceremony.
“What about your job?”
Blake wiped down a sticky corner. “Turns out I like this one better.”
Kit gestured toward a missed patch with his chin. “You missed a spot.”
Weeks later, their mornings began with noise—the rustle of palm leaves, the dogs’ paws scrabbling against the stone steps, the hiss of coffee starting to boil.
Blake moved easily now. He delivered mango lassi to a couple napping in hammocks, nudged chickens from the kitchen threshold, failed again at rinsing herbs to Kit’s satisfaction. He learned to swear in Thai, poorly. Locals greeted him by name. He fixed the fan in the pantry. Kit did not mention it, but left tools in plain view when the coffee grinder stuttered.
Nights were quiet. They sat behind the café, legs stretched toward the shore, the dogs settled around them. They spoke less. They touched more.
