Page 9 of Tropical Vice
Blake looked at him, silent and expectant.
Kit leaned in and kissed him.
It was not precise, but his lips were warm and soft on Blake’s. He answered with the same heat that had built since the market, since the moment Kit had rejected that herb. His hand found Kit’s jaw, tracing gently. The tea behind them rocked slightly.
Their shirts bunched between their abdomens, and Blake welcomed the warmth of skin against skin. Kit caught Blake by the side and brought him closer. The warmth of their bodies pressed against each other, the wet still held in his hair, it made everything heavier.
Chokdee scratched at the back door.
Kit pulled Blake with him, toward the back of the kitchen, where the dim light made their shadows fade into one another. Shirts fell. One breath stuttered. Kit’s hand found the curve of Blake’s shoulder blade, and he responded by bending to kiss the place beneath Kit’s ear, damp and hot.
No words were offered. The rain kept falling.
FOUR
AFTER THE HEAT
Blake opened his eyes to a fine lattice of wood above him, the ceiling faintly bowed, each seam darkened by years of heat and rain. The hush of morning held steady against the walls, pierced only by the soft clatter of movement in the kitchen.
When he sat up, the futon creaked beneath him. A light blanket slithered down his back. The air had cooled but carried a closeness from the night before, as though some part of it had not quite ended.
His shirt, neatly folded, lay across a stool, and his trousers hung from a bamboo hook by the shuttered window. He dressed without sound, each motion careful, and paused at the door before stepping into the narrow passage that led to the café.
The scent of herbs met him first, sharp and bright. Kit’s back was to him, sleeves rolled high, arms bare. He moved without hesitation, lifting a colander from the sink, shaking it once. He did not turn.
“Coffee’s on the counter.”
His voice was dry, level, not cold. Just finished.
Blake stepped forward, taking the mug without comment. The cup was full, unsweetened, almost scalding. The bittersteam bit at his throat. He murmured thanks, and Kit said nothing.
The café’s chairs were still stacked from the night before. Blake lifted one and set it straight, then moved to the next. His body remembered the space easily now. Kit said nothing as he continued sorting the morning’s vegetables, his focus absolute. He separated shallots from lemongrass, rinsed the sprigs, tapped the knife in short steady bursts.
The silence was functional, but too deliberate. Blake moved beside him, wordless, and began washing bowls.
At the end of the counter, their arms touched. Just once, a grazing contact that was almost too light to be real. Neither turned, but the air caught between them, suspended, alert. Kit’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its rhythm, fractionally slower.
Blake lingered there, shoulder angled close.
“Do you do this often?” he asked. He kept his voice low, uninflected.
Kit’s knife paused on the board. “Do what often?”
Blake looked down at the herbs, then back to Kit’s hands. “Have one-night stands with tourists.”
The words dropped like small stones. There was no echo, just the slow fade of sound. Kit’s spine stayed straight. He placed the knife aside, reached for a towel, and dried his hands with precision. When he spoke, it was quiet.
“If you think that’s what happened,” he said, “then you can go.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You did.” Kit turned then, fully, his gaze sharp but not angry. “Or you wouldn’t have asked.”
Blake faltered. “I...” but the rest was gone.
He was suddenly aware of how little he understood. The room felt smaller. The rhythm of the kitchen had stopped, and with it the unspoken permission to stay.
Kit picked up a tray of spoons and moved them to the drawer. “You should eat something,” he said. “You look pale. I’ll make some breakfast when I’m done with inventory.”
