Page 3 of Tropical Vice (Private Encounters #18)

THREE

SAND, STORM, AND SILENCE

The café was quieter than last time, though not entirely silent.

A low fan turned behind the counter, and someone hummed tunelessly from the back room. Blake stood at the threshold a moment longer than needed. The dogs were spread out across the concrete like dropped laundry. The brindled one raised its head—Chili, he remembered.

“Hey, Chili,” Blake said, crouching. Chili sniffed his hand, gave a half-hearted tail thump, then went back to sleep. The smaller white mutt, Mango, watched from under a bench but didn’t move. The oldest one, Dusty, lay like a rug just inside the door.

Blake stepped over him carefully and entered. The air smelled of kaffir lime and something smoky, maybe the charcoal stove. The same chalkboard leaned drunkenly by the entrance, its lettering thinner, the looped Thai script trailing off like an afterthought.

He had dressed with more deliberation this time, though he’d deny it aloud.

Rolled sleeves, no watch, slightly scuffed sandals.

Nothing overt. Still, as he moved to the low table by the window, he felt Kit’s presence before he saw him, half-turned behind the counter, elbow deep in coriander, hair messily knotted, brow furrowed as he measured something into a saucepan.

Kit didn’t look up. Blake sat anyway. Geng emerged from a corner, ambling over to curl up by the legs of his chair.

“Hi Geng,” he greeted. “I’m not a stranger anymore. Can I pet you now?”

Kit’s voice came with a hint of amusement, though he tried to hide it behind a flat expression. “If I were you, I wouldn’t take any chances.”

Blake grinned and folded his hands. “Understood. Boundaries.”

Kit glanced over at last. His face didn’t change. “You want the same?”

Blake considered, taking a quick glance at the menu board. “Unless there’s something better today.”

Kit wiped his fingers on a towel and disappeared into the back.

Blake exhaled, annoyed with himself for waiting for a reaction. He wasn’t here for anything besides work, or so he kept insisting.

The café had depth. Real texture. That was what he needed for the pitch, something less curated, more lived-in. But even as he looked around, noting the stacked crates and the haphazard shelf of dry goods near the till, his gaze slid back to where Kit had stood.

He left his hair down today, and it stopped just above his shoulders. This time, he wore more bracelets, and they jingled softly every time he moved.

When the lassi arrived, Kit set it down without comment.

“You always this talkative?” Blake asked, half-smiling.

Kit didn’t miss a beat. “Only when it’s mutual.”

Blake blinked. That one landed. He sipped. The lassi was tangier today, richer, as if the fruit had sat longer.

“So you run this place alone?” he asked.

Kit leaned back on the counter. “Sometimes my cousin shows up. That’s usually when something breaks.”

“And the dogs? What’s their story?”

Kit shrugged. “Chili came with the building. Dusty used to sit by the doorway scaring angry customers. Mango’s the smart one. He used to steal food. One time he actually paid me back a couple hundred baht. Miso randomly materialized one day. Geng I didn’t invite.”

Blake laughed. “You’re good at collecting strays.”

“I’m bad at getting rid of them.”

That caught Blake. The way Kit said it, quiet, resigned, suggested more than dogs. He watched Kit move, the grace of him, precise but never performative.

“Have you ever thought about expanding?” Blake asked. “Even just a sign people can read from the road?”

“I don’t want people from the road.”

“What about people like me?”

Kit looked at him directly then. His eyes were unreadable. “What are you?”

Blake opened his mouth, then closed it. That was the question, wasn’t it?

“I help shed light on things that deserve recognition,” he said instead. “Finding places that make people feel... human. Places like this.”

“Places like this?” Kit echoed.

“Places that feel real,” Blake clarified, more defensive than he meant. “Not designed. Not dressed up for tourists.”

Kit turned and picked up a cloth. “If you’re going to make this a travel destination, don’t lie.”

“I haven’t even pitched it yet,” Blake said.

“There you go again with the ‘yet.’”

Blake didn’t answer.

Kit disappeared again. Blake looked down at Chili, who had wobbled over and crept closer to his foot. His wagging tail gently hit Geng’s torso. He scratched behind the dog’s ear and was rewarded with a sigh.

The curry, when it came, was darker than he’d expected, almost smoky. Blake took a bite and had to close his eyes.

“This is amazing,” he said when Kit passed again. “Not like any curry I’ve had before. What did you do to it?”

Kit paused. “Burnt the paste. It was an accident, but people liked it. So I kept it that way.”

Blake smiled. “Good call.”

The café remained mostly empty. A young woman slurped noodles in the corner. Outside, a rooster crossed the road alone.

“You always this charming?” Blake asked, when Kit passed again with a tray of herbs.

Kit didn’t turn. “You always this persistent?”

“I’m paid to be.”

“That explains the shoes.”

Blake looked down. “I thought these were local.”

“They’re new.”

“You noticed.”

“You’re quite noticeable,” Kit said simply.

Blake looked up at him then, and for a moment, the room narrowed. He wondered if Kit could hear how loud his own heart sounded in his chest.

Kit broke it when he cussed quietly, glancing at the clock.

“Anything the matter?”

“One of the delivery guys didn’t show this morning, I’ve got orders sitting at the market that can’t wait much longer. I’ll sort it out.”

Blake rose before thinking, he smelled opportunity and took it. “I’ll help.”

Kit didn’t look pleased. “You’ll regret it.”

“I probably will,” Blake said. “Still offering.”

Kit hesitated, eyes narrowed slightly, then gave a single nod. “We’ll take the truck.”

Blake followed him out back. Dusty thumped his tail as they passed. Mango barked once, sharp and high. Geng trotted alongside until Kit snapped his fingers, and the dog veered off.

They crossed behind the building where a pickup sat with its bed scratched and leaning, the side mirrors dulled by salt.

As Kit loaded an empty crate into the rusted bed of the truck, Blake found himself smiling again, without reason.

The heat pressed in around them, but the tension between them felt cool and electric, just starting to charge.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Kit exactly. But he knew he didn’t want to leave.

Crates filled with empty bottles rattled when Kit hauled open the driver’s door. Blake stepped around to the passenger side, offering no remark when the handle stuck. The engine complained before turning over. Wind caught the open windows, throwing warm sea air through the cab.

Kit did not speak and Blake did not intrude.

At the market, Kit moved with a clarity Blake admired before he could help it, each gesture quick but measured.

He watched Kit reject a whole bushel of a plant he couldn’t identify, then point instead to one still in the vendor’s basket, not in the front display.

Blake carried their haul and tried not to get distracted at the way Kit’s bicep contracted whenever he ran a hand through his hair.

“Too old,” Kit said, when Blake reached for a clutch of basil.

“I picked the greenest one.”

Kit did not smile. “Green doesn’t always mean fresh.”

But the line between them eased after that.

Blake walked a pace behind him, slow but willing.

When he misnamed a mangosteen, Kit gave a single short laugh, enough to leave Blake wondering if it had been meant for him.

It was a pleasant sound, and he didn’t understand why he found himself wanting to hear it again.

He glanced once at Kit’s profile, brow furrowed, mouth still, and looked away quickly.

They loaded the truck beneath a low grey sky. Wind disturbed the woven tarpaulins, and a shout rang from the stalls behind them, followed by a beat of thunder. Kit paused, gaze tilted toward the hills.

“We’ll make it,” he said.

Blake set the last crate in place. He looked up at the horizon, taking in the darkened clouds slowly moving toward the town. “Even if we don’t, I’ll carry everything on foot.”

Kit turned to look at him then, one slow second longer than necessary. “You’ll regret saying that.”

The sky turned gloomy on the drive back, and the road seemed to narrow between the trees. A puddle caught them broadside; the engine coughed and died. Kit gave a sharp exhale, neither angry nor resigned. He pointed ahead.

“It’s half a kilometer back home.”

Blake stepped out before Kit finished opening the door. The air was thick, rich with the smell of coming rain. They lifted crates in silence. The moment the last was settled in their arms, the sky split open.

Rain started pouring harshly, sudden and hard.

Blake’s shirt stuck fast; Kit’s clung to his spine.

Still, they kept moving. The noise softened everything else, boots against wet stone, breath rising fast. Blake let out a laugh that surprised even him.

Kit didn’t respond, but his head turned just slightly.

Blake wasn’t sure if he imagined the smile on Kit’s face.

By the time they reached the kitchen, Blake’s collar had plastered itself flat. Kit kicked off his sandals and set the crates down with force. A dog barked once outside, sharp and familiar to Kit.

“Chokdee,” Kit muttered, peeling off his shirt. “He comes and goes. He prefers hanging around tourist spots because they feed him more.”

Blake turned aside. Kit tossed him a towel, then opened a low cupboard. From it came a faded shirt and loose trousers.

“Take those off. You’ll catch something.”

The curtain swayed in the damp breeze as Blake passed behind it. His shirt peeled off slow, caught at the shoulders. The towel caught half the rain but none of the heat. He stepped into dry clothes, loose and unfamiliar. Behind him, the curtain stirred again.

Through the gap, he saw Kit look up. Their eyes held.

He stepped out. The cotton clung less than it had before, but Kit looked only at the kettle, then reached for a cup and poured. From the tea wafted the scent of lemongrass and something earthier. When Blake took it, their fingers met.

The silence that followed was full of the rain’s echo. Blake sipped without looking up. Kit stood near the sink, staring out the high window. Water traced the glass.

Chokdee barked again. Neither moved.

Kit opened the fridge and closed it again. “You can leave the clothes here. They’ll dry.”

Blake nodded. He realized too late that Kit’s words might have been a cue for him to leave. “I was thinking I might come back tomorrow.”

Kit’s mouth twitched. “That depends if I’m open.”

“I can wait.”

Kit turned, arms loose at his sides. He stepped forward, almost casually.

Blake did not step back. He set the teacup on the counter behind him, careful not to let it fall.

Kit reached out and touched the knot tied at his waist, testing its tightness, perhaps, but his hand lingered a second longer than needed.

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.