Page 6 of Tropical Vice (Private Encounters #18)

SIX

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN

Blake approached the café from the southern path, the parcel tucked in one hand, its shape dented by the tide-humid air. His shirt clung in patches beneath the arms. There was no wind.

From the slope above the patio, he could see Kit moving the broom across the tiled threshold in slow, even pulls. He did not pause when Blake came into view, nor glance up. The sound of the bristles against ceramic carried across the garden.

Blake halted near the step. He said nothing. His jaw shifted, then stilled again. The parcel trembled once in his grip before he set it carefully on the stool beside the door, close to the broom’s lean. Kit’s movements remained steady, deliberate.

Only when Blake’s fingers left the string did Miso rise from the shade. She sniffed the air, then hobbled forward, nose lowered, the fur behind her ears matted from sleep. Blake crouched. Miso reached him, sniffed again, then pressed her flank against his knee. He stroked her head once, gently.

The others followed, less wary. Chili sat beside him, tail curled round its paws.

Blake waited. The sun beat through the banana fronds; a gecko chirped beneath the eaves.

Kit finished sweeping, turned toward the stool, and looked down at the paper parcel.

His fingers tightened around the broomstick. He did not speak.

Blake stood. “I brought them from the Saturday market. He said Chokdee liked the thinner cut. Maybe he’ll stay more often now.”

Kit looked at him for the first time. The edge of his mouth twitched, not in amusement, but restraint.

“They’ll like it,” he said, then turned the broom to rest it by the stool. “You forgot the mango. We only have enough for two more lassi.”

Blake drew a breath, held it, and gave a single nod. He crossed the threshold without waiting for more.

Inside, the air was thick with old ginger and lime leaves. The light caught on the steel tap, throwing a pale shimmer onto the basin tiles. Blake moved to the sink and began washing his hands, scrubbing longer than he needed.

When he turned, Kit was there, setting a bowl of raw lemongrass onto the counter. He did not look up. His hands were already moving, splitting the stalks cleanly with the heel of the blade.

Blake dried his hands, then reached for the ginger beside the gas ring. He peeled without asking. The scrape of the knife against the wood filled the silence. Kit’s rhythm continued beside him, deliberate, contained.

“I didn’t come to explain,” Blake said after a moment. “You were right. I should have told you.”

Kit wiped his hands on a towel, but said nothing.

“I wasn’t trying to use anything,” Blake added. “I told them it wasn’t viable. I meant it.”

Kit turned the flame down under the pot. “And yet they know where to find us.”

Blake closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “I can get them to undo the listing.”

Kit snorted, but softly. “It’s not the listing.”

Blake dropped the peels into the compost tin. “Then what?”

Kit did not reply, instead he tossed Blake a dishcloth. Blake took it and began to wipe down the counter, pressing harder than necessary.

Kit moved to the stove, stirred the broth. A spatter of oil snapped against the rim. Blake stepped back, gave him space. He checked the cups at the back shelf, realigned them. A spoon had fallen behind the drying rack. He bent to retrieve it.

Kit watched him from the side, his fingers loose around the ladle. A dog barked once from outside. It wasn’t a voice Blake was familiar with, so he guessed Chokdee was finally back.

“You can help with the stock,” Kit said at last.

Blake looked at him. “Are you sure?”

Kit’s gaze flicked to the window, then back. “You’re already here.”

Blake moved toward the stove. He tasted the broth from a wooden spoon, then reached for the lime.

They worked through the midday heat without another word.

The rhythm resumed, hesitant but steady, like a tide coming in across unfamiliar sand.

Blake did not ask for forgiveness. Kit did not offer it.

But when the bowl of lassi was poured, there were two cups, and both were placed side by side on the counter, the rims damp with condensation.

Sometime later, Blake rinsed his hands at the kitchen sink.

The cloth he had used to dry the spoons lay folded beside the basin, corners damp and curling.

He dried his palms on his trousers, then opened the cupboard above the kettle.

Two small ceramic cups, one chipped at the rim, and the bag of tea Kit kept for himself, no sugar.

He poured hot water, watching the leaves darken and rise, then placed both cups on a wooden tray.

Outside, the sky had dropped its colors.

A thick blue hung over the beach, unbroken but for the line of foam where the tide met the sand.

Blake walked barefoot across the back threshold, tray balanced in both hands.

Kit sat on the low stone ledge, one leg drawn up, bottle resting against his shin.

The dogs had scattered for the night. Only Chili remained, curled beneath the bench.

Blake approached slowly and set the tray between them. Kit did not reach for the cup, but neither did he turn away. When Blake sat beside him, leaving a full hand’s breadth of space, Kit exhaled through his nose and picked up the tea. His fingers wrapped around the cup in silence.

The waves rolled without urgency. A breeze tugged at the loose ends of Kit’s tied hair, strands lifting and settling again against his neck. Blake’s cup steamed untouched in his hand. He stared ahead, jaw set, until his voice emerged, low, deliberate.

“You were right. About everything.”

Kit made no reply. The sea cracked softly along the shore. Then, as if against his own judgment, he tilted slightly toward Blake. Their shoulders did not touch, but the space between narrowed.

Blake swallowed once. “I told them no. That’s true.” He ran his thumb across the cup’s rim. “But I should’ve told you what they were planning exactly. I should’ve said it straight.”

Still, Kit did not speak. But he did not move away either.

“I didn’t come back for a second chance at the pitch,” Blake said. “I came back for this. For you.”

Kit looked at him then. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes held. And held.

There was no rebuke. No forgiveness. Only the quiet between two men who had known a line had been crossed, and yet neither had turned from the other. A long pause passed.

“You talk too much.”

Blake let out a sound, but something close to relief. He sipped the tea at last. The wind moved again. Kit’s leg pressed against Blake’s knee and did not retreat.

Kit rose first. He did not look back, but held the café door open behind him. Blake followed. Inside, the air was warm and dim. The overhead light remained off.

Kit walked ahead, paused beside the counter, then turned. Blake stopped a pace away. Kit’s hand came up, fingers brushing against the hem of Blake’s shirt, then retreating. A pause, measured but unhurried. Kit stepped forward. Their mouths met.

There was no rush in it. The kiss was neither fevered nor uncertain.

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.

When they 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.