Page 7 of Tropical Vice (Private Encounters #18)

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 into a 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.

Late one afternoon, Sai Fa filled and emptied in bursts.

Plastic chairs scraped across tile. Someone ordered seconds.

Fans whirred above the counter. Blake moved behind it, apron askew, hands damp with melted ice.

Chokdee jumped up on a table, eager to scavenge leftovers. Kit snapped, “Off. I mean it.”

Blake laughed. So did Kit.

Kit passed behind him, brushing an elbow.

Blake said something in clumsy Thai. Kit corrected him, but his mouth curved faintly when he did.

Dusty yawned beneath the counter. The light slanted through the front windows and fell across the worn stone floor.

The music came soft through the old speaker near the fan.

Nothing was packaged. Nothing was perfect. Blake moved through the space like someone used to it. He did not speak of staying. He merely stayed.

SANCTUARY FOUND

The front door stuck, swollen from the rains.

When it finally gave way, Kit stepped into a tomb of stale air and scattered debris.

Overturned chairs lay like bones. The floor was gritty with sand and broken glass.

Something had made a nest in the corner where torn canvas and palm fronds created a small cave of shadow.

Kit set his bag down carefully and approached the nest. "Hello?"

A low growl answered him…