Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You didn’t even call me first, Pete.”

Kenta’s voice was barely above a whisper, knees drawn to his chest on the worn-out couch. He stared at the ferry ticket in his lap like it was a gun.

“You just booked it.”

Pete exhaled loudly, pacing the living room with the frustration of someone who’d held his grief in for far too long.

“You think I care about permission at this point?” he snapped, running a hand through his messy hair. “You almost bled out in your goddamn bathtub, Ken. I found you. You didn’t call anyone. You didn’t say anything. I broke the door down and—”

He choked. His voice caught somewhere between rage and devastation.

Kenta closed his eyes.

He’d replayed that night a thousand times already.

Pete yelling his name.
Pete shaking him.
Pete crying so hard his hands trembled while wrapping a towel around Kenta’s bleeding wrist.

Kenta had never seen him cry like that before. Not when Pete’s father died. Not when his marriage ended. Not even during the hardest cases they worked together.

It was that—Pete crying—that stopped him from trying again.

Not the therapy. Not the pills. Not the sterile hospital lights or the officer with the clipboard saying he needed “rest.” Not the group sessions where no one looked at each other.

Just Pete.
Kneeling on a wet floor, begging him not to go.
That had been enough.

“I haven’t had a dark thought in two weeks,” Kenta said softly, almost like an apology.

Pete stopped pacing.

Kenta pulled his sleeves down to cover his wrist. “I’m getting better. I’m eating. Sleeping—well, trying to.”

“You’re surviving,” Pete said. His voice cracked. “That’s not the same as living.”

Kenta didn’t reply.

Pete knelt in front of him then, hands on his knees. His eyes were red. Still puffy from that night. Still tired.

“I’m scared, Kenta.”

He said it so plainly that it knocked the air out of the room.

“I’m scared every day that you’ll go quiet again. That I’ll check my phone too late. That one day, I’ll find out I was too late this time. And I can’t—I can’t lose you, Ken. You’re my brother. You’re the only family I’ve got left.”

Kenta looked down at the ticket again. His fingers curled tightly around it.

“Koh Lipe,” Pete continued, gentler now. “It’s not a miracle cure. It’s just… a break. A beach. A cottage. Books. Sunlight. Somewhere your scars don’t feel like they’re under a microscope.”

“I don’t need a vacation.”

“You need air,” Pete said. “And you need distance from everything that nearly killed you.”

Kenta bit his lower lip until it hurt. “What if I still bring it all with me?”

“Then at least you’ll be somewhere quiet enough to hear yourself try.”

Silence settled between them.
Heavy. Thick. Real.

Kenta pressed the ferry ticket to his chest.

“…You cried,” he said. “That night. You cried like I already died.”

Pete didn’t deny it.

“That’s why I didn’t do it again,” Kenta whispered.

Pete nodded. “Then go. Please, just go. For me.”

Kenta exhaled slowly.
And said nothing more.

—

The sun was too bright on the island.

Kenta stepped off the ferry with his head bowed and his hood pulled halfway up, like it could shield him from the attention he knew he’d draw. His skin was alarmingly pale—the kind of soft, unblemished porcelain that never saw sunlight anymore. It glowed like paper against the golden hue of the sand.

He wore a long-sleeved black rashguard that hugged his frame closely, protecting him from the sun and from stares. Over it, a short-sleeved white polo, airy but structured, the collar limp in the ocean breeze. Loose shorts to his knees. Sandals. A small duffel bag hanging off his shoulder like an afterthought.

He looked like a man in disguise.
Like a porcelain doll in a soldier’s shell.
Like someone who once belonged to the city but forgot how to exist outside it.

Beautiful. That was the word.

Not the soft, charming kind of beautiful. But something stranger. Something delicate, almost inhuman. His face was all high cheekbones, sharp jawline, soft mouth. Androgynous, striking. Eyes too dark, too sad. Hair jet black and slightly tousled, falling just past his ears, the ends curling damp with salt air.

His body—slim, narrow-waisted—held a kind of quiet strength beneath the cloth. There were muscles, yes, but they sat quietly beneath the surface. Like a blade hidden in velvet.

People looked.
They always did.
But they didn’t understand what they were seeing.

They saw someone beautiful.
They didn’t see someone broken.

—

The cottage was smaller than he expected, and that made it better. Just one bed. A fan that hummed gently. Clean sheets. Books on a low shelf near the window. A hammock on the porch. A chair that faced the sea.

He dropped his bag at the door and sat.

He hadn’t touched a book in months. He brought one anyway, just for Pete.

It was an old paperback mystery novel with a creased spine and a few water-damaged pages. One of his favorites before everything fell apart. He took it outside and sat on the lounge chair, letting the breeze run through his sleeves.

The sun was warm but not cruel.
The wind smelled like salt and green leaves.
He felt out of place.

There were people on the beach—laughing, playing, drinking from coconuts. A world away.
Kenta didn’t move.

He opened the book, eyes drifting across the words without reading them. His mind floated somewhere in between the past and the panic. Between the basement where they kept him and the bathroom floor where Pete saved him.

But this time, there were no sirens. No footsteps.
Just the waves.

And he thought, for a moment—

Maybe silence isn’t always something to fear.

The ocean murmured softly, a hush of foam and wind sweeping along the shore like breath against bare skin.

It was mid-afternoon and the sky was a little too perfect—blue stretching endlessly with only faint brushstrokes of cloud overhead. The sun, merciless in its height, painted everything in gold. The sand glittered white, almost sterile.

Kenta sat reclined on a wooden sun lounger, one leg bent loosely over the other, book half-forgotten on his chest. His other hand adjusted his sunglasses as the glare off the water hit just right.

He looked—out of place.

Other vacationers wore swimsuits, surf shorts, tank tops soaked with sweat or seawater. The locals, tan and loose-shouldered, roamed with easy comfort, barefoot and bare-chested. Laughter echoed from the beach bar down the shoreline.

But Kenta?

He was a portrait in contrast.

Pale. Spectral. Beautiful in a way that seemed unintentional, haunting.
His skin was porcelain—so white under the sun that it almost looked luminescent. He haven’t changed his clothes.

Every inch of it hidden beneath a black long-sleeved rashguard, clinging to the contours of his arms and torso. Still wearing a white short-sleeved collared shirt over it, open and loose like it belonged to someone else. Slim-cut linen shorts brushed mid-thigh, revealing pale, muscled legs dusted lightly with hair.

And yet, even fully clothed, Kenta drew attention like a flame drew moths.

His face was absurdly beautiful. A sharp jawline softened only by the curve of his lips—usually pulled into a disapproving line. His nose was slender and precise, and his lashes thick and dark, casting shadows beneath his sunglasses. His black hair was parted slightly to the side, soft and lazily curled near the ends, tucked behind one ear.

There was something cold about him.
Something elegant, like a marble statue in the middle of a street market.
Something that whispered “Look, but don’t touch.”

And yet, people looked.

Too many.

—

“Yo, hey there—hello, gorgeous!”

Kenta didn’t even glance up.

He turned a page.

Three figures approached him from across the sand, silhouettes cutting through the heat shimmer. They were shirtless, barefoot, surfboards tucked under their arms. All tanned skin and sun-bleached hair, lean bodies bronzed by hours under the sun. One of them—a tall guy with a surfer’s gait and shark-tooth necklace—grinned as he stepped closer.

Kenta finally glanced up from his book.

He pushed his sunglasses higher, so they completely covered his eyes again.

“Hello?” the man tried again, friendly and charming, but loud.

Kenta didn’t respond.

“You reading something serious, huh?” the second guy said, peering over the top of Kenta’s book.

Kenta closed it.

Quietly. Deliberately.

“I’m not interested.”

“Oof.” The third one laughed. “That cold shoulder comes with that pretty face, huh?”

“Just wondering if you’ve ever surfed before,” the first one persisted. “Waves are perfect today, man. Tide’s high, smooth breaks near the reef.”

Kenta tilted his head, dry as sand. “Do I look like someone who surfs?”

The second guy smirked. “You look like someone who should loosen up.”

The third one chuckled. “Bet you’d look good in just boardshorts.”

“Let me guess,” Kenta said flatly, eyes unreadable behind dark lenses, “your idea of a pickup line is yelling at people until they give in.”

“Damn,” one of them laughed. “You’ve got a tongue on you.”

“Yeah, and we like that,” another added, eyes roaming down his body. “That skin’s real, huh? You’re like… snow. A vampire prince. Sexy as fuck.”

Kenta didn’t smile. He didn’t even twitch. His voice was smooth and biting:
“Do you always bark louder when you’re insecure?”

That seemed to finally irritate them.

“Ooooh,” the first guy said, chuckling but with less charm now. “You’re that kind of pretty. The stuck-up, thinks-he’s-better kind.”

Kenta sighed and went to lift his book again.

That was when a hand—calloused, warm, and too familiar—touched his thigh.

“Come on, don’t be like that, baby.”

Kenta’s entire body froze.

The hand slid upward, fingers creeping with the same casual arrogance of someone who assumed they could do what they wanted. And then—

The words came, snide and low:
“Knew it. You’re totally a gay. Explains the attitude.”

That was it.

Kenta moved faster than any of them could register. One hand shot up and caught the man’s wrist mid-touch. The other curled into a fist—and without hesitation, he punched the man square in the face.

There was a horrible crunch.

Blood sprayed from the surfer’s nose as he stumbled backward, howling and clutching his face, surfboard dropping uselessly in the sand.

The two others gaped. Then lunged.

Kenta stood.

He wasn’t just beautiful now—he was dangerous.

Lean muscle pulled taut beneath fabric as he moved into a defensive stance, like a reflex burned into his bones. Judo champion, detective, survivor. He didn’t flinch when the second man swung at him. He caught the wrist and twisted—hard—until the guy yelled and dropped.

The third man tackled him from behind, sending both of them into the sand. Kenta hit the ground hard, elbow digging into gravel—but he twisted, slammed his knee into the man’s ribs, and shoved him off.

But three on one wasn’t fair. Not now. Not after everything.

He was fast, trained, but still healing. Still not sleeping. Still carrying pain in places people didn’t see.

And then—

A voice broke through the chaos.

“Enough!”

The shout was sharp. Not loud—but carried with it a force that made everyone pause. Kenta twisted his head and saw someone approaching from across the beach.

A man—tall, broad-shouldered, in a loose beige shirt and dark shorts. His feet were bare, anklets around one ankle. He looked local. He moved with the casual strength of someone who worked outside. His skin was milky white, unusual for the island, almost glowing in the light.

His hair was a soft mess of red-brown, tousled from the breeze, cheeks flushed from the heat. His jaw was tight. But his eyes were calm—deep-set and unreadable.

The surfers hesitated.

“Back off,” the redhead said. “You’re scaring people.”

“You see what he did to my friend?” one shouted. “He broke his fucking nose!”

The man turned to Kenta, who stood with one knee slightly bent, his stance defensive but deadly still. The wind lifted the collar of his white shirt. His book lay open in the sand, his phone half-buried beside it.

“I saw,” the man said simply. Then to the surfers:
“He did it because you touched him. You were told to back off. You didn’t.”

The tension crackled, but the surfers knew better now. One of them muttered something under his breath as they helped their friend up, blood dripping down his chest.

“We were just having fun.”

The redhead didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He stood between them and Kenta now, a quiet wall.

Eventually, they left—grumbling, one of them limping, the punched one groaning.

Silence fell.

Kenta remained still for a long moment, chest rising and falling beneath his rashguard. His face was blank.

The man turned back to him. “Are you alright?”

Kenta didn’t answer. Just looked down.

He didn’t thank the man.
Didn’t look him in the eyes.
Didn’t say a word.

He turned and walked away—back toward the cottage, back toward silence.

The stranger watched him go.
Sunlight lit the white curve of Kenta’s nape like a bruise made of moonlight.

He hadn’t said anything.
But he’d left his name behind—etched into the air like salt and fire.

The beach had quieted, but Kim’s chest hadn’t.

The breeze returned to its usual rhythm. Tourists resumed their lazy strolls or afternoon naps beneath wide umbrellas. Even the ocean seemed to forget the small ripple of violence that had passed just minutes ago.

But Kim couldn’t forget.

Because the man who walked away without a word had left behind a silence that clung to the air like mist.

Not anger. Not shame. Just silence.

It unnerved Kim more than shouting ever could.

And it made him look.

Made him stare.

He crouched by the abandoned sun lounger. A book lay face-down on the sand, its spine worn, pages curling slightly with heat and moisture. Next to it, a smartphone, buzzing against the wood.

He brushed off the book and picked up the phone.
The screen lit up with a name.

Incoming Call: Pete.

He hesitated only for a breath.

Then answered.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was sharp, protective. “Who is this?”

“My name’s Kim. I work at the Sangsuri Resort. The owner of this phone—he left it behind on the beach just now.”

There was a pause. “What happened?”

Kim stepped into the shade of a swaying palm tree, tucking the book under his arm like it was fragile.

“There was a misunderstanding. Some of our staff—part-time guys—approached him earlier. They were tipsy. It got… inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate how?” Pete snapped.

“One of them touched him. He didn’t like it. Responded with a punch.”

Pete muttered something under his breath—Thai, maybe. Hard to hear.

Kim softened his tone. “Your friend didn’t do anything wrong. He defended himself. My guys were out of line. I’ve already reported it. They’re banned from the property.”

Another beat of silence. Then Pete exhaled. Long. Weary.

“First day,” he said bitterly. “I sent him there to rest. And he’s already got blood on his hands.”

“Not his,” Kim said. “Trust me, the other guy got what he deserved.”

Pete chuckled without humor. “He punch your friend that hard?”

Kim smirked faintly. “Broke his nose.”

Pete whistled. “Still got it, then.”

Kim blinked. “Still?”

“I mean… you don’t just punch a man like that without training,” Pete muttered. “Anyway. Is he okay?”

“He left without saying a word,” Kim admitted. “Didn’t look panicked. Just… angry. Or tired.”

Pete sighed again. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

“I want to return his phone. And his book.”

There was another moment of hesitation. Kim could almost hear the gears turning in Pete’s head.

“Room 6. Far end. Beachfront cottage.”

Kim nodded, even if Pete couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”

He adjusted the book under his arm, about to hang up—when Pete said, voice softer now:

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Could you… look after him?”

Kim blinked. “Look after?”

“Not in a babysitting way. Just…” Pete hesitated, then exhaled. “Just be kind. He won’t ask for help, but sometimes he needs a reminder the world’s not out to hurt him. If he looks lost—point him to shade. If he disappears, just check that he hasn’t floated off into the sea.”

Kim’s voice was quiet. “I’ll watch over him.”

“Thanks,” Pete said, but his voice was frayed now—like he’d been holding in more than he wanted to admit.

Another silence.

Then Pete’s tone shifted—lower, wry, dry.

“…You into him?”

Kim coughed, caught off guard. “What?”

Pete chuckled under his breath.

“Not judging. Wouldn’t be the first time someone fell headfirst after one look. Not with that face card.”

Kim found himself smiling despite the heat pressing down on him. “Face card?”

“Oh, come on,” Pete said. “You saw him. Pale as porcelain, eyes like he’s judging the whole world. That kind of pretty makes people stupid.”

Kim was quiet for a beat.

Then he asked—softly, like the name itself might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful:

“…What’s his name?”

Pete’s voice softened.

“Kenta.”

The name settled in Kim’s chest like a stone dropped into still water.

Kenta.

It wasn’t just a name—it sounded like a secret. A poem. A wound.

“Thank you,” Kim said.

“No problem,” Pete replied. Then, quietly: “Just don’t hurt him, Kim.”

“I won’t.”

Click.

The call ended, but the weight of it stayed.

Kim stared at the phone in his hand, then at the book now pressed gently to his chest.

Kenta.

He said the name once in his mind.
Then again, slowly.

He’d return these to Room 6.
He’d knock once, maybe twice.
He wouldn’t expect an answer.

But he would start watching the horizon now—not for boats, not for weather—but for the man whose name was Kenta, and whose silence said more than most people’s entire lives.

Chapter Text

Kenta wasn’t expecting company.

He also wasn’t wearing a shirt.

He had just gotten out of the shower, hair still damp, his body still a little warm from the sun and steam. The towel he’d tossed onto the bed. The window was open. The sea breeze didn’t help with the sweat clinging to his back.

So when there was a knock, sharp and quick, he figured it was someone from the front desk—maybe delivering towels or the dinner menu. He opened the door without thinking.

And stared.

Oh.

It was the man from earlier.

The one who intervened. The one who stared. The one who’s now… way too close.

He looked even younger up close. Maybe not by age, but energy. His skin was milky white, but Kenta could now see faint freckles scattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, as well as a soft sunburn blooming on his shoulders—he was wearing a loose, slightly faded sando, collar stretched, exposing his tan-lined collarbones. And his hair, which had seemed reddish-brown under the sun earlier, now looked even softer in the shade of the doorway.

His expression?

Stupid.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Kenta blinked at him, unmoving. “What?”

The guy held out something. A book and his phone.

“These. You. Left. Them.”

He said it like it was his first time speaking. Kenta raised an eyebrow but took them, surprised.

He didn’t even realize he’d forgotten those.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

The guy—from earlier, if Kenta remembered. looked like he was about to say something else. His eyes dropped for a second, and Kenta realized belatedly that he was still shirtless.

He made no move to fix that.
Let the boy suffer.

“I’m sorry!” Kim blurted out suddenly.

Kenta tilted his head. “For?”

“My friends. They were drunk and idiotic. They usually flirt, but not like that. I mean, sometimes like that. But not to strangers. Not that you’re—uh—not that they should’ve—anyway. I’m really sorry.”

Kenta blinked.

“…Okay.”

Kim cleared his throat, and Kenta noticed how pink his ears were. Cute, he thought. Unexpectedly so.

And that wasn’t the only thing.

The guy was attractive.

Not in a polished, magazine kind of way. But in a warm, sun-kissed, island-boy kind of way. Messy hair. Tanned arms. Slender frame. Big eyes with thick lashes, and a lopsided mouth that looked like it smiled easily—if he wasn’t short-circuiting like a fried lightbulb in front of Kenta’s nipples.

Kenta’s lips twitched.

Kim, oblivious, powered through his humiliation. “I wanted to make it up to you. So I was wondering if I could—uh—offer you a tour.”

Kenta raised an eyebrow. “A tour.”

“Yes!” Kim said, a bit too loud. “Free. Personal. Island sights. Local stuff. You don’t have to say yes! I just thought—”

Kenta’s eyes casually trailed down.

Top to toe.

The guy was in old basketball shorts, flip-flops, and that stretched sando. But somehow, he still pulled it off. Tan lines and freckles. Burned shoulders and strong calves. He looked like summer.

Kenta frowned internally.

When was the last time I got laid?

He couldn’t even remember. Before the kidnapping?
Definitely before the trauma. And certainly not after.

Kim was still rambling. “And tonight there’s a bonfire! Locals. Music. Food. Harmless fun. I’ll be there, obviously, but you don’t have to come with me or anything—just, like, also be there. Near. On the same beach. If you want.”

Kenta crossed his arms.

Kim’s eyes dropped again—to his chest. His arms. His abs.

He looked like he wanted to implode.

The sexual tension, to be fair, was noticeable. And kind of… amusing.

Kenta could feel it thrumming beneath the surface, that strange buzz of someone looking at him too long, too hard. He hadn’t felt that kind of attention in months. Not like this. Not interested attention. Not from someone whose mouth twitched when he smiled, or who blushed when he stared.

He should’ve been annoyed.

Instead, he found himself thinking:
He has good energy.

Kind aura. Nervous. Not trying to impress. Just… trying.

Kenta sighed. Pete would kill him if he didn’t at least try to enjoy the trip.

“What time?”

Kim blinked like he just got hit with a coconut. “Huh?”

“The party. The bonfire.”

“Oh! Uh—six. I can come get you.”

Kenta smirked just a little. “Of course you can.”

Kim’s soul visibly left his body.

Kenta stepped back inside, already shutting the door. “See you later.”

Then shut the door right on Kim’s stunned face.

Inside, he leaned against the wall for a second, still shirtless, staring at the now-quiet room.

“…Cute idiot.”

After months of carrying his nightmares like a second skin, it was the first time Kenta woke up without his lungs fighting for air.

No phantom hands.
No muffled screams.
Just the hush of a southern island breeze seeping through the gaps in the window, and the heavy warmth of a nap that had finally pulled him under without resistance.

Kenta lay still for a second, blinking at the ceiling, half-waiting for panic to find him. But it didn’t. Only the slow stretch of muscle and bone greeted him, followed by the soft creak of the wooden bed frame when he sat up.

Maybe the change in environment really was helping. Maybe Pete wasn’t a complete asshole after all.

He’d thank him later. Begrudgingly. Probably with a bag of soy milk and a grumble.

He glanced at the time.

7:12 PM.

His heart sank. Then jolted.

Shit.
Wasn’t he supposed to—?

The bonfire. The drinks.
That tour guide—what was his name again?

Kim.

Cute smile, milky white skin despite the sun burns, a voice soft like rice paper—Kenta remembered all of it. He also remembered Kim saying he’d fetch him around six.

Kenta’s brows furrowed. Had the guy stood him up? A flicker of annoyance ticked up in his chest, old habits rushing in—he hated when people wasted his time.

But the mirror caught his eye, and something shifted.

His reflection looked soft. Almost… gentle. The usual tension around his eyes had eased. His lips weren’t tight. And though the hostage weight loss was still visible in his narrow waist, the sharpness had dulled under the sunset glow.

Kenta took his time getting ready, which was unusual.

Shower. Toothbrush. Moisturizer and a familiar swipe of lip balm. He wasn’t dressing to impress, he told himself. He just wanted to feel normal again.

He grabbed a black tank top—the same one he used to wear on off-days back in Bangkok—and slipped into board shorts that now hung low on his hips. They used to ride higher, but post-trauma weight loss did that to you. Still, he liked how they moved when he walked.

He dabbed perfume lightly along his collarbones. Musky, dark, with a whisper of spice.

Cash. No phone.

He opened the door—

And paused.

There was a man on the balcony. Leaning with arms folded, back turned, posture calm but alert like he’d been waiting. He was staring out into the slow bleeding colors of dusk, where the sky kissed the sea with apricot orange and bruised lavender.

It was Kim.

And Kenta didn’t breathe for a second.

Not because the man was beautiful. He was—but that wasn’t the point.

It was the way he stood there. Like he meant to. Like he belonged there. Like waiting wasn’t a chore but something gentle he’d offered with intention.

Kim turned when he heard the door creak.

And just like this morning, his lips parted, as if Kenta had knocked the wind out of him for the second time in one day.

Kenta raised a brow, arms crossing over his chest, one hip cocked lazily. “So you were here.”

Kim blinked rapidly, straightened up. “I—yeah. I’ve been here since six.”

“You didn’t knock.”

“I thought you were sleeping. You looked like you needed it earlier.”

That made Kenta pause.

He expected excuses, maybe a sheepish apology.

He didn’t expect kindness.

Kim’s hair was styled now—neatly pushed back from his forehead. His skin looked freshly washed, cheeks slightly pink. And that tank top?

Black. Same shade as Kenta’s.

Kenta snorted. “We look like a couple. That your strategy? Matching outfits to confuse the locals?”

Kim looked down, flustered. “I didn’t mean to. I just—I changed after my shift. Didn’t wanna look sweaty or gross.”

Kenta tilted his head slightly, watching him.

There was something unpracticed about Kim. Earnest. Like no one had taught him how to play the game of flirting. And yet, he was still managing to make Kenta’s skin feel hotter under his clothes.

Kim’s gaze lingered.
Too long.
It didn’t slide politely away—it stayed. Skimmed over the sharp lines of Kenta’s collarbone. Dropped to the tight curve of his waist, barely hidden beneath loose cotton.

Kenta noticed.

He was used to being looked at. He knew how to deal with eyes that stared too long—he’d weaponized it once or twice himself.

But this was different.

Kim wasn’t hungry or lecherous. He wasn’t trying to own the view. He looked like someone discovering something new. Like he hadn’t realized men could do this to him, and now here he was, staring like he’d just met his first crush in board shorts.

Kenta smirked. “You always stare this hard or am I just a special case?”

Kim’s ears went scarlet. “S-Sorry. You just… you look different than earlier.”

“Hotter, you mean?”

Kim let out a strangled cough.

Kenta chuckled softly. He liked how easy it was to throw him off. He liked the way Kim’s eyes always betrayed what he was thinking—how they flicked back to Kenta’s bare skin like a reflex, as if they didn’t get permission from his brain first.

“I owe you dinner,” Kenta said, stepping past him onto the balcony.

Kim blinked. “No, really—”

“You waited two hours.” Kenta looked at him flatly. “I pay my debts.”

“I haven’t even eaten at the resort’s restaurant yet,” Kim mumbled. “It’s too pricey. Plus, I’m just a part-timer. Feels weird.”

“Then let me. Think of it as me being a rich asshole and you doing charity work.”

Kim smiled, hesitant but amused. “You don’t strike me as the rich asshole type.”

“Yet you still waited two hours.”

Kim looked away, ears still burning. “I trusted you’d come.”

Kenta’s smirk faltered. His gaze softened, the sarcasm melting for a fleeting moment.

This guy… he was trouble.
And Kenta was starting to want it.

They walked side by side, not quite touching. The heat of Kim’s arm close to his was somehow louder than the sound of ocean waves crashing in the distance. And as the night opened up before them, soft with firelight and full of possibility, Kenta couldn’t help but wonder—

What the hell was he getting himself into?

To Kim’s surprise, dining at the resort restaurant with Kenta didn’t feel awkward at all.

He’d expected to feel the weight of stares, whispers from the staff, a few muttered jokes. And sure enough, the moment they walked in together, a few of his coworkers clocked them immediately—eyes narrowing with interest, heads subtly leaning toward one another like a silent wave of “Oh? This is new.”

One hostess raised her brows at Kim with an amused smirk, mouthing something like “finally.” Another waiter—someone Kim had once shared a smoke break with—grinned as he passed their table and said, just loud enough for Kim to hear, “Nice catch.”

Kim ignored all of them.

Kenta didn’t react, or maybe just didn’t care. He strode through the space with casual confidence, dressed like he hadn’t thought too hard about it—black tank top, low-hanging board shorts, damp hair brushing the nape of his neck—but still somehow looking like the most dangerous and beautiful man in the room.

They were seated near the window, where the last rays of evening sun melted into the waves, casting golden reflections onto the glass. The tablecloth was cream, the silverware spotless. Kim was used to looking at this place through the lens of service and trays. But tonight, it felt like somewhere else—intimate, suspended.

Their server turned out to be someone Kim knew well. “Look at you, date night,” the guy teased under his breath as he laid down menus. Kim shot him a tight smile and a glare that promised vengeance.

Kenta didn’t even blink. “Your friends are subtle.”

“They’re idiots,” Kim muttered, and Kenta gave a single amused huff in response.

There was no awkward talk about the prices. No hesitant glances at the menu. Kenta flipped it open like it owed him money, scanned it for ten seconds, then said casually, “Order whatever. I’ll eat anything.”

Kim hesitated. “You sure?”

“I said I’d treat you,” Kenta said, not unkindly. “Don’t insult me by trying to pay.”

So Kim ordered what he liked. Nothing too fancy—grilled squid, green curry, garlic stir-fried veggies, and steamed jasmine rice—but still enough to feel like a real meal. The waiter winked before disappearing with their order, and finally, they were alone.

The table between them was now filled with steam and scent—green curry fragrant with basil and spice, a platter of grilled squid charred just right, vegetables still crisp in garlic oil, and warm jasmine rice in a small clay pot. The candlelight flickered gently, casting soft shadows that danced across Kenta’s cheekbones as he scooped a bit of curry onto his plate.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by the clink of silverware and the occasional quiet sigh from Kim, too busy chewing to form a proper sentence.

Kenta reached for another piece of squid, chewing thoughtfully, eyes half-lidded in a way that looked lazy but sharp. “So,” he said, casually, “you still offering to be my personal tour guide? Or was that just some customer service charm you turn on for all tourists?”

Kim swallowed quickly—too quickly—and chased it with water. “No, no—I meant it.”

“Hmm.” Kenta lifted a brow, teasing but not mocking. “Good. Because I’m holding you to it.”

Kim sat up straighter, visibly relieved. “Right. Well… I guess we start tomorrow morning?”

“I’ve only got three days. Two nights,” Kenta said, tilting his head. “So you better make it worth it.”

There was the tiniest upward curve at the corner of his lips, just enough to make Kim’s brain short-circuit for a second.

Challenge accepted.

Kim didn’t even have to think. “Okay—lunch first. I’ll take you to the pier past the village, not the tourist side. Local place. They get fresh seafood off the boats, stuff that doesn’t even make it to the beachfront resorts.”

Kenta looked up from his plate, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. “No menu?”

Kim grinned. “No printed ones. You eat what came in that morning. You want crab? You better hope they caught crab. But it’s the best food on the island. You’ll eat on plastic stools with a view better than any overpriced rooftop bar.”

Kenta hummed, clearly interested. “Sounds like something I’d actually enjoy.”

“I figured.”

“And then?” he asked, nudging more rice onto his plate.

Kim paused just long enough to make sure Kenta was listening. “After lunch, I’ll take you inland. There’s a coffee shop most tourists don’t know about. It’s tucked behind the community library. The owner collects secondhand books and lets people read while they drink. You’ll find everything from local folklore to trashy romance novels.”

Kenta blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “Books?”

“Yeah.” Kim’s tone softened. “Thought you might like that kind of quiet. It’s… cozy. You don’t have to talk. You can just exist there.”

Kenta didn’t answer right away, but Kim watched the subtle change in his expression—how his eyes crinkled just slightly at the corners, how he reached up to push his damp hair back like he was trying to play it off.

There it was again—that flicker of something warm beneath the cold exterior.

“You planned that fast,” Kenta murmured.

“I’m local,” Kim said with a shrug, smiling. “I know my island.”

“And the coffee?”

“Terrible,” Kim said with a chuckle. “But the cat who sleeps on the window ledge makes up for it.”

Kenta actually let out a small breath of a laugh. “I’ll take the cat and books, then.”

The air between them settled again, not heavy, not awkward—just full. Something unspoken threaded through the space now. Not tension exactly. Something quieter. Like a promise.

Kim leaned back, finally taking a bite of his vegetables, and let himself relax.

He didn’t know what this was turning into, but it was already something he hadn’t expected.

And judging by the way Kenta kept glancing at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, maybe he wasn’t the only one.

They were still picking grains of jasmine rice off their plates when Kim looked up, as if suddenly remembering something.

“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “I almost forgot—I had an actual reason for coming to your room earlier.”

Kenta raised an eyebrow, sipping the last of his water. “Besides loitering outside my balcony for two hours?”

Kim winced, laughing. “That too. But I meant to bring you to the bonfire party. It’s kind of a thing here—like a welcome tradition for guests.”

Kenta tilted his head. “What kind of welcome tradition involves sweat, noise, and fire?”

Kim leaned forward slightly, grinning. “The good kind. Music, drinks, dancing. Locals and tourists mixing like they’ve known each other for years. A bit chaotic—but you get used to it.”

Kenta stared at him for a beat, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossing lazily over his chest. “I don’t dance.”

Kim shrugged. “You don’t have to. Just have a drink, enjoy the beach at night. Pete would want you to go.”

That made Kenta sigh. He could already imagine Pete’s annoying face saying “Kenta, go out there and live a little—have fun for once.”

Fine. Maybe one drink wouldn’t kill him.

“Alright,” Kenta said, setting his utensils down with a soft clink. “Drag me, then.”

Kim didn’t hesitate. “Gladly.”

—

The walk to the beach was short, and the sound of music and laughter grew louder with every step.

The bonfire was already burning tall by the time they arrived, flames licking the sky as silhouettes of bodies danced around it. Locals and tourists alike swayed in rhythm to the thrum of upbeat island music, the air thick with sea breeze, smoke, and the faint scent of grilled meat from nearby food stalls.

Someone had set up colored lights strung between two palm trees, flickering red and green over the crowd. A group of foreigners played limbo with a broomstick, someone cheered from the back, and a drunk tourist was attempting to hula-hoop with two hoops at once. The energy was loud, messy, alive.

Kim turned toward him. “Beer?”

Kenta nodded once.

“I’ll get us some.” Kim flashed a grin before weaving into the crowd, disappearing easily among the moving bodies.

Left behind, Kenta stood stiffly, just outside the circle of dancers.

He watched as Kim slipped through the crowd, greeting people with casual ease—high fives, hugs, that familiar arm-over-the-shoulder move people used when they were known and loved. Someone handed Kim a drink he waved off, another pulled him into a short, rhythmic dance. He laughed, carefree, hips moving with a fluid sway, the beat of the music guiding his steps.

Kenta couldn’t look away.

Kim looked… free.

The kind of free that made people want to orbit him. His skin shimmered slightly under the firelight, his teeth white when he smiled, his laugh full-bodied and effortless. There was nothing calculating or heavy in his movements—no storm cloud over his head, no haunted eyes.

Unlike Kenta.

Kenta’s gaze dropped to his own hands, fingers fidgeting. He suddenly felt the burn of the fire on his skin even though he stood far from it. The heat of people pressing too close. The music beat louder now, thudding in his chest like a second heart.

His own breath began to catch.

The crowd warped slightly—smiles turned too wide, laughter too sharp. Something clutched in his chest, cold and fast.

He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t do this.
Not here. Not surrounded.
Too loud. Too many hands.
Too many ways out but not fast enough.

He turned.

A few meters off, past the reach of the firelight and the crowd’s noise, a stretch of sand curved around the dark edge of the beach. There, beneath a tall coconut tree, was emptiness. Space.

He walked briskly, the sound of the party muffling with every step.

The sand was cool under his feet. The air shifted from warm and smoky to salty and clean. The tide rolled in slowly, waves catching moonlight in silver flashes.

Kenta sat beneath the coconut tree, back resting against its rough trunk, knees pulled up lazily. His hands trembled once before he clenched them into his shorts.

Deep breaths.

The sea helped. Its rhythm grounded him in a way nothing else could. Simple. Predictable. Inhale. Exhale.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, letting his heart settle, until he heard soft footsteps behind him—bare feet pressing into sand.

He didn’t look up until a cold can was pressed gently into his hand.

“Didn’t disappear on me, did you?” Kim asked, voice softer now, almost amused but not pushing.

Kenta accepted the beer without meeting his eyes. “No. Just needed air.”

Kim didn’t ask anything else.

He just plopped down beside him in the sand, a bit closer than expected, his arm brushing Kenta’s for the briefest second.

And together, they sat there—two shadows beside the sea, the music behind them fading into background noise, the night stretching quiet and open in front of them.

Chapter Text

Kim was still beating himself up in his head.

He kept replaying the scene over and over—the way the bonfire blurred into color behind him, the taste of vodka still faint on his tongue, the too-loud music, the brief rush of dancing with friends, that moment of laughter… when for a second he’d forgotten Kenta was there. Not because Kenta wasn’t unforgettable—God, far from it—but because his presence was so quiet, so inward. Like someone who was still getting used to being looked at again.

Damn it, Kim thought, mentally smacking his forehead. Of all the times to act like an idiot…

He shifted in the sand beside Kenta again, clearing his throat softly.

“I’m sorry,” Kim said, his voice small. “I should’ve brought you somewhere quieter. Somewhere intimate. I wasn’t thinking.”

Kenta, legs loosely stretched out, gave a small shake of his head. “It’s okay. I’m just not good with noise and crowds anymore. Not lately.”

The words were simple, but heavy. Kim didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

Kenta glanced sideways, raising his beer with a faint smirk, as if trying to shift the atmosphere. “You did look good dancing, though.”

Kim blinked. “Me?”

“You.” Kenta took a slow sip, eyes lazily sweeping over him. “Those hips. You sure you’re not professionally trained? Dance school? Secret boyband past?”

Kim huffed a laugh. “Dance school? I didn’t even go to regular school.”

Kenta’s smirk slipped.

Kim saw it—the way sympathy flickered across his face.

“Not even elementary?” Kenta asked, quieter now.

Kim ran a hand through his hair, the breeze ruffling the fringe that had fallen into his eyes. “Nope. My mom passed away when I was eight. Couldn’t keep up with school. Couldn’t afford uniforms. Then that was that.”

He didn’t say it like it was tragic. Just… matter-of-fact. Like someone used to keeping the sadness folded neatly away.

“My dad was Korean. A surf instructor. Left before I could even crawl. Mom said he had nice hands and a stupid laugh.” Kim gave a crooked smile. “That’s about all I got.”

Kenta studied him. The paleness of Kim’s skin almost glowed under the moonlight, a soft milky contrast against the bronze sun-burnt look of most locals. He looked like he didn’t belong on the island, but at the same time, like it was the only place that had ever truly accepted him.

“And now?” Kenta asked, voice gentle. “You just… work?”

“Anything that makes a penny,” Kim said. “I bartend, I lead tours, fix bikes, sometimes babysit my neighbor’s chickens. Whatever keeps food on the table and the roof over my bed - well, I won’t call it a bed but it’s comfortable.”

The breeze quieted. The party behind them sounded miles away now.

Kenta looked at him for a long moment—like he was seeing all the pieces behind Kim’s easy smile. The loneliness. The survival. The resilience. And it made something twist in his chest, painfully.

He looked away. But the tears came anyway.

A few slipped silently down his cheek before he could catch them.

Kim panicked instantly. “Wait—wait, are you crying? Shit, I—did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Kenta rasped, shaking his head. “It’s not that. You just…”

You just remind me what it’s like to survive with nothing but your smile intact.

But he couldn’t say that.

Kim didn’t know what else to do. Words failed him, logic abandoned him. So he did the first thing that felt right in his chest.

He cupped Kenta’s face with both hands.

His thumbs brushed away the tears, his breath warm against Kenta’s cheek.

And then—he kissed him.

Soft at first. A tentative question between lips. A “do you feel this too?”

And Kenta answered—God, did he answer.

He kissed back, with slow urgency, his mouth opening under Kim’s. Their lips slid together, heat blooming with every second. Kenta shifted slightly, turning more toward him, one hand clutching at Kim’s shirt like he needed something to hold onto.

Their tongues met, slow and uncertain—testing, teasing. Tasting of beer, salt, and something heartbreakingly tender.

Then Kenta moaned. Soft, breathy, a little desperate.

Kim’s whole body jolted.

He wouldn’t lie—it was sexy. Too sexy. It sent a pulse straight to his core, made him dizzy. He wanted to hear that sound again, wanted to drag it from Kenta’s throat over and over until they forgot the world outside the beach.

But the kiss broke suddenly.

Kenta froze, breath ragged, lips flushed, eyes wide.

He pulled away, and for a moment, Kim feared he’d done something terribly wrong.

Kenta turned his face to the sea, as if trying to vanish into the horizon. His chest was rising and falling fast, like he couldn’t breathe.

Kim opened his mouth to apologize, but Kenta beat him to it.

“Don’t talk,” Kenta said softly. “It’s probably just… the alcohol.”

Kim blinked. “I’m sober.”

That made Kenta’s jaw tighten.

Kim’s eyes flicked to the top of Kenta’s ear, noticing the flush of red climbing there.

Ah. Embarrassment.

He wasn’t mad.

He was flustered.

Kim’s heart dropped back into his chest in relief, though his head was still spinning from the kiss. That moan. That look on Kenta’s face. God.

“Should we pretend it didn’t happen?” Kenta asked quietly.

Kim stared at him for a long moment, then tried to tease. “Why? Did you hate it?”

Kenta rolled his eyes, cheeks still pink. “Shut up.”

Kim grinned.

They lapsed into silence then—but it wasn’t awkward anymore. Just soft. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that only existed between two people who shared something unspoken.

Kim glanced sideways, watching the gentle rise and fall of Kenta’s chest. He looked calm now, maybe even content. But there was a far-off look in his eyes again, like his thoughts were already drifting beyond the island.

Three days, Kim thought. That’s all he’s got here.

Just a few nights before Kenta would go back to Bangkok. To the city. To real life. Kim wasn’t part of that. He knew it. He never was part of those lives.

And still—he hated the thought of this being just a summer fling.

Even if that’s what it was.

Even if that’s all it could ever be.

But for now, he stayed beside Kenta under the stars, the kiss still warm between them, and the sea whispering promises it never intended to keep.

They sat in silence for a long time, the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled.

The sea rolled in steady breaths just a few meters away, waves lapping against the shore like a lullaby for the broken and the healing. The music from the party behind them had mellowed into a soft acoustic cover of some pop song neither of them really knew, a dreamy contrast to the thudding bass from earlier. The fire still glowed in the distance, casting dancing shadows across the sand. But here, beneath the coconut tree, it felt like they were in a world that belonged only to them.

Kenta hugged his knees close to his chest, arms resting lightly over them. His eyes were trained on the dark waves, though Kim noticed how he would glance at him every now and then, lips pressed together like he was still chewing over the kiss—or maybe the thousand things left unsaid between them.

Kim sat beside him with his arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting lazily on top, watching the way Kenta’s expression shifted in and out of the moonlight. He still felt the imprint of Kenta’s mouth on his own lips. Still remembered the sound of that moan. The softness of Kenta’s skin. The way it felt like something precious had bloomed between them and then been tucked quickly away again.

But neither of them brought it up.

Not yet.

Instead, the silence remained. Comfortable. Real.

Eventually, Kenta stretched his legs out, brushing sand off his calves, then stood. The night breeze caught the hem of his tank top, lifting it just slightly. He looked down at Kim, his eyes half-lidded but clear.

“Eleven,” Kenta said.

Kim looked up at him, confused for half a beat—until he remembered.

The itinerary. The plan. Tomorrow.

Kenta wanted him to come by at eleven.

A small smile tugged at Kim’s lips, a little surprised and maybe a little proud. “So you’re still going?”

Kenta raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t I agree to be personally guided by the infamous coconut-vendor-turned-fire-dancer?”

Kim let out a quiet laugh.

But then Kenta added, voice firmer this time, “Knock.”

Kim blinked.

Kenta tilted his head. “Tomorrow. Knock. Don’t wait outside the room for hours like some ghost. If I’m not awake, wake me up.”

Kim scratched the back of his neck, cheeks warming. “Yeah… okay. Noted.”

Kenta nodded once, not unkindly. His face softened, and for a second, something unspoken passed in his gaze—a quiet trust that hadn’t been there before.

Then, without another word, he turned and began walking back toward the soft glow of the resort cottages, his figure slowly swallowed by moonlight and palm shadows.

Kim remained where he was for a moment longer, still feeling the ghost of Kenta’s kiss on his mouth and the echo of his voice in the night air.

Eleven.

He repeated it to himself like a promise.

The waves greeted him first.

Soft, steady, predictable. Like a living lullaby. Kenta stirred in bed, eyes blinking open against the gentle sunlight pooling through the curtain gaps. For a second, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the usual weight to drop onto his chest.

But it didn’t come.

No nightmares.

No cold sweat. No breathless panic. No invisible ropes binding his limbs or phantom hands pulling him under.

Just peace.

Real, quiet peace.

It was unsettling.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the small wooden clock on the bedside table. Early. Earlier than he’d expected. Which made no sense—he’d gone to bed late, with a buzz from the beer and the kiss and the weight of emotions he’d been pretending not to carry.

He exhaled.

“Must be the alcohol,” he mumbled, stretching his arms over his head.

Or the sea.

Or—

No.

He wasn’t going to admit it was because of him. The boy with the wind-tossed hair and a smile like sunlight. That would be ridiculous.

He swung his legs off the bed and padded to the small bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face did little to stop the stupid, fluttery thing in his chest. Still, he took his time with his skincare routine—cleanser, toner, moisturizer, sunscreen. Lips hydrated. Hair brushed.

He stared at himself in the mirror. His reflection blinked back, looking calmer than he’d looked in months. The bruises under his eyes were fading. His skin looked brighter. He looked like someone who had—if only briefly—forgotten to hate the world.

He hated how much that felt like progress.

Before he could spiral, his phone buzzed.

Pete 🐸 calling.

Kenta rolled his eyes and picked up on the third ring.

“Wow. Didn’t expect a call so early,” he said, voice still raspy from sleep. “What is it now? Did the world burn down without me?”

Pete’s voice came through cheerful, too cheerful for a Tuesday. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. I figured I’d check in. Wanted to see how the island’s treating my favorite traumatized hermit.”

Kenta snorted. “It’s full of bugs. And tourists. And people who smile too much.”

“Ah,” Pete said thoughtfully. “So you love it.”

Kenta let out a soft breath. “It’s not terrible.”

There was a pause. Then Pete said, much too casually, “What did you do yesterday? Go anywhere fun? Meet anyone interesting?”

Kenta narrowed his eyes at the wall, suspicious. “Why do you sound like you’re asking about something you already know?”

“I’m just being friendly,” Pete insisted. “Curious. Hopeful.”

“Right,” Kenta muttered. “So this has nothing to do with the tour guide you called yesterday to personally assign as my babysitter?”

Pete made a noncommittal noise. “Kim? No, of course not. I mean—he sounded cute, but I didn’t see a photo or anything. Just a hunch.”

Kenta rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his head. “Subtle.”

Pete’s voice warmed. “So… did you two get along?”

Kenta thought of the grin. The dancing. The kiss.

The moan he didn’t mean to let slip.

He cleared his throat. “He’s fine.”

“Fine,” Pete echoed knowingly. “That’s what people say when they’re trying not to admit they’d climb someone like a coconut tree.”

Kenta barked a laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m just saying,” Pete continued, sing-song, “it’s been, what, almost a year since you’ve touched someone who wasn’t in handcuffs?”

“Don’t make me hang up.”

“I’m just worried about your… hydration levels. You’re in a dry spell so long it’s become a desert. Let someone water you, babe.”

Kenta pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, chuckling despite himself. “You are actually the worst.”

“Yet here you are, answering my call at eight a.m.”

”Freak! It’s 10!” >

Kenta sighed but let the smile linger on his lips.

After a pause, his voice softened. “Hey. Pete.”

“Yeah?”

“I slept through the night.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

Then Pete said gently, “You did?”

“No waking up. No panic. No nightmares.”

“Shit,” Pete breathed. “Kenta, that’s—that’s huge.”

Kenta ran his hand through his damp hair. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

“I’m proud of you,” Pete said. “Seriously. You’re letting yourself breathe again.”

Kenta swallowed hard. His throat was tight, but not from pain. Not today.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For pushing me to come here.”

“I’d do it all over again,” Pete replied. “Just… try to enjoy it, okay? Let yourself have this. Let yourself feel good. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Kenta nodded slowly, even though Pete couldn’t see it. “I’ll try.”

“Good. I’ll leave you to your mysterious date with your mystery guide.”

“Not a date.”

“Mhm.”

Kenta rolled his eyes again but didn’t fight it anymore.

“Bye, Pete.”

“Bye, sunshine.”

He hung up and set the phone down gently.

Silence returned. But it was a warm one.

Kenta moved back to his bag and finished getting ready. He pulled on a short-sleeved white button-down, layered over a clean sando. Paired it with light khaki shorts and his good sandals—the ones that didn’t look like he was lost and middle-aged.

He fixed his hair once more. Put on his silver hoop earring.

Looked at himself in the mirror.

Still not a date.

…But he looked damn good.

And just as he was about to convince himself to stop fidgeting, a knock came.

Sharp. On time.

Eleven.

He stood a little straighter.

No, he wasn’t excited.

But something inside his chest fluttered anyway.

The knock came sharp, just like Kenta told him.

He opened the door with a neutral expression—half-expecting Kim to be sunshine and chaos as usual, maybe with another awkward smile and a weak excuse for being early. But what greeted him instead made his breath catch.

Kim stood there with a bruise blooming on his cheek, just at the corner of his lips. The purplish blotch was raw and angry against his otherwise pale skin. It hadn’t been there last night.

The smile was still there though—wobbly, soft, and somehow still managing to be annoyingly charming—but it faltered the second Kenta’s face dropped into a frown.

“What the hell happened?” Kenta’s voice was low. Sharp. Not panicked—just dangerously calm.

Kim blinked. “It’s nothing. I just—uh—walked into something. Clumsy.”

“You walked into a fist?”

Kim winced. “It’s not that bad—”

“Who did it?” Kenta’s tone didn’t rise. But it sharpened. Like a blade slipping out of its sheath.

Kim stuttered, “Kenta, really—it’s not worth talking about.”

But Kenta stepped forward, the narrow gap between them suddenly charged.

“Tell me.”

There it was again—that shift. That strange gravity that pulled the truth out of people. Kim swallowed, unsure if he was breathless because of Kenta’s stare or the way his white button-down and simple khaki shorts somehow made him look like he was about to step into a courtroom and destroy someone’s entire legal existence.

God, he’s stunning, Kim thought dumbly. It wasn’t fair. How could someone look both like a man on vacation and like a high-ranking authority figure about to interrogate someone to tears?

“I got into a fight,” Kim said finally. “It wasn’t—like, a big one. Just shouting. And then it got a bit physical.”

“Where?”

“On the staff path near the kitchen,” Kim muttered. “Behind the resort.”

Kenta’s jaw clenched. “With who?”

Kim hesitated. “Just… someone I used to know. He works around here. Part-time. We’ve crossed paths.”

“What did he say to you?”

Kim looked away.

Kenta’s eyes narrowed. “Kim.”

Kim’s hands tightened on the helmets he was holding. “Nothing you need to hear. It doesn’t matter.”

“If it got you punched, it matters.”

There was a long silence. The ocean wind blew between them. Kim’s hair fluttered at the fringe.

“I shouldn’t have let him get to me,” Kim said finally. “But he blamed me for something stupid. For getting him banned from the resort.”

Kenta’s expression didn’t move. “Why was he banned?”

Kim hesitated again, visibly trying to protect him.

Kenta exhaled through his nose. “It was the guy from the beach, wasn’t it?”

Kim didn’t answer.

That was enough.

Kenta’s eyes darkened. “He said something about me.”

Kim still didn’t answer.

And again—that was enough.

Kenta took a step back into the room, like he was about to grab something, or maybe go hunt someone down.

Kim panicked. “Kenta—it’s fine now. Really.”

“You’re bruised.”

“Yeah, well… I’ve been bruised before.”

“That’s not the point.”

Kenta’s voice cracked slightly at the edge—low, controlled, but laced with something heavy. Guilt. Maybe anger. Maybe both.

Kim stepped forward, holding up one of the helmets. “Please. Let’s just go.”

But Kenta didn’t take it. His eyes were still fixed on Kim’s cheek like he was trying to decide whether to get ice or gasoline.

“You lost your job over this.”

Kim sighed. “That’s not your fault.”

“I’m the reason he came after you.”

“No,” Kim said firmly. “He came after me because he’s a piece of shit.”

The silence stretched.

Then Kenta’s voice softened, only barely. “You work so many jobs already.”

Kim gave him a crooked smile. “And I’ll find more. You think I haven’t been fired before? Please. I’m like a cockroach in flip-flops. I’ll bounce back.”

Kenta didn’t laugh. He just looked at him.

That same stare. The one that saw past jokes. Past forced smiles. Straight to the things Kim didn’t want anyone to notice.

It made him feel naked.

“I don’t want to cost you anything,” Kenta said finally, quieter now.

Kim stepped closer. “You didn’t.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“Exactly. So let’s not turn this into a tragedy.”

Kenta pressed his lips together, still clearly stewing.

Kim nudged the helmet against his chest. “I already made a reservation at the pier canteen. Place closes if we don’t show up before lunch. Also—there’s grilled crab involved. You promised to let me guide you, remember?”

Kenta stared at the helmet.

Then at the motorcycle parked just behind Kim. It was old, kind of scratched up, but gleamed under the sun like it had been washed just for today.

“Don’t make me use the puppy eyes,” Kim warned.

“You don’t have puppy eyes,” Kenta muttered.

“Rude,” Kim huffed. “I practiced in the mirror this morning.”

That earned the tiniest twitch of a smile.

Kenta finally took the helmet with a sigh. “I swear to God, if you drive like you dance—”

Kim was already grinning. “That good?”

“That chaotic.”

They both walked toward the bike. Kim straddled the seat easily and offered a hand as Kenta adjusted his helmet. The contact was brief—barely a touch—but something about it felt grounding.

When Kenta slid behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist, Kim froze for half a second.

Not from nerves.

From something like gratitude.

“Hold on tight,” Kim said, his voice a little steadier now. “You’re not allowed to fall off before lunch.”

“I’m holding you responsible for my life,” Kenta said flatly.

Kim smirked, revving the engine. “Best decision you’ve ever made.”

And with that, the motorcycle roared to life, taking off down the winding coastal road—two silhouettes leaning into sunlight, salty air, and the promise of a day that might hurt a little less than the one before.

The ride to their lunch spot took no more than twenty minutes, but to Kenta, it felt like stepping through a doorway to a different world.

Kim’s motorbike cut smoothly along the winding road, weaving past lush greenery that hugged the concrete like vines reclaiming forgotten stone. Tall palm trees framed the sky with their wide, fanned leaves, and the cicadas hummed in waves, rising and falling in rhythm with the wind. Fields stretched on both sides—small plots of vegetables, cassava, or banana trees—and further down were wooden houses propped up on stilts, their walls faded from sun and salt. Some had chickens pecking in the dirt yards, others had laundry lines heavy with drying clothes, the fabrics fluttering like flags. Little kids chased dogs in slippers too big for their feet, while elders sat on low stools, peeling fruit or chatting lazily.

Kenta didn’t speak. He barely even blinked. His arms were wrapped gently at first around Kim’s waist, but as the engine purred beneath them and the scent of the sea mixed with earth and fried garlic from some distant kitchen, his grip had tightened unconsciously.

Close enough that Kim could feel each soft puff of breath on the back of his neck.

Close enough that it made Kim hyper aware—not just of their proximity, but of every rise and fall of Kenta’s chest behind him.

Kim swallowed once and tried to focus on the road.

But all he could think was: he’s holding me. He’s really holding me.

⸻

Their destination wasn’t a grand restaurant or a beachside bistro with curated cocktails and ambient lighting. In fact, it wasn’t even marked on any tourist guide.

It was a squat, open-air canteen tucked behind a low fence made of old driftwood and seashells, shaded by a huge mango tree. Rusted fans spun lazily from the ceiling. Plastic stools in mismatched colors crowded under wobbly tables with laminated floral covers.

The sea wasn’t visible from here, but the scent of brine and grilled seafood lingered in the air like a perfume. Two stray cats darted under the tables, and someone had tied a rooster nearby.

There was no English menu. No pretenses. Just warmth—and the sound of someone yelling joyfully from the back.

“Kim!” a middle-aged woman with a flower apron came bustling forward, wiping her hands on a towel and immediately reaching to ruffle Kim’s hair like he was five. “You brought a friend! Handsome, too!”

Kenta blinked at the greeting, unsure how to respond, but the auntie pulled them both to a table like a whirlwind of laughter and garlic.

Kim, clearly used to this treatment, only grinned and called out a few things in the local dialect. Kenta couldn’t catch all the words, but he heard “crab,” “fresh,” and “don’t hold back.”

Soon, a feast arrived. Plates upon plates of seafood—crabs freshly caught and steamed, fried fish with chili and lime, shrimp in coconut sauce, rice that smelled faintly of pandan.

Kenta stared.

Then laughed, soft and incredulous.

He had eaten in Michelin-starred places. With Pete, every meal was either a reward or a business move. Every flavor precise. Every bite calculated.

But this?

He cracked open his first crab with effort, juice squirting and shell stubborn, but when he pulled the meat out and tasted it—sweet, briny, real—his heart soared like it was the first time he had ever tasted something.

Kim reached across to help, his fingers practiced and sure, cracking the shells gently, plucking out the meat and placing it on Kenta’s plate without a word. Kenta stared for a long moment.

“You don’t have to do that,” he murmured, voice quieter than usual.

“I want to,” Kim replied simply, not looking up as he worked on another claw.

There was no waiter. No uniformed service. But there was something deeply humbling and lovely about having someone do this for him—not because of status or charm, but because he wanted to. No agenda.

Only care.

The auntie came again midway through their meal, this time with a tray of coconut dessert and sticky rice.

“On the house,” she chirped. “Because I still owe your friend Kim here.”

Kenta blinked. “You owe him?”

“Mm-hmm!” she said with a toothy grin. “He helped me carry twenty sacks of rice and repaired our roof after the last storm. Wouldn’t even take money. Said I could just feed him sometimes.”

Kenta turned to Kim, who was suddenly busy chewing, looking slightly too innocent.

The truth was—the auntie didn’t owe anything. That meal was paid for, quietly and in full, from Kim’s modest savings for the week. But Kim had whispered to her beforehand, while Kenta was in the restroom, asking her to play along.

“He’s had a hard time,” Kim said, with a soft look in his eyes. “Let him think the world’s being kind on its own.”

⸻

The eating was chaotic. Gloriously so.

Sauce dribbled down their fingers. Shells piled high in the bowls between them. Kenta, usually so poised, had orange oil on his cheek and a chili seed clinging to his lip. Kim laughed—not at him, but with joy—and Kenta caught himself smiling so hard his jaw ached.

Then Kenta noticed the corner of Kim’s mouth.

There it was. A smear of sauce. Bright and glistening against his lower lip.

It should have been unappealing. Messy. Sticky. Something to clean up.

But instead, it made Kenta’s heart flip.

Because Kim looked happy.

Not the practiced kind of happy. Not polite. Not charming.

But boyish. Bright. Real.

He was chewing enthusiastically, licking his fingers, eyes gleaming like someone who hadn’t eaten this well in weeks. There was something so unguarded about it. And Kenta—Kenta, who had learned to guard everything—felt his throat tighten.

He reached for a napkin, paused. Then, instead, leaned forward with his thumb and gently wiped the corner of Kim’s lip.

Kim froze, mid-chew.

Their eyes met.

The world around them didn’t stop—but it felt like it did.

Kenta blinked, realized what he’d done, and pulled his hand back quickly. “Sorry,” he murmured. “You had sauce.”

“Thanks,” Kim said, his voice low and a bit dazed.

They both turned back to their plates, pretending nothing happened. But Kenta’s ears were red. Kim couldn’t stop smiling between bites.

The sauce might’ve been gone—but something else lingered between them now.

And it tasted sweeter than anything on the table.

They thanked the auntie with full bellies and quiet grins.

Kenta bowed politely; Kim promised to return next week to help her fix a leaking pipe. The old woman waved them off with a coconut candy shoved into each of their hands and a teasing, “Don’t let this handsome boy run off with your heart, Kim!”

Kenta didn’t respond to that. Not out loud.

But as they walked back toward the bike, Kenta stole one last look at the squat little canteen under the mango tree. Its chipped chairs. The smell of grilled crab still hanging in the air.

One day, he thought, I’ll drag Pete here. Just for this. For the crab.

He imagined it now: Pete sweating in the heat, arguing over sauce ratios, somehow charming the auntie into handing over her secret recipe. They’d fight over the last piece of shrimp. They’d order too much and still finish it all.

Yeah. He’d come back here.

For the food.

Not for the stupidly handsome part-time tour guide with a handsomely boyish smile and sunburnt shoulders.

Nope.

Definitely not.

He mentally kicked himself as he climbed on the back of the motorbike again.

⸻

The ride uphill was… unexpected.

The road curved like a ribbon through the trees, each turn opening up more of the island’s soul. On one side—dense green jungles that pulsed with life. On the other—brief, breathtaking glimpses of the sea, sparkling silver in the sun like it was winking at them.

The air changed the higher they went—cooler, quieter. The sound of birds replaced the beach noise. Kenta leaned into Kim’s back just a little more, arms wrapped securely, not from fear or instability, but because the world felt a bit too still and perfect without something anchoring him.

When they finally reached the top of the hill, Kenta blinked.

The coffee shop wasn’t modern. Wasn’t polished. No curated plant wall or QR code menu.

It was an old wooden house, cracked and sun-faded, with a hand-painted sign barely clinging to the porch roof. The garden was overgrown in a pretty kind of way—ferns, wildflowers, a crooked stone path that led to mismatched chairs on the wraparound deck. Wind chimes clinked softly in the breeze.

Inside, it was even better.

The scent hit first—roasted beans, weathered wood, and old paper. It smelled like memory. Like something you forgot you loved until it came rushing back.

Bookshelves lined the walls, leaning slightly from age. A record player hummed something slow and instrumental from a corner table. Ceiling fans turned lazily above mismatched armchairs and floor cushions. Light poured through shuttered windows, casting long golden strips across the creaky floorboards.

The shop had no real layout. It just… existed. Comfortably. Like it had been someone’s home once, and now decided it would rather be everyone’s refuge.

Kenta exhaled, shoulders dropping without him even realizing.

Kim nudged him gently. “Go find a book you like. I’ll grab the coffee.”

Kenta raised an eyebrow. “You really think I read?”

Kim shrugged, already headed toward the counter. “Dunno. You left one at the beach, first day. Old, beat up, kinda faded. Seemed important.”

“You couldn’t even read the title,” Kenta said dryly.

“Didn’t have to,” Kim replied. “You held it like it meant something.”

Kenta stared at him for a beat, then turned toward the shelves.

He didn’t know what he expected. Certainly not to find The Wind in the Willows staring back at him.

Pale green cover. Slightly water-damaged. The kind of book that would seem out of place in his hands—if you didn’t know him. If you thought being in the Thai police force meant he only read case files and manuals on tactical entry.

But this?

He read this when the world was too heavy. When the work got too real. When he needed escape without running.

He pulled it from the shelf and settled by the wide windowsill, a cushion sagging softly beneath him.

Outside, the world rolled gently downward—rooftops scattered among green trees, dirt roads winding between fields and gardens. In the distance, the ocean shimmered, blurred where the sky met water in hues of blue and white.

The view was slow. Still.

So was the sound of Kim approaching again, balancing two mugs in his hands.

He handed one to Kenta and dropped cross-legged into the armchair across from him, sipping his own coffee like it was ritual.

They sat like that for a while. The record clicked to a new song. A fan creaked. A bird called once from a tree.

Then Kenta, without looking up from the cover of his book, asked:

“You want me to read it to you?”

Kim blinked. “What?”

“You said you never learned,” Kenta said, still casual. “But you guessed I like books.”

Kim flushed. “I mean—I didn’t mean for you to feel like you have to—”

Kenta looked up. “I want to.”

There was a beat.

Then Kim nodded.

Eagerly.

Childishly.

Like someone had just handed him a wrapped gift and he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Kenta smirked faintly and opened the book. Cleared his throat once. Then began to read.

“The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash…”

Kim went still.

Hands perched under his chin. Coffee forgotten. His eyes were wide—not at the story, but at the sound of it.

At the way Kenta’s voice rolled, calm and steady, like water over stone.

Kenta didn’t read it like a teacher. Or like someone mocking the material. He read it gently. Thoughtfully. Like the words were meant to be felt, not just heard.

Kim sank deeper into the chair, utterly quiet. His eyes locked on Kenta, every now and then flicking to his lips as the words slipped out like silk.

Time didn’t just slow—it paused.

There was no world outside this room anymore. No island. No heat. No jobs. No trauma. Just a boy who couldn’t read, and a man reading to him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Kenta turned a page.

Kim didn’t speak.

He just smiled, small and soft, and let himself drown in the sound of someone making a story come alive—just for him.

And it was intimate.

Not because they touched.

But because they didn’t need to.

Kenta paused mid-sentence, finger resting lightly on the page. His voice trailed off into the jazz drifting from the corner, and for a few seconds, there was only the sound of the ceiling fan creaking above them and the breeze tapping gently against the windows.

Then he glanced sideways at Kim, lips curling into a lazy smirk.

“You know,” he said, “you should be paying me for this.”

Kim blinked. “Huh?”

Kenta shut the book with a soft thump, resting it on his knee. “I mean, do you even understand how rare this is? A man like me, reading children’s literature in public, out loud, for free?” He leaned back slightly, gesturing at himself with mock pride. “You’re lucky I don’t charge by the hour.”

Kim grinned, but his ears turned red again. “Oh, I’m sorry, your highness. Should I run back down the hill and bring you tribute?”

Kenta arched an eyebrow. “You can start with a cold towel and mango sticky rice.”

They both laughed quietly, the kind of laughter that didn’t need to be big or loud to feel full.

Then Kenta looked at him—really looked. The teasing faded just a bit, replaced by something thoughtful. His eyes lingered on Kim’s face, his hands, the slight tilt of his head.

“…Want me to teach you?”

Kim tilted his head. “Teach me…?”

Kenta held up the book. “To read.”

Kim’s smile flickered. “I—Kenta, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” Kenta said, already rising from his windowsill seat. “But I want to.”

Before Kim could object, Kenta grabbed his coffee mug and the book, circled the small table between them, and dragged a worn wooden chair right up next to Kim’s—too close.

Kim sat up straighter, heart suddenly thudding in his chest. Kenta dropped into the chair beside him, knees brushing, their arms nearly touching.

He smelled like coffee and spice and something deeper—something musky and warm that clung to the folds of his shirt. Kim’s breath caught for a second.

He’s too close.

Too close to think.

Too close to pretend this was just casual.

But Kenta didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care. He was flipping back to the first page of the book, his expression focused now, soft but serious.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Kenta said. “I’ll point. You sound it out. No pressure.”

Kim swallowed. “Okay.”

And then—

They began.

Kenta’s finger moved across the page, gently underlining the letters.

“T-h-e,” he said slowly. “This is ‘the.’ Say it.”

Kim hesitated. Then: “The.”

Kenta nodded. “Good. Now this one.”

“M-o-l-e.”

Kim squinted. “…Mole?”

Kenta gave a small grin. “Yep.”

Kim blinked at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

It was quiet again, but not tense. Just focused. Safe.

Kim leaned in, following Kenta’s finger, brow furrowed in concentration. His lips moved soundlessly as he tried to piece together the next word. Kenta waited patiently. No rush. No judgment. Just calm encouragement.

He was warm beside him. Steady.

Kim could smell the faint cologne Kenta wore—something expensive, but subtle. Clean. It made it hard to focus. But he did. He really did. Because somehow, around Kenta, he didn’t feel embarrassed. He didn’t feel like a failure. He just felt… like someone who was trying.

Kenta’s voice dropped softer.

“This one’s longer. Let’s break it up.”

They leaned closer. Kim sounded out the syllables slowly, frowning when he stumbled, then laughing when Kenta corrected him gently.

And Kenta… was impressed.

Despite the nerves, Kim picked it up fast. He was intuitive, quick to memorize. His eyes followed the shapes of the letters with a kind of quiet hunger—like he’d always wanted this, deep down, and never had the space to ask.

“You’re good at this,” Kenta said, surprised.

Kim shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “I just never had someone patient enough to sit with me.”

Kenta’s voice dropped. “You do now.”

And that silence—that one—was the warmest yet.

Kim finally looked at him then.

Really looked.

And Kenta smiled—not the smirk, not the teasing grin. A small, rare, honest smile. The kind that softened all his sharp edges and made the air between them hum.

Kim’s heart fluttered in his chest like it wanted to leap straight out and land in Kenta’s hands.

They didn’t move apart.

They didn’t need to.

For the next hour, they read together—slow, quiet, close. Sometimes Kenta would whisper the word under his breath just so Kim could repeat it. Sometimes Kim would stumble and curse, and Kenta would laugh and nudge his shoulder. And other times, they just sat there, both leaning over the same page, breath mingling, heads nearly touching.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was intimate.

And it was more than enough.

Time slipped past them like a breeze through the open window—slow at first, then suddenly gone.

The light outside had shifted while they weren’t paying attention. Golden afternoon had melted into soft amber, and now the sky was bleeding shades of tangerine, rose, and lavender. The kind of sunset that didn’t ask for attention but quietly demanded awe.

Kenta closed the book and looked out the window, watching as the hilltop view dimmed under the lazy descent of evening.

“Should we head back?” Kim asked softly, reluctant to break the spell.

Kenta nodded, setting the book aside. “Yeah… before the mosquitos claim us both.”

They left the shop in companionable silence, the warmth of the old wood and soft jazz still clinging to their clothes like incense. Outside, the sky painted the road home in color—oranges glowing off the treetops, purples pooling between shadows, clouds stretched thin like pastel ribbons.

The motorbike ride back was quieter than the first.

No teasing. No talk.

Just Kenta, arms loosely wrapped around Kim’s waist again, his chin nearly resting on the other’s shoulder as the wind rushed by and the crickets began their nightly choir. The engine hummed beneath them. The sea faded in and out of view like a secret.

And for the first time in months, Kenta felt something that had become so foreign he barely recognized it.

Peace.

Not the hollow kind. Not the numb, “I survived another day” kind.

But a real, quiet stillness in his chest.

No trembling hands.

No memories dragging him down by the wrists.

No blood under his nails. No cold tiles. No pleading voice in the dark.

Just air.

Just breath.

Just the boy in front of him and the echo of a day he never expected to want to remember.

When they arrived back at the resort, the sky was already dimming into twilight. The lights in the cottages flickered to life, casting a soft glow against the sandy paths and swaying palm trees.

Kim parked near Kenta’s cottage, kicked the stand down, and turned off the engine. They both hesitated a little before getting off—like neither quite wanted the day to end.

Kenta stepped up to his door.

Kim followed, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, the other hanging awkwardly at his side.

For the first time all day, they both seemed… shy.

Kenta turned to him, hands slipping into his pockets, lips parting—then closing again. He searched for the right words, but none of them seemed big enough for what he felt.

So he settled on simple honesty.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low but warm. “For today.”

Kim looked up at him through his lashes. “You’re welcome.”

A pause.

Then Kim, hesitating, cheeks flushed under the soft glow of the porch light, asked:

“Would it… would it be okay if you read to me again? Tomorrow? Maybe… teach me more?”

Kenta’s eyes softened.

He nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Then, quieter, like a promise:

“Same time. Same place.”

Kim smiled, wide and bashful. “Okay.”

Kenta stood there for half a second longer, heart doing something it hadn’t done in too long—fluttering, like it remembered how to.

And before he could think twice about it—before logic or fear or trauma had a chance to speak—he leaned forward, just a little.

Pressed a soft kiss to Kim’s cheek.

It was brief.

Barely there.

But it was enough.

Kim froze. Completely.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Face blooming red like the sun had risen again just for him.

Kenta didn’t wait for a reaction.

He stepped back, lips quirking with amusement, and reached for the doorknob.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice calm—but eyes twinkling.

And then he slipped inside, door shutting gently behind him.

Leaving Kim standing there on the porch.

Absolutely, completely, flabbergasted.

His brain was a mess of static and butterflies. His hands hung useless at his sides. His cheek—that cheek—still tingled from where Kenta’s lips had touched it.

The door remained closed.

But Kim didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His heart was too loud. His thoughts too scrambled. His body completely unsure if he’d just imagined the whole thing.

And yet…

He smiled.

A slow, dazed, utterly overwhelmed smile.

Chapter Text

Kenta stepped into his cottage, shutting the door softly behind him.

The room was dim now, lit only by the faint orange glow of the horizon sneaking through the wooden shutters. He stood for a moment, still holding onto the ghost of that kiss—the feel of Kim’s cheek against his lips, the way the boy had frozen like time had cracked in half.

A tired but satisfied smile crept across Kenta’s face.

He didn’t know what had come over him. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t strategic. It was just… right. Simple. Instinctive.

And for once, he didn’t question it.

He didn’t regret a single second.

He peeled off his shirt and headed to the shower, letting the water wash away the sticky humidity, the faint traces of the day’s long sun. His muscles ached, but in that good way—not from tension or panic, but from living.

Wrapped in a towel, he collapsed onto the bed. The sheets were cool and clean. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, hair still damp, body heavy with comfort.

But his mind wasn’t quiet.

Not in a bad way. In a buzzing way.

Kim.

That smile.
That damn laugh.
The way he listened when Kenta read like it was the most important sound in the world.
And how, despite everything—despite not knowing how to read or having a dozen jobs—he never once made Kenta feel like he had to be anything other than exactly who he was.

It hit him all at once, soft and inevitable:

I like him.

The thought sat comfortably in his chest. Not rushed. Not scary. Just true.

He reached for his phone.

There was only one person he wanted to call.

—

“Wow. Two calls in two days,” Pete answered, voice half-surprised and half-smug. “Who are you, and what have you done with my emotionally constipated best friend?”

“Shut up,” Kenta said, flopping back against his pillow.

“That’s the guy I know and tolerate,” Pete teased. “What’s up?”

Kenta hesitated for only a beat. “I need a favor.”

Pete immediately went serious. “Okay. What is it?”

Kenta explained the situation—how Kim had lost one of his part-time gigs because of him, how he didn’t want Kim spending his mornings doing random grunt work just to survive, how he wanted to make things right without making it obvious.

“He still works at the resort, just not front-side anymore,” Kenta said. “Think you can call in a string or two? Quietly? Get him back in on something easier. Steady.”

Pete didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it. Say no more.”

“Thanks.”

“But also,” Pete added slyly, “you like him.”

Kenta sighed. “Don’t start.”

“You kissed him, didn’t you.”

Kenta rubbed his face. “Goodnight, Pete.”

“Oh my God, you so kissed him.”

“Pete.”

“On the cheek, I’m guessing? Because you’re a coward and a gentleman at the same time?”

Kenta tried not to smile. Failed.

Pete kept going. “You sound different, you know. Happier. Lighter.”

Kenta rolled onto his side, staring out the window where a few stars had begun to prick the sky. “I feel… okay.”

Pete was quiet for a second. Then softly, “Good. I’ve missed hearing that.”

They didn’t say much else. They didn’t need to.

Just a quiet goodbye, a promise to talk tomorrow.

Kenta ended the call and placed the phone face down on the nightstand.

He closed his eyes.

And for the second night in a row—

He slept easy.

Morning came gently.

Kenta woke before his alarm, eyes blinking open to the low golden hue spilling in through the blinds. No sharp breaths. No night terrors. No shaking hands clutching at invisible shadows.

Just stillness.

And clarity.

His mind, for once, felt clean. Like the tide had rolled in overnight and washed all the jagged remnants out to sea.

He changed into a simple shirt and light shorts, slipped into his sandals, and stepped outside. The early morning breeze kissed his skin—cool, light, smelling faintly of salt and sunlight not yet risen to full heat.

The beach was nearly deserted. Only the hush of waves brushing the shore and the distant call of gulls filled the air.

Kenta strolled in silence, toes curling into the soft sand. His book was tucked under one arm, its spine well-worn now. He didn’t have a destination in mind, just a slow meander to let the peace linger a little longer.

Eventually, the path curved, and he found himself near the resort’s open-air restaurant.

He looked up—and there he was.

Kim.

Apron around his waist, tray in one hand, scribbling orders with the other. Hair slightly damp from a morning rinse, sun already beginning to tan his shoulders again. He was weaving between tables, nodding politely to guests, smiling.

And when he saw Kenta—his whole expression shifted.

Like someone turned the light up inside him.

He didn’t wave, didn’t call out. But the smile that bloomed across his face was unmistakable—genuine, bright, boyish in the most disarming way.

Kenta felt something flutter hard in his chest.

Damn it.

He smirked, casually strolling in like that smile hadn’t just completely undone him. He chose a table by the edge, half in shade, half under the early sun, and sat down like he wasn’t screaming internally.

A minute later, Kim approached with a tray.

“Toast and coffee,” he said proudly. “Fresh brew. And the toast’s not burnt, which is more than I can say for my usual luck.”

“Impressive,” Kenta said, taking the mug. “You climb coconut trees, teach surfing, and make breakfast? What don’t you do?”

“Taxes,” Kim said with a shrug. “And I’m a horrible liar.”

Kenta raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

Kim nodded. “Swear to God. I get caught every time.”

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no other tables were calling for him, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

“Also, guess what? The owner called me last night. Out of nowhere. Said they needed extra help back here. Asked if I wanted to return to front-side staff. Said it was… ‘an internal request.’ Weird, right?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I must’ve stepped in some serious luck this week.”

Kenta stirred his coffee, hiding the flicker of guilt behind his mug.

“Maybe you did,” he said quietly.

Because he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

That it was him. That he made the call. That he’d asked Pete to pull the right strings just so this boy wouldn’t have to juggle five jobs before afternoon came.

Kim didn’t need to know.

Some things could stay quiet.

Kenta reached for his book and cracked it open. After a few minutes of silence, he looked up and asked casually, “What time’s your shift end?”

“Two,” Kim said. “I get a break before then, but officially off by two.”

Kenta nodded, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Then I’ll see you later.”

“Same time?” Kim asked, that hopeful glint in his eyes again.

Kenta didn’t look up from his book. “Same place.”

And when Kim walked away, that soft smile still tugging at his lips, Kenta finally let himself exhale.

He was falling.

And, for the first time in a long time—he didn’t feel the need to stop it.

The morning passed slow, like honey dripping down warm toast.

Kenta lingered at his table longer than he meant to, eyes darting between the lines of his book and the ocean shimmering just beyond the restaurant’s open-air deck. Guests had begun to trickle out, chatter fading, replaced by the rhythm of waves brushing against the sand.

Eventually, he closed the book, stood, and stretched—shoulders rolling back with a satisfying crack.

It had been days since he worked out.

Too many.

He returned to his room, grabbed a resistance band, filled his water bottle, and pressed play on a lo-fi playlist with just enough beat to push him through it.

One hour. That’s all he promised himself.

His body fell easily into the rhythm. Push-ups. Core. Band work. Shadowboxing. Every movement shook off rust. Every repetition reminded him that he still had a body, not just a mind built on defense. He wasn’t just surviving anymore.

He was starting to move like someone who wanted to stay alive.

By the time he collapsed onto the cottage floor, sweat trickling down his chest, breath coming short and even—he felt alive.

Still restless.

Still wired.

So, naturally, he turned to the one thing he usually avoided.

The sea.

Kenta didn’t love the sun. Didn’t love how it clung to him, burned at him, made him feel too exposed.

But today, he didn’t care.

He grabbed a towel, slathered himself in sunscreen, and didn’t bother with a shirt. Just his black workout shorts, snug at the hips, damp from sweat.

He stepped barefoot into the sand and walked straight to the shoreline like the ocean had been waiting for him.

And then—he dove in.

The water was cool. Salty. All-encompassing.

He swam with long, confident strokes. The kind of movement that used to come second nature, back when he trained regularly, before everything fell apart. He pushed farther out. Let himself drift.

Sometimes, he dipped beneath the surface and held himself there.

Eyes closed.

Breath locked in his chest.

No thoughts.

Just darkness and weightlessness.

And then, just before the burn in his lungs turned sharp, he surfaced with a gasp—chest rising, droplets clinging to his lashes, the sun slicing gold across his bare shoulders.

It wasn’t about danger.

It was about silence.

About control.

And somewhere up on the edge of the beach, someone was watching.

—

Kim had finished wiping down the last of the tables. His apron was loosened, half-tucked at his side, and his break had just begun.

He’d been looking for Kenta—automatically, like gravity—and now he didn’t need to look anymore.

There he was.

In the water.

Alone. Beautiful. Bare-chested.

Sunlight danced along the definition of Kenta’s shoulders, the dip of his spine, the V of his hips where his shorts clung too well to wet skin. His arms sliced through the sea with effortless precision—disciplined, but soft. Like the ocean knew better than to fight him.

Kim stood by the shaded edge of the deck, holding a tray meant for someone else, completely frozen.

He remembered Pete’s voice clearly in his head from their brief call the other day:
“If he disappears, just check that he hasn’t floated off into the sea.”

Kim hadn’t expected to take it literally.

But here he was. Watching. Just in case.

That was the excuse, anyway.

In truth, he was mesmerized.

He didn’t know a man could look like that. Didn’t know “beautiful” could wrap itself around a chest, a throat, a face and make it feel like something sacred. Kenta didn’t flaunt it. Didn’t try.

He just was.

And Kim couldn’t stop staring.

Eventually, he blinked and realized he was still holding a tray. He headed back inside quickly, grabbed a chilled mango juice, and walked barefoot toward the shore where Kenta had just come out of the water, towel now slung over one shoulder, droplets still tracing lines down his torso.

“Hey,” Kim said, voice casual—but a little breathless.

Kenta turned. Raised an eyebrow.

Kim held up the glass. “You looked like you could use a refill.”

Kenta accepted it, fingers brushing Kim’s as he took the glass. “You stalking me now?”

Kim snorted. “Only a little. You make it easy.”

Kenta sipped the mango juice, cold and sweet against his sun-warmed lips. “Don’t drown watching me.”

“No promises,” Kim said before he could stop himself.

Their eyes met.

The silence between them stretched. But it wasn’t awkward.

It was full. Like a thread being pulled.

Kenta finally broke it with a soft smirk. “Back to work?”

Kim nodded. “Just a break. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he turned and jogged back toward the resort—leaving Kenta with the sea behind him, the taste of mango on his tongue, and a thundering in his chest he couldn’t ignore anymore.

Afternoon came.

And with it, Kenta’s carefully cultivated sense of indifference… cracked.

He told himself—out loud, to no one—that he wasn’t overthinking it.

It was just coffee. Again. Like yesterday. Routine.

So what if he’d spent the last fifteen minutes flipping through his duffel bag like a man looking for a passport instead of a shirt?

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. That would be ridiculous.

And yet…

He finally settled on something simple—because that’s who he was, right? Simple. Low effort. Casual.

A black linen button-down, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Loose enough to breathe, fitted enough to hint at muscle. Paired with light tan drawstring pants that brushed against his ankles when he moved, barefoot on the wood floors. No fragrance—just the clean scent of soap and sunscreen still clinging to his skin from earlier.

He stood in front of the mirror, eyed the slight wave of his still-damp hair, and told himself he wasn’t trying.

Just not failing.

At exactly 2:00 p.m., a knock came at the door.

Kenta opened it with all the casual ease he could summon—and there he was.

Kim.

Dressed in a soft oatmeal-colored T-shirt that hugged just a bit around his chest and sleeves, old jeans faded to the perfect wash, sandals dusted in beach sand. Hair still messy in that charming, wind-kissed way. And of course, the bruise was still faint at the corner of his lips—subtle, but there. A quiet reminder of something Kenta couldn’t fix, but did try to make better.

He looked like summer in human form. And he smiled like Kenta had just made his entire day by simply existing.

Kenta didn’t let himself smile back too quickly.

“Ready?” Kim asked, grin already blooming.

Kenta nodded, grabbed his book, and followed him outside without another word—though his chest was already tight with something warm and ridiculous.

—

They took the same battered motorbike, winding up the same sun-drenched road, palms blurring past, the hum of the engine and ocean breeze filling the silence between them.

Back at the café, the same window seat was waiting. The same warm smell of roasted beans and worn pages greeted them. It was like the space had remembered them. Held its breath until they returned.

Kenta ordered this time. Kim slumped into the same corner chair, elbow propped on the table, chin in his palm, eyes already a little glassy.

This time, Kenta read a different children’s book. Softer. Simpler. Something about a bear who couldn’t fall asleep in winter.

He didn’t get far.

Halfway through chapter two, the voice he was reading to had drifted out of the waking world entirely.

Kim’s head had slumped forward onto his arm. His breathing had deepened. His mouth slightly open, lips parted in the softest way. The coffee next to him sat forgotten, barely touched. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, freckles dappled across his sunburned cheeks like someone had painted him in warm brushstrokes.

And Kenta just… stared.

He didn’t mean to.

But once he noticed—he couldn’t stop.

God.

The boy looked unreal like this.

Head tipped forward just enough for strands of hair to fall over his eyes. Nose straight, elegant. Lashes ridiculously long. His whole face soft and unguarded in sleep, not a trace of the energy he wore like armor during the day. No teasing, no quips. Just… him.

Peaceful.

Kenta didn’t know how old he was. Had never asked. But it was obvious that Kim was younger. Not naïve—just less weathered.

Untouched by the kind of things Kenta had walked through.

And yet somehow—somehow—it was Kim who made him feel safe.

Kenta rested his chin on his hand, elbow against the table, watching him.

I’ve been with men before, he thought absently.
Flings. Hookups. Sometimes even something that tried to be more.

But there was nothing like this.

Nothing like the stillness he felt now. The pull. The curiosity.

The aching calm.

His eyes drifted again—to the sunburn just beneath Kim’s collarbone, to the freckles across his nose, to the curve of his soft lips.

God, those lips.

They looked too gentle for someone who lived on a motorbike and carried crates of rice for old ladies. Too soft for someone who barely slept and worked three jobs. And yet they suited him. Completely.

Kenta’s gaze lingered a little too long.

His fingers itched with the thought of brushing a stray strand of hair out of Kim’s face.

He didn’t.

But the thought was there. The want. Quiet, but persistent.

He looked at Kim again.

And let himself feel it.

The affection.

The admiration.

The overwhelming tenderness that had bloomed without warning.

Yeah.
He was in trouble.

Big trouble.

And he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

The sun was slipping behind the clouds when Kim jolted awake.

He blinked fast, groggy and breathless, guilt crawling up his spine like a second skin. “Shit—”

Kenta was still beside him, book closed, eyes on the window. The soft tangerine glow of early dusk painted the café in molten amber.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Kim said, scrambling upright, cheeks flushing deep red. “I—God, I wanted to talk with you. Spend this time with you.”

Kenta didn’t look at him.

Just said softly, “You looked tired.”

But Kim’s heart was racing. The words he needed to say pressed behind his ribs like a storm.

This is your last day.
Tomorrow you’re gone.
Back to your real life, while I stay behind.

And so, instead of wasting another second, he stood quickly and grabbed his keys.

“Come with me.”

—

The motorbike roared to life once again.

Kim didn’t say where they were going—just looked forward, eyes sharp, jaw set. The streets turned from stone to dirt, then narrowed into a winding trail flanked by palms. They passed no houses, no lights, just the buzz of cicadas and the occasional call of distant birds.

And then—rain.

Sudden. Cold. Relentless.

It fell like glass needles, slicing sideways through the wind, soaking them within seconds.

Kim cursed under his breath. “Damn it—I wanted this to be—this wasn’t how I planned it.”

But behind him, Kenta leaned in slightly, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“It’s okay.”

“You’re not mad?”

Kenta chuckled low. “It feels like penance. Like the sky’s reminding me I’m alive.”

And so they rode.

Up through the downpour. Through puddles and sharp curves and slick rock until finally—

The trail ended.

At the edge of the world.

A narrow cliff, grass flattened by wind, overlooking an endless sea of crashing white foam. The sky split above them in bruised hues—charcoal, silver, violet. The waves below screamed against jagged black rocks like they were trying to climb back into the sky.

“This is it,” Kim said, voice loud over the wind. “My place.”

Kenta stepped off the bike. Water poured down his face, slicking his black shirt to his chest. But he didn’t flinch.

Kim nodded toward the edge. “When I feel like I’m too much—I come here. And I scream.”

Kenta blinked rain from his lashes. “Do you want to scream now?”

“I was hoping you would.”

Kenta looked at him like he was joking.

Kim just shouted into the void.

Loud. Raw. Pointless.

And somehow—it helped.

Kenta laughed. Loud, broken. Then he screamed too.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Until his voice cracked—and then he laughed again. Laughed so hard his chest shook and his eyes stung with tears.

Not from pain.

Just from everything.

And when the laughter faded, and the sky continued to weep around them, Kenta sat down.

Right there in the grass, shoes squelching in the wet earth.

Kim followed.

And Kenta began to speak.

His voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

“The op went wrong,” he said quietly. “It was supposed to be clean. A buy-bust. I was point. Pete was pulled from the case last minute. I said I could handle it.”

Kim didn’t move. Just listened.

“We walked into it blind. They were waiting. We didn’t even make it inside the building before everything turned. My team scattered. I got taken. Three men. One needle.”

Kenta’s hands curled in his lap.

“They stripped me. Tied my hands behind my back. Shoved a rag in my mouth so I wouldn’t bite my tongue when they started hitting.”

The rain poured harder.

Kim didn’t speak.

“I don’t remember how long I was there. I only know they gave me water twice in the first week. A scrap of food on the fourth day. After that, time just… blurred.”

Kenta’s voice cracked.

“I was on concrete. Cold all the time. They beat me every morning—never the same way. Never to kill. Just enough to break something. Sometimes bones. Sometimes my voice. Sometimes just the idea that I’d ever get out.”

He looked up, toward the horizon. The clouds were lower now.

“They pissed on me once. Left me lying in it for days. Just to remind me what I was.”

His hand lifted, tugging his sleeve back.

A scar. Pale, faint, hidden in the bend of his wrist.

“That’s from the rope. They tied it too tight. I didn’t even feel it cutting skin until it started to rot.”

Kim’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t want to die. Not at first. I kept thinking—Pete would find me. Or someone. That this was temporary.”

He gave a weak smile.

“But after two weeks, I stopped counting the days. I forgot what sunlight felt like. What my own name sounded like. All I could think was: Please let me die today. Because then maybe it’d end.”

Kim closed his eyes.

And Kenta whispered:

“I prayed for death like it was a gift.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Only the ocean dared to speak.

“I was released for ransom. Pete was the one who carried me out. I don’t remember the ride. Just the moment I realized I could feel my heartbeat again, and I didn’t want it.”

He looked down at his wrist.

And rolled up the other sleeve.

A newer scar.

Cleaner.

Deliberate.

“This one was mine,” he said, barely above the rain.

Kim stared. Eyes full. Not a single word in his mouth. But his hand—his hand reached forward.

Touched the scar like it was glass.

“I didn’t want to die,” Kenta whispered. “But I didn’t know how to stay.”

The two of them sat in the rain, soaking wet, broken open.

And for the first time, Kenta was not ashamed of what was left.

He had bled.

He had burned.

And now—he had been witnessed.

Completely.

Quietly.

By the boy with the softest eyes and the loudest smile.

And Kim?

Kim held his silence like a promise.

They sat still.

The rain didn’t let up. It streamed over their faces like a veil of silk and sorrow. Wind combed gently through the wet grass, the cliff breathing with the rhythm of the waves below.

Kenta sat with his knees drawn up, elbows on top. Damp curls clung to his temples. His eyes were distant—glass-dark and tired—but clearer than they’d been in weeks.

Beside him, Kim hadn’t said a word.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer hollow comforts. Didn’t say I’m sorry or you’re strong or any of the things Kenta had learned to flinch away from.

He just stared.

His gaze full of something thick and unfiltered—a storm of emotion that didn’t need translation.

And then, quietly, Kim reached for Kenta’s wrist again. The one he’d touched before.

Fingers light. Careful. Reverent.

Kenta looked down.

Watched as Kim’s thumb brushed over the faint, jagged scar like he was memorizing it by feel. Then, without a word, he leaned in—

—and kissed it.

Right there.

A press of lips. Gentle. Warm. Gone in a second.

But it sent a shock through Kenta’s spine like lightning had struck the cliff.

His breath caught.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Because it felt like something that wasn’t allowed. Something too intimate, too soft. Something reserved for people who didn’t carry darkness like a second skin.

But he didn’t pull back.

Couldn’t.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted to be touched where it hurt.

The rain kept falling.

And Kim stood up slowly, wiping water from his eyes.

Then he turned toward the edge of the cliff.

Kenta followed him with a glance, wary. “What are you doing?”

Kim looked over his shoulder, a crooked grin fighting through the downpour. “Whenever I come here,” he shouted over the wind, “I scream. Then I jump.”

Kenta’s brows furrowed. “Jump?”

“Into the water.”

Kenta stood sharply. “Kim, no—”

“It’s safe,” Kim called back. “Deep. Clean. I’ve done it a hundred times.”

“It’s raining.”

“That’s the best part.”

“It’s too high!”

“I said I’ve done it before!”

Kenta’s voice rose with panic. “You could hit your head—Kim, don’t.”

But Kim was already walking backward—stepping away from the cliff edge, toward a flat stretch of soaked grass where he could run.

“You’re insane,” Kenta said, voice cracking. “Seriously, this isn’t funny—”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Kim replied, eyes locked on him.

There was no teasing now. No grin. Just something real. Deep. Like this wasn’t about adrenaline at all.

“It’s a reset,” Kim said softly. “Every time I jump, it feels like I can breathe again.”

“Kim.”

“I want you to feel that too.”

And then—he ran.

Feet slapping wet grass. Arms pumping.

And without hesitation, he leapt.

Over the edge.

Gone.

Kenta’s heart slammed into his throat.

“Kim!” he screamed, staggering forward, slipping in the mud. “Kim?!”

No splash.

No shout.

Just thunder.

Just wind.

Just silence.

“KIM!” Kenta dropped to his knees at the cliff’s edge, panic tearing through him like shrapnel. “KIM, WHERE—?!”

Then—a shout.

Far below.

“YEAHHHHH!”

Kenta saw him—bobbing in the churning water, arms up, grinning wide and stupid and glorious. Waves licked at his shoulders, but he was fine. Laughing. Alive.

He cupped his hands and yelled up, “Come on!”

Kenta didn’t move.

His legs wouldn’t.

“I’m not doing that!” he shouted back.

“YES, YOU ARE!”

“NO, I’M—!”

“KENNNN-TA!” Kim bellowed, drawing out the name like a taunt. “Jump, you coward!”

Kenta’s hands balled into fists. “I swear to god—!”

“Trust me!”

Those two words hit harder than the rain.

Kenta looked down at the dark water. At Kim.

The handsome idiot floating like this wasn’t insane. Like he didn’t just make Kenta’s heart drop into the ocean.

But Kim was looking up at him—smiling like he’d catch him if the sea didn’t.

And something inside Kenta cracked.

The same voice that once said Please let me die now whispered—

Go. Jump. Live.

He took a breath.

Stepped back.

The rain bit at his skin.

Then—he ran.

And leapt.

For one second, he was flying.

For another, he was weightless.

Then—

He fell.

Straight into the ocean’s arms.

The impact hit like a dream, soundless and huge. Cold wrapped around him. Salt filled his nose. He kicked instinctively, rising—

—and broke the surface gasping, blinking through rain.

Kim was already swimming toward him, laughing like the sky itself had told him a joke.

Kenta wiped water from his eyes, heart thundering, lungs aching.

And then he laughed.

Loud. Deep. Gut-wrenching.

Not because it was funny.

But because it was freeing.

He looked at Kim, face flushed, hair plastered down, eyes bright like fire behind glass.

By the time they returned to the resort, their skin was turning to ice.

The motorbike shuddered over wet sand and gravel, the storm now reduced to a misting drizzle. But the cold clung. Beneath Kenta’s robe, he could still feel the echo of ocean water trapped in his bones. His arms wrapped a little tighter around Kim’s waist on the ride back—not from need, but instinct. Warmth. Closeness. Something he didn’t want to let go of just yet.

When they reached the cottage, Kenta didn’t wait.

He didn’t ask.

He just grabbed Kim’s arm and dragged him inside.

“Shit—you’re shivering,” Kenta muttered, shutting the door behind them with a thud. Rainwater still dripped from Kim’s hair. His shirt clung to him like second skin, his shorts soaked through. His arms hugged his own chest tightly, and he stood near the door like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there.

“Sorry,” Kim mumbled, teeth chattering. “Didn’t mean to make your floor a puddle.”

Kenta shot him a sharp look. “Don’t apologize for being human.”

Kim didn’t reply. He just stepped aside, careful not to track water across the wooden floor, and stayed planted near the wall, quietly dripping.

Kenta disappeared into the bathroom, stripping quickly, towel across his hair, robe slung around his shoulders like armor. He moved with that same purposeful efficiency he always had—precise, practiced—but inside, his thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning.

Kim was soaked. Cold. Shaking. And for the first time since they met, he wasn’t smiling.

Kenta emerged from the bathroom with a second towel and handed it wordlessly to Kim. Their hands brushed.

“You… you’re all packed,” Kim said quietly, eyes flicking toward the duffel bag zipped shut by the dresser. “Right. You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Kenta murmured. “I… wanted to get it over with.”

He looked up just in time to see something flicker in Kim’s eyes. That softness again. A quiet ache that made his chest feel tight.

“You can dry off in the bathroom,” Kenta added, clearing his throat. “There’s a robe. I’ll, uh… I’ll try to find a shirt that fits you.”

Kim nodded. Didn’t say anything else.

He moved slowly to the bathroom, towel clutched to his chest, footsteps quiet.

Kenta sat down on the edge of the bed once he was alone. The silence in the room was different now. Not heavy. Not hostile.

Just sad.

He glanced at the duffel bag, then away again. His hands hovered over the zipper, then dropped to his knees. He didn’t want to look at it anymore.

Not tonight.

When Kim returned, his hair was still damp, but his body wrapped in a robe—soft, beige, far too large on him. He looked warm, finally. But his eyes didn’t match.

They were glassy. Red-rimmed. Not from tears. Just that look—the one people get when something good is slipping from their hands.

Kenta lifted his gaze slowly, still seated on the edge of the bed. His fingers tangled loosely together in his lap.

He didn’t say hello.

He just looked at him for a moment.

Then asked, softly:
“Are you sad?”

Kim stood still.

Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And then—he nodded.

Just once.

Gone was the boyish energy, the sunshine grin, the casual humor that bounced off Kenta’s sarcasm like a tennis ball. All of it… tucked away.

He looked like someone who had just been told a secret they already knew, but still wished they hadn’t heard.

Kenta’s chest ached.

There were a dozen things he could say. A hundred ways to redirect. A thousand ways to protect himself.

But none of them felt right.

So instead, he just looked at Kim.

And waited.

For something.

For anything.

Kenta stood in front of Kim, still wrapped in the hotel robe, his hair damp, his chest still catching the last of the cold.

He tried to joke—tried to keep things light, even as something inside him ached with every beat.
“Hey… don’t tell me you’re sad because I’m leaving.”

Kim didn’t answer.

Kenta chuckled softly, more to himself than anyone. “You should be relieved. No more hot headed tourist trailing behind you. You’ll finally get your quiet mornings back.”

Still, Kim said nothing.

His eyes were fixed on Kenta—like he couldn’t look away. Like looking was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.

Kenta stepped closer, gently reaching out and brushing Kim’s messy hair back with a damp hand. “C’mon,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Don’t make that face. You’re gonna make me feel like an asshole.”

Kim blinked.

And then—
“I like you.”

Kenta froze.

The words didn’t explode. They landed softly. Like a feather falling into the middle of a storm.

But they hit like thunder all the same.

“…Kim,” Kenta said, quietly. His name felt fragile in his mouth.

“I mean it.” Kim’s voice trembled—but not from the cold. “I like you. I don’t have the right words for it. But I know what this is. What it feels like.”

Kenta stepped back. Not because he wanted to—but because his chest was too tight to breathe.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said.

“I do.”

“You’re young,” Kenta pressed, voice strained. “And kind. You’re looking at me like I’m something you want to keep, but Kim—I’m not someone you hold onto. I don’t stay. I’ve never been good at staying.”

Kim stepped forward.

And before Kenta could stop him, he reached out and gently took his wrists.

Kenta tensed.

Kim’s fingers were soft. Gentle. They found the lines on Kenta’s skin like they’d been tracing them in dreams. He looked down at the scars, then back up, eyes glassy but steady.

“I may not know how to read books,” Kim whispered, “or say the right thing. But I know when something matters to me. And you do.”

Kenta looked away.

His voice, when it came, was barely audible. “I’m a mess.”

“I know.”

“I’m a man.”

“So am I.”

“I’m leaving.”

Kim nodded. “I know.”

“I’m not easy to love.”

Kim held his gaze. “Then let me be the one who does it anyway.”

Kenta’s throat tightened. “You’re not supposed to—”

“Why not?” Kim said, louder now. “Why can’t I love someone who’s been hurt? Why can’t I care for someone who doesn’t know how to be cared for?”

Kenta shook his head. “You’re confused.”

“I’m not.”

Kenta exhaled shakily, dropping his gaze. “This is just… proximity. You’re mistaking the timing for something it’s not.”

Kim’s grip didn’t falter. “Then answer me one thing.”

Kenta looked up.

Kim stepped closer.

Held his wrists tighter, but still gently.

“Do you like me too?”

Kenta didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy—and then finally, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, barely breathing. “I like you too.”

Kim didn’t smile.

Not this time.

There was too much hurt in it.

“Then why do you look like you’re already saying goodbye?”

Kenta couldn’t answer that.

So Kim did something else.

He lifted one of Kenta’s hands and pressed a kiss—soft, tender—against the scar that ran along the inside of his wrist.

Then the other.

It wasn’t a kiss for seduction. Or apology.

It was a kiss for witnessing.

For saying I see you without using any words.

Kenta’s body went still.

Because no one had ever kissed him like that.

Not out of desire. Not out of pity.

But with reverence.

Kim’s lips lingered on the scar as if it were sacred. As if these wounds made Kenta more human, not less. As if loving someone’s broken pieces was the only kind of love he knew.

“You are special,” Kim whispered. “Why don’t you see that?”

Kenta couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t speak.

Could only feel the way Kim kissed each scar like he was praying something back into him.

And Kenta—
Kenta let him.

The rain had softened into a steady murmur against the roof.

Kenta stood in the middle of the room, his robe loose, hair damp, chest still cool from the ocean. Kim was a few steps away, wrapped in his own robe, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come any closer.

And yet… he looked at Kenta like he wanted to. Like he didn’t want this night to end. Like he already knew it was the last.

Kenta sighed quietly, then opened his arms.

“Come here,” he said.

Kim didn’t say anything.

He just walked into Kenta’s arms like he’d been waiting all week for permission.

Their bodies pressed together—still cold, still damp, but warm where skin met skin. Kim rested his head against Kenta’s chest. The rain outside hummed around them, like the sky was cradling the moment in hush.

Kenta’s arms held firm around Kim’s back.

And somewhere inside him, something gave in.

This will hurt in the morning, he thought. But I’ll let it hurt.

He closed his eyes and let his chin rest lightly against Kim’s head.

But then he felt it—wetness against his skin.

He pulled back just enough to see Kim’s eyes glistening.

“Hey…” Kenta whispered. “Don’t cry. You’re not five.”

Kim let out a broken laugh, but the tears didn’t stop.

“I know you were leaving tomorrow,” he said. His voice cracked. “I know you never said you’d stay. I know this wasn’t meant to be forever. But it’s the first time I’ve felt like… like I could be enough for someone.”

He paused.

Then whispered it—like a confession too big for his chest to hold.

“I like you.”

A beat.

“I like you. I like you. I like you.”

Kenta’s heart clenched.

God, this kid was going to destroy him.

He let out a long breath and leaned in until their foreheads touched.

“I’m sorry,” Kenta murmured, “you like someone this difficult.”

Kim gave the faintest smile, small and soft. The kind of smile that wanted to stay, even if it couldn’t.

He brought his hands up and gently cupped Kenta’s face. “You won’t punch me if I kiss you, right?”

Kenta didn’t answer.

He just leaned in.

And kissed him.

Slow. Barely-there. Like a breath between two people learning how to touch without breaking.

Kim’s hands slid down, resting against Kenta’s waist. The kiss lingered. Then deepened.

Kenta didn’t think—he let instinct take over.

Their mouths found rhythm. Their bodies pulled closer. Kenta’s hands rested on Kim’s hips, drawing him in. Kim melted into it, lips warm, mouth pliant, eager, trembling just slightly with something between nervousness and want.

Kim gasped softly when Kenta nipped at his bottom lip, and the sound made Kenta’s knees weak.

He smiled against Kim’s mouth. “You always sound this pretty when you’re desperate?”

Kim blushed. “Shut up.”

But he didn’t pull away.

Kenta eased them toward the bed, sitting Kim down gently before straddling his hips. His robe hung loosely off his shoulder, baring his collarbone, the faintest shimmer of freckles and old sunburn.

Kim looked up at him like he was trying to memorize this.

All of it.

“Kenta,” he breathed, voice barely there, “wait—my neck kinda hurts—”

Kenta laughed softly, cupping his cheek. “You really are fragile.”

He pressed a tender kiss to Kim’s lips before gently easing him onto the bed, laying him flat against the mattress.

“Better?” he murmured.

Kim nodded.

“You ever done this before?” Kenta asked, his voice a notch lower now.

Kim hesitated. Then shook his head.

Kenta smiled, forehead resting lightly against Kim’s chest.

“I figured.”

“Don’t laugh…”

“I’m not,” Kenta said. “I think it’s… kind of beautiful, actually.”

He kissed him again—slower now. More reverent.

Kim sighed into his mouth, hands reaching up, arms wrapping around Kenta’s back to pull him in.

The robe fell apart between them. Skin met skin. And Kenta let his hands explore—gently, reverently—his fingers tracing the edges of a body he’d only admired in passing until now.

He trailed kisses down Kim’s jaw, his throat, his chest. Soft worship with every breath. Every touch felt like a secret being spoken for the first time.

Kim watched him, wide-eyed and flushed, his lips parted, his heart beating fast enough for both of them.

When Kenta looked up, their eyes locked.

And Kim whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

Kenta kissed the words right off his mouth.

Then continued.

Down his chest. Over his stomach. Slower still.

When he reached the hem of Kim’s robe, he glanced up, asking without words.

Kim didn’t look away.

He nodded.

Kenta undid the robe gently, his breath catching for just a second at the sight of him. Kim didn’t cover himself. He didn’t flinch. He just lay there—open. Real.

Kenta leaned down and kissed just above his hip.

Then lower.

Kim gasped softly, and his head tipped back into the pillow, lips parted as he tried not to fall apart too fast.

But Kenta didn’t stop.

He took his time.

He let Kim feel everything.

And when Kim finally arched, breathing Kenta’s name like a prayer, Kenta held his gaze the whole time—letting him know he wasn’t alone. That he was seen. Touched. Wanted.

When it was over, Kim collapsed back into the bed, one arm thrown over his face, trying not to look too wrecked.

Kenta crawled up beside him and kissed his forehead. “Tired already?”

Kim peeked from under his arm, his cheeks burning. “Go easy on me…”

Kenta chuckled and brushed the hair from his eyes.

“God,” he whispered, “you’re too damn good for me.”

Kim smiled faintly. His voice was sleepy, raw.

“But you still kissed me.”

Kenta looked at him for a long, quiet second.

Then kissed him again.

Kim’s eyes were glazed with want, dark and soft, as if he’d waited his whole life to be touched like this.

Kenta couldn’t help but lean down and kiss him again.

They shared the taste of each other—salt, skin, the fading memory of the ocean still clinging to their lips. Kim kissed slowly, like he was still discovering how, letting his tongue brush gently against Kenta’s, tentative but hungry. And when he shyly nipped at Kenta’s bottom lip, Kenta let out a low groan, pulling him closer by the waist.

Kim’s hands were trembling. But they moved with purpose, sliding along the edge of Kenta’s robe and undoing the knot. The fabric slipped away, and Kenta shivered—not from cold, but from the sensation of being seen. Touched. Wanted.

Kim’s palms roamed his chest, his stomach, fingertips ghosting over the lines of muscle and the scar near his hip. He touched like he wanted to learn. Like he was grateful just to be allowed.

And Kenta let him.

Because tonight wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about escape. It was about giving in.

He watched the boy beneath him grow bolder, kissing down his collarbone, across his ribs, always glancing up like he was waiting to be told to stop. But Kenta didn’t stop him.

He just whispered, “It’s okay. I want this too.”

Then—Kim surprised him.

With a sudden burst of clumsy confidence, Kim grabbed Kenta’s shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed, a little too fast, a little too rough.

Kenta gasped as his back hit the mattress.

“S-Sorry—was that too hard?” Kim hovered over him, eyes wide, lips parted.

Kenta just smiled, brushing his knuckles across Kim’s flushed cheek. “I’m fine. You’re doing good.”

Kim exhaled shakily and lowered his forehead to Kenta’s shoulder. He stayed like that for a moment, trying to calm his breathing. Then he pressed a kiss to Kenta’s jaw… then another to his cheek… and finally, their lips met again—slow, deliberate, like they’d already said everything else they needed to with their mouths.

“I know this is… probably a weird thing to ask,” Kim murmured into the crook of Kenta’s neck, “but… can you teach me?”

His voice was so soft. So honest.

Kenta’s heart stuttered. He didn’t know what he did to deserve someone like this—someone who asked permission even with love on his lips.

So he nodded.

And whispered, “Yeah… I’ll teach you.”

—

It had been a while.

Too long, honestly. Kenta had forgotten the ache that came with letting someone in—literally and emotionally. But he welcomed it.

Kim moved carefully, guided by every quiet instruction. He was gentle, unsure at first, his rhythm shy and hesitant. But he listened. He adjusted. And Kenta… Kenta let himself feel everything.

The stretch. The burn. The heat.

He bit down on his own breath, eyes fluttering closed as Kim moved above him. They fit together like something inevitable. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. Messy. Sacred.

Kenta wrapped his legs around Kim’s waist and pulled him deeper.

Kim whimpered softly, burying his face into Kenta’s neck as he rocked into him—slow, then faster, then a little desperate. As if he was afraid time might run out.

It would.

But not yet.

Kenta tilted his head, lips brushing Kim’s ear. “You’re doing perfect,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”

Kim’s breath hitched. He moved again, pushing deeper, and Kenta choked back a moan.

The pleasure wasn’t clean—it wasn’t just lust. It was raw, tangled with pain and release and something too complicated to name.

Kenta clung to him.

And when he felt the tears sting his eyes, he turned his head, hiding them in the pillow.

Kim didn’t need to see.
Didn’t need to know that this moment—this quiet ache, this surrender—was a kind of healing Kenta didn’t believe he deserved.

But tonight… just for tonight, he let himself be loved.

And Kim—God, Kim gave it all without asking for anything back.

They moved like the world was ending.

And maybe it was.

But for Kenta, it had never ended so beautifully.

—

The sun was creeping in slow, soft rays through the thin curtains. The ocean murmured outside, and the room was warm with leftover heat from the night before.

But Kenta felt cold.

He stood in front of the mirror, towel wrapped around his hips, skin still damp from the shower. And that’s when he saw them.

The marks.

They were everywhere. Down his neck, blooming across his chest, curling near the bone of his hips. Not angry bruises—no. These were softer. Gentler. Intimate.

Kim had made them with his mouth. His hands. His want.

Kenta froze.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just about last night.

It was about everything.

Every look. Every laugh. Every moment spent pretending this wasn’t something real.

He reached out, touched one of the faint bruises near his collarbone.

And then he broke.

His breath shuddered.

And the tears spilled down—hot, fast, no longer quiet.

They poured from somewhere deep. Somewhere he hadn’t let anyone touch in years. He bent over the sink, gripping the porcelain like it could anchor him.

“Don’t fall apart,” he whispered to himself.

But he was already falling.

Because leaving hurt more than being held captive ever did.

And it wasn’t about survival anymore.

It was about loss.

When the tears slowed, he got dressed in silence, forcing each movement through numb fingers. His duffel was zipped. His robe folded. His toothbrush packed.

He stared at Kim sleeping—curled under the covers, half on his stomach, the light catching the corner of his mouth.

Kenta had kissed that mouth last night. Had memorized every shape, every sigh.

And now he was leaving it behind.

His chest throbbed.

Still… he had to write something. Anything. Even if he couldn’t say it aloud.

So he grabbed a pen and the resort notepad, hands still slightly trembling, and he wrote.

Kim—
I don’t know how to say goodbye.
So I won’t.

Thank you for making me feel like a person again. For making me laugh.
For seeing me.
For holding me when I didn’t think I could ever be touched again.

You’ll forget me, maybe. But I’ll remember you. Always.
Every time I breathe a little easier.

I’m sorry I can’t stay.
But please… don’t stop being kind.
Someone like you is rare.

— Kenta

He folded the note carefully, hands lingering.

And then… his heart sank.

Because he remembered.

Kim doesn’t read.
Not well. Not enough.

They had only gotten through the alphabet. A few sounds. A children’s book, once.
But this?

This he might not even understand.

Kenta’s throat tightened. He pressed the folded paper to his chest for a moment. Just held it there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wish I could say it to your face. I wish I could stay long enough to teach you all the words I never learned how to say.”

But he left it anyway.

He placed the note by Kim’s hand, as if the paper itself could carry meaning through osmosis. As if maybe—just maybe—Kim would understand it anyway.

Understand the weight of it.

The goodbye he couldn’t say out loud.

The love he didn’t deserve to keep.

He leaned in and kissed Kim’s temple.

Whispered, “Don’t wait for me.”

And walked to the door.

His hand lingered on the knob. His heart was wrecked.
But he walked out.

Because even though Kim might not read the note, Kenta knew—deep in his bones—

Kim had already read his heart.

And maybe, that was enough.

—

END.

Chapter Text

The city never stopped moving.

Neon lights spilled onto rain-slick streets, honking cars clogged intersections, and voices—sharp, fast, always demanding—filled the air like static. Bangkok had always been loud. But it felt louder now.

Because Kenta had gone quiet.

It had been a year.

A year since warm sand between his toes. Since early morning laughter outside a rickety motorbike shack. Since a boy with sun-dyed cheeks and a smile that cracked open the sky had kissed his wrist on the edge of the world and made him believe—for one impossible second—that maybe life could begin again.

Kenta still remembered how the rain fell that night.

How it tasted on Kim’s skin.

How it felt to be wanted without question.

And how it felt to leave.

⸻

He’d returned to the force in June.

They offered him desk work. “Something light,” they said. But Kenta had always hated pity.

“No,” he told them. “I want to be in the field.”

And he was. Every day. Cases stacked like bricks. Armed robbery, trafficking rings, missing kids, cold trails that shouldn’t be cold. He chased leads like a man possessed, knocked down doors like he was trying to knock something loose from inside himself.

He smiled more, now.

A different kind of smile—thin, polite, detached.

The kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

And at night, when the paperwork was done and the sirens faded, he went home to a small apartment that still smelled of old books and black coffee.

And he cried.

Not always.

But enough.

He cried because Kim wasn’t there when he came home late and exhausted. He cried when he saw the sea on the news. He cried when he found one of Kim’s old drawing—he’d absentmindedly sketched it on a napkin tucked in Kenta’s book, and it had survived the packing.

A scribble of two figures underneath a coconut tree.

No faces. Just silhouettes.

And one word, written clumsily in English.

“Us.”

Kenta held that napkin like it was scripture. Sometimes, he fell asleep with it under his pillow.

⸻

“You’re being ridiculous,” Pete had said once. “You were there for what—a week? It was a summer fling, Ken. That’s all.”

Kenta had stood up, fists clenched. “You don’t understand.”

Pete blinked.

“I was ready to die,” Kenta whispered, voice shaking. “You know that. You were the one who found me in that fucking bathroom. I didn’t want to keep living. I didn’t see the point. And then I met him. I met Kim.”

His throat closed. He gritted his teeth.

“That boy didn’t just hold my hand, Pete. He held me when I was shaking. He sat beside me without asking what was wrong. He kissed me like I was clean. Like I wasn’t broken.”

Pete’s expression shifted. Softened.

“I know,” he said finally. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to belittle that.”

Kenta sat down hard, pressing his hands to his face. “He made me want to live again.”

Pete didn’t speak for a while. Then, quietly, he put a hand on Kenta’s back.

“I’m sorry.”

⸻

Pete tried.

God, he tried.

He called the resort. The old friend who’d helped them rehire Kim. He even reached out to the local village association under a fake tourist name.

But Kim was gone.

“He quit,” the receptionist had told him kindly. “Moved on. Didn’t leave a number.”

No forwarding address. No social media. No trace.

Just… gone.

Pete almost told Kenta. Almost.

But when he imagined Kenta’s face, his grief, his anger—he kept the secret. Because Kenta had always said: “If we’re meant to meet again, we will.”

He didn’t want to betray that belief.

So Pete held it in.

And every time Kenta drank a little too much wine and stared at the ceiling, whispering, “I don’t think I can love anyone else,” Pete just sat beside him in silence.

And waited for the storm to pass.

⸻

Kenta rebuilt.

In pieces.

He got promoted. Took on a young rookie as a partner. Started jogging again. Stopped flinching when people raised their voices behind him. He even laughed at stupid TV shows sometimes.

But every once in a while—when the city lights flickered just right, or a moped passed him playing soft beach music—he stopped.

And the ache returned.

Like salt in old wounds.

He never told anyone about the mornings he woke up gasping, heart pounding, reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Or how his fingers sometimes traced his own scars like Kim once had, trying to remember what it felt like to be kissed like he was sacred.

No one knew he still had that napkin in his wallet. Folded tight. Worn at the corners.

He was healing.

But some wounds were meant to be carried.

⸻

It was almost exactly a year to the day.

Kenta was in his usual button-down shirt, badge tucked into his waistband, sitting across from Pete in one of their favorite high-end restaurants.

The air was thick with rich aromas—steak, wine, luxury. Everything that was the opposite of Koh Lipe.

Kenta sipped his wine slowly, eyes on the crowd. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

Probably the sea.

“I heard the trafficking ring in Chiang Mai got cracked,” Pete was saying.

Kenta nodded. “Yeah. Lead detective was one of my old classmates.”

“Good job?”

“Real good.”

Pete smirked. “You jealous?”

Kenta snorted. “Only a little.”

Pete laughed, but it faded quickly. His eyes lingered on Kenta’s face. “You’re doing better these days.”

Kenta shrugged. “I’m still here.”

“You’re not just surviving. You’re living.”

Kenta hesitated. Then nodded.

“I am.”

A pause.

“And you still miss him.”

Kenta looked up. His eyes were soft. “Every day.”

Pete didn’t push further.

Then—

Kenta stilled.

Fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

His breath caught.

Across the room, a figure had just walked in. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still milky white skin. A clean black shirt tucked into dark trousers. His hair was neater now—shorter, styled. His jaw sharper. His body fuller.

He looked older.

But Kenta would know that back anywhere.

He would know that heartbeat.

Pete followed his line of sight, eyebrows furrowing. “What? Who—?”

Kenta didn’t answer.

He was already rising to his feet.

Because there he was.

Kim.

Matured.

Changed.

But unmistakable.

He wasn’t the same island boy.

But he was his island boy.

And Kenta—who’d spent the last year learning how to breathe again—suddenly couldn’t remember how.

—

—

—

—

Kim woke up to the soft hush of the sea, but something inside him was screaming.

The bed was still warm on one side.

That side didn’t belong to him.

He turned over slowly, heart lodged in his throat. The sheets were tangled, still faintly smelling like ocean salt and Kenta’s shampoo. Kim’s hand moved across the mattress, reaching for something he already knew wasn’t there.

And all at once, it hit him.

The absence.

The quiet.

The goodbye he hadn’t heard with his ears but felt in every nerve ending.

Kenta was gone.

Kim sat up slowly. The sunlight streaming through the window felt too bright, too cruel, illuminating the hollow space beside him. His chest ached, tight and trembling.

He had known it would hurt.

Kenta warned him.

But he hadn’t known this kind of pain existed. Not the kind that didn’t just shatter your heart, but made your ribs feel too fragile to contain the breath in your lungs. Not the kind that made you feel like a ghost inside your own skin.

His eyes stung. He blinked down, and that’s when he saw it.

A piece of paper.

Folded neatly, placed beside the pillow. Kim picked it up with trembling fingers. He stared at it, lips parting, throat dry.

He couldn’t read it.

His vision blurred. Not from the unfamiliar letters. From the crushing realization that whatever Kenta wanted to say was locked away behind symbols he hadn’t learned yet.

Still, he didn’t throw it away.

He held it like something sacred.

And when his hand wouldn’t stop shaking, he folded the note again—carefully, with a kind of reverence—and tucked it deep into the inner pocket of his coat.

He never told anyone about that note.

He never would.

⸻

By noon, he quit his job.

He couldn’t walk past the bungalow without seeing Kenta stepping out in that loose robe, hair damp, scowling about breakfast. He couldn’t pass the restaurant without remembering their first dinner, Kenta stealing bites off his plate. The beach bonfire. The cliff. That kiss.

Their bodies tangled together in the rain.

He couldn’t bear it.

So he left the staff keys on the reception desk without a word. Took his motorbike and just… drove.

Nowhere.

Everywhere.

He didn’t go home.

Home wasn’t home anymore.

⸻

Three Nights Later – A Beachfront Bar

The music was loud. The lights dim. Tourists laughed over cheap drinks and neon buckets of SangSom. Kim sat at the far end of the bar, his third beer warm in his hand, eyes vacant, body hunched like someone trying to shrink himself.

The bartender had stopped asking if he was okay.

He wasn’t.

He wouldn’t be.

“Dance with me?”

A voice.

Soft. Smooth. Feminine.

Kim blinked. A woman stood before him. She was beautiful—shimmering curves, brown skin lit by pink lights, confidence draped around her like silk. Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun. Her smile was inviting, but her eyes… they watched him carefully.

Kim blinked again. Then stood.

He didn’t speak.

Just followed her onto the sand.

They danced. Slowly, lazily. Kim’s hands touched her hips. His eyes closed. He imagined a sharper jawline. Paler skin. Eyes that saw through him like glass.

But the illusion broke quickly.

She didn’t taste like Kenta.

Didn’t feel like him.

He tried anyway.

Let his lips brush her throat.

She turned her head, offering more.

He kissed her.

Deep. Searching.

But it was empty.

Like kissing air.

His fingers trembled. His body didn’t respond.

She felt it.

She pulled back.

Her voice was kind. Curious. “Are you okay?”

He looked down, ashamed.

She studied him.

Then: “Is it a heartbreak?”

He nodded, once.

She reached for his hand, led him gently out of the bar, away from the noise. They walked together, neither speaking, until they reached a small motel near the beachfront.

They checked in.

The room was clean. Simple. A fan spinning lazily overhead.

They kissed again.

Kim tried.

He tried so hard.

But his hands wouldn’t settle. His heart wouldn’t stop aching.

He wasn’t there.

His soul was back in a bed a few kilometers away, curled beside a man who’d whispered, “I want this too.”

Kim stopped.

Broke the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice cracking.

The woman looked at him—really looked.

“You’re not in this,” she said softly.

Kim shook his head.

She tilted hers. “Was it… a man?”

Kim’s breath hitched.

And for the first time, he didn’t lie.

He nodded.

Something in her expression shifted. Not in disgust. Not in surprise.

But in recognition.

She moved off his lap and began fixing her blouse, her tone gentle. “You miss him?”

“So much,” Kim choked.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

The silence was painful. Heavy.

But she didn’t leave.

Instead, she sat beside him.

“You want to talk about him?”

He looked up.

She smiled faintly. “I’ve been there too. Heartbroken over someone I didn’t get to say goodbye to. You’re not alone.”

He hesitated.

But maybe it was the alcohol. Or the moonlight.

Or maybe he just needed someone.

So he told her.

About the storm.

About the cliffside.

About Kenta’s sharp tongue and soft eyes. About the way he kissed, the way he held back, the way he finally gave in. About the note he couldn’t read. About the silence that followed.

When he was done, the woman—Jen—sighed.

“Well,” she said softly, “you weren’t just heartbroken. You were in love.”

Kim didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

⸻

Weeks Later – A New Start

Her name was Jenelia Torres. Everyone called her Jen.

She was thirty-eight. Half-Filipina, half-Thai. Ran a boutique hotel business in Manila and had come to Koh Lipe looking to scout land for a new eco-resort.

She never opened it.

Instead, she stayed.

For a while.

She took Kim under her wing like a stubborn stray cat. Got him a room. Gave him chores. Paid him in cash and home-cooked meals. She never asked for anything in return except honesty.

She watched him closely.

“You’re smart,” she said one night. “You just need someone to bet on you.”

So she did.

She pulled strings. Found an Alternative Learning System program—a way for people like Kim, who never finished formal education, to earn a diploma.

“You don’t have to wear a uniform,” she told him. “Just show up. Learn. Take the test when you’re ready.”

Kim hesitated.

But he wanted more.

He wanted him back.

So he said yes.

And in just three months, Kim graduated.

First in the class.

He cried when Jen handed him the certificate.

She ruffled his hair and said, “You want to go to Bangkok? You want to find him? You need to man up. Be ready. Be someone who can walk beside him in the city.”

Kim didn’t answer.

But that night, he unfolded the note again.

Still couldn’t read it. Chose not to read it.

But he held it close.

And whispered: “I’ll find you.”

Even if he didn’t know when.

Even if he had to cross the world.

Because Kim had fallen first.

And he had never stopped falling.

—

—

—

BANGKOK WAS NEVER THE GOAL.

But becoming someone worthy of standing beside Kenta?

That was.

Kim didn’t say it aloud. Not even to Jen.

But every time he folded that note and slipped it into his wallet, every time he studied until his head ached, every time he sat across from a businessman in a clean shirt and shook hands like he’d always known how—

He did it with Kenta’s name sitting quietly in his chest.

Like a compass.

Like a vow.

⸻

It started with Jen.

Jen, who saw something in him when he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror. Who asked nothing in return for giving him a roof, a warm plate of food, and the grace not to talk about that motel night again.

At first, he just helped carry her folders.

She made him sit with her during business calls. She joked that if he was going to follow her around like a stray cat, he might as well earn his keep.

Kim had no idea what she was talking about.

LLC, ROI, acquisition rights.

It was like trying to read the stars without knowing what the sky was.

But Jen didn’t mock him.

She explained.

She broke things down into small, bite-sized pieces. She made flowcharts with pictures. Wrote out terms phonetically. Walked him through contracts line by line. Let him listen during client negotiations, and asked his opinion after.

“You’ve got good instincts,” she told him one afternoon, tossing a mango slice into her mouth. “Not book-smart yet. But gut-smart. People-smart. That can’t be taught.”

Kim didn’t know how to answer.

So he just bowed his head and whispered, “Thank you.”

⸻

THREE MONTHS IN.

Kim had his certificate in one hand and a pen in the other.

His handwriting was still shaky, but legible.

And for the first time in his life, he read the first sentence of Kenta’s letter.

Not all of it.

Not yet.

But enough to know.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye—”

He stopped there.

Because the tears came too fast.

He folded the paper again with trembling hands and held it to his chest, his eyes burning. That single line echoed in his ears for hours.

He whispered it to himself as he studied past midnight. Repeated it when he negotiated a small deal with a supplier in Hat Yai. Clutched it like a secret every time he walked into another meeting dressed in a button-down Jen picked for him.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye.”

It meant Kenta hadn’t wanted to leave.

It meant maybe—just maybe—he still thought of Kim, too.

⸻

BUSINESS BECAME PURPOSE.

By the sixth month, Kim wasn’t just observing meetings—he was leading them.

Jen would sit back and sip her coffee while Kim confidently spoke to landowners, small hotel chains, and suppliers. His voice, once uncertain, now calm and even. His eyes focused. His tone respectful.

It shocked him—how capable he felt.

He understood numbers now.

Understood people even more.

He had a way of reading the room. Knowing when to push, when to stay silent, when to speak plainly. Jen said he had what corporate sharks didn’t—authenticity.

People liked him.

They trusted him.

And slowly… he began to trust himself.

⸻

“You remind me of my little brother,” Jen told him one night, their chairs sinking into the sand outside her rental home.

Kim looked over at her.

“He died when I was sixteen,” she continued. “He was smart like you. Wanted to be an architect. Would’ve made it too.”

She smiled, but her voice cracked a little.

“I think he would’ve liked you.”

Kim didn’t know what to say.

So he did what he always did when words failed.

He reached for her hand and held it.

Jen squeezed his fingers.

“You don’t owe me anything, Kim,” she said, voice firm. “You don’t have to stay here. You’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” Kim asked quietly.

Jen looked at him for a long time.

“To go find your person.”

⸻

But Kim didn’t leave right away.

Not because he was afraid—but because he wanted to go when he was ready to stay.

He still didn’t know where Kenta was exactly.

Only that he was a police officer.

A detective, he guessed.

Kim remembered it clearly—so clearly it haunted him.

The night they made love, Kenta had stood by the mirror, half-dressed, digging through his duffel bag. Kim had looked up from the bed, and just for a moment, he caught the flash of silver.

A badge.

Thailand National Police.

Kim didn’t say anything that night. He was too drunk on Kenta’s skin. On the way his hands shook but his kiss never faltered. On the way the man who looked untouchable finally let himself be touched.

But now—

Now, he held that image like a guidepost.

“Kenta is a cop,” he told Jen one night, staring at a worn map of Bangkok on the table. “Maybe a detective. I saw his badge once.”

Jen looked at him. “You know how many precincts are in Bangkok?”

“I don’t care,” Kim said, quietly but with certainty. “I’ll check them all.”

Jen smiled at him like he’d just said something holy.

“You’re in love with him.”

“I know.”

⸻

ELEVEN MONTHS LATER.

Kim wore a tailored shirt and trousers. His hair was still messy. His fingers were still calloused. But when he walked into the ferry port holding his bag and diploma, he stood tall.

He had learned how to read.

To speak in boardrooms.

To negotiate terms and write contracts.

He had grown under Jen’s care, but this journey?

This next step?

It was his alone.

He left Koh Lipe quietly.

No grand goodbyes.

Just a whisper to the sea: I’m coming.

And deep in his coat pocket—tucked between his ferry ticket and ID—was Kenta’s letter.

Unread in full.

Not yet.

He was saving that.

For when he could read every line out loud.

For when he could look Kenta in the eye and say:

“I’m here now. I found you. I’m not just an island boy anymore.”

—

—

—

—

Bangkok sparkled below them.

Kenta barely noticed.

He sat across from Pete at their usual booth near the glass wall of the restaurant, a place with linen napkins too stiff for comfort and a wine list thicker than a case file. The view was breathtaking—rivers of headlights winding between skyscrapers, the hum of the city never quite silent—but it always made him feel a little detached. Like he’d been placed behind glass again.

He was better now. Really. He worked cases again. Solved murders. Laughed with his team. Ate well, slept better. The therapist said he was healing. That he’d done the impossible—came back from the edge.

And he had.

But some nights, when it was quiet, and the city wasn’t enough to drown it out—

He still missed the island boy.

He missed him like a phantom limb. A ghost that kissed his neck in dreams and never said goodbye.

Pete poured them wine. “You spaced out again.”

Kenta blinked. “Sorry.”

“You working on something?”

“Just thinking.”

Pete studied him for a moment. “Still about him?”

Kenta didn’t answer.

Pete sighed, setting the bottle down. “Ken… it’s been a year.”

“I know.”

“You’ve done everything right. You’re working again. You’re… here.”

“I know,” Kenta said again, but softer.

Pete hesitated. “You ever think of finding someone else?”

Kenta smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think about him.”

Silence.

Pete took a long sip. “You know I tried, right?” he said after a beat. “To find him. Called the resort. Talked to that woman who helped him get his job back. Even offered money.”

Kenta’s hand froze on his wine glass.

“They said he quit. Vanished,” Pete went on. “No forwarding address. No contact.”

Kenta nodded. “That’s okay.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I would’ve been,” Kenta said quietly. “But if he was trying to get better—if he needed to leave that place behind too—then I understand.”

Pete stared at him.

“You really loved him, huh?”

Kenta looked down, fingers lightly brushing the rim of his glass. “It wasn’t just love,” he said. “It was the reason I didn’t put a bullet in my mouth when I came back.”

Pete looked away.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“You didn’t know,” Kenta said gently. “You thought it was just a fling. But he—he reminded me what it was like to feel safe in someone’s arms. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to run.”

Pete nodded, silent again.

Then—

A soft sound.

A waiter pulling out a chair across the restaurant.

Kenta wasn’t looking until the waiter said, “Sir, your client is already waiting.”

Something about the voice that responded—low, careful, slightly accented—made Kenta’s stomach twist.

He turned his head.

And stopped breathing.

There he was.

Hair trimmed, suit sharp, body straight like he’d trained himself to stand taller. No longer the sun-kissed boy who lived barefoot and laughed with coconut juice on his lips. No necklace of shells. No baggy shirts.

Just a man.

Beautiful.

Refined.

Confident, even. Until his eyes met Kenta’s.

Then everything in him broke open.

Kim froze mid-step, one hand still on the back of the chair.

He stared.

As if Kenta were a ghost. As if this wasn’t real.

Pete frowned. “Ken—? What—”

Kenta stood up.

Too fast.

The chair scraped loudly against the marble floor. The noise turned heads, but he didn’t care. His breath stuttered. His knees nearly buckled.

Kim took one step forward.

Kenta took one step too.

It was a slow collision of two people who had once unraveled in each other’s arms. One year apart. One thousand miles of longing condensed in a few meters of air.

Neither said a word.

Not yet.

Not until they were standing face to face, breathing in the same space again.

Kenta’s voice was hoarse. “You’re really here.”

Kim swallowed. His voice was steadier than expected. “I had a meeting.”

Kenta blinked, dazed. “Here?”

Kim nodded. “My boss couldn’t come. I’m representing her.”

“Your boss?”

Kim smiled softly.

Kim’s hands were shaking. Barely. But Kenta noticed. Always did.

“I tried to find you,” Kim whispered. “After I left the island. But I didn’t even know your last name. All I knew was that badge in your bag.”

“You saw that?”

“I never told you,” Kim said, voice catching. “But I thought… if I could become someone worth standing beside you… maybe I’d have a chance again.”

Kenta’s eyes were glassy. “You were always someone worth standing beside.”

“I wasn’t,” Kim said. “Not then. But I wanted to be.”

Silence fell between them like a heavy curtain.

Pete stood up quietly, grabbing his wine glass. “I’m gonna… give you guys a minute.”

Neither of them looked at him.

Kenta smiled faintly. “You clean up nice.”

“You used to say that,” Kim said, lips twitching. “Back when I was shirtless and sunburnt.”

“I liked you better that way,” Kenta whispered. “You looked like freedom.”

Kim didn’t move. “I kept your note,” he said. “Still can’t read it. But I kept it.”

Kenta’s throat tightened. “You really never read it?”

Kim shook his head. “Didn’t have to.”

“Why?”

Kim’s eyes were wet now. He didn’t blink. “Because I knew what it said. Every day I woke up after you left… I tried to live the way you made me feel. Like I was loved. Like I mattered.”

Kenta’s hand trembled. “You did.”

“You still do,” Kim said.

Kenta’s vision blurred.

This wasn’t a dream. This was happening.

The boy he’d kissed in a rainstorm.

The boy who kissed his scars like scripture.

Was here.

Standing in front of him as a man.

Kenta didn’t care that they were in public. He didn’t care that his heart was already breaking again just from the sight of him.

He stepped forward.

And pulled Kim into his arms.

Kim broke.

A small, soft sound escaped him—half sob, half breath—and his arms wrapped tight around Kenta’s waist. They stood there, in the middle of the restaurant, as the city sparkled below them and the world came full circle.

Neither spoke.

They didn’t have to.

Because after everything—

The ocean.

The note.

The longing.

The year they lost.

They’d finally found their way back.

And maybe… this time, they’d stay.