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Jeng leaned forward in his seat, anticipation coiled tightly in his chest.
Any moment now, the car would stop, and they’d arrive at the remote village where the volunteer work was set to begin.
This was his first real field experience; something tangible, something that mattered.
After years of staring at molar diagrams and memorizing gum disease protocols, he was finally stepping into the role of an actual dentist. Even if it was just for a month, it felt monumental.
His faculty often sent students to offer care in underserved areas; it was a common enough assignment.
But for Jeng, it meant more.
This wasn’t just about fulfilling hours or ticking off a requirement.
It was a chance to do something real, to show up for people who needed help; and he carried that responsibility with quiet pride.
He tapped his fingers against his thigh, restless, excited, nervous.
He was ready.
Karn hated the heat. He hated crowds. He hated being forced to smile at strangers, shake hands with overeager junior doctors, and pretend to tolerate wide-eyed students clinging to every word.
He hated leaving the controlled quiet of his apartment. And more than anything, he hated having to disrupt his carefully curated routine; for an entire month.
But naturally, none of that mattered to his department.
They couldn’t resist parading around their golden boy, their
“distinguished cardiologist,” like a trophy.
So here he was.
Disinterested, already drenched in sweat, and surrounded by a sea of doctors he had no intention of speaking to.
Not that it mattered. Nothing ever really revolved around his choices, anyway.
Despite not usually enjoying crowds, Jeng didn’t mind this one.
Everything about the atmosphere felt like an opportunity; to connect, to learn, and maybe, to feel a little less lost in the sea of white coats and experience he hadn’t yet earned.
Some of the doctors he met were surprisingly friendly.
They struck up conversations without prompting, asking about his field, his university, whether he was a junior, or if he’d started working in a hospital yet.
It was nice. Less intimidating than he’d imagined.
They treated him like someone who belonged; not just a student on trial.
And despite all the uncertainties and the quiet lack of confidence he tried so hard to hide, Jeng found himself settling into the new atmosphere with surprising ease.
Well.. maybe for about fourteen minutes.
Because that was exactly how long it lasted before his gaze landed on someone.
Someone pretty.
Pretty. Intimidating. And—what the actual fuck?
He was tall. Tall enough that Jeng had to tilt his head back just to get a proper look. His eyes were tucked behind sleek, expensive-looking glasses, and his lips were pressed so tightly together it almost looked painful; like he was holding the words in. Like he was holding everything in.
And Jeng?
He had never, ever, been normal about tall, pretty men in glasses who looked like they could ruin his life with a single sentence.
Day one passed in a blur of new conversations and unfamiliar faces. There were no actual treatments or check-ups yet; just setup.
They spent the day organizing equipment, receiving their schedules, and going over plans to make sure nothing got chaotic once things began.
Afterwards, the volunteers were sent to a local housing area. It wasn’t anything fancy; barely comfortable, if Jeng was honest; but still considered a privilege in a community like this.
They took turns unpacking their bags and lining up for the shower, since the place had only one toilet and one functioning bathroom.
The shower shut off with a metallic rattle of pipes, leaving the small room even more silent than before. A few fans spun lazily overhead, doing little to fight the heat pressing in from all sides.
Jeng was seated on a thin mattress near the wall, damp towel hanging around his neck, a spare shirt wrinkled in his lap.
The floor beneath him was dusty despite someone’s half-hearted attempt at sweeping.
He’d showered just fifteen minutes ago, but already felt like he needed another one.
The room smelled like soap, sweat, and a faint trace of cheap disinfectant.
He was flipping through his phone with no real intention; just something to keep his fingers busy, when the bathroom door creaked open.
Jeng glanced up.
Karn stepped out.
His shirt was half-tucked into his joggers, collar dark from water. A towel hung over one shoulder.
His glasses were back on, slightly fogged at the corners. His hair, still wet, clung to his temples.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t make eye contact. Just moved straight across the room to his duffel bag without a word, his footsteps quiet against the concrete floor.
Jeng watched him; not in a way that was obvious, or at least he hoped not. But there was something about the man’s presence that demanded attention.
He moved neatly, economically. Like someone used to keeping things in control. Like someone constantly holding in a sigh.
“Didn’t think you’d be the last to shower,” Jeng said eventually, voice casual, eyes still on his screen.
Karn didn’t turn. He crouched by his bag, pulled out a small container, then reached for a pair of socks.
“Didn’t think it mattered.”
“Guess it doesn’t,” Jeng said. “Still surprised me though. You don’t strike me as the wait-your-turn type.”
A beat. Then Karn stood, towel still over one shoulder, eyes unreadable behind his glasses.
“I waited because it’s quieter when people stop talking.”
His tone wasn’t aggressive. But it wasn’t friendly either. It was flat. Controlled. Like someone replying out of obligation, not interest.
Jeng let a short laugh slip out, mostly under his breath.
“You always this charming, or am I just special?”
Karn didn’t bite. He stepped back toward his corner of the room and sat down cross-legged on his mat, back straight, posture stiff even when resting.
He pulled off his glasses and started wiping them with the hem of his shirt.
“You’re loud,” he said simply.
“That’s not an answer,” Jeng replied.
Karn didn’t look at him. “Didn’t sound like a question.”
For a moment, all Jeng could hear was the buzz of a mosquito near his ear and the faint hum of a fan blade clicking every few seconds.
He turned his body slightly to face Karn more directly; the grin on his face softening; not playful now, just curious.
“Alright. I’ll ask one properly then. You like doing this kind of thing?”
Karn paused mid-motion. “What kind of thing?”
“Volunteering. Being here. Living in a place with one toilet between eight people. You know. The fun stuff.”
Karn put his glasses back on and looked at Jeng properly for the first time. Not a glance. A full look. Assessing. Not hostile, but distant; like he was trying to figure out what kind of game Jeng was playing, and why.
“I like doing my job,” Karn said eventually. “Everything else is a tradeoff.”
Jeng nodded slowly.
“That’s the most human thing you’ve said all day.”
Karn didn’t react. Not visibly. But something in his posture shifted. His hands stilled. He leaned back, just slightly, against the wall.
“I don’t talk unless there’s a reason.”
“And if someone talks to you?”
“They usually get tired first.”
Jeng smiled again. Not wide. Just enough.
“Well. I’m persistent.”
Silence again. Long enough for Jeng to think maybe that was the end of it. That Karn was done. But then—
“You’re not from a hospital,” Karn said. “You’re a student.”
“Dental,” Jeng said. “Final year.”
Karn nodded, as if that explained something. He didn’t say more.
But he didn’t turn away either.
Jeng leaned back, arms behind him, stretching out his legs slightly.
“You could just say you don’t like people. Would save you a lot of talking.”
“I don’t dislike people,” Karn said.
“Oh?”
“I just prefer them quiet.”
Jeng snorted. “Good luck with that here.”
Karn let his eyes fall shut, head resting lightly against the wall, as if finally done with the conversation.
Jeng didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle, the weight of the day pressing in through the walls, the night wrapping around them slow and humid.
But he noticed, Karn didn’t move away. Didn’t shift his mat. Didn’t ignore him completely.
He just stayed there.
Still. Present.
And Jeng, for all the heat and sweat and tightness in his chest, felt something settle too.
Not peace exactly. But something close.
Karn had never been the kind of person others flocked to. He drew attention, sure; his work demanded it, and the way he carried himself made people look twice. But that attention never lasted.
It faded quickly, usually the moment someone tried to get close. That was when they realized: being around Karn required patience most people didn’t have.
His silences were sharp. His standards, rigid. He didn’t soften for anyone.
He was used to it.
Karn had long accepted that human connection wasn’t meant for him; and he was fine with that.
Or at least, he’d made peace with it. Life was stable. He had a job he excelled at, money he didn’t need to spend, and a quiet home where no one waited for him.
He loved his work. Genuinely. He liked the precision of it, the responsibility, the sense that he was doing something that mattered. Being part of someone’s life, even for a few hours, was enough.
Or it had been.
For years, that was all he needed. Until he met Tawan.
Karn wouldn’t call himself a believer in love at first sight.
It sounded too impulsive for someone like him. But even he couldn’t deny it; something shifted the first time he saw Tawan.
He was intrigued. Genuinely.
And the feeling didn’t fade. It grew. Slowly, then all at once. Curiosity turned to comfort. Then to something deeper. Real. Dangerously so.
Tawan had undone him without trying.
After that, the life Karn had so carefully built, the job, the money, the solitude, stopped feeling like enough.
The hospital felt smaller. The routine, stifling. The walls of his apartment, once a sanctuary, began to feel like a cell.
Everything he thought he wanted had changed.
And it terrified him.
The fact that he wasn’t terrified.
Not enough to stop himself.
Not enough to stop wanting more.
Doing more.
And for a while, it seemed to work.
It worked; at least that’s how it felt to Karn.
Tawan would pull him close at the end of long days, gently taking his glasses off and setting them aside with care.
He would kiss the slight hump on Karn’s nose, nuzzle the tiny mole beneath his chin like it was something sacred.
He whispered praise into Karn’s skin, soft and steady. Told him he was doing well. That he felt good. That he looked beautiful beneath him.
When Karn was struggling through a lecture or prepping for a presentation, Tawan, already a senior in the same field, would sit beside him, explaining concepts with a voice so patient, so impossibly gentle.
Again and again, until Karn understood. Until the frustration passed.
And it was good.
To Karn, being loved by Tawan was everything he never believed he could have, and everything he didn’t know he needed to breathe.
If you could call it breathing.
Tawan didn’t leave him in a cruel way.
He didn’t blame Karn. Didn’t twist the knife. Didn’t tell him he was too difficult or too distant or too closed off.
He ended things kindly.
Softly.
Painfully so.
And for Karn, that was somehow worse.
Because Tawan was always sweet. Always patient. Always understanding. Even in goodbye.
And Karn knew.
He had been loved.
Even if only for a short while. Even if it ended.
It was real.
Because Tawan had always been real.
There was no pretending with him. No half-measures. No cruelty.
Just softness. Warmth. A kind of love Karn had never known could exist, let alone belong to him.
And that was something.
Something he would carry; quietly, permanently.
Proof that, once, something in his life had been genuine. That he hadn’t imagined it. That he’d been seen. Held. Loved.
Even if it was just for a moment in the long stretch of his life.
It was enough to haunt him.
And enough to keep him going.
The sun was already high by the time they started.
A haze of heat clung to the village like a second skin. The makeshift medical tents flapped lightly in the breeze, patched together with tarps and sheets that filtered the sunlight into uneven shafts of gold.
There were tables set up under each canopy, folding chairs pulled in close. Boxes of supplies sat in semi-organized chaos; plastic bins full of latex gloves, stethoscopes, gauze, tongue depressors. The scent of antiseptic and earth filled the air.
Jeng had tied his hair back with a borrowed rubber band, sweat already dotting his temples as he leaned over a small child, murmuring encouragements as he examined her teeth with a disposable mirror and a gloved hand.
She was nervous, barely five years old, her dark eyes locked onto his, but he made faces between instructions, puffed out his cheeks, raised his brows.
She giggled, the tension melting slightly, and he clicked his tongue in mock disapproval when she swatted at his gloved fingers.
“There we go,” he whispered, voice soft, “See? Nothing scary.”
He passed her a small sticker from the box beside him, one with a cartoon tooth giving a thumbs-up. She took it solemnly, sticking it straight onto her shirt.
A few meters away, under a neighboring tent, Karn sat beside an elderly man with a fragile frame and weathered hands.
His blood pressure reading was just slightly off, but Karn said nothing at first, eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses.
He asked questions in a low, calm tone. How long the dizziness had lasted. If there had been any chest tightness. If he’d taken his medication that morning.
The man answered slowly, clearly trusting Karn’s quiet certainty. He didn’t smile much; he didn’t need to.
After a few minutes, Karn rose and scribbled down notes on his clipboard, sweat sliding down his neck, collar damp. He adjusted his glasses once. Then again.
He noticed the dental tent had gone quiet. Glancing over, he saw Jeng stepping back, waving goodbye to the little girl.
Their eyes met briefly.
Jeng offered a faint smile; half polite, half amused; like he’d caught Karn watching him.
Karn didn’t return it. He simply looked away, back to his notes.
But Jeng wasn’t the type to leave it at that.
When their paths crossed again later, by the communal supply table where both departments grabbed sterilized tools and bottled water, Jeng was already grinning.
“You know,” he said, casually, reaching past Karn for a wrapped tray of dental instruments, “if you keep staring at me like that, people might start talking.”
Karn didn’t even look at him. He uncapped his water bottle and took a slow sip.
“People already talk too much,” he said flatly.
Jeng chuckled, unfazed. “Fair. But if you’re going to glare at me like I owe you money, at least give me a reason.”
Now Karn looked at him. Briefly.
His gaze wasn’t sharp, but it was unreadable. The kind of look that made Jeng straighten instinctively, half defensive, half intrigued.
“You fidget too much,” Karn said finally. “Makes patients nervous.”
Jeng blinked. “I was making the kid laugh.”
Karn shrugged, barely a lift of his shoulder. “Laughter and trust aren’t the same thing.”
“That’s a pretty bleak view of pediatric dentistry,” Jeng muttered under his breath, but there was no heat in it. Only curiosity.
Karn didn’t respond. He twisted the cap back onto his water bottle and stepped aside.
But then he paused.
“You’re not bad, though,” he said quietly, almost like an afterthought. “For a student.”
Jeng’s brows lifted. The grin he tried to suppress was unmistakable.
“Wow. Was that… a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
Karn walked away, his back already turned, but Jeng kept staring at the space where he’d been.
One of the things Jeng had always quietly resented about himself was how easily he got intrigued.
By people, mostly. Randomly. Suddenly. All the time.
It wasn’t even about looks; though that sometimes played a part.
It was more about the pull. The way someone occupied space. The tone of their voice. A glance held for just a beat too long.
The smallest details could send his mind spiraling into quiet obsession.
It wasn’t romantic, not always. But it was persistent. Like his brain couldn’t bear existing in a room without attaching itself to someone.
His crushes came fast. Fleeting. Most of them happened in places he’d never return to, with people he’d likely never see again. That made it easier to indulge the fantasy. Less risk. No aftermath.
They didn’t last long, those sparks. Usually a week. A day. Sometimes just the span of a shared moment.
But still, Jeng thought about them afterward. Casually. Like daydreams he didn’t mind returning to.
He’d wonder, sometimes, what it would’ve been like if one of those brief flickers turned into something more.
Something real.
Something mutual.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because even now, here, standing in the middle of a rural village surrounded by heat and patients and packed schedules, his mind kept circling back to one person.
One person who, frankly, didn’t seem all that interested.
Which, of course, made it worse.
It was late. Past midnight, though neither of them checked. The small fan in the corner stuttered every few rotations, dragging warm air across their room. Most of the volunteers had fallen asleep hours ago, their quiet breaths filling the cramped space in soft waves.
Jeng couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the heat; he’d grown used to sweating through thin sheets in student dorms. Not even because of the snoring from one mattress near. It was Karn.
Or rather, the space Karn took up just two mattresses away. Present. Quiet. Too still.
Jeng had been watching the ceiling for what felt like hours before he finally said, “Karn?”
No answer. But he wasn’t asleep. Jeng could tell.
He tried again, a little louder. “Dr. Karn.”
A sigh came, slow and faint.
Karn exhaled through his nose, unimpressed but not annoyed.
“You talk too much at night.”
Jeng smirked into the dark. “You glare too much during the day.”
Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Not easy either.
The hum of insects filtered through the wooden slats in the walls. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. The fan kept wheezing. Someone coughed in the far corner of the room.
Jeng turned onto his side, propping his head on one arm.
He wasn’t looking at Karn directly, not with full intent, but his eyes flicked toward the outline; long limbs stretched out on the mattress, towel still draped around his neck, one hand resting over his chest like he was shielding something.
“You really don’t like being here, huh?” Jeng asked.
Karn didn’t answer right away. His chest rose and fell, steady.
Then:
“No.”
“Because of the heat? The crowds? Me?”
That earned him a glance. Barely. Karn’s head didn’t move; just his eyes, cutting through the shadows to land on Jeng.
“You think you’re the center of all my suffering?”
“I hope so,” Jeng replied, voice light. “Would be a shame to be ignored completely.”
Another pause. Long enough that Jeng thought that might be the end of it.
Then—softly, almost like Karn hadn’t meant to let it out:
“You’re hard to ignore.”
Jeng blinked.
It wasn’t flirtatious. Wasn’t kind, exactly. Just… honest. Unfiltered in a way that slipped past both of their usual armor.
Karn turned onto his side, facing away now. The towel slipped from his neck and landed somewhere in the space between their mattresses.
Jeng watched his back for a long beat. The faint curve of a shoulder blade shifting beneath the cotton.
He didn’t try to close the distance. He didn’t dare.
“Is that your way of saying I’m annoying or memorable?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
Karn didn’t turn back.
“Yes,” came the reply.
A week had passed.
Jeng had settled in.
He knew the rhythm now; the early mornings, the walk to the makeshift clinic, the patients who waited with tired eyes but kind smiles.
He knew how to organize the dental kit faster, how to joke gently with the elderly, how to call a nurse over with just the right kind of confidence that didn’t make him sound like a student.
People called him “doctor.” They took him seriously. That part still felt unreal.
So did the nights.
The cold, metallic slap of the water in the shared shower. The scent of antiseptic still clinging to his fingers. The cramped living quarters where their mats lined the floor in uneven rows, separated by small gaps and humid silence.
And Karn.
He had started to memorize Karn’s habits too; how he folded his towel with practiced precision, how he sat on the edge of his mat to check his phone without ever really typing anything. How he always faced the wall when he slept.
But sometimes, just sometimes, Jeng would glance over and catch him looking.
They never said anything when that happened. Not really. Karn would blink, shift slightly, and that was that. But Jeng held onto those glances longer than he should have.
He tried to fill the spaces between them. Starting conversations that Karn often answered with a single word. Offering food. Asking questions. Shifting his mattress just a little closer each night, under the guise of needing more fan air.
He tried not to come off like a creep.
He just wanted to be in the same space Karn existed in. Even if he had to orbit quietly.
But no matter how close he moved, even when their shoulders nearly brushed, even when he could feel the rise and fall of Karn’s breath like it was his own… it never felt like he was truly there.
Not with him. Not part of whatever space Karn lived in behind those glasses and that tight, locked-up posture.
Jeng didn’t think that would ever change.
Until that night.
The heat was unbearable that night.
Worse than it had been all week. It clung to skin like a second layer; humid, dense, unwilling to leave.
The fan at the corner of the room wheezed louder than usual, pushing out more noise than wind.
Jeng lay still, trying not to think about the way his shirt stuck to the curve of his back. The way the air felt too thick to breathe properly.
The way his skin buzzed with something beyond heat.
Their mattresses were next to each other now.
No one commented when it happened.
No one cared.
But it made all the difference to Jeng; being close enough to hear Karn breathe, to catch the almost imperceptible rustle of his blanket, to sense every small shift in the space between them.
Karn lay on his back, glasses off, towel damp and folded at his side. His hair was still wet from the shower. His arm rested over his forehead, eyes closed.
Jeng turned his head, slowly, careful not to disturb the silence.
He watched him; watched the way Karn’s lips were parted slightly, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t quite relax.
The kind of person who carried tension like it was stitched into his skin.
Jeng whispered, “You awake?”
No answer. Just the creak of the fan. Another breath.
He shifted, turned onto his side to face him fully. Their arms were nearly touching now.
“Karn,” he said, softer this time.
Karn’s eyes opened. Just a sliver. Just enough.
“Hot,” he muttered.
“Take your shirt off, doctor,” Jeng said, the teasing automatic, like a reflex he couldn’t quite suppress.
Karn didn’t answer. But the rustle of fabric came a beat later. A shirt being pulled over a head. Folded with too much care for the middle of the night. Typical.
Jeng stayed on his back, arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling that barely existed in the dark.
“Do you miss your room back home?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” Karn said.
“Liar.”
Karn let out a breath through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s just walls.”
“You’re not exactly sentimental, huh?”
“I’m a cardiologist, not a poet.”
Jeng smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tell that to the patients you stay too long for.”
Karn turned his head, barely. Just enough that Jeng could feel it.
“And you?”
Jeng blinked.
“What about me?”
“You flirt with everyone. Do you mean any of it?”
That one landed sharper than it should have.
Jeng’s throat tightened. “I don’t flirt with everyone.”
“You do.”
A pause.
“I just talk.”
Karn didn’t respond.
The fan wheezed again. Someone murmured in their sleep a few feet away.
Jeng sat up, slowly, arms draped over his knees. “You think I’m not serious about anything?”
Karn didn’t sit up, didn’t even lift his head. “I think you hide behind it.”
“And you hide behind that blank face and your fancy degrees,” Jeng shot back. Not angry; just tired.
Tired of dancing in circles around someone who wouldn’t even step onto the floor.
Silence.
Jeng looked down at him, his outline barely visible. Chest rising and falling steadily. One hand resting on his sternum, like it belonged there.
“I’m not trying to mess with you,” Jeng said, quieter this time. “You just make it really hard not to care.”
Karn’s hand twitched.
The tension didn’t burst. It folded. Softly. Like a sigh between two people who’d been holding their breath for too long.
Karn turned his head again. Not much. Just enough for their eyes to meet in the dark.
And then—Jeng leaned in.
It wasn’t impulsive. It was cautious. Measured. As if each inch closer could collapse something delicate.
Karn didn’t pull back.
Their lips met; tentative, dry, uncertain. Jeng kissed him slowly, carefully, like someone trying to memorize a language with his mouth.
Karn didn’t kiss back at first. But he didn’t stop him either. And eventually, he moved; just slightly, a shift of lips, of breath, enough to say I’m here.
He tasted like mouthwash and restraint.
It made Jeng ache.
The kiss broke, but neither of them moved.
Karn’s hand was still where it had been; resting against his chest, unmoved.
Jeng sat back just enough to look at him. “You okay?”
“I should ask you that,” Karn said. “You look like you’re about to shake apart.”
“I might,” Jeng whispered. “If you don’t kiss me again.”
A beat.
Then Karn’s fingers curled in the fabric of Jeng’s sleeve. Just a touch.
Just enough.
Jeng told himself it was good. A step forward. A new beginning. Something unnamed yet undeniably real. That was enough; at least for a moment.
But the thought didn’t survive the morning light.
He woke up to find Karn’s mattress gone, the space beside him empty and cold.
All day, Karn ignored him with deliberate precision, shutting down every attempt at conversation.
No glances, no words, no touch; just an impenetrable silence that felt intentional.
Jeng knew that look too well.
He fought to keep it out of his mind. He had patients to see, things to focus on. But the dam cracked, even if only slightly, as the day wore on.
When evening came, they returned to the cramped living space, slipping back into their routine: rushed showers, damp hair, the slow crawl toward sleep.
Karn kept his gaze fixed on the ground the entire time; guarded, distant.
Yet despite the cold distance, Jeng found a way.
He placed his mattress right next to Karn’s, bridging the narrow gap with silent determination.
He wasn’t about to let him go. Not yet. Not without a fight.
Jeng didn’t speak; not at first. He lay down slowly, the edge of his mattress nudging Karn’s again, like it had the past few nights. Like muscle memory.
He stared at the ceiling. Counted five slow inhales before speaking.
“You mad at me?” he asked. Casual voice, but the tightness in his throat gave him away.
Karn didn’t answer.
Jeng swallowed. “Was it… too much?”
Still nothing. Karn stayed in the exact same position. Back straight. Neck stiff. Too still to be asleep.
“I didn’t mean to push,” Jeng added. “I just thought…” He trailed off. The words, in the end, felt pathetic in his mouth.
He turned on his side, facing Karn’s back. Close now. Close enough to see the curve of his shoulder in the dim light, the slight rise and fall of breath.
“I thought you kissed me back.”
“I did.”
Karn’s voice came low. Rough like gravel, as if he hadn’t spoken all day; which, to Jeng, was mostly true.
That admission should have eased something in him. It didn’t.
Jeng let the silence stretch. Just long enough to test the distance.
“Then what is this?” he finally asked. “Why are you acting like it didn’t happen?”
Karn shifted; just a little. His fingers flexed against the sheet, tension in every joint.
“Because I don’t want it to happen again,” Karn said flatly.
Jeng blinked.
It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t shame. Just honesty delivered without cushion.
And somehow, that stung more.
“Oh,” Jeng said. Quiet. Just that.
He turned onto his back again, staring up at the shadow of the fan, willing himself not to let it sink deeper.
Three nights passed in quiet withdrawal.
Jeng didn’t speak much after that night. Not out of spite or stubbornness, but something softer; like self-preservation.
He still moved with his usual ease, still cracked a smile when someone joked during meals, still nodded politely when the older doctors gave him tasks. But he didn’t try to talk to Karn. Not anymore.
He lay on his mattress with his back turned most nights, facing the wall or the hum of the fan.
He didn’t reach across the space. Didn’t push conversation. He gave Karn distance; something he had always seemed to crave.
Which is why, on the third night, when Karn laid his mattress down beside Jeng’s without a word, close enough for their shoulders to almost touch, Jeng didn’t know what to make of it.
The heat clung to them like a second skin. The fan sputtered weakly from the corner of the room, barely managing to stir the air.
Jeng had taken a cold shower minutes ago, but sweat had already begun to bead along his neck again. His shirt clung to his back.
He stayed still, his body tense beneath the thin blanket. He could feel the presence next to him, the familiar weight of Karn’s breath; slow and even, like he was trying not to disturb anything.
But something shifted.
A quiet rustle of fabric. The warmth of a hand brushing against Jeng’s elbow.
He turned slightly. Not enough to fully face Karn. Just enough to meet him halfway. Their eyes locked in the low light. Karn’s glasses were off. His expression unreadable.
Then, without a word, Karn leaned in.
The kiss was sudden, but not rough. Firm. Intentional. His lips pressed to Jeng’s with a conviction that caught him off guard; not like before, when it felt like a mistake. This time, it felt chosen.
Jeng responded slowly, lips parting, breath hitching in surprise.
There was no rush; just the heat of their mouths, the scrape of stubble, the faint taste of mint from Karn’s mouthwash.
Karn pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against Jeng’s.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. It wasn’t clear what he was apologizing for; the silence, the distance, or the way his hand was now sliding over Jeng’s hip, tentative. Asking.
Jeng didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just nodded, breath unsteady, his eyes fluttering shut.
Karn kissed him again, deeper this time.
A low, quiet sound escaped Jeng’s throat; half surprise, half relief. He felt Karn’s fingers brush along the waistband of his pants, slow and deliberate.
His breath caught when Karn’s hand slipped beneath the fabric, fingertips cool against heated skin.
Jeng’s heart pounded; not just from the sensation, but from the way Karn touched him.
Like it meant something. Like he had wanted this for longer than he was willing to admit.
His body arched slightly, seeking more, and Karn responded; not fast, not greedy. Just steady. Careful.
The room blurred. The world fell quiet except for their breathing and the faint whir of the fan.
Jeng buried his face in Karn’s shoulder, lips brushing the curve of his collarbone. His voice was barely audible when he whispered, “Don’t disappear again.”
Karn didn’t answer right away, but his grip tightened, and his kiss deepened, and for the first time in days, Jeng let himself believe this might actually be something.
Something real.
They fell into a rhythm that didn’t need words.
It wasn’t planned. It never is.
One moment bled into the next; check-ups, heatstroke cases, villagers crowding the porch with their bottles of herbal medicine and questions.
Karn moved with clinical precision. Jeng moved with ease. They rarely worked together on purpose, but their paths always managed to cross.
A shared glance across a cluttered table. A moment where their hands brushed while reaching for the same clipboard. Nothing ever spoken.
But it was there. That something. That need.
And then came the nights. The creaking fan above. The rustle of thin mattresses, laid too close to each other to be coincidence.
The darkness was generous. It held their secrets without judgment.
Karn kissed like he was trying not to feel it. Like restraint was the only thing keeping him from dissolving. Jeng kissed like he already had.
It didn’t take long before hands slid beneath the hem of loose shirts. Under the waistband of boxers.
Touches mapped like anatomy; quick, familiar, sometimes rough when the want was too much to hold.
Jeng learned to breathe against Karn’s throat, to bite his lip to stay quiet.
His fingers would grip the fabric of Karn’s collar when he came, trembling, chest tight from the force of holding himself in.
After, sometimes, Karn would pull the blanket up higher, not for warmth, just… to keep them there. Hidden. Contained.
Karn had warned him, the morning after it first happened.
“This isn’t going to last,” he’d said, blunt and measured, glasses slipping down his nose. “Don’t mistake this for something else.”
Jeng had smiled; light, but not unbothered. “Sure,” he’d replied, hands shoved into his pockets. “Just physical. Got it.”
But then Karn would do things that didn’t fit inside that box.
He’d press a hand to Jeng’s back when they passed through a crowd.
He’d check his wrist for swelling after Jeng slipped on the wet wooden porch.
He’d ask, softly, whether the heat was getting to him.
And Jeng, Jeng, who had always been too good at catching feelings and too bad at pretending otherwise, felt like he was being split down the middle.
He knew better. He did.
But when Karn let their hands touch under the blanket, fingertips grazing so gently it felt like reverence, Jeng couldn’t help but believe the silence meant more than the words ever would.
Some nights, when the fan turned the air just enough and the room settled into a soft, communal hush, Karn would wrap an arm around him. Not tightly. Not possessively.
Just enough that Jeng could feel his breath at the back of his neck.
Sometimes Karn would hold his wrist under the blanket and trace a finger over the knuckle like he was counting seconds. Sometimes he would say nothing at all.
And Jeng would lie awake long after, staring at the ceiling, wanting to scream.
Because none of this was simple.
None of this was temporary. Not to him.
He’d replay everything Karn said and then everything Karn did, and wonder if maybe, just maybe, Karn was scared of wanting too much. Of wanting Jeng. Of letting something be real.
But he never asked.
He kept his mouth shut in the morning.
He acted like it didn’t sting when Karn walked ahead of him and didn’t wait.
He acted like it was fine when Karn answered his attempts at conversation with a grunt or a nod.
He acted like he could live with it.
Because some nights, Karn would reach for him in the dark. And Jeng, weak, hopeful, in love, would always reach back.
Even knowing it might ruin him.
Even knowing it wouldn’t last.
Soon, the one month came to an end. They were just a day away from returning to their usual lives; no more shared showers, no thin mattresses pressed against the cold floor. No more Karn. No more Jeng.
With the deadline drawing near, Jeng felt like he was unraveling, piece by piece. Each passing second was heavier than the last, as if the very air he breathed threatened to choke him.
Karn’s repeated denials echoed relentlessly in his mind every time he dared to wonder if they could be something more; something lasting.
But despite the ache of uncertainty, the one truth he held onto was this:
If this was truly the last time they would share this fragile, complicated story, then he was determined to make it matter. To make every stolen second count.
So, when the village’s small thank-you party finally faded into sleep and quiet, Jeng reached out. His fingers found Karn’s hand with a quiet certainty, and he pulled gently, guiding them both out of their cramped living space into the humid night.
They sat together in the quiet village night, shadows folding around them like a fragile promise.
The distant roar of the waterfall mingled with the soft, persistent chorus of crickets, filling the space between them with a restless kind of peace.
The air was thick and heavy, heat lingering like a silent witness to everything left unsaid.
“This is the last night,” Jeng whispered, his voice trembling like a fragile thread stretched too thin.
His words felt small and raw, as if speaking louder might shatter the moment.
Karn only hummed softly, a sound that carried no comfort, no denial; just the weight of silence, as if retreating into quiet could somehow shield them both from the crushing truth.
“Karn,” Jeng breathed out, the name fragile and full of longing on his lips.
It hit Karn like a blow, stirring something raw and aching deep inside; something that made him want to cry, or to die.
“Can you pretend? Just for tonight?” Jeng’s voice broke, the tears spilling freely now, carving warm tracks down his cheeks. “Pretend this means something. That you actually have feelings for me.”
Jeng’s face was soft and open, swollen from crying but impossibly beautiful in his vulnerability.
Karn’s chest tightened.
He wanted to say no. He wanted to protect himself. But his voice came out gentle, almost a whisper that barely bridged the distance between them.
“What do you want me to do?”
Jeng didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his lips slowly, deliberately against Karn’s.
He kissed the slight hump of his nose; the one usually hidden behind those glasses now resting forgotten beside them.
He brushed his mouth over the mole under Karn’s chin, tracing every familiar curve with a reverence that broke something open inside Karn.
His eyes fluttered closed, tears welling, not from sadness, but from the fragile hope of something real.
That night, Karn seemed burdened by the weight of obligation; as if he was forced to “hold feelings” for Jeng, to play a part he wasn’t sure he could fully claim.
But deep inside, Karn knew better.
What he showed Jeng wasn’t a mask or a performance. It was the release of feelings he had quietly carried all along, finally freed to surface without restraint.
He wasn’t pretending.
He was feeling; with every fiber of his being, with the parts of himself that he cherished and the parts he feared he could never fully embrace.
The emotions poured out raw and unguarded, an aching vulnerability that startled even him.
“This is real to me, Karn.”.. “Everything is. It was from the start.”
Jeng’s voice broke between sobs, fragile and trembling in the silence that followed their shared intensity.
Karn said nothing. Words felt too fragile, too small to hold the weight of what had passed between them.
Instead, he wrapped an arm around Jeng’s trembling frame, pulling him close, pressing him against himself with quiet desperation.
He wished, with all his heart, that by holding Jeng like this they could dissolve into one another; so completely, so utterly, that nothing could ever pull them apart again.
Not time, not circumstance, not even Karn’s own fractured mind.
Two months had passed since that night.
Since the last time Karn saw Jeng; saw him with that tear-streaked face under the moonlight, kissed him like a prayer, held him like the world was about to end.
Since the last time they shared the same story, under the thin roof of a shared living space in a village far too quiet for how loudly Karn’s heart had started to beat.
He still hadn’t reached out. Not to the phone number Jeng scribbled hastily on the back of a volunteer pass, folded into Karn’s hand like a final plea.
It sat in his wallet like a thorn, barely faded, barely unreadable. As if time dared him to forget it; but not quite.
He told himself he had good reasons.
That this distance was a kindness.
That the version of himself Jeng had fallen for, that soft, gentle Karn who brushed mosquito bites from his arms and let Jeng’s laughter pull the corners of his mouth into reluctant smiles, was a fluke.
A version of himself that only existed in the pause between real life.
A version that couldn’t survive the noise of the city, the grind of workdays, the weight of what he was on most days: exhausted, closed-off, difficult to love.
It wasn’t that Karn didn’t feel anything.
It was that he felt too much.
He carried it with him everywhere now, like a second skin. That night. Jeng’s voice, trembling but sure.
“This is real to me, Karn. Everything is. It was from the start.”
He replayed it during the slow rides home. In the quiet of his apartment. Sometimes in the sterile white of the hospital on his breaks, fingers pressed to the back of his neck like the memory of Jeng’s hand was still there.
It would’ve been easier if Jeng hadn’t meant so much.
If it had been just physical.
But Karn knew himself well enough to admit it now: he had let Jeng in. Let him under his skin, into the corners of himself he usually kept barred and unlit.
And Jeng had lit them up without even trying. Just by being there. By being earnest. By asking for things Karn had never dared to want.
But action? Action would mean risk.
Would mean exposing himself to being seen fully, not just the careful version Jeng got during those quiet nights.
And if Jeng ever looked at him differently, less brightly, less tenderly, Karn didn’t know if he could take it.
So he left it. Left it in that village. In that night.
In the echo of the waterfall and the hum of crickets.
Where it was perfect.
Where they were safe.
Where they would never have the chance to ruin it.
Where there would never be a day when Karn’s world shattered in a sterile hospital room.
A day when a familiar face, bloodied and pale, lay motionless beneath the harsh, unforgiving light.
Eyes closed, fragile like porcelain, while a whirlwind of doctors and nurses fought desperately to pull life back into a body that refused to respond.
That same body Karn had cradled through countless sleepless nights,
The one Jeng had pressed close, whispering fragile hopes and unspoken questions.
“Could we ever be more?”
Questions Karn had answered with cold denials, sharp enough to wound.
He had begged for those eyes to open again.
Crescent-shaped, dark, alive.
Eyes that had once shimmered with a light reserved only for Karn.
Jeng was real to him.
Until he wasn’t even real anymore.
Karn wanted to cry.
Or to die.