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There was only one room available.
Jet said it like it was nothing, like the words didn’t rearrange the air around them. Like they didn’t immediately redraw the map of where Charn could stand, breathe, think.
Por Kru’s house was old in the way lived-in places were, wood worn smooth by years of bare feet, windows that never quite sealed, the faint scent of incense and river air clinging to everything. The room itself was simple: one proper bed pushed against the far wall, already claimed by Khem, who sat on the edge of it while Charn and Jet rolled out thin woven mats on the floor side by side.
Not two beds.
The floor.
Together.
“Looks fine,” Charn said quickly, already crouching to set his bag down, focusing on folding his clothes with unnecessary care. He refused to look at how close the mats were, how easily a careless shift could close the space between them.
They lingered there for a moment after, none of them quite ready to move on.
Charn sat cross-legged against the wall, fingers worrying at the edge of his mat. Jet sat beside him, knees pulled up, leaning back on his hands. Across from Jet, Khem watched with quiet amusement.
Jet cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
Khem smiled faintly. “You already are.”
Jet hesitated only a beat. “How do you feel about Por Kru?”
The room stilled.
Khem’s gaze drifted toward the window, to the curtain shifting with the night breeze. When he spoke, his voice was low and certain. “I think I’ve known for a while. I just didn’t understand why.”
Charn looked up.
“In a past life,” Khem continued, turning back to them, “I was Khemmika. Por Kru was Pawat.”
Jet straightened. “You were…?”
“Lovers,” Khem said simply. A soft smile touched his mouth. “We found each other once. It makes sense we did again.”
The words settled, quiet but heavy.
Khem stood, gathering his things. “I’m going to wash up.”
At the doorway, he glanced back at them, something knowing in his eyes, then disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind him.
The room felt different after that.
Charn exhaled slowly, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
Jet stared at the floor, thoughts loud, then murmured, “Some things don’t let go.”
Charn didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Jet noticed things. He always did.
He noticed the way Charn turned his back as he changed, movements careful, deliberate. The way he removed his glasses and placed them neatly on his bag, like an excuse to delay lying down. The way his shoulders stayed tense, as if the floor beneath him was more dangerous than any bed.
Jet didn’t comment.
He lay down on his mat instead, close enough that the woven edges nearly touched.
They lay down with the lights off.
The darkness didn’t help.
Jet stared at the ceiling beams, hands folded over his stomach, acutely aware of the warmth beside him. He could hear Charn breathing, shallow and controlled, could feel the presence of him like gravity.
Charn lay rigid on his back, eyes closed, thoughts unruly. The memory of Khem’s words lingered, we found each other once, echoing against the way Jet had looked at him earlier that day, open and unreadable all at once.
Charn turned onto his side, facing away.
Jet heard it.
For a long moment, neither of them breathed.
Don’t cross the line, Jet told himself.
Across the room, the bathroom door opened and closed again. Khem settled into the bed, already drifting toward sleep, his breathing evening out quickly.
The house grew quiet.
Minutes stretched.
Jet rolled onto his side, slow and careful. The mats were close enough now that Charn could hear his breathing clearly.
They were facing each other, separated by inches and restraint.
Charn opened his eyes.
Jet’s were already open.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t move. They just looked, really looked, for the first time all night.
It would have been so easy.
Instead, Jet swallowed and closed his eyes.
Charn followed a heartbeat later.
The line remained uncrossed.
But it burned there between them, bright and undeniable, long after Por Kru’s house fell fully asleep, two souls on the floor, close enough to feel the past brushing against the present, and far too aware of what it might mean if they ever reached across the space between them