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Por Kru watches them from across the courtyard.
The house is quiet in a way it never used to be. No students coming and going, no voices overlapping, no laughter spilling out of open doorways. Just the four of them now, tucked into the space like a held breath.
Khem sits near the shrine, carefully folding cloth and sorting incense with methodical precision. The preparations are modest. Personal. Not something meant for ceremony or spectacle, just enough to feel ready. Ready for what, Khem never says out loud, but the meaning settles heavily in the air all the same.
Jet sits with him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. He helps when asked, passes things without needing instruction. He smiles softly when Khem glances up, reassures him with presence rather than words.
Por Kru knows that look.
Jet has always loved through action.
And still, his attention strays.
Charn leans against one of the wooden posts at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He isn’t doing anything in particular. Just being there. Watching the sky darken, listening to the night begin. Waiting.
Jet watches him like gravity.
Charn catches him once or twice, their eyes meeting across the open space. Charn doesn’t look away. He never does. Instead, he gives Jet a small, crooked smile, fond, resigned, a little sad around the edges.
Sulky, but gentle.
It’s a look that says I’m still here without asking for more.
Weeks ago, Jet asked him to wait.
Charn had gone quiet then. Not angry, never that, but visibly disappointed in the way someone is when they understand the reason, but still feel the loss. He hadn’t argued. Hadn’t pushed. He’d simply nodded and said, “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”
And since then, Charn has been exactly what Jet needs and nothing more.
He stays close. Sits beside Jet during meals. Walks with him when the nights get too long. Offers easy conversation when Jet’s thoughts spiral, silence when words would make it worse. He supports without demanding, anchors without claiming.
Por Kru sees the cost of it in the way Charn’s jaw tightens when Jet laughs too freely, then catches himself. In the way Charn’s hand twitches once before dropping back to his side. In the way he exhales slowly, like he’s talking himself out of wanting what he already knows he can’t have yet.
Waiting doesn’t hurt less just because you agree to it.
Khem glances up from his work and catches Jet looking. His expression softens.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Khem says quietly, voice steady despite everything else.
Jet nods, but his chest still aches. “I know.”
Across the courtyard, Charn watches the exchange, reading more from Jet’s posture than the words themselves. He straightens slightly, offering Jet an encouraging nod, another quiet reminder that he’s steady. That Jet doesn’t have to carry this alone.
Por Kru notices all of it.
—
Later, Khem retires inside, exhaustion weighing him down. Por Kru follows shortly after, giving Khem a quiet word, a shared look that says more than either of them would ever voice in front of the others. Their closeness is subtle, measured, private, sacred.
Jet stays outside.
Charn joins him on the steps without asking, sitting a respectful distance away. Close, but not pressing. His knee brushes Jet’s once, deliberately gentle, and he leaves it there.
“You okay?” Charn asks.
Jet nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Charn hums, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t push. He leans back on his hands, gaze tilted toward the stars. “If you want company without talking, I’m very good at that.”
Jet lets out a soft laugh. “You are.”
They sit like that for a while, comfort in proximity, tension threaded through it all. Eventually, Charn stands, stretching.
“I’m going to make tea,” he says. “You want some?”
“Yeah,” Jet replies automatically.
Charn pauses, then adds, quieter, “I’ll bring it out.”
He leaves, and Jet watches him go.
Por Kru approaches once Charn is gone.
He doesn’t sit immediately. He stands beside Jet, hands folded within his robes, gaze directed forward rather than down. The boundary is maintained. The respect intact.
“You don’t look at friends like that,” Por Kru says gently.
Jet closes his eyes.
The truth feels heavier now, spoken into the open air.
“No,” Jet admits. “I don’t.”
Por Kru inclines his head slightly. “And yet you chose to wait.”
Jet swallows. “Because if something happens to Khem,” he says, voice rough, “I don’t think I could survive knowing I chose myself first.”
Por Kru considers this carefully.
“Love that waits is not wrong,” he says. “But love that suffers in silence deserves to be seen.”
Jet’s hands curl into his sleeves. “Charn’s being… incredible,” he whispers. “And it makes me feel worse.”
Por Kru allows a small smile. “He loves you,” he says simply.
Then, after a brief pause, Por Kru lifts his hand and gives Jet a light pat on the back, a rare gesture, deliberate and measured. Encouragement, and comfort. A reminder of faith and familiarity.
“You are not failing him,” Por Kru continues. “And you are not failing yourself.”
Jet breathes in deeply, steadier now. “I just wish wanting didn’t hurt this much.”
Por Kru nods. “It means it matters.”
Charn returns then, carrying two cups of tea. He pauses when he sees Por Kru standing there, reading the moment immediately. He offers Por Kru a respectful nod, then hands Jet a cup, fingers brushing briefly, carefully before pulling away.
Por Kru steps back, giving them space.
Jet cradles the warm cup, glancing up at Charn. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, the weight lifts just enough to breathe.
Still waiting.
Still wanting.
Still choosing each other, just not yet.
And Por Kru, watching from the edge of the courtyard, knows:
This is not restraint born of fear.
This is devotion learning patience.