The rain had stopped by morning.
The clouds had emptied themselves overnight, leaving the world rinsed and glistening. Droplets clung to leaves like tiny crystals, and the pavement still shimmered under the hesitant light of dawn. On the eleventh floor of the coastal hotel, the ocean looked grayer than usual, the waves calmer, as if they too were exhausted from the storm.
Jay and Jack stood side by side on the balcony of their suite, each holding a mug of coffee, steam curling into the cool morning air. They didn't speak at first. Words felt fragile in the hush of the aftermath.
The scent of petrichor lingered, sweet and damp and heavy with nostalgia. The city below was starting to wake, but up here, it was just the two of them. For now.
Jay took a sip, eyes fixed on the horizon. "We need to tell them."
His voice was quiet but certain.
Jack nodded, not taking his eyes off the view. "Tonight."
They didn't elaborate. They didn't need to. The weight of what they'd seen, what they'd uncovered, the boy called Ghost, the plans for Chiang Mai, the whisper of a coming war—all of it demanded action. And they were out of time.
Later that day, the four of them, Jack, Jay, Jeff, and Rin gathered in a private corner of the hotel restaurant.
The place was quiet, dimly lit, with soft music floating in the background. A server dropped off a bottle of Thai whiskey and four glasses, then vanished like smoke.
Jay placed his phone on the table, the screen aglow with a grainy image: a boy on a pier, face blurred by shadows and sea mist.
"That's him," Jack said, eyes narrowed. "The one the guards called 'Ghost.'"
Rin leaned in, eyes sharp. "The boy from the harbor? The one who watched the bodies drop without flinching?"
Jeff frowned, resting an elbow on the table. "That's your king of the underworld?"
"Don't underestimate him," Jay warned. "He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe wrong. He talks like a poet and walks like a predator. He's charming, yes, but something about him feels... feral. Untamed. Like he was born for this."
Jack added, "He wants Chiang Mai. And he plans to take it in three weeks. Maybe less."
There was a beat of silence.
Jeff exhaled. "Then we need to report this."
"We will," Jay said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Tomorrow morning. We head home."
But no one moved. No one toasted. The bottle remained untouched.
Because they all knew, returning meant the end of whatever this had been. The end of their brief peace. The return to suspicion, strategy, masks. Back to the roles their families expected them to play.
That night, goodbye hung above them like a storm cloud refusing to break.
The four didn't talk about what would happen next. About how many eyes would be watching. How much lying they'd have to do. How quickly they'd need to forget this tiny bubble of safety they'd built for themselves in Phuket.
So instead, they did the only thing they could.
They felt.
Jack & Jay
The suite was dim, moonlight spilling through gauzy curtains. Jay lay on the bed, half-covered by the sheets, facing Jack. His fingers traced lazy circles against Jack's bare chest, following the ridges of old scars and new ones.
"Do you think we'll ever get this again?" he asked, voice almost a whisper.
Jack caught his hand and kissed the fingertips, lingering there. "If we don't… I'll burn my way back to it."
Jay chuckled softly, the sound bittersweet. "You and your fire metaphors."
Jack leaned closer until their foreheads touched. "That's because loving you feels like standing too close to one. It hurts. I know I'll get burned. And I still want it."
Their kiss came slowly. Familiar. Weighted with memories that hadn't even had time to fade.
The night stretched out, a series of moments: soft laughter between kisses, whispered confessions, a pillow fight that turned into tangled limbs and quiet moans. They tried to memorize the feeling of skin against skin, of breath on neck, of safety between their bodies.
Jay pulled Jack in closer, lips brushing his. "Make me forget the morning."
And Jack did.
Over and over again, until they were both wrecked and remade by the rhythm of love and desperation.
Eventually, sleep came, not from exhaustion, but from surrender. They let it take them, wrapped in each other like a promise they knew the world wouldn't keep.
Jeff & Rin
Theirs was quieter. No poetic declarations. No metaphors.
Rin pulled the curtains shut, locking out the world. When he turned, Jeff was already on the bed, arms braced behind him, expression unreadable.
"You sure?" Jeff asked.
Rin paused. "No."
Jeff smiled, crooked and tired. "Same."
Rin crossed the room in two strides and kissed him, quick, like he was afraid to overthink it. Then again, slower. Like he didn't want to stop.
They didn't talk much. There were no confessions. Their bodies spoke louder, fumbling and bold, carving understanding in the dark.
Clothes fell away. Fingers learned the texture of skin, the stories behind each scar. There was urgency, but also reverence. Like they'd both been waiting for this far longer than they were willing to admit.
But the part that surprised them both wasn't the kiss. Or the touch.
It was the silence that followed.
The quiet.
The way they fit together afterward, limbs entangled, breath syncing slowly. Like it had always been this way. Like the chaos outside couldn't reach them here.
Rin rested his head in the crook of Jeff's neck and whispered, "Don't make this a dream."
Jeff ran a hand through his hair and replied, "It's not."
For the first time in years, neither of them felt alone.
The Next Morning
The storm was gone, but the sky still carried its weight. The sun tried to rise, but clouds smeared the light gray.
Suitcases were packed. Guns reloaded. Faces washed and rearranged.
The hotel lobby was quiet. They looked like four men coming off a weekend bender—tired, hungover, silent.
But something had changed.
Jay leaned against a marble column, watching as Jeff stole a glance at Rin, who was uncharacteristically quiet. Eyes forward. Shoulders tense.
Jack nudged Jay gently.
"Something's going on there," Jay murmured.
Jack nodded. "It's in the way they're not talking."
The car pulled up. They walked out as a unit, trained to move without drawing attention. But just before they got in, Jay turned to Jeff.
"So… what happened between you two?"
Jeff shrugged, arms crossed. "Nothing serious."
The words hung there. Too sharp. Too fast.
Rin stiffened, visibly. His jaw clenched.
Nothing serious?
Jay blinked, caught off guard. Jack tilted his head, brows knitting.
"Right," Jay said, drawing the word out like a slow blade.
Jeff glanced toward Rin, maybe to explain. But Rin had already turned, sliding into the car without a word.
The air between them was suddenly brittle.
Jack leaned close and whispered, "He shouldn't have said that."
Jay exhaled. "He just did."
As the car pulled away from Phuket, the city shrank behind them.
The road ahead stretched long and uncertain—like a fuse already lit.
Behind them were nights they couldn't repeat.
Ahead of them, fathers who demanded obedience. Loyalties that were fracturing. War waiting to ignite.
And somewhere out there, a boy named Juhu.
Watching. Waiting.
Smiling like a ghost who had already won.