Ren had been counting down the days for this break ever since the semester began. University life had been relentless—endless classes, group projects that never seemed to end, and the constant hum of expectations pressing in from every direction. So when Bom had first suggested a short beachside trip with the film set crew, Ren hadn't hesitated. A few days away from schedules, deadlines, and screens promised something rare: freedom.
The van rumbled along the coastal road, the salty breeze sneaking in through open windows. Bom and Anurak argued over playlists in the backseat, while Ren leaned against the door, eyes half-closed, letting the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt wash over him. Even now, his camera rested across his chest, ready for the inevitable moments he would want to capture—sunlight on sand, laughter caught mid-gesture, the perfect composition of the ordinary turned extraordinary.
As the van came to a stop, the first hints of the beach revealed themselves. Golden sand stretching endlessly, waves rolling lazily toward the shore, and the faint scent of salt and sun mingling in the air. The crew quickly disembarked, setting up tents, cameras, and sound equipment while Bom immediately began dramatizing each movement like a director narrating his own life.
Ren wandered a few steps away from the cluster of activity, camera swinging lightly from his neck. There was a rhythm here that didn't exist in the city: the soft crash of waves, the wind carrying the laughter of his friends, the sunlight catching off the rippling water. He raised his camera instinctively, adjusting the lens to catch a bird landing gracefully near the waterline, the detail of its wings sharp against the glimmering horizon.
And then he noticed him.
At first, Ren thought it was a trick of the sunlight, a shimmer in the corner of his eye. But no. The man standing at the edge of the boardwalk was real—tall, broad-shouldered, with hair dark as polished wood and eyes that seemed almost impossibly clear. Handsome in a way that didn't scream for attention but demanded it quietly, the kind of presence that made space feel smaller, sharper, and yet… alive.
Khem's gaze fell directly on Ren. It wasn't just noticing; it was… recognition. Something in his posture, the way his body shifted toward Ren, suggested more than casual interest. It was immediate, instinctive—love at first sight in a way that made Ren's pulse skip without even realizing it.
Khem stepped forward, careful but deliberate, his stride confident, almost predatory, yet softened by an unusual gentleness. "Hi," he said, voice steady, warm, and magnetic all at once. "I don't usually do this… but I felt like I needed to meet you."
Ren blinked. He was caught off-guard—not because he had never encountered someone attractive, but because Khem's attention felt unlike anything else he had experienced. There was no expectation, no calculation, just… focus. A pull he couldn't ignore. But still, Ren didn't respond. Not immediately.
Khem's brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing whether Ren's silence was disinterest or something else entirely. "I know this sounds crazy," he continued, "but the moment I saw you… it felt like I'd known you my entire life. I don't know why, I don't know how… but I just… had to say hello."
Ren's fingers tightened on the camera strap, heart thudding in a measured rhythm against his ribs. He had learned early that appearances mattered—but sometimes, silence was safer. Words could bind, could reveal too much. And right now, Khem had stepped too close to the kind of revelation Ren wasn't ready to share—not even to himself.
He turned slightly, adjusting the camera lens as if he were focused on framing a shot. The motion was deliberate, slow, and it spoke volumes without a single word leaving his lips.
Khem didn't step back. If anything, he leaned forward just a fraction, not intrusive, but patient. "It's okay if you don't want to talk," he said softly, almost reassuringly. "I'll wait. I just… wanted you to know that someone noticed you. Really noticed you."
Ren exhaled, a little heavier than he realized, and allowed his eyes to briefly meet Khem's. The intensity there was almost disarming—quiet, patient, and utterly captivating. And yet, he didn't respond verbally. His camera remained the shield, the excuse, the buffer between Khem's attention and the chaos that was his mind.
For a moment, they just stood there, the faint wind carrying the sound of surf and seagulls. The world around them—the laughter of his friends, Bom exaggerating a story about a crab scuttling over the sand, the crew moving props and cameras—faded into something hazy and distant.
Ren felt the familiar tug behind his ribs, the faint pulse that always warned him when his power stirred. Not a leap, not a travel, but a ripple of instinct, a reminder that his life had always been a little different from others. He focused on the bird on the sand instead, capturing the delicate wings mid-flutter, focusing on composition, on light, on everything but the magnetic pull of Khem's gaze.
Khem's lips curved slightly, patient, as if he knew Ren's silence wasn't rejection—it was caution. "You don't have to talk," he whispered. "Just… let me be here. Let me… be around."
Ren lowered the camera slowly, just enough to meet Khem's eyes without fully surrendering himself. He didn't smile, didn't speak, but there was acknowledgment there. Not warmth, not invitation, but… presence. Enough for Khem to know he wasn't being dismissed entirely.
And that was enough for now.
The day stretched on. The crew filmed shots along the shoreline, laughing, chasing sunlight reflections, and capturing the golden hours as the waves shimmered like liquid gold. Khem stayed nearby, sometimes at the edge of Ren's frame, sometimes quietly observing, never intrusive, never demanding. His presence was steady, unshakable, a quiet gravity that Ren felt tugging at the edges of his attention.
Ren laughed with Bom as they tried to balance the camera on a driftwood log, and Anurak muttered something about composition ratios. The noise, the camaraderie, the golden light—it all felt familiar, grounding, comforting. Yet in the corners of his mind, Khem's gaze lingered, patient and waiting, a silent promise that would not be ignored.
By sunset, Ren found himself alone at the edge of the pier, camera in hand, the sky bleeding pink and amber over the horizon. He hadn't spoken to Khem. Hadn't acknowledged the confession of a feeling neither of them fully understood. And yet, he couldn't deny the pull, the strange warmth in his chest, the curiosity that refused to be quieted.
Khem appeared silently beside him, leaning lightly against the railing. He didn't speak. He didn't press. He simply watched the horizon, the way the sun kissed the waves, and waited.
Ren didn't move, didn't shift. But he felt it—the quiet, insistent connection. Something fragile, something new, something that might grow if he allowed it. For now, he focused on the sunset, the waves, the golden light reflecting off the water, and the quiet presence beside him.
No words were necessary. Sometimes, presence alone spoke volumes.
And as the last rays of sun disappeared beneath the horizon, Ren finally allowed himself to notice—not respond, not surrender—but simply… observe.
Khem's eyes held his attention, unwavering, patient, and full of possibilities.
The first threads of something unspoken, untested, and quietly thrilling had begun to weave themselves around Ren's heart.
And for the first time in a long while, Ren wondered if maybe, just maybe, this break from the world was going to change everything.
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