Chapter 12: Afterglow
The first thing Matthew registered was the weight. An arm, slung possessively across his ribs, a leg hooked over his thighs. The second was the light—a clear, sharp Singapore morning slicing through the floor-to-ceiling glass, painting zebra stripes across the rumpled duvet.
He blinked, disoriented. The scent—clean linen, sex, and the faint, expensive sandalwood of Henry’s skin—oriented him. Memory returned in a warm, insistent flood.
Henry’s breath was a slow, even rhythm against his shoulder. Matthew shifted minutely, and the arm tightened, pulling him back against a firm, sleep-warm chest. A low, contented hum vibrated against his spine.
“You think too loud,” Henry murmured, his voice raspy with sleep. His lips brushed the nape of Matthew’s neck. “It’s barely eight. The world can wait.”
Matthew relaxed into the hold. The stark, beautiful room looked different in the daylight. Less like a museum, more like a sanctuary. The angry red painting seemed softer now, a bold testament rather than a scream.
“I don’t usually stay,” Matthew said quietly. The truth of it hung between them. He was a man who slipped out, who maintained the exit route.
“I know.” Henry’s fingers began a slow, idle tracing up Matthew’s arm, from wrist to bicep. “Which is why you’re staying. I’m making you breakfast. Then I’m planning to ruin you all over again. The order is negotiable.”
A genuine laugh escaped Matthew, loosening something in his chest. “Confident.”
“I’m meticulously observant. You made a very specific sound around three AM. I intend to be the cause of it again.” Henry kissed his shoulder. “Stay.”
It wasn’t a command. It was an offering, wrapped in Henry’s characteristic bravado, but the raw edge from last night was still there underneath. The scared boy asking for company.
“Okay,” Matthew said.
He felt Henry smile against his skin.
They disentangled themselves, the morning air cool on their naked bodies. Henry padded, unselfconscious, into the en-suite bathroom. Matthew heard the shower start. He sat up, the sheets pooling in his lap, and looked at his phone on the sleek bedside table.
A single notification glowed. Not Patrick. Not Brian.
It was from Mo, sent an hour ago.
Mo: Judy wants us to cover the port union briefing at 11. Thought you’d want a head’s up. I’ll grab the gear.
Professional. Terse. A universe away from the charged silence in the darkroom. Matthew typed a quick Thanks, see you there, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He wanted to say more, to somehow bridge the gulf the kiss had created, but every phrase sounded wrong—too intimate, too casual, too revealing. He sent the two words and put the phone face down.
The shower stopped. Henry emerged with a towel slung low on his hips, hair dripping. Water beaded on the dusting of hair across his chest. He looked edible and entirely at ease.
“Your turn,” he said, nodding towards the bathroom. “Towels are in the cabinet. Use whatever’s in the shower. I raid the concierge at the Raffles for the good stuff.”
Matthew showered under a torrent of hot water, using Henry’s bergamot and cedarwood soap. It felt strangely profound, marking himself with the other man’s scent. He dressed in yesterday’s clothes, which felt rumpled and intimate in a different way.
When he emerged, Henry was in the kitchen, a stunning space of black granite and stainless steel that looked like it had never been used. He was, however, wielding a cast-iron pan with surprising competence. The smell of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee filled the air.
“You cook,” Matthew observed, leaning against the kitchen island.
“I perform a select few domestic acts with theatrical flair,” Henry corrected, flipping a piece of sourdough in the pan. “Scrambled eggs with truffle, bacon, sourdough. Simple. Perfect.”
He was wearing only low-slung sweatpants, the lines of his back and shoulders flexing as he moved. It was a different kind of performance, one of unstudied competence. Matthew watched, a quiet warmth spreading through him that had little to do with the coffee Henry handed him.
They ate at the kitchen island, sunlight pouring in. The food was, annoyingly, perfect. The eggs were creamy, the truffle subtle.
“So,” Henry said, spearing a piece of bacon. “The photographer. Mo.”
Matthew paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “What about him?”
“You got tense when you looked at your phone. And you two have a… history. A recent one.” Henry’s gaze was sharp, analytical, but not accusing. “I’m not asking for confession. I’m assessing the field.”
“It’s not a field,” Matthew said, though it felt like one. “It’s a mess. We kissed. In the office. It was a mistake.”
“Because he’s a colleague?”
“Because he’s a good man. A steady one. And I’m… not in a steady place.” Matthew took a sip of coffee, bitter and strong. “He deserves better than being someone’s rebound experiment.”
Henry considered this, chewing slowly. “And what am I?”
“You,” Matthew said, meeting his eyes, “told me you’re terrible for people. You said you’d probably be terrible for me. That’s… oddly honest. It feels like we’re starting from a place of mutually assured destruction. It’s easier.”
A slow, appreciative smile spread across Henry’s face. “God, you’re good. You see right through the bullshit, don’t you?” He shook his head. “You’re right. With me, the expectations are delightfully low. No one gets hurt because everyone’s already braced for impact.”
“Exactly.”
“Except,” Henry said, leaning forward, his voice dropping. “Last night didn’t feel like an impact. It felt like a cease-fire.”
It felt like a cease-fire.
The word lingered. Matthew studied the sharp line of Henry’s jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. A ceasefire implied a war, a tension before and after. Last night had been a surrender to something else entirely. He couldn't articulate it. The coffee's warmth, the quiet hum of the fridge, the scent of him—it was a seductive trap of normalcy.
“It didn’t feel like a battle at all,” Matthew finally said, his voice low.
“Even better.” Henry’s grin returned, brighter now. He took their empty plates to the sink, his back to Matthew. The sweatpants sat low on his hips, revealing the subtle dimples above his ass, the taut muscles of his lower back shifting with each movement. The line of his spine was a elegant trail Matthew’s mouth suddenly ached to follow.
The view was a silent, potent provocation. The intellectual intimacy of their conversation, the fragile honesty, collapsed under a more immediate, physical truth. Matthew was across the kitchen floor in three silent strides.
He placed his arms around Henry’s waist from behind, his palms flattening against the warm, firm plane of Henry's stomach. He felt the man's muscles contract in a faint surprise. Matthew bent his head, planting a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below Henry's ear, tasting salt and cedarwood.
Henry’s breath caught, a sharp intake. He went completely still for a heartbeat, then melted back against Matthew’s body with a low, approving groan. “Jesus.”
Matthew continued, tracing the corded line of Henry’s neck with his lips, his tongue flicking against the pulse point. He sucked gently, wanting to mark, to claim this morning-after reality. His own erection pressed insistently against the cleft of Henry’s ass through both their layers of clothing.
“Fuck, Matthew,” Henry breathed, his head lolling back onto Matthew’s shoulder. His hands came up to grip Matthew’s forearms, holding him there. “So that’s how you respond to truffled eggs.”
“It’s how I respond to this,” Matthew murmured against his skin, his hands sliding lower, dipping beneath the waistband of the sweatpants to cup the hard curves of Henry’s ass. The skin was hot, smooth. He pulled Henry back more firmly against his cock, grinding in a slow, filthy circle.
Henry turned then, a fluid pivot within the circle of Matthew’s arms. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. He didn’t speak. He cradled Matthew’s face in his hands and pulled him into a kiss that was all hunger and heat. It was deeper than last night, more desperate, a confirmation. Matthew’s tongue swept into his mouth, tasting coffee and Henry, and he groaned into the wet heat of it.
Henry’s hands slid down, grappling with the button of Matthew’s trousers. He got them open, shoved them down along with Matthew's briefs in one rough, impatient motion. His fingers closed around Matthew’s cock, already fully hard and leaking. The touch was electric, a jolt straight to his spine.
“On your knees,” Henry growled against his mouth, his own breath ragged. “Right here. I want that mouth on me. Now.”
The command, raw and direct, sent a thrill of pure submission through Matthew. He didn’t hesitate. He sank to the cool polished concrete floor of the kitchen, the texture rough against his knees. Henry stepped out of his sweatpants, kicking them aside. His cock stood thick and proud, curving slightly upwards, the head glistening. He threaded his fingers through Matthew’s hair, not gently.
“Look at it,” Henry said, his voice taut. “Then taste it.”
Matthew obeyed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over the tip. He licked a broad, flat stripe from the base to the head, savoring the musky, clean salt of him. Henry hissed, his fingers tightening in Matthew’s hair.
“More. Take it.”
Matthew opened his mouth, letting the thick head push past his lips. He relaxed his jaw, taking Henry deeper, working his tongue along the sensitive underside of the shaft. He reached up to cradle Henry’s balls, feeling their heavy weight, rolling them gently in his palm. Henry began to move, a shallow, tentative thrust at first, then deeper, setting a rhythm.
“God, yes… suck it… just like that,” Henry choked out, his hips pumping faster. The head of his cock nudged the back of Matthew’s throat. Matthew relaxed, took it, his own cock aching and untouched. The obscene, wet sounds filled the pristine kitchen. Saliva dripped down his chin.
Just as Matthew lost himself in the rhythm, in the fullness, Henry pulled himself free with a wet pop. He looked wrecked, beautiful. “My turn,” he rasped, pushing Matthew back against the island’s base cabinet. “On your back. Legs up.”
Matthew lay back on the hard floor, his legs falling open. The position was brutally vulnerable. Henry knelt between his splayed thighs, his eyes drinking in the sight. He leaned down, but didn’t use his mouth. Instead, he spat directly onto Matthew’s aching cock, a warm, wet splash that made Matthew jerk and cry out.
Then Henry took him, swallowing him down to the root in one smooth, deep motion. The heat was unbelievable, wet and tight. Henry’s head began to bob, a relentless, skilled piston motion, his tongue working miracles. Matthew’s hips lifted off the floor involuntarily, fucking up into that glorious, greedy mouth.
“Henry… fuck… I’m gonna come…” Matthew gasped, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth concrete.
Henry pulled off, leaving Matthew throbbing and empty. “Not yet.” He shifted, turning himself, maneuvering his body over Matthew’s face in a sixty-nine. “We finish together,” his voice was muffled, his cock now dangling above Matthew’s mouth.
Matthew didn’t need instruction. He lifted his head, taking Henry back into his throat with renewed fervor. At the same time, Henry resumed his expert sucking, his mouth a searing, perfect vice. The dual sensations short-circuited Matthew’s brain. The world narrowed to taste, to scent, to the raw, shared need.
They moved in a synchronized, frantic rhythm, each groan and slurp a feedback loop of pleasure. Matthew could feel the tension coiling in Henry’s thighs, could hear the choked, desperate sounds from above. He worked his tongue, his hand, giving everything.
Henry came first, his orgasm ripping through him with a raw, shattered cry. Hot, bitter pulses flooded Matthew’s mouth, and he swallowed, drinking him down, his own climax triggered by the violent clenching of Henry’s body. He came down Henry’s throat with a broken shout, his vision whiting out, his back arching violently off the floor.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged, overlapping breaths echoing in the sterile kitchen. Henry collapsed sideways onto the floor beside him, their bodies a mess of limbs on the cold concrete. Sunlight pooled around them, illuminating the evidence of what they’d done.
Henry turned his head, a dazed, satiated smile on his swollen lips. “So much for ruining you after breakfast.”
Matthew laughed, a breathless, spent sound. “I’d say that qualifies.” He looked at the clock on the oven. It glowed 9:47 AM. The port union briefing was at eleven. Mo would be there, with the gear, expecting a professional. The thought was a bucket of cold water.
“I have to go,” Matthew said, the reality crashing back in. He sat up, his body feeling both sated and strangely hollow. He found his clothes, began to dress with stiff, awkward movements.
Henry watched him from the floor, propped on an elbow. The unguarded softness from earlier was gone, replaced by a carefully neutral observation. “The photographer calls.”
“It’s my job,” Matthew said, not looking at him. “We’re covering a story.”
“Of course.” Henry stood in one fluid motion, naked and unashamed. He walked to the sink, splashed water on his face. “The reliable narrator returns to duty.” He said it without malice, but the phrase from Matthew’s own confession earlier hung between them.
“Henry…”
“It’s fine.” Henry turned, leaning against the counter. He was already reconstructing the persona, the walls sliding back into place. “It was a good ceasefire. Perhaps we can negotiate another.”
Matthew finished dressing, feeling the chill of the air conditioning on his sweat-damp skin. He walked to the door, stopping with his hand on the handle. He looked back at Henry, standing alone in the vast, beautiful, empty kitchen.
“I’ll call you,” Matthew said. It felt inadequate.
Henry nodded, a small, distant smile touching his lips. “I’d like that.”
Matthew stepped out into the blazing morning humidity, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound of absolute finality. The scent of Henry was still on his skin, in his mouth. As he hailed a cab, his phone buzzed.
Mo: At the office. Van’s loaded. Don’t be late.
The real world reasserted itself with brutal clarity.
The real world reasserted itself with brutal clarity.
The cab smelled of pine-scented disinfectant and stale sweat. Matthew rolled down the window, letting the humid air strip away the last vestiges of Henry’s cedarwood scent. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, tasting salt and the ghost of the other man. He was going to see Mo like this. The thought was a low, sick tremor in his gut.
He swung by his apartment in Tiong Bahru, a frantic five-minute stop to shower and change. The water was too hot, scalding his skin as he tried to wash the morning off. He chose a stiff, new button-down, armor against the coming awkwardness. He avoided his own eyes in the steamed mirror.
The Port of Singapore was a city unto itself, a relentless mechanical landscape of stacked colored containers and groaning cranes that bit into a hazy sky. The van was parked in a designated media lot, a dusty white box against the industrial grey. Mo leaned against the driver’s side door, a long-lensed camera already hanging from his neck. He was squinting at a tablet, the noon sun glinting off his watch.
He looked solid, dependable. The polar opposite of Henry’s sleek, dangerous angles.
“You’re late,” Mo said, not looking up from his screen. His voice was flat, stripped of its usual sarcastic warmth.
“Traffic,” Matthew lied, the word feeling pathetic. He reached for the back door of the van. “You got the briefing notes Judy sent?”
“I got them.” Mo finally looked at him. His dark eyes were careful, neutral. He’d shaved. The casual intimacy they’d built over months of shared assignments was gone, replaced by a polite, professional distance that was worse than anger. “Gear’s in the back. I prepped the audio recorder.”
“Thanks.” Matthew busied himself with the equipment bag, his fingers fumbling with the zipper. The silence between them thickened, filled only by the distant shout of a foreman and the metallic shriek of a ship’s horn. “Listen, Mo, about the other day—”
“Don’t.” Mo’s interruption was quiet but firm. He straightened up, finally meeting Matthew’s gaze directly. A flicker of something—frustration, hurt—passed through his eyes before it was banked. “Let’s just keep it professional, yeah? Makes everything easier.”
The dismissal was clean, surgical. It felt like a door closing.
“Right,” Matthew said, his throat tight. “Professional.”
The union briefing was held in a prefab site office that smelled of burnt coffee and anxious men. They worked side-by-side, a well-oiled machine of habit. Matthew asked probing questions about wage disputes and automation. Mo circled the room, his camera shutter a soft, rapid-fire click, capturing the weathered faces of the dockworkers, the tense set of the union rep’s shoulders.
Their synergy was still there, a muscle memory of countless assignments. Matthew would glance at a subject, and Mo would already be moving to frame the shot. Mo would nod towards a restless man in the corner, and Matthew would weave a question to draw him out. It was seamless, and it felt like a cruel parody of what they’d almost been.
During a lull, Matthew leaned towards him, keeping his voice low. “The light on the rep is harsh. Window behind him.”
“I’m using it for silhouette,” Mo murmured back, not taking his eye from the viewfinder. “Shows the isolation.” He was right. It was a better shot.
They didn’t speak again unless it was about f-stops or quote verification. They packed the gear in silence as the meeting disbanded. The drive back to the AP bureau was a twenty-minute journey of stifling quiet, the only sound the hum of the van’s engine and the soft thump of tires over expansion joints.
Mo pulled into the underground car park and killed the engine. The sudden silence was absolute.
“I’ll handle the upload and file the captions,” Mo said, unbuckling his seatbelt. He didn’t look over.
“You sure? I can—”
“I’ve got it.” He opened his door, the interior light flooding the cab and highlighting the tired lines around his eyes. “See you tomorrow, Matthew.”
He was just a colleague. The finality of it was a physical ache.
Matthew walked back to his apartment as the late afternoon sun melted into a muggy, purple dusk. The climb up the stairs to his walk-up felt heavier than usual. He unlocked his door and stepped into the quiet, barren space. The silence was a presence.
He poured a finger of whisky, not the good stuff, and stood at his window overlooking the street. The mess of his life arranged itself in his mind with punishing clarity.
Brian was due back from Shanghai at the end of the week. Their arrangement—the sterile penthouse, the secretive trysts—waited like a beautifully wrapped box with nothing inside. It was easy. It was empty.
Patrick was a specter. His promised visit was a leash around Matthew’s neck, a pull back towards a known, toxic shore. The idea of reconciliation was a grim comfort, a surrender dressed up as a homecoming.
And Henry. Henry was a cease-fire in a beautiful kitchen, a raw and frightening honesty that felt like freefall. It was new, it was real, and it was guaranteed to be complicated.
Then there was Mo. Mo, who was steady. Mo, who saw him. Mo, whose mouth had been hot and desperate against his in a darkroom. And Mo, who had just today built a wall of professionalism between them, brick by silent brick.
Matthew took a slow burn of the whisky. He was adrift in a new city, tethered to ghosts and possibilities, each connection a different kind of isolation. He had pursued a fresh start only to find himself replicating the same old patterns of escape and attachment. The only difference was the skyline.
His phone buzzed on the windowsill. A new message glowed in the darkening room.
It was from Henry. Just two words.
Henry: Ceasefire holding?
Matthew stared at the screen, the light painting his face a pale blue. He thought of the cold kitchen floor, the taste, the unvarnished truth in Henry’s eyes. He thought of Mo’s turned back, of Brian’s perfect, empty penthouse, of Patrick’s inevitable, corrosive arrival.
He didn’t reply. He placed the phone face down on the wood and finished his drink, alone in the gathering dark.