Chapter 15: Tropical Reckoning
The humidity hit Matthew first, a solid wall of wet heat that clung to his skin the moment he stepped out of the cab. It was a different beast than the night air in Mo’s quiet neighborhood; this was the dense, perfumed breath of old Singapore, thick with frangipani and exhaust. The Raffles Hotel loomed ahead, a fortress of white colonial arches and lush green lawns, an elegant anachronism in the glittering city. It was exactly the kind of place Patrick would choose—historic, expensive, a stage for his grand gestures.
Matthew’s shirt felt too tight, his own skin too sensitive. The ghost of Mo’s touch, the memory of silk sheets and easy laughter, seemed to recede with every step across the manicured gravel. He was walking into a tribunal of his past, and he felt stupidly underdressed for it.
The Long Bar was a celebration of faded grandeur. Ceiling fans sliced through the sluggish air, their rhythmic thwump-thwump-thwump syncing with the low murmur of tourists and deal-makers. The scent of roasting peanuts, spilled gin, and polished wood was overwhelming. His eyes scanned the room, past the groups of laughing women in sundresses, the serious men in linen suits.
And there he was.
At a corner table beneath a lazily spinning fan, Patrick O’Malley sat alone. A glass of amber liquid, mostly gone, sat before him. He was staring at his phone, the blue light etching harsh lines into a face Matthew knew better than his own. The perpetually brooding expression was there, a familiar storm cloud settled between his brows, but it softened as he looked up. His eyes found Matthew across the room, and the smirk followed—a slow, practiced curl of the lips that was equal parts welcome and conquest.
MATTHEW ARRIVES AT RAFFLES TO FIND PATRICK ALREADY THREE FINGERS DEEP IN WHISKEY, HIS FAMILIAR SMIRK CUTTING THROUGH THE COLONIAL ELEGANCE LIKE A KNIFE.
He looked good. Annoyingly so. The years and the stress of a high-stakes legal practice had only sanded him to a sharper point. His dark hair was perfectly imperfect, a little long, that one strand perpetually falling over his forehead. He wore a light grey suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. As Matthew approached, Patrick set his phone down and leaned back in his chair, the picture of casual possession.
“Matthew,” Patrick said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the bar’s noise. It was the same voice that had whispered a thousand promises, and then a thousand excuses.
“Patrick.” Matthew pulled out the heavy chair and sat, the wicker creaking in protest. “You couldn’t have picked a more obvious villain’s lair?”
Patrick’s smirk widened. “It’s iconic. And the peanuts are free.” He gestured to the scattered shells on the table between them. “You look good. Tired, but good. Singapore agrees with you.”
“It’s the humidity. Plumps up the skin.” Matthew avoided his gaze, signalling a waiter. “I’ll have a tonic water. Lime.”
“Still off the hard stuff?” Patrick raised his own glass, the ice cubes clinking. “Pity. This is a twenty-five-year-old Glenfiddich. They keep the good stuff for people who look like they can afford it.”
“I can afford it. I just don’t want it.”
The drinks arrived. Silence hung between them, filled only by the fan and the distant clink of glass. Patrick took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Matthew’s face. The scrutiny was intimate, invasive. He was cataloguing the changes, the new lines, the Singaporean sun on his skin.
“I got your email,” Matthew said finally. “‘Touching Down.’ Very dramatic.”
“I thought it was direct.”
“It was an ambush. You called my office, Patrick. My colleagues. You crossed a line.”
Patrick had the decency to look briefly chagrined. “Your friend Mo was… protective. And the woman with the Kiribati story was creative. I admired the attempt.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. The familiar scent of his cologne—vetiver and something spicy—wafted across, a sensory trigger that tightened Matthew’s stomach. “But you’re ignoring me, Matt. You’ve been ignoring me for months. Emails, texts, calls. You left. You just… walked out and ghosted the last seven years of our life.”
“You fucked your associate in our bed,” Matthew said flatly, the words still corrosive even now. “Walking out was the polite option.”
Patrick flinched, the only crack in his polished veneer. “A catastrophic mistake. A moment of profound, idiotic weakness. I’ve said it a million times.”
“And I’ve heard it a million times. It doesn’t un-fuck him, Patrick.” Matthew took a long drink of his tonic, the bitterness of the quinine matching his mood. “Why are you really here? You didn’t fly eighteen hours for more apologies.”
“I’m here because I miss you.” The words were delivered with a raw, unvarnished simplicity that was more disarming than any grand declaration. “I look at my life now and it’s… a spreadsheet. A very well-paid, very empty spreadsheet. It’s all depositions and mergers and silence. Your silence.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I want to talk. Not lawyer-talk. Just… talk.”
“We’re talking.”
“Are we?” Patrick’s eyes were sharp, probing. “You’re giving me the hostile witness treatment. Short answers. No eye contact. Tell me about Singapore. The job. Your life. Is there… someone?”
The question landed like a probe. Matthew thought of Henry’s chaotic glamour, Brian’s secretive touch, Mo’s solid warmth in the dark. He saw the grey sock held hostage. “My life is complicated,” he said, which was an evasion so transparent it was almost insulting.
Patrick nodded slowly, as if this confirmed a theory. “Complicated is code for ‘yes, but I don’t want to tell you.’” He reached across the table, not for Matthew’s hand, but for his glass. He lifted his own whiskey. “A toast, then. To complicated lives, and to old friends who know them best.”
Reluctantly, Matthew picked up his tonic water. Patrick extended his glass. They touched rims, the delicate clink sounding like a full stop.
AS THEY CLINK GLASSES, PATRICK'S FINGERS LINGER JUST A SECOND TOO LONG ON MATTHEW'S WRIST, REIGNITING AN OLD CURRENT OF ELECTRICITY THAT HUMS BETWEEN THEM.
The touch was deliberate. Warm, dry fingers against his pulse point. A jolt, pure and visceral, shot up Matthew’s arm. It was the memory of a thousand casual touches, of lazy Sunday mornings and sleepy goodnight kisses. It was muscle memory. It was poison. He pulled his hand back as if scalded, setting his glass down with a thud.
Patrick saw it—the flare in Matthew’s eyes, the quick intake of breath. A satisfied, knowing light flickered in his own. He’d confirmed a battlefield. He’d felt the lingering connection, and now he knew it was a wire he could tug.
“See?” Patrick said softly, leaning back, reclaiming his space. “Not all the circuits are dead.”
“Don’t.” Matthew’s voice was tight.
“Don’t what? Point out the obvious? I know you, Matthew. I know the way your breathing hitches. I know you still don’t drink when you’re nervous. I know that little vein in your temple pulses when you’re lying.” He gestured to Matthew’s forehead. “It’s pulsing now.”
“I’m not lying. I’m just… wishing I hadn’t come.”
“But you did come.” Patrick’s tone was gentle now, almost mournful. “Because somewhere, buried under all the very justified anger, you’re curious. You want to see if the wreckage is still smoking. It is, Matt. For me, it’s a five-alarm fire that hasn’t died down for a second.”
He signalled for the check, his lawyer’s efficiency reasserting itself. The moment of vulnerability was over, neatly packaged and put away. “I’ve booked us dinner. Not here. Somewhere less… dusty. My treat. No pressure. Just food. One meal. For old times.”
Matthew looked at the man across from him. The handsome, broken, selfish man he had once thought he’d build a life with. The ghost was no longer a voice on the phone or a name in an email. He was flesh and whiskey and a familiar, devastating smile. He was a shortcut back to a self Matthew had worked hard to leave behind.
The smart thing, the Mo-advised thing, would be to stand up, walk out, and never look back.
But the current that had hummed at Patrick’s touch was still there, a low, treacherous frequency in his blood. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even want. It was the haunting pull of a deeply carved groove, a path of least resistance worn over seven years.
“One meal,” Matthew heard himself say, his voice sounding distant in his own ears.
Patrick’s smile this time was genuine, bright with triumph. “Good.” He stood, threw a stack of Singaporean notes on the table without looking at the bill, and placed a hand on the back of Matthew’s chair. It wasn’t quite a touch, but its presence was a claim. “Shall we? My car’s out front.”
Matthew rose, his legs unsteady. He followed Patrick out of the Long Bar, the eyes of other patrons seeming to follow them—the handsome, confident man leading the conflicted, too-thin one away from the light. As they pushed through the heavy doors back into the simmering night, Patrick’s hand found the small of Matthew’s back, a light, guiding pressure.
The touch was proprietary. It felt, terrifyingly, like coming home.
The restaurant was a minimalist Japanese den on a side street in Duxton Hill, all dark wood and hushed voices. Patrick had, of course, reserved the best table—a quiet booth in the back, shielded by a rice paper screen. He ordered for them both, an omakase tasting menu, without consulting Matthew, just a quick, “Trust me, you’ll love this,” as if no time had passed at all. A bottle of expensive, dry sake arrived first.
The initial tension bled away with the first glass, the warm alcohol dissolving the sharp edges of their earlier exchange. They talked, at first, about safe things—the architecture of Singapore, the absurdities of living abroad. Patrick was on his second glass, telling a story about a deposition gone hilariously wrong with a self-deprecating flair that Matthew had forgotten he possessed.
THEY HAVE DINNER AND FALL BACK INTO FAMILIAR, EASY OLD BANTER AND WITTY RAPPORT.
It was the old dynamic, a well-rehearsed duet. Matthew found himself laughing, truly laughing, at a joke about a paralegal’s obsession with Icelandic yoghurt. He countered with a story about Liana from the newsroom and her vendetta against the office coffee machine. They volleyed anecdotes back and forth, the shared history a trampoline propelling their conversation effortlessly. The devastating hurt, the monstrous betrayal, receded, cloaked temporarily by the comforting, drug-like glow of profound familiarity. They were simply Matt and Pat, two men who spoke in shorthand, who finished each other’s sentences, the razor-wire fences around Matthew’s heart feeling a little less necessary by the moment.
“Remember the Hudson boat guy?” Matthew asked, a smile on his lips, gesturing with his chopsticks. “The one with the Napoleonic complex and the tiny speedboat?”
“And the incredibly small dog,” Patrick finished, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that specific, memory-laden way. He refilled Matthew’s sake cup. “You bet him twenty bucks the dog would pee on his deck shoes. And it did. He was furious. God, we laughed so hard we nearly capsized.”
“We did,” Matthew said, the warmth in his chest having nothing to do with the sake. It was a warmth of recognition, of being seen by someone who possessed a complete map of your former self. He caught Patrick’s gaze across the table, held it for a second too long, and felt a tectonic shift inside him. He wasn’t here for Mo’s solid ground, or Henry’s thrilling chaos, or Brian’s impossible longing. Right now, he was here in a bubble of potent nostalgia, and it was a powerful intoxicant. The decision was impulsive, a knee-jerk reaction against logic and self-preservation.
“It’s late,” Matthew heard himself say, his voice lower. “And you’re jet-lagged. And I’m not done talking.”
Patrick stilled, his chopsticks hovering above a piece of delicate toro. “No?”
“Come back to mine,” Matthew said, the invitation hanging in the fragrant steam between them. “I have better sake. Worse, but local. And my couch isn’t far.”
There was a beat, a tactical pause. Patrick’s eyes darkened, comprehending the subtext perfectly. This wasn’t about sake. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice suddenly rough.
The bill disappeared. The car was summoned. The ride to Matthew’s apartment was a silent vacuum, thick with unsaid things. They rode the elevator without speaking, shoulders brushing, watching the floor numbers light up. Matthew’s mind raced, a flood of doubt and anticipation. The metal doors slid open to his quiet, modern hallway.
He unlocked his door and stepped inside, Patrick following close behind, a looming presence that instantly altered the atmosphere. The door clicked shut, sealing them in the dim light of the entryway. Before Matthew could fumble for a light switch, Patrick’s hand closed around his upper arm. Not hard, but final.
“Matt,” Patrick said, just his name.
MATTHEW TURNS AND IN ONE FLUID, DESPERATE MOTION THEY ARE KISSING.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was a collision. Patrick’s mouth was demanding, hot, tasting of green tea and a lingering ghost of whiskey. Matthew met him with equal hunger, his hands flying up to grip Patrick’s shoulders, his back slamming against the closed door with a solid thud. The past seven years dissolved into this: the familiar pressure of lips, the specific cadence of his tongue, the faint hint of the vetiver cologne on his skin. It was a homecoming for the body, a betrayal of the mind.
They wasted no time.
The formal hesitation of the evening shattered. Grunting into each other's mouths, their hands scrambled at buttons and fabric. Matthew yanked Patrick’s shirt from his trousers, his fingers fumbling with the sleek grey buttons. He shoved the expensive material off Patrick's shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the polished floor.
MATTHEW REMOVES PATRICK'S SHIRT AND REDISCOVERS THE FAMILIAR TERRAIN OF PATRICK'S CHEST AND STOMACH.
His palms flattened against the dense, wiry thatch of dark hair on Patrick’s chest. It was exactly as he remembered, a coarse, masculine landscape his fingers knew by heart. He traced the well-known path down Patrick’s sternum, through the thicker trail leading south, his thumbs rasping over his hard nipples. Patrick hissed, his head falling back against the doorframe, offering himself to Matthew’s rediscovery.
“Your turn,” Patrick growled, his own hands snapping the buttons of Matthew’s shirt open. The fabric was torn aside and flung away to join his own.
PATRICK REMOVES MATTHEW'S SHIRT TOO AND THEY MAKE OUT ON MATTHEW'S COUCH FOR A WHILE.
He pushed Matthew towards the low, modern couch in the living room. They fell onto it in a tangle, limbs knocking against the armrest. There was no more talking. Just panting breaths, bitten-off groans, and the wet, slick sounds of their mouths devouring each other. Patrick’s hands roamed over Matthew’s smooth chest and back, as if verifying his inventory, as if checking that this territory was unchanged.
Their skin, chest to chest, was a furnace. Matthew arched against him, his hips grinding up, seeking friction against the rough wool of Patrick’s trousers. Patrick’s hand cupped his jaw, holding him still for a deeper, more possessive kiss. His other hand slid down Matthew’s torso, past his waistband, palming his erection through his pants. Matthew moaned, the sound muffled by Patrick’s tongue, his body already arching into the touch, Pavlovian in its response.Time distorted. It could have been five minutes or fifty. The frantic kissing, the grabbing, the desperate grinding was an accelerant without release.
“Bed,” Matthew gasped, pulling his mouth free. His lips were swollen, his vision fogged. He could smell them, the scent of their sweat and sex heavy in the air.
FINALLY MATTHEW LEADS PATRICK TO THE BEDROOM.
He stood, legs unsteady, and pulled a willing Patrick up. He led him by the hand, tugging him past the silent kitchen, down the short hall, to his unremarkable, darkened bedroom. The memory of another bedroom—of silk sheets, warm laughter, and a plucked, grey sock—flashed and died, snuffed out by the immediacy of this.
Inside, moonlight cut through the blinds. They faced each other, chests heaving.
Wordlessly, their fingers went to each other's belts. Buckles clinked.Zippers hissed. It was a frantic, cooperative undressing, pants and underwear shoved down thighs, kicked away into the shadows. They stood naked, the humid air touching every exposed inch.
Patrick looked at him, his gaze a physical weight. He looked down Matthew’s body, at his hard cock, then back to his eyes. “Still so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, but there was no tenderness in it. It was the admiration of ownership rediscovered.
HE REMOVES EACH OTHER'S PANTS AND UNDERWEAR.
“On the bed,” Patrick said, the command clear. It was his voice from the courtroom, from their old power plays. Matthew complied, turning and crawling onto the cool cotton sheets, presenting himself on his hands and knees.
It happened with brutal efficiency. Patrick was on him in an instant. He didn’t ask, didn’t pause. He fumbled on the nightstand, found the half-empty bottle of lube Matthew kept there, and slicked himself with rough, urgent strokes. He positioned himself, his hands gripping Matthew’s hips so hard he would bruise.
AND PATRICK FUCKS MATTHEW - A RECLAIMING OF A POSSESSION.
There was no slow press, no gentleness. Patrick shoved in, a single, punishing thrust that buried his thick cock to the hilt in one stroke. Matthew cried out, a sharp, ragged sound torn from his throat, his back bowing. It hurt. It was a stretch he wasn’t prepared for, the ghost of Mo’s more careful possession instantly erased.
“Fuck,” Patrick grunted from above him, his voice thick with gratification. “Fuck, yes.Tight. So tight for me.”
He didn’t wait. He set a relentless, punishing pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the sound of their bodies meeting wet and obscene. His grip on Matthew’s hips was iron, holding him in place, controlling every jolt, every impact. This wasn’t pleasure; it was branding.
“You feel that?” Patrick panted, each word driving home with a thrust. “You remember? This is me.Mine. You’re fucking mine, Matt.”
Matthew’s face was pressed into the pillow, his own cock hard and leaking, trapped beneath him, throbbing with each deep, brutal penetration. It was raw, aggressive, a physical argument. Patrick leaned over him, his sweaty chest plastered to Matthew’s back, his teeth grazing Matthew’s shoulder.
“Tell me you know,” Patrick snarled in his ear, fucking into him harder, faster. “Tell me who this belongs to.”
Matthew couldn’t speak. He was lost in a cyclone of sensation—pain, a darkly flowering pleasure, the horrifying comfort of complete surrender. He nodded frantically into the pillow, a strangled moan escaping him. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t making up. This was a repossession of assets, and his body, traitorously, was acquiescing.