Chapter 5
June
According to Dannie, Beng was the exception to the stereotype of Asian men. The man apparently knew his way around the kitchen better than both Dannie and me combined—at least according to what Dannie remembered from Beng’s last visit.
I stood by the counter for a moment, watching Beng move with quiet confidence.
He navigated the space like it was his own, finding pots, pans, and utensils without hesitation.
The sound of metal lids clinking and the rhythmic chopping of ginger and lemongrass filled the air, along with the faint sweetness of coconut milk and the sharp scent of chili.
It was strangely comforting—like being wrapped in the warmth of someone else’s life.
Dannie, on the other hand, played the role of eager assistant.
He handed Beng ingredients, washed vegetables, and made small jokes that barely got a reaction, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
The two of them had a comfortable rhythm, one that made me feel…
unnecessary. Like the third wheel in a dance where every step had already been memorized.
Before long, Dannie noticed me standing there doing absolutely nothing and waved his hand dramatically toward the living room. “Go relax, read your book, and let the professionals handle this.”
I rolled my eyes. And did as he said—sort of.
Instead of sitting back down with my book, I started wandering through the apartment, tidying up as I went. Wiping the dining table. Straightening a few throw pillows. Folding a dish towel that didn’t need folding. My hands needed something to do. My mind, something to occupy it.
The apartment was already spotless, of course. I’d cleaned the whole place myself yesterday, top to bottom. The only thing left for me to clean now would’ve been the ceiling—and even I had enough self-awareness to know that vacuuming while guests were over might be… weird.
Still, old habits die hard. I peeked into the guest room, checked the bathroom sink for water spots, even rearranged a stack of neatly folded towels.
Finally, my wandering brought me to Dannie’s room.
I hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. I’d been in there before—to borrow something, to fetch something for him, or to put something away—but stepping in now, with him busy in the kitchen, felt oddly intrusive. Like opening a page in a book I wasn’t supposed to read.
But curiosity won. It always did.
I turned the knob and slipped inside.
The scent hit me first—his cologne. Clean, warm, faintly woody.
The kind of smell that clung to him even hours after he’d showered.
It was everywhere now, mingling with the faint humidity that never quite left Penang’s air.
His suitcase lay open on the floor beside the bed, clothes folded with military precision.
For a place that was supposed to be temporary, the room was perfectly equipped: spare clothes, toiletries, even a few framed photos on the dresser. I trailed my fingertips along the smooth wooden edge of his nightstand, realizing how quickly this place had begun to feel familiar.
When he’d first told me to make myself at home, I never expected I actually would. Yet somehow, this apartment had become more than just a refuge—it was… steady. A kind of peace I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.
Wendy would’ve rolled her eyes at me if she were here. She’d been skeptical of Dannie from the beginning. “Men like him,” she warned, “always have a price. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but you’ll pay, one way or another.”
Her words had lingered longer than I wanted to admit.
But I didn’t want to live like that—constantly suspicious, expecting betrayal from everyone who showed a bit of kindness. I wanted to believe that people like Dannie could exist: complex, flawed, maybe dangerous in their own way, but still capable of good.
Besides, if Wendy hadn’t secretly reached out to him that day—if she hadn’t defied me and called him—then Kai’s mother might have succeeded in what she intended.
And I might not be standing here now, in this quiet apartment that smelled faintly of coffee and aftershave and something I couldn’t quite name.
The memory of Kai flickered through my mind, uninvited as always.
Some days, I tried to hate him. To remind myself of how he’d broken me—again. But even anger lost its edge after a while, dulling into something quieter. Sadness, maybe.
At least this time, I had been the one to walk away. That had to count for something.
He’d offered his flat without hesitation when he found out I’d booked a flight to Kuala Lumpur.
I hadn’t planned on coming to Penang at all.
I stayed in KL for a few nights, hiding out in a Marriott room that smelled like industrial carpet and loneliness, scrolling through Airbnb listings while trying to convince myself I didn’t need anyone’s help.
But I’d said yes to Dannie in the end—on one condition. I’d pay rent.
Of course, that was weeks ago, and he still hadn’t sent me a bill. Every time I brought it up, he’d wave a hand and change the subject, saying something about “more important things.”
My gaze drifted to his bedside table. I crouched down and pulled open the drawer—the same place where I’d once found mosquito repellent and a flashlight. Instead, I spotted a small white box: paracetamol.
The expiry date was two months ago.
Normally, I would’ve told any of my patients to toss it out. But for something mild like paracetamol, I wasn’t particularly worried. It would still do its job, even if a little less effectively.
I rummaged through the already messy drawer, pushing aside loose packets of pills and bandages in search of a thermometer.
No luck. There was no way of knowing how bad Dannie’s fever was. If it was mild, this expired paracetamol might still do the trick.
“Hey, dinner’s ready,” his said softly, coming from behind, startling me like I’d been caught stealing.
I spun around, the box still in my hand. “You scared me! I was just looking for this. I couldn’t find a thermometer in your… medicine drawer.”
“It’s not really a medicine drawer.” Dannie leaned against the doorframe, a faint half-smile playing on his lips. “I keep my condoms there too.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Right. Very organized.”
“I don’t think I have a thermometer,” he added, feigning innocence.
“Hmm. Come here.”
He stepped closer, and we met halfway. I reached up and pressed the back of my hand gently against his forehead. His skin was hot—too hot.
“About… thirty-eight point five degrees,” I muttered automatically.
Amusement flickered across his face. “Wow, impressive, Dr. Bennet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please. My dad might be good at the hand thing, but I rely on actual equipment. I’m guessing at best.”
“Young doctors these days,” he teased, voice deep and husky.
Ignoring the flutter in my chest, I held up a strip of tablets. “I found this. Expired paracetamol. Only two months past due. It should still be effective.”
He grimaced. “You sure? What if I get diarrhea?”
“You won’t get diarrhea from this.” I narrowed my eyes. ”But please—don’t tell anyone I gave you expired meds. My pharma rep would have a stroke.”
“I’ll take it,” he said, his eyes lighted up, “on one condition.”
“What condition—”
Before I could finish, he opened his mouth wide, pointing a finger inside like a kid demanding to be fed.
A small huff escaped me. “Fine.”
I popped two pills into his mouth and handed him a bottle of mineral water from the table. He took a swig, still watching me with that lazy, mischievous glint in his eyes.
“We should get some food in you fast,” I said, breaking the tension. “Didn’t you say dinner’s ready?”
“Yeah, come on. It’s quite a feast.”
The moment we stepped out, the rich, spicy aroma hit me full force. Pungent, warm, and alive—it filled the air in a way that made my stomach growl. The room turned into a battlefield of flavors, every inch of the counter covered with platters of seafood.
It must’ve been ages since the stove saw real cooking. There were at least eight dishes laid out—ten if you counted sauces and sides.
“Oh, look, the crabs aren’t moving anymore,” I joked weakly. My attempt at humor earned a round of laughter from both men.
“Beng made two flavors,” Dannie said, clearly proud of his friend. “This one’s chili, but he thought you might not be used to spicy food, so he made a simple grilled version.”
I pointed at a dish filled with strange spiny shells. “And those?”
Wiping his hand, Beng explained. “We call this ci lei. Spiky snail, maybe? Sorry, my English very poor.”
“No, no,” I said quickly, smiling. “Your English is perfect. And these—everything—looks amazing. Like a restaurant spread.”
Beng had no visible tattoos, not that I could see under his short sleeves, but something about him—the quiet confidence, the quick precision—hinted at the kind of man who’d lived several lives.
“Beng used to be a chef,” Dannie chimed in. “Owned a few seafood restaurants in town. His cooking’s legendary. Not many get to taste it these days.”
Beng rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed, then busied himself pouring everyone a glass of Tiger beer.
“I don’t cook now,” he said modestly, “just help behind the scenes.”
He lifted his glass, prompting us to do the same.
“Cheers,” I said, as both men shouted “Ganbei!” in perfect sync.
I took a small sip. The beer was crisp and light, with a bitter edge—like a weaker lager, but refreshing.
When we sat down, I stared at the spread—crabs, prawns, the spiky snails, crayfish, clams, squid, chicken wings. I didn’t even know where to start.
“Try this,” Dannie said, dropping a piece of fillet onto my plate, coated in chili-garlic sauce.
The aroma made my mouth water. It was exactly what I’d wanted to try, though I felt awkward about the communal style of eating. Growing up, I’d always felt clumsy tearing bits of fish from a shared plate without making a mess.
Still, I gave it a go. The dish melted on my tongue, spicy, fragrant, and impossibly fresh.
“Wow,” I murmured. “Okay, maybe I should start cooking seafood.”