Chapter 3
June
Though I was practically the guest—the lodger—in Dannie’s home, he acted like it was the other way around.
He handled everything as if the walls belonged to me, not him. Whether it was okay to use the remote, to turn on the light, or even to close a door.
“You know I don’t own this place, right?” I chuckled, watching him hesitate by the window, one hand clutching the curtain.
“I know,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I just wanted to make sure you’re…”
He paused, pulled a face, and searched for the right word. “Settled.”
Was “comfortable” really the word he meant? He had asked me how I was earlier, and I’d given him the polite, automatic answer: I’m fine, thanks. Which, in truth, meant: Please don’t ask me more.
He tiptoed around like someone afraid to disturb the air. Moving from room to room like a restless shadow—bedroom, kitchen, living area—opening and closing cupboards as if he were rediscovering a space that no longer belonged to him.
I lay sprawled on the recliner in front of the TV, a paperback open but forgotten on my lap.
It was supposed to be one of those “dark and twisty” romance novels everyone raved about online, but my focus was shot.
He was more entertaining than anything on TV.
It was easier to track his movements than follow the words on the page.
“What are you looking for?” I asked finally, curiosity breaking through my quiet. “Whatever it is, there’s a chance I might know where it is.”
“Some batteries,” he muttered, rifling through a drawer. “I thought I had some spare somewhere.”
“Oh—yeah.” I bit my lip, guilty. “I stole them from your AC remote.”
He froze, then started grinning. His face flushed red as he fanned himself with one hand. “I knew I wasn’t going crazy.”
“You weren’t,” I teased. “I meant to replace them, but it… slipped my mind.”
“It was you, huh?” He winked, still grinning as he fanned his overheated face. “Aren’t you boiling in here? Why don’t you have the AC on?”
“I’m used to it, actually.” I started to rise, shoving my book aside. “Do you want it on?”
I stood too quickly, and a sharp groan escaped before I could stop it.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Dannie crossed the space between us in three long, graceful strides. He moved like he used to dance—quietly, but with purpose.
I shook my head. “It’s okay. I’m alright.”
“Let me see.”
He guided me gently back down into the recliner. His touch was firm but never forceful.
“May I?” His hand hovered at the hem of my blue tie-dye T-shirt.
I nodded. “Like I said, I’m alright.”
He lifted the fabric just below my chest, revealing the faint, faded red lines that ran along my abdomen—scars that had healed but still whispered their story.
“Did you go to a doctor?” he asked carefully.
“I am a doctor, remember?”
“So you didn’t go to the doctor.”
Silence was my answer.
He was right.
“I…” I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Every reason I thought of—too tired, too scared, too ashamed—sounded pathetic even in my own head.
“I understand,” Dannie interrupted gently, saving me from the weight of my own excuses.
“I have done the same thing—avoiding the doctor. You tell yourself you’ll be fine. Because it’s not life-threatening. You don’t want people to fuss. You don’t want people to think you want them to fuss. You’re afraid they’ll see the truth—that you’re hurt. That you lost. That you’re weak.”
His voice quiet as he crouched beside me. “I’ve been there. I really do.”
I stared at his reflection on the dark TV screen instead of at him.
Not everything he said was true, but he wasn’t far off.
My vision blurred.
“You reacted the only way you could,” he continued, quieter now. “Fast. Then once you got here, you didn’t want anyone to know. You were too proud to ask for help. You thought you could handle it alone. You’d rather die than let anyone see you broken.”
His words hit harder than I expected.
“Enough.”
The roar tore from my throat before I could stop it—raw, trembling, full of hurt.
“You’re right,” I snapped. “You see right through me. Are you happy now?”
“Not really.”
He reached out, his large hand cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear before I even realized it had fallen.
“I know exactly how you feel,” he murmured. “And it’s going to stay with you longer than you think.”
“What will?” My voice came out in a whisper.
“The attack.”
He touched one of the marks on my stomach, and instinctively, I flinched.
“You’re not in pain, are you?”
“No.” I shook my head gently.
“It’s just your body,” he said, voice low, almost clinical now. “It remembers. Flinching, jumping—it’s doing what it needs to do. It’s trying to protect you, even when there’s nothing left to fight.”
I breathed out a long, shaky sigh. “I knew this. I learned about this in med school.”
But I never expected it to happen like this—stabbed by a middle-aged woman, the mother of my crush.
The object she’d jabbed into me again and again, pressing against my neck, wasn’t even sharp. A nail file, maybe?
God, was my brain trying to erase that part of my past too? Maybe it was protecting me. Maybe I just hadn’t given myself time to process any of it. I hadn’t allowed myself to.
“And now you get to experience it firsthand,” Dannie murmured, his voice rough but soft around the edges. He managed a weak smile—and a sigh that felt just as heavy as mine.
Then it happened—the floodgates opened.
Heat streaked down my cheeks, blurring the world around me. I had nowhere to hide my ugly, blotchy crying face, so I buried it against his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline.
Why was he always the one who saw me fall apart? Why did the universe keep playing this cruel joke—making me break down only in front of Dannie?
More wetness slipped down my face, sharp and stinging. I wasn’t even sure what I was crying about anymore. Maybe because it wasn’t fair. Maybe because I was tired of pretending it was.
I had no right to feel sorry for myself. I’d been born into a comfortable middle-class family in America. I’d never gone hungry, never been truly unsafe.
And yet—here I was, crying like a spoiled brat over pain that wasn’t supposed to belong to me.
“God,” I whispered into his skin, voice raw. “I sound so pathetic.”
Dannie didn’t answer. He just kept his hand at the back of my head, holding me close—steady, wordless, unshakable.
Dannie remained frozen—literally dead still.
That was when I realized the odd tackiness where my wet cheeks met his sweaty neck.
“Oh my God, gross!” I yelped, jerking back.
“Well, you knew I was hot,” he said, shrugging one damp shoulder.
Just like that, I broke into unexpected giggles—wild, unexpected, uncontrollable. I let out a shaky laugh until my stomach hurt. I must’ve looked like a total maniac, flipping between hysteria and heartbreak.
If I weren’t overseas, I would’ve so prescribed myself Prozac.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I wiped my face with the tissue he handed me. He’d found it in a decorative wooden box on the coffee table—something I’d never even noticed before. I didn’t take Dannie for the type who’d care about small things like that. Maybe I was wrong.
“Are you hungry?” he asked after a beat.
Dannie stood and offered me his hand. His presence steadied me.
“We have some food in the refrigerator,” I said as he pulled me up. “What do you—”
“Don’t cook.”
“Hey!” My eyes widened as I planted my hands on my hips. “I make a mean salad, with cured meats and everything.”
“I’m sure you do,” he said, lips curving, “but I’m craving laksa right now. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“Downtown. There’s a place in the Michelin guide I’ve been dying to try—unless you know somewhere better.”
“No, I don’t.”
Dannie practically dragged me toward the guest room I’d been occupying for far too long.
“Wait,” he said, stopping in the doorway, face suddenly serious. “Don’t tell me you hate laksa.”
“No…”
“What?” His expression dropped like I’d confessed a crime. “You haven’t tried laksa.”
“No. I mean, I haven’t really tried any street food since I got here.” I winced, knowing how bad that sounded. “Apart from the coffee and that raw, sugary combo you called breakfast this morning.”
“Oh my God.” He huffed out a chuckle in disbelief. “You’ve been here for a month and haven’t eaten any local food? This is criminal! They should arrest you at the airport for that.”
He stepped behind me and gave me a playful shove toward my room. “You know what they call Malaysia? Food heaven. And Penang—Penang has the best food in the country. Now go get changed!”
Obediently, I opened my wardrobe and pulled out a light summer dress I’d bought at a night market.
The fabric smelled faintly of lemongrass and detergent—clean, familiar.
As I slipped it on, I could hear Dannie shouting from the living room—half to me, half to himself—ranting about how outrageous it was that I’d survived this long without tasting the best food in the country.
His voice carried through the walls, steady and full of life. For a fleeting second, I realized how much lighter the apartment suddenly felt.
An hour later, our driver pulled over to the side of a narrow, sun-bleached street. Dannie had arranged the ride through the apartment’s management office—one of the perks that came with living in his kind of building.
The place ran almost like a boutique hotel.
You could call downstairs for anything—housekeeping, food delivery, even a private driver.
Most of the owners didn’t live here full-time; they were part of the same visa program Dannie was on.
To them, this wasn’t home—it was a convenient second base, a tropical escape.
Dannie apologized for not telling me sooner about the driver service, but I waved it off. “How did you get around normally?” he asked as we stepped out.
“Grab,” I said flatly. “The internet told me it’s the easiest way to get around.”