Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Orm’s POV:

Love wears a thousand faces. It arrives in colors that shift with the light, grey when it waits in silence, blue when it aches quietly beneath the ribs, red when it bursts and spills without apology. It is wild when it wants to be, reckless in its youth, gentle in its age. It makes you laugh without meaning to, cry without knowing why, and bleed without a wound in sight.

Sometimes love is as simple as your mother calling you to the table after a long, exhausting day, the smell of home-cooked food carrying more comfort than words ever could. Sometimes it is your father’s voice echoing through the room, telling you how to live wisely, how not to throw your hard-earned money away, how the world does not bend for foolish hearts. Those were the shapes of love I understood , the quiet ones, the familiar ones, the kind that live inside routine and duty.

I thought that was all love was meant to be. I thought I knew its limits, its boundaries, its quiet tenderness. But then love walked into my life wearing a new face, one that did not resemble anything I had ever known. And in that moment, every color I had named, every rule I had believed, every quiet certainty unraveled. Because love, when it truly comes, does not repeat itself. It becomes something entirely new.

My love. Lingling Kwong. The only love I have ever truly known. The one whose name still feels like a prayer on my lips, even after all this time. She was not just a person to me but a place, a season, a rhythm my soul once moved to. Every memory of her carries a scent, a color, a sound , the faint echo of laughter in late afternoons, the warmth of sunlight touching her skin, the quiet tremor in her voice when she said my name.

It has been two years since we parted ways. Yet time, cruel as it is, has only deepened the hollow she left behind. I have lived entire seasons without her, crossed cities and oceans, built a life that looks full from the outside. But inside, she still rules. Her presence lingers in every quiet hour, in the way I fold my clothes, in the songs I skip because they remind me of her.

She remains the only piece of my heart I wish to carry for years to come, the only constant in a life that keeps changing its shape. Some loves fade like mist. Hers never did. Hers became the air I breathe when I remember what it means to feel alive.

And now, after years, I find myself back in the same town where my love still lives. The air feels heavier here, thick with memories I once tried to forget. Every corner seems to whisper her name, every passing breeze feels like a remnant of her breath. She walks these streets still, somewhere beyond my sight, and I can almost feel the echo of her footsteps against the pavement.

The moot courtroom smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee. It had not changed much since the days I sat here as a trembling student, hanging on to every word that fell from her lips. Only now I was not the student anymore. I was just a ghost in the back row, hidden among strangers, watching her from a distance I once promised I would never keep.

Ling stood at the front, the embodiment of composure. She wore black, perfectly tailored, the kind of suit that whispered authority without trying. Her hair was still long and dark, with delicate strands of silver near her temples. Time had brushed her gently, leaving behind a quiet kind of beauty that could stop my heart. When she spoke, her voice filled the room like something alive, steady and rich, powerful yet soft around the edges.

“An argument,” she said, turning toward the students with that half smile I had memorized long ago, “is not a battle of who speaks louder. It is a conversation built on reason, empathy, and restraint. You win not by force but by making the truth undeniable.”

The students scribbled furiously in their notebooks. I only watched. The way she moved her hands when she spoke, the slow rhythm of her gestures, still carried that same grace that once made me fall in love with her. She paused for a moment and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. I noticed the faint lines near her eyes. They were new, and they made her even more beautiful.

“When your opponent speaks,” she continued, “listen. Not to respond, but to understand. The courtroom is not a stage for ego. It is a mirror of humanity. You will only win if you remember that.”

Her voice dropped slightly at the end, calm and deliberate, and the sound of it struck something deep in me. She always did that, lowered her tone when she wanted her words to linger. It was not only about law. It was about conviction, about the way she believed in truth as if it were sacred.

I sat there, hands clasped, breathing in slow, uneven silence. Years had passed, yet it felt like no time at all. The world had moved on, but my heart had not. It still leaned toward her, drawn like a tide to shore, helpless and constant.

For a fleeting moment, her eyes swept across the crowd. I told myself she could not possibly see me, that I was invisible in this sea of faces. But her gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long, and I felt that old ache stir awake inside me.

She smiled softly and turned back to the class. And in that small, quiet instant, I understood what longing truly was. It was sitting in a room where the person you love most in the world speaks to everyone but you.

Ling shifted her stance, the faintest trace of a smile curving her lips as she turned toward the two students standing at the front. They were nervous, hands clutching their notes, eyes darting between her and the jury box.

“Let us begin,” she said, calm as ever. “Counsel for the defense, please explain how your client’s right to self-defense applies under the proportionality clause. Specifically, why the use of force was justified in this instance.”

The defense attorney, a young man barely out of his first semester, cleared his throat. “Your Honor, under the circumstances, my client acted reasonably. The threat was”

Ling raised a brow, cutting in with a question that landed like a quiet blade. “Reasonably to whom? To your client, or to the law? Because what is reasonable to the frightened rarely aligns with what is lawful.”

The room fell still for a moment. She turned then, her gaze sweeping toward the other side. “And the prosecution, tell me, how would you refute this? What precedent supports your claim that fear, though genuine, does not justify excessive force?”

The state attorney hesitated, fingers frozen over the papers. “Ma’am, in State v. Duran, the court”

Ling’s voice softened but did not yield. “State v. Duran addressed provocation, not proportionality. You are conflating the two.”

A murmur of embarrassment rippled through the room. The students looked lost, glancing at one another. Both sides were faltering, the logic collapsing under the weight of her precision.

Ling leaned back against the table, her hand brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “So,” she said, her tone patient but challenging, “what happens when both intent and perception are flawed? When both parties believe they are defending themselves? Where does the law draw the line between fear and guilt?”

No one answered. The silence stretched thin, heavy with thought.

And then it happened.

Orm heard her own voice before she even realized she had spoken. “The line doesn’t exist,” she said, the words cutting through the quiet like a confession. “The law draws it afterward, when the blood has dried, when the story can be rewritten to sound rational. Fear never asks permission to be reasonable.”

Every head turned. Ling’s eyes found her instantly. For a fleeting moment, the mask slipped. The calm, unshakable professor froze. Her pupils widened, her lips parted just slightly, and the faintest tremor passed through her. She knew that voice. She knew it in the dark, when laughter filled the spaces between their breaths, when arguments like this one had unfolded in whispers against Orm’s couch, both of them half dressed, tasting of wine and adrenaline.

The silence stretched again, electric this time. Ling’s eyes softened for half a second before her expression shifted back to the cool, composed mentor.

“That,” she said finally, her voice steady once more, “is a valid interpretation. A cynical one, but not incorrect.”

She turned toward the class, her tone returning to its measured rhythm. “What Ms….” she paused for the briefest beat, her gaze flicking back to Orm, “what the speaker just pointed out is something worth noting. Law is rarely clean. It is written by those who survived it.”

Orm’s chest felt tight. Ling’s words now carried an edge, an undertone meant only for her. The students nodded, oblivious, taking notes as if history were not quietly replaying itself in front of them.

Ling continued, pacing slowly as she spoke. “The courtroom is not always about right or wrong. It is about who can articulate the mess of human instinct better. Fear. Guilt. Love. Sometimes the line between them is so blurred, we end up defending ourselves from the very things we once wanted to protect.”

Her gaze brushed past Orm once more, brief but deliberate. And in that instant, Orm knew Ling remembered everything, every argument, every breathless debate, every moment they had crossed that same blurred line years ago.

The session stretched for another thirty minutes. Ling guided the room like a tide master, lifting one argument, letting another recede, never raising her voice and never losing her center. She asked for closing statements. She drew out the quiet students with patient questions. She praised the small victories that would otherwise go unnoticed, the clean citation, the calm breath taken before a rebuttal, the moment a student listened rather than rushed to speak.

“At the end of any hearing,” she said, standing at the lectern with her fingertips resting lightly on the wood, “you should be able to name what you learned about the case and about yourself. If you learned nothing about yourself, you were only performing. Justice does not come from performance. It comes from attention.”

The clock marked the half hour. Ling closed the folder and smiled at the room, warm and contained. “Thank you, everyone. You did well today. Read the transcript of People against Alvarado for next week. Pay attention to proportionality and to what is left unsaid in the concurring opinion. We will meet here at the same time on Tuesday.”

Chairs scraped. Voices rose. The room shifted into the soft chaos of relief. Students clustered around her with questions. Ling answered each one without hurry. She nodded, tilted her head, tucked her hair, offered a case name or a page number, sent them off with a quiet good work that made them stand taller.

I sat in the back row with my coat folded over my lap and watched the tide recede, ready to leave.

“Ms Kornnaphat,” she said. “Please stay back.”

The last of the students slipped out, their chatter fading down the hallway until only the echo of the door remained. The silence that followed was thick, almost alive.

Ling was still at the front, her back straight but her movements trembling at the edges. She stacked her notes into a neat square, aligning them perfectly with the edge of the table. Her fingers lingered there a moment too long, pressing down as if that fragile balance could steady her heart. She did not look at me, but I could see her shoulders rise and fall in a rhythm that was far too careful.

I stood, legs unsteady, and began to walk down the aisle. Each step sounded louder than the last, like the sound itself wanted to announce the truth neither of us could speak. The distance between us, once so small and once only the space of a shared breath, now felt like the length of a lifetime.

When I reached the front, she finally lifted her head.

Her eyes found mine, and the years dissolved in an instant. Every memory we had ever made came rushing back. The nights we argued, the mornings we woke too close, the promises that had broken under the weight of pride and fear. I saw it all flicker behind her gaze.

She tried to speak, but her lips trembled. I watched as her composure cracked like porcelain. A single tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it. She blinked it away quickly, but another followed, then another. She turned slightly, gripping the edge of the table as though the ground beneath her feet had shifted.

For the first time since I walked in, she spoke. Her voice was quiet, raw, stripped of all the armor she had worn for years.

“What are you doing here, Orm?”

The sound of my name in her mouth nearly undid me. It was both a question and a wound. I wanted to tell her everything, that I came because I could no longer breathe in a world where she existed and I could not see her, that every part of me had ached to be in this room again, to hear her voice even from afar. But the words tangled in my throat.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came. The air between us pulsed with everything unspoken.

Ling turned away for a moment, her hand still gripping the table, her tears glinting in the classroom light. She drew in a long, shaky breath and tried to smile, though her lips trembled too much for it to last.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly, not as a command but as a plea.

“I know,” I whispered. “But I had to see you.”

That broke her. She closed her eyes, a small sound escaping her, something between a sigh and a sob. When she opened them again, her face was wet, her carefully drawn composure gone.

“I told myself I wouldn’t fall apart if this day ever came,” she said, almost to herself. “I lied.”

I wanted to reach for her. Every instinct I had screamed to close the distance, to hold her, to tell her that after all the years and all the distance, she was still my beginning and my end. But I stood still, afraid that even a touch might break her completely.

Ling straightened slowly, brushing her tears with the back of her hand, trying to find her voice again.

“You came back,” she said softly, as if still convincing herself it was real.

“I did,” I whispered. “And I never stopped wanting to.”

Her breath caught. She looked at me again, truly looked, and for a fleeting moment, we were no longer professor and former student, no longer two people separated by years and choices. We were just Ling and Orm, two women standing in the ruins of something beautiful, both still holding the pieces as if they could fit together again.

“I am still married, Orm,” Ling said, her voice low and trembling, as if the words hurt to touch.

For a moment, I could not breathe. The sentence hung between us, heavy and inevitable. I had known, of course I had known. The world had not stopped spinning when I left, and her life had not paused for the absence of me. But hearing it, spoken aloud in that fragile, human voice, felt like standing under cold rain after years of drought.

She looked at me with eyes that pleaded for understanding, eyes that begged me not to hate her for being honest. But there was nothing to forgive. I had never expected her to be divorced. I had never even hoped for it. Hope had long since burned out, leaving only the quiet ache of knowing some things were never meant to be reclaimed.

“I know,” I said softly. My voice barely held. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“I was ready to give it all up,” Ling said. Her voice cracked on the last word, barely holding together. “I was ready to be with you, but you left me.”

The air between us shifted, heavy and hot, like the moment before a storm.

I felt my throat tighten. “Ling,” I whispered, but she shook her head before I could say more.

“You left without a word,” she said. “Do you know what that did to me?” Her eyes glistened, her tears tracing down her cheeks faster now. “I waited. I kept waiting, even when I knew I shouldn’t. Even when she asked me why I couldn’t look at her the same way anymore.”

Her voice broke, and she pressed her fingers to her lips as if to stop the words from spilling out. “You were gone, and I still looked for you in every courtroom, every face, every silence. I told myself I hated you for it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

I took a step forward before I realized I was moving. “I never stopped thinking about you,” I said quietly. “Not for a single day.”

“Then why did you leave?”

Her question sliced through me. It was not angry. It was wounded. Desperate. And I, for once, could not answer anymore. My lips parted, but the words refused to come.

We stood there in silence, the kind that weighs on the bones. Five minutes passed, maybe more. Then she turned.

She walked away from me again.

She always walks away. She walks away when she is upset. She walks away when her phone lights up with her wife’s name. She walks away when I say something wrong, or worse, when I say nothing at all.

To be honest, I have seen her back more than I have seen her face. And somehow, that has always been her way. Walking away is Lingling’s style.

And I love it. But sometimes, I hate it too.

Flashback

Five years ago – The First Meeting

The first day of law school began in chaos for Orm. Her phone alarm had screamed at her twelve times, but each one had met the mercy of her sleepy hand. Now she was standing in a café line with half-open eyes, a dull headache pounding through her skull, and the faint taste of last night’s tequila still on her tongue. She had promised herself she would be responsible this semester, but responsibility and hangovers rarely coexisted.

She needed caffeine like air.

After ten long minutes of waiting, Orm grabbed the first cup that looked remotely like hers. “Café mocha,” she muttered, clutching it like salvation as she hurried out the door without even a thank you. The sunlight hit her face, sharp and unforgiving, and she winced.

She had barely taken a few steps when she heard someone calling behind her.

“Excuse me, miss!”

Orm turned around, blinking at the woman rushing toward her. She wore a crisp white shirt, black trousers, and a brown trench coat that moved like it had its own rhythm. Her dark hair framed a face that was too striking to belong to reality. She looked breathless but composed, elegant even in urgency.

“Yes?” Orm asked, unsure whether she was in trouble or about to fall in love.

“That’s mine,” the woman said, pointing to the coffee cup in Orm’s hand.

Orm frowned. “No, it’s mine.”

“It has my name on it,” the woman replied with a hint of amusement. “And it’s exactly how I order it.”

Orm looked down. The name written on the cup was not hers. She cursed under her breath.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she said quickly, handing it over.

“You’re fine,” the woman said, smiling softly.

“I already drank from it,” Orm admitted, flustered. “I’ll pay for it, please let me.”

“It’s alright.” The woman took off the lid and drank from it anyway. “I’m already running late.” She started walking backward, the trench coat swaying around her like wind.

“You’re pretty, LK,” Orm called out, reading the initials scribbled on the cup.

The woman stopped and turned, her brows knitting slightly. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Orm continued, stepping forward with a grin, “you’re really pretty. Maybe we could go on a date?”

“You don’t even know me,” the woman said, half incredulous, half amused.

“Who says we need to know each other to go on a date?”

The woman’s lips curved. Orm’s heart stuttered. She forgot to breathe for a moment.

“Nice try,” the woman said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “But I’m not interested.” She hesitated, her tone softening slightly before she turned away.

Orm clutched her chest dramatically, pretending to faint. It made the woman smile, shy and genuine.

“Well, I tried!” Orm shouted as she walked away.

She watched her go, the brown coat disappearing into the morning crowd. For a second, Orm looked up at the sky and sighed. She wished things could be different, that she might somehow see her again. Then she shook her head. “Focus, idiot,” she muttered to herself and hurried toward campus.

Ten minutes later, lost and flustered, Orm slipped into her classroom. She was late, breathless, and praying not to draw attention.

Her prayer went unanswered.

“I don’t appreciate my students being late,” the professor said without turning around, writing something on the board.

When she did turn, Orm froze.

It was her.

The woman from the café. LK.

The trench coat was gone, replaced by quiet authority. Her dark hair was pinned neatly, her presence commanding every eye in the room.

“Sorry, professor,” Orm managed weakly.

“Meet me after class, Miss…?”

“Kornnaphat,” she replied, cheeks burning.

The professor nodded and turned back to her board, though her lips twitched as if hiding a smile.

Forty-five minutes later, the class ended. Orm waited until everyone left before walking down the aisle to her desk.

Lingling Kwong, now Professor Kwong , was checking her phone. When she sensed someone near, she lifted her head.

“Ah, the coffee thief,” she said, amusement lighting her face. “And my student, apparently.”

Orm bowed slightly. “I’m sorry, Professor Kwong.”

“It’s fine, Miss Korn…nna…phat?” She stumbled over the name, squinting at the syllables.

Orm grinned, showing her gummy smile. “That’s not quite right, Professor. You can just call me Orm.”

“Orm,” Ling repeated, the name rolling smoothly off her tongue.

“You look too young to be a professor,” Orm said before she could stop herself.

Ling laughed quietly, her eyes closing for a second as a faint blush colored her cheeks. “You’re cheeky, Orm.”

“I’m a guest lecturer,” Ling said, regaining her composure. “Your assigned professor is on leave. I’m filling in.”

Orm leaned forward, curiosity bright in her eyes. “So, technically, you’re not my full-time professor. Which means you can go on a date with me. No ethical conflicts, right?”

Ling tilted her head, fighting a smile. “You are unhinged.”

“I call it confidence,” Orm replied.

Ling laughed again, shaking her head, clearly intrigued by the girl standing before her.

“You haven’t answered my question yet, guest professor,” Orm teased.

Ling swallowed, her gaze flickering. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “Because I’m married.”

The words fell heavy between them.

Orm’s smile faltered. She hadn’t believed this woman could surprise her again, yet here she was beautiful, brilliant, and taken.

“I’m happily married to my wife,” Ling added, turning a photo frame on her desk toward Orm.

It showed Ling and another woman dressed in white, radiant and content, holding a golden retriever between them. A wedding photo, Orm realized.

“Nice dog,” Orm said, forcing a playful tone.

“Thank you,” Ling replied, though her smile dimmed slightly.

“Your wife’s a lucky one,” Orm said softly. “Tell her that.”

Ling nodded but said nothing.

When Orm left the classroom, she carried an emptiness she hadn’t expected. She told herself it was nothing, that crushes fade like caffeine highs. But as she stepped into the hallway, her heart disagreed.

Because sometimes, even on the first day of law school, you meet someone who will change everything you thought you knew about love.

Chapter Text

Orm had not reached out to Ling since the day she walked away. Even when her fingers hovered over her phone at night, trembling with the urge to type a single word, she stopped herself. What could she possibly say? That she wanted to start over? That she still loved her? That she wanted Ling to leave her wife and try again with the woman who once disappeared without a goodbye?

The thought alone felt cruel. Ling had already done the impossible. She had confessed everything to her wife and asked for a divorce, and still, Orm had run. She never gave an explanation, not to Ling, not even to herself. Somewhere along the way she had lost her credibility, the trust that once made Ling believe in her, the courage to face the consequences of their love. So, she said nothing. She stayed silent for two years, never called, never wrote, never spoke Ling’s name aloud. Until few days back.

The silence had festered.

Orm hated herself for it. She hated knowing that while she buried her guilt beneath work and distraction, Ling had endured the heartbreak alone. Orm had always had someone to turn to, her mother, her father, her best friend Prig, people who caught her when she fell. Ling had no one. She had always been her own strength, her own home, until Orm came along. And when Orm left, she took that home with her.

The thought of it made Orm’s chest ache. The image of Ling holding herself together, pretending not to bleed, haunted her more than any memory. Her love had suffered in silence, had drowned quietly with no one to pull her to the surface.

Now, two years later, Orm was back in Boston, the city that had once given her everything and taken it all away. Her return came wrapped in the illusion of ambition. After leaving the East Coast, she had built a name for herself in Los Angeles, working for a prestigious law firm that admired her sharpness and restraint. When the firm offered to relocate her to its headquarters in Boston, calling it a promotion, she accepted with a steady smile that concealed a thousand unspoken fears.

She told herself it was only a career move. But she knew the truth the moment she saw the city skyline through the plane window. Boston was where everything had begun, and every street seemed to hum with her past. It meant living in the same time zone as Ling, breathing the same air, walking streets that still carried the echo of her laughter.

Orm tried to convince herself that she could manage the distance. That she could live in the same city without giving in to the temptation of proximity. But what haunted her most was not the thought of Ling being near, it was the thought of her being near and forever out of reach.

Each night she stood at her apartment window, watching the city lights blink against the glass, the skyline outlining memories she had tried to forget. She told herself this was a fresh start, a new chapter, an opportunity she had earned. Yet beneath that illusion lay the truth. She had come back to mend what was broken, to stand once more where everything began and to see if there was anything left worth saving.

She had come back for Ling.

And as she whispered her promise to the night, she vowed that this time she would not run. This time she would not fail her again.

The first day at the firm’s headquarters felt like stepping into a different world. The building hummed with a kind of elegant chaos, assistants darting between glass offices, heels clicking against marble floors, the faint scent of coffee and new paper in the air. S&M LLP was not just any law firm , it was the law firm. The crown jewel of the East Coast, known for closing billion-dollar mergers, defending star athletes, and somehow doing both with ruthless grace.

Today, however, the buzz wasn’t about business. The partners were hosting their annual charity gala, this year in support of medical aid for Palestine. Invitations had gone out to politicians, athletes, and CEOs, and the entire building seemed to be in performance mode. Even the assistants were on edge, arguing about flower arrangements and wine selections as if the night itself were a case to be won.

Orm stood by the reception desk outside the senior partners’ offices, half listening as the assistant, a young woman with a headset and the confidence of someone who handled chaos for breakfast, argued passionately over the phone.

“I told them tulips, not lilies. The lilies haven’t even bloomed yet. We cannot have half-dead flowers at a charity gala.”

Orm exhaled quietly, her eyes tracing the skyline through the window. She didn’t care about the flowers, or the caterers, or the guest list. All she wanted was to meet the senior partner, get her assignments, and start working.

When the call finally ended, the assistant turned with an apologetic smile. “I am so sorry for keeping you waiting, ma’am.”

“No problem,” Orm said, returning the smile with her usual calm. “I hope you got the flower situation sorted.”

“Yes, thank god,” the assistant said with a sigh, standing and straightening her blazer. “It’s chaos, but we’ll survive.”

Orm chuckled softly, following her down the corridor lined with black-and-white photographs of courtrooms and landmark cases.

“I have to say,” the assistant added, glancing back, “Lorena was really looking forward to meeting you.”

“Same here,” Orm replied, her tone warm but measured. “I hope I can live up to the expectation.”

“I’m sure you will.” The assistant stopped in front of a tall mahogany door with a silver nameplate that read Lorena Schuett, Senior Partner. “Let me check if she’s ready for you.”

Orm nodded, her pulse quickening in spite of herself.

A minute later, the assistant reappeared, smiling. “She’s ready for you. Good luck.” She opened the door, and Orm stepped inside.

Lorena Schuett’s office was straight out of a legal drama. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the Charles River, sunlight spilling over a sleek black desk that gleamed like a mirror. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled not just with legal volumes but first editions of literature, small potted plants, and framed photographs of Lorena with world leaders, clients, and celebrities. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and old money.

At the center of it all sat Lorena herself tall, poised, with dark hair and sharp brown eyes that seemed to appraise and welcome at the same time. She rose from her chair with a smile that was both professional and genuine.

“Orm Kornnaphat,” she said, extending a hand. “Finally, we meet. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Orm took her hand, firm and steady. “All good things, I hope.”

Lorena laughed lightly. “Mostly. Connor speaks very highly of you. Said you handled that malpractice settlement in LA with remarkable precision.”

Orm smiled modestly. “I just did my job.”

“That’s what all good lawyers say,” Lorena replied, motioning for her to sit. “Welcome to S&M. We’re thrilled to have you here. You’re joining us at a busy time, but I think you’ll fit right in.”

Orm sat, the leather chair cool beneath her palms. “Thank you, I’m excited to get started.”

Lorena leaned back, studying her for a moment before nodding. “You’ll be working closely with Natasha on the Horizon-Cura merger. It’s one of the largest health insurance consolidations we’ve ever handled ,delicate, high-profile, politically messy, and exactly the kind of challenge you seem to thrive on.”

Orm’s heart lifted slightly. “That sounds incredible. I’ve read a bit about the deal, but I didn’t realize we were lead counsel.”

“We are. And Natasha will need someone with your instincts.” Lorena’s expression softened, the formality easing. “She can be intense, but she’s brilliant. I think you’ll enjoy working with her.”

“I look forward to it,” Orm said sincerely.

Lorena opened a drawer and pulled out a cream-colored envelope embossed with gold lettering. “Before I forget, here’s your invitation to the gala tonight. It’s mandatory attendance for partners and senior associates, but you’re welcome to bring a guest if you like. Consider it a soft introduction to the firm’s social side.”

Orm accepted the envelope, her fingers brushing the thick paper. “Thank you. I’ll be there.”

Lorena smiled. “Good. It’s a beautiful event, and for a good cause. Natasha and I will both be giving speeches, so try not to judge our public speaking too harshly.”

Orm chuckled, relaxing. “I’ll try to keep my critiques to myself.”

“Perfect,” Lorena said, standing to signal the end of their meeting. “We’re glad you’re here, Orm. Welcome home.”

Orm rose, offering a polite nod. “I appreciate it, truly.”

Orm left Lorena’s office with the gold-embossed invitation resting lightly between her fingers. The air outside the senior partners’ corridor carried a different kind of weight now, quieter but charged, as if the building itself were settling into its rhythm after the morning rush. She adjusted her blazer, tucking the invitation safely into her bag, and took a steady breath before turning toward the other end of the hallway.

She wanted to meet Natasha Matthews before the weekend began.

Even back in Los Angeles, the name carried a kind of reverence that bordered on myth. Natasha Matthews was one of the firm’s youngest partners, brilliant and uncompromising, known for the precision of her arguments and the calm brutality with which she handled negotiations. Her victories were legend inside S&M LLP, her reputation both feared and admired in equal measure.

Orm followed the glass-lined corridor toward the executive wing, her heels clicking softly against the polished floors. The path opened into a smaller lobby, where a receptionist sat behind a sculpted marble desk with fresh orchids at its center. On the far wall, a brushed metal plaque gleamed under the recessed lights.

Natasha Matthews, Senior Partner.

Orm paused for a moment, smoothing the front of her jacket before stepping closer to the desk.

“Good afternoon,” she said politely. “I’m Orm Kornnaphat from the Los Angeles office. I was hoping to see if Ms. Matthews might have a few minutes to meet.”

The assistant looked up from her monitor, offering a practiced but pleasant smile. She had neatly tied auburn hair, a silk scarf at her neck, and the calm, capable air of someone who had long mastered the art of managing chaos.

“I’m afraid Ms. Matthews stepped out earlier this afternoon,” she said. “She’s attending a client meeting downtown and might not make it back to the office today.”

Orm nodded, though disappointment flickered briefly in her chest. “I understand. Could I schedule some time with her next week, then? I’d like to discuss my role on the Horizon-Cura case.”

“Of course,” the assistant replied, already typing. “Her Monday morning looks open. Would ten-thirty work for you?”

“That’s perfect,” Orm said.

“Great. I’ll block it in her calendar and send the meeting invite shortly.”

“Thank you,” Orm said with a grateful smile. “Everyone in the LA office has been talking about how efficient Boston’s team is.”

The assistant laughed softly. “That’s good to hear. We try our best to keep Ms. Matthews from working herself to exhaustion.”

“I can imagine,” Orm said, her tone light but thoughtful. “She has quite the reputation.”

The assistant nodded knowingly. “She lives up to it.”

Orm smiled once more and took a small step back. “Please let her know I stopped by.”

“I will,” the assistant assured her.

As Orm turned to leave, she let her gaze linger for a moment on the closed office door. Through the frosted glass, she could faintly see the shadow of a large conference table, a wall of shelves, and the faint outlines of city light spilling through the blinds. The air around the space seemed to hum with control and purpose.

Outside the executive wing, the building had grown quieter, the noise of the morning fading into a steady hum of productivity. Orm walked toward the elevator, her thoughts drifting. The skyline beyond the windows shimmered in the late afternoon haze, golden light pooling over the rooftops of Boston. Somewhere beyond that glass, Ling was living her own life, somewhere within reach yet impossibly distant.

Orm pressed the elevator button and waited, her reflection staring back at her from the polished doors. The appointment with Natasha was set for Monday. The gala was tonight. And though she told herself she was only thinking about work, her heart was already moving toward something else entirely.

The ballroom glowed like something out of a dream. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above a sea of tailored suits and silk gowns, their light catching in the golden rims of champagne glasses. The sound of a string quartet filled the air, mingling with laughter and the low murmur of conversation. Every corner gleamed, every detail precise, from the polished marble floors to the floral centerpieces glowing under soft candlelight.

Orm stepped through the entrance, the faint scent of lilies and wine surrounding her. Her black gown traced her figure with quiet grace, and her hair, tied neatly at the back, caught the glint of passing lights. She had never been one for these gatherings, the kind where people smiled too wide and measured every word they spoke. But tonight was different. Tonight she had to be here.

Lorena had said it was mandatory. S&M LLP’s annual gala was the firm’s crown jewel, a performance where reputation and philanthropy met under one glittering roof. It was also the first night Orm had been seen in public since her return to Boston, and she could feel the weight of that fact with every step.

She moved carefully through the crowd, exchanging polite nods and brief greetings, her eyes scanning for familiar faces. In the distance, near the stage, she spotted Lorena surrounded by a small circle of guests. The senior partner looked effortlessly radiant in a dark green gown, her confidence quiet and magnetic.

Lorena saw her almost instantly. Her smile widened, warm and genuine. “Orm, you made it,” she said when they met.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Orm replied. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Thank you,” Lorena said. “You can thank Natasha for most of it. She handled the event planning this year, even while managing the Horizon-Cura deal. You must meet her before the speeches start. She’s been eager to put a face to the name she keeps hearing about from LA.”

Lorena’s hand rested gently on Orm’s arm as she guided her through the maze of people and chatter. The air buzzed with wealth and easy charm. Waiters drifted by with trays of oysters, laughter floated from nearby tables, and in the background the quartet’s melody swelled into something slow and aching.

When they reached the far end of the ballroom, the lights softened to a golden hue that made the crystal walls glow. Orm saw her then, standing beneath a cascade of glass chandeliers that painted flecks of light across the polished floor.

Natasha Matthews.

She was younger than Orm had expected, maybe mid-thirties, and every eye in the room seemed to follow her without meaning to. Her gown was a deep shade of emerald silk that shimmered with each movement, tailored perfectly to her tall, athletic frame. The neckline was simple, the kind of simplicity that came from confidence rather than restraint. A single diamond earring caught the light as she turned her head, and her hair, the color of ink, fell in loose waves that brushed her shoulders. She looked like someone who had mastered the art of being seen.

Lorena smiled knowingly. “That’s Natasha.”

Orm took a small breath before they approached. The woman’s presence felt magnetic, both commanding and composed, her voice smooth as she spoke to a cluster of clients holding champagne flutes. Orm had imagined her countless times from stories and articles, but the reality was far more striking. There was something vaguely familiar about her, a faint echo tugging at the back of Orm’s mind, though she could not place it. She pushed the thought aside.

“Natasha,” Lorena said, her tone easy and warm. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Natasha turned, and her expression shifted instantly into something open and interested. “Lorena,” she said, smiling. “You always find the most intriguing people.” Her gaze landed on Orm. “You must be the associate from Los Angeles.”

Orm nodded and extended her hand. “Orm Kornnaphat. It’s an honor.”

“The honor is mine,” Natasha replied, her grip firm but gracious. “I have heard your name often. The Wheeler case was a masterclass in composure. You have a reputation for precision, which is rare at your level.”

Orm smiled, modest but proud. “I just tried to do the job right.”

“That’s what all the good ones say,” Natasha said with a quiet laugh. “Welcome to Boston, Orm. You are joining us at an interesting time. The Horizon-Cura merger is consuming every waking hour, but I promise it will be worth the sleepless nights.”

“I am ready for it,” Orm said. “I have followed the case from the LA office. It is an incredible opportunity.”

“Then we are lucky to have you.” Natasha’s eyes held a quiet sharpness, the kind that made even casual conversation feel deliberate. “Tell me, how are you finding Boston this time around?”

Orm smiled faintly. “It feels less like finding and more like returning. I went to Harvard for law school, so in a way, it feels like coming home.”

“Ah, that explains the ease,” Natasha said with a small smile. “This city has a way of keeping its people. I studied here too. I suppose that is what Boston does best. It never really lets you leave.”

Orm let out a soft laugh. “That might be true. It still smells like coffee and ambition.”

“I would say that is its perfume,” Natasha replied. Her voice carried warmth now, the earlier formality dissolving into something almost friendly.

Lorena had drifted away by then, swallowed by a small circle of partners near the stage. The two of them stood at the edge of the ballroom, where the music softened and the city lights spilled through the tall windows like liquid gold. Conversation came easily between them, steady and intelligent. Natasha was articulate and surprisingly open, the kind of person who could discuss case law and art in the same breath without sounding rehearsed.

Orm found herself at ease. She could see why everyone spoke of Natasha Matthews with such admiration. She was brilliant, magnetic, but with an elegance that made her seem untouchable. For a moment, Orm even caught herself thinking she looked familiar, as though she had seen her from across a lecture hall or in some fleeting photograph from years past. She dismissed the thought quickly, assuming it was just the comfort of being back in a city where faces blurred with memory.

They were still talking about the intricacies of the Horizon-Cura merger when a voice rose behind them, soft yet commanding.

“Miu, have you seen the event coordinator? The servers are waiting on the table assignments.”

The sound hit Orm like a forgotten melody.

She froze. Her heart knew before her eyes did. Every muscle in her body tightened, every breath caught in her chest.

Natasha turned, smiling with effortless affection. “I think Lorena has the updated list, love. Try the west entrance. She was talking to the catering lead a few minutes ago.”

Orm’s hand tightened around her glass. Love. The word rang out like a bell.

The woman approached with the easy grace of someone born to belong in any room. Her dark hair was swept into a soft knot, with a few strands falling freely against her neck. Her gown was a deep shade of ivory silk that gleamed under the chandeliers, her jewelry minimal but chosen with care. She carried herself like someone who had forgotten what it meant to be uncertain.

Orm did not need to see her face to know.

Ling turned.

The world went quiet.

Recognition flared in her eyes, first a flicker, then a full, uncontrollable surge. The faint smile she wore faltered as her breath caught. For a long heartbeat, she did not move. Her hand, still holding the clipboard, trembled slightly.

Natasha, completely unaware of the storm unfolding between them, smiled brightly. “Orm, this is my wife, Ling. She heads our non-profit organization and helps with some of our charity work and also is a recurring guest lecturer at Harvard’s law school. You two may have crossed paths without realizing it.”

The words passed through Orm like an electric current. Guest lecturer. Harvard. The irony of it settled in her chest, sharp and cruel. If this were a story, the audience would not yet know what it meant, but Orm did. Ling did too. Only neither of them could afford to show it.

Ling’s composure returned first. Her lips curved into a polite smile that did not reach her eyes. “It is very nice to meet you,” she said quietly.

Orm managed a nod. “You too.”

The air between them grew heavy. Natasha’s phone began to vibrate in her clutch, a small mercy that pulled her attention away. She excused herself with an apologetic smile and stepped aside to answer it, her voice soft and composed as she disappeared toward the far end of the hall.

Ling’s composure cracked first. The polite smile slipped from her lips as her voice dropped low enough for only Orm to hear. “You are working for Miu?”

The question cut through the noise of the gala like glass against silk.

Orm blinked, unable to form words. Ling’s voice had reached her, but her mind could not keep up. Her boss was her former lover’s wife. The thought made no sense. Ling had never mentioned Natasha Matthews by name. She had said “Miu” in passing, once or twice, but never enough to make Orm stop and ask. And now, standing here beneath the glittering chandeliers, the truth arrived too suddenly to feel real.

“Orm?” Ling’s voice softened, but there was suspicion there too, a quiet accusation that made Orm flinch.

Before Ling could say more, before she could believe even for a second that this was planned, Orm found her voice. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

Ling’s gaze sharpened, searching for any trace of deceit. Orm could only stare back, her chest rising unevenly. She shut her eyes for a moment, as if the world might rearrange itself if she refused to see it. The air felt too small, too bright, too full of everything she had tried to leave behind. “Ling,” she said at last, the name escaping her like a prayer.

The sound of it made Ling falter. It was the same voice that had once called her home, the same tone that could strip away every layer of restraint she had ever built.

Ling looked away first. Her fingers traced the stem of her wine glass, grounding herself in the smallest, most human motion. “You really did not know,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Orm.

“I swear, I didn’t,” Orm repeated, her voice thin and trembling.

Natasha’s laughter rang across the room, bright and oblivious, cutting through the tension like sunlight through fog. Ling straightened instantly, the change in her demeanor seamless. In a breath, she was once again the composed wife, the perfect hostess, the woman who never let her emotions slip where others could see.

“I have to get back to her,” she said, her tone even but hollow. “Enjoy the gala, Ms. Kornnaphat.”

She turned before Orm could reply. Her gown shimmered under the light, each step deliberate, measured, distant. Then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd as if the air itself had taken her back.

Orm remained where she was, her heart struggling to catch up with the truth that had just detonated inside her. The music swelled around her, a slow jazz rhythm that felt cruel in its elegance. Her pulse thudded in her ears, her thoughts a blur of disbelief and longing. The air still carried Ling’s perfume, that faint trace of jasmine that had once clung to Orm’s pillow, and for a moment she thought she might be sick from the weight of it all.

She turned away, trying to lose herself among strangers, but her gaze betrayed her. Across the room, through clusters of guests and flickering candlelight, she found Ling again.

For the next forty-five minutes, their eyes met and broke apart in an unspoken pattern of restraint and ruin. They never spoke, but the silence between them said everything that words could not. Each glance felt like a question with no answer. Each moment stretched too long, too fragile to hold.

Orm told herself to leave, to look away, to remember that Ling belonged to someone else now. But she could not.

And then she saw it. Natasha had found her wife among the guests. She leaned in with that same effortless grace, hand resting at the small of Ling’s back. Orm’s stomach twisted. Watching them together was a kind of pain she had never been built to endure. All the scenarios she had imagined years ago, the ones where Ling went home to someone else, where another woman held her in public, where another mouth kissed the places she once claimed, had always been distant, unreal, safely contained within the limits of her imagination.

But now it was real.

Natasha pressed a kiss to Ling’s cheek as the music shifted into something soft and romantic. They began to dance, slow and deliberate, under the golden light. To everyone watching, they looked perfect. But Orm saw what others could not. Ling’s eyes were unfocused, fixed somewhere beyond the ballroom, her movements mechanical, her smile appearing only when necessary. She swayed in her wife’s arms like someone who had forgotten how to feel.

That small, hollow look gave Orm the one thing she both wanted and feared most.

Hope.

Hope that the love they had once shared was not entirely gone. Hope that something inside Ling still remembered her, still ached the way she did.

But Orm did not know what to do with that hope. It sat in her chest like a spark she could neither hold nor let die, burning quietly as the night carried on.

Orm had reached her limit.

The sight of Ling in another woman’s arms burned through her composure with slow precision. The music, the laughter, the glint of champagne glasses , everything blurred at the edges. Even the chandelier light seemed too sharp, cutting into her skin. She could not stay another minute.

She set her glass on a tray and turned toward the ballroom doors. The marble floor gleamed beneath her heels as she moved, head high, posture steady, every inch of her trained to appear calm while her chest burned with panic. All she wanted was to step outside, breathe, forget that the air still carried the faint sweetness of Ling’s perfume.

But fate had always been merciless when it came to her.

“Orm,” came Lorena’s voice, bright and unbothered, the kind that people obeyed instinctively. Orm froze mid-step.

“There you are,” Lorena said, catching her by the arm before she could disappear. “I was looking for you. Come on, I have a few people I want you to meet.”

Orm tried to form an excuse, but her throat had gone dry. “Of course,” she said instead, forcing a small smile.

Lorena looped her arm through hers and led her back toward the golden heart of the ballroom. The lights shimmered off crystal chandeliers, and laughter rippled from the tables as waiters passed with fresh trays of canapés. “Natasha is over there with a few of the board members and some judges,” Lorena said over her shoulder. “You might as well make the most of your first night. It is good to be seen, Orm. Especially here.”

Orm nodded silently, though her body screamed to leave.

The circle came into view before she could prepare herself. Natasha stood with a small group of senior partners and two older men Orm recognized vaguely from press photos. She was laughing at something one of the men said, radiant and entirely at ease.

And beside her, as if nothing in the universe had ever broken between them, stood Ling.

Lorena smiled as she drew closer, her social grace cutting through the hum of conversation. “Natasha, I finally found your elusive new star. I thought she had escaped me.”

Natasha turned, her expression warming instantly. “Ah, there you are, Orm. I was just telling them how lucky we are to have stolen you from Los Angeles.”

Orm nodded politely, her words caught somewhere behind her tongue.

Lorena continued, gesturing between the others. “Judge Carlton, Senator Avery, this is Orm Kornnaphat , one of the sharpest minds we have added this year. Orm, these are people you will want to know. They are far kinder outside the courtroom than in it.”

Laughter followed. Orm smiled faintly and shook hands, the ritual of small talk pulling her through the motions.

The group spoke about the gala, the wine, the foundation’s work. Orm listened, responding when spoken to, her mind detached and echoing. She could feel Ling’s presence without looking. Every movement, every quiet inhale, every flicker of silk in the corner of her eye reached her like an echo from another life.

When Natasha spoke, she did it with that easy charm that filled the air around her. “I was just saying,” she told one of the judges, “Boston is impossible to leave. The city keeps what it wants.”

“Only the ambitious,” someone replied.

Natasha smiled. “Then we are all doomed to stay.”

Ling’s soft laugh followed, low and almost lost beneath the chatter. Orm felt it more than she heard it, a vibration that rippled straight through her.

Lorena leaned in to murmur something to one of the partners, her attention elsewhere. The judge turned to ask Natasha about her latest case, and for a single, suspended moment, Orm and Ling were left facing each other across the narrow space of candlelight and glass.

Their eyes met.

It was only a second, but it undid everything Orm had carefully rebuilt inside her. Ling’s expression was composed, polite, perfect but her eyes betrayed her. There was shock there still, and something deeper. Regret, maybe. Recognition, certainly.

Natasha’s hand came to rest on the small of Ling’s back as she turned to introduce her to someone new. “You have not met Judge Carlton properly, have you, love?”

Ling smiled, the kind that reached no part of her except her lips. “We have spoken once before,” she said smoothly, “at the fundraiser last spring.”

Orm looked away. Her jaw tightened. She could not breathe.

Lorena excused herself soon after, caught by another group across the room, leaving Orm stranded in the small, glittering circle. The conversation continued around her, polite and meaningless. She could not focus on a single word. Her gaze drifted back to Ling again, drawn helplessly.

Ling did not look at her this time. Her attention stayed on Natasha, nodding at something she said, a picture of grace and composure. But even from a distance, Orm could see the tension in the line of her shoulders, the way her glass trembled slightly when she lifted it.

A waiter passed with a new tray of champagne. Natasha took two glasses, offering one to Ling. Their fingers brushed, and Ling smiled just enough for the crowd to believe it. Orm’s stomach twisted.

The moment broke her.

She murmured a quiet excuse and stepped back. The noise of the room surged around her again the laughter, the music, the clinking of crystal , but it all felt too far away. She crossed the floor slowly, every breath deliberate, and finally reached the open doors leading out to the terrace.

Through the glass behind her, the gala continued , Natasha radiant, Ling beside her, the world moving on as though nothing had ever happened.

Orm closed her eyes and let the night swallow her whole.

Orm stayed outside for a long time, the city lights flickering against her face. Boston stretched before her, familiar yet unwelcoming. The wind bit against her bare shoulders, but she did not move. For a moment she imagined walking back inside, imagined reaching for Ling, imagined asking her what it felt like to stand beside someone else while looking like that. But she did not move. She stood still, the ache in her chest steady and old.

By the time she left the gala, the night had thinned into silence. The car ride back to her apartment felt longer than it was. The city glowed beyond the tinted window, indifferent, a thousand stories unfolding without her. Her reflection in the glass looked like a stranger. The confident woman who had walked into the ballroom hours ago had dissolved into someone small, someone who wanted nothing more than to go back in time and do it differently.

When she reached her apartment, the quiet hit harder than she expected. She kicked off her heels by the door and leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. Her dress still smelled faintly of jasmine and champagne.

She poured herself a glass of water but forgot to drink it. The city murmured outside, muted through the high windows.

Orm missed the nights when everything was simpler. When it was just the two of them on her couch, the world reduced to soft laughter and quiet touches. She missed Ling’s head resting on her shoulder, the warmth of her breath against her neck, the sound of rain against the window as they talked about everything and nothing at all. Ling’s voice used to soften in those hours, low and unguarded, her sentences curling into laughter before fading into silence.

Back then, love had felt easy. Dangerous, yes, but easy.

Orm pressed her palms against the cool marble counter, the memory flooding her with something close to pain. She could still see the way Ling would look at her after an argument, eyes rimmed with tears but full of tenderness. Ling never needed to say the words aloud. They were always there, unspoken, hanging in the air between them like something sacred.

And Orm had left.

She told herself she was protecting them both, that leaving was the only way to stop the slow ruin that love was making of them. But standing here now, years later, she could not remember what exactly she had been protecting, she wished they fought through it together. Ling had asked her to stay. Ling had chosen her once, completely, recklessly. And Orm had walked away.

She sank onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. The city lights spilled through the blinds, striping her bare arms in pale gold.

In the stillness of her apartment, regret settled like dust. It crept into the corners, into her breathing, into the quiet ache beneath her ribs. Every part of her wanted to believe that she had done the right thing, that love sometimes needed distance to survive. But the truth pressed harder now, sharper.

She had not been brave enough to fight for it.

If love had been a battle, Ling had fought it until her last breath, while Orm had retreated when it mattered most.

The thought hollowed her.

Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance. The sound faded quickly, swallowed by the city’s rhythm. Orm leaned back against the couch, her eyes wet though no tears fell. She whispered Ling’s name once into the empty room, the sound small, fragile, almost reverent.

It was the first time in years she allowed herself to say it aloud.

And when the silence came again, it was absolute.

*Flashback*

The soup kitchen on downtown Boston smelled like garlic, detergent, and good intentions. It was barely eight in the morning, and the room already buzzed with clattering pots and sleepy chatter. Orm stood by the cutting board, her hair tied messily at the nape of her neck, dicing onions with more passion than precision. Tears streamed down her cheeks from the fumes, and the volunteer beside her had just offered her safety goggles.

“Fine,” she muttered, waving him off, “I’ll cry for the cause.”

For people who didn’t know her, Orm was just another cheerful law student giving back to the community on weekends. For people who did know her, she was a privileged hurricane of contradictions … Harvard student, daughter of a wealthy Asian family, proud owner of a car she didn’t really need and a conscience she couldn’t always quiet. Volunteering was her way of negotiating with the universe, a peace treaty between guilt and good intentions.

She had been doing this for weeks now, turning up every Saturday at dawn, sleeves rolled, sneakers splattered with broth, trying to feel like she was part of something pure.

And that was when she saw her.

Ling.

Standing at the other end of the kitchen in a cream sweater and jeans, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back neatly, laughing softly with one of the older volunteers. She didn’t look like she belonged in this place. She looked like she had stepped out of a winter magazine and accidentally wandered into a food shelter. Yet she was holding a ladle with perfect ease, tasting the soup like a chef on television, utterly unbothered by the noise around her.

Orm blinked, leaned slightly to the side, and nearly sliced her finger off.

“Are you following me?” she asked, half joking, half serious, as she wiped her hands on a towel and walked over. Her tone was mock-suspicious, her brow raised dramatically.

Ling looked up, startled at first, then amused. “You are one to ask that question,” she replied, her voice calm and melodic. “I am fairly certain you are the one following me.”

Orm clutched her chest in exaggerated offense. “Excuse me, I’ve been volunteering here for weeks, and I’ve never seen you once.”

“I’ve been coming here for years,” Ling said, smiling as she stirred the pot. “I head the nonprofit that funds this kitchen. Technically, you work for me.”

Orm blinked. “You what?”

Ling tilted her head, her tone measured but warm. “I founded it three years ago. My wife, Miu, is a big-shot attorney, and her firm needed a good public image. That’s how the nonprofit came to light.”

There it was. Wife. The word struck Orm like a paper cut she didn’t expect. Small. Sharp. Immediate.

She forced a grin, her voice coming out too quickly. “Miu? Like Miu Miu, the brand?”

The joke landed too loud in the quiet hum of the kitchen. The air hesitated for a second, and Orm cursed herself internally. Smooth, Orm. Really smooth.

But then Ling laughed.

It was not a polite laugh or a reserved one, but a soft, radiant sound that lit up the entire room. She laughed so hard she had to press a hand to her chest, her eyes glistening with amusement.

“Yes,” she managed between giggles, “like the brand.”

The sound of that laughter did something to Orm’s insides she could not name. It filled her chest in a way that felt reckless and familiar all at once, and before she knew it, she was grinning helplessly.

“Well,” Orm said, trying to recover some composure, “tell your wife her name is very high fashion.”

“I’ll pass that along,” Ling replied, still smiling, stirring the soup as if this was the most natural conversation in the world.

Orm leaned against the counter, pretending to inspect the diced carrots, though she was really watching Ling from the corner of her eye. “So, you come here often, Miss Nonprofit?”

Ling arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curving. “Every Saturday.”

“Then I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before,” Orm said, feigning casual curiosity.

“Perhaps,” Ling said lightly, “you were too busy dicing vegetables dramatically.”

Orm laughed, glancing down at the uneven pile she had made. “Touché.”

Ling’s lips softened into a quiet smile before she turned back to the pot. The air between them carried an ease that felt new but dangerous, like the beginning of something neither of them could name yet. And Orm, messy and unguarded, felt herself start to fall for the woman with the calm hands and the laugh that made everything else fade into background noise.

The last of the pots had been washed, and the kitchen finally began to exhale. The noise softened into the steady hum of the dishwasher; the smell of garlic and detergent lingered like the memory of warmth. Ling stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, her hands under the stream of water. She moved with that same quiet grace that made even exhaustion look elegant.

Orm lingered near the door, pretending to check her phone, pretending she wasn’t waiting for something she couldn’t name.

Steam curled upward from the sink, fogging the small window beside Ling. The light caught her face, softening her edges until she looked like a painting that had learned to breathe. A few strands of hair had come loose from her bun, falling against her neck in perfect imperfection. Orm, who was rarely at a loss for words, found herself completely without them.

Ling spoke first, her voice calm and low.
“Do you want to get a cup of coffee?”

Orm’s head snapped up. “Like right now?”

Ling turned, drying her hands on a towel. Her expression was composed, but her eyes held that flicker of amusement that made Orm’s chest tighten.
“No,” she said lightly. “Two weeks from now, dork.”

Orm blinked once, then laughed a quick, startled sound that drew glances from the remaining volunteers. “Good. Because I’m emotionally unavailable until approximately now.”

Ling shook her head, smiling in that quiet, unhurried way of hers. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot,” Orm replied. “Mostly from people who eventually come around.”

“I’m sure they do,” Ling murmured, folding the towel with unnecessary precision.

“Oh, they do,” Orm said, stepping closer to the counter. “Usually right before they run away.”

Ling looked up at her, the edge of a laugh escaping her lips. “Then I suppose I’m in trouble.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Orm said, grinning.

They left together a few minutes later. Outside, the city was awake in that slow lazy Saturday way, coffee carts steaming on corners, pigeons starting small arguments over crumbs, the air sharp enough to sting. Orm shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, half to keep warm, half to keep from gesturing too wildly. Ling walked beside her, unhurried, her scarf looped neatly at her throat.

“You’re quiet outside,” Ling said after a moment.

“That’s because the onions aren’t bullying me anymore,” Orm answered. “Don’t get used to it. I’m normally very loud.”

“I noticed.”

Orm tilted her head. “You noticed me.”

“It would be difficult not to,” Ling said simply. “You chop vegetables like you’re settling an old score.”

“That’s because I am. Those vegetables owe me for all the tears.”

Ling laughed softly, and the sound carried in the cold air like a small spark.

They reached the café … a narrow little place on the corner, all brass light and fogged windows. The bell above the door chimed as Ling held it open for her. Inside, the air smelled of espresso and something sweet baking in the back. The barista greeted Ling by name.

“So, you’re a regular,” Orm said as they joined the short line.

“Every Saturday,” Ling replied. “After the shelter.”

Orm nodded, pretending this was a normal conversation and not the most important one of her week. “Guess I’ve been missing the post-soup networking session.”

“Networking?”

“With the universe,” Orm said solemnly. “Trying to build rapport.”

“That explains a lot.”

Ling ordered two coffees without asking what Orm wanted. When they sat by the window, the glass fogged gently between them and the street. The city outside blurred into motion. Inside, everything felt slower.

“So, you really founded that nonprofit?” Orm asked, blowing lightly on her drink.

Ling nodded, eyes still on the dark liquid in her cup. “Three years ago. My wife and I started it together. She -”

“Ah, enough about the wife,” Orm interrupted, her tone light but edged with impatience. “Wife this, wife that. I don’t want you to talk about your wife. I want you to talk about you. What do you do besides teaching and saving the world on weekends? What do you actually like? Your hobbies, your favorite color, your favorite time of day…everything and nothing.”

Ling looked up, startled, as if no one had ever interrupted her rehearsed answers before. Her lips parted slightly, the faintest trace of surprise softening her usually composed face. “You want to know that?”

Orm nodded, chin resting in her palm. “Yes. The woman, not the résumé.”

For a moment Ling seemed unsure of what to do with the question. She blinked once, twice, then set her cup down carefully. “I like the color green,” she said at last. “The dark kind, the one you see in forests after rain. I like quiet evenings. I collect postcards from cities I’ve never been to. I hate being late. And I like jasmine, especially at night.”

Orm smiled, eyes bright with genuine curiosity. “That’s unexpectedly romantic for someone who teaches law.”

Ling laughed softly, the sound slipping out before she could hold it back. “Postcards make the world feel a little smaller. They remind me there’s more to see than the same classrooms and courtrooms.”

“Do you ever want to go?” Orm asked.

Ling tilted her head. “Go where?”

“Everywhere,” Orm said simply. “To all the places on your postcards.”

Ling regarded her quietly, a trace of amusement flickering in her eyes. “You ask dangerous questions for a student.”

“Then stop answering like a professor,” Orm replied, her tone warm, teasing, yet sincere enough to make Ling look away for a second.

The corner of Ling’s mouth curved. “We are still professor and student, you know.”

“Technically,” Orm said. “But right now we’re two people having coffee. Unless this café doubles as a classroom, in which case I’m in trouble for not taking notes.”

Ling shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You really are unfiltered.”

“I prefer the word authentic.”

“I prefer the word professional,” Ling said, though her voice had softened.

“Professional,” Orm repeated. “That’s one way to say emotionally unavailable.”

Ling laughed again, quieter this time, her cheeks flushed just enough to betray her. “You shouldn’t talk like that to your professor.”

“Then stop looking at me like that,” Orm said before she could stop herself.

The air between them shifted. Ling froze for half a heartbeat, her eyes widening, a faint crimson rising to her face. She recovered quickly, straightening in her seat, fingers tightening around her cup. “I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” she said, though the words trembled ever so slightly.

Orm smiled, leaning back. “Good. Because I might start thinking you like me.”

Ling let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” Orm said softly, “you’re still here.”

For a long moment Ling didn’t answer. The steam from the coffee rose between them, curling like a secret neither wanted to name. Outside, the world moved on ,cars passing, people rushing, a siren echoing somewhere far away but inside, time held its breath.

Ling finally set her cup down and looked at Orm, her expression unreadable. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that,” she said gently.

“Why not?”

“Because I might start answering them,” she whispered.

Orm’s smile returned, slower now, tender. “That’s kind of the point, Professor.”

Ling looked away, but the faint color on her cheeks gave her away. For the first time in a very long while, she felt the fragile thrill of being seen not as a title, not as someone’s wife, but as herself. And that, she realized, was far more dangerous than anything else that morning.

When they finally stepped out of the café, the air had shifted. The morning had ripened into a pale, golden noon that caught on the edges of the shop windows and made the pavement glow faintly. The wind, still carrying the trace of roasted coffee and city dust, brushed against them as they walked side by side. Neither spoke for a while. The quiet between them was not heavy, but full, like a string pulled just tight enough to hum.

Ling wrapped her scarf around her neck with slow precision, as though the act itself could summon her composure back. The faint color that had risen in her cheeks during their conversation still lingered, and she tried to will it away. She was a woman built on restraint, the sort who rarely stumbled, and yet this student this infuriating, bright, unpredictable student had a way of disarming her with nothing but a smile.

Orm, on the other hand, walked with an easy rhythm, her hands buried in her coat pockets, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Every few steps she glanced sideways, just to catch the way Ling’s hair moved in the wind, or how her brow furrowed slightly when she was deep in thought. It amused her that someone so perfectly composed could also look so uncertain.

“You walk fast for someone who insists on being calm,” Orm said lightly, her tone teasing but soft enough to be kind.

Ling exhaled through a quiet laugh and slowed her pace. “Old habit,” she said. “I forget people can’t keep up sometimes.”

“I can keep up,” Orm replied. “I’m just pacing myself so you don’t trip trying to look graceful.”

That earned her another laugh, quick and real this time. It made Ling tilt her head down as though to hide it, but Orm saw the way her eyes brightened. She decided she liked that laugh too much to stop provoking it.

They reached the corner where the street opened into a small park, a patch of bare trees and stone benches where the wind carried the faint smell of damp leaves. Ling paused there, half turning toward her, as if trying to decide whether to keep walking or end the moment before it wandered too far. Orm stopped beside her, the distance between them close enough for the chill of Ling’s perfume to linger in the air.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that,” Ling said at last, her tone gentler than her words.

“Like what?” Orm asked, her eyes fixed on her.

“Things that sound like you mean them,” Ling said quietly.

“I do mean them,” Orm answered, not smiling this time. The playfulness had drained into something steadier, something sincere enough to make Ling look away.

Ling’s fingers tightened around the edge of her scarf. She tried to gather the remnants of her poise, but the warmth of Orm’s gaze seemed to undo every careful layer she had built.

“You know this can’t be what you think it is,” she said, her voice low, steadying itself as if by habit. “You are my student.” She paused, the words catching slightly in her throat before she added, quieter still, “And I’m married.”

The admission hung between them like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading silently through the air.

Orm looked at her for a long time. The wind had picked up, pulling at her coat, tossing a few strands of hair across her face, but she didn’t move. Her expression softened, all the mischief fading into something gentler, something dangerously sincere.

“I know,” she said. “You’ve mentioned her.”

Ling’s eyes flickered with relief, guilt, something else too complex to name. “Then you understand,” she said softly. “This isn’t … whatever this is ... it can’t exist.”

Orm smiled faintly, not the kind that mocked, but the kind that ached. “I’m not asking it to,” she said. “I’m just asking you to stop talking like you’re made of stone.”

Ling turned her gaze toward the street. The winter light slid along her face, pale and clean, and for a moment she looked younger, almost fragile beneath the weight of her own control. “I’m not made of stone,” she said. “I just know how to stay standing.”

Orm took a slow step closer, enough for their breath to mingle in the cold air. “Then let me stand beside you,” she said quietly.

Ling closed her eyes for a moment, as if the words themselves were too close, too heavy. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Maybe not,” Orm said. “But I know how you look when you laugh, and I know how you fall silent when you’re trying not to feel something. I know there’s more to you than your title, your composure, or the ring on your hand.”

Ling’s head lifted slightly, her eyes catching the light, sharp and uncertain. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I shouldn’t,” Orm agreed. “But you should hear them anyway.”

Ling drew in a long breath, the cold air stinging against her throat. She wanted to say something ..anything, that would restore the distance between them, rebuild the boundaries that were already beginning to crumble. But the words wouldn’t come. The truth was simpler, smaller, and infinitely more dangerous: she didn’t want to stop hearing Orm’s voice.

“I love my wife,” she said at last, and though the words were true, her voice trembled slightly.

“I believe you,” Orm said softly. “That doesn’t mean you have to disappear behind her.”

Ling looked at her sharply, but Orm didn’t flinch. She simply held her gaze, steady and calm, the kind of courage that made denial feel impossible.

“You think you know me,” Ling said.

“I don’t,” Orm admitted. “That’s what I want…to know you. The parts no one else asks about. The parts you never talk about because everyone already decided who you’re supposed to be.”

Ling exhaled, the air escaping her like something long held. “You make everything sound simple.”

“Maybe it is,” Orm said. “You talk. I listen. We drink terrible coffee and pretend the world isn’t watching.”

Ling’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but close. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet you’re still standing here,” Orm murmured.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The sound of the city dimmed around them …the low rumble of traffic, the distant whistle of a train, the quiet murmur of strangers passing by. The world seemed to shrink until it was only them, standing too close in a patch of weak sunlight, fighting against something neither had the strength to name.

Ling finally stepped back, just slightly, enough to breathe. Her voice, when it came, was calm again but softer, almost tender. “Go home, Orm.”

Orm nodded slowly. “If I go, will you still think about me?”

Ling hesitated. Her mouth opened as if to answer, but no sound came. She turned away before the silence could betray her.

“I’ll see you in class on Monday,” she said instead, the words breaking like glass under her breath.

Orm watched her cross the street, the rhythm of her steps too deliberate, too careful. The gold band on her finger caught the sunlight, glinting like a boundary drawn by fate itself.

And yet, as Ling disappeared into the stream of people, Orm knew by the smallest tilt of her head before she vanished that she would think about her. Maybe only for a moment, maybe for the rest of the day, but long enough for the quiet to stop feeling like safety.

The thought made Orm smile, faint and foolish, as the wind curled between the buildings and carried the warmth of Ling’s voice back to her one last time.

Chapter Text

Orm’s POV:

Orm had hardly slept after the gala yesterday. The night had stretched endlessly, every minute thick with the images she could not erase: Ling in her wife’s arms, Ling smiling that calm, unreadable smile, Ling swaying under the chandeliers while another woman held her close. The sight had left a hollow ache in her chest, something sharp and unyielding, like a thorn she could not pull out. She had tossed in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling while the city outside drifted into silence. Even when exhaustion finally dragged her under, her dreams were restless and unkind, full of voices that sounded like Ling’s.

She woke late, the sunlight already spilling across the sheets in pale ribbons. Her head throbbed faintly. The air in her apartment felt heavy, as though the night before had followed her home. When her phone began to buzz against the nightstand, she groaned, half turning, her mind still thick with sleep. She expected it to be a work notification, or perhaps a message from Lorena about the merger schedule. Instead, when she squinted at the screen, her breath caught.

Ling:
hi
are you awake?
can you meet me?

For a moment Orm just stared, her pulse roaring in her ears. The words felt unreal, too sudden, too dangerous to belong to morning light. She sat upright, running a hand through her hair, trying to slow the racing of her heart. Her mind spun with possibilities: anger, closure, confession. But she didn’t let herself hesitate. She typed back before her nerves could interfere.

Orm:
yes
where do you want to meet?

Her thumb lingered over the screen as if Ling’s reply will come faster. She didn’t have to wait long.

Ling:
anywhere…
discreet

Orm’s heart stumbled. The word itself seemed to hum. Discreet. It was the kind of word that belonged to secrets, to things whispered against skin, to memories that shouldn’t be shared but always were. She chewed the inside of her cheek, her brain racing like an overworked engine, flipping through mental maps of Boston, trying to find a place that matched what Ling was asking for. Some quiet corner café, a bookstore, the old riverside where no one ever went. Before she could decide, the phone vibrated again.

Ling:
is your apartment ok?

Orm froze. The air left her lungs in one slow exhale. Her apartment. The very place where years of their history still lived like ghosts. She looked around the room now, the half-empty glass on her nightstand, the crumpled sheets that still smelled faintly of perfume and sleeplessness, the framed photographs stacked carelessly on the dresser, one of them showing a sky from a trip she once took with Ling.

Could she really let her come here? The thought flooded her with a thousand old sensations: the warmth of Ling’s hand tracing her spine, the sound of her laughter echoing down the hall, the nights they had fought until both were crying, only to find peace tangled together on that very couch. Every wall, every shadow, remembered her.

She should have said no. She should have typed something safe, something rational. But her heart, foolish and restless, reached for the one truth it could still recognize. She typed slowly, her fingers trembling just enough to betray her.

Orm:
yes, always

The message sent with a soft click. For a few seconds, the phone’s glow was the only light in the room. Orm sat back against the pillows, her chest tightening with a feeling she couldn’t name. The city outside was waking up, distant traffic, a car door slamming, a dog barking somewhere below, but inside, everything felt suspended, waiting for a knock that hadn’t yet come.

She closed her eyes and whispered Ling’s name once under her breath, as though the sound alone might prepare her for what was coming.

Orm moved through the apartment like a woman possessed, the phone still warm in her hand and her heart drumming a rhythm she could neither slow nor ignore. The words is your apartment ok echoed in her mind as though the message had carved itself into the air. She should have said no, she should have chosen anywhere else, a place that did not know Ling’s laughter or the shape of her shadow. But now there was no turning back.

She pulled her hair into a loose knot and began to clean. The apartment was not filthy, but it bore the marks of someone who had been living on autopilot, half-empty takeout boxes stacked on the counter, a pile of laundry that had never quite made it to the closet, coffee mugs left behind like small ghosts of sleepless nights. She gathered the boxes and tossed them away, the sharp sound of plastic and paper against the trash bin breaking the silence. She opened the windows to let in air, the Boston chill biting her fingers as she leaned out to shake off the staleness of last night.

When the apartment finally began to resemble something livable, she turned to the kitchen. Her body moved by instinct, muscle memory reaching back to a time when Sunday mornings had meant shared breakfasts and stolen kisses. She cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them gently, the familiar scent of butter rising as the pan warmed. She chopped scallions with mechanical precision and added a hint of chili flakes…Ling always liked her omelets to have a little heat.

Next came the buldak, the fiery Korean chicken that had once been their ritual on cold days. Orm still remembered Ling leaning against the counter years ago, tasting the sauce with a wooden spoon and declaring that no one in Boston made it as well as she did. She remembered the sound of Ling’s laugh when Orm burned her tongue trying to steal a bite too soon. Now, the sizzling of the pan filled the silence like a memory resurrected.

She brewed coffee last, the aroma spilling through the apartment in slow curls of warmth. The smell alone almost felt like an invocation, a bridge between then and now. If anyone walked in, they might have thought this was some quiet, domestic morning, a scene from a bed and breakfast, gentle and ordinary. But nothing about it was ordinary. Not the trembling in Orm’s hands, not the pulse in her throat, not the way her stomach twisted with both anticipation and dread. This was the morning she would see Ling again, not as a memory, not as a ghost, but as the woman who had once been her entire world.

She moved to the living room, straightening things that didn’t need straightening. She fluffed the pillows…fluffed the pillows, for God’s sake, she thought bitterly, laughing under her breath. She wiped the table twice, adjusted the curtains, even lit a candle before quickly blowing it out when she realized how desperate that must look. By the time the knock came, her heart had already climbed into her throat.

The sound was soft but unmistakable. She stood there for a moment, frozen, every nerve in her body caught between wanting to run to the door and wanting to disappear entirely. When she finally opened it, Ling was standing there, wrapped in a long camel coat, her hair loose, her expression unreadable.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The morning light spilled across Ling’s face, soft and unflinching, making her look almost ethereal. She stepped inside quietly, the faint click of her heels against the hardwood the only sound in the room. The air between them was thick, alive with something that used to be effortless but now felt unbearable.

Orm watched as Ling looked around, her gaze catching on the little details…the cleaned counter, the still-steaming coffee, the plate of omelets and chicken on the table. There was a flicker of recognition there, something that softened her face for a moment before it vanished behind composure.

“You cleaned,” Ling said finally, her voice low and steady.

Orm forced a small smile. “You hate clutter.”

Ling’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, then she nodded, setting her bag on the table. The silence that followed was not peaceful; it hummed like tension stretched too tight.

They sat eventually, though even that felt strange. Ling chose the couch, and Orm followed, but they sat at opposite ends as though distance might keep them from falling back into old habits. The space between them felt enormous, foreign. Once, there had been no gap at all…Ling would have walked straight in, pulled Orm into her arms, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, until laughter replaced words. Once, she would have leaned over and tasted the coffee from Orm’s cup, teasing her about how strong she brewed it. Now, they sat still, careful, their hands folded neatly in their laps like strangers who had accidentally stumbled into each other’s past.

The clock ticked faintly. The city outside went on as if nothing monumental was happening in this small apartment.

Ling looked down at her hands, her wedding ring catching a glint of light. Orm’s eyes followed the movement before she could stop herself. Ling noticed. Her fingers curled, as if to hide it.

“What are you thinking, Ling?” Orm asked softly, leaning forward just enough to catch her expression. “Tell me.”

Ling inhaled sharply, the air trembling in her throat before she finally spoke. “I was moving on from you, Orm,” she said, her voice trembling as though every word scraped against something raw. “I was heartbroken, completely broken, and I didn’t know what to do with myself when you left. I didn’t eat for days. Every time I walked past the coffee shop we used to go to, I crossed the street. I avoided the park, the river, every corner of this city that reminded me of you.”

She stopped, pressing her fingers against her mouth as if she could hold the words back, but they kept spilling out. “I took therapy, Orm. I started working on projects that would wear me out so I wouldn’t have to think. I threw myself into things that hurt my body because at least that pain I could understand. Little by little, I built myself back. I started laughing again, smiling again, breathing again. It took everything I had to accept that you were not coming back.”

Her voice broke then, soft but sharp, the way glass sounds when it cracks. “And you are here now,” she whispered, tears finally falling freely down her cheeks. “You are sitting here in front of me, and I don’t know if I can handle it. I don’t know if I can stay in the same city as you and pretend I’m fine. You ruined this city for me, Orm. I was born here, raised here, and you ruined it for me.”

Orm’s eyes stung, the reflection of Ling’s tears shimmering like something too painful to bear. She wanted to reach out, to touch her, to wipe the tears away, but her hands stayed where they were, locked in stillness.

Ling’s voice grew louder, trembling with the kind of grief that came from too many years of silence. “You ruined me. You ruined our love, our life, everything we could have been. You ruined every ounce of the future we imagined, and I had to pick up all the pieces while you were in god knows where, starting over like none of it mattered.”

Her words filled the room, raw and unfiltered, wrapping around them like smoke. Orm’s chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. This …this was what she had feared most. Not Ling’s anger, not her distance, but the proof that she had truly suffered, that her absence had carved wounds deeper than time could heal.

Orm swallowed hard, her throat dry, her voice a whisper when she finally spoke. “Ling…” It was the only word she could manage, small and broken, carrying all the guilt and longing that had never left her.

Ling looked at her then, her eyes red, her face streaked with tears. “You left me when I still loved you,” she said quietly, the words shattering something inside both of them. “And now you’re here, and I don’t even know what to feel.”

Orm couldn’t look away. Every part of her wanted to cross the space between them, to hold her the way she used to, to say all the things she had swallowed for years. But the distance remained, thick and merciless.

“Can you at least give me the grace to tell me why you actually left, Orm?” she asked, her tone low, furious, broken in a way that made Orm’s chest ache. “Why you turned your back on us? Why you left me when we had everything planned? Why you made me feel like a fool when I told my wife that I was in love with someone else, someone who was my world, only to find her gone from this very apartment that we made ours for three years?”

Her voice cracked then, the anger cutting through the quiet like a storm breaking through still air. “You turned your back on what we built. You are a coward, Orm.”

The words hung there, violent and true.

Orm sat still, her fingers curled into her palms so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She didn’t look away. She didn’t defend herself. She let it all land. Every word, every accusation, every piece of Ling’s grief…she took it all because she deserved it. Because it was hers.

For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet rhythm of Ling’s breathing, uneven and angry, and the distant hum of the city through the window. The coffee on the table had gone cold, the air between them thick with the ghost of what they once were.

Finally, Orm spoke. Her voice was quiet, almost too soft to hear. “I can’t, Ling,” she said, the words trembling out of her like a confession she didn’t want to make.

Ling blinked, her face hardening in disbelief. “You can’t what?”

Orm looked at her, eyes dark and hollow, her lips barely moving. “I just can’t.”

That was all she said. No reason. No justification. Just that simple, final truth that carried every unsaid thing inside it .. the fear, the guilt, the shame, the choice she couldn’t take back.

Ling stared at her for a long time, her breath catching somewhere between fury and heartbreak. Her eyes searched Orm’s face for something, an answer, an apology, anything, but Orm didn’t give her one. She simply sat there, silent, still, her expression calm in the way only devastation could make it.

The silence was unbearable. Ling stood abruptly, wiping at her face with the back of her hand as if to erase the tears that had already dried. She turned toward the window, her shoulders rising and falling in heavy breaths.

“You can’t,” she repeated softly, almost to herself. “That’s it? After everything we were, that’s all you have to say?”

Orm’s throat tightened, but she said nothing. Words felt useless now.

Ling let out a small, bitter laugh, the kind that sounded more like pain than amusement. “You left without a goodbye, without a reason, without a word. And now you come back, and I’m still here …still begging for something you refuse to give.”

Her voice broke again, and she turned, her eyes glistening. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be abandoned by the person who promised she never would?”

Orm closed her eyes. The answer was yes. Every night since she left.

But she didn’t say that either.

Ling watched her, the silence stretching until it became unbearable, until she could no longer stand the sight of the woman who had once been her home. She picked up her coat from the arm of the couch and held it close to her chest.

“You always said I made you brave,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together. “But you’re the one who taught me how easy it is to be afraid.”

She turned toward the door, but her steps faltered halfway, her fingers brushing against the frame where she had once pinned their first photograph together.

Behind her, Orm still sat on the couch, unmoving, her hands folded, her eyes on the spot Ling had just vacated. The apartment was quiet again, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the quiet of aftermath, of all the things that could no longer be taken back.

When the door finally clicked shut, Orm exhaled for the first time in what felt like years. The sound was broken, almost human, almost prayer.

She whispered into the emptiness, her voice small and trembling. “I just couldn’t tell you, Ling… not without finding answers.”

The words slipped into the quiet like a confession too late to matter, fragile and unfinished, hanging in the air long after her voice faded.

Ling’s POV:

Ling had never believed silence could have a sound until that morning. It rang in her ears long after she left Orm’s apartment, a hollow, aching silence that clung to her like smoke. The city outside was awake, cars, voices, the distant hum of morning traffic, but none of it reached her. The world felt muffled, like she was standing underwater, watching life move on without her.

Her hands shook as she slid into the driver’s seat. She didn’t start the car right away. She sat there with her fingers gripping the wheel, staring at the street ahead, eyes burning with tears that refused to fall. Her reflection in the rearview mirror looked like a stranger, tired, pale, the lipstick faintly smudged.

She thought of how easily it had all happened again. One message. One impulsive decision. One walk up to that familiar door she had sworn she would never touch again. And then Orm, there she was, standing in the same apartment, her hair still messy in that infuriatingly beautiful way, her voice still soft enough to undo Ling’s years of practiced restraint.

Ling had gone there thinking she could be composed. Mature. Measured. She had imagined they would talk like adults, maybe even find some closure. But the moment she saw her, every fragile piece of calm shattered. Because it was never just about closure. It was never just about answers. It was about the ache that hadn’t left in two years, the one she had buried under work and therapy and her wife’s steady, patient love.

She had promised herself she was over her. God, she had even said it aloud once, at therapy, in front of the mirror when she needed to sound convinced. But Orm’s face had undone it all in seconds. The way she looked at her, quiet and guilty and heartbreakingly familiar, had pulled her back to everything she had fought to forget.

She could still feel it. The air between them. The stillness that came before her anger broke. The way Orm sat there, taking every word, every wound, like she deserved them. Maybe she did. But that didn’t make it hurt less.

Ling had wanted to shake her. To scream until Orm gave her something real, anything real. But all she got was that single, impossible sentence. I can’t.

She hated those words. They meant nothing. They meant everything. They meant Orm had chosen the same silence that once tore them apart.

By the time the first tear fell, Ling’s breath came out in a soft, uneven tremor. She wiped it quickly, but another followed, and another. Her hand gripped the steering wheel harder.

“I loved you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible even to herself. “I still do, damn you.”

She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to the steering wheel, her wedding ring cool against her skin. She had thought she was past the stage of crying over Orm. She had thought she was stronger now, more contained. But grief had a cruel way of pretending to heal while waiting quietly for the right moment to open again.

In her mind, she saw flashes, the mornings in that same apartment when Orm would bring her coffee in bed, the sound of their laughter tangled with sunlight, the nights they would argue until exhaustion turned into affection. She remembered the way Orm used to hold her afterward, whispering apologies against her shoulder until Ling fell asleep believing they were invincible.

She also remembered the morning when everything changed. No note. No reason. Just the smell of Orm’s perfume still hanging in the air and the sound of her own heart breaking.

That was the day everything she believed about love changed.

Ling drew a long, shaking breath. She reached for her phone, almost without thinking. Her thumb hovered over Orm’s name, glowing faintly in her recent messages. For a moment she hesitated, unsure if she wanted to see anything at all. Then the screen lit up with a new notification.

I am so sorry, Ling.

Just that. Five words. Simple, quiet, cruel in their softness.

Ling’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers tightened around the phone until her knuckles turned white. Sorry. The word looked small on the screen, almost fragile, but it carried the weight of every sleepless night, every unanswered question, every empty morning she had spent learning how to breathe without her.

She wanted to laugh. To throw the phone across the seat and scream that sorry was too late, too hollow, too small to hold everything that had broken between them. But instead, her vision blurred. A tear slipped free, landing on the screen, distorting the message into something almost poetic, almost unbearable.

Her chest heaved once before she forced herself to breathe again. “Sorry?” she whispered to no one. The word came out trembling, disbelieving. “You left me and now you’re sorry?”

She swiped at her tears, angry at herself for still caring, angry that five words could still undo her so completely.

Ling stared at the screen until it dimmed, until her reflection looked back at her through the black glass , eyes swollen, lips trembling, a woman caught between love and the ruins it left behind.

She turned the phone over, placing it face down on the seat beside her, as though that could silence the ache that pulsed inside her chest. She started the car. The engine hummed to life, low and steady, but her hands still shook as they gripped the wheel.

She wanted to drive anywhere that wasn’t here. Anywhere that didn’t smell like her. But every road in Boston carried Orm’s shadow now. Every street corner still whispered her name. Orm had ruined this city for her. Ruined coffee shops, parks, even the damn Charles River.

Ling laughed once, a broken, bitter sound that barely made it past her lips.

She had rebuilt her life once. She had stitched herself together with the fragile threads of forgiveness, therapy, and work. She had made peace with her marriage, with the woman who had held her hand through heartbreak she never fully explained. She had moved on, at least that’s what she told herself.

And yet, one text. One sight of Orm’s face. One trembling whisper in that same apartment. It was all it took to unravel her again.

As the car merged into traffic, Ling’s fingers brushed the ring on her hand. She thought of Miu waiting at home, her calm voice, her kindness, her unwavering love. Guilt pressed heavy against her chest, but beneath it was something darker…something that felt like longing’s last breath.

Ling exhaled shakily and kept driving, her vision swimming through tears she no longer tried to hide. The city blurred past her, cruel and familiar, every building a witness to the story she wished she could forget.

In her chest, love still burned, quiet and stubborn, refusing to die even when it had nowhere left to go

The house was quiet when Ling returned, the kind of quiet that made her footsteps sound too loud against the polished floors. Afternoon light streamed softly through the tall windows, catching on the framed photographs that lined the hallway … snapshots of vacations, charity galas, birthdays. A life carefully built, steady and respectable. A life that fit.

Ling paused in the doorway for a moment, her hand still on the keys, her breath uneven. The air smelled faintly of jasmine tea and paper, the familiar scent of Miu working from her home office. It was comforting, grounding, and yet it pressed against her like a weight she couldn’t hold.

Miu was inside, sitting at her desk with a neat stack of files before her, her glasses low on her nose, her focus calm and deliberate. She looked up when she heard Ling’s steps and smiled, the kind of soft, automatic smile that came from years of gentle understanding.

“You’re back early,” she said, her tone light, welcoming.

Ling tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She nodded once and set her bag on the nearby chair. The movement was too quiet, too deliberate. Miu noticed immediately.

“Come here,” she said, pushing her chair back slightly. Her voice was still calm, but there was a note of concern beneath it.

Ling hesitated for a moment, then walked over. The closer she got, the harder it became to hide the redness around her eyes. She had wiped away the tears in the car, but grief had a way of leaving its trace , swollen lids, trembling lips, a silence that carried more truth than words ever could.

Miu stood, reaching out instinctively. Her hand brushed Ling’s arm, gentle but searching. “What happened?” she asked softly.

Ling opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. Her throat felt dry, her chest tight. She looked down at the floor, then finally managed to speak, her voice thin, uneven.

“I went somewhere,” she said quietly, “somewhere that reminded me of my past.”

The sentence hung in the air, small but heavy. Miu’s face changed almost imperceptibly …a flicker of pain, quickly hidden behind composure. Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but she didn’t. The silence stretched, tender and raw.

Ling saw the shift, the faint sadness in Miu’s eyes, the way her shoulders dropped ever so slightly. It made something inside her twist. She reached out before she could think and whispered, “I am so sorry, Miu.”

Miu shook her head immediately, the reaction instinctive. “Don’t apologize,” she said softly, her voice steady but full of emotion. She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Ling’s shoulders, holding her as though she could shield her from whatever ghost had followed her home.

Ling stiffened at first, then melted into the embrace. Her face pressed into Miu’s shoulder, the warmth both comforting and unbearable. Miu’s hands were gentle, stroking the back of her head, patient as always.

“It’s alright,” Miu murmured, the words more rhythm than sound. “You don’t have to explain. I know it still hurts sometimes.”

Ling closed her eyes. “It shouldn’t,” she whispered.

Miu pulled back just enough to look at her, her gaze soft but unflinching. “Pain doesn’t follow rules, Ling. It just lives quietly until it’s reminded it exists.”

The words struck something deep inside her. Miu, as always, had a way of saying things that landed softly and yet broke her open all the same.

Miu touched her cheek lightly, wiping away what was left of her tears. “Do you want to call Dr. Saralee again?” she asked gently. “You haven’t been in a while. Maybe talking would help.”

Ling hesitated. Therapy. The very word made her chest tighten. She remembered the sessions after Orm left … the way she had sat in that sterile room, hands clasped, speaking in half-truths about a love she couldn’t name. How she had learned to describe grief in clinical terms, as if that could make it smaller.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Maybe.”

Miu studied her face for a moment, her thumb still brushing her jaw in slow, thoughtful circles. “It doesn’t have to be now. Just… think about it,” she said. “You’ve carried too much alone for too long.”

Ling’s breath caught. She nodded faintly, guilt threading through her chest like smoke. “You don’t deserve this,” she said under her breath.

Miu smiled, small and sad. “I didn’t marry you because I expected you to be unbreakable. I married you because I wanted to be beside you, even when you were.”

The room went still again, filled with the quiet hum of Miu’s computer and the slow rhythm of their breathing. Ling leaned against her, letting her eyes close for a moment, letting herself be held. It wasn’t the same kind of love she had once known. It wasn’t wild or consuming. But it was kind. It was safe. And in that moment, it was all she could allow herself to have.

Outside, the day began to fade. Shadows stretched across the floor. Miu pressed a soft kiss to Ling’s temple before pulling away, returning to her desk with a look that was part affection, part worry. Ling sat on the couch by the window, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze distant.

She could still hear the echo of Orm’s voice somewhere deep in her mind. I can’t

Miu looked up from her papers after a while, her tone gentle. “Do you want tea?”

Ling nodded without looking away from the window. “Yes. Jasmine, please.”

Miu smiled faintly, moving toward the kitchen.

When she was gone, Ling let her head fall back, her eyes glistening under the fading light. The house was full of warmth, safety, love … but her heart still drifted somewhere else, to a place she could not return to.

And for the first time in years, she let herself wonder if she ever truly left.

*Flashback*

It was the Monday after the soup kitchen. The sky was a pale, washed-out blue, the kind that looked too quiet to belong to a city. Ling’s morning had started as it always did , coffee in the same mug, the same drive to campus, the same stack of case notes in her passenger seat … but something about the air felt different. Lighter. Restless.

She told herself it was nothing. A residual mood from the weekend, perhaps. But by the time she stepped into her office, she already knew she was lying to herself.

She had been thinking about her.

Orm.

The student with the ridiculous smile, the too-fast jokes, the eyes that caught every flicker of her expression like they were taking notes. Ling had spent the weekend trying not to replay that morning at the café, yet the memory kept looping through her mind .. the way Orm had leaned forward when she spoke, chin propped in her hand, listening like every word mattered. Like Ling mattered.

It unsettled her.

Miu had always been kind, always loving in that quiet, steady way that made Ling feel safe. But even in that safety, there were parts of her that had never been asked about  the small, unglamorous details, the habits and contradictions, the things that made her human instead of composed. Orm had wanted those things. She had wanted to know her favorite time of day, her color, her scent, the postcards she collected and the reasons she couldn’t throw them away.

And Ling, for reasons she refused to name, had wanted to answer.

She spent most of that Monday trying to keep busy. She graded papers that didn’t need grading, reorganized her bookshelves, even rewrote the week’s lecture notes twice. Yet between every paragraph, her mind kept wandering back to that ridiculous conversation.

When she entered her classroom that afternoon, she expected the thought of teaching to steady her, as it always did. But then she saw her.

Orm sat near the middle row, hair slightly tousled, a pen twirling between her fingers. She looked up as Ling walked in, and there it was … that spark of unfiltered joy, like seeing her was somehow the highlight of her day. It was too quick to be polite, too real to be professional.

Ling’s steps faltered for half a second before she caught herself.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said, her voice perfectly even.

Orm smiled, and the corner of Ling’s mouth almost betrayed her. Almost.

The lecture began. Ling spoke of ethics and argument, of the delicate balance between intent and consequence, but she could feel Orm’s attention like a touch. It wasn’t disruptive, but it was there, steady, deliberate. When their eyes met by accident halfway through the class, something inside her chest gave a quiet, traitorous flutter.

She hated that she noticed. She hated that she wanted to notice.

After class, Ling practically fled the room. Her notes were clutched against her chest like armor, her steps brisk and precise, as though she could outrun whatever it was that had begun to bloom inside her. She had spent years cultivating a life of control, a routine that left no room for chaos, no space for anything uncertain. And yet, one student, one afternoon, had unsettled it all with a single look.

She did not wait for anyone. Her words to the class had barely finished leaving her mouth before she was already out the door, heels echoing down the corridor. The air outside was cool, the faint scent of rain still clinging to the pavement. She exhaled as she reached her office, telling herself that distance was the only way to keep this from becoming something it was never meant to be.

Hours passed quietly. She buried herself in papers and lectures, red pens and deadlines, until her shoulders ached and the world beyond her desk felt far away. When she finally looked up, the windows had turned dark. The campus had emptied, leaving only the dim hum of fluorescent lights in the hallway and the occasional murmur of a janitor’s radio.

She gathered her things and locked the door. The building’s old walls carried the soft echo of her footsteps as she walked down the corridor. Outside, the streetlights cast pale halos across the stone path that led to the parking lot. The air had cooled, carrying that early winter bite that hinted at December’s edge.

Ling adjusted her coat, pulling the lapel close as she made her way toward her car. It was then, just past the final row of trees, that she saw movement near the lot. A figure hunched beside a car, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

Orm.

Her first instinct was to turn around, to let whatever misfortune was unfolding stay none of her business. But her heart had other plans, disobedient as always. Before she could talk herself out of it, her feet were already moving toward her.

“That giving you trouble?” Ling asked.

Orm startled so violently that she almost dropped her phone. She pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide. “The holy father,” she breathed out, half laughing, half gasping. “You have cat’s feet.”

Ling’s lips curved before she could stop them. The sight of Orm standing there under the yellow lamplight, hair disheveled, expression full of chaotic energy, was disarming in the worst way.

“And yes,” Orm said after catching her breath, pointing at the car. “Apparently fuel is a thing.”

Ling blinked, taken aback. “You ran out of gas?”

Orm gave a helpless shrug, her breath puffing in the cold air. “What can I say, I had a driver my whole life. The concept of self-sufficiency is new to me.”

A small laugh escaped Ling, quiet and unwilling. “Oh, so you’re filthy rich.”

“My parents are,” Orm replied, smug grin intact. “I’m just trying to catch up.”

Ling shook her head, amusement slipping through despite herself. “Do you need help?”

“Yes, a ride home would be divine,” Orm said, tilting her head, her tone exaggeratedly pleading.

Ling hesitated. The line between kindness and recklessness had never felt thinner.

“Come on,” Orm said softly. “I’m just a girl stranded on deserted Harvard roads.”

She even pouted. It was ridiculous. It was also heartbreakingly cute. Ling sighed, surrendering to the inevitability of it all. “God, fine, follow me.”

Orm grinned, triumphant. She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, locked the car, and trotted after her like a puppy pretending to be nonchalant.

Ling’s car waited near the far end of the lot, its windows catching the light from the lampposts. Orm slid into the passenger seat with a small sigh of relief, already fiddling with the GPS. When Ling started the engine, Orm reached forward to enter her address, then hit save as Home - before Ling could stop her.

“Just in case,” she said, grinning.

“Stop being ridiculous,” Ling murmured, rolling her eyes.

“Hope this isn’t a trouble,” Orm added, glancing sideways.

“It’s fine,” Ling replied. “It’s on my way, actually.”

The car moved through the quiet campus streets, the road lit by amber lamps and the occasional passing bicycle. For a few minutes, neither spoke. The soft hum of the heater filled the silence.

Then Orm started.

“Do you ever think about your students outside class, Professor?” she asked, tone mischievous.

Ling gave her a look. “Not in the way you’re implying.”

“So, you did think of me,” Orm teased, crossing her legs.

Ling sighed. “You are impossible.”

Orm leaned her head against the seat, smiling. “I thought about you. After Saturday morning. You were stirring soup in my head. I had to tell myself to stop romanticizing soup.”

Ling pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. “You should work on your focus.”

“I tried,” Orm said seriously. “I even went on a date with my casebook. It was unfulfilling.”

Ling glanced at her briefly. “You’re being unhinged again.”

“It’s a gift,” Orm said, her eyes glinting with humor. She paused before adding, “Do you even know how hard it is to stop thinking about someone who drinks coffee like they’re meditating?”

Ling kept her eyes on the road. “I don’t drink coffee like I’m meditating.”

“You do,” Orm said. “You hold the cup like it’s fragile. I noticed.”

Ling’s breath caught. The sentence was harmless, but the intimacy in it wrapped around her like a whisper.

Orm continued, oblivious or pretending to be. “Do you always drive this slow, or are you making the night last longer?”

Ling finally laughed, a soft, reluctant sound that filled the car with a heartbeat. Orm grinned, victorious, basking in it.

By the time they reached Orm’s apartment building, the air between them had shifted. It was lighter, charged, strange. Orm unbuckled her seatbelt but didn’t move.

“Thank you for rescuing a damsel in distress,” she said.

Ling looked straight ahead. “Try not to run out of gas next time.”

“No promises,” Orm murmured, hand already on the door handle. Then she turned, her eyes catching the low light. “Ling,” she said softly.

Ling looked at her.

Orm smiled, small and real this time. “I’m glad you didn’t keep walking.”

Ling’s heart gave an involuntary tremor at the sound of it, that gentle sincerity woven through Orm’s voice. She watched her hand linger on the doorframe for a second longer than necessary, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air.

Orm hesitated before turning back toward her, the light from the streetlamp catching on her cheek.
“Do you want to come in for a drink?” she asked, almost too casually, as if the question wasn’t heavy with everything left unsaid.

Ling blinked. For a moment, she thought she had misheard her. A drink. It sounded so simple, so harmless. But the way Orm said it, quiet, careful, waiting, made the air between them shift.

Ling’s first instinct was to refuse. She could already feel the familiar tightening in her chest, that quiet alarm that came whenever she was close to crossing the boundaries she built so carefully. Yet as she looked at Orm, at the way her voice softened, at the way her hair framed her face, at the faint tremor in her breath, something in her refused to move.

“I shouldn’t,” Ling said, though the words came out softer than intended.

Orm smiled faintly, that small, knowing kind of smile that had already begun to undo her.
“Then don’t think of it as a drink,” she said. “Think of it as mercy. You rescued me, Professor. You deserve hydration.”

Ling almost laughed, a quiet sound that dissolved into the air between them. She tried again to say no, but her resolve faltered under the warmth in Orm’s gaze.

“Just one drink,” she murmured finally, as if saying it softly enough could make it less dangerous.

Orm’s grin returned, brighter now, but still gentle. “That’s all I was hoping for.”

The lobby doors closed behind them with a low hum. The building smelled faintly of dust and detergent, the kind of scent that lingers in old hallways. Orm led her in and out of the elevators, her shoes clicking softly against the steps, her hair falling loose as she moved. Ling followed in silence, her pulse too loud in her own ears.

When they reached the door, Orm muttered under her breath punching in the password in the digital lock pad. The sound made Ling smile despite the tension.

Inside, the apartment was decent, a couch buried under books, a pile of case files stacked near the window, the faint scent of coffee and old paper in the air. A single lamp burned on the side table, casting the room in a soft amber glow. It wasn’t the chaos Ling expected. It felt lived-in, warm, human.

Orm dropped her bag near the door and turned to her with an almost shy tilt of her head.
“Make yourself at home,” she said. “But not too much. I’m a law student, not a hostess.”

Ling sat on the edge of the couch, her coat still on, watching as Orm crossed to the small kitchen. The sound of a cabinet opening, the clink of glass against glass.

“What will it be?” Orm asked, her voice floating from the other room. “Wine? Tea? A questionable mix of both?”

“Tea,” Ling said after a moment. “It’s late.”

Orm’s laugh carried softly. “You’re always so proper.”

“Someone has to be,” Ling replied, but her voice lacked its usual firmness.

Orm appeared again, two cups in hand, the steam curling upward between them. She handed one to Ling and sat down beside her, closer than necessary. The couch dipped under the weight, their shoulders brushing just slightly, too brief to be intentional, too long to be innocent.

For a while, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside, the rhythm of cars somewhere in the distance. Ling traced the rim of her cup, feeling the warmth seep through her fingers.

Orm broke the silence first.
“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Ling said quietly.

“But you did,” Orm replied, her tone light but her eyes unflinching. “And I’m glad.”

Ling turned to her, about to speak, but the words tangled in her throat. There it was again, that dangerous pull, the soft gravity of her presence. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Orm’s face was close now, her eyes reflecting the same hesitation, the same quiet ache.

“This is a bad idea,” Ling said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Orm smiled, almost sadly. “Maybe. But some bad ideas feel like mercy.”

The room seemed too still. The light from the lamp flickered slightly, the air thickening with something neither of them dared to name.

Ling looked down at her cup, then at her own reflection in the tea, calm on the surface, trembling underneath.

“I really like you, Ling,” Orm said softly. “And I want to know you better… if you let me.”

Ling’s head lifted slowly. “You’re asking for dangerous things, Orm,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m your professor. And even worse, I’m married.”

Orm’s expression didn’t falter. “Don’t you think I know that?” she said quietly. “But since the day I saw you, I can’t stop feeling that this is something else. You’re something else.”

Ling’s breath caught. There was no arrogance in Orm’s voice, no game, only the bare truth of someone speaking what they could no longer hide.

No one had ever spoken of her like that. Not even Miu.

Ling wanted to look away, to stop the tremor in her chest, but Orm’s eyes were steady, unblinking, full of something that terrified her because it was so familiar.

“I know you feel it too,” Orm said, her gaze unwavering. But then her eyes flicked downward, just for a second, toward Ling’s mouth.

The gesture was small, but it set fire to the air between them.

Ling tried to speak, to reason, to rebuild the wall she had so carefully constructed, but words would not come.

“This isn’t right,” she managed, her voice thin.

Orm stepped closer, slow enough for Ling to stop her if she wanted to. “Then tell me to stop,” she whispered.

Ling didn’t move.

The silence stretched, filling the room until it felt alive. The lamp hummed faintly, the city murmured outside, but inside everything had narrowed to the space between them, a breath, a heartbeat, a single decision.

Ling’s hand twitched on the armrest, as if reaching for balance. Orm’s fingers brushed hers, light, questioning.

Ling should have pulled away. She didn’t.

The distance between them vanished in a breath. Their foreheads touched first, the softest collision of warmth and restraint. The world seemed to tilt. Ling could feel Orm’s breath on her skin, the rhythm of it uneven, matching her own.

Then the last bit of distance disappeared.

The kiss was quiet, almost fragile at first, the kind of touch that trembles from holding back too long. It wasn’t rushed or loud; it was the collision of everything unsaid, years of discipline meeting sudden defiance. Ling’s hand found Orm’s cheek without her realizing it, her thumb brushing against the warmth there.

When they finally pulled apart, neither spoke.

The sound of their breathing filled the small room. Ling’s eyes were open but unfocused, as if she was seeing something she had never allowed herself to imagine.

Then, slowly, clarity returned, jagged and cold.

Her fingers were still trembling, the taste of the moment still lingering on her lips, but her mind had already begun to recoil, to rebuild the walls she had just let fall. She drew in a sharp breath and stepped back as if she had touched fire.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, more to herself than to Orm. Her voice cracked on the words. “What have I done?”

Orm reached out instinctively, her expression stricken. “Ling-”

“No,” Ling said, cutting her off, her tone sharper than she intended. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Her hands went to her face, covering her mouth as if to erase what had just passed between them. The air in the room felt thinner, heavier, and her chest ached with something like guilt, like panic.

“Ling, please,” Orm said quietly, stepping forward, her voice unsteady. “It’s not -”

“Don’t,” Ling said, lowering her hands, her eyes bright with tears she could no longer hold back. “Don’t make this sound like it’s something it isn’t.”

“But it is something,” Orm said. “You can’t deny that.”

Ling shook her head violently, backing away until the edge of the table pressed against her. “You don’t understand. I’m married, Orm. I have a life, a wife, a world that exists outside this room. I can’t -” Her voice broke, and she looked away, unable to finish.

Orm’s chest tightened at the sight of her. “I’m not asking you to choose,” she said softly. “I just -”

Ling’s laugh was small and desperate, like a sound made from breaking glass. “You already made me choose. The second you looked at me like that.”

Her tears came then, sudden and furious, as if she was angry at herself for letting them fall. She turned, grabbed her coat from the couch, and tried to steady her breath, but it came out uneven.

“Ling,” Orm said again, taking a careful step toward her. “Please, just talk to me.”

“Don’t follow me,” Ling said, her voice trembling but firm. “Not now. Not ever.”

Orm froze where she stood. “You don’t mean that.”

Ling looked at her, eyes red, the softness that had filled the room minutes ago now gone, replaced by the raw edge of regret. “I do,” she said. “I have to.”

She turned before Orm could say another word. Her footsteps were fast, almost stumbling as she reached the door. Orm moved to follow, to stop her, but the door swung open, the hallway light spilling in, and before she could take another step, the sound of it closing hit like thunder.

The slam echoed through the apartment, sharp and final, the kind of sound that didn’t fade; it stayed, hanging in the air long after the door had shut.

Orm stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space Ling had left behind. Her heart was still pounding, her hands still trembling, and the faint scent of jasmine still lingered in the air, cruel and familiar.

She wanted to run after her, to explain, to apologize, but she didn’t move. Because deep down, she already knew.

Ling wasn’t coming back. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

Orm’s POV:

Monday morning came too quickly, dragging its light through the blinds like a reminder that the world didn’t stop for heartbreak. Orm stood before her mirror, fixing the cuff of her blazer for the third time, the motion precise, mechanical, almost desperate in its control. Her reflection stared back at her with a calm that wasn’t real, a mask she had perfected over the years. Beneath it, her pulse thudded like a secret she couldn’t hide.

The city outside was already alive. Boston mornings had a way of looking polished, sunlight spilling over glass towers, the air brisk with purpose. People moved with coffee cups and phones, driven by deadlines and ambition. Orm tried to draw from that same rhythm, the one that demanded productivity over feeling. But as she stood at her kitchen counter, finishing her second espresso, her thoughts wandered back to Saturday.

Ling’s face had followed her into her sleep and out of it. Every line of sorrow, every tremor in her voice, every unspoken word. She had replayed the conversation over and over until she could no longer tell which version of it was real. Now, two days later, she was still haunted by the echo of her own voice, the emptiness of saying “I can’t.”

She exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away. Today was not about Ling. It couldn’t be. Today was the Horizon-Cura meeting, her first direct session with Natasha Matthews, senior partner, client whisperer, and, as fate would have it, Ling’s wife.

Even thinking the words made her stomach tighten. She picked up her briefcase, checked the folder inside, and forced herself to move.

The lobby of S&M LLP gleamed like a cathedral of success. Polished marble floors reflected the morning light, and the faint hum of conversation filled the air. Orm greeted the receptionist with a polite nod, her voice even, professional. But her heart was somewhere else, walking a razor’s edge between guilt and dread.

The elevator ride to the twenty-third floor felt longer than it should have. She could see her reflection in the mirrored wall, straight-backed, collected, but her palms were damp against the leather handle of her briefcase. She told herself again and again that Natasha Matthews didn’t know. That to her, Orm was just another associate from the LA office, a name on a transfer sheet, a capable lawyer she happened to inherit.

Still, the irony wasn’t lost on her. Fate, in its cruel humor, had brought her straight to the doorstep of the one woman she could never look in the eye without seeing the life she had destroyed.

When the elevator doors opened, the hallway stretched out before her in a hush of luxury. Frosted glass offices, soft carpeting, muted voices behind closed doors. She paused briefly outside Natasha’s office. Her name was etched on the plaque in sleek silver letters, sharp and elegant.

Orm smoothed her hair, steadied her breath, and knocked lightly.

“Come in,” came a voice from inside, warm but commanding.

Natasha looked up as Orm entered. The morning light caught her in profile, sharp lines softened by the glow of the city behind her. She was standing by the window, phone pressed to her ear, her tone low and controlled. She gestured for Orm to wait a moment, offering a polite smile before finishing her call.

Orm took that moment to observe her properly for the first time. Natasha was effortlessly composed, her presence filling the room in the same quiet way Ling’s once had, but where Ling carried grace like water, fluid and tender, Natasha’s grace was precision, like glass ,clear, deliberate, and impossible to look through without seeing yourself.

When she ended the call, she turned back, crossing the room with the confidence of someone who had never once doubted her footing. “Orm,” she said, her voice calm but warm. “Good morning. I’m glad you could make it before the meeting.”

“Of course,” Orm replied, her tone steady. “Thank you for having me.”

Natasha motioned toward the chair across from her desk. “Please, sit. I’ve been looking forward to this discussion.”

Orm sat carefully, her hands folded neatly over her notebook. The space between them felt suffocating in its normalcy. The desk was perfectly organized, a vase of fresh tulips at its corner, a faint trace of perfume in the air… floral, understated, the kind of scent that lingered without trying. It wasn’t the same as Ling’s jasmine, but something about it twisted in Orm’s chest all the same.

Natasha began outlining the merger details, flipping through a stack of documents with measured precision. She spoke clearly, with authority, the cadence of her voice controlled and practiced. Orm followed her words, nodded when appropriate, contributed when expected. From the outside, it looked seamless. Two professionals discussing strategy, tone crisp, language exact.

But under the table, Orm’s fingers dug lightly into her knee. Every time Natasha said something kind … “That’s an insightful point, Orm,” or “I’m impressed by your clarity on this clause” … her stomach tightened. She didn’t deserve kindness from this woman. She didn’t deserve to sit here at all.

Orm sat with her notes open, the quiet hum of the office air conditioner filling the spaces between Natasha’s sentences. They had been talking through acquisition clauses for nearly half an hour when her gaze wandered to the wall behind Natasha’s desk. There, framed in sleek black wood, hung a Harvard Law degree, the seal bright against the cream parchment. The signature ink had begun to fade slightly with time, but the crimson crest still gleamed in the morning light.

Orm tilted her head, unable to stop the small smile that formed. “You went to Harvard,” she said suddenly, her tone lighter than the conversation had been until then. “That explains the precision. You’re class of...?”

Natasha looked up, her expression softening. “2013. You too, I’m guessing?”

“2023,” Orm replied. “Harvard Law has this way of following people around. I can spot the type. Confident posture, expensive coffee habit, and the inability to relax during vacations.”

Natasha laughed quietly, genuine amusement in her voice. “Guilty as charged. Ling says I still argue with the toaster when it burns my bread.”

Orm’s smile faltered, but only slightly. “oh, that’s something,” she said carefully.

Natasha’s expression brightened at once, unguarded and fond. “That’s where we met, actually. First semester. She was running this student-led initiative on legal ethics and public policy. I thought she was showing off. She thought I was insufferable. We ended up co-chairing the same committee, arguing every night over funding allocations. The rest... well, somehow, arguments turned into late-night study sessions and very bad coffee dates.”

Orm’s heart gave a slow, painful thud. She had known Ling went to Harvard, she had even walked with her once past the same ivy-clad halls but Ling had never told her that was where she met her wife.

Natasha chuckled softly at the memory. “Lorena was there too. She and Ling practically ran the pro bono club back then. I’m fairly certain they bullied half our class into volunteering at clinics and legal aid centers.”

Orm managed a quiet laugh, her pen turning absently on her fingers. “That sounds like something Lorena would do.”

“Ling still does,” Natasha said warmly, the affection in her tone effortless, natural. “She has this impossible drive to fix things. Even now. Every associate at this firm is required to take on a pro bono case every quarter…Ling’s influence, of course. Keeps us honest, keeps the practice human. Mergers can turn people into spreadsheets and calculated if you’re not careful.”

Orm nodded, her voice low. “Yes, balance is required.”

Natasha smiled at that, pleased by the agreement. “Exactly. Actually, that’s what I wanted to bring up before we wrap. My wife is working on a new merger at her non-profit. They’re integrating another foundation that focuses on refugee assistance and food distribution. It’s massive…lots of moving parts, lots of emotion, but also an incredible cause. She’s been asking if I could recommend someone from our team to assist her with the legal framework.”

Orm froze for half a second, her mind scrambling for stillness.

Natasha continued, oblivious. “You strike me as the right fit. You’ve got the kind of steadiness people trust. And the way you handled the Cura contract language just now … its clean, decisive, empathetic. Ling would appreciate that. I was thinking I’d recommend you to her.”

Orm forced herself to meet Natasha’s eyes. Her smile held steady, polite, and perfectly rehearsed. “That would be an honor,” she said.

“I’m glad,” Natasha replied, leaning back in her chair. “You’ll enjoy working with her. She’s sharp and demanding, but she has a heart for the kind of work that reminds you why you started practicing law in the first place. And she never stops talking about how much she needs someone who understands both structure and people.”

Orm’s throat tightened, but she kept her tone light. “Sounds like a challenge I’d welcome.”

Natasha’s eyes softened, the hint of a knowing grin on her face. “I like your confidence. I’ll set it up later this week. She’ll be thrilled. Honestly, she’s been impossible to live with since this merger started. She dreams about nonprofit charters. It’s cute in a slightly terrifying way.”

Orm laughed softly, the sound caught somewhere between amusement and ache. “I’ll be prepared.”

Natasha returned the smile, closing her folder. “Perfect. Then we’re done for now. Good work today, Orm. You’re fitting in here faster than most.”

Orm gathered her papers, thanking her with quiet composure. When she stepped out of the office, the hallway was silent except for the soft hum of fluorescent light. She walked toward the window at the end of the corridor, each step measured, her pulse uneven beneath the calm surface she wore.

Her reflection in the glass looked calm, poised, unshaken. But under that surface, everything inside her trembled with the same quiet, aching truth.

She was about to see Ling again.
Not as a lover. Not as a memory.
But as her client. and all she could do is  mutter “what the fuck”

The call came just as the evening light began to fade, that soft Boston hour when the city turned gold for a moment before surrendering to dusk. Orm was still in the office, alone, the rest of the floor emptied out to the rhythm of departing footsteps and the hush of elevators closing. Her desk lamp glowed faintly against the polished wood, a single circle of light in an otherwise dark room. She had been staring at the same sentence in a contract for ten minutes, reading it over and over without absorbing a word, when her phone began to vibrate.

Natasha Matthews.

The name appeared crisp and unassuming on the screen, but it made Orm’s pulse jump like she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She hesitated for the briefest second before answering.

“Good evening, Natasha.” Her voice came out smooth, practiced, detached … the kind of tone that belonged in offices, not in the chaos inside her head.

“Evening, Orm,” Natasha’s voice carried that composed warmth, the kind that made even bad news sound pleasant. “Sorry for calling late. I just wanted to confirm tomorrow’s schedule.”

Orm straightened in her chair automatically, pen still in hand. “Of course.”

“I spoke to Ling a little while ago,” Natasha continued easily. “She’s free at two thirty tomorrow in the afternoon. Her office is at the main headquarters of The Hearth Project … you’ll find it listed in the email I just sent. She’s excited to meet you and go over the merger documents.”

The words she’s excited to meet you hit Orm like the ghost of a bruise. That’s for sure made up, she thought, her grip tightening slightly around the pen.

“That sounds perfect,” she managed. “I’ll be there.”

“Wonderful,” Natasha said. “And really, thank you for stepping in on this. Ling can be… particular about who she works with. I think you’ll find her refreshingly direct, though. She gets to the point faster than most clients do.”

Orm forced out a small, polite laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

There was a short pause, then Natasha added, “Alright then, I’ll let you get back to your evening. I just wanted to make sure you two were set. Have a good night, Orm.”

“You too,” Orm said softly, and ended the call.

The silence that followed was heavy.

She leaned back in her chair, her hand coming up to press against her temple. For a long moment, she didn’t move. The name Ling still lingered in the air, fresh again, uninvited.

Tomorrow.

She was going to see Ling tomorrow.

Orm shut her eyes, exhaling through her teeth. Her heartbeat was a slow, deliberate ache in her chest. She wanted to feel prepared, professional, distant. She wanted to walk into that office tomorrow as the attorney she had trained herself to be, someone untouchable, someone who didn’t flinch at old ghosts.

But the truth was simpler. She was terrified.

And that thought alone was enough to make her whisper, under her breath, quiet and helpless against the wind.

Kill me already

Wednesday

Wednesday afternoon came faster than Orm had expected, slipping through her morning before she could catch her breath. She had spent the first half of the day working from home, laptop open on the dining table, the faint hum of the espresso machine filling the silence between messages. Her Slack notifications blinked with questions from Natasha about the Horizon-Cura merger, small pings of responsibility that kept her hands busy but never her mind. She drafted documents, reworked proposals, replied with perfect grammar and perfect detachment, as if professionalism could act as armor.

But no matter how hard she focused, the thought returned like a low, steady drumbeat.

Two thirty.

Her meeting with Ling.

She wished the universe would forget about it. That an email would arrive postponing it, or a storm would sweep through the city, or perhaps The Hearth Project itself would lose power for a day. Anything that would give her an excuse not to stand face-to-face with the one person she had spent years learning how to live without.

But life, as always, refused to bend in her favor.

At one forty-five, she closed her laptop, gathered her folder, and caught herself staring at her reflection in the window. She looked fine. Composed. Like someone who had never once fallen apart in the presence of the woman she was about to see. She straightened her jacket, tied her hair back neatly, and whispered to her own reflection as if that might make it true.

It’s just a meeting.

The Hearth Project headquarters sat in an old brick building near the river, its architecture quietly noble in the way only Boston nonprofits managed. The lobby smelled faintly of coffee and recycled paper, walls lined with photographs of volunteers and smiling children. Orm checked in at the front desk, her voice steady, her hands anything but.

“Ms. Kornnaphat,” the receptionist said with a polite smile, “Mrs. Kwong will see you now.”

The name made her stomach twist. Ling’s name. Spoken so casually, as though it belonged to an ordinary afternoon.

She thanked her and made her way down the hall. The sound of her heels on the floor echoed softly, too loud in the quiet. She stopped outside the office door with Ling’s name printed neatly on a small brass plaque. For a second, she could not move. She could see the faint shadow of someone inside, her silhouette familiar even in outline.

Orm exhaled, lifted her hand, and knocked once.

“Come in,” came the voice.

That voice.

Orm opened the door slowly. The sight was disarming in its simplicity. Ling sat behind a wide wooden desk, surrounded by files and papers, sunlight spilling through the tall windows behind her. Her hair was tied back neatly, a soft strand escaping near her temple. She looked immaculate, precise, almost painfully serene.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The world narrowed to the sound of Orm’s own breathing and the faint hum of the city beyond the glass.

Then Ling looked up.

“Ms. Kornnaphat,” she said, her tone smooth, professional, not unkind but entirely distant. “Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

The title landed like a stone in Orm’s stomach. Ms. Kornnaphat. Not Orm. Not even the careless, affectionate nicknames that once filled her apartment like music. Just a formality, clean and clinical, spoken as if nothing between them had ever been anything but business.

Orm blinked once before managing a small nod. “Of course,” she replied, her voice catching faintly before settling into something passable. “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Kwong.”

Ling’s gaze flickered, just for a fraction of a second, before she lowered her eyes to the documents in front of her. “Let’s begin, shall we? Natasha mentioned you’re familiar with the Horizon-Cura framework. The Hearth Project’s merger follows a similar structure, but with some unique community clauses we’re integrating into community initiatives.”

It was as if someone had swapped out her Ling for a polished replica, one who spoke in legal vocabulary and crisp diction, who flipped through pages without hesitation, who didn’t even look at her longer than necessary.

Orm sat quietly, the air between them heavy with ghosts. She nodded when Ling spoke, took notes she didn’t need, and answered questions in a voice that belonged to her profession, not her heart.

But inside, everything was chaos.

Every line of Ling’s handwriting on those documents was a memory. Every time she leaned forward to explain a clause, her perfume…faint, familiar brought Orm back to another time, another table, another life where that same scent lived in her sheets and not in an office built of glass and restraint.

Orm forced herself to keep her tone neutral. “I reviewed the structure you sent through Natasha. The integration terms make sense. The refugee assistance wing will benefit significantly under S&M’s funding arm.”

Ling nodded, her expression unreadable. “That’s what we hope. We’ve been working on this partnership for months. It’s important to us that the transition be seamless.”

Orm caught the faint tremor in the word us. Just barely.

She wanted to ask who us was… is it Ling and her wife, Ling and her team, Ling and everyone who wasn’t her…but she bit it back. There was no room for old wounds here.

Ling continued speaking, her focus sharp, her tone unwavering. “I’ll need your input on the liability clauses before Friday. Natasha mentioned you’re particularly good with impact statements.”

“Sure,” Orm replied softly. “Whatever you need.”

For a few seconds, Ling looked at her, really looked. Something flickered in her expression, recognition, maybe longing, maybe regret…but it vanished as quickly as it came.

“Good,” she said finally, closing the file. “I appreciate your time, Ms. Kornnaphat.”

The sound of her own formal name again. Orm felt it settle in her chest like an anchor. She stood, gathering her things, her hands steady even though her heart was anything but.

As she turned toward the door, Ling’s voice came again, low but even. “I’ll have my assistant forward the rest of the documents. Please let me know if you need anything clarified.”

Orm’s hand was still on the door handle when the words slipped out.

She hadn’t planned to speak. She had meant to walk out with quiet dignity, to let the polished version of herself survive this meeting intact. But the silence in the room pressed too tightly around her, too thick with pretense, too full of all the things they were both trying not to feel.

Her voice came out lower than she intended, almost fragile.

“This is how it’s going to be?”

Ling looked up sharply, startled.

Orm turned slightly, her hand falling from the door, her gaze steady now, though her throat ached with the effort of holding it all together. “Pretend like I don’t exist? Like you don’t care about me?”

For a long moment, there was nothing. Just the faint ticking of the clock on Ling’s desk, the hum of the city beyond the windows, and Ling’s eyes fixed on her like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard right.

Then Ling inhaled, slow and controlled, the way she always did when she was trying not to lose her composure. “We are in a professional setting, Orm.” The name came out reluctantly, quiet, like a secret she wasn’t supposed to say. “This isn’t about us.”

Orm laughed softly, bitter and tired. “You can say that all you want, Ling, but every time you look at me, you flinch. Every time I speak, you look like you’re holding your breath. So maybe it isn’t about us, but it’s not, not about us either.”

Ling stood then, the chair sliding back quietly. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything,” Orm said quickly, shaking her head. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. Sit here and pretend that we were never us. That you weren’t the person who made me feel like I had a home.”

Ling’s expression softened, but her voice stayed steady. “You made your choice to leave that home.”

Orm’s chest tightened. “And you continued with your already built one.”

Ling’s expression changed. The stillness that followed was not calm; it was the kind that came before something broke. Her fingers tightened on the desk until the edge dug into her skin. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost careful, but each word landed with precision.

“You have no right to say that” she said. “You don’t get to stand here and talk about the life I continued, as if it was some prize, I chose over you. You don’t get to rewrite this story to make it look like I stayed because it was convenient.”

Her eyes flicked to Orm, sharp and wet, her breath trembling. “I had everything ready, Orm. I had the perfect life, the perfect wife, millions in inheritance, a name that opened every door. Everything was built, safe, predictable. And I chose you. We planned everything, Orm. We planned on getting married, on having children, on building something that was finally ours. When I told Miu that I loved someone else, that I wanted a life with them, I meant you. I was ready to walk away from everything, my marriage, my name, my reputation … for you.”

She shook her head once, the motion small but shaking. “And then you disappeared.”

The air between them stilled. Ling’s voice thinned to something brittle. “No note. No call. No goodbye. Just gone. One day you were there, telling me you loved me, making me believe I wasn’t insane for wanting something real, and the next, you were gone. You talk about me continuing, Orm, like I had a choice. What was I supposed to do? Stand in my living room and explain to the woman I’d already broken that I had destroyed our lives for someone who didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye?”

Her voice cracked then, just enough to make the words tremble. “I couldn’t even mourn you properly. Do you know what that’s like? To grieve someone who’s still alive? To see your phone light up and pray that maybe, just once, it’s you? To wake up every day rehearsing a conversation that never comes?”

Orm stood silent, every word cutting through the thin composure she had left.

Ling’s eyes glistened, her breath coming shallow now. “You left me holding the wreckage you made. I had to smile through dinners, go to court, and face people who kept asking me if I was happy. I had to sit beside my wife …the woman who still trusted me and pretend I was fine, pretend I hadn’t already broken something sacred. You left, and I had to make sure no one ever found out what we were, because if they did, everything would have collapsed. My marriage. My name. My parents’ faith in me. My life.”

She blinked hard, a single tear slipping down before she could stop it. “So yes, I stayed. I stayed because it was the only thing left to do. Because the alternative was to burn my world down for someone who didn’t even leave me a goodbye.”

Her voice softened, breaking into something quieter, more human. “You have no idea what that kind of silence does to a person. It rots you from the inside out. And after a while, you stop asking why. You just get up, put on your suit, make your coffee, and pretend the world still makes sense.”

Ling drew a slow breath, straightening her posture as if pulling herself back together piece by piece. “So don’t you dare stand here and talk about the life I continued, like I chose it over you. I chose it because you left me no other choice.”

Her voice lowered, the fury dissolving into exhaustion. “You left, Orm. You left, and I stayed because someone had to.”

The silence that followed was unbearable .. the kind that filled the lungs with ache. Ling turned away from her desk, her reflection catching faintly in the glass, her eyes rimmed red, her lips trembling as she added, barely above a whisper,

“And I still hate the part of me that waited anyway.”

Then, slowly, she exhaled, the kind of breath that emptied more than just air. When she lifted her head again, her face was calm .. unnervingly calm , the storm pulled back behind a wall of glass.

“I’m done,” she said quietly, not looking at Orm. “Whatever this is, whatever we were, I’m done talking about it.”

Her voice carried no anger now, no tremor. Just finality. She gathered the papers scattered across the desk, aligning them with mechanical precision, one sheet after another, until the sound of the pages brushing together was the only sound left in the room.

“You don’t get to ask me what I felt or didn’t feel. You don’t get to stand here and peel old wounds open for curiosity’s sake.” Her tone sharpened slightly, but her eyes stayed on the papers, not Orm. “I spent years learning how to function without you, and I’m not about to forget how just because you walked through my door with an apology you should’ve made years ago.”

Orm swallowed, her throat tight, but Ling didn’t give her room to speak.

“I’m not angry anymore,” Ling continued, almost to herself. “Not really. You can’t stay angry at someone forever. Eventually, you just run out of energy.” She smiled faintly then, the kind of smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “So no, Orm, I don’t care what you think of me now. I don’t care why you left or what excuses you’ve built to make it make sense. I’m past it.”

She gathered the last folder, tapping its edge lightly against the desk, her motions calm, deliberate. “And if you’re going to work with me, then that’s all this will ever be … work. We’ll talk contracts, deliverables, terms. You’ll send your notes, and I’ll review them. And when it’s over, we’ll both move on like civilized people.”

Ling finally looked up then, her gaze steady and cold, the last flicker of warmth gone. “Whatever we had, Orm, it’s dead. I buried it the day you left.”

The words landed like frost between them. Orm said nothing, her throat dry, her chest tight with something that felt like regret and disbelief colliding.

Ling’s expression didn’t change. She reached for her pen, her voice quiet again, as if the storm had never happened at all. “Close the door on your way out,” she said. “We both have work to do.”

Orm didn’t move. For a moment, she wanted to reach out, to touch her shoulder, to tell her everything she had never said. But the air between them was too fragile now, too full of things that couldn’t survive the weight of contact.

She finally nodded, her voice faint. “Alright.”

The hallway outside was colder than she remembered. Orm leaned back against the wall, the plaster firm against her spine, the fluorescent light above her buzzing faintly, the world moving on like nothing had happened. Her chest felt hollow, scraped clean. She wanted to breathe but every inhale came with the weight of something unsaid.

She had wanted Ling to fight. To scream, to curse, to say anything that proved there was still something left to ruin. But Ling hadn’t fought. She hadn’t begged, hadn’t broken. She had just looked at her and decided, quietly and irrevocably, to stop caring.

That was what gutted Orm the most. The indifference. The precision of it. How easily Ling could put her heart back behind glass after years of letting her touch it.

She pressed a hand to her face, her palm cool against her skin, her eyes burning with the kind of ache that could never quite become tears. This was the worst version of love, the kind that did not die with noise but with quietness, with composure, with grace. The kind that looked like nothing at all from the outside.

She thought she had prepared herself for anger, for accusation, for anything that resembled fire. She hadn’t prepared for the absence of it. For the emptiness that came when the person you loved most looked at you and saw nothing worth fighting for anymore.

When she finally pushed herself off the wall, her legs felt heavy, her body drained. Down the hall, the hum of the office was soft and indifferent, the world going about its business, as if nothing inside her had just come undone.

She walked away without looking back. But even as she did, she could feel it , that quiet, merciless truth that Ling no longer cared, and for the first time, Orm began to understand how much harder it was to lose someone who had already learned how to live without you.

The following week unfolded in a haze of precision and control. Orm spent her mornings locked in with numbers, contracts, and half-drunk cups of coffee that had long gone cold. Natasha kept her on a tight leash, demanding progress on the Horizon-Cura merger, while Ling’s name appeared intermittently in her inbox…never too often, never too warmly, just enough to remind her that the woman she could not stop thinking about was still, inconveniently, part of her daily life.

The emails were polite, measured, impersonal. Thank you for your revisions, Ms. Kornnaphat. Please see the attached outline for the updated clauses. I trust you will have the drafts ready for the board review.

Orm could have recited the tone of them in her sleep: sterile, flawless, and as far away from the Ling she remembered as humanly possible.

They had not spoken since that Wednesday afternoon. No calls. No accidental meetings. No awkward apologies. Just silence thick enough to drown in.

Until today.

It was a joint negotiation meeting between The Hearth Project and their partner organization, an NGO that was set to be acquired under the merger. The conference room buzzed faintly with voices, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hanging in the air. A tray of pastries sat untouched in the corner, and through the glass walls, the Boston skyline gleamed like a distant, indifferent witness.

Orm arrived early, as always. She took her seat beside Ling, careful to keep a polite distance, aware of the tension that hummed quietly between them. Ling was already there, reading over a stack of documents, hair pulled back neatly, her glasses balanced low on her nose. She didn’t look up.

Orm pretended to check her notes, but her eyes kept betraying her. Every now and then, Ling would shift slightly, and Orm’s pulse would follow.

A few minutes later, the door swung open, and a familiar voice echoed through the room.

“Sorry I’m late. Parking in this city should be a crime.”

Orm’s head snapped up.

Olivia Hart.

Of course it had to be her.

She strode in with a casual confidence that turned heads wherever she went. Tall, blonde, effortlessly charming…the kind of woman who could command attention just by existing. She carried her laptop under one arm, her phone in the other, and when she saw Orm, her entire face lit up like sunrise.

“Orm Kornnaphat,” she said, her smile wide, delighted, and unrestrained. “You have got to be kidding me. What are the odds?”

Orm blinked once, half in disbelief. “Olivia Hart. You have not changed at all.”

Olivia laughed, setting her things down and walking straight toward her. “Still pretending to be calm while you’re quietly judging everyone in the room? That’s classic you.”

Orm stood halfway, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “And you still think sarcasm counts as insight, I see.”

Olivia grinned, stepping closer, her hand brushing against Orm’s arm as naturally as if years hadn’t passed. “Oh, I’ve missed that tone.”

The touch was light, harmless…but it was enough.

From across the table, Ling’s pen stopped moving.

The small pause went unnoticed by everyone else, but Orm caught it. She didn’t even need to look to know what it meant. Ling had frozen…her control flickering, her eyes fixed on the tiny space between Olivia’s hand and Orm’s sleeve.

Ling lifted her gaze then, expression perfectly neutral, but her eyes had gone dark, sharp in a way that made Orm’s stomach twist with recognition.

She knows.

And she hates it.

Orm should have stepped away. She should have laughed and moved on. But instead, she smiled…slowly, dangerously and turned her attention back to Olivia.

“I didn’t know you were handling this merger,” Orm said, her tone casual but warm. “ The briefs never mentioned you.”

“Lucky coincidence,” Olivia replied, leaning against the edge of the table. “I was pulled in last minute after our lead counsel fell sick. And honestly, when I saw your name on the brief, I might’ve volunteered a little too quickly.”

A few quiet laughs rippled around the table. Orm smiled back, but Ling didn’t.

Her hands were folded now, her posture rigid, her jaw set in quiet precision.

The meeting began, and for the first few minutes, Ling managed to hold herself together. Her voice was calm, her tone unwavering, every sentence crisp and professional. But each time Olivia interrupted Orm mid-sentence…touching her wrist lightly, leaning in to  say something that was definitely unnecessary, and Ling’s composure cracked just a little more.

“Orm’s always been brilliant at everything ,” Olivia said at one point, flashing a grin. “She used to tutor half our class in school. I think we all graduated on her brainpower.”

Orm chuckled softly. “ oh yeah..”

Ling’s gaze flicked to her again, sharp as glass.

“That’s impressive,” Ling said finally, her tone perfectly civil, perfectly cold. “I didn’t realize you had such a strong academic background together.”

“Oh, we go way back,” Olivia said brightly. “I practically lived at home for the entire finals. Didn’t I, Orm?”

Ling’s pen snapped.

The sound was small, but the room went quiet for half a second. Ling’s expression didn’t move, but the pressure in the air shifted.

Orm bit back a laugh, pressing her hand to her mouth. “Yes,” she said finally, her voice deliberately light. “Olivia was... difficult to evict.”

Olivia grinned. “What can I say? She was so good with Math.”

Orm risked a glance toward Ling then, and the sight almost undid her , Ling sitting stiffly, her lips pressed tight, her fingers folded together so hard her knuckles had gone pale.

She looked like she wanted to stab someone with that broken pen. Preferably Olivia.

Orm should have felt guilty. Instead, she felt alive.

When the meeting finally wrapped, Olivia placed a hand on Orm’s shoulder as everyone stood. “We should catch up sometime, seriously. Coffee or dinner, whichever comes first.”

Orm nodded easily. “Sure.”

“Friday?” Olivia asked, grinning. “My treat.”

Orm could practically feel Ling’s silence slicing through the air like a blade.

“We’ll see,” Orm said with a faint smile. “Depends on how the rest of the week looks.”

Olivia winked, gathering her things and heading out with the others.

The room emptied slowly until only Ling and Orm remained. The quiet between them was thick, electric, fragile.

Orm turned toward her, smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You broke your pen.”

Ling didn’t look up. “It was faulty.”

“Of course it was.”

A pause.

Then Orm tilted her head, voice soft, teasing. “You know, you don’t have to glare at every woman who talks to me.”

Ling finally met her eyes, calm but blazing underneath. “I don’t glare.”

“You do. It’s adorable.”

Ling exhaled slowly, gathering her notes with more force than necessary. “You’re insufferable.”

Orm grinned, stepping closer. “And you’re jealous.”

Ling’s head snapped up instantly. “I am not,” she said too fast, too sharp, the words tumbling out before she could control them.

Orm’s grin spread, slow and wicked, her voice dropping into that low, teasing register that always found its way under Ling’s skin. “There it is.”

“There what is?” Ling shot back, shuffling her papers like they were a shield. Her movements were brisk, efficient, but her ears were already turning pink. “You’re imagining things, as usual.”

“Am I?” Orm tilted her head, her voice soft but playful, that familiar glint returning to her eyes. “Because if I am, then your tone didn’t just sound like someone ready to commit light homicide.”

Ling looked up sharply, her composure starting to fracture. “I’m not jealous, Orm. I just don’t think you should flirt during professional negotiations. It looks…” she paused, exhaling hard, “unprofessional.”

Orm chuckled quietly, stepping closer until her voice was just low enough for Ling to hear it and no one else. “You mean it looks like someone was having fun. You’ve always hated that, remember? When I was in your class, you caught me talking to that girl in the back row. You nearly stabbed me with your pen that day.”

“That was different,” Ling said quickly, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Was it?” Orm leaned in, elbows resting lightly on the edge of Ling’s desk. “Because I swear, you’re looking at me the same way right now. Like you’re trying very hard not to care and failing miserably.”

Ling’s jaw tightened, the softest tremor in her voice. “You’re imagining things again.”

Orm smiled, her voice warm now, gentle beneath the teasing. “No, baby, I’m remembering.”

The old name …the one Ling hadn’t heard in years, hung in the air like a heartbeat.

Ling’s breath caught. “Don’t call me that,” she said quietly, but it sounded more like a plea than a command.

Orm’s grin softened. “I will, when I earn the right to again.”

Ling blinked, the words catching her off guard. For a moment, all the tension in the room turned quiet, charged, almost tender.

Orm straightened slowly, her folder still in her hand, but her eyes didn’t leave Ling’s. “You can pretend you’ve moved on. You can glare all you want. But I’m not giving up on you yet. Not when you still look at me like that.”

Ling opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

Orm smiled faintly, like she’d said enough. “I’ll see you at the next meeting, Ms. Kwong.”

She turned toward the door, the echo of her heels filling the silence.

In the hallway the air felt cooler, as if the room had been holding its breath and finally let it go. Orm did not. She kept walking until the glass wall gave her back a thin reflection that looked steadier than she felt. Behind her, the image of a broken pen would not leave. The small sound of it. The way Ling’s hands had gone white. The way her voice had reached for neutrality and missed by a fraction.

It is not nothing, she told herself. It is not over. She can pretend she does not care. Her emails can be immaculate and empty. She can cut her gaze across a table as if it never learned how to love me. But a hand on my sleeve and her body remembered. Jealousy is not kindness, and it is not forgiveness, but it is proof. Something lives.

Orm let that thought settle, heavy and clean. She had been waiting for anger. She had been bracing for contempt. She had not prepared for the quick bright flicker that said Ling was still paying attention even while she tried not to. It hurt. It also opened a door.

She would win her back. Quietly. Carefully. All the way this time.

*Flashback*

Ling’s POV:

The week after the kiss felt like living inside a fever.
Ling threw herself into work with the precision of a surgeon: lectures, papers, late nights spent correcting essays she didn’t care about, anything to keep her hands from trembling when she thought of Orm.

She avoided her completely. Not in subtle ways either. When Orm entered a room, Ling found reasons to leave it. When she caught sight of her across the courtyard, laughter echoing through the winter air, Ling turned the other way before their eyes could meet. Every path that might have crossed, she rerouted with the discipline of someone who knew what was at stake.

Still, Orm lingered. In the quiet moments between words, in the half-light before sleep, in the scent of vanilla that clung to her hair.
She hated that she noticed.
She hated that she missed her.

Orm, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share her silence. Ling could feel her presence even from across the room, that restless energy, that refusal to let things be buried. A few times, Orm tried to approach her after class, soft and tentative, eyes searching for something that used to live between them. Ling always found a way to shut it down. A quick nod, a clipped word, the kind of polite dismissal that hurt both of them.

But what Ling hadn’t prepared for was jealousy.

It came quietly, like a bruise forming beneath the skin. The first time she saw Orm sitting with another student, a girl from her constitutional law seminar, bright-eyed, talkative, leaning just a little too close over an open book, something hot and unrecognizable surged through her chest.

She told herself it was nothing. She told herself she didn’t care.
Then she saw it again.
Orm smiling at something the girl said. The girl touching Orm’s arm when she laughed.

Ling’s throat tightened.

She had been walking past the open door of the study hall, trying to pretend she was checking the bulletin board, when she caught herself staring. Her pulse quickened. It was ridiculous, she knew, childish even, but the sight of them together made her stomach twist.

She forced herself to look away, but her body betrayed her. Her hands clenched around the strap of her bag. She walked faster, but the sound of Orm’s laughter followed her down the corridor like a memory she couldn’t outrun.

By the time she reached her office, her composure had cracked.
She shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. Her heart felt unsteady, and there was something almost humiliating in the realization.

She was jealous.

For two days she tried to bury it again. She threw herself into work, into dinners with Miu that felt like conversations held through glass, into anything that would stop her mind from returning to that study room, that girl, that laugh.

But the universe, it seemed, had no mercy for self-denial.

The next week, it happened again. Only worse.

Ling had been walking down the east hallway after a late seminar when she saw them, Orm and that same student, standing near the lockers. The light from the tall windows painted them both in silver and shadow. The girl was talking quickly, nervous and eager, and before Ling could blink, she reached up and leaned in.

Orm froze, startled, a hand half-raised in reflex, but the moment was enough. Ling stopped dead in her tracks.

Something inside her snapped. Not loudly, not visibly, just a clean, silent break.

She turned away before either of them could notice, her jaw set, her pulse hammering.
Her heels clicked hard against the marble as she walked, every step sharper than the last.

That night, she didn’t sleep.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the room washed in the faint blue of city light, her reflection faint in the window glass. The question circled her like a storm: what are you doing?

But there was no answer that made sense.
Because this wasn’t logic. It wasn’t discipline. It was something she had spent her entire life denying, the terrifying hunger of wanting to be known.

With Orm, she had felt seen, heard, undone. The kiss had been reckless, but it had also been honest. And now the thought of Orm laughing with someone else, looking at someone else the way she once looked at her, made her skin burn.

By morning, she had made a decision.

She didn’t know what she planned to say. She didn’t know if it would be anger, confession, or apology. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep pretending that what happened hadn’t changed her.

When she stepped into her car, the winter light still pale and uncertain, her fingers gripped the steering wheel too tightly. She hesitated for a long time before starting the engine.

Then, quietly, she tapped the GPS screen.
The address appeared automatically: Home.

Orm’s idea of a joke.
Ling had rolled her eyes when it happened. Now, her chest tightened as the route appeared on the map.

She didn’t even think twice before pulling onto the road.

By the time she reached Orm’s apartment, the sun had begun to sink, washing the city in amber and shadow. The hallway outside Orm’s door was quiet, the air heavy with that end-of-day stillness that made every heartbeat sound louder.

She stood there for a long moment, her hand hovering over the door.
What was she doing here?
What was she hoping for?

Ling exhaled shakily, closed her eyes, and let the words form before she could change her mind.

This wasn’t about forgiveness. It wasn’t about the kiss. It was about confronting the truth, that Orm had slipped past her boundaries, that she needed to reclaim control, and that, somehow, part of her didn’t want to.

She lifted her hand and knocked.

Once.
Then again.

The sound echoed softly down the corridor.

Inside, she heard movement, the scrape of a chair, hurried footsteps, the click of a lock.

When the door opened, and Orm appeared in the frame, all the air seemed to leave Ling’s lungs.

Orm froze. For a second, she didn’t move, as if her mind couldn’t catch up with what her eyes were seeing. Ling stood there, pale, composed on the surface, but her eyes betrayed her. They were bright with something fragile and burning at once.

“Ling?” Orm said softly, her voice unsure, like she was afraid the name itself might vanish if she said it too loud.

Ling didn’t answer. She stood there, still and tense, her hands clenched at her sides. The silence between them was heavy, full of the ghosts of the week they had spent pretending the other didn’t exist.

Orm stepped back a little. “Do you want to come in?”

Ling hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The familiar warmth of the apartment hit her, the faint smell of tea leaves and ink, the clutter of books. Everything was too familiar, too intimate.

Orm shut the door gently behind her. For a moment neither spoke.

Then Ling turned, her voice low but trembling. “You shouldn’t have let her get that close.”

Orm blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“In the hallway,” Ling said, her jaw tight. “That girl. She was…” She stopped herself, breath hitching. “You shouldn’t have.”

Orm frowned, her tone careful. “She tried to kiss me. I stopped her.”

“That’s not the point.” Ling’s voice cracked on the last word.

“Then what is the point?” Orm asked, and there was no defiance in her voice now, only exhaustion. “You’ve been avoiding me for days, and now you’re here, angry that someone else looked at me.”

Ling’s chest rose and fell, fast, uneven. “Because it made me feel something I didn’t want to feel.”

Orm stared at her. “What did you feel?”

Ling met her gaze, and for a second, everything she had tried to contain burst through. “Jealous,” she said. “Angry. Ridiculous. I don’t even know. I saw her and I wanted to pull her away from you. I wanted to scream at her that she couldn’t. That she had no right.”

Her voice faltered, softer now. “And she didn’t. Because she doesn’t know you. Not the way I do.”

Orm’s expression shifted, disbelief, then something gentler. “You’ve spent a week pretending I don’t exist,” she said quietly. “And now you’re here, telling me I’m yours.”

“I’m not saying you’re mine,” Ling said, though her voice wavered. “I’m saying I can’t stand the thought of you belonging to anyone else.”

Orm took a slow step forward. “That sounds a lot like the same thing.”

Ling closed her eyes for a moment, trying to breathe. “I don’t want this,” she whispered. “I don’t want to feel like this. It’s wrong, it’s dangerous, and it’s tearing me apart.”

Orm moved closer until she was only a few feet away. “Then tell me to stop,” she said softly. “Tell me to stop caring, to stop thinking about you, to stop wanting you.”

Ling looked up sharply, her eyes glassy. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No,” Orm said, voice trembling. “But you walked away that night like you were the only one bleeding.”

The air between them thickened again, the same pull that had started everything, now heavier, sharper, edged with something close to pain.

Ling’s voice softened. “You make me feel things I shouldn’t. I’ve spent years building a life that makes sense, and you come in and ruin it with one look.”

“Maybe it needed to be ruined,” Orm said.

Ling’s breath caught. “You don’t understand. My life is built on order, on promises. My parents’ rules, I made vows, Orm. I have a wife. I can’t just…” She stopped, her throat tightening. “I can’t undo all of that because of a moment.”

Orm took another step, barely a whisper between them now. “It wasn’t just a moment.”

Ling looked up at her, and for a heartbeat, everything, the fear, the guilt, the ache, was visible on her face.

“I know,” she said finally. “That’s what terrifies me.”

Orm’s voice was soft. “Then why are you here?”

Ling swallowed hard, her voice shaking. “Because I needed to see you. Because when I saw her, I realized what I was trying to deny. That what happened wasn’t just a mistake. It was the truth I didn’t want to face.”

Orm’s eyes softened. “And what truth is that?”

Ling’s answer came out in a whisper. “That you make me feel seen. That you, make me feel alive. That, when you look at me, I remember who I was before everything else.”

She took another breath, shakier this time, her voice breaking as she continued. “I need to tell you something, Orm. I’m not happily married to Miu. I want you to know the truth.”

Orm’s eyes widened, but she didn’t speak. She only stood still, listening, afraid that if she moved, Ling would stop.

“We both made an arrangement,” Ling said quietly. “She married me for my name and all the doors it opens, and I married her so my parents would finally get off my back. There was never a fairytale in it, no grand beginning. We don’t love each other… I mean, we do, but not like lovers do.”

Her voice softened into something almost tender. “We’re best friends, Orm. We love each other as just that. She’s kind, loyal, and she’s been there for me when I needed someone. But it’s not the same. It never was. We’ve been married for five years now. She’s a lawyer, she’s brilliant, she’s good. That’s all you need to know.”

Orm exhaled slowly, her throat tightening with a mix of understanding and heartbreak. “So, you’ve been pretending all this time,” she said softly.

Ling looked at her. “It’s not pretending. It’s surviving.”

Orm nodded, her voice barely steady. “And what about me? What do you call this? What we are?”

Ling hesitated, eyes darting away for a moment. “I don’t know yet. That’s what scares me.”

Orm’s jaw tensed. “You came here because you were jealous. You came here because you care, because you can’t ignore this any more than I can.”

Ling closed her eyes briefly. “Yes.”

“Then don’t stand there acting like it’s something you can file away in a folder labeled wrong,” Orm said, her voice raw, trembling between anger and ache. “You feel it, Ling. You keep fighting it, but it’s still there.”

Ling looked at her, eyes shining, the words sitting on her lips but refusing to come out.

Orm stepped closer, her voice dropping lower. “When you said you weren’t happy, I believed you. But you don’t have to stay unhappy just to make sense to everyone else.”

Ling’s chest rose with a sharp breath. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” Orm whispered. “If you’d let it.”

Ling stared at her, and for a fleeting second, everything inside her went still, the noise, the guilt, the doubt. Just the two of them, suspended in something that felt too close to truth.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she said softly. “I can’t give you what you deserve.”

Orm’s expression softened, but her voice stayed steady. “I didn’t ask for promises. I just wanted the truth. And you finally gave me that.”

Ling’s lips parted, her breath trembling. “And what will you do with it now?”

Orm’s answer came without hesitation. “Hold it. Even if it hurts.”

The words settled between them, heavy and quiet. Ling’s eyes lingered on her face, the earnestness, the stubborn hope that made Orm who she was, and something inside her shifted again, deep and irreversible.

She whispered, “You make it very hard to walk away.”

Orm’s smile was small, sad, knowing. “That’s the problem, ling. You already tried, and you came back.”

Ling’s breath caught. The truth of it sank into her like a slow ache, the kind that didn’t hurt all at once but spread quietly through every part of her. She wanted to deny it, to insist that this was still something she could control, but Orm was right. She had come back.

Orm took a step closer, then another, until the space between them felt fragile, almost luminous. Ling could smell the faint trace of tea on her, the warmth of her skin after the cold outside. The air itself seemed to pause.

“I should go,” Ling said, but her voice had no weight.

“I think you don’t mean that,” Orm whispered.

Ling looked up at her, eyes flicking between defiance and surrender. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

Orm’s hand lifted halfway, hovering near Ling’s cheek, not touching, just waiting for permission that never really needed to be spoken. Ling didn’t move away.

The silence between them trembled, a drawn bowstring waiting to snap. Ling’s heartbeat thundered in her ears; her breath was shallow, uneven. Orm’s eyes searched hers, not demanding, not pleading, just open, raw, waiting.

And then the world seemed to fold inward. The distance dissolved, the air thickened with something that was no longer restraint but the memory of it breaking.

When they finally leaned in, it wasn’t out of impulse but inevitability, two lines that had been curving toward each other since the moment they met. The faint brush of breath, the pause before touch, the quiet surrender, that was all it took for the world outside to fall away.

Everything that followed existed in the hush of that moment, the warmth between them, the shared understanding that nothing about this could ever be undone.

When Ling drew back, her eyes stayed closed for a heartbeat longer, as if holding on to what the world would never let her keep.

Orm’s voice came softly through the quiet. “You can keep running from it,” she said, “but it’ll find you again.”

Ling opened her eyes, and this time, she didn’t argue.

Ling opened her eyes, and this time, she didn’t argue.

The quiet between them settled into something fragile, no longer sharp with denial but softer, hesitant, alive. Orm stood still, watching her, afraid that a single word might undo whatever delicate understanding had formed between them. Ling didn’t move away. She simply breathed, as if the air itself felt different now, heavier with the truth they had both been avoiding.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Outside, the city murmured in distant rhythm, the wind pressing faintly against the windowpane. Inside, the silence became its own language, apology, confession, permission, all in one.

Ling’s voice came at last, quiet but steady. “If we do this,” she said, “we do it carefully.”

Orm’s brow furrowed, a flicker of disbelief passing across her face. “Do what?”

Ling met her eyes. “This. Whatever this is. You and me.”

Orm exhaled, slow and shaky, like she had been holding her breath for a week. “You mean…”

Ling nodded once. “I don’t know what it looks like yet. I don’t even know how long it can last. But I can’t pretend anymore that it isn’t there.”

Something inside Orm broke open then, relief, awe, something too big to name. She stepped closer, her voice trembling. “So, we try.”

Ling hesitated, the instinct to retreat still flickering behind her ribs, but she nodded again. “We try. Quietly. Carefully.”

Orm’s smile was small and reverent, like she was afraid to touch it too hard. “That’s all I need.”

Ling’s gaze softened, exhaustion and longing blending into something almost peaceful. “This isn’t simple, Orm. I can’t give you promises, or futures. I can only give you the truth.”

Orm reached out, her hand finding Ling’s. “Then start there.”

Ling didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled around Orm’s, tentative at first, then sure.

For the first time in days, the weight in her chest eased. There were still questions, boundaries, and the looming shadow of everything she stood to lose. But in that moment, under the low hum of the city and the flicker of lamplight, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, something good could come from the ruin.

That night, there were no vows, no labels, no guarantees. Only a quiet understanding, born from longing and defiance, that they would try.

And that was how it began.

Chapter Text

Orm's POV: 

The office was unusually quiet that morning, the kind of silence that settled only when everyone was pretending to work. Orm sat at her desk, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor in her inbox, waiting for something that felt like movement. Boston sunlight filtered through the tall windows, painting the glass walls of S&M LLP in tired gold. The entire floor buzzed faintly with the sound of restrained frustration…the sound of lawyers waiting for a court’s mercy.

Then it happened. A single Slack notification pinged through the air like a gunshot in church.

Natasha Matthews: “While we wait for the Horizon-Cura merger proposal acceptance from the court, we are, unfortunately, sitting ducks. Stay sharp, team.”

Orm read it twice, mostly because she could hear Natasha’s voice in her head saying it like a war general who was trying to sound optimistic about trench life. Sitting ducks. Perfect. Exactly what she wanted to be…an overpriced duck in a black blazer.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she typed back.

Orm: “Noted. In the meantime, would it be alright if I focus more on The Hearth Project integration? The nonprofit work with Mrs. Kwong.”

She added a smiley face and immediately deleted it. Then she deleted the entire message, retyped it without the “Mrs.”, then put it back again. Then she hit send before she could overthink her life any further.

A minute later, Natasha replied.

Natasha: “Go ahead. Might do you some good to see how the nonprofit operates in the field.”

That was all the permission Orm needed.



She sat back in her chair, rereading the message, a slow smile pulling at her mouth. She doubted Natasha would have approved if she knew exactly how much good Orm intended to make of it.

Because this wasn’t just work. Not anymore.

The last time Orm had seen Ling, jealousy had cracked through that perfect calm like lightning through glass. For the first time since coming back, Orm had seen proof that there was still something under all that composure…anger, longing, maybe even love. Whatever it was, it had been real. And Orm was done pretending to accept the distance between them as permanent.

This was how it would start. Not with grand gestures, not with declarations, but with showing up at Ling’s world again. Patient. Persistent. And, this time, unafraid.

Orm walked out of the building with a purpose that almost felt noble, though she knew better. It wasn’t noble. It was personal. It was reckless. It was everything she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do again.

But she was going to do it anyway.

Because this time, she wasn’t going to disappear.
This time, she was going to win her back.

The Hearth Project was the exact opposite of S&M’s glass-and-marble world. It smelled like fresh coffee and old paper, and there were sticky notes on every wall, handwritten reminders that optimism still existed. People moved with that chaotic energy unique to nonprofit staff…part exhaustion, part caffeine, part holy mission.

And in the middle of it all was Ling.

She was standing by a whiteboard, explaining something to a group of volunteers, her hair tied back in a low bun, her voice calm and clear. Orm stopped in the doorway, watching her like she was seeing sunlight for the first time after a long winter.

God, she thought, she still talks like she’s delivering a verdict that could save humanity.

Ling finished her sentence and turned. Her eyes met Orm’s instantly. The warmth in them vanished faster than a candle in rain.

“Oh,” she said flatly. “You’re here.”

“Surprise,” Orm said, grinning as she approached. “Natasha said I could drop by, you know, to… merge myself into your good deeds.”

Ling blinked once. “That sentence doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s the spirit that counts,” Orm replied, waving a hand. “I come bearing competence and charm.”

“You can keep one,” Ling said, turning back to her volunteers. “And it’s not the second one.”

Orm’s grin widened. “You missed me.”

“I missed silence,” Ling said. “And peace. And functioning boundaries.”

“Boundaries are for the weak,” Orm said cheerfully, trailing after her as she moved toward the office at the back. “Where are we off to? Food drives? Moral awakening sessions?”

“Paperwork,” Ling said, without looking back.

“Oh,” Orm said, wrinkling her nose. “The least sexy form of charity.”

“That’s because charity isn’t supposed to be sexy,” Ling said sharply, pushing open her office door. “Sit if you must. Or better yet, stand and think about your choices.”

Orm sat anyway, plopping down across from her desk, legs crossed, smile bright. “I’ve missed this,” she said softly. “You, bossing me around.”

Ling didn’t look up from her files. “You’re not my employee.”

“Tragic,” Orm sighed. “Imagine how much better this place would look if I were. I’d bring coffee. Sarcasm. Possibly chaos. But tasteful chaos.”

Ling finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been here five minutes, and I already regret not hiding in the archives.”

“That’s love,” Orm said sweetly.

“That’s fatigue,” Ling said, standing to grab a folder from the shelf.

Orm watched her move, all precision and composure, and leaned back in her chair with a smirk. “You know, you look very powerful when you’re ignoring me.”

“Good,” Ling said. “It’s a look I’m cultivating.”

“So,” Orm continued, pretending to study the papers on Ling’s desk. “What’s the project we’re saving the world with today?”

“Community resource expansion for underfunded neighborhoods,” Ling said briskly. “We’re assessing regional distribution patterns.”

Orm blinked. “In English?”

“We’re checking how food gets to people,” Ling translated, dry as dust.

“Ah,” Orm said. “Logistics. My favorite foreplay.”

Ling’s pen stopped moving. Slowly, she looked up, her expression patient in the way saints were patient right before performing miracles. “Orm,” she said evenly, “do you have an off switch?”

“No,” Orm said proudly. “I was factory-made without one.”

Ling exhaled. “Then I hope you at least have an attention span.”

“I have selective attention,” Orm said. “It mostly selects you.”

Ling’s jaw tightened, and she went back to her notes. “This is work, Orm.”

“It can be both,” Orm said. “Work and fun.”

“This isn’t fun.”

“It could be, if you’d stop pretending you don’t find me adorable.”

Ling gave her a flat look. “You are not adorable. You are a migraine with dimples.”

Orm gasped theatrically. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

Ling pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath in Mandarian that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience.

When she finally looked up again, her expression had softened, if only slightly. “You’re not here to distract me, Orm. You’re supposed to help with the merger and observe.”

“I am observing,” Orm said innocently. “I’ve observed that you’re very serious, your desk is alarmingly organized, and your staff is terrified of you.”

“They’re not terrified,” Ling said defensively.

From the hallway, someone dropped a stack of papers and immediately apologized to no one in particular.

Orm raised an eyebrow. “Terrified.”

Ling glared. “Don’t you have emails to write?”

“I sent them all before coming here ” Orm said. “Now I’m emotionally available for teamwork.”

“Then make yourself useful,” Ling said, sliding a stack of folders across the desk. “Sort these by outreach region. And please, for once in your life, don’t make jokes about data.”

“I can’t make promises,” Orm said, taking the folders anyway.

For the next hour, the office was a battlefield of barely concealed irritation. Ling worked quietly, her pen tapping rhythmically against the paper. Orm hummed. Loudly. Then she started whistling. Then she started narrating her filing process like a nature documentary.

“And here we have the elusive Boston folder,” she said softly, flipping a page. “It hides under layers of bureaucracy, waiting to attack its prey.”

“Orm,” Ling said without looking up, “if I throw this stapler at you, will that count as workplace harassment?”

“It depends,” Orm said, smiling. “Was it done out of love?”

Ling threw her pen down and stared at her. “How did I ever fall for you?”

Orm leaned forward, her grin turning gentle. “You didn’t fall. You walked in with your eyes open and stayed anyway.”

That shut Ling up for a moment. Her gaze lingered on Orm, and something unspoken flickered between them…memory, ache, maybe forgiveness hiding somewhere in the corner.

Ling stared at her for a long second, the air in the room shifting from irritation to something quieter, heavier. Then she sighed and pushed back her chair, gathering the files into a neat stack with mechanical precision.

“I’m done for today,” she said, her voice calm again, that cool professional tone she used when she needed to retreat. “You can send me your notes tomorrow.”

Orm looked up, frowning slightly. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” Ling said, slipping her laptop into its sleeve. “Some of us have lives beyond you.”

Orm tilted her head. “You mean Miu?”

Ling froze just long enough for Orm to notice before replying, evenly, “I mean shopping.”

Orm’s lips curved. “Shopping? You?”

“Yes, me,” Ling said, walking toward the door.

Orm stood, following her. “Can I join?”

Ling turned in the doorway, her expression perfectly composed but her eyes a touch exasperated. “Don’t you have some hundred-million-dollar merger somewhere?”

“Not anymore,” Orm said. “The court’s reviewing the proposal. Until they approve it, we’re just…” she spread her hands helplessly “very expensive decorations.”

“Then do something useful,” Ling said crisply, pulling her coat from the hanger. “Read a brief. Meditate. Reflect on why God gave you a mouth that never stops moving.”

Orm pouted dramatically. “Come on. Let me join. Just like old times.”

“Old times were a mistake,” Ling said, sliding her arms into her coat.

“Then let me make a new one,” Orm said, smiling, stepping closer. “Remember? We used to go shopping and I’d hold all the bags for you while you pretended you didn’t know me.”

Ling looked at her sharply. “I wasn’t pretending.”

“You were,” Orm said softly. “Except when you’d squeeze my hand in the parking lot.”

Ling’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but she recovered fast, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’re imagining things.”

“Probably,” Orm said, smiling faintly. “But you always did look beautiful under fluorescent lighting.”

Ling gave her a flat look. “Goodbye, Orm.”

Orm followed her to the parking lot anyway, her heels clicking behind Ling’s steadier stride. “Where are you going? Saks? Nordstrom? Some minimalist cruelty-free boutique where all the clothes look like remorse?”

Ling unlocked her car. “Why are you still here?”

“Emotional support,” Orm said. “You need someone to tell you which shade of black looks least depressing.”

“I don’t need support,” Ling said, getting in.

“Everyone needs support,” Orm countered. “Especially women who pretend they don’t.”

Ling closed the door, but before she could start the engine, Orm leaned down at the open window, hands resting on the frame, smile soft and infuriating. “You’re really going to leave me standing here?”

“Yes.”

“In this economy?”

“Orm.”

“Fine,” she said, stepping back with exaggerated surrender. “Go on. Enjoy your shopping. I’ll just be here, all alone, pining.”

Ling rolled her eyes and started the car. “Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone.”

“Can’t promise,” Orm said, stepping away….only to immediately circle the hood, open the passenger door, and slide in.

Ling’s eyes widened. “What…Orm, no.”

Orm buckled her seatbelt with a crisp click. “Safety first.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” Orm said. “I’m committed.”

“Get out.”

“No.”

“Orm.”

“Ling.”

Ling gripped the wheel, jaw tight. “You’re trespassing.”

“You used to call it devotion.”

“That was before I knew better.”

“Then consider this relapse therapy,” Orm said.

Ling groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “Why do I let you do this?”

Orm smiled, leaning back in the seat. “Because you like the way it feels to lose control. Just a little.”

Ling turned sharply toward her. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Orm said innocently. “A conversation? A memory? A relapse?”

Ling closed her eyes for a moment, like she was counting to ten. “I should throw you out right now.”

“You should,” Orm said quietly. “But you won’t.”

And for a long second, Ling just looked at her…really looked at her. The same eyes, the same crooked smile, the same impossible mix of arrogance and tenderness that had ruined her once already.

“Put your seatbelt on properly,” Ling said at last.

Orm grinned. “Yes, professor.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Old habits.”

“Unlearn them.”

Orm leaned her head against the window, her smile softening. “I’ve been trying,” she said.

Ling didn’t answer. She just put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking lot, muttering something in Mandarin that means fuck my life

Orm turned to look at her, half amused, half aching. “You know,” she said, “you always drove faster when you were trying not to think about me.”

Ling didn’t reply. But her hand tightened on the steering wheel. And for a fleeting second, Orm thought she saw the ghost of a smile before the city lights swallowed them both.

The mall was bright and polished, all glass and gold and the faint hum of expensive air conditioning. Ling walked a few steps ahead, heels clicking against the marble, every movement measured and deliberate, as if she were walking into court instead of a department store. Orm followed with the easy stride of someone who had no business being there but wasn’t about to be left behind.

They had not planned to walk side by side. They never planned anything. It just happened..like gravity.

Ling’s hand brushed the rack of blouses nearest to her. She scanned a row of white silk, pale blue, soft linen. The same palette she’d always worn controlled, careful, neutral to the point of invisibility.

“Still allergic to color, I see,” Orm said lightly, running her fingers along the same rack.

Ling didn’t look up. “Some of us prefer subtlety.”

Orm picked out a lilac blouse and held it up against Ling’s shoulder. “Subtle is overrated. You’d look good in this. Soft. Disarming. Professorial with just a hint of menace.”

Ling took the blouse from her hand and placed it neatly back on the hanger. “You’re not my stylist.”

“You let me be once,” Orm said softly.

“That was a mistake.”

“And yet,” Orm said, plucking another hanger, “you kept everything I picked out.”

Ling exhaled sharply, the sound halfway between annoyance and reluctant amusement. “You remember too much.”

“I forget everything else,” Orm said, smiling. “It’s a problem.”

They moved from one section to the next, the distance between them shrinking without either noticing. Orm had fallen into the old rhythm almost unconsciously…pulling pieces from racks, draping them over her arm, following Ling from mirror to mirror. She knew Ling’s measurements, her preferences, the exact shade of cream that made her skin glow and the one that made her look tired.

“Try this,” Orm said, handing her a pair of soft tailored pants and a simple blouse. “And this one, if you’re feeling brave.”

Ling took the clothes as if it cost her something to do it. “You’re still infuriating.”

“And you’re still impossible,” Orm said, following her toward the fitting rooms.

Ling disappeared behind the curtain, and for a moment the world went quiet. Orm leaned against the wall outside, pretending to scroll through her phone but watching the shadows of Ling’s movements as she changed. She’d seen that silhouette a thousand times before…in light, in darkness, in all the places she wasn’t supposed to.

When Ling stepped out, the first outfit clung to her just right, elegant and understated. Orm’s lips parted, but she covered it with a grin. “You look expensive. In a morally upright way.”

Ling turned to the mirror. “I look fine.”

“You look perfect,” Orm said before she could stop herself.

Ling’s eyes flicked toward her reflection, meeting Orm’s gaze in the mirror for a split second. Something passed between them…something unspoken and painfully familiar. Then Ling turned away and reached for another hanger.

For the next hour, it went on like that. Orm picking, Ling rejecting, both of them pretending not to enjoy the rhythm of it. Ling rolled her eyes at Orm’s choices but still took them into the fitting room. Orm teased her about her practicality, her obsession with neutral tones, her inability to admit when she liked something. Ling retaliated with dry remarks that should have stung but only made Orm laugh.

At one point, Ling stepped out in a navy dress that hugged her in all the ways Orm remembered. Orm didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. Her silence said enough. Ling noticed anyway. She adjusted the hem, pretending to look at herself, her voice quieter now. “It’s too much.”

“It’s exactly enough,” Orm said softly.

Ling gave her a look that was both warning and confession, then turned back toward the mirror.

They went through three more outfits like that. Orm fussing over details, Ling pretending she didn’t care. Ling accusing Orm of being dramatic, Orm agreeing just to see the corner of Ling’s mouth twitch upward. Somewhere between the racks and the mirrors, they stopped arguing and started falling into the pattern that had always felt too natural to name.

By the time they were at the counter, Ling’s arms were full of clothes she hadn’t planned to buy. Orm was carrying the rest, wordlessly. It felt like muscle memory.

When they finally stepped out of the store, Ling’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it and answered almost immediately.

“Hi,” she said, her tone shifting…warmer, softer, domestic in a way Orm had never heard from her before. “Yes, I’m at Saks. Do you need anything? That hand cream you like? Or the perfume?”

She paused, listening, a small laugh escaping her. “Alright. I’ll check. No, I’m not buying more shoes. You’re impossible.”

Orm stood a few steps away, her hands still full of the shopping bags, her smile fading as the words sank in. Ling’s voice was light, casual, a version of her Orm didn’t recognize. She never answered Miu’s calls when Orm was with her, well she rarely got those calls but Ling never answered .

Ling ended the call and slipped the phone back into her bag, the faintest trace of contentment on her face.

Orm forced a smile, handing her another bag. “Domestic goddess now, are we?”

Ling gave her a look, not unkind. “It’s called being considerate.”

Orm nodded, but her throat tightened. “You never used to be.”

“People change,” Ling said quietly.

Orm didn’t answer. She just nodded again, her chest tight, her hands suddenly too full.

They walked side by side out of the store, the faint scent of perfume lingering between them, the weight of old ghosts trailing behind. Ling walked ahead toward the escalator, graceful and sure. Orm followed, watching her move, her heart aching in that quiet, familiar way…the kind that didn’t break, just settled heavier each time.

Ling had moved on, Orm realized. Or maybe she had simply grown into the kind of woman Orm had never let her be.

Still, when Ling turned slightly to ask if she was coming, Orm smiled, stepped forward, and followed her down the escalator. Because even if she no longer belonged there, she couldn’t quite bring herself to stop trying.

Half an hour later, the bags were stacked neatly in Ling’s trunk, and the car hummed softly as they pulled away from the mall. For a few blissful minutes, there was peace…Ling focused on the road, the quiet hum of traffic filling the space between them. Then, inevitably, Orm broke the silence.

“I’m hungry,” she announced, drawing out the word like it was a tragedy.

Ling didn’t even look at her. “You’re always hungry.”

“Because someone didn’t feed me,” Orm said, slumping dramatically in her seat. “Do you know how cruel that is? To make a woman shop for hours on an empty stomach?”

“It’s been for an hour ,” Ling said flatly.

“Time moves differently when you’re starving.”

Ling sighed, eyes still on the road. “You had a croissant few minutes back.”

“That was snack. This is for survival.”

“You’re a grown woman, Orm.”

“I’m a starving grown woman,” Orm corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Ling glanced at her, her tone patient in that way that wasn’t really patient at all. “Grow up.”

Orm gasped. “You sound exactly like my conscience.”

“Then listen to it for once.”

“No,” Orm said firmly. “My conscience never drove me to eat.”

Ling shook her head, fighting the smallest smile. “Where do you even want to eat?”

Orm turned toward her, eyes lighting up. “Pinocchio’s.”

Ling blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Orm said, grinning now. “Pinocchio’s Pizza. Harvard Square. Our old spot. Remember?”

“I remember the grease stains on my case notes,” Ling said.

“And the garlic knots,” Orm added. “And you pretending not to enjoy them.”

“You fell asleep on my notes,” Ling said.

“That was affection,” Orm said quickly.

“It was drooling.”

“Semantics.”

Ling exhaled through her nose, eyes fixed on the traffic light. “We are not going all the way to Cambridge for pizza.”

“But it’s our pizza,” Orm said, the word our slipping out before she could stop herself. “You used to order the veggie one with extra chili flakes and complain about it being too spicy every single time.”

Ling tightened her grip on the wheel. “That was years ago.”

“Memories age like wine,” Orm said. “Better with time. And carbs.”

“Orm,” Ling said, her tone warning now, “drop it.”

“I can’t drop hunger,” Orm said. “It’s biological.”

Ling groaned softly, muttering something

Orm leaned her head against the window, lower lip jutting out. “Fine. I’ll just wither away quietly.”

“You’re being dramatic again.”

“I’m being malnourished.”

“Orm.”

“Yes, Ling?”

“You’re insufferable.”

Orm grinned. “And yet here I am. Still in your passenger seat.”

Ling cut her a sharp look, but her mouth twitched anyway. “You always talk your way into trouble.”

“I also talk my way into dinner,” Orm said. “It’s a talent.”

Ling’s jaw clenched, but there was no real anger in it anymore. Only the faint resignation that came with remembering how this always went. Orm pestering. Ling pretending to resist. Both of them giving in eventually.

After a long pause, Ling sighed, her voice quieter now. “Fine. Pinocchio’s.”

Orm turned to her with mock reverence. “God, I missed when you used to surrender like this.”

“Don’t make this sentimental,” Ling said. “I’m doing this so you’ll shut up.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Orm said cheerfully.

“You’re buying,” Ling added.

“I always did,” Orm said. “You paid me in affection. Sometimes.”

Ling gave her a side glance. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“I stopped once,” Orm said softly. “Didn’t like how that turned out.”

Ling’s eyes flicked toward her, just for a heartbeat. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick with everything they weren’t saying.

Then Orm grinned again, cutting through the moment. “Anyway. Pizza. Extra cheese. Just like the old days.”

Ling shook her head and turned onto the highway. “You’re still impossible.”

“And you’re still driving me there,” Orm said, settling back in her seat, satisfied.

Ling didn’t answer. She just kept her eyes on the road, her expression calm and distant, while inside, something small and traitorous felt dangerously close to fondness.

Outside, the sun dipped lower over the Charles River as the city came into view…Cambridge waiting quietly, like an echo neither of them had ever really escaped.

The smell of garlic and toasted dough hit them the second they stepped inside. The place hadn’t changed …the same chipped wooden counter, the same faded mural of the Boston skyline, even the same creaky fan spinning lazily overhead.

Orm smiled before she even realized it. “God, it even smells the same.”

Ling arched an eyebrow as she followed her to the booth … the one by the window, tucked in the corner like a secret. “You remember the smell?”

Orm dropped into the booth, grinning. “I remember everything that includes you.”

Ling’s lips parted …just barely, before she caught herself and looked away, pretending to study the chalkboard menu. The hum of the place filled the silence between them: soft laughter, clinking glasses, a faint tune from the old radio that always played songs twenty years out of date.

After the waiter took their order, Orm leaned back against the cracked red vinyl seat. Across the room, a couple, probably students … had taken their table. The one they used to share tucked in a corner . The girl was laughing at something, tossing her hair back as the boy leaned closer, bold and unthinking in the way youth always was.

Orm watched them for a long moment, quiet, almost smiling.

Ling followed her gaze. “What?”

“Nothing.” Orm’s voice came soft, like she was afraid of startling the memory. “Just… they remind me of us.”

Ling’s brows drew together. “Us?”

“Yeah,” Orm said, a faint curve at the corner of her mouth. “Back when you pretended you didn’t love me, and I pretended to believe you.”

Ling let out a small exhale that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been disbelief. “You were a menace.”

“You were worse,” Orm countered gently. “You kept sitting across from me, knowing I was falling for you.”

Ling’s eyes dropped to the table. “Don’t romanticize it.”

Orm tilted her head, studying her. “I’m not. I’m just remembering.”

Her voice softened, almost a whisper. “You used to sit exactly like that … arms folded, pretending you were only there for the coffee. You always said you hated this place.”

Ling smirked faintly. “I did. The pizza’s mediocre.”

“But you came anyway.”

Orm’s lips parted, something tender flickering in her eyes. She hesitated before speaking, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual teasing.
“Thank you for bearing me today,” she said. “I know I can be… a lot.”

Ling let out a low breath, her gaze fixed on the table. “I only tolerated you because you were my best friend,” she said quietly. Then, softer still, almost an afterthought, “Sorry, my only friend. Even now.”

That landed heavier than either of them expected.

Orm blinked, a sad smile ghosting across her face. “You still want me as a best friend?”

Ling gave a small, humorless huff. “That’s the only way I can tolerate you.”

Orm tilted her head, eyes glinting, a fragile mix of hope and ache. “Can I not be more than that?”

Ling’s hand stilled on her napkin. Her tone turned weary, pleading. “Orm, please don’t make this more complicated than it already is.”

Orm leaned forward, voice low, desperate. “But we love complicated, baby. That’s how we met. I just… I just want to be yours again.”

Ling froze. The word baby hit her like a pulse from an old life she’d buried too deep. Her jaw tightened, and when she finally spoke, her voice was calm but trembling at the edges. “I’m going to leave if you keep talking like this.”

Orm’s face fell. “Baby… please.”

That was enough. Ling pushed back, standing abruptly, her bag already in her hand. The sound of the legs scraping the floor cut through the murmur of the restaurant.

Orm’s voice broke, rushed, panicked. “Okay, okay… I’ll stop. I won’t talk about us.”

Ling stood there for a moment, shoulders tense, eyes closed briefly like she was trying to find her footing. The silence stretched.

Finally, she said, without looking at her, “You always say that. And then you never do.”

Orm’s throat worked around the words she couldn’t say. “Because I don’t know how to stop,” she whispered.

Ling hesitated, her back to Orm, torn between walking away and sitting back down. The smell of pizza, the chatter, the city beyond the glass…all of it suddenly felt too loud, too bright

Orm sat perfectly still, eyes wide, apology caught somewhere between her chest and her throat. “Okay,” she whispered again, gentler this time. “I won’t talk about us. I promise.”

Ling exhaled slowly. The defiance in her posture began to crumble, inch by inch. She looked down at Orm, the woman who once could undo her entire sense of control with a single sentence, and something in her softened. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was love refusing to stay buried.

Without another word, Ling lowered herself back into the seat. The vinyl creaked beneath her, the sound small but final.

Neither spoke for a while. Ling picked at the edge of her napkin, trying to ground herself in something ordinary, while Orm sat opposite her, barely breathing, afraid that even a word might send her away again.

When Ling finally looked up, her eyes were calm but guarded. “I shouldn’t have come,” she murmured.

Orm leaned forward, resting her arms on the table, her voice low and trembling. “But you did.”

Ling didn’t answer.

“Because you wanted to,” Orm continued, quietly, carefully. “You wanted to see me. To make sure I was still here. And because…” She swallowed hard, eyes searching Ling’s face. “Because you still love me.”

Ling’s eyes flickered , not anger this time, but something raw, almost pleading. “Orm-”

“You don’t have to say it,” Orm cut in softly. “I see it. The way you look at me like you’re trying not to remember. The way you came back to sit down instead of walking out that door.”

Ling pressed her lips together, staring at the table. Her fingers gripped the napkin until it wrinkled.

“Love doesn’t mean anything … we’re not good for each other,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Orm gave a small, sad smile. “No. It does. We are the best for each other”

Before Ling could answer, her phone buzzed against the table, the sudden vibration slicing through the fragile quiet. The screen lit up with a name Orm knew too well.

Miu.

Orm’s eyes dropped to it, then lifted slowly to Ling’s face. She shook her head once … barely perceptible, but enough. A silent plea. Don’t answer. Not yet. Let this moment just be ours.

For a few seconds, Ling didn’t move. The phone kept ringing, its soft hum filling the air like an unwanted intruder. Orm’s gaze stayed on her, steady, hopeful. For a heartbeat, Ling almost gave in…. almost let it go to voicemail.

But then she reached for it.

Orm’s face fell, the flicker of hope dimming into quiet acceptance.

Ling pressed the phone to her ear, her tone controlled. “Hey… oh, you’re not going to be home tonight? The merger work is holding you back?” A pause. Her voice softened, confused but polite. “Oh, okay. No, I’m still out, but I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hung up quickly, setting the phone face-down on the table.

Orm frowned slightly, her mind already turning. Merger work? That didn’t sound right. “The merger?” she repeated inwardly. But there isn’t much left to do … it’s already out for deliberation.

She studied Ling’s expression, searching for any sign of what she was thinking.

Ling broke the silence first. “You said you were sitting ducks until the judges accept the proposal, right?”

Orm nodded slowly, suspicion clouding her tone. “Yes.”

Ling frowned, half to herself. “Weird… why would Miu say she’s busy with merger work then?”

She lingered on the thought for a moment, her brow furrowing … a lawyer’s instinct, sharp and skeptical, flickering to life. But just as quickly, she pushed it aside, shaking her head faintly. “Never mind,” she said, reaching for her drink again. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Orm didn’t argue, but the look she gave Ling said otherwise.

As the ice clinked softly in Ling’s glass, both women sat back, the air between them shifting…their private world cracking just slightly under the weight of a name that had always come between them.

They left the pizza place in silence. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain and exhaust, the kind of Boston night that made everything feel quieter than it was. Ling walked ahead toward the car, her heels clicking against the pavement, every sound too sharp in the dark.

Orm followed a few steps behind, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, eyes on Ling’s back. She didn’t try to speak. She’d already said enough for one night.

When they reached the car, Ling unlocked it without a word. Orm hesitated before getting in, watching Ling’s reflection in the glass , calm, precise, maybe a little too calm.

The ride started in silence, the radio off, the only sound the low hum of the tires on the asphalt. The city lights blurred past, streaking across Ling’s face, catching in her lashes.

Halfway through the drive, Orm noticed it the small, familiar sound of the GPS voice breaking the quiet.

“Continue on Memorial Drive for 2 miles to home.”

Orm’s head turned. The word lingered on the screen in the soft glow of the dashboard: Home.

Her home.

Still saved that way.

Ling’s hand twitched on the steering wheel, eyes flicking briefly toward the screen before fixing back on the road. Her jaw tightened.

Orm smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held both ache and fondness. “You never changed it,” she said quietly.

Ling didn’t look at her. “I just never thought to.”

“You say you don’t love me anymore,” she said softly, leaning back in her seat. “That I’m just a friend now. But you still have my place saved as home.”

Ling’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Don’t start.”

“You’re all talk, baby,” Orm teased, a grin curling at the edge of her lips.

Ling shot her a warning glance. “Keep it up, and I’ll pull over right now and push you out.”

Orm laughed, holding up her hands. “Okay, okay! Sorry. No more teasing.”

But the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her words. A few seconds later, she added under her breath, “Though if you did pull over, I wouldn’t mind. It’d be kind of romantic.”

Ling turned her head slightly, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Orm said, grinning. “But not by someone who still has me listed as home.”

“Orm,” Ling warned again, though the edge in her voice had softened now, melting into something closer to fond annoyance.

Orm bit her lip, feigning innocence. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave.” She turned to the window, hiding her smile. “Mostly.”

By the time they reached her building, the teasing had faded into a warm, comfortable quiet. The GPS chimed one last time.

“You have arrived at home.”

Neither of them moved for a few seconds. The words lingered, filling the car with a strange familiarity that neither wanted to name.

Orm finally unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to her. “Well,” she said softly, “thank you for the ride, Professor.”

Ling said faintly. “Don’t call me that.”

“Can’t help it,” Orm said, her voice warm now, affectionate. “Old habits die hard.”

Before Ling could reply, Orm leaned in …slow, deliberate… and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. It wasn’t hurried or reckless, just soft enough to leave the air trembling between them.

“Goodnight,” Orm whispered, close enough for Ling to feel her breath. “Drive safe.”

She slipped out of the car before Ling could respond, closing the door quietly behind her.

Ling sat frozen for a moment, staring straight ahead, her cheek still tingling where Orm’s lips had brushed it. The GPS screen dimmed, the word home fading into darkness.

And as Orm walked toward her building, she didn’t look back …but she smiled, knowing Ling was still sitting there, not ready to drive away just yet.

*Flashback*

The affair began with boundaries.

Ling insisted on them, writing them into existence as though rules could save her from herself. She was methodical about it, almost clinical, listing them out in a neat row across the page of her notebook as if structure could hold back chaos.

No public displays of affection.
No expectations. No big confessions, no favors, no blurred lines between love and grading.
No jealousy. Which was ironic, because Ling was already jealous of anyone who so much as looked at Orm too long.
No touching within the walls of the university. No kissing. No handholding. No flirting.
And above all, no staying overnight.

Orm had only one rule.
No talking about the wife.

All of Ling’s rules broke within a week. Not the obvious ones….they were careful enough never to leave traces that could get them caught, but the rest of it collapsed almost instantly, as if the universe itself found the idea of restraint laughable.

The affair had begun with a kiss, and for the first week, that was all they seemed to survive on. Kisses in the half-lit quiet of Ling’s office, hurried and breathless between the stacks of papers she pretended to grade. Kisses stolen in empty hallways between lectures, when Orm brushed past her and smiled that infuriating smile that made Ling lose all sense of reason. Kisses in the car parked under the yellow glow of a streetlight, the world outside reduced to shadows and silence. Kisses in Orm’s apartment, where everything smelled faintly of jasmine and rain, and time itself seemed to dissolve.

For Ling, it was disorienting. She was a woman of order, of purpose, of self-control. The only daughter of a family that prized perfection. She had been raised to be good, to do good, to follow rules, to stay kind, to stay small. She was taught not to make things difficult, not to be selfish, not to hurt anyone. She had been raised to believe in dharma, in balance, in right and wrong.

But one smile from Orm, and every teaching she had ever memorized crumbled.

She would sit at her desk grading papers and think, just because I need air, should I destroy the environment that gives it to me? That was how she saw her marriage to Miu…something steady, quiet, sacred. Something that did not deserve to be ruined. And yet, she needed Orm like she needed to breathe.

Orm made her feel alive, and that terrified her.

Orm noticed everything. The way Ling took her coffee ; two sugars, stirred slowly, never while it was too hot. The way her shoulders rolled when she was tired. The faint twitch at the corner of her eye when she was trying not to show emotion. Orm memorized it all as if Ling were a map she was determined to learn by heart.

For Ling, this was what drove her mad. Who did that? Who noticed the way a person blinked when they were overwhelmed? Who remembered the cadence of a sigh, or the way fingers lingered over a page when the mind was elsewhere? Orm did. And Ling found herself craving it more than anything, the feeling of being seen down to her smallest, most invisible pieces.

And for Orm, Ling was everything. She didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was the first time Ling scolded her for interrupting in class, voice sharp but eyes soft. Maybe it was the day Ling laughed unexpectedly at something ridiculous she said. Or maybe it was the quiet moments after, when Ling would fall silent, and Orm could see the weight she carried…the loneliness of a woman who lived by rules she never chose.

Orm adored every fragment. Ling’s reserved voice, her habit of whispering when she talked to herself, the way she muttered about the bitter tea in the professor’s lounge as though it personally offended her. Even the way she fell asleep when she was too tired to fight it, murmuring incoherently, clutching her pillow like a secret.

There were nights Orm would stay awake beside her, just watching. The lamplight would spill across Ling’s face, softening her edges, and Orm would think that this…this impossible, forbidden, fragile love, was worth every line they had crossed.

Ling had always believed that love was supposed to be quiet, dutiful, something you tended to like a garden. Orm showed her that love could also be wild, messy, and utterly ungovernable. And once Ling felt that truth, there was no going back.

The affair had begun with boundaries.
By the end of that first week, it was already breaking them.

Orm had finished classes at noon that day. The apartment was quiet, sunlight stretching lazily across the wooden floor, and for once there was no lecture, no reading, no excuse to keep busy. She had told herself she would use the free afternoon to catch up on Comparative Constitutional Law, but the pages blurred after the third paragraph. Every sentence began and ended with the same thought. Ling.

She had not seen her all day, not even from a distance. Normally that was fine. They were careful, cautious, disciplined in their own way. But today, the stillness felt unbearable. She needed to hear her voice, to feel that measured calm that somehow made the chaos in her head slow down. She needed her, and not just in the way people meant when they said they missed someone. It was a sharper kind of ache.

She grabbed her phone and typed quickly.

Orm: When are you finishing up? I need you.

A reply came almost immediately.

Ling: What do you mean you need me?

Orm smiled, biting the inside of her cheek.

Orm: Need help with Constitutional Law. You know, the one with the- readings that hate me.

A pause, then the typing bubbles appeared again.

Ling: I’ll be there in an hour. If I don’t have any students during office hours.

Orm: Okay. I miss you. 💋

She stared at the screen long after the message was sent, then tossed the phone aside and tried to read again. It didn’t work. She must have re-read the same page five times before she gave up entirely and started pacing the room. By the time the clock hit six, her nerves were stretched thin.

When she finally heard the soft click of the door, the sound was like relief.

Ling stepped in quietly, closing the door behind her with care. Her white shirt was loose, half tucked into her black slacks, her hair falling out of its usual neat twist. She looked tired, but the kind of tired that made her softer around the edges.

Orm’s book slid from her lap onto the couch. “You’re late,” she said, though her voice held no real accusation.

Ling locked the door and set her bag down. “I had a student come in last minute. She wanted to talk about moot court prep.”

“Did you help her?”

“Of course,” Ling said, crossing the room, loosening her sleeves as she moved. “Unlike you, some of my students still keep their focus on academics.”

Orm grinned, leaning back on the couch. “I am focused. Just on the wrong subject.”

Ling gave her that look, the one that was supposed to silence her but never did. “You said you needed help.”

“I do,” Orm said, sitting up straighter. “Just not with constitutional law anymore.”

Ling exhaled slowly, already knowing where this was going. “Orm.”

“You didn’t even say hi.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“That’s not how I like it.”

Ling’s lips curved, unwillingly. “You’re impossible.”

Orm rose from the couch, the faintest spark in her eyes. “And yet you keep coming back.”

Ling’s breath caught, just slightly. There it was again, that shift in the air. The same one that always pulled them under before either of them could name it.

“Orm, we said we’d keep it…”

Orm stepped closer, close enough for Ling to feel the warmth of her. “We said a lot of things.”

Ling’s hand lifted automatically, as if to create distance, but it found Orm’s shoulder instead. “You’re not even pretending to study.”

“I’m studying you,” Orm murmured.

Ling laughed quietly, despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love that about me.”

Ling’s eyes softened. “That’s what scares me.”

Orm tilted her head, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. “You’re allowed to be scared.”

Ling’s answer came in a whisper. “You make it impossible not to be.”

For a moment they stood there, neither daring to move, as if one more breath might break whatever invisible thread was holding them still. Then Ling exhaled, her resolve slipping with the sound. She reached for Orm’s hand and sank down onto the couch beside her.

The books on the table lay forgotten, the world outside irrelevant. Ling’s fingers traced the back of Orm’s hand, slow, distracted, as if memorizing the shape of something she already knew too well.

Orm leaned her head on Ling’s shoulder. “You smell like rain,” she whispered.

“I walked from the parking lot.”

“I like it.”

Ling smiled faintly, her thumb brushing over Orm’s knuckles. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Orm’s voice was soft. “Maybe. But I’ll love you while I do it.”

Ling’s eyes fluttered shut. Whatever boundaries they had set, whatever lines they had promised to keep, had long since blurred into nothing. In that quiet apartment, with books half open and the city humming beyond the window, they both knew they had lost control long before tonight.

Ling’s hand was still in Orm’s, her thumb tracing slow circles over the skin. The air between them had thickened; every sound outside seemed far away. Orm turned her head just enough for her breath to touch Ling’s neck.

Ling should have pulled back. She told herself to. But her body didn’t move.

Orm’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re shaking.”

Ling’s reply came like an exhale. “Because you don’t stop.”

“I don’t want to.”

The words hung there, bare and certain. Ling looked at her then…really looked and all the restraint she had built around herself began to give way. Orm’s eyes were steady, wide open, waiting.

Ling’s fingers slid to the back of her neck. The first touch was gentle, the kind of touch meant to be brief, but neither of them let it end. The world tilted, shrinking down to the sound of two uneven breaths and the faint hum of the city outside.

Orm’s hands came to rest at Ling’s waist, light but sure, drawing her closer until there was nothing left between them but heat and heartbeat. Ling’s thoughts fractured into fragments of want, fear, mercy, sin and then into nothing at all.

The kiss that followed was not new, but it felt different. It was hungry, desperate, full of everything they had been trying not to say. Ling pulled her closer, the taste of regret already on her tongue, the promise of ruin threaded through every breath.

The room filled with the sound of movement , quiet, unhurried, inevitable. Papers fell from the table, the lamp flickered, the air turned warm. Neither of them spoke.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their foreheads pressed together, the silence between them heavy with something they could no longer name.

“Did you have a good day?” Ling asks

“yes”

“Good,” Ling said, her voice quiet but weighted with something else. Her gaze drifted downward, lingering on Orm’s lips. “Mine was awful,” she murmured, and before Orm could answer, she leaned in and kissed her…hungry, certain, a little desperate.

Orm’s breath caught as Ling deepened it, her hand sliding up the back of her neck, keeping her close, unwilling to let the day or its noise come between them. The taste of her felt like relief, like confession, like something Ling had been holding in since morning.

Orm tried to speak, to say something teasing or clever, but Ling didn’t let her. Her touch was insistent, almost impatient, the kind of touch that said I don’t want to talk, not tonight. Ling’s need always came out this way when she was tired: quiet all day, then suddenly full of fire.

Orm smiled against her mouth. “You missed me.”

Ling didn’t answer. She pulled Orm closer instead, her fingers threading into her hair, her breath breaking softly between kisses. Orm’s pulse quickened, her body leaning into the weight and warmth of her. The air grew thick around them, filled with that quiet sound of two people forgetting where one ended and the other began.

Ling’s restraint slipped by degrees. Her hands, always so careful, became unsteady; her control dissolved into touch and breath. Orm’s laughter…half whisper, half gasp echoed softly in the room, and Ling pressed her forehead to hers, breathing her in like oxygen.

“Look at me,” Ling whispered.

Orm lifted her eyes, a tremor running quietly through her chest.

Ling’s voice dipped lower, rougher. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Orm shook her head, smiling against her breath. “Tell me.”

But Ling didn’t. She kissed her instead … slow this time, the kind of kiss that made promises without saying a word. The moment stretched, long and warm and breathless, until the world slipped away. Until it was just the sound of their breathing, and the low hum of something wild and dangerous unraveling between them.

When they finally broke apart, Ling’s eyes glinted with mischief. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of Orm’s pants, dragging them down slowly, deliberately, her gaze never breaking. Orm’s breath hitched. Heat rippled through her body, anticipation blooming like fire.

Ling placed her hands gently on Orm’s thighs. “Lift your hips for me, please” she murmured, her voice reverent.

Orm obeyed. She was already wet, her pussy glistening with arousal. Ling leaned in, her lips brushing gently against Orm’s clit … just once and Orm whimpered, her fingers curling into the sheets.

Ling loved how responsive she was. Every kiss, every touch, Orm bloomed under her like she’d been waiting for it. Needed it. Ling realized she needed her just as much.

She kissed her inner thighs, slow and worshipful, her tongue tracing along the tender skin. Occasionally, she let it brush against Orm’s lips …teasing, until Orm whimpered again, her hips twitching, nearly begging.

And when Ling finally had enough of teasing … when Orm’s breathing had turned ragged and she was murmuring her name like prayer… Ling dragged her tongue slowly up her clit and smiled when Orm squirmed with a desperate, choked-out sound.

She hooked Orm’s legs over her shoulders, spreading her wide. Open. Accessible.

It started innocently. A slow swirl of tongue, the gentle suction on her clit. But soon Ling replaced her mouth with two fingers, sliding them in with practiced ease, and Orm gasped …her body arching, hands reaching for anything to hold on to.

“You’re so wet, baby,” Ling said, fucking her with smooth, deep thrusts. “All this for me, huh?”

“Yes,” Orm gasped, breathless, shivering at her own voice … the sound of herself falling apart.

The sight of her, flushed and writhing and so damn open beneath her, made Ling lose her composure. She leaned forward, her other hand sliding under Orm’s shirt, fingers brushing over her breasts, pinching her nipple just enough to make Orm moan.

“You look so beautiful,” Ling said, almost reverent.

Orm’s cheeks flushed, her whimpers spilling out like they couldn’t be helped. Ling always praised her , always said things that made her feel wanted … but this was different. This time it felt like Ling meant every word. Like she saw her, and wanted her, and needed her to know it.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Ling whispered, her fingers thrusting deeper now, faster. “Let it happen. Let me have it.”

Orm’s back arched. Her mouth opened around a cry. Her body clenched around Ling’s hand.

“So beautiful,” Ling murmured again, watching her fall apart.

And Orm did … messy and unrestrained, her orgasm shaking through her with the kind of vulnerability only Ling ever got to see.

The night had quieted to a low hum. The rain had started again, steady against the windows, washing the city in silver. Ling sat propped against the couch, Orm half-draped across her lap, tracing idle patterns on her shirt. The lamp beside them cast a soft, amber circle of light, and the world outside felt far away.

Orm stirred first, her voice muffled against Ling’s collar. “You said your day was bad. What happened?”

Ling’s fingers moved absently through her hair, slow and methodical, the touch that always calmed Orm. “It was nothing,” she said, her tone quiet but even. “I’m opening a non-profit. For… you know who.”

Orm looked up, searching for her face.

Ling continued, her words careful and precise. “There’s a lot of paperwork. My parents are against it because the funding comes from my trust. But I had to do it. Then I have a hundred papers to grade, case notes, moot court preparation.” She paused, her hand stilling briefly on Orm’s shoulder. “Everything aside, I have you. My only sense of normalcy.”

Orm smiled against her. “Oh, I see. The one you said gives you headaches just few days back?”

Ling’s lips curved faintly. “That’s because you ranted about your high-school soccer team for three hours. I learned the entire roster by force.”

Orm tilted her head to look up at her. “Oh yeah? Which position did Emma Curran play?”

Ling’s eyes narrowed, amused. “That’s a trick question. She never played. She was the water girl.”

Orm’s face lit up, delighted. “You remembered everything.”

Ling let out a small hum, fingers brushing the edge of Orm’s jaw. “I always remember everything about you.”

Orm grinned. “You’re so cute, baby.”

That earned her a raised eyebrow. “Are we each other’s baby now?”

“Yes, we are,” Orm replied with a grin, completely sure of herself.

Ling’s hand slipped beneath Orm’s chin, guiding her gaze upward. “If I’m your baby, you still listen when I speak,” she said, her voice soft but commanding.

Orm swallowed, smiling but instantly quieter. “Yes, Professor.”

“Good,” Ling murmured, releasing her and leaning back. “Now tell me about your day. The short version this time.”

Orm immediately started anyway, words spilling out faster than her thoughts. “Well, I tried to study, but the coffee tasted like old socks, and I forgot my laptop charger again, so I borrowed Jordan’s, but then she reminded me about this group presentation that I totally blanked on, and…”

“Orm,” Ling interrupted gently. “The short version.”

Orm grinned sheepishly. “The day was chaos. I missed you.”

Ling’s hand slipped back into her hair, tugging lightly, just enough to make her look up again. “You missed me?”

Orm nodded, eyes bright. “A lot.”

Ling smiled then, slow and knowing. “Good.” She let her fingers linger at the back of Orm’s neck, a wordless reassurance that she was both in charge and entirely devoted.

That made Orm grin again, but she didn’t push further. She just stayed there, wrapped around Ling, her chatter softening into hums and small laughs as Ling stroked her hair.

The rain deepened outside, the rhythm slow and constant. Ling’s hand traced lazy circles on Orm’s back while Orm’s voice rose and fell in another one of her rambling stories. Occasionally, Ling would stop her mid-sentence with a quiet enough or a soft laugh, just to remind her who held the room.

Orm always obeyed, melting easily into Ling’s quiet command.

And in the quiet that followed, when words finally ran out, Ling pressed her lips to the top of Orm’s head and whispered, “You talk too much.”

Orm smiled into her chest. “And you love it.”

Ling didn’t deny it.

Orm shifted slightly, catching the sound through the window. “It’s raining,” she said suddenly, sitting up just enough to look outside. “Oh, this reminds me….when I was a kid, I rode my bike in the rain and broke my arm.”

Ling opened her eyes, lips curving faintly. “That sounds about right.”

“No, seriously!” Orm said, already halfway to another tangent. “I thought it’d be fun, like those movie scenes where people spin in the rain with music playing. Except there was no music, just thunder, and I was twelve and overconfident.”

Ling smirked, her voice calm. “And undercoordinated.”

“Excuse me,” Orm gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I was a very talented athlete…if you ignore the part where I skidded into a bush.”

Ling laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “And the broken arm?”

“Oh, it was spectacular,” Orm said proudly, eyes bright with mischief. “My mom nearly fainted when she saw the X-ray. I still have the scar from where they had to realign the bone. Look!” She tried to angle her arm in the dim light.

Ling caught her hand gently, studying her wrist with deliberate attention. “You talk about your injuries like they’re trophies.”

Orm grinned. “Well, I survived them, didn’t I?” She turned her head toward Ling, eyes gleaming. “You listening, Professor?”

Ling hummed. “Always.”

Orm narrowed her eyes playfully. “Really? Then what color was my bike?”

Ling tilted her head, pretending to think. “Red. With a sticker of a lightning bolt on the side.”

Orm blinked. “that’s a small detail?”

Ling gave her a small, tired smile. “You talk a lot, Orm. It’s hard not to remember.”

Orm softened, her grin turning quiet. She leaned into Ling again, resting her head on her chest, tracing idle lines over her shirt. “You know, you always listen even when you’re exhausted. Most people tune me out after five minutes.”

“Well, I love listening to you” Ling said simply.

The rain kept falling, washing the world in rhythm. Orm went on talking….about her childhood, her scrapes, the ridiculous raincoat she used to wear, all the small, bright fragments of a life that had always felt too big for silence.

Ling listened, eyes half closed, exhaustion lingering at the edges of her body but never quite settling. Even after the longest days…after the paperwork, the lectures, the family calls, the weight of her own rules…Orm’s voice always reached her.

It filled the quiet corners of her mind that nothing else could.

She didn’t say it out loud, but she thought it every time. If her days ended like this…with Orm’s voice tangling through the sound of rain, with warmth pressed against her side and laughter replacing the noise in her head…then even the hardest days were good ones.

Because Orm, for all her chaos and chatter, was the only part of her life that ever felt like light.

And that night, Ling broke her last rule. The one she had promised herself she would never cross. No staying over.

It had seemed simple when she made it, back when everything between them still felt manageable, containable, something that could be put back in its box when daylight came. But as the rain continued to fall and Orm’s words softened into half-dreamed laughter, that rule began to dissolve like ink in water.

Orm had fallen asleep mid-sentence, her voice fading somewhere between a story about her old neighborhood and a half-formed question Ling never got to answer. She was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown carelessly around Ling’s waist, her face pressed against her shoulder. Ling looked down at her, at the way her brow softened in sleep, at the faint smile still tugging at the corner of her lips, and something inside her simply gave way.

She should have left. She should have untangled herself gently, gathered her things, slipped out into the rain before the world remembered who she was supposed to be. But she didn’t.

Instead, she shifted slightly, letting Orm curl closer. Her hand found its way to the younger woman’s hair, brushing it back from her face, slow and tender. The air was still damp from the storm, but the apartment was warm, glowing faintly under the soft lamplight.

Ling closed her eyes. For once, she didn’t want to think about consequences, or vows, or the version of herself she had to be when morning came. For once, she wanted to exist in this small, impossible peace.

She fell asleep like that…Orm’s warmth pressed against her, the rhythm of rain steady beyond the window, the chaos of her life finally quieted by the simplest thing of all.

And when morning came, the world outside would start again, bringing noise and guilt and the weight of what they were becoming. But for that night, the rule was gone.

Thus began the sleepovers.

The nights that turned warmer.
The mornings that turned softer.
And the days that, somehow, felt a little more bearable…because she would wake with Orm still tangled against her, breathing softly, her presence reminding Ling that even the most complicated love could make the world gentler for a while.

Chapter Text

Orm's POV

Orm walked toward her building, she didn’t look back…but she smiled, knowing Ling was still sitting there, not ready to drive away just yet.

The smile lingered for a few steps, soft and secret, until the sound of Ling’s car finally pulled away from the curb. The low hum of the engine faded into the distance, leaving the street empty and the night suddenly colder.

Orm stood there for a moment under the streetlight, staring at the dark stretch of road where the taillights had disappeared. Then the thought came, quiet but sharp.

Merger work.

Her smile faltered.

Ling’s wife…Natasha, had said she was working late on the merger. Except there was nothing left to work on. The court had the proposal. Every document was signed, sealed, and submitted. There was no reason to be in the office at this hour unless something didn’t add up.

Orm exhaled, pulling her coat tighter. Her instincts buzzed in her chest like static. She turned to the empty street and whistled for a taxi.

A yellow cab rolled up, brakes squealing softly against the wet asphalt.

“Where to?” the driver asked through the half-open window.

Orm hesitated for only a second. “S&M Tower. Financial District.”

The driver nodded and pulled into the road.

The city passed by in streaks of color…neon lights, reflections of rain, the blur of other lives moving too fast to notice hers. Orm’s fingers drummed against the window, her thoughts unraveling faster than the cab could drive.

Why lie about something so small? If Natasha didn’t want to say where she was, she could have made up anything…client call, late dinner, donor meeting. But she’d said merger. Specific. Planned.

Was she covering for someone?

Was she… cheating?

Orm’s stomach tightened. She didn’t even know why the thought bothered her so much. Maybe it was the absurdity of it…Natasha, the woman Ling had chosen over her many times in past , the perfect, composed wife who represented everything Ling thought she wanted.

And now there was a lie sitting there between them, small but deliberate.

Orm looked out at the rain-blurred lights, voice low to herself. “If she’s lying to Ling…” She stopped. The rest of the sentence didn’t need words.

The cab turned down the empty stretch toward the S&M building. Its glass facade rose out of the darkness like something half-asleep, a few lights still burning on the higher floors. Orm leaned forward. The twenty-third floor…the executive offices. One of those lights was on.

“Can you wait a minute?” she asked, pulling a few bills from her wallet.

The driver shrugged. “Sure thing, lady.”

She stepped out into the drizzle, crossing the quiet street. The lobby was still lit, but hollow, the receptionist long gone. Only the security guard looked up as she walked in.

“Working late again, Ms. Orm?” he asked with a tired smile.

Orm smiled back easily. “No, just forgot something.”

The guard chuckled and buzzed her through saying “The night guard is on patrolling very floor, look out for him”.

She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for twenty-three. The hum of the lift filled the silence, steady and unnerving. Her reflection in the mirrored walls looked calm, almost amused, but her heart was pounding.

When the elevator doors opened, the hallway was dark except for a thin strip of light spilling out from Lorena’s office. The rest of the floor looked asleep…desks silent, screens black, the hum of the city faint through the glass.

Orm hesitated, her heels quiet against the carpet. That light shouldn’t have been on. It was late. Too late.

And then she heard it…voices. Two of them. Low, almost conspiratorial.

She took a careful step closer.

“Are you sure it’s going to work?” Natasha’s voice. Soft, anxious, careful in the way people sound when they already know they’re doing something wrong.

“Yes, honey,” another voice replied. Lorena. The tone was smooth, confident, the kind of voice that carried control like perfume. “It is. Please, trust me.”

Orm froze. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Honey?.

The word echoed through her like a pulse.

She pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide, her mind trying to catch up. What is going to work? What are they planning? Her stomach twisted. Were they talking about the merger? Something else? Why did it sound more than business?

A hundred possibilities raced through her head, each worse than the last.

Then a sudden shuffle behind her.

The night guard’s voice broke the silence, sharp and startled. “Who’s there?”

Orm flinched.

Panic kicked in before thought could. She darted away from the light, slipping down the corridor toward her own office. By the time the guard reached Lorena’s door, Orm was already bent over her desk, yanking open drawers and pretending to search for something. Her hands trembled, but she forced her breathing to slow.

Footsteps followed…the guard’s, and two others.

Lorena’s voice came first, calm but clipped. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry, Ms. Lorena,” the guard said quickly. “I thought I heard someone.”

Natasha’s heels clicked against the floor. “You did,” she said, and then her tone shifted when she saw her. “Orm?”

Orm looked up, her face arranged into surprise. “Oh…, hi. I… uh…” she stammered, eyes darting between them. “I forgot my phone. My cell. I took my work phone home and forgot my personal one.”

Natasha frowned slightly. “You could’ve picked it up tomorrow.”

Orm gave a small, awkward laugh, clutching her phone like it was evidence of her own story. “Yeah, but all my contacts are on this one. My mom calls me every night, and she panics if I don’t pick up. You know how Asian moms are.”

Lorena raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Very devoted, I know.”

Orm forced a chuckle. “Something like that.”

The tension broke just enough for Natasha to sigh, the suspicion in her eyes softening. “Alright. You gave the guard a fright. Next time, just send a message, okay?”

“Of course,” Orm said quickly, stepping aside, pretending to tidy the files on her desk. “Sorry for the chaos.”

Natasha nodded, already turning toward the her office. Lorena lingered a second longer, her gaze sharper, quieter, almost curious. Then she smiled, polite and cool, before following Natasha out.

When the hallway fell silent again, Orm stayed still, her fingers pressed to the edge of her desk.

Her heart was still racing.

Honey. It is going to work??? WHATTTTT?

The words looped in her head like a curse.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t about paperwork. It wasn’t about the merger. And if Natasha was lying to Ling, then Lorena was the reason why.

Orm grabbed her phone and walked out, her reflection flickering in the dark glass of the hallway. The night outside smelled of rain and betrayal.

As she stepped into the empty street, her thoughts tangled into one single line:

Ling, you really have no idea what kind of world you’re sleeping next to.

And with that, Orm flagged another cab, her mind already spinning toward what she would do next.

The next morning, the office felt like static…too bright, too loud, too normal for what Orm knew. She walked in with her usual calm, hair smooth, suit impeccable, smile sharp enough to cut through tension. Inside, though, she was still standing in that hallway, hearing Lorena’s voice through the crack of a door.

The words still burned.

She wasn’t sure what she wanted more now…. answers, or proof that she hadn’t imagined it.

The day stretched long before it reached noon. Orm worked through briefs, reviewed notes, and waited for the clock to move. Her mind kept circling back to the night. By lunch, curiosity had grown sharp enough to need feeding.

She found the gossip table exactly where it always was…by the tall windows overlooking the harbor. Three assistants and one paralegal, lunch boxes open, laughter already spilling out. They always started with the harmless kind of gossip: who wore what, who stayed too late, who was flirting with the wrong associate. But Orm knew how to steer a conversation without making it feel like steering.

She sat down with her coffee, uninvited but instantly welcome.

Clara looked up first. “Orm, come to the people’s corner?”

Orm smiled. “Needed fresh air and fresh gossip. You all tell the best ones.”

Drew, the paralegal, laughed. “Oh, we only tell the truth no one’s supposed to say.”

Orm tilted her head, tone easy. “Then tell me something true. What’s the firm whispering about this week?”

Clara traded a quick look with the others before saying, “Natasha and Lorena again. Everyone’s pretending not to see it, but it’s getting ridiculous.”

Orm raised her cup halfway to her lips. “Again?”

Drew leaned forward. “You didn’t know? That friendship goes back years. Harvard, apparently. Lorena was in junior year when Natasha joined. Lorena took her under her wing and bam! They were inseparable…study partners, debate partners, rumor partners.”

The intern giggled. “Someone said they even shared an apartment for a semester. No proof, though. Just… stories.”

Clara nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Lorena was a legend back then, and Natasha was the ambitious one always trying to catch her shadow. Fast-forward a decade and here we are.”

Orm kept her tone mild. “A decade later, and the shadow finally caught up.”

Drew grinned. “Caught up and then some. When Natasha came here, she was just a junior partner. No one expected her to make nameplate status this fast. But Lorena made sure she did. They worked that buyout together…remember? The one that pushed out Beckman 2 years ago?”

Clara laughed softly. “Oh, Beckman never saw it coming. Lorena framed it as a necessity to the board. They say that Natasha bought it for 5 Million , she walked right into the vacant seat before the man’s chair was cold.”

The intern whispered, “Lorena called it ‘strategic growth.’ Everyone else called it a coup.”

Orm said quietly, “And now they both have offices with a view.”

Clara leaned back. “Exactly. And it’s not just work. You should see the way they look at each other in meetings. It’s like everyone else disappears. That quiet kind of attention that makes people nervous to breathe too loud.”

Drew added, “They had a fight once…at Kellan’s, downtown. This was before Natasha got the name on the door. A few associates were out there after a trial win. Saw them behind the pub, screaming. Natasha shouting that Lorena never prioritizes her. Lorena actually crying, begging her not to leave. Can you imagine Lorena crying for anyone?”

The intern shook her head. “She probably meant business.”

Clara smirked. “No, honey, she meant love. No one begs that hard for a business meeting.”

Laughter circled the table again, soft and conspiratorial.

Drew said, “Next week they were back to normal. Smiling, working together, finishing each other’s sentences like nothing happened. It’s unsettling, how close they are. They trust each other with everything. Lorena signs things before reading them if Matthews asks. Matthews covers for her with the board. You can’t separate them.”

Clara tapped her fork against the table. “Some people call it loyalty. I call it dangerous.”

The table went quiet for a moment, the way people pause when a boundary has been brushed. Then Drew leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make everyone follow. “You know who I feel bad for in all this?”

Clara raised a brow. “Who?”

“Natasha’s wife,” he said. “What’s her name…Ling, right? The lawyer, the one who runs that non-profit.”

Clara nodded. “Lingling Kwong. Sweet woman. I met her once at a firm gala. Polite, elegant, completely unaware of how the world spins around her.”

The intern whispered, “She seemed so calm when I saw her. Like she doesn’t even know what’s happening in this place.”

Clara snorted softly. “Of course she doesn’t. Women like her never do. Always thinking their wives are chained to work, not realizing who they’re actually chained to.”

Drew leaned forward again. “Beckman’s old assistant said something once. You remember the buyout? The five-million-dollar settlement to get him out? Apparently, the check was signed by Lingling Kwong herself.”

The air changed around the table. Even the intern stopped breathing for a second.

Clara frowned. “Wait. Ling paid the buyout?”

“That’s what the assistant swore,” Drew said. “Said she saw the paperwork cross Bechman’s desk. The ink on the signature wasn’t even dry. I mean, that’s devotion or delusion. Maybe both.”

The intern gave a low, disbelieving laugh. “So, she helped her wife take someone else’s seat and doesn’t even know who’s keeping it warm now?”

Clara shook her head. “Poor thing. Probably thought she was helping the firm. Helping her partner succeed. Imagine signing the check that bought your own humiliation.”

Drew sighed. “They say she still sends flowers to every firm event. She’s proud, you know. Thinks she’s part of it. If only she saw how Natasha and Lorena look at each other when she’s not around.”

Clara’s voice softened for the first time that lunch. “I don’t think she’ll ever see it. She’s too busy believing in the version of her marriage she built. That kind of blindness can’t be fixed…it’s chosen.”

The table’s laughter faded into something quieter. Orm sat very still, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her thoughts half a world away.

Two years ago.

The number landed in her mind like a drop of ink in water, small but spreading. Two years since Beckman had been pushed out, two years since Natasha had stepped into his seat, two years since Lorena had called it strategic growth.

And two years since Orm had left.

She hadn’t thought of that time in months. She had trained herself not to. But the moment Drew said it, something inside her had shifted, subtle but sharp, like the faint click of a lock she hadn’t realized was still there.

Two years.

The same season she had packed her life into a single suitcase and vanished from Boston. The same month her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with messages that weren’t supposed to exist. The same week Ling had asked for divorce.

Now the timing was staring back at her from a lunch table conversation, wrapped in laughter and crumbs.

Clara said something about company dinners. The intern giggled. Drew was already telling a new story. Orm nodded when someone looked her way, smiled in all the right places, but the rest of her was somewhere else entirely.

The memory felt like fog…thick, familiar, creeping into her chest. She tried to shake it off, but the thought stuck.

Two years.

It couldn’t be coincidence.

Her stomach turned. The chatter around her grew dull, faint, the words blending together until all she could hear was the soft scrape of her spoon against porcelain.

She pushed her chair back quietly and excused herself with something polite and forgettable.

The corridor outside felt longer than usual. Every footstep echoed. By the time she reached her office, her coffee had gone cold in her hand.

She set it down, closed the door, and crossed to the window. Boston moved below her, small and indifferent.

It was the same skyline she had looked at before she left. Same buildings, same streets. Only now it was dressed in a different kind of silence.

She leaned her forehead lightly against the glass and watched the reflection of her own eyes looking back.

Two years ago, everything had broken open. Ling’s marriage. Her own life. The end of whatever they had been.

And in the middle of it all, something else…something she had promised herself never to remember.

Orm’s pulse quickened, not with panic, but with recognition…the kind that felt like an old wound remembering why it hurt.

She whispered it once, just to test how it sounded in the air. “The same time.”

The words felt heavier than they should have.

It wasn’t proof. Not yet. It was only timing. But timing, she knew, was rarely innocent.

She stayed there for a long moment, watching the traffic lights flicker red and gold on the wet streets below. The city kept moving, unaware of what it had buried two years ago.

Orm’s reflection didn’t move either. Her face looked calm, but her eyes had changed. Something in her had started turning again, slow and deliberate.

Two years ago, everything had ended.
Now it was starting to line up again.

*Flashback*

The First Six Months

It began quietly, as most dangerous things do.

The first few weeks were stolen hours. Ling would arrive at Orm’s apartment under the cover of night, her car parked two blocks away as if distance could mask guilt. She brought paperwork with her sometimes, a defense against her own weakness. But the moment she stepped through that door, her shoulders would drop. Her breath would slow. And Orm would be there, barefoot and glowing like some kind of wicked salvation, asking if she wanted tea or sin.

They were careful in public, though not invisible. Ling tried to keep her voice steady in class and her expression unreadable, but Orm had a way of tugging at her composure like a loose thread. They kissed once behind the stacks of the law library and once more in the narrow stairwell between lecture halls, their mouths colliding like secrets too big to hold. After that, they grew smarter. Brushing past each other between classes, sharing notes that looked like legal arguments but read like confessions, meeting in empty classrooms for three stolen minutes where Ling would press her lips to Orm's throat and say nothing at all. The university became a dangerous game board, each corridor a risk, every glance a spark…and they played it like women who knew how to lose.

The first month was about need. Urgency. The taste of freedom in each other’s mouths. They kissed like they were trying to erase memory. They undressed each other in silence and learned the rhythms of each other's breath. It was frantic, beautiful, reckless…like discovering how to breathe again only to drown willingly.

Afterward, Ling would lie still for a few minutes, her arm slung over Orm’s stomach, their breaths slowly syncing in the afterglow. But it never lasted.

“I have to go,” Ling would whisper eventually, eyes already scanning the dark corners of the room like guilt might be hiding in the shadows.

“Stay a little longer,” Orm would ask, her voice still husky with sleep and hope.

Ling would hesitate. “I can’t. I said I was working late. An hour is already too long.”

Orm would nod, but she never said goodbye. She would just watch Ling rise quietly, fixing her blouse in the half-lit mirror, brushing her hair back into the shape of someone else's wife.

The door would, click shut behind her, soft but final.

Only then would Orm let herself cry…quietly, without theatrics, like someone grieving a version of herself she couldn’t reach. She would pull the sheets tighter around her, the scent of jasmine and Ling still clinging to her skin like a bruise she didn’t want to heal. And in the quiet, she’d whisper words into the pillow that sounded a lot like “please” and “don’t go,” even though Ling was already gone.

By the second month, they had fallen into a rhythm. Tuesday evenings were Ling’s, Thursdays Orm’s. Weekends were impossible, but sometimes they would sneak a morning. Ling once took a non-profit call with her tongue inside Orm, never missing a beat…neither in the conversation nor between her thighs. And then she spent the rest of the day with her blouse buttoned wrong and a bruise blooming at her collarbone. She never felt more alive.

It had started ...Orm tangled in bedsheets, still sleep-warm and grinning. Ling had disappeared beneath them with no warning, kissing lower, slower, until Orm’s laughter turned into shuddered gasps.

Then the phone rang.

“Don’t,” Orm whispered, breathless, her hand reaching for the phone. “Don’t answer it.”

Ling didn’t listen. She reached for it instead, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand like a woman adjusting a pen cap, and answered in perfect tone.

“This is Lingling Kwong,” she said smoothly, her voice velvet and steel. Her head dipped again. Her tongue never stopped moving.

Orm’s hand clutched at the pillow. Her breath hitched.

“Yes, I received the budget proposal this morning,” Ling continued, her voice unshaken. “I’ve reviewed it and will share notes before the two-p.m. discussion.”

Orm let out a strangled sound. She tried to pull the sheet into her mouth. She was trembling, desperate.

“Absolutely,” Ling said, licking her slowly through the moan. “I’ll see you then.”

She ended the call, dropped the phone onto the mattress, and looked up at Orm, eyes dark, mouth glistening.

“I didn’t cancel anything,” she said calmly. “You came on my schedule.”

Orm was already breaking beneath her. “I hate you,” she whispered, voice shaking.

Ling smiled and kissed her inner thigh. “No, you don’t.”

Orm came with Ling’s name caught between a sob and a prayer.

And Ling, ever composed, wiped her mouth again, sat up, and checked the time.

“Twenty-two minutes,” she said. “Still room for feedback notes.”

Orm could only stare at the ceiling, shaking. Ling was already pulling on her blouse, as if she hadn’t just destroyed her.

That day, she presented at her non-profit like she hadn’t just knelt in a bed and rewritten the definition of power. Her collarbone still tingled with Orm’s nails. Her lips still tasted like devotion. And she had never felt more alive.

They fought, too. But not the way most lovers do. Orm never yelled unless she was begging. And Ling never yelled at all. She just pulled away, sharp and quiet, as if retreating was the only language she trusted.

Orm sat on the edge of the bed, her voice low but heavy.

"I’m not asking for everything, you know."

Ling didn’t look up. She was buttoning her blouse, each movement precise, mechanical.

"You think I don’t know that?"

Orm’s fingers curled into the sheets.

"Then why do you make it feel like I’m asking for the moon?"

Ling sighed, turning to the mirror to fix her hair. Her reflection looked more tired than she felt.

"Because you want things I don’t have."

"I want time, Ling. That’s it. Just more than an hour when you feel guilty enough to stay."

Ling froze for a second, then resumed smoothing the collar of her shirt.

"You think I don’t want to stay?"

"Then stay."

"I can’t."

"Why?"

"Because if I stay, I won’t leave. And if I don’t leave, everything I’ve built will collapse. My marriage. My name. My family. My work. All of it."

Orm laughed quietly, bitter and breathless.

"You make it sound like I’m trying to destroy your life."

"You’re not. You’re just the only part of it that feels real. And that’s the problem."

Orm looked at her then, eyes glinting.

"So I’m real, but not worth rearranging for."

Ling turned to her fully now, the anger rising behind her restraint.

"Don’t twist my words. I’m here, aren’t I?"

"You’re here for the sex. You’re here for the guilt. You’re not here for me."

"That’s not true."

"Then prove it."

Ling was silent.

Orm stood, pulling a shirt over her head.

"You won’t even sleep beside me, Ling. You hold me like I’m made of glass, and then you leave like I’m made of smoke."

"I told you from the beginning, I can’t promise more."

"I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking for a morning. I’m asking for one fucking morning where I don’t wake up to an empty pillow."

Ling’s voice cracked.

"Don’t do this."

"I’m already doing it."

Ling closed her eyes, struggling to breathe through the weight in her chest.

"This is all I can give you."

"Then that’s all I’ll ever get, isn’t it?"

Neither of them spoke for a long time. The room held their silence like a wound.

When Ling finally left, Orm didn’t follow her to the door. She just sat back down on the edge of the bed, the sheets still warm where Ling had been, and whispered into the quiet:

"I don’t want more. I just want you to stay when I need you."

But Ling was already gone.

Two days passed without a word.

Orm didn’t call. She didn’t text. She went to class, nodded through lectures, smiled at people who didn’t matter. But the silence inside her was loud. She kept expecting to hear footsteps in the hallway, a knock at the door, something. But nothing came.

Until the third night, when the buzzer rang at 8:42 p.m.

Orm opened the door barefoot, hair wet from the shower, an old t-shirt clinging to her skin. And there Ling stood…duffel bag over one shoulder, eyes dark with something raw, something wordless.

"I told Miu I’m at a workshop in Providence," Ling said. "Legal ethics. Ironically."

Orm stared at her.

"Three days," Ling added. "If you want me here."

Orm stepped back without saying anything, letting her in. Ling dropped the bag by the couch.

"You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to be here."

"Are you serious?" Orm asked, voice thin with disbelief.

Ling nodded.

"No board calls. No, you-know-who. Just me?"

"Just you," Ling said.

The first night, they didn’t have sex. Orm made pasta and Ling sat on the counter, legs swinging like a teenager, asking if she was putting too much garlic. They watched a terrible courtroom drama with cheap wine and one blanket. Ling fell asleep on Orm’s chest that night, still in her blouse, her breath calm for the first time in days.

The second day, they didn’t leave the apartment. Ling worked quietly from Orm’s desk in the morning, but by noon her laptop was shut and forgotten. Orm pulled her back into bed and they spent the afternoon like the world didn’t exist…slow kisses, soft touches, open windows, shared laughter between naps. Ling let Orm read her old case notes. Orm let Ling see a short story she never finished. They made tea three times and drank it twice.

On the third night, Orm traced circles on Ling’s bare back and whispered, “You lied for me.”

Ling turned her head on the pillow.

"I lied to be with you."

"And if she asks?"

"I’ll tell her it was worth it. To be with you"

Orm blinked hard. Her voice cracked.

"I think I love you."

Ling didn’t panic. She didn’t run. She just leaned in, pressed her lips gently to Orm’s temple, and whispered,

"I know." But she didn’t say it back

Three days. Seventy-two hours. It was the most real thing Orm had ever been given.

And when Ling finally left on the fourth morning, kissing her deeply at the door with her duffel back on her shoulder, Orm didn’t cry.

She just stood there in the quiet, holding her own heart with both hands, thinking:

She chose me. Even if just for a weekend, she chose me.

Month three brought softness. Ling started leaving toothbrushes, making sure the sleepovers are frequent. Orm learned how to make Ling’s tea just right. They had inside jokes. Ling started calling Orm “stormcloud” for her moods, and Orm called her “monarch” for the way she ruled every room she walked into, even barefoot. They bought matching pens. They started a playlist. Ling never let Orm sleep on the side of the bed closest to the window. Orm never let Ling leave without a kiss pressed behind her ear.

They were still careful, but they stopped being afraid.

One night, while rain tapped against the window, Ling lay sprawled across Orm’s chest, tracing the lines of her collarbone with absent fingers. Her voice was soft, almost lost in the dark.

“If I ever left,” she said, “would you come with me?”

Orm smiled into her hair. “You wouldn’t ask me to.”

Ling looked up then, her eyes searching Orm’s face. “I might. Someday.”

“Don’t promise me things you can’t give,” Orm whispered.

Ling didn’t answer. She just watched her for a long time, her expression unreadable, then leaned in and pressed her lips to Orm’s jaw.

“I love you,” she said quietly, like it was a secret she’d kept too long.

Orm’s breath caught. She pulled Ling closer, her hand trembling against her back. “Say it again.”

Ling smiled against her skin. “I love you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t reckless. It was steady, certain, and soft… the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be believed to be real.

And in that moment, for the first time, Orm let herself believe they might actually make it.

By the fourth month, Miu became a name they stopped pretending not to say. Ling confessed more than she should have, her voice quiet, almost reluctant, as though saying the words aloud made them heavier. She spoke of the separate bedrooms. The silence at the dinner table. The polite choreography of a marriage that had long since emptied itself of warmth. She described Sunday mornings spent reading the paper in different rooms, how they never fought, and how somehow that made it worse.

Orm listened, always. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t offer comfort. She simply held the space for Ling to speak and didn’t let the silence fill with judgment.

But one night, after a long hour of kisses that tasted like ache and skin that felt like home, Orm lay with her head on Ling’s stomach, tracing shapes into her hip with slow, steady fingers. Her voice came low, uncertain, but too tired to keep pretending.

"Are you still sleeping in the same bed as her?"

Ling exhaled, not sharply, but like something old and brittle had finally cracked.

"No," she said. "Not for months now. Not since I met you"

Orm was quiet for a moment, then nodded. She didn’t smile. She didn’t look relieved. Her fingers stilled against Ling’s skin.

"And if she asked you to again?"

"She won’t."

"But if she did?"

Ling sat up a little, enough to look down at her. Her fingers slipped into Orm’s hair, combing through it slowly, absently.

"Then I’d say no," she said. "I’d say I already belong to someone else at night."

Orm’s throat tightened. She shifted to sit upright, cross-legged on the bed, knees brushing against Ling’s.

"Do I get to know who that is?"

Ling gave a small, tired laugh.

"You’re very dramatic."

Orm didn’t return the smile. Her eyes were steady, even as her voice broke a little.

"I just don’t want to be your secret, Ling. Not forever."

"You’re not a secret," Ling said, quieter now. "You’re just the only thing that still feels... real."

"But you still go home to her."

"I go to a house with her in it. That’s not the same."

"Isn’t it?"

Ling didn’t answer. She looked down at their hands…how they naturally found each other, like magnets in motion…and threaded her fingers through Orm’s slowly.

"I’m trying," she whispered. "I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never done this."

"I know," Orm said. Her voice had softened. "I just need you to be honest when the time comes. When everything falls apart, and it will... I just want to know that you’ll be honest with me."

Ling nodded.

"I will."

Orm leaned in and kissed her then…not for heat, not for hunger, but for the kind of comfort she no longer believed in. And Ling kissed her back like a promise she didn’t know how to keep.

Later, when they fell asleep, it was Ling who reached for her in the dark, fingers searching for reassurance.

And Orm, despite everything, still gave it.

By the fifth month, the conversations shifted. Less about stolen time, more about the lives they came from. The families they rarely spoke of. The people who shaped them long before they ever found each other.

It began on a quiet evening, the kind with soft jazz playing low and mismatched socks tangled at the foot of the bed. Orm had made a late dinner, some half-attempt at stir-fry that was more spice than substance, and they ate it curled on the couch, sharing the same fork, laughing between bites.

Orm was the first to open up.

"My mom and dad live in California," she said, her head resting on Ling’s shoulder. "Big house, big yard, big everything. They run a pharmaceutical company together. Second generation. It’s huge now, like really huge. You’d never know it, looking at them. My mom still dances in the kitchen. My dad’s obsessed with his tomato plants. They’re kind of ridiculous. In a good way."

Ling laughed, the sound soft and surprised.

There was a long pause before Ling spoke.

"I grew up in a house that had too many walls," she said quietly. "My father was Governor of the Greater Boston district for eight years. Mr. Kwong. Everything about him was polished. Controlled. My mother, Xia, comes from old money. Heiress to a silk empire or some poetic bullshit like that. She married him like it was written into a contract."

Orm’s hand found Ling’s under the blanket.

"They were good at being public. Fundraisers, speeches, charity balls. Always smiling. Always perfect. But at home..." Ling trailed off. "We didn’t hug. We didn’t talk about feelings. We talked about expectations. Performance. Image."

"You were an only child?" Orm asked.

Ling nodded. "Lingling Kwong. Their prodigy. Their proof of legacy. I played piano, studied French by age seven, gave speeches in middle school, won mock trial nationals at fifteen. I got straight A's. I never once heard them say they were proud of me. It was always 'what’s next?'"

Orm’s thumb moved slowly over Ling’s knuckles.

"I craved softness," Ling whispered. "I craved being held without earning it. I wanted someone to ask me how I was feeling and actually wait for the answer."

Her voice cracked then, just slightly.

"And then I met this woman. Ten years younger than me. All loud laughter and messy hair and too much eyeliner. And she ruined everything."

Orm leaned into her.

"Ruined or rewrote?"

Ling gave a watery smile. "Maybe both."

They sat like that for a long time, the weight of the past pressing gently against the warmth of the present. Somewhere, the playlist had looped without either of them noticing. Outside, the wind knocked softly at the window.

Orm kissed the inside of Ling’s wrist and whispered, "You can have that softness. You always could."

And Ling, for the first time in a long time, let herself believe it might be true.

And then came the sixth month.

Everything began to deepen. Touch became language. Silence became comfort. Ling started writing again. Orm began to sleep with one hand curled around Ling’s wrist, as if anchoring them both to something real. They took a day trip to the coast, where no one knew them. They walked barefoot on the beach. Ling wore jeans. Orm took pictures. They kissed under a gray sky, and for one entire day, they were not affair, not lie, not sin. Just two women, wildly in love.

That night, they made love. It was quiet, perfect. They just kissed, slow and deep and trembling. But when Ling fell asleep, Orm whispered “please stay with me forever” it against her skin anyway. Twice.

By the end of six months, they had broken every rule. But they had built something too ..fragile, sacred, imperfect. A love that was real, even if it was borrowed.

The world had not yet caught up with them. But it was getting closer.

And they both knew, somewhere deep in the silence they shared, that nothing built in the dark stays hidden forever.

Chapter Text

Orm's POV:


The next morning, Orm woke with the same sentence looping through her head. It stayed with her through the shower, through the commute, through the sound of the city breaking into motion. By the time she reached the office, it had turned into something heavier than memory.

She couldn’t let it go.

The lunch gossip had started as curiosity, but it was no longer just that. It was the timeline, the precision of it, the way every event she thought she had buried was quietly resurfacing in a new disguise.
She had lived through too much not to notice when the air began to smell like the past.

Still, she couldn’t afford to act like someone chasing ghosts. Not here. Not while Lorena and Natasha ran the floor like royalty.

She needed information. Real, verifiable, discreet.

That was how she found herself typing “Boston private investigator” into her browser that evening, scrolling past a dozen dull listings until one caught her eye.

Junji Investigations, Boston’s Finest.
Underneath, a review said: She finds what you need. Even when you don’t know what you’re looking for.

Orm stared at the line for a long moment before dialing.

The next morning, Orm didn’t go to work. She told herself it was for her mental health. Her mental health, however, had other plans.

By noon, she was standing in front of a narrow brick building in South End with a buzzing neon sign that read Junji Investigations: Boston’s Finest. The words Boston’s Finest blinked like they were trying to convince themselves.

Inside, the office smelled like burnt espresso and printer toner.

A woman in her thirties sat behind a cluttered desk, chewing on a pen cap and typing with the intensity of someone trying to hack the Pentagon using free Wi-Fi. Her cropped hair was half black, half badly dyed blonde. A cat slept on a pile of case files.

Without looking up, she said, “If you’re here to sell me life insurance, I already don’t have one.”

Orm stepped closer. “Good. Saves me paperwork.”

Junji looked up, narrowed her eyes, then grinned. “You’re the lawyer who called. Orm, right? The one with the voice that sounds like a lawsuit.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you want. Coffee?”

“I saw your coffeemaker. I’ll pass.”

“Wise woman,” Junji said, tossing the pen aside. “Alright, let’s hear it. Who needs following, spying, or gentle moral destruction?”

Orm sat across from her, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “Two people. Lorena Schuett and Natasha Matthews. Partners at S&M LLP.”

Junji scribbled the names on a sticky note shaped like a skull. “Lawyers. My favorite species. What do you want to know? Tax evasion, secret cult membership, human sacrifice?”

“I want to know if they’re more than just partners.”

Junji blinked. “You mean… business or biblical?”

Orm smiled faintly. “Let’s say extracurricular.”

Junji nodded gravely. “Ah. The timeless art of horizontal networking.”

Orm coughed back a laugh. “Can you find out if it’s true?”

“I can find out what kind of toothpaste they share if you pay enough. What’s the story here? Professional rivalry, moral curiosity, or personal vendetta?”

“Personal curiosity,” Orm said.

“Uh-huh,” Junji said, scribbling again. “That’s what all vendettas start as.”

Orm leaned forward. “They’ve been… close. And I need to know if that closeness has ever left the office.”

“Understood. I’ll start with their schedules, dinner spots, hotel receipts, and security footage. You’ll get the PG version unless you pay double.”

“Send me the PG-13 version,” Orm said dryly.

Junji grinned. “Perfect. I like working with women who know what they want.”

Orm hesitated for a second, then said quietly, “There’s something else.”

Junji paused mid-scribble. “Always is.”

“Something that happened two years ago.”

Junji looked up, her pen still in her hand, the humor in her face fading into curiosity. “Two years ago?”

Orm nodded once. “Yes. I want you to find out what it was.”

Junji leaned forward slightly. “That’s a long time to chase a ghost. You sure it still wants to be found?”

Orm didn’t answer right away. She just met her eyes, the silence between them stretching thin and deliberate.

Junji’s pen clicked once.

The rest of the conversation was quieter. Whatever Orm said next, no one else would ever know.

Orm told herself it was coincidence, the way her feet led her to Ling’s office that afternoon. She had no reason to be there, no appointment, no signed papers in hand. Just too much time and a restless mind that refused to stay still.

It was late enough in the day that the building had thinned out. The secretary at the front desk gave her a polite smile and didn’t bother asking for a meeting slot anymore. She simply pressed the buzzer and said softly into the intercom, “Ms. Kwong, she’s here again.”

Ling’s sigh traveled through the small speaker, quiet but unmistakable. “Send her in.”

Orm pushed open the glass door and leaned into the room like a cat testing its welcome. Ling sat at her desk, immaculate as always, framed by the tall windows and the dull winter light behind her. Her hair was pinned neatly, a pen in her hand, papers arranged with military precision.

“You look busy,” Orm said, pretending to study the room.

“I am,” Ling replied without looking up.

“Perfect. I’ll keep you company.”

Ling finally lifted her gaze. “That’s not what company means.”

“It is in my dictionary.” Orm dropped her bag onto the couch and wandered toward the shelf that held rows of law journals. “You rearranged them.”

“They were out of order.”

“Now they’re alphabetized by publisher. That’s tragic.”

Ling returned to her work. “Some people find order comforting.”

“Some people find chaos charming,” Orm said.

“Those people are usually unemployed.”

Orm grinned. “Good thing I took the day off.”

Ling set down her pen, the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Why are you here, Orm?”

“Because I missed your coffee,” Orm said, reaching for the machine in the corner. “You still use that overpriced Italian brand?”

“It tastes better than what you drink.”

“You’ve never tried mine.”

“I can smell it from the corridor. That’s enough.”

Orm poured herself a cup anyway, ignoring Ling’s pointed silence. She sat opposite her, legs crossed, sipping noisily until Ling finally looked up again.

“Do you always invite yourself into people’s offices to make noise?”

“Only the ones I like.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“Flattering, coming from you.”

Ling pinched the bridge of her nose. “You realize I’m working on filing something before deadline?”

“Perfect timing. You can take my help.”

“Orm.”

“Ling.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Ling sighed again, softer this time. “You should find a hobby.”

“I have one. You.”

“That’s not a hobby.”

“It’s full-time, actually.”

“Unpaid, then.”

Orm smiled, leaning forward. “You’re still funny when you’re annoyed.”

Ling ignored her, writing something in the margins of a document. Orm watched the neat handwriting, the calm precision of it. It was infuriating how steady Ling could be while Orm felt like a storm just trying to touch her without breaking something.

“Do you ever get tired of being perfect?” Orm asked quietly.

Ling didn’t look up. “Do you ever get tired of performing imperfection?”

Orm laughed softly. “No. I’ve made peace with my art form.”

Ling kept writing, but her eyes betrayed her amusement for just a second before composure returned.

The room settled into a fragile kind of silence. The hum of the city outside, the faint scratching of Ling’s pen, the steady rhythm of Orm’s restless breathing.

After a while, Orm stood and wandered toward the window. “You ever think about what this view looked like two years ago?”

Ling’s pen paused mid-stroke. “No,” she said finally. “Some things are better left in the past.”

Orm turned to face her, smiling like she hadn’t heard the warning in that sentence. “You should let me take you to lunch.”

“I brought my own.”

“I’ll throw it away and save you from yourself.”

“Orm.”

“Yes, baby?”

“Leave before I call security.”

Orm laughed, heading toward the door. “You wouldn’t dare. He likes me better.”

“I doubt that.”

Orm stopped at the threshold and looked back. Ling was still bent over her papers, pretending indifference. Sunlight caught the edge of her hair, turning it gold for a fleeting second.

“Please come to lunch with me,” Orm said.

Ling didn’t look up. “Why do I have to?”

“Because I asked,” Orm replied.

Ling’s pen hovered above the page. “You always ask things I am not willing to give.”

“This is reasonable. It’s just a lunch,” Orm said, her voice softer now, almost playful.

“It’s my ex-girlfriend asking. Why would I say yes?”

Orm walked back to the desk and rested her hands on its edge. “Because you skipped breakfast again. Because that salad in your bag looks like punishment. Because you’re human, even if you pretend not to be.”

Ling glanced up, unimpressed. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

“It isn’t flattery,” Orm said. “It’s observation. You get headaches when you don’t eat. You always chew your pen when you’re stressed, which means you’ll ruin another one by three o’clock. I’m trying to save your stationery.”

Ling tried not to smile. “That’s a terrible reason.”

Orm leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Then do it for charity. Think of it as community service. Having lunch with the emotionally unstable counts.”

That earned her the smallest curve of a smile. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Never on you,” Orm said, and there was no mischief in her tone this time, only quiet certainty.

Ling held her gaze for a long moment, weighing all the reasons she should say no and all the ones she would ignore anyway. Finally, she sighed, set her pen aside, and closed the folder.

“Half an hour,” she said. “Somewhere that serves real food.”

Orm grinned, already halfway to the door. “Done. I know a place that serves delicious food.”

“Of course you do,” Ling murmured, standing and reaching for her coat.

When she turned off the desk lamp, the room felt warmer, less like an office and more like something remembered. Orm waited for her at the doorway, smiling like she had just won a small, impossible victory.

And Ling, against her better judgment, let her.

The café was one of those places Orm always managed to find, tucked in a narrow Boston street that looked too small to hold secrets. The sign outside simply read Mara’s Table, the kind of name that promised comfort and overcharged for soup.

Ling paused outside, arms folded. “This doesn’t look professional.”

“It’s not supposed to,” Orm said, holding the door open. “We’re two women having lunch, not a board meeting.”

“I prefer board meetings.”

“You prefer pretending you do,” Orm replied, her grin quick and teasing. “Come on. You’ll like it.”

Ling stepped in despite herself. The place was quiet, sunlight breaking through hanging ferns, music soft enough to sound accidental. Tables were crowded with mismatched cutlery and candles in half-melted jars. It smelled like garlic and something warm baking in the oven.

They found a small table near the back. Ling sat straight, already scanning the laminated menu as if preparing for cross-examination.

“You know,” Orm said, setting her phone aside, “you could relax a little. No one’s judging you here.”

Ling’s eyes flicked up. “I’m sitting with my ex-girlfriend in a restaurant named after someone’s aunt. Relaxation is not on the menu.”

“It’s under desserts,” Orm said. “Right next to forgiveness.”

Ling exhaled through her nose, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s my brand.”

A waitress arrived, cheerful and too young to notice the tension. “What can I get you ladies?”

Orm glanced at Ling. “She’ll have the lentil soup and the roasted chicken sandwich. I’ll take the pasta special.”

Ling lowered her menu slowly. “I can order for myself.”

“I know. But you won’t pick anything with flavor.”

“I like simple food.”

“You like punishing yourself.”

“I like not having acid reflux.”

“Same thing,” Orm said, leaning back.

The waitress tried not to laugh and hurried away. Ling reached for her water and sipped it like she needed something to do with her hands.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she said finally.

“I’m enjoying you pretending you’re not,” Orm said.

Ling looked at her, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Do you ever stop performing?”

Orm smiled. “Only when I’m asleep. Sometimes not even then.”

Their food arrived quickly. The soup steamed between them, the kind of smell that made even Ling’s restraint falter. Orm twirled her fork in the pasta and watched her over the rim of her glass.

“Tell me something,” Orm said.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. How’s life with Miu these days?”

Ling’s jaw tightened for half a second before smoothing over. “Peaceful.”

“That sounds like a euphemism for boring.”

“It’s not.”

“Sure.”

“It isn’t,” Ling said, setting her sandwich down. “Some of us like stability.”

Orm tilted her head. “And yet here you are, having lunch with chaos incarnate.”

Ling sighed, pushing her plate slightly away. “You call yourself chaos like it’s a compliment.”

“It is when you’re my audience.”

“You think too highly of yourself.”

“You think too highly of control.”

They stared at each other, and for a heartbeat, neither spoke. The noise of the café faded into a blur, just the faint hum of voices, clinking glasses, and something slower, softer, moving between them.

Ling was the one to look away first. She reached for her napkin, folded it carefully, then unfolded it again. “You should let this go, Orm. We’ve had our time.”

Orm’s voice came quieter. “I’m not here to relive it.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Orm smiled, small but genuine. “Lunch. And maybe to remind you that you still laugh when you don’t mean to.”

Ling’s lips twitched despite herself. “You’re infuriating.”

“You keep saying that,” Orm said, eating her pasta. “It’s starting to sound like affection.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I never do,” Orm said. “You do it for me.”

The check sat untouched between them, the corners curling in the faint draft from the window. Ling reached for her coat, but Orm’s voice stopped her.

“I was serious before,” she said quietly. “How is life with Miu?”

Ling hesitated, her fingers stilling over the fabric. “Busy,” she said finally. “We’re both buried in work. Some days we barely talk. It’s not unhappy, just… efficient.”

Orm tilted her head. “That sounds like a spreadsheet, not a marriage.”

Ling gave a small smile, the kind that wasn’t joy so much as endurance. “You learn to love the version of a person that life allows you to have.”

Orm watched her carefully. “Is she treating you right?”

Ling sighed. “She’s Miu. She doesn’t mistreat me; she just forgets I’m not a client sometimes.”

Orm let the words settle, stirring the melting ice in her glass. “She’s doing well at the firm. Everyone there treats her like a legend already.”

“That’s Miu,” Ling said. “She’s always been the one people follow.”

Orm nodded, voice light but deliberate. “Lorena’s the same way. They fit together in that ruthless way only brilliant people do.”

That made Ling look up

“Yeah,” Orm said casually. “Lorena Schuett. Your old senior from Harvard, right? I didn’t realize she and Miu were that close back then.”

Ling’s gaze softened, memories flickering behind her eyes. “They were,” she said. “Lorena practically mentored Miu. Miu admired her long before the firm ever existed. I remember she used to quote her like scripture.”

Orm smiled faintly. “Still does.”

Ling laughed quietly. “I’m not surprised. Lorena’s the kind of person who fills a room without raising her voice. You’d like her.”

Orm lifted a brow. “You think so?”

“She’s clever, intimidating, maybe too sure of herself…but kind when she remembers to be.”

“Do you two keep in touch?” Orm asked, the question dressed in casual curiosity.

“Not really. We only see each other at firm events. She and Miu talk every day though. Strategy calls, board meetings, that sort of thing.”

Orm nodded, her smile steady but her pulse quickening beneath it. “Sounds like they work well together.”

“They do,” Ling said simply. “Miu says Lorena’s the reason the firm runs at all.”

Orm traced a line on the table with her fingertip. “You ever get jealous of that?”

Ling’s brows lifted slightly. “Jealous?”

“Not in the dramatic sense,” Orm said softly. “Just… wondering what it’s like to share someone you married to with their ambition.”

Ling’s eyes lowered. “I stopped wondering a long time ago.”

The quiet between them thickened. The waitress came to clear the plates, her smile light, unaware of how fragile the air felt.

Ling reached for her bag. “Don’t start digging into things that aren’t yours, Orm.”

“I wasn’t,” Orm said gently. “Just talking.”

“You don’t talk,” Ling replied, her tone even. “You probe.”

Orm smiled faintly. “That’s my charm.”

Ling stood, slipping her arms into her coat. “You think curiosity is a compliment. It isn’t always.”

Orm looked up at her, the playfulness dimming just enough to show something real. “You know I’d never hurt you.”

Ling’s eyes lifted, cool and steady. “Oh, really?” she said softly. “Then what do you call leaving me two years ago?”

The words hit harder than Orm expected. She tried to speak, but the air between them already felt heavier, the kind that folds around unspoken things. “Ling,” she started, her voice low, “I had reasons.”

“You always have reasons.” Ling’s tone wasn’t angry; it was tired, like someone reciting a story they already knew by heart. “Reasons for showing up. Reasons for disappearing. Reasons that never reach me until it’s too late.”

Orm reached across the table, her hand hovering above Ling’s. “If I told you I made a mistake, would it matter?”

Ling didn’t move. “Mistake implies you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” Orm said quietly. “Not really. I thought I was protecting you.”

Ling gave a hollow laugh. “Protecting me? You vanished. You let me burn alone.”

“I was scared,” Orm whispered. “There were things happening then that you didn’t see, things I couldn’t explain.”

“Then you should have trusted me enough to try.”

They sat there, the noise of the café fading around them, only the sound of plates and a distant espresso machine threading through the silence.

Orm leaned closer. “If I asked you for another chance, would you take it?”

Ling’s expression didn’t change, but her voice turned gentler, sadder. “You shouldn’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

“I need to hear it,” Orm said.

Ling’s eyes softened, the light in them shifting from anger to something far more fragile. “No, Orm. I wouldn’t.”

Orm blinked, a small, helpless smile trying to survive on her face. “Not even if you could start over? If Miu wasn’t there?”

“Miu is always there,” Ling said quietly. “That’s the point.”

Orm frowned, confusion shadowing her tone. “You still love her?”

Ling hesitated, then shook her head slowly. “It’s not about love. It’s about trust. She was the one who stayed when everything else fell apart. Even when she knew I’d been unfaithful. Even when I told her I wanted a divorce. She didn’t leave. She waited. She helped me put my life back together.”

Orm’s throat tightened. “So, you stayed out of gratitude?”

“I stayed because it was the only thing left standing,” Ling said. “Because when you disappeared, she was the one who found me at my worst and didn’t ask me to explain.”

Orm’s voice cracked slightly. “And that’s enough?”

“It has to be,” Ling whispered. “People like me don’t get to rebuild twice.”

Orm looked at her for a long moment, studying the calm that had replaced the ache. “So, I’m the villain in your story.”

Ling’s eyes met hers. “No. You’re just the part that ended too soon.”

The words landed softly, but they hurt all the same.

For a while neither of them spoke. The waitress came by again, smiling as if nothing in the world had broken in front of her.

Orm leaned forward, desperate now. “Then let me say it now. I love you. I never stopped. I thought leaving would protect you, but it only destroyed us. I want another chance, Ling. I want to fix what I broke.”

Ling’s eyes glistened, but her expression stayed hard. “You ask me to reason with you,” she said quietly, “but you still won’t tell me why you left. Two years, Orm. Two years, and I never got an answer.”

Orm exhaled sharply, her hands trembling on the table. “It was not that easy, Ling.”

“Then make it easy now.”

Orm’s voice rose, but not in anger…in helplessness. “Do you really think I would ever leave you if I had a choice? You think I wanted to wake up one morning and vanish from the only person who ever made me feel alive?”

Ling said nothing. Her silence pressed like a weight.

“I love you, Ling,” Orm said, her voice breaking. “More than anything in this life. I loved you when you went home to her every night. I loved you when you spent Christmas mornings pretending everything was perfect. I loved you through every anniversary trip, every gala, every dinner where I had to pretend I didn’t exist.”

Her breath trembled, her words almost trembling out of her. “I rotted in hell, but I still loved you. Hoping one day you’d choose me. Hoping one day you’d leave her and finally be mine. And when you did…when you actually told her you wanted a divorce…do you think I ran because I was afraid? Because I was weak?”

Ling’s lips parted slightly, but Orm didn’t stop.

“There were bigger reasons, Ling,” she said, voice low, raw. “Reasons that had nothing to do with us and everything to do with what people around you were willing to do. I can’t tell you yet. Not until I find the answers. Not until I know who did it and why.”

Ling frowned, confusion and frustration warring in her eyes. “You talk in riddles, Orm. You always do. What could possibly be worse than breaking someone’s heart?”

Orm leaned back, wiping at her eyes with a quick, bitter laugh. “You’ll understand when I find the truth. And when I do… you’ll know I never wanted to leave.”

Ling’s voice softened, almost trembling. “You still think that makes it better?”

“No,” Orm said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make it better. It just makes it real.”

The words hung between them, heavy, unfinished.

Ling stared at her for a long moment, her chest rising and falling too slowly, as if the air itself resisted her. “Whatever truth you’re chasing,” she said quietly, “it won’t change what it did to me.”

Orm met her gaze. “Maybe not. But it might change what you think of me.”

Ling stood then, her hands curling around the strap of her bag. “I don’t know if I want to know anymore.”

Before Orm could answer, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the café.

“This looks intense,” Miu said lightly, her tone threaded with amusement.

Both women froze. Orm’s heart stopped, her pulse clawing at her throat. She turned slowly. Miu stood beside their table, elegance sharp as ever, her black blazer immaculate, her expression unreadable. Behind her, Lorena hovered with that knowing smile she always wore, the kind that made every sentence feel like a test.

For a second, no one moved.

Orm was the first to recover. “Oh,” she said too quickly, “I was meeting Mrs. Kwong to go over the merger paperwork for her non-profit.”

Lorena tilted her head. “That’s interesting. I was told by Miu that you were taking the day off because you weren’t feeling well.”

Shit, shit, shit. The words thundered in Orm’s head.

“That was before,” she said smoothly, forcing a small laugh. “This meeting was scheduled last week. I didn’t want to cause delays on my end.”

Ling blinked, still too startled to speak. Her eyes darted between Orm and Miu, the air around her tightening.

“Yes,” Ling said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. “I have a packed schedule next week, so it made sense to get it done today.”

“That’s good,” Miu said, her gaze flicking between them, her smile perfectly shaped. “I’m glad you both got to connect. Saves me some coordination.”

She reached out, her hand brushing Ling’s with the kind of touch that spoke more in silence than any sentence could. “Love, I have a long day ahead. Don’t wait up for me tonight, alright?”

Ling nodded, forcing a smile that looked almost natural. “Of course. Be safe.”

“Always,” Miu said softly, squeezing her hand once before stepping back.

Orm’s jaw tightened. Every gesture, every small sign of affection, hit like a quiet knife.
This was the scene she had spent years trying to avoid. Ling and Miu, side by side, effortless in their shared rhythm. Ling’s soft voice, Miu’s calm authority, the way they looked right together even when Orm knew better.

Lorena’s voice broke the silence. “We should get going, Matthews,” she said, her tone teasing but not without edge. “Some of us still have depositions to review.”

Miu smiled faintly. “Of course. Mrs. Kwong, always a pleasure.”

Ling nodded, polite and distant. “Likewise.”

They left together, Lorena’s hand brushing lightly against Miu’s arm as they walked out, laughter faintly trailing behind them.

The door closed, and the air shifted. Ling stood there frozen, her composure cracking just slightly.

Orm sat still, her fingers curled against the table. Her throat burned with words she couldn’t say.

Seeing Ling with Miu again felt like watching a replay of every night she’d spent waiting for the impossible…Ling’s affection given to someone else, Ling’s loyalty belonging elsewhere.

It was the same scene that had haunted her for three years, only now she was sitting inside it, powerless.

Ling turned back to her finally, eyes uncertain, face pale. “Orm…”

But Orm couldn’t look at her. Not yet. Not while the image of Miu’s hand over Ling’s still burned behind her eyelids like a mark she’d never erase.

She heard Ling say her name again. Softer this time. “Orm.”

Orm turned, startled by the sound of it. “Yes, babe,” she said in a hurry, the word escaping like breath before thought, claiming its old place between them before she could stop it.

Ling blinked.

Orm’s eyes widened. “Sorry,” she said quickly, fumbling for control. “Came out of habit.” She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

Ling was still watching her carefully, that lawyer’s sharpness flickering beneath the calm. “Did Lorena refer to Natasha as Miu?”

Orm frowned slightly. “Yes,” she said. “Why?”

Ling tilted her head, her brows knitting together. “That’s strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure only I call her Miu,” Ling said slowly. “That’s her mother’s name for her. She almost never uses it. Even in college, everyone knew her as Natasha. I always heard Lorena say Natasha.”

Orm’s expression didn’t change, but inside something tightened. “Maybe I misheard,” she said lightly, trying to sound casual. “The café was loud.”

Ling shook her head. “No. I heard it too. Lorena said it first. Miu didn’t even flinch.”

Orm said nothing. The noise of the café had faded again; only the hum of conversation around them filled the silence.

Ling’s voice became quieter, more to herself than to Orm. “She told me once she hated that name. Said it made her feel small, like her mother was still deciding who she should be. I can’t remember the last time anyone else called her that.”

Orm watched her carefully, but Ling wasn’t looking anymore. Her eyes had gone distant, her thoughts folding in on themselves.

“Ling,” Orm said softly. “You’re overthinking.”

“Maybe,” Ling murmured. “Or maybe I’m just noticing what I ignored for too long.”

Orm’s heart sank. She wanted to reach for her hand, to pull her back from whatever thought was forming, but she didn’t move. She just sat there, quiet, watching Ling’s composure fracture one small crack at a time.

Outside, the door chimed as someone new entered the café, the sound sharp against the silence that had grown between them.

Ling finally stood, her tone almost steady again. “I have to go.”

Orm nodded slowly, still studying her face. “Call me when you get home.”

Ling hesitated for a second, then gave a small nod. “I will.”

And she left.

Orm stayed behind, her pulse unsteady, her reflection faint in the glass.
The word Miu still echoed in her head, too familiar to be casual, too deliberate to be harmless.

It wasn’t just a slip.
It was something else.
And now Ling had noticed it too.

*Flashback*

There were days when love felt like drowning in slow motion.
Not the desperate kind of drowning … the quiet kind, where you learn to live under water because coming up for air would mean remembering what you’ve lost.

That was what loving Ling had become.
A survival technique.
A series of stolen breaths in a life that no longer belonged to her.

Orm never used to count time, but with Ling, every second had edges.
Six p.m. meant Ling was somewhere else … at a dinner she couldn’t mention, laughing a laugh Orm wasn’t meant to hear.
Nine p.m. meant Ling was probably home, washing off the perfume she wore for someone else.
Eleven p.m. meant hope… thin, humiliating, but still alive because sometimes the phone would ring, and the sound of Ling’s voice would trick Orm into believing she was still wanted.

The body learns strange things in love.
It learns to wait.
It learns to be grateful for crumbs.
It learns to lie to itself… that this is enough, that the sound of a key turning once a week can replace the promise of a life.

She had told herself that she could share Ling with the world if she could just have her in the quiet.
But the quiet was a liar too.

Every night without her became a rehearsal for loss.
Every morning without a message became proof that Orm didn’t exist anywhere but in the margins of Ling’s life.

Sometimes she’d wake at three a.m., heart pounding, convinced she could hear the sound of Ling’s car outside. She’d run to the window only to find the street empty, the city asleep. She’d stand there with her palms against the glass until the chill numbed her skin. It was a kind of penance … to love someone who belonged to another and to keep loving them anyway.

When Ling did come, the world narrowed to touch.
She would press her face into Orm’s neck, whisper that she couldn’t stay long, that she was sorry.
And Orm would nod, always nod, as if forgiveness were instinct.
Because having her, even for an hour, hurt less than not having her at all.

There were nights when Ling fell asleep in her arms, the faint groove of a missing ring warm against Orm’s fingers. In those moments Orm almost believed they could start again. She’d imagine mornings where Ling didn’t have to leave before sunrise, where breakfast wasn’t a crime, where love didn’t have to hide behind drawn curtains.

But dawn always came.
And Ling always left.

After the door clicked shut, Orm would lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to hold on to the shape of her… the indentation on the pillow, the scent of jasmine still clinging to the air. She’d tell herself it was enough. That loving someone halfway was better than never touching them at all.

But the truth was simpler, crueler:
She was starving.
Starving for a love that was full, not borrowed.
Starving for Ling’s laughter at noon, her voice in daylight, her hand reaching without fear.

She told herself she could endure it… the secrecy, the silences, the endless waiting but endurance isn’t love.
It’s what comes after love has already broken you.

And still, she couldn’t stop.
She loved Ling through every lie. She loved her knowing she was not the home, only the hidden room where Ling came to breathe.

That was the hardest part.
Knowing that even when Ling said “I love you,” it was a whispered rebellion, not a promise.

Orm learned to live for those rebellions.
To collect them like evidence that she had existed somewhere inside Ling’s world.
Because when you are the secret, even being remembered feels like victory.

Ling told her one evening in late November.

The air had already turned thin and cold, the kind that carried the smell of snow long before it arrived. Ling stood near the window of Orm’s apartment, her back half-turned to her, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat as if distance might soften what she was about to say.

“Miu’s mother isn’t well,” she began quietly. “She and I will be in Colorado for the holidays. Thanksgiving, and probably Christmas too.”

She said it with the calm precision of someone who had rehearsed the line several times in her head, trimming away anything that might sound like guilt.

Orm sat curled on the couch, a book open in her lap though she hadn’t read a word. For a moment she thought she had misheard. The sentence hung in the air, slow and heavy, until it finally reached her. She forced a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

“That’s good,” she said softly. “She’ll be happy to have you home. Family’s important.”

Ling turned her head then, studying her face as if searching for the reaction she feared most. Orm gave her none. She closed the book gently and laid it on the coffee table, her fingers lingering on the cover.

“It’ll only be a few weeks,” Ling continued. “Maybe less. I’ll call when I can. I’ll write.”

Orm nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the book so she wouldn’t have to meet the sincerity in Ling’s. “Of course,” she whispered. “Go take care of her.”

What she wanted to say was something else entirely. She wanted to ask, and who will take care of me? She wanted to know if Ling would think of her at the dinner table, surrounded by the safety of a family that didn’t know she existed. She wanted to know if her wife still reached for Ling’s hand in public, if she still leaned against her shoulder in those framed photographs of perfect holidays.

She said none of it.

Ling crossed the room, her steps slow, her expression soft with apology. Her fingers brushed through Orm’s hair, light and careful, as though Orm were something fragile she did not know how to hold anymore.

“I’ll be back before the new year,” she said.

Orm looked up at her then, her throat tight. “I know,” she murmured. “You always come back.”

But both of them understood how far away “a few weeks” could feel.

After Ling left, the apartment lost its warmth almost immediately. The lamplight seemed dimmer, the air too still. Orm sat on the couch for a long time, staring at the door Ling had walked through, waiting for the echo of footsteps that never returned.

The days that followed stretched endlessly. She filled them with noise. Work, coffee, friends who talked too fast about nothing. At night she came home to a bed that still smelled faintly of Ling’s perfume and lay across it, her arm draped over the empty space, pretending that missing her was a kind of devotion.

Thanksgiving passed quietly. She cooked out of habit…two plates, two glasses, a reflex she couldn’t unlearn. The television played some cheerful holiday special she didn’t remember turning on. When she finally texted Ling a picture of the food, there was no reply until the next morning.

Ling:
Looks delicious. I’m proud of you.
Three red hearts.

Orm stared at the message until the words blurred.

She tried to imagine Ling’s evening. She pictured her sitting at a long table surrounded by you-know-who’s family, laughter rising and falling like a tide. She would be beside her, elegant, easy, her hand resting lightly over Ling’s when she reached for the wine. Ling would smile, that perfect composed smile that convinced the world she was happy.

Orm closed her eyes and tried to breathe past the image.

By December, the cold had settled in like an uninvited guest. She began walking everywhere just to feel something move. Sometimes she caught her reflection in shop windows, her shadow following her through the glitter of Christmas lights, and she would think of Ling again…of the way absence could press against the ribs like weight.

On Christmas Eve she stopped pretending. She cooked too much, poured two glasses of wine, and left the second one untouched beside the candle. She whispered, “Merry Christmas,” into the empty room and felt foolish for expecting the walls to answer.

When her phone finally lit up, the message was short.
Miss you so much, baby. Be good.

It was enough to make her cry.

She carried the phone to bed, clutching it to her chest like something alive. Outside, snow began to fall in slow, deliberate flakes. She imagined Ling somewhere warmer, perhaps on a porch with her family, the ocean behind her, the sound of gulls and easy laughter. She imagined her head tilted back in the sunlight, her smile effortless, her heart unburdened.

Orm turned off the light and lay in the dark, the ceiling spinning softly above her. She told herself that love meant understanding, that waiting was proof of faith. But what she felt was neither understanding nor faith. It was hunger, the kind that gnaws quietly and never stops.

She missed Ling in ways she didn’t know a person could be missed…in the mornings when she woke alone, in the afternoons when the city was too bright, in the evenings when silence sat beside her like company.

Sometimes she thought about calling. She never did. She knew the sound of another voice in the background would break her.

Instead, she whispered Ling’s name into the cold air, quiet enough that even the night could pretend it hadn’t heard.

Love, she learned, could survive absence, but it changed shape. It became something smaller, quieter, something you fed with memory because the real thing was too far to touch.

And when she finally fell asleep, her last thought was of the space Ling would occupy when she came back. She told herself it would be the same, that love would pick up where it had paused.

But deep down, even in dreams, she already knew that some distances never close completely.

Ling returned on a Tuesday afternoon. There was no warning, no message, just the familiar sound of her knock…three soft taps against the door that carried more apology than words ever could.

When Orm opened it, Ling stood there in her long coat, eyes tired, hair still carrying the faint scent of the ocean. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The city hummed outside, the hallway light flickered once, and Orm realized how long she had been waiting for this exact moment.

Ling spoke first, her voice careful. “Can I come in?”

Orm wanted to say no. She wanted to say that she had spent the holidays teaching herself how to breathe without her, that she had stopped setting the table for two, that she had almost convinced herself she was fine. But her heart betrayed her long before her mouth did. She stepped aside, and Ling entered, bringing the cold air with her.

There were no grand speeches, no rehearsed apologies. Ling simply dropped her bag on the floor, crossed the space between them, and pressed her forehead against Orm’s shoulder. The warmth of her skin, the tremor in her breath…these were the only explanations Orm needed. She closed her eyes and let the ache unravel.

That night they did not talk. Ling cooked dinner instead, quietly, methodically, as if making pasta could atone for absence. She filled the apartment with smells Orm had missed…olive oil, garlic, warmth. When Orm tried to help, Ling shook her head and said softly that this was her way of making things right. The table was a mess of laughter by the time they sat down, the kind that came from too much wine and too much pretending that everything had not broken a few weeks earlier.

After they ate, Ling cleaned up while humming under her breath, something low and unfamiliar. Orm leaned against the counter, watching her move through the kitchen as though it still belonged to her. The sleeves of Ling’s shirt were rolled neatly to her elbows, her hair damp against her neck, her movements unhurried. For the first time in months she looked unguarded. When she finally turned around, there was a softness in her eyes that Orm had almost forgotten existed.

“Come here,” Ling said quietly.

Orm obeyed. She stepped forward until the space between them disappeared. Ling’s hands came to rest lightly on her waist, not possessive, just sure.

“I have something to tell you,” Ling said.

Orm looked up, heart already quickening. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” Ling murmured. “Not this time.”

She hesitated then, as though she needed to convince herself of what she was about to say. Her fingers traced the edge of Orm’s shirt absently before she finally spoke.

“Two weeks. I’m staying here.”

For a moment the world stilled. The hum of the refrigerator, the sound of the city outside, even Orm’s own breathing…all of it fell away.

“You’re… staying?” she asked softly, as if afraid the words might vanish if she said them too loud.

Ling nodded. “Yes. For two weeks. No calls, no work, no pretending.”

Orm blinked, stunned by the simplicity of it. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. “You’re serious?”

Ling’s voice was calm but steady. “Completely.”

Orm smiled, wide and helpless. “You mean it. You’re really not leaving tonight.”

Ling shook her head. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I want to wake up here. I want to remember what it feels like to live without being looked at.”

Orm’s laughter broke then, small and disbelieving. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Ling whispered.

Orm reached up and touched her face. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

They stood like that for a moment, forehead against forehead, the air between them charged and trembling. Orm could feel Ling’s heartbeat through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Then the thought came, quiet but sharp. “What about… you know who,” she said carefully.

Ling knew exactly what she meant. Her eyes lowered for a moment before finding Orm’s again. “I’ll handle it.”

“And she’ll believe you?”

“She will,” Ling said. Her tone was gentle, but there was something in it that sounded almost rehearsed. “She trusts me. She thinks I’m exhausted. Maybe I am.”

Orm wanted to ask a dozen more questions, but the hope in her chest was too fragile to risk. “You don’t owe me this,” she said softly.

Ling smiled, small and tired and achingly tender. “I know. That’s why I want to give it.”

Orm laughed quietly, the sound breaking in her throat. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that.”

Ling brushed her lips against her temple. “Then don’t waste a second of it.”

Orm pulled her closer. “I won’t.”

They stayed like that for a while, breathing each other in, the kitchen still glowing with the warmth of dinner. When Ling finally let go, her hand slid down Orm’s arm, fingers lacing with hers.

“Two weeks,” Ling whispered again, almost as if reminding herself. “Just us.”

Orm squeezed her hand. “Then let’s make them count.”

Ling smiled, the kind of smile that looked almost shy on her. “We will.”

And everything in the air changed …


“You want me?” Ling asks.

Orm nods, almost frantic. “Yes.”

“Did you miss me?” Ling asks again, peppering kisses all over Orm’s jaw.

“Yes,” Orm nods, giving Ling the needed, “So, fucking much.”

Ling smiles at that answer and grabs Orm closer, kissing her with a mixture of deep love and lust. Her mouth is warm and full and claiming, and Orm opens to it like a prayer, like a drowning girl handed air. Ling’s fingers slide up the inside of Orm’s thigh with slow pressure, patient but demanding, coaxing her legs apart until Orm shudders and gives in. Her body moves like it remembers this, like it was only ever waiting for Ling’s touch to wake it up again.

Ling’s hand dips beneath the waistband of her shorts, and without hesitation finds her bare and wanting.

She tests the water, just once, running her fingers along the slick folds…Orm is already soaked, wet and swollen and aching, exactly the way Ling hoped. Ling smiles against her lips, and between kisses whispers with heat, “So fucking wet already.”

Orm doesn’t bother answering. She has already given in. Her body speaks for her, hips lifting into Ling’s palm with a quiet desperation. Her throat catches a moan that still escapes half-formed, as if she is too full to hold it in and too undone to shape it properly. The dirty talk only fans the fire curling low in her belly, only confirms the truth her body already knows … that she is entirely, helplessly, hers.

Ling starts slow, like she has all the time in the world. One stroke, then another. Her fingers sink in deep, two at once, sliding into Orm’s pussy with a wet sound that makes them both pause for a breath. Then Ling parts her open, wide and deliberate, until Orm gasps, until her head tips back and her mouth falls open, panting.

Her breath is erratic now, her chest rising fast, too fast. Her hands grasp at Ling’s shoulders like they might anchor her to the moment. Ling’s thumb brushes over her clit in featherlight circles, cruel in its softness, driving her mad. The pace is slow, unbearably slow, each movement deliberate and unhurried, as if Ling wants to memorize every part of her all over again.

Orm’s thighs tremble. Her nails dig into Ling’s back. She can’t think. She can only feel …the way Ling holds her, sees her, the way her touch burns straight through to her spine.

“Ling,” Orm gasps, breathless.

“I know,” Ling murmurs, kissing just below her ear, her voice rough and low. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go.”

And Orm does… hips rolling, mouth open, her whole body surging into the rhythm Ling sets, desperate for more. Her moans turn broken, throat tight, fingers clutching at whatever they can reach… Ling’s shoulder, her hair, her name. Everything in her is unraveling, coming apart in waves of pleasure and memory and something that feels dangerously close to love.

Because this is what she’s been waiting for. This is what she aches for every time they part …not just the sex, not just the release, but the way Ling touches her like no one else ever has. Like she is something sacred. Something hers.

And in that moment, Orm can’t tell where her body ends and Ling begins.

She doesn’t want to.

And that was how it began…the quiet miracle of borrowed time. Two weeks of mornings that belonged to no one else, two weeks of laughter and arguments and half-cooked dinners, two weeks where Ling let herself exist in the small, ordinary world they had built together.

For Orm, it felt like breathing for the first time in a year.
For Ling, it felt like freedom she could only afford for fourteen days.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew.
Every heartbeat from that moment forward was a countdown.

The two weeks unfolded like something the universe made in secret. Every day felt suspended, as if the world outside had stopped moving just long enough for them to breathe without consequence.

They made a life out of the night. Ling always said the dark was kinder to them, that it asked fewer questions. So they went out when the streets were half empty and the city was dressed in shadow. Sometimes they walked along the river where the water shimmered with stray light, their hands brushing but never holding for too long. Other times they wandered through the quiet parts of Boston, where no one knew their faces, where Ling could smile freely and Orm could laugh without caution.

There were moments that should have been ordinary but felt holy instead. The sound of Ling’s laughter echoing against brick walls. The sight of her face under streetlamps, her eyes bright and alive in ways Orm had never seen in daylight. The way Ling leaned against her shoulder on park benches, tracing lazy circles on her palm as if she were signing her name there.

When the nights were too cold to wander, they stayed in. Ling cooked again, though half the time the food burned because she was too busy talking, too busy laughing at Orm’s stories. They ate on the floor because the table was buried under papers and books, and somehow that felt right. Ling liked that the rules of her other life didn’t apply here. She could drink wine straight from the bottle. She could sit cross-legged on the couch. She could let her hair down and not fix it again.

Orm memorized all of it. The small things. The domestic chaos. The way Ling’s sleeves kept sliding down her wrists. The quiet hum she made while drying dishes. The way her face softened when she looked at Orm, as if she were seeing something beautiful she didn’t think she deserved.

They slept tangled together most nights. Ling always fell asleep first, her breathing slow and steady, one hand resting against Orm’s heart as if to remind herself that it was still there. Orm would lie awake and watch her, tracing the faint shadow of her lashes against her skin, the rise and fall of her chest, the peace that belonged only to these stolen hours. She used to think pain was the proof of love, but with Ling, she learned that love could also be stillness. The kind that made every wound feel suddenly worth it.

In the mornings, they moved like people who had nowhere else to be. Ling made coffee while humming, bare feet against the cold tile. Orm sat on the counter, stealing sips from her cup, watching the sunlight spill across the floor. Sometimes Ling would wrap her arms around her from behind, press her lips to her neck, and whisper things that didn’t sound like promises but felt like them anyway.

They talked, too. Not about fear or guilt or the world waiting beyond their door, but about everything else. The books they wanted to write. The cities they wanted to visit. The garden Ling said she would plant one day, even though she hated getting her hands dirty. Orm told her she would build them a home, one with too many windows and no curtains at all. Ling smiled and said she wanted that too, a place where no one had to hide.

At night, the world grew smaller. Sometimes they read together, Orm’s head resting on Ling’s lap, Ling’s fingers idly moving through her hair. Sometimes they danced to music that played softly from Orm’s phone, slow and wordless, the kind of dancing that was just swaying and breathing and existing in the same rhythm.

Ling loved her differently in those two weeks. It wasn’t hurried or guilty. It was patient, reverent, like she had been given something fragile and finally understood how to hold it. She touched Orm’s face as if to memorize it, kissed her as if to thank her, spoke to her in the low, careful tone she used when she was telling the truth.

Orm found herself thinking that this must be what belonging feels like. Not the ownership of a name or a ring, but the quiet certainty that someone saw you completely and stayed anyway. Ling saw her in ways no one ever had. She saw her mess, her restlessness, her noise, her fear, and still looked at her like she was a sanctuary.

It made Orm forget the pain that came before. The lonely nights, the unanswered calls, the endless waiting. All of it dissolved under Ling’s hands, erased by the warmth of her body and the weight of her voice when she whispered I love you against her skin.

There were moments when Orm thought she might burst from the sheer fullness of it. The laughter, the touch, the sound of Ling saying her name like it was a prayer. Every part of her that had once been hollow now felt filled with something too vast to contain.

She stopped thinking about what would happen after. The future existed only in the stories they told each other in the dark. The outside world shrank until it was nothing more than the faint hum of traffic beyond the window. Inside, there was only the two of them, moving through each day as though time had been rewritten to favor them for once.

The city outside their window faded into a blur of gold and soft shadow, and the apartment glowed with the warmth of a single lamp. Ling sat cross-legged on the couch, her hair still damp from the shower, a cup of tea between her hands. Orm sat beside her, one leg tucked under the other, watching the steam rise.

They had spent the whole day pretending time did not exist. Dinner plates still rested on the table, untouched since afternoon, and Ling’s phone lay face-down on the counter where it had been all week.

For a long moment they were quiet, wrapped in the kind of peace that comes only after too much chaos. Then Ling spoke softly, almost like a thought escaping.

“Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to start over.”

Orm turned her head. “Start over how?”

Ling traced her thumb along the rim of her cup. “Without all of this. Without the secrets. Without the pretending. Just… you and me.”

Orm smiled faintly. “That sounds like a dream.”

“Maybe not.” Ling looked up at her, eyes steady. “I could get out of the marriage. It would take time, but I could. We could make it work.”

The words landed quietly but shook the air between them. Orm laughed once, a small disbelieving sound. “You’d really do that?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Ling said. “More than I should.”

“And what then?”

“Then I’d marry you,” she said simply.

Orm blinked, the laughter fading. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not,” Ling admitted, her voice low, deliberate. “But it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

Orm leaned back, studying her. “You’d leave everything for me? The house, the reputation, your parents, Miu?”

Ling hesitated before answering. “I’d leave the parts that don’t feel like living.”

Orm was quiet for a moment, her heartbeat loud in her ears. “You’re serious.”

Ling nodded. “I’m serious.”

“Then tell me,” Orm said softly. “Tell me what our life would look like.”

Ling smiled, that small, tired smile that always came before she let herself dream. “We’d move somewhere quiet. Maybe a little house outside the city, something with a garden. You’d plant basil and kill every other herb because you’d forget to water it. I’d wake up early and make tea while you sleep in. We’d argue about who takes the dog out.”

“We’d have a dog?”

“Of course. You’d insist on a big one and then complain about shedding.”

Orm laughed quietly. “You know me too well.”

Ling’s eyes softened. “I’d teach part-time. You’d open your own firm, something small but brilliant. And someday, when we’re ready, maybe we’d adopt. A daughter. I’d teach her piano, you’d teach her to lie convincingly to her teachers.”

Orm smiled, a slow, aching smile that made her chest hurt. “And what would we name her?”

Ling tilted her head, thinking. “You’d pick something wild. I’d veto it. We’d end up with something in between.”

“Something like what?”

Ling looked at her, her voice turning gentle. “Something that sounds like us.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that felt full instead of empty. The lamplight painted gold across Ling’s face, and Orm wanted to capture that exact version of her forever…the woman who believed, for once, that she deserved happiness.

“You think we could really do that?” Orm asked quietly.

“Yes,” Ling said. “If I’m brave enough.”

“You’ve always been brave.”

Ling shook her head. “No. I’ve always been careful. There’s a difference.”

Orm reached over and took her hand. “Then be careless with me.”

Ling smiled, turning her palm upward, fingers curling around Orm’s. “I’m trying.”

They stayed that way until the tea went cold, their hands tangled between them. Every word spoken that night felt like a thread weaving a new life, delicate and impossible.

When they finally went to bed, Ling lay awake long after Orm had fallen asleep. She whispered into the dark, “I’ll find a way.”

Orm heard it half in dream, half awake, and smiled against her pillow. For the first time in months, she believed her.

And when the two weeks finally began to slip away, Orm didn’t fight it. She only watched Ling pack her bag one quiet morning, the sound of zippers and folded clothes breaking the fragile silence. Ling turned, her face soft with apology, her eyes full of something that almost looked like peace.

And Orm, foolish and tender as ever, accepted it.

She told herself the stolen hours were enough. The coffee breaks, the late-night visits, the phone calls that ended with whispered “I love yous” instead of promises. She convinced herself that this was how real love survived…not in freedom, but in fragments.

Every time Ling returned, even for a minute, Orm let herself believe in the version of the world they built in those two quiet weeks. She believed in the garden, the child, the house filled with laughter. She believed in it because believing hurt less than remembering it was a dream.

And so life returned to its rhythm…Ling between two worlds, Orm waiting in the smaller one, still grateful for every second of borrowed time.

Because sometimes love is not about having someone entirely.
Sometimes it is about holding the part of them the world forgets to claim.

Because in those two weeks, Ling had given her something no one else ever could.
A world where love wasn’t borrowed.
A world where they existed freely, even if only for a little while.

Chapter Text

Orm’s POV

It takes three days. Three days for Junji to return with something that might give shape to the ache in Orm’s chest. Three days of coffee that tastes like metal and sleep that does not come. Three days of sitting on the edge of a chair as if balance itself were a performance that could distract the heart.

The morning after the cafe she went back to work. Ling’s no settled like a stone in her stomach, hard and cold and simple. Orm told herself that work would cauterize what was bleeding. The lie was almost comforting. The lie even smiled.

Natasha was already at her desk when Orm arrived. Hair in place. Voice even. A note beside the keyboard that read Review the severance schedule for Cura executives and mark risk categories. Orm stood there a beat longer than she should have, the room suddenly too bright. Then she sat and became the tool she had always known how to be. Efficient. Precise. Invisible where it mattered.

She pretended not to notice the way Natasha’s phone lit up every hour with Lorena’s name. She pretended not to hear the laughter that carried through closed glass. She pretended not to see the way Natasha relaxed when Lorena entered a room, the way her shoulders opened, the way the mask loosened. It would have been simple to label it friendship and move on. It would have been clean to call it mentorship and file it under admirable bonds between brilliant women. But Orm had run out of words that made pain sound reasonable.

The irony tasted bitter. She, who loved Ling like a prayer and a sin at once, now sat two feet from the woman who wore Ling’s marriage like a ribbon, and she was expected to behave. She had to smile. She had to ask how the night went and whether the car service was on time. She had to read through the merger clauses that would promise a thousand jobs to a thousand strangers while her own world balanced on a thread that no clause could save.

At noon she excused herself and walked the stairs until her legs went numb. At two she returned with a face that did not tremble. At four she answered a call from Junji that was not a call at all, only a soft click and silence, then a hang up. A signal. I am working. Keep breathing.

Night came like a curtain. Orm bought noodles and ate them standing up. She told herself that hunger had a shape and love had a different one, and that she could confuse the two until morning. She slept with her shoes still by the door in case memory tried to leave again.

On the second day Natasha leaned over her monitor and asked for a clause summary. The perfume was the same one Ling used to borrow for gala nights, sharp and clean. It struck Orm like a small, private cruelty, although she knew it was simply a smell. That was the problem with grief. It returned the world to its smallest objects and asked you to live there.

But all she could think about was Ling.. she is always in her mind

She thought she had learned how to live without her. She had practiced the art for two years, tracing the silence between calls, teaching her hands to stay still, her voice to stay steady. But missing Ling was not an absence that could be rehearsed; it was an instinct, a reflex that kept surfacing no matter how many times she buried it. It was not even longing anymore....it was muscle memory.

That perfume undid her in one breath. It filled the space between her ribs like the ghost of touch. For a moment, the office around her blurred, the clatter of keyboards fading into the low hum of the memory it carried. That scent had once lived in her sheets, on her own collarbones, in the hollow of her wrist after nights when Ling’s hands had held her there too long.

She turned her face away from Natasha’s shoulder and pretended to read. Her eyes followed the words but her mind was nowhere near the merger. It had gone back to the morning of those two weeks, the one where Ling stood by the window holding her tea with both hands, looking out into the light like she was afraid to look at Orm instead. The memory ached, gentle and cruel at once.

Orm’s chest tightened. She wanted to call her, just to hear her voice. Just to know if Ling still took her tea with honey instead of sugar, if she still tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, if she still reached for her phone at night out of habit and then stopped herself. She wanted to send a message that said I’m here, I’m still here. But her fingers never moved.

She told herself she couldn’t, not yet. Not when she didn’t have answers. Ling deserved more than fragments and apologies. Ling deserved the truth....something whole, something Orm could hand her without fear that it would crumble on contact. So Orm did what she always did: she folded the want into something small, something that could fit inside her chest without breaking it open.

The days became long, thin stretches of pretending. Work, meetings, silence. She smiled when she had to, spoke when spoken to, signed her name beneath words she didn’t care about. Every sound in the office became an echo of something that once belonged to Ling....the rhythm of a pen tapping, the hiss of a coffee machine, the crisp snap of paper being folded in half. The world had turned into an archive of her.

At night, the ache returned in its truest form. It came quietly, with the lights off and the city half-asleep. Orm would lie awake and think about all the ways Ling used to fill the space....the quiet breathing beside her, the weight of a hand over her stomach, the warmth that refused to leave even when she did. She missed her voice most of all. Not the words, but the tone....the calm, even one that could make a room feel less sharp. She missed the way it could undo her without effort.

She didn’t call. Not when she wanted to. Not when she needed to. Not even when she caught herself whispering Ling’s name into her pillow just to hear how it sounded again.

Because what if Ling answered.
And what if she didn’t.

The question was enough to keep her quiet.

Saturday arrived gray and wind-bitten, the kind of morning that carried too many silences. Orm had spent the night drifting in and out of shallow sleep. She woke to the sound of her phone vibrating against the nightstand, one message, from a number she hoped to hear from. 

Junji: Meet me at Tatte Bakery & Café, Tremont Street. Bring your patience and maybe a conscience.

The words jolted her fully awake. For three days she had lived on caffeine and questions, half afraid that Junji had disappeared for good. Now she was here again, sharp and cryptic as always, dangling the word answers like a match over dry wood.

Orm didn’t even finish her coffee. She showered too quickly, dressed in the first things she touched…black turtleneck, gray coat, hair still damp. She caught her reflection on the way out and almost didn’t recognize it: the exhaustion around her eyes, the restless hope flickering underneath.

By the time she reached Tatte, the café was alive with the hum of Saturday. The windows fogged with the warmth inside, people lined up for croissants and cappuccinos, soft jazz melting into the chatter. The smell of butter and roasted beans hit her like a memory of something good she once believed in.

Junji sat by the window, laptop open, a half-eaten almond croissant next to it, her cropped hair a mess of new colors that looked accidental and deliberate at once. She raised an eyebrow when she saw Orm rush in, her tone dry as ever.

“You look like someone who hasn’t slept or sinned properly in a week.”

Orm slid into the chair across from her. “You’re late.”

Junji smirked. “Well, I had work to do.”

“Do you have it?” Orm asked. Her voice was tight, half-hope, half-threat.

Junji closed the laptop with a soft click. “I have something. Whether it’s it depends on what you’re ready to know.”

“I’m ready for anything.”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“Junji.”

Junji sighed, tore off a corner of the croissant, and said quietly, “Lorena and Natasha aren’t just colleagues. They share more than boardrooms. The connection runs deeper…and older..than you thought.”

Orm’s pulse kicked. “How deep?”

Junji leaned back, her eyes sharp but her tone quieter than usual. “Deep enough that you’ll wish I was making it up,” she said. “There were no photographs. No paper trail. Just voices. People who remembered too much and tried too hard to forget.”

Orm frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I started with Lorena’s old colleagues,” Junji said. “The ones who knew her before she was ‘Boston’s prodigy.’ Then I spoke with a few of her friends from Harvard....professors, classmates, an assistant who used to file her case notes. And finally, her ex-fiancé. That man still speaks like someone who got hit by a storm he didn’t see coming.”

Orm leaned in. “And what did they tell you?”

Junji hesitated, swirling her coffee once before saying it. “They told me the affair started long before yours and Ling’s. Years before. Back when Lorena was mentoring Natasha at Harvard. Miu was still dating Ling. It only lasted a week, but it wasn’t a fling. It was… intense. Something that looked like friendship until it wasn’t.”

Orm blinked. “What?”

“Yes,” Junji said softly. “It began a week before Lorena’s graduation. They were reckless, but everyone around them knew something had changed. Then Lorena graduated and left for New York. They cut contact…at least for a while. But when Natasha graduated, fate did its usual trick.”

Junji’s voice lowered, her words slow and deliberate. “By then Lorena was engaged to that finance guy…good family, boring, devoted. He told me he thought he’d won the lottery until the night she didn’t come home. That was the night Natasha came back into her life. She was interviewing at a law firm where Lorena happened to be consulting. One accidental catch-up turned into coffee. Coffee turned into evenings that ran too late. And before long, the engagement ring became just a ring.”

Orm tried to process it, her pulse loud in her ears. “You’re saying they’ve been doing this for years?”

“On and off for seven,” Junji said. “Lorena ended her engagement halfway through, but she never ended it with Natasha. Every time they walked away, they came back. Colleagues said they were poison for each other but couldn’t stop drinking.”

Orm’s voice came out tight. “Then why stay with Ling? Why marry her if she had Lorena waiting in the wings?”

Junji tilted her head, studying her like she was piecing together a puzzle only she could see. “It was all for money,” she said finally. “Ling had it. Ling wanted freedom from her parents’ grip, and Natasha, your Miu, wanted a way out of debt. It was convenience dressed as love.”

Orm blinked. “That doesn’t make sense. Lorena had money. She might as well have just stayed with her.”

Junji gave a low laugh, one without any real humor. “That’s where you go wrong, my little soldier. Lorena wasn’t born into wealth. She was an orphan. She built herself from nothing, smart, sharp, ruthless. She learned early that power doesn’t come from money; it comes from controlling the people who have it.”

Orm frowned. “So she used her fiancé?”

“Oh, she used everyone,” Junji said, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Her fiancé was a trust fund baby. Parents with deep pockets and too much guilt. Lorena convinced him they could be a power couple, her brain and his money. He believed her. Poured everything into her vision. She used his funds to buy into S and M LLP, piece by piece, until her name was practically carved into the foundation. And then, one year later, poof, she dumped him. Cold, clean, efficient.”

Orm’s stomach twisted. “And Natasha?”

“Employed right after that,” Junji said. “Lorena brought her into the firm, said she was the best young lawyer she had ever mentored. Everyone thought it was professional admiration. But behind closed doors it was strategy. Miu was the golden piece, ambitious, brilliant, and willing to play the long game.”

Junji paused for a moment, her eyes narrowing as if watching something distant. “You know, people like them always find each other. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many people stand in between, they always circle back. It’s not love in the way you or I would define it. It’s something darker, magnetic. They thrive on each other’s ambition, on the danger of being caught, on the power it gives them to outsmart the rest of the world together.”

Orm’s throat tightened. “So it was never over between them.”

Junji shook her head. “Never. Lorena and Miu are cut from the same cloth. Every time they part, they find new ways to collide again. That kind of bond…obsessive, secret, self-serving…it eats at people who watch it. Because it looks like passion. It looks like loyalty. But what it really is… is a kind of hunger that doesn’t end.”

She leaned back, voice softening. “It’s the kind of love that makes others envious because it looks unstoppable. The kind that makes everyone around them feel small, like their own loves were too tame, too safe. But what no one sees is how much it costs. They burn through everything they touch, and when they’re done, they always go back to each other to feed the fire again.”

Orm leaned forward, her heart hammering. “Oh my god, so they used Ling. They used her to buy Beckman’s position in the firm for Natasha?”

Junji smirked. “Oh, you’re getting it now. Ling’s family money opened doors Lorena couldn’t force her way through alone. A few quiet donations here, a few anonymous investments there. Before anyone noticed, Miu’s rise looked like merit. But it was Ling’s fortune that greased the machine.”

Orm sat back, stunned. “They used her.”

Junji’s expression softened, but only slightly. “They used everyone, Orm. That’s Lorena’s art. She makes you believe you’re building something together when really, you’re just a brick in her wall.”

Orm stared past Junji, vision unfocused. The weight of it all, the manipulation, the betrayal, the years of love tangled in lies, pressed against her ribs until she could barely breathe.

Junji added quietly, “Now you see why I said this wasn’t just about heartbreak. It’s business. It’s empire building. And Ling, poor Ling, is still under the illusion that love had anything to do with it.”

Orm whispered, more to herself than to Junji, “She deserves to know.”

Junji nodded. “She does. But be careful. Truth has teeth.”

The questions doesn’t stop there … cause there is one more thing that Orm is itching to know. 

Orm took a shaky breath, her hands still flat on the table. The air between them buzzed with everything she had just heard, everything that now refused to be unlearned.

After a long silence, she finally asked, her voice low, “What about the other thing I asked you about?”

Junji looked up from her coffee, her smirk gone now, replaced by something more cautious. She hesitated for a moment, studying Orm’s face before saying quietly, “Oh, you’re not going to like it.”

Orm’s stomach sank, the words hanging in the air like a storm that hadn’t broken yet.

Junji didn’t elaborate. She just sat there, stirring her drink, the clink of the spoon against porcelain the only sound between them.

And Orm knew…whatever was coming next would be worse than everything she’d already heard.

*Flashback*


Ling’s POV: 

It had started as a tremor. A faint thing that she could almost ignore if she kept her head down, if she just moved from one hour to the next like a careful machine. But tremors grow, and Ling had always been the kind of person who listened too late.

By the time the affair had taken shape, by the time Orm had become not just a name but a pulse inside her, guilt had become a second heartbeat. It lived under her ribs and reminded her, with every quiet breath, that she was no longer the person she thought she was.

The first time she cried about it, it wasn’t in Orm’s bed, and it wasn’t in Miu’s arms either. It was in her car, parked in a narrow street where no one would know her. The rain had been heavy that night, a curtain that allowed her the privacy of falling apart. She had sat there gripping the steering wheel, forehead pressed against the leather, whispering the same sentence again and again until it lost meaning.

I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

But the apology had nowhere to go.

Her phone kept lighting up on the passenger seat .... one message from Miu, the gentle kind she always sent.
Drive safe, love. Don’t stay too late at the library.
A small heart emoji. A habit from 7 years of marriage.

Ling had looked at that message and felt her throat close. She had wanted to throw the phone, wanted to break the thing that tied her to a version of herself that no longer existed. Because she knew where she was going. Not to the library. To Orm. To the warmth that both healed and unmade her.

She remembered that night with a kind of vicious clarity. Her fingers trembling as she turned the ignition off, wiping her eyes, fixing her face in the rear-view mirror. Her reflection was red-eyed and wrecked, yet somehow determined. The kind of look that belonged to someone about to do something they knew was wrong but would do anyway because love is never polite, and desire is never merciful.

By the time she reached Orm’s apartment, her tears had dried, replaced by something feverish. Orm had opened the door in her usual way .... barefoot, half-smile, the kind of quiet that said I missed you even when I told myself I wouldn’t. Ling had wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t have come, that this couldn’t continue, that she was losing herself piece by piece. But when Orm touched her face, the words dissolved.

She could not stop.

That was the truth that burned her every time she went home after.

The drive back was always the worst. The empty streets, the dim yellow lights blurring past her windshield, the faint scent of Orm still on her hands. Sometimes she rolled the windows down just to let the wind take it away. Sometimes she pressed her fingers to her lips and tasted the sin again because she could not help it.

When she reached home, Miu was often asleep. The lights would be dimmed to the soft glow Miu liked. Ling would stand at the doorway of their bedroom, watching her wife’s body rise and fall under the sheets, her dark hair spilling over the pillow, her hand reaching to Ling’s side of the bed even in sleep.

It was that small gesture that killed her every time.

She would slip quietly beside her, heart still racing from the other life she had just left. Miu would stir, eyes half-open, whisper her name with the sleepy affection of a woman who had never doubted her.
“You’re home.”
“Yes,” Ling would answer. “Just a long night at the office.”

Sometimes Miu would reach for her hand and fall back asleep holding it. Ling would lie there staring at the ceiling, her eyes burning, her throat aching with words she could never say. She would think about the life she had built with Miu .... the shared cups of coffee, the long years of studying together, the promises made on park benches when they were too young to know what promises cost.

She stopped loving Miu. There was no single moment of realization, no cruel word or act of betrayal that marked the end. It was quieter than that, slower, like a candle running out of wax. One day she simply looked at her wife and felt nothing move inside her. No tenderness, no longing, not even the quiet warmth of habit. Only the faint echo of what used to be there. And that silence frightened her more than guilt ever could.

She began to feel unclean beside her, the weight of her own deceit pressing against her skin every night they shared a bed. Miu would roll toward her in sleep, trusting, unaware, her breath soft and even. Ling would lie perfectly still, every nerve in her body screaming with shame. Miu does not deserve this, she would think, staring at the ceiling, her heart twisting in a slow, merciless rhythm.

So she asked to sleep in a different room. It started as a careful lie, one that even she almost believed. She said she needed space to work, more time to grade papers, more notes to prepare for her lectures. She told Miu that her desk light would keep her awake, that the piles of student files were overwhelming, that the couch in the study would be better for both of them.

Miu had looked at her for a long moment, confusion softening into worry. “Are you sure?” she had asked, her voice small, almost childlike in its sincerity. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ling had shaken her head too quickly. “No. I just need the space,” she said, careful, measured, the way she always was when lying for the first time.

Miu did not press. She nodded, though Ling saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she looked away. And that tiny, fleeting wound became another weight Ling carried into the silence of the study.

At night, when the house fell asleep, Ling sat surrounded by open books and empty pages. Her laptop glowed with the pretense of work, but she never wrote a word. She stared at her hands instead .... the same hands that had touched Orm hours earlier, that had memorized the softness of her skin, the curve of her hip, the warmth that made Ling forget her name. She felt sick with it. With how much she wanted her. With how much she was willing to lose just to feel alive again.

Lying to Miu ate her alive. She had never done it before. Not once in their years together. They had built their life on trust, on laughter, on the quiet ease of knowing the other’s heart without needing to ask. And now she was poisoning it with every breath she took.

She would sit there in the darkness, her chest tightening until it hurt to breathe, the tears coming in silent, unstoppable waves. She cried for Miu, for the woman who still reached for her hand in sleep. She cried for herself, for the pieces of her that had become unrecognizable. And most of all, she cried for Orm, because she loved her too much to stop, even as it destroyed everything else.

She pressed her palms to her face and whispered into the quiet, “I am a terrible person,” over and over until the words no longer sounded like language, only confession. She wanted to stop. She wanted to be good again. But she couldn’t. Because Orm had become her oxygen, her undoing, her reason.

Every morning, she would wash her face, rehearse her smile, and return to Miu with a calm voice and steady hands. And every night, when she closed her study door, she fell apart again.

That was the rhythm of her days now .... devotion and deceit, truth and ruin. She was both the sinner and the one who mourned her own sin. And still, she kept going back to Orm. Because for all her guilt, all her self-loathing, Ling had already chosen the kind of love that made her burn.

Ling loved her more than she had ever loved anyone, and yet she was the one teaching her what neglect felt like. Every time Orm’s voice broke, every time she turned away to hide her tears, Ling wanted to fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness. She wanted to give her the world .... the time, the respect, the care she deserved. But she never could. Because she was too busy pretending that she wasn’t already breaking every promise she had ever made.

The world still demanded its version of her.
There were the galas, where she stood beside Miu in designer gowns, smiling for cameras that captured lies with perfect lighting. The nonprofit dinners, the charity auctions, the holiday events with family where she wore pearls instead of truth. She played her role so well that even she almost believed it sometimes. Almost.

But every glass of champagne, every polite conversation, every photograph made her feel smaller. The applause, the praise, the flash of attention .... all of it turned hollow the moment she remembered Orm sitting alone somewhere, waiting.

She hated herself for how easily she kept choosing duty over love.
How she could smile through the governor’s toast knowing Orm had texted her three times, asking if she was coming.
How she could spend an evening shaking hands with donors while the woman who knew her best was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she mattered at all.

After every event, when the laughter and the cameras faded, Ling would sit alone in her car, staring at her reflection in the dark window. She looked polished, put together, powerful .... everything she had been raised to be. And yet she felt like a ghost of herself. Because the woman in the mirror belonged to a life she no longer believed in, while the woman she wanted to be was waiting for her two miles away, barefoot, heart open, ready to forgive her again.

She didn’t deserve that forgiveness.
She didn’t deserve Orm’s patience or her softness or the way she still smiled every time Ling walked through the door.
But Orm kept giving, and Ling kept taking, and the balance of it broke her heart a little more each day.

Sometimes, when she returned from another gala, she would sit on the edge of her bed in the dark, still wearing her evening dress, her earrings heavy against her skin. Miu would already be asleep, her breathing steady, peaceful. Ling would stare at her for a long moment, then slip quietly out of the room and sit on the floor of her study. She would open her phone, scroll through Orm’s last messages, and cry .... silent, aching tears that came from knowing she was hurting the one person who made her feel alive.

She deserves better than this, she would whisper to herself.
She deserves my time, my hands, my heart. And all I ever give her is a fraction of what she deserves.

Yet the next morning she would wake, put her hair up, and walk back into the world that claimed her. Because duty was louder than love, and Ling, for all her brilliance, had not yet learned how to choose herself.

And so she lived in halves .... half in the light, half in the dark, trying to build a life that could hold both truth and betrayal. But the weight of it kept growing, and some nights she could feel it in her bones, the slow breaking of a heart stretched between two worlds.

That was what it meant to love Orm and still go home to Miu .... to be both full and starving at the same time.

The snow had come early that year, soft and deceptive, falling like forgiveness over a city that didn’t deserve it. Ling stood at Orm’s window with her coat still on, watching the flakes blur the streetlights into halos. She could already feel her throat tightening around the words she had rehearsed a dozen times in her head.

“Miu’s mother isn’t well,” she said at last. “She and I will be in Colorado for the holidays. Thanksgiving, and probably Christmas too.”

Her voice didn’t crack, though it should have. She had practiced it to sound calm, practiced it until guilt became rhythm. She could almost pretend it didn’t hurt to say it.

Orm didn’t answer right away. She only nodded, her eyes cast downward to the book in her lap, the same one she had not read since Ling arrived. The air between them felt heavy and deliberate, as though the silence itself had weight.

“It will only be a few weeks,” Ling continued. “I’ll call when I can.”

Orm smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. Go take care of her.”

It was the mercy in her tone that destroyed Ling most .... mercy, when what she deserved was anger.

She wanted to say don’t let me go, but she knew it would be cruel to ask. She had already taken too much. So she kissed Orm’s hair instead, touched her cheek once, lightly, and left before her voice could betray her.

In the car, the world went quiet.
She sat behind the wheel with both hands trembling, the engine still running, her reflection fractured by the frost on the windshield. Her breath fogged the glass, her pulse wild and uneven.

that night she broke. She pressed her forehead to the steering wheel and sobbed until her throat burned, the sound raw and unfamiliar.

She wasn’t crying for Orm alone. She was crying for the life she had ruined by trying to live two at once.

When she finally reached home, Miu was in the kitchen, humming softly, barefoot on the tiled floor. The smell of jasmine rice and lemongrass filled the air. Miu turned when she heard her, her face lighting up with an ease that Ling no longer knew how to return.

“You’re home early,” she said. “I made soup. Sit down, love.”

Ling’s heart clenched. Miu’s voice was still that same melody it had always been .... gentle, certain, achingly familiar. Ling stood there for a long moment, unsure how to exist inside the warmth she no longer deserved.

“It smells wonderful,” she managed to say.

Miu came closer, brushed a strand of Ling’s hair behind her ear. “You look tired,” she murmured. “You work too much.”

That touch .... that simple, kind touch .... felt unbearable. It was everything she had once wanted, everything she had fought to protect. And yet, when Miu’s fingers lingered on her cheek, all Ling could think of was Orm’s hand on her wrist, Orm’s breath against her collarbone, Orm’s voice whispering stay.

She went upstairs before she could drown in the guilt.

In the mirror, she looked polished, composed, the kind of woman who could stand beside a wife at a gala and never give away her secrets. But her eyes betrayed her. They looked haunted, foreign, too full.

She changed into an old sweater and sat on the edge of their bed. Miu was still humming downstairs. The sound should have comforted her. Instead, it broke her.

Ling lowered her head into her hands and whispered, “What am I doing?”

No answer came, only the faint echo of music through the walls.

In the study, she sat surrounded by open books and silence. The lamp light caught on the edge of her wedding ring, and she turned it absently, over and over, as if it might give her answers. She wanted to write .... an email, a letter, anything .... but her mind was blank except for one name.

Orm.

The thought of her hurt more than absence. It was a kind of hunger that no reasoning could quiet. Every night she imagined her alone in that small apartment, the bed half-empty, the tea gone cold. Every night she reached for her phone and stopped herself, because the sound of Miu’s breathing down the hall was enough to remind her of the cost.

By Thanksgiving, the house was full of people .... Miu’s siblings, her mother’s friends, a blur of voices and laughter. Ling smiled when she had to, answered when spoken to, raised her glass at the right times. She was a perfect wife again, and everyone saw what they expected to see.

But under the table, her hands shook. She could still feel Orm’s messages burning through the phone in her pocket, though she couldn’t bear to look.

That night, when she finally did, Orm had sent a photo of a dinner for two, one plate untouched. The caption read: Guess I overcooked again.

Ling covered her mouth, her eyes stinging, her chest hollowing out with something close to grief.

She typed, deleted, typed again.
Finally she sent: Looks delicious. I’m proud of you. 
Three red hearts. The safest lie she could manage.

Then she went into the bathroom, locked the door, and sank to the cold tile floor. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face. She wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come.

She hated herself. Hated how easily she could play both roles .... the devoted spouse and the faithless lover. Hated that she could tell Miu I love you and mean it, then whisper I love you to Orm and mean that too.

But it wasn’t the same love.
One was duty, the other was need.
And she no longer knew which was killing her faster.

In Colorado, she performed perfection again. The mountain air bit through her skin, and Miu’s family adored her as always. She smiled in photographs beside the fireplace, laughter frozen mid-frame. She held Miu’s hand for the cameras, the gold band catching firelight, and thought only of Orm’s fingers instead.

Every night she excused herself early. Every night she sat alone in the guest room, scrolling through old texts, rereading them until her eyes blurred.

When Christmas came, Miu gave her a scarf .... forest green, her favorite color .... and kissed her gently. “You’re my home,” she said.

Ling’s throat closed around the words she couldn’t return. She smiled, nodded, and said, “You too.”

But when she looked out the window that night, she whispered another name under her breath, one that no one in that house would ever know.

Orm.

And for the first time, she realized she wasn’t choosing between two people. She was choosing between the woman the world expected her to be .... and the woman she truly was.

The choice should have been simple.
But love, real love, never is.

Ling had never believed in fate. She had always trusted reason, structure, the invisible scaffolding that kept her life upright. But reason had no language for Orm. Logic collapsed at the sound of her laughter, and every vow, every principle, every version of goodness Ling had once clung to had begun to unravel quietly the longer she stayed.

Between all the guilt and the lies, Orm still made sense. That was the part that undid her. She could stand in the wreckage of her own making and still look at Orm and think, this is worth it. Worth the broken vows, worth the sleepless nights, worth the tears that came after every goodbye. Orm made ruin feel holy.

When Ling looked at her, she saw a thousand small things that no one else ever noticed. The way Orm’s smile showed her gums, the way her laughter filled a room so completely that Ling forgot to breathe, the way she teased her until Ling’s carefully built calm fractured into something human. She saw the way Orm wanted her .... not out of need or pride, but out of love so simple and unadorned that it made everything else in Ling’s life feel ornamental.

Orm never asked for more. She never fought, never accused, never demanded to be chosen. Even when Ling’s absence stretched into weeks, even when the phone calls grew shorter, even when Ling lied through her teeth about meetings and obligations, Orm never threw a tantrum. She waited. She loved quietly. She let Ling arrive when she could, and when she did, Orm received her as though nothing had been missing.

During those two weeks together, Ling saw what it could have been .... what it should have been. Orm’s happiness was so radiant that it frightened her. Every morning, Ling woke to the sound of her humming softly in the kitchen, to the smell of coffee and jasmine tea. The simplest things .... folding laundry side by side, brushing their teeth at the same sink, lying on the couch with Orm’s legs tangled in hers .... began to feel like the truest form of living she had ever known.

She caught herself studying Orm when she thought she wasn’t looking. The curve of her mouth when she read, the absent way she tapped her fingers against her mug, the warmth that lingered in her gaze when Ling entered the room. It was unbearable, how much she loved her. How much she wanted to stay.

Those two weeks felt like a spell she never wanted to wake from. Orm’s joy at her presence was quiet but endless. She would look at Ling as though she was still surprised she existed, as though every moment spent together was a gift the world had accidentally allowed. And Ling .... who had spent her whole life being needed but never adored .... began to understand what it meant to be loved without demand.

She had always told herself that she was protecting Miu by keeping her distance from Orm. That what she did in the dark was a mistake contained neatly away from daylight. But during those two weeks, she stopped believing that. Because with Orm, it didn’t feel like sin. It felt like home.

And that was when the treachery truly began .... not in the affair itself, but in the imagining.

It started small, harmless in the beginning. She would look at Orm stirring sugar into her coffee and think of mornings like this stretched across years. She would imagine coming home to her laughter instead of sneaking through shadows. She imagined the two of them living somewhere quiet, a small house by the coast, the sound of rain on the windows, a dog sleeping at their feet. She imagined waking beside her without the weight of secrecy pressing down on her chest.

And then one night, when Orm fell asleep on her shoulder, she imagined something she had never dared before .... a baby girl that they would adopt…a child that carried their love in the shape of her smile. It was the kind of dream she used to mock in others, sentimental and impossible. But now she clung to it like oxygen.

With Miu, she had never allowed herself to dream. Their love had been disciplined, measured, built on compatibility and shared history, not on hunger or wonder. She had loved Miu the way one honors a promise .... steady, faithful, contained. But with Orm, everything was chaos and light. Even when it was wrong, it felt alive.

She would lie awake beside her, the city humming faintly outside, and think, I could stay like this forever.
And that thought terrified her more than guilt ever had.

Because once you start to imagine a future with someone else, the life you have already begins to die.

Ling knew it. She felt it in her bones every time she looked at Miu and saw not the woman she loved, but the shadow of a promise she could no longer keep. She felt it in the way her body leaned instinctively toward her phone at night, waiting for Orm’s voice.

Orm was her undoing and her absolution all at once. The proof that love, even when it destroys, can still feel like salvation.

And so Ling kept loving her .... selfishly, helplessly, completely .... knowing full well that someday it would break her. Because for all her vows and all her guilt, she had already chosen. She had chosen the woman who smiled with her gums and teased her until she laughed like a girl again. She had chosen the one who never asked her to be perfect.

She had chosen Orm.

Chapter Text

*Flashback*

Authors POV:

Two years... two years of loving each other in the shadows.
Their love has been called vulgar, their union condemned as betrayal, their happiness reduced to sin. People name it cheating, adultery, disgrace. But those who speak of it know nothing about sacred things that hide behind shame. For Ling and Orm, love is not moral or immoral... it simply exists, inevitable as the tide, uncontainable as breath. It is poison that runs through their veins, and yet it is also the only thing keeping them alive.

The world calls it wrong. They call it devotion.
For them, love has never been gentle or lawful or clean. It has been raw and consuming and true.

You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it... you wouldn’t understand this kind of love. How could you? You would ask how they can smile, how they can laugh, how they can still wake up every morning and call this happiness when they are breaking vows, when they are unmaking the very structure of what people call good. You would ask how a woman who once stood before a crowd to promise loyalty can still whisper another woman’s name in the dark. You would ask how a wife can become a lover, how sin can look like salvation.

How are they happy? How are they in love when they are losing their moral conscience, when their hands are stained with deception, when they are living inside something that should not exist?
How can adultery feel like peace?

It is called love though... and I, the author, have no language for that kind of grace.

I would die to have a partner who remembers the smallest things the way Orm remembers Ling... the way she keeps mental notes of her favorite tea, her habit of humming under her breath while she writes, the way she pretends not to like sweet things but still steals the first bite from every dessert.

I would die to have a partner who kneels when asking for forgiveness the way Ling does... hands trembling, voice low, whispering I’m sorry like a prayer that she repeats until Orm believes it.

I would die to have someone who treats time like a fragile gift the way Orm does... counting every second Ling spends beside her, smiling through tears because even a few hours are worth all the loneliness that comes after.

I would die to have a partner who in the middle of a snowstorm leaves a warm bed to walk three streets just to buy ice cream because the other said she missed it. That is Ling. Always reckless in the smallest, most tender ways.

They love through gestures the world will never notice. Ling pressing her lips to Orm’s temple before every goodbye as if sealing a promise no one else is allowed to hear. Orm keeping Ling’s forgotten pen inside her bag like a relic. Ling fixing the loose button on Orm’s coat quietly while pretending not to care. Orm leaving notes in Ling’s office drawer with nothing but the words drink water, you forget too much.

This is not a grand romance made of vows and witnesses. It is made of the invisible. Of mornings where Ling wakes to find Orm tracing the lines of her palm as though reading her fate. Of nights where Orm pretends to sleep just to feel Ling’s breath against her shoulder. Of phone calls cut short by guilt and resumed by longing.

Their love lives in fragments, but every fragment feels infinite.

And yes... it is wrong. It is messy. It is steeped in betrayal. But what is love if not the courage to keep reaching for warmth even when the world turns cold? What is devotion if not the willingness to bleed quietly so the other may breathe freely?

For them, holiness has never lived in churches or vows or rings. It lives in the spaces between their hands, in the quiet understanding that even if this love destroys them, it is still the truest thing they have ever known.

When Ling looks at Orm, the noise of her life falls away. The world, the marriage, the guilt... all of it dissolves until there is only Orm’s face, Orm’s laugh, Orm’s heartbeat pressed against her chest. And when Orm looks back, she sees not the professor, not the wife, not the sinner ... she sees the woman who chose her again and again, even when it cost her everything.

So let them call it sin. Let them call it wrong.
Because if this is wrong, then maybe wrong is the most beautiful thing ever created.

For two years they have loved each other like this... quietly, fiercely, without permission.
And the world will never understand that sometimes love does not ask to be forgiven.
It only asks to be felt.

Their story began one month into the Juris Doctor program at Harvard... a beginning so ordinary that no one could have imagined what would grow from it. Two years later, their love had already outlived its own shame. What had started as a spark between a professor and her student had become a quiet empire built in secret... an affair that had turned into devotion, and devotion that had turned into religion.

Orm was now in her final year... sharp, relentless, and utterly brilliant. Her professors called her the prodigy of her batch, her classmates whispered about her near-perfect GPA, and the dean himself had her name circled for summa cum laude. What they didn’t know... what they would never know... was that behind every sleepless night of study, every carefully written brief, every brilliant argument in moot court, there was Ling. Not Ling the professor... but Ling the woman who would quiz her lover between kisses, who would turn their bed into a classroom, who could make legal theory sound like poetry whispered against bare skin.

It was never favoritism. Ling had only taught her class for a single semester... one small intersection of fate. After that, Orm’s excellence was her own. Ling never changed a grade or opened a door that wasn’t earned. But she did build Orm’s discipline... she built it through love, through the fierce tenderness of wanting her to conquer the world.

Sometimes Ling would sit across from Orm in bed... papers scattered around them, both of them in half-buttoned shirts, coffee going cold beside the lamp. Ling’s voice would cut through the quiet... steady, teasing, deliberate.

“Define promissory estoppel,” she would ask, tapping her pen against the notebook.

Orm would groan, falling back into the pillows. “Are we really doing this now?”

“Yes, we are,” Ling would reply calmly, arching a brow. “You don’t get to top your class by moaning about it. You get there by knowing why equitable reliance matters.”

Orm would sit up, half laughing. “Fine... promissory estoppel is the legal principle that prevents a party from withdrawing a promise made, even without formal consideration, when the other party has reasonably relied on it to their detriment.”

Ling would smile, slow and wicked. “Good girl.”

Sometimes her hand would trace along Orm’s thigh as she asked the next question. “Now... tell me what constitutes undue influence in contract law.”

Orm would try to focus, would try to remember, but Ling’s mouth would be too close, her voice too soft. “You’re cheating,” she’d whisper.

Ling would chuckle. “So are you... with me. Now answer.”

Orm would mumble through the definitions, blushing, laughing, exasperated, and somehow still learning. And by the time Ling finally rewarded her with a kiss, Orm had unknowingly memorized every case citation she needed.

Those were their nights... half study, half sin. Between the flashcards and the flash of skin, between arguments about precedent and stolen kisses, Orm learned to love the law the way she loved Ling... completely, recklessly, without pause.

Ling never admitted it out loud, but she was proud. There were moments during Orm’s moot court competitions where she would sit in the back row, pretending to be just another faculty observer, watching her lover argue with a precision and fire that made her heart ache. She’d fold her hands, expression neutral, but every word that came from Orm’s mouth felt like a quiet confession... a mirror of everything they had built together.

After one competition, when Orm won first place, Ling found her outside the auditorium, the evening sun painting her face in gold.

“I told you,” Ling said, smiling faintly. “Top one percent.”

Orm smirked, still breathless from victory. “You sound like you’re taking credit.”

Ling tilted her head. “Maybe I am. After all, I did drill you on contract defenses during things that weren’t exactly academic hours.”

Orm laughed. “You’re impossible.”

Ling leaned closer, her voice softer now. “No, my love... you are.”

Sometimes, when the world quieted, Ling would watch her study by the window. The light would fall over Orm’s shoulders, her hair slipping forward as she wrote notes in the margins. Ling would think... this woman will change the world. And a small, selfish part of her would whisper... and I helped make her.

They both knew the cost of what they had. But in those small, unguarded moments... Ling would forget everything. Forget Miu, forget guilt, forget right and wrong. Watching Orm’s lips move as she mouthed legal arguments under her breath... that was enough to make her believe that love, no matter how forbidden, could still be pure.

To the world, Orm was a prodigy.
To Ling, she was a masterpiece.

And every flashcard, every whispered question, every teasing correction between kisses was proof of it. Because this was how they loved... through brilliance, through ambition, through laughter that filled even the most fragile spaces between guilt and grace.

For them, knowledge was foreplay, excellence was intimacy, and success was a love letter written in invisible ink.
And somewhere between the textbooks and the touch of skin, Ling and Orm had built something indestructible... a devotion so sacred that even sin could not stain it.

The third year of law school arrived like a tide... quiet at first, then unrelenting. Orm found herself caught in the current of ambition and exhaustion... working as summer intern with long hours at the district attorney’s office, drafting memos until her wrists ached, shadowing trials that blurred into each other, and pretending she knew what she wanted out of the law. She was studying for the bar months earlier than anyone else, her mind spinning between doctrines and deadlines, and yet... somewhere between all the papers and sleepless nights, her thoughts always drifted back to Ling.

She would sit in her small office cubicle, the hum of fluorescent light above her, and think about Ling’s voice … calm, sharp, steady, the sound of certainty in a world that offered her none. She didn’t know yet if she wanted to defend or prosecute, to protect the innocent or fight for the guilty, to save lives or to expose lies... but she knew one thing for sure, she wanted Ling in her life no matter what shape that life took.

It all began one crisp Halloween night... the kind of night that smelled like cold air and sugar. Orm had dressed up as a block of cheese, yellow felt wrapped around her body, and Ling had arrived carrying a wooden cutting board strapped to her chest. Together, they called themselves a char-cute-rie board. It was ridiculous, absurd, and sweet beyond measure. They didn’t go anywhere, didn’t attend parties or masquerades. They stayed in Orm’s apartment, handing out chocolates to children who shouted “Trick or treat!” from the hallway. Ling would bend down, offer candy, and smile with that patient warmth that made her look like she belonged in another life… a quieter, gentler one.

Orm watched her all evening. Watched her laugh with the kids, watched her pretend to be stern when one tried to take a handful of candy instead of one piece. And something inside her shifted. It wasn’t the first time she’d imagined it... but that night, it felt real. The thought of Ling in a home that wasn’t borrowed, surrounded not by secrecy but by love. The thought of a shared kitchen, a dog sleeping at their feet, maybe even a child in the background laughing … the world they talked about in whispers suddenly felt close enough to touch.

After the last child left, Ling closed the door and returned to the couch where Orm sat curled up with a blanket. The lamplight painted her skin gold. The room smelled of melted chocolate and vanilla candles.

“I will be graduating in seven months,” Orm said softly, her voice uncertain, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug.

Ling turned toward her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. “Yes, you will,” she said, pride threading through her tone, her eyes gentle.

Orm hesitated before continuing. “I was wondering...” She paused, her voice faltering, her heart pressing painfully against her ribs. “I was wondering if we could ever... be exclusive.”

Ling tilted her head slightly. “What do you mean, baby?”

Orm swallowed. “I mean, we’ve always talked about it... about being married someday, raising a family, having a dog, cooking dinner together... but are those just words, Ling? Do we ever get there? Or am I... am I just something that exists in the shadows?”

Her voice broke slightly at the end. She hated herself for saying it. She knew Ling loved her … knew it in her bones, but years of hiding had planted doubts she couldn’t always silence.

Ling straightened, her expression shifting, not with anger, not even with surprise, but with something fierce and clear. “Of course,” she said quietly, each syllable deliberate, each word like an oath. “I promised to live that life with you... every version of it in every lifetime I get. And I will deliver it, baby.”

She smiled then, that small, trembling smile that came whenever she was on the verge of tears. She looked at Orm with so much love that it almost hurt to hold her gaze.

“I will ask for a divorce,” Ling said at last, her voice steady even as her eyes filled.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped moving. Orm’s breath caught; her hands went still on her lap. She had imagined hearing those words, dreamed of them even, but now that they were real, they felt too heavy, too sacred to belong to speech.

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. “You mean that?” she whispered.

Ling nodded, tears slipping down her own cheeks. “Not immediately,” she said softly. “I want you to graduate first. I don’t want you to have to bear that kind of weight while you’re still preparing for finals and the bar. I’ll start by dropping hints to my parents... and then with Miu. When you’ve finished your exams, we’ll leave the city. We’ll start again somewhere new.”

Her voice was calm, but her hands trembled as they reached for Orm’s. “If we tell anyone now, my parents will find out. They can ruin both our lives within minutes. They’re powerful, Orm... they would rather destroy me than let me shame their name.”

Orm listened, tears running freely down her face now. She could feel the truth in Ling’s words, the exhaustion behind them, the impossible courage it took to even say them aloud. She wanted to hold her, to take all that fear and burn it away.

“Ling,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “I don’t care about them. I don’t care about their money or their power. I just want you. I just want us.”

Ling smiled through her tears, cupping Orm’s face. “I know. And that’s why I have to be careful. Because you deserve a life without hiding, and I won’t let them take that from you. When we leave, it will be for good.”

Orm shook her head, still crying, half laughing through it. “You’re insane. You’re actually going to do it.”

Ling brushed her thumb along Orm’s jaw. “I already have. In my mind, I’ve left a hundred times. Now it’s just about doing it once in the real world.”

Orm leaned into her touch, her voice trembling. “You’d give up everything... for me?”

Ling kissed her forehead, closing her eyes. “For you, I already have.”

They sat like that for a long time, the room still, the night stretching endlessly around them. The candles had burned low, the air smelled of wax and sugar, and the future hung in the silence between their breaths… fragile, terrifying, and beautiful.

For the first time, Orm let herself believe it. That they could have a life that wasn’t borrowed, that love could exist in daylight without guilt.

Outside, the wind carried the last echoes of Halloween laughter down the empty street. Inside, two women sat on a couch wrapped in each other’s arms, whispering plans that might ruin everything... and yet, for once, it felt like salvation.

Because when love has already cost you everything, what’s left to lose except the world that never understood it?

The months that followed were both a blur and a masterpiece. Orm sank into her midterms with the kind of focus that only brilliance mixed with heartbreak can create. She was sharp, relentless, almost frighteningly composed... yet every time she looked up from her notes, her eyes softened at the thought of Ling.

They were careful, still hidden in plain sight, but something in their rhythm had changed. It was as though the promise of a future had loosened the grip of secrecy just a little. They began to occupy the world differently... still cautious, still aware, but no longer entirely invisible.

They started having coffee dates in the small café near Cambridge Common... the one with ivy crawling up the brick walls and a piano that no one ever played. Ling would arrive first, always with her scarf pulled high around her neck, always with that same calm smile that told Orm she was exactly where she wanted to be. Orm would slide into the seat across from her, her fingers brushing Ling’s under the table in a fleeting, wordless hello.

They spoke quietly about everything... law, work, childhood, the small absurdities of the world. Sometimes Orm would pretend to read her case notes while Ling stirred her coffee, watching her over the rim of her cup. Once, when they both reached for the sugar, their hands touched. Ling didn’t pull away. Neither did Orm.

In that moment, the café became a church.

At the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings, they walked side by side, their hands almost but not quite touching. Ling bought fresh basil and pears. Orm bought flowers she didn’t need just to make Ling smile. When they found quiet corners behind the stalls, Ling would lean in... just once, just enough to brush her lips against Orm’s cheek. It was the smallest rebellion, but it tasted like freedom.

It wasn’t much, not compared to the life they dreamed of, but it was progress... one soft, stolen step at a time.

At night, when Orm stayed over, Ling would fall asleep first ... always too tired, always too responsible ... and Orm would stay awake, her fingers tracing Ling’s hairline, whispering things into the dark that she was too shy to say in the light. Things like I love you and I’ll wait and I can’t believe you’re real.

Ling was a force in the daylight. She ran her nonprofit with precision and power, leading collaborations with the state, handling press, managing projects that made her name a quiet legend in Boston’s legal community. Her work helped underprivileged women find legal protection, her speeches filled conference halls, and yet... behind every accomplishment was the memory of Orm’s voice saying, I’m proud of you, baby.

She still guest lectured at Harvard once a week. The 1st years called her intimidatingly brilliant, her lectures quoted like scripture in the study halls. But sometimes, when she spoke about justice, her voice softened ... as if she was remembering what it meant to fight for something personal. She would glance, almost involuntarily, toward the back row where Orm once sat years ago.

And between all the noise of her work and the grace of her discipline, Ling began to plant her seeds of departure.

It began quietly... over dinner with Miu one evening. The dining room was softly lit, the table set with Miu’s favorite porcelain bowls. Miu was talking about a case from her firm, her voice animated and warm. Ling listened, smiling when appropriate, nodding when needed, but her mind was far away.

“Miu,” she said gently after a pause, “have you ever thought about what happiness means to you?”

Miu looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Ling hesitated, her spoon swirling slowly in her bowl. “I mean... sometimes I wonder if happiness is something we build, or something we find.”

Miu smiled softly. “I think we build it, Ling. We work on it every day. Why?”

Ling exhaled, eyes lowered. “Because sometimes... I feel like we built something beautiful... but I’m not sure if I still live inside it.”

The words hung there, tender and terrifying. Miu didn’t respond right away. She reached across the table again, her fingers brushing Ling’s wrist. “You’ve been distant lately,” she said finally. “I thought it was work.”

Ling looked up then, her voice steady but quiet. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s just... life changing shape.”

Miu studied her for a long time, searching her face for a lie, and found none. She didn’t press further. She just nodded and changed the subject, but the silence that followed was heavier than the one before.

The next morning, Ling drove to her parents’ mansion on the outskirts of Boston. The drive itself felt ceremonial ... long, winding, lined with bare maple trees and stone walls that belonged to old money and older names. The Kwong estate sat in Chestnut Hill, a neighborhood so wealthy it looked airbrushed. The houses weren’t houses but fortresses, gates taller than dreams, hedges trimmed into perfection.

Her parents greeted her in the grand hall. Her mother, Xia, wore pearls and the kind of perfume that lingered even after she left a room. Her father, Governor Kwong, looked the same as he always did ... immaculate, distant, already half in conversation with the world outside their home.

They sat for tea in the conservatory. The winter light streamed through glass walls, catching on the surface of porcelain cups.

“So,” her mother began, “how is the nonprofit? We saw the article in the Globe. Excellent photo, by the way.”

Ling smiled politely. “It’s doing well. I’m proud of what we’ve built.”

Her father looked up from his paper. “And Miu? You two are still the model couple, I hope.”

Ling hesitated just long enough for her mother to notice. “We’re fine,” she said. “Though... I think I’m learning that happiness changes. That what we want at thirty isn’t always what we want at forty.”

Her mother frowned. “You sound restless. You’ve always been restless, Lingling. Don’t make the same mistake as before ... throwing away good things just because they stop feeling new.”

Her father folded his paper, looking over the rim of his glasses. “You have a good life. Stability. Reputation. Don’t risk it for sentiment.”

Ling smiled faintly, her tone calm. “Sometimes sentiment is the only honest thing left.”

They didn’t answer that. Her mother changed the topic to the governor’s gala next spring, and her father muttered something about legacy. But Ling knew she had planted the seed. She could feel it, quiet and deliberate, taking root in their minds.

When she drove away that afternoon, she felt lighter ... not free yet, not even close, but closer than before. The road stretched out before her, gray and endless, the winter sun spilling over the windshield.

Orm called her just as she merged back onto the highway. “Hey,” came that warm, teasing voice through the speaker. “Did they survive your honesty?”

Ling laughed softly, her first real laugh all day. “Barely. But I think they heard me.”

“You always make them hear you,” Orm said. “That’s your thing.”

Ling smiled, her eyes wet with exhaustion and love. “Maybe. But this time... I did it for us.”

There was a pause on the line, the kind of silence that feels like an embrace. Then Orm said quietly, “I love you.”

Ling closed her eyes. “I know. And that’s what makes me brave.”

Outside, the last of the sunlight melted into gold. Inside the car, her heart felt steady for the first time in years. She had begun the slow, painful unraveling of a life that wasn’t hers anymore. And though she didn’t know what would come next, she knew who would be waiting when it did.

Orm. Her Orm.
The only thing in the world that had ever truly felt like home.

Three months before Orm’s graduation, something in Ling shifted. Maybe it was the thawing spring air, maybe it was the exhaustion of years spent living two separate lives... or maybe it was love finally demanding to be lived fully. Whatever it was, it changed her rhythm. She stopped staying away for long stretches. She stopped pretending that home was still the mansion in Chestnut Hill or the townhouse she shared with Miu.

Now, home was Orm.

She began spending nights at Orm’s apartment more than her own. What used to be once or twice a week became nearly every day. She would leave early in the mornings for lectures or meetings, her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, but she always returned by dusk ... her key sliding into Orm’s door like it belonged there. The few times she did go back to her old house, it was only to pick up clothes or retrieve files for work. She would leave notes for Miu instead of explanations... small, clipped sentences written in Ling’s neat handwriting.

Out for a few days. Don’t wait up.
At the nonprofit. Late meetings. Stay well.

That was all.

No apology, no warmth, not even pretense. The part of her that used to care about keeping up appearances was gone.

And strangely, Miu didn’t ask. She didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t probe into where Ling was or what she was doing. Even when Ling had started dropping hints months ago about finding happiness elsewhere, Miu had listened with that same soft, unreadable expression ... not angry, not sad, just... distant. Almost resigned.

At first, Ling told herself it was relief. That Miu had simply accepted the inevitable, that she too understood their marriage had run its course. But after weeks of silence, after walking into the house and finding no questions waiting for her, no confrontation, no trace of jealousy or heartbreak ... something inside Ling began to ache.

The lack of reaction unsettled her.

She wondered if maybe Miu had found someone else. The thought came uninvited, but it wouldn’t leave. She pictured Miu’s long evenings at the firm, her sudden interest in weekend conferences, the faint perfume that lingered once ... a scent Ling didn’t recognize.

Was she cheating too?

The irony of that thought nearly made Ling laugh. But it also stung. Because for all the guilt she carried, part of her still believed she was the only one breaking something sacred.

Still, she pushed the thought away. What did it matter anymore? If Miu was also living another life, then maybe it was mercy. It meant they were both free, just in different ways. And if that freedom allowed Ling to keep sleeping beside Orm, to wake to her voice, her laughter, her warmth ... then she would take it.

Because this was the closest thing to peace she had ever known.

She was brave now, unashamed. She began taking Orm out more often ... to dinners, to concerts, to art galleries where no one knew their faces. They didn’t need to hide anymore, not like before. They moved together like two halves of a secret that no longer cared to stay buried.

They lived in a private bubble, where everything outside existed only as background noise. And for Orm, it was heaven. For once, Ling wasn’t splitting her time, wasn’t checking her phone every ten minutes, wasn’t disappearing for days. She was there ... really there ... and Orm soaked up every minute of it like light.

That night, they went out to a restaurant that seemed to glow from the inside ... glass walls, candlelight flickering across velvet booths, the soft hum of piano somewhere in the corner. Both of them were dressed in their best... Ling in an elegant navy dress that traced the lines of her body, Orm in a deep red that made her look like every sin worth committing.

The waiter poured wine, the scent of truffle and sea salt filling the air. Ling reached across the table, brushing her fingers against Orm’s wrist before settling her napkin in her lap.

It felt different tonight ... intimate, yes, but also normal. The kind of normal they’d never been allowed to have.

Orm cut into her salmon with deliberate care, then looked up suddenly, her expression thoughtful. “We could just move to California,” she said, as if the idea had been waiting in her for months.

Ling raised an eyebrow, lifting her wine glass. “California?” she echoed, amused. “Why California?”

Orm shrugged, taking a bite before speaking again. “Because it’s warm. Because it’s far. Because the east coast is freezing and everyone here walks around like they have somewhere holier to be.”

Ling smiled faintly. “You really hate the cold that much?”

“I do,” Orm said, gesturing with her fork. “It’s depressing. Gray skies, stiff suits, miserable faces. In California, people surf. They walk their dogs at sunset. They have tan lines and smiles. It’s literally hot every day and I love it.”

Ling laughed softly, swirling her wine. “You love it because you look too white. You’ll blend right in.”

Orm narrowed her eyes in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

Ling smirked. “I mean, you’d fit the postcard version of California ... bright, loud, allergic to stillness.”

Orm leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “And you wouldn’t?”

“No,” Ling said quietly. “There’s something about the east coast... the rush, the rhythm, the sharpness. I like the way people move here. The way ambition tastes in the air. California feels too slow... too soft.”

Orm tilted her head, smiling. “You just love the chaos because you are chaos.”

Ling reached across the table again, catching Orm’s hand in hers. “Maybe,” she said softly. “But you’re the only one who makes it feel like order.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The waiter passed by, the piano hummed in the distance, and the city outside blurred into streaks of gold.

Orm squeezed her hand lightly. “If not California, then where?”

Ling thought for a moment, her gaze distant. “Somewhere close enough to stay alive,” she said finally. “Somewhere quiet enough to breathe.”

Orm smiled, her voice a whisper now. “Anywhere with you.”

Ling felt the words settle deep in her chest, heavier than promises, softer than prayer. She leaned forward until their hands were touching, until the candlelight flickered between them like an unspoken vow.

And for the first time in a long time, Ling allowed herself to believe it. That love ... even the forbidden kind ... could still find a way to exist out in the open, bathed in warmth, dressed in silk, whispering of futures that might finally belong to them.

She would have given anything to freeze that night. The taste of wine, the smell of Orm’s perfume, the quiet certainty that, for once, they weren’t just surviving ... they were living.

And though the world outside still called them sinners, traitors, adulterers... at that table, in that moment, under the soft glow of candlelight, they were just two women in love.

Nothing more.
Nothing less.

When they left the restaurant, the city had softened. Boston was not loud that night... it was hushed, expectant, the air crisp enough to bite but gentle enough to make you linger. The streets shimmered faintly from the earlier drizzle, streetlights stretching themselves across wet pavement. Ling walked a step behind Orm, her eyes tracing the way her hair brushed the open collar of her coat, the glint of gold from her earring each time she turned her head.

They had both drunk just enough wine to loosen the boundaries of the world ... not to lose control, but to feel unafraid of it. The street smelled faintly of rain and roasted chestnuts from a vendor nearby. Orm stopped at the curb, her breath making small clouds in the night air, and turned to Ling.

“Do you want to walk a bit?” she asked.

Ling nodded. They walked in silence, heels clicking against cobblestone, the sound small but rhythmic. It felt almost unreal... to be outside together like this, visible, present, not hidden behind curtains or in dimly lit apartments. Ling’s heart thudded unevenly against her ribs ... not from fear, but from the fragile thrill of being seen.

Orm slipped her arm through Ling’s, almost instinctively, the way people who love each other do when they forget they shouldn’t. Ling looked down, startled for a second, then smiled. She didn’t pull away.

They passed by a small square where a busker was playing a soft, trembling version of “La Vie en Rose” on a violin. The notes floated into the night, catching on the cold air. Orm slowed her steps. The glow of the lamplight hit her face just right ... her lips slightly parted, her eyes bright and soft at once. Ling stopped too.

The world felt very far away.

Orm turned fully toward her. There was a question in her eyes ... small, hesitant, hopeful. Ling knew it instantly. For years, they had built their world behind closed doors, loving each other quietly, secretly, always looking over their shoulders. But here, in the middle of the city, surrounded by strangers who would never know their names, the question hung between them like a dare.

For a second, Ling thought of Miu... of her parents, of all the walls that would crumble if anyone saw. Then she looked back at Orm ... at her trembling fingers, at the faint curve of her smile, at the woman who had waited for her for two long years without asking for more than honesty ... and she realized she didn’t care anymore.

She reached forward, gently, almost reverently, and brushed a strand of hair from Orm’s face.

“Ling...” Orm whispered, her voice breaking slightly.

“I know,” Ling said softly. “I know.”

And then she kissed her.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t the quiet, trembling kiss of someone trying not to be caught. It was deep, slow, and heartbreakingly certain ... a kiss that belonged to a woman who had finally stopped apologizing for being in love.

Orm froze at first, shocked by the boldness, but then she melted into it, her hands finding Ling’s collar, pulling her closer. The violin kept playing, the lights flickered across their faces, and somewhere in the distance a car horn echoed ... but none of it touched them.

When they finally pulled apart, Orm was smiling through tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed. Ling rested her forehead against hers, her breath coming out in soft white puffs.

“You just kissed me,” Orm whispered, half laughing, half crying.

“I did,” Ling murmured. “And I’d do it again.”

Orm cupped her cheek, her thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “You know everyone can see us.”

“Good,” Ling said simply. “Let them.”

They stood there for a moment longer ... two women framed by streetlight and song, holding each other like they had nothing left to hide.

And for the first time in their long, complicated story, the night didn’t feel like a cover. It felt like witness.

If love was ever sacred, it was in that moment ... not behind locked doors or whispered confessions, but out in the open, where the world could finally see it for what it was.

Pure. Defiant. Alive.

One month before Orm’s graduation, life felt like it was moving faster than either of them could hold on to. The days bled into one another... the coffee cups stacking up in the sink, the deadlines marked in red on calendars, the quiet exhaustion that filled their shared space.

Orm was buried under finals, interviews, and choices. Law firms from California and New York had both reached out. The debate of where to move ,where to build their life together ,was still unresolved. It had started playfully, as a joke about sunshine versus snow, but it had grown heavier now... two real futures, waiting to be chosen.

Ling watched her sometimes from the doorway ,the glow of Orm’s laptop lighting up her face, papers scattered around her, a pen between her teeth. She looked so alive, so close to everything she’d ever worked for. Ling was proud of her. Proud in the way that felt maternal, romantic, spiritual ,the way people feel proud when they’ve watched someone they love become everything they were meant to be.

Ling’s days were relentless too. Her nonprofit was expanding. Meetings stacked on top of meetings, state partnerships, public appearances, legislative work that pulled her into long hours and long drives. Yet, no matter how tired she was, she always came home. Home ,that small apartment that smelled like mint tea and books, that always had one light left on for her.

Orm’s home.

Her home now.

It became ritual. Ling would unlock the door past midnight, kick off her heels, and find Orm asleep on the couch surrounded by case briefs. She would kneel, brush the hair from her face, and whisper, “You’re going to be brilliant, you know that?” Orm would murmur something half asleep, maybe a smile, maybe a sigh. And for Ling, that was enough to keep going.

But somewhere, beneath all that tenderness, something had shifted ,something Ling didn’t see.

Orm flinched every time her phone buzzed. It was subtle, instinctive. She’d glance down, swipe the screen quickly, then lock it. Ling thought nothing of it, assumed it was stress, or another interview notification, or maybe her professors.

Orm had also started checking the mail compulsively. Packages, letters, even flyers, she’d go through them as soon as they arrived, her hands trembling slightly when she tore envelopes open. When there was nothing, she’d relax and pretend she’d just been sorting through them casually.

She was distracted, too. Her laughter still came easily, but it didn’t stay long. She would stare at her laptop for hours, not reading, not writing ,just staring. Ling, wrapped up in work and wanting to give Orm space to study, didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but she told herself not to pry. She trusted her.

If Ling had looked closer, really looked ,she might have seen the truth in the way Orm’s smile trembled at the corners, or the way she hesitated before saying “I love you.” But Ling was tired, determined, and for the first time, hopeful.

Because she had finally done it.

Fifteen days before Orm’s graduation, Ling filed for divorce.

She drafted it herself, with quiet precision, every clause, every asset, every line of her signature carefully placed. She handed it to her lawyer like it was just another piece of work, but her hands shook when she let go.

Before telling Miu, she went to her parents.

It was a Sunday morning. Their mansion in Chestnut Hill looked almost theatrical under the spring light, manicured lawns, tall glass windows, the kind of silence that came from money and control. Her parents sat in the conservatory again, her father reading the paper, her mother scrolling through her phone.

“I filed for divorce,” Ling said simply, standing in front of them.

Her mother’s head snapped up. Her father lowered his paper slowly.

“Excuse me?” her mother said, her voice sharp as glass.

“You heard me,” Ling replied, her tone calm, even. “I’ve filed. It’s done.”

Her father exhaled deeply. “Do you realize what this will do to us? To you? You’re destroying everything you’ve built, Lingling.”

Ling smiled faintly, though her chest ached. “No, Father. I’m not destroying it. I’m just retaking control of it.”

“Control?” her mother repeated, standing now, her pearls catching the light. “Control of what? You have everything, influence, a career, a perfect marriage. You’re choosing disgrace. You’re throwing your name into the fire for what? Some midlife crisis? Some fantasy?”

Ling’s eyes softened, but her voice did not waver. “No. I’m choosing to live honestly. I’m choosing peace. I’m choosing the woman I love.”

Her father slammed his hand against the table. “This is madness. You think you can build a life out of sin? Out of infidelity?”

Ling met his gaze, calm and unflinching. “I think I can build a life out of truth.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to hurt. Her mother looked away first, disgust flickering across her face. Her father folded his paper again, the sound sharp, final.

“Do whatever you want,” he said coldly. “But don’t expect us to stand beside you when it collapses.”

Ling nodded once. “I never asked you to.”

When she left the house that morning, she didn’t cry. She didn’t feel regret. Only a strange, quiet kind of relief, like finally setting down a weight she’d carried too long.

That night, when she came home to Orm, she didn’t tell her about the confrontation right away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her from behind, pressed her lips against her neck, and whispered, “It’s done.”

Orm turned, blinking, startled. “You mean...”

Ling nodded, smiling softly. “Yes. I filed.”

Orm’s eyes filled almost instantly. She didn’t speak for a long moment, just looked at her , as if memorizing her face all over again.

Then she whispered, “You’re really doing it.”

“I am,” Ling said. “And we’ll figure the rest out. We’ll stay here for a few more months... plan things, finish the exams, look at jobs, maybe travel before we move. But this... this is real now.”

Orm’s lips trembled, but she smiled through it. “My parents will be at graduation. You can finally meet them.”

Ling’s expression softened. “I can’t wait. I want them to see the woman I’m proud of.”

They stayed up late that night, talking about everything … where to move, how to start over, what their new home might look like. California or New York. Coast or coast.

If Ling had looked a little longer, if she had paid closer attention, she might have seen that Orm’s eyes were not filled only with joy... but with fear. Something unspoken trembled there, something she carried alone.

But Ling didn’t see it. Not then.

Because love,  when it’s that close to the finish line , has a way of blinding even the bravest hearts.

All the dreams and all the love were scattered in a single, merciless second... the kind of second that tears through the fabric of a life so carefully built, so tenderly defended, it feels like time itself pauses to watch the collapse.

It began like any other morning. The kind of morning that tricks you into believing the world will always turn the same way. The sunlight slipped gently through the curtains, touching the sheets, the floor, the sleeping curve of Orm’s shoulder. The air was warm with the smell of coffee, and Orm’s voice half-asleep, sweetly human … murmured, five more minutes. Ling smiled, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. Today’s the day, she whispered against her skin. Both of them smiled then... nervous, trembling, unaware that they were standing at the edge of an ending disguised as a beginning.

Ling left first. She had things to do … ownership transfers to finalize, contracts to sign, people to brief. She wanted the morning to mean something, wanted the practicalities of her life to match the resolve in her heart. Every step she took that day carried the weight of finality. She wasn’t just walking through her office …she was walking toward freedom.

She texted Orm before she left. Good luck, baby. You’ve got this ❤️💋❤️💋❤️.
She stared at the screen until Orm’s small blue tick appeared. Then she exhaled.

It would be the last message Orm ever read from her.

The plan was perfect... heartbreakingly so. Orm would finish her final exam ,her last one before graduation  and Ling would end her marriage that same afternoon. The day one life ended, another would finally begin.

At 4 p.m., Ling texted Miu.
Miu, I need to talk. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.
The reply came almost instantly. I’ll be there soon.

Soon stretched into an hour. Then two.

The townhouse was silent when Ling arrived. That kind of silence that doesn’t comfort, but watches. She wandered from room to room, her footsteps muffled on the marble floor. Everything was too neat, too still. She touched the edge of the piano, the silver-framed wedding photo that no longer felt like her, the cool glass of the windowpane that showed a reflection she barely recognized. The scent of scandal wood …Miu’s perfume , floated in the air, sharp and clean, and it made Ling’s throat tighten.

She poured herself a glass of water but couldn’t bring herself to drink. Instead, she began packing. Slowly, methodically, like a woman preparing for war. Her movements were deliberate... folded blouses, neatly stacked documents, her favorite black heels. She did not bother to hide what she was doing. There was nothing left to hide.

At 6 p.m., the door opened.

“Ling?”

That voice. The same voice that had shared vows, laughter, dinners, and silence. Ling looked at the clock, then at the woman standing in the doorway. “In here,” she said.

Miu stepped in, her face unreadable. Her blazer hung over one shoulder, her hair slightly undone from the day. For a brief moment, they looked at each other like strangers caught in a familiar dream. The evening light spread across the room, turning everything gold .. the last color before darkness.

“What’s going on?” Miu asked quietly.

Ling did not hesitate. “I filed for divorce.”

Miu blinked, the words hanging in the air like ash. “You what?”

“I filed,” Ling repeated, voice steady. “It’s already done.”

Something inside Miu cracked , shock first, then disbelief, then something raw and unfiltered. “Why... why would you do that?”

“Because,” Ling said, her tone quiet but final, “this has always been transactional, Miu. You and I... we were partnership, duty, convenience. But never love. You know that.”

“Transactional?” Miu’s voice trembled as she stepped closer. “Don’t do that, Ling. Don’t reduce us to that. We were more than an agreement.”

Ling looked at her, eyes clear and unblinking. “I found love now. Real love. I just want to live my life with her.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

“So it’s a her, then,” Miu said finally, her voice trembling but edged with anger. “You’ve been cheating on me all this time.”

Ling didn’t move. “Yes,” she said simply. “It’s a her. The love of my life. And you don’t care, Miu. You stopped caring long before I did. If you hadn’t, you would’ve asked where I was, why I stopped coming home, why I started disappearing.”

Miu’s voice broke. “Of course I care! Why would you say that? I loved you, Ling! I still do. I know we had an agreement, but that doesn’t mean I stopped loving you. Why are you doing this?”

Ling’s voice softened for the first time. “You loved the version of me that fit inside this house. The quiet one. The one that stayed. But that woman is gone.”

“You’re lying to yourself,” Miu whispered. “You think you’ll find peace out there? With her? You think something built on lies will save you?”

Ling looked down at the floor. “Maybe not. But at least it’s honest.”

The word honest landed like a slap.

Miu’s composure shattered. She began to pace, her voice rising, shaking between fury and grief. “You can’t just walk out of this. What about the foundation? The donors? Our reputation? You’ll burn everything you’ve built, and for what? For some woman who doesn’t even belong in your world?”

Ling’s tone never rose. “I’m not walking out. I’m walking forward. I’ve transferred my shares. I’ve told the board. It’s done.”

Miu’s eyes filled with tears that refused to fall. “You’re destroying yourself,” she whispered. “You’ll regret this.”

Ling looked at her for a long time. “Maybe. But I’d rather live with regret than in emptiness.”

The fight went on for hours. Words lost meaning. The rooms felt smaller, the air heavier. At one point, Miu stopped mid-sentence, picked up her phone, then slipped it into her pocket and continued the argument as if nothing had happened. Ling noticed, but exhaustion dulled her curiosity.

By 11 p.m., the words had run out. They stood in silence, both of them hollowed out by what had been said and what could no longer be unsaid.

Ling picked up her suitcase. Her face was pale, her eyes wet but steady. “This isn’t revenge, Miu,” she said softly. “It’s freedom.”

Miu didn’t look up. Didn’t move.

So, Ling left.

Outside, the night was cruelly still. The city glowed in soft gold, and yet everything felt colorless. The drive downtown was slow, the lights bleeding into streaks of white through the windshield. Ling’s chest ached, her hands trembling on the steering wheel. She had done it .. the thing she had imagined for months, the thing she had dreamed would feel like release. But it didn’t. It felt like bleeding quietly in the dark.

She had cut herself free from her past... and somehow still felt trapped inside it.

But she told herself it would all be worth it when she reached home. Home. Orm.

The apartment waited for her … that small, messy, perfect world they had built together. The smell of lavender and rain, the quiet hum of belonging.

She unlocked the door.

“Orm?” she called softly. “I’m back, baby.”

Silence.

She turned on the light. The room looked wrong. Too still. Too clean.

The books were gone. The mug she used for coffee, gone. The photo of them from their first trip together , gone. The blanket Orm loved, the one Ling teased her for never washing , gone.

The closet stood half-empty. Orm’s clothes missing. Her toothbrush gone. Her laptop gone.

Even her perfume  once the air itself , now lingered faintly, like memory fading too fast.

Every trace of her was gone.

Ling stood frozen, her suitcase still in hand, the sound of her heartbeat loud in her ears. Her lips parted, her voice breaking into the silence.

“No...” she whispered. “No, no, no...”

She ran through the rooms … the bedroom, the kitchen, the tiny bathroom. Nothing. Not a note. Not a message. Not even a trace of goodbye.

Just emptiness.

The kind of emptiness that hums, that swallows sound, that feels like grief before you can even name it.

Ling dropped to her knees, her hands shaking, her throat burning. The suitcase slid from her grasp and hit the floor with a dull thud. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, her breath breaking into sobs that barely made it out.

This was the greatest heartbreak of her life... not the divorce, not the betrayal, not even the confrontation that had cost her everything.

It was this... this silence. This vanishing.

Orm … her future, her reason, her home …. gone without a sound.

Ling pressed her palms to her face, the tears coming hot, unstoppable. The clock on the wall ticked softly, cruelly indifferent. Outside, the city continued to move, unaware that in one small apartment, a woman had lost everything she had dared to live for.

She stayed like that for hours  collapsed, broken, alone , surrounded by the ghost of the life she had chosen, realizing that she had traded one kind of emptiness for another.

And somewhere, beneath the sobs, a single truth took shape...

She had given up her world for love …and now, love had given her nothing in return.

Chapter Text

*Flashback*,   1 month before Orm’s  graduation

Orm’s POV:

Orm had hardly slept after that night. The kiss still lived on her skin, the streetlight still burned behind her eyelids. Every time she closed her eyes she saw it again... Ling’s hand cupping her face, the soft pull of her mouth, the small gasp that escaped between them when the world fell away. She could still hear the violin, still feel the air tremble around them. For the first time in three years of their relationship, she had stopped hiding. For the first time, she believed love could exist in daylight.

The next morning the apartment felt gentler than usual. The sheets smelled faintly of Ling’s perfume, her scarf hung from the chair, her half-drunk coffee had gone cold beside the sink. Orm moved through the small space slowly, touching things as if they were holy. She wanted to remember this peace, this rare quiet that didn’t ache.

She was rinsing her cup when she heard it... three soft knocks on the door.

They were polite, almost apologetic. The kind of sound that never carried danger. She wiped her hands, still smiling faintly, and opened it.

The hallway was empty. Only a brown envelope lay on the doormat, edges neat, no name, no handwriting, nothing but stillness waiting for her.

For a second, she almost left it there. Some part of her didn’t want to know. But curiosity has always been her undoing. She crouched, picked it up, felt the thin weight of it in her palms. Paper, maybe. Or something worse. She closed the door, turned the lock, and tore the seal.

Photographs slid out.

The first one stole her breath.

It was her and Ling... under the streetlight, the kiss, the exact moment when the world had gone silent. Ling’s hand on her jaw, her eyes closed, both of them bathed in gold. It was beautiful and obscene all at once. Another photo followed... the two of them at the farmers’ market, Ling laughing as Orm reached for a pear. Another, in the apartment... ...the shot taken from across the street, through the thin glow of their apartment window, their bodies curled together on the couch, soft and careless and so in love that even the walls had seemed to blush.

And then, at the bottom of the envelope, a single white sheet.

Leave her... or your professor becomes national headlines.

The words didn’t shout. They whispered. Cold, deliberate, merciless.

Orm felt the world tilt. She sat down without realizing it, the photos spilling over her lap like ashes. Her fingers trembled as she gathered them, her breath coming too fast. For a moment she just stared at the floor. The sound of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the clock, everything became unbearably loud.

Someone had seen them.

Someone had been watching.

Her throat closed. She thought of Ling... of her face, her reputation, her name. One story, one photo, one whisper would be enough to ruin her. The papers would call it scandal, the internet would call it predatory, the world would call it proof of every sin it already believed about women like them.

Orm pressed her palms to her temples. No. She wouldn’t let that happen.

She gathered the photos, tucked them back into the envelope, shoved it into the back of a drawer. She needed to think. Needed air. She stepped out to the balcony, but even the sky looked wrong. The air tasted like metal. The street below seemed to hum with quiet judgment.

When she came back inside, her phone buzzed. A message from Ling.
Do you want pancakes or coffee first? I’m on my way.

Orm stared at the screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She typed coffee, deleted it. Typed come soon, deleted that too. In the end, she sent just a heart.

When Ling arrived, she brought sunlight with her. She smiled, kissed her cheek, placed two paper cups on the counter. “You look pale,” she said. “You should eat something.”

Orm nodded, smiling through the tremor in her hands. “Just tired.”

Ling touched her wrist. “Finals?”

Orm nodded again. Let her believe that. Let her think the shaking came from exhaustion, not fear.

All day, Orm tried to forget. But fear has a pulse. It beat beneath everything she did. She kept glancing at the windows, closing the curtains tighter, checking the hallway twice before locking the door. She told herself she was being paranoid, but paranoia was just another word for being alive after being seen.

That night, another knock.

This one came later, near midnight. A single rap on the wood, then silence. Orm froze. The sound of her own heartbeat filled the apartment. She waited. When she finally opened the door, there was nothing…no figure, no shadow, only another envelope.

She didn’t need to open it to know.

But she did anyway.

More photos. A note.
Leave her, or she loses everything.

Orm sank to the floor, clutching the paper to her chest. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely breathe. Her mind raced with possibilities, who had seen them, who had followed them, who could hate them enough to destroy her.

She wanted to run to Ling. To tell her. To ask for help. But what could Ling do except fall with her?

She stared at the clock. It was past one. She imagined Ling asleep somewhere, unaware, dreaming peacefully in the quiet safety that Orm had just lost for her.

The next morning, she went through the motions of life. She showered, dressed, opened her books. She smiled when her classmates congratulated her on her interviews. But inside, she was unraveling.

When Ling texted that evening:

 Dinner? I miss you.

Orm almost cried. She wrote back Soon, but the word felt false. She didn’t know how to be near her without the fear swallowing her whole.

By the third day, she stopped sleeping altogether. Every sound outside her door made her flinch. Every ring of her phone felt like an alarm. The letters kept coming. Each one shorter, sharper, crueler. She began checking the mailbox before dawn, terrified that someone might see. The envelopes no longer felt like paper... they felt like traps.

But then the threats changed shape.

It began one evening when her phone buzzed with an unknown number. She ignored it at first, thinking it was spam, until another message followed.

You look beautiful when you’re scared.

Her hands went cold. She dropped the phone. When she picked it up again, another text arrived...

You didn’t tell her yet, did you?

No name, no signature. Just the words and an image attached.

Orm hesitated before opening it, her pulse hammering so hard she thought she might faint. And then the screen filled with another photograph... grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. Her and Ling, the night at the café window months ago, their faces close, smiles soft, the kind of smile that only lovers shared.

Her fingers shook as she scrolled. There were more.

Photos from the farmers’ market... Ling’s hand brushing her lower back. Another of them laughing by the fruit stall. One of Ling holding a paper bag, her scarf slipping from her neck as Orm leaned close to adjust it. Every image was taken from somewhere high... across the street, through the reflection of a window, the angle too deliberate to be accidental.

And then she saw the timestamp.

A year ago.

Her stomach turned. Whoever this was hadn’t just found them recently. They had been watching... quietly, patiently, collecting proof of a love that should never have been seen.

The messages kept coming through the night.

You think no one knew?
She’s a professor. You’re her student. What would the world call that?
I have everything. Every touch. Every lie.
Leave her. Before it ends badly for both of you.

Orm deleted them, blocked the number, powered off her phone. But the next morning, a new one appeared from a different number, and another after that. Every time she silenced the device, it found a way to speak again. The tone grew more precise, more cruel... as if the person knew exactly where to hurt her.

The world already thinks she’s perfect. Let’s show them who she really is.
Do you want her on the front page? Her reputation in ashes?
You can stop this. Just walk away.

Orm stared at the screen until the words blurred. Her eyes burned, but no tears came. Only a dry, hollow ache that sat in her chest like a stone.

Every message came with a new photograph. Some she remembered, some she didn’t. There was one of her and Ling in the car outside Orm’s apartment, the streetlight spilling over their faces as Ling leaned across to kiss her. Another of them inside the apartment... Orm lying with her head in Ling’s lap, eyes closed, peace written across her face. The shot had been taken from across the street, through the thin glow of their apartment window... their bodies curled together on the couch, soft and careless and so in love that even the walls had seemed to blush.

She couldn’t breathe.

The realization crept in slowly, thick and poisonous. This person had been there all along. Watching them for months, maybe years. Every walk, every touch, every stolen glance cataloged with obsessive precision. Every moment she had believed was private was, in truth, already witnessed. Already owned.

That night she sat on the kitchen floor with her phone beside her, staring at the tiles until her vision blurred. The hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the tap, even the distant traffic outside... it all sounded like surveillance now. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for her to make one wrong move.

She didn’t tell Ling. How could she? Ling had finally begun to breathe again... to smile without the weight of hiding, to believe that maybe love could exist without punishment. Orm couldn’t take that from her. She couldn’t let this shadow touch her.

So she kept the secret. She told herself she could fix it. That if she ignored the messages long enough, if she deleted the photos, if she smiled and pretended nothing was wrong, it would all fade. But fear doesn’t fade. It festers. It sharpens its teeth in silence.

The texts multiplied. Sometimes they arrived at dawn, sometimes in the middle of the night. No pattern, no mercy. Orm stopped answering unknown numbers altogether. She started taking different routes to class, sitting in the back rows during lectures, glancing over her shoulder every time she crossed the street. She kept the curtains drawn even during the day.

Once, while walking home, she thought she saw someone across the road…a man standing near the lamppost, head tilted, phone raised. When she turned to look again, he was gone. But that night another photo came in. The same street. Her silhouette walking alone. Captioned simply: Careful.

That was when the panic began to live in her body.

It lodged itself under her skin, in her pulse, in her breathing. She started jumping at shadows, locking and relocking the door. Her mind replayed every possible ruin that could come if the photos leaked…the faculty meetings, the disciplinary hearings, Ling’s face as she realized her career, her name, her life, would be reduced to scandal.

Then the threats doubled.

What had begun as random envelopes became a campaign... precise, relentless, deliberate. The brown packets were replaced by glossy photographs, sharper, crueler, printed with such clarity that even the grain of Ling’s coat could be seen. It was no longer just stolen glimpses from afar... it was evidence.

The first new set arrived on a Wednesday morning. Orm had been making tea when the knock came... quick, impatient, gone by the time she reached the door. Another envelope, larger this time. Inside, a series of photos spread like a timeline of betrayal.

The first image showed Ling sitting across a desk from her lawyer... the man’s nameplate blurred, but the look on Ling’s face unmistakable. Calm. Determined. Her hands folded over a thin stack of divorce papers. The second... Ling walking out of the courthouse, sunlight slicing across her hair, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. And then, a caption scrawled in the corner of the last photo in black ink...

She did it for you. Let’s see how she feels when she loses everything because of you.

Orm’s fingers trembled so hard she almost dropped the photo. She pressed a hand over her mouth, fighting the nausea that rose in her throat.

The next day, another envelope.

This time it was Ling with her parents. Taken through the glass walls of the conservatory in Chestnut Hill... the family sitting around their tea table, faces tight, eyes glinting in the sunlight. Ling’s mother looked furious, her father distant, his jaw clenched. And there in the corner of the frame, Ling’s hand reaching across the table, pleading... explaining.

Orm’s stomach turned as she flipped to the next image. Another note was tucked inside.

Still think she can survive this? Imagine what happens when these reach the Globe.

The cruelty was surgical. Every picture chosen to strike precisely where Orm’s guilt lived deepest.

By the end of the week, the envelopes stopped coming. The messages began.

It started at midnight. A new number. No words. Only an image of Ling at a grocery store... standing in front of a freezer aisle, holding a small basket filled with flowers, two tubs of ice cream, and a packet of tampons. The everyday tenderness of it made Orm’s throat close. Then came another photo... Ling at the checkout, smiling politely at the cashier. Another message followed minutes later.

She buys you flowers when you bleed. Sweet, isn’t it? Pity the world will see how dirty your love really is.

Orm threw her phone across the room. It hit the wall and slid to the floor, screen flickering.

But the texts didn’t stop.

There were photos of Ling entering the apartment building... of her leaving later that night, her scarf wrapped tight, her hair still damp from the shower. Then another of Orm walking out the same door two hours later, eyes tired, a faint smile lingering on her lips. Whoever was behind the camera knew her schedule... her habits... her life.

You think no one sees?
You think you can hide forever?
One file. One click. And the world will know your professor likes her students too much.

Every word felt like a blade pressed against her skin.

They kept coming. Ling on the street corner waiting for her cab. Ling inside the non-profit office, leaning over a table covered in documents. Ling at her apartment door, fumbling for her keys, looking... ordinary. Human. Real.

The messages were relentless.

Leave her... or she falls with you.

We know where she lives. We know where she works. We know what she sacrificed.
She gave up her family for you. How kind of you to give her a scandal in return.

Orm stopped going near the window. She unplugged her phone charger at night and left her curtains drawn tight. Sleep became impossible. She heard footsteps in the hallway that weren’t there, saw reflections in glass that vanished when she turned. Her body was always on alert... every shadow an intruder, every vibration of her phone a threat waiting to detonate.

And just when she thought it could not get worse... it did.

The blackmailer began sending older photos. Not the tender ones Orm recognized … not the markets, not the late-night visits, not the glimpses of love that still carried warmth … but photos from long before her time. Photos of Ling before Orm had even joined Harvard.

They came with cruel precision, as though whoever was behind the messages had been waiting for the right moment to twist the knife.

The first showed Ling in her old lecture hall, standing over a student’s desk, leaning in to correct something in a notebook. Her face was unreadable, the calm, focused expression of a professor doing her job, but the angle of the photo made it look like something else. Intimate. Suggestive. Wrong.

The next was of Ling walking down the corridor with a young woman beside her, the two of them caught mid-laughter. Orm knew that look, knew how naturally Ling’s kindness drew people close... but to anyone else, to the press, to the vultures who fed on rumor, it would look like proof of a pattern. A professor who couldn’t keep her hands to herself.

The texts arrived seconds later.

This is your beloved mentor... your saint of a professor... the one who saves the world by day and ruins her students by night.
Imagine what Harvard will say when these reach the board. Imagine what the headlines will call her. Predatory. Unprofessional. Immoral.
She’ll lose everything. And it will all trace back to you.

Orm’s fingers went numb. She could barely hold the phone. Her mind spun with images she didn’t want to see... of Ling being torn apart by the very world she’d spent her life trying to serve.

Another photo came in before she could breathe. Ling again, bent over a student’s paper, her hair falling loose, her smile soft and encouraging. The caption burned across the screen like acid.

She’s done this before, hasn’t she? You’re not the first. You’re just the one who got caught.

Orm’s vision blurred. Her heart pounded so hard she thought she might faint.

 No, no. this wasn’t true. She knew Ling. She knew her. The woman who couldn’t sleep after the first time they made love because she cried for hours out of guilt... the woman who trembled when she said she was filing for divorce because she didn’t want to hurt anyone... that woman was not a predator.

But truth didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to the world.

Orm pressed her palms to her temples and whispered to the empty apartment, “No... please, no.” The sound broke halfway through.

Because she could see it already... how the world would twist it. The narrative was too easy, too cruelly perfect. A powerful professor. A young student. Forbidden romance. Scandal. Exploitation.

They had just found happiness... they were just beginning to breathe, to exist like ordinary people, to dream of futures without hiding. And now... this.

Leave her or we show the world who she really is.
Tell yourself you’re protecting her if it helps you sleep.
Otherwise, you both burn.

The messages came one after another, each one a wound.

Orm threw her phone across the room and screamed… not loud, not enough to wake the neighbors, but the kind of scream that comes from the stomach, from somewhere too deep for language. She slid down the wall, her hands shaking, tears streaking down her face.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

How could this happen? How could the universe be this cruel, this deliberate? They had survived two years of secrecy, of guilt, of endless nights spent hiding from everyone who might destroy them... and just when Ling had finally chosen her, just when she had said I filed for divorce, when everything was supposed to be okay... the world came to collect its price.

Orm curled on the floor, the glow of her phone still lighting up the corner of the room. A new message appeared, the words slow, deliberate.

People believe what they see. Not what’s true. Not what’s real. Photos are forever. Reputation isn’t.

She shut her eyes. She could see it in her head... the headlines, the whispers, the look on Ling’s face when it all came out. The heartbreak. The betrayal. The shame she didn’t deserve.

“No,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I won’t let them do this to you.”

But the texts didn’t stop.

Tick-tock, little student. She’s running out of time.
You think love is worth this? Watch how fast it turns to ruin.
You have one chance to save her. Take it.

Orm pressed her forehead against her knees and cried until she could taste salt and metal. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was grief. Because she understood something now... something monstrous.

This wasn’t just blackmail. This was punishment.

For loving her.
For daring to want a life that didn’t fit inside rules made by people who would never understand them.

They had touched sunlight for the first time... and now the world wanted to drag them back into the dark.

Orm sat there until dawn, surrounded by the silent proof of their happiness turned into weapons... photographs that had once been love, now mutilated into evidence.

And as the first light crept through the curtains, she whispered the only truth left to her.

“They won’t have her. Even if it means losing everything... they won’t have her.”

It was not an act of surrender. It was mercy... or at least that’s what Orm told herself when she decided to leave. Before the world could turn their love into a headline, before the cameras could catch the light in Ling’s eyes and twist it into scandal, before the story could eat the woman she adored alive... she would disappear.

But God, she didn’t want to.
Not from this life.
Not from the soft mornings and the candlelit nights, the grocery runs, the flowers on the windowsill, the laughter they built from nothing. This was the only real thing Orm had ever known... and now she had to bury it herself.

So, she made a plan. She would tell Ling everything …. after the final exam. After one last day of pretending that the world was still kind.

That morning, Ling kissed her before leaving, soft and tired, murmuring, “Today’s the day, baby... I’ll tell Miu.”

Orm had looked at her with the kind of hope that shouldn’t exist in a world this cruel. “You’ll tell her?”

Ling smiled... a small, trembling smile that still looked like bravery. “Yes. By tonight, it’s done.”

Orm wanted to believe that meant safety. That’s it, this meant freedom. That they could finally live without hiding, without fear, without the constant ache of pretending to be something they weren’t. She clung to that thought like prayer.

By noon, she was standing outside the lecture hall, palms damp, heart hammering, mind on fire with a hundred half-formed worries. It was her last exam. The one that would end three years of exhaustion and sleeplessness and sacrifice. And somewhere in another part of the city, Ling was ending a marriage for her.

The thought steadied her. Until her phone buzzed.

A message from Ling first … sweet, simple, full of love.

. Good luck, baby. You’ve got this❤️💋❤️💋❤️

Orm smiled through tears she didn’t even realize had formed. That was Ling... even in chaos, even in ruin, she still found time to love softly.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number.

Oh... you two really had it planned, huh? She just transferred her ownership of the nonprofit. How poetic. She cleans up her life while you prepare to ruin it.

Orm froze. Her hands went cold.

Another message followed seconds later.

If you’re not vanished by evening, I’ll send this to The Boston Globe. CC’d to Harvard’s Ethics Committee. You know what the subject line will read?

The next text wasn’t a photo this time …. It was an email draft.

Subject: Harvard Scandal:  Guest Professor, Former Massachusetts Governor’s Daughter Has a Kink for Her Students.

Body:
Exclusive story developing: Dr. Lingling Kwong, guest professor and nonprofit founder, known for her work on women’s justice initiatives and daughter of former Governor Kwong, has been romantically involved with a student from her own law faculty and multiple other in the past. Multiple images and videos confirm their relationship, including intimate photos taken inside the student’s apartment. This raises questions about her conduct, ethics, and the misuse of influence. Sources say this isn’t her first inappropriate involvement with a student...

Attached Files: Ling_Orm_ApartmentSeries.zip

The last message read:

Tick-tock, little genius. By the time your exam ends, The Globe will have your professor’s name. If you want to save her... vanish. Today.

Orm couldn’t breathe. The ground tilted beneath her. The hallway blurred , students laughing, adjusting ties, flipping notes, all of it distant, unreal.

Her phone felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. She stared at the message until her reflection on the black screen looked like a stranger.

She thought about running to Ling. About calling. About screaming. But what could she say? That some faceless monster had been watching them for years? That someone had turned their love into ammunition? That every tender moment , every kiss, every smile …had been stolen and twisted into pornography for the public to consume?

No... she couldn’t do that to her.

She walked into the exam hall like a ghost. Her name written neatly on the answer sheet. The questions swam in front of her eyes …. tort law, constitutional theory, none of it meant anything now. Her pen trembled in her hand. She wrote through tears, her vision blurring the lines into meaningless ink.

She should have aced it. She had studied harder than anyone else. But halfway through, her brain gave up on logic and fell into grief.

All she could think about was Ling… waiting for her , after everything.

After.

But there would be no after.

When the exam ended, Orm gathered her things with mechanical precision. Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She walked out of the hall, the sunlight too bright, the noise of students celebrating too cruel.

She ran.

Back to the apartment. Back to their world … small, messy, beautiful. It looked untouched, still smelling faintly of Ling’s perfume, as if love had been there only hours ago.

Orm’s hands shook as she began packing. Clothes, photos, books, the chipped mug Ling used for coffee, the scarf she always forgot on the couch. Silly things. Sacred things. Everything that had ever carried their warmth.

Tears blurred her vision. Her breath came in broken sobs.

She moved quickly, stuffing pieces of her life into the suitcase like a thief stealing from her own heart. She left behind the furniture, the dishes, the empty bottles on the counter... but she took every trace of them that could be hidden … the Polaroids, the notes in Ling’s handwriting, the ring she had bought but never given.

By six, she was in a cab to Logan Airport.

By eight, boarding a flight to California she hadn’t even planned.

By nine, she was sobbing so violently that the old woman seated beside her reached out and whispered, “Are you alright, dear?”

Orm nodded, a lie too tired to sound real.

She pressed her forehead to the airplane window, her reflection shivering against the city lights below. Boston stretched beneath her like a wound, glowing and cruel, swallowing the last of what she loved.

Tears streamed silently down her face. She didn’t care who saw. Let them think she had lost someone.

Because she had.

She had lost everything.

The woman she loved. The life they built. The future they had whispered about in the dark.

And as the plane lifted off the ground, Orm whispered to herself …not as a prayer, not as a promise, but as an apology.

“I’m sorry, Ling... I had to save you.”

Then she buried her face in her hands and cried until the sky turned black and the world below disappeared.

Present Day:

Author’s POV:

Orm left the café before Junji could finish.
She had heard enough... even if it broke her heart, even if it hollowed her out from the inside... she had heard enough.

The cold hit her like a slap, but she barely felt it. The air outside Tremont Street was heavy, damp from the morning drizzle, the city moving around her in slow motion. Her mind was a noise she couldn’t turn down... words, names, timelines, all colliding into one unbearable realization.

She didn’t even remember the walk home. One minute she was crossing intersections without looking, the next she was climbing the narrow stairs to her apartment, her hands trembling so badly she dropped her keys twice before the lock gave in.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence fell like a stone.

For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at the floor, breathing hard. Then she reached for her phone and typed a single message.

Ling:
Can you come by the apartment?  it’s urgent.

She didn’t wait for a reply. She knew Ling would come. When?  that was the question.
Orm slid the phone onto the counter, her pulse still racing, her thoughts unraveling faster than she could catch them.

She began pacing. Back and forth. The same five steps from the couch to the window and back again. Every memory played like a reel she couldn’t stop... the first envelope, the first threat, the first time she thought she heard footsteps in the hallway. All those nights she had cried alone thinking she was protecting Ling, when in truth she had been trapped, manipulated, cornered.

Now she knew.
She finally knew.

Who had done it. Who had watched. Who had made her run.

Her throat tightened. Would Ling believe her? Would she even listen?
Orm wanted to believe she would... that Ling, who once kissed her forehead like it was a vow, would still trust her word over anyone else’s. But what if she didn’t? What if the months apart had hardened that love into something suspicious, brittle? What if this truth arrived too late to save them?

She moved toward the desk and began pulling everything out. The drawer screeched open, paper scattering across the floor. The envelopes, still sealed with their quiet poison. The notes written in that sharp, slanted hand. The printed messages Junji had handed her hours ago. Evidence, all of it … the ruin of their love turned into files and timestamps.

Orm stacked them neatly on the table, aligning the corners as if order could make it hurt less. Her hands were shaking so violently that one of the envelopes slipped. She picked it up again, breathing hard, the taste of metal in her mouth.

She had imagined this moment a hundred times … the day she’d finally tell Ling the truth, the day she’d explain that she hadn’t left because she stopped loving her, but because she had no choice. That every step away from Boston had been a step taken for Ling, not from her.

Orm didn’t expect forgiveness. She didn’t expect anything at all.
She just wanted Ling to know. To understand. To see her not as the coward who ran, but as the woman who was forced to vanish to keep them both alive.

The apartment felt smaller now. The walls seemed to lean in, listening. She needed air.

Orm crossed to the window, pushed it open, and let the chill rush in. The city below was muted… cars, footsteps, the occasional siren, all distant. She climbed onto the windowsill, her knees tucked close to her chest.

Her fingers reached automatically for the drawer in the side table. She pulled out the crumpled cigarette pack she’d hidden months ago … a secret she had promised herself she’d buried.

She hadn’t smoked in months now. She’d told her mother she quit. Told herself she was done with it. But the thing about vices is they never really leave you. They wait. Quiet, patient, knowing you’ll come back when your hands start to shake and your heart starts to break again.

Orm lit one. The flame flared against the wind, then steadied. She drew in the smoke, felt it scrape her throat, burn her lungs, fill her until it hurt less. She hated herself for it, for needing the poison to stay calm, but she did it anyway. The smoke drifted out into the cold like a confession too small for words.

She sat there on the sill, her bare feet pressed to the cold frame, her eyes fixed on the city lights below. Every drag steadied her, dulled the trembling. Her mind replayed the last time she saw Ling... that night in Boston, the kiss, the way the world seemed to hold its breath around them.

So much love. So much ruin.

The ash fell, light and slow, disappearing before it touched the street.

Orm took another drag, exhaled, and whispered into the quiet,
“You deserve the truth, Ling. Even if it kills me to say it.”

She watched the smoke twist away into the dark. It reminded her of everything she’d ever loved … fleeting, beautiful, impossible to hold.

And she waited.
For the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
For the knock she knew would come.
For the moment when the past would finally meet her at the door.

It was evening... the sun had already slipped below the skyline, leaving Boston wrapped in that hour where the world forgets how to breathe. The buildings outside glowed in fractured golds and silvers, and through the thin veil of glass, the city lights pulsed like distant heartbeats.

When Ling arrived, she was exhausted, her shoulders heavy with the kind of day that had demanded too much. She let herself in using her spare key, purely out of habit... the familiar click of the lock greeting her like a ghost of old routines.

But the moment she stepped inside, something was wrong.

The air didn’t smell like vanilla candles or jasmine tea anymore. It smelled sharp. Acrid. Alive with something that didn’t belong here. The scent of nicotine hung thick in the air …wild, bitter, defiant.

Ling frowned, her coat still on, her fingers hesitating near the light switch. She followed the smell to the living room, her steps slow, wary.

And there was Orm... sitting on the windowsill, the fading light cutting across her face, a cigarette between her fingers.

Ling blinked once. “You smoke now?”

Her voice wasn’t angry, just tired, disbelieving.

Orm looked at her over her shoulder, the ember glowing faintly between her fingers. “Had to start... to reduce my paranoia,” she said quietly, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray before standing up.

Ling took off her trench coat, hung it on the hook by the door, then toed off her shoes. Her movements were unhurried, almost automatic, the kind of familiarity that only comes from years of knowing where someone keeps their life. She sighed as she crossed the room, brushing her hair back from her face, still unsure what she was walking into.

“Everything alright?” she asked softly, sinking onto the couch when Orm gestured toward it.

The question hung in the air like fragile glass.

Orm didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were tired, red at the edges, and full of something Ling couldn’t name. Pain, maybe. Fear. Regret. Ling’s instinct was to reach out … to take her hand, to pull her in, to do the thing she had always done when Orm broke apart. But something in Orm’s expression stopped her.

“I promised you answers,” Orm said finally, her voice low, deliberate.

Ling’s brow furrowed. “What answers?”

Orm drew in a breath that shook on the way out. “Answers about why I left.”

Ling’s throat tightened. She hadn’t expected that... not tonight. Not ever, really. “And?” she asked quietly, almost afraid to know.

Orm leaned forward, dragging the coffee table closer until the legs scraped softly against the floor. “Here it is,” she said, gesturing toward the scattered papers and envelopes spread across it.

Ling looked down. Dozens of them , brown envelopes, loose sheets, photographs. She frowned, confusion flickering across her face.

Orm reached for the first one, her hands trembling slightly. “Do you remember the first dinner date we went to?” she asked, her voice fragile but steady enough to keep going.

Ling blinked. “Yes.”

Orm nodded slowly, her eyes locked on the photo she was holding. “We kissed under the streetlight that night... remember? We didn’t care if people saw.”

Ling’s lips parted, the ghost of that memory already forming … the rain-slick streets, the violin in the distance, Orm’s trembling fingers against her collar. She nodded once. “I remember.”

“Well,” Orm whispered, “someone else did too.”

She handed the photograph across the table.

Ling took it carefully, her fingers brushing Orm’s for half a second. The photo was grainy but clear enough... the two of them in each other’s arms, caught mid-kiss under the soft glow of a streetlamp.

For a moment, Ling just stared …not at herself, but at the wrongness of it being seen at all. The intimacy turned into evidence. The warmth frozen into something cold and invasive.

“From the very next day... I was blackmailed,” Orm said. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Ling looked up sharply, but Orm was already reaching for more …notes, letters, all of it piled together like relics of a crime.

“They sent these first,” Orm said, her voice trembling as she spread the envelopes across the table like evidence from a crime scene. “Every day... another one. Different handwriting, different paper, but always the same threat hiding beneath the politeness. And when I didn’t respond... they changed tactics. The letters became texts. The photos became proof. They wanted to destroy you, Ling... they wanted to make you a monster.”

Her hands shook as she reached for the top envelope. The flap was torn, the corners bent from being opened too many times. She slid the contents out; a series of glossy prints and typed notes and placed them in front of Ling with quiet reverence, like she was laying flowers on a grave.

“They started small... just us. The kiss under the streetlight. The café window. The market. Little things. But then... then they sent the first note.”

She picked up a sheet of paper, her voice breaking as she read aloud.

‘Step away. Before Harvard knows what kind of professors it hires. Before the board sees who their star lecturer spends her nights with. Before the Boston Globe prints a story that will never be forgotten.’

Ling’s pulse roared in her ears. The words looked ordinary on paper, but hearing them out loud felt like being flayed open.

Orm swallowed hard and kept going. “I ignored it at first. I told myself it was someone bluffing, a jealous student maybe, some sick voyeur. But then came the next one... with a photograph of you in the courthouse, filing your divorce papers. And then another... of you with your parents in Chestnut Hill. They had captions, Ling. They wrote things like... ‘The governor’s daughter breaks her vows for her student - a love story Harvard forgot to teach.’”

She let out a sound that wasn’t quite laughter, wasn’t quite a sob. “They wanted to make it scandalous, cinematic... something the tabloids could feed on for weeks.”

Ling’s throat went dry. Her hands, still clutching one of the photos, had begun to tremble.

“They followed you everywhere,” Orm continued, voice cracking. “When you bought me flowers. When you stopped for ice cream. When you left the nonprofit. They knew what flavor you chose, what day you bled, what time you came home. They had photos of you leaving the apartment building, of me leaving a few hours later. Everything lined up so perfectly that anyone looking at it would think you groomed me. They even wrote it down, Ling.”

She grabbed another paper, the ink smudged from old tears and slid it toward her.

‘We know what she was to you. We know what you were to her. You can spin it however you like, but the world will see what it always sees…. a predator hiding behind philanthropy. Harvard will drop her. The Globe will devour her. And you... you’ll watch it happen.’

Ling’s breath caught. “Oh my God...”

“They didn’t stop there,” Orm whispered. “They threatened to send it to the university council … to the Dean of Law, the Ethics Committee, the Governor’s office. They even drafted the email, Ling... they sent me the screenshot. The subject line read, ‘Harvard’s Favorite Feminist Caught in a Scandal, Professor Exploits Her Student.’”

She pressed her palms to her temples, tears streaking down her face. “They said once the story broke, they’d have the journalists outside your office by morning. They’d call for your resignation. They’d print your photos next to headlines about misconduct and power imbalance and morality. They wanted the world to believe you seduced me to prove you could... that I was another girl in a long list.”

Orm’s voice cracked on the last words. “They wanted to turn your love into filth.”

Ling sat frozen. The photo in her lap blurred behind the tears she didn’t realize had fallen.

Orm reached for another note, her fingers trembling so hard she nearly tore it. “And then this one came... ‘If you love her, save her. Leave. Before she loses her license, her name, her world.’”

She let the paper fall to the floor. “They knew I would do it. They knew I’d choose your safety over us. Every photo, every message was designed to make me disappear before I even had a chance to fight back. And I did, Ling. I left because I thought if I stayed, they’d ruin you.”

Her voice broke completely. “I didn’t stop loving you. I just stopped believing we could survive it.”

The city outside flickered like static. Inside, the apartment was a graveyard of secrets … photographs, letters, threats ; each one a nail in the coffin of the life they’d tried to build.

Ling looked down at the table … at her own smiling face caught in stolen moments that no longer belonged to her and for the first time, she understood the full cruelty of it.
They had not just been watched.
They had been rewritten.

And Orm... she had carried the burden of that rewriting alone.

Ling didn’t speak at first.

She just stared at the photographs spread across the table... fragments of their sacred life turned into evidence... their love dissected, flattened, stripped of its holiness and pinned like an exhibit under fluorescent light. Her own face stared back at her from the glossy paper... smiling, alive, in love... unaware that somewhere, someone had already decided what kind of woman she had been allowed to be.

Her fingers hovered over one of the photographs... the one of her leaving the courthouse after filing for divorce. She remembered that day perfectly... the morning light on the marble floors, the faint echo of her heels, the trembling in her hands as she signed the papers that ended one life and began another. She had thought she was reclaiming her freedom that day. Now, staring at it, she realized someone had been watching even that... turning her rebirth into a scandal before she had even known it existed.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. When her voice finally surfaced, it was small and cracked, the sound of something fragile breaking open.
“They were watching me... even then?”

Orm nodded through her tears.

Ling blinked slowly, as if trying to make the room stop spinning. “My parents... the lawyer... the store... everything?”

“Everything,” Orm whispered. “Every step. Every breath. Every time you smiled.”

Ling’s hand went to her mouth, trembling. The air felt poisoned. “Oh God... oh God, Orm...”

She stood abruptly, the chair screeching back. She moved toward the window as if she could escape through the glass, her fingers gripping the curtain so tightly her knuckles went white. The city lights outside smeared into colorless streaks, unrecognizable. “They wanted to ruin me,” she said softly, almost to herself. “My name, my work, everything I had built... for what? For loving you?”

Her voice cracked around the word.

Orm rose halfway, cautious, but Ling lifted a hand... not to stop her, but to steady herself on something that wasn’t there. “I spent my whole life building something clean,” she said, her voice trembling. “I fought for women who were used and silenced, I fought to be seen as more than someone’s daughter, someone’s wife... and in the end, they looked at me and said I was exactly what I fought against. A fraud.”

She gave a laugh that wasn’t laughter at all... jagged, breathless. “They called me a predator, Orm... a hypocrite, the governor’s daughter who preyed on her student. They used words like misconduct and immorality and abuse of power. They stripped away every inch of what I had worked for until all that was left was scandal.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They erased me.”

Orm took a step closer, her eyes wet. “I couldn’t let them do that. I thought if I disappeared, maybe—”

Ling turned sharply, her face streaked with tears she hadn’t felt fall. “You thought vanishing would save me?” she said, her voice breaking apart. “Do you know what that did to me, Orm? I thought you woke up one morning and realized you didn’t want me. I thought I was something shameful... that you left because I wasn’t worth the risk.”

Orm’s breath hitched. “No. I left because you were worth too much to lose.”

Ling’s composure shattered. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, as if her body couldn’t contain the air. “Worth too much?” she said, her voice trembling. “Look at this.” She swept her hand across the table. Photographs slid and fluttered like wounded birds. “They turned our love into evidence. They turned something sacred into sin. Do you understand, Orm? They reduced everything we were into headlines... into filth.”

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “We built something holy... and they made it a crime.”

Her voice grew louder, rawer, the grief finally clawing its way free. “Our love was supposed to be ours. It was never meant for the world. It wasn’t scandal, it wasn’t seduction... it was devotion, it was survival. You were my peace, Orm... and they made you my punishment.”

Orm’s face twisted with guilt. “Ling, please—”

Ling shook her head violently, pacing away, her hair falling loose around her face. “They printed my name next to yours and called me what? A predator? A fallen woman? They took my lectures, my nonprofit, everything I had built for women like us, and they turned it into irony. They said, ‘Look at her, another hypocrite preaching integrity while breaking her vows.’”

Her voice cracked again. “They made a spectacle of my ruin, Orm. I became the cautionary tale. The scandal whispered about in corridors.”

Her knees gave out before she realized she was falling. She sank to the floor beside the couch, clutching the hem of her blouse, breathing hard as if she had been struck. The sound that came out of her wasn’t a sob at first... it was a gasp, sharp and small, the sound of something precious collapsing inside her.

Orm hesitated only a heartbeat before kneeling beside her. She reached out, trembling, her hand landing gently on Ling’s back.

Ling flinched, but didn’t move away. Her words came out broken, gasping between breaths, each one torn from somewhere deep and raw inside her. “They took everything from me, Orm... the purity, the grace... even the beauty of what we were. But what hurts the most... what will always hurt the most... is that they took you away from me.”

Her voice trembled as she spoke, soft at first, then rising with the weight of everything she had buried for years. “They didn’t just ruin my name or my work... they stole the only thing that ever made me feel human. They took you... the one thing I would have given up the whole world to keep. Do you understand? They didn’t just destroy my life , they hollowed it. They made me live it without you.”

Her chest heaved, her breath shuddering against the quiet. “Every morning after you left, I kept thinking... this is what punishment feels like. Not shame. Not ruin. Just absence. Just you not being here.”

Her fingers curled weakly into Orm’s sleeve, her voice breaking again. “You were mine... and they took you away from me.”

Ling’s tears hadn’t even dried when she suddenly lifted her head, eyes wide and glassy with something new …not grief, but fury.
Her voice was low at first, shaking under the weight of too much pain.
“Who did this?” she asked.

Orm froze, her lips trembling. She didn’t answer.

Ling leaned closer, her voice sharper now. “Who did this to us, Orm?”

Orm’s breath came quick and uneven. She looked away, her shoulders trembling, her jaw clenched as if she could hold the words inside forever.

“Tell me,” Ling said again, louder this time, her voice cracking. “Tell me who destroyed us.”

Orm shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Ling, please...”

“Please what?” Ling’s voice broke into a shout. She was trembling all over now, the years of silence and betrayal boiling up inside her. She grabbed Orm by the shoulders, desperate, pleading, angry. “Please what, Orm? Please keep me blind? Please let me keep hating myself for what they did? Who was it? Who?”

Orm covered her face with both hands, sobbing. “I can’t…”

Ling’s voice dropped to a whisper, low and trembling, each word heavy enough to bruise. “You owe me the truth.”

When Orm didn’t answer, Ling’s hands fell. She pressed her fists against Orm’s chest , not to hurt her, but to hold her there, to make her stay in the moment, to stop her from vanishing again. “Look at me,” she said, tears running freely down her face. “Who. Did. This.”

Orm’s sobs deepened. Her body shook beneath Ling’s hands.

“Who, Orm?” Ling shouted, pounding once weakly against her chest. “Who made you leave me?”

“It’s your wife, Ling...” Orm gasped, voice torn and small. “Your wife... and her girlfriend.”

Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

Ling didn’t move. Her eyes fixed on Orm’s mouth as if the words might crawl back inside and undo themselves. The room held its breath. Somewhere, a radiator clicked once... then nothing. Orm’s breathing turned audible... rough, uneven... the kind that hurts coming out.

“What?” Ling said at last... not a question so much as a refusal.

Orm nodded, tears streaking new salt over old. She tried to speak, failed... swallowed... tried again. The air felt too thick to live in.

Across the glass, a horn bled through the city’s hum... far away, irrelevant... and still Ling kept staring, as if this were a test of endurance and not the end of a life.

“It was her...” Orm managed, the words breaking apart. “Miu... and Lorena.”

Another beat. Ling’s fingers curled against her palm, knuckles whitening, like she was holding herself together by force.

Ling went still, as if the air had been pulled from the room.

“All this time,” Orm sobbed, her words tumbling out in pieces. “It was her and Lorena... they’re the ones who sent the photos, the notes... they made me go away. They made it all happen. They threatened everything... your career, your name. They wanted me gone, Ling.”

Ling just stared at her, her lips parted, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and nausea.

“They made me leave,” Orm whispered. Her voice was raw now, stripped bare of everything but exhaustion. “They made sure I’d stay gone. They gave me the job in their firm, the one in Los Angeles... they arranged all of it. They wanted me back again... hoping we’d get close, maybe even get back together... so they could have their perfect life.”

Ling’s eyes widened, her face pale, her breath coming uneven. “Why?” she asked softly, the word barely escaping her lips.

Orm gave a small, broken laugh , bitter, trembling. “Power,” she said, the word tasting like acid. “They wanted Miu to have the seat at the table. Lorena needed her there... needed your money for it. Miu knew about us, Ling. She knew everything … from the first night you stayed over. Lorena hired a private investigator immediately. That’s how they got the photos. The videos. Everything. Imagine hiring someone to stalk your own wife for three years... they were that pathetic.”

Ling shook her head slowly, her body rigid, the words barely sinking in. “No...” she whispered. “No, that can’t be…”

“It is,” Orm said quietly, her voice shaking. “You don’t know this part... Miu and Lorena ,they’ve been together for years, Ling. Not recently. Not secretly for a few months. Nine years. It started when Lorena was still at Harvard... before you and I ever happened. Before you even married her.”

Ling’s face went slack, her pulse visible in her throat.

Orm pressed on, the words spilling faster now, desperate and painful. “They’ve been each other’s constant... their affair never ended. On and off, hiding behind friendship, behind work, behind you. And all this time, they built everything on lies … the firm, the influence, the politics. You were just the name that gave them power. Your money. Your reputation.”

Her breath hitched as she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “They used you, Ling. They used you to build their empire, and when you started to pull away, when you started dropping hints about wanting a divorce, they panicked. Their whole plan , the seat at the board, the firm buyout… depended on your money. And if you left her, if the divorce went through, that money stopped. Everything they’d built would collapse.”

Orm’s tears came harder now. “So, they blackmailed me. They used everything they had to get me out of your life... to keep you tied to her. To keep their plan alive.”

Ling blinked hard, tears welling again. “Nine years?” she whispered. “Nine years she’s been lying to me?”

Orm nodded through her tears. “Yes. Nine years... and they didn’t just lie. They planned every move. When you filed for divorce, they already had the PI reports ready. The photos. The timeline. The story they’d leak if they had to. And when I left, they gave me the job at their firm, in Los Angeles. They wanted control over you, over me. They thought if I worked for them, if I owed them, I’d stay silent. They wanted me gone from you so they could keep their power, their image, their perfect life.”

Ling blinked, her eyes vacant for a moment, her face streaked with tears she didn’t feel herself shedding. The room went still , too still … as if even the city outside knew not to move.

“So,” she said at last, her voice trembling but sharp, “that’s supposed to be my wife?”

She laughed once, hollow; the kind of sound that doesn’t sound human. “The one who smiles at me like I’m everything to her? The one who held my hand while she destroyed me?”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Orm could only nod, sobbing quietly, her body folding in on itself.

Ling looked down at her, tears still streaming, but her expression had gone empty , blank, haunted , the face of someone realizing that love and betrayal could wear the same smile.

“She knew,” Ling whispered, almost to herself. “All this time. Every touch, every kiss... she knew what she’d done.”

Her voice broke. “The woman who slept beside me... who looked me in the eye and told me she loved me... she’s the one who ruined me.”

Orm reached for her hand, but Ling didn’t move. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if the truth itself had hollowed her out.

“She took everything,” Ling murmured. “My name, my work, my peace... and you.”

She laughed again, weakly, the sound dissolving into a sob. “And I thought it was my fault. I thought you left because I wasn’t enough.”

Orm shook her head, crying harder. “You were everything.”

The silence after that was unbearable. It hung heavy between them, thick as smoke. Outside, the city pulsed with light, indifferent, unaware that somewhere inside it, two women sat in the wreckage of everything they had ever loved, one shattered by what she’d learned, the other by what she’d had to do.

The night didn’t comfort them. It simply watched, still and merciless, as Ling’s tears fell soundless onto the photographs between them … the proof, the evidence, the ruin.

And the only thing left unspoken was the question neither could bear to ask.

What now?

Chapter Text

Chapter 11:

* Author’s note: This is a parallel narration, everything that is in italics is in the past and everything that is in normal font is present .

Flashback , Harvard, Thirteen Years Ago

The first day smelled like rain and ambition. The air over Cambridge carried that peculiar brightness of early September... wet asphalt, coffee grounds, the faint metallic scent of new beginnings. Ling arrived early, clutching a notebook too pristine, hair too neatly tied back, shoulders too straight. She looked every bit the governor’s daughter... polite, contained, rehearsed. And still, beneath the composure, her pulse hummed with the secret thrill of being just another student for once.

Miu arrived late.

The lecture hall was already half full when she walked in .. wind in her hair, scarf half-knotted, a smile that made everyone turn. She moved with that unbothered ease of someone who already knew she belonged. Ling remembered glancing up from her notes just as Miu tripped on the last step , spilling an entire paper cup of coffee across the floor and, unfortunately, onto Ling’s folder.

“Oh, God, I am so sorry,” Miu gasped, crouching down, napkins flying out of her bag in a panic.

Ling blinked at the spreading brown stain, then at the woman trying to mop it up with what looked like a syllabus. “You’re making it worse,” she said softly, half laughing.

Miu looked up  and Ling, who had spent her whole life meeting people who either admired or feared her surname, saw someone who did neither. “I usually make a great first impression,” Miu said, smiling, “but sometimes I start with arson.”

Ling laughed …really laughed , for the first time that week. “Then I guess I’m flattered. You picked me for the fireworks.”

That was how it began... a spill, a laugh, a quick apology that somehow became a conversation. After class, Miu insisted on buying her another coffee “for emotional damage.” They sat on the low steps outside Wasserstein Hall, paper cups steaming in the chill.

Miu talked about growing up in New York... her parents’ restaurant, her obsession with debate club, the scholarship that got her here. Ling talked about growing up in a house where even breakfast felt like a press conference. They joked about professors, the brutal reading lists, the unbearable weight of the word potential.

It should have ended there... two students sharing caffeine and sarcasm on a rainy afternoon. But something small and bright had already sparked between them …something neither could name yet.

Weeks folded into habit.

Study sessions in the library that stretched past midnight, Miu humming softly while highlighting, Ling scolding her for underlining entire pages. Coffee runs at 2 a.m., their laughter echoing down quiet brick corridors. Miu teasing Ling for her perfect handwriting... Ling teasing Miu for eating all the muffins before they made it back to the table.

They grew comfortable enough to share silences. Miu would lean back in her chair, watching Ling read, and whisper, “You look like someone in a perfume ad. All concentration and tragedy.” Ling would roll her eyes but blush anyway. Sometimes Miu would reach out to straighten a strand of Ling’s hair... and Ling would hold her breath without knowing why.

There were small things …almost nothing , a brush of fingers when passing notes, a shoulder leaned on during late-night study breaks, laughter that lingered a little too long. The kind of things you can still pretend are innocent if you never say them out loud.

Once, during finals week, they found themselves in the deserted lounge at dawn. The vending machine was broken, the fluorescent lights flickered, and both of them were too exhausted to keep pretending adulthood wasn’t ridiculous. Miu sat cross-legged on the floor, shoes kicked off, hair falling into her eyes. Ling lay back beside her, staring at the ceiling, murmuring, “I think the law hates us.”

Miu grinned. “Maybe it just wants us to beg.”

Ling turned her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m honest,” Miu said. “And you like that.”

Ling had no answer for that …. just a smile that felt like surrender.

They fell asleep like that... two half-strangers curled in the glow of vending machine light, coffee gone cold beside them, the sound of distant rain pressing softly against the windows.

If anyone had asked that morning what they were to each other, they wouldn’t have known how to answer. Friends, maybe. Or something on the cusp of friendship and the beginning of something dangerous.

Because that’s how most disasters start …. quietly, tenderly, under the illusion that what you’re holding is harmless.

And for now, it was.

Just Ling and Miu... two girls in Harvard’s long hallways, naive enough to believe that every story beginning in coffee and laughter ends in love.

Ling did not speak when she left.

The air inside Orm’s apartment had turned thick... too full of ghosts and smoke and words that could never be taken back. The city lights pressed faintly through the curtains, but they looked foreign now, like a language she no longer understood. She stood by the door for a long moment, her coat hanging limply from her hand, the silence between them swollen and unbearable. Orm didn’t reach for her. Neither of them moved.

When Ling finally turned the handle, it felt like turning the end of something enormous. The hallway beyond was cold, smelling faintly of disinfectant and rain. She stepped out. The door clicked shut behind her, and the sound was final.

Outside, Boston was silver and wet. Cars hissed over puddles, streetlights blurred by mist. Ling walked without direction, without breathing, her shoes slapping against the pavement as if the ground needed proof she still existed. Her reflection followed her in the glass windows of shops she didn’t see. The city pulsed around her, indifferent.

She reached her car by instinct, keys already in hand. The interior smelled faintly of old leather and perfume , remnants of a woman who had once lived without fear. Ling sat there for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, forehead resting against the cold metal ring. The world outside warped and shimmered through her tears.

When she finally started the engine, the dashboard light spilled over her face, soft and blue. The city moved around her in ribbons of motion, and she drove with no destination... just forward, as if distance could dilute truth.

But the mind does not obey traffic lights. Memories rose like fog.

It was after their first midterms... the kind of night when exhaustion and adrenaline blur into something reckless. The campus was half asleep, the lamplight soft and trembling on wet cobblestones. Ling had been studying for fourteen hours straight, high on caffeine and panic, her mind stuffed with torts and case law and the low thrum of inadequacy that every Harvard student carried like a pulse.

When she finally left the library, her body felt hollow. The rain had stopped but the world still glistened, the trees heavy with droplets that shivered when the wind passed. She saw Miu standing across the courtyard, leaning against the steps of Austin Hall, a cup of something steaming in her hands.

“Don’t tell me you’re still alive,” Ling called, voice rough with fatigue.

Miu grinned. “Barely. I bribed death with hot chocolate.”

Ling laughed... the sound surprised her. It cracked the tension in her chest like glass breaking. She crossed the courtyard, coat fluttering, hair damp at the ends. Miu held out the cup and Ling took it without hesitation. Their fingers brushed, quick, electric, gone.

“Did you survive Contracts?” Miu asked.

“Barely,” Ling said, sipping. “I think I cited the wrong statute three times in one paragraph. It’s fine. I’ll just change my name and move to Iceland.”

Miu tilted her head, smiling. “You’d still be overqualified.”

They sank onto the stone steps, the night air cool against their faces. The campus stretched around them … quiet, ancient, full of ghosts who’d once believed they were invincible. Miu leaned back on her elbows, looking at the sky. “You ever think about quitting?” she asked.

Ling smirked. “Only between every breath.”

Silence followed , not awkward, just... full. Miu’s hair clung to her cheek, the wind tugging at the loose strand. Ling reached out before she could think, brushing it back gently. Her hand lingered a moment too long. Miu’s breath caught, soft and sharp in the quiet.

Ling froze. The moment balanced delicately between them... the kind that feels both wrong and inevitable.

She didn’t mean to move closer. Or maybe she did. She didn’t know anymore. She only knew that Miu was watching her with wide, uncertain eyes, and something inside Ling , something long buried under rules and expectations … simply stepped forward.

She kissed her.

It was quick, almost clumsy. Her lips barely brushed Miu’s, tasting of chocolate and rain and nervous laughter. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then Miu laughed….startled, breathless, half disbelieving. Ling pulled back, flushed, mortified.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, covering her mouth. “I didn’t mean to”

Miu laughed harder, the sound echoing off the stone. “You absolutely meant to.”

Ling’s face burned. “Okay, maybe I did a little.”

“Good,” Miu said softly. “Because I liked it a lot.”

That was enough to make Ling laugh too, helplessly, both of them folded over, shoulders shaking, the kind of laughter that erases fear. The world around them seemed to pause... the fountain nearby whispering, the lamplight flickering gold on their faces.

When the laughter faded, the silence that replaced it was gentler. Ling looked at her again , really looked , and saw that Miu was still smiling, but her eyes had softened into something else entirely.

This time Miu leaned in, and the kiss was slower. Surer. Ling’s heart stuttered, then steadied. It wasn’t fireworks or music , it was warmth, belonging, the dizzying rightness of something that had been waiting quietly to happen.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were grinning like idiots.

“That was...” Ling began.

“An excellent study break,” Miu finished.

Ling snorted, pressing a hand over her mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dangerous,” Miu said, her voice low but light. “I might actually pass exams now.”

They laughed again, collapsing against each other, shoulders touching, breath mingling in the cold air. Above them, the library clock struck midnight, a slow, solemn sound that felt like permission.

Neither of them called it anything. There was no talk of labels or definitions. They didn’t need one.

Ling hadn’t come out to her parents , not yet, maybe not ever. Miu knew that, never asked for more than what Ling could give. They existed in borrowed spaces... behind closed doors, between classes, in the quiet hours when the campus belonged only to them.

Their friendship shifted quietly into something else , not announced, not defined, just lived. Study sessions blurred into confessions, laughter into touches, touches into something that made the air between them hum.

They built their world on discretion and desire... the kind of intimacy that survives not because it’s hidden, but because it’s too fragile to show.

And in those first weeks after that silly, perfect kiss, Ling learned something she had never read in a casebook...

That sometimes heaven doesn’t descend with trumpets or thunder.

Sometimes it’s just a laugh shared between two girls on Harvard’s cold stone steps, tasting of chocolate and rain and the reckless sweetness of youth.

By second semester, the rhythm between them had changed. What began as study sessions and stolen kisses had settled into something messier... something that lived between friendship and longing, between laughter and skin.

They never called it a relationship. They didn’t need to. Labels felt childish compared to the intensity they built between law books and whispered jokes. They saw each other most nights anyway... Miu sprawled across Ling’s couch with her shoes still on, Ling reading briefs aloud until Miu interrupted to argue just for the pleasure of seeing her flustered. When exhaustion gave way to silence, they would end up tangled in the same blanket, one pretending to sleep, the other pretending not to notice.

It was simple... until it wasn’t.

Second semester brought new pressures. Recruitment. Internships. Clubs that promised to shape futures. Miu dragged Ling into the Pro Bono Club one afternoon, claiming it would “look good on both our resumes.” That was where they met Lorena.

Lorena was all sharp edges and quiet ambition, the kind of woman who spoke like every word had already been edited twice. She was magnetic in a way that didn’t demand attention but earned it anyway. She and Miu clicked instantly , not romantically, not then, but intellectually, conspiratorially. The two of them could talk for hours about case precedents, policy loopholes, the thrill of outsmarting systems designed to keep people small.

Ling liked Lorena too, though not with the same reckless admiration that Miu did. Lorena was different , steady where Miu was chaotic, methodical where Ling was emotional. Within weeks, Ling and Lorena were running the Pro Bono Club together. They made a frighteningly effective pair: Lorena handling logistics, Ling shaping outreach, both of them adored by professors who saw in them the bright future of ethical law.

At the same time, Ling and Miu were co-chairing the student-led Legal Ethics and Public Policy initiative , a project that attracted both idealists and opportunists. It was chaos, the kind Miu thrived on. Meetings ran long into the night, their debates sharp and fast, neither willing to concede.

“Stop micromanaging the budget,” Miu would say, waving a highlighter at her. “You’re trying to save the world ten dollars at a time.”

“And you’re trying to bankrupt us on catered croissants,” Ling shot back once, slamming her laptop shut.

Their friends had grown used to these clashes... the heat in their voices, the tension that felt almost rehearsed. But what no one knew was that their arguments were foreplay disguised as policy.

It always ended the same way.

A late meeting. Empty corridors. The hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet adrenaline of proximity. One of them saying something unforgivable like “you’re infuriating,” and the other answering, “then stop looking at me like that.”

That night, it happened outside Austin Hall again , the air sharp with cold, the campus nearly empty. They had just finished arguing about the event budget. Miu had leaned in too close, eyes flashing, voice low enough to make Ling’s pulse stumble.

“Admit it,” Miu said, smiling the way she did before she won. “You love when I’m right.”

Ling laughed... that dangerous, breathless kind of laugh that came from somewhere deeper than amusement. “You’re never right. You just sound confident enough to make it convincing.”

Miu stepped closer, her perfume cutting through the cold air, her breath visible between them. “Confidence is half the law.”

Ling shook her head, but the smile was already on her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re addicted,” Miu whispered.

Ling didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

She pushed Miu back against the nearest wall, the sound of impact soft against the brick, and kissed her. Hard. Hungry. The kind of kiss that leaves no room for breath, no space for logic, just the press of mouths and the rush of recognition. Miu responded instantly, fingers gripping Ling’s collar, pulling her closer until the argument turned to laughter against each other’s skin.

When they broke apart, both were panting, foreheads touching, the world around them blurring into nothing but heat and heartbeat.

“You always have to win,” Miu murmured, lips brushing Ling’s jaw.

Ling smiled against her mouth. “Maybe I already did.”

They were still laughing, still half kissing, when a car horn blared from the street behind them , sharp, abrupt, real.

*HONKKKK*

Ling blinked hard, the sound collapsing the memory into light and motion.

The horn bled into the present. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. A car behind her honked again. The light ahead was green. She hadn’t moved.

Ling inhaled slowly, pressed her foot to the gas, and the car rolled forward through the intersection. The rain had turned to mist now, soft but relentless, tracing the windshield in fine, trembling threads. The city lights blurred into halos as she drove... and still, her mind refused to stay here.

It slipped again... backward, inward, to another night.

Two years into law school. The night everything had cracked.

She and Miu had been in Miu’s dorm room, surrounded by open textbooks and the lazy sprawl of half-eaten takeout. A candle flickered on the desk beside them, smelling faintly of coffee and cedar. Miu was sprawled on the floor, reading aloud from her criminal law notes in a mock-serious tone while Ling, half-draped over the edge of the bed, laughed at every line.

Then Ling’s phone rang.

She almost didn’t answer. The name on the screen made her stomach twist. Father.

She hesitated just long enough for Miu to notice. “Go on,” Miu said softly. “It’s okay.”

Ling pressed accept, brought the phone to her ear. “Pà?”

Her father’s voice came through sharp, clipped, every word a demand for control. “You’re coming home tonight,” he said. “And bring your... friend with you.”

Ling froze. Her throat closed. “What? what do you mean?”

“We know, Ling,” he said, cold and final. “Your mother saw the photographs. You will come home. We’ll speak then.”

The line went dead.

Ling sat perfectly still, the phone still pressed to her ear long after the call ended. Miu’s laughter faded as she read the look on Ling’s face. “What happened?” she asked.

Ling’s voice barely emerged. “They know.”

The world tilted then, small and quiet and irreversible.

By the time they reached Ling’s house, the sky had turned the color of stone. The mansion loomed, tall and clinical, all glass and light designed to impress. Ling’s mother opened the door before they could knock. Her face was pale, her lips drawn tight into a smile that wasn’t a smile at all.

“Come in,” she said. “Your father’s waiting.”

. Her father’s eyes followed them all the way from the doorway to the chairs across from him.

“Sit,” he said.

Ling obeyed. Miu stayed standing for a moment longer, chin lifted, the picture of poise. Then she sat beside Ling, close enough for their knees to touch.

The first few minutes were silence broken only by the scrape of cutlery. Then her father said,

“Do you realize what people are saying? That the governor’s daughter is wasting her Harvard education... distracted, unprofessional, spending her nights with a woman twice her temper and half her sense.”

Ling flinched. “I’m not distracted. I’m still first in my class…”

“This is not about grades, Lingling. It’s about discipline. Responsibility. What will people think when they see you like this? When they see her?”

Her mother’s voice joined in, soft but cutting.

“We didn’t raise you to throw your name away on rebellion. This isn’t you. This... confusion... will ruin everything your father built.”

Ling opened her mouth but nothing came. She stared at the tablecloth, her throat locked.

Miu, on the other hand, had gone very still.

At first, she tried civility. “With all due respect, sir,” she said, her voice polite, even. “Your daughter is neither confused nor wasting anything. She’s brilliant. She’s doing the work she was born to do. And she loves deeply. That’s not rebellion… that’s humanity.”

Her father’s eyes hardened. “You will not lecture me on humanity in my own house.”

Miu’s jaw flexed. “Then maybe you should try listening to your daughter in it.”

“Miu” Ling whispered, a warning.

But Miu was done listening. She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against marble. “You don’t get to shame her for love. Not when you’re using the word ‘family’ like a public relations slogan.”

Her mother gasped. “Watch your tone..”

“No,” Miu snapped, the veneer of calm shattering. “You watch yours. She’s twenty-five. She’s brilliant, kind, terrified of disappointing you, and still somehow manages to carry your expectations like an extra spine. And you sit here talking about names and discipline while you crush the only part of her that’s still alive.”

The silence that followed was violent.

Her father’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “I think it’s time you left, Ms. Matthews.”

Miu nodded once. “Gladly.”

She reached for Ling’s hand… not tentative, not ashamed ,  and pulled her up from the chair. Ling’s breath caught, half in terror, half in awe. Miu didn’t even look back as she led her down the long hallway, heels echoing against the marble, her grip firm and certain.

At the door, Miu turned, her voice calm again but colder than Ling had ever heard it. “You don’t get to call her daughter if all you care about is how she looks at dinner.”

Then she opened the door and stepped out into the rain, tugging Ling after her.

They didn’t speak until they reached the car. Ling’s hands were trembling. Miu was breathing hard, the kind of anger that comes from loving someone too much to stay silent. She turned, cupped Ling’s face in her hands, and said quietly, “They don’t deserve you.”

Ling gripped the steering wheel tighter, the leather slick against her palms. The city lights streaked like melted glass across the windshield. That voice , Miu’s voice …still echoed inside her, full of defiance and love and conviction. The woman who had stood up to her father for her... who had held her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world to risk everything for her ,how had she become this?

How had that warmth turned to poison?

How did the woman who once fought for her turn into the one who destroyed her?

Ling’s breath came shallow, the air thick with disbelief. Every memory twisted itself into contradiction , Miu’s laughter under dim library lamps, her hands guiding Ling’s trembling ones when she cried after her first moot, the softness in her eyes the night they decided to move in together. That woman had protected her.

Ling blinked hard, trying to see the road, but tears blurred the world into shapes she couldn’t name. The ache in her chest spread until it became a kind of nausea. She flicked the indicator without thinking, veering into the first exit she saw …a gas station glowing sterile under the sodium light.

She pulled up beside the pumps and killed the engine. The silence hit her like impact.

For a moment, she just sat there, fingers trembling on the key, staring at her own reflection in the windshield. Her face looked foreign , eyes red, jaw tight, mouth quivering between fury and grief. The hum of fluorescent light filled the air, faint music playing from the attendant’s small radio somewhere in the distance.

Ling couldn’t hold it anymore.

The sob broke out of her before she could stop it , jagged, raw, the kind that tore straight through the chest. Then another. Then another. Her body folded forward, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, breath coming in shuddering gasps.

It wasn’t just sadness. It was disbelief.

How could someone who had once whispered “they don’t deserve you” become the same person who later whispered to an investigator, “get everything you can”? How could those hands that once wiped her tears be the same ones that signed the papers that ruined her?

She cried until the sound turned silent… until her chest heaved without air, until the steering wheel was slick with salt and her knuckles ached from gripping too hard. The world outside blurred through tears ,,, the gas pumps, the road, the flicker of a distant billboard. Everything shimmered and swam as if it too couldn’t bear to stay still.

Her sobs came in waves... small gasps breaking into bigger ones, grief collapsing into exhaustion. At some point, she hit the heel of her hand against the wheel , once, twice … helpless, angry. “Why, Miu,” she whispered, her voice cracking into nothing. “Why did you do this to me?”

Her body shook again, but softer this time … not from rage, but from the weight of understanding that would never arrive.

She thought of Orm’s face when she had spoken those final words in the apartment... “It’s your wife and her girlfriend.” She thought of the trembling in Orm’s hands, the apology in her voice. It should have made sense. It should have given closure. But it didn’t.

Because what do you do when the person who once saved you becomes the one who kills you?

Ling lifted her head slowly, the air inside the car heavy with the ghost of every version of herself she’d ever been … the girl Miu defended, the wife Miu destroyed, the woman now sitting under a gas station light trying to breathe.

Her reflection in the rearview mirror looked both twenty-five and thirty-five at once.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, but the tears wouldn’t stop. They came again, quieter this time, running down her cheeks unchecked, her lips trembling with half-formed words she couldn’t say out loud.

So, she backed up the car and continued driving

The roads had emptied. Boston’s pulse was slowing into that late-night hush where even the city seemed too tired to watch her. The highway stretched ahead, slick and dark, lined with amber lights that shimmered against the rain. The wipers kept time with her heartbeat, steady, reluctant.

It came like a flash again… her apartment door opening at 1 a.m., the sound of keys hitting the counter, Miu’s heels clicking on the wooden floor.

Ling remembered how Miu would always come in late those days, hair tousled, smelling faintly of wine and some perfume that wasn’t hers. “Lorena and I were finalizing the Pro Bono report,” she’d say casually, shrugging off her coat, exhaustion and adrenaline mixed in her voice.

Lorena.

It had always been Lorena.

Back then, Ling hadn’t thought much of it. Lorena was graduating that spring, and Miu was helping her with applications, networking, talking strategy. Miu had always been generous that way…charming, persuasive, drawn to potential like a moth to light. Ling told herself it was mentorship, nothing more.

But she had noticed things... how Miu’s phone lit up a little too often with Lorena’s name, how their “work dinners” stretched past midnight, how Miu’s laughter over those calls sounded softer than it used to.

Still, Ling didn’t say anything. She trusted her. Or maybe she was too afraid to see what was right in front of her.

Then came Lorena’s graduation night.

Miu came home late, later than usual… eyes red, mascara faintly smudged, her hair loose like she’d been running her hands through it. She dropped her purse onto the floor and sat down heavily beside Ling, her voice trembling.

“She’s leaving,” she said.

Ling blinked. “Who?”

“Lorena. She got the New York placement. She’s moving next week.”

There was a silence … heavy, stretched.

Ling reached out carefully. “That’s good, isn’t it? You’re proud of her.”

Miu laughed once, short and bitter. “Proud, yes. But” She broke off, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. “God, Ling... I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

Ling’s chest tightened. “Like what?”

“Like losing a really good friend”

For a moment, Ling didn’t breathe. She wanted to ask if she isn’t a friend enough…but before she could, Miu turned toward her, eyes glassy.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Miu said suddenly, voice shaking. “More than anything in the world. You’re my home.”

Ling froze. The confession came out of nowhere, too sharp, too raw.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know you do.”

Miu leaned forward and kissed her…. desperate, tearful, like an apology for something Ling didn’t yet understand.

That night, Ling held her without questions. She told herself it was grief…. that Miu was mourning a friend, a chapter, a piece of her youth. But deep down, something uneasy flickered beneath her ribs. It would take her years to recognize that feeling for what it was… the first crack.

In the months that followed, Ling’s attention shifted.

Her parents, who had once despised the idea of her being with Miu, began to soften... but not out of love. Out of calculation. The world was changing... headlines, policies, campaigns …. the vocabulary of politics had evolved. LGBTQ+ rights were no longer taboo; they were fashionable. Being supportive was now a virtue, a badge for progress.

Her mother began slipping Miu’s name into interviews... “We love our daughter for who she is. We’re proud of her authenticity.” Her father mentioned her at fundraisers, calling her “Ling’s partner” with the same polished pride he used when endorsing a bill. What had once been a secret shame had turned into a prop… a performance of acceptance carefully scripted for the cameras.

It made Ling sick... and tired.

Tired of being a statement instead of a person. Tired of existing as proof of her parents’ tolerance. Every smile, every appearance, every photograph of her and Miu together felt staged , not theirs, but something orchestrated by the family’s communications team.

Then came the pressure.

Not from Miu at first, but from home. Subtle at first … mentions over dinner, phone calls dripping with suggestion. “You and Miu have been together for years now.” “It would be nice to formalize things.” “It sends the right message, you know, the next generation embracing change.”

Ling heard what they meant: It would be good for us.

She tried to ignore it. She tried to focus on work, on her thesis, on breathing. But the pressure didn’t stop. Her mother sent articles about “iconic political couples.” Her father’s aide asked if Miu would be attending the governor’s gala “as family.” Every conversation bent itself toward the same endpoint.

And Miu... sweet, ambitious Miu... began to see the opportunity shimmering within it.

Ling could feel it in the way Miu started speaking about “their future”  about public perception, about legitimacy, about what they could build together. There was love in her eyes, yes, but also something else... something that looked a lot like hunger.

So, one night, when the air between them felt heavy with expectation and inevitability, Ling gave in.

They were sitting on the balcony of their tiny apartment , the same one where the city looked like a constellation of unfinished dreams. Miu was curled beside her, wine glass in hand, bare feet resting on Ling’s lap, humming faintly to a song only she could hear.

Ling had spent the entire evening replaying her father’s words from that morning. “You don’t have to hide anymore, Lingling. Let the world see that you’ve grown.”

It wasn’t permission. It was instruction.

So, she said it. Quietly. Mechanically.

“After graduation... we should get married.”

Miu froze mid-sip. “What?”

Ling forced a small smile, her fingers tightening around the glass stem. “It’ll make things easier. They’ll stop pressuring me... stop using us as a headline. And it’ll help you too. My family’s name... it opens doors.”

Miu stared at her …stunned, then soft. “You mean that?”

Ling nodded, though she wasn’t sure if she did. “It’s practical,” she said. “And I’m tired of fighting them.”

Miu’s eyes glistened, her lips parting with something between joy and disbelief. “Ling, are you... proposing to me?”

Ling’s throat tightened. She hadn’t meant it like that. Not as romance. Not as surrender. But she didn’t have the strength to correct her.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” she whispered.

Miu laughed, wiping a tear from her cheek. “God, I’ve waited so long to hear that.”

Ling smiled back… a fragile, exhausted thing. Miu leaned forward and kissed her, tender and trembling, whispering against her mouth, “You won’t regret this.”

But as Ling closed her eyes, all she could feel was the quiet ache in her chest... the hollow certainty that this wasn’t a beginning. It was a compromise dressed as a promise.

And she knew  even then, with Miu’s hands warm against her skin and the city glittering around them … that she wasn’t walking toward love.

She was walking toward obligation

Ling pulled up outside her brownstone townhouse, the engine murmuring into silence. The rain had slowed to a mist, draping the city in a dull shimmer. For a long time she just sat there, the soft hum of the heater filling the car, her reflection faint in the windshield.

Then she stepped out. The air was cold, carrying that faint metallic scent that follows rain on stone. The front steps glistened under the lamplight. When she unlocked the door, the sound of the bolt echoed through the empty house.

Pitch black.

She flicked the light switch near the entryway; a single lamp blinked to life, throwing long shadows across the hallway. Shoes by the door. A half-drunk glass of water on the console. Everything looked like it was waiting for someone who hadn’t come home.

Of course she isn’t here, Ling thought. Miu hadn’t been “here” for years. Not really.

She walked through the quiet, past the framed photographs, the carefully arranged furniture. Each step felt louder than it should have. When she reached the dining room, she didn’t bother turning on more lights. The one above the table was enough… harsh, unflattering, real.

Ling pulled out a chair and sat down. The wood was cold against her palms.

For a long moment she did nothing. Just breathed. The clock in the living room ticked, steady and indifferent. She stared at the opposite chair…. empty and tried to remember the last time Miu had sat there. The image didn’t come.

Only the memory did.

It had been a small ceremony.

A private garden in Oahu, just as the sun dipped low enough to paint everything gold. No press, no grand speeches, just a handful of guests and a photographer who knew how to disappear into the background. The ocean murmured behind them, and the scent of hibiscus hung thick in the air.

Ling remembered the fabric of her dress brushing against her ankles , soft, simple, nothing extravagant. Miu had insisted on white too, claiming, “Why should you have all the symbolism?” They had laughed, the sound carried away by the wind.

Her family’s golden retriever, Tofu, trotted proudly down the aisle with a tiny pillow tied around his neck, the rings gleaming like small suns. Everyone laughed when he stopped halfway to sniff the flowers, and even Ling’s father, stiff in his linen suit, smiled for the cameras.

Their vows were quiet. Honest.

“I don’t know what love will look like ten years from now,” Ling had said, voice steady but low. “But I know it looks like you right now.”

Miu’s hand had trembled as she slipped the ring onto Ling’s finger. “You are the calm I didn’t know I needed,” she’d said. “The world will always want something from us, but here , in this moment , I just want you.”

The officiant pronounced them married. Applause rippled through the garden, gentle as the waves beyond. Miu kissed her, sunlight catching the edge of her veil, and for a second, the entire world seemed to glow.

The reception was small, almost domestic. Lanterns strung above the tables, laughter floating with the night breeze. Someone played guitar. Tofu stole a dinner roll from under the table and became the evening’s hero. Ling’s mother made a toast that sounded suspiciously rehearsed by a speechwriter, but it didn’t matter , everyone was smiling, everyone pretending this was love’s purest form.

Miu had leaned into her, whispering, “We did it,” and Ling had nodded, choosing not to think about what it really meant.

When the music faded and the guests began to leave, the two of them walked back to their suite, hand in hand. The air inside smelled faintly of gardenia and salt.

Miu had closed the door softly behind them, turning the lock.

Back in the present, the memory cracked open into sound.

The same soft click … faint, unmistakable… echoed through the townhouse.

Ling’s breath caught.

Her eyes lifted toward the hallway just as the front door eased shut. Footsteps followed … slow, deliberate , the familiar rhythm of heels against hardwood.

The air shifted.

She didn’t turn around right away. The sound of Miu’s keys hitting the console, the faint rustle of her coat, reached her first. Then silence. The kind that isn’t empty but waiting.

Ling’s hands tightened around the edge of the dining table. The years folded in on themselves, the past and present aligning in one unbearable heartbeat.

Ling didn’t move.

She heard the voice before she saw her , that same voice she had once loved enough to build a life around.

“My love,” Miu said softly, from the doorway, her tone almost tender. “What are you doing in the dark?” A pause, light footsteps crossing the wood. “Are you fine?”

The endearment hit Ling like a knife turned in an old wound. My love. The words that used to feel like home now sounded like theft.

She didn’t answer. The only sound in the room was the rain still whispering against the windows, faint, distant, steady.

The color drained from Miu’s face. “Ling…”

Ling rose slowly, the scrape of the chair cutting through the silence like a blade. Her eyes; dark, glossy, tired … locked on Miu’s with the precision of a surgeon about to make an incision.

“You vowed to protect me,” Ling said quietly, her voice trembling not with weakness but restraint. “You stood in front of my parents, you told the world you’d fight for me. And then you blackmailed the woman I loved. You watched her run from her life. You threatened me with scandal ….for what?”

Her voice rose, cracking on the edge of grief. “So you could keep your precious board seat? So you and Lorena could hold on to your empire?”

Miu’s mouth opened, nothing came out.

“Humor me,” Ling said, stepping closer, each word deliberate, poisoned with disbelief. “Which side of you is real? The woman who said she’d love me through fire, or the one who lit the match?”

“Ling, it wasn’t like that,” Miu managed, her voice small, fragile.

Ling laughed, a sharp, broken sound. “Oh, don’t you dare start that. It’s exactly like that. You did it, Miu. You and your perfect little partner in crime. You dug up every photograph, every whisper, every piece of my private life, and fed it to the wolves so that you wouldn’t lose your seat.”

Her voice dropped, lower now, deadly calm. “You didn’t protect me. You protected your access. My father’s connections. My name. My influence. That’s what you married, isn’t it? Not me … the Governor’s daughter, the clean reputation, the brand that opened doors you couldn’t reach alone.”

Miu took a breath, unsteady. “I built everything beside you…”

“No.” Ling cut her off, eyes blazing. “You built it on me. On my name. On my silence. On the illusion that we were happy, progressive, perfect. You used me to look untouchable, and when I tried to leave, you made sure I couldn’t.”

Miu’s composure began to fracture, her hands shaking as she stepped closer. “Ling, I didn’t want to lose you.”

Ling let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You didn’t want to lose my power.”

She circled the table slowly, her voice a low, controlled storm. “You couldn’t stand the thought of me walking away and taking your ladder with me. You needed that board seat … the Governor’s daughter as your wife, the progressive marriage, the image that made investors open their wallets. You didn’t want me. You wanted the illusion of me.”

Miu’s tears came hot and sudden. “That’s not true”

“Then say it!” Ling shouted, finally breaking. “Say it wasn’t you. Say it wasn’t Lorena. Say you didn’t plan every detail , the threats, the photos, the lies. Say you didn’t pay to have me watched like some PR liability waiting to explode!”

Miu’s lips parted, trembling … but she said nothing.

Ling’s tears fell then, one after another, unstoppable. “That’s what I thought,” she whispered.

She sank back against the edge of the table, breath shaking, her voice almost gone. “I kept trying to understand you, you know. I thought maybe somewhere in all that ambition there was still a woman who loved me. The one who spilled coffee on me, who laughed until she cried, who stood up to my father and told him to shut up. But she’s gone, Miu. She’s gone, and you killed her the day you decided your future was worth more than my life.”

Miu’s voice cracked. “Ling, please, you have to understand…”

“Understand?” Ling repeated, incredulous. “Understand what? That you and your girlfriend turned me into collateral damage? That you sold me to keep your seat warm?”

The room went still. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering once, then steadied.

Ling looked at her… really looked. The woman who had once held her through nightmares now stood before her in tailored betrayal immaculate as ever, even when the truth had stripped her down to bone.

“You think I care that I was exposed?” Ling’s voice broke, sharp but steady. “That I became a scandal, that they called me names, that the press dragged me for months? You think that’s what this is about?”

Miu opened her mouth, but Ling didn’t give her the chance.

“I could have lived with that,” she said, louder now, raw and shaking. “I could have lived with humiliation, with ruin, with the world calling me every filthy word it knows. I’ve done it before. I could have taken the shame, the headlines, the stares.”

She took a step closer, her tears glinting under the dim light. “But you…you , you took the one thing I couldn’t lose. You took her. You took Orm.”

Miu’s breath caught. “Ling…”

“No.” Ling’s voice trembled, fury cutting through grief. “You didn’t just end a relationship, Miu. You destroyed a life. You destroyed our life… mine and hers. You played with her fear, her guilt, her love. You watched her crumble under your threats, thinking she was protecting me while you were tearing her apart.”

Her chest rose and fell in fast, shallow breaths. “You sent those photos, those messages, knowing exactly what she’d do… that she’d run, that she’d disappear, that she’d carry the blame for both of us while you stood on your podium of power pretending to be noble.”

Miu’s tears fell freely now, her voice cracking. “Ling, please, you have to believe me, I didn’t want”

“You didn’t want?” Ling spat, laughter twisting into sobs. “You didn’t want? You wanted everything! You and Lorena. The board seat, the firm, the influence, the perfect little empire built on the ashes of everyone who loved you.”

Miu flinched, but Ling pressed on.

“I could have forgiven you if you had only hurt me,” she whispered, the words trembling. “I could have forgiven the lies, the manipulation, the power games. But not this. Not her.”

She paused, her voice softening into something far more dangerous than rage … grief. “She loved me, Miu. She loved me without condition, without agenda, without ever wanting anything from me. And you broke her. You made her believe that loving me was dangerous. That our happiness was a sin. You made her leave thinking she was saving me … when all along, it was you pulling the strings.”

The silence after that felt heavy, like the air itself couldn’t bear the weight of her words.

Miu’s lips trembled. “Ling... I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Ling’s laugh was sharp, hollow. “You didn’t just hurt her. You erased her. You turned her into collateral. You took something pure and turned it into your shield, your bargaining chip. You used her love for me as a weapon.”

She stepped back, shaking her head, voice breaking. “And that….that is what I will never forgive.”

Miu looked shattered now, tears streaking down her face, mascara bleeding into ruin. “I did what I had to. Lorena said if we didn’t….”

“If you didn’t, what?” Ling cut in, voice rising, trembling. “You’d lose a seat at the table? You’d lose your place among people who wouldn’t even remember your name if it wasn’t next to mine?”

She let out a bitter laugh that cracked in the middle. “You could’ve let me go, Miu. You could’ve let me love her. You could’ve walked away with dignity, with some sliver of the woman I used to know. But instead, you became this... this thing that destroys whatever it touches, all because you were terrified of not being seen.”

Miu took a step forward, whispering, “You don’t understand….”

Ling stepped back. “No, I finally do.”

Her tears had dried now, leaving only that terrible, hollow calm. “You were never afraid of losing me. You were afraid of becoming invisible without me. You were afraid the world would stop listening if you weren’t half of us.”

Ling took a step closer. The softness in her voice was gone, replaced by something sharper, colder…the kind of steadiness that came when heartbreak finally hardened into resolve. Her eyes, glimmering with the remnants of tears, fixed on Miu with a terrifying stillness.

“You knew what might happen,” she said quietly. “You knew what you were doing when you sent those threats. You knew you were playing with someone’s heart, with her life and you still did it.”

Miu swallowed, her breath catching. “Ling..”

Ling cut her off with a faint, humorless smile. “You always said I was too gentle. Too diplomatic. Too careful.” She stepped closer, her voice lowering to something lethal. “But you’ve never actually seen what happens when someone hurts the people I love.”

The silence between them thickened. Miu’s expression faltered, confusion flickering into fear.

“I warned you once,” Ling continued, her tone like ice cracking. “Back when my father tried to pull my strings. When the press tried to make me their story. When I refused to let anyone decide who I could love.” She leaned in just enough that Miu could feel the heat of her breath. “You’ve just joined their list.”

Miu’s voice trembled. “What are you saying?”

Ling straightened, her gaze unwavering. “I’m saying that you’ve spent your entire life building an empire on other people’s silence. But you touched something that doesn’t forgive.” Her lips curved faintly, almost a smile. “You hurt her. And for that, Miu... I will show you exactly what Lingling Kwong looks like when you make a war out of love.”

Miu took a step back, the color draining from her face.

“You think you’ve won?” Ling’s tone was almost soft now, and that softness was worse than anger. “You think sitting on that board seat means victory? You think you can bury what you did behind lawyers and press statements? No. I’m going to peel back everything you built, brick by brick, truth by truth. I’m going to make the world see who you really are.”

Miu shook her head, trying to find her composure. “Ling, you don’t understand how dangerous this could…”

“I understand perfectly,” Ling said, voice steady, final. “You took the woman I loved and turned her into a ghost. You made her believe that her love was poison. You took my happiness and turned it into your shield.” She paused, her next words a whisper that felt like a curse. “Now I’ll take your empire and turn it into your grave.”

The silence that followed was electric, alive with the tension of something irreversible. Miu stared at her, eyes wide, lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came.

Ling reached for her coat, her movements slow, deliberate, the calm before the reckoning. “You wanted to see how ruthless I could be when cornered?” she said, slipping the fabric over her shoulders. “You’re about to find out.”

She turned toward the door, her final words low and certain, each syllable cutting through the air like a blade.

“You made me a scandal, Miu. I’ll make you a headline.”

The door opened, rain spilling silver across the threshold. Ling didn’t look back. “You should start praying,” she said softly, “because I’m done forgiving.”

Then she stepped into the storm, and the sound of the door closing behind her wasn’t an ending… it was a declaration of war.

Chapter Text

Author's POV


Anger. It’s an emotion. Most people learn to manage it... to soften it with reason, to hide it under apology or grace. Most people believe that control is a virtue.

But Ling never learned that kind of control.

She only learned containment... and containment is not the same as calm. It’s a dam. It’s a pressure building behind silence until something cracks.

She looked like someone who could control it... polished, graceful, the woman who could talk her way out of any room, any scandal, any storm. But that composure was never peace. It was restraint. And restraint, in Lingling Kwong, had a breaking point.

Because when she was angry... truly angry... it wasn’t logic that guided her. It was something deeper, darker, inherited and untamed.

When her temper broke, it was deafening. Not metaphorically …. physically. Rooms seemed smaller, air thinner, the world itself bending to her fury. There was no measured tone, no calculated cruelty. Just an eruption... wild and human and devastating.

Orm had seen it once. She would never forget it.

They had gone out that night to celebrate...Orm making to the summa-cum-laude and being an extraordinary student, a small victory after months of exhaustion and self-doubt. Ling had insisted they go drinking... something light, something stupid, something that made them feel like a normal couple.

The club was dim, loud, and alive with sweat and laughter. Orm remembered the heat, the pulse of bass, the haze of perfume and spilled cocktails. Ling had been glowing, her hair loose, her smile rare and unguarded. They had been happy. Carefree. For once.

Until it happened.

They were walking back from the bar when a man brushed past too close... the kind of touch meant to look accidental but wasn’t. His hand grazed Orm’s ass, quick, deliberate, vile. He turned, his face already forming an apology shaped like mockery.

“Sorry,” he said, smirking.

Ling froze.

There was a heartbeat of silence... and then she turned.

It was not graceful, not elegant. It was primal. She closed the distance between them in two strides and hit him square in the jaw. The sound was sickening, a dull, wet crack that cut through the music like lightning through static.

The man staggered back, stunned. But Ling wasn’t done. She grabbed him by the collar and hit him again. And again. Each strike sharper, angrier, heavier. The crowd shifted around them... a blur of shouts and motion... but Ling didn’t hear it. She only saw red.

The man fell to his knees, hands raised, blood on his lip. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stammered.

Ling’s voice trembled with rage. “Say it again.”

He did. Crying now.

Orm didn’t know how to move. She had seen Ling angry before, sharp words, cold stares, the cutting kind of fury that wounded without touch. But this... this was different. This was violence. Raw. Physical. Honest.

Orm was shouting her name, pulling her back. Her knuckles were bleeding, her breath coming in ragged bursts. For a moment, Orm didn’t even recognize her.

Ling tore away from their grip and walked straight out of the club, past the bouncer, past the line of startled strangers, into the back alley.

Orm followed.

The air outside was cold, thick with the smell of smoke and rain. Ling stood under a flickering streetlight, her shoulders trembling, her eyes dark and wild. She was muttering under her breath... cursing the man, cursing the world, cursing herself for not having hit him harder.

Her hands were shaking violently. Blood slicked her knuckles. She didn’t even notice.

“How dare he touch you,” Ling yelled, voice breaking, the sound echoing off brick and metal.

Orm flinched. For a moment she was afraid, not of Ling, but of the force inside her... the untamed thing that could love so fiercely it turned destructive.

But then she stepped closer, heart pounding. She knew this side of Ling. She knew how to reach her.

“Baby,” Orm said softly, her voice trembling.

Ling didn’t look at her. She was still pacing, still breathing too fast, still trapped in the echo of the fight. “I should have killed him... fucking bastard... touching you like that...”

“Ling,” Orm whispered, taking her hand.

The contact was electric. Ling jerked at first, the heat of her skin, the pulse under her veins, still burning from the adrenaline. But Orm didn’t let go.

“Calm down,” she said, her voice low, coaxing. “It’s over. Look at me.”

Ling’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Her knuckles were streaked with red. She looked down at Orm’s hand wrapped around hers... small, warm, steady.

Something shifted.

Orm moved closer, their foreheads almost touching now. “ I'm safe,” she whispered. “He can’t hurt me. You stopped him. It’s done.”

Ling’s breath hitched. The anger trembled... alive, refusing to die... but beneath it, something softer stirred.

Orm’s thumb brushed over her bruised knuckles. “It’s okay,” she said. “You did what you had to do.”

Ling’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Her entire body was shaking... the kind of trembling that comes not from rage anymore but from the aftermath of it.

Orm reached up, cupping Ling’s face in both hands, guiding her eyes back to hers. “You’re here with me,” she said. “Not there. With me.”

It was like pulling her back from a storm.

Ling exhaled sharply, a shuddering breath that turned into a sob she didn’t expect. She leaned forward until her forehead pressed against Orm’s shoulder, her body still taut as a bowstring.

Orm held her, tight, grounding, gentle. Her hands ran through Ling’s hair, down her back, feeling the tension slowly melt into exhaustion.

They stayed like that for a long time... the alley quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the city still pulsing somewhere far away.

Eventually, Ling spoke... her voice hoarse. “I can’t stand it,” she said. “When people think they can touch you... hurt you... and I just...”

“I know,” Orm whispered. “But you don’t have to destroy yourself to protect me.”

Ling’s head lifted slightly, her eyes red, wet, but calmer now. “You’re the only thing that makes me forget how to breathe,” she said quietly. “When I saw his hand on you, I stopped thinking.”

Orm smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then think of me now.”

Ling let out a broken laugh... half pain, half relief. The darkness in her gaze softened, if only slightly.

Orm kissed her forehead, tasting salt, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of blood.

The world hadn’t forgiven Ling yet. Maybe it never would. But in that small alley, under the yellow streetlight and the sound of rain, Orm did what no one else could... she held the fire and taught it to rest.

Because if Ling was chaos, Orm was gravity.

And every time Ling’s temper threatened to swallow her whole... it was Orm’s love that pulled her back to earth.

Orm paced the length of her apartment, the small space shrinking with every turn. The clock on the wall had long since stopped meaning anything. It had been hours since Ling walked out, hours since the sound of the door closing had split the air like a gunshot.

The city outside was quiet, too quiet for a night like this. Somewhere, a siren wailed, distant and fading, and Orm’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She kept staring at her phone... the familiar dot on the map that had become both comfort and curse. It still existed, still pulsed faintly against the dark screen... Ling’s location, frozen in place for the past two hours.

That old "find my phone" location Orm made Ling share had been something she never bothered to disconnect, one of those small digital ghosts that lingered even after everything ended. Orm had never used it before tonight. Now, she couldn’t stop.

The dot hadn’t moved.

She tried to tell herself that Ling was somewhere safe... maybe in her car, maybe calming down, maybe crying. But Orm knew better. She had seen the look in her eyes when she left... the stillness that wasn’t grief, the silence that wasn’t peace. The version of Ling that came out tonight wasn’t the one who reasoned or forgave. It was the one that fought. The one that destroyed.

Orm pressed the phone tighter to her chest, whispering to no one. “Please, let her just cool off... please don’t let her do something she can’t come back from.”

She paced again, faster this time. Her reflection followed her in the dark window, her face pale and wild, her eyes full of every possibility she didn’t want to imagine. She kept glancing down at the map, the same unmoving blue dot in the same place... like a heartbeat caught mid-beat.

The hours stretched until exhaustion blurred the edges of fear. Orm sat down on the couch, the phone still in her hand, staring at it until her vision burned.

And then it moved.

Just a small shift... a few streets over.

Her pulse jumped. “Come on, Ling... come back,” she whispered.

She prayed to every god she had long stopped believing in, every forgotten name she had once learned through her mother’s stories. It didn’t matter who was listening. All she wanted was for Ling’s name to appear closer... nearer... home.

But the dot didn’t come back.

It drifted further... south... slow, deliberate.

And then it stopped again.

Orm blinked, leaned forward, her thumb shaking as she zoomed in on the screen.

The name of the location loaded slowly... the letters forming one by one, cruel in their clarity.

S&M LLC.

The law firm. Miu and Lorena’s empire.

For a moment, Orm couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to tilt, her pulse roaring in her ears. She knew what that meant. Knew what Ling was capable of when the last thread of mercy snapped.

Whatever she had planned, it wasn’t conversation.

Orm stood up, heart pounding so hard it hurt. She could almost see it in her mind... the glass towers, the empty offices, the fluorescent lights that would make Ling’s anger look colder, sharper. The woman inside those walls , the one who had built her career on ruin , had no idea what was coming.

“God, no,” Orm whispered, grabbing her keys. Her voice cracked as she said it again, louder this time. “No, no, no...”

She didn’t know if she was praying for Miu to survive the night... or for Ling not to lose the last piece of her soul trying to make sure she didn’t.

The phone screen glowed in the dark, the little dot still pulsing steadily over the firm’s name.

Orm knew that look in Ling’s eyes... that terrifying, holy fury. She had seen it once before, in that alley, when the woman she loved forgot reason and became rage itself.

And tonight... that side of Ling was loose again.

Orm pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t let her become the thing she’s fighting.”

But the screen stayed lit... the dot unmoving.

And somewhere across the city, under the cold hum of fluorescent light, the storm that was Lingling Kwong had finally found its target.

Orm worried what Ling might do... who might catch her wrath... she grabbed her coat and keys without thinking. Her body moved before her mind could stop her. The city outside was slick with rain, the air thick with the metallic taste of panic. She ran down the narrow stairwell, her footsteps echoing off the concrete walls, breath sharp and fast.

By the time she reached the street, her hands were shaking. The wind tore through her hair as she stepped off the curb, waving frantically at the empty road. “Taxi... please... come on...”

A pair of headlights flashed. A cab slowed, its brakes screeching against wet asphalt. She climbed in, slamming the door shut, voice breaking as she gave the address.

“S&M LLC... please, hurry.”

The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror, concern flickering across his tired face, but Orm didn’t notice. Her heart was in her throat.

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen long, fucking minutes.

Every one of them stretched like an eternity. The city outside blurred into streaks of yellow and gray. Her mind wouldn’t stop replaying that look , the way Ling’s eyes had gone cold before she walked out. That silence. That steady, terrifying calm that only meant one thing.

Orm pressed her palms together, whispering under her breath. “Please, please don’t do something you’ll regret... please don’t let it be too late...”

The cab turned onto Federal Street, the buildings growing taller, the lights sharper. She could already see the firm’s tower rising above the others, glass gleaming like a blade in the rain.

When the car stopped, she threw money onto the seat and ran.

The lobby doors were locked, but a security guard stood frozen behind the desk, his voice trembling into the phone. She didn’t need to ask why.

She heard it.

The sound carried through the building like thunder.

Metal hitting glass.

Something heavy breaking.

And then a scream , not of pain, but of fury.

The elevator ride felt endless. Each number flickered too slowly, each floor a layer of dread building beneath her ribs.

Twenty-one... twenty-two...

When the doors finally opened, the 23rd floor greeted her like the aftermath of a war.

The firm’s name , S&M LLC , once mounted in sleek silver letters across the glass reception wall, was shattered. The letters lay scattered on the marble floor, cracked and bent, smeared with streaks of mud and something darker.

The place looked gutted.

Documents ripped from their folders littered the hallway. Chairs overturned. A conference table split clean down the middle. The scent of cleaning fluid and smoke hung in the air, sharp and dizzying.

And then she heard it again.

That sound.

A deep, rhythmic thud.

Orm followed it, heart hammering, until she reached the corner office.

Miu’s office was already a ruin , the framed degrees shattered, the bookshelf overturned, the desk cracked at the center like someone had tried to split it in half. The photo of their wedding lay facedown in a puddle of spilled whiskey.

But the noise wasn’t coming from there.

It came from the room next door.

Lorena’s.

Orm pushed the door open and froze.

Ling was there.

Her coat thrown aside, her hair wild, her shirt clinging to her from the rain. She stood in the center of the office, surrounded by chaos, her chest heaving, eyes black with fury. In her hands, she gripped a golf club, its metal shaft bent slightly from impact.

The carpet was littered with shards of glass, splintered wood, and the remnants of Lorena’s framed accolades.

She was breathing hard... ragged, animal, relentless.

Every swing came down with purpose. Every crash of metal against furniture echoed through the empty floor.

“You ruined her,” she screamed, slamming the club into the glass table again. “You ruined everything!”

The sound shattered through the space.

Orm’s heart clenched. “Ling!” she shouted, stepping forward, voice shaking.

But Ling didn’t hear her. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. Her movements were wild now, her strength terrifying. The club connected again, scattering shards of glass like rain. Her hands were bleeding, the knuckles raw where the metal bit her skin.

“Ling, stop!”

Orm’s voice cracked, but Ling only turned slightly, her face illuminated by the flickering overhead light.

There was nothing left of the woman who used to calculate every breath, every word.

This was the storm itself , unfiltered, unrestrained.

Her chest rose and fell like she was trying to breathe through fire. Her lips trembled, her teeth clenched so tightly they could have broken.

“She took everything,” Ling hissed. “My name... my peace... you... she took you from me.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, raw and trembling. The sound didn’t echo , it detonated.

She swung again, the club arcing through the air, smashing into the remains of Lorena’s desk. The wood split with a violent crack, papers fluttering upward like frightened birds.

Orm flinched at the sound.

It wasn’t just fury anymore... it was heartbreak weaponized. Grief wrapped in the shape of rage. Love twisted into destruction.

Ling stood over the wreckage, her shoulders heaving, her hands shaking so hard the club nearly slipped from her grasp. “She took you from me,” she said again, her voice lower now, trembling. “She made you think leaving was saving me... she made you disappear.”

Her eyes glistened under the sterile office light, wild and bright and broken all at once.

“Ling,” Orm whispered, stepping closer, her voice cautious, fragile. “Please... look at me.”

But Ling didn’t. Her chest was rising and falling too fast. Her hair clung to her face, damp with sweat and rain, her lips trembling as if the words themselves were cutting her open from the inside.

“I waited,” Ling said suddenly, her voice cracking, her body trembling. “Every fucking night I waited... wondering what I did wrong... what I said... why you left... and all this time, it was her. It was them.”

Her knuckles tightened around the handle again, white against red, blood dripping onto the floor in slow, heavy drops.

“Ling,” Orm said softly, “put it down. Please.”

But Ling was far away now... lost inside the echo of betrayal, inside the place where her anger had always lived.

Her breathing hitched. Her voice came out quieter, but colder. “She thought she could touch my life and get away with it. She thought she could ruin you, ruin us, and still sit in her office smiling.”

She turned suddenly, the club slamming into the glass wall beside her. It shattered, spiderwebbing across the entire pane. The shards fell like rain.

Orm’s heart jumped into her throat.

Ling’s shoulders were shaking violently now, her hands bleeding freely. Her breath came out like sobs she couldn’t contain. “She took you,” she whispered again. “She took the only thing I ever loved that wasn’t for show.”

And then something inside her broke.

She raised the club again, her whole body trembling with the weight of everything she had held in for years. It came down with a savage crack, splintering the edge of a cabinet. The sound echoed through the room like thunder. Then again. And again.

Ling didn’t stop. She didn’t see what she was hitting anymore... papers, glass, furniture, the corner of the desk. It didn’t matter. Everything was a target. Everything deserved to fall.

Orm stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest. “Ling... stop...” she said, her voice breaking. But Ling didn’t hear her. The swing came again, wild and desperate, scattering shards of broken glass across the floor.

“Ling!”

Orm lunged forward, catching her wrist mid-swing. The impact jolted through both of them. Ling’s arm froze, muscles still locked in motion, the club hovering inches from another blow.

“Enough,” Orm said through trembling lips, her hand gripping tighter. “Enough, Ling. Please.”

The resistance in Ling’s arm was unreal... all tension, no reason. Her pulse was a storm beneath her skin. The heat from her body radiated against Orm’s hands.

And then, as they struggled, a sound , small but sharp , sliced through the chaos.

Orm gasped.

She looked down and saw a sliver of glass jutting from her palm, blood blooming bright and fast between her fingers.

Ling froze.

For a second the world seemed to stop. The echo of the last crash still trembled in the air, but neither of them moved.

Orm stared at her own hand, dazed, and then looked up. Ling’s expression shifted , fury collapsing into horror in an instant.

“Orm...” she whispered.

Her voice cracked on the name.

The club slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor with a hollow clang.

Ling’s breath hitched as she reached out, hands hovering, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse. “You’re bleeding... oh God, you’re bleeding...”

“It’s just a cut,” Orm murmured, but her voice trembled. The blood was thin and bright, running down her wrist.

Ling’s eyes followed it, wide and unblinking. “No... no, no, no... I hurt you...”

Her knees almost gave out. She dropped down beside Orm, pulling the hem of her sleeve over her shaking hand and pressing it against the wound, desperate, frantic. “I didn’t mean to... I swear I didn’t...”

Orm winced softly but didn’t pull away. “Ling, it’s alright... hey, look at me...”

Ling’s eyes darted up, her pupils blown wide, her breathing uneven. “I hurt you,” she said again, her voice small, breaking. “I hurt you and I swore I never would.”

Orm cupped her cheek with her uninjured hand, forcing Ling to meet her gaze. “It was an accident,” she whispered. “You didn’t do it on purpose. I know you didn’t.”

Ling’s jaw trembled. The fury that had consumed her moments ago was gone now, replaced by sheer devastation. Her body was shaking so badly Orm could feel it through her hands.

“Hey,” Orm said softly, her tone low and steady, the way you speak to a wounded animal. “Breathe. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Ling pressed the fabric tighter to Orm’s palm, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I scared you,” she whispered. “Did I scare you?”

Orm hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. “No”

Ling blinked, the words sinking in slowly, painfully. Her shoulders slumped as she exhaled a trembling breath. Her hands were still trembling, slick with a mix of her own blood and Orm’s.

Orm leaned forward, resting her forehead against Ling’s. The air between them smelled of sweat and dust and iron. “You’re here,” she murmured. “That’s what matters. You’re here with me.”

Ling’s fingers tightened around hers. “I didn’t mean to lose it,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I just... I saw her name on the door... I thought about what they took... and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop seeing you leave.”

“I know,” Orm whispered, brushing her thumb across Ling’s jaw. “But you can stop now.”

Ling looked at her then, eyes glassy and distant, a thousand thoughts burning behind them. Her breath came out sharp, almost a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “How should I?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Tell me, how the hell should I stop?”

She pulled her hand away, pacing across the wrecked office, her movements unsteady but urgent. The shards of glass crunched under her shoes. “They ruined our life, Orm... the life we planned together... the dreams we had... the family we imagined building one day. They took everything before it could even begin.”

Her voice rose, thick with grief. “How do I stop when I wake up every morning and see what’s left of it? When I remember what we wanted… the trips, the house, the quiet mornings where we didn’t have to hide? How do I pretend that I can just move on?”

She ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head, tears cutting clean lines down her face. “I spent years thinking I destroyed my marriage to Miu... thinking I was the one who broke everything. I carried that guilt like a disease. And all this time... all this fucking time... it was them. They ruined it. They used me. They built their empire on the ashes of our happiness.”

“I will ruin everything they built,” Ling said, each word a slow blade. “Everything they created on us... everything they own. I will take it and smash it into pieces... they will see a Ling they have never seen.”

The promise hung in the air between them, thick and dangerous, a thing that made the room feel smaller and the lights dimmer. Ling’s voice was low, steady, the kind of quiet that carries the weight of action rather than the thinness of threat. Her hands still trembled where they held Orm’s, knuckles white against warm skin. Blood had crusted at the cut on Orm’s palm, a small, stubborn scarlet that glinted under the fluorescents like an accusation.

Orm listened, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might burst through her ribs. Part of her wanted to cheer, to stand and clap for the woman who would not bow, who would not be erased by other people’s cruelty. Part of her wanted to slide her hand down Ling’s arm and feel for the soft place where rage had not yet hollowed out the rest of her.

But most of her felt only a cold, lurching fear.

“Ling,” she said, voice small enough to be private in that ruined office. “If you do this, if you go after them like that... it will change everything. It might feel like you won in most cynical way, it might topple Lorena, it might force Miu to answer for what she did. But it will also take you places I’m not sure I can follow.”

Ling’s jaw tightened. She looked at Orm as if seeing her through a fogged window. “Then don’t follow,” she said, but there was no cruelty in it. It was a test. An admission. “I will do this alone if I must.”

Orm’s throat closed. The idea of Ling alone in the dark, hunting like that, pulled at every soft place inside her. “You don’t have to,” she whispered. “We can…”

“No,” Ling cut in, and the word landed with the finality of a gavel. She swallowed, eyes closing for a beat as if to steady herself, then opened them, fierce and clear. “No, Orm. This is my reckoning. They used my life as collateral. They turned our love into a ledger entry and expected me to sign away the rest of myself without protest. I can’t let that be the last thing they remember.”

Orm kept watching her, mapping the edges of the woman she loved, the map of temper and tenderness, the fissures that had always run beneath that perfect surface. She could see why Ling’s anger had become an engine: it was not only about retribution. It was about reclaiming the self they had tried to take.

“And you’ll be careful,” Orm said finally. “Promise me you’ll at least be careful.”

Ling’s laugh was a short, hollow thing. “Careful?” she echoed. “Careful is what got them everything. Careful is why they learned to press my wounds until I left bleeding alone. No... if I’m going to be dangerous, I will be precise. I will be surgical.”

Orm’s mouth formed the shape of a warning she did not voice. Precision had a way of demanding moral surrender; surgical strikes required cold calculation and remorseless patience. She had seen that patience in Ling before…the patient dismantling of a debate opponent, the quiet accumulation of evidence in a file. This was different only in the object of its aim.

“You promised me once,” Orm said, the memory of gentler mornings threading through her words. “You promised we wouldn’t become monsters for the sake of a fight.”

Ling’s face softened for a heartbeat. “I remember,” she said. “And I remember loving you in a kitchen with cereal on our lips and arguments about nothing. I remember laughing until we cried. I remember being small with you.”

She looked down, fingers finding Orm’s cut again, tracing the path of the blood with a tenderness that contradicted her threat. “I am not trying to become a monster,” she said. “I am trying to be a woman who refuses to be erased.”

Orm’s breath trembled. For a moment she just looked at her... at the fury still pulsing under Ling’s skin, at the tears that had dried into salt on her cheeks, at the trembling that had not yet stopped. Ling’s eyes were dark and glassy, reflecting nothing but fire. And Orm … God, Orm… she was terrified.

Not of Ling. Never of Ling. But of the way pain had remade her.

There was something in her eyes now that didn’t belong to the woman she loved. It was like watching the sea right before a storm… breathtaking and deadly, something you could drown in before you even realized you were sinking.

Orm wanted to take her away from all of it... from the glass and the blood and the ghosts of what they had lost. She wanted to take her somewhere far, somewhere quiet, somewhere the world could no longer find them. The edges of the world, maybe, where the air tasted like nothing, and the only thing that existed was the steady beat of her heart under Orm’s palm.

She pictured them somewhere coastal, maybe, the waves pulling gently at the sand, Ling’s laughter breaking through the wind again. She wanted to see her smile without ruin in it. She wanted her to breathe without fire behind it.

But right now, Ling wasn’t breathing. She was burning.

Orm swallowed hard and spoke softly, each word a thread trying to tie her back to something human. “Okay... okay, let’s just go home for now, yeah?”

Ling blinked, her expression flickering …confusion, exhaustion, something like disbelief.

Orm stepped closer, her voice breaking. “Let’s just... let go of the club. Please. We can go home. We can talk. We can sleep. Just... no more tonight.”

Ling’s gaze drifted to the golf club on the floor, its metal slick with blood and dust. The sight of it seemed to drag her somewhere else , back into the fury, back into the moment she thought destruction was the only language left.

“Ling,” Orm whispered again, touching her arm. “Please.”

Ling’s jaw clenched, her body taut as a wire, every muscle fighting itself. For a long second, Orm thought she might not listen, might pick the club back up and keep going until there was nothing left to break.

But then Ling’s breath hitched. She looked at Orm, really looked, and something inside her cracked.

Her hand dropped.

The sound of the club hitting the floor was soft this time, dull against the carpet. It rolled once, stopped near the shattered glass.

Ling’s shoulders sagged. Her body swayed, drained of whatever dark energy had been holding her upright.

Orm caught her before she could fall, arms circling around her waist, steadying her. Ling leaned against her, shaking, her face pressed into Orm’s shoulder.

“Let’s go home,” Orm murmured again, her voice gentler now, the way you speak to someone lost in a nightmare. “Let’s go home, my baby. Just you and me.”

Ling didn’t answer, but her arms moved … slow, hesitant…wrapping around Orm like someone clinging to the only solid thing left in a collapsing world.

Orm pressed a kiss to her temple, the smell of sweat and metal thick in the air. “We’ll leave all of this behind,” she whispered. “You don’t have to carry it tonight.”

Ling’s voice came out small, barely there. “Home.”

“Yes,” Orm said, stroking her hair. “Home.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ling didn’t fight. She didn’t argue or resist. She just let herself be led, the fury in her bones quieting into something fragile.

Orm guided her through the broken room, past the wreckage of names and power and betrayal. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see what Ling’s anger had done. She just wanted to take her away … from the city, from the noise, from the ghosts that refused to die.

As they stepped into the hallway, the cold air hit them like absolution. Ling shivered, and Orm pulled her closer.

Outside, the rain was waiting.

Orm tilted her head toward the sky, closing her eyes for a moment. If there was mercy in this world, she prayed it would find them now. Not as heroes, not as victims... just as two women trying to survive what love had turned them into.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered one last time.

Four hours... that’s how long Orm could hold Ling in one place. Four hours of coaxing, of grounding, of making her drink water and breathe like the world wasn’t burning just beyond the apartment walls. Ling had slept for two of those hours, her body finally giving out. But when she woke, she didn’t say a word. She went straight for her phone.

By eight in the morning, the war had resumed , this time quieter, sharper, and far more dangerous.

Ling sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop open, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice a smooth current of calm threaded with command.

“Tell them to freeze the contract until my call... yes, I’ll handle the board’s counsel myself.”

Her tone was professional, crisp, untouchable. If anyone on the other end of those calls suspected that she had nearly burned down an entire floor the night before, they didn’t dare say it.

She called in favors, one after another. Her father. Her colleagues. Her friends who owned firms, friends whose families ran companies and banks and committees. People who trusted Ling Kwong without question, people who once believed in S&M LLP because her name had been tied to it.

Orm watched her move like a machine. No hesitation. No tremor. The woman who had fallen apart in her arms hours ago was gone , replaced by something colder, steadier, terrifyingly focused.

Orm didn’t go to work. She couldn’t.

Part of it was fear …of what the office must look like now, the glass, the broken walls, the rumors already circling. But mostly, it was her refusal to leave Ling alone.

Because deep down, Orm knew... if she hadn’t been there last night, if she hadn’t stopped her, Ling wouldn’t have stopped at destruction. She would’ve gone further. She would’ve ruined more than a nameplate.

When the clock struck eleven, Ling ended another call and stood abruptly.

“You should get ready for work,” she said.

Orm blinked, confused. “What?”

Ling looked up from her phone, her expression unreadable. “We’re going sightseeing.”

Orm frowned. “Sightseeing?”

“Come on,” Ling said flatly. “Get ready.”

There was no smile. No warmth. Just a steady, dangerous calm that made Orm’s stomach twist.

Minutes later, they were in Ling’s car.

The city looked painfully ordinary , coffee carts steaming, buses groaning down the street, people walking under umbrellas like the world hadn’t just cracked open. Orm sat in the passenger seat, her palms damp, her heart pounding. Ling drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly against her thigh, tapping … steady, rhythmic, unnerving.

“Ling...” Orm started, but Ling cut her a look that silenced her.

They drove without music, without words. Orm’s phone buzzed a few times… messages from coworkers, but she ignored them. Her attention stayed on the woman beside her, on the calm that didn’t feel like calm at all.

When the car pulled into the underground parking of S&M LLP, Orm’s breath caught.

“Ling, maybe we shouldn’t…”

But Ling was already stepping out, slipping on her coat, her heels clicking against the concrete with casual ease.

They took the elevator up in silence. The higher it climbed, the tighter Orm’s chest grew.

When the doors opened to the 23rd floor, the air hit like static.

The janitor was there, mopping up the last of the mess. The smell of bleach hung heavy, sharp enough to sting. The glass shards that had once covered the floor were now swept neatly into piles, glinting under the fluorescent lights like scattered diamonds.

Ling stepped out first, her head slightly tilted, her gaze roaming the floor with a faint, amused smile.

Orm followed, her every step hesitant. She could feel eyes on them already…associates, interns, assistants whispering in corners. The night’s destruction had traveled fast through the firm.

They walked past Miu’s office first. The nameplate had been replaced, crookedly, with a temporary one. Inside, the glass wall was gone, replaced by a flimsy partition. The janitor was stacking shards into a bin, humming under his breath.

Ling paused, looking inside. “Neat work,” she said softly. “Almost looks like nothing happened.”

Orm felt her throat tighten. She reached for Ling’s arm, but Ling moved on.

Lorena’s office was next. Workers were sweeping, their faces tight, silent. A few papers still littered the floor, soaked with cleaning solution. One of them glanced up at Ling, then quickly looked away.

And then they heard it … the sound of overlapping voices coming from the conference room.

Orm turned her head. The door was open just enough to see the chaos inside.

The long conference table was surrounded by associates, all talking at once, their voices frantic. The air was thick with tension. And in the center of it all sat Miu and Lorena.

Miu’s hair was perfectly pinned back, her tone calm but strained. Lorena leaned forward, whispering to her, both of them surrounded by folders, client calls, and the unmistakable scent of panic.

Ling’s smile deepened. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Something darker.

Orm’s stomach twisted. “Ling... please... don’t.”

But Ling was already walking toward the room.

The conversations faltered as soon as she appeared in the doorway. Heads turned. The room fell into uneasy silence.

Ling didn’t rush. She took her time, strolling in with her hands in her pockets, humming softly under her breath. A faint, taunting whistle filled the air.

The sound made Miu’s pen slip from her hand. Lorena went pale.

Ling stopped in front of them, tilting her head, eyes bright with mock amusement.

“Morning,” she said lightly, as if she were greeting old friends. “Busy day, isn’t it?”

No one answered. The room felt colder.

She glanced around, taking in the chaos, the nervous faces, the damage control being performed in real time. Then her gaze slid back to Miu and Lorena, and her voice dropped.

“Looks like I missed quite the meeting.”

Miu’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. Lorena swallowed hard, clutching her phone like it could save her.

Ling smiled… the kind of smile that never reached her eyes. “I’m just here to announce something,” she said softly, her tone light but her expression glinting with something far too sharp to be harmless.

The air shifted. Conversations died completely. Every head turned toward her, waiting.

Ling reached into her coat pocket, pulling out her phone with her right hand, while her left lifted casually, signaling for patience. “One moment,” she said, her tone playful... dangerous.

She tilted her head as she began typing on her phone, her fingers moving with surgical precision. “Ahh,” she murmured, tapping one last time before locking the screen. “There... you should have it by now.”

For a heartbeat, the room stayed silent. Then, one by one, phones began to buzz. The sound grew, overlapping pings and vibrations until it was deafening.

Every associate glanced down at their screens. Confusion rippled across the room like a wave.

Miu frowned, unlocking her phone. Lorena’s fingers twitched as she did the same.

And then someone from the back of the room spoke, his voice trembling slightly. “Horizon-Cura merger pulled out from S&M... making it a loss of fifteen million dollars in M&A commissions.”

The room froze.

The associates exchanged bewildered looks. A few of them began refreshing their emails, their faces paling.

“What?” someone whispered. “That’s... that can’t be right...”

Ling’s smile widened, cruel and calm. “That’s old news,” she said. “You should all keep checking. There’s more.”

Another ping. Then another.

More phones lit up.

The hum of notifications became a feverish rhythm.

One associate blinked at her screen, color draining from her face. “Oh my God,” she said quietly. “Bancroft Holdings just terminated their retainer... effective immediately.”

“What?” Lorena’s voice cracked, her phone trembling in her hand.

Another voice … from the front this time. “Vernon Logistics too... they’ve moved representation to Charter & Dean.”

A third. “Hendrix Pharmaceuticals just released a statement , they’re freezing all future deals with S&M LLP pending... review.”

Every pair of eyes in the room swung toward Miu and Lorena.

Lorena’s face had gone ghost-white. Her lips parted but no words came. She scrolled through her inbox in frantic disbelief. “This... this has to be a mistake.”

Miu stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the tile, the sound cutting through the murmurs. “This can’t be real,” she whispered. “We spoke to them last week...”

Ling took a step forward, her heels clicking against the marble, the sound slow and deliberate. “Oh, it’s real,” she said, her voice low but carrying across the room. “Every major client in your M&A division has officially withdrawn their business as of ten minutes ago. They’ve all signed new retainers with rival firms. Competitors you used to mock, if I recall correctly.”

The associates stared at her, then back at their screens. Panic spread like a contagion. People whispered, cursed under their breath, started typing frantically on laptops.

Miu’s phone buzzed again. She glanced at it, and her breath hitched. “No... no, not them too,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Lorena turned toward her, voice barely holding. “Who?”

“Chung-Terra Energy,” Miu said, her tone hollow. “Our biggest client. They’ve gone to Lockhart & Greene.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

One of the younger associates spoke up, voice shaking. “Ma’am... that’s... that’s half our revenue stream gone.”

Lorena’s hand went to her temple, her breath shallow. “How... how did this happen?”

Before anyone could answer, the door burst open. A young associate stumbled inside, his tie askew, his face pale with the shock of bad news that had come too fast to process. He was panting, his phone still clutched in one trembling hand.

“Ma’am...” he started, voice shaking. “It’s not just M&A.”

Miu turned sharply, her knuckles white against the edge of the table. “What do you mean not just M&A?”

The associate swallowed hard. “Corporate litigation... the clients are pulling out. Every one of them. I just got word from compliance… three of our biggest retainers terminated their contracts this morning. They’ve all transferred to other firms.”

A ripple of panic moved through the room. Another associate , this one from finance, stood abruptly. “It’s happening in tax too,” she said, her voice tight. “We just got an email from Stroud Manufacturing. They’re moving their legal counsel to O’Donnell Group effective immediately. And Merton Holdings... they just canceled their arbitration contract.”

“What?” Lorena snapped, her voice rising with disbelief. “That’s impossible. Those are long-term retainers.”

Ling’s voice floated across the room, smooth and unhurried. “Contracts are only as strong as the people who sign them.”

Everyone turned toward her.

Ling had pulled out a chair near the end of the table, unbothered by the chaos swirling around her. She sat down slowly, crossing one leg over the other, resting her elbow on the armrest. Her fingers brushed her jaw as she leaned forward slightly, chin propped against her hand like she was watching a performance she’d paid for.

Another associate entered, breathless, his phone buzzing in his palm. “Family law division too. Clients are withdrawing left and right. They said... they said they can’t be associated with a firm under investigation for ethics violations.”

The room fell utterly silent.

Miu’s head snapped toward him. “Investigation?”

He nodded hesitantly. “The press got something. They’re running stories about internal misconduct... about blackmail... about misuse of client information. They’re quoting sources from inside the firm.”

The words rippled through the room like a tremor before an earthquake. No one breathed. Miu’s lips parted, her throat bobbing in a dry swallow. Lorena looked ready to faint.

Then, Ling, still seated, still composed… let out a soft hum of acknowledgment. “Oh, right,” she said suddenly, like she had just remembered where she left her keys. “That reminds me.”

Her tone was casual, conversational, but the undertone was glacial. She rose slowly, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve, the movement deliberate, elegant, terrifyingly calm.

“I forgot to mention,” she continued, voice light as silk. “The firm has also been sued.”

That did it.

“Sued?” Miu stammered, her voice cracking on the word. “By who?”

Ling’s smile was almost kind. “By me.”

The sound of chairs scraping filled the room. Heads turned. The shock spread like wildfire.

“Oh yes,” Ling said, beginning to pace. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, echoing through the conference room like a slow metronome. She moved the way she used to when teaching… deliberate, confident, a performer in total control of her audience. But this wasn’t a lecture hall. This was execution.

Ling tilted her head slightly, voice still smooth, measured, deadly... “According to the suit filed this morning in Suffolk County Superior Court, the partners of S&M LLP, namely Ms. Matthews and Ms. Schuett, engaged in a sustained, deliberate campaign to locate, surveil, and silence my client.”

A collective gasp swept through the room.

Orm’s breath caught.

Miu’s face drained off blood. Lorena gripped the back of her chair so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She let the sentence hang, watching the color drain from faces around the room. “They hired a private investigator to track her movements... not once, not secretly for a week, but repeatedly over years. The PI’s invoices, now attached to the complaint, show payments routed through shell entities and coded accounts. The transfers are timestamped, traceable, and they point directly to trust accounts controlled by this firm.”

She circled the room, graceful and inexorable. “They used firm resources, internal email, and privileged client databases to compile dossiers. They exploited employee files and billing records… things that belong to clients, to associates, to this firm’s fiduciary duty and repurposed them for personal agendas.”

Someone whispered the word “illegal.” Ling’s smile tightened. “There’s more,” she said softly, almost with amusement. “It seems our little case has company.”

She began to pace again, slow deliberate steps across the glossy marble floor, her voice calm, her words venom. “In addition to the personal suit I filed... the firm is now facing multiple civil actions. Clients from your own roster, Ms. Matthews, Ms. Schuett , those same people who once toasted you at galas and sent flowers to your birthdays , have decided they no longer appreciate being defrauded, misled, and quietly exploited.”

She tapped the edge of the conference table, rhythmic and patient. “We have depositions from five former clients … five, each claiming you tampered with financial disclosures during mergers, funneled insider information to competing buyers, and billed for consultation hours that never existed. Class actions are forming as we speak.”

Her eyes flicked toward Lorena. “Oh, and Lorena... the email threads are spectacular. You remember instructing your paralegal to ‘adjust’ the due diligence notes? The ones that conveniently disappeared when the investors began asking questions? They’re attached as Exhibit C. One of your own staff leaked them to my office last week.”

Lorena went completely still.

Ling smiled again, slow and unhurried. “Then there’s the Rockwell defense contract … where your firm ‘accidentally’ billed both the supplier and the buyer for the same legal advice. That’s double billing, darling. The Department of Justice has words for that. Big, terrifying words.”

She rested her palms on the edge of the table and leaned forward slightly, her tone suddenly colder. “And finally, my favorite: a class of small business owners claiming that your corporate division falsified settlement letters, coerced NDAs, and destroyed discovery documents. They’re naming the entire partnership, not just the firm. Congratulations ….you’re about to be personally liable.”

The room erupted in hushed panic. Associates pulled out their phones, eyes darting between Ling and their inboxes as new alerts began to appear, news bulletins, legal notifications, internal memos spreading faster than damage control could catch them.

She began to walk again, slow, circling the table like a shark. “We have former clients. Whistleblowers. Paralegals ready to testify that they were ordered to ‘misfile’ crucial evidence in civil suits. We have bank records, discrete wire transfers routed through Ms. Schuett’s so-called consulting firm. We have correspondence between you and lobbyists coordinating judicial appointments in exchange for donation kickbacks. It’s all... very cinematic.”

Her eyes glinted as she looked toward Miu, who sat frozen in disbelief. “And before you ask … yes, the press has it. The same journalists who broke the ethics story this morning are already drafting a follow-up. It’ll hit by noon. The headline will read: S&M LLP Faces Multi-Million Dollar Client Exodus Amid Misconduct Allegations. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

The room was silent except for the quiet hum of phones vibrating, the weight of the collapse echoing in every shallow breath.

Ling leaned back against the wall, her posture relaxed, her voice measured and cruelly soft. “So, to summarize... the firm is under ethics investigation, being sued by multiple clients, blacklisted by corporate boards, and on the verge of federal scrutiny. You built an empire on lies, and now the truth’s finally asking for rent.”

Her smile deepened. “And I’m the one collecting.”

The sentence had barely settled before she straightened, as if remembering an afterthought. Her tone turned almost conversational. “Oh, right…one more thing.”

She looked directly at them, the expression that was used to melt students now carved from ice. “You’re both fired. The board will send the notice any minute. My father purchased your partnership shares this morning for me…he does love a distressed asset and that makes me the senior partner of this firm.”

The words hit like a verdict. A few associates instinctively glanced at their phones; somewhere near the end of the table an alert chimed.

Miu’s fingers shook as she opened her email. The color drained from her face. Lorena’s screen lit a second later with the same subject line: Change in Leadership , Immediate Termination of Partnership Rights.

Ling let the silence breathe. Then she smiled again, dazzling and cruel. “If my math’s right, you’re each being sued for about fifty million in damages. Between that, the ethics inquiry, and the federal audits, I imagine your accounts will be frozen within the week.”

She leaned forward slightly, the light catching in her eyes. “So, good luck finding the money. Now that your empire isn’t yours anymore, you might as well enjoy the view while it lasts.”

Miu sat as if her bones had turned to glass. Lorena stared at the wall, unblinking, sweat beading at her temple.

Ling straightened her coat, the gesture crisp and final. “I think you should have fun,” she said brightly.

Then she turned, walking toward the door, her heels clicking against the marble…measured, precise, victorious. Orm waited in the doorway, frozen somewhere between fear and awe.

Ling paused beside her, glanced back once at the wreckage, and murmured, “Let’s go, baby. We have a firm to rebuild.”

And as she stepped into the hallway, the room behind her stayed utterly silent…the stillness that follows only after something magnificent has been completely destroyed.

The echo of her heels carried through the corridor, sharp and precise, the sound of victory dressed as composure. Orm followed close behind, her heartbeat still wild, her mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened. Ling’s calm was terrifying… a serenity carved from fire, the kind that came only after you had burned down everything that ever hurt you.

They had almost reached the elevators when the conference room door burst open behind them.

Lorena’s voice sliced through the air. “You fucking psychopath!”

Ling didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back.

Lorena’s heels clicked rapidly against the marble, her words spilling faster, louder, laced with venom. “You think you can waltz in here, throw around your father’s money, and destroy people’s lives? You think you’re untouchable, huh?”

Ling kept walking, steady, silent, her hand brushing Orm’s as if to remind her … keep going, don’t look back.

But Lorena wasn’t done. “You’re finished, Ling! You hear me? You’re goddamn finished!”

Nothing. Not even a turn of the head.

Then came the line that changed everything.

“This is all because of that little bitch, isn’t it?”

The word bitch hit the air like a slap.

Orm froze. The color drained from her face.

Ling stopped mid-step. The silence that followed was suffocating ,heavy, electric, trembling with what was about to happen.

Lorena smirked, sensing the shift, and said louder, crueler, “Yeah, that’s right. The little bitch you ruined your career for. The one who…”

She didn’t finish.

Ling spun around so fast the air cracked with movement. In two strides she closed the distance and slammed Lorena against the nearest wall. The sound reverberated through the corridor… the hollow thud of rage meeting flesh and plaster.

Orm gasped, stumbling back.

Ling’s face was inches from Lorena’s, her breath sharp, her eyes blazing. “Say that again,” she hissed. “Say one more fucking thing about her.”

Lorena’s lip curled, blood already rising beneath her skin from the impact. “You’ve lost your mind,” she spat, but her voice wavered. Still, she smiled , a cruel, mocking little smile that was pure poison. “She’s the reason you’re nothing now. That little…”

She never got to finish.

Ling’s fist connected before the sentence could leave her mouth. The hit was fast, brutal, primal… years of restraint breaking all at once. Lorena stumbled, her head snapping to the side, a sharp cry escaping her as she hit the wall again.

“Ling!” Orm shouted, rushing forward, grabbing her arm.

But Ling wasn’t hearing her. The fury had cracked open again, raw and merciless. “You can call me anything, you understand?” she yelled, her voice shaking with rage. “Call me a failure, call me insane, call me a monster… I fucking don’t care!”

She stepped closer again, her voice trembling but deadly. “But don’t you ever bring her into this. Don’t you dare speak her name again, you bitch.”

Lorena glared up at her through bloodied lips, defiant even in defeat. “You’re pathetic,” she whispered.

Ling’s fist twitched, ready for another blow, but Orm’s arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her back. “Ling, please,” she said, her voice breaking. “Stop. Please, baby, stop.”

Ling struggled against her hold for a heartbeat, her breath ragged, her eyes wild. Then, slowly, Orm’s voice broke through the haze , the one thing that always could.

Orm’s arms were around her, her grip tight but trembling, her voice soft and desperate against the roar of Ling’s heartbeat. “Please... stop. You’ve done enough. She’s not worth it.”

For a second, Ling stopped moving. The weight of Orm’s words anchored her, that voice, that warmth, the only tether she had left to something human.

But the silence that followed didn’t last.

A sound came from down the corridor, hurried footsteps, heels on marble, and then a voice, sharp and frightened.

“Lorena!”

It was Miu.

She appeared in the hallway, her coat half-on, her face pale and wet with tears. Her gaze fell on Lorena, slumped against the wall, blood smearing the corner of her lip, her breath coming in broken gasps. Miu’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God...” she whispered.

She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside her. “Lorena... hey, look at me, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

Lorena groaned, trying to push herself upright, her eyes dazed. “She... she hit me,” she muttered, her voice shaking.

Miu turned, her face streaked with tears, looking up at Ling , the woman she had once called wife , now standing a few feet away, her knuckles bloodied, her eyes like fire in the half-light.

“Ling,” she said quietly, pleadingly, “you got what you wanted... please, stop this.”

For a moment, Ling said nothing. The hallway was heavy with the sound of everyone’s breathing, the broken, uneven rhythm of shock.

Then Ling tilted her head slightly, her voice low and dangerous. “Tell her,” she said, her tone almost calm, “to keep my girlfriend’s name out of her fucking mouth.”

Miu blinked, stunned. “Ling, please,”

Ling’s voice rose, steady but sharp, each word cutting through the space like glass. “Say it. Tell her.”

Miu swallowed hard, her lips trembling. She looked at Lorena, who stared back through swollen eyes. “Lorena, don’t, just stop,” Miu whispered.

But Ling wasn’t done.

She took a step forward, her posture straightening, her voice quieter now but far more terrifying for its calm. “You think this is it?” she said. “You think this little mess... this punch... is the end of what I have planned?”

Her eyes darted between them , Miu kneeling on the floor, Lorena bleeding beside her , and her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “This is nothing. A preview. A small picture.”

She stepped closer, her shadow falling over them. “I’m not done destroying you,” she said softly. “Not until you both know what it feels like to lose everything you built on other people’s pain.”

Lorena flinched at the words. Miu stared up at her, tears catching in the light, her voice breaking. “Please, Ling... this isn’t you.”

Ling looked down at her, eyes steady and unblinking. “No,” she said quietly. “This is me when you take everything from me and expect me to stay silent.”

Orm’s hand found her arm again, squeezing, grounding her. Ling didn’t look back, but she didn’t move forward either.

Miu’s sobs filled the silence. Lorena wiped the blood from her chin with a shaking hand, her eyes dark with humiliation and hate.

Ling took one last look at them, the two women who had orchestrated her downfall, who had watched her lose everything, and exhaled through her teeth. “You wanted to see me burn,” she said softly. “Congratulations. Now you will too.”

Then she turned, her hand finding Orm’s, her voice softening for the first time in hours. “Let’s go.”

Orm nodded, silent, her chest tight with fear and awe.

As they walked away, Miu’s sobs echoed down the corridor, Lorena’s curses following after, but Ling didn’t turn back. Not once.

She had delivered her warning.

And the world, finally, had begun to understand what it meant to provoke her.

The drive back was quiet. Too quiet.
Boston’s skyline blurred by in shades of gray and gold, the city still half-asleep, unaware of the storm that had just unfolded inside one of its tallest towers. Orm sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, watching Ling’s reflection in the glass. The muscles in her jaw moved with every shallow breath; her knuckles were still streaked with red, the skin split in angry, raw lines. She hadn’t said a word since they left.

When they reached the apartment, Ling unlocked the door without looking at her. The silence followed them inside. The place still smelled faintly of coffee and cigarette smoke, the remnants of last night’s chaos now layered under the clean morning air.

Ling went straight to the window, dropped her keys on the table, and stood staring out at the city like she could set it on fire just by looking long enough. Her shoulders were rigid, her fingers twitching at her sides, the fury still living inside her like a second pulse.

Orm watched her for a moment, then quietly went to the bathroom cabinet. She returned with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a roll of gauze, and a small pack of sterile bandages. Her hands were steady, but her stomach wasn’t.

“Sit,” she said softly, setting everything down on the table.

Ling didn’t move.

“Ling,” Orm repeated, gentler this time. “Please.”

The word seemed to break through. Ling turned slowly, her expression unreadable, her eyes still burning from the remnants of adrenaline. She crossed the room and sat down at the table, her movements stiff, mechanical, like someone trying not to think about what their body had just done.

Orm knelt in front of her, unscrewing the cap of the alcohol. The sharp, sterile smell filled the air. Ling’s hands rested on her knees, knuckles torn open, blood dried in faint rust-colored streaks along her wrist.

“Give me your hand,” Orm murmured.

Ling hesitated, then obeyed. Her hand was warm, too warm , and still trembling faintly.

Orm took it gently, cradling it in her own. “This is going to sting,” she warned, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve had worse,” Ling muttered, but the moment the alcohol touched her skin, she flinched.

Orm pressed the gauze softly against the cuts, dabbing away the dried blood. “You shouldn’t have hit her,” she said quietly.

Ling gave a bitter laugh. “She shouldn’t have opened her mouth.”

Orm didn’t answer. She focused on cleaning the wound, her touch careful, reverent. The silence between them was heavy , not hostile, but full of things neither of them knew how to say.

After a moment, Ling spoke again, her voice low, raw. “You heard what she said.”

“I did.”

“I wasn’t going to let her get away with that.”

Orm looked up at her, meeting her eyes. “You already won, Ling. You didn’t have to hit her to prove it.”

Ling’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t about proving anything,” she said quietly. “It was about her knowing she couldn’t touch you. Not even with words.”

Orm’s hands stilled for a moment. Her chest tightened. “You can’t protect me from everything,” she whispered.

Ling leaned forward slightly, her voice trembling with the weight of it. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Orm? They took everything from me, from us. I can’t just stand there and let them talk about you like you’re nothing.”

Orm wrapped her hand around Ling’s, holding it firm, grounding her. “I’m not nothing,” she said softly. “And you don’t need to fight the whole world to prove that.”

Ling’s shoulders sagged. Her eyes dropped to where their hands were joined. “You saw her face,” she murmured. “Miu... crying over her. I thought I’d feel satisfaction. But all I could think was how much I wanted to hit her again.”

“That’s the anger talking,” Orm said gently. “It doesn’t love you. It just uses you.”

Ling let out a shaky breath, the first crack of exhaustion slipping through. “Maybe. But it’s all I have left sometimes.”

“No,” Orm whispered. “You still have me.”

The words seemed to hang there, suspended in the air between them. Ling looked up slowly, her expression softening , something fragile bleeding through the fury.

Orm finished wrapping the bandage around her hand, tying it off neatly. She brushed her thumb across the edge of the gauze, lingering there for a heartbeat.

“You should rest,” she said quietly.

Ling gave a faint, humorless smile. “I can’t. Not yet.”

Orm sighed, standing, brushing her fingers through Ling’s hair as she passed. “Then at least sit here for a while,” she said. “Let the world catch its breath before you break it again.”

Ling caught her wrist before she could walk away. “You’re not afraid of me?” she asked suddenly, voice hoarse.

Orm turned slowly, their eyes meeting , Ling’s still wild from the remnants of rage, Orm’s soft but unwavering. The quiet between them was heavy, fragile, a thin wire stretched between love and fear.

“I am,” Orm said finally, her voice trembling but honest. “I’m afraid of this version of you... the one that stops thinking when she’s angry, the one who does things she can’t take back.”

Ling’s eyes flickered, pain crossing her face. “So, you are scared of me.”

Orm shook her head slowly, her thumb brushing gently against the back of Ling’s bandaged hand. “I’m scared for you, not of you,” she whispered. “I’m scared of what that anger does to you. Of what it takes from you every time you let it win.”

She stepped closer, her voice soft but firm now. “But that doesn’t mean I love you any less. You don’t stop loving someone just because you’ve seen the parts of them that scare you.”

Ling’s breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Orm cupped her face gently, forcing her to meet her gaze. “I’ve seen you at your best, and I’ve seen you like this, furious, broken, trying to hold the world together with your bare hands. And I still choose you. Every version of you. Even the ones that frighten me.”

Her thumb brushed Ling’s cheek, wiping away the faint streak of dried blood there. “But Ling... you can’t keep letting this side of you lead. Because if you do... one day, it’s going to take everything from you, even me.”

Ling closed her eyes, her chest tightening, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Orm leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against hers. “Then don’t,” she murmured. “Let me be the thing that brings you back... not the reason you burn everything down.”

The words lingered in the air for a moment, soft and trembling , the kind of promise that felt too fragile to survive the world outside their walls.

Ling didn’t answer. She just sat there, her breath uneven, her shoulders finally sinking beneath the weight she’d been carrying. The fight had left her. All that remained was exhaustion , and the quiet, aching need to be seen by someone who still chose her despite the wreckage.

Orm said nothing more. She didn’t have to.

She lifted Ling’s hand slowly, the one still wrapped in gauze, the faint streaks of red showing through where the bandage had soaked. Her touch was feather-light, reverent, tracing the curve of each knuckle like it was something sacred instead of broken.

Then, without a word, she brought it to her lips.

A soft kiss. Gentle, lingering. The kind that wasn’t about forgiveness or apology , just love. Pure, wordless love.

Ling closed her eyes, the smallest sigh escaping her. Her body leaned forward, her forehead resting against Orm’s shoulder.

Orm stayed still, her free hand coming up to the back of Ling’s neck, fingers threading gently through her hair. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence between them was finally calm, not heavy or angry, just still.

Outside, the city kept moving. But inside, time slowed to a pulse, steady and shared.

Ling’s bandaged hand stayed in Orm’s, warm and trembling, kissed and held until the world no longer felt so cruel.

Chapter Text

Orm didn’t sleep that night.

She tried. God, she tried. She lay beside Ling in the quiet that came after the ruin, in the half-light of early dawn when the city outside still held its breath, but her mind refused to still. The sheets were warm, the air heavy with the faint scent of smoke and soap … Ling had showered hours ago, rinsing off the blood and dust of the day, yet Orm could still taste the bitterness of it all, the way vengeance left a metallic tang on everything it touched.

She was worried. Worried, worried sick about what Ling might do next. Worried that anger had devoured her so completely that there was no place left inside her for rest. The what’s and the if’s rose and fell like waves inside Orm’s chest... what if Ling couldn’t stop now... what if every victory only deepened the hollow... what if this was who she had become forever.

So, she did what anyone who loves would do. She stayed awake. She watched.

Ling slept on her side, one hand curled beneath her cheek, her hair fanned out across the pillow like ink spilled in moonlight. Even in sleep, her brow furrowed slightly, as if her mind could not surrender to softness. Her lips moved once... maybe a name, maybe a curse. Orm didn’t know. She just watched and wondered how a body could look so peaceful and yet seem ready to rise and fight at any moment.

She wanted to reach out, to trace the faint line of a scar along Ling’s temple, to whisper that it was over now, that she had won, that she didn’t need to keep burning. But she didn’t. She just sat there in the dim room, knees pulled to her chest, heart beating quietly against the dark.

What is this? she thought. What is this kind of love that hurts even when it tries to heal... that watches and worries and still cannot look away.

But mostly, her biggest question was... what were they now?

The thought had been circling her mind since the night before, quiet and insistent, like the ticking of a clock she couldn’t silence. Ling had called her girlfriend in front of people... the first time she had ever said it aloud. The word had caught Orm off guard, slicing through the air so suddenly that she almost didn’t know how to react. Girlfriend. Such a small word, so ordinary... yet from Ling’s mouth, it had sounded like confession, like surrender, like a promise she had been too proud to make until now.

But what did it mean... really?

Orm sat on the edge of the bed, fingers laced in her lap, watching the thin morning light creep across the floorboards. Ling was still asleep beside her, her back turned, her breathing even. Just a woman with mussed hair and a faint crease along her cheek from the pillow.

And still... Orm’s mind would not quiet.

What are we now? she wondered. Ling had called her girlfriend in front of people, but did she mean it in the way most people did... as something whole and simple and safe? Or was it just a word meant to shield, to deflect questions, to remind the world that Ling, ruthless and brilliant Ling, could still play the part of a lover when it suited her?

The thought made Orm’s chest ache.

They had been everything and nothing to each other... teacher and student, girlfriends in private, two souls that kept finding their way back even when the world tried to keep them apart. Too much had been broken, too much to rebuilt. They were something between ruin and rebirth... too close to be strangers, too scarred to be lovers in the way they once were.

Orm turned her head and looked at Ling again. She wanted to believe that word... girlfriend. She wanted it to mean something this time. She wanted to trust that this wasn’t temporary... that it wasn’t just Ling’s way of anchoring herself in the aftermath of everything she had burned down.

But she couldn’t stop asking herself the same question, over and over...

Are we even a we anymore... or just two people standing in the ashes of what used to be love?

Ling woke to noise in the kitchen.

The faint clink of utensils, a soft hum of the refrigerator, the uneven rhythm of a pan shifting on the stove. Morning light crept across the walls, gentle and gold, touching the corner of the bed where Ling had been sleeping too lightly. For a long moment she lay still, eyes half open, listening. She knew the sound before she even processed it. Orm.

It was strange... hearing her move about like this. Ordinary sounds, in a house that hadn’t felt ordinary in years.

Ling rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly. Her body ached, not from fighting, not from wounds, but from exhaustion that reached somewhere deeper. The kind that settled after you’ve won too much. She pulled the blanket aside, the cool air brushing against her skin, and followed the smell of coffee drifting through the doorway.

In the kitchen, Orm was standing by the stove, hair pulled into a loose knot, wearing the same gray T-shirt from the night before. There was a small line of concentration between her brows as she flipped something in the pan, eggs maybe, or pancakes. She didn’t look up.

Ling leaned against the doorway, watching her in silence. It should have felt normal... it used to be normal, back before everything turned to ash. But now even this… the sound of oil sizzling, the scrape of a spatula … felt delicate, like touching something that could shatter.

Orm finally noticed her and blinked, startled but trying to act natural. “You’re up,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” Ling murmured, her voice hoarse.

They didn’t say anything else. The silence wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It was... careful. Everything about this morning felt careful.

Ling poured herself water, the sound of it filling the space that should’ve been filled with conversation. Orm moved around her, brushing close once, just once … a ghost of contact that left the air charged. They sat at the table, side by side but not quite facing each other, plates untouched for a few seconds too long.

It was odd, almost funny in a cruel way. They had fought through  blood and blackmail... they had seen each other at their worst, and yet now, in the quiet safety of morning, neither knew what to say.

They didn’t have the “what are we” conversation yet. But they wanted to. It hung in the air between every sip of coffee, every fork scraping the plate. The question pulsed beneath their ribs, restless and unspoken, the first thought that had come to both of them when they woke.

Not are we okay, not is it over.
Just... what are we now?

And for the first time in a long time, that question didn’t feel like dread. It felt like the smallest flicker of hope.

It happened quietly... so quietly that Ling almost missed it.

They had finished eating. The plates sat between them, half-cleared, steam from the coffee fading into the still air. The clock on the counter ticked softly, indifferent to how heavy the silence had become. Orm’s fingers traced idle circles along the rim of her mug, her eyes lowered, her shoulders slightly drawn in, that familiar posture she took when she was thinking too much and trying not to show it.

Ling watched her. There was something in Orm’s face that morning that made her chest tighten, the mix of gentleness and ache, the kind of expression that said she had rehearsed a hundred versions of a question and still didn’t know which one to use.

Finally, Orm spoke. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the air cleanly.

“Ling...”

Ling looked up, and Orm met her gaze. Her throat moved before the words came.

“What... what are we?”

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t desperate. It was just soft... searching. The kind of question that comes from someone who already knows the answer might hurt but needs to hear it anyway.

Ling didn’t reply right away. She sat back slowly, letting the words settle in. The question itself wasn’t new. It had lived in both their minds since the night they ended up here again, since Ling burned the world down and Orm decided to stay anyway. But hearing it aloud made it real... and that was the part that scared her.

Orm’s eyes flickered. She almost regretted saying it, but she held Ling’s gaze all the same.

“You called me your girlfriend yesterday,” she said softly, her fingers tightening around the mug. “In front of people. That’s never happened before.” She paused, searching for steadiness. “And I don’t know if you said it because you meant it... or because it was convenient in the moment. I just...” her voice faltered slightly, “I just need to know if that word actually means something now.”

Ling exhaled slowly, her hand running through her hair. She wasn’t used to this kind of quiet confrontation. No raised voices, no fury, no war. Just Orm... asking her to tell the truth without hiding behind strategy or pride.

“What do you want it to mean?” Ling asked after a long moment.

Orm blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I want it to mean what it used to. That I’m yours... and you’re mine. Without all the noise, without the fire.”

Ling looked at her for a long time. The words yours and mine echoed between them, old and familiar, but carrying new weight now. She thought of all the nights she had whispered Orm’s name like a prayer, and all the mornings she had woken up alone pretending it didn’t hurt. She thought of every battle she fought since, and how none of it, not victory, not revenge, not ruin, had quieted the ache that Orm’s absence left behind.

Her voice, when it came, was low and steady.

“I didn’t say it to protect myself,” she said finally. “I said it because I wanted to. Because after everything... I still want you beside me when people look.”

Orm’s eyes softened, but she didn’t smile. “So, what does that make us?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

Ling hesitated, glancing at the table between them, the remnants of breakfast, the coffee stains, the empty chair where silence had been sitting all morning. Then she looked back at Orm, her gaze clear now, stripped of all the armor she usually carried.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I know I don’t want to be anything that doesn’t have you in it.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The words lingered in the air like warmth that refused to fade. Then Ling leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees, her voice finding a steadier rhythm.

“I want us to be something,” she said quietly, almost to herself at first. “Not halfway... not hidden in corners or waiting for things to fall apart again. I want it to be fresh... alive... something that feels real, not something that survives only in the dark.” Her eyes met Orm’s, steady now. “But I can’t ask for that until I end what’s left behind. The divorce... everything that still ties me to Miu. I have to finish that first. It’s the only way to get rid of what’s still rotting between us.”

Her tone wasn’t cold, but it was absolute. There was a certainty in her words that made Orm’s chest tighten. Ling was not asking for time out of hesitation, but out of determination. She wanted their love to exist in daylight again, to not be something whispered or disguised. Yet in the same breath, her mind was already racing ahead.... thinking of documents to file, assets to reclaim, the empire Lorena and Miu had stolen and the justice she still intended to claim back piece by piece.

“I need to finish this,” Ling continued, her voice lower now, heavy but controlled. “Not for them, not even for revenge... for us. For me to breathe again. For us to have something that isn’t built on secrecy. And I want them to take accountability for what they did”

Orm listened, her fingers still wrapped around the mug though the coffee had gone cold. She understood Ling’s resolve; she had seen it before , that relentless need to restore order, to take back everything that had been taken. But she also knew how dangerous that fire could be... how easily it consumed everything, even the good parts.

“Ling,” Orm said softly, almost pleading now. “You’ve already destroyed them. They don’t matter anymore. Miu, Lorena... all of it, it’s over.” She paused, searching Ling’s eyes for the part of her that still listened. “Don’t let them keep living inside you. You don’t need to win anything else to have peace.”

Ling’s jaw tightened, her eyes darkening slightly as if the thought alone stirred something old and raw.

“I can’t just let it go,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

Orm shook her head slowly. “You can. You just don’t want to.”

Ling opened her mouth to reply, but Orm leaned closer, cutting through her silence with gentleness. “You think you’re fixing things by rebuilding what they broke... but they didn’t destroy your name, or the firm, or whatever empire they wanted to own. They broke us, Ling. And if you keep chasing what they took, you’ll never stop running from what’s right here.”

Her voice cracked, quiet but sure. “You already have everything back that matters. You have me.”

Ling’s breath caught at that, the words hitting with a truth she wasn’t ready to face. She looked at Orm , really looked … and for a second, all her plans, her anger, her calculations fell away. There was just this... the woman sitting across from her, the one who had stayed through everything, asking her to choose peace over power.

Orm reached across the table, her fingertips brushing the back of Ling’s hand. “Let go,” she said softly. “Not because they deserve forgiveness... but because we deserve to start again.”

Ling didn’t answer right away. Her hand turned slowly, closing around Orm’s. For a long, quiet moment, the war inside her paused. The ache, the fury, the need to fix everything … it all quieted, just enough for her to hear what Orm was really saying.

And though she couldn’t promise it yet, she wanted to.

She wanted to try.

Chapter Text

Flashback:

Lord knows they loved each other... irrespective of how wrong this relationship was. Like I said, no one would ever understand their love, and perhaps they never hoped anyone would. One could ask... how can someone betray their spouse’s trust through infidelity? How can something built in shadows call itself love? The world would call it sin, weakness, false god. But for Ling... Orm was the only thing that ever felt pure. The most grounding force in her life.

Ling’s life had always been shaped for her. Every choice already made before she could even think of wanting something different. What to study, how to speak, what hobbies to pursue, what kind of woman to become... each decision handed down like a verdict. When she agreed to marry Miu, it wasn’t out of love, not even true companionship. It was convenience dressed as partnership, a life planned to look respectable from the outside. Ling didn’t fight it. She thought this was what adulthood meant, fitting into expectations and calling it happiness.

But then came Orm.

Nothing about her was planned. No one orchestrated their meeting. No one pushed Ling toward her. Orm simply appeared, unexpected, uninvited, yet suddenly essential. With her, everything that Ling had been taught to repress came undone quietly, naturally, like silk slipping through fingers.

Orm’s laughter came first, too open, too warm for the cold order of Ling’s world. Then came her questions... not academic ones, not polite ones, but the kind that demanded honesty. Do you ever stop performing? she’d asked once, eyes too sharp for Ling to lie to. That was the beginning, the first crack in the mask Ling had worn all her life.

She had thought she was happy with Miu. The kind of happiness that looked proper in photographs and charity galas. The kind that smiled on cue. But there was no pulse in it, no truth. Ling could spend hours with Miu and never say a single thing that mattered. Their conversations were like rehearsed lines in a play both had long grown tired of.

With Orm, everything was different. There was no script. No preparation. Just instinct. It frightened her at first, the ease, the speed with which Orm disarmed her. Ling had spent years mastering restraint, and suddenly she found herself laughing too loudly, feeling too deeply, looking forward to something as simple as the sound of Orm’s footsteps outside her office.

She had not planned to fall in love... and yet she did.

She fell the way people fall into sunlight after too many gray days, hesitantly at first, then all at once. And once she began, there was no stopping it.

Orm didn’t demand confessions; she created a space where they happened naturally. Ling began telling her things she’d never spoken aloud before, childhood dreams she abandoned, the loneliness that came with success, the quiet ache of being seen only for what she achieved, never for who she was.

Orm listened, not to fix her, not to pity her, but to understand her. And that was how Ling knew this was love... because for the first time in her life, she wasn’t being shaped by someone else’s expectations. She was becoming herself.

It didn’t take long for her to realize how deep she had fallen. One night, in Orm’s apartment, with the city rain drumming softly against the windows, she caught herself thinking... so this is what it feels like to belong. Not to a name, not to an institution, not to an image, but to a person.

She had betrayed the world’s idea of loyalty... but she had, for once, been loyal to her own heart.

And that was something she could never explain to anyone.

Because love like theirs didn’t ask for understanding. It just was.

Orm would take Ling’s imperfections and admire them... not out of sympathy, but out of something deeper … reverence, maybe. A kind of affection that saw beauty even in the cracks. She loved the fractures, the small uneven parts that made Ling who she was … the clipped tone that came when she was frustrated, the way she paced the floor when her mind wouldn’t rest, the quiet apologies that never reached her lips but lingered in her eyes.

When Ling’s temper rose... that cold, sharp kind of fury that could silence anyone else in the room... Orm never recoiled. She waited. She let the storm pass, let the walls crumble, then reached for her hand. Always quietly. Always patiently. Her thumb would trace small circles against Ling’s palm until the tension eased and the air between them turned warm again.

“Are you finished being terrifying?” Orm would murmur, a half-smile teasing her lips.

Ling’s sigh would come out heavy, reluctant. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”

“Why not?” Orm would lean back in her chair, her voice calm, eyes unshaken. “You can scare the rest of the world. You don’t get to scare me.”

And just like that, Ling would give in... a small, unintentional curve tugging at the edge of her mouth.

When Ling worried. and she often did, when the fear of losing Orm crept in during long, sleepless nights, when the weight of her double life pressed down until it was hard to breathe... Orm was the anchor that steadied her. She didn’t promise forever. She didn’t speak in absolutes. She simply reached for her, hand in her hair, voice low enough to calm the noise.

“Breathe,” Orm would whisper. “You’re here.”

Sometimes, that was all Ling needed.

Whenever Ling felt the world collapsing,  too many expectations, too many eyes watching, too many obligations chaining her to things she no longer believed in … she turned to Orm for everything and nothing. Sometimes Orm said nothing at all. Sometimes she said the only thing that mattered.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this,” Ling confessed one night, voice brittle, eyes fixed on the floor. “Showing up like a child who can’t sleep alone.”

Orm moved closer, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Because you can’t fix everything,” she said softly. “Not with rules. Not with restraint.”

Ling’s eyes lifted, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “And you? Why do you keep letting me in?”

Orm smiled faintly. “Because, I love you ”

It was always like this between them. Orm, grounding. Ling, unraveling. And together, somehow, they found balance in the middle.

Orm never asked for much. All she wanted was Ling’s presence … her real one, not the version the world got to see. She didn’t crave grand gestures or attention. She didn’t need the world to know. She wanted quiet love... the kind that could live between touches and glances, between silence and breath.

She knew exactly what she had stepped into. She knew Ling’s life was crowded with expectations …the marriage that was still legal but long dead, the carefully curated image, the exhausting weight of perfection. Orm didn’t want to become another demand on her. So, she chose calm. She waited. She let Ling come to her when she could, and Ling admired that... the serenity Orm wore like armor.

Sometimes, Ling tested it. “Don’t you ever get tired of this?” she asked once, her tone sharper than she meant. “Of being hidden? Of waiting for me to choose you properly?”

Orm looked up from the couch, unshaken. “I’m not waiting,” she said simply. “You’re here, aren’t you? That’s enough.”

Ling blinked, guilt flickering across her face. “You never ask for anything.”

“I have everything I want,” Orm said, smiling. “It’s sitting right in front of me.”

Ling shook her head, trying to hold her composure, but Orm leaned closer, closing the space between them. Her voice softened. “You are enough for me. I don’t care what people call it. I don’t care what my parents say. I don’t care if the world burns itself trying to understand us. I am insanely in love with you, baby... and that’s all I know. That’s all that makes me feel sane.”

The words hit Ling like warmth breaking through a cold day. For someone who had built her life around precision, around never saying more than necessary, Orm’s honesty was disarming. It stripped her bare.

She reached up, brushing Orm’s jaw. “Don’t ever call me baby when you’re trying to win an argument,” she whispered, her voice trembling with half a laugh.

Orm grinned. “I wasn’t trying to win. I was trying to make you remember.”

Ling tilted her head slightly, playing along. “Remember what?”

“That you are all I need, without any inhibitions.”

Ling fell quiet. Her throat tightened, the words landing somewhere deep inside her chest. She leaned forward until their foreheads met, her breath mingling with Orm’s. The room felt smaller then, softer, the candlelight catching the curve of their faces. Outside, the rain pressed against the glass, a steady rhythm that matched their hearts.

In that moment, Ling didn’t think of the world she was betraying. She didn’t think of Miu, or consequences, or the future she had promised to someone she didn’t love. She thought only of Orm’s steadiness... her warmth... the quiet certainty that this was real.

Orm’s love wasn’t a storm. It was gravity. It held Ling down when she would have otherwise drifted away. It gave her reason to stay, to feel, to stop fighting everything inside her.

For the first time in her life, Ling didn’t want to control the ending. She didn’t want to protect herself or predict the fallout. She just wanted to exist... suspended in this moment... in the middle of the story... with Orm.

And that’s when she decided... if Orm ever asked her for anything, anything at all, she would give it without hesitation. No questions, no logic, no calculation. Because Ling finally understood... nothing was more important than her.

Orm.

Her love, her calm, her pulse in human form.

In that quiet room, with the rain softening outside and the faint hum of the city seeping through the window, Ling’s thoughts crystallized into something terrifyingly simple. For all the power she had built, for all the control she clung to in the world beyond this apartment, none of it meant anything when weighed against this woman sitting inches away from her.

If Orm asked her to stay... she would.
If Orm asked her to leave everything behind... she would.
If Orm asked her to burn it all down and start again... Ling would not even blink.

Because Orm was the only thing that ever made her feel like herself. Every breath she took outside of this apartment felt like survival; every breath she took beside Orm felt like living.

Ling turned her head slightly, watching Orm’s profile as she spoke softly about something small,,, a student she’d met, a book she’d read, the jasmine plant that refused to die despite the winter drafts. The words barely registered; Ling was too busy memorizing the sound of her voice, the way it rose and fell like a rhythm her soul had been tuned to long before she ever heard it.

She wanted to say it out loud …. you could ask me for anything, and I would give it to you. But she didn’t. Not yet. Some things were too sacred to speak.

Present :

Ling sat there long after the words had settled between them... after Orm’s hand slipped away and the morning light began to move across the table. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the clock. She could still feel the imprint of Orm’s touch against her skin, that simple gesture that somehow undid every wall she had built.

She thought about the promise she had made to herself once, that if Orm ever asked her for anything, she would give it without hesitation. Anything. And now, here it was. The one thing Orm wanted from her wasn’t a gift, wasn’t affection, wasn’t even a word of love. It was surrender.

Let go.

That was what Orm had asked of her. And Ling knew it wasn’t a plea for passivity; it was mercy disguised as advice. Because Orm understood something Ling had never been able to, that destruction only feeds on itself, that vengeance has no end once it begins to taste like purpose.

Ling stared at the empty coffee cup before her, her reflection curved across the dark surface. For so long, she had built her life around control, precision, retaliation. She had convinced herself that every act of ruin was justice... that every name she burned was part of some holy restoration. But what had it given her? Power? Maybe. Closure? Never.

Now, sitting here, with Orm’s voice still echoing in her chest, Ling understood something different. The empire was already gone. Miu and Lorena had lost. There was nothing left to win. But there was something to keep, this. The quiet morning. The woman across from her. The fragile, unfamiliar peace that felt almost like grace.

She breathed out slowly. And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she was standing at the edge of a war.

Orm turned toward her then, searching her face. “You’re quiet,” she said softly.

Ling looked up, her expression unreadable at first, then tender. “I’m thinking,” she replied.

“About what?”

“About how I made a promise to myself once,” Ling said, her voice low, measured. “That if you ever asked me for something... I’d give it to you. No questions. No resistance.”

Orm’s eyes softened, a small crease forming between her brows. “And now?”

Ling’s lips curved slightly, a faint, tired smile that held more truth than triumph. “Now you’ve asked.”

The air shifted… a pause that felt sacred.

“I’m not asking you to be someone you’re not,” Orm said carefully. “I just want you to stop letting them live in your head. You’ve already done enough.”

Ling nodded slowly. “I know.”

And she did. She knew better.

She had always known how to fight, how to claw her way through every betrayal and come out standing. But this… this letting go, it was the hardest thing she had ever done. It went against every instinct that had kept her alive. Yet, as she looked at Orm, at the quiet certainty in her eyes, Ling realized obedience wasn’t weakness. It was love in its purest form.

So, she did what a good future and obedient girlfriend would do. She let it go.

Not with spectacle, not with words, not with a declaration of forgiveness. She simply released it … the anger, the vengeance, the endless tallying of wrongs. It fell away slowly, quietly, like ash dissolving into rain.

Orm watched her for a long moment after that, saying nothing. She didn’t press, didn’t try to turn the moment into something heavier than it was. She simply let Ling linger in her thoughts, knowing the process of letting go wasn’t a single act but a quiet unfolding, like a wound learning how to close.

The rest of the morning passed softly. Orm moved about the apartment with the gentle hum of routine, clearing plates, answering messages, refilling her coffee. When Ling retreated into silence, Orm didn’t disturb her. She had learned by now that Ling’s silence was not absence; it was rebuilding.

Still, life waited. And Orm, as much as she wanted to stay wrapped in that fragile peace, knew she had to start piecing together something new for herself.

By noon, she was on her laptop, reaching out to colleagues and old friends from law school, names she hadn’t spoken to in months, some in years. Her voice carried that soft composure that people always trusted. She talked about opportunities, about new beginnings, about firms that weren’t poisoned by scandal. Because she knew Ling had razed S&M LLP to the ground. No one would touch it now, not after what had surfaced, not after the truth had spread like wildfire. The building might still stand, but the name was finished.

As she spoke, her eyes flicked occasionally toward Ling, still sitting on the couch, still lost in her own orbit of thought. Orm’s heart ached watching her like that... still, composed, but not at rest. There was something about Ling’s quiet that always felt precarious, as if peace itself were something she had to fight to hold onto.

The hours slipped by. Afternoon light began to warm the room. Orm was in her bedroom now, taking calls back to back, her notebook open beside her, neat handwriting filling every margin. “Yes... Thursday works. No, I’m not tied to the old firm anymore... yes, Boston or New York, I’m flexible.” Her tone was steady, professional, the rhythm of someone reclaiming her life in small, deliberate steps.

Between calls, she thought about Ling. She wondered if she’d ever truly be done with everything that haunted her.

Then, somewhere between one call ending and another beginning, Orm heard it, the sound of the front door closing. Not slammed, not hurried. Just closed.

She froze. For a few seconds, she stayed where she was, waiting to hear footsteps, the familiar sound of Ling moving through the hallway. But there was nothing. Just silence.

A couple of minutes later, she stepped out into the living room, phone still in her hand. The couch was empty. The coffee cup that had sat beside Ling all morning was gone. On the coffee table, a single folded note lay waiting, the edges pressed perfectly flat as if Ling had written it with care.

Orm picked it up.

Will be back soon, baby – LLK

Her throat tightened a little. Ling never left without saying where she was going. That was new. It wasn’t worry, not yet... but something about the neatness of that note, the simplicity of it, made her chest feel strangely heavy.

She set it down again and stood there, listening to the silence. The faint hum of the city outside, the ticking of the clock, the echo of where Ling had been just moments ago.

Ling’s POV

The city rolled by in a blur of grey and glass as Ling drove. The rain had dried to a thin mist, the kind that left streaks across the windshield but never quite fell. Her hands rested steadily on the wheel, but her heart wasn’t.

She was driving toward her alleged home, the place she and Miu had once shared. The house that had, once upon a time, been filled with the illusion of partnership, of ambition dressed up as love. Now, it stood more like a monument to something that had died long before either of them admitted it.

She didn’t belong there anymore, not really. But there were still ghosts in that space, the kind that demanded closure.

When she pulled up to the house, the windows were dark, the curtains drawn. The garden out front was overgrown, the vines curling up the railing like quiet accusations. It felt like walking into a graveyard... and in a way, it was. Only the dead lived here now, the versions of themselves that pretended, that lied, that endured out of duty instead of love.

Ling stood at the doorway for a long time before unlocking it. The air inside was stale, untouched. The faint scent of Miu’s perfume still lingered somewhere in the corners, ghostly and thin.

She walked through slowly, her heels soft against the hardwood floor. Every step echoed. The living room looked smaller than she remembered, stripped of warmth, just expensive furniture under dust. The framed photograph on the shelf, two women smiling on the day of their wedding,stared back at her like a lie she had willingly lived.

She wasn’t here as a coward. Not as a loser. Not as someone crawling back. She was here to call off the war.

Because winning didn’t matter anymore.

She had already won, destroyed the empire, reclaimed her name, burned every bridge that had held her hostage. But victory had left her hollow. And so she was here, not as a conqueror, but as something quieter. As a lover.

As a woman choosing peace over power.

Ling took a slow breath and closed her eyes. For the first time, she whispered it, not to Miu, not to the house, but to herself.

“It’s over.”

Her voice trembled, not with weakness, but with release. She could almost feel Orm’s hand in hers, steadying her even now, across miles, across silence.

From the kitchen, Miu appeared. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. She froze at the sight of Ling standing in the middle of the living room, framed by the dull afternoon light.

“Ling,” she breathed, as if saying her name might wake her from a dream.

A few seconds later, another figure emerged behind her, Lorena. Even from across the room, Ling could see the exhaustion etched into both their faces. Lorena looked hollow, almost fragile, like someone who hadn’t slept in days. Miu’s lips parted in disbelief, and for a moment, no one moved.

Ling’s first instinct should have been satisfaction. She should have felt triumphant seeing them like this, stripped of their arrogance, their confidence, their control. They were both standing before her, diminished, shaken, broken by the very chaos they had created. But instead of pride, something unexpected stirred in her chest. Pity.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. Just a kind of weary compassion, the kind you feel when the fire finally burns out and all that’s left are the ashes of people who thought they were gods.

“I didn’t come here to declare war or destroy everything, Miu,” Ling said at last, her voice low, steady.

Miu swallowed hard, tears already welling in her eyes. “Then what are you here for, Ling?”

Her voice cracked, raw. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that we destroyed your life... and Orm’s life. I’m sorry,” she whispered again, the words tumbling over themselves. “It was selfish. All of it. I realize that now. But we got what we deserved. We deserved to be stripped naked of the power we were clinging to.” Her breath hitched. “Please... please, Ling, we don’t have any fight left in us anymore.”

Her hands came together in a gesture of desperation, fingers trembling as tears spilled freely down her face. Lorena, beside her, stood silent for a moment before her composure shattered completely. She broke down, crying openly, shoulders shaking, voice gone. It was the first time Ling had ever seen her like that. Vulnerable. Human.

Ling looked at them both, two women who once believed they could bend the world, now standing in ruins.

“I’m not here to make it worse for you, Miu,” Ling said quietly. “I’m not here to humiliate you or to finish what I started. I’m here to say that I’m done. I’m done with the anger... I’m done with the ruin... I’m done with raging a war against the both of you.”

Her voice softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “And I’m not done because I think you’ve suffered enough, or because I believe justice has been served. I’m done because my love asked me to let it go.”

Miu looked up through her tears, her lips parting slightly.

Ling took a small step forward. “You know, Miu,” she said, her voice trembling now, “even after you two blackmailed her... after you humiliated her, made her believe she was poison to me... made her cry herself to sleep thinking she’d ruined my life... she’s the one who asked me to let the anger go.”

She laughed then, a hollow, broken laugh that echoed through the empty house. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Who does that?” she asked, voice rising. “Who would do that?”

She asked it again, this time quieter, more to herself. “Who would do that?”

“She did,” Ling whispered. “She’s the one who asked me to forgive you. Because she already did. She doesn’t care about the firm. She doesn’t care about the money I took from you. She doesn’t care about your reputation or the ruins you’re standing in. She only cares that I’m beside her. That I stopped letting hate be the only thing keeping me alive.”

Ling’s voice faltered for a moment, and she closed her eyes, as if the weight of Orm’s name alone could steady her. When she spoke again, it came out softer... trembling, but full of something raw and reverent.

“That’s my love, Miu,” she said, her voice breaking like glass under light. “That’s who she is. You don’t understand the kind of woman she is... because you’ve never known love that doesn’t ask for payment, or control, or recognition. Orm doesn’t love me because I’m powerful, or successful, or because she gains anything from it. She loves me despite it all... despite knowing the worst parts of me.”

Ling’s breath caught, and her hands clenched at her sides. “She’s seen me at my most cruel... when I’ve been unkind, when I’ve been angry enough to destroy everything, I touch... and she still looks at me like I’m someone worth saving. She’s the kind of person who will stay awake just to make sure I fall asleep. Who will sit beside me in silence because she knows words won’t help. She’s the kind of person who forgives before she’s even been asked to. And you broke her, Miu. You broke someone who didn’t even know how to hate you.”

Her voice rose slightly, grief and wonder colliding. “She loved me through all of it... through every headline, every whisper, every cruel thing people said about her because she was with me. And even then, she never once asked me to choose her over my pride. She only asked that I choose peace. That I don’t let my love for her turn into something ugly.”

Ling let out a breath, shaking her head. “You know what I realized?” she whispered. “That’s the kind of love that changes a person. The kind that doesn’t shout, doesn’t demand, doesn’t make itself a spectacle. The kind that pulls you out of every war you start and teaches you how to live again. She looks at me and I see what mercy looks like. I see what grace looks like. And for the first time, I understand why people say love can save you... because hers did.”

She laughed through the tears now, broken but luminous. “That’s my love, Miu. The one you called weak. The one you thought could scare away. She’s stronger than all of us. And somehow, even after everything, she still believes in me.”

Ling wiped a tear from her cheek, her tone softening to a whisper. “She could have told me to burn you to the ground. She had every right to. But instead, she asked me to let it go. Because she didn’t want me to lose what little humanity I had left. Who does that, Miu? Who loves like that?”

She paused, her gaze distant now, her voice steady but trembling at the edges. “Someone who loves in the way the world doesn’t know how to anymore. Someone who’d rather carry the pain than pass it on. That’s my Orm. That’s my love. She doesn’t fight for me; she fights with me. She doesn’t tame my fire, she sits beside it and reminds me I don’t have to burn.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Miu’s sobs, the house breathing slowly around them. Ling stood there, hollowed out and whole at once, her tears falling quietly.

“And that’s why I’m done,” she said finally, voice low but resolute. “Not because I ran out of anger... but because she gave me peace. And I won’t dishonor her by holding on to something she already forgave.”

Ling took another step forward, her expression softening, her grief cooling into clarity. “You’ll never understand what it means to be loved like that, Miu. But I do. And that’s enough.”

Then Ling turned her gaze toward Lorena, her expression tightening. “You know something?” she said. “When your love starts driving you to destroy other people... that’s not love anymore. That’s fear pretending to be devotion.” Her tone didn’t rise; it didn’t have to. “You called what you and Miu had love. But love that demands destruction isn’t love. It’s rot.”

Lorena’s shoulders trembled. She didn’t look up.

Ling turned back to Miu. Her voice, though calm, carried finality. “I want a divorce.”

Miu’s head snapped up, but Ling kept talking before she could respond. “You’ll still have what’s fair. The finances we agreed on. Nothing cruel. Nothing petty. I’m not here to strip you of anything else. But this marriage, this illusion, it’s over.”

She paused, her breath steady. “I want it finalized as soon as possible. I’m not waiting anymore.”

Miu’s tears came harder now, though she nodded faintly, words failing her. Lorena stood beside her, still crying quietly, clutching Miu’s hand like someone trying to hold onto what little remained.

Ling took one last look around the room, the photographs, the furniture, the ghosts. It all looked smaller now. Powerless.

“This house can keep its memories,” she said softly. “They belong here. Not with me.”

And with that, she turned. Her heels clicked against the floor, each step steady, resolute. When she opened the door, the late afternoon light poured in, soft, forgiving, clean.

For the first time in years, she walked away not as a victor or a victim... but as a woman who had finally learned what it meant to choose peace.

Behind her, the door closed with a quiet finality.
Ahead of her, the world waited, open and alive.
And somewhere beyond it, Orm.

Ling stepped out into the gray afternoon, her breath visible in the chill. The air tasted clean in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Each step toward her car felt lighter, like she was walking away from a version of herself she had finally buried. The house behind her wasn’t just brick and memory… it was a mausoleum, and she had made her peace with the dead inside it.

She drove without turning on the radio, the silence itself enough. Boston blurred around her, but her mind was already home. Every light, every street corner seemed to hum with the same quiet pull: Orm. The closer she got, the faster her heart beat…. not with panic, not with guilt, but with something far rarer. Relief.

When she reached the apartment, the sky had started to dim, the kind of blue that turns tender before evening. She parked, climbed the stairs slowly, holding onto the railing like she was climbing back into her own life.

The door was unlocked, as it always was when Orm expected her. Ling pushed it open, the familiar scent of jasmine and warm wood spilling out to meet her. Inside, Orm was on the couch, still in her pajamas, hair slightly undone, a notebook open beside her. She looked up at the sound of the door, and the moment her eyes met Ling’s, everything in her expression softened.

“You’re back,” Orm said quietly.

Ling nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak. She crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps until she stood in front of Orm, close enough to see the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the gentle curiosity that never left her face.

“I went,” Ling said finally, her voice breaking through the stillness.

Orm closed the notebook, sensing the weight of those two words. “To the house?”

Ling nodded again. “To end it. Properly this time.”

Orm’s gaze searched hers. “And?”

Ling exhaled, the sound trembling through her chest. “And I told them it’s over. The war, the anger, all of it. I told them you asked me to let it go.”

Orm’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t speak. She waited — she always waited.

Ling took another step closer, her voice softening. “I let it go,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “For you. Because you’re right. They don’t live here anymore. Not in me. Not in us.”

A tear slid down Orm’s cheek, and Ling reached out instinctively, brushing it away with her thumb. “Hey,” she whispered, “don’t cry.”

Orm laughed softly, shaking her head. “You just don’t know how rare it is to hear you say things like that.”

Ling smiled faintly, her eyes wet. “I think I forgot how to say them. But I never forgot how to feel them.”

“Ling…” Orm began, her voice barely there, but Ling cut her off, her tone breaking open with something fierce and trembling.

“I love you.”

The words came out raw, stripped of control, and it startled them both. Ling blinked as if realizing she had finally said it out loud, as if her whole body had been waiting to release that truth since Orm came back. “I love you, Orm,” she repeated, firmer now, her hand still resting on Orm’s face. “I love you more than I know how to explain. You’re the first person who’s ever seen me... really seen me. You make me want to be someone who deserves that kind of love. And I don’t care what I have to undo or rebuild, I just... I just want to spend what’s left of me learning how to love you right.”

Orm’s breath caught, her eyes full of quiet wonder. She reached up, her fingers sliding over Ling’s wrist. “Say it again,” she whispered.

Ling smiled, a small, broken sound that was half a laugh. “I love you.”

“Again,” Orm murmured, leaning closer.

Ling’s lips curved. “I love you.”

This time, she didn’t stop. She leaned in, her forehead touching Orm’s, her breath unsteady. “You’re my home,” she whispered. “You’ve always been home.”

Orm’s hand found the back of her neck, pulling her in the rest of the way. The kiss wasn’t desperate; it wasn’t the kind born of hunger or chaos. It was soft... slow... the kind that felt like forgiveness and return. Ling’s fingers trembled against Orm’s jaw, her tears mingling with Orm’s as they breathed each other in.

When they finally pulled apart, Ling pressed her lips to Orm’s temple, her voice no louder than a sigh. “I’m done fighting,” she whispered. “All that’s left now is us.”

Orm smiled, her forehead still resting against hers. “Then let’s begin again.”

Outside, the city lights flickered to life. Inside, the two of them sat in their quiet, unbroken world. Love restored, not loud or perfect, but true.

For the first time in a very long time, Ling didn’t feel like she was returning to anyone. She was home.

Chapter Text

Flashback:

It all started because of the possessive nature of Ling. Orm was hers. Ling knew it and Orm knew it too. But Orm had always loved to test boundaries, to poke at Ling’s composure just to see what would happen when the calm cracked.

That morning before they’d fought…something small, something stupid. Orm had been chatting with a pretty girl in the Harvard corridors and Ling had not appreciated it… not one bit. So, naturally, Orm chose to make today worse in the way only she could. She showed up to campus in a short tennis skirt and a baby tee, knowing exactly what she was doing.

Orm loved dressing up cunty; she always had been. She loved that she looks sexy which made people question their sexuality. Ling hated it…hated that Orm wielded beauty like a weapon, hated that every glance from strangers set her nerves on fire. But under the irritation was pride and helpless desire. What could she say? She had a girlfriend the universe itself seemed to orbit around.

By evening, Ling’s patience was gone. She slammed the apartment door hard enough to rattle the frame. Her bag hit the floor, her coat followed. She didn’t say a word.

Orm looked up from the couch, legs tucked beneath her, still in her pajamas. “Bad day?” she asked carefully with all the innocence.

Ling didn’t answer. She stood there, shoulders tight, jaw locked, eyes full of something dark and unreadable. A whole day of mock trials, lectures, and her own mind refusing to rest…all of it sitting behind those storm‑filled eyes. Her tie was still on, the top button fastened, like she hadn’t even had the energy to loosen it.

Orm rose slowly, barefoot, approaching as though Ling were a cornered animal. She reached up and, with the softest touch, unfastened the button. The small click of it echoed between them. Her fingers brushed Ling’s throat, then slid up to trace the edge of her collarbone.

“You’re home now,” she whispered.

That was the moment Ling moved.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even entirely about affection. It was need…raw, unfiltered, the kind that came from being wound too tight for too long. Her mouth found Orm’s with sudden force, the kiss a collision that tasted like exhaustion and claim.

Orm stumbled backward until her knees hit the couch. Ling followed, pushing her down, climbing over her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands were everywhere…at Orm’s waist, her shoulder, in her hair…searching not for permission but for grounding.

Orm gasped, breath caught somewhere between surrender and surprise. Ling’s weight pressed into her, heavy with the day, heavy with everything she hadn’t said. For a moment there was no Harvard, no arguments…just the sharp rhythm of their breathing and the heat between them.

Ling was done playing nice.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Ling growled low against Orm’s neck, biting down just enough to make Orm hiss. “Parading around in that little fucking skirt... all those bastards looking at what’s mine.”

Orm whimpered, already undone by the sheer intensity in Ling’s voice. Her hands clutched at the cushions, trying to ground herself, but Ling’s presence was everywhere....on top of her, inside her, under her skin like heat.

“I did notice,” Orm breathed, her voice thin and trembling with arousal. “I wanted you to.”

“Oh... I know,” Ling whispered, her mouth a dark smirk against Orm’s cheek. “You wanted to rile me up. You wanted to be punished.”

Orm didn’t answer.

Ling pulled a black strap from her bag, tugged her pants down, and secured the harness around her hips like armor. There was a quiet, ruthless efficiency in her movements…no hesitation, no softness left.

Ling’s fingers traced down her spine slowly... deliberately... until they gripped her ass with bruising force, spreading her open as if she owned her…and she did. There was no preamble, no tease. Ling was past that. She lined herself up with no warning. Just the blunt head nudging insistently against the slick heat of Orm’s cunt.

Orm shuddered. “Fuck... Ling...”

“You’re not allowed to say my name,” Ling said, voice cold and commanding. “You earn that right.”

And then she pushed inside.

Orm arched with a gasp, the stretch taking her by surprise even though her body was wet and ready, aching for this all day. Ling didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate....she sank into her in one deep, punishing thrust, until her hips pressed flush against Orm’s ass. Orm’s nails clawed the fabric of the couch. Her mouth fell open, a cry caught somewhere in her throat.

“That’s what you get,” Ling snarled into her ear, hand fisting in her hair to hold her down. “For dressing like a little cunty. For making me watch. For making me lose my senses.”

Orm moaned, voice cracking as Ling began to move. Long, deep strokes that made the couch creak and her whole body jolt with each thrust. She couldn’t hold on to anything except Ling’s voice, Ling’s weight, Ling’s cock pounding into her like a lesson she was being forced to memorize.

“Who do you belong to?” Ling hissed, fingers wrapping around Orm’s throat, just tight enough to make her tremble.

“You,” Orm gasped. “Fuck... I belong to you.”

“Say it again.”

“I belong to you... I’m yours... fuck, Ling, I’m yours.”

And that earned her a slap across her ass so sharp and sudden it echoed in the room. Orm’s cry was swallowed by the cushions, but Ling heard it, and it only made her thrust harder, faster, her rhythm turning savage.

Orm was shaking. Drunk on it. On Ling’s voice, her fury, her restraint just barely hanging on. Her cunt clenched desperately around the thick cock buried inside her, and she didn’t know if she was close to coming or collapsing.

“You like being fucked like this, don’t you?” Ling sneered, slowing for a moment just to grind deep inside, making Orm sob. “You like when I ruin you.”

Orm nodded wildly, tears streaking down her flushed cheeks. “Yes... god, yes... please... don’t stop...”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Ling muttered, pulling out halfway and slamming back in with enough force to make Orm scream. “Not until you learn.”

The rhythm turned relentless, punishing. Ling was fucking her through her moans, through her tears, through the mess of spit and cum dripping onto the couch. Orm’s legs were shaking, her thighs sticky, her cunt aching from being filled again and again and again.

“Look at you,” Ling murmured, slowing just a bit to let Orm feel every inch drag through her. “Look at this mess. All because you wanted attention.”

Orm whined, her voice nearly gone. “Only yours... I only wanted yours...”

Ling stilled, her body trembling with restraint. “Then you have it. All of it.”

She flipped Orm onto her back without pulling out, dragging her to the edge of the couch. Her eyes never left Orm’s face…sweat-soaked, eyes glassy with tears and lust, lips swollen from biting down moans. Ling pressed her cock deeper with one sharp thrust that made Orm cry out.

“I’m going to fuck you until you remember who you belong to.”


Present:

“yes baby” Orm moans “please…” Orm shouts

Ling’s mouth trailed slow kisses down Orm’s neck, pausing at the pulse that beat wildly beneath her skin. She sucked gently, tasting the salt of want and history, letting her teeth scrape just enough to make Orm’s breath catch again.

Orm’s hands wandered blindly, anchoring to Ling’s hips, her waist, her back … anywhere she could touch, could prove this was real. That Ling was here, with her, not just a memory she replayed on lonely nights.

Ling shifted lower, lips painting reverence across the slope of Orm’s chest, tongue flicking against the soft edge of a nipple until Orm’s back bowed, a cry slipping out that was half moan, half prayer.

“God… you make me forget how to think,” Orm said, fingers threading through Ling’s hair.

“Good,” Ling murmured against her skin, “you think too much anyway.”

Orm laughed, but it died quickly into a gasp as Ling’s hand slid between her thighs again, slow and deliberate. She didn’t rush. She savored. She learned all over again.

Orm opened to her, eyes fluttering shut as Ling dipped down, her tongue replacing her fingers in a rhythm that felt like worship. Orm’s thighs trembled, her breath shattered. She clutched the sheets, then Ling, then nothing … unraveling inch by inch beneath the weight of Ling’s mouth and the years of absence it tried to undo.

“Don’t stop,” Orm choked out. “Don’t ever stop…”

Ling didn’t. She moved with purpose, with tenderness, as if she could write all her apologies into Orm’s skin, as if she could rewrite history between her lips. Orm’s cries built, broken and breathless, until she finally shattered… one hand pressed over her mouth, the other tangled in Ling’s hair, hips rising to meet the mouth that unmade her.

When it was over, she didn’t move.

Neither did Ling.

They stayed curled into each other, bare skin against bare skin, listening to the sound of their breathing… no longer frantic but soft, syncopated. Ling pulled the covers around them and kissed Orm’s temple, her voice barely audible.

“This isn’t just a night.”

Orm turned to face her, pupils still blown, chest still rising in small quakes. “I know,” she said. “I know what this is.”

Ling cupped her face, thumb brushing over her lips. “Then say it.”

Orm swallowed. “It’s the start of the forever we dreamed about.”

That’s how they started their forever... by making love.

It wasn’t the kind that came from desperation or unfinished business. It was slow, certain, like a language they already knew by heart but were finally speaking without fear. They fell asleep tangled together, the air still warm from their breathing, the sheets smelling faintly of jasmine and sweat and forgiveness.

When morning came, Orm woke to the sound of something soft... a low hum, a familiar tune breaking the quiet of the apartment. The light slipped through the curtains in thin gold ribbons, and for a moment, she didn’t move. She just lay there, watching the slow shift of light against the wall, the ache in her muscles reminding her of everything they had reclaimed the night before.

Then came the smell .... pancakes. Butter and sugar, faintly burnt at the edges, exactly the way Orm liked them.

She sat up, hair a mess, one sleeve of Ling’s shirt slipping off her shoulder, and there she was .... Ling .... standing by the stove, humming something tuneless and happy, flipping pancakes with an ease that didn’t belong to the sharp, commanding woman the world saw. Her hair was tied up loosely, her face still bare, the morning light catching the edge of her cheekbone.

It was almost ridiculous how domestic it all looked.
Orm smiled, resting her chin on her knees.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured.

Ling turned, spatula in hand, pretending to glare. “Used to what? My cooking or my company?”

“Both,” Orm said, grinning. “Especially if it means watching you in my kitchen wearing my shirt.”

Ling rolled her eyes, but a faint pink rose to her cheeks. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s criminal,” Orm teased. “God, if Harvard could see you now .... the great Lingling Kwong, legal prodigy, domestic goddess, and thief of my wardrobe.”

Ling huffed a laugh, flipping the pancake with exaggerated precision. “Keep talking and I’ll burn your breakfast.”

“Hot,” Orm said immediately, grinning wider.

Ling shook her head, but she couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at her lips.

Orm leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “You know,” she said, “if I wasn’t already in love with you, this might’ve done it.”

Ling raised an eyebrow. “Pancakes?”

“The apron,” Orm said with a smirk.

Ling looked down .... she hadn’t even realized she’d put one on, a plain white apron with a little stain of batter near the hem. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it,” Orm said, stealing a bite from the plate. “You like me this way .... loud, annoying, head over heels for you.”

Ling crossed her arms, pretending to consider. “Loud, yes. Annoying, debatable. Head over heels…” She paused, stepping closer until she was nose to nose with her. “That part’s mutual.”

Orm beamed, the kind of grin that could light up the entire apartment. She grabbed Ling’s face with both hands and kissed her .... quick, sweet, like punctuation. Then she pulled away, mischief already dancing in her eyes.

“Hold that thought,” Orm said, and before Ling could stop her, she darted toward the window.

“Orm....”

Too late.

Orm threw the window open, leaning halfway out into the cool morning air. “HEY BOSTON!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, hair wild, voice echoing down the street. “I HAVE A GORGEOUS GIRLFRIEND AND SHE MAKES PANCAKES!”

“Orm!” Ling gasped, rushing to pull her back. “Get inside before someone calls the police.”

Orm turned, laughing breathlessly. “What? It’s a public service announcement!”

Ling dragged her away from the window, biting back a smile. “You’re insane.”

“You knew that before you fell for me,” Orm teased, wrapping her arms around Ling’s waist. “Don’t act surprised now.”

Ling looked at her, shaking her head, eyes bright with something softer. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” Orm said, leaning in close, “are stuck with me.”

Ling’s hand came up to cup her jaw, her thumb brushing against the corner of Orm’s mouth. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Orm smiled then, wide and radiant, and the sound of Ling’s quiet laughter filled the kitchen. The pancakes cooled on the plate. The city kept moving outside. But in that small apartment, with sunlight in their hair and love in their bones, they began again .... messy, ridiculous, and utterly, perfectly theirs.

Ling barely had time to finish her coffee before Orm was at it again.

It started small .... the faint rhythm of music spilling from her phone, a hum under her breath, a little sway of her hips as she carried her plate to the sink. Ling, who was mid-sip, didn’t think much of it. She’d seen this version of Orm before .... the one who danced when she was happy, who couldn’t keep still when her heart was full.

But this time, it wasn’t just a sway.

Orm turned up the volume, loud enough for the neighbors to probably hear. A grin spread across her face as she looked at Ling .... that mischievous grin that always meant trouble.

“Orm,” Ling warned lightly, already suspicious.

“What?” Orm said, pretending to look innocent. “Can’t a woman celebrate her domestic bliss?”

Ling raised an eyebrow. “Celebrate quietly.”

“Quietly?” Orm gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Lingling, my love, my sweetheart.... you can’t just make me pancakes, tell me you love me, and expect me to be quiet about it!”

Before Ling could reply, Orm stepped up onto the couch, balancing with a ridiculous amount of confidence. Then, with one more beat of the music, she climbed right onto the coffee table.

“Orm,” Ling said again, this time slower. “You are not....”

“Oh, but I am!” Orm shouted gleefully.

And then she was dancing.

Arms up, hair flying, laughing so hard her body shook. The song wasn’t even particularly danceable, but Orm didn’t care. She moved like joy itself had taken physical form .... a flurry of limbs and laughter, half graceful, half chaos, the kind of unhinged energy that only Orm could make look beautiful.

Ling stood by the kitchen counter, mug in hand, half horrified and half enchanted. “You’re going to break the table.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take!” Orm yelled over the music.

“Orm, that table cost....”

“Less than my happiness!” Orm interrupted, spinning in place like a maniac. “And right now, my happiness is limitless!”

Ling couldn’t help it; she laughed. The kind of laugh that came from deep in her chest, unguarded and rare. She shook her head, setting her mug down. “You’re completely insane.”

Orm pointed a finger down at her mid-spin. “And you .... you chose me!”

Ling crossed her arms. “Regretting it slightly.”

“You love it!” Orm countered, grinning like she’d just won something monumental. “You love that I’m unhinged and impulsive and possibly a danger to furniture!”

Ling sighed dramatically but stepped closer, leaning against the edge of the couch. “Get down before you hurt yourself.”

Orm crouched theatrically, giving Ling a wicked grin. “Make me.”

Ling blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

For a moment, they stared at each other .... Orm defiant and playful, Ling exasperated and trying very hard not to smile. Then, with a small shake of her head, Ling reached out, grabbed Orm’s wrist, and pulled her down with surprising strength.

Orm yelped, tumbling straight into Ling’s arms.

“Happy now?” Ling asked, holding her close.

Orm tilted her head up, her face flushed and glowing. “Extremely.”

Ling groaned. “You’re going to give me gray hair before forty.”

“Worth it,” Orm said, grinning up at her. “Besides, you love this version of me .... the unhinged, chaotic, wildly devoted girlfriend who dances on tables and screams your name out the window.”

Ling brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Maybe I do,” she murmured.

“See?” Orm beamed. “You’re already smiling.”

Ling sighed, but she was. She couldn’t not.

“God help me,” she said quietly. “I really am in love with a menace.”

Orm threw her arms around her neck, pulling her into a kiss that was all laughter and warmth and lingering joy.

When they finally broke apart, Orm whispered, still breathless, “That’s because you secretly love chaos.”

Ling smiled against her lips. “Only when it’s you.”

And that was how their morning went .... pancakes gone cold on the counter, sunlight spilling over the floor, and Orm dancing barefoot through the apartment while Ling laughed like she hadn’t in years.

Their forever had started not with perfection, but with chaos... the kind that made life feel alive again.

Every time Orm walked past, Ling would reach out and pull her in... a kiss pressed to her shoulder, another to her neck, a soft murmur against her skin. “Mine,” she’d whisper .... not as a claim, but as a promise. And each time, Orm would smile, whispering back, “Always.”

They spent the late morning half working, half wrapped around each other in the small domestic rhythm they were still learning to navigate. The city moved outside; the light in the apartment shifted from gold to white, and Ling sat at the kitchen counter with her laptop open, phone pressed to her ear.

Orm was perched across from her, legs crossed, a mug of coffee in hand, watching her with an amused smirk. “I can’t tell if this is the sexiest or scariest thing I’ve ever seen,” she teased, “you calling lawyers with that same tone you use when your disappointed in the students”

Ling didn’t look up. “You like it,” she said simply, clicking through documents.

“I do,” Orm admitted, grinning. “It’s hot. You being all serious while secretly wearing nothing under my shirt.”

Ling gave her a warning look over the rim of her glasses, but there was amusement in her eyes. “If you keep talking, this divorce will take longer than necessary.”

Orm gasped in mock offense. “You’re prioritizing legal paperwork over me?”

“I’m prioritizing freedom,” Ling replied, her tone softening. “And you’re included in that.”

That quiet sincerity silenced Orm immediately. She leaned back in her chair, watching Ling as she talked to the lawyer .... calm, composed, unflinching. The woman who once set the world on fire now spoke like someone who had nothing left to prove. It was strange, beautiful, and a little heartbreaking.

After a few minutes, Ling ended the call and looked up. “It’s done,” she said, exhaling. “The papers are being drawn up today. Since it’s mutual, it won’t drag out. No hearings, no theatrics. Just signatures and finality.”

Orm tilted her head. “And Miu?”

Ling’s expression softened. “She agreed. She sounded... tired. But she didn’t argue.”

“Good,” Orm said quietly. “That means you can stop carrying it.”

“I already have,” Ling replied, her gaze steady on her. “Because of you.”

Orm smiled, pushing herself off the chair and walking around the table. She came up behind Ling, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, chin resting on the top of her head. “So that’s it then,” she murmured. “You’ll officially be single soon.”

Ling chuckled, turning her head slightly. “Technically, yes. But I haven’t been available for years.”

Orm laughed softly. “You’re so dramatic.”

Ling tilted her head back, eyes meeting hers. “I’m honest,” she said. “I was yours long before this.”

Orm’s lips curved into a grin. “Say that again.”

Ling reached up, catching Orm’s hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist. “I’m yours,” she whispered. “Fully, finally, and without a shadow in between.”

Orm’s breath hitched, the sound small but sincere. “You realize,” she said quietly, “that means I’m yours too. Entirely.”

“I know,” Ling murmured, standing and turning to face her. “And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

Orm laughed softly. “You’re doing a good job already.”

Ling smiled, brushing her thumb along Orm’s jaw. “Good.” She leaned forward, kissing her again .... slow, deep, the kind of kiss that made time stutter. “Because I plan on reminding you for the rest of the day.”

Orm grinned against her mouth. “That’s a dangerous promise.”

“I mean it” Ling whispered.

The sound of Orm’s laughter filled the apartment again, bright and wild, spilling into the corners of the room like sunlight. Ling joined in, her own smile softer but just as real.

And for the first time, there was no chaos beneath their joy. No storm waiting to return. Just the quiet certainty of two women rebuilding their lives from the ruins .... one kiss, one call, one morning at a time.

By evening, the apartment had softened into that golden hour glow that made everything look gentler than it was. The windows were open, the faint hum of the city spilling in along with the cool air. Dinner sat half-eaten on the counter .... neither of them had much appetite for food, too full from the day, from the relief that still hadn’t settled properly in Ling’s bones.

Orm, on the other hand, was buzzing. It was the kind of energy that always took over her after something heavy had finally lifted .... the same way storms leave the air electric afterward. She was sitting cross-legged on the couch, talking fast enough that Ling had given up trying to keep up.

“So, listen, I was thinking,” Orm began, waving a fork around for emphasis. “You’ve got a few weeks before everything’s finalized, right? What if we go somewhere? Not far .... maybe Vermont, or somewhere green and quiet. You love mountains, I love food, that’s compromise.”

Ling looked up from her laptop, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “Vermont, hmm? That’s very... wholesome of you.”

“I can be wholesome,” Orm said defensively, then grinned. “Sometimes.”

Ling hummed. “You plan everything like a child with a sugar rush.”

“I’m just excited,” Orm admitted, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I want us to have a beginning that doesn’t start with fire or lawsuits. A real one. I want lazy mornings and hikes that turn into arguments about trail maps. I want to annoy you in new places.”

Ling closed her laptop, turning fully toward her. “You already annoy me perfectly fine here.”

“I can do better,” Orm shot back immediately, her grin wide, infectious. “Imagine me with a whole countryside as my stage. Or....oh my God, Italy. We could go to Italy. You’d look so good angry at airport lines.”

Ling laughed quietly, shaking her head. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Completely,” Orm said, eyes sparkling. “But you love it.”

“I do,” Ling admitted softly.

Orm’s face softened at that .... her chatter paused just long enough for her to reach out, brushing her thumb over Ling’s hand. “You’re really free now, aren’t you?”

Ling exhaled, that familiar mix of relief and melancholy curling in her chest. “Almost. The documents will go through next week. After that... yes. I suppose I will be.”

Orm hesitated, then asked carefully, “Did you tell your parents?”

Ling’s expression flickered, a brief shadow passing over her face. She leaned back against the couch. “Not yet. My mother will turn it into a family scandal, my father will pretend he didn’t hear it. I’ll tell them when the papers are signed. Not before.”

Orm nodded slowly. “Do you think they’ll understand?”

“No,” Ling said simply. Then, after a pause, she smiled faintly. “But they don’t have to. I’m not explaining myself anymore. Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Orm watched her for a moment, eyes full of quiet admiration. “You’ve changed,” she said softly. “You used to fight everyone for the right to be understood.”

“I used to think being understood was the same as being accepted,” Ling replied, her gaze warm now. “Turns out, it’s not. Acceptance doesn’t come from anyone else.”

Orm’s lips parted, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name .... pride, love, a little ache for the woman in front of her who had learned to stand still without the world’s approval.

“Well,” she said finally, leaning closer with a smile, “you can still let me understand you.”

Ling’s smile deepened. “You already do.”

For a while, they sat like that .... Orm talking in excited bursts about weekend getaways and new apartments and shared coffee mugs, Ling listening, smiling quietly, occasionally interrupting with a sarcastic remark that made Orm laugh harder.

There was something intoxicating about how alive the room felt. Every word Orm said was a vision .... a new beginning sketched in laughter and ridiculous plans.

“Wherever we go,” Orm said at last, curling up beside her, “it’ll be ours. Not stolen, not hidden, not something we have to defend. Just... ours.”

Ling turned her head, brushing her lips against Orm’s temple. “Ours,” she echoed softly.

Orm closed her eyes, resting her head on Ling’s shoulder. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I’m already planning the playlists, and the snacks, and what we’ll name our future dog.”

Ling laughed quietly, the sound low and real. “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“I don’t have to,” Orm said sleepily. “I just know who I’m going with.”

Ling smiled, her hand finding Orm’s and holding it there, between them. Outside, the evening settled deeper, the world dimming to quiet. Inside, Orm’s breathing slowed, her plans fading into dreams.

The peace didn’t last long. Ling’s phone buzzed on the counter, sharp and insistent against the quiet. She sighed softly, untangling her fingers from Orm’s and walking toward it, careful not to wake her. The screen flashed with her lawyer’s name.

“Lingling,” came the brisk voice on the other end, “just confirming .... you’ve formally withdrawn all the lawsuits you filed through client accounts against Miu and Lorena?”

Ling leaned against the counter, eyes wandering back to the couch where Orm slept, hair spilling over the pillow like a halo. “Yes,” she said. “All of them.”

“You’re certain? That’s years of leverage, and....”

“I’m certain,” Ling interrupted gently. “I don’t feel like carrying that weight anymore. It’s over. There would be hearings, settlements... excuses to see them again. I don’t want to be associated with them in any way. Not legally. Not emotionally. Not at all.”

A pause. Then a quiet acknowledgment on the line. “Understood. I’ll process the withdrawal first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Ling said softly, and hung up.

She turned back toward the living room. Orm wasn’t asleep anymore. She was propped on one elbow, watching Ling in that half-awake, half-dreaming way she had .... eyes hazy but alert, like she could feel when something important shifted in the air.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Orm asked, her voice still rough from sleep.

Ling nodded slowly. “Yeah. I withdrew everything.”

Orm sat up, the blanket pooling around her waist. “All of it?”

“All of it,” Ling confirmed. “Every case, every complaint, every shadow of them that was still tied to me.”

Orm blinked, as if trying to process it. Then her face softened .... the kind of expression that only came from awe mixed with relief. She rose from the couch and walked over, bare feet silent against the floor. “That’s... huge, Ling.”

Ling shrugged, a small, quiet gesture. “It just felt right. I can’t start something new while I’m still holding onto the old.”

Orm stopped in front of her, close enough that their breaths mingled. “No,” she said, shaking her head softly. “You didn’t just let it go. You chose peace. That’s harder. Most people don’t know how to stop fighting, even when they win.”

Ling looked down, a faint smile curving her lips. “I had a good teacher.”

Orm’s hand came up to touch her face, thumb brushing along her jaw. “You listened,” she whispered. “That’s what matters. You didn’t do it because you lost .... you did it because you finally remembered what it feels like to be free.”

Ling met her gaze, the calm in her chest matching the warmth spreading through her ribs. “I did it because you asked me to.”

Orm laughed softly, shaking her head. “You give me too much credit.”

“I don’t think I give you enough,” Ling said quietly.

Orm smiled, her eyes glistening, and leaned her forehead against Ling’s. “I’m proud of you,” she murmured. “You could’ve dragged it out for months, just to prove a point, but instead you did the hardest thing of all .... you stopped.”

Ling’s breath caught. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Orm said, her voice steady. “That’s what makes you mine .... not your power, not your anger, not your fight... but your ability to stop when love asks you to.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was warm this time, full of understanding. Orm’s fingers slipped into Ling’s, their palms fitting together like something finally falling into place.

Ling exhaled, her voice soft but sure. “No more lawsuits. No more war.”

Orm smiled, resting her head against her shoulder. “Good,” she whispered. “Now we can get back to living.”

And for once, Ling believed her. The wars were over, the ghosts buried. What remained was quiet .... and Orm’s hand in hers, steady as truth, strong enough to hold the future.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16 -

Flashback :

Back when they were still loving each other in half measures... in the shadows where their names didn’t yet belong side by side.

The air in the room was thick and sweet, the kind that followed a night of too much laughter and too little restraint. Sheets tangled, pillows askew, the scent of skin and something softer lingering in the air. Ling lay back against the headboard, hair falling loose across her shoulders, her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Orm was sprawled beside her, one leg thrown across Ling’s, her face half buried in the crook of her neck.

Ling turned slightly, brushing a strand of hair away from Orm’s damp forehead. “What does your dream date look like, babe?” she asked, her voice hoarse but teasing, still breathless from what had just happened.

Orm laughed, muffled against her skin. “You’re insane,” she murmured between quiet pants. “You literally just showed me stars, and now you’re asking about dates?”

Ling’s grin was lazy, her eyes glinting. “I’m serious,” she said, tucking a lock of Orm’s hair behind her ear. “I want to know what your dream date looks like. I want to take you out someday... and I want to be prepared.”

Orm tilted her head, giving her an incredulous look. “You’re seriously asking me that right now?”

“Yes,” Ling said with mock solemnity. “Right now. I need to know what I’m competing with.”

Orm huffed a laugh, rolling onto her back. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m thorough,” Ling corrected, leaning over her. “Now tell me.”

Orm thought for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “You know what... I’m not really a big date girl,” she said finally.

Ling raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Your long list of ex-girlfriends says otherwise.”

“Correction,” Orm said, smirking. “Long list of flings and one-night stands.”

“Jeez,” Ling said, laughing. “That’s even worse.”

Orm shrugged, still smiling. “My point is... I never wanted to go on a date with anyone. Not really. Not until you.”

That made Ling pause. Something soft flickered across her face, something quiet and unguarded. “Oh yeah?” she asked gently.

Orm turned her head toward her. “Yeah. I want to be pampered, I guess. Like... really, really pampered. That’s it.”

Ling leaned closer, eyes bright. “Like how?”

Orm grinned, sensing the shift in tone. “I’m not telling you.”

“Come on,” Ling pressed, nudging her side. “Give me a hint.”

“Nope,” Orm said, shaking her head, the teasing lilt back in her voice. “You’ll have to figure it out yourself. That’s what you’re for.”

Ling stared at her, pretending to be offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Orm said, grinning wider. “You’re the genius, remember? Figure it out.”

“Oh, I will,” Ling warned, inching closer.

Orm laughed, realizing too late what was about to happen. “Ling... no....”

But Ling was already on her, pinning her down, fingers finding her sides mercilessly.

“Ling! Stop!” Orm squealed, dissolving into laughter that filled the small room. She twisted, trying to wriggle free, but Ling only laughed harder, relentless.

“Say you’ll tell me,” Ling teased, digging her fingers in again.

“Never!” Orm shrieked through her laughter, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “You’ll have to torture me!”

Ling grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “Don’t tempt me, Orm.”

Orm was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, clutching at Ling’s wrists. “Okay…okay! Stop! I give up!”

Ling paused, triumphant, hovering over her. “You sure?”

Orm caught her breath, her grin softening into something tender. “Positive.” She reached up, cupping Ling’s face. “Because I like watching you try.”

Ling blinked, her own smile faltering into something gentler. She leaned down until their foreheads touched, laughter fading into the kind of silence that was too full to break.

“You’re something else,” Ling murmured.

“I am hoping that is good,” Orm whispered back.

Ling kissed her then… slow, playful, but threaded with something deeper neither of them wanted to name yet.

And in that moment, between laughter and softness, the world outside their little apartment didn’t matter. It was just them… two women loving each other in secret, in half-light, in half-measures... already falling too fast for a kind of forever they didn’t yet know how to keep.

Present

It had been 4 weeks since the divorce was filed. The hearing was set for tomorrow… tomorrow she is a free women,  but Ling didn’t care .... not in the way she once would have, not in the way her old self would have fixated on every clause and every statement. That part of her was gone. She had closed that chapter the moment she chose peace over pride.

Now, her mind was occupied by something far more important.
Orm.

Specifically, Orm’s words echoing in her memory from that night long ago.
“I want to be pampered.”

That could mean anything... and that was the problem. Pampered could mean an expensive dinner, a weekend trip, a spa day, or just a day of quiet .... the kind of day that belonged only to them. But Ling wanted more than that. She wanted something memorable. Something that didn’t just say I love you but said I remember you.

“Grow up, Ling,” she muttered to herself, pacing across the apartment. “You’re nearing forty and you can’t even plan a date?”

The apartment was too quiet for her frustration. She’d been walking in circles for the last hour, mumbling ideas under her breath, discarding one after another. “Dinner is too basic... spa’s too generic... jewelry? Maybe? beach? Too cliché...” She stopped mid-step, glaring at the wall as if it had personally offended her. “God, why is this so hard?”

Her laptop sat open on the kitchen counter, tabs cluttering the screen .... best date ideas for girlfriends, romantic Boston getaways, DIY spa nights. Each one was useless. Orm wasn’t someone who could be impressed with clichés. She could smell a grand gesture from a mile away and laugh her way right through it.

Ling sighed and leaned against the counter, rubbing her temples. “You’d think after dismantling entire legal empires, I could handle planning one date.”

The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d spent decades managing chaos, commanding rooms full of men who mistook her silence for weakness .... and yet here she was, undone by the idea of a single date.

Orm was in the middle of her own chaos .... interviews, calls, emails, every morning spent in pressed shirts and hopeful smiles as she rebuilt the career she deserved. Ling was... between things. Jobless for the first time in her adult life, a little aimless, a little free, and entirely devoted to making her girlfriend feel like the most loved woman on the planet.

She looked around their shared apartment... the place that had once been Orm’s sanctuary alone but was now unmistakably theirs. The small traces of their life together were everywhere .... the kind of quiet evidence that love leaves behind without trying.

Orm’s notebooks were piled on the coffee table, half open, pages filled with messy notes and doodles. A mug with her lipstick still on the rim sat beside them, cold coffee long forgotten. Ling’s coat hung off the back of a chair .... she always swore she’d put it on the hook, but somehow never did. One of Ling’s blazers, pressed and precise, was draped next to Orm’s denim jacket on the same hanger by the door. Two toothbrushes leaned side by side in a cup on the bathroom sink.

Even the kitchen told their story .... Ling’s neatly arranged spice jars now surrounded by Orm’s chaotic stash of snacks, mismatched mugs crowding the once-empty shelves. Her books had migrated from her study into the living room, stacked in uneven towers where Orm sometimes left flowers between the pages like bookmarks.

It wasn’t Orm’s apartment anymore. It was home.

Ling stood there for a moment, letting the sight of it sink in .... the scent of jasmine and coffee, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. Every trace of clutter felt intimate, grounding. The quiet was no longer lonely; it was lived in.

Her life, her heart, her peace .... all of it now lived here, with Orm.

“I want it to be perfect,” Ling said under her breath. “Not just... nice. I want her to remember the way she remembers everything .... like it meant something.”

Her mind replayed Orm’s laugh, the way she’d said it … I want to be pampered... really, really pampered.

Ling smiled despite herself. “You’re lucky I love you,” she said softly, as if Orm could hear her from across the city.

She opened her notebook and started scribbling with ideas .... half lists, half rambling thoughts:
Breakfast in bed.
Massage by me, not a professional.
breakfast somewhere quiet. Something that smells like her. Cooked by me, for her.
No phones, no work, no world.
Just us.

Then she added another note beneath it, almost an afterthought:
Show her that this is her forever starting point. Not an ending. Not recovery. Just... life.

She stood there for a while, pen tapping against the page, the corners of her mouth softening into a smile.

For the first time in weeks, she felt alive with purpose again.

Orm had once told her she didn’t want grand things .... she just wanted to feel seen. So that would be Ling’s mission. To build a day made of small, deliberate moments: pancakes the way Orm liked them, a playlist of songs they used to dance to, the scent of jasmine in every room, and maybe .... if she could manage it .... the rooftop where they’d once first kissed.

She picked up her phone and opened her messages, typing quickly before she could overthink it:

Ling: No interviews on Saturday please. You’re mine for the day.

A moment later, Orm’s reply came through, predictable and warm.

Orm: Bossy. I like it. What’s the occasion?

Ling: You’ll see.

Orm: I can’t wait for it, baby. I love you <3

Ling: I love you more my baby

Orm: Don’t fucking start the debate again. You know I love you more *side eye emoji*

Ling laughed quietly to herself, setting the phone down.

And just like that, she knew what to do.
Not something extravagant, not something staged .... just something real.
Because Orm didn’t need fireworks.
She only needed to feel loved.

And that, Ling decided she could do better than anyone.

Saturday morning began in that thin blue hour before dawn... the kind of quiet that belonged only to people in love or to those carrying a secret they were too happy to keep.

Ling slipped out of bed carefully, the sheets still warm from Orm’s body. She glanced back once .... Orm lay tangled in the blankets, her hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink, one arm outstretched toward the empty space where Ling had been. The sight almost made Ling climb back in. Almost.

Instead, she smiled softly and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

The plan had been forming in her mind for days .... the perfect beginning to Orm’s pampered date. Not a grand gesture, not diamonds or champagne, but something far more dangerous in its intimacy. Something that smelled like comfort.

Bread.

Orm loved bread .... so much that it was practically a religion. Ling remembered teasing her once, half offended and half amused.

It had been a lazy evening, years ago, the two of them curled up on the couch after one of their usual half-fights that ended in laughter. Ling had asked, “What are your top five favorite things in the world?” expecting something sentimental or romantic.

Orm hadn’t even hesitated. She had said, “You, bread, my mom, my dad, and Prigking.”

Ling had stared at her, mouth open. “Wait .... bread comes before your parents?”

Orm had smirked. “Yes. And before you, on some days.”

Ling’s jaw had dropped. “Excuse me?”

Orm had shrugged, completely unbothered. “You’re dramatic, babe. Bread never starts fights. Bread never makes me cry.”

Ling had been too stunned to respond .... and, secretly, too in love to argue.

Now, standing in their kitchen, that memory made her laugh under her breath. “We’ll see if bread still outranks me,” she whispered to herself, rolling up her sleeves.

She pulled out the starter she’d picked up from a baker a few days earlier .... a tiny jar of bubbling life she’d guarded like it was gold. She’d stayed up the night before studying how to perfect the crust, how to make it soft and crisp at once. There were easier ways to buy Orm breakfast, but none of them felt right.

This had to be made by her hands.

By six, the apartment was filled with the low hum of the oven and the warm, yeasty scent of sourdough rising. Ling stood by the counter, hair pulled back, flour dusting her cheekbone like snow. She sliced the first loaf open, steam curling into the air, the crust singing as it cracked.

“Perfect,” she murmured, smiling like someone who’d just solved the world’s greatest puzzle.

Next came the omelet .... soft, golden, folded with care. She remembered Orm’s absurd insistence that the perfect omelet “had to look like a cloud and taste like sin.” Ling laughed quietly as she whisked the eggs, adding a touch of milk and butter just the way Orm liked. She plated everything with precision .... thick slices of bread, a small dish of the French butter Orm loved, the kind that came wrapped in gold foil, and a glass of orange juice she’d actually squeezed herself.

When she was done, she looked at the tray .... simple, but beautiful. It wasn’t about impressing. It was about knowing.

Ling carried the tray into the bedroom, moving quietly. The morning light had softened now, turning gold as it spilled over Orm’s sleeping face.

She set the tray on the nightstand and leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from Orm’s forehead.

“Good morning, my little bread enthusiast,” Ling whispered against her ear.

Orm stirred, mumbling something incoherent before her eyes fluttered open. When she saw Ling .... and more importantly, the tray beside her .... her expression lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.

“Is that...?” Orm started, sitting up, eyes wide. “Ling, did you bake?”

Ling smirked, crossing her arms. “I did. Fresh sourdough. From a proper starter, might I add. And French butter. Imported. Nothing less for someone who puts bread above me on her priority list.”

Orm blinked, still half asleep but already laughing. “Wait... you remembered that?”

“I remember everything you say,” Ling replied simply, settling beside her on the bed. “Even the offensive parts.”

Orm giggled, reaching for a slice. She took a bite, and her eyes practically rolled back. “Oh my god... this is illegal. You could seduce nations with this bread.”

Ling laughed. “Is that your way of saying I’m forgiven for being second place?”

Orm grinned between bites. “Second? Never. You’re tied. Bread and you... eternal equals.”

Ling pretended to frown. “Unacceptable ranking. I’ll fix that.”

Orm raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How?”

Ling leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of Orm’s mouth. “By making sure you never taste anything sweeter than me.”

Orm laughed so hard she almost dropped the bread. “You’re ridiculous.”

Ling smiled. “You love it.”

“I do,” Orm said softly, her laughter melting into something tender. She reached for Ling’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “And for the record, if I ever make another list... you’re first.”

Ling squeezed her hand. “Good,” she said, voice low and warm. “Because I’m keeping you fed until you forget what second place even feels like.”

Orm looked down at the tray, the soft bread, the glint of butter melting in sunlight, and then back at Ling .... and she realized this was it. The pampering she’d once joked about. The love she’d never thought she’d deserve.

And as she leaned into Ling’s shoulder, her mouth full of warm sourdough and laughter, she whispered, “If this is what forever tastes like... I’m loving it.”

And half an hour later... with more than half the loaf gone and a few crumbs decorating the sheets like confetti, Ling watched Orm lick the last bit of butter from her thumb and couldn’t help but laugh.

“You enjoyed it?” she asked softly, wanting to know if Orm liked the surprise .... and maybe to hear her say it out loud.

Orm leaned back against the headboard, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction. “Very, very much,” she said, finishing her orange juice in one long sip. “I love mornings like this... warm bread, lazy sunlight, and your kisses. It’s almost unfair how good it feels.”

Ling smiled, leaning closer until their noses nearly brushed. “This is just the beginning of the day,” she murmured, kissing the corner of Orm’s mouth. “I have the entire day planned for you... and only you.”

Orm’s eyebrows rose, playful curiosity sparking in her expression. “Oh yeah? And what exactly have you planned?”

Ling grinned, trailing more kisses down her jaw. “I’m not telling.”

“Not even a hint?” Orm asked, tilting her head to give Ling better access to her neck.

“No hints,” Ling said, pausing to press one last kiss to her throat. “Now .... I’m going to shower first, then it’s your turn. Meet me in the living room after, but don’t get dressed up yet. Just... something comfy.”

Orm frowned in mock suspicion but her eyes were bright, a child’s excitement bubbling beneath the surface. “You’re being mysterious, Ms. Kwong.”

“Good,” Ling said, smiling as she stood and straightened her shirt. “I like when you’re curious.”

Orm watched her disappear into the bathroom, shaking her head with a grin. “You’re such a tease,” she muttered affectionately, sinking deeper into the sheets.

By the time both of them had freshened up, the apartment smelled faintly of soap and vanilla lotion. Orm walked into the living room and stopped dead in her tracks.

“What in the....” she began, but laughter cut her off.

Ling had transformed the space into a makeshift nail salon. There was a folded towel spread across the coffee table, bowls of warm water, neatly arranged nail files, cuticle oil, and .... most impressively .... a lineup of nail polishes in every possible shade of pink, red, and nude. Even a small Bluetooth speaker played soft jazz in the background.

Ling stood behind the setup, wearing one of Orm’s oversized headbands to keep her hair out of her face, her sleeves rolled up, looking far too serious for what she was doing.

“Welcome to Salon de Ling,” she announced dramatically. “Appointments only. But since you’re my favorite client, I suppose I can squeeze you in.”

Orm blinked, then burst into laughter. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I did,” Ling said, crossing her arms. “Now sit down before I revoke your slot. This place is very exclusive.”

Orm flopped onto the couch, giggling. “God, you’re ridiculous. And adorable. I love this.”

“Good,” Ling said with mock professionalism, picking up a nail file. “Now, Ms. Orm, how are we doing today? Any exciting plans? Anyone special in your life?”

Orm’s grin turned wicked. “Oh, you know... there might be someone.”

“Oh?” Ling said, pretending to file her nails with interest. “Tell me about her.”

Orm smirked, leaning back dramatically. “Well... she’s this insanely beautiful woman. Like, drop-dead gorgeous. She’s smart .... painfully smart .... and the worst part? She knows it. She’s also a complete control freak and has this terrifying glare that makes men twice her size shrink into oblivion. But she’s got these soft hands...” Orm paused, glancing down at Ling’s hands holding hers, “...that do things that could ruin civilizations.”

Ling froze mid-motion, blushing furiously but trying to hide it behind her mock-salon composure. “This salon does not tolerate inappropriate client comments,” she said primly.

Orm laughed so hard she nearly spilled the bowl of warm water. “Oh my god, you’re actually blushing!”

“I am not,” Ling said, but her ears had turned a telltale shade of pink.

Orm wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “Admit it, salon lady .... you like hearing how good you are.”

Ling looked up through her lashes, that faint, rare smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” Orm replied smugly.

Ling shook her head, filing carefully. “So... tell me, Ms. Orm,” she said, falling back into her role with exaggerated calm, “how is your relationship? Does this mysterious woman treat you well?”

Orm pretended to think, tapping her chin. “Hmm... well, she does make excellent bread. And she’s kind of a freak in bed.”

Ling’s hand stilled again. “I beg your pardon?”

Orm leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. “Oh, don’t be shy. You should see her when she’s mad. It’s honestly....”

“Orm,” Ling interrupted, her face now entirely red, “I am this close to charging you double for emotional distress.”

Orm cackled, unable to stop laughing. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered, salon lady.”

“Sit still or I’ll paint your nails neon green,” Ling warned, but she was smiling now, unable to hide her own laughter.

“Neon green is bold,” Orm said, winking. “Just like my taste in women.”

Ling paused mid-stroke, narrowing her eyes in mock suspicion. “Oh? And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Orm grinned, tilting her head dramatically. “I mean, come on… my girlfriend is eight years older than me. Eight. That’s a solid generational gap in TikTok years.”

Ling looked up from Orm’s hand, one brow lifting. “You’re making it sound like I’m ancient.”

“You’re not ancient,” Orm said sweetly, patting her knee. “You’re seasoned. Mature. Refined. Like fine wine… or one of those French cheeses that costs way too much and smells suspicious but tastes divine.”

Ling set the brush down very carefully. “Did you just compare me to cheese?”

Orm burst into laughter, doubling over on the couch. “The fancy kind! The kind that people whisper about in Michelin restaurants. My cougar cheese.”

Ling blinked. “Did you just call me a cougar?”

Orm gasped, pretending to be scandalized by her own words. “Oh my god, I did. Wow. You’re literally a hottie in your forties soon. How do you feel about that, Ms. Kwong?”

Ling’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. The usually unshakable, poised, razor-sharp woman of the courtroom turned an actual shade of pink. “Orm,” she warned quietly, her voice shaking with the effort not to laugh, “if you don’t stop talking....”

“....you’ll what?” Orm teased, leaning closer with a devilish grin. “File a complaint? Sue me for speaking the truth? You’re gorgeous, you’re terrifying, and you’re older. I’m just celebrating the facts.”

Ling hid her face behind her hand, which only made Orm laugh harder. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, but her voice was soft, the corners of her lips fighting to hide a smile.

Orm wasn’t done. “You know what’s even hotter?” she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “When people see us together, they probably think I’m your young reckless girlfriend who corrupted you.”

Ling groaned into her palm. “Orm....”

“Which is hilarious,” Orm said, her grin widening. “Because everyone who’s ever met you knows you’re the corruptor here. You’re the power suit and the red lipstick. You’re the one who could ruin lives just by looking at someone too long.”

Ling finally laughed .... that deep, quiet, helpless laugh that she only ever gave to Orm. “You’re insufferable.”

Orm tilted her chin proudly. “And you love it.”

“I regret teaching you confidence,” Ling said, shaking her head.

“Please,” Orm scoffed. “You didn’t teach me confidence. You just gave me better material. Do you know how much power I get from telling people my girlfriend’s an older, terrifyingly hot lawyer? Their souls leave their bodies, Ling.”

Ling gave up pretending to scold her. Her face was bright pink now, her shoulders shaking with laughter as she tried to collect herself. “You’re going to be the death of me,” she said finally.

Orm leaned forward, kissing her lightly on the nose. “If that’s how I go down in history .... as the one who killed you with compliments .... I’m fine with that.”

Ling’s eyes softened, her smile lingering. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m youthful and enthusiastic,” Orm corrected, holding out her freshly painted nails for inspection. “Which pairs beautifully with your ‘distinguished and sophisticated’ thing.”

Ling bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the grin that finally won. “Distinguished,” she echoed. “That’s one way to spin old.”

Orm winked. “You make old look like a fantasy.”

Ling rolled her eyes, but the flush at her throat gave her away. “You’re impossible.”

Orm leaned back on the couch, smug and sparkling. “And you’re blushing. Again.”

“Orm.”

“Yes, my beautiful cougar?”

Ling laughed so hard she nearly dropped the nail polish bottle. “That’s it. You’re cut off.”

“From what?” Orm teased. “The manicure or the relationship?”

“Both, if you keep talking.”

Orm beamed, leaning forward to steal a quick kiss before Ling could retreat. “You love me too much for that.”

Ling sighed, smiling against her lips. “Unfortunately… you’re right.”

Orm laughed triumphantly, kicking her feet up as Ling shook her head and started packing away the bottles. The air was full of warmth and giggles, the kind of silliness that made their apartment feel alive.

And if anyone had walked by just then, they might have thought they were witnessing two people in the first bloom of love .... unpolished, unfiltered, giddy .... even though the truth was far better.

This was what forever looked like for them: laughter, color, and a woman blushing her way through the chaos of being adored.

Once Orm’s nails had dried .... perfectly, of course, because Ling refused to let even one smudge happen .... Ling set about cleaning up every bottle, file, towel, and stray cotton pad with the precision of someone handling evidence for a court case. Orm watched from the couch, kicking her legs back and forth, humming to herself like a child waiting for dessert.

When Ling finally stood, wiping her hands on a cloth, Orm perked up.
“So… what’s next on the Pamper-Orm Agenda?”

Ling pretended to sigh dramatically. “Get your coat. We’re going out.”

Orm hopped to her feet, eyes sparkling. “Ooo, fancy. Spa time?”

Ling didn’t answer .... just smirked. That was enough to send Orm spinning into a world of excitement. “Oh my god, we’re doing a couples spa aren’t we? Hot stones? Aromatherapy? Matching robes? Maybe those weird cucumber things on our eyes?”

Ling pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “Just… come on.”

The drive was filled with Orm’s ridiculous theories .... each one more dramatic than the last. But when Ling parked outside a quiet, high-end private spa with frosted glass doors, Orm practically squealed.

“I knew it! We’re getting pampered together!”

The receptionist greeted them kindly, led them to a private room… and then, to Orm’s confusion, handed Ling a set of oils, lotions, towels, and instructions before leaving them alone.

Orm blinked. “Uh… where’s our masseuse?”

Ling turned, already rolling up her sleeves. “You’re looking at her.”

Orm’s mouth fell open. “…what?”

Ling nodded calmly. “Today is for you. So I’ll be the one doing the massage.”

There was a beat of silence.
Then Orm clapped her hands like a seal. “THIS IS EVEN BETTER!”

Ling snorted. “Of course it is.”

Orm practically bounced onto the massage table, lying face-down, adjusting the towel, her grin enormous. “Okay okay okay .... I’m ready. Do your magic, Ms. Kwong. Ruin me. Relax me. Restore my soul.”

Ling laughed softly, pouring warm oil into her palms. But the moment her hands touched Orm’s back, Orm melted.
“Ohhhh my god…” Orm moaned dramatically. “Your hands. Your hands should be illegal. No wonder you’re such a menace.”

Ling paused, flustered. “Orm....”

“No seriously,” Orm continued, face still pressed into the pillow. “I think your hands are your best feature.”

Ling blinked. “…excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Orm said dreamily. “Top tier. S-tier hands. Ten out of ten. Disney princess meets assassin energy. Elegant but deadly. And the grip strength? Ugh.”

Ling’s ears turned pink. “Stop talking.”

“I WON’T,” Orm declared proudly. “Do you know how many times I thought about your hands during interviews this week?”

Ling nearly dropped the bottle of oil. “Orm.”

“I mean look at you!” Orm continued, flipping onto her side just to point at Ling accusingly. “Most people use their hands to type. You use them to change lives.”

Ling covered her face with one hand. “This is mortifying.”

“NO. THIS IS PRAISE.” Orm insisted. “You know what? Forget lawyer. You should be a professional masseuse. A hand model. A sculptor. A goddess of touch.”

Ling took a deep breath. “Orm, lie down.”

“Make me,” Orm teased .... but then obediently flopped back into position when Ling narrowed her eyes.

Ling resumed the massage .... long strokes down her spine, careful pressure along her shoulders. Each time she pressed a knot loose, Orm let out a noise so dramatic Ling was convinced the receptionist could hear.

“Oh yes, right there,” Orm groaned. “This is why I date older women.”

Ling froze. “ORM.”

“What?!” Orm said brightly. “You have EXPERIENCE.”

Ling’s entire face turned crimson.

But she never broke her composure .... she kept working her magic with soft, skilled hands, her focus sharp even as her ears betrayed her.

Orm giggled into the pillow. “You’re blushing again.”

Ling pressed a thumbs into the base of her spine .... expertly, but with a hint of warning. “Keep talking and I’ll stop.”

Orm gasped. “I TAKE IT BACK. PLEASE CONTINUE.”

Ling chuckled despite herself, leaning in closer. “Unhinged woman.”

Orm sighed contentedly. “And very, very pampered.”

Ling’s smile softened .... the kind that came from deep inside her chest.
“Good,” she murmured. “That’s the point of today.”

And as the afternoon light filtered into the private room, warm and quiet, Ling kept her hands moving over Orm’s skin .... steady, careful, reverent .... giving her the kind of pampering she’d once asked for in a half-joke, never thinking Ling would remember.

But she did.
She always did.
And with every stroke, Orm’s laughter faded into peaceful hums, her body relaxing completely under Ling’s hands .... silly, warm, and deeply loved.

After nearly eighty minutes of Ling’s slow, careful, devastatingly expert massage, Orm felt like her bones had liquefied. She lay limp on the table, blissed out beyond words, making small content noises that Ling pretended not to find adorable.

“Up,” Ling said softly, brushing Orm’s hair back. “Bath time.”

Orm lifted her head sluggishly. “Together…?” she asked hopefully, blinking with sleepy mischief.

Ling shook her head, amused. “Separate. Go.”

Orm made a dramatic wounded noise, pressing a hand to her chest. “You wound me. Emotionally. Spiritually. Biblically.”

“Go,” Ling repeated, trying not to smile.

Orm stomped dramatically toward the women’s bath, muttering under her breath, “This is oppression. This is discrimination. My girlfriend hates me.”

But fifteen minutes later she emerged fresh, glowing, smelling faintly of vanilla and jasmine .... only to find an outfit laid out for her on a velvet bench.

A silk slip dress. Soft beige trench. Gold hoops. A subtle, elegant bag.

The kind of outfit that screamed:
expensive dinner date at a place with Michelin stars and bad lighting.

Orm stared at it, eyes widening. “Ohhhh. We’re going somewhere high-end.”

Ling, already dressed in a sleek black jumpsuit that looked illegal on her body, only smirked.
“Put it on.”

The outfit fit Orm perfectly .... eerily perfectly .... which told her Ling had been planning this for days. Maybe weeks.

By the time they stepped outside, Orm was practically vibrating with excitement.

But Ling didn’t take her to a restaurant first.

She took her to a shopping complex .... one of those places where the windows gleamed like glass temples and every brand logo whispered luxury.

Orm blinked. “Wait....Ling… what are we....”

Ling handed her a black card.
Without a word.

Orm froze.

“Spend what you want,” Ling said simply. “As much as you want.”

It took five full seconds for Orm’s soul to leave her body.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, staring at the card like it was the Holy Grail. “I’m a sugar baby. I AM A SUGAR BABY. OH MY GOD.”

Ling sighed. “Orm....”

“NO. NO, YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.” Orm held the card up like a trophy. “I am officially a sugar baby. This is my moment. My era. My destiny.”

Ling pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s my treat....”

“I AM A TREAT,” Orm declared proudly.

And then she took Ling’s hand and ran.

Their first stop: Cartier.

Within minutes, Orm was standing at the glass counter, trying on matching Cartier Love rings .... gold for her, platinum for Ling. She didn’t even hesitate.

“We’re doing this,” Orm whispered, eyes wide with reverence. “We’re getting matching rings. Do you understand what this means? Do you understand the level of sugar baby commitment this requires?”

Ling rolled her eyes but her smile betrayed her. “Pick the sizes.”

Orm turned to the sales associate.
“She’s paying,” she said proudly.
Then added, “Because she loves me and because she can.”

Ling’s ears turned faintly pink.

The second stop: Dior.

“Jonathan Anderson’s Lady Dior redesign,” Orm announced dramatically the moment she spotted it. “Ling. Baby. Honey. My love. My reason for living.”

“Yes,” Ling said without looking at the price.

Orm gasped. “I’m going to faint. Hold my sugar baby body.”

Ling simply handed over the card.
Orm let out a squeal that earned them at least three stares.

Next: Gucci.

Orm grabbed two bags before Ling had even stepped inside.

“Two?” Ling asked.

“Yes,” Orm said. “But they’re symbolic. This bag says ‘I’m spoiled.’ This one says ‘I will continue to be spoiled.’”

Ling gave her a warning look.
Orm hugged both bags.

“Don’t judge me,” she said. “Judge your wallet.”

Ling tried .... tried .... to look stern. But watching Orm flit from display to display, glowing, laughing, radiating joy… it softened her completely.

And every time Orm turned back to her with something ridiculous or extravagant in her hands, Ling saw it:

the girl who once had nothing,
who once loved in the shadows,
who once doubted her worth,
now shining in the light she deserved.

Orm slipped her arm through Ling’s, bags hanging from every wrist.

“You know what this makes me?” she asked.

Ling braced herself. “God help me. What?”

Orm grinned wickedly.
“A sugar baby with taste.”

Ling laughed despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” Orm said, standing on tiptoe to kiss her cheek,
“are my very, very expensive girlfriend.”

Ling’s face went pink again .... and Orm noticed.

“Oh my GOD.” She pointed dramatically. “You’re blushing. AGAIN. This is the best day of my life.”

Ling shook her head, but her smile stayed.

And together .... arms full of glossy bags, rings still warm from their fingers .... they walked out into the evening light like two women learning how to love without hiding, without shame, without half-measures.

After hours of chaos, shopping bags, sugar-baby declarations and Ling rolling her eyes so often she was surprised they hadn’t gotten stuck that way… the sun finally dipped, turning the sky into a soft wash of amber and violet.

Ling drove Orm toward their next destination, the city lights blooming around them. Orm leaned back in her seat, humming off-key, clutching her Cartier bag like a teddy bear.

“Where are we going now?” she asked, kicking her feet like a child who had too much fun to sit still.

“You’ll see…” Ling murmured, her voice warm and intentionally mysterious.

Orm’s eyes widened the moment they pulled up to the minimalist building with a single lantern glowing above the door. There were no loud signs, no menus posted, no line of tourists. Just quiet elegance and a hostess who bowed the moment Ling gave her name.

“Lingling Kwong…” Orm whispered dramatically. “Are we entering heaven?”

“Something like that,” Ling answered.

Inside, they were led to a private counter prepared just for them. The chef bowed… the knives gleamed… the wood smelled of cedar and warmth…

Orm clasped her hands under her chin. “Is this… is this a Michelin-recognized sushi place?”

“Yes…” Ling replied, calm as ever.

“Oh my god…” Orm whispered, dramatic as a Shakespeare tragedy. “I have become what I was always destined to be… a kept woman.”

Ling exhaled a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

Orm placed the back of her hand on her forehead like a fainting Victorian heiress. “A sugar baby… a spoiled princess… a beloved luxury pet… fed otoro by a trust fund baby with unlimited money…”

The sushi chef’s shoulders very slightly shook .... the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he continued slicing fish with monk-like precision.

Ling snapped her eyes toward Orm. “Trust fund wh....”

Orm lifted a finger in accusation. “Do not lie to me, Lingling Kwong… you spend money like your ancestors invented capitalism… silk… and possibly electricity.”

Ling gave her a long stare. “My money is from work…”

Orm opened her mouth obediently as Ling fed her the first piece of otoro. Her eyes rolled back dramatically. “Okay… fine… maybe from work… but you spend like a woman with generational wealth.”

Ling let out a quiet laugh .... the one she saved exclusively for Orm.
She fed her another piece.
Then another.
And another.

The chef’s lips quirked again as Orm moaned over the chutoro.

Orm leaned against Ling, sighing like she had ascended into heaven. “You know what’s insane… I am literally the daughter of a pharma CEO… maybe technically I am a trust fund baby too?”

Ling snorted. “You are. literally...”

Orm gasped so loudly the chef briefly glanced up. " I AM A TRUST FUND BABY AND I HAVE A TRUST FUND GIRLFRIEND… I AM DOUBLE RICH BY ASSOCIATION.”

Ling shook her head. “You’re a menace.”

“I should be the one spoiling you…” Orm continued, mouth half full of uni. “I should be buying you yachts or like… titanium briefcases… but no… here I am… eating thousand-dollar fish with someone who treats me like a sugar-mommy in training.”

Ling smirked. “You are my sugar baby... thats why I do all this”

Orm dropped her chopsticks. “Lingling Kwong… did you just… admit that…?”

Ling shrugged, trying not to grin. “I like spoiling you…”

Orm slapped her own hand on the table. “OH MY GOD. SHE SAID IT. SHE SAID SHE LIKES BEING MY SUGAR MOMMY. EVERYONE HEAR IT. CHEF… DID YOU HEAR THAT…?”

The chef’s mouth twitched… just barely. He did not comment… but the approving gleam in his eyes said everything.

Ling covered her face with her hand. “Please stop shouting…”

“NEVER…” Orm declared triumphantly. “I AM A SPOILED GIRLFRIEND AND I WILL SING ABOUT IT UNTIL I DIE…”

Ling shoved another piece of sushi into her mouth just to keep her quiet.

After dessert .... a yuzu sorbet Orm called ‘emotional damage in frozen form’ .... Ling inhaled slowly, gathering courage.

“Orm…” she said quietly. “I have one more thing.”

Orm blinked. “More…? You already bought me half the mall… I am one purchase away from legally changing my name to Orm Kwong.”

“This is… different…” Ling murmured, pulling out a small red-ribboned envelope.

Orm opened it… and froze.
A handwritten letter… Ling’s handwriting elegant and painfully intimate.

“Ling…” Orm breathed, voice cracking.

“Read it later…” Ling whispered. “When you’re alone…”

Orm nodded quickly, already emotional.

Then she saw the stack of cards behind it… each one decorated, colored, the drawings crooked and adorable, clearly made by Ling with more determination than artistic talent.

“What is… this…”

Ling looked away, shy. “Gift cards… personal ones… you can use unlimited times”

Orm shuffled through them, reading each one aloud:

“SPA DAY — Redeem for one full Ling-quality pampering.”

“NAIL DAY — Orm chooses the color, Ling does the work.”

“CUDDLE COMMAND — Use to demand immediate cuddles.”

“NO YELLING PASS — When used, Ling must stop arguing instantly.”

“CHOOSE THE MOVIE — Even if it’s terrible.”

“KISS ON DEMAND — No limitations.”

“Genie — Wish for anything.ANYTHING. Ling will get it for you, No questions asked.”

“NO WORK — Ling to drop everything and tend Orm’s wants and needs.”

She pressed all the cards to her face.
“I can’t believe you made these… I’m going to cry in a Michelin restaurant…”

Ling’s voice was soft… warm… “I wanted something that felt like you… something real…”

Orm looked at her .... eyes wet, voice small and breaking.
“Ling… this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me…”

Ling smiled… shy and full… her chest warm.
“Good…”

The chef’s quiet nod of approval was the final blessing.

They got home late… the kind of late where the city outside was quiet, softened, alive only in streetlamp glow and faraway headlights.

Orm stumbled in first, kicking her heels off like she was shedding the entire day at once. Ling followed behind her, her hands full of shopping bags, her composure perfect even after hours of Orm-level chaos.

“Wait…” Orm said, turning dramatically once she reached the middle of the living room. “We cannot end a day of sugar-baby glory without a finale…”

Ling raised an eyebrow. “What kind of finale…?”

Orm pointed at Ling’s phone. “Music. Something slow. Something where you look at me like you did in the sushi restaurant when I asked the chef if he would adopt me.”

Ling sighed… a small laugh escaping her. “You’re unbelievable…”

But she opened her music app anyway… scrolling… until she found something soft… warm… something that made the room exhale when it began to play.

She set the phone down.
Turned toward Orm.

And held out her hand.
No words.

Orm’s face softened instantly… all the mischief in her eyes melting into something quiet… something tender.
She stepped forward and took Ling’s hand like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it.

Ling pulled her in gently… one arm around Orm’s waist… the other threading their fingers together.

They began to sway.
Slowly.
Bare feet on hardwood… living room bathed in amber light.

Orm dropped her cheek onto Ling’s shoulder, breathing her in. “This…” she whispered… “is the part I’ll remember forever…”

Ling’s eyes fluttered shut as she rested her chin on Orm’s hair. “Good…” she murmured. “Then I’m doing it right…”

Orm let out a soft laugh… turning her head so her nose brushed Ling’s throat.
“You know… you really spoil me…”

Ling smiled against her hair. “I like spoiling you…”

Orm froze… then pulled back just enough to stare at her. “Say it again…”

Ling blinked. “What…?”

“Say it again…” Orm whispered. “I want to watch your face when you admit it…”

Ling’s cheeks warmed… but she didn’t look away.
“I like spoiling you…” she said softly… sincerely.

Orm’s eyes widened… then she covered her face with both hands. “OH MY GOD I CAN’T HANDLE THIS… YOU’RE SO CUTE… WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS…”

Ling laughed quietly and pulled her hands away, placing them around her neck again. “Come here…”

They swayed like that for long minutes… wrapped together… the world far away.

When the song shifted… slower… deeper… Ling brushed her nose against Orm’s.

“Orm…” she whispered.

“Mm…?”

Ling kissed her.

Soft at first… testing… tasting… a whisper of a touch.
Then Orm leaned in harder… hands sliding into Ling’s hair… pulling her closer until their breaths tangled.

The kiss deepened… slow and warm… like honey melting… like rediscovery.
Ling cupped Orm’s jaw gently… her thumb brushing along her cheek…
Orm pressed her body flush to hers… lips parting… a soft sound escaping her throat.

They kissed until the music blurred… until there was no space left between them… until Ling’s hands were on Orm’s waist, pulling her closer… until Orm’s fingers slid along her spine, sending shivers through her.

When they finally broke apart… breathless, smiling, foreheads touching… Orm whispered, “This is the best date I’ve ever had…”

Ling’s voice came low… full… steady. “It’s the first of many…”

Orm kissed her again… quick and fierce. “Promise…?”

Ling nodded, her lips brushing Orm’s.

“Promise…”

The word hung between them… soft and fragile and full of future.

Ling kept her forehead pressed against Orm’s, their breaths mingling, her hands still gentle at Orm’s waist. She swallowed once… then again… because the feeling rising in her chest was too big to speak and too painful not to.

“Orm…” she whispered.