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Ling doesn’t remember the ride home.
But then again, everything has been a blur lately.
She blinks, and she’s at a red light. She blinks again, and she’s pulling into her building’s parking lot, the van slowing to a stop. She murmurs a quiet thank you to the driver as she steps out of the van. Her assistant is already ahead, makeup artist in tow, gathering the last of their things from the trunk.
The elevator ride up is quiet. A practiced kind, the kind that exists in the in-between of movement, when everyone is too tired to talk but still running through mental checklists.
The door to her home swings open, and they file inside, setting the last of her things down near the entrance. Ling barely has time to slip off her shoes before the low hum of conversation starts up again—flight details, call times, packing checklist, last-minute reminders.
Ling nods when needed, murmurs acknowledgments where necessary, answers quickly but never absentmindedly. She listens, absorbs, tucks the details into the back of her mind. Not exhausted—not yet. But she feels a half-second behind, like her body is still catching up to the sheer pace of the day.
There’s a pause as they glance around, doing a final check of everything they’ve prepared. Then—her assistant exhales, satisfied. All set.
A nod, the shuffle of feet, the soft click of the door swinging shut.
And then, silence.
The hush of her apartment is a stark contrast to everything before it, but it isn’t stillness. There’s a flight to catch. A schedule to follow. A list to go through in her head.
She steps further into her living room, sinks into the couch with a long sigh, dropping her bag beside her. She allows herself a moment to slow down, a second to exist between the rush of the day and the rush of tomorrow.
Her hand searches for her phone, fingers already moving over the screen, a short message sent before she even registers the action.
Only after the glow from her screen dims does she let herself close her eyes, tipping her head back against the cushions.
The event of today replays in fragments, stitched together in flashes of red—the banners, the crowd, the flashing cameras. Their Caltex commercial on massive screens, again and again, their own faces smiling back at them, singing along to a jingle that already belonged to everyone else.
And the jingle—it hasn’t left her since. Sticking to her like static, clinging even now in the quiet of her apartment, lingering at the edges of her mind.
Every time she hears it, a part of her wants to hide. To laugh it off. To cover her ears.
Don’t get her wrong—she’s grateful. So, so grateful. She doesn’t take a single second of this for granted. But, hearing her own voice like that will never not be strange.
At least, at the event, the energy made it easier to lean into it. To let go a little.
The entire day had been electric—laughter, singing, cheering so infectious it carried them through every second. The crowd had turned it into something bigger than just a campaign. A celebration.
She had almost made it through the whole event without incident.
Almost.
Until the lights dimmed. Until the energy shifted. Until the screen lit up again.
A video began to play—their fans, congratulating them, wishing them luck for Paris Fashion Week.
And that—that was what tipped her over the edge.
She doesn’t like crying in public—hates it, actually. And she’s usually very good at keeping her emotions in check. But lately, everything has been overwhelming.
The past few months have been a sprint, one moment crashing into the next. Every campaign, every endorsement, every media round, every milestone arriving before she’s even had time to grasp the last.
Just today—the Caltex ambassadorship. Their faces on billboards, on flags across the country, on screens, on stage, dressed in red. The first women to stand at the forefront of a brand that, for decades, had only ever chosen men. Let alone an LGBTQ+ ship.
And tomorrow—Dior. Paris. Fashion Week.
She hasn’t processed it. Not properly. Not really.
So when she had watched the video play back on screen—fans celebrating it, celebrating them—something inside her gave way.
Ling had pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to push the tears back down. It hadn’t worked. They had spilled over anyway, hot against her skin, her chest tightening with the weight of it all. She had turned away, just for a second, to compose herself. A deep breath. A slow exhale. But her body had still trembled with the effort of holding it in.
Through the blur of her vision, Orm had been there.
Not touching, not speaking—just there.
Her hands had hovered, tentative, fingers curling slightly like she had wanted to steady Ling but had known she wouldn’t. She hadn’t forced it, hadn’t rushed to fill the silence. Instead, she had offered presence, steady and patient, a quiet I’ve got you.
Take what you need. I’m here.
Ling hadn’t taken it. She couldn’t. If she had—if she had let herself be held—she might have broken completely.
So Orm had waited. She hadn’t pushed, hadn’t reached, hadn’t let her own worry tip the moment over. Instead, she had kept a smile—like she had been trying to make it easier, like she had been willing Ling to find her way back.
Ling had blinked through the haze, and in the soft blur of light and tears, she had caught it—Orm’s own eyes, shining, holding just as much. But she hadn’t wavered. Hadn’t broken. Orm had stayed steady, had held her ground—and Ling had known it hadn’t been for herself, but for her.
Ling had swallowed hard, exhaled slow. Pulled herself together just enough. A small smile of thanks and reassurance, a barely-there nod—one only Orm would understand.
I’m okay now.
Orm had nodded back, softer still, a confirmation.
Then, Ling had turned back to the crowd, smiling, pressing her hands together in gratitude as she had thanked them, voice steady once more.
And then—
Bzzt.
The buzz of her phone pulls her out of the quiet haze of her room.
Orm: yes, i’m home now. u?
She exhales, a slow, quiet release of breath she didn’t realize she was holding. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
Ling: Mhm, been home for a while. Did you eat?
Orm: not yet. i’m still too wired from today. it was amazing
It really was.
Ling hesitates, fingers poised over the keyboard but unmoving. She wants to say something—to thank Orm for earlier, for waiting. For the way she had found her, when she had turned away from the crowd, overwhelmed and unsteady, and Orm had been there without needing to be asked.
The words gather, tangle at the edges of her tongue. She doesn’t know how to shape them into something small enough to send.
Instead—
Ling: …I can still hear the jingle in my head 😩
The reply is instant.
Orm: same 5555 but i’m not complaining. i love hearing ur voice. it’s my new ringtone actually 🔊🎶😌
Ling freezes.
Her breath catches as something shifts inside her—slow and inevitable, unfurling in her chest like the first bloom of spring breaking through frost.
It’s the ease of it. The way Orm always knows what to say, always finds the unspoken things Ling keeps pressed into the corners of herself and smooths them over like it’s nothing. A quiet insecurity—the discomfort of hearing her own voice, something she hadn’t said aloud, something Orm had heard anyway.
Ling still isn’t used to it—the way Orm slips past every carefully built wall without even trying. How it tilts the world just slightly, makes her heart stumble in ways she hasn’t quite learned how to hold steady.
She wants to deflect. To shift the conversation. To pretend she isn’t unraveling at the edges.
Ling: You have questionable taste
Orm: and yet i have impeccable taste in people 😉😎
Her grip tightens. Heat pools at the tips of her ears.
She knows exactly what Orm is saying. And it lands before she’s ready for it.
She doesn’t roll her eyes. Doesn’t tease, doesn’t brush it off.
She just sits with it. Lets it settle. A quiet acceptance.
Then, finally—
Finally—
Ling: Thank you. 🤍
Orm: always 🤍
It lingers, soft and steady, an unspoken understanding. A warmth tucked between the lines. A comfort that slips past the weight of the day and settles like a hand on her back, grounding her.
The jingle is still there, but it doesn’t seem as loud anymore.
For just another moment, she lets herself be still.
The next morning, before the sun even considers waking, Ling is at the airport with her team, moving in rhythm like a well-oiled machine. There’s no pause between one thing and the next—only momentum.
Orm got there before her.
She catches sight of her near the gate, slightly turned away, speaking to Mae Koy, her expression unreadable under the sharp artificial light. She seems tired—more than she lets on, more than anyone else probably notices—but Ling does. It’s been weeks like this, exhaustion threaded through their days, lingering in the spaces between schedules.
For a fleeting second, she wants to cross the space between them, to press her forehead against Orm’s shoulder, to let the weight of everything settle between them without the need for words.
It’s not distance. Not really.
But it feels like something close to it—like standing in the same room but never quite reaching, like existing in parallel but never fully overlapping. They see each other every day, move through the same spaces, but there hasn’t been time. Not for just them. Not without a schedule pressing at their backs, without other people filling the spaces in between.
Before she can think too much about it, they are moving again.
And now, the flight.
Orm is a few seats away, speaking in hushed tones with Mae Koy, her voice dipping between business and teasing in that effortless way that only she can. Ling catches pieces of it, not enough to follow, but enough to recognize the shape of Orm’s amusement. It makes her smile, just barely, before she pulls the blanket over herself and reclines her seat the moment the seatbelt sign turns off. She tucks in her headphones, closes her eyes against the ache in her bones, and lets the motion of the plane pull her under.
The layover in Doha is brief, just long enough to stretch their legs, to exist outside the confines of a seat. There are photos, videos—small moments captured and sent off into the digital ether—but behind the cameras, it's quieter.
Ling hands Orm a bottle of water before she can ask. Orm adjusts the pillow behind Ling’s back without a word—easy, instinctive.
Somewhere between exhaustion and wakefulness, between the flicker of departure screens and the rustle of boarding passes, Ling finds Orm beside her.
She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even sit properly, just leans in, tilting until her head rests against Ling’s shoulder. Her fingers hover, barely curling around Ling’s arm. Not holding on, not really. But there.
Ling lets her.
It isn’t much.
But Ling exhales, slow and quiet.
Tilts her head just enough for Orm’s hair to tickle her cheek. Breathes her in for just a second.
Just in the space between takeoff and landing. Between one thing and the next.
It’s enough for now.
Morning in Paris is softer than she expected.
Or maybe it’s the way it reaches her—filtered through the glass of a hotel window, diffused by the last haze of sleep, the lingering weight of travel pressing faintly at the edges of her mind. The city unfolds outside, a quiet sprawl of rooftops and wrought-iron balconies, morning light catching on gold-trimmed architecture, on pale limestone façades washed in history.
She exhales, pressing her forehead against the window, letting herself have this, the quiet weight of being here, before the day takes her.
Because it will.
And it does.
Everything moves fast—too fast.
Morning call times, stylists descending, garment bags unzipped with quick, practiced hands. Fittings, adjustments, hair, makeup—bodies moving in seamless choreography, conversations overlapping, decisions being made before she even registers them. She is guided, arranged, perfected, and then—shoved into motion.
By the time she’s in the car, the city outside is already wide awake, its heartbeat humming beneath the rush of hurried French and the staccato of distant horns.
La Galerie Dior—first stop.
The morning light filters through the glass in long, golden streaks, illuminating the displays in soft radiance. Everything is pristine, elegant, curated to perfection, history encased in fabric and form. She moves through the space with quiet reverence, absorbing the weight of the legacy around her, tracing the seams of the past through every delicate stitch, every carefully displayed archive.
It should feel grounding.
It doesn’t.
Because the day keeps moving, sweeping them forward in a blur of photoshoots and interviews, of outfits changed and changed again, of camera flashes cutting into the sharp angles of Parisian backdrops.
And somewhere between it all, there is Orm—in the middle of a shot, half-turned toward the camera, the kind of natural ease that makes people look.
Ling watches her from across the space, watches the way she flirts with the camera, the way she commands it, the way the world seems incapable of looking away from her.
She isn’t the only one staring.
And Ling doesn’t blame them.
Ling should be used to watching her. And she is. And she isn’t.
She knows Orm owns whatever space she steps into, but here—here, beneath the weight of Paris, beneath the sharp angles of flashing lights—it feels heightened.
Unreal.
She should look away. She should focus.
But she doesn’t.
She stares.
It’s fine. She’s staring, but so is everyone else, so it doesn’t count.
Except—Orm catches her.
A flicker. A shift. The barest curve of her lips. Not quite a smirk. But close. A quiet, knowing acknowledgment.
Ling exhales sharply, tearing her gaze away before it lingers longer than it already has.
Focus.
The hours slipped through her fingers yesterday, the day folding seamlessly into evening, leaving no space for hesitation, no room to process.
And now—now, it’s the day.
The day they had been waiting for. The one that had loomed large on the horizon, distant until suddenly—it wasn’t.
Now, they are here.
The car slows. A door opens. And the noise hits.
A wall of it—shouting, screaming, the sharp crack of camera shutters snapping in quick, relentless bursts.
She had expected Paris to be beautiful. Of course she had. But she hadn’t expected it to be loud.
Right now, Paris is loud.
The street outside is a frenzy of light and sound, barricades lined with bodies, reporters pressing forward, microphones angled like weapons. But it’s not just the press. Not just the photographers packed into the media pit, waiting, watching. It’s them—their fans. The ones who showed up hours ago, who braved the cold, whose voices rise above the chaos in a thousand different ways.
The recognition stirs something in her, an odd mix of grounding and dissonance. Ling knew they had supporters here, of course she did. But knowing is different from feeling it. From standing in the middle of it. From watching the way the world recognizes them.
They are here for them.
In a city that has never felt like hers. In a place that once felt impossibly far from the world she belonged to.
She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until she exhales.
And yet, even through it all—she notices.
She notices the way Orm’s fingers flex slightly at her side. Orm, who thrives in front of cameras. Orm, who can turn anything into her moment. Orm, not unnatural, not obvious—but just a fraction tenser than usual. It’s subtle. Almost imperceptible. Almost.
Ling doesn’t hesitate. She steps closer, just enough for her hand to find the small of Orm’s back, fingertips pressing light and sure against Dior fabric. A quiet reminder. I’m here.
Orm exhales. Barely a shift, but Ling feels it—the slow uncoiling of tension, the slight lean into her touch.
The lights don’t stop flashing. The voices don’t lower. But they move through it, bodies folding into choreography without thought, muscle memory overriding sensation. There’s a rhythm to this, a sequence of steps to follow, and their bodies know the dance.
Orm moves in sync beside her, a presence Ling doesn’t need to see to feel.
And yet—
Ling keeps looking.
Like it’s instinct, like breathing, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it until her eyes have already found Orm again. In the flicker of a camera’s pause, in the breathless stutter of in-between.
Because god—
Orm looks—
She has seen her already, of course. In the car, in the hotel, before they left.
But not like this.
Not standing in the center of something so vast, larger than even the weight of her own anticipation.
Ling had thought she understood what this would feel like—to step into this space, to carry everything they’ve built in her hands.
She had braced herself.
She had been wrong.
Ling isn’t breathless just because Orm is beautiful—though she is, impossibly so—but because this is real.
Because it is happening.
She is watching it unfold, feeling it take shape around her. The shift, the recognition.
The world tilting toward Orm, drawn to her the way Ling always has been.
They are seeing her now, really seeing her—Orm, standing as if she was meant to be seen, as if the moment itself had always been waiting for her.
And the sharpest, wildest part of it is this—
Ling is the one beside her.
She is the one who gets to witness this up close. To feel the warmth of Orm’s body at her side, the faint, fleeting brush of her arm, the quiet gravity of her presence.
She is the one who gets to stand here, close enough to touch. To slip her arm around Orm’s waist, to feel the way Orm leans in—unthinking, instinctual.
She is the one who gets to watch as the world catches up to what she has always known.
It’s too much. It’s everything. It’s not enough.
The moment stretches—taut, breathless, suspended between heartbeats.
And then it exhales.
Slipping through her fingers, lost to the pull of hands, the press of voices, the tide of movement carrying them forward—until it is behind them, and they are being led inside.
Inside, the air shifts. A quieter kind of intensity, but no less electric. The weight of legacy hums in the marble and glass, threaded through the hushed opulence, stitched into the very fabric of the people who move through this space.
This is where the world’s most important figures in fashion converge. Where names are currency. Where a single conversation can reshape a career. Where legends pass by with the kind of ease that only comes from knowing they belong.
And now, they are here. Among them.
They shake hands with people they have only ever seen through screens, pose for cameras that once felt impossibly distant, answer questions from international press as flashes stutter through the air like pulses of light. Everything is movement, momentum, a seamless tide that carries them forward before they can even process where they’ve been.
It doesn’t fully sink in until later—until the flashes fade, until the sea of voices quiets into something softer, until the chaos recedes to a distant hum as they are led to their seats.
Front row.
Ling exhales, fingers curling slightly tighter around the handle of her purse, as if seeking something solid, something to tether her to the gravity of this moment.
Orm notices. Of course she does.
A brush of warmth—light, fleeting, deliberate. A touch that shouldn’t be felt, not through the smooth, expensive leather of their gloves. And yet—she feels it. Through layers of silk and skin, through the press of their palms, a slow bloom of heat, quiet and insistent.
Their fingers slot together, leather creaking softly as their grips tighten—an anchor, a quiet reassurance, a bridge of warmth even through the barrier between them.
They settle into their seats, hands slipping apart only to adjust, to reacquaint themselves with the world spinning around them.
Orm sits beside her, close enough that their arms brush, close enough that Ling can feel the subtle rise and fall of her breath. Around them, murmured conversations blur into the charged hush of anticipation, the entire room holding still in the pause before something begins.
Orm leans in, voice barely above a whisper. "Still real?"
Ling tilts her head, considering. Then— "I don’t know. Pinch me and we'll find out."
Orm watches her for a beat longer, then laughs—quiet, breath-soft against her bare shoulder.
And just like that, it’s a little easier to breathe.
Then the lights dim.
The show begins.
The event ends earlier than expected, leaving them with something rare—time.
Ling realizes it the moment they step outside. The air still hums with the energy of the event, the voices, the cameras, the presence of so many watching eyes. But beneath it, something has shifted. The weight of obligation has loosened—just slightly, just enough.
Instinctively, she runs through their schedule in her head. Once. Twice. Again. There has to be something next. The inevitable next place, the next call time, the next demand waiting for them.
But there’s nothing.
No event. No interviews. No fittings. No rehearsals.
Just space. Just possibility.
She almost doesn’t believe it.
Because she is always waiting for this. Always looking for this. Scanning itineraries for gaps, searching for a way to carve out something that is just theirs.
Because time, lately, has not belonged to them—days bleeding into weeks, their hours swallowed whole—by commitments, by cameras, by everyone else.
She slips into the car just as the city hums into mid-afternoon, the light high and soft, warmth pooling through the windows. The door shuts, sealing them into something quieter, something weightless.
The outside world presses pause—just for a moment.
And suddenly, it’s too quiet.
The kind of quiet that isn’t restful but waiting, stretched too thin. Ling can feel it—the press of everything she hasn’t said, hasn’t asked for, hasn’t stolen back for herself.
Ling exhales, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.
When she turns, Orm is already mid-sentence, about to say something—lips parted, eyes bright—
But Ling gets there first.
"Let’s go somewhere. Just us."
The words leave Ling in a single breath, like releasing something she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Orm stills. Just for a second—the way her lips part a fraction too long, the flicker of surprise in her eyes—before it softens, before something in her gives.
Like she’s realizing, all at once, that they had been thinking the same thing.
That Ling wants this too.
The moment stretches, a breath suspended between them.
Then—Orm nods.
"Okay."
Soft. Certain. Barely more than a whisper, but it shifts something in the air between them.
And just like that—Ling can breathe again.
This wasn’t planned. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
But somehow, this moment was always meant to be theirs.
_
They return to the hotel, parting at the elevators with a simple agreement—fifteen minutes, and then we go.
In her room, Ling sheds the weight of the event—the tailored precision of her outfit, the careful way she had been holding herself all day. The silence presses against her, heavier than it should be. She moves on instinct—changing, freshening up, smoothing a hand over her reflection without really seeing it.
It doesn’t hit her until she steps out.
Until she sees Orm.
Waiting downstairs, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, dressed casually but with an effortless ease that makes it impossible to tell if she threw it together in a hurry or planned it all along.
And suddenly, Ling feels it—what this is, what they’re doing.
It sneaks up on her, quiet but undeniable, settling deep in her chest.
They are in Paris.
They are going somewhere.
Together.
And god—she’s breathtaking. Not in the way she is on camera, poised and intentional, but like this—unfiltered, real. Standing there, looking at Ling like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
-
The car pulls away from the curb, the hum of the city slipping past in streaks of afternoon light and blurred motion.
They have no idea where they’re going, and Ling tells the driver as much. The instructions they give barely count as instructions at all—just a quiet request for somewhere not too far, somewhere quieter, somewhere with streets meant for wandering.
And so, they move without direction, untethered, following nothing but the pulse of the roads beneath them.
Inside the car, the space between them feels smaller than it should.
They’re not touching, but Ling feels Orm—every shift, every breath, every brush of fabric when they lean the same way at the same time. The kind of closeness that heightens awareness, makes it impossible to ignore.
It shouldn’t feel different. They’ve sat in countless cars together before.
But it does.
The air hums with it—expectant, stretched taut with something Ling doesn’t have a name for but doesn’t need to.
She exhales, glancing out the window, watching the city slip past. Orm does the same beside her, their reflections barely separate in the glass.
She wants the car ride to be over. She wants it to stretch forever.
-
When the car slows, it’s in a part of the city that doesn’t demand anything of them. Not the polished opulence of high fashion, not the relentless gaze of flashing cameras, not the weight of expectation pressing at their backs.
Just cobblestone streets and the scent of fresh bread curling through the air. Cafés spill onto the sidewalks, flower stalls bloom at every corner, and the rhythm of the afternoon moves slow—like time bends differently here, softer, easier.
They step out into it, the warmth of the sun catching at her skin, the moment stretching open like something waiting to be filled.
-
They move through the city like they were always meant to lose themselves in it.
Like they belong to these streets, like every turn they take was waiting for them.
They take turns choosing paths—wordlessly, instinctively—one leading, then the other, slipping through side streets and hidden alleys as if following an unspoken map only they can read.
A few passersby glance their way, but there is no recognition. No second looks.
Here, they are no one but themselves.
-
They find a hidden café, tucked between old buildings, the kind with barely any seating, the kind that smells like vanilla and burnt sugar.
They order pastries they can’t pronounce, laugh when Orm tries to say something in French—confident, sure of herself, until the barista responds in perfect English. Ling snorts behind the rim of her cup as Orm groans in defeat, slumping into her seat with all the theatrics of someone truly, personally wronged.
They sit on the patio, sipping hot chocolate, eating freshly-baked pastries, watching the way the city folds around them, slow and unhurried, like it doesn’t mind letting them steal this moment for themselves.
And first time in a while, Ling stops thinking about time at all.
-
They stop at a street vendor selling postcards, flipping through the stacks with idle curiosity.
Orm picks up one with a messy watercolor of the Seine.
"Would you send me one?" she asks, turning it over between her fingers.
Ling glances at her. "Where would I even send it? You’re always with me."
Orm hums, turning the postcard over again. "Yeah, but imagine how dramatic it would be."
Ling snorts, setting the postcards down like the conversation is over. "Do you want me to start writing you letters too? ‘Dear Orm, it has been forty-five minutes since I last saw y—"
"Oh my god!" Orm gasps, clutching the postcard to her chest like a lovesick heroine. "Yes."
Ling groans, turning on her heel in mock exasperation. "I’m leaving you here."
Or at least, pretends to.
She walks ahead without looking back, but she doesn’t get far—not really.
Without turning around, Ling lets her hand fall back—open, offering, waiting.
And just as easily, like it was always meant to happen, Orm takes it.
They get lost in a market street, where the air is thick with spices and fresh fruit, where vendors call out in a mix of languages. The scent of fresh bread curls through the air, mingling with bursts of citrus and something warm, caramelized.
Orm stops at a stall lined with jars of preserves, scanning them with the kind of intensity that suggests this is a life-altering decision. After a long, dramatic pause, she picks one up, turns it over in her hands, and nods decisively.
"This one," she declares, solemn.
Ling takes the jar from her, glancing at the label, then at Orm, unimpressed. “You literally just picked the first one you saw.”
"Excuse me?" Orm gasps, wounded. "I’ll have you know it was an informed decision."
Ling exhales, shaking her head.
But instead of putting it back on the shelf, she hands it over to the vendor and starts picking out more. Another jar. And another. And another.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s—" Orm watches in growing horror. "P’Ling, are you—why are you buying five?"
Ling hands over the payment with the grim resignation of someone who has accepted her fate, slipping the bag over her wrist like this is simply a burden she must bear. “You eat jam with everything now, so you’re gonna run through them real quick.”
Orm blinks. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
Ling gives her a knowing look. “This morning, I watched you put strawberry jam on eggs.”
Orm huffs, arms crossing. But there is laughter threatening at the corner of her lips. "You mock me now, but when I invent the next big culinary trend, you’re going to regret this."
Ling hums, entirely unconvinced. "Sure. Just let me know when France decides to revoke our visas."
Orm’s scowl is half-hearted at best. She peers into the bag, nose scrunching. "Well, at least tell me you got different kinds?"
Ling starts walking. "Nope. All strawberry."
Orm stares. Mouth opening. Then closing. Then—collapsing into laughter, her body folding under the weight of it.
And before Ling can react, Orm moves—effortless, instinctive—draping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in, pressing her forehead against Ling’s temple.
"Great," she sighs dramatically. "So now I have no choice but to commit. This is my legacy now."
Ling tries—she really does—to keep her composure. But inevitably, predictably, she cracks. The laughter she had been holding back spills out, bubbling over, shaking loose in the spaces between them.
Because for all of Orm’s questionable choices—for all the culinary experiments Ling is now doomed to endure—she knows, deep in some quiet, unshaken part of herself, that she will support every single one.
Because, truly—
How could she not?
Not when Orm grins at her like that, all mischief and warmth, laughter still ghosting over her lips. Not when she looks so unreasonably pleased with herself, eyes gleaming, so unbearably Orm.
It’s deeply inconvenient.
But, honestly?
There are far worse things in life than watching Orm eat jam on eggs.
And, apparently, enjoy the taste of raw oyster sauce.
-
The afternoon stretches, spills, blurs.
They wander into a bookshop by accident, lured by the scent of parchment and old wood, by the hush of something timeless. The kind of place where dust settles like lace over forgotten stories, where time slows, where the world outside ceases to exist for a while.
Ling drifts her fingers along the spines of books, the tips of her fingers catching on the worn ridges of old covers, feeling their weight, their quiet histories.
Orm disappears behind a shelf, vanishing into the maze of words, only to reappear moments later, a book balanced on her palm. She doesn’t explain. She just holds it out between them, wordless, expectant.
Ling takes it instinctively.
The cover is soft beneath her hands—worn in a way that feels deliberate, like it’s been passed through other lives before finding its way to hers. The title is in French, delicate cursive she can’t read, and the pages smell faintly of old paper and something floral, maybe. She doesn’t know what it’s about, and somehow that makes it better.
She glances up, questioning, but Orm only watches her, something unreadable in her expression.
“How’d you know I’d like it?” Ling asks, voice low, like too much sound might startle the moment into ending.
Orm exhales, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and something steadier. Her gaze drops for a second, then lifts again, gentle. She reaches out, her fingers brushing against the corner of the book where Ling’s still holding on, touch light, lingering.
"Because it felt like you," Orm says.
Ling goes still.
“For when we’re home,” Orm continues, her voice softer now—like she’s not just speaking to Ling, but into the space between them, the one that always seems to be growing lately, the one that always seems to stretch wider every time they say goodbye. “For when you miss this. For when... when it feels far away.”
Ling’s breath catches.
She knows that’s not what Orm almost said.
She knows it in the pause that follows—in the way Orm’s eyes drop, then lift again, not quite meeting hers. In the way her fingers linger just a second too long, as though half a breath away from reaching further, from touching Ling’s face, before stopping short. Holding still. Holding back.
Like whatever she’s carrying is too big for this moment. Too big for words. Too big for this quiet, borrowed corner of time.
Orm doesn’t say more.
And she doesn’t need to.
A heavy ache settles low in Ling’s chest.
She swallows against the tightness in her throat.
Suddenly, the book feels too small to hold everything pressed into this moment—too light for the weight of what it means. But in Ling’s hands, it still feels impossibly full—of the days they don’t get, of the touches that have to stay hidden, of the things that have been left unsaid for too long.
Still, she holds it closer, fingers curling instinctively, protectively, around it.
“I’ll keep it with me,” she says, voice quiet but steady, full of something she hopes Orm hears.
Orm doesn’t answer at first.
She just looks at her—really looks at her—and for a moment, everything in her expression softens. Her shoulders drop. Something in her stills, the way it does when you’re holding on to something too delicate to move.
Then she smiles.
Soft. Unhurried. The kind that feels like an exhale.
"Good," Orm says, even quieter. “That’s all I want.”
Ling doesn’t say anything else—she can’t. Not when the air still hums with the way Orm managed to unravel something in her with nothing but a book and a few carefully chosen words.
-
The spell doesn’t break all at once.
It unspools slowly, thread by thread, starting when their phones buzz in tandem.
They don’t check right away.
Instead, they look at each other first—just for a second, just long enough to know—before glancing down at their screens.
It's P’Booky. A reminder about the team's plan for dinner.
Ling exhales, pressing her lips together, willing herself not to react. Not to let the weight of it show on her face. Their stolen time is slipping away, dissolving like warmth between fingers, like something that was never meant to last.
Beside her, Orm shifts, but says nothing. Doesn’t need to.
Ling catches it anyway—the way her jaw tightens, the brief flicker of disappointment before she tucks it away, smooths it over with a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
"It was worth it, though, wasn’t it?" Orm says, voice light, like she’s trying to make the words hold instead. "Running away for a little while."
Ling turns to her, the words settling warm in her chest.
"Always."
She means it, she does, but even as she says it, something unsettles inside her, heavy, unfinished.
Orm shifts again, exhales through her nose. "Guess we should head back."
Casual. Easy. Like it doesn’t matter. Like she isn’t trying to hold onto these last few moments as much as Ling is.
Ling nods, already pulling up the driver’s contact, already surrendering to what comes next.
Obligations. The whirlwind.
The reply is immediate.
Ten minutes.
Outside, the evening deepens, stretching over the city like a slow, quiet sigh. The air is cooler now, a breeze slipping between the buildings, carrying the scent of rain that hasn’t yet arrived.
Orm leans against the side of the store, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights—effortlessly picturesque in a way that makes something ache in Ling’s chest.
Unfair, she thinks. That someone can exist like this.
"You’re staring," Orm murmurs, still watching the lights flicker in the distance.
Ling doesn’t deny it. "I definitely am."
For a beat, Orm doesn’t say anything. Just shifts on her feet, fingers curling into the hem of her jacket, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.
Then—her shoulders scrunch up, and before Ling can even react, Orm buries her face against her shoulder.
"P’Ling, stop," she mutters, voice muffled, like she’s hoping Ling won’t hear the way it shakes.
And Ling—
Her breath stumbles. The back of her neck prickles. The ground doesn’t shift beneath her, but it might as well have.
Because Orm is warm against her, pressing in like she can disappear if she just gets close enough.
Like Ling is something safe.
"Why would I stop?" she murmurs—soft, teasing.
Orm groans in protest, dramatic as ever, but doesn’t pull away.
And Ling—helpless, hopeless, already gone—wraps an arm around her waist. Just enough to draw her closer.
Just enough to make sure Orm knows—she’s not going anywhere.
Seven.
The minutes pass too quickly.
A group of people passes by, their laughter slipping into the night, vanishing into the hum of the city. Ling watches them go, feeling something intangible slip from her grasp.
She checks her phone again—like looking might slow time down. Like knowing might keep it from running out.
But the screen tells her what she already knows.
And she already hates the answer.
Five minutes.
Orm rocks back on her heels, hands buried in her pockets, gaze flicking toward the streetlights just beginning to glow. There’s a shift—subtle, almost imperceptible—but Ling notices.
The way Orm looks down at the book in her hands, running her thumb absently over the frayed edges.
The way she holds it—gentle, careful—like something precious.
Like something she isn’t ready to give up.
Like something she doesn’t want to lose.
Three.
Ling knows Orm.
Knows that stillness is not something she wears easily.
Orm is motion—always shifting, always filling silence with something. A hum, a remark, the absent tapping of her fingers against her thigh. Even when she’s thinking, it’s obvious—expressions flickering too fast, her body unable to hold one thought before moving on to the next.
But right now—Orm is still.
Not like she’s calm.
Like she’s containing something.
And that—more than anything—unsettles Ling.
Her pulse stumbles.
It should be a relief. It should ease something in her, to see it reflected back—knowing the thing thick in the air between them isn’t just hers. Knowing the ache that’s been building isn’t hers alone.
But it doesn’t.
It makes it worse.
And Ling—who has spent years mastering restraint, schooling herself into something composed—finds herself struggling to breathe.
One minute.
Orm is already looking at her.
Not just looking—seeing.
Her gaze is steady, knowing. The kind that lingers too long, that makes Ling feel caught—mid-thought, mid-breath, mid-fall. Exposed.
Orm’s lips part—just slightly. Not like she’s about to speak, but like the words are already there, sitting in the back of her throat. Waiting.
Ling watches the breath catch in Orm's chest, sharp and shallow, before she exhales too fast—like she hadn’t realized she was holding it.
Her hands stay tucked in her pockets, but Ling sees it. The flicker in her eyes. The tension in her shoulders.
Ling shouldn’t have looked.
Not for that long.
Not when Orm is watching her like that.
And suddenly—she can’t breathe.
Then—
Zero.
Ling hears the car pull up before she sees it.
And it’s like glass breaking. Like something sharp and inevitable and too loud after all the silence.
The moment doesn’t just end—it fractures.
Orm blinks, inhales. Ling swears she sees her close off in real time, like a door swinging shut.
"Okay," Orm whispers.
Ling doesn’t know what she was expecting.
But the softness in Orm’s voice—small, accepting, like she’s letting go—
And that—
That undoes her.
The driver steps out, moves to open the door for them—
But Ling stops him.
"I’m so sorry," she says, breath unsteady, already turning back. "I need a few more minutes."
Orm blinks, caught off guard. "What is it?"
"Come with me," she says, voice low and urgent, reaching for Orm’s wrist.
Orm lets herself be pulled along without question. No hesitation.
Ling doesn’t know where she’s going—only that, for the first time in weeks, she’s moving toward something instead of away.
She walks so she doesn’t do something reckless.
She walks so she doesn’t do something she shouldn’t.
Because if she stops now, she might not be able to stop at all.
And she can’t.
Because they are still them.
Still careful.
-
The alley is silent except for the distant murmur of the city. The world feels smaller here, its edges blurred, its urgency dulled. A place carved out just for them.
Ling turns to face Orm fully, her fingers still wrapped around Orm’s wrist, thumb pressing against the warmth of her pulse.
Orm doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. She just watches, like she already knows.
Ling lifts a hand, brushes a stray strand of hair behind Orm’s ear, fingertips lingering against her cheek.
It’s been days. Weeks. Maybe longer than she’s willing to admit—of keeping something fragile at bay, of letting their touches be fleeting, of staying on the right side of restraint.
But here, in this quiet sliver of the city, Ling doesn’t want to wait anymore.
Not when she’s this close.
Not when she can feel Orm’s pulse quicken beneath her thumb.
Not when she can see the way Orm’s lips part, like she’s waiting, wanting.
And Ling knows—god, she knows—she’ll regret it if she lets this moment slip through her fingers again.
Ling asks if this is okay—not with words.
The answer comes in the way Orm breathes in just a little too sharply.
And then—
Orm presses in, closes the space between them, kisses her.
Not for the first time. Not even close.
But this time—
This time, it wrecks her.
The kiss is urgent, edged with everything they’ve held back—the longing simmering between them for days, the touches cut too short, the moments too public, too fleeting, too restrained.
Ling—who has spent so long holding back—finally lets herself fall.
There’s desperation in the way Orm exhales against her mouth, in the way her fingers twist into the fabric of Ling’s coat, in the way she pulls her closer, deeper—like she’s trying to make up for every second they haven’t had alone.
Like she’s afraid to stop.
The moment crashes into them, steals the air from Ling's lungs—but for the first time in weeks, she can actually breathe.
She isn’t gasping to catch up. She isn’t being dragged forward by expectation, by time, by everything waiting for her on the other side of this.
It leaves her still.
Here, in this sliver of the city, with Orm’s hands curling into her coat, the world stops moving.
And she lets it.
Ling presses forward, hands sliding to frame Orm’s face, tilting her chin up to take, to give, to answer every unspoken thing between them.
Orm makes a sound against her lips—not quite a sigh, not quite a gasp, something caught between relief and surrender.
She isn’t sure who pulls away first. Only that when they do, they don’t go far.
Their breaths mingle in the cool night air, lips still brushing, neither of them moving away.
Orm’s hands stay curled into Ling’s coat, grip tight, anchoring. Like she isn’t ready to let go.
Like she never will be.
And Ling doesn’t want her to be.
Orm huffs a quiet laugh, something breathless, something full. "I hoped the kiss said it for me, but just in case—you always look beautiful. You know that, right?"
A kiss.
“But you in Paris—”
Another kiss, slower this time, just behind her ear. Ling’s breath stutters.
“It’s like the city was made to match you. Every damn second I spent looking at you—I swear I forgot how to breathe half the time.”
Ling immediately hides her face against Orm’s shoulder, ears burning, trying to will away the blush crawling up her neck.
Heat unfurls in her chest, warm and consuming, the way it always does when Orm says things like this—because Orm’s compliments aren’t just words. They come with certainty. With quiet reverence. Like something Ling isn’t sure she deserves, but can’t quite bring herself to reject.
“Orm,” she mutters, muffled—equal parts scolding and plea.
Orm makes a sound—half laugh, half something softer—and then she coos. Actually coos.
“Baby,” she whispers, lips brushing Ling’s hair, “you’re so red.”
Ling whines into her shoulder, mortified. She feels the laugh rumble low in Orm’s chest, warm where they’re pressed together, and it only makes the heat in her face worse.
She presses a lingering kiss to the top of her head, then tucks her nose into Ling’s hair and inhales—dramatically, like she’s making a point.
Ling could argue with her. Could say Orm is ridiculous. Could point out how Orm is the one who broke at least three photographers in a day, how one of them tripped over a barricade trying to get a shot of her.
But there’s no time for that.
Because as much as Orm makes her feel undone—she has to let Orm know.
That yes, Paris has been surreal. Dreamlike in the way she expected.
But this—this is what feels truly, unexpectedly unreal.
Nothing compares to this.
"You’re unreal," she breathes. The words slip out in the space between them, soft and certain, as she tugs at the front of Orm’s coat and pulls her in again.
Their kiss is softer this time. Slower. Lingering. Less frantic but just as consuming.
Orm sighs against her mouth, fingers curling just a little tighter in Ling’s coat, like she wants to stay here.
When Orm finally pulls back, it’s only enough to look at her—eyes searching in the dim glow of the streetlights. One hand rises to Ling’s jaw, thumb grazing just beneath her lip, still swollen from the kiss. Ling shivers.
"I’ve missed you," Orm murmurs.
The words land like a weight in her chest—warm, aching, real. She swallows.
“We see each other every day,” she says softly—not as a contradiction, just to name the ache of it. The impossibility. How closeness can feel like distance. How absence lingers, even in the spaces they still share.
Orm shakes her head, brushing a knuckle along her cheek, so gentle it makes Ling want to close her eyes.
“Not like this.”
And Ling does. She lets her eyes fall shut—just for a second—as if holding the moment still might make it stay.
She takes Orm’s hand.
Brings it to her lips.
And kisses the I know into her palm—soft. Apologetic. A quiet kind of promise.
She stays there a moment longer. Breath warm against Orm’s skin, steady and close.
And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like something slipping away.
It just feels right.
-
Ling exhales—almost a laugh, but it barely makes it past her lips, caught somewhere between longing and loss.
“We should go,” she murmurs, though neither of them move.
Orm nods, but her hands stay curled in Ling’s coat—just for a second longer. Just enough to make it feel like they decided to let go, not the world deciding for them.
Ling leans in—forehead to forehead, breath to breath—holding the warmth between them like something she can take with her. Something that won’t disappear once they step apart.
When she pulls back, it’s slow, deliberate. Just enough to meet Orm’s gaze.
“Come on,” she says softly. “Our driver’s probably wondering if we ran off.”
Orm grins—familiar, easy—but there’s something quieter behind it now. Something softer. Something only Ling gets to see.
“If we had more time,” Orm murmurs, brushing her thumb along the curve of Ling’s jaw, slow and careful, like she’s tucking the moment into memory. “I just might have.”
The car ride back is quiet, but not empty.
Ling’s hand finds Orm’s without hesitation, fingers threading together with the ease of something long overdue.
Orm exhales—soft, content—then shifts closer, their thighs pressed together like she can make the night stretch longer just by staying close.
And for once, Ling doesn’t think about what comes next. Not the schedule. Not the flight. Not the days waiting to swallow them whole.
The city flickers past in streaks of gold and neon, but all she feels is the warmth of Orm’s hand in hers. The slow, steady brush of her thumb against Ling’s skin.
Nothing ahead. Nothing behind.
Just this.
They don’t speak. They don’t need to.
And when the car pulls up in front of the hotel, neither of them move.
Not yet.
Orm’s hand stays curled in Ling’s—loose, but certain. Like she hasn’t quite decided if she’s ready to let go. Her other hand hovers near the door handle, fingers flexing, hesitation drawn in the soft furrow between her brows.
Ling knows that look. She’s seen it in mirrors, in memories, in all the almosts they’ve lived through.
Maybe it’s the warmth of Orm’s palm still against hers. Maybe it’s the way her body leans in like it doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
But suddenly, Ling's saying something ridiculous.
“I’ll walk you,” she says.
Orm blinks, like she didn’t quite hear her right.
And then—slowly, disastrously —she smiles.
“To my room?” she echoes, voice low and amused, soft around the edges. Like she already knows.
Ling realizes how it sounds even as she nods. She exhales through her nose, half-laugh, half-sigh, then says it again—steadier this time.
“Yes.”
Because it doesn’t have to make sense.
Because Orm makes her do ridiculous things.
Orm exhales—quiet, breathless—and Ling can’t tell if she’s laughing or melting.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because Orm doesn’t let go.
She just opens the door. And brings Ling with her.
-
The lobby is near silent at this hour, their footsteps hushed against marble floors. Orm’s shoulder brushes Ling’s—warm, even through the layers between them.
She doesn’t move away.
Neither does Ling.
They step into the elevator, and Ling catches the glance Orm throws her—quick, sideways, loaded. Like she’s waiting. Like she’s hoping.
The doors slide shut.
The air shifts.
Ling already knows before Orm tilts her head—knows exactly what she’s thinking. Still, she follows her gaze upward, to the black dome of the elevator camera nestled in the corner.
Of course.
Ling exhales—quiet, dry, resigned.
Orm groans. Actually groans. Then drops her forehead to Ling’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh.
“This city has no sense of romance,” she mutters.
Ling’s voice is low, amused. “You were about five seconds from testing its limits.”
Orm doesn’t even try to deny it. “I’m just saying—Paris is supposed to understand these things. Timing. Mood lighting. Elevators.”
Ling shakes her head—smiling despite herself, maybe even because of herself.
Maybe she'd already started calculating the angle of the camera.
Maybe she'd almost—almost—leaned in first.
She still kind of wants to.
The elevator dings. The doors open.
And for once, she’s grateful for the interruption.
Orm doesn’t let go of her hand.
Their rooms are right there. The distance between them laughably small. Ling could let go now, say their goodbyes, step into her own room like a normal person.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she walks Orm all the way to her door. Because she can. Because she wants to.
Orm leans against the frame, something between a smirk and a sigh. The kind of look that says I can’t believe you’re doing this, but also please don’t stop.
Her fingers toy with the edge of her coat—light, hesitant, caught in that familiar push and pull between reaching and holding back. Like if she lets herself move, she won’t stop.
Ling sees it.
Feels it, like static between them.
And maybe that’s why she doesn’t let the moment stretch too long. Why she doesn’t let Orm hesitate even a second more.
She tilts her head, lips curling slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner,” she says—quiet, steady, even though it’s such an ordinary thing to say.
Too ordinary for a night that feels like this.
Orm doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at her, gaze dipping, lingering, like she’s trying to memorize the moment in case she never gets it back.
Then her mouth curves—slow, warm—and she nods, just once.
She turns, reaching for the door, about to step inside when—
Ling tugs her gently back.
Not into a kiss.
Into her arms.
Foreheads brushing. Hands caught between them. The kind of closeness that says everything.
Orm exhales softly, her breath warm against Ling’s cheek—something like a laugh, something like surrender.
Ling closes her eyes. Breathes her in. Holds on like she could ever get enough.
And just before she pulls away—just as she’s about to let go—
Orm tugs lightly at her sleeve. Barely there. A touch so soft it feels like a secret.
Then, quieter, sweeter—her voice impossibly soft, meant only for Ling:
“I can’t wait for dinner.”
And then she slips inside.
Ling melts—utterly. Completely. Warmth blooming in her chest, curling through her breath, settling in her bones.
She stands there a second too long, staring at the door like it might open again.
And when she finally turns, stepping into the quiet of her own room—
She’s still smiling.
Tomorrow, Paris will be just another city.
But tonight—tonight, it belongs to them.
