Work Text:
The Monday morning strategy meeting at Muse Creative was, to put it mildly, a hostage situation.
The conference room smelled of stale coffee and despair. At the head of the glass table stood Bam Saralee, the CEO and Orm’s former university batch mate, pointing a laser pointer at a graph that looked dangerously like a downward spiral.
"Strategy," Bam said, her eyes manic. "We need more efficiency between the output and the... inflow."
Orm Kornnaphat Sethratanapong, Creative Director and the firm’s resident golden child, was currently trying to balance a sharpie on her nose without anyone noticing. She failed. The pen clattered onto the table.
"Are you with us, Orm?" Bam asked, sounding exhausted.
"Totally," Orm lied, flashing a charming grin. "Strategy. Inflow. Got it."
Bam sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Look, I love you guys. You’re artists. You’re geniuses. But you spend money like we’re laundering it for a cartel. The immersive pop-up last month? We’re still paying for the neon flamingos."
A collective groan rippled through the room. The art directors slumped in their chairs.
"Which is why," Bam raised her voice over the complaints, "I am changing the flow. We are bleeding cash, and I can't keep fixing it with my personal savings. So, I hired help."
Orm rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair. "Great. A suit. A fun-sponge. Someone to tell us we can’t buy the good cardstock."
"Exactly," Bam said, checking her watch. "A Finance Manager. To act as a... let's call it a 'guide' for responsible spending."
"Finance Police," Orm muttered under her breath. "Kill me now."
Just as Orm was preparing to mentally check out for the rest of the morning, the heavy glass doors of the conference room swung open.
The air in the room seemed to shift. The temperature dropped, but the heat in Orm’s body spiked instantly.
Walking in was a woman who had no business being in a marketing firm on a Monday morning. She was petite, dressed in a charcoal pencil skirt and a white silk blouse that looked more expensive than Orm’s car. Her dark hair cascaded in perfect, glossy waves over her shoulders. Her face was struck from marble—sharp cheekbones, full lips painted a subtle rose, and eyes that were dark, intelligent, and piercing.
Orm stopped breathing. The sharpie rolled off the table and hit the floor. She didn't blink.
Holy. Shit
The thought trailed off into a series of expletives that would have made a sailor blush. This wasn't a Finance Manager. This was a walking, breathing sin.
"Sorry I'm late," the woman said. Her voice was low, smooth, and commanded immediate attention. "Security had an issue with my badge."
"No problem at all," Bam beamed, looking relieved. She gestured to the room. "Everyone, this is our savior. The new Finance Manager, Lingling Sirilak Kwong."
Sirilak Kwong, Orm repeated the name in her head, tasting the syllables.
Lingling walked to the front of the room. The sound of her heels on the parquet floor—click, click, click—was hypnotic. She placed a sleek laptop on the table and looked up, scanning the room.
From the back of the room, Ken, a junior graphic designer, let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Damn, maybe budget cuts won't be so bad."
Orm’s head snapped toward Ken so fast her neck cracked. Her eyes narrowed into slits. A sudden, irrational surge of possessiveness flared in her chest.
"Shut it, Ken," Orm hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "Show some respect or I’m putting you on pamphlet duty for the next six months."
Ken paled and sank into his chair. "Yes, P’Orm."
Orm turned her attention back to the front. Lingling didn't seem to notice the commotion. She was plugging her laptop into the projector.
"I’ve reviewed the preliminary reports," Lingling said, not wasting time on pleasantries. "Effective immediately, all expenses over 5,000 Baht require my direct signature. No more discretionary funds for 'inspiration trips'. And we are auditing the neon flamingo vendor."
The room erupted in groans.
"You can't stifle art with receipts!" someone shouted.
"Art doesn't pay the electricity bill," Lingling shot back, her tone cool and unbothered.
Orm didn't groan. She was too busy staring at the way Lingling’s skirt hugged her hips as she reached for the laser pointer. She was imagining that cool, professional voice whispering things that had absolutely nothing to do with tax audits.
I need to talk to her, Orm thought. I need to know if she tastes as expensive as she looks.
Twenty minutes later, the meeting adjourned. The creative team fled the room like rats escaping a sinking ship, desperate to avoid the new sheriff in town.
Orm lingered. She adjusted her blazer, ran a hand through her hair to ensure maximum volume, and put on her best 'I’m the charming Creative Director' smile—the one that usually made girls giggle and blush.
Bam was packing up her papers. "Lingling, this is Orm. She runs Creative. She’s the one you’ll be fighting with the most."
Lingling looked up from her laptop. Up close, she was devastating. Her skin was flawless.
"Hi," Orm said, extending a hand, pitching her voice a little lower than usual. "Orm Kornnaphat. Welcome to the chaos. If you need someone to show you the best coffee spots... or just show you around..."
Lingling looked at the extended hand, then at Orm’s face.
For a split second—a heartbeat, really—Orm saw something flicker in those dark eyes. A widening. A flash of recognition? A memory?
It was there, and then it was gone, slammed shut behind a wall of ice.
Lingling took Orm’s hand. Her grip was firm, her skin cool. "Ms. Sethratanapong. Bam has told me a lot about your... spending habits."
"All good things, I hope," Orm grinned, holding the hand a second too long, her thumb grazing Lingling’s knuckles.
"She said you consider budgets to be 'suggestions'," Lingling said flatly. She pulled her hand away.
"I like to think outside the box," Orm leaned against the table, invading Lingling’s personal space just slightly. "Maybe I can convince you to be a little flexible? I can be very persuasive."
Bam rolled her eyes. "Okay, I have a call. Play nice, you two." Bam grabbed her phone and hurried out, leaving them alone in the quiet conference room.
The moment the door clicked shut, the temperature in the room plummeted.
Lingling took a step back, creating a distinct distance between them. The polite collegial mask vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp indifference.
"I am not flexible, Ms. Sethratanapong," Lingling said, her voice devoid of warmth. She snapped her laptop shut with a decisive click. "And I don't appreciate being hit on in the workplace. It’s unprofessional."
Orm blinked, taken aback. Usually, the charm worked. "I was just being friendly."
"You were staring at my mouth for the entire duration of my presentation," Lingling observed clinically, picking up her bag. "Please submit your department's revised forecast by 5:00 PM. Do not make me chase you."
"Wait," Orm started, confused by the sudden hostility. "Have we... do I know you?"
That flicker happened again. Lingling froze for half a second. She gripped her laptop tighter, her knuckles turning white.
Then she looked at Orm with an expression that bordered on disdain. "No. You don't know me. People like you rarely know people like me."
"People like me?" Orm asked, frowning.
"Creative types," Lingling deflected smoothly, turning on her heel. "Excuse me. I have work to do."
Orm watched her walk out. The rejection stung, sharp and immediate. But as Lingling’s figure disappeared down the hallway, Orm felt a rush of adrenaline.
She was confused. She was annoyed. But mostly? She was incredibly, painfully aroused.
"She hates me," Orm whispered to the empty room, a slow smirk returning to her face. "Interesting."
She rubbed the back of her neck, that nagging sense of déjà vu itching at her brain again. She had seen those eyes before. She was sure of it. But she couldn't place it. Maybe at a party? A university event?
Orm shook her head, dismissing the thought. It didn't matter where she had seen her. What mattered was that she was going to be seeing a lot more of her.
"Challenge accepted, Sirilak Kwong."
Orm checked her watch. 5:09 PM.
She was currently spinning in her chair, feet propped up on her desk, scrolling through Instagram. The revised budget report—the one Lingling had demanded by 5:00 PM—was sitting right next to her feet, printed, stapled, and completely ignored.
To Orm, "deadlines" were flexible concepts, much like speed limits or "suggested serving sizes."
Then, she heard it. The distinctive, rhythmic click-click-click of expensive heels hitting the concrete floor of the Creative department. The chatter in the open-plan office died down instantly.
Orm grinned. She came.
"Ms. Sethratanapong."
Orm spun her chair around slowly. Lingling was standing there, arms crossed, looking like an avenging angel in a charcoal blazer. She didn't look happy.
"Hi, Lingling," Orm chirped, dropping her feet to the floor. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Miss me already?"
"It is 5:09," Lingling said, her voice tight. "I asked for the revised forecast by 5:00. My inbox is empty."
"Oh, that?" Orm waved a hand dismissively. "I thought Bam said you were here to guide us. I didn't realize the timestamps were so... literal."
"I run a finance department, Orm. Numbers are literal. Time is money," Lingling stepped closer to the desk, extending a hand. "Do you have it, or do I need to report a failure to comply to the CEO?"
"Relax," Orm chuckled. She picked up the blue folder from her desk. "It’s right here. I actually did it. Even colour-coded the projected losses in a nice calming teal instead of red."
Lingling reached for the folder.
Orm waited until Lingling’s fingers brushed the cardstock. Then, she didn't let go.
Lingling tugged. The folder didn't move.
"Orm," Lingling warned, her eyes narrowing. "Let go."
"You want it so bad," Orm teased, her voice dropping an octave.
She tugged the folder back sharply. Because Lingling had a firm grip on it, the momentum yanked the Finance Manager forward. Lingling stumbled, catching herself with one hand on Orm’s desk, her body colliding with the edge.
Suddenly, their faces were inches apart.
Orm didn't back away. She leaned forward, closing the remaining gap until she could see the individual lashes framing Lingling’s wide, startled eyes. She could feel the heat radiating off Lingling’s skin.
"I just wanted to see if you’d come chase me for it," Orm whispered, the words brushing against Lingling’s cheek like a secret. "I like it when you’re demanding."
For a second, Lingling stopped breathing. Her gaze dropped to Orm’s lips, then snapped back up, panic warring with something darker in her eyes.
She ripped the folder from Orm’s hands with surprising strength.
"You are insufferable," Lingling hissed. She straightened up, smoothing her blazer with trembling hands. "Do not be late again."
She spun on her heel and marched away, the folder clutched to her chest like a shield.
Orm watched her go, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She didn't miss it. Just as Lingling turned the corner, the tips of her ears were burning a bright, undeniable crimson.
"Gotcha," Orm whispered.
The Finance floor was a library compared to the zoo that was Creative. It was quiet, smelled of toner and disinfectant, and the carpet was a depressing shade of grey.
Orm breezed in at 9:15 AM like a tropical storm.
She was carrying a tray with a steaming latte and a thick stack of documents. She wore a bright crimson suit that screamed for attention against the beige walls.
"Good morning, crunchers!" Orm announced to the room at large.
She stopped by the desk of a young male analyst near the front. "Hey, Nom. Nice tie. Matches your eyes. Keep up the good work."
The boy turned bright red and stammered a "T-thank you, P’Orm."
Orm winked at him and kept moving, waltzing straight toward the large glass cube at the back of the room. The Fishbowl.
She didn't knock. She just pushed the glass door open.
Lingling was on a call, wearing a headset. She looked up, annoyed, and held up a finger.
Orm didn't care. She set the tray down. She placed the documents—receipts she had painstakingly taped onto paper and organized by color (Yellow for Food, Pink for Transport, Blue for 'Miscellaneous')—in the center of the mahogany desk.
Lingling wrapped up her call. "Yes, sell the bonds. Now. Thank you." She ripped the headset off and glared at Orm. "What are you doing here?"
"Special delivery," Orm beamed. She slid the takeaway cup across the desk. "Vanilla Latte. Oat milk. And look..." She pointed to the foam. The barista had drawn a lopsided heart. "It’s made with love."
Lingling looked at the coffee with suspicion. Then, she reached for her own drink—a shaker bottle filled with a thick, swamp-green liquid.
"I don't drink coffee before 11:00 AM," Lingling said coldly, taking a sip of the green sludge. "And I certainly don't drink... whatever that sugary concoction is. Kale and spinach smoothie only."
"Gross," Orm laughed. "You’re really committed to the whole 'fun-sponge' persona, huh?"
"Why are you here, Orm?" Lingling asked, setting the bottle down.
"Receipts," Orm tapped the stack. "Color-coded. Just for you."
"My assistant, Joy, sits ten feet away. You could have given them to her. Or scanned them," Lingling pointed out, her eyes narrowing. "You are wasting executive time."
"Yeah, but Joy isn't as pretty as you," Orm shrugged.
Lingling stiffened. "Orm."
"I just wanted to make sure you got them personally," Orm said, her tone shifting.
She didn't leave. Instead, she moved around the side of the desk. Lingling turned her chair to track her, looking like a cornered animal.
Orm leaned her hip against the heavy mahogany desk. She folded her arms, looking down at Lingling. Then, she leaned in, bracing one arm on the desk, invading Lingling’s personal bubble.
The scent hit her instantly. Fresh jasmine. Clean, floral, and intoxicating. It was such a delicate scent for such a severe woman. Orm inhaled deeply, her eyelids fluttering shut for a second. God, she smells good.
The attraction hit Orm low in her stomach, a heavy, throbbing heat.
Lingling flustered, her eyes widening as Orm leaned into her space. She quickly rolled her chair back, the wheels squeaking on the plastic mat.
"Don't come to my office for this," Lingling said, her voice dropping to a frosty whisper, though her hand gripped the armrest tightly. "And stop flirting with my staff outside. Nom is an intern. It’s unprofessional and distracting."
Orm opened her eyes, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across her face.
"Oh, Nom doesn't mind," Orm drawled. "He thinks I'm charming."
"I don't," Lingling snapped.
"Don't you?" Orm tilted her head. "Because when I walked in... you weren't looking at the spreadsheet, Lingling. You were watching me through the glass."
Lingling opened her mouth to argue, but Orm cut her off.
"I guess my presence does affect you somehow, Miss Kwong," Orm whispered, tapping her fingers on the mahogany desk near Lingling’s hand.
Orm pushed herself off the desk, satisfied by the way Lingling’s breath had hitched.
"Enjoy the receipts. I put the ones for the alcohol under 'Team Building'."
With a wink, Orm turned and sauntered out of the glass office, leaving Lingling alone with a cooling latte, a stack of colorful paper, and a heart rate that was definitely not within healthy parameters.
Bam Saralee stared at the steam rising from her mug of black coffee. It was 8:45 AM. Too early for shouting. Definitely too early for this.
"It is a project cost, Lingling!" Orm was practically vibrating, slamming her hands on Bam's desk. "The client specifically asked for an 'ethereal' atmosphere. How can we be ethereal without the imported dry ice machine?"
"Dry ice is a consumable, Orm," Lingling countered, her voice calm but tight, standing rigidly with her arms crossed. "The machine itself is a capital asset. You cannot write off a forty-thousand Baht machine as 'miscellaneous project expenses' for a two-hour launch party."
"We can if we label it 'Atmospheric Generator'!" Orm argued.
"That is fraud," Lingling snapped.
"It’s creative accounting!"
Bam took a long, loud sip of her coffee. The sound cut through the bickering. Both women turned to look at her.
"Ladies," Bam said, her voice gravelly. "I haven't even had breakfast."
She looked at them. Really looked at them.
Orm was leaning forward, her face flushed with the thrill of the argument. But she wasn't looking at Lingling’s spreadsheet. Bam watched as Orm’s eyes drifted down, lingering shamelessly on the curve of Lingling’s waist in her pencil skirt, then flicking up to Lingling’s lips as she spoke.
And Lingling... God, Lingling was supposed to be the professional one. But she wasn't backing down. She had stepped into Orm’s space. Her chest was heaving slightly, her posture not defensive, but almost... inviting the challenge. She was glaring at Orm, yes, but there was a fire in her eyes that had nothing to do with GAAP principles.
They are doing it, Bam realized with a sudden, horrifying clarity. Or they really, really want to.
It was like watching a nature documentary. A very expensive, corporate mating ritual disguised as a budget meeting. It was sinful foreplay right in front of the CEO.
"Okay, stop," Bam held up a hand. "I’m making an executive decision before I call HR and report you both for making me feel awkward."
They both blinked. "Bam?" Orm asked innocently.
"Lingling, approve fifty percent of the budget. Orm, rent the damn machine, don't buy it. And stop trying to expense 'vibes'."
"But—" Lingling started.
"Partial approval. Final offer," Bam pointed her pen at the door. "Now get out. Both of you. Go generate revenue or synergy or whatever."
Lingling let out a huff, grabbed her files, and turned sharply. "Fine."
Orm grinned, looking like the cat that got the cream. "Thanks, Boss."
As they walked out, Bam watched them. She saw Orm unconsciously mirror Lingling’s steps. She saw the way the air seemed to crackle between them as the door closed.
"This is going to be the love story of the century," Bam muttered to her coffee cup. "Or a lawsuit. Probably a lawsuit."
The hallway was quiet.
"I’m taking that as a win," Orm announced as they waited for the elevator. "Fifty percent is better than zero. We should celebrate. There’s a pub around the corner that opens at noon."
Lingling glared at the elevator buttons, stabbing the 'Down' arrow. "I am not celebrating your incompetence with alcohol, Orm."
"You wound me," Orm chuckled. "I’m very competent. You just haven't seen me in action yet."
Lingling muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘God help me’ or perhaps a curse in a dialect Orm didn't recognize.
The elevator doors slid open. Empty.
They stepped inside. Lingling immediately moved to the corner, pressing the button for the lobby, while Orm pressed the button for the Creative floor.
As the doors slid shut, sealing them in the steel box, the silence grew heavy.
Orm didn't stay on her side. She took a step closer. Then another.
Lingling kept her eyes glued to the changing numbers. "15... 14..."
"You know," Orm murmured, her voice dropping to that husky register she knew worked on everyone. She was now standing right behind Lingling, close enough that her breath stirred the hair on Lingling’s neck. "You look really cute when you’re angry about tax codes."
Lingling stiffened. "Step back, Orm."
"Make me," Orm whispered, leaning in to whisper directly into Lingling’s ear. "Or are you afraid you'll like it?"
Lingling spun around, startled by the audacity. But in her haste, her heel caught on the edge of the mat. She stumbled backward, her balance lost.
"Whoa!"
Lingling tipped back, heading straight for the hard metal wall of the elevator.
Orm moved faster than thought. She lunged forward, slamming her palm against the metal wall right behind Lingling’s head to cushion the impact, while her other hand grabbed Lingling’s waist to steady her.
Thud.
The impact was soft, absorbed by Orm’s hand and body. But the result was dangerous.
They were pressed together. Orm’s body was flush against Lingling’s. Orm’s thigh was slotted between Lingling’s legs. Orm’s face was inches from Lingling’s.
Time seemed to suspend.
"Gotcha," Orm breathed, her voice shaky.
Lingling didn't push her away. Her hands were clutching Orm’s biceps, gripping the fabric of her blazer.
Lingling’s eyes were wide. For the first time, the "Finance Manager" mask was completely gone. Her gaze dropped—slowly, visibly—down to Orm’s lips. It lingered there, hungry and terrified, before flicking back up to Orm’s amber eyes.
Orm’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Thump. Thump. Thump.
She had flirted for sport before. She had played the game. But this? Seeing Lingling this close, seeing the vulnerability and the heat in those dark eyes... this wasn't a game. Orm felt nervous. She felt electric.
Orm leaned in. Just a fraction.
Their noses brushed. A soft, intimate touch.
Lingling’s breath hitched, but she didn't move back. She didn't turn her head. She stayed right there, her lips parting slightly, waiting. There was no resistance. Only invitation.
Orm tilted her head, her eyelids fluttering shut as she prepared to close the final inch
DING.
The cheerful bell shattered the moment. The metal doors slid open.
Level 10: Creative Department.
The sound was like a bucket of ice water. Lingling gasped, her eyes snapping wide with realization.
She panicked.
"Get out!" Lingling yelped.
She shoved Orm. Hard. Two hands against Orm’s chest, pushing her backward out of the elevator.
Orm stumbled out into the hallway, nearly tripping over her own feet. "Hey!"
Lingling slammed her hand onto the 'Close Door' button repeatedly, her face a bright, burning shade of scarlet. She looked mortified. She looked beautiful.
As the doors began to slide shut, blocking Lingling from view, Orm caught one last glimpse of her. Lingling was covering her mouth with her hand, eyes squeezed shut.
Click. The doors closed.
Orm stood alone in the hallway of the Creative department. Her heart was still racing. Her lips tingled where they had almost, almost touched Lingling’s.
A slow, incredulous laugh bubbled up from her chest.
"Damn," Orm whispered, running a hand through her hair. "She wanted to kiss me."
Orm grinned, a wide, genuine, victorious grin. She straightened her blazer and strutted toward the open-plan office. The budget was half-approved, but Orm was pretty sure she was winning something much more valuable.
Subject: Re: Budget Alignment - Post-Event Reconciliation
From: Orm S. (Creative Director)
To: Lingling K. (Finance Manager)
Dear Miss Kwong,
Please find attached the receipts for the client launch. I think you’ll find everything in order. I even stopped Ken from buying the gold-leaf napkins. You’re welcome.
P.S. The office is very quiet without the sound of your red pen scratching across my paper. Let me know if you need to “audit” me personally when I get back.
Best,
Orm S.
Lingling sat in her pristinely organized office, staring at her monitor. It was 4:00 PM on a Thursday. She had read this email six times.
"She is insufferable," Lingling whispered to herself, her cursor hovering over the 'Delete' button.
She didn't click it. Instead, she read the postscript again. Audit me personally.
Lingling groaned, burying her face in her hands. It was so unprofessional. It was so blatant. And God help her, it was working.
For three days, the office had been blissfully, quietly empty while the Creative team was off-site setting up for the launch. Lingling had told herself she was relieved. No chaos. No loud laughter. No Orm Kornnaphat strutting into her office smelling like expensive perfume and trouble.
But every time the elevator dinged, Lingling’s heart would do a traitorous little flip.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and instantly, she was back in that metal box. The memory was visceral. The warmth of Orm’s body pressed against hers. The way Orm’s hand had cushioned her head—protective, strong. And those eyes. Those golden-brown, amber eyes that looked at her with such intense, terrifying hunger.
Amber eyes.
They hadn't changed. Not really. They were the same eyes that had haunted her teenage years.
Flashback: St. Teresa’s High, 2012
The gymnasium smelled of floor wax and teenage sweat.
Lingling sat at the very top of the bleachers, knees pulled to her chest, trying to make herself as small as physically possible.
She hated pep rallies. She hated the noise. She hated how her heavy glasses slid down her nose every time she looked down at her GameBoy. She hated the metal braces that cut the inside of her lip and made her talk with a slight lisp, which was why she rarely talked at all.
But she came. She came because of her.
Down on the court, the Varsity team was warming up. And there, in the center of it all, was Orm.
Orm didn't just play basketball; she performed. She spun the ball on her finger, laughing as a teammate shoved her shoulder. Her ponytail whipped around as she ran drills, her movements fluid, natural, and impossibly cool. She was the sun, pulling everyone into her orbit.
Lingling watched as a group of girls from the cheer squad ran up to Orm during the water break. One gave her a bottle of Gatorade. Another gave her a small box of chocolates for Valentine's Day. Orm took them all with that easy, lopsided grin—the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the room, even if she was looking past you.
"She's so... shiny," Lingling whispered to herself, adjusting her pigtails which felt too tight against her scalp.
Lingling looked down at her own lap. At her scuffed shoes. At the math textbook she was using to hide her GameBoy.
She wasn't bullied. That would imply people noticed her enough to be mean. Lingling Sirilak Kwong was simply part of the background scenery, like a water fountain or a locker.
Orm looked up at the stands, shielding her eyes from the lights. For a second, her gaze swept over the top row. Lingling held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs.
But Orm’s eyes didn't stop. They glided right over the girl with the pigtails and the braces, moving on to wave at someone else.
Of course, Lingling thought, letting out a breath. Why would she see me?
The Present
Lingling unlocked the door to her apartment and kicked off her heels with a vengeance.
"Home," she sighed.
She walked straight to the bedroom, stripping off the charcoal blazer, the silk blouse, and the pencil skirt—the armor of 'Ms. Kwong, Finance Manager'. She scrubbed the makeup off her face, removing the sharp eyeliner and the red lip tint.
She put on her real uniform: a baggy, faded graphic tee that said 'I Paused My Game to Be Here' and a pair of grey sweatpants. She pulled her hair up into a messy, unglamorous bun and slipped her thick black rimmed glasses.
She grabbed a bag of chips and sat down in front of her pride and joy: a custom-built PC tower with clear casing and rainbow RGB lighting that pulsed in rhythm.
She put on her headset and logged into Discord.
User 'Heal00K' has joined the channel.
"Finally!" a voice crackled in her ear. "We need a healer, Ling! The tank keeps dying."
"I'm here, Junji. Relax," Lingling said, her voice dropping its professional stiffness, becoming softer, more natural.
"Where were you?" Fluke’s voice chimed in. "You're never late for Raid Night."
"Work," Lingling grumbled, logging into World of Warcraft. Her character, a max-level Priestess, materialised in the game. "The Creative department is trying to bankrupt the company again."
"Is it that Creative Director?" Junji asked. " The one you complained about last week?"
Lingling hesitated. She started casting buffs on her teammates' characters. "Her name is Orm."
Silence on the line. Then, chaos.
"Orm?" Fluke shouted. "Wait. The Orm? St. Teresa’s Orm? Basketball Orm?"
Lingling sighed, sipping her green tea. "Yes. That Orm."
"NO WAY!" Junji shrieked. "You're working with your high school crush?! The one you built a shrine to in your locker?"
"I did not build a shrine," Lingling defended hotly, her cheeks pinking. "I had one newspaper clipping taped to the door. It was for school spirit."
"You hated school spirit," Fluke deadpanned. "So, does she know? Did you tell her it's you? The girl she borrowed a pen from in 2013?"
"No," Lingling said quietly. She watched her character run across the screen. "She doesn't recognize me."
"How can she not recognize you?"
"Because, you idiots," Lingling said, sounding tired. "I don't look like me anymore. I don't have the braces. I don't have the pigtails. I wear contacts. And... I act different."
"So she's hitting on the 'New You'?" Junji asked. "Is she hitting on you?"
Lingling thought about the elevator. The way Orm’s breath felt on her neck. The way Orm looked at her like she was the only water in a desert.
"Yes," Lingling admitted, her voice small. "She's... very aggressive about it."
"This is like a fanfiction," Fluke laughed. "The invisible nerd returns as a hot boss and seduces the popular jock. You have to tell her, Ling!"
"I can't," Lingling snapped, more harshly than she intended. "If I tell her... she'll see the braces again. She'll remember that I was the weird quiet kid. Right now, she looks at me like I'm... powerful. Sexy, even. I don't want to ruin that."
"Ling..." Junji’s voice softened. "You're still a nerd. You're literally playing WoW on a Friday night while eating chips."
"She doesn't know that," Lingling said stubbornly. "To her, I am the terrifying Finance Manager. And I'm going to keep it that way."
"Okay, okay," Fluke said. "But watch out. If she was a player back then, she's probably a player now. Don't let her break your heart again, okay?"
"She never broke my heart," Lingling whispered, casting a healing spell on the tank just in time. "She just... didn't see me."
But she sees me now, Lingling thought, a dangerous hope blooming in her chest. She definitely sees me now.
"Alright, pull the boss," Lingling commanded, slipping back into gamer mode to drown out her feelings. "And don't stand in the fire this time, Fluke!"
The Creative department was buzzing with the construction of the new set for the "Future Living" campaign. In the center of the chaos stood Felix, the lighting technician with perfect hair and an ego to match. He was currently leaning comfortably against a prop wall, talking to Lingling.
Orm watched from her glass office, her knuckles white as she gripped her stress ball.
Felix was gesturing expansively, explaining the structural integrity of the set. And Lingling... Lingling was smiling.
It wasn't a big smile. It was a polite, professional, "I acknowledge your existence" smile. But to Orm, who had received nothing but scowls and red ink for weeks, it looked like a marriage proposal.
"Oh, hell no," Orm muttered. She dropped the stress ball and marched out of her office.
As she got closer, she heard Felix’s voice. "...so we used recycled polymer for the aesthetic. Pretty impressive, right? Maybe I could show you the lighting rig later? It’s quite romantic when it’s dimmed."
Lingling opened her mouth to politely decline, but she never got the chance.
"Actually, Felix," Orm’s voice cut through the air, smooth and dangerous. She slid seamlessly between Felix and Lingling, her back to the man, effectively shielding Lingling from his view. "The polymer looks cheap under the studio lights. I already told the fabrication team to matte it down."
Orm turned her head slightly to glare at Felix over her shoulder. "And the lighting rig isn't romantic, Felix. It’s an industrial hazard. Go check the wiring before you burn the building down."
Felix blinked, stumbling over his words. "I—uh—P’Orm, I was just explaining the—"
"Go. Check. The. Wiring," Orm ordered, her eyes flashing.
Felix scrambled away.
Orm turned back to Lingling, crossing her arms. She loomed over the smaller woman, radiating a mix of irritation and intense possessiveness.
"You smiled at him," Orm accused, her voice low.
Lingling looked up. She should have been annoyed by the interruption. She should have told Orm off for being rude to a subordinate.
But then the scent hit her—Bergamot. Sharp, citrusy, and warm. It washed over Lingling, filling her senses. It had been three days since she’d been this close to Orm, and her treacherous heart gave a painful, happy squeeze. God, I missed this smell.
"He was explaining the budget allocation for the materials, Orm," Lingling said, fighting the urge to lean into Orm’s chest. She forced a grumble. "You are incredibly rude."
"I saved you," Orm insisted, stepping closer until Lingling had to tilt her head back. "He was hitting on you with recycled plastic. You deserve better lines than that."
"And I suppose you have better lines?" Lingling challenged, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
"I have excellent lines," Orm smirked, though her eyes were serious. "I just haven't used the good ones on you yet."
Bam’s "Mandatory Fun" party was held at The Vault, a private club with dim lighting and music that vibrated in your teeth.
Lingling stood near the bar, nursing a sparkling water. She checked her watch. 9:00 PM. She could be in a raid right now. She could be farming loot with Junji and Fluke. Instead, she was here, wearing a black slip dress she hadn't worn since her cousin’s wedding, waiting for the night to end.
Then, the entrance doors opened.
The crowd seemed to part.
Orm walked in.
Lingling’s breath caught in her throat. Her brain short-circuited.
Orm was wearing a suit, but not her usual office attire. It was a deep, midnight blue velvet. The blazer was oversized, tailored to hang dangerously off her tall frame. And she wasn't wearing a shirt underneath. Just the blazer, buttoned once, creating a deep, plunging V-neck that hinted at the curve of her cleavage and an expanse of golden skin.
She looked powerful. She looked expensive. She looked like trouble.
Oh no, Lingling thought, frantically taking a sip of water to hide her dry throat. System error. Too hot. Abort.
Orm was immediately swarmed by people, but her eyes scanned the room over their heads. They locked onto Lingling instantly. A slow, wolfish smile spread across Orm’s face.
She broke away from the group and made a beeline for the bar.
"Hey," Orm said, leaning her elbow on the bar next to Lingling. The V-neck dipped slightly. Lingling forced her eyes to stay on Orm’s face. "You showed up."
"Mandatory attendance," Lingling said, rolling her eyes to cover her panic. "I’m here for the headcount."
"You look..." Orm’s eyes traveled down Lingling’s black dress, dark and hungry. "...incredible, Lingling."
"You’re violating the dress code," Lingling deflected, gesturing vaguely at Orm’s chest. "Where is your shirt?"
"It’s fashion," Orm laughed. She reached out, her fingers wrapping gently but firmly around Lingling’s wrist. "It’s too loud in here. Come on."
"Orm, I—"
"Just five minutes," Orm pleaded softly. "Fresh air. Please?"
Lingling looked at the hand on her wrist, then at Orm’s hopeful face. She nodded.
The night air was cool, carrying the sounds of the Bangkok traffic below. The balcony was empty save for them.
Orm let go of Lingling’s wrist but stayed close, leaning against the railing. She looked at Lingling, her expression dropping the confident facade for something more vulnerable.
"Why do you hate me, Lingling?" Orm asked suddenly.
Lingling blinked, startled. "I don't hate you."
"You act like you do," Orm looked down at her hands. "You’re cold to me. You dismiss me. But then I see you with Felix, and you’re smiling. You’re nice to him. You’re nice to everyone except me."
Orm turned to her, frustration evident in her amber eyes. "What did I do? Is it just the budget? Or is it me?"
Lingling felt a flush rise to her cheeks. She wasn't cold because she hated Orm. She was cold because if she wasn't, she’d melt.
"I’m not nice to Felix," Lingling mumbled, looking away. "He just... doesn't make me nervous."
"Nervous?" Orm frowned. Then she paused. She replayed the scene in the office. The way she had stormed over. The way she had blocked Felix.
"Wait," Lingling looked up, a realization dawning on her. A small, teasing smile tugged at her lips. "Is that why you were so angry today? Were you... were you jealous of Felix?"
Orm’s neck turned a brilliant, undeniable shade of red. She sputtered. "I—No. I just—He has bad taste in materials."
"You were jealous," Lingling chuckled, the sound light and genuine. "The great Orm Kornnaphat, threatened by a lighting technician."
"I wasn't threatened," Orm grumbled, looking away to hide her burning face. "I just... didn't like him looking at you."
The admission hung in the air. Sweet and heavy.
Orm took a deep breath and turned back to Lingling. She looked determined.
"Okay. Fine. I was jealous," Orm admitted. "Because I want to be the one making you smile, Lingling. Not him."
Lingling’s teasing smile faded, replaced by a soft look of surprise.
"So," Orm stepped closer, her voice soft. "Let me try again. Without the budget reports. Without the office."
"Coffee," Orm proposed. "This weekend. With me. Just... let me take you for coffee. I want to get to know you. The real you."
Lingling looked at Orm. She saw the sincerity in those amber eyes. She saw the girl from high school who was popular and shiny, but now, she also saw the woman who was nervous just asking for a coffee.
"Is this a date?" Lingling asked quietly.
"Yes," Orm said immediately.
"It’s a meet-up," Lingling corrected, though her heart was racing. "A professional assessment of caffeine standards."
Orm laughed, relieved. "Call it whatever you want, Miss Kwong. As long as you say yes."
Lingling pretended to think about it, though she had already decided the moment Orm walked in wearing that blue suit.
"Fine," Lingling said. "Saturday. 10 AM. But if you’re late, I’m charging you a penalty fee."
"I'll be early," Orm promised, grinning. "I'll pick you up."
"Don't bring the neon receipts," Lingling warned.
"No receipts," Orm raised her hand in a pledge. "Just me."
Lingling watched her, feeling the walls she had built around her high school crush crumbling down, brick by brick.
"Okay," Lingling whispered. "Just you."
iMessage Thread
Time: 11:42 PM
Orm: I’m staring at my closet. What is the dress code for a "Non-Date Coffee Assessment"?
Orm: Suit? tux? A giant sign that says 'I promise I didn't buy the neon flamingos'?
Lingling: Go to sleep, Orm.
Orm: I can’t. I’m nervous. The finance is picking me up tomorrow.
Lingling: You’re picking ME up. And wear clothes, Orm. Preferably a shirt with buttons that go all the way to the top.
Orm: Boring. I was thinking of wearing my lucky jersey.
Lingling: If you wear a jersey to a cafe, I will pretend I don't know you. I will sit at a different table and audit your fashion choices from afar.
Orm: So you admit you’ll be looking at me? 😉
Lingling: ...Goodnight, Sethratanapong.
Orm: Goodnight, Kwong. Dream of me.
(Read 11:48 PM)
Orm was early. Obviously.
She sat in her car outside Lingling’s apartment complex, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror for the tenth time. She had opted for a crisp white linen shirt (rolled up at the sleeves, top two buttons undone—compromise) and fitted beige trousers. Casual, but still cool.
She tapped the steering wheel nervously. She was used to high-maintenance dates. Models, actresses, socialites. Women who showed up in heels and full makeup at 10 AM.
The lobby door opened.
Orm looked up. Her hand froze on the steering wheel.
Walking out into the morning sunlight wasn't the Finance Manager.
It was... a girl.
Lingling was wearing a faded, oversized vintage t-shirt tucked loosely into baggy, light-wash denim jeans. She wore white sneakers. Her hair wasn't in the perfect, glossy waves of the office; it was down, messy, and windblown.
But that wasn't what made Orm’s heart stop.
Lingling was wearing glasses.
Not reading glasses. Thick-framed, slightly rounded prescription glasses that sat perched on her nose.
Orm felt her brain flatline. Beep... beeeeeeeeep.
She didn't know she had a thing for glasses. She really didn't. But seeing the terrifying, sharp-edged Lingling Kwong looking so soft, so domestic, and so incredibly... cute? It did something violent to Orm’s insides.
Lingling opened the passenger door and slid in. She brought with her the scent of fresh shampoo and something sweet.
"You're five minutes early," Lingling said, adjusting her seatbelt. She looked over at Orm, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger. "Good start."
Orm didn't start the car. She just stared. Her mouth was slightly open.
"Orm?" Lingling frowned, self-consciously touching the rim of her frames. "What? Is it the shirt? It’s comfortable."
"The glasses," Orm blurted out.
Lingling looked down, her cheeks flushing pink. "Oh. Yeah. I... my eyes were tired from the contacts all week. I didn't think you’d mind. I can take them off if—"
"No," Orm said, a little too loudly. She cleared her throat, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "No. Do not take them off. Keep them on. Forever, maybe."
Lingling blinked, confused but amused. "Okay...?"
"You just look..." Orm swallowed hard, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to lean across the center console and kiss the hell out of her. "Different. Good different. Really, really good different."
Lingling bit her lip to hide a smile, looking out the window. "Drive, Orm. Before I charge you a late fee."
They ended up at a small, hidden garden cafe in Thong Lor. It was quiet, surrounded by ferns and soft indie music.
They sat in a corner booth. Orm had an iced Americano. Lingling had ordered a hot matcha latte and was currently holding the mug with both hands, looking like the coziest human being Orm had ever seen.
"So," Orm said, leaning her chin on her hand, completely abandoning her coffee to focus on Lingling. "Tell me about the real Lingling. The one who wears baggy jeans and hides behind glasses."
"I don't hide," Lingling corrected, blowing on her drink. The steam fogged up her glasses for a second. She wrinkled her nose and wiped them off.
Orm’s heart did a somersault. Cute. Fatal.
"I just like comfort," Lingling continued. "I spend all week in those suits. On weekends... I just want to relax."
"What does relaxing look like for you?" Orm asked, leaning her chin on her hand, completely abandoning her coffee to focus on Lingling. "Spa days? VIP lounges? Sipping champagne on a rooftop?"
"God, no," Lingling laughed. It was a free, unselfconscious sound that made Orm smile instinctively. "I’m a homebody. I hate crowds. On weekends... I just want to stay in my room."
"Doing what?" Orm asked, genuinely curious. "Knitting? Taxidermy?"
Lingling hesitated. She poked at the foam of her matcha latte, debating how much to reveal. "I read. And... I play games."
Orm raised an eyebrow, amused. "Games? Like what? Candy Crush? The Sims? Do you build little houses and remove the pool ladders?"
Lingling looked up, her expression turning slightly defensive behind her glasses. "No. I play RPGs. Strategy games. Mostly online multiplayer stuff."
Orm blinked. She tried to picture the terrifying, impeccably dressed Finance Manager shouting into a headset. The image didn't compute. "Wait. You? You game? Like... on a console?"
"PC," Lingling corrected, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I built it myself. Custom liquid cooling loop, RTX 4090 graphics card. It’s... a serious setup."
Orm stared at her. Her mouth fell open slightly.
She was expecting Yoga. She was expecting Pilates. She was not expecting Custom Liquid Cooling.
"You built a computer?" Orm repeated slowly.
"Is that weird?" Lingling bit her lip, suddenly looking self-conscious. She pulled her hand back from the table. "It’s nerdy, I know. It helps me decompress after dealing with spreadsheets all week."
Orm felt her brain short-circuit again.
Lingling Sirilak Kwong wasn't just hot. She was a nerd. A capable, tech-savvy nerd who built machines with her bare hands.
"It is not weird," Orm said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. She leaned forward, capturing Lingling’s retreating hand before she could pull it away. "Lingling, that is... incredibly hot."
Lingling blinked, her eyes widening behind the lenses. "It is?"
"Yes," Orm said, and she meant it with every fiber of her being. "You knowing your way around a motherboard? You strategizing in a game? It’s..." Orm exhaled, shaking her head. "You are ruining me. I hope you know that."
Lingling felt a flush rise up her neck. She had expected Orm to laugh, or to make a joke about how uncool it was. Instead, Orm was looking at her like she was the most fascinating puzzle in the world.
"I just... didn't think you'd be into that kind of thing," Lingling murmured.
"I am learning," Orm whispered, squeezing Lingling's hand, "that I am very, very into your kind of thing."
The drive back to Lingling’s apartment was filled with a comfortable silence, charged with unspoken electricity. Orm kept glancing over at Lingling, who was humming softly along to the radio, looking out the window with her glasses sliding down her nose.
When Orm pulled up to the curb, she put the car in park but didn't unlock the doors.
"So," Orm started, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't suppose I can come up?"
Lingling turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "On a first date? Bold, Sethratanapong."
"It’s an assessment, remember?" Orm grinned, leaning back. "Besides, you can't just drop 'RTX 4090 with custom liquid cooling' into a conversation and expect me to just drive away. I need to see the beast. I need to verify the assets. For... due diligence."
Lingling bit her lip, trying to fight a smile. She hesitated. Her apartment was her sanctuary. No one from work had ever been inside. But looking at Orm—who was looking back at her with genuine interest and not just 'I want to sleep with you' eyes—Lingling felt her resolve crumble.
"Fine," Lingling sighed, unbuckling her seatbelt. "But if you touch my monitor screen with greasy fingers, you are banned for life."
"Deal," Orm promised.
Lingling’s apartment was cool, dim, and smelled of sandalwood. It was neat, but lived-in.
"Welcome to the Nerd Cave," Lingling muttered, tossing her keys into a bowl.
Orm walked in, looking around. "It’s... cozy."
She followed Lingling into the living area. In the corner stood the desk. And on it, the PC. It was a masterpiece. A glass case humming with soft, shifting rainbow lights. The tubing for the cooling system twisted elegantly inside like futuristic veins.
"Wow," Orm breathed, stepping closer. "Okay, I have no idea what any of this does, but it looks like it belongs in a spaceship."
"It runs Cyberpunk at 120 frames per second on ultra settings," Lingling said quietly, standing beside Orm. She looked proud, her guard down.
Orm looked from the computer to Lingling. The soft RGB lighting from the case reflected in Lingling’s glasses, illuminating her face in shades of pink and blue. She looked so soft. So real.
"You built this," Orm whispered, stepping closer, abandoning the computer to focus on its creator.
"Yeah," Lingling breathed, looking up.
They were close. The air in the room grew heavy. Orm reached out, her hand hovering near Lingling’s waist.
"I’m going to get some water," Lingling blurted out suddenly, panic and desire warring in her chest. She needed a second to breathe. "Do you want some?"
"Sure," Orm smiled, retracting her hand. "Water is good."
Lingling practically fled to the kitchen area.
Left alone, Orm exhaled slowly, trying to calm her racing heart. She is so cute it hurts, Orm thought.
She wandered aimlessly around the living room while waiting. She looked at the framed posters (vintage anime), the plushies on the sofa. Then, she stopped at the large bookshelf against the wall.
It was packed. Fantasy novels, manga collections, financial textbooks.
Orm ran her finger along the spines. Introduction to Macroeconomics... One Piece Vol. 98...
Her finger hooked onto a thick, navy blue hardcover book.
St. Teresa’s High School - 2014.
Orm froze. Her hand stopped mid-air.
"St. Teresa's?" she whispered, a frown creasing her forehead. "Why does she have this?"
Confused, she pulled the heavy book off the shelf. She hadn't looked at her own yearbook in years. She knew Bam and her other friends from University, so seeing her high school colors here felt like a glitch in the matrix.
"Did she buy this used? Or..."
Curiosity getting the better of her, she flipped the book open. She found the Athletics section first. There she was—Orm Kornnaphat, holding the basketball trophy, surrounded by cheering girls, looking cocky and young.
God, I was a brat, she thought fondly. But wait, if Lingling has this book...
Her heart started to beat a little faster. She turned to the class portraits. She scanned the names, her finger tracing down the list of seniors she thought she knew.
K... L...
Lingling Sirilak Kwong.
Orm’s finger stopped. Her eyes widened. The breath left her lungs in a sharp whoosh.
"No way," she breathed. "She went to St. Teresa's?"
She brought the book closer to her face, squinting at the photo.
The girl in the picture was not the woman currently pouring water in the kitchen.
The girl in the photo was looking down, away from the camera. She wore thick, heavy glasses that made her eyes look huge and frightened. Her mouth was set in a tight line, revealing a glint of metal braces. Her hair was pulled back into two tight, severe pigtails that exposed her forehead.
It wasn't just a random photo. It was a memory.
Flash.
The gym. 2013. A ball rolling under the bleachers. Orm jogging to get it. A girl sitting there alone, reading a manga, shrinking back into the shadows as Orm approached. Orm had grabbed the ball and ran back to the court without even saying hi.
Flash.
Calculus class. The girl in the back row who always got 100%. Orm asking to borrow a pen. The girl handing it over with shaking hands. Orm never gave it back.
"Oh my god," Orm whispered. The realization hit her like a physical blow. "That was her? The girl with the pen?"
The pieces slammed together. The "No" to the budget. The hesitation. The way Lingling looked at her with that mix of longing and defensiveness. The way Lingling had recognized her instantly in the meeting room while Orm had been clueless.
"Orm, I couldn't find the sparkling water, so I just—"
Lingling walked back into the room, holding two glasses.
She stopped.
She saw Orm standing there. She saw the open book in Orm’s hands.
The glass in Lingling’s right hand slipped.
SMASH.
Water and shards of glass exploded across the hardwood floor.
Orm looked up, startled by the noise. "Lingling?"
Lingling stood frozen. All the color drained from her face. She looked from the yearbook to Orm’s face, and for a second, the confident Finance Manager vanished. In her place was the girl with the pigtails, terrified of being seen.
"You found it," Lingling whispered. Her voice was trembling.
Orm looked at the photo again, then at Lingling. "You... we went to school together. We were in the same graduating class."
"Put it away," Lingling said. Her voice cracked. She took a step back, wrapping her arms around herself defensively. "Please. Put it away."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Orm asked softly, ignoring the broken glass on the floor. She took a step toward Lingling. "I had no idea."
"Don't look at me," Lingling turned her face away, tears pricking her eyes behind her glasses. "I knew this would happen. I knew it."
"Knew what would happen?"
"That you’d realize who I am!" Lingling cried out, the emotion finally bursting through. "That I’m just the loser from the bleachers! The nerd with the braces that you and your cool friends didn't even know existed!"
"Lingling, no—"
"I worked so hard," Lingling’s voice shook. "I changed everything. My hair, my clothes, my teeth. I wanted to be someone you could look at. Someone you could want. And now..." She gestured helplessly at the book. "Now you know. It’s just a costume."
The room fell silent, save for the hum of the computer fans.
Orm looked at the woman in front of her. She saw the baggy jeans. She saw the glasses. She saw the fear.
And she felt a surge of affection so strong it nearly knocked the wind out of her.
Orm placed the book on the table. She stepped over the broken glass, ignoring the danger to the house slipper. She walked right up to Lingling.
"Lingling," Orm said firmly.
"Go home, Orm," Lingling sniffled, looking at the floor.
"No."
Orm reached out and gently took Lingling’s face in her hands, forcing her to look up.
"You think I’m here for the suit?" Orm searched Lingling’s eyes. "You think I’m here because you’re the 'Hot Finance Manager'?"
"You said... you wanted to jump my bones," Lingling whispered weakly.
"I did," Orm admitted. "But that was before today. That was before I saw you in these glasses. Before I saw you nerd out over a graphics card."
Orm brushed a tear away from Lingling’s cheek with her thumb.
"I was blind back then, Lingling. I was a stupid teenager who only cared about basketball. I missed out on knowing you." Orm’s voice was fierce. "But I see you now. I see the girl in the photo, and I see the woman standing here. And I want both of them."
Lingling searched Orm’s face, looking for any sign of deception. She found only warmth.
"You... you're not disappointed?" Lingling asked, her voice barely a whisper. "That I'm the quiet kid you ignored?"
"Disappointed?" Orm let out a soft laugh. She leaned her forehead against Lingling’s. "Lingling, figuring out that the scary, sexy manager is actually the genius who sat behind me in Calculus? That is the best plot twist of my life."
Lingling let out a wet, shaky laugh. "I didn't think you remembered Calculus."
"I remember borrowing a pen," Orm grinned, stroking Lingling’s cheek. "I never gave it back, did I?"
"It was a limited edition gel pen," Lingling murmured, a small smile finally breaking through. "I held a grudge for three years."
"I'll buy you a factory of pens," Orm promised. "Just let me kiss you."
Lingling closed her eyes, leaning into Orm’s touch. The walls finally, completely came down.
"Okay," Lingling whispered. "Request approved."
Orm didn't hesitate this time. She closed the gap, pressing her lips to Lingling’s. It wasn't a tentative first kiss. It was deep, confident, and full of a decade’s worth of missed chances.
The air in the apartment was thick with a decade of unspoken things, now suddenly giving way to pure, scorching oxygen.
When Orm closed the gap, it wasn't with the swagger of the high school basketball captain or the cocky confidence of the Creative Director. It was desperate.
Her hands, which had been cupping Lingling’s face tenderly, slid back into Lingling’s hair, gripping the messy bun to hold her steady. The first touch of lips was searing. Lingling gasped against Orm’s mouth, a small, surprised sound that Orm swallowed whole.
It started slow, almost reverent. Orm was mapping territory she’d only dreamed of invading for months—the softness of Lingling’s lower lip, the sharp intake of breath, the way Lingling’s hands, shaking and uncertain, came up to clutch the lapels of Orm’s linen shirt.
But reverence didn't last long. The months of office friction, the budget battles, the intense stares across the conference room table—it all ignited instantly.
Orm tilted her head, deepening the kiss, seeking more. She pressed forward, her body flush against Lingling’s, crowding her space until Lingling’s back hit the edge of the bookshelf. A low groan vibrated in Orm’s chest as her tongue swept inside, tasting coffee and that unique, sweet taste that was just Lingling.
Lingling melted. The icy Finance Manager facade didn't just crack; it evaporated. She rose on her tiptoes, her arms winding around Orm’s neck, pulling her closer, matching Orm’s fervor with a surprising, hungry intensity of her own.
They were lost in it. The heat rising between them was hotter than any overclocked GPU. Orm’s hands dropped from Lingling’s hair to her waist, gripping the soft cotton of the vintage t-shirt, pulling her hips forward.
Orm, lost in the haze of finally, finally, finally, tilted her head sharply to the right to get a better angle—
CLACK.
Hard plastic met the bridge of Orm’s nose.
They both froze, lips still pressed together, eyes wide open.
Orm pulled back an inch, blinking. The thick frames of Lingling’s glasses were askew, pushed up by the collision so they were sitting crookedly on her forehead.
A beat of silence.
Then, Lingling let out a snort. It was an ungraceful, nerdy little sound that she immediately tried to cover with her hand.
"Oh my god," Lingling mortified, trying to fix the frames. "I am so sorry. Hazardous equipment."
Orm burst out laughing. It was a breathless, delighted sound. "See? I told you you were dangerous, Kwong. Nearly took an eye out."
"It's your fault for being so aggressive," Lingling retorted, though her face was bright red.
"Oh, you haven't seen aggressive yet," Orm murmured, her eyes darkening again.
Very gently, Orm reached up. She hooked her fingers around the stems of the glasses and slowly slid them off Lingling’s face. Lingling blinked, her eyes slightly unfocused and vulnerable without the lenses.
"Better," Orm whispered, placing the glasses precariously on a nearby bookshelf ledge without looking. "Now I can see you."
She didn't give Lingling time to feel self-conscious. Orm dove back in, and this time, without the barrier, it was chaotic. It was messy and wet and filled with teeth grazing lips and breath shuddering in throats.
Orm was overwhelmed. The smell of sandalwood and jasmine, the feel of Lingling’s soft curves under the baggy clothes, the way Lingling whimpered when Orm bit gently on her lower lip—it was too much.
She needed to be closer. She needed to be everywhere at once.
"We need to move," Orm breathed against Lingling’s mouth, remembering the broken glass near their feet.
"Bedroom?" Lingling gasped, her brain short-circuiting.
"Too far," Orm growled.
Orm grabbed Lingling’s hand and dragged her three feet to the right, towards the gaming setup.
The large, expensive ergonomic gaming chair was sitting in front of the glowing PC. Orm sat down in it heavily, the hydraulics hissing in protest. Before the chair even stopped spinning, Orm grabbed Lingling by the waist and pulled her down.
Lingling yelped softly as she landed, straddling Orm’s lap, her denim-clad thighs bracketing Orm’s linen trousers.
"Much better," Orm smirked, looking up at Lingling, who was now perched above her, looking flushed and thoroughly ravished.
"You are ridiculous," Lingling breathed, her hands resting on Orm’s shoulders for balance as the chair swivelled slightly.
"And you," Orm reached under the baggy t-shirt, her warm palms sliding up the smooth skin of Lingling’s back, causing Lingling to arch her spine with a sharp inhale, "are sitting on my lap in your nerd cave. I think I win."
"It's not a competition, Sethratanapong," Lingling whispered, leaning down.
"Everything is a competition with us, Kwong," Orm whispered back, meeting her halfway.
This kiss was deeper, heavier. Anchored by the chair, Orm’s hands were free to roam. One hand tangled in the messy bun, finally pulling the hair tie free so dark waves fell around Lingling’s face. The other hand traced the line of Lingling’s spine, committing the feel of her to memory.
Lingling, empowered by the height advantage, ground down against Orm’s lap, drawing a guttural groan from the woman beneath her. She kissed down Orm’s jaw, to the pulse point on her neck that was hammering like crazy.
"God," Orm gasped, her head thrown back against the headrest of the gaming chair. "If I knew this was what was hiding behind those budget rejections, I would have overspent months ago."
Lingling lifted her head, lips swollen, eyes hazy. She looked at the woman she’d watched from the bleachers for four years, the woman who was currently looking at her like she was the only person in the universe.
"Shut up and kiss me again," Lingling commanded, sounding every bit the boss.
Orm grinned, her hands tightening on Lingling’s hips. "Yes, ma'am."
Monday arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The elevator ride up was torture. Orm and Lingling stood on opposite sides of the car. There were three other employees in the elevator—two interns from HR and a guy from IT.
Orm was vibrating. She was wearing her usual tailored suit, looking fresh and energetic. Lingling was back in her armor: black blazer, hair in perfect waves, contacts in. The "Ice Queen" was fully operational.
But every time the elevator jostled, Orm’s eyes darted to Lingling. She was remembering the gaming chair. She was remembering the chopstick bun.
Don't look at her, Orm told herself. Look at the floor. Look at the ceiling.
The elevator pinged at the Finance floor.
"Have a productive week," Lingling said to the room at large, her voice cool and detached.
She stepped out. As the doors were closing, she made the mistake of glancing back.
Orm bit her lip and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.
Lingling’s stoic expression cracked. Her eyes went wide, and she quickly turned around, nearly walking into a potted plant as the doors shut.
"Smooth," Orm whispered to herself.
The conference room was full. Bam stood at the head of the table.
"Okay, updates," Bam said, clicking her pen. "Finance?"
Lingling stood up. She looked composed, though her hands were gripping the edge of the table a little too tightly.
"We have reconciled the budget for the launch party," Lingling announced, her voice steady. "The numbers are... acceptable."
"Acceptable?" Bam raised an eyebrow. "Last week you called them 'a fiscal tragedy'."
"I found some... efficiencies," Lingling lied smoothly, avoiding Orm’s gaze. "Creative managed to keep the overage within the margin of error."
Orm sat up straighter, spinning a pen. "We aim to please."
Lingling shot her a warning glare. It was supposed to be a glare. It was supposed to say ‘Shut up, you idiot.’ But because she had spent the last 24 hours in Orm’s arms, the glare lacked heat. It looked more like a pout.
Felix leaned over to Orm. "Is she... blushing?"
"No," Orm snapped, kicking Felix under the table. "She's flushed with rage. Don't look at her."
"Right," Felix rubbed his shin.
"Moving on," Bam said, looking between Orm and Lingling with suspicion. "We have a team dinner on Friday. Mandatory. And Orm, try not to order the most expensive wine this time."
"I'll behave," Orm promised. "I have a strict finance manager watching me now."
She looked directly at Lingling. Lingling looked down at her spreadsheet, her ears burning a bright, betraying red.
iMessage (Under the Table):
Lingling: STOP IT. You are going to get us caught.
Orm: I didn't do anything! I'm just admiring the efficiency.
Lingling: I can feel you staring at my neck.
Orm: It's a nice neck. Shame about the high collar.
Lingling: I am going to deny your travel reimbursement.
Orm: Do it. Punish me. 😉
Across the room, Lingling dropped her pen. It clattered loudly on the glass table.
"Everything okay, Lingling?" Bam asked.
"Fine," Lingling squeaked. "Just... slippery fingers."
The sun was streaming aggressively through the blackout curtains of Lingling’s bedroom.
Orm groaned, shielding her eyes with one arm. Her body felt heavy, warm, and incredibly satisfied. She reached out with her other hand, seeking the warmth that had been pressed against her all night.
She grabbed a handful of cold sheet.
Orm frowned, cracking one eye open. The other side of the bed was empty.
Panic flared for a split second—did she kick me out? Was it a dream?—before she heard it.
Click-click-click-click.
Fast, rhythmic, mechanical typing coming from the living room.
Orm smiled, burying her face in the pillow that smelled like jasmine shampoo. "Nerd," she whispered fondly.
She rolled out of bed, grabbing her wrinkled cotton shirt from the floor where it had been discarded in a hurry the night before. She buttoned it halfway, leaving her legs bare, and padded barefoot out into the living room.
The sight that greeted her made Orm lean against the doorframe, crossing her arms to just watch.
Lingling was back in her natural habitat. She was sitting in the gaming chair (the scene of the crime), knees pulled up to her chest. She was wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame and tiny shorts. Her hair was a disaster of a messy bun, secured by what looked like a chopstick.
And, of course, the glasses were back on.
She was wearing a headset, staring intensely at the glowing monitors, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Fluke, pull the aggro!" Lingling hissed into the microphone, her voice serious. "I can't heal you if you're standing in the poison cloud! Move! Left! Your other left!"
Orm bit her lip to keep from laughing. The terrifying Finance Manager, who made grown men cry over expense reports, was currently shouting at a Warlock named Fluke on a Sunday morning.
Orm walked over silently. She moved behind the chair and wrapped her arms around Lingling’s shoulders, burying her face in the crook of Lingling’s neck.
"You're loud in the morning," Orm murmured against Lingling’s skin.
Lingling jumped, her character on screen freezing for a second.
"Ah!" Lingling squeaked. She quickly muted her mic. "Orm! You're awake."
"I am," Orm hummed, pressing a kiss to the soft spot behind Lingling’s ear. "And I'm lonely. Why did you leave bed?"
"Raids reset on Saturdays," Lingling said, as if this was a perfectly logical explanation for abandoning a naked Orm Kornnaphat. She leaned back into Orm’s embrace, though, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. "And I made coffee. It’s on the coaster. Don't knock it over."
Orm glanced at the desk. Next to the high-tech keyboard was a mug of black coffee. No green sludge today.
"You are surprisingly bossy for someone wearing..." Orm peeked over Lingling’s shoulder at the screen. "...is that a magic staff?"
"It is a Staff of Infinite Wisdom, thank you very much," Lingling corrected, un-muting her mic. "Guys, I have to go. Emergency... hardware issue."
"Hardware issue?" Orm teased as Lingling pulled the headset off and spun the chair around.
Lingling looked up at her. In the daylight, with her glasses slightly crooked and her lips swollen and red from the night before, she looked devastating.
"You are the hardware issue," Lingling said, trying to look stern but failing miserably as her eyes traveled down Orm’s bare legs. "You're distracting."
"Good," Orm grinned. She braced her hands on the armrests of the chair, trapping Lingling. "So, about last night..."
Lingling’s face turned a bright, violent shade of pink. She cleared her throat, pushing her glasses up her nose. "We... we were very inefficient. Sleep schedules were compromised."
"I thought we were very efficient," Orm drawled, leaning down until their noses brushed. "I certainly felt... productive."
The glass door to Bam’s office was soundproof, but Orm felt like the silence inside was louder than the chaos outside.
"Sit," Bam said, not looking up from her iPad.
Orm sat. She tried to look relaxed, crossing her legs and flashing her best smile. "If this is about the coffee machine in the breakroom, I swear it was Ken. I don't even drink—"
"Orm," Bam cut her off. She finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable. "Cut the crap."
Orm froze. "Okay. Crap cut."
Bam took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I have known you since Freshman Orientation. I watched you try to charm your way out of a parking ticket. I watched you convince a professor that 'interpretive dance' was a valid substitute for a final essay."
"I got a B-plus on that," Orm pointed out.
"Exactly," Bam pointed her glasses at Orm. "You are charming. You are a chaos agent. And usually, I let you run wild because you bring in clients."
Bam leaned forward, her voice dropping. "But tell me, Orm. Why did my Finance Manager, who two weeks ago wanted to burn your department to the ground, suddenly approve a 'Team Morale' budget that includes imported Belgian chocolates?"
"Lingling is... reasonable," Orm said, her voice rising in pitch. "She sees the value in morale."
"Lingling Sirilak Kwong does not see value in anything she cannot put in an Excel sheet," Bam countered. "Unless..."
Bam stared at Orm. Orm stared back, trying not to blink.
"Unless she's sleeping with the Creative Director," Bam finished.
Orm choked on air. "I—What? No! That’s—That’s unprofessional! HR would—"
"Orm," Bam sighed. "She dropped a pen because you texted her. She turned beet red when you winked at the elevator. And you... you haven't looked at anyone else in the office for months. You usually flirt with the interns for sport. You’ve been ignoring everyone but her."
Orm slumped in her chair. The jig was up. There was no point lying to Bam Saralee.
"Is it that obvious?" Orm whispered.
"To me? Yes," Bam said. "To the rest of the office? Maybe not yet. Ken thinks she's just scared of you."
Orm let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Okay. So... am I fired?"
Bam leaned back, studying her friend. "No. Because honestly? It’s the first time Lingling has looked like a human being and not a robot since she started here. And you... you seem focused. Less chaotic."
Bam’s expression softened. "But listen to me, Orm. Lingling isn't like the girls you usually date. She’s... guarded. Serious."
"I know," Orm said softly. "I know she is."
"If this is just a game for you," Bam warned, her voice sharpening, "if this is just 'conquering the Ice Queen', stop it now. Because if you break her heart and ruin my finance department, I will fire you. And then I will kill you. Personally."
Orm looked Bam dead in the eye. "It’s not a game, Bam. I... I really like her. Like, 'scary amount' like her."
Bam held her gaze for a second, then nodded. "Good. Keep it out of the conference room. And for God's sake, stop winking at the elevator."
That evening, Orm showed up at Lingling’s apartment with a bag of takeout and a heavy feeling in her chest.
Lingling answered the door in her "home uniform"—baggy shirt, shorts, glasses. She smiled when she saw Orm, a genuine, crinkly-eyed smile that made Orm’s knees weak.
"Pad Thai?" Lingling asked, eyeing the bag.
"And spring rolls," Orm confirmed, stepping inside.
They ate on the floor of the living room, the glow of the PC casting long shadows. It was domestic. It was easy. But Orm was quiet.
"You're quiet," Lingling noted, wiping her mouth with a napkin. She pushed her glasses up her nose. "Did Bam yell at you?"
"She knows," Orm blurted out.
Lingling froze, a spring roll halfway to her mouth. "She what?"
"She figured it out. She knows we're... whatever this is."
Lingling set the food down slowly. The panic returned to her eyes. She pulled her knees to her chest. "Oh god. Am I fired? Does she think I’m compromised?"
"No," Orm reached out, covering Lingling’s hand. "She’s not firing anyone. She just... gave me a shovel talk. Told me not to hurt you."
Lingling blinked. "Bam told you not to hurt me?"
"Yeah," Orm let out a dry laugh. "She thinks I’m going to break your heart. She thinks this is just... a hookup."
Orm squeezed Lingling’s hand. The air in the room shifted from panic to something more fragile.
"Is it?" Lingling asked quietly. She refused to look at Orm, staring fixedly at a loose thread on the rug. "A hookup?"
"Lingling," Orm said firmly. "Look at me."
Lingling slowly raised her eyes.
"I didn't almost get fired today for a hookup," Orm said. "I didn't spend three weeks trying to decipher your budget rejections just to get you into bed once."
Orm moved the takeout containers aside and scooted closer until their knees were touching.
"I know I have a reputation," Orm admitted. "I know I was the 'popular kid' and you were the one in the back of the class. But I’m not playing, Lingling. I don't want to just sneak around and sleep together on weekends."
"Then what do you want?" Lingling whispered.
"I want to date you," Orm said clearly. "I want to be the person who watches you play games. I want to be the one you complain about game lore’s even though I don’t understand a word of it. I want to be exclusive. Even if we have to hide it at work for a while... I want to be yours."
Lingling searched Orm’s face. She looked for the lie, for the joke. But she only saw the same amber eyes that had looked at her with such warmth in the cafe.
"I’m messy, Orm," Lingling warned, her voice trembling slightly. "I have anxiety. I get obsessive about things. I’m not... cool."
"I hate cool," Orm smiled, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Lingling’s ear. "I like you. I like the girl who builds PCs and wear her nerdy glasses during weekend."
Lingling let out a shaky breath, and then, a smile broke through. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay," Lingling nodded, turning her hand over to interlace her fingers with Orm’s. "Exclusive. No hookups. We're... dating."
"Great," Orm grinned, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "So, as your girlfriend, I have a request."
"What?"
"Teach me how to play World of Warcraft properly," Orm said seriously. "Bam said I need to focus, and I think learning how to 'tank' is a good start."
Lingling laughed, the sound bright and happy. She pushed Orm backward onto the rug and crawled over her towards the computer.
"Fine," Lingling said, looking back over her shoulder with a devilish grin. "But if you die in the tutorial, I’m breaking up with you."