Chapter Text
Lingling Kwong had a routine.
She woke up at 5:30 and went to the gym in her building every other day. On non-gym days she took Charsiu for a run along the stretch between her Sathorn condo and Lumphini Park, and— two or three times a week— stopped by Sweet Nothings on the way back for a coffee and a mango sticky rice croissant. Then home, shower, dress (always black), and out the door before traffic stacked on Sathorn Road.
The bakery wasn't strictly necessary.
Her apartment came with a fully equipped kitchen she'd never used, and there were six other bakeries within the five-kilometer radius around her building. But something about Sweet Nothings' glass-front display and the scent of butter and sugar made her morning negotiations slightly more bearable.
She had been doing this for the better part of six months. She told herself it was the croissants.
"Good morning! The usual?" The voice behind the counter was pure sunshine. Orm Sethratanapong, owner of Sweet Nothings and apparent ray of human light, already had her croissant wrapped and waiting.
It was too much for the hour. Nobody had the right to be that bright before seven. Lingling felt herself almost wince at it— and, at the same time, felt the small traitorous flip her stomach always did whenever Orm aimed a smile at her.
She nodded and slid 250 baht across the counter for a 220-baht order, and didn't wait for change. She never did.
Lingling also never spoke more than necessary before 7 AM. Or ever, really. Speaking led to conversation, conversation led to attachment, and attachment led to— well, she had a drawer full of divorce papers that could answer that question.
"I added a pandan custard roll," Orm said, dropping a second pastry into the bag. Then she came around the counter, crouched, and held out a small coconut biscuit to Charsiu. "And one for the diet patient. He looked so hungry the other day."
The biscuit was from Orm's small pet-friendly menu, sitting in their own corner of the display case. Charsiu had been one of her four-legged regulars since the day he'd dragged Lingling in here months ago. He accepted the treat, then leaned the whole side of his face into Orm's open hand.
Lingling's eyebrow twitched. "He's on a diet."
"Still. Everyone deserves a treat sometimes." Orm scratched gently under his chin, and her smile widened, a dimple denting each cheek. "Even grumpy lawyers and their equally grumpy dogs."
Before Lingling could protest that Charsiu wasn't grumpy (he was, in fact, embarrassingly friendly), the bell above the door chimed. A group of tourists stumbled in, already sweating in the April heat. Songkran was approaching, and with it, the annual flood of visitors eager to participate in the world's largest water fight.
Lingling grabbed her bag and retreated, but not before catching Orm's whispered, "See you soon, silent-but-deadly."
The nickname should have annoyed her. Everything annoyed her. But somehow, like the extra pastries and the dimpled smiles, it had become part of her routine.
The fire started during the afternoon water fights.
Later, the fire department would blame a short circuit in the ancient wiring, made worse by water seeping in from enthusiastic Songkran celebrations.
But in the moment, all Lingling knew was that her phone wouldn't stop buzzing with notifications from Bangkok's emergency alert system, and that the smoke rising above the rooftops was coming from exactly the wrong direction.
She read the alert twice.
It's not your problem, she told herself. You occasionally buy pastries from her. You're just a customer.
She shouldn't have gone to check. It really wasn't her problem. She had three client meetings to prepare for and a hearing in the morning. But Charsiu was already pawing at his leash, whining at the door; and somehow they both ended up running six blocks through the Songkran madness.
The streets were a wet kind of chaos. Tourists everywhere, their water guns slung over their shoulders, shrieking every time someone got hit. A bucket of water came over the side of a pickup truck and missed her by a foot.
Still, she kept Charsiu close and pushed through. There was water now running down the back of her neck, her hair was plastered to her temples, and her shoes were already a lost cause.
Four more blocks. And the smoke was thicker by the third.
By the time she got there, Sweet Nothings was engulfed in flames.
The fire department was already there, their hoses adding to the chaos. Tourists continued their water fights, some not even realizing the smoke wasn't part of the festivities.
And there, in the alley behind the bakery, sat Orm Sethratanapong, covered in soot and silent tears.
Charsiu broke free first, bounding forward to lick the baker's wet cheeks. Orm let out a sound between a laugh and a sob, and put her arms around him.
Lingling followed slowly, picking her way around the flooded pavement.
She tried to find an opening line. Maybe a condolence. But what came out, instead, was:
"Your bakery was insured, right?"
The words came out harsher than intended. Lingling winced. She was good at contracts and settlements, and not... whatever this was.
Orm looked up, mascara creating dark lines down her face. "I... yes?"
"Then stop crying. You're making my dog emotional."
As if to prove her point, Charsiu whimpered, pressing his whole body against Orm's side. The scruffy golden retriever had never met a crisis he couldn't try to solve with aggressive affection.
"He's sweet," Orm whispered, burying her fingers in his fur. "Like you."
Lingling scoffed. "I'm not sweet. I'm practical. And you need to be practical right now too. Do you have somewhere to stay?"
The silence answered first.
Orm's gaze drifted to the smoke still billowing from the bakery's windows— and from the second floor above it, where her apartment had been. There was nothing in there now that wasn't ash and water.
"My parents live an hour outside the city. They're not even in town tonight." She wiped her face with the back of her wrist. "I haven't really... I haven't kept up with my friends from uni, and the bakery has been everything for two years." She stopped. " I have my staff but I can't... they're paid by the hour. I can't ask one of them to—"
She looked lost, which was ridiculous because she was still exactly where she'd been five minutes ago.
"My apartment has a spare room." The words escaped before Lingling could stop them. "Temporarily. Just until you sort things out."
Orm's head snapped up, hope breaking through the tear tracks. "Really?"
"Don't make me repeat myself." Lingling turned away, pretending to check her phone. The screen was blank. She pretended to check it anyway. "And don't thank me. Charsiu made the decision. I'm just following his lead."
As if on cue, Charsiu trotted over to Orm, took the hem of her soot-streaked apron in his teeth, and pulled— gently, then less gently, until she had to either stand or lose the apron. You're coming with me, the tug said.
"Your dog," Orm said, finally standing, "is a better person than both of us."
"That's not a high bar."
Lingling held out her umbrella— the one she'd brought to shield her from the Songkran water— still dry and folded, useless to anyone as wet as they already were. Orm took it anyway.
Their fingers brushed, briefly.
The smoke must have been doing something to her depth perception.
Nothing more.
The elevator ride to the thirty-second floor was silent except for Charsiu's panting and the steady drip of water from their clothes. Lingling tried not to think about the cleaning deposit on her imported carpet. Or the fact that she'd just invited a virtual stranger to live in her carefully-curated sanctuary.
She watched Orm watch the city through the glass as they passed each floor. She watched it like she'd never seen Bangkok from above, which Lingling realized was probably the case.
"This is..." Orm trailed off, leaving wet footprints on the marble floor.
"Temporary," Lingling said.
She unlocked her door, bracing herself for Charsiu's usual post-walk shake. Instead, the dog waited until they were all inside before thoroughly spraying everyone with water.
"Traitor."
Orm laughed. "He has good comedic timing."
"He has terrible manners." Lingling was already grabbing towels from the guest bathroom, tossing one to Orm before using another to rub Charsiu down.
"The spare room is down the hall, first door on the left. Bathroom's across from it. There are extra toothbrushes under the sink."
She had bought them, theoretically, for guests. But there had never been guests.
"Thank you," Orm said, holding the towel like she wasn't sure what to do with it. "I mean it, Lingling, I—"
"Don't." Lingling straightened, suddenly desperate for distance. "Just... get some rest. I’ll help you figure out next steps tomorrow."
She retreated to her home office, Charsiu padding after her with concerned eyes. Through the wall, she swears she could hear Orm moving around the spare room.
"This was a mistake," she told Charsiu, who had his head on her knee. The smoke had clearly gotten to her.
Lingling pulled up her calendar, trying to focus on tomorrow's meetings, but her mind kept drifting to the fire, to Orm's tears cutting through soot, to the way she had whispered "really?" like she didn't quite believe Lingling's offer for help.
A soft whine from Charsiu drew her attention.
"Don't get attached," she warned him. "She's not staying."
His tail thumped against her desk.
“I mean it, Charsiu. Think of it as pro bono. She sorts herself out, and then she goes."
His tail thumped.
"Hey, don’t give me attitude. You're the one who wanted this— you want to keep getting your treats from her, don't you? This is for you. I'm doing this for you.”
She ran a hand through her hair. "And I'm talking to a dog. Perfect."
Around midnight, Lingling left her office for water, Charsiu padding after her. She expected the apartment dark and the spare room door shut. Instead, she found Orm on the living room couch— in deep sleep with tear tracks still on her cheeks. Lingling was almost sure that she hadn't made it to bed before exhaustion took her.
Lingling stood there a moment. Then she crossed to the couch, took the throw from the armchair, and draped it over Orm.
When she straightened, Charsiu was watching her.
"What?"
He kept watching, suspicious, like he'd caught her at something.
"It's just cold in here." She wasn't going to be interrogated by a dog. "Go to sleep."
Up close, Orm's breathing was slow and even. Lingling watched her for a moment. Longer than she needed to.
"This doesn't mean anything," she said quietly, and went to bed.
Lingling woke at 5:30, the way she always did. This time, though, she stayed in bed a while longer, listening to the small sounds coming from the other side of her door. After a minute, she tried to ignore it, made herself get up and pull on her running clothes out of habit.
But it was the smell that got her. Coffee, drifting in from the kitchen— and she hadn't made it.
She went out and found her kitchen occupied.
Orm stood at the counter, measuring cups spread around her. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she was wearing what appeared to be borrowed gym clothes from the spare room's dresser.
"What," Lingling said carefully, "are you doing?"
Orm jumped, nearly dropping the wooden spoon she was holding. "Oh. Hi. Did I wake you?"
"No."
"I was making coffee. And breakfast." Orm gestured to a plate of pastries. "It's the least I can do. I couldn't sleep, and baking helps me think, and you had all these ingredients just sitting here unused..."
"Those are decorative ingredients."
Orm shook her head. "Flour isn't decorative."
"In my kitchen, it is." But Lingling found herself accepting a cup of coffee anyway. It was perfect— black, no sugar, just like she would sometimes order at Sweet Nothings.
Charsiu chose that moment to trot in, heading straight for Orm with hopeful eyes.
"No scraps," Lingling warned.
"Of course not." Orm smiled innocently. Too innocently. "I would never."
"You're already his favorite person after one day. Don't push it."
"Am I?" Orm crouched down and held both her hands out to Charsiu, who collided into her like he'd been waiting all morning for permission. She buried her fingers in his fur and scratched at the spot behind his ears that made his eyes close in bliss.
"That's nice. I always wanted a dog, but the apartment above the bakery is too small, and then there are health code regulations to consider, and—"
She stopped. Her hands stilled in his fur.
"Was. The apartment was too small." Her voice caught on the last word. Charsiu, blissed-out a second ago, lifted his head and pressed his whole weight against her chest.
Lingling looked at the wall. Took a sip of coffee she didn't taste.
"Look, finish your decorative croissant. And then we'll do the insurance and all the rest of it later this morning."
"Is that you offering to help?"
“It's me telling you what to do so you don't stress-bake through my entire pantry before sunrise.”
Orm laughed. "Fair enough."
Lingling took Charsiu's leash off the hook. "I run him most mornings, so we'll go out for a bit and come back. You should stay in and sleep—"
But Charsiu had planted himself against Orm's leg and wasn't moving, and Orm had a hand in his fur and wasn't moving either.
"—or come," Lingling said. "We can just do the shorter route."
Orm and the dog looked up and grinned at her with the exact same face.
They did not stick to the shorter route.
The next two days settled into something Lingling refused to call a rhythm.
There were insurance forms, and phone calls, and watching her sterile apartment slowly start to smell like Orm’s baking. Orm folded the throw blanket the same wrong way every morning. Charsiu had started sleeping outside the spare room instead of Lingling's. Small, minute things. Not a big deal. She did her best not to notice.
On the second day, she watched Orm pace the living room, phone pressed to her ear, gesturing with her free hand as she explained the situation to yet another claims adjuster.
"No, the water damage was after the fire started," Orm was saying, frustration finally creeping into her voice. "The Songkran water fight didn't... yes, I understand you need to investigate all possibilities, but—"
Lingling held out her hand for the phone.
Orm blinked at her. "Huh?"
"Give me the phone."
"But—"
"Trust me."
She handed over the phone without another word.
"This is Lingling Kwong, legal counsel for Khun Kornnaphat Sethratanapong. Let me explain exactly how this is going to work."
Twenty minutes later, the insurance company had agreed to expedite the claim.
"That was..." Orm searched for words. "Terrifying. And impressive. Mostly terrifying."
"It's my job." Lingling returned the phone. "To be terrifying, I mean."
"Is that why you became a divorce lawyer? Because you like being terrifying?"
Lingling rolled her eyes. "I became a divorce lawyer because people are idiots who mistake temporary dopamine spikes for eternal love."
She picked up Charsiu's leash, needing movement. "Evening walk?"
Orm's smile was knowing. "Are you changing the subject?"
"No. I'm just trying to maintain a routine. Are you going to come with?"
They ended up at a street food stall near Lumphini Park, Charsiu sprawled at their feet as they shared som tam and grilled chicken. The evening air was heavy and humid, the city glowing around them. Orm had sauce on her chin, and Lingling tried so very hard not to notice.
"So... what happens tomorrow?" Orm asked finally, breaking the comfortable silence.
"You file the insurance paperwork we prepared. Start looking for a new location. Consider your options. And then start trying to get back on your feet." Lingling focused on her food. "Basic crisis management."
"No, I get that. But I mean..." Orm hesitated, set down her chopsticks. "You're letting me sleep in your spare room. You took over my insurance call. You won't even let me pay for groceries." She turned her glass a quarter-turn on the table. "And I keep trying to figure out what I am to you, so I know how to do this right. Like... am I a tenant? Because then I pay you, the second I can. Or... am I a client? Because then at least I know it's a transaction, and I can stop feeling like I'm just taking. But you won't let me be any of those things, and I don't know how to be in someone's house when I can't tell what I'm allowed to give back."
Lingling looked up.
"I'm really good at feeding people," Orm said, quieter. "That's the whole thing I know how to do. And right now I can't even do that without using your flour."
Lingling looked back down at her plate. Charsiu let out a soft sigh against her foot. She pushed a piece of papaya around with her chopsticks. Then another.
Tenant was wrong because she would sooner burn the lease than take Orm's money. Client was wrong because she'd never once thought to bill her— she'd have done it for free and called it nothing. And the thing about being fed— Lingling could have told Orm that she didn't keep her around to be fed; that the kitchen had been spotless and unused for years and she'd liked it that way; that whatever this was had nothing to do with what came out of the oven.
But that would mean naming what this was. And Lingling didn't have the word.
She had spent her whole career knowing exactly what to say, and she could not produce a single accurate term for the woman sitting across from her with sauce on her chin.
She picked up a napkin and handed it to Orm, gesturing at her own chin. Orm wiped hers.
"I don't need anything in return," Lingling said finally.
"Oh... but that’s not really an answer."
"I know." She set down her chopsticks. "But it's the only one I have tonight."
Orm looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."
"You'll take it one day at a time, Orm. There's too much going on for anything else. That's how this should work."
"Is that your lawyer answer or your real one?"
"Both. Neither." She stood, gathering their empty containers. "Now, come on. Charsiu needs his beauty sleep."
Later, as they rode the elevator back to the thirty-second floor, Orm humming softly under her breath, Lingling caught their reflection in the mirrored steel walls. Orm's relaxed posture, her own stiff shoulders, Charsiu happily between them.
Like a snapshot of what could be a nice thing, if she were the type of person who believed in nice things.
But she wasn't. She had that drawer full of divorce papers to prove it.
She turned her face away from the reflection.
But as they reached their floor, as Orm's hand brushed her shoulder in a silent goodnight, as Charsiu trotted happily between their rooms like he couldn't decide where he belonged— Lingling felt something crack in her carefully constructed walls.
Just a hairline fracture. Barely visible. Nothing to worry about.
Yet.