Accidentally Mrs

by Anonymous

Summary:

Orm Kornnaphat only wanted a quiet Sunday, her bed, and maybe fried chicken.
Instead, she got dragged to her best friend’s boss’s wedding… and somehow walked out legally married to the bride.
Ling Ling Kwong was supposed to marry the woman she’d loved for five years.
Instead, betrayal and one very ill-timed bathroom encounter pushed her into a marriage with a stranger, one with too much sarcasm, too many questions, and the world’s most inconveniently soft heart.
Now they’re wives in name, roommates by accident, and slowly circling something neither of them planned for.
It’s messy. It’s tender. It’s ridiculous. It’s life.
Love, By Accident.

Notes:

This is a story with a messy start, a lot of accidental chaos, and two women figuring out what it means to fall for someone they were never supposed to marry. Expect the unexpected from me. and lets see if this fit your romantic comedy side.
Chows!

Chapter 1: The Bride and the Stranger

The morning sun spilled across the bridal suite in warm gold, soft enough to flatter every shade of silk and chiffon draped along the walls.

Fresh lilies breathed perfume into the air, mingling with the faint buzz of curling irons and the murmured chatter of stylists.

Ling Ling sat in the center of it all, still and poised, her hands folded delicately in her lap as one of the makeup artists brushed a final sweep of rose across her lips.

It was the kind of day she had dreamed of since she was a girl—the hushed thrill of slipping into white silk, the gentle clink of champagne flutes carried on trays, the knowledge that just beyond these walls a church full of friends and family waited for her.

For them.

Her heart swelled.

Mintracha.

Her fiancée, her lover, her anchor through three years of growing pains and quiet joy.

 Today would seal it all.

The makeup artist leaned back and smiled.

“Perfect,” she said. “You look like a dream.”

Ling Ling smiled faintly at her reflection in the mirror.

She did look like a dream—eyes softened with shimmer, skin aglow, her veil like clouds cascading down her back.

Today was supposed to be forever.

Her phone buzzed against the table.

She reached for it without thinking, expecting another flood of congratulations.

 The corner of her mouth curled as she unlocked the screen—

And then froze.

Her breath hitched.

Her pulse stumbled.

It was a text from an unknown number.

One photo.

Then another.

Then more, each loading with cruel precision.

Mintracha—her Mintracha—arm around another woman, stepping out of a hotel, hair mussed, laughter caught in blurred motion.

Different days.

Different outfits.

Time stamps etched along the corners: six months, five months, four, two… even last week.

Her throat tightened until it burned.

The air in the suite seemed to press in on her.

This couldn’t be real.

Not today.

Not her.

Not them.

Her hand shook as she swiped through the evidence, each image heavier than the last.

Tears welled, threatening to smudge the meticulous work around her eyes.

Her makeup artist leaned closer.

“Miss Kwong? Are you alright?”

Ling Ling blinked hard, forcing the tears back.

She could not break here.

Not in front of everyone.

Not when her whole world was tilting under her feet.

She stood suddenly, muttering something about needing air, ignoring the startled protests behind her.

Her heels clicked like gunfire on the tiled floor as she strode out, her veil trailing like smoke.

Today was supposed to be forever.

Instead, forever had just shattered in her hands.

 

Orm Kornnaphat was not built for Sundays that started before noon.

She squinted at her ceiling, still tangled in sheets, when her apartment door rattled with insistent knocking.

“Orm! Wake up! Get dressed!”

Her best friend’s voice was like an alarm she never wanted.

“I am dressed,” Orm croaked, though she was very much not. She tugged the blanket tighter around her. “In pajamas. For bed. Where I belong.”

The door burst open anyway.

Her best friend Gina stormed in like a hurricane, armed with makeup bags and determination.

 “My fiancé bailed last minute. You’re my plus one now.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Orm groaned into her pillow.

“Nooo. I had plans. Plans with my bed. Serious commitment.”

Gina ripped the blanket away.

“Too bad. You’re coming with me. It’s my boss’s wedding.”

Which was how Orm, two hours later, found herself sitting in a polished pew of a church that looked like it belonged in a period drama, squeezed into a pastel dress she didn’t pick, hair styled against her will, her phone camera flashing under her best friend’s command.

“Smile!” Snap. “Again! Pretend you’re happy to be here!” Snap.

Orm gave the camera the deadpan glare of a prisoner in custody.

“I want pancakes. Not this.”

Her stomach grumbled in agreement.

She slumped against the pew, yawning.

 “Isn’t the ceremony supposed to start already? What’s taking so long? Did the bride run away?”

Her friend smacked her arm lightly.

“Don’t jinx it!”

Orm stretched, her eyelids heavy.

 If it weren’t for the faint murmurs of restless guests around them, she might’ve dozed off right there.

Weddings were supposed to be magical, but all she felt was hungry, sleepy, and vaguely resentful of every person wearing sequins within a five-foot radius.

 

In a side room across the church, magic had already curdled into poison.

Ling Ling stood trembling, phone clenched in her fist, as Mintracha stammered excuses that soured with every word.

“It’s not what you think—”

“You were with her!” Ling Ling’s voice cracked, equal parts rage and devastation.

She shoved the phone forward, screen glowing with betrayal. “Six months, Mint. Six months while we were planning this wedding.”

Mintracha’s face pinched, then hardened.

“I was stressed. It meant nothing.”

“Nothing?” Ling Ling’s laugh was jagged, broken. “You lied to me every single day. You held me and told me you loved me. You kissed me and promised forever—while running back to her?”

Mintracha reached for her arm, but Ling Ling pulled away like the touch burned.

“There will be no wedding,” Ling Ling spat, tears streaking her perfect face. “Not today. Not ever.”

She spun on her heel, veil whipping, and stormed down the corridor.

 Mintracha followed, desperate, cornered.

The confrontation spilled into the bathroom—doors slamming open, the scent of lilies now tainted with the salt of tears.

“You can’t just walk away!” Mintracha snapped, voice rising.

“Watch me.” Ling Ling’s voice shook but her spine was iron. Her fists trembled at her sides, nails biting into skin.

Two women in white, one furious, one broken, facing each other in a room too small for all their pain.

 

Orm slouched lower in the pew, her phone dim in her hand, while her best friend—Gina—was busy snapping yet another selfie with the floral arch in the background.

“Orm, sit up, you look like a corpse,” Gina hissed.

“Better than looking like a hostage,” Orm muttered, forcing a tight smile at Gina’s camera.

The flash popped anyway.

Orm sighed, hunger gnawing at her.

“Gina, be real with me. How long is this gonna take? They said eleven, it’s almost noon. My bed misses me.”

Gina gave her a playful shove.

“Stop whining. It’s my boss’s wedding. Behave. And don’t even think about sneaking out.”

“I’m not sneaking out,” Orm said, standing abruptly. “I’m sneaking… to the bathroom.”

Gina’s eyes narrowed like a warning laser.

“Fine. But don’t wander too long, okay? If you get caught poking around where you shouldn’t, I’m dead. My boss doesn’t play.”

Orm rolled her eyes.

“I’m literally going to pee, Gina. Not join a mafia ring.”

With that, she shuffled out of the pew and down the corridor, grateful to escape the suffocating perfume of flowers and restless chatter of guests.

Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she pushed open the bathroom door—

And she froze.

Two women in wedding gowns stood inside, squared off like rivals.

One’s eyes were swollen and red, streaks of mascara betraying her tears.

The other’s face was flushed with fury, jaw tight, shoulders shaking.

Their voices had gone quiet now, but the tension was so thick Orm swore she could feel it prickling her skin.

She blinked, stared, blinked again.

Brides.

Both of them.

What kind of luxury drama did I just stumble into?

Her bladder screamed louder than her brain.

“Uh… excuse me,” Orm mumbled, ducking her head.

She skirted past them and darted into a stall, locking the door with a shaky hand.

Inside, she leaned back against the door and exhaled.

Not my business. Not my problem. Just pee and leave.

The world outside the stall was muffled—sniffs, a hissed accusation, the sound of fabric shifting sharply. Orm finished up, muttering about how dresses were bathroom-unfriendly torture devices.

When she stepped back out, she froze again.

Only one bride remained.

The crying one.

She stood before the mirror, gripping the porcelain sink like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.

Her veil had slipped, hair slightly undone, eyes red and wild.

She turned when Orm approached the sink, and that gaze—shattered yet blazing—locked on her.

Orm tried a polite smile, the kind you gave strangers in elevators.

“Hi. Um. Congrats?”

The silence stretched, thick as stone.

Then the woman’s voice came, low and raw, not a plea but a command.

“Marry me.”

Orm’s hand stalled on the faucet.

“...What?”

The bride stepped closer, her reflection a haunting picture beside Orm’s.

“You. Right now. Marry me.”

Orm laughed nervously.

“That’s—haha, wow, good joke. Weddings really bring out the stress, huh? I should go tell my friend that—”

But the woman’s hand shot out, seizing her wrist with startling strength. Her eyes were a storm—red, wet, unbroken.

“I said marry me.”

“Wait, what—hey!” Orm’s voice cracked as she stumbled forward. “I don’t even know you! I just came here to pee!”

Her protest died in her throat as the bride yanked open the door and pulled her out into the corridor, heels skidding against the marble.

Voices swelled from the church beyond—the restless guests stirring as organ music thundered back to life.

Heads turned.

Gasps rippled.

And Orm, heart racing, realized with dawning horror that she was being dragged down the aisle.

 

Chapter 2: The Vows of Strangers

Orm yanked her wrist again, her fingers slipping against the stranger’s grip, but it was useless. That hand clamped around her like it was carved from steel.

Not strong in the sense of brute force, but strong in the way desperation makes someone impossible to move.

“Let me go!” Orm hissed, tripping over her heels as she was dragged forward. “What is wrong with you?!”

The woman didn’t answer.

Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes a storm.

Her grip never loosened.

The church doors swung open.

Music roared back to life, as if mocking the absurdity of the scene.

Hundreds of heads turned.

 Gasps rippled like a wave through the congregation.

Orm blinked under the sudden brightness, her mind short-circuiting.

No. No way. I’m not—

She was at the altar.

“Holy SHIT.”

That shriek came from the pews.

Gina—her best friend, her traitor who had dragged her out of bed this morning—was standing now, phone in one hand, the other clamped over her mouth.

“What the hell, Orm?!” Gina’s voice cracked, loud enough for three pews to hear. “Why are you at the altar?! WITH MY BOSS?!”

Orm flailed her free arm at her.

“Do I look like I know?!” she mouthed furiously.

But no one was listening.

Ling Ling—the bride, the stranger, the lunatic with the grip of death—didn’t flinch.

She turned to the officiant, voice low but sharp.

“You can start the wedding now.”

The officiant gawked, nearly dropping his book.

His face went crimson as he stammered, eyes darting to the audience, then to Ling Ling’s parents in the front row.

Her mother rose immediately, her pearl necklace trembling against her throat.

“Ling Ling! What are you doing? Where is Mintracha? Who is this woman?!”

Ling Ling’s father’s voice boomed, deep and commanding.

“Explain yourself this instant!”

But Ling Ling lifted her chin, unshaken.

“I’ll explain later. Please, trust me.”

Orm’s stomach knotted.

EXPLAIN LATER? LADY, YOU KIDNAPPED ME FROM A BATHROOM. THERE IS NO LATER.

The officiant cleared his throat nervously.

“M-Miss Kwong, this is highly unusual. I—”

“Begin,” Ling Ling repeated.

Her tone left no room for negotiation.

The officiant swallowed hard, fumbling for formality.

“Do you, Ling Ling Kwong, take…” He glanced at Orm, his eyes desperate. “Miss…?”

Orm’s brain fizzled. “O-Orm,” she croaked. “Orm Kornnaphat.”

“…take Orm Kornnaphat to be your lawfully wedded spouse?”

“I do,” Ling Ling said instantly.

Orm’s soul combusted.

She tried to wrench her hand free, but Ling Ling’s fingers squeezed harder.

Then, impossibly, she leaned in, her whisper brushing against Orm’s ear like smoke.

“Please. Help me. Just for today. I’ll give you anything later. Save me now.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Orm’s pulse stumbled, her chest tightening.

She didn’t know why her mouth betrayed her, why her body acted before her brain—but when the officiant’s eyes landed on her, she heard herself say

“I… I do.”

The room imploded.

Gasps, cries, a few camera shutters.

The officiant trembled, but pressed on.

“Then by the power vested in me—”

Orm didn’t even finish processing the words before Ling Ling leaned forward and kissed her.

Soft.

Sweet.

One heartbeat.

Then gone.

Orm froze.

Did I just… get married on a bathroom break?!?

She turned, desperate for reality.

And saw Gina sway on her feet, shriek

“SHE KISSED HER?!”

Then faint clean out of her seat.

The usher scrambled to catch her as the crowd erupted into chaos.

Guests whispered like mad, phones whipped out, some filming, some shouting questions.

Ling Ling’s parents sat in shocked silence.

Mintracha’s family shrank into their chairs, pale as death.

Orm?

 Orm wanted to vanish into thin air.

One hour later the suite buzzed with tension.

Orm sat on a gilded sofa that felt more like a throne she didn’t earn, posture stiff as wood.

Her head throbbed.

Gina sat beside her, pale and jittery, clutching a glass of water with both hands like it was a life preserver.

“Oh my god,” Gina whispered for the twentieth time. “You’re married. To my boss. My boss! Orm, do you realize what you just did?!”

“I didn’t DO anything!” Orm hissed back, gripping her knees so hard her knuckles whitened. “She dragged me!”

Across from them, Ling Ling sat straight-backed, her ruined makeup only making her look more tragic and regal.

Her hand still rested over Orm’s, like they weren’t strangers bound by insanity.

Surrounding them were both families—the Kwongs, elegant and furious, and Mintracha’s parents, shame radiating from their bowed heads.

“Ling Ling,” her mother said at last, her voice sharp with emotion. “Tell us what this means. Where is Mintracha? And who is this woman you just married in front of everyone?!”

Orm wanted to cry.

She wanted pancakes.

She wanted her bed.

Ling Ling pulled out her phone.

Calm, deliberate.

She set it on the table.

“This is why.”

Photos glowed on the screen.

Mintracha with another woman, arms wrapped around her.

Time stamps. Hotel signs. Dates spanning six months.

The silence cracked.

Ling Ling’s father stiffened.

Mintracha’s parents blanched.

“This cannot be—” Mintracha’s father began.

“It is,” Ling Ling said flatly. Her voice trembled but her eyes burned. “While she promised me forever, she betrayed me. I could not marry her. But I could not humiliate either of our families in front of hundreds of guests. The scandal would have ruined us all.”

Her father frowned deeply.

“So, you…” His eyes flicked to Orm. “…chose this?”

Orm sputtered.

“I DIDN’T—”

“Yes,” Ling Ling interrupted, squeezing her hand hard enough to silence her. “I chose her. A new beginning. Let the world believe Mintracha and I ended things for personal reasons. That I have found someone else.”

Someone else?!

Orm screamed silently.

I was someone and definitely so single minutes ago just to pee!

But Mintracha’s parents lowered their heads, their shame undeniable.

They apologized to the Kwongs, begged for discretion, promised silence.

Ling Ling’s mother turned to Orm.

“Thank you. For saving us from disgrace.”

Orm’s stomach twisted.

“I—what? I didn’t—”

Her father laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“You are family now. Our daughter-in-law. Whatever you need, we will provide.”

Orm’s jaw dropped so low Gina might’ve heard it crack.

They just accept it like that?? No further question???!

Next to her, Gina whimpered.

“Oh my god, Orm… You’re really… oh no, I think I’m going to faint again—”

“Don’t you dare faint again,” Orm snapped under her breath, gripping her arm.

Then Ling Ling turned.

Calm.

Too calm.

Her eyes softened as she spoke, her voice deceptively gentle.

“…By the way. What’s your name again?”

Orm’s entire body combusted.

She shot to her feet, finger pointing, words exploding from her throat.

“YOU MARRIED ME AND NOW YOU’RE ASKING MY NAME?!”

The suite fell silent.

Gina fainted again.

 

 

 

The suite door closed like someone finally put a lid on a pot that had been boiling over all afternoon. The sound should have felt like relief.

Instead it felt unreal, like the quiet after a stadium fireworks show — all noise gone and you’re left with ringing ears and a weird heat where panic just lived.

Orm sat on one end of the long cream sofa like she was waiting for someone to yell “Gotcha.” Her fingers were twisted together in her lap.

Lipstick smudge, still there.

Her dress had a crease that didn’t belong anywhere in her life.

She could smell the hospital-fresh lilies and the cheap hotel coffee someone had tried to hide.

Across from her, Ling Ling sat with her veil off and her makeup half-ruined.

She looked dramatic and tired and also like somebody who’d been through a thing and decided to act like a general afterward. She had this calm that bothered Orm because it felt like a plan.

Silence sat heavy for a second.

Then Orm broke it because she couldn’t not.

“Soo,” she said. “Explain.”

Ling Ling blinked.

“We got married.”

Orm pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a laugh that was half hysteria, half disbelief.

“I know that part. People saw it. Gina fainted — again. My phone exploded. I’m trending in three group chats I never asked to join. But like — why me? Why drag me out of the bathroom and into this whole mess? There were plenty of people in that building.”

“You were safe,” Ling Ling said simply.

Orm stared.

“Safe?”

“You weren’t tied to anyone who would get dragged through the mud,” Ling Ling said. “You were a stranger who hadn’t a public name attached to my life. That made you… usable. Not in a mean way. In a protect-the-family way.”

Orm’s brain did a weird flip.

“You say that like I’m a spare part in a cabinet.”

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched, maybe she almost smiled.

“I say that like I saved five families from a public meltdown.”

“Congrats,” Orm said flatly. “I saved myself from privacy yesterday when I went to pee.”

There was a pause.

The joke landed bad and both of them knew it.

Orm paced to the window because pacing felt less crazy than sitting.

Bangkok was a soft gold smear under late sun.

“You said you’d give me everything,” she said, more to the glass than to Ling Ling.

“I said I’d give you everything,” Ling Ling corrected. “But there’s one thing I can’t hand to you.”

Orm squinted back. “Don’t say divorce.”

“Exactly.” Ling Ling’s voice was steady. “I can’t divorce you right now. Not for at least a year.”

Orm felt like someone had flipped the lights off.

She stopped breathing for a beat.

 “What. No. No way. You’re legally the person who could file for divorce so easily and you’re—what, denying me the option?”

“It’s not for us,” Ling Ling said. “It’s for the families. If we cancel this publicly now, after the scandal breaks, everyone will think the truth is worse than it is. Names will get dragged. Deals will fall apart. I can’t risk it. Stay married, we control the story. Separate now, the story controls us.”

Orm’s face went pale.

She had this image of her mother, soft hands, a tea kettle, a gate with three little pots that always had basil, and suddenly the sentence “my daughter is in the news” felt like a bucket of cold water.

“Mae,” she whispered.

Ling Ling moved without drama.

She reached across and put one palm on Orm’s knuckles.

The touch was soft, real.

“Tell me about her.”

Orm laughed, but it came out like a sob.

“Mae is my mother. She lives in Thonglor. She retired early. She gardens like its religion. She makes good green curry. She worries like she’s trying to stitch the world back together. My dad died when I was eighteen. It’s been us. She’ll—” Orm’s voice broke. “She’ll disown me or die. I don’t know what’s worse.”

Ling Ling didn’t blink or judge.

She only nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

Orm nearly toppled off the sofa. “You what?”

“I’ll come to Thonglor,” Ling Ling said plain as menu items. “I caused this. I’ll take responsibility. I’ll tell her the truth we decide is best. You don’t have to do anything until you’re ready.”

Orm’s mouth opened and closed.

She wanted to object.

She wanted to refuse on principle.

She also pictured Ling Ling in Mae’s tiny kitchen, saying something calm and true.

It made her chest unclench a fraction.

“Tonight?” Orm asked, three words that felt huge.

“Tomorrow morning at ten,” Ling Ling said. “You said she feeds the koi. We’ll be there after she’s fed the fish.”

Orm nodded dumbly.

“She’s soft at ten,” she said. “Good to know.”

She tried to laugh. It came out breathy.

“Okay. But you can’t show up with security and a bulletproof limousine because that’s literally my mother’s worst nightmare.”

“No limousines.” Ling Ling’s voice had iron under the softness. “Just me. A car. The truth we agree on.”

Orm let the plan sit like a warm plate.

It felt like a tiny lifeboat.

Then Ling Ling changed the topic like she was switching slides in a meeting for two.

“Tell me about you.”

Orm blinked.

 “What? Why? We just met twenty minutes ago when you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“We are married now,” Ling Ling said. “So, either we become strangers who live together awkwardly, or we actually try to know a thing or two about each other.”

Orm tried to resist.

She lost, because the whole day had been losing and she was tired.

“Fine. I’m Orm Kornnaphat. Twenty-five. Graphic designer at a small but loud agency in Sathorn. I obsess about fonts. I sleep like a vagrant when projects hit, and I eat instant noodles way past my dignity. Dad died when I was eighteen. It’s been Mae and me. My apartment is small, but it’s mine. I don’t date much. I like sarcasm more than people. That’s me.”

Ling Ling listened like someone was handing her fragile goods.

“Fonts,” she said after a beat, smiling in a small way. “I like fonts.”

Orm couldn’t help the little grin that slipped through.

It felt nice to be seen for a tiny thing that wasn’t “wife.”

“Okay, my turn,” Ling Ling said. “I’m Ling Ling Kwong. Thirty-three. I run Kwong Group Architects. Big office. Big projects. Daddy’s side is Hong Kong, mummy’s side is Thai. I’m an only child. I grew the company from scratch and yes, I have people who do things for me because I pay them very well.”

Orm made a face.

“Translation: you have money, you can get things done.”

Ling Ling’s chuckle had tired edges.

“Translation: I have resources. I also have parents who care a lot about reputation.”

Orm’s palms got sweaty.

“You’re eight years older than me.”

“So?” Ling Ling said like it was obvious not to ask.

“So,” Orm said flatly, “it feels like eight years of life experience and maybe a different palate.” She made a face. “I hate coriander. Don’t ever put coriander near my breakfast.”

Ling Ling brightened like someone had handed her a blueprint with a missing piece.

“No coriander. Noted.”

Orm snorted. “We’re negotiating my life in herb talk. I love it.”

Ling Ling leaned forward, serious again.

“I know this isn’t fair. I know I pulled you into an impossible thing. I promise you this: I will respect your boundaries. I will not force you into any romantic or physical thing. I’ll protect you. I will give you money, security, lawyers if you need them. I will control the press. I will shield your job.”

Orm raised an eyebrow.

“Everything except divorce.”

“Yes.” Ling Ling’s voice was gentle and hard at the same time. “If we divorce now, the story becomes truth and punishment. If we remain married and act normal for a year, the wind will die down and we can fix it cleanly. After a year, if you’re miserable, leave. But not before.”

Orm tried to imagine telling her mother that.

“You do realize people want a happy ending, right? Not a yearlong fake marriage.”

“We will try to make it real,” Ling Ling said. “I’ll try. If I fail, you can leave.”

Orm’s sarcasm melted for a fraction.

“Try how? By sending me pancakes?”

“Pancakes,” Ling Ling said, dead serious. “And contracts. Boundaries. A signed paper — not for me to control, but to reassure you that I’ll keep them.”

Orm stared.

“You write a contract for love?”

“This is repair management,” Ling Ling said like it was a job title. “We set rules. We live by them. We protect you from the spin. You get to be you. I get to sleep without my parents getting sued because some blogger wants drama.”

Orm shook her head.

“I can’t believe I’m bargaining my freedom for PR.”

“You’re not bargaining,” Ling Ling said softly. “You’re choosing a survival plan. I’m not asking you to be my girlfriend. I’m asking you to live in safety and keep your life. I’m asking for patience. One year. That’s all.”

One year felt huge and small at the same time.

Orm thought about the past seven years: funeral flowers, quiet kitchens, Mae’s worrying. She thought about the random bathroom, the sudden wedding, Gina fainting twice.

This was ridiculous.

This was surreal.

It was also… maybe something she could tolerate.

“Okay,” Orm said finally. “But I get terms.” She rattled them off fast, like she was building a list for survival, “No press using my full name. No surprise photos. Forty-eight hours’ notice if you want me at an event. I keep my job. I don’t change my name. I have a room where you don’t enter unless I invite you. I don’t kiss unless I want to. I get pancakes before anything serious.”

Ling Ling wrote as Orm spoke, nodding.

“All of that is reasonable.”

Orm kept going because she’d realized she liked the power of saying things.

“And if I say I’m done? You accept it. No fights, no bargaining, no guilt. You let me leave. No dramatics.”

Ling Ling’s pen hesitated and then she wrote: If she says she’s done, she’s done.

 She slid the paper across.

Her handwriting was neat and small.

Orm felt the document like a promise.

“You’ll sign it?” Orm asked.

“Of course.” Ling Ling’s voice was soft. “This is my mess. I own it.”

When Gina barged in a minute later with a paper bag and a face like someone who’d been through war, Orm realized she’d been holding her breath without meaning to.

“I got you chargers,” Gina said like this solved everything. “And a toothbrush and — oh my god — you’re married. You’re actually married. Orm, are you okay?”

“No” Orm said honestly. “But I’m alive.”

Gina slammed the bag on the table like a peace offering. “I will defend you with my life. Also, I took a selfie with Mintracha’s cake. Don’t judge.”

Orm laughed.

It was a quick, bright sound.

“Stop making this weirder.”

Gina sat on the edge of the sofa and whispered like she had secrets to save.

“When I fainted, I saw heaven. It was full of free cake.”

They fussed over small things; Gina’s panic made the room lighter because it was loud and human.

Ling Ling made calls — soft, efficient calls that sounded like someone telling windows to lock.

Orm ate a tiny plate of something the hotel had left: rice, chicken, an egg that wasn’t terrible.

The normalness of eating felt like armor.

Before Orm went to the tiny bathroom to scrub her face and try to wash the day off, Ling Ling stopped her.

“Tomorrow at ten,” Ling Ling said.

Orm rolled her eyes but nodded.

“She feeds the koi then. If my mom starts for the water early, she won’t notice you.”

Ling Ling’s smile was small and earnest.

“I’ll be patient.”

Orm walked into the bathroom and looked at her face in the mirror.

She was the same woman she’d been that morning except with a stain of crazy on her life.

She scrubbed, rinsed, and let hot water run down like it could pour out what had happened. The riot in her head quieted to a thrum.

She came out and found a slim folder on the coffee table.

Simple paper. Bullet points.

Pancakes written in capital letters with a little heart.

No coriander.

A checkbox for “no public narrative.”

A line: We agree: one year. If she’s done — she’s done.

Orm smiled, tired and ridiculous.

She picked the pen up and scrawled her name on the dotted line, the legal weirdness of it already anchoring her a little.

“Bed?” Ling Ling asked.

“Yeah,” Orm said.

“Separate rooms tonight,” Ling Ling added. “If you need me, I’m at the door with the hinge in working order.”

Orm snorted.

“Thank you.”

They both laughed in that small way where it wasn’t a romcom moment yet but maybe, in a weird slow burn policy, could become one.

Orm walked to the bedroom and lay on the bed with everything on, boots off, robe on, eyes open to the ceiling.

The city humed beyond the glass.

Her phone buzzed a little.

She thought about Mae and then about pancakes and about a contract that said she had the right to be done if she wanted.

She let sleep come like a soft promise: messy, not perfect, but maybe tomorrow would be the kind of morning where koi were fed and answers were short and the woman at her door would say two simple words: “I’ll try.”

And Orm, exhausted to the bone, whispered into the dark

“Try.”

Notes:

Soo umm… hi. it’s me. the author who thought maybe 5 people would click this fic, but now i’ve got more comments and votes than Orm has panic attacks in one day 😭 you guys are unhinged (affectionate). Thank you so much. I'm really just writing this messy little romcom drama for fun, and knowing you’re enjoying it means more than i can say. You guys are officially my chaos fuel. And hopefully you stick with this mess until the end.

Chapter 3: The Pond of the Truth

Orm woke up because her phone vibrated in a powerfully annoying way.

It wasn’t an actual alarm — just messages, missed calls, and the faint sense that the internet had noticed her and chosen to gossip.

She blinked at the ceiling.

The folder with “PANCAKES” written in all caps was still on the coffee table like the whole thing had been official.

Her signature stared back at her like proof that the world had gone off its rails.

She swung her legs over the bed and felt oddly hollow.

Every part of her felt like the walk home after a bad exam, tired, embarrassed, and like everyone in the neighborhood might be talking about her.

From the chair by the window, Ling Ling rose without drama and spoke

“Morning.”

“Don’t ‘morning’ me,” Orm grunted, hair sticking up like a porcupine. “I’m still processing trauma.”

Ling Ling gave a small, amused look, the kind of look that meant

I'’ve processed six-year business plans by nine a.m.' and folded a napkin.

“We should go soon,” she said. “Ten at your mother’s gate.”

Orm barked a laugh that was part hysteria, part surrender.

“Ten? You’re not scared at all?”

“Of what?” Ling Ling asked, genuinely puzzled.

“My mother,” Orm said. “She’s a national threat to calmness. She can faint, scream, hug, and call the neighbor with all in ten seconds flat.”

Ling Ling simply picked up her jacket.

“Then I’ll be gentle.”

 

 

Driving to Thonglor felt like slow torture for Orm.

She chewed the inside of her cheek and stared at the window, watching the city move by like a movie she felt too raw to watch.

 Gina sat next to her, touching her arm every other minute to make sure she was still real.

“You okay?” Gina asked, voice low.

Orm gave a tight laugh.

“Define ‘okay.’”

Gina’s eyes went wide, sympathetic.

“I’ll stab anyone who calls you a headline.”

Orm snorted.

 “Please don’t stab anyone today. We need clean diplomacy.”

The car pulled up in front of Mae Koy’s little house: a quiet chunk of green with a gate that squeaked when you opened it and a row of potted herbs lined like soldiers.

The gate always smelled like basil and old wood.

Mae stood in the yard with a sunhat and a watering can and looked exactly like the person who’d raised Orm: warm, slightly suspicious of the world, and a universe of love in her hands.

Orm stepped out first, suddenly very aware of the jacket she’d borrowed from Gina and the fact her hair was still trying to pick a direction.

Behind her, Ling Ling stepped out of the car like someone who’d worn heels to a strategy meeting and accidentally arrived at a family picnic.

Mae’s eyes locked on Orm and then swung to Ling Ling.

For a second, the world held breath.

“Orm Kornnaphat,” Mae said, voice small and loose, like someone politely testing whether a vase was real. “Who is this?”

Orm’s heart went into her throat.

She could feel the scene about to crack into slow drama, the cinematic, music-swell kind.

This was a K-drama moment, honestly.

Ling Ling took one step forward and bowed her head politely.

“I am Ling Ling,” she said, cleanly. “Orm’s wife.”

A kettle would not have whistled faster.

Mae’s eyes widened so slowly Orm thought they might be stuck that way.

Then in the exact rhythm Orm had warned about Mae swayed.

“MAEEEEE!” Orm screamed in textbook panic, because when a mom goes slow-faint, all rules of dignity vanish.

Orm lunged and caught Mae before she hit the ground, half-dragging, half-cradling her into the little rocking chair on the porch.

Gina yelped and shoved a cushion under Mae’s head like a med student who used to watch too many dramas.

A neighbor peered over the fence to see if a fainting epidemic had started on this street.

Mae blinked slowly and clung to Orm’s hand like the world had shrunk to that palm.

Her sunhat slides sideways.

She squealed in that small, dramatic way older mothers do when they’re trying to create emotional effect.

“I told you!” she gasped, which meant both how dare you and I have always kinda known.

Orm tried to talk, but words felt like fish in her throat.

“Maee— it’s okay, I’m fine. She’s not going to eat me — she’s wealthy, not hungry.”

Ling Ling poured a glass of water with the calm of someone who’d practiced this exact kettle-pour in a million boardrooms and now front porches.

“She will be safe,” Ling Ling said to Mae, voice steady. “I caused this problem. I used a stranger to protect my family name. I’m sorry. I will protect your daughter. I promise.”

Mae’s face softened then, like someone finally stopped and picked up the right radio station.

The sobbing died into a sniffle.

Her eyes cut to Orm, searching, fierce and soft.

“My baby,” she whispered. “You didn’t tell me this. What happened? You were supposed to be happy.”

Orm’s laugh was half-cry.

“Mae, it was a disaster — the wedding, the texts, the hotel photos —”

Mae cut her off by shoving the waterglass at Ling Ling and then pointing a finger at her like she was suddenly the judge and jury on a very small stage.

“You. You listen. You tell me who you are. And you say it clear. I will not have my child used.”

Ling Ling bowed her head a little deeper.

“My name is Ling Ling Kwong. I run Kwong Group Architects. My parents are private people. I didn’t want this to be public. I did not want Orm hurt. I cannot—” she paused, choosing; Orm could see the careful building of the explanation — “—I cannot divorce right now because of my family position. But I will do everything to protect her. I promise you that, Mae.”

For a long second, all the air left Orm’s lungs.

Ling Ling saying promise in that tone — like she meant contracts, not throwaway words — cut through the noise.

Mae stared hard at Ling Ling, measuring.

Then, in a move that made Orm both laugh and cry, Mae burst into full drama again.

“You promise? If you hurt my girl, I will come to Hong Kong, I will find you, and I will—” Mae’s voice cracked and she began to pick at her apron like she was rearranging fate.

“Don’t threaten Hong Kong on my account,” Ling Ling said dryly, which made Orm half laugh and then immediately worry that she’d laugh too loud and break something diplomatic.

Mae sniffed, then reached for Orm and hugged hard.

“You’re still my baby,” she said into Orm’s shoulder. “Even if you are someone’s wife. You hear me? Still mine.”

Orm let herself be hugged, and the absurdity hit her like a warm slap — maybe survival looks like hot tea, an angry mother, and a stranger who had suddenly become recent and earnest enough to promise anything.

 

They moved inside like a band of oddly matched allies.

Mae fussed over Ling Ling even while scolding her with the fierceness of a woman who’d grown chillies too long in her garden.

Gina hovered like a nervous guardian angel who’d read too many comment sections and vowed revenge.

Tea arrived.

Mae made jasmine tea with a rhythm she’d learned in youth.

She placed rice cakes on a plate and arranged them like little flags of peace.

The house smelled like lemon and old recipe books and the kind of safety Orm had always pictured but rarely touched.

“Tell me the truth,” Mae said, watching Ling Ling over the rim of her cup. “Is she lying? Is this something pretty?”

Ling Ling took a breath that tasted like something unpolished and honest.

“No, she is not lying. I have evidence against my ex-fiancée. I could have publicly canceled the wedding and leaked everything, but I wanted to avoid shaming families. The easiest way to end it without a spectacle was to create a new story. It sounds cold — I know. But I wanted to protect the adults in this room.”

Mae squinted.

“Protect the adults? And what about Orm?”

“That is why I am here.” Ling Ling looked straight at Mae. “I will protect her. I will not let her be humiliated. She did not agree to be the front. Her life will be respected. I promise to maintain her privacy, her job, and her space. If she wants to leave after a year, I will not stop her. But until then, I will build a wall so the gossip has nowhere to stick.”

Mae sniffed and looked at Orm like she was test-driving a new bicycle.

“Do you want this, my baby?”

Orm blinked, small freak-outs happening like fireworks in her chest.

“No one asked me,” she said honestly. “But I also don’t want false rumors about my family. Mae, I’m terrified. I don’t know what to tell you. But Ling Ling says she’ll take care of me. I… I need time.”

Mae reached out and cupped Orm’s cheek. “You get all the time you need. I will sit on emails, I will buy you rice cakes, and I will stare down anyone who calls you a story. You are my daughter and I will not let strangers make your life small.”

It was ridiculous how the words made Orm’s eyes water.

She laughed and cried at the same time, a weird hybrid sound that made Gina immediately pity her and Ling Ling glance at her with something softer than the lawyerly composure she’d used all morning.

After the tea, Mae insisted that Ling Ling stay for lunch.

Ling Ling agreed and then did something kind of wild: she asked to help Mae in the kitchen, which Mae pretended to accept and then immediately assigned Ling Ling the worst chopping task because that’s how trust gets tested over food.

They all talked.

Ling Ling answered family questions, and Mae asked the kind of personal, smaller ones that cut deeper than scandal talk

“Do you like to cook?”

“Where did you live as a child?”

“Do you like cats?”

Orm watched the small talk become a bridge.

At one point, a neighbor Mrs. Jintana popped over with a notorious interest in other people’s lives.

She peered in like a bird and then, seeing Ling Ling calmly chopping garlic, whispered conspiratorially

“Is she the one?”

Mae shushed her, and then explained

“She is the one. But we have noodles. Sit.”

Mrs. Jintana stayed for noodles and then left narrating the whole thing to her phone in whispers.

That was the level of local drama they were willing to accept: gossip over food, not blog headlines.

 

By mid-afternoon, the dramatic edges had softened into a kind of exhausted peace.

Mae gave Ling Ling a look that was half warning, half tenderness.

“Do not hurt her, or I will pretend you are my daughter and force you to plant tomatoes.”

Ling Ling bowed like it was a signature move. “I will not hurt Orm.”

Orm sat by the koi pond outside, the small garden with splashing water where Mae kept fish that looked like painted clouds.

The pond was a place where Orm had always come to think, and seeing the fish swim slow and certain made her chest ache in a new way.

Ling Ling joined her without announcement and sat on the bench.

“Thank you,” Orm said quietly.

“For what?” Ling Ling asked.

“For not being a monster,” Orm said. “For telling my mother the truth. For promising her. For… trying.”

Ling Ling watched the fish blink up at them and then said

“I meant it. I will keep my promises.”

Orm studied her face: the tired set of the jaw, the gentle way she watched the fish, like someone who built things to last.

“You know how to manage people,” Orm said, almost a question disguised as a compliment.

Ling Ling smiled faintly. “I manage projects. People are messier.”

“Messy people are the part of the job you didn’t study for,” Orm said, because gratitude made her brazen.

They sat a long time.

The pond plopped sleepy sounds and a dog barked far away.

The sun eased down and the world felt small and safe for a breath.

When Mae hugged Orm again and waved at Ling Ling with a stern face that was basically approval, Orm felt a weird warmth like someone had rubbed a bruise and made it okay.

Before they left, Mae walked Ling Ling to the gate in her sunhat and gave her a small, powerful look.

“You come to meet my friends,” she said. “If you make plans to make my daughter smile, I will cook you soup.”

Ling Ling laughed in the exact way Orm found herself liking — a clean, short laugh like a hinge opening.

“I will do my best.”

 

Back in the car, Orm leaned her head on the window and watched the city blur.

Gina bounced in her seat like she had done action choreography and needed the applause.

“You made it!” Gina squealed. “You didn’t die. You got parental approval. Also, the auntie gave Ling Ling tomato-plant threats. Iconic.”

Orm smiled weakly.

“Iconic is one word for it.”

Ling Ling reached across and touched Orm’s hand for the first time without formality.

It was a little thing, but Orm felt a small, steadying tug like a magnet learning its bearings.

“I will take you to my parents’ estate this evening,” Ling Ling said, her tone practical, like she was booking a meeting room and also a huge life event.

Orm’s eyes widened.

“Tonight? That soon?”

“Yes,” Ling Ling said. “They want to meet you. They are private but they will expect a proper introduction.”

Orm swallowed.

She thought of the estate — the word felt theatrical, like something from a movie. Her stomach flopped. “I don’t have a proper introduction.”

“You have you,” Ling Ling said. “That’s enough.”

Orm laughed, a real laugh this time, the kind that loosens muscles.

In the back seat, Gina breathed out this weird, delighted squeal that sounded like a kettle letting off steam.

“Okay,” Orm said. “Let’s go meet the fancy people who own the country.”

“You call them fancy people now?” Gina teased.

“Just… don’t let them scare me,” Orm said.

“I will shield you with my phone and my screams,” Gina assured.

Ling Ling’s hand tightened once around Orm’s fingers, a small anchor.

The city slid by in late-gold.

Orm looked at Ling Ling, remembered the smooth promise she’d given Mae, and felt, for the first time that day, a certain wobbling hope.

“Are you actually trying to make me pancakes tomorrow?” Orm asked, mostly to test whether promises like that were real.

Ling Ling’s smile was quiet. “Pancakes tomorrow. No coriander.”

Orm let out a laugh that could have been a bark, and then a real one, because the day had given her a ridiculous new normal and she was too tired to be terrified of everything at once.

They drove toward Ling Ling’s parents’ estate as the sun lowered its head — a next chapter folding open.

Orm’s chest was a small, busy thing.

She had a folder in the hotel room that said she could be done if she wanted.

She had a mother who would shout at the moon before she let her go. She had a wife who’d promised to shield her.

And she had pancakes, with no coriander, waiting for sunrise.

When the estate gate came into view, manicured and quiet like a secret garden, Orm felt her knees go a little soft.

She gripped Ling Ling’s hand and squeezed back.

“Okay,” she said. “We do this.”

“Together,” Ling Ling said.

And they drove in.

 

 

 

The car ride felt like being carried toward an exam she hadn’t studied for.

Orm pressed her forehead to the glass and tried to breathe evenly, but the sight of the city fading into quiet roads only made her chest tighter.

 Every turn of the wheels brought her closer to Ling Ling’s world, and the thought of stepping into that house — her in-laws’ house, technically, oh god — made her stomach twist.

Next to her, Ling Ling sat steady, her posture too perfect for someone about to walk into what should’ve been the aftermath of a scandal.

She didn’t fidget.

She didn’t tap her leg.

She didn’t even look nervous.

She scrolled through her phone once, then slid it into her bag like she’d already filed today under “manageable tasks.”

“Do you ever get nervous?” Orm finally blurted, pulling her face from the glass.

“Yes,” Ling Ling said simply.

Orm blinked.

“Really? Because you don’t look like someone who sweats.”

Ling Ling’s lips curved slightly.

“I don’t sweat. But I do get nervous.”

“Fantastic,” Orm muttered. “So, I’ll be sweating like a pig while you’ll be nervous like a—what? Ice cube?”

That almost-smile appeared again.

“Something like that.”

Orm groaned and slumped in her seat.

“I should’ve just locked myself in Mae’s Garden. At least the koi don’t judge.”

“They’ll like you,” Ling Ling said, calm as if she were talking about traffic. “My parents are kinder than you expect.”

“That’s the problem!” Orm sat up, hair frizzing around her face. “If they hated me, I could survive. But if they’re nice—if they actually like me—I’ll cry. And I’m not crying in front of marble floors.”

Ling Ling didn’t answer, but her fingers brushed Orm’s knuckles briefly, a fleeting anchor.

 

The gates opened like the entrance to another universe.

Iron curled into patterns that looked too delicate to be solid, lanterns glowed along the driveway, and at the end stood the estate — modern lines softened by warm light, the kind of house Orm would’ve assumed belonged in a glossy magazine spread.

“Holy crap,” she whispered before she could stop herself. “This isn’t a house. This is a backdrop for a Netflix contract.”

Ling Ling didn’t correct her. And that is more terrifying than anything.

 She only stepped out as the car stopped, and Orm, fighting her panic, followed.

The doors opened before they could knock.

Staff bowed politely, leading them into a wide foyer that smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon polish.

Orm’s eyes darted everywhere, terrified she’d bump into a vase worth more than her entire apartment lease.

And then there they were.

Mr. and Mrs. Kwong came forward.

They had been at the wedding.

They had seen the madness, the dragged bride, the kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Orm had expected ice, suspicion, maybe thin smiles and quiet judgments.

Instead, Mrs. Kwong clasped her hands together, eyes lighting up.

“So, this is Orm,” she said warmly, as if greeting a long-awaited guest.

Orm’s brain jammed.

She bowed too fast, too low, almost smacking her head on the polished table nearby.

“Hello—hi—Sawadee ka—um—thank you—sorry.”

Mr. Kwong chuckled, his eyes kind.

“Relax, child. We’re not interviewing you. You’ve already passed.”

“Passed?” Orm squeaked, glancing at Ling Ling like what test did I take?

Ling Ling’s parents only laughed, guiding them further inside.

Orm followed in a daze, her palms sweating.

 

The sitting room was elegant but cozy — plush chairs, soft lamps, and walls lined with books and family photos.

Orm caught a glimpse of Ling Ling in school uniform, one with messy hair and another with a giant trophy.

She filed that away to tease later if she ever found courage.

They settled with tea that tasted delicate and expensive.

Orm sat stiffly, trying to hold her cup the way Ling Ling did, but her hands shook just enough to betray her nerves.

Mrs. Kwong leaned forward.

“Orm, we wanted to meet you properly. At the wedding, things were… sudden.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Orm muttered before her brain caught up. Her eyes went wide. “I mean—yes! Very sudden! I’m so sorry!”

Instead of frowning, both parents laughed again, like they found her honesty refreshing.

“You’ve had a difficult introduction,” Mr. Kwong said gently. “But today is for comfort, not explanation. We already know enough about what happened. What we want to know is you.”

Orm froze, caught off guard.

“Me??”

“Yes, you.” Mrs. Kwong smiled, her voice soft but steady. “What do you like? What do you do? What kind of person are you when you’re not being dragged into a wedding?”

Ling Ling sipped her tea quietly, eyes flicking toward Orm with something that almost looked like encouragement.

So Orm talked.

Haltingly at first, then more freely.

She told them about her work in graphic design, about fonts and clients and how sometimes she wanted to throw her laptop into the river.

She told them about Mae’s Garden and how her mother spoiled koi more than she spoiled her.

She even admitted that she had a bad habit of eating instant noodles at 2 a.m. when deadlines hit.

She expected polite nods, maybe fake smiles.

Instead, Mrs. Kwong leaned in, fascinated, while Mr. Kwong chuckled warmly at her complaints.

“You have heart,” he said. “That’s rarer than polished manners.”

Orm blinked, her throat tightening.

Compliments like that didn’t usually land in her life.

 

Dinner was served in a dining room that felt less intimidating than she’d feared.

Yes, the table stretched longer than her whole apartment, but the atmosphere was surprisingly relaxed.

Mrs. Kwong fussed over her plate like she’d known her for years.

“Eat, eat,” she said, piling duck and fish and soup in front of her. “You’re too thin. You need energy.”

Orm’s plate became a mountain in under two minutes.

“I—I can’t eat all this.”

“You can,” Mrs. Kwong said firmly. “You’re family now. Family eats.”

Across the table, Ling Ling lowered her head to hide a smile, which only made Orm want to crawl under the table.

Conversation flowed around her.

Mr. Kwong asked more about design, actually interested in hearing her opinions on colors and layouts.

Mrs. Kwong brought out photo albums halfway through dessert, sliding them to Orm with pride.

“This is Ling Ling when she was three,” she said, pointing at a chubby-cheeked child with a bowl haircut.

Orm snorted before she could stop herself.

“Oh my god.”

Ling Ling cleared her throat. “

Mother—”

“And this one,” Mrs. Kwong giggled, “she fell into a fountain at eight.”

Orm laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.

Ling Ling muttered something about slippery stones, which only made everyone laugh harder.

The warmth at the table was surreal. Orm felt like she’d stepped into someone else’s family sitcom.

These weren’t icy elites dissecting her.

These were two parents relieved their daughter had someone genuine sitting at their table, chaos or not.

 

Later, as tea was poured again, Mr. Kwong leaned back, studying her kindly.

“Orm, you did not choose this. We know. But we’re glad to see you’re not afraid to be yourself. That makes us happy.”

Mrs. Kwong reached across and squeezed her hand.

“You’re welcome here anytime. This is your home too.”

Orm’s throat went tight again, her eyes stinging in a way that embarrassed her.

She muttered something about being grateful and quickly hid behind her teacup.

When they finally said their goodbyes, Mrs. Kwong hugged her warmly, whispering,

“Take care of each other.” Orm nodded, cheeks hot, overwhelmed by the sudden belonging.

The car ride back was quiet at first.

Orm leaned her head against the glass, replaying everything.

“They… liked me,” she whispered finally.

“They loved you,” Ling Ling corrected softly.

Orm groaned.

“That’s worse. Now I have to live up to that forever.”

Ling Ling chuckled quietly.

“You already did.”

Silence stretched again, but it was a comfortable one this time.

Orm exhaled, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

“Pancakes tomorrow,” Ling Ling said after a moment.

Orm turned her head, raising a brow.

“No coriander.”

Ling Ling’s lips curved.

“Of course.”

For the first time since the bathroom door swung open on her worst day, Orm laughed freely — the kind of laugh that felt like maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t be impossible.

Chapter 4: Penthouse and Pancake

 

Orm had never seen so many black suits in her entire life.

And they weren’t even at a funeral. They were at her apartment.

She stood in the middle of her tiny living room — the one she’d been proud to sign a lease for two years ago — with her arms crossed like a soldier guarding a cardboard fort.

Around her, Ling Ling’s men moved quietly, efficiently, like they’d been trained to lift not just boxes but kingdoms.

“Careful with that!” Orm squeaked as one of them picked up a battered box labeled Books/Sketchpads/DO NOT TOUCH OR I DIE. “That’s fragile!”

The man looked at her with polite confusion, as if the word “fragile” had never been applied to a stack of dog-eared sketchbooks and a binder full of doodles.

“And this one too!” she added, darting to protect a box full of ramen packets, instant coffee sachets, and one emergency jar of chili paste. She slapped both hands on the box. “This is… highly valuable.”

The movers blinked at her.

One even adjusted his gloves like he was about to carry a crown jewel.

“Orm.”

Her name, spoken in that steady tone, made her spine snap straight.

She turned.

Ling Ling was standing by the door, immaculate in her suit, watching the chaos like she was conducting it with her eyes alone.

“Your things will be safe,” Ling Ling said.

Calm. Absolute.

The kind of voice that made boardrooms listen.

Orm wanted to argue, but her heart was already beating too fast from the way the neighbors were peeking through their doors.

 Mrs. Nong from 2B was whispering into her phone like the drama line was hot.

Mr. Jo from 3C kept “walking past” with his dog even though the poor poodle looked exhausted.

She buried her face in her hands.

“I’m never going to live this down. They’re going to think I joined the mafia.”

Ling Ling’s lips twitched. Almost a smile.

“Let them.”

Packing should’ve been simple.

Orm didn’t own much — a bed, a tiny sofa, shelves of books and knickknacks, her computer desk, too many mugs for one person.

But in the hands of Ling Ling’s staff, every single object was wrapped, labeled, boxed, carried like treasure.

Even her half-dead cactus got a custom crate.

“Seriously?” Orm muttered as one of the men tucked the cactus in foam. “It’s a plant. It’s already given up on life.”

Ling Ling raised a brow.

“If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

Orm blinked.

Her mouth opened, then shut.

She turned away quickly, pretending to fuss over her kettle so no one saw the way her ears went red

 

 

By noon, her apartment looked bare.

Empty walls, echoing floors, like the soul had been scooped out.

Orm stood in the middle of it, arms limp at her sides, and felt something pinch in her chest.

It wasn’t just a space.

It was her space.

The place she’d cried over deadlines, eaten noodles at 2 a.m., fallen asleep with her face on her keyboard. The place where life had been hers alone.

Now it was boxes in someone else’s van.

“You’re pale,” Ling Ling observed, stepping closer.

“I’m fine,” Orm said quickly, even though her throat was tight. “It’s just… weird. You live somewhere long enough, you don’t think about leaving. Then suddenly you’re… leaving.”

Ling Ling’s gaze softened just enough to be noticed.

“You’re not losing it. You’re bringing it with you.”

“That’s not how it feels,” Orm whispered.

Ling Ling hesitated, then touched her arm lightly, a brief contact. “I know. But give it time.”

Orm blinked at her, startled at the honesty, and for a second the world felt quieter.

Then a mover sneezed, and the moment shattered.

“Right!” Orm said too loudly. “Let’s… let’s go.”

 

The drive to the penthouse was a blur of boxes and black cars.

Orm sat stiffly in the backseat, her knees bouncing, while Ling Ling scrolled her phone with one hand and sipped water with the other, unbothered by the caravan trailing behind them.

“You know this looks insane, right?” Orm muttered, peeking out the window at the line of vans.

“It looks efficient,” Ling Ling corrected.

“It looks like you’re moving a princess into her castle,” Orm shot back.

Ling Ling glanced at her, calm as always.

“Aren’t I?”

Orm nearly choked on her own spit.

“You—what—excuse me?!”

But Ling Ling only turned back to her phone, the faintest curve at the corner of her lips.

The penthouse was everything Orm had dreaded and secretly wanted to see.

The elevator opened directly into a wide living space with ceilings high enough to echo, glass walls spilling sunlight across marble floors, furniture so sleek she was afraid to sit on it.

There were art pieces she couldn’t name, a staircase that spiraled like a movie set, and windows framing the city like it was a painting made just for them.

Orm clutched her backpack like a shield.

 “Holy… this place is—” She stopped herself before she said “ridiculous.” “—big.”

Ling Ling set her bag down.

“It’s practical.”

Orm spun to face her, wide-eyed.

“Practical? You could fit my whole apartment in your shoe closet.”

Ling Ling tilted her head.

“Would you like to see it?”

“No!” Orm squeaked, hugging her bag tighter. “No shoe closets. No closets at all. Just—where’s my room?”

Ling Ling gestured toward the right side of the penthouse.

“You can have any of the guest rooms. Or the study upstairs if you prefer quiet.”

Orm gaped.

“You’re giving me choices?”

“You’re my wife,” Ling Ling said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Not my tenant.”

That word wife still made Orm’s brain glitch every time.

She marched off before she could blush, muttering about “guest rooms” like she was picking fruit at a market.

The chosen room ended up being bigger than her entire apartment.

The bed looked like it could eat her.

The bathroom had two sinks, as if it expected a couple to brush their teeth in synchronized harmony.

Orm shut the door behind her and leaned against it, whispering

“What the hell is my life.”

Unpacking was another comedy show.

The movers carried her boxes in with solemn precision, setting them down neatly while Orm tried not to die of embarrassment.

Sketchpads, mugs, plushies, the ramen stash — all placed gently in a space that looked like it had never known clutter.

One man held up a box labeled

ORM’S PERSONAL — DO NOT OPEN and raised a brow.

Orm lunged.

“I’ll take that!” She hugged the box to her chest, glaring at him like he’d tried to open her diary.

He bowed and left, and she nearly melted into the floor.

 

 

By evening, the chaos settled.

The movers were gone.

The boxes were stacked neatly, waiting for her to unpack.

The penthouse was quiet again, except for the hum of the city through glass.

Orm sat cross-legged on the edge of her new bed, staring at the skyline.

“This doesn’t feel real,” she whispered.

A knock on the door made her jump.

“It’s me,” Ling Ling’s voice said, calm as always.

Orm scrambled to hide her ramen box under the blanket.

“Uh—come in?”

Ling Ling stepped inside, hands in her pockets, eyes scanning the boxes.

“You’re settled?”

“Settled is… a strong word,” Orm muttered. “More like relocated.”

Ling Ling’s lips twitched. “

Relocated, then.” She nodded toward the bed.

“This room is yours. No one will enter without your permission. Not even me.”

Orm blinked. “You’re actually setting boundaries?”

“I said I’d respect you,” Ling Ling replied simply.

Orm fiddled with the blanket. “Right. Well… thanks.”

Silence stretched between them, awkward but not heavy. Then Orm blurted,

“So… house rules?”

Ling Ling raised a brow. “House rules?”

“Yeah,” Orm said quickly, trying to mask her nerves. “Like—you can’t just walk in. No coriander in the kitchen. No touching my sketchbooks. And if I say I need space, I get space.”

Ling Ling nodded solemnly, as if she were signing another contract.

“Agreed.”

Orm hesitated.

“And… if I get lost in here, you come find me. Because this place is a maze.”

For the first time all day, Ling Ling laughed softly.

Not a boardroom chuckle.

A real laugh, warm and brief.

“Deal.”

 

That night, Orm unpacked a little, lined her mugs on a shelf, set her sketchpads on the desk.

The room started to feel less like a hotel and more like… hers.

Still strange, still too big, but hers in a way.

When she finally lay down, staring at the ceiling, she whispered to herself, “It’s only been two days. Just two days.”

Her heart thudded, half panic, half something else.

In the quiet, she thought she heard Ling Ling moving down the hall, her steps steady, unhurried. For some reason, that sound made it easier to close her eyes.

 

 

 

Orm woke up drowning in a mattress.

Her first thought was that she’d fallen into the clouds.

Her second thought was that she’d suffocated and gone to heaven.

Her third thought—after kicking the blanket and realizing the bed had swallowed her whole—was that this was definitely not her old apartment.

The room was too quiet.

Too bright.

Too big. She sat up, hair in chaos, eyes darting across a space that looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine.

Her old bed had creaked every time she rolled over; this one felt like it had eaten her body and politely returned it in one piece.

Orm flopped back down, groaning.

“What the hell is my life…”

She stared at the ceiling for a full two minutes, then at the giant window with its view of Bangkok waking up.

Cars moved like tiny dots below.

The world went on as if she hadn’t just been dragged into a shotgun wedding and moved into a skyscraper penthouse owned by one of the richest women in the country.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text from Gina.

[GINA]: Are you alive??
[GINA]: Do I still have a best friend or are you fully a mafia wife now???
[GINA]: Answer me or I’m filing a missing person report.

Orm snorted, thumbs flying.

[ORM]: Alive. Still adjusting. Haven’t been kidnapped (yet).
[ORM]: Will call later.

She tossed the phone aside, sighed, and swung her legs off the bed.

Finding the bathroom took five minutes.

Finding the kitchen took fifteen.

Every door she opened was a new surprise: a storage closet bigger than her entire apartment, a room lined with wine bottles she couldn’t pronounce, a private gym with machines she didn’t know how to use, and a study with shelves of books that looked older than her.

Finally, after circling like a lost cat, she smelled something.

Not coffee. Not toast.

Something warm, slightly sweet.

Pancakes.

Her feet carried her toward the scent before her brain caught up.

She peeked around the corner and froze.

Ling Ling was in the kitchen.

Not in her armor-like suit.

Not the sharp, commanding CEO aura.

She wore a simple white shirt tucked into dark slacks, sleeves rolled up. Her hair was tied back loosely, a strand falling near her cheek as she flipped something on the pan with calm precision.

Orm blinked.

“You… cook?”

Ling Ling glanced over, unbothered.

“I said pancakes.”

Orm shuffled in, still in her oversized sleep shirt and shorts.

“Yeah, but I thought you meant… like… order pancakes. Not actually make them.”

Ling Ling placed a pancake on the plate.

 Perfectly round.

Uniform, like it had been designed with a ruler.

“They’re better fresh.”

Orm gawked at the plate. “Of course, even your pancakes look like blueprints.”

Ling Ling ignored the jab and slid the plate across the counter. “No coriander.”

That made Orm snort.

 She pulled out a chair and sat, still staring at the golden stack.

“I can’t believe you remembered that.”

“I said I would,” Ling Ling replied simply.

Orm took a bite.

And nearly moaned.

Crisp edges. Soft inside.

Not too sweet, not bland.

She chewed slowly, eyes narrowing at Ling Ling.

“Okay, these are… unfairly good.”

Ling Ling arched a brow.

“Unfair?”

“Yeah,” Orm said around another bite. “You’re rich, you’re scary, you own half the city, and you cook pancakes. Save some flaws for the rest of us.”

Ling Ling sipped her tea, expression unreadable, though her lips curved just slightly.

“Is that jealousy?”

“Jealousy?” Orm scoffed. “No. More like existential crisis.” She stuffed another bite into her mouth.

 

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

Orm ate, and Ling Ling sat across from her, sipping tea like a Sunday morning wasn’t a tornado of contradictions.

Finally, Orm set her fork down.

“So… house rules.”

Ling Ling tilted her head.

“We already discussed boundaries yesterday.”

“Yeah, but this is domestic stuff,” Orm insisted, pointing with her fork. “Like—what happens if I run out of shampoo? Or if I need… you know… socks?”

“They will be replaced,” Ling Ling said without missing a beat.

Orm blinked.

“By who? The sock fairy?”

“By me,” Ling Ling corrected. “Or by my staff. Whichever is faster.”

Orm gawked.

“You can’t just throw socks at me whenever I need them!”

“Why not?” Ling Ling asked calmly.

Orm buried her face in her hands.

“This is insane.”

Ling Ling’s voice softened.

“I told you. Everything you need will be handled. Your only task is to live.”

Orm peeked through her fingers, squinting at her.

“You make it sound like I’m a houseplant.”

Ling Ling didn’t deny it. She only refilled Orm’s juice.

 

 

After breakfast, Orm wandered the penthouse with a new kind of panic.

Every corner screamed wealth.

The kind of wealth she’d only ever seen on TV or through tinted car windows.

She touched the banister of the staircase like it might shock her.

She peeked at the rooftop balcony and nearly fainted at the view.

Ling Ling followed at a distance, hands in her pockets, letting Orm absorb the space.

“This isn’t a house,” Orm muttered. “It’s a shopping mall that forgot to add stores.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Ling Ling said.

“I don’t want to get used to it,” Orm shot back. “I’ll lose all sense of reality. Next thing you know I’ll be ordering goldfish in Evian water.”

Ling Ling’s lips twitched again.

“You can if you want.”

Orm turned, horrified.

“That was a joke!”

Back in her room, Orm unpacked a little more.

She lined her mugs on a shelf, put her sketchpads on the desk, and set her cactus on the windowsill.

The contrast was ridiculous — her messy life against the pristine luxury. But strangely, it made the space feel less like a stranger’s house and more like… hers.

She caught Ling Ling leaning against the doorway, watching silently.

“What?” Orm asked defensively, holding up her cactus. “Don’t judge my plant. It’s a survivor.”

Ling Ling’s gaze softened.

“I wasn’t judging.”

Orm blinked, thrown off, then quickly busied herself with stacking sketchpads.

Her heart thudded faster than she wanted to admit.

 

That night, Orm lay in bed again, staring at the ceiling.

She had eaten pancakes made by a billionaire.

She had unpacked into a room the size of her entire floor at the old apartment. She had been told — calmly, without hesitation — that every little need of hers would be handled.

It felt surreal.

It felt terrifying.

It felt… almost safe.

She buried her face in the pillow, groaning.

“It’s been three days. Just three days.”

But her lips betrayed her with the tiniest curve.

Because despite everything — the chaos, the shock, the way her life had spun upside down — the pancakes had been good.

Really, really good.

And maybe, just maybe, so was the person who made them.

Chapter 5: Domestic Strangers

Orm woke up to sunlight crawling across the floor like it had snuck in without permission.

She blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling — too high, too white, too hotel-like — and for a second, she forgot where she was.

Then her gaze drifted to the edge of the bed and remembered.

Penthouse.

Married.

Ling Ling Kwong.

Oh right.

That insanity hadn’t been a dream.

She groaned and buried her face in the pillow.

The mattress swallowed her whole, too soft, too expensive, and way too big for one woman who usually starfishes in a studio apartment.

Her body felt out of place, like she was squatting in a stranger’s life.

A very rich, very organized stranger who happened to be her… wife.

The word still hit like a bucket of cold water every time it popped into her brain.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She fumbled for it, half-asleep, and saw Gina’s name lighting up the screen.

[Don’t forget you have to work, married lady.]

Orm rolled her eyes and tossed the phone back down.

Gina had been calling her that every five minutes since the wedding disaster.

If Orm fainted every time someone said “married lady,” she’d already be in a hospital bed hooked to an IV drip.

Dragging herself out of bed, she shuffled across the room.

 

The penthouse was too clean, too quiet.

She padded to the kitchen and, like yesterday, found Ling Ling already there. Hair neat, suit pressed, an image of calm control.

She was leaning against the counter with a tablet in hand, skimming through emails like the CEO she was.

The only sign she was human: a steaming mug of coffee that smelled strong enough to wake a dead man.

“You’re up late,” Ling Ling said without looking up.

“It’s… eight-thirty.” Orm rubbed her eyes. “That’s normal-people time.”

Ling Ling glanced at her, and there was a faint smile.

“Normal people aren’t married to me.”

Orm choked on her own spit.

“Excuse me?!”

Ling Ling set down her tablet, unbothered.

“You’ll be late for work. Eat something.” She slid a plate across the counter: toast, eggs, a side of fruit arranged like a Pinterest board.

Orm stared at it like it was alien food.

“You didn’t cook this, did you?”

“I supervised.”

“That means the housekeeper cooked.”

Ling Ling didn’t even blink.

“Eat.”

Orm muttered under her breath but sat anyway.

She shoved toast in her mouth, trying not to notice the way Ling Ling watched her — not judging exactly, but observing, as if memorizing her.

It was unnerving.

“I’ll be home late tonight,” Ling Ling said suddenly.

“Okay.”

“I’ll send the driver to pick you up from your office.”

“Not okay. I can grab the BTS like a normal human.”

“You’re not normal anymore.”

“Stop saying stuff like that!” Orm smacked her fork against the plate. “I’m normal. You’re the alien.”

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched like she was holding back a laugh, but she only said

“Suit yourself.”

 

The office was the one place Orm thought she could escape the madness, but apparently not.

By ten a.m., her coworkers had already heard something.

 Whispers floated around her cubicle, shotgun wedding, mysterious bride, high society scandal.

Orm kept her head down, pretending to be too busy with Photoshop layers to notice.

Her closest teammate, Noon, leaned over the partition and smirked.

“So, Mrs. Kwong.”

Orm nearly swallowed her stylus.

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why not? Rumor says you married a billionaire. Did you meet on Tinder or at a temple?”

“I… met her in a bathroom,” Orm mumbled.

Noon laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair.

“God, you’re the funniest person alive.”

“I’m not joking.”

That only made Noon laugh harder.

Orm sank lower in her seat, wishing she could dissolve into the office floor.

 

Meanwhile across town, Ling Ling’s office was a different universe entirely.

Sleek glass walls, leather chairs, assistants buzzing in and out with files.

Ling Ling sat behind her desk, posture immaculate, eyes on a blueprint sprawled across the surface.

From the outside, she looked untouchable — the CEO who didn’t flinch even after public humiliation.

That illusion shattered the moment Prem walked in without knocking.

“Don’t you have a schedule?” Ling Ling asked, not even glancing up.

“Don’t you have emotions?” Prem countered, dropping herself into the visitor’s chair.

She looked completely at home, crossing her legs and eyeing her best friend with all the subtlety of a detective about to interrogate a suspect.

Ling Ling sighed. “I’m busy.”

“You almost married Mintracha and then married a stranger instead. You’re not busy, you’re bleeding.”

Ling Ling’s jaw tightened.

For fifteen years, Prem had been the only one allowed to talk to her like this.

Anyone else would’ve been fired, sued, or exiled.

But Prem?

Prem had been there through high school heartbreaks, university stress, and late-night ramen runs.

“I’m fine,” Ling Ling said.

“Liar.” Prem leaned forward. “You loved her, Ling. I saw it. You trusted her. And she stomped on it. You don’t get to just erase that.”

Ling Ling’s hands stilled on the blueprint.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

The silence was heavy, sharp enough to cut.

Finally, she whispered 

“I didn’t see it coming. That’s what hurts. I thought I was smart enough to know better.”

Prem’s expression softened.

“You’re smart. You’re just… human. And humans get hurt.”

Ling Ling leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.

Her face was calm, but her eyes betrayed her. Red-rimmed, tired.

“What about the new girl?” Prem asked. “The one you married?”

Orm’s face flickered in Ling Ling’s mind.

The way she had panicked, the way she had protested, the way she still sat at the breakfast table this morning and muttered about being normal.

Ling Ling’s lips curved, the tiniest ghost of a smile.

“She’s… unexpected.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all I have right now.”

Prem let it go — for now.

But her gaze lingered, making it clear she wasn’t done watching.

 

Orm got home late, drained from a day of fielding office gossip and dodging Gina’s endless texts. She opened the penthouse door and found the lights still on in the study.

Ling Ling was there, surrounded by papers, pen in hand, glasses perched on her nose.

She looked perfect, untouchable again.

Orm hovered in the doorway, bag dangling off her shoulder.

She wanted to say something — a joke, a complaint, anything, but the words died on her tongue.

Ling Ling’s expression was distant, shadowed.

Not the composed CEO, not the pancake chef. Just a woman carrying too much weight.

“Long day?” Orm asked softly.

Ling Ling looked up, startled, as if she hadn’t noticed the time.

For a second, something raw flickered across her face.

Then it was gone, hidden behind that cool mask.

“Go rest. I’ll finish soon.”

Orm hesitated, then nodded.

She slipped away, but the image stuck in her mind, the shadows in Ling Ling’s eyes, the kind that pancakes couldn’t erase.

And that night, lying in the giant bed alone, Orm whispered to herself

“What did I get myself into?” She didn’t know if she meant the marriage, the penthouse, or the beautiful stranger whose heart was still broken.

Maybe all of it.

 

 

 

Orm discovered two things about living in Ling Ling’s penthouse on the third morning.

One, the shower had too many buttons.

There were settings for rain, mist, massage, waterfall — it was like standing under a UFO.

She pressed the wrong switch and nearly drowned herself in a full-pressure blast that could’ve powered a car wash.

Two, the silence was unnerving.

Back in her apartment, she’d always woken up to neighbors fighting, dogs barking, or the old aunty next door practicing karaoke at seven in the morning.

Here, it was just… quiet.

The kind of quiet that made her brain invent noises just to cope.

She padded out to the kitchen in her pajamas, hair still damp, only to find the table already set.

Ling Ling was there, of course, in a sleek blouse tucked into tailored pants, sipping coffee like she’d been born holding a porcelain cup.

“Morning,” Orm mumbled, tugging at her oversized T-shirt.

“Good morning.” Ling Ling’s eyes flicked up from her tablet, lingering just long enough to make Orm self-conscious.

“You don’t have to—” Orm gestured vaguely at the food. Toast, scrambled eggs, fruit again. “—do this every day. I can handle breakfast.”

Ling Ling raised an eyebrow.

“Yesterday you set off the fire alarm trying to make instant noodles.”

Orm’s cheeks heated.

“That was an accident. The stove is… too high-tech. Who puts a timer on a stove?”

“A person who doesn’t want their house to burn down.”

Orm stabbed a piece of toast, muttering under her breath.

“Your house, not mine.”

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched, like she was fighting a smile.

But she didn’t push, just went back to scrolling through her emails.

 

By mid-morning, Orm was back in her normal world: the office.

She sank into her swivel chair, relishing the ordinary clutter of her desk — coffee stains, sticky notes, a dying succulent she kept forgetting to water.

Here, she wasn’t anyone’s bride.

She was just Orm, the graphic designer who could dodge deadlines like a pro.

Except her coworkers didn’t let her forget.

“Mrs. Kwong, the printer jammed again,” Noon teased as she passed by.

Orm covered her face with both hands.

“I will resign. Don’t test me.”

Her phone buzzed.

Another message from Gina:

[Send me a picture of your breakfast. Does she feed you pancakes every day now?]

Orm typed back furiously:

[Mind your own life.]

But she couldn’t ignore the tiny smile tugging at her lips.

For all the madness, at least she still had her friends dragging her back into normalcy.

 

Across the city, Ling Ling was in her glass-walled office, surrounded by models of skyscrapers and stacks of blueprints.

Her assistants floated in and out, whispering updates, but she barely looked up.

Her focus was surgical.

Until Prem barged in without knocking.

“You’re avoiding me,” Prem said, dropping herself into a chair like she owned the place.

Ling Ling didn’t look up.

“I’m working.”

“You’re hiding,” Prem corrected. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You think burying yourself in blueprints is going to erase what happened?”

Ling Ling’s hand stilled on her pen.

Prem’s voice softened.

“Ling… you loved her. You can say it. You trusted Mintracha, and she broke it. Pretending you’re fine doesn’t make it less true.”

Ling Ling inhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the papers in front of her.

Her voice, when it came, was low.

“I thought I was careful. That I would never let anyone get close enough to hurt me.”

“And yet you did,” Prem said gently.

“And yet I did.” Ling Ling’s lips curved into a bitter line. “Do you know what that feels like? To think you’ve outsmarted heartbreak only to be humiliated in front of everyone?”

Prem reached across the desk and took her hand.

“It feels like being human. And you’re allowed to be human, Ling. Even you.”

Ling Ling closed her eyes briefly, letting the weight of those words sink in.

When she opened them, she said quietly

“I don’t want to talk about her anymore.”

“Fine,” Prem said, squeezing her hand before letting go. “But I’ll be here. And don’t think I’m not watching this… new wife of yours.”

Ling Ling’s eyes flickered — a flash of Orm’s face at the breakfast table, messy-haired and muttering about toasters.

Something unexplainable warmed her chest, though she buried it quickly.

 

Orm returned home that evening juggling a grocery bag, determined to prove she could contribute.

She found Ling Ling in the living room, laptop on her lap, glasses perched on her nose.

She looked up, surprised.

“You went shopping?”

“Yes.” Orm held up the bag proudly. “I’m making dinner.”

Ling Ling’s brow furrowed. “Do you want me to call the fire department now or later?”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

Ten minutes later, smoke filled the kitchen.

The alarm shrieked like a missile launch.

Orm flailed with a frying pan, coughing, while Ling Ling appeared in the doorway, calm as ever.

“What did you do?”

“I was frying eggs!” Orm shouted over the alarm.

Ling Ling walked over, pressed two buttons, and the entire ventilation system whirred to life, sucking the smoke away.

Silence returned.

Orm’s hair was a mess, her shirt dotted with oil splatters.

Ling Ling, untouched by chaos, simply said

“You’re banned from cooking.”

Orm gawked at her.

“You can’t ban me in my own house!”

Ling Ling’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly.

“It’s not your house. It’s ours.”

The words hung there, heavier than either expected.

Orm’s stomach flipped.

She mumbled something about takeout and fled the kitchen.

 

Later that night, they sat at opposite ends of the couch, cartons of pad thai between them.

The TV played some soap opera neither was paying attention to.

“House rules,” Orm said suddenly, pointing her chopsticks like a gavel. “Rule one: I get the left side of the fridge. Rule two: don’t touch my snacks. Rule three: TV rights are fifty-fifty.”

Ling Ling looked at her with bemusement.

“We have three refrigerators. Why are you fighting for space?”

“Principle.”

Ling Ling chuckled softly, the sound so rare it startled Orm.

She quickly looked back at her noodles, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Around midnight, Orm padded to the kitchen for water.

She froze when she heard a voice — low, warm, familiar.

Ling Ling, on the balcony, phone pressed to her ear.

“No, I’m fine,” Ling Ling was saying. “Work keeps me busy. That’s enough.”

Silence.

Then a quiet laugh, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Prem. I can handle it.”

Orm lingered in the shadows, unseen.

For the first time, she realized Ling Ling wasn’t as untouchable as she looked.

She was holding herself together with sheer willpower.

Orm tiptoed back to her room, heart heavier than before.

She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering who between them was lying more when they said I’m fine.

 

The next morning, Mae Koy called Orm.

“How are you, baby? Are you eating well? Is she treating you right?”

Orm plastered on a cheerful voice.

“Yes, Mae. Everything’s fine. Totally fine.”

Her mother chuckled, satisfied.

“Good. I’ve always wanted to see you married. I can rest easy now.”

When the call ended, Orm’s throat ached.

She didn’t realize Ling Ling was standing at the doorway until she turned.

Ling Ling’s expression was unreadable, but her eyes were softer than Orm had ever seen.

Neither spoke.

But in that silence, something shifted, an unspoken understanding that both of them were pretending to be fine for everyone else, while under the same roof, they were still strangers trying to figure out what this accidental marriage really meant.

Chapter 6: The Best Friend Guard

Notes:

Hi All! 💕
Since AO3 will be down for maintenance soon, I wanted to leave you a little treat a double update so you won’t miss the story while the site is resting.
This chapter is a bit longer than usual, and it comes with a big thank-you from me to you.
I’m honestly so touched by all the love and support.
You really are my chaos fuel, and I can’t say enough how much it means.
Take care and enjoy the updates. I’ll see you all again once AO3 is back up and running! ✨

Orm had just gotten used to the sound of her toothbrush echoing in the penthouse bathroom.

The place was so big that even brushing her teeth sounded like she was recording a podcast.

By now, she could at least turn on the shower without flooding the room, and she’d figured out which light switch turned on the hallway lamp instead of the sauna-like heating vent.

Baby steps.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen, hair messy, wearing her favorite T-shirt with a faded cartoon rabbit on it.

For once, the kitchen wasn’t occupied by Ling Ling.

That made Orm pause.

Usually by now the woman was sitting at the counter with coffee and her unreadable calm face.

“Hello?” Orm called softly, as though expecting the penthouse to answer.

The only response was silence.

She shrugged and opened the fridge.

Inside, everything was lined up like a grocery store display — rows of sparkling water, tiny jars of imported jam, vegetables so fresh they looked fake.

And there, on the middle shelf, was the sticker she’d slapped on two days ago:

Orm’s Section. Do Not Touch.

It marked a proud row of instant noodles and bottled iced tea.

She grabbed one and grinned.

Progress.

Her phone buzzed.

Gina, of course.

[So? How’s life with your wife?]

Orm rolled her eyes and typed back:

[Stop calling her that. It’s weird.]

[But she IS your wife.]

[Technicality.]

[What’s she like in the morning? Does she snore?]

Orm stared at the screen, groaning.

[She’s perfect, okay? Perfect hair, perfect coffee, perfect silence. Like living with a Vogue magazine cover.] *

[Wow. Crush alert.]

Orm nearly dropped her phone.

[NO. Delete that message.]

[Relax. But heads up: if you ever meet her best friend, be careful. I heard she’s scary.]

Orm frowned.

[Best friend?]

She didn’t have time to reply because the front door clicked.

Ling Ling entered, heels clicking softly against the marble, blazer perfectly tailored, a paper bag in her hand.

“You’re up,” Ling Ling observed.

Orm held up her iced tea like evidence.

“I survived the fridge. I’m practically thriving.”

Ling Ling set the bag on the counter.

“Thriving doesn’t mean living off sugar water.” She pulled out croissants, still warm.

Orm’s eyes widened.

“You… bought these?”

“I know where to get the best ones.”

“I didn’t even know CEOs could walk into bakeries without the world stopping.”

Ling Ling gave her a look. “Eat.”

 

That afternoon, Ling Ling’s world looked nothing like croissants and iced tea.

She was back in her office, reviewing contracts, her jaw set.

Assistants shuffled nervously, aware of the storm cloud silence around her.

And then the door opened without knocking.

Only one person would dare.

“Don’t you own a doorbell?” Ling Ling muttered without looking up.

Prem slid into the chair across from her, long legs crossed, eyes sharp.

“Don’t you own some common sense? You got married, Ling.”

Ling Ling finally raised her gaze.

“Good afternoon to you too.”

“Don’t ‘good afternoon’ me. You think you can just tell me you’re married and I’m supposed to clap? I need to see her.”

Ling Ling stiffened. “No.”

Prem blinked. “No?”

“She’s not ready for you.”

Prem leaned forward, incredulous.

“She’s your wife. What do you mean, not ready?”

“She’s… different.” Ling Ling’s tone softened. “She’s kind. She’s messy. She talks too much. You’ll eat her alive.”

Prem smirked.

“So, you do like her.”

“I didn’t say that,” Ling Ling said quickly.

Too quickly.

“Ling. I’ve known you for fifteen years. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be shielding her from me like a guard dog. I’m not going away. I need to see who this woman is.”

Ling Ling’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ll scare her.”

“Then warn me.”

 

That evening, Orm was sprawled on the couch, doodling in her sketchbook, when Ling Ling walked in.

“I need to talk to you,” Ling Ling said.

Orm sat up immediately, heart racing.

“Oh god. Are we getting divorced already?”

Ling Ling blinked. “No.”

“Are we being sued? Did the bakery find out you cut the line?”

“No. Orm—” Ling Ling pinched the bridge of her nose. “Prem wants to meet you.”

“Prem?”

“My best friend.”

Orm’s stomach flipped. “The scary one?”

“She’s not scary. She’s… precise.”

“That sounds scarier than scary!”

Ling Ling almost smiled, but her voice stayed calm.

“She’s protective. But she means well. Just… be yourself. Don’t let her intimidate you.”

Orm clutched her sketchbook to her chest.

“Define intimidate. Like mafia scary or dentist scary?”

Ling Ling just stared at her until Orm groaned.

“I’m doomed.”

 

The next day, Ling Ling met Prem at a café before bringing Orm in.

Prem stirred her coffee, eyes cool.

“So. When do I meet her?”

Ling Ling folded her arms.

“Before you do, I need to make something clear.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“I mean it. Don’t be cruel. She’s not like us. She’s not polished. She’s… gentle. She deserves better than your interrogation.”

Prem raised an eyebrow.

“You’re really protective of this one.”

Ling Ling’s voice was quiet.

“She doesn’t deserve to be hurt. Not by anyone. Not again. She’s my wife.”

For the first time, Prem softened.

Just a little.

“Fine. I’ll be nice. Not nice nice. But nicer.”

“That’s all I ask.”

 

 

Back at the penthouse, Orm paced the living room like a tiger in a cage.

She’d changed her outfit three times, finally settling on a blouse that looked “normal professional” instead of “please hire me” or “I’m going to a funeral.”

Gina called mid-panic.

“Relax. Just smile and say smart things.”

“What smart things?”

“Like… architecture words. She’s an architect, right?”

“She’s an architect company owner, not a dictionary.”

“Then compliment her shoes.”

Orm groaned.

“This is a disaster.”

The doorbell rang.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Ling Ling walked calmly to the door, her presence steady.

Orm hovered behind her, pulse racing.

Ling Ling turned once, meeting Orm’s wide eyes.

“Remember. Just be yourself.”

“That’s the problem!” Orm whispered.

The door opened.

Prem stood there, cool and composed, eyes already assessing the room before landing squarely on Orm.

 For a moment, silence stretched.

Orm gulped.

Prem’s gaze flicked from her hair to her shoes like she was solving a puzzle.

Ling Ling’s hand hovered near Orm’s back — subtle, grounding.

“Prem,” Ling Ling said evenly, “this is Orm.”

Orm swallowed hard, lifted her hand in a small wave, and blurted

“Hi! Do you like… croissants?”

The silence that followed could’ve swallowed her whole.

 

 

 

The croissant question hung in the air like a balloon no one knew how to pop.

Prem blinked once.

Twice.

A patient cat sizing up a new, noisy bird.

Her gaze slid from Orm’s nervous smile to the immaculate foyer, across the marble floor, then back to Orm’s face.

She didn’t look cruel.

 She looked… exact.

“I don’t dislike croissants,” Prem said finally, voice even. “I prefer them warm. Not stale.”

“Oh! Yeah! Of course.” Orm’s laugh came out two pitches too high. “Who likes stale croissants? Ha ha. I mean—some people do? Maybe? Not me! I love warm. Hot. Like, burn your fingers hot. Not that I… burn my fingers. But like—anyway. Welcome!”

Ling Ling’s eyelids flickered like she was internally buffering.

“Prem,” she said calmly, “come in.”

Prem stepped across the threshold with the quiet confidence of someone who had never tripped in her life.

Orm immediately tripped on nothing and pinwheeled three steps before catching herself on the arm of the sofa.

“I’m okay,” she said to no one, then added to everyone, “Shoes off? Or shoes on? I can do either. I’m versatile.”

“Shoes off,” Ling Ling and Prem said at the same time.

Orm toed off her flats so fast one flew under the low console, thinking gently against an expensive vase.

She dove in a half-crawl to retrieve it, emerging like a feral raccoon clutching treasure.

“Nailed it,” she announced, hair in her face.

Prem’s mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite not.

Ling Ling’s hand hovered briefly at Orm’s back, not quite touching, but there—steady, a quiet anchor.

“Tea?” she asked, like a lifeguard offering a float.

“Yes,” Prem said.

“Yes,” Orm said.

They sat in the living room, which today felt less like a home and more like a stage set for an interview.

Ling Ling took the single armchair—queen’s seat, referee’s box.

Prem took one end of the sofa, posture perfect.

Orm took the other end and immediately wished the cushions were quicksand.

A housekeeper brought a tray: a pot of jasmine tea, delicate cups, small almond cookies.

Orm stared at the cookies like they were grenades.

Ling Ling poured, gestures steady, and passed cups out—Prem first, then Orm, then herself.

Prem lifted the cup, inhaled steam, set it down without drinking.

She looked at Orm, not hostile, not warm—just… measuring.

“So,” Prem said, “you are Orm.”

Orm nodded too enthusiastically.

“Last time I checked.”

“And you married Ling Ling in a church you were not invited to,” Prem continued, tone neutral.

Orm’s mouth did a complicated opening and closing.

“I wouldn’t… phrase it like that, but yes? I mean—technically no one invited me. Gina dragged me. Well, begged me. No—dragged me. There was begging. And then… bathroom and bam.” She gestured weakly. “Altar. Surprise.”

“I’m aware,” Prem said. “I’m asking if you understand what that means.”

“It means I have a wife,” Orm said, then immediately wished for a time machine. “Which is a sentence I never thought I’d say out loud, and I swear I’m not trying to be flippant, I just—my brain is a small dog chasing car right now.”

Ling Ling set her cup down.

“Prem,” she said softly—a warning wrapped in silk.

Prem didn’t look away from Orm.

“I’m protective,” she said, as if stating blood type. “I’ve known Ling for fifteen years. I know when she’s putting on armor. She’s good at it. Too good, most days. And right now she’s… shiny.”

Orm swallowed. “Shiny?”

“Polished,” Prem clarified. “Untouchable. That’s not how she is with people she trusts. So I’m here to see if I should worry.”

“About me?” Orm squeaked.

“About the situation,” Prem said. “Which includes you.”

Orm stared at her tea like maybe the answer would be printed at the bottom of the cup.

She wanted to make a joke.

She wanted to stand and bow and say, “Thank you for your time,” and exit stage left.

Instead, she took a breath and tried to find her spine.

“I didn’t choose this,” she said quietly. “But I’m not here to make it worse.”

Prem’s eyes flicked, quick as a blade. For a split second, something like approval sparked there.

Orm almost missed it.

Ling Ling leaned forward slightly. “Prem, you promised.”

“I promised to be nicer,” Prem said. “I didn’t promise to be gentle.”

Orm’s shoulders were halfway up to her ears.

“It’s okay,” she said, surprising herself. “I… get it. If I had a best friend and suddenly she married a bathroom stranger, I’d want to interrogate them too.”

“You do have a best friend,” Ling Ling murmured.

“Right,” Orm said. “Gina. But she would faint mid-interrogation and ask for cake.”

The smallest corner of Prem’s mouth quirked.

“Sensibly human.”

They sat with that for a second.

The tea steamed.

The city hummed beyond glass.

Prem set her cup down.

“What do you want from this?” she asked Orm. “My friend does not owe you a fantasy. She already gave you shelter and a name. What do you want?”

Orm’s throat went dry.

Want.

No one had asked her that cleanly yet.

Ling Ling watched her too, unreadable and intent, and suddenly Orm felt both pinned and held.

She could say “nothing.”

She could say “privacy.”

She could make a joke about coriander.

But the question sat there, heavy and honest.

And Orm—for once—answered the way she wished someone would answer her.

“I want peace,” she said, voice small but steady. “I want my mom not to worry. I want to keep my job. I want to sleep without checking if the internet is laughing at me. I want… a door I can close. And I want her to be okay.” Her eyes slid to Ling Ling before she could stop them. “Even if that has nothing to do with me.”

Silence again.

But a different kind.

Prem looked at Ling Ling like

You heard that?

Ling Ling’s jaw softened in a way Orm had only seen twice—in the church, and at Mae Koy’s koi pond.

She looked, for a heartbeat, unarmored.

Prem’s tone shifted a degree warmer.

“And what do you think she wants?”

Orm blew out a breath. “Control. Calm. A life that doesn’t feel like a car crash.” She gave a wry smile. “Which is funny, since I’m basically a walking pileup.”

Prem’s eyes narrowed—not with suspicion this time, but interest.

“Self-awareness. Unexpected.”

“I contain multitudes,” Orm said, then immediately regretted sounding like a quote calendar.

Ling Ling coughed, a tiny sound that might have been a laugh if you believed in miracles.

Prem moved on like she had a checklist.

“How did you sleep the last two nights?”

Orm blinked.

“Is this… part of the test?”

“Yes.”

“Bad the first night. Better the second. The bed tried to eat me. I won.”

“Do you feel safe here?”

Orm didn’t look at Ling Ling when she said

“Yes.”

“Has anyone pressured you? Told you to smile for cameras? To hide?”

“No. She—” Orm’s hand flapped in Ling Ling’s direction, “—she told me she’d handle everything. And she does. It’s horrifying.”

“Horrifying?” Ling Ling repeated, deadpan.

“In a nice way,” Orm said quickly. “Like—who replaces my shampoo before I notice it’s empty? That’s illegal.”

Prem made a note in the air with an invisible pen. “Noted: illegal shampoo.”

“And socks,” Orm added, because once she started, she couldn’t stop. “Apparently, they appear. Like mushrooms after rain.”

Ling Ling looked at Prem.

“Are we done?”

Prem ignored her. “Any secrets, Orm?”

Orm recoiled. “Excuse me?!”

“Dealbreakers,” Prem clarified. “Not skeletons. Do you want to run? Do you plan to leverage this? Sell a story? Whisper to a blogger? Break contracts?”

“God, no,” Orm said, appalled. “I don’t even post my lunch on Instagram. I barely post my face. I take ugly selfies for one person and it’s Gina and she screenshots them for blackmail.”

“Healthy,” Prem said dryly.

Orm’s hands were twisting in her lap.

She forced them to stop.

“Look— I get that I’m… a variable. But I’m not here to cash out. I’m here because I got dragged into a hurricane and someone put me behind a door.” She looked at Ling Ling again—brief, involuntary. “I’m not ungrateful.”

Prem’s eyes followed that look and filed it where only best friends can.

“Mm.”

Ling Ling’s voice slid back in, low and careful.

“Prem.”

Prem finally picked up her cup and actually sipped the tea.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve heard enough.”

Orm wilted in relief so hard she nearly slid sideways on the couch.

“But,” Prem added, and Orm froze mid-wilt, “I want to see how you function together. Not just words. People tell good stories with their mouths. I prefer hands.”

“Hands?” Orm croaked.

Prem’s gaze flicked to the kitchen. “Cook together.”

Ling Ling straightened. “Absolutely not.”

Orm flailed. “We can’t. The fire alarm—”

“Exactly,” Prem said. “I want to see how she handles your chaos and how you handle her control. Make something simple. Toast. Eggs. Tea. I’m not asking for a five-course meal. I want to watch you move in each other’s orbit.”

“This is not a lab,” Ling Ling said, icicles forming on every syllable.

Prem lifted one shoulder.

“No. It’s a marriage.”

The word landed like a soft punch.

Orm and Ling Ling both flinched—different flinches, same bruise.

Orm cleared her throat.

“I can… make toast. If the machine doesn’t fight me.”

Ling Ling exhaled like she was signing a treaty.

“Fine,” she said. “Toast. Nothing else.”

They moved to the kitchen with the solemnity of surgeons entering an operating room.

Prem followed at a polite distance that didn’t feel polite at all.

Orm stood in front of the toaster like it was a wild animal.

Ling Ling stood behind her, arms folded, neither hovering nor far.

“Step one,” Orm muttered. “Insert bread.”

“Not that slot,” Ling Ling said.

Orm jumped. “There are… multiple?”

“The left gets hotter. Use the right,” Ling Ling said, like she was discussing a client, not a toaster.

“Why does your toaster have a bias?”

Ling Ling said nothing. Orm obeyed.

She pressed the lever and, miraculously, nothing exploded.

Good sign.

She turned, triumphant, to find Prem watching with the calm of a judge on a very expensive cooking show.

“I’ll make tea,” Ling Ling said, and reached for the kettle.

“I can do water,” Orm said quickly.

Ling Ling paused. “Water?”

“I mean—pour. I can pour.”

“You will scald yourself,” Ling Ling said, already halfway to the kettle. “Stand back.”

“See?” Prem said mildly. “Orbits.”

“Stop narrating,” Ling Ling and Orm said in unison, then glanced at each other and looked away quickly, as if they had nearly high-fived by accident.

The toaster popped.

Orm yelped.

Ling Ling didn’t.

Prem wrote another invisible note.

Orm tried to butter the toast and immediately ripped it in half.

“It’s too soft,” she mourned.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Ling Ling murmured, stepping in.

“Here.” She took the knife, her hand brushing Orm’s.

The contact was brief and not at all a big deal, which apparently meant Orm’s heart had to pound like she’d run up five flights of stairs.

Ling Ling spread butter like she negotiated contracts—clean, efficient, a little scary.

She handed the knife back without looking at Orm.

“Gentle,” she said, and Orm wondered if it was about bread or everything.

They assembled two plates like a team that had never worked together but somehow didn’t bump elbows.

Prem watched, expression unreadable.

When Ling Ling poured tea, Orm reached out to help, then snatched her hand back, then put it forward again, then gave up and folded both hands like a child at temple.

They bickered in whispers

No, you sit; no, you first; fine, we both sit now or Prem will put us on a group project.

They ate toast.

It was fine. It was toast.

Prem looked almost disappointed at the lack of explosions.

“You didn’t burn anything.”

“That’s growth,” Orm said brightly.

“You’re condescending,” Ling Ling told Prem.

“I’m consistent,” Prem replied.

Orm, who had decided survival was a form of humor, said, “If you need me to flambé something to restore the drama, I can try the stove again.”

“No,” Ling Ling and Prem said together.

A little thread of laughter pulled loose from Orm’s chest.

She didn’t release it, but she held it, warm and thin.

Prem set her cup down. “What do you two do with silence?”

“What?” Orm asked.

“When there is nothing to manage,” Prem clarified. “No toast. No tea. No alarms. What do you do?”

Orm opened her mouth.

Closed it.

“We… sit? Sometimes. I draw. She reads emails. I say dumb things. She says fewer dumb things.”

Ling Ling sighed. “Prem—”

“Relax,” Prem said. “I’m nearly done.”

She stood, smoothing a crease that didn’t exist on her trousers, and walked toward the windows, looking out at the city.

Orm suddenly felt like she’d just been through an exam with no answer key.

Prem turned back.

“You are,” she told Orm, “not what I expected.”

“Thank you?” Orm said, uncertain.

“That’s not necessarily praise,” Prem added.

“Ah,” Orm said. “Great. Love that for me.”

Prem ignored the joke.

“But you are honest. And you are not a moth to a flame. You look at the flame and call it a fire hazard.”

Orm blinked.

“Me?”

“You,” Prem said. '

She looked at Ling Ling, and her voice gentled in a way that made Orm’s throat tighten. “And you… are softer than you think when you stand next to her.”

Ling Ling’s mouth opened, then closed.

She looked vaguely betrayed by being seen.

Prem picked up her bag. “I have to go. Meetings. Real ones.” She moved toward the door and paused by Ling Ling, voice pitched low enough to pretend Orm couldn’t hear. “You’re not fine. Don’t pretend you are when you’re with her. She can tell.”

Ling Ling didn’t answer.

But something in her posture shifted.

An admission without words.

Prem turned to Orm.

“Don’t burn my friend.”

Orm stood too fast, nearly kicking the low table, caught herself, and nodded. “I won’t,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. “I… can’t promise I won’t burn toast. But not her.”

Prem’s eyes softened, finally.

“Good.” She glanced once at Ling Ling, then back to Orm. “And if she tries to fix your life so hard she forgets to breathe, make her eat. She forgets.”

“I do not,” Ling Ling said.

“She does,” Prem and Orm said together, then blinked at each other in mutual surprise.

Prem left with the quiet efficiency she’d arrived with.

 

The door clicked shut.

Silence slid into the apartment like fog.

Orm exhaled.

“Was that an interview or a performance review?”

“Yes,” Ling Ling said.

Orm laughed—small, released.

She walked back to the kitchen and looked at the crime scene of crumbs and butter.

“We didn’t totally embarrass ourselves,” she declared. “Only partially.”

Ling Ling leaned against the island, crossing her arms.

“You asked about croissants.”

“In my defense, my brain did a panic cartwheel.” Orm chewed her lip. “Did I… pass?”

Ling Ling considered her, expression sliding from the CEO mask to something curious, something gentler.

“Prem doesn’t do pass/fail,” she said. “She does… calibrate. Today she calibrated.”

“So… I’m not banned?”

“You’re not banned.”

Orm grinned, then immediately tried to smother it.

“Cool. Love not being banned from my own accidental marriage.”

Ling Ling’s mouth curved. It wasn’t a full smile, but it wasn’t nothing. “You did well.”

The words lit a small fuse under Orm’s ribs.

Ridiculous—the way she warmed at them.

“I spilled zero things,” she said. “Personal record.”

“You tripped,” Ling Ling said.

“Not in a way that caused injury,” Orm countered. “Progress.”

They stood there, the kind of silence Prem had just asked about arriving to test them.

Orm fidgeted with the butter knife, then realized knives plus fidgeting equaled bad idea and set it down.

Ling Ling’s eyes tracked the motion like she was counting.

“Tea?” Ling Ling asked. “Properly. Without supervision.”

“You’re going to let me touch hot water?” Orm gasped.

“I’m going to stand three feet away and call an ambulance if necessary,” Ling Ling said dryly.

Orm saluted. “

Copy.” She filled the kettle, very carefully, like she was conducting a ceremony for the gods of Not Dying.

Ling Ling leaned on the island, watching with a face that pretended to be bored and absolutely wasn’t.

“Prem thinks you’re honest,” Ling Ling said softly.

Orm glanced up. “Is that… rare around you?”

Ling Ling’s lashes lowered. “Rarer than it should be.”

Orm almost said that sucks.

She almost said I’m sorry.

She ended up saying, “Then you should keep me around. I have no filter. It’s a genetic condition.”

One corner of Ling Ling’s mouth lifted. “I’ve noticed.”

The kettle clicked off.

Orm poured into two cups without drowning the counter and pretended she’d always been capable of it.

She slid one cup to Ling Ling, their fingers brushing again—electricity in small, stupid places.

“Thank you,” Ling Ling said.

“You’re welcome,” Orm said, too fast.

They took their tea to the living room and sat not quite close, not quite far, facing the city.

The afternoon light turned the buildings gold. Orm cradled her cup and breathed in steam until her heart slowed.

“She’s scary,” Orm said after a minute, no venom in it—just fact.

“She’s loyal,” Ling Ling replied.

“Those can be the same thing,” Orm said.

“They are, for her.”

Orm took that in. “She loves you.”

Ling Ling didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

“And she’s right,” Orm added before she could edit herself. “You do forget to eat when you’re thinking too hard.”

Ling Ling turned her head. “You don’t know that.”

“I watched you push a croissant around the plate this morning like it owed you money,” Orm said. “You forgot to take a bite.”

Ling Ling looked almost offended at being so easily read.

Then she sighed, a small surrender. “Fine. I forgot.”

Orm’s chest warmed with a tone she didn’t want to name.

“We can set an alarm,” she said lightly. “I’ll write ‘Feed the CEO’ on my phone at noon.”

“I am not a plant.”

“Debatable,” Orm said. “You do well with sunlight.”

A sound escaped Ling Ling—soft, startled.

A laugh, real and brief.

Orm felt it like a coin flicked into a wishing well.

She didn’t make a wish. She didn’t need to.

They sipped tea.

The city moved.

The silence was okay.

 

After a while, Orm set her cup down and pulled her sketchbook onto her lap.

She didn’t think about it—she just drew, pencil whispering.

She drew the curve of the toaster, the angle of Ling Ling’s hand on the mug, the way the afternoon shadow cut the edge of the rug. Nothing personal.

Everything personal.

“May I see?” Ling Ling asked.

Orm froze.

No one asked that.

Gina snatched.

Mae praised blindly.

People didn’t ask.

“It’s messy,” she said, already flipping the book closed.

“I like messy,” Ling Ling said, and that—more than Pancakes, more than No Coriander—did something unhelpful to Orm’s pulse.

She handed the sketchbook over.

Ling Ling held it carefully, like a fragile thing, and studied the lines as if they mattered.

“You draw what you see,” she said. “Not what you think you should see.”

“That’s… the job,” Orm said, voice thin.

“It’s a way to be honest,” Ling Ling said.

Orm stared at her until she had to look away.

“Prem was right. You’re softer when you stand next to me.”

Ling Ling’s eyes lifted, surprised.

“Am I?”

“A little,” Orm said. “Like two percent.”

“I’ll work on lowering it,” Ling Ling said.

“Don’t,” Orm blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean—do. Be tough. Scare your enemies. But maybe… keep the two percent for me.”

It was a stupid thing to say.

It felt like picking up a fragile glass with greasy hands.

But Ling Ling didn’t mock her.

She looked at Orm like she was another blueprint—complicated lines worth tracing.

“Noted,” she said, and it sounded like a promise.

 

Evening edged in.

The penthouse lights came on, soft and warm.

Orm realized she wasn’t braced anymore.

Her shoulders had dropped.

Her mouth wasn’t pressed into a line.

She could hear her own breath without thinking it was too loud for marble floors.

Her phone buzzed.

Gina:

[How was the dragon?]

Orm typed:

[More like a hawk. Sharp. Protective. I lived.]

Gina:

[Proud of u. Don’t trip on marble.]

Orm glanced at Ling Ling and found her reading an email, the two-percent softness still visible if you knew where to look.

She didn’t know how she’d learned where to look. She just had.

“Thank you,” Orm said, and when Ling Ling looked up with a question, Orm added, “For… making sure she didn’t eat me.”

“She promised to be nice,” Ling Ling said.

“You told her to be,” Orm corrected. “You defended me.”

Ling Ling’s gaze warmed a degree. “Of course.”

Of course. Like it was obvious.

Like it was a gravity she wouldn’t defy.

Orm fidgeted with the corner of a cushion.

“Do you… want dinner? I can order. Without fire.”

“Order,” Ling Ling said. “I’ll pay.”

“You always pay.”

“I said I would.”

“Right,” Orm said. “You did.”

She hesitated.

“Can we… get two of the same thing? So it feels like we’re eating together and not two separate lives at the same table?”

Ling Ling went still.

It was such a tiny request. It sounded like nothing.

In the distance, you might have missed it.

Up close, it was a small, bright flag.

“Yes,” Ling Ling said. “The same.”

Orm smiled without hiding it.

“Pad see ew?” she offered. “Extra soy sauce?”

“No coriander,” Ling Ling added.

“No coriander,” Orm echoed, and this time they both laughed.

She placed the order.

They cleaned the crumbs they’d made.

Not because the housekeeper couldn’t, but because it felt weird to leave their mess for a stranger when the mess had been so… theirs.

When dinner arrived, they ate at the island, hip to hip but not touching, bowls steaming, chopsticks tapping.

They didn’t fill the space with talk.

They didn’t force it.

They lived there, in that small normal, while the day exhaled.

 

Later, after dishes and half an episode of a drama neither admitted to following, Orm stood in the hallway outside her room and looked back.

“Goodnight,” she said.

Ling Ling stood at the other end, near the study door.

“Goodnight.”

They didn’t move.

Ling Ling lifted a hand, a half-wave, a small, awkward thing for a woman who negotiated with generals and governors.

Orm lifted hers back.

It felt stupidly important.

They went to their rooms.

Doors clicked softly.

The apartment, finally, was quiet.

Orm slid under the giant duvet and stared at the ceiling, and instead of listing anxieties like a quiz, she thought about toast and tea and a best friend who had tried to unscrew her like a jar to see what was inside.

She thought about two percent softness and how it had looked, fragile and careful, like a light left on in a window.

She didn’t call Gina.

She didn’t text Mae.

She just breathed, even, easy, and let the thought settle: she was falling, so slowly she almost couldn’t feel it.

Not off a cliff.

Down a slope. A soft one.

With steps.

 

Across the hall, Ling Ling sat at her desk with an email open and her hands idle.

She wasn’t reading.

She was hearing Prem’s voice

Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re with her. She can tell.

She closed the laptop.

She didn’t turn off the lamp.

She leaned back and looked at the door that wasn’t hers.

Then, quietly, like she was testing a word in her mouth, she allowed herself the smallest truth.

“I’m not fine,” she whispered to the empty room. “But I’m… not alone.”

No one heard it.

It didn’t need witnesses.

It needed a night, and the promise of breakfast, and a house that didn’t feel like armor for a few hours.

The city pulsed under the glass.

Somewhere two floors down, someone played a saxophone badly.

The sound rose and fell, sad and funny like the day.

Ling Ling closed her eyes and saw a sketchbook.

Buttered toast.

A hawk who loved her, and a girl who might someday.

Sleep came, not perfect, but good enough.

And in the morning, the world would try again.

Chapter 7: Jealousy in Silk

Notes:

Hi again, i was at lost for words with the amount of the support you all had for this story. Perhaps this one chapter is a way for me to say thank you for all the support and love and comments and kudos that you all been given to me.

---

The penthouse looked like a warehouse after a flash sale.

Bags sprawled across the kitchen island and the floor, handles straining, contents peeking out in mismatched colors.

Orm stood in the middle of it, hands on her hips, trying to look like she had a system.

“Alright,” she announced, “I’ll handle this. Professional grocery unpacker at work.”

Ling Ling leaned against the counter, blazer shed, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows.

She didn’t argue. She just… watched.

Which was somehow worse.

Orm grabbed the first bag.

Out came apples, onions, and— “Wait, why is there shampoo in here?” She frowned. “Who mixed personal care with produce? That’s a crime.”

“You did,” Ling Ling said evenly.

Orm gasped.

“Lies. Slander. I would never.”

Ling Ling raised one eyebrow.

“…Okay, maybe.” Orm muttered and shoved the shampoo into the fruit drawer before yanking it out again. “No, wait. Wrong.” She darted toward another cupboard, opening three doors before finding the right shelf.

Ling Ling followed silently, retrieving the shampoo bottle and placing it neatly in the bathroom basket by the door.

“Try again.”

Orm puffed out her cheeks but kept going.

She tossed noodles into the fridge.

Ling Ling wordlessly removed them, placing them in the pantry.

Orm stacked cookies on top of the wine bottles.

Ling Ling moved them to the snack drawer.

It became a pattern: chaos, correction, repeat.

“You’re like my human autocorrect,” Orm grumbled.

“You’re like my human typo,” Ling Ling countered, almost too softly for it to sting.

Orm laughed anyway.

By the time the last bag was emptied, Orm collapsed against the counter, hair sticking to her forehead.

“Done,” she declared dramatically.

Ling Ling surveyed the kitchen.

Nothing looked out of place.

Of course, it was because she’d silently rearranged everything.

“You only misplaced 70% this time,” Ling Ling said.

“That’s an improvement!” Orm cheered, holding up a fist for a celebratory bump.

Ling Ling stared at it.

Then, slowly, she raised her hand and tapped her knuckles to Orm’s.

It was barely a bump, more like a brush, but Orm’s chest fizzed anyway.

 

Later, they sat in the living room.

Not at opposite ends like strangers, not side by side like friends, but angled toward each other, the coffee table between them.

Ling Ling had her tea

Orm had her iced one.

For once, no distractions.

No Prem, no Gina, no beeping grocery alarms.

Just them.

Silence stretched, thick but not empty.

Finally, Orm spoke.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” Her voice was soft, not teasing. “We’re… here. Married. And I still feel like I don’t know which switch turns on the kitchen light.”

Ling Ling’s eyes lowered to her cup. “It is strange.”

“I mean—I didn’t choose this.” Orm fiddled with her straw. “One second, I was in the bathroom, next second—bam, vows. It’s like waking up in someone else’s dream.”

Ling Ling nodded slowly.

“And yet, you’ve stayed.”

Orm blinked.

“Should I have run?”

Ling Ling’s gaze lifted to her, steady, unreadable.

“If you had, I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

That hit deeper than Orm expected.

She looked away, voice faltering.

“It’s not that simple. Mae… my mom. She was so happy. I couldn’t just…” She trailed off, biting her lip. “And you—you promised to take care of her too.”

“I don’t break promises,” Ling Ling said simply.

The words settled like a stone in Orm’s chest.

Heavy, grounding, strangely comforting.

Orm looked at her, really looked, and saw the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders that even tea couldn’t ease.

“But what about you? You were about to marry someone else. Someone you loved.”

Ling Ling didn’t flinch.

But her voice was quiet.

“I was betrayed by someone I trusted with my life. And then, in that chaos, I made a decision that saved face for everyone but myself.”

Orm’s chest tightened.

“So I’m just… damage control.”

Ling Ling shook her head, firm.

“No. You’re my wife.”

The word landed heavier than Orm was ready for.

“I don’t expect you to love me,” Ling Ling added, gentler. “Not now. Maybe not ever. But I won’t hurt you. I won’t neglect you. And if all I can give you is security, then I’ll make it the best kind you’ve ever known.”

Orm swallowed hard.

Her throat burned.

She wanted to joke, to ease the weight, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she whispered, “You’re too kind.”

Ling Ling’s lips curved, faint and sad.

“Or maybe just foolish.”

Orm shook her head.

“No. You’re… unfairly kind. And that’s what’s scary.”

Their eyes held across the table.

For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist — not the betrayal, not the chaos, not the whispers.

Just two strangers tied together by accident, trying to name the shape of what they were.

The silence wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was raw, fragile, and strangely safe.

Orm broke it first, coughing and looking away.

“Anyway, next time, you’re unpacking the noodles.”

Ling Ling exhaled — was that a laugh? It sounded like one.

“We’ll see.”

But Orm caught the curve of her mouth, soft and unguarded, and tucked it into her memory like a secret worth keeping.

 

 

Orm had been staring at the penthouse ceiling for ten minutes, arms folded behind her head, chewing on the same thought like it was stale gum: I need out. Just for a little while. Fresh air. Human interaction that doesn’t wear Armani and pour tea like a monk.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Gina.

Of course.

[Still alive?]

The message read.

Orm smirked.

[Barely. Need coffee. You. Now.]

 

By the time Gina arrived at the café, Orm was already slouched in a corner booth, hair pinned messily, iced Americano sweating on the table.

She looked like a soldier who’d barely survived battle.

“You look like you crawled out of a corporate warzone,” Gina said, sliding into the seat across from her.

Orm threw her arms wide.

“I’m married to one!”

Heads turned.

Orm winced.

Gina snorted.

“Keep your voice down,” Gina hissed. “Do you want someone to record you?”

“Maybe. Then I’d wake up and find out this was a prank show.” Orm dropped her head into her hands. “But no. This is my life now. Wife. Penthouse. Three refrigerators. Do you know how stressful that is?”

Gina leaned back, arms crossed, smirking.

“You’re mad because… your wife is rich?”

“I’m mad because she’s too much,” Orm said, lifting her head. “Too kind, too attentive, too… everything. I trip over my own feet and she looks at me like I’m a slightly tragic sculpture she’s decided to restore.”

“That’s awful,” Gina deadpanned.

“It is!” Orm stabbed her straw into her drink. “She replaces my shampoo before it runs out. She knows which iced tea I like. She fixed my mess when I mixed apples with hair conditioner yesterday.”

Gina raised a brow.

“So basically, she treats you better than any of your exes ever did.”

Orm’s mouth opened, closed.

“…That’s not the point.”

Gina grinned. “Sounds like the point.”

 

They ordered cake to soften Orm’s dramatic spirals.

Gina watched her best friend pick at a strawberry shortcake slice like it was therapy.

“You realize who she is, right?” Gina said after a moment. “Ling Ling Kwong. The Ling Ling Kwong. My boss’s boss. Do you know what people call her in the office?”

Orm licked frosting off her fork.

“Dragon Queen? Ice Empress? Miss Tall, Dark, and Scary?”

“Close. The Scalpel.”

Orm blinked. “That’s worse.”

“She’s sharp. Clean. Precise. No nonsense. She’s terrifying in meetings, Orm. People rehearse three times before speaking to her. And yet…” Gina leaned in, eyes glinting. “She’s buying you shampoo.”

Orm groaned, collapsing against the booth.

“Stop making it sound romantic. It’s logistics!”

“No, it’s care. She doesn’t do that for anyone else.”

Orm fiddled with her fork, muttering

“Maybe she’s just… keeping her promise.”

“Promise?”

Orm hesitated.

But Gina knew her too well.

The silence was enough.

“Orm,” Gina said softly, “if she promised to take care of you and she’s keeping it… that’s not just business. That’s choice. Ling Ling doesn’t waste effort.”

Orm’s chest tightened.

She shoved another bite of cake in her mouth to avoid answering.

The conversation drifted.

Orm vented about the penthouse — how she kept turning on the sauna light instead of the kitchen lamp, how the walk-in closet gave her decision paralysis, how even the doorman looked like he was auditioning for a K-drama.

Gina laughed, cackling loud enough to draw looks.

“You’re living in a palace and still complaining,” Gina teased.

“I’m not built for palaces!” Orm cried. “I’m built for apartments where the landlord ignores leaky taps and you pray the Wi-Fi doesn’t cut out mid-Zoom.”

“And yet, here you are.” Gina smirked. “Mrs. Penthouse.”

Orm nearly choked on her coffee.

“Don’t call me that!”

When the laughter faded, Orm’s tone softened.

She toyed with the condensation on her glass, voice quieter.

“It’s just… weird. She’s so… gentle with me. Too gentle. Like she’s holding me with gloves on. And it scares me because I don’t know what I’m supposed to give back.”

Gina tilted her head.

“Do you want to give something back?”

“I—” Orm froze. Words tangled in her throat.

She thought of the iced tea, the quiet hand hovering at her back in the grocery store, the way Ling Ling’s eyes softened for two seconds before snapping shut again.

She thought of toast and sketchbooks and the stupid two percent softness.

Her cheeks burned.

“No. Maybe. Shut up.”

Gina grinned like a shark.

“You’re falling.”

“I’m not!” Orm slammed her palm on the table.

The waiter jumped.

Orm shrank. “I’m… maybe tripping. Slightly downhill. Accidentally.”

“Accidentally married, accidentally falling. Consistent brand,” Gina said, sipping her latte.

Orm covered her face.

“I hate you.”

But Gina, ever the best friend, sobered when she saw Orm’s hands tremble slightly.

She reached across the table, squeezing them.

“Orm,” she said gently, “Ling Ling’s still hurt. I’ve seen her in the office. She works herself into the ground. She skips meals. She’s got Prem hovering like a hawk because she won’t admit she’s bleeding. You… you might be the only softness she has right now.”

Orm’s chest squeezed tight.

She tried to laugh it off.

“Great. No pressure.”

“I mean it,” Gina said. “If you’re not careful, you could hurt her. And if you’re not honest with yourself, she could hurt you without meaning to. She’s not invincible.”

Orm bit her lip, looking away. Her voice came out small.

“What if she hurts me first?”

Gina squeezed her hand tighter.

“That’s marriage, babe. Even accidental ones.”

Orm laughed weakly, but her eyes stung.

She blinked it away, hiding behind her coffee cup.

They spent the rest of the afternoon trading dumb gossip, laughing about coworkers, and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

By the time they parted, Orm felt lighter — not because her worries were gone, but because she’d said them out loud.

She walked back toward the penthouse with the strange weight of realization pressing on her chest: Ling Ling wasn’t just keeping a promise.

She was choosing, in small, quiet ways, every day.

And Orm, against her will, was starting to notice.

And maybe,  just maybe starting to choose back.

 

 

 

Orm had survived many small disasters in her life: leaving her umbrella on the bus during monsoon season, accidentally sending the wrong meme to her professor, burning toast so thoroughly it could be used as charcoal.

But nothing compared to the chaos of spilling coffee on herself in Ling Ling’s penthouse at eight in the morning.

The cup hadn’t even been full.

Just a little careless slosh when she tried to juggle her phone, the remote, and her iced coffee all at once.

The splash landed squarely on the white t-shirt she’d slept in, staining it in a way that screamed permanent.

“Fantastic,” Orm muttered, staring at the brown blot spreading like a crime scene. “Love that for me. Beautiful start.”

She stripped the shirt off and balled it into the laundry basket, grumbling as she padded toward the walk-in closet.

Ling Ling had given her one half of the massive space, already filled with neat stacks of brand-new clothes her size, tags still dangling.

But Orm, being Orm, decided she didn’t want “new.”

She wanted something quick, soft, comfortable.

 

And her eyes landed on Ling Ling’s side of the closet.

A wall of order.

Silk, satin, cashmere.

Dresses that probably cost more than Orm’s rent, tailored blazers that whispered intimidation.

And then, hanging innocently among them, a pale cream silk shirt.

Oversized, fluid, the kind of thing that would swallow Orm whole but in the chicest way.

“…Borrowing these counts as being resourceful, not criminal,” she told herself.

She tugged it off the hanger and slipped it on.

It fell over her frame like water, cool against her skin.

The sleeves nearly swallowed her hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh.

She tugged at the collar in the mirror, trying to look casual. Instead, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a magazine spread titled “CEO’s Wife, Stolen Shirt Edition.”

Orm laughed at herself, shaking her head.

“If Gina could see me now…”

The sound of the closet door clicking open froze her.

Ling Ling stood in the doorway, hair still damp from her morning shower, dressed down in soft gray slacks and a pale blouse.

No jewelry, no armor.

Just quiet composure.

Her gaze landed on Orm.

Stuck.

Orm raised a hand sheepishly, swallowed by the too-long sleeve.

“Morning?”

Ling Ling didn’t answer immediately.

Her eyes trailed over the shirt, the way it dwarfed Orm’s frame, how the pale silk contrasted against her dark hair.

There was no judgment in her expression, no amusement either.

Just something… sharp.

Quiet.

A flicker of tension that made Orm’s stomach drop.

“I—uh—spilled coffee,” Orm blurted, pulling at the hem like that explained everything. “Your shirt was just… there. Emergency borrowing.”

Still, Ling Ling said nothing.

She simply walked past her into the closet, opened a drawer, and retrieved a small box of cufflinks as if nothing was amiss.

But Orm caught it: the way her shoulders were straighter than usual, the silence heavier.

Orm tried for humor.

“Relax, I didn’t ruin it. Yet. Unless silk is allergic to me.”

Ling Ling finally looked at her, eyes unreadable.

“That’s not the problem.”

Orm blinked.

“Then what is?”

But Ling Ling had already turned away, stepping out of the closet with the kind of grace that doubled as dismissal.

 

They had plans that morning.

Or rather, Ling Ling had plans, and Orm insisted on tagging along because the penthouse walls were starting to feel like a gilded cage.

Ling Ling relented barely, and let Orm ride with her to a mid-morning errand at one of her company’s downtown offices.

Orm, still in the silk shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, tried to convince herself it wasn’t weird.

Totally normal to wear your wife’s shirt.

Totally normal to feel your pulse spike when she glanced at you across the car.

The driver opened the car door when they arrived at the office.

As Orm stepped out, the man gave a polite smile.

“Mrs. Kwong, that shirt suits you beautifully.”

Orm laughed, caught off guard.

“Oh! Thank you, but it’s not—”

Before she could finish, Ling Ling appeared beside her, expression as smooth as glass.

“We’re going in.”

The driver bowed quickly, flustered, and Orm scrambled to follow Ling Ling through the lobby.

Her brain, however, had short-circuited.

Mrs. Kwong. Suits you beautifully. Oh my god.

Ling Ling didn’t say a word.

Not when the receptionist greeted them, not in the elevator ride up.

But Orm noticed her grip on her leather folder was just a fraction too tight.

 

The silence stretched until Orm couldn’t take it.

“Okay, was that weird? The compliment thing? I didn’t ask for it, you know. He just—”

Ling Ling’s voice was quiet but firm.

“Next time, ask before you borrow my things.”

Orm’s jaw dropped.

“Wait. Is this… are you mad? Over a shirt?”

Ling Ling’s eyes slid to her.

Calm. Unflinching.

“It’s silk. It’s not meant for carelessness.”

Orm puffed her cheeks, crossing her arms.

“You’re acting like I’m gonna destroy it with my aura. Look, I’ll dry clean it, I’ll—” She caught herself grinning mischievously. “I look good in it though, right?”

For a second, just a second, Ling Ling’s composure cracked.

Her lips pressed together, her jaw tense, her eyes locked onto Orm with a heat that wasn’t anger.

“That’s the problem,” Ling Ling said softly.

Orm’s breath caught.

She laughed too quickly, trying to mask the flutter in her chest.

“Wow. Okay. Note to self: stick to cotton.”

But inside, her thoughts were a mess.

That’s the problem?

What does that even mean?

 

By the time they got home, Orm had convinced herself it was over.

Just a weird morning, no big deal. She tossed her jeans in the hamper, folded the silk shirt carefully extra carefully and placed it back in Ling Ling’s closet.

Case closed.

Or so she thought.

The next evening, when she opened her side of the wardrobe, she nearly fainted.

Rows of new clothes filled the racks.

Dresses, blouses, tailored pants.

All in her size.

All pristine.

Even the hangers matched Ling Ling’s side.

Orm’s jaw dropped.

“What the…”

Ling Ling appeared behind her, calm as ever, slipping off her watch and placing it in the jewelry tray.

“You—” Orm turned, waving a hand at the wardrobe. “You did this? When? How?”

Ling Ling adjusted a hanger slightly before answering.

“You should have your own. Stop borrowing mine.”

“But—this is so much. I didn’t ask for—”

“I don’t want you wearing things that aren’t meant for you,” Ling Ling said, cutting her off gently but firmly. “These are.”

Orm’s protest died on her tongue.

It wasn’t just about clothes.

It wasn’t just silk.

Ling Ling stepped closer, not looming, just near enough for her voice to soften.

“If you need something, Orm, ask me. Don’t settle for less.”

Orm’s throat tightened.

Her heart pounded so loud she was sure Ling Ling could hear it.

She wanted to joke, to laugh it off, to say something snarky. But all she managed was a whisper.

“…Okay.”

Ling Ling nodded once, satisfied, and stepped back.

“Dinner is at seven.”

And just like that, she was gone, leaving Orm standing in front of a wardrobe she hadn’t asked for, silk still tingling on her skin, and a heart that wouldn’t slow down.

She stared at the neat rows of fabric, shaking her head.

“This woman is going to kill me,” she muttered, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks.

But the truth was scarier than silk: Orm wasn’t sure she minded.

Notes:

Anyway hopefully some of you remember me, my writing style might be different since this is a Rom-Com but perhaps you all might be cross over to my other stories that i had wrote :)

Chapter 8: Pancake Defense League

Notes:

Plot twist: Ling Ling doesn’t hate silk—she hates how criminally good it looks on Orm. Silk isn’t fabric anymore, it’s a threat.
Solution? Buy her a whole new closet and slap a ban on silk. Consider it: officially wife-prohibited 😉

Orm’s brain was fried after a long day of fixing files and pretending to laugh at office jokes.

She wanted pajamas, instant noodles, and her bed.

Maybe also to kick Gina’s shins in a video call for abandoning her to corporate hell.

So when she stepped out of her office building and saw Ling Ling leaning against the sleek black car with arms crossed, Orm stopped so abruptly the security guard behind her almost ran into her.

“You—what are you doing here?” Orm blurted.

“Picking you up.” Ling Ling’s voice was calm, smooth, and somehow louder than the traffic around them.

Orm blinked.

Normally the driver came alone.

Seeing Ling Ling herself waiting… it sent a weird warmth up her chest.

Is this… romantic? Like, actual wife-behavior romantic?

“Oh,” Orm said, trying to sound casual while her brain fizzed. “Special occasion?”

Ling Ling opened the door for her.

“We need to stop at the airport.”

Orm slid in, lips pressing into a pout.

“Airport? Why?”

“You’ll see.”

And that was all she got.

No explanation.

Orm sat the whole drive bouncing between curiosity and annoyance, sneaking glances at Ling Ling, who was as unreadable as ever.

 

The international arrivals gate was chaos.

Kids darted between suitcases.

Aunties waved cardboard signs with names written in marker.

A group of monks shuffled past. The speakers announced flight numbers every two minutes.

Orm yawned, rocking on her heels. “Okay, and who exactly are we waiting for?”

Ling Ling’s eyes stayed fixed on the crowd beyond the sliding doors.

“Someone.”

“Wow, specific. Thanks, that clears everything up,” Orm muttered, chewing on her straw.

And then it happened.

“LING LING!!”

A woman’s voice shot through the noise.

Orm’s head whipped up.

A tall, pale-skinned woman with blonde hair tied into a sleek ponytail was barreling toward them, pulling a small designer suitcase behind her.

Even after what must’ve been a long-haul flight, she looked perfect—like she’d just stepped out of a glossy fashion spread.

Orm barely had time to blink before the woman threw herself at Ling Ling.

Arms wound around Ling Ling’s neck.

A squeal of relief.

That full-body hug you only gave people who lived in your heart rent-free.

Orm’s stomach twisted.

She waited for Ling Ling to push the woman away, to at least glance at Orm, to introduce her.

Instead, Ling Ling simply steadied the woman with a hand at her back and murmured something too quiet for Orm to catch.

The hug lasted too long.

Wayyyy too long.

Orm’s grip tightened on her cup until the plastic bent.

The woman finally pulled back, still holding onto Ling Ling’s arm, launching into a stream of rapid English about her flight, her luggage, how much she’d missed home.

Ling Ling listened, patient, eyes soft.

Orm waited again for the introduction.

It didn’t come.

She was invisible, standing two feet away in plain sight.

Her cheeks burned.

By the time they made it to the car, Orm felt like she was carrying cement in her chest.

 

The driver loaded the luggage.

Jane—that’s what Ling Ling had called her, Jane—slid into the backseat.

Orm climbed into the front, folding her arms so tight across her chest she could’ve turned into origami.

Jane started talking before the doors even shut.

About New York bagels, about delayed flights, about how she’d forgotten how hot Bangkok was.

She laughed at her own jokes, leaned forward to touch Ling Ling’s shoulder, kept her eyes trained on her as if Orm didn’t exist.

Ling Ling answered quietly, polite, measured.

A little smile here, a nod there.

And Orm?

Orm stared out the window, jaw clenched, replaying the hug like it was on loop.

Who the hell is she?

Why is Ling Ling letting her touch her like that?

Why am I even… caring?

The ride felt endless.

Jane’s laugh filled every corner of the car.

Ling Ling’s voice, soft in reply, filled in the cracks.

Orm pressed her forehead to the glass, telling herself she wasn’t jealous.

She absolutely wasn’t jealous.

Her heart didn’t get the memo.

 

The car slowed in front of a luxury apartment tower.

The kind with doormen in white gloves and chandeliers visible through the glass lobby.

Jane leaned forward again, still holding onto Ling Ling’s arm.

“Thank you for picking me up, Ling. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

And before Orm could even roll her eyes, Jane hugged Ling Ling again.

Tight.

Familiar.

Then she kissed Ling Ling on the cheek.

Orm’s jaw dropped.

Ling Ling accepted it with a small nod, her face perfectly calm, and then watched Jane stride into the building.

Orm sat in the passenger seat, pulse thundering.

The air felt like glass.

Ling Ling returned to the car, silent.

Orm didn’t say a word.

Not on the drive home.

Not when they got out.

Not even when they stepped inside the penthouse.

Orm went straight to her room, shut the door, and cranked the shower until steam filled every corner.

 She scrubbed her hair too hard, muttering under the spray.

“Ridiculous. It’s none of your business. She’s just some… whatever she is. You don’t care.”

Her chest didn’t listen.

It ached anyway.

 

An hour later, towel-dried and dressed in an oversized tee, Orm stepped back into the living room.

Ling Ling was on the couch, iPad in her lap, reading something.

She looked up briefly.

“Hungry?”

Orm ignored her, walked straight into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and twisted the cap like it had personally wronged her.

Ling Ling set the iPad down, rose, and followed.

She leaned against the counter, studying Orm the way people studied puzzles.

“You’re upset,” Ling Ling said quietly.

“I’m not,” Orm snapped, drinking half the bottle in one go.

“You haven’t looked at me since the airport.”

Orm slammed the fridge shut.

“Maybe I didn’t enjoy standing there like background furniture while some random woman hugged you like she owned you.”

The words shot out sharper than intended.

Her ears burned.

Ling Ling didn’t flinch.

“She’s not random.”

“Oh really? Then who is she? Jane? Is that even her name?” Orm demanded, arms crossed.

Ling Ling’s lips curved—just faintly.

“She is my cousin.”

Orm blinked.

“Your… cousin?”

“Yes. She’s been living in New York. She came back today.”

Orm’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.

“Cousin.”

“Yes.” Ling Ling’s voice softened now, steady but almost amused. “She’s also Prem’s fiancée. Prem asked me to pick her up because she couldn’t leave work.”

 

Silence.

Orm’s face went hot enough to fry eggs.

Every glare, every sulk, every pang in the car replayed in humiliating detail.

Ling Ling tilted her head.

“Did you think she was more than that?”

Orm covered her face with both hands.

“No. Maybe. Shut up.”

Ling Ling’s smile finally appeared.

Small. Real.

Enough to make Orm want to crawl into the sink.

“I hate you,” Orm muttered behind her hands.

“No,” Ling Ling said gently, “you don’t.”

And Orm wished the marble floor would swallow her whole.

Later that night, Orm lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in her head: the hug, the car, the kiss on the cheek, the bombshell truth.

She groaned, burying her face in the pillow.

“I’m so stupid.”

But the truth was clear, no matter how much she wanted to deny it.

 

 

 

Orm woke up wired.

Not from coffee — from guilt and adrenaline and the stupid idea that if she overcompensated enough, she could erase the way she’d turned into a jealous potato the night before.

She rolled out of bed and practiced a brave face in the mirror.

“You are not jealous. You are cool. You are the kind of woman who eats leftover noodles at midnight and laughs about it.”

She gave herself a thumbs up.

The thumb wobbled.

She padded downstairs barefoot.

The penthouse smelled faintly of someone else’s shampoo and the comfort of big windows.

Ling Ling was already in the kitchen like a boss, coat off, sleeves rolled, phone propped on recipe mode.

Calm, efficient.

The sight should have calmed Orm.

 Instead, it ramped her up because she’d decided today, she would Be Normal and Not Jealous by Doing a Thing.

She had decided pancakes.

Not just pancakes.

Pancake Diplomacy.

The kind of fluffy, perfect stack that said: “I am secure, I can feed myself, I can be domestic and not pathetic.”

She’d watched a million videos last night.

She had a plan.

She had salt, flour, milk, an eggs carton that suspiciously looked like it belonged to three households, a whisk she’d stolen from Ling Ling’s drawer, and hope.

Ling Ling glanced up when Orm marched in, spatula already in hand like a small sword.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyebrow faintly amused.

Orm clenched her jaw in a way that meant determination plus panic.

“Pancakes. For breakfast. So, you see, I am not jealous and also, I am very competent.”

Ling Ling’s lips curved.

“You cannot prove feelings by flipping batter.”

Orm pointed the whisk like it was a microphone.

“But I can try.”

 

Cooking is a weird combination of science and impatience, and Orm had both in equal parts.

She read the recipe like a sworn enemy and ignored it like a dare.

She poured flour with a shaky hand, added eggs with an overconfident toss (one landed with a small splash on the counter), then went wild on the whisk as if beating faster could beat down the panic in her chest.

The first frying pan hissed like a warning.

She poured batter and immediately realized she’d made it too thin.

The pancake spread like a sad pancake puddle.

She tried again.

This time the batter stuck, then stuck a little more, and she panicked, flipping too fast.

A soggy pancake collapsed like a defeated jelly.

Orm made a sound that was half-laugh, half-cry.

Ling Ling watched, silent like a judge having a good time.

Then she walked over, took a spatula with a smooth motion, and showed Orm how to test the pan by flicking a few drops of water.

The water danced.

The pan was hot enough.

Orm took the spatula back.

“You just—” she started.

Ling Ling shrugged one shoulder.

“I watch your videos. I know how you panic.” She said it like a fact, not a criticism.

Orm blushed.

“You stalk my YouTube?” she blurted.

“Not exactly stalking.” Ling Ling’s mouth curved. “Observant.”

Orm muttered something about surveillance and privacy rights and went back to attempts three and four.

Attempt five actually looked like a proper pancake.

Orm cheered so loudly the kettle whistled.

The dog walker on the opposite balcony probably heard and judged them.

She didn’t care.

 

They ate at the island.

The pancakes were uneven but edible.

Ling Ling added fruit, syrup, and something fancy that looked suspiciously like caramelized banana (which Ling Ling insisted was just for the texture).

Orm stacked three small pancakes like a baby tower and took a bite.

It was warm.

It tasted like triumph.

“You did well,” Ling Ling said, not overdoing praise.

Just true.

Orm nearly choked on syrup. “You said that.”

“You flattened a pancake properly.” Ling Ling gave Orm the kind of small smile that made her insides do the weird warm thing. “Progress.”

Orm tapped her chest like a proud captain.

“Pancake Defense League: Activated.”

 

After breakfast, Orm felt like she could handle small public humiliation for the rest of the week.

She wasn’t out of the woods the memory of Jane’s hug was a bruise but the bruise had softened.

She texted Gina a picture of the lopsided stack with the caption:

Pancake Peace Treaty Signed.

Gina replied with a hundred laughing emojis and a long string of proud comments and one suggestion to put chili flakes on top “for passion.”

Orm ignored that last bit.

But being domestic for ten minutes didn’t erase everything; it just opened a small window.

That afternoon Ling Ling had a call, a long one with the kind of legal-sounding pauses that made Orm go hide in the hallway and doodle.

 She came back in with the faint shadow in her eyes the kind of tired Orm recognized now as deeper than a bad night’s sleep.

Orm used to be busy and small in other people’s lives, but something about this made her want to be small in a helpful way.

She tied her hair back and made tea, walked the cup to Ling Ling, and left it within reach without making a big show about it.

Ling Ling’s fingers brushed hers when taking it, and Orm felt her face get hot.

“Thank you,” Ling Ling said, focused on the screen but soft.

“You’re welcome,” Orm mumbled, and then added, too quickly, “Also, you should take a nap.”

“I can’t nap during a crisis,” Ling Ling murmured.

“Then take a five-minute crisis nap.” Orm grinned, ridiculous. “They’re life-changing.”

Ling Ling studied her.

“Five minutes. No more.”

Orm did a small victory dance inside.

 

That evening, Orm tried extra hard to be non-jealous, non-suspicious, non-petty.

She asked Ling Ling about Jane casually who she was, what she was like and when Ling Ling replied with patient, clear facts, Orm listened and tried to mean it.

Family.

From New York.

Engaged to Prem.

 She repeated the facts like a mantra until the green embarrassment faded and the facts were just data.

But the mind is devious.

Later that night there was a small moment that lit the old sting again.

 Ling Ling’s phone buzzed and she glanced at it, eye softening.

“Prem says she’ll be late for tomorrow’s meeting. Will you be okay if I pick up Jane again?”

Orm’s chest did that tight thing again.

She wanted to say no for dramatic effect, then thought it through and realized that would be dumb.

Instead she said, loud and breezy

“Of course. It’s family. And you know, I bet Jane brings interesting New York stories.”

Ling Ling looked at her, saw the forced cheer, and tilted her head with a look that was half-smile and half-concern.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m great,” Orm said too quickly. “Fantastic. I’m the Queen of Fine. You should send me a crown.”

Ling Ling didn’t laugh aloud, but she fixed Orm with one of those soft looks again.

“If you ever need to talk, tell me.”

Orm’s lip trembled in a tiny secret way.

“I know,” she said, then added, “Also, last time in the car I didn’t… I shouldn’t have been weird. I’m sorry.”

Ling Ling’s fingers found hers at the table and squeezed lightly.

“It’s okay to be human,” she said. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

Orm almost cried.

Instead, she made a stupid face and said, “You’re soft. It’s dangerous to me.”

Ling Ling’s smile this time was warm.

“Dangerous can be good.”

 

The next morning was a slow, quiet Saturday.

Orm wanted to show she was steady — she made coffee the right strength for both of them, let Ling Ling sleep an extra thirty minutes while she tidied up, and even tackled the laundry (a small war zone for someone with two wardrobes now).

The machine did not explode.

Orm felt like a hero.

Ling Ling watched her from the doorway, arms crossed, expression gentle amusement.

“You’re trying very hard.”

Orm looked up, flushed.

“Prove it,” she said, with a stubborn little pout.

Ling Ling’s eyebrows went up.

“Prove what?”

“That I’m… not fragile jealousy girl.” Orm fiddled with a sock. “I’m… steady.”

“You baked pancakes yesterday,” Ling Ling said. “You came down and made tea. You cleaned. That shows you’re trying.”

Orm scoffed. “So apparently my actions now define my entire emotional landscape.”

She rolled her eyes but the smile that broke through was honest.

Ling Ling stepped into the room and stood close enough that Orm could smell the faint citrus of her shampoo.

Up close, Ling Ling’s calm was less intimidating and more like a soft blanket Orm had stolen by accident.

Ling Ling reached out, tucked a loose thread into Orm’s sleeve the way a parent would tuck a strand of hair.

Little domestic touches.

Little claims.

Orm’s heart clenched.

“You are allowed to be human,” Ling Ling said again. “And allowed to be jealous sometimes. Say it out loud. I won’t take offense.”

Orm laughed in a breathy, nervous way. “This will be an entire chapter in the autobiography: ‘How I Learned Jealousy and Other Survival Skills.’”

Ling Ling’s laugh this time was small but real. “That would be a bestseller.”

They moved through the day like a team learning the rules.

 Orm would make clumsy jokes and Ling Ling would deadpan back, Ling Ling would lay out a plan for a client and Orm would ask the wrong question in the sweetest way.

They fell into rhythms: laundry folded, emails left for later, tea brewed twice.

The smallness of it all felt heavy and good — a quiet life being built out of ordinary things.

 

Late afternoon, there was a short knock at the door.

Ling Ling opened it, and Prem slipped inside like she belonged in their living room (which she did).

Prem wore work clothes and a face that looked proud and tired.

“Ling! I said I’d catch the evening briefing,” Prem said, nodding at Orm with quick, appraising eyes. “You baked something? Smells good.”

“It’s pancakes,” Orm said, spine stiffening into a weird proud stance. “Attempt number eight was successful.”

Prem grinned.

“I’m impressed. Orm, hi.”

She reached out and gave Orm a quick, friendly hug — the kind that measured a person’s weight and didn’t spill secrets.

Prem’s eyes went soft as they rested on Orm for a second.

“You’re okay, right? Ling told me last night was a bit rough.”

Orm flushed but answered

“I’m fine. Learning.”

Prem’s gaze flicked to Ling Ling, and for a minute Orm felt like she was being scanned and approved in a way that made her want to stand taller.

“She’s lucky,” Prem said simply, then added, “I should get to work. Thanks for rescuing Jane. She was a mess when she landed.”

Ling Ling smiled and nodded and watched Prem go with an almost private look in her eyes, like she was making a mental note of favors owed.

Prem left, and the apartment quieted again.

Orm exhaled loudly.

“I survived the hug inspection.”

“You handled yourself okay,” Ling Ling said.

“I did. I even complimented her coat.”

“You did.” Ling Ling’s voice was a warm ribbon.

 

 

Notes:

Seeing you all enjoy this story is more than enough for me 💕
I’m just your anonymous author who is also the one behind 'Perfect Life: Half a Lies' and 'Crown & Captive'.
If you’re curious, go snoop around those too :)

Chapter 9: Catastrophic Bonding

Orm heard it by accident.

She was passing the study with a bowl of grapes when she caught Prem’s voice through the barely open door.

Calm, precise, a little too cheerful.

“Sunday. I’m stealing your wife.”

There was a pause so short it sounded like a heartbeat.

Ling Ling’s reply was even.

“Why?”

“Because I want to know the woman who’s sleeping in your penthouse and cooking pancakes that look like hats,” Prem said. “We haven’t done the proper ‘best friend meets wife’ day. And no, the toast incident doesn’t count. I want her without you in the room. Deal?”

Orm froze in the hallway, almost dropping her grapes.

She looked down at the bowl like it could save her.

Ling Ling’s voice lost that cool edge just a little.

“She’s still… adjusting.”

“I’ll be nice,” Prem promised. “Nicer.”

Another small pause.

“Fine. But, Prem—”

“I know. Be nice,” Prem said. “Relax. I’m not a shark. Think of me as a… discerning dolphin.”

“Those still bite,” Ling Ling muttered.

“Only when provoked,” Prem said, and Orm could hear the grin.

Orm tiptoed away like she hadn’t been shamelessly eavesdropping and burst into her room, shutting the door with her back against it.

She stared at the ceiling.

“Oh, I’m dead,” she whispered to no one, then louder, “I am so dead.”

She flopped face-first onto the bed, kicked her feet, and muffled a scream into the pillow.

When she rolled over, she called Gina.

“I’m going to be kidnapped by the boss’s best friend for a bonding day,” Orm hissed. “She’s a dolphin.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

Gina cackled. “You’ll be fine. Prem likes you.”

“You weren’t there for the toaster exam,” Orm said. “She looked at me like a science project. I think she wrote a thesis.”

“You lived,” Gina said. “Also, be yourself. But don’t say anything stupid. Actually, maybe talk less.”

“Wow, helpful,” Orm said, hanging up.

 

Ten seconds later she opened the door to find Ling Ling already leaning against the frame like she’d been waiting.

“Eavesdropping?” Ling Ling asked.

“No,” Orm lied immediately.

Ling Ling’s eyebrow rose.

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m an honest person who lies badly,” Orm said, hands flapping. “That’s different.”

Ling Ling smiled just a little, then sobered.

“Prem wants to take you out on Sunday.”

“I’m aware,” Orm said, then winced. “I mean—what? Wow. News to me.”

Ling Ling’s eyes warmed.

“She’ll be kind. I told her to.”

“Define ‘kind,’” Orm said. “Like, she won’t bring flashcards?”

“She might,” Ling Ling admitted. “Don’t be scared.”

“I was born scared,” Orm said. “Also, hungry. And dramatic.” She bit her lip. “Do you… think this is a good idea?”

Ling Ling’s gaze softened in that two-percent way Orm had discovered and hoarded.

“I think you’ll be fine.” A small beat. “And I think Prem needs to see you the way I see you.”

“How do you see me?” Orm blurted.

Ling Ling blinked once.

“Alive.”

It was such a simple word that Orm felt her heart wobble.

She covered it with a noisy sigh.

“Okay. Fine. But if I don’t come back, tell my mother I loved her and delete the embarrassing selfies on Gina’s phone.”

“I’ll do one of those,” Ling Ling said.

“Rude.”

 

Sunday morning felt like the first day of school.

Orm changed outfits three times, finally landing on soft jeans, a simple white blouse, and sneakers that screamed “I’m harmless; please don’t grade me.”

 She stood in front of the mirror and practiced sentences like she was going on television.

“Hello Prem, nice weather we have,” she tried, then made a face. “I sound like a politician.”

She stepped into the hallway just as Ling Ling appeared with two mugs of tea.

Ling Ling stopped, looked her up and down slowly, and the line between her eyebrows softened. “You look… nice.”

“Not like a criminal?” Orm asked.

“Less like one,” Ling Ling said.

Orm’s hands were shaking, so Ling Ling pressed the warm mug into them.

“Drink. Breathe. Come here.”

Orm shuffled closer, and Ling Ling reached up to smooth Orm’s collar, fingers steady and gentle.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Orm’s ear and patted her shoulder once, like she was releasing a small bird from her palm.

“You’ll be okay,” Ling Ling said.

Orm wanted to say, it matters that you think that.

She didn’t.

She just nodded and tried not to vibrate out of her skin.

The doorbell rang.

Orm jumped.

Ling Ling held her gaze for a heartbeat longer.

“I’ll remind her to be nice,” she said.

“You already did,” Orm whispered.

“Then I’ll remind you,” Ling Ling said, low. “Be yourself.”

“That’s the problem,” Orm muttered.

Prem strode in wearing weekend clothes that still looked like she could file a lawsuit in them.

She gave Ling Ling a quick hug, then flicked her eyes to Orm.

“Ready?” Prem asked.

“No,” Orm said honestly.

“Great,” Prem said. “Let’s go.”

Ling Ling watched them put on their shoes like a parent sending a kid to summer camp.

As Orm slid past, Ling Ling’s fingers caught her wrist for half a second.

It was nothing and everything.

“Text me,” Ling Ling said.

“I will,” Orm said, a little too quickly.

“And Prem,” Ling Ling added without looking away from Orm. “Be nice.”

“Nice-ish,” Prem said smoothly.

 

They started at a café with a view of the park.

Orm sat across from Prem with her hands wrapped around a mug like it could stop her from floating away.

Prem stirred her coffee with the exact same precision she used to cross-examine toast.

“So,” Prem said, tone light. “Tell me your life story in one minute.”

“One minute?” Orm squeaked. “I need at least… three minutes and a whiteboard.”

“Outline then,” Prem said.

“I’m Orm. Twenty-five. Graphic designer. Lives very far from rich people land. I like iced tea, cheap noodles, loud laughers, and pens that actually work. My mother is the president of my universe. My dad passed away when I was eighteen. I cry at dog commercials. I don’t cry at horror movies. If I meet a cat, I will adopt it. The end.”

Prem’s mouth twitched.

“You’re honest. And loud. It’s refreshing.”

“I can be quiet,” Orm lied.

“You can’t,” Prem said kindly. “That’s fine. Ling needs loud sometimes.”

Orm almost choked on her coffee.

“She does?”

“Silence can be heavy,” Prem said, eyes sliding toward the window. “Your noise is… light.”

Orm didn’t know what to do with that, so she blurted, “Ling Ling said you were a dolphin.”

“True,” Prem said, taking a sip. “Friendly, intelligent, occasionally bites the careless.”

“I am very chewable,” Orm warned.

“I know,” Prem said, then leaned in slightly, voice softening. “How are you? Don’t say fine.”

Orm stared at her coffee.

“I’m… learning.”

“To be married?” Prem asked.

“To live in a space that feels like a museum,” Orm said. “To stand next to someone everyone knows. To not embarrass her. To not embarrass myself. To stop making enemies with toasters.”

Prem’s smile touched her eyes.

“You’re not embarrassing Ling. You’re making her… less alone.”

Orm’s chest tightened. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Prem said. “She won’t say it. But I can.”

 

They walked through the park after, Prem matching Orm’s shorter steps without making a big deal out of it.

The sun was soft, kids kicked a ball, a street musician murdered a love song on a guitar.

Orm’s shoulders slowly unhitched.

Prem asked questions in little pieces, nothing like an interrogation now.

Favorite color (yellow, but also blue if the sky earns it).

Dream project (a book cover that pays well and doesn’t get changed fifteen times). Scariest thing (ghosts, but also being ignored at a table).

What she likes about Ling Ling (her hands, her eyes, the way she remembers tiny things, the quiet… Orm stopped herself before she said everything out loud).

“What do you need from her?” Prem asked quietly.

“She said she’d take care of me,” Orm said. “I need her to let me take care of her sometimes, too.”

Prem’s gaze softened. “Good answer.”

“Are you secretly a therapist?” Orm asked.

“Free of charge,” Prem said.

They wandered into side streets with tiny stores, bought cheap sunglasses, ate street ice cream, shared a bottle of water, talked about stupid things.

It felt oddly easy.

Prem didn’t prod every second; she let Orm ramble and then flicked in a question just when Orm needed a handhold.

When they stopped at a small noodle stall for late lunch, Orm realized she wasn’t scared anymore.

She was… fine.

She didn’t even feel like she was being graded. Prem had put the clipboard away.

“Thanks,” Orm said suddenly, earnest. “For not eating me.”

Prem laughed. “I would never eat my best friend’s wife. Bad manners.”

Orm twirled noodles, cheeks warmed.

“You like me?”

“I do,” Prem said. “You’re good for her.”

Orm blinked hard.

“Don’t make me cry into my soup.”

Prem smiled. “Please don’t. The broth will suffer.”

 

They paid and started back toward the car.

That was when Orm heard it — a tiny, broken noise.

A thin, threadlike mew from somewhere behind a row of trash bins near the alley.

She stopped so fast Prem nearly walked into her.

“Wait.”

Another mew.

Orm’s head snapped toward the sound.

She moved before thinking, ducking into the narrow space between bins and wall.

The smell was rough, the ground damp.

She crouched and peered into the shadow.

“Hi,” Orm whispered. “Where are you?”

A small shape in the dark shifted.

A tiny kitten, patchy gray and dark, eyes too big for its face, ribs visible when it breathed.

It looked up at Orm and cried — small, hopeless, demanding.

“Oh no,” Orm said, voice breaking. “Prem. Prem, look.”

Prem leaned over her shoulder, expression immediately concerned.

“Oh, baby…”

Orm pushed her hand slowly toward it, palm up.

The kitten sniffed, hesitated, then stepped forward onto her fingers like a trust fall.

Orm lifted it gently to her chest, and the little thing curled immediately into the warmth, purring so weakly it broke Orm in half.

“We have to take it,” Orm said, not looking up.

Prem hesitated.

“Orm…”

“We have to,” Orm insisted, eyes already glassy. “It’s a sign.”

“It’s an abandoned stray,” Prem said, but her voice was gentle. “Ling Ling might—”

“I’ll convince her,” Orm said. “I’ll die trying.”

“You’re very dramatic,” Prem said.

“I’m in love,” Orm said, stroking the kitten’s tiny head. “With this face.”

The kitten squeaked like it understood and agreed.

Prem sighed the sigh of someone who knew she’d lost five minutes ago.

“Okay. But we need a box. And a towel. And food.”

They scrambled like a tiny rescue squad.

Prem asked the noodle auntie for a clean box and a rag.

The auntie gave them both and three fish balls “for the baby.”

Orm tucked the kitten into the towel-lined box like it was a crown jewel and refused to let anyone else carry it.

On the ride back, Prem tried one last time.

“Are you sure about bringing it to the penthouse? Maybe a vet first?”

“We’ll go after,” Orm said. “But I need to show Ling first. Please. She needs to see this face. It’s medically necessary.”

Prem pinched the bridge of her nose and smiled despite herself.

“Wow. You two deserve each other.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

 

Ling Ling was on the couch when they arrived, hair up, a thin sweater, bare feet tucked under her.

A novel lay face down beside her, the kind with a pretty cover and a bookmark that had definitely been there for months.

She looked up as the door opened and Orm-Prem storm blew in, Orm practically shaking with excitement and clutching a cardboard box to her chest.

“What happened,” Ling Ling said, not a question, a diagnosis.

Orm marched up to the coffee table and set the box down like she was unveiling treasure.

“Please don’t panic,” she said, already panicking. “It’s small. It’s safe. It’s not loud. It is perfect. Don’t scream.”

“I never scream,” Ling Ling said, sitting up.

Orm peeled open the flaps.

The kitten blinked up at Ling Ling like a cartoon character, then mewed one tiny, devastating mew.

Ling Ling went very, very still.

Prem crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, expression neutral but eyes bright, very much enjoying the show.

Orm launched into her speech at speed.

“We found it in the alley and it was cold and it fit in my hand and it trusted me instantly because I’m friendly and also because it was desperate and it’s so small, Ling, look at the ears, look at the face, it purrs like a broken phone, I will feed it and bathe it and take it to the vet and clean up every accident and it can sleep in my room and I’ll buy whatever gold litter box rich people have and I’ll sell a kidney if it needs surgery and—”

“Stop,” Ling Ling said softly.

Orm stopped.

She hugged the air instead.

“Okay. Sorry. I’m just. Look at it.”

Ling Ling leaned in.

She didn’t rush.

She lowered a hand the way you approach scared wild things and let the kitten sniff her fingers.

The kitten sniffed.

Then it pressed its tiny forehead into her hand and made a sound so small that Orm squeaked.

Something shifted in Ling Ling’s face like clouds moving across a sky.

The line at her mouth softened. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Please?” Orm whispered, hands clasped under her chin like a five-year-old. “Please, please, please.”

Prem coughed to hide a laugh.

Ling Ling stayed quiet for a heartbeat too long.

Then she sighed, stepped closer, and stroked the kitten’s head again with one careful fingertip.

The kitten purred harder, a little engine trying its best.

“Fine,” Ling Ling said, voice low, almost a smile. “We keep it.”

Orm made a noise that wasn’t human.

She bounced on her toes, scooped the kitten up with ridiculous care, then forgetting herself practically launched into Ling Ling’s space and threw her free arm around Ling Ling’s waist in a one-armed hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Orm said into Ling Ling’s shoulder.

Ling Ling’s hand came up, hesitated for a blink, then settled between Orm’s shoulder blades and held her there, gentle and firm.

“But,” she added, pulling back just enough to meet Orm’s eyes. “It’s your responsibility.”

“I swear,” Orm said solemnly, the kitten’s head tucked under her chin. “I’ll be the best mother this city has ever seen.”

Prem clucked her tongue.

“Wow. That was fast.”

Ling Ling shot her a look.

“Say it.”

Prem put her hands up.

“Fine. I’m saying it: I have never seen you fold that quickly in my life.”

“I did not fold,” Ling Ling said.

Prem pointed at Orm and the tiny cat.

“You folded like warm laundry.”

Ling Ling’s mouth tugged.

“I compromised.”

“Sure,” Prem said. “On your entire personality.”

Orm beamed, completely unbothered by being the reason Ling Ling’s personality had apparently evaporated.

“Can we name it?”

Ling Ling considered the small bundle.

“We should take it to the vet first.”

“After a name,” Orm said, because priorities.

Prem wandered over and peered into the towel.

“It looks like a yam.”

“We’re not calling our child ‘Yam,’” Orm said, scandalized.

“Our child,” Prem mouthed at Ling Ling, delighted.

Ling Ling looked at Orm’s proud, frantic face, then at the ball of fluff.

“Something small,” she said after a moment. “Something gentle.”

“Boba?” Orm tried. “Because it’s small and round and I love it.”

“Acceptable,” Ling Ling said.

Prem gagged.

“You’re going to name it after a drink?”

“Shush,” Orm said. “Boba is a lifestyle.”

She lifted the kitten up so its tiny face was level with Ling Ling’s.

“Say hello to your other mother, Boba.”

Boba blinked and sneezed on Ling Ling’s shirt.

Orm gasped.

“It likes you.”

Ling Ling’s laugh small, soft, real slid into the room and made it warmer than the afternoon sun ever could.

They spent the next hour in happy chaos.

Orm ran around gathering towels and bowls and a soft blanket.

Ling Ling called the twenty-four-hour vet and booked a slot, then quietly ordered litter, food, a carrier, and… three types of tiny toys because Orm looked at them with sparkly eyes and didn’t say anything, and that was enough.

Prem filmed thirty seconds of Orm doing a happy dance with the kitten box and sent it to Gina with the caption:

Your girl is a menace.

Gina replied with seventeen heart emojis and I’m bringing a stupidly cute collar.

When Orm finally sat down, kitten asleep in a towel nest in her lap, she looked at Ling Ling like she’d just been given a holiday.

“Thank you,” she said, plain and big.

Ling Ling sat beside her, a careful inch away, and studied the small bundle.

“It looks safe,” she said.

Then, a beat later, so quietly Orm almost didn’t catch it “You look safe, too.”

Orm’s throat closed.

She hid in bravado.

“Wait till you see me at 3 a.m. with a bottle, I’ll be feral.”

“I believe you,” Ling Ling said.

Prem watched them with the same quiet fondness she saved for rare, good things.

“Okay. I’m leaving before I get a secondhand cat.”

“You could adopt Boba’s imaginary brother,” Orm suggested.

“I have a fiancée,” Prem said dryly.

“Same thing,” Orm said, and Prem rolled her eyes like maybe.

At the door, Prem paused and looked back at Ling Ling.

“You’re soft,” she said, not unkind. “It suits you.”

Ling Ling gave her a look that tried to be flat and failed.

“Door.”

Prem saluted and slipped out.

Orm finally exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the alley.

She looked down at Boba, then up at Ling Ling, and something in her face gave the game away the kind of soft people tried to hide and failed.

“Do you want to hold it?” Orm asked.

Ling Ling hesitated, then nodded.

Orm shifted carefully, laying the warm little weight into Ling Ling’s cupped hands.

Ling Ling held the kitten like a secret.

Boba yawned, squeaked, and burrowed against Ling Ling’s palm. Ling Ling’s shoulders loosened another fraction.

“We’re keeping him,” Ling Ling said, no room for debate, and Orm grinned like the sun.

“Obviously,” Orm said. “Welcome home, Boba.”

They sat there for a long time, not talking much, just listening to the tiny purr and the city outside.

It felt like a new kind of quiet. Not museum quiet.

Not marble-floor quiet.

Home quiet.

At some point, Orm leaned her head on Ling Ling’s shoulder, careful not to jostle the kitten.

Ling Ling didn’t move away.

She tilted her head just slightly so it rested against Orm’s hair.

No fireworks. No speeches.

Just weight, shared.

Orm thought of the morning panic, the café questions, the alley rescue, the begging, the melt.

She thought of Ling Ling’s face when the kitten pressed into her hand.

She thought of Prem’s look — the one that said I see you. I approve.

And for the first time since the bathroom altar, Orm felt something settle into place inside her that hadn’t had a name yet.

Maybe it was this is not just accident. Not just chaos. Choice.

“I’ll be a good mom,” Orm murmured, sleepy.

“I know,” Ling Ling said.

“And a good wife,” Orm added, almost not meaning to, words spilling out like a secret.

Ling Ling’s hand paused on Boba’s fur.

Then she nodded, slow. “I know,” she said again, even softer.

They stayed like that until Boba snored a tiny snore.

Orm laughed under her breath.

Ling Ling smiled into Orm’s hair.

The penthouse breathed.

Outside, Sunday slid into evening.

Inside, three hearts adjusted to a new rhythm.

And it felt, finally, like they’d brought home something that wasn’t just a kitten.

It felt like proof that chaos could make room for softness and still keep them whole.

 

 

Orm woke up to the sound of purring.

For a second she thought she was dreaming that soft, fragile vibration pressed against her chest, a tiny warmth curled just under her chin.

She blinked blearily and looked down.

There, nestled on her pajama shirt, was Boba, their new kitten, asleep like he owned her.

Orm’s heart melted into goo.

“Oh my god, you’re so small,” she whispered, careful not to breathe too loudly. She cupped him gently, eyes stinging from the sheer unfairness of his cuteness. “I’d die for you.”

Then reality hit like a brick to the head.

It was Monday.

She had work.

Ling Ling had work.

The world moved on.

But Boba?

He was just a baby.

Orm sat up, panic flooding her veins.

“Oh no. No, no, no, this isn’t right. I can’t go. I can’t leave you. You’ll die. You’ll get lonely and sad and—what if you choke on air?!”

Boba blinked awake at her voice, gave a squeaky meow, then tucked himself into the blanket again.

Orm scrambled out of bed, hair in disarray, and stormed into the living room where Ling Ling was already up, dressed in a crisp navy suit, sipping tea like the goddess of order she was.

“Ling Ling!” Orm screeched, nearly tripping on the rug. “We have a crisis.”

Ling Ling looked up, calm as ever. “Good morning.”

“No, bad morning!” Orm pointed toward the bedroom dramatically. “We can’t go to work. We have to call in sick. Boba’s too small. Too precious. Too—”

Ling Ling set her teacup down with surgical precision. “Orm. Sit.”

“I can’t sit! I’m a mother now!” Orm wailed, clutching her hair. “Who’s going to feed him at noon? Who’s going to cuddle him when he cries? What if he walks into the balcony and falls? Or chews on wires? Or eats dust bunnies? Or—”

Ling Ling raised one hand, the tiniest motion, but it shut Orm up like a gavel.

“Breathe,” Ling Ling said.

Orm inhaled like she was drowning and exhaled shakily.

“Okay. Breathing. Still panicking.”

Ling Ling studied her for a long beat, then said calmly

“We’ll bring him to my office.”

Orm’s jaw dropped. “YOUR OFFICE?!”

“Yes,” Ling Ling said simply.

“That’s a corporate empire with marble floors and scary people and documents worth more than my life! He’ll sneeze on a contract and cause the stock market to collapse!”

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched the faintest bit.

“He will be fine.”

Orm clutched her chest. “Ling Ling, that’s not an office, that’s a museum. He’s not ready for art exhibits.”

“We’ll make him a space,” Ling Ling said, standing to smooth her jacket. “Carrier. Blanket. Litter tray. He’ll be with me all day. Safe.”

Orm’s lip trembled. “But… you’ll be in meetings.”

Ling Ling finally looked at her fully, eyes soft but steady.

“Then he’ll attend meetings.”

 

By 9:30 AM, Orm was standing in the Kwong Group lobby, clutching her tote bag like a bomb was inside.

Technically, there was  Boba, fast asleep in his towel nest.

The receptionists, usually so composed, all froze.

Their intimidating CEO walked in with a kitten carrier dangling casually in one hand.

“Good morning,” Ling Ling said coolly.

“G-good morning, Khun Ling,” one stammered, eyes flicking toward the tiny paw poking out of the mesh.

By the time they reached the top floor, rumors were already flying down the building.

Orm trailed behind like a nervous nanny.

Inside Ling Ling’s office, the staff had set up a little corner: carrier, blanket, food, even a tiny litter box that Ling Ling’s assistant had somehow conjured out of thin air.

Boba was placed inside gently.

He yawned, stretched, then promptly fell asleep again.

“See?” Ling Ling said. “Problem solved.”

Orm pressed her face against the carrier bars.

“Call me if he blinks weird.”

“I’ll update you,” Ling Ling promised.

 

At Orm’s office, she was useless.

Her coworkers noticed immediately.

“You’re smiling at your phone,” one teased. “Hot date?”

Orm hid her screen, cheeks burning.

“Shut up. It’s none of your business.”

Her screen lit up again.

A photo from Ling Ling.

Caption: He’s fine.

Photo: Boba asleep on a pile of contracts.

Orm squealed into her sleeve.

Ten minutes later, another ping.

Caption: Still fine.

Photo: Boba chewing on Ling Ling’s pen while she typed with one hand.

Orm’s heart combusted.

 She slammed her forehead onto her desk.

By lunch, she’d gotten six more updates.

Eating. A blurry shot of Boba licking from a tiny dish.

Sleeping again. Curled up in Ling Ling’s blazer like it was his new kingdom.

Exploring. On Ling Ling’s desk, batting at paper clips while an assistant in the background tried not to faint from cuteness overload.

Orm: Are you watching him? He could fall!
Ling Ling: I’m watching. Focus on work.
Orm: How can I work when my son is in the BOARDROOM??
Ling Ling: He’s in my office. Not the boardroom.
Orm: …yet.

Her coworkers had given up.

They just let her grin and sigh dramatically every ten minutes.

 

 

Meanwhile, the Kwong Group was in chaos.

Assistants lined up outside Ling Ling’s office with fake excuses just to peek inside.

The usually ice-cold CEO was typing away with a kitten asleep on her lap.

During a video meeting, the entire board froze when a tiny tail appeared in frame.

“Is that…?” one whispered.

“Yes,” Ling Ling said without blinking. “Continue.”

Boba batted at the laptop edge, then curled up against her, purring audibly into the microphone.

For the first time in history, the board meeting ended early because no one could concentrate.

By 3:00 p.m., Boba had effectively become the company mascot.

Someone printed his photo and taped it to the office bulletin board under the words Employee of the Month.

Ling Ling ignored the whispers, worked efficiently, and every once in a while, stroked the kitten’s fur with absent gentleness.

No one dared comment.

But everyone saw.

 

When the day finally ended, Orm practically sprinted home.

She burst into the penthouse shouting “BOBAAAA!” before dropping her bag.

Boba meowed from Ling Ling’s arms.

Orm rushed over and scooped him up, covering him with frantic kisses.

“Did you miss me? Yes, you did. Don’t lie. You dreamed of me, didn’t you?”

Ling Ling, setting her briefcase down, said calmly “He was asleep the entire day.”

Orm gasped, horrified. “He missed me in his dreams!”

Ling Ling’s lips tugged into the faintest smile.

That night, Orm sprawled on the couch with Boba asleep on her stomach.

Ling Ling sat nearby, sorting through emails, but her eyes kept flicking toward them.

“You’ve created chaos,” Ling Ling murmured at last.

Orm grinned, stroking the kitten’s head.

“No. We’ve created family.”

Ling Ling looked at them both, Orm’s messy hair, her ridiculous smile, the kitten curled between them and something in her chest loosened, just a fraction.

She didn’t say anything.

But when Orm leaned her head against her shoulder, Ling Ling didn’t move away.

The penthouse felt less like marble, more like home.

Notes:

Who love the little fluffy gremlin boba? :) I know i do.

Chapter 10: Shopping And Grandparents

Orm had a mission.

Not the kind involving blueprints, mergers, or billion-baht contracts.

Her mission was simple: drag one Ling Ling Kwong, CEO of a kingdom made of glass and steel, into the fluorescent battlefield of a grocery store.

Ling Ling had resisted with the same energy she probably used to fend off hostile takeovers. “Orm, we don’t need to. We have people—”

“Exactly!” Orm cut in, hands on hips. “You’ve never done groceries, have you?”

“I’ve had groceries,” Ling Ling corrected, deadpan.

“That’s not the same. You need to experience it.”

Ling Ling’s brow arched, skeptical.

“Experience… groceries?”

“Yes. It’s a ritual. A bonding thing. A… couple thing.”

The last words slipped out too quickly, and Orm’s brain slammed the panic button, but it was too late.

Ling Ling’s eyes flickered, not with mockery, but something unreadable.

“I don’t think arguing with a crowd over ripe bananas counts as couple bonding.”

Orm clasped her hands dramatically.

“Please. Just once. I promise, no hostile bananas.”

For a long moment, Ling Ling looked like she might call security just to win the argument.

But finally, she sighed, shoulders softening.

“Fine. Once.”

Victory.

Orm punched the air.

 

The supermarket sprawled like a miniature city.

Bright lights hummed overhead, carts rattled across tiles, and children shrieked from the candy aisle.

For Orm, it was familiar territory, a chaotic comfort zone.

For Ling Ling, it was… another planet.

She paused at the entrance, taking in the crowd, the noise, the glaring sale banners.

Orm bumped her shoulder lightly.

“Welcome to civilization, Your Highness.”

Ling Ling adjusted her blazer sleeve, expression calm but eyes faintly horrified.

“It smells… damp.”

“That’s produce. It’s supposed to smell alive,” Orm teased, grabbing a trolley.

Ling Ling didn’t touch it.

Orm snorted.

“What, too humble for cart duty?”

“I’ll supervise.”

“You’re hopeless.” Orm rolled her eyes, then promptly leapt onto the trolley like it was a scooter, pushing off with one foot and gliding down the aisle.

Several aunties gasped.

One child clapped.

Ling Ling pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, exhaling like she was calculating the PR fallout.

“You’re going to injure yourself,” Ling Ling muttered when Orm parked with a triumphant skid near the apples.

“But did you die?” Orm grinned, grabbing a plastic bag. “Help me pick.”

Ling Ling examined the apples like diamonds at auction.

“This one has a bruise. This one’s uneven. This one—”

“It’s fruit, not real estate.” Orm plucked two at random and tossed them into the bag.

Ling Ling winced as if Orm had committed a felony.

 

They moved on.

Orm darted down the snack aisle, gleefully grabbing chips, biscuits, instant noodles.

She dumped them into the trolley like treasures.

Ling Ling, following at a slower pace, reached in and calmly removed half the stash.

“Hey!” Orm protested. “Put back my children!”

“These are not food groups,” Ling Ling said, holding up a bright green noodle packet.

“They’re happiness groups.”

Ling Ling slid it onto the shelf with surgical precision.

“No.”

Orm gasped.

“You’re cruel.”

“You’ll thank me when your arteries are still intact in ten years.”

Orm crossed her arms, muttering

“We’ll see who thanks who when the apocalypse comes and instant noodles are currency.”

Ling Ling’s lips twitched, but she didn’t reply.

In the beverage aisle, they faced the great water debate.

Orm grabbed the cheapest six-pack of bottled water, balanced it on the cart, and patted it proudly.

Ling Ling, however, studied the mineral water section like it was a gallery of fine art. “This brand filters through volcanic rock. This one balance pH. This one—”

“They’re all wet,” Orm said flatly.

Ling Ling gave her a look so sharp Orm nearly apologized to the entire water industry.

“Fine,” Orm grumbled. “You pick. But I’m sneaking in iced tea.”

“Orm—”

“Too late. Already did.” She flashed the bottle like contraband.

Ling Ling sighed. “Delicate people require supervision.”

Orm beamed. “Aw, you think I’m delicate.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Halfway through, Orm tried to climb the bottom shelf to reach a cereal box perched on top.

Ling Ling’s heart stopped.

“Get down!” she snapped, grabbing Orm’s wrist.

“But it’s the honey one! And they’re hiding it like treasure—”

“Orm.” Ling Ling’s voice went low, CEO mode. “If you fall in this store, tabloids will headline ‘Heiress Marries Idiot Who Died in Cereal Aisle.’”

Orm giggled helplessly, clinging to the shelf. “That’d be iconic.”

Ling Ling dragged her down, glaring. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet you still married me.”

The words slipped out before Orm could stop them.

Silence stretched.

Ling Ling’s grip loosened slowly, her face unreadable.

Orm coughed, ears hot.

“Uh—cereal secured. Moving on.”

At checkout, things got sticky. People stared.

A cashier whispered.

Orm felt the ripple before she heard it: Ling Ling’s name, murmured like gossip, like currency.

Ling Ling’s jaw tightened, but her posture stayed calm, her face smooth.

She was used to this.

Orm wasn’t.

She hated the way strangers’ eyes lingered, hungry.

Without thinking, Orm grabbed three apples from the counter and started juggling them.

Badly.

Two rolled away immediately.

One nearly hit a basket of fish balls.

The cashier squeaked.

But the whispers broke into laughter instead.

Ling Ling blinked, startled, as Orm bowed theatrically. “Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all week.”

Ling Ling pressed her lips together like she was holding in God forbid—a laugh.

“You’re reckless,” she murmured as they bagged their groceries.

“You’re welcome,” Orm shot back, grinning.

 

Back at the penthouse, Orm collapsed onto the sofa, limbs sprawled, as Ling Ling directed staff to sort the bags.

When the helpers left, quite returned.

Orm groaned.

“That was exhausting. Grocery Olympics.”

Ling Ling placed a cold bottle on the table in front of her.

Orm sat up, blinking.

It was her favorite iced tea — the exact brand she’d sneaked into the cart earlier.

She looked at Ling Ling, who was already settling onto the opposite sofa, scrolling through her phone like nothing had happened.

“You let me keep it,” Orm said softly.

Ling Ling didn’t look up.

“You’ll need it for recovery.”

Orm’s chest did a stupid, warm flip.

She clutched the bottle like it was treasure.

“…Thanks,” she said, voice smaller than usual.

Ling Ling glanced at her finally, eyes calm but softer than glass had any right to be.

“Don’t thank me for something that was always yours.”

The words landed heavier than Orm expected.

Heavier, and gentler.

Orm leaned back into the cushions, sipping her tea, her pulse far too fast for such an ordinary moment.

She told herself it was just the caffeine.

 

 

 

Orm was pacing like she was about to be sentenced.

Back and forth across the penthouse living room she went, clutching the kitten carrier to her chest like it was a ticking bomb.

Inside, Boba meowed once, then went back to sleep, oblivious.

“Mae is going to murder me,” Orm muttered. “Actually murder me. First shotgun marriage, now shotgun cat. She’ll faint. She’ll scream. She’ll kick me out of the will she doesn’t even have.”

Ling Ling was seated on the sofa, legs crossed, scrolling through her tablet with the air of someone immune to earthquakes, tsunamis, and Orm’s chaos.

She finally glanced up, one eyebrow arched.

“She won’t kill you,” Ling Ling said calmly. “She’ll love him.”

Orm gawked. “Love him? She doesn’t even know him! He’s a cat!”

Ling Ling’s lips quirked just slightly.

“He’s her grandson.”

“Ling!” Orm squealed, half-panicked, half-melted. “Don’t say that, she’ll take it seriously!”

“She should,” Ling Ling said. “Because you will.”

 

The trip to Thonglor felt like a funeral procession.

Orm sat stiffly in the backseat with the carrier in her lap, whispering apologies to Boba like she was preparing him for combat.

“You’re about to meet Grandma,” she said in a trembly voice. “She’s dramatic. Don’t sneeze or she’ll think you’re dying.”

Ling Ling sat beside her, perfectly poised.

She leaned slightly closer and murmured, “Orm. Breathe.”

“I can’t breathe,” Orm hissed. “I inherited her panic gene.”

Ling Ling’s hand brushed Orm’s briefly, grounding her.

“Trust me.”

 

Mae Koy opened the door herself when they arrived.

She looked radiant in a casual blouse, her hair pinned up, garden gloves still on her hands.

“Orm! Ling Ling!” she beamed. “What a surprise! Come in, come in—”

Then she froze.

Her sharp mother eyes narrowed at the faint meow coming from Orm’s tote.

“What,” Mae Koy said slowly, “is THAT sound?”

Orm panicked.

Her mouth opened, and what came out was, “Your grandson.”

There was a beat of silence.

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched, but she said nothing.

Mae Koy’s eyes went wide.

She stepped closer, peered into the carrier, and when Boba blinked up at her with his too-big eyes and squeaked a meow… she gasped.

And then, in full dramatic glory, Mae Koy fainted.

“MAE!” Orm screamed, nearly dropping the carrier as she scrambled to catch her mother.

Ling Ling moved like clockwork: one arm around Mae Koy, guiding her to the couch, the other hand already reaching for the glass of water on the side table.

“She’ll be fine,” Ling Ling said coolly.

Orm was fanning her mother with one hand, clutching the kitten carrier with the other.

“This is it, I killed her. My first act as a married woman, and I killed my mom with a cat.”

Boba meowed again, as if unimpressed with the drama.

 

Five minutes later, Mae Koy revived.

She sat up slowly, water in hand, and then immediately reached for the carrier.

“Let me see him.”

Orm tried to warn her. “Mae, please—”

But Mae Koy was already cradling Boba like he was a human infant.

She burst into tears. “I’m a grandmother now.”

Orm slapped her forehead.

“Mae. He’s a cat.”

“Don’t you dare insult my grandson,” Mae Koy snapped through tears, stroking Boba’s tiny head. “Look at him. Perfect nose. Perfect paws. He has your spirit.”

Ling Ling coughed delicately into her hand, clearly fighting a smile.

 

The rest of the afternoon devolved into pure chaos.

Mae Koy immediately raided her cupboards for snacks.

“He needs milk—no, cream—no, proper food, I must research this. I will cook for him.”

“Mae, he eats cat food!” Orm cried.

“No grandson of mine will eat out of a tin!” Mae Koy declared, already pulling out a saucepan.

Boba, meanwhile, climbed onto her shoulder and promptly fell asleep there, snoring softly.

Mae Koy froze, tears spilling down her cheeks again. “He trusts me. He knows I’m his grandma.”

Orm buried her face in her hands, dying of secondhand embarrassment.

Ling Ling, sitting at the table, watched quietly. Her expression was calm, but her eyes… they were soft, watching Orm and her mother fuss and bicker and melt over a stray kitten.

Every so often, Ling Ling’s lips curved in the faintest smile — the kind Orm had come to recognize as her rarest expression.

By evening, Mae Koy had made a full plan for Boba’s life: sweaters, toys, special “grandma dates” in the garden.

Orm begged her to tone it down, but Mae Koy only shushed her.

“Respect your elders,” Mae Koy said firmly. “I know best.”

When they finally left, Mae Koy kissed Boba on the forehead and whispered, “Grandma loves you,” while Orm died quietly in the corner.

In the car ride home, Orm slumped against the seat, face buried in her hands.

“Mae already calls herself Grandma Boba. I’ll never live this down.”

Ling Ling glanced at her, then at the carrier in Orm’s lap, where Boba was curled and purring.

Her hand brushed briefly against the handle, protective.

“She’s happy,” Ling Ling said softly. “That’s what matters.”

Orm peeked at her through her fingers.

Ling Ling was watching Boba, her face unreadable but her eyes warmer than Orm had ever seen them.

And for the first time, Orm thought maybe this chaos wasn’t just survivable — maybe it was building into something that looked a lot like family.

 

 

On Sunday night, Orm set six alarms.

On Monday at dawn, she woke up before all of them anyway.

Orm hadn’t been this nervous since the shotgun wedding altar.

She sat up in bed and stared at the ceiling like it owed her money.

Boba was a warm comma curled in the dip of her shoulder, purring like a tiny engine.

His breath tickled.

Orm cautiously turned her head so she could see his face, that small pink nose, those eyelashes (could kittens have eyelashes?) and whispered, “We’re dead.”

Boba opened one eye and closed it again.

Unbothered.

King.

“Your grandparents are rich,” Orm told him. “Like, capital letters Rich. Their plants probably have trust funds.”

She slid out of bed like a thief, tucking the blanket around Boba so he wouldn’t wake up, then stumbled into the hall and met Ling Ling in the kitchen, where the kettle was already murmuring.

“You’re early,” Ling Ling said, which from her meant you didn’t sleep.

“I’m nauseous,” Orm said, which from her meant I’m afraid of the sun, toast, and meeting your terrifying elegant parents.

Ling Ling poured tea, calm.

She wore soft gray, no blazer yet, hair down.

It made her look less CEO and more—Orm shook her head.

Not helpful.

“They’ll be kind,” Ling Ling said.

Orm slapped the island with her palm. “I need a crash course. Fast. Teach me how to sit like a rich person.”

“You already sit,” Ling Ling said.

“But not like them,” Orm said, demonstrating an awful posture, then a rigid one that looked like a haunted mannequin. “What if I drop a spoon? What if I call your father ‘sir’ and your mother ‘ma’am’ and then faint into the curry?”

“You can drop a spoon,” Ling Ling said, unbothered. “Just not the cat.”

“Ha. Ha,” Orm said, then paused, genuinely considering. “Do I bow? Wai? Salute? Should I bring an offering? A fruit basket? A sacrifice?”

“Bring yourself,” Ling Ling said, setting a cup of tea in front of her.

Orm wrapped her hands around it like it could stop the tremor in her fingers.

“They’ll judge me.”

“They’ll see you,” Ling Ling said simply.

That quiet, steady answer did a weird thing to Orm’s ribs.

For a second she forgot how to be dramatic.

Then she remembered. “Okay. I’ll wear something that says ‘hire me as your daughter.’ Simple but nice. Very not-criminal.”

“Not-criminal is ideal,” Ling Ling said, sipping.

Boba toddled in then, mewing like a late alarm.

Orm turned into pudding. “Look at him. He’s too small for judgment.”

Ling Ling stroked his head with a single fingertip, expression softening only a millimeter. “Get ready,” she told Orm, “before you explode.”

“Copy,” Orm said, saluting with a tea bag.

It took three outfit changes and a pep talk from the mirror.

Orm landed on a white blouse tucked into a navy skirt, flats, hair tied with a ribbon that made her look like a person who paid her bills on time.

She stood in the hallway and practiced nice sentences. “Thank you for having us.” “Yes, he’s eating well.” “No, I did not steal your daughter at an altar; technically she stole me.”

She scratched that last one.

Ling Ling appeared in a cream suit and tiny gold earrings that made Orm’s brain short-circuit.

She tucked one last hair strand behind Orm’s ear, quick as breathing.

“Perfect,” she said, like she meant enough and also I see you.

“Do I smell like fear?” Orm asked.

“You smell like laundry,” Ling Ling said. “It’s acceptable.”

 

The driver met them at the door with a soft “Good morning, Khun Ling.”

Orm climbed in carefully with the carrier on her lap, Boba’s ears just visible through the mesh.

She checked the latch three times. Ling Ling watched with a straight face and eyes that were absolutely laughing.

Halfway down Sukhumvit, Orm started muttering to the carrier.

“Your grandfather might grill us. Your grandmother will be elegant and kind but secretly terrifying. Do not poop.”

From the front seat, the driver suppressed a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Ling Ling looked out the window for mercy.

“You’re not helping,” Orm told Ling Ling.

“I’m preserving my energy,” Ling Ling said.

“For what? Manual resuscitation when I faint?” Orm asked.

“Yes,” Ling Ling said, deadpan.

Orm scowled, then softened.

“Hey,” she whispered, so small only Ling Ling could hear. “If they don’t like me, what then?”

Ling Ling’s answer was immediate, not even a beat.

“I like you.”

It should have been simple.

It hit like a thrown blanket—warm, sudden, covering all the noisy edges.

Orm stared at her lap.

“Okay,” she said, breathless. “Okay.”

 

The Kwong's gates were the kind of beautiful that made your neck behave.

Orm craned her head to take in carved wood, manicured hedges, a water feature that probably had a name and a maintenance staff.

She tried not to gawk.

Failed.

Gawked harder.

Inside, the house smelled like jasmine, polished wood, and soup simmering somewhere far away.

A woman in a soft silk blouse glided forward first—Ling Ling’s mother, who had Ling’s eyes softened by years of smiling carefully.

Right behind her, Ling Ling’s father appeared in a weekend suit that looked more expensive than Orm’s laptop.

They greeted Ling Ling in a way that told Orm a lot without words—gentle hands, a kiss to the cheek, that small pause at Ling Ling’s shoulder as if to measure if she was eating and sleeping and breathing.

Then both looked at Orm like she was a delicate artwork someone had entrusted them to frame.

“Orm,” Ling’s mother said, tone genuinely warm. “Welcome.”

Orm wai’d as if her life depended on it.

“Sawadee ka. Thank you for having me.”

Then the carrier mewed.

A twin shift, mother and father, eyes turning toward the sound, zeroing in.

Ling Ling didn’t flinch.

“We brought Boba,” she said, like We brought a salad.

“Boba?” Ling’s father repeated, eyebrows tilting a fraction.

“Their kitten,” Ling’s mother supplied, mouth already softening at the idea.

“It is not— we’re not— he’s not literally—” Orm began, then surrendered. “Yes. Boba.”

They led them to a living room that looked like a magazine but had a knitted throw draped over the back of a sofa that said someone’s hands live here.

Orm set the carrier on a low table and unzipped it.

Boba peeped out, sniffed, and put one tiny paw on the carpet with the seriousness of a tourist entering a temple.

Ling’s mother knelt, despite the silk.

“Hello,” she murmured to the kitten, voice gone soft like water. “May I?”

Orm nodded frantically.

“Please. He’s very polite.” Boba sniffed her hand, then stepped into her palm like a decision.

Ling’s mother lifted him with a care that made Orm’s throat start to sting.

Ling’s father crouched with surprising ease, peered over her shoulder.

“Is he eating well? Bowls? Litter box?” He adjusted his glasses. “He’s young.”

“We took him to the vet,” Ling Ling said, composed. “Two days after we found him. Good heart, clear lungs. Vitamin supplement prescribed. We’re feeding kitten formula and wet food, four small meals.”

Orm nodded like an assistant with a chart.

“We have bowls with little feet so they don’t slide on the floor.”

“Smart,” Ling’s father said, as if they’d presented quarterly earnings.

Ling’s mother stroked Boba’s ear. “He’s delicate. He’ll need gentle handling.”

“We’re gentle,” Orm promised, chest puffing. “I mean, I drop keys and sometimes my phone but never the cat.”

Ling Ling’s eyebrow rose.

Orm shut up.

 

They asked more, not like a cross-examination, but like people who’d once cared for small things and understood the terror.

Vaccinations scheduled?

A safe place to sleep?

Sunlight but not heat?

Orm answered, halting at first, then fluent; Ling filled the gaps.

Her parents listened with all the calm intensity of a board they chaired and a family they loved.

After questions came stories.

Ling’s mother smiled faintly at the memory.

“When Ling Ling was eleven, she brought home a turtle from the school pond.”

Orm’s head snapped up so fast she got whiplash.

“You did what now?”

Ling Ling blinked, slow.

“It was injured.”

“She hid it in a shoe box under her bed,” her mother continued, enjoying herself now. “Fed it lettuce, bathed it in a bowl.”

“It recovered,” Ling Ling said, defensive even now. “We released it.”

“After she made a research presentation on proper turtle care,” her father added, mouth twitching. “Graphs, citations.”

Orm looked at Ling Ling like she’d been handed a map to a secret city.

“You were a turtle nurse.”

“I was responsible,” Ling Ling corrected.

“Same thing,” Orm said, beaming.

Tea appeared in delicate cups.

Orm picked one up with both hands as if it were legal evidence.

Ling Ling’s mother poured for her first, then for Ling, then for her husband.

Boba, now dozing in a soft towel on Ling’s mother’s lap, snored a mosquito snore.

“This house is…” Orm tried, stopped, started again. “Beautiful. And also warm. It’s weird. In a good way.”

Ling’s mother’s eyes flicked to her, thoughtful. “Thank you.”

Ling’s father glanced at Ling Ling, then at Orm.

“I’m glad you brought him,” he said, meaning Boba but maybe not only Boba.

Orm took that and tucked it somewhere safe.

They moved to the dining room after a while, a long table softened by flowers and a ridiculous number of small dishes that smelled like heaven.

Orm almost sat before everyone else, then remembered manners and turned it into a stretch.

Ling Ling, sitting beside her, hid a smile in her napkin.

Conversation flowed in that gentle, serious way of families who were used to thinking with their heads and loving with their hands.

They asked Orm about her work, not just politely but with interest that survived beyond two follow-ups.

What kind of clients?

What did she love designing most?

What did she hate?

Orm found herself rambling about book covers and impossible deadlines and the joy of a font that behaved.

Ling Ling watched her with that small, proud quiet she never announced.

Then, seamlessly, Ling’s father steered back to Boba.

“We know a good vet in Sathorn. Discreet, excellent. I’ll have the number sent.”'

Orm almost choked on her rice. “Oh— that’s— thank you.”

Ling’s mother asked about toys.

Orm described the dumb feather wand he liked and the little tunnel that made crinkle noises.

“He chases shadows,” Orm said, laughing. “Gets offended when they win.”

Ling’s mother laughed, a soft bell sound. “He has personality.”

“He’s dramatic,” Ling Ling said, not looking at Orm and absolutely meaning Orm.

Orm elbowed her under the table.

Ling Ling didn’t flinch but her eyes glinted.

Halfway through the meal, Boba woke and began a dignified exploration of the dining room, tail straight up, ears radar-alert.

He sniffed a chair leg, decided it was safe, then sniffed Ling’s father’s shoe.

The house staff stood at a respectful distance and tried not to burst from the cuteness.

Boba chose the most expensive-looking rug, circled, and flopped.

Ling’s father’s hand, the same one that signed terrifying contracts, descended and scratched behind Boba’s ear.

The kitten melted, humbly.

Orm’s vision blurred with ridiculous affection.

She reached for her water glass and missed the coaster by a millimeter.

The glass teetered.

In a move that bordered on supernatural, Ling Ling’s hand shot out, steadying it with two fingers.

She set it down, elegant, silent, then returned to her chopsticks as if nothing had occurred.

Orm mouthed thank you like a prayer.

 

Later, dessert appeared—sweet longan in syrup, jellies that wobbled like tiny skyscrapers in an earthquake.

Orm, trying to appear composed, attempted to spear a piece without making it splash.

The jelly launched a micro-fountain.

A droplet hit her cheek.

Ling’s mother dabbed the corner of her own mouth, a kindness disguised as etiquette.

“This dessert misbehaves,” she said, and Orm loved her immediately.

“Traitor,” Orm whispered to the jelly.

Ling Ling snorted so quietly only Orm heard.

Conversations bloomed in small clusters.

Ling’s father told a story about a business trip where a stray dog adopted him for three days and refused to leave the hotel entrance.

“Your mother bought it grilled chicken,” he confessed, almost sheepish. “We were delayed an hour.”

Ling’s mother rolled her eyes fondly.

“He will deny it in public.”

“I will,” he said solemnly, and everyone laughed.

Questions that Orm had braced for never came.

No interrogation about the bathroom altar.

No pointed mentions of the ex.

The closest was Ling’s mother’s gentle, “You must both be tired,” which landed like, We know more than we’re asking and we’re choosing kindness.

Orm swallowed around something that wasn’t food.

“A little,” she admitted. “But less when we do stupid domestic things. Like laundry. Or pancakes.”

Ling’s father nodded as if this aligned with a proven economic theory.

“Routine,” he said. “It helps.”

“It does,” Ling Ling said, a small glance crossing the space between her and Orm like some private acknowledgment.

After coffee, Ling’s mother asked if she could hold Boba once more before they left.

The kitten obliged, curling into her arms like he’d paid rent there.

She pressed her cheek to his head, eyes closing for a second.

“He’s good for the house,” she murmured, half to herself.

Orm couldn’t help it. “So he’s allowed back?”

Ling’s father looked faintly insulted on the cat’s behalf.

“He’s family.”

“Right,” Orm breathed. “Right.”

 

They walked back to the car under the soft gold of early evening.

The gardens hummed—crickets somewhere, a fountain keeping time.

Orm carried the carrier but lighter now, as if some invisible thing had been redistributed.

In the backseat, Orm secured Boba and buckled herself in, then collapsed against the headrest.

She didn’t notice she was smiling until Ling Ling reached over and brushed her knuckle against Orm’s wrist.

A tiny, private touch.

“They didn’t hate me,” Orm said, dazed.

“They liked you,” Ling Ling corrected, looking straight ahead. “A lot.”

“Your mother told me my jelly technique was brave,” Orm said. “That’s basically a medal.”

Ling Ling’s lips curved.

“It is.”

“Your dad petted Boba like he was signing a treaty,” Orm went on, warming to her own story. “And he gave us a secret vet. And they said ‘family’ like it was… normal.”

“It is,” Ling Ling said quietly.

Orm turned her head.

The city slid by outside—neon and tail lights and a sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be night yet. “You were right.”

“I often am,” Ling Ling said.

“No, I mean—” Orm nudged her knee. “About them seeing me. Not judging. It was… careful. But it was real.”

Ling Ling’s gaze flicked to her.

Held.

“They saw what I see.”

“What do you see?” Orm asked, then immediately wanted to hide in the carrier.

Ling Ling was quiet long enough that Orm thought she wouldn’t answer.

“Someone who tries. Who laughs. Who holds small things like they’re heavy. Who makes a house sound like a place people live.”

Orm stared at her, heat climbing her neck.

She looked away fast. “That’s very illegal to say in traffic.”

“Apologies,” Ling Ling murmured, but she didn’t look sorry.

They fell into a companionable quiet.

Boba snored.

The driver turned up a soft old song on the radio, the kind that lives in the walls of your childhood.

Orm let her head tip sideways until it rested on Ling Ling’s shoulder.

She waited to be corrected. It didn’t come.

Ling Ling tilted her head so it touched Orm’s hair, light as a promise.

“You think they like Boba more than me?” Orm asked, because if she didn’t make a joke she might cry.

“Not more,” Ling Ling said. “Equal.”

“Equal?” Orm huffed. “Rude.”

“High praise,” Ling Ling corrected. “He is adored.”

Orm’s pout cracked into a grin she couldn’t fight. “Fine. I’ll share the throne.”

The car turned onto their street.

The penthouse waited like a lighthouse and a lair.

Orm felt the old panic flicker and then fade, replaced by something she didn’t have to name to trust.

 

Back upstairs, she placed the carrier on the rug, opened it, and watched Boba hop out like he’d just conquered another nation.

Orm kicked off her shoes and followed him, before doubling back and catching Ling Ling’s sleeve.

“Hey,” she said.

Ling Ling paused, perfectly balanced, like always.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Orm said, simple. “For… sharing them with me. With us.” She gestured at the kitten, the apartment, the air. “All of it.”

Ling Ling’s answer was a small nod.

“Thank you,” she returned.

“For what?” Orm said, genuinely confused.

“For bringing noise,” Ling Ling said. “And the things that come with it.”

Orm considered. “Like cats.”

“Like cats,” Ling Ling agreed, the rare smile making a brief, devastating appearance.

Later that night, Orm FaceTimed Mae Koy, who answered with a hair roller in and immediately demanded photos of “her grandson” at the mansion.

Orm obliged, narrating every moment with too much detail.

In the background, Ling Ling scrolled through her emails, pretending not to listen and failing every third second.

“Your mother is delighted,” Ling Ling said when Orm finally hung up, voice falsely neutral.

“She’s ordering sweaters,” Orm groaned. “We’re doomed.”

“Winter in Bangkok,” Ling Ling said. “Tragic necessity.”

Orm laughed, then went still. “We survived today.”

“We did,” Ling Ling said.

“It felt like… family,” Orm added, the word tasting new and brave.

“It was,” Ling Ling said, and for once there was no distance in it at all.

They turned off the lights.

In the dark, Boba bounced like a ghost between rooms, did a tiny zoom, and collapsed mid-hallway with a decisive plop.

Orm lay in bed and stared at the ceiling like she had that morning, but instead of panic, there was a quiet hum.

The house didn’t feel like a museum.

It felt lived in.

It felt like someone had hung laughter on the chairs and tucked kindness into the corners.

 

Notes:

Hope Boba cure you with his cuteness and also there will be another chapter soon double updates as a thank you gratitude for all the supports, you all are my lucky charm!
See you on the next chapter :)

Chapter 11: Receipt Season

Orm was mid–toaster battle when Ling Ling appeared in the kitchen doorway like a calm verdict in a cream blazer.

“Get dressed,” Ling Ling said, voice smooth as steamed milk.

“For what? Why do you look like a magazine and I look like a chaos emoji?” Orm asked, half a slice of bread clenched in tongs.

“For today,” Ling Ling said simply. “We’re going out.”

“Like… groceries?” Orm blinked. “Because last time we almost died in the rice aisle.”

“Not groceries,” Ling Ling said, stepping in to rescue the bread a second before it charred. She set it on a plate and slid the plate to Orm like a controlled detonation. “You and I. Out. I’m taking you to buy whatever you like.”

Orm’s brain blue-screened.

“Whatever I… like?”

“Yes.”

“Like… whatever whatever?”

“Yes.”

“Like… if I said a small building?”

“No.” Ling Ling’s mouth curved. “Clothes. Hair. Nails. Skincare. Things that make you feel good.”

Orm stared.

The toaster popped again, like applause.

“This is a trap,” she whispered.

“It’s not a trap,” Ling Ling said. “It’s a day.”

“A day,” Orm repeated faintly, as if translating for herself. “But why?”

Ling Ling’s eyes softened that two percent.

“Because I want to.”

That was the dangerous sentence.

It wobbled something warm behind Orm’s ribs.

She covered it with a stupid salute.

“Yes, ma’am. Operation Pamper Me commences. Give me twenty minutes to stop looking like a raccoon.”

Ling Ling nodded once, satisfied, and left the kitchen like she’d just approved a skyscraper.

 

Orm chose her “I promise I behave in public” outfit: soft jeans, white tank, light cardigan.

She stuffed a tote with emergency snacks (habit), then stopped because who brings snacks to a mall when your wife is a billionaire?

She brought them anyway.

The tote made her feel brave.

The car slid through the city and into the kind of shopping complex Orm had only seen on Instagram—polished floors, live plants taller than people, brand names that made her debit card shake in fear.

Ling Ling walked like she paid the electricity bill for the whole place.

Orm clung to her tote and whispered to herself, do not touch anything, your fingerprints are poor.

The first stop was a salon with quiet music and stylists who looked like they could smell insecurity.

Ling Ling spoke to the receptionist in that calm, don’t-worry-I’ve-already-solved-it tone, and suddenly Orm was in a leather chair with a cape around her, hair being treated like delicate silk.

“I feel like I should apologize to my hair for all the crimes I’ve committed,” Orm murmured.

The stylist laughed. “We accept repentance in the form of conditioner.”

Ling Ling sat in the chair next to her, flipping through her phone.

When Orm caught her eye in the mirror, Ling Ling held her gaze for a heartbeat.

“Shorter?” Ling asked.

“Just healthy,” Orm said. “I need to still recognize myself in the morning.”

“Healthy it is,” Ling said, and the stylist nodded like they were in a board meeting.

While the mask set, another woman came over to treat Orm’s nails.

Orm watched, fascinated, as tiny moons became glossy and neat.

She felt like someone had upgraded her hands without asking for a password.

“This is illegal,” Orm told Ling Ling.

“It’s a manicure,” Ling Ling said.

“It’s also a love language,” Orm muttered, looking away too fast.

They moved to skincare next—the kind of place with quiet white shelves and jars that looked like sculptures.

A consultant assessed Orm’s face with a soft light and declared her dehydrated.

“I drink water,” Orm protested weakly.

“From iced tea doesn’t count,” the consultant said. “We’ll build you a routine.”

“I can build Ikea furniture, not a skincare routine,” Orm replied, overwhelmed by serums.

“I’ll help,” Ling Ling said, already choosing with terrifying efficiency. “This. This. This.”

The total could have fed Orm for two months.

She tried not to faint.

Ling Ling handed over her card with no expression at all.

The consultant bagged everything in tissue that whispered rich.

“Ling,” Orm hissed as they stepped out. “Do you know how many baht that was? Do you know how many instant noodle packs—”

“I do,” Ling Ling said. “We’re not buying noodles.”

“We’re buying liquid gold,” Orm said, hugging the bag like a fragile child. “I will bathe in drops.”

“Please don’t,” Ling Ling said.

 

Then there were clothes.

Orm thought she’d hate it—standing under harsh lights while strangers judged her in silence—but the store Ling Ling led her into felt airy and kind.

A clerk with smiley eyes brought pieces in Orm’s colors.

Ling Ling sat on the low seat outside the fitting room like a quiet jury.

Orm emerged in a soft blue dress and turned in a circle, feeling like summer.

“Too much?” she asked.

Ling Ling’s eyes traveled slowly from shoulder to hem and back.

“It fits you,” she said.

Which in Ling Ling language meant beautiful.

Orm swallowed.

Then came trousers that made Orm’s legs look like they had a plan, and a jacket that whispered I’m in charge of my life.

Every time Orm stepped out, Ling Ling’s gaze flickered with micro-approval that made Orm flutter and then want to slam her head into a wall.

Stop being nice, she begged internally. You’re making it worse.

They paid (Orm tried to contribute, Ling Ling shot her a look that said don’t start), and ended with street snacks at Orm’s insistence—because even fancy days needed fish balls and thai tea to feel real.

Ling Ling ate hers neatly, like even skewers obeyed her.

“You’re smiling to yourself,” Ling Ling observed.

“I’m thinking about my hair,” Orm lied.

Ling Ling allowed the lie to pass. “Good.”

They strolled out into the late afternoon light, bags in hand, bellies satisfied.

Orm was feeling dangerously content.

 

Which is when fate, rude and nosy, intervened.

“LING!”

Prem’s voice cut across the plaza.

Orm turned to see her, followed by a tall woman with a blonde ponytail, sunglasses pushed up on her head, moving with energetic chaos.

Jane.

“Hi!” Jane chirped, already closing in.

She went straight for Ling Ling, looping an arm through hers like this was the most natural thing in the world. “We were just grabbing something to eat. You too? Join us!”

Prem gave Ling Ling the kind of side-eye that said sorry in advance.

Orm stood there with a polite smile glued to her face while her insides scribbled question marks.

“Hello, Orm,” Prem said, more gently, touching her elbow. “You look… pampered.” Approval glinted.

“Hi,” Orm squeaked. “I’m… hydrated.”

Jane finally clocked Orm.

“And who’s—” she began, then looked properly.

A beat.

Surprise flashed across her face.

“Oh.”

Ling Ling, calm, said, “This is Orm. My wife.”

Jane’s sunglasses slid down her nose.

“I— your—” She glanced at Prem like her brain had buffer lag.

Prem gave her a tiny warning shake of the head that meant later.

Jane recovered fast, smile going sunshine.

“Hi, Orm! I’m Jane! I’m Ling’s cousin. And Prem’s fiancée. Nice to meet you—again? But properly.”

“Hello,” Orm said, trying not to remember the airport squeeze and the cheek kiss. “Nice to meet you properly, too.”

Jane beamed as if approval were free and endless. “Come eat with us! Prem says the grilled pork here is a life experience.”

“We were—” Ling Ling started.

“Invited,” Prem cut in smoothly, amusement tucked in her mouth. “My treat.”

Ling Ling looked at Orm, a tiny question.

Orm nodded—she could do polite.

She could do adult.

She placed her jealousy in a corner and covered it with a towel.

 

The restaurant was one of those hip places with concrete walls and warm lamps and a menu you scanned with a QR code because paper was apparently over.

They took a booth.

Prem slid in next to Jane, who draped herself over her like affectionate seaweed.

Ling Ling sat opposite them; Orm settled beside her, trying not to count the inches.

It started cute.

Jane talked a mile a minute, all New York stories and Thai slang, switching languages mid-sentence like a DJ.

She asked Orm about her day, her work, her skincare haul, gasping at prices and then offering hacks.

Orm tried to match the pace, laughed too loudly once, calmed down.

Prem interjected with dry commentary that made Jane swat her with a napkin.

Ling Ling added small, precise sentences when needed, like punctuation.

Orm watched, fascinated—this triangle had years in it.

Familiar grooves.

She didn’t fit yet.

She wanted to.

Danger.

Food arrived: plates of grilled pork, papaya salad, sticky rice, a soup that smelled like heaven.

Orm ate a bite and moaned. “Okay. Life experience. Prem was right.”

“I’m always right,” Prem said without looking up.

“Must be nice,” Orm muttered.

Ling Ling’s foot brushed hers under the table—accidental?

not?—and Orm short-circuited for a second.

“So,” Jane said, bouncing lightly in her seat, “wife.” She aimed the word at Orm like a confetti canon. “How did you— I mean, I know the how in theory, I just don’t know the plot twist.”

Orm glanced at Ling Ling. Ling Ling’s expression said you can.

Orm grabbed her water like armor.

“We met in a bathroom. She dragged me to an altar. I said ‘I do’ before my brain could file a complaint. Then there was a kiss I’m pretending I didn’t enjoy because my mother reads lips.”

Jane froze, chopsticks mid-air.

“I—” She began to laugh so hard she had to lean on Prem’s shoulder. “Oh my god. Ling, you… married a gremlin.”

“Correct,” Ling Ling said, and Orm tried very hard not to smile at the fondness hiding in the word.

Prem sipped her drink, eyes kind.

“How are you adjusting?” she asked Orm, low enough that it felt like care, not a test.

“I’m being hydrated and moisturized beyond my station,” Orm said. “Also, your cousin is—” She stopped.

The word dangerous sat on her tongue.

She swapped it. “Kind.”

Ling Ling turned her head, almost surprised.

“Kind?”

Orm picked at her rice.

“Yes.”

Prem and Jane shared a look over the table, one of those best-friend telepathic exchanges that said we’ll discuss this later, in private, with snacks.

Jane, instead of pressing, pivoted.

“Okay so, new plan,” she announced. “Orm and I are going to be best friends.”

Orm choked on air.

“We— what?”

“You’re my cousin’s wife. And you’re Prem’s boss’s wife. And you’re cute. And chaotic. You’re basically me, but local,” Jane declared, counting on fingers. “We’re going to do brunches, we’re going to send each other memes at 3 a.m., we’re going to judge Ling’s shoe choices.”

“I choose good shoes,” Ling Ling said.

“Boring good,” Jane said. “We’re going to fix you.”

Prem laughed into her napkin. “Good luck.”

Orm stared at Jane, flustered.

“I— I already have one best friend. Her name is Gina. She bites.”

“Perfect,” Jane said, delighted. “We’ll be a trio. I’ll be the loud one, she’ll be the scary one, you’ll be the soft gremlin.”

“I am not soft,” Orm lied, glancing at Ling Ling’s sleeve resting against her own.

“You are so soft,” Jane said affectionately. “That’s why Ling likes you.”

Silence popped like a bubble.

Orm looked at Ling Ling so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

Ling Ling did not blink. “I do,” she said simply, then ate a bite of pork as if she hadn’t just thrown Orm into outer space.

Orm’s heart did a backflip and then tried to act casual about it.

“Illegal. In a restaurant,” she whispered.

Jane kicked Prem under the table and mouthed see? see?!

Prem rolled her eyes but her smile was all teeth.

To make sure Orm didn’t combust, Jane immediately changed the topic to something safe: Boba.

She demanded photos, cooed at the kitten’s ridiculous face, and declared herself Auntie Jane. “I’m bringing him a tiny Yankees hat,” she threatened.

“He will refuse,” Ling Ling said.

“I will bribe,” Jane replied.

Orm, floating, watched Ling Ling watch Jane and Prem affectionately bicker.

The old sting from the airport fizzled and died.

This was family.

This was how they loved: messy, loud, overlapping.

She could belong here if she didn’t run away.

“Orm,” Prem said later, when Jane went to the restroom and Ling Ling took a phone call outside, “you’re okay?”

Orm picked at a sticky rice grain.

“I think so.”

Prem’s eyes softened. “I can tell you two things. One: Jane is affectionate like a Labrador. Don’t take it personal when she clings. Two: Ling is… careful. She doesn’t call things ‘kind’ easily. You matter.”

“That’s more than two,” Orm said, breath wobbling.

“Math is flexible,” Prem said. “Also—thanks. For… existing.”

Orm frowned, touched.

“You’re welcome? For… being here?”

“Yes,” Prem said simply. “Exactly.”

Jane barreled back in, and the table’s energy shot up twenty percent.

They finished dinner with too much dessert and a group selfie that Jane insisted on, dragging Ling Ling back into the frame by her blazer sleeve.

Ling Ling allowed it, rare smile barely there but present. Orm looked at the photo afterward and wanted to cry for no reason: four faces, different, bright, together.

 

Outside, the evening breeze made the city lights flirt.

Jane hugged Ling Ling like a koala, then hugged Orm too—tighter than expected, genuine.

“Best friends,” she repeated into Orm’s shoulder. “Deal?”

Orm laughed, helpless. “Deal.”

Prem shook Orm’s hand like they were sealing a contract, then leaned in.

“If she asks you to try salsa classes at 2 a.m., say no.”

“I will say yes,” Orm said instantly.

Prem sighed. “You’re doomed.”

They split at the corner with promises of brunch and kitten hats.

Ling Ling and Orm walked back to the car, bags light, bellies full, silence comfortable.

“Not a date,” Orm said softly, for the air.

“Not a date,” Ling Ling agreed.

Orm looked at her. “It felt like one.”

Ling Ling’s profile in the streetlight was all lines Orm wanted to trace with her finger and couldn’t.

“It felt like a day,” Ling Ling said, and somehow that was worse, better, scarier.

In the car, Orm rested her head against the window and watched the city smear past.

Her face in the glass looked different—cleaner lines, brighter eyes, glossy nails she didn’t recognize as hers and completely did.

She lifted her hand and flexed her fingers, then dropped it into her lap where it brushed Ling Ling’s.

Neither moved away.

“Thank you,” Orm said.

“For what?” Ling Ling asked.

“For today,” Orm said. “For the… everything of it.”

Ling Ling’s fingers turned, palm to palm, a brief press. “You’re welcome.”

Orm stared at their hands until the driver pulled up to the building.

 

Upstairs, the penthouse smelled like laundry and lemon cleaner and something softer she couldn’t name.

Boba galloped in like a chaos bean and slammed into Orm’s ankles, meowing his diary.

She scooped him up and buried her face in his fur, laughing, because that was the thing about days like this: they made you feel like you could live inside your own life instead of watching it happen.

Ling Ling set the bags on the counter and looked over, small smile tucked in one corner of her mouth.

“A good day?”

“A dangerous one,” Orm said honestly. “But good.”

Ling Ling’s eyes held hers for a beat too long.

Then she nodded, almost like a bow. “Rest.”

Orm nodded back, heart doing gymnastics in the background.

She set Boba down, hummed something brainless, and drifted toward her room.

Halfway there, she spun back.

“Ling,” she blurted.

Ling Ling looked up, patient. “Yes?”

“Do you… do this because you’re being a good wife?” Orm asked, words tumbling out, soft and vulnerable and uninvited. “Or because you… want to?”

Silence stretched—not cold, not sharp. Ling Ling walked closer until Orm could see the flecks in her eyes.

“Both,” she said finally. “I promised to take care of you. And I want to.”

Orm’s throat burned.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Ling Ling echoed, the smallest hint of relief in it, and then she turned, respectful, giving Orm space to breathe.

Orm stood in the hallway for a long moment after, hand on her chest like she could keep her heart from sprinting off.

From the kitchen, the soft sound of Ling rinsing cups; from the floor, Boba’s tiny nails skittering as he chased nothing.

Life, ridiculous and precise.

She went to bed with shopping bags leaning against her dresser like gentle evidence and fell asleep smiling at the ceiling like a fool.

 

Somewhere past midnight, she woke to a vibration—her phone.

A new message.

Jane: Are you free next weekend? Brunch. I will steal you. Tell your wife I asked permission (I did not).

Below it, another:

Prem: Brunch is fine. I’ll supervise the Labrador.

Orm giggled into her blanket.

She typed back: Deal. But only if you bring Boba a hat.

Jane: say no more.
Prem: say less.

Orm put the phone down, closed her eyes, and let the day settle into her bones.

Not a date, totally a date.

Not a family, totally a family.

And somewhere between the two, a soft dangerous thing growing, patient as a seed, stubborn as a vine.

She fell asleep like that—moisturized, slightly ruined, fully alive.

 

 

 

Monday came soft and ordinary, like it didn’t know better.

The light in the penthouse was pale and kind.

The kettle hummed.

Boba made tiny circles on the rug, chasing nothing like it owed him money.

Orm padded into the kitchen barefoot in the old shorts that insisted on sliding down one hip, hair in a messy knot, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She yawned so wide the world stretched.

Ling Ling was already there, of course she was.

Black slacks, cream blouse, sleeves not rolled yet, hair twisted low and clean.

She stood by the counter reading an email on her phone, jaw relaxed, eyes steady.

If you didn’t know her, you’d think she’d slept eight perfect hours and dreamed about schedules.

“Morning,” Orm said, voice husky with sleep.

Ling Ling glanced up, and the line softened a fraction. “Morning.”

Orm shuffled closer and pretended not to lean into the smell of jasmine tea and clean skin. “Do you want breakfast or do you want a performance piece about breakfast where I try and fail to make eggs while you stare in silence and judge me with your mind.”

“I never judge,” Ling Ling said.

“You do,” Orm said cheerfully. “It’s part of your outfit.”

She opened the fridge, stared at the eggs, decided against risking the day with a fried disaster, and pulled yogurt and fruit instead. “I’m making you a lunch,” she announced, sudden with purpose. “A love— no, not love. A lunch box. Strong neutral feelings lunch.”

Ling Ling’s eyebrow tipped, amused. “Neutral lunch.”

“Yes.” Orm stabbed a strawberry with a toothpick like it was paperwork. “Healthy, cute, emotionally stable.”

She arranged small things in a small box like a little city: rice shaped in a round bowl, slices of chicken glazed just right from last night, cucumber fans that tried their best, cherry tomatoes lined like obedient soldiers, a few pieces of mango shaped into hearts before she realized what she was doing and smashed one into a cube so the message didn’t scream across the boardroom.

A tiny container of sauce, snapped shut.

A napkin.

A dumb cat sticker because she couldn’t help herself.

Ling Ling watched, phone forgotten for a minute. “You don’t have to,” she said, softer than tea steam.

“I know,” Orm said without looking up. “I want to.”

The tiny silence after felt warm. Orm felt stupidly brave.

She twisted and held the box out with both hands like an offering.

“For the empire,” she said. “May it not fall.”

Ling Ling took it carefully, the way she took everything that mattered.

Her fingers brushed Orm’s by accident and neither of them moved away fast.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t cry,” Orm said, to cover the way her heart stuttered. “It’s just a lunch.”

“I won’t,” Ling Ling said, but she smiled—small and real.

 

 

At eleven-thirty, Orm’s phone buzzed with a photo from Ling Ling.

The lunch box on a glass table, opened.

The dumb cat sticker stuck to the side.

Caption: Neutral lunch respects me.

Orm grinned at her screen like a fool and typed: yay.

Work tried to be ordinary.

It wasn’t. At 12:10, her phone lit again.

Gina:

[hydrate, gremlin.]

(voice note) I can’t say much I’m at the office, but I see smoke on the horizon. don’t spiral; prem’s on it.

Orm gulped water like it was instructions and forced her eyes back to her monitor.

At 12:35, the news ping hit

KWONG GROUP BRIDE SWAP?

Her stomach dropped.

Gina: don’t open that. seriously. send anything terrible to prem first.
Orm: trying. failing.
Gina: breathe. i’ll text when i can. proud of you for feeding her btw.

Gina: and by “her” I mean the CEO, not the cat.

Orm almost smiled.

Almost.

Her phone buzzed again.

Unknown number preview:

Is this Orm? We should talk

She didn’t open it.

Orm: Is she there?
Prem: Yes. Stay at work.
Orm: I’m coming.
Prem: Do not.

Another ping

Gina: do NOT show up here. I mean it. I’ll call you after. Don’t go where pain is.”
Orm: I can’t sit still.
Gina: then walk circles. don’t walk into a fire.

Orm stood anyway.

She put her phone in her pocket like a bad idea and headed for the elevator.

The lobby of Kwong Group felt like it always did: polished stone, quiet water, floor staff who could sense panic at twenty paces.

Today, the air had that thin crackle of something big moving quietly.

At the far end, a knot of employees stood like a murmuring cliff, pretending to be a line, pretending not to turn their heads.

Orm flashed her guest pass with a smile that showed too many teeth and took the executive elevator like she had every right.

Prem met her the second the doors opened on the top floor.

She was all clean lines and calm eyes that had seen too much, hands in her pockets like they were holding onto something important.

“I told you not to come,” Prem said, not cruel, just tired.

“I’m not good at instructions,” Orm said. “Where is she?”

“Conference room two,” Prem said.

Her jaw worked for a second. “Orm… listen to me. You don’t have to go in. You can wait in my office and I’ll bring her out.”

“What will that change?” Orm asked, throat tight.

“It’ll keep you from hearing things you can’t unhear,” Prem answered.

Too late

Orm thought.

She nodded once anyway, because she heard the care in the warning and didn’t want to spit on it.

She walked with Prem, shoes whispering on the carpet, and the closer they got the colder the corridor felt.

 

Conference room two had a glass wall that had seen too many deals.

The blinds were down but not fully—someone had left a sliver open as if by accident.

Orm didn’t try to look through it; she wasn’t a thief.

She could hear enough.

Voices.

A woman’s voice first—familiar in the way bad songs are familiar, sticky in the brain, sweet in a way that rotted.

“Ling, please,” the voice said, soft and bright and horrible. “You’re not even letting me—”

“No,” Ling Ling said, and it wasn’t the cool boardroom no, it was a no with bones in it. “You have said plenty.”

Orm’s hand found the door frame.

She breathed like a person learning again.

The voice laughed too lightly.

“This is insane. Five years, Ling. Five years and this is how you treat me? After— after everything, you’re going to pretend you don’t owe me a conversation?”

“I do not owe you anything,” Ling Ling said.

The words were stone.

Underneath, Orm heard the smallest crack, like something hairline and dangerous climbing across glass.

A third voice slid in, steady and dry.

Prem.

“Mintracha, keep your voice level. This is a workplace.”

Mintracha.

Orm swallowed the name like a pill that wouldn’t go down.

She stayed where she was because her feet forgot how to move.

Mint’s voice pitched up half a note. “Oh, sorry, is it unprofessional to show up after your fiancé marries a stranger in a bathroom?”

The air left the hallway.

Orm saw nothing for a second and then saw too much: her own reflection in the glass, pale, eyes too wide, hands clenched.

She had asked for pain and found it open-armed.

Ling Ling didn’t flinch. “I did not marry a stranger,” she said. “I married my wife.”

“Oh, your wife,” Mint echoed, mocking. “That little girl from— what, the design place? The one with the jokes? That’s what you picked instead of the life we built?”

Orm felt the words like someone poking a bruise.

Little girl.

The jokes.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste metal.

She didn’t move. She wouldn’t give the door her shaking.

Prem’s voice sharpened.

“You don’t get to talk about Orm.”

Mint barreled on. “This is ridiculous. I made a mistake, Ling. A mistake. Six months. You act like it’s a war crime.”

Silence, heavy, and then—Ling Ling laughed.

It wasn’t a sound Orm had heard before.

It had no humor in it.

It sounded like someone stepping on glass to get out of a room that was burning.

“A mistake,” Ling said, calm to the point of break. “A mistake is forgetting to lock your door. A mistake is buying milk when you meant to buy cream. Six months is a decision you kept making. Over and over.”

Mint huffed.

“You were never home. Do you remember that? You were never home. The office, the dinners, the flights. I waited and I waited and— I’m human.”

“And I am concrete?” Ling Ling asked.

The sound of a chair moving, a hand on wood.

“I asked. I adjusted. I told you the load would ease. We had a date on a calendar booked for two years. I thought you understood who I am.”

“I did,” Mint said, suddenly tired. “And then I didn’t.”

Prem cut in before Ling could.

“Stop. You’re not here to rewrite the facts.”

Mint exhaled through her nose, ugly.

“You think people won’t notice?” she said. “You think they won’t figure out you grabbed a stranger off a bathroom floor and called it a wedding? That altar wasn’t private, Ling. That church had eyes.”

Orm swayed once like a ship.

She placed her palm flat on the wall and listened to her own pulse punch.

“We will handle our reputation,” Ling Ling said, voice dropped half an octave. “I will handle it.”

“You’ll bury it, you mean,” Mint said. “You and your parents and your money and your— you’ll make it disappear and I’ll be the crazy ex. Is that the plan? Because if I go down, I will not go alone.”

“Don’t threaten me,” Ling Ling said.

The crack widened.

Orm heard it.

Everyone did.

“I’m not threatening,” Mint said sweetly. “I’m promising. People love gossip. A bride who marries a nobody? A nobody who says ‘I do’ to a stranger? A billionaire who couldn’t keep her fiancée? They’ll eat that up.”

A noise that might have been a hand hitting the table and might have been Orm’s heart slamming into a wall at speed.

When Ling Ling spoke again, the calm had edges.

“You are in my office, speaking to me like I owe you my breath. You are not ashamed of what you did. You are angry you were caught. You are angrier that I refused to make your mess look like an accident. Do not mistake my quiet for forgiveness. Do not mistake my restraint for softness.”

Mint’s voice went small, and it was worse than when it was sharp.

“You loved me.”

Silence.

“Say you didn’t,” Mint said, and Orm felt the plea in it against her skin. “Say you didn’t love me for five years.”

Ling Ling took too long to answer.

When she did, she didn’t give the easy lie.

“I did,” she said.

The words were clean, a cut.

“I did. I chose you every day. I would have chosen you this morning if you had chosen me six months ago.”

Orm’s eyes flooded and she didn’t blink because she wouldn’t miss a second.

Mint made a choked noise that Orm didn’t know how to hate and wanted to, so badly.

“Then why— why is this the end?”

“Because I am not a fool,” Ling Ling said, quietly. “And because there is someone in my life who deserves my clean hands.”

For one fierce heartbeat, Orm’s stupid heart reached for the sentence like a child reaching for bubbles.

Someone. Clean hands.

Then Mint laughed, cruel in a new way.

“Oh,” she said. “Her. The little wife. The replacement. I hope she knows you’re still bleeding.”

“Enough,” Prem said, sharp as a whistle.

Something scraped—chair, table, patience. Ling Ling again, final now.

“This meeting is over. Security will walk you down. If your lawyers want to send letters, they can. If the press wants to call, they can speak to our office. You and I are done.”

Mint’s voice climbed and broke like a cheap bridge.

“You can’t— you can’t lock a door and say it never happened.”

“I can lock a door,” Ling Ling said, “and I can heal behind it.”

Silence, except for the sound of someone breathing too fast and another breathing too slow.

Footsteps.

The door inside clicked.

Orm backed away from the glass fast, shame chasing her, and looked down at the fake plant next to the water dispenser like it was fascinating.

The conference room door opened.

Mint stepped out first, sunglasses in her hand though they were inside, mouth set in a line that said she would break something beautiful if it didn’t break her first.

Her eyes flicked over Orm in one quick slice.

They snagged for a second, woman to woman.

Mint’s mouth moved, maybe to say sorry, maybe to spit, maybe to ask a question Orm would not answer.

Then Prem appeared behind her, all polite steel.

“This way,” she said, and Mint obeyed because Prem’s voice made grown men sign things they didn’t understand.

 

Ling Ling stood in the doorway after them, hand on the frame, the other hand flat at her side like she was holding herself together by grip alone.

Her face was the calm Orm knew.

Her eyes weren’t.

Orm stepped forward before she could stop herself.

“Do you want—” She didn’t even know what the end of the sentence was.

Water?

Air?

A joke?

A hand?

Ling Ling didn’t look at her.

It was like she was staring through a hallway that only she could see.

The thing about her when she was like this was you could believe she was made of the stuff planes are made of.

The other thing was you could see the hairline fracture and know it could run the whole length if you breathed wrong.

“I have work,” Ling Ling said, voice smooth again, almost kind by reflex. “Go home, Orm.”

Orm swallowed.

“I can wait. Or we can— I could get you food. Or coffee. Or—”

“Go home,” Ling Ling repeated, softer. Not a command like before.

A request to a door.

Orm’s chest hurt.

“Okay,” she said, because she was not going to make it about her in a hallway with a wound still open.

Ling Ling nodded once, a pin in the air between them, turned, and went back into the room.

The door clicked shut very gently.

Orm stood there holding nothing.

People walked past doing the adult thing where they pretend nothing just happened, that they are made of tasks instead of hearts.

 Prem came back up the hall, exhaled, scrubbed a hand over her face like she wanted to take it off and put it back on clean.

“She won’t let me in,” Orm said, surprised by her own voice.

“She won’t let anyone in,” Prem said, not unkind. “Don’t take it as a measure of you. She’s… she’s been saving herself for later for a long time.”

“Saving herself,” Orm repeated softly. “For when?”

Prem’s smile was all apology.

“Ling’s best day has always been tomorrow.”

The hurt moved inside Orm, a new shape. “Does tomorrow ever get here?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Prem said. “Sometimes someone brings it to her.” She hesitated. “Do you want me to take you home?”

Orm shook her head. “I’ll go.”

She didn’t trust herself to walk beside someone she might cry on.

Prem’s hand landed on her shoulder, brief, firm.

“Orm,” she said, a soft warning disguised as a name. “You’re doing better than you think.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Orm said.

“I know,” Prem said, and let her go.

 

 

The city felt loud on purpose.

Orm walked too fast, then too slow, then not at all, standing on the corner while motorbikes zipped and the light lied about safety.

She rode the train because the car felt too big for one person.

She watched ads flicker by and tried to count the number of people in the carriage who had their hearts stapled to the wrong surface. She lost count.

At home, the penthouse was an empty aquarium.

Orm kicked her shoes off and they landed wrong, one on its side like a dead fish.

She picked it up, placed it nicely, put her tote on a chair, put it on another chair, put it on the floor.

Boba launched himself at her ankle like a furry missile and she scooped him up and buried her face in his fur and finally let one quiet stupid tear slip out because cats didn’t call you dramatic.

“It’s fine,” she told him. “It’s— it’s not fine, but I’ll say it is until my mouth believes me.”

She put him down and went to the sink and drank a whole glass of water that tasted like nothing.

She stood with her hands on the counter for a long time and then did dishes that weren’t there. She wiped a clean surface.

She laughed once, ugly and short.

She sat on the couch and didn’t turn the TV on, didn’t turn music on, didn’t do the thing where you make noise because silence is rude.

Her phone buzzed.

Messages piled like snow.

Gina: Are you home. Do you want me to come over and act like a bodyguard for your feelings.

Jane: Prem says we do not fight exes in lobbies (cowardice). Sending chocolate.

Mae Koy: I feel a disturbance. Are you eating?

Prem: I put out a few fires. Don’t open news. If you see something, send it to me first.

Orm stared, typed back thank yous that felt small and still true.

She wrote to Ling Ling and erased the message three times, landing on nothing.

Any sentence she sent felt like a knock on a door that wasn’t going to open.

She made rice because her hands needed a job.

She cut vegetables into pieces so even a child could trust them.

She checked the time.

She told herself she wasn’t waiting for footsteps in the hall and then waited anyway so hard it felt like a sport.

08:30 PM.

09:10 PM.

09:40 PM.

10:00 PM.

She dozed sitting up like an old aunt, woke when her neck hurt, hissed at her own body.

Boba climbed her shin like a tree and cried because his bowl had a hole in it called empty.

She fed him.

She washed the bowl.

She sat again.

At 10:40 PM, the lock clicked.

Orm stood too fast.

She stopped herself from running to the foyer like a bad TV show and failed. She ran.

Ling Ling stepped in like she’d stepped out of a storm the rest of the building didn’t feel.

Her blouse had a crease at the waist it hadn’t had in the morning.

Her hair was back up, not neat.

The line at her mouth was a canyon.

She put her keys in the dish like a ritual.

She took off her watch last.

Always last.

Today it looked heavy.

“Hi,” Orm said, soft and stupid because what else do you start with when the air is full of unsaid things.

“Hi,” Ling Ling said, just as soft, and it made something in Orm lean forward like a plant toward light.

“I made rice,” Orm blurted. “It’s nothing. It’s food. You don’t have to— I can—”

“Thank you,” Ling Ling said, and her voice was kind again, knives put away, the table cleared.

She walked past Orm to the sink and washed her hands like she was washing the day off and the day didn’t want to leave.

Orm watched her shoulders.

She wanted to cross the room and put her palms there and say “you don’t have to hold your spine up alone” and also “I am not asking you for anything you cannot give.”

Instead, she stood by the edge of the counter and held the towel like it was a flower that didn’t know what it was.

“Are you okay?” Orm asked, then wanted to swallow the question because it was too big and too small.

“I’m fine,” Ling Ling said, and it was the way people say “I’m bleeding” without wanting you to look.

“We don’t have to talk,” Orm said quickly. “I mean, we can talk, but we don’t have to. I can just— I can sit near you and make jokes you won’t laugh at.”

Ling Ling turned the tap off.

The quiet after was a church.

She didn’t say yes.

She didn’t say no.

She dried her hands carefully and put the towel back straight.

“I have emails,” she said.

Orm nodded too fast, hair coming loose.

“Right. The empire. Of course.” She tried to smile, the brave kind. “Do you want… tea?”

“No,” Ling Ling said, not unkind. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Orm said, and set the towel down like it weighed a kilo. “Okay.”

Ling Ling moved past her toward the study.

 Orm stepped out of her way because the kind thing was to be easy to avoid when someone needed distance.

Ling Ling paused at the doorway, that half-second where a person decides whether to turn and look back, whether to throw a rope, whether to say the sentence that would make a bridge.

She didn’t. It wasn’t cruelty.

It was survival.

“Orm,” she said, without turning around. “Today was a lot. It’s not your fault.”

Orm swallowed and tasted metal again.

“I know.”

“If I am… quiet,” Ling Ling said, choosing her words like they might explode, “it is not about you.”

Orm smiled a little because she needed to protect her own heart with her hands and a cheap umbrella.

“I know that too.”

“Good,” Ling Ling said, and the door closed gently like a hand lowering.

Orm stood in the kitchen and looked at the rice she had made for a mouth that would not take it.

She plated some for herself so the rice wouldn’t be lonely and ate three bites that tasted like salt and like nothing.

She wrapped the rest and put it in the fridge like you put hope away for later.

She cleaned a counter that did not ask to be cleaned.

She sat back on the couch with Boba in her lap and scratched his chin until he purred like a bad motor.

“We’re learning,” she told him.

“We’re learning that loving someone who’s still bleeding means sometimes you don’t get to be the bandage. You just sit on the floor and hold the box of gauze and cry a little.”

Boba blinked at her with the empty judgment of a prince.

Her phone buzzed where she’d left it face down.

Another headline ping, trying to claw its way into the room.

Orm slid it into a cushion and chose not to know for one hour.

She texted Gina instead:

I’m fine. I hate it. I’m fine.

Gina replied:

Both can be true. Do you need me to send you stupid memes of dogs falling off couches.

Yes, Orm typed.

And one of a cat in a tiny hat.

Gina sent five.

Jane sent seventeen.

Prem sent a photo of a blank wall that said breathe.

Orm laughed into her sleeve and hated that laugh for being small and loved it for happening anyway.

At midnight, the study door was still closed.

Orm knocked once, knuckle-soft, and didn’t wait for an answer.

She left a glass of water on the low table outside and the neutral lunch box washed and a small sticky note that said nothing except a terrible drawing of Boba with a speech bubble that read: sleep please.

Then she took herself to bed like a good adult who knows when the door is a door.

The bed felt too big on her side and too big on the other side and also exactly the size of how much a person could miss someone who was still in the same apartment.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling like she could read weather there.

She thought about the way Ling Ling had said I did to the past and I will to the future and nothing at all to the space where Orm stood, hands open, not asking.

She cried with her mouth closed because she didn’t want to wake anyone or tell the night her business.

Boba learned to climb and then unlearned it on her shoulder, kneading a rhythm into her heart that hurt and soothed at once.

She slept badly, in thin pieces.

 

At three-nineteen she woke to the softest sound and didn’t know why her eyes filled again until she realized somewhere in the dark a door had opened and closed very gently and a glass had been lifted and set back down.

In the morning, there was no note.

There was a single small cat toy on the pillow next to her that hadn’t been there when she fell asleep.

She held it in her palm, stupid little bell, cheap ribbon, a thing that meant nothing and also a lot.

She got up, washed her face, looked in the mirror and saw someone who was trying and not winning yet and not losing either.

She went to the kitchen and made tea for someone who might drink it and might not.

The light was pale and kind again like it didn’t keep track.

Ling Ling came out of the study at six-forty in different clothes and the same spine.

Her eyes were fine for anyone who didn’t know better and swollen for anyone who did.

Orm didn’t touch that knowledge.

She held it like a candle and made sure not to burn anyone with it.

“Morning,” Orm said, and made it sound normal.

“Morning,” Ling Ling said, and made it sound brave.

Orm slid the cup toward her.

“Neutral tea,” she said. “It respects you.”

Ling Ling’s mouth tugged.

“Thank you.”

They stood there for a moment with steam making the space between them soft, and Orm waited to see if a bridge would appear by magic.

It didn’t.

Bridges didn’t do that.

People did.

 

Today, no one had two hands free.

“Do you want me to pick you up after work?” Orm asked, careful as threading a needle in a moving train.

“No,” Ling Ling said. “I have… a thing.”

She didn’t lie.

She didn’t tell the truth.

She offered the hallway again and Orm nodded because sometimes love was learning the architecture of a person and not breaking the walls with your shoulder just because you had shoulders.

“Okay,” Orm said, and smiled like she knew how. “I’ll feed Boba and try not to buy more serums. Text me if the world ends.”

“I will,” Ling Ling said, and put her watch on last.

They did the dance again: shoes, keys, door.

Orm watched her go and didn’t run after her and didn’t collapse and didn’t turn into a statue either.

 

She picked up Boba and kissed the top of his head and whispered

“It hurts because it matters,” and he yawned like he had invented wisdom.

Later, when she finally let herself look at her phone, the headlines had grown like mold.

Anonymous Sources Claim Surprise Wedding At Elite Ceremony. Who Is The Mystery Bride? Five-Year Romance Ends In Twist.

Pictures without faces.

Words without names.

A story that wasn’t theirs being told like it was.

Orm sent them to Prem and put her phone face down again and went to water Potato and brush her hair and breathe on purpose.

She wrote a list for the day that said: work, rice, breathe, be kind, do not drown.

She left it on the table like a promise to no one and both of them.

When the elevator finally swallowed her again, she held the cheap cat toy in her fist all the way to the ground floor, not because she needed it, but because last night someone had opened a door very gently in the dark to drink water and had left a stupid bell behind on purpose.

It didn’t fix anything.

It didn’t have to.

It just meant something broke and didn’t go all the way through.

For now, that was the whole world.

Notes:

See you all next chapter :)

Chapter 12: The Heart Knows Before You Do

The morning after felt wrong for being so quiet.

Bangkok sunlight poured through the penthouse windows like it wanted to apologize for yesterday.

The city below was alive—horns blaring, trains rattling, motorbikes weaving. Life carried on. Inside, time seemed suspended, holding its breath between two people who didn’t quite know how to exist around each other anymore.

Orm woke later than usual, the kind of sleep you fall into when your body forces itself to shut down.

Her eyes were sticky from half-dried tears, her throat raw from holding them back.

She shifted under the too-soft duvet, blinking at the cavernous ceiling above.

Boba was a warm, twitchy weight at her feet, paws flexing as if he was chasing something in his dreams.

For a moment, Orm didn’t want to move.

She wanted to stay pinned under the blanket, hidden from the world where Ling Ling’s voice still echoed: I loved her.

When she finally sat up, the bed felt emptier than it should.

The kitchen smelled faintly of toast.

Ling Ling was already dressed, pale blouse tucked into sharp black trousers, her hair sleek and pinned. Impeccable, unshaken, flawless—as though the woman from last night hadn’t existed.

As though heartbreak could be ironed out with a flat iron and pressed seams.

It should have been comforting.

Instead, Orm’s chest tightened.

“Morning,” she croaked.

Ling Ling turned.

Her expression was calm, kind even, but too careful—like she had checked it in the mirror three times before Orm appeared.

“Morning. I left tea for you.”

On the counter sat a mug, steam curling up, and beside it a plate: two slices of toast, buttered evenly, and fruit cut into neat, geometric shapes.

Orm blinked at it. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” Ling Ling said quickly. Too quickly.

Then, softer, “You should eat.”

Orm sat, picked up the toast, chewed.

It tasted like cardboard under the weight of silence.

Ling Ling’s eyes flicked to her once, checking, then returned to her tablet.

Every sound felt too loud—the scrape of a chair, the clink of porcelain.

Not the comfortable kind of quiet Orm had learned to like, where they existed side by side in domestic rhythm.

This was brittle, like glass about to crack.

 

Work didn’t save her either.

Her inbox was overflowing.

Her sketches came out flat, lifeless lines she erased before they even finished forming.

Her coworkers joked around the office, and she forced herself to laugh, but it landed hollow.

At lunch she stared at her sandwich, scrolling aimlessly through her phone, until Gina’s name popped up.

Gina: you okay?
Orm: define okay
Gina: alive? hydrated? eating things that aren’t panic?
Orm: barely
Gina: you’re stronger than you think. don’t forget she’s human too, babe.

Orm stared at that last one for too long.

She typed, erased, typed again.

Finally she just set the phone down.

Because what could she say?

That being human was the problem?

That Ling Ling’s humanity—the cracks, the bleeding heart she tried to hide—was the very thing pulling Orm deeper into a place she wasn’t sure she could climb out of?

 

That night, the penthouse felt cavernous.

Ling Ling came home late, shoulders taut with fatigue but face arranged in a polite smile.

She dropped her bag by the door, loosened her watch, and moved through the living room like she was checking boxes: shoes aligned, jacket hung, greetings said.

Orm curled on the couch with Boba in her lap, who was gnawing her shoelace like it had committed a personal offense.

“Long day?” Orm asked.

“Yes,” Ling Ling said, smoothing her sleeves. “But manageable.”

“Because of…?” Orm ventured, voice careful.

Ling Ling shook her head once. “Work.”

Just that. One word.

A wall.

Orm pressed her lips together. “You’ve been skipping meals again.”

Ling Ling paused, almost imperceptibly.

“I had enough.”

“You had coffee and adrenaline,” Orm muttered before she could stop herself.

Something flickered in Ling Ling’s jaw, but her voice stayed soft. “I’ll eat now.”

Orm bit her lip.

It wasn’t enough.

None of it was enough.

Dinner was too neat, too polite.

Orm stabbed at her food, appetite gone.

The question clawed its way out of her throat anyway.

“Do you regret it?”

The fork slipped in her hand.

Her voice cracked, but the words were louder than the clink.

Ling Ling froze.

Just for a second.

Then she set her own fork down with deliberate calm, like she was arranging cutlery in a showroom.

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t regret you.”

The words should have been enough.

They weren’t.

Because Orm heard everything Ling Ling didn’t say: I regret her. I regret the five years. I regret the betrayal. I regret that you’re the one standing in the wreckage now.

Orm gave a sharp, humorless laugh.

“That’s… very diplomatic of you.”

Ling Ling’s gaze softened, the kind of softness that felt like a door closing quietly instead of slamming.

“Orm, you don’t deserve to carry what I went through. It’s not fair.”

Orm’s throat burned.

“But I’m carrying it anyway, aren’t I?”

Ling Ling didn’t answer.

She only lowered her gaze, fingers tracing the edge of her plate like she could redraw her whole life if she pressed hard enough.

After, Ling Ling disappeared into her study, the door closing with a soft click.

Orm washed the dishes alone.

The sound of water and porcelain filled the silence.

She caught her reflection in the kitchen window—tired, small, her own eyes too wide—and she hated that she looked like someone waiting for scraps of affection.

When she finally crawled into bed, Ling Ling wasn’t there.

The study light glowed under the door. Orm lay on her side, Boba curled warm against her stomach, and whispered into the dark.

“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

Boba meowed in his sleep, twitching.

Orm laughed once, the sound breaking halfway. “Yeah. I know.”

 

The next few days blurred.

Ling Ling was there but not.

She was polite, attentive with the details—her driver always waiting, her meals covered, her schedules eased where possible.

Every box ticked, every logistic handled.

But emotionally, she was gone.

And Orm realized the hardest thing wasn’t the shouting in bathrooms, or the chaos of being dragged to an altar.

It was this.

The kindness that was so careful it cut her.

The distance hidden in gestures of care.

She was falling, and Ling Ling wasn’t there to catch her.

And she knew, deep down, she might never be.

 

 

Orm had always been good at pretending.

Smiling at colleagues when her brain was fog.

Nodding in meetings when she was sketching grocery lists on her tablet.

Holding herself together in front of her mother so she wouldn’t worry.

But she’d never had to pretend like this before.

She sat at her desk, screen glowing too bright, lines of a design mockup blurring into each other.

She dragged the pen across the tablet, erased, drew again, erased. Nothing looked right.

She tried to focus on fonts, on spacing, on color palettes, but all she could hear was Ling Ling’s voice from two nights ago.

“I don’t regret you.”

It was supposed to be a comfort. It was supposed to be enough.

It wasn’t.

It was like being given a life raft in the middle of the ocean, only to realize the person who threw it was already swimming away.

Her phone buzzed.

Gina again.

Gina: hey, how’s my favorite chaos wife?
Orm: dead. alive. same thing.
Gina: that’s not an answer babe
Orm: then maybe it’s the truth

She stared at the blinking cursor, thumb hovering.

The truth was stuck in her chest, messy and humiliating.

But if she didn’t tell someone, she was going to drown in it.

Orm: gina. i think i’m in trouble.
Gina: what kind of trouble?
Orm: the kind where you fall for someone who’s still bleeding from someone else

It took Gina a full minute to reply.

Gina: …Orm.
Orm: don’t say it i know i’m stupid
Gina: you’re not stupid. you’re human. and she’s human too.
Orm: yeah well being human sucks
Gina: listen. you can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed. but you can love them while they try.
Orm: and if i get crushed in the process?
Gina: then you decide if she’s worth the risk. only you know that.

Orm locked her phone and dropped her forehead onto her desk.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to laugh.

Instead, she just let the silence thrum in her ears until the end of the workday.

That evening, the penthouse was as pristine as ever. The housekeeper had come and gone.

Fresh flowers stood in a vase on the counter.

Dinner was already laid out, covered neatly with glass lids.

Ling Ling was waiting, hair down for once, tablet in her lap.

She looked up when Orm entered. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” Orm muttered, shrugging off her bag.

“I had them prepare steamed fish. You should eat before it gets cold.”

It was too much.

The kindness was too much.

Orm sat, picked at the food, and felt the ache in her chest sharpen.

She wanted Ling Ling to yell, to snap, to do anything that wasn’t this suffocating politeness.

“Stop,” Orm blurted, louder than she meant.

Ling Ling paused, chopsticks hovering.

“Stop what?”

“Stop being so nice if you don’t mean it.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice bread.

Ling Ling’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes.

Not anger. Not hurt.

Something softer.

Something unreadable.

She set her chopsticks down with deliberate care.

“I mean it,” she said quietly.

“No, you don’t,” Orm whispered, throat tight. “You’re… you’re just doing your duty. Your wife-duty. Your ‘keeping promises’ duty. It’s not the same.”

Ling Ling didn’t argue.

She only looked at her, gaze steady, until Orm couldn’t take it and shoved her chair back.

“I’m done,” she muttered, retreating to the couch.

 

Boba met her halfway, pouncing on her shoelace with the enthusiasm of someone who thought the world revolved around string.

Orm collapsed onto the couch, pulled him into her lap, and buried her face in his fur.

He purred, warm and steady, paws kneading at her chest like he was stitching her back together.

Orm’s throat gave out.

The tears came hot and sudden, spilling before she could fight them down.

“I’m so stupid,” she whispered into his fur. “So stupid for feeling this way.”

Boba meowed like he disagreed.

“I don’t even know if she—if she can ever—” Orm broke off, shaking, clutching the tiny body to her like a lifeline. “She’s still in love with a ghost, Boba. And I’m just… here. I’m just here.”

She didn’t know when the sobs gave way to hiccups, or when the hiccups softened into the shallow rhythm of sleep.

All she knew was that Boba stayed curled on her chest, purring, until the world blurred into nothing.

She didn’t see Ling Ling standing in the doorway.

The older woman leaned against the frame, tablet forgotten in her hand.

Her eyes softened in a way no one ever saw—no boardroom, no friend, not even Prem.

She took a step forward, then stopped.

Her hand twitched, as if she wanted to brush the hair off Orm’s damp cheek.

Instead, she picked up the blanket draped over the back of the couch.

Quietly, carefully, she laid it over Orm and the kitten, tucking it around their shoulders.

She stood there a moment longer, gaze unreadable.

Then she turned, retreating into the darkened hall, leaving Orm to sleep in the warm cocoon of Boba’s purr and her own exhaustion.

 

The penthouse was quiet in a way that gnawed at her.

Ling Ling sat at her desk in the study, a dozen files open on her laptop, yet none of them managed to hold her attention.

She’d scrolled the same three pages of a contract five times already, numbers swimming into meaningless shapes. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, the sound as sharp as a metronome in the silence.

Her pen tapped against the desk.

Once. Twice.

The rhythm too steady, too rehearsed.

Five years.

Her life with Mint had stretched long enough to build habits that still clung like ivy.

The morning coffees, the late-night messages, the shared calendar reminders—woven into the fabric of her memory.

And then, all at once, shredded.

Betrayal didn’t just take away a person; it hollowed out every ordinary routine, leaving ghosts behind.

And now, five months with Orm.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

Five years with someone she’d loved, ending in ash.

Five months with someone she hadn’t chosen, hadn’t known—and still, her life felt impossibly altered

She leaned back in her chair, rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Orm.

The girl—no, the woman—who had stumbled into her life in a church bathroom with wide eyes and trembling hands.

The one she’d dragged down the aisle in a reckless act of desperation.

A stranger who had no reason to stay, yet somehow hadn’t left.

Ling Ling had promised her everything.

It had been both a shield and a sentence: a way to protect Orm, a way to contain the chaos she herself had unleashed.

She’d meant it at the time as pure duty.

She still did.

But lately, duty had begun to feel… blurry.

Orm laughed too easily, filling corners of the penthouse that used to echo.

She talked to the kitten as if he were human, and it made Ling Ling’s lips twitch even on the hardest days.

She moved through the rooms with clumsy energy, knocking into expensive furniture as if wealth had never been her language.

And Ling Ling—God help her found herself watching.

Watching when Orm tucked her hair behind her ear while reading.

Watching the way she hummed under her breath when cooking noodles late at night.

Watching the quiet determination on her face when she stayed late sketching at the dining table.

It unsettled her, the way she noticed.

Her gaze drifted to the half-open door.

The hallway beyond was dim, but she knew exactly where Orm was: curled in her own room, probably with Boba tucked under her chin like a stuffed toy.

Ling Ling had caught glimpses these past days.

Red eyes after nights she tried too hard to pretend she hadn’t cried.

The way her voice cracked around the edges when she tried to sound light.

Orm thought she hid it well, but Ling Ling saw.

Ling Ling always saw.

And it was her fault.

The confrontation with Mint had torn open scars she thought she’d learned to live with.

Mint’s smirk, her cruel words, her audacity—it had pulled her back into the storm.

And Orm had heard enough of it to know.

Ling Ling had wanted to protect her.

Instead, she’d hurt her.

She stood, pacing slowly across the study.

The city glittered below, mocking her with its restless energy.

Out there, people were falling in and out of love, breaking, mending, moving on. Inside here, she was trapped between the past and the present, between guilt and something she didn’t dare name.

What was she to Orm?

A benefactor?

A captor?

A caretaker?

A wife?

She didn’t know.

All she knew was that every time she saw Orm’s face light up when Boba bounded across the living room, something tugged in her chest.

Every time she noticed Orm stumbling half-asleep toward the kitchen for water, she wanted to guide her back to bed.

Every time Orm smiled at her—really smiled—she wanted to believe she wasn’t just fulfilling a duty anymore.

But then Mint’s ghost pressed in again.

Five years weren’t erased by five months.

It was impossible.

Wasn’t it?

She left the study finally, footsteps soft against the polished floor.

The penthouse was still, save for the faint hum of the city through the glass.

Orm’s door was cracked open.

Ling Ling hesitated, then inched closer, careful not to make a sound.

Inside, Orm was curled on her side, Boba sprawled across her chest like he owned her.

Her lashes were damp, cheeks still blotchy from tears she thought no one had seen.

One hand clutched the edge of the blanket as though it might anchor her to the world.

Ling Ling’s throat tightened.

She wanted—God, she wanted—to cross the room, to brush the hair from Orm’s forehead, to gather her against her chest and whisper apologies she wasn’t sure how to form.

She wanted to tell her that she noticed, that she cared, that she wasn’t blind to the hurt.

But she didn’t move.

Her hand twitched at her side, fingers curling into a fist.

She forced herself to stay where she was, watching in silence, expression unreadable even to herself.

Because what right did she have?

Back in her own room, Ling Ling sat on the edge of the bed.

The silence was heavier here.

She pressed her palms together, rested them against her lips, and closed her eyes.

Duty. Guilt.

Something else.

She couldn’t untangle them anymore.

All she knew was that Orm was in her home, in her life, in her orbit.

A stranger who had become necessary in ways she couldn’t explain.

She lay down eventually, the sheets cold, the ceiling vast.

The words slipped out before she could stop them, barely a whisper into the dark.

“Mint.”

The name tasted bitter.

Wrong.

Her chest ached.

And in the space after, another image rose unbidden: Orm’s laugh, bright and clumsy, the way she teased Boba like he was fluent in sarcasm.

The sound was lighter than anything Mint had left her with.

Ling Ling exhaled, a shaky breath.

She didn’t know what she felt anymore.

Only that the past was still a wound, and the present was becoming something she couldn’t ignore.

And somewhere between them, she was breaking apart.

 

 

Orm woke up to something heavy on her head.

At first, she thought it was just the universe pressing down on her skull for existing.

Then came the purr.

Loud, smug, vibrating directly into her scalp.

She cracked one eye open and found herself staring into Boba’s smug little face as he kneaded her hair like it was dough.

“Are you serious?” she groaned. “Out of all the flat surfaces in this entire penthouse, you chose me?”

Boba blinked slowly, as if to say yes. suffer.

Orm flopped back against the pillows, dramatically sighing like the heroine of a tragic drama.

“Mae was right. Men are trouble. And apparently so are male kittens.”

That was when she noticed the smell.

Toast. Coffee.

Something citrus.

She sat up, hair sticking in every direction, and padded to the kitchen still in her oversized t-shirt.

Ling Ling was already there, flawless in a cream blouse, sipping tea like mornings bent themselves around her schedule.

She didn’t even blink at Orm’s zombie shuffle.

“Your alarm didn’t go off,” Ling Ling said, setting down her cup.

Orm yawned, rubbing her face.

“No, Boba went off instead. His settings are permanently set to ‘annoying.’”

As if summoned, Boba trotted in behind her, tail high.

He leapt straight onto one of the chairs, purring smugly.

Ling Ling’s lips curved, the barest flicker of amusement.

She turned back to the counter and slid a plate forward.

Perfectly browned toast, a peeled orange cut into neat crescents, and coffee that smelled like it had been made by angels.

Orm eyed it suspiciously.

“What did I do to deserve this? Did I win wife lottery overnight?”

“You burned the last batch,” Ling Ling said, completely straight-faced. “I decided not to risk it again.”

Orm gasped.

“Slander! It was one time!”

“One time too many,” Ling Ling replied, but the faint gleam in her eyes gave her away.

Orm groaned, taking a huge bite of toast.

“I see how it is. First, you steal my freedom, then my dignity, and now my right to burn bread.”

“Eat,” Ling Ling said simply, turning back to her tea.

Orm rolled her eyes but obeyed, chewing noisily just to make a point.

By the time they left for work, Orm was still muttering about “domestic oppression,” but Ling Ling had insisted on personally driving her instead of sending the driver.

“You don’t usually do this,” Orm said, sliding into the passenger seat, clutching her sketchbook like a shield.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” Ling Ling said without looking at her. “I thought the company might be too much on your own today.”

Orm blinked.

Her heart stuttered.

She covered it quickly with a scoff.

“You make it sound like I’m five.”

Ling Ling’s lips twitched.

“Sometimes you act like it.”

Orm gasped again, clutching her chest.

“Wife bullying detected.”

But she didn’t complain the rest of the ride, secretly warmed by the fact that Ling Ling had noticed.

 

 

Work, however, was a mess.

Orm sat at her desk, staring at her half-finished layout on the screen, when her phone buzzed.

Jane: hey chaos wife no.2. where’s ur office
Orm: why?
Jane: dropping by. what floor.
Orm: no don’t—
Jane: too late. bring snacks.

Orm’s blood turned cold.

“No, no, no,” she muttered, typing furiously.

Orm: Jane, seriously, don’t—

But by then, it was too late.

Because five minutes later, the elevator dinged, and there she was: Jane, tall, blonde-streaked, American confidence radiating off her in waves.

She strode across the office like it was her personal runway, sunglasses pushed up on her head, tote bag swinging.

“ORRMMIIE!” she shouted, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

Orm nearly fell out of her chair.

“Oh my god.”

Jane reached her desk in three strides and yanked her into a bear hug. “I missed you!”

Every head in the office turned.

Mouths fell open.

Orm flailed uselessly.

“We literally saw each other last week!”

“Not enough,” Jane declared, kissing her cheek with a loud smack.

The whispers started immediately.

“Is that her girlfriend?”

“Who’s the foreigner?”

“Orm’s been hiding someone??”

Orm wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

“Jane, I am begging you—”

Jane ignored her, plopping onto the edge of her desk.

“Cute office. Needs more plants. Or disco balls. But hey, at least you’ve got taste in women.”

Orm’s coworkers were practically drooling with curiosity.

One brave soul leaned over.

“Orm… is this…?”

Orm slapped her forehead.

“No! This is—she’s my—Ling Ling’s cousin!”

The coworker’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly escaped his face.

“...your wife’s cousin?”

Jane winked.

“And best friend’s fiancée. Complicated family tree, don’t ask.”

Orm groaned.

 

 

By lunchtime, the entire office thought Orm was having a torrid affair with a foreign cousin-in-law.

Jane, of course, didn’t help by buying snacks for the entire floor and loudly declaring

“It’s on me—Orm’s practically family now!”

When Jane finally left—dragging Orm into one last suffocating hug and whispering “cheer up, chaos wife no.2, you deserve happy things”—Orm collapsed into her chair, face burning.

Her phone buzzed a minute later.

Ling Ling: Jane came to your office.
Orm: HOW DO YOU KNOW
Ling Ling: Gina told me.
Orm: i’m going to die. delete me from family registry.
Ling Ling: Don’t be dramatic. She meant well.
Orm: your cousin is a menace
Ling Ling: She cheered you up.

Orm stared at that last message, heart doing something strange.

She typed, deleted, typed again, then finally sent:

Orm: ...maybe a little.

 

That night, she came home still fuming.

“Your cousin,” she declared as she threw herself onto the couch. “Your cousin tried to ruin my life.”

Ling Ling looked up from her tablet, perfectly calm.

“You’re still alive.”

Orm threw a cushion at her.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

Ling Ling caught the cushion neatly.

But her lips curved, just slightly. “I already thanked her.”

Orm’s jaw dropped. “You WHAT?!”

“She was looking out for you,” Ling Ling said simply, standing to set the cushion back.

Orm sputtered, indignant.

“Looking out for me? She singlehandedly convinced half my office I’m cheating on you!”

“Did she?” Ling Ling tilted her head, amused.

Orm buried her face in her hands.

“You’re impossible.”

When she finally peeked through her fingers, Ling Ling was watching her with that unreadable softness again—the one that made Orm’s chest ache.

And later, when Orm went into her room, she found her favorite snacks neatly stacked on her desk.

No note.

No announcement.

Just there, waiting.

Orm sat on the edge of her bed, hugging a bag of chips, and whispered to Boba, “I’m doomed, aren’t I?”

Boba purred, smug as ever.

Notes:

Although this is fiction, a history of five years can’t simply be buried or burned away.
When it hurts, it will hurt. Betrayal especially leaves scars that linger far longer than we admit. Even if someone hides it well, the moment it surfaces, it’s raw and real just like Ling Ling here.
And that’s okay.
We’re human, and humans can’t lock away feelings forever.
I hope this chapter gives you all a balance between hurt and healing.
See you in the next one. 💌

Chapter 13: Soft hearted VS Little Gremlin

Orm had always thought silence was golden.

Growing up in her little apartment, silence meant peace: her mother humming in the balcony garden, the faint buzz of the city dulled by walls, nothing urgent enough to break the calm.

But in Ling Ling’s penthouse, silence meant trouble.

Because when a three-month-old kitten named Boba was quiet, he was plotting.

Orm woke that morning stretching like a satisfied cat herself, yawning into her pillow.

She blinked at the high ceiling, the expensive chandelier that still made her nervous, and rolled to her side.

No soft paw batting at her hair.

No tiny weight sprawled across her stomach.

No faint purring against her ear.

She sat up instantly.

“Boba?”

The silence was her answer.

Heart racing, she threw the blanket aside and padded barefoot across the polished hardwood.

It wasn’t the usual mess of toy mice or crinkled paper balls.

The floor was spotless

Too spotless.

That was the first warning.

The second came when she followed the faint sound of a suspicious

riiip riiip riiip.

Her stomach dropped.

She rounded the corner and froze.

There was Boba, perched halfway up the floor-to-ceiling silk curtains imported from Italy, tiny claws sunk deep, tail swishing like he’d just conquered Everest.

His little teeth were busy gnawing on the embroidered edge, a thread dangling from his mouth like spaghetti.

“Oh my god,” Orm whispered, hands flying to her head. “No no no no no—Boba, you absolute criminal!”

The kitten blinked at her, tilted his head, and meowed, as if to say

What? this is enrichment.

Orm’s panic spiked.

She lunged for the kitten, arms out like a goalkeeper, but Boba leapt sideways—straight onto Ling Ling’s Italian leather chair.

The sound of tiny claws scrrrtching against leather echoed in the quiet penthouse.

Orm’s soul left her body.

“BOBA!” She whisper-screamed, horrified. “That’s not just leather—that’s… that’s probably worth more than my entire life insurance policy!”

Boba batted at the chair seam like it was the greatest toy on earth.

Orm scrambled, offering desperate bribes.

“Here, take my hair tie! No? Okay, fine—have my toast! You want the pen from my sketchbook? Just—please—don’t kill me before I’ve lived, you tiny demon!”

She was halfway under the table, hair a mess, muttering threats like “I’m Googling military school for kittens after this” when the sound of measured footsteps reached her ears.

Orm froze.

Of course.

Of course Ling Ling would choose this exact moment to walk in.

The woman, perfectly composed in her pale silk blouse and fitted trousers, paused at the threshold.

Her gaze swept over the scene:-

Orm on her knees, one slipper on, hair sticking up, bribing a kitten with toast crumbs while Boba continued his reign of terror.

Ling Ling’s lips twitched.

Orm, mortified, scrambled to her feet. “I can explain! He started it! I swear I—”

But Ling Ling didn’t scold.

She didn’t even frown.

She just walked forward, crouched gracefully, and scooped Boba up in one easy motion.

The kitten purred traitorously, curling into Ling Ling’s arms like the perfect angel he definitely wasn’t.

Orm gaped.

“Are you kidding me?! He was a whole terrorist thirty seconds ago!”

Ling Ling stroked the kitten’s head, utterly calm. “He’s just a baby.”

“That ‘baby’ almost shredded your curtains into spaghetti.”

Ling Ling glanced at the curtains—silk threads dangling, bite marks evident—then back at Orm. “It can be replaced.”

Orm threw her hands up. “It’s antique hand-stitched silk!”

Ling Ling’s gaze softened, and then she said it—so simply, so quietly it was almost casual

“It can be replaced. You can’t.”

The words slammed into Orm’s chest harder than a car crash.

She blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I—uh—you—what—” Her face went red, ears burning, brain static.

Ling Ling, oblivious (or maybe not), just carried Boba to his little cat tree and set him down. “Next time, close your bedroom door if you want to sleep in.”

Orm stood frozen, heart jackhammering.

She finally muttered under her breath

“Yeah, sure, like doors can stop Satan in fur.”

Boba meowed in agreement.

 

Orm sulked into the kitchen, clutching Boba like a baby even though she was still fuming.

She poured herself coffee, glaring at the kitten. “You’re grounded. No more late-night zoomies. No more climbing anything taller than me. And no more leather.”

Boba licked her finger.

“Don’t give me that look, you manipulative puffball.”

From the living room, Ling Ling’s voice floated over.

“Orm, do you want breakfast?”

“No!” Orm shouted back, face red. Then immediately: “…Maybe. Depends what it is.”

Ling Ling appeared at the doorway, holding her tablet.

She studied Orm for a long moment, like she always did—like she was cataloguing every expression, every flicker of irritation.

It made Orm feel both exposed and seen in a way she couldn’t handle.

Ling Ling finally said, “You look good when you’re angry.”

Orm nearly choked on her coffee. “Excuse me??”

Ling Ling’s lips curved—subtle, but there.

Then she retreated back to her emails, leaving Orm steaming in the kitchen, trying not to think about how her heart had just sprinted a marathon.

 

That night, after a long day of work and awkward silences, Orm padded back into the living room.

She stopped short.

The curtains.

The shredded, chewed, murdered curtains.

They looked… brand new.

She blinked, stepped closer.

Not a single thread out of place.

No claw marks. No bite holes.

It was as if Boba’s morning crime spree had never happened.

Orm turned slowly toward Ling Ling, who was lounging on the sofa with a book, hair loose around her shoulders. “You—did you—”

Ling Ling didn’t look up. “Had them replaced this afternoon.”

Orm’s jaw dropped.

“Replaced?! Already? How?!”

“I have people for that,” Ling Ling said simply, flipping a page.

Orm gawked. “That’s insane. Do you know how much that must have cost?”

Ling Ling finally lifted her gaze, calm and steady.

“Does it matter? I don’t want you stressed.”

Orm’s throat went dry. Her heart squeezed.

This woman was going to be the end of her.

She mumbled something incoherent and retreated with Boba in her arms, whispering into his fur

“We’re doomed, Boba. Absolutely doomed.”

The kitten purred, smug as a king.

 

Orm should’ve known peace was a lie.

She was sprawled on the sofa, pretending to read a magazine but really side-eyeing Boba, who was suspiciously quiet again.

The last time he was this silent, the curtains had paid the price.

And then she heard it

Clink. clink. cliiiiiink.

Her blood ran cold.

Slowly, she turned her head.

There was Boba.

On the low glass table. Staring at the Ming dynasty vase Ling Ling had casually placed there like it wasn’t worth more than Orm’s soul.

One tiny paw was already nudging it closer to the edge.

“Don’t you dare,” Orm hissed, scrambling up. “Boba, I swear to all nine lives, if that falls, I’m moving to Cambodia and changing my name.”

The kitten blinked.

Tilted his head.

Nudged again.

Orm lunged

“NO!”

Just as Ling Ling walked in, serene as ever, holding a cup of tea.

Time slowed.

Orm caught the vase mid-tip, clutching it to her chest like a bomb.

She glared at Boba, who licked his paw innocently.

Ling Ling raised an eyebrow.

“Orm.”

Orm’s voice cracked. “HE WAS GONNA KILL ME!” She thrust the vase out dramatically. “Do you know how much this costs? Because I checked on Google once and I fainted.”

Ling Ling set her tea down, walked over, and gently took the vase, placing it back in its spot.

Then she turned to Orm, who was still hyperventilating.

And then it happened.

Ling Ling laughed.

Not the polite chuckle she gave board members.

Not the amused exhale she used when Prem was being dramatic.

A real laugh—warm, unguarded, spilling out of her like sunlight through glass.

Orm forgot how to breathe.

Ling Ling reached out, brushing a stray hair from Orm’s face, still smiling.

“You’re more dramatic than Boba.”

Orm, red as a tomato, sputtered. “I—I’m a victim here! I’m living with two menaces!”

Boba meowed, as if to say you’re welcome.

Orm groaned and buried her face in a pillow, mumbling, “One day, this cat is going to finish me.”

Ling Ling’s soft laugh lingered in the air long after, wrapping around Orm’s chest like something dangerous.

 

 

 

Orm should’ve known she was in trouble the moment Prem texted her directly

The text came at 8:01 a.m., crisp as a subpoena.

Prem: Sunday. Be free. Don’t make excuses.
Prem: I’m borrowing you.
Prem: Yes, borrowing. Return time TBD.

Orm read it twice, then padded into the kitchen like a raccoon that had learned shame.

Ling Ling was there in soft joggers and a white tee, slicing mango with surgeon precision.

She looked up and smiled the kind of small, private smile that always felt like it was meant only for Orm.

“Your best friend is trying to arrest me,” Orm announced, holding out her phone.

Ling Ling glanced at the screen. “She’s not arresting you. She wants to hang out.”

“‘Hang out’?” Orm squeaked. “This reads like a court summons.”

“She’s… direct.”

“That is not direct, that is threatening,” Orm whispered, as if Prem could hear from fifteen floors below. “What if she interrogates me about our marriage? What if she brings a lie detector? What if she brings a PowerPoint?”

Ling Ling set the knife down, wiped her hands, and reached across the island to squeeze Orm’s wrist. “You’ll be fine. Be yourself.”

“That’s the problem,” Orm muttered, but softer than the hum of the fridge.

Ling Ling’s smile ticked up, like she’d heard anyway.

By 10 a.m., Orm was outside a chic little café Prem had specified (“not the one with the watered-down espresso, the other one, I raised Ling better than that”).

She hovered by the door in a sundress she’d overthought for twenty minutes and a cardigan she didn’t need.

Her stomach fizzed like soda.

Then Prem arrived—sunglasses, hair glossy, posture like “I could buy this building but I won’t because the parking is bad.”

She slid them off and pinned Orm with eyes sharp enough to slice sashimi.

“You,” Prem said, taking the opposite chair without asking.

“Me,” Orm said, trying not to audibly gulp.

“The wife.”

“Accidentally,” Orm blurted. “Accidentally the wife.”

Prem’s mouth tilted. “Still counts.”

The barista arrived like a peace treaty.

Prem ordered an Americano “extra bitter,” which felt on brand.

Orm asked for a vanilla latte, immediately regretted it, then panicked and added, “Hot. And… with a smile? Sorry, ignore me.”

Prem rested her chin on one hand. “So. Orm. Tell me something I won’t hear from Ling.”

“That I once fought a printer,” Orm said, too fast. “In my internship. It won.”

Prem blinked, then snorted. “Good. Honesty. I like that.” She leaned back. “Let’s start again. Job?”

“Graphic designer.” Orm twisted her straw wrapper into a tiny catastrophe. “Mid-level. Mostly brand work. Sometimes I design posters and then cry because the kerning looks weird at 3 a.m.”

“Mother?”

“Mae Koy. Retired. Very dramatic. Faints like a K-drama extras package.”

Prem’s mouth softened.

“I know. She likes me. She sent me mango sticky rice once with a note that said ‘don’t bully my child.’”

“Oh, she likes you?” Orm asked, shocked. “She threatens me weekly.”

“She thinks I’m good for Ling,” Prem said simply. “She’s not wrong.”

That item dropped like a pebble into a pond and kept rippling.

Before Orm could ask what being “good for Ling” meant, Prem pivoted.

“Favorite food?”

“Noodles. Any shape. If you cut a noodle into a square, I’ll still eat it.”

Prem nodded like she was building a profile.

“Biggest fear?”

“Spiders. And disappointing people. And Ling Ling’s eyebrows when I break something.”

Prem’s eyes flashed.

“What did you break.”

“The curtains,” Orm confessed. “And almost a vase. Boba’s fault, mostly.”

“Ah. The kitten.” Prem stirred her coffee. “Ling laughed?”

“At me,” Orm said quickly. “Just a little. It was like hearing a unicorn sneeze.”

“With her, that counts as a laugh.” Prem took a slow sip, watching Orm over the rim. “You make it sound like you enjoy making her laugh.”

Orm busied herself with a napkin, folding it into something that failed to be a crane.

“I enjoy… being useful.”

Prem’s gaze sharpened.

“Do you.”

“It’s nice,” Orm said, picking at a loose thread on her cardigan. “Being useful to someone who’s so… capable. She doesn’t need anyone. But she lets me… I don’t know. Boil noodles. Be loud. Exist.”

For a moment, Prem didn’t say anything.

A flicker of something gentler crossed her face.

Then she set her cup down and clapped once, brisk.

“Excellent. Interrogation complete. Field trip.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Walk,” Prem said, already standing. “You and I are going to buy a cat toy that isn’t worth more than your laptop.”

“God bless you,” Orm breathed, scrambling after her

 

The weekend market was all heat shimmer and noisy joy.

Vendors shouted over piles of fruit and cut flowers; a guitarist on the corner massacred an Ed Sheeran song with enthusiasm.

Prem cut through the chaos like a knife through chiffon.

Orm pinballed in her wake, stopping to touch everything

“Prem look at this ridiculous ceramic dumpling—"

"Prem it’s a candle—"

"Prem should we buy seven?”

They found the pet stall by sound more than sight—squeaks, jingles, a chorus of meows, a dog barking like he’d just discovered the concept of sound.

Orm made a beeline for a feather wand that lit up like a rave.

“This will make Boba feral,” she said reverently.

“He’s already feral,” Prem said, but her lips were curving.

“Okay, yeah, but like… festive feral.”

They were still laughing when the sound slipped in under the noise.

A thin, breathy mew.

Barely there.

If Orm hadn’t turned her head at that exact moment she might’ve missed it.

She didn’t miss it.

“Prem.” Orm froze. “Do you hear that.”

“Nope,” Prem said immediately. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this again.”

But Orm was already scanning behind the stall, then around the crates, then crouching near a stack of plastic buckets.

The mew came again—frayed, small.

Orm eased aside a cardboard flap and found a tiny cat, soot-gray with a white smudge on his nose, tucked into the space between crates and wall.

He blinked at her, eyes watery, one paw held up like he wasn’t sure it belonged to him.

Orm’s heart sprinted. “Hey,” she breathed, soft and ridiculous, like she’d always known his name. “Hi, baby.”

Prem exhaled through her nose like a woman meeting her fate in a Greek tragedy.

“Orm. I am begging you, as Ling’s closest friend and the person she texts when you set things on fire: think.”

“I am thinking,” Orm said, so gently it almost wasn’t an argument. “I’m thinking he needs help.”

The kitten’s paw trembled.

Orm’s chest hurt.

She held out two fingers and waited.

He sniffed, leaned, and then pressed into her touch like a drowned thing finding shore.

Prem lasted three seconds, then crouched too, muttering, “I hate you,” at nobody in particular. “Fine. But we’re not taking him home. We are responsible adults. There are steps.”

“Steps,” Orm echoed, gathering the tiny body into her hands.

He fit there like a warm question mark. “First step?”

“Vet,” Prem said, grim. “Then—microchip check, posters, owner reports. If no owner, we find a foster. Repeat after me: we are not bringing him to Ling’s antique-glass theme park.”

Orm pressed her cheek to the kitten’s head. “We are not bringing him to Ling’s antique-glass theme park,” she sighed. “Today.”

“Orm.”

“I’m joking,” she lied. “Mostly.”

Prem paid for a cardboard carrier and a little blanket, argued with a man about price in two languages, then bullied a taxi into letting them in.

The driver took one look at Prem’s face and drove like he’d been hired by the minute.

At the clinic, Orm vibrated with nerves while the vet, a gentle woman with a jasmine-soft voice prodded and peered.

“Mild dehydration,” the vet said. “No fever. Paw is sore, likely from a scrape, not broken. We’ll clean and bandage. He’s very sweet.”

“He is,” Orm whispered, eyes shiny.

Prem sat with arms folded, pretending she wasn’t watching Orm melt.

When the vet left to grab gauze, she spoke without looking. “You have a stupid heart.”

“I know,” Orm said. “It’s my worst organ.”

Prem’s mouth twitched.

“Ling will like that about you. Eventually.”

Orm swallowed. “Will she?”

Prem turned her head then, gaze too clear. “She already does.”

Before Orm could short-circuit, the vet returned.

They cleaned the paw, scanned for a chip (none), clipped a tiny bit of fur to treat a flea or two.

Orm oohed and ahhed like she’d birthed the cat herself.

Prem dealt with the practicalities—forms, a printable “found cat” flyer, a list of shelters and fosters, a QR to post in neighborhood groups.

“Prem is terrifyingly efficient,” Orm stage-whispered to the cat.

“Prem is trying to protect you from getting murdered by Ling’s furniture,” Prem said.

On the ride to the recommended foster,a tidy woman named Auntie Mali who collected stray souls like teacups, Orm texted Ling in bursts.

Orm: don’t be mad
Orm: you can’t be mad it’s illegal on sundays
Orm: i saved a life today
Orm: small one
Orm: his nose has a dot like a comma

There was a long pause. 

Ling Ling: Are you bringing him home?

Orm looked at Prem, who mouthed: NO.

Orm: …no
Orm: (for now)
Ling Ling: Send me the clinic bill.

Orm: it’s okay we split—
Ling Ling: Send it.

Orm did.

Two seconds later

Ling Ling: Done.
Ling Ling: What did you name him?

Orm: i didn’t! that’s dangerous! naming is attachment!
Ling Ling: Understood.
Ling Ling: (What would you name him if you were reckless.)

Orm: …Comma

There was no reply for a full minute.

Orm stared at the screen until Prem confiscated it.

“Breathe,” Prem said. “Your face is doing that thing where you forget air exists.”

When they dropped Comma with Auntie Mali who cooed and promised endless photos Orm cried in the hallway, the silent ugly kind.

Prem pressed a tissue into her hand without comment and pretended to read a poster about deworming.

“I’m okay,” Orm lied.

“I know,” Prem said. “You’re also not. That’s okay too.”

“Do you think… if no one calls… would Ling…”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Prem said, but her voice was kinder than the words. “Let’s get you noodles.”

 

The penthouse felt different when Orm pushed the door open that evening.

Not quieter—Boba came skittering over instantly, chirping like a tiny dictator—but calmer, like the day had been stretched and smoothed.

Ling Ling stood from the sofa, hair down, bare feet, an oversized button-down shirt that should’ve been illegal by several marriage statutes.

“You’re home,” she said, like a fact she liked.

Orm held up the empty carrier sheepishly.

“We—found a tiny catastrophe. Took him to the vet. He’s safe. I didn’t… I wanted to bring him here, I did, but Prem said steps. We left him with a foster. He’s okay.”

Something in Ling Ling’s shoulders loosened, so minimal you’d miss it if you didn’t watch her like a sunrise. “You did the right thing.”

“I didn’t even name him,” Orm said, trying to make a joke and then failing. “Except in my head.”

Ling Ling’s mouth quirked. “

Let me guess.”

“Comma,” Orm admitted.

“Of course,” Ling Ling said, fond in a way that made Orm’s pulse skip. “Come eat.”

Prem wandered in behind Orm then, shameless, already opening the fridge like a relative.

“Do you have wine.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Everyone did great, I was the hero, Orm did the crying.”

“I didn’t cry that much,” Orm argued, sniffling.

“You cried into his fur like a woman in a war movie,” Prem said.

“I bonded!”

“You imprinted.”

Ling Ling’s eyes bounced between them like she was watching two ping-pong balls. “Thank you, Prem,” she said simply.

Prem tipped an invisible hat.

“Always.”

They ate together at the island: noodles, a plate of sliced mangoes Ling Ling had cut that morning, Boba weaving between ankles like he was demanding voting rights.

Orm narrated Comma’s every expression.

Prem said “mm” at the right moments and “no” at all the wrong ones.

Ling Ling listened more than she spoke, the corner of her mouth soft.

After, Orm gathered Boba and a handful of toys and retreated to her room with promises of “bedtime interviews” for the cat.

Prem lingered.

Ling Ling set two glasses and a good bottle on the counter and nodded toward the study.

 

“Come,” she said. “Scare me with your honesty.”

Prem grinned. “Gladly.”

The study at night was a glass box, city glitter thrown like sequins across the windows.

Ling Ling poured quietly, the way she did everything—precise, economical, making even wine look like work.

Prem took the first sip and made a pleased sound that would’ve shocked her interns.

“Okay,” Prem said, settling into the chair opposite, crossing one leg over the other. “Let’s do the thing.”

“What thing,” Ling Ling said, already bracing.

“The thing where I ask what you feel and you try to convince me the answer is a calendar invite.” Prem swirled her glass. “How are you.”

“I’m fine.”

“No,” Prem said, pleasant. “Next.”

Ling Ling angled a look at her. “Work is busy. The board wants—”

“I said you, Ling.” Prem leaned forward. Some of the playful steel dropped out of her voice. “Not the company. Not the shareholders. You.”

Silence.

The clock ticked.

Far below, a siren wailed and faded.

“I’m…” Ling Ling began, then stopped. She wasn’t a woman who failed for words. She could negotiate ten-figure contracts before lunch. But the shape of this was too slippery. “I’m trying to be responsible.”

“Responsible how.”

“I promised Orm I’d take care of her. I promised Mae Koy. I meant it.”

“Taking care is not the same as… feeling,” Prem said, not unkind. “You do logistics perfectly. You have always done logistics perfectly. But we’re not talking about drivers and doctors and curtain repair. We’re talking about your heart.”

Ling Ling looked down into her wine.

The city lights shivered in the glass.

“It’s… noisy,” she said finally. “In here.” She touched two fingers to her chest. “History doesn’t go quiet because you want it to.”

“Mint,” Prem said, soft as a fingertip over a bruise.

Ling Ling swallowed.

That name still felt like a foreign object on her tongue. “Five years is a long time.”

“It is,” Prem said. “And five months is not. But you know what else five months is? It’s time to notice someone. It’s time to laugh again. It’s time to decide whether you do this with your whole chest or you stop before you turn Orm into collateral damage.”

Ling Ling winced like the words had edges.

“She’s falling,” she admitted, the act of saying it making it more true.

“She is,” Prem said. “And you’re… halfway to the ledge.”

Ling Ling looked up sharply. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Prem said, merciless the way only love could be. “You don’t replace silk because Boba stressed Orm unless you care. You don’t show up to drive her to work yourself after a sleepless night unless you care. You don’t ask what she would name a cat she can’t keep unless you—” She cut herself off, softened. “I’m not asking you to declare anything. I’m asking you to stop hiding behind duty like it’s a shield.”

Ling Ling’s jaw worked.

“What if I’m not… able,” she said, each word carefully chosen, “to give her what she might want.”

“Then you say that,” Prem said immediately. “Plainly, kindly. And you let her decide if being near you is worth the ache.”

She set her glass down and steepled her fingers. “But if you are able… if the problem isn’t capability but fear? Then you need to figure out whether you’re going to keep punishing yourself for something someone else did.”

The room hummed with the weight of it.

Ling Ling stared at a point over Prem’s shoulder, past the glass, past the city.

It felt like standing at the edge of a pool she used to own and not remembering how to step in.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” she said at last, quiet as a confession.

“Then don’t,” Prem said. “Hurting her by accidentally is still hurting her.”

Ling Ling exhaled, long and slow.

“She makes the house noisy in good ways.”

Prem’s eyes warmed. “I know.”

“She hums when she draws. Off-key.”

“She’s tone-deaf,” Prem said fondly.

“She talks to the cat like he’s, her coworker.”

“He is.”

Ling Ling looked at her wine again, then set it down untouched.

“Sometimes I think about… what it would be like if nothing had happened. If the wedding had—” She cut herself off. “Then she says something silly and I forget the hypothetical for ten minutes. It feels like… betrayal. To forget.”

“It isn’t,” Prem said. “It’s healing.”

“What if it’s too soon.”

“What if it’s right on time.”

They let the quiet sit between them.

It wasn’t hostile.

It was almost… companionable.

From the hallway came a thud and Orm’s voice, muffled

“Boba, we don’t eat receipts, we keep receipts! Ling likes them!”

Prem stifled a laugh.

Ling Ling failed to hide a smile.

Just like that, the room lightened by a degree.

“She’s good for you,” Prem said—not dramatic, not heavy.

Just true.

“Is she?” Ling Ling asked, barely above a whisper.

Prem tilted her head.

“I watched you learn how to be serious when we were seventeen. Maybe she’ll teach you how to be silly again.” Her gaze gentled further. “And maybe you’ll teach her that being loved doesn’t have to feel like waiting for impact.”

Ling Ling looked at the door.

She could picture exactly what was on the other side, Orm, hair everywhere, cradling a cat, talking like the world was a friend and not a fight.

The image hurt, but not like a wound.

More like a stretch.

“I’m afraid,” she said.

“Of course,” Prem replied. “Love is terrifying. That’s why we do it together.”

There was a beat in which Ling Ling almost said I think I could.

She didn’t.

Even so, something shifted; the room seemed to exhale.

Prem rose, smoothed her skirt. “I’ll head out. Tell your wife I say goodnight before she writes me a thank-you letter for letting her keep Comma for four hours.”

Ling Ling stood too.

At the door, Prem squeezed her arm—quick, firm, the way you steady someone stepping off a curb.

“Decide,” Prem said, soft but unyielding. “That’s all.”

Ling Ling nodded.

“Thank you.”

“For what.”

“For telling me the thing I didn’t want to hear.”

“It’s my spiritual calling,” Prem said dryly, then grinned. “Also, tell Orm I said she did good today. She’ll pretend she doesn’t care, but she will sleep like a saint.”

Ling Ling watched her go, the echo of heels fading into the elevator hush.

When the door clicked shut, the penthouse felt like it had been tilted slightly toward something she couldn’t name yet.

She didn’t go back to the study.

Instead she padded down the hall and paused by Orm’s door.

It was cracked—always cracked, like Orm didn’t know how to shut a thing completely.

Inside, Boba was a comma on Orm’s stomach, and Orm was sprawled diagonally, one foot out from under the blanket like a little kid.

On the bedside table sat a printout from Auntie Mali, a blurry photo of Comma in a tiny cone, glaring at the camera.

Underneath, Orm had scribbled FOUND. SAFE. WILL LOVE ANYWAY.

Something in Ling Ling’s chest tilted again.

She leaned against the frame, arms folded, and let herself watch.

Not long.

Not enough to feel like trespass.

Just long enough to memorize the gentle rise and fall of Orm’s breath, the way a smile tugged at her mouth even asleep, like she’d dreamed of a punchline.

She could keep being responsible.

She could keep her promises. She would.

But maybe—maybe—the definition of “taking care” needed updating.

Maybe it wasn’t just logistics.

Maybe it was letting someone know you wanted them here, not just that you could afford for them to be.

Ling Ling took out her phone, thumb hovering, then typed before she lost the nerve.

Ling Ling: Auntie Mali sent a photo. Comma already hates his cone.
Ling Ling: Proud of you. Sleep well.

She set the phone quietly on Orm’s dresser and left the message there like a folded blanket: useful, ordinary, warm.

In the kitchen, she poured the rest of the wine down the sink.

It felt symbolic, which was dramatic, which Orm would have loved. Ling Ling huffed a laugh she didn’t intend.

On her way to the study, she passed the curtains Boba had shredded last week.

Perfect again.

She touched the hem.

It can be replaced. You can’t.

The words echoed back, her own voice coming to tap her shoulder.

“Decide,” Prem had said.

Ling Ling turned off the lights one by one.

The penthouse slid into a softer darkness that felt less like hiding, more like resting.

For now, that was enough.

In the morning, she promised herself, she’d decide a small thing and then another.

She’d ask Orm if she wanted Ling to drive her again.

She’d tell her the noodles were better when she made them.

She’d say “stay,” not just “I’ve cleared your schedule.” Tiny choices that, stacked, might look a lot like the beginnings of courage.

Behind her, in the quiet, Boba knocked something off a table with the precision of a monarch reminding a kingdom who was in charge.

Orm’s soft “hey!” floated down the hall. Ling Ling smiled into the dark like a woman who’d just remembered what hope felt like in the mouth.

The rest, Ling decided, could be learned.

Notes:

Hi :) How are you all doing?
The little puff ball is really a gremlin in disguise isn't he?
See you all in the next chapter soon hopefully :)

Chapter 14: Little Things That Count

The first sign wasn’t fireworks.

It wasn’t flowers or a speech or even a kiss.

It was toast that wasn’t perfectly symmetrical.

On Monday, Orm shuffled into the kitchen with pillow-crease on her cheek and Boba draped over one shoulder like a morally bankrupt scarf.

The penthouse smelled like coffee and… something else.

Not jasmine tea; that was Ling Ling’s usual.

This was warmer, a little sweet, like the middle of a bakery at six a.m.

She stopped.

Blinking.

Ling Ling was at the stove.

Ling Ling never stood at the stove. She owned stoves, plural.

She coordinated schedules that told stoves what to do. She hired humans who were better than stoves.

But there she was, hair in a low knot, sleeves pushed to her elbows, frowning at a pan as if it had personally insulted her.

“What are you doing ?,” Orm asked, slowly, like she’d found an endangered animal attempting algebra.

Ling Ling didn’t look back. “Making breakfast.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Breakfast,” Ling Ling repeated carefully, as if tasting the word and checking it for defects. “For you.”

Orm’s eyes ping-ponged between the pan and the counter: a plate with toast cut in triangles but… crooked.

A shallow bowl of congee that was a little too thick.

Mango sliced neat—but one piece shorter than the others, the kind of imperfection you only get if you’re learning with your hands instead of delegating with your mouth.

Her heart did a very rude thing in her chest. “Why are you—”

“I’m trying,” Ling Ling said, still not looking at her.

She flipped the egg too late.

The edge tore.

She made a small, imperceptible face—like a CEO watching a graph dip half a millimeter—then slid it onto the plate.

“Trying what?”

“Trying,” she said again.

Then she turned and placed the plate in front of Orm as if this were standard, as if the earth had always rotated with this particular axis.

“Eat.”

Orm stared at it.

The imperfect triangle of toast.

The egg with a ragged edge. The mango with one short soldier.

It was so… human it hurt.

“S-sir, yes, sir,” she stammered, trying not to smile too hard. “Is there… are you okay? Did the board assign you penance?”

Ling Ling angled her head. “I can’t… be bad at this forever.”

“Bad?” Orm choked. “This is… this is…” Her eyes burned. God, embarrassing. “This is the best ugly egg I’ve ever seen.”

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched. “High praise.”

Boba, traitor, abandoned Orm’s shoulder and twined himself around Ling Ling’s ankles, purring like a bribe.

Ling Ling bent to scratch his chin.

“No curtains today,” she murmured.

Boba pretended not to understand Thai or English, the way criminals pretend not to understand the law.

Orm sat, took a bite.

The egg was a little too done.

The toast was warm and not crunchy all the way through.

The mango was cold.

It was perfect.

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it like a prayer.

Ling Ling watched her for one heartbeat longer than polite, something small easing behind her eyes, then turned back to war with a second egg as if she could negotiate with physics by sheer will.

 

Tuesday was the umbrella.

Bangkok had woken sulky and wet.

The sky dumped water in sheets, taxis hissed through puddles like sea creatures, and Orm had exactly one brain cell left after staying up late panicking about deadlines and remembering a kitten with a comma on his nose.

She stood in the lobby of her office building, scowling at the rain like it had planned this to spite her.

She reached into her tote for the tiny collapsible umbrella she kept there for moments like these and came up with… nothing.

“Oh, cool,” she muttered. “I’m raw-dogging the weather.”

Her phone buzzed.

A message from a number saved as Assistant (Ling): Ms. Orm, Ms. Kwong asked me to drop off an umbrella at your lobby. I’m outside.

Orm turned just as the glass doors parted and a neat woman in a neat blazer held out a neat black umbrella—sleek, compact, probably engineered by a precision-obsessed billionaire somewhere.

“For me?” Orm said, brain flattening.

“Yes, Ms. Orm,” the assistant smiled. “Ms. Kwong said you dislike rain in closed-toe shoes and you forget your umbrella eighty percent of the time.”

“I—how does she—what—” Orm spluttered. “I have open-toe sandals today.”

“Yes,” the assistant said pleasantly. “Ms. Kwong also sent these.” She opened a small bag. Inside sat a pair of simple white slides in Orm’s exact size and a rolled pair of ankle socks in Orm’s favorite shade of pale green.

Orm stared at them, then at the rain.

Then back at the bag.

She felt… held.

The kind of held that made your ribcage hurt because you didn’t know where to put all the warmth.

“Thank you,” she whispered, helpless.

The assistant’s eyes softened.

“She’s trying.”

“I know,” Orm said, swallowing. “That’s the problem.”

“Or the solution,” the assistant said, then vanished like a polite ghost.

Orm stood in the lobby another thirty seconds, hugging the umbrella like a love letter, then stepped into the rain anyway—just to feel ridiculous and alive and a little bit owned.

 

Wednesday was the meeting that ended early.

Or rather, ended on purpose.

Ling Ling never left meetings early.

Meetings left her when they were finished and repenting.

At 6:50 p.m., just as Orm considered making noodles and crying into them, her doorbell chimed.

She shuffled in socks, cracked it open, and found Ling Ling in the frame—hair down, the precise low knot from morning traded for a soft wave, blouse switched to a simple sweater that made her look (danger) approachable.

“You’re home,” Orm blurted, like a woman spotting a rare bird.

“I rescheduled,” Ling Ling said, almost awkward, the word I doing embarrassing things to Orm’s blood pressure. “Thought we could have dinner.”

“By rescheduled do you mean ‘teleported the board to Mars’?”

“A variation,” Ling Ling admitted dryly.

She lifted two paper bags.

Orm could smell it instantly—holy, holy noodles.

“Oh my God. Supanniga?” she gasped.

The tiniest flash of pride touched Ling Ling’s mouth.

“Your favorite bean sprout ratio.”

“I didn’t even know I knew my bean sprout ratio,” Orm whispered.

They ate at the kitchen island, Boba planted squarely between them like a furry referee.

Orm narrated with dramatic hands how a client wanted a logo that “said friendly but also luxury but also affordable but also iconic but also sentient” until Ling Ling had to put her chopsticks down to hide a laugh.

“There it is,” Orm said quietly.

“There what is,” Ling Ling played dumb.

“The laugh,” Orm said, not hiding anything. “I hoard them.”

Ling Ling didn’t answer.

She lifted her tea instead and took a long sip to cover the way her eyes softened.

When they finished, Orm reached for the dishes and Ling Ling snagged them first.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll what,” Orm said, scandalized. “No, wait—this is sacrilege, you cannot—we have a dishwasher, you’re a CEO—”

“Orm,” Ling Ling said, patient. “Let me do something imperfect.”

The word lodged in Orm’s throat like a stubborn knot. “Okay,” she whispered, and sat, and watched a very powerful woman wash three bowls with the kind of focus she reserved for hostile takeovers.

 

Thursday was the sweater.

Not her own, either.

Office air conditioning had never met the concept of moderation. It ran arctic; Orm forgot her cardigan because the morning had been a steam bath. By 3 p.m., she was hunched over her tablet with blue fingers and goosebumps like Braille.

A courier knocked at her cubicle wall.

“For Ms. Orm.”

She didn’t expect a garment bag.

Inside: a soft gray cashmere sweater.

Minimalist. Classic.

A little oversized.

Warm the moment she touched it.

There was a note in Ling Ling’s precise, black-ink handwriting on company stationery that should not have made Orm blush like a high school debutante.

You run cold. Wear this or your teeth will chatter through your meeting and you’ll scare the interns. — L.

Orm ran a palm over the fabric.

For a second, she pressed her face into it like an idiot.

It smelled faintly of the way Ling Ling’s study always did: cedar, paper, tea.

She slipped it on and sank two centimeters into relief.

“New?” a colleague asked, admiringly.

Orm almost said gift from my wife, then panicked at the sound of her own mouth and croaked, “I robbed a cashmere goat.”

That night, she folded it carefully—not in her drawer, but over the back of the chair in her room the same way Ling Ling draped hers, like it was a thing that belonged, now, to the geography of her space.

Boba, criminal, tried to knead it.

“No,” Orm said sternly. “That is tax bracket above you.”

Boba meowed, which might have been class war.

 

Friday didn’t announce itself.

It appeared, quiet and sharp, in a boardroom on the thirty-second floor where the air tasted like reclaimed wood and the walls were ninety percent glass and ten percent intimidation.

Orm wasn’t supposed to be there.

She’d come upstairs to drop off a mockup for a partnership deck.

She was on her way back to the elevator when she heard it—language sharpened and lowered in the way people think is safe because they don’t know who’s listening.

“—the wife,” a man said, bearing the smooth voice of someone who looked in mirrors too often. “Cute story. Accidental wedding. Do we… worry?”

A woman answered. “Optics are decent. Social sentiment was stronger than expected. But yes, the… attachment. Could distract.”

“Keep her quiet, then,” the first voice said. “We don’t need her speaking at donor events. The face is Ling. The wife is—” a delicate pause “—a feature.”

A feature.

The word slotted under Orm’s rib like a cold coin.

She should have left.

She should have pretended her feet knew the elevator better than this corridor.

Instead she drifted one step closer and saw it—the room through a sliver of glass: suits, a folder open to a slide with the word Narrative, and Ling Ling at the head of the table, hands folded, face carved clean out of calm.

“Excuse me,” she said, and Orm had never heard her voice cut so soft and so lethal.

It slid into the room like winter. “You are discussing my wife.”

The pause that followed had actual temperature.

“We’re aligned on optics,” the man said, already shrinking. “Only speaking frankly—”

“Frankly,” Ling Ling repeated, and everyone in that room remembered that frankly is a polite mask for careful, you’re near a cliff. “We do not call my wife a feature.”

Silence.

A chair creaked.

The city hummed beyond glass.

Orm couldn’t see her own face but she could feel the heat rise under her skin like a blush and a fever had a child.

“She is not a prop in a narrative,” Ling Ling continued, measured, tempered steel poured into language. “She is a person. She is my family. And if you find it difficult to keep that distinction in mind when you strategize, you may find our working relationship very short.”

A beat.

Then the sound Orm had come to recognize in conference rooms when powerful people realized they’d stepped on a landmine: paper shuffling too fast; pens clicking; throats being cleared by men who felt smaller in their suits than they had a minute earlier.

“Understood,” the woman said, reprimand accepted.

“Good,” Ling Ling said. “Now. On donor segmentation—”

Orm forced herself to move.

She stepped back from the sliver of glass and didn’t realize she was shaking until she found the bathroom and locked herself inside a stall just to breathe.

She held onto the cool metal of her watch face, and the watch held onto her pulse, and between them they decided not to faint about it.

She didn’t tell Ling Ling she’d heard.

She couldn’t find a sentence that didn’t climax in tears.

But later that night, when they both reached for the same glass in the kitchen and their fingers collided, Orm didn’t snap a joke to detour feeling.

She looked up and said, simple as a slice of mango:

“Thank you.”

Ling Ling seemed like she might ask for what, if only to play with the tension.

She didn’t.

She just nodded, the kind you give yourself when something fits into the interior blueprint, and poured water into the glass until it was exactly, precisely full and not a drop more.

 

Saturday was supposed to be nothing.

A clean day, for once. Laundry.

Watering plants that weren’t dramatic.

Drawing without a client reminding fonts of their place.

But Saturday arrived with a minor miracle disguised as an errand.

Orm found a flat, wrapped package on her bed.

No note. Just gray paper and twine.

Boba did not help.

He pounced the twine as if he’d been hired by chaos to sabotage grace.

She peeled the paper back and nearly sat down.

It was her print.

Not the polished agency pieces.

Not the pitch deck slides.

Her print.

The one she had doodled into being at three a.m. weeks ago in a fit of stubborn joy—a foolish cityscape where every building had a tiny cat hidden somewhere.

She’d taken a blurry photo for Gina, then stuffed the original into a folder because who was she, being precious about personal art.

This one had been scanned properly.

Printed on heavy cotton paper.

Custom framed in a thin matte-black frame so simple she almost cried.

On the back, in tiny letters, the studio stamp read: Kwong Group—Art Services.

Below it, in someone’s neat block print she did not recognize: Do not tell Ms. Kwong I wrote this, but she said “the black frame, not the gold; she hates gold.”

Orm held the frame like a living thing.

She lowered it to her lap and let her palm rest on the glass. It was so… seen. So much like being told: I pay attention to the parts of you that don’t invoice anyone.

She found her voice much later, when the apartment was full of evening light and noodles again and Boba was hunting dust particles like a wolf in a nature documentary.

“You framed my drawing,” she said into a quiet that didn’t need filling.

Ling Ling was at the far counter reading a memo.

She didn’t look up, but the corner of her mouth lifted. “It deserved a wall.”

“I hide it in a folder.”

“Then I’m protecting it from you.”

Orm laughed, a breathy sound that pricked at her eyes. “You’re insane.”

“Frequently,” Ling Ling said. “Hungry?”

“Always.”

“Good,” Ling Ling said, dropping the memo and moving toward the stove without looking like she had pulled gravity with her. “Let me attempt not to burn garlic.”

“You don’t have to try,” Orm said, meaning you don’t have to try and saying garlic because she was a coward. “Really.”

“I promised your mother I would take care of you,” Ling Ling replied, total focus on the pan, like it might develop feelings if she spoke too loudly. “And I promised you.”

Orm stood very still, then crossed the kitchen and pressed her forehead to Ling Ling’s shoulder blade for the span of two slow breaths.

Not a hug. A touch.

A thing that could be mistaken for casual if anyone needed to pretend.

Ling Ling didn’t move.

But her breath changed.

A tiny hitch.

Then steadier.

Then she nudged the pan handle with the kind of care people save for turning a page they’re afraid to crease.

 

Sunday was the day Orm realized trying could be quiet and still count.

Trying could hide in ordinary decisions and still strike like a bell.

They went to the supermarket because Orm wanted to argue with the fishmonger about the concept of freshness and Ling Ling wanted to observe Orm arguing with the fishmonger as if it were an art installation.

Ling Ling took the trolley like she was auditioning for a role where trolleys obeyed. Orm put mangoes in and Ling Ling swapped one out because it had a bruise Orm pretended not to see.

In the canned goods aisle, Ling Ling held up two brands without explanation and Orm picked the one she always bought, then realized with embarrassment that she’d just committed to a ninety-cent tin of sardines in front of a woman who could feed a conference a tasting menu.

“Sorry,” she said, flushing. “Habit. I can—pick the fancy one.”

“I prefer the one you prefer,” Ling Ling said calmly, and put three into the trolley.

“Why.”

“Because I’m trying,” Ling Ling said, like Orm had asked the color of the sky. “And your habits are part of you.”

There wasn’t a reasonable response.

Orm stuffed a packet of biscuits behind the sardines so she wouldn’t start crying in front of a display of oat milk.

At checkout, Ling Ling scanned her card with the same face she wore when signing deals and Orm flicked her forehead with one fingernail.

“Stop that,” Ling Ling said, patient.

“It’s too formal,” Orm said. “You act like you’re buying a building when you’re buying my breakfast.”

Ling Ling considered this. “I don’t know how to buy smaller things.”

“That’s the cutest thing you’ve ever said,” Orm blurted, then wanted to die on the spot. A toddler tried to climb into their trolley.

Boba’s face appeared in Orm’s brain like a blessing and a threat. She breathed.

On the way home, a scooter cut too close.

Ling Ling’s hand shot out across Orm’s body, seatbelt be damned, the way mothers do with children when brakes do their rude job.

It lasted half a second.

Orm felt it for an hour.

At the penthouse, Ling Ling put away the groceries like she was shelving books; Orm perched on the counter and read the receipt aloud because reading receipts somehow calmed her.

“Broccoli, eggs, sardines… whoa, the cashmere discount I applied with my mind worked.”

“Orm.”

“Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“About what.”

“You,” Orm said, then wanted to put herself directly into the freezer with the ice cream. “I mean—about—this week.”

Ling Ling closed the fridge and faced her fully.

No tablet.

No schedule.

Just her.

Calm, unforced.

“I’m trying,” she said again, and now Orm understood that trying was a verb with weight and effort and muscle behind it. “I am not sure what my heart will decide. But I am sure that I don’t want my uncertainty to be the thing that hurts you.”

Orm couldn’t speak around the thing in her throat.

She made a weak little joke because she was a coward with a big heart.

“So… what you’re saying is I get to keep the sweater.”

“Yes,” Ling Ling said gravely. “And the sardines.”

“And the framed cat city.”

“And,” Ling Ling added, and the tiniest mischief glimmered (danger) in her eyes, “your extremely poor bean sprout ratio opinions.”

“Hey,” Orm protested, thrilled, “they’re mathematically sound.”

“They are not,” Ling Ling said. “But I will endure them.”

“I believe the word is cherish.”

“That would be premature,” Ling Ling said smoothly, but her smile was real, the small one she didn’t give to cameras.

Orm tilted her head.

“Prem told you to decide.”

“She did,” Ling Ling said.

“And?”

“I decided to try,” Ling Ling answered. “On purpose. Not by accident.”

The sentence settled around Orm like a warm blanket you didn’t know you’d been carrying in your own arms.

She leaned forward until her knee bumped Ling Ling’s thigh and didn’t apologize for the contact, didn’t make it a joke, didn’t look away.

“Okay,” she said. “I can work with that.”

“Good,” Ling Ling said softly.

Boba chose that exact moment to leap onto the counter and knock the sardines off with a single efficient paw.

The can hit the floor with a metallic clonk.

Both women turned in unison and said, in perfectly matched exasperation, “Boba.”

He blinked, slow, unrepentant. The tiny king of their ridiculous, fragile, quietly-brave little country.

Orm sighed. “One day he’s going to send me to the ER.”

“And I will pay the bill,” Ling Ling said.

“You’ll what,” Orm teased, back on familiar, safer ground.

“Protect you,” Ling Ling said, and this time she didn’t smile after it to relieve the pressure.

She let it sit there, intentional.

Orm nodded, small, like that was a vow she could hold onto without breaking anything important.

“Okay.”

Ling Ling reached out, fingers careful, and smoothed the crease that had lived on Orm’s cardigan shoulder all day.

It was nothing.

It was enormous.

“Okay,” Orm said again, but it sounded like stay.

They stood there a second too long for friendship and a second too short for fate, and then the timer on Orm’s phone went off for the laundry downstairs, and Boba head-butted the sardine can like he’d opened it with his mind, and life kept being small and stubborn and good.

That night, when Orm crawled into bed, she found a sticky note on her pillow in Ling Ling’s neat hand:

Tomorrow: I’ll drive you. Also—bring the gray sweater; the conference room is set to Arctic. — L.

Underneath, an afterthought print, smaller, like someone had stood in a doorway and turned back to add it:

P.S. Mae Koy asked if you’ve eaten. Tell her yes.

Orm laughed into the pillow like a teenager with a crush, because she was, because she’d lost the argument with herself already.

In the next room, Ling Ling stood in her study, phone in hand, the picture from Auntie Mali open and ridiculous: Comma in a cone, glaring at the camera as if injustice had been invented to oppress him personally.

Ling Ling typed:

He looks furious. A brave boy. We’ll visit this week.

She hovered, then sent.

Then added:

If you want.

She watched the three dots appear on the screen across a wall and a hallway and a stretch of air that had begun to feel less like distance and more like breath.

I want, came back at once.

Ling Ling set the phone down and exhaled.

Not relief.

Not certainty. But not fear, either.

Something in the middle, where people meet when they are building a thing they don’t have the language for yet.

She looked around the room.

The framed city with hidden cats hung on her study wall now, not Orm’s bedroom.

Orm had protested; Ling Ling had said calmly, “I work better when someone is hiding in every building.”

Orm had made a sound that wasn’t a word and then kissed Boba on the head to survive it.

Little things.

Trying.

Not because a promise demanded it, though that had started the engine, but because the small acts had begun to feel less like debt and more like desire.

She turned off the study lamp, walked down the hall, paused—always—by Orm’s door, listened—always—to the soft tumble of sleep and the distant sound of a kitten doing crimes.

“Goodnight,” she said to the quiet, and the quiet said it back the way quiets do—by holding the shape of a word where you can feel it, even if you can’t hear it yet.

On Monday, she would make eggs again.

They would still be imperfect.

She liked them that way.

Orm did too.

Little things that count.

Little things that stack.

Little things that, if you were brave enough to keep choosing them, eventually spelled a future out of letters you didn’t know you’d been collecting.

Boba leapt onto a chair and missed. Orm snorted in her sleep. Ling Ling smiled in the dark.

Trying, she decided, was a habit she could learn.

 

 

Ling Ling drove.

That was the first shock of the day.

Orm had expected the usual: the black sedan, the driver with impeccable posture, the polite nod as he opened the door.

Instead, when she stepped out of the lobby clutching her tote and Boba’s latest chew toy poking out of it like contraband, she found Ling Ling herself leaning against the sleek car, keys in hand, hair loose enough to catch the wind.

“You’re driving?” Orm blurted, because apparently her mouth had staged a coup against her brain.

“Yes,” Ling Ling said simply, unlocking the car with a chirp that sounded too cheerful for its owner. “Get in.”

“Are you… allowed?”

Ling Ling gave her the kind of look that could bankrupt small empires. “It’s my car.”

Orm slid into the passenger seat, still suspicious.

The leather smelled expensive enough to have its own stock portfolio.

“You don’t usually—”

“I want to.”

That shut her up.

She buckled in, cheeks warming, heart tap-dancing against her ribs as Ling Ling guided the car out into Bangkok’s weekend traffic.

The city roared around them: motorbikes weaving, neon signs blinking even in daylight, the smell of grilled pork drifting through open windows of street stalls.

For a while, silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the engine and Boba meowing indignantly from his carrier in the back seat like a king wronged.

Orm fiddled with her phone, then blurted, “So, um… thanks. For, you know. Driving me.”

“You wanted to visit Comma.” Ling Ling’s eyes stayed on the road, but her tone softened. “I thought it mattered.”

“It does,” Orm admitted, caught between a smile and a sigh. “I just… didn’t expect you to… you know… do this.”

Ling Ling glanced at her then, quick but sharp, like an arrow loosed.

“I promised. To you. And to Mae Koy.”

The words landed heavy and warm in Orm’s chest.

She turned to the window, pretending the blur of buildings was fascinating, because if she kept looking at Ling Ling she might accidentally confess something ridiculous, like how her heart kept confusing promises for affection.

Auntie Mali’s house smelled like lemongrass and old wood, the kind of smell that hugged you before people did.

Comma greeted them at the door with a squeak that was far too entitled for a kitten still learning how to walk in a straight line.

“Commaaaa,” Orm cooed, crouching immediately to scoop him up. He fit into her arms like he’d been carved for them. “Look at you! You’re huge already!”

“He’s spoiled,” Auntie Mali chuckled from the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Between me and the neighbors, he eats better than half the alley.”

Orm sat cross-legged on the floor, Comma climbing her shoulder like a tiny mountaineer.

She laughed breathlessly, her whole face lit up, and Ling Ling found herself hovering in the doorway, watching.

She wasn’t good at watching.

Usually she calculated, analyzed, adjusted.

But now she just… observed.

The way Orm’s nose crinkled when Comma’s claws got too ambitious.

The way she murmured nonsense into the kitten’s fur, voice dipped in tenderness.

The way she seemed utterly at home in a house that wasn’t hers, in a life she hadn’t asked for.

Ling Ling kneeled before she even thought about it.

The marble floor cooled her knees; Comma batted at the gold button of her sleeve.

Orm looked up, startled.

Their eyes locked, and for a second the air went stupidly thick.

“You’re—on the floor,” Orm whispered, as if it was a state secret.

“I’m allowed,” Ling Ling said softly, brushing Comma’s tail away from her sleeve.

Auntie Mali clucked her tongue, breaking the spell.

“You two look like good parents already.”

Both women froze.

Comma meowed like he agreed.

Orm flushed scarlet, ducking her head so fast her hair curtained her face.

Ling Ling cleared her throat and focused very hard on the kitten, who was now trying to bite her watch strap.

Parents.

The word was too much, too soon, too heavy.

But it also lingered, stubborn, long after they left Auntie Mali’s porch with Comma mewing goodbye.

 

“Where do you want to go?” Ling Ling asked when they were back in the car.

Orm blinked. “You’re asking me?”

“Yes.”

“You never ask. You just… plan.”

“Not today,” Ling Ling said. “Today is yours.”

Orm swallowed.

Her throat felt too tight.

She fiddled with the strap of her tote. “There’s a place. It’s not… fancy.”

“Show me.”

So she did.

They wound through narrower streets, past rows of laundry strung like banners, until they stopped outside a tiny café squeezed between a tailor’s shop and a stationery store.

The sign was hand-painted, the glass a little foggy, the door bell slightly off-key.

Inside smelled like ground coffee and old novels.

The chairs didn’t match, the plants leaned precariously toward the sunlight, and the air hummed with the sound of quiet lives intersecting.

Orm led Ling Ling to a corner table near the window.

She pulled out her sketchbook almost sheepishly.

“I used to come here after work. When things got too loud. This is where I drew… you know. Cat city.”

Ling Ling tilted her head.

“The one I framed.”

Orm’s cheeks warmed.

“Yeah.”

She flipped the book open, revealing scribbles, doodles, half-finished lines.

“This place made me feel… safe. Like nobody expected anything. Just me and the page.”

Ling Ling rested her chin on her hand, watching her draw a line absent-mindedly.

Her gaze was steady, unhurried. “Then I chose well, giving it a wall.”

Orm’s pencil stilled.

Her chest squeezed.

She didn’t know how to answer that, so she ducked her head and let the silence hold the weight for her.

The barista brought two iced coffees.

Ling Ling took a sip, expression unreadable, and said, “Too sweet.”

Orm grinned.

“That’s the point.”

Ling Ling didn’t argue.

She took another sip anyway.

For a while, Orm sketched and Ling Ling watched the world outside the window.

The city rushed by—scooters, taxis, a couple holding hands—and yet here, in this mismatched little café, the air felt almost suspended.

 

The ride home was quiet.

Orm leaned her head against the window, exhaustion from the week curling into her bones.

The hum of the car was steady, hypnotic.

Her eyes fluttered, then closed.

When Ling Ling glanced over, she was asleep.

Her mouth parted slightly, lashes soft against her cheek.

She looked younger, more fragile than Ling Ling was used to seeing.

The sight made something in Ling Ling’s chest loosen and twist at the same time.

She drove more carefully than she had ever driven in her life.

Every brake was feather-light, every turn smoothed like silk.

The city lights reflected across Orm’s face, and Ling Ling let herself look, really look, for longer than she should.

When they pulled up to the penthouse, Ling Ling didn’t wake her immediately.

She sat there in the dark car, hands resting on the wheel, the weight of silence heavy but not uncomfortable.

This was dangerous, she knew.

To try like this.

To let Orm’s world slip into hers.

To feel the temptation of something that wasn’t duty, wasn’t guilt, wasn’t promise.

But still, she reached over, brushed a strand of hair from Orm’s forehead with the barest touch, and whispered

“We’re home.”

Orm stirred, blinking sleepily.

“We are?”

“Yes,” Ling Ling said, steady, like she was reminding herself too.

Boba meowed from the back seat, impatient as always.

The spell broke.

They both laughed softly, and the moment passed, but not all the way.

Not all the way.

Notes:

Slowly but surely :)
Hope you enjoy this one too
Anyway from the bottom of my heart truly i read and appreciate every single supports you all have for this story💜❣️
See you all soon hopefully💌

Chapter 15: Departure Chaos

Notes:

a little long chapter for you 😽

Orm woke to a sticky note stuck to her forehead.

She peeled it off, squinting at the neat handwriting that had started to feel like a new alphabet she was learning by heart.

Today, you lead. Show me your world. — L.

Under it, a smaller one:

P.S. Bring a tote. Not the fancy one. The tough one.

She lay there a second, staring at the ceiling, trying not to smile like an idiot.

Boba, insulted by the lack of immediate attention, climbed onto her chest and head-butted her chin with the force of a small comet.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Orm groaned, scratching his ear. “We have an agenda. You, sir, are on house arrest. We’re going out.”

The penthouse was warm with morning light and the faint smell of Ling Ling’s tea.

Orm padded into the kitchen to find a third sticky note on a covered plate.

Pancake. Singular.

Trial went… average.

Please be kind.

She lifted the lid.

One pancake sat there like a brave soldier who’d seen battle.

A little lopsided, a little over-browned at the edge, but it looked like effort.

Orm cut a wedge, tasted, and actually laughed.

“It’s good,” she said to the empty room, and maybe to the woman in the next room, and maybe to herself.

Ling Ling appeared in the doorway, dressed down in a soft gray tee, jeans, and sneakers that were clearly still expensive but at least pretended not to be.

Her hair was up, loose, a few strands escaping in ways Orm wasn’t emotionally prepared for.

“You’re smiling,” Ling Ling observed.

“You left me a pancake,” Orm said, waving the fork dramatically. “It would be rude not to.”

“Be honest.”

“Okay,” Orm said, swallowing. “It’s a bit… brave.”

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched. “I accept your feedback.”

Boba jumped onto the counter like a criminal, and Ling Ling scooped him up one-handed without looking, as if this was just another daily hazard she’d trained for.

“So,” Ling Ling said. “Where are we going?”

“You’re… serious about that?” Orm asked, the last of her sleepiness burning off. “I pick? Like—my places?”

“That is the assignment.” Ling Ling nodded at the sticky note like it was a contract. “No boardrooms today. No donors. No meetings I can bully into ending early. Your turn. I’ll follow.”

Orm’s brain did the Macarena, then tripped over itself.

“Um. Okay. But—it’s boring.”

“I like boring,” Ling Ling said. “It means nothing’s on fire.”

“Speak for yourself,” Orm muttered, thinking of Boba and the curtain incident. Then she took a breath. “Alright. Tote bag. Sneakers. We’re going to Thonglor.”

Ling Ling’s brows lifted a millimeter.

“Your old neighborhood.”

“My kingdom of cheap noodles and fully stocked stationery,” Orm said solemnly. “Hope your rich-girl immune system can handle it.”

“I’ll survive,” Ling Ling said, deadpan. “I brought hand sanitizer.”

 

The city looked different when Orm was in charge.

She didn’t care about VIP entrances or valet lanes. \

She pointed to side streets like a local giving directions to a lost friend.

“Turn left here. No, not that left, the Bangkok left—fake left, then real left,” she said, waving her hand as Ling Ling navigated with a focus that could dominate a board. “There’s a parking lot behind the clinic where Auntie doesn’t overcharge.”

“You have a relationship with a parking lot?” Ling Ling asked, amused.

“I have relationships with everywhere,” Orm said. “My love language is being known by aunties.”

Ling Ling parked perfectly in a space Orm had never once gotten straight.

Orm pretended not to be impressed and failed.

They walked past a fruit stall Orm used to raid after late shifts, past a motorbike repair shop that smelled like oil and childhood, past a bakery with the best pineapple buns and the worst neon sign.

Orm greeted three aunties and one stray dog.

Ling Ling nodded to everyone like she was meeting shareholders.

First stop is the tiny stationery shop with barred windows and a bell that sounded like a toy from the 90s.

Inside, it was heaven.

Pens in plastic cups.

Paper in stacks.

Stickers no adult should need and yet, somehow, did.

The owner, Auntie Nan, looked up, glasses low on her nose.

“Oh-ho,” she said, beaming. “My artist is back.”

“I’m not an artist,” Orm protested, already reaching for a basket. “I’m a gremlin with a pen.”

“You’re my gremlin,” Auntie Nan said, and then she clocked Ling Ling.

Her gaze traveled from Ling Ling’s sensible sneakers to the watch that could probably purchase this shop three times over. “And this is?”

“My—” Orm’s mouth went dry.

She hadn’t said it out loud here yet.

She felt weirdly shy about it, like saying the word would make the air crackle.

She glanced at Ling Ling, who waited, patient, eyes warm. “—wife,” Orm finished, and then stared hard at a pack of washi tapes to avoid spontaneously combusting.

Auntie Nan’s smile turned knowing.

“Wife,” she repeated, satisfied. “Good. You keep our Orm fed. She forgets to eat when she draws.”

“I know,” Ling Ling said easily. “I leave sticky notes.”

Auntie Nan laughed. “Ah. Organized wife.”

“I try,” Ling Ling said, and Orm found herself pressed against a shelf of notebooks, weirdly breathless.

She recovered by doing what she did best: buying too many pens.

She grabbed brush pens in ridiculous colors and a pack of markers she already owned twice.

Ling Ling watched her with blatant fondness.

“Do you need all of those?” she asked.

Orm held up a pastel purple.

“Do you need three different kinds of soy sauce?”

“Yes,” Ling Ling said without hesitation, and they grinned at each other like idiots.

At the register, Auntie Nan quoted the total.

Ling Ling pulled out her card by reflex; Orm gently pushed her hand down with her own.

“My world,” Orm whispered. “My treat.”

Ling Ling didn’t argue.

She just watched Orm count bills and coins out of her little canvas wallet, eyes tiny with concentration as if Satan himself would appear if she miscounted.

When she tried to pay the last 5 baht in coins and dropped them, Ling Ling crouched to help without a word, both of them laughing when their fingers bumped over a coin.

“Careful,” Auntie Nan teased. “The floor eats money.”

“If it eats mine,” Ling Ling said dryly, dropping the coin into Orm’s palm, “I’ll buy the floor.”

Auntie Nan cackled so loud the bell tried to harmonize.

They left with a paper bag that looked like it had opinions.

Orm hugged it like a baby.

Ling Ling took it from her after one block when Orm started juggling her phone, the bag, and a bottle of water like a circus act.

Second stop is the old outdoor market.

Here, Orm turned feral.

She negotiated without mercy.

She argued about mango ripeness like she had a PhD in it.

She sniffed basil, rejected one bunch for being tired, and then softened because the seller’s kid was cute and bought it anyway.

“Your bean sprout ratio has improved,” Ling Ling observed, dead serious, when Orm chose a handful with scientific care.

“I am a changed woman,” Orm declared. “Also, I hate being roasted by my wife about vegetables.”

“Noted,” Ling Ling said, clearly not noting it.

At one stall, Orm picked up a bouquet of cheap marigolds and almost put them back.

Ling Ling caught the wobble.

She tilted her head.

“You want them,” Ling Ling said.

“I… don’t need them,” Orm said, feeling suddenly exposed.

Marigolds were the flowers she bought for herself when she’d done something hard.

They were her “you survived” flowers.

“You survived,” Ling Ling said gently.

Orm blinked. “What?”

Ling Ling nodded toward the marigolds.

“A lot. You survived a lot. We can mark that if you want.”

Orm swallowed.

She put the marigolds in the basket. “Okay.”

No speeches.

No big scene.

Just the flowers and the quiet line between them, warm and steady.

At the fish stall, Orm started to argue with the fishmonger as per tradition.

The fishmonger, a woman in her fifties with arms like justice, loved Orm and hated everyone else.

“This one is fresh,” she said, thumping a fish like a bouncer. “Glassy eyes. Look.”

Orm leaned in, serious.

Ling Ling stood back, obviously amused by the spectacle.

The fishmonger clocked her watch, her careful posture, the air of money that refused to hide.

“Your wife?” she asked Orm, mouth hitching up.

Orm nodded. “She drove me today.”

The fishmonger snorted happily.

“Ah! Upgrade. Good. She looks like she knows how to pay vet bills.”

Before Orm could die of embarrassment, Ling Ling just smiled and said, “I do.”

They bought a modest amount and Ling Ling insisted on carrying the bags despite Orm’s protests that she would “blow a CEO shoulder.”

Ling Ling took two bags, balanced them easily, and Orm’s heart did a weird new thing, like a soft flip.

Third stop was the tiny park behind a temple.

Orm hadn’t planned to bring Ling Ling here, but the day had turned warm in that way that made the shade under the trees feel like an invitation.

“This is where I used to sit when my brain got loud,” Orm said, a little shy now. “After my dad died, I… couldn’t be in the apartment sometimes. So I sat here. Drew stupid things. Counted leaves. Tried to make my hands do something.”

Ling Ling didn’t fill the space with sorrys or platitudes.

She just sat with Orm on the low cement edge of a planter, shoulder to shoulder, both of them looking out at the tiny pond where three fat fish pretended to be koi.

“Show me one of the stupid things,” Ling Ling said quietly.

Orm pulled her new sketchbook from the tote (pastel purple pen already clipped to it).

She flipped to a blank page, sat there a second, and then let her hand move.

It wasn’t complicated.

A silly little cat trying to eat a noodle.

A tiny building with a ladder to nowhere.

A pair of feet in socks hanging off a ledge that didn’t exist.

Ling Ling watched the lines appear like she was watching a sunrise.

No commentary. No advice.

Just attention, steady and real.

“You look,” Orm said softly without looking up, “the way people look at temples.”

Ling Ling didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t kneel.”

“You do in your brain,” Orm said, and that made Ling Ling huff a laugh.

A little boy toddled by, pointed at the cat eating the noodle, and announced, “Fish!” like he’d discovered America.

His mother apologized, Orm waved it off and added a fish under the cat just for him.

He squealed like a siren and the mother looked like she might cry from relief.

Ling Ling produced a tissue seamlessly.

Orm tried not to combust at how unfairly attractive competence was.

They sat until the sun shifted and the shade moved off their bench.

Orm closed the sketchbook, suddenly shy again. Ling Ling tapped the cover.

“Another wall,” she said.

“What?”

“Your drawing,” Ling Ling said. “It deserves another wall.”

Orm pretended to be eczema and scratched at her arm to absorb feelings. “You can’t frame everything I make. That’s illegal.”

“Show me the law,” Ling Ling said, and Orm rolled her eyes to hide her smile.

They walked back to the car slower than they’d come, bags lighter because of the knowledge that dinner was already half-made.

On the way, Orm stopped at the corner bakery and bought the pineapple buns that always sold out by noon.

The auntie behind the counter winked at Ling Ling and declared, “Good choice,” like she was judging more than bread.

In the car, Orm’s phone vibrated with a photo from Auntie Mali: Comma in a tiny cone again, looking offended by gravity. Orm turned the screen toward Ling Ling, both of them making the same involuntary “aw” noise. Ling Ling typed back a simple: Visiting soon. Promise.

Orm’s chest bruised itself against her ribs. She looked at Ling Ling’s profile—the clean line of her jaw, the concentration she gave a speed bump like it was a negotiation—and felt a tug so strong she had to look away and count bread crumbs in the bag.

 

Home felt like something they were learning to say in the same language.

They carried the bags to the kitchen in two trips because Orm tried to be helpful and Ling Ling tried to let her be.

Boba sat on the counter like security, sniffed everything, and then chose the marigolds as his next victim.

“Absolutely not,” Orm scolded, rescuing the flowers with dramatic flair. “These are holy. They go on the shelf and you go in time-out.”

Boba blinked, did the slow blink of fake remorse, and then headbutted Ling Ling’s wrist. Traitor.

Unpacking turned into a gentle dance.

Orm washed lettuce.

Ling Ling portioned fish like a surgeon.

Orm put the marigolds in a glass and set them next to the framed cat city in the study as if that could make a thesis about endurance.

Ling Ling watched her do it and said nothing, which was the right amount of saying.

They argued pleasantly about dinner.

Orm wanted noodles (always).

Ling Ling wanted rice (steady, reliable).

They compromised with both because adulthood was about balance and carbs.

While the water boiled, Orm pulled out the stickers she’d bought and stuck a tiny noodle cat on the blender.

Ling Ling raised an eyebrow so high it almost reached heaven.

Orm folded instantly.

“I’ll… move it,” she said, already peeling.

“It can stay,” Ling Ling said, because she was dangerous, and Orm needed to sit down for a second.

They ate at the island because the island had become their unofficial town square.

Orm told a dramatic story about how the fishmonger scared away a cat once by yelling the word “Integrity” at it.

Ling Ling admitted she had once failed at peeling a boiled egg cleanly and had considered firing the egg. Orm choked laughing.

Boba made off with a corner of pineapple bun and was chased politely.

After, Orm wiped the counter with more strength than necessary and Ling Ling stood at the sink washing two bowls like she was performing a ceremony.

Orm glanced at her, then down at her own hands.

“Thank you for… coming with me,” Orm said. “To my places.”

“I wanted to,” Ling Ling said simply. “If those places built you, I should know them.”

Orm sat with that for a long, quiet beat.

Then she cleared her throat and said the thing she had wanted to ask since the sticky note.

“Why are you trying this hard?” she asked softly, eyes on the sponge. “I know you promised. I know that. But… why like this?”

Ling Ling put the bowl down carefully, dried her hands, and faced her fully.

Her expression was not the public one.

This one was smaller.

Less armor. More person.

“Because promises are loud when you don’t do anything about them,” she said. “And because… it turns out I don’t want to live in a house where I don’t know the person I made one to.”

Orm swallowed. “And me?”

Ling Ling’s mouth tugged. “You make it easy,” she said, then added, honest, “and hard.”

“Hard?”

“You tilt rooms,” Ling Ling said, like she was confessing a crime. “I don’t know what to do with that yet. So I’m doing the parts I know. The small ones.”

Orm’s eyes went hot and she looked up at the ceiling like maybe there was a sprinkler system for feelings.

“Okay,” she said, voice tiny. “Okay.”

They cleaned up the kitchen like people who had been living together for years.

It was still new, but the rhythm was there, waiting for them to step into it.

Orm reached for the trash bag; Ling Ling stepped at the same time; they bumped shoulders; neither moved away.

“You’ll bruise me,” Orm said, joking to get air in her lungs again.

“I’ll file a report,” Ling Ling replied, taking the bag.

“You would.”

“I would,” Ling Ling said, and then she surprised both of them by leaning in and pressing the quickest, softest kiss to Orm’s temple.

It wasn’t romantic in the movie sense.

It wasn’t foreplay.

It was a punctuation mark at the end of a day that had been written on purpose.

Orm forgot how to make words for a solid five seconds.

When she came back to earth, she made a wounded, happy noise that might have been illegal in several time zones.

Ling Ling had already turned away, the picture of calm.

“Boba, down,” she said to the cat on the counter.

Boba ignored her and she lifted him like a loaf of bread, which was somehow worse for Orm’s heart.

 

They ended the day in Orm’s favorite way: doing nothing together.

Orm sprawled on the couch with her sketchbook open, doodling a little temple, a little bench, a little cat under a tree with marigolds in its mouth.

Ling Ling read something on her tablet and hummed occasionally, which did unpleasantly nice things to Orm’s insides.

The marigolds sat in their glass, bright and shameless.

The sticky note from the morning was now pressed like a bookmark into Orm’s sketchbook.

“Tomorrow,” Ling Ling said, not looking up, “I’ll try eggs again.”

“Dangerous,” Orm murmured.

“I’ll survive,” Ling Ling said. “I brought hand sanitizer.”

Orm snorted. “That’s for eggs?”

“It’s for life,” Ling Ling said, and Orm put her face in the pillow to hide her smile.

It was late when Orm finally put the sketchbook down.

Ling Ling had fallen into that work-trance where her hands were still and her eyes moved, taking in too much.

Orm reached over and gently closed the case on her tablet.

“Stop,” she said. “You did very well today. You even paid a fishmonger in cash.”

“I did,” Ling Ling agreed. “I’m brave now.”

“Braver than the pancake.”

“Low bar,” Ling Ling said, but she was smiling.

They stood up at the same time.

Orm went left; Ling Ling went right; they converged in the hallway like magnets that had been waiting all day to do that.

It was awkward and simple and perfect.

“Thank you,” Orm said again, because the words were a loop and she wanted to keep looping them. “For… following me.”

“Thank you,” Ling Ling said back. “For showing me.”

Orm hesitated.

“If you want… we could visit Comma tomorrow. Auntie Mali sent a new picture. He’s winning his war against the cone.”

“I want,” Ling Ling said, immediately, and Orm’s face did something dumb.

“Okay,” Orm whispered. “Goodnight, Ling.”

“Goodnight, Orm,” Ling Ling said, careful and soft.

They split at the bedroom door with a shared look that said: not yet, but close enough to count.

Before she climbed into bed, Orm took the morning’s sticky note from her sketchbook and stuck it to the corner of her mirror so she’d see it first thing tomorrow.

Today, you lead.

She picked up a pen and, underneath the neat printed line, added in her messy scrawl:

Tomorrow, we share.

Boba climbed onto the pillow and flopped over with a sigh that suggested he had worked harder than anyone.

Orm flicked his ear. “You did nothing,” she informed him.

In the dark, the marigolds were just shadows with a memory of color.

The house felt more like a home than it had yesterday.

Not because of a big thing.

Because of all the tiny ones.

Somewhere down the hall, Ling Ling’s door clicked gently.

Orm closed her eyes on a smile and let herself fall.

 

 

 

Orm found out about Paris from a sticky note on the fridge that said:

Paris? Work trip. Want to come with me? — L.

Under it, a smaller sticky note in the exact same tidy handwriting:

I’ll handle everything. You only pack joy (and underwear).

She stood barefoot in front of the fridge for a full thirty seconds, sleep-hair everywhere, Boba twining around her ankles like he’d been paid to trip her.

Paris.

As in… Paris Paris?

The place from perfume commercials and movies where people kiss in the rain purely for sport?

Her brain made three sounds in a row

“Oh,” then “No,” and finally “Wait.”

She tiptoed to the bedroom doorway.

Ling Ling was at the desk with her laptop open, glasses low on her nose, hair pulled back, looking approximately thirteen out of ten.

Orm considered turning around and walking back to bed to gather courage, but her feet refused.

“You want me to come?” Orm asked, trying for casual and landing somewhere near squeaky.

Ling Ling looked up.

The morning light hit her skin and did unholy things.

“Yes,” she said like it was obvious. “If you want to.”

“You asked,” Orm said, for reasons unclear even to herself.

“I did,” Ling Ling said. “I don’t want… to do this city by myself.” A micro-beat, almost shy. “And I want to show you something that isn’t a boardroom.”

The sentence made Orm’s ribs go whoomph like a trampoline.

She swallowed around a smile.

“Okay. But Boba.”

At his name, the kitten appeared like a summoned spirit and attempted to climb Orm’s leg.

“See?” she said, scooping him up. “He’s codependent.”

“Prem offered,” Ling Ling said, closing the laptop. “She says she and Jane will run a ‘Kitten Spa & Emotional Rehabilitation Center’ for three days. Gina can pinch-hit if there’s a meeting. We’ll video call.”

“Prem?” Orm imagined Boba sleeping on a pile of designer blazers and eating caviar by accident. “He’ll come back speaking sarcasm.”

“He already does,” Ling Ling said, straight-face. “Pack joy. And maybe a sweater. Paris lies about the weather.”

Packing joy, it turned out, was a project.

Orm had never left the country with a billionaire’s daughter wife before.

Her past travel routine was shove three shirts and a charger into a bag, forget toothpaste, buy sad airport toothbrush.

Now she stood in her closet with a tote bag and a panic attack.

Ling Ling, on the other hand, packed like she negotiated: quickly, decisively, without raising her voice.

Three crisp shirts, two knits, one blazer, trousers, one dress “in case of dinner,” pajamas, a little pouch that contained exactly what it needed to contain and nothing else.

She folded with the precision of a military drill; even socks looked disciplined.

“You didn’t even look,” Orm said, staring at the perfect suitcase.

“I have a packing list in my head,” Ling Ling said, zipping smoothly. “It updates seasonally.”

Orm’s suitcase, meanwhile, was a living diary.

She threw in two pairs of jeans, then added a third “just in case.”

Three graphic tees, the cream cardigan she loved, a black dress that might be too dressy but also maybe not dressy enough, backup sneakers, the scarf Mae Koy bought her with tiny embroidered elephants, fluffy socks, her sketchbook, a pencil roll that could bludgeon a man, adapter, charger, backup charger, emergency granola bars, and the small stuffed jellyfish she absolutely did not own as an adult.

Ling Ling watched with what could only be described as fond horror.

“You’re moving to Paris?” she asked.

“It’s a carry-on,” Orm lied, attempting to sit on the suitcase to zip it.

The zipper made a noise like a long, sad sigh.

Ling Ling stood, crossed the room, and put a hand lightly on Orm’s shoulder.

“May I?”

Orm slid off, cheeks hot.

Ling Ling rearranged three items like a magician, rolled two shirts, tucked the jellyfish into a corner with surprising gentleness, and pulled the zipper closed in one smooth motion.

“That was illegal,” Orm said, dazed. “Marry me.”

“We’re already married,” Ling Ling said, but her smile small, real made Orm want to propose again just for the ring ceremony.

The doorbell rang.

Boba launched toward the front like a furry missile.

Prem swept in carrying a tote almost bigger than herself, Jane right behind with a carrier, treats, a feather toy, and the energy of a children’s TV host.

“We come bearing enrichment!” Jane announced. “And a phone tripod so we can FaceTime Boba from flattering angles.”

Prem kissed Ling Ling on both cheeks and then pulled Orm into a hug that squeezed the air out.

“Three days,” she said, serious. “You. Relax. No work. Look at art. Eat bread that has opinions. Come home less tense.”

“I’m not tense,” Orm protested.

“Your shoulders are eating your ears,” Prem deadpanned.

Jane squatted to Boba level.

“Little king, we’re your staff now. Please be gentle.”

Boba chirped, made a donut of himself in Jane’s arms, then instantly tried to chew on Prem’s watch.

Prem looked personally betrayed. “He chooses violence,” she said.

“It’s a stage,” Ling Ling said, which was generous.

Orm pulled a thick stack of handwritten pages from the counter, clipped neatly.

“Okay. Here’s Boba’s schedule. Feeding times, litter notes, favorite nap spots, emergency numbers, the vet address, and an appendix of his meows. Mrrp means he wants to chat. Mrowp means he’s offended. Mrrrp? means existential dread.”

Prem flipped through, impressed.

“You made a kitten dissertation.”

“It has a table of contents,” Jane whispered, delighted.

Ling Ling was very quiet and very obviously trying not to laugh.

While Prem carried Boba’s things to the hallway, Jane leaned close to Orm.

“Sincerely — you’re doing great,” she said, soft for once. “Let her take care of you a little. She’s better at it than she thinks.”

Orm inhaled.

The praise was a bright thing she wanted to pocket.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

 

The car ride to the airport felt unreal in that buzzy, soap-bubble way travel days do.

Ling Ling’s driver kept a steady pace; the city outside turned from morning to late morning in one long exhale of traffic.

Orm texted Mae Koy

Going to Paris for three days. Work for Ling. I’ll bring you a magnet.

Mae Koy replied with seventeen heart emojis, a prayer hands, and “Tell your wife to eat warm food.”

“She said your wife,” Orm muttered, happy and mortified at once.

Ling Ling’s phone pinged too.

She glanced, then angled it so Orm could see the screen: her mother had sent a thumbs-up, a list of pastry recommendations clearly compiled by someone’s personal assistant, and a photo of Ling Ling at age nine in front of the Eiffel Tower wearing a bucket hat.

“Delete that,” Ling Ling said, face neutral, ears a tiny bit pink.

“I will be printing it on a towel,” Orm said gravely.

 

At Suvarnabhumi, Orm’s anxiety tried to sprint ahead of her body.

She clutched her passport like it might bolt. Ling Ling walked close but not crowding, the anchor to Orm’s runaway boat.

The thing about Ling Ling was she didn’t fix your panic; she made a space where it didn’t have to run the show.

Check-in was smooth Ling Ling had done something adult and wizardly with their tickets.

Security was less smooth because Orm forgot to take a water bottle out and then tried to throw herself into the bin out of shame.

“Ma’am,” the security officer said, long-suffering, and Ling Ling gently tugged Orm back by the sleeve.

“Breathe,” Ling Ling murmured. “It’s a bottle, not a crime.”

“It feels like a crime,” Orm whispered.

“It’s not,” Ling Ling said, and somehow that solved it.

They reached the gate with twenty minutes to spare and Orm rewarded herself with a bubble tea she did not need.

Ling Ling took one sip and winced.

“This tastes like… sugar screaming.”

Orm took the cup back, protective. “Sugar has rights.”

When boarding began, Orm discovered a new form of intimacy: walking down the jet bridge next to someone who knew the exact pace you liked to walk and matched it without thinking.

On the plane, two seats by the window.

Orm took the window because the world looked smaller and safer from there.

Ling Ling took the aisle because control.

Orm buckled in, then unbuckled, then buckled again.

“I’m fine,” she announced to no one.

“You are,” Ling Ling agreed, passing her a mint. “For ears.”

“You’re prepared for everything,” Orm said, putting the mint in her mouth.

“Occupational hazard,” Ling Ling said. “And because I promised.”

Takeoff made Orm want to fold herself into a filing cabinet.

She squeezed the armrest and stared at the safety card like she could will the plane to obey.

Without comment, Ling Ling turned her palm up between them.

Orm looked at it, looked at her, and placed her hand there like a secret.

She didn’t let go until the wheels tucked in and the clouds turned to heavy cream under the wing.

“Better?” Ling Ling asked.

“Objectively,” Orm said, because admitting “yes” felt too naked.

Two hours into the flight, Orm crashed.

Her head slid toward Ling Ling and then landed squarely on her shoulder with the grace of a toppled plant.

She woke half a second later, mortified. “Sorry—”

“It’s fine,” Ling Ling said. She adjusted slightly, making a little nest shape with her collarbone. “Sleep.”

“I drool,” Orm warned, already drifting.

“I’ll file a complaint,” Ling Ling said, and that made Orm smile into sleep.

She dreamed of stairs and marigolds and a city she hadn’t met yet.

When she woke, the cabin lights were low and Ling Ling was reading a document on her tablet one-handed, the other hand still holding Orm’s like it was valuable cargo.

Orm sat up too fast, headache blooming like a small private thunderstorm.

Ling Ling pressed a cup of water into her hands. “Sip.”

“Did I—” Orm pointed at her mouth. “Drool?”

Ling Ling’s mouth did the smallest tilt. “A little.”

“I’m divorcing you,” Orm said solemnly.

“No divorce for a year,” Ling Ling said, just as solemn.

They ate airplane dinner together, making faces at the salad texture and sharing the bread roll because the roll had exactly half the weight of salvation.

Ling Ling used a tiny salt packet like a surgeon.

Orm used it like a raccoon.

When the attendant came by with drinks, Orm asked for juice and got apple.

Ling Ling asked for tea and got something that pretended to be tea and failed.

Orm made her swap.

Ling Ling didn’t argue.

Near midnight Thailand time, Jane sent a barrage of messages to the group chat: BOBA UPDATE with twelve photos.

Boba on Prem’s laptop. Boba inside Jane’s tote.

Boba staring into the camera like it owed him money.

A short video where Prem narrated in a dramatic whisper, “He has chosen violence and salmon pate.”

Orm’s heart grew three sizes and collapsed.

She shoved her phone into Ling Ling’s view. “He’s fine!”

“I never doubted,” Ling Ling murmured, thumbs already typing: Goodnight, tyrant. See you soon. Love, your staff.

She paused, glancing at Orm. “Is that too much?”

“For the cat?” Orm said. “No. He is our overlord.”

“True,” Ling Ling said.

She hit send.

They watched a mediocre rom-com on the in-flight screen and provided their own commentary in subtitles under their breath.

“Why is she running in heels?” Orm whispered.

“She’s not running. She’s violating safety protocols,” Ling Ling whispered back.

“Why is he confessing through a megaphone?”

“He has poor meeting etiquette.”

When the kiss happened, Orm pressed her lips together in a thin line and stared very hard at the window.

Ling Ling pretended to be invested in air traffic maps.

“Romance,” Orm said, too loud.

“Fiction,” Ling Ling replied, too fast.

Their eyes met and then did a synchronized panic look-away.

Hours crawled and then slid.

Orm doodled cartoons of the cabin crew on her phone notes app.

Ling Ling slept sitting up for twenty minutes like a statue that had made peace with gravity.

Orm watched the way sleep softened her face and felt something in her sternum attempt to hatch.

When breakfast came, the mystical plane omelet Orm gave hers to Ling Ling like an offering from a traveler to a queen.

Ling Ling declined and handed Orm the extra bread instead. “You need carbs to fight Paris.”

“What is Paris if not carbs in city form,” Orm said.

“True,” Ling Ling conceded.

As the plane began its descent, Orm’s ears blocked and her brain turned fizzy.

She grabbed the armrest, then Ling Ling’s hand again without thinking.

This time, Ling Ling laced their fingers, snug and sure.

“Hey,” Ling Ling said softly over the engine hum. “When we land… I have an afternoon meeting I can’t avoid. Two hours. Then yours.”

“Mine?” Orm asked, swallowing to pop her ears.

“Paris,” Ling Ling said simply. “Where do you want to go first? You lead.”

Orm’s eyes prickled.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted, embarrassed by wanting too many things at once. “A bridge. A bakery. Somewhere the tourists forget.”

“Text me your choice,” Ling Ling said. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Will you find me?” Orm asked, only half joking.

Ling Ling’s fingers squeezed once.

“Always.”

 

The tires kissed the runway and Orm’s stomach tried to leave the building.

The plane rolled, slowed, taxiing past a tarmac full of sleepy giants.

Through the oval window, Paris looked like every movie and not like any of them.

Gray and gold and confusingly ordinary.

Orm felt a sudden, bright, kid-like rush.

We did it, her brain said, ridiculous and true.

At the gate, the reality of airports reasserted itself: a polite shuffle of people standing prematurely, the creak of overhead bins, the universal sound of seatbelts being unclicked by people who had been sitting for a century.

Orm gathered her tote, her hoodie, her jellyfish.

Ling Ling made sure their passports were where passports go.

Passport control was long but civilized.

Orm watched couples practice their “we are extremely normal” faces for the officers.

She noticed how Ling Ling’s public neutral face had grown less neutral around her over the last weeks, like a computer screen dimming when you look away.

It did a stupid thing to her insides.

Baggage claim was a parade of identical suitcases.

Orm’s battered gray carry-on looked like it had grown up in a rough neighborhood; Ling Ling’s looked like it had a trust fund.

Orm made the two stand next to each other and took a secret picture “for diversity.”

“Send that to Prem,” Ling Ling said, reading her mind.

“I will,” Orm said.

They walked through the sliding doors out into Charles de Gaulle’s arrival hall and a different temperature of air slapped Orm in the face — cool, crisp, a little rude.

Orm zipped her hoodie up to her chin.

Ling Ling adjusted her scarf with the grace of someone born with scarf genes.

“Car’s outside,” Ling Ling said. Of course it was. She’d texted someone, no fuss, and a very normal black sedan was there, not a limousine, because Ling Ling’s kind of rich didn’t need to shout.

The driver spoke English; Ling Ling answered in soft French that made Orm’s spine do gymnastics.

“You speak French?” Orm hissed once the door shut.

“Enough to be polite,” Ling Ling said.

“Say something that will make me feel like a pastry,” Orm said.

Ling Ling thought

“Chou à la crème.”

“What does that mean?”

“Cream puff.”

Orm’s giggle exploded and she had to pretend she was coughing.

The city unfurled outside the window like a map someone was drawing.

Orm tried to take a photo every seven seconds and got reflections and window glare and the side of her own face.

Ling Ling sat quietly, looking not at the monuments but at Orm, and then out again like she was checking the horizon for storms.

At the hotel small, tasteful, the kind of place that had opinions about butter — the receptionist recognized Ling Ling by the booking name and still treated them like people instead of headlines, which Orm appreciated down to her bones.

Two keys.

One room.

Orm pretended to study the carpet pattern to avoid overthinking the bed situation; it had been weeks since separate rooms had even been discussed, and she wasn’t going to bring it up and make it weird.

Ling Ling didn’t blink.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of lemon and quiet.

There was a balcony the size of a postcard framed by tall windows.

Orm walked straight to it and pushed the doors open.

Paris air.

Car horns.

The faint, distant sound of a motorcycle bragging.

Somewhere, a woman laughing like she’d just been handed an extra day.

“I have to run,” Ling Ling said softly behind her, a small apology folded into the sentence. “Two hours. The firm. Then I’m yours.”

Orm turned, heart weirdly lodged under her tongue. “Okay.”

“Are you going to be alright?”

“I have Google Maps and the spirit of adventure,” Orm said. “And five euros.”

Ling Ling hesitated at the door, then stepped back across the room, reached, and tucked the scarf under Orm’s chin properly like she’d seen Mae Koy do when Orm forgot winter existed.

It was such a small, married gesture that Orm froze.

“Text me where,” Ling Ling said. “I’ll bring something warm.”

“Bring—” Orm started, then chickened out of saying “yourself,” and pivoted to, “—bread.”

Ling Ling’s smile reached her eyes.

“Bread I can do.”

Then she was gone, door whispering shut behind her, and Orm stood alone in a Paris hotel room with a balcony and a scarf perfectly arranged and a feeling she couldn’t chop into pieces small enough to handle.

She sat on the bed, pulled out her phone, and texted Prem

Landed. Alive. Ling speaks French. I am a pastry.

Prem replied with a photo of Boba asleep belly-up on Jane’s lap and

He demands a souvenir Eiffel Tower. Also, be brave. Don’t think — look.

Orm put the phone down, stuck her head out onto the balcony, and looked.

Paris didn’t try to seduce her.

It just existed, indifferent and gorgeous.

A woman on the opposite balcony watered a plant and sang something melancholy. A man wheeled a bike past and whistled at nothing. A dog peed with dignity. Orm felt stupid for expecting fireworks. The normalness was better. It meant she could belong in it for a minute.

She grabbed her tote, her sketchbook, and a pen, then put the room key and a note on the desk that said: Went to find a bridge. — O. She almost added a heart and then physically stopped herself like a person slapping their own hand away from a hot pan.

Down on the street, she got lost immediately in the most delicious way.

She followed the shape of a church, then the smell of bread, then a man with a baguette under his arm like a sword.

She bought a croissant that ruined her understanding of flour.

She ate it walking because sitting felt too formal for how greedy she felt.

She found a bridge by accident.

It wasn’t the biggest one.

It wasn’t crammed with locks and declarations.

It was just a span of stone over a slice of water pretending to be immortal.

Orm leaned on the railing and took out her sketchbook.

Her hands found a rhythm: little dome, little tree, a woman reading, a couple arguing with smiles, a dog offended by a pigeon.

She drew fast, like if she didn’t, the moment would evaporate.

Her phone buzzed.

Ling Ling: Where are you?

Orm sent a picture of the bridge with the world’s worst arrow added:

Here! Then, There’s a bench. It looks like a French bench. I have crumbs on me.

Ling Ling: On my way. Don’t feed the pigeons. They have unions.

Orm laughed out loud, then covered her mouth like she’d been too loud in a library.

She kept drawing until a shadow fell across her page and a familiar quiet slid into the bench beside her.

Ling Ling smelled like cool air and paper and something citrus. In her hands: a small paper bag.

“Bread,” she said.

Orm peered in.

Two little warm things glowing with butter. “What are they?”

“Chouquettes,” Ling Ling said. “Little sugared puffs. You’re supposed to eat them fast.”

“I can do that,” Orm said, popping one into her mouth. It melted like a secret.

She closed her eyes, then opened them and found Ling Ling watching her with a softness that went straight through skin to bone.

“How was the meeting?” Orm asked, fighting the urge to lean her shoulder into Ling Ling’s.

“Good,” Ling Ling said quietly. “Better now.”

Time thinned.

The river kept moving like it had somewhere important to be.

Across the way, a couple kissed with unembarrassed purpose.

Orm felt the day tilt, just a little, toward the version where they were not just a promise and a plan but something with momentum.

“You okay?” she asked.

Ling Ling took a breath and let it out in a way Orm recognized as a decision. “Yes,” she said. “Today — yes.”

“Good,” Orm said. “We’re not on honeymoon, right?”

“No,” Ling Ling said. “We are on… a reconnaissance mission.”

“Of what?”

“Of us,” Ling Ling answered, so simply that Orm’s throat closed up for a second.

 

They didn’t talk about Mint.

Not yet.

They didn’t talk about what everything meant or would mean.

They ate sugar and watched the river scroll and let the city do its thing around them.

When the sun slid down an inch and the wind picked up, Ling Ling stood and held a hand out without looking at Orm, like she’d rehearsed this part.

Orm put her hand in it because that was the easiest thing she’d done in months.

“Come on,” Ling Ling said. “Let’s go get lost on purpose.”

“Technically I already did that,” Orm said, getting up.

“I know,” Ling Ling said, fingers squeezing once before letting go. “I was watching.”

The line felt like a match struck in a room full of unlit candles.

Orm swallowed a smile that wanted to be bigger.

She tucked her sketchbook away and followed Ling Ling into a street that was all light and shadow and people living.

Tomorrow could have the hard conversation.

Tonight, they could have chouquettes and the stupid joy of saying we’re here to a city that didn’t care and didn’t have to.

It was enough.

Back at the hotel later, Orm sent a photo of the bridge sketch to Mae Koy and got nineteen exclamation points.

Prem replied with a video of Boba attempting to assassinate a banana.

Jane sent a selfie and wrote, your son just tried to eat potassium.

Ling Ling laughed, real and clean, when Orm showed her, and then texted back: He is my greatest challenge.

Orm lay in the small pool of lamp light after lights-out, listening to the city’s heartbeat through the window, and thought: this is not a honeymoon.

But it might be the road to one.

And for the first time, that didn’t terrify her.

Ling Ling’s breathing evened beside her.

Orm carefully, recklessly scooted an inch until their shoulders touched, the barest line of heat.

Ling Ling didn’t move away.

Paris hummed outside.

Inside, two accidental wives placed another small brick on something that was starting to look like a home, even this far from home.

Tomorrow work and play.

Tonight a soft yes in the dark, both of them awake enough to hear it.

Notes:

Hope this one heal you too. See you again soon 💌

Chapter 16: Proof in Small Things

Notes:

This story might tug at your heart with some angst, but don’t worry you’ll survive it.
Emotional roller coaster? Oh, absolutely. But hey, at least you know what you’re signing up for 😅

The next morning in Paris, Orm woke to the sound of church bells she couldn’t see, and the vague smell of croissants that may or may not have been her imagination.

For the first time since she’d arrived, she let herself just… lie there.

Not in her bed back in Bangkok.

Not in her tiny apartment with the neighbor’s leaky faucet and the hum of the Skytrain outside. Here, in a bed that was too soft, beside a woman who was already gone from the sheets but left the faintest indentation like evidence she had existed.

Ling Ling, predictably, was already at a meeting.

A neat note rested on the desk, her handwriting even in its rush

Back around noon. Wear good shoes. — L.

Orm sat up, hair in full static, staring at the note like it was a spell.

Good shoes?

She only had her sneakers.

Were they Paris-good?

Did Paris have standards?

She stuffed herself into jeans and a cardigan, wrestled her hair into a bun that resembled a small forest creature, and went downstairs to fetch coffee.

By the time Ling Ling returned, Orm had already inhaled a croissant so perfect it almost converted her to religion.

She was pacing the balcony, doodling pigeons in her sketchbook, when the door opened.

Ling Ling walked in, scarf loose around her neck, laptop tucked under one arm, a bag of something fragrant in the other.

“Good shoes?” Orm asked, holding up her sneakered foot like proof.

“Good enough,” Ling Ling said, setting the bag down and brushing her hair back. “Ready?”

“Ready for what?” Orm said suspiciously.

“For Paris,” Ling Ling said simply.

 

It wasn’t the Paris of movies at first.

Ling Ling led her away from the postcard places, into smaller streets where laundry hung from balconies and bakeries opened their doors wide to let out the smell of butter and sugar.

It was less glamorous, more real, and Orm realized she liked it more that way.

Their first stop was a tiny café squeezed between two bookstores, with chairs that leaned at odd angles and cappuccinos that looked like someone had sculpted clouds into cups.

Ling Ling slid into a seat that was clearly hers—Orm could tell by the way the owner greeted her in French, half-scolding, half-affectionate.

“You’ve been here before,” Orm said, narrowing her eyes.

“University days,” Ling Ling said, stirring her coffee. “I lived two streets away. Whenever I felt… overwhelmed, I came here.”

Orm imagined a younger Ling Ling, less armor, more raw edges, sitting here with books open and heart bruised.

The thought made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Overwhelmed by what?” Orm asked gently.

Ling Ling paused, her spoon still.

Then she looked up, and for once, she didn’t mask.

“By everything. By being the daughter of who I am. By the weight of expectation. By loving someone who couldn’t… love me the way I thought she did.”

The ex. Mint.

The shadow that still lived in Ling Ling’s voice when it faltered.

Orm wanted to reach across the table, to press her hand over Ling Ling’s and tell her she wasn’t alone in that overwhelm, but she also knew not to spook her.

So instead, she just nodded and sipped her cappuccino, letting the silence stretch in a way that felt like an embrace.

 

The next stop was a quiet square with trees leaning inward like gossiping aunts.

Children played tag, a man strummed a guitar, and old women in coats fed birds with baguette crumbs. Ling Ling stood near the fountain and gestured faintly.

“I used to sketch here,” she said. “Not people. Buildings. They don’t move. They don’t betray.”

Orm opened her sketchbook without thinking, pencil moving fast.

She caught the angle of the fountain, the way Ling Ling’s scarf blew back, the line of her jaw softened by light.

When Ling Ling noticed, Orm almost slammed the book shut in embarrassment.

“You draw me?” Ling Ling asked, quiet amusement there.

“Buildings are overrated,” Orm muttered, ears red.

Ling Ling’s mouth curved, small but real.

“I’ll take overrated, then.”

They walked again, Ling Ling guiding her through streets Orm couldn’t pronounce, showing her doorways carved centuries ago, little bakeries tucked in corners, the bridge she once crossed every night when she was twenty-one and afraid of the future.

Each place carried a piece of Ling Ling, and Orm gathered them silently, stringing them together like beads on a thread.

When they reached a small church, plain on the outside but glowing with stained glass inside, Ling Ling hesitated at the door.

“I came here once,” she said softly. “After Mint told me she wanted to call off the wedding—years before this one. We made up after. Or I thought we did. But I cried here for hours, asking myself if I was worth the risk of someone staying.”

Orm’s chest tightened.

She could hear the echo of that younger Ling Ling, sitting in a pew alone, heart cracking.

“You are worth it,” Orm blurted before she could stop herself.

Ling Ling blinked, startled.

Orm’s face burned. “I mean—objectively. Statistically. You’re—yeah. Definitely worth it.”

Ling Ling’s lips parted like she might argue, but instead she just let out a breath, long and shaky, and moved further into the church.

Orm followed, the air between them heavy with unspoken things.

That night, back in their hotel, the weight of it all settled.

Ling Ling stood by the balcony, hair undone, eyes on the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance. Orm sat on the bed, cross-legged, hugging a pillow like a shield.

Finally, Ling Ling spoke.

“I don’t know if I can love the way you deserve yet.”

Orm’s fingers tightened on the pillow.

“But I promised your mother I’d try,” Ling Ling continued. Her voice cracked the tiniest bit. “And I want to. Not out of duty. Not performance. I want to try… with you. If you’ll let me.”

Orm’s throat closed.

She wanted to say I’m already in.

I’m already yours. Too late.

But she saw the rawness in Ling Ling’s eyes, the kind of vulnerability you didn’t push against, you just held gently.

So she smiled, soft and crooked. “Then let’s at least play house with good snacks.”

Ling Ling let out a small, incredulous laugh.

“Good snacks?”

Orm nodded fiercely.

“Non-negotiable. Croissants, chouquettes, chocolate. If we’re trying marriage, we need fuel.”

And for the first time that day, Ling Ling’s smile reached her eyes, and stayed there.

Orm lay awake later, listening to her even breathing beside her, and thought

Ling Ling thought they were playing house.

But she didn’t know Orm was already on the boat, sailing straight into the storm with no life vest and no regrets.

 

 

Paris in daylight was even worse than Paris at night.

Orm had thought the twinkling Seine, the golden bridges, and the Eiffel Tower lights were overwhelming enough, but then morning came and the entire city seemed to strut.

Every passerby looked like they had walked out of an art film.

Even the pigeons looked like they had health insurance.

Orm, meanwhile, had sneakers that squeaked when she walked.

And then the car stopped in front of Dior.

Her jaw dropped.

“No.”

Ling Ling slid out first, unhurried, elegant in a navy coat that turned heads without her even trying.

She glanced back at Orm, who was still glued to her seat, clutching the door handle like it was a parachute.

“Come out.”

Orm shook her head violently.

“No way. Absolutely not. That building is illegal for people like me. I will wrinkle the marble just by breathing.”

Ling Ling arched one perfectly groomed brow.

“You’ll survive.”

“Ling Ling, the last time I walked into a mall, my card declined at Uniqlo! Do you understand? I’ll spontaneously combust in Dior.”

“Then you’ll combust beautifully,” Ling Ling said, extending a hand.

Orm stared at the hand.

She thought about running.

Instead, she groaned and let herself be dragged out like a toddler being led to the dentist.

 

The Dior boutique was worse than she imagined.

Inside Dior, the air smelled like money.

Expensive leather, delicate perfume, hushed lighting that whispered you can’t afford me.

Orm froze just inside the door.

“Oh my god,” she hissed. “The sales associate is prettier than my entire bloodline.”

The associate glided forward with a professional smile.

“Madame Kwong, welcome back.”

Orm whipped her head around.

“Back? As in, she comes here casually? For what, window shopping the way I check 7-Eleven promotions?”

Ling Ling ignored her, already browsing a rack of coats.

She held one up against Orm. “Perfect.”

“No,” Orm whispered fiercely. “I’ll spill noodle soup on it in five seconds.”

“Then I’ll buy two.”

Orm gasped so loud a man in the shoe section looked over.

“You can’t just—Ling Ling! That’s not how soup works!”

“Soup is replaceable,” Ling Ling said calmly.

Orm buried her face in her hands.

She was actually going to faint in Dior.

Fifteen minutes later, she was shoved into a dressing room.

Orm tugged at the sleeves of a blazer so fine she swore it had been sewn by angels.

The mirror reflected someone who looked powerful, sleek… and utterly fraudulent.

She wanted to cry.

This blazer probably cost more than her annual salary.

Which was high enough to live alone in Thonglor.

Her voice cracked.

 “I can’t do this.”

Ling Ling’s voice drifted through the door. “Orm.”

“No.”

Her trembling hands opened the door.

Ling Ling’s gaze swept over her slowly, like she was memorizing every line.

For a second, Orm thought she saw warmth flicker — something tender that Ling Ling hadn’t shown anyone else.

“You look like you,” Ling Ling said at last. “But sharper. Brighter.”

Orm tugged nervously at the hem.

“I look like I’m about to get arrested for touching rich-people furniture.”

Ling Ling’s lips curved, the ghost of a smile.

“You look perfect.”

She thought it would end with that, but no.

While Orm hyperventilated at the counter, Ling Ling slid her black card across without blinking.

Not just for the blazer.

Not just for the shoes.

A scarf.

Delicate, embroidered, soft as air.

“For Mae Koy,” Ling Ling explained when Orm’s mouth felt open.

Orm choked. “That costs more than my rent! For a year!”

“Then she’ll have something worth ten years of rent.”

Orm almost burst into tears right there.

Ling Ling hadn’t even hesitated.

She had just… folded Mae Koy into her world, no questions asked.

Like her mother belonged.

Like Orm belonged.

Her heart hurt in the best way.

That night, Paris glittered outside their balcony.

Orm wrapped herself in the Dior coat, still too overwhelmed to remove the tags.

Ling Ling stood beside her, silent, gaze fixed far beyond the skyline.

Orm handed her a mug of hot chocolate.

Ling Ling took it, fingers brushing hers — deliberate, not accidental.

“Earlier,” Ling Ling said quietly, “you looked at me like you didn’t believe I was serious.”

Orm swallowed. “Because you kept buying things like soup insurance policies.”

Ling Ling’s lips twitched, then smoothed.

Her voice dropped. “It wasn’t about the blazer. Or even your mother. I’m… afraid I’ve been hiding behind gestures. It’s easier to swipe a card than to open my chest again.”

Orm froze.

The vulnerability in her tone didn’t match the unshakable woman beside her.

“I was with her for five years,” Ling Ling continued, eyes steady on the Eiffel Tower. “I thought we’d build a life together. I thought I was safe. And then she shattered me.” Her hand tightened around the mug. “So, I promised myself I’d never risk that again.”

Orm’s throat ached.

“But then…” Ling Ling finally turned, her eyes landing on Orm, sharp and soft all at once. “Then I dragged you to the altar. And you—messy, stubborn, terrified—stayed. You didn’t run. Even when you should have.”

Orm’s chest squeezed painfully.

“I don’t want to just keep a promise,” Ling Ling whispered. “I want to try. For real. With you. Even if it scares me. Even if it breaks me again.”

The city roared beneath them, but Orm only heard her own heartbeat.

She wanted to scream I’m already yours, but she saw how fragile this admission was, how much courage it had cost Ling Ling.

So instead, she leaned closer, voice trembling but firm.

“Then don’t just try, Ling. Jump. I’ll catch you.”

Ling Ling’s lips parted, surprise flickering, then something warmer — braver.

She reached out and brushed Orm’s hair back deliberately, fingers lingering.

“Then this is me jumping,” she murmured.

Orm’s knees nearly gave out.

The Eiffel Tower blinked in the distance, but Orm couldn’t look at it.

Not when the most beautiful, terrifying sight in Paris was already standing two feet away — finally, finally letting her guard down.

 

Suvarnabhumi Airport smelled like brewed coffee, sweat, and fluorescent lighting that had seen too much.

Orm dragged her feet through arrivals, yawning so wide her jaw cracked.

Paris had been all sparkling nights and balconies, but twelve hours of plane air had flattened her into a wrinkled pancake.

Ling Ling, of course, was untouched by mortal fatigue.

She glided ahead in a tailored coat; her phone pressed to her ear as she switched effortlessly between Thai and Mandarin.

Even after a red-eye flight, she looked like she was walking into a board meeting instead of customs.

Paris Ling Ling had laughed with her over hot chocolate.

Paris Ling Ling had whispered brave words on a balcony.

Bangkok Ling Ling had already slipped the armor back on.

Orm tried not to sulk.

Tried.

Failed.

The driver met them curbside, bowing slightly as he reached for their luggage.

Orm fumbled with her bag until a warm hand brushed hers aside.

Ling Ling didn’t look at her, didn’t pause her conversation, just smoothly took the carry-on from her grip like it was second nature.

Orm sat stiffly in the car, blanket still in her lap from the plane.

 Ling Ling gestured toward it once, then returned to her phone.

Orm muttered into the window glass

“Back to reality. Back to being the clumsy plus-one in Dior.”

Still, when Ling Ling tucked the blanket around her legs without breaking her call, Orm had to bite down on her lip to hide the ridiculous smile tugging at her mouth.

The penthouse was dark when they arrived.

Orm kicked off her sneakers with a sigh.

The silence was almost comforting, heavy with the smell of polished wood and the faint ghost of Ling Ling’s perfume.

Then something thumped.

Orm froze.

“Uh… did you hear that?”

Before Ling Ling could answer, a blur of gray shot across the hallway.

“BOBA!” Orm yelped as the kitten launched himself directly at her chest like a furry missile.

His claws hooked into her sweater, tail thrashing as he purred loud enough to wake the neighbors.

Orm staggered back, arms flailing.

“Ling! He’s huge! He doubled in size while we were gone!”

Ling Ling caught her elbow before she toppled, unruffled as always.

“Your son missed you.”

“Son?!” Orm squeaked, trying to pry Boba’s claws from her shoulder. “This menace is—oh god, he’s licking my ear!”

Boba meowed in triumph, burying his face against her neck.

Ling Ling slipped off her coat, completely unbothered.

“Welcome home.”

Orm gawked at her.

 “That’s it? That’s your reaction? This house is basically a museum and your cat-child is committing arson with his paws!”

As if on cue, Boba launched himself onto a side table and smacked a crystal vase onto the floor.

It shattered with the elegance of a chandelier collapsing.

Orm shrieked.

“SEE?!”

Ling Ling poured herself a glass of water.

“It was outdated.”

“OUTDATED?!” Orm dropped to her knees, scrambling to pick up shards. “Ling Ling, this vase could pay for my salary—no, my salary with overtime! Six months of rent!”

“Then let it go,” Ling Ling said serenely, sipping water like she was in a spa.

The next two hours were pure kitten-fueled warfare.

Boba discovered his zoomies.

He shot across the penthouse like a bullet, skidding across marble floors and leaping onto furniture like it was a parkour course.

Orm chased after him with a feather toy, shrieking, “Get down from there!” every thirty seconds.

Ling Ling sat at her desk in the study, perfectly composed, speaking into her Bluetooth headset while Boba scaled her bookshelf like a mountaineer.

When he batted her fountain pen off the desk mid-call, Orm dove under the furniture with a war cry, hair sticking up as she emerged triumphant with the pen between her teeth.

Ling Ling’s lips twitched.

“You fought valiantly.”

Orm glared. “Don’t you dare. You’re enjoying this.”

Ling Ling’s silence was answer enough.

Eventually, Boba passed out on Orm’s sketchbook, tiny body curled like a comma.

Orm slumped onto the couch, hair a mess, Dior coat wrinkled beyond saving.

Her chest ached, not from chasing the gremlin, but from something quieter.

Paris Ling Ling had been vulnerable.

She had whispered things about trying.

About wanting.

Bangkok Ling Ling had returned to her fortress.

Her posture straight, her voice calm, her eyes shuttered.

And yet…

Orm saw the cracks.

The blanket tucked around her legs.

The way Ling Ling had caught her before she fell.

The casual slip of calling Boba “your son,” as if they were sharing custody of a menace.

Was it real?

Was Paris just a dream?

Orm pressed a hand over her chest, biting down hard on her lip.

She was falling.

Hard.

And she didn’t know if Ling Ling was truly there with her—or just being kind out of duty.

Her head dropped back against the couch, exhaustion dragging her under.

Boba purred on her stomach, tiny paws flexing.

When Ling Ling finally ended her last call, the house was quiet except for the hum of the city outside.

She set her iPad down and walked into the living room.

Orm was half-asleep on the couch, hair falling over her face, Boba sprawled across her chest like a victorious general.

The kitten twitched in his sleep, ears flicking.

 Orm’s hand rested protectively over his back.

Ling Ling stopped. Watched.

For a long moment, she simply stood there, the composed mask slipping.

Something warm, unfamiliar, tugged at her ribs.

She stepped closer, pulling a blanket from the armchair.

Carefully, she draped it over Orm.

Her hand lingered, brushing a strand of hair from Orm’s forehead.

Orm stirred but didn’t wake.

Ling Ling let her fingers hover for a second longer before pulling back, her chest tight with something she didn’t want to name.

Not yet.

“She’s changing everything,” she whispered into the quiet, not sure if she meant the kitten, the chaos, or the girl asleep beneath it all.

Maybe all of it.

 

 

Bangkok felt the same, but Orm didn’t.

The elevator doors slid open to the private hallway, cool air against warm skin, and Ling Ling reached for her hand like it was normal.

 No talk.

No warning.

 Just fingers finding fingers and staying there.

Orm almost tripped on the welcome mat.

Smooth.

Boba met them at the door with a war cry, tail up like a flag.

He launched at Orm’s chest, hooked on, and purred like a tiny motor.

She laughed into his fur and tried not to cry at the same time.

“Your son missed you,” Ling Ling said, still holding Orm’s other hand while she unlocked the door.

“Stop calling him my son,” Orm said. “He’s a thief with whiskers.”

Boba meowed, like, and proud of it.

Shoes off. Bags down.

Home, but not the same home, because the air between them had changed since Paris.

It felt open.

Not loud. Just open.

“Coffee?” Ling Ling asked.

“Yes, please,” Orm said, because she had learned that “please” made Ling Ling’s eyes go soft for half a second.

They stood at the kitchen island.

Boba sprawled over Orm’s sketchbook like a rug.

Ling Ling closed her laptop with that neat click that meant she was done for now, then turned her full attention to Orm like she always should have, like she was fixing a habit in real time.

“Orm,” she said quietly. “Are you a hugger?”

Orm choked on air.

“What?”

“I told you I would try,” Ling Ling said. Calm voice. Honest eyes. Dangerous. “Trying means I should learn you. Do you like hugs? Do you want them often, or only sometimes? I’m not clingy by nature. But if you need touch to feel safe, then that’s what we do.”

Orm swallowed.

Her face went hot. “What if I’m a koala?”

“Then I’ll be a tree,” Ling Ling said, like she was saying pass the sugar.

Orm covered her face with both hands.

“You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“I can,” Ling Ling said, and let a small smile slip, “And I mean it. Do you want a hug now?”

Orm nodded before her brain caught up.

Ling Ling stepped in, arms slow, steady.

No squeeze that said prove it.

Just warmth.

Orm’s forehead found that space under Ling Ling’s jaw like it had always been waiting.

Ling smelled like soap and cedar and a promise kept.

“Okay,” Orm said into her collar. “Hugs are allowed.”

“Good,” Ling Ling said. “Then we start there.”

She really meant it.

That whole day, Ling Ling kept showing it in small ways.

She reached for Orm’s hand in the elevator again.

She put her phone face down during lunch.

She asked Orm if she wanted the left side of the couch or the right, and then sat where Orm didn’t.

When Boba dragged a sock across the floor like he had hunted it in the wild, Ling didn’t roll her eyes.

She laughed, quiet, like she was surprised she could.

After lunch, Ling Ling said

“Get ready. We’re visiting Mae Koy.”

Orm’s heart jumped.

“Today?”

“If you want,” Ling said. “I promised her I would take care of you. Promises need proof.”

Orm texted.

Mae sent twenty heart emojis and one voice note that was just her crying and saying

“Yes, yes, come, ah, my child.”

Mae Koy cried again when they arrived.

Of course she did.

She hugged Orm too tight.

Then she reached for Ling Ling and hugged her too, smaller, careful, like she was hugging a very expensive vase but also a daughter.

Ling Ling bowed her head a little and hugged back, simple and respectful, like she knew exactly how much this meant.

They sat at Mae’s tiny table.

 Tea. Pandan cake.

Old fan clicking in the corner.

Mae fussed.

Ling poured tea.

Orm watched these two parts of her life touch for real and tried not to overload.

“Khun Ling,” Mae said, wiping her face. “Are you… happy? With my girl?”

Orm almost fell off the chair.

Ling Ling didn’t flinch.

“I am learning how to be,” she said. “And I am trying the right way.”

Mae’s mouth trembled. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

Ling Ling glanced at Orm’s hand on the table and placed her own over it.

Not a show.

A cover.

“She takes care of me too.”

On the way out, Mae shoved food into Orm’s arms and slipped a small bracelet into Ling Ling’s hand.

“For luck,” she said. “For both of you.”

 

The next day, Ling said

“Pack for one night. Comfortable clothes. Sketchbook. We leave in an hour.”

“Where are we going?” Orm asked, mouth full of toast.

“The beach,” Ling said, rinsing her cup.

Orm blinked.

“Because I said the beach helps me breathe?”

“You did,” Ling said. “So, we go breathe.”

She said it like we buy rice or we take the train.

No drama.

Just fact.

They drove out of the city with the windows cracked and a playlist that made no sense.

Pop, old Thai ballads, a random jazz track Ling liked when she needed to think.

Orm narrated the clouds.

Ling drove like water.

Every now and then, Ling reached over and squeezed Orm’s knee.

Not to comfort.

Just to say I’m here.

The beach wasn’t fancy.

Which made it perfect.

Wind. Salt. Space.

A sky that forgot to end.

Orm kicked off her shoes and ran to the water like a kid.

Ling followed at a slower pace, hands in her pockets, eyes on Orm like she was studying a painting that finally made sense.

They walked until their calves ached.

They collected shells Boba would surely try to eat.

Orm sketched silly things—her own toes, a crooked boat, the way the horizon line dared you to draw it straight.

 Ling lay on a towel and read, then closed the book and watched Orm instead.

“Let me see,” she said.

Orm handed over the sketchbook, sheepish.

Ling turned the pages like they might break.

She tapped the messy drawing of the toes.

“This one,” she said. “My favorite.”

“It’s toes,” Orm said, face hot.

“They’re yours,” Ling said.

And that was that.

Orm had to lie back and stare at the sky until her heart stopped acting like it had swallowed a drum.

They rented a small villa on a hill.

Not rich-rich.

Just clean and quiet with a kitchen and a view that made Orm want to draw every window. Boba wasn’t there to help with chaos.

They would make their own.

“Teach me to make something you like,” Orm said as she put their bags down. “Like, real Ling food.”

Ling rolled up her sleeves.

“Okay. Simple. Garlic, chili, greens, eggs, rice.”

“I can do eggs,” Orm said. “I can burn eggs.”

“You will not burn eggs,” Ling said, setting things out in neat lines. “And you will not cut your fingers.”

Orm grabbed a carrot like it owed her money and reached for the knife.

“Stop,” Ling said, stepping behind her. Warm chest at Orm’s back.

Hands covering Orm’s hands. “Curl your fingers. Like this.”

“Oh,” Orm said. Which was a lie. Her brain said hlgjdlagh.

“Keep them tucked. Use your knuckles to guide the blade.” Ling’s voice was low and close. “Breathe.”

“I’m… trying,” Orm said, which was also a lie.

She was not breathing; she was pretending breathing did not exist.

They chopped.

They stirred.

Ling moved like she was keeping a tiny kitchen ballet.

Orm moved like a tipsy penguin.

It should have been a disaster.

It wasn’t.

The food tasted bright and clean and like something Orm would crave later when she missed this exact hour.

“You cook when you’re sad,” Orm said, halfway through their bowls, like she had just found the answer in a maze.

“I cook when I want control,” Ling said. “It reminds me I can change small things and the small things change the day.”

“Oh,” Orm said, softer. “Then teach me all of that.”

After dinner, they sat on the small porch with their feet up and their shoulders pressed together.

The sky did that quick switch from day to night that always felt like a trick.

Orm fell asleep first, head on Ling’s shoulder.

Ling held very still and looked at the dark water like it had asked a hard question.

They drove back to Bangkok late, windows down, empty roads, quiet between songs.

Orm dozed with her mouth open like a baby; Ling pretended she didn’t see it and smiled anyway.

At home, Boba punished them by ignoring them for eight minutes, then screamed for food and forgave them instantly when tuna happened.

Typical man.

Later, Orm walked into the living room for a glass of water and stopped.

Ling was asleep on the huge sofa, long legs at a ridiculous angle, one arm over her stomach, face loose and young in a way Orm never got to see when the world was watching.

Boba was curled against her ribs like a small gray guard.

Orm sat on the armchair and memorized it.

The picture.

The feeling.

She took one sneaky photo on low brightness and high guilt.

Then she just watched.

Her chest hurt in that sweet awful way where you think ‘oh no, this is real now’.

When Ling woke, she lifted her head, looked at Orm, and smiled.

Small. Real.

The Paris smile.

“Sorry,” Orm said fast. “I wasn’t creep-watching you sleep. You were just… horizontal.”

“Accurate,” Ling said, voice rough from sleep, which was illegal.

She patted the cushion. “Come here.”

Orm sat beside her.

Boba stood, tripped over his own feet, and flopped across both of their thighs like a body pillow.

They sank under the cat weight and the quiet.

“I have one more thing,” Ling said.

Orm’s heart went tall.

“Okay?”

“No more separate rooms,” Ling said. Not loud. Not soft. Just true. “If I say I’ll try, it cannot be with a door between us.”

Orm swallowed.

“I mean—yes—sure—obviously—but… Boba?”

Boba, the traitor, climbed onto Ling’s shoulder and purred into her hair like a tiny engine.

Ling scratched him without looking smug. “He adapts.”

“We cannot use my cat as a fake reason,” Orm said, laughing because if she didn’t laugh, she might cry. “But… okay. Yes. One room.”

Ling’s shoulders dropped a breath Orm didn’t know she had been holding.

She stood and held out a hand.

Orm took it.

They walked down the hall like it was a small ceremony only they knew about.

Orm grabbed her pillow from her old room, paused in the doorway of Ling’s, and stepped in. The room smelled like cedar and clean sheets.

The bed was a whole island.

The city was a soft hum under the glass.

“Rules?” Orm asked, because rules made hard things feel less hard.

“Rule one,” Ling said, sliding her sleep mask onto the nightstand, “you wake me if you have a bad dream. Or if you can’t sleep. Or if your brain won’t stop talking.”

“Bossy,” Orm muttered. “Okay. Rule two: you wake me if your heart does the thing where it goes quiet and hides. Even if it’s 3am.”

Ling met her eyes in the low light. “Okay.”

“Rule three,” Orm said, bolder now. “Koalas get priority.”

Ling’s mouth tipped. “Trees can handle that.”

They got into bed.

Boba took the exact corner between both pillows like he paid rent.

Orm lay very still and tried to be normal. Ling turned off the lamp.

The dark was soft.

The mattress held them both like it had been waiting.

“Ling?” Orm whispered.

“Yes?”

“I’m a hugger,” Orm said. “No reason. Just… I am.”

The sheets rustled.

Ling slid an arm under Orm’s shoulders and another across her waist and pulled her in, careful and sure.

No rush. No claim.

Just here.

“Tree,” Ling said into Orm’s hair.

“Koala,” Orm said into Ling’s throat, cheeks hot, heart loud but steady now.

Boba grumbled and resettled.

The city hummed.

Somewhere in the building, a lift sighed.

In the bed, two people finally shared the same quiet without fear.

Orm didn’t fall asleep right away.

She watched the dark and felt the weight of Ling’s arm and thought about the last weeks.

A church.

A message that broke a life.

A bathroom. An altar.

A shock kiss. A paper marriage.

A cat. A Paris balcony. A Dior disaster. A scarf for Mae.

Garlic and eggs.

Sand and wind. A living room nap.

A hand that kept reaching for hers.

She had already jumped.

That much was clear.

What mattered now was this, Ling was at the edge too, hand out, eyes open, saying with her actions, I’m here. I’m trying. I’m not letting go.

Sometime past midnight, Orm woke for a second.

Ling was facing her, half-curled, hand still on Orm’s waist like a habit.

Orm pressed a tiny kiss to Ling’s knuckles and closed her eyes again.

She fell asleep fast and easy, like falling into the right place.

 

Morning found them with Boba sitting heavy on Ling’s chest, kneading like a baker.

Ling opened one eye and looked at Orm over the fur.

Orm snorted.

Ling smiled.

Simple. Perfect.

“Good morning,” Ling said.

“Morning,” Orm answered, and laced their fingers under the cat.

Ling laced back, and that click in Orm’s chest—the one that had been half-broken for months—finally settled.

Proof, not promises.

Small things, done on purpose.

It added up.

And if Ling wasn’t ready to say the big words yet, Orm could wait.

She could live here, in this quiet, where a hand on her waist at 3am said more than any speech, and a day at the beach could reset a brain, and a question like “are you a hugger?” could start a new kind of life.

They had a cat.

They had a shared bed.

They had a mother who sent good luck plants and another mother who would absolutely judge Boba’s manners and still love him.

They had this.

Orm squeezed once.

Ling squeezed back.

Notes:

Hey everyone! 💫
How are you all doing? I hope this story’s been helping you heal a little bit along the way. 💖
Sorry for the slow updates life’s been eating up my time like a hungry monster 😅 but I’m making it up to you with a long chapter this time!
Thank you so much for all the love and comments🥹
Trust me, I read every single one, long or short. They always make my day, you guys are the sweetest 🫶
See you soon! stay hydrated, stay soft, and brace your hearts 😌💔

Chapter 17: Wife Merge Bed Operation - Moving

Notes:

Someone ask me if I'm a Tree or Koala.
Well if you're my Faen I'll be any kind of Tree you wanted me to be and whole bunch of Green Forest just for you ;)

If Orm had been told months ago that she’d end up sharing a master bedroom in one of Bangkok’s most luxurious penthouses with the country’s most intimidating architect heiress, she would’ve laughed.

Now she wasn’t laughing.

She was sweating because somehow, Ling Ling insisted on helping her move.

“Are you sure about this?” Orm asked as Ling Ling walked in carrying one of Orm’s storage boxes like it weighed nothing. “You can just… supervise! You’re a CEO. You have people for this.”

“I told you,” Ling Ling said calmly, setting the box down beside the enormous bed, “I’m trying. That includes the heavy lifting.”

Orm stared.

The woman was in a loose white button-up, sleeves rolled high, her watch glinting against her wrist.

 It wasn’t fair that she could look like she just stepped out of a photoshoot while holding a box labeled misc socks / Boba’s crimes.

Boba, for his part, was perched dramatically on the bed, tail flicking like a supervisor judging their progress.

 His wide eyes tracked every movement.

“You’re not helping, you little furball,” Orm muttered, pointing at him.

“Technically,” Ling Ling said, kneeling beside another box, “he’s your son.”

“My son eats my charger cables.”

Ling Ling smiled, that soft curve that used to be rare but was now showing up more often.

“He takes after you then.”

Orm nearly dropped her clothes.

 “Excuse me!?”

“You chew on things when you’re stressed,” Ling Ling said, opening a box of art supplies like she’d always known where it was. “You nibble pens.”

“I— okay, that’s an attack,” Orm said, flustered. “You’ve been observing me?”

“Trying,” Ling Ling said again, the word easy, natural now.

Orm’s heart did that dangerous little flutter it always did when Ling Ling said things too sincerely.

They unpacked in what could loosely be described as teamwork—Orm unpacking, Ling Ling folding everything with scary precision, and Boba turning every open drawer into a battlefield.

Every ten minutes came the sound of something crashing.

“BOBA!” Orm yelled after the third thump.

Ling Ling just looked up from arranging books.

“He’s exploring.”

“He’s committing war crimes,” Orm muttered, running after him.

She found the cat proudly sitting in the walk-in closet, inside one of Ling Ling’s Dior bags.

“Oh no. No, no, no, that’s not a toy!” she gasped, scooping him up. “Do you have any idea how much this bag costs?!”

Ling Ling leaned on the doorframe, watching with quiet amusement. “It’s fine. If he likes it, it’s his now.”

Orm gawked at her.

“You’re giving your Dior bag to a cat?”

Ling Ling shrugged. “He’s family.”

“Oh my god,” Orm whispered. “You’ve lost it. Paris changed you.”

Boba meowed, smug.

They worked through the morning.

Slowly, the master bedroom once sleek, minimalist, impersonal began to change.

Orm’s things softened it: her sketchbooks scattered across the vanity, a messy pile of hoodies on the chair, the small cactus she’d owned for three years now sitting proudly beside Ling Ling’s orchids.

When they stopped to breathe, Orm noticed Ling Ling standing near the window, hands in her pockets, looking around the room like she was seeing it for the first time.

“What?” Orm asked.

“It feels different,” Ling Ling said quietly.

“Bad different?”

Ling shook her head.

“No. Lived-in different.”

Orm’s chest did that soft ache again.

“You say things like that and expect me to survive?”

“Hmm,” Ling said, looking smug, “you’ll adapt.”

Before Orm could argue, the intercom beeped.

“Open up,” Prem’s voice crackled, cheerful menace on max. “I brought khao soi, three kinds of bubble tea, and my opinions.”

Ling Ling sighed like someone who knew resistance was useless and pressed the button.

“She’ll leave fingerprints on the glass if we say no.”

The elevator doors slid open and Prem stepped into the penthouse like a small hurricane in sunglasses.

She didn’t bother with hello, she went straight to Orm and wrapped her up in a hug that smelled like jasmine and trouble.

“Wife!” she said, grinning. “Looking less haunted than the first time. Progress.”

Orm laughed into her shoulder.

“Hi, Prem. You text before raids, you know.”

“I did,” Prem said, breezing past. “Ling ignores me when she’s in ‘folding shirts with military precision’ mode.” She clocked the open boxes, the stack of sketchbooks, the hoodie pile on the chair. “Okay, this is cute. Less museum, more you two.”

Boba trotted in, saw Prem, and like the shameless nephew he was leapt onto her tote.

Prem didn’t flinch.

She dug into a side pocket and produced a crinkly fish toy like a magician.

“I came prepared,” she told him. “Also, no stealing straws today.”

Boba stole her straw anyway.

Prem sighed and handed him the decoy straw she’d also packed.

“See? Prepared.”

Ling Ling stood there with her arms crossed, pretending to be unimpressed and failing.

“Where’s Jane?”

“At the studio,” Prem said, rolling her eyes fondly. “She sends love. And a warning: if you two don’t invite us for dinner soon, she will invite us herself and make it a double date without asking.” She waggled her brows at Orm. “You, me, Jane, and Miss Kwong’s calendar.”

Orm turned pink.

“We can do dinner. After the boxes stop attacking us.”

Prem wandered toward the closet, peeking—nosy but gentle.

“You moved in some of your chaos. Good. I was worried this place would keep swallowing you.” She darted a look at Ling. “You, boss lady, are you still being nice? No CEO voice after eight p.m., remember the rules.”

Ling gave her the thinnest smile.

“I’m managing.”

“She’s doing great,” Orm said before she could stop herself.

Prem’s gaze softened.

“I can see that.”

Then, to Orm, lower “You, okay?”

Orm nodded. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

Prem exhaled like a coach after a winning game.

“Finally. Took you long enough.” She leaned on the doorframe, pleased. “I knew Paris would knock something loose. And before you say it—yes, I’m nosy. It’s my brand. Also, I like seeing you both look… lighter.”

She set the food on the island, pulled off the lid, and shooed them toward stools.

“Eat before Boba files a lawsuit.”

They ate out of the same bowl because the other chopsticks were somewhere under a pile of hoodies.

Prem pretended not to see Orm pass Ling the mushrooms she didn’t like and Ling quietly eat them without comment.

Halfway through, Prem’s phone buzzed.

“That’s Jane. If I don’t bring her bubble tea in the next twenty minutes, I’ll be reported to a higher authority.” She squeezed Orm’s shoulder, light and easy. “Welcome properly to the room, Misis. Call me if you need a referee, a ride, or a getaway driver.”

“To get away from who?” Ling asked.

Prem grinned. “From each other, obviously. Healthy couples schedule breaks.”

She kissed Ling’s temple, quick and sister-fast, then wiggled her fingers at Boba. “Goodbye, my tiny enemy.”

Boba swatted her bracelet with exactly zero respect.

Prem laughed, grabbed the extra tea, and let herself out.

 

Orm sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Ling Ling untie her hair.

Boba had passed out on one of her sweaters, snoring softly.

“Hey,” Orm said, voice low, “are you okay?”

Ling Ling turned, hair messy, eyes softer.

“Hmm?”

“With all this. Me. Us. The chaos.”

Ling Ling paused, then sat beside her.

The bed dipped under her weight.

“I said I’d try. That includes… accepting the chaos.”

“Even Boba?”

Ling’s lips curved. “Especially Boba.”

Orm laughed, small and real. “You know, you’re kind of perfect at this domestic thing.”

“I had good practice,” Ling said. “Architects build homes.”

Orm blinked.

“That’s not fair, that’s smooth.”

“Good,” Ling said, leaning slightly closer. “I’m learning.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was warm, like the air after rain.

Orm could feel her pulse in her throat.

Boba snorted in his sleep.

Both of them looked down at him and laughed quietly.

Before turning off the lights, Ling Ling murmured

“Now it feels like home.”

Orm smiled into the dark.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Home with two cats.”

Ling Ling’s laugh was soft, sleepy.

“Two?”

“You and him,” Orm said. “Both adorable. Both bites.”

Ling Ling rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it.

They fell asleep with Boba stretched across both their legs, purring like a tiny engine, and the moonlight painting silver across the room.

The penthouse was finally alive not just with luxury, but with laughter, clutter, and love in progress.

 

 

The first thing orm registered was weight. Something small, warm, and purring sat on her ribs.

The second thing she noticed was the arm draped over her waist, heavier, longer, calm.

She opened her eyes and nearly screamed.

Ling ling, asleep, face inches away.

Hair mussed. Eyelashes unfair.

The kind of peaceful that made you forget she’d once made the entire board of directors’ cry.

Boba blinked at orm, then yawned dramatically.

His whiskers twitched with the entitlement of a prince.

“Don’t you dare move,” orm whispered to him.

Boba immediately stepped on her bladder.

“You’re evil,” she hissed, trying to shift without waking ling ling.

Too late.

Ling’s hand tightened, instinctively pulling her closer.

Orm froze.

The heartbeat in her ear wasn’t hers.

Ling ling’s voice was low, still rough with sleep. “you’re awake.”

Orm panicked. “No.”

Ling smiled into her hair. “Liar.”

Boba meowed like an alarm clock, offended by the lack of attention.

Ling ling sighed, eyes half-open now.

“He’s jealous.”

“He’s hungry,” orm said, untangling herself from both of them. She stood too fast and tripped over her blanket.       

Smooth.

Ling ling sat up, one eyebrow raised, watching the chaos unfold.

Her silk sleep shirt had slipped a little off her shoulder, and that was entirely unfair at 7 a.m.

“What are you staring at?” she asked, voice lazy, teasing.

“Uh—nothing. curtains. very nice curtains.” Orm grabbed boba like a shield. “Come on, son, breakfast.”

In the kitchen, boba yowled like he’d never been fed in his life.

Orm poured kibble with the energy of a hostage negotiator.

When she turned, Ling ling was there hair tied, already composed in a soft white blouse and slacks.

How she transformed from chaos to CEO in ten minutes would remain a mystery.

“You’re leaving for work early,” ling said, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah. deadline. I have to present a draft before lunch.”

“Want me to drive you?”

“You… what?” Orm blinked. “You drive me?”

“I can,” ling said simply. “We live together. it makes sense.”

Orm short-circuited.

“Uh, yes. okay. totally normal. wife drives wife. casual.”

Ling ling’s mouth curved.

“You’re adorable when you panic”

Boba meowed again, tail flicking.

“See? He agrees,” Ling ling said, feeding him a treat.

 

The drive was quiet but comfortable.

Morning sunlight poured through the glass, painting gold across ling ling’s face.

Orm tried not to stare.

Failed completely.

Ling Ling caught her reflection in the window and turned slightly.

“You keep looking.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t look like that at 8 a.m.,” Orm blurted.

Ling Ling laughed, not the polite kind, the real one that softened her eyes.

Orm melted in real time.

When they reached Orm’s office building, Ling Ling parked by the curb, ignoring how every guard stared like they’d just seen a celebrity.

Orm reached for the handle, heart still beating too fast.

Ling Ling said softly

“Orm?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I see where you work? One day. If your boss doesn’t mind.”

Orm froze.

“My—my boss? why?”

“I want to know where you spend your time. What you make.”

“You… you want to meet my boss?”

“Only if you’re okay with it.”

Orm’s brain does not compute.

Her mouth “Sure. Yeah. Fine. Totally casual. My boss will survive.”

Ling Ling smiled.

“Good. Text me when you’re done. I’ll pick you up.”

“No, It’s okay, I can—”

“I’ll pick you up,” Ling repeated, tone gentle but absolute.

Orm nodded mutely and got out before her heart exploded.

She turned back once; Ling Ling’s gaze followed her through the glass, soft and unguarded.

Inside the lobby, Orm leaned against the wall and whispered to herself

“Oh, we’re doomed.”

Back in the car, Ling Ling rested her elbow on the window and stared at the space Orm had just left.

She didn’t mean to smile.

It just happened — small, helpless, real.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Prem

Stop pretending you’re not in love yet. jane says hi. boba probably just destroyed your couch.

Ling Ling glanced up at the skyline in the mirror.

“Maybe,” she whispered, half-smiling. “Maybe I am.”

Notes:

I enjoy writing this chapter although i think there few things are not in the place.
Anyway enjoy all these fluff while you can.
If you familiar with my writing in the other two stories you know what kind of storm i might bring for this story too
See you again soon, and Kudos surface more than 1k is making me crying you guys always know how to make me smile :))

Chapter 18: The Queen Caught a Cold

 

Orm’s morning began with three emotions: panic, panic, and extra panic.

She’d barely finished her first coffee when she got Ling Ling’s message.

Can I visit your workplace today?

No emojis.

Just pure, devastating calmness.

Orm nearly dropped her mug.

“What the—what—today?!” she squeaked, rereading the message five times.

Then she called the only person who might understand the scale of this catastrophe.

“Gina,” she hissed when the line picked up. “Emergency.”

“Someone died?” Gina asked, half-asleep.

“No. Worse. She’s coming here.”

“Who—oh. Her.” Gina’s voice woke instantly. “Wait—today?”

“Yes today! She texted like it’s no big deal!”

“Well, maybe it’s not?”

“GINA. She’s going to see my office! My actual desk! My mug with the crack I glued! My three-monitor setup that looks like a spaceship! And my boss, who—wait. Oh god, my boss is friends with her, isn’t he?”

Gina paused.

“Orm. Breathe.”

“I am breathing! Very efficiently!”

“Listen,” Gina said calmly, “You’ve survived Paris. You’ve survived Boba chewing your hair ties. You can survive your wife visiting your workplace.”

“Not when my coworkers think she’s an AI-generated model and my boss once called her the ‘queen of minimalism.’”

Gina laughed so hard she snorted.

“Okay, that’s kind of true.”

Orm slumped on her desk.

“I’m doomed.”

 

Two hours later, Ling Ling Kwong arrived like serenity in heels.

Her car pulled up to the front of the building, drawing attention like gravity.

The receptionist nearly fell off her chair.

By the time she stepped inside, half the floor had stopped pretending to work.

“Good morning,” Ling Ling greeted the receptionist, voice calm, eyes gentle. “I’m here to see Orm Kornnaphat.”

“Yes—of course, Khun Kwong! She’s—uh—on the tenth floor!”

Ling Ling smiled politely and headed for the elevator, leaving whispers in her wake.

 

Upstairs, Orm’s team was already in mild chaos.

Her coworker, Tom, whispered, “Did you see who just walked in?”

Orm froze mid-keystroke. “Oh my god she’s here already?”

Tom grinned.

“Your wife just walked in.”

“Shhh! Lower your voice, Tom!”

“She’s way out of your league, you know that?”

Orm glared. “You think I don’t know?!”

Before she could self-destruct, her boss Mr. Than appeared with the biggest grin.

“Orm! You didn’t tell me Ling Ling Kwong is your wife.”

Orm wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

“Surprise?”

“Ling and I go way back,” Mr. Than said, chuckling. “University days. She’s the only person who could beat me in design juries.”

Ling Ling suddenly appeared behind him, perfectly composed, holding a small box.

“Hello, Than. You still wearing black to hide stress lines?”

He barked a laugh.

“You haven’t changed.”

Orm stared between them.

Feeling slightly lightheaded with the unexpected reunion. “You two… know each other.”

Ling Ling turned to her, smiling. “Of course. Bangkok’s small when you work in architecture and design.”

Of course

Orm thought.

Of course, my boss is friends with my wife. Why not add more chaos to my life.

They settled in the meeting room, where Orm had to present a mockup for a client.

Ling Ling sat quietly at the back polite, observant, devastatingly elegant.

And that was the problem.

Orm could feel her gaze every time she gestured, every time she spoke.

Her hands felt clumsy. Her brain lagged half a sentence behind.

She caught Ling Ling’s faint smile encouraging, not judgmental and somehow that made it worse.

Halfway through the meeting, Tom leaned over to whisper something about the color palette.

He leaned too close.

Orm nodded, totally unaware how it looked.

Ling Ling’s eyes flickered for the briefest second subtle, sharp before softening again.

She didn’t say anything.

Just crossed her legs, fingers tapping once on the table.

When the meeting ended, the team filed out chattering.

Tom grinned.

“So, Miss Kwong, any notes?”

Ling Ling’s smile was polite.

“No notes. The presentation was well handled.”

Her tone was neutral, but Orm swore she heard a tiny chill tucked inside.

Tom left, oblivious.

Ling Ling turned to Orm. “You were impressive.”

Orm blinked. “What—me?”

“Yes. You looked confident.”

“I—I did?”

“You did.”

Ling Ling tilted her head slightly.

“Though your coworker leans very close when he talks.”

Orm choked. “He was just showing me color balance!”

“I see.” Ling Ling’s lips curved faintly. “Perhaps next time he can show you from a safer distance.”

Orm covered her face.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m rationally observant.”

“Uh-huh.”

Ling Ling stepped closer, her voice softer.

“Would it bother you if I was?”

Orm looked up.

Her heart tripped. “Maybe. In a good way.”

Ling Ling’s eyes lingered on her for a moment too long before she said quietly,

“Then I’ll take that.”

They left together.

Orm was still trying to recover from the entire experience when the receptionist whispered

“Your wife’s scary-beautiful.”

Orm sighed. “Tell me about it.”

 

In the car, silence stretched not awkward, just heavy with something unspoken.

Orm finally said

“You really came all this way just to see me work?”

Ling Ling’s answer was simple. “I wanted to see what you love.”

Orm blinked, warmth rushing to her chest.

“You’re dangerous.”

Ling Ling smiled, eyes soft. “I’m trying.”

Boba meowed through a video call notification that popped up on Ling Ling’s phone, Prem had sent a photo of him sitting on the kitchen counter surrounded by spilled cat treats.

Orm groaned. “Our son is a criminal.”

Ling Ling smirked. “He learns from you.”

Orm gasped. “Excuse me?”

“Pen-chewer.”

“You love me.”

“I’m learning to,” Ling Ling said, glancing sideways, voice low and honest

And just like that the chaos, the teasing, the jealousy it all melted into something quieter, something dangerously close to love.

 

 

 

The first thing Orm felt that morning wasn’t sunlight.

It was heat.

Not the gentle warmth that meant morning snuggles or Boba nesting between them again, this was burning.

She blinked awake, confused, her head still fuzzy with sleep.

The air-con hummed softly, Boba’s tiny purr vibrated near her feet, and next to her

“Ling?” Orm whispered.

Ling Ling didn’t move.

Her breathing was heavy, slow, her face flushed pink.

Orm frowned and reached out.

The moment her fingers brushed Ling’s skin, she almost yelped.

“Holy— you’re boiling.”

Boba meowed, like confirming yes, human too hot.

Orm scrambled upright, hair a mess, voice full of panic.

“Okay, okay, emergency, my wife’s turning into a furnace.” She pressed her hand to Ling Ling’s forehead again, still hot.

“Ling, hey, wake up.”

Ling Ling groaned, cracking open her eyes.

“Hmm?”

“You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” Ling Ling mumbled. “Just tired.”

“Tired doesn’t feel like you’re incubating a volcano!”

Orm’s voice was half scolding, half trembling.

Ling Ling blinked at her, still half asleep, still beautiful, still frustratingly calm.

“You should rest,” Ling said softly, trying to sit up.

“Oh no, no you don’t.” Orm gently pushed her back down. “You’re the patient. I’m the boss now.”

“That’s… impossible,” Ling whispered, smiling faintly.

“Don’t test me, Miss Kwong. I’ll call the hospital.”

“No hospital,” Ling said quickly, grabbing her wrist. “I just need rest. Promise.”

Orm hesitated.

Ling’s grip was weak but steady, her eyes pleading.

“Fine,” Orm sighed. “But you’re following my rules, got it? You move, I bite.”

Ling Ling’s smile widened despite her fever. “You threaten so sweetly.”

 

Two hours later, the penthouse looked like a battlefield.

Orm had googled how to take care of someone sick and overachieved.

There were thermometers, two packs of wet wipes, a half-opened bottle of paracetamol, three flavors of congee delivered from different restaurants “just in case,” and Boba was meowing in protest because his breakfast was delayed.

“Shush, gremlin,” Orm muttered, balancing a tray. “Mommy’s busy saving your other mommy.”

She walked into the bedroom.

Ling Ling was awake but drowsy, eyes glassy with fever.

“I brought food,” Orm announced. “And medicine. And your new life coach, which is me.”

Ling Ling chuckled weakly. “You sound like Prem.”

“I’ll take that as an insult,” Orm said, setting the tray down.

She pressed the thermometer gently under Ling’s ear. “Hold still.”

The beeping sounded too soon. Orm frowned. “39.2c . That’s it. No laptop for you.”

“I just need—”

“To rest,” Orm cut in. “I know, you said that. So rest. Eat first.”

Ling tried to sit up again, Orm immediately moved behind her, supporting her shoulders. “Slowly, you maniac. You’re all dizzy.”

Ling Ling leaned against her.

Orm felt her breath on her collarbone, soft, shaky, too close.

“Orm.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And you’re overheating. So shut up and eat.”

Orm spooned a bit of congee, blew on it, then held it out.

Ling stared.

“You’re feeding me?”

"Do you see any nurses here?”

“I see one very bossy designer.”

“Then eat before I pour this on your Dior pajamas.”

Ling Ling smiled faintly and obeyed.

After a few spoonfuls, Orm handed her medicine. “Take it.”

Ling Ling eyed the pills like they were plotting something. “I hate swallowing these.”

“Too bad.”

“I really can’t,” Ling muttered, turning her head away like a child.

Orm groaned.

“Fine. Plan B.”

She poured a little water into her own mouth, held the tablet between her fingers, and before Ling could ask what she was doing, Orm leaned forward and pressed her lips to Ling Ling’s.

The shock was instant.

Warmth, closeness, a rush of fever heat mixed with Orm’s nervous breath.

The pill slipped between their lips as Orm tilted her head just enough to guide it.

Ling Ling’s fingers froze on the sheets.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

When Orm pulled back, her face was crimson.

“Swallow. Now.”

Ling obeyed, dazed.

Then she whispered

“That’s… one way to medicate.”

“Don’t. Speak.” Orm covered her face with her hands. “I panicked.”

Ling Ling’s laugh was weak but soft, the kind that made Orm’s stomach flutter.

 

By noon, Ling’s fever dropped slightly.

Orm sat beside her bed, wiping her neck and arms gently with a cool cloth.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up. I like doing it.”

Her movements were slow, careful.

The scent of jasmine soap lingered in the air, and every time Orm’s hand brushed Ling’s skin, Ling’s chest tightened.

No one had ever taken care of her like this.

Not her staff, not her ex, not even herself.

“Orm,” she murmured, voice hoarse.

“Yeah?”

“You’re very thorough.”

“It’s called love language,” Orm muttered under her breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Orm wrung out the towel and smiled awkwardly.

“Better?”

Ling Ling nodded faintly. “Much.”

Boba chose that exact moment to leap onto the bed, tail flicking indignantly.

“Boba, no!” Orm yelped.

He sat right on Ling Ling’s stomach, purring proudly.

Ling smiled, weak but genuine. “He’s guarding me.”

“He’s crushing you.”

“He’s warm.”

Orm sighed.

“Fine. But if he pukes, you’re cleaning it up.”

Ling Ling laughed again, then coughed softly. Orm immediately handed her water.

Their eyes met, tired, gentle, full of something that neither could name.

Ling reached out and touched Orm’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me like I’m human.”

Orm blinked. “You are human, last time I checked.”

“Not everyone treats me that way.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Orm bit her lip, then leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair off Ling’s forehead.

“Then let me be the first to remind you, you’re allowed to be cared for, Ling.”

For a heartbeat, everything was quiet.

Ling Ling’s eyes softened, her heart beating wild beneath her ribs.

She’s falling for me,  and she realized — and I’m falling for her too.

 

That night, Orm sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop open as she checked an article titled Foods for recovery.

Ling watched her quietly, the light from the screen painting her face in gold and shadow.

“You’re still researching?”

“I need to know if you can eat mango.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still feverish. So, eat the banana I peeled or I’ll cry.”

Ling took it obediently, smiling.

“You’re dangerous when you care.”

"You have no idea,” Orm murmured.

Ling Ling laughed softly, eyes never leaving her.

And when Orm finally dozed off beside her hair messy, head tilted, one hand still loosely resting on Ling’s arm, Ling Ling just watched her.

She whispered, almost to herself. “You’re the calm I didn’t know I needed.”

Boba snored by their feet, tail twitching.

The fever was gone by morning.

But the warmth Orm left behind stayed, not the kind you cure with medicine, but the kind that lingers, sweet and slow, in the heart of someone finally learning how to love again.

Notes:

If you die of diabetes after this chapter… sorry, besties, it’s not refundable 😭 I cringed writing it but then it got cute so like… we ball.
Thanks for the endless support, y’all seriously keep me going 💞
If you like the fluff and enjoyed this story, don’t forget to share it around so we can spread a little more serotonin together.
And yep, for those wondering I’m also the menace behind 'Crown & Captive' and 'Perfect Life: Half a Lie' stories.
Go snoop those while waiting for the next dose of emotional damage and sugar rush.
Enjoy the sweetness while it lasts.
See you soon 💅

Chapter 19: A Proper Thank You

The fever breaks during the night.

By morning, Ling Ling is warm in the right way, not burning.

Orm wakes first and does the thing she swore she wouldn’t do—she stares.

Ling is on her side, hair soft and messy, mouth relaxed, lashes ridiculous.

She looks younger like this, less marble statue, more human woman who needs a kiss on the forehead and a day with no emails.

Boba sits at the foot of the bed like a guard who fell asleep on duty and pretends he didn’t.

Orm reaches under the blanket and finds Ling’s hand by instinct.

Their fingers link.

The click in Orm’s chest is loud enough to count as a heartbeat.

Ling’s eyes open.

She sees Orm.

She smiles.

Small, bright, devastating.

“Good morning,” Ling says, voice still a little rough.

“Morning,” Orm whispers. “Fever’s gone.”

“Thanks to my nurse who threatened me with congee,” Ling says, teasing, and squeezes Orm’s fingers once.

Boba yawns like an old man and steps on Ling’s stomach.

Ling grunts.

Orm scoops him up. “Not the patient, sir. Take your crimes elsewhere.”

He wriggles out and lands with a thud on the carpet.

Traitor.

“Stay,” Ling murmurs, thumb brushing Orm’s knuckles. “Five minutes.”

“Five,” Orm agrees, then stays for ten.

 

Ling gets better in Ling-fashion: fast, neat, like she wrote a schedule for her white blood cells.

She drinks tea.

She naps on purpose.

She lets Orm feel her forehead every hour because Orm is a menace with a thermometer, and Ling likes being touched.

 

By noon, Ling says she’s fine.

Orm says, “Another day in bed.”

Ling says, “I have something to do.”

“What thing?” Orm narrows her eyes. “If it’s work, I’m handcuffing you to the headboard.”

Ling blinks. Then she smiles too slowly. “Noted.”

“Ling.”

“Not work,” Ling says, standing, steady already. “A thank-you. For last night.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Ling says, and the way she says it makes Orm feel warm behind her ribs. “Trust me?”

Orm nods. Always. “Yeah.”

“Good. Then let me borrow you for tonight. Be home by seven. Dress comfy. No questions.”

“That’s a lot of rules,” Orm grumbles, already smiling.

“You love rules,” Ling answers, already planning.

The day stumbles by.

Orm pretends to work and mostly just texts Gina:

She’s planning something???

Gina replies: she’s in love, babe. brush your hair. And charge your phone, you always forget.

At six-thirty, Orm rides the private elevator up with a paper bag of snacks and a heart doing cardio.

The doors open to warm light and music—soft guitar, something old and pretty.

The hallway smells like garlic and lemon.

“Hello?” Orm calls, stepping out of her shoes, trying not to scream.

“Bedroom,” Ling’s voice answers, like sunlight in a word.

Orm follows the music.

The master bedroom is dim and cozy.

The bed is made like a magazine.

On the pillow is a small white card with her name in Ling’s handwriting:

Shower, comfy clothes, then come find me.

There’s a silk pajama set on the bench—soft dove-gray—and a hoodie in Orm’s size folded on top.

The hoodie says KWONG in small letters near the hem like an inside joke.

“This woman,” Orm whispers, already melting.

She showers fast and slow at the same time.

When she comes out, hair damp, hoodie on, she finds another card on the door:

Bare feet required.

She laughs, kicks off her socks, and goes hunting.

The living room steals her breath.

The city is glitter outside the glass.

Inside, Ling has turned the penthouse into a different place—warm lamps, fairy lights strung low, candles set safe and small.

The coffee table is pushed aside.

A blanket spread on the floor holds dinner that looks real and cooked: garlicky greens, ginger chicken, jasmine rice, a small bowl of soup, cut fruit, and a perfect plate of sliced mango glistening like gold.

There are two glasses and one small vase with three marigolds, bright and hopeful.

But that’s not what hits Orm hardest.

Against the wall by the window is a new desk.

Not a corporate desk.

An artist’s desk—clean lines, solid wood, right height, right angle.

Pegboard hung above it with hooks and cups for pens and pastels.

A lamp with a warm bulb.

A chair that looks like you could sit in it for hours and not hate your spine.

On the desk, a thin black frame.

Inside it, a simple sketch: Orm’s beach toes, drawn messy and happy.

Orm’s throat closes.

Ling steps out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, hair down, barefoot, wearing the same kind of soft hoodie as Orm, somehow still elegant.

She stops when she sees Orm’s face.

“Too much?” Ling asks, a rare small question.

“No,” Orm says, voice wet. “It’s… perfect.”

Ling breathes out, quiet. “I wanted you to have a place that was yours. Not a corner. A room inside the room. So your ideas have a seat.”

Orm looks at the desk.

Looks at the frame.

Looks back at Ling. “You remembered my toes.”

Ling’s mouth curves. “They remind me you’re real.”

Orm laughs and almost cries at the same time.

“Come here,” she says, and Ling comes easy.

“I called Mae,” Ling says as she ladles soup into a bowl. “Asked for a recipe. She yelled at me for being sick and then told me exactly how to do this.”

“You called my mother?” Orm’s eyes go huge.

“I wanted to get it right,” Ling says, simple. “The food. And the thank you.”

Orm presses her hand to her chest because her heart wants out.

“I’m going to kiss you later,” she blurts.

Ling blinks.

“Later?”

“You’re holding soup.”

“Practical,” Ling says, pleased.

They sit on the floor, knees touching.

It tastes like comfort and heat.

Ling watches Orm take her first bite like a scientist measuring an experiment but with softer eyes.

“Good?” Ling asks.

“Good,” Orm says around a mouthful. “Stupid good.”

“Mae taught me.”

“You listened.”

“I do that,” Ling says, smug for once.

They eat too fast and then slow down.

Ling slides the mango plate toward Orm like an offering.

Orm picks up a slice and holds it out.

Ling leans forward, closes her mouth around it, and holds Orm’s eyes too long for something that innocent.

Orm’s stomach drops to somewhere nice.

“Sweet,” Ling says.

“Yeah,” Orm says, staring at Ling’s mouth like a problem to solve.

“Dessert later,” Ling adds, which is illegal to say in that voice.

Boba appears like a ghost with taxes, pops his head under the blanket, and blinks at the feast like he is owed.

Ling picks him up and sets him gently in the armchair nearby where she has placed… a kitten snack tray and a small fleece blanket.

“Your son has his own lounge?” Orm asks.

“He bites,” Ling says. “I bribe.”

Boba tests the fleece, decides it is acceptable, and pretends he doesn’t care.

They finish eating.

Ling stands and reaches for Orm’s hand. “Come see something.”

She leads Orm to the balcony.

The lights of the city look close enough to touch.

There’s a small speaker somewhere playing that soft guitar again.

Ling turns to Orm and offers her other hand like this is a polite party and not their home.

 

“Dance with me,” Ling says.

Orm looks at her bare feet, their matching hoodies, the dishes in the sink, the city, the sky.

“Like this?”

“Exactly like this.”

Orm steps in.

Ling sets one hand at Orm’s waist with care and keeps the other linked.

They sway.

No moves.

Just two people standing close and letting the music do the work their mouths can’t.

“This is so stupid,” Orm whispers into Ling’s shoulder.

“It is,” Ling says, smiling against Orm’s hair.

“Don’t stop.”

“Never.”

The song ends.

Another starts.

They keep swaying.

Orm’s cheek presses to Ling’s chest and finds that steady beat again, the one she learned last night.

Her body knows it now. She could find it with her eyes closed.

“Orm,” Ling says, very soft.

“Hmm?”

“May I kiss you?”

Orm pulls back a little, not out of the hold, just enough to see Ling’s face.

“Where?”

“Where do you want,” Ling says, patient like always.

“Anywhere,” Orm says, brave like she promised she would be.

Ling’s hand slides up to the side of Orm’s neck.

She leans in, slow enough to stop if Orm flinches.

Orm does the opposite—she rises on her toes and meets her halfway.

The first kiss is not medicine.

It is not panic or fever or accident.

It is warm and precise and careful like cooking with your hands steady.

Ling’s mouth is soft.

Orm’s breath is shaky.

They pause with their foreheads together and breathe like they figured out how to share air.

“I’m going to combust,” Orm whispers.

“Please don’t,” Ling says. “We just cleaned.”

“Romance killer.”

“Realist.”

Orm laughs again and then kisses her for real.

Ling makes a small sound and answers without hurry, like every second is a thing to taste.

It’s not deep.

It’s not safe either.

It’s exactly the kind of kiss that tells the brain, you’re in trouble and you asked for it.

Boba yowls in the background, offended by not being the main character.

They break apart, out of breath and stupidly happy.

“You’re okay?” Ling checks.

Always.

“More than okay,” Orm says, and tugs her back for one more, because she can.

They move inside before the neighbors start filing complaints about joy.

Ling clears plates.

Orm tries to help and almost drops a bowl; Ling confiscates all breakables with a look that says, sit.

Orm sits at her new desk and runs her fingers over the edge like it might purr.

There’s another little frame next to the lamp.

Orm hadn’t seen it.

She picks it up.

Inside is a printout of an email:

Elevator White-list: Kornnaphat Sethratanapong — Primary Resident.

Date: today.

Note: permanent.

“Ling,” Orm says, voice going thin. “You—”

“This is your home,” Ling says without looking over from the sink. “Not a guest room you’re staying in. I’m done pretending. If you want it, it’s yours. If you don’t, I’ll change it back. But I hope you want it.”

Orm turns the frame over in her hands.

The word permanent is a stupid little arrow to her heart.

She stands and walks to the kitchen, sets the frame on the counter, and wraps her arms around Ling from behind.

Backhug.

Face in shoulder blade.

The place that now smells like her.

“Thank you,” she says into Ling’s shirt. “For building me a place. For putting my name on the elevator. For remembering my toes.”

Ling covers Orm’s hands with hers.

“Thank you for the cold towels and the medicine and the threats and the lips.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Orm groans, cheeks on fire. “You’ll kill me.”

“That would be counter to my plan,” Ling says. “My plan is long life, many breakfasts, and a cat who stops chewing cables.”

“Good luck with that last one,” Orm says, and kisses Ling’s shoulder through the fabric.

Ling turns in her hold, leans back on the counter, and tucks a piece of hair behind Orm’s ear.

It’s such a small move.

It wrecks Orm anyway.

“Sit,” Ling says gently, nodding at the counter.

Orm hops up.

Ling steps between her knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world and braces her hands on either side, not trapping, just close.

“I have one more thing,” Ling says.

“More? I’m going to pass out.”

“I asked Than for your next two days off,” Ling says, deadpan.

“You what.”

“He said yes before I finished the sentence,” Ling adds. “He said you don’t take enough breaks and that if I could keep you from your laptop he’d build a statue.”

“Traitor boss,” Orm mutters, but she’s smiling so hard it hurts.

“We will not leave the penthouse tomorrow,” Ling announces. “We will eat late, nap in sun patches, and watch a ridiculous movie you choose. I will not answer work calls. Prem already knows.”

“Prem knows everything,” Orm says. “Did you… tell her about the—” She gestures between their mouths, shy.

Ling’s eyes glint.

“No. That’s ours.”

“Good,” Orm says, and pulls Ling’s hoodie string like she’s ringing a bell. “Come here, then.”

It’s easier the second time.

The kiss.

The place to put hands.

The way Ling exhales into it like a little thank you.

Orm slides her fingers up into Ling’s hair and feels the shiver pass through her like a secret.

Ling makes another quiet sound that Orm files under dangerous, use sparingly.

“Orm,” Ling says against her mouth, “I’m trying.”

“I can tell,” Orm whispers back. “I feel it everywhere.”

Ling pulls back a little, just enough to look.

“You’re not scared?”

“I am,” Orm says, honest. “But I’m more excited than scared, and that’s a first.”

Ling looks like she wants to say something bigger.

She doesn’t.

Not tonight.

She puts it in her hands instead—on Orm’s waist, gentle, sure.

Boba jumps on the counter between them with the audacity of a king.

He sits.

He stares.

He smacks the frame with his paw.

“Sir,” Orm says, “this is a private scene.”

He blinks like, I’m the producer.

Ling sighs and picks him up like a baby.

He flops and purrs and, after a valiant fight, concedes defeat by love.

“Bed?” Ling asks, cat in arms, eyes on Orm.

“Bed,” Orm agrees, feet curling already from nothing more than that tone.

They don’t sleep right away.

They lie in the middle, tangled but not tangled, facing each other on the pillow, Boba a small comma at their knees.

“Can I ask a dumb question?” Orm says.

“Yes,” Ling says.

“When did you start… you know…”

“Falling?” Ling supplies, honest like always.

Orm nods, throat tight.

Ling thinks.

She takes her time, like this answer matters.

“Maybe at the altar, when you didn’t faint. Maybe in my car when you refused to let me cancel the florist because you thought it would hurt the workers. Maybe in my kitchen when you cut carrots wrong and let me touch your hands. Maybe last night, when you took care of me like no one ever has.”

She pauses. “Maybe all of it.”

Orm’s eyes shine. “You can’t say stuff like that at bedtime.”

“I can,” Ling says, soft smile. “I mean it.”

Orm presses her forehead to Ling’s and breathes.

“Me too.”

“Which part?” Ling asks, playful.

“All of it,” Orm says. “Especially the carrots.”

Ling laughs in the dark.

It sounds like home.

She pulls the blanket up, tucks it around Orm’s shoulder the way Orm did for her last night.

The circle closes.

It feels right.

“Sleep,” Ling whispers.

“Bossy,” Orm murmurs, already falling.

“Always,” Ling answers, already holding.

Orm drifts off to the hum of the city and the weight of Ling’s hand steady on her waist.

Right before sleep takes her, she feels a kiss on her cheekbone, light as a promise.

When morning comes, their names are on the elevator together.

There’s an artist’s desk by the window.

There’s mango in the fridge.

There’s a cat who refuses to pick sides and a bed that smells like cedar and new chapters.

Orm wakes and understands: this is what trying looks like when it grows teeth and turns into love.

She turns, meets Ling’s eyes, and grins like a fool.

“What?” Ling asks.

“I’m happy,” Orm says.

Ling smiles like she’s been waiting forever to hear that.

“Me too.”

And that’s the thank you.

Not the flowers or the fairy lights. It’s this.

Two hands, one room, a life that keeps letting them choose each other on purpose.

Boba sneezes.

They kiss anyway.

Notes:

Is this sweet enough for you all?
Because I swear these two just broke the sugar meter.
Like, we’re past sugar level. We’re in liquid honey and diabetes territory.
I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, I might be spoiling you all a little too much with the fluff lately, huh?
But you’re all so sweet in return, how could I resist?🥹💞
Now I’m genuinely curious on how did you stumble upon this story though ??👀👀
And because I can’t resist teasing what’s next… would anyone be into a Vampire Orm x Mafia Ling story?
Dark, dangerous, and delicious that might be our next ride. 😏🖤

Chapter 20: What She Doesn’t Say

Bangkok had that particular morning glow golden, heavy, and too honest.

Orm woke before Ling Ling, like she always did now

The older woman slept soundly, one arm slung over the empty side of the bed, her breathing soft and even.

Boba was curled up against her shoulder, paws twitching like he was chasing dreams.

Orm smiled faintly.

They looked peaceful almost too peaceful for a pair who’d built a life out of accidents.

She brushed stray hair from Ling Ling’s face, whispered,

“Rest, Ling. You earned it,” and slipped out quietly.

Her plan was simple: coffee, grocery run, maybe pick up the new sketch pens she’d been eyeing.

Just normal things.

But life, as usual, had a way of shifting when she least expected it.

The café on Soi 16 was her hideout.

Small, quiet, half-hidden under a line of mango trees.

She ordered her usual, iced mocha, extra foam and found a seat by the window.

The bell above the door chimed.

Her hand froze halfway to her straw.

Mintracha.

Orm didn’t need a second glance; she’d recognize that woman, tall, poised, the kind of presence that drew attention without trying.

Mint’s eyes met hers immediately.

No surprise. No confusion.

Just that calm, assessing look that said she’d already decided how this would go.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

The hum of jazz filled the space between them, lazy and cruel.

Then Mint walked over.

Not fast, not hesitant, just deliberate.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, her tone smooth like glass that had been sanded just enough not to cut.

Orm’s mouth went dry. “You’ve got good timing.”

Mint’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Timing’s never been my strength. You’d know.”

The words were soft, but they landed heavy.

Orm exhaled slowly.

“Do you want to sit?”

Mint slid into the seat opposite her.

“Relax. I didn’t come to fight.”

“Good,” Orm said. “Because I’d probably lose.”

Mint’s laugh was quiet but real.

“You have no idea.”

For a moment, they sat in silence two women tied to the same person by very different strings.

Mint stirred her coffee lazily. “I didn’t expect you to be the one who stayed.”

Orm blinked.

“Stayed?”

“She’s been impossible since… well. Since us.” Mint’s eyes softened for a fraction. “But I can tell she’s different now.”

Orm looked down. “She’s trying.”

“I can see that.” Mint leaned back. “She never let anyone close when we were together. Kept a distance even when she smiled. But you—” She tilted her head slightly. “You make her look less… rehearsed.”

It should’ve sounded like a compliment.

Instead, it felt like a knife.

Orm forced a smile.

“I guess we’re both learning her in different timelines.”

Mint smiled faintly.

“Maybe. She still hums when she’s concentrating?”

Orm blinked.

“She used to.”

Mint’s brow lifted.

“Used to?”

Orm nodded. “Haven’t heard it in months.”

Mint’s gaze lingered on her, curious, a little sad.

“She used to hum this small tune, couldn’t tell if it was classical or just something she made up. Drove me crazy at first, then I missed it when she stopped.”

Orm’s throat tightened. “Maybe she only does it when she’s happy.”

“Maybe,” Mint said softly.

Then, almost absently, “She still drinks her triple espresso?”

Orm’s head snapped up.

“Triple?”

Mint laughed. “Yeah. Two’s just habit. Three means she’s trying to feel alive.”

Orm frowned.

“She never told me that.”

“She wouldn’t. She never thinks small details matter to anyone but her.”

Orm’s heart gave a small twist.

Mint kept talking, voice light, as if discussing the weather.

“She still hates red flowers, right?”

Orm hesitated. “She never said she did.”

Mint looked up sharply.

“Really? That’s… surprising. She used to call them ‘angry petals.’ Said they looked like arguments pretending to be romantic.”

Orm’s pulse skipped.

She remembered the red roses from Valentine’s week, the ones Ling Ling had accepted with that quiet smile, no protest, no comment.

Mint went on, oblivious to the tremor she’d caused.

“She loves white ones. Especially lilies. The scent makes her think of clean slates.”

Orm laughed weakly.

“That’s poetic.”

“She’s poetic,” Mint said. “Underneath the precision and rules, she always was.”

That line hit harder than it should have.

Orm forced herself to sip her drink, to not ask questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answers to.

 

After a long pause, she said quietly, “You really knew her.”

Mint smiled faintly.

“Five years teaches you a person, Orm. You start knowing their silences.”

Orm tried to smile, but it came out brittle.

“Then you must’ve known when to stop listening.”

Mint didn’t flinch.

“I did. Doesn’t mean it was easy.”

Orm nodded slowly.

“No. It never is.”

Mint’s expression softened, almost kind. “For what it’s worth… I don’t hate you.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“I did, once,” Mint admitted. “When I saw you in her office that day, you remember. Everything felt too fresh. But now…” she shrugged. “She chose. You stayed. That’s that.”

Orm looked at her, caught between respect and discomfort. “It’s not that simple.”

Mint’s eyes met hers steadily.

“It never is. But she looks lighter these days. You did that. Try not to lose it.”

Orm’s throat ached.

“I’ll try.”

Mint’s smile was small but sincere.

“Good. Because whether she admits it or not, Ling Ling’s a lot more fragile than people think. You’ll see it when she finally lets you.”

Then, like a breeze that had delivered its message, Mint stood, dropped cash on the table, and said quietly

“She stopped humming when she got lonely. Maybe you can make her hum again.”

And she was gone.

The café suddenly felt too big.

Orm sat there long after Mint left, staring at her reflection in the coffee glass.

She didn’t know whether to feel grateful, guilty, or gutted.

She’d always known Ling Ling’s past wasn’t erased, just carefully folded away.

But hearing the creases described so vividly made it real.

Triple espresso.

White lilies.

Humming.

Little things that Orm had never been told, not because Ling Ling wanted to hide them, but because maybe she didn’t think they mattered anymore.

Except they did.

They mattered so much it hurt.

By the time Orm got home, evening light slanted through the glass walls of the penthouse.

The city below glowed like melted amber.

Ling Ling was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, cooking, actually cooking, which was still a novelty.

Boba sat like a loaf of fur on the counter, glaring at vegetables.

“Welcome home,” Ling said without turning. “You vanished after breakfast.”

“Had errands,” Orm said softly, setting her bag down.

Ling finally looked up tired but warm. “And you still look like you’ve been running a marathon.”

Orm tried to smile. “Bangkok traffic counts as cardio.”

Ling snorted. “Fair.”

Orm hesitated near the counter, watching her move.

Her hands were steady, efficient.

But she wasn’t humming.

That silence again.

The same silence Mint had just turned into a ghost.

“Dinner in twenty,” Ling said, glancing up. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Orm lied automatically.

Ling narrowed her eyes.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Ling stepped closer, brushed a smudge from Orm’s cheek with her thumb.

“You’re terrible at lying.”

Orm’s heart clenched. “So are you.”

Ling blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Orm hesitated, the words right there 'I met her today'.

But she couldn’t.

Not tonight.

Ling looked happy, content in a fragile sort of way.

She didn’t deserve another bruise from the past.

“Nothing,” Orm said finally, forcing a smile. “Just hungry.”

Ling studied her a beat longer, then nodded slowly.

“Then sit. You can slice these mushrooms while you starve.”

Orm obeyed, grateful for the task, for the ordinary.

But her mind kept looping, red roses, white lilies, the hum that never returned.

 

That night, after dinner, Ling fell asleep quickly, her arm draped over Orm’s waist like muscle memory.

Orm lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles.

Mint’s voice echoed softly in her head.

She stopped humming when she got lonely.

Orm bit her lip, eyes burning.

She turned toward Ling, whispering under her breath,

“Then I’ll make sure you never have to stop again.”

But somewhere deep down, beneath all the soft vows and the shared warmth, another thought whispered back

What if she never starts again because of me?

Boba climbed onto the bed, curling between them like a tiny, purring referee.

The night outside was still, Bangkok holding its breath.

And for the first time in a long while, Orm didn’t fall asleep easily.

 

 

Ling Ling woke to sunlight that felt unfamiliar.

The bed was warm on one side, cold on the other.

She reached out automatically, hand brushing the rumpled sheet where Orm should’ve been. Empty.

Boba was sprawled across the pillow instead, tail flicking in lazy satisfaction.

“Traitor,” Ling Ling muttered, pushing herself upright.

The kitten yawned, unconcerned.

Orm’s slippers were gone.

So were her glasses from the nightstand.

That was new.

Orm never left before Ling Ling.

Not without a word.

Something inside her chest twisted, not painfully, but enough to notice.

 

By the time Orm came home that evening, Ling Ling had already convinced herself it was nothing.

Work, errands, maybe coffee with Gina.

Normal things.

Orm’s smile was there, but it was… delayed.

Like it had to travel farther this time.

“Hey,” Ling Ling said softly, watching her shrug off her bag. “Long day?”

Orm nodded, not meeting her eyes.

“You could say that.”

“Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

Ling Ling stood up.

“Then we’ll fix that.”

It was an ordinary dinner.

The kind that used to feel like victory chopsticks clinking, Boba trying to steal shrimp, Orm laughing and scolding in the same breath.

Except tonight, the laughter didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Ling Ling told herself she was imagining it.

But when Orm excused herself early and disappeared into her sketch room, the silence that followed was too thick to ignore.

The next few days followed the same rhythm.

Orm smiled.

Worked.

Talked.

Kissed Ling Ling’s cheek before bed.

Everything looked the same.

But something had shifted.

Ling Ling noticed the small things first, Orm keeping her phone closer, her thoughts further.

The way she sometimes paused mid-sentence, as if editing herself.

How she’d laugh, then look away, as if she wasn’t supposed to.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t distance.

It was something quieter, heavier.

Doubt.

Ling Ling hated doubt.

It reminded her of mirrors.

 

By Friday, she gave up pretending not to feel it.

“Orm,” she said that night, catching her in the kitchen. “Did I do something?”

Orm froze mid-pour with a glass of water.

“What?”

“You’ve been… different,” Ling Ling said carefully. “Not bad different. Just— quieter.”

Orm’s lips parted, then pressed into a small smile.

“I’ve just been tired.”

“Tired,” Ling Ling repeated, unconvinced.

“Work’s been heavy.”

Ling Ling studied her for a long beat.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you worry too much.”

“Comes with the job,” Ling Ling said, stepping closer. “I manage people.”

Orm’s laugh cracked, soft and weak. “Then manage yourself first.”

The retort wasn’t cruel.

But it stung anyway.

Before Ling Ling could respond, Boba jumped onto the counter, knocking over a spoon.

The clang cut through the silence like a warning bell.

Orm sighed in relief.

“See? He agrees.”

Ling Ling exhaled, giving up for now.

“Fine. But don’t expect me to stop watching you.”

“Creepy,” Orm muttered, smiling despite herself.

“Effective,” Ling Ling shot back.

 

Saturday morning arrived with a storm not of weather, but of mood.

Ling Ling had planned something small: breakfast out, a bookstore run, maybe the plant market Orm liked.

But when she mentioned it, Orm hesitated.

“Can we stay in?” she asked. “I have some work to finish.”

Ling Ling’s disappointment was quick, sharp, and shameful.

She nodded. “Of course.”

But when Orm disappeared into her workspace again, headphones on, walls up, Ling Ling sat alone in the living room, watching Boba chase dust motes across the marble floor.

She hated how much she missed someone who was only ten steps away.

Prem’s voice echoed in her memory from weeks ago:

“You’re falling for her, Ling. That’s what it looks like. You fall slow, but you fall deep.”

And Ling Ling logical, deliberate, unflappable Ling Ling had laughed then.

Now she wasn’t laughing.

By evening, the quiet had eaten the whole day.

Orm emerged, hair messy, eyes tired.

“Sorry. I lost track of time.”

Ling Ling looked up from her laptop.

“No apology needed. You’re busy.”

Orm frowned.

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not mad.” Ling Ling closed her laptop, stood, and walked over. “I just miss you.”

That stopped Orm cold.

“You see me every day.”

“Not like that.” Ling Ling’s voice softened. “You’re here, but… you’re somewhere else too.”

Orm’s throat bobbed. “I— It’s nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Orm hesitated too long.

“Stuff.”

“Stuff,” Ling Ling repeated, sighing. “Orm, you can’t drop cryptic words like that and expect me not to spiral.”

Orm smiled faintly.

“Then stop spiraling.”

Ling Ling wanted to argue, but Orm looked too tired, too fragile.

So she swallowed it, leaned forward, and tucked a strand of hair behind Orm’s ear. “Promise me something.”

Orm blinked.

“What?”

“If something’s wrong… don’t carry it alone. Not when I’m right here.”

Orm’s eyes flickered guilt, fear, affection, all tangled in one breath.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Ling Ling smiled, kissed her forehead lightly.

“Good. Now go feed your furry accomplice before he murders the curtains.”

Orm laughed, grateful for the distraction, and the moment dissolved into domestic chaos, Boba meowing, Orm scolding, Ling Ling pretending not to watch with fondness she couldn’t hide.

But that night, as Orm fell asleep first, Ling Ling lay awake.

She replayed every glance, every pause, every soft smile that didn’t quite reach anymore.

Something had changed.

She didn’t know what.

But it sat between them like a ghost that refused to introduce itself.

She brushed a thumb over Orm’s knuckles, whispering,

“Whatever it is… don’t let it pull you away.”

Boba shifted at their feet, tail flicking once before he sighed and went back to sleep.

Ling Ling closed her eyes, her mind echoing with quiet fear

“Please don’t stop choosing me too soon.”

Notes:

Well… the storm’s come calling.
Time to hide away, my loves. we’ve had enough sugar. Time to even the scales with a chaos.
I hope your heart survives what’s coming next.
Thank you so much for all the feedback, comments, kudos, and shares. You’re all absolute gems.❤️
And hey… don’t kill me just yet, okay?
We’re only getting started.
There’s a long, deliciously painful road ahead and I want you with me for every twisted step. ❤️‍🩹

Chapter 21: The Space Between Words

Orm was starting to memorize the way Ling Ling breathed.

It was ridiculous, really the kind of thing people in love only noticed when they were too far gone.

The soft exhale when she read her morning reports.

The short, almost inaudible sigh every time her phone pinged with work messages.

The quiet hum she made when she was focused except lately, it was gone again.

The humming.

That stupid, gentle tune Orm didn’t even know she’d memorized until it disappeared.

She sat on the couch that morning, laptop open, pretending to design something while Ling Ling worked across from her.

The penthouse was peaceful, too peaceful with only the sound of keys clicking and Boba’s occasional mewl demanding attention he didn’t deserve.

Orm’s eyes lifted for what felt like the twentieth time that hour.

Ling Ling was perfect as always neat, calm, that faint furrow in her brow that made her look both intimidating and heartbreakingly human.

Her coffee sat untouched.

Orm noticed.

Ling Ling didn’t.

She watched Ling Ling’s fingers pause mid-typing, rub the bridge of her nose, then resume.
A small, tired motion.

Most people wouldn’t catch it.

Orm did.

Because these days, she caught everything.

When they first started sharing a life, Orm thought she’d never get used to Ling Ling’s precision the way she folded her world into structure, the way every mug, book, and plan had its place.

Now, Orm found herself fitting into those patterns without thinking.

Two spoons of sugar for Ling Ling’s evening coffee.

A glass of water on the nightstand before bed.

Turning off the light in the study at exactly 11:40 when she knew Ling Ling would forget.

Little things.

Unasked-for things.

Things she couldn’t stop doing even if she tried.

But lately, it felt like Ling Ling’s walls were shifting again, subtly, silently. Like something unseen had crawled back into the space between them.

Orm told herself she wasn’t paranoid.

Except she was.

That evening, they sat together after dinner, Orm scrolling aimlessly through her tablet, Ling Ling reviewing blueprints on her iPad.

Orm’s eyes darted sideways again.

Ling Ling’s jaw clenched.

Barely noticeable.

Her thumb tapped twice on the corner of the screen.

A sign she was frustrated.

“Problem?” Orm asked softly, trying not to sound too eager.

Ling Ling blinked, looking up like she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.

“Hmm?”

“You keep doing that tapping thing.”

Ling Ling tilted her head.

“Do I?”

“You always do it when something’s bothering you.”

The older woman smiled faintly. '“So I’m predictable now?”

Orm’s cheeks heated. “Not predictable. Just… readable.”

That earned her a quiet chuckle. “You really pay attention, don’t you?”

Orm hesitated.

“I can’t help it.”

Ling Ling studied her for a moment too long, then said softly

“That’s a dangerous habit.”

“Watching you?”

“No,” Ling Ling said. “Caring too much without saying it out loud.”

That shut Orm up.

Ling Ling turned back to her tablet, but her reflection in the glass showed something faint a flicker of something that looked a lot like pain.

Orm didn’t know if she wanted to touch her or run.

By the next morning, Orm was a wreck.

She noticed everything.

How Ling Ling smiled at Boba but didn’t quite meet Orm’s eyes.

How her voice was gentle but distant when she reminded Orm to eat breakfast before work.

How her hand brushed Orm’s arm by accident, but the touch lingered, just a second too long to be meaningless.

And that second was all Orm could think about for the rest of the day.

 

In her office later, Orm stared blankly at her monitor.

Her co-workers laughed about something in the corner, but it all felt muffled, like she was underwater.

She tried to focus on her designs.

She really did.

But the lines on her tablet blurred into thoughts she didn’t want to admit.

She missed her.

Not in a romantic, melodramatic way.

Just… in a way that made her chest ache when Ling Ling wasn’t around.

Her phone buzzed during lunch break.

Gina :You alive, Mrs Kwong-ish?

Orm rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself.

Orm : Barely. Coffee poisoning.

Gina :Liar. You sound mopey. Spill.

Orm sighed and typed,

Orm: She’s… quiet again.

Gina : She’s been buried in work this week. Prem said she’s sleeping at 3 a.m. again.

Orm frowned.

Orm: Again?

Gina : Yeah. Classic Ling Ling coping method = work till she forgets to feel.

Orm’s stomach twisted.

She typed, then deleted, then typed again.

Orm: I thought she was doing better.

Gina : She is. Don’t panic. But she’s built like a fortress, babe. Sometimes she forgets the drawbridge is down now.

Orm stared at the message until it blurred.

Orm: So what do I do?

Gina : Be patient. She’ll notice you noticing her. She always does.

Orm bit her lip.

Orm: What if she doesn’t?

Gina :Then make noise. Quiet love gets lost in big houses.

Orm chuckled softly, pocketing her phone.

“Easier said than done,” she murmured.

That night, Orm came home late.

Ling Ling was on the couch, reading something on her tablet.

She looked up immediately.

“You’re home.”

“I texted you.”

“I saw,” Ling Ling said softly. “Still, it’s late.”

Orm smiled tiredly.

“Deadlines.”

Ling Ling hummed, then nodded toward the kitchen.

“Dinner’s in the oven.”

“You cooked?”

“Ordered,” Ling Ling admitted. “I just reheated it so I could lie about cooking.”

Orm snorted, dropping her bag.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m resourceful.”

They ate together quietly.

Every small movement, every clink of spoon against bowl filled the air between them like static.

After dinner, Orm stood to clear the table.

Ling Ling stopped her with a gentle touch to her wrist.

“Orm,” she said softly. “You’ve been watching me lately.”

Orm froze.

“What?”

Ling Ling smiled faintly.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Orm’s heart raced. “I— I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were,” Ling Ling interrupted, still smiling. “You notice everything. My coffee habits. My breathing. Even the way I tap my pen when I’m stressed.”

Orm swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ling Ling’s eyes softened. “It’s… nice. Having someone see me that closely.”

Orm blinked, surprised.

“You don’t mind?”

Ling Ling tilted her head. “Would you stop if I did?”

Orm’s cheeks flushed. “Probably not.”

“Then I’d be wasting my breath,” Ling Ling said lightly. “But it does scare me a little.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes,” Ling Ling said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m afraid you’ll notice things I haven’t even admitted to myself yet.”

That silenced Orm completely.

Ling Ling reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Orm’s face.

“Don’t watch me so closely that you forget to breathe, okay?”

Orm tried to smile. “I just don’t want to miss anything.”

Ling Ling’s eyes softened again, like something inside her cracked just slightly.

“Then let’s make sure what you see is worth it.”

Orm blinked.

“What does that mean?”

Ling Ling leaned in, pressed a small kiss to her forehead, and whispered,

“It means I’m trying too.”

Later that night, as Ling Ling dozed off, Orm watched her again.

The woman who always seemed so untouchable was finally within reach.

But Orm couldn’t shake the feeling that loving her would always feel like balancing on the edge of something fragile.

Boba jumped onto the bed, curling between them like he owned the universe.

Orm sighed, whispering

“You’ve got it easy, little man.”

Ling Ling murmured in her sleep, half coherent,

“Stop talking to the cat, Orm…”

Orm laughed softly, the ache in her chest easing just enough.

Maybe love really was just this, paying attention, even when it hurt.

 

 

The rain started before dawn — soft at first, then steady, like the sky was sighing.

Orm woke to the faint rhythm of it against the penthouse windows.

Boba had claimed the space between her legs, a warm little weight that purred whenever she tried to move.

Beside her, the bed was empty.

She didn’t have to check to know where Ling Ling was.

The soft clack of keys came from the living area, the familiar scent of coffee drifting through.

Orm lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling that quiet ache in her chest again, the one she’d been pretending didn’t exist for weeks.

When she finally padded out, Ling Ling was exactly as she’d pictured her: hair half-tied, glasses slipping down her nose, wearing one of Orm’s old shirts because she claimed it was “comfortable.”

It should’ve been adorable.

But Orm’s stomach twisted instead.

She watched in silence, every movement of Ling Ling’s hands pulling her deeper into her thoughts.

The past few weeks had been peaceful, almost too peaceful.

Ling Ling was gentler, more attentive, more… trying.

And yet, Orm couldn’t shake the echo of Mint’s voice.

“She used to hum when she was happy.”

“She only eats strawberries when she’s in love.”

“You should’ve seen how she used to smile.”

Those words had carved their way into Orm’s mind like a splinter she couldn’t reach.

It wasn’t jealousy not really.

It was something worse.

That crawling insecurity of being the after.

Ling Ling must’ve felt her staring, because she turned.

“You’re awake.”

Her tone was warm, casual.

But her eyes always so sharp flickered with something more.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

Orm forced a smile.

“You’re one to talk.”

Ling Ling closed her laptop slowly, setting it aside.

Then she just… looked.

The way she always did when she wanted to read someone without words.

It used to make Orm feel safe.

Now it just made her heart race.

“I’m serious,” Ling Ling said. “Did something happen?”

Orm hesitated.

“No. I’m fine.”

“That’s your ‘I’m definitely not fine’ voice.”

Orm frowned.

“You’re imagining things.”

Ling Ling stood, crossing the short distance between them.

She didn’t reach out, not yet.

She just tilted her head slightly, studying her wife like a puzzle. “Orm.”

The way her name sounded in that tone, low, careful, patient was almost unfair.

“I told you before,” Ling Ling murmured. “You don’t have to guard everything with silence.”

Orm swallowed hard.

“It’s nothing important.”

“It’s important if it makes you look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re here but miles away.”

That did it.

Orm’s throat tightened.

Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt, her chest burning with the effort to stay calm.

“Ling Ling,” she started softly, “do you ever… miss her?”

The air froze.

Ling Ling blinked once, slowly.

“Who?”

“Mint.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rain outside.

It took a long time for Ling Ling to respond.

When she finally did, her voice was quiet — but not cold.

“I haven’t thought about her in months,” she said honestly. “Not until you said her name just now.”

Orm’s laugh came out small and shaky.

“Then that’s better than me. Because I can’t stop thinking about her lately.”

Ling Ling’s brows lifted slightly.

“You met her.”

It wasn’t a question.

Orm’s shoulders slumped. “A few weeks ago. By accident.”

Ling Ling exhaled through her nose, calm but firm. “And?”

“And nothing. We just talked. She said things. About you. About how you used to be.”

Ling Ling waited.

“She said you used to hum,” Orm blurted, voice cracking. “That you loved strawberries. That you used to, I don’t know, smile differently. Like she still knows you better than anyone ever could.”

Orm rubbed her eyes.

“I know it’s stupid. I just— I started realizing how much I don’t know about you. Five years, Ling Ling. She had five years. And I’ve had what? Six months? How am I supposed to catch up to that?”

Ling Ling stayed still.

Only her jaw tightened, once.

Then she stepped forward, slow, deliberate until she was close enough that Orm could feel her warmth.

“Orm.”

Her voice was softer now.

“You can’t compare beginnings to endings.”

Orm looked up, startled.

“I didn’t hum because she made me happy,” Ling Ling said. “I hummed because I didn’t know how else to fill the silence.”

Her eyes softened, glassy in the light.

“I smiled because I was trying to convince myself it was love. It wasn’t.”

“Then why—”

“Because people stay where it hurts sometimes. Out of fear. Out of duty.”

She took another step closer.

“But I don’t want that anymore.”

Orm’s throat ached.

“Then what do you want?”

Ling Ling didn’t answer right away.

She reached up instead, brushing a thumb along Orm’s cheekbone, slow, reverent.

“You,” she said finally. “And not because I promised. Because I choose to.”

Orm’s eyes stung.

“Then why does it still feel like you’re holding back?”

Ling Ling hesitated only a second.

Then she turned, walking toward the small drawer near her desk.

Orm frowned.

“What are you doing?”

Ling Ling didn’t answer.

She opened the drawer, pulled something out, a thin envelope, familiar and terrifying all at once.

The marriage contract.

The one-year agreement they’d both signed out of panic and convenience.

Orm froze.

Ling Ling looked at her, then tore the envelope clean down the middle.

The sound was sharp, final.

Then she tore it again.

And again.

Tiny pieces fluttered to the floor like confetti from some strange celebration.

“Ling Ling!” Orm gasped. “What are you—”

“Ending the terms,” Ling Ling said simply.

Orm’s heart hammered.

“You… can’t just—”

“I can.”

She met Orm’s eyes, calm, steady, terrifyingly sure.

“I said I’d try. That was my promise. But trying with a time limit isn’t trying. It’s waiting to fail.”

Orm’s lips parted, no words coming out.

“So,” Ling Ling continued quietly, “if I fail this time, I want it to be without an exit plan.”

Orm blinked rapidly, her vision blurring.

“You’re serious?”

Ling Ling stepped closer again, taking Orm’s hands.

Her voice trembled just once when she said

“I’m tired of living like I’m temporary. And you shouldn’t feel like one either.”

Orm’s tears finally fell, fast and quiet.

Ling Ling’s thumb brushed them away.

“If you’re still willing,” she whispered, “then let’s stop being an accident.”

Orm laughed through her tears.

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Then what should I do?” Ling Ling asked, half-smiling now.

Orm hiccupped.

“Maybe start with… breakfast in bed?”

Ling Ling chuckled softly. “Spoiled.”

“Married,” Orm corrected, sniffling. “You said no more contract, remember?”

Ling Ling leaned down, forehead against hers.

“Right. Married.”

Outside, the rain eased.

The world felt quieter.

And somewhere between laughter and tears

Orm realized that the woman in front of her, the one who once treated love like a business deal was finally learning how to stay.

Notes:

Paying attention to the little things does matter but not so much that we lose ourselves in them.
Sometimes we get so caught up on the small details that we forget the real meaning behind them, and that can quietly start to weigh us down.
Our past doesn’t define our future..
At the end of the day, every relationship no matter what kind, comes down to trust, communication, and understanding.
It’s cute to notice the little things, but when it turns into obsession... that’s a whole different story.
Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you always for the love and support naa~.
I meow you all 🐾❤️

Chapter 22: The Way She Looks at Her

The day after the contract was torn, Orm woke up to the smell of something burning.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was chaos.

She sat up fast, hair everywhere, half-panicked until she heard Ling Ling’s low, controlled muttering from the kitchen

“Boba, no. That’s not food. Don’t—ugh.”

Orm stumbled into the kitchen in her oversized T-shirt, hair a full crime scene.

What she found made her blink three times.

The sight waiting in the kitchen nearly short-circuited her brain.

Ling Ling Kwong elegant, terrifyingly poised Ling Ling was standing in front of the stove in Orm’s pink cartoon apron.

Her bun leaned sideways.

Her omelet looked like roadkill.

The cat was meowing at her feet as if auditioning for chaos.

“Good morning,” Ling Ling said, as if she didn’t look like the hottest disaster in Bangkok.

Orm blinked. “You’re cooking?”

“I’m attempting to,” she said evenly. “Your mother told me you shouldn’t skip breakfast. I took it as an order.”

“You listened to Mae now?”

Ling Ling flipped whatever it was on the pan.

“She’s scarier than my board of directors.”

That made Orm laugh hard enough that Boba took off running.

The sound filled the penthouse, soft and bright, and Ling Ling’s mouth curved just a little like she’d been waiting to hear it.

They ate together.

Ling Ling’s version of eggs was half-charred, but Orm finished them anyway because the woman had actually cooked for her.

When Orm reached for the coffee, Ling Ling reached too and gently tucked a messy strand of hair behind Orm’s ear.

Small, simple, devastating.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Orm murmured.

Ling Ling met her eyes.

“Don’t thank me yet. I nearly burned your pan.”

Orm grinned. “You owe me a new one.”

“I’ll buy you ten,” Ling Ling said without missing a beat.

The promise landed heavier than it should have.

 

By lunch, Ling Ling had returned to her CEO mode, and Orm had returned to pretending she wasn’t thinking about her wife in an apron.

She snapped a mirror selfie in a sundress she’d bought last week light, soft, maybe a little shorter than usual and texted it to Gina with a caption:

Do I look like I have my life together yet?

Her thumb slipped.

The photo went to Ling Ling instead.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Ling Ling: Where are you wearing that?

Orm: Out. Lunch with Gina.

Ling Ling: In that?

Orm: What’s wrong with it??

Ling Ling: It’s distracting.

Orm: You sound jealous.

Ling Ling: I sound honest.

Orm’s soul left her body.

When she got home later, Ling Ling was already waiting near the elevator, arms crossed, face calm but eyes dangerous.

“You’re really going to scold me for a dress?” Orm said, half-laughing.

“I’m not scolding you,” Ling Ling replied, stepping closer until Orm had to look up. “I’m coping. With the fact that everyone got to see what’s mine.”

Orm’s jaw dropped.

“Excuse me?!”

Ling Ling brushed past her toward the living room.

“You heard me.”

Boba meowed from the couch like he agreed.

It didn’t stop there.

The next day, Jane texted Ling Ling:

Borrowing Orm for lunch, don’t get mad 🥰

Ling Ling’s reply was two words:

Bring her back.

Jane showed the text to Orm, cackling.

“Your wife’s scary.”

Orm groaned.

“She’s not scary. She’s… territorial.”

“Same thing.”

By the time Orm got home, Ling Ling was waiting again calm expression, wine glass in hand.

“How was lunch?” she asked smoothly.

“Fine,” Orm said cautiously. “Jane says hi.”

Ling Ling nodded once.

“Did she behave?”

Orm laughed.

“She’s not a toddler.”

“Jane’s unpredictable,” Ling Ling said simply, setting her glass down “And you attract chaos.”

 

That night they sat side by side on the couch.

The TV played some cooking show.

Boba had claimed Ling Ling’s lap like a small, furry emperor.

Orm glanced over.

“Do you ever relax?”

“I’m relaxed now.”

“No, this is you pretending to relax.”

Ling Ling turned her head.

“Do you want me to stop pretending?”

“Yes,” Orm said quietly.

Ling Ling studied her for a moment, then leaned closer, brushing her thumb along Orm’s jaw.

“I care about you,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m careful. I don’t want to scare you away.”

“You won’t.”

“Good.” Her hand slid up to Orm’s cheek, warm and steady. “Then I can stop hiding it.”

“Hiding what?”

Ling Ling’s lips curved.

“How much I like seeing you blush.”

Orm choked on air.

“That’s unfair.”

“I prefer ‘effective.’”

Boba yawned between them, a tiny furry third wheel.

The two women laughed quietly, and something in Ling Ling’s chest loosened—the knot she’d been carrying since the day they signed that ridiculous marriage contract.

 

Later, Orm sat sketching at the dining table.

Ling Ling stood by the window, phone pressed to her ear, talking to someone about a project deadline.

When she hung up, she looked at Orm—really looked.

The soft concentration on her face, the pencil tapping, the way a strand of hair kept falling over her eyes.

Ling Ling’s pulse stumbled.

She walked over and set a cup of warm milk beside Orm’s hand.

“Don’t stay up too late.”

Orm smiled up at her.

“You’re starting to sound like a real wife.”

Ling Ling met her gaze, deadpan.

“Starting?”

Orm’s grin widened.

“Oh my God.”

Ling Ling chuckled, leaned down, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t even conscious.

It just happened.

Orm froze.

Ling Ling’s heart kicked hard enough to make her dizzy.

They stared at each other until Boba jumped onto the table, knocking the pencil away and ending the moment.

When they finally went to bed, the silence felt different.

Warm.

Familiar.

Orm lay beside her, pretending to scroll through her phone.

Ling Ling turned off the lamp and whispered, half-teasing, half-real,

“You’re all trouble, you know.”

Orm smiled in the dark.

“But I’m your trouble.”

Ling Ling’s hand found hers under the blanket. “Exactly.”

 

Morning sunlight slanted across the skyscraper windows of Kwong Group, glinting off glass and chrome.

The office was too perfect like Ling Ling’s face when she wanted to look unreadable.

But anyone who’d worked with her long enough knew better.

A twitch of her brow.

A soft hum when she was thinking.

And lately?

A small, traitorous smile every few minutes.

That smile had a name: Orm.

Prem leaned against the wall of the conference room, arms crossed, watching her best friend pretend to listen to a presentation about quarterly projections.

Ling Ling’s phone was face-down beside her tablet, but the faint glow kept catching her eye. Prem didn’t have to look to know who was on the other end.

The moment the meeting adjourned, Ling Ling reached for the phone, trying to act casual. Too late.

“Your poker face,” Prem said, sipping her iced americano, “is officially dead.”

Ling Ling exhaled through her nose.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Morning?” Prem raised an eyebrow. “Babe, it’s ten a.m. You’ve been checking your phone since nine-oh-two. Let me guess—wife texted?”

“She sent me a picture of Boba,” Ling Ling said evenly.

“And?”

“…wearing my tie.”

Prem grinned so wide her dimple showed.

“Domestic. Adorable. Whipped.”

Ling Ling gave her a withering look that was only half-hearted.

“Should I remind you you’re here to review design contracts, not my marriage?”

“You can remind me all you want, Mrs Kwong, but I’m still going to point out that you smiled at a cat photo.”

“I’m human,” Ling Ling murmured, flipping a file open.

“Barely,” Prem teased.

 

Their laughter bounced off the glass walls, a sound the younger staff outside pretended not to hear but definitely gossiped about.

Ling Ling and Prem together had always been unstoppable—two halves of the same ruthless, brilliant brain.

But since the sudden marriage, Prem swore she could see small cracks forming in Ling Ling’s armor.

Softer cracks. Good ones.

When the meeting wrapped, they retreated to Ling Ling’s office—sleek, minimalist, all dark wood and city view.

Prem dropped into the visitor chair like she owned the place.

“Okay, talk to me about the new Bangkok Bay project.”

Ling Ling launched into logistics, but even mid-discussion her phone buzzed again.

She glanced down, eyes flicking, and something tiny and unguarded crossed her expression.

Prem smirked.

“Tell me she didn’t just send another cat photo.”

“No,” Ling Ling said slowly. “She sent lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“A photo. She cooked for me.”

Prem blinked.

“Orm? The same Orm who nearly burned instant noodles the first week of your marriage?”

Ling Ling’s smile was soft enough to melt steel.

“She learned.”

Prem stared for a moment, then groaned.

“You’re gone. Like gone-gone. You’re supposed to be the terrifying one, remember?”

“I can be both.”

“Right now you’re terrifyingly smitten.”

Ling Ling just turned to the window, pretending to admire the skyline.

 

The universe must’ve heard them, because that was the exact moment the door burst open.

“Cousin!”

Jane.

The whirlwind known as Jane Kwong Rossi whatever-surname she felt like using today.

Blonde streaks, oversized sunglasses, a Chanel tote big enough to hide Boba in, and an energy level somewhere between hurricane and espresso overdose.

“I’m kidnapping your wife again!” Jane announced.

Ling Ling blinked.

Prem groaned audibly.

“Oh my god.”

“Good morning, Jane,” Ling Ling said dryly. “You remember knocking is a concept?”

“Knocking’s boring!” Jane chirped, crossing the office in three strides. “Anyway, Orm told me she missed me, so I’m taking her to lunch!”

Ling Ling’s brow twitched.

“She’s working.”

“So am I—working on being her favorite cousin-in-law!” Jane beamed.

Prem muttered, “You mean her only cousin-in-law,” but Jane ignored her.

“Ling Ling,” Jane said, clasping her hands dramatically, “you’ve been monopolizing her. She needs sunshine, fashion, social balance!”

Ling Ling inhaled slowly, counting to three.

“You could text me before barreling into my office.”

Jane tilted her head.

“And ruin the surprise?”

“Some surprises come with HR paperwork.”

Prem snorted coffee through her nose.

“Don’t encourage her,” Ling Ling said.

“I’m not,” Prem wheezed. “She’s self-sufficient chaos.”

Jane planted a hand on her hip, pouting at her fiancée. “Baby, you’re supposed to defend me.”

“Defending you would require me to have the energy,” Prem said. “Also, I told you to stop calling her office without warning.”

Jane’s attitude shifted instantly from chaos gremlin to lovesick retriever.

She crossed to Prem, tugging her tie playfully. “I was just excited to see you.”

Prem sighed, a mix of annoyance and affection.

“You’re impossible.”

Jane leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“You love me anyway.”

Ling Ling pressed two fingers to her temple.

“Every HR policy I’ve ever written is crumbling in front of me.”

Prem shot her a grin.

“Relax, boss. You started it when you married your accidental wife.”

Ling Ling didn’t even bother denying it.

“Fine. Take Orm to lunch,” she said finally. “But be gentle.”

“Gentle? She’s adorable! I love her already.” Jane’s phone pinged. “Oh, she’s downstairs! Gotta go! Bye, cousin! Bye, baby!”

She blew a kiss at both of them and disappeared like a storm leaving wreckage.

Silence fell. Prem stared at the door, then at Ling Ling.

“You realize you’ve created a monster, right?”

Ling Ling leaned back, rubbing her forehead.

“Multiple monsters. Including Boba.”

Prem laughed.

“You envy them.”

Ling Ling frowned. “What?”

“You were watching me and Jane just now,” Prem said. “That little smile. You envy how easy it is, don’t you?”

Ling Ling hesitated.

“Maybe. They fit. Effortlessly.”

“You’ll get there too. You already look at Orm like she’s your gravity.”

That shut Ling Ling up.

She didn’t confirm it but she didn’t deny it either.

 

By evening, the sun was dipping behind Bangkok’s skyline.

Ling Ling closed her laptop, pretending she was done for the day.

She wasn’t, she just couldn’t focus.

Her phone buzzed again, another message from Orm.

Done with lunch! Jane made me try snails. I lived. Barely. Miss you.

Ling Ling’s lips curved before she could stop it.

Half an hour later, her driver blinked in surprise when she instructed

“We’re going to Orm’s office.”

When she stepped into the lobby, the receptionist nearly dropped her tablet.

The CEO of Kwong Group standing there, waiting?

Word spread faster than wildfire.

By the time Orm appeared, cheeks flushed from rushing, the whole floor was buzzing.

“Ling?” Orm whispered, clearly flustered. “What are you doing here?”

Ling Ling shrugged lightly, hands in her pockets.

“Picking up my wife.”

“You—you could’ve texted.”

“Then I wouldn’t get to see you run.”

Orm’s face went red. “That’s not fair.”

Ling Ling leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Jane says you missed her.”

Orm groaned.

“Oh god, she’s never going to stop telling you things.”

Ling Ling smiled one of those slow, devastating ones that made Orm’s heart stutter.

“Next time,” she murmured, “if you plan to be kidnapped, tell me first.”

“Why?”

“So I know who to be jealous of.”

Orm blinked up at her, utterly speechless, before whispering

“You’re jealous of your cousin?”

“Of anyone who gets your smile before I do.”

The elevator doors slid open.

Ling Ling held out her hand.

Orm hesitated only a second before taking it.

They stepped inside together, hand-in-hand, while the city lights glittered below like approval.

And for the first time in a long time, Ling Ling didn’t bother to hide the smile that wouldn’t leave her face.

 

 

Morning sunlight poured lazily into the penthouse, brushing over marble floors and the mess that came with two humans and one unapologetically spoiled cat.

The curtains were half-open, the air smelled faintly like jasmine and toasted bread, and somewhere between the hum of the espresso machine and the clink of mugs, Orm realized she’d gotten far too used to waking up beside the woman who once dragged her out of a church.

Ling Ling stood at the counter in her white pajama shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair slightly disheveled in a way that looked far too expensive to be natural.

She was focused on pouring coffee, while Boba their tiny, furry terrorist was trying to climb the counter for the third time that morning.

“Boba, don’t—” Orm started.

Crashhh.

The sugar bowl hit the floor.

Ling Ling exhaled softly through her nose.

“He’s lucky he’s cute.”

“He gets that from you,” Orm muttered, crouching to clean up the sugar like she hadn’t just said something she shouldn’t have.

Ling Ling’s eyebrow arched.

“You think I’m cute?”

Orm froze mid-sweep.

“I said the cat is cute. You’re… you’re—uh, rich.”

Ling Ling smiled.

“That’s not mutually exclusive, Mrs. Kwong.”

Orm pretended the broom was very interesting. “Don’t start this early.”

It had been months since Paris, the trip that changed everything.

Ling Ling had promised to try, and true to her word, she had been gentle, attentive, and present in ways that Orm wasn’t prepared for.

Every small gesture Ling Ling reaching for her hand when crossing the street, fixing the way her necklace sat crooked, leaving a post-it that said Eat breakfast properly was proof that she meant it.

And it was both wonderful and terrifying.

“Mae texted,” Ling Ling said casually, sitting at the island with her coffee. “She wants us to come by this afternoon.”

Orm’s head shot up.

“Oh no. She’s going to interrogate you again.”

Ling Ling sipped.

“That’s fine. I’ve learned to survive corporate boardrooms. I think I can handle your mother.”

“You say that now,” Orm said, pointing a warning finger. “But last time she made you eat her nam prik pao and you almost died.”

Ling Ling looked unbothered.

“I’ll bring dessert.”

By two in the afternoon, they were parked in front of Mae Koy’s charming Thonglor house the kind with too many plants, wind chimes that never shut up, and a front gate painted a cheerful mint green.

Boba was inside his tiny carrier, making sounds that could only be described as demonic protests.

Orm rang the bell.

“I still think this is a bad idea.”

The door opened to Mae Koy in her floral apron, arms wide.

“My daughter and my favorite daughter-in-law!”

Ling Ling laughed softly, bowing politely before Mae Koy pulled her into a hug that was far too tight for someone who owned half of Bangkok’s skyline.

“Oh my dear, you’ve gotten thinner!” Mae Koy scolded. “Orm, what are you feeding her? Air?”

“Mae!” Orm whined. “She’s fine—look at her!”

Ling Ling smiled.

“I’m fine, Mae .”

“Hmm. You’re too polite. Sit, sit. I cooked everything!”

Boba meowed loudly, as if announcing himself.

Mae Koy turned and gasped.

“And my grand-kitten!”

Orm buried her face in her hands.

“Here we go.”

Mae Koy took Boba out of the carrier and kissed his head.

“You’re so handsome! You look like your mother!”

Ling Ling blinked.

“Which one?”

“Yes,” Mae Koy said seriously.

 

For the next hour, chaos reigned supreme.

Mae Koy fussed over Ling Ling’s appetite, tried to feed her second and third servings, scolded Orm for “not eating enough to keep up her pretty cheeks,” and somehow managed to convince Boba to nap in the fruit basket.

Ling Ling, patient as ever, navigated the entire ordeal with grace complimenting Mae Koy’s cooking, helping clear plates, and listening intently to her stories about Orm’s childhood disasters.

“…and then she tried to microwave her school shoes because they were wet,” Mae Koy finished.

Ling Ling glanced at Orm.

“You what?”

“It was science!” Orm squeaked. “And I was nine!”

Mae Koy wiped her eyes from laughing.

“Ah, I like this one. You’re good for her.”

Ling Ling smiled, eyes soft.

“I hope so.”

Orm looked away, cheeks warm.

Evening brought them to the Kwong estate, a vast property tucked in one of Bangkok’s quieter districts.

Ling Ling’s parents were waiting at the veranda.

Her mother, elegant in her silk wrap dress, greeted Orm with genuine affection.

“Orm, dear. You look lovely as always. And you brought Boba again?”

“Couldn’t leave him,” Orm said sheepishly.

Ling Ling’s father chuckled.

“He’s a menace, but he’s family.”

Dinner was lively.

The Kwongs were gentle, warm people wealth had made them gracious, not distant.

Orm felt oddly at home, sandwiched between Ling Ling’s quiet smiles and her parents’ good-natured teasing.

“So, Orm,” Ling Ling’s mother said, pouring her more tea. “Are you still working on that big design project?”

Orm nodded.

“Yes, It’s almost finished.”

“Ah, and you, Ling Ling?” her father asked. “Still pretending you’re not tired?”

Ling Ling sighed.

“Trying not to make Orm worry.”

Orm’s eyes flicked up.

“You still do, though.”

Ling Ling turned toward her, amused.

“Then maybe you should supervise me more closely.”

The table laughed.

Orm nearly choked on her rice.

Later, while the parents cooed over Boba who had somehow convinced them to share shrimp with him Ling Ling slipped away to the garden.

Orm found her there minutes later, standing by the koi pond, city lights reflecting in her eyes.

“They really love you,” Ling Ling said quietly.

“They love you more,” Orm replied.

“No.” Ling Ling turned to her, gaze steady. “They love us. That’s… new for me.”

Orm’s heart squeezed.

“You make it sound like you never had that before.”

Ling Ling smiled faintly.

“Not like this.”

Orm didn’t know what to say, so she simply reached out and took her hand.

It wasn’t grand.

It wasn’t loud.

But Ling Ling’s fingers tightened around hers, and for the first time, Orm felt the weight of all Ling Ling had been trying to say without words.

 

By the time they got home, it was close to midnight.

The penthouse was quiet except for the faint hum of Bangkok below.

Boba was asleep in his bed, small chest rising and falling.

Orm slipped out of her heels with a groan.

“I feel like I just ran a marathon in silk.”

Ling Ling chuckled softly.

“You handled them perfectly.”

“You make it sound like a performance.”

“Maybe,” Ling Ling murmured, stepping closer. “But it’s one I never want to end.”

Orm’s breath hitched as Ling Ling brushed a strand of hair from her face.

Her touch lingered just a moment too long.

“Thank you,” Ling Ling said softly. “For today. For… this life.”

Orm blinked.

“You’re thanking me for being married to you?”

“Yes,” Ling Ling said, smiling. “It’s harder work than you think.”

They both laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that fills a room without needing sound.

And later, when the lights dimmed and they climbed into bed, Ling Ling reached across the small gap between them, fingers brushing Orm’s wrist before settling there like a quiet promise.

Neither said another word.

But the silence between them was warm.

Full.

And somewhere between the beating of two hearts and the soft purr of a sleeping cat, it felt like love was finally starting to make itself at home.

Notes:

Hi everyone!
Hope you’re all doing great 💕
This chapter’s a bit longer to make up for ghosting you for two days, life got a lil chaotic (send help 😭).
For those who wish to translate, repost, or adapt this story into another language: please feel free as long as you give proper credit, include the original link, and be honest with your readers.
Sharing love for LingOrm is always welcome, but stealing others’ work is not it.
Respect the sweat and tears that go into creating, okay?
Thank you, truly, for every single comment, kudos, and message. I read everything (even the unhinged ones lol).
Stay safe out there, and if you ever feel alone, remember this story’s dedicated to you.
I’m always cheering for you, wherever you are 💖
And for those wondering—yes, I’m a woman! You can call me P’thor if you like👻

Chapter 23: The Menace Circle

Sunday mornings in the penthouse had their own rhythm now: the kettle humming, Boba doing parkour against the sofa, and Ling Ling pretending not to smile at either.

Orm stretched on the rug, hair in a messy bun, scrolling through the flood of texts from Jane like she was bracing for a storm.

“Ling,” Orm called, half-groan, half-laugh. “She’s doing it again.”

Ling Ling glanced up from the breakfast tray she was arranging—toast cut into neat halves, fruit lined up like tiny soldiers, honey in a porcelain bowl because of course.

“The American hurricane?”

“She says, and I quote, ‘Rise and shine, wife stealer, put on a cute skirt, I’m kidnapping you for a proper Sunday like civilized people.’”

Ling Ling’s mouth twitched.

“Bold of her to talk about civilized.”

Orm flopped backward with a sigh.

“If I ignore her, she’ll show up here with megaphones.”

“She will,” Ling Ling said, like a woman who had lived through it. “Go with her. It will give me time to… reorganize your workspace.”

“My what?” Orm bolted upright.

“Your pencils are living like rebels,” Ling Ling said, dead serious. “An intervention is necessary.”

Boba launched himself onto Orm’s stomach and meowed like he agreed.

Orm scooped him up and kissed his head.

“Sorry, little man. Mommy has to face her chaos cousin-in-law.”

“Bring a jacket,” Ling Ling said, setting the toast in front of her. “The mall AC hates you.”

“You remembered,” Orm said softly.

Ling Ling poured tea, eyes tilted with warmth.

“I remember everything that touches you.”

Which would have been a perfectly normal sentence if Orm weren’t already a walking blush.

She shoved toast into her mouth to avoid melting on the spot.

“I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Take your time,” Ling Ling said, calm and lovely and slightly too composed.

Then, because she could never help it around Orm, she leaned down and straightened the crooked collar on Orm’s T-shirt, fingertips lingering just a second too long.

“Text me when you get there.”

“Creepy,” Orm muttered.

“Effective,” Ling Ling returned, and kissed the top of her head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Boba meowed, offended at the PDA.

The day officially began.

 

Jane chose a café that looked like a jewelry box: glass, gold, greenery everywhere.

She was already waving from the window, sunglasses on indoors, presenting a menu like a game show host.

“There she is!” Jane declared, standing to hug Orm so hard the bell above the door rattled. “You look adorable. I hate it. Sit. We’re ordering the entire left side.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” Orm said, laughing.

“Breakfast is a mindset.” Jane snapped her fingers at the waiter with the confidence of a woman who never heard no. “Two iced lattes, one without syrup—Orm is sweet enough—three pastries, and your best pancakes. Extra butter. Bless you.”

When the waiter retreated, Jane folded her arms, eyes sparkling like she’d been waiting for this moment all her life.

“So.”

“So?” Orm asked, already suspicious.

“Have you and my cousin done it yet?”

Orm inhaled her own spit and coughed so hard she teared up.

“JANE.”

“What?” Jane blinked, genuinely surprised at Orm’s near-death. “I’m checking in on the health of your marriage. It’s community service.”

“It’s none of your business!”

Jane leaned forward, chin in hand.

“You’re right. But also answer the question.”

Orm covered her face.

“We are… fine.”

“That’s not an answer, that’s a weather update.”

“Jane.”

Jane lowered her sunglasses.

“Orm.”

Orm caved.

“No,” she mumbled, so quietly Jane had to read her lips. “We haven’t.”

The smile that bloomed on Jane’s face could power a city. “ADORABLE.”

“It’s not— It’s just— We’re busy,” Orm said weakly.

Jane, who did not know the meaning of gentle when gossip existed, waved that away.

“You’ve been married almost a year. You two are built like a magazine cover. And you’re telling me you haven’t climbed each other like coconut trees even once?”

“JANE!”

“Okay, okay,” Jane said, laughing, then softened in that way she only ever did for people she loved.

“Look at me.” She tapped the table. “No shame. None. If you’re not ready, that’s fine. If she’s taking her time, even better. That means she cares about you more than she cares about… the rest.”

Orm’s cheeks warmed.

“She does care. She’s… careful.”

“Ling Ling has always been careful with glass,” Jane said. “This is the first time I’ve seen her careful with a heart.”

The pastries arrived.

Jane cut a pancake with the seriousness of surgery and slid half onto Orm’s plate.

“However,” she added, menace reloading, “you are missing out.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

Jane grinned.

“No, but listen. I can coach. I’m a woman of the world.”

“No coaching!”

“Step one,” Jane continued, unfazed. “Stop panicking. Step two: silk. Step three: neck kisses. Step four—”

“Absolutely not.”

“You have to at least learn the slow stare. The one where you look at her mouth, then her eyes, then her mouth again—” Jane demonstrated, and Orm almost crawled under the table from secondhand embarrassment. “See? Works every time.”

“On Prem maybe,” Orm muttered.

Jane brightened.

“Oh, it definitely works on Prem. She pretends to be immune but—bam—knees weak.”

“I’m going home,” Orm announced, standing.

Jane tugged her back down.

“Eat first. Then go make Ling Ling insane with a single look. I believe in you.”

Orm laughed despite herself.

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m public service,” Jane said primly, shoving a croissant at her like a diploma. “Now text my cousin you arrived safely so she stops making the driver run simulations in his head.”

Orm rolled her eyes, but she texted.

Orm: Here. Alive. Jane is loud. Send help.

Ling Ling: Enjoy the noise. Come back when your ears recover.

Orm: Bossy.

Ling Ling: Yours.

Orm stared at that one little word until her stomach flipped.

Then she ate the croissant to survive.

 

Gina on the case didn’t wait even a day.

She dragged Orm to a tiny café near Orm’s office on Monday, ordered two Thai teas, and leaned across the table like a conspiracy coach.

“Okay,” Gina said, eyes like laser beams. “Are you doing it?”

“What is wrong with everyone?” Orm whispered, scandalized and horrified.

“I ask because I care,” Gina said, unapologetic. “Also because I’m nosy. But mostly care.”

“You sound like Jane.”

“God forbid,” Gina muttered, then focused again. “Well?”

Orm looked around like someone might arrest them for speaking.

“No.”

Gina slapped a hand to her forehead.

“Girl. A woman like Ling Ling and you’re— You’re… nothing?”

“We’ve kissed,” Orm said defensively. “We’ve made out.”

“How far?”

“Gina!”

“Academic purposes,” Gina said solemnly.

Orm hid her face behind the menu.

“Surface-level.”

Gina slid the menu down with one finger.

“Okay, so here’s the thing. That means Ling Ling is patient. Like saint-level patient. And that also means she respects you. She’s waiting.”

“I know,” Orm whispered. “I love her for that.”

Gina’s expression softened.

“Of course you do.” but not for long, the menace returned. “But also, have you considered seducing your wife?”

“I am not seducing a billionaire,” Orm hissed.

“Babe, that’s literally the plot,” Gina said. “Look at her the way she looks at you. Wear that silk blouse she bought in Paris. Sit on the kitchen counter while she cooks and just—exist prettily. She’ll combust.”

“I’m going to combust.”

“Perfect, match energy,” Gina chirped. “And if you need tips—”

“No more tips.”

Gina sipped her tea, thinking.

“Fine. But at minimum, communications protocols. Tell her what you like. Ask what she likes. Use words.”

Orm groaned into her hands.

“Words are the scariest part.”

“Then practice on me,” Gina said. “Tell me you want me to—”

“STOP.”

Gina cackled so loud the barista looked over.

Orm buried her face on the table and wondered if Bangkok had a program for witness protection from your own friends.

Her phone buzzed.

A photo popped up: Boba, wrapped like a burrito in a towel, one paw out, offended at life.

Ling Ling: He fell into the sink. I rescued him. He’s composing a lawsuit.

Orm thawed.

Orm: My heroes.

Then, because Gina raised her brows.

Orm: I miss you.

Ling Ling: Meeting at 3. Come here after? I’ll pick you up.

Orm: …Okay.

Gina saw the soft look on Orm’s face and smiled into her tea.

“You’re done for, babe.”

“I’ve been done,” Orm said, honest and small and happy-scared.

 

While Orm was surviving friends with no boundaries, Ling Ling was fending off Prem with wine and logic.

They were in Ling Ling’s office that evening, city lights glittering against the glass.

A jazz playlist played low; papers were stacked in perfect lines because Ling Ling was who she was.

Prem poured them both a small glass and crossed one ankle over the other.

“So… are you two finally—”

“No,” Ling Ling said, calm.

Prem paused mid-sip. “No?”

“No.” Ling Ling’s mouth tilted at Prem’s expression. “Surprised?”

“A little,” Prem admitted. “Old you was very… efficient.”

“Efficient,” Ling Ling repeated, amused and mildly haunted. “That was the problem.”

Prem’s teasing softened into real listening.

“Talk to me.”

Ling Ling turned the glass slowly in her fingers, watching the reflection of the skyline ripple.

“Orm is careful with everything. Her time. Her feelings. Her trust. She gives all of it like gifts. I don’t want to take what she hasn’t decided to give.”

Prem’s eyes warmed. “You’ve never said it like that.”

“I’ve never felt it like this,” Ling Ling said simply. “I’m not trying to win. I’m trying to… deserve. If she needs a year, I’ll wait a year. If she needs more, I’ll wait more.” A small smile. “It’s not a burden. It’s her.”

Prem leaned back, satisfied in that best-friend way.

“I love her for what she makes you say.”

“I love what she makes me be,” Ling Ling said, so quiet it almost wasn’t words.

Prem’s grin went feral. “I’m telling Jane you said ‘love’ first.”

“You will not,” Ling Ling said, but her ears went a little pink, and Prem nearly wheezed with joy.

“Practical question,” Prem said, composing herself. “Have you asked about her past? Lovers, experience baseline stuff. Not to pry just to know what she knows.”

“No,” Ling Ling answered. “I didn’t want it to feel like a test.”

“It’s not,” Prem said gently. “It’s safety. If she hasn’t… you’ll go slower. Teach with care. Words help.”

Ling Ling nodded, filing it away the way she filed numbers and promises.

“I’ll ask when it won’t make her want to hide under Boba.”

“She really might,” Prem conceded, laughing. “But Ling?”

“Hm?”

“Proud of you,” Prem said simply. “Old you would’ve turned this into a schedule. This you is building a home.”

Ling Ling looked out at the lights, and for once, all that glass felt like windows, not walls.

 

Orm expected to find the kitchen when she got home.

She did not expect to find Ling Ling in it, sleeves rolled, chopping garlic with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of a prayer.

“It smells amazing,” Orm said, dropping her bag.

“I wanted you to come home to warm things,” Ling Ling said, not looking up because she would stare instead of cook. “How was Jane?”

“Loud. Illegal. Helpful. I hate her,” Orm said fondly.

Ling Ling smiled to herself.

“I knew she’d try to terrify you into sin.”

“HEAR NO EVIL,” Orm said, clapping her hands over her ears.

Ling Ling laughed, then set down the knife and washed her hands.

She turned, leaning her hip against the counter, studying Orm openly, that soft look that felt like a current under the skin.

“Did you have fun?”

“Mm.” Orm nodded, cheeks already hot because every word Jane and Gina had said was flashing like neon in her brain.

She took a breath that felt bigger than her body. “Ling?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask… something embarrassing?”

The CEO in Ling Ling flickered off like a light, replaced by something only Orm knew.

“Always.”

Orm fiddled with her sleeve.

“Have you ever… wanted to ask me about… you know. My past.”

The last word was a whisper.

Ling Ling’s eyes gentled.

She stepped closer and tucked a piece of hair behind Orm’s ear.

“I wanted to. I didn’t want to make you feel tested.”

“It wouldn’t,” Orm said quickly. “I just… I’ve never…” The sentence tried to hide.

Orm forced it out, cheeks blazing. “I’ve never done more than… kissing. With anyone.”

Something in Ling Ling’s face changed.

Not shock, not pride, just care, deep and immediate.

She took Orm’s hands, careful like holding a glass that chose her. “Thank you for telling me.”

Orm nodded, looking at their fingers because looking at Ling Ling felt like staring at the sun.

“Is that… okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Ling Ling said, like the answer had always been waiting. “Now I know how to meet you, not my assumptions. And now I can say this clearly, I will wait as long as you need. I don’t want your yes because you’re scared I’ll leave. I want your yes when your whole body is happy to give it.”

Orm’s eyes stung.

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Ling Ling said honestly, then softened it with a smile. “But you’re worth difficult things.”

Orm made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.

Ling Ling’s thumb brushed the back of her hand in slow circles until breathing didn’t feel like jumping.

From the floor, Boba meowed, offended at being left out of the emotional scene.

Ling Ling sighed and picked him up like a prince. “You’re interrupting.”

He blinked.

Unapologetic.

Orm leaned against the counter, cheeks still warm, head a little light.

“Jane… tried to give me lessons.”

“I will have a word with her,” Ling Ling said flatly, then ruined the threat by kissing Boba’s head.

“It was mostly chaos,” Orm admitted. “Gina tried too.”

“I will have a word with her after Jane.”

Orm laughed, then swallowed.

“Do you… want me to try? Not… that. Yet. I mean. To say what I like. Or ask what you like.”

Ling Ling set Boba down, and the little traitor trotted off satisfied.

She stepped into Orm’s space without taking over it.

“I want you to try the thing that scares you less.”

“What if both options are terrifying?”

“Then we downgrade,” Ling Ling said simply, eyes soft. “We cook. We sit in the dark and listen to rain. We hold hands until your heartbeat stops sounding like a drumline.”

Orm nodded, breath shaky.

“Okay.”

“Also,” Ling Ling added lightly, the smallest spark of trouble in her gaze, “next time you wear that sundress, you’ll wear it for me first.”

Orm’s brain performed a system error and restarted.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Ling Ling said, turning the stove back on like she hadn’t just detonated a small bomb between them. “I’m learning to share, but I’m also keeping my priorities.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s effective,” Ling Ling said, hiding a smile.

They ate at the island with their knees touching, talking about small things because big things were already in the room and didn’t need names.

After, they washed dishes in a quiet rhythm that felt like music.

Orm dried the last plate and caught Ling Ling looking at her, really looking, like she was memorizing.

“What?” Orm asked, heart doing the drumline.

Ling Ling shook her head.

“Nothing. Everything.” A tiny pause. “Come here.”

Orm stepped closer.

Ling Ling lifted a hand and rested it against Orm’s cheek, thumb grazing that soft spot just under her lip.

The touch was barely there.

It might as well have been thunder.

“If you ever want me to stop,” Ling Ling said, so low it felt like a secret, “you say it once. I’ll stop. Always.”

Orm nodded, eyelashes fluttering. “

I know.”

“Good.” Ling Ling leaned in and kissed her.

Not deep. Not leading.

Just… there.

Warm. Present.

The kind of kiss that said home without a single word.

Orm swayed into it like she’d been waiting all day and maybe her whole life.

When they broke, Orm’s breath hitched.

“Ling?”

“Hm?”

“I want to be brave,” Orm whispered. “I’m just… new.”

“I know,” Ling Ling said. “Brave looks like this, too.”

She kissed Orm’s forehead, then the tip of her nose, then the corner of her mouth, slow as prayer, leaving space for yes, yes, yes. Orm’s hands found the edges of Ling Ling’s shirt and held on.

From the living room, the TV lit up with Boba stepping on the remote, blasting a commercial at a ridiculous volume.

They jumped apart and burst into laughter so hard Orm had to lean into Ling Ling’s shoulder just to breathe.

“Menace,” Ling Ling said, wiping a tear and glaring at the cat who did not care.

Orm tucked her face against Ling Ling’s neck and inhaled.

Cedar. Soap.

Something that smelled like every safe thing she’d ever known.

“He’s not the only one.”

“Don’t test me,” Ling Ling murmured, but her smile was helpless.

They turned the TV off, turned the lamps low, and migrated to bed with Boba guarding the foot like a tiny dragon.

In the dark, Ling Ling’s fingers found Orm’s under the blanket and laced them together.

“Orm?” she said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for today. And for tomorrow. And for… this pace.”

Orm squeezed. “Thank you for waiting.”

Silence settled, the warm kind that fills the whole room and tucks itself under your ribs.

Ling Ling kissed the back of Orm’s hand, a barely-there brush that still made every nerve wake up.

“Goodnight, trouble,” she whispered.

Orm smiled into the pillow. “Goodnight, mine.”

Neither of them said the other words.

They didn’t need to.

Not yet.

The promise was already humming between them, steady, patient, sure as the city breathed outside and the cat purred like a metronome at their feet.

Notes:

Hope no one’s actually taking Jane’s advice seriously, okay? Girl’s a menace through and through. 😂
Anyway, I really hope this chapter hit the way I meant it to.
Sometimes in a relationship, it’s never just about doing it. Every little thing matters, every choice, every silence, even the stupid little moments that make it real.
You get me, right? (If not, blame Jane again. She probably distracted you.)
We’re getting close to the end now, and yeah… it’s breaking my heart too.
But hey, if we’re gonna part ways, let’s make it loud, messy, and unforgettable just like them.
See you all in the next chapter 💋🔥

Chapter 24: Accidentally Miracle

The first thing Orm heard that morning was the soft click of a suitcase latch closing.

Not the alarm.

Not Boba’s meow.

Just that precise, deliberate click, the sound of Ling Ling being ten steps ahead of everyone else.

Orm blinked her eyes open, squinting at the tall figure standing near the window, sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains and catching on the pale silk of Ling Ling’s shirt.

She looked unfairly put together for 7 a.m, collar crisp, sleeves rolled, hair pinned just so.

“Are we moving again? Or are you planning another corporate coup?” Orm croaked, voice still thick with sleep.

Ling Ling didn’t look up.

“Neither. We’re going away for three days.”

“Going away? I have work tomorrow, Ling Ling! You can’t just—”

“I already called your boss.”

Orm sat up, scandalized.

“You did what?”

Ling Ling crossed the room, placing a cup of coffee beside her wife like it was a peace offering.

“You’re on leave. Three days, two nights. Non-negotiable.”

Orm stared.

“You called my boss?”

Ling Ling tilted her head, unbothered.

“He said congratulations and told me to keep you off email.”

Boba, sensing tension, meowed dramatically from his bed.

Orm pointed. “Even Boba thinks this is kidnapping!”

Ling Ling’s lips curved, the kind of smile that promised she wasn’t sorry at all.

“Good. He can file the report after he gets more treats.”

By the time they hit the highway, Orm was still grumbling… but only half-heartedly.

She couldn’t ignore how the car smelled faintly of jasmine and how her favorite playlist hummed softly through the speakers.

She folded her arms.

“How did you even find my playlist?”

Ling Ling’s eyes stayed on the road.

“You hum every song. I made an educated guess.”

Orm side-eyed her.

“You’re dangerous.”

Ling Ling smirked.

“You married me.”

That shut her up for a while.

Twenty minutes later, Orm was singing off-key, tapping the dashboard, her laughter filling the space.

Every now and then, Ling Ling would glance sideways, her lips twitching upward in a quiet, unguarded smile.

 

The resort wasn’t just pretty—it was straight out of a dream.

White stone walls kissed by sea wind, the faint perfume of plumeria drifting through the air.

The staff greeted them with flower bracelets and beaming faces.

“Welcome, Mrs. Kwong and Mrs. Kwong!”

Orm froze mid-smile.

Ling Ling, of course, didn’t flinch.

“You’ll get used to it,” she murmured as they walked to their suite.

The room opened onto a panoramic view of the ocean.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

A desk already set with Orm’s favorite sketchbooks and pencils.

Orm blinked.

“You did this?”

Ling Ling shrugged, her tone casual but her eyes soft.

“You draw when you’re happy. I wanted to make sure you had space for that.”

Orm bit her lip, trying to hide the way her heart thudded.

“You really think of everything, huh?”

Ling Ling’s lips quirked.

“I’m a planner.”

“You’re an overachiever.”

“Same thing.”

Orm grinned, muttering

“Same headache.”

Ling Ling rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the tiny laugh that escaped her.

 

The next morning, Orm decided to surprise her by making breakfast.

It lasted seven minutes before the smoke detector went off.

“Do not touch that pan again,” Ling Ling ordered, sweeping in with a spatula like a commander diffusing chaos.

“I was just trying to flip it!” Orm protested.

“You flipped it onto the counter, Orm.”

Orm blinked at the pancake corpse. “It has personality.”

Ling Ling pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Orm grinned.

“So you do think I’m cute.”

“I think you’re a hazard,” Ling Ling said flatly.

Still, she ate the entire lopsided pancake.

And smiled.

They spent the day wandering the beach, barefoot and laughing.

Orm kept picking up seashells, declaring each one a masterpiece.

“This one looks like you,” she said, holding up a white one.

“Sharp edges?” Ling Ling deadpanned.

“Expensive taste,” Orm teased.

Ling Ling actually laughed, a rare, warm sound that wrapped around Orm’s ribs like sunlight.

By sunset, their hands brushed once, twice.

The third time, Ling Ling didn’t let go.

 

The second morning brought surprises.

Orm woke to the scent of coffee and found Ling Ling sitting at the small table, hair loose, sunlight turning her into something unreal.

She was half in work mode laptop open, expression focused but softer than the CEO everyone feared.

“You really can’t last three days without working, huh?” Orm teased.

Ling Ling shut the laptop.

“I can. I just don’t want to.”

Then she handed Orm a velvet box.

Orm blinked.

“If this is jewelry, I swear—”

“It’s not jewelry.”

She opened it and gasped.

“A car key?”

Ling Ling nodded.

“Yours. You keep forgetting umbrellas and calling for rides. Consider this an investment in your safety.”

“That’s not a reason to buy a car!”

“I like you dry,” Ling Ling said simply.

Orm flushed crimson. “You can’t just say that!”

“Why not? We’re married.”

Before Orm could combust, Ling Ling slid a folder across the table.

Legal documents, her company’s asset shares.

Both their names printed neatly side by side.

“Ling Ling, this is… these are your company’s assets.”

“Ours,” Ling Ling corrected gently. “You’re on the list now. I told you I’d try. This is me trying. Not because I have to—but because I want to.”

For a moment, Orm couldn’t speak.

Her heart twisted painfully, full and fragile all at once.

Finally, she whispered,

“You know what my gift is going to look like next to this? A disaster.”

Ling Ling smiled. “Good. It’ll match our pancakes.”

 

That night, Ling Ling led her to a candlelit dinner under the stars.

Petals lined the table, waves murmured nearby, and candles flickered in the breeze.

The scene looked like it had been painted for them.

Orm’s voice wobbled.

“You planned all this?”

“I wanted to see you happy,” Ling Ling said, fingers brushing hers.

“You could’ve just handed me ice cream,” Orm whispered.

Ling Ling smiled. “I prefer this view.”

They lingered there, words soft, the kind that only existed between people who had seen each other through too much.

And then, Ling Ling reached into her pocket again.

Another small box.

Inside were their wedding rings, freshly polished.

“When I married you,” Ling Ling said quietly, “I was trying to survive. I didn’t think it would become… this.”

Orm swallowed.

“And now?” Orm’s voice was a thread.

“Now I want forever.” Ling held her gaze. “With you.”

Orm let out a laugh that was also a sob.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But kiss me first or I’ll pass out on principle.”

Ling smiled, that slow, deliberate one that lived in her eyes and leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first.

A question.

Then an answer.

It wasn’t a movie thunderclap, it was steady rain on warm ground.

Orm’s hands moved on instinct, one to Ling’s shoulder, one up the fine line of her neck and Ling shivered like a person remembering summer.

“Slow?” Ling asked against her mouth.

“Please,” Orm said. “I want to know every step.”

 

They took their time.

Back in the room, the curtains breathed with the sea.

Candles pooled soft light.

Orm’s nerves arrived like uninvited birds, Ling’s patience met them at the door.

“You don’t have to rush,” Ling murmured, thumbs steady on Orm’s wrists.

“I’m not scared,” Orm said honestly. “Just… new.”

“New is allowed,” Ling said. “New is good.”

They laughed at small fumbles, a cuff link that refused reason, a hairpin with the tenacity of a villain.

Orm’s hands trembled.

Ling steadied them by pressing her own palm over Orm’s, guiding, not leading.

She mapped kindness along a jawline, devotion along a collarbone, reverence where words would have been clumsy.

Every touch asked.

Every response answered.

“Tell me what you like,” Ling breathed.

“You,” Orm said, helpless and sure. “I like you.”

“Specific,” Ling teased, pleased.

“Okay.” Orm took a breath that reorganized the room. “I like when you look at me like I’m… not breakable.”

“You’re not,” Ling said, tender and firm. “You’re precious. That’s different.”

Orm’s laugh slid into a sigh.

“You and your definitions.”

“You and your chaos.”

“My chaos picked you,” Orm whispered, and Ling’s eyes flickered like a candle found more air.

When Orm pulled Ling close, it wasn’t a rush, it was a decision.

She memorized the shape of Ling’s shoulder, the way her breath stuttered when Orm’s lips found the place just beneath her ear, the way her hands.

Those calm, capable hands trembled when Orm traced the inside of her wrist.

“Is this okay?” Orm asked, and Ling’s yes arrived like a tide.

They found a rhythm that felt like learning a language you’ve always half-spoken.

The world shrank to breath and warmth and the slipstream of here, with you.

Ling laughed once, low, wrecked when Orm’s hair tickled her nose, and Orm laughed too, because that’s what their love had always been, joy threaded through awe.

“Orm,” Ling said, and Orm had never known her name could be prayed like that. “Are you—”

“I’m ready,” Orm said, and the words didn’t shake.

After that, time got soft around the edges.

It was all sensation and sense, the ordinary magic of being seen and chosen at the same time.

No fireworks, just sunrise.

The kind that keeps coming because the world knows how.

When it was over, they didn’t let go.

Foreheads touched.

Breathing matched.

The room smelled like salt and candles and the new shape of the future.

“You’re staring,” Ling whispered, eyes half-closed.

“Making sure you’re real.”

“Unfortunately for you,” Ling murmured, smiling into the kiss Orm pressed to her jaw, “I am.”

“Fortunately for me,” Orm corrected, giddy and wrecked, and tucked herself into the curve of Ling’s body like it had been carved for her.

 

Morning poured itself over them in gold.

Orm woke to a familiar weight around her waist and a ring glinting on Ling’s finger like a quiet yes.

She touched it without thinking.

Ling’s lashes fluttered.

“Good morning, Mrs. Kwong,” Ling said, voice sleep, rough a secret only Orm got to hear.

“Good morning, the other Mrs. Kwong,” Orm said, grinning.

They lay there a while, exchanging nothing sentences that meant everything.

“You really went all out,” Orm said, eventually, tracing a circle on Ling’s shoulder. “Like… world-class out.”

“You deserve everything,” Ling said, like it was weather. “I’m catching up.”

“Then I’ll accept the car,” Orm said solemnly. “As a humanitarian effort.”

“Of course you will.”

“Also the asset shares.”

“Mmm.”

“And the breakfast I’m going to pretend to cook.”

“No.”

“Worth a try,” Orm sighed.

 

They packed slowly, bumping hips and kissing in the middle of tasks like they’d forgotten how not to.

On the drive home, Orm leaned into Ling’s shoulder at a long light.

“I know you said this was a trip for us,” she said, “but it felt like you… gave me the world.”

Ling glanced down, then back at the road.

“Then you understand what you are to me.”

Orm swallowed.

“Dangerous.”

“And you still married me,” Ling said, smug and sweet.

When they walked into the penthouse, Boba greeted them by knocking over a vase with an air of behold my displeasure.

Water everywhere.

Orm shrieked.

Ling sighed.

It was home.

“You menaaace,” Orm told the cat, chasing him with a towel.

Ling watched Orm’s hair wild, cheeks pink, laughing between scolds and felt the kind of settled joy that should have its own word.

She reached out, caught Orm’s wrist as she ran past, tugged her in.

“Orm.”

“Hm?” Orm was breathless, bright.

Ling kissed her forehead.

“Happy anniversary.”

Orm’s smile was a sun.

“Happy accident.”

Ling’s laugh was low and certain.

“My favorite one.”

Boba yawned like he’d heard it all before and demanded dinner.

They fed him.

They fed themselves.

They fed the day with ordinary things, unpacking, laundry, the new car key added to the hook by the door, the legal folder placed in the drawer where promises lived now.

Before bed, Orm paused by the balcony.

Bangkok glittered like it was in on the secret.

“Hey,” she said, without looking back. “Next week… do we still… you know. Vows?”

Ling came up beside her and laced their fingers.

“Yes.”

“Not because we have to.”

“Because we get to.”

Orm leaned her head on Ling’s shoulder.

“Good. I want to tell the world what I already keep telling myself.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’m yours,” Orm said simply. “On purpose.”

Ling squeezed, a private answer.

“And I’m yours always. On purpose.”

The city hummed.

The curtains breathed.

In the bedroom, the rings waited in a small dish like moons.

When they finally turned off the lights, the room went dark around them and their future stayed lit, not bright like fireworks, but steady like a lighthouse: ordinary, stubborn, sure.

And if they fell asleep smiling, well, some miracles don’t need witnesses.

They just need to be lived.

Notes:

Hey everyone ♡

I hope you liked this chapter.
It’s been a lot lately—for me and maybe for you too, but writing this helped me heal a bit, and I hope it brings you a little comfort too.
Wherever you are, I hope life’s treating you kindly.
Be gentle, stay kind, and if there’s nothing good to say, silence can still be peace. The world’s harsh enough already.
This story’s nearing its end, and that feels bittersweet. I just hope I’ve managed to bring you a few happy pills along the way.
Thank you for reading, for the comments, the kudos, and just being here.
You’re the reason this little world feels alive

Take care of yourselves, okay? ♡

Chapter 25: The Last Chapter of Miracle

The car was waiting in the garage like a secret keeping its breath.

Orm didn’t see it at first—she saw the bow.

Ridiculous.

Red.

Big enough to smother her.

Then she saw the shape beneath: smooth, compact, the exact color of a soft dawn sky.

Her name—her name—etched on a tiny plate dangling from the key.

She stopped on the concrete and blinked hard.

“Ling,” she whispered, “you didn’t.”

Ling Ling stood beside her in plain slacks and a white blouse like this was any other Tuesday surprise.

“I did.”

“It’s too much.”

“I’ve already argued with you in my head about this,” Ling said mildly. “I won.”

Orm’s laugh broke into something watery.

She turned, threw her arms around Ling Ling’s neck, and kissed her cheek like she couldn’t help it.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s what you get for marrying me,” Ling said, but her hands were soft at Orm’s waist, as if the ground might tilt.

They drove around the block like teenagers’ windows down, Orm’s hair a mess, the playlist she loved humming through the speakers.

At red lights, Orm kept looking sideways like she needed to check if Ling Ling was actually here, actually smiling, actually this gentle on a normal day.

“Do you like it?” Ling asked at the third light, finally nervous.

“Are you serious?” Orm said, overwhelmed and bright. “I love it. I love you. I love—oh my God, is that a built-in umbrella slot?”

Ling nodded.

“So, you stop pretending rain is a personality trait.”

Orm cackled. “Shut up.”

“Never,” Ling said, and kissed her knuckles at the next stop like a reflex.

They made it only a little further before Orm pulled into the penthouse garage again, cut the engine, and turned in her seat to look at Ling Ling properly.

“Okay,” she said, breathless. “I’m done being cool. I’m screaming internally.”

“Externally is allowed,” Ling said, deadpan.

Orm screamed into her hands.

Boba meowed somewhere in the back of her mind, probably judging her from the couch five floors up.

She reached for Ling again quick, fierce, grateful and Ling held her as if a bow didn’t belong on a car but on this exact moment.

“Home?” Ling asked.

“Home,” Orm said, and meant the penthouse and also the person.

 

They kept the day simple because the evening would not be.

Ling Ling moved through the rooms with the quiet focus that used to belong to her boardrooms checking a list twice, answering discreet texts, setting a slim box on the console and then relocating it three times like she didn’t trust any surface to be worthy.

Prem called once to confirm timing.

“Everything’s ready. I bribed the florist. Jane is banned from glitter.”

In the background, Jane yelled

“I AM THE GLITTER.”

Ling Ling pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell her if she sparkles anything I will disown her.”

“You love me!” Jane shouted.

“I love you conditionally,” Ling replied, and hung up to keep her sanity intact.

In the bedroom, Orm stood before the mirror wearing a pale slip dress that made her look like the soft part of morning.

She twisted, checked the back, then the front, then the back again, then inhaled like her ribs needed explanation.

“Do I look okay?”

Ling leaned in the doorframe and, for a second, forgot how talking worked.

“You look like yes.”

“That’s not a sentence,” Orm said, cheeks pink.

“It’s a decision,” Ling murmured.

Orm stared at her, hair slicked elegantly, cuff links discreet, the smallest smile betraying that the unflappable CEO was a little bit flapped.

“Are you nervous?”

Ling considered lying and didn’t.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because last time I dragged a stranger out of a bathroom,” Ling said, and both of them snorted at the same time.

Orm crossed the room and fit herself into the space under Ling’s chin that had been waiting for her all year.

“We’re not strangers anymore.”

“No,” Ling said into Orm’s hair. “We’re the opposite.”

They stood there until the clock gently insisted.

Ling retrieved the slim box from the console and slipped it into her pocket.

Orm grabbed a little envelope from her nightstand.

Boba tried to wedge himself into Orm’s tote bag, failed, and sulked under the dining table like a furry storm cloud.

“I’ll facetime you,” Orm promised the cat.

He blinked.

Unimpressed.

 

The garden was waiting.

They didn’t go to a hotel, or a hall, or anywhere that smelled like someone else’s story.

They went to Mae Koy’s Thonglor house, because the world felt right there.

Wind chimes, potted ferns, fairy lights strung across the yard like gentle constellations.

The low hum of neighbors’ lives nearby.

The kind of air that tasted like every childhood evening.

Mae Koy opened the gate with a clap of joy that could have powered the block.

“There you are! My children!”

Ling bowed, Orm got crushed.

“Mae—air,” Orm wheezed, laughing into the hug anyway.

Ling Ling’s parents were already in the garden, elegance and warmth in easy balance.

Her mother took Orm’s hands and squeezed them, a silent we’re so happy it’s you.

Her father patted Ling’s shoulder and said

“Breathe,” like he’d been telling her that since she was five.

Prem waited near the lanterns, clipboard in hand, the benevolent tyrant of logistics.

Jane hovered at her side, an excitable star in a dress that did, in fact, have a dangerous relationship with glitter.

Gina waved from the patio like the sister the universe forgot to build into Orm’s family tree.

“Everybody’s here,” Orm whispered, half-teary, half-terrified. “Even Boba’s here in spirit.”

“I hid the breakables,” Mae Koy said. “I am not losing my good plates to that prince.”

The musicians started something soft.

Candles flickered in glass jars on the ground.

Flowers touched everything without trying too hard, white lilies, blush roses, a little lavender tucked into vases the way Ling prefers her comforts: quiet, specific, for the person in front of her.

Prem lifted her chin.

“Ready?”

Ling Ling looked at Orm.

Orm looked back.

The whole year looked with them Paris nights and burnt pancakes and workday coffee runs, torn contracts and repaired hearts, the day they brought Boba home and the morning Orm first said I miss you without panicking at her own mouth.

“Ready,” they said at the same time.

Prem grinned and did the officiating honors in that best-friend way less formal, truer.

“We’re here because two people did something insane and then decided to make it the smartest thing they ever did. Short, sweet, honest—like the good mangoes.” She cleared her throat, pointed her pen. “Vows. Go.”

Ling nodded, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a folded card.

Then she looked at Orm and instantly decided she didn’t need it.

“Last year,” she began, voice steady but soft, “I dragged you out of a bathroom because I didn’t know how to say help. I chose you because I was drowning, and you were the only solid thing in a day that fell apart. I thought I was saving face. You turned it into saving me.”

She swallowed, blinked once, went on.

“I told you I would try, but I gave that promise a deadline. You tore the deadline out of me. You taught me ordinary joy ugly pancakes, loud playlists, rain I didn’t schedule. You taught me gentleness that isn’t weakness. You taught me that home is not a place I buy, but a person who looks at me like I’m just… enough.”

She smiled, helpless and certain. “So, I promise this time without a clock on it, I’ll stay. I’ll listen. I’ll say sorry without a board meeting. I will not fix you with money when what you want is my time. I will make coffee badly and try again. I will be jealous as long as it makes you laugh, and I will be brave when it matters. I will be your favorite yes.”

The garden did a very quiet, collective sniff.

Orm pressed her fingers to her lips, because tears had arrived and decided to pay rent.

She took a breath, and words found her.

“I never planned for any of this,” she said. “Not the church. Not the dress I didn’t own. Not the way your hand felt like a rope when you pulled me out of that bathroom and into your life.”

She laughed at herself, a small, broken sound that wasn’t sad. “I was scared of the size of you, your world, your rules, your calm. I thought I was a joke beside it. You made space for me. In your home. In your hours. In… you.”

She glanced at Mae Koy, who was already crying, and at Ling’s parents, whose faces were the kind of gentle pride that makes a person want to deserve it forever.

“You learned my coffee order. You remembered my bad knee. You never once made me feel like a favor. You tried, and tried, and then tried again, and somewhere after the pancakes and the Paris, I looked up and realized I was already in love with you so deep I couldn’t see the surface anymore.”

She smiled through tears. “So I promise, here in front of everybody who will bully us if we forget I’ll be your chaos. I’ll be your quiet. I’ll paint our walls the wrong color and fix them the next day. I’ll ask for help. I’ll keep my sundresses for you first. I’ll dance with you in kitchens and at weddings and in parking lots when there’s no music. I’ll be brave about the hard parts, and greedy about the good parts. I’ll choose you, even when choosing is work. I’ll stay.”

Gina made an audible “oh my god,” and Prem handed Jane a tissue before she weaponized her own sparkle.

Jane took it and cried like a child in a cartoon.

“Rings?” Prem said, voice slightly choked.

Ling produced the slim box.

Inside, their wedding bands shone polished, familiar, new anyway.

“May I?” Ling asked.

Orm held out her hand. “Always.”

The ring slid home like it had just been waiting at the door this whole time.

Orm did the same, fingers trembling only a little, and Ling’s breath caught the way it used to catch for numbers and strategies except this was softer and harder all at once.

Prem cleared her throat.

“By the power vested in me as your long-suffering project manager and best friend, I pronounce you even more married than before. Please kiss like my HR anxiety can handle it.”

They did.

Sweet, brief, sure.

Enough to make the garden lights look like they winked.

Mae Koy whooped.

Ling’s father clapped like a gentleman at the ballet.

Ling’s mother hugged Orm like a daughter.

Jane attempted to lift Prem in celebration and nearly fell into a fern.

Boba meowed on Facetime from the kitchen counter where he was not allowed to be, looking personally offended to have missed food.

They cut a small cake.

They ate under the fairy lights.

Prem gave a toast that started as a roast and ended as a blessing.

Jane gave a toast that started as a scandal and ended as Prem taking away her microphone.

Ling’s parents told the story of Ling at six years old, correcting her teacher politely and being right.

Mae Koy told the story of Orm microwaving her wet shoes and being wrong but determined.

Somewhere in the gentle noise, Ling leaned close and whispered

“Dance with me?”

Orm glanced around at her family hers, truly and nodded.

They stepped into the small square of lantern-light like it was the place they’d always been walking toward.

The guitarists shifted to something slower.

Ling’s hand found Orm’s back; Orm’s hand found Ling’s shoulder; the world adjusted its volume.

“You’re not stepping on my toes,” Ling observed.

“I’ve been training in the kitchen,” Orm said gravely.

“Ah yes, the famous Tile Tango.”

Orm giggled, then grew quiet.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For everything that looks like love.”

Ling was silent a second. “It is.”

They swayed until the song finished.

They swayed after, because songs are not always good at ending when a moment isn’t.

When it was finally time to leave, there were so many hugs the gate practically wept.

Mae Koy pressed leftovers into Orm’s hands.

Ling’s mother pressed a kiss to Orm’s hair and whispered “Take care of each other,” like a secret that had always been obvious.

Ling’s father held his daughter a fraction longer, a whole speech in the way he patted her back.

“Group photo!” Jane announced, and somehow orchestrated all of them into a picture that would later catch Ling’s smile mid-soft and Orm’s laugh mid-bright and Boba mid-yawn on the phone screen in Gina’s hand.

 

They drove home in contentment so deep it felt like a blanket.

The city glittered like it wanted to celebrate with them.

In the garage, Orm ran her hand along the curve of her car because touching it was still proof.

In the elevator, Ling rested her forehead against Orm’s temple, quiet with the kind of peace that makes rest find you.

Inside the penthouse, Boba greeted them by knocking a magazine to the floor and demanding tribute.

Orm scooped him up; Ling kissed his disapproving head, then kissed Orm’s shoulder because it was there and she could.

They left the door open to the balcony and let the night air in.

Orm set the cake box in the fridge, tucked the folded vow cards into the bowl where they kept keys and tiny seashells, and turned back to find Ling standing in the middle of the living room, still in her white blouse, barefoot now, eyes a little watery because sometimes even the composed need to overflow.

“What?” Orm asked, soft.

Ling shook her head as if the most honest answer was too big.

“I had an exit plan for everything,” she said quietly. “Until you.”

Orm went to her without thinking, because her body had learned the route.

“That’s good,” she said, smile crooked. “I’m terrible at exits.”

Ling laughed, breathed, let her hands settle at Orm’s waist like placing flowers in the right vase.

“Stay,” she said, though it wasn’t a question.

“Always,” Orm said, though it wasn’t an answer. It was a fact.

They danced one more time in their own living room without music.

Boba watched and pretended to be bored.

The city hummed under the windows.

The vow sat on their fingers warm from skin.

Later, in bed, the quiet felt like they had earned it.

Orm traced the ring on Ling’s hand with absent circles, as if to teach her fingers the story engraved there even though there were no words, just the shine of something that survived.

“Hey,” Orm whispered into the dark. “Do you think accidents can be miracles?”

“Yes,” Ling said, immediate. “Mine was.”

Orm’s throat went tight. “Me?”

“You,” Ling confirmed, then ruined them both by adding, almost shy “My favorite one.”

Orm laughed into a sob and kissed her, a soft, grateful thing.

When they slept, it was the kind of sleep that belongs to people who built the day themselves and liked where it landed.

In the morning, Boba woke them by head-butting Ling’s shoulder.

They groaned and laughed and made coffee and burned toast a little and sent a photo of the cake to Mae Koy with too many heart emojis.

The vows stayed on the bowl by the door.

The car key lived on the hook next to Orm’s cap.

The suit hung neatly. The dress draped over a chair.

The life, somehow, fit them.

No fireworks. No grand finale.

Just two women who had accidentally collided with their future and decided to keep it, on purpose.

And that, truly, was the miracle.

Notes:

And just like that… it ends, with another vow. 🥺💍
This is the last chapter of our story, but don’t be too sad, okay?
There’s still one final Special Chapter waiting, a quiet little goodbye before I close their story for good.
It’s bittersweet, really. Every story has to end, even when our hearts wish it could go on forever.
Thank you for being here for every kudos, every comment, every bit of love you’ve shared.
You made this journey shine brighter than I ever imagined.
I hope this story gave you a smile, a soft escape, maybe even a tiny “happy pill” on the tough days.
So until the Special Chapter, stay happy, stay kind, and take care of yourself, okay? 💌

Chapter 26: Special Chapter — The After Years

Notes:

Hi everyone! How are you all doing? 💕
As promised, here’s a special chapter just for you
For those who’ve been endlessly supporting this story from start to finish.
I hope this one helps ease that little ache of missing them. 💌

 

Morning in the penthouse used to mean coffee, emails, and a cat practicing parkour at 6 a.m.

Now it meant a toddler in a cream dress pirouetting in socks while a very large cat tried to pretend none of this involved him.

“Lyn, sweetheart,” Orm said, chasing with a hairbrush “stand still for ten seconds so Mama can make you look like a human and not… a dandelion.”

“I am a dande-wion,” Lyn declared, cheeks pink, bow crooked, tiny chin lifted like she’d learned confidence from a boardroom somewhere. “And Boba is a tigeh.”

Boba, fifteen pounds of retired menace, occupied the sunniest chair like a furry ottoman.

He blinked at his small human with ancient resignation.

“See? He’s resting before the hunt,” Orm muttered, scooping her daughter and plopping Lyn on her lap.

She started the impossible mission of detangling curls. “Hunt for snacks.”

From the kitchen island, Ling Ling watched over a mug of tea, eyebrows amused, tie already neat.

“We have fifteen minutes before we leave.”

“You mean five,” Orm said. “We lost ten to ‘Where is my sock’ and ‘Why does the earth spin’ and ‘Can Boba come to school.’”

“Can Boba come to school?” Lyn asked, just in case time had changed the policy.

“No,” both mothers said together, sounding unfair and practiced.

Lyn sighed, devastating. “Boba will be wonewy.”

Boba yawned without sympathy.

Ling slid off the stool, crossed the room, and kneeled so they were eye level.

“He’ll nap, then supervise the plants, then nap again. He has a full schedule.”

“Like Mommy,” Lyn decided, poking Ling’s tie. “Are you coming to my aht show?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Ling said, kissing her forehead.

“Pinkie pwomise,” Lyn demanded, holding up the tiniest solemn finger.

Ling hooked it gently.

“Promise.”

Lyn was satisfied.

Boba wasn’t.

He struggled off his throne and waddled over, rubbing his head against Lyn’s knee.

Orm’s heart squeezed.

The big boy’s world had shrunk to three things, sun-patches, snacks, and the small human he shadowed like a bodyguard with whiskers.

“Okay,” Orm announced, popping up and clapping once. “Shoes, drawing tube, emergency tissues for Mama—”

“For Lyn,” Ling corrected.

“For Mama,” Orm repeated, glaring at her own feelings. “Let’s move.”

 

At the elevator, Lyn jabbed the button like it had personally wronged her.

In the car, she sang to herself about butterflies and the injustice of nap time.

Orm drove the “dawn sky” car with the same quiet pride she felt the first day she owned it, she still touched the key like a talisman.

Ling, phone face-down in her lap, studied her two favorite passengers with the contentment of someone who had finally outsmarted time.

At the first red light, Orm looked over.

“You really blocked your calendar?”

“Yes,” Ling said.

“With more than ‘Meeting’?”

Ling lifted an eyebrow. “Two Meetings.”

Orm snorted.

“Prem’s going to kill you.”

“She can try.”

 

Prem tried politely.

When Ling slipped into the office for ten minutes to sign something, Prem intercepted her with a smug little face and a folder like a trap.

“And where are we going, Mrs. ‘Two Meetings’?”

“Field research,” Ling said.

Prem folded her arms. “On finger paints?”

Ling considered her oldest ally.

“On priorities.” She squeezed Prem’s shoulder. “You’ll manage an afternoon without me.”

“I always do,” Prem said, soft beneath the tease. “I remember the version of you who thought leaving at seven was early. Go. Jane and I will bring flowers.”

Ling stared. “No confetti.”

“Oh, we learned,” Prem said. “We learned.”

In the hallway, Jane popped out with the stealth of a neon sign.

“Did someone say flowers? Or glitter? Or illegal amounts of love?”

“No glitter, my dear chaos,” Prem said, hooking an arm through hers.

Jane gasped.

“Then I’ll shine naturally.” She kissed Prem’s cheek and winked at Ling. “We’ll meet you there, Cousin.”

Ling shook her head, helpless.

The world truly refused to be boring now.

 

The kindergarten smelled like crayons and sugar.

Orm, who could design a billboard in a storm, turned into a human earthquake the moment she entered a room full of tiny chairs.

“Where do we sit? Do we sit? Is that… glue on the ceiling?”

“It’s a star,” Ling said.

Lyn dragged them past a construction-paper jungle, a cardboard rocket, and a row of small paintings that were, objectively, very abstract.

 “Here! Here! This one is MINE.” She pointed at a bright sheet of paper that looked like the sun had exploded and then hired an architect.

Four figures, stick-limbed and smiling, stood under a yellow sun.

One was very tall with a square around her neck that, upon investigation, was a tie.

One had long hair and a polka-dot dress. In between them was a small girl with cheeks like planets.

Underneath, a majestic oval suspiciously looking supposedly like a cat with legs.

“Family,” Lyn said solemnly. “Mama, Mommy, me, Boba. We are holding hands because that is weduced risk of losing.”

Orm pressed a fist to her mouth.

Ling stopped pretending to be composed.

“She included risk mitigation,” Ling whispered, horrified with pride.

“She drew Boba as a potato,” Orm whispered back, equally moved.

“Accuwate,” Lyn said, pleased.

 

Parents gathered, teachers flitted, toddlers attempted gravity.

Gina slipped in beside Orm with a grin and a bag of contraband snacks.

“My niece is the Monet of mixed media.”

“You’re not supposed to bring food,” Orm hissed.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not stress-eating this gummy bear,” Gina said.

Orm ate the gummy bear.

Then came the chaos, tiny introductions, enthusiastic clapping, one child sobbing because glue betrayed him, another shouting because her cloud looked like a dinosaur.

Jane and Prem arrived with flowers (confetti safely banned) and filmed everything like it was the Oscars.

Jane cried at a macaroni necklace.

Prem cried because Jane cried.

When it was Lyn’s turn to present, she marched to the front, chin up, confidence inherited on both sides.

“This is my famiwy,” she said into the tiny microphone. “My Mommy builds houses that make people not sad. My Mama draws colohs that make people not sad. I am the boss of Boba.”

The room laughed.

Ling’s hand found Orm’s without looking.

“And Boba is… Boba,” Lyn concluded, profound. “He says ‘mow.’”

After, there were photos, Lyn in the middle, flowers bigger than her head, Ling careful with the bouquet, Orm trying not to cry into the foam-wrapped stems.

The four of them—yes, Boba too, Orm held up his paper likeness smiled at a future that looked curiously like the present, except wider.

On the drive home Lyn fell asleep, mouth open, clutching her. Orm turned the music down and grinned at Ling across the quiet.

“Remember when the wildest thing in our life was a cat attacking a Dior strap?”

“I recall,” Ling said gravely. “He was the villain then.”

“He’s a grandpa now.”

“We all grow,” Ling murmured. “Even villains.”

“Especially villains,” Orm said, kissing the air in Boba’s direction.

 

That night, everyone came over because apparently boundaries were a theory.

Mae Koy arrived first with a pot of soup and enough fruit to open a market.

“My baby Picasso!” she cried, scooping Lyn and ignoring the way Lyn went boneless in a half-asleep toddler protest.

Boba lumbered out to supervise and was immediately scolded.

“Why you so big? You eat my rice? Huh?”

Boba accepted the accusation.

He had no lawyer present.

Ling’s parents followed with a cake and a gentle hush that always soothed the room.

Ling’s mother took Lyn to the couch and listened to a three-year-old recap of the entire morning with the seriousness of diplomacy.

Ling’s father crouched to rub Boba’s head and whispered, “Old friend,” as if they, too, had been through a year.

Prem and Jane blew in like weather, flowers for Lyn, tea for Mae Koy, a bottle of something sparkling for everyone who wasn’t currently avoiding glitter.

Prem kissed Lyn’s forehead.

Jane tried to teach her a high-five and ended up high-fiving the air because Lyn fell asleep mid-lesson.

They ate, told stories, laughed at nothing because nothing together is everything.

At some point the conversation swerved to another kind of chaos, Prem and Jane’s wedding, three years back the glitter apocalypse.

“You tried to rent a tiger,” Prem accused, fond.

“It was a metaphor,” Jane argued.

“It was a felony,” Ling said.

Jane pouted. “Fine. But the confetti cannon was a success.”

Orm lifted an eyebrow. “It went off during the vows.”

“And right into Ling’s father’s tea,” Gina added.

“He drank it,” Jane said, awed.

“He is a gentleman,” Ling’s mother sighed.

Mae Koy laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes with the corner of her apron.

“At least none of you fell in the cake. I would have fainted.”

“You fainted when Boba sneezed,” Orm reminded her.

“That cat sneezes like he owes someone money.”

Boba, insulted, leapt onto the chair beside Lyn and curled like a sun.

Lyn rolled toward him in her sleep until her forehead pressed his side.

He tolerated it like a saint trapped in a tangerine.

The room softened around the image child and cat, chaos and calm, past and future in one small corner of a couch.

Ling noticed Orm notice, and their eyes met with the kind of ache that isn’t pain.

Later, when the dishes were a defeated army and the grandparents had been hugged into leaving with leftovers they insisted were not enough, when Gina had promised to take Lyn next weekend and Prem had extracted Jane from a debate with Boba about bedtime, the penthouse returned to its original size.

Night pressed the windows like a warm palm.

The city hummed.

Their living room felt exactly like it had five years ago and not at all.

Lyn slept on the couch under a light blanket, star sticker peeling at the corners, Boba coiled next to her like he’d finally been paid enough to care.

Orm tucked the blanket higher. Ling adjusted the nightlight so the shadows made sense.

They stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, and let the quiet say things.

“Remember the church?” Orm asked suddenly, a smile in her voice.

Ling huffed.

“I try not to.”

“The bathroom?”

“The bathroom was a turning point,” Ling conceded.

“You looked terrifying,” Orm said.

“You looked… brave,” Ling said.

Orm winced, laughing. “I needed to pee.”

“I needed a life,” Ling said simply, and Orm’s breath caught like it still could be new to hear her say it that clearly.

Orm slipped her fingers into Ling’s.

“You got one.”

“Yes,” Ling said. “Somehow, despite me.”

They watched their daughter twitch in a dream, then settle.

They watched Boba lift his head, check the room, and sigh back into sleep like an old man on a porch.

“I said I’d try,” Ling added after a while, voice low enough not to wake anyone. “I never said I’d stop.”

Orm turned and kissed her like a thank-you that never found a better shape.

Ling kissed back like a woman who once managed survival and now understood happiness was a responsibility too chosen every day, fed, watered, and kept.

“Tomorrow,” Orm whispered against her mouth, “we go to the park. Lyn wants to show you her ‘secret bush.’”

“Concerning,” Ling said.

“It’s a tree,” Orm clarified. “She keeps treasures there.”

“Like what?”

“Rocks,” Orm said gravely. “And one time, someone’s house key.”

Ling blinked. “We are returning that.”

“We did,” Orm assured. “After a lecture about crime.”

Ling nodded.

“Good. We raise ethical raccoons.”

Orm snorted into her shoulder.

They turned off the lamp and left the door to the balcony cracked for night air.

In their room, the rings went in the small dish on the dresser where shells lived and promises rested.

Orm pulled on one of Ling’s shirts because ritual matters.

Ling hung her jacket because ritual matters.

They slid into bed and lay facing each other, close enough to breathe the same sentence.

“Hey,” Orm said, sleepy and sincere. “Do you think we’ll be this happy when she’s a teenager and hates us?”

“Yes,” Ling said. “We’ll embarrass her together. She doesn’t stand a chance.”

Orm smiled against the pillow. “Team.”

“Team,” Ling echoed, pulling her closer.

Out in the living room, Boba lifted his head once more and blinked at the ceiling like he recognized the shape of a blessing. Lyn’s tiny hand found his fur in sleep and stayed.

The city exhaled.

The penthouse settled.

Once upon a bathroom, an accident had dragged two strangers into a life.

Years later, the miracle kept happening every morning loud, messy, ordinary, perfect.

And if tomorrow brought a glitter emergency, a kindergarten meltdown, or a cat who forgot he was retired well, good.

That’s what families are for.

Notes:

Who loves Lyn here? I know I do. 💗
At last, their story takes its final bow🥲
I know it’s short, maybe even a little unsatisfying, but I just wanted to show you a small glimpse of their life almost four years later🥲
This journey has been bittersweet filled with laughter, tears, and moments that will stay with me forever. 🥲🥰
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for every kudos, comment, and message that kept me going. ❣️
You made this story shine brighter than I ever imagined.

Take care of yourself, stay safe, and be happy wherever you are😊
And if you ever miss them, you’ll always find them waiting right here 💌
But don’t be sad, because our paths will cross again somewhere, somehow, in a different world, under a new story’s sky.
And yes, since so many of you asked, here’s the link to my new story. You only allow to step in only if your heart’s brave enough for a whole new world.
👉 https://archiveofourown.org/works/73928811/chapters/192836036