The corridor was almost empty.
Almost.
Ling's footsteps were unhurried, damp jersey clinging to her skin, pulse steady despite the noise still echoing in the arena behind her. She reached her changing room door—
—and saw Rhea with her friend Zifa.
Leaning against the wall like she belonged there.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. That damn nose ring catching the light again.
Ling stopped.
Rhea didn't move first.
That alone irritated her.
"You're lost," Ling said coolly.
Rhea's gaze slid over her—slow, deliberate—taking in the sweat, the loosened jersey, the calm after domination.
"Am I?" Rhea replied. "This corridor seems… exclusive."
Ling laughed once. Low. Sharp.
In the next second, she closed the distance.
Her hand snapped around Rhea's wrist—not hard, not gentle—decisive. She yanked her into the changing room and slammed the door shut with her foot.
Silence swallowed them.
Ling pinned Rhea against the locker, forearm braced beside her head other hand near Rhea waist. Close enough to feel heat. Too close to pretend this was just intimidation.
"Don't stand where you don't belong," Ling said quietly.
Rhea didn't struggle.
She tilted her head instead, eyes dark, lips curving faintly. "You dragged me here," she said. "Looks like I was invited."
Ling leaned in.
Their noses brushed—barely.
Electric.
Ling's voice dropped, controlled, dangerous. "You think this is a game?"
Rhea's breath hitched—just once—but she didn't look away. "You're the one playing," she murmured. "Showing off. Watching to see if I'd look."
Ling's jaw tightened.
"I don't need your attention," Ling said.
"Then why are you this close?" Rhea asked softly.
Ling's thumb shifted on Rhea's wrist, pulse hammering beneath skin. She could feel it. Count it.
She hated that she noticed.
She leaned in further—not a kiss, never that—just enough that their foreheads nearly touched, noses grazing again.
"You're reckless," Ling said. "You walk into places you shouldn't."
Rhea smiled, slow and wicked. "And you catch me every time."
For a split second, Ling's control wavered.
She stepped back abruptly, releasing Rhea as if burned.
"Get out," Ling ordered, turning away. "Before you mistake tolerance for weakness."
Rhea straightened her sleeve, calm as ever.
At the door, she paused.
"You never miss," Rhea said lightly. "On court… or off it."
"Weren't you watching?" Ling asked coldly, turning halfway, towel slung over one shoulder.
Rhea's brows lifted slightly. "Watching what?"
Ling's eyes darkened.
"Don't insult my intelligence," she said. "The match. Me."
Rhea shrugged lightly. "I saw a game. Nothing special."
That was a lie.
Ling crossed the space between them in three calm steps.
Before Rhea could react, Ling caught both her wrists and lifted them—slow, controlled—pinning them above Rhea's head against the locker.
Not rough.
Not gentle.
Certain.
"Say it again," Ling murmured. "Say you didn't notice."
Rhea's pulse betrayed her, hammering beneath Ling's grip. Still, her voice stayed steady. "I didn't."
Ling laughed softly—dangerously amused.
She released one wrist, grabbed the hem of her own jersey, and lifted it without hesitation.
Defined muscle. Warm skin. Sweat cooling slowly.
Ling took Rhea's hand.
Placed it flat against her abdomen.
Skin to skin.
Rhea froze.
"You felt it," Ling said quietly. "Don't lie."
Rhea's fingers curled instinctively before she could stop herself. The muscle beneath tightened at the touch—controlled, alive.
For a moment, the room forgot how to breathe.
Rhea looked up slowly, eyes darker now. "You're proving my point," she said. "You like control."
Ling leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed Rhea's cheek.
"And you like pretending you're immune," Ling replied. "You're not."
Their foreheads nearly touched. Noses brushed again—intentional this time.
Ling's voice dropped to a murmur only Rhea could hear. "Next time you watch," she said, "don't insult me by looking away."
Neither of them spoke.
The door opened.
Mira walked in.
She froze.
What she saw wasn't a kiss.
Wasn't an embrace.
It was worse.
Ling standing too close—far too close for someone who claimed detachment.
Rhea's hand still on Ling's torso, as if memory hadn't caught up with reality yet.
The space between them charged, unfinished, dangerous.
Mira's smile faltered.
"…Am I interrupting?" she asked lightly, but her voice was tight, strained at the edges.
Ling turned slowly.
Whatever heat had existed vanished behind ice in an instant.
"This is a restricted room," Ling said flatly. "You don't knock anymore?"
Mira's eyes flicked to Rhea.
Once.
Twice.
Then back to Ling.
"I knocked," Mira replied. "You didn't answer."
Rhea straightened fully now, composure sliding back into place like armor. She didn't explain. Didn't defend.
She simply met Mira's gaze.
And smiled.
Small. Knowing.
Mira's fingers curled at her side.
"I didn't realize," Mira said softly, "that guests were allowed in here."
Ling stepped deliberately between them.
"This conversation is over," Ling said. "Both of you—leave."
Rhea lifted a brow. "Now you're dismissing me too?"
Ling didn't look at her.
"Yes."
That—more than anything—made Mira flinch.
Rhea adjusted her posture, smooth and unbothered. As she passed Mira, her shoulder brushed hers—light, deliberate.
"Careful," Rhea murmured, just loud enough. "Some lines are easier to cross than you think."
The door closed behind her.
Silence slammed down.
Mira laughed once—short, brittle. "So that's how it is now?"
Ling faced her, expression unreadable.
"You saw proximity," Ling replied. "Don't mistake it for permission to imagine more."
"That's it?" Mira demanded. "That's all you have to say after—after that?"
Ling's eyes sharpened.
Mira searched her face desperately. "You're lying to yourself."
Ling stepped closer—not threatening, not gentle.
"Watch your place," Ling said quietly. "You still have one. Don't force me to reconsider."
Mira swallowed.
The power balance was clear again.
But as she turned to leave, Mira glanced once more at the space where Rhea had stood.
And she understood something that made her chest ache with fear and fury:
Ling hadn't lost control.
She'd almost wanted to.
The door shut.
Ling stood still.
Jaw tight. Breath measured.
She pressed her hand briefly against her own abdomen—where Rhea's fingers had been—and scowled.
At herself.
At Rhea.
At the line she was pretending she hadn't just crossed.