Rhea emerged from the tent a few minutes later.
Fully ready.
Fully armored — in her own way.
She wore mid-thigh riding shorts, fitted and unapologetic, hugging her curves without trying to soften them. Above it, a cropped top, structured but minimal, leaving her waist bare to the cool morning air.
At the center of it all —
Her navel piercing, a small metallic glint that caught the light every time she moved.
A delicate waist chain rested low against her 42 inches hips, subtle, intentional — not decoration, but declaration.
Her earrings were back on: sleek, sharp, framing her face like punctuation marks to her attitude. A thin ring at her nose.
Her hair was half tied, half free — strands brushing her shoulders, untamed.
She looked expensive.
Dangerous.
Unbothered.
She stepped into the clearing like she owned it.
Ling turned at the sound of boots on gravel.
And stopped.
Her blink stalled mid-motion.
Her breath went shallow — immediate, uncontrollable.
Her heart slammed once.
Then again.
Rhea Nior stood there, sunlight touching bare skin, jewellery gleaming like it had always belonged outdoors, not cages or tents or rules.
Ling's eyes tracked without permission.
Waist.
Chain.
Piercing.
Thighs.
She clenched her jaw hard enough to ache.
Control.
Rhea caught the look.
Of course she did.
Her lips curved — slow, egoistic, sharp. "What?" she said coolly. "Never seen someone dressed for riding?"
Ling forced her gaze upward — to Rhea's eyes — too late to pretend she hadn't seen everything else.
"Dress however you want," Ling replied flatly. "Just don't slow me down."
Rhea stepped closer, close enough for Ling to catch her scent again — clean, warm, familiar in a way she refused to analyze.
"Don't worry," Rhea said softly. "I won't need you."
Ling didn't answer.
She couldn't trust her voice.
Because her pulse was loud.
Because denial was cracking again.
Helmets were handed out. Engines rumbled low, impatient.
Ling mounted her bike first — smooth, controlled, ownership unquestioned. The machine settled under her like it recognized her authority.
She didn't look back.
She didn't have to.
She knew where Rhea should be.
So when weight didn't settle behind her, something inside Ling tightened.
She turned slightly.
Rhea was already climbing onto another bike — behind one of the boys from the commerce block. Confident. Balanced. Too casual.
Ling's jaw set.
Rhea adjusted her helmet, then looked straight at Ling, eyes sharp, unapologetic.
"I'll sit here," Rhea said coolly. "You might make me fall with you."
A few nearby students went very still.
Ling let out a short scoff, humorless.
"Careful," she replied flatly, eyes flicking to the boy in front of Rhea. "He might fall."
The boy stiffened instantly.
Rhea's lips curved, slow and taunting. "Then tell him to hold steady."
Ling's fingers tightened around the handlebar.
She didn't look at Rhea again.
She revved the engine instead — the sound deep, commanding, silencing everything else.
Rina, already mounted nearby, leaned closer and muttered, "You wanted her behind you."
Ling didn't answer.
The dean raised his hand. "Helmets on. We move now."
Engines roared to life across the clearing.
As the line of bikes prepared to roll out, Ling's gaze flicked once — just once — to where Rhea sat, hands resting lightly at the boy's waist, posture relaxed.
It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
Because Ling hated two things equally:
Losing control.
And wanting what refused to choose her back.
The line of bikes lurched forward, gravel crunching under thick tires as the forest path narrowed. Wind cut sharp, carrying dust and challenge alike.
Ling rode like she ruled the ground itself.
Perfect balance.
Perfect throttle.
No wasted movement.
She passed Rhea's bike deliberately — slow enough to be insulting.
"Hold tight," Ling called over the engine noise, voice cool. "Some boys lose control when there's weight behind them."
The boy stiffened immediately.
Rhea laughed — short, sharp, unapologetic.
She leaned forward slightly, just enough to make a point.
"Funny," she shouted back. "I was thinking the same about you."
Ling's eyes flicked sideways.
Rhea continued, voice carrying clean and cruel.
"All that control on a bike… makes me wonder where else you overcompensate."
A few riders choked on their laughter.
Ling didn't smile.
She accelerated instead — clean, aggressive — overtaking two bikes in a blink before easing back just enough to stay beside Rhea again.
"Watch closely," Ling replied evenly. "This is what real control looks like."
She leaned the bike into a curve effortlessly, body aligned, machine obedient.
Rhea watched — she hated that she did — jaw tightening.
Then she tilted her head, voice sweet with poison.
"Impressive," she admitted. "But control isn't tested when everything obeys you."
Ling straightened the bike and glanced at her.
"It is," she said flatly. "When you don't lose it — even when provoked."
Rhea met her gaze without flinching.
"Careful, Kwong," she said. "You might skid if you keep watching me instead of the road."
For half a second — just one —
Ling's focus slipped.
Then it snapped back, sharper than before.
"I never lose focus," Ling replied.
The engines roared louder as the trail steepened, dust rising behind them like smoke from a battlefield.
No one spoke after that.
But the challenge was set — not about speed, not about bikes.
About who would lose control first.
And neither of them intended to.