Ling felt it shift.
The piercing slid halfway—then caught again.
Rhea sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flying up to Ling's face. She read it instantly. The calculation. The decision forming again.
"No," Rhea said immediately, shaking her head once, jaw tight. "Don't you dare."
Ling hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Then she leaned in again.
"Fuck you," Rhea muttered, breath ragged—not anger anymore, something rawer.
Before Ling could even close the distance—
The tent flap flew open.
"LING—"
Rina stopped dead.
Her eyes widened at the scene: Ling kneeling, hands and lips at Rhea's waist, Rhea sitting rigid, shirt unbuttoned, blood on skin. The intimacy of it hit before the logic did.
"What the—" Rina started.
Mira stood just behind her.
And Mira understood everything in one second.
Her eyes went straight to Ling's face. Then to Rhea. Then to Ling's hands.
Her lips parted. No sound came out at first.
Then her eyes filled.
Not dramatic tears. Quiet ones. The kind that come when something finally breaks.
Ling stood up immediately, like she'd been caught doing something criminal. "Mira—this isn't—"
"I hate you," Mira said.
The words were soft.
That made them worse.
Ling froze.
Mira took a step back, shaking her head, tears sliding freely now. "I watched you almost die and I prayed. I stayed. I defended you. And this is what you do?"
"Mira," Ling said sharply, control cracking at last. "Stop."
Mira laughed once, broken. "Stop what? Loving you? Trusting you?"
She looked at Rhea then—eyes sharp despite the tears. "Congratulations. You win."
Rhea opened her mouth. "I didn't—"
Mira didn't wait.
She turned and walked out of the tent, shoulders shaking.
Rina stood there, stunned, eyes darting between them. "Ling… what the hell is going on?"
Ling didn't answer.
Her fists were clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms. Her chest felt tight, wrong, like something had slipped out of place and she didn't know how to force it back.
Rhea pulled her shirt closed slowly, fingers steady despite the chaos inside her.
She met Ling's eyes.
Cold. Controlled. Hurt.
"You shouldn't have touched me," Rhea said quietly.
Ling flinched.
Not visibly.
Internally.
"Handle this," Rhea continued, voice flat again, armor snapping back into place. "I'll handle the rest."
She stood, brushing past Ling without another word.
Ling stayed where she was.
Rina looked at her cousin—really looked at her—and for once, didn't tease.
"You're in trouble," Rina said softly.
Ling stared at the tent wall, jaw locked, eyes dark.
She already knew.
Because for the first time in her life, Ling Kwong had crossed a line she couldn't dominate, threaten, or undo.
And it had cost her something she hadn't admitted she wanted.
Mira didn't go far.
She walked until the noise of the camp thinned, until the laughter and engines blurred into something distant and unreal. Then she stopped behind a line of trees, where no one could see her, and finally let herself sink down onto the damp ground.
Her breath broke first.
Then the tears came.
She pressed her palm hard against her mouth, as if that could keep the sound inside her chest. Her shoulders shook despite her effort to stay quiet.
Before Rhea.
That was all she could think.
Before Rhea arrived and everything started slipping through her fingers.
She remembered Ling when they were younger—Ling defending her without being asked, standing beside her like it was instinct. Ling letting her sit too close, letting her believe that patience would be rewarded, that one day Ling would look at her the way she looked at everyone else: chosen, permanent.
Mira squeezed her eyes shut.
"I was always there," she whispered, voice breaking. "I waited."
She remembered the hospital corridors after Ling's injuries, the late nights, the way she learned Ling's silences better than anyone. How she told herself that loyalty mattered more than confession.
And now—
One girl arrived.
And Ling Kwong—who never touched, never softened, never crossed lines—was kneeling, kissing someone else.
Protecting.
Choosing.
Mira wiped her cheeks angrily, furious at herself for crying, for still hoping. "You didn't even hesitate," she murmured. "Not even once."
The image replayed cruelly: Ling's hands at Rhea's waist, lips at navel. The focus. The urgency. The lack of denial.
That wasn't attraction.
That was instinct.
Mira hugged her knees, nails digging into her palms.
"I hate you," she whispered again—not loudly, not to hurt Ling, but because it was the only way to survive the truth settling in.
She had loved Ling quietly for years.
And Rhea Nior hadn't stolen Ling away.
Ling had gone to her.
That was what hurt the most.