Morning breaks thin and pale over the jungle camp.
Mist clings low to the ground, crawling between tents like something alive. The air smells of damp earth and smoke from last night's dying embers.
Rhea wakes before the announcement.
Not because she's rested.
Because she's alert.
Ling didn't come back.
That fact sits in her chest like a stone—heavy, irritating, impossible to ignore. She dresses with sharp movements, jaw set, expression already armored.
Outside, Deen's voice cuts through the camp.
"Cooking competition today. Jungle rules."
A collective groan rises.
"No stoves," Deen continues. "You find sticks. You light your own fire. You cook with what you're given. Teams of four."
Rhea steps out of her tent just as Ling appears from the other side of the clearing.
Their eyes meet.
Just for a second.
Ling's face is unreadable. Cold. Perfectly neutral. As if nothing ever passed between them except hostility.
Rhea looks away first—out of anger, not submission.
Fine, she thinks. I can do cold.
Teams Announced
Names are called.
When Deen reaches theirs, the air shifts.
"Ling Kwong. Rhea Nior. Mira. Zifa."
A ripple of reaction moves through the group—interest, whispers, restrained excitement.
Rhea doesn't react.
Ling doesn't either.
Mira's lips curve faintly, pleased. Zifa looks like she wants to disappear.
Deen claps once. "Ingredients will be basic. Rice. Lentils. Salt. Limited spices. Make something edible. You have three hours."
Baskets are handed out.
Ling takes theirs without comment, already scanning the jungle edge like it's an opponent.
"We split," Ling says immediately. No debate. "Two for sticks. Two prep."
Mira steps closer to Ling automatically. "I'll come with you."
Ling doesn't even look at her. "No."
The word lands flat.
Mira blinks. "Ling—"
"Rhea," Ling says instead, turning slightly. "You know how to move without making noise. You're with me."
Rhea's head snaps up. "I didn't agree."
Ling meets her gaze fully now. Calm. Dominant. Provoking.
"I didn't ask."
Zifa exhales quietly, relieved. Mira stiffens.
Rhea's pride flares hot and instant. "You don't get to order me."
Ling steps closer—just enough. Her voice drops so only Rhea hears.
"Then don't slow me down."
Something ugly sparks in Rhea's chest.
She grabs the empty sack from the basket and turns sharply toward the trees. "Fine. Let's go."
Ling watches her back for half a second too long before following.
Mira stands there, basket in her hands, smile gone.
The jungle is quieter away from camp.
Birds. Leaves shifting. The crunch of boots on damp ground.
Ling walks ahead, efficient, scanning for dry wood under fallen branches. Rhea trails just behind, eyes sharp, movements precise.
Neither speaks.
Rhea snaps a stick cleanly and tosses it into the sack with more force than necessary.
"You avoiding me on purpose?" she asks suddenly.
Ling doesn't look back. "I'm focusing."
"That's new," Rhea mutters.
Ling stops.
Turns.
Slowly.
"You wanted distance," Ling says. "You have it."
Rhea's chest tightens. "I didn't say that."
"You implied it," Ling replies coolly. "Repeatedly."
Rhea laughs once—bitter. "So you disappear and call it discipline?"
Ling steps closer again. Too close. Her presence presses in, controlled and heavy.
"I don't disappear," Ling says. "I decide."
Rhea's fingers curl around another stick. "Good. Decide to stay away, then."
Ling's eyes flick to Rhea's waist—just for a fraction of a second.
"Careful," Ling murmurs. "You don't mean that."
Rhea shoves the stick into the sack and turns away, breath sharp. "You don't know what I mean."
Ling watches her walk a few steps ahead.
She doesn't follow immediately.
Because for the first time, distance doesn't feel like control.
It feels like loss.
Mira kneels by the fire pit with Zifa, arranging kindling with meticulous care.
She's smiling again.
But her hands shake slightly.
Ling didn't choose her.
Not today. Not when it mattered.
"She trusts Rhea a lot," Zifa says absentmindedly.
Mira's smile tightens. "Ling doesn't trust. She commands."
Zifa hums, unconvinced.
Mira strikes the flint harder than necessary. Sparks jump. One burns her finger.
She doesn't react.
Because what scares her isn't the fire.
It's the image she can't get out of her head—
Ling and Rhea alone in the jungle.
And how Ling always looks most dangerous when she cares.
When Ling and Rhea return with a sack full of dry sticks, the camp watches.
They walk separately.
They stand separately.
But the tension between them is unmistakable—like heat waiting for flame.
Ling drops the sack by the pit. "Start the fire."
Rhea meets her gaze. "Together."
For a second, Ling considers refusing.
Then she kneels.
Their hands brush—brief, accidental, electric.
Neither pulls away fast enough.
Then fire refuses to behave.
The sticks smoke, blacken, die.
Ling crouches beside the pit, jaw set, eyes narrowed like the flame is an opponent that dared to resist her.
"Useless," she mutters.
She reaches for the small bottle of petrol meant only for emergencies.
Rhea straightens instantly. "Don't—"
Too late.
Ling tilts the bottle, just a little.
The fire catches violently.
A sharp flare bursts upward—
And Ling hisses, jerking her hand back as the flame kisses her finger.
It's small. Barely anything.
But Rhea doesn't think.
She moves.
Her hand closes around Ling's wrist, hard, breath leaving her in a sharp gasp. "Are you insane?"
The words come out raw, panicked, nothing like her usual polished venom.
Ling freezes.
Not from the burn.
From the grip.
Rhea's fingers are tight around her skin, thumb pressing into Ling's pulse like she's checking it's still there.
"You don't pour petrol like that," Rhea snaps, already tugging Ling's hand closer, inspecting the reddened finger. "Do you want to lose it? This isn't a court—fire doesn't care who you are."
Ling stares at her thinking some do like you.
Rhea's brows are drawn together, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to fear.
"I'm fine," Ling says automatically.
"Don't lie," Rhea shoots back. "Your skin's—"
She stops.
Because she realizes.
Her hand is still holding Ling's.
Publicly.
Protectively.
Without permission.
The world tilts.
Rhea releases her instantly, like she's been burned too, stepping back a full pace.
"I—" She swallows hard. "I wasn't—"
Ling slowly lowers her hand.
The sting in her finger is nothing compared to the shock in her chest.
"You reacted," Ling says quietly.
Rhea's laugh is sharp, brittle. "To stupidity."
Ling's mouth curves almost imperceptibly. "You were scared."
Rhea's eyes flash. "Don't flatter yourself."
But her heartbeat is loud. She can feel it everywhere—her throat, her wrists, her ears.
Why did I touch her?
She presses her hands together, fingers interlocking tightly, like she can restrain them through force.
This isn't me.
I don't react.
I don't reach.
Yet she had.
Before thought. Before pride. Before revenge.
Ling watches her carefully, unreadable again.
"Next time," Ling says, voice calm, "let me get burned."
Rhea looks up sharply. "No."
The word comes out too fast.
They both freeze.
Rhea's chest tightens with something dangerously close to panic.
What is happening to me? she thinks. Why does her pain reach me first?
She turns away abruptly, grabbing the pot, voice clipped and cold again. "Just… sit back. I'll cook."
Ling doesn't move.
She flexes her burned finger once, then curls it slowly.
Not because it hurts.
But because Rhea's hand had fit there too perfectly.
And that terrifies them both.