The fire finally settles—steady, obedient.
Ling sits back on her heels, expression once again carved from stone. Her burned finger is hidden in her fist, ignored.
Rhea stirs the pot with unnecessary force.
Mira sees her opening.
She shifts closer to Ling, casual, practiced, like she's done this her whole life. Kneels beside her, shoulder almost brushing Ling's arm.
"Careful," Mira says softly, reaching out as if to check Ling's finger. "You always rush things when you're competitive."
Rhea doesn't look up.
But she hears always.
Ling pulls her hand back before Mira can touch it. "It's nothing."
Mira smiles anyway, tilting her head. "You never listen when people worry about you. Especially me."
She leans in just a fraction more—close enough that anyone watching would assume familiarity. Ownership.
Then, lightly, as if it's an afterthought, "Aunt sent messages this morning. She asked about the trip."
Rhea's stirring slows.
Mira's tone stays sweet. Surgical.
"She said I should remind you to eat properly. You forget when you're busy."
Ling's jaw tightens almost invisibly. "You didn't need to pass that on."
Mira laughs softly. "Of course I did. She always trusts me."
That does it.
Rhea turns.
Slow. Deliberate.
Her eyes rake over Mira, unimpressed, then flick to where she's positioned—too close, too familiar.
"Is there a reason you're hovering?" Rhea asks coolly. "Or do you just like blocking oxygen? I think you are in group too."
Mira's smile stiffens. "I'm helping."
"With what?" Rhea tilts her head. "Emotional support? This is cooking, not adoption."
Ling exhales sharply through her nose.
Mira straightens, wounded but composed. "You wouldn't understand our dynamic."
Rhea smiles—sharp, unapologetic. "I understand plenty. You talk. She decides."
Ling glances at Rhea—warning, restrained.
Rhea ignores it.
Mira's voice tightens. "Ling and I go way back. Her family knows me. Her mother likes me."
Rhea steps closer to the fire, heat kissing her legs, eyes never leaving Mira.
"Congratulations," she says lazily. "I'm sure approval tastes great when you don't have substance."
Mira flushes. "You don't belong in her life."
The words slip out before Mira can stop them.
Silence snaps tight.
Rhea laughs. Not loud. Not pretty.
"Oh?" she says softly. "And you do?"
Mira lifts her chin. "I've earned my place."
Rhea's gaze flicks to Ling briefly—just long enough to see the tension there.
Then she turns back to Mira.
"Funny," Rhea says. "I didn't realize positions were inherited now."
Ling finally intervenes. "Enough."
Rhea doesn't look at her. "Relax, Captain Control. I'm not applying."
Mira's eyes sting. "You're just here to provoke."
Rhea leans closer, voice low, cutting. "And you're just here because she hasn't told you to leave."
Ling's voice drops dangerously. "Rhea."
Rhea straightens, grabbing the ladle again. "What? I'm cooking. Since I apparently don't belong anywhere else."
She stirs, movements sharp.
Inside, something aches.
Because Mira's words hit where Rhea pretends nothing lives.
The fire crackles between them—smoke rising, lines drawn, egos colliding.
Rhea notices it immediately.
Mira's hand—light, almost careless—hooks around Ling's arm again as Zifa crouches beside the pot. Too familiar. Too practiced. Like she's reminding everyone where she belongs.
Rhea doesn't react at first.
She keeps stirring, face blank, movements precise. Control, she reminds herself. Control is not reacting.
Ling doesn't shake Mira off.
She doesn't lean in either.
She simply allows it.
That's worse.
Rhea's jaw tightens.
"Zifa," Rhea says suddenly, not looking up. "Come here."
Zifa blinks. "Me?"
"Yes," Rhea replies coolly. "You're cutting vegetables wrong. If you keep going like that, we'll eat charcoal."
Zifa scrambles up and joins her, relieved for an excuse to move away from the tension.
Rhea lowers her voice, efficient, commanding. "I'll handle the chopping. You'll manage the fire."
Zifa nods quickly. "Okay."
Mira watches this small reorganization with narrowed eyes.
Rhea turns to her then—slow, deliberate.
"Mira," she says sweetly, too sweet. "Since you're free."
Mira straightens. "I'm helping Ling."
Rhea tilts her head, eyes glinting. "She doesn't need emotional supervision. We do need coriander roots."
Mira frowns. "They gave us powder."
"And fresh ones grow near the stream," Rhea replies smoothly. "Far side. Past the fallen log."
Ling looks up sharply. "Rhea—"
Rhea cuts her a glance. "Unless you want bland food."
Ling pauses.
Then, flatly, "Go."
Mira stiffens. "Ling—"
"Go," Ling repeats. Not unkind. Not negotiable.
Mira forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Fine. I'll be back."
She turns and walks away, steps sharp, shoulders tense.
Rhea watches her go, satisfaction curling dark and quiet in her chest.
Only then does she turn back to the fire and smiled.
Ling studies her for a moment longer than necessary.
"That was intentional," Ling says.
Rhea doesn't deny it. "She likes clinging."
Ling's mouth twitches despite herself. "You like assigning."
Rhea meets her gaze, eyes cool, proud. "I like order."
Zifa pretends very hard not to exist between them.
The fire crackles.
For a brief, dangerous moment, it feels almost… balanced.
Then Rhea's eyes drift—just once—to the path Mira disappeared down.
Something sharp flickers there.
Not jealousy, she tells herself.
Just irritation.
After a while, Mira returns breathless, hair slightly disheveled, irritation written plainly across her face.
"There's nothing there," she says sharply, stopping near the fire. "No coriander. Nothing."
Rhea doesn't look up.
She tastes the food, thoughtful, then hums softly. "Oh."
Mira stiffens. "Oh?"
Rhea turns slowly, spoon in hand, eyes cool and unapologetic. "I must have been mistaken."
The words land gently.
Too gently.
Mira's eyes widen. "If you weren't sure," she demands, "why did you send me?"
The camp seems to quiet, like even the fire is listening.
Rhea lifts one brow. "Because someone needed to go."
Mira flushes. "You did it on purpose."
Rhea smiles faintly. Not cruel. Worse—calm. "Did I?"
Ling looks up then, gaze sharp. "Rhea."
Rhea meets her eyes, unbothered. "What? We're improvising. Jungle cooking."
Mira's hands clench at her sides. "You don't get to order me around."
Rhea steps closer, voice low, precise. "Then don't cling to people who don't need you."
Zifa chokes on air.
Ling's jaw tightens, but she doesn't contradict Rhea.
That silence cuts deeper than words.
Mira swallows hard. "Ling—"
Ling doesn't look at her. "Sit. We're almost done."
Mira's face drains.
Rhea turns back to the pot like the matter is settled, stirring with elegant control.
Inside, something sharp and unstable hums.
Why did that feel good? she wonders briefly—then pushes the thought away.
The fire crackles.
The food thickens.
And Mira learns, painfully, that Rhea Nior doesn't need permission to rearrange space—
She simply takes it.