The food is finally ready.
Steam rises thick and fragrant from the pot, curling into the damp jungle air. Rhea wipes her hands on a cloth, posture straight, expression unreadable.
She scoops a spoonful and holds it out—not to the group.
To Ling.
"Taste," Rhea says, neutral. Commanding.
Ling looks at her for half a second.
Then, calmly, "Okay."
She takes the spoon.
Zifa watches, holding her breath.
Ling tastes.
Her expression doesn't change.
"It's good," Ling says evenly, passing the spoon back.
Rhea nods once, satisfied, then turns to Zifa. "You."
Zifa takes a cautious bite. Her eyes widen—just a fraction.
She swallows quickly, glancing between Ling and Rhea.
"It's…," Zifa says. Before she can complain about salt.
Ling's gaze snaps to her—sharp, warning.
Not angry.
Protective.
Zifa immediately straightens. "Really good."
Rhea doesn't notice the exchange.
She's already plating, movements efficient, elegant even in the dirt.
Mira leans in slightly, expectant. Waiting.
Rhea doesn't look at her.
She serves Ling. Serves Zifa.
Then sets the pot aside.
Mira's smile freezes. "Aren't you going to—"
"No," Rhea says simply.
The word is quiet.
Absolute.
Ling watches that moment carefully, something unreadable passing through her eyes.
Deen arrives then, clipboard in hand, tasting his way through the teams.
He samples theirs last.
Rhea stands back, arms folded, detached. She doesn't watch his face. She doesn't wait for approval.
Deen tastes.
Pauses.
Looks at Ling.
Says nothing.
He scribbles something and moves on.
Of course.
Positions are announced shortly after.
Another team takes first.
Another second.
Ling's group isn't mentioned.
Zifa looks disappointed. Mira looks relieved—almost smug.
Rhea doesn't react at all.
She doesn't realize the salt was heavy.
She doesn't realize the restraint it took to balance flavor without tools.
She doesn't realize she cooked remarkably under jungle conditions.
She just washes her hands at the stream, expression distant, pride intact, ego untouched.
Ling watches her from across the clearing.
Watches how she doesn't seek validation.
How she doesn't sulk.
How she doesn't even notice she deserved better.
Something tightens in Ling's chest.
Rhea finally turns back to the pot.
Almost as an afterthought.
She lifts the spoon, brings it toward herself—more habit than curiosity.
Ling moves instantly.
"You don't have to," Ling says, sharp, stepping closer. "I like it. I'll eat."
Rhea pauses mid-air, eyebrow arching. "You're the judge now?"
Ling reaches for the pot. "I'm eating. That's enough."
Rhea pulls the spoon back, frowning. "Relax. I just want to taste."
Ling's hand closes around the spoon before Rhea can take it to her mouth.
"No," Ling says. Not loud. Final.
Rhea blinks, irritation flashing. "What's your problem? I cooked it. I can taste it."
Ling lifts the pot slightly away from her, possessive without realizing it. "You won't."
Rhea stares at her, then scoffs. "Wow. I didn't know my cooking was that irresistable."
She rolls her eyes, stepping back. "Fine. Eat it all. Clearly it's a masterpiece."
Ling doesn't answer.
She sits down with the pot. Like nothing is wrong.
Rhea turns away, already dismissing it from her mind.
She doesn't taste the excess salt.
She doesn't see Deen's hesitation replaying behind Ling's eyes.
She doesn't realize Ling just took disappointment onto herself—quietly, instinctively—without a word.
Mine, she thinks, about the food.
And then, disturbingly, about the girl who made it.
Across the fire, Rhea laughs at something Zifa says, utterly oblivious.
And Ling lets her stay that way.
Rhea notices after a while.
Ling isn't eating.
The pot sits in front of her, barely touched.
Rhea frowns, irritation pricking first. "If you like it so much," she says dryly, "why aren't you eating now?"
Ling looks up.
For a fraction of a second, something unreadable flashes in her eyes.
Then she picks up the spoon.
And eats.
Not slowly. Not carefully.
Big bites.
Deliberate.
Zifa's eyes widen as she watches Ling swallow without flinching.
The salt hits immediately—sharp, overwhelming. Zifa can almost taste it just by watching. Her stomach tightens.
Oh.
Understanding settles heavy in her chest.
Ling keeps eating.
Her expression doesn't change. Her posture stays relaxed. Only her jaw works a little harder than necessary.
Rhea watches, confused at first.
Then she sees it—the tension at Ling's mouth, the way she drinks water too fast afterward, the controlled stillness that means she's enduring something.
Rhea's brows draw together.
She steps closer. "Wait."
Ling doesn't stop.
Rhea's voice softens despite herself. "It's good," she says suddenly. "Really good. I mean it."
Ling pauses just long enough to look at her.
Rhea lifts her chin, pride intact. "I cooked it. Of course it's good."
Ling's lips twitch—almost a smile.
Mira chooses that moment.
She reaches for the spoon lightly. "Let me try—"
Ling moves without looking.
Her hand comes down, firm, pushing Mira's wrist away.
"No."
The word is calm. Absolute.
Mira freezes, stunned.
Ling continues eating.
Rhea still oblivious.
Ling Kwong didn't take the pot to control her.
She took it to protect her.
Ling eats until the pot is almost empty.
Not because she's hungry.
Because stopping would mean admitting something.
Each bite is heavier than the last. The salt claws at her tongue, dries her throat, burns all the way down. Her head starts to throb—slow, punishing pulses behind her eyes—but her face stays blank.
Zifa can't look anymore.
Rhea watches, unsettled now, brows knitting together. "Okay," she says slowly. "That's enough."
Ling stands.
"I'm done," she says, voice even.
She walks away without another word.
The moment she's out of sight—behind the trees, beyond the camp noise—she bends over.
Hard.
Her stomach rebels violently.
She grips a tree trunk as she vomits, throat burning, eyes instantly red, watering uncontrollably. Her breath comes sharp and uneven, forehead resting against rough bark.
Salt.
Water.
Pain.
Her head pounds like it's being punished for a mistake she refuses to name.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, jaw clenched, forcing herself upright again.
Pathetic, she thinks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Still worth it, she tells herself coldly and smiled foolishly.
Back at the fire, Rhea stares at the half-empty pot.
"If she likes it that much," she mutters, "it can't be bad."
She tastes.
The reaction is instant.
She spits it out, coughing once, sharp and startled. "What the—"
Salt. Too much. Overwhelming.
Her stomach drops.
Zifa winces. "Yeah."
Rhea stares at the pot now like it personally betrayed her.
"This is—" She tastes again just to be sure, then spits it out harder. "This is insanely salty."
Her chest tightens.
She looks instinctively toward the trees.
Toward where Ling disappeared.
"Oh."
The word leaves her softly. Not anger. Not ego.
Realization.
She lowers the spoon slowly.
Ling didn't stop her because she wanted the food.
Ling stopped her because she didn't want her to know.
Didn't want her pride bruised.
Didn't want her to hear Deen's silence echoed by her own mouth.
Rhea's jaw tightens.
She sets the pot down with controlled care, eyes dark now, unreadable.
Mira doesn't miss a second.
"You let her eat that?" Mira snaps, disbelief sharpened into accusation. "Do you have any idea how much salt this has?"
Rhea freezes.
"What?" she says flatly.
"You didn't even taste it before serving," Mira continues, voice rising. "She ate all of it for you. That's not cooking—that's carelessness."
Rhea's chest tightens, anger flaring on instinct. "I didn't know it was salty."
Mira scoffs. "Convenient."
Rhea's jaw sets, pride bristling. "I wouldn't poison someone on purpose."
"Intent doesn't matter," Mira fires back. "She pretended it was good so you wouldn't be embarrassed—and you let her."
The words land hard.
"She didn't need to act like that," Mira mutters. "It was poison."
Rhea turns.
Her gaze is sharp enough to cut.
"Don't," she says quietly.
Mira falters. "What?"
Rhea steps closer, voice low, dangerous. "You control your mouth."
Mira opens her mouth—
And closes it.
Rhea looks back toward the jungle, fingers curling slowly at her side.
Rhea doesn't answer.
Because the memory is replaying now—Ling's big bites. The way she drank water too fast. The stillness that wasn't indifference.
She looks toward the trees.
Ling isn't there.
For the first time, the truth lands without denial.
Ling Kwong ate pain so Rhea wouldn't have to.
And Rhea Nior hates how deeply that stays with her.