The fourth day doesn't end with drama.
It ends with distance.
The bus stands ready, dust still clinging to its tyres, the jungle already behind them like a secret no one will confess to carrying.
Students climb in, loud, tired, careless.
Rhea steps in with Zifa beside her.
Her eyes move on instinct—quick, sharp, trained not to linger—
and still, they stop.
Ling is already seated.
Window side.
Rina sits next to her, relaxed, talking low, her shoulder angled just enough to block the empty space.
Rhea doesn't think anything dramatic.
She only registers one simple fact:
The seat beside Ling is taken.
That's all.
And somehow, it's enough.
Her fingers curl once around her bag strap.
Unnecessary. Automatic.
Zifa notices the pause. "You okay?"
Rhea hums lightly. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Her tone is easy. Too easy.
She walks past.
Mira is two rows ahead, already seated, watching everything through the bus window reflection. Her lips curve—not into a smile, not quite—but something close to relief. Something sharp-edged.
Good, Mira thinks.
This is how it should be.
Ling doesn't turn.
Her posture is composed, spine straight, face unreadable.
Only Rina, sitting inches away, feels it—the tension in Ling's arm, the way her fingers flex once against her thigh and then still.
Ling hears Rhea's footsteps pass.
She tells herself it's nothing.
She tells herself this is better.
Rhea chooses a seat farther back, near the window. Alone.
Zifa sits across the aisle, throwing her a look that asks questions Rhea doesn't answer.
Rhea settles in, crosses her legs, rests her head lightly against the glass.
Outside, trees blur.
Inside, something tight presses behind her ribs.
She doesn't sigh.
She doesn't frown.
She doesn't let it show.
Mira glances back once, just enough to confirm what she already knows—that Rhea isn't beside Ling.
Satisfied, Mira turns forward again, leaning slightly toward Ling's row, talking to someone else, deliberately loud, deliberately present.
Ling stares straight ahead.
Her reflection in the window doesn't blink.
The bus starts moving.
Engines roar. Conversations swell.
And somewhere between the first turn of the road and the second, Rhea closes her eyes—not in pain, not in sadness—
But in confusion.
Because she can't explain why the seat she never asked for feels like something she lost.
The university gates come into view just as evening begins to sink its teeth into the sky.
The bus stops.
Noise spills out—laughter, dragging bags, careless goodbyes. The trip is already turning into stories people will exaggerate later.
Rhea steps down last.
Shyra is waiting near the parking area, Amaya asleep against her shoulder, one hand waving the moment she sees Rhea.
Rhea's chest loosens at the sight of her sister.
She moves faster without meaning to.
She doesn't see the uneven stone.
Her foot slips.
Not dramatically—just enough to steal her balance, just enough to send her body forward.
A hand snaps around her waist.
Strong. Certain. Familiar.
Ling.
The grip is firm, instinctive, like her body moved before her mind did. Rhea is pulled back into steadiness, breath knocking once against her ribs.
For half a second, neither of them moves.
Ling's hands are warm.
Too warm.
Shyra adjusting Amaya, smiling as she approaches. "Careful, Ninna. You always rush."
Ling releases Rhea instantly, stepping back as if the contact burned.
"You should watch your step," Ling says flatly, already putting distance between them.
Rhea's pulse is loud in her ears.
She straightens, chin lifting. "I had it."
Ling doesn't argue.
She just nods once—polite, distant—and turns slightly toward Shyra.
Shyra smiles at her, unaware of anything but manners. "Thank you. She's clumsy when she's tired."
Ling inclines her head. "It was nothing."
Nothing.
The word lands wrong.
Rhea looks at Ling then—really looks.
Ling's face is controlled as ever, unreadable, cold.
But her hand, the one that caught Rhea, is clenched at her side, knuckles faintly white.
Their eyes meet.
The world narrows.
Ling holds the gaze for exactly one breath longer than necessary—then looks away.
"Get home safe," she says, voice steady, formal.
And then she turns.
Just like that.
Rhea stands there, frozen, Shyra's voice fading into background sound as she talks about the drive home.
Her waist still feels warm.
Too warm.
And for the first time since the trip began, Rhea realizes something terrifying—
Ling doesn't chase.
She catches.
And lets go.
Ling's Rolls Royce waits where it always does—sleek, dark, silent authority on four wheels.
Rina slides into the back first, tossing her bag aside like she owns the space. Mira follows quickly, choosing the front passenger seat without asking.
Ling gets in last.
The door closes with a final, solid thud.
Mira breaks the silence immediately.
"That trip was insane," she says brightly, turning toward Ling, fingers playing with the edge of her sleeve. "You should've let me ride with you more. Everyone knows I don't trust those roads."
Ling starts the engine.
"You survived," she says coolly.
Rina snorts from the back. "Barely. I saw her life flash before her eyes—twice."
Mira laughs, a little too loud, leaning closer. "I'm serious. You're impossible to relax around lately. When did you become so… tense?"
Ling's eyes stay on the road.
"Focus on your seatbelt," she replies.
Mira pouts, then softens, switching tactics. "Aunt will ask about the trip. I'll tell her you behaved. Mostly."
Rina clicks her tongue. "Wow. Promoted to spokesperson already?"
Mira smiles sweetly. "Someone has to look after her."
Rina tilts her head, watching Ling through the mirror. "Funny. Ling doesn't usually need a caretaker. Or a cheerleader."
Ling's jaw tightens.
Mira reaches out, fingers brushing Ling's arm. "I just hate when things get awkward. We were so close before."
Ling pulls her arm back without looking. "Sit properly."
The air shifts.
Rina grins, merciless. "Touchy today. Must be the jungle detox."
Mira laughs again, but it doesn't quite land. She stares out the window for a moment, then tries once more. "We should plan dinner. Just us. Like old times."
"No," Ling says immediately.
Rina raises a brow. "That was fast."
Ling exhales slowly, gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. "I have work."
Mira nods, smile strained. "Of course. Always busy."
Silence stretches.
Rina finally leans back, arms crossed, amused and sharp. "You know, Mira—some moods can't be fixed with jokes."
Mira doesn't respond.
The car moves smoothly through the city, headlights cutting through the dark—
Three people inside it,
each pretending the tension isn't choking the space between them.