Ling drove without speaking.
At first, it was traffic—horns, impatient lights, crowds pressing in on all sides. The city moved like it always did: loud, demanding, suffocating.
Then gradually, the noise thinned.
Concrete gave way to trees.
Billboards disappeared.
The air changed.
Rhea noticed first.
She leaned back in the seat, eyes tracking the widening sky, the open stretch of road, the way the scenery softened into green and gold. Fields rolled past. A river flashed briefly between trees.
"This isn't the way home," Rhea said.
Ling didn't look at her. One hand steady on the wheel, the other relaxed, knuckles loose.
"I know."
Rhea studied her profile—the calm jaw, the focus, the way Ling seemed more herself the farther they got from people.
"Where are we going?" Rhea asked.
Ling took a turn onto a quieter road. Gravel crunched softly beneath the tires. No buildings now. Just land, sky, and distance.
"Somewhere," Ling said, finally glancing at her, "where no one will be."
Rhea arched a brow. "That's vague."
Ling slowed the car, rolling down the window. Wind rushed in, carrying the scent of earth and grass.
"Somewhere," she repeated, voice lower, steadier, "where it's just us."
Rhea looked away, out at the open landscape.
Her chest felt lighter here. That annoyed her.
She crossed her arms. "You plan dramatic escapes often?"
Ling's mouth curved faintly. "Only when the city gets too loud."
"And people?"
Ling's grip tightened briefly on the wheel before easing again.
"Yes," she said simply.
The car came to a stop near a stretch of open land overlooking a shallow valley—quiet, untouched, endless.
Ling turned off the engine.
Silence settled.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
Heavy.
Rhea stared ahead, pulse steady, mind less so.
"No witnesses," Rhea murmured. "Dangerous choice."
Ling turned fully toward her now.
"I've never been afraid of being alone," she said. "Just of what happens when I'm not."
Rhea finally met her gaze.
And for the first time since getting into the car, she didn't roll her eyes.
She opened the door and stepped out into the open air, hair lifting in the wind.
Ling followed.
Two figures against a wide horizon—no walls, no crowd, no excuses.
Just space.
And whatever they were about to do with it.
Ling stopped behind Rhea.
"Open your arms," Ling said.
Rhea didn't move.
She turned her head slightly, eyes sharp. "Have you gone insane?"
Ling didn't argue.
"Okay," she said simply.
Before Rhea could react, Ling stepped closer—slow, unhurried—and wrapped her arms around Rhea from behind.
Ling's forearms slid beneath Rhea's crossed arms, her hands finding Rhea's wrists. Warm. Steady. Her fingers threaded through Rhea's carefully, deliberate, claiming nothing—just guiding.
Rhea inhaled sharply.
Ling's chin hovered near Rhea's shoulder, her voice low, calm.
"Don't fight it."
She gently pulled Rhea's arms open, spreading them outward, like she was teaching her how to breathe again.
"Close your eyes," Ling said.
Rhea hesitated.
Her pride screamed first.
Her instinct followed.
Slowly—reluctantly—Rhea let her eyes fall shut.
The world changed.
No walls.
No audience.
No revenge whispering orders in her ear.
Just wind, earth, and Ling's presence at her back—solid, unyielding, impossibly careful.
Ling's fingers tightened slightly around Rhea's, anchoring her.
"Feel that," Ling murmured. "No pressure. No expectations."
Rhea swallowed.
Her chest rose and fell once. Then again.
She hated how safe it felt.
Hated how her shoulders loosened despite herself.
Ling didn't speak again.
She just stayed—holding Rhea's hands open to the sky, as if daring her to accept even a second of peace.
And Rhea, eyes closed, arms spread, heart betraying her.
Ling didn't loosen her hold.
Rhea's eyes were still closed, lashes resting against flushed skin, chin lifted just slightly as the wind moved around them. She looked composed—too composed—for someone standing open like this.
Ling noticed everything.
Her mouth curved, slow and dangerous.
"You trust me more when you can't see," Ling murmured near Rhea's ear.
Rhea's fingers twitched in Ling's grasp. "Don't flatter yourself."
Ling chuckled softly, low in her chest. "You're still here."
She shifted just enough that Rhea could feel her presence more clearly at her back—heat, breath, certainty. Ling's fingers tightened around Rhea's hands, not painful, just possessive enough to be felt.
"If I wanted," Ling went on quietly, "I could drop your hands. Step away. Let you stand here alone."
She leaned closer, voice dipping.
"But you'd notice the second I wasn't there."
Rhea's lips parted involuntarily.
Ling smiled against the air near her ear.
"You like control," Ling said. "So do I."
Her thumb brushed once—once—over Rhea's knuckles.
"The difference," Ling whispered, dark now, steady, "is that I don't need to take it."
Rhea swallowed.
"Then let go," she challenged, eyes still closed.
Ling didn't.
Instead, she guided Rhea's arms a fraction wider, opening her fully to the sky, to the wind, to the moment.
"No," Ling said softly. "Not yet."
Rhea's breath stuttered—just barely.
Ling noticed.
Of course she did.
Her teasing faded.
The smile left her mouth first. Then the edge in her voice softened into something far more dangerous—truth.
She slid her arms fully around Rhea this time, no longer guiding, no longer playing. One arm crossed Rhea's waist, the other coming up to hold her close, palms flat, sure, enclosing her completely from behind.
Rhea stiffened for half a second.
Then Ling spoke.
"I was scared," Ling said quietly.
The words sat heavy in the open air.
Rhea's eyes stayed closed.
Ling rested her forehead lightly against the back of Rhea's head, breath warm, steady, controlled only by effort.
"When you ran away like that," Ling continued, voice low, even, as if admitting it out loud cost her something, "I didn't know what to do with myself."
Her grip tightened—just enough to confess without begging.
"I don't panic," Ling said. "I don't lose control. I don't chase people who leave."
A pause.
"But you didn't leave," she added. "You disappeared."
Rhea's fingers curled slowly around Ling's arms.
Ling felt it. Froze for a heartbeat.
"I thought I'd done something wrong," Ling said. "I replayed it again and again. Every word. Every look."
She exhaled against Rhea's hair.
"And the worst part," Ling admitted, voice rougher now, "was realizing how easily you take the ground out from under me."
She didn't say love.
She didn't say need.
She said fear.
Ling loosened her hold slightly, not releasing her, just giving Rhea space to breathe inside the confession.
"I don't ask for things," Ling said softly. "But I need you to understand that."
The wind carried the silence between them.
Rhea's eyes were still closed.
Her chest rose once. Then again.
She didn't turn.
She didn't pull away.
And that—more than any answer—was enough to undo Ling all over again.