Nior Mansion — Night
Rhea's room is dim, curtains half-drawn, city glow bleeding faintly through the glass.
She's changed out of the day's armor.
An oversized cotton shirt — soft, lived-in — slipping slightly above mid-thigh when she moves. Bare legs. No jewelry except the thin waist chain she never removes.
She's pacing. Once. Twice.
The email still burns behind her eyes.
A sound breaks the rhythm.
Not loud.
Clumsy.
A whisper of movement near the window.
Rhea turns.
Her breath stops.
Ling is there.
Inside the room.
Balanced easily near the open window like gravity never applied to her. Blazer gone. Black shirt clinging to muscle. Hair slightly loose, eyes sharp and amused — completely, terrifyingly real.
Rhea's eyes go wide.
"What—" her voice drops automatically, "how did you get here? That's— it's high—"
Ling straightens slowly, casual, like she didn't just bypass a private mansion's security.
"I climbed," she says, flexing one shoulder lazily. "Your security was blind. No one saw me."
Her gaze drifts — unashamed, deliberate — down.
Rhea feels it like a touch.
Ling's mouth curves.
"Wow," Ling murmurs. "Beautiful. As always."
Rhea reacts on instinct.
She snatches a pillow from the bed and presses it hard against her front, cheeks flushing despite herself.
"Don't look," she snaps. "Are you insane? My mom will see you. Out. Now."
Ling laughs — low, unbothered, amused in a way that makes Rhea's spine prickle.
"That's hiding nothing," Ling says calmly. "You know that, right?"
She steps closer.
One step.
Rhea doesn't move back — but her grip tightens on the pillow.
"Ling," she hisses, glancing at the door, "you need to leave. If she sees you—"
Ling stops just inside Rhea's space.
"She won't," Ling says simply. "I checked."
Rhea glares up at her. "You checked?"
Ling's eyes flick back to Rhea's legs, unapologetic.
"You didn't answer my message," Ling adds. "So I came."
Rhea swallows. "You can't just— show up. This isn't your mansion."
Ling tilts her head slightly.
"No," she agrees. "It's yours."
Her voice drops, quiet but edged.
"And you looked like you needed me."
Rhea opens her mouth to argue — and fails.
Ling leans in just enough for Rhea to feel her presence fully now. Heat. Control. Intention.
"Relax," Ling says softly, teasing threaded with warning. "I'm not staying long."
A beat.
"Unless you ask."
Rhea's heart slams against her ribs.
She lifts the pillow higher, defiant even as her voice tightens.
"Get out," she says. "Before mom—"
Ling smiles again — slow, dangerous.
"Still worried about being seen," Ling murmurs. "Interesting."
She steps back — just a fraction — eyes never leaving Rhea.
"Go sit," Ling orders lightly, nodding toward the bed. "You're shaking."
"I am not."
"You are."
Rhea hesitates.
That hesitation is answer enough.
Ling's hand moves before Rhea can react.
She hooks the pillow Rhea is clutching and tugs.
Rhea tightens her grip instantly. "Ling—"
Another pull.
Harder.
The pillow slips sideways, momentum snapping between them, and suddenly balance is gone—
They fall.
The mattress dips sharply under their combined weight.
Ling lands over her.
Not braced.
Not careful.
Just solid, warm pressure pinning Rhea down, thigh between Rhea's, one knee sinking into the bed beside her hip.
Rhea's eyes go wide.
"Get off—"
Ling doesn't.
Her gaze drifts. Slow. Unapologetic. Down Rhea's bare legs, the hem of the shirt ridden higher now, skin exposed without mercy.
Rhea reacts instinctively.
She grabs Ling's face with both hands — fingers digging into her jaw, thumbs pressing hard into her cheeks — and forces her head up.
"Don't," Rhea snaps, breath uneven. "Don't look."
Ling freezes.
Not because she's restrained.
Because she lets herself be.
Her eyes lift back to Rhea's face, dark with amusement, something sharper beneath it.
A smile curves her mouth.
"Why?" Ling asks softly. "You did this."
Rhea's grip tightens. "I said don't."
Ling's smile widens just a fraction.
She doesn't pull away.
She leans in instead — just enough that her breath brushes Rhea's cheek.
"You're shaking," Ling murmurs. "Again."
Rhea swallows. "You're heavy. Get off me."
Ling shifts her weight deliberately — not removing it, just making Rhea more aware of it.
"Oh?" Ling says lightly. "This?"
Her eyes flick down again, deliberately this time, testing.
Rhea jerks her hands, forcing Ling's face back up again, anger flaring hot and desperate.
"I swear to God—"
Ling laughs quietly.
Then — without warning, without asking —
She kisses Rhea's cheek.
Not soft.
Not lingering.
A quick, deliberate press of lips against flushed skin.
Claiming. Teasing. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with comfort.
Rhea shoves her hard.
Ling lets herself roll just enough to break the pin, landing beside her instead, propped on one elbow, still far too close.
"What is wrong with you?" Rhea demands, sitting up slightly, hair falling into her face. "You need to leave. Now."
Ling watches her like she's something fascinating under glass.
"You look good when you're angry," Ling says calmly. "Even better when you're embarrassed."
Rhea grabs the pillow again and swings it up in front of her thighs. "Out."
Ling reaches out and taps the pillow once with two fingers.
"That thing is useless," she says. "So are your threats."
Rhea glares. "My mother—"
"I know," Ling interrupts, unbothered. "You've said that."
She leans back slightly, giving Rhea space without surrendering presence.
"I climbed a wall for you," Ling adds casually. "At least yell properly."
Rhea opens her mouth — then stops.
Because Ling is still smiling.
Not smug.
Satisfied.
Like she got exactly what she came for.
"Go," Rhea repeats, quieter now, more dangerous.
Ling studies her for a long moment.
Then she stands — slow, controlled — adjusting her shirt like nothing just happened.
At the window, she pauses.
Turns back.
Eyes flick once more — quick, unapologetic — down Rhea's legs.
Ling's mouth curves.
"Next time," she says softly, "hide better."
Then she smirked and went to Rhea again.
Before Rhea can ask why, Ling pulls her own black shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside without ceremony.
She's left in a black sports bra, fitted, stark, unapologetic.
Rhea's breath stutters. "Ling—what are you—"
Ling doesn't answer.
She steps in, threw pillow away, takes the crumpled shirt, and wraps it around Rhea's legs from the front, deliberate, almost reverent in the way she covers her.
Her fingers linger only long enough to make the point.
"Only I get to see this, and more." Ling says quietly. Not loud. Not angry. Certain.
"No one else."
Rhea's throat tightens. "You don't get to decide that."
Ling looks at her then — sharp, amused, eyes dark with possession.
"I already did."
She turns toward the door like she owns it.
Rhea's heart spikes. "Don't you dare go that way," she whispers harshly. "My mom is downstairs."
Ling stops.
Slowly, theatrically, she turns back.
"So?" Ling says. "I'll go from the window."
Rhea shoots up from the bed. "You'll fall."
Ling smiles — wide, wicked, infuriating.
"I will," Ling agrees lightly.
"You won't," Rhea snaps.
Ling steps closer again, close enough that Rhea can see the faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone, the controlled rise of her chest beneath the bra.
"That's the problem," Ling murmurs. "You know I won't."
Rhea reaches out without thinking and grabs Ling's wrist.
"Don't," she says. "Not like that."
Ling looks down at their joined hands. Then back up at Rhea's face.
Her voice drops, calm and dangerous in its certainty.
"I'm not going anywhere," Ling says, "until you tell me to."
Silence presses in around them.
Rhea's fingers are still wrapped around Ling's wrist.
She doesn't let go.