Rhea turns sharply and starts upstairs, voice tight.
"So now you trust her more than me."
Shyra follows a step behind, rocking Amaya gently, a grin tugging at her lips.
"Of course," Shyra says lightly. "Mom will obviously listen to her daughter-in-law."
Rhea whirls. "Don't."
Kane's voice cuts in, crisp and warning. "Watch what you say, Shyra."
Shyra lifts other hand. "Noted."
Rhea doesn't wait. She pushes into her room and shuts the door harder than necessary.
Rhea presses her back to the door, breath shallow, hands shaking just enough to annoy her.
"Unbelievable," she mutters. "Absolutely unbelievable."
She drags a hand through her hair, paces once, twice—then freezes as her phone vibrates.
One message.
From Ling.
Short.
Reckless.
Impossible to ignore.
Ling:
Told you I'd impress her.
Rhea's jaw drops.
Another vibration. Immediately.
Ling:
Your mom's terrifying. I like her.
Rhea hisses, half laugh, half fury. "You're dead."
The screen lights up again.
Ling:
Relax. I behaved.
Mostly.
Rhea types furiously, thumbs flying.
Rhea:
You humiliated me.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Ling:
You didn't stop me.
Rhea squeezes her eyes shut. "That doesn't mean—"
Another message cuts her off.
Ling:
You grabbed my arm.
Twice.
Rhea exhales sharply, staring at the words like they might rearrange themselves.
Rhea:
That doesn't give you permission to say all that nonsense.
A pause. Longer this time.
Ling:
Which part was nonsense?
Rhea's fingers hover. Stop.
The phone vibrates again, softer this time—like Ling knows she's pushing.
Ling:
I left when you didn't tell me to stay.
Rhea sinks onto the edge of her bed, the borrowed shirt bunching under her hands.
Rhea:
You crossed a line.
Ling:
You didn't draw one.
Rhea laughs once, breathless. "You're impossible."
Ling:
Yet you keep letting me in through windows.
Rhea types, deletes, types again.
Rhea:
My family is involved now.
The reply comes instantly.
Ling:
Good.
Rhea's heart skips.
Rhea:
That's not a good thing.
Ling:
It is for me.
Rhea looks up at the window, locked tight now, curtains drawn.
Her phone vibrates one last time.
Ling:
Sleep.
We'll talk tomorrow.
Don't forget—my shirt fits you better.
Rhea stares at the screen long after it goes dark.
Outside her door, footsteps pass. Kane's voice murmurs to Shyra—too low to hear.
Rhea lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The room is silent now.
Too silent.
She stood near the bed, fingers still curled around the black shirt Ling left behind—creased, warm, unmistakably hers.
She looks at it for a long moment.
Then, almost without deciding to—
She lifts it.
Brings it to her face.
The fabric presses against her nose and lips.
Leather. Metal. Sweat. Something sharp and unmistakably Ling.
Rhea exhales before she can stop herself.
A small smile slips out.
Then a blush follows, slow and treacherous, creeping up her cheeks.
"…Idiot," she whispers—to herself, to the shirt, to the entire situation.
She lowers it slightly, staring at it like it just caught her doing something forbidden.
"What am I doing?" she mutters.
As if the room might answer.
Her heart beats faster anyway.
Rhea moves quickly, almost defensively—walks to the door and locks it, the click loud in the quiet room. As if someone might walk in and see the evidence written all over her face.
She goes back to the bed, sits, then lies down—but the shirt is still in her hands.
She folds it once.
Then unfolds it.
Then presses it to her chest again without meaning to.
This time she doesn't smile.
She just closes her eyes.
For a second.
Then she opens them abruptly, sits up.
"No," she says firmly. "Stop."
She stands and walks to the mirror.
Stops.
Looks at her own reflection—bare legs, oversized night shirt, hair loose, eyes still too bright.
Rhea hesitates.
Then, slowly, deliberately—
She wraps Ling's shirt around herself, the same way Ling had earlier. Tightens it at the back. Adjusts it without thinking too much.
The fabric hangs heavier on her frame.
Different.
Charged.
She lifts her chin slightly.
Looks at herself again.
Her breath catches—just a little.
"…This is stupid," she says aloud.
She doesn't unwrap it.
Instead, she reaches for her phone.
One photo.
Then another.
Mirror selfies—nothing obscene, nothing she hasn't worn before. Just her. Just the shirt. Just the implication she refuses to name.
She scrolls through them.
Stops.
Her thumb hovers over post.
She locks the screen instead.
"No," she murmurs. "You don't get to see this."
She sets the phone down face-first.
Unwraps the shirt slowly, almost reluctantly.
Folds it carefully.
Places it beside her pillow.
Rhea lies down, turns on her side, and stares at it in the dark.
Her fingers brush the fabric once more.
Just once.
Then she pulls the blanket up, facing away from it, eyes open long after sleep should've come.
Downstairs, the house is quiet.
Somewhere else, Ling is awake too.
And neither of them is winning this.
Morning
The knock doesn't come.
The door opens.
Rhea stirs instantly, eyes snapping open. Her body goes rigid before her mind fully wakes.
"Mom—" she starts, sitting up.
Kane stands inside the room, already closing the door behind her. No robe. No softness. Hair tied back. Eyes sharp even in the low light.
"You lock your door now," Kane says calmly.
Rhea swallows. "You came in anyway."
Kane looks at the bed. The pillow. The folded black shirt beside it.
Her gaze lingers half a second too long.
"Sit properly," Kane says.
Rhea does.
Kane doesn't raise her voice. That's worse.
"What happened last night," Kane says, "from your mouth. Slowly."
Rhea inhales. "She showed up uninvited."
Kane's eyebrow lifts. "Through a window."
"She's—" Rhea stops herself. "She's reckless."
"Or confident," Kane replies. "Or used to people not stopping her."
Rhea clenches her jaw. "I didn't invite her."
"But you didn't throw her out," Kane says. "You followed her downstairs."
Rhea's eyes flick away.
"That girl," Kane continues, pacing once, "stood in my house half-dressed and spoke like she owned a future here."
"She was lying," Rhea says quickly. "She is childish. She exaggerates everything."
Kane stops in front of her.
"She didn't look like someone lying," Kane says quietly. "She looked entertained."
Rhea bristles. "You believed her over me?"
"I observed," Kane corrects. "And I listened."
A beat.
Kane gestures toward the shirt. "Why is that here."
Rhea stiffens. "She—left it."
"And you kept it."
Rhea opens her mouth. Closes it.
Kane exhales through her nose. "Rhea. This was never supposed to get personal."
"It isn't," Rhea says too fast.
Kane's gaze sharpens. "Don't insult me."
Silence stretches.
Finally, Kane straightens. "Get dressed. Breakfast in twenty minutes."
She turns to leave, then pauses at the door.
"You are not in control," Kane says without looking back. "And I don't think you can afford it."
The door closes.
Rhea sits there, heart pounding, staring at the empty space.
Then she reaches out and grips the shirt once—hard—before shoving it into a drawer and standing up.