Ling stood and went to bathroom.
She stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary.
Water ran. Stopped. Ran again.
She scrubbed her face slowly, mechanically, watching the dark colors disappear down the drain, but the shaking didn't. Her shoulders trembled as she leaned over the sink, palms flat against the marble, head bowed. Silent crying now—no sobs, just tears dropping one after another, like her body was emptying itself without asking permission.
She looked at her reflection once more. Clean. Normal. Herself.
Still not steady.
When she stepped out, the room was quiet.
Rhea was exactly where Ling had left her—on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself. She hadn't moved. Not even an inch. Her eyes lifted the second Ling appeared, red and swollen, full of guilt and fear.
Neither of them spoke.
Ling walked past her without looking, went to the bed, sat down. For a moment it looked like she might just lie back and turn away.
Instead, her voice came out low and cracked.
"Rhea."
Rhea's breath caught. She stood immediately, too fast, then stopped herself like she remembered she wasn't allowed to rush. "Yeah," she said softly. "I'm here."
Ling lay down on her side, facing the empty half of the bed. She hesitated, then lifted one arm slightly—barely an invitation, fragile and unsure.
"Come here."
Rhea climbed onto the bed carefully, like Ling might shatter if she moved wrong. She lay down facing her, close but not touching, waiting.
Ling grabbed her shirt.
Not roughly—desperately.
She pulled Rhea against her, burying her face into Rhea's shoulder, arms wrapping tight like she was afraid Rhea might disappear if she loosened her grip. Her breath hitched instantly, and the tears came back, hot and unchecked.
"I'm sorry," Ling whispered, voice muffled. "I hate this. I hate that I lose control like that."
Rhea's arms came around her slowly, securely, one hand settling between Ling's shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head. She didn't speak at first. She just held her.
Ling cried harder, body shaking now that she was contained. "I didn't want you to see me like that," she said. "I didn't want to push you away."
"You didn't push me," Rhea murmured, pressing her cheek to Ling's hair. "You survived something. That's not ugly."
Ling clenched her fists in Rhea's shirt. "I scared you."
Rhea swallowed. "Yes," she admitted honestly. "But not because of you. Because I hurt you."
Ling went quiet at that.
Rhea tightened her hold just a little. "I should've stopped. I should've checked. I didn't listen. I won't forgive myself for that—but I will make sure it never happens again."
Ling's breathing slowly evened out, her sobs fading into soft, broken exhales. She stayed curled into Rhea, forehead pressed against her collarbone.
"Stay," Ling whispered, small and vulnerable in a way she never was. "Just… stay like this."
"I'm not going anywhere," Rhea said firmly. "Sleep if you can. I've got you."
Ling nodded faintly, eyes closed now, exhaustion overtaking the fear. Her grip loosened just enough to rest, her weight settling fully into Rhea's arms.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye even as she drifted, soaking into Rhea's shirt.
Rhea didn't move. She didn't breathe too deeply. She just held her—steady, silent, protective—until Ling finally relaxed, still clinging like the world might fall apart if she let go.
Ling's body stiffened suddenly in Rhea's arms.
Another tear slid down, then another, faster now, like something inside her had cracked open again.
"You won't leave me," Ling said abruptly.
Rhea felt it before she heard it—the way Ling's fingers tightened in her shirt, the way her breathing went shallow. Rhea stayed quiet, instinctively holding her closer.
Ling lifted her face just enough, eyes glossy, unfocused. "You won't," she repeated, voice breaking. "Ever. Right?"
Rhea still didn't answer—shock rooting her in place.
Ling's composure collapsed completely then. She clutched Rhea like a child afraid of being abandoned in the dark, tears spilling freely. "Please," she begged, the word small and raw. "I'm asking you. Don't leave me. Don't get tired of me. Don't disappear."
Rhea's heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
"You won't, right?" Ling whispered again, crying harder now. "Say it. Please say it."
Rhea pulled Ling tighter against her chest, arms wrapping around her like a shield. Her mind flashed—her mother's voice, warnings, revenge, distance, self-preservation—but none of it mattered in this moment. All she could feel was Ling shaking in her arms, terrified in a way that had nothing to do with strength or pride.
Ling pressed her face into Rhea's neck, sobbing. "I'll die without you," she cried. "I swear I will. I can't—I can't do this alone."
Rhea's breath hitched sharply. "Hey—no," she said immediately, firm despite the tremor in her voice. She cupped Ling's face gently, forcing her to look up. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that."
Ling's lips trembled. "I mean it."
Rhea shook her head, eyes wet now. "No. You don't get to say that. You're stronger than that—even when you're scared."
Ling cried silently, searching Rhea's face like she was afraid of the answer she might see.
Rhea pressed her forehead to Ling's. "I'm here," she said slowly, deliberately. "Right now, I'm here. And I'm not leaving tonight. Or tomorrow."
Ling's shoulders sagged just a fraction, like the words were oxygen.
"But—" Ling started.
Rhea cut her off gently. "Listen to me. I'm not going anywhere because you're afraid. I stay because I choose to. And I need you to remember that."
Ling swallowed, tears still falling. "You promise?"
Rhea hesitated—just a heartbeat—then pulled Ling back into her arms, holding her close enough to feel her heartbeat. "I promise to stay honest with you," she said softly. "And I promise I won't disappear without a word. Ever."
Ling clung to her again, nodding weakly, exhausted from fear and crying. Her grip loosened as the tension finally drained, but she didn't let go completely.
Rhea stroked her hair slowly, grounding, steady. "Sleep," she murmured. "I've got you. Breathe."
Ling's breathing gradually evened out, her sobs fading into quiet hiccups. She stayed pressed against Rhea, trusting her weight there, trusting the warmth.
And Rhea stayed awake long after Ling's eyes closed—holding her, watching the rise and fall of her chest—because now she understood something she hadn't before.
This wasn't possession.
This was fear of loss.
And it scared Rhea just as much as it anchored her there, unmoving, unwilling to let go.