The campus clock had just crossed nine when Rhea Nior stepped through the iron gates.
Not in a skirt.
People noticed that first.
Cargo jeans—olive, low-slung, functional. Pockets. Weight. A silhouette that didn't ask to be looked at and therefore got stared at anyway.
And over it—
Ling Kwong's shirt.
Black. Oversized. Crisp at the shoulders, loose at the waist, sleeves rolled once like an afterthought. It swallowed her frame and somehow made her look sharper, not smaller. The faint scent of Ling's cologne clung stubbornly to the fabric—wood, smoke, something expensive and restrained.
Rhea adjusted the strap of her bag, jaw set.
Just enough that her spine stiffened before her mind caught up.
A shadow cut across her path.
Rhea stopped.
Ling Kwong stepped directly into her way like she owned the ground between them.
Sunglasses low on her nose. Blazer slung over one shoulder instead of worn properly. Hair tied back, clean, ruthless.
She didn't smile.
She looked.
Slow. Deliberate. Head to toe. Ling's gaze dragged over the cargo jeans, paused at the waistband, traveled up the line of the shirt—her shirt—then stopped at Rhea's face.
The silence stretched.
Students nearby pretended not to watch. They all watched.
Ling tilted her head a fraction, pushed the sunglasses down with one finger just enough to reveal her eyes.
And then—casually, dangerously—
"Damn," she said.
One word. Soft. Precise.
Rhea's throat tightened. "Move."
Ling didn't.
Her mouth curved—not a smile. A claim.
"Hot," Ling continued, voice pitched low enough that it was meant for Rhea alone. Then, deliberately louder, just enough to sting:
"My baby girl."
A collective inhale moved through the corridor.
Rhea's ears burned. "Don't say that here."
Ling leaned in—not touching, not yet—close enough that the edge of her blazer brushed Rhea's arm.
"Here?" Ling murmured. "This is exactly where I say things."
Rhea lifted her chin. "You're blocking the way."
Ling's gaze flicked to the shirt again. "You're wearing my clothes."
"So?" Rhea shot back. "You climbed into my window. This evens it out."
Ling huffed a quiet laugh, almost fond, almost sharp. "Cargo jeans," she said. "Didn't know you owned rebellion in denim."
"I don't," Rhea replied. "Bought it."
"From me?"
The question wasn't playful. It was territorial.
Rhea stepped closer—intentionally. Invading Ling's space the way she'd learned made Ling still. "From myself," she said. "Don't get ideas."
Ling's jaw flexed.
Good. She felt that.
Ling straightened, finally stepping aside—but not without consequence. As Rhea moved to pass, Ling's hand lifted, two fingers catching lightly at the hem of the shirt.
Rhea froze.
Ling leaned in, voice barely there. "You walk around like that," she said, "people start thinking things."
Rhea met her eyes. "Let them."
Ling's fingers tightened for half a second. Then she released the fabric.
"Careful," Ling said quietly. "I don't correct assumptions kindly."
Rhea walked past her.
She didn't look back.
She felt Ling's gaze follow her anyway—heavy, controlled, unmistakably present.
Across the courtyard, Mira stood perfectly still.
She'd seen the jeans.
The shirt.
The way Ling had still claimed.
Mira's smile cracked.
And Rhea kept walking, heart pounding, guilt crawling back up her spine—
—wearing the proof of their intimacy like armor.
The lecture hall was already half full when Rhea slid into her seat.
Second row. Center-left.
She dropped her bag, pulled the chair in, crossed one leg over the other. The black shirt—Ling's—fell loose at her wrists when she reached for her pen. Cargo jeans creased when she leaned forward. Comfortable. Annoyingly so.
She told herself not to look sideways.
She did anyway.
The seat beside her was empty.
Good.
She opened her notebook, uncapped her pen, started copying the date from the board—
—and the chair scraped.
Not rushed. Not loud.
Just deliberate.
Rhea's pen paused mid-stroke.
A presence settled beside her like it had always belonged there.
Ling didn't greet her.
She didn't even look at the board.
She leaned back, long legs stretched out, one arm slung over the back of the chair behind Rhea—close enough to cage without touching.
Then Ling reached over.
Two fingers.
Clean. Casual.
She snatched the pen straight out of Rhea's hand.
Rhea inhaled sharply. "Excuse me?"
Ling twirled it once, inspecting the tip like it was defective. "Hm."
"That's mine."
Ling didn't answer. Instead, she reached again—this time pulling Rhea's notebook across the shared desk, dragging it closer to herself.
Rhea turned fully now. "What are you doing?"
Ling finally looked at her.
Not openly.
Sideways. Amused. Controlled.
"You write too small," Ling said. "It irritates me."
Rhea blinked. "You don't even write."
"I do," Ling replied calmly. "When it's worth it."
She flipped Rhea's notebook open to the first page. Scanned it. One brow lifted slightly.
"Neat," Ling added. "Aggressive margins. Very on-brand."
Rhea's ears warmed. "Give it back."
Ling rested her elbow on the desk, chin propped in her palm, notebook still under her control. "You wore jeans today."
"So?"
"So I'm distracted."
Rhea scoffed. "That sounds like a you problem."
Ling's mouth curved—not a smile. Something sharper. "Everything you do is a me problem."
Rhea reached for the notebook.
Ling lifted it just out of reach.
Their knees brushed under the desk.
Rhea froze.
Ling didn't move away.
"You're impossible," Rhea muttered.
"And yet," Ling replied quietly, "you keep sitting here."
Rhea felt heat crawl up her neck. "Because it's my seat."
Ling leaned in a fraction. "Is it?"
Their shoulders touched now. Barely. Enough.
Rhea swallowed. "Stop staring."
"I'm not," Ling said.
She absolutely was.
Ling finally slid the notebook back—but kept the pen.
She placed it between her lips, thoughtful, eyes forward as the professor walked in.
Rhea stared. "You're unbelievable."
Ling glanced sideways again. "You say that like you don't enjoy it."
"I don't."
Ling handed the pen back at last, fingers brushing Rhea's knuckles for half a second longer than necessary.
"Liar," Ling murmured.
Rhea snatched it, cheeks flushed. "You're sitting too close."
Ling leaned back, satisfied. "You noticed."
The professor cleared his throat.
The room settled.
Ling didn't move away.
She nudged Rhea's notebook slightly straighter. "Pay attention," she said under her breath. "You miss things when you're irritated."
Rhea glared at the board, jaw tight. "You're the irritation."
Ling exhaled softly, almost a laugh. "And yet—you blush."
Rhea's pen scratched hard against the paper. "If you say one more word—"
Ling leaned in, voice low, precise. "You'll what?"
Rhea turned, eyes sharp—and found Ling already watching her, gaze steady, unreadable, close enough that Rhea could count her breaths.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Ling leaned back again, all composure restored.
"Relax," she said lightly. "Class first. Taunts later."
Rhea hated that her mouth curved despite herself.
She bent over her notebook, writing too fast now, pulse loud in her ears—
—while Ling sat beside her, silent, invading, exactly where she intended to stay.
And somewhere else, weekend memories echoed in Rhea's head,
Rhea pressed her lips together.
This was getting dangerous.