Next Day - Basket Ball Ground
The gym was already loud before Ling Kwong even stepped onto the court.
By the time she did, it detonated.
Her name rolled through the stands like a chant that didn't need prompting. Phones were already up. Jerseys waved. The air had that charged, metallic tension that only showed up when Ling played—when people came not to watch a match, but to witness control.
Rhea sat halfway up the bleachers.
Zifa leaned closer. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Rhea said immediately, eyes fixed forward.
She wasn't.
Ling moved like she owned physics.
First whistle.
She stole the ball clean in the opening seconds, pivoted, sprinted—three defenders closed in, confident—
Ling slipped past them like they were late thoughts.
Layup. Perfect.
The crowd roared.
Rhea's fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt. She told herself she was watching technique. Footwork. Strategy.
Not the way Ling's shoulders flexed when she turned.
Not the way her jaw set when she focused.
Not the way she smiled only when she scored—brief, sharp, gone.
Ling didn't look at the crowd.
She looked at the court.
Until—
Midway through the second quarter, after a brutal block that sent the ball skidding across the floor, Ling landed, straightened—
And looked up.
Directly at Rhea.
It wasn't accidental.
Rhea's breath caught.
For half a second, the world narrowed to that look—Ling's eyes steady, unreadable, locking onto her like the rest of the room didn't exist.
Then Ling did it.
She lifted two fingers.
Brought them to her lips.
And flicked them outward.
A flying kiss.
Clean. Unapologetic. Right there in front of everyone.
The gym exploded.
People screamed. Whistled. Laughed. Someone yelled, "WHO WAS THAT FOR?"
Rhea's face went hot instantly.
"Ling—" she muttered under her breath, furious and flustered all at once.
Zifa turned slowly. "Was that—"
"No," Rhea snapped. Then, quieter, "Shut up."
Ling was already running back into play like nothing had happened.
The match didn't slow.
If anything, she got worse.
More precise. More ruthless.
A steal. A pass. A three-pointer from impossible distance.
Every move flawless.
Sweat darkened the collar of her jersey.
Then—after a particularly savage drive to the basket—Ling caught the ball under her arm, bent slightly, breath heavy.
She hooked two fingers into the hem of her jersey.
And pulled it up—just enough to wipe sweat from her face.
Just enough.
Defined abs flashed under the lights. Lean, cut, undeniable.
The reaction was immediate.
"OH MY—" "KWONG—" "SHOW OFF!" "LING! LING! LING!"
Someone wolf-whistled.
Someone else shouted something obscene.
Rhea's stomach twisted.
She hated it.
Hated the way they looked at her like she was something communal.
Hated the way they felt entitled.
Hated that Ling didn't even flinch.
Ling dropped the jersey back into place, expression blank, unbothered.
But her eyes flicked up again.
To Rhea.
Just once.
As if checking.
Rhea's jaw tightened. Her hands clenched in her lap.
Stop looking at her like that, she wanted to scream at the crowd.
She's not—
She stopped herself.
She couldn't finish the thought.
Because whatever Ling was—
She wasn't Rhea's to claim.
The final buzzer sounded.
A landslide victory.
The team rushed Ling, slapping her back, shouting over each other. Cameras swarmed. Cheers followed her like a wake.
Rhea moved on her seat like she was about to leave.
Zifa grabbed her wrist. "You're leaving?"
"I can't watch this," Rhea said, voice tight.
From across the court, Ling saw her.
Ling didn't head for the bench.
She turned—slow, deliberate—and walked straight toward the stands.
The noise swelled when she reached the barrier. Sweat still clung to her throat, her jaw, the hollow beneath her cheekbones. Without breaking stride, Ling hooked her fingers under the hem of her jersey again.
And this time, she pulled it off.
A single motion.
The crowd screamed.
Ling didn't look back. She twisted once and threw the jersey into the mass of hands. It disappeared in a scramble of shrieks and laughter before a girl caught it and clutched it to her chest like a trophy.
The gym went feral.
Rhea stood up so fast her seat snapped back.
Her face was tight. Not shocked. Not embarrassed.
Angry.
Ling turned from the chaos and walked straight to her.
Stopped right in front of her.
Too close. Intentionally.
Rhea didn't lower her voice. "Take your jersey back," she said coldly. "And wear it."
The noise dipped just enough for people to notice.
Ling smiled.
Not wide. Not playful.
Interested.
"All that," Ling said lightly, gesturing back at the screaming stands, "and that's what bothers you?"
Rhea's eyes flashed. "You're not funny."
"Never said I was."
Ling leaned in a fraction. "Didn't like my abs?"
Rhea's jaw clenched. "I said—wear your jersey."
The smile faded.
Ling studied her face—really looked this time. The set of her mouth. The heat in her eyes. The way her fingers were curled like she was holding herself still.
"Why," Ling asked quietly, "are you jealous?"
Rhea turned away.
Ling moved faster than anyone expected.
She caught Rhea's wrist—firm, not yanking, not gentle. Just enough to stop her.
A sharp intake of breath passed through the nearest rows.
"Ling—" Rhea hissed.
Ling stepped closer.
Still holding her wrist.
She leaned down and kissed Rhea's cheek.
Not rushed.
Not soft.
Placed.
The gym lost its mind.
Ling's voice carried just enough—low, controlled, unmistakable.
"Whatever my baby girl orders."
Rhea went still.
Her face burned—not from shyness, but fury mixed with something she hated recognizing.
Ling released her wrist, turned without another glance, and walked back to the girl holding the jersey.
She took it.
Pulled it on.
The noise followed her all the way to the tunnel.
Rhea stood frozen for a second longer—cheek warm, pulse loud—then sat back down hard, eyes fixed on the floor, hating the way her heart wouldn't calm.
Zifa leaned in, stunned. "Rhea… are you—"
"I'm fine," Rhea said sharply.
She wasn't.
Across the court, Mira watched with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
And Ling disappeared into the tunnel with her jersey back where it belonged.