Chapter Text
Ling wakes before the light fully settles into the room, and the morning already felt different from other mornings, as if the day is waiting for something to begin. Her eyes open slowly into a dimness that still belongs more to night than to morning, and for a few seconds she doesn’t move. She listens first.
The bed dips slightly behind her. It’s subtle, but she notices. She always does. A quiet exhale follows, warm against the back of her shoulder, and then the absence of space as someone settles closer than necessary.
Orm is awake.
Ling closes her eyes again for a moment, not to sleep, but to feel it, the closeness, the warmth, the way Orm’s hand finds her without thinking, moving slowly, tracing nothing in particular.
“You’re awake,” Orm says quietly, her voice still rough with sleep but already carrying that brightness underneath, the one that always seems ready to surface.
Ling opens her eyes again, her gaze resting on the wall in front of her. “You are too.”
“I woke up first,” Orm replies immediately, like it matters.
Ling hums softly, unconvinced.
There’s a brief pause, then Orm shifts again, closer this time, her arm sliding across Ling’s waist without hesitation. It’s a familiar weight, warm and grounding, settling into place like it belongs there… because it does. “Don’t move,” Orm murmurs, her voice quieter now, almost against Ling’s shoulder. “I’m comfortable.”
“You’re always comfortable,” Ling says.
“That’s because I make good choices.”
Ling doesn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth shifts slightly, the expression so small it almost disappears as soon as it forms. The light begins to change, the room brightening slowly as shadows soften along the edges. Orm’s fingers move again, tracing along Ling’s wrist, absent and unstructured, like she’s not fully aware of what she’s doing. Ling watches the movement out of the corner of her eye, her attention catching on the familiar rhythm of it, the way Orm always fills silence with touch instead of words. Then she notices the ring.
It catches the light softly, just enough to draw her in. Ling’s gaze lingers there, following the small movements of Orm’s hand. It looks the same as it always has, steady, exactly where it should be.
Her chest tightens slightly, not with doubt, but with the weight of what it means today, that this is the last moment before everything changes into something permanent.
“Are you thinking?” Orm asks suddenly.
“I’m always thinking.”
“Yeah, but like… more than usual.”
Ling considers the question for a moment, not because she doesn’t have an answer, but because she’s deciding whether it’s worth saying. “It’s early.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Ling says, turning her head slightly now, just enough to glance back at her.
Orm is watching her already, her hair still messy, her expression somewhere between curious and amused. There’s a softness to her like this that doesn’t exist later in the day, something unguarded that shows up only in these in-between moments.
“It’s today,” Orm says, like she needs to confirm it out loud.
Ling nods once.
Orm exhales, the sound quiet but full, like she’s releasing something she didn’t realize she was holding. Her arm tightens slightly around Ling’s waist, pulling her just a little closer. She shifts again, propping herself up slightly on one elbow so she can look at Ling more clearly. The movement causes the blanket to slip just enough that the air changes against Ling’s skin, cooler now where it had been warm.
“Are you nervous?” Orm asks, her tone softer this time, the question landing somewhere between curiosity and something she’s trying not to name.
Ling considers it for a moment, not because she doesn’t know the answer, but because she wants to feel it fully before she says it. “No.”
Orm studies her, her brows drawing together slightly. “I am.” She hesitates, then adds, quieter, “Why aren’t you nervous?”
Ling lifts a brow, calm as ever. “Should I be?”
“You’re getting married today,” Orm says, a small, incredulous smile pulling at her lips. “I would expect you to be.”
Ling watches her for a second longer, something softer settling into her expression. Then she shifts, turning fully toward her, closing the space between them until it disappears. Her hand comes up without hesitation, resting at Orm’s waist, steady and grounding as she draws her closer.
“Unless my bride is planning to leave me waiting at the altar,” Ling says quietly, her voice low and even, “I don’t feel like I should be.”
Orm exhales a small laugh, but it fades quickly, her attention caught entirely by the way Ling is looking at her now.
Ling’s hand remains where it is, her thumb brushing lightly against the fabric at Orm’s side, absent but deliberate. “Today is the day you become mine,” she says, softer now. “For the rest of my life.” She holds her gaze. “That’s not something to be nervous about.”
Something in Orm’s expression shifts immediately, the tension in her shoulders easing as the words settle. She looks at Ling like she’s trying to decide whether to be moved or annoyed, and ends up somewhere in between. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, her voice warmer now, softer. “And so cheesy, oh my god.”
Ling’s mouth curves faintly. “And still, you said yes.”
Orm doesn’t hesitate. “You’re pretty,” she says, like it explains everything.
Ling huffs a quiet breath, almost a laugh.
Orm leans in just slightly, her hand finding Ling’s sleeve this time, holding onto her without thinking. “Also,” she adds, softer, “you’re mine too. Don’t forget that part.”
Ling’s gaze softens. “I won’t,” she says.
Orm leans forward slightly, resting her forehead briefly against Ling’s shoulder, her breath warm, her presence grounding. “Don’t go too far,” she murmurs.
“I won’t.” she says.
Orm nods, like that’s enough.
They stay like that longer than either of them needs to.
The room continues brightening around them, morning settling more fully into the corners. For a moment, it still feels like theirs alone.
Then the house below begins to stir, doors open and close, footsteps cross the hall, someone calls for something from downstairs and receives no answer, then calls again louder, faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen, followed by laughter.
Life is moving forward without them.
Orm does not seem concerned.
Her forehead is still resting against Ling’s shoulder, her arm still draped across Ling’s waist. Ling can feel the slow rhythm of her breathing, the way it deepens and shallows against her side. It would be easy to remain exactly like this until someone came upstairs and dragged them into the day by force.
“You know they’re going to come looking for you,” she says quietly.
“They can look.”
“They will find you.”
“Then they’ll know where I am.”
Ling feels Orm smile against her shoulder before she lifts her head. Her hair falls forward messily, one side flattened from the pillow, the other escaping in loose waves that make her softer. She studies Ling’s face for a moment like searching for signs of something she still hasn’t found.
“You really aren’t nervous,” she says.
“You keep asking.”
“Because I don’t trust it.”
Ling’s mouth shifts slightly. “You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone who looks this calm on a day like today.”
“It’s too early for drama.”
“It is never too early for drama.”
“That explains a lot.”
Orm lets out a short laugh and reaches over to pinch Ling lightly at the side. The touch is playful, quick, gone before it can be anything else, but Ling catches her wrist on instinct before she can pull away.
It is such a small thing that it should mean nothing. Ling’s hand around her wrist. Her thumb resting against the pulse there without pressure. Orm’s eyes flick down to where they are touching and then back up again, something quieter replacing the easy humor she had been wearing.
Ling becomes aware, suddenly, of how warm her skin is.
She releases her.
Orm doesn’t move immediately. She remains where she is, wrist still half lifted between them, watching Ling with a look that has no sharpness in it at all. “You do that sometimes,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Touch me first.”
Ling blinks once.
Orm lowers her hand slowly, but she keeps looking at Ling. “Not often. You don’t notice when you do it.”
Ling says nothing. Because it was probably true.
There are things she does around Orm that she has never done around anyone else, habits formed so gradually she never marked their beginning. Reaching to straighten a collar. Letting her hand rest briefly at the small of Orm’s back when guiding her through a crowded room. Brushing crumbs from her sleeve. Taking a wrist without thinking.
With anyone else, touch requires intention. With Orm, it has become language.
Ling pushes the blanket aside and swings her legs out of bed. Cool air moves across skin still warm from sleep. Behind her, Orm makes a sound of complaint so dramatic it would be laughable if it weren’t so sincere.
“You’re abandoning me.”
“I’m getting ready.”
“You can do that later.”
“We have a schedule.” She crosses to the window and draws the curtain back fully. Light spills into the room in a brighter rush now, filling the space all at once.
Outside, the garden below is already busy. Staff move between tables and floral arrangements. Someone carries boxes toward the side entrance. White fabric shifts in the morning breeze where part of the outdoor setup has already been arranged. The sky above it all is clear, washed pale at the edges and deepening blue higher up.
Behind her, the mattress creaks as Orm finally gets up. There is the sound of bare feet against the floor, followed by movement that is too close too quickly. A pair of arms circles Ling from behind, slipping around her waist with practiced ease.
Ling rests her hands lightly over Orm’s forearms without thinking. They stand like that for a moment, facing the window, the room bright around them.
From downstairs comes another burst of laughter. Someone drops something metallic. A voice says Orm’s name in a tone that suggests impatience.
Orm tightens her hold slightly.
“They need you,” Ling says.
“They always need me.”
“And?”
“And I’m busy.”
Ling turns her head just enough to glance back at her. “Doing what?”
Orm thinks about it seriously. “Being clingy.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“It’s a skill.”
Ling lets herself lean back for one brief second, enough to feel the warmth of her fully, enough that Orm notices and goes still with satisfaction.
There had been a time when mornings like this felt impossible.
Not because they did not care for each other, but because caring had arrived before clarity. Their early years had been crowded with schedules, public scrutiny, misunderstandings, the strange pressure of being seen too much and understood too little. They had learned each other in fragments stolen between obligations. Airports. Makeup chairs. Car rides. Hallways outside studios. Calls that began late and ended later.
Now real life is here. Messy and domestic and full of half finished drinks and misplaced shoes.
“You went quiet,” Orm says behind her.
“I’m thinking.”
“That never ends well for me.”
“It’s not about you.”
Orm gasps softly. “Cruel.”
Ling turns in her arms then, forcing Orm to loosen her hold enough to let her pivot. They end up face to face, close enough that Ling can see the faint smudge of eyeliner at the corner of one eye, the tiny crease left on her cheek from the pillow.
Without comment, Ling lifts a hand and wipes the smudge away with her thumb. Orm catches it before her hand falls fully and brings it to her own chest, pressing Ling’s palm lightly there. Her heartbeat is quick beneath skin and cotton.
“See?” she says softly. “Nervous.”
Ling leaves her hand where it is for a moment, her thumb resting lightly over the back of Orm’s hand, steady without pressure. “You’ll be fine,” she says, quieter this time, the reassurance more felt than spoken.
Orm watches her, her expression softening. “I know,” she murmurs.
Ling’s gaze lingers on her a second longer before her lips curve faintly, something small and unguarded.
Orm notices immediately, like she always does, her eyes warming with it. “There you are,” she says, almost to herself.
Ling doesn’t answer, but the softness stays.
A voice calls from the hallway, breaking the quiet just enough to remind them the day is already moving without them.
“Orm!”
Orm exhales, not quite annoyed, just reluctant. “I’ll be there,” she calls back, though she doesn’t move right away.
Ling steps back first, reaching for the clothes laid out nearby, her movements calm and familiar. She can feel Orm’s gaze on her without needing to look, steady and unhidden.
“You should go,” Ling says gently.
“In a second.”
Ling glances at her, and for a moment neither of them moves.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Orm says quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to miss something.”
Ling’s expression softens further, almost imperceptibly. “You’re not.”
Orm holds her gaze, like she’s committing the moment to memory anyway. “I know,” she says.
The door opens a crack and Orm’s mother peers inside first. Her eyes move from Orm to Ling to the general state of the room, taking in everything instantly. “I knew it,” she says.
“Good morning to you too,” Orm replies.
“You’re late.” She then looks at Ling with affection. “Good morning, Ling.”
“Good morning,Mae.” Ling says.
“Please marry her quickly,” she says. “She’s impossible before noon.”
“I heard that,” Orm says.
“You were meant to.”
She disappears again, the door closing behind her.
Orm sighs dramatically. “No one respects me in my own family.”
“They know you.”
“That should inspire more compassion.”
Ling picks up the suit bag carefully and lays it across the bed, the zipper still untouched since it was hung the night before. They had been kept apart on purpose, every detail handled separately, down to this. She hadn’t seen what Orm would be wearing, and Orm hadn’t seen this.
Behind her, Orm quiets.
When Ling glances back, she finds her watching with an expression she doesn’t wear often. No performance in it. No joke waiting behind the eyes. Just feeling.
“What?” Ling asks softly.
Orm steps closer. “I think I’ve been moving so fast I didn’t let it become real in my head.” Her voice drops. “And now you’re standing there with that and suddenly it is.”
Something warm and tender moves through Ling so quickly she almost misses it. She reaches out and straightens the lapel of the stolen blazer still hanging off Orm’s shoulders. “You can still run,” she says.
Orm stares at her for half a beat, horrified. “Take it back.”
Ling’s face remains calm. “Think about it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You said you were nervous.”
“I’m nervous about table arrangements and crying in public, not about you.”
“Good,” Ling says. Something in her settling after hearing the certainty in Orm’s words.
Orm exhales. “You are terrifyingly casual about emotional moments.”
“You talk enough for both of us.”
“That is true,” Orm admits.
Another knock sounds. More urgent this time.
Orm groans, dragging both hands down her face. “Fine. I’m coming.” She points at Ling as she backs toward the door. “Do not become mysteriously prettier while I’m gone.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, actually don’t try. Fail.” Then she is gone in a rush of motion and perfume and unfinished energy, the door swinging shut behind her.
The room quiets again but the silence Orm leaves behind is never complete. Even when she is no longer in the room, some version of her remains suspended in the air. Ling stands still for a moment after the door closes, listening to the footsteps retreat down the hallway, quick and uneven at first, then slowing when another voice catches her. There is a burst of conversation outside, Orm speaking over someone else with cheerful confidence, then laughter, then the sound of both voices fading toward the stairs.
Only then does the room become properly quiet.
Ling exhales and turns back toward the bed. She lifts the hanger, letting the suit fall into its full shape, clean lines settling into place as if it already knows how it should be worn. She had chosen it months ago and then spent weeks pretending she hadn’t thought about it much after.
She carries it to the mirror and hangs it where the light reaches it fully. For a moment, she looks at it, then at herself, composed enough to pass for calm.
Believable for most people. Not for Orm.
There had been a time when that felt dangerous.
Back then, they were still learning how to stand near each other without turning every small interaction into something charged. They had not yet named what existed between them, which somehow made it stronger. Ling remembers sitting in the makeup chair at the studio one afternoon while stylists moved around her in circles. She had barely slept the night before and thought she was hiding it well.
Orm had walked in late, apologizing to no one in particular, then stopped in front of Ling and frowned.
“You didn’t eat.”
Ling had looked at her in the mirror. “Good morning.”
Orm didn’t move, her gaze lingering just a second longer. “You didn’t eat,” she said again, quieter this time.
Ling glanced at her reflection, then back at Orm. “How do you know?”
Orm shrugged lightly. “You get quieter when you haven’t.”
Ling didn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth shifted slightly, like she’d been caught.
A few minutes later, a protein bar appeared in her lap without comment.
No one else had noticed anything but Orm always did.
Ling blinks, the memory dissolving as the present settles back around her.
Once she’s done with her skincase routine, she looks out the window. The garden has grown busier. Workers move between floral arrangements carrying bundles of greenery and folded linens. Two men adjust a white arch near the far end of the lawn, stepping back every few seconds to judge symmetry. Someone below points emphatically at a table and three others immediately begin moving it six inches to the left.
Ling watches them for a moment.
There is another knock at the door, gentler this time, followed by it opening only after a pause.
Junji slips inside first, balancing two cups of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Fluke follows behind her carrying nothing, which feels consistent enough that Ling barely notices it.
“We bring offerings,” Junji says.
“We bring judgment,” Fluke corrects, closing the door with his hip. His eyes move around the room, taking in the suit, the bed, the obvious signs that Orm had been here minutes ago. “And evidence.”
Ling takes the coffee Junji offers her. “Good morning.”
“Debatable,” Fluke says. “I was awake earlier than usual because your future wife has the energy of six children.”
“That seems low,” Junji says.
“It was an estimate.”
Ling takes a sip. It is exactly how she likes it. “You knew what to order,” she says to Junji.
“You’ve had the same coffee for ten years.”
Fluke sets the paper bag on the table and begins unpacking pastries quietly. He has known Ling long enough not to make a ceremony out of kindness. “You need to eat,” He says.
“I know.”
They settle into the room easily, as if no invitation was needed. With them, it never is. Junji sits near the window, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, while Fluke sprawls wherever space exists, immediately making himself comfortable in a chair that was not designed for how he uses furniture.
Ling has always loved that about friendship, the places where effort disappears.
“You look calm,” Junji says after a moment.
“She’s being weirdly calm,” Fluke agrees. “I expected at least one controlled spiral.”
“I don’t spiral.”
“You internalize,” Fluke says. “More elegant, same damage.”
Ling tears a pastry in half. “Thank you for coming.”
Junji looks up immediately, hearing what sits underneath the words. “We were always coming.”
“I know.”
Fluke points at her with his pastry. “Also, if we missed this, I’d never forgive myself.”
Ling’s mouth shifts slightly. “You would’ve come anyway.”
“Obviously,” he says. “But now I get to be dramatic about it.”
Junji shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
They had been there from the beginning. Before Ling understood what was happening, before she had words for it, when everything between her and Orm had been something easy to dismiss if she didn’t look at it too closely. They had seen it long before she did, had let it unfold at its own pace,they never pushed, never asked for more than she was ready to give. And they had been there when she finally allowed herself to see it.
It only makes sense that they’re here now.
“Where is the future wife?” Fluke asks now.
“Being styled,” Ling says.
“Praying for the stylist,” he mutters.
Junji rises eventually and walks to the suit, studying it with respectful distance. “It’s beautiful,” she says.
Ling watches her touch the edge of the fabric lightly between two fingers, careful not to disturb it.
“You okay?” she asks without turning.
It is a better question than asking if she is nervous.
Ling takes a breath. “Yes.”
Junji nods once, accepting the answer while still hearing around it.
Fluke is less subtle. “Do you want the honest version of what your face says?”
“No.”
“It says yes,” he says anyway. “It says you’re happy enough to be scared of it.”
Ling looks at him.
He shrugs. “I contain multitudes.”
She wants to dismiss it, but it lands too accurately. Because beneath the calm, beneath the steadiness everyone mistakes for certainty, there is something vulnerable and bright she does not entirely know what to do with.
Happiness can feel more exposing than fear.
Junji is the first to move, setting her cup aside as if she’s suddenly remembered something that needs doing. “We should probably go before we get in the way,” she says, easy and unforced.
Fluke lingers a second longer, looking between them like he’s considering one last comment, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he steps closer and presses a quick kiss to the side of Ling’s head, softer than his usual theatrics. “Don’t disappear,” he mutters, half teasing, half sincere.
“I won’t,” Ling says.
Junji gives her shoulder a brief squeeze as she passes, quiet and steady, and then they’re gone, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
The room settles around the absence they leave.
Ling remains where she is, her gaze lingering on the door for a moment longer, as if something of the conversation still hangs in the air. The quiet shifts, fuller now, holding more than just silence.
She hears Orm before she sees her.
The shift in movement, the way the air changes when she’s near, the soft sound of her steps slowing as she reaches the doorway, like she’s suddenly unsure whether to interrupt or not. Orm steps in anyway. She doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, she crosses the space between them in a few quiet steps and reaches for Ling’s hand. She holds, grounding herself there.
Ling looks at her then.
Orm hesitates for a second, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of Ling’s hand, like she’s deciding whether to speak or let the moment pass.
“I had a dream last week that you didn’t show up,” she says finally, her voice softer than before.
Ling’s expression doesn’t change, but her attention sharpens.
Orm shrugs one shoulder, attempting something casual and missing it entirely. “It was stupid. Everyone was there. Flowers everywhere. I looked amazing.” A small breath leaves her. “And you just… didn’t come.”
“Did I give a reason?” Ling asks quietly.
“No,” Orm says. “Which was honestly rude.”
Ling studies her face. Beneath the lightness, the feeling is still there, sitting quietly between the words. “Was that why you asked if I was nervous this morning?” she asks.
Orm’s eyes flick away briefly. “Maybe.”
“And why you keep appearing in my room?”
A faint smile touches Orm’s mouth. “I live there.”
“You know what I mean.”
Orm exhales softly, her hand tightening just slightly around Ling’s. “I know you love me,” she says. “I know that. It’s not about that.”
“What is it about?”
She hesitates, and Ling can almost see her deciding whether to deflect or say it plainly.
“Sometimes when things matter too much,” Orm says, quieter now, her thumb still moving lightly against Ling’s skin, “my brain starts looking for exits. Ways it could go wrong. Things I could lose before I’ve even lost them.”.
Ling steps closer. She doesn’t rush it, just closes the distance until there’s no space left to fill. Her free hand lifts, resting briefly at Orm’s waist before sliding upward, slow and certain, until she’s holding her face between her hands.
Orm stills immediately.
“You’re here,” Ling says, her voice low, steady. “I’m here.” Her thumbs brush lightly along Orm’s cheeks, grounding, deliberate. “Nothing is wrong.”
The tension in Orm’s expression softens under the touch, her shoulders loosening as she exhales. “You make everything sound easy,” she murmurs.
Ling’s gaze doesn’t waver. “No,” she says quietly. “I make this sound true.”
Orm lets out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh, her eyes bright with something she won’t name out loud. “That was… dangerously romantic,” she says.
“I can stop.”
“Don’t you dare.”
She leans in instinctively, closing the last bit of space, but Ling tips her chin up just slightly, stopping her before their lips meet.
“Lipstick,” Ling says, softer now.
Orm groans under her breath, but there’s no real protest in it. “You’re cruel.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
Ling’s hands linger a second longer before she lets her go.
Orm doesn’t move right away.
For a moment they simply remain there, close enough to share breath, the noise of the house dimmed around them.
Then, from downstairs, her name is called, distant at first, then again, closer.
A coordinator appears at the staircase, apologetic and slightly breathless. “Sorry, there’s a delivery issue with the family gift table. They said it needs approval from you specifically.”
Ling blinks once. “Now?”
“I’m so sorry. They said urgent.”
Of course they did.
Ling exhales quietly, then glances back at Orm, who’s already watching her, the shift in her expression immediate.
“I’ll be quick,” Ling says, softer now, meant only for her, her hand brushing lightly against Orm’s arm, a brief, grounding touch. “I’ll come right back.”
Orm holds her gaze for a second, like she’s weighing something she doesn’t quite say, then nods once. “You better.”
Ling’s mouth curves faintly.She hesitates for just a second longer, then puts on her jacket and follows the coordinator downstairs.
As they make their way down, the coordinator continues apologizing as she leads her through it all. “It should only take a minute. They said they needed confirmation on placement, and no one wanted to decide without you.”
“That’s fine,” Ling says.
It is fine. Or at least it would be, under any circumstances except this one.
The gift table has been arranged near the side terrace where guests will pass before moving into the garden. Boxes wrapped in elegant paper sit among framed photographs and flower arrangements. Family heirlooms, congratulatory gifts from friends, etc....
The issue reveals itself immediately.
Two framed photographs have been placed at opposite ends of the table.
The coordinator wrings her hands. “They thought maybe childhood photos should be grouped together, but then someone said the table should represent both families equally, and then someone else said chronological storytelling matters.”
Ling looks at the table. “Put them next to each other,” she says.
The woman blinks. “That’s all?”
“Yes.”
As others begin rearranging the display, Ling remains where she is, her gaze settling again on the photographs now being moved side by side. Orm, fearless even then. Ling, all restraint and adaptation. Two girls living entirely separate lives with no knowledge of the other.
Seven years ago, if someone had shown her these images and told her they belonged on the same table, she would have thought it was sentimental nonsense.
Now it feels obvious.
A voice behind her says, “You looked serious even as a child.”
Ling turns.
Junji stands in the doorway to the terrace, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a champagne flute she has no business having this early. Fluke is beside her with two more somehow acquired pastries.
“You’re meant to be upstairs,” Ling says.
“We were scouting emotional support routes,” Junji replies. “Also free food routes.”
Fluke glances at the photos. “That’s nice.”
“It was chaos five minutes ago,” Ling says.
“Every wedding has one symbolic crisis,” Junji says. “Last year I went to one where an aunt hid the cake knife because she thought the bride looked underfed.”
Ling almost smiles.
Junji notices anyway. “How long were they planning to keep you down here?”
“I don’t think anyone planned anything.”
“That is always when things happen,” she says mildly.
They step outside together onto the terrace where the air is warmer now, carrying the scent of cut grass and fresh flowers. Nearby someone from the music team tests the speakers again. A piano phrase drifts across the lawn, clearer this time. It is one Orm had chosen immediately and then defended dramatically for weeks as if anyone had been arguing with her.
“It sounds like a movie,” she had said.
“You cry during movies,” Ling had replied.
“That means I know quality.”
Fluke nudges Ling lightly. “You’ve gone somewhere.”
“I’m here.”
“Barely.”
She exhales. “I was thinking.”
“That face always means danger,” he says.
Junji glances sideways at her. “Cold feet?”
“No.”
“Warm feet?” Fluke offers.
“Shut up.”
“There she is,” he says, satisfied.
Ling looks back toward the garden.
No, not cold feet. Not that. If anything, the opposite. There is something deeply exposing about wanting something this much and receiving it. Fear is easier to manage than happiness. Fear can be prepared for. Happiness asks you to stand still and accept it.
She has never been naturally gifted at standing still inside joy.
A member of staff appears in the doorway behind them, breathless. “Miss Ling, they’re asking for you.”
“See?” Fluke says. “The bride wanders for three minutes and society collapses.”
Junji sets her untouched champagne on a side table. “Come on.”
They move back through the house together, but halfway to the stairs Ling slows.
“My phone,” she says.
“What about it?” Junji asks.
“I left it in the study.”
“I’ll get it,” she says immediately.
“It’s fine, I know where it is.”
Fluke gestures dramatically toward the staircase. “We are not delaying this event because you’re independent.”
“I’ll be thirty seconds.”
Junji studies her face, then nods. “We’ll cover for you.”
“You can’t cover for me.”
“We’ll create confusion.”
“That I believe.”
She turns down the side corridor toward the study while they continue ahead.
The room is empty when she enters.
It smells faintly of paper and polished wood, cooler than the rest of the house because the curtains have been half drawn against the sun. Her phone lies on the desk exactly where she left it beside a stack of envelopes and an open notebook filled with someone else’s handwriting.
When she picks it up, the screen lights immediately.
Three unread messages from Orm.
[My Love ❤️]
Where are you
If you escaped I’ll respect it but only briefly
Come back I miss you
Ling’s mouth softens.
She types only On my way.
Three dots appear almost instantly, then vanish.
Then another message Good. Don’t go too far.
She stares at it for a second longer than necessary.
A memory surfaces without warning, years earlier, after one of their first real fights. Ling had left first, needing distance to think. She had driven with no destination, phone ignored in the passenger seat until it began vibrating over and over. When she finally answered, Orm had said, with startling quietness, “You can be angry. Just don’t disappear.”
Ling had turned the car around before the call ended.
She slips the phone into her hand now and heads back toward the foyer.
Outside, a car horn sounds once, then again, louder this time, closer than it should be.
There is sudden movement near the front entrance. Voices shift in tone like crowds do when something minor goes wrong and everyone wants to be first to witness it. Ling steps faster, rounding the final corner just as a member of security rushes through the open doors speaking into an earpiece.
“What happened?” someone asks.
“Nothing,” another voice says too quickly.
But there is enough confusion now that people are turning toward the drive, craning to see.
Ling reaches the threshold.
A delivery van has angled badly near the front gate, blocking part of the lane after clipping one of the decorative stone posts. No one appears hurt. Two staff members are already gesturing furiously at the driver. Security is redirecting incoming cars.
Minor chaos.
Nothing more.
Ling exhales once, tension leaving as quickly as it came.
Her phone vibrates in her hand.
My Love ❤️ calling.
Ling answers immediately. “Hello?”
“Was that a crash?” Orm asks without greeting.
“It was a van.”
“Why are you near a van?”
“I’m near the front door.”
“Why?”
“You ask many questions.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” Ling says, her voice softening. She steps back inside, away from the noise, letting the quiet settle around her again. “I’m not running away,” she adds, gentler now. “There was a bit of a commotion out front, but everything’s fine.”
There is a pause on the line, full of all the things Orm doesn’t say first. “Come upstairs” She says.
“I’m coming now.”
“Immediately.”
Ling’s mouth curves faintly. “You’re bossy.”
“I’m anxious.”
“That too.”
Another pause.
Then, softer, “I can’t see you from here.”
Something warm and aching moves through Ling so suddenly it catches her off guard. “I’m coming,” she says again. She ends the call and starts toward the stairs, but the wedding coordinator intercepts her halfway, pale and sweating.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “We need one signature before we begin. The venue release for drone filming. They won’t launch without it.”
Ling closes her eyes briefly. “Where?”
“Outside. Just by the drive. Thirty seconds.”
Somewhere upstairs, Orm is waiting.
Somewhere inside Ling, a small instinct says no.
For a brief moment, she thinks of Junji and Fluke, how easily they would have stepped in, how they had already tried to, how they were meant to be the ones handling things like this. She could have let them.
But the coordinator looks close to tears.
“Thirty seconds,” Ling says.
The sun is bright now, warm against her shoulders. Cars start arriving in a slow procession beyond the gates. The lane curves down toward the road lined with flowering trees, their shadows shifting across the pavement.
“Here,” the assistant says, fumbling with pages. “Just one signature at the bottom.”
Ling takes the pen.
Her phone buzzes again in her other hand.
My Love ❤️ calling.
Ling signs quickly, glancing down at the screen with an involuntary smile.
She presses accept and lifts the phone to her ear as she steps away from the cluster of staff. “I said I’m coming.”
“You’re taking forever,” Orm says. “I’m about to come get you myself.”
“You’re not allowed.”
“Watch me.”
Ling turns toward the lane, still smiling. “I always come back,” She says.
A horn blares, sharp and sudden, far too loud and far too close.
Ling looks up.
A car is coming through the gate faster than it should, swerving wide to avoid the blocked van, tires skidding against stone.
There is no time for thought, only sensation, the violent brightness of sunlight on glass, the impossible speed of something suddenly wrong, voices shouting from every direction at once.
The phone slips from her hand.
Someone screams her name.
The last thing Ling hears clearly is Orm’s voice through the fallen receiver, sharp with terror, calling for her again and again.
Then the world strikes sideways, and everything goes dark.