Ling rose from the chair with unhurried precision.
The movement alone shifted the air.
She stepped forward.
Then—unexpectedly—she lowered herself.
Kneeling.
Directly in front of Rhea.
A ripple went through the crowd. Even the music seemed to hesitate, the beat stretching thinner.
Rhea's breath faltered.
Ling rested one knee on the floor, the other bent, posture controlled even in submission. Her presence didn't shrink—it intensified. Being lower only brought her closer, more dangerous.
The screen behind them reacted instantly.
Rhea's heart rate jumped.
Ling noticed out of the corner of her eye.
Interesting.
She leaned in, close enough that the edge of her mask brushed Rhea's. Her voice dropped, intimate, meant for only one person.
"You're holding yourself too rigid," Ling murmured.
The familiar cadence—low, deliberate, precise—
Rhea's pulse surged again.
Ling inhaled before she could stop herself.
The scent hit her.
Subtle. Clean. Familiar in a way that scraped something raw inside her chest.
Her own breath went uneven for half a second.
Ling stilled.
No, she told herself sharply. This is not that.
She tightened control immediately, schooling her breathing back into calm, refusing the thought before it could bloom.
No hallucinations now. Just chemistry. Just response. Nothing more.
Her left hand came to rest on Rhea's thigh.
Firm pressure. Anchoring. Intentional.
Her other hand closed gently but decisively around Rhea's wrist, thumb pressing lightly at the inside where the pulse beat too fast.
The monitor spiked.
A sharp rise.
Gasps echoed faintly from the audience.
Ling didn't look at the screen this time. She didn't need to.
She leaned closer to Rhea's ear, breath warm through the mask.
"Stay with me," Ling whispered. "Don't fight it."
The words were instinctive.
Rhea's fingers curled suddenly—betrayal before thought—gripping Ling's shoulders as if the floor had tilted beneath her. Not pulling closer. Not pushing away.
Steadying.
Ling froze for a fraction of a second.
The contact sent a shock through her system, swift and unwanted.
Her shoulders remembered those hands.
Her body reacted before her mind could stop it.
The heart-rate line on the screen surged violently.
But this time—
Not just one.
Ling's own monitor, worn discreetly beneath her sleeve for official reasons, spiked as well.
She clenched her jaw.
Control, she ordered herself. Now.
She didn't pull away. She didn't lean in further.
She let Rhea hold on.
Ling lifted her head just enough to meet Rhea's gaze through the masks.
Eyes to eyes.
The air between them tightened, heavy and unspoken.
Rhea's chest rose and fell too quickly.
Ling's voice, when she spoke again, was steadier—but quieter.
She said softly, not knowing why that was the sentence that came out. "I won't let you fall."
Rhea's grip tightened for a heartbeat.
Then—slowly—she forced herself to release Ling's shoulders, hands returning to her own lap with visible effort.
The signal stabilized high.
Sustained.
Perfect.
Ling straightened just a little, her hands remaining where they were—grounding, deliberate, unchanging.
She spoke one final time, a controlled whisper meant only to guide.
"Breathe in," Ling instructed.
Rhea obeyed.
"Out," Ling said.
The number dipped—then steadied again at an even higher baseline.
The judges exchanged looks.
The host leaned forward, eyes bright.
Other pairs were losing ground. One pair's numbers crashed completely. Another's plateaued.
Ling slowly withdrew her hand from Rhea's thigh.
Then from her wrist.
She rose smoothly to her feet, stepping back into her space as if nothing had happened.
Rhea remained seated, spine rigid, pulse still racing, eyes locked forward.
The music faded.
The screen froze.
Their line was the highest.
Ling stood composed, unreadable.
Rhea sat shaking inside, silent by necessity.
The host's voice rang out at last.
"Round Two… complete."
Applause erupted.
Ling did not look at Rhea again.
Rhea did not dare look at Ling.
The hall shifted the moment the announcement was made.
No music this time.
No teasing tone.
No playful suspense.
The host stood still, voice clear, sharp enough to cut.
"Final round," she said. "Three pairs remain."
Applause thundered, then faded.
"This round is simple."
A pause.
"Each pair will kiss."
The word landed heavy.
"The pair that maintains the kiss the longest—without breaking contact—will be declared the winner."
A murmur swept through the crowd. Anticipation turned electric.
Ling didn't react.
Rhea felt the blood drain from her face beneath the mask.
"Rules," the host continued calmly. "Masks may be removed only if required for the kiss. No names. No talking beyond what is necessary. Judges will watch closely."
She gestured once. "Begin when ready."
Ling's hand came to Rhea's waist immediately.
Not gently.
Not hesitantly.
Firm. Possessive. As if her body already knew the truth her mind had been refusing.
Rhea gasped softly as she was pulled to her feet, pulled close—too close. Their bodies aligned instinctively, muscle memory overriding months of distance and denial.
Ling's grip tightened.
Her heart was already racing.
She could feel it now—no screen needed. The way Rhea fit. The way her breath stuttered. The familiar heat that made control feel suddenly fragile.
She's here, Ling's instincts screamed.
No, her mind snapped back. Focus.
Ling lifted her other hand.
Her fingers reached for the edge of the mask.
The host had said masks could be removed if needed.
For the kiss—it was needed.