Ling stepped into the café, tall, composed, dark coat sharp against the warm interior. Papers were tucked under her arm now, glasses on, expression unreadable.
Rhea's breath caught.
Her irritation shifted. Curled. Turned sharp.
She smiled.
Small. To herself.
"Oh," she murmured.
The boy followed her gaze. "What?"
"Nothing," Rhea said lightly—and leaned closer to him.
Deliberately.
She turned back toward the table, resting her elbow casually, chin in her hand. Her smile widened just enough to be noticed.
The boy blinked, surprised. "There it is."
"There's what?" Rhea asked sweetly.
"That smile," he said, leaning in too. "I knew it wasn't just attitude."
Rhea laughed softly—too soft, too controlled. She let him come closer. Let her shoulder brush his arm. Let it look easy.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Ling pause.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Good.
"You're not as cold as you pretend," the boy said.
Rhea tilted her head. "You don't know what I pretend."
Ling moved further inside the café.
Rhea's smile sharpened.
She leaned closer to the boy, lowering her voice. "You talk a lot."
"Only when someone's listening," he replied.
She laughed again, brighter this time. Intentional.
Ling passed their table.
Rhea didn't look at her.
Not directly.
But she shifted—just enough to look comfortable. Chose the angle carefully. Let the boy think he was winning something.
Ling stopped.
"You're in my seat," Ling said calmly.
The boy looked up, startled. "Uh—sorry?"
Rhea finally turned her head.
Their eyes met.
For half a second, the café disappeared.
Rhea smiled at Ling—slow, sweet, infuriating.
"Oh?" she said lightly. "I didn't see your name on it."
Ling's gaze flicked once—to the boy. Then back to Rhea.
"Enjoying yourself?" Ling asked.
Rhea leaned back, crossing her arms loosely. "Very much."
The boy glanced between them, sensing something but not understanding it. "You know each other?"
"No," Rhea said immediately.
Ling's jaw tightened.
"Not at all," Rhea added, still smiling. "Isn't that right, Professor?"
The word landed exactly where she wanted it to.
Ling's eyes darkened.
"Finish your coffee," Ling said to the boy. "You're done."
Rhea laughed softly. "See? Bossy."
Ling didn't look away from Rhea. "You don't want to be here."
The boy hesitated. "Rhea—"
Rhea cut him off gently. "It's fine."
She leaned closer to him again—just enough.
Ling's hand tightened around the papers.
Rhea felt it. The tension. The pull.
Good.
Let it burn.
Because it had burned her first.
Ling didn't raise her voice.
"Stand up," she said to the boy.
The café noise seemed to dip around them. Not silent—just thinner.
The boy looked at Ling, then at Rhea. His earlier confidence collapsed into something cautious.
"I—uh—okay," he said quickly.
He stood.
Ling's gaze didn't move from his face. "Get out."
No threat. No emphasis.
Fear did the work for her.
The boy grabbed his cup, nearly spilling it, and stepped back. Chairs scraped as he moved. He didn't argue. He didn't smile anymore.
Rhea stood too.
Smooth. Deliberate.
She reached for her bag, then looked at Ling, eyes bright with something sharp and satisfied.
"We'll go somewhere else," Rhea said lightly, turning to the boy. "Come on."
Ling's jaw tightened.
Just once.
Her fingers curled slightly against the stack of papers, knuckles whitening—but her face stayed calm. Controlled. Cold.
She didn't stop them.
Didn't speak.
Rhea passed her.
Close enough that Ling could smell her perfume again. Close enough that it hurt.
Rhea didn't look at her.
The door closed behind them.
The café noise rushed back in.
Ling stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then she turned.
The door to Ling's office slammed shut.
She threw the papers onto the desk hard enough that a pen bounced and rolled off the edge.
"Fuck," she muttered sharply.
She ran a hand through her hair, pacing once, twice.
Her control cracked.
"She did that on purpose," Ling said aloud to the empty room. "On purpose."
She shoved a chair back, the legs screeching against the floor.
Her fist hit the desk—not hard enough to break it. Hard enough to feel something.
"Childish," she snapped. "Petty."
Her breath came fast now.
The image replayed without mercy—Rhea's smile, the way she leaned in, the way she left without looking back.
Ling grabbed the edge of the desk, knuckles tight.
"She thinks I don't feel it," she said bitterly. "She thinks I don't see."
Her jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
"I kept my mouth shut," Ling whispered. "I kept it together."
She exhaled sharply, laughter cutting through it—dry, humorless.
"And she still walked out with him."
Ling straightened slowly, forcing her shoulders back, forcing the control to return inch by inch.
Her voice lowered. Cold again.
"Fine."
She picked up her pen, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the desk.
"If that's the game," she said quietly, "then I'll survive it."
The room went still.
But her hands were still shaking.
The class settled slowly after lunch, chairs scraping, low chatter fading as the door at the front opened.
Ling walked in.
The room straightened instinctively.
Glasses in place. Tablet under one arm. Her expression gave nothing away. If anyone looked closely, they would've seen the tightness in her jaw, the restraint pulled so fine it was almost invisible.
Rhea was already seated.
Middle row. Back straight. Face unreadable.
The boy from the café sat two seats away from her.
His name was Haris.
Ling noticed immediately.
She didn't react.
She placed her tablet on the podium, turned on the screen, and looked at the class like they were all equally irrelevant.
"Sit," she said.
The room obeyed.