Lin was never as careless as people assumed.
If anything, she was unusually sensitive to details—she just didn't point them out. She noticed, filed them away, and let them sit.
Her first impression of Yeh had been clear: quiet, rational, grounded. Someone who looked after others instinctively, yet always kept a careful distance.
The first time they met, Lin noticed three things almost immediately.
Yeh's gaze was steady and clean. Not evasive, but cautious.
Her speech was structured and logical—until the conversation turned to the works she loved, when her restraint loosened without her realizing it.
And when they sat on the carpet talking about creative ideas, Yeh relaxed completely. In that moment, she felt real in a way that couldn't be rehearsed.
Those details gave Lin a sense that Yeh was… different.
Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to stir curiosity.
It was the kind of pull that people like Lin, outgoing and constantly surrounded by attention, felt toward those who stayed slightly out of reach.
Lin and Jing had always worked together—shooting content, traveling, taking on brand deals. People assumed they were a couple. They didn't bother correcting it. Clarifying would only reduce its business value.
Lin had known from Fiona that Yeh would be in Bangkok for New Year's. The anticipation had been building quietly, long before she admitted it to herself.
So when Yeh disappeared at noon and went to the museum alone, Lin noticed.
She asked casually, "Why didn't you call us?"
What she actually meant was something else.
Why are you avoiding me?
Is it because of how close I am to Jing?
Or is it because you feel something—and don't know what to do with it?
Yeh's reply was gentle, polite, and carefully bounded.
That distance didn't push Lin away. It confirmed something.
Yeh was the type who wouldn't show her feelings—even if she had them.
At the bar that night, Lin leaned against Yeh's shoulder partly because she had been drinking.
But not only because of that.
Yeh kept retreating. Not obviously—but constantly. As if she were walking along an invisible line, careful never to cross it.
Lin thought, She's too far away.
She wanted to know what would happen if she closed the distance.
It wasn't desire. It wasn't strategy.
Just a quiet, instinctive curiosity.
Is she pretending to be calm—or is she simply afraid to move closer?
The moment Lin leaned over, she felt Yeh tense completely.
Someone like Lin—used to being liked, pursued, wanted—couldn't help but feel drawn to people who cared but refused to say so.
The third time she asked, "Do you like women?", the words slipped out before she could stop herself.
That question wasn't pressure. It was a careful test.
I can feel what you're holding back. If you won't say it, let me loosen the wall—just a little.
When midnight came, the hugs happened naturally.
She hugged Jing out of habit.
She hugged Fiona out of warmth and courtesy.
But she saved Yeh for last.
Because Yeh would never step forward on her own.
If Lin didn't close the distance, Yeh never would.
The hug was light. Intentional. She lingered for a second longer than necessary.
She wanted to know—would Yeh hold her back?
Yeh didn't. Not really.
Just a restrained, polite return. Careful. Measured.
Lin felt a flicker of disappointment.
And relief.
Because it meant this:
Yeh liked her—but wouldn't cross a line.
She cared—but protected the boundary more than the feeling.
That kind of affection—the kind that holds itself back—is the one that softens you the most.