when i talk to you (cupid walks right through)

Ling groaned as she threw her alarm into snooze for the third time, acutely aware that she’d pushed her luck enough. Without waiting for the extra five minutes the snooze gave her, she pushed her sheets off her body and let her feet hang off the bed as she slowly massaged her temples — the hours she’d stolen from the day the night before manifested in a dull ache right behind her eyes.

She reached over to the bottle of water next to her legs, wincing from the sharp pang of pain the movement caused. Taking tentative sips, she walked over to her washroom, hoping to squeeze in a quick shower before brushing. By the time she was done with her morning routine, her phone was buzzing again with reminders for the day.

The first thing she noticed were two unanswered texts, sent few minutes apart. A ‘Good morning. Landed in Tokyo safe. Let’s take a trip here sometime.’ She tried to push down the feeling in her chest that wondered if he had included Nim in his plans — a part of her hated herself for questioning it. Right under it was a message that only made the knot in her chest twist harder.

Good morning Ling. Sorry I had to cut our conversation short last night. Have a good day. Orm. Apologising for something that wasn’t even her fault. If anything, Ling kept her awake beyond her bedtime — the word seemed oddly humorous when used for an adult.

She swiped up to reveal three reminders — two for Nim, one for herself. As she walked down the stairs, careful to watch her step, she tried to recall if she’d packed Nim’s sports shoes. She remembered packing her overnight bag for the sleepover at her classmate’s house but her sleep-addled brain couldn’t put together the pieces after that. Almost like thinking of her summoned her, Nim stepped out of her room, using the heels of her palms to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

“Mom,” she half-murmured, her voice still hoarse. On instinct, Ling wrapped her arms around Nim and peppered the top of her head with kisses till she squealed in her arms. “Did you pack my sneakers?”

“I think I did. Will you check for me? In your sleepover bag?” Lingling said, smoothening out tufts of Nim’s hair that were still charged from the static from her pillow.

Lingling watched Nim race to her room with a smile, adding another skip in her daughter’s step by announcing she was making waffles.

“Shoes secured!” Nim yelled from her room. Ling reached for her phone again, striking out the two reminders set for Nim. There was only one action item left — a meeting with a gallery in Wang Mai after lunch. She spent the next few minutes matching their schedules — checking if she could pick Nim up from school after — as she poured the waffle mix into the pan.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur — Nim rushing out of the house with half a waffle clutched between her teeth, Lingling rushing to make sure she took her lunchbox. When she finally sat down to eat, her thoughts drifted to something her mind caught subconsciously earlier — a free evening. A rare, free evening — no meetings, no obligations.

She considered staying in and painting and maybe watching a movie she had been meaning to but she knew they were all excuses, distractions from what she actually wanted to do — the first thought that crossed her mind. A certain promise — non-binding as it was — to a certain person, hovering around her in the unanswered text on her phone.

And right above it, flooding her chest with equal parts relief and doubt, the text from Apichai. Something about seeing their names so close to each other, presented almost like a choice, landed like an anchor in her gut. Her finger moved like it had a mind of its own, her own mind struggling to not read into the implications the second after she clicked Orm’s message open and typed her response — You can make it up to me.

The disappointment at not getting an instant response surprised Lingling — she knew Orm was at work but for some reason, her mind decided to act like a petulant child. And then came the guilt — crawling over her skin in the quiet, insidious way it did when she messed something up as a child. Till she couldn’t think of anything other than a way out, her fight or flight kicking in and always resting at fawn.

But those were easier times; most times she knew what she did wrong — a raised voice, a skipped meal, a broken bottle, a misplaced pencil. All things tangible in a way but this? This had no name. The feeling only intensified as she opened Apichai’s message, the confusion growing deeper with it.

Lingling told herself it was distance making the heart fonder and not a desperate attempt to settle her nerves that translated in her reply as affection — Can’t wait to experience Tokyo with you. <3 Lingling watched the screen for a second, wondering if Apichai was near his phone, wondering if he’d eaten. Waiting for Orm’s reply.

The reply wouldn’t come for hours — hours Lingling did end up spending in her studio, touching up and wrapping few of her more recent pieces to give the gallery a glimpse into her style. It wasn’t the workspace she had imagined for herself, the old garage converted into a makeshift room with easels and equipment. At least it connected to the back of the house. A lot of her older work was covered with sheets or, albeit clean, tarp.

Her style had changed or so she liked to tell herself. She still experimented with colour and fabric but her choices seemed less bold — as Junji had once pointed out. She didn’t mind and yet, sometimes she caught herself glancing at her older pieces; sometimes she dipped her finger into a particularly striking shade of red before stepping back.

She almost dropped the frame in her hand when her phone buzzed on the table next to her, paintbrushes clattering to the floor as she tried to sweep things away to find the device, buried under scraps of paper and old canvas.

Oh? I’m being punished already? What did you have in mind?

Lingling sucked in a deep breath, the message igniting something dormant under her skin, dipping lower till it almost caressed her thighs. Electric, unsettling. A seemingly innocent message but it hung to her skin like molasses.

I have a free evening. I believe I have a standing invitation at Mayaki? Ling typed back, her fingers trembling. Of what, she couldn’t tell.

Do you know when you’ll be here? Orm responded instantly, probably on a break, and then a second later, Does Nim have any food allergies?

The message seemed to shatter something inside Lingling — nothing precious, but the insidious feeling she had been carrying around with her for over an hour? Gone. A dull, flickering warmth took its place — like a candle in a storm. Orm didn’t ask if Nim would be joining them; didn’t ask if they could meet alone. She’d assumed and she had accommodated.

Like she knew Nim was a part of a parcel, with Ling. And they both belonged in Orm’s time. Lingling shouldn’t have smiled at that but she did. Nim is at a sleepover. It’ll just be me.

Another quick response. It’ll just be us.

Lingling placed the phone back on the table, face down, afraid Orm would somehow see the way her hands were trembling. Scared she would somehow look into Ling’s house through her screen and see the way she still hadn’t stopped smiling.

After a whole day of rushing from one task to another and a particularly dramatic goodbye outside Nim’s friend’s house, Lingling stood in front of her closet, sifting through her clothes. Even as she tried to decide on the right outfit for a restaurant like Mayaki, her mind seemed to be elsewhere — the meeting to be specific.

She could tell the curators liked her work but she noticed the way their eyes darted from one canvas to another, not exactly stalling over any. They liked her work but she couldn’t shake the feeling it left her with — incomplete, like she had failed her art. She had always wanted to create for herself but a part of her wanted to create pieces that forced someone to stop and look and really take it all in.

She didn’t want people to like her work, she wanted them to devour it — wanted to see fingers twitch from the restraint of stopping themselves from touching the art. She’d left the meeting with that weight on her shoulders.

If Nim had noticed the exhaustion in her eyes when she dropped her off later, she didn’t say it but their hug lasted just a beat too long.

Standing in front of the mirror now, Lingling couldn’t find her confidence. She moved her hand down to her bare stomach and traced the lines under her ribs, sinking her fingers into her skin, finding flaws where there were none. She held up a dress in front of her — it was a delicate cotton blend, just a shade darker than mauve. The neckline dipped just enough to expose the dips of her chest.

The longer she stared at the mirror, the longer she questioned her decision — a shaky self-confidence devolving into insecurity at breakneck speed. The dress felt too tight, stretched too thin in all the wrong places but before she could change her mind, her phone lit up with a message from Orm.

You weren’t messing with me, were you? You’ll be there?

There was something in those words, something between the lines — a desire. You’ll be there? It seemed like doubt but Lingling could hear the lilt in Orm’s voice — the question she wasn’t asking. How much longer till you get here?

Lingling knew Orm must’ve gone to great lengths to find them a reservation and if the time was right, she would be late if she didn’t leave soon. Lingling hesitated a second longer, applying a quick coat of nude lip gloss.

Fifteen minutes before nine, Ling walked in to the mellow, sooting notes of jazz; her practiced ear caught hints of the tsudzumi. As she waited in line by the host, she recognised the melody to be Toshiko Akiyoshi’s — a classic, expensive. The décor was minimal but Lingling could see the attention to detail — in the golden light fixtures hanging low from the ceiling, bathing the entire restaurant in a warm glow, and the cherry blossom stencils blending against amaranth walls. The stone coloumns running along the walls on all sides, holding back plants that still managed to spill out, outgrowing their confines. The perfect blend of expensive, exclusive taste and controlled chaos. She didn’t notice the man next to her till he cleared his throat and repeated her name again, a little louder.

“Good evening Miss Lingling,” his greeting held a question, like he was gauging if he had the right person.

She turned to him fully, smiling in response, hoping to put him at ease. It worked. He straightened up and waved a hand towards the seating area with practiced ease, “This way, please.” No explanation.

Confused as she was, she simply followed, her eyes scanning the room for ash grey hair. But the doubt lingered — something wasn’t what it seemed like. Her suspicions grew when she was led to an empty table and reached an all-time high when waiters came to her table to place cutlery and check on her comfort but nobody offered her a menu.

When she was seconds away from picking up her phone to text Orm, the distinct sound of the kitchen doors opening caught her attention and time seemed to freeze. The ambient noise faded away — the cutlery, polite conversation, all of it — as Orm walked out in a double-breasted chef’s coat and slightly creased houndstooth pants, her hat draped across one arm, silver hair spilling over her shoulders only slightly tousled from what Ling assumed was a tossed hair net.

Her voice carried behind her — an order to check on the confit — or maybe Lingling had imagined it. Maybe Lingling was imagining it all. And yet, she found it difficult to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her — the way Orm carried herself with such a raw, striking confidence that even the patrons engrossed in conversation couldn’t help but spare a glance.

Lingling watched, near-breathless, as Orm’s lips bloomed into a smile — affectionate, teasing — and only when she stopped by Ling’s table did the older woman notice the plate in her hands. Everything clicked into place, like a fog had cleared, especially when Orm placed the dish in front of her and took the opposite seat.

“You’re staring,” Orm leaned in to brush a strand of hair that had been prickling the skin around Ling’s eyes. Ling clenched her teeth around a gasp before leaning away, non-committal. But the brief contact had rattled her — she knew it, Orm sensed it and they both knew she wouldn’t address it.

“You’re the chef.”

Orm smiled in response, her eyes too knowing for Lingling’s comfort. “Before I answer that, do you find money…attractive?”

Lingling should have been offended at the implication but there was a teasing glint in Orm’s eyes, a clear signal that the question wasn’t supposed to do anything except get under Lingling’s skin.

“Not particularly. Most rich people are pompous assholes.”

Orm’s hand flew to her chest in faux offence, her eyes wide and dramatic, and so endearing that Lingling almost hated her for it. “You wound me, Lingling,” Orm responded, her voice devoid of any real hurt.

“You’ll live,” Lingling couldn’t help herself.

“I’m the head chef,” Orm responded, with an emphasis on ‘head’ and the crook of an eyebrow — so transparent in her attempts to impress Lingling. Ling didn’t indulge her, shifting her attention to the plate of food in front of her instead.

Orm waited patiently, checking Ling’s body for signs of a reaction, a recognition. A grave mistake. Orm’s eyes lingered a second too long at the way Ling’s neckline dipped when she bent over slightly to take the dish’s aroma in. Her heart hammered in her chest, her throat suddenly dry from the mere glimpse of Ling’s olive skin. She peeled her eyes away, trying to keep both her sanity and a modicum of respect in place.

But all pretense fell away when her eyes met Lingling’s and she noticed the way her eyes flashed with something dark and unfamiliar. “Orm, what is this?” Ling asked, never looking away, but Orm almost caught a quiver in her voice, the delicate way her index finger traced the plate.

When the words finally left Orm’s throat, her voice was raspy and restrained — her heart still beating at a concerning speed in its cage, “It’s kingfish ceviche in a coconut cream with a chilli, pineapple salad.”

Orm wouldn’t have noticed the way Ling’s knees brushed against hers under the table if not for the sharp current it sent across her leg, completely enraptured by the way Ling’s eyes glistened in the dim light. She waited for Lingling to shift away but she didn’t — instead she leaned in, ever so slightly, her eyes searching.

Lingling had always been perceptive; people rarely surprised her but Orm had somehow reached into her mind and flipped it over. Disorienting; how often had she used that word for Orm?

She let one hand fall to her thigh, clutching the fabric, to stop the tears threatening to spill. Every part of her screamed to acknowledge what Orm had said, to carry on the conversation but there was a lump in her throat the size of an apple.

The plate of food in front of her felt so deeply personal, a message, an intention. The intention to feed someone to nourish but also to show that you care. Try and convey that you remember, the things they like, the things they don't.

Orm watched Ling the entire time, her eyes straining to stay focused on one thing at a time — the moisture in Ling’s eyes, her fingers still tracing the ceramic plate in a devastatingly intimate gesture, and her knees still set against her own.

The silence stretched between them like a bowstring, each side waiting for the other to let go. But Orm knew, saw it in the vulnerability in Ling’s posture, that it would have to be her.

Lingling had her suspicions but she needed to hear Orm say it and almost like she could read her mind, Orm spoke and confirmed it all. And Lingling couldn't breathe.

Orm’s words settled in the space between them, “I deconstructed your piña colada — the café adds kaffir leaves to their blend, did you know?” She didn't wait for an answer and Lingling was thankful. “You mentioned you liked seafood, the kingfish is my signature fish. The chilli….just seemed fun.”

Orm waited, hoping Lingling would speak but the woman did something even better. She sunk her spoon into the dish and took a big bite, careful to get every element.

Orm visibly relaxed, leaning back in her chair. Lingling closed her eyes, letting the flavours melt on her tongue. She was acutely aware of Orm’s eyes on her the entire time — not impatient but burning into her skin all the same.

It was the heat in her gaze that forced Lingling to open her eyes and she almost choked on her food. In the few seconds since Ling saw her last, Orm had unbottoned her jacket and run a hand through her hair, revealing a sinfully tight tank top underneath.

If Lingling’s breath caught at the way the fabric stretched across Orm’s chest, she hid it well. Or so she hoped.

But it was all too much — the care, the absolutely brilliant flavours still exploding in her mouth, the tense combination of fabric and skin — and before Lingling could hold it in, she let out a deep, breathy sigh.

Orm tensed in place, her ears catching the way Ling’s voice pitched just slightly, making the sound that fell from her lips sound like something between a sigh and a moan. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would sound like bouncing over her skin, off of her walls with Ling’s thighs wrapped around her hips, and a deep flush coloured the back of her neck.

Desire flooded through Orm’s body, pooling in the space between her thighs so quick she almost jerked her entire body away from Ling, suddenly hyperaware of their proximity.

Her eyes darted to Lingling, hoping she hadn't noticed but the older woman seemed to be avoiding her eyes.

She scraped her spoon across the plate even after the food was long gone, lost in a mix of hums and sounds that left Orm feeling lightheaded.

“What if I'd said yes? To the money question?” Lingling muttered, just loud enough for Orm to hear, still avoiding her eyes.

“Then I'd admit it.”

Lingling didn't need Orm to explain. “So you do own this place?” She asked, finally looking up with a smile.

Orm only smiled back before flagging down a server. This time they came with a menu. Lingling felt a pang of disappointment, fleeting. Would Orm have to leave? She mentally kicked herself. What was she doing? Why was she here? And why was the sight of Orm’s hair, in its disheveled state, making it harder for her to breathe?

It was all so wrong.

Lingling stood up a little too fast, her chair scraping loudly on the polished tile. Orm looked at her like she'd been jerked out of a dream, her eyes taking just a second too long to focus.

She was on her feet in an instant, “Lingling, are you alright?”

Ling wanted to say yes, wanted to apologise to Orm for causing a scene but all the blood in bed body seemed to have rushed to her ears, making it sound like she was stuck underwater.

“I just-” Lingling’s hands felt clammy, “-just need to get home.”

Orm considered reaching out, asking her to stay but she couldn't will her body to listen to her. Lingling looked like she was collapsing in on herself and all Orm wanted to do was give her everything she asked for, take her somewhere safe.

“Okay, let's get out of here,” Orm placed a hesitant hand around Ling's waist, just an inch away from her.

Before Lingling could protest, Orm was leading her away. A voice, kind and frail, stopped Orm in her tracks as she turned to an elderly couple seated by the door.

Lingling's heart clenched at the sight — the familiarity with which the elderly woman clasped Orm's hands in her own before saying, “Wonderful food as always nong Korn.”

“I'm so happy you decided to visit us again khun yai,” Orm responded, extracting her hand only to clasp them together with a bow.

Lingling noticed the way Orm looked at her from the corner of her eyes and she let herself smile. She felt it then, a flash of shame. Not only had she forgotten to thank Orm for the thoughtful meal, she'd almost bolted for no good reason.

Her lips parted, gratitude already forming into words in her mind. Orm, clearly noticing the way Lingling had relaxed, took a small step back before speaking again.

“This is Lingling…” Orm hesitated, leaving the window open for Ling.

“…Suwannarat,” she completed, her husband’s surname fragile and foreign on her tongue. She noticed the way Orm’s fingers twitched against her thigh.

“She's my guest,” Orm spoke again, somehow standing taller, her lips straining to contain her smile.

Lingling didn't want to believe it, or perhaps couldn't believe it. Orm was proud, just standing next to her, introducing Ling as her guest. Orm, who barely knew her, was proud and it cracked her open.

When they finally stepped out, Lingling noticed she was standing up taller herself.

“I won't ask what happened but are you okay to travel by yourself? I can drop you home,” Orm’s voice, earlier so cheeky and confident, was now tinged with concern.

Lord, this woman gave Ling whiplash.

Lingling considered the offer but the idea of Orm driving her home, the proximity of the close vehicle, the intimacy attached to the act, made the familiar, unsettling feeling claw up her sides again.

And so she stepped back with a smile and nodded, “I'll be okay. I'll call a cab.”

Orm’s face fell, not enough for anyone else to catch it but Lingling did. And it terrified her — not Orm’s reaction as much as her own ability to latch on to them. Like they'd known each other for years.

“The food was perfect Orm,” Ling’s feeble attempt at cheering her up but honest, nonetheless. When had she stepped closer to Orm? Why could she feel her breath against her cheek?

“You’re breathtaking….in that dress,” Orm dodged Ling’s compliment and Ling dodged hers. But she felt it, the way the air shifted.

The sounds of breath meeting the night air grew heavier, each exhale shakier than the last. Lingling noted, with horror, that half of those were from her.

Orm stuffed her hands into her jacket, dragging the lapels tight against her shoulders, letting the material of her shirt strain lower. She clenched her fists in a desperate attempt to keep from grabbing the woman in front of her by the waist, her gaze still lingering on the way the dress clung to the dips of her hip.

Lingling swallowed on air and summoned all her strength to look away from the way Orm’s chest heaved with every breath; forced herself to step away. Goosebumps littered her skin, even in the humid Thailand air.

“What's your name?” Orm asked, her voice deeper than before.

She didn't explain, didn't need to. Lingling understood. All the questions Orm asked between the lines.

“Sirilak,” her eyes met Orm’s and the way her pupils dilated almost stole the breath from Ling’s lungs. “Sirilak Kwong,” she breathed out.

“Sirilak,” Orm repeated, like she was tasting it. And Ling’s knees almost buckled to the brutal concrete.

“I need to leave,” Lingling took a step back, breaking the delicate, suffocating moment between them. She reached for her phone to call a cab.

“You really do,” Orm’s voice came through broken, like she was physically restrained.

“Orm?”

“For now. That dress is too…pretty. Your perfume is too strong. Your name feels too…raw on my tongue.” With every word from Orm, Ling felt her resolve falter, her gut twisting in response, “So yes, you need to leave.”

Ling’s fingers shivered as she typed her address in but she noticed Orm take a few steps back, taking her heady warmth with her.

A ping jolted her back to her senses and nothing could've prepared her for the dread that sunk into her skin at the name on her screen: Kate.

She asked me out again! All caps, giddy. Lingling blinked in quick succession, reading the text a few more times before turning to Orm.

“You texted Kate?”

“Right after you got here,” Orm replied, running a hand through her hair, her smile bordering on sheepish.

It was what Lingling wanted. It was her condition, her promise. Then why did her chest suddenly feel so hollow?

But Lingling nodded and forced her lips into a smile, trying to channel the part of her that was somewhat relieved. She was happy for Kate, she really was, but the relief? That was about something deeper. Something she still couldn't put her finger on.

“So you'll keep your part of the deal?” Orm looked at her like she was unraveling.

“Two more times,” Lingling didn't know how she would survive it.

“Two more times,” Orm didn't even know how she'd made it so far.

Another hasty goodbye, another crunch of gravel under tires, and another night of Orm staring at the light in the distance, her entire body tilted towards the road. Almost like she was suspended by a string, being stretched away from her.

Routine was the farthest thing from Lingling’s mind when she stumbled into her house — she didn’t check if she closed the door, didn’t check if she’d left the kitchen light on. She just kept walking — into the hall, slipping her heels off, up the stairs, running her fingers through her hair.

The rush she found herself in, aimed at nothing in particular, finally left her limbs when she came face-to-face with her reflection. She took a shaky step towards the mirror her eyes wandering over her own body — her flushed cheeks and blown out pupils — a stranger.

Suddenly, the dress seemed to fit her perfectly, the fabric molding into her skin. She couldn’t take her eyes off of herself, her hand trailing a pattern up her hips, across her waist. You look breathtaking in that dress. The memory hit her like a flash strangling a whimper out of her throat.

Lingling should’ve stepped into the shower, preferably a really cold one. She should’ve pressed her eyes shut and begged for sleep to pull her in. She should’ve ignored the way her skin seemed to be pulsing in her room — simultaneously too hot and too cold — and she would’ve, she really would’ve. If she wasn’t hyperaware of the way her thighs were shifting against each other a little too easily.

Everything was heat, pressure, and unmistakable slick, as she peeled her dress off, eyes drifting down to the way the nude fabric between her thighs had been rendered transparent, stretching against plump lips. It knocked the breath out of her — mild intrigue, mostly shock.

Her mind wandered over to the nights she’d spent in her bed, laying next to Apichai, willing her body to react more, better. Sometimes her body listened, transferring the heat from his body to hers but never like this, nothing like this. Nothing like the way her desire seemed to seep through silk on to her thighs. But something had shifted, the low hum under her skin faded away.

She missed the feeling instantly, chasing it like a drug — euphoria. She let her eyes wander over her body, unclasping her bra, letting her breasts spill free, gasping at how her nipples ached when the fabric brushed against them before falling to the floor. She closed her eyes, trying to hold on to the memory of her husband, the man she shared a life with. She tried, tried and failed miserably, to think about him.

She knew the answer was right within reach — a single moment of indiscretion is all it would take to bring that feeling back. She clenched her teeth, molars crushing each other, as she let herself collapse on to her sheets, trying to rein her mind in. But her control was cracking — sinful, ruining images kept forming, like ghosts, almost translucent. But there.

God, Lingling knew they were there — a flash of ash grey, the faint taste of pineapple at the back of her throat. And then, when she was distracted by the sheer will it took to keep herself sane, her mind betrayed her. In one fell swoop, an echo. Sirilak.

Something snapped inside Lingling. Even as her mind made excuses for her, her fingers curled around a nipple, pinching a scream out of her lips. She was a flickering flame in an open field, a fire safety nightmare, lighting, blazing, her thighs quaking from the heat.

When the image formed in her head — Orm in that far-too-tight tank top — Lingling couldn’t muster the energy to banish it. She pressed her fingers against the inside of her thighs, still surprised at the arousal coating her skin. She shut her eyes again, forcing herself to picture Apichai, trying to redirect the hammering in her chest in the right direction but it only made things worse.

Her mind zeroed in on the image of Orm at the table, her eyes locked into hers, lips parted in a mix of attention and reverence. A fresh coat of arousal hit Ling’s fingers at the memory as she parted her aching lips with her index finger, a wanton moan echoing in the empty room when her fingers slipped from its purchase on her clit, knocked off balance by how desperately wet she was.

Sirilak.

Ling’s free hand clutched the sheets under her, teeth sinking into her lower lip to trap the name that threatened to fall from her lips at the base of her throat — one final plea for control. A line she couldn’t cross.

Her fingers moved, or more accurately slid through her folds, sending sparks of need across her body. All pretense and guilt fell away, replaced by a painful need to unwind. The muscles in her back stretched tight across the bed, her body so tightly wound it almost hurt.

Her ring finger traced her entrance, her thumb circling her clit in frantic jerks. Her fingers slipped again, struggling to find the correct snag against skin, unable to push in with the pressure she needed. She ran two fingers up her length, collecting the slick coating on the tips and wiping it off against the inside of her thigh.

It took three more swipes, three more coats of hot, wet fingers sliding against her thighs till she could finally feel her fingers still against the throbbing nub at the apex of her sex. Absentmindedly, she wondered when she would hear Orm say her name again. It was a terrible idea.

An image of Orm, sprawled across her bed, face down and panting crossed her mind, her voice hoarse but repeating one name — hers. Lingling please. It was reckless and dangerous and so close to betrayal that it made Lingling’s sob around the feeling of her fingers finally slipping inside her.

She should’ve stopped herself, should’ve jerked her hand away. Should have stopped her mind from running amok, should’ve shut it down once and for all. But she couldn’t. Not when her body seemed to erupt into goosebumps like never before, not when her fingers curled against the one spot inside her that made her see stars.

Her heart warred in her chest — responsibility clashing against raw, reckless desire — and underneath it all, somehow overpowering every voice of doubt, of shame, was an echo — Sirilak.

Lingling’s free hand flew to her chest, kneading her breasts, lavishing each with equal attention, fingers pinching and tugging pebbled flesh as her fingers curled inside her. When her release hit, she bit down on her lip so hard a metallic twang coated her tongue.

A scream got stuck in her throat, trying to claw its way out as her back arched off the bed and down, her thighs quaking from the impact. A black vignette formed around her vision but she kept her mouth shut, her throat rumbling around a moan.

She couldn’t open her mouth, couldn’t let the scream escape because if she did, she knew her lips would form around a name she couldn’t take back.

As she lay in bed, reeling from the high, her thighs turned to jelly, the sheets soaked with sweat, she felt it again — a hot flash of shame. Guilt. And yet, underneath it all, an unsettling sense of dissatisfaction. Her body was spent, her mind torn from the force of keeping her thoughts in check and yet, the pulse between her thighs had somehow only become worse. Begging for something else.

A few miles away, Orm lay in her bed, staring at her ceiling, her muscles aching from restraint. She clenched her thighs together, trying to ease the ache. Nothing worked. A laugh escaped her lips, almost bitter, almost resigned. Her fingers dug harder into her thigh, inches away from where she needed them most, marking light red moon-shaped specks into her skin.

But she didn’t indulge, couldn’t bring herself to. So she tossed over, pressing her face into her pillow, sweat dripping down her neck. With a frustrated groan, she ground her hips against the mattress, chasing some semblance of relief. Futile, enraging.

When she finally fell asleep, it was with her hands still clutching her sheets, with one last shuddering gasp spelling out the reason behind her torment, “Lingling Sirilak Kwong.”