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ORM

She's totally going to kill me.

But it was worth it.

I had no idea chucking a water balloon at Lingling Kwong's head would be so thrilling. It was also oddly... cathartic.

Of course, now I'm paying the consequences. She's got a bag full of balloons, and I'm low on ammo—only about three or four left. This was the last thing I expected to happen. I thought I'd enjoy the brief triumph of hitting my target, then she'd huff, roll her eyes, and storm away in that aloof, brooding way she's so good at. Ling has always been good at escaping situations—especially when they involve me.

Instead, she's given chase.

And crap, she's fast. My only saving grace is the fact that I've been scrambling around these woods for as long as I can remember since they connect a large portion of the local kids' houses via backyards. I know every twist, every root that sticks out just enough to trip you, and every branch that's low enough to knock your forehead if you're not paying attention.

But Ling has much faster legs than me, and she's surprisingly agile for someone who looks like she'd rather die than play a childhood game. Also, I'm starting to suspect she runs for fun because she's catching up with far more grace and ease than I expected.

Orm's Perspective

Then, before I can formulate a game plan to loop around and escape via Miss Maisie's backyard, something cold and wet explodes between my shoulder blades.

I let out a surprised yelp, stumbling forward. Behind me, a low, warm laugh rumbles through the night air.

Lingling Kwong is laughing.

The sound is so unexpected, so foreign in this context, that I almost stop running right then and there. Instead, I push forward, my feet slipping slightly on the damp forest floor as I grab a tree trunk sticky with sap to pivot sharply.

There's a dull thump behind me, followed by a sharp curse. Lingling clearly wasn't expecting that move.

A giggle bubbles out of me before I can stop it. Another water balloon smacks into the bark of a tree just inches from my head, followed by her quick, breathless snort of laughter.

It hits me—she's actually having fun. Lingling Kwong, the broody, aloof tech genius, is chasing me through the woods, laughing like we're kids again. And somehow, it makes my chest feel tight in the strangest way.

I don't think I've ever heard her laugh like this before. Sure, I've seen her smirk or offer a quiet chuckle when she's with Elijah or Harry. But this—this uninhibited, unpolished laughter—is something entirely different.

We're far from the backyard now. If we keep running, we'll end up in the part of Point Reyes dotted with sprawling vacation homes and cottages.

"Orm!" Lingling calls, her voice sharp and amused. "Where are you even going?"

"You're the one chasing me!" I yell back.

But she's gaining on me, and I know it. Her long strides are eating up the distance between us, and while I'm taller and faster than her, she's focused.

In a panic, I make another sharp turn, looping back toward the direction of the house. The faint glow of backyard lights flickers through the dense tree branches. I don't slow down, though. My mint-green satin pyjamas practically glow in the moonlight, making me an easy target.

I hear the crinkle of plastic and her rapid footsteps growing closer. Her cologne—woodsy and faintly citrus—catches in the cool night air, mingling with the damp scent of earth and leaves.

Then it happens.

An arm wraps firmly around my waist, and I let out an embarrassingly high-pitched shriek. Before I can wriggle away, there's a loud pop and an icy cascade of water explodes over my head.

Lingling lets out a triumphant shout of victory, followed by a burst of laughter.

We stumble together, our legs tangling as we attempt to stop without face-planting into the muddy ground.

I squirm, trying to free myself from her grip, but she holds on tight. Honestly, I'm glad she does—if she let go, I'd definitely land face-first in the underbrush.

Water drips down my face, soaking through my hair and leaving icy trails along my neck. My foot catches on an uneven patch of ground, and I jerk forward, pulling Lingling with me.

For a split second, I brace myself for disaster. I imagine us both crashing into the mud in a tangle of limbs and satin pajamas, bruises blooming just in time for the wedding photos tomorrow.

But Lingling is quick. She plants her feet, tightens her arm around my waist, and catches a low branch with her other hand to stop our fall.

Still, the momentum has us tangled together. I twist, trying to steady myself, but my shoulder collides with the rough bark of a nearby maple tree.

"Can you please stay still?" Lingling grumbles, her voice tight with frustration.

I squeak out a breathless, "Oof!" as my back hits the tree trunk with an ungraceful thunk. The impact isn't too painful, but it's enough to startle me into silence.

Lingling is... right there.

Her body is pressed against mine, the heat of her body seeping through the thin satin fabric of our pajamas. Her arm is still wrapped around my waist, and our legs are tangled awkwardly in the damp ferns.

Moonlight filters through the trees above, casting faint silvery shadows over her face. Her dark eyes are fixed on me, her expression unreadable.

The sounds of the backyard water war are distant now—just faint laughter and the occasional splash. Out here, it feels like another world entirely.

She's so close. Too close.

Her breath fans across my cheek as she exhales sharply. Her hand, still braced against the branch above my head, trembles slightly.

For a brief moment, neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.

"Are you okay?" Lingling whispers finally, her voice softer than I've ever heard it. "You hit your head."

"I might have a bump in the morning, but I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Mhm." Then, because it seems like the right thing to say, I ask, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Where are the rest of the balloons?"

Lingling snorts softly. "I dropped them when you tripped."

"You mean when you grabbed me?"

"Yeah, that."

For some reason, that feels like the funniest thing in the world. Here we are—longtime adversaries, tangled together under a canopy of moonlit trees, both soaked and breathless from an unplanned chase. How does this keep happening?

I expect Lingling to immediately pull away, to find some sharp, sarcastic quip and extricate herself from this situation with the same cold finesse she's mastered over the years.

But she doesn't move.

Instead, we remain locked in place, suspended in this odd bubble of stillness. I glance up, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. Moonlight filters through the leaves above, painting her face in cool tones. Her sharp, elegant features soften in the faint glow, and her dark eyes catch just enough light to glint like polished obsidian.

For a moment, she reminds me of something unearthly—an elusive creature caught in the in-between place where moonlight meets shadow.

The seconds stretch, filled only with the sound of our uneven breathing.

And then, she speaks.

"I..." Lingling pauses, her lips parting slightly as if she's about to reveal something important. Her brows knit together in that tiny, almost imperceptible way they do when she's struggling with her words. "I wanted to tell you something."

Her hand is still resting on my waist, warm and steady. I didn't notice it before—not really—but now it's all I can feel. Her fingertips press lightly against the satin fabric of my pajama top, and despite the chill of the night air, her touch seems to burn straight through to my skin.

"Oh?" I manage to say, my voice quieter than I intended.

She nods slightly, her gaze not leaving mine. "At Camp Hannefort, when we played that game... in Cabin B..."

"Lingling, you don't have to—"

"No, listen," she interrupts, her voice firm but trembling slightly at the edges. She's struggling to say whatever it is she's holding in. This woman—so self-assured, so poised—looks vulnerable in this moment, and it shakes something loose inside me.

"What happened back then... it wasn't personal."

"It's fine, Lingling."

But she doesn't stop. "I was having a hard time that summer. I mean, I guess we all were, but my point is that I was struggling with some serious anxiety that summer. That, and my teenage angst dial was turned, like, all the way up."

I blink at her. Did she just make a joke?

A startled laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. She smiles faintly in response—small, fleeting—but it's enough to make my heart flip in a way that it absolutely shouldn't.

Her smile fades as she continues, her voice softer now. "The other kids practically dragged me to Cabin B that night. I didn't... I didn't do well with forced socialization. I guess I still don't. But it was so much worse back then. The stuff with my mom... I just hated being seen. I hated attention. I still do."

Her mom. Daphne Shay. I'd nearly forgotten. The Hollywood legend. It all makes so much sense now—her reclusiveness, her guarded personality, the way she seems to flinch away from prolonged eye contact when too many people are watching her.

Suddenly, I can see teenage Lingling more clearly—hunched shoulders, head down, eyes flicking nervously around every time someone laughed a little too loudly in her direction.

"I see," I murmur, because I don't know what else to say.

"I also have a bit of claustrophobia," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "Dr. Sans said it's mostly because I hate feeling out of control. And that night, when they locked us in the closet... I panicked. I didn't want to kiss you, not because of you, Orm, but because the whole thing felt so out of my control. And I was embarrassed. And scared. And..."

She trails off, her shoulders slumping slightly.

For a long moment, we just stand there. Her words hang heavy between us, as fragile and delicate as glass.

The thing is—I get it.

That summer was hard for all of us, but it was uniquely hard for her. And I was so wrapped up in my own hurt feelings and bruised pride that I never stopped to consider what she was going through.

"I... I remember Dr. Sans, too," I say softly, trying to lighten the weight of her words. "He was too smart for his own good. Thanks to him, I've been carrying around the knowledge that my lighthearted approach to life is actually just emotional flippancy employed as a defense mechanism. If I act like nothing matters, I won't get hurt. At least, that's the goal."

Ling blinks in surprise. "Oh."

"That's what he said to me. Verbatim."

"Yikes."

"I know. He's probably right, though."

And I'm definitely sharing way too much information right now. Also, we're still practically glued together. Warmth rises to my cheeks, and I'm grateful that it's too dark for her to see them flush. "Anyway, we weren't talking about me."

"Right." Ling clears her throat. It's an effort not to drop my gaze down to her throat, and the long line of her neck. The smooth skin. Her understated, unique scent—something like woody and citrus.

What is wrong with you? I snap at myself.

I've always known that Lingling Kwong was beautiful. It was a fact. Undeniable. Like how the sky is blue and the grass is green.

Now, however, in this moment, she is suddenly so much more than merely beautiful.

"So, yeah," Ling continues, clearly feeling awkward as she chooses to look over my shoulder at the tree trunk instead of down at my face. "That was a very stressful situation for me. Especially with the way everyone was laughing and pointing at us, making such a big deal out of it."

"Well, we did famously fight with each other practically all summer."

Ling shrugs. "I know. I guess I can't blame them. We were all just kids. Anyway, when we were stuck in that closet, the reason I didn't just go through with it and get it over with isn't because I was repulsed by you or anything like that. It's just... I was having an anxiety attack the entire time."

I stare at her, trying to piece together the details of that night. She was tense. And, like, dead silent. As if she'd completely shut down. I thought it was nothing more than anger and disgust at being trapped with me.

Now, I see how selfish that was of me.

"I'm sorry," I breathe. "If I had known, I would've..."

Ling shakes her head. "You don't need to apologize for anything. I just felt like you should know that. Now. Even though it was years ago. Because I don't like the idea that you've spent all this time believing that I was horrified by the prospect of kissing you. I wasn't, for the record."

For some reason, I laugh. "But you hated me."

"Hate is a strong word," she replies. "You annoyed me. But you also made me feel quite jealous."

"Jealous?"

"You were so good at being around people. You were friends with everyone. It's like it was all so effortless for you, being tossed into a vat of kids for the summer. Also, no offense, but you were kind of obnoxious."

I snort. "Yeah, I know."

"Anyway... I would have kissed you."

My heart stutters. "What?"

Ling frowns slightly, as if she's deeply concentrating on choosing the right words. Or maybe she simply hates that she's admitting this out loud.

"Not because it was part of the game," she clarifies. "But because I really did think you were pretty. Kissing you wouldn't have been something I had to force myself to do. I think I... liked you. Deep down."

At last, she meets my gaze. My mind plummets back in time to when we were sixteen and seventeen, glaring at each other across rooms. I remember that a significant amount of my mental energy was spent paying attention to her, and I told myself at the time it was because I wanted to avoid her at all costs, but I also recall how striking I thought she was. I thought she was the most captivating girl at camp, if not for her sharp tongue and infuriating stubbornness. Not that I ever admitted that to anyone.

And when that bottle she spun landed on me, I can't deny that I remember exactly how it felt to have an excited thrill race down my spine. At the time, I had never been kissed. It's not like I had been saving it up for the right person, either. It just... hadn't happened yet. Simple as that.

I remember thinking that I should have been grossed out at the prospect of Lingling Kwong, of all people, being my first kiss. I was so confused. So annoyed. Plus, everyone was herding us toward the closet, acting like this was the grandest event of the decade.

Then, Ling refused to even touch me. She crammed herself into the furthest corner of the tiny closet so that she could prevent the slightest brush of our awkward, bony teenage bodies together.

I'd been so offended. So horrified.

So heartbroken.

When I came home to Point Reyes after camp, I had one goal: erase that memory. Overwrite it. Replace it with something easier to digest. Something that wouldn't sit in my chest like a splinter I couldn't pull out. I wanted my first kiss to be something ordinary, something that wouldn't carry the sting of rejection and humiliation.

So, I chose someone safe. Someone nice enough. Friendly enough. Cute enough. And Eric was willing—eager, even, as most teenage boys tend to be.

But even then, it took me a long time to forget about Lingling Kwong.

In fact, I'm realizing now that I never really forgot her at all.

I swallow the knot forming in my throat, a sensation so foreign and raw that it makes me feel fragile in my own skin. I've never felt like this around someone before. Never. Not even with the handful of people I've casually dated over the years. I always thought feelings like this—fluttery and warm and nerve-wracking—were something people exaggerated in books and movies.

Love was a myth. Or, at the very least, it wasn't worth the potential heartbreak that always seemed to come along with it.

But here I am. And here she is.

I take a shaky breath and force myself to speak the truth aloud, even if it feels like handing over a piece of myself that I can never take back.

"I think I liked you, too."

The world stills.

The leaves above stop rustling in the breeze. The distant crash of ocean waves fades away. Even the crickets seem to fall silent as if they, too, are holding their breath.

Ling blinks at me. Her eyes, wide and dark, lock onto mine with a vulnerability that makes my chest ache.

"You... what?" she whispers.

I shrug, feeling strangely self-conscious. Her hand is still holding tightly to my waist, and I realize with a start that I don't want her to pull away. I want her to stay.

Then, slowly, Ling's gaze drops to my lips.

My breath catches.

This moment—this fragile, fleeting moment—is so precarious, and I'm terrified that if I move too fast or say the wrong thing, it will shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces.

And yet...

I lean in slightly.

She mirrors me, her lips parting ever so slightly as if she's holding her breath.

And then—

A sudden snap echoes from our left, breaking the stillness. A branch. A footstep.

"There you guys are!"

Eric's voice slices through the night like a blade. His laugh booms, loud and oblivious, as he steps into the faint moonlight filtering through the trees.

Ling jerks away from me as if she has been burned. I stumble back, the pine branches behind me finally giving way, as if the universe itself is pushing me away from her.

Eric doesn't seem to notice the electric tension that lingers between us. His grin is wide and his hands are shoved into his pockets as he approaches.

"Everyone was wondering where you went," he explains, his tone light and unbothered. Either he truly knew or was simply unconcerned. "I swore I saw you two run into the woods, so I volunteered to track you down. You guys okay?"

Ling forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. "Yeah, Eric. We're fine. I, um... tripped over my feet. Lingling was helping me."

Lingling remains silent, her eyes sharp and unreadable as she stares at Eric.

Eric casually shrugs and lightly smacks Lingling on the arm, as if they're old friends. "Hey, Lingling, right? I didn't know you... and Orm were friends."

Lingling's jaw tightens, but she doesn't respond.

Instead, I answer for her. "We've known each other for a long time."

"Ah, just like us, then!" Eric grins over at me, seemingly pleased with his own conclusion. He tosses me a conspiratorial look as we begin walking back toward the house. "Orm and I go way back. We met when we were teenagers."

I force a tight smile, my gaze fixed straight ahead.

"In fact," Eric continues, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling in the air, "I had the honor of being her first kiss. Funny, right? It feels like fate, honestly. She was away at camp all summer, and then I ended up leaving town not long after she got back. We almost missed each other entirely. But, hey, it's a good memory!"

I glance at Lingling. Her expression is carefully blank, but I can see the faintest crease in her brow, the subtle tension in her shoulders.

Eric keeps talking, recounting his version of events with casual charm. Lingling stays silent. So do I.

But in my chest, something tightens.

Because Eric's words are clicking into place.

If Eric was Orm's first kiss, and it happened right after she came back from camp, then... then I was almost her first kiss.

That night in the closet.

It doesn't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. But it feels important. It feels like a jagged puzzle piece sliding into place.

By the time we step back onto the lawn, the water balloon fight is winding down. The grass is damp, and everyone looks drenched and exhilarated. Josie and Elijah are off to the side, sharing a soft, tender moment as the crowd begins to scatter.

Eric is quickly distracted by another one of the guys and peels off, leaving me and I swear I hear Ling breathe a sigh of relief.

Lingling turns to me. "Goodnight, Orm."

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

For the first time in my life, I'm speechless.

What just happened back there? Was she really about to kiss me? Or was that all in my head—a trick of the moonlight and adrenaline? Was it the echo of an old memory bleeding into the present?

I'll probably never know.

Lingling's sharp eyes linger on my face, searching for something—some answer, some reaction. Whatever she sees causes her brow to furrow slightly.

Before I can figure out what to say, she turns on her heel and walks away. Her strides are long and purposeful, and the crowd swallows her up in seconds.

I stare after her, her words ringing in my head.

I think I liked you, too.

The weight of that admission sits heavy in my chest, tangled with the remnants of our closeness in the woods—the sound of her breath, the glimmer in her eyes, the way her voice softened when she spoke those words.

Someone nudges my shoulder, jostling me out of my thoughts.

Mabel stands beside me, one eyebrow quirked upward, her lips pursed in knowing amusement. She doesn't say anything, just gives me a look.

I shake my head faintly, unable to form words around the knot in my throat.

Without waiting for her inevitable follow-up question, I head toward the porch to find Josie before Elijah decides to whisk her away for the night.