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A/N: When it comes to weddings, I always find myself gravitating towards a suit or a sharp tuxedo. It's my signature style, and I can't help but project that aesthetic onto Lingling's character.

LINGLING

I wake up earlier than necessary for the second day in a row. Last night rushes back toward me as I sit up in bed and stare out the wavy glass of the old cottage windows.

Orm.

I almost... We almost...

I wanted to kiss her.

I want to kiss her, present tense. Even now, after I had hoped I'd sleep off the leftover adrenaline from her body pressed so close to mine, I swear I can still smell her perfume—something warm and sweet, like vanilla and coconut—overwhelming me in the best possible way.

Then Eric showed up.

It was like being doused in icy water. Eric, the boy who will forever be known in her memories as her first kiss. The man who took my chance when I was too much of a coward. The man who can match Orm's energy, who is just as chatty and bright and warm, and who clearly likes her a great deal.

It shouldn't bother me. I'm going back to LA after this weekend. Back to my quiet and solitude. Back to being far away from her.

For some reason, the thought fills me with desolation. It's only now occurring to me that I don't have much of a life in LA. Even though I grew up in Los Angeles, I don't have the same connection to the city as the locals of this town have with their beloved Point Reyes. A part of me wants to know what that's like. To wake up feeling truly at peace where you are. To know that it's where you belong.

I shake my head to dispel these useless thoughts and rise from bed. I need fresh air, but I don't feel like hiking down the dunes to the beach.

Since the wedding venue is located at the edge of town, perched high on the cliffs, I suppose that's as good a place as any to breathe in some refreshing sea air. It's just after dawn. Nobody will be there yet. I can center myself and reorganize my thoughts before I'm forced to endure hours upon hours of socializing.

I grab the garment bag hanging from the back of the closet door, which contains one of my nicest suits, and head out to my rental car. The morning air is cool and salty, and there's a hazy fog kissing the damp grass, but the clear sky overhead tells me that the sun will burn off the moisture in no time. It's going to be a beautiful day for a wedding.

The drive to the cliffs is quick, but the scenery is so stunning that I find myself slowing down on the narrow, winding lane. I pass by several old manor houses, each of them guarded by gates of stone or iron. The GPS directs me up a steady incline to the very tip of a massive cliff jutting out proudly into the sea.

An enormous, incredibly elegant mansion stands like a Greek-columned castle at the top of the cliff. I stare up at it as I pull into the parking lot far below. Even as someone who grew up among the wealthy in Los Angeles, I'm in awe of this place. Orm had mentioned Marigold Manor a few times during the pre-wedding chaos, but I certainly didn't picture this.

Because I'm so blown away by the overwhelming beauty of the manor, the roaring Atlantic beyond, and the sky just starting to shift into hues of soft gold and pale blue, it takes me several minutes to realize that I'm not the only car in the parking lot.

There are at least a dozen others: a minivan overflowing with flowers, currently being hauled toward the manor in huge bunches by a small crew of burly men and one very tiny older lady; another van with the words Lee Catering printed in curling script on the side, with groggy kitchen staff rummaging around inside; and also a gorgeous old-school Mercedes, white as seafoam, parked elegantly to the side.

The ceremony doesn't start until two, but I'm obviously not the only one who thought to get an early start. It's not even seven o'clock yet.

As two more cars pull into the lot, I realize that I'm certainly not going to be able to enjoy any solitude up here.

A silver-haired woman climbs out of a rusty Subaru, joined swiftly by the blonde twins from the water balloon ambush last night. The girls are chatting, their heads tilted together as they march up the winding gravel path to the manor, but the old woman pauses to glance in my direction, as if she could feel my gaze on her.

Then, like she knows me, she smiles.

The woman is clad in layers of multicolored, draping cloth. Her wrists are weighed down with bangles, her neck decorated with half a dozen necklaces. She nods her head toward the manor, as if encouraging me to go inside, then turns to follow the twins up the path.

I consider going back to the cottage, but I'm already here and, honestly, I feel antsy. Restless. Maybe I can distract myself by asking one of the wedding staff to put me to work for a while.

I take a deep breath and climb out of the car. Immediately, a gust of salty air blows through my hair, tangling a few loose strands in the morning breeze. I know there's a suite of rooms set aside for the men and women, respectively, to get ready for the ceremony together, but I leave my suit in the car for now. A sleek, tailored suit I'd carefully chosen for the occasion. I can grab it later when Elijah arrives. I hadn't planned on joining the bridal party beforehand, content to get ready alone at the cottage, but it's too late to turn back now.

Plus, as weird as it sounds, I almost feel like I'm being guided onward by some unseen force.

Inside the manor, I'm stunned by the vast, high-ceiling halls and tasteful decor. It's probably the most beautiful place I've ever seen, which would break my mother's heart, considering she takes such great pride in the interior decor of her Malibu mansion.

I follow the flow of traffic down an arched hallway with an intricately carved ceiling.

Although there's a steady buzz of chatter and a cacophony of clattering objects echoing from all directions, one voice manages to break through the noise and capture my attention.

"No, no! Roy! For Pete's sake, I adore you, but we can't have the gardenias in here. The scent is too strong; they'll completely overpower the hydrangeas!"

"But, Mrs. Whitten—"

"Don't you go blaming the best florist in Point Reyes for your silly judgment! The gardenias need to be in the ballroom. Go on!"

Normally, that voice would send me running, but instead, I find myself smiling and moving toward it with purpose.

"Liam, are you done with those lights?" A pause. A mumbled response I can't pick up on. "What do you mean you can't reach? You're six-two! And anyway, don't you know what a ladder is? Come on, now!"

My smile grows.

"Brittany, dear, can you please bring the baskets of favors into the east wing for now? No, that's south, Britt—yes, there you go!"

I turn the corner and find myself in a colossal conservatory crafted entirely from glass and steel. There are plants everywhere, pouring forth from the marble-floored edges of the cavernous space as if nature is trying to take over. Vines crawl up elegant columns that hold the glittering ceiling aloft, gleaming like emeralds in the brightening sunlight. I smell lilacs and pine and, perhaps to Orm's dismay, a hint of gardenia in the air.

A squad of burly men are setting up rows upon rows of chairs for the guests. The space is brimming with activity as the townspeople get to work preparing for what is apparently going to be the wedding of the century.

And Orm is in the middle of it all, standing on top of a metal folding chair and directing the flow of people like a conductor before her symphony.

"Joshie! What are you doing in here? ...What do you mean you're looking for Mabel? She's in the kitchen with Gigi!"

I make my way down the aisle, unnoticed by the busy staff.

"Miss Maisie! Oh, thank goodness you're here! Yes, Mr. Linworth is waiting for you back in his office."

To my surprise, I realize that Orm is talking to the silver-haired woman. The mystical lady smiles up at Orm where she commands the chaos in neon running shorts and a baggy Red Sox tee. The woman salutes Orm with a playful wink. Then, just like in the parking lot, her gaze turns to me as if she already knew I was there.

Orm must see something in the woman's wise gaze because she twists around toward the aisle.

I pause a couple of yards away from her, surprised by how startled she looks to see me. She glances down at her rumpled clothes, her cheeks turning vaguely pink, and then looks back up at me. It's not like I look much better in my sweatpants and plain cotton tee. When I left the cottage, I hadn't planned on running into another human until I changed into my suit.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi," she echoes.

I think about last night. I think about what happened twelve years ago. I think about everything and nothing all at once.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"I, um, was wondering if I could be any help."

Before she can answer, a muscular guy I recognize from behind the bar at the Siren & Sword calls out to Orm from the perimeter of the room.

"Orm! We've got a problem!"

With a heavy sigh, Orm whips her head toward him. "What now, Liam?"

"I don't know why you gave this task to me. I don't know anything about technology. I think I'm completely messing this up."

Tawan's Perspective

"You literally have the exact same lighting system in the restaurant."

"Yes, but I paid somebody else to install it, obviously."

Orm scoffs as Liam approaches, hands raised in surrender.

Before she can unleash her full fury on him, I step forward. "I can handle it."

Liam halts, finally noticing me. His polite smile makes it clear he has no idea who I am, but he doesn't seem to care as long as the problem is solved. "You good with tech?"

I nod. Orm lets out a relieved sigh.

Liam grins, already backing away. "It's all yours. Orm, I'm going to go move heavy things. Clearly, I'm more useful as manual labor."

"Yeah, you do that," Orm mutters.

Before I can react, she hops off the chair, grabs my wrist, and drags me over to where Liam was wrestling with wires and a sleek tablet.

"Bluetooth string lights," she explains, pointing upward.

I follow her gesture and spot delicate strings of wire crisscrossing the ceiling, cascading down the tall marble columns, and weaving across the room like a net of stars. Even in daylight, it's easy to imagine how breathtaking it'll look when illuminated.

"The glass panels can dim," Orm continues, her focus locked on the mess of cables and tech equipment sprawled out on the floor. "When Josie walks down the aisle, we'll lower the sunlight and bring up the lights. It's supposed to feel like... magic or something. But clearly, Liam had no idea what he was doing. I know you're, like, a tech person or whatever, but can you fix this?"

I smirk. "'A tech person or whatever?'"

"I don't actually know what you do, okay? I just know you went to Caltech."

"I design apps, but yeah, you're technically right."

"Right, well... can you help?"

"Absolutely."

She nods and takes a step back. Her mouth opens slightly, like she wants to say something more, but instead, she shakes her head and spins around.

"Joshie!" she shouts, already onto her next task. "Why are you still in here?"

I kneel down and get to work, fingers flying over the tablet screen as I recalibrate the settings. The wires aren't as tangled as they look, and after a few adjustments, I tap the control screen. The lights flicker on, one by one, cascading in soft arcs of warm white light.

A collective murmur of approval ripples through the staff scattered across the conservatory.

From across the space, I hear Orm let out a delighted squeal, and moments later, she's bounding toward me with a bright grin stretched across her face.

I freeze for a second. I don't think I've ever seen her smile at me like that.

"What else do you need?" I ask, clearing my throat.

She doesn't hesitate. "Follow me. I have a projector that needs setting up in the ballroom. We've got this huge slideshow showing Josie and Elijah's love story, from baby photos to, like, cringy middle school moments. It's supposed to loop during the cake-cutting and the first dance."

Like a duckling, I follow after her. I get the projector squared away in less than fifteen minutes. After that, Orm drags me back to the conservatory, where she needs me to confirm the mic system is working. Since there will be so many people in attendance, she wants to make sure everyone can hear the officiant, bride, and groom all the way in the back.

And, apparently, the silver-haired woman named Miss Maisie is officiating the wedding.

"Who is she?" I ask Orm.

"What do you mean?"

"Maisie. She seems... important."

I tap on the microphone cleverly disguised in the flowering arch over the altar to test it. A clear buzz of feedback tells me it's functioning perfectly.

"Miss Maisie is a local legend," Orm explains, her voice filled with that warm, familiar confidence. "She's the wise woman of the beach. A harbinger of good fortune. Our ambassador to the sirens. She also makes an amazing vegan baked ziti."

I raise an eyebrow. That still doesn't explain how Miss Maisie seemed to know exactly who I was in the parking lot, but it doesn't feel important now. Not when Orm and I have reached...whatever this is. A truce? A fragile understanding? Something shifted last night in the woods, and while I can't put my finger on it, the space between us feels less sharp, less charged with the remnants of old arguments and misunderstandings.

"She's also Amy and Ruby's grandmother," Orm continues casually. "The twins, I mean. You've seen them around, right? Do you think this flower arch is crooked?"

I blink at the sudden shift in topic, my brain scrambling to keep up with her. The conservatory has mostly emptied now, save for a handful of people delicately arranging garlands of blue ribbon and fluffy peonies near the entrance.

Orm is frowning up at the cascading wisteria that drapes elegantly from the arch above us. Only then do I realize we're standing at the altar together, in a bubble of stillness amid the wedding preparations. I swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of how close we are.

"It looks fine to me," I say cautiously.

Orm shakes her head, her brow furrowing deeper. "No, the balance is off. Can you reach that bundle up there and move it slightly higher?"

I sigh lightly but step forward, stretching up to adjust the wisteria she's gesturing at. With her guidance, I carefully weave the tendrils into a new position.

She tilts her head, examining it critically. Her lips press together.

"No, wait. I think the problem is these flowers over here."

"Orm, it looks fine," I insist.

"It does not."

I hold back a sigh and let her direct me again. My arms start to ache from holding them up so long, but I don't complain. There's something about the focus in her eyes, the way her forehead crinkles with concentration, that makes me want to keep going until she's happy with it.

When she finally steps back with a nod of satisfaction, I start to lower my arm—only to realize it's stuck.

"Uh... I think I'm caught," I say, trying to gently tug my sleeve free without pulling down the entire flower arch.

Orm blinks at me, lips twitching as if she's holding back a laugh. "Yes, I can see that."

She disappears for a moment, and I think she's leaving me stranded like a forgotten garden decoration. But then she returns, carrying a step stool. She sets it down next to me and climbs up until she's just slightly taller than me.

Her fingers are warm as they gently tug at the stubborn bit of fabric caught in the wire. I stand still, arm awkwardly suspended, trying not to focus on the way her face is inches from mine. Her hair has started to slip free from its braid, a few dark strands curling against her neck and brushing lightly against my jaw.

There's a coffee stain on her t-shirt, just above her shoulder. It makes me smile—something about the chaotic charm of Orm Thanomchai, the woman who commands an entire wedding setup with the ferocity of a general yet somehow manages to show up with coffee stains on her clothes.

"How did you even manage to get this stuck?" she mutters, squinting at the stubborn wire.

"You tell me," I reply dryly. "I was just following your orders."

"Well, you were supposed to hook the stems into the wire, not your sleeve."

"Oh, really? That wasn't clear at all," I tease.

Orm rolls her eyes, lips twitching upward despite herself. "Listen, I really don't want to rip your shirt, but—"

"Just do it," I say, cutting her off.

"No, I think I can—wait... almost..."

She sticks her tongue out slightly as she concentrates, and I have to fight the ridiculous urge to laugh. Her brows are drawn together, her lips pressed in determination, and somehow, it's the most endearing thing I've ever seen.

A petal drifts down from the arch above and lands lightly in her hair. A small, soft fragment of wisteria nestled against the dark strands.

"Aha!" she exclaims suddenly, tugging my sleeve free with triumphant precision.

I let out a small breath as my arm drops back down to my side, the fabric of my suit unharmed. Orm beams proudly, turning to face me on the step stool, and for a brief moment, we're frozen there—her face close to mine, her bright eyes shining in the filtered morning light.

Without thinking, I reach up and gently brush the wisteria petal from her hair.

Orm stares at me, her expression unreadable.

Though I try to stop myself, my gaze drops to her lips. We're not supposed to be the ones standing under this arch, hearts racing and breaths caught in our throats. But the desire—the need—to close the space between us and press my lips to hers is so strong it feels like it might knock me off my feet.

Neither of us moves. The world around us—the faint clatter of chairs, the distant murmur of voices—fades into a dull hum.

I could do it. I could. I might be misreading this moment entirely, but something in her gaze, in the way she's looking at me with wide eyes and parted lips, tells me she wouldn't pull away. It feels inevitable, like a thread that's been dangling loose for twelve years and is finally being tugged tight.

A shrill chime slices through the air like a rusty knife, snapping both of us out of whatever spell we'd been under.

Orm flinches and fumbles in her pocket, pulling out her phone with trembling hands. She silences the alarm and hops down from the stool, her movements jerky and rushed.

"How is it already ten o'clock? Oh no, Josie is supposed to be here at ten! I have to go start getting her ready. And you!" She points a stern finger at me, as if I'm a wayward child. "You need to go get cleaned up! Get your clothes and makeup on!"

"It won't take me four hours to—"

"Go!" she insists, already halfway across the aisle, frantically scanning the ground. "Where are my shoes? Where—shoot, shoot, shoot!"

And just like that, the moment is gone. Whatever spark, whatever fragile thing had existed between us under the flower arch is swept away in her whirlwind departure.

Barefoot, hair slipping loose from her braid, and muttering under her breath, Orm Thanomchai disappears into the chaos of the conservatory without a backward glance.