1️⃣5️⃣

ORM

Everything is totally perfect, just like I planned it.

I'm a genius, really. A bona fide event-planning genius. Humility can't touch me tonight because I know everyone knows that this is the most beautiful wedding of the decade.

The transitions have been seamless. The ceremony flowed into the cocktail hour without any hiccups, which then melted into dinner without the need for any herding.

And now, the final crowning jewel... the reception.

Josie and Elijah have already cut the cake. The DJ is coaxing everyone out onto the dance floor with fantastic remixes of old songs from our teen years mixed effortlessly with more current music. Everyone is smiling and laughing and mingling, their eyes bright and cheeks pink with joy.

It's perfect. Really, it is.

Despite that, there's something strange and unfamiliar nibbling on the edges of my heart. It's as if something is missing. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

Before I can chase that feeling any further, a familiar voice cuts through the music.

"Orm! Finally! I've been looking for you for ages!"

I turn to see Eric shouldering his way through the crowd toward me. I feel a trickle of disappointment followed immediately by a shiver of guilt. Eric is a nice guy, but he's not really the person I was hoping to see right now.

Then again, the person I want to see probably doesn't want to see me. Which explains why I haven't seen her since the ceremony. Honestly, I can't even explain why I want to see her, of all people, right now, but...

"This has gotta be the best wedding I've ever attended," Eric tells me, his grin wide and boyish. "Seriously, like—I mean, I know I'm a guy and I don't really understand all that color theory and interior design stuff, but I think I was getting a little teary-eyed over how pretty the conservatory was. That was all your doing, wasn't it?"

"Men are perfectly capable of appreciating aesthetics," I reply lightly. "Failing to do so isn't a biological shortcoming, but a societal one."

Eric frowns in confusion.

"Thank you, though," I continue, softening my tone. "Yes, the color scheme and the lighting were my brainchild, but the Marigold Conservatory is already insanely gorgeous without me adding anything to it. I was working with a good canvas."

I don't know why I'm talking like this. Why am I being so formal? So vaguely rude? I should be thrilled right now. I should be my normal friendly, chatty self.

"Right, totally," Eric replies with a chuckle. "Well, hey, so I was thinking about sticking around town for a little while longer..."

His voice starts to fade into the background as my focus shifts over his shoulder.

That's when I see her.

Lingling Kwong, leaning casually against one of the grand marble columns of Marigold Manor's ballroom. A glass of champagne dangles elegantly from her fingers, catching the soft glow of the chandelier above. Her tailored suit—sharp, effortlessly sophisticated, and impossibly flattering—looks like it was designed specifically for her. Midnight black fabric hugs her frame, the lapels catching just a hint of light as she shifts slightly.

It's ridiculous how good she looks. Unfair, really. She carries herself with an air of quiet confidence, chin lifted just slightly, those sharp brown eyes scanning the room with an unreadable expression. I swear she could be on the cover of Vogue if she wanted to be, effortlessly commanding every inch of her presence.

And yet, despite her composed exterior, her gaze is fixed on me.

Or rather, on me and Eric.

Even from across the room, I can tell she's analyzing the space between us—the way Eric's standing a little too close, the way he leans in every time he speaks. I can practically feel the way her eyes flicker from his face to mine and then back again.

My cheeks flush with heat. Lingling is watching another person flirt with me, and... is it possible that she looks annoyed about it? That tiny flicker of something sharp in her expression sends a shiver down my spine.

What is wrong with me? Why does that thought make me feel so giddy, like fizzy champagne bubbles are popping in my chest?

I've always thought Lingling Kwong was beautiful. That's just an undeniable fact. But this—this awareness—feels new. Or maybe it's not new at all. Maybe it's just something I've been ignoring for years because acknowledging it felt too... dangerous. Too real.

I can't help but remember last night. The woods. The way she looked at me when we were tangled together under those dense branches, her breath ghosting across my cheek.

"I would have kissed you."

Those words are etched into my brain. I can't forget them, no matter how hard I try.

And yet, those words also mean nothing. Lingling lives in LA. I live here, in Point Reyes. Our lives couldn't be more different if we tried. Even if there's some undeniable pull between us, even if the tension crackles like live wires every time we're near each other, it doesn't mean anything.

It can't mean anything.

"...so, maybe we could go together? It could be fun!"

Eric's voice pulls me abruptly out of my head. He's still looking at me with that hopeful little grin, completely oblivious to the way my stomach is currently tying itself into knots.

I blink, trying to focus. "I'm so sorry, Eric. What did you say? My mind is all over the place right now."

"Oh, of course. I totally get it. You're in event-management mode. It's just that there's this festival in Monterey next weekend, and I was wondering if you'd like to—"

"Hi, Orm."

The interruption is quiet but sharp enough to slice right through Eric's words.

I turn my head slowly, and there she is—Lingling. She's standing beside us, champagne glass still delicately balanced in her hand, a polite smile pulling at her lips.

My heart skips a beat.

Lingling isn't the kind of person to approach. She doesn't insert herself into conversations. She's the kind of person who lingers at the edges, watching and observing from afar. She doesn't just... step in.

But here she is.

"Hi," I reply softly, my voice just barely steady.

"Hey," Eric says, slightly thrown off.

Lingling gives him a small nod, but her gaze doesn't leave mine. She holds out her hand, palm up, her fingers steady and deliberate.

"Would you like to dance with me?"

No. I don't want to dance with you.

Or rather, I shouldn't want to dance with you. Dancing with you is probably a terrible idea. One of those glittering, enticing bad ideas that feel like magic in the moment but will almost certainly explode into disaster by the time the song ends.

"Yes," I say.

Wait. What?

My scattered thoughts turn into a series of chaotic question marks at the unexpected word that just fell out of my mouth.

I think Eric says something—probably something awkward and dismissive—but I can't hear it over the rush of blood pounding in my ears. My hand slips into Lingling's before I can second-guess myself, and she leads me to the dance floor with a steady confidence that leaves me breathless.

Who is this version of Lingling Kwong? This calm, composed woman who commands every step, every movement, with such assurance? Is this who she's always been when I wasn't looking? Is this the real Lingling—the side of her that everyone but me seems to get?

When we find an open spot on the dance floor, surrounded by other couples swaying softly to the music, I place one hand gingerly on her shoulder. Her other hand settles on my waist, her grip firm yet delicate.

The contact sends a shiver racing down my spine, because it feels so familiar. Just like that night in the woods—moonlight filtering through the branches, water trickling down my neck from a burst balloon, Lingling's face only inches from mine.

I would have kissed you.

The words reverberate in my chest like an echo that refuses to fade.

Lingling's sharp brown eyes hold mine as we begin to sway to the slow rhythm of the song. I glance over her shoulder briefly and catch sight of Ruby Sullivan dancing with her boyfriend, Ben—a charming poet from New York who always seems to have the perfect words at his disposal. Not far from them, Amy is nestled against Liam's chest, her engagement ring catching the ambient glow of the string lights. Their wedding is next. Another event, another milestone, another story unfolding in this small town.

At the far end of the ballroom, Josie and Elijah are surrounded by friends and family, glowing with the kind of love that feels so bright it could blind you if you're not careful.

"It's a beautiful wedding, Orm," Lingling murmurs, her voice barely rising above the soft chords of the music. "You did an amazing job. Really."

My heart stumbles in my chest.

I meet her gaze and smile, even though my stomach is somersaulting at how close her face is to mine. "You helped."

Lingling smirks, one brow arching slightly in that confident, effortless way of hers. "Barely."

"More than barely. Without you, the lights wouldn't have worked, the mics would have been a disaster, and Josie's entire slideshow would have been stuck on the 'buffering' screen. Plus, let's not forget the sleeve sacrifice you made to the wisteria arch."

She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue. That feels like progress—real progress.

This entire moment feels like progress, honestly. We're standing here, inches apart, our hands resting on each other like it's the most natural thing in the world. We're not arguing. We're not avoiding eye contact. We're just... here. Dancing. Existing together in a space where the past feels distant and the future feels uncertain but thrilling.

Lingling's smile fades slightly. "I'm sorry I stole you away from Eric. I just... I didn't know when I'd get another chance to talk to you."

"You didn't steal me away from him," I say with a laugh, hoping to lighten the moment. "Eric's just an old friend. We're not—there's nothing going on between us."

"Really? But he said you two have history..."

I scoff softly, shaking my head. "If we do, it's your fault."

Lingling tilts her head slightly, her dark eyes narrowing in curiosity. "What do you mean?"

I freeze. Why did I say that? I shouldn't have said anything. The words slipped out without thought, and now her gaze is locked on me, expectant and patient.

"It's nothing," I murmur, hoping she'll drop it.

But Lingling doesn't let things go easily. "No, really. What do you mean?"

She was honest with me in the woods about that night in the closet—about her anxiety and her claustrophobia. The least I can do is return the favor.

"The only reason I kissed Eric that summer," I begin slowly, "is because I was trying to distract myself from the fact that you didn't want to kiss me."

There. It's out. It feels both ridiculous and freeing to say it aloud, especially now as an adult. But it's true, and it was so true back then, when I was sixteen and full of sharp-edged emotions I didn't know how to process.

Lingling's eyes widen slightly. "Oh. I thought you didn't like me, though."

"I thought I didn't either," I admit with a sigh. "In hindsight, I don't think that's true. I think I was just... a little heartbroken that you refused to even touch me. And yeah, I know why now. I understand it, and I'm not mad about it. But back then? Back then, I was just angry and embarrassed and hurt."

I'm speaking quickly, as if the words are trying to outrun my nerves. But Lingling is listening, her gaze steady and soft, her hand still resting lightly on my waist as we sway to the slow music.

"So when I came home that summer," I continue, "Eric was there. And he was nice and charming and just... easy. I thought, why not? I wanted to get my stupid first kiss over with. Except... it was a disaster."

Lingling's lips twitch as if she's trying not to smile. "A disaster?"

"Oh, absolutely a disaster. Eric gave me mono from that kiss. Then I shared a drink with Josie before I realized I was sick, so she got it, too. And obviously, since she and Elijah were basically fused at the hip, he got sick. It turned into this entire epidemic-level situation in our tiny corner of Point Reyes."

Lingling's shoulders start to shake slightly with laughter, but I'm on a roll now, so I keep going.

"And then Eric just... disappeared. Left town. I literally hadn't seen him again until this wedding. So, 'history' is a bit of an exaggeration. Honestly, it's more like we have one really embarrassing, borderline tragic story to tell about how we met."

Lingling's lips curve into a smile, her head dropping slightly as she laughs under her breath. It's soft and warm, and it fills my chest with an unfamiliar lightness.

"Our story is kind of funny and ridiculous, too," she says after a moment. "In hindsight, I mean."

I mirror her smile, feeling the corners of my mouth pull upward as if drawn by an invisible string. "Yeah. It is."

The song shifts smoothly into something more upbeat, and I know better than to expect Lingling to stay on the dance floor. She gently guides me toward the edge of the crowd, back to the marble column where I first spotted her earlier tonight.

As we weave our way through the sea of guests, a familiar figure catches my eye—Miss Maisie. She seems to float past us, her silver bangles clinking softly and her colorful shawls trailing behind her like ocean waves.

Her serene smile meets mine as her shoulder brushes lightly against Lingling's arm. Then, without missing a beat, she winks at me and disappears into the crowd as effortlessly as smoke curling into the air.

Uh-oh.

When we reach the quiet refuge near the column, Lingling turns to face me. Her frown is subtle, and she reaches into the pocket of her tailored suit trousers. Her brow furrows as she pulls her hand out and stares down at her palm. Resting there are three stones: a polished pearl, smooth and luminous like moonlight trapped in glass; a jagged shard of emerald; and lastly, a polished pink hunk of rose quartz.

I glance over Lingling's shoulder, scanning the crowd for any trace of Miss Maisie, but she's already gone. Of course she is.

"That's... strange," Lingling mutters. "Are these... decorations? Did someone...?" She trails off, staring at the stones as if she expects them to explain themselves.

I shake my head, a familiar twist of unease settling in my chest. I know exactly what's going on, but I never thought I'd be on the receiving end of one of Miss Maisie's infamous "gifts."

The pearl is my birthstone. And rose quartz represents love and compassion. Romance. A healing of the heart.

"When's your birthday?" I ask Lingling abruptly.

She looks up at me, blinking in confusion. "What? Why?"

"Just tell me."

"May eleventh."

I sigh heavily. "Right. Emerald. Your birthstone."

"Is that what this green one is?"

Once more, I look around for Miss Maisie, if only so I can wag my finger at her in disapproval. If she's going to play matchmaker, she has two hundred other wedding guests to mess with. Shouldn't she know that me and Ling are an impossible ending? That there's no point in trying, even with all her mystical powers?

"That tricky old wise woman," I mutter.

Ling is still staring at the stones in confusion. "Pardon?"

A/N: I know Orm's birthday is May 27th but it is closer to June and I picked Pearl.