Chapter Text
ORM
By the time their last class ended, Orm felt like something inside her had been stretched too far for too long—pulled thin in ways that weren’t immediately visible, but impossible to ignore if she allowed herself even a second to actually feel it.
It wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that showed itself openly. No one would look at her and think she was struggling, because she didn’t allow that kind of thing to surface.
She still carried herself the same way she always did—back straight, steps measured, movements deliberate in a way that suggested control rather than fatigue.
Her expression remained composed, neutral enough to discourage questions, calm enough to make people assume she had everything under control.
That was the thing about Orm. She always looked like she was handling things. Even when she wasn’t.
The corridors of the architecture building buzzed with the usual chaos as students spilled out of their classrooms, their voices overlapping into a dull, constant hum.
Everyone carried something—model boards balanced carefully in their arms, drafting tubes slung over their shoulders, laptops clutched tightly as if letting go for even a second would somehow set them back.
It was a shared kind of exhaustion, visible in the way people moved, in the way conversations revolved around deadlines, revisions, and professors who seemed to exist solely to push them further than they thought they could go.
Orm moved through it all beside Love, her tote bag resting against her shoulder. It wasn’t heavier than usual, but today, she felt the weight of it more distinctly, like her body had finally started acknowledging the accumulation of everything she had been carrying—not just physically, but in every other sense that mattered.
“Explain something to me,” Love began, her voice cutting cleanly through the noise without needing to be raised, “how does our professor say, ‘This is just a simple plate,’ and then assign something that feels like it requires emotional trauma and a complete personality breakdown?”
Orm let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh slipping past her despite the heaviness sitting in her chest.
“Because suffering builds character,” she replied, adjusting the strap of her bag slightly as they continued walking.
Love turned to her immediately, unimpressed.
“I have enough character. I am fully developed. What I need is peace.”
“That’s not part of the curriculum.”
“That should be illegal.”
The faint curve of Orm’s lips lingered for a moment before fading, not because she wasn’t amused, but because her mind had already begun drifting again, slipping back into the rhythm it had been stuck in for weeks.
Thoughts arranged themselves without her asking them to—unfinished sketches she needed to revise, structural details that didn’t quite sit right, corrections she would have to make before her next submission.
It never really stopped. Even in moments like this, when she was technically done for the day, her mind refused to follow.
They stepped outside, and the late afternoon heat settled around them immediately, thick and unmoving, clinging to the skin in a way that made everything feel just a little heavier.
The world beyond the building was alive in a way that felt almost jarring in contrast to the quiet pressure sitting in Orm’s chest. People laughed easily, vendors called out to passing students, vehicles moved steadily along the street as if everything was progressing exactly as it should.
For a brief moment, Orm found herself watching it all with a strange sense of detachment.
As if she were standing just slightly outside of it.
“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Love said, glancing at her with more focus now, her tone shifting from playful to something more observant.
“I might,” Orm admitted. “If I pass out, just sell my drafting tools. That should cover my funeral.”
“Don’t joke,” Love said immediately. “Those tools are expensive.”
That pulled a real snort out of Orm.
Love didn’t argue immediately, but the look she gave her made it clear she wasn’t convinced. They crossed the street together, slipping between cars like it was second nature. Orm’s body moved automatically, because her mind was somewhere else entirely.
Numbers.
They lined up one after another, precise and unforgiving, refusing to settle into anything manageable no matter how many times she tried to rearrange them.
Materials, printing costs, model expenses, transport. Everything circled back to the same thing.
Money.
Her grip on the strap of her tote bag tightened slightly, the pressure grounding her just enough to keep her from drifting too far into it. She didn’t like thinking about it this way, didn’t like reducing everything into numbers, but she didn’t have the luxury of ignoring it.
Her thesis alone was a monster.
People outside their course didn’t understand that architecture wasn’t just demanding in terms of time or effort—it demanded resources in a way that never really stopped.
Model materials that had to be replaced the moment they didn’t meet expectations. Specialty boards that weren’t cheap no matter how carefully she budgeted. Printing costs that multiplied every time revisions were required—which they always were.
Binding, site visits. Each requirement sounded manageable when taken on its own.
Together, they felt like a slow financial execution.
And it didn’t stop there.
There were daily expenses layered on top of everything else—food, commute, unexpected materials she didn’t plan for but inevitably needed. Her job helped, but not enough to make things comfortable. It was just enough to keep her afloat, just enough to make sure she didn’t fall behind completely.
Which meant there was no room for mistakes and no room for rest. Because resting meant losing time, and losing time meant falling behind.
“You’re doing it again,” Love said, pulling her out of her thoughts.
Orm blinked, her focus snapping back.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you disappear into your head and start solving problems that don’t exist yet.”
“They do exist,” Orm said quietly, exhaling under her breath. “I just haven’t reached them yet.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
They reached their usual eatery, slipping into their routine without needing to discuss it. It wasn’t about preference anymore—it was familiarity, something predictable in the middle of everything else that wasn’t. They ordered one plate to share and settled into their seats, the quiet clink of utensils filling the space between them for a few minutes.
Love waited. She always did.
“Okay,” she said eventually.
“No,” Orm replied immediately, not looking up.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“If it starts with ‘okay,’ it’s already a bad idea.”
Love leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting into something more serious.
“You’re not okay.”
“I’m fine,” Orm paused just briefly before continuing to eat.
“No,” Love said, softer now but more certain. “You’re functioning. There’s a difference.”
That made Orm stop.
She set her spoon down carefully, her fingers resting lightly against the table as she considered how to respond. Arguing felt pointless, but acknowledging it felt like giving something away she wasn’t ready to let go of.
“I have a heavy workload,” she said finally, her tone even.
“That’s not all,” Love replied. “You haven’t had a proper break in weeks. You sleep late, wake up early, go to class, then go to your job like you don't care what happens to your body after—”
“I need it, Love," Orm cut in quietly.
Love stopped.
That wasn’t something Orm usually said out loud.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavier than that. More intentional.
“How bad is it?” Love asked, her voice lowering slightly.
Orm hesitated, her gaze dropping to the table, her fingers pressing faintly against the surface as if grounding herself before answering.
“Our thesis alone is…” she exhaled softly, shaking her head. “It’s expensive. Every revision costs something. Materials, printing, everything. It adds up faster than I can keep up with.”
Love leaned back slightly, processing that, her expression shifting into something more thoughtful.
“And your job?”
“It helps,” Orm said. “But it’s not enough to make it comfortable. Just enough to keep going.”
“To survive it,” Love corrected gently.
Orm didn’t respond.
Because that was exactly what it felt like.
Love studied her for a moment longer, something calculating settling behind her gaze—not in a cold way, but in a way that suggested she was connecting pieces, forming a conclusion.
“You need a release,” Love said after a moment.
“I go to the gym.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?” Orm looked at her then, more directly this time.
Love didn’t hesitate this time.
“You need to sleep with someone.”
Orm went completely still.
“And before you shut that down,” Love continued quickly, “I’m not saying this randomly.”
“That’s not how I deal with stress,” Orm said, leaning back slightly, her tone controlled but sharper now.
“That’s exactly my point,” Love replied. “You don’t deal with it. You manage it. You suppress it. You keep pushing until you burn out.”
“And your solution is to be reckless?”
“It’s not reckless if it’s intentional,” Love said. Then, after a brief pause, she added, “And if it’s with the right person.”
“What does that even mean?” Orm frowned slightly.
Love exhaled, then said it plainly.
“You know Milk.”
“Your girlfriend.”
“She has a best friend.”
“No.” Orm already didn’t like where this was going.
“You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Lingling Kwong.”
Orm stilled. She had heard the name before. Not in detail, not in a way that involved direct interaction—but enough to understand what it carried. She didn't know her personally. She didn't even know what she looked like.
But if she know one thing about that name, it's their background.
And her reputation.
“And?” she asked, more carefully now.
“She’s older. And she doesn’t do relationships. At all.” Love watched her closely before continuing.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It should be,” Love insisted. “No strings attached, no expectations, and no complications. It's a win-win for you two."
Orm didn’t respond immediately.
So Love added, more bluntly this time, “Milk told me she’s basically and totally a sugar mommy.”
That earned her a look. Not offended. Just… processing.
“She goes for younger women,” Love continued, shrugging lightly. “But it’s always clear. Nothing serious. Just... mutual agreement. And she’s really really generous.”
“Generous…” Orm’s brows drew together slightly.
“You said it yourself. You need the money,” Love held her gaze.
“That’s not what I meant,” Orm said immediately, her tone tightening just slightly.
“I know,” Love said, softer now. “And I’m not saying you go into it for that. I’m saying—it wouldn’t hurt. And more than that… you need something that isn’t this.”
Orm looked away, her thoughts quieter now, heavier. Because that was the problem. Love wasn’t entirely wrong. And that made it harder to dismiss
“I don’t do things like that. Not when 24 hours is not enough for me to finish all our deadlines...” she said, but her voice had lost some of its certainty.
“You don’t do a lot of things,” Love replied gently. “That doesn’t mean you don’t need them.”
The silence stretched between them again, but this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of something unspoken, something unsettled.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Orm admitted after a while.
“That’s why I’d introduce you,” Love said simply. “I’ll talk to Milk. She’ll talk to Lingling. If you say yes.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Orm let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through despite herself.
“I’m helpful.”
“You’re meddling.”
“And you appreciate it.”
Orm didn’t deny that. She just looked down at the table, her thoughts lingering longer than she wanted them to.
“This is a bad idea,” she murmured.
“Probably,” Love agreed easily.
And yet—neither of them let it go.
That night, Orm sat at her desk, the soft glow of her laptop illuminating the carefully arranged materials around her. Everything was exactly where it should be—rulers aligned parallel to the edge, pens sorted by thickness, papers stacked with corners perfectly matched.
It was the kind of order she relied on, the kind that made things feel manageable even when they weren’t. Structure had always been her way of staying in control, of keeping everything from spilling over into something she couldn’t contain.
But tonight, that control didn’t extend to her thoughts.
They refused to follow the same clean lines, drifting instead in slow, stubborn circles that always led her back to the same place.
The same conversation, the same words, the same suggestion she had tried unsuccessfully to dismiss the moment she left the eatery.
Love’s voice lingered in her head, persistent in a way that made it difficult to ignore. It wasn’t that the idea itself was convincing. If anything, it clashed with everything Orm had built herself around—discipline, restraint, careful decision-making.
She wasn’t impulsive. She didn’t step into situations she couldn’t anticipate, didn’t allow herself to lose control over things that could complicate her life.
And yet, it had struck something. Something she hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.
Her gaze remained fixed on the screen in front of her, but the lines blurred together, refusing to settle into anything coherent.
She had been staring at the same section for several minutes now, rereading the same paragraph without absorbing a single word. Normally, she would have forced herself through it, pushed past the distraction with sheer focus alone.
But this wasn’t her usual kind of distraction. It wasn’t her workload and it wasn’t a deadline.
It was the idea.
Not even the act itself, not in the way Love had phrased it, not in the blunt, almost careless way it had been suggested.
But what it represented. A break.
Not from responsibility because that was impossible—but from the constant need to be in control of everything.
A moment where she didn’t have to think ahead, didn’t have to calculate the next step before she even finished the one she was on. A moment where she could exist without carrying the weight of everything she had been holding together for so long.
The thought unsettled her. Because it felt… unfamiliar.
Orm leaned back slightly in her chair, exhaling slowly as she let her eyes fall shut for just a second longer than necessary. The quiet of her room pressed in around her, broken only by the faint hum of her laptop and the distant noise of traffic filtering through her window.
It should have been enough to ground her, to pull her back into the routine she relied on.
But it didn’t.
Instead, her mind drifted again—this time, not just to the idea itself, but to everything that came with it.
Lingling Kwong.
Even thinking the name felt strange.
Not because Orm didn’t know of her—but because she did, in the way people knew things without ever being directly involved.
Through passing mentions, through conversations that weren’t meant for her but reached her anyway. A reputation built quietly but firmly enough that it didn’t need to be exaggerated.
Older, detached, someone who didn’t stay.
Someone who didn’t expect to.
A “sugar mommy,” Love had said, almost too casually, as if that alone explained everything.
Orm frowned slightly, her fingers tapping once, twice against the surface of her desk as the thought settled in a way she didn’t quite like.
The word itself felt… reductive. Too simple for something that clearly wasn’t.
Because if Lingling was exactly what people said she was—someone who avoided attachments, who preferred things clean, uncomplicated, without emotional involvement—then in theory, she was exactly the kind of person Love thought Orm needed.
No expectations, no complications, no risk of losing control over something that could spiral into more than it was meant to be.
And yet, that didn’t make it simple.
Because Orm wasn’t built that way.
She didn’t separate things so easily. Even the idea of stepping into something like that, something intentionally detached, felt like stepping outside of herself in a way she wasn’t entirely sure she could manage.
Her thoughts shifted again, inevitably circling back to something more grounded.
Money.
Her jaw tightened slightly as the numbers resurfaced, unwelcome but impossible to ignore. The cost of her thesis alone was enough to make her chest feel tight if she thought about it for too long.
Materials, printing, revisions—everything demanded something from her, and it never stopped. Even now, she could list out exactly how much she would need for the next submission, exactly how much she didn’t have yet.
Love’s voice echoed faintly in her mind.
She’s really really generous.
Orm let out a quiet breath, shaking her head slightly as if that alone could dismiss the implication behind it. That wasn’t what she wanted.
That wasn’t why she was even considering this. She refused to reduce herself to something transactional, refused to let her situation push her into something she would regret later.
And yet, she couldn’t deny that it had crossed her mind.
A thought.
And that alone unsettled her more than anything else.
Her phone buzzed softly against the table, the sound cutting cleanly through the quiet of her room and pulling her out of the spiral she hadn’t even realized she had fallen into.
Orm opened her eyes, her gaze shifting immediately toward the source.
A message from Love.
She didn’t reach for it right away. Instead, she stared at it for a second, as if giving herself a moment longer before acknowledging what she already knew it would be about.
Then, finally, she picked it up.
Love: Do you want me to introduce you?
The question sat there, simple and direct, without any attempt to soften it or add unnecessary context. Orm stared at it for a long moment, her expression unreadable even to herself.
Her first instinct was immediate.
No.
It came naturally, easily, and without hesitation. It was the safer choice, the more predictable one—the one that aligned with everything she had always been.
She didn’t step into situations she couldn’t fully anticipate. She didn’t let other people complicate her life unnecessarily.
Saying no would end it. But for some reason—she didn’t type it.
Instead, Orm exhaled slowly, her grip on her phone loosening just slightly as her gaze softened in a way she didn’t quite recognize.
She let herself sit with it, just for a moment, without immediately shutting it down, without forcing herself into the answer she knew she was supposed to give.
Because the truth was… she was tired.
Tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix.
Tired in a way that had been building quietly over time, layered beneath responsibilities and expectations she never questioned, never resisted.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to consider something outside of that. Her fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating just long enough to make the moment feel heavier than it should have.
Then, slowly, she typed.
Orm: …Tell me about her first. Or send some pictures?
She stared at the message for a second after sending it, as if expecting it to disappear on its own, as if giving herself a chance to take it back before it became real.
But it didn’t.
So she set her phone down almost immediately, placing it a little farther from her than necessary, as if that small distance could somehow create space between her and the decision she had just made.
Her heart was beating a little faster than usual. And that felt unfamiliar.
Orm leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting back to the dim glow of her laptop screen, though she made no real attempt to return to her work. The words in front of her remained blurred, distant, unimportant in a way they hadn’t been before.
Because now, there was something else sitting at the edge of her thoughts.
Something uncertain, something she hadn’t fully stepped into yet—but hadn’t walked away from either.
And as the quiet of her room settled around her once more, that uncertainty lingered, steady and undeniable, holding her somewhere between control and the unfamiliar possibility of letting it slip.
LINGLING
Lingling Kwong had always believed that life was easier when people expected nothing from you except excellence.
It stripped everything down to its most functional form, eliminating the unnecessary in a way that felt almost… clean. Expectations, when clearly defined, left no room for confusion.
There were no blurred lines to navigate, no emotional negotiations to consider, no shifting standards that depended on mood, attachment, or circumstance. You either met the expectation or you didn’t. You succeeded, or you failed.
There was a certain comfort in that kind of structure.
Excellence, at the very least, was constant. It was measurable. It was something she could control.
Everything else, in her experience, was not worth the investment.
The Kwongs did not raise their children to be ordinary. That had never been presented as an option, in a way that was understood without needing to be spoken. Mediocrity was not punished. It simply… did not exist within the framework they operated in.
Her grandfather had built their firm with an almost obsessive level of discipline, carving something formidable out of what had once been insignificant. There had been no shortcuts, no reliance on luck—only precision, consistency, and an unwillingness to accept anything less than the highest standard.
Her father expanded it.
Turned it into something larger, something sharper, something that carried weight before he even stepped into a room. A name that people recognized, respected, and more often than not, prepared themselves for.
Lingling inherited both.
At thirty, she carried that legacy with a steadiness that most people mistook for ease. They saw the confidence, the control, the way she moved through spaces as if she had always belonged in them.
They mistook precision for effortlessness. It wasn’t ease. It was discipline, refined to the point where it no longer looked like effort.
Every decision she made was deliberate. Every word she spoke was calculated. Even her silences were intentional, shaped by an awareness of timing and effect.
She did not react impulsively, did not allow herself to be guided by emotion in ways that could compromise her position.
She stayed exactly where she needed to be. On top of things. Never beneath them.
It was why she thrived in environments where control mattered. Courtrooms, negotiations, contracts that could dismantle or build entire businesses—these were spaces where the rules were clear, where logic dictated outcomes, where structure existed and could be navigated with precision.
There was a system and there was a result. It made sense.
People, however, rarely did.
Which was why Lingling had learned early on to keep them at a distance—not out of resentment and not out of some deep-seated aversion, but out of practicality. It was simply… efficient.
Attachments required maintenance. Emotional investment required time.
And time, for Lingling, was a resource she did not waste on things that did not yield consistent returns.
That philosophy extended, unsurprisingly, into her personal life. She had never been in a serious relationship.
Not because she lacked options—if anything, the opposite had always been true. Attention followed her without effort, drawn to something in her that people often struggled to define.
Confidence, perhaps. Or the quiet certainty in the way she carried herself, the absence of hesitation even when she chose not to speak.
People were drawn to that. They mistook it for something they could hold onto.
But relationships came with expectations she had no intention of fulfilling. They required a level of emotional availability she did not naturally possess—and more importantly, did not feel compelled to develop.
People wanted reassurance, consistency, and presence. Things that, to her, felt excessive and unnecessary.
Lingling preferred simplicity and clarity.
Which was why, when it came to physical needs, she approached them the same way she approached everything else—direct, controlled, and without unnecessary complications.
There were no promises, no blurred lines, no room for misinterpretation. Everything was defined from the beginning, structured in a way that ensured both parties understood exactly what they were stepping into.
It worked.
Until it didn’t. Because compatibility, she had learned, was far rarer than attraction.
People said they wanted something casual, something without strings. They said they understood the boundaries, that they preferred the simplicity, that they weren’t looking for anything more.
Very few of them meant it.
Sooner or later, expectations surfaced. Subtle at first, then gradually more difficult to ignore. A message that lingered too long. A question that implied more than it should. A shift in tone that suggested attachment where there was never supposed to be any.
Lines blurred.
What was meant to be simple became tedious. And more often than not, it turned into a waste of her time. So she stopped looking.
If something came to her, she would decide then whether it was worth engaging. If not, she didn’t bother
Which was why the message she received that night should have been dismissed without a second thought.
Her phone buzzed against the table, the sound cutting softly through the quiet of her office. Lingling didn’t reach for it immediately.
She finished reading the last paragraph on the page in front of her, her focus unwavering as she processed the information with the same precision she applied to everything else.
Only after she had closed the folder did she pick up her phone.
A message from Milk. Lingling’s gaze flickered briefly, just enough to register the sender before opening it.
Panly: I have someone you might like.
Her expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift in her attention—something sharper, more aware. She had received variations of that message more times than she could count, and very few of them had ever been worth entertaining.
She typed her response without hesitation.
Ling: Not interested.
Panly: Just look.
A photo followed. Then another. And another.
Lingling almost ignored them. Almost dismissed the entire exchange as she had done countless times before. But something in the phrasing—perhaps the lack of elaboration, perhaps the quiet insistence—made her pause just long enough to reconsider.
Her thumb hovered briefly over the screen before she tapped the first image.
It expanded, filling her view.
And for the first time that evening, Lingling’s attention sharpened completely.
The woman in the photo was… striking. Not in the way most people tried to be.
There was no excessive curation, no deliberate effort to present perfection in a way that felt rehearsed. No exaggerated angles, no calculated expressions designed to attract attention.
She simply existed within the frame. And somehow, that was enough.
Her features were soft yet defined, her pale complexion catching the light in a way that made her appear almost luminous without trying to be. Long blonde waves fell naturally down her back, slightly undone in a way that suggested she hadn’t spent time ensuring they looked perfect.
But it wasn’t her appearance that held Lingling’s attention. It was her expression.
There was something composed about her—something grounded, steady in a way that suggested control. But beneath that, Lingling could see it. The faint tension in the way her shoulders were held, the subtle heaviness in her gaze, like someone who had been carrying more than they allowed themselves to show.
It was easy to miss. Most people would, but Lingling didn’t.
Her gaze lingered, studying the details more closely now—the way the woman stood, not defensive, not guarded, but not entirely relaxed either. There was restraint there, quiet but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t come from confidence alone, but from habit.
From responsibility, from pressure.
“…You’re not my usual recommendation,” Lingling murmured under her breath, more to herself than anything else.
Another message came through.
Panly: Her name’s Orm.
Lingling didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, she leaned back slightly in her chair, her gaze still fixed on the image as she let the name settle into place.
Orm.
It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. She had heard it before—briefly, in passing, mentioned within the edges of conversations that didn’t involve her directly. Milk had brought her up once or twice. Love’s best friend.
Architecture student.
Which meant this wasn’t random. It also meant something else.
“She didn’t agree to this lightly,” Lingling said quietly, her tone shifting into something more thoughtful.
Because women like that—the kind who carried themselves with quiet discipline, who looked like their lives were structured around responsibility—didn’t step into something like this casually.
And certainly not without reason. Her thoughts shifted, aligning themselves with quiet precision. Stress, pressure.
Possibly financial strain—architecture demanded that, she knew. It wasn’t a course you survived without resources.
Something had pushed her here. Something had made her consider stepping outside of whatever boundaries she had set for herself.
Lingling understood that kind of pressure. She lived with it.
Her thumb hovered slightly over the screen as her thoughts settled into something more defined, more deliberate. This wasn’t just mild curiosity anymore. There was something about this that stood apart from the usual introductions she dismissed without hesitation.
Because Orm didn’t look like someone searching.
She looked like someone enduring, and that was far more interesting.
How gorgeous she was was just a bonus.
Lingling exhaled slowly, the decision forming with quiet certainty, precise in the way all of her decisions were.
Then she replied.
Ling: Set it up.
She placed her phone back on the table, her movements as controlled as ever, but her mind didn’t move on as quickly as it usually did. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the city beyond her window, the distant hum of life continuing uninterrupted, before settling back into something quieter, more focused.
A woman like that didn’t step into something like this without reason.
Lingling intended to find out what it was.
And more importantly—whether she would be the one to unravel it.