When the car pulled up in front of the hotel, Yeh instinctively prepared to say goodbye—the words already arranged in her mind, clean, composed, leaving no room for anything to linger.
But Lin spoke first.
"Come up and stay with me for a while. Can you?"
Her voice was soft, almost casual, but it landed with precision. It wasn't a joke, nor was it a tentative probe; it was a quiet step forward onto a ledge where there was no longer any room to retreat. Yeh hesitated. She was no stranger to invitations, but she had rarely encountered one this stripped of artifice, leaving her nowhere to hide.
Yeh nodded.
Once the door clicked shut behind them, the suite fell into an immediate, heavy silence. Lin moved with an unbothered naturalness, removing her makeup and changing her clothes as if she had left the weight of her invitation out in the hallway. Yeh sat on the sofa, her back rigid, fingers resting stiffly against her knees. She was waiting, though she couldn't have said for what.
When Lin emerged, her hair was down and she had changed into silk pajamas, her entire aura softer, stripped of the day's sharp edges. She came over and sat beside Yeh, the physical gap between them measured and deliberate.
"It's too late," Lin said, her tone as natural as an afterthought. "Why don't you stay the night?"
Yeh froze for a second, instinctively searching for excuses. "I didn't bring anything to wash up."
"The hotel has everything."
"I don't have my skincare."
"Use mine."
"I didn't bring pajamas."
Lin looked at her, neither smiling nor pushing, just calm. "Wear mine. Girls share everything."
The trap of logic had snapped shut; there was no room left to maneuver. Yeh realized then that the distance she had so meticulously guarded was being dismantled, brick by brick. She stopped resisting and gave a small nod, telling herself it was just like old times—friends staying up late, talking until dawn. Nothing more. Yet she knew this "nothing more" felt fundamentally different.
The room held a single large bed.
After washing up, Yeh changed into Lin's pajamas. The fabric was soft, carrying a faint, haunting trace of Lin's scent that was impossible to ignore. She stepped back into the room with light, careful steps, as if afraid of disturbing a fragile equilibrium. She lay down on her side, leaving a sliver of space between them—not out of coldness, but as a final, instinctive act of self-preservation.
The lights went out, plunging the room into shadows, save for the city's amber glow bleeding through the curtains. Just as Yeh thought the night would end in this quiet stalemate, Lin moved. In the darkness, the sound of fabric against sheets was magnified. Lin turned toward her, and Yeh's heart skipped a visible beat. Her body stiffened; a sudden, traitorous heat rushed to her face.
"Why is it okay for other girls?" Lin's voice was low, carrying a rare, raw edge of emotion. There was no accusation, just a blunt, honest question that fell heavily between them.
Yeh knew exactly what she was asking. She didn't turn to face her, nor did she answer immediately. At that moment, she realized this wasn't a question that could be brushed aside with a clever remark.
"I never said I liked Chris," Yeh whispered after a long silence. "Today was just... making a friend."
Even as she said it, the words felt hollow. The logic held, but the emotion didn't. Yet in that same breath, she confirmed something vital: Lin's jealousy wasn't a figment of her imagination.
Silence reclaimed the room, the tension hovering right at the border of a transgression before being pulled back. Eventually, their breathing synchronized, as if they had both retreated to a safe, maintainable distance.
In the depths of the night, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, Yeh felt the person behind her drift closer. It wasn't an embrace; it was just the ghost of a touch—Lin's forehead resting lightly against the small of Yeh's back, a movement that felt like the unconscious gravity of a dream.
Yeh didn't move. She expected to feel panicked, or the urge to pull away, but instead, she found herself remarkably clear-headed and calm. She simply held her breath for a second, allowing that small patch of warmth to linger. She offered no response, but no rejection either—a silent permission for the moment to exist, undefined and unbroken.