The forest was still half-asleep when engines began to hum.
Students gathered near the bikes one by one, tension sharp in the cold morning air. No one spoke loudly. No one joked. Because Ling Kwong was already there.
He stood beside one of the heaviest bikes like it belonged to him.
Ling wore a deep royal blue jacket, structured at the shoulders, sleeves rolled just enough to show toned forearms.
Under it, a cream shirt, crisp and sharp. His pants were charcoal grey, tailored for movement, tucked into leather boots polished to a quiet threat.
Around his neck, a thin silver chain, minimal.
A chunky ring on his index finger.
A steel bracelet at his wrist.
No excess. No softness.
Power, refined.
His hair was tied low, controlled. His face unreadable.
Students mounted bikes quickly, nervously, partners chosen in whispers last night now standing stiffly beside each other. Every glance flicked toward Ling and then away just as fast.
Fear wasn't loud.
It was obedient.
Ling swung onto his bike with fluid ease, one boot grounding the machine instantly. He looked around once.
Brows knitting.
"Why are we waiting?" he asked, voice calm, which made it worse.
A boy near the front swallowed hard before answering.
"Miss… Miss Noir hasn't arrived yet."
Silence dropped like a blade.
"We can't leave," he added hurriedly. "Dean said everyone must be present."
Ling's jaw tightened slightly.
He didn't look annoyed.
He looked displeased.
The kind that made people rethink their life choices.
Rina, sitting nearby, leaned closer and murmured, "Late on purpose?"
Ling didn't respond.
His fingers tightened around the handlebar.
Rhea Noir wasn't here.
Somewhere beyond the trees, unseen and intentional, Rhea hadn't arrived yet.
And Ling hated that his focus was fixed on that empty space.
Then Mira approached carefully, helmet in hand, voice soft like it always was when she wanted something.
"I'll sit behind you," she said. "You don't have to wait for anyone else."
Ling didn't even look at her.
"I'll go alone."
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't cruel.
It was final.
Mira stiffened. "Ling..."
Ling turned then, eyes cold, sharp enough to cut. "I said no."
Mira stepped back.
No one else dared try.
Ling swung off the bike, irritation simmering under his skin. Engines idled. Students watched him move with instinctive caution.
"This is a waste of my time," he muttered.
He walked straight toward the tents, long strides, controlled anger. Not concern. Never concern.
Why is she late?
Why am I the one waiting?
Rhea's tent stood slightly apart.
Ling reached it faster than he should have.
He didn't knock.
He pulled the flap open sharply,
and stopped.
Rhea stood with her back to the entrance.
She hadn't heard Ling.
She was struggling with the zipper of her riding jacket, fingers twisting awkwardly behind her, irritation evident in the tense line of her shoulders.
"Stupid..." Rhea muttered under her breath, tugging again.
Ling froze.
His breath hitched before he could stop it.
Rhea's back was bare where the jacket hadn't closed, smooth, pale skin catching the morning light. The curve of her spine was elegant, unguarded.
And there,
just below her back at lower spine,
a mole.
Unmistakable, wrong place, wrong timing.
Ling's eyes locked onto it like it had branded itself into his vision.
His throat went dry.
That night...
Her unconscious weight.
This skin under my hands.
Ling's jaw tightened violently.
Rhea shifted again, frustrated, shoulder muscles flexing softly, unaware she was being watched, unaware she was unraveling someone who prided himself on control.
Ling took one step back.
Silent.
He turned away sharply, pulse pounding too loud, too fast.
"Get ready," Ling said flatly, voice rougher than intended. "You're holding everyone up."
Rhea startled, spinning around. "What..."
She stopped when she saw Ling's retreating back.
Pride snapped into place instantly.
"Mind your business, Kwong," Rhea shot back, chin lifting.
Ling didn't turn.
Didn't answer.
Because for a split second,
just one,
he had forgotten why Rhea was dangerous.
And remembered only how easy it was to look.
Rhea was still turned halfway when she spoke again, irritation sharp and careless.
"Well? If you're already here," she said, tugging uselessly at the zipper, "you can see I'm struggling. Care to do something, idiot?"
Silence.
No biting remark.
No cold dismissal.
That alone made Rhea pause.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Ling Kwong stood behind her, still, rigid, expression unreadable. For once, the great Ling Kwong didn't have an answer ready.
Rhea frowned. "What? Zip's stuck."
Ling exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself before something dangerous.
"Turn," Ling said flatly.
Rhea scoffed but complied, turning her back again with exaggerated impatience. "Hurry. You already wasted enough time."
Ling stepped closer.
Too close.
Rhea felt it, the shift in air, the sudden weight of presence behind her spine. Her shoulders tensed instinctively.
Ling's fingers touched the zipper.
It didn't move.
He tried again, slower this time.
Still stuck.
"Told you," Rhea muttered. "It's jammed."
Ling's jaw clenched.
Without a word, he leaned down.
His lips caught the zipper tab lightly, precise, controlled, a practical solution.
Except...
His lips brushed Rhea's bare back.
Barely.
Just skin.
But it was enough.
Rhea sucked in a sharp breath.
Her eyes flew open, pulse slamming violently against her ribs.
Ling froze instantly.
His lips were still there.
Warm.
Close enough that Rhea could feel his breath ghost across her skin.
Time collapsed.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
Ling's eyes were dark, focused, dangerously still, like he was holding himself together by force alone.
Rhea's fingers curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
"Kwong..." her voice came out unsteady despite herself.
The zipper loosened suddenly.
Ling pulled back at once, snapping upright like he'd been burned.
"Done," he said curtly, already stepping away.
Rhea turned around fast.
Too fast.
"What the hell was that?" she demanded, anger flaring to cover the tremor in her chest.
Ling's face was already sealed, cold, distant, immaculate.
"Mechanical problem," Ling replied flatly. "Don't imagine things."
Rhea stared at him, heart still racing, skin still warm where Ling's lips had brushed.
"Next time," Rhea snapped, lifting her chin, "use your hands."
Ling's eyes flicked to her for half a second.
A mistake.
Something dangerous moved there.
"There won't be a next time," Ling said quietly, then turned and walked away.
Rhea stood alone in the tent, breath uneven, fingers trembling as she pressed them to her back.
>>>>>>>
Rhea emerged from the tent a few minutes later.
Fully ready.
Fully armored, in her own way.
She wore mid-thigh riding shorts, fitted and unapologetic, structured against her frame without trying to soften it.
Above it, a cropped riding top, sharp and minimal, leaving her waist bare to the cool morning air, defined muscle catching light with every movement.
At the center of it all,
her navel piercing, a small metallic glint that flashed when she moved.
A subtle waist chain rested low against her hips, intentional, controlled, not decoration, but declaration.
Her earrings were back on: sleek, sharp, framing her face with precision. A thin ring at her nose.
Her hair was half tied, half free, strands brushing her neck, untamed.
She looked expensive.
Dangerous.
Unbothered.
She stepped into the clearing like she owned it.
Ling turned at the sound of boots on gravel.
And stopped.
His blink stalled mid-motion.
His breath went shallow, immediate, uncontrollable.
His heart slammed once.
Then again.
Rhea Noir stood there, sunlight touching bare skin, jewellery gleaming like it had always belonged outdoors, not cages or tents or rules.
Ling's eyes tracked without permission.
Waist.
Chain.
Piercing.
Frame.
He clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.
Control.
Rhea caught the look.
Of course she did.
Her lips curved, slow, egoistic, sharp. "What?" she said coolly. "Never seen someone dressed for riding?"
Ling forced his gaze upward, to Rhea's eyes, too late to pretend he hadn't seen everything else.
"Dress however you want," Ling replied flatly. "Just don't slow me down."
Rhea stepped closer, close enough for Ling to catch her scent again, clean, warm, familiar in a way he refused to analyze.
"Don't worry," Rhea said softly. "I won't need you."
Ling didn't answer.
He couldn't trust his voice.
Because his pulse was loud.
Because denial was cracking again.
Helmets were handed out. Engines rumbled low, impatient.
Ling mounted his bike first, smooth, controlled, ownership unquestioned. The machine settled under him like it recognized his authority.
He didn't look back.
He didn't have to.
He knew where Rhea should be.
So when weight didn't settle behind him, something inside Ling tightened.
He turned slightly.