Morning broke thin and pale over the jungle camp.
Mist clung low to the ground, crawling between tents like something alive. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke from last night's dying embers.
Rhea woke before the announcement.
Not because she was rested.
Because she was alert.
Ling hadn't come back.
That fact sat in her chest like a stone, heavy, irritating, impossible to ignore. She dressed with sharp movements, jaw set, expression already armored.
Outside, Deen's voice cut through the camp.
"Cooking competition today. Jungle rules."
A collective groan rose.
"No stoves," Deen continued. "You find sticks. You light your own fire. You cook with what you're given. Teams of four."
Rhea stepped out of her tent just as Ling appeared from the other side of the clearing.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Ling's face was unreadable. Cold. Perfectly neutral. As if nothing had ever passed between them except hostility.
Rhea looked away first out of anger, not submission.
Fine, she thought. I can do cold.
Teams Announced
Names were called.
When Deen reached theirs, the air shifted.
"Ling Kwong. Rhea Noir. Mira. Zifa."
A ripple of reaction moved through the group, interest, whispers, restrained excitement.
Rhea didn't react.
Ling didn't either.
Mira's lips curved faintly, pleased. Zifa looked like she wanted to disappear.
Deen clapped once. "Ingredients will be basic. Rice. Lentils. Salt. Limited spices. Make something edible. You have three hours."
Baskets were handed out.
Ling took theirs without comment, already scanning the jungle edge like it was an opponent.
"We split," Ling said immediately. No debate. "Two for sticks. Two prep."
Mira stepped closer to Ling automatically. "I'll come with you."
Ling didn't even look at her. "No."
The word landed flat.
Mira blinked. "Ling..."
"Rhea," Ling said instead, turning slightly. "You know how to move without making noise. You're with me."
Rhea's head snapped up. "I didn't agree."
Ling met her gaze fully now. Calm. Dominant. Provoking.
"I didn't ask."
Zifa exhaled quietly, relieved. Mira stiffened.
Rhea's pride flared hot and instant. "You don't get to order me."
Ling stepped closer just enough. His voice dropped so only Rhea heard.
"Then don't slow me down."
Something ugly sparked in Rhea's chest.
She grabbed the empty sack from the basket and turned sharply toward the trees. "Fine. Let's go."
Ling watched her back for half a second too long before following.
Mira stood there, basket in her hands, smile gone.
The jungle was quieter away from camp.
Birds. Leaves shifting. The crunch of boots on damp ground.
Ling walked ahead, efficient, scanning for dry wood under fallen branches. Rhea trailed just behind, eyes sharp, movements precise.
Neither spoke.
Rhea snapped a stick cleanly and tossed it into the sack with more force than necessary.
"You avoiding me on purpose?" she asked suddenly.
Ling didn't look back. "I'm focusing."
"That's new," Rhea muttered.
Ling stopped.
Turned.
Slowly.
"You wanted distance," Ling said. "You have it."
Rhea's chest tightened. "I didn't say that."
"You implied it," Ling replied coolly. "Repeatedly."
Rhea laughed once, bitter. "So you disappeared and called it discipline?"
Ling stepped closer again. Too close. His presence pressed in, controlled and heavy.
"I don't disappear," Ling said. "I decide."
Rhea's fingers curled around another stick. "Good. Decide to stay away, then."
Ling's eyes flicked to Rhea's waist just for a fraction of a second.
"Careful," Ling murmured. "You don't mean that."
Rhea shoved the stick into the sack and turned away, breath sharp. "You don't know what I mean."
Ling watched her walk a few steps ahead.
He didn't follow immediately.
Because for the first time, distance didn't feel like control.
It felt like loss.
Mira knelt by the fire pit with Zifa, arranging kindling with meticulous care.
She was smiling again.
But her hands shook slightly.
Ling didn't choose her.
Not today. Not when it mattered.
"She trusts Rhea a lot," Zifa said absentmindedly.
Mira's smile tightened. "Ling doesn't trust. He commands."
Zifa hummed, unconvinced.
Mira struck the flint harder than necessary. Sparks jumped. One burned her finger.
She didn't react.
Because what scared her wasn't the fire.
It was the image she couldn't get out of her head...
Ling and Rhea alone in the jungle.
And how Ling always looked most dangerous when he cared.
When Ling and Rhea returned with a sack full of dry sticks, the camp watched.
They walked separately.
They stood separately.
But the tension between them was unmistakable, like heat waiting for flame.
Ling dropped the sack by the pit. "Start the fire."
Rhea met his gaze. "Together."
For a second, Ling considered refusing.
Then he knelt.
Their hands brushed, brief, accidental, electric.
Neither pulled away fast enough.
Then fire refused to behave.
The sticks smoked, blackened, died.
Ling crouched beside the pit, jaw set, eyes narrowed like the flame was an opponent that dared to resist him.
"Useless," he muttered.
He reached for the small bottle of petrol meant only for emergencies.
Rhea straightened instantly. "Don't..."
Too late.
Ling tilted the bottle, just a little.
The fire caught violently.
A sharp flare burst upward...
And Ling hissed, jerking his hand back as the flame kissed his finger.
It's small. Barely anything.
But Rhea didn't think.
She moved.
Her hand closed around Ling's wrist, hard, breath leaving her in a sharp gasp. "Are you insane?"
The words came out raw, panicked, nothing like her usual polished venom.
Ling froze.
Not from the burn.
From the grip.
Rhea's fingers were tight around his skin, thumb pressing into Ling's pulse like she was checking it was still there.
"You don't pour petrol like that," Rhea snapped, already tugging Ling's hand closer, inspecting the reddened finger. "Do you want to lose it? This isn't a court... fire doesn't care who you are."
Ling stared at her, thinking some do like you.
Rhea's brows were drawn together, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to fear.
"I'm fine," Ling said automatically.
"Don't lie," Rhea shot back. "Your skin's..."
She stopped.
Because she realized.
Her hand was still holding Ling's.
Publicly.
Protectively.
Without permission.
The world tilted.
Rhea released him instantly, like she'd been burned too, stepping back a full pace.
"I..." She swallowed hard. "I wasn't..."
Ling slowly lowered his hand.
The sting in his finger was nothing compared to the shock in his chest.
"You reacted," Ling said quietly.
Rhea's laugh was sharp, brittle. "To stupidity."
Ling's mouth curved almost imperceptibly. "You were scared."
Rhea's eyes flashed. "Don't flatter yourself."
But her heartbeat was loud. She could feel it everywhere, her throat, her wrists, her ears.
Why did I touch him?
She pressed her hands together, fingers interlocking tightly, like she could restrain them through force.
This isn't me.
I don't react.
I don't reach.
Yet she had.
Before thought. Before pride. Before revenge.
Ling watched her carefully, unreadable again.
"Next time," Ling said, voice calm, "let me get burned."
Rhea looked up sharply. "No."
The word came out too fast.
They both froze.
Rhea's chest tightened with something dangerously close to panic.
What is happening to me? she thought. Why does his pain reach me first?
She turned away abruptly, grabbing the pot, voice clipped and cold again. "Just… sit back. I'll cook."
Ling didn't move.
He flexed his burned finger once, then curled it slowly.
The fire finally settled, steady, obedient.
Ling sat back on his heels, expression once again carved from stone. His burned finger was hidden in his fist, ignored.
Rhea stirred the pot with unnecessary force.
Mira saw her opening.
She shifted closer to Ling, casual, practiced, like she'd done this her whole life. Knelt beside him, shoulder almost brushing Ling's arm.
"Careful," Mira said softly, reaching out as if to check Ling's finger. "You always rush things when you're competitive."
Rhea didn't look up.
But she heard always.
Ling pulled his hand back before Mira could touch it. "It's nothing."
Mira smiled anyway, tilting her head. "You never listen when people worry about you. Especially me."
She leaned in just a fraction more, close enough that anyone watching would assume familiarity. Ownership.
Then, lightly, as if it was an afterthought, "Aunt sent messages this morning. She asked about the trip."