The dinner the next night was Fiona's idea.
She invited Lin. Yeh, without making a point of it, asked Gary to join. It wasn't about balance—Gary had always been part of her core circle with Fiona. His presence made things feel easier, more natural.
Gary had known Yeh for years. They worked well together—steady, unspoken coordination. He and Fiona got along just as easily. In many settings, Fiona carried the room for Yeh—she didn't drink much, didn't enjoy overly warm, crowded energy. Fiona filled that space effortlessly, smoothing everything out.
The restaurant was one Yeh frequented.
Window seats. Soft lighting. The city stretched beyond the glass. She took her usual place on the inside.
Gary pulled out her chair almost without thinking, passed her the menu the same way—small gestures, practiced enough to look like instinct.
Lin sat across from them, watching. She didn't interrupt.
Gary's sense of distance was precise. With Yeh, he never crossed the line—attentive, considerate, but contained. He had the kind of ease that came from having everything in order—steady, composed, unhurried. He was warm with everyone.
With Yeh, that warmth lingered just a second longer.
"You're ordering this light?" he glanced at the menu.
"I need to lose weight," Yeh replied, almost automatically.
"You don't," he said, just as easily. "You've kept in shape all these years."
Lin's hand, holding her glass, paused—barely noticeable.
She understood, almost immediately, that this wasn't casual politeness.
It was familiarity built over time.
"You've known each other a long time?" she asked, her tone even.
"Years," Gary said with a smile, not elaborating.
Something in Lin settled into place. It wasn't that Yeh had no one moving toward her. It was that she had never mistaken closeness of people for an answer.
—
The atmosphere of table stayed light. Fiona kept the rhythm going. Gary followed easily. Yeh added a few words here and there. Lin joined when it made sense.
There was no closeness between Yeh and Gary on purpose.
And yet—
Gary remembered what Yeh didn't eat, favorite food.
They arrived at the same conclusions without needing to explain them.
Before speaking, Yeh would sometimes glance at him first, as if checking a shared understanding.
Lin barely touched her food.
She wasn't upset. Not even unsettled.
At some point, she simply understood something with unsettling clarity—
If Yeh really meant what she said—that she wouldn't like women in real life—
then Lin didn't even have the ground to feel anything about it.
That realization was cleaner than rejection.
Gary left first when dinner finished.
Fiona excused herself to the restroom, leaving Yeh and Lin standing by the entrance, waiting for their cars.
For a moment, it was quiet.
"Your friend," Lin said, her voice light, "he's good to you."
No judgment. Not emotional. Just a statement.
"He's always been like that," Yeh replied.
Lin looked at her, paused.
"Have you ever considered it?"
"Considered what?" Yeh asked, almost reflexively.
"Being with him."
Her tone is stable. No teasing. No testing.
Yeh stilled.
The question was too direct—there was no easy way around it.
After a few seconds, Yeh said, "I did. Before."
It was the truth.
There had been a time when Yeh thought about it seriously—if nobody ever make her fell in love again, choosing something stable, something kind, might be easier.
"And now?" Lin didn't step back.
Yeh met her gaze.
For a brief second, she felt like this wasn't a question she could deflect.
"Not anymore."
"Why?"
"Because there's no feeling."
She said it evenly, like something she had answered before.
But Yeh knew—
that answer wasn't entirely true anymore.
Before, there had been nothing.
Now—
it was because there was already someone she felt something for.