Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air conditioning in Praram Royal International Hospital was usually set to a clinically precise twenty-two degrees Celsius. It was crisp, odorless, and professional. It was the temperature of competence.

Dr. Lingling Kwong liked twenty-two degrees.

She stood in front of the mirror in the staff locker room, her fingers moving with practiced dexterity as she buttoned her white coat. It was freshly pressed, the starch giving it a sharp, authoritative silhouette. Beneath it, she wore navy blue scrubs that fit her perfectly—not too loose, not too tight. She checked her reflection. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, low ponytail, not a single strand out of place. Her badge, reading Dr. S. Kwong, Cardiothoracic Surgery, hung perfectly straight.

She took a breath, inhaling the scent of antiseptic and ambition.

"Perfect," she whispered.

She checked her watch. 06:55 AM. She had exactly five minutes to get to the cafeteria, order her double-shot espresso with no sugar, and arrive at her private office on the 12th floor to review the files for Mrs. Suwannarat’s valve replacement before rounds began at 08:00.

Lingling stepped out of the locker room, her heels clicking rhythmically against the linoleum. Click-clack, click-clack. It was the sound of a predator at the top of the food chain. Nurses nodded respectfully as she passed; interns scrambled out of her way, clutching their clipboards like shields. She acknowledged them with a curt, barely-there nod. She wasn’t mean, she told herself. She was just... focused. Efficient.

She reached the elevators and pressed the button. The doors slid open immediately. It was going to be a good day.

The elevator stopped at the ground floor. The doors opened to the chaotic hum of the lobby—patients checking in, families waiting, the squeak of gurneys. Lingling stepped out and headed for the coffee bar.

"Good morning, Doctor Ling," the barista, a young man named Kai, beamed as he saw her approaching. He already had the cup in his hand. "Double shot, black, lid on tight?"

"Thank you, Kai," Lingling said, tapping her phone against the payment scanner. "You’re a lifesaver."

"You look intense today, Doc. Big surgery?"

"Mitral valve repair. Complex anatomy," she said, taking the hot cup. The warmth seeped into her cold fingers. "I need quiet to prepare."

She turned around, ready to retreat to her sanctuary on the 12th floor. Her office. Her haven. A room painted in soothing eggshell white, with a minimalist desk, an ergonomic chair, and absolutely no clutter.

Bam.

Something—or rather, someone, slammed into her right shoulder with the force of a small, frantic hurricane.

"Oh my god! I am so, so sorry!"

Hot coffee sloshed out of the tiny sipping hole, splashing onto Lingling’s wrist and spotting the pristine white sleeve of her coat. Lingling froze. She stared at the brown stain spreading on the white fabric. It looked like a gunshot wound, if blood were made of roasted Arabica beans.

"Ow," Lingling said, her voice flat.

"I am so sorry! I didn't see you! I was trying to catch the elevator and my shoelace—oh no, your coat! Is that hot? Are you burned?"

Lingling slowly lifted her eyes from the stain to the perpetrator.

Standing before her was a doctor, though she looked more like a chaotic art project that had come to life. She was wearing pink scrubs—hot pink, not the standard hospital blue or green. Her white coat was unbuttoned and flapping open. Her hair was a tumble of soft waves that looked like they smelled of strawberries. And on her face was an expression of pure, unadulterated panic.

It was Dr. Orm Kornaphat Sethratanapong . The Pediatric Fellow.

Everyone knew Dr. Kornaphat. You heard her before you saw her. She was the one who organized the hospital Christmas choir. She was the one who bought donuts for the night shift nurses. She was the one who wore cartoon character pins on her stethoscope.

"Dr. Kornaphat," Lingling said, her voice dropping a few degrees, effectively countering the ambient temperature of the room.

Orm flinched, clutching a stack of colorful patient files to her chest. "P'Ling! Oh no. It’s you. I mean—not oh no because it’s you, but oh no because I spilled coffee on you. Please don’t arrest my heart."

Orm let out a nervous giggle. Lingling did not giggle.

"It is scalding," Lingling noted, holding up her wrist.

"Here! Wait!" Orm fumbled in the deep pockets of her coat. She pulled out a half-eaten granola bar, a pen with a fluffy bear on top, and finally, a packet of wet wipes. "Use this! It’s aloe vera scented. It’s good for the skin."

She grabbed Lingling’s hand—her grip surprisingly strong and warm and began dabbing frantically at Lingling’s wrist.

"It’s fine, Doctor Kornaphat," Lingling said, trying to pull her hand back. Being touched was not part of her morning schedule. "I can handle it."

"But the stain! It’s going to set! Soda water is good for stains. Or vinegar. Do we have vinegar in the ER?" Orm was rambling, her big, doe-like eyes wide with distress. She looked up at Lingling, biting her lower lip.

For a split second, Lingling’s brain short-circuited. Orm was... annoyingly close. She smelled like vanilla lotion and panic.

"I have a spare coat in my office," Lingling said, finally extracting her hand. She wiped the aloe vera residue on her pants. "Please watch where you are going next time. The lobby is not a playground."

Orm stood up straighter, looking like a kicked puppy. "Yes, P'Ling. I’m really sorry. I’m just... I’m running late for the meeting with the Hospital Director. Are you going there too?"

Lingling frowned. "Director Supoj? No. I have surgery prep."

"Oh," Orm blinked. "But... the email? The 'Urgent Facilities Update' email sent at 2 AM?"

Lingling felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. She pulled out her phone. There it was. A red-flagged email from Director Supoj’s secretary.

Subject: MANDATORY - Office Allocation Update. Attendance Required.

"I was asleep at 2 AM," Lingling muttered. "Like a normal human being with a functioning circadian rhythm."

"I was up," Orm volunteered cheerfully. "One of my kids in the PICU wouldn't sleep unless I read The Very Hungry Caterpillar three times. Did you know the caterpillar eats a pickle? That seems unhealthy for a larva."

Lingling stared at her. "We need to go. Now."

She spun on her heel, marching toward the elevators. She didn't wait to see if Orm was following, but she could hear the squeak of Orm’s sneakers catching up.

"Wait for me, P'Ling! I have extra napkins if the coffee starts to itch!"

The conference room on the top floor overlooked the sprawling, smoggy skyline of Bangkok. The sun was blazing now, turning the Chao Phraya River into a ribbon of gold. Inside, Director Supoj sat at the head of the mahogany table, looking weary.

Lingling entered, composure regained, though she was hiding the coffee stain by keeping her arm under the table. Orm slid in next to her, breathless, placing her stack of files and a tumbler that looked like a giant strawberry on the table.

Lingling side-eyed the strawberry tumbler. It was ridiculous. It was unprofessional. It was... vibrating? No, that was Orm’s leg bouncing up and down under the table.

"Good morning, Doctors," Supoj said, adjusting his glasses. "Thank you for coming on short notice. I’ll make this brief. As you know, the Board has finally approved the renovation of the East Wing. We are updating the HVAC systems and expanding the Pediatric ICU."

"Yay!" Orm cheered softly, doing a little fist pump. "More beds for the kiddos!"

Lingling felt a headache blooming behind her eyes. "That is excellent news, Director. But how does this concern the Department of Surgery?"

"Well," Supoj cleared his throat. "The renovations are extensive. They involve structural work on the 11th and 12th floors. Specifically, the corridors where the senior staff offices are located."

Lingling went very still. "My office is on the 12th floor. East Wing."

"Yes," Supoj nodded sympathetically. "And Dr. Orm’s office is on the 11th. Both sectors are being sealed off for asbestos abatement and rewiring starting... well, two hours ago."

"Two hours ago?" Lingling’s voice rose half an octave. "My files. My diagrams. My lucky scalpel."

"Movers have already packed everything into boxes," Supoj assured her. "Everything is safe."

"So where do we go?" Orm asked, looking less concerned about asbestos and more concerned about where she was going to put her collection of plushies. "Do we get temporary cubicles?"

"Space is at a premium," Supoj sighed. "We are over capacity. We’ve had to convert the doctors' lounge into a triage unit. There are effectively no private rooms left."

He slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a floor plan. One room was circled in red marker.

Room 404.

"There is one room available in the old administrative block on the 4th floor," Supoj explained. "It’s a large executive suite. Very spacious. Good lighting."

Lingling looked at the map. Then she looked at Supoj. Then she slowly turned her head to look at Orm, who was currently trying to balance her pen on her nose.

"You want us to share," Lingling stated. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"It’s temporary!" Supoj said quickly. "Just for... six months. Maybe eight. Depending on the contractors."

"Eight months?" Lingling felt faint.

"Room 404!" Orm grabbed the map, beaming. "That’s the Error Code room! Error 404: Office Not Found. That’s funny!" She looked at Lingling, her eyes sparkling. "We’re going to be roommates, P'Ling! Like in college!"

"I lived alone in college," Lingling said icily. "Director, surely there is another option. I require absolute silence for my research. Dr. Sethratanapong is..." She gestured vaguely at Orm’s pink scrubs and the strawberry tumbler. "...vibrant."

"I’m very quiet when I’m sleeping!" Orm offered helpfully.

"Dr. Lingling, you are our best surgeon," Supoj said, using his 'I am the boss' voice. "But Dr. Sethratanapong is our best patient advocate. The Board thinks this inter-departmental synergy will be... good for morale. Plus, literally, there are no other rooms. Unless you want to work from the morgue."

Lingling closed her eyes. The morgue was quiet. It was cold. It sounded tempting.

"Fine," Lingling clipped out. "But I have conditions."

"We can make a roommate agreement!" Orm clapped her hands. "I’ll make a chart! With glitter glue!"

Lingling stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "No glitter. No glue. And absolutely no noise above a whisper between the hours of 08:00 and 17:00."

She looked down at Orm. The younger doctor was looking up at her with an expression that was equal parts intimidation and fascination. A stray lock of brown hair had fallen into Orm's eyes.

Lingling felt a strange, annoying urge to brush it away. She clenched her fist.

"I will see you in Room 404, Doctor Kornaphat. Don't be late."

Lingling turned and swept out of the room.

"She likes me," Orm whispered to Director Supoj.

Supoj just rubbed his temples. "Good luck, Dr. Kornaphat."

Room 404 was, to give credit where it was due, large. It had a high ceiling and a large window that looked out over the parking lot (less scenic than the river, but functional).

It was currently filled with boxes.

On the left side of the room were twelve boxes labeled DR. KWONG in precise, block lettering. They were stacked in a perfect pyramid.

On the right side of the room was a mountain of cardboard chaos. Boxes were upside down. One was leaking something that looked like slime. A giant stuffed giraffe’s head was poking out of a crate labeled IMPORTANT MEDICAL STUFF.

Lingling stood in the doorway, holding a freshly brewed coffee (her second, to replace the spilled one). She surveyed the battlefield.

Orm was already there. She had pushed the two heavy oak desks together to face each other, creating one massive island in the center of the room. She was currently standing on a chair, trying to tape a string of fairy lights to the ceiling tile.

"What," Lingling said, "are you doing?"

Orm looked down, wobbling slightly on the chair. "Oh! P'Ling! You’re here! I thought the lighting was a bit clinical, so I brought my fairy lights. They have three settings: Twinkle, Fade, and Party Mode."

"Take them down," Lingling said, walking over to her side of the room—the side with the neat pyramid. "This is a place of medicine, not a night market."

"But studies show ambient lighting reduces stress!" Orm argued, hopping down from the chair with a thud. "And you look very stressed. You have that vein popping out on your forehead. Right there." She pointed a finger toward Lingling’s temple.

Lingling swatted the finger away. "That is my thinking vein. And I am thinking about how to separate our workspaces."

Lingling grabbed a roll of blue surgical tape from her pocket—she always carried some. She crouched down and stuck the end of the tape to the floor at the exact midpoint of the room.

"What are you doing?" Orm asked, tilting her head.

Lingling walked backward, unrolling the tape in a straight, jagged blue line right down the center of the room, splitting the joined desks perfectly in half.

"This," Lingling said, standing up and smoothing her coat, "is the Demilitarized Zone. Everything to the left is Cardiothoracic Surgery. It is quiet, it is sterile, and it is serious."

She pointed to the right side, where the stuffed giraffe seemed to be judging her. "Everything to the right is... whatever it is that you do."

Orm looked at the blue tape. Then she looked at Lingling. A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face.

"Okay," Orm said. "Challenge accepted."

"It’s not a challenge, it’s a boundary," Lingling corrected.

"Sure, P'Ling." Orm sat down at her desk, grabbed the stuffed giraffe, and placed it so its chin was resting exactly on the edge of the blue tape line. "Mr. Longneck will respect the border. But he’s very friendly. He might wave."

Lingling sat down at her own desk. She opened her laptop. She took a sip of coffee. She looked over the top of her screen.

Orm was humming to herself, unpacking a desk organizer shaped like a cloud. The humming was off-key. It was a pop song Lingling had heard on the radio.

Lingling sighed. It was going to be a very, very long eight months.

But as she looked down at her patient files, Lingling realized something strange. The annoying buzzing sound of the old fluorescent lights in her old office was gone. Here, the only sound was the AC and the soft, happy humming of the woman across the desk.

She glanced up one more time. Orm caught her eye and winked.

Lingling quickly looked back down, her heart doing a strange, arrhythmic stutter in her chest. PVC, she diagnosed herself immediately. Premature Ventricular Contraction. Probably caused by excessive caffeine and stress.

It definitely wasn't because Dr. Kornaphat had a nice smile. Absolutely not.

Peace in Room 404 lasted exactly forty-five minutes.

Lingling had managed to immerse herself in the intricate details of Mrs. Suwannarat’s echocardiogram. The world had narrowed down to the grayscale landscape of the left atrium and the rhythmic thump-whoosh of the mitral valve played through her noise-canceling AirPods. She was in her element. She was a machine of diagnostic precision.

Then, she felt it.

A shift in the atmosphere. A subtle, cloying warmth creeping across the desk, invading the sterile coolness of her workspace.

Lingling paused, her fingers hovering over her keyboard. She glanced at the digital thermostat on the wall near the door. It read 24.5°C.

Her eyes narrowed. She distinctly remembered setting it to 21.5°C when she entered.

Slowly, mechanically, she turned her head.

On the other side of the blue tape, Dr. Orm was no longer wearing just her pink scrubs and white coat. She was now draped in a pastel yellow cardigan with embroidered daisies on the sleeves. She was huddled over her laptop, typing furiously, but every few seconds, she would rub her hands together as if she were trying to start a fire in a prehistoric cave.

Lingling took out one AirPod.

"Dr. Kornaphat."

Orm jumped, her knee hitting the underside of the desk with a hollow thud. "Ouch! Yes, P'Ling?"

"Did you touch the thermostat?"

Orm looked guilty. She pulled the yellow cardigan tighter around herself. "I... adjusted it. Just a little bit! It was freezing in here. My fingers were turning blue. Look!" She held up her hands. They looked perfectly pink and healthy.

"The optimal temperature for alertness and cognitive function is between twenty-one and twenty-two degrees," Lingling recited, standing up. She walked over to the wall panel and pressed the 'down' arrow repeatedly.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"But P'Ling," Orm whined, her voice taking on a nasal quality that Lingling found irrationally grating. "That’s for, like, server rooms and penguins. I’m a tropical mammal. I need warmth to thrive. If I get cold, my immune system drops, and then I’ll get sick, and then who will look after the babies in Ward 6?"

"You can wear more clothes," Lingling said, watching the number settle back at 21.5°C. "I cannot take off my skin."

"I am already wearing a cardigan and a coat!"

"Then wear a scarf. Or a hat." Lingling turned back to her desk. "We are in a hospital in Bangkok, not a beach resort. We keep the bacteria growth low."

"You’re cold-blooded," Orm muttered under her breath. "Like a lizard. A beautiful, scary lizard."

Lingling ignored the comment, though the tips of her ears felt strangely warm. She sat back down.

Ten minutes later, she heard a rustling sound.

She refused to look. She focused on the valve regurgitation fraction. 0.45. Moderate to severe.

Rustle. Zip. Fluff.

Lingling looked up.

Orm was now wearing a thick, fuzzy, dinosaur-patterned blanket over her head, draped like a monk’s robe. Only her face was visible, framed by green polyester spikes. She looked like a very depressed stegosaurus. She was sipping from her strawberry tumbler with loud, deliberate slurps.

"Is the blanket necessary?" Lingling asked, her patience thinning.

"I am adapting to the harsh environment," Orm said with great dignity from within the folds of the dinosaur. "Please ignore me. I am just trying to survive the Ice Age."

Lingling stared at her for a long moment. The sheer absurdity of the image—one of the country's most promising pediatric specialists dressed like a toddler’s bedspread—threatened to crack Lingling’s composure.

The corner of her mouth twitched. She bit the inside of her cheek to suppress it.

"Fine," Lingling sighed, turning back to her screen. "Just don't let the fuzz shed on my side of the tape."

"Mr. Stegosaurus is hypoallergenic," Orm assured her.

A timid knock rattled the heavy door of Room 404.

"Enter," Lingling commanded, not looking up.

"Come in!" Orm chirped simultaneously.

The door creaked open to reveal Intern Oat. Oat was a first-year resident who looked like he hadn't slept since graduation. He held a clipboard with trembling hands. His eyes darted between Lingling (the Ice Queen) and Orm (the Dinosaur Monk). He looked confused.

"Uhh... excuse me, Doctors. I was looking for Dr. Kwong."

"You found her," Lingling said, finally swivelling her chair. She crossed her legs and clasped her hands. "Report."

Oat swallowed audibly. "I... I have a patient in the CCU. Bed 3. Mr. Tanawat. He’s two days post-CABG. His output from the chest tube has decreased, but his blood pressure is trending down, and his heart rate is up to 110."

"And?" Lingling raised an eyebrow. "What is your differential?"

"I... I thought maybe he’s just dehydrated? Or pain?" Oat stammered. "But the nurse thinks..."

"I am not asking what the nurse thinks. I am asking what you think based on the physiology," Lingling said, her voice sharp. "If the tube output stops but the patient becomes tachycardic and hypotensive, where is the fluid going, Doctor Oat?"

Oat went pale. "Uhh... somewhere else?"

Lingling stared at him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Oat looked like he was about to cry.

"Imagine a balloon," a soft voice interrupted.

Lingling snapped her head to the right. Orm had lowered her dinosaur hood. She was smiling encouragingly at Oat.

"Dr. Kornaphat," Lingling warned. "I am teaching."

"I know, P'Ling. I’m just... supplementing." Orm turned to Oat. "Nong Oat, imagine the heart is a balloon inside a box. If the box fills up with water, what happens to the balloon?"

Oat blinked. "It... it can't expand."

"Exactly!" Orm beamed, pointing a pen at him. "And if it can't expand, it can't fill with blood. So it has to beat faster to pump the little blood it has. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze! But no output."

Oat’s eyes widened. "Tamponade. It’s Cardiac Tamponade. The tube is clogged, and the blood is compressing the heart."

"Bingo!" Orm clapped her hands.

Lingling felt a flare of irritation. That was her diagnosis. Her teaching moment. She looked at Oat, her expression severe.

"Dr. Sethratanapong is correct, despite the pediatric simplification," Lingling said coldly. "It is a surgical emergency. Go to Bed 3. Flush the tube. If that fails, prepare for a bedside reopening. I will be there in five minutes."

"Yes! Yes, Doctor Kwong! Thank you!" Oat bowed to Lingling, then threw a grateful, relieved smile at Orm before sprinting out of the room.

The door clicked shut.

Lingling turned to Orm slowly. "Do not undermine me in front of the residents."

Orm blinked, looking genuinely surprised. "I wasn't undermining you! He was freezing up. You were doing your 'Laser Eyes' thing. It paralyzes them. I just unblocked his brain."

"My 'Laser Eyes' ensure they can handle the pressure of the OR. If he cannot answer a simple question here, he will kill someone on the table."

"He knew the answer," Orm countered gently. "He just needed a bridge to get there. Fear isn't always the best teacher, P'Ling."

Lingling opened her mouth to argue—to explain that fear keeps you sharp, that fear prevents mistakes but she stopped. Because Oat had figured it out. And he had looked at Orm like she was a savior.

"Stay on your side of the tape, Dr. Kornaphat," Lingling said finally, turning back to her computer. "And keep your balloons to yourself."

"Aye aye, Captain," Orm saluted softly.

Lingling stared at her screen, but the words were blurry. She hated that Orm was right. She hated even more that Orm had managed to teach a concept of cardiac physiology using a balloon analogy while wearing a dinosaur blanket. It was unprofessional. It was ridiculous.

It was... effective.

By 12:45, Lingling’s stomach gave a polite, suppressed rumble. She ignored it. She reached into her drawer and pulled out a foil-wrapped protein bar. Chocolate Sea Salt. 20 grams of protein. Low sugar. Efficient.

She unwrapped it and took a small, measured bite. It tasted like chalk and discipline.

From the other side of the desk, a rustling of plastic bags announced that it was feeding time at the zoo.

"Oh my god, finally," Orm groaned with pleasure.

Lingling watched out of the corner of her eye as Orm unpacked a feast. There was a styrofoam box, a plastic bag of soup, a smaller bag of sauce, and a cup of iced pink milk.

Orm opened the styrofoam box.

Immediately, the scent hit Lingling. It was aggressive. It was spicy. It was the smell of holy basil, chili, garlic, and fish sauce frying in hot oil. Pad Krapow Moo Saap (Basil Minced Pork) with a fried egg on top.

Lingling’s salivary glands betrayed her instantly. Her mouth watered. She took another bite of her chalk-bar to punish herself.

"Dr. Kornaphat," Lingling said, talking around the protein bar. "We are in an enclosed space with poor ventilation."

"I know!" Orm said happily, breaking the yolk of her fried egg with a plastic spoon. "It smells amazing, right? I got it from Auntie Noi’s stall behind the parking garage. She makes it extra spicy."

"It smells like... garlic," Lingling said, wrinkling her nose. "Strong garlic."

"Garlic is good for the heart! You should know that, Cardiologist." Orm scooped up a massive spoonful of pork and rice and shoved it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and hummed. "Mmm. So good."

Lingling looked at her dry protein bar. Then she looked at the glistening, chili-flecked pork.

"You cannot eat that in here," Lingling tried. "It will linger in the upholstery."

"We have leather chairs," Orm pointed out, chewing. "Wipeable." She swallowed and looked at Lingling. Her eyes dropped to the sad protein bar in Lingling’s hand.

Orm’s expression softened. "P'Ling, is that your lunch?"

"It is a nutrient-dense meal replacement," Lingling defended.

"It looks like a brick made of sadness," Orm said frankly.

"It is efficient. I do not have time to go to the stalls."

"I bought extra," Orm said casually. She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a small skewer of Moo Ping (grilled pork) and a little bag of sticky rice. "I always buy extra because sometimes the kids in the ward are hungry. But... you look like you need it more."

She slid the skewer and the rice across the desk. She was careful to stop them exactly at the blue tape line.

"I am not hungry," Lingling lied. Her stomach chose that exact moment to growl. It was a loud, guttural sound that echoed in the quiet room.

Orm smirked. "Your stomach disagrees with your brain. Just take it. I haven't touched it. It’s sterile."

Lingling stared at the grilled pork. It was glazed, slightly charred, and smelled like heaven. She looked at Orm, who was busy eating her basil chicken and pretending not to watch.

Lingling put down the protein bar.

She reached out, her hand crossing into the Neutral Zone, and picked up the skewer.

"Thank you," she murmured, barely audible.

"You're welcome!" Orm chirped. "Careful, the sticky rice is really sticky."

Lingling took a bite of the pork. The sweetness, the savory marinade, the charcoal smoke... it was an explosion of flavor that made her eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second. She quickly composed herself, but the damage was done.

"Acceptable," Lingling stated, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"Just acceptable?" Orm teased.

"Adequate caloric intake."

"You're impossible," Orm laughed. She took a long sip of her pink milk.

Lingling ate the sticky rice in silence, feeling a strange warmth spreading in her chest that had nothing to do with the spice. It was annoying. It was dangerous.

She finished the pork and threw the stick in the bin. "I will reimburse you."

"Don't worry about it. Just... maybe let me keep the temperature at 22.5?" Orm bargained, batting her eyelashes.

Lingling looked at the thermostat. She looked at Orm, who had discarded the dinosaur blanket but was still wearing the cardigan.

"22.0," Lingling countered.

"Deal!" Orm grinned.

Lingling stepped out of the office to make her afternoon rounds. As she closed the door, she nearly collided with Dr. Bow, an Anesthesiologist and the hospital’s premier source of information.

"Dr. Lingling!" Bow whispered, grabbing her arm. "Is it true? Are you really rooming with the Golden Retriever?"

Lingling smoothed her coat. "Dr. Kornaphat is my temporary office mate. Yes."

"And? Have you killed her yet? Or has she glitter-bombed your diplomas?"

"We have established... boundaries," Lingling said diplomatically. "She is chaotic, loud, and lacks basic understanding of climate control."

"But?" Bow prodded, raising an eyebrow.

"But," Lingling hesitated. She thought of the way Orm had helped the intern. She thought of the Moo Ping. She thought of the ridiculous dinosaur blanket. "But she is... competent."

Bow’s jaw dropped. "High praise from the Ice Queen. Careful, P’Ling. If you’re not careful, you might actually make a friend."

"I am here to work, not to make friends," Lingling said sharply. "And certainly not with someone who drinks pink milk."

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking down the corridor.

Inside Room 404, Orm was watching the door. She smiled to herself, picked up her phone, and opened the group chat titled "Praram Cute Doctors."

Orm: Update: The Ice Queen eats Moo Ping. I repeat, the Ice Queen eats Moo Ping.

Miu: Omg did she smile?

Orm: No. But she didn't scowl while chewing. It’s progress.

Bow: I just saw her. She called you 'competent.' That’s basically a marriage proposal in Ling-speak.

Orm laughed, clutching her phone to her chest. She looked at the empty desk across from her. The blue tape line was still there, stark and dividing. But somehow, the room felt a little bit smaller. A little bit warmer.

She grabbed a post-it note—neon green—and a pen. She scribbled a quick note and stuck it on Lingling’s computer monitor.

Next time: Mango Sticky Rice? - O.

She grabbed her stethoscope and headed out for her own rounds, leaving the note beaming in the dim light of the office.

Chapter Text

It had been seven days since Dr. Lingling Kwong had been forcibly relocated to Room 404. Seven days of sharing oxygen with Dr. Orm Kornaphat. Seven days of psychological warfare disguised as co-working.

Lingling sat at her desk, her posture rigid. She was trying to read a crucial update on aortic valve prosthetics in the latest issue of The Lancet. It was heavy, dense reading that required absolute focus.

“The hemodynamic performance of the new generation bioprosthesis shows a significant reduction in paravalvular leak...”

"And then the monkey said, 'Ooh ooh ah ah!'"

Lingling’s eye twitched.

Across the room—technically on the other side of the blue tape, which was now peeling slightly at the edges—Orm was sitting on the floor. She wasn't alone. Sitting cross-legged in front of her was a six-year-old boy named Nont, a patient from the Pediatric Ward who was recovering from pneumonia. He was wearing oversized hospital pajamas and clutching an IV pole like a warrior's spear.

"Did the monkey eat the banana?" Nont asked, his eyes wide.

"He ate ten bananas!" Orm exclaimed, making a wide gesture with her hands that nearly knocked over a stack of paperwork. "And then his tummy went gurgle gurgle pop!"

Nont dissolved into a fit of giggles. It was a cute sound. Objectively. Lingling knew that children were the future, and their laughter was a sign of health. But right now, Nont’s laughter was drilling directly into her frontal lobe.

Lingling lowered the journal. "Dr. Kornaphat."

Orm looked up, mid-monkey impression. "Yes, P'Ling?"

"Is this... clinically necessary?" Lingling asked, gesturing to the picnic happening on the floor.

"It’s play therapy!" Orm beamed. "Nong Nont was scared of his nebulizer treatment. I promised him a story if he was brave. He was very brave."

"I see," Lingling said stiffly. "There is a designated playroom on the 6th floor."

"The playroom is being painted," Orm countered cheerfully. "And it smells like paint thinner. Room 404 smells like... well, mostly like your coffee and my hand sanitizer. It’s safe."

She turned back to the boy. "Okay, Nont, time to go back to Nurse Joy. High five!"

They high-fived. Orm walked the boy to the door, whispering something that made him giggle again, and handed him off to a waiting nurse. She closed the door and leaned against it, sighing contentedly.

"He’s so sweet," Orm said. "His oxygen saturation is up to 98%."

"That is wonderful," Lingling said, returning to her journal. "Now, if I could return to the hemodynamics of aortic valves..."

"You know," Orm said, pushing off the door and wandering back to her desk. She didn't sit down. Instead, she started pacing. Pacing was one of Orm's new habits that Lingling had discovered. She paced when she was thinking. She paced when she was bored. She paced, Lingling suspected, just to create air currents that annoyed Lingling.

"You know," Orm continued, "you haven't put up a single picture."

Lingling didn't look up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your side of the room." Orm pointed a finger across the border. "It’s so... barren. No family photos. No dog photos. No 'Hang in There, Baby' cat posters. Just books and a skull model."

"It is a model of the thoracic cage," Lingling corrected. "And I do not need visual clutter to distract me."

"It’s not clutter, it’s personality!" Orm sat on the edge of her desk—dangerously close to the line. "Don't you have a hobby? A pet? A secret lover?"

Lingling choked on her own spit. She coughed elegantly into her fist. "Excuse me?"

"A secret lover," Orm repeated, wiggling her eyebrows. "Someone you send racy texts to between surgeries? You’re very mysterious, P'Ling. The nurses have a betting pool, you know."

Lingling slammed the journal shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

"Dr. Orm," she said, her voice dangerously low. "My personal life is not a topic for discussion. And certainly not a subject for gambling among the staff. If you have time to gossip, perhaps you should be reviewing your patient charts."

Orm’s smile faltered. She slid off the desk. "I... I was just teasing. Trying to break the ice."

"The ice," Lingling said, meeting her eyes, "is there for a reason. It keeps things preserved. It keeps things sterile."

She turned her chair away, presenting her back to Orm. "Please. I have work to do."

There was a silence. A long, heavy silence. For the first time in a week, Orm didn't have a comeback. Lingling heard the soft squeak of Orm’s chair as she sat down, and then the quiet clicking of a mouse.

Lingling stared at the wall. She felt a prickle of guilt—a small, unfamiliar sensation in her chest. She pushed it away. She was right. This was a workspace. They weren't friends. They were colleagues who happened to be trapped in a box.

The truce of silence lasted until after lunch.

Lingling had gone to the cafeteria (a rare occurrence) just to escape the room for twenty minutes. When she returned, she found Orm on a call.

Orm was speaking English, her voice rapid and fluent, though tinged with stress.

"...No, I understand the shipment is delayed, but my patient cannot wait for the custom stent. We need an alternative. Yes. I’ll hold."

Orm was pacing again. She was holding her phone to her ear with her shoulder, and in her hands, she was juggling a stack of files and inexplicably—a large, condensation-dripping plastic cup of Bubble Tea. Dark brown liquid, tapioca pearls at the bottom.

Lingling walked to her desk. "Dr. Kornaphat, could you perhaps take that outside?"

Orm spun around, startled. "Oh! P'Ling. Sorry, I’m on hold with the supplier in Germany—"

She turned too fast.

The stack of files in her hand shifted. She tried to catch them. In doing so, her grip on the Bubble Tea cup loosened.

It happened in slow motion. Lingling saw it coming. She saw the cup tilt. She saw the lid pop off, betrayed by the pressure of the squeeze.

"No," Lingling whispered.

The cup fell. It didn't hit the floor.

It hit the edge of Lingling’s desk.

Specifically, it hit the open copy of The Lancet.

Splash.

Brown, milky, sugary tea exploded across the glossy pages. Tapioca pearls—sticky, black, chewy spheres of doom—rolled across Lingling’s pristine white desk surface. One particularly ambitious pearl rolled all the way to Lingling’s keyboard and settled between the 'H' and 'J' keys.

Silence. absolute, horrified silence.

Orm froze, the phone still pressed to her ear. "Hallo? Hallo? Yes, I'm still here," she whispered into the phone, her eyes locked on the disaster.

Lingling stared at the journal. The article on aortic valves was now soaking up the liquid, the text turning translucent and brown.

Lingling slowly lifted her gaze to Orm.

If looks could kill, Orm would have been dead, dissected, and archived.

Orm hung up the phone. "I..."

"Do not," Lingling said. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

"I will buy you a new one!" Orm gasped, rushing forward. She grabbed a box of tissues and started dabbing frantically at the journal. "Oh god, I’m so sorry. It slipped. The pearls... they’re everywhere."

"Stop," Lingling commanded. She caught Orm’s wrist.

The contact was electric. Lingling’s hand was cool; Orm’s wrist was warm and pulsed with a frantic, racing heartbeat. For a second, neither of them moved. Lingling looked at the sticky mess, then at Orm’s terrified face.

"You have contaminated my workspace," Lingling said, releasing her wrist as if it burned. "You have destroyed professional literature. And you have violated the boundary."

"It was an accident!" Orm pleaded. "I’m clumsy! You know this! I’ll clean it up. I’ll lick it up if I have to—no, that’s gross, I won’t do that. But I’ll fix it!"

"You cannot fix it," Lingling said, standing up. She picked up the sodden journal by the corner, pinched between two fingers like hazardous waste. She walked to the trash can and dropped it in with a heavy thud.

"This arrangement," Lingling said, turning back to Orm, "is untenable."

"What? No!" Orm’s eyes filled with genuine panic. "P'Ling, don't say that. Don't kick me out. Where will I go? The triage tent? It smells like feet in there!"

"That is not my concern."

"Please," Orm stepped closer. She clasped her hands together in a wai. "Please give me another chance. I’ll... I’ll build a wall! A real one! Out of cardboard boxes! I’ll never speak to you again. I’ll communicate only via smoke signals. Just don't report me to Supoj. If I lose this office, I lose my charging port for the nebulizers, and I can’t monitor the ICU feed from the hallway."

Lingling stopped. She looked at Orm. The younger doctor looked devastated. And—annoyingly—she had a point about the ICU feed. The dedicated fiber optic line in this office was the only one fast enough to handle the high-res imaging data Orm needed for her babies.

Lingling closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

"You will not speak to me," Lingling negotiated.

"Zip. Silent as a grave," Orm mimed zipping her lips.

"You will not eat or drink anything that is not water on this side of the room."

"Strict hydration only. Got it."

"And you will clean this desk. Every inch. With isopropyl alcohol. If I find a single sticky spot, or if my 'H' key sticks..."

"I will clean it with my own toothbrush," Orm promised.

Lingling stared at her. "Use a cloth, Dr. Kornaphat."

Lingling grabbed her white coat. "I am going to the library. When I return, I expect this room to smell like a hospital, not a bubble tea shop."

She walked to the door.

"P'Ling?" Orm’s voice was small.

Lingling paused, hand on the handle. "What?"

"I really am sorry."

Lingling didn't turn around. "Clean the desk, Kornaphat."

She walked out, her heart hammering in her chest. She was furious. She was definitely furious.

So why did she feel a sudden, irrational urge to smile at the sheer panic on Orm’s face?

Arrhythmia, she told herself. Definitely arrhythmia.

Lingling spent three hours in the library. It was quiet. It was odorless. It was... lonely.

She packed up her things and headed back down to the 4th floor. The elevator was empty when she got in. She pressed the button.

On the 8th floor, the doors opened.

Orm walked in.

She was carrying a mop. A literal mop. And a bucket. She stopped dead when she saw Lingling.

"I... uh... I borrowed it from the janitor," Orm explained, holding the mop handle like a defensive weapon. "Just to be sure about the floor. The pearls roll, you know."

Lingling sighed. "Dr. Orm, you are a Fellow of the Royal College of Pediatricians. You do not need to mop floors."

"I make a mess, I clean a mess," Orm shrugged. She stepped in and pressed the button for the 4th floor.

They stood in silence. The elevator hummed.

Then, the elevator jerked.

The lights flickered. A loud clunk echoed from the shaft above. The car ground to a halt between floors. The emergency light bathed them in an eerie red glow.

"Oh no," Orm whispered.

"Power surge," Lingling diagnosed instantly. "The storm outside must have hit a grid."

"We're stuck," Orm said, her voice rising in pitch. "We're stuck in a metal box."

"We are safe. The emergency brakes are engaged." Lingling leaned back against the rail, crossing her arms. "We just wait."

Orm wasn't leaning back. She was vibrating. She dropped the mop. "I don't like small spaces. I mean, the office is fine because it has a window. This... this is a coffin."

"Claustrophobia?" Lingling asked, her tone softening slightly.

"A little bit. Maybe a lot bit." Orm started fanning herself with her hand. "Is it getting hot in here? It feels hot."

Lingling watched her. Orm was genuinely hyperventilating. Her chest was heaving.

"Dr. Kornaphat. Look at me."

Orm squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't. If I open my eyes, I'll see the walls closing in."

"Orm." Lingling stepped forward. She moved into Orm’s personal space—ignoring her own rules about boundaries.

"Open your eyes." It was a command, but it was gentle.

Orm opened one eye, then the other. They were wide and wet with fear.

"Breathe," Lingling said. She held up a hand, fingers spread. "Count with me. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four."

"I... I can't..."

"You can. You told Intern Oat about the balloon, didn't you? Fill the balloon." Lingling took a deep breath, exaggerating the motion. "In."

Orm mimicked her, a shaky, shallow breath.

"Deeper. Fill the lower lobes." Lingling’s voice was steady, an anchor in the red-lit darkness. "Hold it. One, two, three, four. Now exhale. Slowly."

They did this for a minute. In. Hold. Out.

Orm’s breathing slowed. Her shoulders dropped. She stopped shaking. She looked at Lingling, who was standing just inches away.

"Better?" Lingling asked.

"Yeah," Orm breathed. "Thanks. Sorry. I’m... I’m a mess today."

"You are," Lingling agreed bluntly. "But you are also the only doctor I know who would mop a floor to save her internet connection."

Orm let out a wet laugh. "It's a really good connection."

"I know."

They stood there in the red light, the tension of the bubble tea incident dissolving in the shared crisis. Lingling noticed that Orm had a small mole just above her left eyebrow. She noticed that Orm’s eyes were a very warm shade of brown.

"P'Ling?"

"Yes?"

"You have a little... tapioca pearl... on your shoe."

Lingling looked down. Indeed, a single black pearl was stuck to the toe of her immaculate leather pump.

She let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "Of course I do."

The elevator jolted. The lights flickered back to bright white. The motor whirred to life.

"Saved," Orm cheered weakly.

"Saved," Lingling echoed.

As the doors opened on the 4th floor, Lingling stepped out. She paused and looked back at Orm, who was picking up her mop.

"Dr. Kornaphat?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about the journal. I have a digital subscription."

Orm’s face lit up like the sun. "Really?"

"Yes. But you still owe me a coffee. And not that sugary sludge you drink. Real coffee."

"Deal!" Orm beamed. "Double shot, black, lid on tight. I remember."

Lingling walked down the hall toward Room 404. She wasn't smiling. Not outwardly. But the "Ice Queen" felt a little bit of a thaw beginning in the region of her left ventricle.

The walk back from the elevator was quiet, but the quality of the silence had changed. It was no longer the heavy, suffocating silence of two people trying to ignore each other's existence. It was the tentative, fragile silence of two people who had just shared a near-death experience (or at least, a moderate inconvenience involving a power outage).

When they entered Room 404, the smell of stale coffee and sugar still hung faintly in the air, a ghost of the bubble tea disaster.

Orm immediately went to work. She didn't just clean; she performed a ritual. She soaked paper towels in isopropyl alcohol and scrubbed the mahogany desk with a vigor that suggested she was trying to erase not just the sugar, but her own sins.

Lingling stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the sunset bleed orange and purple over the Bangkok traffic jam below. She wasn't looking at the cars, though. She was watching Orm’s reflection in the glass.

"You missed a spot," Lingling said, not turning around. "Near the grommet hole for the monitor cables."

"Got it!" Orm chirped. Scrub, scrub, scrub. "Is that better?"

Lingling turned. She walked over to the desk and inspected the surface. She ran a finger along the wood. It came away clean and smelling sharply of antiseptic.

"Acceptable," Lingling decided. She sat down in her ergonomic chair. "You may cease the scrubbing before you strip the varnish off the hospital property."

Orm collapsed into her own chair, letting out a long exhale. She looked exhausted. The mop bucket sat in the corner like a defeated enemy.

"So," Orm said, picking up a pen and clicking it nervously. "About the... arrangement."

"The arrangement," Lingling repeated.

"I know I’m a lot," Orm said, her voice unusually small. She looked down at her hands. "I know I’m loud, and I have too much stuff, and I treat the hospital like a kindergarten. And you’re... well, you’re P'Ling. You’re perfect. You’re the youngest surgeon to ever lead a valve repair team. I get why you hate sharing with me."

Lingling stared at her. The description—perfect—felt like an itch under her skin. Perfection was exhausting. Perfection meant you couldn't have a panic attack in an elevator.

"I do not hate you," Lingling said. The words felt strange on her tongue. "I dislike... chaos. Unpredictability."

"I am chaos," Orm admitted with a weak smile. "Whatever the opposite of entropy is, that’s you."

"Negentropy," Lingling supplied automatically. "Order creates structure. Structure saves lives."

"But sometimes structure scares people," Orm countered softly. "Sometimes people need a little chaos to feel like they can breathe."

They looked at each other across the blue tape line. The tape was peeling slightly near the edge of the desk where the tea had spilled.

"We need rules," Lingling said. " codified rules. Not just 'stay on your side.'"

Orm perked up. "Like a constitution? The Constitution of Room 404?"

"A Memorandum of Understanding," Lingling corrected. She opened a blank document on her computer. "Rule Number One: No consumption of liquids with viscosity greater than water within twenty centimetres of electronic equipment."

"Objection!" Orm raised a hand. "Coffee is essential for life support."

"Coffee is allowed. Sticky, sugary suspensions with choking hazards are not."

Orm pouted, then nodded. "Fine. Rule Number Two: No staring at me with the 'Laser Eyes' when I’m humming. Unless I’m humming really off-key. Then you can throw a paperclip at me."

Lingling typed: 2. Auditory disturbances kept to a minimum. Feedback to be delivered verbally, not via projectiles.

"Rule Number Three," Lingling said, typing as she spoke. "3. The thermostat remains at 22.5 degrees Celsius."

Orm gasped. "22.5? You’re giving me the extra half degree? You’re compromising?"

"I am adapting," Lingling said without looking up. "Survival of the fittest requires adaptation."

"Rule Number Four," Orm said, leaning forward, her chin resting in her hands. "We have to say 'Good Morning' and 'Good Night'. Like, for real. Not just a nod."

Lingling’s fingers paused over the keyboard. "Is that necessary for clinical efficiency?"

"It’s necessary for human decency," Orm said. "We’re roommates. We should acknowledge each other’s existence."

Lingling considered this. She typed: 4. Standard social pleasantries are mandatory at the start and end of shifts.

"Good enough," Orm smiled. It was the first genuine, non-panicked smile she had given Lingling all day. It made the corners of her eyes crinkle.

Lingling felt that strange flutter in her chest again. She ignored it. "I will print this. You will sign it."

The ink on the "Memorandum of Understanding" was barely dry when Lingling’s pager beeped.

CODE GREY - Room 412. Combative Patient.

Lingling stood up immediately. "My patient. Excuse me."

"Room 412?" Orm asked, checking her own tablet. "Is that May? The Marfan syndrome teenager?"

"Yes. Maythinee. 16 years old. Scheduled for aortic root replacement tomorrow morning." Lingling was already moving toward the door.

"I’m coming," Orm said, jumping up.

"This is a cardiology case, Dr. Kornaphat. Not pediatrics."

"She’s sixteen. That’s technically still peds territory in some countries. Besides, Code Grey means she’s fighting. You might need backup." Orm grabbed her strawberry tumbler (now empty) and followed.

Lingling didn't argue. She walked briskly down the corridor, the sound of shouting growing louder as they approached Room 412.

Inside, it was chaos.

A tray of food had been overturned on the floor. Two nurses were standing back, looking wary. In the bed, a thin, lanky girl with long limbs and thick glasses—classic Marfanoid features—was sitting with her arms crossed, glaring at the wall.

"I’m not doing it!" May shouted. "I’m not signing the consent form! You can’t make me!"

"May," Nurse Joy said soothingly. "Dr. Kwong is here."

May looked at the door. When she saw Lingling, her expression hardened. "Oh great. The Robot."

Orm, standing behind Lingling, let out a snort of laughter which she quickly disguised as a cough. Lingling ignored it. She walked to the foot of the bed.

"Maythinee," Lingling said, her voice cool and authoritative. "Your aorta is dilated to 5.2 centimeters. The risk of dissection is over twenty percent per year. Without surgery, the statistical probability of a rupture is extremely high. Rupture leads to death."

"I don't care!" May screamed. "I don't care about statistics! I care that I have prom next month! I care that I have a scar down the middle of my chest that looks like a zipper! No one is going to dance with a freak!"

"A scar is preferable to a funeral," Lingling stated. "This is logic. You are risking your life for vanity."

"It’s not vanity! It’s my life!" May grabbed a pillow and threw it. It hit Lingling square in the chest.

Lingling didn't flinch. She caught the pillow and set it on a chair. "Your behavior is elevating your blood pressure. This is dangerous for your condition."

"Get out!" May shrieked. She started to hyperventilate. "Get out! I hate you!"

Lingling stood there, frustration tightening her jaw. She was right. She knew she was right. The surgery was the only option. Why couldn't the girl see the data?

Suddenly, a warm hand touched Lingling’s shoulder.

"Tag out," Orm whispered.

Lingling hesitated, then stepped back.

Orm stepped forward. She didn't stand at the foot of the bed like a doctor. She walked around to the side and sat on the edge of the mattress, ignoring the "No Sitting" rule.

"Hey May," Orm said softly. "Nice aim with the pillow. You play basketball?"

May sniffled, looking suspicious. "No. I can't play sports. My heart, remember?"

"Right. Sucks, doesn't it?" Orm picked up the consent form from the bedside table. "You know, I have a scar too."

May looked up. "You do?"

"Yep." Orm rolled up the sleeve of her white coat and her cardigan to reveal a jagged, pale scar on her forearm. "Fell out of a tree when I was twelve. Trying to rescue a cat. The cat scratched me, I fell, broke my arm. It was a whole thing."

"That’s not the same as open heart surgery," May scoffed.

"No," Orm agreed. "It’s not. Yours is way cooler. Mine is just clumsy. Yours means you’re a survivor."

Orm leaned in. "Dr. Kwong is right about the danger. She’s scary smart, and she doesn't lie. But she’s wrong about one thing. It’s not vanity to want to feel normal. It’s okay to be scared that boys won't like the scar. It’s okay to be mad that you have to do this when everyone else is just worrying about algebra."

May’s lower lip trembled. "I just... I don't want to be different."

"You’re already different, May. You’re fighting a battle most adults couldn't handle." Orm reached into her pocket and pulled out a sheet of stickers. They were sparkly stars. "If you get the surgery, you get to go to prom. If you don't... well, you might miss it."

Orm placed a gold star sticker on the back of May’s hand.

"Dr. Kwong can fix the heart," Orm said, tilting her head toward Lingling. "She’s the best mechanic in the city. Maybe in the world. But you have to be the driver. You have to decide to get back on the road."

May looked at the sticker. She looked at Orm. Then she looked at Lingling, who was standing awkwardly by the door.

"Is she really the best?" May asked Orm, her voice barely a whisper.

"She’s annoying," Orm grinned. "But yeah. She’s a wizard with a scalpel. I’d let her operate on me."

May took a deep breath. She picked up the pen. "Okay. But if the scar is ugly, I’m suing both of you."

"Deal," Orm smiled.

May signed the paper.

They walked back to the office in silence again. The hospital was quieting down for the night shift. The overhead lights dimmed to a softer, sleep-mode setting.

When they got inside Room 404, Lingling didn't go to her desk immediately. She stood by the door.

"You called me a mechanic," Lingling said.

Orm winced, taking off her coat and hanging it on the back of her chair. "I meant it as a compliment! Like... a really high-end mechanic. For Ferraris."

"And a wizard," Lingling added.

"Well, you are."

Lingling walked over to her side of the room. She sat down, but she didn't turn on her computer. "I could not reach her. I spoke the truth, but she could not hear it."

"She heard you," Orm said, walking over to the line but not crossing it. "She just needed to feel heard first. It’s the 'Feel, Felt, Found' method. Sales technique. Also works on teenagers."

Lingling looked up at Orm. The younger doctor looked tired. Her hair was a little messy, and the daisies on her cardigan looked wilted. But her eyes were kind.

"I do not have that skill," Lingling admitted quietly. It was a painful admission. Lingling prided herself on having every skill necessary for her job. "I see the pathology. I see the solution. I do not see the... the girl who wants to go to prom."

"That’s why we’re a team," Orm said. The words hung in the air.

Team.

"Temporary office mates," Lingling corrected, but there was no heat in it.

"Right. Temporary." Orm smiled. "But hey, for the next eight months, you fix the hardware, and I’ll handle the software. We’ll be unstoppable."

Lingling looked at the blue tape line. It suddenly seemed very arbitrary.

"Dr. Kornaphat?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For obtaining the consent. Her life depends on it."

"You're welcome, P'Ling."

Lingling turned to her computer. "You should go home. Your shift ended two hours ago."

"I have charts to finish. And I have to fix the bubble tea damage to my soul." Orm sat down and opened her laptop. "Besides, it’s raining."

Lingling looked at the window. Heavy drops were beginning to smear against the glass. Distant thunder rumbled, low and ominous. It was the start of the monsoon season.

"The forecast predicts severe thunderstorms," Lingling noted.

"I like the rain," Orm hummed. "It makes the office feel cozy."

Lingling looked at Orm, bathed in the soft glow of her desk lamp and the faint twinkle of the fairy lights she had re-lit on her side of the room.

"It is... not unpleasant," Lingling murmured.

"Did you say something?"

"I said, goodnight, Dr. Kornaphat."

Orm beamed. "Goodnight, P'Ling."

Lingling opened the patient file for Maythinee. She felt a strange sense of calm. The room was still split in half. The styles were still incompatible. But as the rain lashed against the window of Room 404, Lingling Kwong thought that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't request a transfer to the morgue after all.

She reached into her drawer, pulled out a small, foil-wrapped chocolate—not a protein bar, but a real chocolate she had received as a gift—and slid it across the desk.

It stopped exactly on the blue line.

Orm looked at it, then up at Lingling.

Lingling didn't look up. She just kept typing.

But she was smiling.

Chapter Text

The rain against the window of Room 404 didn't sound like water anymore. It sounded like gravel. It sounded like the sky was trying to physically break into the building to file a complaint.

Dr. Lingling Kwong stood by the window, her hands clasped behind her back in a posture of military ease. Below, the streets of Bangkok had vanished. The road leading to the hospital entrance was a brown, churning river. Cars were stalled, submerged up to their wheel wells, their hazard lights blinking in pathetic, rhythmic unison through the gray downpour.

"Sukhumvit is flooded," Lingling announced, her voice devoid of emotion. "Rama IV is a parking lot. The BTS Skytrain is running with twenty-minute delays due to signal failure."

Behind her, the rhythmic click-clack-click of a keyboard stopped.

"So... what you're saying is," Orm’s voice came from the other side of the blue tape, "my GrabFood order is definitely not coming."

Lingling turned. Orm was slumped over her desk, chin resting on a stack of files. She looked tragic.

"Dr. Kornaphat, the city is grinding to a halt. The evening shift nurses cannot get in. The day shift staff cannot leave. We are looking at a catastrophic staffing bottleneck."

"And I really wanted that boba," Orm sighed, closing her laptop. She spun her chair around. "So, we’re stuck?"

"We are essential personnel. We are always stuck." Lingling checked her watch. "I have been here since 06:00. My shift was scheduled to end in fifteen minutes."

"Mine too," Orm said. She stood up and stretched, her back cracking audibly. "But look on the bright side! A slumber party!"

Lingling gave her a withering look. "This is not a party. This is a crisis management scenario."

As if on cue, the hospital’s overhead PA system chimed. The tone was different from the usual melodic bell. It was a sharp, double-tone buzz.

“Code Yellow. Code Yellow. All available medical staff, please report to your stations. Shift rotations are suspended until further notice. Emergency Department is requesting immediate support from all specialties. Repeat: Code Yellow.”

Lingling buttoned her white coat. She adjusted her stethoscope. She reached into her drawer, pulled out a fresh N95 mask, and snapped it into place.

"Game time," Lingling said.

Orm was already moving. She had grabbed her strawberry tumbler (filled with water this time, per the Memorandum of Understanding) and was stuffing her pockets with essentials: a penlight, a reflex hammer, and—Lingling noted with a sigh—a bag of gummy bears.

"Ready when you are, P'Ling," Orm said, her eyes suddenly serious. The playfulness had vanished, replaced by a focused intensity that Lingling was starting to recognize.

"Let’s go," Lingling said. "And Kornaphat?"

"Yeah?"

"Pace yourself. It is going to be a long night."

The Emergency Department was a war zone.

The automatic doors hissed open and shut incessantly, admitting a stream of sodden, shivering patients. There were motorcycle accident victims who had slid out on the slick roads. There were elderly patients with exacerbations of asthma triggered by the humidity. There were frantic parents holding feverish children.

The air smelled of wet concrete, iodine, and fear.

Lingling was in Trauma Bay 2. She was working on a 40-year-old man who had hydroplaned his sedan into a barrier.

"BP is 90 over 60. Heart rate 120," the nurse shouted over the din.

"Fast scan is positive for fluid in the pericardium," Lingling said, her eyes glued to the portable ultrasound monitor. "He has tamponade. I need a pericardiocentesis kit. Now. 18-gauge needle. 20cc syringe."

Her hands moved with terrifying speed. She prepped the skin, draped the chest, and inserted the needle just below the sternum. She drew back. Dark blood filled the syringe.

"Pressure?" Lingling barked.

"Coming up. 100 over 70. Heart rate dropping to 100."

"Stabilized," Lingling exhaled. "Book an OR. He needs a window. I’ll scrub in as soon as the room is prepped."

She stripped off her bloody gloves and stepped out of the curtained bay, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. The AC in the ER was struggling against the body heat of three hundred people.

She scanned the room, looking for the triage nurse to assign her next case.

Instead, her eyes landed on a splash of pink in a sea of blue and green scrubs.

Across the hall, in the pediatric section, Orm was kneeling on the floor next to a gurney. A young girl, maybe seven years old, was screaming. She had a deep gash on her forehead, bleeding profusely—head wounds always did.

Lingling watched, momentarily frozen.

Orm wasn't restraining the girl. She was... singing.

It was a soft, rhythmic song, barely audible over the chaos. Orm held a sterile gauze pad to the girl’s head with one hand, and with the other, she was making a shadow puppet on the wall using the beam of her penlight.

"Look, Nong Ploy," Orm was saying, her voice steady and calm. "It’s a bunny. See the ears? The bunny is looking for a carrot. Is the bunny going to find the carrot in your ear?"

The girl stopped screaming to look at the shadow. She hiccuped. "No... bunnies don't eat ears."

"Are you sure?" Orm asked, expertly sliding a topical anesthetic gel into the wound while the girl was distracted. "I think this bunny is very hungry. Okay, I’m going to clean this up now. It’s going to feel like a cold cat tongue. You know how rough cat tongues are?"

The girl giggled through her tears.

Lingling watched as Orm quickly, efficiently sutured the wound. Her hands were steady. Her knot-tying was fluid. But it was her face that held Lingling’s attention. Orm was smiling, her eyes crinkling above her mask, radiating a warmth that seemed to push back the cold, sterile fluorescent light of the ER.

A resident bumped into Lingling. "Dr. Kwong! Bed 4 needs a consult. Chest pain."

Lingling snapped out of her trance. "Moving," she said.

But as she walked away, the image of the shadow bunny and the steady hands stayed burned in her mind.

Competent, she thought again. Dangerous.

The break room was standing room only. Doctors and nurses were slumped in chairs, leaning against walls, or sitting on the floor. The coffee machine was making a straining, gurgling noise that suggested it was about to tender its resignation.

Lingling entered, hoping for caffeine. She found only despair. The "Out of Beans" light was flashing red.

She closed her eyes. This is it, she thought. This is how I die. Uncaffeinated.

"Pst. P'Ling."

Lingling opened her eyes. Orm was sitting on top of a low filing cabinet in the corner, swinging her legs. She looked disheveled. Her hair was escaping her ponytail, and her white coat was tied around her waist.

She patted the empty space on the cabinet next to her. "VIP seating."

Lingling hesitated, then walked over. She didn't sit on the cabinet—that would be undignified—but she leaned against it.

"How are you holding up?" Orm asked. She looked tired. There were dark smudges under her eyes.

"I have performed one pericardial window, two chest tube insertions, and consulted on four suspected myocardial infarctions," Lingling recited. "My feet are numb. My caffeine levels are critically low."

"I sutured five heads, reduced a nursemaid's elbow, and convinced a toddler that the nebulizer mask was actually a pilot's oxygen mask," Orm countered. "And I ate all my gummy bears."

"A tragedy," Lingling deadpanned.

"It is!" Orm reached into her pocket. "But... I saved something for you."

She held out her hand. In her palm sat a single, slightly squashed, foil-wrapped coffee candy. Kopiko.

"It’s not a double shot espresso," Orm apologized. "But it has caffeine."

Lingling looked at the candy. It was warm from Orm’s pocket.

"Thank you," Lingling said. She took the candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. The bitter-sweet coffee flavor exploded on her tongue. It was the best thing she had ever tasted.

"You were good today," Lingling said suddenly. The sugar must have gone straight to her filter. "With the girl. The head wound."

Orm blinked, surprised. "Oh. You saw that?"

"I saw it. Your suturing technique is... adequate. But your distraction technique is excellent."

Orm’s face flushed pink. "Thanks, P'Ling. That means... a lot. Coming from you."

"Don't let it go to your head," Lingling warned. "If you start doing shadow puppets in my OR, I will have you removed by security."

"Noted. No bunnies in the sterile field."

They stood there for a moment in the crowded, noisy room, sharing a quiet pocket of space.

"How long until the next shift can get in?" Orm asked, leaning her head back against the wall.

"The floodwaters are receding, but slowly," Lingling said. "Police say the roads might be passable by dawn. We are here until at least 06:00."

"That’s... seven more hours," Orm groaned. "I’m going to hallucinate."

"Stay hydrated," Lingling advised. "And do not operate heavy machinery if you see dancing elephants."

"You're funny when you're tired," Orm murmured, her eyes drooping shut.

"I am not funny," Lingling corrected. "I am delirious."

"Dr. Kwong! Dr. Sethratanapong!" A nurse stuck her head into the room. "Trauma incoming. Multi-vehicle pileup on the highway. ETA two minutes. We need everyone."

Orm’s eyes snapped open. The exhaustion didn't leave her face, but the resolve returned. She hopped off the cabinet.

"Round two?" she asked.

Lingling crunched the rest of the coffee candy between her teeth.

"Round two."

The rush had finally, mercifully, stopped. The last trauma patient had been stabilized and moved to the ICU. The waiting room was quiet, filled only with sleeping relatives.

The hospital hummed with the low, vibrating frequency of the graveyard shift.

Lingling walked down the hallway of the 4th floor. Her legs felt like lead. Her brain felt like it was packed with cotton wool. She had been awake for twenty-one hours.

She reached the door of Room 404. She swiped her badge. The light turned green.

She pushed the door open.

The office was dark, illuminated only by the city lights outside and the soft, twinkling glow of Orm’s fairy lights on the right side of the room.

Orm was already there.

She was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room—ignoring the blue tape completely. She had spread her dinosaur blanket out like a picnic mat. In the center of the blanket sat a meager feast: two bottles of water, a bag of chips, and two 7-Eleven toasted sandwiches (Ham and Cheese), still in their warm wrappers.

Orm looked up as Lingling entered. She was wearing her glasses now, her contacts having evidently given up the ghost hours ago. She looked cozy, soft, and incredibly inviting.

"I raided the vending machines in the lobby," Orm whispered, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile peace. "And I bribed the ambulance driver to stop at 7-Eleven before he dropped off the last patient. They’re still warm."

Lingling stared at the sandwiches. The Saepwich. The legendary drunk food/night shift fuel of Thailand.

She walked over. She didn't go to her desk. She didn't check her email.

She took off her white coat and hung it on the back of her chair. She kicked off her sneakers.

And then, Dr. Lingling Kwong, the Ice Princess of Praram Royal, sat down on the dinosaur blanket next to Dr. Orm.

"Ham and cheese?" Lingling asked, her voice raspy.

"Is there any other kind?" Orm handed her one.

Lingling tore open the wrapper. The smell of processed cheese and toasted bread was overwhelming. She took a bite. It was greasy, salty, and hot. It was perfect.

"Oh god," Lingling moaned softly.

"Right?" Orm grinned tiredly, taking a bite of her own. "Michelin stars are overrated. This is the peak of culinary arts."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor of their shared office, the fairy lights casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"I can't feel my feet," Orm said, chewing.

"I can't feel my soul," Lingling replied.

Orm chuckled. "You have a soul, P'Ling. I saw it today."

"Where?"

"When that old man... the one who lost his wife in the crash... when he was crying." Orm turned to look at Lingling. "You didn't leave. You stood there and let him hold your hand for ten minutes. You missed your lunch break for him."

Lingling stiffened slightly. "He was in shock. Physical contact can reduce cortisol levels."

"You can use all the medical jargon you want," Orm said softy. "But you cared. You’re not as cold as you pretend to be."

Lingling lowered her sandwich. She looked at Orm. In the dim light, Orm’s eyes were vast and dark. The air between them felt thick, charged with static electricity and exhaustion.

"It is dangerous to care too much," Lingling whispered. It was the most honest thing she had said in years. "In our line of work... if you feel everything, you break."

"Maybe," Orm said. She shifted, turning her body fully toward Lingling. Her knee brushed against Lingling’s thigh. Neither of them moved away. "But if you feel nothing, what’s the point of saving them?"

Lingling looked at Orm’s lips. They were slightly shiny from the grease of the sandwich.

"Why did you choose Peds?" Lingling asked, desperate to change the subject, desperate to stop looking at Orm’s mouth.

"Because kids are resilient," Orm said immediately. "They break, but they heal. Adults... they carry so much baggage. They fight the healing. Kids just want to play. They want to live. It gives me hope." She paused. "Why Cardio? Why the heart?"

Lingling looked down at her hands—the hands that had held a human heart earlier that day.

"Because it is a machine," Lingling said. "It is a pump. Valves, chambers, electrical impulses. It is logical. If it breaks, I can fix it. There is no... ambiguity. It beats, or it does not."

"But it’s also where we feel," Orm said. She reached out and poked Lingling gently in the chest, right over her sternum. "Heartbreak. Love. Fear. It all happens right there."

Lingling stopped breathing. Orm’s finger was warm through her scrub top.

"That is a metaphorical construct," Lingling said, her voice trembling slightly. "Physiologically, emotions originate in the limbic system of the brain."

Orm smiled. A slow, sleepy, dangerous smile.

"You’re so stubborn," Orm whispered.

She didn't remove her hand. She let it rest there, her palm flat against Lingling’s chest.

"Your heart is beating fast, P'Ling."

"Tachycardia," Lingling managed to say. "Secondary to... caffeine. And exhaustion."

"Is that the only reason?" Orm leaned closer. Her scent—vanilla and rain—filled Lingling’s senses.

Lingling looked at her. She was so close. So incredibly close. The line down the middle of the room was forgotten. The hospital outside didn't exist. There was only the rain, the fairy lights, and the girl with the dinosaur blanket.

"Orm," Lingling warned, but it sounded like a plea.

Orm hesitated. She searched Lingling’s eyes. Then, slowly, she pulled her hand back.

"We should sleep," Orm whispered. "Before we pass out."

Lingling let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. It felt like disappointment.

"Yes," Lingling said. "Sleep."

"I’m not moving," Orm declared, flopping backward onto the blanket. She grabbed a pillow (where did she keep getting these pillows?) and hugged it. "The floor is surprisingly comfortable."

Lingling looked at her chair. It looked stiff. She looked at the floor.

"Do you have... another pillow?" Lingling asked.

Orm smiled, eyes closed. She reached behind her and produced a second pillow. It was shaped like a cloud.

"Standard issue Room 404 survival gear."

Lingling took the cloud pillow. She hesitated, then lay down on the blanket next to Orm. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.

"Goodnight, P'Ling," Orm mumbled, her voice already thick with sleep.

"Goodnight, Nong Orm."

Lingling listened to the rain. She listened to Orm’s breathing even out into a soft rhythm.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Lingling’s own heart eventually slowed, syncing with the rhythm beside her. For the first time in her career, she fell asleep in the hospital, not out of exhaustion, but out of a strange, terrifying sense of safety.

Sunlight streamed through the window. The rain had stopped. The sky was a brilliant, washed-clean blue.

The door to Room 404 beeped.

Nurse Miu and Dr. Bow walked in, carrying fresh coffees for the heroes of the night shift.

"Good morning! We brought—"

They stopped.

Dr. Bow’s jaw dropped. Nurse Miu frantically fumbled for her phone.

On the floor, in the center of the room, ignoring all zoning laws and blue tape boundaries:

Dr. Orm was curled up on her side, her arm thrown across Lingling’s waist. Her face was buried in Lingling’s shoulder.

Dr. Lingling was also on her side, her face inches from Orm’s forehead. Her hand was resting—lightly, protectively—on Orm’s arm.

They looked like a tangled mess of navy scrubs and pink cardigans.

"Oh my god," Bow whispered. "The betting pool. I just won five thousand baht."

Miu snapped a photo. "Sending this to the group chat. Title: Arrhythmia or Atrial Fibrillation?"

The sound of the camera shutter—click—echoed.

Lingling’s eyes snapped open.

She saw Bow. She saw Miu. She saw the phone.

Then she felt the weight on her arm. She looked down. She saw the strawberry-scented hair under her chin.

Lingling squeezed her eyes shut.

Code Blue, she thought. Code Blue on my dignity.

Lingling lay frozen for exactly one point five seconds. In that time, her brain—usually a supercomputer of diagnostic algorithms—processed the following data points:

1. She was on the floor.

2. She was essentially spooning the Pediatric Fellow.

3. Her hand was resting on said Fellow's bicep.

4. The head of the Anesthesiology Department had just won five thousand baht betting on this exact scenario.

Survival instinct kicked in.

Lingling sat up so abruptly that Orm, whose head had been resting on Lingling's shoulder, tumbled onto the dinosaur blanket with a soft oomph.

"Wha—? Earthquake?" Orm mumbled, blinking groggily. She reached out blindly, her hand pawing at the space where Lingling had just been. "P'Ling? Come back, you’re warm."

Dr. Bow let out a sound that was half-squeal, half-cackle. "Oh, this is better than the K-dramas. 'Come back, you're warm.' Write that down, Miu."

"Already tweeted it to the private account," Miu whispered, thumbs flying across her screen.

Lingling scrambled to her feet. She smoothed her rumpled scrubs, though the creases were deep and unforgiving. She reached for her glasses on the desk, putting them on crookedly in her haste.

"This is not what it looks like," Lingling announced. Her voice was raspy from sleep, which significantly undermined her attempt at an authoritative tone.

"It looks like you two were nesting," Bow observed, leaning against the doorframe and sipping her coffee. "Like two little lovebirds weathering the storm."

"It was a tactical survival decision," Lingling stated, finally fixing her glasses. She pointed a shaking finger at the AC vent. "The HVAC system malfunctioned during the power surge. The ambient temperature in this room dropped to nineteen degrees. We were at risk of mild hypothermia. Body heat conservation is a documented medical necessity in such conditions."

Orm was sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. She looked from Lingling (panicked) to Bow (delighted). A slow, sleepy grin spread across her face. She didn't seem embarrassed at all.

"Good morning, P'Bow," Orm yawned, stretching her arms over her head. "Did you bring coffee? P'Ling gets grumpy if she doesn't have her bean juice."

"I am not grumpy," Lingling snapped. "I am mortified."

"Why?" Orm asked innocently, tilting her head. "Because we fell asleep? We worked a thirty-six-hour shift, P'Ling. We’re human. Well, I am. The jury is still out on you."

Orm stood up, dragging the dinosaur blanket with her like a royal cape. She walked over to Bow, took a coffee cup from the cardboard carrier, and took a sip. "Ah. Life."

Lingling watched her. How was she so calm? How was she not hyperventilating about the violation of professional boundaries?

"So," Bow said, her eyes darting between them. "Did you guys... talk? Or just cuddle?"

"We ate sandwiches," Orm said. "And we discussed the physiological origins of emotions. P'Ling thinks feelings are just brain chemicals. I think she’s in denial."

"I am not in denial," Lingling said, grabbing her white coat and shoving her arms into it. "I am late for rounds. Which I would have been on time for, had I not been... incapacitated."

"Incapacitated by love?" Miu suggested helpfully.

"Miu, go check the vitals in Bed 4," Lingling commanded. "Now."

Miu saluted, grinning, and backed out of the room. "Aye aye, Captain Lovebug."

Lingling turned to Orm. She opened her mouth to say something—to establish a rule, to draw a line, to forbid this from ever happening again—but the words died in her throat. Orm was looking at her with soft, sleepy eyes, a crumb of toast still stuck to the corner of her mouth.

"I..." Lingling faltered.

"Go shower, P'Ling," Orm said softly. "You have hair sticking up on the left side. It’s cute. But it’s not very 'Lingling Sirilak Kwong'."

Lingling’s hand flew to her hair. She flushed a deep, crimson red.

"We will discuss the office zoning protocols later," Lingling muttered. She grabbed her toiletry bag and marched toward the door.

As she brushed past Bow, the anesthesiologist whispered, "Five thousand baht, Ling. Don't let me down."

Lingling fled.

The hot water of the hospital shower was usually a sanctuary. Today, it felt like an interrogation room.

Lingling stood under the spray, letting the water pound against her neck. She scrubbed her skin, trying to wash away the feeling of the night. But she couldn't wash away the memory.

The weight of Orm’s head on her shoulder.

The smell of vanilla and rain.

The way her own heart rate had slowed down, not sped up, when Orm touched her.

It was fatigue, Lingling told the tiled wall. It was a transient psychological response to extreme stress. It means nothing.

She turned the water to cold. Freezing cold.

Shock the system. Reset the vagus nerve.

She stepped out, shivering, and dried herself with rough, efficient movements. She dressed in fresh scrubs (she always kept a spare set in her locker). She tied her hair back tighter than usual, pulling the strands until her scalp stung.

Control, she told herself in the mirror. You are in control.

But as she applied her minimal makeup, she noticed something. Her eyes looked... brighter. Less dead.

"Dammit," she whispered.

Orm didn't go to the senior showers. She went to the residents' locker room on the 6th floor, whistling all the way.

She felt... light.

Sure, her back hurt from sleeping on the floor, and she smelled like ham and cheese, but she felt amazing.

"She didn't push me away," Orm whispered to herself as she unlocked her locker.

She replayed the night in her head. The way Lingling had looked at her in the dark. The way Lingling had hesitated before lying down. The way Lingling had whispered Goodnight, Nong Orm with a softness that wasn't in her usual vocabulary.

Orm changed into fresh pink scrubs. She looked at her reflection in the metal locker door.

"She’s scared," Orm diagnosed. "She’s terrified. But she didn't leave."

Orm grabbed her phone. She opened the Praram Cute Doctors chat.

Dr. Bow: The photo is locked in the vault. I won't leak it. Yet.

Orm: Keep it safe. It’s my wedding invitation photo.

Nurse Miu: Screaming.

Dr. Bow: Bold strategy, Korn. She looked ready to murder you this morning.

Orm: Nah. That was her 'I have feelings and I don't know what to do with them' face. It’s distinct from her 'You are incompetent' face.

Orm closed the locker. She had a strategy now. P'Ling responded to logic? Fine. Orm would give her logic.

Hypothesis: Dr. Lingling Kwong enjoys Dr. Orm’s company.

Evidence: The sandwich. The floor sleeping. The lack of murder.

Experiment: Increase dosage of affection incrementally and observe results.

The cafeteria was buzzing with the shift change. The "Night Survivors" were zombies eating porridge; the "Day Shift Freshies" were bright-eyed and annoying.

Lingling stood in line for coffee. She needed the strongest espresso legal in the Kingdom of Thailand.

"Dr. Kwong!"

Lingling stiffened. It was Director Supoj.

He walked over, looking remarkably fresh in a tailored suit. "Excellent work last night, Doctor. I heard you handled the trauma influx with your usual efficiency. And Dr. Sethratanapong told me you two coordinated seamlessly."

"Dr. Sethratanapong... spoke to you?" Lingling asked, gripping her empty cup.

"Yes, just now in the hallway. She said the shared office arrangement was, quote, 'vital for rapid response communication' during the crisis." Supoj beamed. "I knew it! Synergy! I’m glad you two are getting along. It makes the renovation delays much more bearable."

"Delays?" Lingling felt a cold sweat. "What delays?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? The contractors found some... structural issues in the East Wing. Old pipes. It might be another four months on top of the original schedule."

Twelve months. A whole year.

"I see," Lingling said, her voice faint.

"Anyway, keep up the good work! Oh, and don't forget the Charity Gala next Saturday. You and Orm are the guests of honor. Synergy!" Supoj gave her a thumbs up and walked away.

Lingling stared at the coffee machine.

A year in Room 404.

With the dinosaur blanket.

And the singing.

And the sleeping on the floor.

She felt a strange sensation. It should have been dread. Logically, it should have been dread.

But deep down, in the part of her heart she couldn't control with beta-blockers, she felt a spark of... anticipation.

"Double shot," she told the barista. "Make it a triple."

Lingling walked back into the office.

Orm was already there. The dinosaur blanket was gone, folded neatly (or as neatly as Orm could manage) and shoved onto a shelf. The desk was wiped clean.

Orm was working, wearing headphones, bobbing her head to silent music.

When Lingling entered, Orm slid one headphone off.

"Hey," Orm said. Casual. Normal.

"Dr. Kornaphat," Lingling nodded. She walked to her desk.

She sat down. She looked at the blue tape.

It was definitely peeling.

Lingling reached into her pocket. She pulled out the wrapper from the Kopiko candy Orm had given her the night before. She should throw it away. It was trash.

Instead, she opened her top drawer—the one where she kept her private, important things—and dropped the shiny wrapper inside.

"Director Supoj says the renovations are delayed," Lingling said, looking at her screen.

"I heard," Orm said. "Terrible news."

"Tragic," Lingling agreed.

"We might kill each other," Orm said.

"It is a statistical probability," Lingling confirmed.

"But," Orm said, and Lingling could hear the smile in her voice without looking. "We survived a monsoon. We can probably survive bad plumbing."

Lingling typed her password. CardioVar123!.

"Perhaps," Lingling said.

She looked up. Orm was looking at her.

"I bought you a new Lancet," Orm said, sliding a crisp, plastic-wrapped journal across the desk. "It was in my mailbox this morning. I stole mine for you. You can have it."

Lingling looked at the journal. Then she looked at Orm.

"Thank you, Dr. Kornaphat."

"You can call me Orm, you know. We slept together."

Lingling choked on air. "We did not sleep together. We slept adjacent to one another."

"Semantics," Orm winked. She put her headphones back on.

Lingling watched her for a moment longer. Then, she picked up the blue tape roll from her desk drawer.

She leaned down. She found the end of the tape line on the floor.

She peeled back about two inches of the tape.

It wasn't much. It was barely noticeable. But it was a start.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Dr. Lingling Kwong hated more than incompetence in the operating theater, it was forced socialization.

And the annual Praram Royal Heart & Hope Gala was the Super Bowl of forced socialization.

It was a black-tie event held in the Grand Ballroom of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Tickets cost fifty thousand baht a plate. The guest list was a who’s-who of Bangkok’s elite: politicians, gemstone tycoons, soap opera stars, and the hospital’s board of directors.

Lingling stared at the invitation sitting on her desk. It was heavy, cream-colored cardstock with gold leaf embossing.

Dr. Lingling Sirilak Kwong, it read. Department of Cardiothoracic Surgery.

Beside it, on the other side of the slightly-peeling blue tape, lay an identical invitation. But this one was covered in glitter. Actual, loose glitter.

"I can't believe we have to go," Lingling muttered, rubbing her temples. "I have a mitral valve repair scheduled for 07:00 tomorrow. Alcohol consumption is contraindicated."

"Oh, come on, P'Ling!" Orm’s voice chirped from under her desk.

Lingling paused. "Why are you under the desk?"

"I dropped an earring," Orm’s muffled voice replied. "And it’s not about the alcohol. It’s about the glamour. We get to dress up! We get to eat tiny food on tiny spoons! We get to see Director Supoj try to dance!"

Orm shimmied out from under the desk, triumphantly holding a rhinestone earring shaped like a cherry. She blew a dust bunny off it.

"I do not own a ballgown," Lingling stated. This was a lie. She owned several. Lingling came from a good family; she knew the protocols of high society. She just despised them.

"Liar," Orm said, standing up and brushing off her knees. "I saw a garment bag from Poem hanging on the back of your door. That’s the 'I mean business' brand."

Lingling narrowed her eyes. "You are remarkably observant for someone who cannot find her own stethoscope half the time."

"I only notice the important things," Orm grinned. She checked the clock on the wall. "Okay, it’s 17:05. The gala starts at 19:00. The traffic to the river is going to be hell. And the senior staff changing rooms are currently being used as a staging area for the catering team because of the renovations."

Lingling froze. "What?"

"Yeah. Didn't you see the memo? The locker rooms are full of shrimp cocktails and ice sculptures. We can't change there."

"Then where..." Lingling looked around the office. Room 404. It was spacious, yes. But it was one room. With one door. And zero privacy screens.

"Here!" Orm announced, spreading her arms. "It’s perfect. We have good lighting. We have a mirror. We have AC."

"We have no walls," Lingling pointed out.

"We’re doctors," Orm shrugged, grabbing her garment bag—which was violently pink and fluffy. "We’ve seen naked bodies before. It’s just anatomy."

"There is a distinct difference between clinical anatomy and..." Lingling gestured vaguely at the garment bags. "...getting undressed for a gala with a colleague."

"I’ll turn around," Orm promised. She pointed to the corner of the room where the filing cabinets created a small nook. "I’ll go in the Nook of Shame. You take the main stage. I won't peek. Scout's honor."

Lingling looked at the clock. 17:10. If she went home to change, she would never make it back through the traffic. Director Supoj had been very clear: Attendance is mandatory for Department Heads and Rising Stars.

"Fine," Lingling sighed, standing up and locking the office door. She turned the deadbolt with a loud click. "But if you peek, I will report you to HR."

"I’m hurt you think so little of my integrity," Orm teased, grabbing her bag and retreating behind the filing cabinets. "Okay! I’m in the nook. You’re clear."

Lingling stood in the center of the room. The silence was heavy. She could hear the rustle of fabric from behind the cabinets.

It’s just anatomy, she repeated to herself.

She unbuttoned her white coat. She took off her badge. She unzipped her skirt.

The air in Room 404 had changed. It no longer smelled of antiseptic. It smelled of expensive perfume—Lingling’s Chanel No. 5 (crisp, classic) mingling with Orm’s Miss Dior (sweet, floral).

Lingling was ready.

She stood before the full-length mirror attached to the back of the door. The dress was a masterpiece of minimalism. It was black velvet, strapless, with a sweetheart neckline that plunged just enough to be daring but stayed high enough to be professional. It hugged her figure like a second skin, flaring out slightly at the knees in a mermaid silhouette.

She wore no necklace—her collarbones were sharp enough to be jewelry on their own. She had swept her hair up into a complex, elegant chignon, securing it with pearl pins. Her lips were painted a deep, matte crimson.

She looked dangerous. She looked like the kind of woman who could stop a heart or start one, depending on her mood.

"Are you decent?" Orm’s voice called out from behind the cabinets.

"I am always decent," Lingling replied, smoothing the velvet over her hips. "You may emerge."

Orm stepped out.

Lingling stopped breathing.

If Lingling was the night sky—dark, mysterious, cold—Orm was the sunrise.

Her dress was a confection of pale rose-gold silk and tulle. It had thin spaghetti straps and a bodice covered in delicate, shimmering beadwork that caught the light with every breath she took. The skirt was full and flowy, designed for twirling. It had a slit that went up to her mid-thigh, revealing a flash of leg that was surprisingly toned.

Her hair was down, styled in loose, glamorous waves that cascaded over one shoulder. Her makeup was dewy and shimmering, making her eyes look enormous.

She looked... ethereal.

Orm stopped in the middle of the room. She looked at Lingling. Her mouth formed a perfect 'O'.

"Wow," Orm whispered.

Lingling felt a heat rise up her neck that had nothing to do with the temperature. She tried to summon a critique. She tried to find a flaw.

"Pink," Lingling said, her voice sounding slightly strangled. "Predictable."

"Black," Orm countered, walking closer, her eyes scanning Lingling from head to toe. "Classic. Devastating. You look... you look like a Bond villain’s beautiful wife who secretly runs the whole criminal empire."

"That is oddly specific," Lingling said, turning back to the mirror to check her lipstick, mostly to avoid looking at Orm’s exposed shoulders.

"It’s a compliment," Orm laughed. She spun around. "Do I look okay? Is it too much? Supoj said 'Black Tie,' but I interpreted that as 'Disney Princess'."

"It is adequate," Lingling lied. It was stunning. "The color suits your skin tone."

"High praise!" Orm clapped her hands. Then her face fell. She reached behind her back, twisting her arms in an impossible angle.

"What is wrong?" Lingling asked, watching the reflection.

"The zipper," Orm groaned. "It’s stuck. It’s one of those invisible ones. It got caught on the tulle about three inches from the top. I can't get it up."

Lingling turned around. Orm was holding the top of her bodice against her chest with one hand, looking distressed. The back of the dress was gaping open slightly, revealing smooth, pale skin and the delicate curve of her spine.

"Come here," Lingling commanded.

Orm shuffled forward, turning her back to Lingling.

"I’m sorry," Orm whispered. "I should have done yoga."

"Stand still," Lingling said.

She stepped closer. She was now standing directly behind Orm. The difference in their heights was more apparent in heels. Lingling could see over Orm’s head. She could smell the vanilla in her hair.

Lingling reached out. Her fingers were cool; Orm’s skin was burning hot.

"Breathe out," Lingling instructed.

"I can't," Orm squeaked. "If I breathe out, the dress might fall down."

"It will not fall. I have it."

Lingling brushed Orm’s hair to the side, exposing the nape of her neck. Orm shivered visibly.

Lingling focused on the zipper. It was indeed caught on a tiny piece of fabric. This required surgical precision.

"I need to apply traction," Lingling murmured. She placed her left hand flat against Orm’s bare back, just below the shoulder blades, to steady her.

The contact was electric.

Orm gasped softly. Lingling felt the vibration of the sound against her palm.

"Is my hand too cold?" Lingling asked, her voice lower than usual.

"No," Orm whispered. "It’s... fine."

Lingling used her right hand to gently wiggle the zipper pull. Up, down. Tease the fabric. It was like freeing a trapped vessel.

"Almost there," Lingling said. She was standing so close that the front of her velvet dress brushed against the back of Orm’s silk skirt.

The room was silent. Just the sound of their breathing.

Lingling looked at the back of Orm’s neck. There was a tiny, fine hair that had escaped the styling. She had an overwhelming, irrational urge to lean forward and press her lips against that exact spot.

Do not, her brain screamed. Code Red. Do not.

With a sharp tug, the fabric came free. The zipper slid up smoothly to the top. Zip.

"Done," Lingling said, pulling her hands away quickly.

Orm didn't move immediately. She stood there for a heartbeat, her head bowed. Then she turned around.

Her cheeks were flushed pink, matching her dress. Her eyes were wide and dark.

"Thanks," Orm said breathlessly.

"We should go," Lingling said, grabbing her clutch bag from the desk. She needed air. She needed a sterile field. She needed to be anywhere but in this small, scented room with this woman who looked like a sunrise. "The driver is waiting."

"Right," Orm nodded, patting her cheeks. "The gala. Donors. Shrimp."

"Let’s go."

The ballroom was a cavern of gold leaf and crystal chandeliers. A string quartet was playing a polite version of a Taylor Swift song. Waiters in white jackets circulated with trays of champagne.

Lingling and Orm stood at the entrance.

"Ready to perform?" Lingling asked, putting on her 'Doctor Kwong' mask—cool, detached, brilliant.

"Showtime," Orm grinned, putting on her 'Doctor Sethratanapong' mask—bubbly, charming, radiant.

They walked in.

It was instantaneous. Heads turned. Conversations paused.

Usually, people looked at the Board Directors or the celebrities. But tonight, the room seemed to gravitate toward the entrance.

It was the contrast. The woman in black velvet, moving with the lethal grace of a panther, and the woman in rose gold, glowing like a lantern.

"Ah! Our stars!" Director Supoj materialized from the crowd, holding a glass of wine. He looked like he was about to cry with happiness. "Look at you two! This is branding gold! Come, come, I need to introduce you to Khun Remy. He’s thinking of donating a new MRI machine."

Supoj grabbed them by the elbows (gently) and steered them into the shark tank.

For the next hour, they were a tag team.

Lingling dazzled the donors with statistics. She spoke of mortality rates, minimally invasive techniques, and the fiscal responsibility of the cardiology department. She was sharp, intimidating, and impressive. The rich men nodded, terrified and awed.

Then, Orm would swoop in. She would soften the edges. She told stories about specific children. She made them laugh. She touched their arms gently and thanked them for their "generosity of spirit." The rich wives cooed and wiped away tears.

It was perfect. Good Cop, Bad Cop. Ice and Fire.

"We are good at this," Orm whispered to Lingling during a lull, grabbing a glass of champagne.

"We are manipulating them," Lingling corrected, taking a sip of sparkling water. "But it is for a functional cause."

"Dr. Kwong?"

A voice interrupted them. A man. Tall, handsome in a generic, soap-opera way, wearing a tuxedo that cost more than Lingling’s car.

It was Dr. Tul, the new Orthopedic attending. He was known for two things: his knee replacements and his ego.

"Dr. Tul," Lingling acknowledged with a nod.

"You look... different," Tul said, his eyes raking over Lingling’s dress. "I didn't know you had legs under those scrubs."

Lingling’s expression didn't change, but the temperature around her dropped ten degrees. "I assure you, I possess a full skeletal structure."

Tul laughed, a loud, booming sound. He turned his attention to Orm.

"And Nong Orm," Tul smiled, stepping closer to her. Too close. "You look like a dessert. Sweet enough to eat."

Lingling’s hand tightened around her glass. Dessert?

Orm laughed politely, but she took a half-step back. "Hello, P'Tul. Nice tux."

"Listen," Tul said, ignoring the retreat. "They’re playing a waltz next. Save it for me? I’ve been meaning to talk to you about... pediatric bone density."

He reached out and took Orm’s hand, lifting it to his lips in a mock-chivalrous gesture.

Lingling watched Tul’s lips touch Orm’s knuckles.

Something in Lingling’s chest snapped. It wasn't a valve. It wasn't an artery. It was her patience.

"Actually," Lingling interrupted, her voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. "Dr. Kornaphat is unavailable."

Tul looked at Lingling, surprised. "Oh? Why?"

"Because," Lingling said, setting her glass down on a passing waiter’s tray with a definitive clink. "She promised the first dance to me."

Orm looked at Lingling, shocked. "I did?"

"You did," Lingling said, her eyes locking onto Orm’s. "It is in the Memorandum of Understanding. Clause 5: Mandatory morale-boosting activities."

She held out her hand to Orm. Palm up. An invitation. A challenge.

"Dr. Kornaphat?"

Orm looked at Tul, then at Lingling’s hand. A slow, dazzling smile spread across her face.

"Sorry, P'Tul," Orm said cheerfully. "Contracts are binding."

She placed her hand in Lingling’s.

"Shall we, P'Ling?"

The orchestra began to play Moon River.

Lingling led Orm to the center of the floor. She placed her right hand on Orm’s waist—on the silk, just above the hip bone. Orm placed her left hand on Lingling’s shoulder—on the bare velvet skin.

They began to move.

Lingling was a good dancer. Her father had insisted on ballroom lessons. She led with precision, guiding Orm through the steps. One-two-three, one-two-three.

"I didn't know you could waltz," Orm whispered, looking up at her.

"It is basically geometry set to music," Lingling replied, looking straight ahead, over Orm’s shoulder. She was trying very hard not to look down.

"Why did you rescue me from Tul?" Orm asked.

"He is an idiot. His infection rates are acceptable, but his conversation is substandard. And 'sweet enough to eat' is a harassment lawsuit waiting to happen."

"You were jealous," Orm teased.

Lingling looked down then. "I was protecting a departmental asset."

"Asset," Orm repeated, her voice dropping a register. "Is that what I am?"

They were moving in sync now, the world blurring around them into streaks of gold and light. The crowd faded away.

"You look beautiful, Lingling," Orm said. Not P'Ling. Just Lingling.

Lingling missed a step. She recovered instantly, but she knew Orm had felt it.

"The dress is... effective," Lingling murmured.

"Not the dress," Orm said softly. Her hand on Lingling’s shoulder moved slightly, her thumb brushing against Lingling’s neck. "You."

Lingling looked into Orm’s eyes. They were warm, brown, and terrifyingly open. There was no mockery there. No teasing. Just pure, unfiltered admiration.

Lingling felt her walls trembling. The sterile field was compromised.

"Kornaphat," Lingling warned, her voice low. "People are watching."

"Let them watch," Orm challenged. She stepped closer, closing the gap between their bodies. The velvet and the silk brushed against each other. "Let them see the Ice Queen melt."

Lingling’s breath hitched.

The song swelled to a crescendo. Lingling spun Orm, the rose-gold skirt flaring out in a perfect circle, before pulling her back in tight.

For a moment, just a second, their faces were inches apart. Lingling could see the gold flecks in Orm’s eyeshadow. She could feel the heat radiating from her.

She wanted to kiss her.

The realization hit Lingling with the force of a defibrillator paddle.

I want to kiss her. Here. In front of the Board of Directors.

The song ended.

Lingling froze. She pulled back abruptly, dropping her hand from Orm’s waist as if she had been burned.

"Thank you for the dance," Lingling said, her voice stiff. "I need... fresh air."

She turned and walked away, heading for the balcony doors, leaving Orm standing alone in the center of the ballroom, looking confused and breathtakingly lovely.

The air outside was heavy with humidity and the scent of jasmine, mingled with the faint, brackish smell of the Chao Phraya River. It was a stark contrast to the clinically chilled air of the ballroom.

Lingling gripped the stone railing of the balcony. Her knuckles were white. She took deep, measured breaths, trying to force her heart rate back to a resting sixty beats per minute.

Inhale. Exhale. Sinus rhythm. Restore sinus rhythm.

It wasn't working. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Orm’s face. She saw the gold flecks in her eyeshadow. She felt the ghost of Orm’s thumb brushing against her neck.

It is just oxytocin, Lingling told herself fiercely. Bonding hormone. Triggered by physical proximity and synchronized movement. It is biology. It is not... it is not real.

"You know," a voice drifted from the shadows behind her, "leaving your dance partner in the middle of the floor is technically a breach of etiquette."

Lingling didn't turn around. She recognized the click of heels approaching.

Orm walked up to the railing and stood beside her. She didn't look at Lingling. She looked out at the river, where brightly lit dinner cruise boats were drifting by, blasting pop music that sounded tinny and distant.

"I needed oxygen," Lingling said, her voice tight. "The ballroom was hypoxic. Too many people."

"It’s a big room, P'Ling. High ceilings." Orm turned her head, resting her chin on her hand. "But if you say it was the air, I’ll believe you."

Lingling finally looked at her. In the moonlight, Orm looked less like a Disney princess and more like something out of a dream—soft, glowing, and dangerously real. A stray lock of hair had fallen across her face.

"Why did you follow me?" Lingling asked.

"Because you looked like you were about to bolt," Orm said simply. "And you have my car keys in your clutch."

Lingling looked down at the beaded bag in her hand. "Oh. Correct."

"Also," Orm shifted, her tone turning serious. "You looked scared."

"I am not scared," Lingling snapped, the defensive wall slamming back into place. "I am a cardiothoracic surgeon. I hold human lives in my hands daily. I am not scared of a waltz."

"I didn't say you were scared of the waltz," Orm said softly. She stepped closer. The rose-gold silk rustled. "I think you’re scared of... this."

She gestured vaguely between them. The air between them seemed to vibrate.

"There is no 'this'," Lingling said, panic rising in her throat again. "We are colleagues. We are roommates due to an administrative error. We are dancing to appease donors."

"Is that all?" Orm asked. She didn't sound angry. She sounded curious. Sad, even.

Lingling looked at Orm’s lips. Yes, she wanted to say. That is all.

But the lie stuck in her throat. Lingling Kwong did not lie. She omitted, she deflected, she obfuscated—but she did not lie.

"I..." Lingling started, then stopped. She looked back at the river. "I do not mix professional and personal lives, Dr. Kornaphat. It is messy. It leads to errors. It leads to heartbreak."

"Who broke your heart, P'Ling?" Orm whispered.

Lingling flinched. "No one. I broke it myself. By caring too much once. I will not do it again."

It was the most vulnerable thing she had ever admitted to anyone.

Orm was silent for a long moment. Then, she reached out. She didn't touch Lingling’s skin. She placed her hand over Lingling’s hand that was gripping the railing. Her palm was warm against Lingling’s cold fingers.

"You can't protect yourself from everything," Orm said. "You can wear the armor. You can draw the blue tape line. You can hide in the freezer. But eventually... the ice melts."

Lingling looked down at their hands.

"I am not ready to melt," Lingling whispered.

"Okay," Orm said gently. She didn't pull away. "Then I'll just stand here with you until you're ready to go back in. Or until we go home."

"Home," Lingling echoed. The word sounded strange. It usually meant her empty, pristine condo. But right now, 'home' felt like the messy, chaotic office with the dinosaur blanket.

"Let's go," Lingling decided suddenly. "I have made an appearance. I have charmed the donors. I am done."

"We’re skipping the dessert course?" Orm asked, feigning shock. "The mango sticky rice tart?"

"I will buy you mango sticky rice tomorrow," Lingling promised. "Real mango sticky rice. From the street."

Orm smiled. It was a brilliant, blinding thing. "Deal. Let's get out of here."

The hospital was eerie at night when you were wearing evening wear.

They had taken a taxi back to the hospital to retrieve their cars (and to change, as neither wanted to drive home in a ballgown). They walked through the silent, dimmed corridors of the 4th floor, the rustle of silk and velvet the only sound. The security guard at the front desk had nearly dropped his coffee when he saw them.

Lingling unlocked Room 404.

They stepped inside. It smelled of ozone and their lingering perfume. It felt safe.

Lingling kicked off her heels immediately. "Oh," she exhaled, wiggling her toes. "The pathophysiology of high heels is barbaric. Plantar flexion for four hours is torture."

Orm laughed, kicking off her own strappy sandals. "Beauty is pain, P'Ling."

She walked over to the 'Nook of Shame' behind the filing cabinets. "Turn around?"

"Turn around," Lingling agreed, facing the window.

She heard the rustle of fabric.

"Ugh," Orm’s voice floated out. "P'Ling?"

"The zipper?" Lingling asked, closing her eyes.

"The zipper," Orm confirmed. "It’s worse getting out. I can't get the leverage."

Lingling turned around. She walked behind the cabinets.

Orm was standing there, her hair swept to the side, looking over her shoulder with an apologetic grimace.

"I really need to start doing flexibility exercises," Orm joked weakly.

Lingling didn't smile. The air in the small nook was thick.

"Turn," Lingling said.

She approached Orm’s back. The zipper was indeed stuck again, caught in the delicate tulle.

Lingling’s hands were steady now. The panic of the balcony had faded into a dull, aching thrum of desire that she was trying to categorize as 'adrenaline withdrawal.'

She touched the zipper. Her knuckles brushed against Orm’s spine.

"You’re tense," Lingling noted.

"You’re standing very close," Orm breathed.

"I need to see the mechanism," Lingling murmured. She worked the fabric loose. It took longer this time. Or maybe Lingling was making it take longer. She wouldn't admit that, even to herself.

Finally, the zipper gave way. Zzzzip.

The dress loosened. The bodice fell open slightly at the back.

"Done," Lingling said.

She should have stepped back. She should have left the nook.

But she didn't.

She stood there, staring at the curve of Orm’s shoulder. The skin was smooth, glowing in the dim light.

Orm didn't move away either. She stayed still, her back to Lingling.

"P'Ling?" Orm whispered.

"Yes?"

"My turn."

Lingling froze. "What?"

Orm turned around, clutching the front of her dress to keep it up. Her eyes were dark and serious.

"You can't unzip yourself," Orm said. "Your dress... the buttons are in the back. I saw them."

Lingling swallowed. She had forgotten. Her dress had a row of twelve tiny, fabric-covered buttons running down the spine. It was impossible to undo alone. She had required the assistance of her housekeeper to get into it.

"I..." Lingling started. "I can manage."

"Don't be stubborn," Orm said softly. She reached out and took Lingling’s arm, turning her gently. "Let me help you."

Lingling allowed herself to be turned. She faced the filing cabinet. She felt Orm’s presence behind her.

Orm’s hands were different from Lingling’s. They were warmer. Softer. But they moved with a confident dexterity.

"Button one," Orm counted softly.

Lingling felt the pressure of Orm’s fingers at the nape of her neck. A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

"You have beautiful skin," Orm murmured.

"It is just... epidermis," Lingling stammered. "Stratum corneum."

"Button two," Orm ignored her. "Button three."

With each button, the velvet loosened. Lingling felt the cool air hit her back, followed immediately by the warmth of Orm’s breath.

"Button six. Halfway there."

Lingling closed her eyes. She was trembling. She knew Orm could see it. She hoped Orm would attribute it to the cold.

"Button ten."

Orm’s fingers lingered on the lower buttons, near the small of Lingling’s back.

"Button twelve."

The dress was open.

Lingling clutched the front of the bodice. "Thank you."

"Lingling."

Orm’s voice was right at her ear.

Lingling turned around slowly.

They were standing in the cramped space behind the cabinets, both clutching their unfastened dresses. The world had narrowed down to this: the scent of vanilla, the hum of the refrigerator in the corner, and the woman standing inches away.

Orm looked up at Lingling. Her gaze dropped to Lingling’s lips, then back up to her eyes.

"I really," Orm whispered, "really want to kiss you right now."

Lingling’s heart stopped. Then it restarted, beating a frantic, irregular rhythm.

Do it, a voice in her head screamed. To hell with the rules. To hell with the blue tape.

Lingling leaned in. Just an inch.

Orm’s eyelids fluttered shut. She tilted her chin up.

BZZZZZT.

The loud, jarring vibration of a phone on the desk shattered the moment.

Both of them jumped.

Lingling gasped, pulling back as if she had been electrocuted. She clutched her dress tighter.

"The phone," Lingling said, her voice breathless.

"Ignore it," Orm said, opening her eyes. They were hazy with desire.

"It... it could be the hospital. Code Blue. Emergency." Lingling backed out of the nook. She felt like she was escaping a burning building.

She rushed to her desk and grabbed her phone.

It was an automated text message.

PRARAM HOSPITAL ALERTS: Weather Warning. Heavy rain expected in 20 minutes. Drive safely.

Lingling stared at the screen. She felt a mix of relief and crushing disappointment.

She looked up. Orm had emerged from the nook. She was holding her dress up, looking at Lingling with a mixture of amusement and resignation.

"Weather warning?" Orm guessed.

"Yes," Lingling nodded. "We should... we should change. And go home."

"Right," Orm sighed. "Before the rain."

They changed in silence. This time, it was fast. Efficient. They slipped back into their street clothes—jeans and t-shirts they had left in the office earlier.

The transformation was jarring. The glamour was gone. The magic of the gala was packed away in garment bags.

But as they stood by the door, ready to leave, the energy was still there.

"P'Ling?"

"Yes?"

"For the record," Orm said, leaning against the doorframe, "I'm glad you didn't run away completely."

Lingling looked at her. "I told you. I do not run."

"Sure," Orm smiled. "Goodnight, P'Ling."

"Goodnight, Kornaphat."

Lingling walked to the elevator. She didn't look back. But when the doors closed, she touched her lips with her fingertips. They were tingling.

Lingling sat on her pristine, beige sofa in her pristine, beige living room. It was quiet. It was clean. It was exactly the way she liked it.

And it felt incredibly empty.

She opened her phone. She navigated to her photo gallery.

There was one new photo. She hadn't taken it.

Earlier in the evening, when they were leaving the office for the gala, Orm had grabbed Lingling’s phone. "Selfie!" she had shouted.

Lingling looked at the photo now.

It was taken in the mirror of Room 404. Lingling was looking at the camera with a stoic, slightly startled expression, wearing the black velvet dress. Orm was standing next to her, beaming, making a peace sign, shimmering in rose gold.

But what caught Lingling’s eye wasn't the poses.

It was the way Orm was leaning into her. Their shoulders were touching. And in the reflection, you could see Lingling’s hand. It wasn't pulled away. It was resting, just barely, against the fabric of Orm’s dress.

Lingling stared at the photo for a long time.

Then, she opened the editing tools. She cropped the photo so it was just their faces.

She saved it.

Then, she set it as her lock screen.

She stared at it for five seconds. Panic set in. Someone will see.

She quickly changed it back to the default abstract geometric wallpaper.

But she didn't delete the photo.

She put her phone down on the coffee table. She picked up a throw pillow. It was silk. It reminded her of Orm’s dress.

"I am in trouble," Lingling said to the empty room. "Severe, critical trouble."

Chapter Text

When Dr. Orm Kornaphat arrived at Room 404 on Monday morning, humming a pop song and carrying two coffees, she stopped dead in the doorway.

The office looked different.

The blue surgical tape on the floor—which had been peeling, scuffed, and generally ignored for the last two weeks—was gone.

In its place was a new line.

This one was not surgical tape. It was yellow-and-black hazard tape. The kind used to mark high-voltage electrical boxes or radiation zones. It was applied with laser-guided precision, dissecting the room into two mathematically equal halves.

"Good morning," Dr. Lingling Kwong said.

She didn't look up. She was typing at a speed that suggested she was trying to break the keyboard. Her posture was so rigid she looked like she had a titanium rod fused to her spine. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked painful.

"Hazard tape?" Orm asked, stepping into the room but stopping just short of the line. "Really? Are we expecting a nuclear fallout?"

"The previous demarcation was degrading," Lingling said, her voice crisp and devoid of any warmth. "It was unhygienic. This material is industrial strength. It is clearer."

Orm set the coffees down on her own desk. "Clearer. Right."

She walked over to the line. She let the toe of her sneaker hover over it.

Lingling stopped typing. She didn't look up, but her fingers froze.

"Do not," Lingling warned.

"I brought you coffee," Orm said, sliding the cup across the floor (a callback to the sandwich incident, but colder). "Double shot. No sugar. From the good cafe down the street."

Lingling looked at the cup. She wanted it. She needed it. But accepting it felt like accepting... her.

"Thank you," Lingling said stiffly. She reached out—arm extended straight, minimizing the time her limb spent in the Neutral Zone—and retrieved the cup. "I will reimburse you."

"It’s a gift, P'Ling."

"I do not accept gifts from subordinates. It creates a conflict of interest."

Orm laughed, but it was a dry, hollow sound. "Subordinates? I’m a Fellow, not an intern. And on Saturday night, I was your dance partner. Or did I hallucinate that?"

Lingling took a sip of the coffee. It was hot and bitter. It grounded her.

"Saturday was a social obligation," Lingling stated, meeting Orm’s eyes finally. Her gaze was cool, detached, and completely walled off. "We performed our duties. It is over. We are now back in a professional environment. I would appreciate it if we maintained appropriate boundaries."

Orm looked at her. She saw the tension in Lingling’s jaw. She saw the fear hiding behind the frost.

"Okay," Orm said softly. She sat down at her desk and spun her chair to face the window. "Boundaries. Got it. Message received, loud and clear."

The silence that descended on Room 404 was not the comfortable silence of the rainstorm. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a vacuum.

"Dr. Kwong, thank you for coming."

Dr. Pawat, the Chief of Pediatrics, looked relieved to see Lingling stride into the conference room. Beside him sat a visibly stressed team of nurses and residents. And, sitting in the corner, looking like she had been summoned to the principal's office, was Orm.

"I received the consult request," Lingling said, placing her tablet on the table. "Patient: Kavin Na-Ayutthaya. Male, 15 years old. Diagnosis: Ebstein’s Anomaly with severe tricuspid regurgitation."

"Correct," Dr. Pawat sighed. "He’s been followed by cardiology since birth. Moderate case, managed with medication. But in the last six months, he’s decompensated. His right ventricle is dilating. He’s in heart failure, Dr. Kwong. He needs the Cone Procedure. And he needs it soon."

"I reviewed the Echo," Lingling said, tapping her screen to project the image onto the wall. The grayscale heart pulsed rhythmically, but even a layman could see the right side was ballooned and struggling. "The valve is displaced. The leaflets are plastered. It is a textbook surgical indication. Why was I called for a consult? Just book the OR."

"We tried," Pawat said. "Three times."

"And?"

"He refuses," Orm spoke up from the corner.

Lingling turned to look at her. Orm was wearing her glasses, looking serious.

"He is fifteen," Lingling said. "He is a minor. His parents consent."

"Technically, yes," Orm said. "But Kavin is... difficult. He has extreme anxiety. White Coat Hypertension on steroids. The last time they tried to wheel him to the Cath Lab, he had a panic attack so severe he went into SVT (Supraventricular Tachycardia). His heart rate hit 220. They had to chemically cardiovert him."

Orm stood up and walked to the screen. "If you force him into the OR screaming and fighting, his catecholamine surge will be massive. With a right ventricle this weak? Ideally, you want him calm. If he panics during induction, he could code before you even make the incision."

Lingling frowned. She looked at the Echo, then at Orm.

"So you are saying he is too scared to be saved?"

"I’m saying he needs to want to be saved," Orm corrected. "Or at least, he needs to trust us enough not to fight the anesthesia."

"I do not need him to trust me," Lingling said coldly. "I need him to lie still so I can reconstruct his tricuspid valve. Sedate him in his room. Intubate him before transport."

"That’s risky," Pawat interjected. "airway management in a non-critical room... with his physiology..."

"It is a risk," Lingling admitted. "But death from heart failure is a certainty."

"Let me talk to him," Orm said.

Lingling raised an eyebrow. "You are a pediatrician, Dr. Sethratanapong. Not a whisperer."

"I’m good with difficult kids," Orm said, her chin lifting defiantly. "Give me twenty-four hours. Let me get him to agree. If we can get him to walk to the OR voluntarily, his outcomes will be better. The data supports this."

Lingling checked her watch. "His right ventricular function is deteriorating. Every day counts."

She looked at Orm. She saw the determination in her eyes—the same determination she had seen in the mirror at the Gala before the phone rang.

"Fine," Lingling said, checking her schedule. "You have twenty-four hours. If he does not consent by 12:00 tomorrow, we sedate and transport. Regardless of his feelings."

"Deal," Orm said.

Kavin was not what Lingling expected.

She expected a crying child. Instead, she found a sullen teenager wearing oversized headphones, playing a game on a Nintendo Switch with a ferocity that suggested he wanted to murder the pixels. He was pale, his lips faintly blue (cyanotic), and his fingers were clubbed—classic signs of chronic oxygen deprivation.

His mother sat on the sofa, wringing her hands. "Kavin, the doctors are here."

Kavin didn't look up. "Tell them to go away."

Lingling walked to the foot of the bed. "Kavin. I am Dr. Kwong. I am the surgeon."

Kavin cranked up the volume on his game.

Lingling stepped forward and, with a swift movement, pulled the headphones off his ears.

"Hey!" Kavin shouted, throwing the Switch down. "Don't touch my stuff!"

"Your heart is failing," Lingling said bluntly. "Your tricuspid valve is leaking blood backward into your atrium. Your liver is congested. That is why your stomach hurts. If we do not fix this, you will go into multi-organ failure."

Kavin glared at her. He looked terrified, but he was masking it with anger. "I don't care. I’m not doing the surgery."

"Why?" Lingling asked. "Give me a logical reason."

"Because everyone dies!" Kavin yelled. "My grandpa went for surgery and he died. My uncle had a stent and he died. Hospitals are where people go to die. I’d rather die at home playing Zelda."

"Your grandfather had stage four lung cancer," Lingling countered, having memorized the family history. "Your uncle had a massive infarct before arrival. Your situation is different. It is mechanical. It is fixable."

"You're a robot," Kavin spat. "You don't get it. Just leave me alone." He grabbed his headphones and jammed them back on, turning away from her.

Lingling stood there, frustration coiling in her gut. She had explained the facts. Why did facts never work on these people?

"P'Ling," Orm’s voice came from the doorway. "Step out. Please."

Lingling turned. Orm was leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

"I have him," Lingling insisted.

"You're losing him," Orm whispered. "You're making his HR go up. Look at the monitor."

Lingling looked. 135 bpm.

She clenched her jaw. She placed the chart on the end of the bed and walked out.

"He is irrational," Lingling hissed to Orm in the hallway.

"He's terrified," Orm corrected. "Go have a coffee, P'Ling. Go fix a valve in someone who is asleep. Let me handle the awake ones."

Lingling felt a sting of rejection. "I am the lead on this case."

"And I'm the consult," Orm said firm. "You gave me twenty-four hours. Clock's ticking."

Orm slipped into the room and closed the door.

Lingling stood in the hallway, staring at the wood grain. She felt useless. It was a sensation she detested.

The day passed in an agonizing blur of silence.

Orm spent the entire day in the pediatric ward. Lingling spent the day in the OR, repairing an aortic dissection. It was a difficult, bloody surgery, the kind she usually loved because it required total focus. But today, her mind kept drifting.

She kept thinking about Kavin. And Orm.

When she returned to the office at 6 PM, Orm was there. She was sitting on the floor on her side of the hazard tape (she was adhering to the rules strictly now), surrounded by papers and... comic books?

"Report," Lingling said, sitting at her desk.

Orm didn't look up. "He likes One Piece. He thinks Luffy is cool because he wants to be King of the Pirates even though he can't swim."

"Is that relevant to his cardiovascular status?"

"Yes," Orm said. "Because Kavin feels like he can't 'swim.' He feels defective. He thinks the surgery is just another way to prove he's broken."

"Did he consent?"

"Not yet."

Lingling sighed loud and long. "Dr. Kornaphat. We are wasting time. I have an opening in the schedule tomorrow at 14:00. If we do not book it, I lose the slot for three days."

Orm finally looked up. She looked exhausted. The sparkle from the gala was gone, replaced by a dull fatigue.

"He's scared he won't wake up," Orm said softly. "He told me he has nightmares that the doctors are actually aliens experimenting on him. It sounds funny, but to him, it's real. The lights, the masks... it triggers him."

"So we sedate him early," Lingling repeated.

"He needs to know the surgeon," Orm said. She stood up and walked to the hazard tape. She stopped right at the edge.

"What?" Lingling asked.

"He needs to know you."

Lingling laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. "I met him. He called me a robot."

"Because you acted like one!" Orm’s voice rose. "You walked in there and listed his defects. You didn't ask him his name. You didn't ask him what level he is in his game. You just saw a broken pump."

"I am a mechanic for broken pumps!" Lingling slammed her hand on the desk. "That is why I am the best! Because I do not get distracted by video games or... or feelings! I focus on the anatomy!"

"And that’s why you’re alone!"

The words hung in the air. Sharp. Brutal.

Orm’s eyes went wide. She covered her mouth with her hand. "I... I didn't mean..."

Lingling went very, very still. The temperature in the room seemed to drop to absolute zero.

"You are correct," Lingling said, her voice terrifyingly quiet. "I am alone. And because I am alone, I can focus entirely on saving that boy’s life, whether he likes me or not."

She stood up and gathered her things.

"Book the OR for 14:00 tomorrow, Dr. Kornaphat. Tell the parents. If the boy resists, anesthesia will administer a ketamine dart in the pre-op holding area. I will not let a child die because he is stubborn. And I will not let your... softness... kill him."

Lingling walked to the door.

"P'Ling," Orm called out, her voice trembling.

Lingling didn't stop. She walked out.

Lingling didn't go home. She couldn't. Her condo was too quiet.

She sat on a bench in the hospital’s roof garden. It was dark. The city lights blinked below.

That’s why you’re alone.

The words replayed in her head on a loop.

She was alone. She had chosen to be alone. Relationships were variables she couldn't control. People left. People died. People disappointed you.

Or, in the case of her last relationship during her residency, people told you that "loving you is like hugging a marble statue."

Lingling looked at her hands. They were steady. They saved lives. Wasn't that enough?

Why did it suddenly feel like it wasn't enough?

Her phone buzzed.

Dr. Kornaphat S.: [Image Attachment]

Lingling hesitated. She shouldn't look. She should block the number.

She opened it.

It was a photo of a drawing. A crude, pencil sketch on hospital paper.

It showed a stick figure boy lying in a bed. And standing over him was a figure in a white coat. But the figure didn't have a scary mask. The figure had... wings. Giant, mechanical, robot wings.

Dr. Kornaphat S.: Kavin drew this. He asked if the 'Robot Doctor' has upgrades.

Lingling stared at the drawing.

Dr. Kornaphat S.: He doesn't hate you, Ling. He thinks you're a cyborg. And in his world, cyborgs are the strongest.

Dr. Kornaphat S.: I told him you have the steadiest hands in the universe. I told him you catch hearts when they fall.

Dr. Kornaphat S.: I’m sorry about what I said. You aren't alone. Not if you don't want to be.

Lingling felt a tear slide down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

She typed a reply.

Lingling: Tell him the cyborg requires a co-pilot for the mission tomorrow.

Dr. Kornaphat S.: Is that me?

Lingling: No. It is him. He has to fly the ship while I fix the engine.

A moment later, Orm replied with a single emoji.

Dr. Kornaphat S.: 🚀

Lingling put the phone down. She looked at the city.

"Twenty-four hours," she whispered to herself. "Let’s see if the Sunshine Doctor can work a miracle."

Lingling arrived at Kavin’s room early. She wasn't wearing her white coat. She was wearing her blue scrubs, but she had taken off her badge. She looked smaller. Less imposing.

Orm was already there, sleeping in the chair next to Kavin’s bed. She looked like she hadn't left all night.

Kavin was awake. He was staring at the ceiling.

Lingling knocked softly.

"Enter," Kavin grunted.

Lingling walked in. She didn't go to the foot of the bed. She went to the side, where his Nintendo Switch lay on the table.

"This is the Zelda game?" Lingling asked.

Kavin looked at her suspiciously. "Yeah. Breath of the Wild."

"I do not play games," Lingling admitted. "But Dr. Sethratanapong tells me there are... Guardians? Ancient machines?"

Kavin sat up a little. "Yeah. They shoot lasers. They’re hard to beat."

"Your heart," Lingling said, "is like a Guardian. It is built strong, but a gear has slipped. The tricuspid gear."

She pulled a marker out of her pocket. Not a pen. A thick, black whiteboard marker.

"May I?" She pointed to the whiteboard on the wall.

Kavin shrugged.

Lingling drew. She didn't draw a medical diagram. She drew a schematic. She drew the heart like a machine—pistons, valves, pumps. It was precise, geometric, and cool.

"The fluid is leaking here," she pointed. "My job is to open the chassis, recalibrate the valve, and seal it. I use Gore-Tex sutures. The same material used in... space suits?" She looked at Kavin for confirmation.

"And high-end rain jackets," Kavin supplied.

"Correct. High-tech material." Lingling capped the marker. "I cannot do it if the pilot is fighting me. If the chassis shakes, the calibration fails."

Kavin looked at the drawing. Then he looked at Lingling.

"Are you really a cyborg?" he asked.

Lingling kept her face perfectly straight. She held up her hand. It was rock steady.

"I have never confirmed nor denied those rumors."

Kavin cracked a tiny smile.

Orm stirred in the chair. She blinked awake, seeing Lingling standing there, seeing the drawing on the board.

"Morning," Orm whispered, her voice raspy.

"Good morning, Dr. Sethratanapong," Lingling said softly. She turned back to Kavin. "The surgery is at 14:00. Dr. Sethratanapong will be with you until you fall asleep. I will be there when you wake up. And I promise you..."

She leaned in close.

"...I will upgrade your engine."

Kavin took a deep breath. He looked at his mom, then at Orm, then at the 'Cyborg' doctor.

"Okay," Kavin said. "Let's do it."

The operating room was a different universe.

In Room 404, life was messy. It was full of peeling paint, spilled coffee, and complex emotions. But in OR 1, life was distilled into pure, frozen clarity.

The room was kept at a shivering 18°C. The walls were tiled in soothing sea-foam green. The air was pressurized, filtered, and sterile. In the center, under the glare of the dual LED surgical lights, lay Kavin Na-Ayutthaya.

He was no longer the sullen teenager with the Nintendo Switch. He was a landscape of blue sterile drapes, exposing only the square of iodine-stained skin on his chest.

Dr. Lingling Kwong stood on the right side of the table. She wore her magnifying loupes. Her hands, gloved in double-layer latex, rested on the sterile field.

"Time out," she announced. Her voice was amplified by the microphone in her mask.

The room went silent.

"Patient is Kavin Na-Ayutthaya. Procedure is Cone Reconstruction of the Tricuspid Valve for Ebstein’s Anomaly. Allergies: Penicillin. Antibiotics administered?"

"Administered," the anesthesiologist confirmed.

"Bypass team?"

"Primed and ready, Doctor," the perfusionist replied from the back, standing guard over the massive heart-lung machine.

"Skin incision," Lingling said.

She held out her hand. The scrub nurse slapped the scalpel into her palm.

Dr. Orm Kornaphat sat in the dark viewing gallery above the OR, her knees pulled up to her chest. She had a front-row seat to the performance.

She watched as Lingling worked. It was mesmerizing.

Orm had seen surgeries before, of course. But pediatric surgery was usually chaotic, cramped, and noisy. This... this was a symphony.

Lingling moved with an economy of motion that was almost inhuman. There were no wasted gestures. Every movement of her wrist had a purpose. She sawed through the sternum, retracted the ribs, and exposed the beating heart.

"Going on bypass," Lingling’s voice crackled over the intercom in the gallery.

Orm watched the monitors. The jagged green line of Kavin’s EKG went flat as the machine took over. The heart stopped. It was a lump of silent muscle now.

It was terrifying. To stop a heart was to flirt with death.

But Lingling didn't flinch. She was deep inside the chest cavity now.

"The valve is significantly displaced," Lingling narrated for the residents assisting her. "The leaflets are tethered to the septum. We need to delaminate them carefully. Pass me the fine scissors."

Orm leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the glass.

You're not a robot, Orm thought, watching Lingling’s hands move with impossible gentleness around the fragile tissue. You're an artist.

"Reconstruction complete," Lingling announced. "The valve is seated. Annuloplasty ring is secure. Prepare to come off bypass."

This was the moment of truth. The "Cyborg" had fixed the engine. Now, they had to jump-start it.

"Warming the patient," the perfusionist said.

"Cross-clamp off," Lingling commanded. She removed the clamp that had cut off blood flow to the heart.

Blood rushed back into the coronary arteries. The muscle turned from pale gray to pink.

"Come on," Lingling whispered. "Beat."

The heart gave a sluggish twitch. Then another.

Thump... thump...

"Rhythm is sinus," the anesthesiologist said. "Rate 70."

"Weaning bypass," the perfusionist said. "Flow is down to 50%."

Suddenly, the alarm blared. A harsh, rhythmic bee-bee-beep.

"Pressure is dropping!" the anesthesiologist shouted. "60 over 40. Filling pressures are skyrocketing."

Lingling looked at the field. The heart was ballooning. It was distended, struggling to pump against the new valve.

"Right ventricular failure," Lingling diagnosed instantly. "The ventricle is too weak. It cannot handle the volume. Go back on full bypass!"

"Going back on!"

"Damn it," Lingling hissed.

"Dr. Kwong," the resident stammered. "What do we do? If the RV won't pump..."

"Silence," Lingling snapped. "I am thinking."

In the gallery, Orm held her breath. She clutched the railing. You got this, Ling. You got this.

Lingling stared at the swollen heart. The standard procedure was to wait and hope the muscle recovered. But Kavin didn't have time. His heart had been failing for months. It was tired.

"We need to offload the ventricle," Lingling said. "We need a Glenn shunt. We connect the superior vena cava directly to the pulmonary artery. Bypass the right heart. Reduce the work load."

"A Glenn?" the resident asked, shocked. "On the table? That’s a palliative procedure. We didn't consent for that."

"We consented for 'life-saving measures'," Lingling said, her eyes narrowing. "If we do not do this, he dies on this table. He becomes a statistic. Do you want to explain that to his mother? Or to Dr. Sethratanapong?"

The mention of Orm’s name seemed to steel her.

"Scalpel," Lingling demanded. "4-0 Prolene. We are doing the shunt."

For the next forty-five minutes, the room was a blur of high-speed controlled violence. Lingling rerouted the major veins of the body. She was rewriting the boy's anatomy on the fly.

"Flow is stable," the perfusionist said, sounding amazed.

"Coming off bypass again," Lingling said. Her voice was hoarse.

They held their breath.

The heart filled. But this time, with the load reduced, the right ventricle wasn't overwhelmed. It squeezed. It relaxed. It squeezed again.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"BP 100 over 70," the anesthesiologist said. "Saturation 98%."

Lingling dropped her hands to her sides. She closed her eyes for exactly two seconds.

"He is stable," she said. "Close the chest."

Kavin’s mother was pacing a hole in the floor.

When the double doors opened, Lingling stepped out. She was still wearing her scrubs, surgical cap, and mask hanging around her neck. There was a smear of blood on her shoe.

She looked exhausted. She looked formidable.

"Mrs. Na-Ayutthaya?"

The mother rushed forward. "Is he...?"

"He is alive," Lingling said. "The surgery was more complex than anticipated. His heart was weaker than the scans showed. I had to perform an additional procedure to help his heart pump."

She explained the shunt. She explained the risks.

"But," Lingling finished, "he is in the ICU. His color is pink. His fingertips are no longer blue."

The mother burst into tears. She grabbed Lingling’s hands—the surgeon’s precious, million-dollar hands—and kissed them.

"Thank you," the mother sobbed. "Thank you, Doctor."

Lingling stood stiffly, unused to the contact, but she didn't pull away.

"You should thank Dr. Sethratanapong," Lingling said quietly. "She is the one who convinced him to fight."

She looked over the mother’s shoulder.

Orm was standing by the nurses' station. She had come down from the gallery. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She was holding a cup of coffee.

Lingling gave the mother a curt nod and walked over to Orm.

They stood there in the quiet hum of the ICU.

"You did a Glenn on the fly," Orm whispered. "That was insane."

"It was necessary," Lingling said.

"It was brilliant." Orm took a step closer. "You saved him, P'Ling. You really saved him."

Lingling looked at Orm. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. And something else. A crack in the armor.

"I..." Lingling started. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I need sugar."

Orm smiled. A soft, tired, knowing smile.

"I have a stash of chocolate in the office. Come on."

The office was dark when they entered, lit only by the city lights.

Lingling walked to her desk and sat down heavily. She felt the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. The fear in the OR—the moment the heart failed—hit her now. Her hands started to tremble.

She hid them under the desk.

Orm walked over. She didn't go to her own desk. She walked straight to the center of the room.

She looked down at the black-and-yellow hazard tape.

Then, she crouched down.

"What are you doing?" Lingling asked, watching her.

"This thing," Orm said, picking at the edge of the tape with her fingernail. "It’s ugly. It clashes with the Feng Shui."

She peeled up a strip. Riiiiip. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

"It is a safety perimeter," Lingling said weakly.

"We don't need safety perimeters," Orm said. She pulled up another foot of tape. She balled it up and threw it in the trash.

She walked over to Lingling’s desk. She didn't stop at the edge. She walked right up to Lingling’s chair.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. Toblerone. She broke off a triangle and held it out.

"Eat," Orm commanded gently.

Lingling looked at the chocolate. Then at Orm.

"You said I was alone," Lingling whispered. "Yesterday."

Orm’s face fell. She knelt down next to Lingling’s chair, so they were at eye level.

"I know. And I’ve hated myself for it every second since." Orm reached out and took Lingling’s trembling hand from under the desk. She held it in both of hers.

"You aren't alone, Lingling. You were in that OR with ten people. You were with Kavin. And I was right above you. I was with you the whole time."

Orm squeezed her hand.

"You are the most incredible person I have ever met," Orm said fiercely. "You are terrifying, yes. But you are also... everything."

Lingling looked at their joined hands. The trembling stopped.

"The hazard tape," Lingling said, nodding toward the floor. "You missed a spot."

Orm laughed. It was a wet, teary sound. "I'll get it later."

"See that you do," Lingling whispered.

She took the chocolate from Orm’s hand and ate it. It tasted like victory.

"Dr. Kornaphat?"

"Yeah?"

"You may... keep the One Piece comics in the office. As a reference for future pediatric cases."

Orm beamed. She rested her forehead against Lingling’s knee for just a second.

"Aye aye, Captain."

Chapter Text

Dr. Lingling Kwong stood next to her car—a pristine, white Volvo XC60 that looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. The trunk was open. Inside sat a single, silver Rimowa carry-on suitcase. It was packed with military precision: three blouses, two slacks, one evening dress, and a toiletries bag organized by liquid volume.

She checked her watch. 09:01.

"Late," she muttered.

The "Annual Southeast Asian Medical Innovations Conference" in Hua Hin was mandatory for all senior staff. Most doctors took the hospital shuttle bus. Lingling, however, refused to spend three hours on a bus smelling Dr. Tul’s cologne. She had opted to drive.

And, in a moment of weakness induced by a shared chocolate bar earlier that week, she had agreed to carpool with Orm.

Screeeech.

A yellow Mini Cooper zoomed around the corner, taking the turn a little too fast, and pulled up next to Lingling. The door flew open.

"I’m here! I’m here!" Orm hopped out. She was wearing oversized sunglasses, a straw hat that defied the laws of physics, and a floral sundress. She looked like she was going to Coachella, not a medical conference.

"You are two minutes late," Lingling noted, closing her own trunk.

"Traffic on Rama IV was a nightmare," Orm said, popping the trunk of her Mini. She hauled out a suitcase that was... loud. It was bright purple and covered in stickers: NASA, Hello Kitty, and a bumper sticker that said I Brake for Stray Cats.

"That is a very large suitcase for two nights," Lingling observed.

"A girl needs options, P'Ling! Beach wear, gala wear, lounging wear, emergency snack storage..." Orm heaved the bag toward Lingling’s car.

Lingling sighed and helped her lift the purple monstrosity into the trunk next to the sleek silver Rimowa. They looked like an odd couple even in luggage form.

"I assume you have prepared your presentation on 'Pediatric Cardiac Interventions'?" Lingling asked as they got into the car.

"Slides are done. Animations are cute. I’m ready," Orm said, buckling up. She immediately reached for the dashboard. "Can I be DJ?"

Lingling started the engine. "I was planning to listen to a podcast on the ethics of CRISPR gene editing."

Orm looked at her over the rim of her sunglasses. "We are going to the beach, P'Ling. We are not listening to CRISPR. We are listening to bangers."

She connected her phone. The opening chords of a very upbeat T-Pop song filled the cabin.

Lingling gripped the steering wheel. "It is going to be a long three hours."

"It’s going to be fun!" Orm cheered, rolling down the window. "Hua Hin, here come the hot doctors!"

The Royal Coast Resort was the kind of place that smelled of lemongrass and money. The lobby was an open-air pavilion with teak pillars and a view of the turquoise Gulf of Thailand.

Lingling walked to the reception desk, her heels clicking on the marble. She felt slightly overdressed in her linen blazer, especially next to Orm, who was currently taking a selfie with a potted orchid.

"Sawasdee ka," Lingling said to the receptionist, presenting her ID. "Dr. Sirilak Kwong and Dr. Kornaphat Sethratanapong. We are with the Praram Hospital group. Two deluxe rooms, ocean view."

The receptionist, a polite young woman named Malee, typed on her keyboard. Click-clack. She frowned. She typed again. She bit her lip.

Lingling felt the familiar prickle of 'Bureaucratic Error' sensing down her spine.

"Is there a problem?" Lingling asked coolly.

"Umm... one moment, Doctor." Malee typed furiously. "It seems... ah. It seems there was a glitch in the booking system transfer. The conference organizer reserved the block under 'Praram General' instead of 'Praram Royal', and when we merged the files..."

"Cut to the chase, Khun Malee," Lingling said.

"We are fully booked," Malee whispered. "The Medical Association took every room. We have your reservation, but... we only have one room available in the system for your party."

Lingling closed her eyes. "One room."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Does it have two beds?"

Malee checked the screen. She winced. "It is... the Honeymoon Pool Villa. It has a King-sized bed. And a... very nice bathtub?"

Lingling turned to look at Orm. Orm had abandoned the orchid and was now listening, her eyes wide with suppressed mirth.

"One bed," Orm mouthed.

"This is unacceptable," Lingling said to Malee. "We require separate accommodations. Surely you can move someone else? Perhaps Dr. Tul?"

"I cannot move a guest who has already checked in," Malee apologized. "However, the Honeymoon Villa is an upgrade! It has a private plunge pool and butler service. And we can provide an extra... cot?"

The idea of Orm—or herself—sleeping on a cot in a Honeymoon Villa was dignified.

"Take it, P'Ling," Orm stepped in, leaning on the counter. "It’s fine! We’re roomies at work, we can be roomies on vacation. I don't snore. Much."

Lingling looked at the line of tired doctors forming behind them. She looked at Malee’s panicked face. She looked at the shimmering ocean beyond the lobby.

She exhaled.

"Fine," Lingling snapped. "We will take the Villa."

"Excellent choice!" Malee beamed, handing them a key card in a gold envelope. "Please enjoy your stay. And congratulations!"

"We are not—" Lingling started.

"Thank you!" Orm chirped, grabbing the key. "Come on, darling. Let’s go see our love nest."

She grabbed Lingling’s hand and dragged her toward the golf carts, leaving Lingling too stunned to correct the receptionist.

The golf cart dropped them off at a secluded villa near the beach. The door opened to reveal a space that was aggressively romantic.

The bed was enormous, draped in white mosquito netting. On the mattress, red rose petals had been arranged in the shape of a heart. Two towel swans were kissing in the center.

But that wasn't the worst part.

The bathroom was separated from the bedroom not by a wall, but by a clear floor-to-ceiling glass pane. In the center of the bathroom was a massive terrazzo soaking tub, big enough for two.

"Wow," Orm said, dropping her bags. "They really committed to the theme."

Lingling stood in the doorway, staring at the glass bathroom. "There are no blinds."

"It’s a concept," Orm explained, walking over and poking a towel swan. "It symbolizes transparency in the relationship."

"It symbolizes a lack of privacy," Lingling countered. She walked over to the bed and flicked a rose petal off the duvet. "I will take the right side. You take the left. Do not cross the center line. I will visualize a hazard tape."

"You and your tapes," Orm laughed. She opened the sliding glass doors to the private deck. A small plunge pool glittered in the sun, overlooking the beach. "P'Ling! Look! Private pool!"

Orm kicked off her sandals. She unzipped her sundress.

"What are you doing?" Lingling asked, alarmed.

"Going for a swim before the Opening Keynote," Orm said. She stepped out of the dress. Underneath, she was wearing a bright red bikini.

Lingling’s brain did a hard reset.

She had seen anatomy diagrams. She had seen patients. She had seen herself in the mirror.

But seeing Dr. Orm Kornaphat—the chaotic, pink-milk-drinking, sticker-collecting pediatrician—standing in a red bikini in a sun-drenched villa was... distinct.

Orm had curves. Soft, dangerous curves. Her skin was golden. And she looked incredibly comfortable in her own skin.

"Are you coming?" Orm asked, pausing at the edge of the pool. She looked back at Lingling.

Lingling realized she was staring. She quickly averted her gaze to a palm tree.

"I... I have to unpack," Lingling stammered. "And iron my shirt for the evening gala."

"Suit yourself," Orm shrugged. Splash. She dove into the water.

Lingling stood in the air-conditioned room, listening to the splash of water. She looked at the glass bathroom. She looked at the one bed.

She sat down on the edge of the mattress, right on top of a rose petal.

"This weekend," she whispered to the towel swan, "is going to be a cardiovascular stress test."

The "Opening Mixer" was a buffet dinner held on the resort’s lawn. It was humid. The mosquitoes were out. And so was Dr. Tul.

Lingling was wearing a silk blouse and wide-leg trousers—elegant, professional, heat-appropriate. Orm had changed into a flowy maxi dress that looked like a watercolor painting of a sunset.

They stood near the satay station.

"I heard your lecture is tomorrow at 10 AM," Orm said, munching on a skewer of chicken. "I’ll be front row. Heckling."

"If you heckle, I will throw a laser pointer at you," Lingling warned, sipping her white wine.

"Dr. Kwong! Dr. Sethratanapong!"

It was Tul. Again. He was wearing a linen suit that was slightly too tight. He held a whiskey sour.

"I heard a rumor," Tul grinned, swaying slightly. "Is it true? Did you two get the Honeymoon Villa?"

The gossip network in the medical community traveled faster than nerve impulses.

"There was a booking error," Lingling said icily. "It was the only accommodation available."

"Sure, sure," Tul winked. "Very cozy. Just don't keep us up all night, eh?," he laughed at his own joke.

Lingling felt a surge of rage. Beside her, she felt Orm stiffen.

"Dr. Tul," Orm said, her voice unusually sharp. "That’s inappropriate."

"Oh, relax, Nong Orm. Just a joke." Tul waved a hand. "Anyway, the real party is starting later. A bunch of us are going to the Blue Monkey bar in town. Karaoke. Cheap beer. You two should come."

"We have work to do," Lingling said.

"Actually," Orm interrupted. She looked at Tul, then at Lingling. A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "We’ll be there."

Lingling turned to her. "We will?"

"Yes," Orm said firmly. "Because if we stay in the room, we'll just talk about work. And I want to see if P'Tul can actually sing, or if he just bellows like a wounded buffalo."

Tul looked unsure if he had just been insulted. "Great! See you there at nine!"

He wandered off.

"Why?" Lingling hissed. "I despise karaoke."

"Because," Orm said, putting down her empty skewer. "You need to unwind. And I need a cocktail that doesn't taste like warm chardonnay. Come on, P'Ling. One hour. If it's terrible, we leave."

Lingling looked at Orm. The red bikini image flashed in her mind. The rose petals. The glass bathroom.

If they went back to the room now, they would be alone. In that villa. With the transparency.

Going to a loud, crowded bar actually seemed like the safer option.

"One hour," Lingling negotiated.

"One hour," Orm agreed. "And I pick your first song."

The Blue Monkey was loud, neon-lit, and smelled of stale beer and joy. A group of Dermatologists were currently butchering Dancing Queen on stage.

Orm and Lingling sat at a sticky table in the corner.

Orm had ordered a "bucket"—literally a plastic sandcastle bucket filled with vodka, Red Bull, and some neon green mixer. Lingling was nursing a gin and tonic.

"This is loud," Lingling shouted over the music.

"It’s festive!" Orm shouted back. She took a long pull from two straws in the bucket. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked happy.

"Go sing!" Orm nudged her. "I put your name in."

"You did what?" Lingling’s eyes widened.

"I signed you up. 'Lingling K.' It’s next."

"I do not sing," Lingling protested. "I have no musical training."

"Everyone can sing!" Orm laughed. "Just pick something easy. Or... oh wait. Too late."

The DJ spoke into the mic. "Next up, we have Dr. Lingling! Give it up for the Cardio Queen!"

The room cheered. Dr. Tul whistled from the bar.

Lingling looked at Orm. Orm gave her a thumbs up and a dazzling smile. "Do it for the department morale!"

Lingling stood up. She smoothed her trousers. She walked to the stage.

She took the microphone. She looked at the screen.

Orm had chosen a song.

I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor.

Of course.

The music started. The disco beat thumped.

Lingling stood stiffly.

"At first I was afraid, I was petrified..." she spoke the words more than sang them. She sounded like she was reading a medical chart.

The crowd chuckled.

Then, she looked at Orm. Orm was standing on her chair, waving her arms, mouthing the words. Go on!

Lingling took a deep breath. She loosened her grip on the mic. She thought about the flood, the surgery, the hazard tape, the blue tape. She thought about surviving Kavin’s heart failure.

She closed her eyes.

"...But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong..."

Her voice grew stronger. It wasn't professional, but it was clear, alto, and surprisingly powerful.

"And I grew strong! And I learned how to get along!"

She opened her eyes and locked them on Orm.

By the chorus, Lingling wasn't just singing; she was performing. She strutted across the tiny stage. She pointed at Tul during the "Go on now, go!" line.

The room went wild.

When the song ended, Lingling was breathing hard, her face flushed. The applause was deafening.

She walked off stage. Orm was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps.

"You," Orm shouted, grabbing Lingling by the shoulders, "were amazing! Who knew the Ice Queen had funk?"

"It was... cathartic," Lingling admitted, smiling. A real, uninhibited smile.

"My turn!" Orm squealed. "Duet!"

"I am not going back up there," Lingling laughed.

"Yes you are! I signed us up for The Boy is Mine but we can change the lyrics to The Patient is Mine!"

"No!"

They were laughing. They were close. The alcohol, the music, the adrenaline—it was a potent cocktail.

Suddenly, someone bumped into Orm from behind—a drunk tourist. Orm stumbled forward.

Lingling caught her.

She wrapped her arms around Orm’s waist to steady her. Orm’s hands landed on Lingling’s chest.

They froze.

The music seemed to fade. The neon lights reflected in Orm’s eyes. They were pressed together, bodies flush.

"P'Ling," Orm whispered. She didn't move away.

"Are you okay?" Lingling asked. She didn't let go.

"I think..." Orm started, her gaze dropping to Lingling’s lips. "I think I need to go back to the room."

"You are drunk?" Lingling asked.

"No," Orm shook her head slowly. "I just really want to be alone with you. In the villa. With the glass walls."

The air left Lingling’s lungs.

"Okay," Lingling said. Her voice was rough. "Let’s go."

The ride back to Villa 101 was quiet, save for the electric whir of the golf cart and the distant crash of waves against the shore.

The night air was thick with salt and humidity. Lingling sat stiffly on the vinyl seat, gripping the safety rail. Beside her, Orm was not stiff. Orm was fluid. She had slid across the bench seat on the first sharp turn and hadn't moved back.

Her head was resting on Lingling’s shoulder. Her hand was resting—lightly, dangerously—on Lingling’s thigh.

"You smell like gin and expensive soap," Orm mumbled into Lingling’s silk blouse.

"And you smell like a neon-colored cocktail," Lingling replied, staring straight ahead at the path illuminated by the cart’s headlights. "You are compromised, Dr. Kornaphat."

"I am relaxed," Orm corrected, lifting her head slightly to look at Lingling’s profile. "There is a difference. My Glasgow Coma Scale is fifteen. I am fully oriented to time, place, and person. Especially person."

The cart hit a bump. Orm jostled against her. The friction of skin and fabric sent a jolt through Lingling’s nervous system that felt alarmingly like atrial flutter.

"We are here," Lingling announced abruptly as the cart rolled to a stop in front of their villa.

She hopped out before the driver could even stop fully, thanking him with a curt nod and a tip that was likely too large. She needed to get off the cart. She needed space.

Orm followed more slowly, swinging her sandals by the straps. "Wait for me, P'Ling."

Lingling unlocked the heavy wooden door of the villa. They stepped inside.

The room was cool, the AC humming softly. The staff had performed the turndown service. The rose petals were gone (thankfully), replaced by dimmed lighting and bottles of water on the nightstands. The curtains were drawn, but the glass bathroom remained a glowing, transparent cube in the center of the suite.

Lingling walked straight to the minibar and grabbed a bottle of cold mineral water. She cracked it open and downed half of it in one go.

"So," Orm said, closing the door and leaning against it. The lock clicked shut. "Here we are."

"Here we are," Lingling echoed. She turned around.

Orm dropped her sandals on the floor. She walked across the room, her bare feet silent on the polished wood. She stopped at the foot of the massive bed, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at Lingling.

"You sang," Orm said softly. A smile played on her lips. "You really sang."

"It was an anomaly," Lingling said, leaning back against the counter. "A statistical outlier caused by peer pressure and ethanol."

"It was hot," Orm said.

Lingling choked on her water.

Orm stepped closer. She was still wearing the sunset-colored maxi dress. In the dim light, she looked like a siren.

"Stop analyzing it, P'Ling. Stop diagnosing everything. Just... be here. With me."

"I am here," Lingling whispered.

"Are you?" Orm tilted her head. "Or are you already planning your escape route?"

She took another step. She was now standing right in front of Lingling. The space between them was charged, heavy with the things they hadn't said for weeks.

"I am not escaping," Lingling said. She set the water bottle down. Her hands were empty. She didn't know what to do with them.

"Good," Orm said.

She reached out and took Lingling’s hands. She guided them to her own waist.

"Dr. Kornaphat—"

"Orm," she corrected. "Just Orm."

She stepped into Lingling’s space. Lingling’s back was against the minibar counter. There was nowhere to go. Not that she wanted to go anywhere.

Orm looked up at her, eyes dark and searching. Then, slowly, deliberately, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of Lingling’s mouth.

It wasn't a full kiss. It was a question. A feather-light graze of lips against skin.

Lingling’s breath hitched. Her hands on Orm’s waist tightened instinctively, gripping the fabric of the dress.

"Orm," Lingling breathed out. It sounded like a warning and a plea at the same time.

"Scared?" Orm whispered against her skin.

"Terrified," Lingling admitted.

Orm pulled back just an inch so she could look Lingling in the eye.

"Why?"

"Because," Lingling’s voice trembled. "I do not know how to do this casually. I do not know how to have a... a 'holiday fling'. If I start this... if I kiss you... I will not be able to stop. And I cannot lose my focus. I cannot lose you when this goes wrong."

Orm’s expression softened. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a fierce tenderness.

"Who says it has to go wrong?" Orm asked. She brought a hand up to cup Lingling’s cheek. Her thumb stroked Lingling’s cheekbone. "And who says I want it to be casual?"

Lingling stared at her. "We work in the same office. We are colleagues. The risks—"

"Screw the risks," Orm said. "We save lives every day, Lingling. We take risks every time we open a chest. Why is your own happiness the only risk you won't take?"

Lingling didn't have an answer. Logic had failed her.

Orm leaned in again. This time, she didn't aim for the corner of the mouth.

She kissed her.

It was soft at first. Tentative. Tasting of the sweet cocktail and hesitancy.

Then, Lingling made a sound in her throat—a low, desperate whimpering sound—and kissed back.

The dam broke.

Lingling’s hands slid up Orm’s back, tangling in her hair. She pulled Orm closer, pressing her body against hers. The kiss deepened, becoming hungry, urgent. It was the release of weeks of stolen glances, shared coffees, and blue tape boundaries.

Orm let out a soft sigh against Lingling’s lips, her arms winding around Lingling’s neck.

They kissed until they were breathless. Until the room spun.

Finally, they broke apart, foreheads resting against each other, chests heaving.

"Okay," Lingling whispered, her eyes still closed. "Okay."

"Okay," Orm echoed, a breathless laugh escaping her.

Lingling opened her eyes. She looked at Orm. Her lipstick was smudged. Her eyes were hazy.

"You need to take off your makeup," Lingling said automatically. "It is bad for your pores."

Orm burst out laughing. She buried her face in Lingling’s neck. "You are impossible. I just kissed the life out of you, and you're giving me skincare advice."

"It is practical advice," Lingling murmured, but she was smiling. She kissed the top of Orm’s head. "Go. Wash up. I will... I will get ready for bed."

The bathroom situation was, as predicted, intimate.

Orm stood at the sink, washing her face. Lingling sat on the edge of the bathtub, removing her own makeup with a cotton pad.

There were no walls. Just glass.

"This design is truly absurd," Lingling noted, watching Orm splash water on her face.

"I like it," Orm said, reaching for a towel. "No secrets."

She turned around, fresh-faced and glowing. Without the heavy gala makeup, she looked younger. softer.

"Do you have pajamas?" Lingling asked, eyeing Orm’s suitcase.

"I brought a oversized t-shirt," Orm said. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a shirt that said FUTURE IS FEMALE. "And shorts. You?"

Lingling pulled out a matching set of silk pajamas in navy blue. Long sleeves. Long pants. Buttoned to the collar.

"Of course," Orm teased. "Very sensible."

They changed. Back to back, but with the reflections in the glass, it was a futile exercise in modesty. Lingling tried not to look. She failed. She saw the curve of Orm’s spine, the shadow of her waist.

She quickly buttoned her silk top.

"Ready?" Orm asked, turning around.

"Ready."

They walked to the bed. It looked enormous. A white island in the dim room.

"Right side," Lingling claimed, habit kicking in.

"Left side," Orm agreed.

They climbed in. The sheets were cool and crisp.

Lingling lay on her back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. She was rigid. Her hands were folded over her stomach like a corpse.

Orm lay on her side, facing Lingling. She propped her head up on her hand.

"You look like you're waiting for a CT scan," Orm observed.

"I am attempting to sleep," Lingling said.

"In that position? You’ll get sleep paralysis."

Orm flopped down. She shifted. The mattress dipped. She shifted again.

"Orm," Lingling warned.

"I’m cold," Orm whined. "The AC is freezing."

"I will adjust the thermostat."

"No," Orm said. "That takes too much effort."

Silence.

Then, a hand crept across the expanse of white sheet. It found Lingling’s arm.

"Can I...?" Orm’s voice was small.

Lingling turned her head. Orm was looking at her, eyes wide in the darkness.

Lingling sighed. It was a soft, defeated sigh.

She unclenched her hands. She opened her left arm.

"Come here."

Orm didn't hesitate. She scooted across the bed and curled into Lingling’s side. She rested her head on Lingling’s chest, her arm draping over Lingling’s waist, her leg hooking over Lingling’s leg.

She fit perfectly. It was annoying how perfectly she fit.

Lingling stiffened for a second, then relaxed. She wrapped her arm around Orm, her hand coming to rest on Orm’s shoulder.

"Better?" Lingling asked.

"Much," Orm murmured against her silk pyjamas. "Your heart is beating fast again."

"It is settling," Lingling lied.

"Lingling?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the song. And the kiss."

Lingling tightened her hold slightly. "Go to sleep, Orm. We have a lecture at 10:00."

"Goodnight, Cyborg."

"Goodnight, Sunshine."

Lingling lay there for a long time, listening to Orm’s breathing deepen into sleep. She inhaled the scent of Orm’s shampoo.

She realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that she was in love.

She was in love with the messy, loud, chaotic woman sleeping on her chest.

Diagnosis confirmed, she thought in the dark. Prognosis: Terminal.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Lingling’s internal clock usually woke her at 06:00. But the blackout curtains of the villa were excellent, and the bed was incredibly comfortable.

She groaned and reached out blindly to silence the alarm on her phone.

Her hand hit something warm.

"Mmmph," the warm thing protested.

Lingling opened her eyes.

The world was a blur of white sheets and brown hair.

She was not just holding Orm. She was entangled with Orm.

Orm was basically lying on top of her, face buried in the crook of Lingling’s neck. Lingling’s arm was pinned under Orm’s back. Their legs were a knot of limbs.

It was intimate. It was domestic. It was wonderful.

Lingling lay there, letting the reality sink in. She didn't want to move. She wanted to stay in this bed, in this villa, forever. She wanted to cancel the lecture. She wanted to cancel her career.

Orm stirred. She stretched, arching her back like a cat, pressing closer against Lingling.

"Morning," Orm rasped, her voice thick with sleep. She didn't open her eyes. She just nuzzled deeper into Lingling’s neck.

"Good morning," Lingling whispered. Her voice was surprisingly tender.

Orm finally peeled one eye open. She looked up at Lingling.

"We overslept," Orm noted.

"We have forty-five minutes," Lingling calculated. "If we shower efficiently."

"Or," Orm suggested, tracing a pattern on Lingling’s chest with her finger. "We could call in sick. Food poisoning from the satay."

Lingling caught Orm’s hand. She kissed the knuckles.

"Dr. Kornaphat. We are leaders in our field. We do not fake gastrointestinal distress."

Orm groaned and rolled off Lingling, flopping onto her back. "You’re no fun."

"I am plenty of fun," Lingling said, sitting up and stretching. "I sang Gloria Gaynor."

"True." Orm sat up, her hair a wild mane of bedhead. She looked at Lingling. "So... are we going to talk about last night? Or are we doing the 'ignore it until it goes away' thing?"

Lingling swung her legs out of bed. She paused.

She looked back at Orm.

"We are not ignoring it," Lingling said firmly. "But we are also not... defining it. Not yet. Not until we are back in Bangkok and thinking clearly."

"A trial period?" Orm asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Data collection," Lingling corrected. "But... the hypothesis is promising."

Orm grinned. It was blinding. "Okay. Data collection. I can work with that."

She jumped out of bed and ran toward the glass bathroom. "I call first shower!"

"Hey!" Lingling stood up. "I am the senior doctor!"

"Seniority doesn't count in the Honeymoon Villa!" Orm shouted, closing the glass door and turning on the water. She winked at Lingling through the glass.

Lingling stood by the bed, shaking her head. She couldn't stop smiling.

She picked up her phone. She had a text from Dr. Tul.

Dr. Tul (Ortho): Great show last night! You two disappeared fast. Everything okay?

Lingling typed a reply.

Lingling: Everything is optimal.

She threw the phone on the bed and walked toward the bathroom.

"Move over," Lingling called out. "We conserve water."

Orm’s laughter rang out, clear and bright, over the sound of the shower.

Chapter Text

Room 404 had undergone a subtle but significant metamorphosis.

To the untrained eye—say, Director Supoj or a passing janitor—it looked largely the same. Two desks. Two chairs. A filing cabinet.

But to the inhabitants, the geography had shifted tectonically.

The hazard tape was gone. The blue tape was gone. The imaginary force field that separated "Cardio" from "Peds" had dissolved.

Dr. Lingling Kwong sat at her desk, reviewing a preoperative checklist. Or, at least, she was pretending to. In reality, she was watching Dr. Orm Kornaphat.

Orm was not at her own desk. She was sitting on the edge of Lingling’s desk, swinging her legs. She was eating a Kanom Krok (coconut rice pancake) from a paper bag, and she was currently trying to feed the other half to Lingling.

"Open," Orm commanded, holding the warm, sweet treat near Lingling’s mouth.

"I am reviewing the coagulation profile for Bed 6," Lingling protested weakly, not looking up from her screen.

"Bed 6 has an INR of 1.2. Perfectly normal. Now open. It’s corn and green onion flavor. Your favorite."

Lingling sighed, swiveled her chair, and opened her mouth. Orm popped the pancake in. Lingling chewed. It was delicious. Warm, sweet, savory.

"Acceptable," Lingling mumbled.

"Just acceptable?" Orm leaned in, bracing her hands on the armrests of Lingling’s chair, effectively trapping the surgeon. "I queued for fifteen minutes for these."

"It is... highly satisfactory," Lingling corrected. She swallowed. She looked up at Orm.

Orm was too close. Again. Her face was inches away, smelling of coconut and the floral perfume that Lingling now associated with the concept of safety.

"We are at work," Lingling whispered, glancing at the door. She had checked three times.

"We are collecting data," Orm whispered back, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Hypothesis: Does Dr. Kwong’s heart rate increase when subjected to proximal stimuli?"

She leaned closer. Her nose brushed against Lingling’s.

Lingling’s Apple Watch tapped against her wrist. Haptic Alert: High Heart Rate.

"Data collected," Lingling breathed.

Orm smiled. She tilted her head, closing the gap. Her lips brushed Lingling’s—soft, sweet, lingering. It wasn't the desperate, hungry kiss of the beach villa. It was a domestic kiss. A good morning kiss.

Lingling closed her eyes, leaning into it, her hand coming up to rest on Orm’s knee.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was like a gunshot.

"Doctors? Are you in there?" It was Nurse Miu.

Lingling and Orm sprang apart as if they were magnets with suddenly reversed polarities. Orm hopped off the desk, nearly tripping over her own feet, and scrambled to her side of the room. Lingling spun her chair back to her monitors, grabbing a pen.

"Enter!" Lingling called out, her voice cracking slightly.

The door opened. Nurse Miu walked in, holding a stack of charts. She looked from Orm (who was aggressively typing on a blank screen) to Lingling (who was staring at a screensaver).

Miu sniffed the air. "Why does it smell like coconut pancakes?"

"Dr. Kornaphat was eating," Lingling said quickly. "I have reprimanded her for the crumbs."

"Right," Meena said slowly. She eyed the Kanom Krok bag on Lingling’s desk. "Anyway. Dr. Kwong, the Board meeting is at 09:00. Dr. Sethratanapong, the grand rounds start in ten minutes."

"Thank you, Miu," Orm chirped, grabbing her stethoscope. "I’m going! Bye!"

She fled the room.

Miu lingered for a second. She looked at Lingling.

"Dr. Kwong, your pen is upside down."

Lingling looked at her hand. "I was... testing the ink flow against gravity."

Miu smirked. "Right. See you at the meeting, Doctor."

She left.

Lingling put the pen down. She put her head in her hands.

"This," she whispered to the empty room, "is going to give me an infarction."

The cafeteria was the social nervous system of Praram Royal. It was where rumors were born, fed, and disseminated.

Lingling and Orm were in line for noodles. They were standing exactly one meter apart. They were not making eye contact. They were the picture of professional detachment.

"I recommend the Tom Yum," Lingling said to the air in front of her. "The capsaicin content is high today."

"Noted, Dr. Kwong," Orm replied formally.

They paid for their food and walked to a table near the window. They sat opposite each other.

Under the table, Lingling felt a foot nudge her calf. She looked up. Orm was eating her noodles innocently, but her foot was slowly, rhythmically rubbing against Lingling’s ankle.

Lingling kicked her back, gently.

"So," Orm said, loud enough for the table next to them to hear. "How was the Hua Hin conference? Did you find the lectures stimulating?"

"The discourse on valve replacement durability was adequate," Lingling replied, taking a sip of water to hide a smile. "And yourself?"

"Oh, very educational," Orm grinned. "I learned a lot about... structural integrity."

Lingling choked on a fish ball.

"Dr. Kwong! Dr. Sethratanapong!"

A booming voice interrupted their covert footsie game.

Dr. Tul approached the tray, holding a tray of healthy salad and a protein shake. He slid into the empty seat next to Orm without asking.

"Mind if I join the power couple?" Tul asked.

Lingling stiffened. "Power couple?"

"Yeah! Cardio and Peds. The roomies. Supoj won't shut up about your 'synergy'." Tul laughed. He turned his entire body toward Orm, effectively blocking Lingling’s view of her.

"So, Nong Orm," Tul said, his voice dropping to that smooth, 'I-am-a-charming-doctor' register. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you properly at the Blue Monkey on Friday. You disappeared."

"We were tired," Orm said politely, shifting in her seat. She pulled her foot away from Lingling’s ankle. The loss of contact made Lingling’s leg feel cold.

"Shame," Tul said. "You were the star of the night. I didn't know you could dance like that. Very... fluid."

Lingling gripped her chopsticks. Fluid?

"Thank you, P'Tul," Orm said, focusing on her noodles.

"Anyway," Tul leaned closer, resting his elbow on the table. "I have two tickets to the Bangkok Symphony Orchestra this Saturday. They’re playing Vivaldi. I know you played violin in high school."

Orm looked up, surprised. "How did you know that?"

"I did my research," Tul winked. "So, what do you say? Dinner at Sra Bua first, then the concert? It’s a date."

The word hung in the air over the noodle soup. Date.

Lingling went perfectly still. Her heart rate monitor didn't buzz, but she felt the PVC—a skipped beat, a hollow thud in her chest.

She watched Tul. He was handsome, successful, and male. He was the "appropriate" choice. He was the safe choice. He could take Orm to a concert without hiding. He could hold her hand in the cafeteria.

Lingling looked at Orm.

Orm looked surprised, but not displeased. She was blushing slightly. "Oh. P'Tul, that’s... very thoughtful."

"I try," Tul smiled confidently. "So? Pick you up at 7?"

Orm hesitated. Her eyes darted to Lingling for a split second. A microscopic glance. Help me? Claim me?

Lingling stared at her tray. Do not make a scene. Do not be unprofessional. You are her superior. You are her roommate. You are secret.

"Dr. Sethratanapong is on call this weekend," Lingling said coldly.

Both Tul and Orm looked at her.

"I do?" Orm asked, confused.

"Yes," Lingling lied smoothly. "I approved the schedule change this morning. Dr. Badin is sick. You are covering the PICU."

Tul’s face fell. "Oh. That sucks."

"It is the nature of the profession," Lingling said, standing up. She picked up her tray. "Patient care comes first. Enjoy your salad, Dr. Tul."

She walked away without looking back.

She walked straight to the tray return, dumped her half-eaten lunch, and marched out of the cafeteria.

Her hands were shaking.

Lingling sat at her desk, staring at a blank Word document.

Why did I do that?

She had lied. She had abused her administrative power to block a date. It was petty. It was unethical. It was... jealous.

The door opened.

Orm walked in. She didn't bounce. She didn't hum. She closed the door quietly and leaned against it.

"I checked the schedule, P'Ling," Orm said. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.

"And?" Lingling asked, not turning around.

"Dr. Badin is not sick. He is currently posting photos of his lunch on Instagram. I am not on call this weekend."

Lingling turned her chair slowly. "I may have been mistaken."

"Mistaken?" Orm walked over to the hazard-tape-free zone. "Or jealous?"

"I was protecting the department's resources," Lingling said defensively. "Dr. Tul is... a distraction."

"He asked me to a concert, Lingling. He didn't ask me to join a cult." Orm crossed her arms. "And you shut him down. You answered for me."

"You were hesitating," Lingling argued. "I made an executive decision."

"I was hesitating because I was waiting for you!" Orm exclaimed. "I was waiting for you to maybe... I don't know... kick me under the table? Or say 'She’s busy'? Or give me a look that said 'Don't you dare'?"

"I did say you were busy," Lingling pointed out.

"You lied about work! You hid behind the job again!" Orm paced the room. "Why couldn't you just let me say no? Or... why couldn't you admit that you didn't want me to go?"

"Because I have no right!" Lingling stood up. "We are... data collecting. We are not defined. Tul is a viable suitor. He is appropriate. He can give you things I cannot."

"Like what?" Orm challenged. "Vivaldi?"

"Visibility!" Lingling shouted.

The word echoed in the room.

Lingling took a breath, lowering her voice. "He can take you to dinner without checking for colleagues. He can hold your hand in the lobby. He can put a photo of you on his desk without cropping it."

Orm stopped pacing. She looked at Lingling. Her expression softened from anger to sadness.

"Is that what you think I want?" Orm asked quietly. "A photo on a desk?"

"It is what you deserve," Lingling said, looking away. "You are sunshine, Orm. You deserve to be in the light. I am... I am a cave. I am hiding."

Orm walked over to her. She stepped into Lingling’s personal space. She reached out and took Lingling’s hands.

"I don't want the light if you're not in it," Orm said firmly. "And I don't want Tul. He talks about bone density on a first date. It’s weird."

Lingling let out a short, wet laugh.

"But Lingling," Orm squeezed her hands. "You have to stop pushing me away to 'save' me. I chose you. I chose the cave. Okay? Let me handle Tul. Let me say no. Don't invent shifts to keep me locked up."

Lingling looked at their joined hands. "I acted... impulsively. It was tachycardia. My judgement was compromised."

"You were jealous," Orm smirked. "Just say it."

"I experienced a surge of possessiveness that resulted in administrative malpractice," Lingling admitted.

"Close enough." Orm let go of her hands. "I’m going to go find Tul. And I’m going to tell him I can't go to the concert."

"Because you are on call?"

"No," Orm smiled. "Because I have a previous engagement. I’m collecting data with a very difficult, very beautiful cardiologist."

"We do not have plans for Saturday," Lingling noted.

"We do now," Orm winked. "My place. 7 PM. I’m cooking. And you’re going to try my Pink Milk."

"That sounds... dangerously sugary."

"It’s sweet," Orm promised. "You’ll like it."

Orm walked to the door. She paused.

"And P'Ling?"

"Yes?"

"Next time you get jealous... just kiss me. It’s more effective than lying," she slipped out the door.

Lingling sat back down in her chair. She touched her lips.

Tachycardia, she wrote on her notepad. Treatment: Exposure therapy.

Lingling needed a consult on a sternal wound infection, so she found herself walking through the Ortho wing.

She saw them down the hall.

Orm and Tul were standing near the nurses' station. Orm was smiling—that polite, 'letting you down easy' smile. Tul looked disappointed. He slumped his shoulders.

Lingling watched from behind a pillar (a new low in her spying career).

Orm touched Tul’s arm gently, said something that made him laugh, and then walked away.

Tul stood there for a moment, looking at the floor. Then he looked up and saw Lingling.

Lingling didn't hide. She stepped out and walked toward him.

"Dr. Kwong," Tul said, trying to rally his ego. "Checking up on your resident?"

"She is a Fellow," Lingling corrected automatically. "And no. I have a consult."

Tul sighed. "She turned me down. Said she’s seeing someone. Can you believe it? Who has time to date in this hospital? I bet it’s a dermatologist. They have weekends off."

Lingling felt a strange, warm flutter in her chest. Seeing someone.

"I am sure whoever it is," Lingling said, keeping her face perfectly neutral, "is very lucky."

"Yeah, well," Tul shrugged. "Their loss. I had Front Row seats."

"Indeed," Lingling said. "If you will excuse me, Dr. Tul."

She walked past him. As she turned the corner, she pulled out her phone.

Lingling: Saturday at 7:00 is confirmed. Please ensure the Pink Milk has a reduced sugar content.

Dr Kornaphat S: No promises. Bring wine. ;)

Lingling pocketed her phone. She felt lighter. The tachycardia was gone, replaced by a steady, strong rhythm.

Sinus rhythm. With occasional ectopic beats of excitement.

Dr. Lingling Kwong stood in front of apartment 8B, holding a bottle of Château Margaux that cost more than a junior nurse’s monthly salary. She smoothed her silk blouse, checked her reflection in the polished brass number plate, and took a deep breath.

This was new territory. The hospital was neutral ground. Hua Hin was a temporary bubble. This... this was Orm’s habitat.

She knocked.

The door swung open immediately.

"You’re on time!" Orm beamed.

She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and tiny shorts. Her hair was in a messy bun held up by a chopstick. She looked impossibly comfortable and dangerously domestic.

"I am punctual," Lingling said, stepping inside. "And I brought wine. Full-bodied. 2015 vintage."

"Fancy," Orm grinned, taking the bottle. "Come in! Welcome to the chaos."

Lingling stepped over the threshold and paused.

If Lingling’s apartment was a sterile, beige museum of minimalism, Orm’s apartment was an explosion of dopamine.

There were fairy lights draped over a bookshelf. There were throw pillows in every shape—stars, clouds, and yes, a strawberry. A massive plush bear sat in the armchair wearing a stethoscope. The walls were covered in framed photos of friends, family, and patients (faces obscured, HIPAA compliant, Lingling noted with approval).

It smelled of vanilla candles and spicy basil.

"It is... vibrant," Lingling assessed, placing her purse on a side table that appeared to be a repurposed vintage suitcase.

"It’s cluttered," Orm corrected, heading to the kitchen. "But it’s home. Make yourself comfortable! Don't sit on Mr. Bear, he’s sensitive."

Lingling walked to the sofa—which was velvet and teal—and sat down carefully. She looked around. It was chaotic, yes. But it was warm. It felt alive.

"Dinner is almost ready!" Orm called out. "Spicy Spaghetti with Holy Basil and Seafood. Fusion food!"

Lingling watched Orm move around the open-plan kitchen. She was humming again. She did a little dance step as she stirred the pot.

Lingling felt a tightness in her chest. This, she realized. This is what I was missing. Not the noise. The life.

Dinner had been surprisingly excellent, despite the spice level causing Lingling to consume three glasses of water. Now, they were sitting on the rug in front of the sofa, the coffee table pushed aside.

Orm held up a glass filled with an opaque, pastel pink liquid.

"Dessert," Orm announced. "The legendary Pink Milk. Nom Yen."

Lingling eyed it suspiciously. "It looks radioactive."

"It’s sala syrup and condensed milk. It’s pure joy. Try it."

Lingling took the glass. She took a tentative sip.

It was overwhelmingly sweet. It tasted like floral bubblegum and childhood. It was objectively terrible for her glycemic index.

"Well?" Orm watched her with wide, expectant eyes.

"It is..." Lingling searched for a polite word. "...complex."

Orm laughed, taking the glass back and taking a huge gulp. "You hate it. It’s okay. More for me."

She set the glass down and turned to look at Lingling. The laughter faded from her eyes, replaced by a soft intensity.

"So," Orm said. "Here we are. Saturday night. No Dr. Tul. No hospital. Just us."

"Just us," Lingling echoed.

Orm leaned back on her hands. "You know, Tul texted me again. He asked if my 'date' was going well."

"Did you reply?"

"I sent him a picture of the spaghetti." Orm smirked. "He said 'Looks spicy.' He has no idea."

Lingling reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Orm’s ear. Her hand lingered on Orm’s cheek.

"You look tired," Lingling observed softly.

Orm flinched slightly, then leaned into the touch. "Long week. The on-call shift on Thursday was brutal. Three admissions. And then the drama with you blocking my dates... it’s exhausting being this popular."

She joked, but Lingling noticed the faint purple shadows under Orm’s eyes. Her skin felt a little warm, though not febrile.

"You should sleep early tonight," Lingling prescribed.

"I don't want to sleep," Orm whispered. She turned her head and kissed Lingling’s palm. "I want to collect data."

She moved fast. Before Lingling could protest, Orm had crawled into her lap, straddling her thighs.

Lingling’s breath hitched. "Orm."

"Shh," Orm commanded softly. She wrapped her arms around Lingling’s neck. "Pulse check."

She pressed her lips to the pulse point on Lingling’s neck.

Lingling’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Thump-thump-thump.

"Fast," Orm murmured against her skin. "Very fast."

"You are the pathogen," Lingling gasped, her hands finding Orm’s waist. "You induce the response."

Orm pulled back and kissed her properly. It was deep, slow, and tasted of sweet pink milk. Lingling forgot about the spice. She forgot about the hospital. She pulled Orm closer, burying her hands in the soft fabric of Orm’s t-shirt.

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of breathing and the soft jazz playlist Orm had put on.

Then, Orm pulled away abruptly.

She sat back on her heels, her hand flying to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Orm?" Lingling asked, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Orm gasped, a small frown creasing her forehead. "Just... head rush. Moved too fast."

She swayed slightly.

Lingling gripped Orm’s arms. "Look at me."

Orm opened her eyes. They were unfocused. Her pupils were dilated.

"I’m okay," Orm insisted, forcing a smile. "Just... wow. That was a good kiss. Made me dizzy."

"That was not a kiss-induced vertigo," Lingling stated, her voice shifting into Doctor Mode. She placed two fingers on Orm’s radial artery at the wrist.

The pulse was thready. And fast. Too fast.

"Your heart rate is over 140," Lingling said, her own heart turning to ice. "Are you having palpitations?"

"A little," Orm admitted, leaning her head on Lingling’s shoulder. "It’s been happening on and off all day. Just stress. Too much coffee."

"Coffee does not cause a rate of 140 at rest," Lingling said. "Orm, how long have you been feeling this?"

"I don't know... since yesterday? I felt weird in rounds." Orm tried to stand up. "I just need water. It’s the spicy food. Dehydration."

"Sit down," Lingling ordered.

"I’m fine, P'Ling. Seriously. Stop being a doctor for five seconds."

Orm pushed Lingling’s hands away and stood up. She took one step toward the kitchen.

"I’m just going to get..."

She stopped.

Her hand grasped at the air. Her knees buckled.

"Orm!"

Lingling lunged forward. She caught Orm just before she hit the floor, taking the brunt of the fall on her own knees.

They collapsed onto the rug.

Orm was limp in her arms. Her eyes were rolled back. Her skin was suddenly pale and clammy.

"Orm!" Lingling slapped her cheek gently. "Orm, can you hear me?"

No response.

Lingling checked the carotid pulse. It was there, but it was racing—a chaotic, fluttering bird trapped in a cage.

Supraventricular Tachycardia? Atrial Fibrillation?

Then, under her fingers, the rhythm changed. It paused. A long, terrifying pause. And then a slow, thumping beat.

Bradycardia.

"Damn it," Lingling hissed.

Orm’s eyes fluttered open. She looked dazed. "Ling...?"

"Do not move," Lingling commanded. She was already reaching for her phone. "You had a syncopal episode. Your heart rate is unstable."

"Don't call an ambulance," Orm whispered, trying to sit up. "Please. It’s embarrassing. Tul will see..."

"I do not care about Tul!" Lingling shouted, dialing with trembling fingers. She stopped. An ambulance would take twenty minutes in Bangkok traffic. She was ten minutes away from Praram Royal by car.

"I am driving you," Lingling decided. "Can you stand?"

"I think so."

Lingling hauled Orm up, wrapping her arm around her waist. Orm was dead weight, leaning heavily against her.

"Stay with me, Orm. Keep your eyes open."

"I’m tired," Orm mumbled, her head lolling onto Lingling’s shoulder.

"You are not allowed to be tired," Lingling said, her voice fierce, masking the sheer terror clawing at her throat. "We are going to the hospital. You are going to be fine."

She dragged Orm out the door, leaving the expensive wine and the pink milk abandoned on the coffee table.

Lingling’s Volvo screeched to a halt in the ambulance bay. She didn't park. She threw the door open and ran to the passenger side.

"Help!" she screamed at the triage nurse standing by the doors. "I need a gurney! Now!"

The nurse, a veteran named Suda, looked up. She saw the Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery looking disheveled, panicked, and dragging a semi-conscious woman out of a car.

"Dr. Kwong?" Suda ran over. "Who is... oh my god. Dr. Sethratanapong?"

"Syncope. Tachy-brady syndrome. Possible arrhythmia," Lingling rattled off the data, her voice shaking. "Get her on the monitor. Now!"

Suda yelled for orderlies. They swarmed the car, lifting Orm onto a stretcher.

Orm was awake but groggy. "P'Ling... my shoes... I’m not wearing shoes..."

"It doesn't matter," Lingling said, running alongside the gurney as they burst through the ER doors.

"Trauma Bay 1!" Suda shouted. "Clear the way!"

The ER stopped. Everyone knew Dr. Sethratanapong. She was the one who brought donuts. She was the sunshine of the hospital. Seeing her pale and lifeless on a gurney sent a shockwave through the staff.

They wheeled her into the bay. Lingling didn't leave. She stood at the head of the bed.

"Hook her up!" Lingling barked at the residents who froze upon seeing her. "EKG, pulse ox, two large-bore IVs. Move!"

The monitor beeped to life.

HR: 160... 165... 150...

"It’s SVT," the ER attending, Dr. Som, said, rushing in. "Stable BP?"

"90 over 50," Suda called out. "Borderline."

"Adenosine," Lingling said instantly. "6mg push. Reset the rhythm."

Dr. Som looked at Lingling. "Dr. Kwong, you shouldn't be treating her. You’re... involved."

Lingling glared at him. "I am the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. I am treating her. Give the Adenosine!"

Som nodded. "Pushing Adenosine."

The drug went in.

Everyone watched the monitor. Adenosine stops the heart for a few seconds to reset the electrical impulse. It feels like dying.

On the monitor, the line went flat.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Lingling held Orm’s hand. It was cold. "Come back," she whispered. "Come back, Sunshine."

Four seconds.

Orm gasped, her back arching off the bed as her heart kicked back in.

The monitor picked up a rhythm.

Beep... beep... beep...

HR: 85. Sinus Rhythm.

"Converted," Som exhaled.

Orm slumped back onto the pillows, tears streaming from her eyes. The sensation of Adenosine was horrific—a crushing weight in the chest.

"Lingling," she sobbed, reaching out blindly.

Lingling bypassed all protocol. She leaned down and hugged Orm, burying her face in Orm’s neck, right there in the middle of the Trauma Bay.

"I’m here," Lingling choked out. "I’m here. It worked. You’re okay."

The room was silent. The nurses, the residents, Dr. Som—they all watched.

They saw the Ice Queen, the terrifying Dr. Kwong, holding the Pediatric Fellow like she was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

Dr. Som cleared his throat gently. "Dr. Kwong... we need to run labs. Electrolytes, troponin, thyroid. And we should admit her for observation."

Lingling pulled back slowly. She wiped her eyes. She put her mask back on—her metaphorical one. But it was cracked.

"Admit her to the Cardiac Care Unit," Lingling commanded. "Private room. Continuous telemetry."

She looked down at Orm, who was blinking up at her, exhausted and scared.

"I will be her attending physician," Lingling stated.

"Actually," Dr. Som said gently. "Hospital policy forbids treating family or... significant others."

Lingling looked at Som. Then she looked at the room full of staff who had seen everything.

She straightened her spine.

"She is my patient," Lingling said. "And if anyone touches her without my approval, they will answer to me."

She squeezed Orm’s hand one last time.

"Take her upstairs."

As they wheeled Orm away, Lingling stood alone in the Trauma Bay. Her hands were covered in the sweat from Orm’s skin. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.

Arrhythmia, she thought. We both have it.

Chapter Text

The Cardiac Care Unit was a place of rhythmic beeping and hushed whispers. It was the domain of the sickest hearts in Bangkok.

Tonight, it was the domain of Dr. Lingling Kwong.

She sat in the uncomfortable vinyl recliner next to the bed, her posture rigid. She hadn't changed out of her silk blouse from the date, though it was now wrinkled and stained with a drop of Orm’s sweat. She hadn't eaten. She hadn't checked her email.

Her eyes were glued to the overhead monitor.

HR: 72. SR. SpO2: 99%.

Normal. Perfectly, beautifully normal.

On the bed, Dr. Orm Kornaphat slept. She looked small in the hospital gown, the wires of the telemetry unit disappearing under the fabric. Her skin had regained some color, but she still looked fragile.

Lingling reached out and adjusted the blanket, smoothing a wrinkle that didn't exist.

"You’re hovering," a raspy voice whispered.

Lingling froze. She looked at Orm’s face. Orm’s eyes were open, watching her.

"I am monitoring," Lingling corrected softly.

"You’re hovering," Orm smiled weakly. "You’re doing the 'hawk eye' thing. It’s scary."

"It is necessary," Lingling said. She poured a cup of water from the pitcher and held the straw to Orm’s lips. "Drink."

Orm took a few sips. She looked around the room. "CCU? Really? A bit dramatic, P'Ling. I just fainted."

"You had sustained Supraventricular Tachycardia with a rate of 165," Lingling recited the stats like a shield. "Followed by a vagal response causing syncope. It was not 'just fainting'. It was a conduction failure."

Orm sighed, sinking back into the pillows. "Okay. So what’s the verdict? Too much Pink Milk?"

Lingling didn't smile. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands tight to stop them from shaking.

"Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome," Lingling said.

Orm blinked. "WPW? The accessory pathway thing?"

"Yes. The EKG confirmed a delta wave once the rate slowed down. You have an extra electrical connection in your heart. It creates a short circuit." Lingling looked at Orm, her expression pained. "You were born with it. How did you not know?"

"I don't know," Orm shrugged, then winced. "I’ve had palpitations before. I just thought it was... anxiety. Or caffeine. Or you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Whenever you look at me over your glasses, my heart does a little flip. I thought it was love, not pathology."

Lingling let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. She reached out and took Orm’s hand, pressing it against her own cheek.

"It is not a joke, Orm. You could have gone into atrial fibrillation. It could have been fatal."

Orm’s playfulness vanished. She saw the fear in Lingling’s eyes—raw, naked fear that Lingling never showed anyone.

"I’m sorry," Orm whispered. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You terrified me," Lingling admitted. "When you fell... I have never been so scared in my life. Not even when I took my boards. Not even in my first solo surgery."

Orm squeezed her hand. "But you saved me. You gave the Adenosine. I remember. It felt like a mule kicked me in the chest, but you were there."

"I will always be there," Lingling vowed.

The door slid open.

Dr. Chaiya, the hospital’s Electrophysiologist (the electrician of the heart), walked in. He looked sleepy but professional.

"Ah, she is awake," Chaiya said. "Dr. Kwong. Dr. Sethratanapong. How are we feeling?"

"Like I got kicked by a mule," Orm said.

"Standard side effect of Adenosine," Chaiya nodded. "Lingling told you the diagnosis?"

"WPW," Orm nodded.

"Correct. The good news is, it’s structurally normal otherwise. The bad news is, we cannot leave that accessory pathway there. It’s a ticking time bomb." Chaiya looked at Lingling. "I have scheduled the radiofrequency ablation for 08:00 tomorrow morning. We go in, burn the pathway, cure the problem. Success rate is 95%."

"I will scrub in," Lingling said instantly.

Chaiya paused. He looked at Lingling over his glasses.

"Lingling," Chaiya said gently. "You know you can't."

"I am the Chief of Cardio. I observe all major procedures."

"You are not observing as a Chief right now," Chaiya said, gesturing to her wrinkled clothes and the way she was clutching Orm’s hand. "You are observing as... well, I don't know what the label is, but you are compromised."

Lingling stiffened. "My surgical skills are not compromised."

"Your judgment is," Chaiya said firmly. "Hospital policy is clear. No operating on family. And looking at you two..." He smiled kindly. "...this is clearly family."

Lingling opened her mouth to argue, but Orm squeezed her hand.

"He’s right, P'Ling," Orm said softly. "I don't want you to operate on me."

Lingling looked at her, hurt. "Why? I am the best."

"Because if my heart stops on the table," Orm said, holding her gaze, "I need you to be the one holding my hand when I wake up. not the one holding the scalpel."

Lingling stared at her. The logic was sound. It was emotional logic, but it was sound.

"Fine," Lingling clipped out. She turned to Chaiya. "You perform the ablation. But I will be in the control room. Watching the mapping. If you miss a single millimeter..."

"I know, I know," Chaiya raised his hands in surrender. "You’ll have my license. Get some sleep, Lingling. You look worse than the patient."

Chaiya left.

Lingling didn't sleep. She pulled the chair closer to the bed. Orm fell asleep holding her hand. Lingling spent the night watching the monitor, memorizing the rhythm of Orm’s heart, promising herself she would never let it skip a beat again.

By morning, the news had spread.

Dr. Bow (Anesthesiology) and Nurse Miu were standing by the nurses' station, pretending to look at a chart.

"I heard she carried her in," Miu whispered. "Like a firefighter. In her arms."

"I heard she screamed at Dr. Som," Bow added, sipping her coffee. "She said 'Don't touch her.' Very possessive. Very alpha."

"And she hasn't left the room," Miu noted. "Security said she refused to move her car from the ambulance bay for two hours. They had to tow it to the VIP lot."

"It’s true love," Bow declared. "Or a psychotic break. With Lingling, the line is thin."

The door to Room 1 opened.

Lingling stepped out.

She looked terrifying. Her hair was messy, her eyes were dark, and her silk blouse was rumpled. But the aura of "Do Not Approach" was stronger than ever.

She walked straight to the nurses' station.

"Dr. Bow. Nurse Miu," Lingling said. Her voice was gravel.

"Good morning, Dr. Kwong!" Miu squeaked. "How is... the patient?"

"Stable," Lingling said. "She is being prepped for ablation."

She looked at Bow.

"I need a favor."

Bow blinked. Lingling never asked for favors. "Name it."

"I need you to be the anesthesiologist for the procedure," Lingling said. "Dr. Chaiya is doing the ablation. But I need you managing the sedation."

"I’m not on the schedule today, Ling. It’s my day off."

"I trust you," Lingling said. It was a simple sentence, but coming from her, it was the highest honor imaginable. "You are the best at airway management. I cannot trust a resident with her."

Bow softened. She put a hand on Lingling’s shoulder.

"Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go scrub in."

"Thank you," Lingling said.

"Lingling," Bow lowered her voice. "You know the whole hospital is talking, right? About... you and the Pediatric Fellow."

"Let them talk," Lingling said, her jaw setting. "I have bigger concerns than gossip."

"Just... be prepared," Bow warned. "Supoj is looking for you."

Lingling didn't wait to be summoned. She went to Supoj’s office herself.

She marched in past the secretary. Supoj was watering his bonsai tree.

"Director," Lingling said.

Supoj jumped, nearly drowning the bonsai. "Dr. Kwong! I was just about to call you. I heard about the incident last night. Is Dr. Sethratanapong okay?"

"She has WPW Syndrome. She is undergoing ablation in thirty minutes."

"Good, good. Curable. Excellent." Supoj put the watering can down. He looked uncomfortable. He adjusted his glasses.

"Lingling... we need to discuss the manner of her admission."

"I followed emergency protocol," Lingling stated.

"You drove her in your personal vehicle. You treated her in the Trauma Bay despite not being the on-call physician. And witnesses say you... exhibited significant emotional distress."

Supoj sighed. "There are rumors, Lingling. About the nature of your relationship with Orm. The 'Room 404 Synergy' seems to have evolved."

Lingling stood tall. She could lie. She could say they were just friends. She could say she was just a dedicated mentor. It would save her career. It would stop the investigation.

She thought of Orm in the red bikini. She thought of Orm holding her hand in the dark. She thought of Orm saying I don't want the light if you're not in it.

"It is not a rumor," Lingling said clearly.

Supoj blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Dr. Sethratanapong and I are... involved," Lingling stated. "It is a recent development. We are in a relationship."

Supoj looked like he had swallowed a lemon. "Lingling. You know the policy. Department Heads cannot date subordinates within the same reporting line. It creates conflicts of interest."

"She is in Pediatrics. I am in Cardiology. She does not report to me."

"But you share an office! You collaborate on cases! The Kavin case... did your relationship influence that decision?"

"My relationship influenced me to listen to a patient instead of treating him like a machine," Lingling said fiercely. "It made me a better doctor. Not a worse one."

Supoj stared at her. He had never seen Lingling Kwong this passionate. Usually, she argued with data. Today, she was arguing with fire.

"This is... irregular," Supoj muttered.

"If you require a resignation," Lingling said, reaching for her badge, "you may have it. But I will not resign until Dr. Sethratanapong is discharged and fully recovered. And if anyone interferes with her care because of bureaucracy, I will sue this hospital into the ground."

Supoj held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa! Resignation? You’re our top surgeon! We’re not firing you."

He rubbed his temples. "Okay. Okay. We can work around this. Technically, Peds and Cardio are separate silos. But... you cannot be her supervisor. No more shared cases without a third-party mediator. And..."

"And?"

"And you definitely cannot be in the OR for her ablation," Supoj said. "It’s a liability."

"I will watch from the gallery," Lingling negotiated. "I will not scrub in. But I am not leaving the building."

Supoj sighed. "Fine. From the gallery. But Lingling?"

"Yes?"

"Next time, just use the staff dating app like everyone else. It’s less dramatic."

Orm lay on the narrow table in the Cath Lab. The room was cold. Big C-arm x-ray machines loomed over her.

"You doing okay, Orm?" Dr. Bow asked, adjusting the IV in Orm’s arm.

"Nervous," Orm admitted. "My heart is doing the flip-flop thing again."

"That’s the WPW," Bow said soothingly. "We’re going to fix it. I’m giving you a nice cocktail now. You won't be asleep-asleep, but you won't care about anything. It’s called 'Twilight Sedation'."

"Is Lingling here?" Orm asked, her eyes scanning the room.

"Look up," Bow pointed to the glass window of the control room.

Orm squinted. Through the glass, she saw a silhouette. Arms crossed. Standing rigid. Even in shadow, the posture was unmistakable.

"She’s watching," Bow said. "Like a gargoyle. A very pretty gargoyle."

Orm smiled. She raised her hand and gave a small wave to the window.

In the control room, Lingling saw the wave. She pressed her hand against the glass.

"Okay," Bow said. "Here comes the happy juice. Sweet dreams, Orm."

The world went fuzzy.

Lingling watched the monitors.

She saw the catheters snake up through Orm’s femoral vein, into the heart. She saw the electrical map—a rainbow of colors on the screen.

"There it is," Dr. Chaiya’s voice came over the speaker. "Left lateral accessory pathway. See that early activation?"

"I see it," Lingling whispered, though he couldn't hear her.

"Positioning the ablation catheter," Chaiya said. "Ready to burn."

Lingling held her breath. This was it. They were going to intentionally scar the heart of the woman she loved. It was barbaric. It was miraculous.

"RF energy on," Chaiya announced.

On the screen, the signal fizzled. The extra pathway was being destroyed.

Lingling watched the EKG. It was chaotic for a second.

Then...

Beep... beep... beep...

The delta wave was gone. The QRS complex was narrow.

"Pathway terminated," Chaiya announced. "We have normal conduction. No recurrence in 5 minutes. We are done."

Lingling exhaled. She sank into the chair in the control room, her legs giving out.

She covered her face with her hands. She wasn't crying. She was just... deflating.

"She’s okay," she whispered. "She’s fixed."

The world came back in soft, blurry edges.

First, there was the sound: the rhythmic whoosh-hiss of oxygen, the low murmur of nurses, and a steady, reassuring beep-beep-beep.

Then, the sensation: a heavy sandbag resting on her right groin (to prevent bleeding from the catheter site), a dry throat, and a hand holding hers with a grip that felt familiar.

Orm blinked her eyes open. The fluorescent lights were too bright. She squinted.

A face hovered into view. It was blurry, but the sharp cheekbones and the intense, worried eyes were unmistakable.

"P'Ling?" Orm croaked.

"I am here," Lingling’s voice was soft, like velvet. "Do not try to sit up. You must lie flat for four hours. The femoral puncture needs to seal."

Orm licked her dry lips. "Thirsty."

Lingling immediately held a cup with a straw to her mouth. Ice chips. Cold, melting relief.

"Did it work?" Orm whispered.

"It worked," Lingling confirmed, brushing a stray hair off Orm’s forehead. "Dr. Chaiya ablated the pathway. You are in normal sinus rhythm. No delta waves. Your heart is structurally perfect."

Orm smiled weakly. "So... I’m fixed?"

"You are upgraded," Lingling corrected, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Like the cyborg."

"Did you watch?"

"Every second. You waved at me."

"I thought I hallucinated that." Orm squeezed Lingling’s hand. "You look terrible, P'Ling. Have you slept?"

"I am functioning at 85% efficiency," Lingling lied. She looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. But she looked beautiful.

"Go home," Orm murmured, her eyes drooping again. "Shower. Sleep."

"No," Lingling said firmly. "I am transferring you to a private room. Then I will shower in the ensuite. I am not leaving the premises."

"Stubborn," Orm sighed happily.

"Devoted," Lingling corrected.

They had moved Orm to a VIP room on the 12th floor—ironically, just down the hall from their shared office. The room looked more like a hotel suite than a hospital room, complete with a sofa bed and a view of the skyline.

Lingling had finally showered. She was wearing a fresh set of scrubs she had retrieved from her office. She sat in the armchair, peeling an orange with surgical precision.

Knock. Knock.

The door creaked open.

"Knock knock! Can a humble bone doctor enter?"

It was Dr. Tul. He was holding a giant basket of fruit and a "Get Well Soon" balloon shaped like a heart.

Lingling stiffened, the orange peel pausing in mid-air.

"Hey, P'Tul," Orm said from the bed. She was propped up on pillows, looking much more alert.

Tul walked in, looking sheepish. He placed the basket on the table. "I heard the news. WPW? That’s wild. I thought you just had a weak stomach for spicy food."

"Something like that," Orm smiled. "Thanks for the fruit. It’s huge."

"Yeah, well. I wanted to make sure you had enough vitamins." Tul looked at Orm, then he looked at Lingling, who was watching him like a hawk protecting its nest.

Tul scratched the back of his neck. "So... Dr. Bow told me."

The room went quiet.

"Told you what?" Orm asked cautiously.

"About... you know." Tul gestured between Lingling and Orm. "The 'Code Blue' in the ER. The carrying. The screaming."

Tul chuckled nervously. "I gotta admit, I felt like an idiot. I’m asking you to concerts, and meanwhile, you’ve got the Chief of Cardio fighting bears for you."

"I did not fight a bear," Lingling said dryly. "It was a metaphorical bear."

Tul looked at Lingling. "You know, Dr. Kwong... you’re intimidating. Like, really scary. But..." He looked back at Orm. "...you take good care of her. I respect that."

He turned to Orm and gave her a genuine smile. "I’m happy for you, Nong Orm. Really. Just... invite me to the wedding? I promise not to object."

Orm laughed. "You’re invited, P'Tul."

"Great. Well, I’ll let you rest. Heal up. The hospital is boring without you."

Tul gave a little wave and walked out.

Lingling watched the door close. She finished peeling the orange. She broke off a segment and handed it to Orm.

"He is... adequate," Lingling conceded.

"He’s nice," Orm said, eating the orange. "And now he knows."

"Everyone knows," Lingling said calmly. "Director Supoj knows."

Orm stopped chewing. "Supoj? How?"

"I told him."

"You told him?" Orm’s eyes widened. "P'Ling! The policy! Did he fire you?"

"He attempted to cite the conflict of interest policy," Lingling said, wiping her hands on a napkin. "I informed him that if he interfered, I would resign."

"You threatened to resign?" Orm sat up, wincing slightly as she pulled on her groin stitches. "Lingling! You love this hospital. You worked your whole life to be Chief."

"I worked my whole life to save hearts," Lingling said. She stood up and walked to the side of the bed.

She placed her hands on the railing, looking down at Orm.

"But yesterday, when your heart stopped... even for those few seconds... I realized something."

Lingling’s voice trembled. She took a deep breath.

"I realized that saving a thousand hearts means nothing if I cannot save the one that matters most to me."

Orm stared at her. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"So," Lingling continued, reaching out to stroke Orm’s cheek. "I told Supoj the truth. That we are involved. That I am in love with you. And that he can either accept it, or he can lose his best surgeon."

"You told him you love me?" Orm whispered.

"I did."

"You haven't even told me that yet."

Lingling paused. She blinked. "I... I haven't?"

"No! You said 'data collection'!" Orm laughed, a tear sliding down her cheek.

Lingling smiled. It was a soft, radiant smile that reached her eyes.

"Hypothesis confirmed," Lingling whispered, leaning down. "I love you, Orm Kornaphat. Data analysis complete."

Orm reached up and wrapped her arms around Lingling’s neck, pulling her down.

"I love you too, P'Ling. Even if you are a scary robot."

They kissed. It was gentle, careful of the IV lines and the heart monitor, but it was full of promise.

Above them, the monitor beeped a steady, strong rhythm.

HR: 80. Sinus Rhythm.

But Lingling didn't need the monitor anymore. She could feel it against her chest.

The sun had set over Bangkok. The room was dim.

Lingling had pulled the sleeper sofa right next to the hospital bed. She was lying on it, holding Orm’s hand through the bed rails.

"Hey, Ling?"

"Yes?"

"When I get discharged..."

"You are coming to my condo," Lingling stated. "My environment is sterile. It is quiet. And I can monitor your recovery."

"Boring," Orm whispered. "But... okay. On one condition."

"What?"

"We bring the dinosaur blanket. And the strawberry pillow."

Lingling sighed. She looked at the ceiling. She imagined her beige, pristine apartment invaded by neon plushies.

"Fine," Lingling conceded. "The dinosaur may come. But the strawberry stays in the car."

"Deal."

Silence settled over the room.

"Ling?"

"Yes, Orm?"

"Does this mean we have to move out of Room 404?"

"Supoj said we cannot share an office if we are dating," Lingling admitted. "He wants to separate the departments."

"That sucks," Orm pouted. "I liked the blue tape."

"The tape is gone," Lingling reminded her.

"I know. But... maybe we can negotiate?"

"Negotiate with Supoj?"

"Yeah. Tell him... tell him that if he splits us up, our 'synergy' will drop. And donations will go down."

Lingling chuckled. "You want to blackmail the Director?"

"I call it 'strategic incentives'," Orm yawned. "Think about it. Goodnight, P'Ling."

"Goodnight, Orm."

Lingling watched Orm drift off to sleep. She thought about Room 404. The arguments. The bubble tea spill. The night shift toasties. The gala prep.

It was a terrible office. It was cramped. It smelled like basil and coffee.

It was the best room in the hospital.

Strategic incentives, Lingling thought. I can work with that.

Chapter Text

The discharge process was executed with military efficiency.

Dr. Lingling Kwong did not wait for the billing department to send the paperwork up; she went down and retrieved it herself. She did not wait for the pharmacy to deliver the post-op beta-blockers; she walked to the dispensing window and stared at the pharmacist until he prioritized the order.

By 10:00 AM sharp, Dr. Orm Kornaphat was sitting in a wheelchair by the curb (hospital policy required wheeling out, despite Orm’s insistence that her legs worked perfectly fine).

"This is humiliating," Orm muttered, pulling her sunglasses down. "I’m a doctor. I shouldn't be in the chair of shame."

"You are a patient who is forty-eight hours post-ablation," Lingling stated, standing beside the valet as he brought her car around. "The femoral artery puncture site requires minimal strain. Sitting is mandatory."

The white Volvo pulled up. Lingling tipped the valet and opened the passenger door.

"Up," Lingling commanded gently, offering her arm.

Orm stood up, leaning on Lingling more than she strictly needed to, just to smell her perfume. She slid into the leather seat.

"Comfortable?" Lingling asked, adjusting the headrest.

"Yes, Mom," Orm teased.

Lingling ignored the jab. She walked to the trunk. The orderly handed her Orm’s bags: a small duffel and... The Item.

The green, fuzzy, spiked dinosaur blanket.

Lingling stared at it. It was polyester. It was a dust mite magnet. It was aggressively neon.

She picked it up with two fingers, as if it were biohazardous waste, and placed it gently in the trunk next to her emergency roadside kit.

"We are going home," Lingling announced, getting into the driver's seat.

"Home," Orm echoed, testing the word. "Your home."

"Our base of operations for the next fourteen days," Lingling corrected. "I have prepared the guest suite."

"Guest suite?" Orm raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were past the 'guest' phase."

"The master bedroom mattress is firm. Orthopedic grade. The guest bed is medium-soft. Better for recovery," Lingling explained logically, putting the car in gear. "Also, I wake up at 05:00 for yoga. I do not wish to disturb your rest."

Orm smiled, looking out the window as they pulled into Bangkok traffic. "We’ll see about that."

Lingling’s condo was on the 35th floor of one of the city’s most exclusive towers. The elevator opened directly into her foyer.

Orm stepped in, carefully and looked around.

"Wow," Orm whispered.

It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered a panoramic view of the Benjakitti Forest Park. The floors were white marble. The furniture was Italian leather, chrome, and glass. The color palette ranged from "Bone" to "Eggshell" to "Cloud Grey."

It was stunning. It was expensive.

It looked like nobody lived there.

There were no photos. No throw pillows. No stray papers. A single orchid sat on the dining table, perfectly centered.

"It’s very... you," Orm said, clutching her dinosaur blanket which she had retrieved from the car.

"It is designed for minimal cognitive load," Lingling explained, taking Orm’s duffel bag. "When I come home from surgery, I need visual silence."

"It’s visual deafness," Orm joked, walking into the living room. "Where do I sit? Is this sofa for sitting, or is it art?"

"It is a B&B Italia sectional. It is for sitting. But please remove your shoes."

Orm kicked off her sneakers and flopped onto the pristine white sofa. She spread the dinosaur blanket over her legs. The contrast was violent. It looked like a cartoon character had crashed into an architectural digest spread.

Lingling twitched.

"Hungry?" Lingling asked, turning toward the kitchen (which looked like a laboratory).

"Starving," Orm said. "Hospital food is tragic. Can we order Grab? Maybe Som Tum? Or fried chicken?"

Lingling walked to the kitchen counter and picked up a clipboard.

"I have prepared a nutritional plan," Lingling said, adjusting her glasses. "Post-cardiac procedure diet. Low sodium to prevent fluid retention. Low saturated fat. High fibre."

She opened the refrigerator. It was stocked with Tupperware containers labeled by day and meal.

"Lunch today is steamed white fish with ginger and unseasoned bok choy. Followed by a quinoa salad."

Orm’s face fell. "Unseasoned?"

"Sodium causes hypertension," Lingling reminded her. "We are protecting the graft site."

"There is no graft! It was a zap!" Orm whined. "P'Ling... please. Just a little flavor? A chili pepper? A drop of fish sauce?"

Lingling took a container out of the fridge. She looked at Orm’s pleading eyes—the same eyes that had melted her resolve in the ER.

"I have..." Lingling hesitated. "I have low-sodium soy sauce."

"I’ll take it," Orm sighed.

"Lingling!"

Lingling was in the living room, wiping a microscopic smudge off the coffee table, when she heard the yell.

She dropped the microfiber cloth and sprinted down the hall.

"What? Are you dizzy? Chest pain?" Lingling burst into the guest room, her heart rate spiking.

Orm was standing in front of the open closet. Her suitcase was exploded on the bed.

"I’m fine," Orm said, holding up a hanger. "But we have a problem. You have six hangers in here. Six. I have twelve dresses just for lounging."

Lingling exhaled, placing a hand over her heart. "Do not shout unless it is a medical emergency, Orm. You triggered my cortisol response."

"Fashion is an emergency," Orm declared. "Look at this closet. It’s empty."

"It is efficient. Why did you bring twelve dresses? You are recovering. You need pajamas."

"I dress for my mood! And my mood is 'Alive and Fabulous'." Orm started hanging things up, jamming multiple items onto the single wooden hangers. "Also, where do I put my skincare? The bathroom counter is empty."

"I cleared a drawer for you."

"A drawer? P'Ling, I have a morning routine, a night routine, and a 'just crying' routine. I need surface area."

Lingling walked over to the bed. It was covered in Orm’s things: colorful scrubs, t-shirts with slogans, a stuffed bear, three different novels, and a bag of hair clips.

Lingling felt a familiar itch. The urge to organize. To sanitize. To purge.

"I will bring more hangers," Lingling conceded. "But the bear cannot stay on the bed. It collects dust."

"Mr. Bear stays," Orm said firmly, placing the plushie on the pillow. "He monitors my sleep apnea."

"You do not have sleep apnea."

"He’s preventative."

Lingling stared at the bear. The bear stared back with beady plastic eyes.

"Fine," Lingling muttered. "But if he sheds, he is evicted."

Recovery, Orm discovered, was incredibly boring.

She had read a chapter of her book. She had texted Tul (who was currently in surgery). She had posted a "Survival Update" on Instagram (a photo of her legs under the dinosaur blanket with the caption 'Held captive by a hot surgeon. Send snacks').

Lingling, meanwhile, was "working from home."

This involved Lingling sitting at the dining table with three monitors set up, reviewing budget proposals for the department. She hadn't moved in two hours.

"P'Ling," Orm called out from the sofa.

"Yes?" Lingling didn't look up.

"I’m bored."

"Read a journal article. Keeping your mind active is important."

"I don't want to read about pediatric congenital defects. I live that." Orm sat up. "Let’s watch a movie."

"I do not watch television," Lingling said. "It is a passive activity."

"You have a seventy-inch 4K OLED TV on the wall!" Orm pointed. "What is it for? Displaying vital signs?"

"It came with the unit. I watch the news occasionally."

Orm groaned. She grabbed the remote. "Come on. Come sit with me. Just for an hour. The budget can wait. The department won't collapse if you don't approve the catheter order by sunset."

Lingling paused. She looked at the spreadsheet. Then she looked at Orm.

Orm was wearing the FUTURE IS FEMALE t-shirt. She looked soft and inviting against the stark white sofa.

Lingling saved her file. She closed her laptop.

"One hour," Lingling said, walking over.

"Yes!" Orm scooted over, making space. "We are watching a rom-com. To educate you on romance tropes."

"I live a romance trope," Lingling noted dryly, sitting down. "I am the 'Grumpy One'."

"And I’m the 'Sunshine One'," Orm grinned. "See? You’re learning."

She turned on Netflix. She selected a Thai drama about a baker and a CEO.

Ten minutes in, Lingling started critiquing.

"That CPR technique is incorrect," Lingling noted at the screen. "Her elbows are bent. She is not generating enough perfusion pressure."

"It’s a kiss, P'Ling. Not actual CPR."

"He was drowning! Prioritize airway, breathing, circulation. Kissing is secondary."

"Shh," Orm put a finger to Lingling’s lips. "Just enjoy the chemistry."

Lingling fell silent. She leaned back.

Slowly, Orm’s head found Lingling’s shoulder. Lingling’s arm found its way around Orm’s waist.

It was nice. The movie was illogical, the plot holes were gaping, but the warmth of Orm’s body against hers was the most logical thing Lingling had ever felt.

"Ling?" Orm whispered.

"Yes?"

"Are you really going to sleep in the other room tonight?"

Lingling stiffened.

"It is for your recovery," Lingling said. "I move when I sleep. I might disturb your incision site."

"The incision is in my groin, Ling. Unless you plan on kicking me there, I think I’m safe." Orm looked up, her chin resting on Lingling’s chest. "Please? I don't want to sleep alone. What if... what if my heart goes fast again?"

It was a manipulation tactic. Lingling knew it was a manipulation tactic.

It was 100% effective.

"Fine," Lingling sighed. "But no cuddling. We maintain a neutral sleeping position."

"Deal," Orm smiled, knowing full well she would break that rule within five minutes of REM sleep.

The master bedroom was a sanctuary of gray and white. The bed was vast.

They lay in the dark. Lingling was true to her word; she stayed on her side, a respectful twelve inches of space between them.

"Ling?"

"Go to sleep, Orm."

"I can't. My brain is loud."

Lingling turned her head on the pillow. "What is it saying?"

"It’s saying that I’m lucky," Orm whispered. "And that I’m scared that once I’m better, you’ll realize I’m too messy for this condo. And for you."

Lingling frowned in the dark. She reached out across the gap and found Orm’s hand.

"Orm. Look at this room."

"It’s dark," Orm said.

"Exactly. It is dark and quiet and perfect. But before you came... it was cold." Lingling squeezed her hand. "I do not care about the mess. I can hire a cleaner. I can buy more hangers. But I cannot buy... the noise."

"The noise?"

"The humming. The terrible jokes. The dinosaur blankets. The life." Lingling shifted, closing the gap between them. She moved close enough that their noses touched.

"You are not messy, Orm. You are... abundant. And I have been empty for a very long time."

Orm let out a shaky breath. "That was the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. And you used the word 'abundant'."

"I have a large vocabulary."

Orm giggled. She leaned forward and kissed Lingling. It was slow and sleepy and tasted of mint toothpaste.

"Come here," Lingling murmured, breaking her own rule. She pulled Orm into her arms, tucking Orm’s head under her chin. "Sleep now. I am monitoring."

"Night, P'Ling."

"Night, Sunshine."

Lingling listened to the rhythm of Orm’s breathing. She watched the city lights reflect on the glass wall.

For the first time since she bought the condo, it didn't feel like a museum. It felt like a home.

By Day 5, the novelty of being waited on hand and foot had worn off. Dr. Orm Kornaphat was no longer a patient; she was a prisoner.

Her groin incision had healed perfectly. Her energy levels were back to normal (borderline hyperactive). But the Warden—Dr. Lingling Kwong—was relentless.

“Do not lift anything heavier than a cat.”

“Do not stand for more than 15 minutes.”

“No spicy food. No sodium. No joy.”

Lingling had gone into the hospital for a half-day administrative meeting, leaving Orm alone for the first time. She had left a sticky note on the fridge:

Lunch: Steamed chicken breast and broccoli (Container B).

 

Water intake goal: 2 Liters.

 

I will return at 17:00. Do not answer the door for strangers.

 

— L.

Orm stared at the sticky note. Then she stared at Container B.

"I can't do it," Orm whispered to Mr. Bear, who was perched on the breakfast bar. "If I eat another piece of unseasoned broccoli, I will go into cardiac arrest out of sheer boredom."

She needed flavor. She needed agency. She needed to prove to Lingling (and herself) that she wasn't a porcelain doll.

"I’m going to cook," Orm announced. "A real meal. For when she gets home. To say thank you. And to show her I’m not an invalid."

She opened the pantry. It was sparse, mostly filled with quinoa and organic almonds. But buried in the back, Orm found a treasure: a hidden stash of Mama instant noodles (Tom Yum flavor) and a can of spicy tuna.

"Jackpot."

She grabbed a pan. She grabbed the oil. She cranked the high-tech induction stove to 'High'.

"Time to spice up the cyborg's life."

Lingling stepped out of the elevator on the 35th floor. She was tired but relieved. The budget meeting had gone well, and she was looking forward to checking Orm’s vitals and perhaps watching another terrible rom-com.

She unlocked the door.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

A high-pitched, piercing alarm was screaming from inside the condo.

Lingling’s blood ran cold.

"Orm!"

She threw the door open and ran inside.

The living room was hazy. A thin layer of acrid gray smoke hung in the air. The smell of burnt chili and charred garlic hit her like a physical blow.

"Orm!" Lingling shouted, dropping her bag.

"I’m here! I’m here!"

Orm emerged from the kitchen, waving a tea towel frantically at the ceiling smoke detector. She was coughing. She was holding a frying pan that was smoking ominously.

"It’s okay!" Orm yelled over the alarm. "It’s just the garlic! The oil got too hot!"

Lingling didn't hear "It’s okay." She saw smoke. She saw her patient standing in a cloud of carcinogens. She saw chaos.

Lingling grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hallway cabinet.

"Move!" Lingling commanded.

"No! Don't spray it! It’s just smoke!" Orm shrieked, shielding the pan with her body. "Don't ruin the dinner!"

Lingling stopped, finger on the trigger. She looked at Orm. Orm wasn't on fire. The kitchen wasn't on fire. Just... very smoky.

Lingling lowered the extinguisher. She marched over to the wall panel and punched in the code to silence the alarm.

Beep... beep... silence.

The sudden quiet was deafening.

Lingling turned to Orm. She was trembling—not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated rage.

"Explain," Lingling said. Her voice was quieter than the alarm, but infinitely more terrifying.

Orm put the pan down on the trivet. Inside was a blackened, charred mess that might have once been spicy tuna.

"I wanted to cook dinner," Orm said, wiping soot off her cheek. "I wanted to surprise you. But your stove... it heats up so fast. It’s like a laser. I turned away for one second to dance to Sabrina Carpenter, and..."

"You wanted to cook," Lingling repeated slowly. "Fried food. Spicy food. While you are recovering."

"I’m recovered!" Orm argued. "My leg feels fine! My heart is fine! I’m bored, Lingling! I’m bored of steamed fish and being treated like I’m eighty years old!"

"I am treating you like a patient who had heart surgery five days ago!" Lingling snapped. "Do you know what smoke inhalation does to oxygen saturation? Do you know what stress does to the myocardium?"

"I burned some garlic! I didn't run a marathon!" Orm threw the tea towel on the counter. "Stop babying me! You’re not my doctor anymore, Lingling. You’re my girlfriend. Act like it!"

"I am acting like it!" Lingling shouted back. "I am trying to keep you alive!"

"I am alive!" Orm stepped closer, her eyes blazing. "But you’re acting like I’m going to break if the wind blows. You’re hovering. You’re controlling. It’s suffocating!"

Lingling flinched as if slapped.

She took a step back. Her expression shuttered, the "Ice Queen" mask slamming down hard.

"Suffocating," Lingling repeated hollowly. "I see."

She turned around and walked to the living room window. She stared out at the gray smog over the city, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Orm stood in the kitchen, breathing hard. The anger drained out of her as quickly as it had come, replaced by instant guilt. She looked at the burnt pan. She looked at Lingling’s rigid back.

"Ling..." Orm whispered.

She walked over slowly. She stopped a few feet away.

"I didn't mean that. I know you care. I’m just... I’m frustrated."

Lingling didn't turn.

"You are right," Lingling said, her voice devoid of emotion. "I am controlling. I am overbearing. It is my nature."

"No," Orm said. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Lingling’s waist from behind, resting her cheek on Lingling’s shoulder. "It’s not your nature. It’s your fear."

Lingling stiffened, then slumped. Her hands came up to cover Orm’s hands on her stomach.

"When the monitor flatlined," Lingling whispered, her voice breaking. "In the ER. When the Adenosine hit... for four seconds, you were gone. There was no rhythm. Just silence."

She turned around in Orm’s arms. Her eyes were wet.

"You say I am suffocating you. But Orm... for those four seconds, I couldn't breathe. And every time I leave this apartment, I am terrified that I will come back and find you on the floor again."

Orm’s heart broke. She realized then that while she was recovering physically, Lingling was recovering emotionally. The trauma of the Code Blue hadn't happened to Orm (who was unconscious for the worst parts); it had happened to Lingling.

"Oh, Ling," Orm whispered. She reached up and cupped Lingling’s face.

 "I’m not going anywhere. The pathway is gone. Dr. Chaiya burned it. I’m fixed."

"I know," Lingling sniffed, leaning into the touch. "Logically, I know. But the amygdala has a longer memory than the prefrontal cortex."

Orm smiled sadly. "There you go with the anatomy again."

She pulled Lingling down for a kiss. It tasted of tears and faintly of smoke, but it was grounding.

"I’m sorry I burned your kitchen," Orm murmured against her lips.

"The ventilation system will handle the particulates," Lingling dismissed. "But the pan... the pan is likely compromised."

Orm laughed. "We’ll order pizza. A compromise. Not steamed fish. Not spicy tuna. Just... pizza. With cheese. And maybe a little pepperoni?"

Lingling looked at Orm. She took a deep breath, exhaling the fear.

"Pepperoni has high sodium," Lingling noted.

"Lingling."

"But," Lingling conceded, a small smile breaking through. "It also has high dopamine potential. Fine. Pizza."

They sat on the floor, the expensive B&B Italia sofa serving as a backrest. A box of pizza (Double Cheese, Thin Crust) sat open between them.

Orm was wearing Lingling’s oversized silk pajama top. Lingling was wearing a t-shirt she had stolen from Orm’s bag (it had a picture of a cat wearing sunglasses).

"So," Orm said, chewing a slice. "We need new rules."

"Rules?" Lingling asked, wiping her fingers with a napkin.

"Yes. For the cohabitation. Rule Number One: No more 'Patient' diet. I eat what I want, within reason. If I want a cookie, I eat a cookie."

Lingling nodded slowly. "Agreed. Moderate sugar intake is acceptable."

"Rule Number Two," Orm continued. "You have to let me do things. I can wash dishes. I can fold laundry. I need to feel useful, Ling. I’m not a pet."

"You are a very high-maintenance pet," Lingling teased. "But... agreed. You may fold the laundry. However, my silk blouses require specific handling."

"I know, I know. Cold wash, hang dry. I listen."

"Rule Number Three," Lingling added, her expression turning serious. "If you feel anything—a flutter, a dizziness, a skip—you tell me immediately. You do not hide it to 'protect' me. Transparency."

Orm looked at her. "Deal. Transparency. Like the glass bathroom."

Lingling groaned. "Do not remind me of that bathroom. I saw things I cannot unsee."

"You loved it," Orm grinned, nudging her shoulder.

"I plead the Fifth."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while.

"Ling?"

"Yes?"

"Since I’m staying here for another week... and since we’re doing the transparency thing..."

"What is it?"

"Can we paint the guest room? It’s so... gray. It makes me feel like I’m sleeping in a battleship."

Lingling looked around her pristine, white-and-gray apartment. She looked at the dinosaur blanket draped over the sofa. She looked at the pizza box grease stain on the coffee table (which she would clean later).

"What color?" Lingling asked cautiously.

"Peach? Or maybe a soft lavender?"

Lingling closed her eyes. Lavender. In her monochromatic sanctuary.

"We can paint one wall," Lingling negotiated. "An accent wall."

"Yes!" Orm cheered. "And we can put up photos! I have a great one of us from Hua Hin."

Lingling paused. "The one in the mirror? Where I look startled?"

"The one where you look like you’re trying not to smile because you’re hopelessly in love with me."

Lingling looked at Orm. The "Sunshine Doctor" was beaming, tomato sauce on her lip, looking entirely at home in Lingling’s space.

"Fine," Lingling smiled. "Lavender. And the photo."

Orm leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You're the best, P'Ling."

"I know," Lingling said, taking another slice of pizza. "I am the Chief."

Orm wasn't cleared for clinical work yet, but Lingling had to return. The department couldn't run itself forever.

Lingling walked into her office—Room 404.

It was quiet. Empty.

The desk on the right (Orm’s desk) was clean. The dinosaur blanket was gone. The fairy lights were gone.

Supoj’s decree had been swift. Separate departments.

Orm had been assigned a new office on the 6th floor, closer to the PICU. Lingling had Room 404 to herself again.

She walked to her desk. She sat down. She opened her laptop.

It was exactly what she had always wanted. Silence. Order. Space.

It felt awful.

She looked at the empty desk across the room. She could almost see the ghost of Orm sitting there, drinking pink milk, humming off-key.

Knock. Knock.

"Enter," Lingling said.

Intern Oat poked his head in. "Dr. Kwong? Morning rounds are starting."

"Thank you, Oat."

"Also..." Oat hesitated. "Someone left this for you."

He walked in and placed a small object on Lingling’s desk.

It was a plush toy. A tiny, white seal. It was wearing a miniature surgical mask and a badge that said Dr. Ling.

Attached was a sticky note.

To keep you company until I can sneak in for lunch.

 

Room 404 isn't the same without the chaos, but we’ll make new chaos at home.

 

Love,

 

The Patient in 8B (and your GF).

Lingling picked up the seal. She squeezed it. It was soft.

She placed it right next to her monitor, front and center.

"Oat?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Tell the residents to meet me in the ICU in five minutes. And Oat?"

"Yes?"

"If anyone asks about the seal... tell them it is essential medical equipment."

Oat grinned. "Yes, Dr. Kwong."

Lingling looked at the seal, then at the empty chair. She smiled.

"Start the rounds," she whispered. "I’m ready."

Chapter Text

The morning routine had settled into a rhythm that Dr. Lingling Kwong found deeply satisfying.

06:00: Wake up.

06:15: Yoga (Lingling) / Hitting snooze button three times (Orm).

06:45: Coffee (Black for Lingling, Latte with oat milk for Orm).

07:30: Departure.

They stood in the foyer of the condo. Lingling was dressed in a charcoal gray suit, her hair sleek and professional. Orm was wearing pink scrubs and a denim jacket, looking bright-eyed despite the third snooze alarm.

"Do you have your badge?" Lingling asked, checking her purse.

"Yes, Mom," Orm teased, patting her pocket. "Do you have your stethoscope?"

"It is in my bag."

"Good." Orm stepped closer. She fixed Lingling’s collar, her fingers lingering on the fabric. "I hate this part."

"Which part?"

"The part where we get into the elevator and pretend we aren't obsessed with each other for ten hours," Orm sighed. "I miss Room 404. I miss throwing paperclips at you."

"You missed the trash can 80% of the time," Lingling noted. "It was inefficient."

"It was romantic." Orm stood on her tiptoes and kissed Lingling. It was a quick, caffeine-flavored kiss, but it held the weight of the last month’s intimacy. "Have a good surgery. Don't kill anyone."

"That is the objective," Lingling smiled softly.

They rode the elevator down to the garage. They got into separate cars (to avoid the "arriving together" gossip, though everyone knew). They drove to the hospital.

And then, the wall came up.

Lingling sat at her desk. It was quiet. The air conditioning hummed efficiently. The hazard tape was long gone.

But the room felt wrong.

She looked at the empty desk across the room. It was currently being used as a dumping ground for medical journals and unfiled paperwork. It looked sterile. Dead.

Lingling picked up the small plush seal on her desk—the one Orm had given her. She squeezed it.

Dr. Orm is on the 6th floor, Lingling told herself. It is a vertical separation of six stories. It is not a tragedy.

But it felt like an amputation.

She missed the humming. She missed the smell of basil. She missed the random interruptions about One Piece or patient drama.

Knock. Knock.

"Enter," Lingling said.

Dr. Tul stuck his head in. "Hey, Chief. Got a minute?"

"I have five," Lingling said.

Tul walked in, holding a tablet. "Just wanted to review the roster for next month. I’m taking vacation the second week. Going to Japan."

"Approved," Lingling said, signing the digital form without looking. "Ensure your call coverage is sorted."

"Done." Tul lingered. He looked at the empty desk. "Quiet in here without the chaotic energy, huh?"

"It is conducive to concentration," Lingling lied.

"Right," Tul smirked. "Anyway, I saw Orm downstairs. She looked... intense. She was meeting with Dr. Pawat in the garden. looked serious."

Lingling’s pen stopped moving. "Serious?"

"Yeah. Lots of hand gestures. Pawat looked excited. Orm looked... I don't know. Conflicted? Maybe she’s in trouble?"

Lingling felt a flicker of anxiety. Orm hadn't mentioned a meeting with the Chief of Pediatrics.

"Dr. Sethratanapong is an exemplary Fellow," Lingling stated. "She is likely discussing a complex case."

"Probably," Tul shrugged. "See ya, Boss."

He left.

Lingling stared at the door. Conflicted?

She picked up her phone. She opened her chat with Orm.

Lingling: Lunch at 12:30? The roof garden?

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Orm: Can't today :( Pawat gave me a mountain of paperwork. Rain check for dinner?

Lingling stared at the screen. Orm never turned down lunch. Even if she was busy, she would sneak up for ten minutes just to steal a bite of Lingling’s food.

Something is wrong, the diagnostic part of Lingling’s brain whispered. Symptoms: Avoidance, secret meetings, altered behavior.

Differential Diagnosis: She is unhappy. She is in trouble. Or... she is hiding something.

Lingling did not spy. Spying was beneath her.

She was simply... circulating. Checking on the cardiovascular status of the pediatric ward. It was part of her job description. Technically.

She walked past the nurses' station. Nurse Joy waved.

"Dr. Kwong! Looking for Dr. Sethratanapong?"

"I am merely passing through," Lingling said stiffly. "But is she available?"

"She’s in the Residents' Lounge," Joy said. "With Dr. Pawat. They’ve been in there for an hour. It must be big news!"

"Big news," Lingling echoed.

She walked toward the lounge. The door was closed, but it had a frosted glass panel. She could see the silhouettes inside.

She didn't mean to listen. But the door was old, and the latch didn't catch perfectly. Voices drifted out.

"...an incredible opportunity, Kornaphat," Dr. Pawat’s voice was booming with enthusiasm. "Great Ormond Street Hospital in London. It is the Mecca of Pediatrics. The Fellowship program only takes two international candidates a year."

Lingling froze. The air in the hallway seemed to vanish.

London.

"I know," Orm’s voice replied. She sounded breathless. "It’s... it’s a dream, Pawat. I wrote my thesis on their transplant protocols."

"Two years," Pawat continued. "You would work under Dr. Sterling. When you come back—if you come back—you would be the most qualified Pediatric Cardiologist in Thailand. You could run this department."

"Two years is a long time," Orm said softly.

"Time passes quickly when you are doing groundbreaking work," Pawat dismissed. "They need an answer by Monday. But Kornaphat... you cannot say no to this. This is your future."

Lingling backed away.

She felt cold. Colder than the OR. Colder than the day she found Orm on the floor.

Great Ormond Street. It was prestigious. It was world-class. It was thousands of miles away.

Two years.

Lingling turned and walked away. She walked fast. Her heels clicked a frantic rhythm on the linoleum.

She applied, Lingling thought. She must have applied. You don't get an offer like that out of the blue.

She applied while we were dating. She applied while she was recovering in my bed.

And she hadn't said a word.

Dinner was silent.

Lingling had ordered Thai food—usually a treat—but the Pad See Ew sat cold on the plates.

Orm was picking at her noodles. She looked anxious. She kept glancing at Lingling, opening her mouth, and then closing it.

Lingling sat perfectly straight. She was eating methodically, chew-swallow-repeat, tasting nothing. She was building a wall. A fortress of ice and logic.

If she goes, we are over, Lingling told herself. Long distance is a fallacy. It prolongs the inevitable necrosis of the relationship. It is better to amputate quickly.

She wants to go. She called it a dream.

"Lingling?" Orm finally broke the silence.

"Yes?" Lingling didn't look up.

"How was your day?"

"Standard. A valve replacement. Two consults. And I reviewed the departmental budget." Lingling took a sip of water. "Yours?"

Orm put her fork down. "It was... interesting. Pawat called me in."

"Oh?" Lingling cut a piece of tofu with unnecessary force.

"Yeah. He... well, he offered me something."

Orm reached across the table. She tried to take Lingling’s hand.

Lingling moved her hand to pick up her napkin. The evasion was smooth, brutal.

Orm flinched. "Ling?"

"What did he offer you?" Lingling asked, her voice devoid of warmth.

"A Fellowship," Orm said quietly. "In London. Great Ormond Street."

Lingling finally looked at her. "That is prestigious."

"It is," Orm nodded, searching Lingling’s face for a reaction. For sadness. For panic. For 'Please stay'. "It’s a two-year program. specialized transplant surgery."

"You should take it," Lingling said.

The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

Orm blinked, stunned. "What?"

"It is the best hospital in the world for your specialty," Lingling said, her tone conversational, as if discussing a weather forecast. "Dr. Sterling is a pioneer. If you train under him, your career trajectory will accelerate exponentially. It is the logical choice."

"Logical?" Orm repeated, her voice trembling. "Lingling... it’s in London. It’s two years. I would have to move."

"Yes. That is how fellowships work."

"But... what about us?"

Lingling stood up. She picked up her plate. She walked to the kitchen.

"We are adults, Orm. We are professionals. Careers of this magnitude require sacrifice." She scraped her leftovers into the bin. "I would never ask you to stagnate in a Bangkok private hospital when you could be world-class."

Orm followed her into the kitchen. "Stagnate? I thought we were building a life here! I thought... I thought you were happy."

"I am happy when you are successful," Lingling said, turning to the sink. She turned on the water to drown out the shaking in her voice. "If you stay here for me, you will resent me. In five years, you will wonder 'what if'. I will not be the anchor that holds you back."

"So that’s it?" Orm’s voice rose. "You’re just... shipping me off? You’re not even going to ask me to stay?"

Lingling gripped the edge of the sink. Her knuckles were white.

Ask her, a voice screamed in her head. Beg her. Tell her you can't breathe without her.

But the fear was stronger. The fear that she was holding Orm back. The fear that Orm would eventually wake up and realize she was stuck with a boring, rigid "cyborg" instead of flying high in London.

"No," Lingling said coldly. "I will not ask you to stay. Because if you wanted to stay, you would not have applied."

Orm gasped. "I didn't apply! Pawat nominated me! I didn't even know until today!"

Lingling froze. She didn't apply?

But the wall was already up. The defense mechanisms were engaged. Lingling couldn't back down now. She felt exposed, vulnerable.

"It does not matter," Lingling said. "The offer is there. You said it was your dream."

"It was my dream," Orm cried. "Before! Before us!"

"Dreams should not change because of a relationship," Lingling stated. "That is codependency."

"Oh my god," Orm laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "You are unbelievable. You’re doing it again. You’re retreating into your little ice castle because you’re scared."

"I am being realistic!" Lingling spun around. "Two years, Orm! Do you think we can survive two years of FaceTime and time zones? We barely survived working on different floors!"

"We could try!" Orm shouted. "Or I could decline! I haven't decided yet! I wanted to talk to you! I wanted my partner to tell me that she loves me more than she loves my CV!"

"I love you enough to let you go," Lingling whispered.

"That’s a cop-out," Orm spat. "That’s not love. That’s cowardice."

Orm turned around. She marched out of the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Lingling called out.

"I’m going for a drive," Orm yelled back. "I need air. And I need to think about whether I want to stay in a country with a girlfriend who is trying to fire me from her life!"

The door slammed.

The condo shook.

Lingling stood in the kitchen. The water was still running.

She turned it off.

The silence rushed back in. It was heavy. It was suffocating.

Lingling slid down to the floor, leaning her back against the cabinets. She pulled her knees to her chest.

"I am doing the right thing," she told the empty room. "I am doing the right thing."

She looked at the counter. The orchid plant sat there, perfect and alone.

She buried her face in her hands and screamed. It was a silent scream, trapped in her throat, but it tore her apart just the same.

Orm hadn't come back.

Lingling had texted three times.

Where are you?

Please come home.

I am sorry.

No reply.

Lingling was pacing the living room. She had checked the GPS on Orm’s phone (they shared locations for safety), but it was turned off.

She was about to call the police—or Dr. Tul—when her phone buzzed.

It wasn't Orm. It was an email notification.

From: Dr. Pawat (Chief of Pediatrics)

To: Dr. Orm Kornaphat

Cc: Dr. Lingling Kwong

Subject: Fellowship Acceptance Timeline

Dear Dr. Sethratanapong,

 

I know this is a big decision. London is calling! Please let me know by Monday so we can process the visa paperwork. Dr. Kwong, copying you as I assume you will need to sign off on her release from the joint cardio cases.

 

Best, Pawat.

 

Lingling stared at the email. It made it real. Monday. Two days.

She heard the front door click.

Lingling spun around.

Orm walked in. She looked wrecked. Her eyes were red and puffy. She was holding her car keys like a weapon.

"You came back," Lingling exhaled, rushing forward.

Orm held up a hand. "Stop."

She walked into the living room and sat on the edge of the sofa—not relaxing, just perching.

"I drove to the river," Orm said, her voice hoarse. "I sat there and watched the boats. And I thought about London."

Lingling stopped a few feet away. She clasped her hands to keep them from reaching out.

"And?" Lingling asked, terrified.

"It’s an amazing offer, Ling. Truly. Dr. Sterling is a genius."

Lingling nodded slowly. "Yes."

"But," Orm looked up, her eyes fierce. "He’s not you."

Lingling’s breath caught.

"I don't want to be a pioneer if it means I have to be alone," Orm said. "I don't want to be the best in the world if I can't come home to you and tell you about my day."

She stood up.

"But I also don't want to be with someone who pushes me away the second things get hard. Someone who assumes I’m leaving before I’ve even packed a bag."

Orm walked over to Lingling. She stood toe-to-toe with her.

"So here is the deal, Dr. Kwong. I am declining the Fellowship."

Lingling’s eyes widened. "Orm, you cannot—"

"I am declining it," Orm repeated firmly. "But not for you. I’m declining it for me. Because my happiness is here. My patients are here. My life is here."

She poked Lingling in the chest.

"But you have to promise me something. Right now."

"Anything," Lingling whispered.

"Promise me that you will never, ever make a decision for me again. If we have a problem, we talk. You don't go into 'fix-it' mode and try to surgically remove yourself from the equation."

Lingling looked at Orm. She saw the strength in her. The fire. She wasn't just a "Sunshine Doctor" anymore. She was a force of nature.

"I promise," Lingling said. Tears spilled over her lashes. "I was scared. I thought... I thought I wasn't enough to make you stay."

Orm’s expression crumpled. She pulled Lingling into a hug, squeezing her tight.

"You idiot," Orm sobbed into her shoulder. "You are plenty. You are abundant."

They stood there in the hallway, holding each other.

"I will decline the offer tomorrow," Orm whispered. "But... Pawat is going to be mad."

"Let him be mad," Lingling said, burying her face in Orm’s hair. "I will buy him a new MRI machine. Or a fruit basket."

Orm laughed. "An MRI machine might work."

"I love you," Lingling said. "Please don't go to London."

"Finally," Orm smiled, pulling back to kiss her. "That’s all I wanted to hear."

Dr. Pawat sat behind his oversized mahogany desk, beaming like a proud father. He had the fellowship paperwork spread out before him, a Montblanc pen uncapped and ready.

"So," Pawat smiled, pushing the papers toward Orm. "Ready to sign? I already emailed Dr. Sterling to tell him to expect our brightest star."

Orm sat in the guest chair. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. She was wearing her favorite lucky scrubs (the ones with tiny elephants), but she felt like she was wearing a lead vest.

"Dr. Pawat," Orm started, her voice steady but soft. "I... I cannot sign."

Pawat’s smile froze. He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I am declining the fellowship offer," Orm said. "I am deeply honored. Truly. But I cannot move to London for two years right now."

Pawat put the pen down. The silence in the room was heavy.

"Kornaphat," Pawat said, his voice losing its joviality. "Do you understand what you are saying no to? This is Great Ormond Street. This is a career-maker. People kill for this spot."

"I know," Orm said.

"Is this about... fear?" Pawat leaned forward. "Are you afraid you aren't ready? Because I assure you—"

"It’s not fear," Orm interrupted. "It’s... personal reasons. My life is here in Bangkok. My support system is here."

Pawat sat back, looking disappointed. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Personal reasons," he muttered. "I see. I assume this has something to do with the rumors about you and Dr. Kwong?"

Orm stiffened. "My private life is private, sir."

"If you are staying for a relationship, Orm, you are making a mistake," Pawat said bluntly. "Love is great. But love doesn't give you a sub-specialty in pediatric transplant surgery. Love doesn't get you published in The New England Journal of Medicine."

"Maybe not," Orm said, lifting her chin. "But it makes me happy. And a happy doctor is a better doctor."

"Happiness is fleeting," Pawat countered. "Tenure is forever."

He sighed, reaching for the papers to pull them back. "I am disappointed, Kornaphat. I thought you had more ambition."

The sting of the word—ambition—brought tears to Orm’s eyes. She was ambitious. She wanted to save kids. She just didn't want to be miserable while doing it.

Before she could defend herself, the door opened without a knock.

"Ambition," a crisp voice announced, "is not defined by geography."

Dr. Lingling Kwong marched into the room. She was wearing her full "Chief of Cardio" armor: immaculate white coat, stethoscope, and a look that could curdle milk. She carried a thick, black binder.

"Dr. Kwong?" Pawat frowned. "This is a private meeting."

"It is a departmental meeting regarding the allocation of resources," Lingling corrected. She placed the binder on Pawat’s desk with a heavy thud.

"P'Ling?" Orm whispered, surprised.

Lingling glanced at her—a quick, reassuring look—before turning her laser focus to Pawat.

"You claim Dr. Sethratanapong lacks ambition because she refuses to leave the country," Lingling stated. "I claim she is showing superior strategic foresight."

"Explain," Pawat crossed his arms.

Lingling opened the binder. It was color-coded. Of course it was.

"Great Ormond Street offers exposure to advanced Ventricular Assist Devices (VADs) and transplant protocols," Lingling recited. "Praram Royal currently refers those cases to the government university hospital. We lose revenue. We lose prestige."

She flipped a page.

"I propose we stop referring them."

Pawat looked at the data. "We don't have the infrastructure. We don't have a dedicated Pediatric Heart Failure unit."

"We do now," Lingling said. "I have reallocated 15% of the adult Cardiothoracic budget surplus. I have secured a donor for two Berlin Heart EXCOR machines—the same ones used in London."

Orm’s jaw dropped. "You... you bought Berlin Hearts?"

"I acquired them," Lingling corrected. "Pending Board approval. Which I will get."

She looked at Pawat.

"We are launching the Praram Royal Pediatric Heart Failure & Transplant Program," Lingling announced. "It will be a joint venture between Pediatrics and Cardiology. And it requires a director."

She gestured to Orm.

"Dr. Kornaphat Sethratanapong will lead the medical management side. I will lead the surgical side. We will bring London here."

Pawat stared at the binder. He stared at Lingling. Then he looked at Orm, who looked just as shocked as he was.

"You want to build a transplant center," Pawat said slowly, "just to keep her in Bangkok?"

"I want to build a transplant center because it is medically necessary and fiscally responsible," Lingling lied smoothly. "The fact that it retains our best talent is a... happy coincidence."

Pawat picked up the binder. He flipped through the pages. He saw the budget projections. He saw the donor list (which included Dr. Tul’s family foundation, oddly enough).

A slow smile spread across Pawat’s face.

"This is aggressive," Pawat murmured. "Very aggressive."

"Dr. Sethratanapong is worth the investment," Lingling said simply.

Pawat looked at Orm. "Did you know about this?"

"No," Orm squeaked. "I really didn't."

Pawat laughed. He closed the binder.

"Well then. Who am I to argue with the Ice Queen and her... ambition?" He looked at Orm. "London is off the table. But this? This is going to be harder than London. You’ll have to build it from the ground up."

"I like building things," Orm beamed, looking at Lingling.

"Then get out of my office," Pawat waved them away. "I have to go call the Board."

They walked out of the office in silence. They made it to the elevator bank before Orm grabbed Lingling’s arm and pulled her into the empty waiting alcove.

"You bought Berlin Hearts?" Orm hissed. "Those cost like... a Ferrari each!"

"I secured a grant," Lingling shrugged. "Tul’s family was looking for a tax write-off. I merely pointed them in the right direction."

"You built me a department," Orm said, her eyes shining. "Lingling... that’s insane. That’s the most insane thing anyone has ever done for me."

"I promised I would not make decisions for you," Lingling said, adjusting her cuffs. "I did not promise I wouldn't create opportunities for us."

She looked at Orm, her expression softening.

"You want to be world-class, Orm. I know that. I want to help you be world-class right here."

Orm threw her arms around Lingling’s neck. She didn't care who saw. She kissed her soundly on the cheek.

"You are absolutely crazy," Orm laughed. "And I love you so much."

"I know," Lingling smirked. "Now, go to your office on the 6th floor. We have a program to build. I expect a proposal on patient selection criteria by Friday."

"Yes, Boss," Orm saluted.

The exhilaration of the new project was high. The reality of logistics was low.

Lingling sat at a table by the window, eating her salad. Opposite her sat an empty chair.

Orm was in a meeting with the architects for the new PICU wing.

Lingling checked her phone.

Lingling: Caloric intake is required.

Orm: Stuck in meeting. Architect wants to paint the walls 'Clinical White'. Fighting for 'Sunshine Yellow'. Send help (or snacks).

Lingling sighed. She missed the days of Room 404. She missed sharing her unseasoned fish. She missed the foot nudges under the desk.

"Dr. Kwong?"

It was Dr. Bow. She plopped down in the empty seat.

"You look like a widow looking out to sea," Bow commented, stealing a cherry tomato from Lingling’s salad.

"I am contemplating the inefficiencies of inter-departmental meetings," Lingling deflected.

"You miss her," Bow diagnosed. "It’s cute. Gross, but cute."

"We live together," Lingling argued. "I see her every morning and every night. Professional separation is healthy."

"Is it?" Bow pointed to Lingling’s phone, which was open to a photo of Orm sleeping with the dinosaur blanket. "Because you’ve been staring at that screen for five minutes."

Lingling flipped her phone over. "Dr. Bow. Do you not have patients to sedate?"

"Nope. Lunch break." Bow leaned in. "So, rumor has it the new Heart Failure Center is going to have a joint office for the Directors."

Lingling paused. "It is structurally efficient to have the surgical and medical leads in proximity."

"Uh-huh," Bow grinned. "And I heard you specifically requested soundproofing?"

"For confidentiality," Lingling insisted.

"Sure. Confidentiality." Bow winked. "Just make sure you put a lock on the door, Ling. We don't need another Code Blue situation."

When Lingling got home, Orm was already there. She was lying on the floor in the living room (on the rug, thank goodness), surrounded by color swatches and blueprints.

"Yellow is too aggressive," Orm announced without looking up. "But blue is too sad. What do you think about 'Seafoam'?"

Lingling walked over. She dropped her bag. She kicked off her heels.

She didn't look at the swatches. She knelt down on the rug and pulled Orm into a hug, burying her face in Orm’s neck.

"Whoa," Orm laughed, hugging her back. "Rough day?"

"Long day," Lingling mumbled. "Too quiet."

"I missed you too," Orm said, stroking Lingling’s hair. "Working on the 6th floor is boring. Nobody corrects my grammar. Nobody stares at me with laser eyes."

Lingling pulled back. She looked at the blueprints scattered on the floor. She saw the outline for the new office suite.

"I approved the blueprints today," Lingling said.

"Yeah?"

"I made a modification."

Orm looked at the paper. "What modification?"

Lingling pointed to the wall separating the Director of Surgery’s office and the Director of Medicine’s office.

"I added a connecting door," Lingling whispered. "Private access."

Orm’s eyes lit up. "A secret passage?"

"An efficiency corridor," Lingling corrected.

"Does it have a lock?"

"A deadbolt."

Orm grinned. She pulled Lingling down onto the rug, disregarding the pile of paperwork.

"Dr. Kwong," Orm whispered. "You are full of surprises."

"I am investing in our synergy," Lingling murmured, closing her eyes as Orm kissed her.

The apartment was messy. The work was hard. The hospital was gossiping.

But for the first time in her life, Dr. Lingling Kwong didn't want to fix anything. Everything was exactly, perfectly, scientifically right.