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By the time Orm Kornnaphat realized she was in love with Lingling Kwong, it was already far too late to do anything about it.
Not because loving Ling was wrong—no, that was the most natural thing in the world—but because Orm had convinced herself that whatever lived quietly in her chest was hers alone. A one-sided thing. Something she could cradle carefully, privately, without ever letting it spill out and ruin everything they had built.
They had known each other for over a year now. A year of long filming days, shared vans, inside jokes whispered behind hands, and the kind of exhaustion that only made sense when someone else was right there beside you, just as tired, just as committed.
Their first project together had exploded in a way no one had quite predicted.
Chemistry, the fans called it.
Fate, others said.
Orm called it terrifying.
Because chemistry on screen was one thing. What terrified her was how that chemistry refused to turn off when the cameras did.
“Lingling Kwong,” Orm sang softly, the words lilting, familiar, as she padded into the makeup room without knocking.
Ling looked up from her phone, expression already softening before she could stop herself. “You don’t knock. Ever.”
Orm grinned and leaned down immediately, pressing a quick sniff-kiss to Ling’s temple—inhale, exhale, warmth. Her favorite greeting. “Good morning.”
Ling closed her eyes for half a second too long.
Orm didn’t notice. Orm never noticed. To her, affection was easy, instinctive. She hugged when she was happy, when she was tired, when she was bored. She held hands without thinking, draped herself over Ling’s shoulder during breaks, tucked her chin against Ling’s collarbone when they were seated too close on a couch.
Fans adored it.
Ling endured it with a carefully maintained composure that cracked only when she was alone.
“You’re in a good mood,” Ling said, setting her phone aside.
Orm shrugged, already pulling a chair closer. “Mm. I dreamed we won an award again. But you cried this time.”
“I don’t cry,” Ling replied reflexively.
Orm laughed. “You do when you think no one’s watching.”
Ling’s chest tightened. *You watch more than you realize.*
Their bond had grown into something quiet and strong—unspoken rules, subtle understandings. They knew how the other took their coffee. They knew when to give space and when to insist on closeness. They could read each other’s moods from across a room, even surrounded by noise and people.
It scared them both.
Because the closer they got, the more obvious it became that there were things neither dared to say.
---
The interview was supposed to be easy.
They’d done dozens like it—same questions, same teasing prompts, same knowing smiles from hosts who clearly understood what the pairing meant to the audience.
The MC that day was especially enthusiastic.
“So,” he said, leaning forward with a grin, “fans say you two are inseparable. Is that true?”
Orm immediately scooted closer, shoulder bumping Ling’s arm. “Yes.”
Ling blinked. “You didn’t even let me answer.”
Orm tilted her head, cheek brushing Ling’s shoulder. “I already know your answer.”
The MC laughed. “Look at that confidence! But Orm, you’re very affectionate. Always hugging, kissing—”
Ling stiffened just slightly as the MC leaned in closer than necessary, his hand gesturing near Orm’s knee.
Orm didn’t notice the proximity. Ling did.
“It’s natural,” Orm said brightly. “Ling feels safe.”
Something dark and possessive flickered through Ling before she could stop it. *Then why does he get to lean that close?*
She told herself she was being ridiculous. She had no claim. No right.
Still, when the MC’s hand brushed Orm’s sleeve again, Ling shifted, placing her arm firmly behind Orm’s back. Protective. Subtle. Unmissable.
Orm leaned into it automatically.
Fans would later replay that moment frame by frame.
Ling spent the rest of the interview hyper-aware of every movement, every glance Orm gave anyone else. When Orm laughed too brightly at a joke the MC made, Ling’s jaw tightened.
*You’re not jealous,* she told herself.
*You’re just… attentive.*
---
It wasn’t the first time jealousy had crept in uninvited.
Orm felt it too, though she hated herself for it.
The first time was when she learned Ling had met up with friends—other actresses, some she didn’t recognize—without mentioning it.
“Oh,” Orm said lightly when she saw the photos online later that night. “You know them?”
Ling hesitated. “From before. University. Industry things.”
Orm nodded, smiling. “That’s nice.”
She spent the rest of the evening with a hollow feeling in her stomach, scrolling through the pictures again and again. Ling looked relaxed. Happy. At ease in a way Orm suddenly feared she was not a part of.
*Why didn’t you tell me?*
*Why does it hurt?*
*You’re just her co-star.*
She hugged a pillow tight and reminded herself she had no right to feel excluded.
Ling, meanwhile, lay awake replaying the moment Orm had mentioned an “old friend” who had visited the set one afternoon. The way Orm had lit up. The way Ling had smiled through the unease.
*She has a whole life I don’t know,* Ling thought.
*And it shouldn’t matter.*
But it did.
---
Mae Koy noticed everything.
As Orm’s mother and manager, she had long since learned to separate her instincts into neat compartments—professional, maternal, protective.
Lingling Kwong blurred all three.
“She takes good care of you,” Mae Koy said casually one afternoon, watching as Ling handed Orm a bottle of water without being asked.
Orm hummed. “She always does.”
Mae Koy smiled knowingly. “And you take care of her.”
Orm froze for half a second. “I… do I?”
Mae Koy raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even realize how you look at her.”
Orm laughed it off, cheeks warm. “Mae, don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” her mother replied gently. “I’m just observing.”
—
The CH3 sports day had always been a spectacle, but this year felt especially overwhelming.
The stadium pulsed with energy—rows upon rows of fans waving banners, lightsticks, handmade signs with glittering letters spelling out names. Cheers rolled like waves every time an actor stepped onto the field.
Orm felt it hit her all at once.
“So many people,” she murmured, squinting up at the stands.
Ling stood beside her, already in team colors, hair tied back neatly, posture relaxed in that effortless way that made people gravitate toward her without trying. “You’re used to this.”
Orm shook her head, immediately slipping her fingers into Ling’s sleeve like muscle memory. “Not like this.”
Ling glanced down.
The way Orm held on—not tight, not desperate, just *there*—sent a quiet thrill through her chest. She adjusted her stance slightly so Orm was closer, shielded from the crowd.
Fans noticed. Cameras noticed.
Ling pretended not to.
---
When Ling’s name was announced over the speakers, the stadium erupted.
Orm startled despite herself. “Whoa.”
Ling winced, embarrassed, lifting a hand in a small wave that only made the cheering louder. Flowers were tossed toward the field. Someone screamed her name so loudly it cracked.
Orm felt something twist in her chest.
She was proud—she really was. Ling deserved every bit of it. She was talented, kind, professional in a way Orm still aspired to be.
But watching so many people look at Ling like that—like she was untouchable, luminous—made Orm acutely aware of how small her own place felt.
Ling glanced sideways, instinctively checking on her.
Orm smiled immediately. Bright. Easy. “You’re crazy popular.”
Ling shrugged, eyes flicking away. “It’s loud.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Orm laughed.
Ling hesitated, then said honestly, “I don’t really like it.”
Orm blinked. “Really?”
Ling nodded. “I like… quieter things.”
She didn’t say *I like when it’s just you and me*, but the thought lingered heavily between them.
---
The first few games were lighthearted—relay races, silly team challenges. Orm cheered so loudly her throat hurt, yelling Ling’s name without hesitation, without shame.
“LING—RUN—YES!”
Ling heard it every time.
Even when the crowd screamed louder, Ling could always pick Orm’s voice out of the noise. It grounded her. Centered her.
When Ling scored during a game, Orm jumped so high she nearly collided with another teammate, then ran straight onto the field without thinking, throwing her arms around Ling’s waist.
Ling stiffened for half a second—cameras, fans, professionalism—
Then she relaxed completely and hugged Orm back.
Harder than necessary.
Orm laughed, breathless. “You’re so good!”
Ling lowered her voice, almost unconsciously. “You’re the loudest one.”
Orm beamed. “Of course.”
Someone nearby whistled. Fans screamed.
Ling felt heat crawl up her neck but didn’t let go.
---
It happened between games.
Ling was surrounded—teammates, other actresses laughing, one of them leaning in close to say something in Ling’s ear. Ling tilted her head to listen, smiling politely.
Orm stood a few steps away, bottle of water forgotten in her hand.
*She looks… comfortable.*
The actress touched Ling’s arm lightly when she laughed.
Orm’s stomach dropped.
She told herself she was imagining it. Told herself she was tired, overstimulated, silly. She had *no right* to feel anything about who Ling talked to.
Still, her feet moved before her thoughts could catch up.
She walked over and slipped herself neatly into Ling’s space, pressing her shoulder against Ling’s arm like it belonged there.
Ling startled—then immediately shifted to make room.
“You need water,” Orm said, holding the bottle up insistently.
Ling took it without question. “Thanks.”
Orm stayed. Close. Closer than necessary.
The other actress excused herself a moment later.
Orm didn’t feel victorious.
She felt guilty.
*Why did that bother me so much?*
*What am I doing?*
Ling watched Orm carefully, concern threading through her expression.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
Orm nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just hot.”
Ling lifted her arm, fanning Orm gently with her hand. “Sit with me next time.”
Orm’s chest tightened.
---
Later, it was Ling’s turn.
Orm was laughing—head thrown back, eyes bright—as one of the male actors teased her about losing a game. He slung an arm around her shoulders easily, familiar.
Too familiar.
Ling felt the reaction immediately. Sharp. Unpleasant.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.
Orm didn’t pull away. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was friendly like that. Affectionate. Always had been.
Ling’s jaw clenched.
*You don’t get to feel this,* she scolded herself.
*You’re not—anything.*
Still, when Orm finally wandered back, Ling stood and took Orm’s wrist gently, guiding her away without a word.
Orm looked up, surprised. “What—?”
Ling handed her a towel. “You’re sweaty.”
Orm blinked. Then laughed. “You’re fussing.”
Ling didn’t deny it.
She wiped Orm’s face with a tenderness that felt dangerously intimate, her thumb lingering just a second too long near Orm’s cheek.
Orm went quiet.
Fans screamed.
Ling released her hand like she’d been burned.
---
Mae Koy sat in the shaded section, sunglasses on, expression thoughtful.
She didn’t miss the way Orm’s eyes followed Ling constantly. Didn’t miss the way Ling positioned herself—always just a little ahead, a little to the side, like a shield.
When Orm ran to Ling between games, Mae Koy smiled softly.
*Ah,* she thought. *So it’s that deep already.*
Later, when Ling brought Orm over to sit, Mae Koy raised an eyebrow.
“You two sticking together?” she teased lightly.
Orm laughed. “It’s crowded.”
Ling said nothing, but she didn’t move away.
Mae Koy’s gaze softened. “Ling, thank you for taking care of her.”
Ling met her eyes, sincere. “Always.”
Orm didn’t hear the quiet weight behind the word.
---
The final game ended in chaos—cheering, confetti, music blasting through speakers.
Orm was exhausted. Happy. Overstimulated.
She found Ling near the edge of the field and collapsed into her without warning, arms wrapping around Ling’s neck, face pressed into her shoulder.
Ling froze.
Then slowly, carefully, she hugged Orm back.
Orm smelled like sweat and sunscreen and something unmistakably *Orm*. Ling closed her eyes.
*This is dangerous,* she thought.
*I could stay like this forever.*
Orm murmured, half-asleep, “You’re my favorite part of today.”
Ling’s breath caught.
She almost said it then.
Almost said *You’re mine too.*
Instead, she tightened her arms just a little and said, “You did well.”
Orm smiled against her neck, content, unaware of the storm she’d stirred.
---
When the fans finally left and the stadium lights dimmed, they sat together again, legs stretched out, shoulders touching.
Orm traced idle patterns on Ling’s wrist.
Ling stared straight ahead, heart pounding.
They were quiet, surrounded by the echo of cheers that no longer mattered.
Both of them thinking the same terrifying thought:
*If this means nothing… why does it feel like everything?*
---
Orm hadn’t slept properly.
She had stayed up far too late the night before, hunched over notes and scripts and highlighted pages, convincing herself she could push through just one more hour. Studying had always been her fallback—something solid, controllable, something that didn’t involve the way Ling’s smile lingered in her thoughts long after they’d said goodnight.
By morning, her body felt heavy. Her head throbbed dully, like it was stuffed with cotton.
She barely made it through hair and makeup before the familiar exhaustion crept into her bones.
The meeting room at CH3 was already filling when she slipped inside—PR, HR, a handful of actresses, assistants hovering at the edges. At the head of the table sat P’Dew, calm and sharp-eyed, flipping through a tablet.
Ling was already there.
Orm spotted her instantly, relief flooding her chest in a way that made her pause just inside the doorway.
Ling looked up, met Orm’s eyes—and her expression softened without effort.
Orm didn’t bother pretending she was fine.
She walked straight over and stopped beside Ling’s chair, fingers curling into the sleeve of Ling’s blazer.
Ling frowned slightly. “You’re tired.”
Orm nodded, leaning down until her forehead brushed Ling’s shoulder. “Didn’t sleep.”
Without hesitation, Ling shifted, opening her space, one arm sliding around Orm’s back in a way that looked casual to anyone else. To Orm, it felt like being allowed to breathe again.
“Sit,” Ling murmured.
Orm sank down beside her, curling instinctively toward the warmth. Ling adjusted again, letting Orm’s knee rest against hers, hand rubbing slow, grounding circles against Orm’s side.
Orm closed her eyes for just a second.
*This,* she thought hazily. *This is where I feel okay.*
She wondered—distantly—if Ling noticed how her body always sought her out like this. Or if she thought it was just habit. Just Orm being Orm.
Ling, meanwhile, was painfully aware of every detail.
Orm’s weight leaning into her. The faint scent of her shampoo. The way her breathing slowed once she felt secure.
Ling’s chest tightened.
*She trusts me,* she thought.
*Too much.*
The meeting began.
---
P’Dew spoke calmly about potential projects, new pairings, long-term plans. There was talk of timelines, audience engagement, sustainability.
Orm listened with half an ear, fighting sleep.
Ling listened too closely.
When future series were mentioned—especially those not necessarily involving the same pairing—Ling’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
*What if one day she’s paired with someone else?*
*What if I have to watch her build this with someone new?*
She told herself she was thinking professionally.
She was lying.
Orm stirred beside her, brow furrowing slightly, and Ling immediately leaned down. “You okay?”
Orm nodded but whispered, “Can I stay like this?”
Ling swallowed. “Yes.”
No hesitation.
Mae Koy, seated across the table, noticed everything.
She saw the way Orm practically folded into Ling. The way Ling’s hand never left Orm’s back. The way neither of them seemed aware of how intimate it looked.
Her lips twitched.
*Oh, Orm,* she thought gently. *You’re already gone.*
---
The meeting ended with polite chatter and scraping chairs.
Orm stood slowly, stretching, still visibly exhausted. She lingered close to Ling, fingers brushing Ling’s wrist absentmindedly.
Then Bam appeared.
“Ling!” Bam said warmly, stepping closer. “Congratulations. You’ve been everywhere lately.”
Ling smiled politely. “Thank you.”
Orm froze.
She didn’t know why—Bam was friendly, familiar, harmless—but watching her take Ling’s attention so easily made something cold twist in Orm’s chest.
They talked. About work. About success. About schedules.
Ling was engaged but reserved, posture open, expression kind.
Orm stood there, suddenly unsure where she belonged.
*She doesn’t need me right now,* a small voice whispered.
The thought hurt more than it should have.
She watched Bam laugh, touch Ling’s arm lightly as she spoke.
Orm’s stomach dropped.
*Stop,* she told herself.
*You’re being ridiculous. She’s allowed to talk to people.*
But her feet moved anyway.
Orm stepped forward and slipped neatly into place beside Ling, close enough that their arms brushed. She rested her head briefly against Ling’s shoulder, a quiet, claiming gesture she didn’t even consciously register.
Ling startled—then relaxed.
Her body turned toward Orm automatically.
“Oh,” Bam said, amused, eyes flicking between them. “Am I interrupting?”
Orm smiled sweetly. “No.”
Ling didn’t say anything. She didn’t move away either.
Bam’s smile widened, knowing. “You two are really close.”
Orm laughed lightly. “We are.”
Ling felt her pulse spike.
*We are,* she echoed silently.
*But what does that mean?*
Bam excused herself soon after, still smiling to herself.
Orm didn’t feel triumphant.
She felt scared by how badly she’d wanted to step in.
---
Later that week, they sat side by side again under studio lights, another interview, another MC with curious eyes.
The questions were light at first.
Then—
“Ling,” the MC said, tilting his head thoughtfully, “do you have plans of settling down someday? Marriage? Family?”
Ling blinked.
Orm stilled.
Ling answered carefully. “I believe in commitment. If it’s with the right person.”
Orm’s heart thudded painfully.
The MC grinned. “And you, Orm? Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
Orm didn’t even look at Ling as she answered. “I want stability. Someone I trust. Someone I can grow with.”
She swallowed.
“I don’t want temporary things.”
Ling’s breath caught.
The MC laughed lightly. “Sounds serious for someone so young.”
Mae Koy, watching from behind the cameras, smiled faintly.
---
Later, Mae Koy walked with Orm down the hallway, arm looped through hers.
“You looked thoughtful today,” Mae Koy said casually.
Orm hesitated. “Did I?”
Mae Koy nodded. “Ling is at a good age,” she added gently. “For a serious relationship. Something that leads somewhere. Marriage, commitment.”
Orm’s chest tightened so sharply she had to stop walking.
Mae Koy turned to her, expression soft. “I’m just saying.”
Orm stared at the floor.
*Marriage.*
*Commitment.*
The words didn’t scare her.
They grounded her.
In that moment, with aching clarity, Orm realized something terrifying and undeniable.
*I want to be that person.*
Not someday. Not hypothetically.
Now.
She was only twenty-three—but she had never been more certain of anything in her life.
*I will never find someone better than her.*
*If she asked me out today… I would say yes.*
The thought settled deep in her chest, warm and devastating.
*But she won’t,* Orm thought.
*Because she doesn’t feel the same.*
---
Ling stood by the window later that night, city lights reflecting faintly in the glass.
She replayed Orm’s words from the interview over and over.
*I don’t want temporary things.*
Her chest ached.
*She deserves someone certain,* Ling thought.
*Someone brave.*
She pressed her hand flat against the glass.
*And I’m terrified.*
Terrified that she was already too deep. Terrified that if she reached out, she would lose Orm entirely.
Behind them both, unseen but inevitable, the truth pressed closer.
They were already living like something more.
Soon, one of them would have to say it.
---
Ling liked the gym because it was honest.
Iron, sweat, repetition—nothing there asked her to explain herself.
Her body moved on discipline alone. Each curl precise. Each breath measured. Muscles pulling tight beneath skin that bore the quiet evidence of years of control—defined arms, ridged abs, strength earned patiently and without shortcuts.
Her personal trainer watched approvingly. “You’re stronger this month.”
Ling nodded, wiping sweat from her temple. “I’ve been consistent.”
That part was true.
What she didn’t say was that discipline was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.
She reset her grip, lifting again—until her phone buzzed on the bench beside her.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
With a faint frown, Ling glanced down.
A picture filled her screen.
Orm—sitting cross-legged on a couch, hair loose, smiling at something just out of frame. Soft. Familiar. Completely devastating.
Ling’s lips curved before she could stop herself.
Her trainer noticed immediately. “Someone special?”
Ling exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping. “Yes.”
She didn’t elaborate—but she didn’t need to.
There was something unmistakable in her voice. Something warm. Unguarded.
“She makes everything… lighter,” Ling added before she could catch herself.
She locked her phone, unaware that across the gym, someone had noticed.
A fellow gym-goer—recognizing her instantly—lifted their phone discreetly, catching the moment Ling smiled down at her screen. The way her expression softened. The way her posture relaxed, tension melting out of her shoulders.
The clip was short.
But it was enough.
---
By the time Ling arrived on set later that day, the video had already begun to circulate.
*Lingling Kwong smiling at her phone at the gym—who has her heart?*
*Never seen her like this.*
*She looks… in love?*
Ling didn’t know yet.
Orm did.
Orm sat in her chair, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring resolutely at the floor as crew bustled around them. Her phone lay facedown on her lap, burning like a secret she didn’t want to acknowledge.
She had watched the video twice.
The first time, disbelief.
The second time, pain.
*She never smiles like that at her phone for me,* Orm thought irrationally.
*Who were you thinking about?*
The thought made her chest ache.
Ling walked onto set, immediately scanning the space—finding Orm as easily as breathing.
She smiled.
The smile faltered when Orm didn’t return it.
Ling frowned and crossed the distance quickly. “Hey.”
Orm looked up briefly. “Hi.”
Too short. Too flat.
Ling’s heart sank.
---
They were guesting on a short arc for another series—nothing too heavy, just a few scenes. Lena and Miu were already there, bright-eyed and clearly excited.
“Oh my god, it’s really you,” Lena said, grinning. “We’ve heard so much.”
Orm smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”
Ling nodded. “Likewise.”
Miu laughed. “You two are exactly how people say.”
Orm stiffened slightly. “How’s that?”
“Close,” Miu said easily. “Comfortable.”
Ling glanced at Orm.
Orm looked away.
Ling’s chest tightened.
*What did I do?*
Throughout blocking, Orm was quieter than usual. She didn’t lean in. Didn’t seek Ling’s warmth. When Ling brushed her hand accidentally, Orm pulled away.
Each small rejection felt like a bruise.
Ling’s thoughts spiraled.
*Did I say something wrong?*
*Did I assume too much?*
*Did she finally realize how attached I am?*
Between takes, Ling finally murmured, “Can we talk?”
Orm hesitated, then nodded. “Later.”
Later felt unbearable.
---
They found a quiet corner behind the set—a narrow hallway, barely wide enough for the two of them.
Ling turned first. “Did I upset you?”
Orm laughed softly, without humor. “No.”
Ling knew that tone.
“Orm.”
Orm looked up, eyes sharp. Hurt. “Who was it?”
Ling blinked. “What?”
“The video,” Orm said quietly. “At the gym.”
Understanding dawned—followed by something close to panic.
“You saw that?”
Orm swallowed. “Everyone did.”
Ling stepped closer instinctively. “It was just—my phone. A picture.”
Orm’s voice cracked despite her efforts. “You looked happy.”
Ling stilled.
*I was,* she thought. *Because it was you.*
But the words tangled in her throat.
Orm pressed on, the dam breaking. “I didn’t know you had someone. You didn’t tell me.”
Ling’s heart pounded. “Orm, I don’t.”
“Then why—”
“Because it was you,” Ling said, too fast. Too honest.
Silence crashed between them.
Orm stared at her.
“What?”
Ling exhaled shakily. “The picture. The smile. It was you.”
Orm’s breath left her in a rush.
For a moment, neither moved.
Orm’s thoughts screamed.
*Don’t believe it.*
*Don’t hope.*
But hope bloomed anyway, wild and terrifying.
“Then why,” Orm whispered, “does it feel like I’m always the one reaching?”
Ling’s chest ached. She stepped closer, stopping just short of touching. “Because I’m scared.”
Orm laughed weakly. “Of what?”
“Of wanting something I’m not sure I’m allowed to have.”
Orm’s hands trembled.
*She wants me.*
*She’s scared.*
The realization was dizzying.
---
Lena peeked around the corner, sensing tension. “Everything okay?”
Ling nodded immediately. “Yes.”
Orm nodded too, though her eyes were glassy.
Back on set, things shifted.
Ling stayed close. Not retreating this time.
When Orm hesitated, Ling offered her arm.
Orm took it.
When Orm leaned in during a scene break, Ling didn’t pretend it was accidental.
Lena whispered to Miu, “They’re… intense.”
Miu smiled. “Yeah. In a good way.”
Orm caught Ling watching her again—openly now.
Her heart pounded.
*Mae was right,* Orm thought suddenly.
*I don’t want temporary things.*
She met Ling’s gaze and didn’t look away.
Ling’s breath caught.
Something had changed.
Not resolved—but seen.
And once seen, it couldn’t be unseen.
---
They weren’t ready to confess yet.
But they were done pretending nothing was happening.
And for the first time, that felt more exhilarating than terrifying.
---
Orm didn’t plan it.
That was the surprising part.
She just… stopped stepping away.
When Ling arrived on set that morning, still in casual clothes, hair damp from a rushed shower, Orm felt the familiar pull in her chest—and instead of swallowing it down, she followed it.
Ling barely had time to register Orm crossing the space before Orm’s hand slipped into hers.
Not dramatic.
Not sudden.
Just *certain*.
Ling froze for half a heartbeat.
Orm felt it—the micro-tension, the instinctive awareness of eyes, cameras, consequences. For a flicker of a second, fear whispered: *What if this is too much?*
Then Ling’s fingers curled around hers.
Firm. Anchoring.
Orm exhaled.
*I’m done pretending,* she thought.
*If the world is going to guess, I won’t keep lying.*
Ling leaned in, voice low. “Orm…?”
Orm didn’t look away. “I’m staying.”
The words weren’t romantic.
They were resolute.
Ling’s chest tightened painfully.
---
Orm stayed close throughout the morning.
Not clinging—but choosing.
When Ling reviewed blocking with the director, Orm stood just off to the side, arms loosely folded, watching attentively. When someone else stepped into Ling’s space to ask a question, Orm shifted closer without breaking conversation, presence calm but unmistakable.
Her hand found Ling’s wrist during breaks.
Her shoulder brushed Ling’s when they sat.
When Ling offered Orm a chair, Orm shook her head and perched lightly on the arm instead, hip pressed against Ling’s thigh.
Ling didn’t move away.
She tilted slightly, accommodating.
Crew members exchanged glances.
No one said anything—but people noticed.
---
Lena leaned toward Miu during a lighting adjustment, voice barely above a whisper.
“Is it just me,” she murmured, “or is Orm… different today?”
Miu didn’t take her eyes off the pair. “She’s not hiding.”
Lena blinked. “She never hid before.”
Miu shook her head. “She did. She always pulled back first.”
They watched as Ling reached automatically for Orm’s water bottle, passed it to her without looking. Orm took it, drank, then handed it back—fingers brushing deliberately, lingering.
Lena swallowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Miu said softly. “That’s not fanservice.”
---
It happened during a reset between takes.
Ling was standing near the monitor when one of the production assistants—young, friendly—laughed and stepped a little too close, showing Ling something on their phone.
Ling leaned in politely.
Orm watched from across the room.
She felt the old reflex rise—the instinct to stay put, to trust Ling, to not be *that person*.
She ignored it.
Orm crossed the room calmly and stopped beside Ling, close enough that her arm brushed Ling’s back. Without breaking the conversation, Orm rested her chin briefly on Ling’s shoulder.
Casual.
Intimate.
Claiming.
Ling stiffened—then softened instantly, body angling toward Orm without conscious thought.
“Oh,” the PA said, startled, stepping back slightly. “Sorry.”
Orm smiled politely. “It’s okay.”
Ling glanced down at Orm, surprise flickering—followed by something dangerously warm.
The PA left.
Ling didn’t.
She lifted a hand and tucked a strand of Orm’s hair behind her ear, slow and careful.
Orm didn’t flinch.
Across the room, someone coughed awkwardly.
Someone else pretended very hard not to stare.
---
Whispers rippled—not loud, but curious.
“Are they always like that?”
“They’re closer today.”
“Did you see Orm just now?”
Lena exhaled, eyes wide. “Okay. Wow.”
Miu laughed quietly. “She just planted her flag.”
Lena winced. “Bold.”
“Necessary,” Miu replied. “Ling’s been halfway out the door emotionally for weeks.”
Lena glanced at Ling—who was now absentmindedly rubbing Orm’s arm with her thumb while listening to the director.
“…Ling doesn’t look like she minds.”
“No,” Miu said. “She looks relieved.”
---
Orm felt strangely calm.
Her heart was still racing, but there was no shame in it now.
She noticed the looks. Felt the awareness settle over the room like humidity before rain.
For the first time, she didn’t want to shrink.
*I love her,* she admitted silently.
*I want her to choose me. And until she says otherwise, I won’t act like that’s something to hide.*
She glanced up at Ling, caught her watching her openly now—no pretense, no careful distance.
Ling’s gaze was soft.
Vulnerable.
Almost undone.
*She sees me,* Orm thought.
*Finally.*
---
Ling understood, then.
This wasn’t instinct.
This was a decision.
Orm wasn’t reacting—she was **claiming space**.
Not possessively. Not aggressively.
Just honestly.
Ling’s chest filled painfully with something like gratitude.
*She’s brave,* Ling thought.
*Braver than me.*
When Orm leaned in again, murmuring, “You okay?” Ling answered without hesitation.
“Yes,” she said. “Stay.”
Orm smiled.
And around them, the set adjusted—quietly, naturally—to the new truth taking shape.
No one stopped them.
No one questioned it.
Because whatever this was, it was clearly real.
---
The scene was supposed to be playful.
Light flirting. Teasing glances. A little tension for the audience.
Nothing dangerous.
Ling reminded herself of that as she stepped into position opposite Orm, cameras rolling, lights warm against their skin. She told herself this was work. That she had done scenes like this before.
But then Orm looked at her.
Not like a co-star.
Like someone who had decided—*fully decided*—to stop holding back.
Orm’s character leaned in, voice low, eyes bright with mischief. “You’re staring.”
Ling answered in character, but the words caught on something real. “Maybe I like what I see.”
Orm smiled—slow, deliberate—and took one step closer than blocking required.
Ling’s breath hitched.
*Focus,* she told herself.
*This is acting.*
But Orm’s hand brushed her arm—lingering just a fraction too long. Her thumb pressed lightly, grounding, familiar. The touch sent a spark straight through Ling’s chest.
The director didn’t call cut.
So they continued.
Orm tilted her head, gaze flicking to Ling’s mouth.
Ling felt it like a question.
*Is this still pretend?*
She didn’t pull away.
Their characters traded lines that felt dangerously close to confession—soft laughter, breathless tension. Orm leaned in again, noses brushing.
Ling forgot the cameras.
Forgot the crew.
Forgot every reason she had ever given herself to stay afraid.
When Orm closed the distance and kissed her, it wasn’t choreographed.
It was instinct.
The kiss was brief at first—testing, uncertain—then deeper when neither of them pulled away. Orm’s hand slid into Ling’s hair without thinking. Ling’s fingers curled into Orm’s sleeve, anchoring herself there.
Somewhere, distantly—
“Cut.”
They didn’t hear it.
The world narrowed to heat and closeness and the way Orm fit against her like she always had.
“Cut!” the director shouted again.
Still nothing.
Ling kissed Orm back before she could stop herself—heart pounding, relief flooding her chest like air after being underwater too long.
*This is what I want,* she realized with stunning clarity.
*This is who I want.*
“CUT!”
The third shout finally broke through.
They froze.
Pulled apart too quickly, breath uneven, eyes wide.
Silence.
Then nervous laughter rippled through the set.
“Oh—uh—sorry,” the director said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was… very committed.”
Orm’s face burned.
Ling felt something else entirely.
Relief.
Pure, unfiltered relief.
She glanced around instinctively—and then exhaled shakily when she realized.
Mae Koy wasn’t there.
The thought hit her all at once, followed by a dizzying mix of embarrassment and gratitude.
*Thank god,* she thought faintly.
Orm’s hand was still half-curled in Ling’s sleeve.
Neither of them let go right away.
Lena’s mouth was hanging open.
Miu’s eyebrows were somewhere near her hairline.
“…Did that just happen?” Lena whispered.
Miu didn’t even try to hide her grin. “Yeah.”
Orm finally found her voice, soft and breathless. “Sorry. I—”
Ling interrupted her quietly, firmly. “Don’t.”
Orm looked up.
Ling met her gaze—no hesitation left in her eyes now.
For the first time, she didn’t look afraid.
She looked decided.
And that—more than the kiss, more than the cameras—was what made Orm’s heart feel like it might burst.
---
The set was still buzzing from the scene.
Crew members shifted awkwardly. Someone cleared their throat. The director was halfway through giving notes, clearly flustered, when Orm’s panic finally caught up with her.
Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs.
*That shouldn’t have happened.*
*That was real.*
*Everyone saw.*
Orm took a step back.
Then another.
Her instincts screamed retreat—run, laugh it off, turn it into something small and survivable. She felt the heat crawl up her neck, the familiar urge to disappear before she ruined everything Ling had built so carefully.
“I—” Orm started, voice thin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
She turned.
She didn’t make it two steps.
“Orm.”
Ling’s voice wasn’t loud.
But it *cut* through the set like silence snapping shut.
Orm stopped.
Her back was still to Ling. Her hands trembled at her sides.
Ling took a step forward.
Then another.
She didn’t reach out—not yet. She knew if she touched Orm before saying it, she might lose the courage she’d finally found.
“I’m not sorry,” Ling said, steady now. “And I won’t pretend that was a mistake.”
Orm’s breath stuttered.
“I’ve been hesitating for months,” Ling continued, voice raw in a way no one on set had ever heard from her. “Telling myself I was protecting you. Protecting us. But the truth is—I was protecting myself.”
Orm’s eyes burned.
Ling swallowed. “I love you.”
The words landed like a physical force.
Orm spun around.
Her heart slammed violently against her chest, ears ringing, the world narrowing until there was only Ling standing there—open, vulnerable, eyes shining with something terrifyingly sincere.
“You—” Orm whispered. “You love me?”
Ling nodded. Once. Firm. No hesitation left anywhere in her.
“I love you,” she said again. “Not as a partner. Not as something temporary. I love you in a way that scares me because I want everything with you.”
The set was frozen.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Lena’s hand was pressed over her mouth.
Miu had gone completely still, eyes wide, stunned.
Even the director had forgotten to speak.
Orm felt tears spill before she could stop them.
“I thought,” she said, voice breaking, “I thought I was alone in this. I thought I was stupid for wanting something so serious.”
Ling stepped closer now. Close enough that Orm could feel her warmth.
“You’re not stupid,” Ling said softly. “You’re brave. I’m the one who was afraid.”
Orm laughed weakly through tears. “I was ready,” she admitted. “I don’t care that I’m twenty-three. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t think I ever could.”
Ling’s breath caught sharply.
Orm lifted her gaze fully, finally letting herself say it out loud.
“I love you too. I’ve loved you for so long it feels like part of me. And every time I got jealous, every time I tried to step back—it was because I already saw a future with you.”
Ling’s eyes filled.
“I see it too,” she whispered. “If you’ll let me stop running.”
Orm stepped forward and closed the distance herself this time, hands fisting lightly in Ling’s jacket.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Ling let out a shaky breath that sounded like relief—like surrender.
She cupped Orm’s face gently, reverently, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was allowed to.
The kiss they shared was soft.
Unrushed.
Nothing like the fire of the earlier scene—this one was quiet, deliberate, full of promise instead of urgency. A kiss that said *I choose you* instead of *I can’t help myself*.
When they parted, Orm rested her forehead against Ling’s.
Around them, the world slowly started breathing again.
Someone sniffed.
Someone whispered, “Oh my god.”
Mae Koy wasn’t there—but somehow, Orm felt like she’d approve.
Ling smiled softly, brushing her thumb under Orm’s eye. “No more hiding.”
Orm nodded, smiling through tears. “No more.”
And for the first time since they’d met, the love between them wasn’t something imagined, restrained, or half-held.
It was spoken.
It was chosen.
And it was finally—unmistakably—real.
---
Nobody realized it at first.
The PR team had quietly been filming behind-the-scenes footage, planning to capture candid moments of the actors between takes for the fans. A “special live segment” they thought would just show banter, playful gestures, and set life.
They hadn’t expected the confession.
And they hadn’t expected Orm and Ling to *stop hiding* right there.
When the cameras rolled, the live feed went out instantly—followers on CH3’s official account saw everything:
Orm’s panicked retreat.
Ling stepping forward, trembling slightly, voice quiet but firm.
The words that had been whispered in private for months: “I love you.”
Orm spinning around, heart hammering, tears catching the light, and replying with a whole heart: “I love you too.”
The gentle, deliberate kiss that sealed everything.
The live chat exploded within seconds.
> OMG THEY JUST SAID IT!
> I’M CRYING!
> ORM AND LING ARE OFFICIALLY TOGETHER!
> THE WHOLE WORLD JUST WITNESSED IT.
> I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED LIVE.
Fans were screaming, reposting clips, tagging everyone they knew. Emojis flooded every social media platform. Hashtags trended immediately:
#OrmLovesLing #KinglingForever #CH3HL #OfficiallyInLove
---
Orm blinked, still holding Ling’s hands, the world collapsing around them and settling into strange, chaotic clarity.
“Did that just—” Lena’s voice trailed off.
Miu stared slack-jawed, still frozen by the audacity of what had just happened. “I—wow. That… happened live?”
The director waved helplessly. “Well… cut. Uh. That was… a moment, I guess?”
Orm laughed nervously, heart hammering, and Ling leaned into her, whispering, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Orm nodded. “We are. Finally.”
They looked around at everyone on set, taking in shocked expressions, whispered conversations, wide eyes. But there was no shame. Not anymore.
They had chosen each other openly, and that mattered more than anyone’s reaction.
—
Within minutes, the confession had been clipped and shared across platforms. Memes, reaction videos, and live fan reactions filled social media. Fans debated, cried, laughed, and celebrated.
Every comment carried love, excitement, and relief.
> They were meant to be!
> Look at Orm’s face—she’s completely smitten!
> Ling looks so happy, I can’t!
> Mae Koy was right, we needed this!
> I can’t stop crying, it’s perfect.
Even rival fan groups paused in stunned silence before uniting in collective joy. For once, fandom wasn’t divided—they were completely in love with them.
---
CH3 quickly adjusted. Interviews were scheduled. Questions poured in:
“Was this planned?”
“How long have you two felt this way?”
“Did you know the cameras were live?”
Ling laughed softly, squeezing Orm’s hand under the table. “We didn’t plan for anyone to see that, but… I’m glad they did. There’s nothing to hide anymore.”
Orm smiled shyly but firmly. “I’ve wanted to say it for months. It just… happened here first. And it felt right.”
Reporters leaned in, captivated. Ling continued, voice gentle but clear:
“I love Orm, completely. And she loves me. That’s all that matters.”
Orm nodded, squeezing Ling’s hand. “We’re choosing each other every day. And that’s stronger than any script, any scene, any audience.”
The cameras caught the soft, natural way they leaned into each other, hands entwined, smiles shared without words.
It wasn’t just a confession anymore—it was a declaration of partnership, affection, and confidence.
---
After the initial chaos, the two of them returned to set with a calm they had never known before.
Fans were still watching live updates. Clips had already gone viral. But in that space—the empty hallways, quiet corners, shared makeup rooms—Orm and Ling felt free for the first time.
No pretense. No fear.
Orm rested her forehead against Ling’s shoulder, voice soft. “I can’t believe we waited so long to just… say it.”
Ling smiled, brushing Orm’s hair behind her ear. “I know. But we finally did. And now it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. We have each other.”
Orm’s chest swelled. “I want everything with you.”
Ling cupped her face, thumb brushing Orm’s cheek. “And you have it. Right here. Right now.”
They kissed again, slow, deliberate, savoring the warmth, the relief, the honesty.
For the first time, every glance, every touch, every beat of their hearts matched perfectly.
---
Yes, the fans were screaming. Yes, social media was ablaze. Yes, headlines were blaring across the country.
But in that room, on that set, nothing else mattered.
Orm and Ling had finally stopped pretending.
They had finally stopped hiding.
And they had finally, completely, chosen each other.
Hand in hand. Heart to heart. Ready for whatever came next.