Chapter 4

The silence in the car stretched between us, thick with something unspoken. The city outside blurred past in golden streaks, but my world had shrunk to the space between us—the soft hum of the engine, the faint scent of Lingling's cologne, the way the air felt heavier with every second that passed.

I could feel her. Not just in the obvious way—her presence beside me, the heat radiating from where she sat—but in a way that made my breath hitch, made my fingers press against the leather of my seat just to ground myself.

She hadn't moved. Not really. But I could see it in the tension in her shoulders, in the way her grip on the steering wheel had tightened ever so slightly, like she was holding herself back.

I swallowed, shifting in my seat. The alcohol in my system made everything sharper, made my heart beat a little too fast.

"Lingling." I didn't even know why I said her name. Maybe just to test the weight of it on my tongue. Maybe just to see what she'd do.

She exhaled through her nose, a slow and measured breath, like she was reining something in. "Hmm?"

Her voice was steady, but I didn't miss the way it dipped lower, rougher.

I turned my head to look at her, but the moment I did, I regretted it.

She was even more breathtaking up close. The sharp lines of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly as if she were about to say something but thought better of it. The low light softened her features, but her eyes—her dark, unreadable eyes—were locked onto the road with a kind of intensity that made my stomach twist.

She was trying. Trying not to look at me. Trying not to let whatever was running through her mind take over.

And suddenly, I wanted to test just how strong that restraint was.

I tilted my head slightly, watching her, my voice quieter when I spoke. "Are you always this focused when you drive?"

Lingling's fingers flexed against the wheel. She hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before she spoke. "No."

The answer was simple. But there was weight behind it.

A confession.

I wasn't imagining it. This tension between us, this pull—it wasn't just me.

I should have stopped there. I should have looked away. But the warmth in my veins made me bold, reckless.

"You look like you're thinking too much," I murmured, watching her. "That's rare for you."

Lingling let out a quiet breath, and this time, she did turn her head. Just for a second. Just long enough for our eyes to meet.

And that second was enough.

Her gaze was smoldering, filled with something restrained, something dangerous. I felt it like a spark against my skin, like if I got too close, I'd catch fire.

She looked back at the road almost immediately, her jaw tightening. "You shouldn't look at me like that."

My breath hitched.

"Like what?"

Lingling exhaled sharply, like she was already regretting saying anything. "Like you're waiting for something."

I swallowed hard. "And if I am?"

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles going pale. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer.

Then, her voice came, quieter this time. "Then you'd be playing with fire."

The words sent a shiver down my spine.

Because I believed her.

Because she wasn't just talking about me.

She was talking about herself, too.

I turned my gaze back to the road, my heart pounding.

Lingling was fighting something. Holding herself back.

And I had the terrifying feeling that if she ever let go—if she ever decided to stop restraining herself—there would be no turning back.

And worse?

I wasn't sure I'd want to.

The silence between us was different now. It wasn't the usual, charged quiet that Lingling commanded with her presence, the kind that demanded respect, that made men bow their heads and tread carefully around her. No—this silence was fragile, delicate, as if any wrong move could shatter something she wasn't ready to acknowledge.

I watched her from the corner of my eye, the way her fingers tapped once—just once—against the steering wheel before going still again. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.

Lingling Kwong, the most dangerous woman in the country, was nervous.

It sent a strange warmth through my chest, something I wasn't prepared for.

Her eyes flickered to me, barely a glance, but the moment our gazes met, she looked away just as quickly, her jaw tightening.

I tilted my head slightly. "You're acting strange," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

She let out a breath, one that almost sounded like a quiet laugh. "Am I?"

I nodded, studying her. "I don't think I've ever seen you hesitate before."

Her grip on the wheel flexed, and for the first time since I met her, Lingling looked almost... uncertain.

Not the mafia leader. Not the woman who commanded absolute loyalty and struck fear into the hearts of anyone who dared cross her.

Just Lingling.

Just a woman who, for some reason, seemed hesitant in my presence.

I shifted slightly in my seat, the alcohol in my system making it harder to hold back what I really wanted to say. "I didn't think anything could make you nervous."

Lingling exhaled slowly, as if steadying herself. "There aren't many things that do."

Her voice was lower now, softer.

And then, she finally turned to look at me.

It was brief, no more than a few seconds, but the weight of it made my stomach tighten. The usual sharpness in her eyes had dulled into something else—something unreadable, something unguarded.

I had seen Lingling look many ways before—calculating, amused, even dangerously entertained. But this? This was different.

It was almost as if she was afraid.

Not of me.

Of what I could mean.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.

For the first time, I wasn't sure which one of us was more in danger.

The weight of her gaze lingered even after she turned back to the road, as if it had carved itself into my skin, leaving something behind—something I wasn't sure I was ready to acknowledge.

The air in the car was thick, humming with an unspoken tension neither of us dared to address. The streetlights flickered past us, casting soft shadows over Lingling's face, highlighting the sharp cut of her jaw, the way her lips pressed together like she was holding something back.

My mind was hazy, the alcohol making it harder to think clearly, but I wasn't drunk enough to miss the shift in her demeanor. Lingling Kwong was never hesitant. She was deliberate, calculated, always three steps ahead. But right now, she looked like she was walking on a tightrope, unsure of what would happen if she took one more step forward.

I leaned my head against the cool window, my pulse thrumming in my ears. "You can just drop me off at the front," I murmured, breaking the silence.

Lingling didn't answer at first. Her fingers drummed once against the wheel, as if she was debating something, before she finally spoke. "I'll walk you up."

I turned to her, brows drawing together. "That's really not necessary—"

"I'll walk you up," she repeated, firmer this time, leaving no room for argument.

I sighed, knowing it was useless to fight her on this. Lingling wasn't the type to be swayed once she'd made a decision.

When she pulled up in front of my building, she parked the car with an effortless ease, stepping out before I could protest again. The night air was cool against my flushed skin as I climbed out, Lingling already by my side.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

I hesitated, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. "You really don't have to do this, you know," I said, quieter this time.

Lingling met my gaze, and for the first time, I saw something raw in her expression—something that made my stomach flip in a way I wasn't prepared for.

"I know," she murmured.

And yet, she still walked beside me.

The lobby was quiet, the only sound the soft click of our footsteps against the polished floors. The elevator ride up was even quieter. The space between us felt small, almost suffocating, but neither of us moved.

I stole a glance at her. The dim lighting cast long shadows across her features, making her look softer somehow, less untouchable.

I could have said something, filled the silence with something light, something casual. But I didn't. I just watched her, and when her eyes met mine again, something in my chest tightened.

I didn't know what I was expecting when we reached my door, but when I turned to face her, Lingling was already watching me with her mesmerizing eyes.

The hesitation was there again, the same flicker of restraint I'd seen in the car.

For a moment, I thought she might actually say something.

But instead, she just exhaled slowly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from my face. The touch was barely there, featherlight, but it sent a shiver down my spine.

"You should get some rest," she murmured, her voice lower now, more intimate.

I swallowed hard, my breath catching.

"Lingling—"

But before I could finish, she was already stepping back, putting distance between us as if she needed to remind herself of something.

"Goodnight, Orm," she said softly.

And then she turned and walked away.

I stood there, frozen in the doorway, my pulse hammering in my ears as I watched Lingling walk away. She moved with that same effortless grace, but something was different—something in the way her shoulders were set, in the way she kept her gaze ahead, like she was forcing herself to leave.

I should've gone inside. I should've locked the door behind me and collapsed into bed, let the alcohol wear off and push away whatever this was twisting inside my chest.

But I didn't.

"Lingling."

I hadn't meant to call out to her, but the name slipped past my lips before I could stop it.

She stopped.

Slowly, almost cautiously, she turned back toward me. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes—they gave her away.

The tension between us coiled, tight and electric, stretching thin as if one wrong move would snap it entirely.

I didn't know what I wanted to say.

Thank you?Goodnight?Why do you look at me like that?

The words tangled in my throat, unspoken, and for a long moment, we just stood there, caught in the silence.

And then she did something unexpected.

She smiled.

Not the calculated, knowing smirk she wore when she was teasing me. Not the sharp, predatory curve of her lips when she was playing a game only she knew the rules to.

This smile was softer, quieter. A flicker of something real.

"Sleep well, doctor."

Her voice was gentler this time, like a secret meant only for me.

And before I could respond, before I could even think, she turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving me standing there, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.

I exhaled shakily, leaning my forehead against the doorframe.

This was dangerous.

Lingling Kwong was dangerous.

Not just because of who she was, not just because of the power she held, but because of the way she made me feel.

And I wasn't sure if I was ready to face that yet.

With a quiet sigh, I pushed open my door, stepping inside and locking it behind me.

But even as I crawled into bed, even as exhaustion pulled at my limbs, I couldn't shake the warmth lingering on my skin, the ghost of her touch, the memory of her eyes on mine.

And for the first time in a long time, sleep didn't come easy.

...

The days passed in a blur of routine, each one blending into the next with the predictable rhythm of my life. Mornings in the clinic, afternoons filled with consultations and surgeries, evenings spent unwinding with friends or curled up in my apartment with a book in my lap, though more often than not, I would catch myself staring at the pages without really reading them.

On the surface, everything was the same.

But something was different.

I was different.

And I knew exactly why.

Lingling had disappeared.

Not in a dramatic way—there were no urgent calls, no reports of something gone terribly wrong. Just silence. A week of nothing.

It shouldn't have bothered me.

I told myself it didn't bother me.

But my mind betrayed me in the quiet moments. When I was sipping my coffee between patient appointments, when I was washing my face before bed, when I was lying awake in the dark, staring at my ceiling—she would creep into my thoughts like a shadow, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

Where was she?

Had something happened?

Or was she simply...gone?

The thought unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

"Orm," Charlotte's voice snapped me back to reality. I blinked, realizing I had been absentmindedly stirring my iced coffee for far too long, the ice nearly melted into the caramel swirl. Across from me, Charlotte was squinting at me suspiciously, her fork hovering over her slice of cake. "You okay? You spaced out."

I forced a small smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

She didn't look convinced. "You sure? You've been weird this week."

Namtan, sitting beside her, nodded in agreement. "Super weird."

"I have not," I scoffed, taking a sip of my coffee.

Priya, who had been scrolling through her phone, finally looked up and arched a brow. "You totally have. I've seen you check your phone like five times in the last ten minutes."

I stiffened. "I have not."

Charlotte smirked. "Who are you waiting to text you?"

"No one."

Namtan gasped dramatically. "Oh my god. Is it a guy? A secret boyfriend?"

I nearly choked on my drink. "No! What the hell??"

"A girl then?" Charlotte wiggled her brows. "Orm, if you've been holding out on us—"

"It's not like that." I groaned, rubbing my temples as they all started bombarding me with questions at once. "Can we please talk about something else?"

Priya narrowed her eyes. "It's Lingling Kwong, isn't it?"

The table fell silent.

My fingers tightened around my glass.

I should've denied it immediately. I should've laughed it off and changed the subject. But the moment stretched too long, my hesitation saying more than words ever could.

"Oh my god," Charlotte whispered, leaning forward. "It is her."

Namtan looked between me and Priya with wide eyes. "Wait, wait, wait. The mafia woman? The one who got shot? The one who—"

"Yes," I cut in before they could make it sound worse than it already was. "But it's not like that."

Priya tilted her head. "Then what is it like?"

I hesitated.

I didn't have an answer.

Lingling and I...we weren't anything. Not really.

But that night—the way she looked at me, the way her voice softened when she said goodnight, the way she had lingered as if she didn't want to leave either—

I swallowed hard and took a slow sip of my coffee, avoiding their expectant gazes.

"I don't know," I admitted. "She just... hasn't been around this week."

Charlotte hummed, tapping her fork against her plate. "And you miss her."

I scoffed. "I didn't say that."

"But you do."

I looked away.

And maybe that answer was enough.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, the glow of my bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the room. The city hummed outside my window, the distant sounds of traffic and the occasional muffled voices of late-night wanderers filling the quiet.

I should have been asleep by now. My body ached from the long hours at the clinic, my mind exhausted from the endless patient charts and consultations. But instead, I was wide awake, my thoughts circling back—again and again—to the one thing I had been trying to push away all week.

Lingling.

I turned onto my side, exhaling sharply as if the mere act of breathing could rid me of the weight pressing on my chest. It had been a week. Seven days of silence. No calls. No texts. No cryptic appearances outside my clinic, leaning against her sleek black G-Wagon, watching me with that unreadable expression.

And I hated how much I noticed her absence.

I told myself it was nothing. She was busy. She had a life—one that, if I was being honest, was far more dangerous and complicated than mine. Whatever business she had to handle, it wasn't my concern.

But that didn't stop me from wondering.

Was she okay?

Had something happened to her?

Or worse—had I been a passing amusement? A distraction she had indulged in for a brief moment before moving on?

The thought made my stomach twist uncomfortably.

I pulled my blanket up to my chin, shutting my eyes tightly, willing myself to sleep.

I wouldn't text her. I wouldn't call.

I wasn't the type to chase after someone, especially not someone like her.

But just as I was sinking into a restless sleep, my phone vibrated against my nightstand.

The sound shot through me like a spark, my pulse quickening as I reached for it. The screen glowed in the dark, a single name illuminating the silence.

'Lingling Kwong'

I hesitated.

For a fraction of a second, I considered ignoring it. Letting it ring. Making her wait like she had made me wait all week.

But my fingers betrayed me, swiping across the screen before I could stop myself.

I held the phone to my ear, my voice quieter than I intended.

"...Hello?"

There was a pause. A soft inhale. And then—

"You're awake."

Her voice, smooth as silk, slid through the speaker like a slow caress.

I swallowed, shifting under my blanket. "Obviously."

A soft chuckle. "Did I wake you?"

I turned onto my back, staring up at the ceiling again. "No. Couldn't sleep."

Lingling was silent for a moment, as if considering something. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, gentler.

"...I'm sorry I disappeared."

I blinked. That was the last thing I had expected her to say.

"I was handling some things," she continued. "I didn't mean to leave you wondering."

I exhaled slowly, my grip on the phone tightening just a little. "I wasn't wondering."

A lie.

Lingling hummed, unconvinced. "No?"

"No," I lied again. "I've been busy."

She chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Of course. Doctor things."

"Exactly."

Another pause.

And then, quietly—"I missed you."

My heart skipped a beat.

I turned my face into my pillow, closing my eyes. She said it so easily, so effortlessly, like it wasn't a big deal at all. Like she hadn't just knocked the air out of my lungs with three simple words.

I took a steadying breath, willing my voice to stay even. "You don't have to say things like that."

"But I mean them."

I bit my lip.

Lingling sighed on the other end. "Are you free tomorrow?"

I hesitated. "...Why?"

"I want to see you."

My fingers curled into my sheets.

Lingling was dangerous. She was someone I should stay away from. And yet—

"...Okay," I murmured.

"Okay," she echoed, satisfaction lacing her tone. "I'll pick you up after your shift."

And just like that, the line went dead.

I stared at my phone, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

Lingling was back.

And something told me that whatever happened next—whatever this thing between us was becoming—it wouldn't be something I could walk away from easily.

....

The next day at the clinic felt like it stretched on forever. I buried myself in my work, moving from patient to patient, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of my day. But no matter how hard I tried, there was an undeniable hum beneath my skin—a restlessness that hadn't been there before.

Lingling's voice still echoed in my head. 'I want to see you.'

I had replayed the conversation a hundred times in my mind, dissecting every word, every pause. She had been gone for a week, and then, just like that, she was back—like a storm rolling in after a stretch of clear skies. And now, I was standing at the edge, waiting to see if I'd get caught in the downpour.

By the time my shift ended, the sky outside was painted in streaks of burnt orange and deep violet. I changed into my casual clothes—a simple white blouse and jeans—before stepping out of the clinic.

And there she was.

Leaning against her black Mercedes G-Wagon, dressed in a sleek, tailored suit that hugged her frame effortlessly. The streetlights hadn't fully flickered on yet, but even in the fading daylight, she looked dangerous—not in the way that sent alarms blaring, but in the way that made it hard to look away.

She was waiting for me.

Lingling's gaze found mine the moment I stepped outside. A slow, almost lazy smile curled at her lips as she straightened, moving with the kind of grace that seemed effortless.

I hesitated at the door of the clinic, suddenly feeling like I had walked into something I wasn't fully prepared for.

"You're on time," she remarked, voice smooth as ever. "Impressive."

I folded my arms. "I take my commitments seriously."

She stepped closer, closing the space between us inch by inch. "Good to know."

For a moment, she just looked at me. Not like she was trying to figure me out, but like she had already decided something about me—something that both intrigued and unsettled me.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached for the passenger door and opened it. A silent invitation.

I stared at her for a beat longer, my heart betraying me with its uneven rhythm. Then, with a steady breath, I slipped inside.

As soon as the door shut behind me, the space inside the car felt different. More intimate. The scent of Lingling's cologne lingered in the air—woodsy, dark, something that felt inherently her.

She slid into the driver's seat, her movements deliberate, controlled. When she turned to look at me, there was something in her gaze—something softer than her usual unreadable expression.

"Dinner?" she asked, her voice quieter now, like this moment wasn't meant to be rushed.

I nodded.

Lingling smirked, shifting gears. "Let's go, then."

The engine purred to life, and as we pulled away from the curb, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just stepped into something I wouldn't be able to step out of so easily.

And maybe—just maybe—I didn't want to.

As the car smoothly merged onto the road, the city lights flickering past us, I stole a glance at Lingling. She looked effortlessly composed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. But beneath that carefully cultivated air of control, something was... off.

It was the way her shoulders seemed just a fraction tenser than usual, the way her fingers flexed slightly against the leather steering wheel, like she was testing her own strength. But what caught my attention the most was something else entirely.

A thin line of scratches peeked out from the collar of her crisp white shirt.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the shadows—the dim glow from the dashboard playing tricks on my eyes. But when she shifted slightly, the fabric pulled, revealing the unmistakable raw marks trailing down her collarbone.

A strange feeling curled in my stomach.

"You're staring, Doctor." Lingling's voice was smooth, teasing, but there was an edge to it—like she already knew what I had noticed.

I straightened slightly, my brows furrowing. "You're injured."

She let out a soft chuckle, her fingers tapping lazily against the wheel. "You say that like it's unusual."

I clenched my jaw. "It should be."

Lingling tilted her head slightly, sparing me a sideways glance. There was something unreadable in her expression—something that flickered just beneath the surface of her usual confidence.

I shifted in my seat, trying to suppress the sudden wave of irritation bubbling in my chest. "Let me see."

Her smirk deepened. "Are you always this demanding?"

I ignored the way my face warmed at the way she said it. "Lingling."

She hummed, as if amused, but she didn't argue. With one hand still on the wheel, she reached up and unbuttoned the first two buttons of her shirt, just enough to expose the full extent of the scratches.

I inhaled sharply.

The marks were fresh—thin, jagged streaks of red marring her otherwise flawless skin. They trailed from the base of her throat, disappearing beneath the fabric of her shirt. Some were shallow, barely breaking the skin, but others looked deeper, angry.

Something in my chest tightened.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice quieter now.

Lingling gave a one-shouldered shrug, buttoning her shirt back up with the same practiced ease she did everything else. "Occupational hazard."

"That's not an answer."

She smirked again, but this time, it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's the only one you're getting."

Frustration simmered beneath my skin. I hated how easily she brushed it off, how normal she made it seem. And yet... the way she carefully buttoned her shirt back up, the way she so easily turned her gaze back to the road, it felt like a wall slamming shut between us.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to lean back into the seat. "At least let me put something on them. They could get infected."

Lingling chuckled softly. "So serious, Doctor Kornnaphat."

I didn't smile. "I'm serious because I care."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

For a brief moment, Lingling stilled. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the wheel, and when she turned to look at me again, something in her expression had shifted.

I had seen Lingling wear many masks—composed, playful, unreadable. But this... this was something different.

Something raw.

Something that made my heart stutter in my chest.

Her gaze lingered on me for a beat too long, her lips parting slightly, as if she wanted to say something. But then, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed. She exhaled softly through her nose, turning her attention back to the road.

"I'll be fine," she murmured.

I wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure me or herself.

But I didn't believe her.