STAY CLOSE

CHAPTER 1

The scent of rain in Bangkok always smelled exactly the same: a sharp, metallic tang of hot asphalt meeting sudden water, followed immediately by the sweet, heavy aroma of Jasmine rice steaming from the street stalls outside their apartment block.

Ling Ling Kwong stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of their shared living room, her fingers hooked loosely around a mug of black coffee that had long since gone lukewarm. In the gray, refracted light of the afternoon downpour, her reflection looked back at her with its usual calm precision. Her long, dark hair fell in perfectly smooth sheets past her shoulders, her sharp jawline and high cheekbones giving her that cool, untouchable aura the agency photographers always raved about. But if anyone looked closer—if Orm looked closer—they would see the faint, perpetual tension in the corner of her mouth.

Inside the bedroom, a sudden, violent crash of hangers signaled that the storm wasn't just outside.

"Ling! Have you seen my white linen halter? The one with the small blue embroidery near the hem? If it's in your closet again, I'm going to personally dye all your black shirts pastel pink!"

Ling didn't turn around. A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips, softening the severe lines of her face. "It's not in my closet, Kornnaphat. It's on the drying rack on the balcony. Where you left it three days ago."

A brief silence followed, punctuated only by the rhythmic thrumming of rain against the glass. Then, the bedroom door flew open, and Orm burst out like a small, disorganized hurricane.

Orm was the absolute antithesis of Ling's quiet order. Her wavy, chestnut-brown hair was currently piled into a chaotic, messy bun held together by a single glittery claw clip. She was wearing one of Ling's oversized gray hoodies—the sleeves completely swallowing her hands—and a pair of tiny denim shorts. Her round, expressive eyes were wide with a mix of panic and triumph, her full lips pouted in that specific, dangerous way that usually meant Ling was about to lose an argument before it even started.

"Why didn't you tell me it was outside?" Orm whined, stomping over and immediately invading Ling's personal space. She didn't stop until her shoulder was pressed firmly against Ling's side, her smaller frame automatically seeking the familiar warmth. "If it gets soaked by the rain, my entire outfit concept for tomorrow is ruined. Completely. Devastated."

"It's under the awning. It's perfectly dry," Ling said softly, her voice a low, grounding contrast to Orm's high-energy theatricality. Without looking down, Ling raised her left hand and expertly tucked a stray, curling lock of hair behind Orm's ear. It was a gesture so practiced, so ancient between them, that neither of them even registered it as an action. It was just gravity.

"Good," Orm grumbled, leaning her head against Ling's shoulder for a brief three seconds before pulling away to pace the room. "Because tomorrow is the day. The tickets go live at exactly ten in the morning. If the Wi-Fi cuts out like it did during the monsoon last week, I will actually pass away, Ling. I'm not joking. My heart will stop."

"It's just a concert ticket, Orm."

Orm stopped dead in her tracks, turning around to glare at Ling as if her best friend had just suggested they sell their souls to a street vendor. "Just a concert ticket? Just? Lingling, this isn't some random indie band playing at a bar in Ekkamai. This is Pow. This is Yorch."

The name felt like a tiny, sharp needle pressing into the skin directly beneath Ling's breastbone. She kept her face perfectly still, her modeling training serving its ultimate purpose as a shield against her own life. She took a slow sip of the cold coffee to cover the sudden dryness in her throat.

"He doesn't even know you're buying a ticket," Ling said, keeping her tone light, teasing, safely within the boundaries of the 'sensible best friend' persona she had perfected over more than a decade.