Later that evening, Lin invited Yeh, Fiona, and a few members of her team to dinner nearby.
By then, the city had softened.
Streetlights came on one by one, stretching shadows across the pavement, and the night moved at a pace Yeh wasn't used to—unhurried, almost indulgent.
As they walked, Lin slowed slightly, matching Yeh's steps without making it obviou.
"How old are you?" she asked, casually, as if the answer meant nothing.
Yeh paused for half a beat.
"I won't tell you."
Later, almost accidentally, she would learn they were born in the same year.
Dinner was at a small bistro tucked along a quiet street. Warm amber light filled the room, low enough to blur edges, soft enough to make everything feel closer than it should.
The table was small. Their knees didn't touch, but Yeh was acutely aware of how little space there was left between them.
Under the dim lighting, Lin's eyes seemed clearer than they had earlier—reflecting light in a way that felt unfair, almost deliberate.
Every time Yeh looked up and looj into eyes of Lin, she caught herself looking away again.
Yeh wasn't used to talking about life goals on a first meeting.
That night, she did—without noticing when she had crossed that line.
Halfway through the meal, Lin asked again. Her voice was quieter this time, gentler.
"So…"
A pause.
"Do you like women?"
Yeh froze.
Only for a second—but Lin noticed.
"I'm very shy," Yeh said softly. "I don't really talk about internal feelings, you can ask Fiona."
Lin nodded. She didn't follow up.
They talked about why they worked the way they did. About ambition. About fear. About what it meant to want to change something—anything—even if the change was small.
When Yeh said, "I think I just want to change something,"
Lin said the same thing at almost exactly the same moment.
They looked at each other, surprised, then laughed softly at the coincidence.
At some point, the conversation drifted to childhood—old television shows, half-remembered scenes. Yeh couldn't later recall what she had said, only Lin's response.
"You're really cute."
The word landed unexpectedly.
Yeh felt heat rise to her face. No one—or almost no one—had ever described her that way. She was used to being called capable, composed, professional.
Cute didn't belong to her self-image.
When Fiona mentioned that Yeh didn't drink, that she lived a very disciplined life, Yeh noticed a brief flicker of disbelief in Lin's eyes.
Yeh knew Lin liked drinking. Liked crowds. Liked noise.
She had already prepared herself mentally to follow everyone to a bar afterward.
But it didn't happen.
Fiona leaned closer and whispered, "We've been talking for eight hours."
Yeh blinked, genuinely surprised.
They said goodbye at a street corner. The wind was light, and the night felt unhurried—like it was deliberately giving them more time.
Lin took the initiative to add Yeh on WeChat.
When Yeh got back to her hotel room, she stared at her phone for a moment longer than necessary before sending the first message.
"It was really nice meeting you."
Lin replied almost immediately.
One message led to another. And another.
They discovered their birthdays were only four days apart. Same zodiac sign.
Yeh invited Lin and her team to spend New Year's in Bangkok.
Lin replied, "Maybe we will."
The conversation paused there.
But Yeh didn't feel settled.
For the first time in five years, she found herself checking her phone without a reason. Waiting, without admitting that she was waiting.
For three years, she hadn't felt this way about anyone—waiting for a reply
She wasn't sure if it was a good thing.
What she did know was that she cared now,
because expectation for someone had crept in—
and she could no longer control it.