They met Fiona for dinner that evening at a familiar restaurant—one of those places where conversation flows easily, the lighting is soft, and the noise level is just right. No forced pleasantries were required, and when Yeh and Lin arrived, Fiona had already ordered the food.
Fiona looked up, her gaze shifting from Lin to Yeh, observing them with quiet attention, as if she were noticing something new or confirming a suspicion.
"When did you two get this close?"
She said it casually, even with a hint of amusement, yet the question landed with precise weight, leaving little room to dodge. She knew Yeh had spent nearly every day accompanying Lin to view apartments, and she also knew Lin was currently staying at Yeh's place. Put together, these facts spoke volumes.
Yeh felt a sudden flush of awkwardness. She and Fiona had been friends for years, and there was hardly anything they couldn't talk about—but this was something she had never voluntarily brought up. Even during their time in Bangkok, she had only mentioned Lin in passing, keeping her words vague, as if by leaving things undefined, she could keep them safe from labels or judgment.
Lin, however, seemed entirely at ease. She lifted her glass and took a slow sip of water, speaking in a bright, unconcerned tone. "We were already this close back in Bangkok, you know."
Fiona raised an eyebrow, her eyes resting meaningfully on Yeh's face for a moment. "Is that so?"
The words were drawn out softly, carrying a wealth of unspoken implication.
Lin remained oblivious to the subtle tension simmering between them and smoothly continued the conversation, recounting the past few days of house-hunting. She described the dimly lit apartments, the overly chatty agents, and finally, the beautiful place with floor-to-ceiling windows—speaking vividly, her voice light with the relief of finally settling things.
Fiona listened, nodding occasionally, and finally raised her glass with a warm smile toward Lin. "Well then—welcome to the city, officially."
It was a natural gesture, yet it carried the gentle weight of bringing someone fully into their circle.
Halfway through the meal, Lin's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her expression unchanged.
"I'll just step outside to take this," she said.
She stood up and walked out, her figure quickly blending into the glow of the streetlights near the entrance.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Fiona shifted her chair closer to Yeh, lowering her voice until it was barely audible.
"You have feelings for her, don't you?"
Yeh froze completely. For a split second, she honestly didn't know how to answer. She was rarely caught off guard like this—usually, she assessed situations quickly and had her responses ready—but right now, she couldn't even manage a simple 'yes' or 'no.'
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She didn't deny it, nor did she admit it. She just remained silent, and that silence alone was answer enough.
Fiona looked at her and sighed softly. She had suspected it for a while; she knew Yeh's ways of showing care too well, and the changes she'd seen recently were far too obvious, even without a single word spoken.
She chose not to press further, simply softening her tone. "Don't worry—I understand."
There was no gossip, no probing, no judgment—just quiet acceptance, as if she were gently catching something fragile Yeh had been trying to hold alone.
Yeh was unexpectedly moved. She had guarded her feelings so carefully, believing that if she never spoke them aloud, they could remain vague and safe, never growing too large or demanding. But now someone had seen through her, and instead of forcing her to face it or putting a name to it, Fiona was simply telling her: I see you.
She lowered her head, smiling faintly—a smile tinged with helplessness, but also with a quiet sense of relief.
Fiona watched her, then added, her voice turning slightly more serious. "But there's one thing I need to say."
Yeh looked up.
"You need to let people in," Fiona said. She paused, giving the words space to sink in. "Stop hiding all the time."
Yeh didn't reply. Of course she understood exactly what Fiona meant, and she knew the advice was right. But knowing and changing were two very different things, especially when keeping control and staying safe had become her second nature.
The conversation ended there. Lin soon returned and sat down as if nothing had happened, and the easy rhythm of the dinner resumed naturally.
When the meal was over, Fiona glanced at the time and mentioned casually, "I'm meeting some friends at a bar later. Why don't you two come along?"
She looked at both of them, her tone was inviting and light.
Before Lin could answer, Yeh hesitated. She was genuinely tired—between the days of running around viewing apartments and the nights spent catching up on work, her energy was worn thin. Besides, loud, crowded places had never been her preference.
But before she could speak, Lin answered for her.
"We'd better pass this time," she said with a gentle smile. "Yeh's had a long day."
It wasn't a question, nor was there any hesitation. It came so naturally, as if looking out for Yeh was simply something she did automatically now.
"We're heading home."
Home.
The word settled in Yeh's chest, soft and warm.
Not back to your place, nor just back—but simply home. It was said without any emphasis, yet it carried a quiet, undeniable sense of belonging, as if Lin already considered herself part of Yeh's world.
It suddenly struck her that Lin no longer saw herself as just a temporary guest, but as someone who belonged in Yeh's daily life.
Fiona watched them and laughed softly. "Alright then—you two go on home and rest."
She drew out the words "you two" slowly, her tone laced with gentle teasing.
Lin didn't seem to notice anything unusual and nodded easily.
Yeh, however, felt a flush rise to her cheeks and smiled shyly, saying nothing.
As they stepped out onto the street, the night air was pleasantly cool, and streetlights cast long, golden shadows across the pavement.
Walking beside her, Lin asked naturally, "You really are tired today, aren't you?"
Yeh shook her head lightly. "I'm fine, really."
Her voice was quiet, careful not to make too much of it. But in that moment, she realized something clearly.
Sometimes, what shakes you isn't a grand confession or an intentional gesture of closeness—it's the quiet, unspoken ways someone takes care of you, as if it's the most natural thing in the world; it's knowing that even before you speak, you are already part of their considerations.
It was so gentle, so seamless, that by the time Yeh realized what was happening, it felt almost too late to pull away.
And deep down, a faint unease stirred—because she was already growing used to having Lin by her side.