The dinner the next evening was Fiona's idea. She invited Lin, and Yeh, almost without thinking, brought Gary into the plan. It wasn't a deliberate attempt to even things out—Gary had always been part of the inner circle she shared with Fiona, his presence in moments like this as natural as it was unremarkable.
He was one of Yeh's long-standing partners in the investment world, someone she had known for years, their collaboration marked by a quiet, reliable rhythm. He was just as familiar with Fiona, to the point where, in many situations, Fiona's role was to absorb the social weight Yeh preferred to avoid. Yeh didn't drink much, nor did she enjoy overly warm, performative gatherings; Fiona, on the other hand, could carry a room with ease, smoothing over any edges before they had the chance to show.
The restaurant was one Yeh frequented, a window-side table already waiting, soft light pooling over the surface while the city unfolded beyond the glass in a muted glow. She slipped into her usual seat on the inside without a second thought. Gary, almost instinctively, pulled out her chair and handed her the menu, the movement so fluid it felt less like courtesy and more like memory—something repeated often enough to become second nature.
Across from her, Lin watched it all in silence.
Gary's behavior was attentive, considerate, but never intrusive. He carried himself with an ease that came from having everything in place: steady temperament, measured speech, a warmth extended to everyone, though with Yeh, it lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.
"Why are you ordering so light?" he asked, glancing over the menu.
"I'm trying to lose weight," Yeh replied, the answer coming almost automatically.
"You don't need to," he said, just as naturally. "You've kept in great shape all these years."
Lin's hand, wrapped around her glass, paused—barely noticeable, but not entirely. It wasn't the words that caught her, but the familiarity behind them, something that couldn't be improvised.
"You've known each other a long time?" she asked, her tone even.
"For years." Gary smiled, offering nothing further.
In that instant, a thought settled with unsettling clarity in Lin's mind: it wasn't that Yeh lacked people who came close. She simply had never chosen any of them as the answer.
The rest of the evening moved with an easy rhythm. Fiona kept the conversation flowing, Gary met it effortlessly, Yeh added just enough, and Lin remained within it, though never entirely of it. There was nothing overt between Gary and Yeh—no deliberate closeness—yet certain details refused to go unnoticed. He remembered what she didn't eat and avoided it without asking; they arrived at the same conclusions from different angles; sometimes, just before speaking, Yeh would glance at him, as if checking an unspoken alignment. Subtle, but constant.
Lin barely touched her food. She wasn't angry, nor was she uneasy. It was something quieter than that—a realization that arrived without warning: if Yeh truly meant what she had said before, that she wouldn't fall for a woman in real life, then Lin didn't even have the ground to justify what she was feeling. The clarity of that thought cut deeper than any direct rejection ever could.
By the time dinner ended, Gary had already left. Fiona excused herself to the restroom, leaving Yeh and Lin alone by the entrance, standing in the night as they waited for their cars, the air settling into a brief, suspended stillness.
"Your friend," Lin said at last, her voice light, almost weightless, "he treats you well."
There was no judgment in it, no emotion layered beneath—just a simple statement.
"He's always been like that," Yeh replied.
Lin looked at her, pausing for a beat. "Have you ever considered it?"
"Considered what?" Yeh asked, though the answer was already there.
"Being with him." Lin's tone remained steady, without a trace of teasing or hesitation.
Yeh stilled, caught off guard by the directness. For a moment, there was nowhere to deflect, nowhere to step aside. After a brief silence, she said, "I did. Before."
It was the truth. There had been a time when she had thought about it seriously—when choosing someone stable, someone suitable, someone kind, had seemed like the easier path, if nothing else ever stirred her.
"And now?" Lin pressed gently.
Yeh lifted her gaze to meet hers. For a fleeting second, she felt the weight of the question, knew it deserved more than an easy answer.
"Not anymore."
"Why?"
"No feeling."
She said it calmly, as if repeating something she had said before, something long settled.
Only she knew that it was no longer entirely true.
Before, there had been nothing.
Now, it was because there was already someone she has feeling for.