Chapter 10 - Confrontation

Orm's First Instinct? Run.

Run.

Turn around, bolt in the opposite direction, vanish into thin air if possible.

Because facing Lingling right now? Absolutely not. Nope. Not today.

Her fight-or-flight response had clearly selected flight—even if her feet were stuck in a heap of panic. Unfortunately, Lingling, ever the prescient force of nature, had already predicted this very reaction.

Before Orm could even take a backward step (or a sideways shuffle, for that matter), Lingling shifted with the effortless grace of a cat blocking a doorway. There was no hint of theatrics in the movement; it was just as if Lingling had been waiting for Orm to commit her escape plan.

Blocked.

Orm's stomach performed a dramatic somersault that would have earned a perfect score at any circus. A tiny, begrudging part of her brain—even one that secretly appreciated efficiency—found a fleeting moment of admiration for Lingling's impeccable timing. A much larger, more vocal part of her brain, however, was screaming, "RUN, ORM, RUN!"

"Oh," Orm managed to squeak out, forcing a laugh that was about as genuine as a knock-off designer purse. "Hey. Fancy seeing you here."

Lingling didn't offer any response—not a blink, not a nod, not even a half-hearted wave. She simply stood there: steady, calm, and as unreadable as a dense legal contract. It was like standing before a statue carved entirely out of indifference.

"You've been avoiding me," Lingling stated matter-of-factly, her voice flat and uncompromising.

Orm froze. Her hands clutched at her sides until they transformed into two tiny fists of protest. "I—no, I haven't," she stammered, realizing that her voice sounded suspiciously like a toddler caught in a cookie jar.

Lingling raised an eyebrow. Clearly, Orm's lie was as unconvincing as a rubber snake in a pet store display. "I mean," Orm continued, desperately, "I've just been—busy."

Busy? The word echoed in the silent void between them, the lie hanging like a damp flag.

Lingling's stare was as unyielding as a judge's gavel about to be dropped on a guilty verdict. Orm could almost hear Lingling silently counting the seconds before her lie would unravel. It was as if Lingling was waiting for Orm to finish lying to herself—and, by extension, to everyone else.

Orm swallowed hard. Oh god, this was already a disaster in the making. In her panic, she thought, "Maybe if I change the subject, the conversation will somehow dissolve into nothingness."

"So, uh—" she started in a voice that suddenly reached a pitch more suitable for a cartoon chipmunk, "How's law school going?"

For a beat, Lingling blinked once—just a single, measured blink, as if checking a mental watch. Then, without missing a beat, she said, "I'm not letting you change the subject."

Damn it. Of course not. Because nothing in Orm's life ever went smoothly, especially not on days like these. Lingling's expression remained as calm as a Zen master in a silent retreat, but her eyes had a hint of mischief and determination, as if to say, "You're not escaping until I get my answers."

And Orm?

Orm was about as prepared for this conversation as a goldfish is for a marathon.

"I don't—I mean, I really don't think we need to talk about—"

"We do."

Lingling's voice cut in, steady and final, like the closing line of a judge's ruling.

She wasn't asking; she was telling.

In that moment, Orm felt as if she were cornered in a dark alley by a relentless interrogator. Trapped. Outmatched. Her mind spun with thoughts of impending doom—while her heart pounded like a runaway bass drum.

And worse? Lingling hadn't even delivered the main event yet. Even as Orm's eyes darted around, looking for a way out, she could sense that this conversation was just warming up to its full dramatic potential. Orm already knew—she wasn't getting out of this in one piece.

Still, she had to try to defuse the situation, even if it meant opening her mouth and spewing out every awkward word she had rehearsed in her head. "This is ridiculous," Orm said, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a nervous hiccup. "It's not even—" she began.

"You ran before I could ask."

That sentence landed like a lead brick on Orm's already battered psyche. Her whole body froze, as if every muscle had suddenly decided to play dead. Oh. Oh god. There it was. That stupid, damning sentence that had been living rent-free in her brain all day.

Lingling took a deliberate step closer. It wasn't an aggressive lunge or a menacing creep; it was measured and purposeful—a step that said, "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere until I get what I need."

"You ran away before I could ask," Lingling repeated slowly, each word dripping with calm precision. "And now," she continued, locking eyes with Orm so intently that it felt like an interrogation under a spotlight, "I'm asking."

Orm's heart seemed to leap out of her chest, her throat parched like the desert, and every muscle tensed into a posture of impending collapse. This was it—the moment she had been desperately avoiding. And now, Lingling was making sure that there was simply no escape.

Panic surged through Orm like a tidal wave. Every fiber of her being screamed, "SAY SOMETHING! ANYTHING!" But her mouth, in a betrayal of epic proportions, began to rant before her brain could formulate a coherent thought.

"Okay, listen," Orm blurted out, her words tumbling in a frantic, disorganized monologue that could easily have been mistaken for a rambling legal brief. "I don't know what you were going to ask, and frankly, I don't think you need to ask it because, honestly—does it even matter? Legally speaking, if we were to categorize last night's events, it was an accident. No intent, no premeditation—just pure, unfortunate negligence. I mean, if anything, this was an unintentional tort!"

For a moment, Lingling blinked once more, as if processing this verbal freefall. But Orm was far from finished.

"And if you were going to argue otherwise, then let me remind you—no contract was signed, no verbal agreement was made, no express consent was given! If anything, I should be pleading ignorance here! Mens rea? I had none! This was purely circumstantial! So, in conclusion, I think we should just drop the case entirely and move on."

Silence.

A heavy, awkward silence that filled the space between them, punctuated only by the distant hum of the café's background music.

Lingling continued to stare at Orm, unblinking, as though the longer she waited, the more absurd Orm's rant became. And in her desperation, Orm did the only thing that made sense to her—she dug herself even deeper.

"And if you were going to ask what I think you were going to ask—which, let's be clear, I have no idea what that was, but IF you were—" Orm's voice faltered, and she took a quick, panicked breath. "Then maybe it's better that I didn't hear it! Because, legally speaking, plausible deniability is a real thing! If I don't know, then I can't be held accountable, and I can continue living my life without any unforeseen legal consequences!"

She gasped dramatically, as if she'd just dropped the hottest legal theory since Brown v. Board of Education. "Oh my god, what if knowing the question makes me liable for something?! What if it opens a precedent I can't escape from?! What if it turns into a binding verbal agreement and I have no way to appeal?! What if—"

At that moment, Orm's words suddenly vanished into the charged air between them. Lingling had stepped even closer—so close that Orm forgot how to breathe, so close that her entire sentence stalled in her throat. Lingling's gaze was fixed on her with a curious mixture of amusement and something else that Orm couldn't quite decipher.

Lingling was simply watching her. Not with judgment, exactly, but with the kind of calm scrutiny that made Orm feel as if she were under a microscope. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Orm's mouth fell silent. It opened slightly, a mere whisper of an invitation for words, but no sound came out.

After a single, deliberate blink, Lingling did the unthinkable. Without any hesitation or further preamble, she kissed Orm.

A kiss that was soft, quick, and precise—enough to short-circuit Orm's already overtaxed brain entirely. This wasn't like the accidental brush of lips they'd experienced before; this time, it was intentional. Lingling meant every moment of it.

For a heartbeat, Orm's brain checked out completely. No coherent thoughts. No brilliant retorts. Just the overwhelming sensation of Lingling's lips on hers—a kiss that rewrote the entire script of the conversation in an instant.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, Lingling pulled back. She tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting ever so subtly from intensity to something resembling mild exasperation, and said in a tone as cool as a courtroom verdict, "You talk too much."

Orm stood there, eyes wide as saucers, her mouth agape and her mind completely fried. Lingling simply waited, calm and unbothered, as if nothing had just upended Orm's entire sense of reality.

Orm was left reeling—utterly speechless, completely uncertain of what this all meant. Her internal monologue was a tangled mess of panic, confusion, and the lingering taste of that unexpected kiss. One thing was undeniably clear: she was absolutely, 100% doomed.

"That," Lingling stated with the composure of a seasoned legal scholar, "was my first kiss."

At that moment, Orm's brain did a complete system crash. It was as if Orm.exe had stopped working entirely. Her mind blinked in rapid, confused bursts as she struggled to reboot her thoughts, trying desperately to form a coherent sentence. Instead, all that emerged was a feeble wheeze that barely registered in the charged air between them.

Unperturbed, Lingling continued, her tone almost clinical as she explained, "Technically, our first kiss was an accident." She tilted her head ever so slightly, as if mulling over legal technicalities in real time. "But the one just now—" she paused for dramatic effect, "was not."

Oh. Oh no.

That was just too much information for Orm's already overloaded brain to handle. Her hands twitched nervously, and she desperately needed to do something—move, speak, run, anything—yet she remained frozen, rooted to the spot like a poorly programmed automaton.

Lingling watched her patiently, as if waiting for Orm to finally recover from her shock. And then, just to punctuate the surreal encounter, Lingling smirked. Just a small, barely noticeable smirk—but one that struck Orm as a punch straight to her already bruised ego.

"Orm," Lingling said, her voice imbued with the calm precision of a contract clause being read verbatim, "do you know what consideration is?"

Orm's brain barely registered the word. "What?" she managed to whisper, as if the very syllable was foreign.

"Consideration," Lingling repeated, her tone as neutral as a legal textbook, "is a fundamental principle of contract law."

Orm's breathing stuttered to a halt. She did not like where this was headed. "A contract," Lingling continued, "is only valid if both parties exchange something of value." She took one deliberate step closer, and Orm's heart nearly exploded from the sheer proximity.

"And since you kissed me first," Lingling said, her eyes twinkling with mischievous finality, "I figured it was only fair that I return the favor."

OH. OH GOD.

Orm's internal monologue crumpled like a poorly filed brief. Her soul practically evaporated as she tried to process the absurdity of the moment. No words, no coherent thoughts—just Lingling's voice echoing in her head like a judge's ruling.

Lingling observed her reaction with cool detachment, and then, as if that weren't enough, she added smoothly, "Now, we're even."

And then—without any further ceremony—she walked away.

Just. Walked away.

Calm and collected, as if she hadn't just turned Orm's entire existence into a full-blown, comedic legal debacle.

Orm stood there, immobilized, as if trapped in a surreal nightmare. Her legs wobbled, her mouth remained agape, and her mind was a jumbled mess of panic and reluctant admiration for the sheer audacity of what had just transpired. Because, seriously—what just happened?

For a long, agonizing moment, Orm could do nothing but stare after Lingling, the echo of those final words ringing in her ears. And then, in a final, hopeless burst of self-preservation, Orm realized that she had no choice but to accept the unalterable truth of the situation. She was, without a doubt, utterly and irrevocably doomed—at least in her own mind.

As she finally managed to take a tentative step backward, Orm's internal monologue whispered a resigned truth: perhaps, in the grand, chaotic tapestry of her life, moments like this were inevitable—a bizarre mix of comedy and calamity, with a dash of legal jargon thrown in for good measure.

And so, as Orm stumbled away, her mind reeling and her heart still pounding like a runaway percussion solo, one thought crystallized in the center of her panic: next time, maybe she should just listen—and maybe, just maybe, keep her mouth shut.

Or, at the very least, invest in a good pair of running shoes.

And that, dear reader, is how a single, fateful encounter turned an ordinary day into an absurd, 100% doomed legal comedy—complete with accidental kisses, misunderstood contracts, and a dose of consideration that left Orm questioning every word she'd ever uttered.