Luong's phone buzzed the second she collapsed onto her bed. *Yin.* She answered with a grin.
**"I have something to tell you!"** they blurted in unison.
A laugh rumbled through the line. **"You go first."**
**"Father accepted our relationship!"** She kicked her feet like a teenager, giddy.
Silence. Then Yin's voice cracked. **"That's… amazing."**
**"Now you,"** she demanded, clutching the phone tighter.
**"Luong."** A deep breath. **"Will you go on a date with me tomorrow?"**
The squeal that tore from her throat startled birds outside her window.
Yin arrived at her doorstep in sand-colored linen, sunlight gilding his edges. The moment she appeared—crop top fluttering, skirt swirling like liquid—he pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. **"You're devastating,"** he murmured into her hair.
Their day unfolded in golden fragments:
**Ice cream** dripped over their fingers as they raced to lick it before melting.
**The carousel** spun them dizzy, Yin's arms locking around her waist as she laughed.
**The theater's darkness** hid their intertwined hands—though neither pretended it was an accident.
At dusk, Luong led him to a flower shop, then to the cemetery. Kneeling before her mother's grave, she brushed away dried leaves with trembling hands.
**"Twenty years,"** she whispered. **"I still hear your voice when the wind chimes ring."** A tear splashed onto the marble. **"I'm sorry I couldn't save you. But I swear—"**
Yin knelt beside her, pressing a carnation to the stone. **"Aunt,"** he said, bowing low, **"your daughter is fearless. She fights for those she loves. I'll spend my life making sure she never fights alone."**
Luong's breath caught. In that moment, with twilight painting the world in hues of honey and grief, she felt her mother's presence—warm, approving.
She laced her fingers with Yin's. **"Let's go home."**