Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zoey was dreaming about sea turtles when she was rudely awoken by her phone. She slapped around her nightstand for it without bothering to open her eyes. If there was one thing her friends could vouch for (because she never shut up about it), it was her inner clock. She always knew what time it was. Right now, for example, it was 5:30 a.m. - which meant she had exactly 6.5 more minutes of dozing off before she needed to get up and start her day.

Yes, she was indeed a master of inner time management, she thought as she rolled over and pulled her blanket back over her head, determined to savor those 6.5 minutes for all they were worth.

But before long, she was rudely awoken again by an insistent ringing. This time, though, it didn’t seem to be coming from her bedside table. Frowning, Zoey pawed around in the usual spot but came up empty. Reluctantly, she peeked out from under the blanket. No phone in sight. Oddly, the ringing had stopped on its own, and by her calculations she should still have at least 30 seconds before she needed to get up.

Slowly, she pushed herself upright, careful to stay wrapped in her blanket cocoon. A yawn, a scratch, and a glance around later, she confirmed her room was still in the same messy state she’d left it the night before. Not that she’d expected otherwise, but hey - a girl could dream. Just like her weird dream about a sea turtle named General Munchkinman that -

Her thoughts were cut short by the same blaring ring as before. And that’s when Zoey realized two things:
It was way too bright in her room for 5:36 a.m.

This wasn’t her alarm. It was the ringtone she’d set for her boss.

Her boss.

Zoey dove headfirst off the bed, narrowly avoiding smacking her skull on the way down, and started fishing through the mess of empty takeout containers on the floor. At last, she found her phone half-submerged in a container of leftover rice and hot sauce. Grimacing, she yanked it out, wiped it off on her blanket, and hastily answered.

“CHOI! Where the devil are you? It’s already 8 a.m.! You were supposed to be here an hour ago so we could leave early for that client!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, Moss! My alarm went off, and I thought I snoozed it, but I must’ve turned it off and knocked my phone off the nightstand, where it fell into leftover food, and then - ”
She cut herself short when she heard the annoyed exhale on the other end. Oh no. She was rambling again. Moss hated it when she rambled.

“I’ll be real with you, Choi, I don’t care about the reasons. Get your butt in gear and be ready in ten. I’ll send Trenneman ‘round with the van. He’ll pick you up and you’ll head straight to the client. Do NOT make us later than we already are.”
“Yes, Moss. Of course, Moss. I’ll be ready and primed when Roy pulls up.”

Moss responded with a grunt and hung up.

Zoey let her phone drop back into the mess on the floor. It was entirely too early for all of this. Normally, she could only tolerate Moss’s whole… existence after 10 a.m. and at least two cups of caffeine.

She sat up, this time managing to avoid smacking her head on the bedside table. Okay, no time to dilly-dally. Moss had said Roy would be there in ten minutes - which meant she actually had about twenty. Just enough time to get dressed and maybe eat some toast… if they had any.

Her outfit of choice was nothing special: comfy jeans, an old graphic tee, and a flannel shirt. Maybe she’d grab a zip-up jacket, too. Dressing done, that left breakfast. She sent a quick prayer that her roommate wasn’t up yet. Not that she disliked the girl, exactly it’s just… their interactions were almost always awkward, and ever since that one time she’d come home to find her roommate and her boyfriend naked in Zoey’s bed, things had been downright frosty. Not that they had been good before that, but well.

It just made the whole… situation that they were in a lot more awkward.
Thankfully, the apartment seemed quiet. Either Zoey was alone or her roommate was still asleep. She made a beeline for the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets.

“Toast, toast… If I were toast, where would I be? Probably not anywhere near the toaster. On the other hand, if the game I Am Bread taught us anything, it’s that some bread does seem to want to become toast. So maybe - ”

“What the hell are you rambling about?”

Zoey just about ripped the cabinet door off its hinge, jumping at the sound of her roommate’s voice behind her. She spun around, wide-eyed, one hand clutched dramatically to her chest.

“Jesus, Stacy, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Stacy stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression caught between concern and annoyance. For a long moment they just stared at each other before Zoey turned back to the cabinet and muttered, “I was looking for toast.”

“You’d need to buy some, then. We’re out.”
“Oh. Do we have anything else?”
“No.”
“...Okay.”

Stacy still hadn’t moved. Zoey was starting to feel cornered.

“Did you need something?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. “Because I need to get going, and you’re kinda standing in the doorway like you don’t want me to leave.”

Stacy’s arms dropped to her sides. For a moment, it looked like she might say something, but instead she just shook her head and stepped aside.

Zoey slipped past her without another word, heading straight for the front door. She’d rather sit in the cold Burbank morning than endure another second of that tension.
Shoes on, she stood by the door, patting her pockets as had become her ritual before leaving the house. Keys, wallet… phone. Right. She’d dropped it next to the bed.

With a sigh, she turned back toward her room to retrieve the stupid device, deliberately keeping her eyes from the kitchen. She didn’t want to see Stacy sitting there with her head in her hands.
Whatever was going on with her roommate would have to wait. Right now, Zoey needed to leave - not because she was late, but because if she stayed a second longer, she was going to explode from the tension.

The outside air was crisp and fresh. Like any good autumn morning should be, Zoey thought as she scanned the street, checking if Roy had somehow defied all expectations and shown up on time. No slightly rusty green van in sight. She smirked - once again, she was right about her colleague’s punctuality. That made the score 42–0. Zoey: still undefeated. Roy: still hopeless. And, most importantly, she remained the superior employee whose name ended in “y.”

She pulled on her headphones and perched on a low wall by the road. Legs swinging, she scrolled through her recommended songs: a few older tracks from bands she’d recently revisited, some completely new artists, and - oh? - a new single from Ryumi.

Huh. She hadn’t even heard one was coming out. Then again, she’d been buried under work lately, clocking in ridiculous overtime. That meant no time for friends, no time for chores, and definitely no time for her own well-being.

She tapped on the cover art. Very artsy, she thought, tilting her head at the bizarre design. It was undoubtedly Ryumi, even if her trademark violet hair was hidden beneath the grayscale filter. Several heavy metal chokers ringed her throat - one with long, sharp prongs. Her hair was loose, threaded with tiny braids. But what stopped Zoey cold wasn’t the accessories or the art - it was Ryumi’s eyes.

The intensity of her gaze seemed to pierce straight through the camera, straight into Zoey. For a heartbeat the world stilled, and it was just the two of them suspended in that moment. Then a motorcycle roared past, shattering the spell. Zoey blinked, cheeks a little warm, and hit play.

The song was called Meat. The lyrics were bizarre - something about intergalactic parasites, breeding machines, and, well… meat.

Still, the beat was catchy - more synth-heavy than usual - and before long Zoey was bopping her head. She added it to her favorites and slotted it neatly into her Ryumi playlist. By the time Roy finally pulled up, she’d listened to it at least 2.5 times.
She hopped off the wall and slid into the van’s passenger seat.

“Come on, slowpoke,” Roy grunted. “Moss is already having your ass over this - don’t make us later.”

Zoey slammed the door, buckled up, and held her hands against the dashboard vents, trying to coax warmth back into her frozen fingers.
“I was outside when I was told to be,” she retorted. “You’re the one who’s late.”

Roy snorted. “Nope. Don’t start with me, girl. I know you were already late before I got my ass in this van.”
Zoey groaned and slumped back against the hard seat.

“Whatever Moss told you, it’s not true.”

“So you weren’t supposed to be at HQ at 6:30 this morning, helping the old man pack up and go over your role in the meeting?”

Zoey refused to dignify that with an answer. It wasn’t her fault her phone had decided to give up on life and yeet itself off the nightstand. Instead, she turned toward the window, letting the buildings blur past.
She loved California, she really did, but it got dull in the colder months. In spring and summer, the streets were alive - colorful people doing colorful things. But as soon as the temperature dipped, everything went gray.
Her eyes drifted to the satnav: still thirty minutes until arrival. Plenty of time. She tugged her hood over her head, queued up her Ryumi playlist, and leaned against the window. Within seconds, her eyelids grew heavy.

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BAM. The door slammed shut behind her, rattling in its frame, only to creak open again and fall shut a second time like even it wasn’t sure what it was doing.

She braced herself on the sink, head bowed, letting the porcelain take her weight. One breath. Two. Then a sharp tug yanked her upright - fingers buried in her hair, hands pressing hard against her face like they could hold her together.

“Fucking hell, get off me. At least let me breathe.”

Her shove sent him stumbling back, though the recoil made her head drop forward again. Dizzy. Too dizzy. Either she was bleeding more than she thought, or she wasn’t as sober as she’d hoped. Had she even taken anything tonight? Couldn’t remember. Not much, anyway.

She lifted her head and found her own face staring back in the mirror - pale, unfocused, a little mean around the eyes. Behind her, the kid. The assistant. Hovering like a frightened animal that couldn’t decide if running would make things better or worse.

“You don’t need to be here. I’m not going to fall over and die.”

He stayed put, jaw tight, caught in that useless calculation: abandon her and risk blame, or hover and risk her temper.
The decision was made for him when the door crashed open again, this time with the kind of force that left no doubt.

“Leave. Now.”

Celine’s voice filled the room, cold and absolute. Fuck, when and why had she gotten here?

The assistant froze, then scrambled for the exit like a man reprieved from execution. The door clicked shut. And suddenly it was only the two of them. Exactly what she hadn’t wanted.
She drew in a breath, winced when pain flared sharp in her nose, and leaned back against the sink, forcing her posture into something casual, careless.

“Celine. Always a pleasure.”

Her smile stayed put, sharp and stubborn, even against the wall of silence that met it. Celine’s expression didn’t crack, didn’t shift; her face was a mask carved from stone, and it promised judgment.

“This isn’t funny. What were you thinking?”

She shrugged. No point dressing it up. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d seen, she’d acted. Thought was for later. And Celine knew it. Knew her too well. That tiny flicker of disappointment breaking through the stone mask landed harder than any scolding ever could.

Fuck. Not that. Anything but that.

“What exactly happened?”

“I was in the middle of my set, grabbed a drink between songs, and saw this asswipe at the bar hassling some girl. She looked so fucking uncomfortable. Then he tried to drag her off, and nobody noticed - because everyone was too busy watching me. So I did what I had to do. If their eyes were on me, then I’d make damn sure they saw him. Personally.”

Celine pinched the bridge of her nose. “And your brilliant idea was to leap off the stage, balance on the railing, and dropkick him?”

A grin tugged at her lips. “Yeah. It was sick.”

“You could’ve drawn attention to him. Called him out. If you absolutely, positively had to resort to violence, you could’ve thrown something.”

"Could’ve, could’ve, could’ve. Whatever. I did it. And you know what? I hope there are videos. I’d watch it again and again and again.”

She glanced back at the mirror. Celine’s mask had shifted - less disappointment now, more anger. Good. Anger was easier.

“Wash up. Make sure nothing’s broken. Then get back out there. You still have a set to finish.”

She gave a curt nod, trying to hide the wince that came from the pain shooting through her nose. Celine turned on her heel, already heading for the door, no doubt to smooth things over with a bribe in the right direction. She stopped just short of leaving, casting one final look over her shoulder.

“Oh, and Rumi? Don’t stay out too long tonight. You’ve got important appointments tomorrow.”

And then she was gone. Rumi sighed, leaning closer to the mirror to survey the damage. A bruise across her nose where the bastard had actually managed to land a hit. Crusted blood streaked over her face and shirt, makeup smeared into something monstrous. Honestly? A pretty sick look. She fished out her phone, snapped a few pictures - different angles, different lighting. Definitely usable later.

She turned the camera toward the sink, capturing the smear of blood there too, and uploaded it to her private Instagram account. Not the official one - she’d been banned from that after “accidentally” posting some shots her producers weren’t thrilled about.

The private one was better anyway. Random bathroom photography, grimy stickers on bar stalls, underground club snapshots, the occasional picture of her bruises. Fewer than a hundred followers, none of them knowing who she really was. They were there for the art, not the name, and that was enough.

From outside, the chant of her name grew louder, insistent, demanding her return. She slipped her phone back into her pocket, wiped her bloody hands on her ruined shirt, and straightened.

“Showtime, baby.”

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By the time Zoey finally stumbled out of the van, her day had already set a tone, and that tone was “catastrophe, but in lowercase letters.” Nothing dramatic, just… steady annoyance.

First she dropped her bag. Not once, but three separate times, in the exact same five feet of sidewalk, which she was pretty sure counted as some kind of cosmic harassment. Then she went to grab a coffee to brace herself for the meeting, except halfway to the conference room she tripped on absolutely nothing (she checked, the floor was smooth as glass), and the entire cup decorated her shirt in a nice, abstract pattern. A Jackson Pollock of caffeine.

Of course, that was when Moss walked by, raised an eyebrow, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “professionalism.” Professionalism? Please. Coffee is a lifeline, not an accessory.

She’d tried blotting the stain with napkins from the break room, except that just made her shirt smell like stale paper and desperation. So she spent the first ten minutes of the meeting trying not to breathe too deeply while Moss droned on about “client-facing synergy” or “synergistic faces,” she wasn’t sure which.

Her thoughts, naturally, were elsewhere. Like:

Why did her inner clock work perfectly when it came to waking her up at 5:30 a.m., but not when it came to reminding her about actual appointments?
How many more times could she say “mhm” and nod before someone noticed she hadn’t absorbed a single word?
If she spilled coffee on herself a second time, would that be bad luck or just consistency?

The pen she borrowed from Roy ran out of ink halfway through her doodle of a cat wearing a business suit, which felt personally insulting. And when she reached for her backup pen, she knocked her notebook off the table and sent it skidding across the floor, pages fluttering like a very unhelpful pigeon.

By the time she retrieved it, she was ninety percent sure the client thought she was some kind of walking disaster. Which, to be fair, wasn’t completely inaccurate.

Still, she managed to plaster on a smile and sit through the rest of the meeting, all while silently begging the universe to just, please, not throw anything else at her today.
But she knew better than to hope for that. The universe loved its little jokes, and Zoey? Zoey was apparently the punchline.

By the time Zoey shuffled back into HQ, she felt like she was carrying the entire weight of the universe on her shoulders. Not in the heroic, Atlas-but-make-it-fashion kind of way - more like in the “one more thing goes wrong and I will sit down on the floor and live there forever” kind of way.

First thing she saw when she entered her small shared office, there was a little neon sticky note on her desk: Printer jammed again. Fix it?

Which, frankly, was offensive, because (1) she wasn’t the printer person, (2) she wasn’t technically even remotely qualified to fix printers, and (3) printers were sent by hell to torment mankind, and everyone knew it. She tried anyway, of course, and in the process managed to get toner on her fingers and a paper cut on her thumb. A paper cut. From trying to help paper. The betrayal was personal.

The rest of the afternoon limped along in the same fashion - files missing, emails bouncing back for no reason, Roy sneezing so hard he spilled his coffee on the floor and somehow her shoes. By the time she packed up, Zoey was already imagining the mountain of ramen waiting for her at home. Chicken? Curry? That one weird kimchi flavor she bought three months ago and never touched because the package had a cartoon pepper on it that looked a little too smug? Options. So many options.

She had her bag on her shoulder, her headphones halfway to her head, when she heard the dreaded call:

“Choi. My office. Now.”

Zoey froze mid-step. Her brain immediately began cycling through possibilities, all bad: Had she broken the printer worse? Did Roy snitch about her falling asleep in the van? Was she about to be exiled to some corner desk next to the bathroom?

She stepped inside Moss’s office, bracing herself.

He didn’t look up from his papers. “If I remember correctly, you’re American-Korean, right?”

“Yes?” She tilted her head. “Why does that sound like the start of an insult?”

Moss sighed, finally meeting her eyes. “Because it kind of is. Honestly, I’d rather send someone else, but - ”
“Wow. Rude.”
“ - but we’ve got a client coming in, and it would be… advantageous to have someone on the team who can speak Korean. Which, unless I’m mistaken, is you.”

Zoey blinked. Her first instinct was to point out that her Korean was fine, thank you very much, even if she occasionally mixed up “receipt” and “apocalypse.” But this was technically an opportunity, right? Not punishment?

“Uh. Yeah. Sure. I can do that.”
“Good. I will brief you tomorrow and set up the meeting with the potential client. And try not to spill anything on yourself before then.”
“Again, rude,” she muttered, but with a little half-smile.

She slipped out of his office, her head buzzing. So much for ramen and a quiet night.

By the time Zoey unlocked the front door, her head was still stuck at HQ. She barely noticed the apartment - or the way the living room light was on, or the figure sitting on the couch. If Stacy was there, well… Zoey didn’t look closely enough to find out. Her brain was too busy replaying Moss’s words on a loop.

“It would be advantageous.”
Advantageous. Like she was a walking vocabulary word.

She kicked off her shoes, muttered a distracted “hey” to no one in particular, and made a beeline for the cabinets. Ramen. That was the only thing standing between her and full collapse.

As the water boiled, she drummed her fingers on the counter, debating flavors like she was a judge on a very underfunded cooking show. Chicken was safe, curry was exciting, but the smug kimchi packet was practically taunting her. In the end, she went with curry - because tonight, she deserved a little drama, but not that much drama.

She slurped the noodles straight from the pot, padded down the hall, and slipped into her room without once turning her head. If Stacy had said something, she hadn’t heard it.
Her room was the same disaster zone as always, but Zoey didn’t bother with the guilt tonight. The bed was good enough. She sat down, shoved a pile of laundry to the floor, and opened YouTube. As she debated what to watch she let her thoughts circle back to the day once again.

American-Korean. It wasn’t wrong. She had learned Korean from her mom, and she did hone her language skills whenever possible. If you asked her she was actually pretty fluent. Her mom had always wanted her to hold onto the language, and even if somewhere between middle school embarrassment and college caffeine binges, it had slipped through the cracks, somewhat more than she liked, she had made sure that she picked it up with a vengeance.
She could speak it plenty, but she was unsure about her listening abilities. She was probably fine, but it was one thing to try and speak it whenever she could, but with nobody to talk to her there wasn’t much she could do for the rest.
Still, Moss wanted her for this job. Which meant she couldn’t be that hopeless. Right? She’d manage. Still, she decided to look for a Korean channel. Just in case she could absorb some of the skill into herself.
She stretched out on her bed, laptop still humming, noodles heavy in her stomach, and let the noise of the video fill the room. Her eyelids grew heavy, her last thought a jumble of half-finished sentences about clients, ramen packets, and whether “apocalypse” and “receipt” really sounded that much alike.

And then she was out.

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The green room looked like it had already survived a small war by the time she pushed the door open again. Cables snaked across the carpet like tripwires, a half-dead speaker crackled in protest after someone baptized it in beer, and one of the roadies was standing on a chair, trying to tape a poster to the ceiling like that was the most important task in the world.

She loved it.

The air was a choking cocktail of cigarette smoke, cheap weed, and spilled vodka. Her bandmates were shouting over each other, someone hammering out nonsense chords on an unplugged guitar, another digging through the rider to find the last packet of chips. A couple of fans - girls who’d somehow slipped past security - were wedged into the couch, staring at her like she’d just walked in wearing angel wings. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off.

She sauntered over to one of the couches, where her bassist was just telling the story of her latest disappointment to Celine “Wait - from the stage?” one of them asked, eyes wide, lip gloss catching on her teeth.

She flopped down next to them, hair still damp from sweat, makeup streaked into something between raccoon and warrior paint. “From the stage,” she cut the bassist off before he could even open his mouth. “Straight off the monitor. Full superhero landing. Kicked the bastard square in the chest. Crowd went feral.”

The girls squealed. Someone shoved a bottle into her hand and she took a long swallow, not bothering to check the label. Sweet, then fire, then gone. Perfect.

The room dissolved into glorious ruin after that. Shots lined up on the drum case became dominoes. Someone carved a smiley face into the wall with a pocketknife. A half-empty bag of chips exploded across the carpet. Every few minutes, someone shouted her name like a prayer, and she answered by climbing onto the couch and yelling back until her throat hurt.

She caught herself in the black screen of a TV, saw the bruise blooming across her nose, the dried blood crusted at her lip. She tilted her head, studying the smear of red across her cheek. It looked like a painting. Like proof. She snapped another photo before anyone could notice. Art.

Two of the girls had migrated closer - one with blue hair, the other draped in a jacket covered in safety pins. They smelled like cheap perfume and rebellion, and they leaned into her with the kind of wide-eyed awe she’d never admit she craved.
“You really did it,” one of them said.

“Damn right I did.” She smirked, lowering her voice so they had to lean in further. “But this party? Weak. Drinks are better in my hotel room.”

They exchanged a look. Smiled. Nodded.
That was all it took.

She hauled her jacket off the floor, ignored the roadies arguing about whether the fire alarm was broken, and pushed through the door without looking back. The hallway smelled like disinfectant and stale beer, the carpet muffling their footsteps as the two girls trailed behind her like shadows.

Somewhere out front, the last of the crowd was still chanting her name. She let it echo in her chest, let it blur into the thud of her heartbeat, let it carry her all the way down the hall, outside the backdoor, where her ride already waited. She opened the door for the two girls and climbed in after.

Tomorrow, she was supposed to be rested and ready. Tomorrow there was some “important” meeting, something Celine would inevitably chew her out about if she skipped.

But tonight? Tonight wasn’t for Celine. Tonight was for her. She gave the driver her destination and closed the partition window, taking out a joint from her pocket and lighting it up.

She let herself fall back into the plush seat.

“Showtime, baby,”.

Chapter Text

The first thing Rumi noticed, when she woke, was the pounding in her skull. The second was the smell of stale booze and cigarettes. The third was the blue-haired girl snoring into her shoulder.

She groaned, peeled herself free, and sat up. The hotel room looked like a bomb had gone off: bottles tipped over, clothes everywhere, half a pizza welded to the carpet by gravity and regret. The other girl was sprawled face-down across the armchair, one heel still on, one heel missing.

Rumi stretched, winced at the ache in her nose, and shuffled toward the bathroom. A shower. Maybe then she’d feel like a human again. Steam fogged the mirror as she scrubbed last night off her skin and tried not to think too hard about how many appointments she was supposed to have, that she’d already missed.

By the time she was dressed in yesterday's clothes, which Celine would surely scold her about, she almost felt ready to face the day. Almost. She kicked an empty bottle out of the way and made a mental note: let her manager handle the cleanup and the bill. That’s what he got paid 3% for.

The sunlight stabbed her eyes as she stepped out onto the street. Her head throbbed, her face still tender where the asshole at the bar had landed his punch. She padded around her jacket pocket, but of course she had not thought of taking sunglasses with her. Whatever. It wasn’t the first time she’d worn bruises and a hangover to work.

Her driver was quickly flagged and before long she was leaning against the window of the car, watching the city roll by until the massive glass front of Sunlight Entertainment rose up ahead. She hated the name. Hated how it glared off every sign, every door, every copy of her albums. Sunlight. It had fit once, back when she was “sweet Rumi,” singing bright K-pop tracks about love and summer days.

But that girl was gone. She’d killed her off, piece by piece, and Ryumi had clawed her way out instead. And Ryumi didn’t fit under sunlight. Ryumi lived in the shadows.

Still, the name was everywhere. And today, she’d have to walk through it again. The glass doors of Sunlight Entertainment slid open, and the lobby hit her like a wall - too bright, too polished, all gleaming marble and spotless windows. Her boots squeaked once on the floor before Bobby was already striding toward her, tablet in one hand, phone in the other.

“There you are. Okay, listen, you’ve a meeting together with celine in 10 minutes, a vocal check at nine-thirty, choreography run-through for a possible new music video right after, press briefing at eleven, studio shoot slotted in for - ”
“Bobby.”

He didn’t stop. “ - and Celine said you need to prep the acoustic version of the single before - ”

“Bobby.” This time her voice cut through, low but steady. Softer than anyone else ever got from her.

He froze mid-sentence, eyes darting up. “Sorry. Too fast?”

She sighed, leaning against the cool wall by the elevator, feeling the bruise on her nose with every heartbeat. “Just… slower. Tell me what was so important I absolutely had to be here for.”

The elevator chimed, and they stepped inside. He thumbed through his notes, his usual rush smoothed down to match her pace.

“Alright. There’s an interview Celine lined up - it’s a live segment, can’t exactly reschedule. Then rehearsal for the showcase tomorrow, non-negotiable. And… there’s a sit-down with a potential sponsor in like 20 minutes. She wanted you in person.” Rumi grimaced at the mention of a sponsor. She hated when Celine lined those up for her, her thoughts about what a great sponsor was and what Celine's thoughts differed greatly.

Rumi tilted her head back against the mirrored wall, watching her reflection ghost past the lights overhead. Important appointments, sure. But at least Bobby didn’t make them sound like gunshots the way Celine always did.
“Fine,” she muttered, closing her eyes as the elevator climbed. “Just keep walking me through them one at a time. Don’t let me drown in the list.”

Bobby nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but knew better. “One at a time,” he promised.

For anyone else, she’d already be snapping. But Bobby? She let him live. He tried his best after all, and it was not his fault that she was difficult.

Bobby cleared his throat, scrolling through the tablet. “So, I heard you had a little altercation yesterday at your gig”

Rumi cracked one eye open, smirk tugging at her lip. “Word gets around fast.”

He glanced at her quickly, then back down at his notes. “Celine was extremely pissed when she came in this morning.”

“Are there videos of it?”

Bobby hesitated. “…Yes.”

“Sick, right?”

That earned her a laugh, small and nervous, but real. She knew that he thought so too, but couldn’t exactly encourage her about things like that.

The elevator chimed again, doors sliding open onto the executive floor. The atmosphere shifted the second she stepped out - less chaos, more quiet judgment. Too many sharp suits. Too many watchful eyes.

Bobby fell into step beside her, lowering his voice. “She’s waiting for you. I will join you for the sponsor thing, but she requested you alone for the first meeting”

Rumi groaned. She knew what THAT meant. She could already feel Celine’s presence at the end of the hallway, radiating through the polished glass door like a storm cloud ready to break.

Rumi adjusted her jacket, straightened her shoulders, and let the smirk harden back into place. The soft tone she’d given Bobby faded as quickly as it had come.

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, pushing the door open, as Bobby sent her a quick thumbs up and a mouthed “good luck”

Celine’s office was everything Rumi hated about Sunlight Entertainment made solid. The walls gleamed white, the shelves were lined with tidy rows of awards and binders, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and lilies. Not a speck out of place, not a scratch on the glass desk, not even a paperclip left askew.

And worst of all - the sunlight. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the full blaze of the Seoul morning, bright enough to sting her eyes and turn the throb in her skull into a hammer. She squinted, pulled her jacket tighter, and muttered under her breath, “Fucking Sunlight.”

Celine didn’t look up right away. She was bent over her desk, pen moving across a neat stack of papers, her posture straight, her hair pulled back without a single strand daring to escape. Rumi lingered near the door, leaning against the frame like she owned the place, even though every inch of the room screamed that she didn’t belong here.

“If you want to insult my label, please do it clearly and stop mumbling, you know how much I hate it when you do that.”

Finally, Celine stopped writing and glanced up. Her eyes swept over Rumi once, cool and sharp.
“You look terrible,” she said “Your face is a mess. And don’t even get me started on your posture.” Her eyes narrowed to her signature judging squint, “Is that the same Outfit from yesterday?”
Rumi rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt more than her nose. Same routine, different day.

“Good morning to you too.”

Celine arched a brow, unamused.

Rumi flopped into the chair opposite her desk, slouching on purpose this time, just to prove the point. If Celine wanted her polished and perfect, she could dream on.
Celine’s pen clicked softly as she set it aside, her gaze pinning Rumi to the chair like a bug on glass.

“You missed two appointments. The networks weren’t pleased and neither am I. I told you yesterday that they were important, and you still didn’t decide it was important enough to show up. And about your little incident yesterday.” Her tone was precise, each word trimmed down to its sharpest edge. “I have already taken the necessary steps to make sure your reputation will not be more damaged than it already is.” Not raised, not heated - just cool, efficient condemnation. “I will reschedule the appointments for you and send you the new dates. Show up this time.”

Rumi clenched her jaw, staring back across the immaculate desk. God, she hated this. She would’ve taken yelling, even screaming - at least then it would feel real. At least then Celine’s anger wouldn’t be dressed up in calm, tidy little sentences, delivered like items on a grocery list.

“You could just say you’re pissed,” Rumi muttered, slouching deeper into the chair. “Spare me the CEO routine. I can see it.”

“Professionalism is not a routine. It is an expectation.” Celine didn’t blink. “Something you continue to test, daily.”

Rumi groaned and threw her head back, staring up at the painfully bright ceiling lights. “There it is. The famous disappointed lecture. Do you rehearse these in the mirror, or does it just come naturally?”
Celine’s brow twitched - barely, but enough.

The reaction gave Rumi a flicker of satisfaction, even as the silence pressed down heavier than shouting ever could. She could’ve stopped here, but she was in an exceptionally big mood to fight this morning.

“God,” she said, dragging a hand over her face. “I almost wish you’d just scream at me and get it over with. All this calm, collected crap - it’s worse. It’s so fucking obvious you’re mad, and you’re sitting there pretending you’re not.”

Her voice echoed a little too loudly against the glass and marble, and she caught her reflection in the polished surface of the desk - bloodshot eyes, bruised nose, smudged eyeliner. A mess dropped into a museum.

Celine didn’t move, didn’t flinch. And somehow, that made Rumi’s pulse race harder than any shouting match ever had. She leaned forward in the chair, eyes narrowing. “You sit there in your perfect little box, listing my sins like bullet points, and what? You think I don’t know what you’re actually feeling? I can see it, Celine. You’re furious. Just admit it.”

Celine folded her hands neatly on the desk. “You confuse fury with responsibility.”

“Oh, give me a break.” Rumi barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “You don’t do responsibility - you hide behind it. You’re angry, but God forbid you raise your voice, because then you’d actually have to show me you care.”

The tiniest flicker passed over Celine’s face - jaw tight, pen clicking once in her fingers before she set it down again.
Rumi pounced. “There. That twitch. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re one bad breath away from exploding, and instead you just sit there, queen of fucking restraint, pretending you’re above it all.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into something that was more akin to a snarl. “It’s pathetic, you know that?”

For a heartbeat, Celine’s composure wavered. Her lips parted, her posture shifted, like the dam was about to crack.

And then - knock, knock. The door cracked open, and a small, nervous figure slipped in. The assistant. The same one Rumi had shoved away in the bathroom, still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. God, was he always this nervous?

“Director Celine,” he stammered, bowing halfway into the room. “The possible sponsors are here. They’re waiting in Conference Three.”

The moment broke.

Celine stood smoothly, her mask sliding back into place with surgical precision. “Enligh of this prattling, business awaits. And you will be on your best behavior today, going to all the meetings left and showing that you can be somewhat of a professional,” she said to Rumi, as though their argument had never happened.

“Wait, are you serious? We’re not done here.” Rumi shot to her feet, hands spread in disbelief. “You can’t just walk out after - ”

“I can,” Celine interrupted, gathering her papers with infuriating calm. “And I will. We have obligations. Now come, before I get someone to drag you there. And close your jacket please. It’s really not proper to walk around with blood on your shirt.”

Rumi groaned, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt. “Unbelievable.”

But Celine was already moving, heels clicking against the spotless floor as she swept past the assistant and out the door.

Left with no choice, Rumi shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and followed, muttering under her breath, “One day you’re gonna snap, and I’ll be here to see it.”

The assistant, wisely, did not look her in the eye as he held the door open.

She fell in step behind Bobby and Celine, who were already murmuring about some schedule or meeting or whatever. Rumi barely heard a word. Her mind kept circling back to their little fight in the office.

She didn’t even know why it got under her skin so much. Maybe because Celine acted more like her boss - which, technically, she was - than her aunt. Maybe that was what stung. Celine had always been strict, ever since Rumi could remember. Back when things had been all sunshine and rainbows between them, it was only because Rumi had behaved, smiling on cue, playing the perfect little pop princess.

The second she’d suggested shifting from bubblegum pop to a heavier, alternative sound, the ground had cracked open between them. Celine couldn’t even look at her without those disappointed eyes. And Rumi? She’d leaned into it. Stayed out later, got caught at parties, let the tabloids eat up the scandals. Piercings. Tattoos. Headlines screaming “Korea’s Pop Princess Gone Bad.”

Worth it. Every single time.

Her new sound, her new style, had found a home. A lot of fans stayed with her, and for every one she lost, she gained another who understood the vibe. She was still Sunlight Entertainment’s cash cow - no matter how hard she wished she could break free and sign with a label that actually matched her or even go independent so she could make her art exactly as she wanted it to be. But when your aunt was the CEO and your contract was ironclad, escape wasn’t as easy as it should be. Especially not when the contract was written by Celine herself.

While Bobby and Celine talked, Rumi pulled out her phone and scrolled idly. She checked her socials - or rather, the ones “officially hers,” the ones plastered with her name. Nothing new. Her single Meat had just dropped, but she hadn’t bothered to check the numbers. She never did. The music was for the soul, not for spreadsheets.

She barely noticed when they stopped walking - until she plowed straight into them. Bobby glanced back, apologetic, while Celine’s eyes dropped immediately to the phone in her hand.

Rumi shoved the device back into her pocket and muttered a quick, sheepish, “Sorry.”

She’d learned the hard way that Celine wasn’t above confiscating her phone like she was still a teenager. And right now? She wasn’t in the mood for fighting anymore. With a last disapproving glance her way Celine opened the door like she did everything, with conviction, and strode into the room. Bobby followed, a little less bold and Rumi trudged in behind them, not really bothering to look at the men behind the big conference table. They all looked the same anyway.

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Zoey woke up to the sound of her alarm, and this time she was not late. Which was suspicious. She blinked blearily at her phone, squinting at the numbers like they were trying to trick her. Nope - 5:30 a.m. sharp. Plenty of time. Which automatically meant something was going to go wrong later. Cosmic balance and all that.

She stretched, immediately got tangled in her blanket like a burrito under attack, and spent a full minute trying to free herself before deciding that maybe living like this wasn’t the worst fate.

The apartment was quiet. Her roommate’s door was shut. The everlasting tension was still in the air, but Zoey was too focused on her own day to notice. Today was… important. Or at least Moss said it was important, which probably meant it was very important, since he normally only used words like “urgent” and “stop rambling.”

She shuffled into the kitchen, poured herself a mug of what she generously called coffee (the cheap, instant kind, with too much powdered creamer), and leaned against the counter, thinking.

Advantageous. Moss’s words from yesterday circled in her head like annoying little birds. It was no biggie, he probably just wanted her to be there in case she needed to translate stuff.

But whatever she was there for, it meant she maybe had to listen, pay attention and be able to understand what they were saying. She gulped. Maybe she should take Adderall before work that day.

But as much as the thought scared her, Moss had asked. Which meant she couldn’t say no. Well she could, but she had a feeling her boss didn't like her already, so she should probably do what she could to help.

She took a sip of her coffee, immediately burned her tongue, and muttered something very unprofessional. Yep. There it was. Bad day streak still going strong.

The rest of her routine went by without incident - miraculously no spills, no falls, no cosmic betrayals - so when she walked into HQ right on time, she was almost suspicious of how smoothly things were going.

Which lasted about five seconds.

“Choi. My office.” Moss’s voice carried across the room the moment she stepped inside.

Her colleagues exchanged looks, grinning like sharks circling chum. One of them even made the classic “ooooh, someone’s in trouble” sound. Zoey flipped them off without breaking stride and marched straight past their smirks.

Moss didn’t even glance up as she entered. “Close the door.”

She did, then hovered awkwardly until he added, “Sit.”

So she sat.

And then… nothing. Moss kept shuffling through a stack of papers, scribbling notes, muttering under his breath about deadlines. Zoey swung her legs under the chair, glanced at the certificates on the wall, counted a suspicious stain in the corner ceiling tile (coffee? blood? ketchup?), and waited.

Moss’s office organized chaos: papers stacked high, sticky notes slapped onto every surface, a smell of burnt coffee that had probably seeped into the carpet years ago.

Zoey resisted the urge to cough just to remind him she was still there.

Finally, he set his pen down and leaned back in his chair, eyes landing on her like he’d just remembered she existed.

“Alright, Choi. Let’s talk.” Moss finally leaned back in his chair, pushing the stack of papers aside like they’d personally offended him.

“Here’s the full deal. As I’ve already told you yesterday, we’ve got a potential client sniffing around. Big one. Not confirmed yet, but if we land them, it’ll be a longer-term contract.”

Zoey perked up despite herself. Those contracts meant less scrambling from job to job. And maybe, if the stars aligned, newer furniture in the office. Beige was not a color for human survival.

Moss went on, “They want security solutions - standard stuff, servers, data protection, the works. But here’s the thing: they’d like someone who can operate in Korean if needed. Cultural points. Good optics. That’s where you come in.”

“So I just… show up and translate?” Zoey tilted her head. “Like a human Google Translate, but with slightly worse pronunciation maybe?”

“Not exactly.” He tapped his pen against his desk, the Moss equivalent of nervousness. “You’ll sit in on the first meeting. If the client asks tech questions, you may bring in some expertise. If there are any communications issues, you step in. Basically - make me , make us look good.”

Zoey crossed her arms. “So… Human Google tech translator. Got it.”

“Don’t make it sound like a joke,” Moss said, though his tone was more tired than annoyed. “This could be a big contract. If we secure it, there’ll be a bonus in it for you.”

That snagged her attention. Bonus. Not that she didn’t love her current paycheck (said no one ever), but she had a mental list of things ramen money couldn’t buy.

“Alright,” she said, trying to sound casual, though she already imagined what percentage of that bonus would go to takeout vs. laundry she didn’t want to do. “I’m in.”

“Good.” Moss picked up his pen again, already scribbling something she couldn’t read upside down. “I’ll set the meeting, contact you when it’s confirmed.”

Then, with a little flick of his hand: “That will be all, you can go now.”

Dismissed. Like she was a court messenger instead of an underpaid IT grunt.

Zoey bit back a sarcastic salute and pushed herself out of the chair. As she left his office, she caught her coworkers peeking over their cubicles again, hungry for gossip. She stuck her tongue out at them, then slipped back into the beige maze of Vector Security Solutions, her head already buzzing with thoughts of contracts, clients… and maybe something real for dinner tonight.

She slipped back into the bullpen, trying to look like she hadn’t just been summoned to the principal’s office. A few heads popped up over cubicle walls. Someone whispered “dead woman walking,” and someone else made that dramatic “dun-dun-dun” sound effect under their breath.

Zoey flipped them off cheerfully on her way back to her desk. “Relax,” she said, dropping into her chair. “I wasn’t fired. Disappointed?”

“Always,” muttered Roy from two rows down.

She smirked and tapped her keyboard awake, the beige glow of the monitor greeting her like an old, slightly judgmental friend. The office hummed with the usual chorus - printer jams, phones ringing, someone swearing quietly at a spreadsheet. Mundane. Familiar.

Her mind, though, was elsewhere. On Moss’s words. On the maybe-client. On the thought of speaking Korean in front of strangers and not accidentally telling them their network was about to “apocalypse.”

She sighed, leaned back in her chair, and muttered to herself, “Bonus ramen motivation, don’t fail me now.”

Shoving her headphones on she got back to work.

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By the afternoon, Rumi was holed up in one of Sunlight’s recording studios, sprawled sideways on the couch with her notebook open and a half-empty iced coffee, that she may or may not have put some whiskey in, sweating rings onto the table. The walls were plastered with soundproofing, the monitors humming softly, and the beat looping endlessly from the speakers while she mumbled half-finished lyrics to herself.

It wasn’t going anywhere.

The words kept snagging, the melody slipping into clichés she hated. She drummed her fingers against her knee, tossed the notebook onto the floor, and growled.

And that’s when the door swung open, and for a moment she was ready to fight Celine, but it wasn't her who strutted into the room like they owned it.

Mira Kang. Tall, sharp lines softened only by the pink hair she wore like a warning sign. Her face was the same as always - blank, cool, with just the faintest curl of annoyance, like the world had personally inconvenienced her by existing. Her outfit positively screamed “Don't touch me”

Rumi sat up straighter without meaning to.

“Didn’t know you were around today,” she said, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Clearly,” Mira replied, setting her bag down on the console table. Her tone wasn’t sharp, exactly - just flat. But with Mira, flat landed harder than most people’s shouting.

They’d been paired together a long time ago, back when Rumi had still been choreographed within an inch of her life, every performance rehearsed until she could barely breathe. Mira had been the one running the rehearsals, perfecting every angle, every gesture. And even though Rumi had since stripped her image raw, ditching the polished routines for something messier, Mira was still the only one she trusted, becoming her trusted producer of choice. The only one who didn’t just work with her, but worked alongside her.

Mira slid into the producer’s chair and gave the mess of scribbles on the floor a long, unimpressed look, before taking Rumi's coffee and taking a sip. Raising an eyebrow at her at the clear aftertaste of whiskey. Rumi just shrugged. Mira rolled her eyes, taking another sip before setting the cup back down, glancing at the notebook on the floor in front of her.

“This is what you’ve got so far?”

Rumi grinned sheepishly. “Work in progress.”

Mira’s eyes flicked to her bruised face, then back to the notebook. She didn’t comment. She didn’t have to. Mira turned around, adjusting the levels on the mixer like she owned the place, which, in a way, she did. “The beat’s solid,” she said, cool as ever, “but your lyrics sound like you got into a fight with a rhyming dictionary and lost.”

Rumi clutched her chest dramatically. “Wounded. Utterly destroyed. Here lies Rumi, taken down by harsh producer critique.”

“You asked.”

“I literally didn’t ask.”

“You looked at me like you wanted me to say something.” Mira didn’t glance back, but Rumi could see the corner of her mouth twitch - just slightly, the closest Mira ever came to a smirk.

“Maybe I just like looking at you.”

That earned her look over the shoulder, one brow raised, nothing more.

Rumi laughed and leaned back against the couch, stretching her legs out until her boots tapped the bottom of Mira’s chair. “Why are you here? Did Celine put you up to this?.”

“No,” Mira said, adjusting another dial. “I just walked by and saw you sit in here like you might spontaneously combust, and I really can't let you burn down my best studio.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the beat looping on the speakers. Mira’s pink hair caught the studio lights, throwing soft color across her otherwise impassive face. Rumi found herself staring too long.

Mira finally turned fully, meeting her gaze with that blank expression that somehow carried more weight than most people’s shouting. “Pick the lyric you hate the least. Sing it clean. We’ll build from there.”

“Bossy,” Rumi muttered, but she was already pulling herself up.

“Efficient,” Mira corrected.

Rumi smirked. “You know, if you ever talked to anyone else the way you talk to me, they’d cry.”

“Good thing you’re you, then.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavier than either of them acknowledged. Rumi tilted her head, grin widening.

“Careful, Mira. That almost sounded like affection.”

Mira rolled her eyes and pointed at the door to the booth. “Sing.”

Rumi followed her finger and stepped into the booth, pulling in her headphones, and quickly scanning the page of her notes before settling on a random lyric.

She tried her best to find a good voice for it, but nothing fit. Even worse: she could clearly see Mira's grimacing face through the glass of the booth.

“That bad?” Rumi asked, taking off her Headphones, trying for playfulness, though her voice came out lower than she meant. Mira leaned back in the chair, folding her arms. “I think you can do better.”

The bluntness made Rumi’s grin falter for a second. She covered it quickly, propping her chin on her fist. “So you do care.”

“I care about the work.” Mira’s gaze flicked toward her, steady, unblinking. “Don’t twist it.”

Rumi chuckled, though her chest felt tighter than it should. “You know, I’ve been accused of many things. But twisting the truth?”

Mira raised an eyebrow at her. “Yeah okay you're right, guilty as charged.”

The beat looped again, vibrating softly through the room. Mira broke eye contact first, reaching to adjust the gain, but Rumi caught the faintest shift at the corner of her mouth - a giveaway only she knew how to spot.

“Sing it again,” Mira said, voice suddenly weirdly even. “Sing it like you mean it, or don’t waste my time.”

“Bossy,” Rumi muttered again, dragging her headphones back on her head.

“Focused,” Mira corrected, settling her own headphones on. Rumi smirked, “One of these days, Kang, you’re gonna admit you like bossing me around.”

Silence. Just the track waiting for her cue.

Rumi leaned into the mic, her voice dropping low and her grin curling sharp. “And maybe if you’re lucky I’ll even let you, with minimal complaining.”

Mira’s eyes flicked up through the glass of the control booth, unreadable as ever. But Rumi caught it - just a fraction of a pause.

Then the track rolled, and the moment dissolved into the music.

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Back at her desk, Zoey found herself deep in the kind of trance only spreadsheets, half-broken databases, and noise-canceling headphones could bring. Numbers, half-readable documentation, a coworker somewhere across the bullpen arguing with their printer - it all blurred together into the soft hum of office survival.

After what felt like both five minutes and five years, she yanked her headphones down around her neck, stretched until her shoulders cracked, and let out a long yawn that had at least two people glance up from their cubicles. Not that she cared. Break time.

She flicked open her email, expecting nothing but the usual spammy newsletters and passive-aggressive chain messages from HR, only to see Moss’s name sitting bold at the top. Oh joy.

The mail was short, curt, and very… Moss. Time and date for the Korean-speaking client: three days from now. A reminder of how important the contract would be for the firm. And at the bottom, a neat little note about a bonus if she pulled it off without embarrassing the company. Zoey allowed herself a small grin. Bonus meant better ramen, maybe some real coffee for once. Maybe even coffee from a real shop.

Her eyes flicked to the calendar. Tomorrow was her day off. Perfect. A whole day to clean her room (god knew it needed it), maybe wrestle with the pile of laundry that was evolving into a second roommate, and then prep for the meeting. Easy. Organized. Responsible. See, she could adult when she wanted to.

She checked the clock. Still a few hours to go, but her workload didn’t look terrible. If she blitzed through it, she could wrap early and frame it as “extra prep time.” Moss would let her slide if she phrased it responsibly enough. Flawless plan.

She typed up a quick message:

“I’d like to finish today’s workload early so I can dedicate more time to prepping for the client. Okay with you?”

SENT

With that, she grabbed her mug and headed for the break area. It smelled faintly of burnt grounds, as it always did, and something that had definitely died in the fridge. Classic HQ.

Roy was already there, elbows on the counter, staring into his mug like he was trying to divine his future in the dregs. “Machine’s broken again,” he grunted without looking up.

Zoey pressed the button anyway. It coughed, hissed, and spat out a thin, tar-colored stream. “Looks fine to me.”

“That’s not coffee. That’s printer ink.”

“Perfect. Exactly the level of caffeine I need.” She grabbed a stir stick and poked at the sludge.

Janice from accounting breezed in next, clutching a stack of papers. “You two do realize this stuff takes five years off your life, right?”

Zoey blew on her cup. “Good. Then I’ll die before I have to pay off my student loans.”

Roy snorted into his mug, and even Janice cracked a smile before shuffling back out.

She leaned against the counter, letting the bitter steam curl into her nose. Across the room, someone was having a loud argument with the printer, again. Another coworker narrated every keystroke they typed - loudly. And over by the dying office plant, Mark was watering it with the reverence of a priest.

“Another day in paradise,” Zoey muttered, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. It tasted exactly like regret.

Still, it was better than nothing.

She carried her mug back to her desk and dropped into her chair. By the time she set it down, her inbox had a new message blinking at the top. Moss.

“Do it. Don’t slack.”

Which, translated from Moss-speak, basically meant: “That’s fine, kid. Don’t screw it up.”

Zoey smirked, shoved her headphones back on, and scrolled through her music library. Her finger hovered, then landed on her Ryumi playlist. The first beat rattled in her ears, and suddenly the burnt-coffee haze didn’t seem so bad.

This day was looking up. And, to her own surprise, the plan actually worked. Once she locked in, everything on her to-do list started toppling like dominoes. Spreadsheets balanced, reports filed, tickets closed - bam, bam, bam. It was almost suspicious, like the universe was saving up disasters for later.

By midday, her workload was gone, vaporized. She stared at the empty inbox for a moment, blinking at it like it might refill if she looked away. When it didn’t, she leaned back, stretched until her spine popped, then powered off her laptop with a flourish.

Laptop in bag, bag slung over shoulder, she tossed a quick “Later, nerds” over her shoulder to the bullpen. Someone booed dramatically. Someone else clapped. She flipped them off cheerfully on her way out.

Outside, the midday sun hit her like a warm slap. Burbank in autumn was a strange mix - sunny and golden, but with just enough cool wind to make her grateful for her hoodie. She took a deep breath, the kind that made her chest ache a little, and decided walking home beat the bus today. She had no rush, and some fresh air would do her good.

The streets were more alive in that lazy midday way - half-empty cafés, someone walking their dog, a group of kids skateboarding past with too much energy for a Wednesday. She let herself bask in the sun, headphones still piping Ryumi into her brain, and thought, yeah, not bad.

A corner store caught her eye, and she ducked inside. Ten minutes later she emerged with toast (because she was an adult), a microwave dinner (because she was also realistic), and a pack of gum she didn’t need but wanted anyway.

By the time she reached her apartment building, the sun was high, the wind cool, and her mood - shockingly - still intact.

Today was still going weirdly well.

She would go inside, hopefully Stacy wouldn’t be there, get a headstart on cleaning her room, eat her dinner and then go to sleep early. She could sleep in tomorrow, finish her chores and just have a nice day.

Tomorrow was going to be great !

Chapter Text

The last loop of the track died in the studio, and for once she didn’t hate it. The song was still rough, lyrics half-formed, beat wobbling in places - but it was standing. A skeleton with just enough muscle that she could almost see what it might become.

Mira powered down the console, sliding her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she gathered her bag. Rumi leaned against the couch, arms folded, watching her.

“Let’s go out,” she said suddenly. Mira didn’t even pause in zipping her bag. “Where?”

“I dunno. Anywhere that isn’t here. I’m sick of Celine’s stupid tower of doom.”

Mira’s mouth twitched - maybe a smirk, maybe gas. Hard to tell with her. “There’s a club in Gangnam. Exclusive. Good music. No one will bother you.”

Rumi groaned, tilting her head back against the wall. “Hard pass. I don’t need more rich assholes breathing their champagne breath in my face.”

“You want to dance, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but not in a glitter box full of accountants’ kids with daddy’s credit cards.”

Mira adjusted the strap of her bag, calm as ever. “Fine. There’s a smaller place. Half club, half bar. Not flashy. Good floor. You get your edge, I get my sound system.” She said it like a compromise brokered at a peace summit. Rumi grinned. “See, this is why you’re still my favorite. You get me.”

“I tolerate you,” Mira corrected, walking towards the door. She stopped next to Rumi, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Meet me there in an hour, I want to change.” She leaned closer. “You probably should too. I know this is your whole…”, her eyes flicked up and down Rumi’s body, “...thing. But you smell worse than an ashtray.”

She left before Rumi could come up with a comeback sharp enough to stick.

Rumi grabbed her jacket and slipped out of the room, praying to every minor deity that she wouldn’t bump into anybody lurking in the hall. No such luck. Bobby spotted her instantly, clutching a tablet like it was life support.

“Rumi! Wait - just a second. There’s still some things that we-”

“Bobby.” She held up both hands like she was stopping traffic. “Not now. I’m off-duty. And you should be too.”

“But it’s important, we - ”

“Later.” She patted his shoulder as she walked past, ignoring his puppy-eyed sigh. “Go home. You really should start taking more time for yourself.”

Outside, the night air wrapped around her like a sigh of relief. She took a deep breath, tugged her shirt up to her nose, and winced. Mira was right, she smelled like sweat, cigarettes, and studio dust. Not to mention the blood that was still crusted onto her shirt.

“Ugh. Okay, fine. Home, shower, then bar. Edge only works if you don’t smell like an ashtray,” she muttered to herself, flagging down her driver.

She slid into the backseat of the car. The driver glanced at her through the mirror, waiting. Rumi drummed her fingers against her knee, hesitating.

Her penthouse address sat on the tip of her tongue. The glossy tower, twenty-second floor, all glass and shine - Celine’s congratulatory gift when her career had blown up. Supposed to be the dream. Except right now, she could picture it perfectly: the stale stench of spilled liquor, glitter ground into the carpet, somebody’s shoes abandoned in the hallway. Another party still echoing in the walls.

She had tried to get used to it and see it as a home, but it felt empty. It had always been that way. The place was too big, too empty, swallowing her whole unless she stuffed it with bodies and noise. She’d told herself she’d get used to it. That someday she’d wake up and it would feel like hers.

She never did.

Instead, the penthouse became her personal party bunker, a showroom for everyone else’s fun. Not a home. Just another stage.

She exhaled through her nose and gave the driver the address to her other apartment - the small one, tucked in a quieter corner of the city, where nobody cared if she came or went.

Rumi let herself collapse back into the seat, forehead pressed briefly to the cool glass of the window. Seoul’s nightlife spilled past in neon ribbons and streetlight gold: couples clinging to each other, packs of kids spilling out of karaoke booths, motorbikes snarling between cars. Noise everywhere, but muted through the glass.

She just watched. Let it all roll by until the car nosed into a familiar, narrow street, the buzz of downtown fading.

Before long the elevator in her building rattled its way up, doors clunking open on the third floor. She slipped out, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders, and keyed into the small apartment tucked at the end of the hall.

The air hit her immediately, incense, the faint tang of old coffee. Not like the penthouse. Real. Hers.

It wasn’t much - just a bedroom, a kitchen, and a living room that doubled as workspace - but every inch of it was stamped with her. The walls were painted in bold, uneven strokes, colors she’d chosen on impulse and slapped up herself. Photographs covered the rest: black-and-white shots of alleyways, neon-soaked portraits of strangers, snapshots of stickers peeling in bathroom stalls. Things that caught her eye, things that felt alive.

It wasn’t big. It wasn’t impressive. But when she stepped inside, she didn’t feel swallowed. She felt… anchored.

She kicked off her boots, peeled out of her sweaty shirt, and headed straight for the shower. Steam filled the tiny bathroom, hot water beating the stale smell of studio out of her hair, out of her skin. She leaned her forehead against the tile, eyes closed, and just let it wash over her until the heat made her dizzy.

By the time she stepped out, toweling her hair, her reflection was sharp-eyed again. Alive again.

Outfit time. She pulled on ripped black shorts, a mesh top layered over a strappy crop, chains at her hip. Combat boots laced up tight. Rings, necklaces, choker - every accessory another piece of armor. She tugged her hair into a messy high ponytail, strands left loose on purpose.

There. Presentable. Chaotic. Exactly what the night deserved.

She snagged her phone and jacket, gave the apartment one last glance - the painted walls, the photos staring back at her - and felt that familiar rush of possession. This, at least, Celine hadn’t built for her. This was hers.

And then she was gone again, locking the door behind her, heading out towards the night. ‘No rest for the wicked’, she thought as she let herself fall into the seat of her car. She debated driving herself, but she was many things, but not somebody that would drive drunk in the city.

The car dropped her a block away, the glow and noise of the place spilling out into the street. From the outside, the bar looked like it had been wedged between two taller buildings and forgotten about, a squat little thing with neon letters half-burned out and a line of smokers loitering near the entrance. Music pulsed faintly through the brick, just enough to make the sidewalk thrum under her boots.

Packed. Of course. Mira always had a sixth sense for places like this - popular enough to prove she was right, underground enough that Rumi couldn’t complain.

She sidestepped a group of guys laughing too loud, slipped to the edge of the crowd, and pulled a cigarette from the pack she kept stuffed in her jacket pocket. One flick of her lighter, a drag, and the world slowed down a little.

She leaned against the cool brick wall, exhaling smoke into the evening air, watching strangers weave in and out. Couples clinging. Friends stumbling. People dressed like they’d planned for this night all week, and others who looked like they’d just wandered in from the street.

She leaned against the brick wall, neon bleeding across her tattoos, and flicked ash into the gutter. Her gaze drifted around the people standing on the sidewalk, but Mira wasn’t there yet. She instead opted to aimlessly scroll around on her phone, thumb dragging past half-funny memes and a flood of fan posts.

A sharp voice cut through the noise.

“You know those things are voice killers, right?”

Rumi startled, head jerking up, but recovered fast, blowing a lazy stream of smoke to cover it.

Mira stood opposite her, a plastic cup sweating iced coffee in her hand like it had just teleported there. Rumi squinted. How the hell did Mira manage to get caffeine in the time it had taken her to drag herself across the city, shower and change? Then again - of course she did. She was Mira.

Her outfit was as deliberate as ever: black crop top layered under a sharp fitted leather jacket, a skirt short enough to leave very little to imagination, fishnets and sleek boots catching the neon glow. Hair pulled back neat, sunglasses in place, the iced coffee practically an accessory. Clean, sharp, still a little bit of an edge and so unbelievably Mira it hurt.

“You stalking me now?” Rumi asked, flicking ash with mock disdain.

Mira raised a brow, taking a sip. “If I were, you’d never notice. You’re too busy killing your lungs.”

Rumi smirked. “And here I thought you just liked the view.”

A flicker - barely a twitch at Mira’s lips, but it was there. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Rumi laughed, crushed her cigarette under her boot, and gestured toward the door with a tilt of her chin. “Come on, before I start thinking you dressed up just for me.”

“Maybe I did.” Mira brushed past her, cool as ever, and pushed her iced coffee into the hands of the doorman as he held the door open for her, Rumi hot on her heels.

The thrum of bass and heat from the packed bar swallowed them both as they stepped inside. Heat, bodies, neon lights strobing off sweat-slick faces. The air was thick with the tang of spilled beer and cheap perfume, music so loud it vibrated in her chest.
Voices rose and crashed over each other, laughter breaking into shouts, the occasional smash of a glass somewhere in the din. The walls shook with bass, graffiti buried under layers of stickers and old posters peeling at the corners.

It was chaos.

And she loved it.

Every step inside felt like diving headfirst into static, and she let it crawl up her skin, prickle at her tattoos. She lived for this: the press of strangers, the sensation that at any second, the whole place might tip over into something wild.

Mira, of course, barely blinked. She slipped through the throng with the same steady precision she had at the studio. People never seemed to bump into her, instead they just brushed past her, and she didn’t even look. Just kept moving.

Rumi grinned, elbowing after her. Where Mira cut through the crowd like a knife, Rumi pushed and flowed with it, slapping a stranger’s hand in passing, laughing when someone nearly sloshed their drink onto her boots.

They reached the bar, already a mess of elbows and raised bills. Mira angled herself into the tiniest available space, her expression unreadable. Rumi just leaned forward, raising two fingers until the bartender clocked her.

“Whiskey. Neat. Don’t water it down,” she shouted over the bass. “Oh and a bottle of Terra.

The bartender nodded, already moving.

Mira didn’t even raise her voice. “Martini.”

Rumi shot her a look, smirking. “Of course. Classic Mira. Always with the ice queen order.” Mira raised an eyebrow at her. “Seriously Mira, you are the only one I know that would order a martini in a bar like this. I mean look at you! You are still wearing your sunglasses for fucks sake!”

Mira pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “At least I won’t be knocked out in an hour.”

“Knocked out?” Rumi snorted, grabbing her glass the second it landed on the bar. “Babe, you know that this is how I wake up.”

They clinked glasses, both turning around to watch the crowd.

The music surged again, the crowd pressing tighter around them, and Rumi tipped back her whiskey, savoring the burn, before half emptyting her beer in one fell swoop.

This was her element. The whiskey was gone too fast, her beer and Mira’s glass just as empty. Without a word, Mira’s hand slipped around her wrist, tugging her from the bar. Rumi grinned, already moving before she realized she was being dragged.

The dance floor swallowed them whole. Bass rattled her bones, a deep, grinding pulse that made her skin hum. Lights strobed, violet and red, turning faces into fleeting masks. The crowd was one body, heat pressing in, sweat slicking the air.

They moved together. Mira with her precise control, movements sharp, clean; Rumi loose and feral, riding the beat, tossing her head back like she could inhale the sound. For a while, there was no Celine, no management, no penthouse - just the crush of music, the blur of strangers, the rare spark of Mira’s eyes meeting hers through the haze.

At some point Mira leaned in, brushed her lips against Rumi’s ear: “Bathroom.”

And then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

Rumi, still buzzing, slid back to the bar. The stool was warm when she dropped onto it, sweat cooling on her skin. She flagged another whiskey with a tilt of her chin.

That’s when he appeared. Some guy, slick hair and too-white smile, sliding up beside her like he owned the spot.

“Didn’t think someone like you would slum it in a place like this.”

Rumi didn’t even look at him. “Lucky you, then. Night made. Now, move.”

He laughed like she was joking, leaning closer. “Feisty. I like that.” he slid even closer to her. “I’ve been watching you and your friend together on the dancefloor, now that’s something I’d pay to see.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Say that again.”

He smirked, unfazed. “Come on, you two, on the floor together? Hot as hell. Bet she's - ”

Rumi was out of her seat and in his face before he could finish his sentence, one hand already at his shirt collar, but a firm hand on her arm stopped her from doing anything else.

“Enough.”

The voice came from behind her, calm but cutting. Mira. She was back, gaze cold enough to freeze him mid-word.

“Not worth it,” Mira murmured, low enough only Rumi could hear.

The guy laughed nervously, muttering something as he backed away. Rumi glared daggers into his retreating shoulders.

“Should’ve let me deck him,” she muttered.

“Then we’d be leaving early,” Mira replied, tugging her back toward the floor. “And you’d hate that more.”

She wasn’t wrong. Still, Rumi’s jaw ached with restraint as she let herself be pulled back into the crowd.

The DJ flipped tracks, bass dropping into a familiar hook. Too familiar.

Her stomach lurched.

The sugar-sweet synth of one of her old songs - her bubblegum-pop princess days - poured out of the speakers. The crowd cheered, clueless.

Rumi froze for half a beat, the sound clawing at her ears. Of all the nights, of all the places -

“Of course,” she muttered, bitterness curling in her throat. “Can’t escape it, can I?”

She tried to ignore it. She really did. She tried to let the bass cover it up, tried to pretend the saccharine beat of her old song wasn’t digging under her skin. But the more the crowd screamed along, the more it felt like the walls were pressing in, dragging her back into sequined dresses and fake smiles.

“Fuck this.”

She shoved her way out, ignoring the elbows and curses, and burst into the night air. The sidewalk was cooler, thinner, but she was still buzzing. She pulled a cigarette from her jacket, lit it with a snap, and inhaled like it might burn the memory out of her head.

The flame had barely died when Mira appeared, slipping into the space beside her. No questions. No expression. Just Mira, standing there, arms crossed like she’d known exactly where Rumi would run.

Rumi exhaled smoke, sharp. “Don’t start. I don’t need a lecture about - ”

“Relax,” Mira cut in, voice calm, even. “I’m not here to lecture. I just know that face.”

Rumi scoffed, trying to cover the way her throat clenched. “What face?”

“The one you make when you’re about to explode and pretend you’re fine.”

Her jaw worked, cigarette trembling just slightly between her fingers. Mira always did that - sliced straight past the armor.

“Whatever,” she muttered, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “That place is dead to me anyway. Let’s just go somewhere else.”

Mira tilted her head. “Another bar?”

“Nah. I’m danced out.” Rumi took another drag, eyes narrowing at the neon-lit street. Then she glanced sidelong at Mira, smirk tugging at her lips. “Come back to mine. Chill out. Let the night die mellow.”

One of Mira’s eyebrows arched. “By mellow you mean smoking weed and drinking whatever cheap beer you’ve got in your fridge.”

“Exactly.” Rumi grinned, flashing teeth around the cigarette. “So what do you say?”

Mira let the silence hang, then exhaled through her nose. “Fine. Lead the way.”

[this is where the smut lives]

The door slammed open, banging against the wall, and Rumi stumbled inside with Mira’s mouth still on hers. Jackets half-off, boots scuffing across the floor, they didn’t bother with lights - just the glow of neon spilling through the window.

Rumi broke the kiss long enough to laugh, breathless. “So much for my mellow night. This wasn’t - ”

Mira’s hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back just enough for their eyes to meet. “Shut up, Rumi.”

And then her mouth was on hers again, harder this time, swallowing the rest of the words.

Rumi melted against it, the fight draining into heat. She smirked into the kiss, though, because of course Mira always had the last word.

But then again, this was what Rumi always had liked about her. She started to manoeuvre them towards her couch, taking care not to bump Mira into anything on the way. While she had no problem with lovebites and hickeys, she hated getting bruises.

Before she could think anymore about it Mira had already pulled her down on the couch, and started trailing her hand from the edge of her skirt, over her stomach up to her shoulders, pushing her shirt up and off.

Rumi’s mouth watered at the sight, already filled with all the positions she would love to have Mira in by the end of the night. For now she settled with peppering the redheads neck with kisses, mixing in a little bite here and there, reveling in the noises coming from Mira, that she would deny until her dying breath.

Her ministrations were interrupted by Mira putting a hand on her chest and pushing her back. “If you take any more time, I will throw you off me and take matters into my own hands.”

Rumi just smirked, leaning forward until her mouth was next to her ear. “Bossy.”

Mira pushed her back again, but this time only to grab her by the back of her neck and pressing their lips together in a messy kiss. The other took one of Rumi’s hands and pushed it down her body. Rumi smirked into the kiss. So impatient.

Rumi thanked her lucky stars that Mira decided to wear a skirt this evening, because it meant that her hand landed exactly where both Mira and her wanted it to be the most.

It slid effortlessly under Mira’s skirt, her fingers grazing the soft skin of her thighs. Mira leaned into her, her breath already quickening, her body responding to Rumi’s touch with a familiarity that bordered on desperation in moments like this. Rumi’s kisses followed, precise and deliberate, each one a calculated strike designed to drive Mira wild. Her lips pressed against Mira’s neck, her jawline, the curve of her ear, each touch a symphony of calculated desire.

“Rumi,” Mira whispered, her voice already breathless, “I told you-”

Rumi silenced her with a kiss, her lips firm against Mira’s. She pulled back just enough to tease, her tongue tracing the seam of Mira’s lips before plunging deeper, tasting her fully. Mira moaned softly, her hands tangling in Rumi’s hair, pulling her closer. The rhythm of their kisses was relentless, a dance Rumi had perfected, knowing exactly when to push and when to hold back.

Her hands moved higher, slipping under Mira’s top, her fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, her thumb teasing over pierced nipples. Mira arched into the touch, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. Rumi’s kisses grew more urgent, her teeth grazing Mira’s skin just hard enough to make her gasp. She bit down gently on Mira’s neck, the sharp sting drawing a sharp intake of breath.

“Ah - Rumi,” Mira murmured, her voice trembling.

Rumi soothed the sting with her tongue, licking and sucking at the spot until Mira was squirming beneath her. Her hand trailed lower again, slipping beneath Mira’s panties, her fingers brushing against her core with precision born from familiarity. Mira’s hips bucked involuntarily, a soft cry escaping her lips.

Mira’s breath hitched as Rumi’s touch grew firmer, her rhythm building. She could feel the tension coiling within her, tighter and tighter, until she thought she might shatter. But Rumi’s gaze never wavered, her expression a mix of pride and desire as she watched Mira come apart under her touch.

“Rumi - I - ” Mira gasped, her voice breaking as her body tightened.

“Let go,” Rumi whispered, her fingers pressing deeper, her thumb brushing against Mira’s clit. “Let me feel you.”

Mira’s eyes rolled back as she cried out, her body shuddering with release. Rumi held her tightly, her other hand pressing against Mira’s back, keeping her grounded as she rode out the waves of pleasure. The room was filled with the sounds of their labored breaths, the wetness of their bodies, and the soft, primal noises that escaped their lips.

As Mira collapsed against her, Rumi held her close, her heart pounding in sync with Mira’s. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken words. Rumi’s fingers traced lazy patterns on Mira’s back, her lips pressing soft kisses to her hair.

“You’re incredible,” Rumi whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Mira smiled, her head resting on Rumi’s chest, her breath slowly evening out. “If you want me to stroke your ego now, after making me come once,” she murmured, her voice laced with desire still, “then you can wait for a long time.”

Rumi laughed softly, a sound that was both tender and triumphant. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The moment lingered, the two of them lost in the quiet contentment of the afterglow. Rumi’s arms tightened around Mira, her fingers threading through her hair, holding her close.

Rumi’s mind drifted back to the hours leading up to this moment, the careful planting of the little things she knew Mira loved about this: the flirts, the invitation out, the dancing and drinking and then the invitation back to Rumi’s place. It was all part of a dance perfected over years and years.

She had known this night would end like this. But even with all the preparation, the reality of having Mira in her arms was always was more intoxicating than she would like to admit.

And Rumi knew that they weren’t done yet. It always started like this. A quick, first dull of the edge.

Rumi’s lips curved into a smirk. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet,” she murmured, her voice low and husky. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over Mira’s ear, pressing a flurry of kisses on her jaw.

Mira shivered at the words, her body already humming with anticipation. “What do you have in mind?”

Rumi’s fingers trailed down Mira’s front, her touch deliberate and teasing. “You’ll see,” she whispered, her voice dripping with promise.

She pushed Mira roughly onto her back again, just how Mira liked it, her hands moving to the hem of her skirt, slowly pulling it down her legs, taking Miras fishnets with her. Mira’s breath quickened as the cool air kissed her bare skin, her eyes never leaving Rumi’s. Rumi took her time, her lips roaming over Mira’s body with an appreciation that made Mira squirm.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Rumi murmured, her voice raw with desire. She leaned down, her lips brushing against Mira’s inner thigh, her breath warm and teasing. “And I’m going to worship every inch of you.”

Mira moaned softly, her hands gripping the edges of the couch as Rumi’s lips trailed higher, her tongue flicking out to taste the skin just above her knee. “Rumi - fuck - ”

“Patience,” Rumi chided, her voice playful yet commanding. She kissed her way up Mira’s thigh, her lips lingering, her tongue tracing patterns that made Mira’s toes curl. “Now that you’ve gotten your first fix, I want to savor this.”

Mira’s breath came in short gasps as Rumi’s lips finally reached the edge of her panties. Rumi hooked her fingers into the lace, slowly pulling them down, her eyes never leaving Mira’s. The anticipation was almost unbearable, Mira’s body tense with need.

“Open your legs for me,” Rumi whispered, her voice a low growl.

Mira obeyed without hesitation, her thighs falling open, exposing her to Rumi’s hungry gaze. Rumi’s lips curved into a satisfied smile as she leaned in, her breath ghosting over Mira’s core. “So wet,” she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re always so ready for me.”

Mira whimpered, her hips arching slightly as Rumi’s tongue finally made contact, slow and deliberate, a single stroke that had her crying out. “Rumi - fuck.”

Rumi chuckled, the vibration sending shivers through Mira’s body. “Such a filthy mouth,” she teased, before diving in again, her tongue firm and relentless. She lapped at Mira’s folds, her fingers pressing into her thighs to hold her steady as she explored every inch of her. Mira’s moans filled the room, her body twisting and bucking as Rumi’s touch grew more urgent.

“Rumi - I’m close - ” Mira gasped, her voice desperate.

“Not yet,” Rumi murmured, her lips brushing against Mira’s clit. She sucked it gently into her mouth, her tongue swirling, her fingers pressing into Mira’s hips to keep her still. “I want you to hold on.”

Mira’s breath hitched, her body trembling on the edge. “Please - Rumi - I can’t - ”

“You can,” Rumi insisted, her voice firm yet tender. She pulled back slightly, her fingers sliding inside Mira, slow and deep, her thumb pressing against her clit in a rhythm that had Mira crying out. “Be a good girl for me. Hold on for me.”

Mira’s eyes squeezed shut, her body tense as she fought to obey. Rumi’s touch was relentless, her fingers moving in and out, her tongue moving in circles that pushed Mira closer and closer to the edge. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies, wet and desperate, Mira’s moans growing louder with each passing moment.

“Rumi - I - I can’t - ”

“Yes, you can,” Rumi whispered, her voice a low growl. She kissed her way up again, her lips brushing against Mira’s ear, “Open your eyes,” Rumi commanded softly but firmly.

Mira obeyed, her gaze locking with Rumi’s. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, the raw connection between them laid bare. Rumi’s eyes were dark with desire, her expression a mix of tenderness and raw hunger. Mira’s nails dug into Rumi’s back, the sharp pain intertwining with the pleasure coursing through her.

“Look at me,” Rumi murmured, her fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes. “I want you to see me watch you come apart for me.”

Mira’s body shattered, her cry echoing through the room as she came apart under Rumi’s touch. Her hips bucked, her nails digging into the couch as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her again. Rumi held her steady, her fingers still moving, her thumb pressing firmly against Mira’s clit, milking every last drop of her orgasm.

As Mira collapsed, her body limp and trembling, Rumi leaned over her, her breath hot against Mira’s ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come for me,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire.

[smut has moved out]

Mira smiled weakly, her eyes half-lidded as she caught her breath. “You fucking egomaniac.”

Rumi kissed her gently, her lips soft against Mira’s. “What can I say, you know just how to make me want more,” she replied, her hands moving to trace the curves of Mira’s body.

Mira’s fingers tangled in Rumi’s hair, pulling her down for another kiss, this one deeper, more desperate.

The silence between them was comfortable, the kind that only comes with deep understanding and trust. Rumi’s mind drifted, her thoughts a mix of memories of the evening and this moment.

But as she watched Mira, eyes closed and trying to steady her breathing, Rumi’s face softened for the few seconds that Mira let herself just lay there. She always looked so unbelievably soft, a stark contrast to the ice queen Mira that everybody else knew.

But the moment ended and Mira opened her eyes, her face immediately sliding back into its signature look of faint annoyance.

“Stop that.”

Rumi arched a brow. “Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me with that stupid face.”

Rumi smirked, resting her chin on her fist like she had all the time in the world. “I’m sorry, this is the only face I have. And I’ll have you know, people love this face.”

“People are idiots,” Mira muttered, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the tiniest twitch.

“Hey,” Rumi shot back, grinning wider, “you don’t seem to mind it too much.”

Mira sighed through her nose, the picture of put-upon patience, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she turned her head just slightly, letting her forehead brush against Rumi’s shoulder.

Rumi caught it, and her grin softened into something smaller, almost gentle. “Knew it,” she whispered, just to push her luck.

Mira rolled her eyes, but in lieu of an answer she leaned forward, kissing her again - firm enough to silence any more smug comments.

When she pulled back, her voice was low, certain.

“We are far from finished.”

- ------------------------

Later, when the room was quiet again except for the muffled hum of the city outside, Rumi sat down at the edge of the couch and stretched with a groan. Her tattoos caught the pale glow from the window as she stood up and padded barefoot toward the fridge.

Behind her, Mira’s voice, dry as ever: “You know your back looks like you went three rounds with a feral cat.”

Rumi glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “I did.”

Mira raised an eyebrow, unamused but not denying it. “You should be grateful I stopped when I did.”

“Oh, I am,” Rumi shot back, tugging a beer from the fridge with a dramatic flourish. “But you’ve set a high bar for next time.”

Mira made a face, reaching for the blanket like she might bury herself in it and pretend she wasn’t part of this conversation. Rumi laughed, cracked the can, and took a long drink before fishing out another and standing in front of the couch, inclining her head towards her bedroom.

“Come on, I promised you beer and weed. And a quiet wind down.”

Mira stood up, the blanket falling back onto the couch. Rumi was almost tempted to try and start another round, before she was interrupted by a yawn. Okay, maybe not.

They settled on the bed, Mira flipping through the several streaming services on Rumi’s TV while Rumi took great care trying to make the joint not look like a wonky mess. She succeeded. Mostly.

Finally Mira settled on a series about a woman that started murdering everybody that had ever wronged her as Rumi was done building.

They passed the joint between them, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, beer cold against their hands. The chaos of the night faded into the steady rhythm of shared silence - punctuated by the occasional snort of laughter when one of them muttered something, or cheer when the protagonist killed another person.

At some point, Rumi let her head drop against Mira’s shoulder. Mira didn’t move away. Didn’t complain. Just shifted slightly, enough to make it comfortable.

The beer cans sat empty, the joint a smear of ash in the tray. Outside, neon still flickered. Inside, the bed was warm.

Rumi closed her eyes, a smile ghosting her lips even as sleep pulled her under. She didn’t even try to fight it.

Chapter Text

Light. Light right on her eyes. That was the first thing Zoey noticed that morning when her brain dragged itself out of the sleep fog that were her dreams. Her eyes cracked open to pale morning light spilling across her floor. Early. Way too early. Out of sheer habit, she blinked at the clock, groaned, and rolled over.

Day off.

She smiled into her pillow, dragged the blanket over her head, and let herself drift.

The peace lasted all of thirty minutes, until suddenly her phone started screaming from the nightstand, the obnoxious ringtone slicing straight through her dream about winning free tacos for life. Groggy, she flailed for it, squinting at the screen. Moss.

Why the hell was Moss calling her on her day off?

She answered, voice rough with sleep. “Yeah?”

“Choi! Where the hell are you?!”

That woke her up faster than any caffeine ever could. She sat bolt upright, clutching the phone. “Uh - what? I’m… in bed?”

“Don’t get smart with me. I just got a call. The Korean client is coming today. They moved it up. They’ll be here in less than an hour, and I need you here yesterday!”

Zoey blinked, brain still trying to process words through the static of sleep. “Wait. What? No, no, the email said - Moss, you said three days!”

“Well, surprise! It’s today! Get moving!”

“I can’t possibly get there in an hour! I need to dress and even then I couldn’t make it, I don’t have a ca-”

“Figure it out.”

Click. Line dead.

Zoey stared at the phone, mouth hanging open. “Oh, that’s great. Just perfect. Sure, let me just teleport across town in my pajamas, Moss. No problem.”

She dropped the phone onto her bedspread and buried her face in her hands, already feeling her pulse climbing.

Day off officially canceled. But she had no time to wallow right now. She raced out of her bed, making a beeline for the shower.

She shot out of the bathroom still dripping, leaving a trail of water like she was auditioning for Home Alone: The Flooded Apartment Edition. Clothes. She needed clothes. Professional ones.

She yanked open her closet and started tossing things onto the floor - hoodies, ripped jeans, band tees - until she found the one shirt she vaguely associated with being “meeting appropriate.” A loose button-up. Slightly wrinkled, but whatever. She wriggled into it while hopping on one leg to pull up her slacks. Nearly toppled. Caught herself on the bedframe. Swore.

The tie was next. She hadn’t worn it in… god, how long? She looped it twice, frowned, looped it again. Somehow ended up choking herself. After a brief wrestling match with the fabric, she got it to sit more or less straight. Professional enough. Or at least… ironic-professional, which was basically her brand.

Her hair was still damp, so she twisted it into a messy bun, securing it with a hair tie she wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t from Stacy’s drawer. Loose strands immediately rebelled, framing her face. Fine. She decided it was a Look.

She slid her fashionable glasses on, that she did NOT need thankyouverymuch, checked herself in the mirror, and winced. “Okay. Nerdy intern meets hungover skateboarder. Guess that is what I’m going for today.”

Breakfast? Forget it. The box of stale cereal mocked her from the counter. She slung her bag over her shoulder, stuffed her laptop inside, and froze mid-step.

Transport.

Her stomach dropped. Buses? Too slow. Trains? Forget it. Rideshare? Every driver was apparently napping. Which meant there was only one horrifying option left.

Stacy.

Zoey groaned, dragging her palms down her face. “This is how it ends. Death by roommate debt.”

No, she would not do that. She would rather

die

.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her forehead pressed against the passenger-side window, glass cool against her skin. The world slid by in streaks of color, but all Zoey could focus on was keeping herself from imploding. The silence in the car was a living thing, heavy and suffocating.

She could practically hear Stacy’s judgment radiating from the driver’s seat, even though she hadn’t said a single word the entire ride. Not one. Which somehow made it worse.

Zoey’s knee bounced. Her fingers drummed against her bag. She wanted music, she wanted noise, she wanted anything to cut the static humming in her chest. But she stayed still, lips pressed in a thin line, trying not to breathe too loud.

Finally - mercifully - the car slowed, pulling up to HQ. Zoey’s salvation.

Stacy shifted into park, fingers still on the wheel. She opened her mouth. “Zoey, I - ”

“Thanks, gotta go, bye!” Zoey blurted, already fumbling with the handle. She bolted out of the car, bag thumping against her side, sprinting across the lot like her life depended on it.

She slammed through the front doors of HQ, lungs already burning from the sprint across the lot. For half a second, her brain betrayed her - replaying the look on Stacy’s face in the car. That clipped, unreadable calm that wasn’t just annoyance, no matter how hard Zoey tried to tell herself it was.

It always felt like asking Stacy for anything meant peeling back an old scar. And Zoey had no interest in bleeding all over that mess again. She shook the thought off, forcing herself forward. Focus, Choi. Meeting. Client. Survival.

Her pulse spiked all over again. Thank god she’d skimmed through those documents Moss sent yesterday, but it hadn’t been nearly enough time. Not when the words still swam in her head, acronyms blending together, terms she had to look up twice. And now? On top of it? The horror that she might have to understand Korean? It made her stomach queasy.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath as she darted toward Moss’s office. She threw a glance at the door. ‘Damn, I made it’ she thought, as she skidded into Moss’s office, still clutching her bag like a lifeline. He looked up from his paperwork, eyes flicking to the clock.

“You’re not late.”

Zoey blinked. “…That’s it? That’s my medal?”

“Want a parade?” He stood, gathering a neat stack of folders. “Conference room. Now.”

She followed, stomach twisting, muttering, “Geez, don’t strain yourself with the compliments, Moss.”

The conference room was colder, brighter - unforgiving. The client was already there: a sharply dressed man, polite smile, eyes sharp enough to slice paper. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, then it began.

Zoey sat half a step back from the table, notebook open, pen poised. She tried to focus, she really did, but her brain wouldn’t shut up. Okay, yes, I skimmed this yesterday. Totally read… most of it. Definitely read the first page. Fine, maybe just the highlights.

But I’m here. I’m listening. Don’t panic. Oh god, they’re talking fast. Is that acronym new? Have I seen that one before?

She flipped the document open again, eyes darting, words blurring. Meanwhile, Moss and the client were in the middle of what was clearly a misunderstanding - Moss insisting on one thing, the client shaking his head, the tension ratcheting higher.

And then - there. A paragraph, tucked halfway down page three. She reread it once, twice, and suddenly the wires in her head connected.

Before she could stop herself, she blurted: “Wait, I think what you mean is - ”

Both heads snapped toward her. Moss’s glare said 'you’re interrupting, don’t screw this up'. The client just looked confused.

Her mouth went dry. Too late now.

She stumbled through her explanation, gesturing vaguely at the paper. English at first, then - almost without thinking - she switched to Korean, the words flowing of her tongue feeling weird at first, but solid enough to bridge the gap. The client’s brow furrowed, then eased. He nodded.

“…Yes,” he said, carefully, in English. “That. Exactly.”

Zoey let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, heart hammering like she’d just defused a bomb, before turning to Moss and explaining the misunderstanding to him.

The meeting rolled on after that, Moss steering it back on track, but something had shifted. The client’s questions started drifting her way. And every time she caught a flicker of misunderstanding, she forced herself to speak - sometimes in English, sometimes in Korean.

Each time, her nerves spiked, but each time, it worked.

By the end, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to collapse or sprint a marathon. Maybe both.

The meeting wrapped with handshakes and polite bows, the client satisfied, Moss his usual unreadable slab of stone. They walked back down the hall together, Moss’s footsteps heavy, Zoey’s lighter but jittery, every nerve buzzing.

And quiet. Way too quiet.

Zoey’s brain immediately jumped off the cliff. Oh god, he hated it. I talked too much. I embarrassed him. I probably made it worse. He’s just waiting until we’re back in the office to tear me apart. Yep. Dead. I’m dead. Goodbye world, it’s been real.

By the time they reached his door, she was practically sweating through her shirt.

Moss stopped, turned just enough to glance at her. “You did good in there.”

Zoey blinked. “…What?”

“You heard me.” He adjusted the folders under his arm. “You stepped in when it counted, you cleared things up, and the client respected it. You earned your bonus.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Words failed.

Moss continued like he hadn’t just upended her entire universe. “Now, go home. Take what’s left of your free day. Tomorrow, come in late - the same amount of hours you worked today. That should balance it.”

He turned, already pushing the office door open. Over his shoulder, gruff as ever: “Good job, Choi.”

And then the door shut behind him.

Zoey stood frozen in the hallway, heart beating somewhere up in her throat. Moss. Had. Praised. Her. Not sarcastically. Not accidentally. On purpose.

She forced herself to walk, stiff and controlled, through the bullpen. Out the front doors. Across the parking lot.

The second she was clear, she exploded - throwing her arms up, spinning once on the sidewalk, shouting, “YES! Good job, Choi! Hell yeah!”

A passing dog walker gave her a weird look. Zoey didn’t care.

She’d survived. She’d crushed it. And she’d gotten actual Moss-praise.

Life. Made.

On the way home she ducked into the corner store, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. She didn’t even hesitate - grabbed her favorite overpriced ice cream pint and a bag of chips. Treat yourself, Choi. You earned it.

By the time she reached the apartment, her grin had softened into something more tired, but still satisfied. The place was quiet, lights dark except for the faint glow from the kitchen window. Right. Stacy always stayed with her boyfriend midweek.

Which meant she had the apartment all to herself.

Which meant - miracle of miracles - she could actually cook without the risk of running into Stacy mid-stir-fry.

Zoey rolled up her sleeves and set to work. She boiled water, laid out the ramen packet like it was gourmet, chopped up some scallions, dug out the last lonely strip of seaweed from the fridge. She even fried an egg, sunny side up, just to crown the whole thing.

When she finally sat down with the steaming bowl, it looked almost Instagram-worthy. “Look at me,” she muttered proudly, “domestic goddess.”

She carried it carefully back to her room, ignoring the chaos of laundry and takeout boxes in the corner. Later, she promised herself. I’ll clean later. Definitely. Probably.

She flopped onto her bed, stereo remote in hand, queued up some music, and settled against the pillows. The ramen was hot, salty, perfect.

The morning’s chaos replayed in flashes - Moss yelling, her panicking, that client nodding when she switched to Korean. And then, Moss’s voice again, gruff but clear: Good job, Choi.

Zoey grinned into her noodles, shaking her head.

What a day. Her laptop sat in her bag still. In her inbox, a new email sat unread, timestamped fifteen minutes ago.

Subject: Need to discuss. First thing tomorrow. Important.
From: Moss

Zoey didn’t see it. She was already drifting, half-asleep, humming along to the stereo with a satisfied little smile.

Tomorrow could wait.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She walked into Moss’s office first thing, nerves humming. He didn’t waste time - didn’t even look up until she’d closed the door behind her.

“Client called yesterday after you left,” he said, flipping through a stack of papers. “We secured the job.”

Zoey’s face split into a grin. “Oh my god, that’s - ”

He held up one hand. “Don’t celebrate yet. There’s more.”

Her smile froze, half-cocked, half-nervous. “...More?”

He set the papers down and leaned back. “They requested you. Specifically. Mentioned how you were the key in clearing up the misunderstanding during the meeting. They want you on the team that goes to Korea.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Korea Korea?”

“Yes, Choi. Korea Korea.” He ticked items off on his fingers. “They’ll pay for the trip. Cover your living expenses while you’re there. You’ll be embedded with the team for the length of the contract.”

Her mouth opened, but all that came out was a strangled, “Wh - where? Like… where exactly?”

“Seoul.” Moss’s eyes flicked back to the papers. “Capital city. Big place. You’ve heard of it.”

Zoey’s brain short-circuited. Seoul. Seoul, Korea. KOREA Her mothers’ birthplace. The entire other side of the planet.

Moss was still talking - laying out dates, project outlines, who she’d be reporting to - but Zoey only caught fragments. Flights booked. Visa paperwork. Three months.

Her head spun.

She nodded, tried to look professional, tried to write something in her notebook, but her hands were shaking. All she could think was:

Seoul. I’m going to Seoul.

Chapter Text

It had been days since that night at the bar, shockful of press events, rehearsals, endless interviews where she smiled through clenched teeth. Days of studio time where nothing came out right. Normal life for Rumi.

And then the scandal hit.

Grainy photos: a late-night exit from a club, pupils blown out, clothes more than a little askew, lipstick smeared on her jaw. Headlines screaming about “Sunlight Entertainment’s problem child” and “Ryumi’s latest fall from grace.”

Nothing unforgivable. Nothing career-ending. Just another black mark on the neat little image Celine was forever trying to polish.

Mira wouldn’t look at her during rehearsals, mostly out of fear that Celine’s sharp eyes might somehow deduce from them making eye contact that the lipstick had been hers.

And Celine? Whenever Celine spoke, her voice carried that razor-thin edge, every word a clipped reminder that Rumi was burning through goodwill faster than even Sunlight could clean it up. And so she kept an even closer eye on Rumi, making sure her nights were spent working, not partying.

It was, for all the annoyance it made her feel, not the first time for Rumi. Not the first time she stepped out of line like that. Not the first time that Celine confiscated her keys, telling her that she is NOT to go outside and to keep her head down and work. It had been said with that underlying bite, that Celine so often wielded with her.

Which led to her current situation: left stranded in the dreadfully empty penthouse, evening after evening, under strict instructions to use the time for self-reflection and writing.

But the music wasn’t coming. The closest thing to new material was the demo with Mira, still unfinished and mocking her from the studio hard drive. Every time she tried to write, the words came out hollow. Every melody sounded fake.

Normally she would go out, hunt for inspiration in the underground scene. A cheap punk show, new graffiti in some alley, anything raw enough to spark her. But under Celine’s regime, none of that was possible.

So she spent most evenings slumped on her couch, a notebook of scribbles and doodles discarded nearby, hazed or drunk.

It didn’t help. Not really. But it kept her from feeling like she was choking.

Most nights, at least.

But tonight wasn’t one of those nights. The penthouse was simply too quiet. Way too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the walls feel like they were leaning in. She sprawled on the couch, notebook open on her lap, pen rolling off the page where she’d abandoned another half-baked line. She hated the silence, but blasting music just made the emptiness louder.

She was currently busy drawing a particularly unflattering image of Celine, when her phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Ice Queen

She hesitated, thumb hovering, then swiped to answer. “What’s up, your frozen highness?”

“Checking to see if you’re still alive,” Mira said, voice steady as ever. “Heard Celine’s got half your building on watch duty. Figured you might’ve staged a prison break.”

Rumi snorted, dropping her head back against the couch. “Tempting. But no. Just me, my notebook, and a spectacular case of creative death.”

“Sounds productive.”

She rolled her eyes, set the phone on speaker, and leaned forward. Her lighter clicked, her bong bubbling happily. She exhaled a heavy plume toward the ceiling.

“You’re unbelievable,” Mira deadpanned through the speaker.

“What?” Rumi grinned, coughing lightly. “This is research. Expanding the mind. All that crap.”

“Mm-hm.” Mira’s voice was laced with dry amusement. “Funny how your ‘research’ always looks the same.”

“Yeah well, normally I would go out but that’s not really a possibility right now.”

Rumi stretched her legs across the couch, smirking at the ceiling. “And besides, you still call me. Must mean I’m doing something right.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” A pause. “...But I figured you’d need someone to talk to, since you’re on lockdown.”

Rumi blinked at that, softer for just a second. Then she shook it off, letting the smirk slide back into place. “Well, congratulations. You’ve interrupted my very important self-loathing session. Hope you’re proud.”

“Very,” Mira said, dry as dust.

“So what’s new in the glamorous life of Kang Mira?” Rumi asked, putting one of her cigarettes between her lips and lighting the tip, before laying her head back against the couch, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Please tell me you at least went somewhere interesting today, so I can live vicariously through you.”

“I went to the studio,” Mira replied flatly.

“Wow. Riveting. Do go on.”

“I ordered lunch.”

“Scandalous.”

“And I actually ate it instead of chain-smoking over my mixing board.”

Rumi laughed, short and sharp. “Oh, shots fired. I see how it is.”

She smirked, dragging her pen across her notebook in doodles instead of lyrics.

For a while, it was just easy chatter - small jabs, Mira tossing in sarcasm like it was second nature, Rumi volleying back with dramatics.

Then Mira’s voice shifted, just a shade quieter. “You’ve been trying, right?”

Rumi stilled, pen tapping against the page. “Trying what?”

“To write. To get something out. And it’s not working.”

Her chest tightened, the smirk faltering. She stared at the notebook, at the messy scrawl that was supposed to be lyrics. “...You make it sound like a crime.”

“It’s not. It happens.” Mira’s tone was even, calm. “But you can’t keep burning yourself out every night and expect it to fix itself.”

Rumi felt the sting behind her ribs, hot and stubborn. “What do you want me to say? That I’m stuck? That I can’t squeeze anything real out of me right now? Congratulations, you cracked the case.”

Silence hummed over the speaker. Not judgment, just quiet.

Then Mira said, softer, “You’ll get there. You always do. Just… don’t drown yourself in the meantime.”

Rumi bit her lip, fighting the ache that wanted to slip through. She hated how Mira always knew how to find the cracks.

So she rolled her eyes, forcing her grin back into place. “Look at you, getting all sentimental on me. Careful, Kang, or people might think you actually like me.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Mira said dryly, but there was the faintest smile in her voice.

The weight in Rumi’s chest eased just a little. She twirled the pen between her fingers, lips curling. “So… you do like me. Knew it.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late. Already added it to my list of personal victories. Right between finishing school and learning how to shotgun a beer in under five seconds.”

Mira made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what makes me unforgettable, baby.”

For a moment, silence stretched again, but not the heavy kind. This one was lighter, softer.

Then Mira’s voice came, steady, almost gentle: “Just… take care of yourself, Rumi.”

The line clicked dead before Rumi could answer.

She sat there, staring at the phone on the table, smoke still curling toward the ceiling. Her grin lingered, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Alone again, in the too-big, too-quiet penthouse.

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

The flight was long enough to make her question the existence of time. By the time the plane wheels screeched against the tarmac, Zoey felt like she had lived at least three separate lifetimes - all of them cramped, sleepless, and vaguely pretzel-shaped from trying to nap in economy seating.

But now she was here. Seoul.

The airport was massive, buzzing, people flowing like currents in every direction. Signs in English and Korean blurred past as she dragged her suitcase, clutching her backpack like it might float away if she let go.

Her first thought: Holy hell, I’m on the other side of the world.

Her second thought: I have no idea what I’m doing.

Customs, baggage claim, immigration - each checkpoint was another mini panic attack, each officer giving her passport a look that convinced her she was about to be deported before she’d even made it inside the country. But somehow, she kept getting waved through.

By the time she stumbled out into the arrivals hall, she was a bundle of nerves and jet lag with a death grip on her suitcase handle.

A neat little sign with her name on it bobbed above the crowd - someone sent by the client, probably. Relief and dread tangled in her stomach.

“Okay, Choi,” she muttered under her breath. “Don’t screw this up. Just… act professional. Pretend you belong here.”

She immediately tripped over the wheel of her own suitcase, nearly face-planting in front of the poor guy holding the sign.

“Great start. Totally professional.”

The man with the sign introduced himself politely - his English stiff but clear - and guided her out to a waiting car. She nodded too much, smiled too wide, and prayed she didn’t look like someone who had just lost a fight with her luggage.

The ride was a blur of neon and glass, the Seoul skyline unfolding outside the window like a movie set. Towering buildings, signs in bold hangul, the constant thrum of traffic. It was overwhelming and dazzling and absolutely terrifying.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to stay awake, trying not to think about how small she suddenly felt.

By the time they pulled up to her housing - a neat, modern apartment block clearly cheap in rent - her eyes were heavy, but her nerves were louder than her exhaustion.

She dragged her suitcase inside, dragged it up the 12 floors worth of stairs (cursing under her breath the whole time), and found her accomodation. Small, clean, impersonal. A bed, a desk, a kitchen nook. Nothing hers.

Zoey dropped her bags, sat on the edge of the bed, and let out a shaky laugh.

She was in Seoul.

She was supposed to work here. Live here. Function here.

And she had no idea what she was doing. Not just in Korea. In life.

Her chest tightened with the thought, panic creeping up around the edges of her jetlag.

She flopped backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Cool, Choi. Real cool. Just another tiny breakdown on another continent.”

The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. Eventually, exhaustion won, dragging her under.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When she woke up again, the room was dark. A glance at her phone told her it had only been a few hours, but she felt like she’d been knocked out by a tranquilizer dart.

A hot shower helped. Steam filled the little bathroom, washing away some of the travel grime and just enough of the panic. She tied her damp hair into a bun, pulled on fresh clothes, and stared at herself in the mirror.

“Alright,” she told her reflection, “step one: don’t freak out. Step two: explore. Step three: snacks.”

Outside, the night air was cooler, buzzing with neon. She wandered a block, then two, nerves twisting into excitement when she spotted the familiar green and orange glow of a 7/11.

Her eyes lit up. “Oh hell yes.”

The automatic doors slid open, and she walked into paradise.

Row after row of brightly packaged snacks and drinks stared back at her - chips in flavors she couldn’t pronounce, shelves of instant ramen with artful photos on the labels, strange little bottles that promised energy, beauty, or both.

Ten minutes later, she was hauling it to the register, piled high with an unholy mix of candy, chips, ramen packs, three different canned coffees, and something neon pink that she picked up purely because it sparkled.

Back at the apartment, she kicked off her shoes, spread the loot across the bed, and grinned like a kid at Halloween.

For the first time all day, she felt a flicker of comfort.

Seoul was huge, terrifying, overwhelming. But at least it had 7/11.

She was halfway through tearing open a bag of chips when her phone buzzed. The sound nearly made her jump out of her skin.

Moss

Heart in her throat, she unlocked the screen - only to find a message that was surprisingly short for him.

From: Moss

Client wants to meet team tomorrow. 10 a.m. sharp. Be there.

That was it. No lecture. No twenty-point bullet list. Just the facts.

Zoey stared at it, chips forgotten in her lap. Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Sharp.

Panic threatened again, creeping up from her stomach - but then her gaze drifted back to the pile of snacks, the shiny bottles of drinks, the ridiculous pink soda practically winking at her.

She set the phone down, exhaled slowly, and ripped the chips bag open anyway.

“Tomorrow-me can panic,” she muttered, stuffing a handful into her mouth. “Tonight-me deserves this.”

And with that, she settled back against the pillows, surrounded by neon packaging, the taste of salty chips, and the comforting hum of the city outside.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Seoul was alive in a way that made Burbank feel like a sleepy suburb. Neon signs buzzed overhead, flashing colors against slick pavement. The streets pulsed with movement even though her body swore it was two in the morning. Jetlag was a beast, gnawing at her from the inside out. And, she hadn’t thought about Stacy in days, which was either progress or denial. Whatever it was, it was good.

But what do you do when you can't sleep, in a foreign country an ocean away from all you knew? You went to 7/11 for the third time this week and bought enough snacks to fuel a small army.

Her arms were already full: one pack of banana milk, three instant ramen bowls (different flavors, for science), some mystery chips with a cartoon octopus on the front, and, because she’d lost control, a pack of peach gummies shaped like hearts.

She was so busy trying not to drop the gummies that she nearly walked straight into someone in her way.

Zoey stumbled, windmilling her arms. “Ah, crap, sorry - ”

The woman didn’t move out of the way. Tall, sharp lines, hair dyed the kind of pink that made you look twice. A single raised brow.

“Careful,” she said, voice flat but not unkind. Her eyes flicked to the ridiculous pile of snacks in Zoey’s arms. “Planning to survive the apocalypse?”

Zoey opened her mouth. What came out was a nervous laugh. “Uh. Yeah. Jetlag. Snacklag. Same thing.”

The woman just looked at her for a beat too long, expression unreadable in the flickering light. Then, with the faintest twitch of her lips - was that almost a smile? - she stepped aside.

“You’re new here.” Not a question.

-------------------------------------------------------------M--------------------------------------------------------------

The bass line looped again, for the hundredth time, and Mira’s finger hovered over the stop button like it was a trigger. If she heard the same hollow chorus one more time, she might throw the entire mixing board out the window.

“This song,” she muttered under her breath, “is the definition of wasted hours.”

Celine had given her the song from some up-and-coming idol whose debut was coming up, stating that, since Rumi was not giving them anything to work with right now, her talents would be used on something different. Mira was not someone that just rolled over and did everything anybody told her by any means, but she agreed. Maybe out of boredom, maybe because she hoped that it might keep Celine from reading her mind and finding out that she was partially to blame for Rumi being confined, and thus not really writing.

Only that his songs were… painfully mediocre. Sure, the public would eat it up, but she hated it. Her expertise and interest lay with heavier and more complex music.

She pressed the start button, letting the music flow into her brain, but at the first sound of his sickly sweet voice her patience snapped. She saved the work - barely - and killed the track. The silence was almost a relief. She leaned back in her chair, rubbing at her temples. It was already later than she’d thought; the clock on the wall accused her with glowing red numbers.

Normally, Rumi would’ve barged in long before that, demanded a break, or distracted her into remembering she had a body that needed sleep. But Rumi was still under her aunt’s thumb, locked away in her sterile penthouse like a wayward child. Mira briefly imagined scaling the walls just to drag her out, but dismissed the thought with a dry snort. Too much effort.

What she really wanted right now was to get out of the building. She packed up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed out into the night. The city was buzzing even at this hour, but Mira felt oddly detached from it all, her mind still half in the studio as she walked toward her car.
As she unlocked it and let herself fall into the driver’s seat, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.

Rockstar Bitch

Of course.

Her phone connected to the car, tucked into the holder on her dashboard. She turned the key in the ignition.

“You’re supposed to be working.”

On the other end, Rumi’s voice carried a lazy defiance. “When has that ever made me not do something? Celine might be able to confine me in this tower, but she cannot decide what I do.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, tugging upward. “Your aunt would have a stroke if she knew you were calling me instead of writing.”

“Let her. What are you doing?”

“Finishing something hopeless.” Mira’s voice was flat as she drove off the parking lot and into the Seoul streets. “But I gave up about ten minutes ago.”

“Oof, that bad?”

Mira cringed as she thought back to the lyrics she had listened to over and over again today.

“Yes.”

A laugh came from the speakers in response.

“So, rockstar, what did you do today?”

She heard shuffling from the other side before a lighter clicked and Rumi’s voice sounded like she was pressing it out. Mira rolled her eyes. This woman was helpless.

“Wallowed in self-pity mostly. Celine let me out today for a mandatory interview with some TV network.”

Mira thought back to the interview she had watched that morning and snorted.

“Yeah, I saw. You were scarily well-behaved. You even smiled your old idol smile and answered some of the questions in a non-sarcastic way.”

Rumi hummed. “I thought that Celine would ease her leash a little if I behaved.”

“And?”

A beat of silence, then a small voice murmured on the other end. “Didn’t work.”

Mira felt a deep pang of sympathy for Rumi. This house arrest was really getting to her if she would go that far. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Mira’s eyes settled on a glowing neon sign, advertising a 7/11 a few meters down the road.

She suddenly craved something cold, bitter, strong enough to burn the taste of mediocrity out of her mouth.

“I’m getting coffee.”

“At this hour? You’re impossible.”

“Look who’s talking,” Mira murmured, as she pulled into the parking lot. She parked her car, staring at the phone in front of her.

“You know she would probably let you out if you wrote something.”

Another moment of silence.

“I know.”

Mira hesitated. She did not feel like there were any words that she could say that had any meaning at all. So she didn't. “Okay. Well, I’m here. I’ll text you pictures of the outside world later if you want. I’ll even frame them weird for you.”

Rumi laughed. “Whatever would I do without you.”

“Okay, if you’re gonna be like that you’re not getting shit from me.”

“No, I mean it. I would really like that. Thank you.”

Mira felt another pang in her chest. This was more serious than she thought.

But before the silence could stretch too far, Rumi broke it.

“Okay, now go and get your coffee, you freak. Later, Ice Queen.”

“Bye, loser.”

The call dropped, but Mira sat still in her car for a moment, staring at the phone. It was no surprise that Rumi was going bonkers, confined in her apartment like that, but she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was something deeper, beyond all the bravado.

She shook her head. Nothing she could do now - especially since she was fifty percent to blame for this whole fiasco - except get caffeinated and make good on her promise to snap some artsy pics for Rumi.

She pushed the door open, stepping out of her car and into the store. And promptly nearly collided with someone on the way. Possibly to a bunker, from the looks of it.

An armful of snacks wobbled precariously, a packet of peach gummies sliding to the edge. The woman clutching them looked wide-eyed, caught between panic and apology.

Mira raised a brow, taking in the ridiculous sight.

“Careful,” she said evenly, eyes flicking to the haul. “Planning to survive the apocalypse?”

The stranger laughed nervously, fumbling to steady her load. “Uh. Yeah. Jetlag. Snacklag. Same thing.”

Mira said nothing, only studied her a moment longer. Something about her rambling honesty - it was unusual, unpolished. She was clearly not from her, if her slightly stumbly Korean was anything to go by.

Her lips twitched, almost against her will. “You’re new here.”

The woman nodded, trying not to trip over her own tongue. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

The woman's face twisted into a way too adorable pout, and Mira let out a quick laugh. It wasn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact. For some reason, Mira found herself weirdly drawn to the her.

“Cool. Great. Love that for me,” the other woman muttered, before turning around and trying to juggle her haul somewhere else in the store.

By the time the stranger turned her back, Mira had already drifted toward the cooler, the chill biting pleasantly against her skin. She plucked an iced coffee from the shelf, cracked the seal at the register, and let the bitterness coat her tongue, internally groaning in delight at the taste.

She hadn’t meant to linger, but her gaze slid back - unbidden - toward the awkward figure now fumbling towards the register. The bags rustled, ramen bowls clattered against one another, and somehow she managed to look both frantic and determined at the same time.

There was nothing remarkable about her on the surface. The kind of person Mira’s eyes would usually skip over in a crowd. Except she hadn’t.

Unpolished. Too much hair in her face. Dark circles like she hadn’t slept in days. And yet there was something in the way she muttered to herself, like she thought the words would armor her from the world. Something raw. Something honest.

Mira stepped outside, coffee sweating against her palm.

And for some reason, she found herself lingering again. She didn’t know why. She’d gotten her coffee. She could’ve been halfway home already. But instead, she leaned against the glowing glass window of the 7/11, sipping slowly, as if the bitter liquid might explain to her why she was still here.

The woman emerged, arms now burdened with a plastic bag cutting into her wrist. She blinked at Mira again, surprise flickering across her face like she hadn’t expected her to still be there.

“...You’re not following me, are you?” the woman joked, nervous laugh tucked into the words.

Mira arched a brow. “Please. If I were following you, you wouldn’t notice.”

That earned her another startled laugh. Awkward, but genuine. The kind that made people on the street turn and glance.

Mira tilted her head, studying her again. Strange. Unguarded. Talking too much. Everything Mira normally avoided - and yet, for some reason, she didn’t turn away.

Instead, before she could stop herself, she said, “You shouldn’t waste your time only seeing the inside of a convenience store. Seoul is more than neon and ramen.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Are you… offering to be my tour guide?”

Mira sipped her coffee to buy time. That was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Ridiculous. Still, she found herself answering, “Maybe. If you want to see something real.”

“Uh - yes. Yes, absolutely.” The woman set her bags down fumbled phone out of her pocket, clearly still trying to catch up with what was happening.They exchanged numbers and Mira expected that to be the end of it, but then -

“Wait! Can I - uh, can I take a selfie of us?”

Mira’s brow arched high. “A selfie.”

The woman scrambled to explain, waving her phone. “For the contact picture. Otherwise I’ll forget who you are. Not that you’re forgettable, I mean - ”

Mira cut her off with a quiet sigh, setting her coffee aside. “Fine.”

She leaned in. The woman pressed close to get them both into frame. Normally, Mira hated this kind of contact - strangers in her space, clumsy warmth pressed against her side. But this time… it didn’t bother her. Odd.

The shutter clicked. The woman grinned down at her phone like she’d just won something important. “Perfect. Thanks.”

Then, as if they hadn’t just turned a midnight snack run into something else entirely, she waved energetically before picking up her bags. “See you around, maybe, hopefully!”

Mira watched her walk off down the street, a bounce in her step. Strange woman. Stranger still that Mira had given her number.

She shook her head, muttering to herself as she turned back toward her car. “What the hell are you doing, Mira.”

The drive home was quick, Seoul’s late-night traffic thinning into steady streams of light. She pulled into her complex, lingered on the curb a moment, then lifted her phone and snapped a few pictures: a crooked neon sign flickering half-dead, the jagged shadow of a fire escape cutting across a painted wall, the reflection of the city in a puddle at her feet.

The kind of things Rumi would notice. The kind of things she would call art.

Inside, Mira dropped her bag by the door and exhaled. Her apartment greeted her in muted colors, equal parts order and chaos. The kitchen gleamed, the living room open and neat, but her office door hung half-shut on a space littered with papers, cables, half-finished mixes. Modernist lines clashed with odd sculptures and framed street art. It was big enough to breathe in, small enough not to echo. Hers.

She fell into an armchair, stretched her legs, and sent the photos off. "For your prison wall", she added, knowing Rumi would appreciate the jab.

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

From: Rockstar Bitch
masterpce. free me ice qn

Mira smirked, thumb flicking out a reply before she could think better of it.

Mira:
Behave, and maybe I’ll smuggle you out in a trash bag.

A laugh emoji came back, followed by a sticker of some ridiculous cartoon animal smoking.

She was still shaking her head when another notification popped up. Unknown number.

From: Unknown Number
HIIII!!! it’s meeee 👋 from the 7/11!! the SNACKLAG survivor 🍜🍬😂 I’m ZOEY btw!! realized I NEVER even told you my NAME omg.

Thanks again for not letting me drop like… ALL of my stuff lol. That would’ve been TRAGIC. Like, chips everywhere tragic. 😭🍟

Also thanks for the NUMBER?? 👀 I promise I’m not usually this weird. (Okay maybe I am but like in a good way?? PROBABLY??) 🤞😅

Anyway. Here’s the selfie!! Proof that u do in fact exist and am not just a snack-hallucination brought on by jetlag. 📸✨ (image attached)

OK WOW you look SUPER composed and I look like I’m about to explode into CONFETTI but I’m keeping it. Contact pic secured ✅✨

Good night mysterious iced-coffee lady!!! Or good morning?? I don’t even know what time zone I’m in anymore pls send help. 🌙☕️😵‍💫

…snacklagged but THRIVING. 🍬💪

The messages were chaotic, full of emojis and many exclamation marks. Zoey. Mira almost groaned, almost ignored it - but then the words were so absurdly, painfully her that Mira couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from tugging upward. Instead she opened the chat and added Zoey’s Number to her contacts before shooting her a quick text, thanking her for the picture.

The answer came almost immediately

From: Snacklagged (cute)
No problemmm!!!!! 🌟 I gotta hop into bed now 🛌💤 but I can text u 2morrow so we can find a time 4 ur CITY TOUR 🏙️✨

Orrrr u text me!! Whatever u want 💕 I’m chill. Totally chill. (not really but shhh 🙈)

Oh man I’m RAMBLING again 😭😭 okay gotta BLAST 🚀💨

Followed by a GIF from a little cartoon boy with a weird swoopy hairdo, blasting out of frame on a jetpack. This woman was really weird.

She sent back a quick goodnight before clicking on the attached picture and okay, maybe Mira stared at it a long moment. Her own face, neutral as ever, contrasted with Zoey leaning in, wide-eyed, smiling like she had no idea what personal space was.

Normally, Mira would hate it. Instead, she caught herself softening.

Without thinking, she forwarded the picture to Rumi.

Your competition, she typed dryly.

The typing dots appeared almost immediately.

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

Back in her apartment, Zoey sat cross-legged on her bed, a half-empty bag of peach gummies in her lap. She popped one into her mouth, chewing absently as her phone screen lit up with the selfie again.

Her stomach twisted  -  part nerves, part giddy joy. She’d only been in Seoul a few days, and already she’d managed to meet the most intimidating, magnetic woman alive… and somehow not make a complete fool of herself.

Well. Mostly.

She flopped backward onto the blankets, grinning up at the ceiling, heart rattling like the bass of a club speaker.

“Good job Choi.” she whispered to herself, and shoved another gummy into her mouth.

Chapter Text

The texts had stacked up over the past few days. At first, Mira thought she’d regret giving out her number - the woman had a talent for rambling, for flooding her phone with chaotic streams about nothing in particular. But instead, Mira found herself scrolling back through them more often than she’d admit.

Updates from Zoey’s job - something to do with servers, code, and clients who didn’t understand the difference between a reboot and a meltdown. Mira had learned she worked in IT, though “worked” seemed to mean “suffered through stupidity on a professional level.”, which she could relate to.

Mixed in with the work complaints were odd facts. That Zoey liked sea turtles. That she collected enamel pins but lost half of them to the washing machine. That she once burned toast so badly it set off a smoke alarm in three apartments.

Little things. Things Mira would normally dismiss. But Zoey had a way of writing that made even the mundane oddly vivid. It was… disarming.

Mira hadn’t told her much in return. Just that she worked in music production, nothing about Sunlight Entertainment, nothing about the circus that was her real life. But it hadn’t mattered. Somehow, the conversations kept going.

And tonight, finally, they managed to find the time to meet again. Mira had sent her an address, a small venue she liked. The kind of place that had character without being crawling with industry types.

Now she stood in her bedroom, staring at her closet like it had personally offended her.

Clothes were never a problem for work, or for nights out with Rumi. But this felt different. Not a date, not really, but… she cared, and that was the problem.

Mira crossed her arms, eyes flicking over rows of dark jeans, band tees, clean-cut blazers, leather jackets. Professional, casual, alternative - all versions of herself hanging side by side, and none of them felt right.

She sighed, dragging a hand through her pink hair. “Why do I even care?”

No answer, of course. Just the faint hum of the city outside her window, and the buzz of her phone lighting up with another message from Zoey.

From: Snacklagged (cute)
Looking FORWARD to seeing uuu later!!! ╰(⸝⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝⸝)╯✨💕 don’t be mean if I trip 😤

Mira stared at the screen, then at her closet again. For reasons she refused to examine too closely, she started pulling out clothes anyway.

Her phone buzzed again, screen lighting up against the dark duvet. Another message, but not from Zoey this time.

From: Rockstar Bitch
m booored. come brk me out of this stupd prison alrdy.

Mira’s thumbs moved automatically.

Mira:
Entertain yourself. I’m going out.

The reply was instant.

From: Rockstar Bitch
wow. betrayl. after everythng we’ve been thru.

Mira smirked faintly, shaking her head.

Mira:
You’ll survive.

Another pause. Then:

From: Rockstar Bitch
ur meeting the woman from the pic, aren’t you?

Mira froze for half a second, brow furrowing. Strange question. Strange phrasing. But she typed back, simple and direct.

Mira:
Yes.

The next messages came clipped. Too clean.

From: Rockstar Bitch
Huh. Okay. Well, hav fun then I guess.

Mira stared at the screen. The words sat wrong. Off-rhythm. None of Rumi’s usual disregard for punctuation and grammar.

She considered responding, considered poking at the sharp edge she thought she heard between the lines. But she let the thought slide off her shoulders like she always did. No point.

Instead, she set the phone down, walked back to the closet, and pulled open the sliding door with a little more force than necessary.

“Outfit,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the rows of fabric like they might sort themselves if she stared hard enough.

Her reflection in the mirrored door raised an unimpressed brow back at her. Mira sighed, dragging out two options and throwing them onto the bed.

She was overthinking this. Completely. But still - she couldn’t shake the tension buzzing under her skin.

Two piles on the bed. Two versions of herself staring back at her.

On the left: black jeans, a fitted graphic tee, her favorite leather jacket. Simple. Familiar. The uniform that let her blend into studios and underground bars alike. Comfortable armor.

On the right: dark slacks, a silk blouse she rarely wore, the kind of thing that said effort without quite tipping into date territory. She eyed the fabric warily. Too polished? Too much like she was trying?

She dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, rubbing her temples. “It’s not a date,” she muttered, though the words sounded defensive even to her own ears. “It’s just… showing her around. That’s it.”

Her gaze shifted back to the leather jacket. Safe. Impenetrable. But for some reason she imagined Zoey’s face when she saw her - that open, too-wide smile, all nerves and brightness. Mira pictured herself standing next to her in the jacket, and the image felt… off. Like the edges didn’t quite line up.

Her phone buzzed again. Not Rumi this time. Zoey.

From: Snacklagged (cute)
DON’T let me get LOST, okay?? 😭 my GPS skills are like… POTATO level 🥔📍 send HELP

Mira huffed a laugh under her breath. Potato GPS. Who even said that?

She stood, pulled the slacks off the bed, and held the blouse up to the light. Dark, clean lines. Still her, but softer. She hesitated, then slipped it on. The fabric draped differently than she was used to - not armor, not exactly vulnerable either.

The mirror caught her hesitation. Hair pink against black fabric, tattoos peeking from her cuffs. A balance, maybe. She grabbed a blazer, shrugged it on, then off again almost immediately. Too much. She replaced it with a lightweight jacket, the compromise making her exhale as if she’d won a battle no one else could see.

When she was done, the outfit wasn’t shouting anything. But it wasn’t her uniform either. It was… effort. Subtle. Intentional.

She slid her phone into her pocket, grabbed her keys, and gave her reflection one last look, before shaking her head at herself. Why are you thinking about it so HARD?

“Not a date,” she told herself again after a second. And ignored the voice in her head that said she was lying.

The street was already humming with evening energy by the time Mira turned the corner. Neon bled onto the pavement, catching on puddles that hadn’t fully dried from the afternoon drizzle. She tugged her jacket tighter around herself, scanning the storefronts until her gaze landed on the meeting spot.

And then she saw her.

Zoey was standing out front, head down, thumbs flying across her phone. It wasn’t the fact that she was early that stopped Mira in her tracks - it was the outfit.

A mustard-yellow bucket hat sat crooked on her head like it was picked up as an afterthought, clashing horribly - and perfectly - with a loud floral bomber jacket. Underneath, a plain shirt and shorts that looked more comfortable than stylish. Neon socks blared out of her sneakers, shouting for attention she clearly didn’t want. And, of course, a crossbody bag slung haphazardly across her torso, stuffed enough to look like she was prepared for a week-long hike instead of a casual meetup.

Mira stared for a beat longer than she meant to. God. She looks like an overstimulated tourist who lost a bet with a thrift store.

The thought should’ve made her smirk in disdain. Instead, she found herself biting back the ghost of a laugh. It was… ridiculous. But it was also so unfiltered that it weirdly fit. Like Zoey had simply decided to wear every part of herself on her sleeve, loud and shameless.

Before Mira could stop herself, her phone buzzed in her pocket. Zoey’s head shot up, almost as if she could deduce from the sound alone that it had been her message, brown eyes scanning the street until they landed on Mira.

Her whole face lit up in recognition. She raised a hand, beaming like they’d been friends for years instead of two strangers.

Mira schooled her face back into its usual blank mask and started walking.

Zoey waved a little too eagerly in response, nearly dropping her phone. “Hey, good you saw me!”

Mira stopped in front of her, letting her eyes drag once more over the outfit before arching a brow. “You’re hard to miss.”

Zoey blinked, then glanced down at herself. “Oh. Uh - thanks?”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Mira let the words hang flatly in the air, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Zoey laughed anyway, scratching the back of her neck. “Yeah, I figured. I wasn’t exactly going for subtle.”

“That’s obvious,” Mira said, voice cool, though she couldn’t quite stop the warmth creeping into her tone. She gestured at the bucket hat. “Is that supposed to protect you from Seoul nightlife, or are you expecting rain indoors?”

Zoey tugged the brim self-consciously, cheeks flushing. “Hey, this hat is functional and stylish. Well… functional, at least.”

Mira allowed herself a soft snort. “Debatable.”

Zoey tilted her head, mock-offended. “Wow. Brutal. You really are an ice queen, huh?”

That jab caught Mira off-guard - Zoey couldn’t possibly know the nickname. She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide if it was coincidence or intuition, but Zoey was already grinning, clearly amused with herself.

Mira exhaled, giving up the battle before it even started. “You’re lucky I’m in a tolerant mood tonight.”

Zoey smirked, rocking back on her heels. “Guess I picked the right hat after all.”

Mira shook her head, lips curving just slightly despite herself. “Come on. Let’s get out of the doorway before someone mistakes you for street performance art.”

Zoey fell into step beside her, still buzzing with an energy Mira couldn’t quite place. It was chaotic. Clumsy. And yet, Mira realized, she didn’t mind it.

As they stepped into the glow of the streetlights, Zoey glanced sideways. “Sooo… where exactly are we going? Please don’t say another convenience store, because my snack budget is in critical condition.”

Mira’s lips curved in the faintest smirk. “Relax. I’m not that cruel.” She nodded toward the end of the block, where a small neon sign flickered above a narrow doorway, wedged between two taller buildings. The kind of place most people would walk past without noticing.

Zoey squinted. “Uh… are we going into a… hole in the wall?”

“It’s a café,” Mira said, matter-of-fact. “Low-key. No tourists. Decent coffee.”

Zoey raised a brow. “At this hour?”

“Better than whatever comes out of a vending machine,” Mira shot back, already walking.

Zoey jogged a couple steps to keep up, clutching the strap of her crossbody bag. “You know, for someone who looks like she’s auditioning to intimidate strangers, you’ve got surprisingly wholesome taste in hangouts.”

Mira glanced at her, dry as ever. “Keep talking, and I’ll take you somewhere less wholesome.”

Zoey chuckled nervously, unsure if that was a threat or a promise. Before they entered Zoey glanced up at the sign over the door and commented on how “Depy’s” was a weird name for the kind of establishment she would expect Mira to take her to.

The café was dim, warm, and smelled like roasted beans and cinnamon. Wooden tables were scattered across the narrow room, mismatched chairs pressed against them. A few late-night regulars hunched over laptops or books, the hum of conversation blending with soft jazz playing through old speakers. And most importantly, cats napping on every available surface.

Zoey paused in the doorway, her eyes wide, looking like she was trying her very best to suppress a squeal. “Oh my god, is this a cat café??”

Mira smirked. She knew she had chosen right.

“Yeah. It’s a special one, they are open mostly at night and in the evening and close during the day.”

This time Zoey couldn’t contain her excitement. “I always wanted to go, but never found a good one in the states. Thank you, this is perfect!”

“Obviously,” Mira said, brushing past her toward the counter. She ordered her usual iced Americano without hesitation, then raised a brow when Zoey still hadn’t moved. “Do you need me to hold your hand?”

Zoey snapped out of it, fumbling toward the menu. “No! I - I’ll just… uh…” She squinted at the list like it was written in a foreign language. Which, technically, it was. “What’s safe?”

“Everything,” Mira replied flatly. “Except the frappes. They’re sugar in disguise.”

“Good. I like sugar.” Zoey grinned at the barista. “One caramel frappe, please.”

Mira pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “Americans.”

They found a table by the window, Zoey plopping into her chair and pulling her knees up slightly like she was trying to fold into herself. Mira sat opposite, elegant even in casual posture, sipping her drink with the same precision she brought into the studio.

Zoey peeked over her cup, straw bobbing between her lips. “So. Are you gonna tell me your name, or do I just keep calling you ‘Iced Coffee Lady’ forever?”

Mira set her glass down. “Mira.”

Zoey blinked. “...Mira.” She repeated it slowly, rolling it around like she was testing it for sharp edges. Then she grinned. “Okay. Yeah. Fits.”

“Fits what?”

“You. Mysterious. Cool. A little scary.”

Mira arched a brow, before Zoey extended a hand across the table in mock seriousness.

“Zoey. Choi Zoey. Certified jetlagged IT gremlin at your service.”

Mira looked at the hand, then at Zoey’s too-bright grin, and shook it anyway. “You already told me your name.”

Zoey laughed, unbothered. “I know, I was making a joke.

Despite herself Mira couldn’t suppress the small smile that came onto her face, opting to hide it behind her coffee cup.

“You really are a little gremlin, aren’t you?”

Mira would’ve expected every other person to get offended but Zoey just beamed at her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The conversation drifted, or more accurately, Zoey let it drift. She talked about how weird it was getting used to the sidewalks in Seoul (“everyone walks so fast, like, Olympic speed-walking fast”), how she almost got lost between two subway lines (“don’t ask how, it’s a gift”), and how she was convinced the pigeons here were smarter than the ones back home.

Mira sipped her Americano, offering the occasional hum or eyebrow raise, the kind of minimal responses that would’ve shut most people down. Zoey, however, only seemed to get more animated, like silence was fuel instead of friction.

Finally, Zoey leaned forward on her elbows, straw bobbing dangerously in her frappe. “Okay. Enough about me. Tell me something about you.”

Mira blinked. “You already know.”

“No, no, no. I know facts. Like ‘Mira drinks iced coffee’ and ‘Mira works in music production.’ But you haven’t actually talked about yourself yet. Probably because I never shut up, but that’s on me.” She pointed the straw at her, mock accusatory. “Your turn.”

Mira opened her mouth, ready with the automatic dismissal - I don’t talk about myself. But before she could get the words out, a sleek orange cat leapt onto their table, tail flicking.

Zoey gasped, eyes going wide. “Oh my god, look at you!” She reached out, tentative but delighted, and the cat immediately head-butted her hand. Zoey melted, cooing like it was the most important creature on earth. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect. I love you.”

Mira watched, caught off guard. Zoey’s grin was too wide, her laugh too soft, and the sight of her fussing over the cat hit somewhere Mira didn’t want to acknowledge. Her chest tightened, uncomfortably warm, like she was standing too close to a fire.

She cleared her throat, forcing her gaze away. “I grew up here,” she said suddenly, words slipping out before she could reconsider.

Zoey glanced up, surprised, cat still nestled in her lap. “Yeah?”

Mira nodded, fingers tightening slightly on her glass. “Seoul. I left for a while, studied abroad. Came back when I… had to.”

Zoey tilted her head, curiosity sparking, but she didn’t press. She just kept stroking the cat, smiling at Mira in that open way that made it hard to look at her for too long. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Mira huffed, turning back to her drink. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” Zoey grinned, eyes dropping back to the purring cat in her lap. “I’ve got you talking and smiling. High score achieved.”

Mira shook her head, but the ghost of that smile lingered anyway.

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

This was it. Peak happiness.

Cat in her lap, warm purring vibrating against her legs, caramel frappe in hand, and sitting across from the most intimidatingly cool person she’d ever met. If life was a video game, she’d just unlocked some kind of secret achievement.

She tried not to stare at Mira, sipping her Americano like she’d been born to do it, every move sharp and deliberate.

Even when she rolled her eyes, it looked practiced, almost elegant. The total opposite of Zoey, who had nearly spilled her drink twice already and was now balancing between stroking the cat and not knocking her straw over.

The last few days had been… overwhelming. Jet lagged mornings where she barely knew what planet she was on, awkward fumbling at work trying to impress the client and report to Moss and not look like the clueless American she felt like, and nights staring at her ceiling because her brain refused to shut off.

She’d thought maybe drowning herself in a pile of peach gummies would help, that wandering Seoul at night would make her feel less trapped in her own nerves.

Instead, she’d run into Mira.

Zoey shifted slightly, trying not to disturb the cat, and bit down a grin. Mira was nothing like she’d expected. Sharper, yes, but also softer in ways that surprised her - the kind of person who’d pick a cat café on purpose, even if she’d never admit it out loud.

It was strange, how quickly she felt… steadier, sitting here. Like the stress of the last few days wasn’t gone, but at least it wasn’t sitting on her chest quite so heavy.

The cat stretched, curling deeper into her lap, and Zoey gave it a gentle scratch behind the ears. She leaned back against her chair, heart buzzing. Maybe Seoul wasn’t going to eat her alive after all.

Not if nights like this were possible and for a second, Zoey let herself just… enjoy it. No deadlines. No awkward silences with Stacy back home. No bosses breathing down her neck. Just Seoul, soft and strange, and Mira looking like she belonged in every shadow and neon light this city had to offer.

Then her brain, traitorous as ever, started its spiral.

Why was Mira even here? Why had she agreed to meet at all? Zoey was a nobody - an IT gremlin with questionable fashion choices and a habit of rambling until people either tuned her out or told her to shut up. Mira could’ve been anywhere else. With friends.

With someone actually interesting.

The thought tightened her chest, made her fidget with the edge of her straw. She ducked her head, trying to laugh at something the cat did, but her voice came out too thin, too forced.

Mira’s eyes flicked up, sharp as a scalpel. Zoey froze under the weight of it.

Then, without a word, Mira reached across the table and plucked the cat toy from beside the napkin dispenser. She flicked it once, and the cat abandoned Zoey’s lap instantly, pouncing on the feathered end like it was prey.

Zoey blinked, startled - and then laughed, real and unguarded. “Traitor,” she told the cat, but the tightness in her chest loosened.

Mira leaned back again, her face unreadable except for the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth. “Better,” she said simply.

Zoey’s pulse skipped. Mira had noticed. Mira had done something about it. And just like that, the spiral receded, like someone had flipped a switch in her brain.

She sat back, grinning despite herself. “You’re good at that.”

Mira tilted her head. “At what?”

Zoey waved her hand vaguely in front of her chest. “Being there.”

Mira sipped her Americano, gaze steady. “Try not to make it a full-time job.”

Zoey laughed again, softer this time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When they stepped out of the café, Zoey hugged the strap of her bag and tilted her head toward Mira. “So… I guess this is it, huh? Thanks for showing me the place. It was - ”

Mira gave her a sharp look, one brow arched. “Do you have other plans?”

Zoey blinked. “Uh… no?”

“Good.” Mira started walking, already confident in her direction. “We’re not finished.”

Zoey scrambled to catch up, her sneakers slapping against the pavement. “We’re… not?”

“Not unless you’re in a hurry.”

“I - uh - no! Not at all!” Zoey laughed awkwardly, her cheeks heating. “Lead the way, Iced Coffee Lady.”

Mira didn’t dignify that with a response, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

They walked a few blocks, neon lights and the pulse of distant bass growing louder until Mira stopped in front of a narrow doorway tucked between two bigger clubs. A dull glow spilled out, the muffled thrum of music vibrating through the sidewalk.

“It’s small,” Mira said, pushing the door open. “Usually starts quiet, but give it an hour and it’ll be packed with dancers. We can just grab a drink and go before that.”

Zoey hesitated, then smiled nervously. “Oh. I mean - I’d love to dance. If you… want to stay.”

Mira glanced at her, surprised. The pause stretched just long enough to make Zoey second-guess herself, before Mira finally nodded once. “Alright. We’ll stay.”

Inside, the bar was dim and low-ceilinged, a single string of colored lights zig-zagging overhead. The smell of alcohol, citrus, and sweat clung to the air. A few people lingered at tables, the dance floor still empty except for two women laughing their way through a sloppy routine.

They took seats at the bar. Mira ordered a G&T for herself and something easy, fruity, and probably too sweet for Zoey. She tried not to gawk at how effortlessly Mira leaned against the counter, posture loose but commanding, like the room bent around her without realizing it while she sipped her drink.

Zoey tried to distract herself by taking a sip of her own drink. Very sweet, perfectly chosen by Mira, because of course it is.

By the time they finished their first drinks, the bar had shifted. More people streamed in, voices overlapping, laughter sharp, bodies pushing close as the music swelled. The dance floor filled quickly, the bass rattling Zoey’s ribs.

Zoey gripped her glass tighter, heart thumping with the beat. This wasn’t the quiet safety of the cat café. This was Mira’s world - chaotic, loud, alive. And somehow, terrifying as it was, she wanted to keep up.

The crowd thickened until the dance floor was a living tide, bodies moving in sync with the heavy bass that shook the floorboards. Zoey nursed the last of her second drink, half-hidden behind the rim of her glass, trying not to stare too openly.

People laughed too loud, shouted lyrics, threw their arms around each other. They looked like they belonged here, like the music flowed through their veins. Zoey, in her floral bomber and bucket hat, felt like an imposter peeking through a window at a world she hadn’t been invited to.

She tapped her fingers against the counter, willing herself to stay calm. It’s fine. Just watch. Just don’t embarrass yourself.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mira watching her.

Mira drained the last of her drink, set the glass down, and straightened with a casualness that felt almost deliberate. “Come on.”

Zoey blinked. “...What?”

“Dance floor.” Mira’s tone left no room for argument, but there was a spark in her eyes that softened it, just barely.

Zoey’s stomach flipped. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s - ”

“You said you wanted to dance, so that’s what we will do.”

And with that Mira was already reaching for her wrist, cool fingers curling around her pulse. The touch was firm, grounding, and before Zoey could think of another excuse, she was being pulled into the crush of people, the bass swallowing her hesitation whole.

The crowd closed around them, voices and laughter dissolving into the beat. Mira moved easily, fluid, like she’d been born to it, her body aligning perfectly with the rhythm. Zoey stumbled through the first few steps, awkward and off-beat, but Mira’s grip kept her steady.

Somewhere between the flashing lights and Mira’s hand on her wrist, Zoey realized her nerves had been drowned out by the music.

At first, Zoey moved like she was trying to apologize to the beat, stiff and jerky, her shoulders hunched like she wanted to disappear. Mira, of course, was the opposite - sharp, precise, every movement effortless. She didn’t even look like she was trying; the rhythm seemed to slot into her spine and carry her.

Zoey laughed nervously, stumbling through a half-step that wasn’t even close to what the music wanted. “Wow, you make this look… really unfair.”

Mira’s mouth curved, barely there. “Stop thinking. Just move.”

Easy for her to say. But Zoey took a breath, closed her eyes for half a second, and let the bass rattle through her chest. Her body loosened, her feet finding the pulse on their own.

When she opened her eyes again, she caught Mira watching her - assessing, as always - but this time there was a flicker of approval in her gaze.

Zoey grinned, emboldened, and threw in a silly shoulder shimmy that made Mira roll her eyes. “What? It’s called style.”

“Tragic style,” Mira shot back, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

The crowd pressed closer as the beat picked up, bodies swaying and bumping, the air hot with sweat and neon light. Mira shifted closer to Zoey, their movements syncing without effort, her hand brushing Zoey’s wrist again, this time not to guide but to anchor.

Zoey’s laugh caught in her throat, suddenly aware of how little space there was between them. The heat of the room seemed sharper, the music louder, Mira’s eyes darker under the flashing lights.

Her nerves buzzed again, but not the same way as before. This wasn’t panic. This was something else entirely - something she wasn’t ready to name, but couldn’t ignore.

And as Mira’s hand lingered just a moment too long, Zoey realized she didn’t want to ignore it. Her pulse skipped. Every nerve in her body buzzed with the beat, with the lights, with the impossible nearness of Mira.

For a split second, it felt like the air might collapse between them. Like one wrong move - or the right one - could tilt the whole night into something else entirely.

Then the track changed, the crowd breaking apart into cheers, and the spell shattered. Mira stepped back smoothly, as if nothing had happened, leaving Zoey a little breathless in the gap.

They kept dancing anyway. Song after song, hour after hour, until sweat clung to Zoey’s hairline and her legs wobbled with exhaustion. For once, she didn’t care.

By the time they finally left the floor, it was late enough that the streets outside hummed with the slow crawl of early-morning traffic. Mira pulled out her phone with practiced efficiency, ordering and paying for a car to take Zoey home.

When the car rolled up, Zoey turned to her, fumbling for words. “Hey - uh - thanks. Really. I’ll, um, pay you back for this. And the drinks. And the coffee.”

Mira waved a hand, expression unreadable. “Don’t insult me. I’d never take from your snack fund.”

Zoey laughed, too loud and too fond. The car idled, headlights glowing, and she knew she should just get in. Instead, she acted on impulse - leaned in and hugged Mira, quick and awkward and entirely unplanned.

“Bye, Mira,” she said, cheeks hot as she ducked into the cab.

The door shut, and as the car pulled away, Zoey pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window. Her heart raced, adrenaline tangling with the faint fuzziness of alcohol. She hugged her bag closer, half dizzy, half giddy.

She couldn’t decide if the night had been the best mistake or the best choice of her life.

-------------------------------------------------------------M--------------------------------------------------------------

The cab pulled away, red taillights vanishing into the stream of traffic. Mira stood on the sidewalk longer than she meant to, hands stuffed in her pockets, the night air cool against her skin.

It wasn’t that Zoey had hugged her.

It was that she’d let her. And worse - she’d enjoyed it.

Mira exhaled sharply, like she could shake the thought off. Ridiculous. She glanced at her phone, half-expecting a message from Rumi. Nothing. No calls, no complaints.

“Fine,” she muttered to herself, tucking the phone away. She would just call her tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The blank page stared back at her like it was laughing.

Scribbles, half-lines, scratched-out words - all useless.

Rumi dropped her pen and let her head thunk back against the couch. Another night wasted, another evening in this gilded cage.

She’d tried everything. Pacing, blasting old records, even sitting in silence until her own heartbeat felt too loud.

Nothing. The walls pressed in tighter each day, Celine’s leash cutting deeper.

She’d thought of escape plans, too. A dozen of them. Bribing the doorman. Sneaking past the cameras.

Hell, once she’d stood on the balcony, looking at the building across the street and wondering if she could make the jump.

She’d laughed at herself after - bitterly. She wasn’t suicidal. Just… desperate.

The elevator dinged, its chime echoing through the penthouse, and she knew even before the door opened who it was.

Celine stepped inside, sharp heels clicking against polished marble. Perfect as always, hair smooth, suit pressed, clipboard in hand like she’d walked straight out of a boardroom and into Rumi’s prison.

“You look terrible,” Celine said without preamble.
“Love you too,” Rumi shot back, stretching over the backrest of her couch.

Celine ignored the jab, scanning the abandoned notebook, the empty cans on the table. Her mouth thinned. “This confinement was meant to focus you, not turn you into a sulking teenager.”

“I am focused. Look at all this - ” Rumi gestured at the mess. “Totally focused.”

Celine’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve done nothing for days.”

"Focused on going insane, that is."

Celine rolled her eyes "Maybe focus more on writing then."

“How? You’ve clipped my wings,” Rumi snapped. “I can’t write like this. I can’t breathe like this. Let me out. Just for a night. Just for a bar, a club, anything.”

“No.” The word was flat, immovable. “Not until I can trust you again.”

Rumi clenched her fists, teeth grinding. For a moment she thought she might scream - or cry - but instead she forced herself to breathe, to think.

“Fine. Then let me have people over. Just one person. Someone who actually makes me feel like a human instead of a caged songbird.”

Celine studied her, arms folded. “Who?”

“Mira,” Rumi said instantly. “She knows how I work. She’ll help. Maybe something will actually get written if she’s here.”

Silence stretched. Celine’s gaze was sharp, weighing, calculating. Rumi held it, refusing to blink.

Finally, Celine sighed through her nose. “Fine. But only her. And only if I approve of the time.”

Rumi’s heart leapt, though she forced herself not to show it. “Deal.”

Celine moved toward the door, but paused at the threshold. For just a heartbeat, her expression softened - barely.

“You’re still family, Rumi. Remember that. I’m hard on you because no one else will be honest.”

The warmth should’ve felt like comfort, but the edge in her tone made it sting instead. And then she was gone.

The second the elevator doors closed behind Celine, Rumi snatched her phone off the table and fired off a message.

Rumi:
ur cming ovr tmrw. apprved by warden hrslf.

The typing bubbles blinked, then Mira’s reply came through, dry as dust:

From: Ice Queen
Fine. I’ll come by after work.

Rumi grinned despite herself, kicking her heels against the couch cushion.

Rumi:
bring weed. im runnin low

Another pause. Then, curt but affirmative:

From: Ice Queen
Sure.

They hammered out the details and then she texted Celine to lock it in. The reply was swift and cold: That works. Don’t make me regret it.

Rumi rolled her eyes, already typing again to Mira.

Rumi:
all set. lookn 4ward 2 it

The answer was short, almost clipped:

From: Ice Queen
Alright. I’m still out. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Rumi lay back, phone balanced on her chest, a smile tugging at her lips. For the first time in weeks, she actually felt lighter.

Not free, not yet, but close. Mira was coming. Mira would break the monotony, remind her that she wasn’t just some prisoner rotting in a glass cage.

It wasn’t the outside world, but it was Mira. And that was something.

Still, when her eyes drifted back to Mira’s last message, a small sting slid under her ribs. Still out.

Right - out with “her competition”, as Mira had called her.

That girl.

Rumi pulled up the photo Mira had sent days ago - the one she’d been trying not to think about. Mira, cool as ever, and next to her, the stranger.

Wide, unpolished grin. Standing close. Too close. Their arms touching.

Rumi frowned, tapping the image wider. Normally, Mira would’ve scowled at someone daring to invade her space. But here? She’d allowed it.

Her thumb hovered, tracing the stranger’s outline. Something about the woman’s expression pulled at her - open, disarming, like she hadn’t learned yet to keep her walls up.

The kind of smile that was impossible not to look at.

Something about it was drawing her in and for a second she wondered if it was exactly that feeling that Mira had felt when she let a stranger invade her personal space like that.

Rumi blinked, what was she thinking? She didn’t know this woman from anything other than this picture.

She shook her head sharply, locking her phone and throwing it next to her on the couch. “Get a grip, Rumi,” she muttered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But still, when she finally curled up on the couch, sleep tugging her down, that too-bright grin lingered behind her eyelids.

-------------------------------------------------------------M--------------------------------------------------------------

By late morning, Mira had ticked off the errands she hadn’t wanted to admit she was running.

Rumi’s request had been easy enough - a quiet call to one of her usual contacts, a discreet exchange, slipped into her bag without comment. Standard.

What wasn’t standard was the stop at the 7/11 on her way to Rumi’s building.

Definitely not because she thought she might bump into Zoey again. Absolutely not. Ridiculous thought. She was just… stocking up. For Rumi. Obviously.

Still, she caught herself glancing down the aisles, like the woman might just pop out from behind the snack shelves, arms full of nonsense again.

When no one familiar appeared, Mira muttered under her breath and grabbed a basket.

She filled it with the things she knew Rumi liked - and the things Celine would’ve banned from her pristine penthouse.

Chips, chocolate, cigarettes. A couple of six-packs of beer, two bottles of soju tucked under her arm.

Things Rumi would devour greedily, half out of spite and half out of joy.

At the counter, the cashier eyed the haul. Mira ignored the look, tapping her card and sliding everything into bags. The weight dug into her arms as she left the store, but the satisfaction settled heavy too.

By the time she pulled up in front of Rumi’s building, Mira’s jaw was tight again.

She had everything Rumi had asked for, plus more. If she wasn’t greeted with the utmost reverence from the rockstar she would turn on her heels and leave immediately.

The foyer was spotless, all marble floors and quiet security. Mira walked through without slowing, bags heavy in her hands. She punched in the code to Rumis penthouse and the elevator carried her up, humming dully, until the doors opened to the top floor.

The man stationed at Rumi’s door shifted when he saw her. It was wild to Mira that Celine had ACTUALLY put someone in front of Rumi’s door to basically guard her, making sure she was alone.

His hand twitched like he might actually try to stop her. Mira leveled him with one of her patented stares - sharp, flat, promising nothing good. He hesitated, throat bobbing.

And then the door burst open.

“MIRA!”

Before she could react, Rumi barreled out, throwing herself forward. Mira barely had time to drop her bags before Rumi collided with her, arms wrapped tight around her neck, legs around her hips.

“God - ” Mira grunted, steadying them both.

Rumi peppered her face with quick, obnoxious kisses, laughing all the while.

Mira tried to peel her off, glaring daggers past her shoulder at the doorman, who was now very intently studying the wall, ceiling, floor - anywhere but them.

“Rumi,” Mira hissed, “get off.”

Eventually, Rumi slid down, her laughter spilling out, bright and unrestrained. She caught sight of Mira’s scowl and only laughed harder.

“I went through all the trouble of hauling your snacks,” Mira muttered, brushing her hair back into place, “only to be assaulted before I even got inside.”

Rumi bent, scooped up both bags with one hand, the muscles in her forearm flexing under her skin. Years of dancing, performing, rehearsing had carved her into something deceptively strong.

Her other hand wrapped around Mira’s wrist, tugging her toward the open doorway.

“Come on, Ice Queen. Stop glaring and get in here before Celine pops out from somewhere and decides to change her mind.”

Mira let herself be pulled along, trying very hard not to think about the way Rumi’s grip felt warm and firm against her skin. It had been too long since they’d seen each other, and she was pent up.

That was all.

And her new, inexplicably bright acquaintance with Zoey had absolutely nothing to do with her brain being a mess right now, thank you very much. And it was not the reason why she was actually kinda glad that she was able to see Rumi again.

She hadn’t hoped that Rumi would fuck her stupid within an inch of her life so she could finally shut off her brain, as she had done so often before.

The door shut behind them, and Mira immediately took in the state of the penthouse. It was chaos, pure and unfiltered. Clothes draped across chairs and the back of the couch.

Empty cans and snack wrappers littered the coffee table, ashtrays spilling over. The faint tang of weed clung to the air, threaded with stale cigarette smoke.

And in the corner of the kitchen, of all places, sat a makeshift pillow fort - haphazard towers of blankets and cushions shoved together into something vaguely castle-shaped.

Mira arched a brow. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

Rumi followed her gaze, grin spreading. “Like it? It’s my new castle.”

Mira gave her a single, pointed look.

Undeterred, Rumi leaned in, dropping her voice into a teasing lilt. “If you’re nice, maybe I’ll take you in there.”

Mira shoved her back with one hand. “Dream on.”

Rumi just laughed, delighted.

Mira moved toward the kitchen, but as she passed Rumi she let her hand brush her shoulder, pausing just long enough to murmur, low and deliberate: “If you behave, maybe I’ll let you fuck me in there.”

She didn’t wait to see the reaction. She just strode past, bags in hand, heading for the counter.

Behind her, there was a beat of silence. Then the sound of scrambling.

Rumi nearly slid across the counter, ripping into the bags Mira had set down.

She pulled out the stash one by one, eyes going wide with every discovery. Beer. Soju. Cigarettes. Snacks stacked in garish colors.

She gasped theatrically, clutching one of the bottles like treasure.

“You angel,” she declared, almost vibrating with joy. For a second, Mira thought she might actually launch herself over the counter at her.

“Restrain yourself,” Mira said dryly, folding her arms.

Rumi just beamed, eyes sweeping over the mountain of contraband in front of her before pausing on a bag of gummy peaches that had somehow found its way into Mira’s basket.

She held it up, eyebrow arched. “Never tried these.”

For just a moment, Mira froze. A flicker of something stirred - a too-bright grin in a 7/11, arms full of snacks - before she caught herself.

“They looked nice,” she said finally, clipped, as if that settled it.

Rumi studied her a beat too long, then shrugged and set the bag aside.

"Guess I’ll save the mystery for later.” She dove back into the pile, snatching up a fistful of chips, a six-pack of beer, the soju, and a pack of cigarettes. Balancing the load like a prize haul, she carried it all over to the couch and dumped it on the low table in front.

Flopping back into the cushions, she patted the seat beside her with mock regality. “Your throne awaits, Ice Queen.”

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

Mira didn’t sit right away. She crossed the room instead, striding over to the tall glass doors that led to the balcony, snapping the lock open with a sharp click. Cool air swept in, lifting the stale tang of cigarettes and weed.

“This room needs fresh air,” she muttered. Only once the door was cracked did she finally head for the couch.

Rumi had already popped open a can of beer, foam fizzing against her fingers. She tipped it back and downed half in one go, then polished it off and cracked another.

“Woah, slow down, tiger.” Mira slid into the seat next to her, one brow raised. “Don’t overdo it, or Celine will never let me in here again.”

Rumi grinned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before taking another swig. “You know it takes more than a few beers to get me down.”

Mira rolled her eyes - textbook Mira - and in the half-second her attention flicked away, Rumi leaned forward, pulling a cigarette from the fresh pack. A spark, a drag, the first rush of smoke filling her lungs.

Mira’s gaze snapped back, sharper this time. But instead of scolding, she just asked - too evenly, almost awkward in her precision.

“How are you holding up?”

For Mira, that tone was practically nervous.

Rumi groaned, dragging long on the cigarette, exhaling toward the open balcony. Her laugh came out rough. “How am I holding up? Let’s see.”

She gestured vaguely to the wreck of the penthouse - the piles of clothes, the empty cans, the pillow fort slouching in the corner like a sad crown.

“This is what happens when you lock a perfectly good artist in a tower like Rapunzel, but without the hair or the knight in shining armor. Just me, my dying brain cells, and Celine’s watchdogs outside the door.”

Her words tumbled faster, fueled by smoke and bitterness.

“I’ve tried writing, Mira. I’ve tried. But the second I pick up a pen, it’s like my head goes blank. Every note sounds fake. Every line feels hollow. And the longer it goes on, the worse it gets, because now it’s not just about the music anymore. It’s about the fact that I can’t do it at all.”

Rumi tipped her beer can toward the ceiling, drained it, then set it down with a hard thunk. “So yeah. That’s how I’m holding up.”

She stubbed the cigarette out in the nearest ashtray and reached for another, hands restless.

She had just gotten the flame close to the tip of the cigarette when Mira’s hand came down on her arm, steady but gentle.

“Maybe you should try and talk to her,” Mira said, voice low, careful. Her eyes were softer than Rumi was used to - almost disarming. “Really tell her how you feel. Try to come to an understanding.”

For a moment, Rumi froze. Her cigarette hovered, unlit, between her fingers. That look in Mira’s eyes… it wasn’t the usual steel, wasn’t the ice queen. It was something that made her chest ache.

She tore her gaze away, shrugging the hand off. The patch of skin Mira had touched felt immediately colder.

“I’ve tried,” Rumi muttered, flicking the lighter anyway, watching the flame catch like it owed her something.

She took a drag, smoke curling out of her nose with her sigh.

"Talking to Celine is like talking to a wall. Either I get something written, or I wait until she can’t justify this anymore. Until it’s just…” she gestured vaguely around the room, “kidnapping.”

Silence settled between them. Mira didn’t argue. Didn’t try to force optimism where there wasn’t any.

She just sat back, eyes sympathetic, and started talking about work instead - clipped anecdotes, little frustrations with bad songs and clueless rookies, things Rumi could almost laugh at if her head wasn’t so heavy.

After a while, with the edge dulled a little by beer, a shared bottle of soju and smoke, Rumi glanced sideways at her.

“So,” she said, forcing casual into her tone, “how’d your little date go?”

-------------------------------------------------------------M--------------------------------------------------------------

The can of beer hovered halfway to her mouth. She froze, pulse skipping once, then forced herself into motion, tipping it back in a long swallow that bought her precious seconds.
“Wasn’t a date,” she said finally, clipped as ever.

Across from her, Rumi’s eyes gleamed, sharp as glass. “What? I thought she was my competition?”

Mira exhaled slowly, setting the can down with care. “We just met up.” She kept her tone flat, but the memory of peach-colored neon and Zoey’s wide grin pressed against the edges of her mind. “I took her to a café.”

Rumi gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “The café?”

Mira glared, but pressed on. “And then… we went dancing.”

That grin spread wider across Rumi’s face. “Sounds like the evening went very well. That you had fun.”

The words landed heavier than Mira expected. She looked away, jaw tightening, but she couldn’t deny it. Rumi was right. She did have fun.

Maybe more than she’d let herself admit in years.

Her brow furrowed before she could stop it. Fun. With someone she barely knew. Someone she didn’t even know the basics about - like what Zoey actually liked beyond snacks and turtles. She hadn’t even asked.

Rumi leaned in closer, smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers. “So… is she straight?” Her voice was teasing, but her eyes searched too closely.

Mira shot her a sidelong look, refusing to flinch. “I have no idea. We didn’t talk about it. And it doesn’t matter.” She leaned back, tone sharpening. “Because it was not a date.”

“Sure,” Rumi drawled, reclining back into the couch, her grin all teeth.

But Mira didn’t miss it - the shift. The way the grin didn’t quite meet her eyes. The faint edge in her voice. Like there was something raw and unspoken lingering beneath the sarcasm.

Something that rubbed against Mira’s nerves, rough and unsettling.

She let the silence stretch, filing away that glint in Rumi’s eyes for later. Pushing now would just make her dig in her heels. She needed a new angle. Something lighter.

Her hand slipped into her jacket pocket, fingers brushing the little baggie she’d picked up earlier. Perfect. She pulled it out and tossed it across the couch.

Rumi snatched it mid-air, eyes lighting up. “You absolute saint,” she crowed, holding it up like treasure. Then, without missing a beat: “I could kiss you for this.”

Mira’s lips curved, sharp as a knife. There it was.

“Why don’t you, then?”

For once, Rumi stalled - just a blink, her grin faltering before bursting wide again. She laughed, bright and unrestrained, the sound filling the messy room. “Careful, Ice Queen. You might actually enjoy it.”

Mira leaned back with deliberate ease, one eyebrow arching. “Bold of you to assume I don’t already.”

That stole the words clean out of Rumi’s mouth - a rare victory. The silence stretched, taut as wire, until Rumi leaned in, smoke and heat in her eyes. “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

The smirk Mira gave her was slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that promised trouble. She shifted over the cushions, each movement unhurried, straddling Rumi’s lap with the ease of long practice. Knees sank into the couch, thighs bracketing her, body heat rolling between them.

For one suspended moment, they hovered - gazes locked, breath mingling, challenge and invitation tangled in the charged space between them. Rumi’s chest rose sharper, her hand flexing once against the cushion as though bracing herself.

Then her palm slid up Mira’s back, and the first kiss landed - hot, reckless, inevitable.

It deepened fast, no hesitation, no room left between them. Rumi’s hands turned greedy, tugging at Mira’s shirt, sliding higher, pulling her closer like she’d been starving.

Mira met her with equal hunger, fingers tangling in Rumi’s hair, tugging hard enough to draw a gasp. Beer and smoke clung to her tongue, but the way Rumi kissed back - wild, demanding - had Mira’s pulse thrumming hard in her ears.

This was what they were good at. No questions. No messy unpacking of feelings. Just fire - reckless, consuming - burning away everything else for as long as it lasted.

Except - fleeting, traitorous - her mind flickered. Brown eyes. A smile too wide, too unguarded. Arms full of snacks under the harsh fluorescent glow of a convenience store.

Mira ground the thought down like ash under her heel and kissed Rumi harder, fierce and desperate. Focus. Here. Now.

Rumi laughed into her mouth, low and breathless, before tugging her closer still, and Mira gladly drowned in the distraction.

When they finally tore apart, both of them were gasping, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen and slick. Rumi’s grin was smug, crooked, and utterly insufferable.

“See?” she panted, voice rough with laughter. “Told you you’d enjoy it.”

Mira rolled her eyes, leaning back just enough to snatch the half-forgotten beer from the table. She took a long swallow, letting the bitterness ground her. “You talk too much.”

Rumi plucked the can right out of her hand, finishing it off in a single gulp. She set it down with a satisfied thunk and smirked up at her, eyes glittering.

“Yeah,” she said, smoke-slick and triumphant. “But you like it.”

Mira’s mouth twitched despite herself. “I’d enjoy it more if you just shut up.”

Rumi’s smirk only widened as she leaned in, her lips brushing Mira’s ear. “Make me,” she whispered, low and rough - then sank her teeth into Mira’s neck in a vicious bite, soothing it immediately with her tongue.

The gasp tore out of Mira before she could stop it. Her fingers buried themselves in Rumi’s hair, dragging her back until their eyes met again.

God, she was impossible. All the annoyances, the bravado, the endless rudeness Rumi spewed out daily - and yet Mira couldn’t deny the truth in front of her.

Her lips, swollen and flushed. Her half-lidded eyes, glazed with heat. Her head tipped back, melting into the grip of Mira’s hand. She was - damn her - beautiful. Perfect.

[Smut lives here]

Before the thought could sharpen into anything dangerous, Mira acted on instinct. She seized one of Rumi’s hands from her waist and shoved it down, under her pants, under her underwear. Both of them gasped at the same time.

Mira fought to keep her eyes open, nails digging into the couch cushions as Rumi’s fingers somehow found the exact spot against her clit without hesitation. Every nerve lit up, her hips rocking down desperately, but she refused to look away. Holding eye contact felt like its own kind of defiance, even as her body betrayed her.

Because this - this was Mira’s secret. Her biggest turn-on. For years she’d kept herself closed off, guarded, even with the rare few she trusted. And yet here, under Rumi’s gaze, she let herself unravel.

The truth - the one she’d never dared to say out loud - was that Mira loved being watched.

She’d fought the urge for years, keeping it buried under layers of discipline and control. But then one night Rumi had bent her over the mixing console, one hand tangled in her hair to keep her gaze locked on the booth’s glass reflection.

Her eyes had flicked up, just once, expecting only her own flushed, desperate face. Instead she saw Rumi’s - dark, focused, devouring her - and it snapped something inside her clean in two. She’d come so hard she thought her knees would give out.

After that, mirrors became a ritual. Rumi made sure of it. Sometimes it was deliberate - a wall-length mirror in a hotel room, a bathroom with harsh lighting. Sometimes it was reckless, like the back of Rumi’s car with the partition up, soundproof but not enough to quiet the thrill of someone being close enough to hear.

They never pushed too far, mindful of Mira’s reputation, but the thrill of quick, stolen moments stacked up - bathroom stalls, shadowed hallways, a dark corner of a studio. Even in private, Rumi made sure she never forgot it: that she was being seen.

The thought pressed too hard, the thrill curling hot and guilty in her gut, until her rhythm faltered. Her brows knit together, her breath catching.

Rumi noticed instantly - of course she did. Her hand slid up, smoothing the crease at Mira’s forehead with surprising tenderness, her voice lower now, a thread of smoke and curiosity.

“What’s in your head right now?”

Mira couldn’t answer. Her throat felt locked. Words would mean admitting it - naming it - and she couldn’t, not here, not like this.

So instead her body betrayed her. A sharp tilt of her chin. Her eyes flicking - just once- toward the door.

It was small. Barely there. But enough.

Rumi’s head turned briefly toward the door before her gaze snapped back to Mira’s, dark and heavy with mischief. Trouble lived in that look, the kind that always made Mira’s stomach drop and her pulse spike.

She leaned in, deliberately keeping their eyes locked, her breath hot against Mira’s cheek. The pressure of her fingers shifted - firmer now, dragging lower in slow, taunting strokes that made Mira’s breath hitch. A moan slipped free, helpless and low.

“You think he might hear you?” Rumi murmured, her voice a velvet knife.

Mira gave the smallest nod, sharp and desperate.

“Good.”

The word landed like a spark in dry tinder. Rumi pushed inside her in the same instant, hard enough to rip a cry out of Mira’s throat - louder than she meant it to be, echoing off the apartment’s walls.

Reality hummed at the edges of the haze: the apartment was soundproof, a necessity after too many noise complaints. And the doorman was probably still lost in whatever video he’d been watching with earbuds in. For him to hear, he’d have to press his ear to the door, and even then -

Rumi’s smirk cut the thought off. Because whether or not anyone actually could hear didn’t matter. What mattered was the possibility. The thrill of it, sharp and reckless, curling heat low in Mira’s belly. And Rumi knew it. God, she always knew it.

The possibility that someone might hear was enough to cinch the knot in her stomach, winding it tighter with every thrust of Rumi’s fingers. The danger of it made her pulse spike, made her body betray her.

“Come on, princess,” Rumi rasped, her lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Don’t hold back. Let them hear you. You want to.”

“Fuck, Rumi - ” The words tore out of her, ragged and helpless.

Every push of Rumi’s fingers seemed deeper, rougher, the world narrowing down to the heat between her legs and the steady strength pinning her in place. The air felt too thin, the couch too confining. She almost begged Rumi to strip her bare - but part of her reveled in the rush, the urgency, the way it felt like they couldn’t wait another second.

“Mira.”

Her name cracked through the haze, sharp and grounding. She dragged her eyes open, realizing she hadn’t even noticed they’d been squeezed shut.

Rumi’s gaze caught her - half-lidded, glassy, burning. Her breath came in fast, uneven puffs; Mira knew that look, knew it meant Rumi was right there with her, strung tight.

“Come for me,” Rumi growled.

That was all it took. The knot in Mira’s stomach snapped, pleasure tearing through her until her body trembled and broke apart, her moan loud and raw. She felt Rumi’s fingers drive in hard, almost desperate, before curling tight inside her. Rumi’s whole body went rigid beneath her, a stifled curse breaking free against Mira’s neck as her hips jerked helplessly - coming undone right along with her.

For a moment they just clung to each other, both shaking, both caught in the aftershocks. Rumi’s grip on her waist was bruising, grounding her even as her own body trembled with release.

Slowly, carefully, Rumi eased her pace until her fingers slipped free, her hand settling heavy on Mira’s thigh. Her forehead dropped to Mira’s shoulder, breath jagged and uneven.

[Smut moved out]

For a long stretch, there was only the sound of them gasping together - sweat cooling, heartbeats refusing to slow.

“Fuck, Mira,” Rumi muttered finally, her voice ragged and wrecked, carrying the raw edge of someone who had just come hard. “I really needed that.”

“Clearly,” Mira said.

She cracked one eye open as Rumi finally peeled herself off her shoulder, slumping back against the couch with that insufferable grin of satisfaction. Mira ignored it, reached back for a cigarette from the cluttered table, and lit up. Smoke curled past her lips while Rumi watched her with half-lidded eyes.

“I thought those things were voice killers.”

“Well, yes,” Mira said dryly, taking another drag. “But I’m not the one who needs to sing.” She slipped the cigarette between Rumi’s lips anyway.

Rumi exhaled slow, smoke streaming toward the ceiling, and smirked, tired but still smug. “Ouch. And what’s that supposed to mean ‘clearly’?”

Mira snatched the cigarette back, tone flat but her eyes glinting. “Just stating facts. You finished without me even touching you.”

Rumi tilted her head, the grin spreading lazy and wolfish. “What can I say? A little friction, and the view - ” she dragged her gaze down and back up Mira’s body, deliberate “ - it does something to a girl.”

Mira fought the twitch threatening her mouth and took another drag instead.

“Besides,” Rumi added, plucking the cigarette away again, “you’re just jealous you can’t come that easy.”

Mira let out a laugh, low and smoky. “Please. If I wanted to, I’d put you to shame.”

“Oh yeah?” Rumi arched a brow, leaning forward, all teeth and trouble. “Wanna prove it?”

“No.” Mira flicked ash into the tray with surgical precision. “Why would I want this over quicker?”

That made Rumi bark a laugh, bright and raw, tipping her head back against the couch. Mira leaned back too, letting the silence stretch until the sharp edges dulled. They passed the cigarette back and forth until it burned down to the filter.

The room reeked of smoke, sex, and too many nights shut away. A half-drunk beer sweated on the table, the ashtray overflowing. For once, Mira didn’t mind. She let her head tip just enough to steal a glance at Rumi - still sprawled, still smug - and allowed the smallest smirk to ghost across her lips.

“So…” she drawled, deceptively light, “about that castle…”

Rumi’s eyes snapped open. Her grin bloomed wide and unrestrained, wicked in all the ways Mira had come to expect. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Text

Zoey had been thinking about that night - the café, the cats, the bar, the dancing - way too much for her own good. It played in her head on a loop: Mira’s cool detachment, the rare smile hidden behind her cup, the sharp way she looked at her like she could see straight through her.

And yet… Mira kept texting her. Daily. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Which, for Zoey, it absolutely wasn’t.

This morning, though, she’d screwed up spectacularly.

Half-asleep, thumb fumbling across the keyboard, she’d tried to reply to Mira’s latest one-liner. Instead, she somehow managed to send a shaky, blurry photo - of her feet. Walking across her apartment.

The moment she realized, she panicked, stabbing at her screen, desperate to delete it. But before she could -

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
Artistic. Bold composition. “Feet-core” is very in right now.

Zoey buried her face in her hands. “No, no, nooo.”

Her thumbs flew.

Zoey:
IM SO SORRY that was an ACCIDENT pls ignore it oh my GOD 😳🙏 I swear I’m not a WEIRDO (…ok maybe a LITTLE but still!!)

The reply came fast, smooth, infuriatingly unbothered:

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
Relax. If you want to make it up to me, send a proper selfie instead.

Zoey froze, staring at the screen. A… selfie? Of her? For Mira?

She scrambled to the mirror, snapping picture after picture: messy hair, bleary eyes, a little bit of dried drool on the corner of her mouth. Every single one screamed jetlagged gremlin instead of “normal human being.” With each attempt, her anxiety doubled.

She left Mira on read by accident while dragging herself into her morning routine. Halfway through brushing her teeth, her phone buzzed again.

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
You don’t need to if you don’t want to.

Zoey nearly choked on her toothpaste foam. She fumbled with her phone, thumbs flying.

Zoey:
No!! I mean YES - I mean SORRY 🙈 I was just panicking bc I didn’t wanna look like a DISASTER and… ugh. You know what I mean pls 😭✨

There was a pause. Then Mira’s reply came through, deceptively simple but surprisingly warm:

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
Calm down, Gremlin. You couldn’t look like a disaster if you tried..

Zoey blinked. Then, heart hammering, she chose one of the earlier photos - messy bangs, tired eyes, but her smile stretched wide and genuine - and hit send before she could change her mind.

A beat later, Mira replied with a mirror shot of her own. Zoey groaned out loud. “Of course she looks like a supermodel. And I look like I just lost a fight with my blanket.”

------------------------------------------------------------M--------------------------------------------------------------

Her phone buzzed between takes, lighting up the console with Zoey’s name. She tapped it open idly, expecting another ramble about work, turtles, or some weird American snack.

Instead: a blurry, crooked shot of feet mid-stride across a floor.

Mira blinked. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at her mouth.

Of course.

She typed back before she could overthink it.

Mira:
Artistic. Bold composition. “Feet-core” is very in right now.

She expected Zoey’s usual rambling comeback - but what she got was a panicked wall of apologies. Mira had to bite back a laugh, leaning back in her chair, suddenly finding her day a lot less tedious.

So she pushed it a little:

Mira:
Relax. If you want to make it up to me, send a proper selfie instead.

And then - nothing.

The read receipt blinked at her like an accusation. Mira’s smirk faltered. She set the phone down, tried to focus on the playback. But her ears buzzed with silence, her hand twitching toward the phone every thirty seconds.

Too much? Did she push the joke too far? She gnawed at her lip before deciding to send her a quick text to get her out of her possible dilemma.

The screen lit up almost immediately again.

From: Gremlin🐢
No!! I mean yes - I mean sorry. I was just panicking because I didn’t want to look like a disaster and… ugh. You know what I mean.

She paused. Zoey had simply forgotten her because she tried to make herself presentable. A small snort escaped her, making the manager next to her look at her for a second before she leveled him with a glare and he immediately looked at the console with great interest.

She thought about what to say, and settled on

Mira:
Calm down, Gremlin. You couldn’t look like a disaster if you tried.

Her message was read, and she glanced up at the man in the recording booth, arguing with his manager next to her about something, before her phone buzzed again.

She swiped it open, pulse quick, and froze.

Zoey. Hair a mess, bangs falling unevenly over her forehead, eyes still tired but bright with a wide, unguarded smile. The kind of picture no one would’ve picked for themselves - but Mira couldn’t look away. Something about how raw it was, how entirely unpolished, made her chest twist.

Before she could think better of it, she pulled up the mirror selfie she’d taken that morning - iced coffee in hand, elevator walls behind her, the kind of practiced shot she had sent to Rumi to tease her. This time, though, she also sent it to Zoey.

For a moment, she almost regretted it. Then she pictured Zoey’s expression when she saw it and let herself smile, just a little as she set the picture she had received as Zoey’s contact photo.

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

Zoey's brain was going into overdrive. Mira. Mirror selfie. Elevator walls sleek and silver behind her, iced coffee in one hand (because of course it was), the other holding her phone with maddening casualness. Her expression was that trademark cool, unreadable look that made her seem untouchable.

Zoey flopped onto her bed dramatically, phone clutched to her chest. “Unfair. Literally illegal. Who even looks like that at eight in the morning?”

She peeked at the photo again, narrowing her eyes. “She’s doing it on purpose. She has to be.”

Her own picture - messy hair, sleepy grin, all gremlin energy - looked like it had been taken on another planet compared to Mira’s. Side by side, they screamed slob vs. supermodel.

And yet… Mira had sent it back. To her.

Zoey buried her face in her pillow, kicking her feet like a teenager, torn between wanting to crawl under her blankets forever and wanting to print the photo and hang it on her wall.

Her phone buzzed again.

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
Don’t compare. You look great.

Zoey’s heart did a weird flip, and she groaned into the pillow once more. “I am so screwed.”

Her phone screen glowed on the dresser, Mira’s elevator selfie still open. Zoey brushed past it quickly, forcing herself to focus on her routine. Shower, clothes, hair - don’t think about her, don’t think about her.

She tugged on a loose hoodie and jeans, combed her bangs down with her fingers. Brushed her teeth again, because maybe toothpaste foam had been visible in that earlier selfie and she refused to let Mira think she couldn’t handle basic hygiene.

Her phone buzzed.

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
Don’t fall asleep at your desk, Gremlin.

Zoey grinned despite herself, thumb hovering before she tapped back:

Zoey:
Too late. Brain already goo.

She tossed the phone onto her bed before she could spiral again, finishing up with a slapdash attempt at eyeliner. Not her best. Not her worst. Definitely not Mira-level effortless. That woman looks like she would use a knife to draw her cateye, and look damn good while doing it.

By the time she made it to the kitchen nook for a quick breakfast, the phone had migrated back into her hands. She scrolled back up to the selfie Mira had sent, then back down to her own, then groaned out loud. “Stop. Stop it. You’re being weird.”

Her toast popped up. She crammed it into her mouth, shouldered her bag, and headed out the door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Zoey logged into her computer at the office, she’d successfully buried the urge to look at Mira’s picture only three more times. Progress, she told herself. Totally normal.

Her calendar pinged. Online meeting with Moss.

Zoey muttered a quick prayer for patience, then joined the call.

Moss’s face filled the screen, grumpy as always. “Choi. You’re on time. Mark it down in history.”

Zoey rolled her eyes, settling back in her chair. “Good morning to you too, Moss.”

He shuffled through some papers, muttering. “Yeah yeah, whatever. Tell me, how are you getting on in Korea?”

Zoey swallowed. Right. She was here to work and she had a boss to report to, outside of her confusing new acquaintance. Totally fine. Not panic-inducing at all.

She adjusted her headset, tucking one knee up against her chair. “Uh… good? I mean, it’s a lot. Big city. Bright lights. Jetlag is still trying to kill me, but I’m… managing.”

Moss peered at her through the camera like he could smell her hesitation. “Managing doesn’t mean shit, Choi. Are you getting the work done?”

“Yes,” Zoey said quickly. Then, softer: “Mostly. I mean, yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

Moss grunted, flipping another page in whatever packet he had in front of him. “Good. Because you’ve got another meeting coming up. Client’s tech team this time. Less hand-holding, more actual IT talk. You’re going to be the one answering their questions.”

Zoey’s stomach swooped. “Me?”

“No, the invisible intern behind you,” Moss deadpanned. “Of course you. Don’t overthink it. Just do the job you’re supposed to be good at.”

Zoey muttered, “Supposed to be,” under her breath, but Moss’s ears were sharper than she thought.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” She sat straighter, forcing a grin. “You can count on me. Totally competent. Definitely not panicking.”

Moss squinted, unconvinced. “I’ll send you the prep material tonight. Study it. And don’t let me find out you’re doodling sea turtles in the margins again.”

Zoey gasped, clutching her chest. “That was one time.”

“Three times.”

“...allegedly.”

Moss sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just don’t embarrass me, Choi. That’s all I ask.”

The call ended with a click, leaving Zoey staring at her reflection on the dark screen.

“Cool. Great pep talk. Thanks, Boss,” she muttered, spinning in her chair. Her stomach was still in knots, but the absurdity of his gruff faith in her left a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Mira.

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
Don’t forget lunch. Jetlag makes Gremlins forget to eat.

Zoey dropped her forehead against the desk with a groan. “I am so screwed.”

Zoey peeked at Mira’s text again, cheeks warming. She thumbed back a reply, a rambling mess about how yes, she was eating, thank you very much, complete with a blurry picture of the eggs and rice she had thrown together for her lunch this morning. Mira’s only answer was a dry ‘acceptable’, which somehow made Zoey feel absurdly proud.

The day blurred by in a haze of work, yawns, and half-hearted focus. By the time she was back in her apartment, Zoey had one goal: conquer the prep packet Moss had sent her. She curled up on her bed, laptop open, ramen steaming gently on the table beside her.

Half an hour in, just as the technical jargon started melting her brain, her phone buzzed.

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️:
What are you doing?

Zoey bit her lip, typing back quickly:

Zoey:
Boss sent me HOMEWORK 📚😭 drowning in it send SNACKS pls 🍫🍜🍬 u??

Seconds later, another buzz. A picture this time: Mira reflected in a dark window, city lights burning behind her. Cool, detached, impossibly put together, as always.

From: Iced Coffee Queen ❄️
I'm on my way home.

Zoey stared at it for too long, chewing on her lip. Then, before she could stop herself, she hit call.

The line clicked.

“Zoey?” Mira’s voice, low and warm, with a faint note of curiosity.

Zoey nearly dropped her phone. “Uh - yeah! Hi! Sorry, I just - I just wanted to make sure you’re getting home safe. Not that you need me to or anything, but, you know… creeps.”

There was a pause, then the faintest laugh. “I’m not walking, I'm driving. What, you think I can’t handle myself?”

Zoey slapped her forehead with her free hand. “No, I mean yes. I mean, of course you are driving. Great. Coolest opener of all time. You are probaly busy with... driving... then. I’ll just… hang up before I embarrass myself further - ”

“You’re on speaker,” Mira cut in, smooth, steady. “You’re not disturbing me. Talk, Gremlin.”

Zoey froze. “…Oh. Okay. Cool.” A beat of silence. "Soooo, what do you wanna talk about?"

Mira hummed over the phone. "How about you tell me about your day?"

She scrambled for words. “Uh - so, my day was fine. The vending machine coffee at work? Doesn’t taste like battery acid if you add two sugars. Which I’m calling a win.”

“Hm.” Mira sounded unconvinced.

Zoey pressed on, desperate to fill the space. “Also, I think my jetlag’s finally wearing off. Today I only wanted to die for, like, half the day instead of the whole thing. Growth.”

“You’re dramatic,” Mira murmured, and Zoey swore she could hear the smirk.

Zoey laughed nervously. “And you’re… uh.” She hesitated. “…consistent.”

“That wasn’t the word you were going to use.”

Her ears went hot. “Nope. Definitely was. Totally nailed that. I’m a poet now.”

Mira chuckled quietly, and Zoey had to bite her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

The conversation drifted after that, little pockets of silence that didn’t feel heavy. Zoey found herself rambling about anything - her playlist, how she was still convinced the elevator in the building growled at her once - while Mira’s dry comments and soft hums pushed her on.

Finally, Mira’s voice cut through: “I’m home.”

Zoey blinked. “Already? That was, like… five seconds.”

“You talk a lot,” Mira said, but it came out almost fond. “Time flew.”

Zoey pulled her blanket tighter, her throat a little thick. “…Guess I’ll put that on my résumé. Human white noise machine. Very hireable.”

There was the muffled sound of the phone being taken out of it's spot, a little bit of shuffling. Then Mira again - quieter now, softer, almost hesitant.

“…You could call me again. Tomorrow. If you’d like.”

Zoey’s brain short-circuited. “Uh - yeah, sure, I mean, if you - ”

"Yes."

Zoey blinked. "Okay then I might just do that."

"Good."

For a moment there was nothing, just the comfortable silence between them, until Zoey remembered that Mira was already home.

A small pang of sadness washed through Zoey, she really enjoyed talking to the other woman. “Okay, good. Uh - sleep well, Mira.”

“You too, Zoey.” The words were soft. Too soft.

The line dropped, and Zoey flopped back onto her bed, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Oh no,” she muttered into her blanket. “I am so screwed.”

She shot upright, eyes wide. Wait. Hold on. All this time she’d been thinking about Mira - about her smile, her voice, the way she said 'Zoey'.

And she didn’t even know if Mira liked women.

Zoey groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Okay. Fine. New mission. Find out. Somehow.”

------------------------------------------------------------M--------------------------------------------------------------

The line clicked dead, leaving her car steeped in silence.

Mira let her phone fall into her lap, staring out the windshield. Her building loomed just a few steps away, but she’d been parked there for ten minutes already. She could’ve gone inside the moment she’d pulled up. Could’ve showered, eaten, gone straight to bed.

But she hadn’t. Because she hadn’t wanted to hang up.

Mira dragged a hand down her face, exhaling slowly, the corners of her mouth twitching like she wanted to frown and laugh at herself at the same time. “Pathetic,” she muttered. “Completely and utterly.”

Finally, she shoved herself out of the car, locking it behind her, and headed upstairs. The apartment welcomed her with familiar quiet, shadows pooling across her tidy living room. She toed off her boots, dropped her bag by the door, and collapsed into the armchair like gravity had doubled.

Phone still in hand, Mira tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. The words slipped out before she could stop them, a quiet echo in the empty room:

“...I’m so screwed.”

Chapter Text

Her phone screen lit up for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nothing. Still no reply from Mira.

Zoey sighed, slumping lower in her chair at her desk. Mira had been quiet all yesterday and today, just one brief “busy” text, and Zoey tried to tell herself it wasn’t weird. People had lives. Jobs. Things to do besides entertaining the random American gremlin who’d crash-landed into their world.

Still. She missed her. After their first call it had just started to become a habit between them, whenever Mira would go home late.

Mira would send her a picture of herself in the same dark window and Zoey would call her. Granted, that had only happened a handful of times, but Zoey had already gotten used to it. But the last two days? Nothing. Nada. 

She had also tried her best to gently pry into the question, whether or not Mira liked women, but so far she had either been too subtle, or Mira simply hadn’t picked up what she was putting down.

“Zoey!” Her head snapped up. It was Jihye from the desk next to hers, grinning at her from over the partition. “We’re going out tonight. You should come!”

Zoey blinked. “Going out?”

“Yeah, you know? Company dinner. Drinks. Everyone’s coming.”

Oh. She remembered hearing about that in the orientation packet, tucked somewhere between workplace etiquette and how not to embarrass yourself in front of clients. A bonding ritual, apparently.

“Uh.” Zoey hesitated, thumb brushing over her phone again. Mira hadn’t texted. And if she was busy, well…

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The restaurant was buzzing when they arrived, floor-to-ceiling chatter and sizzling platters. Her coworkers herded her into a long table already stacked with soju bottles and beer, plates of meat and kimchi steaming in the center.

“Zoey!” one of them cheered, sliding a glass her way. “You drink, yes?”

Zoey laughed nervously. “I mean, yeah, but - ”

No chance to finish. The first glass went down fast, followed by another, and another. The ritual was clear: pour for others, clink glasses, down the shot.

Zoey tried to keep pace. She really did. But college beer pong hadn’t prepared her for the tidal wave that was THIS.

Half an hour in, the room was warm and tilting, her cheeks flushed as she beamed at Jihye across the table. “I like this,” she declared, pointing with a chopstick that wobbled dangerously. “It’s like… like friendship, but liquid.”

Her coworkers laughed, clapping her on the back. Another glass appeared. She downed it.

The world blurred pleasantly. She was fine. Totally fine. Except - her head felt floaty, and her legs weren’t entirely listening to her.

Oh.

Oh NO.

Zoey blinked, realization dawning through the haze. She was absolutely, one hundred percent wasted. She excused herself and stumbled to the bathroom.

Whose tiles were spinning. Or was it her head? Either way, Zoey pressed her palm flat to the cool wall, willing the world to just… stop. Her phone slipped in and out of her grip as she thumbed it awake. The screen flashed with her last thread of texts. Mira.

Always Mira.

Zoey grumbled, her lips pushing into a pout, and hit call. The line rang. No answer. She squinted, stubborn, and hit it again.

This time a click. Mira’s voice, sharp, clipped, unmistakably annoyed: “What?”

Zoey grinned, relief bubbling up with the alcohol. “Mirrrraaa… hi. You picked up!” The name came out in a drunken drawl.

There was a pause on the other end. Then, softer: “Zoey? What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m… uh… out. ” Zoey tried to stand upright, immediately regretted it, and slumped back against the wall. “With coworkers. They keep giving me this drink, it’s sooo tasty but it makes the floor do this thing - ” She made a whooshing noise, followed by laughter.

Mira swore under her breath. Zoey blinked, catching the muffled sound of someone yelling in the background on Mira’s end.

“What are you doing?” she asked, squinting at her reflection in the bathroom mirror like the answer might be written there.

“Doesn’t matter.” Mira’s tone was brisk again. “Listen to me. Go home.”

Zoey shook her head, the motion sluggish. “Can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Mira insisted. “Just tell them you’re leaving, they’ll - ”

“No, no, no, you don’t get it.” Zoey’s voice became quieter with every word, her brows furrowing. “I can’t go home. It’s too far.” A pause. “America’s really far, Mira.”

A long silence. Then the quietest sigh. Zoey’s chest tightened. “Mira?” Her voice came out smaller now, like the world had shrunk around her. “Can you… come get me?”

There was a pause - too long, too heavy - before Mira answered, “I’m out of the city. Family business. I can’t.”

Zoey bit her lip, tears threatening to burn through the haze. The idea of Mira not coming to get her felt like a stone dropped in her stomach. Another curse from Mira’s end, sharper this time. “Text me the name of the place. Right now. And stay put. Don’t move. I’ll sort something out.”

“You’re bossy,” Zoey muttered, pressing her cheek against the blessedly cold tiles.

And was that - yes - a tiny laugh from Mira, barely there.

“…I like that,” Zoey added, words slurring together.

“Zoey - ”

“’Kay. Floor. Staying.” She gave a sloppy little wave to no one in particular, then dropped the phone beside her. “Bye, Mira.”

The line clicked dead. Zoey squinted at her phone, trying to remember the name of the place she was at, but instead opted to just send her location. Mira was smart, she could figure it out, she was convinced. Her eyes slipped shut, the hum of the restaurant muffled behind the bathroom door, and let the tile cradle her spinning head.

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

The castle was coming along nicely. Pillow fort mark three, built with a sturdy base of sofa cushions and reinforced with two kitchen chairs she’d dragged over earlier. She’d been considering hanging one of her flannels over the top for a flag. Very gay, very official.

She was halfway through tying the knot when her phone buzzed on the coffee table. The name on the screen made her blink.

Ice Queen

Rumi stilled, flannel dangling from her fingers. Mira never called when she was out of town. She was busy not losing her mind most of the time. Rumi had gotten used to the silence, as much as it annoyed her.

She swiped the screen, smirk already tugging at her lips. “What, missing me already? Don’t tell me the prodigal daughter is actually bored of her palace of horrors-”

“Rumi.” Mira’s voice cut through, low and urgent, making whatever sarcastic statement she had ready die on her tongue. She froze. Mira never sounded like that unless it was serious.

“I need a favor,” Mira said. “A big one.”

Rumi stood up straighter. “Okay. Shoot.”

“There’s someone I need you to get. She’s drunk, too drunk to get home on her own. I can’t get to her right now, so I need you to go, pick her up, and take her somewhere safe. If you can get her home, do it.”

Rumi blinked. “I mean I’d love to but uh, in case you forgot - I’m still on Celine’s leash. Not exactly free to roam the streets.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Mira didn’t even hesitate. “You told me that Celine at least removed the goon in front of your door. You’re clever. This is serious, Rumi. Please.”

That last word hit heavier than anything else. She blew out a sharp breath, raking a hand through her hair. “Fine. I’ll find a way past the desk. Text me the address.”

“I will.” A pause. Then, quieter, almost soft: “Thank you. I mean it. I owe you.”

Something in Mira’s tone made Rumi’s stomach tighten. Mira never sounded like that. Ever.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Ice Queen.” She forced a laugh to break the tension. “Text me.”

“Already did.”

The line went dead.

Rumi tossed the flannel onto the couch, marched to her closet, and yanked out the first hoodie and pair of black jeans she could find. She shoved her arms through the sleeves, tugged the hood low over her hair, and grabbed her phone and wallet.

If she got caught, Celine would have her head on a platter. But Mira had asked, really asked, and there was no way in hell she was going to ignore that.

She slammed the closet shut, stomped to the elevator, and hit the button. The doors slid open with a soft ding.

“Alright,” she muttered under her breath, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s go play rescuer.”

The elevator hummed its way down, far too calm for the pounding in her chest. When the doors slid open into the lobby, Rumi yanked her hood lower and shoved her hands into her pockets.

The night clerk didn't look up from behind the front desk, buried into something on his phone. She knew for a fact that there was always another clerk in the office behind him. Getting out would not be easy. She debated her options. She could try to lie, but the chance that Celine would be contacted was just too big.

But her opportunity presented itself not long after. The office door swung open and the other clerk announced he was stepping out for a smoke. This could be her chance. She pulled out her phone and dialed the number of the building. Immediately the office phone started ringing, making the remaining clerk look over his shoulder somewhat annoyed, before standing up and stepping into the office.

This was her chance, she quickly ducked past the desk before stepping outside, the cool Seoul air slapping her face like freedom.

She walked fast, boots crunching against the pavement. A few blocks away, tucked between a shuttered dry cleaner and an empty lot, was the parking structure she’d started using months ago. Celine could monitor her penthouse garage, but she couldn’t keep tabs on every corner of the city.

Rumi jogged up the ramp, weaving past rows of silent cars until she reached hers. For a moment she debated the motorcycle parked a few spaces over. Faster, easier to weave through traffic. But Mira’s “too drunk to get home” still rang in her ears. Whoever this was, stuffing them onto the back of a bike was asking for vomit - or worse.

“Car it is,” she muttered, sliding into the driver’s seat. The leather creaked familiarly under her, a grounding sound.
She stopped, lips quirking despite the tension.

Her car wasn’t exactly subtle. A classic muscle car, all long lines and raw power, paint dulled by years of use but still beautiful. She’d bought it secondhand with her father, back before everything had gotten so complicated. He’d promised they’d fix it up together, make it shine again.

Her chest tightened. She shoved the memory away. Not the time. Instead she punched the address into her phone, the screen glowing pale in the dark. A restaurant across town, not one she recognized. Her engine roared to life, low and rough, echoing through the concrete.

She gripped the wheel tight, jaw set.

“Hang on, whoever you are,” she murmured, backing out with a squeal of tires. “The rescue squad’s coming.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The noise from the restaurant hit her chest the second she stepped inside, sticky air thick with food and cheap alcohol, due to the late hour. She shoved her hood lower, pushing through the tables. Mira’s last message still burned in her head: bathroom.

Great. Real specific.

Rumi made a beeline for the women’s restroom, shouldering past a group of giggling twenty-somethings. Inside, the stalls were empty, the sinks abandoned. Her frown deepened. Had they already left? That would mean Mira had sent her on a pointless errand, which wasn’t Mira’s style.

Her gaze flicked to the door across the hall. The men’s room.

“No way,” she muttered. “...Right?”

Still, something in her gut pushed her forward. She shoved the door open and the sour stench of bleach hit her nose. And there - slumped in the corner like she’d just given up on existing - was a woman.

Rumi froze.

It was her. Of course it was her.

Who else would Mira get worked up over? 

Still, Mira had asked her and Rumi would never let someone stay alone in the men's bathroom in the sorry state that the woman was obviously in.

She crouched down, studying her. Even half-folded against the tiles, the woman’s features were… softer than she expected. Almost cute, if Rumi let herself think the word. Something about the messiness of her hair and the faint frown between her brows tugged at her.

And then her eyes snapped open.

Before Rumi could react, the woman lurched forward and vomited all over the floor, the sound echoing off the tiles.

Rumi blinked once. Twice.

“...Well, okay then,” she muttered flatly. She was still crouched in front of the woman, elbows balanced on her knees, staring at the drunk mess of a girl slumped against the bathroom wall. She let out a dry laugh under her breath. Out of all the favors Mira had asked her to pull off in her life, this one had to take the crown. Babysitting some wasted foreigner in a men’s bathroom.

The woman at least had some decency to look somewhat apologetic, but Rumi just waved it off before the first apology could tumble out of her mouth. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse shit on my boots before.”

The woman - Zoey, if she remembered Mira correctly - looked up at her with glassy eyes and a lopsided grin. And then, out of nowhere, her hand reached up and clumsily cupped Rumi’s cheek.

“You’re sooo preeeetty.” Zoey slurred, giggling like she’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

Rumi arched a brow, fighting the twitch of a smile. “Thanks?”

Zoey cocked her head, squinting hard. “Wait… you look… familiar. Like… Ryumi.” She brightened suddenly, sitting up straighter despite the wobble in her body. “Only prettier.”

That earned a short bark of laughter from Rumi. “Oh god, you’re drunk.” She reached out to help her up, but Zoey immediately recoiled, eyes wide. 

She was lucky that her English was somewhat decent, because wherever this woman was from exactly, it was clearly english speaking, with the amount of english words she threw into her sentences.

But even then, she was also glad she hadn’t taken or drank anything today yet, because even though she spoke both Korean and English (somewhat well), the woman in front of her did not speak either well at the moment. 

“Nooo! I can’t… can’t go with you. My friend Mira told me to stay right here, an’ that’s what I’m doin’. She was very… adana - amad - adam - adamant about it.”

Rumi tried to suppress a chuckle, the way she kept switching between drunken English and Korean was kind of hilarious. “But I am Mira’s friend. She sent me to get you.”

Zoey shook her head stubbornly, crossing her arms. “Nice tryyyyy. Mira’s too smart to send a -  a - ” she hiccupped, “ - a goddess in ripped jeans.”

Rumi let out a sharp sigh, then pulled out her phone, scrolling quickly until she found a photo of her and Mira. She flipped the screen toward Zoey: her and Mira, arms slung around each other at a summer festival from this year, Mira in dark sunglasses and a cropped tank, Rumi in shorts and fishnets. They both had been absolutely sky high the whole weekend. She even gave her big show while rolling high on mollies. It was great.

Zoey gasped so loudly it echoed off the bathroom tiles. “Ohhh my god, you guys look so c-c-cute! Look at her smile! She looks so un-Mira-like! Like… Mira but not Mira, y’know?”

Rumi chuckled, tilting her head. “Yeah well she was hi-”

But before she could end her sentence Zoey launched into a ramble, her words tumbling over each other. 

“I wanned to go to that fest - festival sooo bad, just… just to see Ryumi live, without havin’ to leave the States, y’know? Cuz I could never, like, justify travelin’ all the way just for that, even though I really, really, really wanted to. I even saved up some money for it - like, actual grown-up savings - but then my stupid computer died on me, like, pfft, gone, and I had to get it fixed, so… so yeah. Couldn’t afford it. And the livestream was garbage. Like, garbage garbage. Pixels and robot voices, ugh. And - ”

Rumi just listened, oddly entertained, her lips twitching as the words poured out. Finally, she cut in. “So do you believe me now?”

Zoey stared at her for a beat, then nodded furiously, her beaming smile nearly blinding. “Every friend of Mira’s is also my friend. So now - now we’re friends! Best friends! Forever. Sealed deal.”

For a split second, something in Rumi softened. Her grin faded into something real, warm in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in weeks. Then, just as quickly, she shoved it back down, schooling her features.

Rumi got Zoey on her feet with some effort - Zoey swayed like a kite in the wind, clutching her arm with the loyalty of a drowning sailor.

“I hafta say bye to my coworkers,” Zoey slurred, pointing dramatically toward the table of people who were still laughing and drinking.

“Fine,” Rumi muttered, half-dragging her over. Zoey waved at them with both hands, nearly tipping over in the process. After a round of exaggerated goodbyes and promises she’d never remember, Rumi steered her out onto the sidewalk.

Fresh air, contrary to Rumi's hopes, didn’t help. The second they were outside, Zoey gasped at some neon sign across the street, then at a stray cat darting into an alley, then at her own shoelaces.

“Focus,” Rumi said, crouching slightly so she could look Zoey in the eye. “Where do you live?”

Zoey blinked owlishly. “Uhhh…” She spun around like the answer might be hiding behind her. “In America! Burbank I think… No wait, I live in Korea! I think? No idea, sorry”

Rumi pinched the bridge of her nose. “Perfect. Very helpful.” She pulled her phone out, thumb flying across the screen as she called Mira.

The line barely rang once before Mira’s voice came sharp and urgent: “Please tell me you got her.”

“Relax,” Rumi said flatly. “Yeah, I’ve got her out of the bathroom. But she’s either too drunk to remember her address or too stubborn to spit it out.”

A pause. Then Mira admitted, “I don’t -  I don’t know her address either. I’ve never been there.”

Rumi closed her eyes, exhaling smoke as she lit a cigarette. “Figures. Fine. I’ll figure something out. At the very least, she’ll have a place to sleep tonight.”

There was quiet on the other end, then Mira’s voice softened, almost hesitant: “Can I talk to her?”

Rumi held the phone out. “For you, it’s Mira.”

Zoey’s face lit up like Christmas. “MIRA!” She snatched the phone with both hands, holding it dangerously close to her nose. “Hi! Guess what - I made a new friend! She looks soooo much like Ryumi, but she’s nicer, and she’s soooo pretty! Like you! You’re so pretty too! You’re both like, unfairly pretty. It’s ridiculous.”

Rumi took a step back, leaning against the wall as she smoked, half-listening to Zoey’s enthusiastic rambling punctuated by Mira’s muted responses.

“Yes, yes, I’m good, I promise,” Zoey giggled into the receiver. “I’ll stay right here, pinky swear. She’s taking care of me. She’s the best. My new best friend. Did I mention she’s pretty?” A pause. Then, earnestly: “She had a hood on, so I only could see a little bit of her f-face, but I’m sure she is not as pretty as you. And if she is, then it’s soooooooooo clo-close.”

She hummed a little, probably trying to make sure Mira KNEW she was listening before eventually waving enthusiastically with an extended “Okay yes, byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”
before she shoved the phone back at Rumi, already distracted by a streetlight buzzing overhead.

Rumi took it, raising an eyebrow. “She’s back to her little drunk activities. I’ll make sure she’s safe. You can stop panicking.”

Mira’s responding laugh was dry. “Thank you.”

Rumi gave a low chuckle in return “You should hear the things she says about us. I’m apparently prettier than Ryumi herself. And you’re - well. You’re pretty too.”

Instead of the expected snarky remark there was only silence on the line.

Rumi softened. God Mira really had it bad. “Don’t worry, Ice Queen. I’ll handle it. Get some sleep please.”

“Goodnight, Ru, and thank you again. I mean it” Mira muttered, with a thread of warmth underneath.

“Night.” She slid the phone into her pocket just as Zoey tugged on her sleeve, wide-eyed.

“’Scuse me, Ryumi lookalike, but I think I - ”

She doubled over, hurling onto the pavement.

Rumi hopped back just in time, staring down at the mess with a sigh. “…At least you missed the boots this time.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Getting Zoey to the car was like herding an especially talkative cat. She zigzagged at every flashing sign and cooed at every shadow that vaguely resembled an animal, but Rumi managed - barely - to keep her on track until her car came into view.

Zoey froze mid-step, eyes going wide. “No. Way.” She gasped so dramatically that Rumi almost thought something was wrong. Then Zoey pointed, wobbling on her feet. “Th-that’s a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Oh my god. Like… like Supernatural! I love that show! I never thought I’d get to see one in real life!”

Rumi unlocked the car with a casual click. “You don’t just get to see one,” she said, opening the passenger door. “You get to ride in one.”

Zoey clutched her cheeks like she was physically holding in her squeal. “Shut up. SHUT. UP. This is the best day ever!” She giggled, half-falling into the seat.

Rumi buckled her in before she could fall right back out, then rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel.

Zoey was still giggling, petting the dashboard. “She’s so pretty. You’re so pretty. Everything’s so pretty.”

Rumi smirked despite herself and started the engine, the low rumble vibrating through the night. Then came the hard part: deciding where the hell to take this mess of a woman.

She couldn’t get an address out of her, and Mira hadn’t known either. Dropping her at a hotel was technically an option, but Rumi imagined Zoey waking up tomorrow alone in a strange room with no memory of how she got there - probably thinking she’d been kidnapped. Not ideal.

Her mind flickered to her small apartment. For a second, the idea tempted her. But no - she didn’t want Zoey there alone, and she couldn’t afford to stay out all night either. If Celine decided to check in tomorrow and found her gone, she’d be chained to the penthouse for the next year.

Which left her with one possibility. The penthouse. She grimaced, tapping the wheel with her fingers. Smuggling a drunk foreigner through her aunt’s carefully monitored cage of a home was… not exactly subtle.

But leaving Zoey to fend for herself wasn’t an option. Not when Mira had asked her. Not when Zoey had looked at her like that - so wide-eyed and trusting, even through the haze of alcohol.

Rumi sighed. “Guess it’s a field trip then,” she muttered, pulling out of the lot.

In the passenger seat, Zoey had already started softly singing some tune that Rumi didn’t recognize, swaying side to side with the car’s motion, still petting the dashboard like it was alive.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Impala’s engine clicked quietly as it cooled, the night air carrying the faint smell of gasoline. Rumi hauled Zoey out of the passenger seat, steadying her as the woman bent down to pat the hood.

“Goodniiiight, car,” Zoey slurred, pressing her cheek briefly to the metal. “Sweet dreams.”

Rumi couldn’t help the twitch of her lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

But her amusement soured quickly as she glanced up at the looming building. How the hell was she supposed to sneak a drunk foreigner past the ever-watchful front desk? Her brain whirred, half-formed plans colliding until one stuck. Risky, but possible.

If she got caught she might be on house arrest for the rest of her life. But then she threw one look at Zoey and Mira’s voice rang in her ear. 

“This is serious, Rumi. Please.”
“Thank you. I mean it. I owe you.”

She had sounded so sincerely worried. Not even Rumi got to see this side of her very often, and she had been there when Mira’s… 

Rumi shook her head, if she abandoned Zoey now Mira would never forgive her. Besides, the girl was actually kind of funny, and actually kinda cute. She blinked, where had that thought come from?

She crouched slightly to meet Zoey’s glazed eyes. “Okay, listen. I need you to wait out here for just one minute. I’ll be right back.”

Zoey’s face crumpled instantly. “You’re leaving me?” Her eyes welled up, glassy and enormous. “No, no, no, don’t - don’t leave me, please - ”

“Shit, no - hey, hey!” Rumi panicked, holding up her hands. “I’ll be back before you know it, promise.” But Zoey’s bottom lip was already wobbling dangerously. Rumi cursed under her breath, yanked her hoodie off, and shoved it into Zoey’s arms.

“Here. Hold this. Proof I’m coming back.”

Zoey blinked, clutched it to her chest like it was sacred. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

That seemed to pacify her. Rumi spun on her heel, slipped through the glass doors, and thanked her lucky stars that the front desk clerk seemed to be engrossed in something behind him. She really had all the luck in the world today it seemed.

She hit the elevator button. When the doors opened, she leaned in and pretended to step out, flashing the clerk a faintly annoyed look when he turned around as she stepped out. “Going out for a smoke. I’ll be right in front of the doors. You can see me.”

The clerk hesitated, but the implication of what could possibly happen under your nose hung heavy. He nodded once.

“Fine. Don’t go far.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rumi drawled, throwing him a quick two finger salute, before slipping back outside.

Her stomach dropped when she didn’t see Zoey immediately. “Fuck, where-”

Something barreled into her side. “You DID come back!” Zoey squealed, nearly knocking her over. She was swimming inside Rumi’s oversized hoodie, the sleeves dangling past her hands.

For half a second, Rumi froze. She had actually put it on. The sight did something strange to her chest, but she shoved it down. Focus.

“Okay, listen. You need to pretend you’re really sick.”

Zoey gave her two enthusiastic thumbs up. “Easy. Been sick since the car ride. Like, woozy woozy.” She grinned like she’d just confessed something heroic.

“Perfect,” Rumi muttered, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and steering her inside. The clerk looked up the second they crossed the threshold. Zoey hiccupped, swaying dramatically against Rumi.

“She ran into my arms outside,” Rumi said smoothly, tightening her grip. “She’s wasted. Sick. I’m not leaving her on the sidewalk like that.”

The clerk eyed Zoey, who looked ready to dissolve into the floor, and finally sighed. “Didn’t see anything,” he muttered, waving them toward the elevator.

Rumi inclined her head, already making a mental note of his name. He’d be getting a tip - a fat one - next chance she got.

She half-carried Zoey into the elevator, the doors closing with a merciful ding. The elevator hummed as it started to climb, the mirrored walls reflecting two very mismatched figures: one half-draped in oversized black fabric, the other standing stiff and sharp-eyed, jaw clenched as if sheer willpower could hold the situation together.

Zoey, meanwhile, stared at their reflection, squinting. “Oh my god,” she whispered, as though discovering something profound. “We look like a - like a crime drama duo. You’re the cool, mysterious detective… and I’m the, uh…” Her brow furrowed. “The tech girl. Who pukes.”

Rumi pressed her lips together, hard. “Great. That’s just the reputation I need.”

Zoey giggled, leaning her head against Rumi’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Detective Pretty, I won’t tell anyone your secret identity.”

Rumi’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t shake her off. It wasn’t worth the effort.

The elevator dinged, and Zoey straightened clumsily, eyes wide as the doors opened onto Rumi’s floor. “Whoa. Fancy button. We’re really high up, huh?”

“Don’t puke again,” Rumi warned flatly, guiding her down the hall. But the moment they stepped into the penthouse, Zoey froze. Her mouth fell open.

“Holy shit.” She stumbled a few steps forward, taking in the wide glass windows, the sprawling living room, the soft glow of ambient lights. Even messy as it was - clothes on the couch, an abandoned notebook on the floor - it still screamed luxury.

Rumi nudged the door shut behind them, suddenly self-conscious of the silence pressing in. She’d lived in this space for years, and it never felt like home. But Zoey, even drunk off her ass, looked at it like it was some kind of cathedral.

“You live here?” Zoey whispered, spinning slowly in place. “This is… this is insane. Like… MTV Cribs insane. I feel like I should take my shoes off. Or bow. Or both.”

“You’re not bowing.” Rumi kicked off her own boots and tugged Zoey’s sneakers half-off before she tripped over herself.

Zoey clutched at her arm again, steadying. “Detective Pretty, you’re rich.”

Rumi sighed, steering her toward the couch. “Don’t call me that.”

“Detective Prettyyyyy,” Zoey sing-songed, collapsing onto the cushions. “With the sick car. And the penthouse. And the face…” She trailed off, grinning at nothing. “Unfair.”

Rumi ducked into her bedroom, flicking on the low light by her dresser. What the hell am I doing? She thought as she dug out a clean pair of sleep shorts and one of her softer shirts - black, worn thin with age, the kind of thing she usually only slept in herself. She hesitated for a second, then shrugged. It would do.

When she stepped back into the living room, Zoey was exactly where she’d left her - sprawled on the couch, legs tucked under her like a teenager at a sleepover, wide eyes darting around the penthouse as if cataloging every inch.

The moment her gaze landed on Rumi, though, her whole face lit up. “You’re back!” Zoey exclaimed, throwing her arms out like Rumi had been gone for hours. “Oh my god, I missed you already!”

Rumi blinked, then rolled her eyes. “I was gone for maybe two minutes.”

“Too long.” Zoey’s grin was blinding, her voice softening as if sharing some precious secret. “You’re my friend. My pretty friend.”

Rumi ignored the flutter in her chest, setting the clothes down on the arm of the couch. “Right. Well, your pretty friend says you need to get into the bathroom.”

Zoey frowned, confused. “Bathroom? Why?”

“So you don’t wake up tomorrow feeling like garbage.” Rumi held up the shirt pointedly. “Change. Brush your teeth.”

Zoey gasped softly, like this was profound wisdom. “Ohhhh. Hygiene.” She nodded sagely, then squinted. “But only because you’re pretty. And my friend. My pretty friend.”

Rumi pinched the bridge of her nose but couldn’t quite smother the curve tugging at her mouth. “Yes, yes. Your pretty friend. Now move before I drag you in there myself.”

Zoey giggled, wobbling to her feet with the grace of a newborn deer, but she did follow.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zoey leaned heavily against the sink in Rumi’s ensuite, clumsy hands fumbling with the toothbrush. Half the toothpaste ended up on the counter, but somehow she managed to get some into her mouth. She brushed with the determination of a warrior, foam threatening to spill past her lips.

When she rinsed and splashed cold water on her face, she froze for a second. Then her whole body lit up with joy. “Ohhh my god,” she groaned loudly, dragging her palms down her cheeks. “This feels so gooood. Like - like being reborn. Am I glowing? Tell me I’m glowing.”

Rumi, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, pressed her lips into a thin line. The little shiver down her spine was not acceptable. 

“You’re dripping toothpaste on the floor.”

Zoey pouted at her in the mirror. “You ruin everything.” But she wiped her mouth obediently and shuffled back toward the bedroom, where the clothes waited in a neat pile.

“Change into those,” Rumi ordered, setting the pile on the edge of the bed.

Zoey blinked at them, then at her, then waggled her brows with drunken exaggeration. “Ohhh, I see what this is. You tryin’ to get me nakey.”

Rumi’s ears burned. “Get dressed before I make you.”

Zoey giggled, flopping onto the bed and hugging the shirt to her chest. “Bossy and pretty. Dangerous combo.”

That was enough. Rumi spun on her heel, muttering something about needing air, and shoved the balcony door open. The cool night breeze hit her face, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the rush in her head. She lit a cigarette with practiced hands, inhaling deeply, staring hard at the sea of glittering city lights below.

Don’t think about her. Don’t picture her fumbling with the shorts, don’t wonder if she’s actually bothering to change, don’t - 

Rumi exhaled smoke through her nose, jaw tight. By the time she finished her cigarette, Zoey better be dressed. Because if she wasn’t, Rumi was fairly certain she would not survive another round of the drunk flirting.

Not that she would do anything about it, because she was a lot of things but she would never take advantage of a drunk girl. Not just because of her own convictions, but also because she was fairly certain Mira would kill her for it. Kill her double because it’s someone she actually cares about. 

She continued to lean against the balcony railing, cigarette burning low between her fingers, mind circling Mira again. It was strange - unnerving, almost - to see her care so much, so quickly, about someone new. Mira wasn’t reckless with her heart. Mira was guarded, deliberate. And yet… after tonight, Rumi got it. Zoey was disarming in a way that was so effortless it was unfair. Not even puking on her shoes could have made her angry at the girl.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a muffled call from inside, Zoey’s voice drifting through the crack in the door. Slurred, sleepy. “Detective Preeeeeeetty…”

Rumi froze, muttering a frantic chorus in her head. Pleasebedressedpleasebedressedpleasebedressedpleasebedressed- 

She turned and stepped back inside.

And promptly stopped.

Two things hit her at once. First: Zoey’s clothes were in a heap on the floor, the sleep shorts and shirt nowhere in sight. Which meant she’d actually managed to put them on. Thank god.

Second: Zoey was not standing. Not even sitting. She was sprawled in Rumi’s bed, blanket pulled up to her chin, clutching one of her pillows like it was a life raft. Half her face was buried in it, eyes already fluttering shut.

Rumi’s stomach dropped. Oh no. No no no no. She’d planned to steer her into a guest room, give her a safe, neutral spot. But now here she was - wedged in between Rumi’s pillows and blankets, looking like she belonged there. Too at home. Way too at home.

Not the time, Rumi. Focus.

She forced her legs to move, stepping closer. That earned her a grin from the bed. Sleepy. Lopsided. Adorable.

“Sooo comfy,” Zoey slurred, muffled by the pillow.

Rumi arched a brow, trying to sound dry, unaffected. “You mean the bed’s comfy?”

Zoey paused, clearly thinking harder than her state allowed. Then she shook her head, a smile spreading wider. “Mhm. The bed too. But also you.” She hugged the pillow tighter, voice dreamy. “Smells like you. Means you are comfy too.”

Rumi’s brain short-circuited. For a beat, she just stood there, caught between laughing, blushing, and throwing herself off the balcony.

“…Right. Of course.”

Rumi lingered by the edge of the bed, hands stuffed into her pocket, staring down at Zoey nestled in her sheets like she owned the place. Her chest twisted. She should move her. She should absolutely move her. It was the reasonable, responsible thing to do.
But then Zoey sighed in her half-sleep, cheek rubbing against the pillow like it was the softest thing in the world, and the thought of disturbing her seemed… cruel. She looked too comfortable. Too safe. Rumi couldn’t bring herself to ruin that.

She turned, ready to make her retreat, when Zoey’s voice - small, slurred, but insistent - pulled her back.

“Where’re you goin’?”

Rumi froze. “The couch. I’ll sleep there tonight.”

Zoey’s eyes cracked open, bleary but determined, a faint pout tugging at her lips. “But… there’s ‘nough room for both.”

Rumi’s throat went dry. A “no” was already creeping onto her tongue, but Zoeys puppy eyes made it catch in her throat. Instead she murmured a low “I’ll… think about it. Let me get you something to drink first.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Zoey gave a drowsy hum and promptly buried herself deeper into the pillows, and Rumi tried her best to not look back at her as she stepped outside the room.
Out in the hallway, Rumi pressed her back to the wall and sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in her chest. What the hell is this night even turning into?

She made her way into the kitchen, grabbed a cold bottle of water, and rehearsed in her head all the firm ways she would tell Zoey she was staying on the couch. Practical. Professional. Clear. Except when she came back into the bedroom, Zoey was already out cold, her chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm, lips parted in the softest snore.

Rumi set the bottle down on the nightstand with more care than she’d ever shown an object in her life. And then she lingered. Just a few seconds. Watching the girl who had stumbled, giggled, and puked her way straight into Rumi’s personal space - and somehow made it feel less suffocating. Her face was relaxed, stripped of all the chaos of the night, and for a fleeting moment Rumi thought she looked… beautiful.

She shook herself hard, retreating before her thoughts could wander further. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants, she changed quickly in the living room and collapsed onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

The evening replayed in her head - the call, the bathroom, Zoey’s giggles, her smile, her weight in Rumi’s passenger seat. None of it felt real.

“Bizarre,” she muttered to the empty room. “Absolutely fucking bizarre.”

She sent a quick last text to Mira before turning to her side. But even with all the headaches she went through that night, when sleep finally took her, the corners of her mouth were curved in the faintest ghost of a smile.

Chapter Text

Zoey woke to the sound of her own groan.

Her head throbbed like someone had taken a bass drum and set it on repeat, her mouth tasting like old pennies and mint. Every muscle in her body protested as she tried to move, even her eyelids ached as she blinked against the thin light seeping through heavy curtains, trying to orient herself.

The bed beneath her was too soft. The blanket too warm. And the pillow under her cheek - 

Zoey froze.

The pillow smelled… good. Not her detergent, not Stacy’s. Something else. Someone else. Sandalwood. A slight tinge of… cigarette smoke?

Her eyes flew open, darting around the unfamiliar room. Sleek walls. Tall windows. Way too expensive looking furniture. This wasn’t her apartment. This wasn’t even the right part of the city, let alone neighborhood. Not even a little bit.

“Oh no,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

Memories crashed back in fragments. Her coworkers. The drinks. The bathroom floor. Mira’s voice... on the phone? Someone finding her - someone who had been so, so pretty. But no clean picture.

Zoey sat up too fast, clutching the blanket to her chest as nausea rolled over her again. She looked around the room, then down at herself. Different clothes. Definitely not hers.

“Holy shit,” she muttered. “What did I do? What the hell did I do?”

The panic started clawing up her chest, "....Who did I do?" but then her eyes caught on the nightstand. A bottle of water waited there, condensation still clinging to the sides. And for some reason, that calmed her. Whoever had brought her here hadn’t dumped her. If the bottle of water, the faint taste of mint and the fact that she was currently dressed were leading her to the correct conclusion, as least they’d… taken care of her.

Zoey picked up the bottle with shaking hands, twisting the cap off. Her throat burned as the first gulp went down, but it was heavenly compared to the desert her mouth had been.

She collapsed back against the headboard, still clutching the blanket like a lifeline, brain buzzing with questions and a single, terrifying certainty.

This was definitely not home.

And whoever had brought her here…

Zoey buried her face in her hands, groaning loudly once before swinging her legs out of the bed, catching herself on the nightstand when they refused to hold her weight. 

She crept toward the door, bare feet silent on the floor, and pressed her ear against the wood. A muffled voice filtered through, sharp and low, the kind of cadence you used when you were trying very hard not to scream. She didn’t hear anyone else answering, which meant - phone call.

Her throat tightened. Whoever had brought her here… was still here. 

She took a shaky breath, steeled herself, and pushed the door open just enough to poke her head out

…Please don’t let it be some rich weirdo

The apartment hit her all at once - messy, but not cheap. Designer furniture hidden under empty bottles and discarded clothes, mixed and mismatched with things that looked like they were picked up at a garage sale. Cigarette smoke clinging faintly to the air. And one wall lined with framed records of various colors, gleaming under the morning light. Zoey’s brain stuttered. Whoever lived here wasn’t just rich or a musician. They were a rich musician. 

And most importantly: they were somebody. 

Her pulse jumped. Could Mira have come and gotten her after all? Maybe this was her place? Did producers even got records like that?

She edged the door wider, slipping one cautious step out into the open. That’s when she saw her.

Purple hair caught the light, vibrant and unmistakable, as the figure stood with her back to Zoey near the couch. A cigarette burned between two fingers, phone pressed to her ear. Her shoulders were tense, her voice clipped as she forced down anger.

Zoey froze, wide-eyed, hardly breathing as the woman muttered a final, grumbled goodbye and dropped the phone onto the table.

Then she turned around, and Zoey’s world stopped turning.

That face. Sharp, beautiful, impossible to mistake. The same face that had stared down at her from a poster on her bedroom wall, the same one on every album cover she’d listened to on repeat. The same one Spotify had reminded her about when it told her who her top artist of the year was. The same eyes she had so often looked into, wondering if the real ones held the same weight in them.

Ryumi

Zoey stood there in borrowed clothes, hair a wreck, clutching herself like an intruder, staring at the Ryumi standing in front of her.

And Ryumi was staring right back at her.

Zoey’s brain short-circuited.

Holy fuck. Ryumi picked me up???? 

For a beat, they just stared at each other, silence thick as smoke between them. Then both opened their mouths at once.

Zoey blurted, “OhmygodIamsosorryI - ”

Rumi cut in dryly, “Well, look who decided to wake up in my house like a stray cat.”

Their voices tangled and crashed over each other, leaving a messy silence in their wake. Zoey’s eyes went wide, panic flooding her system like ice water. Nope. Nope nope nope.

She spun on her heel and bolted back into the bedroom, slamming the door shut and pressing her back against it like she could keep the world out with sheer willpower.

Her heart pounded. Holy shit. Holy actual shit. Did I - did I sleep with Ryumi?

Her eyes darted to the bed. Clothes folded neatly on a chair. She was dressed, alone, the faint mint taste of toothpaste still lingering on her tongue. Her stomach dropped. No. No, I wouldn’t - I didn’t. Then how the hell did I get here - 

Her spiral was cut off as her body made the decision for her. Nausea surged, unstoppable, and she scrambled to the ensuite bathroom just in time to drop to her knees at the toilet.

The retching was awful - loud, violent, endless, shaking her whole body shook with it.

And then suddenly there were hands. Strong fingers sweeping her hair back, holding it firmly out of her face, the other settling around her middle, holding her up and gently cradling her painfully contracting stomach. A low voice near her ear, murmuring calm, steady words she couldn’t even process. But nonetheless she clung to all of it anyway, as if those words and strong arms were a lifeline.

By the time the storm in her stomach finally burned out, Zoey was trembling and hollow. She slumped sideways, letting herself collapse against the cool tile wall beside the toilet, panting, briefly mourning the loss of the warm hand that now slipped away from her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ryumi straighten smoothly, cross the room, and retrieve the bottle of water from the nightstand. She moved with that same grace she always had onstage, like the chaos of Zoey’s implosion hadn’t touched her in the slightest.

Ryumi returned, crouching down again. She flushed the toilet with one hand, pressed a wad of tissue into Zoey’s palm with the other. Then she cracked the bottle open and offered it wordlessly.

Zoey blinked up at her, dazed. For a moment her mind fuzzed, then snapped into sharp focus - an image flashing bright in her head.

Last night. A bathroom. This same woman crouched in front of her. The same sharp, unyielding eyes watching her.

Her stomach flipped all over again - not from the nausea this time.

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

Rumi’s voice cut through the heavy silence first. “How’re you feeling?”

No answer.

Zoey was too busy clinging to the water bottle like it was oxygen, gulping down mouthfuls between ragged breaths, her eyes still fixed on Rumi as if she wasn’t entirely convinced she was real.

“Right,” Rumi muttered under her breath, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “That’s helpful.” She scrolled through her delivery app, ordering a spread she always swore by when mornings-after hit hard: haejangguk - the classic “hangover soup,” beef broth rich with cabbage and spices. Also some kimchi pancakes. 

It had saved her more times than she could count. She added some Bae Juice to the order for good measure before tucking her phone away again.

When she looked back up, Zoey was still staring. Wide-eyed. Silent. Like she was watching a ghost.

Rumi sighed and extended a hand. “Come on.”

Zoey’s fingers slipped into hers - shaky, hesitant, surprisingly warm. As Rumi pulled her up, the girl almost folded right into her chest, and Rumi had to brace herself, an arm shooting out to keep her upright.

“Whoa there,” Rumi said dryly, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I know I’m irresistible, but try standing before you collapse into me, yeah?”

Nothing. Not even a laugh. Just those wide, stunned eyes.

Rumi rolled her own and shifted her grip, steadying Zoey as she guided her carefully out of the bedroom. Step by step, she brought her to the couch, lowering her down like she was made of glass.

“Stay,” Rumi instructed, tone somewhere between teasing and commanding. “You look like you’ll fall over if the wind changes.”

She left Zoey there, slipping back into the bathroom to rummage through her cabinet. When she returned, she had painkillers in one hand and a glass of electrolyte powder mixed into water in the other.

“Here.” She set the pills in Zoey’s palm, nudged the glass toward her lips. “Down these. They’ll help. Doctor Rumi’s orders.”

This time Zoey obeyed without hesitation, swallowing the pills and nearly draining the electrolyte water in one go. Rumi’s mouth opened, a flirty remark perched at the edge of her tongue - something about how well Zoey followed orders - but before she could speak, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

Rumi clicked her tongue, muttering under her breath, and went to answer it. The delivery guy handed over a heavy bag, the smell of broth and spice hitting her immediately. She thanked him curtly, shut the door with her foot, and carried the bag to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, she returned, balancing two containers of soup, a plate with Kimchi pancakes and the pouch of bae juice, she ordered for each of them. She set everything in front of Zoey, together with a fork and spoon, then dropped into the chair opposite her with her own, digging into her own plate.

“Eat,” Rumi said, pointing her chopsticks in Zoey’s direction with mock severity. “It’ll help with your whole - ” she waved vaguely at her, “ - condition.”

Zoey blinked down at the soup and the plate like it was both salvation and sorcery, while Rumi calmly dug into hers.

The soup was good. Heavy, salty, hot enough to make the fog in Zoey's hungover head clear a little, at least from what Rumi could tell. For a few minutes, the only sound in the apartment was the clink of cutlery against the bowl and Zoey’s hesitant attempts at eating without spilling.

Then, out of nowhere, Zoey blurted, “You’re Ryumi.”

Rumi froze mid-bite, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. She blinked once, twice, then let out a sharp little laugh. “Really? Am I? Shit, thanks for telling me, I had no idea.”

Zoey’s face crumpled, the tiniest crack in her already fragile state, and Rumi immediately felt like an asshole. She coughed, clearing her throat, and set her plate down. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. But you can just call me Rumi.”

Zoey’s eyes flicked up to hers, baffled. “Why?”

Rumi leaned back in her chair, smirking just enough to cover the warmth in her chest. “Because, apparently, we’re friends now. Your words, not mine.”

Zoey frowned, confused. “I… what?”

“You don’t remember? Last night. You said every friend of Mira’s is also your friend. Which means, congratulations-” she gestured between them, “-you’re stuck with me.”

Zoey made a sound somewhere between a groan and a squeak and shoved her face into her hands. Her shoulders hunched, as if she could fold herself into the couch and disappear entirely.

Rumi picked her plate back up and resumed eating, perfectly calm as she recounted, “Mira called me. Begged me, can you belive it, to come get you. So I snuck out, found you - men’s bathroom, by the way, great choice - you puked on my boots, I tried to figure out where the hell you live, failed, listened to you gush about my car for ten straight minutes, then smuggled you past my building’s front desk.” 

She stabbed a piece of kimchi pancake on her plate, lifted it, and chewed before adding casually, “And finally, you stole my bed. Impressive resume for one night, I gotta say.”

By the time she finished, Zoey’s face was buried so deep in her hands she might as well have been trying to suffocate herself. “Someone please just shoot me,” she mumbled into her palms.

Rumi snorted, this girl really was kind of adorable. “Relax. It wasn’t that bad. Kind of amusing, honestly.”

There was a long pause. Then, in a small voice muffled by her hands, Zoey asked, “How… how did I end up in your bed?”

Rumi tilted her head, watching her with something softer than her smirk for once.

She set her bowl aside, propping her chin on one hand as she studied Zoey like she was an especially entertaining puzzle. “Wow. You really don’t remember, huh? Gotta say, I’m hurt.”

Zoey peeked through her fingers, horrified. “What did I - what did we - ”

The sheer panic on her face cracked something in Rumi. She chuckled, shaking her head. “Relax. Nothing happened. Even if I WOULD’VE tried anything, you were too busy being a disaster.”

Zoey slowly lowered her hands, eyes wide. “...Really?”

“Really. I dragged you into the bathroom, made you wash your face and brush your teeth. Gave you some clothes. You changed by yourself - don’t look at me like that, I’m not a creep.”

Relief washed over Zoey’s face like a tidal wave. She exhaled, shoulders sagging, and for a moment Rumi thought that might be the end of it.

Then she smirked. “Of course, you did manage to steal my bed anyway.”

Zoey blinked. “...What?”

“You heard me. You passed out in my room. Hugging my pillow. And - ” Rumi leaned forward, eyes glinting with amusement, “ - you called both my bed and me comfy. Based on the smell alone. I tell you, that's GOTTA be a super power.”

Zoey made a strangled noise and threw her head back against the couch in despair. “Oh my god, kill me.”

The muffled thunk of her skull hitting the couch was followed by an immediate wince as she lurched forward, one hand gripping her stomach.

“Hey, hey - easy.” Rumi was up in a flash, sitting down beside her. She pressed the water bottle into Zoey’s hands, her voice softer now. “Breathe. Sip, don’t chug. You’ll be fine.”

Zoey obeyed, carefully sipping the water, shaky but obedient, her wide eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. Rumi kept one hand braced lightly on her shoulder, the other on the back of her head, ready to catch her if she toppled. And for once, Rumi didn’t even try to joke her way through it.

Mira has no idea how much she owes me for that alone

After a long moment, the color started to creep back into Zoey’s face. She exhaled through her nose, shoulders slumping, and let the bottle rest in her lap.

“Better?” Rumi asked quietly.

Zoey gave the tiniest nod. Then, as though her body decided for her, she leaned sideways - right against Rumi’s arm.

Rumi froze. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to brush it off with some sharp remark. But the weight was warm, grounding, and so unbelievably trusting it simply... disarmed her. Zoey wasn’t even looking at her; her eyes were half-lidded, her mouth curved into the ghost of a tired smile.

Rumi sighed through her nose, tilting her head back against the couch. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, more to herself than anything.

Zoey’s only response was a soft hum, like she hadn’t heard or maybe didn’t care. She just settled a little closer, water bottle still balanced loosely in her hands, head now fully resting on Rumi's shoulder.

Against her better judgment, Rumi let her stay there. Because from the short time that she had known Zoey personally she had understood one thing very clearly: Zoey was special in the way she ripped down walls and overstepped boundaries that were normally firmly in place, not by deliberately ignoring them, but more in a way that just let you open the door yourself for her.

The silence lingered, oddly comfortable. Rumi nudged the bowl a little closer. “C’mon. At least finish the juice and the soup. Doctor’s orders.”

Zoey wrinkled her nose but obeyed, sipping the juice and spooning down a few more bites. Somewhere between one mouthful and the next, her spoon stalled. She just pushed it around in the bowl, brows furrowed like she was chasing thoughts she couldn’t quite pin down.

Rumi watched her for a while before she nudged Zoey with the arm sandwiched between herself and Zoey. “Eat. Don’t make me get bossy.”

Instead of moving, Zoey whispered, “Thank you.”

Rumi blinked. “For what?”

“For… all of this. For not just leaving me on the bathroom floor. For… for being nice.” She swallowed, eyes fixed on her bowl. “It’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

For once, sarcasm didn’t come easily. Rumi studied her for a beat, then said low and steady, “It was a no brainer, really.”

The weight of it hung between them - too sincere, too raw - so she quickly added, “Besides, saving pretty girls is kind of a hobby of mine. I couldn’t just let your drunk self out on the street unsupervised. You’re a menace when you’re drunk.”

Zoey groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Ugh, please stop reminding me.”

When she almost slipped backward again, Rumi instinctively slid a hand to the back of her head, steadying her. Her tone softened. “Careful. Don’t knock your pretty head on my couch again.”

That earned her a fierce blush and a muttered, “You’re impossible,” before Zoey obediently started eating her soup again, her head still pillowed comfortably on Rumi's shoulder.

And Rumi, suddenly very aware of the warmth pressed against her side, shifted her focus to anything else - the clutter on her table, the late morning light, the ashtray near the balcony door. Her fingers found a familiar box of cigarettes in her pocket. She plucked one out and gestured vaguely toward the door.

“Alright, you sit tight. I’m just going out for a quick smoke.”

Zoey nodded, tucking herself further into the couch cushions like she was claiming the spot as hers, as her previous pillow got up. Rumi smirked faintly and stepped onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind her.

The lighter clicked, flame flaring against the morning as Rumi cupped her hand to shield it from the breeze. The first drag burned its way down her throat, sharp and grounding. She leaned against the railing, eyes on the sprawling city lights below, but her mind was nowhere near the streets of Seoul.

What the hell was she doing?

She exhaled, watching the smoke curl and vanish into the air. Zoey. Just some random woman who’d stumbled into Mira’s orbit - and by extension apparently, hers. And yet… in less than twenty-four hours she’d gone from puking on bathroom tiles to curled up on Rumi’s couch, thanking her like she’d just saved her life.

Rumi scoffed softly, flicking ash over the railing. She wasn’t the type for this kind of caretaking. Never had been. Sure she had drunk people stay over, and been nice enough to give them a bottle of water and the good advice to not drink as much the next time, but this was different. She didn't know Zoey, which was normal. She didn't sleep with Zoey, which was less normal. She ordered a whole breakfast, made sure she got electrolytes in her and even let her rest on her shoulder, which was honestly pretty abnormal. And the weirdest thing for her? She hadn't even been drunk or high herself.

But Zoey made it feel… inevitable. Normal. She thought of Mira - always composed, always calculating - and how quickly she’d taken to this woman too. Mira didn’t let people in. Not easily. Yet she’d sounded rattled on the phone last night, panicked even. That alone was enough to make Rumi pay attention.

She dragged again, jaw tight. It did unsettle her somewhat, how quickly Zoey was weaving herself into their world. Maybe it unsettled her more how little she cared.
Disarming, unpolished, reckless - but something about her was warm in a way Rumi hadn’t felt in a long time. And that warmth was dangerous.

She ground the cigarette out in the ashtray, staring down at the glowing ember until it died. Then she braced both hands on the railing, muttering under her breath, “What the fuck are you doing, Rumi?”

Inside, through the glass, she caught a glimpse of Zoey curled up on the couch, blanket half-kicked off, her head lolling as if she might drift asleep right there. So trusting. So careless. After all, Rumi knew that Zoey was safe with her. But Zoey had no real way of knowing. She could've been one of those weird rich people that kills people and uses their money to cover up for themselves.

Rumi’s chest tightened. She turned away from the glass, lighting another cigarette, as though she could burn the thought out before it rooted any deeper.

Her thoughts circling back - inevitably - to Mira. She should probably let her know things hadn’t gone completely to shit. With a sigh, she pulled out her phone, angled it back through the glass door, and snapped a quick shot of Zoey curled up on the couch, eyes closed, mouth slightly open.

Rumi:
shs alve fed her soup gave her electrolyts

The phone buzzed in her hand before she’d even pocketed it. 

Ice Queen

Of course.

Rumi answered, pressing the phone between her shoulder and ear while flicking ash into the tray. “Well, well. If it isn’t Seoul’s most dedicated workaholic calling me this fine morning. Miss me already?”

Mira’s voice came through, dry as sandpaper. “Don’t flatter yourself. I had to make sure she wasn’t actually dead - because in that picture, she looks like it.

"What, do I give serial killer vibes to you?"

"Who knows, maybe you have been a one all those years, and just liked me too much to kill me too."

Rumi laughed, smoke catching in her throat. “Relax. She’s fine. Looks like hell, sure, but she kept the soup down. That’s a win in my book.”

There was a pause, then Mira asked, quieter, “And you? How are you holding up?”

Rumi glanced back through the glass at Zoey, curled against the pillows like she belonged there. Something tugged in her chest. She turned back to the city, voice casual. “I’m still standing. Don’t worry, I didn’t let her puke on anything important.”

Mira made a noise that might have been amusement - or disbelief. They traded a few more clipped jabs about how it wouldn’t be the first time someone did that, until Mira finally muttered, “I have to run. Keep me posted.”

“Yes, my queen! I am at your everlasting service, my queen” Rumi drawled, giving a two finger salute to no one, before hanging up.

She slid the phone into her sweatpants pocket, dragging deep on her cigarette and blowing the smoke out hard.

That’s when she heard it: a hesitant voice from behind her. “Uh… sorry, but… could I maybe use your shower?”

Rumi turned. Zoey was standing in the doorway, rumpled and sheepish, clutching the hem of the borrowed shirt like it was a lifeline. For a moment, Rumi just stared, cigarette forgotten between her fingers, before her brow arched.

Rumi tilted her head, taking one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. “My shower, huh? You planning on drowning yourself in there, or just washing off the shame?”

Zoey groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “I just… feel gross. And, y’know… toothpaste only goes so far.”

Rumi’s lips quirked, fighting a smirk. “Fair enough. I’d say you’re already a lost cause, but sure. Shower’s yours.”

Zoey visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping with relief. “Thanks. You’re… really nice, y’know that?”

That made Rumi blink. Nice. Nobody had called her that in a long time. Not without irony dripping off the word. And this had been the second time today alone that Zoey had said it to her. She covered the strange twist in her chest with a scoff. “Don’t spread lies about me. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Zoey smiled faintly, half asleep on her feet, and padded back toward the living room. Rumi followed at a distance, gesturing toward the ensuite. “Towels are in the cabinet. Don’t flood my floor or I’ll throw you back out on the street. I’ll set out some clothes for you on the bed. Take your time, I don’t have a limit on hot water and water bills don’t concern me.”

Zoey shot her a weak thumbs-up before disappearing inside, the sound of running water filling the silence a moment later.

Rumi stood there for a beat longer than she meant to, staring at the closed door, before shaking herself and setting out to fulfill her task of clothes procurement. As she opened the closet door she hesitated. What would she give Zoey? Shirt and pants? Underwear? No, that would probably be weird. She settled on a band tee, her nose wrinkling as she realized that it was one of her own. How the hell had that ended up in her closet?

Whatever, it would be perfect for Zoey. She set it out on the bed, together with a comfy pair of sweatpants and the same hoodie from yesterday, as Zoey has simply looked too cute in it to not see her again. She blinked. Where had that thought come from?

Happy with her selection she threw one last glance at the bathroom door, the water still running, before walking out and sinking back onto the couch. She scrubbed a hand over her face, the same thought she had thought a surprising amount of times the last 24 hours:

What the hell am I even doing?

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her, muffling the low hum of Seoul outside and the faint sounds of Rumi moving around the apartment. Zoey leaned against the sink for a second, staring at her reflection. Hair everywhere. Eyes puffy. She looked like a raccoon who’d lost a fight with a dumpster.

“Perfect,” she muttered, fumbling with the shower knobs until water thundered against porcelain. The steam started to rise, curling up around her face  -  but instead of stepping in, she sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

That’s when it all hit her.

She was in Ryumi’s apartment. Ryumi’s actual apartment.

Not a hotel, not some drunken hallucination  -  a real place, with her clothes on the floor, her pillow in Zoey’s arms, and her cigarettes still in the ashtray outside. And Ryumi -  Rumi she reminded herself - had been… nice. Almost gentle. Teasing, sure, but in a way that didn’t sting.

Zoey buried her face in her hands.
Holy hell, she’d puked in front of her. More than once. And Rumi hadn’t ditched her, hadn’t rolled her eyes and left her on the sidewalk, hadn’t told her to get lost. She’d held her hair back. Gotten her water. Ordered food. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Clothes.

“Why,” Zoey whispered into her palms, “is the universe like this?”

Her memory scrambled to make sense of the night. Fragments came back  -  the bathroom stall, a low voice telling her to stay put, laughing at the car, her own mouth running at warp speed about Supernatural. And Mira. God. She’d actually told Mira that her friend was pretty. As pretty as Mira. And as if that wasn’t enough she had told her she was so pretty.

Zoey groaned, letting her head flop backward for a second, her eyes finding the ceiling.
She was living the world’s weirdest fanfiction, and somehow she was the embarrassing side character instead of the cool lead.

The water pounded steadily behind her, a reminder that she was supposed to be, you know, showering, not spiraling. But her brain refused to stop chewing on the bizarre fact that Ryumi - RUMI - had not only rescued her, but had sat across from her this morning with soup and juice and the patience of a saint. How she had held her when she puked her guts out and how she had let her lay her head on her shoulder.

Down-to-earth. That was the thing. She wasn’t some untouchable star in those moments. She was a real person, with sarcasm sharp enough to slice through Zoey’s hangover fog, and a kind of quiet steadiness that made Zoey feel… safe. How she had sarcastically said that they were indeed friends now and that Zoey was stuck with her. ZOEY, stuck with HER instead of the other way around.

And that? That was dangerous.

Zoey sat up, pressing her palms to her face. “Okay. Okay, shower first. Existential crisis later.”

She peeled herself off the edge of the tub and finally stepped under the spray.

The water was hot  -  almost scalding  -  and Zoey hissed when it first hit her shoulders, but then groaned as it worked its way down her back. Grossness, gone. Headache, slightly less stabby. Soul, still in crisis, but hey, baby steps.

She squirted some of Ryu- Rumi’s shampoo into her palm, sniffed it, and immediately made a face.
“Of course it smells expensive. Like… sandalwood and competence,” she muttered, scrubbing it into her hair. “Meanwhile, mine at home smells like artificial strawberries and poor life choices.”

Foam dripped into her eyes, and she cursed, blindly fumbling for the spray to rinse herself.
“Great. Blind in Ryumi’s shower. This is definitely how I die. Headline: Foreign IT gremlin found drowned in bathtub of international superstar. Totally dignified.”

She laughed at her own joke, the sound bouncing oddly off the tiled walls, but as the minutes passed, the laughter softened. The heat seeped into her skin, relaxing her muscles, and with it, some of the frantic panic she’d been carrying since she woke up.

And then, without warning, the quiet hit.

Her hands stilled in her hair. The water roared, steady and constant, but the only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat.
Nobody had ever… done that much for her before. Not like this. Sure, she had coworkers, and Stacy, and her parents who called every once in a while. But to be cared for, in the small ways -  water pressed into her hands, soup slid onto the table, someone crouched down next to her to make sure she wasn’t choking on her own mess -

Her throat tightened.

“Don’t cry in her shower, Zoey,” she whispered to herself. “Rule number one: do not cry in Ryumi’s very fancy shower.”

But the sting was still there behind her eyes, because maybe the kindness stung more than the hangover. She’d spent so much time pretending she didn’t need anyone, laughing things off, rambling until people forgot to look too closely. And here was... Rumi, cutting straight through it without even trying.

Zoey tilted her head back, letting the water rush over her face like it could wash the thoughts away with the sweat and last night’s mistakes.

When she finally reached for the soap, her hands were steadier. Not steady-steady, but steadier.

“Reset button,” she muttered. “Shower equals reset button. Later, I can spiral. For now, just… shampoo. Current objective: Survive.”

Before long Zoey had pushed down her spiral (mentally and physically patting herself on the back for it) and was out of the bathroom, towel still looped awkwardly around her shoulders, her damp hair sticking in every possible wrong direction. The clothes her, apparently, new friend had set out were folded neatly on the bed: a soft shirt, a comfy pair of sweatpants, and the hoodie she’d drunkenly clung to like a lifeline.

She pulled on the pants, then tugged the shirt over her head. It smelled like clean laundry, sharp and fresh. The hoodie, though… that was different. There was laundry detergent too, but beneath it lingered something warmer. Cigarettes. A faint hint of perfume. Something else indefinably Rumi.

Zoey’s hands froze halfway through pulling it on.
“Nope. Nope nope nope,” she whispered to herself. “Stop being creepy. Normal human guest behavior only.”
The hoodie settled against her skin like armor and betrayal all at once. And then she buried her nose in the fabric anyway, inhaling deep before frowning at herself. “...Okay, maybe I’m a little screwed,” she admitted to herself.

She took one deep breath. Then another, forming a plan: walk out, say thank you, goodbye, and leave. Clean exit. No more humiliating herself.

Zoey pushed open the door, words already forming - only to freeze as soon as she saw her.

Rumi was standing by the balcony doors, sunlight cutting across her purple hair. In the outside morning light, her usual sharpness was softened, her expression open, genuine. And then her eyes found Zoey's and her lips curved into a smile - not mocking, not cruel, just a little laced with her usual dry sarcasm.

“Well, look at that,” Rumi said. “You actually look alive now.”

The words Zoey had been rehearsing died in her throat. Heat crawled up her neck, into her cheeks, and suddenly she was rooted to the spot in the doorway, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands, staring like an idiot.

Zoey froze in the doorway, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists.

Oh no.
Oh no.

She’d been prepared for Rumi to roll her eyes, maybe bark something sharp like “Finally, you’re done” or “Don’t touch my stuff.” That, she could’ve handled. That was safe.

But instead - that smile.

It wasn’t the dazzling stage smile from posters or livestreams. It wasn’t sharp or bitter or performative. It was real. Uncomplicated. A little crooked, like Rumi hadn’t meant for it to slip out at all.

Zoey realized that this was not Ryumi at all. The woman on the other side of the room was all Rumi. And now Zoey’s brain was officially out of order.

Her carefully prepped exit strategy - walk out, thank her, leave - had evaporated the second their eyes met. All she could do was stand there in the doorway like she’d forgotten how to be a functioning adult, while her face burned hotter with every passing second.

Don’t stare. Stop staring. You’re staring.
Great. She was staring. Definitely creepy. Absolutely failing the “normal human guest behavior” she’d promised herself not two minutes ago.

That had failed the moment you sniffed her hoodie.

Zoey tugged the sleeves of said hoodie down further, until her hands disappeared. Maybe if she sank low enough into the fabric, she could melt into the floor and bypass the whole “having to speak words to Rumi” thing altogether.

Her heart wouldn’t slow down, either - it kept hammering like she’d just sprinted a mile instead of… showered, put on borrowed clothes, and walked six feet.

And the worst part? Somewhere in the back of her mind, the thought repeated like a drumbeat she didn’t dare acknowledge:

It seems her drunk self had been correct about one thing: Rumi is much prettier than Ryumi.

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

From her spot on the balcony, cigarette burning low between her fingers, Rumi watched Zoey freeze in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights.

Well, this is awkward.

She hadn’t meant to smile like that. It had just… happened. Some unguarded reflex because the girl actually looked halfway decently alive now instead of like death warmed over. And now Zoey was just standing there, red as a stoplight, drowning in her hoodie like she thought it was a life raft.

Rumi dragged slow on her cigarette, squinting through the smoke. 

She’d dealt with fangirls before. Plenty of them. Crying, squealing, throwing themselves at her in her DMs - or worse, her feet. Usually, she could shut it down with one look. A well-placed glare and people backed right off.

But Zoey wasn’t backing off. She wasn’t even moving. Just staring at her like Rumi had invented oxygen.

And the stupid thing was - Rumi didn’t hate it.

Her jaw tightened. She’s just hungover. She’s out of it. Anyone who drags your sorry ass out of a men’s bathroom stall and shoves soup in front of you is gonna look like a saint. That’s all this is.

Still, something about the way Zoey was clutching at her hoodie, like it was the most precious thing she’d ever been handed, hit her in a place she really didn’t want to acknowledge.

Rumi shook her head, flicking ash into the tray. She needed to say something, break the weird tension fog hanging between them. Except the first words on her tongue were dangerously close to something sincere, and sincerity really wasn’t her strong suit.

Her eyes flicked back to Zoey - pink cheeks, wide eyes, looking at her like she was something more than a tabloid disaster.

Goddammit, Rumi thought, taking another drag. Why does she have to look at me like that?

The silence stretched until it was practically screaming, Zoey shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. Then, in one burst of nervous energy, she blurted, “I wanna make it up to you.”

Rumi cocked an eyebrow, smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh?”

The color in Zoey’s cheeks deepened to a pretty shade of crimson. “N-not like that!” she stammered, waving her hands like she was swatting invisible flies. “I mean - I wasn’t implying - oh god - ”

Rumi held her palms up in mock innocence, grin widening. “Didn’t say a word.”

Zoey groaned into her hands, muffled by the fabric of the sleeves and mortified. When she finally peeked out, she rushed the words like ripping off a band-aid. “I meant I would, like… invite you out. Food, or coffee, or something. Not alcohol,” she added quickly, brows knitting together. “Pretty sure I’m done drinking for the next decade.”

Something in Rumi’s smirk softened without her even trying. The girl was ridiculous - but also earnest in a way that cut right through her defenses. “I’d love that,” she said, surprising even herself with how easily the words came out.

Zoey blinked, then grinned so wide it almost hurt to look at. “Great! That’s - uh - great.” A pause, then her forehead wrinkled again. “Except… I have no idea where to go. So maybe you should pick?”

Rumi let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Deal, I’ll pick.”

Zoey fidgeted with the hem of Rumi’s hoodie, tugging it down as if it could hide the blush still burning across her cheeks. “I should probably… y’know… leave now.”

Something twisted sharp in Rumi’s chest at that. She told herself it was just the thought of being left alone again, nothing more. Just the silence of the penthouse creeping back in the second Zoey walked out the door.

That was all.

She took another drag from her cigarette, exhaling slow through her nose like the smoke could smother the feeling. Her brain desperately trying to come up with reasons why Zoey couldn't leave yet, except for I think I might miss you

“Yeah,” she said instead, keeping her tone even. “Probably.”

Zoey hovered by the door like she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. In the end, she defaulted to fiddling with the sleeves of the borrowed hoodie. “Thanks again. For… everything. Really. I’ll bring your clothes back soon.”

Rumi waved her off with a flick of her fingers. “Don’t hurry. I’ve got plenty.” Her voice dipped just a fraction lower, playful in that way that always toed the line. “Besides… they suit you.”

Zoey froze, cheeks turning the color of ripe strawberries. She made a valiant attempt at ignoring the line, but her blush gave her away entirely.

Rumi smirked to herself, pushing off the doorframe. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

They crossed the penthouse in silence, the air thick in ways neither wanted to name. At the elevator, Rumi suddenly held out her hand. “Phone.”

Zoey blinked. “Huh?”

“Your phone,” Rumi repeated, wiggling her fingers impatiently.

Zoey fumbled it out of her pocket and handed it over, still confused.

“If we’re actually going out,” Rumi said dryly as she tapped across the screen, “I should probably have your number.”

Zoey’s eyes lit with recognition, her grin bubbling out. “Right! Duh. Good point. Very responsible.”

Rumi ignored the commentary, pulling her own phone from her sweatpants pocket. She pressed a button, and her phone buzzed in her hand. “And now I have yours.”

The elevator chimed, doors sliding open with a soft ding. Neither of them moved at first, both staring at the glowing numbers like maybe if they willed it hard enough, the thing would just close again and leave them.

Rumi broke the spell, clearing her throat. “Already called you a car. It’ll be waiting and take you wherever you live.”

Zoey nodded, stepping inside slowly. Rumi held the door with one hand, her other shoved into her pocket.

“Well…” Zoey started, trailing off.

“Yeah,” Rumi echoed.

And then, before Rumi could even process it, Zoey launched forward and threw her arms around her. The hug was warm and clumsy and over far too quickly, Zoey stepping back into the elevator before Rumi could think of a response.

The doors slid shut with a quiet hiss, leaving Rumi standing alone in the hallway, arms still faintly tingling where Zoey had held her.

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

The elevator hummed around her, numbers ticking down one by one. Zoey pressed herself into the corner, heart thudding against her ribs.

Holy shit. She’d just hugged Rumi.. Hugged her. Like she was some friend she was saying goodbye to after lunch instead of one of the most infamous artists in Korea.

Her gaze dropped to her hand, and only then did she realize she was still holding her phone. Her stomach dropped. Not just her phone. Rumi’s number. She had Ryumi’s actual, private number.

Zoey stared at the screen like it was a holy relic. Which, depending on who you asked, it probably was.

The elevator dinged and she jumped, clutching the phone to her chest as the doors slid open to the lobby. She forced her legs to move, somehow managing to cross the foyer without face-planting. Outside, the midday air hit her, surprisingly cool and grounding. The waiting car stood at the curb, hazard lights blinking.

She climbed in, muttered her address to the driver, then melted into the backseat. The ride blurred by, her thoughts ping-ponging between panic and awe, every half-suppressed spiral pulling her tighter into a knot of disbelief.

By the time the car pulled up to her building, her temporary housing suddenly looked… small. Dull. The opposite of everything she’d just come from. She let out a long sigh, dragging herself upstairs.

One text to her handler: Not feeling great. I’ll be back tomorrow.

The reply came fast: All good. Everyone crashes after their first hoesik. Rest up. 

Zoey tossed her phone aside, dimmed the lights until the room was little more than shadow, and pulled up a random YouTube video for noise. She crawled into bed, curled around her water bottle like it was a stuffed animal, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Her head was still pounding, but more lowkey and in a way that was manageable with a little sleep and water. Food later. But for now, sleep and water.

Just as her eyelids started to dip, a thought hit her like a jolt of static: she should probably let Rumi know she’d made it home. You know, in case Rumi thought she’d faceplanted into a ditch somewhere between the car and her bed.

Groaning, Zoey rolled onto her back, fishing her phone out from under the blanket. She opened Rumi’s contact - the pristine, empty message thread staring back at her like some shiny glass wall she wasn’t sure how to tap on.

She typed something out. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. Every attempt sounded either too formal (“Thank you very much for your hospitality”), too awkward (“lol still alive thx”), or way too flirty (“back in bed, even if it's not as comfy as yo-” …okay, absolutely not).

Her brain short-circuited trying to find the perfect words, so instead she gave up. Camera app open, she snapped a quick selfie: half-buried in her pillows, Rumi’s hoodie still on and bunched from the way she was laying. The hem had ridden up just enough to reveal the soft fabric of Rumi’s shirt beneath. Her hair was messy, eyes heavy with sleep, but the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

Without overthinking it - because if she did, she’d never send it - she dropped the picture into a message thread to Rumi with a quick text:

Zoey:
Home. Safe. Comfy. ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

And because she was, apparently, determined to ruin her own life, she added Mira to the recipient too.

She didn’t even let herself check if it looked okay before locking the screen, shoving the phone under her pillow, and curling back into the warmth.

Sleep pulled at her almost immediately, heavy and kind. The last thought she had before drifting off was that maybe, just maybe, wearing someone else’s hoodie had never felt so much like home.

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

The balcony smoke had gone cold in her fingers when her phone buzzed. She plucked it from her pocket, thumb swiping lazily - only to freeze.

A picture.

Zoey, in bed, hoodie drowning her small frame, her face half-hidden by messy bangs. And under it, a short, almost timid line of text:

From: Disaster Drunk
Home safe comfy ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

For a second, Rumi just stared, caught off guard by the weight that dropped out of her chest. Zoey had made it home. She had gotten into bed without changing out of her clothes, still buried in the hoodie. Her hoodie.

Her lips twitched. Then, without even realizing it, she let out a soft laugh. God, she looked ridiculous in that hoodie - and somehow better in it than Rumi ever had. She added the picture as Zoey's contact picture before she typed a response back quickly before she could think too much.

Rumi:
gud. now gt some zzz bfr i put you on ACUTAL house arest

She hovered over the screen, thumb tapping, deleting, retyping. She wanted to say more - something about how the hoodie suited her, or how she’d handled herself better than she thought - but she shoved the thought away. Too much.

She flicked her cigarette into the ashtray, muttering to herself as she locked the screen.
“Comfy, huh? I imagine you are.”

-------------------------------------------------------------M--------------------------------------------------------------

Mira was halfway through lunch with her family, taking a much needed reprieve from their whole… existence outside the restaurant when her phone buzzed. She expected another pointless email, but when she glanced at the screen, her breath caught.

A photo.

Zoey.

Blankets tucked up to her chin, messy hair spilling across the pillow, cheeks pink from exhaustion. The caption underneath was short, almost sheepish:

From: Gremlin 🐢
Home. Safe. Comfy. ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

Mira’s eyes narrowed - at first at the sheer audacity of sending her a selfie in bed. But then… her gaze snagged on the clothes. The oversized hoodie was unmistakably Rumi’s. Mira would know that shade of black and frayed cuff anywhere. She had worn it herself more times than she could count.

But what made her stomach give a strange little lurch was the fact that, underneath the hoodie, was her shirt. One of hers. An older black tee with one of Rumi’s earlier album cover concepts, that sadly never saw the light of day, on it that had clearly migrated into Rumi’s closet months ago and never returned. It had been an exclusive gift from Sunlight Entertainment to all involved in the process when it hit gold. She knew for a fact the print never went public and only the ones that worked on the album even got one. So yes she was very sure that it was hers, as she knew Rumi had cut hers up and turned it into some kind of performance art.

She hadn’t ever really thought twice about the damn shirt. Until now. Until she saw it on Zoey, peeking out from under Rumi’s hoodie.

Her jaw tightened.
Rumi probably had just thrown it at her without looking. Nothing new. Nothing worth noticing.

Except Mira noticed.

She let herself fall back against the brick wall behind her, phone heavy in her hand, and stared at the picture longer than she should’ve. Zoey looked… peaceful. Ridiculous, yes - drowning in their clothes, grinning faintly even half-asleep - but peaceful.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard before she finally typed, keeping it short, deflecting the twist in her chest with practiced ease.

Mira:
Don’t make this a habit, Gremlin. Get some rest.

Still, she didn’t put the phone down right away. The image burned on her screen, soft edges she couldn’t quite shake.

“Great,” Mira muttered under her breath, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “Just great.”

Chapter Text

It has been a few days since Zoey's, frankly, most embarassing (and somehow one of the best?) day ever. A few days later, and she was still reeling.

If you’d told her two months, heck even a week, ago that she’d end up in Seoul, meet one of the most intimidatingly beautiful women she had ever seen while raiding a 7/11, and then  -  then  -  not only meet but exchange numbers with one of Korea’s most infamous artists… she’d have laughed. Hard. Probably choked on air, or whatever caffeinated beverage she was trying to keep herself alive with at the moment.

And yet: here she was.

Standing on the sidewalk of a very upscale part of town, her sneakers planted firmly among polished leather shoes and designer heels, rocking from her toes to her heels while humming some random tune. Everyone around her looked like they’d stepped out of glossy magazines: suits tailored within an inch of their lives, dresses sharp enough to cut. She glanced down at her own outfit - old shirt, flannel tied around her waist and some comfy, wide pants. Cute? Yes, some people would probably say it was. Appropriate? She wasn’t so sure.

Her stomach fluttered nervously as she checked her phone again. No new messages from Ryumi. Rumi, she corrected herself firmly. She’d been told to call her that, but her brain still stuttered sometimes.

No new message.

Zoey sighed and, against her better judgment, scrolled up through their recent thread:

Zoey:
So I think my coworkers want to KILL me 😭 they told me about something called a soju bomb?? 💀🍺

From: Detective P.
thts just soju + beer. amat hr

Zoey:
Amateur?? excuse U!! I nearly DIED once already from normal soju… this would make me actually Pass Away. Rip me ✌️✨

From: Detective P.
dnt wry ill pik u up agn ;)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zoey:
Why do CATS always ignore me until I absolutely NEED to leave?? 🐱👉🚪 rude rude RUDE

From: Detective P.
bc they gt tste

Zoey:
RUDE. 😤

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zoey:
Important QUESTION: do you think TURTLES 🐢 could survive in SPACE?? 🌌🚀

From: Detective P.
???

Zoey:
Don’t JUDGE me okay 👀 I just saw a video!!

From: Detective P.
…rgrt gvn u my nmbr

Zoey:
You don’t mean THAT ❤️🥺

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zoey winced, pressing the phone to her chest. Okay, maybe, despite her very best effort, she did ramble sometimes. But her new friend had replied every time, even if most of her texts were short, sarcastic, and filled with typos. Her way of texting was very much akin to how Zoey used to text, back then when SMS were still a thing. Normally she siltently judged people that couldn't seem to turn on their autocorrect, but not Rumi. For Rumi it was strangely on brand, and one might even say endearing, to the point that Zoey couldn't help but smile everytime. And the fact that she replied at all was enough to make Zoey’s stomach flip.

Now, though? Silence. From both Rumi and Mira. Mira hadn't really texted her again ever since that night. Some smalltalk, but nothing major. Rumi hadn't texted her ever since she told her the time and date for today.

Zoey swallowed, adjusting her jacket, tugging at the hem of her shirt. “You’re fine,” she whispered to herself, as she scrolled further down to their last exchange, cheeks warming despite herself, “Totally fine. Not about to combust or anything.”

From: Detective P.
fri. 7. dnt b l8

Zoey:
Okay but… WHERE? 👀👀👀

From: Detective P.
[location attached]

Zoey:
…isnt this is in the BUSINESS district?? 😳💼

From: Detective P.
ur powers of trly obsrvtn astound me

Zoey:
I just didn’t peg you as a… “BUSINESS towers and FANCY suits 👔” kinda girl 😏✨

From: Detective P.
shws wut u kno. b rdy.

And now here she was, standing like a lost duck in front of a building made entirely of glass and steel, surrounded by people who looked like they filed million-dollar contracts before breakfast. Zoey shoved her phone back into her pocket, glancing up at the mirrored façades.

Why here?

Maybe Rumi had a secret corporate empire. Or a double life as a CEO. Or - Zoey bit her lip to stop the laugh bubbling up - maybe she was Batman. She could almost see it: cape, mask, still making sarcastic remarks while punching bad guys.

She tapped her phone awake again, the clock showing her it was already 7:14pm. Zoey huffed, "Unbelievable, she tells me to be here at 7 and then SHE is the one that's late." Her gaze slid over the plaza again, still no sign from Rumi. 

What if she saw me and decided to abandon me, because I look like a hungover skaterboy right now? 

Zoey swallowed, oh no. Nononono, now was not the time for this. She was so deep in her spiraling that she didn’t notice the sliding doors behind her opening.

Didn’t notice the footsteps.

Until her newest downward spiral was interupted by two hands settling firmly over her eyes.

“Guess who it is.”

Zoey froze for a fraction of a second. But then the smell hit her - leather, cigarette smoke, and that faint perfume she couldn’t quite place but already knew was her.

She grinned, deciding to play along. “Uh… Beyoncé? No wait - obviously Jungkook. Or maybe - oh! Park Jinyoung. Nailed it.”

The hands vanished instantly, replaced by a scoff. “Wow. Knife to the heart. Remind me never to surprise you again.”

Zoey spun around, already laughing - only to stop short at the sight of her.

Rumi. Standing there in all her glory, purple hair catching the glow of the city lights, black leather jacket slung carelessly over her shoulder like she owned the sidewalk and cigarette behind her ear.

Before Zoey could even think, her body decided for her.

She launched forward, wrapping her arms around Rumi.

The hug lingered - longer than either of them had probably meant it to. Long enough that Zoey’s heartbeat started pounding in her ears and her brain finally caught up with what her body was doing. You’re hugging Ryumi in front of a glass tower full of businesspeople. Casual. Totally normal.

She pulled back in a hurry, almost tripping over her own shoes. “Uh - sorry. Probably not great for your, y’know… public image if people see you getting mauled on the street.”

Rumi smirked, unfazed. “Please. Let them talk. You couldn't damage my reputation anyway. You might even polish it by just existing in my vicinty.” Her voice dipped mock-serious. “Besides, I didn’t see anyone mauling. More like… clinging.”

Zoey’s face went hot. “Wow, harsh.”

They stood there for a moment, facing each other on the sidewalk. For once, Zoey wasn’t rambling; she was too busy staring. Rumi in daylight, in real life, was… a lot. Black crop top, fitted black jeans, that leather jacket studded with chains that caught the light just so. Little patch with “Rrrrrrumi” in front of “RUMI” in big, bold red letters on it.

Surprisingly polished. Squinting one eye, one could even describe it as sleek - though the sharpness in her eyes, the accessories and the cigarette tang in the leather made it clear this was still her, through and through.

Zoey blurted, “You look… too clean. Like, suspiciously clean. Who are you and what did you do with Rumi?”

Rumi scoffed and rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curved. “I can clean up when I want to. I just usually don’t want to.” A beat, then softer: “Had to at least look somewhat halfway presentable for the meeting.”

Zoey perked up. “Meeting? What - ”

“Doesn't matter.” Rumi cut her off smoothly, already shifting the topic. She jerked her chin toward the sleek black car idling at the curb. “Anyway, I’m done here. So - we’re heading to my penthouse.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait, your penthouse?”

Rumi was already walking toward the car, leather and chains catching the light. “Unless you’d rather hang around here and play fashion police.”

Zoey sank into the leather seat of the car, trying very, very hard not to look like she was internally combusting. It’s just a penthouse. Totally normal. Everyone hangs out in their favorite singer’s penthouse sometimes. Yep. Fine.

The car purred forward, and for the first few minutes, silence wrapped around them. Rumi had her elbow propped on the door, chin resting in her palm, eyes on the blur of Seoul racing past the tinted windows. She looked miles away, like the city wasn’t even there.

Zoey fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, chewing her lip. Normally she would fill silence with nervous babble, but something about Rumi’s expression kept her still. She looks… locked in her head.

Her pulse slowed, the earlier panic tapering into a different sort of nervousness. She hated that look  -  too familiar, too heavy. So she did the only thing she knew how to do. She cleared her throat and blurted:

“Did you know sea turtles can hold their breath for up to seven hours?”

Rumi’s head turned slowly, one eyebrow climbing high.

Zoey plunged ahead, cheeks burning. “Y-Yeah. Like, they slow their heart rate down to one beat every nine minutes. That way they can just… nap underwater. Isn’t that kinda metal? Just - like - floating in the void for hours at a time.”

A pause. Then, the corner of Rumi’s mouth twitched. “That’s… the weirdest icebreaker I’ve ever heard.”

Zoey grinned sheepishly. “I’m full of them. Did you know otters hold hands when they sleep so they don’t float away? They call it a ‘raft.’”

This time, Rumi actually laughed. It was low and sudden, surprising even her. She shook her head, strands of purple hair falling loose around her face. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, don’t laugh at me! These are fascinating aquatic animal facts,” Zoey protested, puffing up just enough to make Rumi laugh again, the sound cutting through the car like sunlight.

And just like that, the heaviness in Rumi’s eyes eased, replaced by that sharp, teasing spark Zoey was starting to think she might be addicted to.

The rest of the ride was filled with Zoey’s "fascinating aquatic animal facts.” Fascinating for her, at least. 

Rumi didn’t exactly look riveted, but Zoey did catch the way the stiffness in her shoulders eased, the hardness in her eyes softening into something far more alive. Good. She liked this Rumi better - the one who smirked and rolled her eyes and laughed, not the one staring a hole into the city.

They pulled up to the building, sleek glass stretching high into the night sky. Zoey tilted her head back, trying not to gape. “So… how do we…?” She gestured vaguely at the intimidating entrance.

Rumi blinked, then pointed at the obvious. “It's a door. You… walk through it. This one even opens automatically.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” Zoey rolled her eyes, but her cheeks heated. “I just thought - y’know - last time I had to sneak in, so I assumed this place was, like, Fort Knox. Residents only.”

Understanding flickered in Rumi’s expression. “Yeah, well, turns out I’ve been behaving well enough to be allowed to have guests again. Shocking, right?” Her mouth twisted into a wry grin as she strolled forward, boots clicking against polished stone.

Zoey hurried to keep up, trying not to look like she was gawking at marble floors and modern chandeliers. At the front desk, Rumi offered the clerk a casual nod, as if she walked through here every day (she probably did, she lived here, Zoey reminded herself). Zoey, meanwhile, tried to make herself invisible, stuffing her hands in her pockets.

The elevator chimed open, and Rumi stepped inside, punching in a short code. Zoey blinked at the keypad, thinking that Of course you need a code for the penthouse

Rumi didn’t say anything, just leaned against the mirrored wall with her arms crossed, watching the floor numbers climb. Zoey hugged her bag a little tighter. The silence pressed in, thick and awkward, but not uncomfortable - at least not for Rumi who seemed be pretty unbothered. For Zoey, it was another story.

Finally, the doors slid open, revealing a hallway too pristine to be real. It was short, with only one door leading into the Penthouse. Rumi strode forward like it was nothing special, like this place wasn’t the very definition of luxury, while Zoey still felt like her 10$ second hand sneakers we sullying the building by just existing in the general vicinity.

Zoey lingered a beat at the door, staring at the heavy, sleek panel that led into Rumi’s world. Okay, it’s fine. Just a normal friend hangout. Totally normal. Nothing to panic about. You’ve got this.

She sucked in a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside.

The first thing that hit Zoey was the size. She remembered, vaguely, how it looked the night she stumbled through here drunk - impressions of soft couches, expensive décor mixed with edgy.

Far too much space for one person, she remembers thinking that night, and she had to agree with her drunk self.

But still, seeing it now with clear eyes was something else entirely.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the living room, the Seoul skyline glittering like a sea of stars just beyond the glass. The furniture was modern, stylish, expensive in that understated way that screamed money. Every nook seemed expensive, every angle designed to impress.

And yet… it wasn’t perfect. Not quite. There were notebooks scattered on the coffee table, one tipped open with doodles in the margins. A hoodie draped carelessly over the back of the couch. A half-burnt candle on the counter. Ashtrays that could use a cleaning and empty bottles littering the surfaces. Signs of life. Signs of Rumi.

Zoey’s brain went static for a second. This was Rumi’s space. Ryumi. The same woman whose albums had soundtracked her crushes, her breakups, her sleepless nights coding in college. The same woman she’d had sold her soul to see live. And now she was standing here, in her penthouse, like it was no big deal.

“Close your mouth before you catch flies,” Rumi drawled, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it onto the couch.

Zoey snapped her jaw shut, cheeks heating. “I wasn’t - ” She stopped herself. No use denying the obvious. “Okay, maybe I was.”

Rumi smirked, already moving deeper into the apartment like it wasn’t the most surreal place Zoey had ever set foot in.

Zoey hovered a moment longer, still trying to soak it in. Totally normal friend hangout. Totally normal. Just ignore the fact that you’re standing in your favorite singer’s living room. That’s fine. Totally fine.

Rumi padded into the kitchen like she owned the place - because, well, she did - barefoot now, tossing her boots somewhere near the door without a second thought. She opened the fridge and rummaged around.

“You want something to drink?” she called over her shoulder, casual as anything. “I’ve got water, juice, beer… soju if you’re feeling brave again.”

Zoey froze mid-step. “No alcohol,” she blurted, a little too fast. Then softer: “I’m, uh… retiring from that scene. At least until my dignity grows back or I get a good reasong to drink.”

Rumi’s laugh rang out, low and amused. She straightened with a bottle of beer in one, and a bottle of soda in the other, which she tossed across the counter, and arched a brow. “Good choice. Don’t think my couch can survive another round of you.”

Zoey fumbled the catch but managed to grab the bottle against her chest. “That wasn’t my fault,” she protested weakly. “Gravity was against me. And also biology. And… physics, probably.”

“Sure.” Rumi put her own bottle on the counter, leaning back against it, studying Zoey with that faint smirk tugging at her lips. “You done staring at the place yet, or should I give you a tour?”

Zoey flushed, clutching her bottle like a lifeline. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Uh-huh.” Rumi tilted her head, eyes glinting. “It’s fine. Most people gawk their first time in here. Makes me feel like a zoo exhibit.”

Zoey sputtered, mortified. “I wasn’t -  I mean - ! Okay, maybe a little. But it’s not like you’re normal, Rumi.”

Rumi’s grin softened just a touch at hearing her name. “Never claimed to be.”

That disarming honesty, the casual way she said it, made Zoey’s chest squeeze. She quickly twisted her bottle cap open and took a long gulp, hoping the fizz would disguise the fact that her pulse had gone haywire.

“Alright. I’m changing. These jeans are suffocating me.”

Rumi pushed off the counter and padded down the hall without another word, leaving Zoey frozen mid-gulp.

Changing. Just like that. Casual. Totally normal. Don’t freak out.

Left alone, Zoey finally let herself drift further into the apartment. Her steps were hesitant at first, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to move, but curiosity quickly won. She wandered toward the living room, fingertips brushing across the back of the couch. The fabric was soft, worn-in, clearly lived with - not what she expected in such a glamorous place.

The walls pulled her in next. Gold and platinum records glinting under the light, stacked beside framed photos from concerts. She leaned closer. Rumi onstage, hair wild, mic in hand, caught mid-scream in a way that looked untamed, alive. The kind of rawness that could shake an arena.

But in between all that shine, there were smaller things. A dog-eared book left open on the coffee table. A chipped ceramic ashtray shaped like a skull. A photo on the sideboard of Rumi as a teenager, standing awkwardly next to a man with the same sharp jawline - her father maybe? A picture of the same man and a woman, who had the same eyes as Rumi.

But what drew Zoey’s interest the most was a crooked Polaroid tucked into the edge of one frame - Rumi with Mira, both of them a little younger, grinning like idiots with plastic cups in hand, smudged pride flags drawn on their faces.

She leaned closer, squinting slightly. Was it pride flags? Because whatever Mira had on her face was either the lesbian flag or lipstick. It was the same shade as whatever was going on on Mira’s face.

Zoey’s chest tightened. It felt less like she was in the home of Ryumi the superstar, and more like she’d stepped into Rumi the person. 

She was still staring, trying to decipher whether or not Mira’s face was actually painted, when a voice drawled from behind her:  “Enjoying yourself?”

Zoey jumped, spinning around. Rumi leaned in the doorway now, hair brushed out of her face, wearing loose sweatpants and a cropped hoodie. She looked infuriatingly effortless, like she hadn’t just transformed from rock goddess to casual goddess in under three minutes.

Zoey scrambled for words, heat rushing up her neck. “I wasn’t snooping! I just - uh - I was… looking.”

Rumi smirked, arms crossed. “That’s what snooping is.”

Zoey groaned. “Why do you always have to be like this?”

“Because it’s fun.”

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

Rumi leaned against the doorway, watching Zoey flounder and trip over her words like a deer caught in headlights. It should’ve been funny - was funny - but underneath the smirk curling at her lips, there was a weight dragging at her chest.

Her shoulders still ached from how tightly she’d kept them squared during the meeting earlier. Celine, immaculate as always, had sat across the polished glass table with that razor-edge calm that could slice a person open without ever raising her voice.

Earlier that day

“So?” her aunt had asked. “What have you written?”

Rumi had stared at the blank notebook on the table between them, the same blank notebook that had haunted her penthouse for weeks. “Nothing,” she’d admitted. “You can’t expect art to bloom in a cage.”

But Celine didn’t budge. She never did. “Excuses don’t fill albums, Rumi. You’ll remain where you are until I see progress. Not before.”

The fury had been volcanic, searing hot in her chest, but she’d swallowed it. Kept her jaw locked so tightly she thought her teeth might crack. Because lashing out would’ve meant another leash, another headline.

----

Now, standing here with Zoey staring up at her like she’d just been caught rifling through a diary, Rumi felt the tension slowly uncoil. Just a little. If Zoey hadn’t been here tonight, she knew exactly what she would’ve done after that meeting - thrown something, screamed into the emptiness, maybe burned the whole apartment down out of sheer spite.

Instead, she was here, teasing this awkward, wide-eyed woman who looked like she was fighting for her life under the weight of her own blush. And against all logic, it steadied her.

“Why do you always have to be like this?” Zoey groaned.

Rumi tilted her head, smirk deepening. Because if I’m not like this, I’ll break something.

“Because it’s fun,” she said instead, voice smooth, easy. A shield polished to perfection.

But as she crossed her arms tighter across her chest, her eyes caught Zoey’s again - bright, nervous, disarmingly genuine. And for the first time all day, the coil of frustration in her gut loosened another notch.

She pushed off of the doorway, casually making her way over to where Zoey had been looking at some polaroid, looking like she might be having an aneurysm, before leaning against the wall to look at the picture.

It was a picture of Seoul Pride, quite a few years back. She smiled faintly at the memory. Mira had not wanted to go, claiming (as always) that she was too busy. But Rumi had (as always) not listened, she had kicked down Mira’s office door that day, slathered her face with pride paint and dragged her out.

And they had a wonderful time. Her eyes focus on the picture, trying to conjure up the memory. Had it been before, or after they had dipped into an alleyway and-she looked at the smudged pride flags- it had been after. Definitely after. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by Zoey, who puffed her cheeks, clearly flustered, then narrowed her eyes like she’d just decided on something. “You know,” she said slowly, “for someone who acts all scary and mysterious… you’re actually kinda easy to read.”

Rumi raised a brow. “Oh?” Her tone was casual, but inside her chest something jolted, sharp and defensive. 

Zoey nodded, a nervous grin tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Like… you make all these sarcastic comments, but it’s just cover. You’re basically a cat that hisses when it’s actually just hungry and cranky.”

Rumi blinked. Then barked out a laugh so sudden Zoey jumped. “A cat?” she repeated, incredulous. “That’s your read on me?”

Zoey, emboldened by the laugh, shrugged. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Rumi leaned in, her smirk curling like smoke. “If you keep calling me a cat, you’ll find out exactly how sharp my claws are.”

But Zoey didn’t flinch. She just grinned wider, triumphant. “See? That’s exactly what I mean, Kitty.”

For a split second, Rumi’s mask slipped - just a flicker of surprise at how quickly Zoey had turned her own game against her. Then she shook her head, chuckling low in her throat, and leaned against the wall.

“You know, I’m really more of a dog person.”

“Oh really?” Zoeys eyes shone with mirth, “Should I start calling you Puppy then?”

“Careful,” Rumi murmured, eyes glinting. “You’re getting bold.”

“And you like it,” Zoey shot back, "Puppy." before immediately clapping a hand over her mouth as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud, 

The silence that followed hung heavy, charged.

Rumi tilted her head, watching Zoey squirm under the weight of her own words, and let a slow smile spread across her face. “Maybe I do.”

Zoey’s hand was still clamped over her mouth, her wide eyes screaming I can’t believe I just said that.
Rumi let the silence stretch, enjoying the way Zoey shifted in place like she might combust.

She looked back at the picture, before pushing off the wall and sauntering over to where Zoey was standing, leaning in close enough that Zoey’s back pressed against the wall. “You should be careful with words like that,” Rumi said, her voice low, velvet wrapped around steel. “Someone might take you seriously.”

Zoey’s breath hitched - audibly - and her cheeks went crimson.

Rumi smirked, watching the effect land, the charge in the air thrumming between them. For half a second she considered leaning closer, pushing it further, but then she caught herself. Not the time. Not the place. She’s already squirming enough.

So instead she straightened, “Come on,” she said, plucking the cigarette from behind her ear “You look like you’re about to overheat. Let’s get you something to do, before you melt all over my floor.”

Zoey blinked at her, relief and disappointment warring openly on her face, and muttered, “You’re impossible.”

Rumi’s grin was sharp as she brushed past her into the kitchen. “You’re still here.”

Rumi crouched to dig through one of the lower cabinets, pulling out a couple more bottles of soda and the emergency stash of chips she kept hidden behind the rice cooker. She glanced back over her shoulder - and nearly laughed out loud.

Zoey was still planted exactly where Rumi had left her, one hand pressed flat to her chest, her face flushed as if she was trying to physically will her heartbeat back to normal. The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights.

Cute look on her, Rumi thought before clamping down on the thought, shaking her head as if she could rattle it loose. She set the bottles down with a clink and leaned one hip against the counter.

“You planning to stand there all night?” Rumi asked, her voice smooth, teasing. “Kitchen’s not that scary. Come on, the view’s way better from here.”

That snapped Zoey out of it. She blinked, brow furrowing, and followed her into the kitchen with cautious steps. “The… view?” she echoed. “It’s literally the same skyline from every window, Rumi. Unless you’ve got magic penthouse glass or something.”

Rumi didn’t miss a beat. “I meant me.”

Okay and maybe she did flex a little as she twisted the cap off a bottle, making sure her muscles popped just enough to be noticable.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her grin in check when Zoey’s eyes immediately dropped, her stare caught like a hook. The silence stretched just long enough before Zoey caught herself, snapping her gaze back up and tugging nervously at the hem of her shirt.

Rumi was having entirely too much fun. 

Deciding to have mercy on the poor girl, Rumi nodded towards the bottle, still clutched inbetween Zoey’s hands. “Drink your Soda. Training wheels and all that.”

Zoey looked up, muttering, “Right, thanks…” as she twisted at the cap.

Meanwhile, Rumi took a slow sip of her beer, before taking the cigarette she had been wanting to smoke ever since Celine had told her that she- nope, not going back there. She lit it with practiced ease, exhaling smoke in a thin stream toward the ceiling. The faint smell curled through the air, mingling with the salty scent of the chips she’d already ripped open.

Zoey wrinkled her nose, but she couldn’t quite hide the way her eyes followed the glow of the cigarette in the dim light. “You’re like… a walking cliché right now.”

Rumi smirked around the filter. “And yet you’re still here.”

Zoey rolled her eyes, trying to look annoyed, but the flush hadn’t quite left her face. She opened her soda again and took a gulp that fizzed too hard, making her cough. Rumi chuckled.

“Careful, girl. Don’t die on my kitchen floor. Celine will never let me hear the end of it and Mira would kill me.”

Zoey set the bottle down with a little clunk, straightening her posture in mock offense. “Excuse me, I can handle carbonated sugar water.”

“Sure you can.” Rumi leaned back against the counter, smoke curling lazily past her lips, beer bottle in hand. “Just don’t make me carry you to bed again. Unless that was your plan all along of course.”

Zoey nearly choked on her soda all over again. 

Before long they migrated to the couch, Rumi tossing herself down with the kind of careless sprawl that only came with owning every inch of a space. Zoey perched on the opposite end, clutching her soda like it was some sort of social anchor.

Without a word, Rumi snagged a remote from the coffee table and flicked on the stereo. A low hum of sound filled the room, soft guitar and steady percussion spilling through hidden speakers.

Zoey’s eyebrows shot up. “Huh.”

Rumi caught the look, exhaling a stream of smoke before narrowing her eyes at her. “What’s that face supposed to mean?”

Zoey scrambled. “It’s not - it’s nothing! I just… didn’t expect you to be into… this.” She waved a hand vaguely, as if the genre was too abstract to name.

Rumi cocked her head, lips quirking. “You think I sit here brooding to screamo all night?”

Zoey bit her lip, clearly debating if she should answer. “…Kind of?”

That earned her a laugh - low, rough, and far too amused. “Relax. It’s just a random radio station. Background noise. If I wanted real music, I’d get up and put on a CD or something.”

Zoey blinked. “A… CD?”

Rumi raised an eyebrow, already knowing where this was going.

“What, you never heard of music streaming?” Zoey asked, half incredulous, half teasing.

For a beat, Rumi just stared at her. Then, slowly, her gaze shifted sideways toward the wall lined with framed plaques and awards - several of them stamped with streaming milestones, platinum certifications for digital sales.

Zoey followed her gaze, realized exactly what she’d just said, and immediately sputtered. “Oh my god. Right. Of course you’ve heard of streaming. You’re literally - ” She clapped her hands over her face. “I forget you’re not… like, a normal person sometimes.”

Rumi leaned back, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, a grin tugging at her lips. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start charging you for lessons in basic awareness.”

Zoey peeked at her through her fingers, cheeks burning, and muttered, “I’m never living that down, am I?”

Rumi’s grin widened. “Not a chance.”

Zoey lowered her hands from her face, still flushed. “Okay, but like… be honest, if you didn’t have those awards, would you even know what Spotify is? Or would you still be sitting here making, like, mixtapes on cassettes?”

Rumi smirked around her cigarette. “Please, I would be using CDs. Are you calling me old?”

Zoey, apparently not sensing the danger, leaned forward, grin widening. “Maybe, do you even know how to make a playlist, Puppy? Or are you the type to actually still burn CDs?”

Rumi let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“…Nope,” Zoey admitted cheerfully, taking a sip of her soda like she hadn’t just been verbally sparring with one of Korea’s most infamous singers.

Rumi rolled her eyes, but there was no bite in it. She stubbed out her cigarette and leaned back, letting her head fall against the couch cushion. “For the record, I don’t ‘stream.’ Not because I can’t. Because I don’t want to.”

That got Zoey to pause. She tilted her head, curiosity softening her grin.

“I like physical media,” Rumi continued, surprising herself with the honesty in her tone. “Photos. CDs. Even vinyl. There’s something about actually holding it. Seeing it. Putting it on a shelf. Makes it feel… more real. Streaming just makes everything disposable.”

Normally, people rolled their eyes when she said things like that. But Zoey didn’t. She was staring at her like she was hearing the most important thing in the world.

“That makes sense,” Zoey said quietly. “I’ve got a stereo back in the States. My dad gave it to me. I use it when I can, but it’s hard finding CDs I actually want these days. But whenever I do and I can just put on an album, without having to think about what I want to listen next? Heaven.”

Rumi shifted in her seat, oddly flustered under the weight of Zoey’s attention. She opened her mouth to respond - 

And then the radio betrayed her.

The bubbly opening chords of one of her old idol-era songs filled the air, and her entire body tensed.

“Ugh, fuck no.” She groaned, pushing herself up and striding to the stereo. She picked a random CD out of her rack and with a quick press of buttons, and the cloying pop track was replaced by something darker, sharper.

When she turned back, Zoey was watching her with wide eyes, soda forgotten in her hand.

“Why now?” Zoey asked. “I mean, you said it was just background noise. Why get up for that?”

Rumi’s jaw tightened. She could’ve brushed it off - could’ve made a joke, deflected - but Zoey’s gaze was too sharp, too curious.

“You hate it,” Zoey realized aloud. “Because it was you.”

Rumi looked away, scowling. “It’s not me anymore. And I’m sick of being reminded of it.” Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be, a knife-edge of frustration she hadn’t planned to show.

Zoey sat quietly for a moment, and Rumi almost thought she’d drop it.

But then Zoey tilted her head, and with that maddening honesty of hers, said softly:

“…You’re a hypocrite.”

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

Rumi’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing like a storm cloud rolling in. “A hypocrite?” Her voice was low, dangerous.

Zoey immediately lifted both hands, soda bottle wobbling in her grip. “Wait, wait, let me explain before you eat me alive.”

Rumi arched a brow. “This ought to be good.”

Zoey sucked in a breath, chewing her lip for a moment before blurting it all out in one nervous rush:

“You just said you like physical media because it’s more authentic, right? Because it’s real, it takes up space, it means something. But - ” she jabbed a finger toward the stereo, “ - those old songs? They’re real too. They exist. They take space. They’re a part of you, even if you don’t like them anymore. And you can’t just pretend they don’t exist because they’re not the version of you that you want right now.”

Rumi blinked, lips parting slightly, but no words came out.

Zoey kept going, emboldened by her silence. “You can hate how you were pushed into it, you can hate the way the industry handled you, and that’s totally fair. But those songs - they’re still yours. They’re proof you were bleeding for your art even then. Just in a different way.”

Her voice softened, almost shy now. “You’re talking about authenticity. Well, isn’t it kind of authentic to own every version of you made you into this version?”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not suffocating. Rumi stared at her like she was seeing her for the first time, Zoey squirming under the weight of it but too stubborn to take her words back. She swallowed hard, heart hammering as Rumi just… stared. God, maybe she’d said too much. Maybe she’d crossed some invisible line she didn’t even know was there.

But the words kept bubbling up anyway, too strong to hold back.

“I mean - I’ve been a fan for a long time. Like, way before I ever thought I’d actually meet you.” Her laugh came out awkward, too high-pitched, and she tugged at some loose threads on the couch like it could anchor her. “I’ve listened to everything you’ve ever made. All of it. And yeah, back then the songs were poppier, shinier, not as dark or gritty as now…”

Her gaze darted up to meet Rumi’s, then back down to her soda. “But they were still you. I could hear it. I could feel it. You poured yourself into them, even if the label wanted something else. Like I said, you were still bleeding for it, even back then. That’s why people liked them. That’s why I like them.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed through. “And maybe… I don’t know, maybe you’re trying so hard to be authentic now that you’ve started rejecting pieces of yourself. Like - you think authenticity is only this one version, the one that fits how you want to be seen. But real authenticity would be embracing every version of yourself. Even the ones you don’t like anymore. Because they’re all you. And that’s… that’s what makes you actually authentic.”

She bit her lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet the apartment had become, even the stereo seems to have picked up on the tension, using this exact moment to switch songs and leave them in silence for a few seconds. Just her, rambling at one of the most famous-and intimidating-artists alive.

Her cheeks burned as she risked another glance at Rumi, bracing herself for a scoff, a sharp remark, something.

The silence stretched, thick enough that Zoey wished the couch would just swallow her whole. She wrapped both hands around her soda bottle, fiddling with the cap like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Then - soft, almost reluctant - Rumi finally spoke.

“You really think that?”

Zoey’s head snapped up. Rumi wasn’t smirking, wasn’t rolling her eyes, wasn’t reaching for another cigarette as some kind of shield. She was just… watching her. Like she was really trying to take the words in, weigh them against all the walls she’d built around herself.

Zoey opened her mouth, then closed it, then nodded instead. “Yeah. I do.” Her voice cracked a little, but she didn’t look away this time.

She hesitated, chewing on her lip before the words tumbled out in a rush. “I mean… I’ve only known you - the real you, Rumi - for a very short time. And yeah, this is all… weird. More than weird, honestly. And sure, I’ve been a fan of your music forever, but…” She faltered, forcing herself to keep eye contact. “The more you try to be less Rumi and more Ryumi, the more it feels to me like your art will suffer for it. Like you’re cutting pieces of yourself away.”

Rumi’s gaze sharpened, but she didn’t interrupt.

Zoey swallowed, pushing through the heat rising in her cheeks. “And maybe it doesn’t matter what I think. But I’ve already started to like Rumi - you - a lot more than I like Ryumi. Even if it’s only been… what? A handful of days?” She gave a small, nervous laugh. “That probably sounds crazy.”

For a long moment, Rumi just stared at her, unreadable. Then something in her expression cracked, the smallest flicker of vulnerability breaking through. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t deflect. She just sat there, letting the words hang between them like smoke.

Rumi leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly, eyes fixed somewhere past Zoey like she was tracing memories only she could see. The edge in her shoulders softened by degrees, until she finally let out a low chuckle that wasn’t mocking, just - tired. Almost grateful. “…You’re dangerous,” she finally muttered, softer than before. Not teasing - just… honest.

Her stomach did flip flops at the words.

“Leave it to you to say something like that,” Rumi added.

Zoey blinked, caught off guard. “Like what?”

“Something that makes me feel… less like I’m clawing at a wall and more like maybe I’ve been the one building it.” Rumi dragged a hand through her hair, shaking her head as though irritated at herself, then gave Zoey the barest ghost of a smile.

Zoey laughed weakly, cheeks hot, heart pounding for an entirely new reason now.

But before she could say anything else, Rumi stood up and disappearing onto the balcony. The moment the door slid shut, Zoey collapsed into the couch cushions, shoving her hands into her hair. What the hell was that? Why did I say all that?

Her brain started spiraling. She probably hates me now. She’s probably out there thinking of the ways to tell me to get lost. God, she’s going to tell me to leave and block my number and -  Zoey buried her face into her hands. Of course I’d be the idiot to ruin a blooming friendship with an actual superstar. And if she ever talks about me to anyone? I’m screwed. I’ll be shunned. Cancelled. Excommunicated from Korea.

She was so lost in her self-destruction that she didn’t notice the faint click of the balcony door sliding open and shut again. Only when the air shifted did she peek out from between her fingers - right into the sharp eyes of Rumi standing over her.

Zoey froze as Rumi reached out, pressing one finger lightly against her forehead, pushing her head back until Zoey had no choice but to look up. Her brow arched, silent question in her gaze. Zoey only blinked at her, wide-eyed, words jammed in her throat.

Without another word, Rumi dropped back onto the couch beside her, leaning back with one hand dangling lazily over the armrest, unlit cigarette in hand. Like she had stepped outside to escape, but something pulled her back in. Her voice came out low, steady.

“You’re right.”

Zoey blinked again. “…What?”

“You’re right about what you said.” Rumi didn’t look at her, just exhaled slowly before speaking again. “It stings, sure. But you were right. I think I’ve been chasing this… idea of authenticity. Inspiration. Trying so hard to strip away anything that doesn’t fit the image in my head. I never stopped to think about what that even means for me.”

Zoey’s breath hitched - half from the relief of not being thrown out, half from the weight of hearing Rumi actually admit it.

Rumi leaned her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the ceiling. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything, just let the silence hang between them.

Then her hand moved, a vague gesture that swept across the penthouse - the records on the walls, the sleek furniture, the evidence of everything she had built.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I used to have a friend. Back in the idol days. We’d talk about this - ” another gesture, sharper this time, “ - being free. Making music the way we wanted, no leashes, no fake smiles. Just us and the sound. And I got it. This life. The chance to do what we always said we would. But…” She trailed off, composing herself for a second before continuing. “Somewhere along the way I got so scared of losing it, of not living up to what we dreamed, that I don’t even know if I’ve been living it. Just… chasing it. Like if I stop, even for a second, it’ll all slip away.”

Rumi finally looked at Zoey then, her eyes sharp but softer than Zoey had ever seen them. “Maybe I have lost myself a little. Or maybe I’m just too damn afraid to admit I already caught the thing I’ve been running after.”

Rumi’s words seemed to echo in the space between them, heavier than the smell of smoke still curling in the air. For once, she didn’t try to mask it with sarcasm or another flippant remark. She just sat there, shoulders loose but eyes tight, waiting for something she wasn’t sure would come.

Zoey didn’t rush to fill the silence. She sat very still, watching the way Rumi’s fingers drummed faintly against her knee, as if even her body wasn’t comfortable with the quiet.

Finally, Zoey’s voice broke through - gentle, careful, as though she were afraid of startling her.

“Maybe… you don’t have to keep running anymore.”

Rumi blinked, her gaze flicking to Zoey’s.

Zoey offered a small, tentative smile, her words soft but steady. “You’ve already proven yourself. To the industry. To everyone. Maybe the only person left you need to prove anything to… is you.”

Her smile widened, just a fraction. “And I think they’d be proud. Of everything you’ve done. Of everything you are.”

The silence that followed was different this time. Not heavy. Just… still.

Rumi didn't answer her. Instead just lit her cigarette and leaned back against the couch, smoke curling lazily towards the ceeling. 

“You’re gonna turn into a chimney at this rate,” Zoey teased, sipping her soda.

Rumi blew a stream of smoke deliberately in her direction. “Better a chimney than a gremlin.”

“Hey!” Zoey protested, laughing despite herself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The conversation had quieted after that, not uncomfortable, just easy.  The evening blurred into something oddly normal. Half-empty takeout containers and empty bottles littered the table, and now, much later, Zoey stretched, trying to fight off a yawn. “I should probably head home. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

For the first time all night, Rumi looked… hesitant. “You could just stay over. It’s late.”

Zoey blinked. “Oh, it’s okay, really. I’ll be fine.”

Rumi shook her head quickly. “It’s no bother. You still have a toothbrush here, and the clothes from the other night. Most of it’s washed.” She hesitated, rubbing at the back of her neck. “The shirt’s still dirty, but… you can take one of mine. I’ll even give you some clothes to sleep in.”

That made Zoey’s ears burn. “How thoughtful.”

Rumi smirked, though her voice was softer than usual. “I'll even make sure you sleep in the guest room this time.”

Zoey tilted her head, pretending to think. “Wait, you have a guest room? Why did you let me sleep in your bed last time?”

Rumi rolled her eyes. “Didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?”

Zoey chuckled, finally nodding. “Alright Puppy. I’ll stay.”

The relief that flashed across Rumi’s face was almost too quick to catch, but Zoey swore she saw it. And when Rumi stood, muttering something about getting her clothes, she could’ve sworn she also saw… a tiny fist pump.

Zoey bit back her grin, settling deeper into the couch cushions.

The next few minutes blurred into something almost… domestic. Rumi handed Zoey a bundle of folded clothes, showed her the guest room with an awkward little wave of her hand, then they both ended up brushing their teeth side by side in the master bathroom. Zoey tried not to laugh at the sight of Rumi’s determined look as she scrubbed her teeth with a frown of concentration.

This is way too domestic, Zoey thought, cheeks warm. Like we’re… no. Nope. Don’t even finish that sentence.

Rumi walked her back to the guest room, stopping in the doorway. “So. Here you go.”

Zoey hugged the clothes closer to her chest. “Thanks. Really. For… all of this.”

“Don’t make it a big deal,” Rumi replied, but her eyes lingered longer than her words allowed.

“Goodnight,” Zoey said softly.

“Yeah. Night.”

The moment stretched, hovering somewhere between casual and something more, before Rumi turned away. Zoey slipped inside, closing the door gently behind her.

The guest room was spacious - of course it was - and the bed looked sinfully comfortable, dressed in dark sheets that screamed Rumi. She set the clothes on the bed, eyeing them curiously. The same sleep shorts from a few nights ago and some oversized shirt, freshly laundered. Next to them, her own pants, neatly folded. She picked them up, brows furrowing. Did someone… iron these?

Zoey shook her head, laughing under her breath. Rich people are wild.

She changed quickly, tugging on the soft fabric. It felt… unfairly good. Like the clothes had been waiting for her, settling against her skin in a way that made her heart do things it absolutely should not be doing.

“Nope,” she muttered to herself. “Not going down that path. Not tonight.”

She crawled into the bed, sinking into the dark sheets. The mattress cradled her instantly, the kind of luxury she’d never even thought to imagine. For a while she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts chasing themselves in circles - Mira, Rumi, Seoul, work, all of it tangled into a mess.

Finally, she turned onto her side, pulling the pillow close. She didn’t even notice how she buried her nose into it, chasing the faint trace of Rumi’s scent that clung to the fabric.

Sleep claimed her before she could question it.

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

Rumi’s own bedroom should have felt like a sanctuary. The sheets were cool, the lights low, the faint hum of the city seeping in through the balcony doors. But her body refused to settle.

She tossed her cigarette into the ashtray on the nightstand and got up again, pacing the length of the room like a caged thing. Zoey’s voice was still in her ears, stubborn and soft at the same time, looping over itself like a song stuck on repeat.

Every version of you is still you. Maybe you’re trying so hard to be authentic that you’re losing it.

Rumi dragged her hands through her hair, muttering a curse under her breath. She hated how it rattled her. She’d built her walls so carefully, stone on stone, scar on scar, and then this jetlagged gremlin had come along and - in the space of a single night - knocked a hole clean through them without even trying.

Her bare feet whispered against the polished floor as she turned, and turned again, jaw tight. The penthouse felt too big, too quiet, too full of the echo of Zoey’s words.

She stopped finally at the balcony doors, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. In another room, Zoey was sleeping - safe, comfortable, probably drooling on the pillow. The thought made Rumi’s lips twitch before her chest tightened again.

She exhaled, long and sharp, continuing to pace her room, bare feet dragging soundlessly across the polished floor. Her head felt like it was splitting open, Zoey’s words STILL circling like vultures: Every version of you is still you.

She stopped in front of a cabinet she hadn’t touched in... years. Her hand hesitated on the handle, her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. With a sharp breath she pulled it open. Inside lay ghosts - posters with too-bright smiles, old tour merch, jewel cases stacked in rows like forgotten tombstones. She cringed, muttering under her breath.

“Not ready for that yet.”

Her fingers skimmed over the earliest albums, until they landed on one in the middle. Different. Darker. A turning point. She pulled it out, thumb brushing over the cover like it might bite her. That album had been the first time she’d dared to let the pain leak through - after her parents, after him.

Her throat tightened. Would he be proud of this? Would they? Or was she just lying to herself?

She dug an old Walkman from her nightstand, slipped the disc inside, and pressed play.

The voice that poured into her ears wasn’t the smoky growl the world knew now. It was younger, thinner - but cracked open, dripping raw hurt. It had only been a cover, but she had to fight tooth and nail for it to even make it onto the album. Let alone as the first sone.

But GOD did she remember how much it hurt to sing.

Come up to meet you, tell ya I'm sorry / You don't know how lovely you are…

Her chest clenched. She remembered those nights - eyes raw from crying, face plastered into a fake smile by day, pouring herself into music by night. No one had known. No one could. The cameras always demanded teeth, not tears.

Runnin’ in circles, comin’ up tails / Heads on a science apart…

She blinked hard, but tears still slipped free, trailing warm down her temples as she lay back on her bed. This album had saved her. Every track a desperate attempt not to collapse under the weight of grief. And she had survived - barely. But somewhere between then and now, she had buried this version of herself, the girl who wasn’t afraid to bleed on the page.

Nobody said it was easy / No one ever said it would be this hard…

Her breath hitched, one hand pressing against her sternum like she could keep her heart from unraveling. The lyrics bit her, tore her apart, even if they weren't her own.

The first song ended, fading into the next - still raw, but with a deceptively brighter beat. The kind of track people danced to without realizing the words were about falling apart.

Her brow furrowed. Something clicked. This was me. This was still me. Not pop princess. Not angry rebel. Just me, split open in a hundred ways.

Her eyes went wide, and she bolted upright, nearly tearing the headphones from her ears. Something in her ignited, a flame she had been chasing and chasing but never been able to reach. 

She stumbled into her studio, almost slamming the door before catching sight of the guest room door. Zoey, asleep behind it. Rumi closed the door gently, her chest heaving.

She turned, her old songs still curling from the Walkman around her neck, and for the first time in months a grin spread across her face. Not her practiced smirk. 

A wild, manic grin.

Chapter Text

“What?” Mira’s voice came out sharper than intended.

On the other end there was a hiccup, then a giggle. “Mirrrraaa… hi. You picked up!”

Her stomach dropped. Zoey’s voice was loose, slurred, rolling over itself like she’d lost the thread halfway through speaking. Mira turned away from the terrace door, gripping the railing. “Zoey? What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m… uh… out. With coworkers. They keep giving me this drink, it’s sooo tasty but it makes the floor do this thing - ” Zoey made a whooshing noise, followed by muffled laughter.

Mira swore under her breath. The knot of irritation from dinner twisted into something else - sharp, focused fear. Somewhere behind her somebody in the dining room yelled something she didn’t quite get. Probably her brother is exaggerating one of his stories again. 

Zoey’s drunk voice came through the speaker again “What are you doing?” She pressed her fingers hard into the bridge of her nose. “Doesn’t matter.” Mira’s tone was harsher than intended. “Listen to me. Go home.”

“Can’t,” Zoey mumbled.

Mira’s jaw clenched. Was Zoey really  worried about social obligation?  “Yes, you can. Just tell them you’re leaving, they’ll - ”

“No, no, no, you don’t get it.” Zoey’s voice shrank to a small, almost childlike whisper. “I can’t go home. It’s too far.” A pause. “America’s really far, Mira.”

For a beat Mira just stared out at the manicured hedges of her parents’ estate, completely thrown, thinking of the best way to make Zoey go home, but before she could say anything else Zoey’s voice came through the speakers again

“Mira?” Her voice was so small it made Mira’s clench. “Can you… come get me?”

Mira’s jaw set. She would, god would she. She’d drop everything if she could, but she was several hours away from Seoul and it would probably be morning before she even arrived, no matter how many traffic laws she’d break.

“I’m out of the city. Family business. I can’t.”

Zoey was quiet on the other side and Mira could almost imagine the pout.

“Text me the name of the place. Right now. And stay put. Don’t move. I’ll sort something out.”

Zoey hummed, a messy, wandering sound. “You’re bossy,” she muttered.

Mira let out a small laugh at drunk Zoey’s audacity to call her drunk like that and then tell her that she’s BOSSY.

“…I like that,” Zoey added, words slurring together.

Mira almost dropped her phone. “Zoey - ”

“’Kay. Floor. Staying. Bye, Mira.”

Mira pulled the phone back, staring at the screen in disbelief.

Her pulse was hammering. She bit down on her frustration, about how she had no idea what to do about Zoey. There was only one person that could help her now, that she even trusted enough to do this for her. Her thumb trembled as she scrolled to another number. 

If anyone could get to Zoey, it was her. Mira pressed call, heart in her throat.

The line barely rang before Rumi picked up. “What, missing me already? Don’t tell me the prodigal daughter is actually bored of her palace of horrors - ”

“Rumi.” Mira’s voice cut sharper than she intended. That alone was enough to make the silence on the other end stretch. 

“I need a favor,” Mira said. “A big one.”

Rumi’s voice dropped the sarcasm. “Okay. Shoot.”

Mira took a breath, fighting to keep her tone level. “There’s someone I need you to get. She’s drunk, too drunk to get home on her own. I can’t get to her right now, so I need you to go, pick her up, and take her somewhere safe. If you can get her home, do it.”

For a moment there was only the faint sound of static. Then Rumi exhaled, sharp and annoyed, but not at Mira. “I mean I’d love to but uh, in case you forgot - I’m still on Celine’s leash. Not exactly free to roam the streets.”

“You’ll figure it out.”  Mira’s free hand curled into a fist against her thigh.  “You told me that Celine at least removed the goon in front of your door. You’re clever. This is serious, Rumi. Please.”

She bit back the rest. Before what? Before something happened? Before Zoey got hurt? The thought made her stomach twist.

“Fine. I’ll find a way past the desk. Text me the address.” Rumi’s voice was steady, decisive.

“I will.”  Mira shut her eyes, head tipping back against the cold glass of the terrace door.  “Thank you. I mean it. I owe you.”

Then Rumi, softer than Mira expected:  “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Ice Queen. Text me.”

Mira swallowed, gripping her phone tighter. The rush of relief almost floored her. They lingered for a second too long before Rumi muttered something about getting changed and hung up.

Mira:
[location attached]
bathroom

She lowered the phone slowly, staring out into the night. Her reflection in the glass looked like a stranger - hair pulled back, dress too neat, lips pressed tight. She wanted to hurl her phone across the manicured lawn.

Instead, she went back inside and sank into her chair at the table, mumbling a quick apology, phone balanced in her lap, and waited.

Dinner passed in a haze but Mira barely touched her food. All she could see was the black screen of her phone taunting from under the table.

Her brother’s voice cut through occasionally, smug barbs dressed as conversation. “So, still wasting your time in studios instead of building anything real?”

Her father’s sigh followed, sharp as a knife. “Honestly, Mira. If you’d just accepted your place - ”

Her mother, with that clipped disapproval Mira knew too well: “Look at Minho, he understands duty. You still run around with...”

But Mira didn’t hear any of it. Didn’t even lift her head. The words rolled over her like smoke. For once, she didn’t rise to it, didn’t fire back with the venom she always carried for these dinners. Her stomach was a knot, her lungs tight.

She only thought: Why hasn’t Rumi called? Why hasn’t she texted?

Her fingers tapped against her thigh under the table, restless, betraying the calm mask she wore. Every second stretched. She pictured Zoey alone, too drunk to walk straight, wide-eyed in a city that could eat her alive. The thought made her want to scream.

By the time she excused herself and shut her bedroom door behind her, she was shaking. The phone sat on the desk like it was mocking her. She checked it again  -  blank. No messages.

“Come on,” she whispered, pacing the carpet. “Come on, Rumi…”

And then, finally, mercifully, the screen lit up.

Rockstar Bitch

Mira lunged for it so fast she almost tripped over the hem of her dress. She pressed answer, breathless.

“Please tell me you’ve got her.”

On the other end, Rumi’s voice was calm, almost lazy  -  but Mira could hear the edges of it, the weight of what she was carrying. “Relax. Yeah, I’ve got her out of the bathroom. But she’s either too drunk to remember her address or too stubborn to spit it out.”

Mira pressed her free hand to her forehead. Relief and frustration warred in her chest. “I don’t -  I don’t know her address either. I’ve never been there.”

A beat of silence. Mira could imagine Rumi pinching the bridge of her nose in mirrored irritation.

“Figures. Fine. I’ll figure something out. At the very least, she’ll have a place to sleep tonight.” Rumi muttered.

Mira exhaled, hard, before a soft thought gnawed at the back of her mind, and before she could even think about it she said “Can I talk to her?”

There was a shuffle, muffled sound of Rumis voice saying for you, its mira, and then Zoey’s voice spilled into Mira’s ear  -  slurred, messy, but unmistakably Zoey.

“MIRAAAA! Hi! Guess what - I made a new friend! She looks soooo much like Ryumi, but she’s nicer, and she’s soooo pretty! Like you! You’re so pretty too! You’re both like, unfairly pretty. It’s ridiculous.” Giggling. Rambling. Half the words tangled.

Mira pressed her eyes shut, gripping the phone tighter. Her chest ached, but she forced her voice soft, steady. “Zoey, are you okay? Just - just stay with her, alright? Don’t go anywhere. Promise me.”

“Yes, yes, I’m good, I promise,” Zoey said, nodding audibly through the line. “I’ll stay right here, pinky swear. She’s taking care of me. She’s the best. My new best friend. Did I mention she’s pretty?” A pause. Then, earnestly: “She had a hood on, so I only could see a little bit of her f-face, but I’m sure she is not as pretty as you. And if she is, then it’s soooooooooo clo-close.”

“Okay good you little gremlin, then just try not to throw up again okay?”

“Okay yes, byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”

There was more rustling before Rumi’s voice returned. “She’s back to her little drunk activities. I’ll make sure she’s safe. You can stop panicking.”

Mira’s throat closed around the thousand words she wanted to say. All she managed was a low, “Thank you.”

On the other end, Rumi chuckled, low and teasing. “You should hear the things she says about us. I’m apparently prettier than Ryumi herself. And you’re - well. You’re pretty too.”

Mira froze, heat crawling up her neck. She had no witty retort, no sharp barb ready. Just silence.

Rumi let the pause linger before she muttered, softer, “Don’t worry, Ice Queen. I’ll handle it. Get some sleep for once.”

“Goodnight, Ru, and thank you again. I mean it” Mira muttered, warmth in her voice she would never admit to even be capable of.

“Night.”

The line clicked dead.

Mira sat there in the dark, phone still pressed to her ear, her pulse racing. She didn’t move for a long time.

Eventually she let the phone slip from her face and lay back on the too-hard mattress, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, the glow of her phone casting faint shadows across the room. She was trying to breathe, trying to process, but her chest still felt tight, as though the panic of earlier hadn’t fully left her system.

She went through the motions - changed into something comfortable, washed her face, even braided her hair to keep it from tangling in sleep. All of it on autopilot, her thoughts circling the same loop: Zoey drunk, Zoey lost, Zoey safe. Rumi had her. Rumi actually went and got her. And now Zoey’s, probably, in Rumi’s penthouse.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Mira grabbed it like it was oxygen.

From: Rockstar Bitch
shs out. sfe. slpn in my penthse. try nt 2 wrry urself 2 death.

The exhale tore out of her, shaky and long. The first real breath she’d taken since the bathroom call.

But then she frowned, staring at the words until they blurred. When had she started letting people in like this?  She never did. She couldn’t afford to. And yet she’d been so frantic that she’d begged Rumi to help her - and Rumi, of all people, hadn’t argued. No sarcastic jab, no sharp edge. Just quiet agreement. That alone unsettled Mira almost as much as the panic had.

How desperate did I sound?  she wondered, dragging a hand down her face. Rumi was decent beneath all the bite, sure - but normally she would’ve at least thrown in a comment. Instead she’d gone without hesitation. Mira wasn’t sure if that comforted her or made her feel exposed.

Her thumb scrolled down the message thread again until she hit the pictures Zoey had sent her over the past weeks.

Snapshots of her desk at work - messy cables, coffee mugs, half-eaten snacks with captions like fuel for coding doom.
Random shots of Seoul - neon signs, a blurry picture of a turtle figurine in a shop window, a street vendor at night.
That first selfie, her messy bangs and a grin too wide for her tired face.

And then Mira stopped.

The picture of the two of them outside the 7/11. Mira in her default armor of flat expression, iced coffee in hand. Zoey pressed in close, radiant with her ridiculous grin, arm brushing Mira’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mira studied her own face in the photo. To anyone else it probably looked like she’d been dragged there against her will. But anyone who knew her - really knew her - would understand. For her to even let the picture exist… it was closer to a miracle.

She lingered on it far longer than she should have, the edges of her lips twitching, the weight in her chest heavy and unfamiliar. She locked the phone quickly, almost defensively, like she’d been caught, and lay back on the bed, whispering into the dark

“What the hell am I doing?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning passed in a haze. Mira drifted through it - breakfast with her parents and brother, the polished silver chopsticks, the clinking china, the heavy drape of conversation that felt like it was sucking the air out of her lungs. She’d learned long ago to zone out, to let their chatter and criticism wash over her like static.

Her father muttered something about lunch with her grandmother, that they were having today and that Mira would be expected to be there. She nodded along, trying her best not to cringe at the thought of having to sit through not just a family lunch, but a family lunch with her grandmother. 

And then her phone buzzed.

A picture from Rumi with a short text.

From: Rockstar Bitch
shs alve fed her soup gave her electrolyts

Mira’s chair scraped back before she even registered it. She stood, mumbling something about needing a moment, ignoring the sharp looks from across the table as she stepped into the hall. The call connected almost instantly - because of course she couldn’t just not call.

Rumis sarcastic voice answered her immediately. “Well, well. If it isn’t Seoul’s most dedicated workaholic calling me this fine morning. Miss me already?” Rumi’s laugh came low, sardonic.

“Don’t flatter yourself Rumi. I had to make sure she wasn’t actually dead - because in that picture, she looks like it. Who knows, maybe you have been a secret serial killer all those years.”

"What, do I give serial killer vibes to you?"

Mira, despite herself, couldn't surpress a slight smile. She would never admit it, but she did miss Rumi when she was away from the city. "Who knows, maybe you have been a one all those years, and just liked me too much to kill me too."

Rumi laughed again, “Relax. She’s fine. Looks like hell, sure, but she kept the soup down. That’s a win in my book.”

Mira closed her eyes, leaning against the wallpapered wall of her parents’ estate. She exhaled. “And you? How are you holding up?”

Rumi hummed “I’m still standing. Don’t worry, I didn’t let her puke on anything important.”

Mira’s lips pressed tight, forcing herself not to scold or nag. Rumi was good at this. She’d handled it. 

They traded a few more sentences before a laugh, loud and obnoxious enough to only possibly belong to her brother reminded her that she should probably get back into the dining room. 

“I have to run. Keep me posted.”

“Yes, my queen! I am at your everlasting service, my queen” Rumi drawled before hanging up.

Mira rolled her eyes, a little more fond than she would probably admit. When the call ended, Mira was met with the photo again.

Zoey, crumpled on the couch, head lolling, eyes shut. She looked… awful. And Mira knew the feeling intimately: the pounding skull, the way even breathing felt like it echoed in your brain. She grimaced, muttering under her breath, “I do not envy you, gremlin.” But she also remembers Rumi's steady presence on those days. The water bottles, that seemed to replace themselves and the hungover food that always seemed to hit the spot perfectly. Rumi would never admit it, but she was very good at caring, even if you felt half dead.

Part of her thought she’d take that hangover on Rumi’s couch over another meal at this table any day.

She glanced back into the dining room. Her family hadn’t even paused their conversation. Her brother, of course, was mid-sentence about something that sounded like a stupid story from one of his stupid, expensive country clubs. Mira forced herself back in, sliding into her seat, and tried to pick up her fork again.

Her brother’s eyes flicked up, smug. “What, another emergency? Shocking. Second meal in a row you can’t sit through.”

Her father hummed, the sound low and disapproving. “He’s right. It’s disrespectful, Mira.”

“Important work calls, sorry” she muttered, keeping her tone even.

Her brother snorted. “Yeah, right. What about your work could possibly be so important? You just probably hiding from responsibility again.”

The words dug sharper than she wanted to admit, but Mira just rolled her eyes, picked up another bite, and forced herself to chew.

But then the tension stretched, taut and unbearable, so she pushed her chair back again, the scrape loud in the silence. “Excuse me.”

Her father’s gaze followed her like a spotlight. Her mother’s lips pressed together, thin as paper. Her brother smirked.

Mira left anyway, spine stiff, their eyes burning between her shoulder blades.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mira sat stiffly at the long table, chopsticks idle against her plate. The restaurant was one of those pretentious, hushed places her father liked - mahogany paneling, white linen, service so attentive it felt suffocating. Across from her, her brother was already deep in conversation with their grandmother about some new investment deal, his voice oiled with confidence. Their father nodded approvingly, their mother simpered.

Mira chewed the inside of her cheek. She didn’t dislike her grandmother, not exactly. The old woman was sharp, calculating, the matriarch who silently commanded the family. Mira had never been her favorite, but she’d never outright condemned her either. A shrug in human form, as far as Mira was concerned. Still, being paraded here as the family disappointment grated.

She caught herself glancing at her phone again, as though expecting it to light up. Rumi. Zoey. Anything to pull her away from the suffocating reality of her family’s world. But the screen stayed dark.

Her father asked her something - about her “work,” said with the same disdain as if he were asking about mold. Mira hummed something noncommittal, and his disapproving sigh told her it wasn’t enough. Her brother smirked, dropping a casual jab about how she was probably wasting time on “those little studio projects.” She tuned him out.

When the waiter brought another round of wine, Mira pushed back her chair. “Excuse me,” she muttered. Her father gave her a sharp look, her brother a smug one, but her grandmother only blinked slowly, like a cat.

Outside, the air was cooler, looser. Mira leaned against the brick façade of the restaurant and exhaled.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced down.

A photo from Zoey greeted her.

Blankets tucked up to her chin, messy hair spilling across the pillow, cheeks pink from exhaustion. The caption underneath was short, almost sheepish:

From: Gremlin 🐢
Home. Safe. Comfy. ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

Her stomach gave a strange little lurch - that was definitely her shirt. It had been an exclusive print when this particular single went gold, exclusively for the people that worked on it

She hadn’t ever really thought twice about the damn shirt. Until now. Until she saw it on Zoey, peeking out from under Rumi’s hoodie. Her shirt, Rumi's hoodie. And they looked so good on Zoey together. But a small part of herself wished the hoodie was not there. That it was just her shirt.

She let herself fall back against the brick wall behind her, phone heavy in her hand, and stared at the picture longer than she should’ve. She shot a quick text back.

Mira:
Don’t make this a habit, Gremlin. Get some rest.

Still, she didn’t put the phone down right away. The image burned on her screen, soft edges she couldn’t quite shake.

“Great,” Mira muttered under her breath, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “Just great.”

She was still standing there when she realized she wasn’t alone. One of the restaurant staff was lingering nearby, apron still on, sneaking their own break. They raised a brow when Mira asked, “Got a smoke?”

The worker smiled faintly and handed one over without a word, lighting it for her. Mira nodded her thanks, dragging in the familiar burn. For a while, they just shared the silence, smoke curling into the evening air.

Eventually, the worker ventured, “Family lunch?” Their smile was sympathetic.

Mira huffed a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Something like that.”

They shrugged, offered some small talk - about the weather, about how busy the restaurant was. They were easy enough, nice enough. Even had a pretty smile. But Mira found herself distant, distracted. She kept thinking of Zoey, how the girl had somehow bulldozed through her walls with that soft grin, how she’d let her in without realizing it. This stranger? She’d kill them if they tried half the same shit.

The worker excused themselves eventually, but not before slipping a folded piece of paper into Mira’s palm with a wink. “If you want company later.”

Mira stared at it for a second, then tucked it into her pocket. She had no intention of using it.

Her thumb brushed her phone again instead. Back to Zoey’s picture. Back to that damn shirt.

The ember of Mira’s cigarette glowed red in the alleyway she was standing in as she leaned against the wall, exhaling smoke in a thin stream. She was still half lost in Zoey’s picture on her phone when the scrape of leather shoes pulled her out of it.

Her brother stepped into view, expression set in that smug half-smile he’d perfected since they were kids. His gaze dropped to the cigarette between her fingers, and his lip curled.
“Smoking in an alleyway, like you’re a schoolgirl? God, Mira. Sometimes you’re so… ordinary.”

Mira barked a humorless laugh, tapping ash onto the ground. “Better ordinary than whatever the fuck you are Minho.”

His eyes narrowed, though the smile never slipped. “Sharp tongue, as always. Tell me, does it ever get exhausting playing the rebel when everyone knows you’ll never measure up?”

Mira blew a slow plume of smoke in his direction. “Does it ever get exhausting sucking up to Dad like his favorite little lapdog?”

His jaw twitched. She smirked. A direct hit.

She pushed off the wall, flicking the cigarette to the curb, grinding it out with the heel of her boot. “I’m going back inside.”

But when she moved, his hand shot out, fingers clamping around her arm. “You should be a little more careful with your behavior,” he drawled, voice low. “One wrong move and - ”

Mira’s body reacted before her brain did. She twisted sharply, catching his wrist and bending it back hard enough to make him hiss. Her eyes flashed as she leaned in, voice dropping to a snarl.
“Touch me again and you lose your hand. And let me make one thing very clear - I don’t give a damn about you, or them, or this whole rotten family. You could all disown me this second, and I’d sleep just fine.”

For the first time, his smile faltered, teeth gritted against the pain in his wrist. “Then why the hell are you even here?”

She shoved his arm back, releasing him with a sharp jerk. His knuckles were white, rubbing at the angry red marks she’d left.

Mira didn’t answer. She turned on her heel, pushing through the door without another look. Inside, the air was thick with perfume and pretension, voices rising and falling in polite conversation.

Her brother’s words lingered behind her like smoke.

Why was she here?

Mira slipped back into the dining room, her brother’s scowl following her like a shadow, though she ignored it. 

But in reality she knew why she was here. It wasn’t for them. Not her father with his pointed barbs, not her mother with her icy sighs, not her brother with his smug superiority.

It was because of him.

Her grandfather.

The old man had passed a few months ago, the kind of quiet, inevitable passing that her family barely mourned - too busy circling like vultures around the will. Her grandmother, regal and sharp-eyed, had called them all together today under the guise of a family lunch, but everyone at the table knew what would follow. They would all pile into the way too expensive cars and drive back to her house, where they would gather for the reading of his will.

Mira had no interest in it. She could already guess most of it - his money, his shares, his houses - it would all go to her grandmother first, to ensure she lived comfortably until her own time came. And then it would trickle down to the rest of them.

But she hadn’t come for the money.

She’d come because of the man himself.

They’d never been close, not in the traditional sense. He wasn’t warm, not openly affectionate. But he’d been one of the few in this gilded cage of a family who hadn’t dismissed her outright. When everyone else had sneered at her obsession with soundboards and lyrics instead of balance sheets and stock prices, he’d been the one to quietly ask her questions, to listen, even if he didn’t always understand.

He’d offered to bankroll her studies outright, no strings attached. She’d refused, stubborn to the bone. So they’d struck a compromise: a loan. No charity, no pity. Just an agreement. And she’d honored it - every paycheck, she’d sent a piece back to him until the day her first big check at Sunlight cleared and she paid off the rest in full.

She could still remember the pride in his voice when he called her after receiving it.
“You kept your word. You did it on your terms. That’s worth more than the money, Mira.”

They had an understanding.

He’d wanted his money to mean something, to do more than just multiply behind glass bank walls. She’d wanted to prove she could build her life without bowing to anyone in this house. Somehow, they’d found common ground.

And sitting here now, trapped at this ridiculous table full of hollow words and sharper smiles, she realized: he was the only one she’d truly lost in this family.

The rest could vanish tomorrow, and she wouldn’t blink.

But him…
Yeah. That hurt.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the lunch had blurred together into polite silences and thinly veiled jabs, just like always. By the time they piled into the cars and drove to her grandmother’s estate, Mira felt wrung dry. She braced herself for the inevitable spectacle: the reading of the will.

They sat in the old study, heavy curtains drawn against the sun, the air thick with polished wood and the faintest trace of mothballs. A lawyer cleared his throat and began to read, his voice practiced and even.

As Mira had predicted, most of her grandfather’s assets were passed to her grandmother - houses, accounts, shares - all carefully placed into her care until her own passing. Her father was appointed to handle the administrative details, his face smug with the responsibility.

Then came the smaller bequests.
Her brother received the watch collection, each piece catalogued and pristine. Her father was granted an old classic car, one Mira vaguely remembered gathering dust in one of the garages. Her mother received an antique jewelry set, with a note about her “refined taste.”

And then - 

A name Mira hadn’t expected.

Her own.

She felt her whole body jolt, sitting straighter as the lawyer unfolded a smaller letter, his brow lifting almost imperceptibly before he began to read, while the rest of her family murmured next to her.

“To my little uneun sae. I have always appreciated your refusal to conform, even when it set you apart. I know it has not been easy, and perhaps one day you will change - but I do not think it will be soon, if ever. I admired your resolve to be yourself. I hope you live the life you always wanted, in your own way. That would make me proud.”

The lawyer paused, eyes flicking toward her briefly, before continuing.

“I bequeath to you exactly 91,157,037 ₩.”

A murmur rippled across the room. Her brother’s brows shot up, her mother tilted her head, and her father’s lips thinned in disapproval. Right now they were staying quiet, but she knew that it was only because they did not want to embarrass themselves in front of the lawyer. They would get their jabs in later, she was sure of it. But right now she did not care.

Right now… Mira just sat there.

It wasn’t much, not compared to the fortunes being thrown around, the kind of money that wouldn’t make the slightest dent in her current life. 

But she knew exactly what it meant. It was the exact amount she had paid him back. It was his way of showing her one last time that money was nothing, it was the intention behind it.

Her grandfather wasn’t giving her money. He was giving her back her independence - the one thing she had fought so hard for. It was his way of saying I see you. I always did.

Mira blinked hard, looking down at her hands in her lap, forcing her expression back into neutrality before anyone could read the flicker of heat behind her eyes.

Her brother leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Well. Isn’t that quaint.”

Mira didn’t look at him. She just clenched her jaw and thought: Screw you. He understood me better than any of you ever will.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive home was eerily quiet at first, as if the fact that he had given her ANYTHING had been an affront to so big that none of them had any words for it.

They returned to the house after the will reading, her family eventually falling easily into conversation at some point, their voices blending together into that familiar background drone of judgment and self-importance. Mira didn’t join them. She didn’t say a word. But she felt it. The eyes on her. The judgement.

Her jaw clenched. It's not like the amount of money meant anything to them. It was the fact that he had given her ANYTHING. Her eyes had been glued to the outside of the car window the whole time, but she heard a few subtle jabs whispered about her, mostly from her brother.

When they arrived back her mother announced that tea was soon to be shared in the sit down room, with a disdainful look and a “maybe you should change before that” thrown her way.

Mira didn’t say anything. She just climbed the stairs, heels biting into the carpet, and slipped into the room that had been hers once.

The air was still, the same as always.

Her old room.

Everything in it was frozen in time - furniture arranged the way it had been when she was a teenager, walls blank and colorless, a room no one had thought to update because why bother when the house had more rooms than its residents could ever use. It felt sterile, suffocating. Like the version of herself she’d been forced to be here.

Her jaw clenched tighter.

She stood in the middle of the room, fingers curling at her sides, a slow burn rising in her chest. What the hell was she even doing here? Playing the dutiful daughter for parents who had never once understood her? Letting her brother needle her like a child? Sitting at that table like she was still some wayward daughter to be disciplined? 

Changing at her mothers request because they were going to drink tea together?

This wasn’t her.
It had never been her.

She wasn’t some diamond waiting to be cut, polished, and set into her mother’s necklace, her father’s rings, or her brother’s cufflinks.

She was Mira.

The Ice Queen of Seoul. The producer whose name alone could turn an album into gold. The woman people in the music industry whispered about with equal parts respect and intimidation.

Not this. Not this house. Not this family’s idea of who she should be.

Mira stepped in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. The woman who looked back wasn’t meek or malleable. Her sharp eyes glinted, her posture straight, the faintest curl at the corner of her lips daring anyone to tell her she wasn’t enough.

She continued staring at herself, her reflection as rigid and suffocating as the house itself. The hair pinned back into that neat, lifeless bun. The sleek, suffocating dress her mother had pressed into her hands. Every inch of her screamed their Mira, the obedient, silent disappointment they wanted her to be.

Her jaw tightened. She wasn’t staying another night in this mausoleum of a house. But first she’d give them a reason to REALLY talk about her.

With one sharp movement, she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, letting the strands tumble down over her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it, shaking it loose until it looked like her again. Not perfect. Not polished. Alive. Her eyes fell on the scissors sitting on the desk. She froze, heartbeat thudding in her ears. For a moment she wavered - then her lips curved into the faintest smile.

Screw it.

She grabbed the scissors and started hacking. Clean, elegant lines turned into jagged slashes. Perfect fabric tore into chaotic ribbons. The prim black dress transformed, piece by piece, into something wild, bold, and unmistakably hers. By the time she was done, the mirror reflected not the family’s porcelain doll, but Mira - defiant, sharp, unapologetic. Something that looked more like armor than evening wear.

She smiled at her reflection, small but fierce. That was better. That was her.

Bag slung over her shoulder, Mira strode out of the room and down the stairs.

The living room fell silent the moment she appeared.

Her grandmother’s teacup slipped from her hand, porcelain shattering on the carpet. Her mother gasped, hand flying to her chest like Mira had just stabbed her. Her brother’s jaw went slack, words failing him for once.

And her father - oh, her father - his face turned red, anger bubbling over. “Mira, what in God’s name do you think - ”

Mira cut him off with a raised hand, her smirk razor-sharp.

“You can either accept me as I am,” she said, her voice cool, carrying across the room like a blade, “or the only place you’ll see me again is on billboards. Because whether you like it or not, I am successful. In my way. Not yours.”

She didn’t wait for their replies. She didn’t need them.

Mira turned on her heel and walked out, her head held high, confidence radiating from every step, throwing a middle finger over her shoulder for good measure. Behind her she heard the gasping voices of her mother and grandmother and her fathers angry demand to come back here, this instant!

But all of it was gone the moment the door slammed shut behind her like a gavel with a finality that made her shoulders ease for the first time in days.

By the time her car pulled out of the long driveway, Mira’s hands were steady on the wheel. Her grandfather’s words lingered in her chest, warm despite everything.

She knew exactly who she was.

And it sure as hell wasn’t their Mira.

Chapter Text

Zoey was dead asleep when the mattress beneath her launched. She let out an undignified squeak, blinking blearily as sunlight stabbed at her eyes.

Rumi was grinning down at her like a maniac, bouncing above her on the bed. “Get up!”

Zoey groaned, was this a dream? Normally in dreams like that the face staring down at her didn’t look this… manic.

Dragging a pillow over her face she grumbled. “Why are you like this…”

“Because genius waits for no one.” Rumi tugged the pillow away, then grabbed Zoey’s wrist and hauled her upright. “C’mon, up. Gaja, gaja, gaja.”

Still half-asleep, Zoey stumbled along, hair sticking in every direction. “Puppy, unless you’re about to show me a winning lottery ticket or breakfast, I - ”

Rumi didn’t answer, just pulled her into something that looked a lot like a home studio and let go, diving into a chaotic pile of pages scattered across her desk.
Zoey’s eyes dragged around the room lazily, still half asleep. It had everything that someone like Rumi needed in a studio.

The place was crammed full of instruments, more than Zoey could even name. There were some bigger and smaller keyboards, drum machines and a small mixing console littered around the room. Basses and Guitars were leaning against the walls, standing in guitar racks or hung up on the wall. Some pristine, some battered and scarred with years of use. 

A few of them she recognized from gigs and music videos she had watched over and over again. A few of them carried signatures in fading ink, names Zoey recognized immediately - people whose songs she had blasted in her college dorms, whose posters had once been taped up over her bed. 

And here they were, casually propped against Rumi’s studio wall like it was nothing. And the most Rumi thing about them is that they were not in cases. They were out, clearly used well. 

The shelves were stacked with some more gear: mics, amps, tangled cables, notebooks filled with god-knew-what. The desk was a battlefield of empty cans, cigarette packs, loose sheets of music paper scribbled with messy notes. Several rings of coffee were on the, clearly, expensive desk. She guessed they were from night after night of staying in this room and working on music.

And the walls - oh, the walls. Posters of alternative bands, some so old the edges curled, plastered beside framed photos from festivals and shows.

It wasn’t clean-cut. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t some sterile studio meant to impress guests. It was lived in. It was hers.

Zoey swallowed, her chest tightening with something that wasn’t nerves, wasn’t awe, wasn’t quite anything she had a word for. It was just so… unmistakably Rumi. Raw and alive and unapologetic. Perfect in its own chaos.

She found herself smiling before she even realized it.

When she glanced back at Rumi  -  grinning, messy sheets in her hands, smoke still clinging to her clothes  -  it almost hurt. Because it felt so right.

Hey eyes snapped back onto Rumi that was still rummaging through Scribbles, half-sentences, doodles of broken guitars and bleeding hearts, seemingly looking for something. 

“Yesterday - after you said that thing, about authenticity and - ” Rumi’s words tangled with each other as she shuffled through papers, muttering about drafts, chords, and fragments.

Zoey rubbed her eyes, swaying on her feet. Finally she stepped forward and set both hands on Rumi’s shoulders, steadying her. “Breathe. Okay? Slow down. Rambling’s my job, remember?”

For a moment, Rumi froze. Then she cracked a grin, sharp but real, before facing her desk again. This time her voice was steadier.

“I did it.”

Zoey blinked. “Did… what?”

Rumi turned, holding up a handful of pages like they were proof of divinity. Her eyes were shining, brighter than Zoey had ever seen.

“I wrote something.”

The words hit Zoey like a lightning bolt. For a second she just stood there, jaw slack, until it finally registered.

“You - wait - wrote? As in - you actually - holy shit!”

Her exhaustion evaporated in a rush of adrenaline. Zoey shrieked and started hopping in place like a child on too much sugar. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god - Rumi, you - ”

Rumi laughed, the sound wild and infectious, and then she was jumping too, both of them bouncing around the cluttered studio. Without thinking, she pulled Zoey into a fierce hug, arms tight, laughter still spilling out.

“Thank you,” she kept saying, muffled against Zoey’s shoulder. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Zoey blinked, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Wait - what? Why are you thanking me? I didn’t do anything.”

Rumi stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Didn’t - are you kidding me? You did everything.”

Zoey’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean… everything?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, eyes wide and stunned.

Rumi didn’t answer at first. She just looked at her, really looked at her  -  messy hair, wide eyes, still in a shirt too big for her frame. Someone who didn’t belong in this penthouse at all, and yet somehow fit here better than anyone else ever had.

Zoey shifted under the intensity of her gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her borrowed shirt. “Rumi?”

Finally, Rumi exhaled, a long, shaky breath. “Last night… after you passed out.” She turned, rummaging through the mess again, but this time she wasn’t frantic. Just steady. Almost reverent. “I couldn’t sleep. You’d said all that stuff, about authenticity, about me. And it wouldn’t leave my head.”

She pulled out a CD case, holding it up between two fingers. “So I dug this out. An old album. One I made back when everything… shifted.”

Zoey tilted her head, curiosity winning out over nerves.

Rumi’s voice softened. “It was the first time I wrote without worrying about the market, or image, or what my label wanted. I was just… broken. And I needed to make something to keep myself from shattering completely. That’s what this album was. Raw. Messy. Mine.”

She set the case down on the desk like it was sacred.

“I listened. For the first time in years, I really listened. And it hurt. God, it hurt so much I wanted to rip the headphones off and never touch it again. But then - ” She gestured to the scattered sheets around her. “Then something clicked. Like a door slammed open inside me. I started writing. The words just came, like they’d been waiting for me all this time.”

Rumi turned back to Zoey, her grin breaking through again, sharp but genuine, eyes lit with fire.

“And I wouldn’t have gotten there if it weren’t for you. You pushed me. You reminded me who the hell I am.”

The room went quiet again, but this time the air wasn’t heavy  -  it was charged, alive, buzzing like an amp before a show.

Zoey’s throat felt dry, her brain scrambling to process it all. “So… what you’re saying is…” Her lips twitched into a disbelieving smile. “I’m basically your muse?”

Rumi barked out a laugh, loud and sudden. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

But her smile didn’t fade. Not even a little.

“Well?”

Rumi blinked. “Well what?”

Zoey waved a hand at the guitar rack. “Aren’t you going to show me what you wrote?”

Rumi shifted on her feet, a flash of sheepishness crossing her usually sharp expression. “It’s rough. Not polished at all.”

Zoey grinned, leaning forward. “Authentic to suck sometimes.”

That pulled a laugh out of Rumi, low and genuine before she stepped in front of her guitar rack, scanning over the instruments like a queen surveying her armory, before plucking one off its stand. She dragged two chairs closer, motioning Zoey into one while she plugged the guitar into the tangle of wires and pedals on the floor.

A few soft strums, a twist of the tuning pegs, the faint hum of electricity warming the air. She tested the pedals, chords thrumming through the speakers, then slowed into a picking pattern.

Her eyes flicked up to Zoey, then dropped to the page in front of her.

“I thought maybe it could start like this…”

The picking settled into rhythm. Then Rumi’s voice followed, smoky, imperfect, but achingly alive:

Jokers at the bottom with the radio guitar
Miss me with your problems, leggo, I'mma hit the mall
Face it, we're the problem and the riddle of it all
It's "Who gives a fuck," "Let's live it up," and "Please, pick up my calls"

I can't help you, let it be
Pedal to the pedigree
Metal to the meta scene
Better than the beta, please
I can't help you, let it be
Mother Mary, come for me
Woof, woof, woof
And you'rе barking up my tree, babe
Wolf, wolf, wolf, I cry
Can I see you tonight?

Rumi faltered, muttering under her breath as her pick snagged, then reset, fingers moving again. She let the last note ring out before glancing up at Zoey, eyes searching.

“I haven’t figured out how to tie the two parts together yet, but… the chorus - maybe something like this.”

She adjusted her grip, strummed harder now, building momentum as her voice slipped back in:

Better let the band play, and the band plays
Sorry, got away now, say
Tell me not to wait now, say
Never mind, just hit me up, and love
Never heard your man sing, but he like Cage
I could take it any day, say
I could take it any way, say
Never mind, just hit me up
Dang

Zoey sat frozen.

It wasn’t perfect. Rumi stumbled over a line, cursed under her breath, reset her strumming. But when her eyes were closed during the chorus, brow furrowed, lost entirely in the sound spilling from her fingers and lungs? Zoey felt she wasn’t looking at Ryumi the performer or even Rumi the sarcastic, smoky-voiced menace. She was looking at something raw. Real.

Her chest ached with it. And when the last note faded into silence, Zoey realized she hadn’t breathed for half the demo.

Rumi exhaled, shoulders dropping. Her lashes lifted, uncertainty glinting in her gaze. “Well?” she asked, softer this time.

Zoey stayed where she was, perched on the edge of the chair, hands clenched around the edge like it might anchor her. She’d seen Ryumi on stage in streams and videos. The powerhouse performer, all sharp edges and snarls, lights blazing off her hair while the crowd screamed her name. But this? Sitting cross-legged on a stool in her cluttered studio, hunched over her guitar with cigarette smoke still clinging to her, eyes closed like she was the only person in the universe?

Somehow, it was the most beautiful thing Zoey had ever seen.

Her chest felt too tight, her cheeks hot. She didn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath. Zoey’s throat was dry. She had about a hundred things she could say, and none of them made it past her lips. Only one thought echoed loud in her head: God, I’m so screwed.

Rumi exhaled, long and shaky, like she’d just run a marathon. Her lashes flicked up, eyes searching Zoey’s face, nervous for the first time since Zoey had known her.

Zoey blinked, suddenly aware she’d been staring like a complete idiot. Her heart stuttered. Words. Right. She needed words.

“Holyshitthatwasamazing - like, really amazing - and I know you said it was rough but oh my god if that’s rough then what the hell does finished even sound like because I think I’d probably just die on the spot and - ”

She cut herself off with a squeak, clapping her hands over her mouth. Her face burned hot enough she was sure Rumi could feel it from across the room.

For a second, the only sound was the soft hum of the amp still buzzing under Rumi’s chair. Then, slowly, the corner of Rumi’s mouth tugged up.

“Well,” she drawled, setting her guitar aside, “I’ll take that as a positive review.”

Zoey groaned into her palms, muffled, “Kill me now.”

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

Rumi leaned back in her chair, arms crossed loosely, guitar humming faintly against her knee. Zoey was still hiding her face behind her hands, cheeks flushed, and Rumi couldn’t stop watching her. God, this woman was something else. The most entertaining thing in the world, sure - but there was that smidge of softness in her chest again, the one that seemed to creep in more and more whenever Zoey was around.

Her mind was already spiraling. She had to call Celine - show her she’d finally written something, maybe bargain for her leash to be loosened. Mira too; she’d have to show Mira. She’d be proud - though Mira would never admit that she was outright and Rumi would never admit she cared about Mira’s approval out loud. But overriding everything else was one thought: she needed to find a way to thank Zoey.

Some decidedly not-so-wholesome ideas shot through her head, uninvited and far too vivid. Rumi felt her face warm, immediately shaking her head as if she could scatter them into smoke. Not that. Not right now.

Instead, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded hands atop the guitar, grin curling her lips.
“Well, looks like this time I’m the one who has to figure out how to say thanks.”

Zoey peeked at her between her fingers, still blushing. “You really don’t have to - ”

“Oh, but I do,” Rumi cut in smoothly, sitting up straighter. “I’ll need to call Celine, but after that? We’re going out, provided she loosens my leash. Full night of fun. Food, dancing - I’ll show you a Seoul you’ve never seen before.” Her voice had that dangerous, excited edge, like a promise and a dare all at once.

Zoey’s blush deepened to a shade that made Rumi’s grin widen, but then suddenly Zoey’s eyes went wide. “Oh no. What time is it?!”

Rumi frowned, tapping her phone awake. “It’s uuuuh 7:34am”

Zoey practically shot out of the chair, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Crap crap crap, if I don’t get going soon I’m gonna be late!” She bolted, half frantic, muttering apologies as she darted toward the guest room.

Rumi could only shake her head, a low chuckle leaving her lips. Lovable disaster. She racked the guitar, flipped off her pedal board, and padded toward her bedroom. Passing by the guest room, the muffled hiss of running water reached her ears. Shower. Rumi clenched her jaw, forcing herself to keep walking, doing her absolute best not to think about Zoey beneath that stream of water.

She reached her closet, pulling the doors open and staring at the rows of shirts. Last time she’d tossed Zoey some random thing she didn’t care about. But this time? This time felt different. A stupid, ridiculous need gnawed at her to find the perfect one. Something that would fit, something that would look good, something - 

Rumi groaned at herself, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered. But her hand still hovered, still searching. Finally, she pulled out one of her old band shirts. Loved and well-worn, soft from years of use. A little big, sure - but Zoey would drown in it, and she’d look cute as hell.

Rumi held it up, softly smiling despite herself. “Yeah. This one.”

She padded into the guest room, band shirt folded neatly in her hand. She set it down at the edge of the bed, about to leave, when the bathroom door clicked open.

Zoey walked out, hair damp, towel clutched around her body. She was so busy darting around, frantically trying to gather her things, muttering under her breath about being late, that she didn’t even notice Rumi there, who sat down on the edge of the bed, curious about when the girl would actually notice her.

Until Zoey turned, halfway through fumbling with the edge of her towel - and froze.

Rumi, lounging back on her palms with a grin tugging at her lips, cocked her head. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Zoey’s eyes went wide, her mouth opening and closing like she’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone talk.

Rumi let the moment linger just long enough to watch Zoey’s blush bloom, before she had mercy. She held up the shirt, gave it a lazy flick of her wrist, and tossed it right into Zoey’s arms.
“Relax. This’ll fit you well.” and you’ll look so cute in my clot- no Rumi, now’s not the time.

Before Zoey could stammer out a reply, Rumi pushed herself off the bed and left the room. She headed to the kitchen, pulling her phone from her pocket and texting her driver to swing by the building. Then she leaned against the counter, rummaging through cupboards until she found a few things. She wasn’t about to let Zoey go into the office on an empty stomach. Not when she already knew how hangry the woman could get.

By the time Zoey reemerged, she was dressed: her pants from the day before, her trusty flannel thrown over Rumi’s band shirt. The outfit came together almost too perfectly, casual but striking - exactly like the photo Rumi had in her head.

And damn, she’d been right about the shirt. Seeing Zoey in it sent a little drop of warmth straight through her stomach.

“Here,” Rumi said, pushing a bottle of water, an energy drink, and the snack into Zoey’s hands. “Driver’s on his way. He’ll get you to the office.”

For a second, Zoey just stood there, blinking, as if she couldn’t process it. Then she shook herself and practically bubbled over with thanks, cheeks still faintly pink. She pulled on her shoes, glanced once more at Rumi, and made her way toward the door.

Rumi followed, hands shoved into her pockets. They stood by the elevator, silence stretching just enough to feel like déjà vu. When the doors slid open, Zoey stepped inside. Rumi held the door with one hand, leaning in just a little, their goodbyes soft but easy. Then the doors slid shut.

Rumi let out a long breath, finally letting her shoulders drop. She turned to head back inside - 

Ding.

The doors opened again.

She barely had time to register the sound before Zoey barreled into her, arms flung tight around her.

“Thank you,” Zoey mumbled, and before Rumi could even react, Zoey pressed the quickest of kisses against her cheek.

Rumi froze, eyes widening.

And then Zoey was gone, back into the elevator, waving enthusiastically as the doors slid shut once more.

Rumi just stood there, hand absently lifting to touch the spot on her cheek, a grin threatening to break loose.

-------------------------------------------------------------Z--------------------------------------------------------------

The elevator hummed as it descended, but Zoey barely noticed. Her heart was pounding so hard she swore it echoed in the tiny space. She pressed her back against the cool metal wall, hands flying up to cover her burning face.

“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “Did I just - kiss her?”

The memory replayed in her head in cruel, vivid detail: the way Rumi’s eyes had gone wide, how her cheek had been warm under Zoey’s lips, and the grin she could swear she had seen break through right before the doors closed.

She groaned, sliding down the wall a little, half tempted to sink all the way to the floor.
“Yup. Totally normal behavior, Zoey. Hug her, kiss her, wave like a maniac. Very casual. Great job. And all while wearing her clothes AGAIN. And you didn’t even have sex or anything.”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, and she had to force her legs to move. Out in the foyer, the crisp lobby lights felt far too bright, and Zoey scanned the street outside until she spotted the sleek black car idling at the curb.

Her stomach flipped. Of course Rumi would have a driver that made her feel like she was about to be ferried to some top-secret VIP event instead of just…work.

She clutched the snack and drinks Rumi had shoved into her hands like they were a survival kit and climbed into the backseat. The driver nodded politely when she gave him the office address, then eased the car smoothly into traffic.

Zoey slumped back against the seat, chewing the inside of her cheek. The city rushed past the window in a blur, but all she could think about was the lingering smell of Rumi’s shirt, the weight of the memories from this morning, and the look in Rumi’s eyes before she left.

Work was waiting, sure. Emails, deadlines, meetings. But all Zoey could focus on was the fact that she had just kissed Rumi on the cheek.

And the terrifying, exhilarating truth that she already wanted to do it again.

Chapter Text

Mira tapped the steering wheel with restless fingers as Seoul’s skyline finally unfolded in front of her.

God, finally. Home.

She’d told herself she was going straight to her apartment, maybe crash for a few hours, but her hands turned the wheel before she’d even thought about it. She always did this after her family visits. Go straight to Rumi. Usually it ended with them tearing each other’s clothes off, Mira burning her frustration out on Rumi’s skin.

Except this time? She didn’t feel wrecked, not like usual. She felt… lighter. Her grandfather’s words were still echoing in her head, and the weight her family usually dumped on her shoulders hadn’t quite stuck this time.
Still, her car pulled into Rumi’s building without hesitation. Why break a working system?

The penthouse was the same mess as always  -  ashtrays stacked like some kind of grotesque tower, piles of clothes waiting to be ignored, empty cans kicked against the wall. No Rumi, though. Mira was about to call out when faint sound bled through the air  -  strings, distorted chords, then a muttered curse.

She followed it to the home studio.

Rumi was there, hunched over her guitar, headphones shoved halfway off her ears, brow furrowed like she was ready to fight the strings themselves. She strummed, winced, cursed again.

“Jesus,” Mira said dryly, leaning against the doorframe. “What did that guitar ever do to you?”

Rumi jolted, almost dropping the pick. “Fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that!” She pulled the headphones down around her neck, eyes wide  -  before they lit up with something Mira hadn’t seen in a while. “Wait -  Mira. Mira. Look.”

She scrambled for the stack of papers scattered across the desk, holding them out like a kid shoving a crayon drawing at a parent. “I wrote something. Like actually wrote something.”

Mira raised both brows. “…And the swearing was…?”

Rumi’s grin faltered. She slumped back into her chair, groaning. “The goddamn bridge. It’s killing me. Everything else is fine, but this part -  nothing clicks. It’s like -  it’s -  fuck.”

Mira raised an eyebrow before she just dropped into the nearest chair, crossing one leg over the other. “So what you’re telling me is  I could watch you lose a fight with three chords tonight? Riveting content, I must say.”

Rumi shot her a glare. “Why are you even here? I thought you weren’t due back for a few more days.” Her eyes flicked down Mira’s outfit  -  the ripped, re-stitched rebellion she’d carved out of her dress. “And what’s this? Fashion revolution?”

Mira’s lips twitched. “Long story. Later.” She hesitated a beat, thought about actually going home, showering, maybe breathing for a second. But the itch in her producer brain was too loud. Instead she leaned forward. “Play it.”

Rumi blinked. “What - ”

“Play. What you have.” Mira’s tone left no room for argument.

Rumi grumbled, but the smirk tugged back at her lips as she strapped her guitar back on and struck the first chords, rough but alive, the kind of thing that had Mira’s pulse ticking faster before she even realized it.

Her head bobbed along. She started tapping, soft beats weaving in under the chords. Rumi glanced over, startled, then grinned. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s it.”

“Shut up and keep going,” Mira muttered, her head already working overtime.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hours blurred.
What started as Mira tapping along and tossing out a sharp, “your chorus is strong but you’re missing a middle eight,” turned into Rumi dragging more instruments over, Mira frowning over chord structures, both of them snapping at each other about tempo before immediately trying the other’s suggestion.

Somewhere along the way, frustration gave way to the usual flow. Mira grabbed a small keyboard from Rumi’s shelf, her fingers finding a melody that made Rumi’s head snap up, eyes lighting. “Yes - there, play that again.” She layered it under her riff, and for a moment the entire studio seemed to hum in agreement.

The two of them fell into rhythm  -  Rumi twisting dials on the pedals, Mira layering chords on the keyboard, arguing over phrasing, laughing when they stumbled into something weird that actually worked.

“You’re still flattening that note,” Mira pointed out.

“It’s texture, you corporate robot.”

“Texture my ass, it sounds like you’re strangling a cat.”

They rode the momentum, Mira scribbling down lyrics with her neat, deliberate handwriting where Rumi’s frantic scrawls had been illegible. Together, they took the chaos of loose phrases and half-formed lines and built them into something whole. Rumi kept making jokes about Mira’s producer brain “ruining her raw genius,” and Mira kept muttering about Rumi being an “overgrown teenager with a million-dollar guitar collection,” but the corner of her mouth wouldn’t stop tugging upward.

By the time night had long since crept in through the blinds, they had a rough demo file, a handful of legible lyric sheets, and even outlines for other songs - actual structure, not just scattered ideas. It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But it was real. Tangible. Enough to take to Celine without feeling like wasting her time.

Rumi leaned back in her chair, smoke curling from the cigarette she’d been ignoring as she replayed their demo. “It’s weird,” she admitted, her tone quieter, more genuine than Mira had expected. “Feels like… for the first time in a while, I actually have something worth showing.”

Mira didn’t look at her, busy capping her pen. But there was a faint pride in her voicey she would never admit out loud. “That’s because you do.”

Rumi shot her a look, a crooked grin tugging at her lips. “Was that some rare encouragement from Knag Mira? God, I'm swooning, let me call the papers.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it.

Rumi stretched, arms high over her head until her back cracked. “Well anyway, I need a break before my main brelts.” She flicked ash into the tray and stood up from her chair, watching Mira still bent over the keyboard. “And you - ”

She stepped in front of her, bent just enough to tap Mira’s head with one finger.

Mira’s head snapped up instantly, eyes like steel. Anyone else in the world would’ve crumbled under that glare. Rumi just grinned down at her.

“When was the last time you ate, producer-nim?”

Mira’s mouth opened, clearly ready to snap back that she was fine. But the words stalled, because… shit. Rumi did have a point.

“Exactly,” Rumi said smugly, reading her silence like a book. “So you, shower. Change. I’ll get food. Pizza? Or maybe - ” she let her eyes drag deliberately down Mira’s body, smirk widening - “something a little more satisfying.”

Mira scoffed, standing. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” Rumi hummed, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Keep the dress close though. We might need it later.” She winked.

Mira rolled her eyes but disappeared toward the closer guest bathroom. The shower was quick, utilitarian - until she stepped out, towel wrapped around her, and realized. Wrong bathroom. Wrong room. No closet full of her own things just through a door.

“Perfect,” she muttered under her breath, cursing herself.

Her first instinct was to raid Rumi’s closet quietly. But then… another idea came to her. A wicked little spark she couldn’t quite resist.

By the time she instead walked barefoot down the hall, steam still clinging to her skin, she could hear Rumi rummaging in the kitchen. “So, pizza or - ”

The sentence cut off the second Rumi turned, phone halfway to her ear. Her jaw went slack. The cigarette nearly slipped from her fingers.

Mira smirked. And then the towel dropped.

She made a show of pretending to think, one finger tapping her chin as though weighing her options. “Mm. Pizza does sound good…”

Rumi’s throat bobbed, her grin faltering into something hungrier, rawer. “Funny,” she rasped, eyes burning over her. “I suddenly crave something else.”

Mira tilted her head, enjoying every second of the way Rumi looked like she was seconds from combusting. “Then come get it.”

And with that she turned, deliberate sway in her hips, and walked into Rumi’s room.

Behind her, she could hear the faint thud of hurried footsteps, and Rumi’s voice, low and rough. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Mira stepped into the room like she owned it, shoulders straight, towel forgotten at the threshold. She didn’t bother to check if Rumi was following - because of course she was.

The door clicked shut behind them, quiet but final.

Rumi leaned against it for a second, staring like she couldn’t quite believe this was real. Then she pushed herself off and crossed the space in a few strides, her grin back but sharper now, her voice low. “You’re playing dangerous games, Mira.”

Mira only arched a brow. “What, can’t keep up?”

That was all it took. Rumi’s laugh was half growl as her hand cupped Mira’s jaw, tilting her face down towards her. The kiss that followed wasn’t careful. It was sharp, hungry, the kind of kiss that spoke of pure undiluted need, of missing someone, but not saying it out loud. Mira gave back just as fiercely, fingers tangling in the hem of Rumi’s shirt and tugging until the fabric hit the floor.

[smut up ahead]

It was messy, unpolished, nothing like the calculated control Mira wore around everyone else. Here she let herself unravel, each gasp and sharp inhale stoking the fire further. Clothes disappeared in pieces, scattered without thought, their laughter mingling with the thud of bodies against the mattress.

For all the heat, though, there was a thread of something softer underneath. The way Rumi’s hands left burning wakes on her skin, that in turn made her heart beat faster. 

No, this is not what this is about

And so she did what she always did: she clawed and growled. Whenever Rumi’s kisses got too soft, she bit. When Rumi's hands stilled, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world, she buried her nails in Rumi's skin, until she hissed. 

“Stop being so goddamn nice.”, she spat, when Rumi once again slowed a little too much for her liking. Whatever had gotten Rumi back on track with her writing had also made her soft, and they did not do soft.

When Rumi finally gave in, burying her hands in Mira's hair and pulling her head back until it hurt, leaving bitemarks and hickeys on her body as she descended, instead of kisses, Mira felt at home. This was them. This was what they were good at. 

They didn’t do feelings. They did quick fucks in places where they might get caught. Long nights in Rumi’s Penthouse, that left them gasping but satisfied. Bathrooms, and Quickies and hours of fucking without restraint in their apartments.

Whenever Mira came back from her parents she was especially vicious, often not leaving Rumi’s place for days, making sure the Rockstar looked like she had just lost a barfight, getting all the feelings out that came with her on the drive back.

Similarly, whenever Rumi had a particularly rough day, she used Mira in kind. They left marks and bruises on each other. Using each other as punishing bags to get their frustration out, and that was how it had to be. 

If Rumi suddenly started to be soft with her, she had no idea if she could take it. She didn’t need soft and loving from Rumi in those moments. She needed to feel like she was alive.

But wouldn’t it be nice?

Mira shook the thought away, instead burying her hand in Rumi’s hair, as she bit down on Mira’s thigh, leaving more and more bruises that she had to cover eventually. Pulling her exactly where she wanted her to be, pressing her down until the only thing she could think about at that moment was the feeling of Rumi’s pierced tongue on her.

Concentrating on the push and pull between them. Her whole body felt like one tight spring with every second, the noises coming from her louder and louder, moan after moan tumbling from her lips.

But what eventually undid her was not the bite of Rumi’s teeth or the feeling of Rumi’s tongue dipping inside of her. 

Sudden thoughts of black hair and a grin that was too wide flashed into her mind, making her brow furrow. This was not the moment. She opened her eyes, hoping that it would help leave her head unable to conjure the traitorous images. She looked down to where Rumi was still in between her legs, her eyes trained on Mira. Their eyes met and for a second it felt like the world froze around them. 

Mira craved eye contact whenever she and Ru- when they fucked. She needed it. The look in Rumi’s eyes was fire, concentration furrowing her brow. But there was something else. The same stupid softness in her eyes that Mira had tried to tune out so desperately.

And then Rumi’s eyes fluttered close, her brow smoothing out. Like this was the most important spot right now. Like Mira meant something. And once again her head was filled with the thought of soft lips, she would never taste. With laughter that was too loud, and yet still exactly right.

And it undid her. Her hands clawed the bedsheet underneath her, her back arching as she let out a long, drawn out gasp, before her body eventually relaxed. Rumi’s tongue didn’t still, but it slowed, licking her through it with the utmost care before Mira’s hands shoved her head away.

Rumi pushed herself up and started to crawl up her body, until she was close enough that Mira could grab her and smash their lips together, in a desperate attempt to get this stupid feeling out of her.

Their kiss quickly turned heated again, and soon Rumi’s hips started moving, chasing whatever stimulation they could get. 

Mira pulled back, one hand on Rumi’s neck, the other sliding to the back of her head.

“Aw poor little rockstar, got so turned on from eating me out that you can’t help yourself?”

Normally Rumi would fight back, smirk and make her come again before she even thought about her own pleasure. This time however, Rumi just gave a whimper and nodded, her eyes shut.

Mira’s heart gave a traitorous squeeze at that.

No stop. Fight me, bite me, stop making me feel so-

“If you want to come, then work for it.” she gritted out, cutting the thought of before she could finish it.

She angled her leg just right, so it was pressed up against Rumi’s crotch, whose eyes fluttered open and then closed again, before starting to rut against it.

It didn’t take long before her rhythm started to falter and her forehead dropped to Mira’s, her panting breath coming out hard and fast against Mira’s lips. 

Push her away, she is too close

But her body betrayed her. Instead of pushing Rumi away she let herself stay in the moment. This was about Rumi’s pleasure. She didn’t enjoy the closeness at all. 

Instead she opted to mimic Rumi, moving herself against Rumi’s thigh in between her own legs.

Rumi’s eyes fluttered open for a second at the feeling of it, before she slightly adjusted herself, pressing closer against Mira with her whole body, her forehead still pressed against Mira’s. Moans, gasps and breaths mingled between them, neither of them sure where one started and the other stopped.

Until suddenly Rumi did stop, her whole body going taut for a few seconds before she started to shudder and jerk, Mira following closely behind. 

[No more smut here]

When they stilled, tangled together in the sheets, Rumi collapsed onto Mira, her breath warm against Mira’s collarbone. Mira’s arm draped over her without thinking, anchoring them both. Neither spoke at first, just basking in the afterglow, their bodies pressed close, the silence humming with everything unspoken.

You are pathetic.

After a few minutes, Rumi rolled halfway onto her side, reaching toward her nightstand. A familiar carton slid into view, and with practiced ease she lit up, the glow of the cigarette briefly painting her face in orange.

Mira huffed a quiet laugh. “You are such a walking cliché sometimes.”

Rumi squinted at her, cigarette dangling from her lips. “First of all,” she said around the filter, taking a drag, “I’m not walking. I’m lying down. And second of all, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Mira leaned over, plucking the cigarette neatly from Rumi’s mouth. She took a slow drag herself, letting the smoke curl between them before she smirked. “That cigarettes after sex are a cliché.”

Rumi snorted, propping herself up on an elbow. “But also a killer band.”

Mira rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned in, capturing Rumi’s lips in a deep kiss and exhaling another drag of smoke into her. Rumi blinked, startled for a second, before pulling her closer.

When they finally broke apart, Rumi’s voice came out low, a little rough. “Fuck… that was hot.”

Mira only smirked, leaning back against the pillows, cigarette still between her fingers.

The smoke had barely cleared when Rumi’s gaze slid sideways, a sly little grin tugging at her lips. “So… the dress.”

Mira groaned. “Of course you’d circle back to that.”

“What? You show up in a killer outfit, all mysterious and smug, and don’t tell me why? You know that’s basically emotional torture.”

Mira hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. The reason I was there - why I came back early - was the will.”

Rumi’s brows lifted. “From your grandfather?” Mira nodded. “Ooh, did you inherit something good?”

Mira let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “No. What I got was the most important thing I could ever get from my family, though.” Her voice softened, words measured. “I went back to that house and realized I shouldn’t twist myself for them anymore. They gave me nothing. I needed nothing from them. And I finally saw it. So I tore up the dress. Walked out.”

Silence settled, heavy but not uncomfortable. Rumi’s eyes stayed fixed on her, serious now, the teasing gone. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “I’m proud of you, Mira.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but it lacked bite. “Don’t start.”

“I mean it.” Rumi shifted closer, her hand brushing over Mira’s arm. “Family can be fucked. You drawing those boundaries? That’s huge. That’s you protecting yourself. That’s strength.” Then, softer still, her lips curling into a smirk: “Also… totally punk rock of you.”

The laugh that slipped out of Mira was small but real, pulling at the corners of her mouth despite herself. She shook her head, fighting the smile and losing. “…Yeah. Totally punk rock.”

Rumi grinned at her, satisfied, and for a long moment they just lay there  -  the smoke curling toward the ceiling, the city lights seeping through the curtains, and that rare warmth in the space between them.

-------------------------------------------------------------R--------------------------------------------------------------

Rumi blinked awake to the pale gray of morning pressing against the curtains. Mira was still there, hair mussed, one arm draped over Rumi's stomach in a rare case of morning cuddles. Something the cold producer normally didn't do.

For a moment, Rumi just lay still, staring up at the ceiling and letting the weight of last night settle. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she slipped out of bed and into the shower.

It was nice standing under the spray of warm water, and for once her thoughts seemed to be quiet, narrowed down on the fuzzy feeling inside of her, that she couldn't quite place the origin of. 

When she returned into the bedroom, Mira was already (begrudgingly, as she let Rumi know) awake.

They both ended up in sweatpants and soft tees for the moment, unspoken agreement for comfort before responsibility would soon get them back. Rumi dug out her phone, thumb hovering for a beat before she dialed Celine.

“Finally decided to stop sulking?” Celine’s voice was dry as ever.

Rumi bit back a retort, forcing brightness into her tone. “Yes, good morning to you too, ajumma. Actually, I’ve got something for you. Songs. Notes. Real shit. Mira’s with me - we worked through some stuff yesterday.”

Celine hummed, “Really? Well it seems like there's still surprise and wonder to be had in the world" there was a sound of a calendar flipping in the background, "If you come in 2 hours, I can squeeze you in.”

Rumi smirked. “2 hours it is.” She ended the call and returned to the living room.

Mira looked up from tying her hair, one eyebrow raised. “Well?”

“We’ve got 2 hours. Meeting’s on.”

“Then we’d better go.” Mira stood, smoothing down her shirt. “I want to look professional when I meet with Celine.”

“Professional?” Rumi echoed with mock offense. “What, sweatpants aren’t the new business casual?”

Mira only shot her a flat look before disappearing into the bathroom. Rumi sighed, dragging herself to her own closet. After some debate, she settled on something balanced - black jeans, boots, and a shirt with just enough edge to scream Rumi while still passing as “put together.”

They drove over to Mira’s apartment next. Rumi had been there before, but not lately, so when Mira vanished into her room to change she wandered. The place was alway cleaner, quieter, more curated than her own chaos. She lingered in front of a painting, tilting her head.

“Got that one in Paris,” Mira’s voice floated from the doorway, making her jump slightly. “It’s by Thomas Saliot.”

Rumi nodded, pretending she hadn’t been caught gawking as she looked at the picture. It was pretty simple, a closeup of a mouth and nose, with some blood around it and a tissue stuffed into said nose, “Figures you’d go for something pretentious.”

Mira smirked. “Figures you’d assume that.”

Before Rumi could shoot back, Mira glanced at the clock. “We should head out.”

Rumi frowned. “We’ve got time.”

“I’m not walking into a meeting without coffee and food.” Mira’s tone was final.

Rumi winced, a memory flashing. “Right. Food. That was supposed to be my job last night…”

Mira’s eyebrow rose in wordless judgment.

Rumi held up her hands. “Hey, not my fault you just ambushed me like that. But look, I’ll make it up to you. Breakfast on me.”

“I don’t need you to pay for my breakfast.”

Rumi leaned in with a grin. “Too late. I insist. Consider it… appreciation.”

That earned her the faintest twitch of Mira’s lips. “Then we’re not doing Starbucks. There’s a real breakfast place nearby.”

“Fancy, huh?” Rumi smirked as they stepped into the hall. “What’s the world cost again? After all, you’re my favorite producer.”

Mira didn’t even pause as she jabbed back, “Better be. I am, after all, the producer you sleep with.”

Rumi laughed, sharp and genuine, as the elevator doors slid shut around them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The café Mira dragged them to was one of those places  -  all sleek wooden counters, pressed linen aprons, and coffee that cost more than a normal person, that had to pay rent, could justify spending. She made a face at the menu, muttering something about daylight robbery, but Mira silenced her with a look before sharply telling her to not even think about getting crumbs in her car.

They ended up with coffee and a couple of delicate breakfast plates to sit with. Mira chose something leafy and elegant; Rumi grabbed the first pastry she recognized.

“Not that it’s hurting me financially, but my god how can someone justify spending this much on breakfast?” Rumi mumbled around a bite.

“It’s so worth it,” Mira countered simply, eyes fluttering shut briefly as she sipped her iced americano.

Rumi wanted to argue, but the silence that followed was… comfortable. The kind that wrapped itself around them like an old blanket, steady and warm. Neither of them felt the need to fill it.

When they finally got back on the road, their plates were empty and the morning felt less jagged than it had when it began. Mira was sipping her second coffee, that Rumi had been forced, FORCED SHE TELLS YOU, to buy her.
By the time they arrived at Sunlight Entertainment, Rumi even caught herself humming under her breath.

Bobby was already there, leaning against the wall by the elevators.

“Oh hi Bobby. What are you doing here?” Rumi asked, brow furrowed.

“Celine called me,” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Said as your manager, I should be in the room. Besides…” his gaze softened slightly, “I wanted to see you. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

Rumi flinched, guilt twisting sharp in her stomach. “Shit, sorry Bobby. I should’ve called. Or texted. Something.”

He waved her off. “Not the first time, won’t be the last. I caught up on everything you usually distract me from. Even lined up some potential gigs  -  assuming you’re ready for that kind of talk again.”

Her chest tightened, but she nodded.

“Good.” His eyes flicked past her. “Mira.”

“Bobby,” Mira returned, the corner of her mouth lifting. The two exchanged a few crisp words about projects, deadlines, and who was stealing which assistant this week. Rumi only half-listened, oddly soothed by how easily they slipped into professional shorthand.

“Alright,” Bobby finally said, checking his watch. “We should head up. Don’t want to keep Celine waiting.”

“It’s one elevator ride,” Rumi muttered. “We’re not storming the UN.”

Bobby gave her a look. “Your lack of regard for punctuality doesn’t need to ruin our professional reputations.”

Rumi clutched her chest in mock offense. “Wow. Wounded. Truly.”

Mira snorted, and even Bobby’s mouth twitched. Rumi smiled despite herself, letting them herd her into the elevator.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Celines office was exactly as the last time Rumi had stepped in. The CEO herself sat behind her polished desk, the city skyline stretching behind her like a painted backdrop. Mira and Bobby flanked Rumi on either side, with the folder full of their handiwork firmly under Miras arm. Rumi sat on her chair, her restless knee bouncing under the table.

“Well?” Celine’s gaze cut sharp as glass. “Show me.”

Mira slid the folder across the table, her voice brisk. “Lyrics, rough demos, three fleshed-out concepts, and a stack of legible notes for further development.”

Celine flipped through the papers, one brow arched. The room went quiet but for the turning of pages and the occasional tap of her pen against the table. 

“Tell me about your process." 

Rumi immediately excitedly started to explain everything, with Mira throwing in some producer insight when Rumi’s excitement got the better of her.

She stopped only when Celine finally looked up.

“This is more than I expected from you.”

Rumi grinned. “What can I say, I’m full of surprises.”

Celine’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get cocky. This is a good start. But if you think one folder full of concepts and ideas excuses all that wasted time, you’re mistaken.”

The grin dropped from Rumi’s face. “I know.”

“Do you?” Celine’s tone softened, but only slightly. “Because I will not allow you to slip back into bad habits. If you want your career to mean something, you cannot slack now. This momentum - ” she tapped the folder with her pen, “ - you keep it going. Understood?”

Rumi straightened, her voice firmer than she felt. “Understood. I will.”

Celine studied her for a long moment before finally nodding. “Good.” She snapped the folder shut and looked at Mira and Bobby “That will be all for you. Rumi, please stay a moment longer”

Mira gave her a look that hovered somewhere between sympathy and pride, while Bobby clapped her shoulder, flashing a quiet thumbs-up. Rumi managed a crooked grin in their direction before taking a quiet breath and steeling herself for whatever Celine had to say.

The CEO didn’t speak right away, staring instead out the wide glass window. When she did, her voice was quieter. “I’ll admit I’m impressed. You pulled all of this together… how long have you been working on it?”

Rumi hesitated, then shrugged. “The drafts and ideas? One night. But Mira and I - ” her voice caught briefly, “ - we worked on them last night to make them presentable.”

Celine turned, folding her hands on the desk. “Then take whatever gave you this inspiration and keep it close. It doesn’t matter what it is. Just don’t lose it.”

Rumi’s mind slipped immediately to Zoey  -  the laugh, the eyes, the way she tore down her walls without even trying. A smile, soft and involuntary, tugged at her mouth. “I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do.” For just a flicker, something gentler crossed Celine’s expression, almost like a proud aunt catching a glimpse of the child she’d helped raise. But it vanished quickly, replaced by the crisp mask of the CEO as she sat down again and shuffled a stack of documents.

Knowing that this meant she was dismissed, Rumi couldn’t resist a grin. She snapped her hand up in a lazy salute. “Yes, my CEO Celine.”

Celine waved her off without looking up. “That will be all.”

Despite herself, Rumi left with a smile tugging wider and wider across her face. She had barely reached the door when Celine’s voice called out again.

“Oh and Rumi, you’re free to go out again. Don’t overdo it with your newfound freedom.”

Rumi’s smile broke into a full grin this time. “Got it.”

And then she was out in the hall, lighter on her feet than she had been in weeks.

For a moment Rumi just leaned against the door, exhaling slowly. The adrenaline of the meeting was still buzzing faintly in her veins, but it was drowned out by the glow of victory warming her chest.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Mira.

From: Ice Queen
We’re in Bobby’s office.

A grin curled at her lips. She could already picture Mira’s expectant stare and Bobby’s raised brows. Which meant it was the perfect opportunity to mess with them.

She schooled her features into something appropriately grim and stalked down the hall, shoulders tight, jaw set. By the time she pushed open the door to Bobby’s office, she looked like someone delivering the worst possible news.

Both heads snapped up immediately. Mira stiffened in her chair, eyes narrowing, while Bobby froze halfway through tapping on his keyboard.

The contrast to Celine’s icebox of a room almost made Rumi break character on the spot. Bobby’s office was all warmth and clutter: sunlight spilling in from wide windows, shelves crammed with books and old records, his desk an organized chaos of paperwork, coffee mugs, and little trinkets. The walls were dotted with framed photographs  -  clients at award shows, backstage candids, even a couple of shots of her over the years.

Her eyes caught one where she was passed out on a couch in the background, curled up like a cat, while Bobby posed in the foreground with finger guns and the dumbest grin imaginable. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her expression solemn.

She let the silence stretch, stepping inside like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “Well…” she said, sighing heavily. “It’s over.”

Mira’s spine went rigid. Bobby’s mouth opened.

And then Rumi broke. A wolfish grin split her face. “I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me in public again, because this bitch has gotten her freedom back.”

Mira groaned and slumped back in her chair, muttering something vicious under her breath, while Bobby barked a laugh and tossed a balled-up sticky note at her.

“You’re an ass,” Mira snapped, but there was no real heat in it.

“Guilty,” Rumi said, finally letting herself drop onto the spare chair like a weight had been cut loose from her chest.

“So she just said you were free?”

Rumi clicked her tongue. “Yes and no. She said I’m free to wander the streets of Seoul once more, but only if I keep at it with the songwriting. Otherwise, it’s back to the tower of doom and un-inspiredness.”

Bobby shifted in his seat, resting his chin on his fists in the most absurdly adorable way. Rumi almost wanted to vault over the desk and squeeze his face to death.

“Well, Rumi,” he said, voice gentle, “the important thing is you’re not confined anymore. I hated knowing you were stuck in there and I couldn’t do anything.”

Rumi waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it, Bobby. You don’t make those decisions.” She pushed to her feet, arching her back in a stretch before flicking her gaze toward Mira, expectant.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You in? It's Friday and I already have at least 57 ideas in my head on what we could get up to.”

Mira exhaled through her nose, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth. “Sure. I could use a night of debauchery, I guess.”

“Then it’s settled.” Rumi grinned, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll text Zoey. Promised her we’d go out the second the Rumi-embargo was lifted.”

Chapter Text

Zoey’s phone buzzed against the desk, jolting her out of the spreadsheet hell she’d been drowning in. She tugged it closer, thumb swiping the screen.

From: Detective P.
mtng went well. u up 4 2nite?

Zoey blinked at the message, her heart doing that annoying fluttery thing again. Tonight. Oh god. She thought back to her last night out with Mira, the chaos and the warmth of it, and how it ended with her hugging. Would going out with Rumi be like that? 

Another buzz.

From: Detective P.
mira’s cmin 2

Zoey squinted at the screen. Did Rumi have superpowers? Could she read minds now? Because the timing was way too perfect.

Shaking her head, Zoey typed back quickly

Zoey:
TOTALLY in!!! Can’t wait to hang out with you guys!!! 🥳💖✨

She hit send and only then did it occur to her. She had never actually hung out with both of them at the same time. Sure, Mira and her had met up a few times and gone to the cat café or something like that when their lunch breaks overlapped, but never the three of them.

Her stomach flipped. What if they were completely different together? What if she didn’t fit into their dynamic at all? What if they realized she was the awkward extra wheel and quietly decided to leave her behind?

Zoey dropped her forehead onto the desk with a groan. Classic. Absolutely classic Zoey. Leave it to her to take something fun and immediately spin it into a disaster scenario.

She lifted her head again, giving herself a little shake. Nope. Not doing this now. She could panic later. Right now, she had work to finish.

Her phone buzzed again with another notification, but this time she shoved it face-down on the desk and forced her attention back to the screen. If she didn’t, she’d spend the rest of the afternoon spiraling about what to wear and how not to embarrass herself.

a few hours later

Zoey’s room looked like a battlefield. Jeans tossed across the bed, shirts hanging off the back of her chair, a jacket she was sure would work now crumpled in the corner like it had betrayed her personally. Every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror she groaned louder, muttering things like “too casual,” “too try-hard,” and “oh god, what if they think I’m a clown.”

By the time she flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling like it might offer divine fashion guidance, she was dangerously close to canceling altogether. But then her eyes landed on the one shirt she hadn’t touched yet. The ridiculous, bright, floral button-up she’d bought on a whim because it looked “fun.”

“Okay,” she muttered, dragging herself upright. “If nothing else, you’re… memorable.”

She paired it with cuffed jeans, a plain yellow tee underneath, and her trusty boots. When she looked in the mirror this time, she still felt her stomach twist with nerves, but at least she didn’t hate it. It was colorful, loud, maybe a little dorky - but it was her.

Hair next. Which turned into its own war. She fussed with it for ten minutes straight, pushing it back, pulling it forward, tying it up, letting it loose, before dropping her brush with a groan. “Who even cares, it’s just hair.” Except she cared. She wanted to look good.

Her reflection looked back at her, wide-eyed, on the edge of spiraling again. Zoey planted her hands on the sink and took a deep breath.

“Alright, listen. You are going to go out. You are going to hang out with your friends. You are not going to combust from awkwardness. You’ve got this. You’re a grown up woman how will hang out with her friends. You- ”

Her phone buzzed against the counter. She froze, then snatched it up.

From: Detective P.
outside

“Oh god,” Zoey whispered.

She stared at herself one more time in the mirror, forcing her shoulders back. “It’ll be fine,” she told her reflection. “It. Will. Be. Fine.”

With that, she shoved her phone into her pocket, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door before she could change her mind.

Zoey stepped out of her building, tugging at the hem of her shirt one last time like it might magically transform into something cooler. Her eyes scanned the street - and then froze.

The car was there, the same sleek one that always seemed to materialize when Rumi was involved, parked casually on the curb like it owned the spot. But it wasn’t the car that made her breath hitch.

It was them.

Mira and Rumi leaned against the hood like they’d been born doing it, a single cigarette lazily passed between them. Smoke curled in the evening air, framing them like a scene out of some indie movie Zoey definitely wasn’t cool enough to be in.

Rumi was dressed in all black - fishnet sleeves hugging her arms, cropped top showing off her abs and tattoos, combat pants hanging loose but sharp. She looked dangerous, magnetic, untouchable.

And Mira - Zoey had to blink twice. Short plaid jacket, black skirt hugging her hips, fishnet tights and knee-highs cutting sharp lines down her legs. Every inch of her screamed confidence, the kind Zoey could only fake for about three seconds before tripping over her own shoes.

Oh.

Oh no.

Zoey’s stomach sank as the realization hit like a truck: they didn’t just look good. They looked hot. The kind of hot that made the air thrum, the kind that made other people turn and stare. And together, they looked devastating. A perfectly mismatched pair, one sharp edges, one velvet steel, both impossibly magnetic.

And Zoey?

She glanced down at herself - the floral shirt, the rolled jeans, the boots she thought looked edgy at the time. Now they just looked… silly. Like she’d wandered blind into her closet and let chaos theory do the rest.

She groaned under her breath, scrubbing a hand over her face. It will be fine, she had told herself upstairs. It. Will. Be. Fine.

Her pulse jumped as Mira turned her head, spotting her first. She nudged Rumi, who turned to look at her too, exhaling smoke through a grin that looked like trouble and home all at once.

Nope. Not fine. Not fine at all. She was so screwed.

Zoey realized with dawning horror that there was no way out now. They’d already seen her. Mira’s sharp eyes had caught her first, and Rumi’s grin followed. Abort mission, abort mission - 

Her legs carried her forward anyway, awkwardly stiff, like she was walking into a firing squad. They stepped off the car at the same time, closing the distance.

Rumi let out a low, appreciative whistle, lips curling into something that made Zoey’s stomach swoop.
“Well, well,” she drawled, tilting her head. “Who’s this handsome girl here? Did you dress up just for us, gorgeous?”

Zoey’s brain promptly short-circuited. Did Rumi just - what? Handsome? Gorgeous? Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Mira rolled her eyes, passing the cigarette back to Rumi. “Stop teasing.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes weren’t - Zoey caught the way they flicked up and down, deliberate, slow, taking her in.

Before Zoey could combust on the spot, Mira stepped in close and wrapped her in a hug. Just like that. Like it was normal. Zoey stiffened, then melted into it because - what else could she do?

Rumi, not to be outdone, stubbed out the cigarette on the curb and pulled her in right after, smelling of smoke and sandalwood and something that made Zoey’s knees weak.

By the time Zoey blinked back to herself, her brain had caught up just enough to sputter, “You - you don’t actually think that. Not about me.”

Mira raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t we?”

Zoey flailed for an answer, gesturing between the two of them like that explained everything. “Because look at you! Both of you! You look like - like supermodels. No - better than supermodels. And me, I just - ” She waved a limp hand at her floral shirt and boots, defeated.

She was halfway into the spiral when Mira cut her off smoothly. “You look great, Zoey. Seriously. I love the outfit.”

Zoey blinked. Then blinked again. Her cheeks warmed, blood rushing hot under her skin. Mira’s tone was casual, almost offhand - but there was no mistaking the sincerity.

And just like that, Zoey’s brain went static.

Rumi jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at the car. “Alright, girls. The night’s short. Let’s get going.”

Mira snorted softly. “It’s not like we’ll be waiting in line anywhere. You know that.”

“Yeah, well,” Rumi shrugged, grinning. “Doesn’t mean I wanna waste a single second of my first night back in freedom.”

They strode back to the car. Rumi swung the door open with a dramatic flourish, bowing like a stagehand as she held out a hand for Mira. Mira gave her a look, but she still smirked and placed her hand in Rumi’s, letting herself be guided in. Smooth as ever. Then Rumi turned, extending her hand to Zoey with the same theatrical grace. Zoey just stood there, still half-stunned, until Mira’s head popped back out of the car. “Get in before she combusts.”

That snapped her out of it. Zoey slipped her hand into Rumi’s - warm, calloused, steady - and swallowed hard as her stomach did a traitorous flip. She climbed in, settling next to Mira, before Rumi followed and let herself flop down on the other side.

The car was more than spacious enough for three. Honestly, they could've all lain down flat, and they wouldn't even touch. Which made it all the more unfair that Zoey was suddenly pressed right in the middle, Mira’s thigh against hers on one side, Rumi’s arm brushing hers on the other. She sat there frozen, borderline squished between them, every nerve ending blazing. This is fine. Totally fine. Really, absolutely, completely - holy shit. Don’t panic.

She tuned back in when Rumi’s voice cut through her spiral.

“So, I say bar. Easy start.”

Mira’s head swiveled toward her, one eyebrow arched. “I didn’t dress up like this for a bar, Rumi. None of us did.” Her eyes flicked to Zoey, deliberate. “We all look way too good for one of your bars.”

Zoey made a strangled noise, heat creeping into her ears.

“Alright, then, producer lady,” Rumi shot back, grinning. “What’s your big idea?”

Mira smirked, but before she could answer, both their gazes landed squarely on Zoey.

Zoey blinked, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “I - I have no idea about Seoul nightlife! Don’t look at me for help!”

Rumi snorted. Mira smirked wider. And Zoey, squished between them, tried not to combust on the spot.

"Zoey, I don't want you to give me a location, just a vibe."

Zoey felt the bush creep up her neck, as she sheepishly murmured "Oh, well. I mean I'm fine with whatever. But dancing sounds good."

Rumi huffed, throwing up her hands in mock defeat. “Fine. Compromise. How about the club where we went a few months ago Mira, the one with the two floors? It’s not too high end but upscale enough for our queen over here and the drinks are good. Turns into a full-blown hotspot once it gets late and we know for a fact that it's discreet enough to not worry about paps. Happy?”

Mira raised and eyebrow. "The one where we were the night this whole dilemma started?" Rumi just grinned, before Mira gave a little hum of approval. Zoey just nodded, still too busy not combusting to protest.

“Good,” Rumi said,  giving the address to the driver who nodded and smoothly drive the car into the evening traffic. The partition rolled up with a soft click, cutting them off from the front.

Zoey leaned back in her seat, trying to relax. Upscale. Turns into a Hotspot. Sounded expensive. Her brain immediately flipped into panic math mode -  I needed to check my account balance, she thought, wondering how many drinks she could order without bankrupting herself, if she could get away with some excuse to “just have water.”

A finger tapped lightly against her forehead. She jolted.

“You’re a thousand miles away,” Rumi drawled, watching her with one eyebrow raised.

“I - uh, no, I was just - ” Zoey stammered, heat creeping into her cheeks. She scrambled for words, a lie already forming in her throat about how it's nothing. But something about tonight, about them, seemed to disarm her people pleasing tendencies, making her sigh. “…I was just thinking that it sounds expensive and I, um, have to watch my money a little.”

Mira’s eyebrow arched in that sharp, perfect way that always made Zoey feel pinned in place. “You won’t pay a cent tonight.”

Zoey’s head snapped toward her. “Wait - what do you mean?”

Mira smirked, leaning in just close enough to rest her arm casually along the back of the seat behind Zoey. The heat off her body was distracting enough, but her tone was even worse: confident, teasing, almost smug. “I mean,” she said smoothly, “our very own rockstar princess over there’s picking up the tab with her stupid unlimited black card.”

Zoey short-circuited. Again.

Her wide eyes darted toward Rumi, who was already watching her with an infuriatingly smug grin.

“You - what? You’re paying?” Zoey blurted, staring at Rumi like she’d just announced she bought the moon.

Rumi leaned back in her seat, draping an arm along the top of the booth-like leather as if she owned not just the car but the entire city outside. “Of course I’m paying. First night of freedom again? That calls for celebration. And besides…” her smirk widened, sharp but soft around the edges, “do you really think I’d let you buy your own drinks when you’re out with me?”

Zoey opened her mouth, then shut it. Opened it again. “But - I can’t just - ”

Mira cut her off with a low laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t bother. She won’t budge. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Zoey whipped toward her. “You’ve tried?”

“Mm,” Mira hummed, eyes glinting as she adjusted her skirt. “Every time. She just throws money like it’s nothing. Rockstar perks.”

“I do not throw money,” Rumi interrupted, mock-offended. “I strategically invest in good nights. There’s a difference.”

Zoey pressed her hands into her thighs, trying not to combust at the way they volleyed so easily over her head. “But it’s not fair! I mean, I’m just - ”

“You’re just with us,” Rumi cut in, voice low and certain. “That’s all that matters. So relax, gorgeous. Your wallet can stay home.”

And just like that, Zoey’s brain blue-screened. Again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car slowed to a stop, and Zoey’s eyes went wide. The sidewalk was already packed - people smoking in loose clusters, women in glittering dresses laughing too loudly, men checking their reflections in darkened windows, and a long line of hopefuls craning their necks toward the velvet ropes.

Back home in Cali, Zoey would’ve been one of them. The kind of girl who crossed her fingers at the door, hoping the bouncer liked her outfit enough to wave her in. But here? She stared at the neon sign above the entrance: SAJA PRIDE. Even the name dripped prestige, like a place she’d never belong in a million years.

Meanwhile, Mira and Rumi didn’t hesitate for even half a second. They moved like they owned the damn place. The car door clicked open and cool night air rushed in. Zoey shuffled after them, her boots hitting pavement that suddenly felt much too expensive for her soles.

Rumi leaned casually into the open passenger window, murmuring a few last instructions to her driver before slapping the roof of the car. The vehicle pulled away with smooth precision, leaving the three of them standing under the glow of the sign.

Zoey swallowed, her throat dry. “Uh… we’re… going in there?”

Rumi threw her a grin over her shoulder, the fishnet of her shirt glinting in the light. “Of course we are.”

Mira was already striding toward the entrance, skirt swishing like it was part of the night itself. She didn’t even look back as she tossed over, “Come on, Zoey. Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

Zoey hurried to catch up, muttering under her breath, “Nervous is an understatement.”

The line stretched all the way down the block, restless murmurs rising as they cut straight to the front. Someone muttered about “rich assholes” under their breath, another hissed in annoyance. Zoey wanted to melt into the pavement. She wasn’t used to cutting in line - hell, she’d never even been allowed to cut before.

The bouncer straightened as they approached, opening his mouth to say something, but before he could, the thump of boots on pavement cut through the air. Rumi caught up to them, and the low murmur of the crowd shifted immediately into whispers. A few cell phones were already up, camera shutters clicking.

Rumi stepped confidently in front, posture screaming rockstar. The bouncer’s expression faltered - whatever words he had died in his throat. Without hesitation, he unhooked the velvet rope and moved to close it behind her.

Rumi froze mid-step, pivoting sharply on her heel. She leveled him with a glare so sharp Zoey swore she saw the man shrink an inch. Her voice dropped into an exaggerated diva drawl. “Are you serious right now?”

The bouncer blinked, unsure.

Rumi rolled her eyes like it was the biggest inconvenience in the world, jabbing a thumb toward Mira and Zoey. “They came with me.”

Mira already had her arms crossed, lips pursed in her signature glare. At his hesitation she rolled her eyes and strode past him, leaving Zoey, so stiff she might have passed for a statue, behind.

The man hesitated, then stammered, “I - I didn’t realize they were with you.”

“Open your goddamn eyes then next time,” Rumi snapped, yanking Zoey gently by the arm and pulling her forward. “We arrived in the same car.”

The bouncer bowed slightly, muttering apologies, but Rumi didn’t spare him another glance as she swept Zoey inside.

Mira was already waiting just past the door, casually refreshing her lipstick in a tiny hand mirror. When she spotted them, she arched a brow. “What, didn’t make him pee his pants this time?”
Rumi grinned, shaking her head. “No. But I was so close.”

Zoey blinked, looking between the two of them like she’d just stumbled into an alternate reality. Did they…do this often?

Mira caught her expression and snapped her mirror closed with a smirk. “Don’t look so shocked. Rumi likes to torment people with her status.”

“Only when they deserve it,” Rumi said airily.

Mira hummed, unconvinced, before tucking the mirror into her purse. She adjusted her skirt, looked at Rumi expectantly, and said, “I need a drink.”

Rumi bowed low, dramatically, and extended her arms to both of them. “Of course, my ice queen. V.I.P awaits.”

Zoey hesitated only a moment before looping her arm with Rumi’s, her heart still hammering from the encounter.

This was so out of everything she ever did when clubbing. The main room opened up before them and Zoey’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

This place was huge. Bigger than anything she’d ever seen back home. Neon lights washed over the crowd in dizzying colors, shadows rolling with the bass that practically vibrated her ribs. The ground floor stretched out like a cathedral to decadence - massive bar, massive dance floor, and speakers so large they looked like they could level a city block if they wanted. The bass thrummed deep, shaking her down to her soul.

From where she stood, she could already make out a section in the back crammed with booths, every one of them packed with people. The bar was just as swamped, a sea of hands raised desperately for drinks. God, it’d take an hour just to get a shot.

But Rumi didn’t stop at the bar. She didn’t even pause. She tugged Zoey and Mira deeper into the club, weaving between bodies and past the thundering dancefloor.

Zoey frowned, raising her voice to be heard. “Uh, Rumi? Where are we - ”

Before she could finish, they stopped in front of a sleek black door. The letters “VIP” gleamed across the front in bold chrome.

The bouncer looked up, clocked Rumi instantly, and stood aside without hesitation, swinging the door open. Behind it was a staircase lined with subtle strips of LED lighting. As they stepped inside, Rumi tossed over her shoulder, casual as could be: “We’ll take the excelsior package tonight.”

Zoey blinked. The what now?

The bouncer nodded stiffly, lifting a walkie-talkie to his mouth. As the heavy door thudded shut behind them, she caught bits of his murmured orders. Her stomach fluttered. This wasn’t just VIP - this was whatever came above VIP.

The upper floor was a whole new world. Spacious, plush, and quieter by comparison, though the bass still pulsed beneath their feet. The booths up here weren’t the cramped leather ones downstairs - they were velvet, curved, elegant, almost decadent. Another dancefloor glimmered off to the side, packed but not suffocating. The bar was practically empty, waiters gliding between tables with entire bottles of liquor balanced on trays.

Zoey was still gawking when a man in a perfectly tailored suit approached, bowing so low she worried he’d snap his spine. “Ryumi-ssi,” he said with reverence, “it is an honor to have you here tonight. Please, this way.”

He led them past the other booths to one tucked in the back, clearly set apart. It gleamed with soft lighting, cushions even plusher than the others, a sleek tablet attached to the table for instant orders.

Zoey swallowed. This wasn’t just VIP. This was VIP of the VIP.

The man gestured for them to sit. Once they did, he bowed again, voice deep with sincerity. “Of course, everything tonight will be complimentary. Your presence alone honors our establishment.”

Zoey’s jaw almost hit the table. Complimentary?! This looked like the kind of place that charged more for a single drink than she’d spend on groceries in a week.

But Rumi just waved a lazy hand, already leaning back like a queen in her booth. “Appreciate the thought,” she said smoothly, “but no. I invited my friends tonight, and I’m paying. Put it all on my tab.”

The man hesitated. “But - ”

“I said,” Rumi cut him off, her tone sharp enough to slice, “I’ll pay. That’s final.”

There was no arguing with that. He bowed lower still. “As you wish, Ryumi-ssi. Should anything be less than perfect, I will personally see to it.”

With that, he left them alone, and Zoey exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The booth seemed to swallow them whole, plush velvet pressing against Zoey’s back as she sat between Rumi and Mira. The bass thrummed faintly through the floor, a pulse that matched far too neatly with her racing heartbeat.

Rumi stretched lazily, throwing an arm along the back of the booth - dangerously close to Zoey’s shoulders, though not quite touching. Mira, meanwhile, leaned in from the other side, chin propped on her hand, eyes flicking over Rumi with deliberate slowness.

“You really do clean up when you want to,” Mira drawled, voice smooth as silk.

Rumi’s smirk widened. “Careful, Ice Queen. Say things like that and people will think you’re actually fond of me.”

Mira didn’t flinch. She leaned closer, close enough that their noses almost brushed, her smile sharp and wicked. “Oh, who says I’m not?”

Zoey forgot how to breathe. She was right there, watching as Seoul’s most infamous artist and its most terrifyingly brilliant producer hovered an inch from kissing, trading barbs like foreplay. Her stomach flipped so violently she thought she might actually die in this booth, surrounded by velvet and expensive perfume.

And then, as casually as if she hadn’t just set the air on fire, Mira leaned back, smoothing her skirt. “Still waiting on that drink, though.”

Zoey almost choked.

Rumi threw her head back and laughed, the sound low and unrestrained. “Then order, Your Majesty.”

Mira plucked the tablet from the stand with a graceful flick, scrolling through the impossibly long menu. “Hmm. A round of shots to start.”

Rumi hummed her agreement, drumming her fingers on the table. Then both pairs of eyes swung to Zoey.

She blinked, still trying to will her heart back into her chest. “Uh - shots. Shots sound really good right now.”

Mira arched a brow. “What’s your poison?”

Zoey’s mouth went dry. “Um. Usually… whatever’s cheapest?”

That earned her twin looks - Mira’s amused, Rumi’s downright predatory.

“Perfect,” Rumi declared. “Then we’ll take the most expensive.”

Zoey’s jaw hit the table. What the fuck.

Neither of them noticed. They were already leaning together, heads bent over the tablet, murmuring options back and forth. Zoey caught snippets - words like Hibiki 21 Year, Louis XIII cognac, The Macallan Fine & Rare. Numbers with so many zeros her brain short-circuited.

Finally, Mira tapped the screen with satisfaction. “Kors Vodka 24k, yeah that’ll do. And for the rest - ” Mira scrolled a little more, not even looking up as she ticked off the selections. “Espresso Martini for me. Top-shelf whiskey for our rockstar.”

Rumi blew her a kiss that Mira pretends to swat it away, lips twitching.

“And…” Mira’s eyes flicked to Zoey, the smirk curling sharper. “A cocktail for our little American. Something fruity. You’ll thank me later.”

Zoey nodded dumbly, heat creeping up her neck. She was absolutely, one hundred percent going to combust tonight.

The booth was buzzing with easy chatter between Rumi and Mira - something about the DJ rotation upstairs, how this club poached talent from half the scene in Seoul. Zoey tried to follow, she really did, but her attention kept drifting in the borderline overstimulating surroundings.

The VIP floor had its own DJ booth. Not just some feed from the speakers downstairs. The lights were sharper here, synchronized with the beat. The crowd looked different too - designer clothes, sparkling jewelry, laughter that cut through the bass like champagne fizz. It was surreal.

She’d been in clubs back home where the sticky floor glued your shoes down if you stood too long. This? This felt like another planet.

Before she could sink further into her thoughts, a waiter appeared like magic. A silver tray gleamed with their order: three tall shot glasses of vodka that looked more expensive than her rent, Mira’s pristine martini, Rumi’s amber whiskey, and Zoey’s cocktail - a shimmering galaxy of liquid starlight, garnished with fruit.

The glasses were distributed with practiced elegance. Rumi raised hers first, smirk sharp in the glow of the table light. “To my freedom. May it last longer than my last one.”

Mira clinked against hers with a sly little smile. “To keeping you out of trouble - ”

Zoey scrambled to lift her own glass, her voice barely audible. “To… uh, both of those things?”

They all laughed and threw the vodka back.

Zoey braced herself for the usual burn, for the fire that clawed down her throat every time she’d had vodka before. Instead, it slid smooth as water, cool and weightless, gone before she could even gasp.

She let out a startled noise she couldn’t smother making two sets of eyes snap toward her.

Rumi tilted her head, amused. “What’s that sound? Don’t like it?”

“No - no, it’s not that!” Zoey scrambled, waving her hands. “It’s just… usually vodka makes me feel like I swallowed paint thinner. That - ” she held up the empty shot glass, staring at it like it had betrayed her, “ - went down easier than water.”

Rumi’s grin turned feral. She leaned in until Zoey could smell the faint smoke clinging to her. “Welcome to the rich kid club, baby. Where the booze is smoother than a goddamn slip ’n slide.”

Zoey squeaked, her stomach somersaulting again.

Rumi just chuckled and picked up her whiskey, swirling it in the glass before taking a slow sip. She hummed in approval, tilting the glass toward Mira. “Not bad. You know me too well.”

Mira smirked, sipping her martini with infuriating calm. “Please. Some of the crap you drink when left unsupervised is closer to shoe polish than liquor. You’re easy.”

Zoey blinked at them, still trying to get her pulse under control, when Mira’s shoulder brushed hers. A gentle nudge. Mira inclined her head toward the cocktail waiting untouched in front of her.

Zoey looked down.

It was like holding a glass of space. Swirls of deep purple and blue shimmered under the club lights, tiny glitters catching like stars. Fruit floated lazily on top like planets. She hesitated, half in awe, half terrified to mess it up.

Zoey hesitated, fingers tightening on the glass. It almost felt wrong to drink something that pretty, like she was about to swallow a piece of the Milky Way. But with both Mira and Rumi watching her, waiting, she couldn’t stall forever.

She brought the glass to her lips, tilted carefully - 

 - and promptly got hit in the nose by the garnish.

“Shit - !” she yelped, flinching back as a cherry skittered across the table. The drink sloshed dangerously, a few drops catching the light as they splattered on her wrist.

Mira arched one perfect brow, deadpan. “Elegant.”

Rumi, on the other hand, threw her head back and howled with laughter, nearly spilling her own whiskey. “Oh my god, Zo, did you just lose a fight with fruit?”

Zoey’s face burned hot enough to outshine the neon lights. “It - It attacked me first!” she blurted, fumbling for a napkin to dab her wrist.

That only made Rumi laugh harder, wheezing between words. “The galaxy drink - too powerful - took her out on the first sip!”

Mira shook her head, but Zoey didn’t miss the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth that might have been a smile. “Just drink it properly before you cause an interstellar incident.”

Mortified, Zoey tried again - more carefully this time. The liquid hit her tongue, and her eyes went wide. Sweet, citrusy, with just enough kick underneath to make her toes curl. She blurted without thinking:

“Oh my god. That’s…dangerously good.”

“See?” Mira murmured, sipping her martini like she wasn’t watching Zoey implode. “You’ll survive the night after all.”

Rumi leaned closer, grin still wolfish. “Or she’ll get drunk off one galaxy and we’ll have to carry her home. Place your bets now.”

Zoey groaned and hid her face behind the shimmering drink, which only made them both laugh harder.

Her salvation comes from Mira, as she downs the rest of her Martini and tells them that she wants to dance. Rumi just shrugs, saying she’s down. They once again look at Zoey expectantly and she, surprising herself, agrees without making a complete fool of herself for once.

The dancefloor is full, but still Rumi and Mira find a spot in the middle with more than enough space for all of them easily.

The bass drops, heavy enough to shake the floor, and the singer’s voice slides in like velvet:

Discover all my secrets  / Whisper in disguise /
The fragrance of my perfume  / Bathing in desire 

Mira’s hips roll with the beat, deliberate and fluid, drawing Rumi’s gaze like a magnet. 

I know that you want me / You don’t need to lie

Rumi slides in close, one hand grazing the curve of Mira’s waist as the bridge swells.

Kitty, kitty make it purr 

Her lips are close enough to brush Mira’s ear as she leans in, smirking when Mira doesn’t pull back. If anything, Mira tilts her head slightly, baring her neck like a challenge. Zoey swallows hard, heat rushing up her spine.

Then Rumi’s eyes cut to her, gleaming under the strobes.

Kitty, kitty make it nice

Before Zoey can react, Rumi’s fingers curl around her wrist, tugging her flush against the two of them. Zoey’s breath catches as Mira’s shoulder brushes hers, as Rumi’s chest presses lightly into her back.

It’s too close. It’s perfect.

The three of them move together now, their bodies catching and sliding with the rhythm, Zoey’s nerves burning off under the heat of it. Rumi laughs, low and wicked, when Zoey finally lets herself press back instead of shying away, Mira’s lips quirking into the faintest, knowing smirk.

Zoey’s head tilts back for a moment, the lights fracturing above her, and she realizes this is dangerous - god, this is dangerous - but she can’t bring herself to care. Not with Rumi’s breath hot against her ear, not with Mira’s hand brushing hers like it might catch if she dared to reach.

They’re not crossing any lines, but every second feels like a match held to paper - heat building, ready to catch fire.

The three of them stay tangled together until the song fades out, bodies parting reluctantly as the beat shifts. Zoey feels the loss like a splash of cold water, her chest tight. She could’ve stayed in that sandwich forever, warm and pressed between them, and maybe - maybe she would’ve even been brave enough to admit how good it felt.

But the music changes, and the moment dissolves.

They keep dancing for a while longer, sweat slicking their temples, laughter spilling more freely with every track. By the time they make it back to their booth, Zoey’s hair sticks to her forehead and her cheeks ache from smiling. Mira wastes no time - she snatches up the tablet, fingers gliding over the menu with the efficiency of someone who knows exactly what she wants.

“More shots,” she declares, adding her martini and another whiskey for Rumi. Her eyes flick to Zoey’s almost empty glass, and after the briefest pause, she adds a new cocktail too. Something different. Something dazzling and expensive.

Rumi pushes up from the booth with a stretch. “I need a cigarette.”

Mira doesn’t even look up from the tablet, smirk still fast on her face. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

Rumi only flips her off, lips curling into a grin, before disappearing toward the balcony doors.

That leaves Zoey and Mira alone.

Zoey fidgets, sipping nervously at her cocktail while Mira rests her chin in her palm, elbow propped on the table. Her other hand traces lazy circles along the rim of her martini glass. Her eyes, though, are fixed entirely on Zoey.

“So, what do you think?” Mira asks at last.

Zoey startles, nearly choking on her drink. Her first instinct is to blurt out every unholy thought racing through her brain - about their bodies, their dancing, their lips too close to hers - but she clamps down on it. She clears her throat. “I, uh… I felt kind of out of my depth at first. But the alcohol helps.”

Mira hums, like she’d been expecting that. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Zoey blinks. Of course Mira noticed. Mira noticed everything.

Their eyes lock, seconds stretching, before the waiter mercifully arrives with a tray. He sets down three shot glasses, Mira’s fresh martini, Rumi’s whiskey, and Zoey’s new cocktail. This one gleams in shades of deep red, glitter once again swirling in the liquid like a firestorm in a glass. Zoey picks it up, takes a sip - and laughs, soft and surprised.

“What’s so funny?” Mira asks, her voice smooth but curious.

“I just… I have no idea how I’m ever going to go back to cheap vodka and waiting in lines outside clubs after this.”

Mira tilts her head, studying her. Then, so sincerely that Zoey nearly drops the glass:

“You don’t need to.”

It hits her like a punch - direct, unflinching. Zoey swallows hard, eyes snapping to Mira’s. And Mira doesn’t look away.

Their eye contact cuts deeper than the music ever could, settling low in Zoey’s stomach. She feels pinned in place, bare, seen in a way she can’t joke her way out of.

And then Rumi returns, all swagger and smoke, sliding back into the booth and grabbing her whiskey. She knocks it back in one go, the glass clinking as it hits the table.

“Easy, tiger,” Mira drawls. “What’s got you all riled up?”

Rumi shrugs, then leans forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Couldn’t stand the unbelievable eye-fucking going on in here.”

Zoey’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Wha - no! There was no eye-fucking. Nope. Not here.”

Rumi throws her head back, laughing. “Relax, it’s a joke.”

Zoey forces a laugh too, though her heart’s still hammering. Not because Rumi wasn’t right. God, part of her wanted that to be exactly what it was. But another part - the terrified part - desperately needed Rumi not to think so.

The laugh comes out brittle, and she can feel her face burning hotter with every second. She grabs her glass like it’s a lifeline, taking a too-big sip just to keep her mouth busy. The glittering cocktail isn’t nearly strong enough to drown the way her stomach twists under Rumi’s grin.

Rumi watches her, elbows braced on the table, chin propped on her hand. Her smirk is lazy but her eyes are sharp, glinting with mischief. “Oh, come on, gorgeous. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it.”

Zoey sputters, nearly choking on her drink. “I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Rumi leans closer, voice dropping just enough to make Zoey’s pulse trip. “You look at people like that, and you think no one notices? Newsflash, Zoey. I notice.”

Zoey’s throat goes dry. Her gaze darts helplessly between Rumi’s half-lidded eyes and Mira’s martini glass. The bass from the dancefloor shakes through her bones, but it’s nothing compared to the thunder in her chest.

And then Mira cuts in, smooth and decisive. “Alright,” she drawls, snapping the tension like a whip. She lifts her shot glass and raises an eyebrow at the other two. “Let's drink before you make her actually combust.”

Rumi chuckles, leaning back with a shake of her head. “Spoilsport.”

But she picks up her shot anyway, clinking it against Mira’s and then Zoey’s trembling hand. Zoey forces her lips into a shaky smile, grateful for the reprieve, even as her pulse is still going haywire.

“To freedom,” Mira says simply.

“To freedom,” Rumi echoes with a wink in Zoey’s direction.

Zoey echoes the words, her voice softer than theirs, before tossing the vodka back.

The burn never comes. It goes down smooth, rich, expensive - like silk.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The music on the VIP floor hits harder than ever as they shove their way onto the dance floor again a while, and a few more shots, later. Lights strobe across the crowd, turning everything gold and violet in pulses, and Zoey feels the bass climb up her legs like static.

Mira is the first to move, tossing her hair back and catching the beat instantly, hips rolling in sharp, confident lines. Of course she looks perfect doing it. Rumi slides in right after her, less polished but so much looser  -  head thrown back, hair sticking to her forehead, body moving like she doesn’t care who’s watching.

And then there’s Zoey.

At first she just bounces awkwardly between them, but the alcohol is humming in her blood, and when Rumi suddenly grabs her hand and spins her under her arm, Zoey yelps and then laughs so hard she nearly doubles over. Mira smirks, sliding closer on the beat until Zoey can feel the brush of her thigh.

From there, it unravels.

One moment Zoey’s in the middle, the next Rumi’s behind her, hands on her hips, pushing her into Mira’s orbit. Mira doesn’t miss a beat, steady palms catching Zoey’s shoulders like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. Their bodies grind closer, every movement blurring the line between playful and something sharper.

Zoey’s lungs stutter, her skin buzzing where Mira’s fingers trail down her arm, where Rumi’s breath hits her neck. She should pull back, make a joke, something. Instead, she laughs breathlessly, letting herself sink into it.

The song crashes into its chorus, and suddenly all three of them are tangled, arms hooked, laughter spilling out between flashes of heat. Mira dips her for the fun of it, sending Zoey shrieking before pulling her upright, face so close their noses nearly brush. Rumi immediately cuts in, tugging Zoey back toward her with a wild grin and a twirl that nearly knocks them both off balance.

It’s chaos, pure chaos, but Zoey can’t remember ever feeling more alive. Every beat presses them tighter together, until she’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the two women at her sides that are making her dizzy.

By the time the track shifts, Zoey’s hair is a mess, Mira’s lipstick smudged at the corner from biting down laughter, and Rumi is glowing with sweat and energy. They don’t pull apart right away, not until the bass softens. Zoey finds herself still pressed between them, flushed and breathless, not ready for the song to end.

They only stopped once Rumi declared she needed a cigarette, Mira agreeing that it sounded pretty good.

The air outside hit Zoey like a splash of cold water  -  crisp, refreshing, and quiet. Or, at least, quieter than the pulsing bass that still rattled faintly through the balcony doors. She perched herself on a low wall at the railing, legs dangling, caught between Rumi and Mira as they lit up.

Rumi passed a cigarette over to Mira with practiced ease, smoke curling between them as they leaned in against the metal. For a moment it was just that: silence, smoke, and the strange calm of three bodies breathing side by side. Zoey let her eyes wander between them, unfocused, her thoughts loose and swimming in alcohol haze.

Then - 

“Ryumi?” A voice cut through.

Zoey blinked up at a pair of girls approaching, faces glowing with the kind of boldness only liquid courage (and maybe something stronger) could give. They smiled like they knew her.

Rumi frowned, straightening slightly. “Uh…”

“You don’t remember? Party in the green room after your gig a few weeks back. We went to your hotel with you.”

“Ah yeah, that. Right. Wow, uhm. How... have you been?” Rumi cut in, dry as ever, exhaling smoke in a thin line.

The girls giggled, one of them sliding a little closer to Rumi, her hand trailing down Rumi's arm. “Wanna do a couple lines in the bathroom with us?”

Rumi froze, eyes flicking instinctively toward Mira, then Zoey, then back to Mira again. There was a distinct panic that Zoey couldn't quite place, before Mira cut in. “Nah. She's good.”

One of the girls looked at her with a look, that could only be described as nasty, "Well, we didn't ask you."

Mira took a single step forward, towering over the girl easily. "Well, you don't need to because I'm telling you to fuck off anyway, completely unprompted and for free. Am I not generous?"

For a moment the girl looked like she might argue, but with a last flick to Mira's face she muttered something under her breath and pulled her friend back inside.

Silence lingered for a beat, before Mira shook her head and threw Rumi a small look, one that clearly meant are you okay? Rumi just nodded and took a deep drag of her cigarette.

Sensing the dearly needed shift in atmosphere Mira smirked around her cigarette. “Wow. Rockstar doesn’t even remember her groupies anymore.”

Rumi shot her a look. “I can’t remember everyone I partied with.”

Mira arched a brow. “That,” she nods towards the door, “sounded like a little more than partying.”

Rumi’s eyes darted sideways  -  once at Mira, twice at Zoey. Her jaw flexed like she was searching for the right words, like she wanted to make herself smaller, less of an asshole.

That’s when Mira leaned in, voice sharp with amusement and mock shock. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people. Sleeping with fans?”

Zoey blurted out before Rumi could combust. “Honestly? Not the worst thing.”

Both heads snapped toward her.

She swallowed, but her buzz gave her just enough boldness to grin. “I mean… you never know who might be a fan.” And then  -  god help her  -  she winked. At Rumi.

The reaction was instantaneous. Rumi choked on smoke, nearly dropping her cigarette, her cheeks flushing a shade Zoey didn’t think possible on her. Mira lost it  -  laughter ripping out of her so loud a couple people turned to look.

“Oh my god,” Mira wheezed. “Your face! Zoey got you so good!”

“This is unfair,” Rumi sputtered, stubbing her cigarette a little too aggressively.

Zoey slid off the wall, brushing herself down. She leaned just close enough to whisper in Rumi’s ear, “Consider it payback.”

And then she was gone, slipping back inside, Mira trailing after her still laughing.

Rumi stood frozen for a second, lips parted, smoke dissipating in the night air. She shook her head, muttering under her breath, “Fucking Zoey…”
Her voice was low, frustrated  -  but her cheeks burned a shade that gave her away completely.

Then, of course, she followed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the night blurred at the edges. More drinks, a few glasses of water shoved into Zoey’s hands by Mira, another round of laughter and half-sloppy dancing. Somewhere between the music and the alcohol, her energy started dipping  -  though she didn’t want to admit it.

By the time they slid back into their booth, Zoey’s head tipped sideways, landing against Rumi’s shoulder without permission.

Rumi smirked down at her. “It’s late. We should get you home.”

Zoey’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up straighter, or at least tried to, pouting. “Nooo. I’m still… full of energy!” The universe betrayed her with a wide yawn mid-sentence.

Mira snorted softly. Rumi just shook her head, amused, already signaling for the waiter. She pulled out her phone and fired off a text to the driver while the waiter set a black folder on the table. The number inside made Zoey’s jaw nearly unhinge  -  or it would have, if she weren’t half draped against Mira now, who had slipped her arms around Zoey’s middle and perched her chin lazily on her shoulder.

Rumi didn’t even blink. She pulled out a sleek black credit card, handed it over, and when the waiter returned, she took it back with a casual nod.

“Thank you for your patronage,” he said, bowing low.

Zoey blinked groggily at the words. Patronage. It sounded like they’d just bought a castle instead of… drinks.

The night air outside hit her sharper than before, a cool breeze that slipped under her skin and made her shiver. She tried to hide it, but Mira and Rumi noticed instantly. Without a word, they stepped closer, one on each side, bodies blocking the wind, warmth soaking into her arms and shoulders.

“…we're like Penguins,” Zoey mumbled, leaning into it before she could think better.

The car pulled up, glossy black under the neon glow, and Rumi ushered them in. The drive back blurred into streetlights streaking past, Zoey half-dozing, Mira’s steady presence at her side, Rumi’s warmth at the other.

She only stirred when the car slowed to a familiar stop. Zoey blinked at the tower, squinting. “…This isn’t my house.”

Rumi shrugged easily. “Didn’t want the night to end yet. We’ll have a sleepover. It’s Friday  -  no work tomorrow.”

Zoey blinked once. Twice. Then a sleepy grin spread across her face. “I love sleepovers.”

They piled into the elevator together, Zoey swaying slightly on her feet. When the doors opened, a plain paper bag sat waiting neatly at the door. Zoey squinted at it like it was a mirage. “…What’s that?”

Rumi bent down to pick it up, her smirk returning. “You’ll see.”

She steered Zoey gently down the hall, pushing a bundle of clothes into her arms and pointing her toward the bathroom. “Wash your face. Change. No excuses.”

Zoey obeyed, too fuzzy to argue. She scrubbed off her makeup as best she could, then tugged on the oversized shirt and loose shorts Rumi had handed her. The shirt smelled faintly of cigarettes and her perfume  -  sharp, warm, Rumi  -  and Zoey caught herself smiling at how normal it already felt. How dangerously easy it was to sink into this.

When she padded back out barefoot, the living room was glowing softly. Rumi and Mira had both changed into sweats and tees, sprawled lazily on the couch with the paper bag now torn open between them.

Zoey’s eyes went wide. “Are those… burritos?”

Rumi smirked at her reaction, already unwrapping one and handing it to Mira. “Sure are.” She tore the foil off a second and passed it to Zoey like it was treasure.

Zoey took it with reverence, her stomach growling, then bit in  -  and practically moaned around the mouthful. “Oh my god, this is so good. Burritos after the club are literally my religion.”

Both Rumi and Mira paused mid-bite, glancing at her, the faintest pink dusting their cheeks at the sound. Zoey didn’t notice, too busy devouring hers with wide-eyed delight.

The tired energy settled over them as they ate, the frantic buzz of the club fading into comfortable silence. Rumi eventually reached for the remote, flicking through channels until she landed on an old cartoon.

Zoey gasped and practically bounced against them. “Wait -  this is my favorite! Oh my god, you guys don’t understand, I used to watch this every Saturday morning with my eomma.”

“Then it’s settled,” Rumi said, tossing the remote aside.

They sank deeper into the couch together, the cartoon painting colors across their faces. Zoey, nestled between them, grew quieter with each passing minute, her eyelids drooping despite her best effort to fight it. By the time the credits rolled on the second episode, her head had lolled to the side, breath soft, burrito abandoned half-wrapped on the coffee table.

The last thing she noticed before she was fully gone was the familiar smell of cigarettes and sandalwood perfume amplifying, mixed with a nice hint of lavender and cedarwood. 

Zoey slept on, warm and safe, tucked into the fragile, messy family she hadn’t even realized she’d found. 

-------------------------------------------------------------M-------------------------------------------------------------

Mira glanced sideways and found Zoey slumped against Rumi’s shoulder, fast asleep. Her lashes fluttered once, then stilled. Mira let out a soft huff, shaking her head, and nudged Rumi’s shoulder lightly.

Rumi looked over, irritation ready on her lips  -  but when her eyes landed on Zoey, her expression shifted instantly. The sharp edges softened, melted. Mira tilted her chin toward the bedroom. No words needed.

Rumi nodded once, silent understanding passing between them. She clicked off the TV, then carefully eased herself free. Zoey stirred faintly but didn’t wake, only making a small noise of protest before going limp again. With surprising gentleness, Rumi bent and slid her arms under her, lifting her bridal-style like she weighed nothing.

Mira followed as Rumi quietly walked down the hall. She didn't even question how Rumi passed the guest room, instead carrying Zoey towards her own room, setting Zoey in the middle of her the bed, tugging the blanket over her like the most precious thing in the world.

She also didn't question how, for a moment, Rumi lingered at the edge, watching as Zoey buried her face into the pillow Mira had slept on the night before, letting out a tiny, content sigh before going still again. Mira could almost see the way Rumi’s chest tightened at the sight.

Yeah, me too.

And somehow neither of them moved to leave. The air held something fragile, too delicate to break with words. And in a very rare burst of softness, Mira rounded the bed and pulled back the covers on the other side. Rumi hesitated only a second before slipping in beside Zoey.

They lay there in silence, not quite touching but not far either, the oversized blanket pulling them into the same warmth. It wasn’t closeness, not exactly  -  but it wasn’t distance either. Something in between.

Sleep came easily that night. Maybe the easiest it ever had.

Chapter Text

Rumi woke slow, her brain dragging behind her body. Three things hit her at once:

First  -  she was hot. Not the good kind, but the uncomfortable, sticky, need-to-kick-the-blanket-off kind of hot.

Second  -  she was pinned. Her chest weighed down, her arms caught in something that felt suspiciously like… limbs.

Third  -  she really, really had to pee.

Her brow furrowed. One and three weren’t unusual. She overheated plenty in the summer, though autumn usually gave her a break. But number two? That was new.

Cracking one eye open, she was greeted by a mess of dark hair directly in her face. The other eye followed, her gaze sweeping the room to orient herself. Home. Her bedroom. Right. Last night had been the club, the VIP booth, the burritos, Zoey squealing at cartoons. Then - oh. Yeah. They’d all crashed here.

So how the hell had she ended up in the middle?

Her heart gave a traitorous lurch as she looked down again. Judging by the hair color, it was Zoey that was sprawled half on top of her, arms curled possessively, face buried against Rumi’s chest like it belonged there.

Well shit.

For a moment she just froze, listening to Zoey’s steady breaths. Then another thought hit: Wait. Where the hell is Mira? She wasn’t the cuddling type, but still - 

Her thoughts got interupted by the bedroom door creaking open, making her head snapped up.

Mira leaned against the frame, fully dressed, hair damp from a shower, eyebrows climbing at the sight before her, coffee mug in hand. Her lips twitched, and before Rumi could say anything, she had her phone out, snapping a picture.

Rumi tried to muster her best scowl, though judging by Mira’s smirk, it probably wasn’t very convincing.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Mira said, voice smooth.

“…Morning,” Rumi muttered, glaring half-heartedly. She let her gaze flick over Mira, taking in the fitted blazer, polished look, bag slung over her shoulder. “What’s with the getup? You look like you’re about to storm a boardroom.”

“Because I am,” Mira deadpanned. “You know that, unlike corporate slaves like Zoey here, I don’t have a set week. I’ve got a meeting this morning, but don't worry I’ll be back later.”

A muffled sound came from Rumi's chest. Both of them blinked down.

“...Rude,” Zoey mumbled, still mostly asleep. Her voice was groggy but indignant.

Rumi’s brows shot up. Mira’s smirk deepened.

“m not a slave,” Zoey added, burrowing closer into Rumi’s shirt. “I’m a monkey with a keyboard.”

That broke Rumi - she let out a laugh, low and warm. “And what’s the difference?”

Zoey tilted her head just enough to glare blearily up at her, then pressed a finger to Rumi’s lips. “Shhh. Still sleepy time.”

Rumi blinked, startled into silence, while Mira actually chuckled. “Alright, sleep monkeys.” she muttered, amused. She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder and headed for the door. “Rumi, I’ll take your car and I’ll be back with lunch. Don’t burn the place down.”

Zoey lifted a limp thumbs-up without opening her eyes. Rumi just stared, still half caught between flustered and amused, as Mira swept out the door.

The apartment settled into quiet again, Zoey warm and heavy against her while Rumi stared up at the ceiling. Still hot. Still pinned. Still having to pee. She stayed in bed a little longer, torn between bliss and discomfort. Zoey’s warmth was addictive, her weight grounding in a way Rumi hadn’t realized she’d needed. She honestly could’ve stayed like this forever.

If not for her bladder screaming bloody murder of course.

She sighed, poking the top of Zoey’s head as best as she could with her pinned arms. “Hey. Move.”

But Zoey just groaned, burrowing deeper into her chest.

Rumi poked her again, firmer this time. Zoey’s hand shot out, catching her wrist as her head lifted just enough to fix her with a bleary, accusatory glare.

“Listen,” Rumi said flatly, “I’m really glad you’re comfy, but unless you want me to pee the bed, you’re gonna have to let me up.”

Zoey groaned again, rolling off her with dramatic flair. She yanked the blanket with her like a dragon hoarding treasure. “Betrayal of the highest kind,” she mumbled into the pillow.

Rumi rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the grin tugging at her lips. She padded to the bathroom, took care of business, then drifted into the kitchen. Two plates waited neatly on the counter - simple, efficient, Mira’s touch written all over them. Rumi carried both back into the bedroom, setting one down on Zoey’s empty side.

She then crouched by the other side of the bed, brushing the blanket gently. “I come bearing breakfast,” she coaxed.

A muffled grumble. The blanket shifted, then a tiny nose poked out, sniffing like some feral woodland creature. Rumi had to bite her cheek not to laugh. Slowly, Zoey emerged, hair a tangled mess, eyes squinting against the light.

“There we go,” Rumi murmured, placing the plate on the nightstand. Then, ignoring Zoey’s half-hearted protest, she climbed back onto the bed, crawling over her like she owned the place. She settled against the headboard, plate balanced on her lap, already digging in.

Zoey blinked blearily at her, silent accusation written all over her face.

“How are you feeling?” Rumi asked, voice sweet with teasing.

The glare Zoey shot her would’ve been more effective if her eyes weren’t drooping shut every few seconds.

Rumi smirked and gestured at the untouched plate. “Eat.”

Zoey obeyed sluggishly, lifting her spoon like it weighed ten pounds. She chewed with her eyes half-closed, nearly dozing off mid-bite. Rumi watched, entertained - and yeah, okay, a little charmed. But she’d die before admitting it.

When the food was gone, Zoey let her spoon clatter onto the plate with the energy of a condemned prisoner.

“So,” Rumi drawled, setting her own plate aside, “what do you wanna do now?”

Zoey squinted at her, voice rough but firm. “Not. Get. Up. It’s Saturday.”

Rumi raised a brow, checked her phone. “It’s already nine-thirty.”

“Exactly,” Zoey muttered, rolling back onto her side. “Early. Criminally early.”

Rumi huffed a laugh, grabbing the remote from her nightstand. She flicked the TV on, volume low, some over-the-top variety show filling the silence with laughter and canned applause, before settling back into the headboard, fully intent on just letting Zoey sleep while she numbed her brain with whatever was going on on screen right now. That was at least before Zoey shuffled closer without so much as hesitating even a moment, pillowing her head against Rumi’s stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world and grabbing her shirt, like she might vanish if she didn't hold her. Half-watching, half-dozing.

Rumi hesitated, heart knocking around in her chest. Then, almost carefully, she draped an arm around Zoey’s shoulders.

Warmth bloomed where their bodies touched, the slow morning settling into their bones.

For a while they, or rather Rumi, just watched. It was nothing really special, just some dudes trying to outdrink one of the hosts in a hot sauce chugging contest. But it was not the images on screen that kept her mind occupied. Memories of the night before kept flashing. She was a pretty proficiant drinker, so it's not that she forgot things because she was drunk. No, it was more that the whole evening was just one big happy memory in her brain, mushing together and settling into her chest, until it felt like she had her own small sun in there.

Clubbing with Mira had always been one of her favourite times of the week, but going out with Mira and Zoey had put every evening before that to total shame. Dancing, drinking, talking just felt so much more right with all three of them. With just Mira and her there had sometimes been these moments where neither really knew what to do next, and Zoey had filled those moments perfectly. Even the shape of her body when they danced just fit perfectly inbetween them. 

Her gaze wandered from the TV down to the sleepy girl, using her as a glorified pillow and something about it just felt right. Without thinking her free hand raised to Zoey's head, smoothing out some of the hairs that were falling into her face, revealing her lips slightly parted and a look so at peace, she couldn't help the soft smile that appeared on her own face.

God, I could get used to this

-------------------------------------------------------------M-------------------------------------------------------------

Mira had woken slowly, the faintest trace of light filtering through the curtains. For a blissful second she forgot where she was, until the weight of the scene anchored her in place.

Rumi was in the middle, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, her head tilted slightly toward her. Zoey was pressed close, her arm draped over Rumi’s stomach, cheek pillowed against her shoulder. And Mira… Mira’s head rested on Rumi’s outstretched arm, her own hand spread on Rumi’s stomach, fingers brushing Zoey’s where they met in the middle.

It was intimate. Too intimate. She should pull back, reclaim her distance. That little voice in her head told her to move, to upkeep her walls. But for a moment - just one moment - she let herself stay. Let herself rest there, soaking in the warmth and the quiet, ignoring every instinct screaming at her to retreat.

Until her phone started to buzz, muffled by the pile of clothes they’d tossed carelessly onto the floor last night. Mira shut her eyes, groaning silently. Of course. The meeting.

She lingered for another beat, then carefully eased herself away, moving with the precision of someone dismantling a bomb. Rumi murmured in her sleep but didn’t stir. Zoey clutched tighter to the blanket, face buried deeper into Rumi’s side. Mira exhaled, relieved, before slipping out of the room.

A quick shower, efficient makeup, clean clothes - she’d left a change at Rumi’s yesterday, already planning to crash here after the club either way. She pulled on her blazer, tugged it into place, and for a moment she just stood there in front of the mirror. A business-ready Mira staring back at her, but behind her eyes was that bed, that closeness, that warmth she didn’t dare name.

She shook it off and headed to the kitchen.

Rummaging through Rumi’s cabinets made her grimace. Instant noodles. Chips. A jar of olives. Rumi really needed to buy real food. Still, she managed to cobble together something resembling breakfast - toast, fruit, eggs. While it cooked, she moved to Rumi’s absurdly fancy coffee machine, that she had bought for her as a totally not selfish gift. It sputtered to life, hissing steam as the bitter scent filled the air. She poured herself a cup, black, no sugar.

For a moment she thought that she should probably eat something too. But her stomach twisted at the thought, the remnants of last night’s drinking still sloshing inside her. Coffee would be enough. Coffee had to be enough. She sipped, letting the heat burn away the edges of her hangover, trying to drown out the smaller, traitorous voice asking why she was making food at all then. Why she was plating fruit with this much care. Why she was standing here like this mattered.

By the time she carried the plates to the counter, two neat servings side by side, her jaw was set tight again. Just breakfast. That was all. Taking care of her friends. Nothing more.

She smoothed her blazer, pushing the thought away, and decided to check on them one last time before heading out.

The door creaked softly as she eased it open and stepped inside.

Her breath caught.

Sometime between her slipping out and now, Zoey had shifted. She wasn’t just curled into Rumi’s side anymore. She was sprawled on top of her, head tucked under Rumi’s chin, one arm hooked around her middle. Rumi was already awake, her eyes snapping to Mira the moment the door opened.

For a moment she just stood there. Watching. Something in her chest clenched painfully tight.

Without thinking, she pulled out her phone. The shutter clicked, the screen lighting up with the image she’d just captured - Zoey draped across Rumi, Rumi holding her like she belonged there. Mira made herself smirk as she tucked the phone away, like it was all just a little joke. Like she hadn’t just immortalized something that shouldn’t twist her up as much as it did.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said quietly, her voice pitched toward Rumi.

Rumi was still half heartedly glaring at her, which reminded her more of a disgruntled puppy more than anything else.

“Morning,” Rumi muttered, voice rough. Then her brow furrowed. “What’s with the getup? You look like you’re about to storm a boardroom.”

“Because I am,” Mira replied smoothly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her blazer. “You know that, unlike corporate slaves like Zoey here, I don’t have a set week. I’ve got a meeting this morning. But I’ll be back later.”

There was a small mumble from Rumi’s chest. Both of them froze as Zoey’s sleepy voice drifted out, muffled. “...Rude.”

Mira’s smirk deepened. Rumi’s eyes widened.

Zoey shifted, half awake, mumbling again. “I’m not a slave, I’m a monkey with a keyboard.”, making Rumi snort in response, trying and failing to bite back her laugh. “And what’s the difference?”

Zoey cracked one eye, shushing her with a finger pressed sloppily to Rumi’s lips. “Shhh. Still sleepy time.” Then her head flopped back down, out cold again.

Mira couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped her at Rumi's offended reaction to being shushed. She shook her head, stepping back toward the door. “Alright, sleep monkeys. Rumi, I’ll take your car and I’ll be back with lunch. Don’t burn the place down.”

Zoey gave a sleepy thumbs-up while Rumi didn’t say anything, just looked a little flustered.

Mira lingered just a second too long, then turned and left.

She took the key for Rumi’s car from their spot and slid them into her purse. It would be much quicker than calling a driver, even if that does sound a lot nicer right now. 

The hum of it the only sound in the early quiet. When the doors opened, the morning sun hit her square in the face. She squinted, pulling her jacket tighter as she crossed the street toward the parking lot where Rumi’s car always sat waiting.

Muscle cars weren’t really her thing - she preferred sleeker, sportier machines herself - but she still liked the way the engine roared to life under her hands. Powerful, loud, a little excessive - like Rumi herself.

The drive to the Sunlight Entertainment tower was smooth, the streets nearly empty on a Saturday morning. Mostly she saw stragglers stumbling out of clubs, makeup smudged, ties loosened, jackets slung over shoulders. Mira smirked. That used to be her, years ago - though she’d always been in more upscale clubs, the kind her family disapproved of just as much.

Her smirk faltered. She thought of her teenage years, of how suffocating that house had been. How every late night out turned into a fight, voices raised, doors slammed. She’d lost count of them long ago. But at the time, even that had been worth it - because outside, away from them, was the only place she could breathe.

If she could’ve told her younger self that one day she’d be driving the car of one of Korea’s most infamous artists, someone she regularly shared a bed with - hell, that she was on her way to a meeting as a respected producer, the kind of meeting people actually waited on her for - she probably wouldn’t have believed it. And if she added that she’d also have a friend like Zoey, someone who made her laugh despite herself, and that the three of them had just gone clubbing together and fallen asleep in the same bed? Her younger self would’ve laughed in her face.

She shook her head at the thought, murmuring under her breath, “Would’ve been nice to tell you it gets better.”

Foolish. Sentimental.

She pushed it away as she turned into the tower’s parking lot. She didn’t even have to flash an ID - Rumi’s car was too well known, too easily recognized.

Sliding into the reserved spot, she cut the engine, grabbed her bag, and stepped out, heels clicking against the asphalt.

The lobby was quiet when Mira stepped inside, the kind of stillness that belonged only to weekends. Her steps echoed on the marble floor as she rode the elevator up, already going over the agenda for her meeting in her head.

When the doors slid open, the last face she expected to see this early on a Saturday was the first one that greeted her.

Celine.

Of course. Mira grimaced inwardly. Of course she would be here on a saturday morning.

“Good morning, Mira,” Celine said smoothly, though there was a flicker of surprise in her expression.

“Morning Director Yoon,” Mira replied politely, slipping her mask on. No point in picking a fight before a second coffee. “What brings you in?”

Celine’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly. “I could ask you the same. Is Rumi here?”

Mira shook her head, twirling the keys in her hand so the glint of metal caught the light. “No. She’s still at home. I just borrowed her car.”

Celine’s brow rose, the look on her face unreadable but somehow still irritating. Mira had to bite back the urge to roll her eyes. Rumi wasn’t even here and still, somehow, she managed to earn Celine's signature silent criticism.

“I see,” Celine said simply, but Mira could feel the weight of the thought unsaid. Mira didn’t press. Even if Celine was not really her boss, she had no interest in fighting with her  - Rumi could have that all to herself.

“Excuse me, I’ve got a meeting that I should get to,” Mira said, already moving past her.

Celine’s voice followed, calm but deliberate. “Tell Rumi she doesn’t need an appointment to step into this building. She knows that.”

Mira only nodded, though her lips pressed into a thin line. A message. Not to her. To Rumi. As if Mira was some carrier pigeon, meant to flap back with her words. As if Celine wasn’t a grown up woman that was capable of telling her niece these kinds of things herself.

She kept walking, the tension bleeding off her shoulders only once she ducked into one of the breakrooms. The bitter smell of coffee hit her as she poured herself a cup. It eased her aching head somewhat, her hangover still simmering at the edges.

Cup in hand, she walked toward the meeting room. Her watch read five minutes to the hour. Perfect. Not early - she wasn’t some overeager rookie - but not late either. She was Kang Mira. The producer people waited for.

And if she wanted them to wait, they would.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The meeting was efficient, exactly as she expected. Mira slipped into her role the way some people slid into silk gloves - measured, crisp, professional. She cut through overblown ideas with one arched brow and redirected the conversation with a few well-placed words. By the end, the clients left with their pride intact but their vision reshaped, and Mira left with what she wanted.

As the conference room emptied, she glanced at her watch. Just past noon.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she made her way down to the lobby, throwing a disdainful look towards the end of the hallway, where Celine's office door was sitting. She muttered under her breath as she pushed through the glass doors towards the elevator, “The woman is really un-fucking-believable.” Celine’s words still clung like static. Always pushing. Always demanding.

The growl of Rumi’s car greeted her as she slid into the driver’s seat. Her stomach growled next, reminding her she’d made a promise. Lunch.

She steered toward the little pizza place she liked, ordering a large half-and-half - spicy pepperoni that she knew Rumi loved, something mild and safe for Zoey. She'd just eat from both sides. Easy. Familiar. The box was warm against her hand as she carried it back to the car, the scent filling the cabin.

For once, her thoughts didn’t spiral. She just tapped along to the radio, the rhythm running soft through her fingers against the steering wheel. No family, no boardrooms, no rockstars to babysit. Just a drive, the hum of the city outside, and the promise of food.

When she arrived back the penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. Mira hooked the car keys onto their place and rolled her eyes. Of course, they wouldn’t be up yet. With the pizza set on the counter, she walked toward the bedroom.

The door creaked open.

The TV was on, some stupid variety show spilling noise into the room. Rumi sat slumped against the headboard, head tilted forward, one arm draped loosely around Zoey, the other resting just shy of her face, as though it had slid down from Zoey's head, which was resting on Rumi's stomach, her breathing slow and even, the picture of fragile peace.

For a moment Mira just stood there, the faint smell of pizza clinging to her clothes, watching them both.

An ache pressed sharp and unwanted in her chest. Zoey, soft and small against Rumi. Rumi uncannily at ease for once. Ridiculous. Irrational. She shoved it down with a practiced roll of her shoulders. She had come to check - that was all. A promise kept.

Still, she lingered a beat too long again, warmth tugging at her like something that didn’t belong to her. Then she told herself to move. Because Rumi would complain about a crick in her neck if she didn’t, and she was not having that. That’s all.

Mira reached for the remote and killed the TV. The room dimmed. Rumi stirred, lids fluttering, stretching with that slow canine roll that always knocked Mira’s irritation sideways into something softer. She blinked awake, crooked grin tugging at her mouth.

“Mira, you're back,” Rumi murmured, rubbing at the back of her neck. She glanced down and gently nudged Zoey, who groaned and cracked one reluctant eye open. Rumi tipped her chin toward Mira. Zoey’s gaze lifted, finding her with a sleepy, grateful smile. She even held out a hand.

“Hey, sleepy gremlin,” Mira teased before she could stop herself. Too tender. And the smile Zoey gave her in return was far too soft for how Mira meant it. For a stupid second she almost let herself drop onto the bed between them, let the hush of the moment wrap her up. But no. Boundaries. Responsibility.

“I got lunch,” she said instead, jerking her chin toward the door. Zoey pouted, Rumi hummed, and Mira turned on her heel before she could do something she regretted.

In the kitchen she moved with brisk efficiency, opening the fridge and pulling out two electrolyte drinks she knew Rumi kept for hangovers. Cold against her palm. She set them on the counter and, more out of habit than need, brewed herself another coffee. The machine hissed, filling the air with bitter comfort. She tightened her grip on the mug a fraction too much, jaw ticking, and told herself it was just caffeine she craved. Nothing else.

“You really shouldn’t drink that much coffee. You’ll give yourself a heart attack one day.”

Mira didn’t turn as Rumi walked in, scratching her stomach, hair mussed, yawning. 

“Says the smoker. Besides, if I don’t,” Mira said dryly, not bothering to hide the way her eyes immediately went to the sliver of exposed skin between Rumi's boxers and shirt as she stretched her arms over her head. When Rumi's face settled into a knowing smirk, Mira just rolled her eyes before pushing one of the bottles toward the counter’s center, “I won’t survive you two. Here. For your head.”

Rumi laughed under her breath. “You really spoil me, Kang.”

“I would never. Don’t spread rumors.” Mira flicked her eyes up just long enough to catch Rumi’s grin before turning to the pizza box and opening, groaning at the smell that hit her.

Mira smirked behind her mug, she knew this was a good idea.

Her smirk turned softer as her eyes found Zoey shuffling in behind Rumi, still bleary-eyed, but her face lit instantly at the sight of the food. Something small twisted in Mira’s chest again - recognized now, smaller, but still there - and she let it sit unnamed.

They ended up eating at the counter, Mira and Rumi carrying most of the conversation while Zoey just chewed slowly through her slices, bleary-eyed, blinking herself awake. Eventually the electrolytes and food seemed to kick in and she slipped into their rhythm easily, throwing in comments and jokes between bites, her voice brighter with every word.

The rest of the day blurred into a quiet sort of laziness. They drifted back to the couch, the pizza box abandoned on the counter, and put on movies without much thought to what they were watching. Afternoon melted into evening with them tangled under a single blanket, warmth pressed close, the kind of comfort none of them dared name out loud. At some point, exhaustion won and they fell asleep like that, three bodies curled onto the same couch as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Not quite as close as this morning, but still close enough to share each other's warmth.

The next morning carried the same softness, though it didn’t last. Zoey stretched over the remnants of breakfast and whined she should probably go home, that she needed to prepare for work Monday. Mira agreed easily enough, saying she should head back too. By lunchtime, Rumi had bundled them both into her car despite half-hearted protests, flatly refusing to take no for an answer.

Mira’s place was the first stop. She stepped out, watching Rumi’s car pull away until it turned out of sight. The apartment she unlocked should’ve been her safe space, familiar and grounding, a reprieve from constant socialising that was normally direly needed when she spent a whole weekend out. But today the silence pressed heavier than usual. The couch didn’t feel like comfort - it just felt empty.

She sank down onto it, staring blankly at the ceiling, and for a fleeting second she wished she could rewind to Friday. Relive the whole weekend again, in its messy, quiet, ridiculous tenderness. Relive the drive over to Rumi's apartment, their quick hookup before the got dressed and picked Zoey up. How everything had been so easy, she didn't even think about it. Taking shots, flirting, bantering, dancing. Her normally always so loud thoughts narrowing down to them.

Then she caught herself, shook her head with a humorless laugh. “Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand through her hair.

But the ache in her chest didn’t go away.

Chapter Text

Mira’s office always felt smaller when the work piled this high.

 Stacks of folders leaned against her monitor like walls closing in, her inbox pinged with another unanswered email, and three different projects demanded her immediate attention.

It was always like this after she came back from visiting her parents - anger in her chest, work on her desk. Normally, the anger was fuel. She’d bury herself in tasks, burn through the mountain until there was nothing left but smoke and exhaustion.

But this time was different.

She’d walked away from her parents lighter. Angrier, yes, but not at herself. For once, she’d told them to fuck off and meant it. The usual poison didn’t stick, and without it, her anger hadn’t sharpened into focus. It just… left her staring at the work, realizing how endless it was.

And worse - the memory.

Mira pressed her fingers to her temple, but it came back anyway. Rumi’s penthouse, dim light, the sound of Rumi’s voice, her hands. The way she’d closed her eyes and - no. She couldn't think about that again. Not about her and her stupid soft eyes, nor the the thought, sharp and uninvited, that had come almost simultaneously. Black hair, too-loud laughter. Zoey. How Rumi had closed her eyes and how the two things together had made her undone.

Her jaw clenched. That had been a mistake. Her heart wasn’t supposed to stutter like that. She wasn’t supposed to think about Zoey at all like that, especially not in situations like that 

She shook her head, pulled another file toward herself, and tried to drown the image in numbers and notes. It didn’t work. The words blurred on the page, the mountain remained.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced down.

From Gremlin 🐢:

lunch? 🥟

Mira leaned back in her chair, phone balanced in her hand. Of course. It had become somewhat of a thing: Zoey would sometimes message her around midday, asking about lunch, and Mira would glance at her calendar, maybe quietly nudge a meeting here, delay a call there. Zoey didn’t know. She didn’t need to.

But today… Mira looked at the work again. Too much. She didn’t have time.

And still, her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Mira exhaled through her nose, fingers hovering over the keyboard as she typed her reply.

Mira: 

Rain check on lunch. Too much work today.

She stared at it for a second before sending. A clean, polite boundary. Necessary.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

From Gremlin 🐢:

mhm sure.

Mira frowned at the screen, pulse skipping. Mhm? Sure? What was that supposed to mean? She replayed the words in her head, combing through them like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. Was Zoey upset? Was she brushing her off?

A tiny twist of panic curled in her stomach. She almost typed back - something clarifying, softening - but then she caught herself. No. She couldn’t get distracted. She had deadlines stacked high enough to crush her if she let them. She set the phone face-down on her desk and forced her attention back to the work in front of her.

The minutes blurred into half an hour, until a sharp knock pulled her head up. Mira blinked, brows knitting. She didn’t have any meetings scheduled, and she’d made it clear to her assistant she wasn’t to be disturbed. Whoever it was, they were about to be a problem.

Still, professionalism ran too deep in her bones to ignore it. She straightened her spine, adjusted her glasses, and called, “Come in.”

The door swung open.

And there was Zoey - arms full of paper bags, cheeks pink from the climb up, a lopsided grin spreading across her face.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, stepping inside as if she owned the place. “Figured if you couldn’t come to lunch, I’d bring lunch to you.”

Mira just stared for a beat, her carefully ordered thoughts scattering like loose sheet music in a storm.

Mira blinked at the sight of Zoey in her office, her arms full of food like some stubborn courier. Her immediate instinct was to put her walls back up. Professional. Composed. Untouchable.

“You shouldn’t have,” Mira said, sharper than she meant. “This is a workplace, not - ”

“Yeah, yeah. But Mira, lunch is universal,” Zoey cut her off, brushing past her tone like it was nothing more than air. She crossed the room, dumped the bags onto Mira’s desk, and started clearing space by shoving neat stacks of sheet music and production notes to the side.

Mira half-rose from her chair, horrified. “Careful, those are in order.”

Zoey just hummed, entirely unbothered. “Mira, you’ve got, like, six mountains of paper. Pretty sure you won’t notice one tiny avalanche.”

"You're determined to disrupt my workday, aren't you?"

Zoey grinned that wide grin only she could full off before shaking her head "Yep.", apparently taking great care to pop the 'p' for emphsis.

Mira hesitated. She should thank her and then ask her to leave Mira to her work. But she just couldn't. Not when Zoey was looking at her like that.

So instead she just rubbed her temples, before gesturing towards a small couch. "Okay but please leave the fragile eco system of my desk be. Let's sit there."

Before Mira could even finish, Zoey had already begun pulling containers out of the bags and spreading them around the small table in front of the couch - one after another. Bibimbap. Mandu. Spicy tteokbokki. A small box of sashimi. Even a neatly wrapped kimbap roll. She apparently even got Mira a cup of iced coffee. 

“I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for,” Zoey said, settling them in a spread that smelled like comfort itself. “So I got some of your favorites.”

Mira’s throat went dry. She hadn’t told Zoey those were her favorites. Not directly. She’d just… ordered them on different days when they’d gone out for lunch. And Zoey had remembered.

Her heart stuttered, betraying her. “You didn’t need to - ”

“Sit,” Zoey interrupted, plopping herself down on the couch with all the authority of someone who paid the rent here. “You’re eating.”

Against her better judgment, Mira stood from her Desk and sat down next to Zoey. They unpacked chopsticks and napkins, and soon the quiet of her office filled with the rhythm of small talk. Easy. Unforced. Zoey’s voice cut through the static of Mira’s work-saturated brain like sunlight through blinds.

Then Zoey tilted her head, chopsticks paused mid-air. “So,” she asked casually, “how was your trip out of town?”

The words hit like a cold slap. Mira froze, her jaw tight. She reached for the safest answer she could find. “Fine,” she said lightly, picking up a piece of mandu as though she could distract both of them with food.

Zoey didn’t buy it. Her eyes narrowed, sharp with quiet intuition. Mira sighed, shoulders sagging, and settled on a half-truth. “I visited my parents. It was stressful. Our relationship is… strained. Always has been.”

For a beat, silence. Then Zoey’s lips quirked into a grin. “Well, if they give you trouble again, just say the word. I’ll… I dunno, send them forty pounds of glitter in the mail every week until they break.”

Mira choked on her mandu, startled into laughter despite herself. “Glitter? Really?”

Zoey shrugged, all faux-serious. “Death by sparkle. It’s a terrible way to go, but… fitting, don’t you think?”

Mira shook her head, still chuckling. “You know, when I first told Rumi about them for the first time, her exact words were that she’d dropkick my parents if she ever saw them.”

Her thoughts went back to the one time Rumi HAD actually met her parents, but luckily for her she had enough decency left in her body to not start a fight at a funeral.

Zoey laughed, loud and bright. “Yeah, that sounds like her. I’m not Rumi, but I’ll definitely be there to cheer her on when she does it one day. And then I’ll follow up with Operation Glitterpocalypse.”

The mental image made Mira smile so wide it almost hurt. She set her chopsticks down, exhaling softly. “You’re right. You’re not Rumi.”

Zoey raised a brow, playful. “Disappointed?”

“No,” Mira said before she could stop herself. Her voice softened. “It’s… perfect. Somehow.”

And as Zoey grinned and leaned back in her chair, Mira felt it - the unsettling, terrifying truth of it. Rumi was fire, chaotic and consuming. But Zoey? Zoey was balance. A quiet hand steadying her even when she didn’t realize she was shaking.

The remains of their lunch sat scattered across the small table - half-finished containers, chopsticks balanced over boxes, napkins crumpled neatly. Mira leaned back, surprising herself with how light she felt. Not weightless - never that - but lighter. Conversation with Zoey flowed like water, easy and winding, meandering from stories about odd coworkers to Mira’s sharp opinions on the latest production trends.

When they finally slowed, Mira gestured to the leftovers. “We didn’t even finish it all.”

Zoey shook her head, smiling. “That’s the point. You’re clearly going to stay here until the moon’s up, so you’ll need something later. Consider it insurance against you forgetting to eat again.”

Mira opened her mouth to argue, but before she could Zoey dug into her bag again. She pulled out a smaller paper sack, one with a logo Mira instantly recognized: the cartoon cat head from Derpy’s. Their café. Their spot.

Zoey opened the bag with a flourish. “And,” she said, pulling out a pastry, “I also made a detour.”

Mira froze. Of course Zoey would remember. Of course she’d go all the way there. And of course she’d get that pastry - the one Mira always ordered, the flaky, soft one dusted with just the right amount of sugar.

Her heart clenched hard, so sharp she almost winced.

Zoey caught it immediately, her smirk tilting sly. “What’s that face for?”

Mira shook her head, biting down her instinct to retreat. “You’re just… incredible.”

The smirk faltered, softened. Zoey ducked her gaze, color rising on her cheeks. “It’s just lunch,” she mumbled, like the words might hide her fluster.

Mira thought, no - it’s so much more. But she didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

Zoey broke the pastry in half, handing Mira the bigger piece without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mira stared at it for a moment, then accepted it, her chest aching.

They ate quietly, the sugary pastry sweet and buttery, grounding them in the moment. Mira noticed immediately - her piece was bigger, Zoey had given hers away without thought. Mira hesitated, then broke a bit of her portion off and, almost without thinking, held it out toward Zoey.

Zoey looked up at her, eyes dark beneath her lashes. Her lips brushed Mira’s fingertips as she leaned in to take the bite. For a fleeting moment Mira swore the air between them thickened, something charged and molten, heat curling at the edges of her restraint.

Zoey chewed, swallowed, and then smiled softly. “Thanks.”

Mira nearly stuttered. Her brain short-circuited entirely, her body remembering the fleeting touch of lips to skin while she forced herself to nod, to look composed. Inside, her heart hammered like it wanted to give her away.

Mira’s fingers still tingled where Zoey’s lips had brushed them. She curled her hand against her lap, as if hiding the evidence, though the phantom heat refused to fade.

Zoey licked a crumb from the corner of her mouth, then glanced at her with an expression Mira couldn’t quite read - half innocent, half deliberate. Her lips curved into the faintest smirk, though her lashes stayed low, and Mira’s throat felt suddenly, painfully dry.

“You always this quiet after dessert?” Zoey teased softly.

Mira forced a scoff, though her voice came out lower than she intended. “I’m just… not used to people showing up in my office like they own the place.”

Zoey tilted her head, smile widening just a fraction. “Do you want me to apologize?”

Mira should’ve said yes. Should’ve teased her back. Should’ve pushed the moment away. But the words caught in her throat. She only shook her head, her chest tight, watching as Zoey leaned a little closer across the small couch.

For a second Mira thought she might do something reckless - close the space, brush her fingers against Mira’s hand again. Her pulse climbed, caught between anticipation and dread.

But Zoey only reached for her drink, taking a sip before sitting back, as if nothing had happened. “Good,” she said lightly, eyes twinkling. “Because I’m not sorry.”

Mira laughed once, short and sharp, but the sound cracked at the edges. The tension hummed under her skin, thick enough to taste. She wanted to say something - anything - but her own rules pinned her tongue.

Zoey, meanwhile, looked completely at ease, nibbling the pastry like she hadn’t just turned Mira’s composure into dust.

They sat in silence for a while, the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. Just the faint hum of the computer, the echo of footsteps in the hallway, the occasional conversation overhead from the outside.

Zoey swung her legs lightly, the toe of her sneaker tapping against the floor.

“Hey, Mira?” she said suddenly.

Mira hummed, eyes still on the last of her pastry.

“What’s your favorite color?”

That earned her a confused glance. “My favorite color?”

Zoey nodded, leaning in a little. “Yeah. You gotta have one. Everybody has one.”

One of Mira’s brows arched. “Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Zoey said firmly. Then her smile grew mischievous. “Wait - don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

Her gaze roved over Mira like she could divine the answer from her clothes, her hair, the way she sat. Mira could almost hear her thoughts out loud, but she did not expect what Zoey blurted out after a few minutes of quiet delineation.

“YELLOW!”

Mira blinked. “Yellow?”

“Yep.” Zoey grinned, triumphant. “It has to be! It’s so unlikely, but it’s perfect. The cool, brooding producer who secretly loves yellow. Tell me that isn’t poetic.”

For a beat Mira just stared at her, then her mouth curved into a smile that softened the edges of her face. “You know what? You got me. It’s secretly yellow. I just can’t wear it, because my reputation would be ruined forever.”

Zoey laughed, bright and unguarded, and leaned back on the chair with a satisfied nod. “Knew it.”

Mira’s laugh cracked, softer this time, and she caught herself staring. Zoey’s shoulders shook as she giggled around another bite of pastry, crumbs dusting the corner of her mouth like some kind of carelessly drawn constellation.

She had never really thought about it. When she was younger, having a favorite color was the last thing on her mind. Even less as she grew up. 

But something about the way Zoey had said it suddenly made the color seem so much brighter. The way it bathed her office in an almost golden light. How Zoey's obnoxiously bright hoodie suddenly seemed so much… prettier. 

Without thinking, Mira’s hand twitched forward - an instinct, the urge to… to touch her. Just a thumb at the corner of Zoey’s lips, that’s all it would take.

Her fingers hovered a few inches above the couch before her brain caught up. She froze, pulse thundering in her throat, the realization hitting her like a slap. She curled her hand into a fist and dragged it back into her lap, nails biting into her palm.

Zoey looked up then, meeting her eyes through her lashes, and for one sharp, unbearable heartbeat Mira thought she’d noticed. Thought she’d lean into the touch that never landed.

Instead, Zoey just smiled - warm and simple - and finished the last bite.

“Thanks again,” Zoey said, brushing her hands together. “For letting me invade your space like this.”

Mira exhaled slowly, forcing her lips into a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah,” she murmured, voice barely steady. “Anytime.”

The word hung heavy between them, almost dangerous.

Zoey lingered in the doorway, bag slung over her shoulder, her smile the kind that settled into Mira’s ribs and made itself at home.

“Don’t work yourself into dust, okay?” she said, almost sing-song, almost serious.

Mira smirked, trying to cover the way her chest tightened. “I’ll try,” she replied, like it was just a throwaway.

But Zoey leaned back on her heels, tilted her head, and the warmth in her eyes pressed in like the yellow sunlight through glass. “Good. Because I’d like lunch again sometime, and it’s a lot more fun when you’re alive and conscious.”

Mira laughed, a short breath that wasn’t nearly enough to dislodge the lump in her throat. She watched Zoey walk away, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall, and then the office was too quiet. She sat there, staring at the brown paper bag Zoey had left behind, her heart racing like she’d run a marathon. The sugar still lingered on her tongue, but it was nothing compared to the aftertaste of Zoey - her laugh, her presence - clinging stubbornly to Mira’s thoughts.

hours later.

The building was hushed now, Mira's office empty of sound but for the low hum of her laptop. The mountain of work had crumbled into something manageable, thanks to a strange, borrowed energy that had carried her through after Zoey left.

Still, the clock’s hands mocked her - too late, far too late to still be here. She sighed, shoving back from her desk and padding out into the dim hallways. The coffee machine whirred to life for her and she stood there, sipping bitter warmth, trying to convince herself it counted as a break.

Back at her desk, her eyes snagged on the brown paper bag. Crumpled but intact, the ghost of Zoey scrawled across it. Mira sat down heavily, dragging her fingers over the paper like it might hum with residual heat. And unbidden, her mind snapped back to the way Zoey’s lips had brushed her fingertips, sweet crumbs gone but the sensation still there, electric and unbearable.

Her phone buzzed. Mira blinked down at the screen.

From: Gremlin 🐢

don’t stay too long 🫵

A laugh escaped her, quiet and fond. Mira snapped a photo of her desk, files still stacked high, and typed back:

Mira:

I'm not done yet. Soon.

The reply came quick, too quick, like Zoey had been waiting.

From: Gremlin 🐢

no 🙅‍♀️ you 🫵 are done. that pile looks like 💀 leave it. it’ll be there tmrw 🥺

Mira smirked, rolling her eyes as her thumbs moved:

Mira:

I can handle it.

Three dots blinked. Then, instead of a text, her phone lit up with an incoming call. Mira’s eyebrows shot up. 

Incoming call: Gremlin 🐢

For a beat she hesitated, staring at Zoey’s name glowing on her screen. Then she swiped to answer, bringing it to her ear.

“Zoey?”

Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

“Go home Mira.”

“Zoey, I really can’t just - ” Mira started, already rubbing at her temple.

On the other end, Zoey cut her off with a laugh that was too bright, too stubborn. 

“Mira. I saw your desk. It looked like a crime scene. You’re one bad decision away from becoming a cautionary tale.”

Mira let out a sharp breath through her nose, trying not to smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Nope. Don’t even try that with me,” Zoey said. She put mock sternness into her voice, and Mira could practically see the pout through the phone. “Ma'am, please step away from the corpse pile you call paperwork. Go home. Eat something. Sleep. Or I’ll - I’ll personally storm Sunlight Tower, throw you over my shoulder, and drag you out.”

Mira snorted. “You realize security would have you in a chokehold before you even made it past the lobby.”

“Worth it,” Zoey shot back instantly, smug in the way only Zoey could be. “Besides, I’d win them over. I’m very persuasive.”

“No, you’re ridiculous,” Mira muttered, but the corner of her mouth was twitching upward.

“And yet,” Zoey sang, “I’m right.”

Silence stretched for a beat, Mira’s resistance softening at the edges. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling, and finally exhaled. “…Fine.”

“Fine?” Zoey’s voice perked, all triumph.

“I’ll leave,” Mira clarified, rolling her eyes though no one could see it.

“Good. About damn time,” Zoey said, smugness fading into something softer. Then, quieter: “Stay on the line with me? Until you’re home?”

That slipped under Mira’s defenses like nothing else could. “You don’t need to babysit me,” she said, softer now.

“I know,” Zoey answered simply. “But I want to.”

Mira’s throat went tight. She didn’t argue. She couldn’t.

Instead, she started moving. Shoving a few key folders into her leather satchel, sliding her laptop in beside them, her movements sharper than necessary just to keep her hands busy. Her gaze landed on the brown paper bag Zoey had brought earlier, filled with all their leftover, still perched on the corner of her desk before grabbing it and stepping outside her office. 

“Still there?” Zoey asked after a moment, her voice lilting with curiosity.

“Yeah,” Mira murmured, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Just packing up.”

“Good girl.”

The words were light, teasing, but Mira felt the heat climb up her neck anyway. She shook her head quickly, locking her office door behind her.

The building was hollow and echoing at this hour, her heels the only sound as she walked the long hall to the elevators. The descent was slow, creaking. In the garage, her car sat waiting - sleek, black, and utterly alone in the mostly empty space. A few scattered vehicles clung to the edges, likely belonging to night staff, but otherwise the place was silent.

She slid into the driver’s seat, slotting her phone into the dashboard mount. Zoey’s voice came through the car speakers as Mira started the engine, the low purr of it filling the space.

“See? Not so bad. You’re already halfway to freedom,” Zoey teased, but there was something gentle underneath.

Mira let out a soft breath, pulling out of the garage. “You don’t fight fair.”

“Of course I don’t. Fighting fair is for suckers,” Zoey replied, casual as ever. “Also, it’s very hard to lose when I have the moral high ground of ‘please don’t let yourself collapse at your desk’.”

Mira huffed, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as the city lights came into view.

The drive stretched before her, calm and quiet, the hum of tires on asphalt steady in her ears. Zoey filled the silence easily, her voice warm and easy-going - rambling about a bug in her code that she’d finally fixed, about a new café she wanted to try, about nothing and everything. Mira let her talk, interjecting now and then with a dry remark, but mostly just…listening.

It was grounding in a way Mira couldn’t remember needing, but clearly did. Her hand loosened on the wheel, her shoulders uncoiling.

“…Almost home?” Zoey asked after a lull.

Mira’s eyes flicked to the familiar turnoff. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Zoey said softly. “I’ll hang up once you’re inside. Promise.”

Mira didn’t answer right away. Her throat worked as she turned into her complex, the weight of the day pressing in, but softened by the voice in her car speakers.

She finally said, quiet, “You’re infuriating.”

Zoey just laughed. “And yet - you’re still on the phone.”

Mira pulled into her spot, cut the engine, and sat there a moment in the dark. The brown paper bag sat on the passenger seat beside her, a silent witness.

She locked her car and stepped into the elevator, phone still on the line. Zoey was quiet now, but not gone - her soft breaths in Mira’s ear a reminder that she wasn’t walking back into her apartment completely alone.

“Alright,” Mira said once she stepped into her place and dropped her keys into the dish by the door. “Happy now?”

“Not yet,” Zoey’s voice came, playful but with an undertone that was oddly firm. “I demand Picture evidence.”

Mira blinked, one brow arching. “…Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Selfie. Proof-of-life. Otherwise, how do I know you didn’t just do a couple of laps in the car and sneak back to the office?”

A disbelieving laugh left Mira, quiet but warm in a way that startled her. “Zoey, you literally heard me drive.”

“Exactly. I but I only heard, not saw. But still, what if you just…drove in circles?” Zoey countered, smug. “You’re a workaholic. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Mira’s lips parted, but no retort came. Instead she shook her head, the word slipping out softer than she meant it: “Ridiculous.”

But she pulled her phone free anyway, angled it toward herself, and snapped a picture - her hair a little messy from the day, her blouse creased, but her expression oddly…unguarded. She sent it before she could think better of it.

A buzz. Then Zoey’s voice again, low and satisfied. “Good. Now you go to bed.”

Mira’s chest pulled tight. She opened her mouth, almost said don’t hang up yet, but the words stuck. Zoey’s goodnight came instead, tender and careful, brushing over her nerves like balm.

“Goodnight,” Mira whispered back.

The call ended.

And the silence that followed felt cavernous. Mira let out a shaky exhale, dropped her bag on the couch, and padded into her bedroom. She showered quickly, the water washing away some of the day, and pulled on something soft. The fabric smelled faintly like sandalwood and smoke, like Rumi - and that smell worked into her bones in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. Her muscles loosened. Her guard slipped. And she hated how much she didn’t hate it.

She sat on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, scrolling through the last of her files. But after a while her eyes burned, threatening to close, Zoey’s voice still echoing faintly in her ear: Goodnight, Mira.

She shut the laptop with a sigh, pushed it aside, and reached for the brown paper bag Zoey had left her. She pulled the takeout box free, but something else slid out with it - a smaller paper bag.

Mira frowned, tugged it open. Inside: another pastry bag from Derpy’s, this one covered in Zoey’s doodles. Silly sketches of cats, a crooked coffee cup, even a little caricature of Mira herself, brow furrowed at her desk. All of it drawn with an obnoxiously yellow highlighter, probably from Zoey's office. At the very bottom, Zoey’s messy handwriting:

Don’t forget to eat. <3

Mira froze, the sugar-sweet ache in her chest blooming so suddenly it almost hurt. She pressed the bag to her lips, eyes closing.

Zoey. 

Mira slipped the little pastry bag into the back of her notebook, almost without thinking. She told herself it was just for safekeeping. But she knew, even then, that tomorrow, when she sat back down at her desk and flipped her notebook open, she’d find it again. And she’d move it - somewhere visible. Somewhere she could see it's yellow color every day.

And she did.

From then on, it became a routine. Lunch with Zoey wasn’t just an occasional treat - it was normal. Mira took even greater care to shift her schedule around, to always make time, no matter how crowded her calendar got. And on the days when she was buried so deep she couldn’t see her own desk, Zoey showed up anyway - bags in hand, her easy smile cutting straight through Mira’s walls. They’d sit side by side in her office, eating from cartons and laughing softly over half-silly stories.

Those days always ended the same way: Zoey’s voice in Mira’s ear on the drive home, light and playful at first, then quiet and grounding. Mira always told herself she didn’t need it. But her hands loosened on the steering wheel, her chest felt a little lighter, and for a few minutes it was easier to breathe.

Suddenly colors weren't an afterthought anymore, they took over her office piece by piece with small things that Zoey brought her. Sticky notes with doodles, and even one of those small, cheap plastic turtles that danced when the sun hit it.

And somehow she didn't mind. 

Chapter Text

Over weeks they fell into a rhythm Zoey hadn’t expected but had come to crave. Fridays were for activities, for laughter and neon, for Mira’s dry wit cutting through the smoke and Rumi pulling them both into the thick of it like gravity. 

They always ended the same - back at Rumi’s, curled up in too-big shirts, the three of them tangled together in sleepovers that felt far too easy. Saturdays blurred into movies, fast food, and hangovers soothed by electrolyte drinks, coffee, Mira’s deadpan and Rumi’s offhand jokes. By Sunday evening, they peeled apart reluctantly, each going home, and every time Zoey stepped into her empty apartment she swore she could feel a hole opening in her chest.

It was pathetic. She told herself that more than once. And yet, when Monday rolled around, she always found herself scrolling through the group chat she’d made for the three of them after their first night out (called sleep monkeys, because she thought it was funny at the time and now the name had stuck) and looked at the pictures that they had sent into it from their weekends.

The chat pinged all week: Rumi dropping demos, riffs and ideas often asking for their opinions, Mira occasionally responding with brutally honest producer takes, Zoey throwing in memes, selfies, dumb updates about office life. Complaints, jokes, the stupid little things that made them feel close even when they weren’t.

And the tension? Still there. Always there. Simmering under the surface like a stove someone forgot to turn off. They shared beds, they cuddled on couches, they were pressed close in ways that left Zoey’s heart in a chokehold - but it never tipped over into more. And so she told herself this was just the way they were. This was just what they did. And if it made her heart race and her stomach twist every weekend, then that was her problem.

It was a Thursday afternoon when she sat at her desk, eyes flicking to her phone as it buzzed with new messages. Rumi and Mira were trading barbs in “sleep monkeys,” tossing ideas back and forth about what to do this weekend. Zoey’s lips quirked at their banter - Mira had vetoed karaoke, Rumi had declared she’d drag them there anyway - and she was about to add her own suggestion when her phone lit up with a call.

INCOMING CALL FROM: EOMMA

The smile slid off her face. For a moment she just blinked at the screen, as if maybe the name would vanish if she stared long enough. No such luck. She pushed back her chair, slipping out of the office and down the hall until she found an empty corner near the stairwell. Only then did she swipe to answer, pressing the phone to her ear with a hesitant, “Annyeonghaseyo, eomma.”

“Zoey,” her mother’s voice came through, warm but lined with that familiar sharpness Zoey had grown up with. “It’s been a while since you’ve called.”

Zoey winced, rubbing the back of her neck like her guilt might leak out that way. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, eomma. Work’s been…” She trailed off, fumbling for a good excuse, but all she had was busy, and frankly that sounded flimsy even to her own ears.

There was a pause, one heavy enough to make Zoey squirm. “You always say that. But you make time for what matters, don’t you?”

The words slid into her chest like hooks. Classic Mom. Not cruel, not yelling - just enough to make Zoey feel like she’d failed at something without even knowing what exactly.

She tried to steer the conversation, asking about the weather, about her mom’s side of the family, but just as she felt like the conversation was dropping into easy to navigate territory, two coworkers passed, muttering something to each other. Zoey’s mom caught the distinct lack of english language in the exchange immediately.

“Wait. Where are you right now?”

Zoey froze mid-sentence. She could lie. God, she wanted to. But the guilt was already gnawing at her, and she was too tired to make something up. She closed her eyes and forced the words out. “…Seoul.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Seoul? You’re in Seoul?” Her mother’s voice cracked between shock and something much softer. “How long have you been there?”

Zoey swallowed. Her instincts were telling her to lie. But the hooks in her chest were pulling her open, letting the truth spill out. “…About two months.”

The silence that followed was worse than yelling. She could hear the disappointment, heavy and quiet, and it made her screw her eyes shut, bracing like she could ward it off.

“Two months,” her mom finally said, her voice tight. “And you didn’t think to tell me? Not once?”

“I-” Zoey’s throat closed up. She wanted to explain, wanted to say she was here for work, that it wasn’t personal, but even as she started-“It’s just, Mom, I came for a job, I didn’t know how long I’d be-”

Her mom cut her off, gentler but sharper for it. “And in all that time, you didn’t have one free weekend to visit your family?”

Zoey’s gut twisted hard. She opened her mouth to deny it - but the word caught. No weekends. She didn’t have weekends. Weekends were Rumi and Mira. Weekends were going out, sleepovers, lazy Saturdays, laughter and warmth and tangled blankets. And she couldn’t tell her mom that. She couldn’t admit she hadn’t thought about her family at all.

So instead she shut her eyes, giving in. She always did in the end. “You’re right. I should’ve.”

Her mom sighed, the kind that carried years of disappointment and love tangled up in one. “You’ll come next weekend. No excuses.”

Zoey pressed her forehead to the cool stairwell wall, hating herself for how easily the guilt pinned her. “…Yeah. Okay. I’ll come.”

 - --------------

The office hummed on - keyboards, low conversations, the printer somewhere in the distance - but everything felt a half-step removed, like she was watching through glass. Her phone lay face-up on the desk, a tiny, insistent beacon. The screen pulsed with a cluster of unread messages from the “sleep monkeys” chat: fire emojis, a string of GIFs she didn’t remember seeing, Mira asking what time, Rumi sending a blurry selfie with the caption so ready. Each ping landed like a pebble in her chest.

Her knee bounced under the table, fast and uncontrollable. She tried to read a ticket in her queue, pretend to review a line of code, to breathe calmly. Tried very hard. The messages kept coming - 

From: Sleepy Monkey M. 🩷 in sleep monkeys
Where are you?

From: Sleepy Monkey R. 💜 in sleep monkeys
we waitinnnn. zo rply!

until the office walls pressed in on all sides.

She stood abruptly, motion awkward and loud to her own ears. Her coworkers barely glanced up. Her legs carried her to the bathroom on autopilot. She locked a stall and slid down until her back hit cold metal, the world shrinking to a tight square of tile and the urge to run.

She hadn’t thought about her family at all since that first 7/11 talk with Mira. She had gotten used to this instead - late-night recklessness and fast food and cigarette smoke. Life narrowed to them. One long, delicious overcommitment. But now her mother’s voice replayed in her skull, all disappointment and expectation she couldn’t meet without betraying something real and precious. It wasn’t fair.

The first tear surprised her - hot and sudden, carving a track through the makeup she’d half-heartedly applied that morning. Then another. She pressed her forehead to the stall door and let it go, quiet sobs catching on every breath.

She thought of Mira’s arms, how she always made sure that she ate and drank water. How she always leveled everybody, that as much as grazed her, with a glare, but let Zoey lean on and hug her without complaint. Of Rumi’s laugh that always came a little sideways, the smell of the hoodie that Zoey always returned, just to steal another. How Rumi pretended to not notice. The ache swelled until it felt audible.

By the time she scrubbed her face dry and forced herself up, her eyes were swollen and her chest hollow. She splashed water on her cheeks in the sink, the cold sting a rubber band snapping against panic. The mirror showed her a puffy-eyed stranger, mascara blurred, hair frizzing at the temple. She didn’t look like someone who could choose. But most importantly she didn’t look like someone who could tell her mother no.

“You’re gonna be alright for one weekend without them,” she whispered at her reflection.

But even as she said it, she didn’t believe herself. Not for a second.

Back at her desk, the phone buzzed again. Her knee resumed its jittering. She unlocked the screen. The latest message was 

From: Sleepy Monkey M. 🩷 in sleep monkeys
Zoey?

Right below it, 

From: Sleepy Monkey R. 💜 in sleep monkeys
zoooo whr r uuuu

Her thumb hovered. Her stomach dropped. She typed, deleted, typed again, then hit send.

Zoey:
Hey sooo my MOM just called 😔 I can’t make it next Friday… she wants me to visit them 💔

The second it left her, her heart ached sharper. The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly. Panic clamped down. She flipped the phone face-down on the desk and let her forehead fall against the wood beside it, shutting her eyes against whatever was coming.

Her forehead stayed pressed against the desk, the wood cool against her skin. The phone buzzed twice in quick succession. She flinched at the sound, bracing herself, then tilted the screen just enough to peek without lifting her head fully.

From: Sleepy Monkey R. 💜 in sleep monkeys
aw man :( bt ya ofc. fam first n all tht jaz

From: Sleepy Money M. 🩷 in sleep monkeys
How long will you be there? If you’re back by Sunday, we could still see each other.

Zoey blinked at the words, her throat tightening all over again - but softer this time. Not the sharp squeeze of panic, but something else. The suggestion slipped into the cracks in her chest like a balm. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a weekend. But it was something.

She sat up slowly, breathing deep, and felt the jitter in her leg finally ease. Her thumbs hovered for a moment, then tapped out a reply.

Zoey:
I’ll try!! I’ll text you guys. Thank u 💖

Her phone pinged again almost immediately - Rumi sending a heart emoji, Mira a simple good.

It didn’t make her okay. Her mother’s voice still echoed sharp in her skull, the guilt still heavy as stone in her chest. But the sight of their words on her screen tugged her lips into the smallest smile despite herself. God, she was so screwed.

And then it hit her - the other truth buried in all of it. She wasn’t just missing a weekend. She had to spend one. An entire weekend with her family. The thought alone sent a shiver of dread crawling up her spine.

The weekend she had been looking forward to was gone, and now all she could do was brace for the one she’d didn’t even want to think about.

 - ---------------------------------  

Her little apartment felt too quiet without the ping of the group chat lighting it up, without her own laughter bouncing back at her off the walls as she read their messages to herself. She stuffed clothes into her backpack half-heartedly, folding nothing, just shoving until the zipper barely closed. Every motion carried the weight of wanting to be somewhere else - anywhere else.

She’d barely managed to stop Rumi from sending her driver to take her all the way to the little town her family was living in. Zoey had insisted it was fine, saying she would just buy a cheap train ticket. Which, in hindsight, might've been stupid of her to admit.

The rockstar had immediately insisted she’d never let Zoey waste away on some cheap, grimy train. Mira, not to be outdone, had one-upped her in under five minutes by buying Zoey a ticket with a quicker and more fancy train. They’d squabbled in the chat about it until Zoey caved, agreeing to the ticket Mira had secured - too exhausted to keep batting them both down.

So here she was, backpack cutting into her shoulder, sighing into the stillness like it might echo back with answers. She wished she were zipping this bag for a sleepover at Rumi’s instead, wished she were thinking about glittering cocktails and burritos, not her grandmother's side-eye and her mother’s guilt. She tried - really tried - to tell herself it would be nice to see her halmae. Maybe even cousins she hadn’t spoken to in years. That had to mean something.

But then the voice she hated most rose up in her chest: You’d drop it all if Rumi or Mira called you right now.

 Her jaw tightened. She shook her head hard enough that her small ponytail whipped. Unfair. Unfair.

Zoey stepped out into the cool noon air, pulling her jacket closer around her - only to stop dead.

There, leaning against a sleek motorcycle at the curb like she’d been born into leather and smoke, was Rumi. Cigarette perched between her lips, black tee showing under her leather jacket, eyes squinting against the afternoon sun. She exhaled slow, lips curving into something between a smirk and a dare.

Zoey’s brain hiccupped. Wait. What? Did Rumi forget? No, she hadn’t said - 

Her heart did a sick little flip anyway.

Her hand tightened on her backpack strap as she walked up, her voice catching somewhere between a whisper and a demand.

 “Rumi? What are you doing here?”

Rumi turned toward her like she’d been expecting the question all along, cigarette dangling loose between her fingers now. “Hey Zo, since you wouldn’t let me send the driver,” she said, matter-of-fact but with a glint in her eye. “I figured I’d take matters into my own hands. Drive you to the station myself.”

Zoey blinked, caught between exasperation and a warmth she didn’t want to name. “It’s not far, I was just gonna… take the bus or something.”

Rumi snorted and shook her head, stubbing the cigarette out on the curb with her boot. “Why take the bus when the best ride in Seoul is right here?”

Zoey arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Bold claim, puppy.”

Rumi leaned in just enough for Zoey to feel the brush of her presence, her grin sharp and teasing. “I meant the motorcycle, you pervert.”

Heat crawled up Zoey’s neck as her eyes dropped to the gleaming machine Rumi leaned against. “…I’ve never been on one before.”

“I know, and I think it's about time then,” Rumi said, her tone sliding easily between casual and daring. She popped open the back compartment, pulling out a second helmet, and held it out toward Zoey like an invitation she’d already decided she’d accept. “So, how about it? Wanna ride with me?”

They had talked about Rumi’s motorcycle before and Rumi had even offered to take her on a ride somewhere, but nothing had ever come from it. Words tangled in Zoey’s throat, tripping over themselves before spilling out in a near-gasp: “I’ve always wanted to ride you - uh - ride with you. With you. On… the bike. Yep.”

Her face burned.

Rumi’s grin widened, wolfish and amused, like she was tucking that little slip-up away to tease her with later.

Zoey groaned at herself but reached out anyway, fingers brushing the helmet. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.”

Rumi handed Zoey the helmet like it was the most natural thing in the world, then crouched to adjust the strap under her chin until it sat snug. “There,” she said, giving it a little tap with her palm. “No excuses now.”

Before Zoey could overthink it, Rumi had already taken her backpack, stowed it in the compartment, and swung one long leg over the bike. She settled onto the seat with the kind of practiced grace that made Zoey’s throat go dry, then held out a gloved hand in silent invitation.

Zoey took it, tentative but sure, and climbed on carefully like Rumi had instructed her, placing her feet where the pegs were. The seat slanted just enough that she immediately slid down the slope until she was pressed flush against Rumi’s back. Her breath caught, half nerves, half oh god this is happening.

“Hold on tight,” Rumi called over her shoulder.

Zoey hesitated, then slipped her arms around Rumi’s waist. It felt like too much and not enough all at once.

“Not like that,” Rumi chided lightly, catching Zoey’s wrists and tugging them tighter until Zoey’s grip was firm against her middle. “Like this. Don’t let go.”

The engine roared to life under them, deep and guttural, vibrating through Zoey’s whole body. Nerves spiked in her chest - but then the smell of leather, cigarettes, and sandalwood hit her nose, familiar and grounding, and the panic melted into something else entirely.

They pulled onto the street and the city blurred around them. Rumi weaved through traffic with confident precision, the kind that made Zoey cling harder but also… trust her. At every stoplight, without fail, Rumi’s hands would settle briefly over Zoey’s where they circled her waist, a simple press - just enough to check she was still there. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth through her, steadying, soothing.

It was thrilling, almost dizzying, and just scary enough to feel alive. Every time Zoey’s nerves climbed too high, Rumi seemed to know, and the next stop would come, her hands grounding her again.

Too soon the skyline thinned, the road bent, and the glass of the station loomed ahead. They slowed, pulled in, and stopped.

Zoey slid off reluctantly, almost sad the ride was over. Rumi was already moving, stowing the helmet away, handing Zoey her backpack with an easy grin.

“When’s your train?”

Zoey glanced up at the clock overhead. “Twenty minutes.”

Rumi nodded, swinging her leg off the bike. “Then I’ll walk you to the platform.”

Zoey’s chest tugged tight at that - like maybe the ride wasn’t the only thing she wasn’t ready to let end.

As they walked side by side through the station, the clatter of rolling suitcases and the echo of announcements bounced off the high ceiling. Neither spoke much until they reached the platform, where they found an empty bench. Rumi sat, pulling out her pack of cigarettes like it was ritual, lighting one with a practiced flick before leaning back against the cool metal.

Zoey dropped onto the bench beside her, backpack at her feet. Her knee started bouncing before she even realized it.

“You alright?” Rumi asked, smoke curling lazily from her lips.

“Yes. Sure. Totally,” Zoey replied too fast, too bright.

Rumi arched a brow, the kind of look that cut through any mask Zoey tried to wear. “If you say so.”

Zoey slumped forward, elbows on her knees, the words coming out small. “I just… dread this visit.”

Rumi didn’t answer right away. She just smoked, waiting. Quiet in a way that made space.

Zoey exhaled hard, eyes on the scuffed tile. “My parents are divorced. And I’ve always felt… torn, I guess. Like I’m stuck between two worlds. Never really belonging to either. Not with my dad and his family in America, not with my mom and her family here in Korea. Always just… somewhere in between. Nowhere, really.”

For a moment she thought maybe she’d said too much. But when she glanced up, Rumi wasn’t dismissive - she was thinking, deep lines carved into her brow. Finally she flicked ash aside and met Zoey’s eyes.

“I can’t pretend to know what that feels like. My parents were both Korean. I’ve only ever lived here.” She paused, then added softly, “But I get the not-belonging part.”

Zoey blinked. “Were.”

Rumi frowned slightly. “What?”

“You didn’t say are. You said were Korean.”

Rumi’s gaze dropped to the ground. For a long second she was quiet, the cigarette smoldering between her fingers. “Yeah. They died a while ago. Celine’s been my legal guardian ever since.”

Zoey blinked, before groaning and letting her head tip back. “Great. Here I am whining about my family issues, and you just had to pull the dead parents card.”

Rumi’s lips twitched. “I didn’t exactly choose it. But good to know it wins arguments.”

Zoey groaned again, burying her face in her hands. Rumi laughed then - an unguarded, belly-deep sound that made Zoey peek through her fingers despite herself. The corners of her own mouth tugged up, traitorous.

“There she is,” Rumi said, still smiling, flicking ash away. “A smile suits you a hell of a lot better.”

They’d been sitting on the bench for maybe ten minutes - long enough for Zoey to finish worrying a thread on her pants and for Rumi to light a second cigarette.

The platform was half full at that point. Business travelers with their earbuds, students with backpacks too big for their frames, a family arguing over snacks. Rumi looked like she didn’t belong anywhere near any of them - sprawled out on the bench, smoke curling lazily from between her fingers.

Zoey fidgeted with her sleeve. “Do you think it’s weird that I’m nervous?”

Rumi exhaled toward the ceiling. “You’re going to see your parents. Of course you’re nervous.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t be. They’re my parents.”

“Exactly.” She took another drag, then gestured with the cigarette.

Zoey snorted despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re not helping.”

“Never do, never try,” Rumi said easily.

That earned her a little shove to the shoulder - one that didn’t move her an inch. Zoey sighed and leaned back against the bench. “You make everything sound simple.”

“That’s ‘cause it usually is.” Rumi flicked ash into the tray beside her. “Like, if you want something, you take it. If you don’t like something, you change it.”

Zoey raised a brow. “Yeah? What if it’s, say, a vending machine that ate your money?”

“Then you make it give it back.”

Zoey tilted her head. “You make it?”

Rumi grinned - the slow, dangerous kind that meant trouble. “I know how to crack them.”

Zoey’s eyes widened, mock-serious. “No, you don’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Rumi.”

“What?”

“Don’t-”

Too late. Rumi was already on her feet, sauntering toward the vending machine like she had every right to be there. She tapped the glass twice, crouched, muttered something under her breath, and then - with a quick twist and a palm strike on the side - the machine gave a soft clunk.

A can rolled out and dropped into the tray.

Rumi picked it up, turned around with a flourish, and tossed it underhand toward Zoey. “For you.”

Zoey caught it, jaw dropped. “You did not just rob a vending machine.”

Rumi took a drag from her cigarette, smug as sin. “I liberated it.”

“Oh my god. I should call the police.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would absolutely dare.”

“Yeah?” Rumi arched an eyebrow. “Then who’s gonna steal you drinks and take you on motorides?” She sat back down beside her, still smirking, and Zoey shook her head, cracking the can open. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, but you’re smiling again,” Rumi said quietly.

That pulled her up short. Zoey glanced sideways - and sure enough, Rumi wasn’t teasing anymore. She was just looking at her, soft and steady, like she meant it.

Zoey’s smile faded into something gentler. “Thanks,” she said, resting her head against Rumi’s shoulder. “For being here. And, you know… distracting me with petty crimes.”

Rumi chuckled, low and warm. “Anytime.”

They sat in silence for a while, the hum of the station wrapping around them. Zoey could feel the pulse in her own wrist where Rumi’s sleeve brushed her arm.

Rumi shifted slightly, her shoulder pressing more firmly against Zoey, adjusting herself, making Zoey’s head rest more comfortably. It wasn’t intentional, Zoey told herself. Probably.

Then Rumi’s voice came, low and quieter than before.

“Hey, Zoey?”

“Yeah?”

Rumi didn’t look at her right away. She took another drag, exhaled toward the ceiling, and then turned her head - just enough that Zoey could see the glint of something unguarded in her eyes.

“Do… Do you feel like you belong now?”

Zoey blinked, caught off-guard by the question’s softness. The joking and teasing had evaporated, and all that was left was this: the weight of the words, the smoke curling between them, the faint roar of the arriving train somewhere on the tracks.

She looked at Rumi - really looked. At the faint smudge of ash near her knuckle, the slope of her throat, the way her lips were parted slightly like she was waiting for something.

And for a heartbeat too long, Zoey forgot how to speak.

“Yeah,” she finally whispered. “I do.”

Her voice came out lower than she meant it to.

Rumi’s gaze dropped to her mouth, just for a second, before she looked away - a slow smile tugging at her lips, the kind that hid nerves behind swagger.

“Good,” she murmured. 

The air was electric, the kind of silence that dared either of them to move. Zoey could feel her heart hammering, could feel every inch of space between them like it was charged.

If the announcement hadn’t come right then - the loudspeaker crackling overhead with the final boarding call - she wasn’t sure what she might have done.

They both startled slightly, the spell breaking. Rumi stood, stubbing out her cigarette in the tray and clearing her throat like she could physically shake off the tension and they both stood, moving to the edge of the platform. The tracks began to hum, headlights flaring as the train pulled in, brakes squealing.

Rumi snapped her fingers like she’d just remembered something. “Oh - shit. Almost forgot.” She reached into her helmet and pulled out a small paper bag Zoey hadn’t noticed before. She held it out.

Zoey frowned, taking it. “What’s this?”

Rumi shrugged, a little too casual. “Just a care package. Snacks, sweets, some drinks. Mira and I put it together for you. Thought it might make the ride suck a little less.”

Zoey blinked at the bag in her hands, warmth flooding her chest so fast it left her dizzy. The doors slid open with a hiss. For a second, the crowd moved around them like water around a stone.

Zoey stepped forward and wrapped her arms tight around Rumi’s middle. The kind of hug that didn’t ask permission. Rumi froze only a moment before her arms folded around Zoey, strong and sure, pulling her in.

A sharp whistle blew across the platform - last call. Rumi shifted, bracing one hand against the train door to keep it open. Zoey leaned up impulsively, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “Thank you. For the ride. For… everything.”

Rumi’s answering smile was so soft Zoey almost forgot every reason she’d ever told herself not to feel like this.

Another whistle. Reluctantly, Rumi let go, her palm sliding away as Zoey stepped inside. The doors closed between them, glass replacing touch. Zoey lifted her hand to it. On the other side, Rumi mirrored her, palm pressed against hers through the barrier.

The train lurched forward. Rumi jogged alongside it, her hand still on the glass for a few seconds longer before she dropped back, waving, the station blurring past. Zoey craned her neck until she couldn’t see her anymore.

Her chest ached, shaky and full, as she turned back. An older woman a few rows down was watching her with a knowing smile.

“Girlfriend?” the woman asked kindly.

Zoey shook her head, too fast. “No. Just a friend.”

The woman chuckled softly, like she’d heard that a hundred times before, and turned away. Zoey clutched the little bag in her hands, cheeks warm, and went to find her seat.

Chapter Text

The train ride itself was uneventful. Zoey spent most of it with her forehead against the glass, earbuds in, watching the world flicker past. The dense sprawl of Seoul bled into suburbs, then open fields, then clusters of smaller towns stitched between hills. With every mile, her chest felt heavier, like she was being tugged further away from where she actually wanted to be. From them.

A few hours later she stepped off onto the platform, dragging her bag over one shoulder. She checked her phone as she walked, thumb swiping through notifications. Her mother had promised to “make sure she found her way” from the station but hadn’t explained what that actually meant. The only clear message was from Mira.

From: Sleepy Monkey M. 🩷
Sad I couldn’t see you off at the station. Hope you survive the weekend (even if it’s without us 🤨). Let’s hope for Sunday.

Zoey’s lips tugged into a smile despite herself. She typed out a quick reply - something breezy, lighter than she felt - while her sneakers scuffed against the concrete.

“Zoey!”

Her head snapped up, frown forming automatically. A tall young man was pushing through the small crowd, one hand raised like they were already old friends. Grey-ish hair fell forward in messy curtains that hid most of his face. 

Her brows pinched tighter. Who the hell was that? And why did he know her name?

He came to a stop right in front of her, breath puffing faintly in the cool air. With one hand he kept trying to push his hair out of his eyes, but it slipped right back down again like it had a grudge.

Zoey squinted. “Uh… do I know you?”

He let out a quick, nervous laugh, scratching at the back of his neck. “No, probably not. But your mom asked me to pick you up. Drive you over.”

Of course. Zoey groaned inwardly. Classic Mom. The woman had made an Olympic sport out of trying to set her up with “nice boys,” no matter how many times Zoey had said - loudly, clearly - that she could pick her own partner, thanks. 

After she’d come out as bi, the matchmaking attempts had… doubled. Worse than before, like her mom had taken it as a personal challenge. Once she’d even orchestrated a blind date that had been a disaster start to finish. The guy had been… fine, in the way plain oatmeal was fine. Bland. Grey. The kind of person you’d forget mid-conversation.

Zoey dragged herself out of the memory with a shake of her head, one eyebrow climbing as she eyed the stranger.

He must’ve caught the suspicion, because he hurriedly pulled his phone from his pocket, flipping the screen toward her. Sure enough: a text thread from her mother, with the time and her arrival details spelled out.

Her mouth flattened into a thin line. She exhaled through her nose, then hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. “Fine. Lead the way, then.”

He seemed nice enough - awkward in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed, genuinely trying. He asked if her trip had been long, commented on how warm it was for this time of year. Zoey answered politely, but her words came out clipped, her tone polite to the point of stiff. 

Her thoughts circled elsewhere: this. This was why she hated coming back. Her mom didn’t know what boundaries were - worse, didn’t care about them. Always nudging, pushing, dragging her toward things Zoey never asked for. And the worst part? The guilt her mom wrapped around every request until Zoey was the one defending her.

They reached the car, a scuffed Toyota Sienta that beeped when he unlocked it. He moved automatically to take her backpack, but Zoey pulled it closer, shaking her head.

“I’ll keep it with me.”

“Of course.” No protest, no awkward insistence. He just nodded, polite smile still intact.

Zoey let her eyes slide over the car, and instantly - instantly - her brain betrayed her with a comparison. Rumi’s Impala, heavy and purring and dramatic, with seats made out of expensive black leather, versus… this. A family car with crumbs probably ground into the seats.

“Are you trying to disintegrate my car with that glare?” His voice broke into her thoughts, dry but amused.

Zoey blinked, looking up. “I just don’t usually get into cars with strangers I don’t know.”

He grinned, raising his hands like she had him there. “Fair. I’m Hwan. Lee, Hwan.”

“Zoey… Choi.” she said automatically, though he already knew. With a short nod, and no real choice, she slid into the passenger seat. For a second she almost wished she had taken Rumi’s offer of a driver.

The drive that followed was quiet, but not in an unpleasant way. Hwan didn’t press; he seemed comfortable letting silence take up space, only glancing over once or twice to check she was okay. Zoey leaned her head against the glass, eyes roaming the streets that blurred past. 

She knew this town, too well - spent summers here when her parents split, bouncing between two countries like a shuttlecock. The American school system had been easier than re-rooting herself in Korea, so her mother had gotten summers instead and Zoey had kept her last name.

Hwan eventually broke the silence, voice gentle. “What do you think? Being back?”

Zoey huffed out a small laugh through her nose, gaze still on the window. “It’s the same old town. Nothing ever changes here.”

He just smiled, nodding. “Yeah. That’s about right.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ride ended in front of a moderately sized home, the kind that could’ve been ripped from any smaller Korean town. Traditional rooflines softened by time, paint just slightly faded, stonework worn but sturdy. Zoey knew this place - not in the intimate way that made you ache for home, but in the way you remember a family heirloom that’s been passed around for generations. It had been built by some ancestor, lived in by branch after branch of the family. A house that belonged to everyone and no one.

Outside, a few older relatives lounged in folding chairs, chatting in the sun. She didn’t recognize most of them - maybe vague fragments of faces from hazy childhood summers. Normalcy, she thought. Then, immediately, her brain corrected it: Mediocrity. She frowned at herself. That was unfair. Normal wasn’t a crime.

The car doors slammed. She barely made it two steps before the storm hit: aunties, uncles, elderly cousins? - it didn’t matter. Hands tugged at her sleeves, fingers pinched her cheeks, voices rising in a chorus of contradictions.

“You’re too thin, you must eat more.”

“No, no, look at her arms, she’s filling out!”

“She’s grown so tall - ”

“Not tall enough!”

“And I held you when you were a baby, don’t you remember?”

Zoey forced a thin smile, heart pounding like she’d been caught in a net. Her more formal Korean tripped off her tongue automatically - little polite responses, bows, apologies, thanks.

It was Hwan, surprisingly, who cut through. He raised a hand, voice respectful but firm. “Maybe give her a little space? Let her breathe first.”

The cluster hesitated, then relented, murmuring among themselves as they dispersed back toward their chairs. Zoey exhaled, pressing her lips into something resembling a smile of gratitude in his direction.

That was when the front door opened.

Her mother stepped out.

For a moment, everything stilled. Her mother looked smaller than Zoey remembered, not in stature but in the softening around her eyes, the weight of years settling in ways Zoey hadn’t been ready to see. Lines that hadn’t been there the last time stretched faint at the corners of her smile.

Zoey stood there in her jeans and sneakers, a backpack slung over her shoulder, hair messy from the ride. Mother and daughter, staring across the yard. Two people tied by blood, but at that moment they might as well have come from different worlds.

Her mom descended the steps, wiping her hands on an apron. She thanked Hwan warmly, her tone easy, like this had always been the arrangement. He bowed, murmuring it was no trouble at all, already edging toward the driver’s side of his car.

“Stay for dinner,” her mother said. Not asked. Stated.

Hwan laughed softly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That’s kind, but - ”

“Nonsense,” she cut in, the firmness in her voice one Zoey knew well. “You’ll eat with us. No arguments.”

Zoey watched the exact moment he realized resistance was pointless. His shoulders slumped, polite smile fixed in place. “Of course. Thank you.” Another bow, then he excused himself, promising to return later.

Her mother turned to her then, gaze scanning her from head to toe. “You look… healthy.”

Zoey’s lips stretched into a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. She knew what her mom meant. Not healthy. Just different. Not how she should look. She let the comment pass like she always did.

“Come inside. The room’s already made up for you.”

The house swallowed her with its familiar plainness as soon as she stepped through the door. Dark wood beams across the ceiling, family photos lining the hallway in frames that hadn’t been updated in years, the faint smell of kimchi and cleaning soap clinging to the air. Shoes neatly lined up at the entrance, a low table waiting in the main room, a calendar from a local bank pinned crookedly on the wall. It was all so unremarkably, stubbornly normal.

Her mother led her up a staircase and down a short corridor before pushing open a sliding door. The guest room. Zoey recognized it instantly, though the details blurred - summers spent sprawled on the floor with notebooks full of nonsense, trying to escape the weight of relatives’ expectations that always seemed heavier in this house. The same thin futon folded neatly in the sleeping nook, a chest of drawers against the wall, a lone mirror catching the weak afternoon light. Nothing had changed.

“I’m sure you’re tired,” her mother said. “But I’d love to share some tea. We can talk. Come down when you feel like it.”

Zoey gave her a tight-lipped nod. “Okay.”

Her mother lingered for a moment, then nodded once and pulled the door shut behind her.

Zoey let the silence press in. She slid the strap of her backpack off her shoulder, letting it drop with a dull thump, then dropped herself to the floor beside it. A long exhale left her.

This weekend was going to be long.

Zoey dragged her backpack onto the futon and tugged the zipper open. The first thing that greeted her was the crinkle of paper - the small bag Rumi had shoved into her arms at the train station.

Her chest tightened. Her mind betrayed her immediately, flashing back to their goodbye. The way Rumi had braced the train door open, stretching their last seconds together as if she could bend time. The way she’d sprinted alongside the train until the platform ended, her figure shrinking as Zoey pressed her palm to the glass.

Zoey shook her head hard, like she could scatter the memory apart. Not now. She was here. She had to be here.

Still, her fingers were already working the bag open. Inside was a little pile of comfort: her favorite snacks, a couple sweets, pouches of the drinks she always grabbed when they stopped at convenience stores. She bit back a smile, one that slipped free anyway.

At the very bottom, she found a pack of peach gummy rings. The exact same kind she’d nearly dropped all over the 7/11 floor the night she’d met Mira. Her throat caught at the memory, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep the ridiculous little laugh from slipping out.

Nestled against the gummies was a folded post-it. Mira’s handwriting, neat and deliberate, marched across the small square. 

To tide you over until you get back to us 

Her signature, too - sharp, elegant strokes. Below it, Rumi’s contribution sprawled in jagged letters, her name barely recognizable in its mess.

don't forget about us <3

 Zoey snorted softly, the sound dissolving into something more tender.

She slid the note carefully into the back of her phone case, right alongside the small polaroid she kept there. One she’d taken after a late-night liquor-fueled scavenger hunt through Rumi’s penthouse had turned up an ancient instant camera. The picture was crooked and overexposed, Mira scowling at the lens while Rumi showed a grin too big for her face. Zoey had taken dozens of photos that night, but this one she’d kept closest.

Her fingers lingered on the case. For a moment, the dull weight of the guest room thinned, and she almost forgot she’d wanted to be anywhere else.

No. Not anywhere. Back in Seoul.

Her thoughts drifted back - inevitably, traitorously - to that night.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’d just stumbled in from another club, legs loose from dancing, laughter still clinging to them. Rumi and Mira had collapsed onto the couch, immediately launching into a bickering match over food. Zoey had let herself sink into the cushions, staring at nothing in particular while their voices washed over her.

“Kimbap,” Rumi had declared, thumping her hand against the coffee table like it was a gavel.

“Tteokbokki,” Mira had countered coolly, not even looking up from her phone.

Zoey had groaned softly, tipping her head back. “I’m bored. I’m gonna find something to do.”

Rumi had glanced up just long enough to grunt an acknowledgment before going right back to extolling the virtues of seaweed rice rolls. Mira had narrowed her eyes and scrolled harder, clearly refusing to budge.

Rolling her eyes Zoey had wandered off, humming tunelessly as she got deeper into the penthouse. The place was a maze of decadence and clutter, but she’d gotten used to it - mostly. When she passed the half-open door of Rumi’s studio, something tugged her feet back.

She stepped inside quietly, like she might spook the room if she was too loud.

It smelled faintly of cigarettes and dust. Instruments leaned against walls, guitars on stands, keyboards stacked like a fortress. She crouched to read the faded signatures scrawled across some of the cases - names she half-recognized, the ghosts of collaborations past. Shelves held tangles of gear, tangled cables, notebooks thick with scrawls.

And there, shoved almost carelessly between two old amps, she found it: a beat-up instant camera.

She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. The plastic was scratched, the strap fraying. She popped it open - empty. No film. She pouted at the discovery, her bottom lip sticking out reflexively, then walked back toward the living room.

When she returned, the battle over food had apparently ended. Mira lounged against the armrest, legs crossed elegantly as she scrolled through her phone. On the table, Rumi hunched over rolling a joint with the focus of someone performing delicate surgery, her tongue caught in the corner of her mouth.

It was so quintessentially them - chaos bleeding into quiet, familiar ritual settling into place - that Zoey had felt something ache sweetly in her chest.

She held up the camera like a prize. “Hey, do you have any film for this?”

Rumi squinted up at her, head wobbling a little as she tried to focus. She closed one eye dramatically, like she was aiming at the question. “...Might, actually.”

She turned toward Mira without moving from her slouch. “Finish rolling this, would you?”

Mira arched a brow but plucked the paper and grinder from her without comment, except a muttered. “Unbelievable.”

“You wanted to smoke,” Rumi shot back, already pushing herself upright. “So you can finish.”

Zoey giggled at the exchange and trailed after her towards the studio. Rumi moved like she was wading through water, squinting at shelves stacked high with forgotten odds and ends. She even tilted her head slightly, as if that would help her focus. The sight made Zoey giggle again, soft and helpless.

Rumi’s head whipped toward her, squinting harder. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, puppy,” Zoey said, still giggling as she reached out to ruffle Rumi’s already messy hair. “You’re just so cute sometimes.”

“I am not a puppy,” Rumi huffed, crossing her arms with a pout that only made Zoey laugh harder.

“Totally are,” Zoey teased, eyes warm despite her drunken state. “...but also cute.”

The words slipped out before she could think, but she didn’t regret them. Not even when Rumi’s ears and cheeks turned the faintest pink.

Instead of answering, Rumi blinked past her, her focus drifting to a higher shelf. She brushed by Zoey - close enough that Zoey caught the faint smell of her perfume under the haze of smoke and alcohol - and reached up. A small box came down, and from it, Rumi pulled out a crinkled packet of instant film.

“Here,” she said simply, pressing it into Zoey’s hands.

Zoey beamed. “Thanks.”

Rumi ruffled her hair in retaliation, grinning when Zoey squeaked at the contact, then left the room with the casual grace of someone who knew she’d just won the last word.

Left alone with the camera and the new film, Zoey turned the packet over in her hands and smiled to herself, already imagining the kind of trouble she could get into with it.

Zoey fiddled with the film until it clicked into place, then held the camera up to her face with all the seriousness of someone preparing for art. She snapped a quick test shot of the studio. The result whirred out: grainy, crooked, and half-covered in shadow. She grinned at it anyway. Perfect.

She wandered the penthouse like an explorer in a new country, camera clutched in both hands. A lamp. The row of empty bottles on a shelf. A particularly dramatic angle of Rumi’s guitars. Every mundane thing became a worthy subject in the haze of alcohol and neon memory.

When she drifted back into the living room, Rumi and Mira were curled into the couch, passing the joint lazily between them, voices low. Zoey announce herself with a small whistle as  she lifted the camera and clicked, capturing a too big grin from Rumi and a scowl from Mira. The picture spat out, a little too bright, a little too blurry. She squinted at it drunkenly, declared, “This is the best picture in the world,” and held it aloft like a trophy.

The rest of the night blurred into snapshots, literal and otherwise. Dinner arrived - both kimbap and tteokbokki, their argument unresolved but delicious - and she photographed it too: steam rising, chopsticks midair, the cluttered battlefield of the living room table. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, captured in one frame like ghostly ribbons.

Mostly, though, she photographed them. Rumi leaning back, hoodie loose, eyes hazy, middle finger aimed playfully at the lens. Mira pretending to scowl, then softening when Zoey caught her off guard, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in the exact moment Zoey clicked the shutter. Rumi even stole the camera once, demanding Zoey “pose properly,” and filled a few frames with Zoey’s red-cheeked laugh.

The last picture of the night was all three of them together, squished into the couch. Rumi, bundled in a hoodie, smiling a high, lopsided grin. Mira, curled at her side, throwing up a rare peace sign, clearly just as high. Zoey sitting against Rumi's front, arms outstretched to hold the camera, her grin so wide it almost hurt. The flash lit them up like a secret.

The morning after, when Zoey stumbled into the kitchen for water, she found the photo already stuck to Rumi’s fridge with a magnet, proudly on display. A few of the “artistic” shots had mysteriously migrated into Mira’s bag, and Zoey didn’t ask.

And Zoey? She kept the first one - the blurry, overexposed shot of Rumi and Mira on the couch, smoke curling in the background. It wasn’t perfect, not even close. But it was perfect to her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zoey shook herself out of the memory, dragging in a breath and letting it go slowly. One more. Then another. Her fingers smoothed the front of her jeans before she pushed herself upright. Bracing. Time to face it.

She walked down the hall, finding her mother in the kitchen, who glanced up immediately, a smile that didn’t quite reach her tired eyes, and said she’d put the tea on now. She waved Zoey toward the table.

She sat, gaze wandering over the room while her mom busied herself. Nothing had really changed - same wallpaper, same neat stack of mismatched dishes in the corner cabinet. A few more cardboard boxes stacked near the pantry, as if life had been shoved out of sight. And photographs. Lots of them. Faces she didn’t recognize, cousins or neighbors or someone’s wedding, smiling from more cheap frames. It made her chest feel tight, like she’d missed too many chapters.

Her mother returned with a small tray: the whole setup, teapot and little cups, steam curling up. She poured carefully, then set one in front of Zoey. “This is usually the job of the younger person, you know,” she said with a faint, pointed smile.

Zoey rolled her eyes on the inside, but on the outside she just blew on her tea and sipped.

The questions came, steady as rainfall. Was she still living in California? Still working the same job? Still sharing an apartment with that… girl. The way she said “girl” carried a weight that made Zoey’s jaw tighten. Stacy. Her mom had always hinted, never said directly, but always implied how much she disapproved of her.

Zoey answered. Short, clipped, polite. Each reply dragged her patience thinner.

“Your Korean seems a little rusty,” her mom noted next, tilting her head. “You should practice more.”

Zoey’s grip on her teacup went tight. She opened her mouth, almost saying that neither Rumi nor Mira had any complained, her temper at the edge of snapping - 

And then the sliding door creaked open.

“Halmae,” Zoey said softly, relief slipping into her voiceat the distraction.

Her grandmother shuffled in, her face brightening the moment she saw Zoey. The air shifted immediately. Her Halmae asked after her health, if she was eating enough, if California had good rice (it did, but she lied and said not as good as here). They talked a little, Zoey answering when prompted, letting her grandmother’s presence smooth the sharpness that had built.

But the reprieve didn’t last. After a while her mother stood, announcing it was time to prepare dinner. Zoey pushed herself half up, trying, “I might take a walk, explore a little - ”

Her mom cut her off with a firm shake of her head. “No. Stay. You’ll help me in the kitchen.”

Zoey’s sigh was quiet, hidden in the clink of dishes, but she followed anyway. Reluctant steps toward another long evening.

They prepared dinner in relative silence, the clink of knives and pots filling the gaps where conversation should have been. Her mother gave her small tasks - wash this, chop that - only to hover a moment later and point out what Zoey had done wrong. Too thick. Too thin. Too much salt.

Finally, Zoey set down the knife a little harder than she meant to and asked, “Do you want my help or not?”

“Yes,” her mom said, unflinching, “but I want it done correctly.”

Zoey bit down on the reply that wanted to slip out, her teeth clicking together. 

It will be fine, she told herself, it's just until sunday

So she bit her tongue with every small scolding, disguised as a correction. She kept going until her mom waved her toward the door, telling her to set the table instead.

The cool air outside the kitchen was an instant relief, in more ways than one. She arranged plates and chopsticks with too much precision, dragging in long, calming breaths between each placement, already feeling her nerves stretched thin. Just a table. Just dinner. She could survive this.

“Zoey!” Her mother’s voice floated from the kitchen.

Zoey turned back, only to have pots and bowls pressed into her arms as soon as she stepped inside. She carried them out one by one, setting each dish on the table until the air smelled thick with spice and sesame.

It's fine. It's only dinner. How much more could her mom do in the time it takes to eat dinner? Everybody will be busy eating anywa-

That’s when Hwan appeared. He leaned in through the doorway with a friendly, easy smile. “Hey. Need help?”

Zoey straightened, balancing a hot dish with both hands. “I’ve got it.” Her tone came out clipped, sharper than she meant, suddenly remembering her mother's insurance that he stay for dinner. Which could only mean one thing: Dinner would be filled with her mother constantly trying to talk him up in front of Zoey, hoping she would finally commit to a "good boy."

Great.

Hwan’s brows ticked up at her tone, curious, but she shook her head quickly as if to dismiss it.

Before he could ask, her mother called her name again, and Zoey braced herself for another correction. Maybe she had put Out the chopsticks wrong this time. Her mom could always find SOMETHING wrong, whatever she did. 

But when her mom walked out and saw Hwan, her face softened immediately, her whole voice shifting into a lighter register. “Ah, you’re here. Good. Sit down.”

“I can help-” he began.

“No, no, you’re a guest.” She waved him off with a smile.

Hwan shot Zoey a sympathetic look. Zoey exhaled through her nose, already knowing what was coming next.

Back in the kitchen, her mom was scooping rice into a bowl. Without looking up she said, “He’s a nice boy, you know. The son of one of our neighbors. Very polite. Maybe you should-”

Zoey rolled her eyes and cut her off, plucking the bowl out of her mother’s hands. “I’ll bring this out.”

Her mom only nodded. “We’re almost done. You can sit already if you want.”

…And talk to Hwan, Zoey finished silently in her head, a spark of frustration tugging at her stomach. She carried the rice to the table, shoulders stiff, the thought looping: Here we go again.

Dinner spread across the low table in bright colors: bubbling jjigae, kimchi, banchan plates neatly lined, the rice bowl steaming at the center. Zoey sat where her mom gestured, across from Hwan, who had folded his long frame a little awkwardly onto the floor cushion. He smiled at her again, tentative, like he was trying to ease the atmosphere by sheer good will.

Her halmae lowered herself down with surprising grace and started spooning rice into everyone’s bowls. “Eat, eat,” she insisted, her voice a little gravelly but warm.

Zoey picked up her chopsticks, grateful for the distraction. She focused on piling vegetables onto her rice, chewing carefully, keeping her eyes down, already counting the seconds until the spectacle started.

“So, Zoey,” her mom began, too lightly. “Hwan tells me he’s working at his uncle’s mechanic shop now. Good, steady work.”

It took a mere 10 seconds. Her mother was getting slow with her older age it seemed. 

Zoey hummed, noncommittal, and forced a polite smile at Hwan. “That’s nice.”

Her mom pressed on. “He’s very handy. And good with cars. Maybe he could repair your car one day.”

Zoey’s jaw tightened. “My car’s fine.” she lied. Her car had not been fine in a while. Unusable would be a more fitting description. But her mom didn't know that.

Hwan, to his credit, laughed softly and raised both hands. “It’s true, I fix things, but I promise I’m not here to hijack your car. Your mom’s just proud of the shop.”

That eased something in Zoey, if only slightly. She gave him a sideways glance, lips twitching at his awkward honesty.

Conversation lulled until her halmae leaned toward Hwan. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Zoey nearly choked on her rice. Her mom shushed her halmae, but her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Zoey, and the implication landed heavy.

Hwan’s ears went red. He shook his head quickly. “Ah, no. Not right now.” He glanced at Zoey, then away, fiddling with his chopsticks.

Zoey shoved more food in her mouth, hoping that they didn't take it as her being flustered. Both of them were world class in misinterpreting her. She didn’t trust herself to speak without snapping.

But it seemed her luck had run out, because her mom immediately filled the silence, her tone breezy but edged. “Zoey’s been so busy with work, she hasn’t had time for dating either.”

Zoey set her chopsticks down carefully. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“Of course, of course,” her mom said, but the smile she gave Hwan was too knowing.

Her halmae reached for Zoey’s arm, patting it gently. “Work is good. But don’t forget to be happy too.”

Zoey swallowed hard, heat creeping up her neck. They meant well - she knew they did - but the words scraped against her like sandpaper. Happiness wasn’t something you slotted in like a weekend errand.

Hwan tried again, quietly this time, almost like an offering: “The food’s really good, huh?”

Zoey blinked at him. He was just…trying. She softened enough to nod. “Yeah. It is.”

For a few blessed minutes, the table was filled only with the sounds of eating.

But then her mom circled back, asking Hwan about his family, his plans, his work, each answer carefully repeated towards Zoey, in a way that shined him up more. Zoey could feel the stage lights, the subtle push of it all aimed squarely at her, and her chest coiled tighter and tighter.

She caught herself thinking of Rumi and Mira instead - of Mira’s dry one-liners across a dinner table, of Rumi pushing a plate toward her with a grin, telling her to eat more. Warmth without strings. She clenched her chopsticks harder, pasted on a thin smile, and told herself to just get through it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dinner left Zoey with a headache pulsing behind her eyes, every too-bright comment from her mom about her “talents” or “kind personality” piling up until she felt like she’d burst. By the time she set her chopsticks down, she was done.

“I’m gonna go walk around a little,” she said, already half standing.

Her mom immediately waved a hand. “Perfect! Hwan can show you. He knows all the good spots.”

Zoey’s head snapped up. “I still know my way around, Mom.”

"I'm not saying you aren't, but things change Zoey and having a local boy show you around will be nice."

There it was again. Ignorant of her wishes, the words "local boy" thrown in there like it would make her change her mind. 

Zoey's jaw ticked, before she stood up abruptly "Mom, can I talk to you in the kitchen please?"

Her mother sighed, telling Hwan to stay and wait for them. Her looked at her with an apologetic little wince, halfheartedly trying to protest but once again being completely talked over by both her mother and halmae, before he sheepishly agreed. 

The kitchen was still humid with the heat of dinner - the faint smell of sesame oil, garlic, and dish soap a too familiar combination that made Zoey's stomach twist, and too much conversation hanging heavy in the air.

Zoey closed the door behind her a little harder than she meant to. The sound made her mother glance up from stacking plates by the sink, but only briefly.

“What is it, Zoey?” her mother asked, her tone too light, like she already knew and didn’t care to pretend otherwise.

Zoey crossed her arms, jaw tight. “Can we not do this again, Mom?”

Her mother frowned slightly, feigning confusion. “Do what?”

“Mom,” Zoey said, crossing her arms. “Please don't play this game. Things like him. Like you trying to set me up.”

Her mother sighed, turning back to the dishes. “You’re being dramatic. He’s a nice boy. You’ve known him since you were little.”

“You say that like that makes it less weird,” Zoey said flatly, “because it doesn't matter if I played with him or not. I don't know this man.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” her mother said, waving a soapy hand. “You’re always so defensive when someone shows interest. He’s polite, he has a good job-”

“Mom.” Zoey’s voice sharpened. “You promised. You promised you’d stop doing this.”

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It's was just dinner. And it won't kill you to just go on a walk with him, Zoey.”

"But it isn't! It's never 'just dinner' or 'just a walk'." Zoey’s voice was trembling now, not from fear but from the effort to hold herself steady. "Every time I come here, you do this. Every. Single. Time."

“Don’t be so dramatic,” her mother said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I just want you to have options.”

“I don’t need options.” Zoey’s voice cracked. “I’m not some-some project you need to fix.”

Her mother put the plate down, turning toward her, expression tightening in that familiar mix of exasperation and guiltless certainty. “You think I’m trying to fix you? Zoey, I’m trying to help. You barely visit. The least you could do is meet someone decent when you do.”

Zoey stared at her. “Mom, seriously. You promised you’d stop.”

“I promised to care about your future,” her mother said coolly. “And I do.” Her mother crossed her arms now too, mirroring her without realizing it. “You don’t understand how hard it is, watching you live so far away. You don’t call, and when you do, you’re always… busy. I just want you to have something stable.”

“I am stable.” Zoey’s voice wavered between anger and disbelief. “I have my life. My friends. My-” she stopped herself just short, of saying my girls.

No. Not yours, her brain immediately shot back, before she shook her head. Yeah no, neither her, nor her Mom were ready for THAT particular dumpster fire. 

Her mother huffed, misunderstanding the pause completely. “What? Your little job at the café? That’s not stability, Zoey. You need people around you who can take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me!” Zoey snapped. "Besides, I haven't worked in a Café since COLLEGE, that was years ago. I've been in IT for YEARS. You want to set me up, but you don't even know what my life looks like anymore." The words echoed off the tile, sharp enough to make both of them flinch.

That landed like a slap. Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Whose fault is that? You never tell me anything. I don’t know what you do anymore.”

“I did tell you!” Zoey’s hands flew up in exasperation. “You just weren’t listening. You never do. You only hear what fits whatever version of me you’ve decided I am.”

For a moment, the only sound was the slow drip of water from the faucet, before her mother scoffed, though her voice had softened a little, taking on that guilt-wrapped edge that Zoey knew too well. “Zoey, please. You always assume the worst. I’m just trying to help you. I want you to be happy. You don’t know what it’s like to worry about you from across an ocean.”

Zoey took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm. “Mom, worrying about me doesn’t mean you get to control me. Or decide who I should talk to. Or who I should date.”

Her mother looked at her for a long moment - then simply shrugged. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to care. The last... person that you introduced to me only broke your heart.”

Zoey shook her head slowly, a bitter laugh escaping her. “No. It’s your job to listen when I tell you to stop crossing lines. Yes, it didn't work out but it's MY decision what to do with my life and it's my heart that gets broken. MINE.” Her words were sharp, though the heat in her chest was already softening, turning into that old, familiar ache at the sight of her moms face falling for just a split second, before she turned back to the sink again. “You’re overreacting.”

"I am NOT. I am HAPPY with my life, without you meddling in it."

Her mother tilted her head. “Then why do you sound so angry all the time?”

Zoey pressed her lips together. “Because you don’t listen to me.”

Her mother sighed again, turning back to her. “You’re being ungrateful. I spend all this time worrying about you, and you act like I’m your enemy.”

Zoey closed her eyes for a second. It was the same every time - the same words, the same guilt. She wanted to fight, to scream, to walk away. But instead, she just said quietly, “I’m not your enemy. I just want you to stop treating me like I don’t know what I want.”

She knew it was coming. She knew how this would end, could already feel the words coming that would crack her chest wide open and let all the guilt spill out.

"If you knew what you wanted, you would have it by now. But you don't. Forgive your poor old mother for trying to keep you from making the same mistakes she did and end up alone, because of a bad choice."

And there it was. She felt it settle in her chest, heavy and sharp. She knew she couldn't argue anymore. She never could.

Her mother turned back to the sink once again, like she hadn't just completely gutted her. The clink of porcelain on metal filled the silence. "You'll understand one day," she said softly, not curelly, not kindly. Just a matter-of-fact. The way someone states the weather. "You'll see that I'm only trying to help you avoid pain."

Zoey laughed under her breath, a tiny, broken sound. "You mean your pain."

You mother froze for half a second, long enough to tell Zoey she'd hit the truth, before she shook her head and went back to rinsing. "You think you know everything."

"No I don't," Zoey whispered, "I just know what it feels like to live with someone else's regret pressed against your ribs."

"Don't be dramatic," her mother said, and that old familiar helplessness rose in Zoey's throat like bile.

She hated that this was their pattern: her mother striking first with love disguised as duty, and Zoey folding because some part of her still wanted to make up for leaving, for choosing her father, for being the one that broke her mother's heart a second time when she told her she would stay in America with him. Her reasons had been sound, but that didn't dull the pain at the look of betrayal in her mother's eyes back then.

She took a shaky breath, trying to find her voice. "I'm not you, Mom."

Her mother glanced over her shoulder, eyes tired but still sharp. "No, you're not. That's what scares me."

The words were soft. They should've sounded loving, but instead they landed like a verdict.

Zoey looked down at her hands - at the little tremor there, the same one she used to get after her parents' fight when she was a kid. When they'd scream at each other in the kitchen, and she would sit at the top of the stairs, listening to all the ways in which they tore each other apart. That same buzzing feeling that, no matter what she said, she was the problem.

She had to get out, and she had to do it now. "I'm going out now."

When her mother spoke again, her voice had softened into that careful guilt Zoey knew all too well. "Take Hwan with you. It's late and he's a good boy. It would make me feel better."

And there it was, The line. The gutpunch. The one that turned every argument into surrender. Not an order. A plea. And always wrapped around in love, even if holding it felt like a blade slowly being pushed into her gut.

Zoey swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her throat. "You'll feel better," she repeated, the words barely audible.

Her mother nodded, smiling faintly like it was settled. "You always were a good daughter."

And there it was again. The blade turned and twisted, clean and practiced.

Zoey felt her jaw tighten, but she still found herself saying, "Okay, I'll take him."

"Thank you, gangaji." Her mother's voice was warm again, soft and sure, as if nothing had just happened, but the pet name still hit her completely wrong. It was said so casually. As if she hadn't just used every ounce of Zoey's childhood guilt to get her way.

Zoey stood there for a moment, staring at the floor. She hated that she always gave in. Hated that she didn't even know how not to.

She forced a breath and reached for the door. When she opened the kitchen door, she caught a glimpse of Hwan waiting politely by the entryway, his posture stiff, unsure.

"Ready?" he asked quietly.

Zoey nodded, her voice coming out smaller that she wanted. "Yeah. Let's go."

And as she stepped outside into the cool night, she realized that even though she'd left this house a thousand times before, she'd never really leave it behind.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The streets were familiar and unchanged, the same small convenience store with its peeling sign, the same quiet houses crouched under sloping tiled roofs. Hwan pointed things out here and there - “That bakery shut down last year,” “The park’s still there, though” - but otherwise walked in silence beside her, hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets.

They ended up at that park, sitting on the low stone wall near the swings. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and fried food from a restaurant down the block.

For a while, they just sat, and Zoey could almost pretend she was alone. Until Hwan cleared his throat, clearly gearing up to talk.

Zoey cut him off with a sigh. “Look, Hwan I want to be honest with you. You're cute and all and you're nice and polite and I don’t know what my mom’s told you, but I’m not interested in dating anyone right now.” The words tumbled out sharper than she meant, defensive and weary. (Liar, a voice in her chest whispered, too fast and too loud. You’re very interested - you just don't want to admit in who.)

Hwan blinked, startled, then laughed softly. “Yeah… I kind of figured. Don’t worry. I’m not about to chase you or anything.”

She gave him a long, skeptical look. He shrugged. “My mom does the same thing. Constant setups. Half the girls in town have ‘accidentally’ stopped by our house at dinner time. It’s exhausting.”

Something in Zoey cracked open. “Exactly! She always does this. Always.” Her hands clenched in her lap. “Even when I told her - flat out told her - that I don’t want it, that it’s not gonna work, she still tries. Every single time. Like she can’t imagine me just being fine on my own. Like my life won’t be complete unless I marry some… some boring small-town boy in Korea.”

The last part slipped out sharper than she meant. She winced, then looked at him, apologetically. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he said easily, though the corner of his mouth tilted wryly. “I mean, hey, small-town boy here. I get it.”

He chuckled, leaning back on his hands. “I won’t lie, I do think you’re… well, attractive. And you’re funny, even when you’re mad. But I get it. I really do. No hard feelings.”

Her shoulders slumped, relief and guilt tangling together. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Hwan just waved a hand like he was brushing it off. “It’s fine. At least you’re honest.”

And for the first time all day, Zoey actually believed it was fine.

They kept talking after that, the tension easing with every word. Hwan asked about America, what California was really like, and Zoey found herself telling him about the endless highways, the food trucks, the cheap clubs with sticky floors. He winced at some of it, laughed at others, and shared his own stories of growing up in the same few streets, how everybody knew everybody, for better or worse.

By the time they both glanced at their phones, the hour had already crept late. Zoey groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Great. My mom’s gonna think this means something it doesn’t.”

Hwan chuckled, easy and amused. “Probably. She’ll live.”

The walk back was quieter than before, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. Just quiet in the good way, like they’d said enough for one night.

When the family house came into view, Hwan slowed. “So… I’ve got plans tomorrow,” he said. “Some friends and I usually head out to this little club a town over. Totally bumping on Saturdays. You said you went clubbing in America, so if you wanna join us I could pick you up.”

Zoey tried not to laugh at the phrase, already picturing what “totally bumping” meant to him compared to Seoul nightlife.

"It would get you away from your family for the evening." He added sheepishly. For a second she thought about it, before she nodded. “Alright. Could be fun.”

They exchanged numbers on the sidewalk, his grin boyish and sincere, before he waved and headed down the street.

Zoey stepped inside to find her mother and halmae at the table, both looking at her expectantly.

“So?” her mom asked. “You were gone a long time.”

Zoey rolled her eyes, kicking off her shoes. “We just talked. And he invited me out tomorrow with his friends.”

Her mom and halmae lit up like it was Christmas morning. Zoey held up a hand. “As friends. Not romantic. Friends. Got it?”

They still looked at her like cats who’d stolen the cream. She muttered, “Goodnight,” and left them whispering behind her, ignoring their conspiratorial giggles as she closed the door to her room, leaning against it for a second, exhaling like she'd been holding her breath since dinner. Her mother's voice still echoed faintly down the hall, happy and smug, her halmae's laughter chiming in like applause. Like they didn't argue in the kitchen. Like she didn't feel the metaphorical knife in between her ribs.

The air inside was still warm from the afternoon sun, the curtains pulled halfway. She kicked off her shoes, peeled off her jeans and changed into a washed out T-shirt, the one that she had been sleeping in for the last few days. It smelled faintly like Seoul. Like Cigarettes and Lavender incense.

She tried not to dwell too much on the fact that it seemed to settle her racing mind immediately, as she collapsed into the bed, flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

The day came at her in fragments: getting picked up, the dinner, the eager matchmaking attempts, Hwan's awkward half-smile. The walk.

That part hadn't been as bad as she expected, really. He'd listened, which was something new for her. He didn't push or try to charm her. Just nodded, shared pieces of his own story, how his parents never stopped trying to set him up too. And for a moment, she'd almost forgotten the tension still buzzing in her ribs.

But now, in the quiet, it came back. The guilt, the exhaustion, the echo of her mother's words: You'll understand one day

Zoey rolled onto her side, her eyes landing on her phone on the nightstand. The screen was dark, but she could almost see the messages that weren't there. The ones she wanted. Mira's text about not being able to see her off at the station. Another one from Rumi about how she already misses her.

Her chest ached, it always did when she thought of them too long.

She reached for her phone, unlocked it and scrolled through their chat. It was mostly nonsense, as it so often was. But it soothed her. She traced the words on the screen with her thumb.

The silence in her room suddenly didn't feel safe anymore. It was heavy, too loud. The kind that pressed against her skin until she couldn't tell where her thoughts ended and her mother's guilt began.

With a quiet sigh, she turned onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow, trying to push it all away. The guilt, the day, the ache of missing something that wasn't quiet hers, but already felt essential.

She thought of Mira's laugh, low and rare, the way it curled around her name.
She thought of Rumi's eyes, sharp and soft all at once, and how they always made her feel like she could finally breathe. 

The thought made her smile, even as her throat  tightened. She whispered their names to herself, just to hear them, quiet and sure in the dark.

"Rumi. Mira."

Her pulse slowed, the noise in her head dulled. Her eyes glanced at the clock. It was already after midnight. They might be asleep. Or drunk. Or busy without her. She still decided to at least tell them that she was home safely and to wish them a good night.

Zoey:
Arrived safe!! already in bed now (´･ᴗ･ ` )ゞzzz

To her surprise, her message was read immediately, with an answer coming in just a few seconds later.

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
good. stay there.

A second later Rumi’s message popped up:

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
 wht… in bed w/o us ;) 👀🔥🍆💦

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
…

Zoey groaned, burying her face into the pillow, but she couldn’t stop the laugh that snuck out. She typed back quickly:

Zoey:
NO omg 😭 I mean YES bc I’m like… sooooo exhausted. Will tell u EVERYTHING later but mom’s already driving me cray-cray 😵‍💫

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
sounds about right. moms.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys 
moms r like final bosses u cant beat lololol 👵👊💥

Zoey: 
u sound drunk, did u guys go out??? 👀

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys 
no. not fun w/o u.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys 
ya we miss our zo 🥺💔

Her chest fluttered, a warm ache settling low in her ribs.

Zoey:
……… 🥺 u guys are too much I cantttt

A few seconds later, a picture came through: Rumi on the floor, cross-legged, squinting in fierce concentration, while Mira sat behind her on the couch, scowling at the camera. Both of them looked unmistakably, absolutely high.

Zoey snorted so hard she nearly dropped her phone. She saved it, set it as her background without hesitation.

Zoey:
OMG STOPPPP AHAHAH 😭😭💀 seems you still had ur fun 🍃🍃👀 saving this immediately. u 2 are ICONIC.

Then flipped her camera around and took a selfie. Hair messy, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but she forced herself to smile and lifted a tiny finger heart for the lens. She sent it before she could second-guess herself.

Zoey: 
proof of life!! ✌️✨ (don’t judge I know I look like a deflated balloon rn)

Mira replied instantly.

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys 
stop, u look cute. & look half-dead. sleep.

Zoey pouted at her screen.

Zoey: 
rude 😤 I wanted to talk moreeeee…

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys 
no sleep. Rumi tell her.

A beat later, Rumi chimed in.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys 
yea slepppp lil zo zo 😴💤 (…even if its w/o us 😭👉👈)

Zoey snorted into her blanket again, her chest warm in the best and worst way.

Zoey: 
ughhh fine 😩 GOODNIGHT my favorite disasters ❤️❤️❤️

She shoved the phone under her pillow before she could get caught in another loop of back-and-forth, closed her eyes, and let sleep take her - her last thought a silly, stubborn little wish that she could’ve been on that couch with them instead.

Chapter Text

The next day crawled by. Zoey spent most of it wedged into the orbit of various relatives, sipping tea and nodding as the same childhood stories played on repeat - her as a baby, her as a toddler, her as that “loud American child.” Every laugh felt just a little too loud in her ears, every anecdote a weight pressing harder on her ribs. More than once, she found herself drifting, imagining exactly how Mira would roll her eyes at all this, or how Rumi would mutter something under her breath that only Zoey could hear. The thought almost made her smile. Almost.

By evening, she was sure she’d combust if she had to sit through one more retelling. The afternoon stretched into dinner, her mother weaving the “nice village boys” into conversation like seasoning, until Zoey could hardly taste the food for it. Every sentence, every suggestion, left her jaw tight enough to crack.

Finally, her excuse came. She escaped upstairs, closed the door, and pulled out her backpack. Clothes spilled out as she cobbled together an outfit - nothing too wild, but enough to feel like armor for the night. When she was done, she stood in front of the mirror, snapped a picture, and sent it to the group chat.

The responses came fast.

Mira’s was simple but warm.

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
Looks good.

Rumi’s, less so.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
hot af ;) …wait is tht MY jacket???

Zoey chewed her lip, biting back a laugh.

Zoey:
noooooo of course not 🙃🙃

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
liar.

She snorted despite herself, tucking her phone under her chin as she touched up her eyeliner. A moment later, another text blinked through: 

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
so whts the plan tonight zozo?

Her thumb hovered. She had no reason to lie to them, but something inside of her was desperate for them to not think that she was trying to replace them in any capacity. Even if she knew that this was in no way, shape or form possible, and they probably knew that too. VIP, bottle service and limousines were nothing you could just easily replace after all. But still.
She worried her lip for a second before deciding on half a truth. 

Zoey:
Meeting some ppl my age from here. They seem cool :)

There was a pause, the typing bubbles blinking. 

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
Have fun. Still wish you were here instead.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
yea same. not the same w/o u

Something in her chest cracked at that. She typed back quickl.

Zoey:
me too. but I guess the next best thing will have to do, when the original isn’t available 💔

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
tru. we r one of a kind ;)

Zoey’s screen buzzed again.

From: Mystery Man (Hwan)
Outside when you’re ready.

She slipped the phone into her pocket, typing one last message.

Zoey:
Gotta run!! Will text you guys later, promise. Stay alive until then ✨

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
You stay safe, Gremlin.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
txt us so we kno ur not dead. or worse…BORING

Zoey rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself, before heading downstairs. Her mom was in the living room, straightening up as she walked in. Zoey leaned down, gave a quick goodbye, and ignored the look her mom gave her outfit. Then she stepped out into the night, Rumi’s jacket heavy on her shoulders, and saw Hwan’s car idling by the curb.

Hwan leaned across and popped the passenger door open for her as she approached, giving a small grin as Zoey slid inside. Two strangers sat in the back - one in a loose yellow shirt tucked into jeans, pink streaks through his hair catching the dim light, the other broader-shouldered, floral shirt stretched just enough at the seams.

“This is Hyun-sik,” Hwan said, nodding to the one in yellow, then to the other, “and Sungwon. Guys, this is Zoey.”

“Hey,” Hyun-sik said brightly, giving her a little wave. Sungwon nodded, his voice deep when he echoed the greeting.

Zoey managed a smile, polite, small. “Hi.”

The introductions melted into small talk as Hwan pulled away from the curb. The guys in the back peppered her with easy questions - where she was from, how long she was staying, what she thought of the town. She answered smoothly enough, giving them the version of herself that fit: not too much, not too sharp.

At a lull, she tilted her head. “So, tell me about this club. What’s the big deal?”

That set them off. Both Hyun-sik and Sungwon leaned forward, practically tripping over each other as they explained: how the music was always perfect, how the dance floor got wild after midnight, how everyone from the next town over came through on Saturdays. Their excitement was almost contagious - almost. Zoey sat back, letting the enthusiasm roll over her, remembering how once this kind of thing would’ve thrilled her too. A night out, anywhere but home. Freedom, loud music, bad drinks, maybe a story worth telling after.

Now, it felt different. Like she’d already tasted something better - something sharper, glossier. Nights where she never had to touch her wallet, where velvet ropes just melted away, where the bass shook through her bones while they danced all night. This sounded… fine. But it wasn’t that.

“Do you go clubbing in Seoul?” Sungwon asked suddenly.

Zoey bit back a laugh. Oh, she went clubbing alright. Chauffeured around, VIP booths and liquor smoother than silk, stumbling home only when her stomach hurt from laughing too hard, waking up tangled in a pile of limbs and blankets. Her smile twitched.

“Yeah,” she said vaguely, “every once in a while.”

“How is it?” Hyun-sik asked, eyes shining like he was asking about a far-off galaxy.

Zoey shrugged, careful. “It’s… different. Bigger. Louder. A little more expensive, but fun.”

They whistled low at that, trading glances. “Well then,” Sungwon grinned, “you’ll have to tell us if tonight holds up.”

Zoey hummed, looking out the window at the passing streetlights. Sure, she thought. I’ll tell you. But already, she knew how the comparison would go.

The club was already alive when they got in - colored lights sweeping across the ceiling, bass reverberating through the sticky floor, bodies starting to cluster around the dance floor. Zoey tried, really tried, to shake off the comparisons and just be here.

Shots first, of course. Hyun-sik suggested vodka for the table, Hwan waving it off in favor of a Coke. Zoey scanned the menu and blinked. One word: vodka. No brands, no labels, just a flat price. It made her weirdly nostalgic for the laminated booklets she’d flipped through in Seoul, pages full of names she couldn’t pronounce and no numbers anywhere. If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.

She settled for the shot. They clinked glasses and knocked it back. It hit her throat like fire, raw and punishing. She winced.

“Not a vodka person?” Sungwon asked, grinning as he watched her expression.

Zoey shook her head, nose scrunched. “No, I am. Just… not used to the burn anymore.”

That set all three of them laughing. Hyun-sik nudged her with his shoulder. “Bougie, huh?”

“Guess so,” she said, rolling her eyes, but the laugh slipped out of her anyway. She was bougie now. Accidentally.

The night blurred on in typical rhythms: a couple more rounds, each shot no smoother than the last, the boys hyping each other up as they pulled her onto the dance floor. The crowd swelled, heat and sweat and laughter pressing in. Zoey danced, tried to let herself go, but the tight coil in her chest never loosened. The music thumped but it didn’t pull; the people pressed close but it wasn’t the same.

There was no Mira at her shoulder, brushing her hair aside with a smirk. No Rumi looping her arm around her waist, drawing her closer under the excuse of bass and rhythm. No constant hum of tension simmering under every glance, every touch.

By the fourth song, her smile felt too plastered on. By the fifth shot, her thoughts weren’t here at all. They were with them.

The ache built until she couldn’t ignore it. She excused herself - something about fresh air - and slipped out the side door into the relative quiet of the street. Cool night air kissed her overheated skin as her hand was already on her phone before she realized it, thumb hovering over their group chat. Then, after a shaky pause, she tapped Mira’s contact and pressed call.

The ringing tone buzzed in her ear, louder than the bass inside.

Mira picked up on the third ring, “Zoey? Is everything okay?” Her voice was slightly breathless, but before Zoey could question her what’s gotten her that way Rumi yelled in the background, “If she’s not fine I’ll break traffic laws to get her - don’t think I won’t!”

Zoey laughed immediately, the sound bubbling out before she could stop it. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Promise. God, you two…”

There was some muffled shuffling, and then Mira’s voice came through again, slightly more tinny. “Alright, you’re on speaker. So - why are you calling? Didn’t you say you were out with friends?”

Zoey chewed on her thumbnail, hesitating. “Not friends, exactly. I met one of them yesterday, the other two literally tonight.”

A beat of silence stretched out on the line. She almost hung up, almost swallowed her words, but instead she took a shaky breath and let them fall. “I just… missed you. Wanted to hear your voices.”

Another silence - but this one felt warmer, fuller. Then Rumi’s voice cut through. “You drunk?”

Zoey chuckled. “No. Just had a couple shots. Tipsy at most, maybe. Not enough to count with the tolerance you guys have built into me.”

That made Rumi laugh, low and warm, and Mira’s voice followed, softer, “That’s my girl.”

Zoey’s heart did a perfect backflip in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t go there. Focus.

“So, what are you doing?” she asked quickly.

“Not much,” Mira said. “...couple beers, little weed, mostly bored.”

Zoey grinned, seizing her chance. “Uh-huh. Who’s boring now?”

A dramatic gasp rattled through the speaker. “I have never been so insulted in my life,” Rumi declared, which sent Zoey into another round of laughter. Rumi kept going, mock-offended. “You wound me, Zoey. Deeply. Mira, tell her she’s cruel.”

“I’m not getting involved,” Mira said, but Zoey could hear the smile in her voice. “You two can fight it out.”

“Oh, we will,” Rumi shot back. “Next time I see her I’m tackling her to the ground until she begs for mercy.”

Zoey laughed, her head tipping back against the brick wall behind her. The night air was cool against her flushed skin, the sound of traffic humming in the distance. “You’d have to catch me first,” she said, and then softer, “but honestly… I think I’d let you.”

There was a pause on the line. Just long enough for her to regret saying it, but then Rumi’s voice came back, quiet now. “You sure you're okay, sweetheart?”

The word made her throat tighten. Maybe Rumi didn’t mean it like that, it was not unusal for her to use terms like that on occasion, but it didn’t matter. It still hit her like a pulse beneath her ribs.

“Yeah,” Zoey said quickly, voice too light. “Just really missed you. That’s all.”

Another small silence. Then Mira, gentle as always: “We missed you too.”

Zoey could hear the faint shuffle of movement, the rustle of clothes. Rumi probably pacing again, restless even when standing still, before Mira added “Place feels empty without you. Too quiet.”

Zoey smiled faintly. “You? Complaining about quiet?”

“Yeah, well,” Mira said. “Turns out I like the kind of noise you make.”

That one hit her straight in the chest. She could almost picture it - Rumi leaning against the couch, cigarette in hand, Mira close enough to brush shoulders, the both of them looking at her through the phone like she was right there.

"I mean, why wouldn't I be? Okay, I mean." she tried to lighten the mood, but then Mira’s voice came again, softer than before. “It's just.. you sound a little sad.”

Zoey hesitated. “Maybe a little.”

“That’s okay,” Mira said. “We get it.”

Something about the way she said we - steady, certain - made Zoey’s eyes sting. She looked out toward the street, watching the blur of neon reflected on rain-slick pavement. “I don’t even have a reason to call you, honestly. Just… wanted to hear you.”

“That’s enough. You never need a reason to call us Zoey,” Rumi murmured.

Zoey closed her eyes. She could hear the faint sound of Mira’s lighter flicking in the background, then Rumi’s quiet inhale - the kind of domestic white noise that made her ache.

“Hey,” Rumi said after a while, her voice lower, softer. “You'll be back tomorrow, right?”

Zoey smiled, even though it hurt. “Yes. I promise.”

“You better,” Rumi said, pretending to grumble, but the warmth in her tone gave her away. “Or we’ll have to come drag you home ourselves.”

“I’d like that,” Zoey whispered, before she could stop herself.

Neither of them answered right away. The silence wasn’t awkward - it was full, alive, the kind that held everything you needed, without the need for words. The kind of silence she had only found with them.

Her thoughts were interupted by the sound of a door opening.  Zoey looked up to see Hwan step outside, scanning for her. He spotted her and gave a little nod.

Zoey sighed, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. She was not ready to let it go yet. Finally Mira broke the silence, her voice quiet and steady: “Go back inside, Zo. It’s cold. We’ll see you tomorrow when you come home, okay?”

Zoey hummed, nodding even though they couldn’t see her. “Okay.”

She lingered for one last heartbeat, listening to the soft sounds of their breathing through the phone. Then she said, “Goodnight you two disasters.”

“Bye, Zoey,” Mira answered, her voice gentler now, softer than it had any right to be.

“Can’t wait to see you again,” Rumi added. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And don’t miss us too much. Or drink soju.”

There was a smack and a yelp. “Be nice,” Mira scolded in the background.

“I am nice!” Rumi protested.

Zoey chuckled, her chest warm in a way the vodka never reached. “Goodnight, guys.”

“Goodnight,” they answered in overlapping voices.

She ended the call reluctantly, and for a moment Zoey just stood there, staring at her reflection in the bar window - her own soft, tipsy smile looking back at her, equal parts joy and ache, still pressing her phone to her ear as though that could bring them back to her.

She let her phone sink as Hwan came closer, carrying the echo of their voices like a secret tucked under her skin.

He approached, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “Was that them?”

Zoey blinked, caught off guard. “Them?”

He tilted his chin toward her phone, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “The two from the photo.”

Zoey glanced down at her case, where the overexposed polaroid peeked out from behind the clear plastic. She turned it absently in her hands. “How’d you figure that out?”

Hwan shrugged, casual. “Saw a photo of them as your background earlier. And from the way you said goodbye just now…” His brow furrowed and he raised a hand quickly. “Not that I was listening. Promise.”

A laugh slipped out of her, quiet and a little sheepish. “It’s fine. We weren’t talking about anything scandalous anyway. Nothing important.”

“That so?” His tone was light, but his eyes stayed steady on her. “Sounded like it was pretty important. To you, at least.”

Zoey’s gaze drifted back to the polaroid, the blurred outlines of Rumi’s hoodie and Mira’s face. A soft smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it. “…Yeah. I guess it was.”

He nodded toward the phone still in her hand again. “They seem like they make you happy.”

Zoey hummed, smiling faintly. “They do.”

“Good,” he said, his voice barely audible above the music spilling from the club doors. For a moment they just stood there - him kicking at the pavement with his shoe, her thumb tracing the curve of the polaroid through the case.

Then Hwan exhaled, his breath visible in the cool air. “You know,” he started, voice rougher now, “when you told me last night you weren’t interested, I believed you.”

Zoey turned her head, brow furrowing. “Okay…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, giving a sheepish laugh. “It’s just - I guess I still hoped a little. Not in some big, dramatic way. Just-” He searched for the words, then shrugged helplessly. “You’re nice. Easy to talk to. Most people here, they already have their circles. I thought maybe we could be friends and… who knows? Maybe something else someday. But…”

His eyes flicked to the phone again, the faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now I get it. I’m outmatched.”

Zoey blinked, startled. “Outmatched?”

He nodded, trying to play it off with a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, look at me.” He gestured at himself, then at the phone. “And look at them. You’ve got literal movie-level people that you seem to be pretty committed to. I think that’s my cue to bow out gracefully.”

She wanted to laugh, but something about the quiet in his tone stopped her. “Hwan…”

He lifted his hands, shaking his head quickly. “Hey, don’t-don’t feel bad. I’m not saying that to make things weird. I just-guess it’s a little sad, that’s all. Not because of you. Just… one of those dumb human things, you know?”

Zoey nodded slowly, her chest tight. “Yeah. I do.”

They stood in silence for a few beats, the kind that wasn’t awkward but honest - like both of them were trying to sort out how to be kind without lying.

Finally she said, “For what it’s worth, I really do think you’re a good guy. And I meant it when I said I liked talking to you.”

That earned her a genuine smile, soft and small. “Thanks. That helps. Even if I’m still kinda jealous of whoever gets to keep that smile.”

Her own faltered just a little. She forced herself to breathe through the sting in her chest. Not because of him, but because he didn’t even know how much that sentence hurt in its truth. That she didn’t really have them, not fully, not yet.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For-” she stopped, shaking her head. “Nothing. Just sorry.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, like he was trying to read the words she wasn’t saying. Then, quietly: “Tell me about them.”

Zoey blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“You seem like you want to.” His tone was gentle, curious rather than prying. “I don’t know. You light up when you talk to them. Just-tell me about them.”

For a second, she thought about brushing it off. But something in his expression - the open sincerity of it - made her exhale instead.

“I met them by accident,” she said after a moment. “Both of them, really. One through the other, actually.”

Her gaze dropped to the pavement, words coming out softer, slower. “I can’t even really explain it. It just… happened. And now I can’t imagine not having them around.”

Hwan nodded, quiet. “You’re together then?”

Zoey hesitated, chewing her lip. “No.” She laughed weakly. “It’s complicated.”

He tilted his head. “Complicated how?”

She shrugged, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. “We go out together, we text all the time. We talk about everything and nothing. We cuddle, we fall asleep together after movies in the same bed.”
A tiny smile tugged at her lips before fading again. “But it’s never… more than that.”

The words felt small compared to the weight behind them. Inside her head, her inner voice whispered what she couldn’t say out loud: Not yet, but you want it. 

Hwan didn’t push, just watched her quietly. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad.”

Zoey huffed a quiet laugh, trying to make it sound lighter than it felt. “I have no idea what you mean. At the end of the day they are my friends.”

He smiled faintly, trying for levity. “So you’re saying I still have a chance then?”

That got her to roll her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Kidding, kidding. I know I’m out of my league. But…” His voice softened again. "You know, when your mom told me you were coming and asked me to pick you up, I actually got a little excited."

Her eyebrows rose, but he continued before she could say anything. "Back when we were kids you used to come here for the summers, right? I was around, because of course I was. I sometimes saw you in the park near the elementary school."

Her brow furrowed in thought, but nothing came. "I don't..."

He chuckled quietly, not surprised. "Well, one time, I fell off my bike and scraped my knee pretty bad. You found me crying behind the slide."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh yea I do remember. That was you?"

"Yeah." He laughed, shaking his head. "You told me a bunch of weird quatic animal facts until I stopped crying. Said that if an octupus can lose an arm and grow it back, I'd probably be fine too."

Zoey groaned, covering her face. "Oh my god yes, I remember."

He smiled, a little wistful. "It helped. You made it hurt not as much."

For a moment, silence settled betwenn them. Comfortable, nostalgic. Then he added, quieter. "You seemed kind of lonely back then. I guess that's what stuck with me. And that's why, when your mom told me you'd visit again and asked if I could pick you up... I was looking forward to seeing you again."

Zoey looked at him, something gentle blooming in her chest that wasn't quiet sadness, wasn't quiet warmth. "That's actually kind of sweet."

He shrugged, half-embarrassed. "Guess I just hoped that maybe you weren't so lonely anymore."

She looked down at her phone, "I'm not," she said softly. Then, almost to herself, "At least, not all the time."

“I’m glad you’ve got them. Really. They sound like they make the world feel less lonely.”

Zoey looked at him for a long moment, her throat tightening around words she didn’t know how to say.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “They do.”

The words 'They do' linger between them until he cleared his throat, tipping his head toward the door. “Well, anyway. I'm actually out here because Sungwon and Hyun-sik are fiending for another round and they wanted to know if you’re in.”

Zoey hesitated a beat, then slipped her phone back into her pocket. “…Yeah. Sure. One more won’t kill me.”

“Brave words.” He grinned, holding the door open for her. She rolled her eyes, but followed him back inside, the bass hitting her chest again like a familiar weight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The night blurred forward in more of the familiar patterns: shots lined up, cheers, laughter that rang just a little too loud under the lights. Hyun-sik and Sungwon were the first to bow out, groaning dramatically as they surrendered their glasses.

“You officially beat us,” Sungwon mumbled, flopping against the table. “How are you even upright? You’re half our size.”

Zoey just lifted one shoulder, lips quirking. “Might be small, but my tolerance is high.”

The truth was her veins were humming, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of it - but the alcohol didn’t fog her head so much as strip away her distractions. It left behind only the same craving she’d been trying not to name all weekend. Something she couldn’t have.

By three in the morning they decided to call it, all four piling back into Hwan’s car. Hyun-sik and Sungwon knocked out almost instantly in the backseat, their snores muffled by the thump of low radio bass. Zoey and Hwan rode in silence, the hum of tires on asphalt filling the air. She let the quiet sink into her bones.

Only when the familiar outline of her family’s house appeared did he speak, offering that easy, crooked smile of his. “Thanks. For the night. I really hope you had fun. My friends and I definitely did.””

Her own smile came softer, almost reluctant. “Yeah. I did too.”

Their goodbyes were simple, brief. She slipped out of the car and padded across the yard, careful on her feet. Inside, the house was dim and still, except for her mother asleep in one of the living room chairs, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle.

Zoey froze for a beat, something tight catching in her chest. Had she…waited for her?

She swallowed and grabbed a blanket from the couch, draping it gently over her before slipping upstairs. Her brain was, mercifully for once, pretty quiet as she went through the motions of brushing her teeth, and then changing into her sleep shirt. For a second she debated with her self, before slipping the jacket back on and crawling into bed - the cool sheets soft against her skin, the air still faintly smelling of the street outside.

But sleepyness didn’t come. Instead, Hwan’s words kept looping through her head like a song she hadn’t decided if she liked yet.

You seemed kind of lonely back then.
Guess I just hoped maybe you weren't so lonely anymore.
They sound like they make the world feel less lonely.

It wasn’t the sentences themselves that stuck. It was the way he said it - so simple, so honest. No jealousy, no resentment, just a quiet kind of sadness that she knew too well.

She turned onto her side, staring at the faint glow of her phone screen on the nightstand. The polaroid under the case caught the light - a small, frozen piece of a life that felt half a world away.

It wasn’t that she was upset with him. She couldn’t be. What he said was… human. Maybe painfully so. A boy hoping for something, reaching for connection even when it wasn’t his to have.

And maybe that’s what stung most was that he had reached, and she hadn’t.

She’d spent so long orbiting around what she felt for Rumi and Mira, too afraid to break the gravity of friendship, of almost. To want something that might ruin the only thing that felt real.

But she did want it. God, she wanted it so badly it made her chest ache.

She pressed her palm against her sternum, as if she could soothe it, as if she could slow the rhythm that was already out of her control.

Hwan had that that he was outmatched. Maybe he was. But the truth was, she felt outmatched too - by how much they both made her feel, by how much she wanted, by how little she knew how to ask for.

Her had also said he was glad she wasn't lonely anymore. But lying here in the dark, she realized that loneliness wasn't always about being alone. That sometimes it was wanting to say I like you as more than a friend and not knowing if you were allowed to.

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling. For a moment - just a heartbeat's worth - she wondered if it would be easier to find someone else.

Someone steady.

Someone there

Someone who didn't make her heart feel like it was strung up on the ceiling, as she desperately tried to keep it from spilling blood everywhere.

Maybe she could learn to love someone ordinary. Someone who was available, who wanted her without all the ifs and almosts.

Maybe Hwan, or at least someone like him. Someone who wouldn't make her feel like she was waiting for her life to start.

But the thought barely had time to settle before it already broke apart, as the faint scent of sandalwood and lavender hit her like muscle memory, sharp and grounding all at once.

And just like that, she knew she couldn't. Not because she didn't want peace - god she did - but because it wouldn't be fair. Not to someone else. Not to herself.

Her heart was already spoken for. Even if they didn't reciprocate it. And until she found a way to scrape them out of her chest, she couldn't in good conscience pretend to love somebody else.

She reached out and pulled the collar of the jacket closer, pressing her face into the worn fabric until the ache in her chest softened into someting more akin to surrender, until her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it lazily, thumb swiping across the screen. And there it was.

From: Mystery Man (Hwan)
Dropped off the disasters and got home safe. Just wanted to say thanks for the talk earlier. Sleep well, Zoey

Her heart twisted, gentle and bittersweet. He really was a good guy. The kind that was there. The kind her mom would, clearly, want her to choose. For a second her fingers hovered over the keyboard, searching for a polite reply. But before she could type a word, two new notifications lit up the screen. One right after the other.

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
Hey Zo, you get home safe?

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
txt whn u in bed, slpyhead 😴

Zoey froze. The air left her lungs in a slow exhale she didn't know she'd been holding. Just like that, her world shifted, narrowed, focused. Everything else faded until it was only them. Again. Her thumb moved almost automatically, Hwan's message slipping dow nthe screen and out of sight.

Because of course it did. She debated over what to answer. But she didn't trust herself to find the right words, so instead of a text, she snapped a quick selfie, hair mussed, eyes tired, jacket collar pulled high.
The replies came instantly - one of Rumi’s chaotic typo-ridden bursts of affection, Mira’s neat but slightly looser text betraying the fact that they hadn’t stopped drinking and smoking together after their call.

Zoey:
yessss homeeee 💤 snuck back in without tripping ONCE 😎✨
[image attached]

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
LMAOooo cuuuteee 💕💕 wait–
tht IS my JACKT!! >:(
dont lie 2 me zozo i kno my jacketttt 😤

Zoey:
nooooooo 🤭 definitely not yours nope nope nope

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
…
you look very small
and very tired
gremlin.
go to bed before you melt into the floor.

Zoey:
but i wanna talk 2 u guyssss 🥺👉👈 just a lil more??

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
nahhhh sleeeep timmmmmeeee zozo
or i swear 2 god ill get the bike rn n drag u bak 2 seoul lolol 🏍️💨

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
She’d do it. Don’t test her.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜: in sleep monkeys
yea
bed.
(…even if its still w/o usssss :( 🥺 )

Zoey:
RUDE. okay fine. goodniiiiight

Zoey smiled, that small ache in her chest softening into something warm instead. She stared at the screen for a moment, fingers hovering, before she added:

Zoey:
miss you two ❤️

Her thumb hesitated above the send button - then pressed it.

A second later, her phone vibrated again. Two replies came in almost at once.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜: in sleep monkeys
awwww zozo, we miss u 2. dnt wory, nt long until ur bck & we wil pck u up <3

From: Sleepy Monkey M 🩷 in sleep monkeys
Yes. Don't forget to send us your train details.
Goodnight.
Sleep well, Gremlin.
We’ll see you soon.

From: Sleepy Monkey R 💜 in sleep monkeys
niteeeeeee <3333333 dream of meeee lolol 😘💤

Zoey smiled at the screen, clutching the phone against her chest for a second before setting it aside. She let the phone fall to the mattress beside her, the soft blue glow painting the room in light that felt almost like touch, Hwan's message completely out of her mind. The jacket’s scent wrapped around her as she curled up, her body loosening at last into sleep.

As her eyes drifted shut, the echoes of both conversations - Hwan’s and theirs - twinned together in the dark.

Two different kinds of ache:
One for what she couldn’t return.
And one for what she couldn’t quite reach.

She turned to her other side, facing the wall and let the quiet weight of the fabric, heavy with the scent of cigarettes, cedar, lavender, sandalwood, them, lull her to sleep. Tomorrow she'd see them again.

Tomorrow she'd be home again.

Chapter Text

Zoey woke to the faint clatter of dishes downstairs. Morning smelled like rice and broth and the faintest trace of sesame oil. At the table, her mother asked her how last night had gone, what she thought of Hwan, if his friends were polite enough - each question framed with the casual sharpness of a probe. Zoey deflected with half-smiles and short answers, sipping her soup as though it could shield her.

As soon as the dishes were cleared, she excused herself and slipped back into her room to pack. Her phone buzzed on the futon:

From: Mystery Man (Hwan)
when’s your train? i’ll pick you up

She typed back the departure time, and a minute later his reply came:

From: Mystery Man (Hwan)
got it. i’ll be outside.

The rest of the morning was filled with polite goodbyes, halmae fussing over whether she had enough food for the ride, her mom insisting she invite Hwan inside when his car pulled up. Zoey shook her head. “Train’s not gonna wait,” she said, hugging them both quickly before hefting her bag and escaping.

Hwan leaned over from the driver’s seat to push the door open for her. She slid in, fastening her seatbelt. “Thanks,” she murmured.

“No problem.” He glanced at her as they pulled away. “So - what train are you on?”

Zoey told him, and his eyebrows rose. He let out a low whistle. “My friends were right. That’s pretty bougie.”

Zoey groaned, rolling her eyes. “It’s not. I didn’t even buy it.”

“Ohhh, so one of your ‘friends’ bought it for you?” His grin was teasing.

Her face heated instantly. “Shut up,” she muttered, which only made him laugh harder.

At the station, they stood awkwardly for a beat before she shouldered her bag. “Thanks again. Really.”

He nodded, more serious now. “Text me whenever. Even if it’s just to complain about your mom. And… I hope you find your happiness, Zoey.”

Something in his tone caught her off guard, soft but earnest, and she only managed a small nod before turning toward the platform. She waited with her headphones on, the metallic announcement of arriving trains blending with the steady beat in her ears. She unwrapped one of the peach gummies from the care package Rumi and Mira had made her, chewing slowly as the sweetness spread across her tongue.

The thought came unbidden, as sure as the tracks stretching back toward Seoul:

Almost home.

-------------------------------------------------------------M-------------------------------------------------------------

Friday night had felt wrong.
Not bad exactly, but incomplete. They’d both known it as soon as the driver dropped Mira off at the penthouse. Normally, this was when the weekend began: pre-drinks, music bleeding through the speakers, Zoey’s chatter spilling across the room like sunlight. Instead, the silence had been too loud.

They’d thought about going out. Rumi had even half-jokingly suggested “VIP or bust.” But after a long look at each other, they’d both agreed - no. Not without her.

So the weekend blurred into the same loop: weed haze, beers, food ordered in, and sex in the gaps. Nothing close to romance, not even indulgence - just passing time until Zoey came back.

By Sunday, Mira woke to daylight slanting far too bright across the curtains. She pawed for her phone on the nightstand. She blinked it open, squinting at the message Zoey had sent her this morning.

From: Gremlin 🐢 🖤 in sleep monkeys
train’s getting in this afternoon ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Attached was a picture of when her train was supposed to arrive.

Mira hummed softly to herself, registering the arrival time - then frowned. Wait. Her eyes flicked to the clock at the top of the screen.

“Shit.”

She sat bolt upright, elbowing the blanket aside. The sudden movement earned her a groan from Rumi, who rolled over and yanked a pillow over her head.

Mira yanked it back. “Get up. We’re late.”

A muffled voice: “No, we’re fine. Zo’s not due ‘til - ” Rumi’s hand flopped out toward the nightstand to grope for her own phone. Mira cut in flatly:

“It’s already 2:37pm.”

That got her. Rumi squinted at the screen, went still, then exploded upright. “Fuck. Shitshitshit.” She started pawing through the mess of clothes at the foot of the bed, cursing under her breath. “Didn’t you set an alarm?”

Mira folded her arms. “One: No, but you didn’t either. Two: I didn’t think we’d sleep that long.”

“It’s your fault,” Rumi shot back, hopping on one leg as she pulled her jeans on. “You wanted to wait until she texted she’s home - ”

“Not my fault you decided you were horny after and kept us up two extra hours.”

They both paused mid-glare, the silence sharp for a beat - then they bolted in opposite directions, Mira toward the bathroom, Rumi toward the closet. The penthouse buzzed with frantic motion, fabric hitting the floor, doors slamming, both of them trying to salvage “presentable” from the wreckage of their weekend.

Because Zoey was coming home.

By the time they tumbled out the door, Mira was half-tucking her shirt into her jeans while Rumi cursed at her own shoelaces. They sprinted for the parking lot, Mira tossing her hair into something that vaguely resembled control, Rumi jangling her keys like a weapon.

“Why is your car the cleanest part of your life?” Mira muttered as she slid into the passenger seat.

“Shut up, I cleaned my penthouse last week,” Rumi shot back, gunning the engine to life. The roar filled the lot building, sharp and impatient, and she backed out so fast Mira had to brace herself against the dash.

“Subtle,” Mira deadpanned.

Rumi only grinned, sunglasses sliding onto her nose. “She’ll forgive me.”

The streets blurred past in streaks of gray and green. Mira glanced at her phone again, the time chewing at her nerves. They weren’t disastrously late - but still. She hated the thought of Zoey stepping onto the platform alone, scanning the crowd for them and not finding them there.

“Relax,” Rumi said, eyes on the road, one hand drumming the steering wheel in restless rhythm, while the other shifted gears constantly. “We’ll make it. I’m not letting her wait.”

Mira exhaled through her nose. She didn’t answer, but her chest loosened just a little. Traffic opened up. Rumi pushed harder on the gas. They wove through the lanes, the Impala’s growl turning heads, until the city peeled back to reveal the train station looming ahead.

Mira smoothed her hands down her thighs, ridiculous but necessary. Her pulse ticked faster the closer they got. They parked in a rush, Rumi swinging the car into a spot with a precision born of too many years dodging managers and cops alike.

“Come on,” she said, already half out the door. Mira followed, the cool air hitting her face, grounding her. The station buzzed with weekend traffic, voices blending into an indistinct hum.

And then - there she was. Zoey, backpack slung over one shoulder, scanning the crowd. A little tired, maybe, but so very herself.

Mira felt something in her ribcage loosen completely. Rumi lifted a hand, while letting out a sharp whistle and calling her name, loud enough that heads turned.

Zoey’s face lit like someone had flipped a switch, her tired expression melting away into pure, unfiltered joy. She broke into a run, her backpack bouncing against her side.

Rumi didn’t hesitate - she darted forward too, weaving through startled travelers, arms already outstretched. Mira rolled her eyes but followed, less of a sprint and more of a purposeful stride, though her lips betrayed her with the ghost of a smile.

“RUUUUMIIIIII!” Zoey squealed, the sound half laugh, half battle cry.

“ZOOOOOOEY!” Rumi answered in the same over-the-top tone, skidding to a stop just in time to catch Zoey as she barreled into her. They nearly toppled, Zoey’s arms clinging around Rumi’s shoulders while Rumi spun her in a messy circle that made Zoey yelp and laugh even louder.

“You’re gonna drop her!” Mira called out, but there was no real bite in it.

“She’s tiny, I could juggle her!” Rumi crowed, holding Zoey up like a trophy before finally setting her back on her feet. Zoey staggered, hair in disarray, grinning so hard her cheeks must’ve hurt.

“You guys - ” she started, but her voice cracked and she just shoved herself forward again, this time pulling Mira into a hug, pressing herself tightly against her, as if she hadn’t seen her in years.

She pulled back but only to pull both of them in, Mira reluctantly but inevitably dragged into another hug.

Reluctantly? Yeah sure.

Mira’s hand came up, steady on Zoey’s back, betraying her supposed resistance. “You’re dramatic,” she murmured, but it was softer than anyone had a right to be in a train station.

“Shut up,” Zoey sniffled, laughing at herself, clinging tighter for a second before finally letting go. Her eyes were shiny, her smile wobbling.

Rumi reached out and thumbed at her cheek. “Aww, did our Zo miss us?”

“Of course I did, you idiots!” Zoey fired back, mock-offended but already laughing again.

Mira shook her head, but her shoulders had lost their stiffness. “Come on,” she said, gesturing toward the exit. “Before you two make a scene.”

“Make a scene?” Rumi said, already grabbing Zoey’s hand and tugging her toward the doors. “We just won the scene. Whole station belongs to us now.”

Zoey giggled helplessly, stumbling to keep up, before grabbing Mira’s hand to pull her along too. She sighed, but the corner of her mouth curled upward anyway as she let herself be pulled outside of the station.

Outside, Rumi clicked the fob and her Impala beeped in greeting, gleaming like it owned the whole curb. She swept open the back door with exaggerated flourish.

“Your chariot awaits, my lady,” she said in the most over-the-top noble voice she could muster, bowing so deeply a couple walking by actually stopped to watch.

Zoey snorted, covering her face with one hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“She’s embarrassing,” Mira corrected flatly, sliding into the passenger seat like she hadn’t just sprinted through a train station five minutes ago.