Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1: AN ANNOUNCEMENT

Rumi was stretching her legs along the mirrored wall of the HUNTR/X practice room when Bobby burst in like a human text alert.

"You're trending again," he announced breathlessly. His tablet screen reflected in the glass: their last live stage was number one on YouTube. Comments scrolled like wildfire—“Rumi is insane,” “Mira’s visuals???”, “Zoey supremacy!”

Zoey looked up from her water bottle. "Our fans are the best."

Mira didn’t even flinch, tapping out another note on her phone, no doubt cross-checking stage lighting for their next show. Rumi smiled softly, letting the win settle in her body like heat after a workout.

And then Bobby added, "Also—you’re doing a duet."

The smile slipped.

"Excuse me?" Rumi asked, standing.

"Big surprise drop. A joint single and MV—cross-label collab. It’ll be the biggest thing since Golden dropped. We’re talking international exposure. High-budget. Dark concept. Full visuals. You and—"

Rumi dreaded it but a she had a huge inkling who it was.

"Don’t say it," Mira muttered without looking up.

"—Jinu."

Silence.

Even Zoey sat up straighter now, tension crackling in the room like static before a demon surge.

Rumi blinked. "Saja Boys’ Jinu?"

"I mean sure they had a little break—," Bobby said. "But they're still the biggest boy group right now. Your fans are clawing at each other. A collab would harmonize your fan base—"

"Okay," she cut in. She didn't want to cause a fuss. Bobby was already stressing enough but her pulse was already picking up. Not from fear. From memory. But she had to do it. For the fans.

Bobby smiled.

While Mira and Zoey looked at Rumi, worry lacing their eyes.

***

They hadn’t spoken since the Idol Awards Incident—the night her demon marks surfaced during a live performance, the night the Honmoon barrier nearly shattered because the crowd’s faith wavered. Because hers did. Jinu had been part of the chaos, disguised, maybe manipulated, maybe complicit. She still didn’t know.

But he’d also saved her life that night. Thrown himself in front of a spike of dark energy like some poetic cliché, bleeding and smirking as he collapsed at her feet. Gone before she could thank him. Or scream at him.

Or ask why it had felt like he meant everything he'd ever whispered to her in secret alleyways between rehearsals and demon hunts.

***

"What kind of concept?" Zoey asked, trying to sound casual. She failed.

Bobby swiped to a moodboard. "Title: Slick with Sin. Two idols, caught in a beautiful self-destructive love spiral. Forbidden. Obsessive. Slow-burn to madness. Think smoke, mirrors, rain, tangled limbs, emotional carnage—"

"—and a kiss," Mira guessed.

"Final scene. Real-time shot. No cutaways."

Rumi’s jaw tensed.

A long silence settled. Zoey bit her lip. Mira glanced at Rumi sideways.

"You don’t have to do it," Mira said eventually, quiet and firm.

Rumi looked at them. Her group. Her family. They knew everything. How she’d kept sneaking off late at night before the awards. How she came back shaken, eyes unfocused. How she’d tried—really tried—not to care.

But she had. She still did.

"I’ll do it," she said.

"But isn't this a little too.... inappropriate? I mean what's the target demographic here?" Zoey was the first to raise a question and Bobby just smiled.

"Actually our company did a recent survey that 80% of your fans attending the concerts are all in their mid 20's to later 30's. I'm sure this would be a special treat to them." Bobby showed a few graphs from his tablet.

Mira sighed like she knew the fight was lost.

***

The meeting was scheduled fast. Of course it was.

Rumi barely had time to prep mentally. On the way there, she wore black velvet sleeves that kissed the floor and blood-red lip gloss that gleamed under harsh studio lights like a warning.

“Okay. Don’t be nervous, Rumi. Today is just a chemistry test.”

The casting director was eccentric and blunt: “We’re aiming for tension. Think: you want to kiss him, but you also want to kill him. Channel that.”

“Should be easy,” Rumi muttered.

And then she saw him.

Jinu walked in through the haze of stale hallway air and recirculated AC like some tragic prince. White shirt half-unbuttoned. Rings on every finger. Collarbones shameless. That stupid dark fringe falling over eyes that had once glowed hell-red during a fight they barely survived.

Rumi froze. Her stomach flipped like it remembered things her brain refused to. This was the first time she saw him again since the Idol Awards.

He looked at her. Really looked.

And smiled.

Just a little. Just enough to make her hate the way her pulse jumped.

“Rumi,” he said simply, like it hadn’t been six months since he vanished.

“Jinu,” she said back. Neutral. Flat. Like her heart wasn’t thudding.

“Okay. I’m assuming you guys already know each other. Your chemistry is undeniable but I want complete professionalism from the both of you, ok?” the casting director called.

“Okay.” They both said at the same time, not taking their eyes off each other.

“We’re only going to be taping a few scenes. Since the song isn’t finalized yet, we’re improvising most of the blocking.”

They stood across from each other on the taped Xs on the studio floor. The director called out instructions.

“Hands here. Eye contact there. At the confrontation beat, she grabs his collar. Pulls him closer.”

Rumi’s fingers twitched.

“And in the final pause—forehead touch. Almost kiss. Not yet.”

Jinu cleared his throat. “I can do that.”

Rumi glanced sideways. His voice was deeper than she remembered. Rougher. He sounded like he hadn’t slept much. Maybe he hadn’t.

They rehearsed the positions. One take. Two. No lines. Just pacing and proximity and breath.

On the third pass, when she reached up to grab his collar, her knuckles brushed his throat.

He exhaled hard.

It wasn’t in the script. But she didn’t break character. Neither did he.

***

During a break, Bobby brought water bottles and protein bars.

“You two are killing it,” he said, eyeing the playback monitor. “Like, the tension is giving the team nosebleeds.”

“Great,” Rumi muttered, popping open her bottle.

Jinu sat beside her on the low platform bench. Not touching. Not speaking.

Then: “You look good,” he said softly.

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

A pause. Then he laughed quietly. “Still sharp.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

Silence again. 

Then he leaned closer, voice barely audible:

“I didn’t disappear because I wanted to.”

She turned to him. His face was too close. His lashes were unfair. “Why, then?”

He hesitated.

Before he could answer, the director clapped. “Back on set! Forehead scene, then we prep for the confrontation beat!”

Rumi stood first. She didn’t look back.

***

When they hit their marks again, Rumi stood inches from him under warm, diffused lights.

Jinu leaned down slowly. Foreheads touched.

Their noses brushed.

His lips hovered near hers—not enough for contact. Just enough for her to feel the warmth. She could smell his cologne—earthy, dark, something magnetic.

He whispered, just above breath level. Improv line.

“I never stopped wanting you.”

Rumi inhaled like it hurt.

“CUT!” the director yelled.

Everyone clapped. Someone muttered, “Daaaamn.” The tension had bled into the air like perfume.

They stepped apart.

Rumi didn’t look at him. But her skin buzzed.

This was just day one.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Velvet Heat

> [#JinuRumiCollab 💥🔥]

@milkitaeluv · 2h ago

WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE FACT THAT MY FAVES JINU AND RUMI HAVEN’T WORKED TOGETHER AT ALL  AND NOW THEY’RE DOING A CHOREO INTENDED TO “SIMMER WITH TENSION”??? 😭😭

👉 I'M THE MESSIAH

> [Post by @seoulsync_official]

📸 Behind-the-scenes drop

“You could cut the tension with a knife. 👀”

[photo: Rumi and Jinu in profile, sweat-slicked, barely touching fingers mid-dance]

Top Comment:

@hanvelvetsoul

They’re not acting. I know chemistry when I see it. 🧨

> [#DispatchKDramaReality]

@netizenbuzz_trash · 3h ago

NGL I maybe unhinged but I think Jinu and Rumi had something before? Like c'mon they look like exes who still love each other?

---

@HUNTR/XRUMIRA • 2h ago

Stop your DELUSIONS! Rumi don't fuck with no Saja Boys they're a flop

> [#DispatchKDramaReality]

@SODAPOpzz • 2h ago

these huntr/x fans dumb af. it's called acting. look it up dumbass. u huntr/x stans literally ruin anything good for the saja boys.

***

The studio was too warm, and it wasn’t just from the overhead lights or the steady rhythm thudding through the speakers. The air between Rumi and Jinu felt charged, thick with something unspoken and blistering.

The choreographer didn’t help. She clapped her hands and said, “Again, but this time—more intensity. Let it build. I want to feel the heat.”

Rumi rolled her shoulders back and didn’t look at Jinu, but she could feel him watching her from the edge of the floor. She always could. That wasn’t new.

What was new was how openly it settled under her skin today. His gaze felt like fingers. She hated that. Hated more that she didn’t want it to stop.

The music cued again—slow, smoky, dangerous.

They stepped toward each other, finding their marks in silence.

Jinu moved first, his hand sliding along her waist, fingers splaying across her side with zero hesitation. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either. It was... sure. Like he’d done it a hundred times in his head already.

Her skin lit up beneath his palm. The contact was solid, unapologetic, and worse—he held it for too long. She bit back a sharp inhale, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing how sensitive she really was to him. But it was impossible to hide when his thumb began to slowly trace just above the hem of her top.

Her breath caught. His grip tightened ever so slightly, and he leaned in just behind her.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

She did, shakily. Barely.

They moved in sync, the next choreographed step pulling her backward into him. Her back aligned perfectly with his chest, and the arm he slid around her ribs was possessive. She could feel every muscle in his body, every intention—none of it acting.

His palm pressed against her stomach. Her body jolted, instinctive and electric.

“More tension!” the choreographer called again.

Easy for her to say.

They rotated together, and she found herself chest-to-chest with him, her hands moving upward until her fingers tangled at the nape of his neck. Her nails brushed skin. He hissed, just barely.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

His breath ghosted across her ear. “Don’t be.”

They spun again, fast and fluid, landing in a press where their bodies met too fully to pretend it was still professional. Her chest rose and fell against his. His hands, still on her waist, slid lower.

She tensed. Heat flushed up her neck and settled behind her ears.

She should pull back. But she didn’t.

His hands stopped at the slope of her hips, fingers curling into the fabric there, like he wanted to anchor himself—or maybe ground her.

Her fingers crept upward, slipping under his collar on instinct. The satin was damp with sweat. His skin, hot.

Her thumb skimmed his throat, and she felt it—his pulse, fast and firm, beneath her touch.

“Getting a little handsy there?” he said, low, his breath brushing her cheek.

“Shut up,” she whispered back, but her voice was too soft to carry any weight.

Still, she didn’t let go.

The next move was slow—forehead to forehead, their hands sliding up each other’s arms, skin to skin. When his hands reached her shoulders, he dragged his fingers up slowly, intentionally, like he was savoring the feel of her.

She couldn’t stop the tremor that rolled through her.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You're so sensitive.” he murmured.

“Shut up you—” she gritted her teethe defensively before she could stop herself.

But it was true.

There had been stage partners before. Choreography with skin, with heat. But no one else made her tremble with just a touch on her elbow. No one else made her thighs clench when their leg brushed hers. No one else had her skin craving every inch of contact like it was a drug she couldn’t resist.

And he knew it. Bastard.

The bridge began, the music slowing into something quieter, breathier. She was supposed to touch his chest. Hold his jaw. Almost kiss him.

So she did.

Her fingers slid up the center of his chest. The rise of his sternum. The dip of his throat. Her knuckles brushed the underside of his jaw, and when she stopped, she realized she was holding her breath.

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

“Cut,” someone called distantly. But they didn’t step apart.

They stayed like that, breathing hard, not quite touching lips, eyes locked.

Her fingers were still on his throat. His hands were still gripping her hips.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

He smiled, a slow nod afterwards. “I hate me too.”

And of course, she didn’t. That was the problem.

She pulled away, her body still buzzing. Even without touching, she could feel the ghost of his hands on her skin. Her arms. Her waist. Her thighs.

It lingered like static, like heat after lightning.

Bobby arrived just as she grabbed her water bottle, sweaty and flushed. He blinked at them both. “Uh. You good?”

“Fine,” she said too fast.

Jinu didn’t say a word, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.

Later, in the hallway, after rehearsal, she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. Her hoodie stuck to her back. Her hands were still unsteady.

Jinu came around the corner, silent and slow.

“How are you feeling?” he said, voice quieter now.

She didn’t look at him.

"Let's get one thing straight Jinu. This is a professional thing. Let's not drag what happened before in here. You got that?"

He stepped closer. She felt him before she saw him.

“What are you so scared of, Rumi?” He said.

“I mourned for you Jinu, I thought you were gone. Then after 4 months you come back like nothing happened. Not one letter.” she admitted.

"I tried to talk Jinu, but you weren't responding to the letters I asked Derpy to give." She gave a bitter smile.

His jaw tensed. He didn’t touch her, not this time. But he didn’t walk away either.

"I want to forget everything that happened between us ok? So let's just promise each other to keep things professional from now on." She offered her hand for a handshake and as a sign of goodwill.

But Jinu only stared at it. Then slowly his hand reached out, but not to touch her hand, rather he caressed her cheeks. And Rumi wasn't stopping him.

"I'm sorry Rumi. I can't do that."

Then he dropped his hand before turning to leave.

Rumi remained frozen, recalling the feeling of warmth and comfort that surrounds her when she's with him.

And that scared her more than anything.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: You Can't Look Away

The vocal booth smelled faintly of steel, padded foam, and something warm — maybe leftover sweat from whoever used it last. Rumi stood by the far wall, hoodie on, arms crossed. Her heart still hadn't settled from her own recording takes earlier.

Now it was Jinu’s turn.

She hadn’t planned to stay in the booth while he sang. But the producer, a blunt man with tired eyes and two coffee cups in hand, had waved her back in after a playback session.

“You’re his muse today,” he’d joked, not looking up from the soundboard. “Might as well stay where he can see you.”

She’d rolled her eyes. But she hadn’t argued.

Jinu stood a foot from the mic, headphones slung over one ear, shirt rolled to his elbows. His jaw was set. Calm, on the outside.

The track cued. The first chorus passed—steady, smoldering.

Then came the second.

The producer leaned forward, pressing the talkback button. “Again,” he said, “but this time... I need it to sound desperate.”

Jinu didn’t reply. He exhaled. His thumb tapped a slow beat against his thigh.

Then he turned his head — and looked directly at her.

“Stay,” he said, soft but clear. “Look at me.”

Rumi blinked. Her pulse skidded.

He turned back to the mic before she could speak.

The music dropped again. That instrumental bridge, that loaded pause. Then—

He began to sing.

Went quiet but under your touch felt alive

Subdued it yet only with you I thrive

Chain me, drag me, hate me, love me

Was hoping you'll let us just be

This time, it wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. It was ruined in the most deliberate way.

Rumi had never heard his voice like that before. It cracked in the corners. It shook in the chest. It dragged on certain words like they were anchoring him to the floor.

He was looking at her the whole time.

And even through the glass, she felt it. That awful, unbearable intimacy. Like he wasn’t singing to her — he was confessing something dark and quiet and private. Something he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Her cheeks flushed. Not a soft pink. A full, hot red that crawled up to her ears.

She didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

The chorus ended. He pulled off his headphones slowly, his breathing still unsteady.

The booth fell quiet.

Rumi stepped out first. Her fingers trembled at her sides.

***

Ten minutes later, it was her turn again.

Ad-libs. Whisper lines. Breath over melody.

She returned to the booth. This time, Jinu stayed behind.

No one said anything about it.

She faced the mic. Took a breath.

“Soft,” the producer said through the monitor. “Almost like you’re afraid they’ll hear you.”

Rumi closed her eyes.

The instrumental played. She let her voice drift into it — not singing, not really. Just breathing with meaning. Words like silk, vowels curled in longing, gentle enough to feel stolen.

Touch me without touching me…

I feel you in the quiet…

Don’t leave.

Behind the glass, Jinu watched. His arms were crossed. But his eyes — dark, low-lidded, unblinking — didn’t move once from her mouth.

She felt it. Felt him.

Every time her lips parted, she imagined his breath on them.

Every time her voice broke into a whisper, she wondered if his body reacted.

Her stomach clenched.

Her skin flushed again — not out of embarrassment this time, but because something between them shifted in that moment. Like a thread was pulled too tight and snapped.

And neither of them said a word about it.

***

Later, in the hallway, they stood by the vending machine in silence.

Rumi pressed her water bottle to the side of her throat, trying to cool the burn there.

Jinu’s hands were in his pockets. His jaw was clenched. His eyes flicked to her, then back to the wall.

She looked up. “Your voice sounds great. You got any tips?” Rumi laughs awkwardly trying to defuse the tension.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he leaned in slightly. Not touching her — just close enough that his voice didn’t need volume.

“Your voice gives me my soul back,” he said.

Her breath caught.

For once, she had no comeback.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Green-Eyed Monster

The set lights were merciless.

Bright, hot, white — reflecting off sequined costumes and polished floors.

Rumi squinted as the choreographer shouted cues over the speakers. “Reset from the bridge! Let’s keep the energy sharp!”

The dancers groaned good-naturedly, rolling shoulders and stretching. The cameras followed their movements like predators.

Somewhere off to the side, Jinu stood with a towel around his neck, watching the monitor. He wasn’t smiling.

Rumi, though — she was.

A male backup dancer cracked another joke beside her, something stupid about how the props looked like giant rice cakes. She laughed — really laughed — and the sound carried, light and bright against the hum of the set.

The dancer grinned. “See? She gets it!”

Jinu’s jaw ticked.

The cameraman caught it for half a second — that flicker in his expression before he turned away. No one else seemed to notice.

Rumi did.

And later, when the next take began, she caught him glaring. Not subtle. Not even trying to hide it.

His eyes met hers mid-choreo, a silent dare. Her steps faltered for a fraction of a beat. The dancer beside her steadied her waist instinctively — and that only made Jinu’s stare sharpen.

The director called cut. “Good energy! Let’s go again in ten.”

Rumi stepped off the floor, grabbing her water bottle. Her heart hadn’t slowed down yet.

**

The next run-through should’ve gone smoothly.

It didn’t.

When Jinu took his mark and the music hit his verse, something in his tone changed.

He didn’t sing it the way they rehearsed — clean, suave, with that easy charm that made everyone melt. No.

This time his voice came out lower, darker. Rough around the edges, like the sound of thunder rolling through glass.

He sang his verse too intensely.

Every consonant was bitten off. Every lyric aimed like a weapon.

And his eyes—

They never left hers.

Rumi’s pulse skipped. Her throat went dry. She could barely keep up with her own steps.

Even the choreographer blinked. “Uh… Jinu? You good?”

He didn’t answer.

The music ended. Silence hung thick between them.

Rumi exhaled shakily, pushing damp hair off her neck.

When the director called a short break, she didn’t hesitate. She followed him backstage.

***

He was by the mirrors, head down, wiping sweat from his collarbone. The towel twisted tight in his hands.

“What’s your problem?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the hum of stagehands.

He looked up, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You,” he said simply.

The word hit her like a physical thing.

Rumi blinked, disbelief flaring into anger. “Excuse me?”

He stepped forward. “You. Laughing like that with him.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “He’s a dancer, Jinu. We were working.”

“You were smiling,” he said, voice low. “Not like that.”

She scoffed. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Maybe.” He moved again — too close this time.

She backed up until her shoulders met the wall.

The air between them crackled. He wasn’t touching her, but it felt like he was — the heat of him, the way his breath brushed her cheek when he spoke.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.

“Can’t,” he murmured. His hand came up, bracing against the wall beside her head. “You make it impossible.”

Her pulse thundered.

They were both breathing hard now — the kind that didn’t come from dancing.

For a split second, neither moved. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth.

She didn’t stop him when he leaned in.

The world shrank to the sound of their breathing, the faint clatter of stage equipment somewhere far away.

His nose grazed hers. Her lips parted —

“Rumi!” someone called from the hall. “Five minutes till next take!”

They froze.

Jinu’s eyes fluttered shut, jaw tightening. He pushed off the wall, putting distance between them.

Rumi stayed where she was, chest rising and falling, trying to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t look back when he left.

And she didn’t know which was worse —

that he almost kissed her,

or that she wanted him to.