Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do hunters kill all demons?”

“Yes Rumi.”

~~

Growing up with the belief that half of you deserves to be put to death does damage, permanent damage. Growing up a child soldier, trained to fight, to sing, to please the people of the world before yourself, does permanent damage. Knowing you took your own mothers life when you came into the world, ripping her from the friends – the sisters – that she spent years fighting battles with, haunts you. Hiding your body from those closest to you, changes you. Seeing that body morph, turning more and more into the very thing you swore to irradicate, breaks your soul.

The day Rumi first saw the patterns growing, she cried so hard she saw the honmoon ripple. She remembers to look on Celines face clear as day. The disgust, the shame, the fear. So she hid, all of it, all of her.

“We are Hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen.”

~~

When Zoey and Mira join the band, Rumi is so nervous that they will discover her secrete. She keeps herself distanced for a long time. She chooses to only interact with them when required, choosing to train extra hours, sing for longer, practice choreography harder. They don’t really comment, mostly just assuming she wants their performances to be perfect.

What they don’t see is the fear. The growing restlessness under her skin where the patterns hum like a strummed guitar string. It’s infuriating. The more the patterns grow, the more Rumi desires comfort – to be seen – yet she knows that’s not an option. So she stays that way.

Their first performance looms like a shadow. It unites them in a way Rumi wasn’t prepared for. Because they all feel the pressure, not just Rumi. Celine designs their outfits, helps them make a brand. She dresses Rumi to hide the patterns well.

“Conceal your faults Rumi, this is how it has to be. Until you can ceil the honmoon, you can’t show this side of yourself.”

~~

They grow together, learning the industry and themselves. Rumi watches as Zoey and Mira become women, proud and strong. They know themselves. They express themselves. Zoey is outgoing, always showing her love and affection through physical touch. It terrifies Rumi most of the time. One misplaced touch could send her shirt askew and spill her darkest secret. Yet she never denies Zoey the touch. She almost craves it sometimes.

Then there’s Mira, dark, hard lines, and strong opinions. She shows her love through quality time and acts of service. She the one who shows up at your door after a hard day to make sure you have everything you need. She understands when Rumi won’t talk about it, and she just sits. Shoulders touching slightly, cross-legged on Rumi’s bed as they stare at the blank walls.

They slowly become her solace, her strength. Rumi knows them, and they eventually know her. Wall and all. She falls for them so hard it hurts. She tells Celine, she tells her she loves them. Celine says of course she does, that they are her sisters. So when Rumi implies she loves them more than that, Celine tells her to hide it once again. Hide more from them.

Watching Mira and Zoey both come out to the world so casually hurt more than she could ever express. Mira telling the world with such confidence that she’s bisexual, and at the time dating a woman. It hurt, hearing she was with someone else. The relationship didn’t last long, but it still stings. Zoey on the other hand, came out on an Instagram live, confidently saying she identifies as pansexual, being more into the person than the body they come in. She says it so easily that Rumi chokes back a sob, her eyes darting around the room to look at anything but her band mates. They will never know the struggle she feels watching them live the life she so desperately craves.

“We are Hunters. Voices strong. Slaying demons with our song. Fix the world and make it right. When darkness finally meets the light.”

~~

When their band takes off, Celine takes a step back. She hires them a manager. A good man, Bobby. He’s kind and gentle, with a good heart. Rumi tries not to be relieved that Celine will be around less. Her presence feels like a weight, something holding her down. A reminder of what she truly is. A demon. Something to be ashamed of.

So when she moves out of the tower and back to her home, Rumi can breathe a little more. Their first album becomes a hit, and Bobby manages them beautifully. He organises interviews, performances, signings, all of it.

His look of concern every time Rumi requests her outfits to have full sleeves is torture. But she knows there is no other way to cover the patterns, she’s tried every brand of makeup. So he nods with a sad smile, and tells her if she needs to talk about anything, that he is there for her. It breaks her heart, lying to him, letting him think that she hurts herself, but she can’ t tell him. He is just a human after all. He does his best, setting boundaries with everyone around them for Rumi. He makes sure they know not to touch her, saying she’s a germaphobe, but she knows the truth.

So he does what she asks, in shows, at signings, in photoshoots and billboards. Her arms are covered. Because by the time they hit their peak stardom, around the time she turned 22, the top half of her body is littered in patterns. They whisper across her arms, her shoulder, across her shoulder blades. They still hum with energy, fuelling her fie to keep pushing for the golden honmoon. But she adores Bobby for never pushing when she continues to ask for concealing outfits. She lies and says she’s a conservative person. Even when Mira and Zoey joke about it. But Bobby is solid the whole time, their biggest fan.

“I love my girls!”

~~

Everything changes when the patterns take over her whole body. Rumi feels it immediately. The patterns surge, over her stomach, her thighs, her neck, her face. They consume her whole. Just like the panic she feels when her two favourite people push her across the stage whispering horrible things. The panic attack comes quickly, not an unfamiliar feeling to Rumi. Yet she keeps moving. As she stumbles down the stairs, seeing another version of her girls, she pauses. The illusion from the Saja boys becomes clear, yet the way they look at her is torturous.

When Zoey pleads with her, confused and heartbroken, asking how she has patterns, it shatters Rumi’s soul. When Mira snaps about them never being able to be together, Rumi hears a double meaning. She can never have them, not the way she wants, not the way her body so desperately craves. When they raise their weapons at her, the world tilts.

She portals away without having known she can even do it. The hill of Celines sanctum appears before her, and she does the only thing her messed up brain can muster. She begs Celine to kill her. She presents her weapon like an offering, begging Celine to end her suffering. Because the only people in this world who have ever made her feel good about herself, just told her to leave.

When Celine refuses, saying she loves her, Rumi feels the rage ripple across her patterns in a toxic shade of pink. It consumes her. When she yells at Celine that she wants her to love ALL of her, she knows Celine understands the double meaning.

“Don't you get it? This is what I am. Look at me. Why can't you look at me?! Why couldn't you love me?!”

~~

When Rumi goes back to the Saja boy concert, to face Gwi-Ma, she doesn’t expect Mira and Zoey to join her. She assumes they will reject her, patterns and all. But as she starts singing, she feels them. Their souls call to her, lighting up like a beacon of hope. When they sing with her, feeling the lyrics in their intertwined souls, Rumi starts crying. Silent tears streak down her cheeks as she belts out the  lines.

They fight with everything they have, starlight weapons swinging and voices strong, as hoards of demons lurch at them. Mira and Zoey fight with such determination that it shocks Rumi to her core. She feels the pride seep through her, igniting her patterns in an iridescent shimmer of silver. She does her best, but when the beam of energy hits her sword, she feels defeat hit her square in the chest. She knows she can’t hold it. She hears Zoey and Mira scream her name, and she closes her eyes and screams. Ready to be consumed.

Then it stops.

She opens her eyes to see Jinu, sweet Jinu, taking the full power of the blast. His words are kind, his eyes sure, and as he sacrifices himself for her, Rumi feels grief hit her like a train. She watches him dissolve into a ball of shimmering red, as all demons do when they die.

Fuelled by grief and sheer determination, they push Gwi-Ma back into the depths of the underworld and ceil the honmoon. Their song shines bright, ripping in an rainbow shimmer across the globe as they sing. When Mira and Zoey embrace her, Rumi feels two pieces of her soul reconnect. Its such a relief that she lets the tears continue seeping out of her. They hug her with so much affection and emotion it almost makes her knees weak.

They stand hand in hand, facing the people who almost just died because of their errors, and they smile in satisfaction as the honmoon glows. Triumphant. Final.

“Fearless and undefined, this is what it sounds like.”

~~

Their hiatus isn’t easy in the beginning. There are lots of hard conversations. They talk about why Rumi lied. Mira threatens to kill Celine, only being held back by the desperate plea in Rumi’s voice. They agree they want to stay together, there are lots of apologies, tears, and hugs. Rumi feels her patterns vibrate with each emotion, her energy pulsing with each day that passes.

She tries to enjoy their break, each bathhouse trip, the relaxation should creep into her bones with how simple life has become. Yet she can’t. she thrums with life, ready to fight at any moment.

So when they see their fans, casual and happy in the streets, Rumi tells the girls she ready to go back to work. They agree, happy to be around their fans again. When Zoey places a hand on Rumi’s shoulder, she feels it through her whole body, only managing to hide the reaction when they agree to go see the fans. They start moving forward before her body can overreact.

“We are Hunters. Voices strong.”

~~

Chapter Text

The tower is quiet later that same night, the kind of quiet that feels like a warm blanket. Rumi sinks into the couch between Mira and Zoey, blanket draped over their legs, the soft glow of the television painting their faces in pale light. Movie night. Their ritual. The popcorn bowl rests in front of them, steaming, butter-scented, and the occasional kernel cracks under the weight of her fingers.

Zoey kicks her legs over Rumi’s lap playfully, laughing when Mira pretends to scold her. “You’re gonna spill everything, Zo!” she says, wide-eyed.

“I don’t mind,” Rumi mutters, tugging the blanket closer. She hides her grin behind the edge of it. Her patterns shimmer faintly pink and blue across her arms, almost invisible in the dim light, but she knows they’re there, like quiet signals to herself. She’s calmer than usual tonight, happy in a way that hums deep in her chest.

Mira leans back, arms crossed, chin resting lightly on one fist. “So… this new album,” she says, breaking the comfortable silence, “Comeback, huh? I still can’t believe we get to make another one already.”

Zoey nods, eyes sparkling. “It’s gonna be insane. Ten new songs, all of them ours. And I’ve already got ideas for lyrics—think high energy, but with some really emotional moments in the bridge. We have to make the fans scream and cry. Maybe we can each do a solo focused song too, really show off our strengths.”

Rumi laughs softly, warmth spreading through her. “Sounds like you two are ready to take over the world as soon as we get out of the studio.”

They fall into the rhythm of chatter, tossing ideas back and forth—song titles, visual concepts, fan events, everything. Zoey stays attached to Rumi’s side, her head resting on the lead singers shoulder as she chatters away. Her breath is infuriating. It hits the gentle skin on Rumi’s neck with so much force Rumi has to close her eyes and take calming breathes. Because the patterns, the ones across her whole body, are wildly sensitive to the touch still. Something she grew up with, only amplified now that they ripple across her whole body.

Mira’s sharp gaze flickers over to Rumi periodically, noticing the way her shoulders tense and relax, the way her hand keeps brushing the blanket over her chest, as if trying to settle herself.

“You okay, Rumi?” Mira asks, voice casual, almost teasing, but her eyes are steady.

Rumi hesitates, then glances down at her arms. She can feel the familiar warmth flicker under her skin, the glow of her patterns shifting from their usual muted blue-pink to a soft golden hue. It pulses faintly across her shoulders, then up her neck, a subtle shimmer against the dim light.

“Sorry, yeah just… wired all the time,” she admits quietly, almost ashamed. “But I’m ok. I’m just… happy I get to be back with you two. That’s all I need right now.”

Zoey’s smile wider if that’s even possible. She leans closer, pressing a quick kiss to Rumi’s cheek, the warmth of her lips sending shivers down Rumi’s spine. Her patterns flare brighter, golden light spilling across her skin like tiny suns, and heat creeps along her neck in a blush she can’t hide.

Rumi squeaks lightly, trying not to lean into it too obviously. “Zoey—” she starts, but the words catch somewhere between excitement and embarrassment.

Mira snorts from the other side, one brow lifted. “Wow, Zoey stop, before she combusts and throws you off her.”

Rumi shakes her head quickly, brushing a hand across her lap to grab Zoeys hand, stopping her from moving away. “It’s okay,” she says, her voice soft, calm. “I’m trying to learn to be ok with it, the whole touching thing. Because I can now. I can learn who I am now that I don’t have to hide.”

Zoey’s grin broadens, eyes sparkling as she nudges Rumi gently. “We can help you discover yourself, you know. That’s kind of our specialty.”

Rumi tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That’s sweet, but I… I already have a slight idea. I wanted to tell you both for so long, and I was so jealous of you both getting to be yourselves all these years, but,” She pauses, taking a slow breath. “I’m… into girls. Celine told me not to mention it until after my patterns were gone, she said I couldn’t get close to anyone, ever, so it didn’t matter,” Her voice falters, a little nervous, a little proud, all at once.

Mira and Zoey exchange a look, curiosity shining in their eyes. “Oh,” Mira says slowly, almost contemplative. “Is that… why you never dated anyone?”

Rumi nods, a faint blush colouring her cheeks as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. I didn’t feel safe. Or ready. But now… I want to figure it out.”

Zoey snuggles closer, draping an arm across Rumi’s shoulders in a gentle, grounding touch. “Then we’ll be right here. Every step of the way. You can ask us anything.”

Rumi’s chest tightens at the gesture, the golden glow of her patterns flickering brighter across her skin, pulsing faintly against her arms and neck. Mira reaches out too, pressing a light touch to the top of Rumi’s hand, thumbs brushing in small, deliberate circles.

The three of them sit there, golden light reflecting softly off the couch cushions, their chatter fading into the comfortable rhythm of breathing and quiet movie sounds.

“I… I’ve never really had anything like this before,” Rumi says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I never got to find out what felt good and what I wanted. Mostly because I was scared you guys would see my patterns, but also because I wasn’t interested in other people.”

Mira’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Other people?”

Rumi chokes, realising her choice of words, a little breathless, and leans into Zoey, patterns pulsing under their touch. Her chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths, and the warmth spreading from her shoulders to her fingers feels grounding and electric all at once.

“Oh, I mean like – ugh, you guys are like a safe space – I thought – I mean, I don’t mind when you guys touch me, that’s what I was trying to say –,” Rumi stammers, blush heating her whole body and patterns pulsing with heat.

Zoey laughs too, playful and light. “You’re glowing like a little sun, Rumi. You don’t have to be embarrassed around us. Not about this, because we went through it as well. And for the record, we like when you touch us too, it’s always the best day ever when I get a Rumi hug.”

“Yeah, agreed,” Mira teases, nudging her side. “Just go with what feels good Ru, we will still be here at the end, promise.”

Rumi swallows, blush deepening, her heart thumping as golden lines shimmer faintly across her arms and chest. “I want to try. I want to learn how to love and… be loved. Even if it’s scary.”

Zoey’s grin softens. “You are loved Rumi, and you deserve so much love.”

Rumi leans back, letting herself relax into their warmth, patterns pulsing with every word and every shared glance. She can feel her heart unclenching, the constant tension in her chest softening under the gentle pressure of their presence. She wants to tell them, to beg them to give it a chance, to let her love them both the way she wants. Yet she hesitates.

“It’s…” she starts, voice catching. “I’m scared. But… it feels good, letting you guys in. Really good.”

Mira chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear. “Well, good’s the point, isn’t it? And if it gets too scary…” Her thumb brushes the skin of Rumi’s cheek in a slow, teasing line. “You’ve got us. Always.”

Rumi closes her eyes, letting the golden glow of her patterns wash through her. The warmth seeps into her chest, down to her stomach, her limbs, like she’s being remade from the inside out. She can feel herself letting go of the fear, the old habits of hiding, the constant, buzzing tension she’s carried for years.

Zoey leans her head on Rumi’s shoulder, resting her chin against her collarbone. “See?” she murmurs. “Safe, warm… happy. That’s us. That’s home.”

Rumi smiles softly, pressing a hand over Zoey’s now in her lap, and Mira slides closer on the other side, her hand resting lightly on Rumi’s arm. Golden light flickers across her shoulders and face, and she feels her cheeks flush with a colour almost as bright.

Rumi shakes her head, laughing softly through the blush creeping up her neck. Her patterns shimmer golden against her skin, pulsing with contentment and the thrill of new beginnings.

Rumi glances down at her hands, glowing faintly golden, then up at them both. She lets herself believe they love her the way she loves them. Let herself trust it. Let herself exist in the warmth and love of these two people who had chosen to stay.

Zoey laughs, pressing a kiss to Rumi’s cheek again. “Relax Ru, just be with us.”

Rumi melts into them, patterns pulsing golden, chest rising and falling, heart opening like it never has before. She allows herself a selfish moment where “us” means something different entirely. She knows she can’t have it, her true desire, but she won’t pull away. Not while they are offer her so much affection, it feels too good.

“Ok, enough heavy stuff, movie time!” Mira announces, hitting play on whatever film her and Zoey picked out before they settled down.

The movie starts with a slow fade-in, opening credits rolling across the screen, but Rumi can’t focus. Not really. Not with them like this.

Zoey’s head rests lightly on her shoulder, curls brushing her neck, every breath warm and teasing. Rumi’s chest tightens, heat curling through her with every inhale she feels brush against her skin. Her hoodie rides up slightly where Zoey’s hand thrown across her waist rests, playful and casual, but the touch grazes her patterns in ways she isn’t used to—golden sparks flaring faintly across her skin beneath the fabric.

Mira’s arm throws itself lazily over Rumi’s other shoulder, fingers brushing along the path of her back before she’s threading strands of Zoey’s hair between her fingers, curling and stroking them as though they were threads of silk. Rumi swallows, mind spinning. Every movement—every accidental brush against her glowing patterns—is a jolt. Her silver shimmer isn’t holding tonight. It’s melting into gold, orange, tiny sparks of desire that ripple across her skin, hot and alien.

She tries to breathe. She tries to settle. It’s just a movie, she tells herself. Focus on the story, not them. But the story is a blur. The dialogue, the visuals, the laughter of the characters—all fades behind the sheer intensity of sensation.

Zoey shifts slightly, pressing a little closer, her hand tracing the hem of Rumi’s hoodie. It’s playful, not intentional, but every subtle slide of her fingers makes the heat pool in Rumi’s stomach. She presses her thighs together without thinking, a soft whine escaping her lips, muffled barely before it escapes.

Mira smirks at her side, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. Her free hand moves across to pick up Rumi’s closest hand, the one balled into a tight fist, “Feeling warm?” she murmurs, voice low enough that Rumi isn’t sure if she’s teasing or just stating fact.

Rumi shakes her head, attempting to pull herself back from the edge of sensation. She’s never felt like this—not the raw, pulsing need that makes her skin tingle and her heart race. Her patterns flicker again, a riot of gold and faint pink-orange trails along her arms and chest. She presses her hands against her lap, trying to force them to stop glowing. But the touch is contagious, spreading through her as if her body is alive in a way it hasn’t been before.

Zoey leans her head into her neck, whispering against the skin, “You okay, Rumi?”

“I’m fine,” Rumi replies, voice tight, but her body betrays her with another shiver. “Just… Mira’s right, I’m warm.”

Mira hums, sliding a hand from Zoey’s hair to Rumi’s shoulder, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin. “Warm? More like distracted,” she says, smirk widening.

Rumi groans softly, burying her face against Zoey’s curls. She tries to will herself to calm down, willing her patterns back to their usual silver shimmer, back to the neutral calm she’s used to. But every accidental touch, every brush of skin, every inhale of Zoey’s breath on her neck drives her further. Her heart is thundering, her pulse echoing across her chest, and her body starts pulsing with desire she doesn’t fully understand.

She’s never felt this exposed, this hungry—for them, for anything. She wants them to touch her more, harder, in ways she can’t ask for. The thought sends another shiver down her spine, making her thighs press together tighter, heat pooling dangerously low.

Zoey notices her shift, glancing down. “Rumi, are you okay?”

Rumi mumbles, voice small and frail. “Yeah, I… just need a minute.” She rises slowly, careful not to look at them directly, her body still pulsing with tension as she walks quickly toward the kitchen. Her hoodie clings to her chest, patterns still flaring faint gold along her arms and shoulders.

Mira hums softly behind her as they follow, eyes narrowing, but she doesn’t push, letting Rumi have the moment she needs. Zoey’s hand drifts briefly over Rumi’s back, just a brush of warmth before she pulls it away. “Drink some water,” she says softly. “Just breathe.”

Rumi nods, gripping the glass tightly as she sips. The cool water hits her tongue and throat, grounding her slightly, but the heat in her chest doesn’t fully leave. Her pulse pounds, and her body feels alien—hungry, sensitive, desperate for touch—but the rational part of her knows she can’t ask for more.

She leans against the counter, patterns still pulsing gold, faint sparks of pink flickering across her shoulders and arms. Her hands shake slightly, the soft pulse of her veins visible beneath the skin. She closes her eyes, trying to center herself, willing herself to breathe through it, willing herself to regain control as the other two depart the kitchen to give her some space. She’s thankful for it, needing the cool air to breath. She still can’t focus. She’s too hot. Knowing she won’t calm down easily, she whips her hoodie off and over her head. She sets it on the counter, leaving her in just a tank top, patterns shimmering a duller gold than they previously were.

With one last calming breath, she walks slowly back to the living room, seeing the girls waiting for her in quiet conversation.

On the couch, Mira shifts, her smirk softening into something warmer. Zoey presses her hand to her own chest, exhaling slowly. “She’s… reacting,” Zoey murmurs. “We have to be careful.”

Mira hums, nodding slightly, one eyebrow quirking. “Careful, sure. But it’s kind of hot. Seeing her like this.”

Zoey shakes her head, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Hot? Understatement. She’s burning up. Look at her patterns!”

Mira leans back, fingers drumming lightly on the couch. “Let her figure it out. She’ll come back when she’s ready. Don’t push her too hard.”

Rumi takes their words in, unsure of what they could mean. What does she have to figure out? Her patterns? What triggers them to change? Surely not.

After a long minute, she moves and returns to the couch, blanket pulled tight around her legs. Zoey and Mira immediately react, shifting to make space, giving her room without abandoning her entirely. Their hands hover near her shoulders, close enough to offer comfort without overstepping.

“Feeling better?” Zoey asks softly, brushing a curl from Rumi’s face.

Rumi nods, patterns flickering gently as they settle back into a calmer gold. “A little. Still a lot going on.”

Mira smirks, sliding an arm around Rumi’s shoulders again, lighter this time, playful but careful. “You’re still glowing, though. The illumination is impressive.”

Rumi groans, burying her face in Zoey’s shoulder, letting herself lean into them. “I can’t make it stop, I don’t know why it’s like this.”

Zoey whispers against her hair, “We aren’t complain Ru, you can let it out.”

The movie starts again, background noise now, but Rumi can’t focus on it. Taking her hoodie off was a mistake, because while the cool air feels like heaven, she now feels their touches directly on her patterns. Every subtle brush of skin, every shift of weight against hers, sends shocks of sensation through her. Her patterns pulse along her chest, arms, and neck, glowing gold, pink, faint blue at the edges, a storm of heat and light.

She shuffles slightly, thighs pressing together, whine escaping softly. “Sorry,” she mutters again, trying to ignore the rising pulse of desire twisting her stomach.

Zoey reaches over, brushing a hand along her shoulder gently. “It’s okay. Take your time. We’re right here.”

Mira hums in agreement, hand lightly resting against Rumi’s knee as though grounding them both. “No rush, Rumi. Breathe. It’s no big deal.”

Rumi closes her eyes, pressing her palms into her lap, and counts slowly, willing her body to settle. Her patterns flicker gold and silver, warm and pulsing, slowing as her breathing evens out. Her pulse still pounds beneath the skin of her chest, and she can feel the tension lingering in her thighs, but it’s manageable.

After a few long minutes, she opens her eyes. The gold of her patterns softens into a gentle shimmer, and she exhales shakily, curling her fingers into her knees. “Better,” she whispers.

Zoey smiles, brushing a strand of hair from Rumi’s face. “Good. That’s all that matters.”

Rumi still squirms. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, her legs, her voice. Every brush of contact has her body reacting in ways she isn’t ready to admit, ways she isn’t even sure she understands.

She wants to beg them to stop. She wants to beg them not to touch her so gently.

Her patterns flare again, streaks of orange and gold chasing over her arms and chest. Zoey notices instantly, her curiosity sharpened into something sweet. Slowly, deliberately, she lets her fingertip trace the outline of one glowing line curling down Rumi’s forearm.

Rumi’s eyes roll back before she can stop herself. Her head lolls against Mira’s shoulder, a shuddering breath spilling out of her lungs. The sensation is unbearable—like every nerve beneath that glowing line has been switched on at once, sparking under Zoey’s gentle touch.

“Z—Zoey,” she gasps, a whimper breaking her voice.

Zoey freezes, guilt flashing in her eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-no.” The word rips out of Rumi on a pant. She turns her face into Mira’s throat, trying to hide, trying to ground herself in the steady beat of Mira’s pulse under her skin. But Mira just lifts a hand, cupping Rumi’s chin, gently tipping her face back up until their eyes meet.

Mira studies her like she’s unravelling a puzzle piece by piece. Her thumb brushes over Rumi’s jaw, grazing dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Too much,” Rumi chokes out. Her patterns are vibrating against her skin now, glowing brighter with every second, casting faint light over all three of them. She feels like she’s coming apart, every ounce of her control slipping away. “It’s—too much. Please. Stop.”

Zoey’s hand stills instantly. Mira, however, doesn’t move away. A slow, teasing smile tugs at her lips.

“Too much?” Mira echoes. Her tone is soft, amused, knowing.

Rumi whimpers again, and the sound shatters her pride. She’s shaking now, breath shallow, heat pooling low in her stomach in ways she doesn’t have the language for. Her entire body is betraying her, begging for something she doesn’t know how to ask for.

Zoey leans back just enough to see her face. Concern flickers there, but also something more—something questioning. “Rumi, what does it feel like? When we touch your patterns?” Her fingertip ghosts along the pattern on Rumi’s arm again, lighter this time, experimental.

Rumi can’t answer. Her mouth opens, but only a broken sound comes out. Her chest heaves, her throat too tight for words. The best she can manage is another desperate whine, Zoey’s name tangled into the sound as though her body refuses to keep the secret anymore.

Zoey’s lips part in surprise. Mira, on the other hand, lets out a soft laugh, low and warm as she hold Rumi’s jaw.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Mira teases, and then she leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss to Rumi’s cheek—close enough to her mouth that her lips brush the corner.

Rumi snaps. Her whole body jolts, patterns blazing white-hot gold in the dark of the room. She rips herself out of their arms, stumbling to her feet, her breath ragged, her face scarlet.

“I—I can’t—” Her words tumble over each other, frantic. “M’Sorry, I can’t—”

Before either Zoey or Mira can reach for her, Rumi bolts. She rushes down the hall, patterns still pulsing wildly, and slams her bedroom door shut behind her.

Silence settles heavy in the living room, the only sound the faint muffled thud of Rumi throwing herself against her door.

Zoey’s cheeks are pink, her chest heaving as she hugs her knees to her chest. “Did we—did we go too far?” she whispers.

Mira leans back into the couch, expression unreadable but eyes sharp with thought. “Maybe,” she says at last. A slow smirk curls at the edge of her mouth. “Or maybe she’s just not ready to admit what she really wants.”

Zoey looks at her, wide-eyed, but Mira doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she reaches forward, places a slow, teasing kiss to Mira’s lips and pulls back to watch the movie, though her gaze flickers to Rumi’s shut door one last time, thoughtful and hungry.

Inside, Rumi curls against her bed, chest heaving, patterns glowing fitfully as if her whole body is still burning with the ghost of their touches. Her chest rises and falls too fast, every breath scraping like fire down her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. All she sees, all she feels, is them.

Zoey’s fingers tracing her arm, brushing over her glowing patterns with featherlight curiosity. Mira’s hand cupping her face, tilting her chin up like she was something fragile, something cherished. Zoey’s breath against her neck. Mira’s lips at her cheek. The two of them pressed so close, so warm, their touches burning into her skin.

Her patterns pulse wildly, searing streaks of orange-gold flooding across her body, flaring bright enough that the whole room is washed in their glow. It’s too much. She clutches at her forearms, digging her nails into her skin like that might dim the light, but it doesn’t. The glow only shudders brighter, blinding through her closed eyes.

“Stop,” she whispers to no one. Her voice breaks. “Please, stop.”

But the memories won’t stop replaying. Zoey whispering her name. Mira’s laugh against her ear. That almost-kiss, so close to shattering her completely.

The heat won’t fade. Her body won’t still. Her skin tingles everywhere they touched, each point of contact blazing like a brand she can’t erase. Her mind races in circles, too loud, too frantic, too needy.

She tries to calm her breathing, tries to will her patterns back to silver, but every attempt fails. The glow surges stronger instead, flooding down her arms, across her chest, over her thighs. She buries her face into her hands, but her lips part against her palms with a helpless moan before she can swallow it back.

She’s trembling.

Not with fear. Not with anger. With need.

Her patterns flare again, molten bright, until the entire room looks like it’s on fire. Her eyes squeeze shut tighter, but she can still feel the light pressing against the back of her lids. She can’t escape it. She can’t escape them.

Zoey’s gentle hands. Mira’s steady strength. The way both of them make her feel seen, undone, wanted.

Her body aches with it, so sharp she can hardly breathe. The tension has nowhere to go. No outlet.

Her hand moves before she can think. Sliding down, past the rise of her ribs, the frantic pound of her heart, lower still. A desperate, instinctive act, the only thing left to ground her in a body that feels like it’s about to combust.

She’s never done this before, having hated her body too much to want to touch it. But it feels like the only way to release some of the tension built up in her body. So she lets it happen.

Her hand slips past her pants and underwear in one swift movement, finding blinding hot moisture. She doesn’t know what to do, having never had a relationship, or desire to feel this way. So she does what feels natural, she presses. Her finger press to the part of her throbbing the hardest, her patterns matching it’s beat with such ferocity it scares her. The second her fingers make contact with her clit she has to bite her own arm to stop the moan that rips out of her.

It draws blood, having not realised her fangs had bared. But it feels so good, as her finger move in slow, firm circles over her. She feels her hip start to move in a hard grind, and she lets her breath come in hot whines as she keeps moving. There another sound echoing through the room, something deeper, a growl. She tries to locate it, only to realise it’s coming from her, directly from her chest.

It’s wildly embarrassing even if there isn’t anyone here to see or hear it, yet she’s sure if the girls have turned the movie off that they can hear what she is doing in here. She cant bring herself to stop though.

Her hand moves faster, and within two minutes, she’s crying, growling, and her hips are stuttering as she comes against her own hand. Her muffled scream against her arm is outrageous, with this feeling being so new to her. Yet the second she feels the release wash over her, she feels exponential better.

As she pants into the open space of her room she sees and feels her patterns start to calm down. She feels guilty immediately, having gotten herself off to the thought of her bandmates touching her. She feels dirty, yet she can’t make herself care long enough before her exhausted body starts to be taken over by sleep.

She falls asleep like that, with her hand trapped in her pants, a bleeding bite mark on her forearm and her patterns shimmering in the darkness.

Chapter Text

Rumi wakes slowly, tangled in her sheets, her cheek pressed into the silky fabric of a pillow. At first, she doesn’t remember why her body feels heavy and strange, why her body hums with satisfaction even now, when she’s supposed to be resting.

Then it hits her.

The memory slams into her chest like a hammer, and she shoots upright, breath catching in her throat. Her patterns flare once in a violent spark of colour, before she squeezes her eyes shut and presses her hands against her face, as if she can erase the truth with pressure alone.

She remembers everything. Every sound she made. Every thought she let consume her. Every desperate movement of her hands.

Her stomach twists. She doubles over, pressing her forehead into her knees, and a strangled sob rips out of her before she can stop it.

“What have I done?” The whisper is cracked, barely audible, but it feels deafening in the silence of her room.

Shame crawls over her skin, crawling deeper than even her glowing patterns. She can’t stand it—the way her body betrayed her, the way she gave in. She had always prided herself on control, on strength, on never letting the chaos inside take over. And yet last night, she let herself be consumed by thoughts of them. Zoey’s hands. Mira’s lips. Their closeness. Their warmth. She gave into it, needing them in ways she isn’t supposed to need anyone.

Tears pool in her eyes, spilling hot down her cheeks. She buries her face into her pillow, muffling the sobs that shake her body. But the walls of the tower aren’t thick enough to hide the sound.

The knock comes a few minutes later. Gentle, hesitant. “Rumi?” Zoey’s voice, soft and worried. “Are you – are you okay?”

Rumi freezes, clutching her pillow tighter. Panic flashes hot in her chest. They can’t know. They can’t know.

Another knock. Mira’s voice joins in, lower, steady. “We can hear you, Rumi. Please open the door.”

Her throat works around a refusal, but the words won’t come. Another sob escapes instead, and she curses herself for being weak enough to let them hear it.

The door creaks open anyway. Rumi doesn’t lift her head. She can’t look at them. She can’t bear for them to see her like this.

Soft footsteps pad across the room. The dip of the mattress follows. And then—warmth. Two bodies pressing in close on either side of her, the faint smell of Zoey’s shampoo and Mira’s soap wrapping around her. Gentle hands ease the pillow from her face, tugging it away so she can breathe again.

Rumi whimpers, curling tighter, but then Zoey’s hand is there, brushing away the wetness from her cheeks. Mira’s fingers slip into her hair, loosening the braid until it falls messy and tangled around her face. Neither says anything, not right away. They just sit with her. Soft, grounding, patient.

“Shh,” Zoey whispers, her thumb smoothing over Rumi’s damp cheek. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. Just let us be here.”

Rumi wants to argue. She wants to push them away, scream at them to leave her alone, to stop touching her before she loses herself again. But the words die on her tongue. Because this doesn’t feel like last night. It doesn’t feel like temptation, or fire, or chaos. It feels like… love.

Mira’s hand strokes gently through her hair, nails scratching lightly against her scalp in a way that makes her shiver. Zoey wipes at her tears, her touch so careful, so tender it aches. They don’t demand explanations. They don’t ask questions she can’t answer. They just hold her.

Slowly, Rumi lets herself uncurl. She shifts until her head rests across both their shoulders, her arms wrapping around her middle like she can hold herself together. Her patterns flicker weakly across her skin, dull shades of pink and blue now, like the embers of a dying flame.

She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a broken sound. A half-word. A sob.

Zoey leans down, pressing her forehead lightly against Rumi’s. “Shh, you don’t need to explain. We’ve got you.”

The reassurance only makes her cry harder. Hot tears spill, soaking into the fabric of Zoey’s shirt, Mira’s bare arm. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve them.

But gods, she wants it.

Every pass of Mira’s hand through her hair is like a balm to the raw edges of her mind. Every brush of Zoey’s thumb over her cheek reminds her she isn’t alone, no matter how broken she feels.

They stay like that for what feels like forever, the objectives of the day forgotten. The only sound is Rumi’s uneven breathing, the occasional sniffle, the whispered hushes from Zoey, the steady silence of Mira’s presence.

Eventually, the sobs taper off. Exhaustion pulls at her, her body limp across their laps. Her eyelids droop, heavy, her patterns flickering faintly but calmer now.

Zoey leans close again, her lips at Rumi’s temple. “Whatever it is you’re carrying… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Mira hums in quiet agreement, her fingers never stilling in Rumi’s hair. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Rumi’s throat tightens. She can’t tell them. Not yet. Not about the shame that still burns in her chest, the way her body betrayed her last night, the way she thinks about them in ways she shouldn’t. The fear that if they knew, they’d recoil. That they’d leave.

So she stays quiet. She lets herself be held. She lets the warmth of their touch sink into her, not as temptation this time, but as comfort. As love.

Her eyes drift shut, and for the first time in too long, Rumi lets herself rest. Between them. With them. Not as a demon out of control. Not as a monster afraid of herself. But as a girl—hurt, scared, yearning—who is finally, finally allowed to be loved.

The quiet that follows is fragile, but it’s enough to steady Rumi’s breath. Her tears still burn in her eyes, but they don’t choke her anymore. She blinks through them, caught between exhaustion and shame, when Zoey’s voice—gentle, almost too careful—breaks the silence.

“Why don’t we… go have some breakfast?”

It’s not a question so much as a lifeline. Zoey squeezes her hand as she says it, thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles like she’s afraid Rumi might slip away if she lets go.

Rumi swallows, her throat dry, but she nods. She doesn’t trust her voice yet, doesn’t trust the storm sitting just beneath her ribs. But the simple act of agreeing feels like choosing forward, and maybe that’s enough for now.

Zoey brightens, just slightly—her relief is visible in the soft smile that curves her lips. She shifts, helping Rumi sit up, and doesn’t release her hand. Instead, she twines their fingers together as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. The weight of her palm against Rumi’s feels grounding, tethering her to something more stable than her own fragile thoughts.

On Rumi’s other side, Mira shifts as well, slow and deliberate. Her touch is different, steady and anchoring. She places a protective hand against the small of Rumi’s back as they stand, fingers splayed wide, her palm firm without being overbearing. It’s protective in a way Rumi doesn’t quite know how to accept, but she doesn’t push it away. She lets them guide her out of her room, Zoey at her side, Mira behind her, the two of them creating a bubble of quiet safety around her as they move through the hall.

She’s still crying, though her sobs have dulled into silent streams down her cheeks. Her breaths hitch every so often, her chest tightening as though grief is refusing to let go. But she can breathe now. That feels monumental.

The kitchen is quiet when they arrive, sunlight spilling in through wide windows, painting the countertops in pale gold. It smells faintly of last night’s tea, of the warmth of their home. Rumi lets Zoey tug her to one of the stools at the counter, sinking onto it with a heaviness that makes the wood creak. Zoey slides in beside her without hesitation, their hands still joined, her thumb never stopping its soft, reassuring movements.

Mira, on the other hand, rolls up her sleeves with no ceremony and heads for the stove. “Something simple,” she mutters, as though announcing it makes it real. She pulls a pan down, sets it on the burner, and begins cracking eggs with practiced ease. She doesn’t look at them much—Rumi knows it’s not distance, but intention. Mira’s giving her space to breathe while still staying close, keeping busy with her hands so the silence doesn’t grow too heavy.

Rumi glances sideways. Zoey is looking at her, openly, as though she has every right to. Her eyes are wide, bright even in the aftermath of Rumi’s tears. She leans her cheek into her free hand, elbow propped on the counter, and tilts her head.

“You doing okay?” Zoey asks softly.

The question is almost too big. Rumi can’t answer it honestly, not yet. So she just gives the smallest shrug, her fingers tightening around Zoey’s. The pressure is enough—Zoey beams at her like that small act is worth more than words.

They sit like that, quiet but not empty. Rumi feels the weight of Zoey’s eyes on her, the warmth of her hand, and against her better judgment, it feels… good. Almost safe. Her body is still trembling faintly, her patterns faintly shifting in their resting shimmer, but she’s not collapsing under it. She’s here.

“We’ll get you all fixed up, chef Mira and emotional support master Zoey are at your service,” Zoey giggles with a mock salute.

And then Zoey does something Rumi doesn’t expect.

In her usual restless energy, she leans forward, too close, and presses the lightest kiss to Rumi’s cheek.

It’s innocent. Playful. But it feels like a strike of lightning all the same.

Rumi gasps. Her patterns flare to life immediately, shimmering in a bright, uncontained orange that streaks across her skin like fire. Her whole body jerks faintly, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation, and she can’t stop the heat flooding her face.

Zoey pulls back instantly, eyes wide. “Oh my god, I’m sorry—I didn’t—Rumi, I didn’t mean—”

Rumi shakes her head, breath shaky. “It’s… fine,” she manages, though her voice cracks on the word. She forces her patterns back to their iridescent rest state, though it takes more effort than she’d like. Her chest feels tight, but not in the way it did before. It’s something else entirely—something she’s not ready to name.

Zoey bites her lip, still watching her like she’s afraid Rumi might break. But when Rumi offers the smallest of smiles—tiny, trembling, but there—Zoey relaxes. She leans back into her stool, though she doesn’t let go of Rumi’s hand.

Behind them, Mira sets plates down on the counter with a quiet clatter, her brows lifting just slightly as she glances at the two of them. She doesn’t comment, though the smirk tugging at her lips says plenty. She takes her own seat, sliding a plate across the counter toward Rumi before settling in.

The three of them eat quietly for a while, the only sounds the soft clink of cutlery against plates and the faint hum of the stove cooling down. Rumi isn’t hungry, not really, but she forces herself to eat a few bites. The food is simple—eggs, toast, fruit—but it feels grounding, like Mira is feeding her strength along with it.

After a while, Mira clears her throat. “So,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “What do we want to do with the day?”

The question hangs in the air, casual but weighted. Rumi feels the corners of her lips twitch faintly. She likes the way Mira phrases it—not what do you want to do, not pointed at her, but we. It makes it easier to answer, even if she only hums softly, letting Zoey fill the silence.

Zoey jumps in immediately, animated as always. “We could go for a walk, or maybe hit the studio and play around a bit. Not serious, just… you know, see what comes out. Or we could just stay in, have a lazy day. Movies, snacks, blankets.” She squeezes Rumi’s hand again, her eyes lighting up with each suggestion. “Whatever you want.”

Rumi glances between them. Zoey’s eyes are sparkling with enthusiasm, Mira’s gaze steady and waiting. For the first time in what feels like forever, Rumi doesn’t feel like she has to choose alone. They’ll follow her lead, no matter what.

She nods again, slow but certain, letting her patterns shift faintly in their soft, iridescent glow. For once, she doesn’t try to hide them.

And as the three of them sit there in the kitchen, the morning sun painting them in light, Rumi feels something she hasn’t in a long time. Not shame, not fear. Something quieter. Something almost like hope. Because she has her girls, they aren’t running, even with her weird lava lamp body being set off every five minutes. They stayed, and that means more than anything else.

“Should we start planning the new album?” Rumi hums as she eats, “Don’t we have a meeting with Bobby and the label in like two days?”

“Yeah we do,” Mira confirms, “But if you don’t feel up to it we can have a self care day.”

“No I’m up for it, doing something productive will feel good,” Rumi says, like she’s trying to convince herself too.

“Perfect!” Zoey squeals, “Lets get dressed, then hit the studio!”

“Hell yeah,” Mira grins, “We should change and head – “

She only notices Mira watching her when the girl’s brows furrow. Mira’s gaze isn’t on her face—it’s dropped lower. Rumi follows it, blinking, and her stomach twists.

Her shirt sleeve has ridden up, exposing her forearm. The skin there is mottled with angry red marks, half-healed, crusted with dried blood that stains the edge of her hoodie cuff. And worse, the marks are unmistakable. Teeth.

Mira freezes. “Rumi,” she says, her voice sharp, cutting through the quiet. She grabs Rumi’s arm before she can yank it away, eyes widening as she tilts it toward the light. “What the hell is this?”

Rumi’s breath stutters. She wants to lie, to hide, to pull her arm back and run. But Zoey’s eyes follow Mira’s, widening with horror, and suddenly both of them are staring at her with matching expressions of shock and fear.

“I—” Rumi tries, but her throat closes.

Mira looks up at her, eyes blazing. “Someone did this to you?”

“No!” Rumi blurts, panic flooding her chest. “No one—no one did it to me.”

Zoey’s hand trembles where it still holds hers. “Then… what happened?”

Rumi swallows hard. Her mind scrambles, weaving for something, anything, that won’t tell the full truth but will stop the look on their faces. She doesn’t want them to know what she did. Not really. Not that she lost control like that, alone in the dark, chewing into her own skin until the taste of copper filled her mouth and her body finally, finally released enough tension to rest.

She forces herself to breathe. “I…” Her voice comes out smaller than she means. “I bit myself. Last night.”

The silence after that admission is deafening. Mira’s fingers tighten around her wrist like she can hold the truth in place. Zoey blinks at her, mouth opening and closing without sound.

“You bit yourself?” Mira repeats, her tone tight.

Rumi nods quickly, shame rising hot in her chest. “I didn’t… I didn’t want you to hear me crying. So I—I thought if I… muffled myself. I didn’t mean to…”

Zoey’s eyes soften, though they’re still wide. She squeezes Rumi’s hand tighter. “Oh, Rumi…”

Mira shakes her head, voice sharp with disbelief. “That doesn’t explain why it looks like this. Why it looks like an actual animal bite.”

Rumi hesitates. The air feels thick around her, but she can’t dodge this one. She glances away, her patterns flickering faintly across her skin in nervous sparks.

“Because…” She exhales slowly, forcing the words out. “Because I wasn’t controlling my emotions enough, and my fangs came out.”

That earns her twin reactions. Mira’s eyes widen further, her jaw slack. Zoey, however, leans forward, pupils dilating like she just heard the best news of her life.

“Fangs?” Zoey echoes, a little too breathless. “Like… actual fangs?”

Rumi nods reluctantly.

Zoey’s voice drops, curious, fascinated. “Can we see them?”

“What?” Rumi startles, blinking at her.

“Your fangs,” Zoey insists, leaning closer, her hand clutching Rumi’s like a lifeline. Her cheeks are pink, her expression far too eager for the moment. “Come on, Rumi. I wanna see.”

Rumi stiffens. She’s never tried before. The fangs come when she’s angry, when her demon half takes too much control, but never on command. The thought of summoning them is terrifying. What if she can’t? What if she can, and she scares them?

But Zoey’s eyes are gleaming with anticipation. Mira’s are wary, but even she seems curious beneath it all. Rumi wets her lips, nervous.

“I’ve never done it on purpose,” she admits.

“Try,” Zoey urges, grinning. “For us.”

Rumi hesitates another second. Then she closes her eyes, centering herself. Her patterns flare bright across her skin, shifting into a dazzling iridescent blue that glows like electricity dancing beneath her flesh. Her pulse pounds in her ears. She bares her teeth—and for the first time, lets the demon part of her answer her call.

There’s a sharp flash of pain, then release.

When she opens her eyes again, her lips curve in an involuntary smile, and two long, glistening fangs gleam in the light.

Zoey makes a strangled noise. Her blush floods crimson, spreading all the way to her ears as her eyes bulge out of her head.

Mira, on the other hand, chokes on her sip of water so violently she sprays it across the kitchen counter. “HOLY—!” She tries to catch herself, stumbling back, but her socked foot slides on the slick floor, and she crashes backward with a startled yelp, landing flat on her ass.

Zoey cackles instantly, throwing her head back. “Oh my god, Mira—” Her laughter comes in loud peals, her eyes watering as she slaps the counter. “You—pfft—you actually fell!”

Rumi gasps, patterns flickering in panic. Her fangs retract immediately, her mouth snapping closed as she bolts from her stool to kneel beside Mira. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head? Mira—”

Mira groans, clutching her elbow where she caught herself. She glares up at Rumi, cheeks flushed, but it’s more from embarrassment than pain. “I’m fine,” she mutters, though her voice is tight.

Rumi’s hands hover anxiously, her patterns rippling wildly until they fade back into their resting shimmer. She bites her lip, guilt surging. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know it would—”

Zoey’s laughter only grows, her body practically folding over the counter. “That was priceless. Rumi goes full demon on us and Mira just eats the floor. I can’t—”

Mira shoots her a glare, though it only makes Zoey laugh harder. Rumi helps her up, steadying her carefully, her hand warm against Mira’s arm.

Once Mira is upright again, brushing herself off with dignity she doesn’t quite have, the three of them share a look. Zoey is still grinning, Mira is trying not to, and Rumi is caught somewhere in the middle—torn between worry and disbelief at herself.

Then Zoey leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, and says with absolutely no shame, “Okay, but seriously? The fangs? Hot.”

Rumi stares at her, face flushing red to match her shimmering patterns. “What—Zoey—”

Zoey just shrugs, smirking. “I’m just saying. Kinda badass. Kinda sexy.”

Mira rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “You’re ridiculous.”

Zoey grins wider. “What, like you didn’t think it was cool?”

Mira huffs, crossing her arms, but she doesn’t deny it. Rumi covers her face with her hands, mortified, her heart pounding so loudly she swears they must hear it.

Mira sighs eventually, straightening. “Alright. Enough chaos. We should all shower and change before the day gets away from us.” She gestures pointedly at Rumi’s arm. “And you, especially—clean that properly. No excuses.”

Rumi lowers her hands slowly, cheeks burning as she watches them leave the kitchen.

Rumi lingers in the kitchen longer than she should, cheeks still hot from Zoey’s comment, ears ringing faintly with Mira’s sharp tone. She feels like she’s glowing, not just from her patterns but from the way they both looked at her — Mira with wide-eyed shock and Zoey with… something else.

When Mira dismisses them all toward their rooms, Rumi doesn’t argue. She slips away quietly, bare feet padding against the cool floor until she’s back in the quiet of her room.

She crosses to her ensuite, twisting the shower knob until steam curls into the air. The sound of rushing water fills the room, drowning out the memory of her pulse in her ears. She strips quickly, folding her clothes into a messy pile on the counter before stepping under the spray.

The water scalds, but she welcomes it. It runs over her face, down her shoulders, catching the faint shimmer of her patterns beneath her skin. They glow brighter under the heat, like veins of liquid light. She braces her palms against the tiled wall, eyes closing as the stream pounds over her head.

Her mind replays it all anyway. Zoey’s breath on her neck, Mira’s hand in her hair, the heat of their bodies pressed against hers. The way her fangs had slid out like they had been waiting for her to summon them. The laughter, the chaos, the blush in Zoey’s cheeks when she called them hot.

Rumi groans softly, tilting her head forward to let the water mask the sound. She’s never felt this raw before, never felt like her body and her mind were running on two entirely different tracks. She wants them — wants their touch, their closeness, their everything — and yet the fear gnaws at her ribs. What if she ruins it? What if she loses control?

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, water washing over her until her fingers prune. Eventually, she sighs, twisting the knob to shut it off. The silence afterward is heavy but clean.

She towels off briskly, pulling on a pair of light denim shorts and a fitted white crop top that bares the edges of her patterns along her stomach and ribs. They catch the light in the mirror, shimmering faintly as though alive. For a moment, she studies herself. Not the mess. Not the girl curled on the bed sobbing this morning. Someone stronger.

But the illusion falters as soon as she notices her forearm.

The bite mark is angry now, crusted and raw at the edges where her fangs pierced deepest. It looks like a wound inflicted by someone else, brutal and messy. Guilt churns in her stomach again.

She fetches her first aid kit, sits on the closed toilet lid, and carefully cleans it. The sting of antiseptic makes her wince, jaw tightening as she swabs the dried blood away. She pulls gauze from the kit and wraps it neatly around her arm, winding the fabric snug but not too tight. It looks almost professional, but she knows it’s just another bandage over something far deeper than torn skin.

When it’s done, she forces herself back to the mirror. She braids her damp hair over one shoulder, fingers weaving with practiced ease. It steadies her, gives her something tangible to focus on while her thoughts threaten to unravel again. The braid falls long against her chest, neat and controlled.

Makeup comes next — a light base, a flick of eyeliner, a soft shimmer across her lids. Enough to feel put together, not so much it feels like she’s hiding. Jewellery follows: a thin chain around her neck, her usual various earrings, a couple of rings she slips onto her fingers with a soft exhale.

By the time she’s done, she looks like herself again. Not the girl that almost begged her bandmates to touch her harder, not the one that bit her own arm to muffle her moans as she touched herself. Just Rumi.

She turns sideways, studying the reflection. Her patterns pulse faintly along her bare midriff, shimmering silver. At rest. Calm. Controlled. She exhales and presses her palm against the cool counter, grounding herself in the small victory.

She gathers her discarded clothes into the hamper, tucks the first aid kit back under the sink, and finally steps out of the bathroom. Her room feels cleaner than it did when she entered, though nothing’s changed. Maybe it’s her.

Sitting at the edge of her bed, she flexes her arm, the bandage tugging slightly. It’s a reminder, stark and white, of both her fragility and her strength. She could hide it under sleeves, pretend it’s not there. But part of her doesn’t want to.

Because the truth is, Mira and Zoey already saw. Already worried. Already comforted her in ways she didn’t even know she needed.

Her chest aches. Not from pain. From longing.

For their touch, their closeness, their laughter spilling into her silence. For the way Zoey looked at her fangs and didn’t recoil but flushed, fascinated. For the way Mira’s hand steadied her even as she scolded.

Rumi lies back on the mattress, braid falling across her chest, staring up at the ceiling. She drags a hand across her face, exhaling slowly.

One day at a time. That’s all she can promise herself. One day, one moment, one choice at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, she can learn to love herself the way they seem to love her.

Chapter Text

The elevator dings, doors sliding open to the lower level of the tower. Their home studio isn’t flashy — not compared to the massive professional setups they’re used to for label sessions — but it’s theirs. A wide, open space softened with rugs, beanbags, shelves of equipment, and posters from past tours tacked to the walls. At its heart sits a battered sectional couch, too many mugs on the coffee table, and instruments propped in casual disarray against the walls.

Zoey bounds ahead, hopping over the arm of the couch and flopping into her favourite corner, legs crossed under her as she digs out a notebook. “Alright, ten songs,” she says, already scribbling numbers down the page. “We’ll die before we finish them, but hey, what’s a comeback without a little blood, sweat, and tears?”

Mira follows with a slower grace, sliding her glasses up her nose before she tucks herself neatly into the opposite end of the couch, laptop balanced on her thighs. “We’ll live,” she counters, calm as ever. “If we divide properly. Three songs each to lead, one together. That makes ten.”

Rumi lingers at the back of the room, watching the two of them fall into rhythm before she even sits down. Her chest loosens at the sight. This — this is familiar. It’s not her body spiralling out of control, not the confusion of wanting too much. This is music, the only language she’s ever spoken fluently.

She slips onto the couch between them, tucking one leg under her, notebook already in her lap. “Okay,” she says quietly, though the spark in her voice betrays her excitement. “I have an idea for something.”

Zoey perks up immediately, pen poised over the page. “Hit me.”

Rumi clears her throat, but the choice has been simmering in her mind since Bobby mentioned the new album. “I want to do something centered around independence, I’m thinking Break Free. Upbeat, about breaking the barriers and being yourself.”

Mira arches a brow, surprised. “Ambitious.”

Zoey grins. “Sexy.”

Heat creeps up Rumi’s neck, but she shakes her head, forcing focus. “It fits. We can find a strong beat, clean vocals, sharp edges. We can make it a fun opener.”

Rumi starts humming the opening she can already hear in her head, scribbling notes onto the page in messy handwriting. Mira, already multitasking, pulls the instrumental into her software, fingers quick on the keys. “Tempo first. We want energy, but not rushed.”

Rumi leans forward, notebook forgotten, tapping her fingers against her thigh. The rhythm takes hold of her without effort, the beat pulsing in her head like it’s lived there all along. Tap-tap-tap. Faster. Harder. She slaps her palm against her knee and starts to sing under her breath, barely audible at first.

“This is… the part when I say I don’t want ya…”

Zoey’s head snaps up, grin widening. “There it is.” She snatches the keyboard from beside the couch, plunking out notes clumsily at first, then firmer when Rumi keeps time for her.

Mira doesn’t miss a beat either, already layering percussion in, the faint thrum of drums filling the room. “Keep going,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to Rumi over the rim of her laptop. “You’ve got it.”

And so Rumi does. She lets her voice rise, stronger now, matching the rhythm her hands hammer out against her thighs. Her patterns shimmer faintly under her crop top, shifting with the tempo. She doesn’t care. For once, she doesn’t care.

Zoey’s laughter cuts through when she misses a key, but she waves Rumi on. “No, no, don’t stop. You sound insane right now.”

“I’m not—” Rumi begins, but Mira interjects smoothly, “She’s right. Let it out.”

That earns Mira one of Zoey’s trademark smug looks. “See? Even professor-perfect agrees with me.”

Mira doesn’t glance up, but Rumi catches the slight twitch of her mouth — the closest she gets to a smile mid-focus. It makes something soft unfurl in Rumi’s chest.

She sings louder, words tumbling out without hesitation now, the music swelling around her as her friends — her partners — build the bones of the song with her. For once, the push and pull inside her body quiets, drowned out by melody.

If you want it, take it
I should've said it before
Tried to hide it, fake it
I can't pretend anymore

When she hits the chorus, Zoey drops her pen entirely to clap along, off-beat and unhelpful but loud. “Yes, yes, yes! That’s it, Rumi!”

This is the part when I say I don't want ya
I'm stronger than I've been before
This is the part when I break free
'Cause I can't resist it no more

Rumi laughs despite herself, voice breaking on the line, and Mira finally looks up. “Again,” she says. “From the bridge. Lets get a backing track going.”

Zoey snickers. “Bossy.”

Mira’s eyes flick over the rim of her glasses. “It’s effective.”

Rumi groans, dragging her palms down her face. “You two are insufferable.”

“Maybe,” Zoey teases, plinking out a dramatic chord. “But admit it, you missed this.”

Rumi lowers her hands, meeting Zoey’s grin, Mira’s steady gaze, and the warmth of the studio around them. Her patterns pulse faintly, soft pink under her skin. She doesn’t answer right away. She doesn’t need to. They all know.

They fall back into rhythm. Mira tightens the track, Zoey experiments with harmonies, and Rumi, for the first time in weeks, feels like she can breathe. The teasing flows easy — Zoey poking fun at Mira’s serious face when she’s arranging, Mira arching a brow every time Zoey hits a wrong note on purpose just to annoy her, Rumi rolling her eyes but secretly smiling the entire time.

Hours pass like minutes. The song takes shape piece by piece, rough edges smoothed by laughter and the shared certainty that this — them, here, together — is exactly what they’re supposed to be doing.

By the time they lean back against the couch again, the rough track recorded and saved, Zoey is sprawled across the cushions like she’s run a marathon, Mira is sipping from her ever-present water bottle with a faint air of satisfaction, and Rumi is flushed, glowing not just from her patterns but from the work of smashing out a whole song in one day.

The hum of equipment fades as Mira shuts down her laptop, the last echoes of their rough track disappearing into silence. For a moment, the three of them just sit together on the couch, catching their breath like they’ve just finished a workout. Rumi can still feel the song buzzing in her blood, static running under her skin. The energy won’t leave her alone.

Zoey stretches her arms over her head until her joints pop. “Okay, I’m toast. My brain is officially fried.” She flops sideways into the cushions, half in Mira’s lap, half in Rumi’s.

Mira frowns, nudging her glasses up her nose with one hand while pushing Zoey’s head away with the other. “I’d call this a productive day.”

Zoey just grins, sliding closer to Rumi instead. “What about you? Still got juice left, or are you ready to collapse?”

Rumi blinks at the question. She expects exhaustion — she should be exhausted — but the opposite is true. Her body hums with leftover adrenaline, her hands twitch with the need to do something. The idea of crawling into bed feels suffocating.

“I’ll cook,” she blurts, firmer than she means to.

Both of them look at her. Mira tilts her head. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Rumi sits straighter, brushing her braid back over her shoulder. “I want to. You guys rest up.”

Zoey lights up like someone plugged her into the wall. “Well, if you insist. Chef Rumi in the kitchen. Don’t mind if I do.” She pats her stomach dramatically. “I’ll even provide dessert: boba.”

Mira’s brows rise, unimpressed, but the corner of her mouth curves anyway. “Fine. We’ll grab some. Want your usual?”

Rumi nods automatically, her chest tightening when Zoey hops up, tugging Mira along toward the door. At the threshold, though, both of them pause.

“We’ll be back in a sec Ru,” Zoey hums happily, darting in before Rumi can react. Her lips brush Rumi’s cheek, featherlight but hot enough to scorch.

“Wait—” Rumi stammers, but Mira is already leaning in on the other side, her kiss softer, lingering just a second too long against the opposite cheek.

By the time Rumi blinks, both of them are gone, laughter echoing as the elevator doors close. She stands frozen in the quiet studio, hands curled into fists against her thighs, heat blooming where their mouths touched.

Her patterns shimmer restless, shifting colours like a storm, and she presses her palms over her cheeks. “Focus,” she whispers to herself, forcing a breath. “Just go cook.”

Rumi darts off the second the elevator dings, choosing to take the emergency stairs two at a time. She climbs to their penthouse floor a few minutes later, breath heavy and body tingling.

The kitchen greets her with warmth and familiarity. She ties her apron tight, rolling her shoulders back, grounding herself. Cooking is like music — rhythm, timing, instinct. If she keeps her hands busy, maybe her mind will finally calm.

She pulls ingredients from the fridge with quick, decisive movements: pork belly, garlic, gochujang, sesame oil, vegetables bright and crisp. Tonight will be elaborate — kimchi jjigae simmering, a spread of banchan, maybe japchae if time allows. If she’s going to cook, she’s going all in.

But silence presses on her nerves, making her pause. She hates silence.

With a sigh, she grabs her Bose headphones — heavy, noise-cancelling, capable f drowning the world in nothing but sound. The moment they slide over her ears, her shoulders drop, her body loosens.

Now she will rarely admit it, especially in front of Zoey, but Rumi has a soft spot for American pop music. Something about it, the sexually charged lyrics, the heavy beats, the changes in rhythm, it all drives her crazy. So as she hits shuffle on her “Guilty Pleasure” playlist, she feels her muscle relax. A few seconds later, and her head fills with the first notes of Kelly Clarkson’s Love So Soft.

Rumi doesn’t fight the way her hips sway, subtle at first, then stronger as the beat sinks into her bones. She chops vegetables with precision, the blade hitting the cutting board in rhythm. Her braid swings, brushing her arm as she tosses garlic into the pan, steam rising like applause.

And then the chorus hits.

“Love so soft, so soft, love so soft, so soft,”

Her voice lifts, smooth and powerful, echoing against tile. She waves the knife like a microphone, hips rolling with the beat, letting herself move without thought. Every lyric spills from her lips with heat she doesn’t mean, her patterns pulsing faint gold beneath her skin.

“Let, me in, I wanna be closer to you let me under your skin,”

The more she sings, the more she gives in. A spin, a sway, the shift of her body like the kitchen is a stage. She lets the sultry rhythm claim her, lets the words pour out like they belong to her.

She doesn’t notice the elevator doors sliding open.

Doesn’t notice the footsteps creeping closer.

“Love so soft, love so soft,”

Doesn’t notice Mira and Zoey standing frozen in the doorway, boba cups in hand, wide-eyed.

Rumi arches her back slightly as she leans against the counter, swinging the knife around like part of the choreography. Her lips part around the lyric, rich and sensual:

“Yeah, if you want this love, gotta hold it tight…”

Zoey’s jaw drops, comically wide. Her drink tilts dangerously, pearls sloshing inside. “Holy shit,” she whispers, awed.

Mira isn’t much better. She freezes mid-sip, eyes locked on Rumi, fingers tight around her cup. “She’s—” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. “Fuck.”

“Do we say anything?” Zoey hisses, elbowing her without looking. “She’s—she’s trying to murder us. Look at her.”

Neither of them move, entranced as Rumi twirls, knife flashing like a stage prop, braid whipping through the air.

She belts the chorus with enough power to shake the walls.

“Love so soft, yeah, that you can’t let it go…”

Zoey flushes scarlet, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, wide eyes flicking to Mira. Mira isn’t laughing at all — she looks like her brain short-circuited.

Rumi rolls her hips slow, deliberate, lost in music, lost in herself. Her patterns shimmer brighter, rippling down her arms with every beat.

When she hits the high note, dragging it out sultry and strong, Zoey nearly chokes on air. Mira mutters something sharp under her breath, glasses fogging.

Still, they can’t interrupt. Won’t. They just stare, caught in her gravity.

It isn’t until Rumi spins toward the counter, pulling the knife down with a flourish and belting the final “Love so soft…” with her eyes closed, that she catches their reflections in the windows.

Her whole body goes still.

She whips around, knife clutched tight, music still blaring in her ears.

Mira and Zoey stand rooted, guilty boba cups in hand, staring like she just stripped bare.

Rumi yanks the headphones off, heat flooding her face until she swears she’ll combust. “How—how long have you—”

Zoey bursts into laughter, high-pitched and breathless, using the couch arm to hold herself up “Rumi! Oh my god, you were—you were dancing and – dam – um, I mean we just got back.”

Mira coughs into her fist, but it doesn’t hide the flush climbing her neck. “You were… you sound good,” she says, voice betraying her.

Rumi drops the knife like it’s hot, covering her face as her patterns flicker wildly, exposing every ounce of humiliation. “I—It was nothing, I didn’t—”

Zoey stumbles forward, still laughing but with eyes glowing, too sharp to meet. “Nothing? Rumi, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Mira’s glance flicks quick toward her, a silent agreement even as she sips her tea to disguise it.

Rumi wants to disappear. Instead, she spins back to the stove, muttering, “Eat your boba and let me cook,” while her hands tremble against the pan.

But she can feel their eyes. Feels the simmering heat, thicker than the steam rising from the jjigae as she finishes the cooking and begins setting the table.

By the time she sets down the last dish, Zoey is already in her seat, eyes gleaming like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Mira sits straighter, unfolding her napkin with calm precision, though her gaze keeps drifting toward Rumi as if replaying every lyric from earlier.

Rumi slides into her chair, head bowed, braid falling over one shoulder. Her patterns are calmer now—soft blue and silver—but she feels them hum beneath her skin like they’re just waiting for another spark. She hopes the food will be enough of a distraction.

It is, at least for Zoey.

“This looks amazing,” Zoey gushes, already reaching for the japchae. She moans dramatically after her first bite. “Oh my god. Forget the stage—we’re putting you on a cooking show.”

Rumi hides her blush by reaching for her own bowl, muttering, “Just eat.”

Mira gives a small approving nod after her first taste. “One of your many hidden talents.” Her words are measured, but her eyes catch Rumi’s, warm and unspoken: thank you.

For a while, they eat in comfortable silence, the clatter of chopsticks and quiet hum of the city outside filling the space. Rumi finally feels her shoulders loosen. The meal grounds her; feeding them always does.

It’s Zoey who breaks the quiet.

“So,” she says, mouth full before Mira swats her arm in disapproval. She swallows, unbothered. “I’ve been thinking about the new songs. What if we—” she gestures wildly with her chopsticks, nearly flinging noodles across the table, “—what if we do something different?”

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

Zoey leans forward, grin sharp. “Like what Rumi was doing earlier.”

Rumi chokes on her rice, coughing until Mira pours her water and pushes it toward her. She takes a long gulp, avoiding their eyes, heat crawling up her neck. “W-what I was doing?”

Zoey beams. “Yeah! You were, like—alive in a way I haven’t seen in forever. Seductive. Confident.” She drops the word like a bomb, clearly enjoying the effect as Rumi’s chopsticks clatter against her bowl. “We could lean into that. Music with more heat, more bite. You know, a little flirty, a little playful.”

Mira frowns, thoughtful. “Our image has always been built around strength. Hope. Confidence. Not…” She gestures vaguely, cheeks tinged pink. “…seduction.”

Zoey rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. You think fans don’t already see us that way? Rumi literally breathes and the internet loses its mind. A couple songs that make people blush won’t kill our reputation.”

Rumi finally looks up, uncertain. “You really think so?”

Zoey’s gaze softens, her teasing giving way to something more earnest. “I know so. You have this… fire, Rumi. We’d be stupid not to let it out in our music.”

Mira sits back, silent for a long moment. Her chopsticks tap against her bowl as she considers. Finally, she exhales. “A few tracks. Carefully chosen. To expand our range.”

Zoey pumps her fist in victory. “Yes! I vote we write one tomorrow, see where it goes.”

Rumi groans, hiding her face in her hands. Her patterns betray her anyway, flashing golden-orange under her skin. Mira shakes her head but hides a smile behind her glass of water.

The tension eases after that. They shift into talk about arrangements, possible producers, the balance between light and heavy tracks. Rumi listens more than she speaks, but every so often Zoey nudges her knee under the table, or Mira addresses her directly, drawing her out of her thoughts.

By the time they’re scraping the last bits of japchae, the edge of humiliation has dulled into something warmer. Safer.

Zoey leans back with a satisfied sigh, patting her stomach. “Okay, that was amazing. And since you cooked, I’ll clean up.”

Rumi blinks. “You? Clean?”

Zoey smirks. “Hey, I’m capable of domestic labour. Watch me.” She starts stacking plates precariously in her arms.

Mira rises smoothly, steadying Zoey’s tower of dishes before it topples. “We’ll see. Rumi, go. Get ready for bed.”

Rumi hesitates, eyes darting between them. It feels wrong to leave them to work after she’s made the mess. But Zoey is already shooing her away with her free hand. “Go, go! You’ve done enough. Mira and I can handle this.”

Mira adds, gently but firmly, “Rest. That’s an order.”

Rumi relents, pushing back from the table. “Fine.”

She lingers a second too long, watching Zoey juggle dishes with exaggerated grunts while Mira quietly organizes the chaos behind her. Something warm swells in her chest, unfamiliar and heavy. She swallows it down and turns away.

The hallway is quiet, dimly lit as she pads back toward their rooms. Her bare feet sink into the plush carpet, the only sound the distant clink of dishes and Zoey’s muffled complaining echoing from the kitchen.

In her room, she closes the door softly, leaning against it for a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She unravels her braid, fingers catching in the strands, shaking her hair loose around her shoulders. In the mirror, her reflection stares back, flushed cheeks and faint glow pulsing across her collarbone where their touches still burn like phantom marks.

She presses her palm over her chest, patterns flickering beneath. They settle, slow and shimmering silver, as if her body knows she’s safe now.

The thought both comforts and terrifies her.

Rumi exhales, turning away from the mirror to rip her clothes off and flick the shower on. She takes her time, lathering her patterned skin in the fancy body wash Mira had insisted she get. It smells of grapefruit and lavender, something she now finds soothing. She then decides its time to wrangle her hair, a mission that requires patience and dedication. She works her shampoo and conditioner through it in practiced motions, taking her time to make sure each tangle gets some attention. It takes over half an hour to get through all of it, but she isn’t worried about the time. After everything is rinsed thoroughly, she jumps out and pats herself dry, wrapping a towel around her body and padding out to her bedroom with her hair barely touching the floor behind her as she walks.

She pulls her sleep clothes from the drawer—a loose cropped t-shirt and soft shorts with tigers on them—and slips into them, savouring the feel of fabric against her skin. For a moment, she just sits on the edge of her bed, listening to the faint noises of Mira and Zoey still cleaning together. She listens for a long time, working her hands through her hair to work the strands into two neat braids that sit perfectly on her frame.

Her lips twitch upward, unbidden. The sound of them—Zoey’s laughter, Mira’s quiet exasperation—is music of its own.

When their voices move closer in the distance, signalling they’re heading toward their own rooms, Rumi finally lies back, staring at the ceiling.

The taste of dinner still lingers on her tongue, but what sticks deeper is the memory of golden patterns flashing under her skin at Zoey’s words, Mira’s approval, their touches.

And the question that refuses to leave her:

What happens when she can’t hide from what she feels anymore?

Rumi lies flat on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if staring hard enough might empty her head. It doesn’t. The quiet of her room is too sharp, too empty. Her thoughts slip in through the cracks like smoke, curling around her chest and tightening until it’s hard to breathe.

The lyrics arrive uninvited.

“Cause I see your real face and it's ugly as sin
Time to put you in your place 'cause you're rotten within”

Her breath hitches. She hasn’t thought of that song in months. Not since—
She squeezes her eyes shut. It doesn’t matter. The beat pounds anyway, echoing in her skull.

“When your patterns start to show
It makes the hatred wanna grow outta my veins…”

Tears prick at her lashes before she can stop them. She swallows hard, curling onto her side, braids tumbling forward like a curtain. Her patterns flicker dull purple, fading in and out against her skin. The words dig into her like claws, reminding her of everything she’s tried so hard to bury. That she’s too much, too sharp, too monstrous to deserve the softness she’s been given.

The tears spill, hot and silent, slipping down into her hair.

I don’t deserve them, she thinks, chest twisting so tight she almost gasps. Not Zoey’s joy. Not Mira’s steadiness. Not their trust. Not their—

The door creaks open.

“Rumi?” Zoey’s voice, soft and curious. “Have you seen my slippers? I swear I left them—”

She stops.

Rumi freezes, scrubbing at her eyes too late. The tears are obvious, the damp streaks shining in the low light. Zoey’s face softens instantly, all trace of mischief vanishing.

“Oh, sweetie.” She slips inside, leaving the door wide open as she moves without thought. The slippers are forgotten. She doesn’t hesitate; she crosses the room in three strides and climbs straight onto the bed.

Rumi tries to turn away, ashamed, but Zoey is already there, tugging her gently into her arms. “Nope. No hiding,” she whispers, pulling Rumi’s face into the crook of her neck. “I’ve got you.”

Rumi stiffens, the instinct to pull away warring with the desperate need to stay. She shudders once, then crumbles, clinging to Zoey’s shirt with trembling hands. The tears flow freely now, soaking the fabric where her face is buried.

Zoey doesn’t flinch. She just holds her tighter, her voice steady and warm. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. Whatever it is—you’re safe.” She strokes the back of Rumi’s head, thumb brushing soothing circles against her scalp. “You don’t have to be strong right now. Just let me be with you.”

Rumi whimpers, low and broken, the sound muffled into Zoey’s skin. Zoey’s heart aches at the sound, but she only whispers softer, steady murmurs that blur together—sweet nothings, promises, reminders that she’s loved.

Minutes pass like that, Zoey letting Rumi shake and sob until the worst of the storm passes. But the tears don’t stop completely. They come in waves, smaller but still sharp. Rumi trembles in her arms, her claws slipping out and scraping against Zoey’s collar before retracting again with a shudder.

Zoey doesn’t even flinch. She only tightens her hold, voice dropping to a low hum. “I’m not going anywhere. Scratch all you want, baby. I can take it.”

Rumi whines at the nickname, her brain too foggy to stop herself from showing the emotions.

The door creaks again.

“Zoey?” Mira’s voice cuts in, firm but quiet. “Why is—” She pauses in the doorway, eyes widening at the sight of them curled together on the bed. Then her gaze sharpens, catching the tear tracks on Rumi’s face.

In an instant, she’s moving. Just like Zoey did.

Without hesitation, Mira slips onto the bed behind Rumi, sliding up close until her chest is pressed against Rumi’s back. One arm snakes around her waist, anchoring her in a steady embrace. She dips her head, pressing the softest kiss to the back of Rumi’s neck.

Rumi gasps, caught between Zoey’s warmth in front and Mira’s steadiness at her back. She squeezes her eyes shut, more tears slipping free.

“What happened?” Mira’s voice is low, tight with worry.

Zoey shakes her head. “I just found her like this.” She strokes Rumi’s cheek with her thumb, trying to coax her to speak. “Rumi? Talk to us, yeah?”

Rumi swallows, throat raw. She doesn’t trust her voice, so she hums instead. Low, broken. The melody of Takedown filling the small space between the three of them.

The rhythm is unmistakable.

Zoey stiffens. Mira’s breath catches.

“…No,” Zoey whispers, pulling her tighter. “No, no, no. Not that one.”

Mira presses another kiss to her neck, firmer this time. “Never that song again, Rumi. Do you hear me? Never.”

Rumi’s breath hitches. Her patterns flash dimly, streaks of harsh, shame-filled purple streak across her skin.

Zoey cups her face, attempting to pull her attention. Her eyes shine, fierce and unshakable. “You don’t get to think like that. Not here. Not with us. You deserve love. You deserve everything.”

Rumi whines, a broken sound against Zoey’s throat. She can’t form the words, can’t tell them how deep the doubt runs, how sharp the fear pulls inside her chest. All she can do is hold on, fingers tightening against Zoey’s shirt.

Behind her, Mira’s hand presses steady at her hip, grounding her. “We won’t let you fall like that. You’re not alone Rumi.”

The reassurance only breaks something further inside her. A sob rips out, muffled against Zoey’s skin. Her claws slip free again, scratching shallowly at Zoey’s skin before snapping back in as she tries to contain them.

“Shh,” Zoey soothes, unbothered. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. We’ve both got you.” She strokes Rumi’s hair, kissing her temple.

Mira nuzzles into the curve of her shoulder from behind, voice quieter but no less steady. “You’re allowed to feel, Rumi. Don’t fight it.”

The tears come harder. She buries her face deeper into Zoey’s neck, the scent of her shampoo filling her lungs, anchoring her. A soft whine escapes, half-broken, half-relieved. Her claws flicker in and out again, betraying how close she is to unravelling completely.

Zoey murmurs softly against her hair. “Cry it out. Scream if you need to. We’ll still be here. Always.”

Mira’s embrace tightens, lips brushing the shell of Rumi’s ear as she whispers, “You’re loved. You’re safe. You belong.”

Caught between them, Rumi finally lets go. She sobs until her chest aches, until her throat is raw and her claws ache from sliding out fully. But through it all, neither Zoey nor Mira loosens their hold. They only hold her tighter, softer, steady against the storm.

“I love you,” Rumi chokes out, her voice harsh, layered in demonic undertones. She doesn’t mean to let it out, she meant to think the words to herself in a selfish act of desire. Yet they echo around the room like a curse.

“We love you too,” Both girls reply without a single second of hesitation.

Her breathing evens, hiccupping but calmer. Her claws retract one final time, leaving only her trembling body pressed between theirs. Zoey strokes her cheek with gentle fingers, Mira kisses her damp hair, and the words echo between them like a promise:

Never that song again.

Chapter Text

Warmth and muffled breathing pull Rumi back from sleep. She blinks blearily and for a dizzy second thinks she’s still dreaming — then reality snaps into a soft, ridiculous clarity.

She’s in the middle, anchored on both sides. Mira’s hair fans out across the pillow in a pink, silken halo. Zoey’s arm is slung over her waist, the pressure of it so familiar it feels like home. The cushions are impression-marked around them, blankets twisted in a comfortable chaos. Outside, the city is waking up, but inside the tower the world is small and soft and impossibly private.

A ridiculous, warm bubble of something she hasn’t been disturbed settles under her ribs. She doesn’t say it — she can hardly breathe the word she wants to — but the feeling is there, steady and bright: she loves these two. She likes that the thought doesn’t come with the sharp pang of fear it usually carries. Right now, between Mira’s slow exhale and Zoey’s quiet hum, she simply feels protected.

Zoey stirs, half-lidded amusement in her voice. “Mornin’, Ru,” she murmurs, cuddling closer until Rumi can feel her breath against her neck.

Rumi manages a sleepy sound. “Morning,” she answers, careful not to move too quickly.

Mira makes a soft noise — a contented, low thing — and rolls slightly so her hand brushes Rumi’s shoulder. Her fingers are cool and efficient in the half-dark as she tugs her hair into a bungled knot. When her eyes find Rumi’s, she gives that little upturned smile that usually means she’s thinking five steps ahead of whatever’s being said.

“Look at us,” Zoey says, stretching with the kind of theatrical enthusiasm that usually comes with too much coffee. “We are a disaster and also a Vogue cover. Cute chaos.”

Rumi snorts, which turns into a real, clear laugh as she wiggles out of underneath them to sit up. Zoey grips her hand and tugs her back down immediately with mock outrage. “Not allowed,” Zoey decrees, peering over Rumi’s shoulder. “We’re staying here until the sun apologizes for being so bright.”

Mira sits up with quiet efficiency, shooing at them both. “We have roughly an hour before Bobby wants a status update,” she says, reaching for one of Rumi’s hoodies thrown on the floor.  “We should eat and get to work.”

Zoey makes an exaggerated face. “Bobby. Why would he do his to us?” She gives Rumi a conspiratorial wink. “Feeling any better beautiful?”

“Yeah,” Rumi hums, the compliment settling deep in her chest with a warmth that feels like home.

The joke also loosens something in Rumi. She lets herself rise this time, slipping off a blanket and padding to the kitchen where the three of them operate on a kind of practiced domestic choreography. Mira is already at the stove tying her hair into a more respectable bun; she flips a pan like she’s done a thousand times. Zoey is rummaging for mugs with theatrical impatience and Rumi’s hand still in hers until she pries it free to pour coffee.

Their breakfast is efficient and messy in equal measure: eggs, toast, something fragrant simmering in a small pot Mira insists on calling “ambitious miso.” Zoey is halfway through a story about a fan’s handmade banner when Rumi notices the way Mira watches her, an expression folded between warmth and analytical focus. Rumi’s patterns pulse against her collarbone like they’re trying to speak. She presses her fingers to the fabric of her sleeve without thinking, smoothing it down to hide them without conscious thought.

“Are you all right?” Mira asks, voice soft. She watches Rumi the way she watches a live take: careful, ready to correct, but never harsh.

“Yeah.” The answer comes too small. “I’m fine.” Rumi forces a smile, swallows toast too quickly, and the taste anchors her back in the room.

Zoey notices anyway — she notices everything. Her hand finds the muscle of Rumi’s arm and squeezes once, light as a feather. “Ru?” she asks, a question that does not hide its worry in the least.

Rumi nods, because the alternatives spool into embarrassment and spinning thoughts she’s not ready to voice. The morning sunny with ordinary things soothes a little of the tangling inside her chest. It helps to be seen and steadied without a demand to explain.

Breakfast is a rush when they remember the schedule. Plates shoved aside, mug cradled, Zoey and Mira hustle for the studio like kids sneaking out after curfew. Rumi follows along, half-humming the melody from the day before that never quite resolved in her head. The studio door slides open and they step into the white-noise hum of monitors, cables, and familiar gear. It’s a sanctuary of another sort: instruments, worn-in amp corners, a stack of lyric books with coffee circles on the pages.

They collapse onto their usual couches — the old couch with the tacky patchwork fabric that somehow fits perfectly into this slightly chaotic creative space. Zoey flops first, leg over the backrest like she owns it. Mira perches with a laptop and a more serious coffee, fingertips already on the track list. Rumi settles between them with the quietness of someone trying to force her mind out of the sudden fog.

“One song down, nine to go,” Zoey says for the hundredth time, but today it sounds hopeful, less like a deadline and more like a dare. “We need to start with ideas. Everyone pick one to take lead on.”

Mira’s brow tightens in that efficient, deliberate way. “We each pick a direction, then cross-reference. Rumi, you good with doing some solo work for a bit?” she asks.

Rumi nods, because she can’t tell them the truth. The idea of working alone, lost in her own mind, is a bad idea. Yet she says nothing. But as soon as their pencils hover over paper, the room presses in. Blankness is a heavy thing. It sits on their shoulders in the afternoon sunlight that slants through the blinds.

Mira runs through structure ideas — bridge, chorus, hook — then starts layering a chord progression on the keyboard. Zoey bangs out a tentative rhythm on the drum pad, making an overdramatic beat that makes Rumi grin despite herself. They try, then reset. Each pass comes together then collapses; the chemistry of yesterday’s studio magic is stubbornly AWOL.

Rumi hums a line under her breath, a half-formed melody that dies before it finds a home. Her chest tightens with the same old feeling: the worry that she’s not enough for them as an artist, the private dread that the glow in her skin marks her more than it marks music. She wraps her hands in her lap, feeling ridiculous and a little exposed.

Zoey notices first, because she notices everything, and she bounces upright with that grin that can smooth her nerves like a hand on a knot. “Okay, brainstorm round two,” she says, flipping open a battered notebook. “No rules. No shame. Let’s throw stupid ideas at the wall and see what sticks.”

Mira raises a brow, and Rumi can hear amusement in the small inflection. “I will be the one to catch the serious ones,” she says dryly. “Zoey, you throw the nonsense. Rumi, you judge which of us is less ridiculous.”

Zoey’s mock-outrage is immediate. “Honestly, I don’t see how I can lose that competition.” She leans in close to Rumi, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Start with the chorus. What does the chorus need to feel like?”

Rumi’s throat tightens. She tries to think about the chorus in the abstract — about themes their fans love: resilience, the honmoon glow, the cliché of “rising again.” Instead her mouth tastes like yesterday’s fit of tear and the memory of her girls holding her while she sobbed. Her shoulders tense. Her patterns stir, a faint shimmer that brings with it the sudden selfish wish that the studio and these instruments would melt away so she could just exist in the warmth of the two people beside her.

Zoey watches her, not impatient but intent. “You’re quiet,” Zoey says. “What are you thinking?”

Rumi tries to answer and comes up with nothing she trusts. Instead she fidgets with the hem of her sleeve and says, “It’s nothing, you guys keep going.” The avoidance is too small to be brave.

Mira places her hand on Rumi’s knee in a deliberate, grounding motion. The contact is small but firm — a communicative anchor. “Maybe we break off, each come up with something and see if the others can fill in the gaps after?”

It’s a solid idea, something they have done before. Start the song, let the gap exist, and allow the others to fill what each of them can’t see. Rumi nods, grabbing her note book and laptop and heading off to one of the soundproof booths to sit on the floor and start her melody.

Rumi sits cross-legged on the floor of her little corner studio, the dim glow of her laptop the only real light in the room. The keyboard is propped low against the wall, wires trailing across the floor like veins, and the small speakers hum faintly, waiting. She doesn’t know why she chooses the floor instead of the chair, but somehow being lower makes her feel grounded—or maybe she just needs to feel small.

Her knees are pulled tight against her chest, forehead almost resting on them, while the cursor blinks on a blank recording track. Her thoughts won’t stop racing. Earlier, when all three of them had tried writing together, Zoey had cracked joke after joke to lighten the mood, Mira had calmly offered steady suggestions, and Rumi had nodded, smiled, even hummed along like she was fine. But inside, her chest had been a storm.

The words in her mind claw at her the same way her patterns burn beneath her skin whenever her emotions spike. She rubs at her forearms absently, like she can calm the phantom glow under her sleeves, and exhales.

Music. She needs the music to take over. That’s the only thing that works.

She leans forward and taps the laptop, laying down a deep, pulsing bass line—something that throbs low and steady, like a heartbeat you can’t ignore. She sits back and lets the sound wash through her body. It’s dark. Heavy. Almost suffocating. Exactly what she craves.

Her fingers trace idle shapes on the floor, nails clicking softly against the wood, before she drags the mic closer. She closes her eyes and starts to hum. The tune slips low, nearly a whisper. Not pretty. Not polished. Raw.

Her voice is rough at first, shaky, but she pushes through it. The song takes shape, pulling itself out of her chest like it’s always been buried there. The lyrics aren’t gentle or safe—they’re messy, tangled questions and confessions, half-accusations, half-pleas. She sings about being pulled apart, about monsters and the thoughts in her head, about wanting to feel alive but fearing herself in the same breath.

The sound of her own voice mixed with the bass makes her skin prickle.

She leans back until her shoulders hit the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Wires curl around her like a cage, but her voice keeps filling the space, almost like she’s clawing out of her own body with every note.

Her breath hitches when she drives into the chorus. A growl tears up from her chest, low and rough, vibrating out of her in a way that startles her. The more she sings, the more her body feels like it’s not her own. Her hands twitch against the floor. Her patterns burn hot beneath her skin, sparks trying to break free.

“Stop it,” she whispers to herself between verses, pressing her palms hard against her eyes. But then she drops her hands, mouth back on the mic, voice breaking into another line.

It isn’t about control. Not here. Not now.

Time blurs. An hour slips past in fragments of beats and takes. She loops sounds, adjusts echoes, sings until her throat aches. Every time she thinks it’s good enough, she listens back and feels the sting of disappointment. Too sharp. Too weak. Too human. Too monstrous.

Still, the track builds itself piece by piece, a stitched-together thing made from fragments of her soul. By the end she’s lying flat on the floor, hair splayed around her, chest heaving, staring blankly at the ceiling as her voice plays back through the speakers.

There it is. All her fear, her anger, her self-hatred, her exhaustion—pressed into sound.

The track ends. Silence swallows her whole.

Her throat tightens. She doesn’t cry—she won’t let herself—but her chest aches like she has.

A knock rattles against the doorframe.

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice is soft, careful.

Rumi jerks upright, shoving the mic away and minimizing the recording screen. Her heart pounds like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Zoey’s voice follows, teasing: “It’s share time! Don’t make us drag you out.”

Rumi rubs her palms against her thighs and forces herself to stand, legs stiff from sitting too long. She tries to make her face neutral, but she isn’t sure she manages it.

Zoey is sprawled across the couch with her guitar propped against the cushions, lounging like a rock star already mid-performance. Mira sits straighter, calm but with a small, encouraging smile.

“Took you long enough,” Zoey says, sitting up and patting the spot beside her. “What, were you writing a whole opera in there?”

Rumi rolls her eyes faintly and perches on the couch edge. “No. Just… working through some stuff.”

Mira tilts her head, studying her too closely. Rumi feels the weight of it and drops her gaze to the laptop in her lap.

“So,” Zoey claps her hands once. “How do we do this? I say I go first, you both bask in my obvious genius, then Mira’s, then Rumi.”

Rumi tightens her grip on the laptop. Her song is raw, dark, nothing like the hopeful, glossy image they’re supposed to keep up. The thought of showing it makes her stomach knot.

She doesn’t know if she’s ready.

But as Zoey and Mira keep bickering playfully, each glance they throw her way includes her, like they won’t move forward without her.

And, just for a flicker of a moment, Rumi lets herself believe she might not break completely when they finally hear what she’s made.

Zoey strums her guitar lazily as Mira cues up her track, the hum of the monitors filling the studio with warm static. They’re both more relaxed now, chatting between themselves, scribbling in their notebooks. Rumi sits curled at the far end of the couch, laptop shut, hands folded in her lap as though she can make herself invisible.

Mira is the first to play something. She explains, calm and measured, that she wants her song to feel like “fresh air, like the morning after rain.” She hits play and the speakers fill with a bright, chiming melody. There are hints of strings, a rhythm that bounces lightly. It’s hopeful, easy to hum, the kind of song that makes your chest feel lighter even if you don’t know the words yet.

Zoey grins immediately, tapping her foot in time. “Oh, hell yes. That’s good. That’s summer-drives-with-the-windows-down good.”

Mira’s lips twitch into a smile, but her eyes flick briefly toward Rumi. Rumi claps once, softly, almost mechanical, then lets her hands fold back into her lap.

They jot notes, argue briefly about tempo, Mira scribbling down suggestions, Zoey doodling ridiculous drawings of “rain clouds with sunglasses” that make Mira roll her eyes. The room is warm with banter and ideas.

Then Zoey leaps up. “Okay, my turn. Prepare yourselves, ladies. This is the future number-one track.”

She strums her guitar, leaning into the mic, her voice bright and brash. The song is playful, lyrics half-formed but already bursting with energy. She jokes between lines, slips in silly rhymes, and Mira covers her smile with her hand like she doesn’t want to encourage her. The chorus hits hard though—catchy, fun, undeniably infectious.

By the time Zoey finishes, Mira is scribbling furiously, muttering about chord progressions, while Zoey bows dramatically.

“Don’t all applaud at once,” Zoey teases.

Rumi offers a thin smile, but her chest feels tight. Mira’s melody, Zoey’s rhythm—both are light, hopeful, alive. The exact opposite of what she’s made.

Her laptop feels like lead where it rests beside her. The thought of letting them hear her song makes bile rise in her throat.

Maybe she should lie. Maybe she should say she doesn’t have anything yet, that she’s still “working it out.” They wouldn’t push, would they?

But when she doesn’t speak, both Mira and Zoey turn toward her at once. The sudden weight of their attention makes her stomach flip.

“So,” Mira prompts gently, “what have you got, Rumi?”

Rumi blinks at them. “I… nothing. Not really. Just… scraps.”

Zoey raises a brow, grinning like she doesn’t believe a word. “Scraps, huh? You’ve been in there for hours. You definitely have something. Don’t try to hide it from us.”

Her throat dries. She shakes her head quickly. “It’s not ready.”

“Then give us a preview,” Zoey pushes. “Even just a piece. And if you don’t want to sing it sitting here, you can get in the booth.”

“I—no, I can’t—”

Zoey is already on her feet, moving to her. Before Rumi can stop her, Zoey takes her hand, tugging her gently upward. “Yes, you can. Come on.” Her tone softens, and she leans in to press a quick kiss to Rumi’s cheek. “Please? Just give it a try. For us.”

The touch burns across Rumi’s skin. She stares at Zoey for a second too long, then swallows hard and lets herself be guided.

The booth looms like a cage, glass walls too clear, the mic waiting like a spotlight. Rumi sets her laptop down with trembling hands, cueing up the beat she’s made. The deep, pulsing bass fills the space, echoing back at her.

She slips on the headphones. Her reflection stares back from the glass—eyes too wide, braids falling loose around her shoulders, patterns threatening to spark beneath her sleeves.

Mira and Zoey sit outside, both watching her with soft encouragement. Zoey gives a little thumbs up. Mira’s smile is smaller, but steady.

Rumi steps up to the mic. Her hands grip it so tight her knuckles ache.

Then she exhales and begins.

“What do you want from me?
Why don’t you run from me?
What are you wondering?
What do you know?”

Her voice is low, almost a whisper, layered against the bass like it’s crawling out of the dark. Mira frowns slightly, leaning forward. Zoey’s grin falters, replaced with a look of confusion.

She continues, voice sharper now.

“Why aren’t you scared of me?
Why do you care for me?
When we all fall asleep, where do we go?”

Zoey shifts uncomfortably, exchanging a glance with Mira. Rumi keeps her eyes down, refusing to see their faces.

Her throat tightens as she hits the next lines.

“Say it, spit it out, what is it exactly
You’re payin’? Is the amount cleanin’ you out, am I satisfactory?”

Her voice cracks on “satisfactory,” and she swallows hard, blinking fast.

The beat vibrates in her bones. The song pulls everything out of her, things she doesn’t want to say but can’t stop.

“Today, I’m thinkin’ about the things that are deadly
The way I’m drinkin’ you down, like I wanna drown, like I wanna end me.”

Mira’s lips part in shock. Zoey’s hand tightens around her notebook until the paper crumples.

Rumi doesn’t look at them. She can’t.

She pushes on, tears stinging her eyes.

“Step on the glass, staple your tongue
Bury a friend, try to wake up
Cannibal class, killing the son
Bury a friend, I wanna end me.”

The words rip through her, and she realizes she’s crying. The tears slip silently down her cheeks, hot against the cold air of the booth. She doesn’t stop singing. She can’t.

She clings to the mic like it’s the only thing keeping her standing. Her patterns flare under her skin, flashes of pale light bleeding through her sleeves.

Zoey presses a hand to her mouth outside the booth. Mira looks pale, stricken, eyes glassy.

Rumi’s voice quivers as she sings on:

“I wanna end me… I wanna end me…”

Her growl slips out between the words, unbidden, raw. She hates herself for it, but the song demands it.

She sings the final lines, each one a knife twisting deeper.

“I wanna end me.”

The track fades, the bass still echoing in her bones.

Silence falls.

Rumi lowers her head, shoulders trembling. Her tears drip onto her hands, her chest tight with shame. She can’t look up. She doesn’t want to see their faces.

The door opens. Footsteps cross the floor quickly.

“Rumi—” Mira’s voice is breaking.

Zoey’s arms are around her before she can even react, pulling her close, headphones tugged off her head. Rumi tries to pull back, ashamed, but Zoey holds her tighter, murmuring, “Hey, hey, no. Don’t you dare pull away.”

Mira crouches in front of her, hands gentle on her back. Her eyes are wet, her voice shaking. “You… you’ve been thinking about this alone?”

Rumi presses her face into Zoey’s shoulder, choking on a sob. She can’t answer. She can’t say it out loud. The lyrics already told them everything.

Zoey presses frantic kisses to her hair, whispering, “You don’t get to end anything, you hear me? Not when we’re here. Not when we love you.”

Rumi lets the sobs take her, shaking, as Mira rubs soothing circles on her back, whispering, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.”

The song still echoes in the silence, every word a confession Rumi hadn’t meant to give voice to. And now it’s out there, too real, too raw.

But instead of disgust, instead of rejection, she finds herself wrapped in their arms, their tears mixing with hers, their voices swearing they’ll never let her go.

Rumi clings to Zoey like a drowning woman, her face buried in her shoulder, tears soaking through the thin cotton of her shirt. Zoey doesn’t let go for even a second—her arms are firm, her grip almost fierce, like she’s terrified that if she loosens, Rumi will disappear right in front of her.

Mira is still in front of her, hands steady on her knees, grounding her with gentle pressure. Her brows are knit so tight it looks painful, her own tears sliding silently down her cheeks. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

For a long moment, none of them speak. The booth is quiet, the only sound Rumi’s ragged sobs and the occasional hitch of her breath. The silence is heavy, but it’s not empty—it’s full of things unsaid, emotions pressing in from all sides.

Zoey presses her cheek to Rumi’s hair, her voice low and trembling. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Rumi squeezes her eyes shut tighter, shaking her head. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to explain.

But Mira’s voice comes soft and steady, coaxing, “Rumi, sweetheart… you can’t keep this locked inside. Not anymore.”

Her throat burns, words stuck somewhere between her chest and her mouth. She shakes her head again, muttering hoarsely, “It’s just a song.”

“No,” Zoey counters immediately, pulling back just enough to tilt Rumi’s face up. Her fingers are gentle under Rumi’s chin, but her gaze is sharp, wet with unshed tears. “It’s not just a song. Those words—those weren’t just lyrics. That was you.”

Rumi flinches, the shame bubbling up hot and acidic. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Bullshit,” Zoey cuts in, though her voice cracks on the word. “You meant every line. And I need you to stop pretending otherwise.”

Mira’s hands slide up, covering Rumi’s trembling ones where they grip Zoey’s shirt. She threads their fingers together, grounding. “Why didn’t you tell us you were feeling like this?”

Because you’ll hate me. Because you’ll leave. Because I’m a monster.

The words scream inside her, but she can’t push them out.

Her patterns shimmer faintly through her sleeves, betraying her agitation. The iridescence flickers like a storm of dark blue trapped under her skin. Zoey notices immediately, brushing her thumb over Rumi’s glowing wrist as if to soothe it.

“Rumi,” Zoey says again, softer now, pleading. “Talk to us. Please.”

The dam cracks. Her voice comes out a whisper, broken and raw. “I don’t… I don’t feel like I deserve to be here.”

Mira sucks in a sharp breath. Zoey’s hand tightens around hers.

“I’m not enough,” Rumi forces out, words tumbling one after the other now, each one heavier than the last. “Not for the group. Not for the music. Not for you. I keep trying, but it’s never enough. And it—” Her voice breaks, tears choking her. “It hurts so much just to exist like this.”

Zoey’s face crumples, a sob catching in her throat. She presses her forehead to Rumi’s temple, whispering fiercely, “Don’t you dare say you’re not enough. You are everything. You hear me? Everything.”

Mira swallows hard, her voice shaking as she adds, “We don’t need you to be anything but you. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

Rumi lets out a bitter laugh, muffled against Zoey’s shoulder. “You don’t mean that.”

“Look at me,” Mira demands gently but firmly.

Rumi hesitates, but Mira reaches up and tilts her chin until their eyes meet. Mira’s gaze is blazing, steady despite the tears. “I mean it. Every word. You are not a burden, you are not a mistake, and you are not replaceable. Not here. Not with us.”

The conviction in her tone shatters something in Rumi. More tears spill, her body shaking as she clings harder to them both.

Zoey rubs slow circles on her back, rocking her slightly like she’s soothing a child. “We love you,” she whispers, the words slipping out before she can catch them. She doesn’t pull them back, doesn’t try to soften them. “God, Rumi, we love you so much.”

Rumi’s breath hitches, her heart stuttering painfully. She wants to believe it, desperately, but the claws of doubt dig deep.

“You shouldn’t,” she whispers hoarsely. “I don’t know what I am. What I could be capable of—”

Mira cuts her off, her voice fierce in its softness. “We know exactly who you are. And we love every part of you, even the parts you hate.”

Rumi sobs harder, her patterns flashing in chaotic bursts across her arms. She tries to curl into herself, but Zoey and Mira don’t let her. They hold her tighter, their bodies closing in around her, a cocoon of warmth and safety.

The words hang in the air—I love you, we love you—buzzing louder than the song ever could.

Minutes pass like that, tangled together in the studio booth, grief and love and fear mixing into something overwhelming but real.

Finally, Mira shifts, brushing damp hair from Rumi’s face. Her touch is featherlight. “Sweetheart… will you promise us something?”

Rumi blinks at her, dazed.

“Promise us you won’t keep this inside anymore,” Mira says. “If it gets bad, if you feel like… like those lyrics again, you come to us. No matter what time, no matter what’s happening. You don’t go through it alone. Not ever again.”

Zoey presses a kiss to Rumi’s temple, murmuring, “We’ll carry it with you. Always.”

Rumi’s chest aches with the weight of it. With the want of it. She nods, barely, her voice too raw to speak.

Mira smiles through her tears, leaning in to kiss her forehead. Zoey follows with another kiss, soft against her cheek.

And for the first time, Rumi doesn’t flinch. She lets them. She lets herself sink into the love offered, fragile and terrifying and everything she’s ever wanted.

Rumi finally pulls back, wiping at her swollen eyes with the heel of her hand. Her throat is raw from crying, her chest aching from the weight she’s dragged out into the open. She feels lighter, but jittery too, energy crawling under her skin like sparks that won’t settle.

“I…” she begins, voice hoarse, “I need to move. Burn this off.” She presses her palms against her thighs, trying to ground the restless electricity surging through her. “If I don’t, it’s just gonna… eat me alive.”

Mira, who hasn’t let go of her hand, squeezes gently. “Then we move,” she says simply. “Our bodies deserve release too.” She glances at Zoey, who nods immediately.

“Gym?” Zoey suggests. There’s a flicker of challenge in her eyes, already guessing where Rumi’s head might be going.

“Gym,” Rumi confirms.

They gather their things, moving quietly through the hall until they reach the practice gym attached to their living quarters. It’s spacious, the kind of training room designed for versatility—padded flooring on one side for combat, weights and treadmills lined neatly against the walls, and through a wide archway, a mirrored dance studio with a polished wooden floor.

As soon as they step in, Rumi inhales deeply, her chest expanding. The smell of rubber mats and faint sweat hits her senses, familiar and grounding. This is a space where she knows what to do, where her body doesn’t betray her—it just obeys.

“I’ll take the dance studio,” Mira says, rolling her shoulders like she’s been waiting for the chance. “I need to stretch, get some flow back in me.”

“Go easy,” Zoey calls after her, smirking as Mira disappears through the archway. “Don’t break the mirrors again.”

Mira shoots her a look over her shoulder but doesn’t reply, only slipping into the room with a small shake of her head.

That leaves Zoey and Rumi standing in the middle of the padded floor. Zoey raises her brows, tugging off her hoodie to reveal a snug tank top beneath. She tosses it carelessly to the side, her grin sharpening. “Weapons?”

Rumi’s lips twitch, the first shadow of a smile since her breakdown. “Yes please.”

They cross to the rack along the wall where training weapons hang neatly in rows—wooden staffs, blunted practice swords, and twin short sticks polished from use. Rumi grabs a staff, testing its weight with a few sharp twirls before it whistles through the air. The familiar rhythm soothes something in her chest.

Zoey, ever dramatic, picks up a pair of short sticks and spins them in her hands like she’s auditioning for a movie role. “Try not to pout when I kick your ass.”

Rumi snorts, a sound startlingly close to laughter. “Big words for such a short hunter.”

“Low blow,” Zoey shoots back, but her grin is wide as they step onto the mat and square off.

The first strike comes quick—Rumi lunges forward, her staff slicing diagonally toward Zoey’s shoulder. Zoey reacts fast, sticks crossing in a block that sends a satisfying crack echoing through the room. She twists, pushing the staff away, and counters with a low strike toward Rumi’s side.

Rumi pivots, staff sweeping down to parry. She doesn’t hesitate before spinning, bringing the other end up in a fluid arc that nearly clips Zoey’s ribs. Zoey ducks, laughing breathlessly.

“Damn, you’re fast when you’re pissed.”

Rumi’s response is only another flurry of strikes, sharp and precise. Her body moves like instinct, all training and muscle memory, the restless energy in her chest pouring out with each swing. Every block and counter feels like a release, sparks bleeding into the rhythm of their fight.

Zoey holds her own, though—her smaller weapons mean she moves quick, darting in close, forcing Rumi to stay sharp. Their sticks clack against wood in rapid beats, almost musical in the silence of the gym.

Rumi feels alive in the movement, her chest burning with exertion instead of grief. For the first time all day, her thoughts narrow down to this moment: Zoey in front of her, the blur of wood against wood, the pulse of adrenaline singing in her veins.

“You’re smiling,” Zoey pants, blocking another strike.

“Shut up,” Rumi mutters, but her lips betray her, curving upward.

Zoey laughs, lunging forward with a quick strike. Rumi sidesteps, staff sweeping low to hook Zoey’s ankle. Zoey stumbles, catching herself on one hand before flipping back upright, a flash of acrobatics that leaves Rumi raising a brow.

“Show-off,” Rumi mutters.

“Guilty,” Zoey grins, but her breath is coming fast, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat.

They clash again, a blur of wood and movement, until Rumi feints left, spins, and knocks Zoey’s sticks from her hands in one clean sweep. The sound of them clattering across the mat rings like victory.

Zoey barely has time to react before Rumi pushes her backward, staff pressing against her chest until she’s pinned against the padded floor. Rumi looms over her, one knee braced by her side, her chest heaving from exertion.

Zoey blinks up at her, startled—and then her grin spreads slowly, dangerously. “Well. This is new.”

Rumi’s breath hitches, the adrenaline colliding with something hotter, sharper, as she realizes just how close they are. Zoey’s face is inches away, lips parted, eyes glinting with something that makes Rumi’s pulse stutter.

The air between them shifts, thick with possibility. Rumi’s grip tightens on the staff, holding it in place, but her gaze flickers to Zoey’s mouth before she can stop herself.

Zoey notices. Of course she does. Her grin softens into something else—something warmer, more tender—as she whispers, “You good up there sweetheart?”

Rumi’s breath catches. For a second, she almost does—almost leans down, almost lets herself fall into that reckless want. But the weight of the moment is too much, the echo of her earlier breakdown still raw under her skin. She pulls back instead, pushing off Zoey and standing quickly.

Zoey lies there for a beat longer, grinning up at the ceiling like she’s won anyway. Then she sits up, brushing sweat from her brow. “You’re getting scary good, you know that?”

Rumi rolls her shoulders, trying to shake the heat from her face. “You let me win.”

“Sure,” Zoey says, smirking as she retrieves her sticks. “That’s the story we’ll tell.”

Before Rumi can respond, Mira’s voice drifts faintly from the dance studio, music pulsing low and steady through the wall. Zoey tilts her head toward it. “C’mon. Let’s go see what trouble she’s up to.”

Rumi exhales, the restless storm inside her calmer now, spent through movement. She nods, following Zoey toward the archway, staff still in hand.

As they step into the mirrored studio, the sight that greets them is Mira mid-spin, hair flying, her body moving in time with the beat. Grace and power blend in every line of her, and for the first time all day, Rumi feels something like awe instead of heaviness.

Zoey whistles low. “Damn. She makes us look bad.”

Rumi can’t even argue. For the first time since the song, her chest feels just a little lighter.

The bass from the speakers thrums through the mirrored studio, low and insistent, vibrating up through the floor into Rumi’s bare feet. As she steps through the archway with Zoey, her eyes land on Mira instantly—alone in the center of the room, cap pulled low over her eyes, oversized cropped shirt shifting against her torso as she moves.

Mira’s body is a blur of sharp angles and fluid transitions, every beat of Gimme More captured in the precise snap of her hips, the clean strike of her arms, the whip-fast pivots of her legs.

She doesn’t notice them at first. Her focus is razor-sharp, locked on the mirror, the reflection of her own body moving like a weapon to the music. Her hair swings from beneath the cap in sleek arcs, sticking to the curve of her jaw with sweat.

Zoey lets out a low whistle before clapping a hand over her mouth, though the sound is still swallowed by the pounding beat. “Holy shit,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone.

Rumi doesn’t answer. Her throat is dry, her gaze locked helplessly on Mira’s body as it bends and twists, as her arms carve through the air with both grace and raw force. Mira’s muscles ripple under the loose fabric of her shirt, lines of definition shifting and flexing, but they’re softened too—her body a balance of strength and something warmer, something achingly human.

The oversized shirt rides up when she throws herself into a spin, flashing toned abs slick with sweat before it drops back down. The cap casts shadows over her eyes, adding mystery, making her seem untouchable, dangerous even.

Rumi’s fangs ache in her gums, sliding lower without her permission. She clamps her jaw tight, trying to will them back, but her body doesn’t care for reason when it’s caught in the gravity of Mira’s presence. Heat coils low in her stomach, every snap of Mira’s hips sending sparks down her spine.

Zoey is no better—her lip caught between her teeth, eyes dragging down Mira’s frame with open appreciation. She murmurs, “She always makes every dance look so hot.”

And maybe she knows she does. Mira’s movements aren’t sloppy practice—they’re deliberate, every line carved sharp, every drop of her hips controlled. She hits the beat hard, shoulders rolling, chest popping in time with the pulse of the song. Her legs are quick, crossing and uncrossing, knees bending with fluid ease before she snaps back upright, cap tilted as her fingers trace down her neck to her collarbone in a move that’s far too suggestive to be innocent.

Rumi’s claws flex in and out before she realizes it, her body buzzing with tension she doesn’t know how to release.

Zoey leans closer, whispering like a commentator. “She’s showing off. Look at her—she’s putting on a damn show.”

And it’s true. Mira’s not just dancing; she’s commanding. She owns the space with each step, her sneakers squeaking against polished wood as she struts forward, hips swaying in time with the chorus. The oversized shirt slides against her skin, clinging where sweat dampens it, falling away in teasing gaps that reveal flashes of her ribs, her waist, the taut lines of her stomach.

The song shifts into its bridge, and Mira drops low, knees bending, thighs flexing as she rolls her body up from the ground in a wave that makes Rumi’s lungs seize. Her eyes track the movement helplessly, from the way Mira’s calves tighten to the arch of her back, the shirt lifting just enough to reveal the clean line of her spine before it settles again.

“Fuck,” Zoey breathes, and she’s not even trying to hide her hunger anymore.

Rumi swallows hard, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in her throat. Her patterns prickle faintly under her skin, heat blooming where Zoey’s arm brushes against hers. She doesn’t move away. She can’t.

The music slams back into its final chorus, and Mira explodes with it—hips snapping side to side, arms cutting sharp through the air, chest pumping with brutal precision. Her movements are harsh but never sloppy, fast but always controlled, every strike landing perfectly on beat. She spins, kicks, and drops low again, the cap threatening to fly off but somehow clinging stubbornly to her head.

Her body is all lines and rhythm: the curve of muscle beneath her shirt, the dip of her waist, the flex of her thighs as she drives herself through the steps. Muscular, yes, but wrapped in the softness of skin that glistens under the overhead lights. She is strength and grace colliding, every part of her screaming control even as sweat rolls down her temple and her breath comes sharp and fast.

Rumi’s fingers twitch uselessly at her sides. She imagines for a dizzy, reckless moment what it would feel like to step in, to catch Mira mid-move, to press against her and taste the heat of her breath. Her fangs slide fully into place, and she has to bite down on the inside of her cheek just to ground herself.

Beside her, Zoey murmurs with a grin, “Tell me I’m not the only one losing my damn mind right now.”

Rumi doesn’t answer. She can’t.

The song barrels toward its end, and Mira goes all out, each move harder than the last. She thrusts her hips forward, chest rolling in a brutal pop, arms slicing through the air in a blur. She spins into a final pose, one hand dragging her cap low over her face, hips cocked to the side, chest heaving.

The music cuts off, leaving only the sound of her ragged breaths and the faint squeak of her sneakers as she shifts her weight. For a moment, she stays there, bent forward slightly, hands braced on her knees. She hasn’t even noticed them yet.

Zoey claps slowly, dramatically, breaking the silence. “Well, shit. That was…” She lets the word hang, grin wide. “Hot as hell.”

Mira startles, looking up sharply toward the door. When she spots them, her brows lift in mild surprise, though she doesn’t seem embarrassed. Instead, a small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, her chest still rising and falling quickly.

“How long?” she asks, voice low, husky from exertion.

“Long enough,” Zoey teases, stepping forward into the room. Her eyes drag down Mira’s body like she’s cataloguing every bead of sweat, every line of muscle. “What was that?”

Mira straightens, pulling off her cap and shaking her damp hair loose. Her shirt clings to her now, cropped hem stuck slightly to her skin. She tosses the cap onto the floor and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “Just practice.”

“Practice?” Zoey snorts. “That was a damn concert.”

Rumi hovers near the doorway still, her pulse racing, claws flexing faintly before she shoves her hands behind her to hide them. She can’t tear her eyes from Mira—her flushed cheeks, her damp shirt, the easy way she stands there after moving like fire made flesh.

Mira finally notices her silence and tilts her head slightly, meeting her eyes. For a second, it feels like Mira can see straight through her, through the tension thrumming under her skin, through the ache she’s trying desperately to contain. Rumi swallows, but her throat is too dry to form words.

Zoey, thankfully, fills the gap with a grin. “Rumi’s broken. Look at her. You fried her circuits.”

Rumi doesn’t say anything. She can’t trust her voice not to betray her. Her fangs ache, her patterns buzz faintly, and all she can do is hope they don’t notice how hard she’s biting her tongue just to stay grounded.

Mira bends to turn off the speaker, her shirt riding up to reveal more of her back, muscles shifting smoothly under skin. Rumi stares helplessly until Zoey nudges her with a wicked grin.

“Careful, little tiger,” Zoey whispers in her ear, just loud enough for Rumi alone. “You’re drooling.”

Rumi’s teeth grind without permission, turning back towards the gym.

“I going to keep going,” Rumi grits out, “You guys go shower and I’ll meet you up there.”

The gym hums with the faint whir of the air-conditioning, though it doesn’t do much to cool the heat already crawling beneath Rumi’s skin. Her patterns still shimmer faintly, a restless echo of energy she can’t quite shake.

“I’ll stay,” Mira says suddenly, just as Zoey starts toward the elevator.

Zoey pauses, eyebrow arched, but Mira’s gaze is steady, calm in a way that leaves little room for argument. Zoey shrugs and throws Rumi a cheeky wink. “Don’t over do it.” Then she disappears, humming as the elevator doors shut behind her.

Rumi huffs softly, turning back toward the racks of weights. She knows why Mira stayed. They don’t want her left alone, not after the edges she’s shown these last few days. It makes her chest twist, this constant worry she’s caused them. Still, she doesn’t fight it. Not tonight.

She grabs a barbell, loads it, and drops into a steady rhythm of squats. The strain burns deliciously in her thighs, grounding her in sensation she can control. Her breath hisses between her teeth as she pushes up, sweat already sticking strands of hair to her forehead.

Mira doesn’t say anything. She simply leans against the mirrored wall, arms folded loosely, cap pulled back on and low over her eyes from the studio. She watches.

Rumi doesn’t ask her to stop.

When her legs start trembling, she racks the bar and moves on—push-ups, sit-ups, a brutal set of pull-ups until her shoulders scream. Her patterns flicker brighter with each exertion, heat radiating off her skin in waves. It feels good. Painful, grounding, necessary.

She drops to the floor for planks, her breath ragged, arms quivering. The sweat drips from her chin, darkening the mat beneath her. She stays until her body shakes uncontrollably, then collapses onto her back, chest heaving, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers she can’t reach.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Mira move finally—quiet steps, careful not to intrude. A bottle of water appears beside her head.

Rumi takes it without looking, chugging until the cool liquid soothes the desert in her throat. Her patterns dim slowly, easing back toward their resting shimmer.

“You done?” Mira’s voice is low, cautious.

Rumi swallows, nodding. She doesn’t trust her voice not to crack.

They don’t speak on the way upstairs. Mira stays a step behind, silent but steady, like a shadow. Rumi hates that she notices the worry etched in her posture—but she doesn’t argue. She can’t, not when the weight of exhaustion is settling heavy in her muscles.

They part at their doors to their rooms. Rumi slips into her ensuite, stripping off sweat-soaked clothes and stepping under scalding water until her skin burns clean. She scrubs away the salt, the heat, the evidence of how desperately she had to move just to quiet herself. When she emerges, she feels lighter but raw, her body humming with fatigue.

She dresses in cotton shorts and a loose tank top, pulling her damp hair into a braid. Makeup feels too heavy, so she skips it, settling only for a thin chain around her neck and the familiar rings on her fingers.

By the time she pads into the living room, Zoey is sprawled on the couch with a mountain of snacks already raided from the kitchen. Mira has changed too—fresh shorts, clean tee—and sits perched on the opposite end, scrolling absently through her phone.

“Finally!” Zoey cheers, patting the cushion between them. “Took you long enough. Come here, snack gremlin.”

Rumi rolls her eyes but obeys, sinking onto the couch. Immediately, Zoey shoves a bag of chips into her lap, grinning wide. “Fuel. Doctor’s orders.”

Rumi huffs but pops one into her mouth anyway. The salt is sharp on her tongue, grounding. Mira sets her phone aside, leaning forward to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl between them.

For a while, it’s easy. They eat, they sprawl, they talk in lazy loops about everything and nothing. Zoey teases Mira about her dance moves, Mira retaliates by throwing popcorn at her face, and Rumi sits quiet in the middle, the edges of her mouth tugging upward despite herself.

Her body aches, her skin still hums faintly from the workout, but here—wedged between them, snacks in hand—she feels safe. Not healed, not fixed. Just safe.

The crumbs are evidence enough that they’ve spent more time eating than working. Half-empty chip bags line the coffee table, popcorn kernels are everywhere, and Zoey has chocolate smudged at the corner of her mouth. Mira eyes it but doesn’t say a word.

It’s Zoey, predictably, who claps her hands together and says, “Alright, business. We should at least pretend we’re writing songs before we all crash in a sugar coma.”

Mira sighs but grabs her notebook, flipping it open to a clean page. “Fine. But no more snack breaks until we have at least a verse.”

Rumi sits back, cross-legged, notebook resting unopened on her knees. Her muscles ache pleasantly from the workout, her skin clean and cool after the shower, hair still damp down her back. The exhaustion is tugging at her edges, but she forces herself to stay present, to listen.

Zoey launches into brainstorming—wild metaphors, ridiculous rhymes that make Mira groan and throw a pillow at her. Mira, in turn, comes up with a clean hook, sharp and catchy, humming it under her breath. The two of them bounce off each other easily, sparks flying in a way that makes the air buzz.

Rumi contributes little. She doodles in the margin of her notebook, listening, nodding when appropriate. But still, she stays close, her thigh pressed to Zoey’s, shoulder brushing Mira’s whenever one of them shifts.

Time drifts. Their notebooks fill with half-formed lyrics, little scribbles of rhythm and rhyme. Mira hums something low, testing out a beat with her fingers against the couch cushion. Zoey snaps along dramatically, laughing when she misses the rhythm completely.

Rumi smiles without realizing it.

Somewhere between one verse and the next, their bodies rearrange. Mira slouches sideways, stretching her legs out along the couch. Zoey leans back against the armrest, notebook forgotten on the floor. Rumi slides down with them, her head finding Mira’s lap almost unconsciously, one leg tossed lazily across Zoey’s hips.

It isn’t intentional. It isn’t planned. It just happens.

Mira glances down at her, a small smile tugging at her lips. She runs her fingers absentmindedly through Rumi’s hair, smoothing the braid gently. Zoey makes no protest about the weight of Rumi’s leg, just rests her hand casually over her shin, thumb tracing idle circles against her skin.

Rumi doesn’t think. For once, she doesn’t think at all. Her body sinks, heavy with exhaustion, and the safety wrapping her from both sides is too much to fight. Her eyes close, and the room fades to a soft hum of voices above her. They must think she has fallen asleep fully, because Zoey and Mira start speaking in soft whispers soon after she settles.

Zoey’s voice is the first she hears, low and serious in a way it rarely is. “She’s burning herself out.”

Mira’s hand pauses for a fraction of a second in Rumi’s hair before continuing, slower. “I know.”

“She doesn’t stop unless someone makes her. That workout—was she trying to punish herself?”

Rumi wants to argue, wants to tell them she just needed the release, but her body is too far gone. She can only drift, caught in their voices, her chest loosening with every soft touch.

“She’ll push until she breaks if we let her,” Zoey says, quieter now.

“We won’t let her.” Mira’s tone is certain, steady as stone.

Silence stretches. Mira’s fingers comb through her braid again, and Zoey squeezes her calf gently, reassuring, grounding. Rumi sighs, letting herself fully relax, nuzzling further into Mira’s lap. For a while, it’s peaceful. Her body relaxed, knowing her girls are there, worried about her but present. The weight of sleep is good, but she quickly feels the familiar cold creeping of disappear seep in.

Then the shadows come.

It starts as a flicker, a tightening in her chest. The dark presses in, heavy and suffocating, and suddenly she’s back there—blood, cold hands, voices that twist like knives. Her body tenses before she can stop it, claws sliding instinctively from her fingertips. She digs into Mira’s thigh through the fabric, a desperate anchor to hold onto something real.

“Rumi.” Mira’s voice is soft but firm, and her hand closes around Rumi’s wrist. Not harsh, not pulling away—just grounding.

Zoey leans forward instantly, brushing hair from Rumi’s damp forehead. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re here with us.”

Rumi jerks, breath ragged, eyes snapping open with a shimmer of glowing patterns that dim just as quickly. She blinks, confusion clouding her gaze, then panic. “S-sorry—I—”

“Don’t.” Mira’s voice cuts through, quiet but commanding. “Don’t apologize.”

But Rumi can’t stop. The words tumble out, shaking, desperate. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave. Please—”

Zoey presses her hand to Rumi’s cheek, leaning in close, her usual mischief stripped away. “We’re not going anywhere. You hear me? Not tonight, not ever.”

Mira leans down, pressing her forehead gently to the crown of Rumi’s head. “We stay. Always.”

Rumi’s breath hitches, her throat tight. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it softens under their voices, their touch, their presence wrapping her in a cocoon she can’t deny.

Zoey glances at Mira, a silent question. Mira answers with a nod.

“Early night,” Zoey says firmly, shifting out from under Rumi’s leg. “She needs rest more than lyrics.”

Before Rumi can protest, Mira is sliding her arms beneath her, lifting her like she weighs nothing. Rumi clings instinctively, burying her face against Mira’s shoulder, half-delirious with exhaustion.

“Stay,” she mumbles again, the word broken, pleading.

“We’re staying,” Mira assures, voice steady as she carries her down the hall.

The bedroom is large enough to fit all three, the bed soft and cool against her overheated skin when Mira sets her down gently. Rumi clutches at her hand, unwilling to let go until Zoey crawls in on the other side, sandwiching her between them.

They settle around her without hesitation, Zoey’s arm wrapping around her waist, Mira’s hand still threaded through hers. Rumi burrows close, clinging tight, her patterns pulsing faintly against their skin.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispers again, eyes already drooping.

Zoey presses a kiss to her temple. “Never.”

Mira squeezes her hand, the final anchor. “Sleep, Rumi. We’re here.”

Her body finally surrenders, melting into the warmth of theirs. Her breathing evens, slow and soft, and the shadows retreat for now, pushed back by the simple, unshakable truth: she is not alone.

Chapter Text

The soft warmth of the early morning blankets the room. Rumi stirs, still tangled in Mira and Zoey’s limbs, half-conscious but aware of the gentle pressure of their bodies around her. Mira’s arm drapes across her waist like a tether, steady and grounding, while Zoey’s leg brushes along hers, hand lazily resting over her thigh. She breathes in the faint scent of shampoo and the comforting mix of the girls’ natural smells, and for a fleeting moment, she allows herself to simply exist, unthinking, safe, warm.

She moves slightly, careful not to disturb them, feeling Mira shift in her sleep, a thumb brushing lightly against her side, and Zoey’s hand brushing over her calf. Rumi closes her eyes again, letting the quiet moments stretch. This has become their routine over the past month since it first happened: mornings spent in a pile of warmth before the day begins in earnest. She doesn’t need to speak, doesn’t need to explain her presence. When she feels sleepy, she drifts into them, and they never resist.

Eventually, soft murmurs wake her fully. Mira shifts, yawning, stretching one arm, while Zoey rubs the sleep from her eyes. The room smells faintly of the bathhouse—the lavender soap Mira loves—and the comforting tang of leftover breakfast from yesterday. Rumi sits up slowly, brushing her damp hair back, letting the girls fold around her as she stretches. They smile at her silently, just the faintest teasing glint in their eyes, and she feels herself melting again.

Breakfast is rushed. They move efficiently through the kitchen, juggling cereal, toast, and coffee while joking with each other and occasionally nudging Rumi to eat. She finds herself picking at a piece of toast, eyes half-lidded, as Mira teases Zoey about her lack of sugar moderation. Zoey shoots back with a grin, snatching a strawberry from the plate anyway. Rumi laughs softly, enjoying the domestic chaos, the sense of normalcy, but still feeling slightly on edge in her own skin.

The clock ticks, and before she can think too hard, Mira nudges her, a small, purposeful gesture, and Zoey follows suit. “Time,” Mira says simply. “Songs won’t write themselves.” Rumi exhales, nodding, and gathers her notebook and laptop as they all head toward the studio.

The studio smells of polished wood and electronics, warm and inviting. Mira stretches, flipping her hair back with a practiced flick, while Zoey spins a pen between her fingers, already tapping an unformed rhythm on the couch.

Rumi settles in her usual corner, cross-legged on the floor with her laptop perched in front of her. She tries to focus, letting her emotions guide her, trying to feel the song before she even touches a key. But the world outside her mind fades and pulls her under. Thoughts of inadequacy creep in, whispering that she’s never enough, that her words and melodies will falter, that she’ll always be too… her. But now, when she looks up to see her two favourite people, she feels something else instead of self loathing.

The beat she constructs is hesitant at first, a quiet pulse under the surface, but then her fingers find rhythm across the keys. The melody emerges, tentative and jagged, then stronger. Slowly, she allows herself to sink into the song, letting the music mirror the frustration, the longing, the uncertainty. She hums softly, then sings, her voice fragile but raw as it threads through the quiet studio. Her patterns flare faintly across her arms and neck—pale pink and blue, slowly glowing as her body responds to her own intensity.

Hours pass like this. Rumi lying on the floor, laptop beside her, humming and singing fragments, building her composition. Mira and Zoey occasionally peek over their notebooks, whispering ideas, but mostly giving her space. Even so, she senses their presence—their curiosity, their protective energy hovering close—and it calms her in a way she can’t fully articulate.

Finally, Mira breaks the silence, tapping her notebook with a pen. “Rumi, it’s time.”

Time? She blinks, heart jumping. “I… I don’t know if—”

Zoey nudges her gently, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek like she always does before one of them hits the booth. “You have it. You just have to show it. Come on, I’ll help.”

Rumi swallows, nodding, letting Zoey lift her carefully to her feet. Her legs wobble slightly from exhaustion, but Mira steadies her with a hand on her back. Her heart is hammering, anticipation and fear mingling in a messy tangle, but she follows them to the booth, headphones waiting like an anchor she can hold onto.

She sets her laptop up, the beat lined up perfectly. Every note she’s poured into the last hour feels heavy in her chest, intimate, personal. She steps up to the mic, headphones over her ears, and Mira and Zoey take their places outside the glass, watching silently. They record parts of different songs, ready to be layered into the beats and melodies. It feels easier now, unlike the last time she sang for them in the booth. The echoes of Bury a Friend are still there, but with the supportive smiles and soft eyes of Mira and Zoey these new, happier lyrics, feel easy.

After another long day of writing and recording, they finally head upstairs, all three showering, changing, and gathering on the couch again. Easy snacks are passed around instead of an actual meal, Zoey’s favourite kind of night, the screen casting a gentle glow over the room. Conversation drifts lazily, Rumi listening more than speaking, her body still humming from movement. Mira curls behind her, Zoey beside her, and slowly, inevitably, she drifts into a sleepy haze.

Her head rests in Mira’s lap, legs thrown across Zoey’s, fingers brushing absently against the other’s hand. She breathes slow and deep, patterns dimming as exhaustion takes over. The weight of everything—the workouts, the song, the emotions of the past few weeks—catch up to her, and she surrenders fully. Mira and Zoey keep their hands gentle, soothing, watching her sleep, murmuring soft words, their presence a shield around her.

She whimpers in her sleep a lot lately, she knows it, waking regularly to worried looks, words tumbling out in apology, pleading for them not to leave. But, every time they wrap her up tightly, kiss her temple and forehead, and murmur soft reassurances.

“Let’s call it an early night,” Mira whispers. “Come on, Rumi.” She lifts her carefully again, and they move to her bedroom. As always, the bed is large enough for all three, warm and safe. Rumi clings, half-delirious, mumbling, asking them to stay like she does every night regardless of how much she hates herself for it. They do, of course, and she finally sleeps fully, tangled and protected in their arms, safe for the first time in a long time.

The soft rhythm of Rumi’s breathing fills the room, slow and uneven in sleep. Mira sits cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of Rumi’s chest. Zoey perches beside her, shoulder brushing Mira’s, hand resting lightly over Rumi’s arm. Neither dares to disturb her, yet both are acutely aware of the energy radiating from her, the faint shimmer of patterns beneath the skin even in slumber.

“She’s so different,” Zoey murmurs, voice low enough not to wake Rumi. She lets her fingers drift over the back of Rumi’s hand, feeling the warmth pulse beneath. “Over the last few weeks, it’s like she’s… changing. Her instincts, her body… it’s like she’s half afraid to let go, but half can’t resist it.”

Mira nods slowly, eyes narrowing as she watches Rumi twitch in her sleep, a soft groan escaping her lips. “Agreed. She fights herself. Every time we touch, even gently, she stiffens first, tries to pull back—but her patterns always flare up. It’s like she’s wired for it. She wants it, she just… doesn’t know she’s allowed.”

Zoey sighs, brushing a loose strand of hair from Rumi’s face. “I see it too, when she’s around us. Every time she catches herself noticing us, she goes cold for a second, like she’s trying to hide what she feels—but it’s not like we make her feel that way, we are so open with our feelings. And her demon instincts… they’re stronger now. Faster reactions, sharper senses, even when she’s just sitting with us.”

Mira tilts her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “She’s already letting some of it out. Every time we cuddle, it’s like a little rebellion against herself. I think that’s why she clings so hard when she’s tired. She trusts us enough not to run, but we need to push her a little further. Now’s the perfect time.”

Zoey’s eyes sparkle, leaning closer. “Push her… how?”

Mira bites the corner of her lip, considering. “Out of her comfort zone. She’s exhausted from holding back all of her wants. From thinking she has to control herself. If we don’t give her the space to surrender, she’ll keep fighting her instincts and end up frustrated or miserable.”

Zoey nods, pressing her palm gently against Rumi’s shoulder. “She’s going to have to realize it’s okay to want, to feel, and maybe we can get her to finally give in. And she has to let us be part of it too. No more subtlety. No more pretending. If she can see we’re all in it with her, she might stop resisting so much.”

Mira hums in agreement, brushing her fingers over Rumi’s hair at the nape of her neck. “Exactly. We’ve been waiting for her, letting her grow comfortable with our touch and presence. But I think it’s time we stop holding back. Show her what she’s missing.”

Zoey grins, the faintest gleam of mischief in her eyes. “I like the sound of that. She won’t know what hit her. I think she’s ready for it, even if she doesn’t know it.”

Mira leans back slightly, exhaling a slow breath. “The thing is… we can’t push her too hard, or we’ll scare her.”

Zoey nods thoughtfully, brushing her thumb over Rumi’s knuckles.

Mira chuckles softly, eyes still on Rumi. “I want to see her really let go. Not just in the small moments. I want her to know that we want her, all of her, without hesitation.”

Zoey shifts closer to Mira, squeezing Rumi’s hand gently between them. “We’ll make her see it. We’ll remind her every day that it’s okay to want what she wants… and to want us too.”

Mira’s smile deepens, her fingers ghosting over Rumi’s arm, tracing the faint shimmer of patterns that pulse even in sleep. Zoey grins, brushing her cheek against Mira’s shoulder. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow, we start. No holding back. We’ll let her see and feel just how much she’s wanted. And she’ll finally understand that giving in isn’t a weakness.”

Mira nods in agreement, her eyes softening as she looks at Rumi. “She’s ours.”

They sit there in quiet solidarity, watching Rumi sleep peacefully between them. The room feels warm, charged with the unspoken promises they’ve made. The plan is set, their desire aligned. And when Rumi wakes, they’ll be ready to show her the world she’s been holding herself back from, one gentle, irresistible step at a time.

~~

Rumi wakes slowly, a soft stretch of limbs and a shiver as the warmth of the blankets and bodies around her settles in. She feels the familiar weight of Zoey curled beside her, a palm pressed softly against her waist, and Mira draped across her chest, her hair tickling Rumi’s collarbone as she snores faintly. Her patterns shimmer faintly pink and blue, pulsing gently in time with her heartbeat, content in the closeness of them.

She stays like that for a long moment, just breathing in the comfort of being held. Her fingers drift unconsciously to a strand of Mira’s hair, twirling it absentmindedly as Mira shifts slightly, pressing closer without opening her eyes. The warmth of Zoey against her side is grounding, a gentle, steady presence, but the pressure of her hand, the brush of her hip against Rumi’s, sends little sparks through her body she isn’t prepared for.

Rumi’s eyes drift closed again, letting herself sink into the feeling. This is safe. This is home. Her mind quiets, the usual anxious chatter replaced by the simple awareness of being enveloped in the people she cares about most. But even in the quiet, she feels the heat rise along her skin where Zoey’s fingers flex over her hip, adjusting to the curve of her body as they shift closer. Her chest tightens, pulse picking up, and the faint glow of her patterns brightens imperceptibly.

Mira stirs, eyes fluttering open, catching sight of Rumi’s hand in her hair. A sleepy smile curves her lips, soft and private. “Good morning,” she murmurs, voice low and hoarse. Rumi smiles back, feeling a surge of affection that has nothing to do with desire, just warmth, and love.

Zoey hums softly, stretching and letting her hand slide a little lower along Rumi’s side. Rumi stiffens briefly, catching herself in the glow of her own patterns, then lets herself relax again. She doesn’t say anything. She can’t—there’s something about this closeness that’s both overwhelming and grounding, a paradox that leaves her chest fluttering.

Minutes pass, long stretches of quiet punctuated only by Mira’s soft breathing and Zoey’s murmured stretches. Rumi reaches out in a moment of weakness, brushing her thumb along the line of Mira’s jaw, and Mira tilts her head up slightly, letting the touch linger. Zoey nudges her nose against Rumi’s shoulder as she stretches, the contact subtle but precise, tracing along her skin just enough to make her shiver.

Their alarm goes off, sharp and insistent, and the bubble of comfort bursts. Mira groans, untangling herself reluctantly, and Zoey mutters something about needing caffeine as they all clamber out of bed. Rumi lingers a beat, letting herself collect the last wisps of the sensation, before finally following them into the kitchen.

Breakfast is a hurried, chaotic affair. Zoey feeds Rumi a slice of fruit, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek and whispering a teasing, “Don’t forget your vitamins, sleepyhead,” before darting off to get dressed. Mira leans against the counter, teasing Rumi over her slow pace, fingers brushing hers now and then, sending little jolts through her chest. Rumi blushes but says nothing, just eats, letting them fuss.

Once dressed, they tidy up, choosing outfits that are polished but not overdone—today is a studio day, after all. Rumi chooses a simple black turtleneck cut off and high-waisted pants, hair braided neatly, patterns faintly iridescent across her skin. Mira is playful with a cropped jacket and sneakers, Zoey in her usual stylish comfort look.

The doorbell buzzes, and Bobby arrives, his smile wide as he sweeps them all into hugs. When he reaches Rumi, his gaze drifts across her neck, stomach and hands, noticing the faint lines of her patterns. They had tested how Rumi’s patterns look to fans before sure, but Bobby was different, he mattered a little more. This is the first time he is seeing them in person since their hiatus began, only ever facetiming or calling in between to organise meetings and snacks drop offs.

Rumi flushes slightly, looking down. “It’s… nothing,” she says quickly, voice a little tight. “Old scars from an accident when I was a kid. I hid them because I thought people would think they are disgusting, but I – I don’t want to anymore.”

Bobby’s face softens immediately. He pulls her into a hug, holding her tight. “Rumi… I’m so proud of you. I always knew something was up, I just didn’t wanna push you. God I’m so glad you’re ok.”

Rumi remembers how he used to look at her. Every time she requested costumes that would cover more of her arms, he looked at her with so much sadness. When she would request private changing rooms for photoshoots or concerts, he would smile sadly and always say yes. The man is a saint, and the relief on his face is enough to make it all seem worth it.

Relieved, Rumi smiles, the tension easing. Bobby gestures to the elevator. “Come on. Let’s get you to the studio.”

They down stairs and pile into the car, Rumi settling in the middle of Mira and Zoey in the back seat. It’s crowded, warm, intimate, and immediately overwhelming. Zoey leans her head against Rumi’s shoulder as soon as the car is moving, palm intertwined with hers, while Mira’s fingers trace a slow, deliberate path along Rumi’s thigh. The light brush of contact makes Rumi’s breath hitch, patterns pulsing brighter and warmer.

“Guys…” Rumi murmurs, her voice shaky. “I… I—” She can’t finish, can’t articulate the storm of heat and desire that races through her. Her body reacts before her mind does, glowing brighter, her chest heaving in time with her pulse.

Zoey glances at her, a teasing gleam in her eye, and presses a soft kiss to her temple. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re fine. Just breathe sweetheart.”

Mira leans closer, fingers curling slightly over the curve of Rumi’s thigh. “Just relax. Let us be here,” she says. Her touch is slow, teasing, controlled, a direct line to the tension coiling through Rumi.

Rumi closes her eyes, trying to ground herself, trying to pull her focus inward. But the heat, the glow now turning golden, the need coursing through her—it’s too much. Every brush of a hand, every pressure against her side, makes her tremble. She presses her thighs together, a soft whine escaping her lips.

“You okay?” Zoey murmurs against her ear, hand still tight over hers, thumb stroking in circles.

“I… I’m fine,” Rumi grunts, barely able to force the words past the rising heat in her chest. Her patterns flare again, iridescent and wild, tendrils of colour pulsing up her neck and along her arms. She bites her lip, fangs flicking out involuntarily, claws pricking at her palms as she fights the overstimulation.

Mira’s smile is calm, knowing. “Your doing great, just do what feels natural.”

Rumi shudders, the sound low and almost animalistic. Her body vibrates beneath their touches, and even though she wants to stop them, wants to breathe and regain control, every nerve is alight with sensation. The hands on her, the heat of their bodies, the intimacy—it’s too good to resist. Her pulse races, patterns flashing soft pink to iridescent orange as her breath comes in shallow pants.

Zoey’s lips brush her shoulder as she shifts slightly, murmuring something low and tender, “That’s it Ru, just be yourself.”

Rumi tilts her head, fangs glinting, claws curling at the edge of her palms. She grunts, letting the sound escape, letting herself exist in this tight, overwhelming cocoon of sensation. Mira’s fingers squeeze her thigh gently, encouraging, steady, safe, but enough to send shivers down Rumi’s spine.

She closes her eyes, head leaning against the back of the seat, leg pressing against Mira, patterns lighting the small space between them like living fire. She can’t think, can’t plan, can’t process the desire flooding her. All she can do is breathe, shiver, and grunt quietly, letting them hold her, tease her, and touch her in the ways that make her body scream and hum with sensation. She sits there wondering why they have decided to be so affectionate today. They usually are, to a degree, Zoey being a very touchy person. It isn’t out of the ordinary for her to hold just about anyone’s hand. But Mira, for Mira to be openly touching her in front of their driver and Bobby – who is on a phone call in the front – is almost a miracle.

Even with the overstimulation, part of her revels in it—the acknowledgment that they want to touch her even though she is the way she is, how their hands guide her, the intimacy without judgment.

Finally, as the car glides through the city streets toward the studio, Rumi closes her eyes fully, leaning into Mira and Zoey. Her breathing slows slightly, patterns still pulsing brightly, but in rhythm with their gentle pressure and warmth. Every flicker, every brush, every whisper of movement becomes a tether, grounding her as she rides the waves of sensation, her body reacting instinctively, unapologetically, and entirely to them.

By the time they climb the stairs and step into the company’s main building, she’s already retreating inward, trying to slip back into the cool, polished version of herself that she wears for the world. The mask. The one that hides the fear, the shame, the messy edges.

The meeting room is everything she remebers—sleek, expensive, sterile. A long polished mahogany table stretches across the center of the space, surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. On one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows offer a sweeping view of the city skyline, the morning sun breaking over glass towers and scattering gold across the room. The opposite wall holds a massive screen, already displaying their group’s logo, with a series of neatly arranged folders and tablets laid out for the day’s agenda. Everything gleams, from the chrome light fixtures to the water glasses set precisely in front of each chair.

Rumi sits between Zoey and Mira, close but not touching. The restraint is painful, every fiber of her body craving the casual intimacy they’d shared only minutes earlier. She taps her foot under the table, an anxious, restless rhythm she can’t stop, the sound muffled against the thick carpet. Her patterns, thankfully, have dimmed to faint echoes of light along her arms and neck, easy enough to ignore in the bright, controlled atmosphere.

Bobby sits across from them, already flipping through his notes. Around him, three executives in tailored suits settle into their seats, and two producers Rumi doesn’t recognize—men with sharp eyes and tired smiles—set up their tablets, styluses poised.

“Alright,” Bobby begins, his tone warm and practiced. “We’ve got a lot to cover today. This is the first real sit-down about your comeback album, so I want us aligned before we move into studio sessions.”

Mira sits with her back straight, every inch the picture of composed professionalism, but Rumi catches the subtle flick of her gaze toward her now and then. Zoey leans slightly forward, hands folded neatly, but her foot nudges lightly against Rumi’s under the table, a quiet reassurance. Rumi doesn’t return it. She’s too caught in the effort of maintaining the mask—shoulders squared, chin lifted, expression calm. Just like Celine taught her.

The executives drone on about timelines, media rollouts, performance concepts. One producer scrolls through mockups of potential stage designs on the screen. Another mentions the necessity of balancing group songs with strong solo showcases. Bobby chimes in here and there, defending them, praising their work ethic, dropping hints about the songs they’ve been drafting.

Rumi keeps her face neutral, but the tapping of her foot grows sharper, louder in her own ears. She wants to disappear into motion, into music or combat or anything other than sitting here, still, being looked at.

And she is being looked at.

One of the executives—a sharp-faced man with slicked-back hair and an immaculate navy suit—keeps stealing glances at her. At first, she thinks she’s imagining it, just paranoia prickling under her skin. But then his eyes linger, sliding not to her face, but to her arms where faint trails of her patterns peek just past the sleeves of her shirt.

Her chest tightens. She shifts subtly, tugging the sleeve down, hiding the patterns.

Bobby’s voice fades into the background as the man clears his throat. “Before we continue…” His tone is oily, curious, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I’d like to address something.”

Rumi freezes.

“Rumi.” He leans forward slightly, folding his hands. “Your… look. It’s different.” His gaze flicks deliberately to her arms. “Those are scars yes? Quite bold, to show them off now. How do you think the fan base will respond to such a… different look?”

The words hit like a slap.

Bobby moves instantly, tone sharp but controlled. “That’s not necessary. We’re here to talk about music—”

But Mira is faster.

Her chair scrapes against the carpet as she leans forward, her eyes sharp enough to cut. “Watch your tone.”

The room stills.

Mira’s voice is low, clipped, dangerous. She doesn’t raise it, doesn’t need to. The weight in it is enough to freeze every executive in place. “You don’t get to comment on her body like that. Not in this room. Not anywhere.”

Zoey stiffens beside Rumi, eyes darting between Mira and the man, lips parted in shock. Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering a curse under his breath, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Rumi, though—Rumi shuts down.

The shame hits hard and fast, sinking into her stomach like a stone. She lowers her eyes to the table, her hands folding tightly in her lap. The glow of her patterns dims almost completely, swallowed by the weight pressing down on her chest. She hates this. Hates being seen, being dissected, hates the truth of her body dragged out into the open. She thought she was ready. She thought she could hold herself steady. But now all she feels is wrong. Too strange. Too demonic.

The executive clears his throat, looking flustered under Mira’s glare. “I… I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” Mira’s tone is ice. “And it’s won’t be happening again.”

Silence hangs, thick and heavy, before Bobby jumps in, steering the meeting back on track. He smooths his voice into something diplomatic, guiding the discussion back to song concepts, recording schedules, deadlines. The room loosens slowly, conversation resuming, but the damage is done.

Rumi keeps her gaze fixed on the table, never looking up. Her foot taps faster, harder, the rhythm erratic. Zoey glances at her, worry etched in every line of her face, but doesn’t speak. Not here. Mira leans back in her chair, jaw tight, arms crossed, her fury still simmering just beneath the surface.

The meeting drags. Rumi doesn’t hear most of it. The words blur, meaningless, drowned out by the echo of that man’s comment and the hollow ache in her chest. She feels smaller, folded inward, her body tense as though bracing for another blow. Her patterns stay dim, no longer pulsing, no longer alive. Just dull lines against her skin she wishes she could rip away.

When the producers speak about beats and themes, Zoey takes notes diligently, nodding at suggestions. Mira asks pointed questions about stage control and vocal arrangements, her professionalism intact even as her anger simmers visibly in the tightness of her voice. Rumi doesn’t contribute, doesn’t move. She exists in the space between them, silent, shrinking, invisible.

The clock ticks on. Water glasses empty. Tablets click softly as styluses scribble across their screens. The city glitters outside the window, bright and alive, while the meeting room feels like a cage.

By the time Bobby begins wrapping things up, Mira looks ready to kill someone, Zoey looks like she might cry, and Rumi feels like she’s drowning in her own silence. But they head out the door regardless, ready to move on.

The door to the meeting room shuts behind them with a heavy click, and it feels like the air finally loosens in Rumi’s lungs. They walk down the long corridor in silence, Bobby already storming ahead to take a call, his voice low and urgent. Rumi lags behind, her arms crossed tightly over her stomach, patterns barely flickering under her skin.

Zoey and Mira flank her, one on each side, quiet and watchful. Neither pushes, not yet. They wait until they’ve ducked into a side lounge—one of the company’s smaller rehearsal spaces, empty and private, a low couch and a scattering of chairs against one wall. Mira shuts the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the stillness.

The quiet lasts all of two seconds before Zoey moves. She practically launches herself onto the couch beside Rumi, cupping her face in both hands and peppering kisses across her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “You’re so pretty, Rumi. So, so pretty. The prettiest girl in the whole world.” Another kiss lands at the corner of her mouth, quick and soft. “And if anyone else says otherwise, I’ll kill them myself.”

Rumi huffs out a weak laugh, the sound breaking halfway. Her body is still locked tight, but Zoey’s relentless affection chips at the edges. She closes her eyes, letting the kisses land, warmth spreading through her chest despite the ache still lodged there.

Mira, meanwhile, paces. Her long strides back and forth across the room echo the fury still rolling off her in waves. “The nerve of that idiot. In front of all of us. He thinks he can speak to you like that? I swear, if I ever see him outside that office—”

“Mira,” Zoey interrupts lightly, though she’s still kissing along Rumi’s temple.

“No, I’m serious.” Mira whirls, eyes flashing. “A car accident would be too quick. No, he needs something slower. Something poetic. Maybe—”

“Mira,” Rumi says softly, finally reaching a hand out, her fingers trembling but firm.

The effect is instant. Mira crosses the room in two strides, taking her hand without hesitation, gripping it tightly like she’ll never let go. Her anger doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, softens, replaced with a protectiveness so fierce it burns.

For a while, they stay like that—Zoey curled against Rumi’s side, still dotting kisses over her face, Mira crouched in front of her, hand in hers, eyes locked on her like she’s daring the world to try again. The storm inside Rumi eases just enough for her to breathe.

“I’m okay,” she whispers after a few minutes, though the words are raw. She squeezes Mira’s hand. “I’m okay. Really. We have more to get on with. Don’t let me hold us up.”

Zoey pulls back just enough to search her face. Mira doesn’t look convinced, but Rumi keeps her gaze steady, even with the lump in her throat. Eventually, Mira exhales through her nose, sharp but resigned.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But I’m not done with this.”

“Noted,” Rumi murmurs, lips twitching faintly.

They gather themselves, leaving the lounge behind and making their way down another corridor toward the studio floor. The space shifts the moment they step in—less sterile, more alive. The walls are lined with soundproofing panels, guitars and cables strewn in corners, keyboards lit with faint LEDs.

Waiting for them inside is their main producer for this album, a young man with messy blond hair, sun-kissed skin, and a wide, easy grin. He looks like he belongs more on a California beach with a surfboard than in a Seoul studio, his hoodie half-zipped and his sneakers untied.

“Finally!” he exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “The legends themselves. I’ve been counting down the days until I got to work with you guys.”

Zoey laughs, Mira smirks, and even Rumi manages a small smile. His energy is infectious, disarming.

They exchange greetings, settling into the space as he runs through a few technical checks. Then, mid-sentence, he pauses, eyes flicking over Rumi. Not sharply, not cruelly—just curious.

“I just gotta say,” he blurts, “those scars? Sick as hell. Like, actually badass. If I could, I’d cover my whole body in ink just to get a design like that.” He shakes his head, grinning. “But nah, I’d never look that good. You pull it off too well.”

Rumi blinks, heat rushing to her cheeks so fast it leaves her dizzy. Compliments, she can handle. Attention, maybe. But spoken so casually, with admiration instead of judgment? It leaves her scrambling, flustered and unsure what to do with her hands. She ducks her head slightly, mumbling, “Thanks,” even as her patterns flare pink against her skin, betraying her.

Zoey notices immediately. Her eyes narrow, and she sidles closer, slipping an arm through Rumi’s and tugging her firmly toward the recording booth. “Alright, let’s not waste time,” she says brightly, a little too bright. “Rumi’s first up.”

Mira is already on the other side, opening the booth door, one brow arched, her gaze sharp. “In you go,” she says, her tone deceptively smooth.

Rumi blinks at them both, flustered again. “Wait, what—”

But Zoey is already guiding her inside, hand at the small of her back, a quick kiss pressed to her cheek before she pulls away. Mira follows, not stepping inside but closing the door behind Rumi with a soft but deliberate click, leaving her alone with the mic and the faint echo of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Through the glass, she sees them both—Zoey with her arms crossed, smirking smugly, Mira leaning against the console like she owns the place, eyes sharp and possessive.

Rumi exhales, half a laugh, half a groan. “You two are being weird,” she mutters under her breath. But her blush lingers, her patterns glowing brighter as she pulls on the headphones and prepares to sing.

The booth is hushed, the faint hum of the mic the only sound as Rumi adjusts the headphones over her ears. The instrumental track cues up, heavy bass and synths sliding into the room, filling her chest. It’s a familiar rhythm, one she’s practiced in stolen moments, but never once let anyone else hear. Not Mira. Not Zoey. This one she’s kept close to her chest. Until now.

Her hands curl loosely around the mic stand, nails grazing the metal. She closes her eyes, exhales once, and lets herself sink into the beat.

The first words come soft, low, the mic catching the husk in her voice.

“I want you to love me
Like I’m a hot ride
Be thinking of me
Doing what you like”

Her hips sway gently, matching the slow roll of the rhythm. She tilts her chin up, lashes brushing her cheeks as she opens her mouth again, voice slipping between sultry and commanding.
“So girl forget about the world, cause it’s gone be me you tonight
I wanna make you beg for it, and imma make you swallow your pride”

On the other side of the glass, Mira’s posture changes instantly. She was leaning casual, cool, but now she’s locked in, eyes sharp, her hand curling around the edge of the console like she needs something to anchor her. Zoey’s already leaning forward in her chair, lips parted, breath caught.

Rumi shifts her weight from one foot to the other, body finding the groove with a natural ease. Her patterns spark faintly along her arms, barely visible under the studio lighting but enough that Zoey notices, her own patterns tingling in response.

The chorus hits, Rumi’s voice rising, filling the booth with confidence.
“Want you to make me feel
Like I'm the only girl in the world
Like I'm the only one that you'll ever love
Like I'm the only one who knows your heart
Only girl in the world
Like I'm the only one that's in command
'Cause I'm the only one who understands
How to make you feel like a man, yeah
Want you to make me feel
Like I'm the only girl in the world
Like I'm the only one that you'll ever love
Like I'm the only one who knows your heart”

She belts it, raw and unrestrained, closing her eyes as her chest swells with the power of it. Her free hand lifts, fingers brushing through her own hair before sliding down her neck. It’s instinct, movement she doesn’t think about, but it looks like something rehearsed—something meant to be watched.

Zoey’s grip on Mira’s arm tightens. Mira doesn’t even flinch, though her jaw locks, a muscle ticking as she keeps her eyes fixed on Rumi.

Rumi sways harder with the beat now, every line pulling her deeper into the song, deeper into herself.
“Want you to take it
Like a theif in the night
Hold me like a pillow
Make me feel right”

She opens her eyes for just a moment, and they fall on Mira and Zoey. The sight almost knocks the air from her lungs. Both of them are frozen, staring, faces flushed so red it could be fever. Zoey looks like she’s on the verge of combusting, her hand a vice around Mira’s arm. Mira looks carved from stone, but her eyes burn, molten and unblinking.

Rumi forces herself to look away, back at the mic, back at the lyrics. Her patterns flare anyway, bright enough now that the lines shimmer faintly through her shirt.

The bridge slides in, slick and teasing.
“Baby, I’ll tell you all my secrets that keeping, you can come inside
And when you enter you aint leaving, be my prisoner for the night”

Her voice drops again, sultry, almost a whisper. She leans closer to the mic, lips brushing the mesh as if she’s whispering directly into someone’s ear. Her hips roll gently with the beat, small movements that feel like they might crack the air in two.

Zoey makes a sound—it’s faint, but picked up even through the glass, a strangled mix between a gasp and a groan. Mira doesn’t look at her, though Rumi can see the bruising mark Zoey’s fingers are surely leaving on her arm.

And still, she keeps going.

“Take me for a ride, ride
Oh, baby, take me high, high
Let me make you rise, rise
Oh, make it last all night, night
Take me for a ride, ride
Oh, baby, take me high, high
Let me make you rise, rise
Make it last all night”

Her voice soars again, threading heat through every note. She grips the stand tighter, her patterns blazing brighter, glowing in pulsing rhythm with the bass. It feels like the song is living inside her now, bleeding out of every pore, every movement.

The final chorus crashes in. Rumi throws her head back, eyes shut, and sings like it’s the only thing tethering her to the ground.
“Want you to make me feel
Like I'm the only girl in the world
Like I'm the only one that you'll ever love
Like I'm the only one who knows your heart
Only girl in the world
Like I'm the only one that's in command
'Cause I'm the only one who understands
How to make you feel like a man
Only girl in the world
Girl in the world
Only girl in the world
Girl in the world…”

Her voice cracks on the edge of rawness, perfect in its imperfection, vulnerable and commanding all at once. Her body is swaying, her chest heaving, her entire being consumed by the fire of the music.

When the last note leaves her throat, it hangs in the air, echoing in the booth. Rumi stays there, gripping the mic stand, eyes closed, panting softly, her patterns blazing across her arms and neck like fire.

Slowly, she opens her eyes and glances over.

Zoey and Mira are statues. Zoey’s hand is still crushing Mira’s arm so tightly the blood must be cut off, her face an impossible shade of red, lips parted like she’s forgotten how to close them. Mira… Mira’s eyes are black with heat, unreadable except for the tension rolling off her in waves, every line of her body screaming restraint.

Rumi swallows hard, suddenly aware of the sweat on her skin, the way her patterns won’t settle. She forces herself to look away, tugging off the headphones with shaky hands.

The producer, Tyler, breaks the silence first. His jaw drops open, then he lets out a long whistle, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “Holy shit,” he says, grinning wide. “That was… wow. No notes. Seriously. None. Perfect take. I mean—maybe just a couple of light layering bits from Mira and Zoey later, but Rumi? That was it. That’s insane.”

He shakes his head again, still staring at her like he can’t believe what he just heard. “Didn’t know you had that in you. I’m shocked. I thought for sure we would be doing cutesie pop, but this? Dam girl.”

Rumi flushes under the attention, ducking her head, though her patterns refuse to dim. She fiddles with the cable at her hip, trying to gather herself, but her pulse is a thunderstorm in her ears.

Through the glass, she can still see them. Zoey and Mira haven’t moved, not really. Zoey looks halfway to climbing out of her own skin, her eyes locked on Rumi like she can’t blink. Mira’s expression hasn’t shifted, but the way her jaw flexes, the way her chest rises and falls—Rumi knows that look, it used to scare her.

And it’s all directed at her.

The tension is so thick it’s a wonder the glass between them doesn’t shatter.

Rumi finally forces herself to let go of the mic stand, her fingers numb. She gives Tyler a shaky nod, murmuring, “Thanks,” before glancing once more at her girls.

Mira and Zoey are both staring at her like she’s something unreal, their mouths parted, eyes glazed. For once, neither of them has words.

Zoey’s hand is still wrapped tightly around Mira’s arm, knuckles pale from the grip. Mira doesn’t even flinch at the pressure—her gaze is locked wholly on Rumi, heat burning in those sharp eyes, lips pressed together like she’s keeping something dangerous back.

Rumi swallows, throat dry. She feels pinned by their stares, her patterns glowing faintly beneath her shirt like they’ve been branded into her skin. She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t.

Tyler breaks the silence, bouncing forward in his rolling chair with that easy grin that doesn’t seem to register the storm in the room. “Okay, we’ll need a little layering. Some harmonies, some echoes. Mira, Zoey, you’ll take turns running a few lines. Just to thicken the track.”

Zoey finally blinks, releasing Mira’s arm to take the paper. Mira takes hers slower, eyes cutting back to Rumi once before she scans the sheet.

“R-right,” Zoey says, clearing her throat. “Yeah. Easy.”

Rumi hovers near the back of the couch, her hands twisting together. She feels raw. Exposed. Like singing that song stripped away every layer of armour she had left. But worse than that—her body isn’t calming down. The heat in her chest, in her lower abdomen, only grows sharper, hotter, sparking under her skin.

She forces herself to sit, pressing down on the couch beside Mira, hoping the contact might ground her. But it doesn’t. It only makes it worse. Her thigh brushes Mira’s, and the touch sends a shock straight through her. She’s hyperaware of every inch of herself, every inch of Mira so close, Zoey moving to the booth with her lyric sheet in hand.

“Alright, Zoey,” Tyler calls, leaning into the console. “Let’s try this section first.”

The booth door shuts behind her. Zoey lifts the headphones over her ears, paper in one hand, adjusting the mic with the other. She looks so casual about it, grinning at Tyler through the glass, bouncing once on her toes. And then she starts to sing.

Her voice is lighter, higher, cutting through the instrumental like sunlight. She sings her lines with ease, laughter curling at the end of the second run when she gets a little playful.

Rumi tries to listen. She really does. She folds her hands tight in her lap and focuses on the booth, on the curve of Zoey’s mouth, the sound of her voice. But all she can feel is the heat thrumming through her body. It’s unbearable. Her patterns are glowing brighter, she knows it, too hot under her skin, impossible to hide. Her breathing grows shallow, quick, like she can’t pull enough air into her lungs.

Beside her, Mira shifts. Just the soft brush of movement is enough to pull Rumi’s attention. Mira’s eyes flick to her, sharp and assessing, and her hand starts to reach—slow, careful—like she means to place it on Rumi’s knee.

Rumi jerks back before Mira can touch her. “Don’t—” The word comes out harsher than she intends, her voice tight and strained. She stands so quickly the couch creaks.

Mira freezes, hand still half-lifted, her brows knitting in concern.

Rumi can’t breathe. She can’t stay here, not with Mira’s eyes on her, not with Zoey’s voice filling the room and setting her blood on fire. “I—I need a minute,” she manages, her throat thick, the words trembling out of her. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She bolts for the door, slipping into the hall before Mira can say anything more.

The cool air outside the studio is a slap compared to the heavy heat of the control room. Rumi presses her palm flat to the wall, her patterns pulsing bright enough that she can see them glow against the dim lighting. She drags in a breath, but it doesn’t help. Her whole body is humming, vibrating with want she doesn’t know how to control.

She stumbles down the hall, head ducked, ignoring the curious glance of a passing assistant. The nearest bathroom door looms and she slips inside, shutting it quick behind her. The lock clicks.

For a moment, she just leans against the door, chest heaving. Sweat prickles along her temples. Her claws twitch in and out, her teeth ache, the low growl in her chest threatening to rip free if she doesn’t control it.

Her reflection in the mirror is wild-eyed, flushed, her braids messy around her face. The glow of her patterns spreads over her skin like molten fire, betraying every ounce of what she feels inside.

She grips the sink, knuckles white, head bowing. She needs a release. She can’t hold this in anymore. Not with Mira and Zoey so close. Not with their voices in her ears, their hands always finding her, their kisses still burning on her skin.

Her breath shudders out of her, uneven and desperate. She has to do something, anything, before she breaks. She splashes water, ice cold, over her face. It does nothing.

She knows she can’t go for a run, she will have maybe ten minutes before either Mira or Zoey come looking for her. She watches her own reflection in the mirror for what feels like a century before letting her hand move.

Just as she did over a month ago, she lets her hand trail down her body, and slip past the waist band of her pants.

It feels dirty, disgusting, inappropriate eve, to be doing this here – while her bandmates are two rooms away, singing lyrics she wrote, about how she wants them to touch her, to take her. But the second her fingers meet wet heat, she knows this was the only option.

She doesn’t hesitate this time, letting her fingers find a quick, firm rhythm immediately. She’s already worked up enough to be desperate, so much so that she feels a rumble start to break free in her chest. She tries to muffle it, not wanting anymore of her demon blood to run her body than she is currently allowing.

Tight circles become frantic as she presses her back into the door of the bathroom, panting as she watches herself in the mirror. She sees her patterns glowing, too bright as always. She sees her hand moving under the fabric of her pants, uncontrolled and desperate. She hears the sounds her body is making echo off the walls. Her breathing is high pitched, the slick sounds of her hand movements are crude, and she whining with every circle of her fingers.

It doesn’t take long, the energy of the day and the lingering feeling of her bandmates hands getting her there faster than she thought was possible. She comes hard, watching herself in the mirror as her jaw drops, her eyes half close and she convulses against her own hand.

She feels relief for the first time in hours, her body relaxing, her patterns returning to their usual low iridescent hum. Yet she feels guilty, again, that she had resorted to getting herself off to manage her new body.

She doesn’t get long to dwell on it, as a knock on the door sounds firm and controlled.

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice echoes, causing Rumi to whine slightly at the memory of what she’s just done.

“Just a minute!” She yells back, moving to wash her hands, fix her hair and unlock the door.

When she opens it, Mira looks her over, eyes curious. She raises a plucked eyebrow at her, smirking, and for just a second Rumi is horrified to this she has been caught.

“You ok?” Mira asks, “You left in a hurry.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Rumi clears her throat, “Just needed a second to recover.”

Mira hums, walking beside Rumi as they head back to the studio where Zoey is now waiting on the couch.

The couch in the studio feels too small when the three of them sit together, shoulder to shoulder, across from Tyler’s rolling chair. Rumi folds her arms tight across her chest, trying not to fidget, though her body still hums faintly with leftover energy she can’t quite burn away. Mira and Zoey sit on either side of her, close but not touching. For the first time in weeks, the absence of their hands on her feels like a void.

Tyler stretches, yawns behind his fist, and offers them a loose grin. “Alright, girls. That’s it for today. Big work done. Rumi, that solo’s a damn powerhouse. Zoey, Mira, you’ve got the harmonies down. We’ll tighten the layers in mixing.” He taps his pen against the desk, then points it casually at all three of them. “Next session, I want the rest of your solo projects on deck. Don’t care if they’re half-polished—bring them in. We’ll flesh them out together.”

Zoey hums a note of agreement, easy as always. Mira gives a short nod, her sharp gaze flicking briefly toward Rumi, then away. Rumi doesn’t speak. She just lifts her chin in a shallow nod, because she doesn’t trust her voice not to crack with the weight pressing on her chest.

“Good.” Tyler spins his chair around, already typing something onto his laptop. “That’s it for me. Go on, get outta here.”

The dismissal hangs heavy in the air. None of them rush to stand. Eventually, Mira pushes herself up first, sliding her lyric sheet into her bag with deliberate precision. Zoey bounces after her, tugging lightly at Rumi’s sleeve until she rises too, stiff and silent.

They leave the booth behind. Rumi’s steps drag on the polished floor, her body exhausted but her mind still thrumming. The hallway feels longer than usual, and when they step outside into the cool night air, Bobby is already waiting by the sleek black car. He waves when he sees them, his smile big and bright, though the fatigue around his eyes betrays his own long day of meetings.

“Girls!” His voice booms as he strides forward, arms open. “Finally, you’re done!”

He pulls Mira into a hug first, then Zoey, then Rumi. His warmth is solid, comforting—but when he leans back from Rumi, his gaze flicks to her patterns, glowing faintly even under her long sleeves. There’s a flicker in his eyes—curiosity, maybe concern—but he doesn’t comment. He just pats her shoulder firmly. “Proud of you. All of you. Come on, let’s get out of here. I missed lunch, so dinner’s on me.”

The car ride back to the tower is silent. Bobby tries a few times to spark conversation, asking about the session, about Tyler’s notes, about whether they’re nervous for the next round of work. Mira answers in clipped tones, Zoey hums agreement without elaborating, and Rumi says nothing at all.

She sits in the middle, the way she always does. But instead of leaning into Zoey’s playful chatter or Mira’s quiet steadiness, she holds herself rigid, hands clasped in her lap. Zoey leans her head against the window, fighting sleep. Mira stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, her thigh brushing against Rumi’s only when the car bumps over a rough patch of road.

Rumi stares at her knees. Her body aches for their touch, for the warmth of them pressed against her on either side. But she can’t bring herself to lean in, not after the way she bolted earlier, not with the mess still spinning in her chest.

By the time they reach the tower, exhaustion has settled over them all like a blanket. Bobby jogs ahead to grab the takeout he ordered on the way—Korean barbecue, still steaming hot, the smell filling the elevator as they ascend.

They eat in silence at the long kitchen table. Chopsticks clink against plastic containers, the only sound in the room. Zoey yawns halfway through her bowl, covers her mouth with the back of her hand. Mira eats slowly, measured, her eyes downcast. Rumi chews mechanically, though she barely tastes the food.

Normally, dinner would lead into their nightly routine—showering off the day, piling onto the couch with snacks, a movie playing as they ended up tangled together in a heap of limbs and laughter. It’s been their ritual for over a month now, a rhythm Rumi came to rely on, even if she never admitted it aloud.

But tonight, when the food is gone and Bobby retreats to his own apartment with a wave and a reminder about tomorrow’s schedule, no one moves toward the TV. Zoey rubs her eyes, Mira stretches with a muted groan, and both start toward their rooms without discussion.

Rumi lingers in the kitchen, frozen. She waits for one of them to look back, to tug her along, to make it easy. Neither does. Their doors shut quietly down the hall.

The apartment feels cavernous without them.

Rumi showers quickly, the water hotter than usual, trying to scrub away the leftover heat simmering in her body. It doesn’t work. She dries off, pulls on loose shorts and a cropped tee, and pads barefoot into her bedroom.

The sheets feel cold when she slips beneath them alone. For the first time in weeks, there’s no Mira already curled on her side, no Zoey sprawled across her with a grin, no warmth pressing into her from both directions. Just empty space.

She curls tight, drawing her knees to her chest, clutching the pillow like it might substitute for them. It doesn’t. The silence is too loud, the absence too sharp. Her patterns glow faintly against the dark, restless, as if even her body doesn’t know how to be without their touch anymore.

Her mind replays the day in merciless detail—the heat of singing Only Girl, the look on Zoey’s face, Mira’s sharp stare, the way her body nearly came undone just sitting on that couch. She replays bolting for the bathroom, the sound of the lock clicking, the mirror reflecting the wild glow of her patterns. She replays the way her chest had burned, the desperate need clawing through her.

Her throat tightens. Shame curls deep in her gut.

She buries her face in the pillow, trying to block out the ache, the memory, the longing. But the pillow smells faintly like them, like Mira’s perfume and Zoey’s shampoo, and it makes her chest ache worse.

She tells herself to sleep. That tomorrow will be another day. That she can hold herself together. But her body doesn’t listen. Her mind doesn’t listen. She feels empty without them.

Her claws slip in and out against the sheets, catching the fabric. She forces her eyes shut, but the darkness brings no relief—only flashes of their faces, their voices, the heat of their hands.

Chapter Text

The light that slips through the curtains is thin, pale, and quiet. It paints everything in soft gold, the world muffled in the early hours. Rumi stirs slowly, caught between the heavy comfort of sleep and the buzzing awareness creeping back into her body.

It’s the warmth she feels first.

Her body is wrapped in it, trapped in it, pressed from both sides. There’s weight against her back—Zoey—and heat in front—Mira. It takes her a second to register where she is, how tightly they’re all tangled together, the way her arms and legs are caught up with theirs. They hadn’t been there when she fell asleep, but they clearly made themselves comfortable when they came in.

Then it hits her.

Her arm is around Mira’s waist, the fabric of Mira’s thin shirt pushed up in the night. Her palm rests flat on bare skin, soft and warm, the curve of Mira’s waist fitting perfectly into her hand. Her other hand is trapped between their bodies, pressed awkwardly against Mira’s shoulders.

And behind her, Zoey is moulded to her spine like she was built for it. One of Zoey’s arms is slotted under Rumi’s, hand splayed across her chest, palm heavy and warm. Every breath Rumi takes makes her aware of it, makes her painfully aware of how close that hand is to her racing heart.

Her own heart kicks hard against her ribs. Her patterns flicker weakly, soft bursts of colour she can’t contain.

Too close. Way too close.

Rumi freezes, holding her breath like stillness might undo the mess she’s woken into. But the longer she stays, the more impossible it becomes to ignore. Mira shifts in her sleep, arching her back ever so slightly, and the movement presses Rumi’s hand more firmly against her skin. Heat sparks in Rumi’s chest, scattering through her veins.

Behind her, Zoey mumbles something incoherent, her breath hot against the back of Rumi’s neck. Her hand moves too, a slow unconscious shift, her palm dragging lazily against Rumi’s chest before settling again. The motion makes Rumi’s entire body jolt.

Her emotions spiral, colours pulsing through her patterns in short bursts—iridescent blue, sharp orange, a flicker of gold. She bites down on her lip to keep any sound from slipping out.

Stay still. Don’t move. Don’t wake them. Don’t—

But her body betrays her. Her hands twitch against Mira’s waist, her fingers brushing along skin so soft she swears it can’t be real. The texture, the warmth—it’s overwhelming. Almost without thinking, her thumb shifts, stroking lightly across the dip of Mira’s side.

Mira sighs in her sleep, the smallest sound, but it makes Rumi’s blood catch fire.

Behind her, Zoey shifts again, her hand over Rumi moving unconsciously, fingers spreading, brushing lightly as if echoing Rumi’s own restless need. A soft hum escapes Zoey’s lips, and her breath ghosts warm against Rumi’s skin.

Rumi squeezes her eyes shut. Her body is practically vibrating now, patterns flickering wild and uncontrollable. Her thighs press together instinctively, trying to ground herself, but it only sharpens everything.

Stop. Stop. You can’t—

Her fingers keep moving anyway. They trace small, delicate shapes over Mira’s skin, up toward her ribs, then back down to her hip. Just enough to feel, to memorize, to burn into her palm. Every movement makes Mira’s body shift in response, subtle and intimate.

Zoey’s hand twitches again, sliding lower, her fingers brushing faintly against Rumi’s hip. It’s clumsy in sleep, but it’s enough to make Rumi’s breath stutter out in a shaky gasp.

Her head tilts forward, almost instinctively, and she finds herself breathing into Mira’s hair. The faint scent of her shampoo, clean and floral, curls into her nose and makes her dizzy. She tries to slow her breath, but her chest rises and falls too quickly, pressing her tighter against Zoey’s palm.

She doesn’t realize her eyes have slipped half-shut, her body caught in the trance of it all, until Mira’s voice cuts through the haze.

“...Does that feel good Ru?”

Rumi jerks like she’s been struck.

Mira’s voice is husky, still rough from sleep, but there’s no mistaking the words. No mistaking the deliberate edge in them.

Rumi’s entire body goes rigid. Panic surges sharp in her chest, her patterns flashing violent purple before scattering into chaotic bursts of colour. She scrambles to move, to yank her hands away, to put distance between herself and Mira’s warm skin.

“I—I didn’t—” she stammers, breathless, heart in her throat. “I wasn’t—”

But Mira shifts, rolling carefully onto her back. Then she turns just enough to face Rumi. Her movement is precise, deliberate, making sure Zoey doesn’t stir. And suddenly, Rumi is trapped again, face-to-face with Mira in the narrow space between them.

They are inches apart.

Rumi’s breath catches. Her eyes dart helplessly between Mira’s gaze and her lips. She can feel Zoey’s steady breathing against her back, the weight of her arm still pressed firm against her chest, anchoring her in place. There’s nowhere to run.

“Don’t wake her,” Mira whispers, voice so low it’s almost a purr. Her eyes search Rumi’s, calm but unreadable, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth.

Rumi’s heart pounds so hard it hurts. Her body shakes with the effort of staying still, of not combusting right here between them. She swallows, her throat dry, but the words don’t come.

Mira’s hand shifts again once she settles, taking Rumi’s hand, and placing it back on her bare waist. She watches Rumi’s eyes, glowing faintly, as she places her own hand on the singers cheek, smiling softly.

The air between them hums with tension, sharp and electric. Rumi’s patterns flare bright, lighting her skin in trembling shades of gold and pink.

Mira leans just a little closer, her breath brushing Rumi’s lips. “Breathe,” she whispers.

Rumi tries. She fails.

Her chest heaves, her claws threaten to push through, and every nerve in her body screams at her to move, to stay, to choose.

She’s suspended there, trapped between Mira’s eyes and Zoey’s warmth, her body burning under the weight of both.

And she knows—whether she can admit it or not—this is the edge of something she can’t turn back from.

The air is heavy, thick with heat and something else Rumi doesn’t know how to describe. Her chest is heaving in short bursts, and every breath she takes drags Mira’s scent deeper into her lungs, floral and dizzying.

Mira doesn’t move far. She’s still right there, inches away, watching Rumi like she’s unravelling her with her eyes alone. Calm, steady, unshaken—even while Rumi trembles like she’s about to fall apart.

“Rumi,” Mira whispers, her voice low and husky. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”

Rumi’s lips part, but no words come out. Her throat works uselessly, the only sound a shaky exhale. Her patterns flare against her skin—bright orange and gold bleeding into electric blue—chaotic and uncontrollable.

“I—” Rumi swallows, her voice cracking. “I can’t—my body—”

Her words collapse into a soft whimper when Mira shifts closer, her thigh sliding forward until it presses between Rumi’s legs. The contact jolts her like lightning, every nerve ending sparking.

Mira leans in, slow, deliberate, her eyes never leaving Rumi’s. “You’re shaking,” she murmurs. “You’re burning up.”

Rumi bites down on her lip, her fangs poking through as her body pulses against Mira’s thigh. She wants to pull away, wants to run—but her body won’t let her. Her hands stay exactly where they are, pressed against Mira’s warm skin, fingers twitching.

Behind her, Zoey shifts in her sleep. Her hand, still resting across Rumi’s chest, begins to move lazily, fingertips brushing over her collarbone, then back down to splay wide just beneath her throat. A soft, unconscious hum escapes Zoey’s lips, her breath hot against the back of Rumi’s neck.

Rumi’s entire body arches helplessly, trapped between the steady push of Mira’s thigh and Zoey’s wandering hand. Her breath stutters, broken, a half-whine slipping past her lips.

Mira notices every detail. She tilts her head, studying Rumi’s trembling body with a smirk that borders on cruel. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Rumi shakes her head quickly, then nods, then shakes it again, panicked. “I—I don’t—why are you—”

Her voice catches in her throat when Mira’s hand slides up, catching her wrist where it still rests against her waist. Instead of moving it away, Mira presses it harder against her skin, forcing Rumi’s palm to curve fully around her ribcage.

“You can touch me,” Mira whispers. The words are quiet, but they strike deep, lodging in Rumi’s chest. “I’m letting you Rumi.”

Rumi’s mouth falls open. Her breathing is ragged now, every inhale trembling, every exhale sounding like a plea.

“I can’t—” she manages, shaking her head again. “Mira, I can’t breathe. It’s—it’s too much—”

Her words collapse into another broken whine when Mira presses closer, her thigh pushing deeper between Rumi’s. Her body rocks without her consent, caught on the edge of something she doesn’t think she can control.

“Shh,” Mira murmurs, her free hand sliding up to cup Rumi’s jaw, tilting her face toward her. Her thumb strokes across Rumi’s cheek, grounding, steady. “Stop thinking so much. Just feel.”

Rumi whimpers again, but her resistance cracks. Her patterns blaze bright, a kaleidoscope of colours spilling across her skin. She closes her eyes, gasping for air, and lets her hand move.

It trails upward, trembling at first, then firmer, sliding over Mira’s side, tracing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her collarbone. Her fingers graze skin so warm and impossibly soft, and every inch feels like it’s burning her alive.

Her other hand finally escapes the tension of stillness, sliding upward too, skimming over Mira’s shoulder until it finds her neck. She clings there, fingers curling tight, holding on like Mira is the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

When she opens her eyes again, Mira is still there, watching her with sharp, steady focus. Their faces are inches apart, breaths mingling, eyes locked. Rumi’s gaze flickers helplessly between Mira’s eyes and her lips, every thought tangled in heat and panic and want.

Behind her, Zoey mumbles again, her body shifting. Her hand slides lower, brushing over the swell of Rumi’s chest before settling right at the edge of her ribs. The unconscious touch makes Rumi cry out softly, her body jerking forward into Mira.

“Zoey—” she gasps, her voice breaking, but it only fuels Mira’s smirk.

“You like it,” Mira says softly, a whisper that feels like a confession and a challenge at the same time.

Rumi shakes her head desperately, but her body betrays her, trembling harder, her patterns pulsing in waves of golden light. “I—I can’t—”

“Stop.” Mira’s voice cuts through, firm but still gentle. Her fingers tighten on Rumi’s jaw, forcing her to keep her eyes open. “Stop fighting yourself. For once, Rumi—just feel.”

Her words hit deep, sinking past every wall Rumi has tried to hold.

She gasps, her chest heaving, her throat tight with need. And then—she lets go.

Her hand on Mira’s neck pulls her closer, holding tight like she might drown otherwise. Her other hand roams freely now, sliding up across Mira’s collarbone, fingertips brushing the base of her throat, then down again to map every line of her body.

Mira’s breath stutters, but she doesn’t stop her. She stays close, eyes locked, her thigh pressed firm between Rumi’s legs, her hand steady on her jaw.

Rumi’s whole body starts to vibrate, her patterns shimmering brighter with every second. She whines softly, the sound desperate and raw, her eyes hooded as she stares at Mira like she’s the only thing in the world.

Her lips part, trembling, but no words come out. Only sound. Only breath. Only need.

Mira leans closer, until their foreheads touch. Her voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of Rumi’s heart.

“That’s it Rumi, good girl,” she breathes.

The words snap something in Rumi, a surge of heat crashing through her body. She clings tighter to Mira, her claws free, her fangs pressing sharp against her lip.

It’s too much. It’s everything.

Rumi doesn’t notice at first. She’s too focused on Mira, on the steady heat of her thigh pressing between her legs and the sharp steadiness of her eyes, on the way her own hands won’t obey her mind.

But then Zoey’s hand moves again.

It slips lower this time, no longer drifting lazily in half-sleep. Her palm presses beneath Rumi’s shirt, warm against the glowing lines of her patterns, sliding flat against the curve of her stomach. The touch makes Rumi jolt, a gasp catching sharp in her throat. Her entire body lights up, the colours on her skin flaring so brightly she swears she can feel them burn.

A sound breaks free of her chest. Not a gasp, not a whine—something deeper, rougher. A growl. It rumbles low in her chest, vibrating through her ribcage until she feels it in her teeth. The sound shocks her almost as much as Zoey’s hand.

She’s never made that noise before.

Her claws flex against Mira’s skin, her breathing a wild stutter. She tries to suck in air, but it’s too much, everything pressing in at once—Mira’s thigh, Zoey’s hand, her own fingers curled tight in Mira’s neck and skin.

Mira notices instantly. She tips her head, studying Rumi with razor-sharp calm even while her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smirk.

“What do you need, Rumi?” Mira whispers, her voice velvet and steel all at once.

Rumi can’t answer. Her lips part, but the only thing that comes out is another broken sound, something between a whine and that new, strange growl. Her chest is tight, her body trembling, her throat dry. Words won’t come, only sound.

“Tell me,” Mira urges, her fingers flexing against Rumi’s jaw. Her thigh presses higher, and the pressure makes Rumi’s head fall forward to place her forehead against Mira’s again, another rumble clawing its way out of her chest.

“I—” Her voice cracks, heat flooding her cheeks. “I want—”

Her growl bursts louder this time, shocking her into silence as she pictures exactly what she wants to happen next. Her eyes widen, chest heaving, patterns sparking in wild gold. She’s never felt this out of control.

Mira leans closer, voice low and certain. “Say it.”

Rumi’s claws prick where she grips Mira’s skin. Her whole body shakes with the effort of forcing words out instead of sound. Finally, broken, choked, she blurts, “I want—I want to kiss you.”

The words tear through her like fire. Her face burns hotter than it ever has, shame and want crashing together.

Before Mira can answer, a voice purrs behind her, hot breath against her ear.

“Then do it.”

Zoey.

Rumi freezes, her body locking tight. She hadn’t realized—she hadn’t known—Zoey is awake. Awake, and touching her. Not half-asleep, not dreaming. Awake. Her hand is fully under Rumi’s shirt now, fingers spreading across glowing patterns, moving deliberately over the heat of her skin.

Rumi gasps, every nerve screaming, the overstimulation nearly knocking her flat. Her growl turns ragged, spilling out of her chest uncontrolled, shaking her whole body. She can’t focus—Mira’s face inches away, Zoey’s lips at her ear, her hand roaming lower, tracing over ribs, waist, hips. Lower still, daring to curve against the swell of her ass.

Her hands won’t stop moving either, restless, desperate. They grip Mira tighter, sliding over skin, clawing at her ribs, her waist, her shoulder, like she’s trying to memorize every inch by touch alone.

She looks at Mira through wide, panicked eyes, searching for escape, for grounding—but Mira only smirks. Her lips curl slow, dangerous, certain, like she planned this all along.

“Kiss me, Rumi,” Mira whispers, voice rich with command.

Rumi’s chest lurches. Her body is trembling so hard she can barely hold herself up, her claws biting into Mira’s skin as her breath tears ragged from her lungs. She doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t know if she can. But Mira’s body pins her in place, steady and unyielding, and Zoey’s lips press lightly against the back of her neck in encouragement.

The growl rolls deep in her chest again, wild and raw, but she doesn’t fight it this time. She leans forward, closing the final inch, and presses her lips to Mira’s.

The kiss is slow, unsure. Rumi’s lips part tentatively, her whole body on fire, trembling. She doesn’t know what to do, how to move—but Mira guides her, tilting her head, pressing back gently, coaxing her into the rhythm.

Rumi clings tighter, her hand at Mira’s neck gripping firm, the other splayed wide across her ribs. Every inch of Mira’s mouth is fire, every brush of her lips sending shockwaves down Rumi’s spine. Her chest rumbles again, that growl vibrating into Mira’s lips.

Behind her, Zoey presses closer, her hand moving deliberately over her hips, her waist, tracing lines of heat that make Rumi gasp into Mira’s mouth. Zoey’s lips find the curve of her neck, soft kisses trailing down to the sensitive dip where her pulse hammers wildly. The contrast nearly breaks her—Mira’s mouth steady and sure at the front, Zoey’s lips teasing and hot at the back.

Rumi whines against Mira’s lips, her body arching helplessly, her patterns sparking brighter with every second. The glow spills over all three of them, painting their skin in fiery colour.

Her kiss deepens without thought, her lips moving faster now, hungrier. She tilts her head to match Mira’s, following her lead, learning with every movement. Mira lets her, even rewards her—pressing closer, her thigh pushing higher, her lips parting just enough to let Rumi taste her breath.

Rumi moans, low and desperate, her body rocking helplessly against both of them. Her hands roam again, one clutching tight at Mira’s neck, the other sliding across her bare skin, up over her ribs, down her side, over the soft curve of her waist. She can’t stop touching, can’t stop clinging.

Zoey bites softly at her neck, and Rumi’s whole body jolts. She gasps into Mira’s mouth, breaking the kiss for a moment, her forehead pressing to Mira’s as she struggles for air. Her growl is constant now, a low, vibrating sound that feels more instinct than choice.

Mira smiles, her thumb brushing over Rumi’s cheek. “Finally,” she whispers, before catching her lips again.

The kiss is deeper this time. Slow, yes, but surer. Rumi lets herself melt into it, her claws scraping gently against Mira’s skin, her body vibrating with want. She’s learning what it feels like to give in—and it’s terrifying, overwhelming, and unbearably good.

Zoey hums against her neck, her hand still roaming, slipping under her waistband to rest on the dip of her hip. The sensation makes Rumi whimper into Mira’s mouth, her body arching between them, completely caught.

Her mind is a blur, her body too alive, too much. The kiss slows again, gentle but consuming, Mira holding her steady while Zoey drives her wild from behind. Her chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, her lips moving clumsily but with growing certainty.

Zoey shifts behind her, the mattress dipping with sudden purpose. Rumi barely has time to gasp before Zoey’s arm hooks around her waist and, with a practiced hands, flips her onto her back. The world tilts, her braids spilling loose across the pillow, her chest heaving as she blinks up into Zoey’s flushed, mischievous face.

Then Zoey leans down and steals her lips.

The kiss is rougher than Mira’s, playful but demanding, Zoey’s mouth moving fast, hungry, like she’s been holding herself back for far too long. Rumi gasps against her lips, the growl rolling out of her chest unbidden, her claws curling against the sheets. Zoey giggles into her mouth, kissing harder, pressing her body flush against Rumi’s until Rumi can feel every line of her curves.

Warmth floods her, wild and unrestrained. Her claws flex. Her fangs vibrating with the need to bite down on something. She can’t hold it all back.

And then—another touch.

Mira.

She shifts to Rumi’s side, lips pressing to her throat, hot and deliberate. The contrast nearly undoes her: Zoey devouring her mouth, Mira soothing and claiming the soft line of her neck.

“You’re being so good for us,” Mira whispers between kisses, her voice low, breath hot against her skin. Her lips graze over the curve of Rumi’s pulse, trailing lower, teeth catching lightly before sucking at the delicate spot. “So good, Rumi. You don’t have to fight anymore. You get to be loved.”

Rumi’s whine catches in Zoey’s mouth, breaking the kiss. She shudders violently, her patterns flaring in a feverish blaze across her skin. Mira’s words pierce deeper than her touch, cutting right through the panic and confusion clawing inside her.

“You’re loved,” Mira repeats, kissing her again, slower this time, softer, her hand smoothing down Rumi’s arm. “So much.”

Zoey pulls back just far enough to grin down at her, brushing hair from her flushed face. “We love you, Rumi.”

The words hit like a bomb.

Her growl rattles louder, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. “W-what are you doing?” she stammers, her voice thin, lost somewhere between desperate and terrified.

Zoey’s grin softens, though her eyes still gleam with mischief. “Loving you,” she says simply, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She presses a quick, teasing kiss to Rumi’s lips again before pulling back, her thumb stroking along Rumi’s jaw. “The way we’ve always wanted to.”

Rumi blinks, staring wide-eyed between the two of them. “Always?” Her voice cracks on the word.

Mira pulls back from her throat, nodding slowly, her dark eyes steady and open. “For years.”

Zoey laughs lightly, pressing another kiss to the corner of Rumi’s mouth. “We were just waiting for you to make a move.”

Her claws dig into the sheets, heart hammering. Mira’s voice whispers her name—“Rumi”—with a tenderness that breaks her wide open. Zoey follows, teasing but soft, like she’s scared of pushing too hard. “We’re yours. You know that, right?”

It’s everything she’s starved for. Everything she’s been too afraid to hope.

She surges forward into it, kissing back fiercely, desperate not to lose the moment. Her body glows, her patterns blazing against her skin like a storm breaking free, and they don’t flinch. They don’t turn away. They only pull her closer.

For the first time in years, Rumi feels whole.

“Rumi!”

The sound pierces through. Not soft, not hushed, but sharp. Urgent.

Her eyes snap open.

The dream shatters around her like glass. The warmth vanishes. The taste of Mira’s lips, the press of Zoey’s hands—all of it is gone, ripped away before she can hold on. She’s left gasping in the light of her room, tangled in her sheets, skin damp with sweat. Her patterns blaze in the dim room, too bright, betraying everything she wishes she could hide.

And there, leaning over her, is Zoey. Her brows knit with concern, hair mussed from sleep. Behind her, Mira stands in the doorway, arms folded, her expression unreadable in the slant of moonlight spilling in from the hall.

Rumi’s chest seizes. The cruel truth slams into her.

It wasn’t real.

None of it was real.

Her throat tightens, and the first crack of a sob tears free before she can choke it down. She sits up too fast, shoving the blanket away like it’s suffocating her, her hands trembling as she grips the edge of the bed. “Don’t—” Her voice breaks. She tries again, sharper. “Don’t touch me.”

Zoey freezes, her hand still half-extended like she’d been about to brush Rumi’s hair back. Her eyes widen, startled. “Rumi, I was just—”

“Please.” Rumi’s voice cracks on the word. Her eyes sting, but she refuses to look at either of them. “Just—leave me alone.”

Mira steps forward, her tone even but firm. “We’re not leaving.”

Rumi shakes her head, panic clawing up her throat. “I can’t—just go, okay? Please!” The plea comes out raw, desperate, her voice trembling with the force of it.

Zoey flinches like the words struck her. She opens her mouth, closes it again, glances helplessly at Mira.

But Mira doesn’t move. She crosses the room in three strides and sits herself in Rumi’s desk chair, arms folding across her chest, gaze locked steady. “Shower. Do whatever you need to calm down. But I’m not leaving this room.”

The defiance cuts through the haze, grounding but suffocating all at once. Rumi can’t breathe past the lump in her throat. Her body feels too tight, her skin too hot, her patterns burning like fire under her flesh.

She stumbles to her feet, barely managing to shove her legs into motion toward the bathroom. Her claws click against the handle as she slams the door shut behind her, chest heaving.

For a moment, she just stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her face is blotchy, her eyes wide and glassy, patterns glowing furious and unsteady across her arms, her collar, her throat. She looks wrecked. Ruined.

Her claws scrape against the counter as she forces herself to turn the shower on, twisting the knob all the way to cold.

The water hits her skin like knives. She gasps, stumbling back into the tile, the shock of it tearing another sob out of her chest. The sound echoes, too loud, bouncing off the walls. She presses her back against the freezing stream anyway, desperate for it, for anything that might numb the fire in her veins.

Her body shakes violently as the cold crashes over her. She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t work—choked sobs still rip free, shuddering against her palm. The dream replays in cruel detail every time she squeezes her eyes shut—their lips, their hands, the words she’s always wanted to hear. And every time, reality crushes her chest tighter, reminding her she’s alone.

In the bedroom, silence reigns.

Mira sits unmoving, gaze fixed on the bathroom door. Zoey perches on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, gnawing her lip raw as she strains to hear. The muffled sounds of water running—and beneath it, faint, broken sobs—slice through the quiet.

Zoey’s fists clench in her lap. “She’s… she’s crying.”

Mira doesn’t answer. Her jaw tightens, but her eyes never leave the door.

“Shouldn’t we—”

“No.” Mira’s voice is steady, though her hands grip the armrests of the chair until her knuckles pale. “She doesn’t want us right now. If we go in, she’ll only push harder.”

Zoey swallows hard. “But she’s hurting.”

“She’s always hurting Zo.” The words are sharp, edged with a frustration Mira doesn’t bother to hide. “We can’t fix it for her. Not unless she lets us.”

Zoey flinches, then looks down at her hands. The silence stretches heavy between them, punctuated only by the steady roar of the shower.

Inside, Rumi sinks to the floor of the stall, pulling her knees to her chest, curling small beneath the relentless downpour. The water is ice, biting, but it still doesn’t numb the ache in her chest. Her claws dig into her shins, leaving faint cuts that bleed slowly into the drain.

She hates herself. Hates the way her body betrays her, the way her heart clings to something she can’t have. Hates the dream for showing her what it would feel like, hates waking up for ripping it away.

Her sobs echo, hoarse and ragged, until her throat aches.

In the bedroom, Zoey presses her hands to her ears, rocking slightly, as though it will block out the sound. Mira leans forward, elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands, though she never once moves to leave.

The night stretches long, the sound of water and muffled grief weaving a tension neither girl knows how to break.

And through it all, Rumi cries in the cold, letting the dream bleed out of her in shattered gasps, until all that’s left is the hollow ache of wanting something that was never hers to begin with.

The water cuts off with a final groan of the pipes.

Mira straightens instantly, back rigid in the desk chair. Zoey sits frozen on the edge of the bed, her hands twisting in her lap. Both of them hold their breath as they wait for the door to creak open.

It does.

Rumi steps out, her damp hair clinging to her face, droplets running down the line of her jaw. Her patterns glow faintly beneath the loose towel she’s thrown around her body, her eyes red and rimmed with exhaustion. She doesn’t look at either of them. Doesn’t acknowledge the way they watch her like she might break in front of them.

Instead, she moves straight for her dresser, yanking it open to pull out clothes.

“Rumi—” Zoey starts softly.

“Don’t.” The word is sharp, clipped. Rumi grabs a shirt, tosses it onto the bed without sparing a glance. “I need to change. Can you both leave?”

Mira’s brows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.” Rumi’s voice is brittle but fierce. “I’m not going to strip with you both staring at me.”

Zoey winces. Mira doesn’t budge. “You think we care about—”

“I said leave.” Rumi finally whirls on them, her eyes flashing, patterns flaring brighter with her pulse. The bite in her tone cuts deeper than she intends, but she can’t reel it back. “Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

Zoey shrinks, shoulders folding in. Mira’s jaw tightens, but after a long pause, she exhales sharply and stands. “Fine.” She gestures to Zoey to take her hand, she hesitates but follows her to the door, fingers laced. “We’ll be outside.”

The door clicks shut.

Rumi drags a shaky breath into her lungs, stripping quickly, her hands trembling too much to do the buttons properly. She dresses in silence, jaw locked, each tug of fabric feeling like armor against the vulnerability still burning under her skin.

When she finally emerges, the apartment is filled with the faint smell of frying oil and sesame. Mira stands at the stove, stirring something in a pan with practiced ease. Zoey sits at the counter, her tea steaming untouched beside her.

Rumi doesn’t stop. Doesn’t breathe. She just crosses the kitchen, grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, and turns toward the elevator.

“Are you serious?” Mira’s voice snaps across the air like a whip.

Rumi freezes mid-step.

“You’re just going to walk away? Again?” Mira’s spatula clatters against the pan as she whirls around, eyes blazing. “You can’t keep doing this—shutting us out whenever it gets hard. Talk to us!”

Rumi’s chest heaves, anger spiking fast enough to drown out the ache. She spins back, apple clenched tight in her fist. “Talk to you? About what, huh? That I’m broken? That everything’s different now? Because it is, Mira! I’m not—” Her voice cracks, fury sharpening it to cover the break. “I’m not who I was, and I can’t go back!”

Mira throws her hands up, voice rising with hers. “We don’t want you to go back! We just want you! The real you, not this wall you keep slamming in our faces every time we get close!”

Rumi’s throat burns, the words tearing out like claws. “You don’t get it! You’ll never get it—what it feels like to wake up every day in a body that isn’t yours, that betrays you every second! You think you want me around, but you don’t. I’m not the Rumi I was before the Idol Awards and I never will be again!”

Mira’s chest heaves, her lips parting like she’s about to fire back.

Neither of them notice Zoey at first.

Zoey, sitting there, silent, her hands wrapped around her mug. Her eyes wide and glassy, darting between them like she’s trapped in the crossfire of a storm. Her shoulders rise and fall too quickly, breath stuttering.

“Stop it,” she whispers, but neither hear.

Rumi’s voice sharpens, desperate. “You think it’s simple? That I can just let go and pretend like I’m not—”

CRACK!

The sound rings through the kitchen, sharp and final.

Rumi and Mira whip around just in time to see Zoey’s mug split in her hands, tea spilling in a hot wave across the counter. Shards of porcelain fall, clattering against the tile. Zoey doesn’t move. Her hands tremble violently, tiny cuts already welling with blood, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.

Her breath comes too fast, chest heaving, tears slipping free without her even blinking. Her voice is small. Childlike. “Please stop. Please. Don’t fight. Not you two.”

The silence after is crushing.

Mira’s face crumples first, the anger draining out of her in an instant. “Zoey…” She crosses the space quickly, gently prying the broken pieces from Zoey’s bleeding hands. “Oh, baby…” Her voice softens, trembling now with guilt.

Zoey doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t look at anyone. She just curls in on herself, trembling, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Don’t leave… don’t be mean… I can’t—” Her voice breaks into a choked sob, her words spilling like a child pleading with parents. “Just be nice. Please. I can’t do it again.”

Rumi’s apple slips from her fingers, thudding dully to the floor. The fight drains out of her so fast she almost sways where she stands. Her throat burns with shame, the sight of Zoey shattered undoing every wall she tried to build. Because of course they forgot, they forgot sweet Zoey. Soft, gentle, goofy Zoey, who watched her parents fight for years before the messiest divorce in history. Poor Zoey who can’t stand it when anyone around her argues, or yells, or seems even remotely aggressive.

Of course you forgot you monster…

“Zoey…” Rumi’s voice wavers, too small, too fragile. She moves toward her slowly, like she might spook her, and kneels by the chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—God, I didn’t mean to…” Her hand hovers uncertainly, before she finally places it gently on Zoey’s knee. “I’ll stop. I promise. No more fighting.”

Zoey sniffles, her tears falling faster, her shoulders shaking. “You promise?”

Rumi’s chest twists so hard it hurts. “I promise.”

Mira crouches on Zoey’s other side, her hands still cradling Zoey’s, carefully blotting at the cuts with a towel. Her voice is thick, low. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled. I was just scared.”

Zoey’s lip trembles. “You don’t fight. You’re supposed to be safe.”

The words gut both of them.

Without a word, Mira wraps an arm around Zoey’s shoulders, tugging her gently against her. Rumi follows, sliding in on the other side, her arms slipping around Zoey’s waist. They press in, holding her between them, the tension bleeding out in the quiet sobs she hiccups into Mira’s shirt.

For a long time, no one speaks.

They just hold her, three bodies tangled on the kitchen floor, clinging like the world might split them apart if they let go.

When Zoey finally quiets, her voice is small, muffled. “Just… don’t fight. Please.”

Rumi presses her forehead against Zoey’s temple, closing her eyes. “Never again. I swear.”

Mira’s arms tighten around both of them. “We’ll figure it out together. No fighting. Just us.”

Zoey nods weakly, still hiccupping. Rumi and Mira exchange a glance over her head—both of them wrecked, both of them silently promising to do better.

And so they stay, huddled in the kitchen, not as idols or fighters or whatever they’re supposed to be—just three broken pieces trying to hold each other together.

Mira doesn’t hesitate.

The second Zoey sniffles again, her small, trembling body pressed between them on the kitchen floor, Mira shifts. With one smooth motion, she slips her arms under Zoey’s knees and back, scooping her up like she weighs nothing.

Zoey doesn’t resist. She just curls into Mira’s chest, face tucked into her shoulder, fingers fisting the fabric of her shirt so tightly her knuckles whiten.

Rumi sits frozen, watching them. The apple she dropped still lies abandoned near the stool, a reminder of how fast everything spiralled. Shame crawls up her throat like smoke, burning her chest. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe as Mira carries Zoey out of the kitchen.

The couch groans softly as Mira lowers Zoey down with painstaking care. She moves like Zoey’s made of glass, like one wrong angle might shatter her completely. Zoey’s hands stay locked in Mira’s shirt until the very last second, and even then, her fingers tremble when Mira gently pries them free.

“I’m here,” Mira whispers, more to herself than to Zoey. She tucks a soft throw blanket from the back of the couch around Zoey’s shoulders, smoothing it over her arms with deliberate, steady strokes.

She presses the fabric down once more, her hand lingering on Zoey’s shoulder. Her jaw tightens, and then she straightens. “I’ll finish cooking.”

She turns, like she’s about to step away.

Zoey’s hand shoots out, clutching at her shirt with startling strength. “Don’t go,” she whispers, her voice wrecked and pleading. It’s so small, so fragile, that it claws at Rumi’s chest.

Mira halts instantly. She looks down at Zoey, and her features soften—melting from fire and steel into something gentle, heartbreakingly tender. Slowly, Mira crouches, her hands framing Zoey’s face as she leans in.

Her lips press softly to Zoey’s—barely a kiss, more of a reassurance, a promise carried in the warmth of contact.

Rumi’s breath catches.

That’s new. Sure Zoey and Mira have always been close, touchy feely, thanks to Zoey. But this, this Rumi has never seen before.

It’s like being slapped and embraced at once. She feels the air squeeze out of her lungs, heat rushing to her face. She knows she shouldn’t be watching, that she’s intruding on something private, intimate. Her chest tightens with guilt, but she can’t tear her eyes away.

Mira pulls back only slightly, her forehead resting against Zoey’s temple. “I’ll be right here,” she murmurs, voice hushed but firm.

Then Mira’s gaze lifts—and lands squarely on Rumi.

The softness vanishes in an instant. Her eyes harden, sharp and commanding. “Rumi will stay with you.”

Rumi blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.” Mira’s tone leaves no room for debate.

Rumi’s throat works as she swallows, her body frozen in place. She wants to protest, to say she’ll just get in the way, that Zoey doesn’t need her—but Mira’s glare pins her in place. The weight of it says everything her words don’t: Don’t you dare leave her alone. Don’t you dare run again.

Rumi stares back, her patterns pulsing faintly in the dim light, her body screaming to flee from the weight of their emotions. But Zoey sniffles again, tugging at the blanket like she’s afraid it won’t hold her.

That sound breaks Rumi’s resolve.

With stiff limbs, she finally budges, setting the apple back on the counter and making the slow, awkward trek around the couch. Each step feels like walking into a trap, her chest constricting with the pressure of Mira’s eyes boring into her back.

She lowers herself onto the couch beside Zoey, the cushion dipping under her weight. Her body hums with tension, hands twisting together in her lap. She doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to exist in this kind of closeness without burning alive.

Mira crouches again, gently prying Zoey’s fingers from her shirt. “Here,” she whispers, her voice steady as she guides Zoey’s hand. With deliberate care, she transfers Zoey’s grip from her own shirt to Rumi’s.

Rumi’s heart slams against her ribs.

Zoey’s fingers tighten instantly, latching onto Rumi like she’s the only solid thing in the world. Rumi swallows hard, staring down at the pale knuckles clutching her. The weight of Zoey’s trust, the desperation in that small grip, nearly buckles her.

Mira leans in once more, brushing a soft kiss against Zoey’s cheek. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she murmurs. Then she rises, her gaze cutting to Rumi with a sharpness that makes her stomach flip. Don’t you dare move.

The silent command is so loud Rumi almost hears it in her head.

She doesn’t move. Can’t. Not even when Mira turns on her heel and disappears into the kitchen, the sound of sizzling oil picking up again.

Zoey curls in closer, her head dropping against Rumi’s shoulder. The blanket slides down slightly, her trembling body pressing into Rumi’s side.

Rumi sits there, stiff as a statue, her hands useless at her sides. Her heart races, her patterns glowing faintly with every pulse. Zoey’s soft sniffles echo in her ear, tugging at something deep and unprotected inside her.

She doesn’t know what to do. She’s never known what to do.

But Zoey makes the choice for her. With a shuddering breath, Zoey shifts, her arm sliding around Rumi’s waist, her grip on her shirt refusing to loosen. It’s a silent plea: don’t move. Don’t leave.

And for once, Rumi doesn’t. She can’t.

She lifts a hesitant arm, trembling slightly, and drapes it awkwardly around Zoey’s shoulders. The moment she does, Zoey exhales, a shaky, fragile sound that cuts Rumi’s chest open. Zoey tucks herself further in, tears still damp against Rumi’s shirt.

Rumi stares straight ahead, eyes darting toward the kitchen every few seconds. Each time, she finds Mira’s figure framed behind the island, her back rigid, shoulders tense. Mira doesn’t say a word, but every glance over her shoulder is enough: Stay. Hold her. Don’t fail this time.

The weight of it pins Rumi down more effectively than any weapon.

She sits there, Zoey clinging to her, Mira’s silent command heavy on her shoulders. And though every nerve screams at her to run, to untangle herself and retreat into the safety of solitude, she doesn’t move.

Not when Zoey’s breathing finally begins to even out. Not when her sniffles turn into tiny hiccups. Not when the blanket slips further and Rumi has to pull it back up to Zoey’s chin.

Her arm stays around Zoey, steady even as her own body trembles. Her eyes dart endlessly between the girl pressed against her and the shadow of Mira in the kitchen, like she’s waiting for the storm to start again.

But it doesn’t.

There’s only quiet—the sound of oil popping, the faint hum of the fridge, Zoey’s shaky breaths softening against her side.

Rumi sits rigidly, her arm around Zoey like it doesn’t belong there, like she’s holding onto something she has no right to touch.

The silence stretches, filled only by the faint sizzle of oil from the kitchen and the steady, uneven breaths against her shoulder. Zoey is curled so tightly into her side that Rumi can feel every tremor in her frame. It makes her chest ache.

Minutes pass like that, Rumi locked between stillness and panic, until the weight of Zoey’s trust becomes too much to bear.

She swallows hard, words scraping the back of her throat. “…Zoey?”

Zoey hums softly, not lifting her head. Her fingers, still twisted in Rumi’s shirt, twitch with a sleepy sort of stubbornness. “Mm?”

Rumi shifts, staring down at the crown of Zoey’s hair. Her patterns pulse faintly along her skin, betraying nerves she can’t contain. She opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. “…I—uh. I don’t… I don’t really know what to do here.”

Zoey’s head tilts just enough for her cheek to press against Rumi’s shoulder, her eyes blinking up at her blearily. “What do you mean?”

Rumi clears her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet. “This. You—crying. Holding me. I’m… not good at this kind of thing.”

Zoey studies her for a moment, and Rumi can feel the weight of that gaze even though it’s soft, a little swollen from tears. “You’re doing fine.”

Rumi lets out a shaky laugh, her arm tightening instinctively around her. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

For a while, Zoey doesn’t answer. She just breathes, her thumb tracing distracted little patterns into the fabric of Rumi’s shirt, each absent-minded stroke sending a shiver down her spine. It’s grounding and disarming all at once.

Finally, Rumi blurts the thing she’s been holding in, the one thought clawing at her since the moment Mira kissed Zoey. “…So. You and Mira.”

Zoey blinks, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “What about us?”

Rumi hesitates, her stomach twisting. “…The kiss.”

There’s a pause. Then Zoey tilts her head, looking at her like she’s grown a set of horns. “What about it?”

Rumi shifts under the blanket, suddenly hot despite Zoey’s shivers seeping into her. “How long has that been—happening?”

Zoey just stares at her, wide-eyed, as if the question itself is absurd. “…Rumi, what are you talking about?”

Rumi swallows hard, her chest tight. “You and Mira. The… kissing. The way she looks at you.” Her voice cracks slightly, like the words are cutting on their way out. “How long has… has that been going on?”

Zoey blinks again, slowly, and then laughs—short and incredulous, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Wait. Wait, are you serious right now?”

Rumi stiffens, heat creeping up her neck. “…Yes?”

Zoey shifts so she’s half-sitting up, the blanket sliding down her arm. Her hand doesn’t leave Rumi’s shirt, though—if anything, her grip tightens. She stares at her like Rumi just admitted she didn’t know the sky was blue. “…We’ve been dating for nearly two years.”

Rumi’s mind blanks.

Her throat works, her patterns flashing once, sharp and uneven. “Two years?”

Zoey nods, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Yeah. Since right before the winter trip. You know—the one with the broken heater and Mira almost setting the cabin on fire?”

Rumi stares at her, her lungs refusing to work. The edges of her vision blur, not with tears exactly, but with the sheer disorientation of having reality tilted on its head. “I…” Her voice cracks, her chest pulling tight. “I didn’t realise.”

The confession comes out like a choke, strangled and broken.

Zoey’s expression softens immediately. “Oh, Rumi.” She sighs, leaning back against her shoulder again like it’s the most natural thing. Her fingers, still tangled in Rumi’s shirt, loosen just enough to start absent-mindedly twisting the fabric.

Rumi sits there, frozen, trying to piece together all the little moments she’d overlooked, every touch and glance that had flown under her radar. How had she missed it?

Her whole chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

“I thought…” Rumi starts, then falters, words tangling in her throat. “I thought I was intruding. Like… like I was watching something I shouldn’t.”

Zoey tilts her head, her cheek brushing Rumi’s shoulder as she peers up at her. “Intruding? Rumi, you’ve never been intruding.”

Rumi laughs weakly, bitterly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Zoey frowns, tugging lightly on her braid like she’s trying to anchor her attention. “Hey. Look at me.”

Rumi hesitates, then finally drags her gaze down. Zoey’s eyes are red and swollen from crying, but they’re steady, warm in a way that makes Rumi’s chest ache even more.

“You really didn’t know?” Zoey asks softly.

Rumi shakes her head, guilt twisting deep in her gut. “No. I… I guess I never paid enough attention. I was too busy—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenching. “Too busy being in my own head.”

Zoey studies her for a moment, then smiles faintly, though it’s lopsided and fragile. “Well. Now you know.”

Rumi lets out a shaky exhale, the weight of it sinking in. Two years. Two years they’d been together, and she’d been blind to it. It makes her feel small, unmoored, like she’s standing on sand that won’t hold.

Her hands flex uselessly in her lap, and she finally blurts the thought gnawing at her ribs. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Zoey shrugs, still playing with the edge of Rumi’s braid now, twirling it around her finger. “We didn’t think we had to. We figured you knew. Mira was sure of it.”

Rumi huffs a humorless laugh, the sound breaking. “She was wrong.”

Zoey watches her closely, fingers brushing against the loose strands of her hair. “Does it… bother you?”

The question lands heavy between them.

Rumi’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Does it? The knot in her chest doesn’t untangle, doesn’t give her a clean answer. All she knows is that the ground has shifted, and she doesn’t know how to stand anymore. Not because she doesn’t approve, but because the jealousy rippling through her veins is like ice.

“…I don’t know,” she admits finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just—didn’t expect it.”

Zoey hums softly, like she understands more than she should. Her thumb brushes back and forth along Rumi’s shirt, a soothing rhythm. “It’s okay not to know.”

Rumi stares down at her, at the way Zoey clings so trustingly, so gently, even now. Her throat burns. “…I’m sorry.”

Zoey blinks up at her. “For what?”

“For… not seeing. For being so—” She swallows hard, looking away. “So distant all the time.”

Zoey shifts again, tucking herself closer under Rumi’s arm. “You don’t need to apologise for that. We’ve always known you needed space. We never thought less of you for it.”

The words sink in slowly, like sunlight against ice. Rumi’s chest feels raw, scraped clean.

For the first time, she lets her hand rest fully on Zoey’s, her palm splayed across her shoulder blade. It feels clumsy, too much, but Zoey sighs softly, leaning into it like it’s exactly what she needs.

The conversation drifts from there, slow and halting. Rumi asks hesitant questions—about how they started, about the little things she’d missed. Zoey answers with quiet honesty, her fingers always busy—tugging at Rumi’s braid, tracing lines on her sleeve, smoothing creases in her shirt.

And through it all, Rumi listens, her world reshaping itself piece by piece, even as the weight of it presses down hard on her chest.

By the time Mira calls from the kitchen that breakfast is ready, Rumi still feels like she’s standing on unsteady ground. But Zoey hasn’t let go of her, not once.

Rumi slowly pry’s Zoeys hands off her shirt and stands, fighting her heart when Zoey whines slightly. She keeps a firm hold on Zoey’s hand, before leading her over to the dining table without a word.

The dining table feels too big.

Or maybe it’s just Rumi—too small, too clumsy in her own skin, too aware of every sound in the silence between the three of them. The clink of chopsticks against bowls, the faint hiss of the stovetop still cooling, the muffled hum of traffic from outside. It all presses in around her, filling the void where words should be.

Mira sits across from her, posture sharp even as she picks through her food. Zoey is beside Rumi, close enough that their knees nearly touch, but she doesn’t lean in like she usually does. Not after the couch, not after the braid-twisting and the realisation that her two favourite people belong to each other, not her.

The weight of it all sits in Rumi’s stomach heavier than the food.

She eats slowly, chewing without tasting, watching the grains of rice blur in and out of focus. It’s easier than looking up. Easier than meeting Mira’s steady gaze or Zoey’s searching one.

The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. And then Zoey, in her usual way, breaks it.

“Rumi didn’t know.”

Her voice is soft but sure, the words dropping into the quiet like pebbles into still water.

Rumi freezes, her chopsticks hovering halfway to her mouth.

Mira, mid-bite, chokes. She coughs hard enough to grab her water and take a desperate gulp before she slams the cup down, staring at Zoey like she’s lost her mind. “She didn’t know what?”

Zoey doesn’t waver. “About us.”

The table goes deathly still.

Rumi feels heat crawl up her neck, her face burning as if the whole room is staring at her—even though it’s just the two of them. Her eyes dart anywhere but Mira’s. The wall. The floor. Her bowl. The faint glow of her patterns where her sleeve has slipped back.

Mira’s chopsticks clatter against her plate. “You mean—” She looks from Zoey to Rumi and back again. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me—” She leans forward, voice incredulous. “You didn’t know Zoey and I are dating?”

Rumi shifts in her seat, her skin hot, her throat tight. “…No.”

Mira gapes at her like she’s sprouted a second head. Then, as if she can’t help herself, she starts listing on her fingers. “The matching bracelets? The way we share drinks? How we literally sleep in the same room every night? The fact that I kiss her good morning and goodnight in front of you?”

Each word lands like a stone, heavy and undeniable.

Rumi grips her chopsticks tighter, knuckles white. “…I didn’t notice.”

Mira throws her hands up. “How could you not notice?”

Rumi swallows, forcing the words out even though they scrape against her throat. “Because I wasn’t looking.”

That shuts them both up.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of traffic outside, the muted tick of the kitchen clock. Then, quieter, rawer, Rumi adds: “I was too focused on the Honmoon. On hiding these.”

Her free hand drifts to her arm, where the sleeve of her shirt has slid just enough to expose the glowing patterns etched into her skin. Her thumb brushes over them absently, like she can scrub them away with touch alone. Her jaw tightens, eyes fixed on the shifting light as shame knots deep in her chest.

The silence that follows is different now—thick, heavy, charged with guilt that doesn’t belong to her but still weighs her down.

Zoey is the first to speak, her voice small. “…Rumi.”

Mira, for once, doesn’t sound sharp when she follows. “We’re sorry.”

Rumi finally looks up, startled.

Mira leans back in her chair, the sharpness gone, her gaze steady but softer than Rumi’s used to. “We didn’t mean to… I don’t know. Make you feel like you had to choose between being part of us or hiding yourself. That was never what this was.”

Zoey nods quickly, her hand twitching like she wants to reach out but doesn’t quite dare. “We’re glad you’re not focused on changing yourself anymore. You don’t have to hide with us. Not ever.”

The words sink in, but they don’t ease the knot in Rumi’s chest. She tries to smile, for their sake, for the way their eyes look so painfully hopeful. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. It never does.

“…Thanks,” she says finally, her voice quiet.

They don’t push.

Dinner continues in silence after that, though it’s not quite the same silence as before. This one is heavier, but not sharp—more like a blanket draped over them all, too warm to shrug off.

Rumi finishes first, setting her chopsticks down neatly beside her bowl. Her patterns hum faintly under her skin, restless, and she takes a slow breath before speaking. “We should get back to the studio.”

Mira blinks, surprised. “Already?”

Rumi nods. “We’ve got another recording session. But…” She hesitates, fingers drumming against the table. “…We’ve got enough time to walk instead of drive. Might be good to get some fresh air. See the city a little.”

Zoey perks up instantly, her smile small but genuine. “Really? That sounds nice.”

Mira raises an eyebrow, studying Rumi closely, but doesn’t argue. “Alright. Walking it is.”

“Go change, I’ll clean.”

The two of them push their chairs back, moving toward their rooms to change. The sound of drawers opening and fabric rustling follows a beat later.

Rumi stays behind, her hands moving automatically as she gathers bowls and plates, stacking them carefully. The quiet kitchen hums around her, familiar and safe in its mundanity. She clings to it like a lifeline, the clatter of dishes easier to focus on than the storm still swirling in her chest.

The sink fills with water, the warmth of it washing over her fingers as she scrubs at the plates. She loses herself in the rhythm—wash, rinse, stack—until her reflection in the window above the sink catches her eye.

Her patterns glow faintly there, ghostly in the glass, and she stares at them for a long moment.

She wonders what Zoey and Mira see when they look at her.

She wonders if she’ll ever be able to see herself the same way.

Behind her, Mira’s voice calls from the hallway. “Don’t take too long, Rumi. We’re waiting.”

Rumi forces another smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “…Coming.”

Chapter Text

The elevator hums softly as it descends, the mirrored walls reflecting three very different versions of “incognito.”

Zoey is the brightest of them all—fresh clothes and a fresh energy humming off her like sunlight. She’s pulled on a loose lavender T-shirt with cartoon strawberries scattered across it, tucked into baggy denim shorts that fray at the hem. On her head sits a ridiculous green bucket hat with a turtle stitched onto the front, its embroidered flippers flapping whenever she tips her head too fast. Her sneakers are scuffed and colourful, laces mismatched, but somehow the whole outfit works. It feels like her—loud in a way that’s warm, not grating.

Beside her, Mira looks like she’s stepped straight out of a paparazzi photo dump. She wears a sleek black cap pulled low over her eyes, long hair spilling out beneath it in a straight cascade. Glasses hide half her face, the kind that blur the line between stylish and practical. A loose oversized button-down, pale blue with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, hangs open over a fitted white crop top. Black cargo pants tuck neatly into her chunky sneakers. She looks casual, cool, like she could disappear into a crowd at will. The faint smirk on her lips is the only thing that gives her away.

Rumi, by comparison, feels almost plain. High-waisted jeans cinch her in, simple but flattering, paired with a black crop top that bares the soft glow of her patterns across her midriff. She fiddles with her hair as the elevator hums down, fingers nimble as she braids it into two neat plaits. The strands slip through her hands like habit, like muscle memory. The braids fall against her chest just as the elevator dings for the ground floor.

Zoey immediately perks up. “Two braids?” she asks, bouncing on her toes as Rumi just smiles at them softly.

Mira cuts her a side-eye, smirk intact. “You usually only do that to sleep.”

“Your hair always looks so pretty like this,” Zoey says, already tugging at Mira’s sleeve as the doors slide open. “You should try different styles more often Ru.”

Rumi trails behind as they spill into the lobby, the brim of Mira’s cap tilting down when she catches a security guard’s curious glance. They step out into the city air together, the late afternoon sun washing the streets in gold.

Zoey starts rambling almost immediately, words spilling out as naturally as breathing. “Did you know octopuses—well, octopods, technically—have three hearts? Two that pump blood to the gills and one that pumps it to the rest of the body. But the really wild part is that the main heart actually stops beating when they swim.”

Rumi’s heard this one before. She thinks Zoey’s told it to her twice now. But she doesn’t interrupt.

Instead, she watches.

Zoey walks with a bounce in her step, edging too close to the street as she waves her arms in rhythm with her words. Mira’s gaze flicks sideways, steady and sharp, tracking Zoey the way she tracks everything. And then, almost without thought, Mira shifts. One hand snakes out, firm and unapologetic, sliding around Zoey’s waist. With a gentle tug, she moves her onto her other side, away from the street, putting herself between Zoey and the cars rushing past.

Zoey hardly notices, still caught up in her facts, but Rumi does.

Her heart seizes.

It’s such a small thing, so casual, so ingrained it looks practiced. Mira’s protective streak blending seamlessly with Zoey’s oblivious energy. And Rumi—Rumi feels her chest tighten, a rush of heat blooming across her cheeks. She drops her gaze quickly, hoping neither of them notice.

Because it hits her then. Hard.

She wishes—selfishly, achingly—that she was part of that. That hand at her waist, that unthinking care, that little orbit the two of them live inside. But it isn’t hers. It never has been. And maybe it never will.

Her steps falter. She slows, just enough that the distance grows between her and the other two. They don’t notice right away, Zoey still rambling about squids now, Mira still smirking at her without saying much.

Rumi keeps her eyes on the pavement, the cracks in the sidewalk blurring under her feet. She shouldn’t feel this way. She shouldn’t want what isn’t hers. It isn’t fair. Not to them, not to herself.

But the ache won’t let go.

Then—like they’ve both felt it at once—they turn.

Zoey glances back first, her expression brightening the second she spots Rumi lagging. She stretches out her hand without hesitation, fingers wiggling like she’s calling a pet. “Hey. Don’t fall behind.”

Rumi freezes mid-step.

Her eyes flick from Zoey’s hand, still outstretched, to Mira’s steady gaze behind her glasses. There’s no smirk this time—just something softer, quieter, like a nudge she doesn’t voice. Mira gives the smallest nod, enough to say it’s okay.

Rumi’s throat tightens. Her fingers twitch at her side, torn between pulling back into herself and reaching forward. The war inside her chest rages for a beat too long.

And then she takes Zoey’s hand.

It’s warm, grounding, and it nearly knocks the breath out of her.

Zoey beams instantly, tugging her forward without missing a step. Mira shifts subtly to make room, the three of them falling into a loose line as they continue down the street. When Rumi glances to her right, she watches as her hand swings lightly between Zoey and herself, with Mira casually throwing an arm around Zoey. Like it happens all the time, and Rumi realises it does. She thinks back to how they usually walk, and more often than not, Mira has an arm slung over Zoey like a veil. How could she not have noticed?

They walk like that for blocks.

Zoey rambles about jellyfish now, about how some are technically immortal, her words animated and fast. Mira chuckles under her breath occasionally, mostly content to let Zoey run. The city hums around them—street vendors shouting, neon signs buzzing, cars honking—but it all feels distant to Rumi.

Because inside her, everything is chaos.

Her heart races, hammering against her ribs like it’s trying to break free. Her patterns pulse under her skin, glowing faintly even through the denim of her jeans and the fabric of her top. Every nerve in her body feels too awake, too sharp, too desperate to make sense of this simple thing: Zoey’s hand wrapped around hers.

She can’t focus on Zoey’s words. Not really. Every syllable blurs into a warm hum, background noise against the pounding in her ears.

Her mind spirals.

What does this mean? Does it mean anything? Is it just Zoey being Zoey, too open, too kind, too impossible not to love? Does Mira’s silence mean approval, encouragement, or is she just humoring Zoey like always? If they are together, why has Mira never stopped Zoey from touching Rumi? Why are they both so open in their affection towards her? Wouldn’t that been seen as some type of cheating in most relationships?

Rumi debates that for at least a block.

The questions claw at her insides, sharp and relentless. She doesn’t know how to breathe through them.

Zoey laughs at something Mira mutters under her breath. Mira smirks, shaking her head like she can’t help herself. They brush together easily, familiarly, and the sight makes Rumi’s chest ache all over again.

She clings tighter to Zoey’s hand, even as the rest of her tries to convince herself to let go.

She can’t tell if she’s falling apart or holding herself together.

Maybe both.

The walk to the studio feels shorter than Rumi expects. Maybe it’s the way Zoey’s hand keeps hers anchored, maybe it’s the way Mira stays close on the other side, silent but steady. Or maybe it’s because her brain has been so loud she barely registers the turns and blocks until they’re there.

The building is a large tower into a row of glass-front shops, modest but impressive. The kind of place you’d walk past without noticing. But Zoey practically bounces at the sight of it, tugging Rumi forward until she almost stumbles.

Inside, the air is cooler, humming faintly with the low buzz of electronics and the faint tang of coffee that’s been sitting on a warmer too long. Posters line the walls—some of past records, some of inspirational phrases in bold fonts that don’t quite land. They take the elevator up, knowing their way after years of recording here. The  corridors are easy, people smiling at them as they walk silently, before turning into the studio marked “A”.

A man leans against the console desk when they step into the main recording room. Tyler. Rumi smiles at the easy smile, the scruffy jawline, the relaxed posture of someone who spends his life in rooms like this.

“Well, well,” he says, pushing off the desk. “The trio returns.” His gaze lands on Zoey first, naturally—it always seems to. “You ready for this?”

Zoey practically glows. “Born ready,” she chirps, tipping the brim of her turtle hat at him like a salute.

Tyler chuckles, then glances at Mira and Rumi. “The plan today is simple,” he says, business sliding into his tone. “We’re focusing on vocals. One track, specifically—Zoey’s solo.”

Rumi blinks. “You finished it?”

Zoey beams, rocking back on her heels. “Mm-hmm. My baby. I’ve been working on this for months. I’ve been dying to show you guys.”

Mira smirks, arms folding across her chest as she drops into one end of the booth couch. “Then stop talking and sing already.”

Zoey sticks her tongue out but can’t wipe the grin off her face. She drops her bag onto a chair, pulling out a worn notebook and a pen with a bitten cap. Her notes are scrawled in messy handwriting across the pages, highlighted in neon colors and filled with doodles in the margins. She carries them to the mic stand like they’re a crown jewel.

Rumi sinks onto the couch beside Mira, trying to look casual even though her chest is pounding.

Tyler slides on his headphones behind the glass, flipping switches and muttering something about levels. “Alright, Zoey,” he says through the speaker, his voice tinny in the booth. “We are gunna run through the beat and pacing first, just to make sure your lyrics line up the way we want.”

Zoey snaps her notebook open, pen tucked behind her ear. She rolls her shoulders like she’s shaking off nerves—but her grin never falters. She glances back at the couch, eyes finding Rumi’s first.

Then she winks.

The gesture nearly knocks the breath out of Rumi’s lungs.

And then the beat drops.

It’s loud, heavy, filling every inch of the room with pulsing bass. Not polished yet, but strong. Rumi feels it vibrate through her bones as Zoey nods along with he beat, reading over her lyrics as the pace increases.

Every now and then she throws another glance over her shoulder, grin curling when she catches Mira’s amused smirk or Rumi’s wide-eyed stare.

Rumi grips her knees tight, heat rushing across her face. She doesn’t know what’s worse—the ache in her chest, or the undeniable pride swelling right alongside it.

Tyler nods along behind the glass, tapping his pen against the desk. “Good,” he mutters into the mic. “Real good. Keep the energy. What if we layered it like this?”

Zoey launches into it with reckless joy, listening as Tyler changes the beat and offering comments for different lines.

And Rumi—Rumi can’t stop watching.

The way Zoey’s buns slips over her shoulder when she tilts her head. The way her smile cracks wider every time she gets lost in the beat. The way Mira leans back against the couch like she’s seen this a thousand times, but the faint twitch of pride never leaves her smirk.

Rumi feels like she’s intruding on something. Like she’s watching the heart of their world beat in real time, and she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to look.

“Alright Zo, nice work. Should we full throttle? From the top?”

Zoey nods with a cheeky smile, eyes finding the girls with a glint that says she’s plotting something.

“Let’s get it!” Tyler laughs, hitting play on the sound board.

The beat drops heavy, low, pulsing through the studio like it’s alive. Zoey steps closer to the mic, notebook forgotten on the chair behind her. She doesn’t need it anymore—her body practically hums with the words, sharp and ready, like they’ve been sitting in her bones for years.

Her eyes cut to the glass where Mira and Rumi sit, wide-eyed on the couch. A grin curls across Zoey’s lips, wicked and knowing.

She’s not just singing. She’s performing—for them.

Zoey leans into the mic, her voice dropping, playful and taunting, mimicking the iconic cadence with her own twist. She lifts a hand, palm up, like she’s introducing herself on stage, her grin curling wider.

“Pulled up lookin' picture perfect, baby
High price, but I'm worth it, baby
Can't play with ya, I've been busy workin', baby
Gettin' faded in the European, swervin', ayy
Look, describe Zoey, groundbreakin' what the word is
Hit the stage, hands shakin' like I'm nervous.”

Mira snorts in disbelief under her breath, shaking her head like of course she’d start like that. But her smirk twitches, betraying her amusement.

Rumi, though—Rumi can’t look away.

“When in New York, I be parkin' right on Madison
This ain't no accident, I'm killin' 'em on purpose
Z-O-E-Y, did she just have to do it?
Baby, ride with me, fly livin', ain't nothin' to it
And my waist slim, hands soft, you gotta have it
Get my bake on, cake long, that's automatic.”

Zoey sways her hips, snapping her fingers to the beat, eyes narrowing as she lets her voice roll lazy, smooth. She tilts her chin, giving the glass a look that’s pure challenge.

Rumi grips her knees tighter, pulse hammering, because it feels like that line was aimed directly at her.

“I know you like the way I turn it on
I'm out here with my girls
I'ma make you beg, I'ma make you beg for it
If you don't do this right, you're going home alone
I guess you'll have to beg
I'ma make you beg, I'ma make you beg for it”

Zoey drags the word “beg,” letting it drip from her lips like honey. She closes her eyes for a beat, hand sliding down her side in rhythm, before she flicks them open again—staring right at the couch.

Mira exhales sharply through her nose, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, suddenly focused.

Rumi swallows hard, shifting uncomfortably, because God help her, it’s working.

“Huntrix power, pay me by the hour
I need me a Braveheart, can't deal with a coward
I tell her if she ain't ballin', she should hit the showers
If I pick you, you lucky, baby, this money ours
All yellow gold on me like I'm Trinidad
Sittin' drop top, wonderin' where the ceiling's at
I know my old thang wanna bring the feelin' back
But I got a new thang, baby, I ain't feelin' that
Now Zoey, Zoey, Zo, can't you see?
That everybody wanna put they hands on me
See, I be on this money while your girl on me
And I need another hand with all these bands on me, wait.”

Zoey spins on her heel, bands whipping around, strutting two steps like she’s walking a runway even though she’s in a cramped booth. Her body moves with the rhythm, liquid and confident.

Mira’s mouth opens slightly before she clamps it shut, her smirk faltering into something closer to what the hell is she doing to me.

Rumi is frozen, eyes wide, her fingers twitching against her thighs.

“I know you like the way I turn it on
I'm out here with my girls
I'ma make you beg, I'ma make you beg for it
If you don't do this right, you're going home alone
I guess you'll have to beg
I'ma make you beg, I'ma make you beg for it.”

Zoey winks, biting her lip as she hits the last word with a sharp little nod, rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking off invisible dollar bills.

The boldness of it slams into Rumi like a punch. Her cheeks flame hot, eyes darting to Mira like—are you seeing this too?

Mira doesn’t even look at her. She’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes dark.

The song swells back into the chorus, the beat snapping hard. Zoey drops into it like she’s been waiting for this moment all along.

“Get up out my face like who d'you think you are?
Talkin' all this trash like blah-de-blah-de-blah
Oh-eh-oh (Nuh-uh), oh-eh-oh, oh-eh-oh 
Get up out my face like who d'you think you are?
Make me wanna laugh like har-de-har-de-har
Oh-eh-oh (Nuh-uh), oh-eh-oh (Nuh-uh).”

Her voice rides the rhythm, smooth but commanding, like she’s pulling them in by the collar. She grips the mic with both hands, swaying, her body language loose but controlled.

“I know you like the way I turn it on
I'm out here with my girls
I'ma make you beg, I'ma make you beg for it
If you don't do this right, you're going home alone
I guess you'll have to beg
I'ma make you beg, I'ma make you beg for it.”

Zoey grins wickedly, leaning close to the mic, practically whispering the last word before she pulls back with a laugh.

Rumi’s breath hitches. It’s too much. It’s—God, what is this?

“Got you hooked, girl, I'm like a drug
If you want my love better smoke it up
Make you beg for it, I'ma make you beg for it
You can look, girl, but don't you touch
If you want my love make me give a dam
Make you beg for it, I'ma make you beg for it.”

Zoey points toward the glass, finger like an arrow, eyes glittering. Her voice sharpens, cutting, daring.

Rumi actually flinches, heat crawling down her spine.

Mira shifts uncomfortably beside her, jaw flexing as her hand curls into a fist against her knee.

Zoey drags her hand down over her lips, then throws it away with a flick, like tossing the secret aside. Her laugh bleeds into the line, rich with mischief.

Mira curses under her breath.

Rumi presses her knees together tighter, pulse out of control.

The beat fades, the room suddenly too quiet.

Zoey laughs, breathless, brushing hair out of her face. “So?” she pants. “How was that?”

Silence.

Behind the glass, Mira and Rumi are both slack-jawed, frozen in place.

Mira’s smirk has completely vanished, replaced with a look of shock she can’t mask fast enough.

Rumi looks like someone pulled the ground out from under her. Her chest heaves, her face burns, her fingers tremble against her knees.

Zoey tilts her head, watching them with that wicked grin. “Cat got your tongues?” she teases, her voice dripping with mischief.

Neither of them answer.

And Zoey? Zoey just laughs, grabbing her notebook from the chair and twirling her pen between her fingers like she didn’t just tear both of their worlds apart in under four minutes.

“Perfection Zo, god dam!” Tyler laughs, clapping a hand over Zoeys back as he approaches. She smile all shy, like she wasn’t just rapping about making people beg for her.

“Alright,” his voice crackles through the intercom, light and breezy. “We’re layering your harmonies over Zoey’s main lines. Nothing too heavy, I just want texture—echoes, shadows, something that makes the beat hit harder. You two up for it?”

The booth feels smaller when Rumi and Mira step inside together. Maybe it’s the way the heat of Zoey’s performance still lingers in the air, or maybe it’s the simple fact that the two of them are standing shoulder to shoulder, sharing one set of headphones as Tyler flicks a switch outside.

Mira gives a sharp nod, easy confidence in her stance, but when Rumi glances sideways, she notices Mira’s fingers flexing against her thigh like she’s still shaking off the performance they just witnessed. Rumi doesn’t blame her. Her own chest hasn’t stopped fluttering since Zoey spat the last line.

“Yeah,” Mira answers, voice steady, “we’ve got it.”

Zoey, lounging back in the producer’s chair with her bangs swinging like a metronome, grins through the glass. She looks too pleased with herself, chin propped in her palm, eyes glittering.

Rumi swallows hard and focuses on the mic.

The first run is rough—her voice comes out higher than she wants, wavering on the edges of Zoey’s sharp syllables. Mira steadies her by sliding a hand over the small of her back, a grounding touch that shoots straight up her spine.

“Breathe from here,” Mira murmurs, her hand pressing lightly against Rumi’s ribs. “Match the rhythm, not Zoey. You’re supposed to fill, not fight her.”

The instruction is simple, precise, and Rumi clings to it like a lifeline.

The second take lands smoother. Mira dips low on the harmonies, her voice husky, while Rumi threads high notes sharp enough to cut. Together, they weave around Zoey’s rap, building something fuller, bigger, alive.

Hours blur.

They loop the same section over and over, Tyler’s voice breaking in with tweaks—“again, but hit the end sharper”—“let it slide this time, don’t force it”—“yeah, yeah, that’s the one.”

Zoey never leaves her seat. She spins lazy circles in the chair, tapping her thigh to the beat, but her eyes never drift far from the booth. Every time Rumi risks a glance, Zoey’s watching. Not just listening—watching.

Her stomach twists tighter with every look.

By the time Tyler finally throws his hands up and declares, “We’ve got it,” Rumi feels wrung out like a towel. Her throat aches, sweat dampens the back of her neck, but the fire in her chest won’t dim. Mira leans back against the booth wall, breathless but steady, her cap pulled low over her eyes.

They exchange a look. No words. Just an unspoken agreement that whatever just happened in here is bigger than both of them.

“Alright, ladies,” Tyler calls, bouncing in his chair, “let’s hear it back.”

The three of them gather on the studio couch, Mira sinking into one corner, Rumi in the middle, Zoey pressed in close on her other side. Tyler spins in his chair, a wolfish grin plastered across his face as he hits the spacebar.

The track rolls out heavy, sharp, alive.

Zoey’s rap slices clean through the speakers, confident, commanding, cocky in a way that makes Rumi’s insides lurch. Then their harmonies slide in, Mira grounding the rhythm, Rumi threading fire through the air.

The sound swells—louder, fuller, undeniable.

They sit frozen as it plays, the three of them stiff as statues while Tyler bobs his head like he’s already imagining the crowd losing their minds.

Rumi’s pulse stutters. Hearing it like this—outside her own mouth, no longer hers but something bigger, something theirs—makes her skin prickle. It doesn’t sound like practice. It doesn’t even sound like them. It sounds like something dangerous.

Mira exhales, slow and shaky, her hand curling into a loose fist against her thigh. Her eyes stay locked on the speakers like she’s daring them to keep shocking her.

Zoey… Zoey is beaming. Pride rolls off her in waves, smug and bright, her grin wide enough to light the whole room.

The final chorus crashes, their voices braiding tight with Zoey’s rap, and then—silence.

The track cuts.

No one breathes.

Then Tyler explodes out of his chair. “Holy shit!” He claps his hands once, the sound echoing in the studio. “That’s it. That’s it! People are gonna scream when they hear this—scream, cry, throw their wallets at the stage, I don’t even care. It’s perfect. Perfect.”

Rumi blinks, her chest aching with the sudden rush of relief.

Mira finally leans back, dragging a hand down her face. “It’s not… what we usually do,” she mutters, voice half-dazed, “but… damn. Zoey.”

Her gaze flicks to their youngest, sharp but filled with reluctant awe. “You killed it.”

Zoey shrugs, biting back a grin so wide it almost hurts. “Told you I had something good.”

Rumi doesn’t trust her voice, so she just nods. The corners of her lips twitch, though, unable to resist Zoey’s glow.

It’s not their usual style, no. But hearing her in her element like this, completely unchained, fills something in Rumi she didn’t even realize was empty.

Tyler rolls his chair closer, practically vibrating. “I’m telling you, this isn’t just a track—it’s a moment. You three are about to blow the roof off this industry. Beg for It is gonna hit like a hammer.”

Zoey laughs, ducking her head, her braid swinging as she rocks back and forth like she can’t contain the energy buzzing through her veins.

Mira smirks, nudging Rumi with her knee. “Guess we’ll just have to get used to her being insufferable now.”

Rumi lets out the smallest laugh, quiet but real.

The session winds down, Tyler muttering about mixing and layering while Mira stretches her arms overhead, groaning about needing food. Zoey keeps glancing between the two of them, her grin never dimming, pride radiating off her like heat.

Rumi stays quiet, but when the final notes fade from her mind, she feels something heavier, deeper, settle in her chest.

“Ok T, same time next week? With the rest of the songs?” Zoey smiles, waving as they start to walk out.

“Yep! Enjoy yourselves, rest your voices, be amazing, all that jazz,” He laughs, already turning back to his sound board.

“Bye!” All three of them sound off, heading to the elevators.

The streets are alive with the faint buzz of Seoul midday, the sun warming their faces as they walk, Zoey bouncing slightly with every step, Mira loping along with an effortless grace. Rumi falls a little behind, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans, braids swinging as she hums softly, trying to let the energy of the city wash over her. They move in a familiar pattern, the rhythm of their proximity easing some of the tension from the studio. Zoey is animatedly chattering about lyrics ideas she’s had while walking, Mira glances over her shoulder every few seconds with that half-smirk, half-glare look, pretending she’s not fully entertained.

They find the small ramyeon shop tucked between two larger buildings, the kind of place that smells faintly of chili, sesame, and toasted garlic. It’s cozy and cramped, exactly the kind of place they like. The three of them squeeze into a corner booth, Rumi in her usual spot slightly apart, while Zoey and Mira huddle together, elbows brushing, knees almost tangled. The intimacy of it makes Rumi’s chest warm. She watches them, unconsciously leaning a little forward, trying to capture some of the energy between them.

A cheerful young waiter greets them, and the girls rattle off their orders quickly. Zoey insists on getting the spiciest broth in the house, Mira opts for a classic with extra vegetables, and Rumi… Rumi just points to something on the menu she vaguely recognizes. Zoey notices and smirks, “You’re playing it safe, huh?” Rumi shrugs, biting her lip.

When the food arrives, the three of them dive in like it’s the most important mission of the day. Rumi can’t help but let herself get lost in the act of eating, the spicy noodles tugging at her senses, the steam rising and tickling her nose. Mira digs in with meticulous care, every chopstick movement precise, while Zoey practically slurps her ramyeon in record time, sending the broth sloshing dangerously near the edges of the bowl.

They talk between bites, mostly about songs, beats, and ideas for lyrics, brainstorming ways to expand the album’s energy. Zoey laughs as she pitches a particularly wild concept, Mira rolls her eyes but grins, Rumi quietly contributing a few thoughts on melody, her fingers twirling a strand of hair in thought. The conversation flows seamlessly, punctuated by laughter and the occasional burp from Zoey, which earns a small slap from Mira.

“You are disgusting,” Mira says, though there’s no real bite to her voice. Rumi snickers softly, feeling the warmth of their presence like sunlight pooling in her chest. She’s still a little awkward, still processing everything that happened in the studio, but here, in this cramped corner booth, she feels the gentle tug of normalcy.

They continue to brainstorm, tossing ideas back and forth. Zoey keeps gesturing wildly, hands painting scenes in the air. Mira jots down notes on a napkin, scribbling chords and rhythmic cues. Rumi feels herself soaking it all in, letting the sound of their voices, the smell of the noodles, the tiny space pressing around them, anchor her.

When the meal ends, Rumi instinctively reaches for her wallet. Without thinking, she slides it across the table to pay. Mira’s eyes snap open in mock horror. “What the hell are you doing?” she hisses, though the smirk playing at her lips undercuts the anger.

“I… I just…” Rumi mumbles, cheeks heating as she realizes she’s already handed over the cash.

Mira’s hand smacks the top of her head, gentle but pointed. “Don’t just pay for everything without asking first princess. That’s cheating.”

Zoey bursts out laughing from across the table, elbowing Mira lightly. “She was faster, Mira. Accept it.”

Rumi blushes furiously but can’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips over the nickname. The tension from before begins to soften, and the three of them slide out of the booth, shoulders brushing, laughter trailing behind them as they step back into the sunlit streets.

The walk back to the tower mirrors their approach that morning. Zoey rambles about animal facts she’s remembered, Mira intercepts her with a smirk, nudging her shoulder playfully as if to say, enough blabbering. Rumi hums along softly, feeling her body relaxed but still aware of the subtle currents between them. Zoey leans into Mira, and Mira’s eyes catch hers for just a second, a private smirk in place. Rumi’s heart beats faster when she watches Mira shift to lean down quickly and place a kiss on Zoey cheek. It’s natural, like she didn’t even think about it. How had she missed this? Clearly this wasn’t out of the ordinary for them, because Zoey doesn’t even pause her rambling.

It doesn’t take long for Zoey to notice Rumi is watching them, keeping her distance. She stretches a hand toward Rumi without hesitation. “Hey, you listening?” Zoey says softly, her voice full of warmth.

Rumi hesitates. Her feet feel heavier, her mind twisting with the lingering tension from the day, the heavy emotions from the studio session still humming through her.

Mira nods, subtle but firm, giving Rumi the push she needs without forcing her. “Take her hand Rumi, or she’ll pout all afternoon.”

Rumi slowly reaches out, fingertips brushing Zoey’s, and then she grasps her hand fully. It’s electric. Her chest clenches and her patterns shift lightly under her skin, just enough to make her realize how much she craves the closeness of the two of them. Zoey squeezes her hand gently, a grounding force, and Rumi breathes out, letting the moment wash over her.

The streets blur as they continue walking together, Zoey rambling again about some ridiculous animal fact while Rumi’s mind is elsewhere, spinning with the events of the day. She’s aware of every small touch—Zoey’s thumb brushing hers as they hold hands, Mira’s hand occasionally ghosting along her back, her warmth reassuring, protective. Her heart hammers, her patterns shimmer softly, and a blush creeps up her neck.

When the tower finally comes into view, Rumi exhales and straightens, brushing her hair back and trying to shake off the residual tension. Rumi keeps silent, letting Mira’s steady presence guide the trio inside. The elevator ride up is quick, the chime of the top floor making Rumi’s chest tighten with anticipation for the couch collapse that she knows is coming.

The moment they step inside, Mira heads toward the kitchen, commenting she’ll get drinks ready, and Zoey collapses theatrically onto the couch, stretching across it as if claiming the space for herself. Rumi sinks down beside her, letting her legs tuck under her, still feeling the lingering heat from the walk home. Mira returns with a tray of iced tea and fruit slices, placing it carefully on the coffee table in front of them. The three of them lounge, the weight of the day finally settling into their bones.

Zoey grabs a slice of melon and pops it into her mouth, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Okay, so,” she begins, a hand idly tracing patterns on the couch cushion beside her. “We’ve got some of the tracks done, solo bits coming along, but… inspiration, people. We need more.”

Mira hums thoughtfully, sitting cross-legged on the other side of Rumi. “More inspiration, huh? What are you thinking?”

Zoey leans back, arms spread across the couch, a grin plastered across her face. “Night out. Clubs, loud music, lots of people, lights. Atmosphere. I say we blend in, see what’s popular, take notes, feel the vibe. I think it’s perfect.”

Rumi freezes mid-sip of her iced tea, choking slightly on the cool liquid. She sputters, “A… club? Tonight?”

Zoey blinks innocently, as if she doesn’t understand why Rumi looks like she’s seen a ghost. “Yeah. Why not? We have time, we’re awake, we’re energetic. Plus, it’ll be fun!”

Rumi groans, burying her face in her hands. “Zoey… I… I can’t… That’s… the people, the crowds… too much…”

Zoey leans over, plucking a strand of hair from Rumi’s braid and twirling it between her fingers. “Nah. Not giving you a choice. We’re going, end of discussion. You’re coming whether you like it or not.”

Rumi’s eyes widen in protest. “I… I really don’t—”

Zoey cuts her off with a mischievous grin, already pulling her phone from her pocket. “I’ve got this. I’ll scout the clubs. We’ll find a trendy one that’s not crazy packed, just enough energy to get the juices flowing for inspiration. Maybe something like… Club Aurora. Yeah. Lights, lasers, good music, minimal chaos. We leave at seven, got four hours to prep, and you—” she waves a finger at Rumi, “—can’t hide behind the couch and sulk. You’ll thank me later.”

Rumi groans again, leaning back against Mira as if seeking protection. Her patterns flicker faintly under her skin, a soft glow in response to her conflicted emotions: panic, excitement, embarrassment, and… desire for the fun she knows Zoey will make her have. Mira’s hand drifts to her arm, brushing lightly, almost protective, and Rumi lets out a shaky breath. She knows she won’t be able to argue successfully. Zoey has the energy and the momentum, and Mira’s subtle encouragement makes it clear she’s not going to fight her either.

Zoey’s already on her phone, fingers flying across the screen as she mutters club names, peak times, dress codes, and social media trends under her breath. “Okay, Club Aurora has a cover but it’s small enough for us to blend in. Music’s mostly EDM and pop hits. Crowd looks young, energetic, but not crazy wild. Perfect. Outfit… hmm, I can wear the neon mesh top with my leather mini, knee boots, high pony. Yes. That’s good. Gonna turn heads, Rumi, but in a good way.”

Rumi groans, hiding her face against Mira’s shoulder, half-exhausted, half-overstimulated by Zoey’s excitement. Mira chuckles softly, brushing Rumi’s hair back from her face. “She’s already made up her mind. Just let it happen. We’ll make it fun for you.”

“I… I don’t know if fun is the word I’d—” Rumi starts, but Zoey waves a hand dismissively.

“Words are overrated when it comes to experience. Trust me. You’ll survive. Plus,” Zoey leans closer, voice teasing, “Mira and I are here. You can’t get lost, you’re stuck with us.” She smirks, letting her thumb brush lightly against Rumi’s hand, and Rumi feels her chest tighten, patterns pulsing faintly.

Mira smiles, squeezing Rumi’s shoulder. “Exactly. You’re not going anywhere alone. If you want to hide behind me, fine, but you’ll still come.”

Rumi exhales sharply, feeling both the thrill and the dread coil together in her chest. She wants to protest, to hide, to say “no,” but the intensity of the girls’ presence, the warmth and playful dominance of Zoey’s energy, and the quiet steady reassurance from Mira, all combine to make her realize she really doesn’t have a choice. She can fight, or she can give in, and deep down, a small part of her is curious to see how much fun she might actually have.

Zoey jumps up, already scrolling through options for Uber rides and transportation. “Alright, four hours. We need to eat something before leaving, get changed, do hair and makeup. Mira’s probably going for something low-key but sexy. Rumi? You’re keeping it simple, okay? I don’t want you tripping over anything.”

Rumi mumbles something unintelligible, still flushed and resisting the excitement bubbling in her chest. Mira wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to her feet gently. “Come on, Rumi. Let’s get moving. We’ll help you with your outfit. Nothing crazy, promise.”

Zoey zips off to her room, the sound of her drawer slamming and clothes rustling echoing down the hall. Mira glances at Rumi with a faint smirk. “Ready?” she asks softly. Rumi nods, taking a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She’s aware of every movement, every sound, every pulse of energy in the apartment.

The four hours ahead feel like both an eternity and a heartbeat. They’re walking toward the unknown of the night: the neon lights, the pounding music, the crowd, the rush of overstimulation that Rumi both dreads and anticipates. She knows Zoey will push her, Mira will guard her, and the world outside the tower will feel like a different planet entirely.

And yet, despite the nervous knots in her stomach and the faint glow of her patterns under her skin, Rumi can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. The night is theirs to own, whether she’s ready or not.

And just like that, the countdown begins. Four hours to dress, prepare, breathe, and brace themselves for a night that promises music, lights, people, and the kind of excitement that will leave them all buzzing for days. Rumi feels her chest tighten again, heart hammering with anticipation, confusion, and a little fear—but beneath it all, there’s a spark of thrill she can’t ignore. The night is coming. The night is theirs.

Chapter Text

Rumi steps into the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her shoulders and down her body. It’s comforting, almost grounding, though her stomach twists with nerves she can’t quite name. She tilts her head back, letting the spray hit her face as she closes her eyes, taking deep breaths to calm the fluttering in her chest. Her hands reach for the shampoo, working it through her hair slowly, massaging the scalp in small circles. Each strand feels slick and slippery between her fingers, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the smell of the soap, the heat of the water, and the rhythmic sound of the droplets.

She rinses thoroughly, the suds running down the length of her body, but the comfort is fleeting. Anxiety creeps back in, her mind flipping through thoughts of the club—the lights, the people, the music, and the way everyone will look at her. Her patterns. Her body. She shivers slightly, feeling exposed despite the heat. Shaving feels like a ritual, the blade gliding carefully over her legs and underarms. Each pass makes her flinch a little at the thought of someone noticing her, though she can’t explain why. She rinses, feeling the smooth skin beneath her fingers, trying to convince herself that no one will care, even if she knows that’s a lie.

Rinse. Repeat. Soap. Rinse. Every small movement, every habit she’s performed a thousand times, now feels weighted with expectation.

She steps out, toweling off carefully, and pulls on fresh underwear. The small swath of fabric seems inadequate somehow, and she can’t stop imagining what people at the club will see, the patterns glowing faintly beneath her skin. Moisturizer follows, slick against her skin, sticky in a way that reminds her of her own vulnerability. Her body feels too aware, every nerve ending awake, buzzing.

Her wardrobe sits in front of her like a puzzle, a mountain of choices that suddenly seem impossible. She begins pulling out items haphazardly—skirts, tops, jackets—holding them up against herself, then discarding them, growing increasingly frustrated. Each option feels wrong: too much, too little, too revealing, too conservative. Nothing is right.

Rumi flops onto her desk chair, hair damp and sticking slightly to her neck, robe loosely draped over her shoulders. Makeup. She knows she can control that. The brush in her hand becomes an anchor, a way to focus, a way to take a breath. She dips the brush into the deep black eyeshadow first, sweeping it carefully across her lids. Her movements are precise, almost meditative, and she can feel the tension in her shoulders slowly easing. Smokey eyes take shape, blending seamlessly into a flick of glitter along the crease that catches the light just so.

Cateye wings follow, sharp and deliberate, elongating her eyes in a way that makes her feel powerful. She brushes on mascara, feeling the bristles coat each lash evenly. Bronzer, blush, highlight—each swipe brings her closer to the version of herself she wants the world to see. She applies lipstick last, a subtle shade that adds just enough contrast to the otherwise dramatic eye look.

Hair. She contemplates curling it, straightening it, tying it in a braid, but pauses, deciding to keep it simple for now. A loose low ponytail drapes over her back, strands falling naturally, soft and glossy. She thinks she’ll decide on the style once the outfit is settled.

She exhales slowly, standing and staring at the mountain of clothing. It’s a cruel game, and she feels herself slipping into self-doubt again. Every skirt seems too short, every top too revealing. Every cutout shows more than she wants exposed, and her patterns flash faintly under her skin, reminding her that hiding them is impossible. She lifts her arms, eyeing a sleeveless crop top she’s considered, the fabric soft and stretchy. Her stomach twists, the anxiety coiling tightly.

Nothing seems right. She tries on a high-waisted skirt with a fitted blouse, but it feels constricting, too safe, too boring. She tosses it aside, frustrated. She tries a sequined mini skirt with a halter top, but the shimmer makes her patterns almost glow, and she hates it. Each outfit, each thought, only amplifies the nervous energy in her chest. She runs her fingers over her arm where the faint lines of her patterns are visible under the light. What if people stare? What if they notice? What if she can’t control herself in the crowd?

A whisper of defeat escapes her, and she throws herself back onto the bed. “I can’t,” she mutters, voice shaking. “I just… I can’t.”

Her robe falls open slightly as she sinks into the cushions, feeling small and exposed. The panic in her chest escalates, and she knows she needs help, even if she hates needing anyone. “Zoey!” she calls, voice trembling. “I… I need help!”

Zoey bursts into the room in a whirlwind, bright and unstoppable, with Mira trailing a few steps behind. Zoey’s grin is infectious, but Rumi can barely manage a small nod, curled up in the corner, robe falling loosely off her shoulders. Mira’s eyes are soft, filled with concern, but she doesn’t step forward too aggressively. She knows Zoey thrives in these situations.

Zoey swoops in, throwing clothes in all directions—skirts, tops, jackets—and laughing as she tosses a glittery crop top toward Rumi. “Here! Put this on. You’ll look amazing! Trust me!” She smacks a pair of thigh-high boots onto the floor next to the robe. “These, too. You’re going to kill it!” She pecks Rumi on the cheek and hurries around, pulling more pieces from drawers like a hurricane, a tornado of energy and mischief.

Rumi gapes at the flurry of clothes, barely able to breathe. Mira moves closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Just… pick. Anything. Don’t think so much. Zoey’s excited, and I promise she’ll make sure it works.”

Rumi swallows, shaking her head. “It all feel wrong, my patterns, I—”

Zoey cuts her off with a sharp laugh. “Nope. None of that. Put it on, now.” She drops a high-waisted black mini skirt with a zipper up the back in Rumi’s lap, then tosses the sleeveless cropped top, soft and glittered, over her head. “And boots. Don’t argue.”

Rumi groans and takes the outfit to her bathroom to slip everything on. The black leather skirt clings to her curves, falling just above mid-thigh, and the top – white with black lace – leaves her arms bare, her shoulders illuminated under the soft room light. Her chest tightens as she realizes how much skin she’s showing. Her patterns flare faintly, responding to her heightened awareness. She feels heat rising to her cheeks as she walks back out for Zoey’s approval.

Zoey claps her hands, practically vibrating with excitement. “Yes! Perfect! Now, the boots!” She points to the white leather thigh-highs and winks. “You’re going to dominate, Rumi.”

Rumi shuffles her feet into the boots, feeling the stiff leather hug her legs. Her chest rises and falls quickly, anxiety and anticipation mingling like fire and ice. She steps back, looking at herself in the mirror, hair still tied loosely at her nape. It feels like too much, too little, too exposed, too… everything. She can almost hear her patterns humming under the surface.

Mira watches silently from the corner, eyes soft but sharp, ready to intervene if Rumi falters. Zoey spins on her heels, dashing around the room, snatching up a bottle of perfume. “This. Now. Spray. Everywhere. And your makeup? Lock it. Setting spray. No smudges. We leave in an hour.” She leans in, kissing Rumi on the cheek again, her grin teasing. “Go. Do it. Now.”

Rumi exhales shakily, grabbing the perfume and misting herself, head tilting as the scent drifts in waves around her. She sprays setting spray over her face, watching the tiny mist settle over the flawless smokey eye she perfected earlier. Glitter catches in the light, the cateye wings sharp and clean, adding a dangerous glimmer to her gaze. She runs her hands over her arms, chest rising and falling, patterns flickering faintly. She looks at Zoey, who’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, impatient and electric.

Rumi swallows, brushing a few stray hairs from her face. “I just need to sort my hair, then I’m ready.”

Zoey claps once, sharp and victorious. “Good. Out to the living room. Don’t make me wait.” She grins devilishly, and Rumi can’t help the tiniest smile despite the nerves coiling through her chest.

Taking her place back at her desk, Rumi grabs the curling iron, flick it on, and begins parting her painfully long hair. The lavender strands fall over her shoulders in straight lines, and she begins by running a heat protection spray through it to avoid damage. The iron signals it’s ready, and she takes a good half an hour making sure the curls are perfect. It’s a mission, with hair this length, yet it feels worth it when she stands to look over herself in the full length mirror.

Her outfit is perfect, like Zoey had made her from scratch. The black and white contrast is simple, her make up pops, her hair curls around hitting mid thigh now that it’s in neat spirals. She lets some of it fall over her shoulders, framing her face. It looks different, she never wears it down, but putting it up now would be a waste. So with a sigh, and one last confidence boosting nod, she walks out of her room. Ready for the night.

Rumi steps carefully toward the living room, each movement deliberate. Hair flowing down her back, glinting faintly in the afternoon light, the skirt snug around her hips, the crop top showing just enough to make her patterns glow softly in reaction to her heartbeat. The boots thump against the floor as she moves, making her feel alive, aware, and entirely exposed.

She reaches the couch, Zoey practically vibrating with anticipation, and Mira’s calm, knowing gaze lands on her like an anchor. “You look… incredible,” Mira murmurs softly, voice low. “Wow.”

Rumi exhales shakily, curling her fingers into her own lap, aware of the heat of her chest, the way her body hums in response to the outfit, the attention, the anticipation. She’s done it. She’s put herself out there, and even with the anxiety clawing at her, she feels… powerful.

Zoey throws herself onto the couch beside her, bouncing slightly. “Yes! Now, let’s eat, hydrate, and prepare ourselves. This night is ours. You’re ready, Rumi, trust me. You’re going to be perfect.”

Rumi nods, sitting carefully, patterns flickering softly as she takes a deep breath. She’s ready—or at least, as ready as she’ll ever be.

~~

The elevator hums softly as the girls step inside, the polished steel walls reflecting every angle of their preparation. Rumi presses back against the wall automatically, needing the distance, though that hardly helps. Because now, with no distractions, she has to take them both in fully.

Mira is to her left, casual in her stance but sharp in her style. The overhead light catches the sheen of the emerald satin camisole clinging to her, the X pattern straps over her back cutting clean lines against bare shoulders and arms toned from hours in the gym. Black trousers ride high on her waist, sharp and tailored but broken up by the glint of silver chains draped from belt loops and pocket edges, swaying lightly as she moves. Her hair is parted in the middle, tousled in that effortlessly hot look that shows off the strong angles of her jaw and the delicate chain earrings brushing her neck. Her makeup is minimal but striking—skin glowing under a soft highlight, brows sharp, a faint shimmer over her eyelids, and a bold line of eyeliner winging out just enough to pull the eye. A dark berry tint on her lips finishes the look, subtle but commanding, and Rumi can’t tear her eyes away.

Zoey, in contrast, is chaos bottled into pure glamour. She’s in a tiny sequined mini dress in shimmering silver, the hem stopping so high on her thighs that every step threatens to scandalize. Thin spaghetti straps curve over her shoulders, the neckline plunging daringly low, her collarbones glowing with dusted glitter highlighter. Every movement sends the sequins scattering the elevator light across the walls like sparks. Her hair is down in loose, voluminous waves, curling around her shoulders and tumbling down her back. She’s gone heavy with her makeup: glitter cut-crease eyeshadow in shades of pink and purple, lashes so thick they almost brush her brows, cheeks dusted with blush, and glossy lips that look practically kissable. She smells faintly of vanilla and champagne.

Rumi feels the heat crawl up her neck as her gaze lingers too long. Skin. There’s so much skin. Mira’s arms, Zoey’s legs, the sheen of their collarbones. The contrast of dark fabric and bare flesh makes her stomach flip, her fingers tightening the support bar behind her. Her patterns shimmer faintly, dancing beneath her skin when her heartbeat spikes, like they’re betraying every ounce of her nerves.

Zoey catches her staring, flashing a grin that’s both wicked and knowing. “See something you like, Rumi?” she teases, leaning closer so the sequins of her dress brush against Rumi’s arm.

Rumi flushes crimson, snapping her gaze to the glowing floor numbers. “I—no, I wasn’t—”

Mira chuckles, low and smooth, tugging slightly at the cuff of her rolled sleeve. “Down girl. You’ll make her combust before we even get there.”

Zoey laughs, clearly unbothered. “What? I’m just asking questions!”

The elevator dings, mercifully, and the doors slide open. They spill into the lobby, laughter trailing behind them, but Rumi’s chest is tight. Every step toward the glass doors makes her more aware of how exposed she feels, how her outfit screams for attention she doesn’t want. She hugs herself as they step outside, the cool evening air biting against her bare skin.

The car waits at the curb, sleek and dark. The driver steps out to open the back door, and without hesitation, all three girls pile inside—Zoey in the middle, Mira against the other door, and Rumi squeezed between Zoey and the window. The scent of perfume, hairspray, and faint traces of leather fills the small space, thick and heady.

Rumi presses against the door, tugging at the hem of her skirt as if she can stretch it lower, cover herself more. Her thighs stick faintly to the leather seat, and she can feel the warmth of Zoey’s bare leg brushing against hers with every bump of the road. She’s hyperaware of every inch of skin that isn’t hidden, every flicker of her patterns glowing faintly under the dim car lights.

Zoey notices, of course. She always notices. Her hand lands lightly on Rumi’s knee, warm and steady. “Hey. You’re fine. You look insane, like jaw-dropping insane. Trust me, no one’s gonna see anything except how hot you are.”

Mira hums in agreement, her gaze cutting over from the other side. “She’s right. You’ll blend in perfectly, Rumi. Clubs are… chaos. Everyone’s too busy with themselves to pick anyone apart. And if they do—” She smirks faintly, tapping the side of her foot against the floor. “Well let’s just say, no one will find the bodies.”

Rumi exhales shakily, nodding, though her fingers still twist in her lap. Comfort comes in strange ways—Zoey’s teasing confidence, Mira’s quiet protectiveness—and somehow, between the two, she manages to breathe a little easier.

The ride doesn’t take long, though every second stretches in her nerves. When the car slows, the driver announcing they’ve arrived, Rumi feels her stomach drop.

The street outside is alive. Music spills faintly from every corner, bass notes reverberating underfoot even from here. Crowds line the sidewalks—dressed in glitter, silk, leather, neon. The trendy energy is unmistakable, vibrant with bodies pressed together, laughter spilling into the night. Club signs glow in bold colours, but one dominates the street: Club Aurora, its name in sharp, glowing letters, promising a night of intensity and escape.

The driver opens the door, and Zoey is out first – literally climbing over Rumi – strutting like she owns the block, silver dress flashing with every step. Mira follows with quieter confidence, straightening her hair as she steps onto the pavement. Rumi hesitates before sliding out, boots hitting the ground with mock confidence. The air feels charged, thick with sweat, perfume, and neon. People’s eyes brush over her, and she feels the flush creep higher across her cheeks, her patterns humming so strongly she’s terrified they’re glowing for the world to see.

They start towards the club entrance, Zoey’s hand finding Rumi’s without a backwards glance. She pulls her along, Mira behind her, a protective hand on the bare skin of her lower back. The pressure isn’t firm, just enough for Rumi to know Mira is there.

A group nearby gasps, recognition sparking. “Wait—Is that Huntrix? That’s them!” Someone lifts their phone.

Before Rumi can spiral, Zoey loops an arm around her shoulders, spinning toward the small group with a grin. “Picture time, babes?” she sings, posing effortlessly as if she thrives on the attention. Mira joins without fuss, her smirk small but present, leaning into the frame with practiced ease.

Rumi forces herself to smile, her heartbeat rattling against her ribs. Flash after flash goes off, but it’s mercifully quick. A few selfies, some thanks, and then Zoey is tugging them forward through the crowd.

The rest of the crowd is too invested in themselves—loud conversations, stumbling laughter, desperate shouts to hail taxis. They blend, more than Rumi expects, the noise swallowing them whole.

At the front of the club, the line snakes endlessly, people pressed shoulder to shoulder waiting for entry. The bouncer is a wall of muscle, arms crossed, scanning IDs with a detached stare. Zoey, unbothered, waltzes right up, pulling a smile that’s pure charm.

“Evening,” she says, tilting her head so her curls cascade over her bare shoulder. “Three for VIP, under Huntrix. Should be Zoey, Mira, Rumi.” Her voice drips with confidence, every syllable smooth.

The bouncer checks the clipboard, glances once at the trio, then nods. “You’re clear. This way.”

Zoey beams, winking at Rumi before gliding toward the velvet rope. Mira follows with a small shake of her head and that same confident hand pushing Rumi forward so she isn’t left behind.

But as the rope parts and they’re ushered into the VIP entrance, Zoey leans down, voice low but playful in Rumi’s ear. “See? Easy. You didn’t even combust once.”

Rumi swallows, clutching her bag tighter. “Not yet,” she mutters, though a faint smile flickers across her lips.

The bass thrums through the floor like a second heartbeat, rattling Rumi’s chest and vibrating her bones. The lights shift in strobes of violet and electric blue, flickering across the glossy floor and the gleaming bodies pressing together in time with the music. The second they step into the main room, Zoey’s already tugging them toward the bar, eyes shining like a kid in a candy store.

Rumi feels bare, too bare—her short skirt clings when she walks, boots clicking, crop top leaving every line of her torso on display. The air is humid with sweat, perfume, and smoke, and her patterns burn across her arms like molten metal. But she follows because Mira is at her side, steady, unreadable, and Zoey has her hand wrapped around Rumi’s wrist, tugging with reckless delight.

At the bar, Zoey leans forward, batting her lashes at the bartender with practiced charm, ordering them drinks in a voice loud enough to cut through the music. Rumi perches on a stool, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt, trying to disappear into the crowd, but Mira stands behind her, casual and unbothered, a protective shadow at her back. When the shots arrive—bright, neon liquids topped with sugar rims—Zoey presses one into Rumi’s hand, beams, and raises hers high.

“To inspiration,” Zoey yells over the thundering beat.

“To chaos,” Mira smirks.

Rumi hesitates, but their eyes are on her, expectant, warm. She swallows hard, lifts her glass. “To… us.”

They clink—crystal shattering sound lost in the music—and down them. The alcohol is sharp, sweet, burning down her throat. Zoey’s already giggling, leaning close against Mira as she sets her empty glass down. “Dance floor. Now.”

And there’s no room for protest—Zoey has Rumi’s hand again, weaving her through the wall of moving bodies until they hit the center of it all. The heat of the crowd hits like a wave, bodies pressing, shifting, the air alive with sound and rhythm.

Rumi freezes at first, stiff as a post, the music slamming into her ears and rattling her chest. Her patterns flare, jagged and restless under her skin. She knows she doesn’t belong here, not like this, not with her body exposed, every flaw on display—

But then Zoey is in front of her, all glitter and skin and grinning lips mouthing every lyric. Mira slides in behind, hands steady and firm on her hips, guiding her without asking. And suddenly, Rumi’s trapped between them, the music insisting, the heat of their bodies leaving her nowhere to hide.

Zoey laughs, mouthing the chorus into Rumi’s face, hair whipping as she moves to the rhythm, hips grinding to the beat. Her hands slide up, feather-light, landing on Rumi’s shoulders. Her grip tightens when Rumi falters, grounding her, urging her forward. Mira’s palms flex at her waist, steady pressure, rocking her into the sway of the song.

“Just let go,” Zoey mouths, her voice lost in the pounding bass but clear in her eyes.

Rumi does. Slowly. Hesitantly. She lets the rhythm take her body, hips swaying, shoulders rolling, her head dropping back against Mira’s chest. She feels Mira laugh low behind her, the sound vibrating against her spine, hot breath brushing her ear. Zoey’s smile is blinding, triumphant, her movements sharper now, bolder, tugging Rumi further out of her shell.

The song changes, heavier bass, the kind that drags hips down and pulls bodies close. Rumi moves with it, and suddenly it’s not her—her body knows what to do, how to bend and grind, how to lose itself. Mira’s hands are firmer now, guiding, keeping her steady when she threatens to spiral. Zoey presses closer from the front, chest brushing hers, fingers skating down her bare arms.

And then—heat. Mira’s hips slot against her from behind, moving in perfect time with the beat. Zoey presses in from the front, breath brushing her cheek, their bodies boxing her in until there’s no air left to breathe.

Rumi whimpers before she can stop herself, patterns blazing gold along her skin. Not the warning red of panic or the dark violet of shame, but gold—soft and bright and overwhelming in the best way. Mira and Zoey can see it, she knows they can, and her face burns with embarrassment.

She tries to step out, to push back, to breathe, but Zoey leans in closer, lips brushing her ear as she pins Rumi against Mira with the full weight of her body. “Stay. Please.” The word is low, commanding, nothing like Zoey’s usual playful tone.

Rumi freezes. Hands pressed against Zoey’s ribs, ready to push her away but unable to.

Zoey smirks, slow and deliberate, and presses a quick kiss against the shell of her ear, whispering hotly, “It’s ok. You’re perfect like this.” And then, bold as always, she tips her chin up and kisses Mira over Rumi’s shoulder.

Rumi’s patterns explode, waves of gold rippling under her skin, the heat unbearable, exquisite, crawling over every nerve ending. Her breath stutters, caught between a moan and a gasp, body trembling as she’s pressed between them. Zoey’s mouth lingers against Mira’s for a beat too long, their lips sliding, heat sharp enough to scorch. When she pulls back, Mira’s eyes are half-lidded, her grip on Rumi’s hips tightening.

The music is everything and nothing—thunder in the background, irrelevant compared to the press of bodies, the slide of skin, the burn of heat between them. Rumi’s head spins, her chest heaves, and every instinct screams at her to run and to stay all at once. She doesn’t know where she begins anymore, only that their bodies are the only anchor in the chaos.

The whisper lingers in Rumi’s ear, warm and electric, as Zoey’s lips brush the shell of it with maddening care. Please, she had breathed, and the words feel less like a suggestion and more like a command Rumi has no chance of disobeying.

Rumi’s breath catches so sharply she almost chokes on it, her head knocking lightly back against Mira’s collarbone in shock. She can feel Mira stiffen behind her, a low hum vibrating in her chest where Rumi’s spine presses close. For a half second, Rumi thinks Mira is going to pull away. But Mira doesn’t. Mira leans in, her hands tightening on Rumi’s hips as though anchoring them all together in the crowded, swaying heat of the club.

Zoey pulls back with a wicked grin, the taste of mischief written in the curve of her mouth, her pupils blown wide with the mix of alcohol, adrenaline, and whatever game she’s intent on playing. Her forehead presses lightly to Rumi’s temple, forcing Rumi to stare forward—at the people dancing, at the blur of lights—because turning her head would mean meeting Mira’s eyes. And Rumi doesn’t know if she could survive that right now.

Her patterns betray her anyway.

What had started as faint, swirling gold just under her collarbone now ripples outward, flooding in bright veins of molten light down her arms, around her ribs, across her thighs. The shift isn’t subtle. Mira sees it first, her eyes dropping to where the glow creeps across Rumi’s bare skin, exposed in her daring outfit. There’s a quiet intake of breath against Rumi’s shoulder, not quite a gasp, but close enough to send shivers racing through her body.

Zoey sees too—of course she does. The grin sharpens into something smug, triumphant, and just a little cruel. “Look at that,” she murmurs, her words a hot ghost along Rumi’s jawline. “So pretty when you let go.”

Rumi squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block it out. The music is pounding through the floor, vibrating her ribs, but none of it is as loud as her heartbeat. Mira’s thumbs stroke circles into her hipbones, grounding and steady, while Zoey presses even closer at her front, until there’s no space left at all. Rumi is caged in, locked between them, her body betraying every ounce of her carefully constructed distance with glowing patterns she can’t hide.

She can’t breathe. She can’t think. She can only feel.

And God, she feels everything.

Zoey sways her hips deliberately, dragging Rumi with her. Mira follows the movement, syncing behind them like instinct, their bodies moving together in a rhythm far older than the song blaring overhead. It’s too much—too hot, too close, too real.

“Zo—” Rumi manages, her voice breaking on the single syllable.

Zoey only laughs, low and throaty, before brushing her lips against Rumi’s jawline. Not a kiss—just a tease, a suggestion. The lightest touch possible, but it might as well be a brand.

Mira finally speaks, her voice soft but certain, her breath stirring the hairs at the nape of Rumi’s neck. “You okay?” she asks, though her hands haven’t left Rumi’s hips, haven’t loosened their grip.

Rumi shakes her head, because no, she’s not okay. She’s unravelling, burning alive from the inside out, and they’re both watching it happen. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” Zoey interrupts, gentle and coaxing but unrelenting, her fingers brushing up Rumi’s arm until they curl over her shoulder. She leans in again, lips grazing the edge of Rumi’s ear. “We’ve got you.”

Those three words detonate something deep inside her chest. Rumi shudders, helpless against the wave that sweeps through her. The gold of her patterns brightens until it’s practically an open flame, catching under the pulsing strobe lights of the club. Mira makes a small, involuntary sound behind her, equal parts awe and hunger, and Rumi feels it vibrate through her spine.

She wants to run. She wants to stay. She wants—she doesn’t even know what she wants.

Her hands, useless until now, finally move. One clutches at Zoey’s arm where it rests on her shoulder, nails digging in just enough to make Zoey hiss through her teeth and grin wider. The other slides back, desperate for something solid, and lands on Mira’s thigh where it presses close to hers. Mira inhales sharply at the touch, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she presses closer, trapping Rumi further.

The three of them move like that—caught in their own gravity—for what feels like forever, though it can’t be more than a song or two. The music blurs in and out, some pop anthem giving way to a dirtier beat, the bass heavy enough to rattle teeth. Around them, the crowd shifts, drinks spill, people shout and laugh and sing, but none of it penetrates the bubble they’ve built on the dance floor.

It’s just them.

Zoey pulls back eventually, if only to breathe, and catches Rumi’s gaze for the first time since this started. Her eyes sparkle with heat and something sharper—challenge, maybe. “Still wanna leave?” she teases, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Rumi opens her mouth, but no words come out. She doesn’t know the answer.

Mira leans down, her voice low and intimate, threading directly into Rumi’s bones. “She’s not running,” Mira says simply, as if the choice has already been made.

Zoey hums in approval, her grin curving against Rumi’s cheek as she leans in close again, close enough that Rumi can feel the shape of her smile. “Good,” she whispers, and then presses another kiss to Mira over Rumi’s shoulder, slower this time, deeper.

Rumi’s knees nearly give out. The only thing keeping her upright are Mira’s hands and Zoey’s body pinning her in place. The sound of their lips moving together, directly next to her ear, are enough to have Rumi grinding back harder into Mira’s body.

It only seems to spur them on, much to Rumi’s panic. Because the second her body presses back harder, Mira’s hand wrap around her further. They travel up, over the bare skin over her stomach, then dip back down to rest on the curve of her ass. Zoey, still kissing Mira with everything she has, presses harder, her chest melting into Rumi’s and her hands threading through Rumi’s hair to scrape at the base of her skull.

Rumi moans louder than she ever means to, praying to god someone heard it over the thumping beat. But of course, the two women pressed against her can. They break the kiss, both sets of eyes shifting to Rumi. They watch her, eyes closed, lips parted, hips still moving with them to the beat of a song they don’t care to name. She looks entranced, possessed even. Her breathing is shallow, her patterns flickering a warm gold colour as Zoeys nails continue to scrape at her scalp.

“Rumi baby?” Zoey hums in her ear, eyes snapping to Mira’s with a devilish glint.

Rumi whimpers again, squeezing her eyes shut tighter before snapping them open to be assaulted by the lights around them.

“Guys?” Rumi mumbles, “Is this ok? Am I – did I do something wrong?”

“No princess, you’re fine,” Mira chuckles in her ear, smile audible, “We are just checking in, you’re burning up.”

Rumi takes stock of her body, she’s sweating, mostly because her skin is on fire from being touched directly over her patterns so continuously. She knew this would happen, she’s just thankful she doesn’t have the desire to bare her fangs yet.

“I’m ok, I’m hot yeah,” Rumi swallows, “Can we take a sec? Get a drink?”

“Of course Ru,” Zoey smiles, stepping back and taking her hand.

The music thumps in the background, lower than the center of the dance floor, but it’s still alive, pulsing through the floor, through the table, through Rumi’s bones. They slide into the U-shaped booth near the edge after grabbing their drinks, the table between them and the dancers, the drinks already in front of them. Mira sits in the middle, like a quiet anchor, her arms draped casually along the back of the booth, her body angled so Rumi and Zoey are drawn in against her sides.

Rumi can feel the heat of Mira’s body—Zoey pressed lightly against her on the other side, Mira’s hand brushing close to her bare shoulder every time she shifts. The gold glow of her patterns flickers lightly under the dim club lights, a soft shimmer that only Mira and Zoey can see. It doesn’t make her feel exposed so much as… aware. Aware of every tiny brush, every accidental graze, every teasing glance.

They all take a second, finishing the drinks they brought with them from the bar. Rumi’s fingers curl around her glass, trying to anchor herself, trying not to be consumed by the fluttering heat in her chest. Mira moves as if she’s going to lean in and say something to Rumi, her hand slides—innocent, she thinks—onto her thigh, a deliberate weight that presses just a little higher than Rumi expects. She flinches hard, her knees hitting the underside of the table with enough force to rattle their glasses.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, trying to laugh it off, but the sharp intake of breath betrays her.

Mira doesn’t say anything, just lets her thumb rest lightly against the soft skin, the slight pressure enough to make Rumi swallow hard. Zoey grins, leaning forward just a fraction, one hand on the table, fingers tracing along the edge. “You okay?” Zoey asks, voice teasing, eyebrows raised.

The question is innocent, yet Rumi feels shame settle over herself quickly. She shouldn’t enjoy this, Mira’s hands on her, while Zoey sits right there watching. Yet Zoey doesn’t look annoyed by the touch, if anything she seems interested in it, her eyes flickering down with a grin every few seconds. Regardless, Rumi feels like she shouldn’t allow this. The flirting, the touches, all of it. Zoey and Mira belong to each other, not her. Her patterns ripple to a shame-filled purple quickly, before she can shut them down.

“I—I’m fine,” Rumi stammers, not even sure if it’s true. Her pulse is rapid, her stomach twisting in a delicious, torturous way she can’t explain. She can feel Mira’s gaze on her, heavy and assessing, and then Zoey’s eyes flick to her from the side. They notice her patterns shift colour, of course they do, they still shine bright enough to be noticeable as Rumi spirals internally.

“You sure?” Mira asks again, soft, low, almost a hum that vibrates through Rumi’s thigh. Her thumb drags slowly upward again. Rumi jumps in her seat.

“I… yeah, I—uh… I’m going to get another drink,” Rumi blurts, standing quickly, knocking her legs as she jumps out of the booth. She grips the edge of the table for balance and practically bolts toward the bar, cheeks flaming hotter than any club light could manage.

As she walks, she hears them laughing softly behind her. Zoey’s voice carries easily over the music, teasing but warm. “Don’t make it too strong!”

Mira hums low, amused, and Rumi swears she feels her eyes on her back as she weaves through the crowd. Her heart is hammering in her chest, her hands slightly trembling as she reaches the bar.

She orders quickly, trying to focus on the bartender, trying to anchor herself in something mundane, anything but the warmth of their hands, the deliberate teasing, the way their energy wraps around her. The alcohol barely registers in her brain; she’s too keyed up, too aware of every brush of skin, every glance, every laugh shared between Zoey and Mira.

By the time she’s got her drink actual drink she has slammed back three shots of vodka, and she’s aware again that she can’t just slip back into the booth as if nothing happened. Every step feels heavier, slower, her brain firing alarms at the memory of Mira’s hand on her thigh, Zoey’s grin, the way they both pressed in without hesitation.

When she finally turns, she sees Zoey and Mira at the booth, their expressions playful, bright, teasing, but somehow… tense. Like they’re holding back, containing something. Her stomach twists in nervous anticipation. She swallows hard and heads back, trying to remind herself: it’s just how they are. Nothing more.

Sliding back into the booth, she tries to act casual, but both girls are watching her, too obviously waiting for her to settle. Mira’s hand doesn’t return to her thigh, instead wrapping around her drink instead, like she’s holding herself back.

“You took your time,” Zoey teases, one hand brushing hair from her own face, fingers trailing slow enough to Rumi to make her shiver.

“I just… didn’t want to spill,” Rumi murmurs, though the lie is transparent even to her. She sips her drink, feeling the cool liquid slide down, grounding her slightly, but her heart is still racing. Every beat feels synchronized to the bassline of the club music.

Mira leans closer, voice low and smooth. “Feeling okay?” Her thumb brushes against the inside of Rumi’s wrist. It’s subtle, but deliberate, the kind of touch that makes Rumi’s stomach clench and her patterns flicker.

“Yes… I feel good,” Rumi admits, though she’s not entirely sure she does. Good is a strange word here—good for the racing heartbeat, good for the warmth spreading low in her body, good for the heat of their hands on her.

Zoey grins, leaning her chin on Mira’s shoulder. “Good, huh? In control?”

Rumi shifts, trying not to betray how flustered she is. “I… I think so,” she says weakly, voice barely above the music.

Mira’s thumb traces circles over the curve of Rumi’s thigh again, just enough to send shivers up her spine. “That’s good,” she murmurs, her voice low and dangerous in the best way. “We like seeing you like this.”

Rumi flushes, fingers tightening around her glass. She doesn’t know if she’s flustered because of what they’re doing or because of how much she wants it. Her patterns shift, golden light flickering more intensely than before, reacting to her tension, her pulse, her body’s betrayals.

Zoey notices instantly. She slides a hand along Rumi’s forearm across the table, tracing the faint glow, her own eyes gleaming. “Look at that,” she whispers, just enough for Rumi to hear, “These colours are nicer than the purple, were you ok before?”

Rumi bites her lip, trying not to cry out. “I – yes, it was just – I was in my own head again, nothing to worry about,” she insists, though her voice shakes, betraying her completely.

Mira’s grin is teasing but firm. “You’re shaking,” she observes, thumb still circling. “Relax. You’re with us, having a fun girls night out. No one else matters.”

Rumi swallows, trying to believe her. The seat shifts as Zoey leans a bit more, pressing into Mira’s side with a happy hum. Mira’s knees bump against hers under the table, keeping her pinned, but not uncomfortably—deliberately, like a steadying anchor. Rumi’s chest rises and falls rapidly, caught between wanting to escape and wanting to melt right there.

She tries to sip her drink again, but her hand trembles slightly. Mira notices and squeezes Rumi’s thigh softly, “You’re okay,” she reassures.

Rumi nods, though she doesn’t feel okay. Her patterns flare higher, like golden lightning, as her mind races, body alight with tension. Zoey whispers something, soft and teasing, but Rumi doesn’t register the words—just the way her lips move as she speaks.

Her mind spins. Why am I like this? Why do I feel this way? How can they be so calm and I’m burning up?

The drink in front of her now sits empty, mocking her. She knows she’s close to her limit, not being a strong drinker to begin with. Yet the excuse of another drink lingers, giving her an excuse to get up and away from Mira’s soft, careful fingers that are currently rubbing slow circle on her inner thigh.

“Back in a second,” Rumi quickly announces, scrambling back out of the booth and away from the testing hands of her bandmates.

Rumi steps up to the bar, still trembling slightly from the booth, the heat of Mira and Zoey’s touches still lingering on her skin. She orders another drink, her fingers curling loosely around the empty glass as she waits for the bartender to make her next drink. The music pulses around her, bass thumping through the floor, but her mind is buzzing with everything that just happened, everything she just felt. She just wants a moment to breathe, to regain some shred of composure before they all plunge back into the crowd.

“You’re Rumi, right?”

She nearly jumps, her head snapping to the side. A man has appeared beside her, tall, broader than his posture suggests, angular features catching the dim light perfectly, and that tousled hair brushing casually over his forehead. His eyes are dark but warm, lips curving into a half-smile that somehow feels effortless.

She studies him cautiously for a moment, noting his height, the way he stands easily with one foot slightly forward, how he carries himself without trying. He’s handsome—strikingly so—but not aggressively, just… effortless. His smile reaches his eyes, pulling the tension from her shoulders a little.

“You have—uh—cool tattoos,” he adds, nodding toward her patterns. He doesn’t ask any questions; it’s a simple observation. Rumi doesn’t correct him. She just shrugs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks.

“I’m Jay,” he says smoothly, offering a hand. “Jay Park.”

Rumi glances down at his hand for a second before shaking it, her own nervousness mingling with curiosity. He smells faintly of something citrusy, clean, and subtle—comforting in a way she can’t explain.

The bartender returns, sliding drinks across the counter. Jay catches hers before she can reach for it, tipping his card to cover the payment. “On me,” he says, his smile playful.

“Thanks,” Rumi murmurs, feeling slightly flustered.

He leans just a little closer, the warm air brushing against her cheek. “So, what’s it like, being a K-pop singer?” His tone is easy, casual, not prying in the way fans always are. There’s no awe, no pedestal—just genuine curiosity.

Rumi relaxes slightly, leaning on the bar. She doesn’t know why, but his easy demeanour is like a balm on her frazzled nerves. “It’s… complicated,” she admits, twisting her ring slightly around her finger. “Exciting, but exhausting. Lots of attention you don’t ask for.”

He chuckles, low and smooth, the kind of laugh that makes her chest warm. “Sounds like you’re living the dream,” he teases, raising his eyebrows in mock admiration. “I mean… not everyone can handle the chaos with such grace.”

She lets out a small laugh, genuinely amused, and it’s like a spark lights up inside her. “I handle it… sometimes,” she admits, biting the inside of her cheek.

Jay’s grin widens. “Sometimes is better than never.”

The music thumps around them, a low growl of bass, but she finds herself tuning it out as he talks, noticing how comfortable he seems, how confident without being arrogant. He doesn’t ask for selfies, doesn’t fawn over her—it’s just easy conversation.

“You’re different,” she says quietly, almost without thinking. “Most people just see the performer. Not the person.”

He tilts his head slightly, interest in his expression. “Maybe I like to be different,” he says smoothly. His hand brushes against the counter, just inches from hers. The proximity sends a little jolt of electricity through her chest.

Rumi’s cheeks heat, and she sips her drink, trying to act casual, though she can feel her pulse racing. The neutral shimmer of her patterns flickers faintly under the club lights, finally settling. She notices it, but she can’t bring herself to overanalyse it—they’re reacting to him, to the energy between them, and it’s almost comforting to have a simple conversation with a stranger.

“So,” Jay leans just slightly closer, lowering his voice over the music. “Do you get time to just… have fun? Go out without the cameras or fans?”

Rumi bites her lip, thinking about Mira and Zoey, about the dance floor, about the heat still lingering in her chest from the teasing. “Sometimes yeah, like tonight,” she admits. “It’s rare. But worth it when it happens.”

He nods, that easy smile spreading again. “I bet. It’s important. You need that. You deserve it.”

She flushes, startled by the sincerity. No one usually says that to her. Most people either fawn or judge; he just… says what feels true. Her chest feels light for the first time in hours, maybe even days.

“You’re smiling,” he teases softly, leaning closer. “I’ll take that as a good sign then.”

She chuckles, a little breathless. “Maybe,” she admits. “Don’t get your hopes up though, I came here with friends.”

They stand there for a moment, the music thumping around them, a low rhythm that vibrates through the bar floor and Rumi’s bones. Jay’s hand brushes slightly against hers, fingers almost but not quite touching. The electricity of anticipation thrums in her chest. She sips her drink again, trying to anchor herself, and finds herself genuinely laughing at something he says—a joke about the absurdity of certain fan requests she’s gotten before. His laugh joins hers, smooth and easy, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

It’s when he shifts slightly that her pulse accelerates. His arm wraps around her waist casually, resting lightly, just enough that her body tenses. She glances back instinctively, searching for Mira and Zoey.

Her stomach lurches. Across the room, she sees them in the booth. Mira’s arm is draped around Zoey, and they’re pressed together in a soft, intimate kiss. Rumi’s chest tightens painfully, and for a moment, she wants to rush over, wants to cry, wants to scream.

Then her gaze drops back to Jay. She swallows hard. Screw it, she thinks. I’ll let someone flirt with me. I can… handle this.

She leans into him slightly, testing the space, letting his hand slide to the small of her back, fingers pressing against bare skin. The tingling, electric sensation races up her spine and settles low in her belly. It’s overwhelming, but… enjoyable. She blinks, adjusts, and finally allows herself to relax slightly, letting him guide her posture gently, his weight reassuring.

“So,” he murmurs, low and smooth, “you’re even more stunning than when I saw you perform last year.”

Rumi laughs softly, genuinely this time, the sound ringing above the music. “Is that so? Didn’t peg you as a k-pop guy,” she teases back, feeling a rush of warmth she can’t name.

He grins, resting his chin lightly against the top of her head, just above her braided hair. “Absolutely. But I’ve got to warn you,” he murmurs, voice just low enough for her ear, “My music taste is top tier, you wont beat it.”

She feels her pulse quicken, chest tight, and a shiver runs down her spine. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, her voice low, teasing, but her hands are gripping the bar a little tighter than she’d like.

Jay laughs softly, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “So, Rumi, tell me,” he murmurs. “What’s the craziest part of being a K-pop star? The part you don’t tell anyone?”

Rumi bites her lip, thinking, the golden shimmer of her patterns flicker again faintly as she considers. “The attention,” she says quietly. “People think you’re always happy. Always perfect. Always in control. But… it’s not true. Not even close.”

He nods, genuinely listening, his dark eyes warm. “That’s understandable,” he murmurs. “I know the world expects a lot, but you seem like someone who can handle it. Or at least… keep it interesting.”

Rumi laughs softly, the tension in her chest easing just a touch. “Maybe I just hide it well,” she says.

He smirks, leaning slightly closer, arm still resting lightly around her. “Maybe. But I don’t mind a little peek behind the curtain.”

Her laugh comes again, soft and genuine, and she realizes for the first time all evening that she feels… seen. Not just by Mira or Zoey, but by someone else. Someone she can talk to, someone who isn’t pressing her, teasing her with proximity, but still makes her pulse race in a completely different way.

She glances back at the booth again—Mira and Zoey, still kissing, still unaware—and for a moment, a pang of something sharp hits her chest. But she lets it go, settling into the warmth of Jay’s easy presence. She lets herself lean slightly against him, laughing at a clever quip he makes about some absurdly intricate fan request.

“You’re really funny,” she murmurs, voice quieter, a little breathless.

He grins. “Only for the right people,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing his fingers lightly along the curve of her lower back again. Rumi shivers, golden patterns flickering brighter, tingling across her skin.

She swallows hard, laughing nervously, glancing at him. “You’re… confident,” she whispers.

He smirks, eyes darkening just slightly. “I prefer… intriguing.”

Rumi shakes her head, a breathless laugh escaping. Her pulse is racing, the tingling of his touch sending warmth low in her body. She’s dizzy, flustered, but laughing, enjoying the rare feeling of freedom, of someone appreciating her without any assumptions, without any pressure—just the electric current of flirtation and warmth.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, she feels light. But that could be the alcohol talking.

Rumi is still leaning lightly against the bar, the warmth of Jay’s arm brushing her lower back, the pulsing lights reflecting off the faint golden glow of her patterns, when he leans in slightly, voice low over the music. “Come on,” he murmurs, a teasing lilt to his words. “Wanna dance? I’m not as good as a pop star but I can keep up.”

Her chest flutters, a mix of excitement and nerves, as she glances down at her outfit—short skirt, cropped top, knee-high boots—and feels her patterns hum beneath her skin, almost demanding motion.

Before she can decide, movement catches her peripheral vision. Mira and Zoey appear almost simultaneously, threading through the crowd with purposeful strides, their expressions stormy. Rumi freezes, caught mid-thought, as Mira’s gaze locks on her like a predator spotting a target. Zoey follows right behind, eyes wide but hard with protective intensity.

Mira reaches her first, shoving Rumi lightly behind her, shielding her with a broad, firm presence that makes Rumi stumble into Zoey’s waiting arms. “Get your hands off her,” Mira snaps at Jay, voice low but laced with venom. Her body protectively shielding Rumi from his vision.

Rumi feels herself pressed between them, heart racing, golden patterns flickering brighter, almost betraying the surge of adrenaline and tension coursing through her. She glances between the three of them, caught off guard by the intensity of the girls’ reactions.

Jay lifts his hands in mock surrender, grin still playful but a hint of confusion in his eyes. “Whoa, I was just talking to her,” he says. “Just asking if she wanted to dance.”

Mira’s eyes narrow, sharp as daggers. “That doesn’t mean you can touch her,” she snaps, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t put your hands on her, ever.”

Rumi’s chest tightens. She glances down at herself, realizing how exposed she’s feeling under the strobing club lights. Her stomach twists, wanting to recoil, but also… a part of her resists. She wants freedom, wants to feel the music, wants to move.

“I’m just asking,” Jay insists, voice smooth, trying to hold his casual charm in place. “If she wants to dance with me, that’s all. No harm in asking.”

Mira steps closer, blocking the line of sight, eyes locked on him. “I don’t care what you were asking. She doesn’t.”

Jay glances down at Rumi, expression softening slightly. “You don’t have to answer her for her,” he says. “She has free-will.”

Rumi’s chest hammers, caught in a swirl of emotions. She looks from Mira to Zoey, their expressions fierce and protective, and then down at her own glowing patterns, a storm of nervous energy mixing with desire for the dance, for the music, for the freedom of movement.

Mira tightens her grip around her, eyes narrowing. “Rumi,” she instructs quietly, “go on. Tell him you don’t want to dance with him.”

Rumi bites her lip, shaking her head slightly, heart hammering in her chest. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I… I want to dance with him.”

Both Mira and Zoey freeze, their faces falling as if someone just threw a punch straight to their chests. Mira’s jaw tightens; her arms flex like she wants to hit something. Zoey’s hands still hover near Rumi’s shoulders, her lips parting in shock, eyes glistening under the club lights.

“I’ll be fine,” Rumi says softly, her voice carrying more determination than she expected. “You two go have some time alone. Don’t worry about me.”

The words hit them like ice water. Zoey’s eyes widen in disbelief, Mira’s entire body stiffens. Both of them look heartbroken, as though Rumi just shoved them away, as though she had just thrown her drink at them in slow motion. Rumi feels the weight of their disappointment pressing into her chest, but she steels herself, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jay steps closer, extending his hand with a grin that’s part charm, part genuine delight. “Then let’s dance,” he says. His grip is warm, steady, and unlike the frantic tension she’s been feeling with Mira and Zoey, it feels safe in its own strange way.

Rumi takes a shaky breath and slips her hand into his, feeling the spark of energy surge from contact, tingling through her chest and limbs. He leads her away from the bar, through the thrumming crowd, to a slightly less crowded space near the dance floor. The heavy bass vibrates through her body, resonating with the low hum of her patterns, and she starts to sway her hips instinctively, letting the music guide her.

The beat hits her like a tidal wave, muscles loosening as she allows herself to move more freely. Jay mirrors her movements effortlessly, giving her space while keeping his hand lightly on her hips, guiding her just enough to feel his presence. She laughs at one of his teasing gestures, tossing her head back, eyes half-closed, patterns flickering in excitement.

She catches herself glancing toward the booth, expecting to see Mira and Zoey, maybe glaring, maybe plotting some rescue. But they’re nowhere in sight—And yet, part of her chest still aches, a pang of guilt slicing through the thrill of dancing.

Jay leans slightly closer, yelling over the music, “How am I doing?”

She swallows, chest heaving, heat flooding her cheeks. “Not too bad,” she murmurs, moving her hips more confidently, following the beat, letting the music and tension carry her.

His hand rests lightly on her waist, and she shivers—not from cold, but from the intimacy of touch in the heat of the lights, the music, the press of bodies around them. She catches glimpses of his eyes in the flickering lights—warm, amused, admiring—and feels herself melting a little into the motion.

Rumi laughs, a high, bright sound that surprises even her. “You’re actually pretty good at this,” she says, teasing, letting her hand rest briefly on his shoulder.

He grins. “I know,” he teases back, swaying in time with her. “But I swear, you’re the one who’s making me look good.”

She blushes, flicking her gaze down to the floor as her patterns glow faintly, gold flames flickering in rhythm with her pulse. She lets herself relax more into the moment, hips swaying, shoulders moving fluidly. The crowd around them blurs, the neon lights smear into streaks, and all that exists is the bass, the movement, the feel of him.

Her chest tightens, patterns flickering brighter, tingling through her skin as he moves his hands lightly over her hips, guiding without pressure. She’s aware of every inch of exposed skin, the tickle of his fingers against the bare plane of her back, the warmth spreading through her body. The initial nervousness starts to melt into something else—a delicious, dizzying combination of exhilaration and shame and pleasure that makes her stomach flip.

The beat drops heavier, the rhythm pounding against her chest, and she lets herself get lost in it completely, moving with abandon, hips rolling, shoulders swaying. Jay mirrors her, perfectly in sync, matching her rhythm, teasing her with light brushes of his hands on her bare skin. Every touch sends her patterns flickering brighter, golden strands of light dancing along her arms and collarbone, marking her reactions, broadcasting them in subtle but impossible-to-miss signals.

The thumping beat of the club reverberates through Rumi’s chest, her heart hammering in her ears as she lets Jay pull her closer, hips pressed against his, hands momentarily sliding over her bare back. The warmth is suddenly too much, her patterns flickering nervously beneath her skin, sending faint golden sparks across her arms. It feels wrong, his hands are too firm, too large. He doesn’t smell like oranges or peppermint. He doesn’t smirk at her every time she squirms. He doesn’t touch her like something worth saving.

She freezes. This isn’t what she wants. Because he isn’t them.

Her hands lift instinctively, pressing against his chest in a weak attempt to push him away. “Wait…” she murmurs, voice trembling, almost lost in the bass. Her fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, but Jay’s presence is unyielding—strong, confident, overwhelming.

“You’re fine,” he says, his breath hot against her ear, voice low and commanding. “Just let it happen.”

Rumi shakes her head, panic rising like a tide, heart hammering as she feels the strength of his hands press against her back and waist. His touch is heavy, like a vice, and suddenly, close enough for her to catch the sharp scent of alcohol lingering on his breath. Her stomach twists. She can’t do this.

She tries to step back, adjusting her feet on the slick floor, but he shifts to mirror her movement, hands tightening slightly. The pressure makes her flinch. “You’re hurting me,” she says, voice sharper now, a warning edged with fear.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, brushing a hand along her side. “Relax.”

Rumi feels trapped, the strobe lights throwing frantic shadows across her spinning thoughts. Her fingers dig into his chest again, hard this time, trying to create distance, but his grip only seems to adjust, unrelenting. Her breathing grows shallow; every inhale tastes like panic mixed with desperation.

Suddenly, before she can make another move, he leans down, lips crashing against hers. It’s fast, sloppy, rough—nothing like she imagined her first kiss would be. Her stomach twists violently as the unexpected pressure makes her recoil, trying to wrench herself free. The kiss is aggressive, almost painful, hands pulling her closer, teeth grazing her lip as she struggles. Her patterns flare wildly now, purple and chaotic, reflecting the torrent of fear and frustration coursing through her.

She shoves him hard, hands finding leverage on his chest. “Stop it!” she hisses, strength coiling in her limbs, the instincts honed through years of training kicking in. She presses every ounce of power into her push, hunter instincts surging, heart pounding like a war drum.

Jay stumbles back, eyes widening as they sees the anger in Rumi’s posture, “Whoa… hey—” he starts, but his words die in his throat.

Rumi bolts. She doesn’t look back. The crowd blurs around her, lights smearing into streaks of neon, but she doesn’t stop. Legs pumping, muscles taut, she dodges bodies, slipping through the chaotic mass of dancers toward the dimmer side of the club. The bathroom. She needs the bathroom. A small pocket of sanctuary.

But Jay is quick, too quick, spinning around to cut her off before she can reach the door. His hands clamp around her shoulders, yanking her against the wall with startling force. Her breath hitches, dark purple patterns spiking along her arms and chest, casting erratic, fleeting light. Panic spikes higher, her mind firing, hunting instincts screaming to take him down – annihilate the threat.

“I know you want it,” he murmurs, voice smooth and confident, completely oblivious to her terror. He leans down, trying again to press close.

Rumi’s eyes flare, and she lets instinct take over, muscles coiling in preparation for a swing. Her training, her years of honing reflexes, all converge in this single instant. He pins her arms before she can swing, his size is an issue, but she’s fought bigger. When she was sober. Her limbs feel weak, messy, she knows immediately she’s made a massive mistake.

She braces for his assault, closing her eyes in fear as he leans in again.

The sound of Mira’s fist connecting solidly with Jay’s jaw forces her eyes open, the force snapping his head back violently. He stumbles, the impact sending a shockwave through the space, and the lights of the club seem to flicker with the sudden intensity of the moment.

Rumi freezes, heart hammering in her chest, patterns flaring as she watches Mira pin him with ease, every muscle coiled and unyielding. Her breaths come fast, shallow, adrenaline spiking. Then she sees Zoey, knives drawn, hands steady, eyes gleaming as they glint in the strobe lights. She realizes fully—the girls weren’t just angry, they were furious.

Jay raises his hands, shock and panic replacing his prior confidence. “Hey! I—”

“What did I tell you about touching her!” Mira roars, voice slicing through the music, low and deadly. Every inch of her body radiates warning, every fibre of intent clear. Rumi’s patterns flicker, thrum, pulse—alert, protective, alive.

Zoey steps forward, eyes blazing, a predator in her own right. “I warned you,” she says coldly, “and I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”

Rumi swallows hard, still trembling, watching the man she had briefly considered letting get close now shrinking back in terror. Her breathing steadies slightly as Mira and Zoey take over, chest still racing, patterns slowly dimming from chaotic gold to a warm flicker.

“I—” she starts, trying to voice her panic, but the words catch in her throat. Her hands shake slightly, still brushing at her glowing patterns, as if reminding herself that this is real, that she’s safe, that they’ve got her.

Mira whips around at the sound o her voice, a hand comes down on her shoulder, grounding her, firm but steady. “You’re okay,” she says quietly, voice low enough to soothe but with an edge that warns anyone else who dares approach. “We’ve got you Ru. Always.”

Zoey steps forward slightly, taking her hand, fingers lacing with hers, giving a gentle squeeze. “We’re right here.”

Rumi exhales, chest heaving, her patterns dimming slightly more, responding to their presence. She leans back lightly against Zoey, shoulder pressing into hers, heart still hammering but settling.

The club around them seems to fade, the music a dull roar compared to the pounding of her heart and the heat radiating from Mira and Zoey. Jay stumbles, rubbing his jaw, finally retreating toward the exit, eyes wide, realization dawning too late.

Rumi’s chest heaves. She glances at Mira, then Zoey, their faces lit by the club lights, fierce, protective, and unwavering. She feels the pull in her chest, the need to cling, to bury herself in their presence. Her patterns dim now, settling into a comforting neutral glow, white strands like threads of reassurance weaving across her arms and chest.

Mira tilts her head slightly, voice softening as she meets Rumi’s gaze. “What the hell was that Rumi?” she asks, tone almost annoyed.

Zoey leans closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from Rumi’s face, thumb brushing over her cheek. “Mir, gentle.”

Rumi swallows, lips trembling slightly, heart still racing but slowly grounding in their presence. She nods, faintly, unsure if she can speak, but the warmth from their hands, their touch, is enough to start the unraveling of the panic.

Finally, she leans into Mira slightly, shoulders pressing against hers, hand tightening around Zoey’s. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispers, though her voice is shaky. “I… I don’t know what came over me.”

Mira and Zoey exchange a glance, eyes softening but still vigilant. “It’s fine,” Mira murmurs. “You’re okay now. That’s what matters.”

Zoey nods, fingers brushing along Rumi’s, holding her gently. “Yeah. You’re safe. Always safe with us.”

Rumi exhales, patterns dimming fully into the comfortable glow of relief, letting herself lean on them both, feeling the tension slip just slightly. The club pulses around them, music thumping, lights flashing, bodies moving, but she is anchored in the warmth and protection of the two girls who never leave her side, who never let anyone else claim her.

Her heart still races, but now it’s mingled with relief, gratitude, and a small, fierce comfort she hasn’t felt in months. She squeezes Zoey’s hand, leans slightly more into Mira, allowing herself to feel the closeness, the safety, the undeniable connection between them.

“Never,” Mira mutters softly, almost to herself, “don’t ever do that to us again.”

Zoey’s fingers squeeze hers gently, almost in agreement. “Please Rumi.”

Rumi’s lips tremble as she nods. She closes her eyes briefly, taking in the overwhelming sensation of being protected, cherished, and wanted by the people she trusts most.

Mira takes Rumi’s hand immediately after, fingers lacing with hers with a firmness that says without words, you’re safe now. Zoey follows, slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her toward the club’s side exit. The crowd is a blur of lights and motion behind them, the music pounding even from outside the building. The cold night air hits them as they step into the alley, carrying the heat of the club with them, but Rumi barely notices—her chest heaves, heart still racing, lips trembling.

The alley is quiet, a contrast to the chaos behind them, the distant hum of traffic just audible. Mira keeps a protective barrier around her, shoulder brushing against Rumi’s, eyes darting to the shadows as if expecting Jay—or anyone—to appear again. Zoey’s arm tightens around Rumi’s middle instinctively, her other hand rubbing soft, soothing circles on Rumi’s forearm. They make it down the street to their awaiting private car, sliding in with Rumi in the middle. No one ntoices them, too consumed in their own lives thankfully.

“You okay?” Zoey asks gently, voice low enough for only Rumi to hear. Her thumb brushes over the sensitive skin, lingering over the faint flickers of patterns that she can see.

Rumi swallows, chest tight. She wants to tell them yes, that she’s fine, but the words catch in her throat. Finally, she whispers, barely audible: “I… I don’t know. I thought my first kiss would be… sweet. Not like that.” Her lips tremble, and she forces herself to look down, cheeks flushing hot.

Zoey freezes. Her expression softens immediately, full of empathy, sorrow brimming behind her eyes. “Oh god, Rumi…” she murmurs, drawing her closer. She presses a gentle kiss to the side of Rumi’s head, fingers tangling in the soft strands of her hair. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. That’s not what you deserved. I’m so sorry.”

Mira’s jaw tightens. Her fingers curl reflexively, energy almost flaring out of her as she glares out the widow, envisioning a dozen ways to make that man regret his existence. “I’ll kill him. I’m going to hunt him down, make him wish he was never born,” she mutters, voice low and dangerous, “I’m going to enjoy putting my gok-do straight through his chest.”

Rumi flinches at Mira’s tone, the heat of anger radiating from her like fire, but then she looks at Zoey, who’s holding her softly, the contrast giving her heart a bittersweet pang. She lifts a trembling hand and places it gently on Mira’s arm, stopping the rage from spilling further. “Mira… no. Please,” she whispers, voice thick, breaking. “Can you just…”

Mira freezes, gaze softening, her fingers dropping to brush lightly over Rumi’s back. Zoey leans in closer, pressing a hand to Rumi’s cheek, thumb brushing over the trembling lips. “Shh… it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. We’ve got you,” she whispers, voice soothing and warm, fingers lingering gently.

Rumi’s shoulders shake, body succumbing to the release of adrenaline and tension she’s been holding since the club. Tears threaten to spill, brimming in her eyes, and she buries her face in Zoey’s shoulder, shuddering softly. “I… I didn’t know… I… I was so stupid, I thought it would be fine, but then I was too drunk to push him off,” Her words are broken, fragmented by sobs, but the patterns on her arms pulse gently, soft waves of warmth reflecting her slowly returning sense of security.

Mira slides an arm around both Rumi and Zoey, her protective heat radiating across them, anchoring Rumi in the moment. “Stop it Ru,” she murmurs, voice low but resolute. “We know you didn’t mean for it to happen. Don’t go blaming yourself for him being a total asshat.”

Rumi’s hands clutch at their clothing, holding onto them as if they’re lifelines. She lets herself cry softly, the tears sliding down her cheeks as she feels their hands never leave her. Zoey’s fingers thread through her hair, brushing it back gently. Mira’s hand rubs soothing circles along her back, comforting and grounding. The rhythm of their presence, their warmth, starts to calm the rapid pulse of her heart.

“I just…” Rumi chokes out, voice trembling. “I didn’t want it to be… like that. I thought – he seemed nice,” Her words trail off into a sob, caught in her throat. She presses closer, dark purple patterns glowing faintly as if reliving the events.

Zoey shakes her head gently, murmuring against the crown of Rumi’s head. “Shh… it’s okay. Forget about him, you deserve so much better Rumi, your first kiss should have been so much more than that. I’m so sorry sweetie.”

Mira leans down, lips brushing the top of Rumi’s head, murmuring, “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.” Her voice is low, fierce, unwavering—a promise Rumi feels deep in her bones.

Rumi finally lifts her face, eyes bright and red-rimmed, sniffing softly. Her lips tremble, and she looks at her two favourite people.

Rumi leans fully into Mira’s arm, pressing her cheek to the warmth of her shoulder, and sighs shakily, letting herself relax just a little. “I… I was so scared… I didn’t want to… I should have been able to stop him,” Her voice breaks, and she buries her face further into their warmth.

Mira’s fingers tighten around her gently, voice soft but firm. “You’re not in the wrong here Ru, don’t beat yourself up over this, we all make mistakes. That’s what makes you human—and what makes you ours.”

Zoey rests her forehead against Rumi’s temple, murmuring softly. “We’re not going anywhere. Not for a second. You can cling to us as much as you need. You’re safe, Rumi. We’ve got you.”

Rumi lets out a shaky breath, patterns flickering faintly across her chest and arms in a slow, comforting rhythm. She lifts a trembling hand, brushing it over Zoey’s wrist, then Mira’s forearm. “I… I just…” Her words fail again, swallowed by the sobs she’s been holding in for so long.

Mira leans down, whispering into her hair, “Relax princess, just let us be here.”

Rumi’s tears fall freely now, sliding down her cheeks as she buries herself between them, body shaking softly, patterns pulsing gently in tandem with her heartbeat. She wraps her arms around both of them, holding them as tightly as she can, as if she’s never going to let go.

Zoey tightens her grip, murmuring over and over, “You’re safe… you’re safe… we love you… we’re right here…” while Mira strokes her hair, murmuring threats at the empty alley, her tone both protective and possessive. “If anyone ever touches you again… they won’t live long enough to regret it. Do you hear me?”

Rumi nods weakly, golden patterns flickering brighter as a shiver of relief runs through her. “I… I’m… okay,” she murmurs, voice cracking, lips pressed into the curve of Zoey’s shoulder. “I… I didn’t know… you guys cared this much.”

Zoey presses a kiss to her temple, murmuring softly, “We care. We always have. Always will.”

Mira’s arm tightens, shoulder brushing Rumi’s back, murmuring, “You’re ours, Rumi. You belong with us. No one else matters. Not tonight, not ever.”

Rumi finally allows herself to breathe, slowly, iridescent patterns dimming to a soft glow, settling like a warm blanket over her skin. She presses herself closer, chest resting against Mira’s, Zoey’s arms wrapped around her waist, letting the warmth and protective energy of the two girls ground her entirely.

The city lights flicker against the car windows as they pull up to the tower, the engine’s hum quiet against the night. Rumi leans heavily against Mira and Zoey, swaying slightly, the alcohol and adrenaline of the night settling over her in a dizzying haze. Her lips are trembling, and faint streaks of tears glisten along her cheeks, catching the glow of the streetlights.

“Easy,” Mira murmurs, sliding an arm beneath Rumi’s shoulders to keep her upright as they get out of the car. Zoey mirrors her, one hand resting against Rumi’s back, the other holding her hand, fingers threaded tightly. “Nice and steady,” she whispers, voice low, soothing, carrying the weight of reassurance.

Rumi stumbles as they guide her toward the building entrance. “I… I don’t want to be alone…” she mumbles, voice broken, almost incoherent, clinging to Zoey’s hand as if it’s the only solid thing in the world.

“You won’t be,” Zoey murmurs firmly, brushing a loose strand of hair from Rumi’s face. Mira presses a kiss to the top of Rumi’s head, murmuring, “Not now, not ever.”

They help her into the elevator, steadying her against the mirrored wall as she sways with the rise and fall of the floors. She’s soft and trembling, shoulders hunched, clutching at the fronts of their clothes. “I… I can’t… I don’t…” her words are barely audible, lost in the low hum of the elevator.

“Shh,” Mira murmurs, guiding her to lean against her chest. “Just breathe. You don’t have to talk princes.” Zoey presses closer, hand rubbing slow, calming circles on Rumi’s lower back, thumb brushing over the faint patterns that ripple beneath her skin. The warmth of their bodies grounds her, tethering her to reality when everything inside her feels like it’s spinning.

Once the elevator pings at their floor, they move quietly through the halls, Mira on one side, Zoey on the other, arms still supporting Rumi as she drifts against them. Every step feels heavy to her, but they carry her with steady, patient care. She mumbles random fragments, some incoherent, some cuttingly clear: “I… shouldn’t… it… my first kiss… ruined… I wanted…” Her voice cracks on the words, and the pattern pulses faintly on her arms, glowing softly as it responds to her stress.

Finally, they reach Rumi’s room. Mira gently pushes open the door, dim light spilling in from the hallway. Zoey guides Rumi inside, lowering her onto the soft armchair by the bed. “Sit,” Mira murmurs, pressing a soft hand to her back. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Rumi shakes her head, swaying in place, and finally collapses against their embrace, sobbing quietly, body trembling. “I just… I just wanted… it wasn’t…” she trails off, voice breaking, unable to finish the thought.

“Shh,” Zoey whispers, brushing her fingers through Rumi’s hair, soft, calming.

Mira crouches in front of her, pulling soft pajamas from the wardrobe. “We’re going to get you out of those clothes, okay?” she says softly. “We’ll make you comfortable. You don’t have to move.”

Rumi sniffles, nodding weakly. “Please… stay…” she whispers, voice small and desperate. Her fingers clutch Zoey’s shirt like a lifeline. “Zoey… please…”

Zoey freezes, the words echoing in her chest like a sudden, sharp pang. Every single time Rumi says those words, in that broke tone, so desperate, Zoey shatters. The night of the idol award flashes before her eyes, Rumi panicked and pleading. Zoey remembers raising her blades, the heartbreak in Rumi’s eyes flashing like a gunshot.

She swallows hard, voice breaking as she whispers, “I… I’m right here, love. M’not going anywhere.” Her own tears start to fall, hot and uncontrolled, dripping down her cheeks as she wraps tighter around Rumi.

Mira moves swiftly, soft and efficient, slipping the pyjamas over Rumi’s arms, helping her slide out of the dirty club clothes without a single harsh word. Rumi shivers against their touch, cheek pressed to Zoey’s shoulder, whimpering softly. “I… I didn’t mean to…” she mutters, voice trembling.

“You didn’t,” Mira says firmly, brushing back Rumi’s damp hair. “It’s not your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Rumi’s small hands clutch Mira’s arm and Zoey’s waist simultaneously as they help her step into the soft pyjamas. The warmth of the cotton against her skin, the softness of their hands, the security of their presence—it’s enough to make her shudder with relief and exhaustion all at once.

When she’s settled into bed, Mira and Zoey sit beside her, forming a gentle cocoon. Rumi’s knees pull up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, but they encircle her as well, letting her burrow between them. She cries quietly, muffled sounds against their bodies, fingers clutching at the sheets, at their sleeves, at their hair.

Mira strokes her back in slow, soothing motions, whispers of reassurance slipping past her lips. “It’s okay, Rumi.”

Zoey presses a soft kiss to her hair, murmuring, “You’re safe. We’re right here.” Her hand moves to gently rub Rumi’s shoulder, tracing patterns over the glowing swirls on her skin, careful and deliberate.

Rumi’s voice is barely audible, muffled against Zoey’s chest in a drunken slur. “I… I wish I could… take it all back… I wish… I wish you…” Her voice falters, tears spilling onto the soft pyjamas. “I wish… you were… my first…Kiss.”

Both Mira and Zoey freeze for a moment, heart clenching at the confession. They exchange a look—sharp, silent—and then Mira tightens her arm around Rumi, murmuring, “You don’t have to wish for anything, pretty. We’ll give you anything you want.”

Zoey’s own tears slip freely as she buries her face in Rumi’s hair, murmuring against her scalp, “Anything Rumi, just ask.”

Rumi curls closer, pressing herself into the warmth of their bodies, arms wrapping around both of them, holding on desperately. Her tears finally slow to soft, shuddering hiccups. Rumi shudders softly, letting herself relax fully into the cocoon of warmth, tears finally easing, body trembling with relief and exhaustion. She presses closer, golden patterns dimming into a soft glow, chest rising and falling slowly. “I… I love you…” she whispers faintly, voice muffled. “I… I… I love you both…”

Zoey hums softly against her hair, pressing another gentle kiss to her temple, murmuring, “And we love you. More than you know.”

Mira presses a kiss to the top of Rumi’s head, murmuring low, fierce, protective. “No one will ever hurt you again.”

Rumi lets out a final shuddering breath, curling fully between them, lips pressed into Zoey’s shoulder, arms around both of them. Her patterns pulse gently one last time before dimming, a soft, serene glow radiating from her.

Mira and Zoey stay with her, cocooning her warmth around their own. No words are necessary; no promises need to be spoken. They’re here, holding her as she drifts into a deep, exhausted sleep, safe in the knowledge that she is loved and protected, and that no matter what, they will always be there to shield her, to soothe her, to love her fiercely and completely.

The night settles over them in soft, protective silence. Outside, the city continues to hum, but inside the small cocoon of the bed, Rumi is finally at peace, cradled between the two people who have made her their world.

Chapter Text

The morning presses in heavy, too bright for the ache in Rumi’s head. The warmth that surrounds her is almost suffocating, though once—last night—it had been her only anchor. She blinks, lashes sticky, the taste of alcohol lingering on her lips from various drinks she had down in bad conscious last night.

The steady rise and fall of bodies cage her in; Mira is pressed against her back, Zoey’s chest against her front. She is completely wrapped, protected, shieled. At first, there’s a flicker of comfort—like she’s still cocooned in the safety of the night before. But then her stomach lurches violently, and with it comes the memories of ever stupid choice she made in the last 24 hours.

Hands too big gripping her waist. A chest too hard pressed against her. Breath sour with liquor filling her lungs. Lips—sloppy, hard, invasive—stealing from her something she never meant to give.

Her body convulses before her mind can catch up. A wave of nausea claws through her, bitter and unrelenting. She shoves herself upright, heart hammering, toppling over Zoey’s unconscious body. Zoey mumbles in protest, blinking awake, but Rumi doesn’t hear. She’s already scrambling, half-tripping over the tangle of legs and blankets. Her bare feet slap against the cold floor as she bolts, panic in every step.

The bathroom door bangs open just as her stomach gives in. She collapses in front of the toilet, arms trembling as bile rises, burning her throat. She heaves once, twice, until her stomach is empty, leaving only shaking, the room spinning, her breath ragged.

The door bursts open behind her.

“Rumi!” Zoey’s voice is high, panicked, followed by Mira’s heavier steps. They’re at her side in seconds, Zoey crouching to hold her hair back, murmuring soothing nonsense, Mira kneeling opposite to steady her shoulders.

“It’s okay, sweetie, breathe—It’ll stop soon—” Zoey whispers, her voice trembling, brushing strands of hair off Rumi’s damp face. Mira presses a hand between Rumi’s shoulder blades, grounding her, rubbing slow circles.

But Rumi can’t breathe properly, not past the tears that choke her, not past the memory that feels like it’s clawed its way beneath her skin. She clings to the porcelain rim, body trembling, as tears blur her vision. “I—I didn’t—” Her voice cracks, shattering. “I didn’t mean to—” She gags again, dry, but nothing comes up.

Mira’s voice is low, steady, like stone holding her in place. “Rumi, stop. Stop apologising. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But the words don’t stick. They never do.

“I didn’t mean to drink so much,” she chokes, shoulders shaking, forehead pressing against the cool porcelain. “I didn’t mean to kiss him—” The words slice her own throat as she forces them out, broken and jagged.

Zoey’s hands tighten in her hair, pulling it gently back, whispering, “That wasn’t you sweetheart, he took your choice. Don’t say it like it was your fault.”

But Rumi sees it. She sees the way Mira looks at Zoey, the way Zoey looks at Mira. The same expression mirrored on both their faces—pained. Silent, unspoken agony.

And it guts her.

Because it means they care. And if they care, then what she did—what happened—hurt them.

The sob bursts free, raw, tearing. She curls in on herself, knees to her chest as her body shudders. Mira’s arms wrap around her immediately, Zoey’s hands stroking down her back in soothing motions. They hold her like she’s breakable, like one wrong touch might shatter her completely.

And maybe it would.

“I feel horrible – god – this is why I don’t drink.” She squeezes her eyes shut, clinging harder to Mira’s shirt.

Zoey leans closer, forehead pressing gently against the side of Rumi’s head. “We know,” she whispers. “Just try and relax, you’ll feel better soon.”

Rumi shudders violently, tears spilling down her cheeks as she sees the events of the previous night replay in her head like a personal horror show.

Mira’s voice comes low, tight with fury she’s trying to contain. “If I ever see him again, I’ll—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenching, but Rumi hears it anyway. The violence in her tone. The promise of destruction.

Rumi’s hands shake as she clings tighter, desperate, terrified. “Don’t,” she whispers, choking. “Please don’t. Just—just leave it—please—”

Mira closes her eyes, forcing the rage back down, swallowing it hard for Rumi’s sake. She presses a kiss to Rumi’s damp hair instead, whispering fiercely, “Okay. Only because you asked.”

They stay on the bathroom floor for what feels like hours, the cold tile against bare skin, the only sound Rumi’s uneven breaths and Zoey’s soft reassurances. Finally, when her trembling begins to ease, Rumi pulls away just enough to wipe at her face with shaky hands. Her head still pounds, her stomach aches, her throat burns, but the tears finally slow.

Her voice is raw when she speaks, barely a whisper. “I need a shower.” She looks down at her arms, at the bare skin that still feels branded by unwanted hands. “I need—I need to feel clean.”

Zoey and Mira exchange another look over her head, and this time Rumi sees it clearly: hesitation. Fear. A refusal to let her out of their sight. Like she might break. It’s humiliating.

She forces a weak, watery laugh. “What? You’re gonna stand there and watch me shower now?” She tries to make it a joke, her lips twitching into a shaky smile, but her voice betrays her—too raw, too thin.

Neither of them smile back.

“I’m serious,” Zoey says softly, shaking her head. “We’re not leaving you like this.”

Rumi groans, throwing her head back against the wall, exasperation cutting through the tears. “You two are being too much.” She reaches for Mira’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m okay. I promise. I’ll be quick, scrub until I feel clean again, and then I’ll come straight back to you. Alright?”

Mira studies her closely, jaw still tight, but finally exhales. “You swear you’ll come straight out?”

Rumi nods, biting her lip. “Cross my heart.”

Zoey doesn’t look convinced, but finally, reluctantly, she brushes her thumb across Rumi’s cheek. “If you take longer than ten minutes, I’m breaking the door down.”

Rumi lets out another shaky laugh, softer this time. “Fine. But if you break my bathroom door, you’re paying for it.”

It’s enough to get the faintest smile out of Zoey, though her eyes still glisten. Mira presses one last kiss to Rumi’s forehead before standing. “We’ll be right outside the whole time. One sound, one call, and we’re there. Got it?”

“Guys I’m fine, just hungover, honestly,” Rumi tries to convince them. They don’t buy it.

Rumi nods again, but as they step back, as the bathroom door clicks softly shut behind them, her weak smile crumbles. She leans against the shower tiles, trembling, tears spilling anew. The water hisses to life, steam rising, but no amount of scrubbing will erase the feeling of his hands, his lips, the violation that coils like poison in her chest.

Steam still clings to Rumi’s skin when she steps out of the bathroom, damp hair dripping onto the fabric of her old clothes. She’d scrubbed hard—too hard—until her skin burned faintly pink beneath her fingertips. But the sensation hadn’t lifted. His hands weren’t gone. His mouth wasn’t gone. Not completely. Still, the hot water had dulled the edge, made it bearable enough to breathe again.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, towel in one hand, eyes sweeping the room. Just as promised, Mira and Zoey are perched side by side on her bed, waiting. Their presence hits her like a tidal wave—relief, guilt, comfort, all at once.

Zoey’s knees are drawn up, her elbows resting loosely on them, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Her eyes flick up at once, scanning Rumi like she’s cataloguing every detail, every shift of her breath, every twitch of her patterns. Mira, meanwhile, is still and sharp as a blade, back straight, jaw tight, her gaze softer only when it lands on Rumi.

Rumi tries to make it easy for them. She forces a little grin, lifts a hand, and flashes them a thumbs up. “See? I survived,” she says, her voice rough but lighter than it had been in hours.

For a second, she thinks it works. Zoey’s shoulders ease just slightly, Mira exhales slow, steady. But she knows better. She sees the way their eyes drift—not to her face, but to the glow of her patterns, shimmering faintly across her skin. Normally, they’d be a steady iridescent silver, calm, restful. But right now, there’s a subtle purple undertone threaded through them, dim but there.

She swallows hard, tugging her damp hair over her shoulder as if it might cover the betrayal of her own body.

Mira is the first to speak, her tone softer than expected. “You hungry?”

Rumi hesitates, then nods. Her stomach still twists, but the memory of heaving over porcelain makes her body ache for something solid, grounding. “Yeah. A little.”

Zoey pushes off the bed immediately, crossing the small space to her in a few quick strides. Without giving her time to resist, she laces her fingers through Rumi’s. Her hand is warm, steady, sure. “Come on.”

Rumi lets herself be tugged along, heart thumping in her chest. Zoey guides her out toward the couch in the living room, settling her gently onto the rug in front of it. Zoey doesn’t sit down beside her, though. Instead, she sinks onto the couch behind, her legs folding neatly, her knees framing Rumi’s shoulders.

Rumi tilts her head back, confused. “Uh… what am I doing on the floor?”

Zoey’s lips quirk faintly, hands stretching like she’s about to write a song. “Sit still,” she orders softly, reaching forward to gather Rumi’s damp strands of hair.

Rumi blinks. “Wait—”

But Zoey is already moving, her fingers combing carefully through the tangles, separating sections with gentle precision. The first tug makes Rumi’s heart lurch in her chest.

“Zoey…” she whispers, throat tight.

“Shh,” Zoey murmurs, not unkindly. “Let me. Just relax for a sec ok.”

Her hands are steady, sure. She starts weaving the strands together, slow and careful. The sensation is grounding in a way Rumi hadn’t expected. It’s nostalgic, intimate, as if she’s being rewound into something safe, something simpler.

Her eyes flutter shut despite herself. She can remember faint flashes of childhood—the way Celines firm hands would pull her wild hair back into a braid every morning, eventually teaching her how to do it herself. She had always wanted Rumi to cut her hair, keep it more manageable, but she couldn’t. Her hair had been the one thing that always felt like her true self. Most people assume she dyes her hair, like Mira does. But they would be wrong, her demon heritage shining through in a painfully obvious way. She still hasn’t told the girls about it, letting them assume it’s dye.

The tension in her chest loosens fraction by fraction with each pass of Zoey’s fingers. The faint purple shimmer in her patterns begins to fade, washed out by the steady silver that marks calm, grounding, peace.

Behind her, Zoey hums faintly, so quiet it’s almost not there, but it vibrates through Rumi like a balm. She finds herself leaning back slightly, surrendering.

Across the room, Mira moves with quiet efficiency in the kitchen. The clatter of a pan, the hiss of oil. She doesn’t ask what Rumi wants—she already knows. Simple things. Light things. Food meant to ease hangovers: eggs, toast, a few sliced fruits, something with enough salt to settle the body. It smells warm, comforting, normal.

Rumi sits cross-legged on the rug while Zoey works, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm she hasn’t felt since before the club, before the sour press of lips that weren’t welcome. Her patterns smooth out until they glow their usual silver again, soft and iridescent.

“Better,” Zoey whispers when she notices, brushing her thumb against the finished braid. She tucks it gently over Rumi’s shoulder. “There you are.”

Rumi swallows hard, eyes still closed. Her voice comes out thick. “Thank you.”

Zoey leans forward, pressing forward to hug Rumi from behind, her arms looping over her shoulders with ease. “Anytime.”

The word lingers in the air even as Mira returns, setting plates down on the low table with quiet thuds. She doesn’t call them over. Instead, she lowers herself onto the floor, cross-legged, her plate balanced in front of her. When Zoey slides down from the couch to sit at Rumi’s other side, they form a circle of sorts—tight, protective, unbreakable.

“Eat,” Mira says simply, handing Rumi her plate.

Rumi looks down at it—eggs, toast, a few slices of apple. Simple, yes. But something about it makes her chest ache all over again. It’s not just food. It’s thought. It’s care.

Her hands tremble slightly as she takes it. “Thanks Mira.”

“Don’t thank me, just eat,” Mira cuts in, her voice gentle but firm.

Zoey bumps her shoulder against Rumi’s lightly. “Hurry, before she lectures us both about protein intake again.”

A faint smile ghosts across Rumi’s lips despite herself. She takes a small bite, chewing slowly. The silence that follows isn’t heavy—not like before. It’s soft. Comfortable.

They sit there on the rug, plates balanced in their laps, knees brushing against each other’s. Rumi sits between them, her braid trailing down her shoulder, her patterns silver and still. Mira’s knee nudges against hers on one side, Zoey’s on the other, their quiet touch a reminder that she’s not alone—not in this, not in anything.

By the time she finishes, the pounding in her head has dulled, the ache in her chest has softened, and though her body still remembers what it wishes it could forget, she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning anymore.

When she leans back against the couch, exhaling long and slow, Zoey reaches over without a word and squeezes her hand. Mira mirrors the motion on her other side, pressing her palm against Rumi’s knee.

Rumi closes her eyes, letting herself sit between them, cocooned once again—not in tears this time, but in quiet, unwavering love.

Zoey is the one to say it first, plopping onto the couch with a dramatic flop that made the cushions sigh under her weight. “We need a chill day. No clubs, no stress, no tears. Just us. Couch. Rotting. Agreed?”

Rumi had nodded instantly, relief coursing through her. Mira didn’t even bother pretending to resist—she simply arched a brow and muttered, “Fine,” like she hadn’t been about to suggest the same thing.

So, that was that. The three of them pile onto the couch like puzzle pieces, each slotting into place around Rumi until she’s tucked neatly between them. Mira claims the left, her arm slung along the back of the couch. Rumi naturally leans into her side, cheek brushing Mira’s shoulder, the steady rise and fall of her breath a lullaby all its own. Zoey curls up on the right, phone already in hand, scrolling through a dozen apps while pretending to pick a show.

The screen in front of them glows faintly, some random drama Zoey insisted on starting playing softly in the background. Rumi only catches half of it—snippets of dialogue, flashes of actors’ faces—her focus blurring as her body melts further into the couch.

Mira’s hand rests gently on her back, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. Every now and then, her fingers shift, tracing slow, lazy lines up and down Rumi’s spine. It’s grounding, soothing, and Rumi lets herself sink into it with a little hum.

On her other side, Zoey is multitasking—like she always is. Her right hand holds the phone, thumb swiping rhythmically as her left drifts down to Rumi’s leg. Fingertips trace idly over the glow of her patterns at her calf, sketching the lines as if to memorise them. It should tickle, but it doesn’t. Instead, it makes her eyelids heavy, her chest loose.

The soft hum of the television, Mira’s steady breathing, Zoey’s absent-minded tracing—it’s the perfect recipe for drowsiness. For once, Rumi’s body doesn’t feel coiled tight. For once, she’s not replaying hands that don’t belong or words that cut deep. She’s content, cocooned in their warmth, her head lolling slightly against Mira’s shoulder.

She’s seconds away from drifting off when Zoey gasps.

It’s sharp, high-pitched, the kind of sound that slashes through quiet like lightning. Rumi jerks upright, heart skipping, eyes wide. Mira stiffens beside her, hand stilling instantly on her back.

“Zoey! Don’t do that!” Mira snaps, her voice a harsh whisper, as if afraid of shattering the fragile peace in the room.

But Zoey doesn’t answer. She’s frozen, staring down at her phone with wide eyes, the device clutched tight in her hand. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Then, suddenly—

“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my GOD!”

Her squeal pierces the room, bouncing off the walls as she flails with the phone like it’s burning her hands.

Mira groans, pressing a palm over her face. “I swear to god, if this is another Tiktok edit—”

But Zoey cuts her off, shoving the screen into Mira’s space. “LOOK!”

Rumi blinks between them, confused, her own pulse still racing from the scare. Mira leans forward, grabbing the phone out of Zoey’s hands with a sharp, “Give me that.” She stares down at it, and almost instantly, her entire face shifts.

Her eyes widen. Her mouth goes slack. Then, slowly, a flush blooms across her cheeks, crawling down her neck. Mira, who rarely lets anything crack her composure, is blushing furiously.

Rumi frowns, curiosity sparking. “What is it?”

Mira doesn’t answer. She just stares, stiff and unblinking, like the phone has betrayed her personally.

Zoey is already giggling, kicking her feet against the couch cushions like a child. “I told you!” she crows, her voice high with glee. “Ohhh, this is bad. This is so, so bad—Bobby’s gunna kill us.”

Rumi twists, reaching for the phone. “Let me see.”

“No.” Mira jolts, snapping the phone up above her head before Rumi can grab it. “You don’t need to—”

“Mira,” Rumi warns, stretching across her lap. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Mira says too quickly, too firmly. Her blush deepens, making her look guilty as hell.

Zoey cackles, doubling over. “Oh, it’s definitely not nothing.”

“Mira!” Rumi lunges again, fingers brushing the edge of the phone. Mira twists away, holding it aloft, her body half-curled to shield the screen.

“Leave it,” Mira insists. “You don’t want to see.”

“Yes, I do!” Rumi fires back, determination sparking. She scrambles, climbing onto Mira’s lap in her effort to snatch the device. Mira holds her ground, twisting, their limbs tangling, the two of them wrestling like kids.

Zoey is absolutely no help—she’s howling with laughter, clapping her hands like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. “This is better than TV!”

Finally, with one desperate grab, Rumi manages to wrench the phone free. She settles on top of Mira without realising it. Her thighs bracket Mira’s, straddling her as she finally secures the phone.

The screen glows, Instagram open to a tagged post.

And there it is.

Her. Them.

The photo is dark, illuminated by strobed club lights, but unmistakable. The three of them pressed close together on the dance floor. Rumi in the middle, head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth parted. Zoey’s arms looped tight around her neck, their bodies pressed flush, Zoey’s eyes clearly on Rumi’s chest. Behind her, Mira—her hands low, too low, fingers splayed over Rumi’s bare waist in a way that makes her stomach flip. Rumi’s own hands caught mid-motion—one gripping the fabric of Zoey’s shirt to pull her closer, the other gripping Mira’s thigh behind her.

It looks… intimate. Too intimate. Not like friends. Not like bandmates.

The caption seals it.

#PolytrixConfirmed

Her brain blanks.

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Heat floods her face, down her neck, all the way to her fingertips. Her stomach somersaults violently, causing her patterns to light up across her body. She expects them to turn purple, her embarrassment shining through. Yet as she looks at the photo, how relaxed he looks, how good they look together. She can’t bring herself to care. They glow a shimmer gold before she can process the feeling of it, her pulse increasing the longer she stares at the photo.

Zoey leans over her shoulder, still giggling uncontrollably. “They caught us! Ohhh, we’re doomed. This is so much worse than the time Mira and I got photographed with her hand up my skir—”

“Zoey!” Mira snaps, face bright red.

But Zoey only laughs harder, clutching her stomach.

Rumi, meanwhile, is frozen. Her thoughts are a mess, short-circuiting as she stares at the image.

That’s her. That’s them.

She fumbles for words, clutching the phone like it might bite her. “I—wha—how—”

Zoey drops against her side, still grinning ear to ear. “You have to admit, it’s a good shot. We look hot.”

Rumi finally manages to tear her eyes from the phone, staring blankly between them. Her pulse is a drum in her ears. The image is seared into her mind, unshakable. The way Mira’s hands fit against her. The way Zoey clung to her neck. The way she… looked.

Like she belonged there.

Like they wanted it. Wanted her.

Her stomach flips again, harder this time. She shoves the phone back into Mira’s chest with shaking hands. Zoey only laughs harder, throwing her head back with glee, while Mira fumbles with the phone like she can delete the entire internet through sheer force of will.

Rumi slumps against Mira, face on fire, patterns glowing wild, her brain a broken circuit repeating the same thought over and over:

Polytrix confirmed.

And she has no idea what to do with it.

“…What the hell is a Polytrix?”

Zoey wheezes instantly, throwing herself across the couch like she’s physically dying of laughter. Mira pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath that sounds like kill me now.

But Zoey rallies fast, sitting upright with her grin wide and smug. “Polytrix,” she declares, dramatic like she’s announcing a royal decree. “It’s us. Our ship name. The holy trinity, if you will.”

Rumi blinks. Her brain feels like it’s buffering. “Ship… name?”

Mira sighs like she’s aged ten years in ten seconds. “Fans make up names for people they want to see together,” she explains, voice flat, resigned. “Like a couple name. But for us, it’s a play on our band name.”

Rumi frowns, eyebrows knitting. “But it says—” She looks back down at the hashtag again, words glowing on the screen like a curse. “Poly. What does that mean?”

Zoey lights up like this is the best question she’s ever been asked. “Ohhh,” she sing-songs, flopping closer, their shoulders bumping. “Polyamory is when it’s not just two people in a relationship. It’s three, or four, or however many. Everyone loves everyone. Big happy circle of love and dating.” She makes a goofy circle motion with her hands, then pokes Rumi in the side. “Kinda like us.”

Rumi’s brain short-circuits. “LIKE—what?!”

Zoey bursts into giggles again. “Not literally,” she adds quickly, though her grin says otherwise. “But the fans think we are. Like, all of us dating each other.”

Rumi’s jaw unhinges slightly. She looks from Zoey’s mischievous smile to Mira’s flat stare, back to the phone screen again. “And this is… normal?” she asks, her voice a touch too high. “This is trending?”

Zoey nods vigorously, her ponytail bouncing. “Oh, totally. Our fans LOVE it. They’ve been shipping us for ages. It’s, like, one of the most popular hashtags when you look us up.”

Rumi’s brain is overheating. She swipes a hand over her face, the heat in her cheeks burning hotter than any spotlight. “So people just… make this up? And everyone’s fine with it?”

Zoey shrugs, unconcerned. “More than fine. Supportive. You should see the fanart. It’s—”

“Don’t,” Mira cuts in sharply, glaring at Zoey like she’ll strangle her if she continues.

Zoey only smirks wider, eyes glinting.

But Rumi isn’t letting go yet. Her head is spinning, words tumbling out faster than she can control them. “And you two… how do you feel about it?”

That stops them.

Zoey tilts her head, pretending to think it over, then leans in and presses a loud, exaggerated kiss against Rumi’s cheek. The contact sears across her skin, her patterns flashing wild before she can rein them in. “I think it’s hot,” Zoey whispers with a mischievous grin, pulling back just far enough to watch Rumi’s stunned reaction.

Rumi makes a sound somewhere between a squeak and a choke.

Mira, on the other hand, is far more composed—though the wicked curl of her lips betrays her. Her hand drifts higher, trailing casually over Rumi’s bare thigh where they still bracket her lap. The touch is so deliberate, so light it makes Rumi jump.

“I don’t mind it,” Mira says smoothly, voice a low purr that shouldn’t be legal. “Letting the world believe I top two beautiful singers? That doesn’t exactly sound like suffering.”

Rumi completely forgets how to breathe. Her whole chest seizes, lungs locked. She chokes on thin air, breathing coming to a total halt, flailing for words that won’t come.

Zoey gasps dramatically, spinning toward Mira. “HEY! You can’t just—”

Mira raises an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “What?”

“You can’t just announce I’m a bottom!” Zoey sputters, indignant. “I’m not always a bottom.”

Mira hums, unamused. “Aren’t you?”

Zoey narrows her eyes. “Take. That. Back.”

Rumi is blinking between them in horror, trying to disappear but curiosity stopping her. Her face feels like it’s on fire, her patterns swirling like a kaleidoscope across her arms. She can’t help herself.

“Bottom?” She squeaks out.

“Yes princess, bottom,” Mira smirks, “Meaning during sex I’m the one in charge, and she does as she’s told.”

Rumi’s heart stops completely, the images running through her mind entirely R rated and unholy.

Then Zoey whirls back to her, finger pointed, eyes mischievous. “HEY,” she declares loudly. “If we were a throuple—which, you know, we’re not but if we were—I would totally top Rumi. No contest.”

Rumi’s soul leaves her body.

“What—WHAT?!” she squeaks, voice breaking.

Zoey grins like the cat that caught the canary. “Yep. You’d be the ultimate bottom. Cute little Rumi, pinned under both of us, letting us—”

“STOP TALKING,” Rumi yelps, cutting her off with both hands clamped over her face.

But Zoey is merciless. She leans in, lips brushing the edge of Rumi’s ear as she whispers wickedly, “Ultimate. Bottom.”

That’s the final straw.

Rumi tips backward, flailing off the edge of the couch with a graceless thump. She lands on the floor in a heap, limbs tangled, her face buried in her hands as she lets out a strangled scream.

Zoey collapses instantly into hysterics, laughter spilling loud and unrestrained as she claps like she’s watching the best comedy special of her life. “Oh my god—your FACE—Mira, did you see her face?!”

Mira, infuriatingly calm, just peers down at Rumi with one perfectly arched brow. Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile but failing. “She lasted longer than I thought.”

“That’s what she said,” Zoey jokes instantly, falling into another fit of giggles.

“I HATE YOU BOTH,” Rumi cries from the floor, voice muffled through her palms.

Zoey wheezes harder, almost rolling off the couch herself. Mira only leans back, crossing her arms smugly, her eyes shifting between the two girls.

“Polytrix confirmed,” Zoey singsongs, kicking her feet against the cushions.

Rumi groans into her hands, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

Her patterns, of course, betray her again—shimmering in chaotic pulses of pink and gold, glowing like fireworks across her skin. She curls tighter into herself, half dying of embarrassment, half… something else she refuses to put into words.

Rumi clears her throat, trying to collect herself, though her voice still wobbles. “So… uh. Should we—should we tell Bobby? Or—or get the photos taken down?”

Zoey stops laughing long enough to actually think about it. She glances at Mira, who’s watching quietly, arms crossed, that same calm focus she always carries when she’s weighing something important.

Mira shakes her head after a moment. “It’s already been up for too long. The internet moves fast. The more you try to scrub something, the more people share it.”

“Yeah,” Zoey agrees, still smirking but with more seriousness now. “By now it’s probably been reposted a thousand times. Clipped, memed, edited—you know how it is.” She shrugs, but her eyes are softer as she adds, “Bobby could put out a statement, though. Just to, like… set the record straight if you want.”

Rumi’s blush deepens, her patterns flickering nervously. “And… what do you two want?” she asks quietly, glancing between them.

Zoey is the first to answer, because of course she is. She leans forward, grin returning, that spark of mischief never far. “Honestly? I don’t mind it. I’m kinda into the world thinking we’re all a thing. It’s fun. Fans are supportive. No one’s mad.”

Mira nods slowly. Her hand rests casually against her thigh, fingertips drumming as she considers her words. “I don’t mind either. It doesn’t hurt us. And…” She allows a small smirk. “There are worse rumors than being seen as a power trio.”

Rumi’s head swims. Their answers come so easily, so calm, while her stomach is twisting itself in knots. “I just—” She fumbles, biting her lip. “I don’t want to make more work for Bobby if we don’t have to. If… if you’re both okay with it, then…” Her voice goes small, uncertain. “Then I don’t mind either. We can just let it… exist.”

The agreement settles between them, soft and strange. Zoey leans back against the couch, stretching her arms with a grin. Mira inclines her head in approval, eyes still trained on Rumi like she’s cataloguing every twitch of her expression.

But Rumi can’t hold their gazes for long. The heat in her face is too much, her chest too tight, her thoughts too loud. She jumps to her feet abruptly, fumbling for an excuse. “I—I’m just gonna… bathroom. Yeah.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, retreating quickly down the hall, patterns flashing a riot of flustered pinks as she escapes.

The bathroom door clicks shut, and silence lingers in her absence.

Zoey lets out a long exhale, collapsing sideways across the couch cushions again. “Wow,” she mutters, shaking her head with a grin. “She actually took that way better than I expected. I thought she’d combust on the spot.”

Mira’s lips twitch faintly. “She nearly did.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t run screaming into the night,” Zoey points out. “She didn’t freak out about the fans or say it was gross or anything. That’s… kinda huge, don’t you think?”

Mira studies her nails, but her expression softens at the edges. “It’s a good sign.”

Zoey lets her head loll back against the couch, a dreamy smile crossing her face. “God. Dancing all together like that…” She lets out a little groan, covering her eyes with one hand. “So, so hot. I need that again. Like, immediately.”

Mira snorts, low and amused. “You’re shameless.”

Zoey peeks through her fingers, smirk curling. “And you love it.”

Mira’s gaze flicks sideways, lingering on her. Then, without a word, she reaches over, grabs Zoey by the waist, and hauls her effortlessly into her lap.

Zoey squeals, giggling as she adjusts, straddling Mira with her hands braced against her shoulders. “Ohhh, someone is just as affected by it as me,” she teases, grinning down at her. “What happened to Little Miss Serious, huh?”

Mira doesn’t answer. She just cups Zoey’s jaw, tilts her face, and kisses her deep.

Zoey melts instantly, laughter fading into a muffled hum as her arms wind around Mira’s neck. The kiss is slow but firm, Mira’s control steady even as Zoey squirms playfully against her.

When they part, Zoey’s eyes are dazed, lips pink and parted. Mira smirks, voice low and deliberate. “I think,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb across Zoey’s flushed cheek, “that Rumi’s going to be more open to us now. Knowing the fans are already on board. It’s one less thing for her to fear.”

Zoey’s grin spreads again, wicked and eager. “So what you’re saying is… she’s on the hook.”

Mira rolls her eyes, though her hand stays firm on Zoey’s thigh. “I’m saying she won’t bolt. Not immediately.”

Zoey wiggles her brows, leaning close. “Good. Because I am dying to see her blush like that again.” She pauses, eyes darkening with a mischievous glint. “Preferably while I’m on top of her.”

Mira groans, dropping her head against Zoey’s collarbone like she’s already out of patience. But the smirk she hides against her skin betrays her. “Hopeless,” she mutters, “We still need to be careful with how we initiate it.”

Zoey just laughs with a short nod, looping her arms tighter around her neck and pressing another quick kiss to her lips.

And in the bathroom down the hall, Rumi grips the sink with trembling hands, staring at her glowing patterns in the mirror as if they might hold the answers she’s too afraid to say out loud.

Her patterns. Her eyes. The way her chest heaves, betraying the storm inside.

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand how they can be so casual about this, about the world seeing them pressed together like lovers. About fans whispering and tagging them as a polyamorous couple, as if it’s normal, expected, even celebrated. Mira and Zoey said it didn’t bother them, that they didn’t mind the world thinking they belonged to each other.

But what about her?

Rumi stares at herself, trembling. She hadn’t even realized it at the time, but through that whole conversation about what to do, she had been in Mira’s lap. Sitting there like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mira’s arms around her, steady, grounding. Zoey watching them with that sly, playful grin like she approved — no, like she wanted it.

The thought makes her whimper, the sound escaping her throat without permission. Her lips part, chest aching, and in her mind she feels it again: Mira’s lap beneath her, solid and warm. Mira’s hands on her thighs. And Zoey, leaning in with that teasing, bright-eyed spark, kissing her on the cheek like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

Her body betrays her. Her fangs snap down, sharp and aching. Her claws extend, scraping the air uselessly by her sides. She gasps at the sensation, staring at her reflection as though she doesn’t recognize herself.

Her patterns ripple violently, molten gold flooding across her skin in waves. Her eyes catch the light, glowing, feline pupils cutting through the irises until she doesn’t look human at all.

She lifts her upper lip, baring her fangs to the mirror. They throb, hunger coiled deep in her veins with the urge to bite down on soemthing.

A sob claws up her throat, but no tears fall. Her body is wired, electrified, trembling with a need she doesn’t know how to sate.

The memories slam into her one after another, relentless.

The bass of the club vibrating through her bones. The pulse of the lights washing over them in strobes of blue and red. Her body pressed between theirs, their warmth bracketing her, holding her together and pulling her apart all at once.

Zoey’s hands on her shoulders, firm but playful, fingers trailing against bare skin in ways that made her want to arch closer. Zoey’s breath against her ear as she laughed, sang along, whispered little nothings that barely cut through the music but burned into Rumi’s mind.

Mira’s grip on her hips from behind, anchoring her. Strong, steady hands keeping her in rhythm, moving her, claiming her body with subtle rolls that left no question about who was leading. The way her chest pressed against Rumi’s back, the heat of her breath against her neck.

She squeezes her eyes shut, but the visions only intensify.

Her head tipping back, resting against Mira’s shoulder. The world falling away as she let herself be held like that, safe and exposed at once. Mira’s lips brushing her temple, grounding her in every motion.

And Zoey — bright, dazzling Zoey — right in front of her, dancing close enough that their bodies brushed again and again. Her smile wicked, her movements teasing, as if every sway of her hips was an invitation.

Then the flash of it — that unbearable moment. Zoey whispering in her ear, her lips grazing Rumi’s skin, before she leaned further. Rumi had felt it. The moment Zoey kissed Mira over her shoulder, mouths clashing, tongues sliding, the sound of it drowned out by music but burned into her mind like fire.

Rumi’s hands slam down onto the counter with a thud. She grips it so tight her claws sink in, leaving jagged grooves in the marble. Her chest heaves.

The image won’t leave. Mira and Zoey kissing over her like she was nothing more than a bridge between them. Mira’s lips against Zoey’s, Mira’s control, Zoey’s eagerness — the way Rumi had been pinned between them, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Her stomach knots with desire. Her fangs ache. Her claws flex again, deeper this time, marble cracking beneath her hands.

She wants. She wants so badly it terrifies her.

It isn’t like when Jay pressed against her — too hard, too forceful, too wrong. With Mira and Zoey it had been overwhelming, yes, but in the best way. The kind of overwhelming that sent her patterns spiralling gold, her body thrumming with electricity.

Every memory is sharper now. The sway of Mira’s hips guiding hers. The heat of Zoey’s chest brushing against her, softer, teasing, taunting. Mira’s fingers spreading wider, her thumbs digging into Rumi’s waist as though she owned the movement. Zoey’s laughter, light and sultry, skimming down Rumi’s spine like a caress.

Rumi’s breathing stutters, uneven. She stares at her reflection, at the glowing stranger looking back at her, claws poised, fangs bared, panting into the air like a wild animal.

Her lips tremble. She lifts her hand slowly, pressing a clawed fingertip to her cheek, tracing the curve where Zoey’s kiss had landed earlier, soft and playful. Her breath catches as though her body remembers the exact moment, the press of lips, the heat that spread through her chest like wildfire.

And then the ache intensifies. Because she remembers the exact second Zoey leaned further, the kiss meant not for her but for Mira. The sight of their mouths meeting, tongues slipping, bodies pressing closer — with Rumi caged between them.

A low, frustrated growl rattles in her throat. Her claws dig deeper into the counter until it’s painful.

It isn’t fair. None of it is fair.

Her body is screaming for something she doesn’t have the capacity for. Her fangs pulse with the urge to bite, to taste, to claim. Her claws itch to grip something — someone. Her patterns flare gold again, pulsing in time with her heart, wild and uncontained.

Rumi lets out a broken noise, her knees trembling. She grips the sink tighter, patterns flashing bright gold in pulses. She can’t think. She can’t stop remembering. Can’t stop imagining.

Her fangs throb harder, sharp points cutting against her own lip until she tastes a metallic tang. Her claws rake another scar into the counter. Her eyes glow, wide and bright, feline slits locking onto her reflection with something primal, desperate.

She wants to cry, but the tears won’t come. Her body is too wound up, too alive, too consumed by the images of them. She feels trapped in a cage made of desire and shame, her own instincts clawing at her from the inside out.

She stares at herself, trembling, golden light washing over her in waves, and whispers, hoarse and broken:

“What’s happening to me?”

She hears them behind her, muffled through the walls, she can hear the two people driving her insane. Mira’s low, steady murmur. Zoey’s playful giggle. The sounds of two people completely at ease in this chaos, while she stands here unravelling.

It makes her want to scream. It makes her want to beg.

It makes her want them. Desperately.

Her jaw tightens, knowing she needs a release to make her patterns dim. No. She can’t risk it. She can’t stay in the bathroom too long, they will start wondering why she’s been gone so long, can’t let them see her like this, vibrating with need she can’t even name without wanting to claw herself open. She debates getting herself off, but she knows the echo of the bathroom will travel in their penthouse, and that would be even more mortifying.

She shoves away from the counter, claws leaving another set of lines in the marble, and stalks to the door.

The decision is made before she can think too hard about it: she’ll hit the gym. She’ll sweat it out, push until her muscles scream and her body is too wrung out to throb like this anymore. Better to shatter herself on the treadmill, on the weights, on the punching bag, than unravel in front of Mira and Zoey.

But the second she stalks into the living room, mind set on walking straight past her tormenters, she stops dead.

Her entire body seizes.

Because there they are.

Zoey straddling Mira’s lap, knees pressed to either side, grinding down against her like she belongs there. Mira’s confident hands gripping her hips, guiding the movement with that lazy, commanding ease that makes Rumi’s stomach twist. Their mouths are pressed together, messy, hot, a tangle of lips and teeth and tongue, and Zoey’s little whimper breaks into the air like the cruellest melody Rumi has ever heard.

A growl rips out of her throat before she even realizes it’s hers. Low. Ferocious. Animalistic.

The sound makes both of them freeze.

Zoey tears her mouth from Mira’s, lips slick, cheeks flushed. “Oh, fuck,” she breathes, wide-eyed as she sees Rumi — her glowing patterns shimmering like fire across her skin, claws out, fangs bared. She mumbles something sharp, curses spilling under her breath, but it’s Mira who reacts.

Mira’s eyes rake over Rumi, slow and hungry, like she’s drinking her in. Her gaze drags from the claws to the bared teeth, then down the rippling light across her skin. And then, with a crooked grin that makes Rumi’s heart slam against her ribs, she murmurs, “Damn, princess… didn’t know you had that in you.”

The words hit like a whip crack. Hot. Flirty. Teasing.

Rumi can’t breathe. Can’t think. The sound that bursts out of her chest is half snarl, half-assed whimper, and then she’s moving.

She storms past them, refusing to meet their eyes, refusing to acknowledge the way Zoey’s jaw has dropped or how Mira’s grin lingers. She slams her palm against the elevator button hard enough that the metal bends beneath her claws. The doors slide open, and she steps inside without a word.

Her body is trembling so hard it feels like she might split apart. She stabs the button for the gym, growling low in her throat, pacing like a caged beast until the doors open again.

Then she’s out, moving fast, bare feet slapping against the cool flooring, pyjamas clinging with sweat she hasn’t even earned yet. The gym is empty at this hour, cavernous and cold, lights flickering on as she stalks inside.

She doesn’t hesitate. Turning off her brain.

The punching bag is closest. She’s on it in seconds, claws ripping across the surface, her fists slamming in rapid succession. The leather gives under her hits, groaning with every blow. Her knuckles split almost immediately, blood slicking across the surface, but she doesn’t stop. The pain feels good — grounding, sharp enough to cut through the frenzy in her head.

She drives her fists into it again and again, breath ragged, sweat beginning to bead at her temples. The image of them on the couch won’t leave her. Zoey in Mira’s lap, bodies tangled, mouths sloppy and desperate. The sound of Zoey’s moan still ringing in her ears. Mira’s hands, Mira’s control.

She snarls and hits harder. The bag swings violently, chains creaking above. She follows it, attacking again, claws flashing, shredding the tough leather until stuffing begins to spill out.

Her chest is heaving, patterns glowing so bright they paint the walls around her in a shimmering gold aura. Every strike is fuelled by images she doesn’t want to admit to — her own mind torturing her with what-ifs.

What if that had been her in Mira’s lap? What if Zoey’s mouth had been on her lips, sloppy and wet and eager? What if Mira’s hands had been guiding her hips down, forcing her to move until she was whining into Zoey’s kiss?

The thought makes her stumble, a noise tearing out of her throat. She grips the bag and drives a knee into it, over and over, until her muscles scream and her body feels like fire.

It isn’t enough.

She whirls, heading for the treadmill. She slams the button up until it roars to life, belt flying at impossible speed. She jumps on barefoot, not caring about the burn, and runs. Hard. Her legs pound against the belt, muscles tearing with the strain, her body moving faster than most humans could manage even at full sprint.

Her breath comes in harsh, broken pants, fangs still bared. The sound of Zoey’s gasp echoes in her mind, the press of Mira’s hands branded into her skin even though they weren’t hers.

She runs until her lungs scream, until sweat pours down her back and soaks through her thin pyjama top. Her fists ball up, claws slicing into her own hands and wrists, blood trickling down and onto the belt of the treadmill.

She can’t feel it well enough to warrant stopping. She keeps going. Faster. Harder.

Until she stumbles. She hits the stop button too late, flying forward into the console with a painful thud. She gasps, catching herself, claws scratching across the plastic.

Her whole body shakes. She drops down onto the floor, crouched on all fours, sweat dripping onto the mat beneath her. Her head hangs, hair plastered to her face, chest heaving so violently she thinks she might be sick.

But the patterns still won’t fade. They glow brighter, pulsing in time with her heart, taunting her.

She drags herself up again, staggering to the weights. She grips a barbell too heavy for her size, muscles screaming in protest, and lifts. Again. And again. Her body strains, arms trembling, shoulders burning. Her claws dig into the steel, leaving dents, her sweat slicking across her chest as she pushes herself beyond limits.

Every lift is punishment. Every drop a release.

Still not enough.

Her body aches, blood drips from her torn skin, her breath rasps, and still the images burn. Mira’s lap. Zoey’s kiss. The growl she couldn’t hold back.

She throws the barbell down with a long scream, the sound ricocheting through the empty gym, raw and broken. She staggers back, collapsing against the mirror, sliding down until she’s sitting on the floor.

Her claws tremble in her lap. Her fangs ache in her mouth. Her patterns ripple violently across her arms, her chest, her throat.

And for the first time since she walked in, she lets the truth hit her fully:

It isn’t the workout she wants. It isn’t the pain. It isn’t the punishment.

It’s them.

It’s always been them.

Chapter Text

Mira leans back into the couch, shoulders settling against the cushions with deliberate ease, though her eyes still glint sharp. The mark of control never quite leaves her, even with Zoey draped lazily across her lap.

Zoey is still buzzing — both from the kiss and from the image of Rumi storming past them into the elevator. “Holy shit, Mira,” she whispers, staring at the empty doorway. “Did you see her? She was, like… glowing. With claws. And those fangs—” A delighted shiver runs through her. “God, that was hot.”

Mira’s mouth curves in that infuriating, lazy grin. “You would find it hot,” she murmurs, one hand still absently tracing over Zoey’s hip. “The girl looked ready to tear us both apart.”

Zoey twists enough to look at her, eyes sparkling. “Please. You found it hot as fuck, just admit it.”

“Fine, yes,” Mira admits easily, grin widening. “But I’m not stupid either. Did you see her when she walked past? She was a big cat on the hunt — all coiled muscle and sharp edges. The kind you don’t corner unless you want to get shredded.”

Zoey huffs and sprawls across Mira’s chest like a brat. “You make it sound like she’s gonna eat us.”

Mira raises a brow. “What type of eat are you thinking about right now Zo?”

That earns another giggle, Zoey hiding her face against Mira’s neck before popping back up. “Okay, fine, yeah, I get it. Rumi looked… feral. But it’s still Rumi. She’s not gonna hurt us.”

Mira’s hand slows on Zoey’s hip, grounding them both. “She’s part demon, Zoey. We don’t know where that line is, neither does she clearly. If her instincts take over—”

Zoey waves a hand like it’s nothing, though her eyes linger with caution. “If her instincts take over, we can handle her. It’s not like she’d win if we went full out.”

Mira laughs, sharp and low. “Baby. Name one time either of us has beaten her in training.”

Zoey freezes. “…That’s not the point.”

“Oh, but it is.” Mira tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You’ve never lasted more than four minutes against her. And me? Best I’ve ever managed was dragging it out to eight before she had me flat on my back.”

Zoey’s grin turns wicked. “You enjoyed every second of that fight, I remember it well.”

Mira doesn’t rise to the bait, though the smirk tugging at her mouth betrays her. “My point is that Rumi is stronger, faster, and much more dangerous than either of us has ever given her credit for. So if she’s spiralling? If her control is slipping?” She shakes her head. “We don’t get to be cocky.”

Zoey hums, shifting in her lap. “So what do we do then? Go barging down there and… what? Hug her until she calms down?”

The image makes Mira chuckle, deep and low. “Tempting.” She sobers after a beat, brushing a lock of hair back from Zoey’s face. “But no. We give her time. An hour, maybe. Let her work through whatever she’s fighting with in her head. Then, if she hasn’t come back up, we go to her.”

Zoey frowns. “An hour? She was intense when she got wound up before the whole demon side fully emerged, so now? She’ll tear through every punching bag in the gym in ten minutes. Maybe less. I say twenty, tops.”

“An hour,” Mira repeats, voice firm but calm. “Rumi needs to learn how to burn through her energy without us rushing in to douse it. If she can’t… then we’ll step in.”

Zoey groans and flops harder against Mira, limbs sprawled. “You’re such a responsible mom sometimes.”

“Zoey,” Mira says dryly, “If you’ve got a mommy kink suddenly you can just say so.”

That earns her another giggle. “While I have many fun kinks, that is not one of them. Don’t judge.”

Mira’s hand slides lower on Zoey’s thigh, squeezing with lazy possession. “Oh, I’m not judging. Just observing.”

Zoey grins wide. “Bet Rumi was observing too, huh? I mean, she looked ready to murder us for making out while she was glowing all golden goddess in the doorway.”

Mira’s eyes darken at the memory, grin sharpening. “She looked like she wanted to devour us. And the growl? Have you heard it that loud before?”

Zoey shivers, delighted. “Okay, now that was hot. But no, she only ever growls in her sleep.”

They fall into silence, the image of Rumi burning behind their eyelids. Zoey idly traces circles on Mira’s chest with a finger, while Mira taps her nails on Zoey’s thigh in steady rhythm.

“She really did look like a big cat,” Zoey murmurs, softer now. “Like… the kind that stalks you in the dark. Predatory.”

Mira nods. “Exactly. Which is why I said an hour. If we go now, we might end up bait instead of help.”

Zoey purses her lips. “You really think she’d snap? Like, actually snap at us?”

“I think,” Mira says slowly, “no, not consciously. She would hold herself back as much as she could.”

Zoey tilts her head. “Do you think her demon instincts are set off by us teasing her non stop?”

Mira smirks faintly. “You tell me. You were the one grinding in my lap while she walked in glowing.”

Zoey’s face goes pink, and she slaps Mira’s shoulder. “Rude.”

“True,” Mira says.

They lapse back into quiet, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Both are replaying Rumi in their minds — the growl, the glow, the way she stormed past like every step was driven by something primal.

“She’s going to break half the gym,” Mira sighs at last.

Zoey snorts. “Already has. Did you hear that elevator button? I swear it cracked.”

“She’s probably ripped half the gym apart,” Mira mutters.

Zoey wriggles in her lap again, thoughtful. “So let’s say we give her the hour. What’s the plan after that? We just stroll down there all casual and be like, ‘Hey, you glowing goddess of rage, mind telling us why you look like you’re about to eat someone?’”

Mira smirks. “Something like that.”

Zoey gasps. “You’re not even gonna rehearse it with me?”

“No,” Mira says simply.

Zoey leans in, ready to tackle Mira, or tickle her. She’s undecided. But something in the air shifts quickly, making her pause. Then.

A scream.

Long. Loud. Raw.

It echoes up through the building from one of the lower floors, vibrating in their bones. It’s strong enough to send the Honmoon rippling around them in a flash of dark red, vibrating through them and out across the city.

Both freeze.

Zoey’s eyes go wide. “That was—”

“Rumi,” Mira cuts in, already shoving Zoey off her lap. She’s on her feet in an instant, yanking Zoey up by the wrist. “Come on.”

Zoey doesn’t argue. They’re sprinting before the thought has even finished forming.

The elevator doors slide open, and they’re inside, Mira jabbing the panel to send them down. The doors close, and tension hums between them, worry braided with something sharper.

“Guess the hour plan didn’t last long,” Zoey pants, trying for levity.

Mira’s jaw tightens, eyes hard. “No. It didn’t.”

They share a look, wordless but charged. Both know exactly what they’re running into. Rumi’s storm. Her fire. Her breaking point.

The elevator dings open and Mira and Zoey step into the gym.

Both of them stop dead in their tracks.

Rumi is on her knees in the center of the wreckage, her chest heaving, every breath a ragged drag that rattles in her throat. Sweat slicks her skin, dripping down her temples, clinging to the curve of her neck, rolling between her shoulder blades before falling to the destroyed mat beneath her. Her golden patterns still ripple visibly across her body, glowing in waves that chase each breath like molten veins. Her claws hang at her sides, sharp and gleaming even in the dim light, and her fangs press against her lower lip with each inhale.

But it’s not just Rumi.

The gym is destroyed.

Three punching bags lie gutted, their insides spilling across the floor like stuffing ripped from prey. One hangs half-off its chain, swinging limply, torn and leaking sand. The treadmill is almost split in two, deep slashes across its surface, as if her claws had caught the belt mid-run and shredded it apart. Weights are scattered, tossed into the walls, some lodged deep into the plaster, others lying cracked on the ground. The mirrors—at least three of them—are shattered, jagged cracks spiderwebbing across the others, glass shards glittering on the floor like deadly confetti.

Zoey lets out a low grumble, her voice unsteady. “Holy shit.”

Mira doesn’t answer. She’s too busy watching Rumi’s trembling hands. The blood.

It coats her knuckles, smeared across her wrists and palms, dripping faintly onto the floor. It isn’t just sweat staining her pyjamas now—it’s red, raw, painful. Mira’s stomach flips at the sight, not because of the gore but because of what it means. Rumi hadn’t stopped. She’d pushed herself past pain, past injury, until her own body gave way beneath her strength.

“Rumi—” Mira begins, stepping forward.

A sound cuts her off.

A low, guttural growl rolls from Rumi’s chest, vibrating through the destroyed gym like thunder. It’s not human, not even close. It rattles the glass fragments still clinging to the mirror frames, making them tremble. The growl warns them back—keep your distance.

Zoey freezes mid-step, her mouth open. For once, words don’t come easily to her.

“Rumi,” Mira tries again, softer, careful. She keeps her hands raised, palms forward, as though approaching a wounded animal. “It’s us. We just want to help.”

Rumi’s head jerks up, eyes locking on them.

Those eyes are not fully hers. The golden light burns through her pupils, her gaze sharp and slitted, feline in its intensity. Her lips pull back slightly, baring those sharp fangs. Her chest still heaves like she’s running a marathon, but she doesn’t move toward them—she just holds her ground, every line of her body trembling between fight and collapse.

“You’ll make it worse,” Rumi rasps, her voice demonic, torn apart by exertion and something that feels painful. “Please. Just… leave me alone.”

The plea punches Mira in the chest. The Rumi they know—the one who carries herself like a fortress, who never lets her guard down—is begging them to stay away. Not because she doesn’t want them, but because she’s convinced her presence is dangerous.

Zoey doesn’t listen.

Instead of backing away, she lowers herself to the floor. Her knees hit the matting, the sound echoing through the wrecked gym, and she shuffles forward slowly. She keeps her eyes soft, her movements small, her body low to the ground. She looks nothing like the bold, teasing girl who usually steals the spotlight—now, she’s deliberately stripping that away, trying to make herself smaller. Less of a threat.

“Hey,” Zoey says gently, her voice quiet but steady. “It’s okay. You’re frustrated. That’s alright. I’m sorry I teased you earlier—about the poly stuff. I didn’t mean to push you like that.”

Rumi growls again, but the sound doesn’t hold the same feral edge. It stumbles halfway through, tapering into something else. A whimper.

Rumi presses her thighs together sharply, as though her body is betraying her, broadcasting tension she doesn’t want them to see. Her claws flex against the floor, scraping shallow grooves into the tile. Her breath hitches before another whimper slips out, causing her glowing eyes to slam shut at the brief relief.

Mira notices instantly. Her eyes widen slightly, eyebrows shooting upward as realization floods her face. She glances at Zoey, who’s too focused on crawling closer to catch it, but Mira sees. She sees the way Rumi’s thighs clench, the way her voice breaks at the edges.

Oh.

Not just rage. Not just power bleeding out of control.

There’s desire woven into it, tangled up with frustration and shame.

Mira’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close.

She crouches down next to Zoey, her voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the tension. “Zo, stop for a second.”

Zoey blinks, turning her head to Mira. “What? Why?”

“Look,” Mira says simply, her gaze flicking toward Rumi’s trembling body.

Zoey follows her line of sight—and then she sees it.

Rumi’s thighs pressed together. Her fists flexing. The way her golden patterns are brighter across her body, rippling like heat lightning. The way her lips part, fangs bared, but not in pure aggression. Her body is moving without permission, hips ever so slightly grinding so her thighs provide some kind of friction.

“Oh,” Zoey whispers, her voice catching and morphing into a soft groan.

Rumi’s head drops, shame burning her face even redder than it already is from exertion. “Don’t—” she chokes, shaking her head violently. “Just go, please.”

Her voice breaks completely.

Mira and Zoey exchange another glance. Zoey’s eyes sparkle with mischief, but Mira hits her with a glare. Warning. Don’t push too hard too fast.

“Rumi,” Mira says slowly, her voice smooth as silk. “We’re here for you, let us help. I think we know what you need.”

Rumi whimpers again, her claws flexing against the floor until fresh blood beads at her palms. “Please,” she whispers, trembling harder now. “Just leave me. I can handle it.”

Zoey tilts her head, softening her voice to a teasing lilt. “But why would we, when you look that pretty?”

Rumi growls again, louder this time, but the sound doesn’t reach its end. It breaks into a gasp halfway through, her body shaking as she squeezes her thighs tighter together. She collapses forward, palm slapping into the mat in front of her with a wet thump. Her arms brace to hold herself up, panting into the floor, eyes squeezed shut like if she can’t see them they will leave.

Mira keeps her eyes on Rumi, steady and calm. She doesn’t move closer yet. She knows better. One wrong step and she’ll bolt—or worse, lash out. But Zoey’s flirting got a softer reaction, so Mira begins to see the cracks, a way in.

But Zoey? Zoey is already leaning forward again, closing the gap by another inch. She smiles softly, not her usual grin but something gentler. “It’s okay, Rumi. You don’t have to hold back around us, I told you before, we love all of you.”

Rumi’s eyes snap up at that, glowing and desperate.

And Mira feels it—feels the shift, the fragile crack in Rumi’s armor deepening.

Zoey stays crouched low, a faint smile tugging at her lips. It’s not her usual mischievous grin—this one is softer, sweeter, an attempt to soothe rather than provoke. “You’re so cute when you’re like this,” she says gently, as if coaxing a frightened kitten. “Do you know that? You’re so cute, so pretty, so sweet, and so loved. Always loved Rumi.”

Rumi lets out a low whimper, shaking her head, her claws flexing until her palms shine wet again with blood. “Stop—don’t—don’t say things like that.”

“But it’s true,” Zoey insists, her voice lilting, warm. “We love you, Rumi. You’re already ours. Doesn’t matter if you’re glowing and growling, doesn’t matter if you’re… all fangs and claws. You’re still the sweetest thing we’ve ever seen.”

Rumi’s breath stutters, her thighs clenching tighter. Her patterns flicker wildly in response, as though betraying her pulse. “You don’t—you don’t understand. It’s not the same, I’m not safe.”

Mira finally speaks, her voice deep, steady, carrying the weight Rumi always listens to. “You are safe,” she says firmly. “Right here. With us. You’re safe, Rumi. We can handle it.”

“No, you aren’t safe,” Rumi whispers harshly, but her voice cracks.

Mira steps a little closer, slow, deliberate, every movement like she’s handling something sacred. “You’re okay. We aren’t afraid of you. You don’t need to hold this alone. You can let go.”

Rumi’s glowing eyes lift to hers, wide, wet, desperate. “If I let go, I’ll hurt you.”

Mira shakes her head, calm as stone. “No. If you let go, we’ll catch you.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy, binding.

Zoey takes another inch forward on her knees, her palms flat to the ground so Rumi can see every movement. “You’re so beautiful when you’re like this Ru,” she murmurs. “Strong. Raw. But you’re still you. You’re the same girl who hogs the blankets. The same girl who hides her smile behind her hands. The same girl who holds us when we fall asleep on the couch. That’s who you are, Rumi. That’s who I see.”

Rumi lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a growl and a sob. Her body rocks back, settling onto her haunches, as if the distance might protect her. She wraps her arms around herself, claws biting into her own skin, desperate to hold her power in.

“Please,” she begs, voice trembling. “Please just… I can’t—”

Zoey stops her with a gentle, “Rumi baby, look at me.”

The words are soft, but commanding enough that Rumi obeys without thinking. Her glowing gaze lifts, locking onto Zoey’s face.

“You’re not alone,” Zoey whispers. “We are right here.”

Mira moves then, slow and deliberate, until she’s close enough to kneel just out of Rumi’s reach. Her dark eyes stay locked on Rumi’s glowing ones, and her voice drops to a low, grounding rumble. “Your body has needs, you can feel it. Let us help?”

Rumi squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head, her breath shuddering. “You don’t know what you’re asking—”

“Yes, we do,” Mira cuts in firmly, steady as bedrock.

Silence follows, thick and heavy, broken only by Rumi’s ragged breathing.

Then Mira looks at Zoey. A long, silent exchange passes between them—one of those wordless conversations that only people who know each other inside-out can have. A tiny nod. A flicker of certainty in their eyes.

Now or never.

Zoey shifts, slow enough that Rumi can follow every movement. She crawls closer, closing the space inch by inch until she’s directly in front of Rumi. She stays on her knees, her posture open, her hands resting on her thighs where Rumi can see them. No sudden moves, no tricks. Just closeness.

Rumi leans back instinctively, her claws digging into her sides. Her chest rises and falls too fast, her fangs flashing as she pants. “Don’t—don’t come closer. Please.”

Zoey’s voice is a whisper, but it cuts straight through the air. “Rumi. I’m going to kiss you now.”

The words are like a shockwave, and Rumi’s entire body jolts. Her patterns flare brighter, her claws scraping hard enough to shred the mat below them. “No—no, you can’t, I—”

Zoey keeps going, steady, calm, guiding her like she’s walking her through choreography. “You don’t have to be scared. I know what you need. I know the kind of release you’re fighting. We both do.” She flicks a glance at Mira, who nods once, her lips twitching faintly.

Rumi shakes her head frantically, eyes wide, desperate. “I don’t need—”

“You do,” Zoey says softly but firmly. “And it’s okay. Because we love you. We want to help you.”

Rumi makes a broken sound in her throat, tears mixing with the sweat on her cheeks. “No—you don’t—you don’t know what you’re saying.”

Zoey leans in, just enough to brush close to her space, but not touch. Her breath warms Rumi’s lips, her eyes holding her in place. “I do. I know exactly what I’m saying. I love you, Rumi. We both do.”

Her chest shudders, a sob ripping through her as she tries to push the words away. “Don’t. Don’t say that. It’s not the same, I want more –.”

“We love you sweetheart. We want you, we have for a long time baby, so I’m going to kiss you now,” Zoey whispers, her voice steady, unwavering, even as her own hands tremble on her knees. “If you really don’t want this—if you don’t want me—stop me. We both know you’re more than capable.”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Rumi’s claws twitch, her fangs glint, her patterns blaze so brightly the whole gym seems lit from within. Every instinct in her screams to run, to hide, to protect them from herself. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t push Zoey away.

Her body trembles, her breath catching in her throat, her golden eyes locked on Zoey’s soft, determined ones.

Zoey leans that last inch closer, her lips hovering just above Rumi’s. Waiting.

And still, Rumi doesn’t stop her.

Zoey closes that last inch and finally presses her lips to Rumi’s.

It’s instant combustion.

Rumi makes a sharp, broken sound, a moan spilling out before she even knows it’s there. Her whole body surges forward, like every barrier she’s ever held up has shattered in one second of contact. She kisses back wildly, desperate, almost frantic, claws digging into her own arms as if she needs to anchor herself from flying at Zoey.

The taste of Zoey—sweet, intoxicating, warm—sends her into a frenzy. Every tiny brush of lips makes her whine, soft and needy, sounds tearing out of her throat without permission. She leans into it like she’s starving, like this is the one thing she’s been denied all her life and now that it’s here she can’t get enough.

Her claws slip, slicing fresh grooves into her skin. She gasps at the pain but doesn’t stop, can’t stop. The blood slicks her claws, running in rivulets down her limbs. Her glow is wild, uncontrolled, waves of gold racing across her skin in frantic pulses that match her heartbeat.

Zoey feels it—the tremor in Rumi’s body—and pulls back, panting, lips red and swollen. Rumi whines like a wounded animal at the loss, trying to surge forward again, but Zoey’s palms press lightly to her chest, holding her still.

“Wait,” Zoey breathes, her voice shaking though her gaze is steady. Her eyes dart to the crimson smeared over Rumi’s arms. “Baby you’re hurting yourself.”

Rumi gasps, chest heaving, her glowing eyes wild. “Don’t stop—please—don’t—”

Mira moves as her eyes meet Zoey’s.

“Hold her still,” Zoey commands, eyes following Mira’s movements.

She kneels behind Rumi, strong thighs bracketing her hips, pulling her firmly back into her body. Her presence is grounding, a cage and a comfort all at once. Mira takes hold of Rumi’s forearms, gently but firmly holding them out and away from her body in a T shape pose, minimising the damage she can inflict on herself.

Rumi gasps, her claws scraping at the air uselessly. Mira holds them there, away from her body, as if handcuffing her with nothing but strength and certainty. “I’ve got you princess, fight as hard as you want, I can take it,” Mira says quietly, her lips brushing the soft skin of Rumi’s ear.

Zoey watches for a second, chest rising and falling with her own uneven breaths. Then her gaze softens as she takes in the sight of Rumi trembling, lips parted, glowing, desperate. She leans in again, pressing soft kisses to the blood smeared skin of Rumi’s collar.

Rumi lets out another whimper, body shivering.

Mira lowers her head and begins pressing kisses gently along the slope of Rumi’s neck, slow and grounding. “We’ve got you Ru,” Mira murmurs against her skin. “We love you, we aren’t going anywhere without you.”

The words send Rumi’s body into overdrive, her back arching as a guttural sound claws out of her throat. Her fangs catch her lip, drawing a bead of blood that glistens under the gym’s broken lights.

Zoey leans forward again, claiming her lips in another hot, hungry kiss while holding Rumi’s jaw with both hands. This time it’s even messier, wetter, full of gasps and moans. Rumi tries to claw, to grab, but her hands are locked away from her body in Mira’s unyielding grip, leaving her helpless beneath the twin assault of lips on her mouth and kisses down her throat.

She moans louder, desperate, her legs twitching as though she doesn’t know whether to run or wrap herself around them both.

Zoey breaks the kiss only long enough to whisper against her lips, “I’m going to take care of you, Rumi. Let us take care of you.”

The words make her whimper, tears gathering in her glowing eyes. “Zoey,” she begs, though she doesn’t even know what she’s begging for anymore. “Please—I can’t—”

Mira tightens her hold slightly, kissing the side of her throat. “You don’t have to do anything. Just feel. Just let go.”

Rumi thrashes lightly, her claws flexing uselessly in Mira’s grip. She’s overwhelmed—heat, scent, taste, the grounding strength behind her and the intoxicating sweetness before her. She moans into Zoey’s mouth as their lips meet again, needy and breathless, her whole body trembling.

“I’m gunna fuck you now baby,” Zoey hums, eyes meeting Rumi’s, “Tell me if you want me to stop, this is all about you pretty girl.”

Zoey tilts her head, deepening the next kiss quickly, her tongue sliding against Rumi’s with a heat that makes Rumi’s thighs clench hard. Another sharp moan rips out of her, her head tilting back against Mira’s shoulder as if she can’t hold the weight of the feeling.

Mira hums lowly, steadying her, kissing her jaw softly before glancing at Zoey. Their eyes meet over Rumi’s glowing, desperate form.

She will be ok, soon enough.

Now that she’s theirs.

Zoey’s hands run down Rumi’s body, careful not to hit any of the rough scrapes from her claws. The curves of Rumi’s strong body ripple under her hands, hot and muscular. Rumi has always been fit, always loved being strong, and Zoey can’t help but indulge in her figure.

Her hands reach firm thighs quickly, pressed together like a clamp, shaking with every second. Rumi’s chest continue to puff in and out at an outrageous pace, her breath hitting Zoey’s face In hot, consistent streams.

“Princess? Relax for us, it will feel better if you stop tensing,” Mira mumbles into the skin of Rumi’s neck, still sucking kisses into the patterned skin.

“F-Fuck!” Rumi yells suddenly, right as Zoeys hands grip the fabric of her pyjama pants, finger dipping in slightly.

Both Mira and Zoey freeze, eyes snapping up to meet each other.

“Well I’ll be damed,” Mira laughs, “I’ve never heard you swear like that before.”

“Yeah Ru,” Zoey giggles, eyes hooded, “Don’t worry, we aren’t gunna make you wait. No teasing for you this time.”

Mira grins over Rumi’s shoulder, watching with hungry eyes as Zoey begins pulling Rumi’s pants down slightly. Rumi shakes violently, her head thrashing side to side like she’s trying to break free of Mira’s grip. Mira struggles, grunting in effort to try and keep Rumi in place, only be taken back by her words.

“Off,” Rumi growls, deep, demonic, “Let me.”

Mira and Zoey share a look again, debating if releasing Rumi right now is a safe choice. After two beats of a silent conversation, Mira slowly releases Rumi hands. She moves immediately, her claws shred her pant’s in seconds, the fabric falling in tatters to the gym floor. She follows that immediate with ripping her shirt, muttering about, “Too hot – too much.”

Before they can fully process it, Rumi is kneeling between them in just a matching set of purple underwear. But what surprises them the most, is when Rumi leans back into Mira, her arms raising again, relinquishing control back to Mira. Mira, who doesn’t wait to be asked, simply reestablishing her firm grip on Rumi’s clawed arms.

“Such a good girl,” Mira hums into Rumi’s ear the second her grip is firm enough.

Rumi moans loud, pressing back into Mira as her eyes search for Zoey, who is sitting stone cold and shocked at the display in front of her.

“Zo, baby, she needs you,” Mira calls out, snapping Zoey out of her trance.

She shifts forward straight away, hands flying to Rumi’s thighs and pushing them to part. Rumi fights her at first, but Mira tuts in her ear, signalling she needs to do as she’s told. She does. Slowly, like it hurts, Rumi lets her knees part, thigh spreading to let Zoey move closer.

The second the cold air of the gym hits her, Rumi Is shaking again, she’s making small incoherent noises with every breath and pushing back into Mira hard enough to nearly knock her over.

Zoey sits forward on her knees, hover over Rumi slightly, and kisses her again. She sloppy with it on purpose, letting Rumi lose herself in the movements. Their tongues slide together in a wet mess as Zoey’s hands slide from her collar, over her chest, stomach and stop at the waistband of her panties.

“Baby, look at me,” Zoey instructs, “I promise it’ll stop soon, but I need your focus for a second.”

Rumi whimpers desperately, her lips chasing Zoeys like they provide her oxygen to live. Her eyes are unfocused, but the second they find Zoey’s they lock on, unwavering, cat like pupils dilating in focus.

“Good baby, that’s good,” Zoey giggles, “I’m gunna make it stop now, but you need to tell me if you want this to stop, I need to hear you say you understand me.”

Rumi nods furiously, her breath hitching.

“Use your words princess,” Mira commands firmly into Rumi’s ear.

“Yes!” Rumi growls, “I do – please – Zo – yes.”

Zoey doesn’t respond, surging forward to recapture Rumi’ s lips in another fiery kiss.

Her hands move as soon as their lips are locked, her left hand pinning Rumi’s hip down in her kneeling position so she can’t rock, while her right hand slips past the waistband and sink lower. Her digits find slick heat immediately, it having coated Rumi entirely. She doesn’t wait, doesn’t ease into anything. Rumi is more than ready. She’s literally begging, so Zoey obliges happily.

Her hand finds her clit straight away, forming steady, tight circles that cause Rumi to scream into the destroyed gym. She thrashes against Mira, arms attempting to come down but being held firmly. Zoey works fast, eyes watching Rumi’s face as she continues the firm movements.

“Stop fighting,” Mira coaxes, her voice barely audible over the low, consistent rumble of Rumi’s chest.

Rumi clearly tries to listen, her thigh relax slightly, her head dropping back onto Mira’s shoulder and her jaw going slack. Her hips try to grind down, as if seeking more pressure. So Zoey complies, reading her like an all too familiar book.

Her pressure increases, as does her speed. She can feel Rumi already approaching her breaking point, so she keep her pace, letting Rumi climb at her own speed. Her chest heaves, her claws flex around nothing as Mira continues to leave large hickies across her neck and shoulder.

“Z-Zo-oey!” Rumi moans, like she’s panicking.

“It’s ok baby, I’m right here, let it happen,” Zoey grins, “Please baby. Cum for me.”

The words shatter her whole. Her entire body goes rigid, her patterns flash from gleam gold to a blinding white so hot it might be an actual explosion. She growls deep, turning into a high pitched scream as she shakes violently through her orgasm. Zoey doesn’t stop, her fingers keep moving against Rumi, letting her ride it out as long as she wants.

Her thighs try to close, but Zoey quickly shifts forward to slot herself between them, keeping them spread as Rumi continues to shudder through the bliss. Mira slowly releases her hands as the blinding glow dims, shimmering back to Rumi’s usual iridescent flicker. It’s still brighter than it should be, pulsing with each breath, but it isn’t an open flame like it was before.

“So good for us,” Mira hums, her hands sliding around Rumi’s waist to hold her against her body.

The claws have slide back now, Rumi’s usual manicured nails returning to her body. They are still coated in blood, but they no longer pose a threat to her, so Mira ignores them when they drop limp to Rumi’s sides.

“Oh god, Rumi?” Zoey chimes in, her eyes darting over Rumi’s body.

Her eyes snap open at her name, no longer cat-like, back to their usual shade. Her pupils are still blown, but she looks more in control now. More like their Rumi.

“Hey there pretty girl,” Zoey smiles, her hands coming up to cup Rumi’s cheeks and kiss her so softly she almost cries.

“Wh-at… guys, you –,” Rumi tries to start, she almost panics. But they had been expecting that. They knew the second the haze of endorphins wore off that she would try to panic, they had planned for this.

“Breathe with me princess, please,” Mira hums into Rumi’s hair, taking long slow breaths as Rumi’s bare back is pressed into her chest.

Rumi complies, following the instruction like a puppy. It helps. She blinks back into reality, eyes scanning Zoey’s face as if to make sure she is real. That this isn’t another dream.

“Feeling better?” Zoey smiles, tilting her head innocently, like she didn’t just fuck Rumi to completion in under three minutes.

“Yeah,” Rumi manages, letting her body relax a little further, “But – I – I still don’t understand why –.”

“We love you Rumi,” Mira cuts her ramble off, “Just like we said when we came in, we love you, and we want you.”

“Like the poly thing? That’s what you want? O – or you just want to do thi –.”

“Yes baby, we want all of it,” Zoey smiles sweetly, brushing stray strands of hair from Rumi’s face, “We want dates, and hand holding, and kissing and sex. We want everything. We have for so long.”

Rumi shivers slightly, like the words physically wash over her as they air. She watches Zoey’s face for a long time, before turning slightly in Mira’s arms to check her reaction. Mira nods with kind eyes, like she knows Rumi needs to see them both confirm it.

“It’s true sweetie,” Mira grins, “Is that what you want?”

Rumi is silent for a full minute, her mouth opening and closing, eyes shifting between the two girls like a cartoon.

Eventually, her eyes well with tears, her lips tremble and she cries out, “Yes! That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I love you both so so much, I thought you’d never want me. Not like this.”

They envelope her in a hug immediately, arm wrapping firmly around her, heads tipped together and breath all mixing. Rumi shakes again, this time with tears as her two favourite people soothe her with gentle kisses and soft words of affection.

They stay there for an unknown amount of time, clinging to each other, whispering words of love and adoration into the tiny gaps between their bodies. Until Mira shifts her arms, and feels the slick heat of Rumi’s blood smear across her arms.

“We need to get you clean up princess,” Mira murmurs into Rumi’s hair, her eyes finding Zoeys in a short burst of panic.

Zoey pulls back a little, eyes darting across Rumi’s body. Theres a decent amount of blood, some drying already, but the cuts on her forearms and ribs are still trickling. Zoey doesn’t wait for her to agree, she stands, offering her hands to Rumi.

Rumi sways on her feet, trembling.

Her breathing is ragged, shallow gasps that pull her chest tight. Blood streaks her skin in sharp lines. Zoey is quick to move, slipping an arm around her waist. Her other hand cups Rumi’s elbow, trying to hold her steady. “Easy, pretty girl. Easy,” she murmurs, voice low, soothing, almost like a lullaby.

Mira steps close from behind, watching the way Rumi’s knees shake. She doesn’t hesitate. She turns Rumi gently in her arms and stoops, sliding her hands down to the trembling thighs. “Hold on,” she murmurs, a command and comfort all at once.

Rumi’s body responds before her mind can catch up. Her legs curl instinctively around Mira’s waist, thighs clamping down like it’s the safest place she’s ever known. Mira’s palms spread beneath them, firm and certain, cupping her as if she weighs nothing at all. Rumi whimpers, tucking her face into Mira’s shoulder, the damp heat of her tears seeping into Mira’s top.

Zoey’s hands flutter for a moment, as though reluctant to let go, but she quickly shifts to brush back Rumi’s hair, fingers lingering at her temples. “Let’s get you upstairs,” she whispers, steadying herself as much as Rumi.

Together, the three of them move. Zoey takes point, slipping out of the ruined gym and pressing the elevator button with her free hand. Mira carries Rumi effortlessly, adjusting her grip every so often, thumbs rubbing circles against the bare skin of her thighs.

The elevator hums quietly as they ascend. Rumi mumbles into Mira’s shoulder, soft half-words that barely form sentences. Mira tilts her head, pressing her lips to the damp strands of Rumi’s hair. “Shh,” she breathes, low and sure.

Zoey watches them both, leaning against the wall, her eyes glassy. Her fingers stroke over Rumi’s temple, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face.

When the doors slide open, they walk quietly through the penthouse halls. Their steps are soft, careful, as if the entire world has shrunk down to this single fragile moment. Rumi stays curled against Mira, head tucked beneath her jaw, breaths uneven but steadying slowly.

They stop at Mira’s room—it’s the one with the biggest shower, the one that feels most like sanctuary. Mira lowers Rumi gently onto her feet, but stays close, ready to catch her if her legs give out again.

Rumi sways, knees threatening to buckle. Her eyes are wide, dazed, unsure. She doesn’t reach for her underwear, doesn’t try to cover herself. She just stands, shivering faintly under the weight of everything.

Mira’s gaze locks with Zoey’s. No words pass, only a silent question, and then Mira looks back to Rumi. Her hands are gentle as she cups her face, thumbs brushing under her jaw. “Can I?” she asks softly, the question heavy but clear.

Rumi blinks at her, lips parting. A tiny nod follows, shaky but certain. Consent to keep going with whatever her plan is.

Mira’s fingers trail down over her shoulders, steady, patient. She hooks them under the last scraps of lace and eases the fabric down, never rushing, never breaking eye contact. Rumi lets her, trembling under the weight of that unspoken trust.

The underwear falls away, pooling at her feet, leaving her bare and vulnerable between them. She doesn’t hide. She just exhales, shaky and uneven, but she doesn’t stop Mira’s touch.

Zoey has already stripped, her own clothes cast aside in messy piles near the shower. She slips inside first, turning the knobs until the water steams warm and steady. She steps under the spray, arching her back as the heat pours down, then beckons them closer with open arms. “Come here,” she whispers, her voice soft and inviting.

Mira guides Rumi forward, hands firm at her waist until she’s standing at the edge of the shower. She presses a last kiss to Rumi’s temple before carefully ushering her into Zoey’s waiting embrace.

Zoey’s arms close instantly, pulling Rumi into her chest as the spray hits them both. Warm water trickles down Rumi’s back, over the streaks of blood, washing red down to the tile.

Rumi makes a sound then, a broken sob tangled with relief. She clings to Zoey, nails scraping lightly against her back, but not enough to break skin thankfully. Zoey just holds her tighter, murmuring nonsense into her hair. “Shhh. You’re okay.”

Mira strips quickly, shedding her own clothes in sharp movements before stepping into the shower with them. She closes the glass door and presses herself to Rumi’s back, caging her safely between them both. The heat of her chest warms the trembling muscles, her palms smoothing over Rumi’s forearms.

The water washes over all three of them, carrying away the sweat, the blood, the fear. It’s nothing short of baptism—a reset, a cleansing. Rumi sags between them, finally letting her weight go, and neither girl hesitates to carry it.

They clean her gently, carefully avoiding the fresh cuts but tending to the rest with reverent hands. Mira takes her arms, lifting each one and massaging soft circles into the sore muscles as she rinses them clean. Zoey lathers a cloth and drags it down her chest and stomach, her touches steady but tender.

Neither rushes, neither teases. It’s just care. Pure, unyielding care.

When they’re done, it becomes clear that Rumi’s demonic blood has other advantages they weren’t aware of. Each cut, small or large, has already begun to heal. The smaller cuts made by her claws have almost healed completely, the skin stitching back together in real time. Rumi doesn’t seem to notice it, but Mira and Zoey share an awestruck look before turning back to cleaning Rumi’s body.

Steam curls around them, thick and hazy, wrapping the three of them in their own world. The water streams steady, running hot against skin that glistens under its spray. Mira stays behind Rumi, arms still braced around her middle, lips grazing the slope of her damp shoulder as if she can’t stop reminding herself Rumi is real, right here. Zoey shifts in front, her hands gentle as she begins to pull Rumi’s hair free of it’s braid.

And then Rumi moves.

She shifts in Mira’s arms, turning slowly, carefully, until she’s facing her. Their bare bodies press together chest to chest, slick skin sliding and melding with no barrier left between them. Mira inhales sharply, steadying herself as Rumi leans in fully, pressing her forehead into the solid plane of Mira’s chest. She breathes her in, as though grounding herself against that strength.

Mira’s arms come up, instinctively holding her closer. Her palms span wide against Rumi’s back, sliding over wet skin, fingertips tracing the ridges of muscle and the faint shimmer of her golden marks now beginning to shimmer through. She doesn’t speak. She just holds her, lets her rest there, lets her listen to the thundering heartbeat beneath her ribs.

Zoey watches quietly, her lips parted. She doesn’t interrupt. Instead, she adjusts, undoing the tie in Rumi’s hair, letting the wet strands fall loose in her hands. She works through them slowly, rinsing out the remaining suds, each movement deliberate, soothing. “Almost done, baby,” she whispers, her voice as soft as the water.

Rumi tilts her face up then, pulling back just enough to look into Mira’s eyes. Her expression is raw, searching, like she’s desperate for something—permission, safety, love—all tangled together.

Mira meets her gaze with a small, steady smile. She leans down, lips brushing just above Rumi’s mouth as she murmurs, “I love you.”

And then she closes the distance.

The kiss is firmer than Zoey’s had been, not playful or hesitant but steady, unyielding. Mira kisses like a force of nature—controlled, sure, but impossible to ignore. It’s not harsh, not overwhelming, but it demands presence, demands Rumi meet her there.

Rumi melts instantly. A moan breaks from her throat, needy, the sound echoing faintly against the glass walls of the shower. Her lips part beneath Mira’s, inviting her deeper, surrendering with each press. Her hands twitch against Mira’s sides, claws threatening to bite in before she fists her fingers into Mira’s slick hair instead, anchoring herself.

Behind her, Zoey doesn’t stop. She works through Rumi’s hair with steady strokes, fingers massaging her scalp, the sensation melting into the heated kiss at her front. Rumi shudders, her knees threatening to buckle as pleasure ripples through her, not sharp but deep, grounding.

Mira’s hands slide down her sides, gliding over her waist, her hips, fingers pressing firm enough to make Rumi gasp into her mouth. Wherever Mira touches, the golden shimmer blooms again, sparks igniting under her palms, tracing over her body in glowing patterns. It pulses with her heartbeat, visible proof of her falling apart again.

Zoey pulls back slightly, watching the way it spreads like fire under Mira’s touch. Her lips curve in awe, watching each line of Rumi’s pattern slowly ignite again across the entire expanse of her body. She just keeps her hands moving, rinsing out the last of Rumi’s hair while the glow turns the shower into something radiant.

Mira pulls back from the kiss only long enough to chuckle, her breath warm against Rumi’s lips as she takes in the golden hue around them. “You’re relentless,” she teases, her tone edged with fondness, her eyes gleaming with both heat and admiration.

Rumi doesn’t answer. She can’t. She just leans forward again, catching Mira’s mouth with her own, moaning as though the sound itself is pulled from her soul. Her hands pull at Mira’s hair, folding her down to Rumi’s height so she can keep their lips attached.

Zoey steps closer now, unable to resist, her hands brushing down Rumi’s back as if to remind her she’s not forgotten. She presses a kiss to the nape of Rumi’s neck, lips gentle, lingering. The combination makes Rumi gasp, her body arching, one hand sliding behind her to grip one of Zoey’s arms.

Mira’s mouth moves with intent, lips firm and sure as she deepens the kiss. She doesn’t take without giving; every press is balanced by the steady slide of her hands, every demanding lick of her tongue softened by the grounding weight of her palms spanning Rumi’s waist.

Rumi moans again, higher this time, her body trembling. The golden pulse grows steadier, radiating outward in rhythmic waves, like her very soul is syncing to the touch of Mira’s hands and Zoey’s steady strokes.

Rumi’s knees nearly give in again, but Mira is there, strong and steady, holding her up. Zoey presses another kiss to the crown of her head, whispering into her damp hair. “Looks like she needs to be properly worn out Mir.”

Mira pulls back only to breathe, her eyes burning as she studies Rumi’s face. She cups her cheeks, thumbs brushing away the wetness that might be shower water, might be tears. “We can’t have our girl suffering,” she says simply, like it’s the most undeniable truth in the world.

Rumi whimpers, a sound halfway between agreement and desperation. And then she surges forward, kissing Mira again, deeper, hungrier, like she’ll shatter if she doesn’t.

Zoey laughs softly at the sight, shaking her head in fond disbelief. Her hands never leave Rumi, one on her back, the other sliding gently over her arm, grounding her in ways Mira’s intensity can’t. “Round two,” she teases, voice affectionate.

But Rumi doesn’t hear. She can’t. She’s lost in the heat of Mira’s kiss, in the feel of Zoey’s hands, in the safety of being bracketed between them both once again.

She overheats too quickly, her body lighting itself on fire like it always does the second the girl touch her. But this time, she doesn’t have to wait to quell the heat. Mira and Zoey are already prepared.

Mira’s hands, splaying over her body in slow, deliberate motions, dip lower. One settles gently between Rumi’s legs, her long fingers finding purchase quickly. The contact forces another neady moan out of Rumi’s lip as her hip jut forward to chase the contact. Mira’s hand is slower than Zoey’s had been, taking her time to work her up.

“Mira,” Rumi’s voice breaks, high pitch and whiney.

“Be a good girl for me princess,” Mira hums, lips brushing Rumi’s as she speaks, “I think you’ve got a few rounds in you before your done.”

“Hm-Fuck!” Rumi whimpers as she increases the pressure, but not the pace.

Zoey presses in at that moment, her chest pressing into the skin of Rumi’s back with slick heat as she peppers light kisses across Rumi’s back. Her hands glide too, moving up and around to take Rumi’s breasts into her hands. She squeezes, gentle, like she’s letting Rumi get used to the feeling.

Rumi pauses, like she’s torn between pressing her self back into Zoey, and grinding down on Mira’s hand. A low rumble sounds off, signalling her frustration. Mira chuckles against Rumi’s lips, her eyes flickering over the girls face as she pants into the steam of the shower.

“I – I need – humph – Mir,” Rumi stutters out, half noises and unfinished words.

Mira lightens her pressure, “Yeah beautiful? That’s it, it’s ok, tell us what you want.”

“You can have anything baby, you just have to ask nicely,” Zoey quips, lips slick against her shoulder.

Rumi moans, loud, a mixture of relief and frustration echoing off the walls.

“Words Rumi,” Mira grins, watching Rumi’s eyes flutter open to find hers.

“More,” She manages, “I – harder – make it – more, fuck, please?”

Her phrasing it as a question has both Mira and Zoey giggling like school girls, finding Rumi’s inexperience and inability to ask for her desire absolutely adorable.

“Yes my princess, good,” Mira whines into Rumi’s mouth, around another dirty kiss, “Anything you want.”

Mira presses harder, her fingers finding a tight rhythm that is enough and not all at the same time. Rumi groans into Mira’s shoulder loudly, her hips rocking back into Zoey without conscious thought. Zoeys hands feel the movement, and trail down her body, over her ass to grip firmly.

 Zoey keeps going, hands sliding down to skim between Rumi’s legs. She feels Mira’s movements, but taps the inside of Rumi’s thigh to signal her spread her legs more. She thankfully gets the memo, shifting her stance to allow more room.

Zoey’s fingers are gentle as they slip towards her, giving her plenty of time to say no, to tell her she isn’t ready for that. But the second it processes in Rumi’s brain what she plans to do, a moan rips through her throat, her body beginning to vibrate the same way it had in the gym. Her fangs slide out, aching to bite, and the skin of Mira’s shoulder will likely be their first victim.

The fingers don’t stop, one gentle digit slides in, warmth surrounding it and squeezing. It’s tight, the stretch is briefly uncomfortable, but Rumi adjusts quickly, her hips soon rocking back for more.

They find a rhythm quickly, Mira’s fingers forming tight circles over her clit while Zoeys finger slides in and out at a steady pace. Rumi whines, her hips restless and hands gripping Mira’s shoulder like a life-line.

“P-please, baby – more,” Rumi moan over the movements, the pet name hitting both girls like a slap to the face.

They make eye contact, and instantly shift up a gear. Mira pulls Rumi tighter to her body, to gain more control her hand speeding up against her clit. While Zoey slides a second finger in, increasing her pace the second Rumi adjusts. Their movement echo around the bathroom, the explicit slapping of wet skin on skin driving them crazy.

They don’t stop, even as Rumi begins to glow brighter, her moan pitchier as her hip move to meet their hands. Mira and Zoey still watch each other for a beat, before leaning in, over Rumi’s shoulder to kiss. Just like they had in the club. It’s all teeth and tongues, their hands still fucking Rumi as they moan quietly into the kiss.

“Ow fuck!” Mira suddenly pulls back, their eyes whipping to see Rumi with her fangs sung firmly into Mira’s shoulder, still moaning pathetically into the skin.

“Shit, is she biting you?” Zoey hums, eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas.

Mira nods, with a grimace. Knowing that is going to leave one hell of a mark. But not caring enough to make her stop. Instead, her and Zoey speed up. They watch has Rumi builds to her peak, vibration and patterns increasing and she stays latched onto Mira’s  shoulder.

They can feel her tensing, she’s close, but then it clicks in Mira’s head. Rumi, poor, sweet, neglected Rumi, isn’t just touch starved. She also thrives on being told she’s good, her desire to be well behaved one of her most ethereal needs.

Mire grins wickedly.

“That’s it Rumi,” She starts, “You take us so well, you’re being so good for us.”

Zoey catches on quick, her eyes shining in mischief.

“So good baby,” Zoey chimes in, “You feel so good, taking my fingers so well.”

“Do you need more princess?”

“We’ve got you baby, just look pretty while you take it.”

“Such a good girl, being so well behaved for us.”

“We love you Rumi,” They say in tandem.

That’s the key. Rumi’s moan peaks, her jaw tightens, her legs shake and she screams into the skin of Mira’s shoulder. Her patterns blaze white hot again, flashing around the bathroom like a strobe light as she comes hard on both of their hands. She shakes hard, hard enough for Zoey’s fingers to slip out and Mira to catch her as she collapses. She scoops her up, moving quickly to the bedroom and depositing Rumi – still wet (More ways than one) – onto the mattress. Her patterns don’t dim this time, they hum low, still golden, as Mira pulls her hair back into a messy wet bun.

Zoey moves onto the bed too, unphased by the droplets of water still littering her skin. She lays back smoothly, eyes trailing over Rumi and Mira as her hand begins to dip low across her own body.

“God you’re always so impatient Zo,” Mira laughs, moving to hover over Zoey.

Rumi’s eyes snap open, head tipping to watch the two in awe. She takes in their movements easily, confident, like they know the reaction their hands will achieve before they even move. Mira positions herself over Zoey, their lips connecting in a hungry kiss that consumes them. Zoey instantly arches up into Mira, her breath hitching and a needy whine leaving her lips.

Rumi feels her patterns blaze hotter at the display, but she can’t move, she lays their, eyes glued to their bodies as Mira slides lower. Her lips pepper across Zoey’s skin, lapping up the left over droplets of water as she kisses across her chest, ribs, stomach and navel. Zoey is clearly done with being teased, because her and find Mira’s hair and push, signalling what she wants with a moan of Mira’s name.

Her lips don’t stop, no hesitation or check in required, and the sight of Zoey spreading her leg for Mira is enough to have Rumi panting again like an overworked dog. Pathetic. Needy. Intrigued.

Mira’s lips settle between Zoey’s legs comfortably, the first contact causing Zoey to arch violently into cool air.

“Yes Mir,” Zoey pants, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as Mira’s tongue strokes across her slick heat.

Rumi feels the growl before she hears it. It starts low, like it came from her rib cage, then it travel up her throat, rattling her wind pipe, and ripping through clenched teeth to hit their ears. Both sets of eyes find her, and she realises she has moved. Now positions on all fours, moving toward the pair of girls. She can feel her patterns flickering gold, hot, but she can also see the reflection of her cat-like eyes in their pupils. She must look terrifying right now. Stalking towards them. She waits for them to flinch, to tell her to calm down. But it never comes.

Instead, Zoey’s hands reach for her. Eyes beckoning, and tongue darting out to wet her lips as she moans into the room without care.

“Come here pretty kitten,” Zoey whines, noticing Mira sit back slightly to see what she plans on doing here.

“God Rumi, Insatiable isn’t a strong enough word for you,” Mira murmurs, eyes gliding over Rumi’s bare body.

Rumi makes it to Zoey’s side, kissing her hard, like she can pour all her desires and needs into the action. But Zoey doesn’t let her kiss her for long. Pulling back and swiping damp hair from Rumi’s cheek as her body arches in search of friction again. Mira chuckles, watching Zoey be torn between getting Rumi off and getting herself off.

“Up pretty girl, come here,” Zoey mutters against Rumi’s lip, pulling her further up the bed and grabbing her hips.

“Oh fuck,” Mira stops, realising exactly what Zoey plans on doing.

“Wh-what do I do?” Rumi stutters, eyes darting around unsure.

“You’re going to be a good kitten and sit on my face,” Zoey moans, already moving Rumi to swing a leg over her head, facing the headboard.

Rumi begins to protest, the uncertainty on the tip of her tongue, but Zoey doesn’t give her the chance. She pulls her down to meet her lips instantly, tongue darting out to taste, not tease. She gets to work, tongue lapping at her like it’s the most precious delicacy in the world.

“Shit!” Rumi screams, falling forward, claws shooting out to latch onto the headboard in shock at the sensation of Zoey eating her out.

Mira moans at the sight, before diving back down, her own tongue finding Zoey again and setting a strong pace. She knows Zoey won’t last long like this, the overstimulation, the build up, the need. She’s watched Rumi come twice now, and she’s so soaked Mira knows whatever underwear she was wearing before will be unsalvageable.

They all work in time, Mira’s head bobbing as she laps at Zoey in long firm strokes, one of Zoey’s hand going to fist a chunk of her hair. The other is latched around Rumi’s thigh, holding her mildly still as her own mouth work her to another peak. Rumi looks feral when Mira glances up. Her back is arched, hair sticking to her skin, mouth open, head tipped to the roof, and hips grinding into Zoey’s mouth like she belongs there. She does, Mira starts to think.

Zoey is the first of the two to start shaking. Her thighs try to clamp down around Mira’s head, but she’s stronger than that. She pushes them open with firm hands, tongue picking up the pace as she draws tight circles, focused over her clit.

Zoey arches again, moaning against Rumi, who shudders above Zoey at the sensation. They are both close, close enough to make Mira’s own core throb violently. It won’t take much more, Mira just can’t think straight enough to find the final pus.

Rumi does it for her without even knowing.

“Zoey! Baby – fuck – please,” Rumi moans, loud, uncontrolled, like she might be crying as her desperate voice begs.

It send Zoey over the edge instantly. She shakes hard, her hips grinding against Mira’s mouth as she moan’s loud and unrestrained into Rumi. Her body convulses for a full minute, Rumi still riding her face as Zoey comes hard below her.

The second her body stop withering beneath her, Mira moves up, with one last kiss to Zoey’s pubic bone. She settles over her waist, straddling her and hands grabbing Rumi to pull her back against her chest. She falls dramatically. Claws leaving marks on the headboard as she falls. Her head falls back against Mira’s shoulder right as Zoey must regain consciousness, because Rumi groans long and low as Zoey’s tongue returns to it’s faster fast.

“Easy princess,” Mira whispers into her ear, “Give us another one.”

Rumi’s moan at the command is laced with desperation, her hips jutting to find a rhythm Zoey wont allow. She’s exhausted, but needy. Her forehead is sweating, her chest heaving, and Mira can’t help but glance down to see Zoey’s eyes open and watching them.

Mira’s hand move up, cupping Rumi’s chest with a firm squeeze as Zoey finally settles on a pattern. Rumi growls again, her patterns flaring to that bright what that signals she’s close. Mira leans down, her lips finding the spider web patterns on Rumi’s neck and shoulder and running her lips and tongue over them. They are so hot to the touch she almost flinches back, but she isn’t afraid of a little pain. It has a fast affect on Rumi, who tries to twist out of her grip, like it’s too much. But Mira’s hand on her chest hold her to her body.

Clawed hands come up and reach back, one threading through Mira’s hair with such care she knows Rumi has to be holding a little more back from them. While the other lands on top on one of Mira’s, over her chest.

“That’s it pretty girl,” Mira hums into the patterns, “Ride her like you mean it.”

White light consumes the room, flashing bright and hot and Rumi screams into the air around them. Her legs shake hard, her claws grip a little too tight to be comfortable, and she quickly slouches back into Mira.

The light tapers off quickly, less extended than the previous flashes. Like they are slowly wearing her out. But Mira, always conscious of Zoey, shifts Rumi immediately off and to the side. She settles her to sit against the headboard, head tipped back as she continues to pant with her fangs exposed.

Her own thighs ache, Mira can feel the slick wetness dripping down her legs and onto the mattress as she kneels. She leans over Zoey, a hand stroking her cheek to pull her attention.

“You ok?” Mira hums, eyes searching her face.

Zoey nods, eyes still hungry as she moves with trained speed to grab Mira and flip her. It places Mira on her back, between Zoey who is crawling over her side, and Rumi who is sitting beside them against the headboard. Her eyes have opened again, but they are unfocused, like she isn’t fully conscious yet. Still in that post orgasm bliss.

“Your turn baby,” Zoey hums as she kisses up Mira’s body, connecting their lips, “If you want to?”

Mira nods before she can over think it, not missing the look of confusion on Rumi’s face.

Zoey sees it too, smile tilting to a smirk as she straddles one of Mira’s thighs and begins trailing a gentle hand over Mira’s torso.

“Big bad top over here doesn’t always like getting fucked,” Zoey explains to Rumi, whose eyes are following Zoey’s hand like a target system.

“W-why?” Rumi asks, her voice croaky and strained.

“Tough girl likes being the one to fuck, not get fucked,” Zoey giggles as her hand dips into Mira’s soaked folds, “It’s referred to as a service top.”

“Zoey!” Mira grunts, arching against her, “Shut up and fuck me.”

Zoey giggles like she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“No matter the position, she’s always a bossy bitch in bed,” Zoey laughs, before seeing Rumi move.

It’s like she’s possessed, some kind of last ditch energy taking over as she lifts Mira to slide in behind her on the bed. Her legs settle, Mira’s back now pressed to Rumi’s chest, her head right beside Rumi’s.

Her claws have faded thankfully, her fangs not so much. But her hands hold Mira firm, sitting her up slightly in the new position.

It gives Zoey an opportunity she can’t resist. She slides to confident fingers into Mira the second she is settled against Rumi. She watches with a smug smile as Mira’s jaw drops, her eyes roll back and she melts into Rumi.

Patterned hands slide around her body, one sliding down to join Zoey’s, while the other snakes up to grip around Mira’s throat. The reaction is quick, panicked. Mira tries to pull out of it, pull forward, regain some control. But Rumi is too strong, her hand too firm.

“No,” Rumi growls into her ear, “Don’t fight.”

Mira moans without meaning to, feeling Rumi’s fingers find her clit and Zoey begins fucking her harder. Her fingers are curling ever so slightly into that perfect spongey spot inside her, just as Rumi’s fingers around her throat begin to squeeze.

There a hint of claws as Rumi leans forward, careful, but indulging herself. Her lips find Mira’s skin, moving with reverence and she maps her shoulder and neck while Mira arches against her.

“Well I’ll be damed,” Zoey smiles, “Maybe Mir can be topped from the bottom.”

Mira tries to protest, but it’s Rumi’s eyes that find Zoey’s first.

“Do you even know me? You’re acting like I don’t own sold out stages across the world.” Rumi grins, confidence suiting her.

“Oh please Rumi,” Mira moans, “You act like you’re fine shit on stage, but here, with us, you’re a total push over.”

Zoey’s jaw drops. Rumi goes still. Mira realises her mistake immediately. Fuck.

“If you say so gorgeous,” Rumi murmurs, making eye contact with Zoey and nodding.

They both double down without a second glance. Zoey’s fingers find a hard rhythm, her two fingers sliding almost all the way out, before slamming back into Mira, only to curl up twice before pulling back and starting again. Rumi’s hand, the one on her clit, creates a hard and fast pattern, circles uneven but thrilling.

Rumi’s mouth goes back to work too. Her fanged teeth nipping at the skin on Mira’s neck and shoulder. She clamps down multiple times, tasting the blood and hearing the crunch of skin as she does. Mira screams loud, her body going insane.

Rumi briefly panics, eyes shooting up to Zoey for help when she realises she has bitten too hard. But Zoey shakes her head with a sly smile and hooded eyes as she takes in the small bite marks across Mira’s shoulders.

“Don’t panic kitten,” Zoey calls out, hand still slamming int Mira, “She likes it rough when she finally lets loose.”

Rumi sighs in relief, tightening her hand on Mira’s throat and returning to the artwork below her. She manages to litter at least five more bites across Mira’s shoulder before she begins to tense. Her breathing turns shallow, her back arches, pulling against Rumi.

Rumi who pulls her back by force, her hand on Mira’s throat releasing and drifting down over her chest to trail sharp claws over the skin. It cuts her, slightly, just enough to leave marks but not enough to scar.

“Come on Mir,” Zoey coaxes, “Please baby. For us.”

Rumi groans into the freshly marked skin on Mira’s shoulder at the sound of Zoey’s voice. Mira goes rigid. Then she breaks. Her whole body shakes, thighs clamping onto Zoey who falls forward and swallows her high pitch moan with a kiss. Rumi watches in awe as Mira shudders, her eyes closed as she kisses Zoey through her peak before going limp. Rumi pulls her hands back, eyes scanning Mira’s body. Zoey does the same, smiling at the small whine when her finger slip from Mira.

Zoey begins to rearrange them, untangling their limbs with a sigh of contentment. She smooths down the sheets, tugging them up before glancing over at Mira and Rumi. Both of them are still caught in that haze, Rumi especially—her lashes damp against flushed cheeks, her body pliant, boneless with the weight of her release. She looks utterly undone, but safe.

Zoey smiles softly and reaches out, coaxing gently. “C’mere,” she whispers, tugging at their shoulders until the three of them are nestled more comfortably together. She doesn’t rest until Rumi is in the middle, tucked between them like something precious that needs guarding.

Rumi goes without protest, already half asleep, instinctively curling into Mira’s chest. She tucks her face into the steady warmth there, sighing, the sound barely audible over the muffled hum of the room. Mira’s arms come around her without hesitation, one hand stroking down the curve of Rumi’s spine in languid motions that speak of nothing but care.

Zoey slips in behind, pressing herself against Rumi’s back. She slots a leg between Rumi’s and lets one arm drape over her waist, completing the circle. Their bodies mold together naturally, as though they’ve always slept this way, as though their bones know exactly where to fit.

For a long stretch of moments, there’s no sound but breathing. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm steadies, syncing between the three of them until it feels like one continuous wave. Zoey closes her eyes, her cheek pressed to Rumi’s shoulder blade, and Mira hums low in her chest, content as she rests her chin atop Rumi’s damp hair.

No one speaks. They don’t need to. The silence is full—of warmth, of safety, of the fragile, glowing trust that has finally bloomed between them.

Rumi falls asleep quickly, her body surrendering to exhaustion the way it never does in waking life. Her muscles go slack, her breathing deepens, and within minutes she is utterly gone, cocooned between them, utterly content.

It’s Mira who notices first.

A sound. Subtle, low, threaded between breaths. At first, she thinks she’s imagining it, but then it comes again—a rumble, soft and steady, vibrating against her chest where Rumi’s face is buried.

Her eyes widen slightly. She stills, listening harder.

The sound continues, quiet but unmistakable now. A low, rhythmic vibration.

Mira pulls back just enough to glance over Rumi’s shoulder at Zoey. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, and it takes Zoey a few seconds to realize what Mira is trying to convey. Then she hears it too, her own body going still.

They freeze for a moment, listening to it, both of them caught between shock and awe. The noise is unmistakable—Rumi is purring.

Zoey’s mouth drops open in silent laughter, her hand flying up to cover it. Her shoulders shake as she fights to keep quiet, muffling the sound against the pillow. Mira bites the inside of her cheek, her own lips twitching upward. It takes everything in her not to laugh aloud.

She mouths, Oh my god.

Zoey nods furiously, eyes bright with mirth. She mouths back, She’s purring!

Mira’s chest shakes with suppressed laughter. She lowers her gaze to Rumi’s sleeping face, so peaceful, so utterly vulnerable. The sound coming from her is nothing short of adorable—gentle, soft, the purest signal of her contentment.

Zoey finally leans in closer, her voice the barest whisper. “I didn’t know she could do that.”

“Neither did I,” Mira breathes back, careful not to disturb the sleeping girl between them. Her tone is reverent, touched with awe.

The purring continues, steady as a heartbeat. The vibration hums through the bed, a low, soothing sound that seems to settle everything else around it.

Zoey presses her face into Rumi’s back, muffling her giggle there. “It’s…so cute,” she whispers, unable to stop herself.

Mira nods, her lips brushing the crown of Rumi’s head in an absentminded kiss. “Dangerous little demon, huh?” she murmurs with a grin. “Turns out she’s more kitten than beast.”

Zoey snorts softly, muffling the sound against Rumi’s shoulder so she doesn’t wake her. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“She won’t.” Mira smirks, though her eyes soften as she strokes Rumi’s damp hair. “Not tonight.”

They fall quiet again, but the amusement lingers, warm and unspoken. Both of them are careful, too careful, not to wake her. Instead, they watch her sleep, listen to the sound of her purr, and let it soothe them the same way it must soothe her.

After a moment, Zoey leans forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to Rumi’s bare shoulder. Mira follows, dropping one against her temple. Neither of them says anything, but the message is the same—love, quiet and unshakable.

The room fills with the sound of the shower still dripping faintly from the bathroom, the steady hum of the city outside, and the soft, rhythmic purr of the girl cradled safely between them.

Zoey sighs happily, her body relaxing fully for the first time all day. “I can’t believe this is real,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear.

Mira hums in agreement, her hand rubbing slow circles on Rumi’s back. “Me too.”

Another stretch of silence. The kind that isn’t empty, but whole.

Rumi shifts faintly in her sleep, nuzzling closer into Mira’s chest, her lips brushing skin as she exhales a quiet sigh. The purring doesn’t falter—it deepens, if anything, vibrating warmly against them both.

Zoey and Mira share another look over her head, both of them grinning now, softened by affection that feels too big to put into words.

Zoey mouths, She’s happy.

Mira nods, her throat tight with something tender. She presses another kiss to Rumi’s forehead, lingering there. “Yeah,” she whispers. “She is.”

“Do you think she’s going to freak in the morning?” Zoey whispers, adjusting the blanket over them carefully.

“Absolutely,” Mira smiles, “If we are gentle, she’ll come back to us.”

Neither of them move after that. They don’t dare. The three of them stay tangled together, warmth bleeding into warmth, the steady rhythm of Rumi’s purr lulling them deeper.

Zoey is the first to drift, her breathing evening out as her arm tightens once around Rumi’s waist before going slack. Mira holds out longer, watching them both, memorizing the sight of them curled safe in her arms.

Eventually, though, even she can’t fight it. With one last kiss to Rumi’s hair, Mira lets her eyes close, letting the purr and the warmth pull her under.

The night settles around them, heavy and protective. And for the first time in what feels like forever, all three of them sleep without fear.

Together.

Chapter Text

The morning light sneaks through the curtains, soft golden streaks breaking across the bed. It takes a moment for Rumi’s mind to catch up to the warmth around her—the weight on either side of her, the steady sound of two different heartbeats, and the cocoon of heat that keeps her tucked so completely safe.

It feels normal, familiar almost. She’s woken up plenty of mornings pressed between Mira and Zoey before, their bodies curled into hers, their arms thrown carelessly over her waist. But this time—this time something feels different.

She stirs, blinking the haze of sleep from her eyes, and then freezes.

Her skin.

Bare.

All of it.

The realization slams into her with the weight of a punch. She glances down, tugging the sheets higher as panic sparks hot in her chest. She’s naked. Not just her—she shifts slightly, heart pounding, and catches sight of Zoey’s bare shoulder pressed flush against her side, Mira’s arm draped heavy across her middle, the sheets slipping enough to expose the smooth skin of Mira’s torso.

They’re all naked.

Her breath stutters.

Yesterday comes back to her in jagged, overwhelming fragments—Mira’s grip on her wrists, Zoey’s lips against hers, the way they looked at her in the shower, the words that had spilled out like confessions from both of them. I love you. The touches, the closeness, the way she’d let herself unravel in their arms, bare and vulnerable and completely theirs.

And now—now—

Her breathing picks up, shallow and too fast, chest heaving like it’s caving in. She clutches the sheet tight to her chest, her throat working but no words coming out. Her pulse races so loud it drowns out everything else.

Mira stirs first, her instincts sharp even half-asleep. Her eyes snap open, instantly catching on the trembling frame pressed against her. “Rumi?” Her voice is rough with sleep but laced with concern.

Zoey shifts on Rumi’s other side, blinking awake. It takes her a second longer, but then she sees it too—Rumi’s wide eyes, the panic in her shallow breaths. “Oh, baby, hey, hey—” Zoey’s hand immediately finds her arm, warm and grounding.

Rumi shakes her head quickly, chest heaving. “I—I—” Her voice cracks, strangled. “We—I’m—” She can’t form the words, every thought tangling together in her rush of panic.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Mira soothes instantly, her tone steady, calm in a way that pulls against the spiral. She sits up, pulling the sheets higher around Rumi’s trembling shoulders. Her hands find Rumi’s face, thumbs stroking her cheeks gently. “Look at me. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

But Rumi’s lungs refuse to obey, each breath shorter, tighter. She grips at the sheets, her patterns flickering erratically across her skin, purple and silver pulsing like a warning flare.

Zoey sits up too, her own panic threatening to rise, but she forces it down. She tucks herself closer, both hands stroking Rumi’s arm, her voice soft, sweet. “Rumi baby, breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In and out. That’s it. We’ve got you. We’re right here.”

Tears sting Rumi’s eyes as she shakes her head, still gasping. Her chest feels like it might split open, like she’s drowning in the weight of what happened, what it means.

Mira doesn’t let go, her gaze steady and unwavering. “Hey. Nothing’s wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing’s wrong. Yesterday doesn’t change anything. You’re still you. We’re still us. Together, that’s all.”

Zoey nods quickly, her lips brushing Rumi’s temple as she whispers, “Exactly. Still us. Just closer now. That’s it.”

Rumi squeezes her eyes shut, her hands fisting the sheets tight enough to tear. Her breathing stutters, breaking against the sob clawing up her throat. “I—I don’t—what if—”

“What if nothing,” Mira cuts in firmly, but her tone is warm, unshakable. “We want this. You’re loved. That’s all that matters.”

Zoey presses closer, her own chest tight with seeing Rumi like this. She kisses the side of her damp cheek, whispering, “We love you, Rumi. You don’t have to freak out, because nothing bad happened. Nothing’s broken. You didn’t lose us.”

Rumi’s eyes fly open at that, tears spilling over. She chokes on a breath, staring between them like she’s searching for cracks, for any sign of regret in their faces. But all she sees is Mira’s steady calm and Zoey’s soft, unwavering affection. No fear. No disappointment. Just love.

Her breaths start to slow, still uneven but less frantic, her body trembling as the panic ebbs by inches.

Mira strokes her hair back gently, pressing her forehead to Rumi’s. “There you go,” she murmurs. “That’s better. Just breathe with us.”

Zoey mirrors her, curling in on the other side, kissing Rumi’s damp jaw. “That’s it. You’ve got this, kitten. You’re always safe with us.”

Mira pulls her in instantly, wrapping her arms around her and holding tight. Zoey adds her arms too, and between them, Rumi is swallowed whole, cocooned, pressed safe between their bodies.

She sobs into Mira’s shoulder, mumbling through the tears. “I—I don’t know how to—how to do this. I don’t know what it means—”

Mira presses a kiss to her hair, firm and steady. “You don’t have to know right now. You don’t have to figure it out today, or tomorrow. We’ll take it slow. One step at a time.”

Zoey hums in agreement, stroking circles into her back. “Well, we didn’t exactly take it slow. But we can keep going at whatever pace you need sweetheart. We’re not rushing you. We just…we love you, and we want to keep loving you. However you’ll let us.”

Rumi sniffles hard, her tears soaking into Mira’s skin. She clings tighter, like she might drown without their arms holding her. Slowly, her breathing steadies again, her chest no longer heaving so desperately.

The silence that follows is heavy, but not crushing. It’s full of her shaky breaths, the soft reassurances whispered into her hair, the gentle hands smoothing over her skin.

Eventually, Rumi tilts her head back, tear-streaked face flushed and vulnerable. Her voice comes out raw, barely more than a whisper. “You really…you really still love me? After—after all that?”

Mira doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

Zoey cups her cheek, thumb wiping a tear away as she whispers, “More than ever.”

The words cut straight through the fog, sinking deep into her chest. The panic loosens its grip, replaced with something heavier but infinitely softer. She lets out a shuddering exhale, her forehead falling back to Mira’s shoulder.

The girls hold her tighter, neither of them letting go while Rumi processes.

Zoey is the first one to pull back, brushing damp strands of hair away from Rumi’s face. Her own heart is still thrumming from the way Rumi broke down in their arms, but her voice is soft and steady when she speaks.

“Okay,” she murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to Rumi’s temple. “I think… we should get dressed. Clothes will help. Might make you feel more grounded, less… naked in every sense.”

Rumi blinks, still pressed close to Mira, her body tense and fragile as a bowstring. But she doesn’t argue. Her gaze flicks down over the mess of tangled sheets and skin, and she gives the faintest nod, her breath shaky.

“Good,” Zoey says quickly, like she’s afraid Rumi might change her mind if given too long. She untangles herself from the sheets and hops to her feet with ease. For a moment, Rumi’s eyes widen, instinctively darting to Zoey’s bare form in the light of morning. She jerks her gaze away almost instantly, heat rushing to her cheeks.

Zoey, oblivious or perhaps deliberately ignoring the tension, rushes around Mira’s room like she’s lived there all her life. She digs into drawers without hesitation, rifling through piles until she emerges triumphantly with three t-shirts and three pairs of soft pyjama shorts.

Rumi watches, still sitting frozen on the bed. Her breath catches as Zoey pulls her own shirt on first, the soft cotton slipping down over pale skin, covering her shoulders, her ribs, her curves. The motion is casual, normal, but Rumi can’t look away.

Zoey notices, catching her wide-eyed stare, and gives her a soft smile. “See? Easy. No big deal.” She steps closer, holding out one of the shirts and shorts for Rumi. “Come on, pretty girl. Let me help you.”

Rumi hesitates, her hands trembling, but she lets Zoey guide her. The shirt slips down over her head, smelling faintly of Mira’s peppermint detergent. Zoey crouches in front of her to help with the shorts, fingers brushing her thighs as she tugs the fabric gently into place. Rumi swallows hard, her chest tight, her eyes locked on Zoey’s face the whole time.

“There,” Zoey whispers, smoothing the hem of the shirt over Rumi’s stomach. “Safe. Covered. Better?”

Rumi gives the faintest nod, her throat tight, but there’s relief in her eyes too.

Then she glances up—just in time to see Mira.

Mira stands near the dresser, tugging a pair of loose black pyjama pants up over her hips. She moves slowly, unhurried, her tall frame illuminated by the streaks of morning light. The shirt in her hand hangs loose at her side, forgotten for a moment. And it’s only then—only now, with nothing to hide her—that Rumi really sees her.

Her breath punches out of her in a gasp, sharp and loud, echoing in the quiet room. Her hand flies to her mouth before she can stop it, eyes going wide.

Mira freezes, half-turned toward her. “What?” she asks quickly, scanning the room like something’s wrong. Then she follows Rumi’s stare—down to herself.

The marks.

They’re everywhere.

Dark, bruised-purple patches scatter her neck and shoulders, some with the dented outlines of teeth. Her collarbones bloom with smaller, mottled kisses of black and blue. Across her chest, faint crescents of teeth marks leave darker spots against pale skin, and just beneath her ribs, four clean red lines slash diagonally down—Rumi’s claws.

It looks raw. It looks violent. And to Rumi’s panicked eyes, it looks like damage she caused.

Her chest seizes. She shakes her head frantically, words failing as tears well hot and fast. “I—I did that—” she chokes out, voice breaking. “I hurt you—”

Zoey whirls toward Mira, eyes wide. “Shit—”

Mira reacts instantly, dropping the shirt and crossing the room in long strides. She crouches in front of Rumi, bringing herself low enough that their eyes lock. Her hands hover, then rest gently on Rumi’s knees, grounding her.

“Hey,” Mira says firmly, voice steady as stone. “Stop. Look at me.”

Rumi shakes her head again, but Mira doesn’t let her look away. She leans in, her eyes fierce, her voice a low rumble of authority and care.

“This?” Mira gestures to the marks, the bruises and cuts. “This isn’t bad. This isn’t wrong. This—” she tips her head slightly, her mouth quirking in the faintest smile “—is proof that I was with you. Proof that you touched me. Proof that you wanted me.”

Rumi stares at her, tears spilling down her cheeks, her lips trembling. “But it looks—”

“Like I’m yours,” Mira cuts in smoothly, pressing one of Rumi’s trembling hands to the faint red lines across her chest. “Kind of like your patterns. Yours and mine together. Do you understand? I like it. I want it. Every mark reminds me of you.”

Zoey moves in closer, perching on the edge of the bed, her own expression soft and urgent. “She’s right, Ru. I’ve never seen Mira look happier than she did last night. And those marks? They’re not ugly. They’re beautiful. I promise you, she always wears marks with pride.”

Rumi’s breath hitches, a sob breaking loose. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Mira soothes instantly, pressing her forehead to Rumi’s, her voice firm but tender. “You never have to be sorry for wanting me, I’ve needed this for so long. I’m yours, Rumi. And now, I get to carry proof of that.”

Zoey leans in too, cupping Rumi’s other cheek, brushing away the fresh tears. “We want all of you, even the messy, scary, clawed-up parts. Especially those. They’re you. And we love you.”

Rumi trembles, her heart thundering as she stares between them. She wants to believe it, wants to cling to the warmth in their voices, but guilt still claws at her chest.

Mira sees it, feels the hesitation. So she takes Rumi’s hand again and presses it firmer against her chest, right over the four red lines. “This is mine now,” she says, her tone certain, unyielding. “Just like your glow is yours. Just like your heart is ours. I’m not broken. I’m not ruined. I’m marked by you. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

Zoey nods fiercely, her own voice breaking with emotion. “And I’ll say it again, baby—you didn’t ruin anything. You only made us closer. You gave us you.”

Rumi lets out a shuddering sob, her hand curling against Mira’s chest like she’s afraid to let go. Her other hand clings desperately to Zoey’s wrist, holding her there too. She shakes her head, trying to form words, but all that comes out is, “I don’t… I don’t deserve—”

Zoey hushes her instantly, leaning in to kiss her flushed cheek. “Don’t you dare say that. You deserve all of it. And we’re not letting you go.”

Mira presses a kiss to her forehead, her voice softer now, warm as honey. “You’re ours. And we’re yours. Marks and all.”

Rumi sobs again, but this time it’s not panic—it’s release. The guilt unravels in her chest, replaced by something deeper, heavier, but far sweeter. She collapses forward into Mira’s arms, clutching her tight. Zoey wraps around them both, holding her from behind, completing the cocoon.

And between their whispers, their warmth, their unyielding love, Rumi finally lets herself believe it.

Rumi pulls back from their cocoon abruptly, a flicker of panic flaring in her eyes again. She swipes at her damp cheeks, breathing fast, and her voice comes out sharper than she intends.

“We need to—” she stops, forcing herself to breathe, then blurts, “We need to clean your marks. The cuts. They could get infected.”

Mira blinks at her, still crouched on the floor in front of her. “Rumi—”

But Rumi is already moving, slipping off the bed in one smooth, restless motion. She stands on shaky legs and bolts for the bathroom, bare feet silent on the carpet. She doesn’t even notice Zoey’s startled look as she disappears behind the door.

Inside the bathroom, she flicks the light on with a trembling hand. The bright glow illuminates the scene she left behind last night: crumpled, bloodied clothes still in a heap by the sink. Her claws had shredded her pyjama top. Dark smears of dried blood streak across the tile where she must have braced herself earlier.

The sight hits her like a blow. For a heartbeat she just stands there, staring, her stomach churning. I did that. The memory of claws, of golden light, of uncontrolled hunger pulses in her head. But she swallows it down, forces her hands steady, and yanks the first aid kit from the cabinet.

Focus. Fix. Control.

She carries the kit back to the bedroom like it’s a lifeline. Mira and Zoey are still where she left them: Mira sitting now at the edge of the bed, Zoey perched beside her, one hand resting lightly on Mira’s thigh. Both of them look up as Rumi enters.

“I need you to sit still,” Rumi says, voice trembling but firm as she gestures to Mira. “Please.”

Mira arches an eyebrow but obeys without a word, sitting straighter on the mattress. There’s something almost amused about her expression, but she keeps it to herself, her dark eyes soft as she watches Rumi’s hands.

Rumi kneels between Mira’s knees, snapping the kit open on the bedspread. She pulls out antiseptic wipes, gauze, a little tin of bruise balm. Her fingers tremble but her movements are precise, controlled.

“I’m fine,” Mira murmurs, but her voice is warm, teasing. “You don’t have to play nurse.”

“Yes I do,” Rumi mutters, her focus narrowed to the first cut just above Mira’s ribs. “Hold still.”

Zoey giggles softly beside them, watching the scene with wide eyes and a small, fond smile. “She’s like a little field medic,” she teases. “Our feral nurse.”

Rumi’s cheeks flush but she doesn’t rise to the bait. She tears open the antiseptic wipe, the smell of alcohol stinging the air, and begins dabbing gently at the cuts and bites across Mira’s skin. Each touch is feather-light, so careful it makes Mira smile wider.

“You’re very serious about this,” Mira murmurs, tilting her head to better watch Rumi work. “I like it.”

“Stop smiling at me like that,” Rumi mutters, voice thin and shaky as she reaches for the bruise balm.

Zoey leans forward, chin in her hands, grinning. “She can’t help it. You’re adorable when you fuss.”

“I’m not adorable,” Rumi hisses under her breath, swiping balm over a purple hickey on Mira’s collarbone. Her hands small but steady against Mira’s warm skin.

“You are,” Zoey singsongs, making Mira chuckle under her breath.

Rumi glances up at them, exasperated and flustered, but then her gaze snags on the marks again—the purple blooms, the crescent bites. Her stomach twists, guilt gnawing at her. She takes a slow breath and keeps working.

A few minutes pass like this: the quiet sound of dabbing, Zoey’s occasional soft giggle, Mira’s amused hums. Rumi’s trembling starts to fade as the ritual steadies her.

Then, as she smooths balm over Mira’s shoulder, she blurts, “The clothes in the bathroom…”

Mira tilts her head. “What about them?”

“They’re bloody,” Rumi whispers, not looking up. “Mine. I—I remember scratching myself but… not much else.”

Zoey shifts, her smile dimming to something softer. “You kind of… hurt yourself last night,” she says gently. “Accidentally. Your claws.”

Rumi blinks, her hand stilling on Mira’s skin. A flash of memory surfaces: her claws digging into her own palms, the scent of blood in the gym, her body shaking with too much energy. She swallows hard, then glances down at herself.

There’s nothing.

No bruises. No cuts. Not even a faint scratch. Her skin is smooth, unmarked, save for the faint shimmer of her resting patterns.

“I…” she whispers. “They’re gone.”

Zoey leans forward to look, eyebrows rising. “Oh wow. Yeah, they are.”

Mira studies her too, a glimmer of understanding in her golden eyes. “Accelerated healing,” she murmurs. “Your demon side. Must be linked.”

Rumi sits back on her heels, staring at her hands like they belong to someone else. “So I’m fine,” she says slowly, voice trembling.

Zoey reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “You’re fine, sweetie. Don’t worry about the bathroom, I’ll clean it up later.”

Rumi swallows hard, then forces herself to keep going. She finishes dabbing the last of the cuts on Mira’s ribs, smoothing balm over the last bruise on her neck. Her touch is still gentle, still reverent, like she’s apologizing with every motion.

When she’s done, she sits back on her heels again, staring at Mira like she’s fragile glass. “There,” she murmurs. “All clean.”

Mira smiles at her softly, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from Rumi’s face. “Thank you,” she says simply, and there’s real warmth behind it.

Rumi looks down, her cheeks heating. “I just… didn’t want you to…”

“I know,” Mira interrupts gently. “I know.”

Zoey shifts closer, resting her chin on Mira’s shoulder from behind. “You’re cute when you panic,” she teases softly, her hand finding Rumi’s cheek. “It’s like watching a baby tiger run around trying to fix everything.”

Rumi rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. “Stop calling me cute.”

“Never,” Zoey hums against her ear, making her shiver.

Mira chuckles and reaches for the shirt she’d dropped earlier. “All right. Help me finish dressing, little medic.”

Rumi blinks at her, then nods quickly. She takes the shirt from Mira’s hand and holds it open as Mira slips her arms through, helping to guide it down over her shoulders. The motion is strangely intimate, slow and deliberate, like sealing a promise.

Once the shirt is on, Mira takes Rumi’s hands in hers, stilling them. “See?” she murmurs. “I’m okay. We’re good.”

Rumi exhales shakily, leaning into Zoey’s warmth without thinking. Her eyes flick up to Mira’s, then down to their joined hands. For the first time that morning, a flicker of something like peace passes over her face.

Mira sees it, smiles softly, and strokes her thumb over Rumi’s knuckles. “Good girl,” she murmurs quietly. “Just relax, and be yourself.”

Rumi closes her eyes at the words, her throat tight, but she nods. For once, she lets herself be held.

Mira squeezes Rumi’s hands once more, then rises from the bed in one fluid movement, stretching her arms overhead. Her eyes soften when they meet Rumi’s again.

“All right,” she says, tone warm but authoritative, “if you two can be patient for a little while, I’ll cook our favourites.”

Zoey perks up immediately, like a kid promised candy. “Favorites? As in real favourites?”

Mira smirks. “Yes. As in your fiery pepper noodles and Rumi’s spicy tteokbokki.”

Rumi’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Wait—you’d really…?”

“Of course.” Mira’s smirk gentles into a smile. “But only if you promise to sit still and not fuss.”

Zoey claps her hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Done. Consider me a statue.”

Rumi tilts her head, still hesitant. “You don’t have to go through the trouble—”

“Yes she does,” Zoey cuts in, grinning. “Do you know how long it’s been since she’s willing agreed to cook both our favourites? Instead of threatening to ‘weaponize’ the kitchen?”

Mira raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t argue, already moving toward the door. “Come on. Kitchen. Now.”

The three of them pad down the hall together, barefoot and comfortable in their borrowed pyjamas. The morning sun streams through the wide windows of the penthouse kitchen, catching on the sleek steel appliances and marble counters. It feels bright, clean—normal.

Mira immediately sets to work, tying her hair into a knot with quick efficiency as she pulls ingredients from the fridge. Rumi lingers awkwardly at her side, hands half-raised like she’s not sure if she should touch anything.

“I can help,” she says quickly. “I can chop vegetables, or stir, or—”

“Nope.” Mira’s voice is firm as she sets down a pan. “You’ll just get in the way.”

Rumi blinks, wounded. “I can be useful—”

“Nope.” Mira cuts her off smoothly, then, with zero hesitation, bends and scoops Rumi up by the waist.

Rumi squeaks, eyes going wide as her feet leave the floor. “Wha—Mira! Put me down!”

“Not until you stay out of my way.” Mira carries her like she weighs nothing, depositing her neatly on the countertop across from the stove. Rumi lands with a soft bounce, staring at her in shock, cheeks blazing red.

Zoey nearly falls off the stool she drags over, laughing so hard she hiccups. “Oh my god! You just—just picked her up like a puppy!”

“I am not a puppy!” Rumi protests, her face burning as she points accusingly at Mira, who is already turning back to the stove like nothing unusual happened.

“You’re lighter than a puppy,” Mira deadpans, cracking eggs into a bowl.

Zoey snorts water through her nose, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, she’s so offended right now. Look at her little face!”

Rumi crosses her arms and scowls, trying to look imposing from her perch on the counter, but the effect is ruined when Zoey leans forward and pokes her cheek. “Pouty,” Zoey coos, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I am not pouting!” Rumi snaps, though her lips betray her by tightening further.

“Sure, sure,” Zoey teases, hopping off her stool long enough to fetch three bottles of water from the fridge. She passes one to Rumi with a flourish. “Here, drink.”

Rumi huffs but unscrews the cap, taking a sip—then another, then nearly the whole bottle in one go.

Zoey whistles low. “Damn, you were thirsty.”

“Don’t comment on my hydration levels,” Rumi mutters, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Mira glances over her shoulder, smirking faintly as she stirs a bubbling sauce. “She’s right to take care of you. When was the last time you remember to drink water without prompting?”

Theres a long pause.

“Traitors,” Rumi grumbles, hugging the bottle to her chest.

Zoey slides back onto her stool, chin propped in her hand as she watches Mira cook. “So. What’s the plan, Chef Mira? Are we gonna get a live demonstration of your legendary knife skills?”

“I could show you,” Mira says dryly, slicing green onions with sharp, clean precision, “but you’d faint at the sight of my fingers moving that fast.”

Zoey fans herself dramatically. “Is it hot in here, or is it just the fact that Mira’s holding a knife?”

Rumi chokes on her water, coughing violently. “Zoey!”

“What?” Zoey asks innocently. “She’s hot when she cooks. It’s a fact.”

Mira smirks without looking up, tossing the chopped onions into the pan. “Glad to know you’re paying attention.”

Rumi buries her face in her hands, muffling a groan. “You two are impossible.”

Zoey nudges her foot under the counter. “And you love it.”

“I do not.”

“Mm-hm.”

Rumi lowers her hands just enough to glare, but her lips twitch despite herself.

The kitchen fills with the sizzling sound of cooking, the air warming with the smell of spicy sauce and garlic. Mira moves with practiced efficiency, but she glances up every so often, eyes flicking toward Rumi perched on the counter.

“Stop sulking,” she says without heat. “You look cute up there.”

Rumi flushes crimson, hugging her water bottle tighter. “I am not cute. Stop saying that.”

Zoey kicks her feet up on the bottom rung of the stool, grinning like the devil. “Oh no, kitten, you’re adorable. Especially when Mira manhandles you like that. Did you see your face? Priceless.”

Rumi lets out a strangled noise and turns away, glaring at the far wall. “I hate you both.”

Mira chuckles low, her voice warm. “No you don’t.”

The smell of the tteokbokki sauce thickens, spicy and sweet all at once. Rumi’s stomach growls loudly, betraying her, and Zoey cackles.

“Wow,” Zoey says, leaning toward her. “Was that your stomach or a war drum?”

Rumi covers her face again. “I said I hate you.”

Mira smirks at the stove, giving the pan a lazy stir. “That’s a lie.”

Zoey leans closer to Rumi, whispering dramatically. “Do you think she knows she’s blushing all the way down her neck?”

Rumi’s muffled groan is answer enough.

They fall into an easy rhythm: Mira cooking with calm precision, Zoey supplying a steady stream of jokes, and Rumi alternately protesting and laughing despite herself.

At one point, Mira walks over with a spoonful of sauce, holding it out to Rumi. “Taste.”

Rumi blinks, startled, then leans forward to sip carefully. The heat hits her tongue immediately—spicy, rich, delicious. Her eyes widen.

“That’s…” she murmurs, licking her lips. “That’s really good.”

Mira smirks. “Of course it is.”

Zoey leans across the counter, mouth open like a baby bird. “Me! My turn!”

Mira sighs but indulges her, feeding her a spoonful too. Zoey makes a ridiculous show of moaning at the taste, clutching her chest. “Oh my god. Marry me.”

“I’ll consider it,” Mira deadpans, turning back to the stove.

Rumi nearly slides off the counter in mortified laughter.

By the time Mira plates the food, the three of them are flushed from both the heat and their own teasing. She sets down two steaming bowls—one of tteokbokki, the other of Zoey’s favorite noodle dish—on the counter.

“Eat,” Mira orders simply, leaning against the counter to watch them.

Rumi immediately dives in, the first bite making her eyes flutter shut. “Oh my god,” she whispers around a mouthful. “This is amazing.”

Zoey slurps her noodles happily, sauce already smearing at the corner of her mouth. “Holy—Mira, you’re the hottest chef alive. This is incredible.”

Mira just smirks, crossing her arms as she watches them devour her cooking with unrestrained delight.

The bowls sit scraped clean on the counter not long later, the spicy heat of the tteokbokki still burning pleasantly on Rumi’s tongue. She leans back on her hands, head tilted as if she could soak in the sunlight pouring through the wide windows. Zoey, on the other hand, is slouched dramatically in her stool, chopsticks dangling between her fingers like she’s fought a war.

“Okay,” Zoey groans, rubbing her stomach. “That was… hands down… the best meal I’ve ever had in my entire life. Mira, you’re officially not allowed to withhold your cooking skills anymore. This is a crime.”

Mira smirks faintly, setting her own empty bowl in the sink. “I’ll consider cooking again—if you don’t complain when I order takeout the other six days of the week.”

Zoey waves her chopsticks lazily. “Deal.”

Rumi giggles softly, licking a bit of sauce from her thumb before catching Mira’s eyes watching her. She freezes, cheeks heating, before ducking her head and pretending to busy herself with her empty water bottle.

The kitchen falls into that pleasant, post-meal silence, where full stomachs and lingering warmth make everything feel heavy and good. Mira leans against the counter near the stove, arms folded, eyes half-lidded as she studies the two across from her.

Finally, she speaks, voice low and smooth. “Well. Looks like the cat’s out of the bag. Should we talk about yesterday or?”

Zoey blinks, sitting up straighter. “The what now?”

Rumi tilts her head, biting back a smile.

Mira arches a brow, amused. “The cat’s out of the bag. It means the secret is out.”

Zoey narrows her eyes like Mira’s just started speaking another language. “Why would a cat… be in a bag? Why would a cat want that?”

“They don’t that’s the whole point,” Mira says slowly, as though explaining to a child. “It’s an idiom.”

Zoey blinks. Then she looks annoyed. “You’re an idiom.”

There’s a half-second of silence. Then Rumi loses it. Mira following shortly after. Their laughter echoing around the kitchen like a symphony.

She doubles over on the counter, one hand slapping against the marble as laughter bursts out of her in uncontrollable waves. She can’t stop, even as she gasps for air, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god—Zoey—” she wheezes, clutching her stomach. “You—you just—” Another peal of laughter interrupts her. “You just called her an idiom! I can’t—”

Zoey grins, utterly shameless, leaning her chin into her palm to watch Rumi come apart in laughter. “What? It’s true. She is one. She’s tall and scary and talks in riddles. Total idiot.”

Mira pinches the bridge of her nose, though her lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile. “You are unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Zoey says proudly, ignoring the sarcasm.

Rumi hiccups mid-laugh, wheezing as she tries to catch her breath. “No—no, seriously, Zoey, you—you’re—” She can’t finish, dissolving again, shoulders shaking so hard she nearly topples off the counter.

Mira steps forward just in time, steadying her with a hand at her hip. “Careful,” she murmurs, voice soft but tinged with amusement.

Rumi leans into her, still trembling with giggles, her face hidden in the crook of Mira’s neck. Her muffled voice comes out shaky but clear enough: “The American education system has failed her.”

Zoey gasps in mock offense, clutching her chest. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I got through school just fine. Straight C’s, baby.”

That sends Rumi into another fit of laughter, her shoulders shaking so violently that Mira chuckles too, a quiet sound rumbling through her chest.

Zoey points dramatically across the counter. “Wow my spoilt, private schooled girlfriends laughing at, wow. I see you smirking.”

Mira doesn’t deny it, though her golden eyes soften as she glances down at Rumi, still crumpled in her arms. “You’re both ridiculous,” she says gently.

“Ridiculously charming,” Zoey corrects, winking. “And lovable. And devastatingly attractive.”

Rumi snorts into Mira’s neck, muffling another round of laughter.

Mira shakes her head, finally letting a full smile break across her face. “You’re incorrigible.”

“There!” Zoey points again, triumphant. “Another word I don’t know! What’s that one mean? Incorrigible. Sounds like a dinosaur.”

This time it’s Mira’s turn to laugh, low and rich. “It means hopeless. Impossible to fix.”

Zoey grins, leaning back smugly. “Then yes. That’s me. Your very own pet dinosaur.”

Rumi’s laugh tapers into breathless giggles, her cheeks pink as she pulls back just enough to look at both of them. “You two are insane. And sorry Zo, but you’re wrong.”

Zoey leans across the counter, eyes gleaming. “You love me. And no I’m not. Prissy rich girls.”

Rumi blinks, her heart giving that same traitorous lurch it always does when Zoey says things so simply, like it’s undeniable. Her cheeks heat, and she opens her mouth to argue—

But then Mira speaks, her voice steady, soft, and devastatingly certain. “Prissy?!”

“OH please!” Zoey laughs, “Daughter of the Han dynasty!”

“Take. It. Back.” Mira grinds out, eyes threatening.

“Nope!” Zoey laughs, “And you?” She turns to Rumi.

“Nepo baby Rumi Kang? Daughter of the Sunlight Sister legacy?”

“I was home schooled Zo,” Rumi laughs refilling her water.

“By how many private tutors?” Zoey snaps back.

Silence.

“Eight,” Rumi mutters quietly.

“AHA! Exactly, rich, spoilt little brats that would have been eaten alive in the public school system,” Zoey laughs, her eyes shining like she won a war.

“Maybe,” Mira smirks, “But we’d still be smarter than you.”

“Ugh! Bitch!” Zoey slaps Mira on the arm hard.

Rumi stretches out her arms above her head with a soft groan, she feels loose and heavy in the best way—except for the restless hum in her chest that still lingers whenever she remembers flashes of the night before. Her patterns don’t light up anymore, thankfully, but just the memory is enough to set a blush high across her cheeks.

Zoey is the first one to break the comfortable silence. She sits up suddenly, hair still mussed from sleep and her oversized shirt hanging halfway off one shoulder, eyes sparkling as always. “Sooo…” she drags out the word, tapping her chin with exaggerated thought, “what should we do with our glorious, responsibility-free weekend?”

Mira rolls her eyes from where she’s sprawled beside Rumi. “Rest. Like normal human beings.” Her voice is dry, but her lips twitch as if she’s holding back a smile.

Zoey gasps dramatically. “Boring. We’ve been resting! I want to go out, have some fun. Shopping!” She claps her hands once, bouncing a little in place. “We can all get new clothes. And maybe some accessories. And ice cream after. Come on, you can’t say no to ice cream.”

Rumi blinks at her, still processing the abrupt leap from rest to ice cream. She doesn’t actually care either way, so she shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.”

That earns her a cheer from Zoey, and even Mira sighs in defeat, though she doesn’t protest. “Fine,” she says. “But don’t expect me to carry your bags.”

Zoey beams, satisfied, and bounces to her feet. “Okay! Everyone go get changed, meet back here in, like, twenty minutes. It’s shopping day!”

Rumi drags herself up after them, padding into her room and shutting the door behind her. The moment she catches sight of herself in the mirror, though, her breath hitches.

Her neck. Her chest.

Dark purple bruises bloom across her pale skin like ink spilled on paper, a mix of smudged hickeys, each one a memory branded into her. She presses her fingers to the largest mark just above her collarbone and nearly whimpers at the heat it brings rushing back. Mira’s teeth. Zoey’s lips.

Her entire body flushes. She grips the sink, bowing her head, before forcing herself to breathe. “Okay. Clothes. Just… cover it up.”

She rifles through her wardrobe, pulling out tops, one after another, holding them against herself in the mirror. Each one hides some, but never all. The biggest, darkest hickey – just below her ear, at the juncture of her jaw and neck – keeps peeking out no matter what she tries. At last, she groans, grabbing a lavender high-neck sleeveless top, tugging it on with frustrated motions. It hides the worst of it, though one bruise still threatens to peek through if she leans the wrong way. “Good enough,” she mutters, though her cheeks are still burning.

She pairs it with slim white jeans and a pair of sneakers, something casual but neat. After a second’s hesitation, she braids her hair back into her signature style, the movements of weaving the strands over and under calming her nerves. By the time she ties it off, she feels a little more grounded.

Makeup, then. She pulls her bag closer and dabs on concealer, brushing powder over her cheeks, giving herself a soft glow. A little eyeliner, a touch of mascara, and her reflection finally looks like someone composed. Someone who didn’t spend the night falling apart in the arms of her two closest friends. Girlfriends? Shit, they hadn’t really talked about labels. Rumi blushes harder. Girlfriends would sound nice…

Still… her eyes flick down to the faint shadow of the hickey that refuses to stay hidden. She sighs. “Whatever.”

She steels herself and heads out.

The sight that greets her nearly knocks the air from her lungs.

Mira is already there, perched elegantly on the couch like she owns the entire apartment. She’s dressed in a black turtleneck crop top that skims her waist, paired with high-waisted jeans that fit her like a glove. A delicate gold necklace gleams at the base of her throat, lying against the fabric, and gold wire-frame glasses rest on her nose. Her pink hair falls loose over her shoulders, partially hidden under the casual tilt of a black cap. Boots complete the look, and various rings glint from her fingers.

It’s effortlessly stunning. Effortlessly Mira.

Rumi’s mouth goes dry. She stares too long, until Mira’s lips curve into a knowing smirk. Mira tilts her head, crooking a finger at her. “Come here.”

Rumi stumbles closer, only to be pulled firmly down into Mira’s lap. She squeaks, immediately aware of the way Mira’s hands settle possessively on her thighs.

“I…” she starts, but the words get tangled. She finally blurts out, “Sorry. For the marks.” Her hand hovers uncertainly near Mira’s chest, as though pointing them out.

Mira hushes her with a kiss before the spiral can take root. It’s soft, firm, completely silencing. When she pulls back, she says in that calm, even tone of hers, “Don’t be sorry. I told you, I like them.”

Rumi’s blush deepens to painful levels. She ducks her head, hiding her face in Mira’s shoulder, while Mira chuckles low in her throat, arms wrapping tighter around her.

They sit like that, tangled together, until twenty minutes later Zoey comes bounding out of her room with all the energy of a storm. “Okay! Ready!”

Rumi twists in Mira’s lap to look—and immediately wishes she hadn’t, because Zoey looks… Zoey.

Her outfit is playful but stylish: a cropped pastel hoodie in soft aqua, paired with a pleated white skirt that swishes around her thighs. She’s pulled her hair up into two high buns, strands framing her face, and there are small star-shaped clips sparkling along one side. Hoop earrings catch the light when she bounces forward, and layered bracelets jingle faintly on her wrists. On her feet are chunky white sneakers with pastel laces, the whole look tied together like she stepped straight out of a fashion magazine.

Rumi’s brain short-circuits. Again.

Zoey notices the look, of course, because she notices everything. She grins wide, striking a pose. “What do you think? Cute, right?”

Rumi stammers something incoherent, making both Zoey and Mira laugh. Mira presses another kiss to her temple, whispering, “Careful, or you’ll combust.”

Zoey beams, clearly delighted, and flops onto the couch beside them. “Good. That’s the goal.” She reaches out to poke Rumi’s cheek. “You’re blushing so much it’s criminal. Guess we’re all gonna have to protect you from the scary outside world, huh?”

Rumi groans into her hands, but Mira and Zoey are both laughing, the sound warm and teasing, wrapping around her like sunlight.

And despite the embarrassment, despite the nerves still clawing at her chest, Rumi feels something else bubbling up, stronger than the fear.

Happiness.

Pure, dizzy happiness, sitting here between them, knowing they’d spend the day together like this—marks, bruises, blushes, and all.

The private car is waiting downstairs by the time they finish pulling on shoes and grabbing bags. The sleek black vehicle is tinted, discreet, the kind of transport Bobby insists on for any public outing that might draw too much attention. A driver tips his head as they slide into the backseat, Rumi squeezed between Mira and Zoey, as though that arrangement is just… assumed.

The door shuts. The city begins to roll past the windows.

And Zoey immediately tangles her fingers with Rumi’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her thumb rubs over Rumi’s knuckles absentmindedly, grounding, steady. Rumi stares down at their linked hands with wide eyes, the skin of her ears going hot. How can Zoey be so casual about this? About them?

On her other side, Mira is silent, scrolling through her phone with her glasses sliding slightly down her nose. Her free hand, however, drifts to Rumi’s thigh and rests there lazily. She traces shapes into her skin through the denim—slow, steady swirls that follow her iridescent patterns. The casual intimacy makes Rumi’s heart clench in her chest.

She glances between them, wondering if either of them notices how close, how intimate, this all is. But neither looks self-conscious. Neither blushes. To them, this is just life.

Her breath stutters. It’s so easy. Too easy.

The car hums along the road, a quiet bubble.

“Okay,” Zoey says suddenly, her voice bubbling like soda. “First stop has to be Daiso. Always. Stationery, snacks, random home stuff—oh, and I need more pens, I lost my favourite one last week.”

Mira hums without looking up from her phone. “You lost it because you tried to use it as a hair stick.”

Zoey gasps, scandalized. “And it worked! Until it didn’t.” She squeezes Rumi’s hand tighter, grinning at her. “You’ll see, Rumi. It’s basically heaven for chaotic people.”

Rumi blinks, startled by being pulled into the conversation, but manages a faint, “Okay.”

Zoey beams.

“After that,” she continues, already bouncing in her seat, “we should go to Style Nanda. I’ve been eyeing this jacket forever, and maybe we can get something matchy-matchy for fun. Then makeup, then food court for snacks. And shoes. Mira, you need new boots.”

Mira glances up at that, arching a brow. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Zoey says immediately, like it’s law. “Those ones are old. I can hear them crying every time you walk.”

Mira smirks faintly, sliding her phone into her bag. “And here I thought it was just you being dramatic.”

Rumi watches the exchange in silence, lips twitching. They’re ridiculous. And warm. And hers, somehow.

The car pulls up smoothly to the massive shopping centre, the driver hopping out to open their door.

“We’ll be close behind ladies, let us know if you need anything,” Ki, their drive says, referring to himself and their other body guard that Bobby insists they have, Tae.

They are both amazing guys, large, born in Seoul, Ex-Military, but highly unnecessary given how well trained the girls are. Literal demon hunters, needing body guards. They had laughed for hours after Bobby hired them.

“Let’s goooo!” Zoey sings, hopping out first, her skirt swishing around her thighs as she bounces in place like a child about to enter a theme park. She holds out her free hand for Rumi again. Without thinking, Rumi takes it, and Zoey immediately tugs her forward with surprising strength.

Mira follows behind them, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans, cap pulled low. Where Zoey is a bouncing ball of energy, Mira radiates calm—like the steady gravity to Zoey’s endless orbit.

Inside, the centre is already bustling. Neon lights, chatter, store signs flashing. Rumi feels her senses flare at the overload, but Zoey doesn’t give her time to spiral—she pulls her directly into the flow of it.

“Daiso first!” Zoey declares, weaving them through the crowd with practiced ease.

Rumi’s head spins, but Mira is suddenly at her side, sliding an arm around her shoulders and tucking her neatly against her. “Don’t let her drag you too fast,” Mira murmurs, voice low and smooth by her ear. “She forgets other people have normal energy levels.”

Rumi leans into her instinctively, heat pooling in her cheeks. Mira’s breath brushes her skin as she adds, quieter still, “She’s like an ADHD kid at a carnival sometimes.”

Rumi snorts before she can stop herself. “That’s… accurate.”

Mira’s smirk deepens, her thumb brushing comfortingly over Rumi’s shoulder.

Ahead of them, Zoey is already darting into the first store, gasping over shelves of pens and notebooks and pastel kitchenware. “Oh my god, look! They have new highlighters! Mira, Rumi, come here!”

Rumi can’t help but watch her bounce from aisle to aisle, arms full of random things she absolutely doesn’t need but insists are life-changing. Mira keeps her arm around Rumi the whole time, guiding her slowly behind Zoey, the two of them sharing quiet jokes about her running commentary.

“Do you think she actually uses half of this?” Rumi whispers once, as Zoey squeals over a mug shaped like a cat.

Mira’s lips twitch. “Doubtful. But it keeps her happy.”

And just like that, Rumi realizes her chest feels… light. She’s laughing. Relaxing. Watching Zoey pile rainbow sticky notes into her basket while Mira’s thumb traces lazy circles over her shoulder—it feels… normal.

Too normal.

She swallows hard, forcing herself to breathe through the strange twist in her chest. This—this warmth, this casual intimacy, this easy banter—it terrifies her almost as much as it soothes her.

Because if it’s this easy now, how hard will it break her when it’s gone?

They linger in Daiso longer than expected, Zoey insisting on showing them every new trinket, until Mira finally threatens to walk out without her. That gets her moving, pouting playfully as she drags her basket of random items to the counter.

“Next stop!” she chirps once they’re back in the hall, spinning on her heel dramatically. “Style Nanda, here we come!”

Rumi hides her smile behind her hand, Mira’s arm still snug around her shoulders as they follow.

“Remind me again why we agreed to this?” Mira murmurs near her ear.

Rumi shrugs, helpless. “Ice cream?”

Mira chuckles, low and warm, pulling her a little closer. “Ice cream,” she agrees.

And together, they trail behind Zoey’s bouncing figure, watching her shine like she owns the world.

They move through the first three stores in a blur of colours, fabrics, and loud chatter. Zoey comments on every item she sees, making dramatic poses for hats, shoes, and oversized sunglasses.

“Do I look like a pop star yet?” she asks, spinning in a glittery pink bucket hat.

Rumi giggles and shakes her head, while Mira smirks, wrapping an arm around Rumi’s shoulders and leaning her head close.

“She’s a literal hurricane sometimes,” Mira whispers, and Rumi snorts softly into her shoulder. Mira’s steady presence keeps Rumi anchored even amidst Zoey’s relentless whirlwind of energy.

Zoey points at every window display, narrating the latest trends like it’s a live commentary. “Oh my God, Rumi! Look at those sneakers! And Mira, I bet you could rock those boots like a villain in a movie!”

Mira rolls her eyes but smiles, tugging Rumi closer as they watch Zoey flail with glee. Rumi can’t help but enjoy the scene—the way Zoey’s excitement is infectious, the way Mira’s calm energy grounds her, the way their hands brush occasionally, deliberately or not, making her heart flutter.

After the third store, they move into the jewellery shop, the soft glow of pendant lights bouncing off every polished surface. Zoey’s eyes practically light up on their own. She darts to a display of earring stacks, pointing excitedly.

“Rumi, look! Look! They have the gold and silver mix—perfect for layering! I need these!” Her hands fly to her face, squealing in delight as she picks up a sparkling set. Before she can even grab her card, Mira is there, sliding her hand over Zoey’s to prevent her from paying.

“It’s fine,” Mira says, voice calm but firm, then leans down to press a quick kiss to Zoey’s cheek. Zoey blushes, all bright pink and grinning.

“Thank you!” she whispers, leaning into Mira’s warmth before bouncing up again to look at rings and delicate chains.

Rumi drifts to the side, scanning the shop idly, when something catches her eye. Zoey’s hand, where a delicate gold ring sits on her ring finger, subtle but elegant, gleams against her skin. Her eyes flick to Mira’s hands, and her breath softens.

“Wait,” Rumi murmurs, stepping closer. “Is that—are those matching?” She points, careful not to break the delicate moment. Mira and Zoey glance down, then at each other, smiles spreading across their faces.

“Yeah,” Zoey says softly, still grinning, “we bought them after our first date.”

Mira nods, touching the delicate metal. “We thought it would be… sweet. A little reminder of each other, a promise of some sort.”

Rumi’s heart warms. She can’t help the smile spreading across her face, her eyes lighting up. “That’s really… really sweet,” she whispers, almost breathless.

There’s a pause, a gentle silence that feels just right. Then, Zoey suddenly jumps, spinning toward Rumi with a sparkle in her eye. “Wait! We need to get you one! You can’t just stare at us looking cute without a matching ring!” Her enthusiasm is back tenfold, bouncing her forward, hands waving around like she’s ready to fight gravity itself.

Mira chuckles, shaking her head but moving toward Rumi, looping an arm around her shoulder. “Or we could do necklaces, we can’t have a kitten without a collar,” she says with a smirk, voice low and teasing. Rumi blushes furiously, her cheeks heating and patterns flashing bright gold for a few seconds.

Zoey grabs Rumi’s hand and tugs her gently toward the store they got them from. “No Rumi has to be included in this Mir! But don’t get her all worked up in public, she isn’t ready for voyeurism yet,” she insists.

Rumi blushes furiously, cheeks hot, half embarrassed and half flustered at the thought of wearing something so symbolic. “I… I don’t need—wait, yet?!” she starts, but Zoey’s grin just widens.

“You need it. Don’t argue,” Zoey says, practically bouncing in place. “We all match now! It’s like… secret club jewellery! Super exclusive! Polytrix Edition!”

Mira snorts beside her, reaching over to adjust a strand of Rumi’s hair falling across her shoulder. “She’s right,” Mira teases softly, “it’ll look really cute on you. Agree before she starts pouting again.”

Rumi’s blush deepens as Zoey nudges her forward, picking out a ring that looks like a mixture of their two bands with a small smile, it’s a twisted stack style ring. Gold, small diamonds littered across it, and so very very Rumi coded.  

“See? Perfect,” Zoey says, holding it up. “Ours are gold, but if you want silver I’ll allow it.”

“No, gold is fine Zo,” Rumi hums, watching Zoey grabs the ring and hand it to Mira while zooming off to pay for it.

Mira leans down, takes Rumi’s left hand, and slides the ring onto her ring finger. “There. Now we’re officially matching,” Mira says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Rumi’s temple.

Rumi’s heart thunders, and she has to swallow hard, letting the strange mix of excitement and nervousness wash over her. She glances at Zoey, who is bouncing in place, fidgeting with her own new jewellery, then at Mira, who is calm but beaming with affection. She takes a deep breath and finally lets herself smile fully. “I… I love it,” Rumi whispers, her voice quiet but full. “Thank you.”

Zoey immediately leans over and kisses Rumi’s cheek, her grin infectious. “Of course! It’s perfect!”

The three of them move out of the jewellery store, the energy buzzing. Zoey chatters about which café they should hit next, suggesting sweet treats, smoothies, and snacks along the way. Mira follows closely, keeping a hand gently on Rumi’s lower back as they stroll through the mall, while Rumi is tucked neatly between the two of them, her heart fluttering as she takes in their attention.

“This feels so weirdly normal,” Rumi murmurs to herself, more to no one in particular, feeling a strange, comforting sense of belonging.

“Normal?” Mira hums back, voice low, “What like we didn’t fuck you into exhaustion just a few hours ago? That kind of normal?”

Rumi nearly stops walking all together, her mind and patterns flashing back to the previous night once again and turning beet red.

“Stop teasing Mir,” Zoey laughs, “It’s normal because we have all wanted this for so long Ru, you can’t hide your feelings forever.”

Zoey grabs Rumi’s hand again, tugging her along again.

“Ooooh! This store has those cute oversized jackets! We have to look!” Zoey practically drags them both inside, bouncing from one rack to another, pulling out items with infectious energy.

They wander through several more stores, Mira and Rumi enjoying the way Zoey’s energy is so unrestrained, full of life and joy. Rumi watches as Mira slips her arm around her shoulders once again, gently guiding her like she’s guarding her from the world.

Finally, they all settle after various shops, bags and way too much money. Zoey chattering nonstop about what she wants to try on when they get home, Mira calmly correcting her occasionally, and Rumi just smiling, her heart full of warmth. The sunlight filtering through the shopping center skylights hits Rumi’s ring, and she glances at Zoey and Mira, feeling an unexplainable contentment.

The mall trip winds down after hours of bouncing from one store to another, bags dangling from their arms, laughter echoing down the polished corridors. Zoey is still buzzing, her energy boundless, when she suddenly gasps, spinning on her heel.

“Ice cream! We have to get ice cream before we go. It’s basically a shopping tradition.”

Mira raises an eyebrow, amused, while looping her arm casually around Rumi’s shoulders. “Is it, now?” she teases, her low voice brushing against Rumi’s ear. Rumi shivers, feeling herself blush again, though she tries to play it off by tugging Mira toward the small gelato stand near the exit.

“Yes,” Zoey insists, already halfway there. “It’s, like, a sacred law of the mall!”

They trail after her, Mira chuckling under her breath, Rumi shaking her head but smiling softly. The air smells sweet—waffle cones, chocolate syrup, and a mix of fruity gelato. Zoey leans over the glass display case like a kid in a candy shop. “Ohhh, I can’t decide. Rumi, Mira, help! Do I want cookies and cream or mango?”

“Mango,” Mira says immediately, calm and sure.

“Cookies and cream,” Rumi counters, deadpan.

Zoey whirls on them, clutching her chest dramatically. “You guys are no help!” She ends up ordering both, of course, and Mira just shakes her head with fond exasperation as she orders a small cup of green tea gelato for herself. Rumi hesitates for a moment before picking peanut butter chocolate—something comforting. Mira quirks an eyebrow at her choice but says nothing, only smirks and steals the first bite when Rumi isn’t looking.

They sit on a bench just outside the stand, indulging in their treats. Zoey hums happily around her spoon, her cheeks puffed out, her smile wide. Rumi watches her, warmth spreading through her chest at how utterly unguarded Zoey looks. Mira leans back, glasses perched low on her nose, looking effortlessly cool as ever.

Until a small group of girls, no older than high schoolers, stop a few feet away, whispering and squealing behind their hands. One of them finally gathers the courage to step forward, voice trembling but determined. “Um—excuse me, are you… are you Huntrix?”

Zoey lights up instantly, her spoon clattering back into her cup. “Yes! Hi!” She waves like they’re old friends, and the fans squeal in delight. Mira smiles softly, inclining her head, while Rumi shifts a little uncomfortably but manages a polite smile, lifting her hand in a small wave.

The moment shatters into a whirlwind. More fans trickle over, phones already out, asking shyly—or not so shyly—for photos, autographs, and quick words. Zoey dives right in, taking selfies, throwing her arms around their shoulders, grinning like she was born for this. Mira is more poised but no less warm, her signatures neat, her voice smooth as she thanks each person for their support.

Rumi stiffens at first when a fan asks for a photo with her, but the girl’s excitement is so genuine she can’t say no. She kneels a little to match their height, flashing a tentative smile. The fan beams so hard it’s contagious, and Rumi finds herself laughing softly when another shyly admits she “practices braids just because of you.”

It’s chaotic but beautiful. Their security team closer as the crowd thickens. More people recognize them, drawn like moths, and soon the little group becomes a small mob. Zoey doesn’t seem to mind, still cheerfully posing, until Mira gently lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Zoey,” Mira says softly but firmly, “we should wrap up.”

Zoey pouts, clearly reluctant, but nods, turning back to the crowd. “Okay guys, we’ve gotta head out now, but we love you all so much!” She waves, her energy radiant as ever. Mira and Rumi echo her with softer farewells, and with apologies and smiles, they retreat.

Their bodyguards step in smoothly, carving a safe path through the growing crowd, ushering them toward the exit. Mira keeps one hand on Rumi’s back, steady and grounding, while Zoey blows a final kiss to the fans before sliding into the car. Rumi climbs in between them, her heart racing from the sudden attention, but she finds herself laughing too, the tension melting as the car doors close.

“Well,” Mira says dryly, adjusting her sunglasses as the car pulls away, “that escalated.”

Zoey giggles, pulling out her phone immediately. “Check the tags! We’re already trending, I swear.” She’s right—notifications are flooding in. The three of them lean together, scrolling through the flood of fan posts. There are selfies with Zoey, shaky videos of Mira signing, and shots of Rumi smiling shyly, her braid glinting in the mall lights. The comments are exploding with hearts and hashtags.

“You look so happy here,” Mira murmurs, showing Rumi a candid shot of her laughing with a fan. Rumi blushes, ducking her head, but she can’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips. It does look happy. Genuine.

Then Zoey suddenly bursts into cackling laughter, shoving her phone into Rumi’s hands. “Oh my God, Rumi, look at this!”

Rumi blinks, confused, until her eyes land on the retweet. A clear shot of her leaning in with a fan, her smile soft and open—and right there, barely covered by the edge of her collar, is a dark mark on her neck. The photo is zoomed in, captioned in bold letters:

“Rumi in public, with a hickey!?”

Her blood runs cold. She feels the heat rush to her face so violently it nearly knocks her breath away. The retweet is already blowing up, climbing into the thousands of likes and shares.

“Oh no,” she whispers, panic fluttering in her chest. “No, no, no—”

Her fingers clutch the phone as if she can make the post disappear. “What if they—what if people think—oh my God.” Her heart pounds, images flashing through her head of headlines, rumours, chaos spiralling out of control.

Zoey and Mira glance at each other, then immediately lean in. Mira gently takes the phone from her trembling hand, voice steady. “Rumi. Breathe.”

Zoey squeezes her knee, her grin softening into something tender. “It’s fine, baby. Seriously. This happens all the time.”

Rumi stares at them like they’ve lost their minds. “All the time? You get photographed with—” She cuts herself off, flushing scarlet.

Mira’s lips curve into a calm smirk. “Yes. And the internet panics for a day, maybe two, and then it blows over. Trust me.” She tilts her chin, gold glasses glinting in the sunlight. “It’s nothing we haven’t handled before.”

Zoey nods vigorously, adding with a wink, “Honestly, it just proves we’re real people. Fans actually love it—they make memes about it, and then everyone moves on.”

Rumi swallows hard, still shaken, but their confidence is grounding. Mira reaches over, tracing her patterns with slow, steady fingers on her thigh. Zoey leans her head against Rumi’s shoulder, smiling up at her with bright sincerity.

“You’re okay,” Zoey whispers.

Rumi takes a shaky breath. The panic eases, replaced by warmth at their reassurance. She looks down at the photo again—her smile with the fan, the faint glow in her patterns, the hickey standing out against her skin. She should hate it. But part of her doesn’t.

Part of her feels claimed. Protected by their marks. Like her patterns aren’t the only thing that makes her whole.

Her blush deepens, but she lets out a soft, nervous laugh, hiding her face in her hands. Mira chuckles beside her, low and warm, while Zoey giggles outright. The car fills with their laughter, the panic fading into something lighter, something almost sweet.

Chapter Text

The week blurs together in a haze of sound and exhaustion.

Days and nights lose their edges somewhere between studio walls and the low hum of recording equipment. There’s coffee on every flat surface, half-eaten takeout containers lined up like an accidental art installation, and lyric sheets scattered everywhere—each one covered in messy handwriting, arrows, and frustrated scribbles.

They’re close to finishing the album, but that final push comes at a cost.

Rumi wakes each morning with her voice still rough from the day before, Mira barely speaks before her first espresso, and Zoey’s energy crashes hard once the sun sets. They run through songs again and again until their ears can’t tell what sounds right anymore. Arguments spark easily—over phrasing, tone, tempo—tiny creative differences that burn bright before fizzling out into apologies whispered between sips of water and half-hearted laughter.

Every night, they collapse into bed together like fallen dominoes—too tired to talk, too drained to think. Sometimes Zoey’s arm ends up flung across both of them, Mira’s head tucked against Rumi’s shoulder, Rumi’s hand instinctively tracing slow circles on Mira’s back just to keep her grounded. They don’t talk much in those moments, but the silence feels like a truce. Like they’re all holding each other together through sheer proximity.

Still, it wears on them.

They’re together constantly, but not together—not really. Not like before. Their connection feels stretched thin between deadlines and expectation, and though none of them say it aloud, they all feel it. That quiet ache of missing each other even when they’re side by side.

By Friday, their laughter has turned quieter, the playful banter that usually fills the studio replaced with sighs and low muttering. Even Tyler notices it—glancing at them with concern, but not saying a word. He knows this is the hardest part, the grind before the breakthrough.

And finally—finally—it’s here.

Sunlight filters through the tall windows, softening against the glass panels and bouncing off the smooth surfaces of the soundboards.

Zoey’s sprawled backwards in her chair, tapping a rhythm against her thigh with a pencil, while Rumi sits cross-legged beside her, focused on a notebook full of scribbled lyrics and highlighted lines. Mira, as always, perches with perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, twirling her pen between slender fingers as she studies the screen in front of Tyler.

They’ve been at it all morning, polishing the final harmonies, adding layers of synth, tightening a bridge here, softening a transition there. The three of them have fallen into their usual creative rhythm—Zoey loud and chaotic but full of golden ideas, Rumi steady and precise, Mira grounding them both with her calm and sharp ear for detail.

Tyler leans back in his chair, stretching his arms until his joints pop. His baseball cap is turned backwards, his hoodie slightly askew, but his grin is wide and proud. “Well, ladies, that’s another track locked. I swear, you’ve all outdone yourselves. This album’s going to hit hard.”

Zoey spins around in her chair, legs crossed like a kid, and beams. “That’s because we’re awesome. And also because you didn’t let Rumi rewrite the entire chorus four times this time.”

Rumi gasps, mock offended. “Hey! It needed structure!”

Mira hums lightly, smiling behind her coffee cup. “It needed patience,” she says, voice like velvet.

Rumi narrows her eyes at her but can’t help the twitch of a grin. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Just like?” Mira arches a brow, that smirk tugging at her lips. “You make it sound like I haven’t earned it.”

Tyler chuckles, cutting in before Zoey can join the teasing. “Alright, alright, save the flirting for after recording, you two. We’ve got one more track before I can actually call this album complete.” He scrolls through his notes, stopping at the final file. “Mira’s solo.”

Instantly, the mood in the room shifts—still warm, but expectant.

Zoey perks up first, bouncing in her chair. “Oh my God, finally! I’ve been waiting for this one all week. You’ve been so secretive, Mira!”

Rumi nods, eyes curious, fingers pausing mid-fidget. “Yeah, you wouldn’t even let us peek at the lyrics. What’s the big secret?”

Mira hesitates just long enough for the silence to stretch. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the window, toward the skyline beyond, then back to Tyler. “…I’ve got them.”

Tyler’s brows lift. “You sure you’re ready?”

Mira’s lips press together for a second—then she nods once, the quiet kind of confidence she always carries. “Yeah. It’s time.”

Zoey practically vibrates in her seat, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, this is going to be so good. I can feel it.”

Rumi watches Mira rise from her chair, smoothing the fabric of her black oversized shirt, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. There’s something different about her today—softer, almost vulnerable beneath her usual composure.

She adjusts her gold glasses, giving Tyler a small nod before stepping into the booth. The door shuts with a soft click, sealing her in behind the glass.

Rumi and Zoey move closer to the console automatically, their faces pressed near the monitor, excitement bubbling between them.

Tyler slides the faders down, his voice steady over the intercom. “Alright, Mira. Whenever you’re ready.”

Mira adjusts her headphones, eyes closed for a brief moment. Her hand hovers over the lyric sheet, fingers tracing the edges before she sets it down. Then, through the thick glass, she lifts her gaze—and even from where they’re sitting, Rumi and Zoey can feel her energy shift.

Calm. Composed. But something simmering underneath.

Zoey leans toward Rumi, whispering like they’re in the audience before a show. “I swear, every time she gets like this, I know I’m about to cry.”

Rumi swallows hard, her pulse stuttering in time with the soft drumbeat that fades in under the melody.

The opening beat starts — soft, teasing, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
Mira closes her eyes, swaying once. When she opens them, she’s looking directly at them through the glass.

“I’m so into you, I can barely breathe…”

Her voice drips warmth. Slow, deliberate. It coats the air, low and sultry.
Her hand slides down her own side, fingertips tracing invisible curves as her body begins to move with the rhythm.
Rumi feels her throat go dry. Zoey’s knee bounces, eyes wide, biting her lip.

“And all I wanna do is to fall in deep…”

Mira steps closer to the mic, lips brushing it as if whispering a secret.
Her gaze never wavers from them — a challenge, a confession, a promise all in one.
Rumi shifts uncomfortably on the couch, feeling heat crawl up her neck.

“But close ain’t close enough, ‘til we cross the line…”

She tilts her head, smile sharp, hips moving just enough to make the lyric move with her.
Through the glass, Zoey’s face splits into an open-mouthed grin, whispering, “Oh my god.”

“So name a game to play, and I’ll roll the dice…”

The words leave her lips like smoke — languid, dangerous.
She drags her tongue across her bottom lip between lines, eyes flicking between Rumi’s trembling hands and Zoey’s parted lips.
Tyler, oblivious, nods to the rhythm. “Yeah, that’s the tone,” he murmurs to himself.

The beat swells — Mira’s body follows it instinctively, graceful, feline, hungry.
Her hair slides over her shoulder, catching the light in gold streaks as she leans closer to the mic again.

“Oh baby, look what you started…”

Rumi inhales sharply. Mira’s tone is playful — but the heat underneath it is undeniable.
Her fingers grip the mic stand, knuckles white as if holding herself steady.

“The temperature’s rising in here, is this gonna happen?”

Zoey fans her face exaggeratedly, mouthing, I can’t breathe.
Mira laughs — right in the middle of her take — a soft, breathy giggle that somehow makes it worse.
Rumi’s hand fists in the fabric of her jeans, her other gripping the arm of the couch.

“Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move…”

She moves again — slow sway, one hand sliding up to her collarbone, brushing the delicate chain there.
Her eyes lock with Rumi’s through the glass — a deliberate, devastating pause.

“Before I make a move…”

She whispers it.
And somehow, Rumi feels it in her chest — low, molten, and electric.

The chorus hits, and Mira comes alive.

“So baby, come light me up, and maybe I’ll let you on it…”

Her body moves with the music, hips rolling in time with the beat, her free hand running through her hair.
Rumi is gone. Completely gone. Zoey mutters, “I swear to god if that song isn’t about us…”
Rumi elbows her, but her voice cracks when she says, “Shut up.”

“A little bit scandalous, but baby, don’t let them see…”

Mira spins, the motion fluid, sending her hair whipping around her shoulders.
She presses her palm flat to the glass between them, eyes locked with Rumi’s.
Rumi’s chest rumbles with a low growl — Tyler glances back, confused by the sound. Zoey covers for her with a fake cough.

“A little less conversation, and a little more touch my body…”

Zoey’s jaw drops. “Did she—did she just—”
“Yup,” Rumi says, dazed.
Inside the booth, Mira is smiling — that slow, satisfied grin of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“’Cause I’m so into you, into you, into you…”

The repetition is hypnotic — Mira’s voice melting into the beat.
She doesn’t just sing it; she embodies it.
Every note drips heat, every line teases and tempts.
She trails her fingers over her lips as she sings, eyes flicking from Rumi to Zoey again, like choosing which one she’ll devour first.

Rumi’s face is crimson now. Zoey leans back, whispering, “She’s trying to kill us.”
Rumi mutters, “She’s succeeding.”

“Got everyone watching us, so baby, let’s keep it secret…”

Mira winks.
And it’s over. There’s no coming back from that.

As the bridge comes in, she takes the headphones off one ear, closing her eyes — singing raw now, full chest, pure passion.

“This could take some time…”
“Hey…”
“I’ve made too many mistakes…”
“Better get this right…”

Each line lands heavy, trembling with emotion.
Rumi’s chest tightens — it’s not just heat anymore; it’s feeling.
Mira’s voice cracks, barely, on the word right. And somehow, that makes it even more real.

Then the last chorus explodes.

“So baby, come light me up…”

Mira’s voice soars, perfect control, perfect chaos.
Her hand fists in her shirt, pulling the fabric just enough to flash a sliver of skin.
The two watching her go absolutely still.

“A little bit scandalous…”

Her hips roll again, slower now, almost lazy.
Rumi’s pulse echoes in her ears. Zoey actually whimpers — quiet, but unmistakable.

“’Cause I’m so into you…”

The final note melts off her lips like honey.
She breathes out, chest rising and falling, sweat glistening at her collarbone.
Silence fills the studio.

Tyler blinks, slow. “...Holy hell. Your fans aren’t gunna know what’s hit em’.”

Rumi can’t look away. Zoey leans forward, voice low and reverent.
“She knows what she’s doing.”

Mira, still inside the booth, smiles like sin incarnate.
And through the glass, her gaze locks on them again — unwavering, warm, burning.

Mira steps out of the booth, the last note lingering in the air, and the three of them pause, caught between exhaustion and awe. Her hair is damp from the studio lights, sticking slightly to her neck, strands framing her flushed face. Her dark top clings to her, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the curve of her arms, her posture radiating confidence and effortless control. The song still hangs in the air like a tangible pulse, and even the faint scent of her perfume seems to heighten the charged silence in the room.

Rumi and Zoey sit on the couch across from the booth, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Neither moves; neither speaks. Their gaze locks with Mira’s through the glass, and it’s electric, loaded with unspoken words. Mira smirks ever so slightly, leaning casually against the booth frame, arms crossed, letting them feel her presence without touching. It’s deliberate, teasing — a predator watching her prey, and Rumi and Zoey feel themselves caught, hearts hammering.

Tyler claps lightly, breaking the spell. “That was perfect, Mira. Absolutely perfect.” He scribbles a few notes, but his eyes keep darting to the girls, aware of the tension but giving them space to digest it. Mira nods, brushing off the compliment with a casual flick of her hair, but the smirk remains, and the way she tilts her head at Rumi and Zoey is enough to make them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“Okay,” Tyler continues, “now we need some harmonies layered over this. Rumi, Zoey — you know what to do. Lyric sheets are in there already.”

The girls exchange a glance and rise, moving toward the booth. Mira watches them with eyes hooded, predatory, and a tiny smile tugging at her lips. Every breath they take seems louder, every movement slower, exaggerated by the lingering heat of the song still pulsing in the room. Rumi’s palms are sweaty, her chest tight, but she pushes forward, following Zoey, who is practically glowing with excitement and mischief.

Once inside the booth, they start layering their lines. They stumble over harmonies at first, voices slightly shaky, breaths heavy. Mira leans against the glass, observing, and the way she looks at them — like she’s studying every twitch of their expressions, every falter of their words — makes both girls hyper-aware of her gaze. Each note, each sigh, each accidental glance at Mira sends a thrill shooting through them.

“Slow down there,” Mira instructs through the mic during one line, voice low but amused, just enough to make Rumi glance up, catching the smoldering look in her eyes. She bites her lip, flustered, and Zoey presses closer, fingers brushing Rumi’s shirt as she adjusts to reach a higher note.

They finally finish the run-through, voice layers smooth and polished. Tyler exhales, leaning back in his chair, clearly impressed. “That… that’s incredible. Honestly, you three are unstoppable this week. You’ve put in so much work — I think it’s time to call it for now. Take the weekend off, recharge, and I’ll send over the mixed tracks by Monday. You can start choreography then if you want.”

Rumi exhales, tension draining slightly, but the buzz in her chest doesn’t go away. Zoey leans back against the booth wall, eyes still wide, and Mira steps closer, her presence brushing against them through the glass.

“Thank T,” Mira offers for them, “We look forward to the polished tracks whenever they are ready, no rush.”

“I’ll be right on it,” Tyler hums, already pulling his laptop out, “Enjoy your weekend.”

“You too!” they all call back as they leave the studio.

The walls of the hallway feel too long. Especially as Mira wraps one arm around Zoey’s shoulders, and the other snakes around Rumi’s waist. They both tense, eyes darting up to glare at Mira.

“You guys are so easy,” Mira chuckles, letting her fingers glide over smooth skin wherever they can.

“You are so fucked,” Zoey hums, eyes forward and smile in place like she isn’t thinking filthy things.

“I don’t know,” Mira hums, “I feel pretty good right now, might catch a workout while there’s time.”

Rumi growls the second the elevator closes, her eyes catching Mira’s in the elevator mirrors. Gold. Cat slits. Cheeks flushed. Patterns blazing.

“Like I said,” Zoey giggles, “So. Fucked.”

Mira gulps.

They pull her by gentle hands, into their car and wedging close as the door thumps closed. The sleeve interior is as it always is, quiet, as their driver slides back into his seat and pulls away from the curb. None of them speak. Too charged.

The car hums beneath them as they speed through the quiet city streets, the interior lighting accentuating Mira’s sharp features and the glint in Zoey’s mischievous eyes. Rumi’s fingers are entwined with Zoey’s, her other hand brushing absently against Mira’s thigh. It’s small, almost accidental, but deliberate enough to send heat crawling up her spine. Mira’s gaze catches hers through the rearview mirror’s reflection, and she smirks, letting her fingers graze over Rumi’s hand in reply, tracing her patterns absentmindedly.

Zoey leans closer, whispering into Rumi’s ear, low and teasing. “Are you really going to let her get away with winding us up like that?” Her lips graze the shell of Rumi’s ear, and a shiver ripples down Rumi’s body.

Rumi swallows hard, breath catching, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she lets herself lean into Zoey, feeling Mira’s warmth pressing against her other side. The quiet hum of the car and the faint scent of their perfume wraps around her, grounding her even as her heart pounds faster. Mira’s hand drifts further, teasing the sensitive skin just above Rumi’s knee, sending sparks through her with each deliberate touch.

“I swear, you two are insatiable,” Mira murmurs, voice husky, leaning into the space between them. She lets her hand brush against Rumi’s side, soft yet purposeful, fingers tracing along the curve of her hip. Rumi bites her lip, unable to form a coherent thought, and Zoey chuckles, tightening her grip on her hand, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Rumi can feel the heat pooling in her chest, and every teasing brush of skin, every whispered word, twists her insides with anticipation. Zoey’s other hand slides lightly over the back of Rumi’s hand, squeezing her fingers with a silent, electric promise. Mira leans closer still, letting their thighs brush deliberately, letting Rumi feel every press of her leg against hers.

The tension becomes unbearable, a delicious kind of torment, and Rumi finally lets out a shaky laugh, breathless. Zoey leans over her, lips brushing her temple. “You can’t tell me you didn’t want to rip her clothes off while she sang.”

Rumi squeaks, half from embarrassment, half from desire, and Mira chuckles lowly, voice like silk. The car slows to a stop seconds later, but their driver doesn’t even make it to their door before they are pulling Mira out of the car and into their building. They give polite, tight-lipped smiles to their door attendants, walking quickly to their elevator. Zoey scans her key card, basically throwing Rumi and Mira into the elevator. Mira’s back hits the wall hard, her eyes darting between Rumi and Zoey so fast she might get whiplash.

“I thought you guys were gunna jump me in that studio,” she murmurs, sliding a hand behind Rumi’s neck, pulling her in just enough to claim a kiss.

The contact is instant, hot, and messy — lips pressing against Rumi’s with need and insistence. She moans quietly into the kiss, fingers clenching against Zoey’s as Mira’s other hand glides over her side. Zoey leans in from the other side, brushing her lips against Mira’s jaw and neck, a teasing, almost torturous whisper of affection. Rumi shivers, the combined heat of both of them making her feel like she might combust.

Her hands reach up instinctively, pressing against Mira’s chest, then Zoey’s back, seeking to anchor herself as the teasing touches multiply. Mira’s mouth moves over her jaw, soft yet demanding, while Zoey’s hands thread through her hair, tugging lightly. Rumi’s body arches instinctively into them, moans spilling out in little bursts she can’t contain. Every nerve ending is alight, every inch of her skin sensitive to the teasing and need.

A sudden ping interrupts them — the elevator dings at their floor, jolting all three back into awareness. Zoey pulls back slightly, a wicked grin on her lips. “Couch. Now,” she murmurs, giving Rumi a final, possessive kiss before grabbing Zoey’s hand.

They spill out of the elevator, laughter and heated breathing mingling as they sprint toward the elevator, hearts hammering in unison. Rumi stumbles slightly, trying to keep up with their energy, still flushed and trembling from the teasing touches and kisses.

They stagger out, a tangle of limbs and flushed skin, desperate to find a flat surface where they can properly lose themselves. But the moment they step into the penthouse, a sharp, clear voice halts them: “Oh.”

Celine.

Rumi stiffens immediately, eyes wide, chest rising and falling rapidly, patterns flaring subtly across her skin in panic. She can feel her heart hammering so fast it hurts, her breathing shallow and quick as adrenaline spikes.

“What are you doing here,” Mira acknowledges the woman, eyes narrowing.

Mira and Zoey react instantly, moving to shield Rumi, stepping slightly ahead of her. Mira’s hand slides around Rumi’s waist, Zoey pressing close on the other side, her presence protective. Their bodies form a barrier, calm yet firm, radiating reassurance while simultaneously standing as a subtle warning.

Rumi’s eyes slam shut. She sees the hunter’s tree. The bright streamers. The leaves rippling in the wind. She hears her own voice. Begging. The demonic echo that sounded off as she screamed at Celine. She sees her face, the horror, the shame. The way she couldn’t even look at Rumi with her patterns taking over her body. Disgust.

Rumi hears her own words again. The ones that begged Celine to end her…

“Rumi,” Mira murmurs softly, voice low and controlled, brushing her lips against the top of her head. “It’s okay. We’ve got you. Breathe.”

Zoey nods, voice steady but gentle, fingers brushing through Rumi’s hair. “It’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen. Just stay with us.”

Rumi’s chest heaves, eyes darting between Mira, Zoey, and the unexpected guest. Her mind races, panic mixing with the urge to run as she watches the fear run over her girls faces. She feels exposed, every nerve raw from the teasing touches earlier, and the sudden reality of someone else seeing them ignites a panic that twists her stomach.

Mira’s grip tightens slightly, firm but reassuring. “Rumi, I need you to stay with us, alright? Just focus on us.”

Zoey leans closer, whispering in her ear, a soft, grounding presence. “We’re right here. Nothing’s wrong. You’re safe. You’re ours.”

Rumi swallows hard, trying to slow her ragged breathing. Her hands clutch Mira and Zoey instinctively, seeking anchor, seeking calm in the storm of her thoughts. Mira’s eyes meet Zoey’s across Rumi’s form, a silent agreement passing between them. They will handle this, together, and let Rumi breathe, no matter what.

Celine’s gaze lingers for a moment, curious but respectful, and she takes a careful step back, giving the trio the space they need. Rumi’s shoulders shake slightly, patterns glowing faintly in response to her still-elevated heart rate. Mira presses a soft kiss to the top of her head again, while Zoey rubs small circles along her back, grounding her.

“I need to speak with Rumi,” Celine hums, her hands clasped in front of her with calm elegance.

“Like fuck you do,” Mira snaps, stepping forward as if to attack.

Rumi pulls her back quickly, eyes darting between the three people in front of her. Rumi knows, she knows if Mira tries to fight Celine she won’t win. She’s been fighting the older hunter since she could walk, the woman was ruthless.

The penthouse feels impossibly small, the soft hum of the city below doing nothing to ease the tension that coils in the air. Rumi stands with her arms crossed, the patterns along her skin flickering faintly in response to her racing heartbeat. Mira and Zoey flank her, the subtle heat of their bodies pressed against hers a grounding presence, but it only sharpens her nerves.

Celine’s eyes sweep over them, cool and calculated, a calm contrast to the storm of emotion swirling in the room. “I need to speak to Rumi alone,” she says again, voice even but with a quiet authority that demands attention.

Mira’s jaw tightens. “Absolutely not,” she says immediately, her tone clipped, protective. She steps slightly in front of Rumi, the barrier clear. Zoey mirrors her movement on the other side. “You’re not taking her anywhere,” Zoey adds, eyes flashing with defiance.

Celine raises an eyebrow, unshaken. “This isn’t about ‘taking her anywhere.’ I just need a moment. It’s important.”

Rumi feels the pull in her chest, the nervous flutter of being caught between two forces. Mira and Zoey are radiating silent warning, their presence almost suffocating in its intensity, and yet Celine’s composure is magnetic in a different way. She’s calm, collected, and there’s a weight to her that commands attention.

“I said no,” Mira insists, voice low but firm, the protective energy practically radiating off her. Zoey’s hand tightens on Rumi’s arm, her thumb brushing over her patterns in a subconscious attempt to soothe.

Celine sighs, leaning slightly forward. “You’ve been overprotective long enough. I’m not here to harm her. I just want a conversation.”

Rumi swallows hard, her gaze darting between the three of them. Her chest tightens, anxiety prickling up her spine. Her patterns shimmer faintly purple for a brief moment before dimming. She feels the silent tension of the standoff, the way Mira’s jaw is set, the sharp focus in Zoey’s eyes, and the calm, piercing stare of Celine.

“She’s not talking to anyone alone,” Mira says, tone hard as steel. “And you’re not going to change that.”

Zoey nods, her voice tight, almost desperate. “We’ve got her, and that’s final.”

Celine’s lips curl into a small, tight smile, but there’s an edge to it. “You’re not her parent. You don’t get to decide who she talks to.”

Mira’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t say I was her parent, not that you are either. I’m saying she’s mine, and I don’t allow people to corner her.”

Rumi feels herself trapped in the middle, a coil of nerves and frustration winding tighter and tighter. Her chest heaves, and she suddenly realizes she can’t stand being a passive participant anymore. Her hands clench into fists, patterns along her arms glowing faintly in agitation.

“Stop,” she says sharply, voice trembling but firm. Both Mira and Zoey turn to her, eyes wide in shock. “I… I will talk to her. You guys can go, I’m ok.”

Mira’s mouth opens, then closes again. Zoey’s hand tightens, and she steps forward instinctively. “Rumi, wait—”

Rumi holds up a hand, cutting them off. “No. I need to do this. Go get us some boba or something, just down the street. I’ll be ok. Go.” Her voice is commanding, leaving no room for argument, though there’s a hint of hesitation beneath the surface.

Mira swallows, looking at Zoey. They both know better than to argue further. “We’ll come back in ten minutes, and we have our phones, call us,” Mira says, her voice strained.

Zoey adds, voice softening but tinged with worry, “You don’t have to do this, Rumi… but, be careful. Please.”

Rumi takes a step forward, pressing a quick kiss to Mira’s cheek and then Zoey’s, a silent promise that she’ll be fine. Their protests are muffled by her contact, the brief contact grounding both her and them for a fleeting moment. “I’ll be fine. Just go,” she murmurs, pushing them gently but firmly toward the elevator.

They linger, reluctant to leave, their expressions torn between defiance and trust. “We can’t just leave you, Rumi,” Mira says, voice low, almost pleading.

“I need you to baby, please. Just… go,” Rumi insists, stepping back and holding her hands up in a gesture of finality.

Zoey bites her lip, glancing at Mira with tears in her eyes. After a tense beat, they nod to each other, exchanging a look that says this is the only way. Slowly, they step into the elevator, fingers brushing briefly against Rumi’s hands in a final moment of connection. The doors close, leaving her alone with Celine.

Rumi exhales sharply, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The patterns along her skin flare a dark purple, a visible reflection of the nervous energy she can’t contain. She takes a step forward, forcing herself to meet Celine’s gaze head-on. Her hands clench at her sides, claws brushing against her palms, and she feels the faint thrum of fangs pressing against her top lip.

Celine tilts her head slightly, studying her with that calm, almost predatory gaze. “You’ve changed,” she says softly, but there’s an edge there, something unreadable beneath the surface. “More than I expected.”

Rumi swallows hard, trying to steady her voice. “I… I’m ready for whatever you have to say. But I’m not afraid anymore.”

Celine steps closer, and Rumi flinches slightly at the proximity, the heat from her body radiating subtly. “Good. That’s what I wanted to see,” she murmurs. “You’ve been dancing around your own power for too long, letting others dictate how you feel. I want to know you’re in control. That you can handle this.”

Rumi’s jaw tightens. “I can. And I will.” Her voice is firmer now, though her chest still pounds and her patterns pulse with nervous energy.

Celine circles her slowly, like a predator appraising her prey, and Rumi’s instincts flare in response. Her body tenses, the patterns along her skin lighting up in reaction, claws flexing at her sides. “You’re… different,” Celine observes, voice soft but intense. “Not weak like I thought you’d be. But you’re reckless, letting others see you. Letting those girls love you like that, it’s wrong.”

Rumi’s eyes narrow. “I don’t need you dictating who gets to love me,” she snaps, chest rising with defiance. Her hands flex, claws glinting in the soft penthouse light. “I’m not… I’m not just a demon. I’m a person, and they love me regardless of who my father was.”

Celine chuckles lightly, a sound that’s equal parts approval and warning. “Bold. I thought I raised you better than this. But you’ve always been stubborn.” She pauses, gaze locking onto Rumi’s. “I won’t watch you destroy the Hunter’s legacy, you need to seal the honmoon, then your patterns will be gone and you can do what you want.”

Rumi swallows hard, the words striking deep into her core. She feels a tremor of fear, but beneath it, a surge of determination ignites. She straightens, her claws retracting slowly as she steadies her breathing. “You still think that will work?” she says, voice firm. “We destroyed the old honmoon, we rebuilt it. This one is stronger, it’s built on love, not fear. We haven’t had a single break in the layers in months. But my patterns? They aren’t going anywhere, if anything they feel more permanent than ever.”

Celine tilts her head, expression unreadable for a moment, then smiles faintly. “I was weak that night,” she adds softly, “When you came to me – looking like that – I didn’t know what to do. You looked so… helpless. Demons usually don’t show emotion. But I was weak, I saw the girl I raised, not the demon. I was wrong for denying your request.”

Rumi blinks, her chest heaving, mind spinning with the weight of her emotions. The memory of Celine’s face that night slapping her so hard she sees stars. Her eyes burn quickly with tears.

She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. “I begged you,” she whispers, “I begged you! It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked you for, and you still couldn’t give me what I wanted.”

Celine steps back, giving Rumi a measured look. “Demons don’t get what they want. I should have killed you the second you were born.”

Rumi lets the words hang in the air like chemical warfare…

“Why can’t you love me?” Rumi croaks, her cheeks now shining with tears, lip trembling and shoulders shaking.

“Because you aren’t worth it,” Celine sighs, “you should have fallen on your own sword instead of begging me to end your life with it.”

Rumi registers nothing after the words leave her mouth. Her knees hit the polished floor of the penthouse that had always been her safe-space with a sickening crunch. She looks up at Celine, towering over her, eyes hollow with distain.

Rumi stays on the floor, her body trembling. The cold marble beneath her palms feels distant, unreal. Her patterns flicker and fade until they’re nothing but faint embers along her skin. Her breathing is uneven — sharp, shallow — every inhale scraping against the broken edges of her chest.

Celine’s words echo again, looping endlessly in her mind:

“I should have killed you at birth.”
“You should have fallen on your own sword.”

Each one lands like a blade, twisting deeper, deeper, until she can’t breathe. She doesn’t move. She can’t. Her throat burns from holding back the sob clawing its way up. Her claws dig into her knees, blood beading where skin breaks, but she can’t even feel it.

Her world feels far away. Just a blur of sound and heat and heartbreak.

Celine’s heels click against the floor as she steps closer — unhurried, deliberate — the sound slicing through the silence. “Look at you,” she murmurs, voice cruelly calm. “On your knees again. Always so desperate for mercy you haven’t earned.”

Rumi flinches. Her head dips lower, shoulders trembling. A soft, broken noise escapes her lips — something between a gasp and a sob — and it rips through the air like the sound of something dying.

Celine takes another step forward. “Pathetic,” she says, her voice laced with quiet disdain.

But before she can take another step—

The sound of footsteps echo behind Rumi, barely recognisable over the hurricane raging in her head.

Celine stops.

Rumi’s ears ring, her body frozen in place, her brain refusing to piece together what’s happening. It’s only when she hears the crack in a familiar voice — Zoey’s — that she lifts her head.

And everything stops.

Zoey stands a few feet to her left, tears streaking her face, her Shin-Kal drawn from the dimensional shimmer of the Honmoon. They gleam wickedly under the penthouse light. Her whole body trembles — not from fear, but rage.

Mira stands beside Rumi’s right, taller, quieter, but burning like a storm ready to strike. Her Gok-Do is drawn too, the weapon humming faintly with the energy of her fury. The tear tracks on her cheeks catch the light as she glares at Celine.

Both of them are between Rumi and the woman who just shattered her world.

“Did you mean that?” Mira’s voice is low, dangerous, barely recognisable. Her voice thickens under the strain of her rage. “Say it again.”

Celine blinks, momentarily thrown off by the venom in Mira’s tone. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says evenly, but her eyes flicker between the two of them — calculating.

“Answer her!” Zoey’s scream cuts through the air, raw and cracking. “Did you mean it? That she should’ve died? That she – she asked you to kill her? And you have the nerve to come here and say that –,” Her voice breaks entirely. “You’re a monster.”

Celine’s expression doesn’t falter. If anything, she looks amused. “You think your anger frightens me?” she says lightly. “You’re children playing with weapons you don’t understand. I meant every word.”

Mira’s grip tightens on her weapon. The metal creaks under the strain. “You talk like that again, and you’ll regret it,” she says, each syllable a blade of ice. “You don’t get to walk into our home and break her like this. Not again.”

Rumi stays on her knees, silent, staring blankly at the floor. Her breathing is too loud in her ears. Too uneven. Too fragile.

Celine’s lips curl into something that might be a smile. “You girls would attack me? For her? After I raised you as my own. You would choose her? The one who’s so terrified of her own blood, the one who has hidden from you her whole life?”

“Stop.” Mira’s voice cracks, a single word heavy with emotion. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that.”

Zoey takes a step forward, fury radiating off her in waves. Her knives shimmer in the air beside her hands, a faint blue glow pulsing with her heartbeat. “You’re the reason she hid herself,” she spits. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to you — to us — and you’re too rotten to see it. If she had been truthful with us, from the start, we would have accepted her. We would have helped her!”

“Zoey.” Mira’s voice is quiet, but the warning in it is sharp. She’s shaking — not from fear, but from trying not to snap.

Rumi lifts her head slightly, eyes glassy, vision blurry. The purple glow of her patterns has completely faded now. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She watches Celine with hollow eyes.

Celine’s gaze flickers toward her — cold, unfeeling. “Look at her,” she says softly. “This is what happens when you let demons think they’re human. She’s a liability.”

Zoey screams. The sound is primal. She throws one of her knives before she even realizes she’s doing it. The blade whistles through the air, grazing Celine’s cheek and cutting a thin, precise line before it vanishes in a shimmer of light.

Celine’s head snaps to the side, a single line of blood trailing down her face. For a moment, her expression breaks — surprise flickering across it — before her lips twist into a cruel, approving smirk.

“You girls are too talented to throw this away,” she says, voice steady, even as she dabs at the blood with her thumb. “It’s wasted on her.”

“Get out,” Mira growls.

Celine tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Or what?”

Mira steps forward. The air hums around her, faint rainbow light pulsing off her skin — her own energy rising to meet her rage. “Or I’ll show you what happens when you threaten my family,” she says. “You won’t even make it out of this room.”

Zoey moves with her, knives hovering just beside her shoulders, shimmering like twin blades of pure fury. Her voice is ragged when she speaks. “Leave, before I put one in your chest.”

Celine studies them both — Mira, her glow trembling with restrained violence; Zoey, a trembling storm of energy and heartbreak. And behind them, Rumi — broken, still kneeling, her breath shallow, her patterns dull.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. The silence is deafening.

Then Celine exhales softly, something like disappointment flickering across her face. “Fine,” she says, turning away with calculated grace. “Keep her. But when your mistakes catch up to you, don’t come crawling back.”

She walks toward the elevator, heels clicking on marble. Just before the doors slide shut, she turns her head slightly. “You’re a waste of potential, Rumi,” she says coldly. “You could have been something magnificent.”

Zoey’s hand snaps up, another knife flying. It slices cleanly through the air, it’s aimed straight for her face, yet Celine manages to catch it before disappearing entirely.

The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and she’s gone.

For a moment, the room is silent again — empty, heavy, thick with tension and grief.

Rumi still hasn’t moved. Her hands are trembling in her lap, faint smears of blood on her knees from her own claws. She stares at the spot where Celine stood as if trying to make sense of what just happened. Her body feels hollow. Numb.

Then, slowly, she exhales — a shuddering breath that sounds like the beginning of a sob.

Mira and Zoey turn instantly. Weapons slipping back into the honmoon like they were never there.

“Rumi,” Mira whispers, reaching for her face with trembling fingers. “Look at me, please baby.”

Rumi doesn’t move at first. Then her eyes flick upward, glassy and red-rimmed, unfocused. She looks at them like she’s seeing ghosts. “She meant it,” she whispers. Her voice breaks on the last word. “She really meant it.”

Zoey makes a soft, broken sound — somewhere between a sob and a yell. “She’s wrong,” she says fiercely, pressing a hand to Rumi’s back. “She’s a bitter, horrible person and she’s wrong.”

Rumi’s breath stutters. She shakes her head weakly. “No. She’s right. I—”

Mira cuts her off with a firm, tearful whisper. “Don’t. Don’t say that. Don’t give her the power to make you believe that.”

Rumi’s shoulders tremble. A tear slides down her cheek. “I’m not strong enough,” she chokes out. “I keep breaking. Every time—”

Zoey’s hands cup her face, forcing her to look up. “You’re human, Rumi. You’re allowed to break. That doesn’t make you weak — that makes you real.”

Mira’s voice shakes. “And it’s ok. We’ll stand in front of you every damn time we have to. Do you understand me?”

Rumi’s vision blurs again. Her body finally gives in to the sob she’s been holding back. It tears out of her, loud and ragged, her whole body shaking with it.

Mira pulls her in first, wrapping both arms around her, burying Rumi’s face against her chest. Zoey presses close from behind, arms circling them both, forehead pressed to Rumi’s shoulder.

Rumi clings to them like she’s drowning. Her fingers dig into Mira’s shirt, into Zoey’s arm, leaving crescent marks where her nails press. She sobs so hard her whole body convulses, her breaths hitching like she’s choking on them.

“I should’ve done it,” she gasps, words broken and uneven. “I should’ve done it myself when she wouldn’t.”

“Rumi—” Mira’s voice breaks immediately, but she tries to keep it steady, hands cupping Rumi’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Rumi chokes, burying her face against Mira’s shoulder, her words muffled and frantic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Stop,” Zoey whispers, but her own tears spill over. She pulls Rumi closer, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist from behind like she’s trying to anchor her. “Baby, don’t say that.”

“It would’ve been better!” Rumi’s voice rises, ragged and wild. “For everyone! For the hunters—if I’d just—” Her breath catches violently. “If I’d just died—”

Mira’s hands tremble as she grabs Rumi’s cheeks, forcing her to look at her. “Stop. Stop it right now.” Her own tears streak down her face. “Don’t you dare say that about yourself – about the woman I love, baby just… don’t.”

But Rumi keeps shaking her head, words tumbling out of her like she’s confessing something poisonous. “You wouldn’t have had to hunt me, I would have let you—” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I ruin everything. I ruin everything I touch—”

Zoey’s hands slide up to cradle Rumi’s head against her chest. “You haven’t ruined anything,” she whispers fiercely. “You’re not a monster, Rumi. You’re—” Her voice breaks. “You’re amazing, and kind, and beautiful, and we love you too much to lose you.”

Rumi doesn’t seem to hear her. “I’m sorry,” she keeps muttering, over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve—”

Mira presses her forehead to Rumi’s. “Breathe,” she pleads softly. “Please. Just breathe baby. We’re right here.”

Rumi’s sobs come faster, harder, until she’s nearly hyperventilating. “I went to her,” she blurts out suddenly, voice high and cracked. “I went to Celine.”

Mira and Zoey both freeze.

“I went to her,” Rumi repeats, voice shaking. “After you—after you said we could never be together. After you raised your weapons at me. I went to her and I asked her to kill me. I begged her—” Her words break off in a sob. “She wouldn’t even look at me.”

Mira’s face crumples. Her breath catches audibly. “Oh God.”

Zoey shakes her head violently, tears streaming. “No. No, no, no—”

Rumi pulls back enough to look at them, her face blotchy and wet, her eyes swollen. “She wasn’t lying, I meant it,” she whispers. “I wanted her to end it. I didn’t want to be this anymore. I thought—” She bites her lip so hard it splits. “I thought you hated me.”

Zoey’s hands fly to her mouth like she’s been physically struck. Mira’s head drops for a heartbeat before she drags it back up, blinking through tears.

“Rumi,” Zoey says hoarsely, her voice shaking so much she can barely form the words. “That night still haunts me. Every day.”

Rumi frowns faintly through her tears, confused.

Zoey swallows hard. “You don’t… you don’t understand. We heard you.” Her voice breaks. “On stage. With the fake us. We could hear you.”

Rumi’s tear-streaked face tilts up, confusion flickering through her eyes. “What?”

Mira wipes at her face, but more tears spill. “You were—” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You were begging us to stop. You kept asking what you did wrong. We could hear you. All of it.”

Zoey’s voice is barely a whisper. “It was the worst night of my life. Hearing you like that. Knowing we couldn’t reach you.”

Rumi stares at them both, her lips parting. She looks like she’s been punched.

“I…” she starts, but the words die in her throat.

Mira’s voice breaks again. “We didn’t hate you. We never hated you. We were—God, Rumi, we were terrified. We didn’t know what was happening, and you—” She swallows hard. “You sounded so scared. I still hear it when I close my eyes.”

Zoey’s hands find Rumi’s again, gripping them tightly, as if to make sure she’s real. “You begged us to try and understand,” she says softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing. We were in shock, but we never should have raised our weapons, or left you alone. I’m so so sorry baby.”

Rumi’s whole body trembles harder. She presses a trembling hand to her mouth. “I thought it was just me,” she whispers. “I thought—” Her voice breaks. “I thought you couldn’t hear me.”

Mira shakes her head, tears dripping onto Rumi’s knees. “We heard everything.”

Rumi makes a soft, broken noise — half sob, half gasp — and buries her face in her hands. “I wanted it to stop,” she mumbles. “She couldn’t even look at me. Like I was disgusting.”

Zoey lets out a sharp sob, folding forward until her forehead touches Rumi’s shoulder. “You’re not disgusting,” she cries. “You’re not. God, Rumi, you’re not.”

Mira’s hand cups the back of Rumi’s neck, grounding her, her own tears falling freely. “She doesn’t get to torture you anymore,” she whispers fiercely. “She doesn’t get to decide who you are.”

Rumi shakes her head weakly, still mumbling. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know why I’m still here.”

“Because we need you,” Mira says immediately. Her voice shakes, but her conviction doesn’t. “Because you’re ours. Because you’re more than what she says you are. You’re more than what you think you are.”

Zoey lifts her head, red-eyed and wet-cheeked. “We’re so sorry,” she whispers. “For that night. For making you think we hated you. For letting you get to the point where you thought you had to—” Her voice breaks, and she covers her face. “I’m so sorry.”

Rumi stares at them both, tears still streaming down her face, but something soft flickers there — a small, fragile thing breaking through the wreckage.

“You heard me,” she says quietly, like she’s still trying to believe it.

Mira nods, her hand still steady on Rumi’s neck. “We did.”

“And you…” Rumi swallows. “You still stayed.”

Zoey’s voice is fierce through the tears. “Of course we stayed. We’re still here.”

Rumi lets out a sound — small, broken, but no longer just despair. Her fingers clutch at them both, holding on like they’re the only solid thing in the room.

For a long time they all cry together — raw, ugly, unfiltered crying. Mira presses her forehead to Rumi’s again and whispers things Rumi doesn’t fully understand, soft and soothing. Zoey rubs circles into Rumi’s back, murmuring apologies, confessions, anything to keep her anchored.

Eventually, Rumi’s sobs start to ease — not gone, but softer, her breathing no longer frantic. She blinks at them both, her face still wet, her voice small. “I don’t know how to fix this,” she says.

Mira shakes her head gently. “You don’t have to fix it anything.”

Zoey sniffles, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “We aren’t going anywhere, and Celine is gone. We can be happy, away from her, and we can help you figure out who you want to be.”

Rumi lets out a trembling breath and leans into them both, closing her eyes. “I didn’t want to lose you,” she whispers.

“You didn’t,” Mira says softly.

“We are right here,” Zoey adds, her voice cracking but steady. “And you are too, thank god.”

Rumi’s arms tighten around them, her forehead resting against Mira’s shoulder as her body becomes slack. “I’m so tired,” she mumbles.

“I know,” Mira whispers, rocking her slightly.

Mira’s arms tighten around her as Rumi sags forward, completely spent. She’s trembling still — not from cold, but from the kind of exhaustion that sits in the bones, deep and heavy. Mira exchanges a glance with Zoey, a silent understanding passing between them.

“Let’s get her to bed,” Mira murmurs softly, her voice raw from crying.

Zoey nods wordlessly, standing first. Together, they lift Rumi gently — one arm under her knees, the other supporting her shoulders. She doesn’t fight them. Her head falls limply against Mira’s chest, her breathing uneven, her body boneless with shock.

Every few steps, Rumi murmurs something — broken little sounds, words they can’t quite make out. Sometimes it’s “sorry.” Sometimes it’s “don’t go.”

Zoey’s throat aches as they reach the bedroom. “We’re not going anywhere,” she whispers to her, brushing hair from her face.

Mira lowers herself carefully onto the bed, sitting against the headboard, and Rumi immediately curls into her like she’s magnetized. Her head rests on Mira’s chest, tucked under her chin, small and fragile. Mira wraps her arms around her waist, pulling her close until there’s no space left between them.

Zoey slides onto the bed beside them, crossing her legs so Rumi’s can rest across her lap. The girl doesn’t even seem to notice the movement; her hands just keep clinging to Mira’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered.

Zoey catches one trembling hand, gently prying Rumi’s fingers open so she can hold it instead. Rumi resists for a moment — a panicked noise leaving her throat — but Zoey hushes her softly, pressing her hand between both of hers.

“Hey,” Zoey whispers, her voice hoarse but steady. “It’s just me sweetheart.”

Rumi’s breathing stutters. “Don’t—” she starts, voice cracking, “don’t leave.”

Mira presses her lips to Rumi’s hair. “Never,” she murmurs. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Rumi’s fingers tighten again, clutching both of them like she’s terrified they’ll vanish if she lets go. She’s shaking so hard it rattles the bed.

Zoey starts tracing little shapes into her palm — circles, hearts, messy spirals — anything to keep her focused on touch instead of fear. Every few seconds, Rumi flinches, her body jerking like a wounded animal.

“Shh,” Mira whispers, running a hand down her back. “It’s okay, it’s just us.”

Rumi’s voice comes out small and broken, crying still as she clings to them. “Please don’t go. Please don’t—”

Mira’s throat closes around her response. “We’re not leaving, I promise,” she whispers against Rumi’s temple.

“Not ever,” Zoey adds, still tracing gentle patterns into Rumi’s hand. “Not for anything.”

Rumi makes a sound then — something between a sob and a whimper — and clings tighter, trying to bury herself deeper in Mira’s chest. Mira shifts slightly, pulling the blanket over all three of them, tucking it around Rumi like she’s something precious.

The air in the room is heavy with the smell of tears, sweat, fear. The only sounds are Rumi’s uneven breathing and the occasional sniff from one of the others.

Every time either of them moves — even the smallest adjustment — Rumi yelps softly, her head jerking up, eyes wide with panic. “Don’t leave,” she gasps, over and over.

Zoey’s heart cracks clean in half. “We’re not,” she says quickly, catching Rumi’s hand again. “We’re still here. Look at me.”

Rumi lifts her head a little, glassy eyes darting between them. Zoey offers her a trembling smile, brushing her thumb along Rumi’s knuckles. “See? Still here.”

Mira cups Rumi’s face again, thumbs wiping tears away only for more to fall. “You don’t have to be scared,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to earn this. You’re loved, Rumi. You always were.”

Rumi just shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t deserve it.”

Zoey’s voice breaks completely. “You do. You do, you idiot. God, you do.”

Mira’s hand slides up to the back of Rumi’s neck, thumb rubbing slow, calming circles. “You don’t get to decide you’re unworthy,” she says softly. “We’ve already decided you are.”

Rumi sobs again — quieter now, but deep, wrecking sobs that make her whole body tremble. She presses her face harder against Mira’s chest, as if she can hide from the world there.

Mira hums softly — not words, just a quiet sound, low and warm in a melody neither of the other girls recognise. Rumi’s shaking slows slightly, her breathing still ragged but deeper.

“Do you want water?” Zoey asks gently after a few minutes, voice barely above a whisper.

Rumi doesn’t respond. Her hand just tightens around Zoey’s, the tiniest plea.

Zoey nods even though Rumi can’t see her. “Okay. No water. We’ll stay right here.”

The silence stretches again. Mira strokes Rumi’s hair with slow, steady fingers, while Zoey keeps tracing along her palm. It’s the kind of silence that feels heavy but safe — full of words that don’t need to be said.

After a while, Mira whispers something in Rumi’s ear, soft enough that Zoey doesn’t catch it. But whatever it is, it makes Rumi’s breathing hitch, then ease again.

Her voice comes out broken, muffled against Mira’s chest. “Why are you still here?”

Zoey looks up at that, eyes wide and wet. “Because we love you.”

Rumi shakes her head weakly. “You shouldn’t.”

Mira’s voice is a low, trembling whisper. “Then we’ll be foolish. Gladly.”

Rumi lets out a soft, helpless sound — halfway between a sob and a laugh — and her hand relaxes slightly in Zoey’s finally.

For a long time, the three of them just breathe together. Rumi’s breaths still stutter sometimes, but they’re longer now. Deeper. She starts to melt, bit by bit, the exhaustion finally catching up.

Zoey brushes her thumb along Rumi’s wrist, feeling the faint, rapid beat of her pulse. “Hey,” she whispers. “You’re safe.”

Rumi doesn’t answer. She’s half-asleep now, too tired to fight. Her fingers twitch once in Zoey’s hand, then still.

Mira leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Rumi’s forehead. “Rest,” she murmurs. “We will be right here when you wake up.”

Rumi exhales shakily, and for the first time all night, she doesn’t flinch when Mira moves. She just sighs, her face pressed into Mira’s chest, and drifts further into sleep.

The two girls watch her for at least twenty minutes, tears still drying on her face. “God,” she whispers, voice trembling. “She really thought she was better off dead?”

Mira’s eyes close, her jaw tightening. “If you were raised to believe you were a monster, then trained to kill those monsters, you’d probably be suicidal as well.”

“She’s so—” Zoey breaks off, swallowing hard. “She’s so kind, and she thinks she ruins everything.”

“She’s been told that her whole life,” Mira murmurs. “It takes a long time to unlearn poisonous words like that.”

Zoey nods slowly, wiping her eyes. She shifts a little, her hand still holding Rumi’s, and murmurs, “Then we’ll just keep telling her she’s worthy of love.”

Mira glances down at Rumi — the faint rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers curl protectively around theirs. “Until she believes it.”

Zoey smiles weakly through her tears. “Until she believes it.”

The room falls silent again. Mira adjusts slightly against the headboard, tucking the blanket tighter around Rumi’s shoulders. She looks so small like this — all the strength, all the fire gone, just soft breathing and faint tear tracks down her cheeks.

Zoey reaches out and brushes Rumi’s hair from her face. “She’s going to hate that she cried like this tomorrow,” she whispers.

Mira’s lips curve into the smallest, saddest smile. “That’s ok, as long as she stays. Here. With us.”

Rumi stirs faintly at the sound, her fingers tightening once more around theirs. Her voice is barely audible — a soft, trembling murmur. “Don’t go.”

Mira presses her lips to her hair again. “Never beautiful.”

Zoey squeezes her hand. “We’re right here, Ru.”

Rumi exhales, a long, shaky breath, and finally goes still again.

Neither of them move. The weight of her body against theirs, the shared warmth, the quiet — it’s heavy, but it’s the only thing keeping them from falling apart themselves.

Zoey leans her head into Rumi’s lap, eyes closed. “We’ll fix this,” she whispers, almost to herself.

Mira’s hand keeps moving in slow, steady strokes through Zoey’s hair. “Of course we will. She’s our girl, we can’t lose our girl.”

For a long time, they stay like that — three broken girls in a bed that suddenly feels too big, too quiet. The city hums faintly outside, but here, in this small, trembling space, all that exists is the sound of their breathing.

Rumi sleeps, Mira watches, Zoey prays.

Chapter Text

Rumi wakes to the sound of her own heartbeat hammering in her chest. It’s slow and dull at first, then stronger, each thud a pulse of pain against her ribs. Her eyelids feel heavy, glued together by dried tears. When she finally opens them, everything is warm and hazy — too warm, too close.

There’s an arm slung over her waist, a leg tangled with hers. Someone’s breath brushes the back of her neck, steady and soft. For a moment, she doesn’t move. She just lies there, blinking at the soft light filtering through the curtains, the quiet hum of the apartment around her.

Then her vision sharpens, and she sees.

Mira is behind her, sitting upright against the headboard, head bowed, her chin resting lightly against Rumi’s hair. Her hand is still resting on Rumi’s stomach like she fell asleep guarding her. Zoey is curled at the other side of the bed, Rumi’s legs in her lap, her head tipped forward. One of Zoey’s hands is still wrapped around Rumi’s, their fingers loosely intertwined.

The sight makes Rumi’s chest ache. A sharp, twisting ache that burns low in her throat.

Because she remembers.

Celine’s voice, cold and venomous — should have killed you at birth. The words slice through her again like fresh glass. She remembers the way she’d fallen to the floor, her knees hitting the tile. She remembers Mira and Zoey’s faces — the horror, the tears — remembers sobbing until her body shook, saying things she hadn’t meant to say out loud. Things that should have stayed buried.

She feels sick.

Slowly, carefully, Rumi eases out from under Mira’s arm. Mira stirs but doesn’t wake. Zoey mumbles something under her breath and shifts, still half-asleep. Rumi freezes, barely breathing, until they settle again. Then she slips free, the sheets whispering as she crawls off the bed.

The air outside the bedroom is cool and still. Her bare feet hit the hardwood floor, the chill grounding her for half a second. The door closes softly behind her with a faint click that echoes too loud in the silence.

The living room is dim, bathed in the faint pre-dawn glow. The clock on the counter blinks 4:13 AM. Rumi wraps her arms around herself and begins to pace, her head heavy, her eyes stinging.

Her mind won’t stop replaying it — should have fallen on your own sword. Her mother figures voice again, steady, cruel, certain. She presses the heel of her hand against her sternum as if she can force the echo out, but it just vibrates deeper.

She grabs a glass from the cabinet, her fingers trembling as she fills it. The water sloshes, spilling over her knuckles, but she doesn’t care. She drinks greedily — one glass, then another, then two more — each one disappearing before the last can settle in her stomach. She leans against the counter, bracing herself with both arms, her forehead resting on her sleeve.

The silence feels too loud. The air feels thick, heavy with ghosts.

When she finally lifts her head, the light through the windows catches her attention — faint streaks of gold and pink beginning to break over the horizon.

It’s early. The kind of early where the city still sleeps but the sky is already dreaming.

Rumi grabs the first thing in reach — Mira’s hoodie, draped over the back of the couch — and pulls it on. It’s oversized, soft, smelling faintly of Mira’s perfume and laundry soap. She tugs the hood up, folds her arms into the long sleeves, and pads barefoot toward the balcony.

The glass door slides open with a quiet click. The morning air rushes in, cool against her flushed face. She steps outside, sinking into one of the chairs, drawing her knees up under her chin inside the hoodie.

The city stretches below her, washed in the soft glow of dawn. Cars begin to hum in the distance, but everything still feels half-asleep.

She should feel calm. Peaceful, even. But all she feels is hollow.

Celine’s words loop again, cruel and precise, and Rumi squeezes her eyes shut. Her fingers dig into the fabric at her knees.

Her breath catches. She tries to inhale, but it trembles, breaks apart halfway through. A sound escapes her — small, cracked, ugly.

She buries her face in her knees, biting down hard on her lip.

“Stop,” she whispers, voice raw. “Stop crying. It’s done.”

But it isn’t. It never is.

The tears come anyway, slow at first, then faster — hot, silent streams that sting her eyes and trail down to her jaw. She wipes them away angrily, but more follow, as if her body refuses to obey her.

She hates this — the helplessness, the noise in her chest. The memory of last night sits like a weight on her lungs. Mira’s voice, soft with worry. Zoey’s trembling hands. The way they held her while she broke apart.

They shouldn’t have had to.

She presses a shaking hand to her mouth, muffling a sob that tears through her anyway.

The wind catches her hair, pushing strands across her face. She doesn’t move to fix them. Her breath comes in uneven bursts, her shoulders trembling.

She can still hear Celine.

Rumi’s stomach twists so hard she nearly retches.

“Maybe she’s right,” she murmurs, the words slipping out before she can stop them. “Maybe it would’ve been better if I—” Her voice catches, cracking. “—if I just… wasn’t here anymore.”

The hoodie swallows the sound. Her throat burns. She curls tighter into herself, arms around her legs, trying to make herself smaller, invisible.

The sun climbs higher, staining the sky a soft, aching gold. The city begins to move — cars, people, life. But up on the balcony, Rumi stays still, her body trembling with quiet, broken sobs.

She hates herself for ruining yesterday. For taking a perfect day — laughter, music, the three of them tangled in each other’s joy — and turning it into this.

She pulls the hoodie tighter around herself, burying her face in the fabric again. Mira’s scent hits her like a punch — sweet, warm, grounding — and it makes her cry harder.

She rips her face away quickly, hating herself even more for indulging in something as precious as Mira. She stands, shaking her hands out, and moves to the ledge.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into the open city-scape, her voice cracking apart. “I’m sorry I ruined everything. I’m sorry I’m still here.”

The world doesn’t answer. It just keeps waking up.

She stands there for a long time, watching the light move across the buildings, her tears drying in streaks on her cheeks. The ache in her chest refuses to fade. It’s too deep, too familiar. She doesn’t notice the sky shifting from gold to pale blue.

All she feels is the weight of Celine’s voice echoing through her head, the sting of shame in her throat, and the hollow space in her chest where courage used to live.

~~~

The air feels too still when Mira wakes.

At first, she doesn’t even realise what’s wrong. The sheets are warm, the pillows soft, sunlight leaking gently through the curtains. She shifts, her arm reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed — searching for Rumi.

But all she finds is empty space.

Her fingers brush against cool fabric. The pillow beside her is cold.

Her eyes snap open.

Zoey’s still half-asleep, curled toward her side, the small frown between her brows twitching as if she’s in the middle of a dream. Mira sits up carefully, glancing around. The room is quiet — too quiet. No soft humming from the kitchen, no sound of movement.

“Rumi?” she calls softly, her voice still thick from sleep.

Nothing.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool against her bare feet. The ache in her chest flares instantly — the memory of last night flashing back like lightning. Rumi sobbing, shaking in her arms. The sound of her voice breaking as she whispered apologies that shattered both of them.

Mira pushes the thought away. Maybe Rumi couldn’t sleep. Maybe she went to get water.

She glances over at Zoey again. “Zo,” she says, shaking her shoulder gently.

Zoey groans, half-turning, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just past five,” Mira murmurs. “Have you seen Rumi?”

Zoey blinks, squinting at the empty spot beside them. “She was—she was here when I fell asleep.”

“She’s not now.”

That’s all it takes. Zoey’s awake instantly. She sits up, her hair a mess, her heart already pounding in her throat. “Maybe she’s in the bathroom?”

Mira nods, but there’s no confidence in the gesture. They both rise, stepping carefully across the floor, scanning the room. Mira knocks on the bathroom door. “Rumi?”

No sound.

She opens it anyway. Empty. The air still smells like soap and perfume from the night before. No sign of her.

“Rumi?” Zoey’s voice rises, tinged with worry now. She moves toward the living room, bare feet thudding against the floor. Mira follows close behind, her pulse quickening with every step.

The couch is empty. The kitchen — empty.

“Rumi!” Mira’s voice echoes off the walls.

No response.

Zoey’s chest tightens. Panic claws up her throat like a living thing. She moves faster, eyes darting to every corner. “Rumi, this isn’t funny—”

Mira’s already at the hallway, looking into the other rooms, the closets. Nothing. She feels it like a punch in her gut. The silence is wrong. Too heavy.

“Zoey—” she starts, but Zoey isn’t listening.

Zoey sees it.

Her breath catches in her throat. She freezes, every muscle locking in place.

Through the glass balcony door — through the faint blur of morning light — Rumi stands there. Her hands are on the railing, her body leaning forward just slightly, her gaze fixed downward at the city below.

For a second, Zoey can’t move. The air leaves her lungs in a sharp, broken gasp.

“Mira,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Mira, she’s—”

Mira turns, follows her gaze — and her heart stops.

The next second is a blur.

Zoey screams her name. “RUMI!”

Rumi’s head jerks up, startled, her hair catching the sunlight as she spins around.

But Mira and Zoey are already moving — sprinting. Zoey hits the door first, her hand fumbling at the handle. Mira’s right behind her, and together they shove it open so hard the glass rattles, the sound echoing through the still morning.

Rumi stumbles backward, eyes wide, hands lifting instinctively in defence.

“What—what are you—” she starts, her voice catching.

Zoey’s crying before she even reaches her. “Don’t—please don’t—”

Rumi blinks, confused, her breath coming short. “What? What are you—”

Mira’s there now too, her chest heaving, her face pale. “We thought—” she can’t finish the sentence. Her throat closes around the words.

Rumi takes a half-step back, her spine hitting the railing. The movement makes Zoey sob harder, the sound raw and jagged.

“Stop—please—” Zoey chokes out, her hands trembling as she reaches forward. “Don’t do that—don’t go near the edge—”

Rumi freezes, horror dawning on her face. “Wait—” she breathes. “Wait, no, no, I wasn’t—”

Mira swallows hard, her voice breaking. “We woke up and you were gone. We looked everywhere.” She presses a hand to her chest, as if trying to steady the tremor in her heart. “And then we saw you—”

Rumi’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her lips tremble. “Oh god. No! No no no. You thought I—”

Zoey nods through tears. “You were right there—hands on the rail—and after last night I thought—” She can’t say it. Her voice collapses under the weight of it.

Rumi’s stomach drops. The realisation hits her like a physical blow.

She looks at them — really looks — and sees the fear on their faces. Mira’s hands are shaking, her jaw clenched tight to keep it from quivering. Zoey’s cheeks are streaked with tears, her eyes wide and broken.

And it’s her fault.

“I—” she stammers, her voice cracking. “I just—I just wanted some air.”

Mira lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob. “Rumi—”

“I swear, I wasn’t—” Rumi’s voice shakes harder, guilt flooding her veins like poison. “I wasn’t going to do anything. I was just—just watching the sunrise. I didn’t think—”

Zoey’s crying so hard she can barely breathe. “Don’t ever do that again,” she whispers, her voice shredded. “Don’t—don’t leave without telling us, not like that, not after—”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Rumi says, but her voice wavers, thin and lost. “I didn’t even think—” She chokes mid-sentence, realising exactly what they must have seen. Her body trembles, her hands pressing over her mouth. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.”

Zoey’s already moving. She crosses the space between them in three uneven steps and crashes into Rumi’s chest, arms wrapping around her so tight it knocks the air from both of them.

Rumi stumbles, arms flaring out before they find Zoey’s back. She clings to her instinctively, her heart racing against Zoey’s.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into Zoey’s hair, over and over. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I didn’t think—”

Zoey shakes her head against her chest, sobbing harder. “Don’t ever disappear like that. Please, Rumi. You can’t—you can’t do that to us.”

Mira steps in then, her long arms circling both of them from the side. Her forehead presses against Rumi’s, her breath shuddering out as she takes in the smell of her girls.

Rumi feels it all.

The tremble in Mira’s arms. The uneven rhythm of Zoey’s heartbeat against her chest. The raw, trembling love holding her in place.

Her own tears come fast again — not from pain this time, but from guilt. She buries her face in Zoey’s hair, her hands clutching both of them tight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I swear. I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking. I just needed to breathe, and I—”

Mira presses a kiss to the side of her neck, her voice low and shaking. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“I know,” Rumi breathes. “I know, I’m sorry.”

They stay like that for a long time — tangled together on the balcony, the city waking quietly around them. None of them say anything else. They don’t need to. The silence says enough — the fear still thrumming in their veins, the love heavy between them.

Eventually, Zoey hiccups softly, her tears slowing. “You promise you weren’t going to jump?” she whispers.

Rumi shakes her head, hard. “Never,” she says, her voice trembling. “I swear. I just wanted to see the sun.”

Zoey exhales shakily, nodding. Her forehead rests against Rumi’s collarbone, her hands still fisted in the fabric of Mira’s hoodie. Mira’s thumb strokes the back of Rumi’s neck, grounding her.

When Rumi finally looks up, she sees the sunrise reflected in their eyes — soft, broken, and real.

She sniffles, her lips trembling. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Zoey lets out a soft, watery laugh, half-sob, half-relief. “You’re an idiot,” she says weakly, her voice still shaking.

Mira hums against Rumi’s shoulder. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Our idiot.”

Rumi lets out a weak, breathless laugh through her tears. It sounds strange — fragile but alive.

And when they finally pull back, it’s just far enough to look at each other — three faces red and tear-streaked, three pairs of eyes full of exhaustion and love.

Mira keeps her breathing even as she quietly guides Zoey and Rumi back inside. Zoey’s trembling still hasn’t stopped completely, her fingers twitching every now and then against Rumi’s (Mira’s) hoodie. Zoey’s eyes are red and raw from crying, her head drooping against Rumi’s shoulder. They look so small like this. Fragile. Breakable.

She settles them gently onto the couch — tucking them into the corner where the cushions are softest, where they can curl into one another and feel safe again. Rumi sinks first, her body folding like it’s forgotten how to hold itself upright. Zoey follows naturally, nestling against her side, hand slipping under Rumi’s hoodie to rest on warm skin.

Mira’s chest feels tight. Too tight. The kind of ache that sits beneath the ribs and doesn’t fade with time. She smooths a loose strand of hair from Rumi’s forehead, her fingers shaking just a little.

Rumi’s eyelids are already heavy. There’s something vacant in the way her eyes move — like she’s there, but not really there.

Mira exhales softly, her heart clenching.

Mira starts to rise, just to get them something — water, tea, maybe food — but the second she shifts her weight away from the couch, Rumi’s hand darts out.

Her fingers snap around Mira’s wrist, not firm enough to hurt, but the message is clear: don’t go.

Mira freezes.

Rumi’s voice is barely there, hoarse and small. “Wait—”

“I’ll be right back,” Mira whispers, crouching again so they’re level. “I promise. Just going to make breakfast, yeah?”

Rumi’s grip tightens for a heartbeat, like her body doesn’t trust what her mind knows. Then, slowly, she lets go.

But her eyes never leave Mira. Not once.

Mira leans forward, brushing a kiss against Rumi’s temple first, then her lips — gentle but firm, grounding. “I love you,” she murmurs against parted lips. The words are quiet, but they settle heavy in the air. “Both of you.”

Rumi swallows hard. Her eyes shimmer, but no words come out. She just nods, barely. Mira squeezes her hand once more, then forces herself to stand.

When she turns away, her knees almost buckle.

The kitchen feels so far away, but Mira moves like she’s afraid to make a sound. Every noise — the clink of glass, the soft rush of water, the scrape of a knife — feels too loud, too sharp against the silence in the living room.

She glances over her shoulder constantly. Every thirty seconds. Every time she breathes. Rumi hasn’t moved, her eyes tiredly tracking each of her movements. She’s sitting where Mira left her, Zoey tucked into her side like a smaller piece of her heart.

Zoey’s already slipping back into half-sleep, her hand still fisted in the hem of Rumi’s hoodie. Rumi doesn’t look down at her, doesn’t do anything except stare, eyes following Mira as she moves around the kitchen.

Mira grips the counter until her knuckles turn white.

She forces herself to cook — Kimchi eggs, Kimbap and rice. Nothing fancy, just something warm and grounding. She doesn’t even know if any of them can stomach food right now, but she needs to do something. Standing still makes her chest feel like it’s caving in.

Her hands move automatically, muscle memory carrying her through motions she barely registers. But every few seconds she’s turning again, checking — making sure Rumi’s still there, still breathing, still anchored.

Every time she looks, Rumi’s gaze meets hers.

It’s faint, like she’s only half-seeing her, but it’s enough. Enough to keep Mira moving. Enough to keep her from shattering.

By the time the food is ready, nearly an hour’s passed. The apartment smells like spice and steamed rice. But it doesn’t feel normal. Not even close.

Mira wipes her hands on a towel and turns back toward the couch.

Rumi’s eyes are still open. Barely. She looks exhausted — more than that. Drained. Her hair’s a mess, her face pale, her lips raw from biting at them. Zoey’s breathing softly against her shoulder now, fast asleep.

Mira’s heart twists.

She sets the plates down quietly, kneeling by the couch. “Hey,” she says gently, touching Zoey’s shoulder. “Time to wake up, little one.”

Zoey stirs, groans softly, and then blinks up at her. Her lashes are still clumped with tears. Mira offers a small, tired smile. “Breakfast’s ready.”

Zoey rubs her eyes. “You made food?”

“Of course.”

Rumi doesn’t respond. She’s staring at the coffee table, eyes empty.

Mira swallows and leans closer. “Rumi,” she says softly, brushing her hand down her arm. “Come on, princess. Let’s eat, yeah?”

Rumi blinks once. Then again. Slowly, she nods.

She lets Zoey and Mira guide her to the table, her movements sluggish and unsteady, like every step takes too much effort. She sinks into the chair between them, staring at the plate like she’s not sure what to do with it.

Mira and Zoey start eating first — small bites, tentative conversation. They try to keep the mood light, talking about the songs, about maybe spending the weekend in, about nothing at all, really.

But Rumi barely reacts, resorting to twisting the ring on her left hand around her finger like a nervous tick.

She moves food around her plate, eats maybe three bites. Her shoulders stay stiff, her hands trembling faintly every now and then. When Mira or Zoey speak to her directly, she just nods or hums. No real words. No spark.

And every time Mira glances up, she catches that hollow look in Rumi’s eyes. That lost, faraway haze that makes her stomach twist.

Zoey notices too — Mira can tell by the way her hand keeps twitching on the table, like she wants to reach across but doesn’t know if she should.

Mira finally breaks the silence. “You should eat more, Ru,” she says gently.

Rumi blinks, looks down, and gives the faintest shake of her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Zoey frowns. “Baby please—”

“I just…” Rumi swallows, the word catching in her throat. “I can’t.”

Her chop sticks clatter softly onto the plate.

The silence after that feels like a held breath. Heavy. Dangerous.

Mira reaches across, laying her hand over Rumi’s trembling one. “Okay,” she murmurs. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

Rumi’s lip quivers. She looks down again, her free hand curling into the fabric of Mira’s hoodie sleeve, the same one she stole that morning. “I didn’t mean to…” She stops. Swallows. “Scare you.”

Zoey’s voice cracks. “Rumi, you—”

“I wasn’t going to jump.” Rumi’s voice is quiet but firm. “I wasn’t.” She looks up then, finally meeting their eyes. “I swear. I just… needed air. I couldn’t breathe.”

Mira’s chest aches. “We know,” she says softly. “We know that now.”

Zoey nods through tears. “Please don’t ever do that again.”

Rumi stares at her, wide-eyed, like she can’t quite understand why anyone would care that much. Then her face crumples again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I keep ruining everything.”

Mira’s chair scrapes as she moves closer. “No. Don’t say that.”

Rumi just shakes her head. “I can’t stop. I keep—”

Zoey cuts her off, leaning across the table and taking her face in her hands. Her voice is raw, desperate. “You don’t ruin anything. You don’t.”

Rumi’s lip trembles again, but no words come out.

So Mira leans forward, pressing her forehead to hers. “You scare us, yeah,” she murmurs. “But that’s because we love you. You’re not some burden we carry, Rumi. You’re the reason we get up every damn day and keep trying.”

Zoey sniffles. “Exactly.”

Rumi’s eyes close. A single tear slips down her cheek, then another.

Mira wipes them away with her thumb, slow and gentle. “You don’t have to be okay today. Or tomorrow. We’ll hold you until you are.”

Rumi’s breath shudders, her body sagging forward. “I don’t deserve you.”

Zoey lets out a wet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re so wrong Rumi, you deserve everything you ever wished for. You’ve got us, even if you don’t think you should.”

That gets the faintest twitch of a smile — tiny, fragile, but real.

It doesn’t last long.

When Mira glances at her plate later, she realises Rumi’s barely eaten anything at all. Her chop sticks still sits where they dropped. Her eyes have that faraway look again, unfocused and dim.

Zoey tries to keep talking, voice soft, steady, desperate for some sense of normalcy. But Mira can feel it — the distance settling in again, like fog creeping under a door.

Rumi nods at the right times. Smiles when they do. Pretends.

But Mira knows that kind of quiet too well. It’s not peace. It’s the silence that comes after breaking.

And she’s terrified that next time she turns her back, Rumi won’t just be standing by the railing — she’ll be gone.

~~~

The afternoon stretches out quietly in the penthouse, sunlight spilling in through the tall windows, slanting across the couch where Mira, Zoey, and Rumi huddle together. The television plays a Disney movie, the colourful animation and soft music filling the space with a comforting hum. Mira’s arm rests across Rumi’s shoulders, pulling her close against her side, while Zoey leans over, head resting lightly on Rumi’s chest. The weight is steady, grounding, and it’s enough for Rumi to slowly let go of some of the tension curling through her body.

Rumi’s eyes are half-lidded, staring blankly at the bright screen but not really seeing it. Her chest still feels tight, like a knot has been tied and she can’t find a way to loosen it. Every now and then, she glances at Mira or Zoey, her eyes searching for reassurance — for a lifeline.

Mira, sensing the constant need in Rumi’s gaze, squeezes her shoulder gently, murmuring, “It’s okay, you’re all good. You don’t have to do anything.”

Zoey hums softly, pressing a little closer, letting her warmth and weight become a comforting presence.

Rumi shifts slightly, leaning more fully into Mira, curling her hands into the fabric of her sweater. Her breathing is uneven at first, shallow and quick, but the pressure of Zoey on her front and Mira behind her gradually slows the panicked rhythm. Mira’s fingers stroke up and down Rumi’s back in small, patient circles, never rushing, never asking for words. Zoey’s hands trace gentle patterns on Rumi’s stomach, a silent communication that they’re here, steady and unjudging.

After a long pause, Rumi whispers, almost to herself, “My chest… feels wrong.”

Her voice is small, shaky, and it echoes the anxiety she can’t shake. Mira presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, murmuring, “That’s anxiety, Rumi. It’s just your body holding onto the fear. It’ll pass.”

Zoey nuzzles closer, letting her forehead brush against Rumi’s, her hands holding Rumi’s tightly, grounding her in the present. Rumi lets out a trembling breath, her whole body sinking a little into the pressure.

Zoey notices the hesitation, the way Rumi still clings to Mira’s side, and gently encourages her, “Lie down on the couch, sweetie.” At first, Rumi resists, unsure, but the pull of comfort is too strong.

Slowly, carefully, she shifts her weight back, reclining fully on the couch with her head in Mira’s lap. Mira’s hands slide into Rumi’s loose hair, threading gently through the strands, massaging her scalp with tender pressure.

Zoey moves on top of Rumi, positioning herself between Rumi’s legs and letting her weight settle over her, heavy but safe as she lays completely on top of her. Rumi stiffens for a moment, confused by the closeness, but immediately realizes that the pressure is exactly what her body has been craving — a grounding she hadn’t known she needed. The three of them form a cocoon: Mira’s steadying presence above her, Zoey’s weight and warmth pressing down in front, and Rumi sandwiched between them, fully held.

The room is filled with quiet sounds — the soft soundtrack from the movie, Mira’s measured breathing, Zoey’s gentle hums, and the occasional muffled sigh from Rumi. Her chest begins to loosen, her body gradually uncoiling, though her mind is still hazy with the aftermath of the week.

Mira continues to murmur reassurances, small affirmations: “You’re safe… we’re here… you’re loved… it’s okay.” Zoey joins in with her own soothing voice, gentle and affectionate: “You’re strong… you’re brave… you’re ours… just rest.”

Rumi’s hands clutch at Mira’s sweater and Zoey’s sleeve, her fingers threading between theirs, finding contact wherever she can. Every movement from them — a shift of weight, a scratch behind the ear, a gentle squeeze — is absorbed into her senses, each one a reminder that she is not alone, that she is protected. The glow of safety slowly spreads through her, like warmth thawing frozen muscles, and her eyes begin to flutter closed.

Minutes stretch into an hour, but for Rumi, time feels both endless and irrelevant. Zoey’s hands continue to trace comforting patterns across Rumi’s body, every small touch a silent pledge of care. Rumi begins to breathe deeper, slower, the panic retreating into exhaustion. Her limbs, once tense, now relax against the steady support of the girls holding her.

Occasionally, Rumi whimpers softly without meaning to, her body reacting to a lingering memory or anxious thought. Each time, Mira tilts her chin, pressing her lips briefly to Rumi’s forehead, murmuring, “It’s okay princess, try and sleep.”

Zoey hums, matching Mira’s tone, brushing strands of hair from Rumi’s face, whispering, “We’re right here, baby. You’re safe.”

Rumi’s voice starts to soften, her muffled sniffles gradually turning into steady breaths. She nuzzles closer to Mira, burying her face against her jumper, letting the tears flow whenever they appear. Zoey’s head shifts slightly, pressing her cheek against Rumi’s collar, her arm still draped across the girl, keeping her firmly held without restraint. Every inch of pressure, every touch, is a silent reassurance that she doesn’t need to hide her pain or her fear.

As the afternoon wanes, Rumi’s body starts to relax, her mind becoming a little quieter with the presence of her favourite people.

She whispers, barely audible, “Thank you… I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mira presses her lips to the top of Rumi’s head, her voice husky with emotion, “You never have to find out. We’re here, always.”

Zoey’s smile is tender, wet eyes catching the light, “You don’t ever have to do this alone, Rumi. Never.”

The three of them settle into a quiet rhythm, a triad of comfort, warmth, and reassurance. Rumi lays between them, chest rising and falling in tandem with Mira’s and Zoey’s presence. Her tears have dried, but her shoulders remain curled inward, still absorbing the weight of the love enveloping her. The room feels suspended, a safe bubble where she can be exactly as she is — scared, raw, exhausted — without judgment.

The movie plays on in soft, bright colours, but Rumi isn’t really watching. She stares at the screen like she’s trying to, eyes glassy and unfocused. Zoey stays comfortably sprawled across her, arm wrapped around her, breathing slow and steady. Mira’s hand rests on Rumi’s shoulder, thumb drawing slow circles over her skin. It’s comforting, grounding — but her mind is still far away.

She keeps thinking about the morning. About the look on their faces when they saw her standing on the balcony. The way Zoey screamed her name like she was losing her, the way Mira looked seconds from collapse. She’s never seen them so afraid. Not even during the fight against Gwi-ma. Not even when they first saw her patterns.

She swallows, fingers twitching against the blanket covering her.

Mira notices. “You okay, Ru?” she asks softly, voice low to not wake Zoey.

Rumi hesitates. Her throat feels thick. “I just can’t believe you guys thought I would do that,” she says finally, her voice hoarse.

Mira’s hand stills for half a second, then moves again, slower now. “We had literally just found out you asked Celine to kill you Rumi,” she admits. “You were right by the edge, and after the way you cried so hard last night…” She trails off, the rest caught behind clenched teeth.

Zoey stirs, blinking groggily. “Yeah we might have over reacted but,” she murmurs, voice scratchy with sleep. “We woke up and you were just gone. Then we saw you out there…” She exhales shakily and buries her face back in Rumi’s chest. “I thought I was gonna throw up.”

Rumi’s heart twists painfully. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

Mira leans over slightly, her palm sliding up to Rumi’s jaw, turning her head just enough that their eyes meet. “We know,” she says gently. “We do. You don’t have to be sorry for breathing fresh air.” Her lips quirk faintly, trying for levity, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just… let us know next time, yeah? Before leaving us alone in bed.”

Rumi closes her eyes, pressing her head back into Mira’s thigh. “I’m ok now,” she says softly. “I’m just… used to it. Celine says things like that all the time.”

That makes both women freeze.

Mira’s voice drops low, dangerous. “All the time?”

Rumi hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. She always said I was a mistake. That I shouldn’t have been born. That… if I really cared about what I did to the hunters, I’d—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head quickly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m used to it.”

Zoey sits up a little at that, horror written all over her face. “Rumi, that’s not something you get used to,” she says, voice trembling. “That’s—god, that’s not okay.”

Rumi shrinks a little under the weight of their reactions. “It’s fine,” she insists, voice small. “I don’t believe her anymore. Not really. I have you guys now, and when you both came along, it felt like I had a purpose.”

Mira moves her hand, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear. “Oh Rumi,” she says firmly. “You’re incredible, Rumi. Everything about you — even the parts you think are broken — they’re just you. And we love all of it.”

Rumi blinks rapidly, her chest hitching. “You don’t have to say that,” she whispers.

Zoey lets out a wet laugh. “Of course we do,” she says, scooting forward until she’s sitting fully upright beside her. “You think we’d stick around if we didn’t? You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to us, Ru. You don’t even see how special you are, but we both do.”

For a long moment, none of them move. The only sounds are their breathing and the faint hum of the movie still playing in the background.

Eventually, Rumi’s shoulders start to relax, the tension slowly draining out of her. She leans into them fully, her head tucked under Mira’s chin. Zoey strokes her back gently, tracing idle shapes that make her shiver.

“I don’t deserve you,” Rumi says, voice faint.

Mira sighs softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “None of that crap,” she murmurs. “We’re here because we want to be.”

Zoey adds, “Agreed.”

That gets a small, broken laugh from Rumi — the first in what feels like forever. It’s quiet, fragile, but real.

Mira smiles at the sound. “There she is,” she whispers, brushing her thumb over Rumi’s cheek.

The morning light spills into the room, painting them in soft gold. Rumi breathes it in — the warmth, the closeness, the steady heartbeat beneath her ear. For the first time in what feels like forever, the world doesn’t feel so heavy.

~~~

The days blur together after that morning.

Time seems slower, quieter. Everything in their tower softens around Rumi — voices, footsteps, even the light that filters through the curtains. Mira and Zoey move differently now, gentle and patient, like any wrong step might break the fragile peace they’ve built.

Rumi stays close. Always close.

She hovers in the kitchen while Mira cooks, her oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. Sometimes she’ll take the spoon Mira offers, tasting whatever’s on it before nodding quietly. Other times she just stands there, watching the movement of Mira’s hands, like the simple rhythm of it keeps her tethered.

At night, she curls into Zoey on the couch, their legs tangled under a shared blanket. Zoey hums softly sometimes — half songs, half nonsense — until Rumi’s breathing evens out. Mira will sit at the other end, reading or flipping through old playlists, watching over them with eyes that rarely leave Rumi’s face for long.

The nightmares come less often when she’s sandwiched between them. She still wakes in the dark some nights, breathing sharp and uneven, but Zoey’s arms are always there before she even sits up. Mira’s voice always follows, low and steady: “You’re safe, Ru. You’re right here.”

Some mornings, Rumi joins them for breakfast. She doesn’t say much, but she eats. Slowly. Carefully. Zoey celebrates each bite with some dramatic cheer until Rumi rolls her eyes — but her lips twitch, almost smiling.

It’s small, but it’s something.

Later that evening, they convince her to go for a walk. Just a short one, down the street and back. The air is cool, sharp against her cheeks. She wears one of Mira’s hoodies again — the same one from the balcony morning — sleeves hanging long past her hands. Zoey keeps an arm slung loosely over her shoulders the whole time, chatting softly about the neighbours’ ridiculous cat, about nothing and everything.

Rumi doesn’t say a word, but she listens. And that’s enough.

Back home, Mira sits her on the couch again, pulling her feet into her lap to massage warmth back into them. Rumi sighs, her head tipping back against the cushion, her body finally loose.

When Zoey brings her tea, she wraps both hands around the mug, staring at the steam. “Thank you,” she says, voice small but clear.

Zoey’s grin is instant and blinding. “Anytime, sunshine.”

Rumi flinches a little at the nickname, but she doesn’t pull away. She even leans into Zoey’s side again when the girl sits down beside her.

That night, when they settle into bed, Rumi doesn’t wait for them to pull her in. She moves first — curling up against Mira’s chest, her fingers searching blindly until Zoey’s hand finds hers. They lie like that for hours, breathing in sync.

By the fourth day, Post 'Celine incident', her voice starts to come back.

She talks more, softly and carefully — about small things. The smell of rain through the window. How good Mira’s pancakes were. A memory of Zoey tripping during rehearsal and pretending it was part of the choreography.

It’s not laughter yet. But it’s life.

Sometimes she goes quiet again, mid-sentence, the words dying in her throat. Mira never pushes. Zoey just nudges her gently, says, “You can tell me later,” and moves on.

And Rumi breathes a little easier each time.

On the fifth night, Mira wakes to find her still awake, staring at the ceiling. “Can’t sleep?” she whispers.

Rumi shakes her head. “Just… thinking.”

Mira reaches for her hand under the blanket, squeezing once. “That’s allowed.”

Rumi hesitates, then turns her head, her voice faint. “You really thought I’d leave you guys… like that?”

Mira’s breath catches. She nods, slow. “Yeah. We did.”

Rumi’s eyes glisten in the dim light. “I didn’t even think about it,” she says. “Not for a second. But I saw your faces, and I just—” Her voice cracks. “I didn’t know I could scare you like that.”

Mira shifts closer, pressing her forehead to Rumi’s temple. “You scared us because we love you,” she whispers. “That’s all.”

Rumi breathes out, shaking. “I don’t want to scare you again.”

“You won’t,” Mira murmurs. “You’re trying, and it will get easier to forget what she said. Eventually.”

Rumi nods, eyes fluttering shut. She falls asleep still holding Mira’s hand.

By the end of the week, there are more good moments than bad ones.

Rumi hums along to Zoey’s playlist in the kitchen one morning, voice barely audible but undeniably there. She lets Mira braid her hair before bed. She even teases Zoey for burning the popcorn, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to make Zoey squeal like she’s won something huge.

She still drifts sometimes — her gaze going distant, her words trailing off mid-thought — but when she does, she reaches for them. For Mira’s hand. For Zoey’s sleeve. For the warmth of something real.

And they’re always there.

Always steady. Always waiting.

Because they know she’s still finding her way back. And they’ll wait as long as it takes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15:

The morning starts quiet.

Soft golden light filters through the tall windows, falling in lazy lines across the couch. The television hums low, a voice narrating over footage of elephants crossing a dry savanna. Rumi sits tucked between Mira’s legs, her back pressed against her chest, her head resting under Mira’s chin. Zoey lounges on the far end, curled up with a blanket and her phone, absently scrolling but not really reading.

It’s peaceful — that rare, hushed kind of morning where the world feels like it’s finally giving them a break.

Mira’s fingers trace slow circles on Rumi’s arm. Her touch is gentle, grounding — not demanding anything, not saying anything, just there. Every now and then, Rumi hums softly in response, or tilts her head slightly into the touch.

They’ve barely spoken all morning. They don’t need to.

The documentary drones on — something about the migration patterns of wildebeests. Zoey throws in quiet commentary every few minutes, most of it nonsense.

“Look at that one,” she whispers dramatically, pointing at a tiny gazelle sprinting across the screen. “That’s me in rehearsal. Panic. Confusion. Raw athleticism.”

Rumi snorts, and Mira chuckles softly against her ear.

It’s one of those moments that feel safe. Normal. Like the world has stopped spinning for a while, letting them breathe.

Then the elevator dings.

The sound slices through the calm like a blade.

All three of them go still. Rumi’s entire body tenses in Mira’s arms, her breath hitching. Zoey freezes mid-scroll, her eyes flicking toward the hallway. Mira’s hands still against Rumi’s skin, and for a second, no one breathes.

The air tightens.

Rumi’s pulse pounds against Mira’s chest. Her shoulders tremble — not much, but enough.

Then footsteps echo down the hall. A familiar voice calls out. “Ladies! Please tell me someone’s awake, because I brought the world’s most chaotic coffee order!”

Rumi exhales all at once, shoulders sagging.

Zoey slumps against the couch, covering her face with one hand. “Jesus Christ, Bobby.”

Mira lets out a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of Rumi’s head before calling out, “Living room!”

Bobby rounds the corner a few seconds later — bright-eyed, messy-haired, balancing a cardboard tray of drinks and a tablet tucked under one arm. He’s already talking before he even looks up.

“Okay, so! You’re all officially back on the schedule — don’t yell, it’s not my fault — and management wants—”

He stops mid-sentence.

His expression softens instantly when he takes in the scene before him — Rumi still nestled against Mira’s chest, Zoey draped across the other end of the couch, all three of them wearing the same kind of exhausted, tender calm that only comes after something heavy.

Bobby’s brow furrows. “Are you all… okay?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Rumi nods, sitting up a little, trying to gather herself. “We’re good,” she says, voice hoarse but steady. “Just tired.” She gestures toward the tablet under his arm. “Is it time?”

Bobby blinks. “Time?”

“The release,” she clarifies, her tone careful. “Is it happening?”

He hesitates, then brightens, his usual energy returning in a rush. “Yes! Finally, yes. The label confirmed this morning — everything’s approved, and we’re moving ahead as planned.”

Zoey grins, half from excitement, half disbelief. “Wait, seriously? It’s happening?”

“Yep.” Bobby beams. “And Mira—” He glances toward her, lowering his voice just a touch. “—I took care of that thing you asked me to handle.”

Mira’s eyes flicker, unreadable. She nods once, not elaborating. “Thanks.”

Rumi and Zoey share a quick, curious glance, but neither of them pushes. Mira’s tone leaves little room for questions.

Bobby, on the other hand, is already pulling up notes on his tablet, oblivious to the subtle tension threading between them. “Alright, so! We have a lot to cover — and I mean, buckle up, because the next month’s going to be chaos incarnate.”

Rumi tenses again. Mira feels it immediately, her arm tightening slightly around her waist. Zoey shifts upright, crossing her legs and setting down her phone, ready to listen.

Bobby scrolls through his notes, talking fast. “Okay, so: first thing’s first. The single — ‘Break Free’ — officially drops in one week. The full album release will follow in three weeks exactly. That means—”

He looks up, grinning, clearly excited. “—you’re going to be everywhere for the next month. Interviews, appearances, live performances, and—oh, right—press photoshoots. We’re finalizing the styling concepts, but—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Zoey waves a hand, laughing nervously. “That’s a lot of words, Bobby. One at a time. What are we doing first?”

Bobby scrolls again, unbothered. “Right, so first up — we need the choreography finished for all tracks by the second week. That gives us, roughly, ten days. You’re in a good spot, though — the album’s done, so the rest is movement and refinement.”

Mira nods, thoughtful, already running timelines in her head. “We can manage that.”

Bobby nods back, his enthusiasm building again. “And—big news—you’ll be performing Break Free live next week. Talk show appearance, prime-time slot. Huge exposure, we’re talking millions of viewers.”

Zoey lights up instantly. “That’s amazing!” she says, practically bouncing. “We’ve been sitting on this forever!”

But Mira doesn’t respond. She’s still holding Rumi — and she can feel it. The way her entire body goes rigid at the word talk show.

Rumi’s breathing changes — subtle, but noticeable. Her fingers twitch in Mira’s grasp. Her jaw tightens.

She’s quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that Mira’s learned to pay attention to. The kind that hides panic behind composure.

Zoey notices a second later, her grin fading as she turns. “Hey,” she says softly, bumping her shoulder against Rumi’s. “You okay?”

Rumi blinks, as if surfacing from somewhere else. “Yeah,” she says too quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just—been a while since we’ve done something like that.”

Mira strokes her arm absentmindedly, her voice calm but firm. “Relax, we have hours and hours of media training under our belts. It’s nothing we can’t handle.”

Bobby, unaware of the shift, keeps going. “It’s a big deal. They want you three to perform the full version — live vocals, minimal backing track. Authentic energy, you know? It’s supposed to set the tone for the entire promo cycle.”

Zoey nods, trying to keep the energy up. “We can totally do that.”

Rumi doesn’t reply.

She’s staring at the TV, the moving shapes of elephants barely registering. Her mind’s already spiralling — the lights, the cameras, the crowds. The pressure. The exposure. The way talk shows always feel more like traps than celebrations.

The last one they’d done — months ago — had ended with invasive questions, forced smiles, and a panic attack she’d barely managed to hide backstage. The memory sits heavy now, tightening in her chest.

Mira feels her breathing hitch. Without drawing attention to it, she slides her fingers down, interlocking their hands. A small, silent reminder. Here. Grounded. Not alone. She twists her head slight towards Rumi, placing her lips gently next to the girls ear, and whispers; “Breathe princess, we’ve got you.”

Rumi’s thumb presses against hers hard, a small shiver running up her spine as her patterns flash brightly. Zoey notices, her smirk slipping past cool calm mask and eyes glinting with merit.

Bobby’s still talking, pacing now, waving his free hand as he runs through dates. “We’ll do the talk show next week — that’s your big debut. Then two days after that, a livestream Q&A. Then a radio appearance. And by week three, you’ll have the full rollout — launch party, press junket, magazine features, the works.”

Zoey whistles low. “You weren’t kidding about chaos.”

“Never do,” Bobby says, tapping his tablet. “This is how we make magic.”

Mira finally speaks up, her tone steady. “We’ll need rehearsal time blocked out for the choreography. All three of us, no interruptions.”

“Already booked,” Bobby says proudly. “Studio access every day, ten to four. And if you need extra hours, I’ll make it happen.”

Zoey groans dramatically. “So much for sleep.”

Mira smirks. “You weren’t using it anyway.”

Zoey throws a pillow at her. It misses, hits Rumi instead — and for the briefest moment, the tension eases. Rumi actually smiles, soft and faint, but real.

Bobby grins, clearly relieved to see it. “That’s the spirit. Alright, that’s the bulk of it — I’ll send the finalized calendar by tonight. But seriously, this is it. The big push. You’ve worked for this for months — now you get to show everyone what you’ve built.”

Mira nods, firm. “We’re ready.”

Rumi isn’t sure she is.

She keeps her face calm, nodding along, but her stomach is tight. The thought of standing on that stage, lights in her eyes, cameras trained on her — it makes her chest ache.

But when she glances sideways and sees Zoey smiling, Mira’s hand still laced with hers, something steadies in her again.

They’ve always been her rocks through times like this. The pressure, the fear, the what if’s. always holding strong exactly when she needs them.

Bobby claps his hands together, oblivious to the undercurrent of nerves. “Alright! That’s enough planning for one day. I’ll get out of your hair — let you rest before the madness starts.”

He turns to leave, then pauses, glancing at them once more. “You three are okay though, right? Like… really okay?”

Mira smiles, calm and convincing. “We’re fine, Bobby.”

Zoey nods, echoing her. “We’re good. Just gearing up.”

Rumi forces a small smile too. “We’ll be ready.”

Bobby studies them a moment longer — maybe sensing the fragility still hovering in the air — then nods. “Alright. I trust you.”

He waves, heading for the elevator again. “Don’t forget to drink water and remember, I love my girls!”

The doors slide shut behind him, and the silence that follows is thick and immediate.

Zoey lets out a long exhale, flopping back into the couch. “Holy hell.”

Mira hums quietly, her hand still on Rumi’s arm. “You okay?”

Rumi hesitates, staring down at their joined hands. “I will be,” she says finally, though her voice wavers.

Zoey sits up, reaching over to squeeze her knee. “Ready for Choreography Commander to come back out of hiatus?”

Rumi groans, slumping against Mira.

“Hey! I am not that bad! I just have standards, and you two are horrible at following instructions,” Mira whines.

“You give us one chance to nail it before snapping out heads off!” Zoey bellows, hands flying out to exaggerate her frustration.

Mira grunts, “Gym. In twenty.”

~~~

The studio’s auxiliary gym — their designated choreography space — smells faintly of floor polish and the endless energy drinks Zoey consumes. Warm sunlight spills through the high windows, glinting off the mirrored walls and sleek wood floors.

Zoey is the first to arrive, predictably bursting in with her usual flare. She’s in a cropped white shirt, with an half open back over her white sports bra, loose grey joggers cinched high on her hips, and a blue plaid shirt tied around her waist. Her hair is pulled into a high, messy bun, streaks of luscious black hair catching the light as she spins to look at herself in the mirror. There’s already a bounce in her step, her wireless headphones dangling around her collar. She hums under her breath — the opening notes of Break Free — like her body’s already prepping for what’s coming.

Rumi walks in a few minutes later, hoodie strings wrapped tight around her fingers. She’s dressed down, comfortable — white sweats, a deep purple sports bra barely visible, and an oversized purple hoodie that almost swallows her small frame. Her long braid is coiled neatly over one shoulder, a few wisps escaping to frame her face. She looks... understated but strong, that quiet kind of presence that always draws eyes without trying. Zoey’s gaze drifts immediately.

“Rumi, seriously,” Zoey says, dramatically clutching her chest. “You’re going to kill me with the cozy-but-hot thing. How do you even make a hoodie look dangerous?”

Rumi blushes, tugging at the hem self-consciously. “It’s just a hoodie, Zo.”

“Not when you wear it,” Zoey grins, twirling a strand of her own hair.

“Shut up,” Rumi blushes, watching as Zoey saunters up to her.

Their lips meet before Zoey bothers to respond. It’s soft, sweet, delicate. Like Zoey is welcoming her home with the soft movement of her lips, the tracing of tongue, and the little sigh that escapes when they part.

“God I’ve missed this,” Zoey mumbles against Rumi’s lips.

The door opens again before Rumi can reply. Mira steps through, and both girls go silent.

She’s in black cargo-style pants, a tight cropped long-sleeve muscle shirt, and her hair is pulled full back in two tight braids – something both girls know she doesn’t do regularly. Minimal makeup, just mascara and a hint of shimmer on her cheekbones — and yet she looks like she stepped straight out of a performance teaser. She carries her usual black notebook and pen in one hand, a water bottle in the other.

Rumi swallows hard, eyes tracing the subtle flex of muscle in Mira’s forearms as she stretches her wrist. Zoey whistles low, leaning toward Rumi as they openly stare at Mira.

“Fuck,” Rumi murmurs, feeling Zoey’s chin on her shoulder, “Get a load of that…”

“Girl I’m trying.”

Rumi chokes on air, jaw dropping, eyes bugging out of her head. Both due to the sight of Mira looking all athletic and commanding, and Zoey’s filthy innuendo.

Mira raises an eyebrow at the whispering but doesn’t comment. She sets her things down on the front bench, then turns, her commanding energy shifting the whole room’s rhythm.

“Alright,” she says, clapping her hands once. “Break Free. We want something sharp, clean, and unforgettable.”

Zoey nods, immediately crossing her arms, already in thought. “Something that hits like confidence. Like we’ve already won before we start.”

Rumi hums softly. “But still simple enough we can sing well through it,” she adds. “It’s about control, not chaos. We can’t lose the flow.”

Mira scribbles both their comments down in her notebook, nodding. “Confidence, control. Got it.” She looks up, eyes sharp. “I want to mix fast footwork with stillness — tension and release. Like the song builds and breaks open in waves.”

Zoey bounces in place, pointing at her. “Yes! Like—” she snaps her fingers, then breaks into an impromptu hip roll, singing, ‘I’m stronger than I’ve been before—’ She does a little spin that has her nearly slipping, laughing when Rumi catches her by the wrist. “See? Like that. You can feel the beat pulling at you.”

Mira chuckles, pen tapping against her lip. “We’ll make sure you don’t fall on your face doing that.”

Rumi’s still holding Zoey’s wrist when she says, softly, “It should feel natural.”

Mira’s gaze lands on her. “Exactly,” she says quietly, and something flickers between them — a shared understanding that goes deeper than choreography.

They move to the mirrors, stretching side by side. The silence between words fills with the sound of sneakers scuffing the floor, fabric shifting, breaths syncing. Mira stands in the center, posture straight, the weight of leadership fitting her like armor. She flips open her notebook again, jotting quick notes as she speaks.

“I want the first verse clean. Simple steps, all in sync. Then, when the chorus hits—” she gestures broadly with her pen, “—it needs to explode. It should feel like you’re breaking through something invisible.”

Zoey spins toward the mirror, trying out a few moves — sharp turns, arm sweeps, a quick body roll that makes Rumi flush again.

Mira watches, critical but amused. “Not bad, but you’re leading too much with your shoulders. The power’s in your core.” She steps forward, adjusting Zoey’s posture with a firm hand at her waist. Zoey freezes for half a beat, then grins up at her through the mirror.

“See, Rumi,” she teases, “this is why I keep messing up.”

Rumi groans, hiding her face in her sleeve, but her smile betrays her. “You’re gunna make her mad.”

Mira shakes her head, chuckling softly before stepping back. “Focus, you two. If this single bombs, Bobby will actually combust.”

That earns a laugh from both of them, easing the tension.

They keep brainstorming — Mira sketching out steps and counting beats, Zoey bouncing around with bursts of movement, and Rumi standing a little apart, watching, occasionally offering quiet but vital observations.

When Mira finally looks up, she notices how Rumi’s brow furrows as she studies the moves, every little detail absorbed. There’s a focus in her eyes Mira hasn’t seen in days — not the haunted emptiness from before, but the start of fire again. It makes her chest ache in the best way.

“You look like you’re overanalysing again,” Mira says lightly.

Rumi blinks, caught. “Maybe. I just... I want to get it right.”

Zoey drops dramatically onto the floor, fanning herself. “You’ll get it right, Ru. You always do. It’s the rest of us mortals who need to catch up.”

~~~

Hours later, the sunlight streaming through the studio windows turns gold and lazy. The air is warm, heavy with the hum of speakers, the faint echo of the song looping again and again. They’ve been at it for hours — breaking the routine apart, counting out beats, arguing over timing — but somehow the room feels alive instead of tired.

They are all sweating, hair curling with heat, shirts and jumpers ditched as required. Leaving Rumi with her jumper tied tightly around her waist and Mira in just a sports bra, muscle shirt thrown away and forgotten (Something that earned her wolf whistles and barking from both Zoey and Rumi).

Mira’s notebook lies open on the bench, pages already filled with scribbled counts and arrows, quick sketches of formations. Zoey’s phone, plugged into the sound system, flashes the song title every few minutes: Break Free – Demo 3.

The track plays again.

“Okay,” Mira calls, clapping her hands. “Let’s take it from the bridge!”

Zoey groans but pushes up from the floor anyway. “You’re actually trying to kill us, aren’t you?”

“Not yet,” Mira says, smirking. “That’s next week.”

Rumi laughs softly as she ties her hoodie tighter around her waist, stepping into position. Her braid swings with the movement, catching Zoey’s eye.

“You always look so composed,” Zoey says, mock whining. “Meanwhile, I look like I’ve just come out of a stampede.”

“You do,” Mira teases, eyes glinting.

Zoey throws an exaggerated glare. “Betrayal from my own girlfriend.”

Rumi hides her smile, ducking her head. “You both look fine.”

Zoey presses a hand to her chest, pretending to swoon. “Compliments now? Rumi, if you keep this up, I’ll never survive rehearsal.”

Mira rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness in the gesture. “Positions, lovebirds.”

They all move back to their marks. The track cues up.

The first beat hits — a heavy bass pulse that ripples through the floor.

Zoey launches into the motion first, hips and arms moving with sharp precision. Rumi follows a split second later, every gesture smoother, more deliberate — power hidden under grace. Mira watches them both from the mirror, counting under her breath, every step mapped in her head.

At the chorus, they spin, bodies flowing into formation, hands brushing briefly as they move past one another.

“Sharp!” Mira calls. “Lock those shoulders—yes, Zoey, like that. Rumi, relax your hands—don’t clench.”

Rumi exhales, adjusting.

They finish the sequence breathless, a tangle of laughter and sweat. Zoey flops down first, gasping dramatically. “Someone tell Bobby to hire backup dancers, I’m dying.”

Mira grabs her water bottle, shaking her head. “You’ll live.”

Rumi sits down beside Zoey, handing her towel over. “You’re doing great.”

Zoey peeks at her through messy bangs, grinning. “You just like watching me suffer.”

Rumi’s cheeks flush a little. “Maybe.”

“Ha!” Zoey points at her. “She admits it!”

Mira watches them from the mirror, smiling despite herself. “If you two are done flirting, we still have two verses to fix.”

Zoey sighs dramatically. “Fine, coach. Put me back in.”

“Only if you stop complaining,” Mira says, dryly amused.

They push through another round, Mira tweaking tiny details. She steps behind Zoey, adjusting her hips into alignment, her hands firm but brief. Then she moves to Rumi, fingertips brushing her elbow as she murmurs, “Lift here, let the motion flow through your arm instead of stopping at the wrist.”

Rumi nods, eyes meeting hers through the mirror for a fleeting second before Mira steps back.

It keeps happening — little moments of contact, all practical, all necessary, but each leaving an invisible thread between them.

At one point, Zoey missteps and nearly collides with Rumi. Mira instinctively reaches out, grabbing Zoey’s waist and pulling her steady, but the movement sends all three of them stumbling into a laughing heap.

“Graceful,” Mira deadpans, her hair falling loose from its ponytail.

Zoey’s laughter fills the space, bright and unrestrained. “We’re naturals!”

Rumi’s laugh joins hers — soft, breathy, the sound Mira didn’t realize she’d been missing until now.

They reset. Try again. And again. Hours blur into the rhythm of music, the echo of their sneakers, the pulse of shared energy.

By midafternoon, their movements start syncing effortlessly. Mira calls counts less often. The music carries them now, instinct filling the gaps that planning couldn’t.

When the track fades, Zoey’s sprawled on the floor, hair sticking to her forehead. Rumi sits beside her, legs stretched out, absently braiding the ends of Zoey’s ponytail while she talks. Mira leans against the mirrored wall, pen tapping against her thigh as she reviews her notes.

“So, we’re basically done,” Zoey says.

Mira glances up, smirking. “You tripped twice.”

“Performance flair,” Zoey says, dead serious. “I’m adding texture.”

Rumi snorts, hiding her grin.

Mira shakes her head, amused. “Alright, texture queen, let’s run the full thing once. From start to finish.”

Zoey groans again, but gets up anyway, holding a hand out to Rumi. “Come on, partner in suffering.”

Rumi takes it, steadying herself. “If I fall, I’m taking you down with me.”

“That’s fair.”

The music cues.

This time, everything clicks. The first verse sharp and confident, their movements cutting through the air in perfect rhythm. The chorus hits, and the energy shifts — it’s powerful, liberating, everything they’d talked about. Mira moves like water and fire at once, commanding but fluid. Zoey’s motions burst with charisma, all dramatic flair and sharp grins. Rumi’s are subtle, hypnotic — strength disguised as softness.

When the last note fades, they stay frozen for a moment, panting, the room ringing with silence.

Then Zoey whoops, breaking into laughter. “Oh, that was so good!”

Mira can’t help smiling, pride softening her exhaustion. “It really was.”

Rumi’s chest rises and falls with deep breaths, sweat beading at her temples. She meets Mira’s gaze in the mirror, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. “We did it.”

Mira nods. “We did.”

Zoey throws an arm around both of them, pulling them into a messy, sweaty group hug. “We’re unstoppable.”

Mira laughs into her shoulder. “You smell like sweat and energy drinks.”

“Hot combo,” Zoey says, grinning.

Rumi groans, leaning her head against Mira’s shoulder. “I think my legs forgot how to function.”

Mira’s tone softens, warm but still carrying authority. “Alright, that’s enough for today. We’ve got the skeleton done — we’ll polish transitions tomorrow.”

Zoey flops backward onto the floor again, sighing dramatically. “You’re a tyrant, but a sexy one.”

Mira chuckles, grabbing her notebook. “You keep talking like that and I’ll make you run laps.”

“I can think of a better way to wear me out…”

“Zoey,” Mira snaps, eyes flashing dangerously.

Rumi laughs quietly, shaking her head. “She’s going to test your patience one day.”

“She already does,” Mira says, though her smile betrays the fondness underneath.

They spend the next few minutes cooling down — stretching, breathing, occasionally collapsing into each other between bursts of laughter. Rumi ends up sitting cross-legged on the floor, braiding her hair again while Zoey hums the chorus softly under her breath, fixing her own hair into her usual two buns. Mira scribbles a few last notes, her pen scratching softly in the quiet.

“Looks good on paper,” she murmurs.

“Looks better in motion,” Zoey replies.

Rumi glances up, her eyes soft. “It’s... fun, to be moving again. It feels good.”

Mira pauses mid-note, meeting her gaze. There’s something fragile but hopeful in Rumi’s voice — something Mira doesn’t want to scare away.

“Yeah,” she says gently. “It is.”

Zoey breaks the brief silence that settles over them, voice light but thoughtful. “Can we talk about next week?”

Rumi glances at her. “The live performance?”

“Mm.” Zoey nods. “And the album release. And, you know... all of it.”

Mira pushes away from the wall, walking over to join them. She sinks down onto the floor in front of them, resting her elbows on her knees. “We should. Bobby said we’ll be doing at least three interviews next week, one of them live. Plus the show performance.”

Zoey groans dramatically. “Live interviews are evil. You can’t edit out the dumb stuff I say.”

“You’ll be fine,” Mira says, smiling. “They love you when you’re unfiltered.”

Rumi chuckles softly. “She’s not wrong, it’s very cute.”

Zoey shoots her a look of mock betrayal, then pokes her side. “Oh really?”

Rumi laughs, catching her hand gently. “Sorry. You’re very charming when you ramble.”

Zoey grins, satisfied, and Mira rolls her eyes — though the corners of her mouth twitch upward.

The laughter fades into quiet again, and for a few moments, they just sit there. The sun shifts, catching the strands of Rumi’s hair where it’s come loose from her braid.

Mira notices the way she’s fidgeting, fingers tracing the edge of her towel, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Mira asks softly.

Rumi hesitates, then exhales. “Just thinking.”

“About?” Zoey prompts.

Rumi doesn’t answer right away. She presses her thumb into her palm — that small, nervous habit they both know by now. When she finally speaks, her voice is low, uncertain.

“I’m scared,” she admits. “About next week.”

Mira tilts her head slightly. “Of the performance?”

Rumi shakes her head. “Yes and no. Mostly about me, how I react to things now. How over stimulating everything is. What if I cant handle it all anymore?”

Zoey frowns. “You’ve done shoots before, though. You were amazing in the last one.”

Rumi looks down again. “Yeah, but that was different. Photos are... easier. You don’t have to pretend to be okay while thousands of people are staring at you.”

Mira exchanges a look with Zoey — quiet understanding passing between them.

“Rumi,” Mira says gently, “they’re staring because they love you. You know that, right?”

Rumi’s lips twitch into a sad smile. “Some of them, yeah.”

The room falls silent again. Zoey leans forward a little, tone soft but curious. “Did something happen?”

Rumi hesitates — long enough that Zoey reaches out, brushing her hand against Rumi’s knee in quiet encouragement.

Then Rumi says, almost in a whisper, “There were... comments. On some of the shoots I did last month.”

Zoey’s expression sharpens instantly. “What kind of comments?”

Rumi keeps her eyes on the floor. “Just... people asking about my patterns. The scars.” Her hand moves unconsciously to her forearm, where faint pale iridescent shapes trace her skin under the light. “Most of them didn’t mean harm, I think. But some...”

She trails off, swallowing hard.

Mira’s chest tightens. “Rumi.”

Rumi shakes her head quickly. “It’s fine. I know it comes with being public. It’s just strange. They only see white scars, right? They don’t see what they actually are. Some people keep saying they think they are tattoo’s, which is still not any better than scars here. But still...” She takes a slow, shaky breath. “Sometimes it feels like the comments are more negative than positive.”

Zoey shifts closer, her knee brushing Rumi’s. “Rumi, hey. Don’t read that stuff, okay? You’ll drive yourself insane.”

“I try not to.” Rumi lets out a humorless laugh. “But the algorithms make sure I see them anyway.”

Mira moves beside her, voice low and even. “You know ninety-nine percent of those comments are positive, right? People love your look. They call you ethereal, otherworldly. They think your patterns are beautiful.”

Rumi shakes her head faintly. “I don’t want to look.”

Zoey frowns. “You don’t have to. I’ll delete them all if you want. I’ll fight the internet for you.”

That earns the smallest smile from Rumi. “That might be a losing battle.”

“Worth it,” Zoey says, grinning faintly.

Mira leans in, resting her arm lightly across Rumi’s shoulders. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation, Rumi. Not the fans, not the press, not anyone. What they see doesn’t define you.”

Rumi leans into her a little, quiet for a long moment. The warmth of Mira’s arm, the nearness of Zoey — it’s grounding. Safe.

“Tell you what,” Zoey says, tone suddenly mischievous. “If anyone says something stupid about your patterns, I’ll personally flood their feed with thirst posts about you.”

Rumi blinks, startled — then actually laughs. “You wouldn’t.”

Zoey smirks. “Oh, I would.  I’d post that video of you braiding your hair last week with the caption ‘Look at our goddess Rumi, the woman who invented symmetry.’ You’d trend in ten minutes.”

Mira chuckles softly. “You’d crash the internet.”

“Zoey I was shirtless in that video! I told you to delete it!”

“Exactly.” Zoey winks. “Explicit content. Problem solved. Internet broken.”

Rumi shakes her head, smiling helplessly. “You’re both absolutely insane.”

Mira lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe. But you’re smiling again.”

Rumi goes quiet at that, cheeks flushing faintly. “I can’t help it. You make it hard not to.”

Zoey grins, leaning back on her hands. “Our charm is unstoppable.”

Mira watches them, the warmth in her chest blooming into something deeper. She reaches out, brushing her fingers along Rumi’s jaw just briefly, enough to draw Rumi’s gaze back to her. “You’re beautiful, Rumi. Every mark, every scar. They’re just part of your story.”

Rumi’s eyes glisten — not from tears this time, but something quieter. Something like gratitude.

“I wish I saw it the way you do,” she whispers.

Zoey’s voice softens. “You will. One day. We’ll make sure of it.”

Mira nods. “Until then, we’ll see it for you.”

For a long while, none of them move. The silence is gentle, punctuated only by the faint hum of the studio’s air vents. Then Zoey breaks it – like usual.

“Oh I know!” She giggles, “Let’s do a tiktok dance! We haven’t posted since before the Saja boys showed up, that will hype the fans up for the release.”

“Yes!” Mira cheers, “I already have a dance I’ve been wanting to do, come on.”

They immediately pull a whining Rumi to her feet, Mira pulling out her phone and Zoey squealing with excitement.

All leaning over Mira’s shoulder, they watch the dance. It’s simple, slower than their usual dances, and sexy. It’s to Mr. Mr. by Girls Generation, a favourite of Mira’s to dance to. There are only two girls in the video, but the choreography is easy.

It takes half an hour for Mira to break down the dance. She counts it out slow at first, hips swaying, her movements clean and practiced. Zoey catches on fast, fluid and fiery, but Rumi struggles at first—hesitant in the way she shifts her weight, her gaze darting to the mirror, to them, and back again.

Mira steps behind her, placing her hands gently on Rumi’s hips. “No, here,” she murmurs, guiding the motion. “You’re locking too soon. It’s meant to roll.”

Rumi stiffens under the touch, then exhales, her body following the guidance. They end up in a slow grind, Rumi’s ass pushing firmly back into Mira as they roll out and around. They let the part of the song loop and try it again, it feels more natural.

On the third run of the move, Rumi relaxes. She even smiles. Deciding to push her luck, she brings a hand up and back, threading into Mira’s hair as they roll together and making hooded eye contact in the mirror.

Rumi can feel her pulse – she can see it too – as her patterns flicker from their usual resting colour to a low golden shimmer. She sees Mira smirk at her, her hands pulling her tighter into her body.

Zoey watches, arms crossed and smirk tugging at her mouth. “Should I leave you two alone, or…”

Mira doesn’t look up. “You’re next, so don’t start.”

“Promises, promises,” Zoey teases, earning a low groan from Mira and a tiny laugh from Rumi.

By the time they’ve nailed the full choreography, an hour has passed. Their clothes cling, hair sticking to necks, laughter spilling out every few minutes between missed steps and dramatic falls. Mira calls for one last full run-through.

They line up, the beat kicks in, and everything clicks. The energy, the rhythm, the flow—it all locks into place. Mira’s eyes meet Rumi’s in the mirror, and for a heartbeat, the world feels suspended in that quiet, magnetic pull.

When the song ends, Zoey’s the first to break the spell, panting, hair wild. “We’re so fucking hot it should be illegal.”

Rumi’s smile is small but genuine. “It looked good.”

“Good?” Zoey scoffs. “It looked incredible.” She turns, pulling up their TikTok account on her phone. “Now, time to prove a point.”

Mira groans, dropping to sit on the floor. “You’re ready?”

Zoey crouches in front of her, tapping at the screen. “You bet. Rumi needs evidence she’s a goddess.”

Rumi blinks, startled. “Zoey—”

“Nope,” Zoey says, cutting her off with a grin. “This is science.”

They take a few minutes to set up the tripod. Zoey adjusts the camera angle while Mira fixes the lighting, her sports bra clinging to her skin, the muscles in her arms flexing as she moves. Rumi pretends not to notice, fiddling with the hem of her sports bra.

Zoey catches the motion immediately and tosses a folded shirt at her. “Here. You’ll feel better with this on.”

Rumi blinks, surprised. “You don’t mind?”

Zoey shakes her head, her expression soft. “Nah. We’re still gonna break the internet either way.”

Mira grins at that, tugging the shirt down over Rumi’s stomach. “You look perfect, Ru.”

Rumi’s breath catches for a second, then she nods, murmuring, “Thanks.”

The first take is a disaster. Zoey turns right instead of left, crashing into Rumi, and they both dissolve into helpless laughter. The second one’s better, until Mira accidentally hits the camera stand with her arm.

By the third try, though, it all lines up—timing, energy, everything.

They watch it back together, still panting from the effort. The reflection on the screen shows three women glowing with sweat and confidence, moving like a single breath.

“Holy crap,” Zoey mutters, awe in her voice. “We look hot.”

Mira smirks, leaning back on her hands. “Told you.”

Rumi stares at the screen, face pink, unable to stop herself from smiling. “I guess… it’s not bad.”

Zoey scoffs. “Not bad? Baby, look at yourself.”

Mira’s voice softens. “She’s right. You look powerful, Ru. Hot as fuck.”

Rumi blinks hard, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind her eyes. She nods, her throat too tight for words.

Zoey takes it as her cue, hitting “Post” with a flourish. “And… uploaded. Prepare for chaos.”

Rumi stares down at the phone, watching the video play, music blasting. She reads the caption, simple and to the point: “The calm before the Comeback… See you all soon xxx”.

The tension breaks as soon as the music cuts. Mira stretches, groaning. “Alright, enough vanity. I’m starving.”

Zoey beams. “Dinner out?”

“Obviously.”

She turns toward Rumi, who’s still sitting cross-legged on the floor, lost in thought. “You in?”

Rumi looks up at them both—Mira with her messy hair and lazy grin, Zoey with her spark-bright eyes—and nods slowly. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I’d like that.”

Zoey whoops and flops onto her back, laughing up at the ceiling. Mira chuckles, helping Rumi to her feet, fingers brushing over hers just a moment longer than needed.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

They pack up the studio together, the air thick with the scent of sweat and something softer—trust, maybe, or quiet relief.

As they step into the hallway, Zoey throws an arm around both their shoulders, humming the melody of “Mr. Mr.” under her breath. “I give it twenty minutes before the internet loses its mind.”

Mira laughs, the sound low and warm. “I give it ten.”

Rumi glances between them, and for the first time in a long time, she feels something deep in her chest settle—something calm and almost safe.

“Maybe five,” she murmurs.

Zoey gasps dramatically. “Oh my god, she’s joking again, call the press.”

Mira snorts, squeezing Rumi’s hand. “God help us all when she finds sarcasm.”

And as they walk toward the elevator, tangled together in laughter and new warmth, the tension still hums underneath—quiet, electric, alive.

~~~

The three of them come out of their separate showers, steam still clinging to their skin and hair damp. Music blasts from their separate rooms as they all get ready, excited for good food and an adventure out of the penthouse. Pressure free.

Mira lets her hair dry naturally, tousled and shining, her black button up formal shirt hugging her just right, sleeves rolled to her elbows, paired with a high-waisted pink skirt and thigh high black boots. She pulls a couple of rings from the dresser – their matching one first – sliding them on each finger, and tilts her gold wire-frame glasses up her nose.

Zoey is next to finish getting ready, hair loosely pinned back with strands escaping over her shoulders. She throws on a pair of green camo print trousers with a thick belt, and a matching green tube top, pairing it with thick laced boots, and big gold hoops. She throws on her ring, then a few bracelets, and does her makeup in record time. It’s edgy, thick eyeliner, shiny eyeshadow and blush light enough to be cute.

Rumi finishes last, fingers fumbling slightly as she pulls her signature braid over one shoulder, putting on a white tank top, tie up washed jeans, and a over-sized white and light blue flannel. She pairs the outfit with her white converse, her ring, a watch Mira gave her for Christmas a few years ago and a gold necklace Zoey got her for her birthday last year.

They meet at the elevator, all three arriving at slightly different times but their eyes instantly locking. Mira catches Rumi first, a small grin tugging at her lips. “You look… gorgeous,” she teases, raising an eyebrow as her gaze rakes over Rumi’s sweater, the softness clashing with the sharp gold in her eyes.

Rumi feels her cheeks heat up. “It’s just a shirt and jeans Mira.” She bites her lip, but her voice wavers slightly.

“Mm, just? Understatement of the year,” Zoey chimes in, stepping closer to Rumi and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers linger a second too long, tracing along Rumi’s jawline, eliciting a soft hum from the girl. “I could get used to this.”

Rumi swallows, heart stuttering as Mira tilts her head to watch the exchange. “Zoey, you’re corrupting her,” Mira says, mock stern, though the sparkle in her eye betrays her amusement.

“Pfft, Mira,” Zoey scoffs, grinning. “She’s already halfway corrupted. Don’t act like you didn’t help.”

Mira huffs a laugh, stepping closer and pressing a light kiss to Rumi’s temple, just soft enough to make her shiver. “That’s my job,” she murmurs, and Rumi leans into the warmth without hesitation.

Zoey laughs, bumping her shoulder against Rumi’s. “Yeah, well, I’m the fun one.” She presses a quick kiss to Rumi’s cheek, and Rumi’s ears burn, her fingers curling slightly in excitement.

They all call the driver quietly, and Mira, with a small flourish, dictates the restaurant address. “I’ll call ahead and get a private table. Try not to get too handsy in the lobby,” she teases, though her grin says otherwise.

The elevator dings, and they step inside together. Rumi instinctively moves between them, Zoey’s hand finding hers instantly. Zoey threads their fingers together, thumb running over Rumi’s knuckles, firm and reassuring. Mira’s hand drifts to Rumi’s lower back, pressing a soft, teasing line of touch that makes Rumi bite her lip to keep from reacting audibly.

Rumi can’t help the small smile that spreads across her face. She feels like the luckiest girl alive, two incredible women holding her in every way she could want. Zoey catches her eye, gives a small wink, and squeezes her hand a little tighter.

“I’ve missed this – going out. It feels good to get dressed up and relax,” Rumi replies softly, leaning into the warmth of Mira’s touch on her leg.

Mira smirks, brushing a thumb along Rumi’s side. “Good girl. That’s what I like to hear.”

The car pulls up as soon as they step out of the elevator, and they pile in, Rumi naturally settling into the middle. Zoey scoots close, pressing her body lightly against Rumi’s side, while Mira edges forward, her thigh brushing Rumi’s as she tucks her arm around her shoulder. The warmth of their presence is almost overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

Rumi’s eyes flit between them, noting how Mira’s gold necklace catches the dim light of the car interior, how Zoey’s messy hair swings as she leans in slightly. She’s dizzy with how easy it feels to be enveloped in their closeness, the teasing touches, the soft words whispered under her ear.

“You okay?” Mira murmurs into the shell of Rumi’s ear.

Rumi flushes as fast as she nods, blinking at Mira. Mira meets her gaze, eyes hooded, smirking slightly. “Good, you look divine princess,” she murmurs, voice low and teasing.

Rumi bites her lip, heart thumping. “Stop flirting, we haven’t even had dinner yet,” she whispers back, and the car fills with a quiet, contented warmth.

“Can’t stop, won’t stop,” Zoey hums, eyes fixed on her phone with a cheeky smile.

They talk quietly as the city blurs by outside the window. Zoey points out buildings and little shops, joking about what they’ll do after dinner. Mira rolls her eyes at the childish commentary, but she’s smiling, letting her hand remain on Rumi’s shoulder, tracing soft lines along her arm. Rumi leans into both of them, letting the constant warmth and playful touches ground her.

When they arrive at the restaurant, the car doesn’t even fully stop before Rumi feels Zoey tugging her gently by the hand. “Come on,” she says, grinning. “We have reservations. Don’t want to make Mira grumpy before dinner.”

As they exit the car, Rumi moves between them, feeling grounded and protected. Mira slides an arm around her shoulders, Zoey presses close behind, hands brushing along Rumi’s sides. They walk into the restaurant together, the air around them buzzing with playful energy.

Even as they’re shown to their table, Rumi notices all the little touches — Mira leaning down to whisper something in her ear, Zoey brushing hair from her face, fingers lingering along her hand. She’s dizzy with the simple intimacy of it all, heart full, and she can’t stop the small, soft smile that keeps appearing on her lips.

Mira tilts her head, eyes following Rumi’s expression, and says softly, “Don’t smile too much… you might make us fight over you.”

Zoey laughs, leaning against Rumi’s back. “No need to fight baby, she’s already ours.”

Rumi’s cheeks flush, but she squeezes both of their hands. “And happy to be,” she whispers, letting herself melt into the warmth of their presence.

They settle into the table, the three of them entwined in subtle, playful touches, laughing quietly and teasing each other as the waiter arrives. The entire moment feels suspended in its own perfect bubble. Rumi catches Mira’s smirk and Zoey’s mischievous grin, and she realizes with a soft gasp that she has never felt safer, more loved, or more like herself than she does right now, pressed between them, their laughter filling her ears, their hands reminding her constantly that she belongs right here.

Zoey leans down, whispering in Rumi’s ear, “You ok Ru? You’ve gone kind of quiet.”

Rumi shakes her head, laughing softly, heart soaring. “Never better,” she breathes.

The three of them sit there, basking in the quiet, playful intimacy, hands brushing, smiles lingering, teasing whispers carried over each bite of food. Even the small, everyday moments feel charged with affection — Rumi’s laugh at Zoey’s commentary, Mira’s teasing tilt of her head, the constant, grounding presence of their hands on her, reminding her that she’s exactly where she belongs.