Chapter Text
“A night out?” Rumi echoes, voice uncertain. Her bandmates exchange excited looks, like she’s just stumbled onto a secret plan. They eagerly nod. “I don’t know Zoey…” Rumi trails off, glancing at Mira for backup. Letting loose and being in public? For her, those two didn’t usually coexist well. Hell, the mix felt foreign to her.
But Mira just shrugs, calm and steady. “She has a point, though. A space full of people, dim light, loud music,” she says, flicking a glance at Zoey, “it’s more private than you’d think.”
Zoey grins, the kind of grin that lights up her whole face. “Exactly! No one will even think to look for us. Mira’ll wear her glasses—”
“I will not—”
“—Mira won’t wear her glasses, but we can all go for darker makeup, wear less flashy things than usual, blend in.” Her eyes sparkle with a kind of mischievous promise. “It’ll be fun!” The grin on her lips doesn’t weaver and there is a pleading expression reflected in her eyes.
Rumi looks back at Mira, hoping to find refuge in her expression, but Mira’s eyes shine with the same eagerness. They both want it—maybe more than Rumi expected. A beat passes between them and Rumi sighs, the sound quiet but heavy with surrender. “I guess I could cover up-”
Zoey bounces on her toes, disappearing into her room before reappearing with a semi see-through top. “Nope, I got that covered,” she says, holding it out. “I guess, technically, you’re still covering up though.” Her face scrunches up in a way that pulls a soft smile out of Rumi.
Mira steps in, voice gentle but firm. “It’s different. This is in the name of disguise,” she says, nodding with mock seriousness.
“It’s alright,” Rumi says, taking the top with a small ‘thank you’ and “I don’t mind.” She meets Mira’s eyes, who shoots her a look that’s equal parts teasing and sincere, and adds, “really, it is different.” Does she believe it? Maybe not fully. But their smiles are contagious, and Zoey’s energy is impossible to resist and so she decides she doesn’t care.
“Guess I’ll go change then?” she offers, and Zoey squeals in delight, Mira pumping a victorious fist accompanied by a ‘yes!’. Rumi laughs softly, slipping away to her room
The top would cover the marks on her arms and torso, but she still chose long pants, a subtle shield for her legs. Still, the feeling was new—different. She wasn’t hiding out of fear anymore, or trying to blend away. She was doing it to keep things peaceful, to lean into this strange new closeness she shared with Mira and Zoey.
Since the Honmoon and the late night talks that followed, something had shifted. The awkward boundaries between them had softened, becoming warmer, more electric. Their touches lingered just a second longer—Mira’s hand brushing Rumi’s lower back as they moved, Zoey’s fingers occasionally grazing her arm in passing. The casual skin-on-skin contact used to make Rumi’s chest tighten, but now she was learning to breathe through it, to welcome it, even when it scared her. Vulnerability was unfamiliar territory, but with Mira and Zoey, it was starting to feel less like a risk, more like trust.
Standing before the mirror, pulling the top over her head, Rumi caught a glimpse of herself—not quite the girl who hid behind layers anymore. There was a quiet confidence she hadn’t noticed before, subtle but undeniable. They were all different now, somehow classier in the way they carried themselves, a little more open, a little less guarded.
Her heartbeat quickened, equal parts excitement and nerves.
Knowing this is ‘different’ still does little to ease the sinking feeling in her stomach as she looks herself over. Rumi does her best to shake it off, not think about it too much but the motions are too familiar and the strange almost comfort being covered up brings are hard to ignore.
Rumi is not a bad dancer, by any means. She knows this. She's been told as much, often, and not always with words. In fact, she is a good dancer. But, this, this is different. There’s no choreography to fall into, no stage lights to hide behind, no beat that’s already laced into her bloodstream. The music here is loud in a way that feels invasive rather than immersive, reverberating through her chest like a second heartbeat she doesn’t remember agreeing to share. She hovers at the edge of the dance floor, unsure. The others don’t seem to notice how the noise clings to her skin like sweat.
She fidgets. Her fingers twitch toward her arms, toward the subtle shimmer of markings visible beneath the sheer fabric of her top. It should be fine. No one here knows what they mean—what she is. In this light, it just looks like fashion. But still. The itch of being seen creeps beneath her skin, even if no one is looking.
She rubs her elbow. Tries to settle.
Rumi only catches Mira is saying something because she sees her lips move from the corner of her eye. The music makes the words impossible to understand Rumi turns, makes a face. Can't hear a word. Mira tries again. Rumi shakes her head and Mira steps closer.
Too close.
Rumi shifts back—half a step, maybe less, but enough to notice. The involuntary motion makes her cringe. This is Mira. She shouldn’t be flinching. And yet. The closeness is new. Mira, in a way, after everything, is new. New in the way someone can feel unfamiliar just from being irrevocably important.
And then Mira’s hands are at her hips, fingers steady, grounding. Rumi looks and goes still. Her breath catches. Mira leans in, close enough that her lips graze the shell of Rumi’s ear. “Relax,” she says, like it’s easy.
Rumi breathes in. Too sharp. Tries again. Relax, she echoes in her mind.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mira glance toward Zoey—a look exchanged like Rumi isn’t standing here unravelling at the edges. And then the breath against her skin returns, softer this time, “follow our lead.” Rumi nods—tiny, careful, like agreeing too enthusiastically might undo her. Her heart is pounding so loud now it could drown out the music. She’s not sure she can do this, but she nods again, more decisively. This is supposed to be fun. She can do fun.
Mira’s hands fall away and Rumi tells herself she doesn’t care.
But then Mira links arms with her, and Zoey appears on the other side, mirroring the motion like they rehearsed it. And suddenly, Rumi is between them, bracketed by warmth and certainty, being pulled into the crowd one confident step at a time. Hands brush. Shoulders bump. Every contact feels magnified. Intimate.
They find a clearing. Barely enough space, but the way Mira and Zoey move into it, it becomes enough.
They both turn to her. Zoey mouths ‘ready’?
Rumi forces a breath. Gives a nod.
Rumi is not a bad dancer, by any means. In fact, she is a good dancer. But, this is different. She doesn’t have Mira’s talent or self-assuredness, she doesn’t have Zoey’s spontaneity or lack of care for who is looking.
Mira moves first. She glides behind her, close—so close—chest pressing to Rumi’s back like it’s nothing, like that’s where she belongs. Before she can react, Zoey steps into her space, catching both of Rumi’s hands in her own. Their fingers interlace with practiced ease, and then they move—Mira swaying behind her, Zoey pulling her forward, and Rumi caught somewhere in the middle of a rhythm she hasn’t learned yet.
She tries to follow.
Fails.
The bass thumps through the crowded room, bodies moving in time to the pulse. Mira leans close, her breath warm against Rumi’s ear as she nudgs her with a grin. “Careful, princess,” she teas softly, “don’t trip over those fancy moves.”
Rumi blinks, cheeks heating up even as she rolls her eyes. “Still not a princess,” she mutters, though her smile betrays her.
It started as a joke. A fan calling her pop-star royalty on Tv. Mira ran with it, called Rumi ‘princess’ for a weak whenever addressing her. Rumi figured it would wear off eventually but the way the nickname made Zoey giggle and the kind of faces it pulled out of Rumi, made it stick.
She does her best to act annoyed, but inside, she was softening to the nickname every time it rolled out of Mira’s lips. Even if she wouldn’t admit it.
Mira’s teasing doesn’t help. She’s too aware of herself. Of the way her arms don’t know where to rest, the way her feet stutter against the floor, the way Mira’s body seems to know hers already, coaxing her to move without pressure. And yet, Rumi hesitates still. She’s too self-conscious, too worried someone will see, too worried she won’t be able to keep up with them and too overwhelmed by the closeness. She sucks in another breath, desperately trying to relax. This should be fun.
Rumi doesn’t realise her eyes had snapped shut until she feels Mira’s hands at her hips again and they snap open. Zoey is much closer than before. Smiles at her, soft and stupidly knowing. Mouths ‘relax’ again, then something else—'we’ve got you’, maybe. Rumi can’t be too sure over the music but she wants to believe it.
Then Mira’s fingers tighten at her hips, subtly guiding. Zoey lifts their joined hands, pulling Rumi into a loose spin that ends with her even closer than before. Their thighs bump. She mirrors Zoey’s smile. Barely.
Rumi lets herself be led and Zoey flashes her an encouraging smile. Using their rhythm as a guide, Rumi presses a little closer to Mira, letting the cadence of the other’s body move hers along.
It starts to work.
Her body starts to listen before her brain catches up. Mira’s breath brushes her neck in sync with the music, her hands warm at Rumi’s waist. And Zoey—Zoey’s in front of her, guiding their arms in a sway, hips loose, gaze unguarded. Still encouraging.
It doesn’t take long before she can feel the rhythm, before she can relax her shoulder a little more and follow along with Zoey’s movements. That earns her another encouraging grin and it’s enough to get Rumi to try to follow Mira’s hips with her own. Rumi presses back, slowly, tentatively, testing how Mira’s body responds. Mira doesn’t just match her—she pulls, subtle but certain, hips moving in a way that leaves Rumi no room for misinterpretation. Her hands shift, one circling inward, resting just inside the curve of Rumi’s hip.
She feels Mira nod against the side of her head, her hands giving an encouraging squeeze to her hips. Mira’s movements deepen, once again pulling Rumi along and she does her best not to think about all the ways their bodies are meeting and connecting.
Zoey inches closer still, expression playful now, eyes sparkling with a confidence that should be illegal. She moves with abandon, but the kind that’s perfectly calculated. The kind that invites you to lose yourself with her. And Rumi, flustered as she is, lets herself fall a little further into the dance.
A smile finally settles on Rumi’s lips as she starts to enjoy the dance. They’re not judging her, only encouraging what ever and how ever much Rumi can or wants to give. No one is watching them or paying any mind to them. The trio may as well be in their own world. It all encourages Rumi to try harder, to keep up, to in turn encourage them not to hold back with her. Rumi’s posture relaxes further, her movements easier as she follows her partners’ rhythm. Mira rolls her body against Rumi and Rumi follows. As one of Mira’s traces up her ribs Rumi is all too grateful for the dim lighting hiding the pink dusting her cheeks.
She’s blushing. She knows she is. And Mira’s hand is still there, helping her move. Still pressed to her in ways that are gentle but maddening. Rumi tries not to focus on it, which of course means it’s all she can feel.
Then Zoey’s fingers slide up her arms. Slow. Deliberate. Goosebumps follow in their wake. Rumi’s breath catches again—how many times has it been tonight?
Zoey’s fingers land on her shoulders. Rumi risks a glance up—huge mistake—and catches a smirk she might never recover from. Zoey leans in. Arms rise. Hands slide behind her neck.
Rumi’s brain shortcircuts.
Her body locks up for a moment, overwhelmed by touch and implication and the look in Zoey’s eyes. She’s allowed this, right? This is allowed.
She forces herself to breathe again.
Behind her, Mira shifts, her body rolling with the music—and Rumi feels it. Every movement, every press. Zoey’s hands find Rumi’s and place them—gently, almost reverently—on her own hips. And then, with the softest squeeze, she keeps them there.
Rumi wants to die. Or run. Or melt. Or stay here forever.
Her hands don’t move at first. Too much. But then Mira—traitorous, wonderful Mira—lifts her hands and places them over Rumi’s. Starts moving them, guiding them with slow insistence. Down Zoey’s back. Over the small of it. Then one hand glides upward, fingers brushing along Zoey’s ribs.
Zoey lets out a laugh that borders on a gasp. Glances over and behind Rumi’s shoulder, surprised and delighted.
Rumi wants the floor to swallow her whole.
Mira lets her go again, and Rumi—somehow—keeps going. She moves without thinking. Without permission. Like her body finally gave in.
She doesn’t know how many songs pass.
Doesn’t know when the music became a background hum instead of a barrier.
All she knows is this: she is dancing. She is between them. She is warm in ways that have nothing to do with movement. And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
And then Zoey peels away.
She pulls back just enough to catch Rumi’s eye and lifts a hand in the universal drink? gesture, then raises her brows in question.
Mira nods. Rumi follows suit, half-reluctant, and Zoey gives a triumphant thumbs-up before turning with an easy bounce in her step, disappearing toward the bar. Rumi watches her go, just long enough to see the curve of Zoey’s smile still lingering in the air like perfume.
When she turns back, Mira is right there.
Still close.
Still very much touching her.
Her hands hover at Rumi’s hips, warm even through the space she’s allowing now. Her expression says she noticed the hesitation. Her fingers twitch like she’s willing herself not to close the distance again, not unless she’s invited.
They’re face-to-face now. Which, somehow, is worse.
Mira smirks.
And Rumi—because her body is a traitor—flushes.
Mira’s hand is warm on her waist. The club lights flicker over them in waves of colour. The shifting glow catches Mira’s face—sharp angles and jagged lines that look intimidating to most. But to Rumi, they’re beautiful. She’s beautiful. The way the lights bounce off her skin makes her look almost otherworldly, glowing with a fierce kind of gorgeous that only gets under Rumi’s skin more. Mira may seem untouchable, but Rumi knows better.
“Hey, princess,” Mira speaks, voice low and teasing. “You’ve got that look again.”
Rumi flushes, worried for a moment she’d been caught. “What look?”
“Like you’re getting lost in your head,” Mira offers. There’s a split second, a single blink, where Mira’s teasing expression flickers into something softer, more uncertain. Her gaze tracks the way Rumi tenses again, notes the stiffness in her shoulders despite the way her feet still move, still sway. Mira doesn’t call attention to it. She just keeps dancing.
Rumi doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do now.
Without Zoey anchoring them, the dynamic has shifted—tilted—and Mira hasn’t moved away. Should she put her hands on Mira’s waist? On her shoulders? Keep them at her sides like a socially anxious T-Rex? She’s not sure how to dance this kind of close. Not with someone like Mira. Not when every square inch of space between them feels like a dare.
But Mira doesn’t seem to hesitate. Her hands sweep over Rumi’s hips again, slow and confident, fingers catching slightly against the thin fabric of her top. They drift higher—to her ribs, then down again, then in, palms grazing just over Rumi’s stomach. And it’s not rushed, not greedy. It’s fluid. Familiar. Like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Rumi does not melt. That would be undignified.
It is fine, she reminds herself. This is Mira. This is just dancing. People touch like this all the time.
(Not people like us, a treacherous voice in the back of her head supplies.)
Before she can overthink it further, Mira reaches for her hands—gently, like always—and brings them to rest against her own body. Her own waist. And Rumi lets her.
Mira’s eyes sparkle with something Rumi can’t name and definitely can’t afford to examine. But the warmth of her hands, the way her thumbs trace lazy circles along the backs of Rumi’s, the way their bodies begin to sync again—it all conspires to disarm her.
Rumi exhales.
The movement returns, not in full force, but enough. Enough to match Mira’s rhythm, enough to follow the sway of her hips. Their thighs brush again, deliberate and slow. Mira leans forward slightly, and Rumi doesn’t stop her. Can’t. Won’t.
Their hips press—constant now—and Rumi tries very hard not to catalogue the sensation of Mira’s chest skimming just above her own. Every movement feels measured. Or maybe measured to her. Like Mira is mapping her. Like this is a slow, circling orbit and Rumi is the axis.
She only half registers Zoey’s return—doesn’t even look—until Mira jerks her chin toward something behind her and the spell breaks.
Rumi turns and sees Zoey approaching with three drinks—each a different hue of colourful and suspicious. She probably wouldn’t have noticed her arrival at all if not for Mira pulling her gently back, her fingers brushing Rumi’s elbow like an afterthought.
The drink is sweet. Almost sweet. Fruity with a faint trace of alcohol. Clearly, Zoey was careful not to pick anything too strong. It’s pleasant enough.
Rumi sips from the straw Zoey offers and immediately pulls a face.
Zoey laughs—loud and delighted—and Rumi smiles despite herself, cheeks pink and tongue protesting.
Before she can set the cup down, Mira leans over her shoulder, hand curling loosely around her wrist. “Let me—” she says, and then takes a small sip from the same straw.
She jerks back with an expression of pure betrayal, mouthing ‘that’s vile’ with such grave seriousness that both Rumi and Zoey burst into laughter.
Zoey proudly reclaims the abomination as her own, clearly the only one enjoying it, and the moment softens something inside Rumi. The strangeness of being here fades a little. Just a little.
They finish the drinks quickly and set them on the nearest flat surface, the music pulling at them again like gravity.
This time, it’s Zoey who slides between them, fluid and unbothered, and Rumi lets her. Part of her is grateful for the break in tension. Part of her misses the closeness. And then Zoey reaches behind herself without looking and hooks Rumi’s wrist, tugging her forward until her front presses flush to Zoey’s back.
Rumi follows willingly.
Her hands settle on Zoey’s hips like they’ve been there before. Mira’s arms rise above them, sliding around Zoey’s neck from behind. The three of them move like gears in a machine—tight, linked, constant.
Rumi feels bold. Or something like it.
Her hands drift upward, thumbs brushing the curve of Zoey’s waist, fingertips trailing until they settle at the front of her stomach. Mira is doing the same—her palms gliding over Zoey’s shoulders, over the exposed line of her collarbone, cupping her face briefly before tracing back down again.
And Zoey—Zoey lets them.
Her head tips back, resting against Rumi’s shoulder, and Rumi sees it—the faintest flutter of her eyelashes as her eyes slip closed, a tiny content smile tugging at her lips.
Rumi forgets how to breathe.
Mira catches her looking. Smirks again.
Rumi promptly looks down.
Which is worse. Because now she has a perfect view of her own hands, still resting at Zoey’s front, and Mira’s, skimming deliberately down over the same territory. Their hands almost meet. Almost overlap. She has never, in her life, thought so hard about where to put her fingers.
Her mind spirals with images that are very much not just-friendly. None of this is. But if she stops to label it, she might collapse.
Then something slams into them from the side.
Rumi startles, hands tightening instinctively. Mira jerks forward slightly, gaze hardening in an instant.
The guy stumbles, clearly drunk, swaying and slurring apologies as he half-bows, half-spins away. Zoey straightens up with a grimace, but Rumi catches the shared look between her and Mira—dismissive. It’s fine.
It’s fine.
Rumi is the first to smile, to brush it off, to take both their hands and tug them deeper into the crowd, away from the stumbler and whatever tension he brought with him.
But she glances back—just once—and her stomach dips. The guy’s watching. Not closely. Not for long. His eyes narrow for a split second, scanning the space where they’d been and Rumi fears the creeping recognition on his face.
Then he shakes his head, frowns, and turns away heading for who she assumes to be his friends.
False alarm.
Rumi exhales slowly, the knot in her chest loosening by a fraction. They hadn’t been found out. This doesn’t need to end yet.
Beside her, Zoey says something she can’t hear, already pulling her back into movement, already smiling. Mira’s hand slides back into hers without hesitation, thumb brushing softly across her knuckles.
And just like that, they’re dancing again.
And Rumi tells herself it’s all just fun.
All just harmless, thoughtless fun.
Even if her body’s betraying her. Even if her fingers still feel like they’re echoing every curve they’ve touched. Every press. Every roll. Even if her hands remember too well where they’ve been.
This time, it’s Mira who slides into the middle—Zoey gives her a not-so-gentle spin into place, laughing at whatever mock-annoyed expression Mira throws her way. Mira’s back lands squarely against Rumi’s chest, and the gentle bounce of her shoulders says she’s laughing too.
And then it happens.
The next song bleeds in, bass-heavy and slightly faster, but familiar.
Rumi knows it.
It’s theirs.
Not the exact version, but close enough—the remix a shade brighter, a little faster, but the core of it is there, and Rumi knows the steps like muscle memory. It was theirs from the start: Mira’s choreography, Zoey’s idea, Rumi’s precision. A track that had flirted more than their usual setlist allowed. Close. Suggestive. Not explicit—but the kind of dance you felt days later in the quiet.
And now it’s here. Live. And this time, there are no cameras. No stage. No rules.
Bravery sweeps in like a tide.
Rumi matches the tempo instinctively, easing into the rhythm with the confidence of practice. Mira’s body reacts instantly—her hips responding in tandem, her weight shifting exactly where it needs to be to keep the flow between them smooth. Zoey catches on in a heartbeat, eyes glinting with recognition, and slides back into the loop as if they’d rehearsed this.
Maybe they had. Maybe this was inevitable.
Rumi moves.
Her hands brush down Mira’s sides, slow, fluid. She leans in and reaches past her, fingertips grazing Zoey’s collarbone before drawing back. Just a flicker of contact. Teasing. Zoey grins, biting her bottom lip.
Rumi’s hands settle next at the nape of Mira’s neck, her thumb stroking the warm skin there.
Mira exhales—sharply, surprised. But she doesn’t pull away. She leans back into the contact.
And then Mira’s hand reaches behind her, searching, and finds the back of Rumi’s neck with a surety that makes her breath catch.
She pulls.
Rumi goes.
Their cheeks brush, skin electric where it touches. With every breath, her lips skim the place where Mira’s neck curves into her shoulder, and it’s—God—it’s so easy to pretend they’re still dancing. That this is still just the routine.
But there was no routine where Zoey’s hand trailed up her thigh from behind.
There was no routine where Mira’s head tilted toward her slightly—just slightly—as if daring her to close the gap.
They are all hands now.
Rumi loses track of who is touching whom. Her own fingers trail up Mira’s sides; she feels Zoey’s palm pressing against her lower back, pushing her forward. Mira guides her hands again—up her ribs, back down her waist, pulling Rumi closer until the space between their bodies is functionally gone.
And Mira—Mira is clearly enjoying herself.
Her smile is easy, wide, almost mischievous when she glances over her shoulder at Rumi. Her eyes are hooded, half-lidded with heat or amusement or something Rumi can’t name, but her body moves with purpose. Confident. Intimate.
She knows exactly what this looks like.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And Rumi?
Rumi is unraveling.
It’s too much. Too warm. Too good. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands anymore because they want to be everywhere. Her brain is short-circuiting, trying to log every touch, every breath, every glance like it will be graded later. Mira shifts again, turns and her thigh slides between Rumi’s and she almost—almost—reacts on instinct.
Something flares up inside her. A warning.
She can’t—
Not here.
Not now.
Not like this.
It’s almost dizzying, how badly she wants to stay in this moment and how much more she wants to crawl out of her own skin.
So she does the only thing she can do.
She lets the movement slow. Her hands still. Her body stills with them.
Mira notices immediately, her head turning slightly, her grip softening. Zoey steps back a beat later, blinking, caught mid-shift.
Rumi forces a smile—soft, apologetic, too tight around the edges.
“I think,” she says—shouts over the music, carefully, “I’m ready to head out.”
The words feel like peeling herself away from gravity.
Mira doesn’t push. Doesn’t question. She just nods, gentle and understanding in that way that makes it worse, somehow.
Zoey raises a brow but only says, “yeah, getting kind of stuffy in here anyway.” She offers her hand.
Rumi takes it.
Mira lingers at her side, a whisper of warmth still clinging to her. Her fingers brush Rumi’s lower back as they move, subtle but deliberate.
The music stays loud behind them, but it feels like a world away.
The walk home is quieter than expected, but not in a bad way.
They’re breathless, still half-laughing from the cool night air and the collective realization that they’d maybe stayed a song or three too long on the dance floor. Rumi can still feel the ghost of the bassline vibrating in her legs. Her skin is warm, and not from the breeze.
Zoey leads the way like she’s still dancing, a bounce in her step and her hoodie zipped halfway over a tank top that’s definitely not hers. Mira’s, probably. Rumi trails behind them by a pace or two, her phone out, pretending to check something even though she’s just… recalibrating. Catching up with her own heartbeat.
“That DJ was so unserious for dropping our song like that,” Zoey says, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “Remix or not, he did not have clearance.”
Mira hums low in agreement, arms folded tight over her chest. “He’s lucky we’re not suing… or that we didn’t take the stage.”
Rumi rolls her eyes with a chuckle, ‘what stage’ she thinks to ask but lets it stay unsaid.
“Speak for yourself,” Zoey interjects with a grin. “I absolutely took the stage.”
Mira bumps her shoulder in return. “You always do.”
Rumi smiles at the exchange but doesn’t jump in. She likes this, the way they talk — like a duet that’s been practiced until it’s instinctual. It’s easy between them in a way that makes her chest ache a little.
They reach their building in a blur of footsteps and neon afterglow. It’s only when Mira punches in the code at the door and the hallway lights flicker on that Rumi starts to come back to herself — to feel the weight of her limbs again. She’s suddenly very aware of the sweat drying at the base of her neck, of how close they’d all been just an hour ago. Of how close they still are.
Inside the apartment, it’s dim and quiet. Mira kicks her shoes off by the door without a word. Zoey drops her jacket on the back of the couch and stretches, a dramatic, satisfied noise in her throat that probably wasn’t meant to sound that much like a groan.
Rumi pretends not to notice how her eyes flick over to Mira when she does it.
She heads straight for the kitchen sink under the pretence of needing water, but mostly just to put a little distance between them and breathe for a second.
When she turns back, Mira is walking past the kitchen counter, grabbing two glasses of water. She bumps Rumi’s shoulder with a smile then heads back out. Zoey is half-curled on the couch, already tugging her hair loose from its tie. Her eyes are closed, but she’s still smiling.
“That was fun,” Mira says softly, voice a little hoarse from the night. “Really fun.”
“Mhmm,” Zoey agrees. “We should do it again.”
Rumi nods, hugging her own glass to her chest like it’s a shield. Her eyes searching the bottom of it as if she might find treasure there. “Yeah. Definitely.”
She wants to say more. That was the most alive I’ve felt in weeks. I didn’t want it to stop. But the words stick in her throat, heavy and unformed.
The soft murmur of laughter draws her gaze to the living room. Mira’s wandered over and dropped down beside Zoey, nudging her with her knee. They’re talking again — low, affectionate. It’s not romantic. Not obviously. But the closeness between them is undeniable. Mira’s voice is quieter than usual, and Zoey’s laugh is softer, one of those rare, unguarded ones.
Rumi watches them in the television’s reflection. Not directly. Like if she looks too closely it might become something she’s not supposed to see.
She sees Mira’s hand find Zoey’s ankle.
Just resting there.
Comfortable.
And then Zoey shifts, laying her head briefly on Mira’s shoulder, just a second too long before she pulls away.
It’s not a moment. Not really.
But Rumi’s heart trips anyway.
She tears her gaze away before the weight of it pins her there.
There’s a sudden tightness in her throat, like she’s swallowed the wrong version of herself.
The room feels too full, the air too thick — and her skin too aware of itself.
She needs a buffer. A door. A pause.
“I think I’m gonna shower,” she blurts, too loud, setting her glass down with a sharp clink.
Mira glances over, startled, but nods. “Good idea.”
Zoey throws her a sleepy thumbs up from the couch.
Rumi flees to the bathroom and doesn’t remember closing the door, just that suddenly it’s quiet and too warm and she’s pressing her palms to the cool tile of the sink. She closes her eyes and counts her own breaths.
It’s not jealousy. It’s not.
They’re just… like that. They’ve always been like that. Comfortable. Flirty in a way that doesn’t mean anything.
And anyway, she’s fine.
By the time she emerges, the lights are dimmed and both Mira and Zoey have shifted into sleep mode — not quite ready to crash, but winding down. Mira’s brushing her teeth. Zoey’s changed into pajama shorts and a loose tee, scrolling her phone in the hallway, feet bare and unbothered.
“Hey,” Zoey says softly when she sees her. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Rumi says. Then adds, “Just tired. I think I’m gonna turn in.”
Zoey smiles and reaches over to squeeze her wrist gently. “Same.”
They say goodnight in that unceremonious way roommates do — but it’s Mira who catches her as she’s walking past her door.
“Hey.”
Rumi turns. Mira’s hair is down now, messy from dancing, eyes dark in the low light.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” she says, quiet. “It was good. Having you there.”
Rumi swallows. “Yeah. Of course.”
There’s a beat. Mira steps just a little closer, not quite into her space, but close enough that Rumi can smell her shampoo. “You’re a good dancer,” she says, and there’s a weight to it Rumi can’t quite process. “Even when you’re not trying to be.”
And Rumi—Rumi does something stupid.
She laughs. Too light. Deflective.
Mira smiles. Doesn’t push.
“Goodnight, Rumi.”
“Night.”
And she disappears into her room like the door might save her from whatever’s still lodged in her chest.
The apartment is quiet.
Not just nighttime quiet, but deep quiet. The kind that hangs heavy in the air, like the walls are holding their breath.
Rumi stirs in the dark, throat raw, mouth dry. The kind of thirst that cuts through even the deepest sleep. She blinks into the shadows of her room, confused for a moment by the stillness — the dark shapes of her shelves, the faint glow of the router light bleeding under the door.
She pushes the blankets off slowly, like movement might wake something she’s not ready to face, and pads barefoot toward the kitchen. She doesn’t bother with the light. The fridge hums faintly in the corner. The tile is cool under her toes.
She reaches for a glass. Fills it. The sound of water is louder than expected in the quiet.
The first sip is a godsend — cold, clean. She drinks like it’s been hours. Like it matters. Sets the glass down, lets the condensation pool under her fingertips on the counter.
And that’s when she hears it.
Barely.
A sound — soft, muffled.
It might be nothing.
It might be the pipes. Or the floorboards.
But she hears it again.
A quiet exhale. A breath. A— groan?
Rumi’s hand freezes where it rests on the counter.
She tilts her head. The hallway is still dark. Mira’s door is closed. Zoey’s is, too.
And that’s where it’s coming from.
Zoey’s room.
Her heart kicks, unsure why.
She shouldn't listen. She won’t listen. She’s already moving to leave, to return to her room, to pretend she never heard anything at all—
But then there’s another sound.
Mira’s voice.
Low. Rough. A whisper.
She can't make out the words. Not exactly. It drags across the quiet like heat. Like friction. But there’s a rhythm to it — that slow cadence of speech between breaths. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t belong to conversation. Slow, unhurried.
Close speech. Intimate.
Rumi swallows, mouth suddenly dry again. Her fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. Her skin is too warm. The cool air of the kitchen suddenly feels thin.
She tells herself to move. To go. To stop standing in the kitchen like a badly-written voyeur.
It could be nothing.
It should be nothing.
But the air has shifted — electric, charged in a way she can’t explain. Like she’s walked into something private and can’t find her way back out.
Then another sound filters through.
A breath. Drawn in sharply. A low, muffled exhale.
Rumi holds her own breath, like not moving will make it all disappear.
She hears movement. The faint rustle of sheets or maybe clothing, something soft catching against something softer.
And then—
Her name.
Not Mira’s voice this time.
Zoey’s.
Barely a whisper, half-breathed. Drawn out like a sigh.
It punches the air out of her lungs.
For one impossible second, she thinks she’s imagined it. That her sleep-fogged brain is playing tricks on her. That she’s misheard something, anything.
But it wasn’t a mistake.
She knows what her name sounds like when said with intent. And this wasn’t careless.
This was—
This was something molten, coiled somewhere low in her gut.
Shame prickles at the edges of it, but it doesn’t drown out the sharper heat underneath — the kind she doesn’t want to name.
It should feel like embarrassment. Or betrayal. Or both.
But it doesn’t. Not really. It just feels close — too close—
No. No.
Rumi doesn’t want to know what it means. She doesn’t want to parse it — or think about why it sounded like that. Why it was shaped with that kind of weight. Why Zoey’s voice, in the dark, saying her name, sounds like that.
Not when Mira’s laugh — breathless and low — curls around the syllables of something that might be teasing. Might be coaxing. Might be responding.
Not when Zoey exhales again, shaky and small, followed by a sound that makes Rumi’s face burn.
Not when the silence that follows is heavy in the way touch is heavy — saturated, clinging. Like skin to skin.
Rumi’s pulse is in her ears now. In her throat. Everywhere.
She doesn’t move at first.
Just stands there, barefoot on cold tile, lit by nothing but the dim blue of the fridge display and her own rising panic. She feels like a shadow, like a placeholder in a story that isn’t hers to be in.
She should leave. She has to leave.
But her body won’t listen. Her body wants to know what happens next. What else might be said in the dark. What else might—
No.
She snaps herself out of it, steps back from the counter, heart hammering. The glass she left behind is forgotten, still sweating water onto the counter like a witness.
Rumi backs away slowly, feet silent on the tile. She keeps to the balls of her feet. Doesn’t breathe until she’s at her door. Doesn’t look at the hallway again. Her hand shakes as she closes it behind her, as softly as she can.
Her door shuts softly behind her. She leans against it.
Heart racing.
She breathes out, shaky.
Climbs into bed. Pulls the blanket up to her chin like it’s armour. Stares at the ceiling.
She tells herself it didn’t mean anything. But the ache under her ribs tightens anyway, a quiet knot she can’t untie.
She tells herself she must’ve misheard, that her mind is a fragile thing, prone to breaking in shadows.
She tells herself she absolutely does not care what Mira and Zoey do alone in the dark. That their lives are their own, and hers is hers alone.
She tells herself a lot of things.
But the whisper of Zoey’s voice — that breath-drawn saying of her name — lingers like smoke, curling in the hollow of her chest.
It’s a weight she doesn’t know how to carry, or where to put down.
Sleep does not come easily.