Chapter Text
Dr. Kang Mira was standing in the hallway of Seoul General Hospital, waiting for the world's most pitiful vending machine to finish heating her can of Cantata. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother approach. She bit back a groan.
"Dr. Kang," she said, solemnly, when he was a few steps away.
"Don't call me that, it's silly."
Mira shrugged. It finally dispensed her coffee with a loud clang. She grabbed it and opened it, taking a long draught.
"Have you seen the patient in 4C yet?"
"What? There's no referral on record for 4C."
"What? I put it in hours ago."
"Don't look at me. If the nursing staff hate you, sometimes they 'lose' the paperwork."
Minho crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed. In the hallway, a beautiful woman walked by, her shoulder-length hair bobbing lightly as she went.
"Hi," Mira said, making meaningful eye contact with her. She smiled back at her knowingly, in that cheeky way straight-ish women often did.
After she had gone, Minho turned back to her with a sneer. "Seriously? Patients?"
"She's not my patient."
Minho sighed, exasperated. "When are you going to stop this?"
Mira shrugged. "Whenever it's out of my system, I guess."
Minho shook his head. "Just don't make it into a liability for the hospital, yeah?"
"Oh, please. You lecturing me about keeping things professional is a joke."
Minho's face flushed. "That was one time, and I told you to never talk about—"
"Oh, Dr. Kim, good to see you!"
Minho whipped his head around so quickly that Mira was sure she could hear his neck crack. She snickered as his shoulders tensed and he slowly turned back around, realizing her ruse. "That was fucking childish."
Mira stuck her tongue out.
"You infuriate me."
"Yeah, yeah. Is Eomma making dinner tonight?"
"Yes. As much as she ever does. She's got the kitchen girl prepping everything for her."
"That never changes. I need to get home and pack for this stupid conference. I'll see you tonight, yeah?"
"Yes," Minho muttered, looking down at his pager.
Mira moved slowly as she walked to the elevator, lingering. She had no desire to hurry through her preparations for the trip. It was the only thing she had to do until dinner that evening, and her idle mind was not a friendly place for her at the moment. So she meandered back to her apartment. Took the long route. Stopped for another coffee. Flirted with a barista. Almost got her number. Maybe.
Back at home, she tripped over Nari's junk at the front door. Groaning, she pushed it all back into a pile. She refused to drop it off, and Nari refused to pick it up, so they were in a stalemate.
She opened her closet and rolled her eyes. She grabbed a few things from her "professional" wardrobe and tossed them on the bed. She yanked her suitcase off the top shelf, cursing when it fell on her. Why did everything have to be so fucking annoying all the time?
She slammed the suitcase on the bed and shoved her clothes inside. She added some underwear and a few pairs of shoes, called it done, zipped it shut, and collapsed on the bed beside it.
She supposed she could go to her parents' place early. It would certainly be a distraction. She could leave from there tonight. There was no point coming back to her place. She summoned a car and grabbed her bag.
When she arrived, her mother was in the kitchen. And she was actually cooking.
"Wow. What am I seeing?"
Her mother scoffed. "We're making dinner."
Mira resisted the urge to roll her eyes and walked over to the kitchen island. The "kitchen girl," as Minho called her, was Vivienne, a young woman from France, now standing at the counter with her mother, chopping vegetables.
Mira smiled at her. "Bonjour, Vivienne. Ça va bien? Tu es très jolie aujourd’hui."
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Mira. Bien, ça va. Merci. Et vous, ça va?"
"Mieux, maintenant." Mira smiled, and the faintest colour dusted Vivienne's cheeks. "Je peux aider?"
Before Vivienne could respond, Mira's mother snapped her fingers. "Stop that."
"I'm just being friendly," Mira said, rolling her eyes.
Her mother narrowed her eyes at her, then returned to chopping vegetables.
"Cooking today?" Mira asked, handing Vivienne the potato she had been reaching for.
"I always cook dinner on Friday evening," her mother sniffed.
Mira started to laugh but covered it with a cough, putting her hand over her mouth for a moment.
"Where is your brother?"
"Still at work, I guess. He said he'd be here." Mira shrugged.
"He's just like your father. Always at that place."
"People just won't stop having medical emergencies during dinner."
Her mother huffed. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah." She was probably more familiar with the visage of her father in a white coat than with almost anything else. She had tried to pick a specialization that meant fewer gruelling hours. She hadn't wanted it to affect her own family that way.
But she supposed it was a little late for that.
"Speaking of your father. He's in his study, if you want to speak to him."
"Is that your way of asking me to leave?"
Vivienne made a slight sound, clearly amused. Her mother gave Mira a withering look.
"Alright, alright." Mira wandered out of the kitchen, through the dining room and into her father's study. He was there, as promised, the window cracked open, and a cigarette in his hand. "Appa! Seriously?"
He gave a startled grunt. "Mira. Don't surprise me. It's bad for my heart," he grumbled.
"That is rich coming from you, Marlborough Man." Mira strode across the room and stood near him, leaning against a wingback chair. "Give me one," she muttered.
Her dad chuckled and handed her a cigarette and the lighter he still carried everywhere. She lit it and took a long drag, blowing the smoke out the gap in the window as best she could. "Eomma will be mad."
"She always is," he said, wistfully.
Minho was late for dinner. Of course. And her mother forgave him. Of course.
The food was good, well prepared by Vivienne, her mother, or some combination of both. But Mira mostly picked at her plate. She wasn't very hungry lately.
But she had plenty of red wine, she reasoned. There were nutrients in wine, right? It was basically fruit.
By the end of the meal, the world was tilting just a little. Not unpleasantly. She checked her phone. There was still plenty of time to get to the airport.
"Mira," her mother scolded. "No phones at the table."
Mira sat back in her chair, chastened, but mumbled, "I was just checking my flight time."
"Where are you going again, Aegiya?" Her father asked.
"Boston," Minho and Mira said in unison.
"Oh. Boston. So many Americans there," her father mused.
Mira snorted. "Yeah, Appa, that's where they keep them."
"I'm being honoured for that study my department published earlier this year. You remember, Appa?" Minho asked. Why did he always have to talk to their father like he was ten years old, telling him his test scores?
"Ah, yes. The one on, uh. Hypothermia and puncture wounds."
"Oh, no, that was two years ago," Minho said, looking a little deflated.
"It's an early intervention study for myocardial infarction," Mira interjected, hoping to keep Minho from spiralling.
"Oh. That's good. You know, I think you would have been excellent in cards, Minho-ya."
"Thanks, Appa," Minho said quietly.
Mira sighed, although she tried to hold it back. He was forgetting again. She could see her mother watching him closely out of the corner of her eye.
"Appa, have you ever been to Boston?" Mira rolled the conversation along, just like she always did.
Her father perked up. "Yes. When your mother and I were younger, before you two were born, she often travelled with me. I took her to Boston once for a conference. There are many traditional American breweries in Boston. The Samuel Adams brewery offers a facility tour with tasting options, so we went along with my colleagues. Your mother said it was swill. Ha!"
Her mother blanched at the memory. "I've never liked beer. I enjoy a nice glass of wine. Alcohol doesn't need all those bubbles."
"Your tastes are too refined," her father mused.
She slapped his arm, but she was smiling.
She and Minho rode in silence to the airport. They were both a bit subdued. Mira supposed Minho was ruminating on their dad's behaviour at dinner. Again. She didn't feel like engaging. So she stared out the window and squinted her eyes until the lights blurred by like shooting stars.
The flight to Boston was almost sixteen hours. Mira managed to sleep through the first half. She woke up with cotton mouth and a pounding headache somewhere over the US. She asked for a coffee when the flight attendant came by. She was pretty, with long sweeping black hair. But Mira didn't give her a second look. She was too much like Nari.
Minho must've taken a pill or something because he was out like a light for the whole flight. Mira even poked him in the cheek a few times, and he didn't react. She subtly checked his pulse after a few hours of this. Still alive.
When they arrived in Boston, he jolted awake as the plane's wheels hit the runway. He looked at Mira, annoyed, as if she had anything to do with it. "What?" She asked, incredulous.
"You could've woken me up before we landed," he grumbled.
"I tried. You were in an altered state."
Minho rolled his eyes.
The journey to the hotel was easy enough via rideshare. When they finally arrived, the sun had gone down, and snow was falling again. They tried to find somewhere to eat nearby, but all they could see were pubs whose entire menus were deep-fried. Mira's stomach turned just at the thought of it.
They compromised on the hotel restaurant. At least it was close by. Mira picked at a plate of a burger and fries, while Minho ate fried oysters. Mira started drinking immediately. She ordered a beer with a whiskey back for both of them, but Minho refused the shot. So she took it. Waste not, want not.
They talked a little bit about their dad. Mira didn't want to get too deep into it. She was miserable enough as it was. Minho suggested they start talking to people in their lives about it, preparing them for the inevitable, which was such a doctor thing to say.
"We need to manage their expectations."
"Oh my God, he's not our patient. We should handle this like humans, not doctors."
"Doctors are human," Minho sniffed. "I just don't want it to be something we have to go through alone."
Mira wanted very badly to ignore this, but Minho's point was valid.
"Have you talked to Nari about it all?"
"No," Mira said curtly.
"Maybe that could be a good place to start."
"Well, Nari left me, so. That's not a problem anymore."
"What? Mira, you didn't tell me that." Minho frowned.
"No, no, no, you're not supposed to feel sorry for me, that makes it worse." Mira groaned. She pushed away her half-eaten plate of the burger and fries, no longer able to stomach it.
"Why wouldn't I feel sorry? I liked her. It seemed like she made you happy."
Mira buried her face in her hands. "Why are you being nice?"
"We don't have a perfect relationship, Mira, but I care about you. You're the only family in my life other than our parents. We work together, too, for God's sake. What did you want me to say? Good? I hope you're alone for the rest of your life?"
"Well, misery loves company."
Minho looked genuinely hurt. Mira immediately felt guilty.
"Wait, Minho, I'm sorry."
"I don't think I want to be around you right now, Mira."
He stood, tossed a few bills on the table, and walked towards the exit. Mira caught him outside.
"Come on, Minho, don't be like this." She grabbed his elbow, and he yanked it away.
"I'm not being like anything. You're the one who's being a jerk."
"Let's go somewhere else. We can get a real drink. Some soju or something. I'll pay!"
"No, I'm going to bed." Minho turned on his heel and walked away.
Mira was so furious she felt like crying. When Minho was some distance away, she yelled, "Oh, fine, go back to the hotel. You pussy!"
Minho didn't look back but flipped her off over his shoulder.
She walked along the streets of Boston, boots crunching in the mix of ice, salt, snow, and dirt. The air was crisp and dry, stinging her nose and chapping her lips. It burned when she took a deep breath.
Her pace was aimless, but she eventually reached her destination. The Sam Adams brewery her father had mentioned. She got in on the last tour of the evening. If the guide noticed she was already drunk, he didn't mention it.
The content was passively engaging. She paid extra for the tasting flight and the special "secret" development beer. The drinks were fine. She wasn't a huge beer fan. But it was something to do. It dulled edges, and it tasted crisp going down.
At the end of the tour, they gave her a pre-stamped postcard. "Greetings from the Sam Adams brewery," it read—free postage to any address in the US.
She only knew one.
When she was much younger, she did a term abroad at Harvard as part of her premed degree. There was a specialist there she was interested in, a surgeon called Dr. Hyun Bin. He had pioneered a new method of arthroscopy.
There was the prestige element as well, of course. Her mother loved telling people she was off to Harvard, even if it was only for six months.
Mira found Boston and Harvard isolating and alienating. She spent most of her time alone in the house her parents had rented for her near campus. She found Americans difficult to relate to, and while her English was excellent, she had enough of an accent for people to be assholes. That threshold wasn't very high in the States.
The Harvard campus was beautiful, and she enjoyed it. She lingered in Boston Common, smoking cigarettes on occasion and telling herself she was going to be a doctor—this was ridiculous, and she should quit. It would be two more years before she stopped buying packs, and even now, she had the odd one, especially when drunk. Especially now, in Boston, drunk and alone, surrounded by holiday cheer that was making her feel even more miserable. She was chain-smoking something awful—Newports—and wishing she had eaten more at dinner with Minho as her stomach churned.
Why did so many places in her life have to be haunted by the past?
She stumbled down the sidewalk, the latest round of beer swirling inside her. She shook her head, trying to stop the world from spinning. She made it a couple more blocks before tripping over an errant strand of Christmas lights dangling from a wrought-iron stair rail. She landed hard on her hands and knees. As she went to pull herself up, she felt a surge of bile bubbling up her throat. The taste of beer, liquor, and shitty hotel pub food sickeningly combined on her tongue. She gagged once, covering her mouth. She tried again to stand, grabbing hold of the stair railing with both hands, before leaning over it and puking into the bushes below.
When she was done retching, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She winced as she stood up, gripping her stomach. She sat down on the stairs, willing the nausea to pass. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, hoping it would settle her nerves. She dug in her pocket for a glasses cloth and found the postcard from the brewery, slightly crumpled, along with a souvenir pen.
Hunched over, cigarette turning to a column of ash between her lips, she scribbled her old Boston address. She paused, staring down at the blank expanse of the postcard. She blinked a few times before writing:
Hey,
I used to live in your house. I'm drunk in Boston, and it's the only address I know.
She hesitated, staring down at the maudlin message before adding another line:
Happy holidays.
M
When she finally felt well enough to stand, she shoved the postcard in a mailbox as she walked by, flicking the flag up.
She somehow managed to stumble her way back to the hotel. She made it up to the tenth floor, following some other people who gave her a very wide berth in the elevator. When she got there, she realized she couldn't find her room key. Groaning, she stomped her way over to Minho's door and banged on it.
He appeared after a while, bewildered in his pyjamas.
"Jesus, Mira. You smell like booze and puke."
"Shut up, Minho," Mira grumbled. "I lost my room key."
"Why didn't you just ask the front desk? I can't let you into your room."
Mira groaned loudly, slumping against the door frame.
Minho sighed. "I'll call the front desk."
Eventually, an attendant arrived and let Mira into her room, barely masking their mix of concern and disgust. Mira made them wait and gave them a tip in the only cash she had—Korean won. They took it with a wincing smile.
Mira shed her disgusting clothes as she sluggishly marched to the bed. She climbed in, too tired to shower or do anything else besides use a pillow to prop herself on her side so she wouldn't roll over and aspirate in the night.
The next morning, the sun streaming into the room felt blinding. The heater was too warm, her face stung from the night out in the cold, and she felt sick. But she was alive.
So that was something.
She called the front desk for room service. Everything on the menu was devastatingly American. She ordered an omelette and a carafe of coffee. When it arrived, she forced herself to eat at least half of it, washing it down with black coffee.
After a scalding shower, she felt mostly human again.
She eventually came skulking downstairs to the conference, having missed the morning sessions. She used Minho's location to find him at an emergency medicine session on advances in treating gunshot wounds. She slumped down beside him.
"Is this really a relevant lecture for you?" Mira said under her breath. "GSWs are an American thing."
"We get them occasionally," Minho said with a shrug. "Besides, it was this or something about bowel perforation."
Mira grimaced. She was about to speak again when someone in front of them turned around and glared. Mira resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Either they were mad that they were talking during the presentation, speaking a foreign language, or some combination.
After waiting a cursory amount of time, Mira whispered, "Sorry about last night. I was being awful."
"It's fine. I'm sorry I left you. I was just tired."
They were quiet again, Mira half-listening to the man talk about the impact of bullet calibre on intervention techniques.
"I'm sorry about Nari. I don't think I ever said... She was nice."
Mira felt a wave of grief and something like… Appreciation. For her stupid little brother. "Thanks, Minho."
The rest of the conference passed by without incident. Not drinking seemed to help. On the flight home, Mira successfully chatted up a flight attendant with a sharp, stylish bob and smoky eyes. They fooled around a bit in the back of the plane while her coworkers were serving drinks.
Something about the whole trip felt very hollowed out. When Mira finally got home, she opened the door to discover that Nari's remaining items were gone. She must've taken them while Mira was in Boston. She still had her—
But then Mira saw it, on the floor near the entrance. Nari's key. She must've slid it under the door when she left.
So that was it then. Two and a half years and that's all she got.
Key under the door.
Not even a fucking note.
Mira sat at the counter and buried her face in her hands. She was too tired and angry to cry. She'd done enough of that. So instead, she spitefully called a locksmith.
Just in case.
The next day, she had her usual shift at the hospital. A few procedures in the morning, consults in the afternoon. One emergency. She scrubbed in for a spinal tumour resection with a colleague from oncology. Not too shabby.
Afterwards, she went home and showered for the holiday party. It wasn't anything special. It was held in the building's atrium, for one. But the money they saved on the rental all went into the catering, and the food was usually excellent. The open bar didn't hurt either.
The staff dressed nicely, brought their families, and mingled. You got to see whose kids were growing enormous and confirm suspicions about people getting divorced.
It was the first time in three years Mira hadn't had a plus-one. She arrived with Minho, who immediately disappeared to schmooze and ass-kiss, the only reason he came to hospital social events. Mira made a beeline for the bar.
She stepped up to order just as Choi Zoey did. "Hey!" She said, looking surprised.
"Hey! Uh, long time," Mira said, slightly awkward. She and Zoey had known each other in school, and Mira knew she worked at the hospital, but their paths hadn't crossed much in recent years.
"No Nari tonight?"
"Uh, no. Not tonight." She paused, suddenly unsure why she was withholding the truth. "Not any night… Any more. Actually."
"Oh. Sorry, Mira. I didn't know."
Mira shrugged. "It's okay."
"Well, um." She ordered two glasses of white wine. "You're not alone. My friend just wrapped up all the paperwork for her divorce."
"Oh, wow. My condolences to your friend." Mira said a silent prayer of thanks that she and Nari had never gotten married.
Zoey shrugged. "I never really liked him."
Mira let out a startled laugh. "Brutally honest."
"You know me." Zoey smiled. "Well, I should probably get back to my friend. She doesn't really know anyone here and… I don't trust the doctors to leave her alone."
Mira snorted.
"Well, I'll give you a pass, but you're on thin ice. Say hi to me the next time you see me at the hospital, or I'm going to start thinking you hate me."
"Sorry, Zo. I will."
When she walked away, Mira ordered a beer. It was crisp and light, and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders melt away as she sipped it. She turned around, and that's when she saw her.
Backlit by moonlight streaming through the tall atrium windows, the woman stood beside Zoey, holding a glass of wine. She was wearing a black satin slit dress, and her hair—she had so much hair—was up in a messy nautilus bun. As Mira stared at her, all the sounds of the party seemed to fall away. Barware clattering, the buzz of dozens of conversations, and the hum of live music all faded to the background, as though someone had gently turned the volume down.
Mira felt… Frozen. Her impulse, driven by recent months of somewhat self-destructive flirting, was to get her a drink, ask her to dance, and hopefully take her to bed. But there was something that made her hesitate. She stepped off to the side and quickly drained her beer, looking for something to slow her racing thoughts.
It took two more glasses of beer for Mira to work up the nerve to approach her.
She devised a simple plan. She got two glasses of white wine. At some point, the woman had wandered away from Zoey and was picking at some of the hors d'oeuvres platters. Mira stepped up behind her and said, "Could you do me a favour?"
She turned, looking a bit skeptical. "What's that?"
"Do you like white wine? The guy at the bar gave me two of these, but I only asked for one."
The woman shrugged. "Sure. I'll take it."
"I'm Kang Mira, by the way."
"I'm Ryu Rumi."
"Nice to meet you." Mira took a sip of her wine and did her best to hide her grimace as she remembered she really hated white wine.
Rumi took a sip and then licked her lips. "So. You've gotten us both a drink you hate and pretended to like it. What's next?"
"Uh…"
Rumi looked at her expectantly.
"Wow, you, uh. Saw through that pretty easily, huh?"
"I noticed you staring at me earlier," she said, sipping her wine.
Mira felt the heat rise on the back of her neck. "Sorry." She pursed her lips. "Do you think we could start over?"
Rumi seemed to drop her guard a bit then. "Yeah, okay."
"I saw you with Zoey earlier. We're old classmates. How do you know her?"
"We used to go to school together, too. High school, that is. I'm staying with her right now, actually. I just moved back to Seoul."
"Oh? Where were you living before?"
Rumi tucked some hair behind her ear, looking away for a moment before answering. "Boston."
Mira blinked, her memory flashing to her recent escapades in Boston. "Oh, I was just there for a, uh…" Dark night of the soul? "Conference."
Rumi laughed. "Why'd you say it like that?"
Something about the way Rumi spoke was disarming. Mira found herself dropping her mask. "I did some stupid things while I was there." She paused. "I got dumped recently. And I… Got really drunk about it."
Rumi's expression sombered. "Oh. I'm sorry."
Mira shrugged. She finished her glass of wine, setting it in a bus bin near the end of the catering table. "Would you like to dance?"
Rumi cocked her head to the side. "I haven't finished my wine."
"I can wait."
"You're very persistent." It wasn't exactly a compliment, but it wasn't an admonition either.
"Well, you're very beautiful." Not her best line, but it was true. Rumi seemed mildly amused and maybe just a hair flattered.
"Do you always hunt women down at these parties?"
"I don't hunt. I only offer. I'm not trying to take anything from you."
Rumi held her gaze for a moment. "And what's the offer, again?"
"You need me to spell it out?"
"Maybe." Rumi ran her thumb up and down the stem of her wine glass. "I'm a bit rusty at this sort of thing."
"We dance. If that goes well, we talk more. If that goes well, I invite you to my home. For drinks, for conversation, for whatever comes after. For tonight or until tomorrow morning."
She could see Rumi swallow, her throat bobbing. "Right."
"And to answer your question from before, no, I don't often come to these parties looking for women to take home. I haven't in years, anyway."
"What makes this year different?"
"Well, I'm single now. Again."
"Right." Rumi finished her glass of wine and set it next to Mira's. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll dance with you. And we'll… See where things go."
Mira tried to hide her surprise that Rumi accepted her offer to dance. But she could see in her slightly smug smile that she caught it. Mira offered her hand, and they moved out into the centre of the room.
It had been a few years since Mira had danced. She'd learned as a young woman, of course, given the circles her parents ran in and her time in France as a student. She did enjoy dancing, and she wasn't half bad at it. When she was younger, she thought, maybe in another life, she might have been a dancer.
But she was destined to become a doctor from the day she latched on to her father's stethoscope as a baby at her doljanchi.
As she led Rumi out onto the dance floor, she could almost feel herself forgetting all of that. All she could feel was Rumi's arms on her shoulders, her hands on Rumi's waist. She had these beautiful brown eyes. Her eyebrows lent a sharpness to the way she looked at things, but underneath the surface, there was something tender and open.
"You really are beautiful," Mira heard herself say, the words leaving her lips before her mind could stop them. "Sorry," she said, immediately after. "I probably sound corny."
"Corny is fine," Rumi said. "If it's you being honest. I like it when people are honest."
"Me too," Mira said quietly.
"And thank you. For… Saying I'm beautiful. Sorry. I don't deal with compliments very well."
"I could probably be less awkward when delivering them."
Rumi smiled and looked away. "Maybe."
"Can I ask what brought you back to Seoul?"
Rumi took a deep breath, thoughtful. "Divorce," she said, at last.
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Rumi shrugged. "It is what it is."
Mira absentmindedly ran her thumbs up and down the small space on Rumi's waist near where her hands were resting. Rumi's expression flickered with something—the barest blush appearing on her chest. "I feel like we're reaching that age. Where we find out if things are going to work long term."
"I suppose so."
"I don't know. Doctors are really good at getting divorced, too."
"You're preternaturally inclined?" Rumi asked with a smirk.
"Yeah, perhaps. The hours. Plus, the type of people who become doctors."
Rumi pursed her lips, the edges of them tipping up just enough to be called a smile, waiting for the punchline. "What kind of people are those?"
"Assholes, mostly."
Rumi laughed. It wasn't entirely a polite laugh, either. "So, is this you telling me you're an asshole?"
Mira sighed. "I won't lie. I can be."
Rumi looked a little gentler then. "You don't seem like one to me."
"Really? The person who tried to trick you into thinking she got two white wines when she wanted zero?"
"That was maybe a little asshole-ish. But you dropped the act pretty fast."
The song ended, and Mira started to pull away, but Rumi stopped her, grip on her shoulders tightening.
"Do you want to get some air?" Rumi asked.
Mira raised her eyebrows, but she nodded. She led Rumi out onto the atrium's veranda—what the staff affectionately referred to as "the smokers' patio", much to hospital admin's chagrin. It was lightly decorated for the event, with a few outdoor Christmas trees and strands of white lights wrapped around the railings.
"Our majestic view," Mira said, waving her hands at the mostly industrial building-crowded landscape before them.
"It's not so bad," Rumi said, leaning back against the railing.
"You're not taking it in, though."
"No, my focus is somewhere else." Rumi looked at her, eyes lingering.
Mira blinked. Was she flirting? "Well, you're missing out. I imagine they don't have views like this in Boston."
"There are a lot of things Boston doesn't have that Seoul does."
"Very true. When I was telling my Appa I was heading there for work, he said it had 'so many Americans.'"
Rumi smiled, a little sad. "Are you close with your parents?"
"Um, relatively speaking. We see each other once a week or so for dinner. They've made their peace with my 'lifestyle choices.'" Mira did air quotes as she said the last bit.
"That's nice."
"What about you?"
"It's just my Mom and me now."
"I'm… Sorry. For your loss."
"Thanks. It was a long time ago. But…" She shrugged. "Still hurts, actually."
Without thinking, Mira reached out and took Rumi's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. It was something she'd do when comforting a patient or a friend. But with Rumi, it felt electric. The hair on her neck stood on end as their fingers touched.
"It never gets easier, losing people," Mira said softly.
"That's comforting. In a way."
"How so?"
"It means that… Most people are very loved. And missed. I find that comforting."
Mira nodded. "I've never had a patient who someone didn't come looking for. Someone that nobody mourned."
"So. If we're both destined to die alone, at least we know someone will be sad about it, huh?" Rumi asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
Filing that comment away for dissection later, Mira asked, "Are you cold? It's freezing out here, you know."
"I run hot, usually. But yes, I am a little chilled."
Mira said nothing as she removed her blazer, draping it over Rumi's shoulders.
"Thanks," she said, voice just above a whisper. Before Mira could step back, Rumi tipped up and kissed her lips. It was just a little peck, but it was like someone had suddenly rolled the shades up and filled the room with sunlight.
Rumi pulled back, startled. "God, Mira, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was—"
Mira recovered, somehow, the stars in her eyes receding enough to return to reality. She leaned forward and kissed Rumi again.
Rumi made a soft sound, surprised, before melting into her. Mira slid her arms around Rumi's waist, fingers grazing her lower back, moving across the silky fabric of her dress. Rumi's fingers curled loosely in the fabric of Mira's shirt.
Mira started to pull away, but it was Rumi who refused that time, gripping her shirt, pulling her closer. Mira kissed her more deeply, tipping her back over the railing just slightly. Rumi's lips parted, and she breathed in through her nose, breath hitching as Mira gently nipped her lower lip.
Rumi broke their kiss, just to breathe. She brought her hands up to the back of Mira's neck, pulling her down so forcefully that Mira almost fell forward.
"Rumi," Mira mumbled into her lips, not sure what she was trying to say.
"Can we just—not stop yet?" Rumi kissed her again and then another time, more chaste.
"We can do whatever you want," Mira murmured before pressing Rumi against the bannister. She kissed her way across her cheek to the corner of her jaw. "I could take you home," she whispered in her ear.
Rumi swallowed a little sound, something like a whine. "Mira, I can't."
"Who says?" Mira asked, tone lightly teasing. But she returned to Rumi's lips to kiss her the way she seemed to like the best. Just a little pressure, just a little teeth, just a little tongue.
Rumi curled into her, fingernails digging into the skin on the back of her neck. "Mira," she said again, like she was asking for something. Mira was ready to turn herself inside out to give it to her.
They kissed on the patio until they were both shivering. Mira pulled back, her warm breath turning to soft puffs of white in the cold night air. "We should go inside before we freeze," she chattered.
"Yeah, you're right," Rumi said, although she seemed sad to admit it.
When they stepped back inside, Mira noticed quite a few eyes on them. She supposed that had been less than subtle, but… Too late now. She guided Rumi off to the side, hand on her lower back, blazer still draped over her shoulders.
"So…" Mira began, letting her hand fall from its place on the small of Rumi's back. "What did you think about coming home with me?"
Rumi looked at her and bit her lip. "It's very tempting. I won't lie."
Mira brought her hand down and took Rumi's, running her thumb across the backs of her fingers. "Anything that's getting in the way?"
"Hmm. A lot of things." She paused, taking in Mira's lightly hurt expression, before adding, "Not to do with you. It's me. I'm just… The ink isn't even dry on my divorce. I just got back to town a couple of days ago. It's almost New Year's. I don't know, Mira."
"I get it," Mira said softly.
"I just… Do you really want this to be a one-night stand?"
It was Rumi's turn to look hurt. Mira shook her head. "No," she said, honestly. "I don't. I feel… Something. A connection with you. I can't really explain it. But it's more than attraction."
"I feel it, too."
Rumi licked her lips. She stepped closer, looking up at her. "Can I give you my number and we see where things go?"
"Yeah. Absolutely." Mira handed over her phone in a heartbeat.
Rumi created a contact card for herself before handing the phone back to Mira. "I should probably get going. My friend is going to think I ditched her."
"Zoey would think that immediately."
Rumi laughed. "Right. Forgot you know each other." She tucked some of her hair behind her ear. "Well. I guess this is goodnight?"
As cheesy as it was, Mira felt compelled. She lifted Rumi's hand in her own and lightly kissed the back of her fingers. "Goodnight, Rumi."
"Goodnight, Mira."
She walked away, looking back a few times, smiling each time she found Mira still watching her. Then she looked startled. "Your jacket!"
"Keep it! I'll get it next time."
Rumi smiled and disappeared through the atrium exit door.
When Mira got home that night, she felt as if she were walking on clouds, high above the Seoul skyline. She even dreamed it. Traipsing through the mountains of soft fluff, snow falling all around.