Archive of Our Own ^beta

🐯

Looking back, Rumi can remember the first time she noticed something was off with Zoey. 

Three months had passed since their victory over Gwi-Ma and the sealing of the honmoon. After the harrowing events they went through, Bobby kindly organised everything to offer them a much needed extended break.

A lot of tears were shed, a lot of difficult conversation had, and a lot of guilt had to be worked through. From Rumi for lying to her friends and pushing them away. From Zoey and Mira for the way they reacted, for raising their weapons at her, for letting her go. In this turmoil of emotion, they found peace, forgiveness, and more importantly each other. 

Rumi had not been blind to the ways Mira and Zoey used to gravitate around each other, the stolen touches, the innocent cuddles, the silent yearning like a taught string that they didn’t dare touch. She however had been totally blind to the ways she too was included in that three star system, too busy pushing back to notice the constant pull. The stolen glances, the constant invitations to join them, the press of a hand or a smile, she chastised herself everyday for how she could have missed it. 

Zoey and Mira reassured her that she hadn’t been left out of anything but a stolen kiss in the bathhouse that they hadn’t known what to do with, what with their responsibilities as kpop idols, demon hunter, and friends. And so the three singers have had the time and space to discover the new form their relationship might take, one day at a time. They settled as girlfriends, though not publicly. This relationship was theirs, a part of themself still raw and new that they did not want the public to dispossess them from, make it a part of their brand, and thus cheapening its meaningfulness in the process. 

On this day, they had to wake up earlier than any of them— but Rumi— was comfortable with to drive to a filming studio. They had grown restless during their break and slowly started back their life as public figures while working on their next album. They ended up collaborating with a brand offering to produce exclusive huntrix perfumes, one for each of the singers. They had made a date of their day in the company’s headquarters, finding the scent that would represent the, teasing and sniffing each other long enough to burn their olfactory receptors. 

This ad spot recording day was the last part of their involvement in the production process, save a few social media posts. They had planned for four different ads, one together and one with each of them individually. After a harsh morning of makeup touch up, blaring lights, and repeated lines, they were almost done, the only spot left being Zoey’s. Which wasn’t going as smoothly as all of the others, eating up on their precious lunch time. 

Rumi and Mira sat on the side, watching encouragingly as Zoey repeated her lines again and again in the unforgiving cold lens of the camera. Rumi sipped on her boba tea, a soft look in her eyes as she relaxed from her most recent turn under the blinding lights. Her teeth distractingly nipped at the thick pastel straw as she shifted her attention back and forth between her two girls.

Mira had her hair in a lazy bun, and her noise cancelling headphones on, playing the demo of the first song of their new album, jagged glass, on loop. They had stayed up way too late to finish it, eating away at their precious hours of sleep; they didn’t know how to stop when inspiration hooked them like this. 

A notebook — helpfully landed by Zoey — on her lap, she was planning out their choreography, gaze lost in her own mind, moving her arms and leg from time to time in rhythm with a beat only she could hear.

Rumi was extremely fond of these moments where Mira’s usually stiff and still body was overtaken by uncontrollable motion, her unwavering passion for dance becoming the sole focus of her attention. She could look at Mira all day and though she yearned to run her fingers on the nape of her neck, she learned early on that she did not appreciate being touched in those moments. This is how she almost missed the commotion. 

“— I’m just not sure I understand what the problem is?” Zoey’s voice caught Rumi’s attention, having lost its usual upbeat tone. 

“It’s good, it’s good … But like I said I just want one take with a little bit more of euuuh feminine energy!" the director replied with a flourish of his hands, french accent thick on his tongue. His gaze bore judgmentally through Zoey. 

“What does that even mean though …?” Zoey curled up on herself, shoulders hunched, just enough for Rumi, fine-tuned to her body language, to notice. It tugged at Rumi’s heart and she bounced out of her chair without a second thought, followed a second later by Mira, ready to put on her most practiced glare. 

“Well it’s women’s perfume! By capturing this feminine essence we transform a perfume into a bold statement of pride and confidence.”

“It’s just sea salt and lime …” mumbled Zoey. “Anyone can buy it.”

The director let out a contrived sigh and shook his head. “I am just doing my job, miss.” Zoey looked so small under the gaze of the director and staff, gaze darting but unfocused, slowly crushed by the general air of frustration permeating the air. 

“Is there a problem here?” Rumi’s voice cut the tension with a sharp edge. standing arms crossed and a concerned look on her features. She felt a cold quiet anger against this demanding director that only got colder every time she glanced at Zoey. The lyricist was looking back with a mix of surprise, thankfulness, and apprehension.

“I was just giving some directions for another take, Miss Ryu. We have to get this just right.”

“Haven’t you had enough takes?” Mira’s voice was cold and unforgiving. “She’s been at it for twice as long as any of us.”

The director looked indignant, his bruised ego apparent in his reddening face.

“Are you putting my expertise in question? I would let you know that—”

Rumi caught the sideway glance Mira threw her way and recognised the familiar and silent question in it of “ why are they saying this, did i misread something? ”. She took a step forward, about to cut him off, but Zoey was faster than her. 

“Guys, guys, it’s fine!” she put herself between them and the director. “I’ll just do one more take, play up the Zoey charm you know?” she said with a singsongy voice that tried to be reassuring and playful. But her smile didn’t reach her eyes. 

“You sure you’re okay, Zo?” whispered Mira, her hand reaching out protectively for hers. 

Zoey grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Yeah, tip top, just a bit hangry you know!” she said while dramatically clutching her belly. 

Her giggle didn't sound very convincing. But with a nod, Rumi gently pulled Mira back to their seats, knowing that making a scene out of it would only serve to make Zoey that much more uncomfortable. 

They watched Zoey‘s last take with nervous attention, Mira’s notebook and headphones forgotten, Rumi swearing as her fangs ripped a chunk of straw. The director and staff seemed satisfied, and the energetic performance was way closer to what Mira and Rumi did for theirs, but it did not feel like their Zoey. And indeed as soon as the cameras were off, she deflated like a popped balloon, discomfort visible in her whole body. She dragged her feet towards the two girls who rose to meet her halfway, securing her in a soothing hug. 

Zoey let out a tired sigh and mumbled about her feet hurting while letting herself be carried by her girlfriend’s embrace, body going limp.

With a glance thrown over her shoulder, Rumi and Mira agreed. Pulling away first, Rumi announced, “What do you say we go to your favorite Tteokbokki place to celebrate?”

The reaction was instant, Zoey jolted up, pulled back in turn, bouncing on the balls of her feet, a genuine toothy smile spreading on her face. There she is, thought Rumi. “Wait for real? Even though Mira had to lock up in the toilets for an hour last time??”

Mira waved her hand dismissively in reply. “It’s fine.” Only her girls, fine-tuned to her micro-expressions, could see the mix of softness and apprehension on her face.

“Yippee!!” Zoey jumped in the air and clapped her feet together before grabbing her girlfriends’ hands and pulling them toward the exit as fast as her shorter legs could allow. 

Mira rolled her eyes at her antics but joined in Rumi’s giggle. The purple haired singer however did notice that the tension hadn’t left Zoey’s shoulder and that she seemed more focused on leaving this place, like a building on fire, than on their destination. 

She softly freed her wrist with a comforting smile. “I’ll go grab our stuff, you two go to the car.” 

Zoey gave her hand a tiny squeeze and looked back at her with tired eyes. “Thanks Ru,” she whispered before swiftly sliding back in her upbeat demeanor, pulling Mira with both hands now. “I’m picking the music!”

“Ughh no more hyperpop!” begged Mira, already ready to concede. 

Rumi watched her girlfriends go with a soft feeling in her chest; she would do anything for her girls. But underneath that warmth lied an uneasy thought emerging from the ever simmering lake of self-doubt deep in her gut: what if she couldn’t help them. What if she once again fell short of what they needed from her. She quieted those thoughts with a mental slap and rushed to fulfill her girlfriend duty of carrying 3 overloaded bags simultaneously.

__________

“Couch, couch, couch, couch!” They sang together, dancing along the hallway to their penthouse. 

The meal had eased the tension in Zoey who was back to her energetic and bubbly self. Mira on the other hand was once again betrayed by her IBS and looked ready to collapse. The weird energy from their morning gone, Rumi felt like she could breathe again in this new rhythm they built together. 

Once inside, Mira b-lined for their couch and let herself fall into it like in the arms of a lover.

“This is the peak of man-made technology,” she mumbled with a content sigh. 

“I’m gonna make us some tea,” announced Zoey, with a quick peck on Mira’s cheek, 

“You’re an angel,” replied Mira with her tiny typical smile. 

“Yeah I am pretty great.” Zoey disappeared in the kitchen with bouncy steps while Rumi sat down next to the choreographer, brushing a lock of her behind her ear. 

“You’re okay, sweetheart?”

Rumi tried not to smile as Mira hid her face, embarrassed by the effectiveness the pet name had on her.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m just gonna sue this place for lying about the spiciness of their food like goddamn criminals.”

Rumi shuckled and put a soft kiss on her girlfriend’s forehead. She was still amazed that she could just … do that whenever she wanted and that mira would hum softly in reply. Confessing their feelings was the best decision they ever made. “I think Zoey would hunt you down with her shin-kal if you got that place to close down.”

A few seconds of silence stretched between them. It was cut by Mira’s sharp tone. “I don’t like the way that director talked to her. He treated her like shit, like she was too dumb to understand simple directions.”

Rumi nodded, concern and anger written on her face. “I’ll make sure we never work with him again. I’m worried for Zoey though, she—”

She didn't have time to finish her thought as a yelp from their kitchen stole her attention. In a swift motion trained over countless hours, she jumped over the couch and landed in a running sprint, worry coursing through her limbs.

“Is everything okay?” She barged in with a slide, ready to summon her saingeom, the honmoon vibrating at her fingertips. The tension immediately abandoned her when faced with the terrible and ruthless battle that took place in front of her eyes. 

Apparently, Zoey had decided to remove her socks while the water boiled, only to realise halfway through that she actually wanted to remove her top too. With only one sock on, she was bouncing on one foot, trying to get her balance back while blinded by her sweater, shirt, and sports bra all three caught around her neck. 

Before Rumi could intervene with barely repressed tears of laughter, Zoey managed to extirp herself from the devious trap and slammed the clothes on the floor with a victorious war cry. 

“Take that, I am a hunter! Whatcha gonna do when I’m coming for you!” 

Looking proud and disheveled, Zoey turned to Rumi with a cocky grin. “Don’t worry babe, I had everything under control.”

Rumi walked up to her, body shaking with laughter, clutching her stomach with one hand and whipping tears with the other. She put a hand on her shoulder. 

“We will never forget the day you single handedly and heroically defeated a pile of clothes, hunter,” she announced solemnly which provoked another burst of giggle from the two singers. 

Zoey was currently topless but it was not an unusual sight in their home anymore. She quickly started indulging in the habit of walking half-naked in the privacy of their penthouse, which apparently felt comfortable for her, once they started dating. It drove Rumi and Mira insane for a few weeks but the sight grew to be domestic and casual with time. 

However, a detail grabbed Rumi’s attention and pulled her out of her amused state. With her lips puckered to the side she glances at the irritated red marks lacing the otherwise pale skin of the chest of her younger partner. It wasn’t her first time noticing them since she stopped running from physical proximity, but she never dared to bring it up before. 

“Zoey … why do you wear sports bra so tight? You know we can get you some that fit better.” Her voice was laced with concern and it extinguished Zoey’s laughter in turn. 

Eyes darting to the side, Zoey retorted with a fake accusatory tone.“Why do you ask? Do you lurk at my boobs? Are you a boobs lurker?” 

“What?” Rumi’s face grew red with fluster. “No! I’m not- I can be normal around boobs!” Her voice was louder than she expected, and her marks glowed in sync with her embarrassment. 

“That’s not what mines remember from yesterday,” interrupted Mira with a flat tone from the couch. 

“Shut up Mira!” Rumi’s flush reached her ears and she tried to focus back on the worry Zoey had deflected her from. “I’m serious Zoey … I’m just worried for you.” She reached out and timidly brushed the reddened skin with the tip of her fingers. 

Zoey shivered at the touch and flinched away, rapidly masking the frown that had appeared at Rumi’s concern with a smile that didn’t convince any of them. 

“I’m fiiine Ru. I just like the way they make me look!” 

Confusion spread on Rumi’s face. Zoey smiled coyly in answer, flipped around and walked backward into her. “You know, small chest, big booty-ody-ody-ody-ody-ody!” 

Rumi hid her face in her hand to hide both laughter and embarrassment as Zoey twerked against her. It was kinda hot and kinda silly and got them both to laugh, dissolving the tension. 

“Zoey, stop torturing Rumi, she'll explode.” Mira’s voice reached once again with that tinge of frustration at being left out that only they could recognize. 

The kettle had apparently finished boiling a moment ago without them noticing. Zoey filled up their three mugs and nudged one of them towards Rumi like nothing happened. “Grab yours Ru, I don’t have 3 hands … though that would be very cool and hot, we can all agree.” Then she headed for the door, shouting “Comiiiing” to her other girlfriend. 

As Rumi watched her walk away, her smile dropped and the uneasy feeling in her gut grew uncomfortably. 

🖤

Mira frequently saw signs but did not know how to bring the subject up in a way that would not have Zoey brush it off with a joke and a perfectly timed turtle video distraction. The most  glaring one happened on the day of a fan signing even, less than a week after the ad shoot. 

It had already been a few hours of smiling and signing and chatting with various fans and Mira was growing ever more curt and withdrawn in her interactions. It was the kind of attitude that got her her reputation as the cold and distant member of Huntrix, an attitude that served her public persona but that fans who spent hours waiting to meet her didn't deserve. She wished she had the energy to offer all of them a warm smile and nice words, they truly meant the world to her. But her social energy was limited and she started to feel the internal pull of exhaustion draw on her, her limbs growing heavy and an oppressive buzz settling behind her brows. It didn’t help that she had to put the few who felt parasocial enough to ask intrusive questions about Rumi’s patterns, visible under the sunny weather and short sleeves, in their place. 

She felt ever so grateful for Rumi’s thigh softly pressing against hers and Zoey’s hand flying to the small of her back every so often, which helped ground her and gave her the strength to push through the few dozens fans left. She always had been able to rely on them both when she got overwhelmed but she only recently stopped feeling guilt for needing it, for being vulnerable. 

A man with dark hair and a patchy beard approached their table, looking the usual amount of awestruck and intimidated. 

Like usual, Rumi took the lead to put him at ease. “Hey, what’s your name?”

The simple question helped him collect his thoughts and remember how to talk. “Hi, god sorry you look so cool up close I … I’m Adam.” 

Like second nature, the singers started signing posters sitting in piles in front of them. 

“Nice to meet you Adam,” replied Rumi in a voice trained to be calming and familiar. “Do you want a picture? Or do you have a question for us?”

The usual rhythm of the interaction helped to ground Mira in something she knew how to navigate. Until Adam repled.

“Well I… I have a question actually, but it’s kind of a weird one …”

They immediately braced themself, Mira’s hand tightening around her pen in case she needed to intervene in the face of another intrusive question Rumi was too nice to deal with how she should.

The fan, unsure how to proceed, took a step back and rummaged into his backpack under the watchful gaze of security. He pulled out a small white plastic bottle and hesitantly handed it toward Mira. 

“You— You inspire me a lot!” He blurted out. “I used to listen to your single, Bad Boy, all the time during high school and … and that’s how I figured out I was trans.” He looked away, embarrassed, a faint blush on his cheeks. “Would you … Would you be okay with signing my first bottle of t-gel … ? It’s empty!” He quickly added as if afraid that the opposite would make it weirder. 

Mira was stunned for a few seconds. He wasn’t the first trans fan who came to her, sharing how her own transition inspired them, it was even for these kinds of stories that she decided to go public about it in the first place. But she was just as touched every time, and couldn't hold back the smile that overtook her face. She grabbed the bottle and signed it with joy threatening to take over her limbs; strong emotions often did. 

“Dude, that rocks! How long have you been transitioning for?” 

While Mira chatted with the fan whose anxiety seemed to have melted when faced with sincere enthusiasm from his idol, she finally noticed that something was off since the start of the interaction. Zoey, who usually loved to talk longer than she should with each and every fan, was strangely silent. Mira threw a quick gland her way and caught her pensively staring at Adam. No, not at him exactly, at his chest? She confusingly looked back at Adam only to realise that what had captured her attention was the edge of a faint scar visible on the side of his baggy tank top, indicative of top surgery. 

That was strange. Zoey was usually very supportive with Mira and with trans fans. It wasn’t her type to just stare silently, though her eyes did not seem to be filled with shock or confusion. The only point of comparison she had was the way Zoey sometimes stared at their desert after she finished hers too fast, knowing she probably wouldn’t get any. Which didn’t make any sense to Mira. Sometimes, she really wished she was better at reading facial expressions, especially those of the people she loved. 

As their conversation drew to an end with the fan and she handed the HRT gel bottle back to him, she subtly nudged Zoey with her thigh, hoping to get her out of whatever headspace she was trapped in. It worked a bit too well as Zoey practically jumped out of her seat and blushed guiltily when the fan turned to her next. 

“And Zoey, I- I really love your writing, your lyrics are so good! Especially in your last album, the way you can put into words all of these feelings that I wouldn’t know how to express without your songs. It just feels like you understand what it feels like you know!”

Zoey seemed confused for an instant but managed to cut the awkwardness with a convincing squeal. “Wooow really? That’s so nice of you to say o-m-g! I’m glad my lyrics can help with any kind of feelings, sooo many feelings to express for sure.”

Adam did not seem to notice the awkwardness oozing from Zoey, happy as he was to even be talking to her. When he finally turned his attention to Rumi next, Mira reached for Zoey and saw her deflate, her upbeat performance giving way to a cringing pout. 

“You okay, baby?” whispered Mira, leaning toward her for privacy. “You were starring a little.”

Zoey jumped and hid the flush in her cheeks with her hands. “Yeah! Just you know the sun frying the old nogging. I’m gonna get some water actually, be right back!” And without letting a chance for Mira to reply, she darted out of her seat. 

As Adam walked away, Mira turned to Rumi with her eyebrows raised who only had a confused shrug to offer as an answer. 

___________

The car ride back was an occasion for them to unwind and softly bask in each other’s presence. Rumi who was in the passenger seat had her hand on Mira’s thigh while Zoey, slouched against said passenger seat from the back, lazily ran her finger on Rumi’s scalp. Mira was only half listening to Zoey’s habitual post event complaining about how her wrist would never work again, and how she will never be able to write lyrics again without a hand, and that her career was over. Rant sometimes interrupted by wild gasps, followed by Zoey shoving her phone in their face to show them a meme, or a post someone made following the meet and greet. 

As they neared their street, Mira, who had used most of her focus to get them home in one piece, perked up when hearing a familiar hummed tune drifting from the back seat.

“Are you singing Bad Boy?” She asked, glancing amusingly at Zoey through the rear-view mirror. 

Zoey looked up with an easy smile on her lips. “Guess I am. Haven’t been able to get it out of my head since that fan brought it up.”

Mira hummed in agreement, the background track rising in her mind, and with a conspiratorial look to her girlfriends she sang.

“So bad at being a boy.”

“Bad boy, bad boy!” Rumi provided the back up vocals while pumpkin her hands in the air. 

“Made myself into a hot girl.”

“Hot girl, hot girl!” Rumi offered a body roll before throwing a finger gun to Zoey in the back for the next line.

“If you can't see me then I’ll become the bad boy, bad boy!!”

Well that was … intense. Zoey didn’t seem to realise how loud she screamed the lyrics until she caught Mira’s surprised look in the rear-view mirror. She looked sheepish for an instant, until Rumi’s easy laugh grabbed both of them into a fit of giggles.

Rumi turned around on her seat, still stifling her laughter. “It’s ‘I’ll become the bad girl’, Zoey! It’s the whole point of the song.” There was no reproach in her voice, just light teasing. 

Zoey flushed as she realised her mistake, and turned back to Mira while biting her inner cheek. “Right! Sorry Mira.”

“No prob, Zo,” reassured the pink-haired girl. She did find it weird that Zoey would mix up one of their lyrics, especially one that she helped her co-write. But before she had the opportunity to voice this thought, Zoey interrupted the silence, voice loud and hurried.

“That fan was cool as hell, right?”

“He was really nice,” agreed Rumi while shuffling back into her seat.

“He waaas, I really hope I didn’t weird him out,” Zoey mumbled, hiding her face against the front seat headrest. 

Her focus split between finding their parking spot and the conversation, Mira failed to notice how once again, Zoey had managed to slip away before she could even ask a question. 

“Couldn’t be worse than the time someone showed you a picture of their pet turtle named Pluey and you asked to be the god-parent,” she teased. 

Zoey jerked upright, looking indignant. “It was a perfectly normal thing to suggest, they live for eighty years, Mira! They need a kind and loving home!”

Their joined laughter follows them all of the way to the elevator. 

___________

Drained by the day and the drive back home, Mira let her usual mask fall as soon as she crossed the threshold of their penthouse. With a soft and vulnerable pout, and fingers absentmindedly toying with her spin ring, she mumbled “Going to my room.”

Rumi and Zoey did not argue or ask questions, they just gave her both a kiss on the cheek and a reassuring smile that Mira learned meant We’re here if you need anything . Mira scurried down the corridor, unable to keep the tenderness from spreading on her face. 

How lucky she felt to have found two people who both understood her, respected her boundaries, and actually loved her, weirdness and all. Through their support she thrived despite her limits and the atypical way her brain processed things around her, which she knew from experience not everyone found acceptable. She still had a long way to go to purge the poison her family pushed in her brain for almost two decades, to stop feeling like a broken toy with lost instructions. But living with Rumi and Zoey made it every day easier. 

She quickly changed into comfortable clothing, namely the oversized teddy bear sweater Zoey got her two Christmases ago, and dropped on her bed with an exhausted sigh.

A few hours later, a soft knock came from her door, preceding Zoey’s face.

“Hey baby, can I come in?”

“Sure,” mumbled Mira without moving from her bed but carefully removing her noise canceling headphones. 

She had to look ridiculous lying on top of her covers, arms spread out and forearms bared like a transfem Jesus on the HRT gel cross. But she had stopped feeling like she needed to look put together all the time in front of her girls long ago. 

“Ru went to her therapy appointment— I didn't even have to argue with her this time! But before she left we made you some comfort food.” She approached the bed, walking on the balls of her feet, a lunch tray in hands. She was wearing her favorite oversized shirt sporting a cartoon goldfish wearing sneakers and saying “well if the shoe fish”, and had forgoed wearing any pants. Careful to not bother the quiet comfort Mira surrounded herself in, she sat close to her head.

Mira inhaled and breathed out with delight. “You made me homemade gamjatang? You’re the best.” Her voice was raspy from overuse, and though she didn’t like it, she found comfort in the fact that Zoey did.

“Only the best for the best,” retorted Zoey. 

“Can you put it on the nightstand? I’m a bit …” She gestured to her arms with her chin and Zoey bounced back on her feet to do as told, happy to be of help. 

“Sure babe.” When she sat back down her face grew more serious. “Are you sure you don't wanna try injections like the doctor said? I know you don't really like the gel.”

“Ugh Zo I would sooner let a demon rip my head off than voluntarily let a needle near my skin,” she groaned while still throwing a murderous look at her drying forearms. 

“Right, Right, sorry.” Zoey raised her hands in surrender but stayed by the bed, silent, gaze strangely turned inward. 

“You ... need anything, babe?” Mira asked with a nudge from a knuckle. 

Zoey seemed to remember where she was and after a few seconds of hesitation blurted out “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“What kind?” Mira frowned, the events of the day playing back in her head.

“You know … trans stuff.” 

Mira raised her brows in surprise and, despite her exhaustion, felt that this conversation was a long time coming, and that Zoey would not reach out for it again so easily. She nodded and offered the best smile she could at the moment. 

“Sure, Zo, always.”

As Mira tried to gather herself for a prolonged talk, Zoey apparently noticed her physical discomfort, and she proposed gently “Want me to lay on top of you like a weighted blanket?”

Though Mira somehow disliked being so transparent in her needs, she nodded and had to admit “Yeah, that sounds perfect right now”.

So Zoey climbed on top of her, careful to leave her forearms undisturbed, and laid herself on top of her taller girlfriend, her face tucked in her shoulder. The familiar weight and warmth released a knot of tension in Mira’s body that she didn’t realise was there until she couldn’t feel it tugging at her joints. 

After a few minutes of pregnant silence where each of them waited for the other to start talking, Mira ended up being the one to reach out. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

She felt Zoey take a big breath in before slowly blowing the air out in the crook of her neck, gathering her courage. “It’s really a super basic question … but like we never really talked about how … how you figured out you’re trans.”

Mira realised with a start that despite having shared most of her gender journey with her girls early on, she had never talked about how it started. She had been so used to dodging and deflecting questions about her life with her family before the huntrix, that she left this part of her story incomplete in their eyes. She didn’t think that they necessarily minded as they always respected the distance she tried to put between herself and this part of her life. But, seeing Zoey try to reach that part of her with a careful and vulnerable crease in her brows, she found the strength to open this otherwise tightly locked box. Before the lyricist could take her question back, she braced herself, and delved into her memories of a childhood filled with passive-aggressive disappointment. 

“You know that my parents were not the best. They never really said they hated me but they certainly made me feel like they did. I was too loud, too awkward, not interested in the correct things, throwing fits and tantrums that they judged unbecoming of the heir.”

Zoey scoots deeper against Mira, a comforting presence keeping her grounded and safe. 

“So I had this nanny who basically raised me since my parents were too busy handling their empire to spend time with me. She was … she was really nice, she let me do things my way, try new things, and always managed to calm me down when I had a meltdown. Anyway, one day I stole one of her dresses because I needed to dress up for … a plushie tea party.”

Zoey predictably gasped in reply. But it appeared that she wanted the rest of her story bad enough to not comment on this unprecedented piece of Mira lore. 

“It was way too big on me of course, ridiculous even, but I still looked at myself and felt pretty … happy. And instead of taking it from me, she went to put another dress on and we had the tea party. But my parents got home early and for some reason decided today was the day they wanted to check on me.” Mira breathed in Zoey’s familiar scent to steel herself, the sweet citrusy aroma soothing the ache in her heart. “She was fired and afterward they really controlled who they let spend time with me. So I stuffed all of these stupid thoughts down for a while. Oh I kept watching girl bands in secret in my room and practicing their choreography, and was really fascinated with strong confident women in movies for some reason. Everytime they found out, they chastised me, and the more they tried to stop me the more petty I got. Anyway, I started incorporating more feminine stuff in my life as revenge. Wearing heels during their stupid galas, or a tiara … I even managed to sneak on lipstick once.”

Mira chuckled and Zoey cooed at that thought. “You must have been sooo pretty.” 

“I guess I was, it made me feel great even. I didn’t even know what trans was at the time. I just needed to be seen, without lies or pretenses. After a pretty bad fight where my dad basically told me to man up or be disowned, I just ran away. Packed up my little duffle back and jumped out of the window. Luckily I was picked up by a cool biker girl and not some weird dude, like wow that was dumb but also I don’t regret it at all. I told her I was running from home and she just said ‘same, climb on’ so I did. She was really cool with an old leather jacket that smelled like motor oil, piercings on her face, and a backpack covered with patches. She took me to a fast food place, first time I ever went by the way, sat me down, got me fries and a coke and got me talking. And I just spilled out. I never saw her again after that, but this random woman knows probably more about my teenage inner turmoil than anyone else. Anyway she immediately clocked me and was like ‘oh yeah you’re trans’, and I was like ‘what’s that’ and she just said ‘that means you’re like me’. She told me her story too, then she gave me … wait I still got it.”

She reached towards her nightstand where the lovingly cooked soup was sadly cooling down, and grabbed her keys. Fiddling with her many keychains, she finally chose one to show to Zoey. Dangling from an old frayed red string was a metal trinket, circular shaped, with a motorbike wheel in the middle and the words Mira Motoworks around it. Zoey looked at it, running a thumb on its surface reverently, eyes widening. 

“Wait, that's where …”

“My name comes from? Yeah. Told me she would be working there for the next two weeks, to call there if I really needed a ride to somewhere new. Then she took me back home, couldn’t risk facing charges of kidnapping as long as she was around, you know. Of course my parents kinda locked me up and took basically everything away from me for a month after that so it never happened. But that night, I left as a confused and scared boy and came back as a punk ass girl ready to make her parent’s life a living hell.”

They stayed silent a moment, Mira absent-mindedly tracing patterns along Zoey’s back, feeling exhausted and surprised that those old wounds did not hurt as harshly as she remembered. The silence wasn’t awkward but reflective, a time for both of them to internalize what was shared and left unsaid. Finally, Mira took the trinket out of its keyring, put it in Zoey’s hand, and closed it with her own. 

“I want you to have it.”

“W-What why? It’s important to you.”

“You’re important to me,” retorted Mira. Then, after a pregnant pause, she added “The place closed down a few years ago, before I escaped my parents and found you. It doesn’t exist anymore. But this does.” She pushed Zoey’s hand and the trinket inside away from her, towards its new owner. 

“Okay” mumbled Zoey, reluctantly accepting the gift. Then after a beat “I love you, Mira.”

“Love you too, Zo.” Now that the gel had finished drying, Mira pulled her sleeves down and shifted into an actual cuddle, both her and Zoey sighing into the shared comfort. “Got any more questions?”

Zoey took a while to answer, gaze lost in her own thoughts, fingers mindlessly rolling the trinket over her knuckles. Finally, she asked “So … you always kinda knew?”

Mira had to think about it for an instant. “I guess so? I just never had a word for what I was feeling, I didn’t even know what I was feeling until I was able to see someone like me and point to it and go ‘that’s what it is’. I guess I also struggled a lot parsing attraction from gender envy which made everything so confusing.”

Zoey stopped fidgeting and perked up on her elbows. “What do you mean? What’s that?”

“You know like sometimes you see a girl and you’re like damn she’s so pretty I don't know if I want to be her or be with her. Or him, I guess it must go the other way too.” 

Zoey seemed particularly confused at this. “Wait so sometimes you’re attracted to someone but you’re not really attracted to them it’s just that you wanna look like them?”

“Kinda, not necessarily look like them but be like them.”

“Uh.” Zoey fell back down on top of Mira. “Much to ponder and I'm running out of orbs.”

After a beat of silence where Mira mulled their conversation over in her mind, she asked in turn. “Can I ask you a question, Zo?”

Zoey tilted her head up to meet Mira’s eyes and nodded. “Sure, shoot sugarlips”. 

Mira, struggling to hold eye contact, looked away but reaffirmed her presence by a squeeze of Zoey’s hand. “Why did you ask me about it?”

She felt the immediate change of mood in the room, like a string being put under tension and threatening to whip unpredictably on release.

“Oh … hmm … I guess I keep thinking of that fan from today you know hmm …”

“Adam?”

“Yes, Adam! I thought his whole story was pretty cool and it made me think about … everything. I was kinda weird, I just want to be a good ally, you know!” Her tone probably sounded forced even to her ears. 

“Sure” replied Mira, unconvinced. “But, from experience, when someone comes asking you that kind of question it’s always a bit more … personal”. 

Silent stretched awkwardly around them as Zoey’s body tensed, survival instincts kicking in in response to a situation that shouldn’t call for them. The air felt taught with unsaid words. Stealing her nerves, Mira locked eyes with Zoey and tried asking, “Do you think you might be tr—”

Zoey bolted out of her arms so abruptly that Mira yelped. In her panicked rush toward the exit she nearly stumbled, gaze darting everywhere but the bed she had just escaped, like if it bore her death sentence. 

“C-cool chat, girlfriend! Thanks for everything, sorry for making you talk so much!”

“Zoey!” Mira replied indignantly. 

“Y-You should eat before it goes cold! Yeah, I’ll let you rest, big day tomorrow! I already have a one way ticket to honkschoo-land ahah I mean not one way because that means I would die … you know what I’ll stop talking, byyye girlfriend!”

She slammed the door behind her before Mira had the time to say anything but her name. The pink haired girl fell back on her bed and ran her hands down her face with a groan. She felt an oppressive tightness curl around her ribs at the failure, chastising herself for her lack of subtlety. 

 “Shit … I really need to talk to Rumi.”

🐢

The day Zoey finally stops running from the truth, she is sitting in the bathroom against its locked door. Earlier, Bobby called them about a game show they were invited to which would include a scene in bikini tops for some deranged reasons. The thought was so revolting, she made a pathetic excuse and ran. And now she is here, alone, with a whirlwind of thoughts she can’t parse in her head. 

The tiles are cold which help, and the privacy lets her unravel in peace. She realises belatedly that she’s once again fiddling with the trinket Mira gave her. It hasn’t left her since she left her room a few days ago. 

The same can be said of Mira's last question, the one she didn’t let her finish. Do you think you might be trans? Stupid question really, how is she even supposed to know what it means to be trans. She guesses she can just ask Mira again, but since that evening, the pink-haired singer hasn’t brought it up again and Zoey is too much of a coward to do it herself. The fact they have been overbooked since that evening, leaving them too exhausted to do more than lay in a pile and watch weirdly sentimental animated shows, did not help.

So she stews in doubt and lays at night trying to find in the blurry memories of her childhood an undeniable proof that yes, she checks all of the right boxes, she is allowed to be trans. 

She stands up and looks at herself in the full-body mirror. She drops one piece of clothing at a time, struggling as usual with her stupid sports bra, and looks at herself, Truly looks at her body like she hasn’t done in … she can’t even say how long. Does she like her body? Kinda, aside from her chest, everything feels alright to her. Not great, not perfect, but alright is enough, isn’t it? The chest is a problem though, but some girls don’t really like having boobs, right? It’s just part of her weird quirky self. 

She uses her hands to squish her boobs back. She doesn’t have that much to hide so it’s not too hard. She likes what she sees, but that doesn’t mean she should do anything about it, like isn’t the whole self-love thing about learning to love every part of yourself? How does that even work with being trans? Can changing yourself be an act of self-love too? She groans and drops her hands; she’s not a philosopher, she doesn’t know how to answer that. 

The more she digs into this feeling, like scratching at an unhealthy scab, the more it becomes familiar. That feeling of always being one step to the side of what people expect you to be, of being neither what people see nor what you want to be, of being split into two halves that both don’t represent the whole of who you are. She felt like this in Burbank as the only Korean kid in her high-school. She felt it when she moved to Korea and was surprised to realise she knew far less than she thought she ought to. 

Panic starts to fill her body in crushing waves. She is supposed to be done with this feeling of being out of place, she is supposed to be found and allowed to fully be herself now. Then why isn’t she herself? Why is Mira’s question replaying in her mind like a drumbeat she can’t tune out, pulling on every nerve in her body? Why can’t she just be normal after everything she already had to figure out? Things are supposed to be just fine now, it cost them so much to reach this fragile peace, and who does she think she is to throw it all out of balance once again. 

She doesn’t know who she is and she is so very afraid of finding out. She remembers what happened when Mira went public with it. The PR disaster, brands dropping them left and right, the weird talk show and fan remarks, the mockeries and weird video breakdowns of every “signs”, every movement, words and choice put into question, Celine chastising her for putting herself before their duty. And fuck, why is she even thinking about the consequences if she doesn’t even know if it would ever apply to her? Doesn’t know if she deserves it? What if she is just faking all of this for attention? What if she is just being childish once again, desperately trying to feel special? She doesn’t get to be selfish, not ever and certainly not now. 

Zoey grips the sink, knuckles turning white, as the need to rip her hair off spills from her chest to every limb in her body, a barely repressed scream on her lips. 

_________

Zoey walks toward the living room on the ball of her feet, resisting every urge she has to run the other way. She clutches her arms around her midriff, trying to calm the drum beat of her heart that she feels like everyone in the apartment must be able to hear. She tries to make herself invisible, walking along the edge of the corridor, avoiding the parts of the floorboard she knows will creak under her weight.

As she nears the end of the corridor, she catches familiar voices coming from their beloved couch. She stops in her tracks, staying in the shadows of the wall as she leans in to grasp the ongoing conversation. She isn’t really listening in, just curious and somehow close enough to parse out her name being said. Okay she might be listening in but so do spies and everyone loves spies, like James Bond and Black Widow. Thinking about it, it might only count for fictional spies. 

“You have to talk to her I … I don't have the words to do it like you.” Rumi’s voice sounds strained. There is a stretch of silence and then Mira’s voice answers. 

“I know, I know. But you have to be there, she needs to feel supported by both of us.” And then after a pause, “I’m so bad at talking about stuff, Rumi, I’m scared—”

Oh.

The rest is lost to her as her heart roars in her ears. They are talking about her. 

Zoey lets out a breath she didn’t realise that she was holding. They are talking about supporting her and though Zoey still doesn’t feel ready, anxiety twisting at her gut like an unrelenting vice, she steps forward. Slow, tentative, hopeful steps.

“Hey girls, whatsuuup …” 

They both spin around from the couch where they are sitting side by side.Though her eyes are aimed at the terribly interesting wooden floor, she can feel theirs taking her in. Her cargo shorts, that she definitely only likes for the six giant pockets it offered. The sleeveless oversized cropped hoodie over a tight sports bra which makes her arms and shoulders pop and her chest disappear. But what has to really catch their attention is the uneven scissor-cut short mop of hair on her head. It is a disaster, but it already felt a bit more like her. 

“Zoey” said Rumi as if the simple mention of her name can make her presence both welcomed and wanted. 

A knowing smile tugs at the corner of Mira’s lips. “Cool haircut.”

Zoey feels the knot of tension holding her whole body hostage release a notch. They don’t scream or look at her like they don't know her anymore. They don’t roll their eyes or wince in consideration of the problems this could mean. And why would they ever. God, her brain can be the worst sometimes. As Rumi scoots over on the couch to make room between them, Zoey takes a tentative step forward. Then another, then another. Until she is pulled between their warm comforting bodies. 

She draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. The restless drive that got her here seems to have left her now that all she has left to do is get the words out. She takes a breath, then another, and nothing comes. A thick knot of anxiety wraps around her throat and squeezes until her heart struggles in her chest. 

Neither Rumi nor Mira press her to speak. While she grapples with herinsecurities, while her own voice, her tool and power, fails her in this pivotal moment, they stay close to her, silent, waiting. Not an oppressive kind of waiting that draws sighs and restlessness out of them, but a kind and welcoming one. A space being open and let bare for her to claim at her own rhythm. A hand in the dark, opened, waiting for her to be ready to hold onto.

As the silence stretches and her mouth stays uselessly clenched shut, Rumi reaches out tentatively. She feels the scrape of a nail at the freshly exposed nape of her neck, the warmth of a palm drawing closer, ready to pull away if unwanted. But Zoey leans into it while she lets out a relieved breath. She is pulled against Rumi’s hoodie clad chest, and the lead singer’s nails start scraping her shorn hair delightfully. She hums and feels the strangling knot release its pressure, not fully but enough to feel like she can breathe again.

A familiar lithe hand softly grasps Zoey’s, fingers interlocking in a comforting and grounding squeeze. She squeezes Mira’s hand back but still refuses to look at anything but the floor peaking from above her knees. The knot slackens some more and as a gulp of air rushes in her chest, the truth claws itself out of her.

“I don’t think I’m a girl!”

The words burst out of Zoey’s mouth, spilling over like a primal need to empty herself of something that would have destroyed her if kept tucked in her chest any longer. The sharpness of this truth cuts the silence and frays the knot holding her words back. The rest follows more easily

“But … I don’t think I’m a man either. I don’t really know what I am, I just know I can’t keep pretending like things are okay and I can’t …. I can’t figure it out alone.”

Zoey takes deep gulping breath now that the truth has escaped out of her control. A thought pierces through the noise in her head; she wishes she could take it back, act like nothing ever happened, bury it all safely in the fold of her chest where it won't cause problems for anyone but herself.

Rumi’s voice jolts her out of her panicked mind with another brush of her hand on her scalp. 

“Okay.” 

Her voice is soft and poised, welcoming this undefined truth without posing any judgment or doubt on it. Zoey finally dares raise her eyes and meet her girlfriends’ gazes. 

“Okay?” She whispers, voice strained.

“I’ve had my suspicions for a while now.” Mira’s voice is small, respectful of the importance of the moment, but it carries a hint of teasing, a sort of duh obviously , that leaves Zoey confused. The choreographer pulls her partner’s hand to her lips for a supporting kiss. 

Before she can evaluate this thought, it escapes Zoey’s traitorous mouth. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” She didn’t mean it to sound accusatory and immediately coils back on herself

Mira freezes with her lips against Zoey’s hand. Slowly, she draws it down, revealing a guilty expression. 

“I … I tried. I didn't know how to bring it in a way that would not make you close up and bury it all deeper. You kinda tend to do that, and sometimes I just want to be blunt but that’s not what works for you.” 

They recognise this tone from Mira, eyes avoiding theirs, fingers scratching the hem of her sweater. She reacts this way when she misinterprets their tone or misses a social cue and feels inadequate. This frustration aimed at herself for being less able to navigate interactions than she’d wish to be.

Zoey squeezes her hand back in turn.“That’s fair, I kinda ran away and slammed that door in your face the other day.” 

They smile together, tension easing out of them as they know each other to be forgiven without having to ask. 

Silence stretches around them and though Zoey knows she’s expected to fill it, to continue unpacking her feelings for them to help untangle, nothing comes out once again. No knot holds her throat closed, but no words come to her to give shape to the confusing mess of feelings churning in her chest.

Noticing her silent struggle, mouth opening and closing like a fish lost at sea, Mira comes to the rescue with a tentative offering. 

“Have you ever heard of non-binarity?” Her voice is careful, measured, life if presenting a new piece of clothing that she isn’t sure Zoey would appreciate. 

“I mean … yeah, kinda. But that’s not me,” she retorts hesitantly.

“Why?”

Well, what a good fucking question. Mira looks confused but genuine, and Zoey wishes she could have an answer to give her that also convinces herself. She looks inward and finds a certain gap between her and the term that she struggles to put into words. She tries nonetheless.

“That’s … I don’t think I can call myself that.”

“Why?”

Damn. She’s good at this. Zoey is at a loss for words, unable to voice feelings she barely understands about a word she always felt could only belong to others. 

“Zo, do you feel like a woman?” asks Mira, voice calm but firm. 

“Not really no …” she replies, wringing her fingers against her knee. 

“Okay. Do you feel like a man?”

Zoey shakes her head, brow furrowed. “No, definitely not …” 

Mira lets a pregnant silence stretch between them as Zoey processes this logic in which she frustratingly cannot find a flaw. She tries one last push, a desperate attempt to bury this part of herself Mira kindly tries to point her to. 

“I don’t feel like I deserve to call myself that.” Her voice breaks a little on the admission. It feels pathetic to voice but Zoey has to admit it to be the truth buried under the rejection. 

“Irrelevant,” retorts Mira. Her voice grows softer. “Do you want to?”

Can it really be that simple? Can she carve a new meaning of herself just by wanting it? She thinks of all of the hollow pangs she felt seeing people who live their transness freely, claiming femininity, masculinity, or both as malleable tools of self-expression, worth pursuing for the inherent beauty and joy they find in them. Does she want to? Yes, blindingly so.

Zoey feels this identity settling in her chest, filling a hole she never realised needed to be. Wordlessly, she nods, and earns a comforting squeeze of her hand from Mira, accepting and proud.

Rumi brings her shorter partner’s attention back to her by softly pulling on the shorter uneven locks. “How do you want us to call you?” She punctuates the question of a soft kiss on her forehead, softening the weight of it.

This time, the answer is easier to find for Zoey, born of the intimacy and comfort that grew between them for years and then for three months. “Zoey is fine but … I guess I like when you call me Zo. Is that even a name, Zo? Doesn’t really have a cool ring like Mira.”

“Zo is perfect, it fits you” replies Rumi with an amused smile. 

“Yeah it’s tiny and unique” chuckles Mira, earning her a tiny kick from the smaller singer. 

Deflecting the kick with practiced ease, Mira shuffles closer now that crowding Zoey wont rise her panic to an unmanageable level, and Zoey melts in both her girlfriends’ grasps, soothed by the familiar lavender and cinnamon scents of their bodies. 

“What about pronouns? Want to try something new?”

“I … I don’t really know.” Doubt rises again in her chest. That’s something she should know shouldn’t it? She once again feels lost, inadequate, as the answer eludes her. Her blank mind becomes fertile ground for the inner insidious voice telling her that she’s nothing more than an imposter, pretending for attention. 

But the warmth of her girlfriends is enough to ground her out of her self-deprecative spiral. They’ve only been supportive and understanding thus far, and she starts to believe that maybe she doesn’t need to have all of the answers for now. “I have no idea actually … I guess, would that be okay with you guys to just … try things? Like, any pronouns for now?”

He can feel them looking at each other over his head, a wordless conversation in shared glances.

“What do you think Rumi, is that something we can do for him?” 

“I think so. That’s the minimum we can do after they opened up like that.”

Oh wow. Okay. That feels really good. Zo cannot hide the blush that spreads on their cheeks or the flutter of their heart filling with joy. They uncurl from their guarded posture and warmth floods their body. Being the subject of those short simple words feels like being allowed into the light after a lifetime unknowingly spent in darkness, blinded, vulnerable, but seen. Before they can understand the feeling of fullness swelling in their chest, they feel tears prickling at the corner of their eyes. 

Being the focus of Rumi and Mira’s attention, his girls notice in an instant, and rush to cup his cheeks, whipping his tears with careful thumbs. He can hear Rumi softly whispering “We got you, it’s okay” close to his ear.

“I love you so much … I was so scared of saying anything and causing more problems, for you, for Huntrix… you are the best girlfriends ever,” he manages to get out between snooty sobs. 

They hold him tighter, refusing to let any doubt escape their soothing embrace, grounding him in their love and support. The tears of relief and joy and fear intermingled soak their sweaters and Mira holds a pack of tissues for the sniffling, apparently prepared for this situation. Rumi rubs slow circles on the top of his back, letting him work through the overwhelming emotions before replying.

“We love you, Zo, no matter who you choose to be. We are Huntrix, no one else gets to decide who we’re allowed to be. You’re not a problem, you’re perfect.” 

“And if anyone has something to say about it, we’ll kick their ass, babe. We’re so proud of you.” 

And Zo feels so very loved, so very understood and cared for, that they cannot contain the laughter of mirth bubbling through the tears. Without being asked, their girls cover their face in butterfly kisses, shutting down each and every deprecative thought with a press of their lips before they can even reach their mind. Rumi and Mira press their forehead on each side of theirs, anchoring them in this moment of unconditional love.

After a beat of silence, Mira adds “Also I’m sorry for not saying anything sooner, feels like I kinda failed you on this. Your experience won't be like mine, but you know you can always … ask for stuff, or just like … support. I know how this shit feels and … you’re not alone.”

Zo looks at Mira with a tenderness that cannot be put into words, heart swelling in their chest. So instead of diminishing their feelings through words, they lean in and kiss her, softly, thankfully. And Mira kisses them back with reverence and adoration. When they separate, Zo leans back into Rumi, body lax now that tension left them. 

“I don't really know what it means to not feel like a girl or a boy when everyone says you are. It’s never something I really thought about,” Rumi starts, sheepishly. 

“Lucky,” mumble her two partners in unison.

She shakes her head with a smile and continues, letting her sleeves fall along her forearms and the light of sunset catch on her iridescent demon marks. “But I know how it feels when you feel like your body isn’t really yours, when you wake up every day wishing it was different, fixed, when you lay at night hoping that no one finds out because you’re terrified to lose them if they do. And … I also know that keeping all of that in, hiding is forever, it ends up breaking you … breaking us.” She stays silent for a moment before returning her gaze to Zo’s. “Thank you for telling us, I … I’m really proud of you.”

Zo offers Rumi her own tender and thankful kiss before tears overtake him once again. He lets himself be held and cherished by his girls, feeling once again at home. There might still be much to consider and talk about, and he might not have all of the answers, but for now he can find peace in this moment, with them, exhausted to the bone after all that was already said and felt.

Far after they lost track of time, Mira leaves the cuddle pile which earns her a disapproving whine from Zo, only assuaged by a lingering kiss at his temple. She disappears in the Kitchen from which soon emerge sounds of chopping, boiling and humming. Rumi pulls Zoey in her lap and traces soothing patterns on their back. 

When Mira calls them with delicious aromas drifting in the air, Rumi stands up with Zo in her arms, carrying him to what is usually her chair at the head of their table. As he looks at the lovingly prepared bowl of ramyeon, at his girlfriends who move so effortlessly around and with him, he wonders how many times his heart can swell in one day before it bursts out of his chest. Xenomorph style. 

They talk around him instead of with him and Zo, feeling emotionally wrung out, is thankful for it. The drone of their voices becomes a comforting domestic background noise enveloping him in comfort and warmth. He only catches glimpses here and there between two mouthfuls. 

“— should probably start with a social media announcement, get the fans on board so—”

“— on Tuesday, we can take them shopping—”

“— tomorrow we call Bobby, he’s gonna—”

Then, something catches Zo’s attention like a rusted nail catching through his skin.

“Remember how great Bobby was after you released Bad Boy? He won’t hesitate to do the same for her, I know it.” 

Her . They freeze in their seat. Noodles fall back from their chopsticks to their bowl, lost halfway to their already full mouth. Her . They did ask for Rumi and Mira to use any pronouns but suddenly this one in particular feels like a broken record of a familiar song, a looping sound that drills into their skull until it leaves a burning imprint in it. Food turns ashen in their mouth and they suddenly regret taking such a big mouthful. Unfortunately, their girlfriends notice.

Mira’s hand lands on the small of his back. “You’re okay, babe?”

Zo swallows painfully and replies in a barely audible voice. “Not that one. I don’t think I want to be called … her .” Before their girlfriends can react to this admission and to keep the mood positive, Zo quickly changes the subject, voice louder. “But I do think I kinda like masculine terms, maybe?”

Mira and Rumi exchange a glance above the table before turning back to him with a sly but loving smile. “Zo … do you want to be our boyfriend?” asks Mira, voice teasing but gaze unrelenting. 

Zo squirms and blushes, unable to hide the flutter of their heart in response to the term. It feels like a skewed piece of themself finally being pushed back into place. “Wowiezowie … yeah I think so.” They hunch over their bowl trying to hide the redness overtaking their face. However they cannot resist when Rumi slides an index under their chin, tilting their head back at her. 

“We’re really lucky to have you as our boyfriend.”

Okay now that’s just unfair, reply Zo’s overused tear ducts. Her voice is so warm and sincere it hurts. Unfortunately for his already rapidly beating heart, they’re not done with him.

“Yeah, we’re really happy to be dating such a pretty boy,” Mira adds in her low husky voice. 

Heat flushes through his entire body and he uses every ounce of his will to shove down the whimper threatening to spill out of him. That did things to him that he definitely is filling for later, and he can see Mira do the same with a sly grin. 

The rest of the dinner is a blur after this as exhaustion catches up to him. As he starts collecting the bowls mechanically, habits piloting his body, he startles when Rumi's hand lands on his wrist.

“I’ll take care of it, you gi—” Rumi catches herself with a frown and starts again. “You two go to bed, I’ll join you.”

Zo gives her a thankful smile and a peck on the cheek before shuffling towards the corridor leading out of the living room with Mira in tow. 

After a quick bathroom trip spent around a shared tube of toothpaste, Mira pulls her boyfriend to his bedroom. She wouldn’t dare keep him away from his mountain of plushies after today’s emotions. Once the door closes behind them to muffle the sounds of dishes being washed, which are not Mira’s favorite, the pink-haired girl grabs a comfortable pyjama from Zo’s closet. She puts it on a chair and, after asking for Zo’s consent to be touched with a look and a reaching hand, starts undressing them.

Zo wants to say that they can do it themself but the retort dies on their tongue as the feeling of being taken care of one layer of clothes at a time by Mira's careful hands melts the leftover tension from their body. A hiss escaped their throat when the tight sports bra rubs against their irritated skin. 

Mira mumbled an apology, slowing down to remove it at a pace that Zo never afforded themself before. Once done, the pink-haired girl leans in and kisses her boyfriend’s red marked shoulder tenderly, a worried crease in her brows. “I think getting you some tape is gonna be a priority.” She says it with her usual monotone analytical voice, assessing a problem and adding a line in her mental to do list with a solution. It makes Zo’s heart melt nevertheless. 

After shuffling into their night clothes, Mira pauses when she finally notices the mess that stayed hidden from her until now in the obscurity. An array of journals and loose papers are strewn on the bed in a half-circle around an indent in the covers.

Zo answers before she can ask the question. 

“Went through my old notebooks and journals. I wanted to find … something. Proves I guess? Like if I am non-binary then there had to be signs.” He bumps on the word but it becomes easier to say every time.

“Did you?”

Zo mutely hands over an old journal whose pages have long turned yellow. It is opened at a specific entry and, doing some quick maths, Mira figures out that Zo must have been seven years old at the time. 

Dear journal, mommy says to me that when I grow up, I will become a botiful woman like her. But I don't want to be like mommy. And I don’t want to be like daddy. When I grow up, I want to be a turtle.

Mira chuckles at the endearing penmanship of a tiny Zo trying their best to convey those complicated feelings. The second journal handed to her seems relatively more recent. 

Dear journal, ughhhh we had sex-ed today. It was sooo awkward :((( All the girls in my class agreed that you become a woman when your boobs grow like when you need to start wearing a bra, but I don’t think I want mine to grow ever. Bras are sooo uncomfortable and I don’t want to look different. But I did see the way they looked at me when I said that so maybe I’m just being dumb. I don’t know, being a girl is starting to feel really annoying, like I can’t hang out around boys like before. I’m already enough of a weirdo as it is.

The page was covered in angry doodles, including a giant bra being burnt inside of a shopping cart. “I don’t really remember feeling like that.” Zo’s voice is small in the silence of the dark bedroom. “I guess at the time I assumed that’s how every girl felt, or that I just needed to stop being childish and lock in.” He lets the silence stretch, fingers drifting across the pages of her array journals, each bearing signs he spent so long ignoring. “I can’t stop wondering what would have happened if I just … saw it sooner. Met someone like you. Thought about it for more than two seconds. I got so used to thinking I was just being a weirdo I stopped trying to understand myself. Like even recently, remember Mystery?”

Mira frowns, confused and wary. “The demon?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t even see his face, and I thought I had a crush on him? Okay he did end up having a cute face but even before I knew that, there was something about him … I think because I didn’t see his face I could just project on him more easily?”

Zo’s voice is hesitant like he’s trying very hard to convince himself and her of things he appears to have been thinking about for a while now. Mira hums in answer as she starts to pile up the journal, careful to respect the chronological order they were arranged in.

“I see my talk the other night wasn’t a total failure.” She carries the journals over to Zo’s already cluttered desk. “It’s normal to not notice things when you have no one to tell you that those feelings are normal and that there are other paths you can take.” She walks back to the bed and pulls Zo under the covers, tucked against her chest. “But now you do, and we have all of the time in our lives to help you figure it out.”

Zo shuffles closer, burying their face in the crook of Mira’s neck. “Thank you, Mira, for everything.”

Soon after, as Zo is already drifting off, envelopped in safety and comfort from their taller girlfriend, they hear the bedroom door open and close, and then the patter of socked feet. Rumi, her hair in a looser comfier braid for the night, slides under the cover and wraps an arm around Zo’s waist, tangling her legs with theirs and resting her forehead on top of their head. 

With a content sigh, Zo falls asleep in his girlfriends’ arms. There will be much to deal with in the wake of this day, but he knows he will never have to do it alone.