Chapter Text
Rumi has been practicing honesty the way some people practice holding their breath.
She gives pieces where she used to give nothing. Mentions things she would have swallowed whole before. When Zoey asks how she’s sleeping, Rumi doesn’t automatically say fine. When Mira asks what she’s thinking, she answers……sometimes.
It feels like progress.
It also feels like standing too close to an edge.
—
Zoey is in the shower, steam seeping from the partially opened door, the sound of rushing water steady and unbothered. Mira is stretched out on the couch in a patch of midday sun, breathing slow and even like a cat that trusts the room enough to sleep in it.
That’s when Rumi feels it.
A familiar prickle crawls up the back of her neck, sharp and unmistakable. Not a roar. Not a threat. Just a presence, small, weak, and wrong in the way she’s been trained to notice since childhood.
The new Honmoon holds firm against anything large enough to matter. That was the compromise. The price of peace. The little ones still slip through sometimes, thin as smoke through iron bars, and no one loses sleep over it. They’re manageable. Annoying, at worst.
Rumi exhales slowly.
They’ve talked about this. She’s trying to be better. Trying to stop making decisions in the dark and calling it protection.
But this shouldn’t count. This is nothing. This is the kind of thing any of them would have handled alone before without discussion, without ceremony.
Her patterns flicker beneath her skin, a restless flash of color that makes her stomach twist. Lately they’ve been doing that more often, reacting before she can stop them. Reminding her of the parts of herself that don’t stay buried just because she wants them to.
She glances at Mira, still asleep, sunlight caught in her hair. The thought of waking her and seeing that careful, watchful look settle into her eyes makes Rumi’s chest tighten.
Healing isn’t linear. It’s a fragile, growing thing. Still tender. Still new.
She shouldn’t risk it.
So she doesn’t.
She moves quietly, slipping out before doubt can turn into something heavier. The door clicks shut behind her, soft as a held breath.
—
The presence sharpens the farther she goes, pulling at something deep in her bones. By the time she finds the shadow clinging to the edge of an abandoned alley, her pulse is already racing.
The demon is small. Hungry. Curious.
It reacts to her instantly.
Her patterns flare, bright and involuntary, heat crawling across her skin. Her fangs press against her gums, aching to lengthen. Claws itch at the tips of her fingers, the animal part of her stretching awake like it’s been waiting for an excuse to come alive in the wake of this new era.
No, she thinks sharply.
She bites down hard enough to taste blood on her lips.
Pain snaps through her jaw, clean and grounding. She uses it the way she was taught, like a leash. The patterns dim, forced back under her skin, though they burn as they retreat.
The demon lunges.
Rumi meets it head-on.
She moves fast, controlled, every strike precise. But the more she fights, the more that other part of her strains against its cage. Her breath comes too sharp, too quick. A low sound claws its way up her throat, feral and furious. Panic settles in its place at how un-human it sounded. Slipping even further into an animalistic instinct.
She drives her knuckles into brick, welcoming the jolt of pain that shoots up her arm. It keeps her present. Keeps her as herself.
The demon dissolves under her hands, energy dispersing in a hiss of smoke and heat. It’s over almost as soon as it began.
Rumi stands there for a moment longer than necessary, shaking.
Her patterns pulse once, bright and defiant, before she forces them still. The ache settles deep in her bones, heavy and familiar. She wipes the blood from her mouth, straightens, and turns for home.
No harm done.
No one needs to know.
—
Wake fills Mira like honey poured into a cup; slow, heavy, and sweet enough that she almost resents it when she is pulled back. Her mind drifts back piece by piece, awareness settling into her body and she stretches, groaning at the pops and pulls of her muscles that have only recently remembered what it feels like to rest.
Afternoon sunlight spills over the couch, warm and lazy.
Looking forward Zoey is in the corner of the couch, hair damp and toes tucked under Mira’s warm thigh like she belongs there. She does.
The realization settles easily, the way good things do when you stop bracing for them to vanish.
Mira reaches backwards blindly towards Rumi’s usual spot, fingers seeking her familiar warmth.
Cold.
She blinks, glancing over her shoulder. The space is empty, the indentation in the cushion already long faded.
”Where’s Rumi?” Mira said, voice thick with sleep.
Zoey hums distracted then looks up from her phone. “Dunno, she was gone when I got out of the shower.”
Mira’s brow pinches and something tightens in her chest.
Gone again.
Mira exhales slowly through her nose, jaw setting as that familiar burn of irritation flickers to life. It’s not hot yet, not anger, but there. A warning spark.
She tells herself not to read into it. Tells herself its fine. They’re fine.
She sits up, suddenly more awake.
Before she can say anything else, the door opens.
Rumi steps inside like she is not entirely sure she’s allowed to be there, shoulders tucked inward, movements careful. Her gaze flicks up, meeting Mira’s.
Mira sees the guilt flash before her expression drops painfully neutral.
”I felt something,” she says quietly, too quickly, like she’s rehearsed it on the walk home. “Just a small demon, I handled it.”
Mira watches her closely now. The way she is standing just out of reach, hands tucked behind her back. The tension in her jaw. The faint copper scent she knows too familiarly.
”You okay?” Zoey asks, concern lacing her voice as she sits up. Her eyes roam Rumi’s seemingly unmarked body.
Rumi nods. “Yeah. Really, he was so small. He took maybe two hits before, poof,” she mimed the red puff. A small smile rests on her face, a little too tight in the corners.
”I did whiff on a punch though,” Rumi pulls her hands out from behind her, showing the lightly scraped knuckles of her right hand.
Mira opens her mouth, the instinctive you should’ve told us already lining up on her tongue. It would be easy. Natural. Familiar.
But Rumi is looking at her. Really looking. Waiting.
And for once, she didn’t hide it. She didn’t dodge or deflect or pretend nothing happened. She came home and told them the truth, even if it came out small and uncertain.
The heat in Mira’s chest eases, softening into something heavier. Something complicated.
”Next time,” Mira says instead, carefully. So carefully. “You tell us first?”
Rumi nods again, relief flicking across her face and ripples down her patterns so fast Mira almost misses it. “Okay, I will.”
It’s not perfect. Mira still wishes she’d woken her up. Still hates the idea of Rumi facing anything alone.
But…this is her trying.
And Mira tells herself that halfway is better than not at all.
”Alright Tiger, get over here.” Mira pats the space next to her. Rumi’s spot. “It’s movie night and you’re my emotional support. It’s Zoey’s turn to pick tonight.”
”Hey!” The younger girl protests indignity.
A laugh barks out of Rumi. “Give me 20 minutes to shower, I’m all sweaty from running back here.”
Rumi exhales slowly once she’s alone again in her room.
This is what love looks like, she tells herself. Keeping the dangerous parts away from them. Letting them rest. Carrying the weight so they don’t have to.
She ignores the quiet, unwelcome thought curling at the back of her mind that if they saw everything, they might decide it’s too much.
So she keeps choosing what to share.
She keeps choosing silence where it feels safer.
And for now, it works.
—
The evening settles around them slowly, like the world is learning their shape again.
Mira claims the kitchen with practiced ease, music playing slow as she moves between counter and stove. Zoey lingers nearby under the pretense of helping, stealing tastes and earning half-hearted protests for it. Rumi sits on the counter, watching, just content to be there.
At some point, Mira drifts closer, leaning her hip next to Rumi’s knees. She is close enough that their warmth overlaps. It’s casual and unremarkable. Except Rumi notices it immediately. The pleasant zaps in the air between their skin.
She shifts without thinking, making space.
Mira stays.
Something settles in Rumi’s chest at that. It’s not sharp or frightening to her surprise, just present. A quiet awareness of Mira’s weight, the brush of fabric, the steady ride and fall of her breathing.
When Rumi reaches to swipe a finger through the ttoekboki sauce, Mira tsks but doesn’t stop her.
Zoey glances over her shoulder, catches it, and smiles to herself without comment and she finishes setting out the other dishes on the table.
Later, they end up on the couch again, bodies arranged by habit more than intention. Rumi perches at the edge first, then Mira tugs her down with a gentle sound of protest, an arm draped across her waist like it’s always been there.
Rumi let’s herself lean back.
The realization startles her, not the contact, but how right it feels. How easily she fits. She’s spent so long holding herself at a careful distance that the absence of it feels like permission she forgot was an option.
Zoey drapes herself over their laps, chattering a million miles an hour about the animal videos queuing up.
Mira watches her fondly and listens as her thumb traces absentminded patterns against the hem of Rumi’s shirt. Not purposeful or searching, but just there.
Rumi doesn’t freeze or jerk away the way she used to.
Instead, she turns slightly and presses her shoulder more firmly into Mira’s side. It’s a choice. A small one, but it’s hers.
Her fingers flex with indecision, and then move with the newfound boldness and sink into Zoey’s soft hair. Zoey practically purrs as she leans into the touch.
As the British narrator drones about turtles, the air hums with something new. Something unnamed and unclaimed. It holds the quiet understanding that whatever they’re building has shifted, and that space between them is changing shape that they'd not yet named.
For the first time, Rumi doesn’t step back from the feeling.
For the first time, Rumi stays.
—
A few days have passed since the quiet couch evening. Rumi has been trying, actively, to stay present with Mira and Zoey and exist in the warmth they offer without retreating or flinching. She leans into their space, lets her hands brush theirs, allows the comfort of proximity.
And yet… something lingers beneath the surface.
It’s in the way Rumi flexes her fingers without purpose, the almost imperceptible tremor when she shifts her weight, the careful micro-gestures meant to check herself against the edge of her patterns.
Mira and Zoey notice. Of course they do.
The tension is subtle, easy to overlook, but they’re trained to see these things. Mira’s brow pinches instinctively, worry tightening in her chest. It’s not anger, never that, but a quiet alertness, a suspicion born of love and instinct.
Zoey watches from the couch with a soft smile that tries to keep the air light. “You two look like you’re plotting something,” she teases gently, nudging Rumi’s arm with her elbow. “Or worrying about each other. One of the two, probably both.”
Rumi forces a smile, fingers curling and uncurling. “I’m fine,” she says softly, but Mira catches the hesitation. Just a twitch in her voice, a beat too long before she meets Mira’s gaze.
“You’re always fine,” Mira murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. She leans forward, careful, but attentive. “That’s what worries me sometimes.”
Rumi drags a comforting hand across Mira’s shoulders with a breezy excuse of needing the bathroom as she stands, it’s meant to be a distraction. It’s almost insulting that Rumi could think they would so easily look past her, Mira thinks.
Zoey tilts her head, eyebrows raised, a quiet anchor between them as Rumi retreat.
“She’s trying,” she says to Mira, voice warm. “She’s here, she’s telling you. Isn’t that enough for now?”
Mira exhales, jaw tightening before she relaxes slightly. She knows Zoey’s right. Rumi is being honest (mostly). She’s staying present. But the tension in Rumi’s movements, the careful control, and the small self-restraints is impossible to ignore.
Rumi notices when Mira’s gaze lingering on her hands and posture and she is always suddenly aware of how much she’s doing to keep herself contained. Relief mingles with guilt. She’s trying, she’s honest… but the pull to hide, to handle things alone, still whispers in the back of her mind.
The apartment feels quieter, charged with something unspoken. Mira doesn’t push further, Zoey lets the moment rest. But friction takes root, soft and patient, waiting for the smallest spark.
—
Their domestic bubble shrinks even further as days pass. It presses in on all sides by the subtle tension that Rumi carries like a second skin.
Each day, she tries harder to stay present. She cherishes the moments with them. Green tea on Mira’s breath as she sips it on the couch, grumbling restlessly as she doom scrolls on her phone. Zoey’s arms wrapping around her from behind and head pressed against her shoulders as they wait for the coffee maker to burble to life in the mornings.
But lately, it’s harder.
Her emotions are spilling into her patterns almost without warning. They flash along her skin, pulsing with everything she feels; worry, anticipation, hesitation. Even joy isn’t safe.
Zoey’s grins and Mira’s familiar smirk send a ripple of color across her arms, betraying her. She forces herself to hold still, to clamp down and suppress, but it comes out anyways.
The more she notices, the more she withdraws. Rumi lingers at the edges of them, sitting quietly, speaking less, smiling hollow.
Mira notices.
Not immediately, not sharply, but she senses it like a shift in the air.. The warmth they cultivate on the couch in the evenings is still there, but the edges feel thin and fraying.
Rumi isn’t as engaged. She feels quieter, more distracted. Her hands move almost obsessively, tugging the sleeves of her shirts or flexing as if she is anticipating something.
Zoey notices too. She tilts her head, nudging Mira with a soft below, silently asking if she’s seeing it too.
They notice the colors, of course they do. But they let Rumi have this as they pretend not to see.
Mira knows Rumi is trying. She knows Rumi is doing her best. And yet something in her chest tightened. The domestic bubble is shrinking and she doesn’t know how to keep it from collapsing.
”You’ve been…fidgeting,” Mira says quietly, not accusatory, but her tone carries that unmistakable undercurrent of worry. “What’s going on?”
Rumi shifts, trying to make herself small. “Nothing,” she says too quickly, and forces a soft smile. “I’m fine.”
Mira leans forward, eyes narrowing gently, not in judgement but scanning. “Rumi, you’re not fine. You’re holding something back.”
Rumi hesitates, the urge to explain battles the instinct to protect. Telling them too much could make things worse. She opens her mouth and closes it again.
Zoey watches from her spot on the couch. “We’re just worried, Rumi,” she said softly, voice warm. “ We’re not mad.”
Rumi swallows and nods, letting herself exhale shakily. “I…I’m trying,” she admits quietly. The words are careful, but honest. “I’m trying to stay…” she struggles for the right words and whines in frustration. “…to stay balance. I don’t want to-“
She trails off and just gestures down vaguely to herself.
Mira softens, though a crease of concern remains. “I know you are.” She slowly reaches for her hand, as if trying to not scare off a frightened animal. “We don’t want you to feel like you’re doing this alone.”
Rumi’s fingers meet her halfway, pressing into Mira’s palm. It’s a tiny act of trust, and Mira notices the careful way Rumi lets herself lean. Relief threads through Mira, warming the tension in her chest, but she doesn’t relax completely.
She can still feel the subtle stiffness, even as she tells herself it’s okay.
Zoey shifts slightly, nudging both of them with a smile. “See? That’s progress. You’re talking. You’re… touching,” she says lightly, teasing, but with no bite. “It’s good.”
Rumi allows herself a small laugh, shaky but genuine. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Progress.”
Mira nods, but her gaze lingers on Rumi’s hands, on the slight flex of her fingers, on the quiet tension in her shoulders. She can feel it, subtle and patient, like a shadow waiting for a crack in the light.
And in that quiet room, the friction is there, gentle but unyielding, threaded through honesty, concern, and the small, careful choices that will matter more than either of them can yet see.
–
The training space smells like iron and sweat and something burned into the floor so long ago no one remembers how it got there. Rumi stands alone in the center of it, chest heaving, hands braced on her knees as she drags air into her lungs.
Mira and Zoey take their much needed hiatus seriously, opting to spend as much time as they can sunken into their plush, perfect couch.
But Rumi was restless.
Her shirt clings damply to her back. Sweat beads at her temples, runs down the line of her spine. Her muscles tremble, not with exhaustion alone, but with restraint.
There is too much power thrumming beneath her skin.
It hums like a second pulse crawling through her veins demanding release. She’s been holding it in for days now, longer than she should, longer than is comfortable. Longer than is safe.
Rumi squeezes her eyes shut and forces her breathing to slow.
In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
She knows this feeling. Has lived with it her whole life. The pressure of containment, the constant vigilance. The leash pulled so tight it cuts into her hands. She’s gotten good at it, too good. At making herself smaller. Quieter. Acceptable.
Our faults and fears my never be seen.
Her patterns flicker beneath her skin in frantic pulses, reacting to every stray thought, every buried emotion. They burn hotter the more she fights them, like a warning.
She straightens slowly, heart still pounding.
“Okay,” she murmurs to the empty room. “Okay.”
Just a little.
The decision settles over her like a release valve opening.
She loosens her grip. Not letting go, not completely, but easing the relentless tension she’s been bracing against. It happens gradually, like a slow exhale after holding her breath too long. Power bleeds through her in careful increments, warmth spreading through her limbs.
Relief hits her so suddenly it almost drops her to her knees.
It doesn’t feel wild or dangerous.
It feels…good. Like stretching a muscle that’s been cramped for too long. Like finally setting something heavy down.
Her patterns deepen into a rich saturated purple, glowing gently instead of flashing angrily. Almost as if Rumi was being rewarded for allowing them to breathe.
Claws lengthen from the tips of her fingers with a familiar burn.
Fangs slide from their gums fast enough to make her breath hitch and mouth ache.
The pain was almost gentle.
Anchoring.
Rumi exhales shakily at the release and tries to push through the guilt simmering for allowing herself the moment.
Her gaze drifts, almost by accident, to the mirror on the far wall.
She expects the old instinct to flinch. To look away.
Instead she finds herself stepping closer.
Rumi stops at an arm’s length from her reflection. And for the first time, she lets herself look.
Really look.
The gold of her irises doesn’t look dangerous, it looks alive.
The bold patterns branch across her shoulders, her arms, exposed midriff, and climb up her neck. The design feels deliberate.
Her claws look strong and capable.
She parts her lips, the gleaming tip of her fangs just poking through. She finds that they don’t look cruel. Just honest.
The longer Rumi studies she realizes she doesn’t look like a monster. She looks like herself and more.
She swallows past the lump in her throat as it tightens with emotion, swelling fast and dangerous. Her patterns respond in kind, brightening in rhythm of her pulse. She lets them, just this once, and presses her palm against the cool glass, letting the sharp bite against her overheated skin ground her.
I could show them
To Rumi’s surprise, the idea doesn’t inspire panic. It doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels fragile and hopeful, like something that might dissolve if she grips it too tightly .
Her chest aches. Is it really this is easy? Is she allowed to want this?
The elevator chimed politely as the girls stepped into the penthouse, the sound painfully ordinary against the thick, heavy silence between them. There was so much waiting on the tips of all their tongues that the air felt crowded with unsaid things.
Rumi stared down at her hands. The new iridescent lines along her skin should have been comforting (better than the deep violet that had terrified everyone) but disappointment still lodged bitter in her throat. The sealing of the new Honmoon hadn’t erased what she was. It had just…made it look nicer.
She risked a glance at the others and something sharp prickled behind her ribs.
Mira’s jaw was clenched, her expression somewhere between relief, disbelief, and something that felt dangerously like betrayal.
Turning to Zoey hurt worse.
The younger girl had her fingers balled tight in the sleeves of her jacket, shoulders hunched, eyes flicking nervously between Mira and Rumi.
She looked afraid.
Afraid of tension? Of shouting?
…or of Rumi?
“Are you hurt?” Rumi asked, the question hovering between them, not belonging to anyone in particular.
Zoey shook her head with the smallest movement. Mira only exhaled sharply and turned her face toward the window, staring at nothing.
“Okay. I’ll just…” Rumi murmured, already backing slowly toward her room.
There wasn’t much to gather. Her teddy. Her favorite hoodie (Mira’s hoodie). Her charger. The photo pinned carefully above her nightstand.
A younger Zoey hanging from her back like a koala while Rumi sputtered in fond outrage. Mira behind them with one eyebrow raised, mouth tilted into a smile she pretended wasn’t there.
It had been a good day.
It was selfish to want to take pieces of them with her. But hadn’t she already proven her selfishness, again and again? What was one more thing.
“Rumi?” Zoey’s voice cut through the memory, unexpectedly steady. “Stay.”
It wasn’t a plea.
It was a decision made for her.
So this was where it would happen. Here. Not somewhere foreign. Not somewhere painless. She supposed she should have expected that.
Her chest tightened. For a moment she felt the phantom sting of Zoey’s shin-kal point digging into her side. The cold press of Mira’s gok-do into her exposed sternum. Reflexively, she pressed the heel of her palm there, wincing.
“Can you—” her voice wavered. She swallowed and tried again, mustering what little dignity she had left. “Can you do it quickly? Please?”
Zoey blinked. “Do…what?”
Please don’t make me say it.
“When you finish it.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “When you kill me. When you do your duty. When you fix this mistake.”
She gestured at herself helplessly, frustration and humiliation burning through her exhaustion. “I know I don’t deserve requests. But please don’t draw it out.”
God, she was tired.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of hoping.
Tired of wanting things she was never meant to have.
The adrenaline from the Idol Awards ebbed away in a sudden rush. Exhaustion flooded its place.
Her knees buckled.
Rumi sank onto the soft carpet and shut her eyes, head bowed like a scolded dog waiting for the blow.
Zoey made a strangled sound of shock, horror, heartbreak all tangled together.
“What did you just say?” Mira’s voice cut sharp and raw. “Rumi, what the fuck?!”
Rumi squeezed her eyes tighter, shoulders creeping toward her ears, bracing for pain.
Please be quick.
Please be quick.
Please just let it be over.
Something touched her.
Not cold steel. Not starlight.
Warm fingers.
A palm slid against her cheek, firm and gentle all at once, Mira’s hand cradling her jaw.
“Look at me.” Mira’s voice trembled beneath the command.
Rumi shook her head weakly, whispering pleasepleaseplease imsorryimsorryimsorry like a prayer.
“Rumi.” It came out broken. Wet. Mira never cried.
That, more than anything, made her look up.
Rumi let herself be lifted, eyes opening at last
…and froze.
Mira’s face was red-rimmed and furious, yes, but not at her.
At the world.
At the idea.
At the wound she’d just exposed.
Zoey knelt in front of her, tears tracking silently down her cheeks, hands hovering like she didn’t know where she was allowed to touch.
And in that moment, they looked at her. Not as a monster. Rumi didn't know this expression.
“You thought we were going to kill you,” Mira whispered.
Rumi swallowed.
“Aren't you?”
Zoey sucked in a breath like a wound.
Silence swelled around them, thick and aching, until Mira choked on a sob. A small, broken sound.
“You begged,” she said, voice cracking down the center. “You begged us. And we-”
Her mouth twisted. The words tore out of her like glass.
“-we lifted our weapons. We sent you away.”
Zoey made a sound that was almost a whimper. Her hand finally settled feather light over the glowing lines now pulsing with color along Rumi’s arm. She traced them with her fingertips like they were something precious. Rumi shivered at the contact.
“Yes,” Zoey whispered. “You lied to us. And that hurt. It did.”
She stopped. Swallowed hard. Tried again.
“But you lied and we-” Her voice broke like it was physically hurting her to get them out. “You lied and we pointed blades at you. We made you think we would kill you.”
Rumi shook her head desperately. “No. No, please don’t do that. It’s my fault. All of it.”
She tried to pull back, but Mira’s hand didn’t move. Firm. Steady. Refusal.
“I lied,” Rumi continued, words tumbling out in a rush. “I deceived you. I broke your trust. I should never have been here in the first place. And now that the Honmoon is sealed, you don’t have to keep pretending anymore. I can go. I should go. Let me go.”
The last part came out as a choked beg.
“No, Rumi. Never.” Mira’s grip tightened like iron.
Rumi kept talking anyway. It was easier than breathing.
“I thought the sealing would erase it,” she whispered. “That it would make me…normal. But it didn’t. The patterns stayed. I stayed. And you still have to look at me. At this-”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Zoey shook her head frantically. “Rumi. Stop. Please.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Rumi said softly. “I don’t want to be something you have to endure.”
Mira’s thumb brushed away a tear that slipped down Rumi’s cheek. Her own tears fell freely, dripping onto her outstretched arm.
“You think you’re something we’re enduring?” she whispered.
Rumi blinked.
Zoey scooted closer and fully wrapped her hands around Rumi’s arm, stroking the glowing lines openly with reverence. Rumi jolted, feeling overwhelmed by the gentleness.
“How can you bear to look at me?” Rumi whispered. “To touch me?”
Mira huffed a wet, broken laugh. She dropped heavily to her knees with them.
“You’re such an idiot,” she murmured.
Anyone else might have flinched.
Rumi only blinked in confusion.
Then Mira leaned forward, and kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, desperate, like Mira was furious at the universe for ever letting Rumi think she was unloved.
Rumi froze.
The world went silent.
When Mira finally pulled back, her forehead stayed pressed to Rumi’s.
“I love you,” she breathed. “Patterns. Claws. Fang. Demons. All of it. I don't understand it, but I don’t care what shape you are. You’re our Rumi.”
Zoey let out something between a laugh and a sob and immediately grabbed Rumi’s face next, kissing her too. It was awkward and sideways but full of trembling devotion.
When she pulled away, Zoey pressed their foreheads together in a clumsy triangle.
“We love you,” she whispered. “Not…despite this. Just. You.”
Rumi trembled in their hold.
It didn’t make sense.
It didn’t fit any of the rules she’d lived by.
“Am I…” Her voice came out fragile. “Am I allowed to love you?”
Silence.
Then Mira’s hand slid back to Rumi’s jaw, grounding. Certain.
“Of course you are,” she said. “You always were.”
Rumi shattered like a dam giving way.
The first sob slipped out of her before she could swallow it back. Then another. And another. Her chest hitched, her breath turning thin and shaky as tears spilled over, and she found she didn't have the strength to be quiet anymore.
It was the sound of someone who had been brave for far too long finally letting herself stop.
And they were there instantly.
Mira’s hands framed her face like something fragile and precious, thumbs brushing the tears as fast as they fell.
Zoey gathered her in from behind, arms firm and warm, tucking Rumi against her chest like she belonged there.
Soft kisses were pressed wherever they could reach. Lips were against her hair, her temple, the damp corners of her cheeks, like quiet promises given without words.
No one told her to calm down.
No one stepped away.
They held her like this was inevitable. Like choosing her was instinct.
Rumi curled into them, trembling, tears soaking into fabric and skin.
Every breath she dragged in felt like unburdening, like setting down a weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying alone.
Mira rested her forehead against Rumi’s, noses almost touching, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.
Zoey’s hands slipped gently over her exposed midriff. They didn't recoil, they didn't hesitate simply were simply touching, simply loving.
“We’ve got you,” Zoey whispered, voice barely more than a tremor of sound.
Mira didn’t say anything at all. She just stayed. Close enough that Rumi could feel the steady comforting rhythm of her breathing wash over her face.
And Rumi cried. She cried until the sharp edges softened, until her lungs remembered how to fill without shaking, until all that was left was the quiet, aching relief of not being alone.
Wrapped in their arms, held so gently she could almost believe it, she felt something dangerous and beautiful stir in her chest.
For the first time since in a long time, maybe ever, Rumi dared to want.
The memory faded, bringing her carefully into the quiet of the present.
Rumi stood in the studio, breath still coming gently from the work she’d done. Her body hummed, but not with fear or restraint, but with hope. It was everything she had never quite allowed herself to hold.
And for once, she didn’t run from it.
Mira’s voice lingered in her chest. Zoey’s hands. Their tears. The way they had looked at her not as a burden to shoulder, but like something precious they had nearly lost.
The old knot inside her wasn’t as tight anymore. It loosened just a fraction.
She had spent so long gripping that leash inside herself, pulling her heart smaller and smaller until it fit somewhere hidden and safe.
But now she could feel them loosening slowly and deliberately.
I want them.
Not as a secret.
Not as a wish whispered in the dark.
But in the way they had given to her earnestly and with patience.
She wanted to give herself without disguising the parts of herself that frightened her most.
Not the careful mask. Not the stitched together half-truths designed to keep them safe from edges she was afraid would cut them.
She wanted Mira’s steadiness and Zoey’s earnestness. Their laughter. Their stubbornness. Their trust.
Rumi let the thought settle like a promise she dared herself to keep, however frightening or vulnerable.
And she found that the world didn’t tilt. The sky didn’t fall. Nothing shattered.
Instead, something inside her quietly aligned.
I’m allowed to want this.
With that, she turned toward the door.
The studio lights dimmed behind her as she ascended the stairs, every step light with anticipation. She would show them all of herself.
She would trust their love, even if it terrified her.
She followed the sound of their voices, always drawn in like gravity, right into the moment that would break her.