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Summary
The backdoor arcs open, slamming against the wall.
There’s a moment where Rumi stands there, huddled to the ground and blinded by the lights from inside, while Mira, haloed in white, stands with one hand on the door and one hand on her rifle. Rumi can barely see the way her brow pinches, perplexed, but she easily sees the barrel lifting.
Rumi whines miserably and scrambles back. Her eyes screw shut, heart pounding in her throat.
Not a threat. Not a threat. Not a threat. She just prays her pathetic state conveys that.
“...Rumi?”
Oh.
In which the slowest writer in the world breaks their four-year hiatus to drop polyam, lesbian werewolf angst.