Chapter Text
The rehearsal room smells like sweat, hand sanitizer, and someone’s way-too-aggressive vanilla body spray. One of the mirrors is cracked in the top left corner, from a prop mishap during last month’s sub-unit performance. The light above it flickers whenever someone claps too hard. Rumi has always hated this room.
She’s already got her hoodie sleeves shoved up to her elbows and her hair tied back in a bun that’s half come undone, which is exactly how she feels about this arrangement.
“What do you mean I’m working with him,” she asks, voice sharp but even. Like the words have been steeping in her throat since the moment she saw the schedule. “That’s not a question. That’s a protest.”
Bobby, her manager and the only person she won’t openly fight in a rehearsal studio, gives her a shrug that somehow manages to be both sympathetic and completely useless. “It’s a special stage. Company showcase. You two are the faces of your groups. This is above my paygrade.”
She knows. Of course she knows. But she hoped someone— anyone— would care anyway.
The door clicks open.
And there he is.
Jinu walks in like he owns the room. Not in a flashy, look-at-me way, but in that irritating, unbothered way that makes it clear he doesn’t think he needs to try. Slouchy gray sweatpants, oversized white tee, and that ridiculous flop of dark hair that probably cost more than her group’s last comeback budget. He looks like someone who doesn’t lose sleep over anything.
He pauses just long enough to glance at her— barely— before tossing his gym bag in the corner like it offended him.
“Of course you’re early,” he mutters, without looking her way.
Rumi straightens, arms crossing like armor. “Of course you’re late.”
He snorts. Like she’s predictable. Like this whole situation is a joke and she’s the punchline.
Bobby claps his hands, the sound echoing slightly off the scuffed wooden floors. “Alright. We’ve got a lot of choreography to get through and a vocal coach coming in later. Why don’t you two start by brainstorming the concept? Genre, vibe, maybe a few theme ideas?”
“Easy,” Jinu says, flopping onto the studio floor and stretching out like he hasn’t been forced into this collaboration. “We don’t.”
Rumi rolls her eyes so hard she sees God. “You’re exhausting.”
“You’re loud,” he replies, eyes still closed.
Bobby exhales like a man who has survived multiple idol disbandments and one very messy dating scandal. “I’ll be back when you’ve agreed on something. Please. For the love of brand synergy.”
The door shuts. Silence, thick and pulsing.
Rumi walks toward the mirror and stretches her arms above her head, watching her own reflection instead of Jinu. Her shoulder cracks audibly. She doesn’t flinch.
“We could try professionalism,” she offers, testing the words like they might betray her.
“You could try honesty,” he shoots back, and it lands. Low and precise. The kind of comment he’s good at. The kind she used to laugh at when they were both fifteen and nervous and starving all the time.
She turns. “I don’t know what I did to you.”
It comes out quieter than she meant it to. Which is annoying. Because she had a whole speech ready. Bullet points, even. But now her throat's dry and her mouth feels like paper.
Jinu looks at her, really looks, for the first time in five whole years.
“You didn’t do anything,” he says. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Then he picks up the remote and queues a beat, something slow but sharp. The kind of thing that sticks in your teeth.
Rumi watches him like he’s a cliff she might still jump off.
The apartment is dark when Rumi gets home. Not eerily dark— just the kind of dim that says someone forgot to flip the hallway switch. Her key sticks for a second in the lock, like even her front door’s siding with the universe today. She exhales through her nose, shoulders still tense from rehearsal, body still buzzing from adrenaline and annoyance and that stupid look Jinu gave her.
She kicks her shoes off.
The second she flicks on the light—
“Ta-da!”
She flinches so hard she nearly elbows the wall.
Standing in the middle of the living room are Mira and Zoey, grinning like they’ve just pulled off a heist. Mira’s holding a two-liter bottle of plum soju in one hand and a tub of kimchi fried rice in the other. Zoey’s balancing a bucket of fried chicken under one arm and a glittery sign above her head that reads in hot pink bubble letters:
“SORRY YOU HAD TO WORK WITH THAT BASTARD ALL DAY!”
Complete with two stick figures— one dramatically sighing, the other with his tongue sticking out. Rumi recognizes the blond scribble of Jinu’s hair and lets out a noise between a snort and a groan.
She sniffles dramatically and drops her bag by the door.
Zoey grins. “We debated calling him worse but decided to keep it PG-13 in case your mom ever visits and sees this.”
Mira’s already pulling her toward the couch. “Sit. You look like you’ve been emotionally waterboarded.”
“I was,” Rumi mutters, collapsing between them with the weight of someone who’s had enough of artistry and boy problems for one lifetime. “And by the way, he was the one being weird. Like— so weird. He queued this beat and gave me this look like I stabbed his favorite stuffed animal from childhood. And then said I didn’t do anything, which was apparently the problem.”
Zoey hands her a drumstick. “Eat this and pretend it’s his face.”
Rumi does. It helps. Kind of.
The room fills with the sound of wrappers rustling and Mira muttering about how she still thinks the vocal line for their chorus needs another harmony, and Zoey insisting that she could do the harmony if someone let her autotune her way into heaven.
The weight in Rumi’s chest doesn’t go away, but it shifts. Becomes something smaller. Something shared.
Later, when she’s brushing crumbs off her hoodie and Mira’s half-asleep on her shoulder and Zoey’s doing dumb vocal warmups into a bottle, Rumi looks at the sign again. At the glittery chaos of it. The silly little thing they made just because she had a rough day.
She’s still mad.
Still confused.
Still unsure what Jinu meant, or what to do with the ghost of the friendship they used to have.
But at least she doesn’t have to be alone with it.
Not tonight.
“So,” Zoey says, licking sauce off her thumb like she’s settling in for a feature-length drama, “what exactly did Mr. ‘I’m Too Cool To Care’ do today?”
“Yeah,” Mira mumbles, her cheek still smushed against Rumi’s shoulder. “Give us the rundown.”
Rumi exhales, tipping her head back against the couch. “Where do I even start?”
Zoey gestures dramatically with a chicken wing. “From the moment he walked in, obviously.”
Rumi huffs a laugh, the edges of her frustration softening under the safety of the apartment’s dim light and the fried food smell already soaking into the couch cushions. “Okay. First of all, he was late. Like, not just late— waltzing in like he was doing me the favor.”
Mira groans in sympathy.
“And then,” Rumi goes on, voice rising slightly with renewed energy, “he tosses his bag into the corner like we’re in his garage, mutters ‘Of course you’re early’ like that’s the problem—”
Zoey gasps. “The audacity.”
“Right?” Rumi throws up her hands. “And then Bobby, poor guy, tries to get us to, like, brainstorm. You know, actual work? And Jinu just sprawls on the floor like it’s nap time and says, dead serious, ‘We don’t.’ Like, that’s his artistic contribution. We don’t.”
Mira sits up slightly, eyebrows raised. “He just said no to making the song?”
“Oh, he said it like a joke,” Rumi says, “but the kind of joke where you’re pretty sure he’s actually just being a jerk and calling it sarcasm so no one can call him out.”
Zoey lets out a strangled noise. “I hate that kind of guy.”
“It gets worse.” Rumi digs through the takeout bag for a rice ball, then continues with her mouth half-full. “He accused me of being loud, and— and this is the kicker— he said I should try honesty.”
Mira blinks. “Honesty?”
“Yeah, I don’t even know,” Rumi mutters. “He said I didn’t do anything and that was the problem. What does that even mean?”
Zoey tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Wait, like... you not doing anything hurt his feelings?”
“Apparently?” Rumi throws a hand up in disbelief. “I’m sorry for not reading his mind during our collective trainee breakdown years. My bad.”
Mira hums, thoughtful. “You two were close back then, though.”
Rumi’s lips press into a line.
Zoey notices, gentler now. “It kind of sounds like he still cares.”
Rumi doesn’t respond immediately. Just picks a piece of rice off her sleeve and flicks it at Zoey, who shrieks like she’s been shot.
“I don’t know what he wants from me,” Rumi says eventually, softer this time. “He looks at me like I ruined something. But I didn’t even know it was broken.”
Mira wraps her arms around Rumi’s middle again, tucking her cheek just under her ribcage. “Maybe he just misses the past and doesn’t know how to say it.”
“Or maybe,” Zoey says, plopping her feet into Rumi’s lap like this is now therapy time, “he’s still in love with you and this is all just tragic romance anime subplot energy.”
Mira chokes on her soju.
Rumi shoves Zoey’s foot off with a muffled laugh. “You’re both so dramatic.”
There’s a moment of quiet after that. The kind that stretches warm and easy, where everything important’s been said but the weight of it still lingers.
And then Mira says, voice muffled into Rumi’s hoodie, “Well, if he is in love with you, he’s got competition. Half the country is vying for your attention.”
“Duh, have you seen Rumi?” Zoey leans over and kisses her cheek. “Cutest leader ever.”
Rumi’s face goes hot. She makes a strangled noise and grabs a cushion, smacking both of them with it as Mira yelps and Zoey shrieks with laughter.
Rumi’s face goes hot. She makes a strangled noise and grabs a cushion, smacking both of them with it as Mira yelps and Zoey shrieks with laughter.
“He definitely isn’t in love with me,” Rumi declares, trying to sound firm even though her voice cracks a little. “He’s just a jerk.”
Zoey’s still giggling, brushing rice crumbs off her shirt. “A very complicated jerk—”
And for a brief, traitorous second, Rumi wonders.
Not because she believes it— no, she knows she doesn’t— but because the idea plants itself like a burr in her brain, scratchy and persistent. What if he has been fostering some ridiculous crush since they were trainees? Back when they used to share snacks between practices and nap under the same wooly stage blankets during holiday showcases? When he’d sneak extra rice cakes into her tray because he knew she was cutting carbs, and she thought he was just being a pest?
What if he liked her, and she never noticed? Worse— what if she did notice, somewhere deep down, and chose to ignore it?
She shakes her head like it’ll clear the fog.
“No. Not complicated. Just insufferable.” Rumi folds her arms with dramatic finality. “And I hope he falls off the stage during our performance. Like, full wipeout. Mic goes flying. Humbling moment for everyone.”
Mira snorts into her soju. “Wow. Love is in the air.”
“Don’t make me get the other cushion,” Rumi warns, reaching again.
Zoey ducks out of range, hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Not in love. You just passionately despise him.”
“Exactly.”
And that should be the end of it. It really should. But the next time Rumi’s alone in bed, staring at the ceiling while the city buzzes somewhere below, she’ll think about how he looked at her. And how it made her feel like she was still fifteen again, with something in her chest she never had the words for.
But right now— right now, Zoey’s doing an impression of Jinu’s walk (which apparently involves a lot of pout and zero core strength), and Mira’s crying with laughter on the rug, and Rumi lets herself forget.
Rumi wakes up to the sound of her phone buzzing violently against her forehead, where it must’ve fallen sometime during the night.
The morning light is pouring through the living room windows, illuminating the battlefield of snacks and half-crushed cushions around her, and Rumi squints against the brightness— they’d forgotten to dim the windows. Mira is draped dramatically across the armrest like she fainted there. Zoey has one leg kicked over the coffee table, her mouth open in an unflattering snore. The air smells like cold chicken skin and sweet drinks.
Rumi’s mouth tastes like plum alcohol and regret.
She blinks against the too-bright screen, crusty-eyed and half-dreaming, as she reads the message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER – (6:30 A.M.): where are you
No greeting. No punctuation. Just vibes and aggression.
Rumi stares at the message, bleary. Then she squints down at herself. There’s a rice cake mashed into the side of her sweatpants. Her hair’s doing something unspeakable in three directions.
Somehow, she knows exactly who the person messaging her is. She feels a pinprick of annoyance.
She types back, thumbs sluggish.
RUMI – (6:32 A.M.): We don’t have training today. Why are you texting me.
RUMI – (6:33 A.M.): Also how did you get my number.
RUMI – (6:33 A.M.): Stalker much??
It only takes him twenty seconds to respond.
JINU – (6:33 A.M.): don’t worry about it
JINU – (6:34 A.M.): didn’t take you for a slacker, but i guess it makes sense
Rumi reads it three times. Then once more, for rage.
Her blanket goes flying. She kicks it off like it insulted her ancestors. Mira mumbles something that might be “cursed prince energy” and rolls over. Zoey snorts herself awake and whispers, “Is the building on fire?”
“No,” Rumi snaps, already halfway to her room. “But my pride is.”
Fifteen minutes later, she’s brushed, dressed, and heading out the door with her water bottle, a choco pie, and war in her heart.
She is not a slacker. She is many things— a little bit petty, occasionally dramatic, once got caught trying to stage a silent protest over poor management of scheduled rehearsal rooms— but she shows up. Always.
The elevator dings. Rumi ties her hoodie strings tight like a no-nonsense anime protagonist.
By the time she gets to the rehearsal studio, she’s buzzing on stubbornness and a choco pie. Her keycard almost bends from how aggressively she swipes it. The door creaks open with theatrical drama—
And there he is.
Jinu.
Yawning. Rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. Hair sticking up like he lost a fight with his pillow. There’s a pink flush high on his cheeks, either from the chill or the fact that he clearly sprinted here just moments before. His oversized hoodie is askew on one shoulder, and the crease on his cheek says he just rolled out of bed.
Rumi stops dead in the doorway. Her eye twitches.
“You rushed here after messaging me,” she says flatly.
Jinu blinks at her. Blinks again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re out of breath.”
“I jogged,” he lies, poorly.
“In what? A dream?”
He glares at her like she’s the unreasonable one, which would be more effective if he didn’t have literal bedhead. “It’s not a crime to be here early.”
“You’re not early. You were just barely here first.”
“You’re barely here second.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Neither does your outfit, but here we are.”
Rumi points at the speaker like it personally offended her. “Warm-up. Now. We’re starting.”
Jinu raises his hands in surrender, grabbing the remote. “Someone’s grumpy.”
“Someone insulted my work ethic at six in the morning and is wearing slippers.”
“They’re indoor shoes.”
“Get on the floor.”
It’s not the most graceful start— he’s yawning through their stretches and she’s fuming through hers, muttering under her breath about egomaniacs and cowards— but it is a start.
By midday, they’ve gone too hard. Neither of them will admit it, of course, but their movements have slowed, and Rumi’s thigh has started to tremble every time they repeat the chorus footwork. Jinu flubbed a spin two takes ago and nearly crashed into a speaker.
They’ve collapsed into silence on opposite sides of the studio, the air thick with sweat and stubborn pride. Rumi gulps down half her water bottle in one go, head tilted back, her pulse skittering behind her ears.
And then she looks up.
Just in time to catch Jinu dragging the hem of his shirt up to wipe his face. The fabric clings for a moment before peeling away, revealing the sharp dip of his waist and the defined cut of his abs. His skin is flushed and damp, a bead of sweat trailing down like punctuation.
Rumi looks away so fast her neck cracks. Her face is burning and, worst of all, she coughs— chokes, really— mid-sip and ends up sputtering into her sleeve like a high schooler watching a drama kiss scene.
There’s a beat of silence. She doesn’t think he noticed.
She hopes he didn’t notice.
“Here,” she mutters, holding out her half-full water bottle without looking at him. It’s a peace offering, if anything. “You forgot yours.”
Jinu looks over, still towel-drying the back of his neck. His eyes flick to the bottle. Then to her.
He reaches for it, fingers brushing the air—
And then stops. Something shifts in his expression— almost unreadable, almost soft, before it twists into that familiar sneer.
“I don’t need your charity,” he says, too sharp, too fast.
He gets up in one fluid movement and stalks toward the door, grabbing his hoodie from the chair without missing a beat. The door clicks shut behind him with a mechanical finality.
Rumi stares after him, stunned.
Then— scowling— she throws the bottle at the door.
It bounces off with a hollow thunk and spills across the studio floor in an uneven arc.
“Asshole,” she mutters, storming over for a mop.
By the time she’s done cleaning it up, her stomach is growling and her pride is bruised, and Jinu is still nowhere to be seen.
She sends him a text.
RUMI – (11:52 A.M.): Have to leave early. Huntrix stuff. See you tomorrow at 8, not 6
She doesn’t expect a response, but when she’s digging into a ham and cheese sandwich at a convenience store down the street from the studio, she gets a notification for a thumps up.
They’re halfway through another frustrating run-through of the bridge— too close, too breathless, too aware of the sweat at the smalls of their backs and the heat radiating off each other like warning signs— when Jinu scrunches his nose mid-step.
“You smell like kimchi,” he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear over the beat pulsing through the speakers.
Rumi doesn’t even blink. “Better than smelling like a cheap cologne counter.”
He falters for a second, just barely, one foot dragging behind the beat. “Wow. That’s rich, coming from someone who has worn the same hoodie three days in a row.”
“At least it doesn’t smell like I bathed in testosterone and bad decisions.”
“Is that what this is?” he snaps back, gesturing vaguely between them as the choreo calls for his hand to skim her waist.
She slaps it away—too late, too soft. “This,” she says, “is a professional nightmare.”
“Great,” he grins without humor, “then we’re both awake.”
They hold their final position, chest-to-chest, breath mingling, the silence taut.
“Just try not to breathe on me during the real thing,” she says, stepping back.
“Sure,” he replies, flashing a smirk. “I’ll hold my breath the whole time. Wouldn’t want to pass out from the fumes.”
“Good. Hopefully you’ll hold it long enough that you die and leave me alone,” she snaps, grabbing her water bottle and taking a swig.
He watches her, the smirk twitching just a little at the corners.
“Like I’d miss a cramp.”
Rumi wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then pauses, lips pursed like she’s just remembered something deeply annoying. “You know, I had to sit next to Baby at the Spring Peach Awards last year. You remember? The ones where our stylists tried to murder us with glitter eyeliner.”
Jinu raises a brow. “Tragic. And?”
“He smelled good,” she says pointedly, tilting her head with a slow blink. “Like bergamot and mint tea. Very clean. Very... balanced.”
He stares at her. Actually stares.
“Oh, please,” he says, indignant. “You can pretend I smell like a wet sock all you want, but I am not— and I mean not— going to sit here and be told that I smell worse than Baby.”
She grins around the mouth of her bottle, like a shark that’s scented blood. “You kinda asked for it.”
“I shower,” Jinu insists, gesturing to himself like his whole body is proof. “I’m the only one in that dorm who even uses body wash and doesn’t just slap on deodorant and pray.”
Rumi makes a face. “Okay, ew.”
“No, seriously,” he says, eyes wide now. “You think Mystery wears cologne? That’s four layers of Lattafa Khamrah and a vanilla latte.”
“Gross.”
“And Baby?” Jinu scoffs. “He uses that little roll-on thing that smells like cucumber melon foot cream.”
They both visibly shudder.
Rumi mutters, “Okay, I take it back. You may be the best of a bad lineup.”
Jinu throws his hands in the air like he’s just won an award. “Thank you. God. Recognition at last.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says. “You still smell like someone who’s trying too hard to smell like a man.”
He points at her water bottle. “Okay, and you smell like late-night convenience store meals and regret.”
“Delicious,” she says, raising her brows and taking another dramatic sip.
They’re still standing there, panting slightly from earlier choreography, glowering like rival wolves— but the edge is duller now. Their insults are a little too practiced, the rhythm of them just a little too familiar.
The rehearsal studio feels like a furnace, the stale air thick and heavy, clinging to their skin. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead with the kind of irritation that matches Rumi’s mood perfectly. She wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand, smudging a streak of eyeliner, and glares at Jinu, who’s lounging against the mirrored wall with the easy confidence of someone who’s convinced this whole mess is beneath him.
Jinu sips from a can of sugar-free coffee, the metallic hiss loud in the silence between them. He smirks, eyes narrowing just enough to make Rumi suspect he’s about to say something deliberately annoying.
“Alright, hear me out,” he says, voice casual but eyes sharp. “We go dark. Like, full throttle. Industrial grit, chain-link fences, black leather harnesses— you know, that whole vibe. Something with teeth. Something that hits.”
“No,” Rumi replies, flat and immediate, crossing her arms so hard her knuckles whiten. “Absolutely not.”
He arches an eyebrow, dropping the can on the floor with a muted clink. “Why not?”
She pulls out her notebook and flips through pages, pretending to be distracted, but really she’s weighing every word. “Because your fans already think you’re some kind of brooding vampire. This just feeds their fantasies. We need fresh. Something that breathes. Something that makes people think, not just drool.”
He snorts, a short, sharp laugh. “Subtle? Since when did we do subtle?”
“Exactly. That’s the problem.” Rumi’s voice sharpens. “We need tension. Sharp edges. Like a high-wire act— impossible but beautiful. Not another dark, moody, ‘I’m so tortured’ stage.”
Jinu steps forward, pacing the small space with the restless energy of a caged animal. “Okay, then what do you suggest? Cute school uniform tennis match? Pastel colors? Product placement for strawberry milk?” His tone is dripping with sarcasm, but there’s a flicker of something real behind it— frustration, maybe even desperation.
Rumi leans back against the studio’s scratched folding chair and shoots him a look. “I’m thinking edgy but modern. Like f(x) in their prime or early Taemin— artful and provocative, but not just ‘sexy for the sake of it.’”
He crosses his arms, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Says the girl who wore full latex last comeback.”
She lifts her chin with mock pride. “Conceptually meaningful, thank you very much. And, for your information, I had a heat rash for two weeks after that.”
Jinu laughs, the sound rumbling low and genuine for a second. “Okay, ouch. But also— no sympathy. Not my fault.”
“It’s always your fault,” she snaps, voice rising with mock exasperation.
Their eyes lock, the air between them crackling like electricity. For a moment, neither speaks—just breathing each other in, the tension thick enough to slice through.
Finally, Jinu breaks the silence. “You’re being difficult.”
Rumi shoots back, “You’re being predictable.”
His jaw tightens. He runs a hand through his hair in a gesture she remembers all too well— the telltale sign he’s about to say something honest but uncomfortable.
“I just thought,” he starts, voice softer now, almost vulnerable, “if we made it loud enough, big enough, no one could mistake it for anything less than professional.”
Rumi freezes at the words. It’s not just about the concept. It’s about them. Their tangled history, the rumors, the way they’re both fighting an invisible war to control the narrative.
Jinu looks away quickly, pretending to check his reflection in the mirror, like he didn’t just admit he’s scared— scared that their chemistry will be misunderstood, that people will read between the lines.
Rumi’s shoulders slump just a bit. She softens, but only slightly. “Alright,” she says, voice quieter but steady, “let’s meet halfway. Tension, style, no fog machines, no leather harnesses.”
He blinks, surprised, then a slow, sly grin spreads across his face. “One harness.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Only if I get to push you into a wall during the bridge.”
They both pause. Eyes flicker, breath catches, and then, despite themselves, they laugh.
“Deal.”
The stylist room looks like it’s been hit by a very opinionated, very glamorous tornado.
Fabric swatches litter the couch. A shoe has somehow ended up in the potted plant in the corner. One of the assistants is silently panicking in front of the full-length mirror, arms full of mismatched belts and rhinestone accessories that no one asked for. The air smells like expensive cologne, lint spray, and stress.
Jinu stands with one arm draped over the clothing rack, holding up a silver mesh shirt between two fingers like it personally insulted him. “You want me to wear this? I’d rather walk out shirtless. This looks like something someone’s uncle wore to a rave in 2006.”
Rumi, perched cross-legged on a chair with five different pant options piled around her ankles, doesn’t even look up. “No one’s stopping you from walking out shirtless, believe me. But that mesh? That’s fashion. That’s bold. That’s stage presence.”
“That’s see-through,” he counters, eyebrows raised. “And I don’t trust the lighting crew not to turn me into a glittering ghost.”
“You’d make a beautiful glittering ghost,” she replies sweetly. “Just stand slightly behind me. As planned.”
A stylist coughs awkwardly in the corner.
Rumi’s hand shoots out to point at a navy velvet jacket on the rack. “That one. That’s your vibe.”
“Velvet?” Jinu echoes, offended. “Are we debuting in 2013 again?”
“It’s classy!” she says, genuinely scandalized.
“It’s sweaty!”
She glares.
He smirks.
From the sidelines, Yoon-seon, their head stylist and a veteran of three idol generations and one fistfight between subunits over earring selections, watches them with the flat eyes of a woman whose soul is slowly exiting through her iced americano straw.
“Can we,” she says carefully, “try landing on a color scheme first? Neutrals? Jewel tones? A monochrome moment?”
“Red,” Jinu says instantly.
“Blue. Navy blue,” Rumi counters.
They both blink at each other.
“Oh my god,” Yoon-seon whispers, rubbing her temples. “You two aren’t even doing this on purpose, are you?”
“Nope,” Rumi chirps.
“This is just who we are,” Jinu agrees, folding his arms like a very petty little prince.
An assistant, barely out of intern orientation, hesitantly suggests, “Earth tones?”
They both swivel toward him in unison. The silence is loud. The poor guy makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a wheeze before disappearing behind a rack of sequined tops.
Rumi tugs on a pair of slacks that were almost the right fit, scowling as she yanks them back off. “For the record, I’d rather wear his mesh than that tragic trench coat you tried to pull earlier.”
Jinu clutches his chest dramatically. “That trench coat is designer!”
“It’s dusty,” she snaps.
“You’re dusty!”
Yoon-seon exhales like someone about to write a resignation letter on the back of a fashion week program. She grabs her phone. “Okay. That’s it. Calling Bobby. You’re done. We’re done.”
“No!” Rumi sits up straight, pointing at the nearest stylist like she’s staging a rebellion. “This is censorship.”
“This is artistic oppression,” Jinu adds solemnly, arms crossed.
Yoon-seon ignores them both, tapping her screen. “Hello, Bobby? Hi. Yes. They’ve been here two hours and the only thing they’ve agreed on is that they hate each other’s scents.”
“That’s not true,” Rumi protests.
“She smells like kimchi,” Jinu mutters.
“I do not—” she hurls a cushion at him. He dodges. Barely.
The call ends, and Yoon-seon stands in the center of the chaos, radiating calm rage. “New plan. Company’s picking the looks. Final fittings are four days before the performance. You will wear what’s put on you. No notes, no feedback, no creative input. Do you understand?”
Rumi glares at the mood board like it just personally attacked her.
Jinu slinks dramatically into a beanbag chair and sulks. “This is exactly what they said would happen when idols got too much freedom.”
A stylist in the corner mutters, “This is why we drink.”
The mood board gets removed from the wall, the sequins are quietly packed away, and the assistants start breathing again.
For the first time all day, the room is silent.
Until Jinu pipes up, eyes gleaming, “I still think the mesh was iconic.”
Rumi throws a shoe at him.
And misses.
But just barely.
Two days later, the tension follows them into the recording studio like a stray cat that refuses to leave.
The space is cleaner than the rehearsal room, at least— sleek black panels lining the walls, low amber lighting, the faint hum of expensive equipment warming up. Rumi sits with one knee tucked under her, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on her thigh, chewing the end of her pen like it might suddenly bleed out lyrics if she applies just the right pressure.
Jinu is slouched in the chair across from her, spinning slowly side to side and tapping a pencil against the edge of the desk. There’s a laptop open between them with the track looping on repeat, an instrumental beat that had sounded promising an hour ago but now just feels like a slowly unraveling migraine.
“Nothing rhymes with ‘collision’ in Korean,” Rumi mutters, scribbling something out for the fifth time.
“Maybe because it’s not a good word for a chorus,” Jinu says, not even looking up.
She snaps her notebook closed.
“Do you want to try?”
He shrugs, like the weight of her challenge is featherlight. “I didn’t think you guys actually wrote your own songs. So this is already going better than expected.”
The room stills.
Rumi blinks.
Then sits up straighter, slowly. “Excuse me?”
Jinu’s eyes flick toward her. “Just saying. Didn’t Huntrix debut with that track from the composers at StarPop? Thought most of your discography was like, ghostwritten.”
Rumi’s mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again with heat behind it.
“Okay, first of all— every idol has a pre-written debut. Every. Idol. And second, Zoey writes most of our songs. She’s been writing since before we debuted. She works all night sometimes, she records her own demos, she even arranges the harmonies.”
Jinu shifts. A little.
“That’s not— I didn’t mean her specifically—”
“Oh, so it’s fine to insult us as long as it’s vague?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, sitting up straighter now. “Seriously, I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.”
She stares at him, tight-lipped.
For a moment, it’s just the soft static of the monitors around them and the instrumental, still looping in the background like a heart trying to remember how to beat.
“Whatever,” she says finally, flipping her notebook back open. “Let’s just get through this.”
He nods, a little sheepishly.
They sit in silence again. It’s less hostile now, more like truce under duress.
Jinu clears his throat after a while and taps the edge of the desk. “Okay, what about changing the chorus hook? Instead of ‘we crash like thunder,’ maybe something like ‘you pulled me into the fall.’ That fits the melody better.”
Rumi doesn’t answer right away. She’s too busy writing it down, the scratch of her pen the only sound cutting through the looping instrumental. She even mouths the line a few times under her breath— testing the syllables, the weight of it, how it might sound with her voice layered on top of the beat.
When she finally looks up, it’s not with a compliment exactly, but her expression has shifted a few degrees— less flint, more consideration.
“That’s actually not bad,” she admits, reluctantly.
Jinu lifts his brows, caught somewhere between smug and surprised. “A compliment from Rumi? Wow. Mark the day.”
“Don’t push it,” she warns, but the edge of her mouth twitches.
And then they’re working— still slowly, still with friction at the seams, but working.
He tosses out words like anchors and she polishes them into something melodic. She changes one of his lines entirely and he groans dramatically, but admits her version flows better. She’s halfway through explaining the way Zoey uses internal rhyme to build emotional momentum when Jinu actually starts scribbling notes of his own. They argue over pre-chorus length. They get stuck on a metaphor for “being seen”— she wants to say spotlight, he thinks that’s too literal, she tells him he wouldn’t know subtlety if it tap-danced across his chest, he retorts that she’s one to talk with her glitter eyeliner obsession.
She throws a pencil at him.
He ducks, grinning, and throws a crumpled sticky note back.
Eventually, they both sit back with a rough verse and a sketch of the chorus on the page between them. It’s nowhere near finished— but it’s something. It’s not just tolerable— it’s good.
And Rumi hates that she’s the one who has to admit it first.
“This might actually work,” she says, quiet and slightly horrified by the revelation.
Jinu leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “Told you.”
“You did not. You said we shouldn’t even try.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “And yet. Look at us. Practically best friends.”
Rumi snorts. “You’re allergic to friendship.”
“Only with people who make me listen to seventeen drafts of a verse about metaphorical drowning.”
“You said you liked that one!”
“I said it was ‘interesting.’ Which is the polite way of saying it gave me an existential crisis.”
She rolls her eyes again but— this time— there’s a warmth beneath it. A reluctant amusement curling at the corners of her mouth. She catches herself smiling and immediately pretends she’s yawning.
Jinu watches her for a beat too long.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. “Thanks. For not letting me be an ass about the Zoey thing.”
She looks up, blinking.
“You still kind of were,” she says.
“Yeah,” he admits. “But I’m glad you said something.”
Rumi shrugs like it’s nothing, but she does glance down at her notebook to avoid the way he’s looking at her— like he remembers something else. Like he’s seeing her in sharper focus than before.
“You didn’t let people get away with being mean to me back then either,” Jinu adds, almost offhanded, like he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it. “Back when we were trainees. You remember? When they used to talk about me being from some nothing town, like I didn’t belong? You were the only one who ever said anything.”
She looks up again, startled.
“I don’t remember that,” she lies.
He gives her a look. “You do.”
She doesn’t argue.
The air between them feels different now— charged in a new way. Less like a storm front and more like the quiet before something important.
She glances down at the page again. “Okay,” she says, pen poised. “Bridge next?”
“Do I get veto power this time?”
“Absolutely not.”
And just like that— they’re writing again. Something raw and jagged and slowly taking shape. Something that, if they’re not careful, might just say more than either of them intend.
It’s late, and the apartment smells faintly of hair product, face masks, and the remnants of microwave popcorn. Mira’s curled up with a drama playing low on the TV, eyes barely open, and Zoey is sitting cross-legged on the floor in Rumi’s room, holding the lyric sheet with both hands like it’s a holy text.
“Okay but— this is actually so good,” Zoey says around a lollipop, her eyes scanning the chorus again. “Like it hits. You didn’t even make Jinu sound like a raging egomaniac. That’s restraint.”
Rumi snorts, tugging on the frayed string of her hoodie. “He actually helped a lot with the second verse.”
Zoey raises an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s growth. Proud of you. Kind of scared, but proud.”
Rumi’s face warms. She unlocks her phone and snaps a quick picture of the lyrics, the light from her lamp casting golden shadows across the page.
RUMI – (10:12 PM): Zoey says the song is a banger
RUMI – (10:13 PM): You’re not totally talentless after all lol
JINU – (10:14 PM): high praise coming from you haha
JINU – (10:15 PM): im out right now— restaurant near the studio with idol booths
JINU – (10:19 PM): wanna celebrate? no pressure if your tired
Rumi stares at the message for a beat, heart thudding lightly against her ribs like it’s testing something. She’s already pulling on a jacket before she answers. She starts to correct his spelling in the process, but refrains.
RUMI – (10:15 PM): Send the location. Be there soon
Zoey glances up from where she’s half-reclined on the rug. “Hot date?”
Rumi tosses a baseball cap on over her hair, not bothering with more than a swipe of gloss and a spritz of perfume. “It’s work.”
Zoey hums. “Sure. Work with lip gloss and your nice hoodie.”
Rumi kicks her lightly in the shin on the way to the door, but she’s smiling.
The streets are quiet at this hour, cool air threading through her hoodie, city lights winking through the trees. The restaurant Jinu picked is tucked in a corner of a high-rise, discreet and dimly lit with sliding wooden doors and soft instrumentals playing through the walls. A staff member bows and leads her to one of the private booths, low-lit and cozy with a panel curtain drawn halfway for privacy.
Jinu’s already there, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, tapping the edge of his cup with a finger like he’s keeping time to a silent beat. His eyes flick up when she slides into the booth across from him.
“You came,” he says, like he’s surprised.
“You invited me,” she replies, pulling her cap off and setting it on the seat beside her.
“Didn’t think you would.” He shrugs. “Was kind of banking on you saying no so I could claim moral victory.”
“Too bad.” Rumi picks up the menu, even though her stomach is already fluttering more than hungry.
They sit in companionable quiet for a beat before he gestures toward the drink menu. “Pick something. My treat. Don’t say I never do anything nice.”
She rolls her eyes. But she picks something anyway.
Somewhere in her chest, under all the snark and leftover resentment and secondhand nerves, something gentle is starting to unfold.
And she’s not entirely sure she hates it.
They both order— ramyeon for her, bulgogi and rice for him, a plate of shared banchan between them. Nothing fancy, but good food never needs to be.
While they wait, they go over the lyrics again. Jinu has the document pulled up on his phone and Rumi leans in to point at a specific line in the chorus she’d reworded the night before. Their shoulders nearly touch, and it makes her suddenly aware of how quiet the booth has become.
“I like how you brought the water imagery back in the second verse,” she says, dragging her nail lightly across the screen. “Feels full circle.”
“You gave me the idea,” he admits, almost sheepish. “The way you phrased that thing about pressure— like a tide, right? That stuck.”
She smiles at him, soft and open, and he smiles back. Something in the air between them shifts, like the slow unfurling of fabric caught in the wind. Familiar, but not quite the same.
Then his phone lights up with a ding— an email, probably boring company scheduling— but the home screen image catches her attention first.
“Wait,” Rumi says, squinting. “Is that a cat?”
Jinu turns the phone toward her automatically. “Oh— yeah. That’s Sansin.”
The lockscreen is a slightly blurry photo of a long-haired gray cat mid-yawn, his tufted ears twitching, eyes half-lidded like he owns the place.
“Nebelung,” Jinu says, clearly delighted someone asked. “It’s like a long-haired Russian Blue, basically. He’s chaotic. Thinks he can fight ceiling fans. Not the smartest, but he’s weirdly charming.”
He swipes to another photo— Sansin curled up in a cardboard box with a sock half in his mouth. Another of him screaming at a cucumber. Another sitting on the bathroom sink with his paw dunked in a full cup of water.
“Okay,” Rumi says, grinning now, “I didn’t think you were a pet guy.”
He glances up, mouth quirking. “Why? Because I don’t bring him to dance practice in a stroller?”
She snorts. “Because you’re, like, emotionally constipated.”
“Yeah, well.” Jinu shrugs. “Pets make a place feel less empty. More like home.”
Rumi pauses. Watches the way his eyes soften when he swipes again— not to another cat photo this time, but a video. A crow perched on his balcony railing, beady-eyed and bold. Jinu’s voice in the background, coaxing it closer with a strip of seaweed.
“Okay, hold on,” Rumi says. “Is this your second animal?”
“Technically not mine,” he says, suddenly bashful. “But he comes by every other day. I named him Eric. He’s kind of an asshole.”
Rumi leans on her palm, laughter lighting her face. “You feed wild crows and adopt dumb cats. I thought you were, like, a solo ramen-in-the-dark type.”
He shrugs again, tapping his screen off. “I used to be.”
That silence hangs for a moment— comfortable, but weighted.
And then she remembers something. “You have a little sister, right? How’s she doing?”
There’s a flicker across his face— barely there, but it knocks the air a little quieter.
The food arrives right then, two servers placing steaming bowls and side dishes in front of them. The scent of sizzling meat hits first, followed by garlic, sesame, broth.
Jinu picks up his chopsticks slowly, then hesitates. His voice is soft when he answers.
“We haven’t really talked since a few months after my debut,” he says.
Rumi glances up, surprised. “Oh. Why?”
He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Someone found our house. A fan. Or an anti, I don’t know. They broke in. My sister was home. She was ten. My mom never got over it. Neither did I.”
Rumi’s stomach knots. “Jinu—”
“I don’t even text them now,” he says quietly, eyes on his rice. “Just in case someone’s tracking it. Not worth the risk. I send money through an agency alias. That’s all.”
She doesn’t know what to say for a second. Then she reaches for her chopsticks too, lets them rest between her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “That’s… awful. I didn’t know.”
Jinu gives a small nod, shoulders stiff. “You weren’t supposed to.”
And still— he told her.
Rumi doesn’t push. She just starts scooping rice into her bowl, slow and deliberate. The way someone does when words won’t help, but being there might.
The meal continues in relative quiet, but it’s a new kind of quiet— not awkward, not cold. Just… spacious. Like a door’s been left ajar.
Jinu swirls the last of his rice with his chopsticks, then glances across the table. “What about your mom? Is Celine doing okay these days?”
Rumi makes a face before she can catch it. Not quite a wince, but something sharp behind the eyes. “You asked, so.”
Jinu huffs a laugh, already leaning back like he’s seen this film before. “That’s answer enough.”
It earns a snort from her, low and genuine. The tension that curled between them earlier— about the lyrics, about everything— softens under the restaurant’s warm lighting and the quiet hum of private conversations from other hidden booths.
They turn their attention to their food, eating in companionable silence until Jinu lifts his chopsticks again and holds out a bite from his bowl. “You’ve got to try this,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes flit away the second the words leave him.
Rumi blinks. “You’re offering me a bite?”
“It’s good,” he says, almost defensively. “You’re welcome.”
She leans in and takes it, careful not to graze his fingers. Still, the metal of the chopsticks brushes the edge of her bottom lip. It’s barely anything. It shouldn’t mean anything. But she pulls back quicker than she meant to, cheeks warm, pretending to study her bowl like it holds state secrets.
The taste lingers, and not just the flavor.
She’s still trying to focus on that— on anything else— when the waiter returns, notepad in hand and smile practiced.
“How is everything?” he asks, eyes flicking between their near-empty dishes.
Jinu flashes a grin. “Great. Can we get a bottle of soju?”
The waiter nods and disappears again.
Rumi raises an eyebrow. “Drinking? On a work night?”
“It’s a celebration,” he says, already shrugging off her concern. “We actually wrote a decent song without killing each other. That deserves a drink.”
“I’ll cover it,” she says, reaching for her bag automatically.
“No way,” Jinu replies. “My treat. I invited you.”
She narrows her eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. Just a teasing sort of challenge, like she’s weighing whether or not to let him get away with it.
“Fine,” she says at last. “But I’m ordering dessert, too.”
He smirks. “You better.”
The mood lifts. A little brighter, a little looser. The celebration may be small, quiet, hidden in a booth behind tinted windows and soundproof panels, but it still feels like a turning point.
Something is shifting.
Rumi sets down her chopsticks with a soft clatter, eyes fixed on the delicate swirl of steam rising from her bowl. The restaurant’s low hum wraps around them like a quiet promise, but inside her, a question she’s held for years presses forward, sharp and stubborn.
“After we debuted,” she begins carefully, her voice barely above the soft murmur of other diners, “you started acting differently. Was it because you wanted to fit in with the other Saja Boys? Or... did I do something wrong? Did I upset you?”
Jinu’s fingers curl lightly around the rim of his glass, tracing small, slow circles. He looks down, face suddenly flushed with a gentle pink. The faintest crease forms between his brows. “Kind of both,” he says after a moment, voice quieter than before. “But you didn’t do anything wrong. It was all me.”
Rumi’s brow arches, a flicker of memory surfacing— sharp, like an old cut reopening. She remembers the awards show, the night they both walked the red carpet, cameras flashing like summer lightning. She had tried to pull him into a hug backstage, a moment of peace after the storm of flashing lights and screaming fans. But he’d slipped away, dodging her arms like she was a shadow he couldn’t catch.
She’d caught herself, hurt curling in her chest. Then there were the small things: the cold shoulder when she said congratulations on his solo stage, the way he’d barely acknowledged her presence during group meetings, and that one time at a fan signing where he smiled at everyone but looked through her like she was just background noise.
“I remember trying to hug you backstage at that awards show,” she says softly, the memory bittersweet. “You dodged me like I was some stranger. There were other times, too— little things you did that made me wonder if I’d done something wrong.”
Jinu’s gaze flickers up, eyes warm and shadowed with regret. “I was trying to fit in,” he admits, voice steady. “With the Saja Boys, with the image everyone expected me to be. I was scared— scared that if I didn’t change, I’d be left behind. I thought pushing you away was the only way to do that.”
She swallows hard, the weight of years folding between them like a fragile bridge. “But you didn’t have to do that.”
He laughs softly, a little embarrassed. “No, I didn’t. And it was wrong.” He pauses, then adds with a shy smile, “I’ll tell you more about it sometime. Now that we’re... you know, in a truce.”
Rumi’s lips twitch in disbelief. “I never agreed to a truce,” she says, a teasing edge in her voice.
Jinu’s expression melts into mock shock, mouth parting like he’s just been caught red-handed. Then she bursts out laughing— light, clear, shaking the air between them. His laughter follows, slower, deeper, and just as warm.
In that moment, the long shadow of their rivalry feels less like a chain and more like an unfinished story— one maybe worth rewriting, together.
They’re camped out in the living room again, this time surrounded by half-empty mugs of iced coffee and the low hum of an instrumental track looping through a Bluetooth speaker. Mira’s got a notebook open on her lap and is scribbling potential chorus lines in between doodles of hearts and knives. Zoey’s fiddling with a MIDI controller like it personally offended her, her brows drawn low in concentration. Rumi’s half-listening, twirling a pen between her fingers until her phone buzzes on the coffee table.
She glances down— just a flash of silver-gray fur, wide green eyes, and a blurred paw swatting at something just out of frame.
Sansin.
Rumi can’t help it. She smiles. A small, stupid thing. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it until Mira stops mid-scribble and squints suspiciously across the room.
“Why are you smiling at your phone like that?” Mira asks, lifting a brow.
Rumi shrugs, casual. Too casual. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Zoey says, dragging out the word as she sits up straighter, alert now like a hawk smelling scandal. The speaker beat keeps looping. Tension winds around it.
Rumi tightens her grip on her phone, suddenly very aware of how warm her ears are.
There’s a beat of stillness, just enough for Rumi to register danger.
Then chaos.
“No!” she yelps, scrambling back as Mira lunges with all the dedication of a woman possessed. “Don’t you dare—”
Mira grabs her wrists, locking her in place with alarming efficiency, and Zoey gleefully swoops in like a thief in the night. Rumi twists and kicks, but it’s no use. The phone is out of her hands. The betrayal is instant.
Zoey gasps, flipping the screen toward herself dramatically. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “It’s Jinu.”
“I knew it,” Mira groans from where she’s still half-pinning Rumi down. “Is it a scandal? A shirtless pic? What are we working with?”
Zoey cackles. “It’s a cat. He sent her a picture of a cat.”
“Seriously?” Mira releases Rumi with an exaggerated sigh and flops back onto the cushions. “I thought it was going to be something spicy. That’s just disappointing.”
But Zoey isn’t done. She twirls the phone in her fingers, victorious. “Don’t you realize what this means? They’re practically dating.”
Rumi bolts upright, scandalized. “We are not!”
Zoey smirks. “Mhm. Sure. And I don’t rehearse dance routines in my sleep.”
“Sending a picture of your cat does not mean you’re dating,” Rumi insists, snatching her phone back, trying to hide the way her thumb hovers over the image before locking the screen. “He’s just been... nice lately.”
That earns her a synchronized look from both Zoey and Mira, like she’s just said the most suspicious thing in the world.
“Nice?” Mira echoes. “Since when is Jinu nice?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Rumi mutters, running a hand through her hair. “It’s weird. He used to be such a jerk. But now he’s... I don’t know. He asks about my day. He apologizes when he’s late. He— he showed me pictures of a crow he feeds like it’s a roommate.”
Mira blinks. “Okay, that’s kinda cute.”
Zoey leans her chin on her hand. “And he texts you. Cat pictures, no less. That’s basically soft-launching a relationship.”
“We are not soft-launching anything,” Rumi grumbles, face burning.
But her fingers linger at the edge of her phone. And despite everything— despite the years of resentment and miscommunication— there’s a tiny, dangerous flutter in her chest that says: Maybe.
“But if it was something,” Rumi says slowly, carefully, like the words might explode on the way out, “how am I even supposed to respond? I mean— it’s just a cat. But it’s his cat. Which is different, right? It’s like a soft offering.”
Zoey is already bouncing where she sits. “It’s totally a soft offering. That cat is sacred ground now.”
Mira clutches a pillow to her chest, grinning. “You have to respond. You can’t leave him on read. He’ll think you hate Sansin.”
Rumi groans and flops backward onto the couch. “This is a nightmare. I’ve done live shows with a fever less scary than this.”
“You did that one showcase with a sprained ankle and only the really obsessive fans noticed,” Zoey says, crawling over to peer at her screen. “You can handle a cat pic.”
“Okay, okay, fine,” Rumi mutters, sitting up again. “Just— what do I even say?”
“You could send one of your own!” Mira suggests. “Something personal but low-stakes. Like... your dinner. Or your dumb rabbit slippers.”
“I’m not sending him my slippers,” Rumi huffs, but she’s already thumbing into her sticker pack, looking for something cute but non-committal. “Something small. Something casual. Something that does not scream I’m secretly spiraling into some enemies-to-lovers plotline—”
And that’s when it happens.
Her thumb slips.
There’s a cheerful chime as the message sends. A bright, ridiculous sticker pops up in the chat window.
Her Huntrix collab emoji— Rumi as a bunny, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling— is holding up a giant red heart-shaped banner.
Across it: I LOVE YOU.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Zoey makes a sound like a tea kettle coming to boil. Mira drops her phone. Rumi, frozen in horror, stares at the screen like she’s just detonated a bomb.
“No,” she squeaks. “No, no, no—”
“Oh my god,” Zoey howls, diving across the cushions. “Unsend it! Unsend it right now!”
“You can’t unsend on SMS,” Mira shrieks. “This is a disaster! You’re fucked!”
“I didn’t mean to say I love him!” Rumi wails, clutching her phone like it might bite her. “It was the bunny! That’s not a love confession, that’s branding!”
“Oh my god, we’ve entered the sticker stage of emotional vulnerability,” Zoey moans, burying her face in a throw pillow. “She’s doomed.”
“I’m going to fake my death,” Rumi says flatly. “I’m going to vanish into the mountains and live among foxes. You’ll never see me again.”
“Too late,” Mira says grimly. “He’s seen the banner. He knows.”
They all freeze again as Rumi’s phone lights up with a typing bubble.
Zoey grabs Mira’s hand. Mira grabs Rumi’s. It’s a huddle of three extremely panicked women clutching each other like the floor might drop out at any second.
“Maybe he thinks it’s a joke,” Mira whispers.
“Maybe he’s unconscious,” Zoey offers. “People faint. It happens.”
Rumi stares at the screen. “Maybe he likes me back,” she says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear herself.
JINU – (8:14 PM): you’ll have to meet him sometime
“What?” Rumi blurts, eyebrows climbing into her hairline. “He thinks it’s about his cat?!”
“He thinks it’s about his cat,” Mira echoes, sounding almost offended on her behalf. “How is him not getting it somehow worse than this alternative?”
“I don’t know!” Rumi practically screams, falling backwards into the cushions. “I panicked!”
Zoey reaches out, calm as anything, and gently plucks the phone from her limp fingers.
“Trust me,” she says.
Rumi blinks up at her. “What are you doing?”
But Zoey’s already tapping. Thumbs moving with suspicious confidence.
“Zoey,” Mira warns.
Zoey smiles sweetly and hits send.
Then she hands the phone back.
Rumi reads the message. Out loud. Like her brain needs confirmation.
“I’m free tomorrow after our practice if you want to introduce me,” Her voice pitches up with every word. “What. Have. You. Done—”
Mira leans over to look at the screen. “It’s like a test.”
“A test?” Rumi sputters.
“To see if he’s serious!” Zoey says brightly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re welcome.”
Rumi just groans and sinks deeper into the couch, dragging a pillow over her face.
Zoey and Mira exchange a high five.
Mira turns back toward the screen. “Wait. What if the cat hates her?”
Rumi makes a wounded noise from beneath the pillow as another text comes in.
JINU – (8:20 PM): sounds fun