Chapter Text
Rumi Kang was either going to vomit or die.
The basement walls were closing in, the bodies of other drunk college kids pressing closer until she was choking on the bitter scent of beer and sweat. The pink, purple, and blue LED strips arranged like crowning along the top of the wall seared across her retinas and stamped themselves on the backs of her eyelids when she blinked. Dubstep rattled her ear drums, louder than her pulse, louder than her thoughts.
Swaying on her feet, Rumi forced her eyes open and squinted at the last mouthful of the neon punch, glowing faintly under the LEDs like it had absorbed the light itself. A puddle of stars in which gods would sip from. She knew better than to have more than two cups—really, she did—but better had never once stopped her. Not when she was fourteen sneaking her dad’s whiskey and swearing she hated the taste, not when she’d promised herself junior year at a new high school would be clean, different.
And yet here she was drowning in fluorescent syrup after a couple of pre-game seltzers at Soda and more than her weight in cheap beer at two other houses before migrating—God knew how—to wherever this was now.
It was already after midnight, and her brain was still crawling with the first week jitters, a cloud of buzzing mosquitoes that refused to quiet. She wanted them dead, crushed, and drowned in alcohol. Nerves had always been her enemy, the way they perched on her ribs and whispered you don’t belong here, and you never will.
That wouldn’t do, not at all.
By the time she stumbled into the kitchen, twenty minutes had bled away. Typical, Rumi thought, unable to help critiquing the haphazard setup—sticky counters, half-empty bottles, a broken cabinet door—though she knew better to expect more from twenty-something party boys.
So, she grabbed three cups—two meant for Mira and Zoey, and one for herself—but both of her roommates had vanished into the sea of bodies. Zoey had been tugged to the dance floor by her English major friends, Mira following with that half-smile she wore when she was amused but slightly concerned. The delivery run had turned into a detour through a house that seemed to lengthen like a snake unhinging its jaw, swallowing her and the entire student body whole.
Now, she was hopelessly lost. And awkwardly holding three drinks.
She downed hers in seconds, stacking the cup on top of the next like armor, but the crowd pressed too close, bodies a tide she couldn’t swim against, and so she tipped the second up and back too. Down to one—sorry, Zoey—Rumi scanned each room from corner to corner for Mira’s pop of pink hair. Mira was always her landmark, the fixed point. In a crowd like this, she was a lighthouse’s beam, especially when she wore her platforms. And Rumi, as usual, was the ship too stubborn to follow the light until she was half wrecked. More likely to steer herself into an unforgiving cliffside.
Ten minutes passed before Rumi found herself mindlessly sipping the last drink in her hand, nodding to the music as she slipped into that blissful, dangerous in-between state—tipsy enough to float, too far gone to stop.
The ever-expanding basement was no longer just a room; it was an ecosystem of bodies, a living tide that carried her wherever it wanted. For a moment, she let it. She let the beat push her forward, let hands find hers and pull her into the churn of the dance floor.
Girls spun Rumi in wide, dizzying circles, bracelets clinking against her wrists. Someone shouted the lyrics into her ear, voice off-key but joyous, and she shouted back, throat raw. Rumi didn’t catch any of their names, but on the dance floor, they were celestial bodies orbiting one another with the beauty of the planets. Saturn and Venus dressed in sparkles, double denim, and fur while singing TLC.
A girl with glittering eyeliner leaned in, pressed a quick kiss against her cheek, then her mouth. Soft and unexpected, but electric. Rumi laughed into the kiss, too drunk to think, too alive not to kiss back.
Hungry eyes tracked her—boys leaning against the walls, girls whispering behind their cups—but she didn’t care. Or maybe she did, and that was the thrill. Let them watch. Let them see her smiling against soft lips, her lavender hair catching the LED lights like she, along with this Wonderland of a room, had been born in neon. As if she were the source of all this light.
The music swallowed her whole. Bass rattled her ribs with what felt like a second heart beat. Her body moved without permission: arms lifted, hips twisting, sweat slicking the back of her neck. For a few minutes, the relentless mosquitoes in her head quieted like the week summer finally bowed to the crisp embrace of autumn.
This was why she drank in the first place. Not for the taste, not even for the buzz, but for this feeling of belonging, of dissolving into something bigger than herself, even if it was just an illusion.
But it never lasted.
One wrong step. One extra sip.
And suddenly, the beauty shattered, colors fracturing into a kaleidoscopic horror of merging faces and bodies. The crowd wasn’t fluid anymore but jagged, sharp, each hand that brushed her arm a claw, each grin too wide. The world had reached its limit, snapping and collapsing in on itself. And Rumi was at its center, suffocating and torn to shreds.
Her lungs clawed for air while her heart hammered between her breasts like a rabbit trying to escape a snare. Rumi frantically stumbled from room to room, desperately searching for her friends, or the exit, whichever came first. Every doorway opened into a copy of the last: the same blur of faces, the same strobing lights and rhythmic drumming. She couldn’t tell if she’d circled once or a hundred times, the house folding in on itself like an Escher sketch. Or maybe she was being circled, a frail body unable to do more than twitch as the vultures descended.
Walls pressed closer, floors tilted, and the music rattled her skull until Rumi thought her teeth might crack.
Back in the kitchen—how had she managed a full circle when every hallway looked the same?— Rumi spotted a set of steps leading up. She didn’t even remember coming down stairs to begin with, but a house, even one owned by rich frat boys, could only be so large.
Clutching the railing for dear life, Rumi dragged herself upward and shoved past a heavy metal door. Instead of another smoke-filled room that smelled like urine, she was met with the slap of cool night air.
It was like a balm against her overheated skin.
Florida was never really cold—her northern classmates made sure to tell her as much whenever she so much as had a sweatshirt tied around her waist, squawking like a gaggle of seagulls fiending for her sandwich—but the juxtaposition with the hellfire of the basement made even the eighty-degree, breeze-less night feel refreshing.
Rumi braced her forearms against the brick wall before letting her forehead fall against them. She closed her eyes to stop the sidewalk tilting beneath her, the concrete beneath her chunky sandal pumps rocking like the waves of a tumultuous sea.
Then, the smell hit her. Thick, artificial scent of mint tore through the air and snapped her back into her body. A sensation to moor her consciousness to, like a boat bobbing in a harbor. Rumi let herself breathe it in deeply, for the smoke to settle into her lungs and heart that—after all these years—still ached for just one more hit.
Just one.
“You don’t look so good, princess.”
Rumi’s gaze landed on the boy the moment the first syllable left his tongue, drawn to the sound like an addict chasing a fix. He was tall—long legs in dark denim jeans kicked out from the wall he slouched back against. A silver chain dangled from one belt loop to the other, glinting a deep amethyst in the artificial, Miami light.
Because even on moonless nights, this city—her city, as Rumi had begrudgingly begun to think of it—was still glowing with color and light. Darkness had no place here, not even in the dankest frat house basements or the shadowed-alleyways between college townhouses.
“Well, it’s our third house tonight,” Rumi replied, studying him over the crook of her elbow.
Between the black bangs falling into his eyes and the hands covering the lower half of his face to spark a flame for his cigarette, there wasn’t much to see. Her eyes caught on dark, vein-like tattoos that slipped beneath the sleeve of his leather jacket, and Rumi couldn’t stop herself from following their imaginary path up to his bicep, wondering how far they stretched.
The lighter’s wheel rasped, too loud in the quiet. For a second, she thought she saw the tiniest tremor in his thumb before the flame steadied.
An image of a lighthouse flickered across her mind before Rumi shook her head, bringing herself back into the moment.
“I might’ve had a bit too much,” she softly confessed, more to herself than anything.
When the boy dropped his hands from his now-lit cigarette and reached out to her, Rumi spun off the wall with violence, teeth flashing and acrylic nails ready to slash.
A startled laugh escaped him, and Rumi’s brows only narrowed further. “What? Think that jus ‘cause I’m drunk you can take me? Bad news, bro, but I have belting lungs to scream with and will claw your eyes out if you even take a step near me. And that’s before my roommates come to take you down.”
Hands retreated but Rumi didn’t drop her guard, not until he said, “Sorry, sorry. Just looks like you need a cigarette.” His voice gentled on the last word, like offering a treat to a feral stray. A truce, of sorts.
And fuck, did Rumi need one. She swallowed, crossing her arms over her chest to hold herself back. A bit embarrassed by her overreaction, too. She forced out a warbly, “I…I probably shouldn’t…” Her mouth already shaped the memory of a filter because her body clearly never got the memo that she’d quit.
The boy shrugged, lifting the cigarette back to his mouth for a deep drag. Smoke curled from the corner of his lips instead of straight ahead—careful and practiced, like he’d learned not to blow in anyone’s face. Courtesy or camouflage, she couldn’t tell. Before each drag, he tapped the filter twice against his knuckle, a tiny ritual, as if the cigarette would burn wrong without it. Maybe the scars slashed across them were from when it had.
Fuck it, Rumi thought, inching closer until he was just out of arm’s reach. Then, she held out her hand, expectant.
Their fingers brushed as the cigarette was dexterously passed between her fingers. Bringing it to her lips and breathing it in felt like coming home. The smoke she released made her remember how broken that home had been. Nights on the dorm patio, she pretended smoking was “just social.” The promise she’d made this January that stuck until February. The way a lit end could keep her hands busy when her brain wouldn’t shut up, because God it never shut up.
Rumi didn’t cough, but her exhale was stuttered. It was thicker than she had remembered, like a fist wrapping around her throat. “This isn’t laced with any of that shit going around, is it?” Rumi said, passing the cigarette back. This time, her knuckles sparked against his cool touch as he took it back. Flint catching.
“Honmoon? No, not really my scene,” he said with a small tilt of his head, balancing the stick between his teeth as he dug a hand into his back pocket. He didn’t look away from her when he fished for the pack. Flashed her a new-ish looking pack of Brand 305’s as if to prove it.
Rumi couldn’t help the way her lips fondly flickered upwards. “Pull those straight out of a dumpster on the way here?” she teased, accepting the next hit when it was offered. “Haven’t had a 305 in years. They weren’t exactly my poison of choice.”
“Probably aren’t anyone’s, to be fair.”
“No, probably not.”
She watched the ash lengthen, silver and precarious. It would collapse soon, drifting down like dust.
The silence between them was comfortable, this shared sanctuary tucked between the energetic party and the rest of the electrified city just a stone’s throw away. Not quiet, nothing ever was here, but almost peaceful. It was why Rumi had started smoking all those years ago, seeking a refuge from the chaos of the world around her, the anarchy of her own mind. She told herself it slowed her thoughts to a single steady river: inhale, hold, exhale. Tonight, the river ran white hot.
But the buzz was already fading, lifting from her body and leaving only inky memories behind. If she didn’t speak now, the silence would swallow her whole.
But the buzz of smoke drifting through her mind was starting to recede, leaving only inky memories in its wake. It was only a matter of time before the ash collapsed beneath its own strain, drifting down like specks of dust.
Rumi had to break the silence then, or else risk falling into the chasm threatening to take her under. “My first was a Marlboro Gold, I think. Picked it off my Dad and used a candle lighter to get it going. I thought it was the most disgusting thing in the world.”
Her smoking partner snorted, the sound boyishly endearing. He couldn’t have been much older than her, Rumi thought. A junior, maybe. He wore the sort of tiredness of an upperclassman that settled in the shoulders and had just begun to touch his face, soft baby fat giving way to sharper edges. Not that she was terribly old at nineteen herself, even if she felt as though she had already lived twenty lifetimes in her body.
“Golds are probably the kindest way to start. Smoother, less intense, and all that,” he offered. “Mine was so long ago that I don’t even remember. Might’ve been Newports because of the menthol aftertaste, or because that’s what the corner store would sell me, but it’s not like I really knew what to look for. The brand didn’t matter as much as just having something to do, if that makes sense.”
“It does,” Rumi agreed, glancing down at the tight cylinder between her fingers. “Something to hold when you feel empty, something you can control when everything else is spiraling around like a hurricane…cheesy as that is.”
“A bit cheesy,” he replied, accepting the cigarette for a final drag before handing it back to her. “Here, you can finish it. I’m trying to quit anyway.” He said it lightly, but his thumb pressed hard into the filter, denting it before he let go.
Rumi shrugged, dutifully smoking it down to the filter. Quitting was always for tomorrow’s version of her. When the spark threatened to lick the delicate skin between her fingers, she lifted up a foot to stub it out on her heel. Still decidedly drunk, her lone leg faltered beneath her weight and as she tried to overcorrect, she was stumbling into the space of her companion.
He caught her by her shoulders, keeping a respectable distance between them. He was a head taller than Rumi but when he looked down at her, his gaze didn’t dip to the ample cleavage her iridescent, skin-tight top generously revealed. They were fixed on her eyes, his own dark pools momentarily flashing crimson in the neon light.
“Easy there,” he said, words like visible smoke between them. Rumi briefly wondered if she could inhale the tenor of his voice, if her pitch would harmonize with his on the exhale. “You said your friends are here, right? We should find them and get you home.”
“‘M not allowed to go home with boys that I don’t know the names of. House rules.”
He sighed, letting his hands slide off her shoulders before shaking his head. “It’s Jinu, and we’re not going home together. You’re drunk.” He said the last part without judgement, like a bouncer calling closing time.
“I’m fiiiine,” she said, sounding sure to herself even if there was a bit of a slur to her syllables.
She suddenly didn’t like the intensity in his gaze, the way his palms felt blazing hot against her bare shoulders. Once cold to the bone and now scorching. Her eyes trailed past his strong jaw and the bulging Adam’s apple of his throat, past sharp collarbones like twin knives holding up a silver chain. His white shirt was sinfully tight against his chest, and she meant to only let her eyes trail down his abdomen before her gaze caught on a small, clear baggie sticking out of the inside pocket of his jacket. It was the kind of glance you pretend was an accident and then cannot unsee.
Rumi’s breath caught, feet rooted to the ground like vines had ripped through the hard cement and wrapped around her calves. “Is—is that…” she trailed off, eyes wide. Her pulse hopped into her mouth. He didn’t look down to follow her gaze; he watched her watching instead, waiting.
“Rumi! I’ve been looking for you.” Mira’s voice tugged Rumi out from her paralysis, stepping back from Jinu and his bag of—
“Are you—oh.”
Rumi looked behind her to see Mira in her sleeveless black tank top, mini skirt, and thigh-high boots that made her legs look a million miles long. Her pink hair hung in straight strands like soldiers at attention, and even after a long night of partying, the braids littering her hair were still tight as rope, not a single strand of hair daring to slip out of place. Red lipstick stained both of her cheeks—a drunken Zoey’s mark. She looked beautiful and fierce, like their band’s namesake.
But what rooted Rumi wasn’t the outfit; it was Mira’s eyes, cutting straight past her to Jinu, dark and sharp, something stirring there that Rumi couldn’t read.
“I’m okay,” Rumi said, taking another step back from Jinu until her shoulder was brushing against Mira’s in reassurance. “Made a friend.”
“Ah,” Mira replied, curt and disinterested. Rumi knew better; Mira was rarely careless about first impressions. Mira secretly cared deeply about the way people perceived her—even strangers—so she didn’t call her out on it.
“Jinu was going to help me find you, but you found me first!” Rumi slid her hand into Mira’s, feeling the way her friend’s fingers twitched before lacing their fingers together. Her palm was warm, grounding, and it infuriated Rumi how fast the world steadied at Mira’s touch. Relief and embarrassment tangled in her chest, heavy as stone. When she looked up, she found Mira already looking at her with a quiet concern in her gaze. “Where’s Zoey?”
“Walked back to Soda with two of her English major friends. She wanted to go two hours ago and knew I wasn’t going to be able to walk you both back.”
“Little body plus lots of alcohol equals a druuuunk Zoey,” Rumi nodded, giggling as she tapped her fingers against Mira’s knuckles.
“And a drunk Rumi. Clearly.”
“I'm fiiiiiine, Mira! Jinu, tell her—” Rumi started, stopping when she saw that the space where the boy had been was empty. As if he’d gone up in smoke. One blink and he’d dissolved into the neon haze, leaving only the phantom press of his hands on her shoulders. The taste of their shared cigarette on her tongue, souring into guilt.
Rumi huffed. “Well, I am. But if you're tired, we can go home. It's not safe for pretty girls like you to walk home alone. You need me for protection!” She flexed the fingers of her free hand into claws.
Mira stared blankly. “You look like a sopping-wet cat.”
“I am a lioness!”
“Maybe if she was defanged, declawed, and, I cannot stress this enough, sopping-wet.”
Rumi scrunched her nose and squeezed Mira’s hand, leaning against her as they walked into a sea of unbearably bright, neon lights of the downtown. Mira, her lighthouse, guiding her through the blur of streets even as certain distractors called out to her like a siren’s song.
When she started to falter, Mira slowed her pace; when Rumi started to droop, forehead resting against Mira’s bare, sweat-slicked shoulder, Mira adjusted without a word, her arm firm around Rumi’s waist.
Rumi stumbled on the last step up to their apartment, but Mira had her. Kept her steady and sure.
“Almost there,” she said softly against her sweaty temple, gentler than Rumi deserved.
The kindness made her stomach lurch harder than the alcohol. Rumi wanted to crack a joke, deflect with claws or teeth to keep Mira at arm’s length, but her throat burned, and the words died. Mira’s steadiness pressed against her like a weight she couldn’t carry, all softness where she deserved none.
But Rumi was made for honmoon and heartbreak, scars and smoke—the kind of trouble you choose even when you know better. Every bad habit you’re supposed to outgrow by nineteen.
The guilt of it made her stomach churn, and then she was pushing past Mira and heaving her guts up into the toilet.
Notes:
so this fic started bc the two of us wanted to creatively write together & one of us normally writes BL & the other does poetry/academic essays (and is currently on the ao3 waitlist so will be added as a co-creator shortly lol). thank you for giving this fic a shot, and we'll see you next week!
Chapter 2: Right Here by Your Side
Chapter Text
When Mira got that IM a year and a few months ago from a girl with purple hair asking if she needed a roommate, she imagined a lot of things. Early mornings in the library, sterile labs with better equipment than her small mid-west school could ever afford, and delirious late-night conversations that stretched until dawn. She imagined parties too but in the soft-focus way high schoolers dream of them: red cups, glitter, music pulsing like possibility.
Not this.
Not her knees pressed to the bathroom tile.
Not the cold bite of porcelain against her shins.
Not the way her fist trembled as she held back Rumi’s hair. Even then, a part of Mira noticed the warmth of Rumi’s scalp beneath her palm, the intimacy of holding her this way, and she hated herself for noticing.
They’d barely made it up the stairs and down the hall before Rumi darted away, Mira fumbling with the bathroom light as the door slammed against the wall and Rumi stumbled to the toilet, gagging, with Mira in tow.
The sound echoed, too loud for the small apartment. Mildew crept in black threads along the grout, the overpowering tang of bleach never quite covering it. The toilet tank rattled with every heave like it might come loose or erupt like a geyser. On the counter, a glitter roll-on from Claire’s had tipped over, sweetness seeping out just long enough to make what followed sharper.
The smell beneath the artifice of cleaner and perfumed glitter hit Mira: the greasy pizza they’d split before going out, the liquor that clung sweet and chemical, and the bile that cut through it all. It stung her nose, coated the back of her throat. For a moment, Mira’s stomach tilted in protest, an old instinct almost winning. But when Rumi’s whole body sagged forward, Mira steadied her grip instead.
The bathroom light buzzed overhead harsh and uneven, the fluorescence bleaching Rumi’s skin into something ghostly and dulling her holographic top to gray. The halter chain rubbed her collarbone raw, jeans sticking to her legs in the humidity. She reeked of too-sweet perfume and too-bitter smoke, all of it now drowned by the thick haze of sick.
When the convulsions subsided, Rumi looked up. Her eyes locked on Mira’s, wide with a quiet sort of terror. “You must hate me. I’m so sorry.”
The words came out so small, as if she was sure of the answer but wished it wasn’t true.
For a moment, only the leaky faucet’s dripping and fan’s faint whirring filled the space between them. Mascara tubes and bobby pins crowded the counter, Zoey’s glitter clinging stubbornly to the sink. Through the wall, Zoey’s laughter drifted faint and sudden, muffled by music in her room. The sound landed like a reminder: she was here too, just on the other side. Mira pinched the top of her thigh, the bite of the sting steadying her.
Then, Mira drew in a sharp breath. “Of course not, Rumi. You’re one of my best friends, and I love you.” Rubbing her hand in soothing circles between Rumi’s shoulderblades, she asked: “How are you feeling?”
“Like I don’t have anything left in me. Just need a shower. And a toothbrush.”
Mira held back an exhale. “That’s not how you’re feeling.”
Rumi dropped her gaze. Mascara-crusted eyelashes stuck together as she momentarily closed her eyes. The star eyeliner art Zoey had drawn earlier scrunched into a sweaty, smudged spiral.
Zoey always did everyone’s makeup—stars, wings, glitter, whatever anyone asked for. She leaned in close like it was a secret between her and whoever sat still long enough, nothing but breaths exchanged as she channeled her craft. It was as if every brush stroke bound her and her subject for the night the way surgical lacerations do a patient and doctor. Half the Polaroids on their wall carried her fingerprints that way; eyeliner and gloss pressed into memory, impulsive and regretful three in the morning bangs and dyed hair showing up in every snapshot, uneven and a little too bright.
She’d done Mira’s makeup plenty of times, too, though she usually hated people touching her. Especially her face. But since high school—after sleeping with the same guy who didn’t think they’d talk to each other about it, let alone become friends and gang up on him—Zoey had been one of the rare exceptions. Sometimes, she’d sit perfectly still just to feel the light drag of the brush and the warmth of Zoey’s breath unfurling against her skin—close enough that if she were made of glass, she would fog.
“I feel fucking terrible. Puking always sobers me up, so now I’ve got a morning-after headache at whatever-o-clock it is.” Rumi turned her head to spit into the toilet bowl, Mira loosening the grip on her hair to allow her to move. She stood up and turned to the tiny box of a shower, its low lip better at catching toes than water.
Rumi’s voice cracked, and then steadied with a sharp edge. Steeling herself, putting on a brave front even though Mira wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to, at least not in front of her. “I’m thirsty, but even the thought of swallowing anything right now makes me want to die. I smell so bad I’m not even sure why you’re still here. And I have an eight AM in T-minus one day, so. I feel like whatever all that means.” Then quieter, almost playful: “But hey, Bobby might take one look at me and give me my hangover breakfast for free.”
The showerhead squealed when Mira twisted the knob colder than necessary, the rush of water filling the silence between them. She dipped her hands into the stream, the cold stinging before she wiped them on her skirt. Her palm came away from her skirt sticky, though she held back the way she wanted to scrunch her nose, so Rumi wouldn’t think she was reacting to her.
“Let’s start with a shower and work our way from there, okay?” Mira asked, reaching over to flush the toilet and help Rumi sit down on the seat as the steady stream behind them warmed up. Mira squeezed Rumi’s wrist in assurance, stifling the urge to stroke her arm or worse, cup her cheek. Rumi didn’t need smothering now; too much and it would tip from comfort into control. “I’ll be outside when you’re done.”
The apartment smelled of fresh paint and residual fryer grease from the diner below. The floorboards creaked beneath Mira’s step, the fridge coughed ice in irregular bursts—always at the wrong moment, always too loud for the thin walls.
It was far from glamorous, but it was theirs.
Theirs, like the hundreds of Polaroids spanning the hall, a visual timeline: freshman move-in, late-night food runs, beach trips, Zoey’s first week. Three faces pressed together in every frame, grinning like the camera might forget otherwise. Beside it, a stack of burned mix CDs leaned against the wall, Sharpie labels bleeding into one another: Study Jams, Party!!, Sad Girl Shit. Last semester, Zoey and Rumi had collaged the covers with colored construction paper, magazine clippings, and stickers, glued down so haphazardly that when Mira wanted to listen to one, she had to lift it with the care of a newborn, afraid the whole thing might come apart. Above them, a corkboard sagged with ticket stubs, old emails printed in Comic Sans, and inside jokes scrawled on notebook paper. Somewhere outside, a car stereo pulsed low bass through the street—life moving on, loud and indifferent to the little world they had created inside.
On autopilot, Mira grabbed Rumi a big shirt, comfortable shorts, and underwear, refolding them before setting them outside the bathroom door. Her shoulder brushed the peeling paint of the doorframe, flakes catching on her skin. She also fetched a glass of water, Tylenol from the cabinet, and a granola bar that she wasn’t sure Rumi would touch but figured would be appreciated. She arranged them neatly on Rumi’s bedside table like offerings, quiet proof that someone had been here and was thinking of her. Cared for her.
Beside her bedside lamp, a half-dead plant sagged in its terracotta pot, leaves curled and brittle; Mira turned it toward the window without thinking. Then, she filled a plastic cup with water from the sink and poured it in a circular motion around the base. The cordless landline sat crooked on its cradle, antenna bent, its red missed call light blinking without urgency.
Mira thought of her promise to Aunt Celine. She thought of Rumi’s confessions whispered late at night: a mother gone too soon, a father swallowed by strangers and substances, her own brush with that same gravity. Addiction sat over Rumi like the moon, impossible to ignore.
Mira reached for memories of her own, remembering times before Zoey and Rumi. She paced the narrow room, the uneven floorboards pitching her step, and remembered the beginning of high school, when she counted wood planks under the bleachers in gym class while kissing a boy named Hunter. It was easier to kiss him than explain—to him or herself—why she didn’t want to. She could still hear the acoustic rendition of her once-favorite song in her childhood bedroom played on an untuned guitar, the steady strum of simple chords resonating against her walls in a house where no one ever knocked to see how she was doing.
She pulled herself back. Tonight was crowded enough without her parents and Hunter pressing in on all sides, too.
Besides, even after Rumi knew any of that, she looked at Mira like she had always fit: the missing piece that completed the picture, not an extra piece—a mechanical error destined to be discarded.
Your friends are like stars, Mira had, embarrassingly, whispered into the crown of Rumi’s head late one night, temporarily swallowing her pride and setting aside her aloof facade. It might sometimes feel like we’re far away or too small to compare, but we can still help guide you. Light the way. Shine. All that.
The corner of Rumi’s lips twitched into something close to a smile. And you’re way hotter, huh?
Goes without saying, Mira had quipped back, ignoring the way her heart had ached in her chest.
Last semester, Mira’s chemistry lab had drilled the concept of variables into her head: independent, dependent, control. She had always thought of herself as a control—steady and unshaken. Something all other things could be measured up against. With Rumi, though, she reacted to everything. Dependent. Changed each time Rumi so much as shifted. She hated admitting it, but Mira wasn’t as untouchable as she had always thought.
Rumi was the variable that altered her.
As if just thinking her name summoned her into existence, the bathroom door creaked open and a hand reached through, grabbing the small stack of clothes before retreating into the steamy sanctuary again. Steam drifted out and curled along the hallway’s ceiling, turning the air heavy, the whole apartment holding its breath.
A few minutes later, Rumi pushed through the bathroom door—drooping like a willow with slouched shoulders, loose-hanging braids, and star clips catching the warm glow of the bedside lamp. This time, Mira didn’t ask her how she was feeling emotionally.
She had already run that experiment.
Instead, she let her eyes linger on the way Rumi leaned against her bedroom’s door frame as if the wood itself kept her upright. Mira almost spoke, then shut her mouth again, her words dissolving before they could roll off her tongue.
With a quiet sigh, she crossed the room and steered Rumi toward her bed. The room was the smaller of the two, a concession to having her own, but every nook carried Rumi’s comforting imprint. The sheets still smelled faintly of a candle Zoey had burned earlier, a sweetness clashing with the damp heat from the bathroom. Mira sat her down before letting herself join, leaning back against the headboard and bracketing Rumi’s hips with her legs. One clip, then another, fell to the blanket. They bounced once before disappearing into the mess on the floor—an open textbook, yesterday’s socks, a half-empty bottle of nail polish. A lava lamp on the dresser burped a sluggish bubble, throwing purple light across the clutter. The elastics came free, leaving stiff, sweat-soaked strands beneath Mira’s fingers.
“You’re great, you know that?” Rumi murmured, words hesitant to crawl through the silence between them. “I really appreciate you.”
“I know you do.”
Rumi gave a half-laugh, twisting a fallen hair clip between her fingers. “Careful. If you keep being nice, I might start expecting it. Your whole…what’s her name, the girl from the Matrix?”
“Trinity,” Mira supplied, plucking another clip from Rumi’s hair and smoothing the top of her head in apology after she flinched.
“Ow. Right, Trinity. Your whole, like, Trinity vibe. Bold, badass, dressing cool. The glasses.”
“Glasses?”
“I mean, yours are prescription, and hers are a fashion statement but not the point.” Rumi traced the rivers of her palm with the clip’s edge, thinking. “I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”
Mira made a reassuring noise in agreement.
“I just…don’t deserve this, I guess. Don’t deserve you.”
Mira’s chest tightened. With no brush at hand, she smoothed the tangles between her fingers, working slowly. Reverently. The damp strands clung against her skin, snagging at her nails, but Rumi did not pull away. Neither did Mira, who kept going, careful and deliberate. Each pass of her fingers felt both like a risk and a prayer.
“No one deserves anything, Rumi,” Mira settled on after a moment of thought, her words clipped. Harsher than she intended. Rumi flinched and Mira sighed, allowing her affection to bleed through as she added, “But you’re allowed to have good things. And Zoey and I are here to remind you of that whenever you feel down.”
“It can’t be worth all the effort.”
“It is,” Mira said, swallowing. “You are.”
Rumi didn’t answer, only tipped her head back into Mira’s touch for a breath too long before looking away. Her lips twitched like she wanted to say something, then flattened. The silence felt louder than any joke either of them could make.
When Mira pulled her hands away, she said softly, “Your hair’s done. You’ll probably have to shower again in the morning to wash the frat basement out. I’m going to bed.”
Rumi caught her hand before she could even throw her legs off the side of the bed, golden eyes staring with an unparalleled level of earnestness. “You’re too good to still be single.”
Mira blinked, thrown by the trajectory of this thought. Her hand still burned with the memory of Rumi’s hair, every nerve alive like flames licking up her skin.
And those words, for a moment, set her entirely ablaze.
She wanted—God, did she want—the words to mean what she thought they did. What they could mean. For half of a heartbeat, she believed they were.
Then Rumi’s grin slid in, careless, and all of Mira’s hope was shoved aside. It left Mira raw, like a door slammed too hard, the echo still rattling in her chest. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, holding back everything she’d almost said.
“I’m serious,” Rumi insisted. “You should ask Zoey out. Everyone knows she’s basically in love with you.”
Mira swallowed hard, harder than when she had been close to choking on the scent of vomit. Her voice came out even, though it felt brittle in her throat. “She’s my best friend. And our roommate. That’s not a good idea.”
Zoey had once told Mira that she loved her, the words slipping out like a song fading on the car radio they so often listened to. Mira had folded those words away, afraid to play them back, afraid of breaking what they were.
But with Rumi, there was no song at all—only silence, threaded with want for more. Whether there was potential for either of them to hit play was something Mira had spent countless sleepless nights imagining. The bedside lamp hummed faintly, its dented shade throwing uneven light across Rumi’s cheekbones.
Outside, traffic thinned to the occasional car whispering past, as if the city itself had gone drowsy. Never fully asleep, but temporarily satiated. Sedated. The silence pressed into Mira’s ribs, fragile and enormous, and she feared that giving it voice would scatter Rumi like smoke.
Rumi’s grin wobbled but held, determined. “That’s exactly why you should. Push the beds together. Mega bed. Two fulls would be bigger than even a California King. Call it a Miami Queen!”
Mira tried not to laugh. Tried and failed. “I’ll think about it. You know she’s poly, and that’s not my thing.”
“Exactly. Try something new. Low commitment.”
“But high stakes. It’s one of, like, three sapphic dating no-nos. No long nails. No straight girls. And no best friends.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Rumi had twisted the blanket into knots beneath her fists. Mira broke eye contact first, tipping her head back to exhale deeply and stare up at the ceiling as if it, out of all the popcorn-speckled ceilings in Miami, might hold the answer.
Mira wondered if, in another life, Rumi would be asking her to stay instead of hiding behind a joke. Maybe, in another life, Mira wouldn't hide either.
She almost said it then—I want you—caught in her mouth like a swallowed stone. But the moment passed, smothered by the weight of the silence.
“Goodnight,” Mira offered instead. Like one of their well-loved yet well-worn CDs, her words caught and stuttered, skipping before they landed.
“Goodnight,” Rumi weakly replied, pressing her face into her pillow and pulling her duvet up and over her head.
Mira turned the overhead light off, not letting her finger rest on the switch before pulling the door closed behind her.
However, her fingers did linger on the external brass knob, the cool metal imprinting against her skin.
On this side of the door, the apartment hummed faintly—the morning shift of the diner arriving to open below, the clatter of pans tangled with the tiny chorus of Shania Twain drifting through the cook’s radio. Footsteps thudded overhead from another tenant, another reminder that their world was stacked, lives layered one on top of the other. The bass from that passing car still trembled faintly in the walls, gone before she could catch it. Whole lives where people likely did and said things Mira would never have the courage to do or say.
It was the kind of quiet that came only after too much noise.
She let it press against her chest, a poor cage for her heart. The silence settled with her, not relief but an ache, dizzying, like a breath held too long.
Mira exhaled and let go of the knob, only the darkness witnessing her weakness.
Notes:
this chapter was a labor of love that went through quite a few edits, but we're both really proud with how it ended up <3
obviously we're still building the world, developing characters, and establishing stakes, but we're cooking. promise
kudos & comments are always appreciated (& help at least one of write much faster lmao). until next week!
Chapter Text
Bobby took one look at Rumi—hair dulled to a mauve, eyes rimmed red, sweatpants sagged low—and slid her a mug of coffee without a word.
She gulped three mouthfuls before reaching across Mira for sugar packets.
Zoey recoiled, a perfect picture of horror. “Did you seriously drink that raw?”
Rumi grunted, too sluggish to bother with words, and tore open packet after packet until the liquid looked closer to milk than coffee.
Mira arched a brow, watching as the white crystals vanished into the dark liquid. “This is supposed to be a hangover cure, not a sugar rush on Christmas morning.”
Rumi stirred the once-again overflowing drink, cradling the mug with both hands and sipping with wide, faux innocent eyes. She swallowed, sighed, and lowered the mug to the table as she tilted her head toward Mira. “It’s the day before classes start for real. It basically is Christmas morning.”
“More like Christmas Eve, then,” Zoey muttered.
“If you’re psychotic,” Mira concurred.
Rumi didn’t dignify either with a response, savoring the way the heat smoothed her raw throat with each swallow. She willed herself to focus on the warmth, not the memory of porcelain or the acid still burning faint on her tongue.
From the jukebox in the corner, Ashanti’s “Foolish” bled into Nelly’s “Hot in Here,” the sound warped slightly by the old diner speakers. Rumi let the radio hits drift over her like static: half-comfort, half-irritant. Loud enough to feel alive yet soft enough to ignore.
Bobby returned with waters and coffee for the table. Rumi set her mug down to be refilled as Zoey started chugging her orange juice, letting out a satisfied ah that turned half the diner’s heads. Not that she noticed or cared.
“Thirsty, huh?” Bobby laughed warmly, paternally patting Zoey’s head as she threw her head back to down her cup of water next. Though the three of them were sitting and Bobby was standing, he didn’t loom over them. He was short, somewhere in his mid-thirties, with eyes that always seemed to smile before his mouth caught up. Even as the owner of Soda Pop, he moved through the diner like he was born to it—busser, waiter, host—his cheer carving out space where other, lesser men might take authority.
He was even a good landlord, which Rumi had thought was a myth until she lived above Soda. Now every rent check is like an exchange of trust she didn’t quite deserve. She never knew what to do with kindness—slash it, spend it, or brace for the moment it disappeared.
“Juice me, Bobby!” Zoey demanded, pounding her iced water like she was starting a chant.
“You got it!” Bobby beamed, pulling a notepad and pen out of his back pocket. Not that he needed it. He could juggle six table’s worth of substitutions without blinking, but Rumi thought he liked the ritual of writing things down, the way it kept him grounded. “The usual today, girls? Or are we mixing it up?”
“Rumi needs a capital-H capital-C Hangover Cure,” Mira started, gaze flickering lazily to the menu resting in front of her. She dragged a manicured finger down the page as if she’d already memorized it., “And I’ll take the Green Grove Glow. Extra spinach this time.”
“Hangover Cure and green smoothie with extra spinach, got it. How do you want those eggs, Rooms?”
“Over easy,” Rumi yawned, slumping against Mira’s shoulder. Her throat was sandpaper, but she managed: “Whatever’s easiest for the toast is fine.”
Mira didn’t shrug her off. That steadiness pressed into Rumi more deeply than the coffee, steadier than the food waiting on its way. Part of her wanted to believe it was hers to lean on.
“She’ll do whole-grain toast and brown sugar for the oatmeal. Make sure it’s thick, not watery,” Mira ordered for Rumi smoothly, sliding the menu towards Bobby with the kind of precision that suggested she’d done this before.
Rumi let her. The words should have been hers, but Mira’s voice fit around them like skin over bone, muscles and tendons and joints connecting to keep her going without active thought. It should’ve felt like being managed, but instead, it felt like relief. Like maybe her body wasn’t hers to hold up alone. There was someone in her corner.
“Yum! And for you, Zoey?”
Zoey’s eyes darted over the text like she hadn’t already read it a thousand times, teeth working her bottom lip. “How about the…” she trailed off, each syllable dragged out. “Omelet You Finish? No meat, right?”
“Never for you, Zo-Bo. Just cheese, peppers, mushrooms, and eggs for days.”
“I’ll do that, then. And add a coconut water to the tab.” She tipped her chin toward Rumi with false solemnity. “Our girl’s on death's door, and I’m not dragging a corpse to her eight a.m. tomorrow. A possible zombie outbreak is dangerous, but nothing is worse than skipping a lab.”
Rumi flipped Zoey off as Bobby chuckled. “A coconut water it is. I’ll juice and water y’all up, too,” he said before walking back to the kitchen. From her perch on Mira’s shoulder, Rumi watched as Bobby pushed through and fully disappeared behind the swinging doors. It always amused her that someone so small could bend a room to his will without ever raising his voice.
Maybe it wasn’t all that rare. Maybe her childhood had just given the illusion of softness as a scarcity because her life had been filled with the opposite—command was always volume, violence, threat. Even now, the memory of it made her throat tighten.
From the kitchen came the sharp skid of a tray, glass against tile, and the faint curl of something singed. Rumi’s tongue prickled. Burnt syrup, she told herself. Just syrup. No one cries over spilled syrup.
Wincing, as if she could physically shake the memories out of her skin, Rumi tuned back in to find both Zoey and Mira staring.
“Are you going to be sick?” Zoey asked, her tone careful, like she was tiptoeing across her omelet’s eggshells.
Mira, no less gentle, added, “Just…try not to puke on me. Shoulder privileges will be revoked if you do.”
Rumi mimed an overdramatic gag before giving Zoey a conspiratorial look. “Blehhh.” Her stomach lurched in agreement, but she pasted on the joke anyway. Easier to gag on command than admit she still might be sick, though not from any lingering effects of the previous night.
Zoey snorted as Mira shoved Rumi off, wiping her hands down the front of her cropped Juicy Couture sweatshirt. The black material made the rhinestone logo glitter under the diner’s fluorescents, catching like the bedazzled Nokia cases that the rich girls on campus carried.
“You’re vile. Why I tolerate you, I’ll never know. And you—” She jabbed a finger at Zoey, thin eyebrows knifed into exaggerated severity. “Are a conniving little vixen.”
“Oh, burn!” Rumi cackled, leaning her head back on Mira’s shoulder anyway.
The weight of Mira pressed into her bones, and she wanted to sink into it, hide there, even as she laughed too loud. She pressed in harder than the joke required, testing how much Mira would let her take. Mira’s warmth seeped through the fabric, dangerous in its permission. If physics allowed it, would Mira allow Rumi to bury herself inside?
Mira pushed her off again, “Beat it, buster. You can find another shoulder to cry on.”
“But I like yours. It’s the comfiest,” Rumi pouted with her arms folded, batting her eyelashes benignly.
“Which is weird because they’re all bone,” Zoey grinned. “Like chicken wings.”
“Bock bock,” Mira deadpanned.
That did it—the three of them dissolved into laughter. Zoey drummed the table with her palm while Rumi nearly spilled coffee down her front. Mira’s laugh stayed quieter, tucked into the twitch of her mouth, but it was there, too. Undeniably so. For a moment, the sound loosened something inside Rumi, a knot she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying since the night before. She wanted to snap a photo, trap the happy glow around them like a keepsake she could uncork later. Her disposable camera sat upstairs, so she stored the moment inside herself instead. The laugh wouldn’t last, she knew, but maybe the memory would. If only in the celluloid of her mind.
Bobby arrived not long after they had calmed down with Zoey still wiping tears from her eyes. Soda was packed on this particular Sunday morning, but he’d hustled their plates out anyway. Or, more likely, he’d made them himself.
Tenant privileges, Rumi thought. Running a close second to shoulder privileges.
He laid out Rumi and Zoey’s platters before shuffling back to the kitchen for Mira’s smoothie. Zoey’s omelet was the size of her head, balanced on a sea of golden-brown taters. Before Rumi could blink, Zoey snatched the ketchup and was scribbling zigzags across the entire surface, like an artist smattering their canvas in red paint, before diving in with her fork.
Rumi’s stomach churned at the sight. The smell of vinegar and grease pressed too close to her hangover, threatening to make her gag. She glanced down at her own plate: three trembling overly easy eggs, four triangles of whole-grain toast, and a bowl of oats capped with brown sugar. The palette looked sepia, washed out, like something preserved in amber instead of alive. Just fuel to put in her body, not food she could want. The meal looked borrowed, like it belonged to someone else’s appetite. She needed to eat because Mira and Zoey expected it, not because her body asked her to.
“Should’ve got you a bowl of fruit, too. Wayyy too much brown on your plate,” Mira mused, shifting deeper into the corner. Her knee bent against the booth, arm draped across the top in a pose that looked careless to strangers but folded carefully, origami tight, to give Rumi space. Rumi noticed it more than the food—Mira always making space, even when Rumi felt like she herself was taking up too much.
“Well, if you want some red, I think I left some ketchup for you,” Zoey grinned, swallowing a mouthful before squirting a sputtering puddle of ketchup onto Rumi’s plate. Sheepishly, she slid the bottle back with the other condiments as if embarrassed by the noise. Rumi forced a smirk, though the red blob looked like a wound bleeding across her toast.
Bobby reappeared moments later, handing Mira a mason jar thick with green smoothie and pierced with a hot pink straw. Then he slid a cup of coconut water toward Rumi.
“How is it?” Bobby asked, eyes darting between Zoey’s pillaged plate and Rumi’s untouched one.
“Da bombbb, Bobs!” Zoey exclaimed, mouth full of omelet.
“Don’t encourage her,” Mira muttered. “She’s been saying that since TRL last week.”
Bobby blinked blankly, though his smile never wavered. “I think I’m too old to know what that means.”
“Show on MTV,” Mira said with a wave before taking a polite sip of her drink. She nodded once in approval. “But yeah, this rocks.”
Bobby turned to Rumi, eyes wide like a cartoon baby animal. Wide and expectant.
No one could be so heartless as to say no to that face, so Rumi pierced a yolk, watching its yellow guts spill across the plate. She dragged a corner of toast through the run and bit. Already, the room’s warmth, the bitter-sweet coffee, her friends’ voices had begun to steady her—small, significant anchors keeping her nausea at bay. She chewed slowly, as if she could convince her body it was okay to hold on to something, that it was okay to stay. Every swallow felt like a bargain. Hold steady, she thought. Just hold steady. She chewed deliberately, then gave Bobby a thumbs up with her fork-free hand.
Rumi swallowed and took a sip. “Mhmmm, yes. Perfect. You’ve outdone yourself as always, Bobby.”
“Three for three! Who’s the best chef in the west?” Bobby grinned, meeting Zoey halfway for a fist bump.
The phrase barely registered; Rumi was too focused on keeping the food down, on letting the coconut water wash the edge from her mouth. Like fluoride.
“Okay girls, enjoy the meal! Flag me or Liza down if you need anything. We’ll get your table cleared for you when you’re done so you can get to work.” Then, he was gone again, already coaching a new waitress through the specials.
“We’re on the east coast,” Mira said to the table, placing her smoothie down with a soft click. “Basically the furthest east you can go in the continental U.S..”
“Well, our planet’s a sphere, so technically everything has to be west of something,” Rumi countered, carving into an egg white with the side of her fork. “Zoey?”
Zoey shrugged, stacking mushrooms, pepper, and cheese into a perfect bite. “Breakfast kebab,” she muttered proudly to herself. Then, louder: “I guess he could mean Western culture? Like, Europe over and all that. Don’t think it was that deep, though. He was just in-flow, you know?”
“Poet and he doesn’t even know it,” Rumi intoned, sagely. “Careful, Zo. He might give you a run for your money one day.” The words came easy, they almost always did with her girls, but she felt how thin they were—banter stretched like plastic wrap over something sour beneath.
“Yeah, maybe you could swap lives, so you can be the landlord slash-cook slash-server slash-owner and he’s in the running for a Broadway Oscar,” Mira said between small sips.
Zoey scrunched her nose. “They’re called Tony’s, Mir! I literally make you watch them with me every year, so I know you know what they’re called.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind. Too busy trying to keep Falsettos and Rent straight.”
“Probably because neither of them are.”
Mira smiled into her straw, shaking her head and rolling her eyes subtly. “You would know more than me.”
That made Zoey scoff. “As if. You auditioned every year for the school play.”
Now that caught Rumi’s attention. She slowly turned towards Mira, brows raised in question. It wasn’t just a surprise; it was the chance to see a crack in Mira’s perfect poise, a scrap of history Rumi hadn’t already claimed.
Mira held up her hands defensively. “Lies. Slander. I was on crew. I never auditioned. Needed something to do after school and I definitely wasn’t going to choose something that required running.”
Rumi almost smiled. Mira's denial was too quick, too rehearsed. There was something there, something Mira didn’t want her to see. It sparked a greedy heat in Rumi’s chest, a selfish urge to peel back the skin and poke at the tender space beneath. If Mira cracked, even a little, maybe Rumi wouldn’t feel like the only one fraying at the seams.
Like Rumi, Mira had found a different way to cope. Instead of letting herself fully soften, expose her own jagged edges, she said. “What? Not enough brains for chess club?”
“Oh fuck off and eat your hangover helping, you big grape.”
“Real creative,” Rumi muttered, her tone bone-dry. “Let’s leave it to Eminem next time. He’s got the monopoly on grape rhymes anyway.”
The joke should have landed, but her throat still felt raw. She chewed another bite of toast, hoping the food would do what her friends’ laughter almost had: keep the ache from clawing its way back up. She tore into another bite of toast, chewing slow, like the act itself could pin the ache back down where it belonged.
No one was laughing now, though. Out of the corner of her eye, Rumi caught Zoey sliding Mira a look, quick but weighted. Rumi dropped her gaze to her plate, pretending to not notice. Easier to act stubborn, keep moving, than risk pulling at threads. You never knew which pull would unravel everything.
“Anyway, Zo, what you got for homework? Do you have to become the next Shakespeare by five o’clock?” Rumi asked with a mouth full of food on purpose, feigning carelessness. Mira swatted her arm without looking up, a precise little motion that said cover your mouth, idiot, without needing words.
“Sure,” Zoey replied good-naturedly, accepting the pivot without question. “You know us humanities majors, though. Not set deadlines, more go with the flow. Whenever we feel comfortable submitting our scripts. Did you guys scam your way into being lab partners again?”
Rumi made sure to overexaggerate her swallow before responding, “Oh, of course. It’s the perfect crime. Like Bonnie & Clyde.”
“That’s a bar, can I use that?”
“Go ahead. Though I’m not sure if anyone would be into a rap musical.”
Zoey shrugged, digging a baby blue pen out of her bag to jot the lines down on her slightly-used napkin already crowded with doodles and half-thought lyrics. “You never know. People are into some weirdddd shit.”
“And by people, you mean musical theater nerds,” Mira quipped.
“Something something glass houses and rocks, Mimi.”
Mira straightened, shoulders tensing infinitesimally. Quiet and humorless, she said, “Please don’t call me that, Zo.”
The air curdled between, sharp and sudden, an aromatic toxin seeping into their bubble while the rest of Soda clattered on obliviously. Untouched.
To Rumi, it felt like another shard of Mira surfacing, something she wanted to pocket. Not to expose her like Zoey had, albeit accidentally, but to carry it. A lilting melody with lyrics: let me know you, all of you, so I don’t have to feel so alone in my fractures.
“Of course, Mira. I’m sorry,” Zoey said soothingly.
To Rumi’s right, Mira seemed to have curled up on herself even more, though she nodded to accept the apology. Rumi ached to reach out, but she didn’t want Mira to feel cornered. While an upset Rumi wanted to be smothered in affection, Mira always retreated in on herself. An injured animal holed up in a cave, needing to be coaxed out so its wounds could be tended to.
Not knowing what else to do, Rumi turned to humor. “We don’t have to cure cancer until junior spring, so we’ve got time to fuck around with other diseases.”
“The Ivies are much more rigorous,” Mira added, taking a small sip of her smoothie. Her eyes were vacant, still mostly in that cave, but Rumi would take it.
She smiled brightly, mustering all of her strength into it. “Too bad they already took care of polio and tuberculosis. Would’ve only taken a weekend to get that easy-A.”
Zoey offered a kind laugh before scraping the last bit of food from her plate, letting out a hearty belch before slouching back against the booth with her hands on her stomach. “Fuckkkk, that hit the spot.”
Just about done with hers, Rumi made a soft noise of agreement. After her last bite of toast, she stacked her large plate onto Zoey’s and pushed it towards the end of the table for easy access. She still had her little bowl of oatmeal, but there was more than enough room for her to spread out her textbook and notes for Orgo. Across the table, Zoey pulled out a hefty paperback copy of Macbeth, the black cover and edgy font juxtaposed with the multi-colored sticky-notes peeking through the pages. Inside, Rumi knew Zoey’s extensive notes on stage directions and lighting were supplemented with pink hearts and yellow stars.
The three little witches around a bubbling cauldron Zoey had sketched out and showed them on Friday had made Rumi laugh so hard she cried, still half-tempted to get it tattooed because of how funny she found it.
Maybe she could swing by Gwi-Ma’s to get a quote.
Mira shifted next to her, pulling her black JanSport bag up between them. A barrier but not an impenetrable one. Instead of a mess of colorful notebooks, Mira always carried a binder with stacks of crisp white copy paper clipped neatly at the corners. Every line was written in the same precise ink, the kind of penmanship that made her equations look ornamental. She color-coded her organic chemistry reactions with translucent highlighters—acidic yellows, cool blues, neon pinks—so her pages looked more like blueprints than class notes.
From sitting next to her the past year, Rumi knew it wasn't a performance. Mira was just naturally—if not supernaturally—gifted at making order out of chaos. She opened a sheet of copy paper already half-filled with reaction mechanisms, eyes skimming over balanced chemical equations. Mira mindlessly took another sip of her smoothie, licking her bottom lip as she pulled back.
The page in front of her was already almost as full as her green smoothie.
“Do you not like it?” Rumi asked, not able to help herself.
“What’s that?” Mira said, glancing up from her backpack after pulling out a paper bag-wrapped textbook.
“The smoothie. I’m sure Bobby would make you another one.”
“No, it’s good. Just taking my time with it. Want to try?”
Rumi scrunched her nose, glancing down at the pea green color. “Thanks, but I’m good. That might be wayyy too healthy for me. Probably more vegetables in that than I’ve had in a year.”
Mira laughed, “That’s probably not great, Rumi. Vegetables are good for you.”
“Then why do they taste so gross?”
“Evolutionary defense mechanism?” Zoey pipped. “Taste disgusting, don’t get eaten?”
“Not helping, Zo,” Mira sighed overdramatically, gaze flickering between her textbook and her notebook to start copying reactions. “I didn’t think I’d have to be a mother at 19, but here I am.”
Rumi laughed, nudging her forehead against Mira’s shoulder playfully even as guilt coiled hot and tight in her stomach. The echo of last night pressed against her ribs like a bruise: burden, burden, you’re a burden, it whispered, a cacophonous refrain set to the wrong melody.
The little chime of the door opening—normally so soft and inconsequential that it would never be worth turning heads over—caught Rumi’s ear. Something in her prickled, a sense before sight. With her back to most of the restaurant, Rumi couldn’t even see who walked in until they were being guided towards a table in the back. A table that just happened to be right next to their booth.
A group of five well-dressed boys slid into the seats, sharp with cologne and pressed collars, their voices pitched just high enough to announce themselves. One with light pink hair even chivalrously pulled out the chair for the one with purple bangs that fell over his eyes. Maybe they were a couple?
But then one of the guys, muscles damn near bursting out of his too-small button up, caught Rumi’s gaze. He raised a brow, a small smirk on his lips before his eyes flickered to something over Rumi’s shoulder. The arrogance drained from his face as if someone had cut the current.
“Oh fuck,” Mira breathed, pencil tip snapping clean in her hand.
Rumi glanced back questioningly, seeing the way Mira’s stony expression fully drained of color before her cheeks flushed a pink that rivaled her hair’s hue, too raw to be a blush. When Rumi turned back to the table, five pairs of eyes were already fixed on the three of them.
And among them, one pair of eyes she knew like a scar. The sight cut through her like a lightning strike—white-hot and merciless. It left her insides sparking with the aftershock.
“Fuck,” Rumi echoed under her breath as she locked eyes with Jinu. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Notes:
we're still sowing the seeds, here! promise things will get more exciting soon!
also a warm welcome to my fellow writer who finally made an ao3 account. you really love to see it
chapter 4 is being edited now, so we'll see y'all next week :)
-MW
Chapter 4: My Little Soda Pop
Summary:
Soda Pop encounter, continued.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mira heard them before she saw them.
The door chime rang bright and careless, but the shift in the diner's atmosphere was immediate. Laughter rolled through the space, not loud but magnetic. The kind that made heads turn without meaning to.
She didn't look up right away. Her pen hovered over a half-finished reaction mechanism, the arrow curling back in on itself. Her stomach cramped, empty and tight, but she pushed through the sensation. Focus. Control. The same mantra that had gotten her through the morning.
The smoothie sat sweating in front of her, barely touched. She'd ordered it an hour ago, forced herself to take three sips before her throat closed up. Now the ice had melted into pale green water, bile green. Hangover green. The exact shade of what Mira watched spiral down the toilet Saturday night while she fisted Rumi’s hair back, one hand steady at the nape of her neck. Rumi had looked at her afterward—bright eyes shadowed by smudged mascara and shirt three sizes too big as she sprawled across her bed—and said it so causally, like it didn’t mean anything, like Mira’s relationships meant nothing to her, You should ask Zoey out.
But her hands trembled when she tried to write, and the fluorescent lights felt too bright, pressing down like a weight.
"You okay?" Rumi asked, glancing up from her textbook.
Mira nodded quickly. I’m fine. "Just tired."
Across the booth, Zoey hummed along to the jukebox, annotating her copy of Macbeth with a pink pen. She'd already demolished her omelet and was working on a third glass of orange juice, completely unbothered.
Rumi's oatmeal sat mostly untouched, the brown sugar melted into a glassy shell. She'd been picking at it for twenty minutes, pushing spoonfuls around without eating. The core of her hangover breakfast—eggs and toast—had disappeared fast, but she couldn't seem to finish the oatmeal.
Mira knew that pattern. The mechanical eating, disinterested bites that tasted like nothing but trying anyway. The way it almost hurt to swallow after a while. Shards of glass scraping down the length of your esophagus.
She'd done it herself more times than she could count.
"You gonna finish that?" Mira asked, gesturing to the bowl.
Rumi shrugged. "Too sweet. Want it?"
"I'm good."
They both knew Mira wasn't going to eat it either.
The diner hummed around them: the sizzle of the griddle, Bobby's easy laughter from behind the counter, the clatter of dishes being bussed. Soda Pop on a Sunday morning was always busy, but even with all its demanding patrons, it still felt as if it belonged to them. The booth by the window in the back; a different order every week—their “usual” nothing more than a randomizer to slowly work their way through the entire menu; and the unspoken agreement that this was where they came to feel like everything was still manageable. To ignore the pressing problems in favor of the smaller ones, or dish out the bigger threats together as a trio.
Mira pressed her palm flat against the table, grounding herself. The Formica was cool and slightly sticky. Her vision swam for just a second—a brief tilt—but she blinked it away.
You're fine. Just low blood sugar. You'll eat later.
Then, she heard it: Bobby’s voice rising above the diner’s noise, warm and welcoming. “Morning, boys! What can I get ya?”
Mira's gaze drifted toward the counter. Five distinctive figures were claiming stools there, settling in like they had been personally invited.
Their clothes were sharp but not overdone—the kind of effortless style that suggested they hadn't tried, even though each piece had likely been meticulously curated. Colors cross-checked with the rest of the group to make sure they wouldn’t clash, maintaining their image as a cohesive unit. A singular beast.
They moved through the diner with easy confidence, and the room made space without being asked.
Mira's pen stopped mid-stroke.
She knew their names the way everyone on campus did. Whispered in bathrooms, stitched into party flyers, and passed around like secrets people wanted to be in on. The rumor mill in higher ed wasn’t all that different from high school. At least not with boys like them.
The Saja boys.
Jinu sat at the center of the line up, tattoos spiraling up his forearms in black ink that caught the light. Beside him: Romance, pink hair catching the fluorescents, one hand against Abby’s back as Abby leaned against the counter—an act of possession masquerading as boyish joviality. Abby’s rings flashed as he gestured to Bobby, ordering for the group. More confidence than commandeering, though Mira knew how badly most women wanted him to boss them around.
Frankly, Mira doubted he was capable of it. Last night, Abby had gone up to her on the dance floor after Zoey had scampered off with her friends, and Rumi had been engulfed by the crowd. His flirting had seemed surface level—a brush against her shoulder, a wink, and an offer to get out of there without much intent behind it. With the way he was leaning into his friend’s touch, Mira couldn’t help but wonder if she had just been a pawn in someone else’s foreplay game.
Abby leaned forward to whisper in Romance’s ear, his too-tight shirt rode up, revealing ink that traced his lower back with dark, intricate linework that wrapped around his sides and disappeared beneath his waistband, following the cut of his hip bones down his v-line. Not quite a tramp stamp but close enough.
Baby perched on the end stool with a lollipop balanced between his teeth, and Mystery sat on Jinu’s other side, periwinkle hair falling over his eyes as he palmed a coin between his knuckles.
Bobby nodded at their orders—coffees all around nothing else—and appeared to suggest something, gesturing toward an empty booth on the opposite side of the diner from the girls.
Romance glanced over in that direction, then his eyes swept the room and landed on the girls’ booth. He smiled.
"Actually," Romance said, loud enough to carry, "mind if we grab that one?" He pointed to the table directly next to theirs, half booth and half chairs. His finger might as well have been a gun.
Bobby shrugged. "Sure thing."
They settled in with practiced choreography. Romance slid in first, and Abby followed without hesitation, the edges of their thighs pressing together in the booth's narrow space. Jinu took the outside seat, close enough that when Abby shifted, his knee knocked against Jinu's in a way that looked—at least to Mira—deliberate. Mystery and Baby took the two chairs that put their backs to the girls, Baby's mint-green hair bright against Mystery's periwinkle as they leaned close over something on Mystery's phone.
Their proximity was casual in a way Mira recognized, the easy touching of people who’d learned each other’s bodies. Familiar and without hesitation. Family, or an approximation of it.
The girls’ booth smelled like the Saja boys’ cologne now—something warm and expensive, like amber and smoke. The scent made Mira’s empty stomach twist. She pressed her palm harder against the table, but the Formica felt too slick now, like she couldn’t quite grip it.
For a moment, no one said anything. The boys talked among themselves, voices low and punctuated by laughter.
Then Romance Chen turned, leaning over the back of his booth with that same easy smile. "Mira Kotadoski. Damn, it's been a minute."
Mira's stomach dropped, but she kept her face neutral. "Romeo."
If he had been any other person, if this had been any other scenario, Mira probably would’ve burst out laughing. Romeo, Romeo, why won’t you leave me the fuck alone, Romeo?
His actual name was Romance but he'd rechristened himself Romeo after reading the play in English class. Thought it was clever. Romantic.
He'd introduced himself that way ever since, and enough people had played along that it stuck. Probably because it was less egregious, against all odds.
Mira had found it almost charming once, back when she was freshly eighteen—a woman, now—and trying to figure herself out. With his new name and Casanova swagger, he played the part of self-actualization. A model for what Mira, and everyone in his orbit, could one day achieve.
So she’d let him kiss her at a party, let him walk her to his car, and let him drive them to some empty parking lot where commuters park during freshman orientation week because she needed to know if he actually held the secret to Mira’s world.
The sex had been fine. He’d been considerate, even sweet. Gentle in his caricature of love, careful with the gearshift digging into hip, apologetic about the cramped space. And she’d laid there afterward in the fogged up backseat, waiting for something—desire, connection, or the spark everyone always talked about from their first time—and felt nothing. Just the absence of want, clear and certain as glass. Not bi. Not confused. Lesbian.
For her, it had been an answer. For him, it had been just another Tuesday.
He still didn't seem to understand why she'd pulled away after. Kept asking if he'd done something wrong, if they could try again, if she wanted to "talk about it." She'd told him she wasn't interested in guys. He'd said "cool, no worries," but his eyes said he thought she just needed more time. More proof. More of him.
Like he wasn’t more than capable of finding another girl to be his Juliet. Or Julian.
"Is he really still going by that?" Zoey muttered under her breath, pulling Mira back to the present.
Romeo's grin widened, somehow hearing her over the loud, baseline hum of chattering around them. The hustle and bustle that made Soda really pop. "Can’t afford to rebrand again, you know how the market is." He shifted his attention fully to Mira, and there was something disarming about it. "How've you been? Sophomore year treating you right?"
"Fine," Mira said carefully. No need for embellishments or details; Romeo would weave his own tapestry of the story of her life without needing any of her input.
"Good. That's good." He paused, and for a second, something almost vulnerable crossed his face. "Look, I know things were weird between us after…you know…I just want you to know there's no hard feelings on my end. All good, right?"
It should've felt manipulative. Maybe it was. But the way he said it—casual yet sincere—made it hard to hold onto her anger. Like maybe she'd been making it a bigger deal than it was.
Always overdramatic or emotionless, Mira. Never normal about anything ever.
"Yeah," she heard herself say. "All good."
Rumi's hand found hers under the table, squeezing once. A warning or reassurance, Mira couldn't tell.
Because he never knew when to quit, he winked and intoned, “Mira, Mira, on the wall, you’re still the fairest of them all. And probably the smartest, too.”
“Easy there, Cupid Shuffle,” Abby said, nudging him with his shoulder. “She could make you prick your finger and fall asleep for a hundred years. And I’m not going to be the brave knight who kisses you better.”
“You mixed up your movies, Flabs,” Romeo parried. “And I can be my own prince, thanks. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“I still can’t believe you’re flexible enough to kiss your own ass.”
“Still working on trying to bend the other way, but in the meantime I’ll let you give me a hand if you ask nicely.”
“Have not saints’ lips, and holy palmers too?” Mystery mused.
Zoey had gone quiet, her pink pen hovering over Macbeth’s margin. Her gaze was fixed on the yellowed pages of her beat-up copy, intently keeping her eyes off the boys. A strange expression twitched across her face, not something Mira had ever seen from her friend before. Not suspicious or reserved the way she herself felt, but hopeful like Rumi.
Pink cheeks, slightly tense shoulders…was she interested?
Jinu had turned now, too, his gaze landing on Rumi with that same quiet intensity from last night. Abby’s hand rested on Jinu’s forearm, fingers tracing the edge of one tattoo absently. Jinu either didn’t notice or didn't mind.
"Hey," he said. "Didn't think I'd run into you again so soon."
Rumi's shoulders tensed, but she didn't look away. "Miami's a small campus."
"True." He drummed his fingers once against the table, a nervous habit that made him seem more human. "I, uh—I wanted to apologize, actually. For disappearing like that the other night. That was rude."
Rumi blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Oh, I mean, it's fine. You don't owe me–"
"No, I do." His voice softened. "That conversation we had meant something to me. Felt real, you know? Like I'd known you forever. And then I just bailed as soon as I knew you were with someone you knew and safe. That wasn't cool."
The sincerity in his tone was disarming. Mira watched Rumi's guard start to crack, just slightly.
"It really is okay," Rumi said, quieter now.
"Good." Jinu's smile widened. "Because I'd hate to think I messed up my shot at being friends with the coolest person at this diner."
Romeo had the gall to look offended.
Rumi laughed—actually laughed—and Mira felt her own heart skip a beat in warning. The room listed slightly. Mira blinked hard, trying to focus.
Her attention snagged on Mystery—nicknamed for his reserved aura and long bangs that curtained his eyes. A small flip of her hair had caught Zoey’s attention, purposeful yet so damn subtle. Coin still dancing between his knuckles, he said, "That's Macbeth, right?"
Zoey glanced up, guarded. "Uh, yeah."
"Tragedy's underrated." He made the coin vanish, then reappear. A party trick, or a street magician working for tips. "Everyone thinks comedy's harder to write but tragedy? That's where you really have to dig. Find the truth in the collapse."
Zoey's eyes lit up despite herself. "Exactly! That's what I've been trying to tell my professor. Like, comedy can hide behind timing, but tragedy–"
"–has nowhere to run," Mystery finished. "We all have to face it head on one way or another." He shook the bangs out of his eyes again before tilting his head to study her with genuine interest. "You write, don't you? Original stuff, I mean. Not just analysis."
Zoey flushed. "How did you–"
"You've got that look. Like you're always watching, cataloging. Turning life into scenes." He smiled, understanding. "I do the same thing. It's exhausting, right? Never being able to just be without narrating it. Allow yourself to be in the moment instead of watching from the corner of the room as you filter the world into prose."
Zoey's breath caught. "Yeah. God, yeah."
Mira's head was swimming now, and not just from the lack of food. The boys were good. Too good. They knew exactly what to say—how to mirror vulnerability and make themselves feel like kindred spirits instead of strangers.
She didn’t know why she found it so unnerving, but she did. Something in the air around them was too sweet, like honey masking the scent of poison beneath. Candy bars with razors nestled into the chocolate core.
Baby spoke for the first time, pulling his lollipop free with a wet pop. "Anyone want one?" He held up a handful of Dum Dums, bright and childish. "Got a whole stash."
Mystery plucked one without looking, unwrapping it with one hand while the coin continued its loop across his other knuckles. He popped it in his mouth and let it rest between his teeth and cheek. A swollen, suggestive lump that was almost cliche but caught the attention of quite a few on-lookers. Baby himself raised his brows as Mystery swallowed around the lollipop, watching with something between amusement and interest.
It was such a normal, silly gesture that Zoey actually reached out across the aisle for one before Mira could stop her.
"Thanks," Zoey said, unwrapping it. She plopped it into her mouth before folding the baby blue wrapper into a small square that burst open like an accordion once she set it down on the table.
Abby leaned forward then, rings catching the light as he rested his elbows on the table. His shoulder pressed into Romeo's, and Romeo's hand came up automatically, fingers curling around the back of Abby's neck like he'd done it a thousand times. Rustling his hair to make the gesture seem more platonic. "So what're you all studying? Please tell me it's not all pre-med. I need to know there's hope for the humanities."
"Theater major, creative writing minor," Zoey said immediately.
Then, from Rumi: "Biology."
All eyes turned to Mira, which was stupid because they all already knew. Abby had already alluded as much when he had said not all pre-med. Though that dream had disappeared as quickly as it had come. Placatingly, she mumbled a disinterested, “Chemistry, Korean minor.”
She didn’t bother asking all of their majors. Didn’t care enough to keep them all straight.
Abby whistled low. "Probably at least some overlapping pre-reqs between the two of you, huh? Are you lab partners?"
"Yeah, we are. Every semester," Rumi confirmed.
"That's cute." And he said it without irony, like he actually thought it was. "You two seem close."
Not you three. You two.
Mira's hands were still shaking, but now she wasn't sure if it was from her growing, demanding hunger or the way this conversation felt too easy. Too natural. Like slipping into warm water and realizing too late that you'd waded in far deeper than you thought.
Romeo flagged Bobby down for refills, chatting easily about the menu and complimenting the coffee. When Bobby left, Romeo turned back to the girls’ booth with that same warm smile.
"You know, we're throwing a thing next weekend. Nothing crazy, just some people and good music. You should come." He said it to all of them, but his eyes lingered on Mira. "No pressure. Just thought it might be fun."
"We'll think about it," Mira said automatically. No room for argument.
"Cool." Romeo's smile didn't waver. "Well, we should let you get back to studying. Just wanted to say hi." He started to turn, then paused. "Oh, Mira? For real, no weirdness. I'm glad you figured your stuff out. You seem happy."
And the worst part was, he sounded like he meant it, too. Bastard.
The boys gathered their things, dropping cash on the table for Bobby. As they stood, Mira caught it—just for a second.
They all turned their heads at once. Synchronized. Mechanical.
The jukebox skipped. Mira felt herself falling into a distorted shadow of Soda, another world. The space around the boys’ glowed ultra-violet purple, flickering like a flame though it was brighter than the sun. Energy flowed around them, like they were siphoning the restaurants’ laughter and chatter. Jinu’s tattoos flared, seeming to run deeper than just the epidermis. Past muscle and bone, straight to his soul.
Then, there were their eyes.
For a flash, they caught the light wrong, like a disposable camera’s flash in strange lighting. For a moment, they were red as blood.
The song restarted and the shadows and flames receded, making way for five, normal (albeit above-average looking) boys.
Then they were moving again, human once again, and Mira thought maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe the dizziness was worse than she'd thought. Maybe it had been longer than she thought since the last time she ate.
Jinu paused by their booth, and this time he didn't lean in. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at Rumi with something almost tender. Earnest.
"Hey," he said softly. "Not sure if you’ll have time with all of your biology classes, but can I get your number? Or AOL email? Just so if you ever want to talk or, I don’t know…need someone to talk to in an alley outside a party?” Jinu winced, nose twitching like a bunny. “That sounds really creepy and stalker-y, I just mean like…yeah, you know?”
He pulled out a napkin, digits and email already written on it in neat handwriting, and set it on the table. His smile wavered into something like a pained grimace as he watched Rumi expectantly. Hopefully.
Rumi stared at it for a long moment before taking it.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
Jinu smiled genuine and warm, and Abby's hand found the small of his back as they turned toward the door.
Mystery left last, setting something on top of Zoey's Macbeth as he passed. A Pepsi Blue bottle cap, old and worn. Baby waited by the exit, lollipop stick between his teeth.
"Found that the other day," Mystery said. "Think you might appreciate the vintage vibes. Keep it. For luck. Or to save up your Pepsi Points for that jet carrier."
Romeo held the door open, his other arm draped across Baby’s shoulders. The five of them moved together like a single organism—fluid, practiced, impossible to separate into individual parts.
The chime rang bright and ordinary, and the diner settled back into its normal rhythm.
Bobby appeared at their table almost immediately, clearing the boys' mugs. Over his shoulder to the girls, he said, "Nice kids. Always tip well."
When he left, the three of them sat in a stunned silence.
The napkin sat on the table. The bottle cap gleamed on the book. Mira had nothing but the brand of Romeo’s eyes on her to remember them by.
"That was…" Zoey started, then trailed off.
"Weird as hell," Rumi finished.
Mira's hands were still shaking. She gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady herself, but the room tilted again, worse this time.
"Mira—" Rumi's voice sounded far away.
"I'm fine," she tried to say, but the words came out wrong.
Then Rumi's arms were around her, steadying her, and Mira realized she'd been about to slide down the booth and under the table.
"You're not fine," Rumi said firmly. "When's the last time you actually ate something?"
Mira couldn't answer. Her vision was graying at the edges. Soda had turned into a post-apocalyptic wasteland, tinged with ashy fallout.
Zoey was already flagging Bobby down, her voice urgent. "Can we get some orange juice? And toast?"
When Mira's vision cleared, she found both her friends staring at her with identical expressions of worry.
"Their eyes," Mira whispered. "Did you see–"
"I don't know," Rumi said. Not purposefully dismissive, but too stressed to entertain Mira. Her hands were shaking too as she pushed the juice Bobby had brought toward Mira. "Drink."
Mira drank. The sugar hit her system, and slowly, the world steadied. Toed away from the edge.
But the napkin remained. And the bottle cap. And the feeling that something had just shifted, irrevocably. Something that would not easily be undone.
"They seemed nice," Zoey said quietly. Almost like she was trying to convince herself.
"Yeah," Rumi agreed, but her fingers were white-knuckled around her coffee mug.
Mira looked at the napkin. At the careful handwriting.
"Too nice," Mira said.
And she knew—even if she couldn't prove it, even if they'd just been charming and normal and kind—that the boys had left something behind that was far more dangerous than a threat.
They'd left hope.
The possibility that maybe, just maybe, this could be something good.
And that's what would make it impossible to walk away.
Rumi was already unfolding the napkin, tracing the numbers with her thumb like they might disappear if she wasn’t careful.
Notes:
this chapter was pretty fun to work on! the first draft had them being absolute clowns, but we ended up with this "soft boys" earnestness instead. the goofs will probably come later as we spend more time with the guys in a group.
comments & kudos appreciated but never mandatory! chapter 5 should be up on time next sunday!
- MW
Chapter 5: It's So Obvious
Summary:
A few days later in the lab.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rumi arrived at the lab fifteen minutes early.
Aunt Celine always told her that early was on time, on time was late, and late was forgotten (or in trouble), and she definitely did not want to be left behind.
Not that she was particularly eager for her and Mira’s cell lab—bench work had never been her idea of a good time—but she needed something with clear instructions. Something meticulously detailed enough for her to not have to think at all.
Sunday had been four days ago, but it was still breathing hot and heavy against the back of her neck. The napkin still sat in her backpack, waiting.
She pulled it out now, as she had many times before during the week, and smoothed it flat on the black lab bench. The paper had gone soft from being folded and unfolded too many times, the ink slightly smudged from the oils on her fingertips mindlessly tracing over every character.
His handwriting was neat and artistic but restrained. Jinu had the kind of handwriting that suggested he’d thought about what he was writing, not just scribbled it down haphazardly. More like Mira than Zoey, or Rumi herself for that matter.
305-269-7252
Four days. Four days of carrying it around like a question she didn’t know how to answer. Or if she even should.
Rumi twisted her mood ring on her right hand, the gem currently a murky greenish brown. She had tossed the color-to-mood guide in a drawer somewhere, but Rumi would bet her savings it meant some variation of “anxious” or “unsettled.”
Yeah, pretty accurate, she thought.
Rumi wiggled the mouse at her bench to wake the computer up. It was one of those new, tangerine-colored iMacs, looking transported from the future. She logged into her AOL account and typed out a message.
Subject: (no subject)
hey its rumi
Stared at it.
Deleted it.
She tried again: hi this is rumi from the party
What was she even supposed to say? Hey, I know we smoked together, and you said some weirdly accurate things about my life after spending less than five minutes with me, and then your eyes randomly flashed red like you’re the devil disguised as a cute boy, but you seem nice, so wanna hang out?
Rumi was still staring at the new message screen when the lab door swung open.
Mira walked in with her black JanSport slung over one shoulder. She had her hair pulled into a high ponytail that made her cheekbones look even sharper. The humidity had already gotten the flyaways around her face, little wisps that haloed at her temples despite the building’s AC fighting a losing battle against the Miami heat.
Like the basketball team, Rumi thought stupidly, face flushing.
Mira wore a cropped white t-shirt and baggy jeans that sat low on her hips—so low Rumi could see the thin slip of her pink G-string peeking out, the kind everyone wore now like it was supposed to be visible. A bedazzled belt was fitted through her belt loop—purely ornamental, just an accessory to catch eyes and draw attention up her lean, toned torso. Her wireframe glasses slid down her nose, thin rectangles that turned a smart girl into something else entirely. Resting on her collarbones, a silver chain with Mira’s name in cursive script reflected almost copper in the old fluorescent light. A kind of look that was as effortless as breathing, at least on Mira.
Their eyes met.
Fuck it. Rumi quickly hit send and exited out of her email tab. She then shoved the napkin into her pocket so fast she almost knocked over the beaker rack and fell off the bench herself, just managing to keep herself upright by pinwheeling her arms like a Sunday morning cartoon character.
Rumi became increasingly aware of her own outfit: olive green cargo pants that were maybe a size too big (and stolen from Zoey’s clean laundry basket), held up by a purple shoe-string she DIYed into a belt, and a fitted black baby tee that said WHATEVER in silver glitter across her chest. Her chunky white sneakers were already visibly-scuffed from walking across campus, and just peaking out from the hem of her pants were her mis-matched socks.
A careless energy to Mira’s controlled curation. Forever 21 to Paris Fashion Week. But seeing Mira in all her glory never made Rumi feel embarrassed or green with envy. She was just happy to get a front row seat to her friend’s personal runway, whether that was their lab or the dining hall.
“Hey,” Mira said, dropping her bag onto the bench. The keychain attached to it (a glittery pink disco ball that could make an unsuspecting onlooker go blind) swung and clattered against the bench.
“Hey.” Rumi dug into her backpack, looking for their shared composition notebook for Mira to take notes. She opened to a fresh page with a decisive crack. “Ready to murder some vegetables?”
Mira’s mouth twitched. Rumi had almost won a smile.
“It’s for science,” Mira quibbed.
“Tell that to the collard greens. I was helping them write their wills before you and the rest of the executioners got here. Some of them don’t even have anyone to inherit their assets, Mir. It’s quite sad,” Rumi said while miming wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
Mira just raised a brow, silently asking if Rumi was quite done.
They fell into their usual rhythm without needing to discuss much as the rest of their section filtered in and took their own seats.
Rumi pulled on latex gloves and started weighing out green, leafy vegetables, while Mira pipetted the cold CIB buffer with a precision that bordered on obsession. Every measurement was checked twice. Every pipette tip examined for defects before use. And double-checked, though Rumi herself knew that Mira always got it right the first time.
This was what they were good at—working together without needing to fill the silence with mindless chatter. Rumi did the physical work—the grinding, the filtering, the hands-on stuff that felt more like baking than science. She let Mira handle the numbers and the calculations—the parts that required thinking three steps ahead.
“Midrib,” Mira said, not looking up from their notebook.
“On it.” Rumi grabbed kitchen shears that they’d stolen from the dining hall freshman year and started cutting. The thick white spine of each leaf fell away in strips. “You know, if we’d just gone to culinary school, we could’ve been making actual food right now with Bobby instead of…whatever this green mush is.”
“Chloroplast isolation.”
“I know what it’s called, but it’s still weird.” Rumi dumped the de-spined leaves into the mortar. “We’re basically just making an inedible green smoothie. Which is the worst kind. Though most green smoothies look pretty inedible to me.”
“It’s not a smoothie.”
“It’s leaves and liquid in a blender. That’s, like, the definition of a smoothie.”
“We’re using a mortar and pestle.”
“A manual blender. Like our culinary ancestors.”
Mira pressed her lips together, but Rumi caught the corner of her mouth lifting again. Another small almost-victory. Adding them together probably even counted for a full one.
“Hunters, gatherers, and blenders, huh?” Mira mused indulgently, pen twirling between her pointer and forefinger. She had just finished sketching the tables to put their calculations in with lines sharper than death.
“Exactlyyyyy. But then we discovered the wheel and fire and whatever, so the art of the Blend was temporarily lost in time,” Rumi said distractedly while she poured the buffer over the greens and started grinding.
The pestle made a satisfying scraping sound against the ceramic, the leaves breaking down into a thick, dark paste. Her shoulders burned after a minute, but she kept going. Muscle memory from her short-lived gym phase last year urged her to push past the ache, reminding her of a time when she thought she could outrun her own thoughts if she just got a little faster. A little stronger.
Mira stood beside her, close enough that Rumi could smell her shampoo—something clean and faintly tropical. Probably the coconut shampoo in their shared shower, Mira always dutiful in her double shampoo washes every other day while Rumi was liable to let her own hair get so greasy that her purple roots almost looked navy blue.
Her long hair fell straight down her back like a heavy thunder storm, the tips brushing against her lower forearm. Mira’s hand rested on the edge on the bench, fingers tracing the cracked epoxy.
Her nails were painted pale pink with tiny rhinestones on her ring finger. The girls had gotten their nails painted together at a strip mall for fifteen dollars each—a small indulgence but a celebration for a new year together—and the smell of the acrylic had made their eyes water. Rumi looked down at her own nails that were periwinkle with a hand-painted Rose of Sharon on her middle fingers.
It’s so when I flip you off, you smile, Rumi said to a giggling Zoey.
“You’re quiet today,” Rumi said after a moment, still grinding her greens with the mortar and pestle. “Nothing to add to the history of blenders?”
“I’m always quiet,” she replied mindlessly, gently steering the conversation away from Rumi’s tangential point. Fair enough.
“You’re just…extra quiet. Like a librarian-at-a-funeral quiet. Or an undertaker-at-a-library quiet. Or a Mira-at-a-library-funeral quiet.”
Mira’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I am.”
“Sure.” Rumi dumped more buffer into the mortar, watching the liquid turn murky green. It matched her mood ring, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the chloroplast isolation was anxious or unsettled, too. “So to recap: you’re fine, I’m fine, and Zoey’s fine. We’re all just super fine and definitely not avoiding talking about Sunday. Do I have that all right?”
Mira’s tracing stopped. That had finally gotten her attention.
The past few days of not-talking enough hung in the air between them like a suffocating fog.
After taking a breath, Mira said calmly, “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Right. Because a bunch of guys showing up at our booth and acting like they’ve known us forever is totally normal.”
“They were just being friendly.”
“Friendly,” Rumi laughed, sharp and brittle. “Mira, that dude knew things about me I haven’t told anyone except you and Zoey. That’s not friendly, that’s–”
“Rumi.” Mira’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper, her hand settling on Rumi’s forearm—partly to steady her, partly to stop her. A girl two benches over glanced their way. “Can we just…do the lab? Please?”
The plea was soft. Almost apologetic. But her grip on Rumi’s arm was firm.
Later. We’ll talk later. Just not here, Rumi thought.
The first centrifugation took three minutes. It could’ve been hours.
They stood side by side in front of the machine, watching it spin through the small window. The tubes blurred further into a greenish smear, the hum of the motor filling the space between them.
Rumi tried to think of something to say. Something that would crack the tension, make Mira laugh, and just pull them back into normalcy—even if it was just a mimicry of it. But her mind kept circling back to the napkin in her pocket. To Jinu and the way his eyes looked in the light, the way his mouth formed around smoke. The way he smiled awkwardly at Soda when he asked for her number (and then proceeded to give her his instead) and the way he shared platonic touches with his friends without the fear of being perceived as gay or weak the way other boys their age did.
The timer beeped.
Mira carefully removed the tubes, pipetted off the supernatant into a clean tube. Her hands were so steady. Rumi watched the way her fingers curled around the pipette and the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrated.
She’s beautiful, Rumi thought. Like a Victoria Secret Angel.
“Second spin,” Mira said. “Seven minutes.”
Rumi loaded the tubes evenly into the centrifuge. “You ever think about how weird it is that we’re in college learning to destroy plants? I really thought going to college would help me learn how to save the world. Not destroy it faster.”
Mira rolled her eyes. “We’re not evil, anti-global warming scientists trying to weaken the ozone. We’re isolating organelles.”
“We’re blending them into goo and spinning them really fast. That’s destruction, even if it's on a small scale. And we are destroying something.”
“It’s differential centrifugation."
“You can dress it up however you want, but those collard greens are dead, and we killed them. We’re monsters.”
Mira’s eyes sparkled with humor. “No, you’re impossible.”
“It’s part of my charm,” Rumi shrugged.
The machine started up again, louder this time. Seven minutes stretched out like an hour. So much of science was waiting, Rumi had learned in her first year of college, and she was nothing if not impatient.
Rumi leaned against the bench, letting her shoulders press against Mira’s. Just barely. Just enough to feel the warmth of her through both of their shirts.
Mira didn’t pull away. She didn’t lean in, but she didn’t pull away, and that was enough.
“I’ve been thinking about my dad,” Rumi said quietly.
She hadn’t meant to say it. Truthfully, she hadn’t planned on saying anything. But the words came out impulsively, tugged to the front of her mouth to counteract the weight of Mira’s silence.
Mira always made space for Rumi’s confessions. The ones whispered in the infinite stretch between three a.m. and dawn. The ones said too casually on their walk to their eight a.m. classes, as if the brightness outside could bleach the darkness out of Rumi. Mira listened without judgement, always holding Rumi’s secrets like they were feathers rather than iron balls.
But Mira never reciprocated, never talked about what bothered her or what she was going through. Rumi had never even seen her cry even though she herself had had a breakdown the second day they lived in the dorm together. Mira had known how to soothe her, wrapping her up in blankets—even though it had hit over one hundred degrees in their small, air-conditioned-less dorm—and bringing her a bowl of pasta from the dining hall so she wouldn’t have to leave the safety of her room.
She had done all that and more but never told Rumi that she had been a theater kid, even if begrudgingly. She had never told her how she knew the infamous Saja Boys by name. What else was she letting remain buried beneath when Rumi wanted nothing except to be a safe for Mira to keep her own secrets in. An even exchange.
Rumi used to think that Mira’s silent suffering meant Mira didn’t trust her, that she was a terrible friend who only ever took and took and never gave back. Slowly, she was starting to understand: Mira barely made space to feel things herself, let alone name them.
“Yeah?” Mira’s voice was careful. Tiptoeing through this new minefield.
“Yeah…I don’t know. It’s stupid.” Rumi picked at the edge of her glove. They were too big for her short, slim fingers, making her look like Bugs Bunny or something off of Boomerang. “I keep thinking about this thing he used to say. About the best high is the one you earn, not the one you buy. Like, working for something actually makes you appreciate it more.”
“That’s not stupid,” Mira reassured.
“He was high when he said it, so…context.”
“Still not stupid.”
Rumi laughed, but it came out wrong. Too sharp, too forced. “I almost called my sponsor Tuesday night. I got as far as dialing her number before I hung up.”
Mira turned to look at her then. It was the first time today Mira truly looked at her.
Rumi could almost see the thoughts racing behind her stained-glass eyes: What made you almost relapse? Why didn’t you talk to me instead? Or Zoey? Do we need to start doing our daily check-ins again? What’s wrong with you?
Though maybe Rumi was just projecting, because all Mira said was: “Why didn’t you?” No judgment. Just curiosity touched with concern.
“Because I’m fine.”
“Rumi–”
“I am. I haven’t had a drink since Saturday. I haven’t touched anything else since–” She stopped herself. She was going to say since the cigarette with Jinu. But now was not the time to mention him. “I’m handling it.”
“Handling it by almost calling your sponsor and then not?”
“Handling it by not drinking again or doing anything harder. That’s the point, right?” Rumi’s voice came out like a whip she didn’t mean to snap. “Look, I am not looking for a lecture. I get that enough from–”
She stopped herself again, but Mira caught it anyway.
“From who?”
The timer beeped, saving Rumi from saying the obvious, Aunt Celine.
Mira bit the inside of her cheek, a look on her face like she was about to say something, before she shook her head and sighed. “You really are impossible, Kang. And stubborn as hell.”
“What can I say? You signed up for impossible when you accepted my IM.”
Accepted me.
They worked in silence for a moment—Mira pipetting off the supernatant and Rumi resuspending the pellet in a fresh buffer. The green past swirled in the tube, chloroplasts suspended in liquid like tiny stars in a murky sky.
“I told Zoey I’d think about it,” Mira said suddenly, her voice carefully casual. Like everything she did.
Rumi almost dropped the tube, surprised to hear Mira speak first. She steadied it, then lowered her voice. “Think about what?”
“Asking her out.” Mira kept her eyes on their notebook, pen moving steadily through their ‘Methods’ section. Around them, the lab hummed with other people’s conversations. “Remember? It was your idea. You were playing wing woman on Saturday night—well early Sunday morning. And if you consider wing woman just drunkenly convincing me it’s a good idea even though the woman you were winging didn’t even ask you to do it.”
“I–” Rumi’s brain stuttered, a circular buffer superimposed over the blank screen that was her conscious thoughts. She remembered saying something like that, but everything was blurry except seeing Mira’s face so close to hers, feeling Mira’s fingers run through her hair. “Wait, are you actually considering it?”
“I don’t know.” Mira’s pen paused mid-stroke. “Maybe…She’s pretty and funny, and we’ve known each other for years. And, like…right there.”
“She’s also polyamorous.”
“I know.”
“And our roommate.”
“I know, Rumi. I was the one that said it.”
“I’m just saying–”
“What?” Mira finally looked up, and there was something challenging in her expression. Not angry but daring maybe. Daring Rumi to say what she really meant.
Here.
Now.
In front of everyone.
“What are you just saying? It was your idea.” Mira’s voice stayed low. “And it’s not like I have lots of options here, Room.”
Rumi knew what Mira meant without her having to say it. Options. The word sat heavy between them. Because Mira was right. Rumi had the luxury of kissing a girl at a party, and it would be seen as experimental, college fun. But Mira kissing a girl…That was a label, a risk, a target.
There was the whole Defense of Marriage, which everyone pretended wasn’t hatred even though it obviously was. There was the AIDS Crisis, which the government had ignored until straight people started dying too. There were the looks, the whispers, and the guys who thought two girls together was a performance for their entertainment. Nothing more than something for them to get off to.
Rumi could flirt with whoever she wanted and disappear into the crowd. Mira couldn’t. Mira had to be so careful. Had to take what she could get.
And what she could get was Zoey. Right there. Safe and willing.
And she’d known Zoey for years.
And Zoey was beautiful.
“I’m just saying you should do what makes you happy. Don’t do it because someone else suggested it, but it’s because it’s what you really want,” Rumi said quietly.
“Right.” Mira’s voice went quiet, but there was something underneath it. Disappointment, maybe. Or relief? “Yeah, it’s what I really want.”
She turned back to their notebook. The conversation was over as quickly as it started but not like when they talked about Hunter-Gather-Blenders or Rumi’s dad. This time, Rumi felt the invisible wall go up between them. Brick by brick, laid out and mortared as precisely as the mason herself.
“Final spin,” Mira paused. “Six minutes.”
The Percoll overlay was delicate work. It required attention to detail and exact timing, and Rumi’s hands shook as she tried to pipette the chloroplast suspension carefully.
She’d never been good with the delicate things. With noticing when something needed a gentle touch instead of brute force. At reading the space between what people said and what they meant.
There was a reason Mira usually handled this part.
"Steady," Mira murmured, and then her hand was there—warm fingers wrapping around Rumi's wrist and guiding her hand. "Like this. Slow."
Rumi's breath caught.
They were standing so close she could count Mira's eyelashes and could see the tiny freckle just below her left eye that only showed up in certain lights, usually hidden under foundation. Mira's thumb pressed against Rumi’s pulse point, and Rumi wondered if she could feel how fast her heart was racing.
"Got it?" Mira asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Rumi nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Mira's hand lingered for a second longer than necessary before pulling away.
The chloroplast suspension settled in a perfect layer. Rumi loaded the tube into the centrifuge with shaking hands, trying to ignore the way her skin still burned where Mira had touched her.
Six minutes.
They stood in front of the machine again, the hum filling the silence. But this time, the quiet felt different. Charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm, heavy and electric against her skin even before the rain bulleted down, rolling in from the Atlantic on bruised skies and wind so thick you could bite into it.
Rumi wanted to say something. Wanted to grab Mira’s hand and say, Don’t ask Zoey out.
But the words stuck in her throat.
Because what did it even mean that she wanted more of Mira when she’d spent the last four days thinking nonstop about Jinu? What if these reservations weren’t based in reality—just loneliness dressed up as something prettier, friendship mistaken for want because Rumi never learned the difference? Or what if they were real, and that meant every boy before had been a lie she’d told herself, a script she followed because it was easier than admitting she didn’t know the lines?
Rumi couldn’t untangle it from Jinu’s lopsided smile to Mira’s soft fingers running through her hair. Couldn’t separate what she really felt from what was just wishful thinking—or worse, vanity. Love from what was just another way to feel a little less alone. And if she was wrong—if she reached for Mira and discovered her hands were empty—Rumi’d lose the one solid thing she had left.
Mira deserved someone who knew the difference between wanting and needing. Someone who wasn’t still trying to translate their own heart. Someone who had more answers than endless questions.
Someone who wasn’t Rumi.
"I think you should do it," Rumi said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. She couldn’t help but wonder if the people of Pompeii could taste their demise before it came, or if this was something for Rumi alone to suffer in. "Ask her out. Zoey, I mean. She'd be lucky to have you."
Anyone would.
Mira was quiet for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was tight. "Yeah. Maybe."
The timer beeped for the last time. Offering a final escape from conversations she couldn’t put a name to and really wasn’t ready to have.
Mira carefully removed the tube, examining the pellet at the bottom. "Perfect separation. Good work."
"We make a good team."
"Yeah." Mira's voice was soft. "We do."
She resuspended the intact chloroplasts in a small volume of buffer, and they moved to the microscope station for the final step.
The hemocytometer was Rumi’s least favorite part.
Counting individual chloroplasts under the microscope was tedious work, squinting at tiny green dots through the eyepiece and trying to keep track of what squares she’d already counted, her neck cramping from hunching over the scope too long.
But it was also the part where she could zone out. Let her mind wander while her hands did the work.
And her eyes were sharper than Mira’s, so it was a way to be useful.
She counted chloroplasts. Mira recorded the numbers.
455,000 per gram. 465,000. 450,000 on the recount.
“Average it,” Mira said, already doing the calculation in her head before Rumi even could reach for a calculator. “456,666. Round to 457,000 for sig figs.”
“Show off.”
“It’s basic math.”
“It’s still showing off when you do it in your head faster than I can type it in. You’re a human calculator. We gotta get you on one of those game shows.”
Mira’s lips curve into a real smile at the compliment. “Not my fault you’re slow.”
“You should be thanking me, really. I’m making sure we’re getting an A by double checking.”
“Still a bit slow for a double check.”
“Okay, triple checking. Sue me.” Rumi nudged Mira’s shoulder with her own. “Rude.”
They were close again. Pressed together at the small workspace, shoulders touching. Mira’s ponytail brushed against Rumi’s cheek when she leaned forward to record her average.
This was the easy part. The part where they fit together like puzzle pieces, where Rumi didn’t have to think or try to be anything other than herself.
Safe.
The word settled in her chest, heavy and warm.
She felt safe here. With Mira. In this tiny lab, counting chloroplasts and arguing whether mental math counted as showing off. It was a rare moment, where Rumi didn’t have to be okay or funny or pretty; she just was herself.
And that terrified her.
Because Rumi didn’t know what to do with safe. Safe was boring. Safe didn’t make her heart race or her hands shake or her thoughts quiet down. Safe was steady and unchanging, like the earth beneath her feet or the guarantee that the sun would rise in the east. Rumi had never been good at steady.
She was good at falling, though. At jumping without looking. At the rush of freefall, even when she knew the landing would hurt.
“Color score,” Mira said, pulling out the green intensity chart from their lab manual.
Rumi held the remaining collard green leaf up to the chart. “250?”
“Yeah, 250.” Mira recorded the number. “Nutritional score is 81.”
“So darker green plants have more chloroplasts, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re more nutritious,” Rumi posited.
“Looks that way.”
“Weird.”
“Science is weird.”
“Says the girl who wants to do this for a living.”
Mira shrugged. “I like weird.”
You like control, Rumi thought. You like things that follow rules, that have right answers, and that make sense.
It was the opposite of Rumi, who was all wrong answers and bad decisions. She was born from them, really, bad decisions and wrong answers coded into her DNA. Her father’s daughter in every way that mattered. Chaos to her core.
“What’s our correlation?” Mira asked, coaching Rumi through the rest of the data collection. Pulling her out of her thoughts, intentionally or not.
Rumi squinted at Mira’s carefully drawn chart and broke out her calculator. “For chloroplasts versus color score? Pretty strong. Like 0.96 or something.”
“And nutritional score?”
More clicks on her calculator. “Weak. Maybe 0.25?”
Mira nodded, writing it all down. “You’re right. Chloroplasts affect color, but color doesn’t necessarily indicate nutrition.”
The praise lights up Rumi with a smile. “So, I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover or a vegetable by its color.”
“Apparently not.”
They started cleaning up, wiping down the bench, disposing of the plant material, and washing the glassware. Rumi’s hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory from a year of at least two afternoons a week with Mira in the lab.
When they were done, Mira checked her planner and then packed up her bag.
“I have to meet with my advisor,” she said. “About next semester’s schedule.”
“Ugh, I need to do that. I’ll see you at home?”
Mira paused, her hand on the doorknob. She turned back, and for a second, Rumi thought she was going to say something. Really say something. The words were right there on her face, probably dancing on the tip of her tongue; Rumi could almost see them, trembling creatures waiting to be spoken into existence.
But Mira just said, “Yeah. See you at home.”
And then she was gone without another glance.
Rumi sat alone in the empty lab. She hadn’t even seen anyone else leave, so focused on Mira.
When she closed her eyes, she could see green. When she opened them, she saw someone’s forgotten water bottle at the far edge of the bench. Through the window, she could see students crossing the quad, heading to their night classes or back to their dorms.
The sun was starting to set, turning everything gold and pink, the palm trees casting long shadows across the walkways. Someone had their car windows down in the parking lot, their bass thumping loud enough Rumi could feel it through the glass.
It’s Thirsty Thursday, so definitely pre-game music, Rumi thought.
She pulled the napkin out of her pocket.
From the motion of her jeans rubbing against it all lab, it barely felt like paper anymore. No longer a tree or napkin but something else, changed once again. For the worse, maybe.
Like Rumi.
She could go home. Change clothes. Tell the girls she was going to study at the library. Keep pretending that Sunday hadn’t happened and that she wasn’t carrying a stupid napkin around like a secret she couldn’t quite keep.
But going home meant seeing Mira. Seeing Mira with Zoey, and Rumi couldn’t do that. Not tonight.
“Hey.” A TA poked his head through the door, keys jangling. “Lab’s closed. You gotta head out, so I can lock up.”
Rumi blinked, pulled back to reality. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
Rumi shoved the napkin back into her pocket, grabbed her backpack, and headed out. The TA was already flipping off lights behind her, the hallway dim except for the emergency exit signs casting everything in red.
Outside, the air hit her—thick and warm even this late, humidity clinging to her skin. She could go home. She should go home.
But her feet carried her toward the library instead. She just needed to check one thing first.
The computer lab in the library basement was nearly empty.
There were only a few students scattered among the rows of boxy beige monitors. The glow lit up their faces in blue-white light, some students clearly in deep AIM conversations, their fingers flying across keyboards with that particular rhythm of chat-speech. Their WPM faster than a track star’s heartbeat at a full sprint. A couple of them had probably been there for hours, lost in a digital world that Rumi sensed was growing faster than any of them expected. She could tell by their empty coffee cups and glazed looks. The printer screeched to life in the corner making her jump, but no one else even seemed to register the sound. The air smelled like carpet and the desperation that came with writing last minute papers: cold sweat.
Rumi claimed a computer in the back corner, opposite of the printer and as far from others as possible.
She logged back into her AOL account.
The modem sound was off on this computer, thank god, so she didn’t have to hear the screech of dial-up. But she could see the little man animation as it connected.
Slowly, her buddy list populated with names. Zoey was online—ZoSpeare—with an away message that said writing! brb!
Mira wasn’t online, but that wasn’t a surprise seeing as she had only just left to meet her advisor and wouldn’t be trolling the forums while triple-checking a schedule Mira probably finalized before summer break even ended.
The napkin sat her on the keyboard. She smoothed it flat, tapping the dot of the “i” in Jinu in time with her own pulse.
One new message.
Her heart and finger stuttered. Her mood ring caught the monitor’s glow, shifting between colors in the blue light. Yellow bled into red. Supposedly that meant excited and optimistic, or anxious and scared. The chart was bullshit anyway, Rumi thought. Mood rings couldn’t tell the difference between yearning for something and being terrified of it, and neither could she.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re (no subject)
been hoping id hear from u. party is still on for this weekend if yall want to come.
also i work at gwi-ma’s tattoo shop on broad thursday and friday nights if u wanna stop by. no worries if u r busy. just thought itd be cool to talk without a diner booth and our friends between us. u dont have 2 get tatted or pierced unless u rlly wnt 2 btw. nd we close today at 10 if u r free
-j
Rumi stared at the screen. The all lowercase was an attempt at casual that she wasn’t feeling from the heart of his message. Like he wasn’t asking her to show up at his work. Because that obviously wasn’t a big deal. But the been hoping id hear from u made her chest tighten.
Gwi-ma’s, she knew that place. She’d walked past it on the way to the vintage shop next door hundreds of times.
The storefront was painted electric blue with a neon sign that buzzed and flickered. Students joked about selling their souls for Gwi-Ma’s tattoos, which was the only possible way they could be so cheap but look so good. The windows were always covered with flash sheets—skulls and roses, abstract shapes, and characters in different languages.
She’d even joked with the girls about getting three little witches from Zoey’s Macbeth sketch tattooed there. She knew how Aunt Celine felt about tattoos, so she wanted something small and hidden, maybe on her ribs or the back of her neck where it would be easy to hide beneath a ponytail or braid.
Something that made her girls permanently hers.
Her fingers began typing before her brain caught up.
what time?
She hit send.
Refreshed.
Refreshed.
Checked her buddy list. Checked back to her email. Refreshed again.
The response came almost immediately.
now works or 7 or literally whenever. i'll be here
Rumi glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. 5:47 p.m. She could take an everything shower and change into something cuter and still make it by seven if she left now. Or she could wait, play it cool, and show up at eight or nine.
The now works kept repeating in her head. Like one of her dad’s scratched records playing the same verse over and over again.
She logged into AIM quickly, changed her away message to out! call my pager if u need me! even though she knew neither Mira nor Zoey would page her.
She logged out of the computer and threw the napkin away in the trash can by the door.
Rumi didn’t need it anymore.
She had it memorized.
Notes:
our longest chapter yet, woohoo!
shout out textandtissue for drawing on her real life gay girl lab partner love to write this banger. tea might be clocked!
Chapter 6: Move a Little Closer
Summary:
Mira's future is becoming increasingly uncertain.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The meeting with her advisor hadn’t gone exactly as she'd expected.
Mira had laid out three sheets of paper with the precision of a lab setup: one with her desired schedule, color-coded by subject with a timeline showing when and where each class met; one with the full list of Chemistry major requirements pulled directly from the department handbook, completed courses checked off in green, current enrollment circled in blue, future courses highlighted in yellow with hand-written annotations indicating projected semesters; and one signature line for the credit overload approval.
Everything he needed was there. Quantified. Organized. Like the way she would one day defend her dissertation.
Undeniable.
"You're busier than the bio-chem pre-med students," he said, looking up over his glasses.
Mira's jaw tightened. She kept her voice level. "Yes, sir."
The air in his office tasted stale, like old coffee and the particular mustiness of papers left too long in filing cabinets. Behind him, his diplomas hung slightly crooked on the wall—a detail that bothered her more than it should. She focused on the edge of his desk instead, where a coffee ring had dried into the wood grain, concentric circles like tree rings marking time. Beside it, a ceramic coaster topped by a sweating glass of water.
"And you're sure you'll be able to handle it? Orgo can be tough, even for those only at a credit or two above the minimum."
Mira's thumbnail pressed hard into the pad of her index finger beneath the desk. The sharp pressure steadied her. "I finished my freshman year with a 3.95, sir. In weed-out classes."
He gave her a sheepish smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm just worried you're doing this for the wrong reasons. Are you trying to graduate early? Is one of your parents pressuring you?"
Her lips pressed together. The concern in his voice felt performative, a checkbox he needed to tick before moving on. Patronizing, her mind supplied, but she couldn't say that. Couldn't let him see her as difficult or emotional or—worst of all—unstable. Those were the adjectives that followed pink-haired girls in baggy jeans, the ones that turned a 3.95 GPA invisible.
Or worse, discrediting her hard work and success as a virtue of the slight slant of her eyes. As nothing more than a cultural pressure, something not earned but expected. As if Mira hadn’t been born and raised in the States.
Mira took a measured breath, a grounding habit. The way she learned to do when her high school lab partner contaminated a sample, and she had to start over.
Steady and controlled.
“No, sir. My AP credits from high school counted toward some requirements, but I’m trying to make myself the best possible candidate for PhD programs.”
He whistled, a sound that landed somewhere between surprise and condescension. Mira couldn't tell which.
"Your file says you were tracking pre-med. Did you drop it because it was too hard? If so, I might caution you against a post-grad degree." He leaned back in his chair as he crossed his arms, the springs creaking slowly along with his movements. His front teeth were perfectly straight but stained slightly yellow—either from the light or poor hygiene. "You would only need a teaching certificate to become a high school chemistry teacher. That's a solid career path. Summers off, time for a family, and all that."
Mira's eyebrow twitched, just once, before she caught herself. Schooling her expression into the perfect picture of openness. Or at least not downright hostility.
High school teacher. As if that were the ceiling. As if ambition in a woman was something to be gently redirected. Like a child reaching for a knife or the stove burner.
"The pre-med track is intense," she said carefully, "but not something I couldn't handle. I just really like chemistry, and I want to do research." She paused, then added with deliberate lightness: "Less talking to people when I don't feel like it."
That earned her a laugh. His shoulders relaxed. "My next question was if you'd consider nursing, but if you aren't a people person that's definitely out."
The words hung in the air between them.
Nursing. Another career made for breasts and childbearing hips: a traditional woman shaped box. Another assumption that her brain was best suited for caretaking, for following a male doctor’s orders, for work that was just chalked up to warmth instead of accuracy.
Mira's throat tightened, but she kept her expression neutral.
"Right," she said. The word came out flat. "So, research. And if I can maintain a high GPA, I'd be a strong candidate for MIT or an Ivy. Those connections open doors after graduation."
He picked up his pen—a cheap ballpoint, the kind that came in bulk packs and masqueraded as something more designer—and tapped it twice against her credit overload form. The motion felt theatrical, as if he were demonstrating the weight of his decision. Then he spun the pen closed with a practiced flick and slid it into his pencil holder.
He was enjoying this, his little power trip. Just another small man trying to crush her beneath his boot.
"Dr. Kotadoski," he said, and the title sounded like a joke in his mouth. Amused. Indulgent. "Well, Doc, I really hope this semester works out for you. Let's see how your grades are after midterms before I sign off on this overload, okay?" He smiled at her, the kind of smile that expected gratitude. "I just don't want to be responsible for another pretty girl walking into the ocean with rocks in her pockets."
The image flickered through Mira's mind unbidden: Virginia Woolf, a weighted coat, and the River Ouse closing over her head. A tragedy reduced to a cautionary tale about women who wanted too much. Zoey had written a devastating poem about it in high school as she battled her own mental health issues.
"I know how to swim," Mira said.
But he was already looking past her, his attention shifting to the stack of files on his desk. Her GPA didn't matter. Her carefully annotated schedule didn't matter. Nothing mattered except what he saw: baggy jeans, dark eyeliner, pink hair. A woman. Evidence of instability. Proof that she wasn't serious.
For half a second, Mira wondered if he thought she'd slept her way into her A's.
Next time, she thought as she gathered her papers and slid them into her folder with steady hands, I'll bring letters of recommendation. Even if I'm the first person in U-Miami history to do it just for a fucking credit overload.
She'd been the salutatorian at her high school. Her work spoke for itself.
But apparently not loud enough.
Here, it was nothing but a whisper.
She slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked out without another word, without looking back. The hallway outside his office was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Her sneakers squeaked faintly against the linoleum.
The walk back to Soda felt like a walk of shame. She carried her folder of now-useless documents the way other girls carried their heels after a long night: evidence of effort that hadn't mattered.
Even with the sun starting to set, the humidity was still suffocating. Every breath felt like swallowing boiling soup, thick and heavy in her throat. Mira's shirt stuck to her lower back, the fabric clinging in a way that made her hyperaware of her own skin.
Early September was still warm back home. Kentucky could hit highs in the mid-eighties well into the month, but by mid-to-late October, fall would arrive in full bloom. In full death, really, but what a beautiful death it was. The trees would turn, leaves catching fire in shades of amber and crimson, the air crisp enough to bite. Every desolate road would feel even smaller as the cornfields rose high above the roof of her car, golden tassels brushing clear blue skies like a painter’s stroke. Pumpkin patches and apple orchards and haunted houses and getting drunk on the couch watching scary movies while having to get up every two minutes to hand out candy to Trick-or-Treaters.
Very different from Florida.
Florida was all bright blue skies and steadfast palm trees, green even in the coldest months. Unchanging. Relentless. Until the summer storms surged.
Like Rumi, Mira thought, and immediately wished she hadn't.
But it was true. Even when Mira missed the explosion of color she'd grown up with, all she had to do was look to her side to see nature's most precious sight. Rumi with her lavender hair catching sunlight, her laugh too loud for enclosed spaces, and her ability to bloom in concrete. Rumi in her worst moments: vomit caught against the corner of her mouth, mascara smudged around her eyes like a raccoon mask, shoulders shuddering as her body tried to shake off something that only she could see.
Mira's soles felt hot against the pavement. Her body had been running warm since their lab, a heat that started during their conversation and hadn't quite dissipated. They'd fought—bickered, really, she thought, like an old married couple—but by the end, some of the tension from Sunday had finally started to dissolve.
Of course it had. Spending time with Rumi always soothed her anxieties, even the ones Mira couldn't name. Even the ones she didn't have the guts to turn into something solid, something she could hold or share. She even knew Rumi would treat her kindly if she did.
That scared her more than anything.
Before she knew it, she was pushing through the glass door of Soda. The bell chimed overhead—a sound so familiar it barely registered. Checkerboard tile replaced concrete beneath her feet, a different texture, a different weight she could almost feel through her sneakers. The diner smelled like fryer grease and coffee, the air-conditioning fighting for its life against the heat pouring in every time someone opened the door.
The dinner rush was in full swing. Every booth was packed, voices layering over each other, silverware clinking against plates. But her booth in the back—their booth—was open. Waiting for her like always. Coincidence or fate.
Mira headed toward it, already sliding her backpack off her shoulder.
She tossed it into the empty seat without looking and heard a small, startled "Oof!"
Mira's head snapped up. "Sorry, I–"
Zoey popped up from the corner of the booth like a jack-in-the-box, grinning. She had her large Sony headphones in her lap, half-wrapped in strips of duct tape—blue and green zebra stripes that clashed beautifully with the black plastic. Her screenwriting notebook sat open in front of her, turned to a page with only a few lines of dialogue scrawled across the top in her looping handwriting.
Mira hadn't been able to see her from the door. Zoey was so short that she disappeared into the booth's corner, swallowed by the high-backed vinyl.
"You're killing me, Smalls!" Zoey exclaimed, shoving the backpack to the side with mock indignation. Her smile, as always, gave her away.
Mira grabbed her bag before sliding into the opposite side, tilting her head slightly. "I'm over six inches taller than you."
"What? No, Mira!" Zoey’s expression warped from playful to genuinely distressed. "It's from The Sandlot. It was a huge part of my childhood…It should be a huge part of everyone's childhood, if you ask me."
Zoey went back to wrapping duct tape around her headphones, biting off another piece with her teeth. Mira winced, unable to stop herself from thinking about how much Zoey's parents had paid for braces, how careless Zoey was with her teeth anyway. She was like a little piranha—always ready to bite through whatever was in her way.
"Isn't it a sports movie or something?" Mira asked, catching Bobby's eye across the diner. He smiled and held up two fingers, either a peace sign or a promise to get to them in two minutes. "I didn't really think that was your scene."
"I mean, yeah, there's baseball in it, but it's really about their friendship! It's funny and–" Zoey paused mid-wrap, eyes brightening. "Wait, do you have class tomorrow? We could watch it if you want. We haven't done a movie night yet this year, and I'm sure Blockbuster will have it."
Zoey always spoke like the weather—winds threatening to change direction without warning, pressure systems shifting mid-sentence. But after so many years, Mira had learned to ride her currents. She knew how to let Zoey's energy wash over her without getting swept away.
"Sure, Zo. Sounds fun."
Mira had work to do—there was always work to do—but she could make time. Kids' movies were short, anyway. She could finish her problem set later tonight or wake up early before tomorrow's lecture. And the way Zoey's face lit up made the lost hour of sleep worth it. Like flipping a light switch, her whole expression transformed into something incandescent.
That was the thing about Zoey. She burned bright and earnest, joy rising to the surface without resistance. Like there was significantly less darkness to fight through compared to Mira and Rumi.
Mira envied it.
Bobby appeared at their table within minutes, notepad already out even though he didn't need it. He knew what they wanted before they said anything—he always did.
"The usual or the milkshake usual?" he asked with a grin.
"Milkshakes, please," Mira said.
"Make mine extra whipped cream," Zoey added.
"You got it. Give me five minutes."
"Actually, we're going to run to Blockbuster real quick so take your time," Zoey said, already sliding out of the booth. "We'll be right back."
Bobby nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll have them waiting for you."
They walked side by side down the block toward Blockbuster, the sidewalk still radiating heat even as the sun dipped lower.
The blue and yellow ticket stub billboard came into view, backlit and glowing. Zoey held the door open with an exaggerated bow and a ma’lady, and Mira walked through, the blast of air conditioning raising goosebumps on her damp skin. It was cooler than Soda where the air-con fought on two fronts—the kitchen and the outside.
They headed straight for the discount DVD section without discussion.
Rumi's high school graduation gift from Aunt Celine had been a DVD player—replacing her old VHS setup—and it was one of the most expensive, most treasured items in their apartment. Rumi had given both Mira and Zoey permission to use it whenever they wanted, as long as they were careful.
Sometimes, Mira felt like she hadn't pulled her weight with the apartment. She'd brought a beanbag chair and a blow-up mattress for guests, but nothing that elevated the space the way Rumi's DVD player did. Or Zoey's CD collection, which turned their living room into something that felt less like a rental and more like a home.
Zoey grabbed The Sandlot and Clueless while Mira picked up Scream and The Birdcage.
Mira’d heard good things about both; they were on her watchlist. Rumi would probably want to watch Scream. Would curl up on the couch with popcorn and provide running commentary about every horror movie trope it deconstructed. But Mira wanted to watch it alone first and let herself get absorbed without distraction. The Birdcage was just for her, something she’d been curious about since it came out.
Decidedly did not look at Baz Luhrmann’s modern-day Shakespeare adaptation, silently scolding her hand for instinctively reaching out for it as she walked towards the cashier.
She pulled a few bills from her duct-tape wallet and handed them to the cashier, watching Zoey bounce on her heels by the door, already eager to get back.
On the walk back to Soda, Mira only half-listened to Zoey's chatter about how Clueless was actually a modern retelling of Emma and how brilliant it was that they'd set it in Beverly Hills. The heat still pressed against her skin, thick and humid, but the sun was finally starting to dip. Shadows stretched across the pavement, palm trees casting jagged shapes that looked almost like reaching hands.
Their milkshakes were waiting for them in the booth when they returned, condensation already sliding down the glasses. Mira reached for her wallet, but Zoey had already slapped down a five-dollar bill.
"I got it," Zoey said, plucking the cherry stem from her South Beach Split and biting into it. The red juice stained her lips, spreading beyond the lines of her mouth like blown-out lipstick.
"Thanks," Mira said, catching Bobby's eye across the diner. She raised her Sunburnt Strawberry Shortcake in a small toast, then nodded toward the door that led upstairs. He gave her a brilliant smile and a thumbs-up before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Hopefully he got the message, Mira thought as she followed Zoey toward the stairs.
The hallway leading to their apartment wasn't really a hallway—more of a nook. Three doors faced each other in a standoff: Bobby's apartment on one side, theirs on the other, and between them a closet with a stacked washer and dryer. All three doors couldn't open at the same time, an architectural flaw that irritated Mira whenever she thought about it too long. But it was functional enough.
Zoey fumbled with her key in the lock. It was always stubborn, the mechanism sticky from humidity or age or both. Mira hung back, sipping her milkshake and watching the way Zoey's tongue poked out slightly in concentration.
Finally, the lock clicked.
"Yes!" Zoey shoved the door open triumphantly and tossed her backpack toward their shared bedroom before throwing herself onto the couch. "Couchhhh," she sighed, voice muffled against the cushions.
Mira stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
The first thing she noticed was the row of thumbtacks they'd punched into the wall by the front door—three of them, one for each girl's keys. Zoey's dangled from hers, the keychain shaped like a tiny disco ball catching the overhead light.
The bubblegum pink tack on the right was empty, waiting patiently for her own set.
But so was the one in the middle, though that one had no reason to be.
Mira's fingers brushed over the bare pin in the center—Rumi's spot. She swallowed, the milkshake suddenly too sweet in her throat.
"Do you know if Rumi had plans?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
"Hmmm?" Zoey's response was distracted. She'd already gotten up from the couch and was heading back toward their bedroom, presumably remembering the DVDs were still in her backpack.
"Rumi," Mira repeated, choosing her words carefully. "Do you know if she had plans today?"
Zoey paused in the doorway, turning back. She studied Mira for a moment—long enough that Mira felt exposed, like Zoey could see straight through her carefully constructed calm. Then Zoey shrugged and disappeared into the bedroom. "Not sure. Was she at y’all’s lab?"
"Yes." Mira dug her keys out of her pocket and hung them where they belonged. The small ritual steadied her: keys on the hook, shoes off by the door, and backpack on the desk chair.
She walked to her bedroom—the one she shared with Zoey, not with Rumi, a distinction that sometimes felt heavier than it should—and toed off her sneakers. She lined them up neatly in the shoe rack inside the closet, then placed her backpack on her desk chair with care. The folder from her advisor meeting peeked out from the top, yellow highlights visible through the clear plastic.
She pulled the scrunchie from her hair, feeling the immediate relief as her scalp relaxed. The elastic left a dent in her hair, strands kinked where they'd been pulled tight all day. She let the scrunchie dangle from her wrist and peeled off her jeans, folding them precisely before placing them in her jeans drawer. She pulled out her gray sweatpants—soft and worn, the fabric pulling slightly at the knees—and stepped into them.
When she came back to the living room, Zoey was already on the couch, remote in hand, skipping through the DVD trailers. The TV's glow painted her face blue-white.
"Want me to do your hair?" Zoey asked without looking away from the screen.
"Sure."
"What do you want?"
"Whatever is fine….Dealer's choice."
Zoey's head whipped around, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So I can finally make you look like Legolas?!"
"…If that's what the dealer chooses."
Zoey laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. It filled the apartment in a way that felt like home. "Just teasing, Mir-Mir. I wouldn't do Legolas braids unless the world could appreciate them! You'd just take them out before bed anyway because you'd complain about being too hot with the hair against the back of your neck." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "How about one braid instead?"
Mira nodded. "Like Rumi?”
“No, she does a bubble braid. French braid is quicker. Fewer hair ties but a bit more tugging.”
“That’s fine. I'll grab my hairbrush. Do you want popcorn?"
"You already know."
Mira found the hairbrush on her dresser—pink plastic, a few strands of her pink hair caught in the bristles—and grabbed the bag of popcorn kernels from the cabinet above the stove. The apartment was small enough that she could see Zoey from the kitchen, still absorbed in navigating the DVD menu.
The microwave hummed as the kernels started popping, a sound like small fireworks contained in a bag. Mira counted the seconds between pops the way she'd been taught: when they slowed to more than two seconds apart, it was done. She'd burned popcorn exactly once in her life—freshman year, distracted by a problem set—and the smell had lingered in her and Rumi’s dorm for three days. She had been overly-careful since.
She dumped the popcorn into their largest bowl, the yellow one with a chip on the rim, and brought it to the living room along with her hairbrush.
Zoey had queued up The Sandlot and was waiting on the title screen, her legs tucked under her on the couch. She patted the space in front of her, and Mira settled onto the floor between Zoey's knees, her back against the couch.
This was familiar. Comfortable. They'd done this dozens of times—Zoey's fingers in her hair, a movie playing, popcorn within reach even if Mira likely wouldn’t even take a piece herself. Sometimes, Rumi would be there too, stretched across the other end of the couch with her feet in Zoey's lap, making running commentary about the plot or whatever thought popped into her mind.
But tonight it was just the two of them.
Mira tried not to think about where Rumi might be. Tried not to calculate how many hours it had been since their lab ended. Tried not to remember Rumi saying I almost called my sponsor Tuesday night with that rawness in her voice. It would make Mira sick to her stomach, and she was already having trouble getting this milkshake down.
Zoey's fingers started working through Mira's hair, gentle and methodical. She sectioned it into three parts, then began the French braid from the top of Mira’s head, quickly getting down to the crown. Her touch was sure, practiced; she'd done this enough times that she didn't need to think about it. The same way Mira had gotten so used to this quiet intimacy that she didn’t need to think about it either.
"You've got good hair for braiding," Zoey said, the way she always did. Mindlessly to herself like it surprised her every time. "Thick but not too thick. And it's so straight it basically braids itself. Don’t need to be Arachne or Penelope to weave it into something beautiful. Though Penelope famously unwove her tapestry every night and Arachne got turned into a spider for her hubris, so maybe more like Rumpelstiltskin spinning straw into gold. But he was a dick and he was the source of the magic, so. Probably none of that."
"Mmmm," Mira hummed in acknowledgment, only half-following. On screen, a group of boys played baseball in a sandy, empty lot, their voices high and unbroken. Not yet disillusioned by their world.
The popcorn sat between them, still steaming slightly. Mira surprised herself by reaching for a handful, the butter slicking her fingers. She chewed slowly, tasting salt and artificial butter flavoring, and watched the movie without really watching it.
Her mind kept circling back to their lab. To the way Rumi had looked at her when Mira's hand had wrapped around her wrist, guiding the pipette. The way Rumi's pulse had jumped beneath her thumb, quick and startled. The way Rumi had said I think you should do it. Ask her out like she was trying to convince herself as much as Mira.
You're allowed to have good things, Mira had told Rumi in those quiet hours between Saturday night and Sunday morning, holding her hair back while she was sick.
Why didn't that apply to Mira herself?
Zoey was right here. Warm and solid and real. Her fingers moved through Mira's hair like a meditation, each pass of the braid tightening into something secure. Something easy. Zoey was beautiful; everyone said so. She had that effortless charisma that drew people in, the kind of brightness that made rooms feel fuller when she entered them. A five-foot-nothing spitfire with a heart of gold.
And she'd known Mira for years. Since that messy situation sophomore year of high school with the guy who thought he could play them both. They'd compared notes, realized what he was doing, and instead of fighting over him, they'd become friends. Best friends, eventually. The kind who knew each other's coffee orders and could communicate in looks across crowded rooms.
Zoey was safe. Known. Here.
On screen, one of the boys hit a baseball over the fence, and the other kids groaned. Not a usual reaction to a homerun. The ball landed in a yard with a massive dog, and suddenly the whole plot kicked into gear—how to get the ball back, the mythology they'd built around the beast next door, et cetera.
Mira tried to focus on the movie. Tried to let Zoey's hands in her hair anchor her to this moment, this couch, this uncomplicated evening.
It could work, she thought. It could be good.
Zoey laughed at something on screen—one of the boys saying something ridiculous about the dog—and her fingers paused in Mira's hair. "God, I forgot how funny this is. Did you see that?"
"Yeah," Mira said, even though she hadn't really been paying attention.
Zoey resumed braiding, pulling the sections tighter. The pressure felt good against Mira's scalp, grounding. She took another handful of popcorn and tried to lose herself in the movie's soundscape, in its bright colors.
The thing was, Mira liked Zoey. Genuinely. She was funny and creative and had this way of seeing the world that made even mundane things feel like they mattered, like they were beautiful. When Zoey talked about her scripts, her whole face animated, hands gesturing wildly to illustrate scenes only she could see. She was passionate about things—theater, music, storytelling, her friends—in a way Mira appreciated.
And Zoey was polyamorous, which meant low stakes. No pressure for Mira to be someone's everything, no expectation of forever. Just…something. Someone to be close to without the weight of commitment crushing down. Something fun with someone she cared for.
Safe, her mind supplied again.
But safety wasn't the same as want. As a curdling desire that only continued to grow.
Mira's chest tightened. She reached for more popcorn she didn't need, just to have something to do with her hands.
On screen, the boys were scheming, building increasingly elaborate contraptions to retrieve their baseball. The dog barked, enormous and unseen. One boy's glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them up with a gesture Mira recognized—the automatic adjustment of someone who'd worn glasses their whole life.
She touched her own wireframes self-consciously, suddenly aware of how sticky and buttery her hands were.
"Almost done," Zoey murmured, and Mira felt her tie off the braid with an elastic. Zoey's fingers lingered for a moment, smoothing down flyaways, tucking loose strands behind Mira's ears. "There… Perfect."
"Thanks, Zo."
Mira stayed on the floor, leaning back against the couch with her legs stretched out in front of her. Zoey's hand rested on the cushion just above Mira's shoulder—close enough that Mira could feel the heat of it but not enough to touch her. The space between them felt both comfortable and warm, like a frog slowly boiling. Slow enough to not notice the burn until mild discomfort turned into an all-consuming, scorching heat melting skin from flesh.
The movie continued. Boys being boys, summer stretching endlessly, friendships forging in the crucible of childhood adventures. It was sweet, nostalgic in a way that felt borrowed. Mira's own childhood had been quieter, lonelier. She'd spent summers in the library or at the community pool, never part of a pack like this.
Rumi would love this movie, Mira thought, and immediately tried to think about something else.
But it was true. Rumi would've been curled up on the other end of the couch, probably stealing all the popcorn and quoting lines before the characters said them. She would've made them pause it seventeen times to recount stories about her own childhood misadventures, and somehow the movie would've taken three hours to watch but only felt like thirty minutes.
And Mira would've been annoyed and charmed in equal measure, the way she always was with Rumi.
"You okay?" Zoey asked, voice soft enough not to disturb the movie.
Mira blinked, pulled back to the present. "Yeah. Why?"
"You're quiet. Like, more than usual, quiet." Like a librarian-at-a-funeral quiet. Or an undertaker-at-a-library quiet. Or a Mira-at-a-library-funeral quiet, Mira’s mind not-so-helpfully supplied. Zoey grabbed a handful of popcorn, eyes still on the screen. "You've been weird since Sunday."
"I'm fine."
"Mira…"
There was something in the way Zoey said her name—gentle but insistent—that made Mira's throat tighten. She kept her eyes on the TV, watching the boys argue about their next plan.
"It's nothing," Mira said. "Just…tired. The advisor meeting didn't go well."
"What happened?"
Mira shrugged, the motion tight. "He wouldn't sign off on my credit overload. He said he wanted to wait until after midterms to see how I'm handling the workload. He called me pretty and made a Virginia Woolf joke. Like, about her killing herself."
"What an asshole," Zoey said immediately, and the swift solidarity loosened something in Mira's chest. "You're going to kill it this semester. He'll be signing that form by the beginning of October, just watch."
"Maybe."
They fell quiet again. On screen, the boys were attempting their most ambitious plan yet, a whole Rube Goldberg machine of ropes and pulleys. It failed spectacularly, and Zoey laughed in her sweet, sonorous tone.
Mira wanted to laugh too. Wanted to feel as light as Zoey always seemed to feel, unburdened by the constant weight of her own thoughts. Or, more accurately, laughing in spite of them. She stretched her arms over her head before getting up onto the couch, curling up against one of the arms as if she could make herself small and hide from the thoughts trying to chase her.
"Can I ask you something?" Zoey said during a quieter moment in the film. “No judgement or to be mean, just…curious.”
"Sure."
"Is this about Rumi?"
Mira's breath caught. Her fingers tightened around her knees, nails pressing into her sweatpants. "What do you mean?"
"Come on, Mir." Zoey's voice was impossibly gentle. Coaxing. "You've been looking at the door every five minutes. And you had that whole weird vibe earlier, right? When we were getting ready to come back here, you kept zoning out. I know you’re upset about the advisor meeting, but that doesn’t seem to be everything. Things like that normally light a fire under your butt, not make you so…not sad exactly but…melancholic, I guess."
Mira was quiet. She hadn't realized she'd been that obvious.
"We didn't have a thing," Mira said carefully. "We just... talked. About stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
Mira was quiet for a long moment. The movie played on, but she wasn't watching anymore. She was thinking about Rumi's wrist in her hand, about the way Rumi had said I almost called my sponsor. About how Mira had wanted to say call me instead but hadn't, because that would've meant admitting too much.
"She almost relapsed," Mira said finally, voice low. "Tuesday night. She almost called her sponsor but didn't."
"Shit." Zoey shifted on the couch, pulling her knees up. "Is she okay?"
"I don't know. She said she's fine, but…" Mira trailed off. "She's been carrying something around all week. Like she's waiting for something to happen, or trying to decide something. I can tell."
"Did you ask her about it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Because asking would mean acknowledging that Mira had paid attention. More attention than just a normal friend. Because asking would mean admitting she was worried, and worry implied care, and care was dangerously close to other things Mira couldn't name.
"I didn't want to push," Mira said instead.
Zoey made a small sound of understanding. The movie reached its climax: the boys finally confronted the dog and discovered he was old and lonely, not a monster at all. Just something misunderstood.
"You're allowed to worry about her," Zoey said softly. "She's your best friend."
Best friend. The words tasted wrong in Mira's mouth, too small for what she felt.
"I know," Mira said. "I just... I don't know. It's complicated."
"Because of how you feel about her?"
Mira's head snapped around. Zoey was looking at her now, eyes kind and knowing in the TV's glow.
"I don't–" Mira started, but the denial died in her throat. What was the point of lying? Zoey already knew. Had probably known for months, by the gently cautious expression.
Maybe longer than Mira herself had.
"It's okay," Zoey said. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
But maybe Mira did want to. Maybe keeping it locked inside was worse than letting it out, even if saying it aloud for the first time made it real.
"It's kind of about Rumi," Mira admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "And I guess it's also about you."
Zoey's eyebrows shot up, the perfect picture of surprise. "Me?"
Mira nodded, heart hammering against her ribs. This was it. The precipice. She could step back, laugh it off, pretend she meant something else. Or she could leap into this unknown.
She jumped.
"After the party," Mira said slowly, "when Rumi was drunk, she told me I should ask you out and said that everyone knows you're basically in love with me."
The words hung in the air between them. On screen, the credits were starting to roll, names scrolling over a freeze-frame of the boys smiling.
Zoey was very still. Statue-eqsue. "And...what did you say?"
"I said you're my best friend. And our roommate. That it's not a good idea."
“So…that’s that, then?”
“No, it’s not.”
A pause. "Okay, so…?"
"So I've been thinking about it," Mira admitted. Her hands were shaking slightly, so she pressed them harder against her knees. "I've been thinking maybe I should. Ask you out, I mean. Because you're here, and you're amazing, and I–" She stopped, struggling to find the right words. "I don't have a lot of options, Zo. And maybe that's okay. Maybe I don't need a lot of options if one of them is you."
It came out wrong. Clinical and calculated when it should've been warm. But it was the truth, or at least a version of it.
Zoey was quiet for so long that Mira thought she'd ruined everything. Then, softly: "Is this because you want to date me or because you can't date her?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Mira's throat closed up.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't…I can't tell the difference anymore."
"Mir..." Zoey shifted closer, her hand finding Mira's shoulder. "I do love you. You know that, right? I have for a while. As a friend, of course, but more than that."
Mira nodded, not trusting her voice.
"But I need to know that this isn't just because she's not an option." Zoey's voice was soft, careful. "You deserve a…radical sort of love. I don't want to be the person you settle for."
"You're not–" Mira started, but Zoey shook her head.
"Let me finish." Zoey's thumb rubbed small circles against Mira's shoulder. "I think we could be really good together. I do. But I need you to actually want this. Want me. Not just…want to stop feeling confused. Want to stop wanting her."
Mira closed her eyes. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what I want. Just that…I don’t want to hurt you, Zo. I care about you so much, and I just don’t know."
"Okay." Zoey's hand squeezed gently. "That's okay."
"What if I can't figure it out?"
"Then we'll figure it out together." Zoey shifted, leaning down from the couch. Her hand slid from Mira's shoulder, traveling down until her fingers could thread through Mira's. "How about this: we go on one date. Just one. See how it feels. No pressure, no expectations. If it's good, we keep going. We’ll navigate what a multi-partner relationship looks like. If it's not, we stay friends, and we never have to talk about this again. And I will still love you no matter what, okay? Either way, I just want you in my life, Mir."
It was such a Zoey solution: practical and kind and low-stakes. The kind of thing that should've felt like relief.
Mira opened her eyes and looked at their intertwined hands. Zoey's baby blue nails were chipped, and she had a small scar on her knuckle from a biking accident in middle school. Silver rings from Claire’s stacked up her fingers, some down to the base while others rested below the first knuckle. Everything about her was familiar and known.
"Okay," Mira heard herself say. "One date."
Zoey's face split into a grin, bright and genuine. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Okay!" Zoey squeezed her hand, bouncing slightly. "This is–okay. Friday night? We could, um…go to the boardwalk? Ferris wheel, ice cream, and all that?"
"Friday works."
"Perfect." Zoey was practically vibrating with excitement now, and despite everything, Mira felt herself smile. "This is going to be great, Ri-Ri. I promise."
And then Zoey was leaning in.
It wasn't rushed–
Zoey gave her time to pull away, time to say no. But Mira didn't. She let Zoey close the distance between them, let Zoey's hand cup her jaw with a gentleness that made her chest ache. A kindness she didn’t feel like she had earned yet. Would ever earn.
When their lips met, it was soft at first. Tentative. Zoey tasted like cherry from her milkshake, sweet and artificial. Her lips were warm, slightly chapped, and she kissed the way she did everything else—with her complete attention, with passion. Like Mira was the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment.
Zoey's other hand found Mira's hip, fingers sliding under the hem of her sweatshirt to touch bare skin. The contact sent a jolt through Mira's nervous system, not quite desire but something adjacent to it. Her body responded even as her mind stayed detached, cataloging sensations: the pressure of Zoey's mouth, the way her breath hitched, and the warmth of her palm against Mira's side.
Zoey deepened the kiss, her tongue brushing against Mira's bottom lip in question. Mira opened for her without thinking, let Zoey in, and felt Zoey's satisfied hum vibrate between them. Zoey's hand on her hip tightened, pulling Mira closer until she had to shift from the floor, had to turn and half-climb onto the couch to make the angle work.
Now Mira was pressed against Zoey, their bodies fitting together in a way that should've felt right. Zoey's hands were in her hair, loosening the braid she'd just finished, and Mira's own hands found Zoey's waist, gripping tight because she didn't know what else to do with them.
It was good. Objectively, it was good. Zoey knew how to kiss—knew when to be gentle and when to take, knew how to make the moment feel important without being heavy. Her hands on Mira's body were confident, sure, like she'd thought about this before. Like she'd wanted it.
But beneath the physical sensations, beneath the heat building between them, Mira felt…distant. Like she was watching herself kiss Zoey instead of being present in it. Like she was conducting and cataloging an experiment: If I do this, will I feel something? If I let her touch me here, what will happen next?
At some point, Zoey had shifted into her lap. One hand was cupped around the back of her neck, guiding Mira entirely, and the other was pushing her sweatshirt higher up her hip to reveal more skin.
The front door opened.
Mira's eyes flew open—she hadn't even realized she'd closed them—and she pulled back from Zoey so fast she nearly pushed her off the couch.
Rumi stood in the doorway, keys dangling from her fingers. Her hair was messier than it had been at lab, her makeup slightly smudged. She looked tired, or wired, or both—that restless energy that meant she'd been walking for hours, burning off whatever was eating at her. From the sliver of skin her crop top and low-rise pants revealed, Mira could see a hint of gauze taped to her hip.
Her eyes landed on them. On Mira's swollen lips, on Zoey's hands still tangled in Mira's hair, on the way they were pressed together on the couch like teenagers caught making out.
For a second—just one second—something cracked across Rumi's face. Something raw and quickly buried, like bone breaking under skin.
Then she smiled, too bright. "Hey, movie night?"
Mira couldn't speak. Her throat had closed up entirely, her tongue thick and useless in her mouth. She was still half in Zoey's lap, Zoey's hands still on her, and she felt frozen—unable to move closer or pull away.
"Rumi!" Zoey said, and her voice was breathless, happy, completely oblivious to the way Rumi's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Oh my god, perfect timing. We were just–"
Zoey stopped, seeming to realize for the first time that maybe this wasn't the best way to share the news. Then, she coughed out, “–about to start another movie. Want to join?”
Rumi's gaze flicked between them, landing on Mira for a beat too long. Mira wanted to say something—it's not what it looks like or I can explain or even just I'm sorry—but what would she even be apologizing for? This is what she had told Mira to do.
"It’s okay, I’m a bit tired," Rumi said finally, voice light and hollow. "I, um, hope you enjoy, though. Let me…let me know how it goes. Is. Whatever."
She didn't wait for a response. Just walked past them toward her bedroom, keys jingling in her fist. Her hook by the door stayed empty; Rumi didn't even pause. The bedroom door closed behind her with a soft click—not a slam, not the anger Mira had experienced for the first decade and change of her life, just…closed.
Gone and removed.
Mira sat frozen on the couch, Zoey's hands still resting on her waist and the taste of chalky cherry milkshape lingering on her lips.
"Shit," Zoey breathed, finally seeming to understand. "That was…do you think she's okay?"
Mira didn't answer. She was staring at Rumi's closed door, her chest hollow and aching, and thinking:
What have I done?
Notes:
longest chapter yet! hopefully it feels like the plot is moving a bit faster now! it took us a bit to stretch out our legs (establish world building, figure out how to co-write fiction, etc.), but now we're running!
chapters will likely be every other sunday, now. because MW has not even started the next chapter and, well, we want to make sure rumi/jinu have their fair bit of screen time.
comments and kudos appreciated but never mandatory! we do this shit for the love of the game fr. and ejae.
- MW & TT <3
Chapter 7: Underneath Your Skin
Summary:
Jinu never knew when to stop himself.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jinu had been staring at the email for the past ten minutes.
hey its rumi
Three words. No punctuation. Effortlessly casual, just like the girl on the other side of the screen. So of course he had responded like an idiot with a 300-character rant that, after hitting send, made Jinu nearly bash his head against the wall in embarrassment.
Hours of lamenting later, Rumi graced him with a response and Jinu wrote back in seconds—now works or 7 or literally whenever. i'll be here—before he could think better of it.
Now it was 6:47 p.m., and he was trying very hard not to watch the door.
"You're being weird," Baby said from the front desk, not looking up from his Game Boy. The screen between the waiting room and the artists’ work stations was between them, so Baby was reduced to a shadow and the tinny sound effects of whatever game he was playing, loud enough to just barely cut through Soundgarden's guitar whine. "Weirder than usual, I mean."
"I'm not being weird."
"You've reorganized your station twice and now you’re hovering behind my desk. You only do that when you're nervous."
Jinu looked down at his hands. Baby was right, although being able to sense his movements with a wall (albeit flimsy) between them was not something most young akma could do. He'd been shuffling sketch papers, arranging and rearranging his ink caps, and wiping down surfaces that were already clean. Now he was pacing behind the divider, picking at his nails if only so he had something to bite.
The hunger sat low in his stomach, a constant hum he'd learned to live with, but it had sharpened since the party. Since her.
Rumi's soul had tasted like smoke and sugar when he'd caught that first whiff of it outside the frat house. Sweet with an edge of char, like caramelized fruit left too long on the flame. He'd given her his cigarette—a brand he had plucked from her surface level essence and conjured just for her—to have an excuse to stay close, to breathe her in without making it obvious what he was really doing.
It hadn't been enough.
It was never enough, he was a ravenous thing after all, but with Rumi, it had felt different. Most people's souls were bland—functional, forgettable, the spiritual equivalent of white bread slathered with unsalted butter. Sustaining but unremarkable. Hers had flavor. Complexity. The kind that made his mouth water and his hands shake.
He was used to being hungry, but for the first time since Gwi-Ma had snipped his mortal chord, Jinu was starving.
Centuries of being hungry and alone were creeping up on him, and like a cornered creature, it was only a matter of time before he bared his fangs and fought everything in front of him indiscriminately.
Everyone he'd ever gotten close to, he'd hurt eventually. It was just what he was.
And he should not have invited Rumi here.
"She's probably not coming," Jinu said, more to himself than Baby. Half hoping it was true.
Baby popped his gum, loud and obnoxious. "Who?"
"No one."
"Uh-huh." Another pop, this one more like a punctuation mark. "Is this about that girl from Sunday? The one Mira looked ready to murder you over?"
Jinu winced. Mira's eyes had been sharp enough to cut glass when she'd found Rumi with him. Maybe she could tell what he was, had seen patterns crawling up his neck or a flash of gold in his eyes that couldn’t be justified by the light. Or maybe she just recognized the look of a predator circling something precious, something that belonged to her.
"I wasn't doing anything," Jinu said.
"You were talking to her friend alone while she was drunk. That’s, like, at least two things. With potential for hundreds more."
"I wasn’t…I would never–"
Baby waved him off with a shadowy hand before returning to his game. “You know I’m on your side, man. Just calling it what it looks like.”
Jinu deflated, swallowing the ache in his throat. “I was just making sure she was okay."
"And that required being alone with her on a back patio because…?"
Because she'd looked lost. Because when she'd stumbled out that door, she'd reminded him of every person he'd ever seen teetering on an edge they didn't see was there. Because he was lonely, she was beautiful, and he was tired of pretending he didn't want things he had no right to.
"Shut up, Baby."
"I’d like to see you try and make me from over there, old man."
Jinu was about to respond when the door chimed.
He felt her before he even saw her silhouette—that pull, that sudden spike of want that made his teeth ache. The hunger rose up sharp and immediate, and he had to grip the edge of his work table to keep from turning around too fast.
Breathe. Control it. You're not some fledgling who can't handle being around humans.
Baby's voice drifted over the music: "Here for a new tattoo, touch-up, piercing, or Jinu?"
Jinu heard her choke. Literally choke, coughing so hard he almost rushed to her before he caught himself. Not yet. If he looked at her now, with the hunger this sharp, she'd see something in his eyes he couldn't explain away. A flash of his patterns revealing his true colors.
When the coughing subsided, Rumi's voice came out strangled: "I, uh...a tattoo. Whoever is available is fine."
Whoever is available is fine.
Something in Jinu's chest twisted, sharp and bitter. She'd come all the way here, and now she was pretending it didn't matter who she saw?
He recognized the move. He'd pulled the same thing a hundred times—thousands. Act like you don't care so it hurts less when they don't care back.
Baby, bless him, played it straight. "No preference? That's a first. Well, okay. Take a seat and E.J. will be out in like 15 minutes so you can chat with her, but she only does pre-made sketches for walk-ins. That good with you?"
"Yes, absolutely perfect! All good here."
She was lying. Jinu could taste it in the air—the sharp, anxious edge of her disappointment cutting through the smoke and incense that always hung around the shop.
He gave himself three seconds to get the hunger under control. Three seconds to make sure his eyes were fully brown, no gold bleeding through. Three seconds to remind himself that he was going to be careful with her.
Three seconds to tell himself a beautiful lie.
Then he pushed through the folding screen and headed toward Baby's desk.
He kept his eyes down, focusing on the Game Boy screen as he leaned over Baby's shoulder. Pokémon. Figures. Baby was doing something with an orange dinosaur looking thing that could breathe fire.
"What are you doing?" Jinu asked quietly. “Is that your…Little Squirt?”
Baby didn't dignify that with a response, but his index finger slid out from under the Game Boy to point directly at the waiting area.
Jinu followed the gesture.
And there she was.
Yellow, faux-leather jacket catching the overhead lights, purple Noriega dangling from her keys, hair pulled back in a damp braid that made her look younger somehow. Her makeup was carefully applied—sharp eyeliner and glossy lips—but he could see the nervousness in how she held herself. Shoulders tight. Hands fidgeting with her sleeve like she was trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will.
Their eyes met.
Her face went red. Deeply, thoroughly red. The flush crawled down her neck and disappeared under her collar, likely stretching down to places Jinu could only wish to follow. She stopped breathing entirely, just for a moment, and the world around them went still.
Jinu's mouth went dry.
Poor girl. I'm going to ruin you, he thought, and hated himself for how much he wanted to anyway.
"Oh," he managed, straightening up. Professional. He could be professional. "Hey."
"Uh, hey. Fancy seeing you here. Didn't expect that at all." Her laugh came out wrong—too high and too fast, the first time he had heard her off-pitch. Truly off-balanced. She was gripping her jacket sleeve so hard her knuckles had gone white.
Jinu turned to Baby, keeping his voice level even as the hunger whispered to taste her, taste, her taste her in the back of his mind. "I've got a few hours before we close. I'll take her back to mine."
Baby's thumb never stopped moving on the D-pad. "Don't do anything weird."
"When have I ever–"
"Last week. That guy with the neck tattoo who left crying."
"He had a low pain tolerance–"
"Tuesday. The girl with the butterfly."
Jinu felt heat creep up his neck, red enough to make him and Rumi a matching pair. "That was one time, and she specifically asked–" He cut himself off, catching Rumi's expression out of the corner of his eye. She looked caught between amusement and alarm. "Never mind. Come on, my station's just right here."
He didn't wait to see if she'd follow—couldn't trust himself to look at her directly yet, not with the hunger this close to the surface. But he heard her footsteps behind him, the soft scuff of her shoes against the concrete floor, and felt the warmth of her presence like a beacon.
The main floor was organized chaos as always. Stations divided by temporary walls and curtains, the buzz of tattoo machines underlaid with competing music. E.J. was working on someone's back piece with Deftones blasting. Mystery had old Korean ballads playing, the kind that made Jinu ache with a homesickness for a place he'd never actually lived. And Romeo–
"–swear to God, if you cry I'm charging you double," Romeo's voice drifted from behind a partition, followed by genuine sobbing. From the irritation he could hear in Romeo’s voice, Jinu could tell he wasn’t even feeding.
Rumi's steps faltered. "Is that normal?"
"For Romeo? Yeah." Jinu glanced back at her, caught her wide-eyed expression, and felt something in his chest ease slightly. "He's got a way with people."
"Clearly."
He'd chosen this spot specifically for privacy—tucked in the back, partially hidden by a permanent wall on one side and a heavy curtain on the other. Fewer people watching meant fewer questions about why his clients always left looking dazed. Dreamy. A little too pale.
Seniority allowed him to choose first, second only to Gwi-Ma themself.
The walls were mostly bare except for his sketches. He'd pinned them up haphazardly over the months, adding new designs whenever inspiration struck: three ravens in flight, feathers falling like dark snow. A tiger running, urged on by blue lightning that struck with every step. Roses tangled with thorns. Celestial designs—moons, stars, whole constellations mapped in delicate linework. Moths with intricate wing patterns and skulls staring blankly out from their thoraxes. Dragonflies frozen in time mid-flight. Korean characters he'd practiced until the strokes felt natural under his hands again, until he stopped trembling. Pin-ups with knowing smiles. Hearts wrapped in barbed wire and tightening around the unassuming form of a thin dragon. Butterflies, no longer able to flap their wings, caught in chains.
Rumi stopped just inside his space, and Jinu watched her eyes go wide.
"These are beautiful," she breathed.
The hunger stirred at her appreciation—at the life in her voice, the genuine wonder—but beneath it Jinu felt something close to shame. She was looking at his art like it was something precious, and all he could think about was how her soul would taste if he let himself feed properly.
"You can customize one of these if you don't like any of them," he said, pulling out his sketchbook and a pencil. Busy hands and enough distance between them. Professional. "Or, I can draw something new, but that'll take a bit longer."
"No, I like them!" She stepped closer to the wall, fingers hovering near a trio of four-pointed stars but not quite touching. "They're all great. These especially…the stars."
Of course, she liked the stars. Something about her had always seemed stellar to him, a golden glow piercing the night. Burning bright and beautiful and completely unaware of how far her image traveled.
"What stands out to you?" He flipped to a clean page, pencil ready. "Any specific elements?"
"The swirls here." She traced the air near a design where the seven stars of the north dangled from a chain connecting them to flowing cyber sigil lines.
"And these stars. I want three stars…I don't know where I want it though. Or exactly what it should look like."
Jinu started sketching, letting his hand move while he talked. It was easier than looking at her directly. "Okay. First question, where do you not want it?"
"Arms, definitely. My aunt would kill me."
"Thigh?"
"Maybe? But I couldn't wear shorts around her. In Miami. In the summer."
He smiled despite himself. "Ribs? Chest?"
"Lower back?" She paused. "Or chest, maybe? I don't know, is that…would that be weird?"
"Nothing's weird. It's your body." Jinu kept his eyes on the paper, sketching a spiral with small stars scattered through it. "But the lower back gives us more space to work with. We could do something that wraps around your hip, frames your waist. Probably best to start small and leave room to add to it later if you want."
"Later?"
"If you like it. Some people start with one piece and end up covering their whole back." He glanced up, caught her expression—nervous but intrigued—and felt the hunger pulse. "No pressure though. We can keep it small."
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking. Jinu watched the movement and immediately looked away, focusing very hard on adding an additional, unnecessary detail to his sketch.
"Hip sounds good," she finally said. "Left side?"
"Left side works." He turned the sketchbook toward her, showing her the basic shape—a decorative swirl that would curve along and up her hip bone, a trio of four-pointed stars of varying sizes but all stretched tall and proud scattered through it, delicate chain-work connecting them. "Something like this? We can adjust whatever you want."
Rumi leaned over to look, and suddenly she was close—close enough that he could smell coconut and lavender in her hair. Close enough that the hunger spiked so sharply he had to grip his pencil to keep his hands steady. Dizzy with desire.
Don't, he told himself. Don't do this to her.
"I love it," she said softly. "Can we–is it okay if we start tonight?"
Every survival instinct screamed at him to say no. To send her home, tell her he was booked, make up any excuse that would put distance between them.
But Jinu had been alone for a long, long time. And she was looking at him like he mattered.
"Yeah," he heard himself say, softly sealing both their fates. "We can start tonight."
✦.˳.✧·˖✶
Getting her situated took longer than it should have.
Jinu kept finding reasons to step away—adjusting the lamp angle, double-checking his ink setup, sanitizing equipment that was already clean. Anything to delay the moment when he'd have to put his hands on her and pretend he was just a normal tattoo artist doing a normal job.
Rumi sat on the edge of his chair, looking small and uncertain in a way that made his chest ache. She'd shed the yellow jacket, draping it over the back of a stool and was now picking at the hem of her sleeveless, white turtleneck.
"So, uh." She cleared her throat. "How does this work? Do I just…?"
"You'll need to pull your shirt up and your pants down a bit," Jinu said, pleased when his voice came out steady and clinical. "Just enough to expose your left hip. I'll get you positioned and we'll do a transfer of the design first, make sure you like the placement before we start."
"Oh. Right. Obviously." She laughed, that same too-high nervous sound from earlier, and started tugging at her waistband.
Jinu turned away, busying himself with preparing the stencil. He could hear the rustle of fabric behind him, the whisper of denim sliding down.
Professional. You're a professional. You've tattooed hundreds of people and managed not to feed on them, let alone kill them.
Yet.
"Okay," Rumi said quietly. "I think I'm ready?"
He turned back and immediately regretted it.
She'd pulled her shirt up to just below her ribs and pushed her jeans down to mid-thigh, exposing a strip of pale skin along her left side. The matching Victoria's Secret set was visible—purple lace peeking above her waistband and wrapping around her ribs. She was lying on her right side on the chair, one arm folded and tucked under her ear, looking up at him with those wide golden eyes full of nervous anticipation.
The hunger inside of him roared.
Jinu swallowed hard and forced himself to move closer, holding the stencil like a shield between them. "I'm going to clean the area first, then apply the transfer. It'll feel a little cold."
"Okay."
He pulled on gloves—latex snapping against his wrists, a tiny pain to keep him in check—and reached for the alcohol wipe. The first touch of his fingers against her skin made them both freeze.
Her soul sang.
That was the only way Jinu could describe it. Most people's souls were quiet things, a basic background hum and easy to ignore. They staved off the hunger, but he never swayed himself into thinking they would ever fill the bottomless pit.
But Rumi's soul was all-consuming, powerful and so rich that it almost hurt. Smoke and sugar, yes, but underneath there was something darker, more complex. Grief that tasted like discarded cigarette ash. Longing that tasted like the ocean’s salty spray. Fear that tasted like copper. Joy that tasted like honey. All of it swirling together into something so rich and alive it made him want to devour her whole, tear the flesh straight off her bones.
"Sorry," he managed, pulling back like her skin had burned him. "Cold hands."
"It's fine." Her voice was breathless. "I don't mind."
She doesn't know. She has no idea what you are.
Jinu cleaned the area with careful, clinical movements, trying to ignore the way her skin pebbled under his touch. The stencil went on smoothly. He pressed it against her skin, holding it steady while it transferred, and used the time to get himself under control.
When he peeled the stencil away, the design sat perfect against her hip—delicate swirls and stars, exactly where they should be.
"Want to see?" he asked.
Rumi tried to twist around to look, failed, then laughed. The sound was unguarded, genuine, and it hit him like a strike to the face. "I don't think I'm flexible enough for that."
“Come see it, then,” he said, offering her a hand.
She smiled when she took it, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and inching over to the mirror with her hands on her jeans to keep them in place. Jinu quietly watched her reflection light up with a pure sort of joy as she angled her body to study the design, running her fingers just below the ink.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, it's perfect."
Something warm unfurled in his chest, a content purr entirely separate from the ever-present hunger. The simple, dangerous pleasure of making someone happy.
"Good," he said, setting the mirror aside and trying to memorize the way she looked right now—happy, excited, and whole. Relatively untouched by his dark influence. "I'm going to start now. It'll hurt at first—everyone's pain tolerance is different. Let me know if you need a break."
"I'm tougher than I look."
"I don't doubt it."
After Rumi re-positioned herself on the bed, Jinu settled into his stool. No longer a novice, he didn’t have to brace himself on her thigh for support, but he found himself doing it anyway. His bare arm against her clothed leg, his latex-covered fingers against her skin.
The familiar weight of his tattoo gun in his hand was grounding. This he knew how to do. This he could control.
The first pass of the needle made Rumi tense.
"Breathe," Jinu said quietly. "It's easier if you breathe through it."
She exhaled shakily. "Does it get better?"
"You get used to it. Some people even like it, after a while. Can’t help but come back for more."
"Masochists."
"A bit." He worked in silence for a moment, laying down the outline of the first swirl. The machine buzzed steadily. "How's the pain?"
"It's…weird? Not as bad as I thought. Kind of burns. Like itching a sunburn."
"That's normal."
Another pass. Another line. The design was taking shape nicely, crisp and clean against her skin. Jinu let himself fall into the rhythm of it—the familiar meditation of ink and needle, the careful precision required.
And then, without meaning to, he fed.
It wasn't conscious. That was the thing about his hunger—if he was depleted and not actively suppressing it, it would take what it wanted. And Jinu's control, already stretched thin just from being near her, slipped entirely.
Just a taste, he thought. Just a sip.
Her soul flooded his senses and he nearly gasped. It was better than it had been at the party, richer and more complex. The smoke was cedar and tobacco. The sugar was burnt honey. And underneath it all was something that tasted like midnight—dark and endless and shot through with stars.
He could taste her memories in it. Her mother's funeral—rain and grief. Her father's decline—whiskey and shame. Her first kiss, a girl at a summer camp whose name she couldn't remember—strawberry lip gloss and terror. Her love for Mira—so bright and tangled it almost hurt to swallow. And Zoey, too, quieter and more unassuming, but there nonetheless. Creeping like a vine.
Jinu's hand stayed steady on the machine even as his pulse spiked. The hunger sang in satisfaction, already wanting more, but he forced it back down.
He was lying to himself. He knew he was lying to himself. But the lie was easier than admitting what he was really doing, what he couldn’t stop himself from doing.
Rumi shivered violently.
"You okay?" he asked, not looking up from his work. Coward.
"Yeah, I just–" She paused, and he could hear her trying to steady her breathing. "Everything went kind of gray for a second? Like all the color drained out."
Fuck.
Her voice was thinner now, stretched tight like a wire about to snap. "And I feel…empty? That's weird, right? Like something's missing. I don't know but I haven’t…felt like this since I got sober."
Jinu's hand stilled on the machine. That was the soul loss talking—that hollow ache people got when he took too much. Most didn't recognize it for what it was, just knew something felt wrong.
"It's the adrenaline crash," he lied, hating himself more with every word. But what was the alternative? Tell her he couldn’t control himself? That she needed to run and never look back? "Happens sometimes. I can take a break if you need."
"No, it's okay." But her hand was trembling where it rested under her head. "I just feel really sad all of a sudden. Like I’m about to cry, but you’re not hurting me, and everything in my life is okay, so I don’t know why."
The guilt hit him like a fist to the chest. This was what he did. This was what he was. A monster that took warmth and light from stars until all the way left was a cold, empty void.
"We can stop," he said, even as he kept working. "Seriously, Rumi. If you need to stop–"
"I'm fine." She took a shaky breath. "It's passing. I think I just didn’t eat enough today."
She was making excuses for him. Rationalizing away what he was doing to her because the alternative—that something was genuinely wrong and Jinu was at the center of it—was too frightening to consider.
Jinu forced himself to pull back completely. Stopped feeding, stopped taking, focused entirely on the tattoo. The hunger howled in protest, a physical ache in his jaw and pushing at the back of his eyes, but he ignored it.
He wouldn't drain her. He wouldn't be that monster.
Not yet. Not today.
They worked in silence for a while after that. Jinu, with his forcibly steady hands and suppressed hunger; Rumi, with color slowly rising into her cheeks as her soul replenished what he had stolen.
"Can I ask you something?" Rumi said eventually, her voice stronger but still carrying that thread of melancholy he'd put there.
"Sure."
"Why'd you give me your number? At Soda, I mean. You didn't have to do that."
Jinu's hand paused for half a second before continuing. Dangerous question.
"You looked like you needed a friend," he said carefully. "And you seemed cool. Thought it'd be nice to get to know you."
"Even though when we met I was drunk and probably smelled like a frat basement?"
"Especially then." His voice came out softer than he meant it to. "Anyone can be charming when they're sober. But you were kind even when you were a mess. That's rare."
She was quiet for a moment. "That's a weird philosophy, normally it’s the other way around."
"Yeah, well. I'm a weird guy."
"I'm starting to get that."
They fell into more comfortable silence after that. Jinu worked, Rumi lay still, and the only sounds were the buzz of the machine and the faint music bleeding in from other stations.
Thirty minutes in, the hunger rose again.
He'd been so careful, so controlled, but it was getting harder. Her soul was right there, warm and bright, singing to him with every breath she took. And she was relaxed now, her defenses down. Ripe for the taking. It would be so easy to just take a little more.
His hand drifted from her hip to her waist, ostensibly steadying her as he worked on a particularly delicate section. The largest of the three stars was centered on her hipbone, which even the more experienced customers couldn’t help but twitch against. The touch was necessary, professional even, but the moment his palm pressed flat against her skin, he felt it—that connection, that open channel.
The hunger surged, and he let it.
Just a little, he told himself. She won't even notice.
Rumi's soul poured into him like water into a drought-cracked riverbed. He tasted her love for her friends—fierce and protective. Her grief for her mother—old but still raw. Her fear of becoming her father—sharp and all-consuming. Her confusion about Mira—aching and sweet.
He tasted her loneliness. The bone-deep certainty that she was too broken to be loved properly, shattered glass.
And God help him, Jinu understood that loneliness. Recognized it like looking in a mirror.
"Jinu?"
Her voice was distant, dreamy. Like she was falling into an infinite abyss.
He stopped immediately, pulling back so hard he nearly dropped the machine. "Yeah?"
"I feel weird."
Fuck. Fuck. Too much.
"Weird how?" He reached for a paper towel, wiping down the fresh ink while trying to assess the damage he'd just done.
"Like…floating? Everything's kind of soft around the edges. Blurry. Like being high but less silly." She tried to push herself up and her arm wobbled, unable to support her weight. "Whoaaa."
"Hey, easy." Jinu caught her shoulder, steadying her, and tried not to notice how pale she'd gone. "You need some water? Something with sugar?"
"I'm okay. Just–" She blinked slowly, like even that took effort. "Can we take a break?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course." He set the machine aside and yanked off his gloves, guilt churning in his stomach like acid. "Stay there. I'll grab you something."
He pushed through the curtain and nearly ran into Baby in the hallway.
"She okay?" Baby asked, not looking up from his Game Boy but somehow knowing anyway.
"Fine. Just needs water."
"Uh-huh." Baby's eyes flicked up, turquoise stare sharp and knowing. "You're feeding."
"I'm not–"
"You are. I can tell. Your eyes are doing the thing."
Jinu touched his face reflexively, knowing he'd find nothing. The gold never showed in reflections, only to people who knew what to look for. "I'm being careful."
"Doesn't look that way from here, bro."
"Baby–"
"I'm not judging." Baby's voice was surprisingly gentle. He glanced towards Jinu’s station, where Rumi was curled up with her knees to her chest. "Just saying, she looks half-dead, and it has only been an hour. Maybe ease up? Unless you're trying to kill her."
The words hit like a slap. "I'm not trying to…I wouldn't–"
"Not on purpose, anyway." Baby went back to his game, but his voice stayed soft. "You never do it on purpose, Jin. Doesn't mean it doesn't happen."
Jinu wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself, but Baby was right. He was taking too much.
"I'll be more careful," he muttered.
Baby popped his gum. "You better. Gwi-Ma will kill you if you drain someone on the clock. And I'll help them hide your body."
"I'm not going to drain her."
“And then Mira is going to storm in here raising hell, which Abby is going to use as a reason to hit on her again, then she’ll kill him, then Romance will kill her for killing his boo thang, then he’ll kill himself for killing her, and that’s just a lot of bodies for me to deal with.”
“I’m not going to drain her.”
"Not on purpose," Baby repeated. Then, quieter: "But you like her. And you have a history of not being able to help yourself."
Jinu didn't have an answer for that. Couldn't argue with a truth that sat heavy on his chest like stones. Like an avalanche.
He grabbed a water bottle from the mini-fridge they kept in the back and a bag of chips from the stash Baby hoarded. When he pushed back through the curtain, Rumi was sitting up, looking small and dazed and so pale it made his chest ache.
This is what you do, he thought. This is what you are.
"Hey," he said softly, trying to inject artificial warmth into his voice. "Brought you supplies."
She took the water gratefully, chugging half of it before coming up for air with a gasp. "Thanks. I don't know what happened, I just–everything got really spinny for a second."
"It happens sometimes," Jinu lied. Half-lied, really. "Your body's processing a lot: the pain, the adrenaline…sometimes people's blood sugar drops." He handed her the chips. "These will help. Take your time, okay? We won’t re-start until you’re feeling better."
Rumi tore open the bag and started eating mechanically. Color was already returning to her cheeks though, her soul replenishing itself the way human souls always did.
"Sorry," she said through a mouthful of chips. "I'm probably being a total baby about this."
"You're not. Everyone reacts differently." He settled back onto his stool, deliberately keeping distance between them this time. "We can call it for tonight if you want. Come back another time to finish."
"No!" She said it too quickly, too forcefully, then seemed to catch herself. "I mean…I want to finish. If that's okay. I just needed a minute."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." She met his eyes, and there was determination there beneath the haze. "I want to see it done."
Jinu should have said no. Should have lied and said he had another appointment.
But he'd been alone for so long.
And she was looking at him like he mattered.
And at his core, Jinu was not a good man.
"Okay," he said, damning them both. "But we're taking it slow. And you tell me the second you feel off again."
"Deal."
She lay back down, Jinu pulled on fresh gloves, and they started again.
This time, he didn't feed at all.
It was harder than it should have been—like holding his breath underwater, fighting every instinct that screamed at him to just take. The hunger clawed at him, a living thing with teeth and rage, furious at being denied. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth. His hands trembled slightly from the fear of accidentally touching. Behind his eyes, pressure built like a migraine.
But he managed it, focusing entirely on the tattoo. On making every line perfect.
Rumi started talking again as he worked, her voice still a little dreamy but stronger than before. She told him about her classes—organic chemistry that was kicking her ass, a lab partner who was "annoyingly perfect at everything but somehow not annoying about it, you know?" She told him about living above Soda, about Bobby who made terrible puns and the best hangover breakfasts. About Zoey's musical theater obsession and her habit of breaking into song at inappropriate moments.
She didn't mention Mira by name, but Jinu heard her in every story. The friend who always knew when Rumi needed help, who made her eat vegetables, who held her hair back when she vomited and tucked her into bed. The friend who was "maybe going to ask out our other roommate which is totally fine, and I'm totally happy for them."
The friend—Jinu knew for a fact—Rumi was secretly in love with but definitely running from.
"You're good people, Rumi Kang," Jinu said without thinking. It wasn’t anything in particular she said, but everything together. Her words, her laugh, her eyes. Her soul.
She went quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was small. "I don't know about that."
"I do."
"You don't even know me."
"Not yet," he said, echoing his own words from the party. Then, quieter, more honest: "But I want to."
The last link of the chain went on smoothly. Jinu sat back, surveying his work with something close to pride. It was beautiful—delicate and strong at once, perfectly suited to the curve of her hip. Perfectly suited for the girl.
"We're done," he said, wiping down the fresh ink one final time.
Rumi tried to twist to see, failed again, laughed. "I really need to work on my flexibility."
Jinu handed her the mirror, angling it so she wouldn’t have to get up this time. Watched her face carefully, trying to memorize this moment before everything went wrong the way it always, always did.
Her eyes went wide. Her breath caught. A smile spread across her face, genuine and unguarded and so bright it hurt to look at.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Jinu, it's perfect."
Her soul pulsed, and Jinu’s darkness leapt to the surface in answer. To swallow her whole. It took everything to hold himself back, bittersweet blood on his tongue.
"Good," he said. "I'm glad."
He bandaged her up carefully, explaining aftercare while trying not to notice how close they were again. How the scent of her—coconut and lavender and something uniquely her—filled the small space.
"Keep it covered for a few hours," he said, taping down the edges of the bandage with meticulous care. "Then wash it gently with antibacterial soap. Pat it dry, don't rub. Use unscented lotion—nothing with fragrance or alcohol. It'll be tender for a few days, but it can get infected if you pick at it, so–"
"Jinu."
He looked up and found her watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Something soft and uncertain. Almost shy.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "Not just for the tattoo. For…tonight. All of it."
Don't thank me, he wanted to say. I fed on you, I hurt you, and I don’t even have the balls to admit it. Or at least to drive you away so I never do it again.
But the hunger whispered that he should say something clever, something that would make her come back.
"Anytime," Jinu said, and meant it even though he shouldn't.
She paid in full—insisted on paying even though he tried to give her a discount—and pulled her jacket back on. At the curtain, she paused, fingers gripping the fabric.
"Can I come back?" Her voice was small, hopeful. "To finish the design? If I want to add more?"
No, Rumi. I never want to see you again. I hate myself, and you should hate me, too. Run while you still can.
"Yeah," Jinu said. "Whenever you want."
She smiled—genuine and devastating—and then she was gone, leaving only the fading scent of coconut shampoo and the ghost of her warmth in his chair.
Jinu sat in his station, surrounded by the smell of ink and antiseptic and his own self-loathing, and tried to figure out what the fuck he was doing.
Baby appeared in the doorway, Game Boy tucked under one arm, expression carefully neutral.
"You're in trouble," he said matter-of-factly.
"I know."
"Like, serious trouble."
"I know."
"You're going to do it anyway, aren't you? Keep seeing her. Keep feeding."
Jinu looked at the space where Rumi had been, at the chair that still held the shadow of her warmth, and felt something in his chest crack open. Something that had been locked away for so long he'd forgotten it was there.
Want. Hope. The terrible, dangerous belief that maybe this time could be different.
It wouldn't be. It never was.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think I am."
Baby sighed, long and weary. "Well. At least try not to kill her. Or get her to the point where it would be kinder to just finish the job."
"I'll do my best."
"That's what you said about the last one, though."
Jinu flinched. Baby was talking about Emma, the girl from two years ago who'd come in for a sleeve and left with more than ink. Who'd kept coming back, session after session, while Jinu fed and fed and told himself he was being careful. Until one day she just…stopped coming.
He'd heard later that she'd transferred schools. Dropped out, maybe. He'd never had the courage to find out what really happened.
He knew it wasn't a coincidence. He always knew.
"I'll be more careful this time," Jinu said.
"You always say that."
"I mean it this time."
Baby just looked at him, expression unreadable. Then he shook his head and walked away, leaving Jinu alone with his choices and his hunger and the terrible knowledge of what he was.
✦.˳.✧·˖✶
After Baby left, Jinu cleaned his station with mechanical precision. Disposed of needles, wiped down surfaces, organized his ink.
And he thought…
About the way Rumi had tasted—smoke and sugar and starlight.
About how much he'd taken without meaning to.
Lies. You meant to. You always meant to, even when you pretend you don’t.
About the fact that she was going to come back, and he was going to let her, and eventually he was going to drain her dry unless he figured out how to stop.
Rumi had no idea what she was getting into. What he was. What this would cost her eventually.
And Jinu, selfish creature that he was, wasn't going to tell her. Not yet. Not when she looked at him like he was someone worth knowing. Not when the alternative was going back to being alone.
He'd be more careful next time. He'd control himself.
Lies. All lies. But you’ve been lying to yourself for so long that you’d don’t even know what the truth feels like.
He shut off the lights in his station and was about to head for the front when he heard it.
The door chime.
Jinu's head snapped up. They were closed; Baby had already locked up, or should have. But through the half-open curtain of his station, he could see a familiar yellow jacket stumbling through the front door.
Rumi.
She'd come back.
"We're closed–" Baby started, but Jinu was already moving, pushing through the curtain before Baby could finish.
Rumi stood just inside the doorway, and everything about her was wrong.
Her makeup was smeared—mascara tracking down her cheeks in dark rivers, eyeliner smudged into bruises beneath her eyes. Her hair had come loose from its braid, wisps sticking to her damp face. The yellow jacket hung crooked on her shoulders like she'd thrown it on without looking. But it was her eyes that made Jinu's chest constrict—red-rimmed and glassy, pupils blown wide with something that looked like shock.
Or heartbreak.
Oh, Rumi.
"Rumi?" He crossed the space between them in three strides. He instinctively shielded her from Baby, his back as a barrier to hide her weakness. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I–" Her voice cracked. She wrapped her arms around herself, smaller than he'd ever seen her. "I need another tattoo. Right now. Can you–I'll pay extra, I just–"
"Hey, slow down." Jinu reached for her elbow, gentle and grounding. She was trembling. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. I'm fine. I just want–" She sucked in a breath that sounded more like a sob. "Please. I need you to do another one. Anything. I don't care what, just–please."
Behind him, Jinu could sense Baby go still, watching them with sharp, predatory eyes.
Jinu wanted to flash his fangs and claim his mark, but Rumi didn’t need to witness a demonic pissing contest. Even while distraught, she was a smart girl.
"You're not fine," Jinu said quietly. "And I'm not tattooing you like this."
"Why not? You did earlier–"
"Earlier you were excited. Now you're–" He gestured helplessly at her, at the mess of tears and running makeup and visible pain. "You're upset. That's different."
"I'm not–" But her voice broke completely, and suddenly she was crying in earnest, body shaking with the force of it.
Jinu looked over his shoulder at Baby, watched the flash of raw hunger drop from his eyes before he sighed and jerked his head toward the back. Your food, your mess. You deal with it.
"Come on," Jinu said softly, guiding Rumi past the front desk toward his station. She followed without resistance, moving like a puppet with cut strings. "Let's get you some water, okay?"
He settled her in his chair—the same chair she'd been in less than an hour ago, when she'd been smiling and whole—and grabbed another bottle of water from the back fridge. She took it mechanically, sipping without seeming to taste it.
Jinu pulled his stool close, close enough that their knees almost touched. "What happened?"
For a long moment, she just stared at the plastic wrapper, turning the bottle over and over in her hands. Then, so quietly he almost missed it: "I saw them."
"Saw who?"
"Mira and Zoey." Her laugh was bitter, broken. "Kissing. Right as I walked in. Like–like they'd been waiting for me to see, or maybe they just didn't care if I did, weren’t thinking of me at all. And I just…I stood there. Like an idiot. And then I left."
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Jinu thought about every story she'd told him tonight, every time her voice had softened around Mira's name. The way she'd said maybe going to ask out our other roommate like it was fine, like it didn't matter, like she wasn't quietly breaking over it.
"I'm sorry," he said and meant it.
"It's fine. I'm fine." She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing mascara further. "I told her to do it, actually. Told her she should ask Zoey out. So really this is–it's what I wanted. I should be happy."
"But you're not."
"But I'm not." Her voice cracked again. "And I don't get to be upset about it because I'm the one who told her to–I don’t want to be the type of straight girl that makes this about her and–” She cut herself off with a shuddering breath. "Can you just…distract me? Please? I don't want to think about it anymore."
Jinu studied her for a long moment. The hunger stirred, recognizing vulnerability, pain. But beneath it was something else—something that wanted to comfort instead of consume.
He didn't know how to do that. He'd never learned.
He’d driven away the only people who could’ve taught him centuries ago.
"I'm not tattooing you tonight," he said firmly, drawing a line in the sand. "You're too upset, and you'd regret it tomorrow.”
Rumi nodded sadly, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “O-oh, okay. No problem, I’ll just–”
Jinu put a hand on her knee, stopping her in place. “No, wait. Stay. I…I won’t tattoo you, but…" He paused, thinking. "What if we played a game instead?"
She looked up from his hand, eyes still wet but curious. "A game?"
"Yeah. A getting-to-know-you game. Since we're apparently doing this…" he gestured between them, "whatever this is. We should probably know more about each other than favorite cigarette brands and pain tolerance." And how your whole world revolves around a girl who might break your heart.
That got a ghost of a smile from her. "Yeah, sure. What kind of game?"
"Truth for truth. I ask you something, you answer honestly. Then you ask me something. Back and forth until…" He shrugged. "Until you feel better. Or until we run out of questions. Or Romeo grabs me for his nightly bedtime story."
Rumi giggled, smiling that sad, broken smile. Finally, she nodded. "Okay. But you go first."
Jinu thought for a moment. "Favorite memory. One that makes you smile no matter how bad you're feeling."
"Oh wow, okay. That's a hard first question. No pulling punches, got it," she said, but her brow furrowed in thought rather than pain. Good. "Okay. Um…This summer, right after we moved in above Soda. Zoey was unpacking and found this old karaoke machine at a thrift store, and we set it up in the living room. Mira swore she wasn't going to sing, but we got her wine drunk—she’s no better than an auntie, I swear—and she ended up doing the entire Grease soundtrack. All the parts. Danny and Sandy. She was so bad because Sandy is wayyy out of her range, but she was so serious about it. I can’t stop now, Rumi. I might as well finish the set. Now, are you going to help me sing ‘Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee’ or not?”
Her smile was real now, soft and genuine. "We laughed so hard I thought I was going to throw up. Like, actually throw up. Bobby came upstairs to tell us to keep it down, but then he joined in and did Greased Lightning, and it was…well, electrifying. Everything was perfect."
The smile faded slightly as she came back to the present, but it didn't disappear entirely. Progress.
"Your turn," Jinu said.
Rumi tilted her head, studying him with those sharp golden eyes. "Same question back at you. Favorite memory."
Fair. "There was this night a couple years ago…I was seventeen, just started apprenticing. Gwi-Ma had closed up shop early because we didn’t have any appointments and didn’t feel like dealing with walk-ins, so me and the guys were hanging out in the front. Mystery brought his guitar, and we just…sat around. Talking, smoking, and listening to him play. Romeo was being less of an asshole than usual, I wish there was a switch on his back or something because I have no idea how to get him back to that setting. Baby wasn't on his Game Boy, and Abby wasn’t checking himself out in the mirror. Everyone was just…present, you know? We were all, just, there in a way we normally aren’t.”
He paused. "And I remember thinking, this is what family is supposed to feel like. Not perfect, not even particularly special. Just…people who chose to be around you because they wanted to, not because they had to. A real family."
"That sounds nice," Rumi said softly.
"It was." He cleared his throat. "My turn. What's something you've never told anyone? Not Mira, not Zoey, not your aunt. Something just for you."
She was quiet for a long time. Long enough that he thought she might not answer. Then: "Sometimes I'm glad my mom died when she did."
The words hung in the air, their meaning dangling just out of reach.
"Not because I didn't love her," Rumi continued, voice barely above a whisper. "But because…she never had to see me become…this. Never had to watch me turn into my father and make all the same mistakes. She got to remember me as her little girl who wanted to be a doctor and taught her Barbies math. Not–" She gestured at herself. "Not whatever this is."
Jinu's chest ached. "You're nineteen. You're really not done becoming anything yet."
"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "Your turn. Same question."
He should deflect. Should ask something lighter. But she'd been honest with him, raw and real, and he owed her the same. Even if he had to spin it in a more palpable way, he could give her something.
"I don't remember what it feels like to be fully…full," Jinu said quietly. "Like, genuinely satisfied. I've been hungry for so long that I've forgotten what it's like to not always want more. And sometimes I'm scared that even if I got everything I wanted, it still wouldn't be enough. That I'm just…broken in a way that can't be fixed. I’m just some sort of vortex that will take and take until there’s nothing left."
Rumi looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached out and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. Her palm was warm, alive, and the touch sent sparks up his arm. Zapped its way right to his shriveled heart.
"I don't think you're broken," she said. "You just think you are. There's a difference."
He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That she didn't understand what he really meant. But her hand in his felt like an anchor, and he wasn't quite ready to let go.
They went back and forth like that for a while—questions ranging from silly to serious. With each answer, Jinu felt something shift between them. A wall coming down. A door opening.
She loved strawberry daiquiris. If she could eat only one thing for the rest of her life, it would be her aunt’s hotteok. Her favorite song was “Killer” by Baby V.O.X.. She was terrified that she would bomb the MCATs and already had had stress dreams about it. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be a Mom, but at least it meant her cursed bloodline would die with her.
And she loved Mira so very much, though she never said it so explicitly.
It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
At some point, Rumi had stopped crying. The redness had faded from her eyes, replaced by something that looked almost like peace. She'd pulled her legs up onto the chair, curling into herself, but she hadn't let go of his hand. Not once.
"Can I ask you something that's not part of the game?" she said eventually.
"Sure."
She bit her lip, suddenly nervous again. "Would you…I mean, do you want to–" She cut herself off, frustrated. "God, I don't know how to say this without sounding absolutely pathetic."
"Try me."
She took a breath. "Would you kiss me?"
Jinu's heart stopped. "Rumi–"
"I know, I know. I'm upset, and you probably think I'm just using you to feel better, and maybe I am, but I–" She looked up at him, eyes honest and devastating. "I just want to feel something good right now. Something that's mine. And you make me feel good. Safe. Like I don't have to be anything except what I am. It’s…nice."
Don't, every rational part of him screamed. She's vulnerable. She's hurting.
But his mouth was moving anyway: "Let's make it a game."
She blinked. "What?"
"Another game. A different kind." He squeezed her hand gently. "We both pick a spot, somewhere we want to be kissed. Don't tell each other where. And then we take turns guessing, kissing different places until we get it right."
A slow smile spread across Rumi's face. "That's either really, really sweet or really, really sadistic."
"Can't it be both?"
She laughed—a real one, light and genuine. "Okay. You're on."
Jinu thought for a moment. There were a thousand places he wanted her to kiss him, but only one that felt right. He scrunched his eyes in mock concentration before relaxing his whole face like he had an epiphany.
"Got it," he said. "You?"
"Mhmm." She was biting back a grin. "Who goes first?"
“Mine might take you a while, so."
"Cocky much?"
“Always.”
She laughed again, shaking her head as she untangled her hand from his and stood, moving closer. Close enough that he could smell her hair again, see the flecks of amber in her golden eyes. Count each individual eyelash. "Close your eyes."
He did.
Her lips pressed against the center of his forehead, soft and warm. A benediction. "There?"
"No."
She kissed his temple. The touch was feather-light, tentative, and Jinu had to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady. The hunger stirred but he pushed it down. Not now. Not during this.
"There?" she asked.
"No."
Her lips found his cheek, then the corner of his jaw. Each touch lingered a little longer than the last, like she was learning the geography of his face. Like she was in no hurry to finish.
Jinu's hands gripped the edge of his stool to keep from reaching for her.
"You're making this really hard," she murmured against his skin.
"Told you."
She pulled back, and he could feel her studying him even with his eyes closed. Considering. Then her breath ghosted across his face and her lips pressed to the bridge of his nose.
"There?"
"No."
"Hmm." She sounded thoughtful. Playful, even. Like she was actually enjoying the game now instead of just using it as a distraction. "You're tricky."
"You haven't even tried the obvious spot yet."
"The obvious spot is boring, which is why I don’t think you went for it. Besides, I'm going for style points."
Despite everything—the hunger, the guilt, the certainty that this would end badly—Jinu smiled. "Style points, huh? Got it."
Her next kiss landed on his chin. Then the spot just below his ear that made him shiver. Then his other cheek, higher this time, close to his eye but not quite.
"You're just guessing randomly now," he said.
"I'm being thorough. There's a difference." Her fingers touched his jaw, tilting his head slightly. "Besides, I'm enjoying the process."
That made two of them. Even without feeding, even without taking anything, this felt good. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with his ever-present hunger. She was choosing to touch him, to learn each inch of skin, and every gentle press of her lips felt like a gift he didn't deserve.
"One more try," Rumi said softly. "Then I'm claiming I won by default."
"That's not how the game works."
"I'm making new rules."
Her lips pressed against his left eyelid. Soft. Gentle. Like he was something precious.
Jinu's breath caught.
"There?" she whispered, and he could hear the smile in her voice. She knew she'd gotten it.
"Yeah," he managed. "There."
"Knew it." She sounded triumphant. Maybe she had known all along. "Your turn."
Jinu opened his eyes to find her grinning at him, and God, she was beautiful. The sadness hadn't completely left her eyes, but it had been pushed back, replaced by something lighter. Playful, even.
He'd done that. For once, he'd made someone feel better instead of worse.
He stood, and suddenly they were close enough that he could feel the heat of her, could count her heartbeats in the pulse of her throat.
"Close your eyes," he said softly.
She did, leaning back slightly against his chair, trusting.
Jinu started the same way she had—forehead first. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and he felt a rush of affection so strong it almost hurt.
Not quite right.
He tried her temple, her cheek, the soft spot behind her ear that made grip the edge of the chair. Each touch made the hunger whisper take, take, take, but he ignored it. This wasn't about feeding. This was about her.
"You're terrible at this," she said, but she was smiling.
"Patience."
He kissed the bridge of her nose. The tip. The corner of her mouth—close enough to taste strawberry chapstick but not quite her lips. She made a small frustrated sound that sent heat straight through him.
"Tease," she accused.
"Thorough," he corrected. "There's a difference."
Jinu let himself take his time. Kissed her jaw, the hollow beneath it. The spot where her pulse fluttered wild and fast. She tilted her head back, giving him access, and her hands came up to rest on his shoulders—not pulling or taking, just touching. Grounding.
He was hard. Had been since she'd started kissing him, but now it was impossible to ignore. He kept his hips angled away, trying not to make it obvious, but his hands were trembling slightly when he cupped her face.
One more guess. He could feel it—the place she wanted him to kiss. Could taste it in the air between them. He could the whole time.
The crease where her nose met her face, right between her eyes. That soft indent most people never thought about.
He pressed his lips there, and Rumi's whole body relaxed.
"There," she breathed. "How did you—"
"Lucky guess."
She opened her eyes, and they were standing so close now that he could feel her breath against his lips. The world narrowed to just this—her breath, his heartbeat, the shrinking space between them.
"We both got it right," Rumi said quietly. "So that means…"
"That means the game's over."
The words came out reluctant. Final. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.
Rumi's eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up to meet his gaze. "Or…"
"Or?" His voice was rough.
"We could play again. Different rules."
Jinu knew he should say no. Should step back, let her leave, and protect her from what he was and what he wanted.
But he'd been alone for so long. And she was looking at him like he was worth the risk.
"What kind of rules?" he heard himself ask.
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth—the same lip he desperately wanted to kiss. "Same game. But this time..." She took a breath, gathering her courage. "This time we can guess the same spot. If we want to."
The implication hung in the air between them.
His mouth. Her mouth. The inevitable conclusion they'd been dancing around since the game started.
"Rumi," he said, and it came out almost like a warning. Last chance to back away. Last chance to be smart.
"I know," she said softly. "I know I'm upset. I know this is probably a bad idea. I know you think I'm going to regret it." She stepped closer, closing the already-small distance between them. "But I don't want to leave here tonight without kissing you. Really kissing you. So can we just…play one more round?"
Every rational part of Jinu screamed that this was wrong. That she was vulnerable, that he was a monster, that this would end in pain for both of them.
But she was choosing this. Choosing him. And he was so tired of being careful, so tired of being alone.
And maybe Rumi had it in her to love a monster. If he was lucky.
"One more round," he agreed quietly, sealing both their fates.
"Good." She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Close your eyes."
He did.
They moved at the same time, meeting in the middle.
Her lips were soft—impossibly soft—and she tasted like salty tears and strawberry chapstick, like her beloved daiquiris. The kiss started gentle, almost careful, her mouth barely brushing his like she was afraid he'd pull away.
Jinu's hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch with a small sound that made his breath catch.
Rumi's fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, her lips parting against his, and suddenly gentle wasn't enough. Her other hand slid up to the back of his neck, her nails scraping lightly against his skin, and he shivered.
His fingers tangled in her hair, the braid long-since pulled out. The strands were silk-soft and still slightly damp. She tilted her head and he followed, their mouths finding a rhythm that felt inevitable, like they'd done this before, like they'd been doing this forever.
She made another sound—softer this time, almost a sigh—and pressed closer until there was no space left between them. Her chest against his, her heartbeat hammering where their bodies met. His free hand found her waist, fingers spreading across the small of her back, and she arched into him.
The kiss turned hungrier. Her teeth caught his bottom lip and he groaned, low in his throat, pulling her impossibly closer. She tasted like copper now too. Had she bitten him? Had he bitten her? He couldn't tell, didn't care, just knew he wanted more.
Needed more.
Her hands were everywhere—his neck, his shoulders, threading through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make stars burst behind his eyelids. He walked her backward until her spine hit the chair, and she gasped against his mouth but didn't pull away, just kissed him harder.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, then lower, following the curve of her throat where her pulse fluttered wild and fast. She shivered, head tilting back to give him access, and he pressed his lips there instead—once, twice, feeling her swallow beneath his mouth.
"Jinu," she breathed, and the sound of his name in her voice nearly undid him.
When she shifted against him, her inner thigh brushed where he was hard, and they both froze for half a second. Then she did it again, deliberately this time, and the small satisfied sound she made went straight through him.
He kissed her mouth again, slower this time but no less intense. She met him with the same desperation, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. Her leg hooked around his hip, pulling him flush against her, and he could feel every point where their bodies connected like points of heat. When she rolled her hips—just slightly, testing—he groaned into her mouth.
His hand moved down her hip, tracing the shape of her, when she flinched. Her tattoo.
This was too much. Too fast. He was going to hurt her—if not now, then later. If not physically, then in every other way that mattered.
He could already feel it starting. The way she was giving pieces of herself without knowing it. The way he was taking them. The way this would end with her hollowed out and him still hungry.
It always ended that way.
Jinu pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. His hands were still on her—one in her hair, one at her waist—and it took everything he had not to pull her back in.
"We should stop," he managed.
"Why?" Rumi's voice was wrecked, breathy, and he could taste her confusion and disappointment in the air.
"Because if we don't stop now, I won't be able to." The truth, or close enough to it. "And you deserve better than something that happens because you're trying to forget someone else."
Her eyes were dark and dazed, lips swollen and pink and wet. A strand of hair stuck to her flushed cheek and he wanted to brush it away, wanted to kiss her again, wanted to forget every reason this was a terrible idea.
"What if I don't want you to stop?" she asked quietly.
"You're going to hate me tomorrow if I don't."
"You don't know that."
But Jinu did. He knew exactly how this went. How it always went. And he cared about her too much to let it happen like this—messy and impulsive and driven by her pain instead of any real wanting.
Even if he was lying to himself about the rest, he could give her this one thing. He could be careful, just this once.
Maybe it would make up for everything, though he knew that it wasn’t even close.
"Yeah," he said quietly, making himself let go of her. Making himself step back even though it physically hurt. "I do."
"Jinu–"
"I should go."
She paused, a breath passing between him. Jinu’s resolve was only so strong and if she asked him again, he would fold. But she nodded once and pulled away, creating distance that felt too big, too fast. She grabbed her jacket from the stool, shrugging it on with unsteady hands.
But at the curtain, she paused. Turned back. The yellow fabric hung loose on one shoulder, her hair still wild from his fingers, lips still swollen. She looked at him with something soft and vulnerable in her eyes, something that made his chest ache worse than the hunger ever had.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For tonight. For not–" She bit her lip, the same lip he'd just kissed. Still wished he was kissing. "For just being here."
"Anytime."
A repeated word that came out rougher than he meant it to. He was still half-hard, still tasting her, still feeling the phantom press of her body against his.
She smiled—small and genuine—and then she was gone, the curtain swaying in her wake.
Jinu stood there for a long moment, trying to get his breathing under control. Trying to ignore the ache low in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with wanting her to come back. His lips still tingled. His hair was still messed up from where she'd run her fingers through it. He could smell her coconut shampoo on his shirt.
After a beat, he followed her out. She was already outside, walking away with her shoulders back and head high. Baby was locking the door behind her, but Jinu couldn’t even look at him.
He ran a hand through his hair, felt where she'd tangled her fingers, pulled just hard enough to sting. His jeans were still uncomfortably tight. His mouth still tasted like her strawberry chapstick.
“Fuck,” he breathed, ignoring the silent I-told-you-so look sent his way.
Because for just a moment—pressed against her, her hands in his hair, her mouth on his—he hadn't felt alone. Hadn't felt hungry. Like maybe he could be something other than what he normally did, be something other than what he was.
Even if it was a lie. Even if it would destroy them both eventually.
For just a moment, kissing her had made him feel full.
And now that he knew what that felt like, he wasn't sure he could ever go back.
Notes:
hi everyone! we ended up rewatching the film this week and decided to include jinu's pov! this chapter was initially really daunting because there was so much that needed to happen in it. i ended up writing it in a four-hour fever dream, and my cowriter polished it beautifully. we hope you enjoy!
next chapter should be mira and zoey's date, and we're thinking about making it zoey's pov. we'd love to hear in the comments if you enjoyed jinu's pov and whether you like the idea of a zoey pov!
(p.s. there might be a surprise visitor on their date… poly huntr/x anyone? we might've updated some of the tags...)
- TT
Chapter 8: Here on Our Own
Summary:
Zoey takes Mira to a deeply special places, sans Rumi.
Chapter Text
Abuela’s Kitchen was no more than a ten minute drive from their apartment.
Zoey had walked it once, three miles sounding much closer in her head than it had felt for her feet. By the time she had collapsed into one of the booths, Señora Martinez had rushed over with a bag of frozen peas to place against the back of her neck. Soothing hands massaging her shoulders had turned her face beat red, and Zoey decided then and there that she would never walk again.
Hence the cab she was stepping out of, the rest of Little Havana in all its bright colors closing in on both sides. But here was a moment of reprieve: white stucco topped by a red tile roof. Front and center, a wooden door was propped open by a hand-painted stone. To the left, a modest window; to the right, a mural stretching from the concrete up above Zoey’s head: a grandmother stirring a pot so large it could hold the world, steaming rising up to become clouds, and those clouds becoming stars.
It had made Zoey pause during one of her solo writing walks last semester, pulled towards the love that had been poured into making it, and she had really had no choice but to go inside.
For the first time, it wasn’t a sight she was admiring alone.
“She’s beautiful,” Mira breathed, closing the door of the cab after tossing some bills to the driver. She’d dressed up, not a lot, but enough that Zoey noticed. A fitted black turtleneck instead of her usual oversized tees, jeans that actually fit instead of the baggy ones she hid in, and she'd done something different with her eyeliner that made her dark eyes look even more striking. Smoldering. She'd left her hair down, pink strands catching the streetlight. “Is this it?”
"This is it," Zoey confirmed. She was suddenly nervous in a way she hadn't expected. What if Mira didn't get it? What if the place felt too weird, too intimate, too much? "I know it doesn't look like much from the outside, but–"
"I trust you," Mira said simply, like it was the way of the world. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and Mira trusted Zoey to not colossally mess up their date.
Zoey’s anxiety, normally corded so tight around her throat that she felt like she couldn’t breathe, loosened, turning from barbed wire craving through the mist that settled around her. Looming and waiting to return, but not breaking skin.
Trust. Such a simple word for something as all-encompassing as the infinite expanse of the cosmos, as delicate as glass. Zoey had spent years building trust with Mira, placing brick by careful brick. Every late night phone call when they talked each other down from pre-exam angst; every lunch they sat together and chatted about everything and nothing; every year they read through their scripts and screamed lyrics to parts they’d never get but loved practicing anyway. Every time Zoey held back from saying too much, every moment she loved Mira silently and safely from the other side of the line of friendship that had been firmly drawn in the sand.
It had all been leading to this.
Mira held the door open for Zoey, giving her a wink as Zoey scrunched her nose in frustration for not having thought of it first. I’ll get you next time, Mira Kotadoski. You won’t even know what hit you.
Seconds later, Mira had fallen into step with her, looking around with a hint of awe that, only after years of knowing her, Zoey had been able to catch.
Inside, Christmas lights were strung across a ceiling painted like the Caribbean sky, not the touristy postcard version, but the real thing. Deep purples and oranges at the horizon, stars scattered with an astronomer's precision. Every table was mismatched: wrought iron patio furniture next to vintage Formica dinettes next to what appeared to be an actual kitchen table from someone's childhood, complete with crayon marks and scratches preserved under lacquer.
The walls were covered in photographs, hundreds of them, all in mismatched frames. Families celebrating birthdays, couples on anniversaries, children making first communions. And in the corner, a small altar with candles, flowers, and pictures of people who had passed away but remained firmly in the hearts of their loved ones.
The restaurant unfolded like an unfamiliar memory, each inch teeming with lives Zoey hadn’t lived. Like coming home to a place she'd never been, even if, in actuality, she frequented Abeula’s at least once a week.
"Dios mío, Zoeycita! You finally brought someone!" Señora Martinez emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She immediately grabbed Mira's face between both hands, studying her with the intensity of someone appraising a precious gem. Mira stared right back, only blinking once under the heavy assessment. "Look at you, que hermosa. Those eyes, they're just like my sister's…And both of you are so skinny! We're fixing this right now. Sit down."
She swept them toward a turquoise table near the window, the type of shade only found in old Cuban architecture. The table wobbled slightly when Zoey leaned on it, and Señora Martinez tsked, grabbing a folded matchbook from her apron and wedging it under the short leg.
"There. Perfect. Now, stay, you don't move, and I will bring you the good stuff."
"We didn't order yet–" Mira started.
"You think I don't know what you need?" She patted Mira's cheek fondly. "Have I ever been wrong, Zoeycita?"
"Never," Zoey admitted.
"Exactamente. Now, wait. I'll bring out your usual. And for you…” Señora Martinez trailed off, humming in thought. “What to get for Senorita Mira…”
Mira blinked twice, raising a questioning brow towards Zoey. “Mentioned me before?”
“Sí, sí,” Señora Martinez nodded, seemingly oblivious to Zoey’s rapidly blushing face. “Heard all about you. Pink for Mira and purple for Rumi.”
She winked at Zoey before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving them in a pocket of warm light and the smell of garlic and citrus.
"So," Mira said, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're a regular here?"
With anyone else, Zoey would have buried her face in her hands and melted onto the floor. But it was Mira, her Mira, and Zoey was helpless to do anything but smile back. "I wouldn't say a regular, exactly. I just…sometimes when I'm stuck on something I'm writing, I walk. And one day I ended up here." Zoey traced the edge of the turquoise table with her finger. "Señora Martinez made me sit down and eat even though I said I wasn't hungry. She told me a story about her grandmother in Havana who used to write poetry on napkins and hide them in bread baskets for people to find.”
“So that’s where your haiku sticky note phase came from. I bet there’s one still buried in my sock drawer that I’ve yet to find.”
“Maybe? Did you find the one where I rhymed ‘haiku’ with ‘boo’?”
“Spoilers, Zo.”
Zoey held up her hands in defense, “Hey, you’re not missing much! That was pretty much the whole thing. It was bad but, this place inspired me, you know? Something about it just feels…safe. A piece of home away from home, even if this is nothing like home. Does that make sense?”
Mira nodded, quietly thanking Señora Martinez when she returned with two waters. She sucked on her straw thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "So, you've never brought any other date here?"
Zoey shook her head. "Never, no. I mean, I kept meaning to mention it you and Rooms but…" She struggled to find the right words. "I was saving it, I guess. For something special."
The air between them shifted. The mist around Zoey threatened to solidify into a creature with fangs and claws—something that could tear her in two.
"And this is special?" Mira asked softly.
"Yeah," Zoey said. "This is special."
Mira's hand found hers across the table, fingers lacing together. The touch was warm, certain.
Señora Martinez returned with a tray that seemed physically impossible for one person to carry: tostones that were still crackling, their golden surfaces perfect; a small bowl of mojo that smelled like every good thing in the world had been crushed into submission; two glasses of something pink and frothy; and a basket of bread that was definitely not on the menu but a nod to the story she'd told Zoey. And the fact that Zoey could scarf down a basket of bread alone like it was nobody’s business.
"For my girls," she said, setting it all down with the confidence of a woman who'd been feeding people for many years, and left before they could respond. My girls, just like Bobby.
A small pang between her ribs, a distinctly Rumi-shaped hole that made itself known. If only we could all just– Zoey cut off that line of thinking, knowing better than to venture down a path that was too good to be true. The road to Hell (a.k.a. a tragic friendship break) was paved with good intentions.
She reached for a tostone before she could spiral, biting into it and only just barely suppressing a moan. “Oh. My. God.”
"That good?"
"That good."
Mira tried one, her eyes widening. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, like she was trying to catalog every flavor. "Okay, that's–wow. That's incredible."
"Right?!"
They fell into an easy rhythm after that, trading the tostones back and forth, dragging them through the garlicky mojo until their fingers were slick with it. Zoey told Mira about the first time she'd tried to make tostones in their apartment and somehow managed to start a small fire. Mira told Zoey about her grandmother in Kentucky who made something similar with regular potatoes and how the smell reminded her of summer visits that felt like a different life.
The frothy pink drinks turned out to be batidos de fresa: strawberry milkshakes that were somehow both lighter and richer than any milkshake had any right to be.
"I'm pretty sure I want to propose to a plantain," Zoey said after her third tostone. "Is that allowed? Can I marry a fried food?"
"I think Florida has laws against that," Mira said, straight-faced. "Most states do. Probably. Because it’s fried food.”
"Oppressive. This is oppression." Zoey grabbed another tostone with perhaps too much enthusiasm. "I'm writing a strongly worded letter to my congressperson. 'Dear Sir or Madam, you don't understand what these plantains mean to me–'"
"You're ridiculous."
"You like it."
Mira's smile was soft, unguarded in a way Zoey rarely saw. "I really do."
The main courses arrived: ropa vieja for Mira, so tender the beef fell apart at a glance; lechón asado for Zoey, the pork skin crackling and perfect; and more sides than two people could possibly eat—black beans, white rice, maduroas so sweet they were almost candy, yuca con mojo, and a salad that seemed almost apologetic for being healthy. The table almost didn’t feel big enough for it all, but Señora Martinez tetris-ed it into an artfully placed buffet. Zoey only wished that she had brought her disposable camera for a picture.
They ate slowly, talking between bites. Mira told her about her sexist advisor meeting, but this time with more detail—the way he'd tapped his pen like he was conducting an orchestra of her failures, the Virginia Woolf comment that had made her want to throw something (preferably him out a window), and the helpless rage of being diminished by someone who held all the power.
"I want to prove him wrong so badly," Mira said quietly. "But part of me is also terrified he’s right. Just a silly girl trying to take on the ocean with a raft–”
"Hey." Zoey reached across the table, taking both of Mira's hands in hers. "You're going to be amazing. Like, genuinely, change-the-world amazing. That asshole is going to see your name on a breakthrough paper one day and realize he almost stopped you, and he's going to feel like the small, little, pathetic man he is."
Mira's eyes were bright. "You really think so?"
"I do. Or I would, if I was a hundred percent positive he knew how to read."
That drew a surprised laugh out of Mira, a nearly-aborted snort that turned into her tilting her head back and just laughing.
She was beautiful like this—cheeks tinted red and shoulders shaking—and Zoey couldn’t help but just stare. Until Mira settled down, almost letting go of her hands before realizing that Zoey was watching her. And instead of looking away, instead of talking herself out of it, she looked back.
They held each other's gaze for a long moment, and Zoey felt something click into place. This was what she'd been waiting for—not just being with Mira, but being here with Mira, in this place that mattered. Sharing something real.
Mira's hands were still in hers and Zoey’s heart was doing a complicated dance in her chest. Choreography she didn’t know it was still capable of after all these years of loving Mira quietly and from afar.
"You okay?" Mira asked softly. "You got quiet."
"Yeah, I just–" Zoey looked down at their joined hands. "This is what I've wanted for years. You, choosing me like this. And now that it's happening, I'm terrified I'm going to mess it up."
"Why would you mess it up?"
"Because I always do?" Zoey laughed, but it came out shaky. "I'm too much, Mir. Too loud, too emotional, too–"
"Zoey." Mira squeezed her hand. "You're not too much."
"You say that now–"
"I've known you since we were fifteen. If you were too much for me, I would've figured it out by now." Mira's smile was soft, almost sad. "Remember when Hunter first introduced us?"
Zoey snorted. "God, I was so awkward. I think I talked about the Phantom soundtrack for, like, twenty minutes straight."
"Thirty minutes," Mira corrected. "And I loved it. You were so…passionate about everything. It was cute. I'd never met anyone like you."
"You were so quiet; I thought you hated me."
"I didn't know what to do with you," Mira admitted. "You were this whirlwind tearing through my life when I was used to keeping everything my way. And then Hunter suggested we start a band–"
"HUNTR," Zoey said, the name still leaving a bitter taste. "Not even HUNTRS or HUNTR and the Chicks or whatever.” She rolled her eyes and scrunched her nose, “Just HUNTR.”
"God, he was so full of himself." Mira shook her head. "But at least we got something good out of it. Even if it took us a year to realize we didn't need him."
There it was. The thing they didn't talk about much anymore.
"That was such a mess," Zoey said quietly. She could still remember it, finding out Hunter had been kissing Mira under the bleachers while taking Zoey on actual dates. Playing them both. She hadn’t exactly known what polyamory was then—that hearts weren’t plots of land to stake and claim, that her capacity for love was boundless and incapable of being tied down to just one person—but Zoey had known that this thing with Hunter had just been wrong. There hadn’t been any communication or love there. For Hunter, it had been about power. And deep down, Zoey had known it but didn’t care because to feel wanted, even only a little, felt better than drowning in the abyss of being alone. After a moment, she added, "I felt so stupid."
"You weren't stupid. He was an asshole."
"I kept thinking that I'd done something wrong. That I'd somehow led him on or–I don't know." Zoey traced the edge of Mira's thumb with her finger. "I didn't even really want him. I was just…going along with it because having a shitty boyfriend felt easier than…"
"I know," Mira said softly. "I know that feeling."
"Yeah, but I actually liked him. Kinda."
"And that doesn't make what he did any less shitty." Mira's voice was firm. "He knew what he was doing, Zo. To both of us."
Señora Martinez appeared to clear their plates, taking in their joined hands and serious expressions with a knowing look. "Dessert?"
"We couldn't possibly–" Mira started.
"Flan," Señora Martinez interrupted. "It's my grandmother's recipe. You'll share, and eat it slowly. Take home the rest to your Rumi. It’s nonnegotiable."
She disappeared again. Your Rumi.
"I don't think we have a choice," Zoey said.
"I don't think I want one."
The flan arrived in a single dish with two spoons, perfect and trembling and topped with caramel that looked like liquid amber. They took turns, trading the dish back and forth, and each bite was somehow better than the last—sweet but not too sweet, creamy but not heavy, tasting like vanilla and patience and something Zoey couldn't quite name but felt like home.
After a few bites, Zoey said quietly: "You know what I remember most about kicking Hunter out?"
Mira looked up from the flan. "What?"
"You came to my house after we'd found out about everything. You were so angry–I'd never seen you that angry. And you said we should kick him out of HUNTR." Zoey smiled slightly. "And I said we couldn't, because it was his band, his name. And you said–"
"'Fuck him,'" Mira finished. "'We're hunters now. We'll take the name and make it ours.'"
"You never cursed. Like, ever. And there you were, so furious on my behalf that you dropped an f-bomb in my mom's kitchen." Zoey's eyes were burning. "That was the moment I knew we'd be okay. That we could choose each other."
"That was the moment I knew you were the best friend I'd ever have," Mira said softly.
The words slipped out before Zoey could stop them: "Just a friend?"
Mira went very still.
"I fell in love with you during senior year," Zoey continued, unable to stop now that she'd started. She rolled her wrists until they cracked, flicking her anxiety away. "All those late-night rehearsals, just the two of us…I kept thinking, this is what it feels like to fit with someone." She swallowed hard. "And I know–I know you don't know how you feel, and you said that three years ago, and that's okay. I just need you to know this isn't some new crush. I've loved you for years, Mira. And I'm scared that I'm going to want more than you can give, and it's going to ruin everything."
Mira was quiet for a long moment, studying Zoey's face. When she spoke, her voice was careful, measured.
"When you told me you loved me," she said, "that night in my car after graduation practice–do you remember exactly what I said?"
"That you loved me too. But not like that."
"Not just like that," Mira corrected. "That's what I said. 'I love you too, Zoey, but not just like that.'"
Zoey blinked. "I…don't remember the 'just' part."
"I was terrified of what it meant if I wanted more. If I wanted..." Mira gestured helplessly between them. "This. You. In a way that wasn't friendship. Something safe that I already knew." She took a breath. "I've been thinking about that conversation for three years. And I think what I was really saying was: I don't know how to love you the way you're asking me to, because I don't know how to love anyone like that yet. Not Romeo or Rumi or you. But I want to learn."
Zoey's throat was tight. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Mira smiled, nervous and hopeful and real. "Not with Romeo, obviously. He’s kind of the worst.”
“Handsome, though,” Zoey said, not unkindly. “At least enough to be worth a sexuality crisis over.”
“Please,” Mira waved her off. “If anything, he secured mine. No men for me, thanks. Just ladies.” She reached out and took Zoey’s hand again, giving it a squeeze. “Seriously, though…I want to learn with you, Zo. I want to be brave and just…try? For real, this time.”
Zoey’s throat felt tight, but she swallowed. “I'd like that, yeah. Even if I'm a disaster who talks way too much about musicals?"
"Especially then."
They finished the flan in comfortable silence, savoring each bite. When Señora Martinez brought the check, Zoey tried to pay for everything, but Mira insisted on splitting it.
"This is a date," Mira said firmly. "We split dates."
"That feels unromantic."
"It’s equitable and feminist."
“We’re both girls!”
“And so we are breaking gendered stereotypes within the queer community.”
"You're impossible."
"You like it."
Zoey couldn't argue with that.
Outside, the night was rolling in like a gentle tide, the kind of Miami evening that made Zoey understand why people moved here. They walked slowly back toward the curb, not quite ready for the night to end with a called cab.
"So," Mira said, long legs consciously taking smaller strides to maintain Zoey’s pace. "What now?"
And Zoey opened her mouth to suggest something, she really didn’t know what, but what came out was: "I miss Rumi."
Mira stopped in place. Turned to look at Zoey to read her expression. "What?"
"I–" Zoey felt her face heat. "I'm sorry, that's so weird to say on a date. It's just–this was perfect. Tonight was perfect, really.”
“Laying it on thick, huh?”
“Let me finish,” Zoey protested, looking up from her shoes to see a sympathetic look on Mira’s face. Oh, Zoey thought. She’s not angry. “It’s just…always the three of us, you know? And we all love each other in different ways but I just couldn’t help but think…what if we could make it work? Even if she’s not ready to be with a girl, and you’re not ready to be with more than one person…”
The truth settled in Zoey's chest like something she'd swallowed wrong. All night, she'd been aware of the empty space: the missing chord in their harmony. She'd been on a date with Mira. The girl she'd been half in love with for years. And it was perfect.
So why did it feel like they were performing a duet when their song was always meant to be sung in three-parts?
She braced herself for Mira to be upset, to claim Zoey was ruining their date and storm away to who knows where–
Instead, Mira said quietly: "Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Mira leaned against the stucco, looking up at the stars barely visible through Miami's light pollution. "It's like there's a Rumi-shaped space everywhere we go. And tonight was amazing, truly. But part of me kept wishing she was there to see it too."
"I agree. Are we weird?"
"I don't know. Maybe?" Mira turned to look at her. “I thought I couldn’t be poly because, well, I couldn’t find even one person to see me for me. To love me…” She trailed off, puckering her lips slightly the way she did when she was choosing her words carefully. “But you do. And I think Rumi does, too. And I don’t think I can see myself with you without her or her without you. Does that make sense?”
They stood there for a long moment, the warm night air wrapping around them.
Then, Zoey said: "We could go get her."
"What?"
"We could go home, grab Rumi, and go do something else. Something with all three of us." Zoey was talking faster now, excited. "I know that's probably breaking some kind of date rule, but–"
"The Boardwalk," Mira said suddenly.
"What?"
"We should take her to the Boardwalk. You said you wanted to go, and Rumi loves the ferris wheel even though she pretends to hate it, and we could get funnel cake–"
"Are you serious?"
"Are you?"
They looked at each other, and then they were both grinning.
"Let's go get our girl," Zoey said.
✦.˳.✧·˖✶
Twenty minutes later, they burst through the apartment door with Zoey pulling Mira along by the hand.
"RUMI!" Zoey called out. "GET YOUR SHOES ON, WE'RE GOING TO THE BOARDWALK!"
Rumi emerged from her bedroom in an oversized sleep shirt and boxer shorts, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. "What? I thought you guys were on a date?"
"We did," Mira said, already heading to change into something more boardwalk-appropriate—her jeans swapped for shorts and the turtleneck for a loose tank. "Now we're on a group date."
“Like a double date?”
“Are you planning to bring someone?”
Rumi looked down at herself and then looked back up at Mira. “Uh, no.”
“Then it’s a group date,” Mira confirmed, grabbing her rimless sunglasses before pushing them up onto the top of her head.
"That's a thing?"
"It's a thing if we say it's a thing," Zoey declared. "Now put on pants, we're getting funnel cake and riding the ferris wheel and absolutely not thinking about how questionable the safety inspections are."
Rumi's face split into that wide, unguarded smile that could power a small city. A million mega-watts bright. "You guys are insane."
"You started it! You’re the one who told us to go on a date," Zoey pointed out.
"And you did! And had fun! So, I was right!" Rumi threw her arms up triumphantly. She spun around in a circle like confetti and balloons were raining down. Then she was blowing kisses into an invisible crowd. "I'm a genius! A matchmaking genius! I should charge for this service! I could be the dating Oprah!"
"You're definitely something," Mira sighed, but not un-fondly.
"I'm amazing," Rumi corrected, already digging through her closet for her checkerboard pants.
Ten minutes later, they were piled into Zoey’s beat-up Honda Civic (which she never drove to Abuela’s because there was never any parking), the one she'd somehow kept alive since junior year of high school through sheer force of will and possibly witchcraft. Windows down, radio cranked to a station playing NSYNC's "Pop."
And for the first time all night, everything felt exactly right.
Not because the date with Mira had been wrong. But because this—the three of them together, laughing over the music, Rumi's hand reaching forward from the backseat to mess with Zoey's hair while Mira tried to navigate—this was the shape they were meant to be.
F_theHazzaHaters on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Sep 2025 02:42PM UTC
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