Chapter Text
It was 6:14 a.m. when Rumi’s eyes cracked open.
The glowing red digits on the nightstand burned into her vision like an omen.
Six fourteen?
She blinked hard, rubbed at her eyes, and checked again. Nope. Still six. Still fourteen. Still one hour and fourteen minutes past the time she always woke up.
Always.
Every morning at five o’clock sharp — not five-oh-one, not four-fifty-nine — her eyes would fly open like she had a built-in military alarm clock installed in her brain. She never missed it. Not once.
Until today.
Her stomach dropped, a cold pit forming in the middle of her hangover haze.
“Great,” she croaked, throat dry, tongue like sandpaper. “Awesome. I get drunk for the first time in months and I wake up late? This is it. This is the end. Domino number one has fallen. Next thing you know, I’ll miss rent, lose my job, end up begging on a street corner. Some kid will throw a half-eaten hotdog at me. That’ll be my legacy.”
She groaned and flopped an arm over her eyes like a silent film star fainting on stage. The hangover headache throbbing in her temples felt like a marching band practicing inside her skull.
But then—
Something brushed against her shoulder. Warm. Soft. Alive.
Rumi froze.
Very, very slowly, she peeled her arm away and turned her head.
There were people in the bed.
Not one. Two.
Two people.
Two women.
Her brain didn’t process it at first. She stared, dumbstruck, taking in the tangle of sheets, the spill of unfamiliar hair across the pillow, the sound of gentle breathing that definitely wasn’t hers.
Then it hit.
She shot upright so violently that the blanket went flying. Her heart thundered so hard she thought her ribs might crack.
“WHAT—” The word lodged halfway in her throat.
Her eyes darted around the room, frantic.
This wasn’t her ceiling. These weren’t her walls. That poster—was that… a K-drama actor staring straight at her? Those twinkly fairy lights? That faint scent of strawberry shampoo mixed with perfume?
This isn’t my room. Oh my god. This isn’t my room.
Her whole body buzzed with panic.
Okay. Clothes. Where were her clothes?
She scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping on a shoe. Her shirt was half-draped over a desk chair. One sock was under the bed. The other sock? She didn’t even want to know. Pants—wrinkled in the corner. Jacket—crumpled by the door. She pounced on them like a raccoon raiding a garbage can, yanking fabric onto her body with trembling hands.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Just leave. Just get out before they wake up and start asking questions like “who are you” and “why were you in our bed.”
Two minutes. That’s how long it took her to transform from half-naked disaster to half-dressed disaster. Shoes mismatched. Hair wild. Shirt on backwards. Didn’t matter.
She bolted.
Down the stairs. Out the front door. Into the cool morning air that slapped her in the face like judgment itself.
By the time she collapsed into her car, her chest was heaving. She gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering her to reality.
Her reflection in the rearview mirror was horrifying. Wide eyes. Smudged mascara. A smear of lipstick on her jaw that definitely wasn’t hers.
“Oh no,” she whispered. Then louder, panicked: “OH NO.”
Her head thunked forward onto the steering wheel.
“Crap!! Crap crap crap!! Who were those people?? What happened last night??” Her voice pitched higher with every question. “I’M NOT GAY!!”
She slapped the steering wheel with both hands. Instantly regretted it because the impact rattled through her already throbbing skull.
She sucked in a shaky breath. Tried to focus.
Okay, okay, let’s stay calm. Maybe they were just… cousins? Yeah, maybe I passed out at a party and two cousins shared the bed and it’s all totally normal!
Her brain replayed the way one of them had been curled against her shoulder. The way the blanket had been tangled across all three of them.
…Nope. Nope nope nope. That was not cousins. That was DEFINITELY not cousins.
She groaned again, dragging both hands down her face.
This was bad. This was catastrophic. This was—
Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since… what? Dinner last night? Did she even eat dinner?
She fumbled the keys into the ignition with shaking hands.
Home. She needed to get home. Home, water, food, aspirin. Maybe after that she’d be able to think straight.
And maybe, just maybe, last night would start to make sense.
———
The first thing Rumi did when she stumbled through her apartment door was kick it shut and lock every bolt like she was bracing for an invasion.
Then she dropped her keys on the counter, leaned against the wall, and slid down until she was sitting on the floor.
Silence.
She pressed her palms to her face. Her whole body buzzed like an electric wire.
“Okay,” she muttered, voice muffled against her hands. “Okay, okay. Just… survival mode. Step one: don’t puke. Step two: water. Step three: figure out how the hell I’m still alive.”
She crawled to the kitchen like a wounded soldier and yanked open the fridge. Water bottle—gone in three gulps. Another—half gone before she even realized she was holding it. Cold blessedness trickled down her throat, easing the desert that had taken up residence in her mouth.
Next came the aspirin. She dumped three into her palm, considered if that was overkill, shrugged, and swallowed them anyway.
Food. She needed food. She found a pack of crackers, a half-empty bag of chips, and something that might once have been a burrito. She ate all three, one after the other, sitting on the kitchen floor with her back against the cabinets like some kind of apocalypse survivor.
For ten whole minutes, she let herself believe she might survive.
Then her brain started working again.
Okay. So. What actually happened last night?
The thought made her wince. She had flashes—music, laughter, too much soju, someone daring her to sing karaoke. After that? A blur. Just spinning lights and the vague memory of warmth pressed against her side.
“Right. So I had a threesome with two girls,” she said out loud, then immediately shook her head so hard she nearly gave herself whiplash. “Nope! Didn’t happen! Doesn’t count!”
She stood, pacing in frantic little circles.
Rule one: if you don’t remember it, it doesn’t count. Easy. Boom. Case closed.
She nodded to herself like she was a judge slamming down a gavel.
Then she stopped.
“Wait… drunk actions are sober thoughts, right? Oh god, does that mean—”
“Nope!!” She cut herself off, waving her arms like she could physically swat the thought out of the air. “Nope nope nope. Wrong. Fake saying. Probably made up by someone bitter who got dumped. Not scientific. Doesn’t count.”
She marched to the mirror over the sink and pointed at her reflection.
“You. Are. Not. Gay. Okay? You just got drunk, made some bad decisions, and ended up in… uh… in a weird situation. Happens all the time. Happens to everyone! I bet Einstein woke up in a stranger’s bed once. Didn’t make him gay.”
Her reflection did not look convinced.
She groaned, splashing water on her face.
“Besides, it’s not like anyone even knows,” she muttered. “I’ll just… never talk about it. Ever. It’ll be like it never happened.”
The memory of unfamiliar hair spilling across the pillow flickered in her mind. The faint smell of strawberry shampoo clung to her shirt.
“Doesn’t count,” she whispered fiercely, clutching the fabric like it might betray her. “It doesn’t count. It can’t count.”
For two glorious seconds, she felt steady. Triumphant, even. She strutted across her apartment and flopped dramatically onto the couch, arms behind her head like she’d solved world peace.
“Problem solved. Rumi wins again.”
Besides it wasn’t like she was gonna miss her dinner Celine, that was Thursday night!
…
oh
oh.
Last night was Thursday night.
okay cool, she should probably kill herself right about now.
She shot upright, snatched her phone off the coffee table, and stared at the lock screen.
Twenty-eight missed calls. Fifty-six messages.
From Celine.
———
Rumi stared at her phone like it might explode.
Twenty-eight missed calls. Fifty-six messages. All from…
She tapped the screen with trembling fingers.
Celine.
Her aunt. Her guardian. The immovable force of nature who had raised her half like a daughter, half like a drill sergeant.
Her thumb hovered over the notification bubble. She hesitated, then squeezed her eyes shut and pressed.
The messages unrolled in a horrifying cascade.
11:47 p.m.
Celine: Rumi, where are you? You promised you’d be home by midnight.
12:15 a.m.
Celine: Don’t make me come find you.
12:42 a.m.
Celine: ARE YOU DEAD??
1:03 a.m.
Celine: If you are dead I will KILL YOU.
Rumi winced. “That doesn’t even make sense—”
She scrolled.
1:30 a.m.
Celine: I’m serious. If you are not in this house by the time I wake up, we are having a CONVERSATION.
2:05 a.m.
Celine: And don’t think I won’t notice if you sneak in quietly like a little rat. I HAVE EARS LIKE A BAT.
Rumi muttered, “Yeah, and lungs like an airhorn.”
3:10 a.m.
Celine: …Okay. I’m worried now. Call me. Please.
That one twisted something in Rumi’s gut. She scrolled faster.
3:45 a.m.
Celine: Do you know how many girls go missing every year? Hm? Because I do. I WATCH THE NEWS.
4:22 a.m.
Celine: RUMI. ANSWER YOUR PHONE BEFORE I REPORT YOU MISSING.
5:00 a.m.
Celine: …I can’t believe this. Do you hate me? Is that it? You want me to DIE ALONE??
5:07 a.m.
Celine: Don’t answer that. I already know the truth. I raised a monster.
By the time she reached the latest message, Rumi was clutching her hair in both hands.
6:00 a.m.
Celine: I will forgive you if you bring croissants. Good ones. Not the cheap kind.
“…She’s unhinged,” Rumi whispered.
But she knew better. This wasn’t random. This was classic Celine: start with worry, escalate into rage, collapse into melodrama, end with a demand for baked goods.
Rumi had lived through enough “Thursday Dinners” to know the cycle.
She pictured it now: the little rituals, the table already set when she arrived, Celine pouring tea while side-eyeing her across the table. The interrogation disguised as small talk. “How’s school? Are you eating enough? Are you dating? Why not? Why are you lying to me?”
Rumi shuddered.
Thursday dinners were not optional. They were holy law.
And she had missed one.
“Oh, I’m dead,” she groaned, flopping face-first into the couch cushions. “Forget the two girls. Forget being gay. Celine is going to kill me, and then she’s going to resurrect me just so she can kill me again.”
Her phone buzzed in her hand. New message.
Celine: ANSWER ME OR I’M COMING OVER.
Rumi shot upright so fast she almost threw the phone across the room.
“Nope! Nope nope nope! Not ready! Hangover bunker is not visitor-safe! Abort mission!”
She ran around the living room in frantic little circles, as if sheer motion might generate a plan.
Unfortunately, Rumi’s life has ended.
‘Rest in peace’ Her headstone would say, ‘died a virgin’ (because this time didn’t count because she is in fact not gay)
Okay she needs to calm down, beside would forgive her, maybe after an hour scolding and then crying that she couldn’t lose her, Rumi can deal with that!! Besides it not like she had a boyfriend to upset!
….
..uh
“FUCK!!”
Her blood went cold.
She slowly unlocked her phone again.
Five missed calls.
From Jinu ❤️.
———
Rumi stared at her phone like it had grown teeth.
Five missed calls.
All from Jinu ❤️.
Her heart thumped against her ribs like it was trying to escape. She unlocked the screen with trembling hands.
Three unread messages waited.
12:32 a.m.
Hey baby! You there?
1:15 a.m.
Celine told me you were calling her back. Just checking in.
2:00 a.m.
Too much to drink huh? It’s okay, call me when you wake up, love ❤️
(It’s fair to note that by 2:00am, she was having the sex of her life that she wouldn’t remember for another day)
Rumi’s stomach dropped straight through the couch cushions.
“Oh no oh no oh no oh no—” She pressed both hands over her face. “He called me baby. He put a little heart. He’s so NICE. How am I supposed to tell him I—” She cut herself off with a strangled squeak. “Nope! Not saying it. Not even in my head.”
She leapt off the couch and started pacing, phone clutched like a live grenade.
Okay, what’s the plan? Just… don’t tell him. Easy. He doesn’t need to know. I’ll take this secret to the grave. It didn’t even count anyway. Didn’t. Count.
She nodded fiercely. That sounded good. Solid. Foolproof.
Then, because her brain hated her, she immediately imagined the conversation.
“Hey babe,” she muttered, trying to mimic her normal voice. “Sorry I didn’t call back, I was, uh… super tired.”
She froze. “Too suspicious. He’ll know.”
She tried again.
“Sorry, I passed out at a friend’s house. Totally normal. Definitely nothing weird happened. Absolutely did not wake up next to two girls who smelled like strawberries and regret.”
Her eyes went wide. “WHY WOULD I SAY THAT??”
She shook her head violently, then tried once more.
“Hey, baby, funny story. So technically, I maybe sort of possibly had a threesome, but it doesn’t count, because I was drunk, and also—”
She slapped both hands over her mouth. “ARE YOU INSANE, RUMI??”
Her pacing turned frantic, back and forth like a trapped zoo animal.
Okay. Breathe. Jinu’s sweet. He’s forgiving. He’s… She pictured his smile, the way he always called her “love,” the way he remembered her coffee order without asking. Her stomach twisted.
“…Oh my god, he’s going to dump me.”
She flopped back onto the couch like she’d been shot.
“He’s going to dump me, and then Celine’s going to murder me, and then both of them are going to show up to my funeral just to roast me in front of my corpse. That’s my future. That’s my legacy.”
Her phone buzzed again in her hand, nearly launching her soul out of her body.
Jinu: Are you awake yet?
Rumi squealed into a pillow.
What do I do what do I do what do I do—
Her thumb hovered over his name. She could hear her pulse in her ears.
You can do this. Just… act normal. Don’t confess. Don’t overshare. Just be chill.
She inhaled. Exhaled. Pressed Call.
The ringtone started.
Rumi nearly blacked out.
———
The ringtone barely made it past the first note before Jinu picked up.
“Rumi!” His voice was bright, relieved, almost annoyingly cheerful. “Oh thank god. I was starting to get worried.”
Rumi’s throat went dry. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
“Uh—” she croaked, then cleared her throat violently. “Yeah! Hi! Totally fine. Alive. Not dead. Definitely not dead in a ditch. Ha ha.”
There was a pause. “…Okay. That was oddly specific.”
Abort. Abort mission.
“I mean, you know, just saying! ’Cause you said you were worried, and, like, statistically, most missing people end up in—”
“Babe.” Jinu’s voice softened. “You don’t have to joke about it. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You had a lot to drink last night.”
Rumi’s whole body stiffened. “Wha—who said that??”
“You did,” he said gently. “Right before you hung up on me.”
Her brain replayed the blurry memory of shouting something incoherent into the phone before tossing it aside. She winced.
“Oh. Right. Classic me.” She forced a laugh that sounded like a dying hyena. “Drinking! Ha ha! So silly! Won’t happen again.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His voice was warm honey. “I’m just glad you got home safe.”
Rumi bit her fist to keep from screaming. How could he be this nice?
“Yup! Safe as houses. Totally fine. Nothing weird happened. Nope. Nada. Zilch.”
Another pause. “…Are you sure nothing weird happened?”
Her soul left her body. “WHY WOULD YOU ASK THAT?” she shrieked.
“Uh,” Jinu said carefully, “because you’re shouting into the phone like someone on trial?”
Rumi clamped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Sorry. I just… headache. Hangover. Y’know.”
“Aw, poor thing.” His voice melted into sympathy. “Did you eat yet? Drink water? You should probably rest today.”
“Yes, Captain Wellness App,” she muttered, pacing across her living room again.
He chuckled. “I mean it. Don’t push yourself. I’ll bring you soup later if you want.”
Soup. He wanted to bring her soup.
She gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. Why is he like this?? Why couldn’t he be mean just once so I wouldn’t feel like garbage??
“That’s—uh—no need!” she said too quickly. “I, um, already have soup. Yep. Whole pot. Swimming in it, actually.”
“You… made soup? Hungover?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
Rumi panicked. “…Wet?”
There was silence. Then a snort. Then full-blown laughter.
“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous,” Jinu said between chuckles. “I missed this.”
Her heart clenched. She missed it too. She missed him. And she was lying straight to his face.
Her voice wobbled. “Yeah, haha, I’m so funny.”
“Get some rest, okay? Call me later if you feel up to it.”
“…Yeah. Okay.”
“My sister here I gotta go, I love you.”
Rumi’s lungs stopped working.
She croaked, “Y-you too,” then stabbed the hang-up button like it burned.
The second the call ended, she collapsed face-first onto the couch and let out a strangled scream into the cushions.
He said I love you. He said I love you and I lied to him and he laughed and he’s bringing soup and I’M GOING TO HELL.
Her phone buzzed in her hand again. A new text.
Celine: Dinner. Tonight. No excuses.
Rumi let her head fall back.
“…I’m double dead.”