Chapter Text
Rumi had three problems: demons, deadlines, and Zoey.
In her professional opinion, no demon in the underworld was as dangerous as Zoey with an armful of snacks and zero awareness of how cute she looked.
She heard Zoey before she saw her—that fast, familiar patter across the tower floor that Rumi could pick out from a whole stadium crowd. By the time Zoey entered the living room, Rumi had already closed her laptop and swapped it for her phone, angling her body like she was totally not staring.
Zoey breezed past her toward the kitchen, twin space buns bobbing like tiny planets. She opened the fridge and started stacking snacks into her arms: one bag of chips, then another, gummies, two canned drinks. It looked like she was preparing for a solo apocalypse.
Rumi’s smile slipped out before she could stop it. Watching Zoey juggle all that with clumsy determination was weirdly endearing—enough to make her demon half hum awake, sharp and curious.
She rose from the couch and followed her into the kitchen, leaning casually against the doorway. “Hey, Zoey.”
Zoey turned, startled, her hands full. “Oh, hey,” she said with an easy grin. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” Rumi sauntered closer, eyes flicking down to the pile of snacks. “Planning to share those?”
Zoey tightened her arms protectively around the loot. “Never. I got them first!”
Rumi chuckled, stepping into her space just enough to make Zoey look up. “Oh?” Her tone dripped with mischief. “Guess I’ll have to redefine ‘first.’” In one smooth motion, she snatched a bag from Zoey’s hands.
“Rumi!” Zoey’s pout deepened into a glare. “I needed that!”
“You should’ve been quicker,” Rumi teased, popping a chip into her mouth and leaning against the counter. The crunch echoed in the tiled room. “Demon reflexes come with perks.”
“Not fair.” Zoey puffed out her cheeks, trying to reach for another bag—but Rumi, grinning, was faster.
“Stop stealing my food!”
“Make me.” Rumi laughed, holding the chips above her head so high Zoey had to rise on her toes to even try. She could’ve dodged her easily, but she let Zoey’s fingers brush her wrist for a moment longer than necessary, just to feel that spark.
“Meanie,” Zoey muttered, retreating in defeat with what snacks she managed to save.
Rumi watched Zoey disappear down the hall, arms full of snacks and stubbornness. The faintest grin lingered on her face as she crunched another chip, savoring both the taste and the memory.
“You’re lucky she didn’t curse you,” a dry voice commented from behind.
Rumi jumped slightly, turning to see Mira leaning lazily against the hallway wall, arms crossed and amusement written across her face. She had her hair in a messy bun and still wore her training sweats, one earbud dangling from her neck.
“She’s too cute to curse anyone,” Rumi said before she could stop herself.
Mira’s grin widened immediately. “Oh no. There it is again.”
“There what is again?” Rumi asked, suspicious already.
“That gooey tone you use whenever you talk about her,” Mira teased, strolling into the kitchen like she belonged there—which, to be fair, she practically did. “You’ve got it bad, Rumi.”
Rumi made a strangled sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “I do not ‘got it bad.’” She gestured vaguely with her half-eaten chips. “I was just saying she’s not the cursing type!”
“Mhm, sure.” Mira leaned against the counter beside her, eyes glinting. “You act all cool and detached, but the way you stare at her when she’s talking? Please. It’s practically a music video confession scene.”
“Wow,” Rumi muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m so glad my friends are supportive of my privacy.”
Mira shrugged. “I am supportive. I fully support watching you crash and burn if you ever try to flirt seriously.”
Rumi groaned. “Why do I even talk to you?”
“Because I choreograph your stage presence, and clearly you need more practice not looking like a lovesick golden retriever every time Zoey breathes,” Mira said sweetly. She reached over and stole a chip, crunching loudly.
“Hey!” Rumi tried to snatch the bag back, but Mira dodged easily.
Mira cackled, tossing another chip in her mouth. “You should’ve seen your face earlier—when she leaned closer to grab those chips back. I swear, your demon aura practically flickered.”
“That’s because I was hungry,” Rumi said flatly, clearly lying.
“Uh-huh.” Mira smirked. “Sure. Hunger. Totally what that was.”
Rumi sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. A small, awkward smile tugged at her lips though—because Mira wasn’t exactly wrong. “She’s just… fun to tease, that’s all.”
“Sure she is,” Mira said with mock innocence, tossing the chip bag back at Rumi. “Just fun to tease. And completely unrelated to the way you get all protective when the producers pair her with someone else during interviews.”
“You keep track of everything I do, or do you just make my love life your side hobby?”
“Love life? So it is one!” Mira pointed at her triumphantly.
“Oh my god—” Rumi buried her face in her hands, laughing helplessly. “You’re hopeless, Mira.”
“Hopelessly accurate,” Mira corrected, heading for the hall again. “Anyway, I’m grabbing a shower before bed. Try not to melt through the couch thinking about her.”
“I don’t—!” Rumi started, but Mira was already gone.
The tower quieted around her again, Mira’s laughter fading into the hum of the building. Rumi sat there for a moment, chin propped on her hand, staring absently at the glowing chips bag in her lap.
“I do not have it bad,” she whispered to no one in particular.
The silence didn’t believe her.
The tower felt different once everyone drifted off to their corners.
After Mira disappeared down the hallway with her chips and her victory grin, the noise faded bit by bit. The echo of her teasing—You’ve got it bad, Rumi—lingered longer than Rumi wanted to admit. The living room lights seemed softer now, the shadows a little deeper, the city’s noise outside settling into a low, steady thrum in the background.
Rumi lay sprawled on the couch again, blanket half-kicked off, her laptop abandoned on the coffee table. She scrolled through her phone without really seeing anything, thumb flicking absently. A fancam of Huntr/x on stage flashed by, then a clip from their last variety show. She watched herself in the video laugh at something Zoey said, the camera catching the way she leaned slightly toward her.
Mira’s voice echoed in her head: You’ve got it bad.
Rumi locked her phone and let it drop onto her chest with a soft thud.
The quiet pressed in. No Mira practicing footwork in the hall. No Zoey humming or playing something on her speakers. Just the distant buzz of the air conditioner and the faint ticking of the clock.
She turned her head, eyes drifting toward the dark corridor. Zoey’s door was out of sight from here, but Rumi could almost picture it—the strip of light underneath, the messy desk, the stacks of notebooks. It had been a while since Zoey disappeared with her snacks and that determined sparkle in her eyes.
Has it really been that long? Rumi squinted at the digital clock on the wall. Over an hour. Long enough for her curiosity to poke at her, insistent and annoyingly loud.
She sighed, pushing herself upright and tossing the blanket aside. “Fine,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll just… make sure she didn’t fall asleep face-first in a chip bag.”
That was definitely the only reason.
Her joints popped softly as she stretched, a faint warmth flickering low at her spine where her demonic energy liked to curl when she was restless. Bare feet met cool floor as she crossed the living room, the familiar posters of their past promotions watching over her like silent witnesses.
The hallway beyond was dim, lit only by the occasional emergency exit sign glowing faintly along the walls. She passed Mira’s door first—no light underneath, just the muffled quiet of someone already knocked out for the night.
“Must be nice,” Rumi mumbled, shaking her head with a small smile. Leave it to Mira to tease her about Zoey and then fall asleep without a care.
Farther down, the air shifted. A faint smell of peach soda and citrus shampoo met her, and she knew without seeing that she was near Zoey’s room. It always smelled like that here, like someone had bottled up daylight and left it in the hallway.
Sure enough, a thin strip of warm light spilled from beneath Zoey’s door. The rest of the corridor lay in shadow, making that little glow feel even more inviting.
Rumi slowed, suddenly aware of how quiet it really was. No music. No laughter. Just… the faint scratch-scratch of a pen, and a soft, broken humming like someone trying out a melody under their breath.
Something tugged in her chest.
She lifted a hand and knocked twice, knuckles tapping gently against the wood. “Zoey?” she called, not too loud.
No answer.
The scratching of the pen didn’t stop.
Rumi huffed a quiet breath that might have been a nervous laugh. “Okay then,” she muttered, fingers curling around the doorknob. She turned it slowly and eased the door open just a crack.
“Hey.”
The room inside was a familiar disaster. Empty cans and chip bags formed a loose ring around Zoey’s desk chair. Notebooks lay open and stacked on top of each other, lyrics and lines spilling across pages in different colored pens. The desk lamp cast a warm, golden circle of light over the chaos, leaving the corners of the room in comfortable shadow.
Zoey sat in the middle of it all, hunched slightly forward in her chair, pen tapping in rhythm against the edge of her notebook. Her black hair in low twin space buns bobbed gently as she moved, completely lost in whatever line she was trying to fix. She didn’t even glance at the door.
Rumi leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, watching quietly for a moment. The sight made her chest go soft in a way she’d never admit out loud. Zoey’s brow was furrowed, lips moving silently as she tested words in her head, pen racing and then freezing, scribbles crisscrossing older lines.
She’s too cute when she’s frustrated, Rumi thought, helplessly fond.
She slipped inside, easing the door closed behind her with a soft click. That, at least, Zoey heard. The girl jumped hard enough to jostle one of the empty cans on her desk, spinning around in her chair.
“Rumi!” she yelped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
Rumi laughed, holding her hands up as if under arrest. Her purple dragon-tail braid slid over one shoulder with the motion. “Hey, I knocked. Twice. You were too busy fighting your lyrics to notice.”
Zoey sighed dramatically, but the relief on her face was obvious. “You scared me,” she grumbled, pushing her notebook a little farther back on the desk. “I thought it was a ghost.”
“In this tower?” Rumi snorted. “If anything haunted us, we’d have already signed it as a backup dancer.”
That got a small laugh. Zoey leaned back in her chair, the tension easing from her shoulders.
Rumi took a few unhurried steps closer, eyes roaming over the mess of papers and scribbles. “Lyric war going badly?” she asked.
“Kind of,” Zoey admitted, rubbing her forehead with ink-smudged fingers. “I can’t make this part work. The hook sounds flat no matter how I rewrite it.”
Rumi stopped beside the desk, the lamplight painting Zoey’s skin in soft honey-gold. For a second, she forgot what she meant to say, caught on the way Zoey’s lashes cast small shadows on her cheeks.
“Wanna show me?” Rumi asked finally, her voice gentler than before.
Zoey hesitated, then turned the notebook toward her. Neat lines of lyrics filled the page, crushed beneath crossings-out and arrows and cramped notes in the margins. Rumi leaned over her shoulder, close enough that Zoey’s hair brushed her arm. The faint, sweet scent of peach and something floral wrapped around her.
“Hmm…” Rumi hummed low, scanning the words. “This isn’t bad at all. The words hit hard. You might just be overthinking the rhythm.”
Zoey wrinkled her nose. “Overthinking’s kind of my specialty. You’d know.”
“True,” Rumi said, smiling. She rested a hand on the back of Zoey’s chair, letting her fingers curl casually over the top. “Want help figuring it out? I’ve got demon lungs. We can test how it sounds out loud.”
Zoey snorted. “Right. Because your idea of help usually ends with you stealing my snacks or my dignity.”
“Or your sanity,” Rumi added, grinning. “But come on. Let me hear it. I promise not to steal this one.”
Zoey’s pout softened into a reluctant smile. “Fine,” she said, glancing sideways at Rumi. “But if you laugh…”
“I won’t.”
Rumi shifted just a little closer, their shoulders lightly brushing. Zoey looked back down at her notebook and began to hum, the melody soft and hesitant at first. Hearing it from this close, with the warm lamplight and the quiet tower wrapped around them, sent a slow, pleasant heat creeping along Rumi’s spine. Her demon side stirred, not in warning, but in awareness—of Zoey’s heartbeat, the warmth of their shared air, the fragile little song spilling into the room.
When Zoey finally trailed off, she let out a breath. “It’s not great yet,” she murmured.
Rumi shook her head. “No. It’s beautiful. Just needs a little more confidence,” she said softly.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The bedroom, the city, the rest of the tower faded into a distant hum. It was just Zoey, cheeks faintly pink and eyes searching, and Rumi, trying very hard to look casual when everything under her skin felt anything but.
Zoey leaned back in her chair, the notebook balanced on her knees. The quiet hum of the tower wrapped around them, warm and steady. “Mm… maybe I should get Mira’s opinion tomorrow,” she said, chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “She’s got a really good ear for rhythm changes. She picks up patterns that even I miss.”
Rumi shifted slightly in her chair, twirling her braid’s strands between her fingers. “Mira, huh?” she echoed, tone light but edged with something subtle—more curiosity than anything else.
“Yeah.” Zoey smiled a little, eyes going distant as she pictured it. “She might help me figure out that second verse flow. You know how she times her dance beats? I think if I line the lyrics to that pacing, it might land stronger.”
“That makes sense,” Rumi said, forcing her shoulders to stay relaxed. “Mira’s rhythm sense is scary sometimes.” She crossed her arms and leaned back, angling her body so she could still watch Zoey without staring too obviously. “Still, I think she’ll love it as it is. She’s always saying your lyric drafts get stuck in her head before you even finish them.”
“She does say that,” Zoey laughed, the sound bright and easy as she scribbled another note in her journal. “Though she never finishes them properly when she sings.”
“Classic Mira,” Rumi said, smiling genuinely now. “Commitment issues—unless it’s choreography.”
That made Zoey laugh again, softer this time. The air between them seemed to relax; the mention of their teammate turned the moment from something fragile into something familiar. It felt like late-night practice all over again—just the three of them, even if Mira wasn’t physically in the room.
For a few seconds, neither spoke. Rumi’s gaze drifted from the notebook to Zoey’s hands, ink smudged against her fingertips and along the side of her pinky. The sight tugged at something in her chest. Her lips parted like she might say something—anything—but she caught herself and let the moment slide past.
Zoey finally broke the silence. “You think she’ll really like it?” There was a tiny thread of uncertainty woven into her voice.
“Absolutely,” Rumi said, no hesitation at all. Then, quieter—more honest—“I do.”
Zoey blinked, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Thanks, Rumi.”
The way she said her name—soft and familiar, like she’d been saying it her whole life—did something warm and complicated to Rumi’s chest.
“Anytime,” she murmured, eyes dropping back to the half-finished lyrics. She tapped one corner of the page lightly. “Now, show me that bridge again. I’ve got a few ideas that might impress Mira and the fans.”
Zoey giggled, spinning her pen like a drumstick between her fingers. “Fine then. Thanks, Rumi.”
There it was again—that soft, unguarded way she said her name. It lingered in Rumi’s chest long after the words faded. She should’ve stood up, maybe pretended she had something important to do as leader, but instead she stayed rooted to the spot, just… watching.
Zoey bounced lightly in her chair, energy bubbling over as she scribbled fresh lines into the margins of her notebook. Every time a new idea hit, her eyes lit up, and she’d mumble a phrase under her breath, test it, then adjust it again.
Rumi tilted her head, a faint smile sneaking onto her face before she could stop it. “You’ve been writing non-stop lately,” she said lightly, aiming for casual even as something fond slipped into her tone.
“Hmm?” Zoey glanced up from her notes, blinking like she’d forgotten anyone else was there. “Have I?”
“Yes, you have,” Rumi chuckled. She leaned closer, unable to resist reaching out to gently tug one of Zoey’s low twin buns—just enough to make the other girl squeak and swat her hand away.
“Hey!”
Rumi smirked. “When was the last time you actually took a break?” As she drew her hand back, her thumb brushed against Zoey’s cheek—a light, accidental touch that sent a quick burst of warmth through her stomach. She pretended she hadn’t noticed and sat back like nothing happened.
Zoey blinked, cheeks puffing slightly. “A break? Aren’t I taking one right now?”
“Nope,” Rumi said with mock sternness, pointing at the cluttered desk. “You’re writing songs right now. That fully qualifies as work, Zoey.”
Zoey pouted, crossing her arms loosely. “Doesn’t feel like work.”
“That’s because you love it too much,” Rumi said softly. The teasing slipped for a moment, replaced by something sincere. A real smile pushed at her lips—proud and a little tender. “You pour yourself into it until you forget to breathe. But even things you love need breaks sometimes. Your brain needs rest if you’re going to keep being brilliant.”
Zoey’s pout faltered, replaced by a shy, thoughtful look. “Brilliant, huh?”
Rumi rolled her eyes lightly, but the smile didn’t leave her face. “Don’t let it go to your head. I still reserve the right to steal your snacks.”
Zoey laughed, the tension easing out of her shoulders again. “There it is. I knew there was an ulterior motive.”
Her laugh then faded into a softer smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her look a little younger, a little lighter.
Rumi watched that smile for a second too long before she dragged her gaze away, pretending to inspect the chaos on the desk instead. “I mean, if you burn yourself out, who’s going to write all our hit songs?” she added, trying to tuck the concern back into a joke. “Mira and I? Please. We’d end up rhyming ‘demon’ with ‘lemon’ and calling it a day.”
Zoey snorted at that, shoulders loosening even more. “Hey, that could be a concept,” she said. “Huntr/x: citrus demon era.”
“Absolutely not,” Rumi said, but she was laughing too, the sound low and easy. She nudged Zoey’s elbow with her own. “You’re stuck doing the real work. Which is why you need to stop before your brain turns to mush.”
Zoey stuck out her tongue, but there was no real fight in it. She leaned back in her chair again, pen tapping idly against her knee now instead of the notebook. “Fine, fine. You win this round, demon doctor.”
“Good choice.” Rumi grinned, feeling a little victory buzz despite herself.
“Seriously though. You’ve been at this for hours. When’s the last time you even stood up?”
Zoey paused, actually thinking about it. Her fingers stilled on the pen, and she glanced around her desk like it might tell her. “Uh… snack break? That counts, right?”
“Nope.” Rumi shook her head, already shifting into full mission mode. “Not even close.”
Zoey tilted her head, humming thoughtfully. “I suppose… but I’m not tired.”
“Oh really?” Rumi arched a brow, hopping to her feet with exaggerated flair, like she was about to take the stage. “Then let me be the responsible one for once.” She circled behind Zoey’s chair in two quick steps and planted her hands lightly on Zoey’s shoulders, giving a gentle squeeze. “Up,” she commanded in a half-playful, half-bossy tone. “Stretch time. That’s an order from your leader.”
“Wha—Rumi!” Zoey burst out laughing as Rumi tugged her hands, pulling her upright with just enough insistence to make resistance pointless. She stumbled to her feet, still giggling. “I’m fine! I don’t need—hey!”
“Break time,” Rumi announced with a dramatic flourish, one hand sweeping out like she was unveiling a grand prize. “Doctor Rumi prescribes a minimum of ten minutes away from notebooks, screens, and overthinking. No negotiations.”
Zoey wobbled a little, caught between amusement and mock protest, her space buns bouncing as she tried to wriggle free. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Leader privilege,” Rumi shot back, steering her into the open space by the desk. “Now—stretch. You’ll thank me later.”
“Stretch?” Zoey echoed, shooting her a skeptical side-eye. But she gave in anyway, raising her arms high above her head and leaning back into a slow, lazy arch. Her back curved gracefully, shoulders rolling, shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of skin at her waist—a small, casual mark of trust that hit Rumi harder than it should’ve.
Rumi’s eyes snagged there for half a beat before she snapped her gaze back up, clearing her throat a touch too fast. “See?” she said, voice steady through sheer willpower. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
Zoey held the pose a second longer, then dropped her arms with a contented sigh. “Mmm… maybe,” she admitted, that impish grin sliding back into place. “But I’m still calling it—you just want to steal my chips again, don’t you?”
“Wow,” Rumi gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been shot. “Is that all you think of me? After all my selfless concern?”
“Yes,” Zoey fired back without missing a beat, and then dissolved into laughter at Rumi’s over-the-top expression.
Rumi tried to hold onto the fake offense, but it crumbled fast. Her own laugh broke free—bright, unguarded, the kind that smoothed every sharp edge her demon half carried and left her feeling lighter than air.
As Zoey’s laughter tapered into soft, breathy giggles, the room settled into a warm hush. Rumi watched her, chest full in a way she couldn’t quite name.
This, she thought—not for the first time—was her favorite kind of silence: the kind that bloomed right after Zoey smiled, when the air still hummed with her joy.