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The air console turns on again, a low hum thrumming through the space until it blends in with the quiet. A few students sit by the computers, tapping away on the keyboards and clicking on links as they investigate for their assignments. Others are grouped together in further corners, voices low and steady while discussing their class notes and clear up each other’s questions.
Sunlight filters through the tall windows in pale strips, casting dull shadows over the second floor of the library. The scent of old paper and recycled air quietly lingers. Chairs scrape gently against the floor when someone moves, and somewhere deeper, hidden among the endless rows of bookshelves, a book cart rattles down an aisle.
“Okay,” Rumi says quietly, resting her elbow on the table and tilting her head to the side, pointing at the question with the end of her dark blue pen. “Read the question out loud.”
Jane, the transfer student she’s been tutoring for almost a month now, hesitates. “Uhm…” She leans forward, eyes squinting as she gently pushes her silver-framed glasses up her nose. “‘How does Kang use indirect discourse to blur the boundary between internal and external reality in The Vegetarian?’”
Rumi nods approvingly, a small smile hanging on her lips when Jane’s Korean comes out almost perfect. “That was great! I told you’d get better in no time.”
“I’m only getting better thanks to you,” Jane says with a shy smile. “I really can’t thank you enough, Rumi unnie.”
Rumi waves her off. “I can’t take all the credit when you’re doing half the work,” she says, smiling a little wider when Jane giggles. “If you were slacking off, we wouldn’t be getting anywhere. You’re doing really good.”
“Well,” Jane corrects, an amused lilt in her tone.
“Right, right. Thank you,” Rumi chuckles. She taps the margin of the page lightly. “Now, when we talk about indirect discourse, we’re talking about how the narrator doesn’t announce that we’re in the character's mind. That’s usually shown when there’s no quotation marks or ‘they thought’. It just slides between inside and outside.”
“So, like a complex point of view?” Jane asks.
“Kind of, yeah,” Rumi hums, thinking it over. “By making the boundary between reality and thoughts disappear, the setting and the character’s mind become one. A good example for that would be last month’s book where a memory from twenty years ago and a flower shop in the present day existed in the same sentence.”
“Got it,” Jane nods, scribbling down a quick note on her notebook. “So the way it’d work in this book would be—“
A laugh cuts through the silence.
Too bright. Too sharp. Too damn loud for the place they’re sitting at.
Rumi purses her lips, an exhale escaping through her nose and turns in her chair to look at the group sitting just a table away from them. A small cluster of royal blue and white uniforms is huddled around the girl perched on the edge of the table. It’s a good thing the librarian is too busy reorganizing books on the first floor or else they’d be getting an earful.
Should get an earful, if Rumi was being honest.
Her gaze drifts lazily at first. Over the colors that represent the school, over the familiar faces with polished smiles and easy confidence. She didn’t know everyone by name, but she’d seen them around campus enough to recognize most of them.
Her eyes finally land on the girl sitting in the very middle. The way she sits — legs crossed at the ankles, a slight slump to her usual perfect posture, head tilted as the conversation carried around her. The way the others are not-so-discreetly trying to get her attention as she focuses on the dark blue painting her nails. Rumi couldn’t blame her; a pretty color like that one seemed far more interesting than the artificial conversation the group was having.
It doesn’t take long for the memory to resurface. For something old and unwelcome to stir in her chest. Because she knows that posture; that careless ownership of space. She’d seen it before, many years ago in a different school from the very front of the classroom where she still tries to sit.
Park Zoey.
The captain of the Hunter’s cheerleading team.
To others, she was the girl who got moved up two grades in middle school.
To the people around her, she was the best flyer on their team and would become dust if they competed without her.
To Rumi, she was the one who sat two rows behind her in seventh grade, throwing tiny paper balls to the back of her head during science class while snickering under her breath.
Rumi didn’t expect to recognize her so easily when she saw her being lifted at their school’s welcome game. Longer hair tied into twin buns was a very different look than the short bob she had when they were twelve (ten in Zoey’s case), but she could recognize those freckled cheeks and mischievous smirk in her dreams against her better judgement.
Being around Zoey has always felt like a storm waiting to happen. Not cruel for the sake of it — not anymore at least — but sharp when she chooses to be. Careless in a way that leaves dents long after she’s moved on. Rumi has heard her laugh at people (herself included) the way she did when they were younger, the edge of the sound softened but never really gone.
In other words, they were basically like oil and water. Unable to mix or get along. And their social status’s only deepened that fact.
Another burst of laughter brings Rumi’s attention back to the group.
One of the girls, a brunette she’d seen around campus before leans in toward Zoey, voice barely lowered. Almost like she wanted them to hear their conversation, and was trying to make it as obvious as she could.
“I swear, every transfer student they accept lately is hopeless. Like, how do you live here for a month and still don’t understand basic Korean?”
Another girl snorts. “Right? How embarrassing.”
Rumi feels Jane shift beside her. She takes a quick glance, and her face sours when she sees Jane fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.
Her gaze flickers back to Zoey’s table as a third girl pipes up.
“Isn’t that her?” The girl asks, tilting her head towards Jane without any kind of subtlety. “I thought only agideul needed to be guided so… slowly.”
A few of them laugh again. Rumi’s fingers tighten around her pen, jaw clenching and eyebrows knitting. If anyone was a baby, it would be them; considering how childish they sound for college students. She wants to tell Jane to ignore them because of that, but the words get stuck in her throat as they continue to ‘whisper’.
Rumi absentmindedly glances at Zoey. Observing. Almost expectant.
Zoey isn’t laughing along with them. Her posture is casual, a letterman jacket hanging off one shoulder as she picks at her manicured nails, clearly uninterested in the first few comments. She looks bored; like the cruelty doesn’t even register as something worth reacting to anymore. But there’s something in the stillness of her expression that feels familiar, like she recognizes the attention they have on Jane a little too well.
It’s only when that attention shifts, the jokes sharpening as they find their new target, that Zoey’s hand stills. Her gaze lifts, an eyebrow raised as the laughter erupts again.
Another girl, a blonde wearing a little too much blush, scoffs. “Right? How do you manage to make yourself invisible so easily? It’s like she’s allergic to getting attention. It’s kinda sad.”
Rumi raises a brow when the girl looks directly at her, a sly eerie grin lingering on her lips. It was like she wanted Rumi to know she was their target now. A deer with a bright red dot in between its eyes.
But Rumi’s used to it.
From being homeschooled half of her life to suddenly be thrown into the public school system had been… an adjustment. It’s not like she hadn’t tried to make friends, she really did. But there were certain bonds that kept her from getting too close, too familiar with the other kids. It didn’t help that she actually liked learning new things and following the rules either. Kids were always a little extra mean to people like her.
The brunette tilts her head, eyes drifting towards Rumi as she laughs. “Yeah, it is pretty sad. She always looks like she’s apologizing for existing.”
That one lands harder than Rumi would ever admit out loud.
Her eyes land on Zoey again. The change is subtle; blink and you miss it like, but definitely there. Zoey lifts her head, attention snapping into place. The boredom drains from her eyes, replaced by something close to dangerous as her gaze settles on the two giggling girls.
“Please,” Zoey finally speaks. “At least she has a brain to make up for her lackluster style. Not all of us can live off lip gloss, hair twirls and TikTok trends.”
The AC turns off just as she finishes that sentence, making the quiet in the room dip into the uncomfortable.
The blonde girl blinks. “…What?”
The brunette scoffs, offense clear though she tries to play it off. “I was just joking...”
Zoey smiles, edges sharp. “So was I, Eunji-ah!” she beams, shifting on the table until both her legs are under her. Her elbow digs into her thigh, the hem of her skirt brushing against it and she tilts her head into her palm. “I don’t remember ever saying I meant you, though. What, does the shoe fit too well?” she taunts, eyes glinting with viciousness. A mountain lion pouncing on the unexpecting herd.
The girl, Eunji, opens her mouth, then closes it when she meets Zoey’s gaze. She shifts under the pressure, and grumbles something under her breath that Rumi can’t quite catch.
“That’s what I thought,” Zoey hums, looking back at her nails. Already done with the conversation. Like nothing even happened.
The laughter doesn’t recover its rhythm until a minute later, when one of the guys, Abby if Rumi remembers correctly, brings up something that happened at their last practice. Rumi feels the tension ease from her shoulders slightly, and she’s about to turn back to her lesson when Zoey’s gaze flicks up, meeting hers. Brief. Intentional. Gone before she can register it as Zoey actually laughs at something Abby said.
Rumi doesn’t look away right away. The space where Zoey’s attention was lingers, leaving a strange weight in her chest.
Then she turns back to Jane; who is looking at her with a puzzled tilt of her head. Like she can tell something shifted, but couldn’t name what it was.
“So,” Rumi says, voice steady and casual. “Where were we?”
Jane blinks. “Uh—“ She shakes her head, eyes dropping back to the book. “Indirect discourse.”
Rumi nods. “Right. So, when Kang writes…”
—————✮—————
By the time she’s waving Jane goodbye, the sun is already high behind the cloudy sky. Her head feels full — of indirect discourse, of Jane’s questions, of new words to add to her English vocabulary. She didn’t exactly expect to get anything back from helping others, but she didn’t mind one bit learning something new on the way.
Well. Not good. She would for sure remember that now.
After Jane disappears around the corner, Rumi focuses on getting to her next class, speedwalking to the building across the library when she sees she’s two minutes behind schedule. The schedule she meticulously sets so that she’s at least five minutes early to everything, and still is somehow behind.
She reaches the lecture hall as the door starts closing, slipping inside just in time. A few heads turn, because of course they do. Rumi hates this part; the small spotlight of being late, no matter how justified. It makes her feel small. Noticed. Visible.
She scans the room quickly, mind racing as she tries to ignore the stares.
Every decent chair is taken. Only the far corner remains. Great.
She moves down the aisle, keeping her head low, and takes the seat near the wall. It’s not where she likes to sit. Too far from the center, too close to the reckless students that are only there for their parents’ approval and not because they actually care to learn. Pity is close to what she feels for them. She knows about expectations way too well, just on a different, maybe harsher level.
Her bag is set down gently by her feet with a slow exhale. It’s fine. She’s fine. No one’s staring at her anymore and the professor doesn’t seem that annoyed about her being ‘late’. She never usually is, so that’s probably what’s helping. Either that or her professor doesn’t care half as much as she does, which is usually the case.
Rumi has always cared too much.
About being noticed. About getting or doing things wrong. About taking more space than she’s allowed or supposed to. It’s why she thinks, and thinks, and thinks. A never ending loop even with the most mundane tasks in her to-do list.
The lights dim. The projector’s bright one crosses the room and displays today’s lesson: ‘Contemporary Narrative Structures in Modern Korean Fiction.’
“Alright,” Rumi’s professor starts, clearing her throat. “Let’s begin.”
Rumi opens her notebook and writes the heading down neatly. She listens to her professor talk, scribbling down the most important parts with start-shaped bullet points. Phrases get underlined with her favorite pen. Arrows crowd the margins with tiny fun facts.
Her mind settles into its usual rhythm, forgetting the panic that settled under her skin when everyone’s eyes were on her. Listening, sorting and absorbing helped calm the goosebumps that nearly formed on her skin. This is where she knows how to exist.
The sudden buzz of her phone startles her.
Her pen slips. A sharp line cuts through the sentence she’s halfway writing, ink scratching harshly across the paper as it bleeds onto the page. Rumi stares at the mark, at the way it ruins the neatness of her page.
She hates when things bleed out of order.
She exhales slowly and lifts her pen, flipping to a new blank page to continue. It’s probably nothing. Probably just a calendar reminder. Or maybe someone from one of her other classes added her to a group chat. It’d be nice to not be the one to always make them just to be left on read and, consequently, have to do the project all by herself for once.
Curiosity gets the best of her after a moment. Her eyes flick from the screen to her desk as she flips her phone to read the notification.
A single message.
From an unsaved number.
One she’d stare at too many times on too many occasions to not have it memorized.
It reads: 2A-16.
That’s it.
Rumi knows exactly what it means, and not just from the way her chest tightens.
Her first instinct is to pack up immediately. The second is to be angry at herself for even having that instinct. She takes a quick glance at the time; it’s only been twenty minutes since class started. She can’t leave now—
She looks back at her professor, watching her mouth move though Rumi can’t hear a thing. At the slide on the wall, words blurring together so messily she thinks she might need to get new glasses soon. At the new, blank page on her desk, waiting for her to actually make up her mind.
The air around her feels fragile suddenly, as if she were to move everything would shatter. She stares at the message like it might change if she looks long enough. But when it doesn’t, she tries to convince herself she read the number wrong.
The little voice in the back of her head reminds her she didn’t, and she feels that tiny tug in her chest settle just under her ribs. Lurking. Waiting. Taunting.
Rumi finally locks her phone, placing it face-down and stares ahead. She is not leaving in the middle of class. That would be ridiculous. Whatever pending business they had, it could surely wait until her class was over.
The numbers on the text burn in the back of her mind as she fixes her eyes on her professor, forcing herself to actually understand the words coming out of her mouth. The grip on her pen is unsteady as she starts writing again, little stars decorating the page in crooked rows instead of neat ones. Her leg bounces rapidly under the table, and she has to physically stop herself from shaking the desk with it.
Whatever pending business they had, it couldn’t wait a second longer.
Rumi exhales slowly, eyes drifting shut for a second before closing her notebook quietly. It’s shoved into her bag along with her pen, not even bothering to store it in her pencil case like she always does without fail.
That’s the thing about… this whole thing. It disrupts her order. Her control. It makes her do things she wouldn’t usually do for herself or others. Makes her feel good about wanting and taking however much she wants.
And Rumi would be lying if she said she didn’t like the secrecy of it all.
Slipping her bag over her shoulder and she walks out the door without disrupting class. She didn’t feel like being stared at again. There was no need to draw attention — not when other people might be watching, too.
Room 2A-16 isn’t that far of a walk, but it’s tucked away in a far corner that no one really bothers hanging around at. It hasn’t been used in the two years Rumi’s been attending, forgotten by the college’s staff after they made some arrangements on the courses they’d offer. How Rumi knows this makes her huff in mild annoyance, yet her feet still scramble to pick up the pace.
An antsy feeling always crawls up her back when she gets these messages. It’s like the longer she takes, the more she craves it—craves her. It almost makes her laugh at herself; she’d always been told she was spoiled when she was a kid. That hearing ‘no’ was like chopping off one of her limbs, that it was easier to give her what she wanted than neglecting her from it.
She owes Celine a big one for that. It’s why she tries to be good, even now.
Her heart is thudding in her ears by the time she’s standing outside the classroom’s door, the slightly worn-down plaque with the engraved numbers staring back at her. The door is unlocked; she can tell from the way it’s not closed all the way and how faint light spills through onto the hallway. Her hand twitches beside her, fingers flexing as they hesitate to reach out and push the door open.
How long is she going to pretend this doesn’t matter?
She knows the answer is… complicated, to say the least, but it still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Unlike…
With a light shake of her head, Rumi pushes the door open and steps inside.
The room itself looks fairly new, even with the light clutter of old music stands, instruments and a few chairs tucked away in the back. A teacher’s desk sits at the very front of the room, the paint on the sides starting to chip from time. The overhead lights are off, the window just across from her letting the faint sunlight light it up instead.
Zoey is sitting at the edge of the window, watching the light drizzle outside. Dim sunlight cuts through her profile, catching on the freckles that cover her cheeks. One leg is perched up close to her chest, her arm propped on top of it so her chin rests on her palm. Her cheer jacket is falling off one shoulder like it never wants to stay where it’s supposed to, revealing the tiny black ink that adorns it.
She finally looks towards the door when Rumi clicks the door shut, locking it behind her.
Zoey’s arm drops over her knee, a slow grin spreading across her face when her eyes land on Rumi. “Took you long enough.”
Rumi sets her bag down by the teacher’s desk with more force than necessary. “I was in the middle of class,” she says flatly. “You don’t get to decide when I drop everything.”
Zoey’s eyebrows raise, so clearly amused. “Don’t I?”
Rumi frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zoey tilts her head, studying her with an infuriating calm. “You always come, don’t you?”
The words land with the same punch the first insult Zoey ever threw at her did.
Back then, it had been smaller. Petty. Almost ridiculous. Ten-year-old Zoey had leaned over her desk one afternoon, smirked like she was saying something clever, and asked if twelve-year-old Rumi ever planned on talking or if she was just going to be ‘creepy quiet’ forever. If she’d always be ‘the class loser’. She’d laugh right after, too loud and too mean, the sound sticking to Rumi’s brain like hammered nails.
As she grew older, she realized it wasn’t the worst thing anyone has said to her. They were kids; kids say stupid stuff all the time. But the sound echoed through her mind against her will, reminding her that people did notice her. Zoey had noticed her — and being noticed didn’t always mean being seen kindly.
Rumi hates that she doesn’t have a response ready. Hates how right Zoey is.
To others, Zoey is the youngest girl in their class, the loveable cheer captain, the one people orbit around without thinking twice.
To the people that were always around her, Zoey is untouchable—admired, sharp-edged when she needs to be and impossible to pin down.
And to Rumi, she is the one person she can never say no to. The one who has her wrapped around her ringed fingers. The one Rumi wants… but can’t truly have.
Rumi sighs, slow and defeated. “Why did you call me here?”
She watches as Zoey stands and crosses the room unhurriedly, like she has nowhere else to be—like she has all the time in the world. Zoey’s gaze is something quieter compared to the sharp look she gave her teammates earlier, dipping and lingering on Rumi before she meets her eyes once more. Rumi knows that look, and she knows very well it only belongs to her (or she likes to think it belongs to her anyway).
Zoey sits on the edge of the teacher’s desk directly in front of Rumi, close enough that Rumi has to fight the urge to step back.
—or in, if she was being honest with herself.
Zoey reaches up without asking, slipping Rumi’s black-framed glasses off her face like it’s second nature. The ease of it sends a small shiver up Rumi’s spine. Zoey turns them in her hands, careful with them in a way she isn’t with most things, and flips the legs close, setting them on the desk just behind her. Rumi’s breath catches quietly as Zoey leans back with one arm holding her up, the other draping lazily over her stomach.
Her eyes flick to the slope of Zoey’s neck for a mere second. The place where her pulse moves when she laughs, when she’s nervous, when she’s throwing sarcastic comments even if it’s racing with adrenaline and heat.
Something in Rumi stirs, subtle but dangerous as she remembers the exact beat of that pulse against her lips. For a moment, Rumi lets the mask slip. The careful neutrality she’s perfected over the years falls, revealing something very close to want. To need. To take. She slaps it on immediately, smoothing her expression back into composure. To calm. To stillness.
And Zoey notices. She always notices.
“I think we both know you’re smart enough to figure it out,” she says lightly, the corner of her mouth curled in amusement.
Rumi lifts her gaze, eyes locking with Zoey’s steadily. She catches the split-second glint in the younger girl’s eyes when she does, and the mask slips past her lips. “You’re forgetting I’m the one that decides when to show up.”
Zoey’s smile curves into something sharp. “Is that what you tell yourself?” she asks with a click of her tongue. Her eyes dart low, darkening as they trace a slow path over Rumi — from her shoulders, to the line of her waist, and back up again. There’s no attempt to hide it, almost like she wants Rumi to feel it. “I’ve never deemed you as the patient type…”
The mask begins to slide off.
Rumi hums and steps closer, closing the last inch of space between them. Unrushed. Intentional. She braces her hands on the desk on either side of Zoey’s hips, leaning in just enough so their breaths start to overlap. Just enough to make Zoey feel her presence in quiet pressure she can’t ignore even if she tried. Even if she wanted to.
“I’m not,” Rumi says cooly, “But it’s not like you’ve been… behaving anyway. So why should I rush in to help you?”
“Not behaving?” Zoey asks, tilting her head. Her voice lowers just a touch, curiosity threading through it.
Rumi huffs out a quiet laugh. “You already forgot about my ‘lackluster style’?”
Zoey blinks, then scoffs when it clicks. “Did you really get offended by that?” she asks with a raised brow.
“Maybe,” Rumi says, not quite managing to sound convincing.
Zoey laughs softly, clearly delighted. “Is that so?”
Shifting on the desk, Zoey closes the last inch between them herself. She catches one of Rumi’s wrists, fingertips lingering over the handmade bracelets there — the ones she’d asked about once and never teased her for. Her fingers curl around it, warm and firm. Zoey lifts her hand and presses it gently against her own cheek, looking up at Rumi with a dangerous and intimate glint in her eyes.
“If it bothered you that much,” she starts, nuzzling into Rumi’s palm. Zoey turns her face into the open hand before Rumi can even think about a response, lips brushing lightly against her skin. When she meets Rumi’s gaze, dark brown eyes locking intensely with the other’s, she licks a slow stripe up Rumi’s thumb, capturing the digit between her lips and sucking gently before pulling back.
“Then do something about it.”
The mask cracks before Rumi can even think about gluing it back on.
Rumi’s grip tightens around Zoey’s cheeks, forcing their gazes to stay locked. Firm. Controlled. Unyielding. She knows this is what Zoey wants, and she’s been teased long enough to let herself want it as well.
Zoey’s lips part in a soft, breathless laugh. “There she is…”
“You never know when to stop, do you?” Rumi’s voice comes out rougher than she intends, sharp in a way that almost sounds demon-like. Zoey doesn’t seem to mind it whenever it comes out, so Rumi doesn’t overthink it anymore.
The brown around Zoey’s eyes shrinks into a thin ring as her pupils dilate. Her eyes are wide as her breath catches, like she’s finally letting herself feel what she’s holding back. The first real crack to her composure. The first real look at what Zoey truly wants to get out of this.
Zoey huffs out a laugh, trying for teasing even as her voice betrays her. “So make me stop.”
The mask falls off completely, crumbling to the ground in a million pieces. Just like it had many times before. Just like Zoey managed to do every time.
Rumi crashes her lips against Zoey’s, the tension they’ve been carrying finally breaking. The world around them narrows to heat. To craving. To desire. The quiet realization that they were done playing around muffled by their desperation.
Rumi lets go of Zoey’s face, hands moving to grip onto her hips instead, pulling her closer to the edge of the desk until their bodies flush together. Blazing heat curls low in her stomach when she feels Zoey’s skirt ride up her thighs, feeling the warmth between her legs even through the layers of clothes they still have on. Zoey exhales against her mouth; a sound that feels like relief and surrender that only makes that heat travel straight to Rumi’s core, the tightness in her pants growing instantly.
She helps Zoey shrug off her jacket, struggling for a second as they refuse to separate. The fabric hits the desk with a soft thud before Zoey’s arms come up to wrap around Rumi’s neck, nails raking into the short hairs of her undercut.
Rumi’s the first to pull back, jagged breaths that escape through her lips mixing with Zoey’s as they lock eyes. The look on Zoey’s face feels lethal; it always does when she finally gives in and lets herself break for Rumi. Darkened, half-lidded eyes full of lust stare back at her, along with a faint pinkish tint coating her cheeks and reddened plump lips.
The devious curl on Rumi’s lips screams satisfaction, and they both know they’re just getting started.
Rumi dips her head, pressing her mouth to the edge of Zoey’s jaw. A breathless gasp fills the air as Rumi moves lower, lips brushing against the curve of Zoey’s neck. The hand tugging at her hair urges her closer, making Rumi chuckle right as she nears the sweet spot behind Zoey’s ear.
“Too easy…” she mumbles, teeth grazing the spot before nipping at it. A hiss leaves her as she’s pulled away, brows creasing even as a smirk plays on her lips.
“Don’t get cocky,” Zoey snaps, eyes narrowing with a glare that doesn’t hold as much power as she thinks it does. She tugs at Rumi’s hair again, pulling her close enough that their breaths overlap. “You’re only in charge because I let you.”
Rumi’s smirk turns into a playful, yet wicked grin. “Is that what you tell yourself?” she echoes, and Zoey’s breath catches as the words she said earlier slap her right in the face. Rumi’s arm snakes behind her, pressing her closer than either of them thought possible. Zoey’s bottom lip juts itself between her teeth as she feels Rumi’s growing bulge poke her inner thigh, the hand behind her head loosening its grip on the short purple strands.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Rumi had asked, brow raising as she locked the classroom door and walked over to the desk.
“The fuck you mean, ‘why what’?” Zoey had scoffed, crossing her legs as she shifted in her seat. “Your hair, dude.”
“Oh,” Rumi had shrugged, instinctively raising a hand to brush over the shorter strands. “Wasn’t feeling the braid anymore and it’d be too much of a hassle to wear it loose all the time so…”
Zoey had stared at her, almost like she was analyzing the way the haircut made Rumi look. The way it framed and actually showed her face, like Rumi had finally stopped hiding behind it.
“It’s… nice,” she had said simply.
“Just nice?” Rumi asked, a teasing lilt to her voice as she stepped closer.
“See, this is why I bully you,” Zoey had deadpanned, tilting her head up to look at Rumi when she got a little too close. She hadn’t moved away, though. “You get all snobby when you get a compliment.”
Rumi had laughed, bright and unguarded. Then, she noticed it.
The way Zoey’s eyes had flicked away for a second. The faint tension in her shoulders. Like she was suddenly aware of how close Rumi was standing. Like maybe she liked it more than she’d ever admit out loud.
So subtle. So easy to miss.
Rumi had pushed it off as her imagining things.
Rumi leans in closer, lips brushing against the newly formed goosebumps scattered over Zoey’s neck. “If I remember correctly, you want me to take control like this. It drives you crazy to let someone else take the lead, doesn’t it? Or are you going to keep pretending like you do every day when we’re in public?”
Zoey shudders, her whole body trembling as she feels Rumi begin to kiss and nip at her neck again. “T-that’s not—“
“You’re really going to deny it, sweet thing?” Rumi chuckles, licking a torturously slow stripe up her throat, sending another shiver down Zoey’s spine. “You’re going to deny it to me of all people? You’re going to deny how badly you like to get ruined? How badly you crave letting someone else take control for once so you can take a break?” Her voice lowers as she nips at the sensitive skin, feeling the way Zoey’s throat bobbles as she swallows nervously. “How badly you crave for me to do whatever I want with you? To use you like the pretty little whore you are?”
The whimper Zoey lets out has Rumi grinning against her throat at how pathetic it sounds. If anyone else were to see Zoey like this, her whole reputation would become dust in no time. Who would’ve thought the admirable, sharp cheer captain could fall apart with a little filth whispered in her ear? The same crack Rumi saw earlier flashes through Zoey’s eyes, so warm and hungry that it almost makes Rumi give in right away.
Almost. She’s not going to give in until Zoey learns to ask properly. Until she learns to behave.
Zoey’s breath staggers, chest rising and falling unevenly as she watches Rumi slowly descend to her chest. Rumi’s hands come up her sides, slowly trailing upwards until her thumbs trace the hem of Zoey’s top. They brush along the sliver of skin, feeling fresh goosebumps form when she slides them underneath. She glances up at Zoey, meeting her gaze with a raised brow and smirk.
“…Please.” Comes the hushed plea.
“Please, what?” Rumi hums, placing a light kiss over the top she’s refusing to get out of the way. Zoey grunts, brows furrowing in frustration when Rumi’s hands still. “Use your words, pretty girl. Tell me what you want.”
Zoey’s mask falls right next to Rumi’s shattered one.
“Please,” Zoey says again, her expression softening as she meets Rumi’s eyes. Her wide eyes gloss over, cheeks flushing as her bottom lip trembles. Her hands shake as they grab onto Rumi’s shoulders, squeezing until she can control her breath. “Make me yours, Rumi… I need you.”
Rumi’s smile is devilish as she presses a firm kiss onto Zoey’s lips, only sharpening as she hears the muffled little moan against it. “That’s my good girl.”
She resumes her path of kisses — down her neck, to her collarbones, to her covered chest and to her stomach. Rumi glances up at Zoey, almost laughing when she meets the younger girl’s glare when her hands leave her chest. She grins back at her, cool and unaffected, placing another kiss on her stomach, feeling the muscle contract under her lips. Her lips brush against the metal decorating Zoey’s bellybutton, a nice contrast with the heat radiating off her skin.
Rumi’s hands find Zoey’s hips and she pulls her closer to the edge. She doesn’t miss the way Zoey’s breath stutters when she drops to her knees, now eye level with her raised skirt. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth when she sees Zoey’s pink thong staring back at her, slick drenching the fabric and starting to drip down her thighs.
“God, Zoey…” Rumi mumbles in awe, hooking an arm under one of Zoey’s knees to hold her legs open. “You’re already this worked up, baby? I haven’t even done anything yet.”
Zoey only whimpers in response, sharp tongue and snarky comments nowhere to be found. Smirking, Rumi returns her attention to the heat between Zoey’s legs. She reaches up, dragging two fingers against the wet fabric, pressing just enough for the thinnest layer to coat her fingertips. Zoey’s breath hitches at the contact, a hand moving to flatten her skirt against her stomach to get a better look.
Slender fingers hook under the soaked garment, gently pushing it aside. Rumi’s breath catches in her throat as Zoey’s dripping cunt stares back at her. Drenched folds glisten under the dim lighting of the classroom, the string of slickness hanging from her entrance to her panties breaking with ease. The sensitive nub right under the patch of black curly hair peeks out from its hood, begging for attention.
“Fuck, Zo…” Rumi whispers, her warm breath cool against the pulsing heat. She turns her head to the side, kissing up Zoey’s inner thighs at the slowest pace possible. Even if Zoey had already learned her lesson and asked nicely, it was only fair for Rumi to have a little fun before giving in. “So pretty… Just for me.”
“Rumi, please…” Zoey chokes out, her voice cracking at the edge. Rumi’s inner demon wants to tease her for it, drag it out until Zoey begs for her again, but her brain turns to absolute mush with her own lust at the way her name sounds spilling from Zoey’s lips. The tightness in her pants doesn’t help either, only growing more uncomfortable with each tease.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she coos sweetly. “I’ve got you.”
With a hand holding Zoey’s panties in place, Rumi lifts the other and glides a finger along the wetness, dipping it just enough to coat the tip. A whine from above reaches her ears as she takes her hand away and looks up. Zoey is staring at her, lips so red from biting and holding back it’s almost pitiful. Rumi raises a brow in amusement and, without breaking eye contact, slips the finger into her mouth.
A satisfied grunt escapes her as Zoey’s taste hits her tongue. The mix of sweet, salt and tang only heighten her desire, making her lust-filled brain get foggier.
Rumi doesn’t waste any more time. Can’t bring herself to.
She finally leans in and drags her tongue against Zoey’s wetness. Zoey gasps, hand flying down to grip at Rumi’s hair, fingers tangling easily on the purple mess and pulls her closer. Rumi chuckles at the eagerness and licks again, tongue circling her clit before wrapping her lips around the sensitive bundle.
“Fuck, yes… Just like that, baby,” Zoey moans, hand tugging Rumi’s face closer.
Rumi hums around Zoey’s clit, the vibration making Zoey gasp and her legs tremble beside Rumi’s head. Her fingers brush against Zoey’s inner thigh, squeezing the toned muscle before pushing it further to make room. She laps at the bud, earning another soft moan. Her pants feel like barbed wire against her hardening cock, tightening every time she licks and gets a noise as a reward. It only encourages her to keep going.
She passes her tongue hungrily, her own desire growing as Zoey’s scent curls around her. Intoxicating is the only way to describe it; only making Rumi want and crave Zoey more. Her tongue dips lower, teasing Zoey’s entrance with the tip. Zoey grunts, pulling on Rumi’s hair harshly. Desperately. Quietly begging Rumi to just give it to her.
Rumi lets out a low chuckle, the vibration sending a shiver down Zoey’s spine. She hooks her other arm under her leg, nails digging crescent moons into Zoey’s thighs as she finally slips her tongue inside. A low moan erupts out of Rumi when her tongue meets the heat pulsing out of Zoey’s walls, clenching around the muscle as she starts to slowly move in and out.
Zoey’s breathless moans fill the classroom, her hips grinding into Rumi’s mouth as she picks up the pace. The grip on Rumi’s hair only tightens when her nose bumps against Zoey’s clit, and Zoey whines as her hips start to move faster, searching for more of that delicious friction.
“Rumi… fuck, that—hah… that feels so good.”
Rumi responds by slipping her tongue out and lapping at her clit. She drags her tongue over it, wrapping her lips around the bundle of nerves and sucks. Zoey yelps, hips bucking forward as a long moan drawls out of her. “Yes! Fuck, Ru—ngh… More. Please, give me more.”
Rumi quickens her pace, groaning as she feels slick start to drip down her chin. She glances up at Zoey, and her breath is immediately taken away. Zoey’s looking down at her through half-lidded eyes, bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she tries (and fails) to keep quiet. The desperation, the red tint covering her freckled cheeks, the sinful sounds coming out of her mouth as her hips rock faster into Rumi’s mouth is nothing short of beautiful. Such a poised and collected girl ruined in a short span of time. And all because of Rumi and Rumi only.
Her cock aches inside its denim prison, urging her to relieve herself. She’s sure she can come from this alone. But Rumi’s focus is on Zoey; on ruining her further. Making her hers even if that's the only thing she gets in return.
Lips wrap around Zoey’s clit again, sucking hard before licking. Zoey whines, hips bucking as pleasure takes over her. Rumi takes the opportunity and unhooks an arm from Zoey’s thighs, sneaky fingers urging closer to her slick entrance.
Zoey gasps when she feels Rumi’s finger rub against her, a long, whiny moan bubbling out of her when the first one is pushed in. Rumi curls her finger inside, feeling the delicious clench around the digit before inserting another one.
“O-Oh my God… yes,” Zoey pants, grinding down onto Rumi’s fingers, hips circling so they fuck her deeper. “Fuck, please don’t stop. L-Let me fucking—ngh! Please make me come like this, baby. Please, please, please!”
And Rumi obliges. With a chuckle, she continues to pump her fingers in and out of Zoey. The schlick, schlick, schlick of Zoey’s cunt harmonizes with the chorus of moans and grunts that escape their lips.
One particular moan catches Rumi’s attention; so loud and broken that it makes her cock throb in its cage. Zoey only confirms her suspicions as she starts to babble out incoherent words interrupted by her noises.
Rumi’s fingers pump faster, the wet sounds growing louder, and she flattens her tongue against Zoey’s clit. She looks up at Zoey through half-lidded eyes as her mouth gets used. Just a toy that’d get discarded when Zoey got what she wanted.
The mask’s starting to glue itself together.
Zoey’s hips stagger, a long whine filling the air as she desperately searches for relief.
“Look at me,” Rumi demands quickly, not wanting to deprive Zoey of her release much longer. Zoey looks down, and immediately chokes on a moan when she meets Rumi’s eyes.
The image of Rumi between her legs — eyes dark with lust, tongue flat and drenched fingers, and messy strands framing her face does it.
“S-shit! Rumi!” Zoey moans, eyes rolling to the back of her head as her orgasm crashes through her. Her whole body trembles, noises muffled when she clamps a hand over her own mouth, her breathing heavy as she begins to come down. And Rumi’s tongue moves gently, lapping at the new wetness coating her cunt, fingers slowing to a stop before pulling them out. Zoey shudders at the loss, tilting her head down to look at Rumi.
“Come here…” Zoey whispers, tugging softly at Rumi’s hair.
The masks latch themselves back on their owners’ faces like nothing happened. Like they never even fell off in the first place.
Rumi stands, legs wobbling slightly as her knees ache from being glued to the tile floor. Zoey’s breathing is finally even as they come face to face, and her eyes dart to the wet mess dripping down Rumi’s chin. Without hesitation, she pulls Rumi in by the collar of her shirt, lips meeting fiercely in the buzzing adrenaline that remains between them.
Rumi kisses her back, holding back a pleased hum that threatens to bubble out of her throat. It only gets to escape when Zoey’s tongue slips out and drags over Rumi’s bottom lip, tasting herself on Rumi’s tongue when her lips part without question.
Satisfaction swells up in her chest. It always does when this happens. She knows the rules well; what Zoey wants, Zoey gets. It’s how she works with everyone. And Rumi’s always more than happy to please her in any way. Even if the moment stays a dirty little secret between just the two of them.
Zoey pulls back first. Her eyes linger over Rumi’s face like she’s trying to memorize it — the way her breath is still heavy, the mess of purple hair, the cute pink tint on her cheeks. Then, her eyes drag down, locking on the front of Rumi’s pants.
Rumi’s blush deepens quickly. “I, uh—“
The words catch in her throat when Zoey’s hand moves to cup the front of her jeans, eliciting a low hiss out of her instead. The delicious sting of surprise is soothed as Zoey begins rubbing the bulge over the fabric hiding it. Her eyes search Zoey’s, head tilting in mild confusion and curiosity as the hand on her crotch gently massages it.
“Want me to do something about this?” Zoey asks quietly, finally meeting Rumi’s gaze.
Rumi’s eyes flutter close for a second as Zoey’s thumb rubs over her clothed tip. “You… huh?”
Zoey smirks, an eyebrow raising with amusement. “I said,” she starts, leaning close enough so her lips brush against Rumi’s parted ones. “Do you want me to do something about… this?”
Rumi exhales slowly, trying to steady her breathing as she feels herself getting harder under Zoey’s touch. “You—you don’t usually—fuck. Yes. Please do.” The words rush out before she can stop them (as if she wanted to stop them). Lust and desire fill her senses, preventing coherent thoughts from forming. She could practically come from Zoey rubbing her from outside alone, but that’d be the most embarrassing thing that can happen to her right now.
Zoey hums, delighted. “Good girl.” Rumi almost whimpers at the pet name. It sounds a little foreign coming from Zoey, considering their whole… dynamic, but Rumi would be lying if she said it didn’t make her knees buck.
Rumi’s breath stutters as Zoey’s hands move to unbutton her jeans, pulling the zipper down as slow as she can. She wants to urge Zoey to hurry up, the same way she tried to do with Rumi. She wants to take, and take, and take; greed curling around her lust-filled brain like a thirst she’s been denying for too long.
Her pants are tugged down with the same ease as they were unbuttoned, hanging around her toned thighs. She can feel her face heat up with Zoey’s gaze fixed on her, dark eyes lingering on the boxers hugging her hips.
Zoey leans in close, lips caressing Rumi’s ear with a touch so light she thinks she’s imagining it for a second. “You look so pretty like this, unnie,” she whispers, placing a tiny kiss on her earlobe, teeth tugging at the metal that hangs there. “Such a desperate little thing.”
Teeth dig into Rumi’s bottom lip, muffling the moan threatening to spill out. She doesn’t dare look at Zoey, but she feels the younger girl’s smirk against her heated skin. Zoey dips her head, pressing a kiss to the spot just below Rumi’s ear as her hand moves to grab onto her aching hard-on.
Rumi groans at the squeeze Zoey gives her, feeling the pepper of little kisses along her neck and jaw before her hand slips inside her boxers. She pants, breathing heavily and moves her hand to grip at something—anything to keep her grounded.
Her hand falls on Zoey’s arm, squeezing as Zoey teases the tip of her cock with one of her ringed fingers. The younger girl giggles, low and playful beside her ear. “Careful. You know how I feel about marks.”
Rumi loosens her grip immediately, moving her hand to grip Zoey's hip instead. She didn’t want to upset Zoey and be left hanging. She doesn’t think she’d survive that right now. Or ever, for that matter.
“So obedient. Are you that desperate for me?” Zoey hums, and moves her hand away from the head. A pitiful whine is on the tip of Rumi’s tongue before she feels Zoey tug her underwear down with a single finger.
Her dick springs up instantly as attention is quietly promised. It stands tall between them, throbbing as the cool air around them hits against the heat radiating off it. The tip is already oozing with precum, bright red from being ignored and denied that sweet release it craved.
Rumi watches as Zoey raises her hand, bringing it up to her mouth and spits on it. The sight is so lewd, so dirty… it almost makes her mask fall off when the thoughts come hunting. She wonders if she’ll get to feel Zoey’s lips around her like last—
Zoey lowers her hand, fingers curling around the thick shaft and start to slowly pump. Rumi sighs, a shudder running down her spine at how good Zoey’s hand feels. The rings on her fingers add to the touch, the cool metal digging gently into the warm, flushed skin.
“You’re so needy, unnie,” Zoey whispers in her ear, playful and amused. She runs her thumb over the tip, collecting Rumi’s arousal and smears it over the length. “I bet you were so close to coming in your pants without even being touched.”
“I-I wasn’t—“
“Don’t lie to me,” Zoey says, squeezing the girth and making Rumi groan. “I know how worked up you can get from getting to play with me. I know how much you crave me the same way I crave you.” Her voice lowers a tinge, tone laced with dangerous mischief. “Or are you gonna start denying stuff, too?”
Her hand starts to move faster, the swift circling of her wrist earning a grunt from Rumi. “No…” Rumi huffs out, hips bucking forward once, slowly starting to chase a steady rhythm.
“No what?” Zoey hums, running her thumb over the slit teasingly.
Rumi groans. “I’m n-not gonna deny it.”
“A lit major using ‘gonna’, funny,” Zoey taunts with a giggle.
“S-shut up,” Rumi says, eyes sharp as her hips buck again.
Zoey tilts her head, smirking. “Make me.”
Rumi lets go of Zoey’s hip, her hand snaking up until two fingers reach her chin. She tilts her head towards her and presses their lips together in a heated kiss.
It feels so good. The way Zoey whispers filth into her ear between tiny pecks on her neck. The way she still teases Rumi even while giving her what she needs. The way her lips feel against hers. It has her almost reaching her peak. Zoey’s perfume curls around her nose, the sweet citrus smell mixing with the heat radiating off their bodies has her bucking her hips faster into Zoey’s hand.
Rumi pulls away first with a moan. “I’m—“
A sudden buzz catches their attention.
Rumi opens her eyes, not remembering when she had closed them in the first place. She blinks sluggishly, feeling Zoey’s hand slow down as she reaches back for her abandoned jacket. Grabbing her phone out of the pocket, Zoey glances at the screen before swiping on the bottom of it.
Rumi’s eyes widen with incredulous panic. ‘What are you…!?’ she mouths, starting to pull away.
‘Hush.’ Zoey mouths back with an eye roll, her grip tightening instinctively as she presses on the speaker button. Rumi has a groan on the tip of her tongue from the pressure, but swallows it when she hears shuffling on the other end of the call. Zoey sets the phone down beside them, the speaker dangerously close to where the sounds would be unmistakable and starts fisting Rumi’s cock again. “Hey, Mir! What’s up?”
Rumi’s about to protest, but the pleasure returning as Zoey brushes her thumb against her tip again makes her choke.
“Zoey.” A deadpan voice replies, low and rough. There’s a lot going on in the background—voices overlapping as they grow louder and Mira, one of the tumblers of the team, seemingly moves away from the chaos after barking at them to ‘shut the fuck up’. “Where the hell are you? Practice was supposed to start ten minutes ago.”
Zoey takes a quick glance at her screen, the hand wrapped around Rumi picking up the pace. “Oh! That’s my bad. Guess I lost track of time after class ended. I’ll be right there, though. Just gotta ask Mr. Lee something first.”
Rumi presses her lips together, holding back a moan when Zoey quietly spits on her tip. Her lips part against her will, but before she can close them, Zoey’s other hand is pressed against her mouth. Her eyes widen, looking at Zoey who’s grinning at her with such delight, such dangerous hunger that it makes her whimper.
“Mr. Lee?” Mira asks.
“Yeah. Have to ask him about the biomechanics project due in two months since my data’s a bit off with what was discussed today. I’ll be there in five.” She turns to Rumi, smirking as she mouths ‘Two, or you don’t get to come.’
Rumi’s brows furrow in silent protest, softening quickly as Zoey adjusts her pace again. Her hips respond before her mind can catch up, thrusting into Zoey’s hand faster. If she’s only got two minutes, so be it. She is not leaving this room with a—
“The biomechanics project,” Mira repeats, voice steady even through the strange edge in it. Rumi doesn’t pay much attention to it, the knot in her stomach getting tighter and tighter with each thrust too strong to ignore.
Zoey nudges Rumi closer. Her lips grace the shell of her ear, teeth nipping before smoothing the sting with her tongue. “Such a good girl for me, unnie. I want you to make a pretty mess on me, okay?” she whispers, so low Rumi barely even heard it.
“Yes, Mira,” Zoey continues with a light laugh after Rumi nods eagerly, as if nothing else was happening. “It’s just a quick question about the, uh… the motion analysis thing. So annoying.”
There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches too long as Rumi focuses on not being too loud. The hand covering her mouth only tightens as another moan slips out, muffling it just enough that it’s only heard between them if they’re lucky enough.
‘Close, baby?’
Rumi nods quickly, pace staggering as she struggles to keep it down. Zoey glances at her phone, pushing her hand into Rumi’s mouth harder when she sees the call’s still there.
Mira finally sighs on the other end, long and tired. “Fine. Just hurry up. I need you here.”
“I will, Mir,” Zoey laughs casually, eyes sparkling when she hears Rumi whimper. “See ya in a bit!”
The line finally cuts, and Rumi finally moans out when Zoey removes her hand. “Fuck! Zoey!”
Hot white spills out of her, landing messily over Zoey’s thighs and dripping down her hand—just like Zoey had asked her to do. Her pants are heavy as she catches her breath, the ache she’d been holding back finally dulling as all her cum is drained out.
She looks at Zoey through hazy eyes, watching as the younger girl gently takes her hand back and lifts it to their eye level. “Quite the mess you made, unnie,” she teases, tongue darting out and licks Rumi’s cum off her fingers. “You do listen.”
Rumi grunts. “You’re one to talk about messes…” Her eyes stay on Zoey as she finally catches her breath, watching as the younger girl licks her hand clean. She can’t help but stare at the way Zoey’s tongue laps up all her load, the low hum of satisfaction that she hears almost has her fucking Zoey into the desk.
Maybe another time.
Zoey’s brows raise in delighted surprise. “Look at you, talking back. You just know how to get me riled up again, don’t you?” she grins, cleaning off the rest of the cum on her thighs and hops off the desk. “As much as I’d like to stay, I gotta run. I trust you remember how long to wait before walking out?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Rumi mumbles as she fiddles with her jeans’ button. The sticky mess inside her boxers is pretty uncomfortable, but luckily, she doesn’t have any more classes for the day.
Zoey’s smile is wide. “Good,” she hums, shrugging her jacket back on and using her phone as a mirror. She twirls a strand of loose black hair around her face, taking one last glance before shoving her phone into her pocket.
Picking up her bag, which Rumi hadn’t even noticed was beside hers the whole time, she turns to Rumi. Zoey steps closer, urging Rumi to step back and bump into the desk. She grins at the nervousness, proud and giddy. “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”
The flirty wink that Zoey throws at her catches Rumi slightly off-guard, but before she can say anything about it, the classroom door is already clicking shut. She stares at it for a second longer than she needs to, her chest rising as she takes a shaky breath.
Her hands grip the edge of the desk, reminding her of everything that just happened. How it keeps happening, and she doesn’t necessarily want it to stop. It’s complicated, that much is clear, but that doesn’t stop Rumi from feeling… good.
Or is it ‘well’ in this case, too?
Oh, whatever…
✮Bonus✮
After a quick trip to the bathroom, Zoey is the latest she’s ever been to one of their practices by almost twenty minutes. Completely unacceptable by any means, but it’s a good thing she’s the captain. She just has to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
She pushes open the gym doors with ease, eyes swiping over the large space expectingly. It was gonna—no, going—to be a long practice today, so when she sees most of her team is sitting by the bleachers instead of finishing their warm up, her smile drops instantly.
“Seriously?” she snaps as she approaches, startling them. She drops her bag by the pile that sits on the first bench and plants her hands on her hips, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Why aren’t you guys warmed up? Do you really need your captain for that?”
One of the girls pipes up. “We didn’t know what we had to—“
“Don’t give me that bull,” Zoey cuts in, eyes narrowing sharply. Phones vanish, bodies scramble to their feet in an instant. “That’s twenty laps. Go. I’ll be counting.”
A chorus of groans and whines fill the room as they scatter and begin their punishment. Zoey watches them go, arms crossed and expression firm. The familiar rhythm of the gym starts up around her. Squeaking sneakers. Breaths catching. The echo of movement. Everything’s back on track.
A shadow falls beside her as she counts the third lap with a short blow of her whistle.
“Why aren’t you running?” Mira asks plainly, breath slightly uneven from finishing her warm up. The only person on the team Zoey could really count on for sure.
Zoey snorts, though her eyes stay fixed on the team. “Captain benefits, duh.”
“Bull,” Mira deadpans, twisting the cap off her water bottle and taking a sip. It makes Zoey laugh under her breath. “If those existed, I wouldn’t have ran those fifteen laps the first and only time I was late.”
“Captain benefits don’t apply for the vice,” Zoey teases, cackling at the glare Mira shoots her way. She blows her whistle, marking the fourth lap.
“So,” Mira starts casually after the ringing echo dies down. “Did you get your answer?”
“Answer for what?” Zoey asks dismissively.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mira says lightly. Zoey takes a quick glance at her, noticing the amused curl hanging on her lips. “The question you had about our biomechanics project? The partnered one? The reason you’re late?”
Zoey freezes for half a second. The way Mira says it isn’t smug, much less accusing. Just… knowing. “I—uhm—“
“I covered for you,” Mira cuts in. “Told the professor you weren’t feeling well.”
Zoey exhales through her nose. “You didn’t have to—“
“Don’t worry about it,” Mira waves her off. There’s a beat as they watch the team complete their fifth lap. Then, Mira nudges Zoey’s shoulder gently. “Whatever’s going on, just be smart about it, yeah?” The smile she gives Zoey has a teasing edge to it. “And learn how to lie better, for fuck’s sake. It was painful to hear you try to come up with a question to ask our professor on the spot.”
Zoey huffs out a dry laugh. She can feel her cheeks getting warm from embarrassment. She’s known Mira for a while; knows how observant she can be. It’s both a blessing and a curse, and right now, Zoey feels like swallowing a poisoned apple is better than being teased like this.
Just how much is she letting slip through?
She cuts the thought straight through the middle. “I will,” she says simply.
Mira smiles faintly, so soft it eases Zoey’s growing anxiety. Not enough to get caught. Yet. “Good. Now, keep counting. They’re slacking.”
Zoey’s gaze quickly falls on the team and, matter-of-factly, some of them are starting to walk. She shakes her head with a roll of her eyes and blows her whistle loudly, the sound echoing through the gym’s walls causing her own ears to ring. “Hey! No walking or you’re all starting over again!”
The chorus of groans is quieter this time as they pick up the pace, and Zoey’s mask settles back into its rightful place where it belongs.