Chapter Text
Under the dim neon lights, bodies press up against one another tightly; body heat radiates, filling the room almost as loudly as the speaker system. Everyone turns in time, feet slotting into the space where someone else’s were the beat prior. One wrong move would send people cascading like dominoes.
Mira knows this one, though. She dances towards the end of the song, marching through time, steps flowing naturally from each other into a beautiful loop. She follows it faithfully until the final beats play and she slips to the side off the dance floor.
She wipes the sweat from her brow with her arm. With each heavy breath, her shoulders drop further, and the tension of a long work week finally slips free from her body.
“Mira!” The familiar, peppy voice carries through the crowd, and it only takes Mira a moment to find its source: Zoey, leaning against the bar, with her usual colorful drink in hand.
Mira gestures towards the water dispenser with a tip of her head as she approaches, and Zoey joins her just as she flips the plastic lever to fill a cup.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to miss so many weeks,” Mira says, “what gives?”
Zoey lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s just so hard being a supportive friend.”
Mira quirks an eyebrow at her. That’s not really an answer, and she must have missed an issue of Zoey Life Digest—which only makes sense, because Mira sure isn’t checking her Instagram… or Twitter… or whatever one might publish life updates on. Facebook?
She prefers to get her friends’ news direct from the source.
“Rumi got dumped,” Zoey groans, leaning dramatically against the bar. “Like six weeks ago at this point, actually, but you wouldn’t think it from how she talks about it. You’d think it happened like, yesterday.”
“And Rumi is…?” Mira squints, trying to dredge the memory up. It’s hard to keep track of the characters in Zoey’s life across the scattered retellings Mira catches glimpses of week-to-week. They text, of course, but it’s hard to get full life stories across on a tiny screen. Especially when Zoey’s been as busy as she has been lately.
“Oh, have I not mentioned her? I met her a few months back. We go to concerts together, split travel costs, that kind of thing. She’s my pal. Chum. Amigo.”
Mira frowns, shaking her head. She doesn’t sound familiar.
It’s strange, every time she is reminded there are entire parts of Zoey’s life she is no longer part of. What would once have been unavoidable knowledge now slips through the cracks of mismatched schedules and adult obligations.
Something uncomfortable bubbles up inside Mira’s chest; she takes a swig of her water to wash it back down.
Zoey keeps going. “She had this boyfriend, total dick actually… at least, I always thought so, but I was being nice ‘cause she liked him. Well, he dumped her. Who knows why, cause she’s amazing, actually… but she’s really mopey about it now. Which I get, but also it’s getting kinda pathetic at this point.”
The alcohol has hit Zoey hard and fast, as always.
Mira leans back against the bar. “Have you tried distracting her?”
“I mean, yeah, but she won’t take the offers. Whenever we’re together and I try to drag her out, she just looks at me with these puppy dog eyes… and I feel bad, so I let her stay in.”
“So invite her here.”
Nothing like a night out dancing with friends to get your mind off a breakup. No boyfriends, no exes (hopefully), and, well, Mira can play scary dog and keep people from hitting on the girl completely if she wants to be left alone.
Not that she can’t handle herself… but Mira has to admit she likes being the protector sometimes.
“Mm… yeah, maybe.” Zoey gives a noncommittal shrug.
“No, like. Right now.” It’s a boring night, anyways. Might as well start something interesting.
“What?”
“Call her up, on the phone,” Mira says, making a phone with her hand and holding it up to the side of her face, “and say, ‘hey, friend I totally remember the name of, how about some line dancing?’”
“I don’t know if it’s her thing, really…” Zoey says slowly, looking away.
“It can be. I’ll make it her thing. What’s she doing right now, anyways? Crying into ice cream? Get her over here.”
Zoey groans.
“If you don’t call her, I will, and that’ll be a lot harder for you to explain.”
“I don’t even know how you’d do that,” Zoey mutters, “given you don’t have her number,” but she pulls out her phone, opens the contact card for a Ryu Rumi, and—
Oh.
Mira’s fucked.
Her eyes bulge at the cover photo. It looks professionally photographed, and this girl is gorgeous. She’s got a long lavender braid and big soft brown eyes, and Mira stops breathing for a minute.
“What the hell?” She says, before Zoey manages to hit the call button.
Zoey jumps. “What?”
“You didn’t tell me she was—”
Mira freezes. There’s nothing she can do now to acquit herself of the crime of being hopelessly gay.
Zoey laughs—no, giggles, because she’s drunk, and it’s apparently hilarious to fluster Mira. “Hot? Yeah.”
"Hot" doesn’t really begin to explain it. Rumi’s ex made a colossal fumble.
Unless she’s got a terrible personality.
But if Zoey likes her…
Mira trusts Zoey’s judgment.
Which means she should tell Zoey to not call, actually. She should not be in a room anywhere near this Ryu Rumi, because Rumi just got broken up with, and does not need to be subjected to Mira’s incoming inability to function.
No matter how much Mira tries to hide it, she really is a hopeless lesbian at heart, no better than Zoey. She opens her mouth to stop Zoey, but the phone is already ringing. It’s too late.
“…whatever you have on is fine, really. It’ll be fun! … Nope. No foot dragging! … Mira’s the one who invited you even, not me, it’d be rude to turn her down when we all know you’re not doing anything else. … Uh-huh. Love you too. See you soon.”
Zoey hangs up with a dangerous grin.
Mira’s so fucked.
Rumi’s even prettier in person.
It’s the most dangerous kind of pretty, the kind Mira immediately wants to ruin. Her hair is pulled back the same as in the photo, showing off the entirety of her long-sleeved black dress. It’s anything but modest, though; devastatingly short, with cutouts along the sides and nothing left to the imagination. Mira can take in every detail of Rumi’s body through the fitted fabric: the definition of her arm muscles, every jaw-dropping curve. Below it all, her thighs are smooth and firm, and Mira can only imagine what they’d feel like under her palms.
Which she does, in excruciating detail.
But she needs to focus.
Rumi is hot, but she is off limits. For now, at least. Mira’s one and only job is to be respectful while distracting Rumi from her breakup wallowing.
Easy.
“That is not ‘whatever you had on,’” Zoey says, then sticks her tongue out at Mira. The alcohol has turned her into a bundle of giggles at this point, and Mira mouths “water” at her. Zoey rolls her eyes and complies, slinking off to the water station.
Rumi watches her, fiddling with the strap of her purse and muttering, “yeah, well. I guess I just wanted to feel pretty.”
Mira immediately wants to strangle anyone who ever made her feel like she wasn’t. “You are,” she says, too quickly.
Rumi’s eyes snap to her, startled. Wide. Gorgeous.
Mira regrets.
If it were anyone else, she’d have no qualms about saying it. With Rumi, though… it feels like Mira’s digging the start of a very, very deep hole for herself.
She attempts damage control. “Sorry, it’s… nice. You look nice.” She gives Rumi a tight nod down.
Under Rumi’s stare, Mira feels awfully underdressed, in baggy jeans and a t-shirt awkwardly cropped with a hair tie. Fuck, she’s even packing today. It’s a great outfit, one she’s comfortable in, but it’s certainly not elegant the way Rumi is.
Not that Rumi really fits in—but her dress is casual enough with boots, and Rumi stunning enough, that it doesn’t matter.
“Oh… thanks,” Rumi says. She looks like she believes it, just a little, though she looks down and toys with the end of one of her sleeves before glancing back to Zoey, who is quickly approaching with a cup of water in her hand and a goofy smile across her face.
“So, Rumi, this is Mira,” Zoey says, gesturing dramatically with her free hand. “Mira, Rumi.”
Then, she stands on her tiptoes to whisper something into Rumi’s ear. Rumi glances at Mira, face unreadable, and they exchange words much too soft for Mira to pick up. Mira’s grip tightens around her cup of now-just-ice as the two of them whisperfight and Rumi’s eyes dissect her.
The exchange ends with Rumi shaking her head and letting out a huff, then taking a step forward and holding out her hand for a handshake.
Mira blinks at it. “Okay, no,” she says, dismissing it with a hand of her own. “Fistbump, sure. High five, touching elbows, all great. But we are not handshaking here. This is not business.”
It probably should be business. If they were in a meeting, she could pretend to be Straight Mira, who might not even have noticed how attractive the woman in front of her is to begin with.
Gay Mira imagines Rumi in a suit. Taking her jacket off. Unbuttoning her shirt—
Fuck.
She grits her teeth and risks a look at Zoey out the corner of her eye. Zoey’s hiding her mouth with her own drink, but her eyes betray the laughter she’s holding back.
Little traitor.
“Oh, okay,” Rumi says, and withdraws her hand, blushing a little in embarrassment. Her voice is beautiful.
Mira swallows hard. “So, have you ever been line dancing before?” she asks. Smooth. She’s so smooth. She’s amazing at this.
Rumi shakes her head. “No, never.”
“Great,” Mira says, and Rumi’s eyes swallow up every other word she knows.
Mira stands unmoving, buffering, for much too long, trying to put together a proper thought as she watches Rumi slide a hand up her arm, gripping her bicep slightly in a self-soothing gesture and making Mira short-circuit.
She makes a mental note to apologize for making fun of Zoey for being so useless when she’s down bad. She is struggling like never before.
“Mira’s a great dancer,” Zoey says, voice dropping low as she throws a devilish smile in Mira’s direction, entirely uninterested in saving Mira from herself. “I could watch her for hours. It’s hot.”
Mira glares, and strikes out the mental note. Future apology rescinded.
“Maybe I can just watch?” Rumi asks, leaning sideways to look past Mira into the crowd. “Not sure I’m ready for all that out there.”
“I’ll be dragging you in at some point,” Mira says, against her better judgment. “They’ll be teaching in a bit. Should be good for beginners, and I can help.”
She should definitely not do that. Why is she going into friendly teacher mode? She should be scary. Intimidate this girl away so she can’t be tempted further by her demonic wiles.
Sirens are making a lot more sense now.
Fuck.
Rumi seems skeptical, but Mira catches the start of a nod before being distracted by a Zoey elbow to the ribs.
“What?” Mira asks, and looks down to meet the devious glimmer in Zoey’s eyes.
“Go demonstrate!” Zoey says, and pushes her towards the dance floor.
“What about Rumi? I can’t just—“ Mira tries to protest.
She gets nowhere against Zoey’s devious grin. “Rumi’s fine! I’ll keep her company, just go show her how fun it is!”
Mira shakes her head in disbelief and throws an apologetic look towards Rumi before taking her place in line. It’s not worth trying to fight drunk Zoey, ever.
Even if she tried, Mira would fold to the sad pleading faces in a heartbeat.
She falls into the rhythm quickly on the repeat, years of muscle memory synchronizing her to her neighbors. It’s hypnotic, the way they all follow the same steps, yet personality still shines through everyone’s individual movements and flourishes.
The first three walls are easy.
The fourth—well, it’s the one facing the bar, where Mira knows Rumi is sitting and watching her.
Mira focuses on her feet. On the wall. On her neighbors. She tells herself her heartbeat is just from the exercise, and she does not look at Rumi. She does not—
Yes, she does.
Their eyes meet. A faint blush colors Rumi’s cheeks, and her lips are parted ever-so-slightly, and they look so damn kissable—
Mira stumbles slightly, then trips over herself to avoid being an obstacle to her neighbors as she recovers. Her own face turns red, from embarrassment, and she hides on the dance floor like a coward until the song ends and she’s forced to face Rumi once more.
Just Rumi, because Zoey has run off to god-knows-where and left her alone.
“Zoey’s right,” Rumi says, when Mira takes the stool next to her. “You are good at that.”
“Thanks,” Mira says, glancing around, to see if maybe she can catch a glimpse of Zoey—no dice.
“How’d you learn all that?” Rumi sets her water down and leans against her forearm on the table. The clear curve of her bicep shows through even the sleeves of her dress, magnetic, and Mira has to peel her eyes away.
“Practice,” she answers.
She’d offer more. She’s going to, but then Rumi rests her chin on her hand, propping it up, looking interested, and Mira crumbles. She opens her mouth to say something else, then snaps it shut to save herself.
“How long have you been doing this?” Rumi asks, either not noticing Mira’s flaring homosexuality or pressing past it.
Probably the first.
Rumi did just have a boyfriend, after all.
She’s not interested.
“This?” Mira repeats, trying to buy herself time to think, gesturing vaguely around them, to the bar, the lights, the synchronized lines on the dance floor. “Since college, I guess.”
Rumi’s wide eyes search for more, and Mira caves.
“There was a place near my apartment that did free lessons on weeknights. I was broke and it was something to do.” Mira shrugs. “And it’s how I met Zoey.”
Rumi practically lights up at that. “Zoey talks about you a lot, you know,” she says.
It doesn’t sound like a bad thing.
It sounds fond.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Rumi smiles faintly, and Mira just about melts. “She says you look a little scary, but you’re the softest person she knows.”
Figures Zoey would say something like that.
“She loves you,” Rumi adds with a soft smile.
Mira huffs out a laugh. “I sure hope so. It’s the only reason she’d put up with me so long.”
“Are you two…?” Rumi’s fingertips play with the edge of the plastic cup, and Mira can’t manage to pull her eyes away this time.
“Oh, uh. No,” she says. “Not in years. It didn’t work out.”
Why is she telling Rumi this?
If Zoey didn’t tell her, she probably figured it wasn’t any of Rumi’s business.
And it isn’t.
Zoey’s only her ex on a technicality, and they don’t talk about it much anymore. There’s nothing else to say, not since the day Mira realized she was stone and that she and Zoey would never fit together without something being missing.
Maybe in another world—but certainly not this one. Neither of them would ever ask the other to make that sacrifice.
Rumi makes a small, thoughtful noise Mira can’t decode.
“So, you said they teach beginners?” Rumi asks. She’s leaned in, and her voice is now in dangerous range.
Mira swallows and nods. “Yeah. In a song or two, probably.”
“I bet you’re a good teacher,” Rumi murmurs, and Mira’s heart stops.
“Well, I’m…”
“Could you show me?”
Her eyes are big now, pleading and undeniable.
“Yeah,” Mira breathes. She holds her hand out, against all better judgment.
Rumi’s skin is soft, smooth, and uncalloused, and Mira would be a liar if she said the way Rumi rested her hand so gently in hers, expecting to be guided, didn’t make her want to do anything unspeakable.
Mira leads her to the edge of the dance floor, just far enough away from the crowd that no one will get caught up in any floundering Rumi might do as she first learns.
“How much do you know about line dance?” Mira asks, having to lean in so Rumi can hear her properly over the music.
Rumi shakes her head. “Nothing, really.”
No way that’s true.
“Cupid Shuffle? Electric Slide?”
Recognition lights Rumi’s eyes at last. “Yes!”
Thank god.
“Okay, so it’s all the same principle. One set of moves, turn, repeat. You can pick up an easier dance just watching and following along.”
Rumi nods, eyes falling to the sea of footsteps in front of them.
“This one is not an easier one,” Mira lies. No need to scare Rumi off immediately.
Mira waits for the loop to start again, and gestures at the people in front of them. “This one starts with a giant square, that’s the first 8 counts.”
Rumi nods. “Okay, easy enough.”
“Try it on this next eight,” Mira says, counting off each beat out loud for Rumi’s benefit. She doesn’t seem to need it, but Mira can’t help herself. She revels too much in leading Rumi, in laying out the rhythm for her to follow.
Rumi trips up on the switch of her leading foot halfway through.
Mira jumps in to help. “Right, left, right, left… then it swaps, and you lead with your left,” she says, demonstrating, all too aware of Rumi’s eyes on her body as she does. Of the shiver that races through her at it.
It works, though, and Rumi does it perfectly the next time.
She’s easy to teach, with a solid sense of rhythm, understanding instinctively where the 8-counts begin and end.
Teaching the first grapevine is easy. The second, not so much.
“Step out with your left, then you’re right behind.”
Rumi follows, and looks back over her shoulder, right leg twisted behind her, past her left.
“Then… you’re gonna do a half-turn to your left, so your left foot lands facing to the left instead of forward.”
Rumi almost falls over trying to follow the instruction, trying to rotate just her leg instead of her whole body.
Mira’s hand finds her waist without thinking, steadying her and turning her in the right direction.
Rumi goes still, and Mira jerks her hand away, though the warmth of Rumi’s body stays painted across her palm.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s okay,” Rumi says. “It… helps, actually.”
Mira hesitates, then lets her hand settle back onto Rumi—lighter this time, and higher, along her mid back rather than waist.
She can feel the way Rumi inhales at her touch.
Focus. Teach.
Mira takes a deep breath of her own. “You have to turn your whole body into it. Land your left foot on 7, then swing your right foot forward out in front of you on 8, tap your heel—”
She leads Rumi through the rest of the counts, turning off her brain as much as possible so that she can’t overthink the way Rumi’s body moves in her arms.
They run through each section a few more times, Mira keeping her distance as much as possible, so Rumi has space to do it on her own. And maybe a little so Mira doesn’t combust or do something she’ll regret.
Rumi learns each part with just a few tries. Mira’s sure with a few more repeats, she would have the entire dance down, but the song winds to a close before she gets the chance.
A voice on stage takes over the teaching role. Rumi’s attention shifts, and Mira feels a flicker of jealousy that she quickly pushes deep down.
The instructor gets to teach in relative silence, slowing down the beats to make it easier. They have Rumi’s full attention, too, and it’s clearly easier on her not having to pick up a dance at tempo.
She’s a natural. Whatever nervousness held her back before melts away quickly, and her eyes sparkle as she spins to face Mira once more.
“I got it,” she says, grinning after the final spin.
Mira falls into place beside her. It’s a simple dance, one of the first few she ever learned, but Rumi makes it feel fresh and new. She looks nothing like she did when she first arrived. She’s shifted from hesitance and self-consciousness to confidence, and she wears it well.
She dances with ease now, and her favorite part seems to be the turns. Her braid swings wildly with each one, and Mira only narrowly dodges a particularly lethal whip.
“Careful with that braid,” Mira warns, laughing.
Rumi throws a hand over her mouth, mortified. “I forgot,” she groans.
“How do you forget? That thing has to weigh forty pounds.”
“Guess I’m just used to it,” Rumi laughs, tucking it over her shoulder.
She looks even prettier that way.
Mira tries not to stare… but it’s pretty much impossible.
Rumi’s still riding the high of getting it all right, a little flushed and breathless, smiling unguarded and free. She looks nothing like the girl who walked in here a short time ago.
She’s certainly forgotten about her ex, and Mira’s glad. Mira’s happy for her. Rumi deserves to be happy on her own, to have some fun without anyone breathing down her neck and reminding her.
And that’s all this is.
Mira tells herself that, again and again, even as Rumi looks up at her under the colorful lights, still recovering from the exertion.
The music fades out once more, and a slower song takes its place.
Shit.
“Partner dancing,” Mira mumbles. In the midst of everything else, she’d forgotten.
Rumi perks up. “Oh?”
No. Not oh. More oh no.
Zoey is still missing, somewhere in the crowd. Mira scans the room, looking for either her or some convenient excuse to save her from this—and she does locate Zoey in a corner, chatting with some of her other friends (seriously, how does she know everyone?), but Rumi interrupts before she can concoct any sort of plan.
“Mira, do you know how?”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“Yeah.”
Rumi lights up at that, and suddenly it all seems worth it.
Almost.
Mira reconsiders when she finds Rumi’s entire body just millimeters from her own, body heat radiating, only a few layers and a narrow slice of air separating them.
“Can we?” she asks, eyes so hopeful.
And Mira nods, because there’s no way she could possibly do anything else.
She’s the one who invited Rumi out dancing, after all. It would be rude to say no now.
Her heart hammers in her chest as she positions Rumi’s hands. One on her shoulder, the other placed carefully in hers.
Mira swallows, trying to steady her racing heart. This means nothing. She is being helpful, she is helping a friend of a friend have a fun night to get her mind off of romance and sex.
It’s what, 3 minutes? 4? She can focus. She’s teaching.
“Just follow me,” Mira breathes, and starts to lead. “You’ll pick it up quick, I’m sure.” She murmurs instructions to Rumi, who dances like she was born to follow.
When Rumi nervously glances over her shoulder, Mira squeezes her hand gently. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m watching your back.”
Some tension dissipates from Rumi’s body then, and she laughs softly. “Okay. I trust you.”
Mira is going to need a cardiologist.
There’s a spark in Rumi’s eyes, a little tilt in her head, a smile that screams pay attention to me, and Mira does, because she is hopeless and Rumi is magnetic.
Right. Left. Right. Left.
Easy. She can do this.
Until Rumi leans in, and her breath ghosts Mira’s neck, and her lips are so close. It would take almost nothing to lean down and pull her into a kiss. It would be so easy—
Mira reminds herself of the Rumi that walked in here less than an hour ago. Nervous, self-conscious, hung up on someone, and Mira presses everything down once more.
“You’re doing amazing,” Mira says, encouraging her.
Rumi smiles at that, and her hand grips Mira’s shoulder ever so slightly. “You are too, you know,” she says. “You are a good teacher.”
“Only because you’re such a good student,” Mira says.
They dance in relative silence after that, just watching each other. Their eyes meet again and again, unable to avoid the intimacy of dancing like this with one another.
Each time Rumi shifts, Mira adjusts, but she never stops guiding, never stops leading her across the floor. The world around them blurs out, the other dancers and lights fading in background noise and leaving just the two of them within the rhythm of the song for an eternity.
When the music starts to slow, stretching into its final notes, the couples around them start to drift apart.
Mira doesn’t let go, though she knows she should.
Rumi’s hand is still warm in hers, the other still firm on her shoulder.
Mira doesn’t want to let go.
It doesn’t seem like Rumi does, either.
Mira’s pulse pounds in her ears.
“I told you you’d get it,” Mira murmurs, just to try and break the tension.
Rumi huffs a small laugh, eyes flicking up, searching for a second, then settling with a startling decisiveness. “Yeah,” she says softly. “You did.”
The last note fades out.
Neither of them steps away.
A beat of silence passes like an eternity, and then Rumi shifts forward, pressing against Mira completely, annihilating the fragile space between them. Her eyes drop down to Mira’s lips for just a second, then back up, and her own mouth curves up, just barely.
“I want you,” Rumi murmurs, soft.
So quiet that Mira wonders if she only imagined it.
But Rumi’s face and body all say the same, pressed against Mira with a fierce determination, and Rumi lifts the hand on Mira’s shoulder up to cup the back of her head.
“Yes,” Mira breathes, the only word she can remember how to say, and it’s barely left her mouth before their lips are locked together.
Rumi kisses first. It starts soft, but grows hungry in seconds. Mira leans in, crumbling completely. They fall out of position; Mira brings her own hand up to settle behind Rumi’s head, and swipes her tongue across Rumi’s lower lip. Rumi opens up instantly and Mira takes the invitation without hesitation.
It’s a miracle that Mira doesn’t take Rumi right then and there. So much for respecting Rumi’s relationship grief. Everything Mira has been holding back comes rushing out of her now, as the kiss devolves to teeth and tongues and unfettered want.
When Mira pulls away, Rumi looks almost debased, eyes dark and hungry.
“Did you drive?” she murmurs into Rumi’s ear, voice low. It sends a shiver through Rumi, and Mira smiles against her skin.
Rumi shakes her head, breathing heavily, fingers digging into the back of Mira’s shirt.
“My place?” Mira asks. “No pressure, really. I know you just—”
“God, I’m so over it. Yes, your place,” Rumi breathes, and kisses her again. It’s starved, desperate, the kind of kiss that takes Mira multiple tries to pull away from.
She wants to give Rumi everything. Just not here.
“Go grab your stuff,” she says, low and steady. Her heart flutters at the way Rumi bites her lip and shifts her body in response. “I’ll tell Zoey what’s up and call a ride. Meet me at the door in five.”
Rumi nods, looking ever-so-slightly afraid but mostly incredibly turned-on.
Mira’s going to wreck her.
“I’m taking her home. You have…” Mira checks her phone for the driver’s estimated arrival, “seven minutes to stop me.”
Zoey shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. Not stopping you. This is the happiest she’s looked in months.”
“You’re sure?” Mira says, anxiety flitting through her.
“Since when did you worry so much about your hookups?” It's pointed but softhearted, the way Zoey’s digs always are.
“Since they were friends with you,” Mira admits. She lets herself soften for a moment.
She’s not uncaring. Mira just doesn’t usually let her emotions into the mix for a one-night stand—though she’s starting to get the feeling this might not be just one night.
Something about Rumi tugs at her heart. Maybe it’s those eyes, or the fact she clearly means a lot to Zoey, but something stirs in Mira’s chest when she sees her. Something she hasn’t felt in years.
“Go fuck her brains out.” Zoey’s voice interrupts her thoughts.
Mira jumps. “What?” She’ll never get used to the bluntness of a tipsy Zoey. Even after years of it.
“I said what I said. Is that not your plan?”
Well. Yeah. It is. But… “I’m trying to be respectful of her.”
Zoey stares. “Ohhhh… so you're down bad. Got it.”
Mira scoffs. “I am not.”
“Sure. I’ll pray for you.” Zoey makes an exaggerated praying motion and bows. “God, please keep Mira safe from the scourge of homosexuality. You have sent a demon temptress, but Mira is not strong enough. Please lead her back to the light… after she straps Rumi down on this—”
“I’m leaving. Bye. Get home safe, text me when you do,” Mira takes off, but not without a stupid grin at Zoey’s antics.
Any other night she might put up with more of it, but tonight she doesn’t want to leave Rumi alone any longer than she has to.
The car is cleaner than Mira had expected, and the driver is friendly enough. Mira gives a few curt but polite responses to his questions, and reassures him that she does not mind the crayon markings on the seats left by his son.
She and Rumi barely look at each other after that. Which is good. If Rumi looked at her, Mira would get herself banned from all ride-sharing platforms in about thirty seconds.
She can’t stop the thoughts, though, the images that flit through her mind of Rumi. The way she’ll sound when she moans, how she’ll look when Mira finally gets that dress off of her—
Her phone buzzes in her pocket.
It’s Zoey.
ZOEY
just got my ride
will msg when home
have fun >:3
Mira rolls her eyes and risks another peek at Rumi. She’s quiet, fiddling with the hem of her dress. They could spend the whole ride like this in silence, really… but Mira has a better idea.
MIRA
Send me Rumi’s phone number
ZOEY
isn’t she with you?
MIRA
Just send it
Nothing, for a minute, and then the phone number arrives.
Thanks, Mira sends, and starts a new text immediately.
MIRA
Hey, Princess
Rumi’s phone dings, and she pulls it out of her bag with a puzzled look.
MIRA
You’re going to want to mute that
Another ding, then Mira catches Rumi turning to look at her out the corner of her eye, fingers dragging up the side of her phone to the mute switch in a manner Mira could only ever describe as daring her.
MIRA
What are you thinking about?
Rumi eyes Mira with suspicion; her manicured fingernails tap gently at her phone screen, then delete something, retype, and finally send.
RUMI
You.
MIRA
What about me?
RUMI
Your hands. How they’ll feel under my clothes.
Rumi drags a finger up her inner thigh, slow and daring and devastating, watching to make sure Mira sees every moment of it.
RUMI
First I want to feel your mouth, though. On my neck, on my chest…
Mira’s breath hitches.
This wasn’t supposed to get turned on her so quickly.
She casts a quick look towards the front of the car, making sure the driver isn't watching. He isn't, at least not for now. He's too focused on the road ahead.
MIRA
Are you wet now?
A tiny nod, and Rumi turns even more red than before.
RUMI
Yes.
MIRA
Good
I want to taste you
Rumi bites down on her bottom lip and presses her legs together. She’s too easy like this.
Not that Mira’s much better—she can feel her own self-control waning by the second.
She makes it Rumi’s problem.
MIRA
I want to kiss every inch of you
Make you forget your name
Mira’s mind wanders once more—how she’ll pull that dress off, how Rumi’s body will quiver under her fingers and arch into her touch.
MIRA
If we didn’t have company… I’d pin you down right here
I bet I could make you come before we even made it to my place
The second the door shuts behind them, Mira is on Rumi again, weaving her fingers into her braid and kissing along her neck and jaw.
“Did you like that?” She asks, lips a mere centimeter from Rumi’s ear.
Rumi nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Fuck, Mira.” She shivers, pressing closer, body melting into Mira’s. Her hands drift down to Mira’s hips, kissing deeper, and momentum carries them until Mira finds her back against the wall.
Mira places her hands on Rumi’s waist, fingertips sliding under the edges of those lethal cutouts. Rumi braces against the wall, one hand on either side of Mira.
“This okay?” Mira asks.
Rumi nods, eyes closed. “Yeah, it’s. yeah…” She squeaks when Mira rubs her thumb gently against the skin on her side.
She’s sensitive.
Mira leans back in to kiss her, chaste and light compared to earlier.
The desire still curls inside of her, and she guides Rumi’s hips towards her. Rumi’s body rolls against hers, and her leg makes contact with… well, the packer Mira forgot she was wearing in the rush of everything.
Mira freezes for a heartbeat, then exhales shakily, anxiety getting the better of her as she waits for Rumi’s reaction.
Rumi blinks up her, flushed. “Are you… trans?” she asks. Her voice is soft, gentle. “It’s okay if you are! I just didn’t expect…” She trails off, looking a little out of her depth—though, notably, not any less interested.
Mira chuckles softly, a mix of amusement and nerves.
Mostly the latter.
“No, no, I’m not. It’s a packer.”
Rumi tilts her head slightly, blinking those long eyelashes.
“Fake. A prosthetic, I guess.” Mira pauses, trying to piece together an explanation. “I’m not a guy or anything. I just… like it. It feels right.”
There’s silence for a few seconds.
Then, Rumi drops to her knees in one smooth, controlled motion. Her hands come to rest on the front of Mira’s jeans, fingertips hooking the belt loops.
“Can I suck it?” She asks, like it’s the obvious next step.
It knocks the breath out of Mira completely, sending a thrill through her. She’s had her strap sucked before, but never this. And the way Rumi asks, so hopeful and wanting… a thousand words for yes die on Mira’s tongue, and she settles for a nod.
Rumi wastes no time undoing the button or unzipping the fly, and Mira worries briefly about the risk it poses to Rumi’s delicate french-tipped nails. She’s distracted, however, by how eager Rumi is. Entranced by the view of Rumi kneeling before her.
A shiver runs through Mira as Rumi pulls down her jeans and rests a hand on Mira’s hip. Excitement, mostly, but also apprehension.
“Careful,” Mira says quietly. “I don’t like being touched. The packer’s fine, just…” she trails off, not sure how to explain.
Rumi nods, looking up through her lashes with pleading eyes. “I’ll be careful. You’re sure?”
Another thrill. Mira takes a breath and nods again, then pushes her boxers down to reveal the harness holding the packer in place.
“Ta-da,” she says, and waits for Rumi to back out.
Rumi reaches out to touch it, still hesitant. Holding back. Still searching for permission.
“It’s okay. I’ll stop you if I’m uncomfortable. Promise.” Mira lets out a very shaky breath.
Packing has always been something she did for herself. At home, on her own, something only she knew about. It was only after she’d told Zoey a year ago that she’d finally been ready to wear it outside, but she’d quickly fallen in love with it.
Even then, it was just hers; it was never for sex, never about sex.
But it all feels right when Rumi smiles and runs her tongue carefully along the underside of her dick, then wraps her hand around the shaft to lick around the head.
There’s a strange, almost phantom sensation with each movement. Mira's felt it before, running her own fingers over the silicone, but never like this. She shudders at the sight, thankfully held upright by the wall behind her.
Mira’s heart flutters when Rumi, eyes clouded with desire, stares directly at her and sinks Mira’s entire length into her mouth. There’s not much to work with, only a few soft inches, but Rumi is undeterred. Her head bobs intently, punctuated by the slick sounds of saliva on silicone and her own breathtaking sounds of contentment. That rosy color dances across her cheeks once more as her eyes drift closed and she works herself up under Mira’s watch.
A faint guilt twists in Mira’s gut, one no amount of confidence and sureness has ever fully been able to purge. “You know I won’t get off from this, right?” she asks, barely a murmur. It sounds as nervous as she feels, tinged with the unsaid is that okay and you’re not just doing this for me, right?
Rumi pulls off her dick with a soft pop, and looks up at her. “I want this,” she says firmly, eyes blazing.
Then, she reaches up, wraps her hand around Mira’s wrist, and places Mira’s hand on the back of her head. Rumi takes Mira’s dick in her mouth again, pressing forward until her lips are flush with the harness, and gives a slight nod.
And that? That breaks Mira.
Mira winds her fingers into Rumi’s braid and pulls her back, until only the tip is still in her mouth, then pushes her back towards herself as she thrusts her hips.
Rumi moans around her dick now. Her fingers find purchase in the flesh of Mira’s thighs, digging in as Mira rocks carefully into her mouth.
A few thoughts fly through her head—would Rumi prefer a strap? Is this really okay?—but then her eyes fall back to the way Rumi moves around her, at her contentment.
At the way she said I want this.
Rumi asked.
She wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t want to.
And there’s something so intimate, so vulnerable about the way Rumi takes. How she works herself up using Mira, on her knees with Mira’s hands in her hair. How much she wants this.
Mira’s own breath stutters. There’s not much in the way of physical stimulation, for either of them, but they’re both flushed and panting and completely turned on.
When Rumi finally pulls away, completely out of her mind, Mira slides her hand along the curve of Rumi’s jaw to her chin. She quickly wipes away the bit of saliva that’s leaked out the corner of Rumi’s mouth with her thumb, then tilts her head up with her other four fingers.
Mira can’t help the “good girl” she lets out at the image before her, and it seems Rumi can’t help her whimper either. Rumi is so far gone, now, pupils shot wide as she looks up at Mira.
Rumi, on her knees, looking up at her after sucking her off for her own enjoyment… it might be the hottest thing Mira’s ever seen.
“You look amazing like that,” Mira breathes, “was that… everything you wanted?”
Rumi nods, and tries to push herself up to a standing position, but collapses back to her wobbly knees quickly.
“What, do you need me to carry you?” Mira asks, and it’s supposed to be a joke, but as she says it she realizes how serious she is, and how soft it sounds.
“I don’t need—” Rumi starts to protest, before thinking better of it and deflating a bit.
Enough said.
Mira kicks off her jeans before leaning down to pick her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and Rumi wraps her arms around Mira’s neck.
“I think it’s about time for my mouth,” Mira murmurs, lips brushing over Rumi’s ear, earning her a shiver. “I’ve wanted to taste you all night.”
She toes open her bedroom door and sets Rumi down carefully before climbing into bed on top of her.
Mira leans in close, kissing softly before running her hand up Rumi’s arm, over her sleeve. “Can I take this off?” she asks. “This dress, Rumi… you’re killing me with it.”
Rumi looks away. “I wanted to feel pretty,” she says quietly, again, and the words drag their claws over Mira’s sternum.
“You do,” Mira says, letting her hand trail slightly higher up Rumi’s arm, reassuring.
"Wait,” Rumi says softly, pulling back just enough to make Mira pause. Mira’s heart trips over itself as she retracts her hand, and she waits in breathless silence for more, not wanting to push.
Rumi looks away and takes a deep breath. “I’ve got these birthmarks,” she says, voice trembling with devastating insecurity, “all over my arms, and my chest.” She traces her finger over the fabric as she says it, drawing a snaking line from wrist to sternum. “I don’t want you to freak out.”
“I won’t,” Mira says. Promises.
“You haven’t seen them,” Rumi mutters.
“You saw my dick,” Mira points out, “and all you wanted to do was give me a blowjob about it.”
It’s a little blunt, and Mira cringes at herself, but Rumi lets out a shaky laugh.
Still, it takes her a minute to finally respond with an “okay.” She turns her back to Mira, pulling her braid over her shoulder to expose the zipper.
When Mira reaches up to grip the tiny metal pull, she’s almost taken aback by the quality of the dress—multiple layers of thick fabric; tiny, even stitches; and inside seams finished with just as much care as the outside.
The dress falls away to expose the rosy-purple markings like ink spills across her arms and back.
“See?” Rumi says bitterly.
Mira carefully pushes the dress down Rumi’s arms, and presses a kiss to her shoulder. “I think they’re gorgeous,” she murmurs. She traces one of the markings idly, before thinking better of it and pulling away. “Do you mind if I pay attention to them?” she asks. “Or would you rather I ignore them?”
Rumi’s quiet.
Has she never been asked before?
Mira lets the silence sit, resting her chin on Rumi’s shoulder as she processes, running her thumb in a small soothing motion over her skin.
“I don’t know,” Rumi says eventually. “But I usually like to forget they exist.”
“Then let’s get the rest of this off, yeah?” Mira says, voice light.
Rumi nods, and together they manage to shuffle the dress off of her body.
Mira has Rumi on her back on the mattress in seconds after that.
She’s just as gorgeous from the front.
The marks across her skin remind Mira of watercolors, though she keeps it to herself. There’s plenty else to see. Her soft skin, the shape of her collarbones and shoulders and arms and breasts, all on display in only a set of black lace underwear. Of course it matches; she said she wanted to feel pretty, after all.
“You’re beautiful,” Mira says again.
Rumi covers her face, peeking through the gaps in her fingers.
“Don’t make me hold your arms out of the way,” Mira says, “unless you want that.”
Rumi squeaks in response, so Mira follows through, grabbing her wrists and lifting them above her head, pinning them in place with one hand.
Rumi’s breath hitches, and she turns her head to the side in a futile attempt to hide her blush.
Mira leans down to press a kiss to Rumi’s neck, and when Rumi lets out a soft moan, continues down her exposed chest.
“Can I mark you?” Mira asks, still kissing.
Rumi nods fervently. “Yes… I cover up for work a lot. You can—nh. Please,” Rumi trails off into a whine as Mira seizes the opportunity to suck a hickey into place. The first of many, hopefully.
Rumi’s cute when she can’t talk, and Mira wants, needs more of it; she gets the rest of her basic questions out of the way as quickly as she can.
“Is edging okay?”
Rumi nods quickly, biting her lip. “Please.”
“Strap?” Mira presses another kiss to her chest, then quickly clarifies, “you receiving.”
Another nod.
“Oral?”
Rumi’s face scrunches a little. “If you’re good at it.”
It catches Mira off guard, and she laughs.
“What are you laughing at?” Rumi whines, face turning red completely. “I think that’s a reasonable boundary!”
She’s pouting.
Mira can’t get enough of her.
“I’m told I’m good,” she says between laughs, “but if it sucks, you can stop me. I just want you to have a good time.”
“Okay,” Rumi says, nodding slowly, “then we can try.”
The way she says it raises more questions than answers, but better not to press that bruise now.
Still, Mira double-checks. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I want it. Please.”
The way Rumi breathes out her last please sends a jolt of electricity straight through Mira.
Rumi looks like she’s always belonged pinned underneath her, and she sounds it, too.
Mira readies herself.
She’ll be damned if she doesn’t show Rumi everything a mouth can do. She lowers her head once more, kissing gently down the side of Rumi’s neck, core pulsing with every hitch in Rumi’s breath, every soft whimper.
Mira considers not using her teeth at all. Rumi’s clearly sensitive enough already, and adding more risks overdoing it—but when she caves to her impulses and nips gently at the skin of Rumi’s left breast, the keening and flex of Rumi’s wrists in her hand make for priceless rewards.
“Fuck, Mira…” Rumi breathes.
Mira does it again, to similar effect, and continues kissing down her chest, switching between teeth and lips, following her whims.
“What about… what about you, Mira?” Rumi asks, between breaths.
“Hm?” Mira pulls back, hovering just above Rumi’s chest.
“Do you need anything?” Rumi’s eyes search hers. “Want anything?”
Mira shakes her head. “I’m good. I just really want to see you falling apart for me.”
Rumi looks like she doesn’t entirely know what to do with that information. “You don’t want… anything?” she asks again. Her eyes are wide, doelike and soft. There’s no pressure, just genuine surprise.
Mira laughs. “No. And if you tried, I’d stop you.” She plants another kiss under Rumi’s jaw. “I just want to spoil you.”
Rumi bites her lower lip, and a faint whimper slips out. She tilts her head up and away, baring her neck to Mira—who sucks gently down it in response.
Mira brings her free hand up to Rumi’s shoulder, sliding her fingers carefully under the bra strap and pushing it onto her arm. It’ll need to come off, eventually, but it’s enough now to free her breast from the lace cup it’s been held in.
She cups it in her right hand, then looks up at Rumi.
“Be a good girl for me,” she drawls, mostly as a joke. Rumi’s reaction is anything but, eyes going wide, pupils dilated. “—and hold your hands up yourself, okay? I need both of mine.”
Rumi nods, throat bobbing as she swallows and complies, muscles tightening as she holds her arms in place.
Mira drops her hand down and focuses her attention on Rumi’s chest, playing with her nipples, kissing everywhere she can reach. She traces her tongue across the delicate skin of Rumi’s breast, if only to tease and work Rumi up, and her newly-freed hand wanders between Rumi’s shoulder and side and hip and, briefly, onto her thigh.
Rumi’s frustration builds quickly. She’s getting squirmy, pressing and rubbing her thighs together, searching for friction. Clearly desperate for it, though she doesn’t voice it beyond the soft sounds that escape her mouth.
Rumi’s too pretty to deny for long; Mira’s resistance is a weak and fragile thing, and fails quickly under the pressure. After a particularly convincing pleading look, Mira slots her leg in between Rumi’s, pressing her knee up carefully against her core.
Rumi immediately starts grinding down onto it; her whimpers increase in volume with each roll of her hips, and her fingers sink into the fabric across Mira’s back for leverage as she finally gets the stimulation she’s wanted. Quiet babbles start to fall from Rumi’s lips, a stream of Mira and please and fuck and more that sets off a blaze inside of Mira.
She lowers her head, leaving a trail of kisses down the center line of Rumi’s stomach, running her thumb over the sensitive skin on Rumi’s side, tracing her fingernails in patterns along the exposed surface with the lightest touch.
Mira could easily let Rumi finish like this, painting pictures on the invisible canvas as she watches Rumi grind herself to orgasm, but she has better plans. As Rumi’s hips stutter and her gasps seem to hit a peak, Mira withdraws her leg.
“Mira…” Rumi whines, a pitiful cry, and instinctively tries to drag Mira in closer, bucking her hips into the air.
“Relax,” Mira says, pressing a kiss just below Rumi’s chin, then another, and another in a line down the column of her neck.
“Hard to relax when you’re letting me get so close,” Rumi groans, “and not letting me finish.”
“You said you wanted edging, Princess,” Mira reminds her. Rumi clamps her lips shut and turns her face away, pouting.
It’s adorable—but quickly broken when Mira runs her tongue along the hollow of Rumi’s collarbone. She tastes faintly of salt and skin, but the real delicacy is the shudder that runs through Rumi beneath it.
Mira weaves her hand behind Rumi’s back and pulls her off the bed, just enough to unlatch the hooks of her bra with her other hand and pull it off of her.
Mira teases a little longer than she should, alternating licks and careful nips to the skin across Rumi’s chest and rubbing gentle circles into the dips just above the line of her underwear.
Mira runs her thumb under the barest edge of Rumi’s underwear band. “Can I take these off?”
“Fuck, Mira, I’ll kill you if you don’t.” Apparently, being on the edge of orgasm brings out a bit of edge in Rumi, too.
Mira complies, pulling the fabric down enough to give herself clearance. “Impatient, huh?” Mira can’t help but mess with Rumi a little more. Like a wind-up toy.
“I’ve been plenty patient, Mira. As if I—”
Mira runs her tongue hard against her clit.
“—fuck.”
“Good enough for you?” Mira’s a little disappointed Rumi can’t see her self-satisfied grin at this angle.
“Shut up,” Rumi says, breathy, still recovering.
Well. Mira can certainly comply with that order. No talking necessary.
Rumi is soaked. Mira runs her tongue through the folds, then latches on carefully to suck at Rumi’s clit. Fingernails dig into Mira’s shoulders as Rumi starts to break down completely.
Mira strokes Rumi’s inner thighs, finally getting to feel them the way she imagined the first time she saw her. She braces against the lean muscle, losing herself in the taste of Rumi and the rhythm of it all as she drags her tongue through the folds and drinks in the heady taste of Rumi.
When Rumi lets out a particularly load moan and Mira realizes she’s dug her fingernails into her thigh, she lets go quickly.
“Are you okay?” she asks, and though Rumi looks beyond dazed, she nods.
Mira repeats the motion, slowly sinking her nails back into the flesh, and the resulting whine is plenty confirmation.
So she’s into that. Good to know.
Mira goes back to lapping at her like a woman starved, savoring every last drop hands weave themselves through her hair, and she starts to grind herself on Mira’s tongue, desperate.
Mira’s heart warms something fierce at that.
So maybe she’s a little competitive about whoever had Rumi so hesitant about being eaten out before, sue her, but Rumi deserves better—and Mira is beyond happy to give it.
She continues her efforts, licking and sucking, pinning Rumi’s hips down to keep her steady. Rumi almost sobs when Mira sinks her nails in and sucks on her clit at the same time, and her fingers twist in Mira’s hair, sending sharp pricks dancing across her scalp. Mira carefully slips one, then two fingers inside of Rumi and curls them until Rumi cries out and thrashes beneath her.
The combination works quickly on Rumi, and Mira keeps pace as her moans crescendo.
“I’m close,” Rumi cries, with another twist in Mira’s hair, and Mira quickly pulls back.
“Fuck, wait—Mira, please,” Rumi whines, once more trying to rock into Mira’s now-missing touch.
Mira almost caves.
Unfortunately for Rumi, Mira’s a little too mean for that, and just presses a soft unapologetic kiss to her cheek.
“Still good with the strap?” She asks, running her thumbnail over Rumi’s neck once more.
“Please, Mira, I need you,” Rumi says, nodding, sounding completely broken. Her hands are still woven tight into Mira’s hair, and Mira laughs as she reaches up to place gentle pressure on Rumi’s wrists.
“You’ll have to let me go for that,” Mira says, and Rumi looks for a split-second like she isn’t sure it’s a fair trade.
“I’ll let you come this time,” Mira says, “promise,” and Rumi finally lets go.
Mira doesn’t take her time getting into her nightstand, quickly tossing her packer into the drawer, grabbing the first strap she finds, and possibly setting a new personal record for getting the buckles fully situated.
The condom doesn’t take much longer, either, and then she’s wiping her hands off on her boxers and back on top of Rumi, swallowing her lips in yet another kiss.
Rumi relaxes a bit when her eyes settle onto the strap. “Oh, good,” she says. “I was… kind of worried.”
“Worried what?” Mira asks, brushing stray hairs out of Rumi’s face.
“That you’d pull out some monster,” Rumi admits.
“I’m not that mean,” Mira laughs, “and if it’s still too much, tell me. I really do just want you to feel good.”
Rumi smiles and nods. She looks at ease, even as worked up as she is, and Mira quickly slides two fingers back inside her, making sure she’s still slick and ready, then making a show of licking Rumi off of her fingers.
“Oh my god,” Rumi groans, “just fuck me already.” She reaches up and tugs Mira down towards her by the front of her shirt, and Mira laughs again before grabbing the strap and lining herself up.
Rumi’s more than ready. Mira takes her time, but the strap slides in easily, and Rumi gasps into her neck when she finally bottoms out. Mira takes just a moment’s pause there.
“Mira,” Rumi whines, a strangled cry that runs through Mira like electricity. “Please, move,” she begs, and Mira obeys, sliding out most of the way before sinking back in. She picks up the pace quickly, and Rumi’s hands grip Mira’s shoulders to pull her close with each thrust.
Rumi’s gasps and soft whimpers fill the room, mingling with the slick sounds of the strap sliding in and out.
“Mira, fuck—fuck,” Rumi whines, hips bucking into the movement. One hand comes up and her fingers curl into Mira’s hair, tugging lightly as her back arches and she matches Mira’s rhythm.
Mira murmurs into her ear, “you’re doing so well,” and Rumi shudders, then gasps again as Mira snaps her hips forward once more.
It doesn’t take long. Not when Mira’s worked her up so thoroughly.
Especially not when Mira finally tells Rumi to touch herself, and together they tip her over the edge at last.
Mira keeps thrusting through Rumi’s orgasm, until the last waves have passed through her, and she pulls Mira down on top of her, panting.
“Fuck,” Rumi says, and Mira grins, brushing the sweaty hair from her face.
“That good, huh?”
Rumi nods against her chest, fingers twisting into Mira’s shirt like she never wants to let go.
“Do you need anything?” Rumi murmurs, barely more than just vibration on Mira’s skin. “What do you need? I can—“
“I’m okay, Rumi. Really. I meant it, earlier. I don’t need anything,” Mira replies, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Rumi’s head.
It seems that that answer was what Rumi needed. She exhales slowly, letting her body go slack, breath evening out as she melts into Mira’s arms. Mira shifts onto her side, pulling Rumi in close.
“I’ve got you,” Mira says, and Rumi nods silently.
Mira holds her until her breath steadies, until she’s completely relaxed in her arms. After a few more moments of quiet, Mira carefully disentangles herself.
“I’m gonna get you some water and a change of clothes,” Mira says. Rumi nods with a soft hum, curling up in the blankets.
Mira peels off the strap and dumps it to be dealt with in the morning, before making her way to the kitchen, washing her hands, and grabbing water bottles for each of them.
She checks her phone, too, for the typoed text from Zoey indicating she made it home. before returning to Rumi with the waters. She sets her own down on the nightstand and offers the other to Rumi, helping her sit up against the pillows.
“Careful, Princess,” Mira says, “don’t drown yourself.”
Rumi laughs. Once she’s taken a few steady sips, Mira turns away to pick up the underwear and dress unceremoniously piled on the floor.
She holds the dress up carefully. “Is it okay if I wash this?” she asks. “Tomorrow morning. If you’re staying.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. You can do whatever, it’s not delicate or anything,” Rumi murmurs over the mouth of her water bottle, then takes another sip.
“It certainly looked delicate when I wanted to rip it off of you,” Mira mutters.
Rumi chokes on her water. “What?” She coughs.
“Sorry, sorry,” Mira laughs. “I just kind of wanted to rip it off of you… all night.”
She sighs, finished rifling through her underwear drawer and coming up empty.
“Okay, all I’ve got are boxers. I thought I might have some of literally anything else, but. I switched years back.”
“That’s okay,” Rumi says, setting her water on the nightstand.
Mira pulls out an oversized t-shirt and pair of boxers and hands them over. “Here, try these.”
Rumi nods, letting Mira help her pull on the boxers and slide the shirt over her shoulders. Then, Mira climbs into bed next to her, sliding under the blankets. She pulls Rumi in close, winding an arm around her, tracing lazy patterns across her back and arms. “You did good,” Mira says, “and you’re beautiful.”
Rumi exhales softly, snuggling fully into Mira’s chest. “Thank you,” she murmurs, voice low and content.
There’s a pause, and then Rumi looks up, mouth curling up slightly. “You’re kind of a sap, you know that?”
Mira snorts. “Sure.”
“Really,” Rumi insists. “Zoey told me you were. She said you were soft, total mush,” Rumi grins, “and that you’d be my type.”
Mira groans, dragging a hand over her face. “Oh my god. She did not.”
“She did! I thought she was joking, though. And honestly, I thought you two were a thing, with the way she talks about you.”
“I’m going to kill her,” Mira laughs.
“No, you won’t,” Rumi says, “you like her too much.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mira mutters, but it’s all affection underneath. “I’ll still make her suffer a little.”
Rumi chuckles, a soft sound that makes Mira’s chest tighten. “She was right, at least.”
“What, that I’m a sap?”
“No. That you’re my type. That…” Rumi hesitates just slightly, like she’s deciding how much to say. “…that you’d take care of me.”
Mira blinks. “She said that?”
Rumi nods, pressing her cheek against Mira’s chest. “Yeah. She said you’d be careful. That you’d let me go slowly.”
“You really speedran it, though, didn’t you,” Mira teases.
“Well, yeah,” Rumi says, letting out a little laugh, “when I realized you were available and she wasn’t just drunkenly babbling about her girlfriend.”
Mira huffs out a breath, shaking her head. Zoey actually sent Rumi after her. That whole time.
“Unbelievable… she totally set us up.”
Rumi laughs. “I think so.”
“Scheming little menace,” Mira mutters.
“I’m glad she did it,” Rumi whispers, eyelids already drooping with sleep.
“Me too,” Mira admits, only to be interrupted by a yawn from Rumi.
“Sorry,” Rumi murmurs, “you wore me out.”
“Good,” Mira says, tightening her hold on Rumi, pulling her closer. “Sleep well, Princess.”
“I will,” Rumi says, already drifting. “Thanks for everything.”
Mira presses on last kiss to her forehead, feeling Rumi’s steady breathing against her chest deepen as she falls asleep. It’s comforting, right, and it quietly lulls Mira to sleep as well.