Chapter Text
They don't actually start dating until after the release of What it Sounds Like.
It's not immediate.
It begins in moments.
Here’s how it starts.
It’s a rainy Tuesday, one where they stay in the apartment all day and do everything a little slower. The song has only been out for an hour and it's already trending. Their phones are blowing up with mentions, hashtags are buzzing, fan covers are already in the works. But the apartment is quiet save for the soft echo of the song coming from the tik-toks on Mira’s phone.
Rumi sits silently, seated cross-legged on the living room floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, legs covered by teddy bear and choo-choo train pajama pants. Mira’s sprawled across the couch, upside down and humming along, and Zoey’s perched next to Rumi, legs touching just barely, as if proximity might translate all the things they haven’t said out loud yet.
The leader is on her phone, scrolling through the Huntr/x tag on twitter. She likes a few posts here and there, fanart of the promo video, a lyric graphic, and posts from radio stations and idol shows.
Then she sees it.
A tweet attached to the original Huntr/x post, buried between media shoutouts and picture threads, from someone called @queertrixnation.
“What it Sounds Like is THE queer community anthem of the year. A song about being yourself unapologetically after years of hiding who you are and not being alone when you let go of the fears? No one is uniting the world like Huntr/x is”
Rumi stares at it, something fluttering beneath her ribs.
She doesn’t say anything,just turns the phone slightly toward Zoey, who leans in with a curious hum. Her eyes scan over the tweet then move to Rumi.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, softly, Zoey says, “They’re not wrong.”
Rumi doesn’t look away from the screen, but her breath catches like she’s been caught holding something too tender in her hands. She makes a quiet noise in her throat, a soft acknowledgment. Something low and thoughtful, the kind of hums that means this will be in the back of my head for days. Then without looking away from the screen, she turns the phone towards the couch.
Mira’s already watching them, still upside down and spread out over the couch. Her brows lift as she reads, and something shifts in her eyes. It looks like recognition at first, then shifts into something teasing. The pinked haired girl twitches her lips, a smirk starting to curl at the edge of her mouth.
“We’re being perceived,” she says, voice lazy but laced with amusement. “Like. Deeply. Existentially.”
Zoey snorts. Rumi exhales, a quiet puff of air that pulls at the corner of her mouth. A sound caught somewhere between disbelief and fondness. She doesn't take her eyes off the tweet, though. It's still there, glowing against the dimness of the living room, loud in its clarity.
Mira, still watching from her upside-down perch, tips her head and lets her smirk mellow into something gentler. “Kinda wild, huh?” she says, her voice softer now. “All those years hiding pieces of ourselves... and then one song and suddenly we're mirrors for half the internet.”
Rumi nods, slow and deliberate. Her fingers hover over her screen, indecisive only for a second.
“I want to repost it,” she says quietly.
Zoey turns her head towards the leader, eyes roaming across her face, her expression softening as she takes her in.
“Then repost it,” Zoey says gently, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Rumi doesn’t hesitate this time. Her thumb hovers for just a second, light but certain, on the repost button.
It’s a statement. Quiet but unmistakable. A deliberate moment that doesn’t need bold fonts or threads of explanation, it just exists, shining in its own clarity
@HUNTR/X_OFFICIAL reposted @queertrixnation: “What it Sounds Like is THE queer…”
The internet goes crazy.
Notifications explode in real time, some fans spot it within seconds, screenshots already flooding feeds before the algorithm can catch its breath. The original tweet now sits under reposted by @HUNTR/X_OFFICIAL , a tiny line of text that launches a tidal wave.
“ Oh my god they saw it.”
“Huntr/x said gay rights.”
Fan accounts switch into overdrive. Edits roll out like breaking news alerts, now with the caption confirmed . Someone updates the fandom wiki in under two minutes. Another user live-blogs their emotional spiral in real time, complete with screenshots, reaction gifs, and a heartfelt “thank you” that gets thousands of likes.
The fandom responds, @mirasbiceps posts a screen recording of the tweet with the caption “ i need a moment to recover (i will never recover)”. @glowsticklesbian tweets a thread titled “ 10 reasons this is literally more important than my coming out”. @notasimpbutyes simply responds “ SCREAMING. CRYING. THROWING MY BIKE OFF A BALCONY. ”
Across time zones and screens, it lands. A hundred thousand notifications. A chorus of they see us. To the average person it might not seem like a big deal, but to anyone who’s followed the industry long enough, it's the loudest statement in the room.
One tiny silent action throws the whole world off kilter.
Because in a space where queerness is so often filtered through plausible deniability, through fanservice, coded glances, and deliberate silences, this wasn’t a hint. It wasn’t buried between the lines or softened by PR. It was a signal. A quiet repost that rang louder than any staged headline.
Next to her, Zoey smiles without looking. On the couch, Mira mumbles something about needing a minute to emotionally prepare for the internet's gay meltdown before collapsing back into her blanket cocoon.
Rumi sets her phone down gently on the low table, fingers lingering on the edge just a second too long. The glow of the screen fades, but something in the air doesn't. The Honmoon, ever watchful, pulses soft in the corners of the apartment, subtle gold drifting warm across the ceiling like the exhale after held tension.
The maknae leans back beside her, their legs still touching. The contact is casual, but the Honmoon brightens at the point where they meet, a slow flicker that stretches, invisible and certain, between their pulses. It doesn't speak, but it listens .
Still buried beneath her blanket, Mira lets out a muffled yawn. “So,” she murmurs, eyes half-lidded but curious, “Does this mean we’re officially the group that upheaves the entire internet at 1 a.m.?”
The Honmoon ripples, not loud, not dramatic. Just amused. Like it’s smiling.
Rumi lets out a soft laugh, one that catches a little in her throat. She doesn’t answer, but Zoey does with a quiet chuckle, steady and warm. The Honmoon curls inward, drawing closer, like it recognizes something important in the space between silence and sound.
Mira peeks out from her blanket. “You know we’ve just given the fandom enough fuel to write a novella by tomorrow,” she says, wry but not unkind. “Hope someone makes us look hot.”
Rumi finally turns toward her, a real smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. “They always do.”
And the Honmoon, always feeling, always listening, glows like it agrees.
Promo for new music always includes interviews. Whether it be youtube videos with big creators, or chaotic game segments on variety shows.
Here's the second moment.
One week after release, the MBC Garden Studio is alive with its usual buzz, glass walls glowing under studio lights, fans pressed close outside with signs and phones, their excitement fogging up the windows. Inside, the air is cooler, but charged. The kind of charge that hums beneath your skin.
Huntr/x is seated at the table, mics angled just right, headphones slightly askew. They take the usual questions with practiced ease: inspirations, writing process, favorite line from the new single. Mira jokes about almost getting a nosebleed in dance practice, Zoey rolls her eyes affectionately, Rumi smiles without saying much, her fingers loosely threaded in her lap.
The host glances at the screen, a listener-submitted question lighting up the studio monitor.
“We’ve got a question from a listener in Busan,” he says, smiling. “They write: ‘What It Sounds Like meant a lot to me as a queer fan. It felt like being seen. Was that something you thought about when making it?’”
There’s a pause. Outside, a fan gasps. Inside, the Honmoon stirs.
It curls through the studio like a breath held between beats, brushing soft against the glass, flickering gold where it touches the edge of the mic stands.
Rumi shifts slightly in her seat. She doesn’t look at the others, but she doesn’t need to. The Honmoon pulses between them, a quiet thread of warmth that says we’re here, together . She leans toward the mic, voice steady.
“We didn’t write it with a label in mind,” she says. “But we wrote it from a place of truth. And if that truth makes someone feel seen, then that’s everything.” She pauses, just for a breath. The kind that lets the weight settle, not deflect it.
“I think for a long time,” she continues, voice steady but quieter now, “we all got used to measuring how much of ourselves we were allowed to show. Not just in the industry, but everywhere . And this song, this was one of the first times we didn’t ask for permission to exist subtly inside the lyrics.”
Zoey glances sideways, just barely, as if drawn by the gravity of Rumi’s voice more than the words themselves. She doesn’t speak right away. The Honmoon ripples at her shoulder, soft and tethered, as if giving her time to choose her entry point.
Then, with a breath that feels both practiced and honest, she leans forward.
“I think people underestimate what it takes to be open in a space that rewards careful silence,” she says, calm but sure. “This song is about us connecting to the sides of us we try to hide, or are ashamed of, and unapologetically letting them show.”
The Honmoon pulses gently around her, golden light chasing the curve of her wrist like a reassurance: you said what needed saying.
Mira finally leans in with a half-smile, voice light but clear. “We’re just happy if someone out there feels seen. Preferably while sobbing in the shower to our bridge section.”
The studio laughs. Outside, someone cheers so loud it cuts through the glass. The Honmoon hums, content and shimmering, threading between the laughter and the silence, the words and what they meant . It doesn't need translation.
The host chuckles. “And they do,” he says, tapping a finger to his earpiece as a live reaction scrolls across the monitor. “A listener here in Seoul says ‘This just cracked my ribs open in public. Thanks.”
Then the host fixes his eyes on the screen with a spark behind his glasses. “Here’s one from a listener in Daegu,” he says, turning slightly toward the group. “They ask: There’s been a lot of conversation about what Huntr/x means to the queer community, especially after your repost on release night. Did you know how much that moment would mean? ”
Zoey shifts in her chair, not uncomfortably, but like she’s feeling out the edge of the moment. Her fingers twitch slightly where they rest against her thigh. She leans just a little closer to the mic, then stops herself.
That’s when she feels it, Rumi’s hand.
Beneath the table, gentle and deliberate, Rumi reaches over and finds her fingers. It’s not a dramatic grab or a signal meant for cameras. It’s grounding. Her thumb runs once, slow and steady, across the back of Zoey’s hand. A silent I’m here. Say it if you want to.
Zoey exhales, but doesn’t speak yet.
Because Mira is looking at her, too.
Eyes dark and unwavering, not pushing, but there’s a quiet there, a trust that lets Zoey know she won’t have to carry the moment alone.
Zoey’s gaze flickers from one to the other, first to Mira, then Rumi. She takes them both in. Their closeness. The safety of it. Their hands linked beneath the table now, a small constellation held together by breath and history.
The Honmoon answers before she does.
It arcs upward in a soft glimmer, not bright enough to draw attention, but enough that the three of them feel it, swirling between ribs and wrists and collarbones. It curves over the edge of the table like steam rising from something sacred, dipping between them like a whisper traced in gold: You are safe here.
Zoey blinks once, steadying herself. Then she nods. And both Mira and Rumi nod back.
That’s all it takes.
She lifts her head, clears her throat once, and speaks.
“We didn’t know how far it would go,” she says, her voice quiet but full. “When Rumi reposted that tweet, it wasn’t a campaign move or a headline strategy. It was a response. To something that felt honest.”
She feels Rumi’s hand tighten slightly around hers, and the Honmoon pulses once more, wrapping their words in warmth.
“I think,” Zoey continues, “there are a lot of people, especially queer people, who are used to hearing their stories in echoes. In coded lyrics, in glances that might mean something but never get confirmed. We know what that silence feels like. We’ve navigated it. We’ve been asked to live in the margins of our own music.”
There’s a catch in her voice, not quite a crack, but something trembles near the edges. She doesn’t flinch from it.
“And when this song came out, when people started saying it gave them that feeling of being seen. It hit us, too. Because that’s exactly where it came from. From all the parts we were told might be too loud, or too soft, or too much, or not enough. ”
The Honmoon stretches gently through the space between them. It doesn't flicker. It roots . It catches and holds, humming across their joined hands, curling soft at Mira’s temple like a second skin.
Zoey turns back to the mic. Her voice doesn’t shake.
“As a member of the queer community myself,” she says, “I think that moment meant a lot because it wasn’t about claiming a banner. It was about finally saying: we’re not hiding anymore. Not between metaphors. Not behind industry rules. We’re here. And we want our fans, especially our queer fans, to know that they’re here with us , too.”
A hush follows, deep enough that you can hear the soft buzz of the monitors and the faint wheeze of someone holding back tears behind the glass.
The host swallows once, visibly moved. He doesn’t jump in right away, doesn’t rush to fill the silence with transition or polish. Instead, he takes a breath, and meets Zoey’s eyes with a kind of reverence that doesn’t need to be taught.
“Thank you,” he says, voice lower now, less performative and more real. “That means a lot. To hear that, in this space, without sidestepping. I think there are a lot of people out there tonight who needed exactly that.”
He glances briefly toward the monitor, where messages are pouring in—hearts, crying emojis, a flood of thank yous in every language the broadcast reaches. One in bold hangul just reads: 살아줘서 고마워. Thank you for living.
“You know,” he adds, a little softer, “we talk a lot about music bringing people together. But sometimes we forget how powerful it is when music lets someone finally see themselves fully for the first time.”
The host gently re-centers himself, voice warm but composed. “We’re going to take a short break now,” he says, tapping a finger to the screen. “But when we come back, Huntr/x will bless us with a live performance of What It Sounds Like , plus one more special track from their new album. Don’t go anywhere.”
The indicator light above the booth clicks from red to blue. Cameras blink into standby. Commercial audio fades in through the speakers like background static, and just like that—the spell of the on-air moment is released.
Headphones come off in a shuffle of fabric and exhaled breath.
Zoey carefully places hers down, hands a little slower than usual. She’s still holding Rumi’s fingers under the table. Mira stretches her arms overhead with a grunt, but there’s none of her usual quip. She just exhales.
The host doesn’t stand, but he does lean toward them, eyes still soft behind his glasses. “Hey,” he says, voice dropped to something more personal now, quieter. “I just wanted to say, what you said, Zoey? That took amazing courage.”
Zoey blinks, surprised, but not caught off guard. Rumi doesn’t let go of her hand.
“You didn’t have to say it the way you did,” he adds, voice roughening at the edges, “but you did. And I think that mattered more than any of us can fully grasp yet. I’m proud that it happened on this show.”
Zoey swallows, nods once. Her eyes shimmer, but she doesn’t cry.
“Thanks for giving us the space,” she says.
The host just smiles and pats the desk lightly, like he knows words aren’t enough but they’re all he has right now.
The production assistant appears at the side door with a soft “Ready when you are,” and the trio rises in sync, still a little quiet, the shape of the moment clinging to their shoulders like the edge of a song that hasn’t quite faded. The Honmoon trills just behind them, low and gentle, gold slipping along the floor like spilled light.
The hallway outside the studio is cooler, lined with posters and framed magazine spreads. Studio staff shuffle by with clipboards and coffees, but the girls barely register them. Their steps are soft. Intentional.
Their steps align without speaking, rhythm born more from breath than choreography. Rumi and Zoey are still holding hands, fingers loosely laced, a quiet tether that neither of them thinks to release. There's no pressure in it, just presence. The kind of touch that says we’re still in it together.
Then, from the other side, Mira reaches out.
She slips her hand into Zoey’s free one without a word, palm warm, grip firm but familiar. It’s not dramatic. It’s Mira , solid and constant, because she knows Zoey is still carrying the echo of what she said on air. So now, she helps carry it, too.
Bobby is waiting for them.
He’s a few paces down the hallway, back hunched as his thumb moves rapidly across his phone screen. His Huntr/x manager lanyard swings loosely with each movement, brushing the front of his Huntr/x shirt.
There’s a deep crease between his brows. Not frustration, exactly. Just focus. Bobby in damage control mode is a sight they all know: fast thumbs, worried face, that look he gets when he’s ready to start panicking but is holding it together for them.
Zoey slows first, grip tightening just slightly around Mira and Rumi’s hands.
“Bobby,” Zoey says, low, almost hesitant. Her voice isn’t shaky but there’s a tremble somewhere behind it.
He hears his name, and his head lifts fast.
The second his eyes land on Zoey, her fingers tangled with Mira and Rumi’s, something in his expression changes. The crease between his brows smooths. The tension leaves his shoulders like a slow exhale. His phone drops to his side, forgotten.
And then, without preface or fuss, he says it:
“I am so proud of you, Zoey.”
The Honmoon reacts before she does.
It stirs from where it had been trailing quietly behind them, and rises, not bright, but close. It curls around her wrist where Mira’s hand holds her, then moves like breath across her chest, shoulder to shoulder. It doesn’t touch her skin, exactly, but she feels it.
Zoey’s breath catches, not loud, not dramatic, just a slight hitch that barely lifts her shoulders before they fall again, softer now. Like the words unlocked something she hadn’t let herself release in the studio. Like the tension she was keeping on reserve, just in case— just in case he didn’t understand , finally gave up and let her breathe.
Her eyes flicker, glassy all of a sudden. Not overflowing, but there’s a shimmer there, undeniable. The kind that surprises even her.
Mira glances over first, brows pulling in faint concern, until she sees it, sees Zoey letting go just a little. Her hand tightens around Zoey’s in response, not pulling, just present. A touch that says yeah, I know. I’ve got you.
Rumi feels it, too. She doesn’t even have to look, but she does. Shifts closer, her thumb brushing once over Zoey’s knuckles, grounding her with that unspoken tether they’ve always shared.
Zoey gives a small, barely-there nod, like she’s still working through the emotion. Then she lifts her eyes to Bobby again, and even though she doesn’t say anything, it’s all there in her face. Gratitude. Relief. Maybe even a little awe.
Bobby glances at the three of them, his tone never wavering. “That was brave. Not marketable, not strategic. Brave. You stood up and made space, not just for yourself, but for a hell of a lot of people who needed someone to say it first.”
Zoey’s lips twitch, almost a smile, but she can’t quite make it all the way there without sobbing
Bobby shakes his head just once, lips pressed together like he’s trying to land the words right where they’ll stick.
“I’m proud of you because you didn’t ask for permission. You just told the truth. And you did it with so much grace that the whole room forgot how to breathe for a second.”
Zoey finally speaks, so quiet it barely lands.
“I didn’t mean to blindside anyone.”
Bobby snorts softly, not unkind. “You didn’t blindside me, kid. You just gave me something I didn’t know I’d been waiting to hear from you.”
She lets out a laugh then, brief and fragile, and Bobby grins like a dad watching his daughter learn how to love herself.
The Honmoon glows around them now, grand or sweeping, and full . It brushes the seams of Zoey’s jacket, traces the inside of Mira’s wrist, curls around Rumi’s ankle like a ribbon pulled snug. Like it knows the shape of their bond has just changed, grown deeper, more certain.
“I couldn’t be prouder of you girls,” Bobby says, voice rough at the edges.
Mira grins at her sideways. Rumi leans in closer to let their shoulders touch. Bobby just tucks his phone fully away, like whatever texts are pinging now can wait. Like there’s nothing more important than being in this exact hallway, at this exact moment, with his girls .
“You good?” he asks her, softer now.
Zoey nods. And this time she means it.
Because she is .
“You’ve got five minutes to breathe,” he says, voice returning to manager mode, but only just. “Then we head back in, and you remind everyone why the universe invented live vocals.”
Mira salutes. Rumi raises a brow. Zoey finally grins, crooked but real, and murmurs, “We’ve got this.”
The girls start toward the vending machines, footsteps light but sure. Mira loops her arm around Zoey’s, swinging it once. Rumi glances back for a half-second, not anxious, just making sure the light is still following them.
And it is.
The Honmoon glows in their wake, unfolding in low arcs across the floor, brushing against the hallway walls as if painting something behind them, like memory, like promise, like proof.