Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started like this.

The evening had settled quietly around them, the kind of silence that only close familiarity makes comfortable. Mira lounged on the couch beside Zoey, half-focused on her own music and whatever their maknae was watching, one headphone still in, the other lazily pushed out. Across the room, Rumi sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, scribbling something into her notebook, her braided lavender hair tumbling forward as she hummed a gentle melody under her breath.

It was normal for the girls to hum—musicians never truly switch off—but something about the tune made Mira pause. Her fingers stilled over her phone, music now paused. Her eyes lifted. There was something... fragile and haunting in Rumi’s voice. New. Mira didn’t recognize the melody, but it pulled at her like a thread tied to her chest. A soft ache bloomed behind her ribs mesmerized.

She glanced at Zoey, who had also stopped scrolling through her phone. Even the videos she’d been laughing at earlier were paused now. Together, wordless, they just... listened. Letting Rumi’s voice carry through the penthouse like a ghost of something beautiful and unfinished.

Mira always loved when the girls sang. Loved how Zoey’s voice carried raw sunshine but sharp edges and how Rumi’s could wrap around a room like velvet. She especially loved how Rumi’s voice filled the space when she thought no one was listening. This wasn’t for rehearsal. This wasn’t for show. This was something else. It was a privilege to be in the vicinity of a singing Rumi, the beauty and reverence was out of this world.

The second time Mira heard the tune, it was evening again. She had just returned from errands with Zoey, who broke off toward the kitchen while Mira headed down the hallway calling out to their leader, but no answer. Rumi had stayed home. Mira, assuming she might be asleep, knocked gently on her door and cracked it open to let her know they were back.

The room was dark. Bed empty.

She blinked confused for a second—then saw the glow of the balcony light.

There, just beyond the glass doors, stood Rumi. Barefoot, arms wrapped around herself, bathed in moonlight, her patterns softly reflecting the night. She was humming the same tune again, but this time... it wasn’t just humming. There were words.

Mira stayed frozen in the doorway, feeling like she’d stepped into something private. But she couldn’t make herself move. The glass muffled the sound, but one lyric slipped through clearly:

   “I’ve been hoping to change,
   now I know we can change—
   but I won’t if you’re not by my side.”

Mira’s heart twisted. The ache was immediate and strange, like grief with no name. She couldn’t quite place why the words hit so hard, but they did.

Rumi’s head tilted back, her gaze lost somewhere in the stars. The rest of the lyrics faded into the night, and Mira stepped back, ashamed of how long she’d lingered. She knew how sacred Rumi’s creative process was—knew better than to intrude.

Still, something about that melody lingered. Heavy. Daunting. It settled into Mira’s chest and refused to let go.

The third time wasn’t Mira—it was Zoey.

It was late, past midnight, and Zoey was supposed to be in bed, the other two were. But her brain, ever restless when inspiration struck, refused to quiet down. She’d wandered into the kitchen in search of a snack when she heard it: a single piano note drifting faintly through the quiet.

Low. Melancholy. The kind of tone musicians used when something in their heart had cracked open.

Zoey followed the sound without thinking, pulled forward like a tide. It led her to Rumi’s door. She didn’t open it. She wouldn’t. But she pressed her palm to the wood as the vocals floated through, fragile and raw:

   “I tried to sing—
   couldn’t hit the notes.
   The words kept catching in my throat.
   I tried to smile...
   I was suffocating though.”

Zoey’s fingers curled against the door frame. Her nails scratched lightly at the wood, like she could somehow pull the pain into herself. She didn’t realize she was crying until her breath hitched, sudden and shallow.

The guilt slammed painfully into her ribs all over again.

She backed away, footsteps light, nearly tripping over a pillow in the hallway. Her chest ached. She felt exposed. Her mind flashed with the image of Rumi’s demon form, of that moment—just seconds long—when fear overtook love and she’d lifted her weapon without thinking.

It didn’t matter that Rumi had lied. It didn’t matter that their reaction was understandable. What mattered was that Rumi had been alone , and they—her family—had pointed blades.

So she ran.

Zoey reached her room and collapsed onto the bed. Her hand found the shared blanket—their blanket, the one they always used for movie nights. The one that smelled like all three of them.

She buried her face in it, inhaling deeply.

In. Hold . Out.

In again. Hold . Let go.

Her body trembled, but she didn’t cry again. Instead, she found her grounding in the warmth of memories—photos of the three of them on the wall, scattered notebooks, the half-done lyric sheets. Rumi was expressing herself the only way she could: through music. Zoey understood that. She was a lyricist. She lived for that.

So she wouldn’t doubt it. She wouldn’t demand anything from Rumi. She’d just be there.

Quietly. Steady. Ready.

The fourth time it happened, it was Mira again. And this time, it felt like the weight of a bulldozer slammed right onto her, bruising her entire body. 

She hadn’t meant to come home early, her modeling shoot finished and she had to run some errands but she’d forgotten her wallet. Zoey was still out. Rumi had said she had her own errands, too. The penthouse was supposed to be empty.

But the door to the studio was cracked open. Mira went to close it, but froze.

She heard her voice.

Rumi’s. Playing out loud through the studio monitors.

Mira knew enough to recognize that this wasn’t supposed to be played out loud. Rumi likely hadn’t realized the playback was audible on both sides of the glass.

But Mira—Mira stood there, listening to the song. Intently. Shamefully. But she was wrong. This wasn’t about or for them .

It was about Jinu.

The realization hit her like ice water.

Jealousy bloomed in her gut, sharp and shameful. She didn’t want to feel it. She shouldn’t feel it. They’d all talked about Jinu—how he’d helped Rumi, how he’d been there when she was most alone regardless of the betrayal. How he literally sacrificed his life and gave his soul to her. Mira had nodded, agreed, understood.

But in this moment, all she could think was:

He didn’t raise a weapon at her. The unspoken threat of the intent to kill.

Jinu hadn’t doubted her. Hadn’t flinched. He’d stood by her—believed her.

Mira’s own words came back to her like poison. The sharp things she’d said. Her brutal honesty that had always been her shield, but this time, she’d aimed it at someone she loved.

Someone who had bled for them.

Someone she had vowed to protect.

She heard Rumi’s voice crack, a soft sniffle barely audible in the studio. Mira staggered back, bile rising, heart thundering in her chest so hard it hurt. Her hands trembled. Her stomach turned.

She ran.

Her room was on the other side of the penthouse thankfully, but she barely made it before the panic hit. She locked the door—a habit she hadn’t needed in years. Collapsed against it, hands fisting the fabric of her hoodie.

Rumi’s hoodie.

The one she’d never given back.

Apologies spilled from her lips, whispered and ragged, choked with salt and shame. She pressed her face into the soft fabric as though it could absorb her guilt.

Rumi had said she forgave them. They’d had that night—no sleep, just food, tears, confessions whispered in the dark. Hugs that lasted too long. Hands held like lifelines.

But the truth never left Mira’s chest.

It haunted her in quiet moments. It sharpened in the dark. She did believe for a while she had control of it. But it waited, gnawed, tore at her until it could no longer be ignored.

She raised her weapon. She almost lost her. She became everything she swore she would protect her from.

Her breathing fractured. Her vision blurred. She hadn’t had a panic attack in years.

Still gripping the hoodie like it was the only thing keeping her alive, she let out a strangled wail—muffled, but raw. Loud enough to echo in her soundproofed room. Loud enough to shake something loose inside her.

Eventually, the storm quieted. Her eyes swollen and cheeks stained. She focused on her breath, the way Zoey and her therapist had taught her.

In. Out. In again.

She thought of Zoey. She thought of Rumi. Exhales.

Then, without fully realizing it, she opened her laptop and started to work.

She built a beat. She shaped the skeleton of the song Rumi had been singing. Not to steal it. Not to finish it. She thought it might be a sort of dark twisted way of coping but she needed to do it. 

It was her penance.

The next morning, long before dawn, Mira stood up.

She hadn’t slept. Her head throbbed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, but something inside her had snapped into motion and refused to stop. She passed Zoey and Rumi sleeping on the couch, entwined in a quiet heap, probably waiting up for her, but she couldn’t bear to stop. Not now.

Her heart clenched as she stepped around them.

She needed this. She needed space . She needed to move .

The private studio—soundproof and sealed away—was her sanctuary. She slipped inside, locked the door, and stood for a moment in the quiet, staring at her own reflection in the mirror wall.

Rumi’s hoodie hung off her frame. Her hair was a mess, her eyes hollow. She barely recognized herself.

No makeup. No armor. Just guilt in the shape of a woman.

She set her laptop down, connected it to the speakers, and queued the file: Mira had pulled the melody straight from memory, from Rumi’s humming, from the way the lyrics had clawed their way into her chest.

She let the first notes fill the room.

Soft piano. Subtle rhythm. Melancholy and devastatingly haunting.

She didn’t plan the steps, not this time. She let her body respond. Arms lifted. Spine curved. She moved the way she felt —weighted, fragile, aching. Each motion was a confession, each beat a breath she couldn’t take.

Interpretive dance. She’d studied it before. Knew how to let pain tell the story through moving. And god, she had so much pain to give.

She danced for everything she hadn’t said.

For the guilt she couldn’t shed.

For the way she had failed, not just as a bandmate, but as a friend .

The tears started without permission. She blinked them back at first, but they came anyway. Salty, hot, blurring her vision as she twisted, spun, dropped to her knees and pushed herself up again with trembling grace. Her limbs carved through the air, graceful but ragged. Her fingers trembled mid-reach. Her body folded and unfolded like it was apologizing, bowing with every breath.

She remembered Rumi’s voice.

   ”You got a dark side, guess you’re not the only one
   What if we both tried fighting what we’re running from?”

She remembered that night. The split-second decision. She thinks of the few seconds of pain and undeniable betrayal that pierce her skin as she stared at the markings. The fear that won out over everything else.

A memory flashed, she remembered soft nights asking Rumi— before —why she hid away from them when changing. She remembered the girl’s careful avoidance. Her quiet answers. The dull, pained sparkle in her eyes when she smiled too quickly.

Insecurity. Shame. Doubt.

And Mira had internally promised to protect her from that.

She had sworn .

She had failed.

Her knees hit the ground harder than intended. The sharp crack echoed in the silence between beats. Her breath hitched. She was crying openly now, shaking as the guilt burned through her chest like acid. Painting the studio floor with sinful tears that held her regrets.

She kept dancing.

The song looped again. And again.

She hadn’t realized how long she’d been moving. Her legs trembled. Her arms were too heavy to lift. She wasn’t even hitting the steps anymore—just collapsing forward, chest heaving.

Her laptop died mid-beat. The silence was deafening.

Mira dropped to her knees again, and this time, she didn’t get up.

The impact reverberated up her spine. Her knees throbbed—definitely bruised. Probably bleeding. She didn’t care.

It felt good to hurt, like penance in motion, a punishment she could finally control.

Not enough.

Never enough.

Her body gave out completely. She fell forward, cheek slammed against the cold wooden floor, tears soaking the boards beneath her. The sting on her cheeks, the throb of her joints—it was the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

And even that was slipping away.

Mira had always been perceived as reckless, blunt and apathetic. Mira, who people didn’t actually know besides her bandmates, was the only one who took care of her body like a temple. Mira, who understood the need to have a healthy working system so her dances come out perfect, her mind was clear and her moves were clean. Mind, body and health. A ritual she lived on. 

She understood that her body was her vessel, and she honored it.

Yet here she lay on her own puddle of sorrow and guilt. Bruised and aching in a way she believed wasn't enough. She had let herself go. Nothing less than she deserved. For the girls she didn’t believe she deserved, if she couldn’t even control herself.

She was just a girl who had broken something precious—and couldn’t unbreak it.

Let her breath stutter and her tears come unchecked. Because she didn’t feel like she deserved to be whole.

Not if she could raise her weapon at the people she loved. Not if she could become the thing she feared most.

She lay there until the darkness pulled her under.

Chapter Text

Rumi sighed as she laid restlessly.

They had both tried knocking. First Rumi, then Zoey. Light taps, then louder ones. Whispered calls of her name.

No answer.

The shorter girl had even crouched by the door, ear pressed close like maybe she could hear breathing, music, something . But there was nothing. Not even the faintest rustle.

Rumi had felt her marks stir beneath her skin then, a soft pulse of dread that hummed with emotion. Mira never locked her door. Not since she stopped needing space to protect herself from them.

Now Rumi didn’t know what had changed all of the sudden.

She didn’t want to press. If Mira needed time, she deserved it. But the silence felt too hollow. Too final.

Zoey hovered near her shoulder, biting her lip. She hated being shut out—Rumi could feel it in every tense movement, every quiet glance. Zoey loved big and fast and without hesitation. She forgave faster than anyone Rumi knew. But that didn’t make her immune to the weight of unspoken pain. She had wondered if this was what Zoey felt when she herself used to shut them out. A trickle of guilt clutched onto her heart.

   “Should we… stay?” Zoey asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Rumi nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. Let’s wait.”

They’d stayed on the couch hoping to catch Mira if she snuck out, maybe coax her into joining them, maybe just to be there. But the sound they were waiting for never came. No door creak. No footsteps. Just an empty, quiet text from Mira around midnight.

   just for the night.

Nothing more.

And that silence—it scared her.

They watched videos on Zoey’s phone, but didn’t laugh. Didn't even smile.

Rumi sent a small reaction to Mira’s text—a simple heart. Zoey, ever more expressive, replied with a string of hug stickers, followed by a softly written:

   We’re here. Whenever you’re ready.

Mira didn’t shut down like this. Not anymore. Not since those first rough weeks when they’d still been learning to trust. 

Zoey stirred beside her, sensing the tension. Her brow furrowed, her fingers tightening around the hem of Rumi’s shirt as if grounding herself.

The raven haired girl for all the sunshine she carried, turned to Rumi, her voice was so small.

   “…Did we do something wrong?”

The question sliced deeper than Rumi expected. She didn’t have an answer, but she shook her head anyway.

She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face. Her gaze slid toward the hallway—toward Mira’s room, closed off behind a locked door. Her mind sifted through the past few days, searching for anything they missed, anything they said or didn’t say.

Nothing stood out.

But something was clearly breaking.

Mira woke up before them.

Her limbs were stiff, her joints aching, her skin flushed with the sting of dried sweat and bruises—yet her body moved on instinct. She barely cleaned the studio. A small towel from the corner closet was dampened and pressed to her face, patting away sweat and saltwater, though it did little to soothe the swelling on her cheek. Her knees throbbed as she moved, raw and red. She didn’t flinch.

There was a mirror in the corner. She didn’t look.

She slipped quietly through the hallway, barefoot and aching. Zoey and Rumi were still sound asleep on the couch, tangled loosely in one another like they’d waited until sleep stole them.

Mira lingered for a moment—just a moment—before moving on.

She showered quickly, scrubbing the remnants of the night off her skin with practiced urgency. She didn’t let herself linger. The sting of soap in her cuts was grounding. The bruises—now fully formed across her knees, shoulders, and arms—she covered as best she could. The cheek swelling she left alone. Her face would betray her, but she wasn’t ready to speak.

She didn’t plan to.

Not yet.

After dressing, Mira padded into the kitchen. Her movements were slow, methodical, but familiar. This part of her still worked. Her hands still remembered how to take care of them.

She began to make breakfast.

Bibimbaps, their comfort dish.

It was a quiet offering. An apology without words.

Rumi woke to the smell of sesame oil and rice.

She blinked against the light, her hand instinctively reaching for Zoey beside her—still fast asleep, curled tightly under the shared blanket. A small frown pulled at Rumi’s lips as she realized she hadn’t woken in time. She’d meant to catch Mira before she slipped away again.

Too late.

Rumi exhaled and gently tucked the blanket closer around their maknae, brushing strands of sleep-mussed hair away from her brow. She’d get scolded later for not waking her, but Rumi didn’t mind. Zoey needed rest. She also wanted to have some time alone with Mira first.

She rose slowly and stepped into the kitchen.

There Mira stood, back slightly hunched, hoodie sleeves pushed up, stirring vegetables over a low flame. The tension in her posture was unmistakable—shoulders tight, movements just a beat too stiff.

Rumi didn’t speak.

Instead, she moved wordlessly to the rice cooker, measuring and rinsing the grains with practiced care. She didn’t need to ask. Mira always handled the toppings; Rumi took care of the rice. That had always been their rhythm.

As she worked, Rumi stole glances, quiet ones. Watching the heaviness in Mira’s eyes, the weariness in the curve of her spine. Her heart twisted.

Mira didn’t speak when something hurt. Not the real hurts. When Mira went through things, she dealt with it quietly, Rumi knew that. Despite Mira being shamelessly outward with her emotions of anger, sharpness and annoyance, when something actually bothered her she tackled it with a dangerous silence. She didn’t fake smiles or say “I’m fine.” She let the silence speak for her. She let it hang in the air like a warning. Mira didn't pretend, she lets you know. but she didn’t elaborate either.

Rumi had learned that the hard way.

The rice began to cook. The lavender haired woman wiped her hands on a towel, then leaned against the counter beside Mira, close but not pressing. Her own fingers fidgeted, nails digging into her wrist as she fought the urge to reach out too soon.

Mira’s face was shadowed, her gaze fixed on the pan.

Rumi’s hand ached to touch her.

But instead, she brewed tea—Mira’s favorite blend. Chamomile, with a hint of honey. Warm, grounding.

She set the pastel pink cup beside Mira, leaving her own lavender one next to it. They were a matching set—Zoey had gifted them during their last comeback. Zoey’s cup was a soft sky blue, still waiting by the stove for when she woke.

Rumi let the quiet be her presence. Her comfort.

Mira didn’t look at her, but her eyes flicked to the cup. She was coming close to finishing the veggies and meat, stirring one last time before cutting the fire and covering the pan as she set it aside for now.

She tentatively stepped closer to Rumi, her fingers fidgeting with the ceramic before wrapping around the handle, lifting it gently, and blew softly across the surface before taking a careful sip. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Rumi felt her lungs finally expand.

The taller woman set the cup down, and Rumi took that moment—delicate and fragile—to place her hand lightly over Mira’s wrist. Her thumb brushed across the skin, gentle, grounding. She felt the tremor there.

She nudged Mira’s hand upward, lifting it slowly, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. Her lips lingered—longer than necessary, but just long enough to say I see you .

Mira had always taken care of them.

Years of being with each other, training, singing, dancing and everything in between. She knew Zoey’s highs and lows by heart. She knew when to pull Rumi away from the noise, when to press a bottle of water into her hand without a word. She wasn’t showy like Zoey, or composed and planned like Rumi, but Mira’s love was tangible—expressed in action, service, and gentle touches that meant more than any speech.

So Rumi mirrored that now. She didn’t remember when they crossed this level of intimacy but she just knew it felt right.

She remembered every time Mira had held her, asking first with a mere glance then bravely kept her close. Every time she’d made Rumi laugh when she was falling apart inside. Now it was Rumi’s turn to hold her steady.

Before she could pull her hand away, Mira moved. Her fingers reached forward, ghosting over Rumi’s face. A hesitant touch, palm rising to gently cup her cheek.

Rumi’s heart lurched at the unexpected move. She leaned into the touch instinctively, her eyes fluttering closed—not for long. Just long enough to let Mira feel it was safe to stay.

When she opened them again, Mira’s gaze was still there. Glassy. Hurt. Distant. But present.

Her thumb stroked softly over Rumi’s cheekbone. It was a quiet caress, and Rumi turned her head slightly, pressing light kisses to the inside of Mira’s palm. Mira’s eyes fell closed.

Her breath trembled. Rumi felt it deep in her chest.

She took Mira’s hand gently, pressed a kiss to her wrist, then trailed up to her forearm—before guiding the taller woman’s arm around her waist. Rumi’s own arms slid up around Mira’s shoulders, hands threading into her long deep blush hair and curling behind her neck.

The moment Mira melted into her, Rumi nearly broke.

One arm wrapped tightly around the slightly shorter woman’s waist under her crop top fitting there perfectly. The other pulled her impossibly closer, Mira’s face tucking into the curve of Rumi’s neck. Her breath shuddered against her skin, and Rumi knew—without a doubt—she was holding in tears.

Rumi combed her fingers through Mira’s hair, nails scratching gently at her scalp and raking the nape of her neck. The other hand rubbed slow, steady circles across her back.

Mira’s heart was pounding. Rumi lets her eyes close and just feel.

They stood like that for a long time, swaying slightly, the silence wrapping around them like thread. The sun had begun to rise over the horizon, casting golden light through the windows and painting them in a soft warmth of orange and gold hues.

When Rumi opened her eyes again, she saw Zoey.

Their third member stood in the doorway, blanket still clutched in her arms, her face crumpling with the weight of emotion. Eyes already glassy, lips trembling.

Rumi’s throat tightened.

She lifted one arm, beckoning Zoey in.

Zoey didn’t hesitate.

She ran toward them, blanket disregarded on the floor, stepping behind Mira and wrapping her arms tightly around both girls. She couldn’t quite reach Mira’s shoulders, but she pressed her face into her back, small hands clutching fabric like it was a lifeline.

Rumi reached for her, one hand cupping Zoey’s cheek as tears slipped down her face. She wiped them away gently, thumb brushing tenderly over her freckled skin.

Mira’s breath hitched again. Her shoulders trembled trying to fight the last bit of resistance.

And then she broke.

Rumi felt the first hot tear hit her collarbone. Then another. Then more. Her patterns respond to each drop, pulsing soft blues wistfully.

Zoey’s arms only tightened.

They said nothing. Just held her. Let her cry. Let the weight of guilt, pain, and love unravel in the safety of their arms.

Time passed without measure. The only sound was Mira’s breath, her soft sobs pressed into Rumi’s neck.

They didn’t know how long they'd stood there. Until the rice cooker beeped.

All three of them jumped slightly at the sudden noise, and Mira let out a shaky exhale—one last, long breath that felt like release. Inhaling, taking comfort in Rumi’s scent and memorizing Zoey’s warmth behind her.

Rumi felt a kiss at her neck, soft and trembling. It was so vulnerable and intimate that in another time, she would have wanted to feel that on her lips, but not right now. They have all the time in the world for that.

Then Mira slowly stepped away a little bit, standing straight back to her height.

Zoey and Rumi loosened their holds, but their hands lingered, still curled into Mira’s hoodie.

Mira opened her arms and reached behind her, pulling Zoey to the front. She pressed a kiss to her forehead, and Zoey, ever the heart-on-her-sleeve girl, wrapped her in a full hug, face buried in Mira’s chest like returning home.

Rumi chuckled softly, a watery sound, watching the genuine smile curve on Mira’s lips.

She leaned in and placed a kiss on the back of Zoey’s head, then one on Mira’s cheek, before stepping back and giving them space.

She turned to the rice cooker, shutting it off. Her hands moved with calm efficiency as she prepared the bowls, plating the warm bibimbap with practiced care.

She made Zoey’s tea—sweet, gentle jasmine—and reheated the others’. Matching pastel cups, warmed by the same hands, waiting to be held.

They were all going to be starving after this.

Rumi didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

She moved like she was underwater.

Every motion, every step felt distant, disconnected—like she was watching herself from somewhere outside her own skin. The weight in her limbs hadn’t left since she peeled herself off the dance studio floor. Her knees still throbbed beneath the sweats she changed into. The bruises pulsed dully beneath her skin, like punishment—reminders she welcomed.

The guilt was still there.

It lived at the base of her throat like a stone she couldn’t swallow. Sharp-edged. Unrelenting. No matter how many times she stirred the vegetables and meat, it never left.

She’d danced it out, hadn’t she? Pushed her body to the brink, to the floor, to the point of collapse. Still it remained.

She was exhausted in every sense possible. But the ache in her chest kept her upright.

When Rumi entered the kitchen, Mira didn’t flinch. She didn’t look at her either.

That dangerous quiet had settled again—the one Mira knew how to wield like a blade. She wasn’t pretending she was okay. But she wasn’t ready to be cracked open yet either.

Not when her heart still felt like glass held together by tension alone.

And Rumi—Rumi moved with the kind of gentleness that threatened to shatter her.

When the teacup slid quietly toward her, Mira’s fingers twitched. She stared at the steam curling upward, hesitated, then reached for it. Her fingers brushed the handle. The ceramic was warm, grounding.

She lifted it to her lips. The first sip made her eyes close. A pause. A breath. Her first real one in hours.

Then Rumi touched her.

Just her wrist—light, steady.

But Mira felt her pulse jump under Rumi’s thumb, and for a split second, she forgot how to breathe. The weight of unworthiness, being undeserving, curled beneath her skin, ready to pull her away from her touch but her hand was lifted with reverence.

Rumi’s lips pressed to her skin. Gentle. Lingering. Unspoken.

Mira’s breath caught again—not from the kiss, but from the look on Rumi’s face when she did it.

The patterns shimmered faintly across her cheeks and collarbone, glowing with soft pulses beneath her skin. Mira’s eyes locked onto them, unable to look away.

They were beautiful.

They always had been. Even before she knew it.

And that was what hurt most.

Because the first time she saw those marks—saw Rumi bathed in light and otherworldly glow—she hadn’t felt wonder.

She’d felt fear.

And betrayal.

So she’d raised her weapon.

The memory hit like a slap—unforgiving and sharp. The stage. The crowd. Rumi’s silhouette flickering with demon light. The split-second decision to fight what she didn’t understand.

   “Please”

   Her begging injected through Mira’s veins violently.
   She watched as she ran.
   She didn’t speak.
   She looked so, so afraid.

And Mira had only confirmed her worst fears.

Not just with the blade. But with the silence that followed. With the words she let slip in the days before—the criticisms, the cutting sarcasm, the impatience. Mira’s voice had always been her edge. It came fast, sharp, and often unfiltered. She was used to words wounding others, old habits die hard. One she had been working on for ages, she thought had gotten better.

But she hadn’t meant to use them on her girls.

Never Zoey. Never Rumi.

Her throat tightened as she let her palm drift to Rumi’s cheek. She didn’t even think—just reached.

Rumi leaned into it like it was the safest place on earth.

   How can she still look at her like that?

Mira’s invasive thoughts pleaded, as her eyes traced the glowing lines across Rumi’s skin, remembering how they terrified her once—and how quickly that changed. She fell in love with those marks faster than she could ever admit. That night after the fight with Gwi-ma, when they were all too exhausted to speak, too broken to pretend. They sat together, clinging to one another, and Rumi’s marks glowed like firelight on skin.

And Mira thought she had never seen anything more beautiful.

But even now, with all of Rumi’s forgiveness laid at her feet, Mira couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t deserve it.

Rumi had forgiven her, said it and meant it with her entire being.

But forgiveness couldn’t erase what had already been done.

The memory lingered like bloodstains on white — impossible to scrub completely clean.

The nightmares that Rumi endured, repeat in agonizing cycles at night of her betrayal. Of them, she made Zoey do it too.

She pulled her into that moment—dragged her into that split second of a moment they would forever regret.

The desperation, the vulnerability, the raw trust shining in Rumi’s eyes vanished, evaporating to nothingness, disintegrated into silence.


Gone, like breath in winter — visible for a moment, then lost to the cold.

The thought made Mira’s stomach twist.

Hypocrite. Coward. Fraud.

Her fingers curled slightly on Rumi’s cheek, barely there. She felt like she was holding something sacred with hands that weren’t worthy.

She thought about the song. The one Rumi kept humming. The one Mira danced herself raw to in that soundless room.

She remembered the ache of every beat, how her body moved with the rhythm of regret. No lyrics played—but Mira heard them anyway.

   "All the secrets that keep me in chains and, all the damage that might make me dangerous."

She remembered the bitter flicker of jealousy, the sharp pang in her chest when she realized it was about Jinu. Even knowing that Jinu had ultimately betrayed Rumi too, the demon himself didn’t raise a weapon. Who got to accept Rumi without fear, offering a pull of understanding rather than the push of betrayal. Who Rumi let see her marks openly—her truth —before them.

He hadn’t flinched.

And Mira...?

Mira did.

But here she was, being pulled into a warm embrace, Rumi guiding her arms around her waist like she was still someone worth holding.

And Mira couldn’t understand it.

Every time she fell short, the walls grew colder.

No raised voices—just silence, sharp as broken glass driven to her neck.

Eyes that pierced through her. Doors that didn’t open.

Love, in that house, was conditional—measured in obedience and perfection.

Anything less was met with exile, shame and disgust.

Follow, listen, or be forgotten.

But Rumi...

Rumi pulled her closer.

Always closer.

And Mira, hollowed, breathless—sank into it.

Guilt clung to her like a second skin, but her heart, traitorous and aching, still reached for Rumi.

Even if she was the one who’d shattered that trust. Even if Rumi was the one who’s hurt surpassed hers.

Even if reaching felt like stealing something that wasn’t hers to touch.

Chapter Text

The warmth of the kitchen lingered long after the hug ended. Morning still new and welcoming.

They sat in soft silence, bowls in hand, the aroma of freshly stirred bibimbap rising in small, steady spirals of steam. Zoey leaned against Mira’s side like she always did after a hard night—casual, instinctive, familiar. Rumi sat across from them, her pink teacup nestled in both hands, eyes occasionally drifting toward Mira with that gentle, unreadable calm that always made her feel seen. Not judged. Just... noticed.

Mira chewed slowly, grateful for the heat and weight of the food. It grounded her. The rice stuck a little in her throat, but she pushed it down. She could breathe again. Not perfectly. But enough.

Enough to speak.

Her voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse. Strained from crying and silence and unspoken weight.

   “I’ve just... been remembering things. Idol awards. Gwi-ma. The night on stage. Some old stuff’s coming back.”

She kept her eyes on her bowl.

   “I’m not ready to explain it. Not yet. I still need to... process.”

There was a pause. A soft one. No pressure. Just breath.

Rumi’s hand moved across the table—not far enough to touch, but close enough that Mira could if she wanted. Zoey didn’t flinch or prod. She just gave a small nod and leaned her head more fully on Mira’s shoulder.

   “Okay,” Zoey murmured, then—like the sunlight she was—she shifted the moment without forcing it.

She began talking about a ridiculous video she’d seen the night before. Something about a guy trying to do choreography with kitchen utensils and falling. Her voice lilted, bubbly, just enough to pull Mira back into the room.

Rumi chuckled softly across the table. Mira let the warmth spread in her chest.

They didn’t push her. They didn’t ask for more.

They just stayed.

The days passed quietly.

Mira left her laptop in the studio, forgotten. She didn’t go back for it. Not yet. She found her grounding in simpler things—grocery runs with Zoey or Rumi, light walks through quiet streets, Hopping buildings and roofs as they casually enjoy the city lights, the sound of Zoey humming without realizing it, laughter echoing off shop windows.

She let herself fall into routine.

It helped.

The gym itself was a welcome escape and perfect place to express her repressed energy. It was early mornings with Rumi, they fell into a sync in their private gym. Always thankful for the extra cardio, extra training and extra energy spent, especially grateful for the beautiful company. It was a perfect distraction to her stormy mind.



Until it wasn’t.



It was one gym day where she woke up with barely any sleep due to unwavering, unrelenting nightmares but she was determined to still go. She also couldn’t say no to their pretty leader with soft lavender hair, patiently waiting by her bed.

Unfortunately though, today was where it caught up to her.

She wasn’t even supposed to be training today, they both initially planned a rest day the night before. But her mind had slipped somewhere dark again, and the only way she knew how to pull herself out was through movement—through the burn of muscles and the crack of impact.

She wrapped her fists, but forgot her gloves.

She didn’t care. 

Each punch landed harder than the last. The sound of it echoed against the walls unbeknownst her. Her headphones were in, the hard beating drums and rough guitars in her ears matched the rhythm of her erratic heart, but the music blurred, dulled by the noise in her head.

   "Celine. I went to Celine. I told her to end it."

Rumi’s voice from that night came back like a knife. The finality in her tone felt like her own gok-do pierced then twisted brutally through her heart. Mira’s breath caught.


   "I didn’t know what else to do… There was nothing else left."

Mira swung again.

Harder.

The memory of Rumi’s eyes that night—red-rimmed, flickering with guilt and pain—burned behind her eyelids.

   She almost disappeared. And they wouldn’t have known.

   They were about to throw themselves into Gwi-ma’s fire like lost souls.

   They were going to die—without ever knowing she asked to be erased.

She punched again. And again, and again . Her knuckles stung violently, the skin beginning to split under her wraps.

The thoughts were louder than the music now.

What if Celine had said yes? What if she was gone before they even saw the stage lights again? What if they never had a chance to fix it—

What if she never gets to say I love you?

Her breathing broke. Her vision blurred.

She pulled her arm back to swing again, with the pure power and rage of breaking down the punching bag in front of her—but something stopped her before fist met the bag.

A hand.

A warm hand. Familiar. Firm. 

Mira blinked owlishly, stuck in the static of her thoughts.

Rumi stood in front of her, her hand completely encasing Mira’s fist. Her demon marks shimmered with quiet urgency along her skin, a ripple of glowing lavender, blues and silver, glowing with emotion.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

She shook her head, Please. Her glistening dark brown eyes pleaded, No more.

Mira’s shoulders heaved, breath catching in her throat. Her own senses slowly returned to her. Her body was shaking, the last punch frozen in mid-air, her fist trembling within Rumi’s grasp.

She hadn’t even noticed how much they hurt until now. A welcome, deserved pain.

Rumi didn’t let go. She didn’t scold. She simply let the tension in her hold shift—firm to soft. Containment to comfort.

And Mira felt something in herself break again—not in the sharp, crumbling way she was used to, but like a fist unclenching inside her chest.

A quiet release. A breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Her pulse slowed. Just slightly.

Her eyes locked on Rumi’s, grounding.

She inhaled—through her nose, long and steady. Exhaled, just as slow.

Her head dipped in a small nod.

Rumi smiled. It was small, proud. But it was there.

She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Mira’s now bruised knuckles, right over the wrap, the tender reddened skin could be seen forming through the edges. Rumi’s fingers squeezed once more—warm, grounding—before she began to turn away.

Mira suddenly feeling brave caught her wrist. A gentle pull. Not desperate. But sure .

Rumi blinked, caught off-guard, but Mira was already moving—closing the distance between them with the same confidence she always carried on stage. She leaned down, her other hand coming up to cup her jaw, and with soft control, pressed a lingering kiss to Rumi’s cheek.

No. Not really her cheek. The dangerous territory that is close enough to the corner of her lips to make the difference mean something.

Rumi’s breath hitched audibly. Mira felt it in the way her lips parted in surprise.

She slowly pulled back, looking down dazed, gaze never leaving hers.

A small, genuine smile finally touched Mira’s lips—nothing like her cocky grins or sharp smirks. This one was soft. Earnest. Loving . Her voice was low, husky from emotion and breathless from the adrenaline,

   “Thank you.”

Two words. Heavy as the ocean, warm as the sunlight, soft as the ghost of the kiss lingering at the corner of her lips.  

Rumi looked completely disarmed—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, jaw slack like her brain had been left behind. A breathless, broken giggle slipped out of her.

   “Anytime.”

It came out almost like a squeak.

Mira released her wrist with a quiet laugh, letting her fingers trail her hand. She shook her head fondly. She turned away from the stunned woman, letting her be. She faced the punching bag, letting her arms fall to her sides. The sting in her knuckles buzzed through her hands, but it was distant now.

She stretched and unraveled her wraps.

She didn’t need to punch anymore.

She was ready to go home.

Chapter Text

When they stepped through the front door, it was quiet—unnaturally so.

   “We’re home, Zo!” Rumi called, already toeing off her shoes and tossing her towel over her shoulder.

She disappeared down the hall before Mira could offer a sarcastic retort. Her own eyes betrayed her as she sinfully watched her bandmate hips sway slowly, patterns subtle and pulsing on her exposed waist as she walked to her room. Her eyes follow the movement, looking down to where her patterns cut off through tight shorts. 

Mira immediately stopped herself, blinking her imagination out before she got carried away. She headed toward the kitchen to grab water, her throat suddenly dry.

But the moment she rounded the corner—She stopped dead in her tracks.

The kitchen looked like it had lost a fight to a flour bomb.

There was white powder on what was supposed to be a black marble counter, the floor, the handles of drawers—hell, it looked like the ceiling might’ve gotten some, too. They had high ceilings. There were cracked eggshells abandoned near the sink, a rogue spatula on the floor, a trail of sugar leading to the island. And in the middle of that battlefield stood Zoey, wide-eyed, beaming, completely covered in flour and batter from head to toe.

Mira’s jaw fell slightly open. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

In the center of the chaos, a plate lined with soft cloth was resting neatly on there—it was covered with a paper towel. Beside them were two folded notecards. One had her name written in glitter pen. The other had Rumi’s.

Zoey straightened up like she was in an army lineup, arms behind her back, swaying from heel to toe with an innocent grin so wide Mira thought she might explode from the cuteness alone.

   “Surprise!” she said brightly. “Welcome back!”

Mira blinked.

Rumi’s voice came from the hallway, “Mira, do you have my— oh .”

She peeked in, took one look at the scene, and froze behind Mira.

There was a long pause. A stunned silence.

Then Zoey giggled, sweet and unbothered but they didn’t miss the slight pink dusting her cheeks.

Mira stepped forward carefully, her sock catching on a measuring spoon on the floor. She lifted her foot over a sifter that looked like it had recently crashed off the counter. She passed the plate of food without a word and stopped in front of Zoey.

Flour dusted her cheeks, her freckled nose, even her eyelashes.

Mira’s face scrunched up, brows furrowing, examining their younger member. She reached forward slowly and began brushing the flour off with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to stay serious—but her lips twitched at the edges.

   “What happened to you…” she murmured under her breath, not expecting an answer.

Rumi reappeared with a wet towel in each hand, passing one to Mira before circling behind Zoey. Together, they started gently cleaning the flour and bits of egg yolk from her face, shoulders, and hair. Zoey laughed and swatted at their hands playfully, but never with any real effort to stop them.

   “How are there eggshells in your hair?” Mira asked, puzzled, wiping a bit of dried batter from Zoey’s temple.

Rumi glanced at Mira with a bewildered expression. Mira mirrored it. They both shook their heads, exasperated but fond.

   “I made you two something sweet.” Zoey chirped proudly. “To recharge after gym day. Y’know how it is!”

   “You could’ve come with us, we always love when you’re around.” Rumi softly teased, nudging her.

Zoey pouted dramatically, folding her arms. “Absolutely not. Not during our well-deserved hiatus. I’m good with my 640 turtle videos, thanks very much.”

Mira and Rumi stared at her, love-struck and helpless. Neither said anything.

They couldn’t.

They were too busy trying not to kiss her .

Once Zoey was mostly cleaned up and the chaos around her was somewhat contained, Mira chuckled softly, unable to help herself. She used her index finger to tilt Zoey’s chin up, brushing beneath her jaw gently. Zoey went red immediately, her heart stopped, lips parting in shock, eyes darting up to Mira like she was trying to process sunlight through water.

Mira tilted her head left and right, using her thumb and index, inspecting closely for any missed spots. Then, slowly—deliberately holding her steady—she leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. But again, not quite.

Closer to the corner of her lips than polite society would approve.

It lingered.

Long enough that Zoey saw stars .

Her brain short-circuited. She was sure of it. She could probably make a full beat with the sound of her heart thundering in her chest.

Mira pulled back, and her eyes flicked across Zoey’s face. A real smile bloomed—soft, rare, teasing but unguarded.

   “Looks delicious.”

And though her gaze was nowhere near anything edible, Zoey knew Mira wasn’t talking about food.

Zoey squeaked from the feral scream she forcefully swallowed back down in her throat. She reached blindly behind her for the plate, nearly knocking over a mixing bowl.

   “Uh—taste?” she offered, dazed, holding it out in a shaky hand, cutting between Mira and her, she swayed a bit turning to Rumi as a cry for help.

Rumi, recovered from her daze from watching her two favorite people intimately, laughed fully and reached for one of the pastries, lifting it to her mouth eagerly. Mira finally let Zoey go, but without a subtle caress on her cheek. She turned to look at what exactly she’d been offered.

Her teasing expression vanished.

The breath caught in her throat.

Hotteok.

The smell hit her first—the same warm cinnamon-sugar sweetness that used to drift through her empty childhood household. The beautifully made hotteok , their golden-brown edges crisp and the cinnamon-sugar filling still warm and bubbling at the seams. The way her aunt would make them after a long day. Her soft voice telling Mira to come eat, always with a hug and a knowing look when things at home were unbearable.

That smell meant love. Safety. Being seen.

She had told Rumi and Zoey that once. A quiet memory, shared on the floor of their dorm where they trained before fame had claimed their time.

Mira never thought it was something worth remembering.

Never thought anyone would .

She picked up the pastry, hands shaking slightly, and took a bite.

The taste hit her like a wave.

Warmth bloomed in her chest. Then the tears came.

Her eyes welled up so fast she barely had time to blink them away and process them.

Zoey’s face immediately scrunched with panic. “No, no, no, no— please don’t cry! Because if you cry, you know I cry, and if I cry, Rumi’s already crying—”

But it was already too late.

They were a mess. A flour-covered, red-eyed, nose-sniffling trio standing in the middle of a war zone of powdered sugar and memories. Their mouths were full of food, their eyes full of tears, and it was a comically unpleasant sight by anyone else’s standards.

But it was perfect.

This was them.

This was family.

They cried together, ate together, and cried some more.

When the plate was finally empty, and they were curled in a heap on the floor laughing and sobbing over nothing, Zoey wiped her face with the inside of her hoodie and sat up.

   “You know I love you guys,” she sniffed, a teasing smirk on her face but her nose crinkled, “but you kinda stink . I think it might be shower time”

Rumi snorted with laughter. Mira lifted her arm and sniffed herself.

   “…Yeah. Fair.”

She stood, finally giving in. “Alright.” She turned to start cleaning up, but Zoey jumped to her feet.

   “I’ll clean up! I made the mess.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes, leader mode suddenly turned on, “You are not cleaning this up alone.”

   “But—”

   “Nope. You got batter and eggshells in your hair. You need supervision.”

Mira tried to offer help, but both of them waved her away, she was being shooed out of the kitchen. She raised her hands in surrender, grateful, if she was honest.

She turned and headed down the hall.

A long shower. A soak, maybe. And for the first time in what felt like days, Mira thought she might actually sleep tonight.

Chapter Text

After helping Zoey wipe up the last of the flour from the counters and nudging her toward the shower with a soft pat on the back, Rumi finally had a moment alone. She padded toward her room, only to sigh when she opened the closet. No towels. She rubbed the back of her neck. Of course—between their extended hiatus and their refusal to do a proper laundry load, they’d run out. She made a mental note to send everything out tomorrow.

Thankfully, there were always extras in the dance studio.

Rumi made her way down the hall, barefoot, quiet. When she opened the studio door, the familiar scent of pinewood polish and faint sweat hit her, grounding and nostalgic, a reminder of hard work. She walked toward the corner storage cabinet—but stopped.

There it was. Mira’s laptop, abandoned on the floor. Unplugged, the screen black and dull. A strand of the charger trailed like an afterthought. Rumi tilted her head, furrowing her brow. That wasn’t like Mira. She approached, kneeling to plug it in. As she reached for the cable, something else caught her attention.

Faint streaks of red. Dried, but not old.

Blood.

Rumi's heart skipped.

She reached for one of the spare face towels, soaked it in the sink tucked into the studio’s wall, and gently wiped the faint stains off the floor. Her thoughts churned. Not much blood—just a smear here, a faint dot there—but enough to worry her. What had happened? Her chest tightened.

Mira had been swollen that one morning… her cheek. But that couldn't account for blood on the floor unless—

Did she fall? Hit her knees?

Rumi frowned. The studio had been untouched for a while, especially since their last official performance. They hadn’t used it like this. Not recently. Not… alone.

As she wiped away the last trace, the laptop’s screen blinked to life beside her. She glanced at it, unsure. She hadn’t meant to snoop. She never did.

But something in her chest pulled, a feeling she couldn’t really fight.

The screen was still open to a session in their music production software. A looping audio file was queued up. The title caught her breath before anything else did.

“rumi.” Lowercase. Simple. Raw.

Her heart clenched.

She stared at it. Her instincts screamed to close it, to ask her first, don’t do it—but her fingers moved before she could stop herself. She clicked. Pressed play.

The loop began.

No lyrics. Just melody.

But it was her melody.

The exact one she had been humming—no, singing —alone when she thought no one could hear her. Raw piano chords cradled by soft synths, trap beats layered over echoing drums. It built slowly, intimately, almost reverently. A haunting reconstruction of something she’d made in pain, now re-imagined by someone else’s.

Rumi's lips parted in a silent sharp inhale.

When? she wondered. How did Mira hear this? She hadn’t shown anyone—not yet at least, there was a plan one day but she was unsure, still weighing the decision. The words still lived in her chest more than anywhere else. Yet somehow Mira had… recreated it. With such precision, with such ache woven into every note.

It made her throat burn.

Had she danced to this?

Rumi stood there, still, as the loop played on repeat. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Not from anger, but from the overwhelming wave of emotion sweeping over her. Mira had felt this. She hadn’t just heard it—she processed it, internalized it, and made it into something else. Into something that throbbed with heartbreak.

And Rumi hadn’t known.

Maybe this was what Mira had been carrying. Maybe she was the weight Mira had been dancing away from.

She closed the laptop softly, wiping her eyes with her wrist.

No lies. They promised.

Rumi gathered the laptop and charger gently in her arms, retrieved the towel she originally came for, and walked to Mira’s room. The door was ajar—Mira never closed it fully for them. A quiet offering of trust. Rumi stepped inside, placed the laptop carefully on the bed, plugging in the charger, then searched for a pen and sticky note.

She wrote slowly. Measured. Honest.

'I listened. I’m sorry for snooping. I really am. I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I don’t know if I can make this easier for you. But I remember you being there for me when I didn’t deserve it… and I want to do the same. Even if you never say a word.'

She signed it with a simple “—R”.

She stuck the note to the laptop’s lid and took a deep breath.

It felt like crossing a line. A necessary one. Not of invasion—but of love. Of trying.

And that had to be enough.

Rumi left the room and headed to shower, hoping that by the time she stepped back out, she’d be ready—if Mira ever decided to open that door.

Zoey finished her shower first—unsurprisingly. Unlike the girls, she hadn’t just boxed out her emotions or cardio till they dropped. She’d only had to scrub off flour, batter, and the lingering scent of burnt sugar. Now freshly clean and smelling like vanilla and shea butter, she padded barefoot down the hall, humming lightly, her damp curls bouncing as she made her way into Mira’s room. It was already way into the afternoon so they were about to get ready for their regular couch time. 

She was wearing one of Rumi’s old oversized hoodies—the same one Rumi used to wear to hide her demon marks in the early days, back when fear and shame lived too close to her skin. Now, it only came out on cold nights and cuddle-heavy movie marathons. Zoey stole it often. It was warm and worn-in, and it smelled like both of them. Comfort. Her favorite thing.

She was just about to scramble onto Mira’s bed, dive headfirst into the pillows, when her eyes caught on the laptop resting on top of the sheets—its presence too deliberate to ignore.

Next to it, a small sticky note.

Rumi’s handwriting. Looped, clean, and unmistakably hers.

Zoey’s brows pulled together. She took a step closer but didn’t touch it. Her playful mood dimmed into something quieter. Heavier.

She had a feeling.

This might be the night. The night Rumi asked. The night Mira would have to answer.

She didn’t know why her chest tightened at the thought, but it did. She had a feeling she knew why the taller woman had been off the past few days, but like Rumi, she was waiting. 

The soft click of a bathroom door pulled her attention. Mira stepped out, wrapped in one towel, another snug around her damp hair. She looked fresh and flushed, cheeks pink from the heat, her expression relaxed in a way Zoey hadn’t seen all week.

   “You look like a brand new person,” Zoey said, her voice lilting with ease.

Mira grinned as she walked in, stretching her arms overhead. “Feel like one. Can’t wait to couch, cuddle, and eat until I forget what working out feels like.”

Zoey giggled, but her eyes flickered down, catching a glimpse of bruises peeking from right below the towel—purples, greys, the raw blue of healing skin forming along Mira’s knees. The pink haired woman adjusted the cloth around her and Zoey caught the glint of swelling red knuckles.

Before she could ask, Mira disappeared into the walk-in closet.

Zoey’s concern was still lingering in her chest when a soft knock came at the door.

She turned.

Rumi stood in the doorway, towel over her head, hair damp and curling out the ends. She wore loose sweatpants and a faded crop top, her posture awkward, shoulders tense. The knock alone was a tell. Rumi never knocked here. Not anymore. Not unless something was weighing on her chest.

Zoey patted the bed beside her, beckoning gently. “Come sit,” she said with her eyes.

Rumi crossed the room and sank onto the edge of the bed. Zoey immediately reached for her hand. No words needed. They both looked toward the laptop. The note. Then back at each other.

Rumi gave a small nod.

They waited.

Leaning into each other. Holding space. Holding breath.

When Mira returned, it was in a loose, oversized t-shirt and barely-there shorts, her long hair now combed out and damp against her back. She looked relaxed—at first.

   “So what are we watching toni—” she cut herself off mid-sentence.

She saw them on the bed—Zoey’s wide doe eyes, Rumi’s clenched jaw. The way they looked like they might unravel if she spoke again.

Mira’s gaze flicked to the laptop. Then the note.

Her whole body stilled.

The room went quiet.

Her breath caught in her throat, and before anyone could move, her feet took her forward. She stepped towards the laptop, and picked up the note. Her eyes scanned the handwriting once. Twice. A third time. Then her lips parted, and she drew in a slow, quiet breath through her nose. Holding it. Holding everything. 

Zoey watched her with awe and worry in equal measure—how Mira stood there, silent, steady, trying to regulate the storm inside her.

She exhaled softly. Practiced. Controlled. Years of therapy had taught her that.

Her thumb gently traced the sticky note. Back and forth. Grounding herself.

Zoey and Rumi sat like statues, clinging to each other, their hands entwined tightly in the space between them. Watching someone they loved center herself again. The weight in the room was heavy—but it was safe.

Eventually, Mira lifted the laptop and carried it across the room, setting it on the long table by her TV and speakers. She connected the cable. Restarted the track.

She didn’t play it yet.

Instead, she turned around slowly.

Her hands on her hips.

Her gaze—piercing. Direct. Brave.

She looked at both of them. Zoey, small and worried in Rumi’s hoodie. Rumi, composed but taut with nerves. She tapped her foot. Once. Twice. The habit they knew too well.

Mira never rushed words when they mattered.

They waited in the thick, quiet air.

The song was paused. But the truth was already playing.

Chapter Text

   “God, you both look like you’re about to bolt”

Mira’s voice cut the tension with a breath of humor—barely there, thin and tired, but enough to soften the grip on Zoey and Rumi’s chests. They both let out small, shaky exhales, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. They were grateful for the effort. Grateful she was trying.

Mira leaned back against the table, her arms folding across her chest like a shield. The movement was subtle, but Zoey and Rumi saw it for what it was—an unconscious attempt to protect herself from whatever storm she was about to let loose.

   “For the past few weeks, I’ve been in my head,” she began, voice low and steady, “which, let’s be honest, is nothing new. But lately, it’s like… I’ve been reliving that night even more. Even after we all talked it out.”

Her gaze drifted to the floor, unfocused.

   “Every minute. Every terrifying, awful second. Playing it back on repeat like some cursed record.”

Zoey and Rumi said nothing. They gave her space. Let her speak.

   “All the confessions we laid out that night. The apologies. The truths we were too scared to say before. I thought I had come to terms with them. I really did.” Mira let out a bitter laugh, eyes glinting.

   “But apparently that was bullshit. I could almost hear my therapist yelling at me—‘healing isn’t linear.’” She rolled her eyes affectionately, then shook her head.

   “And I know that. I do. But it’s like… I opened one little box, and suddenly I’m drowning in everything I thought I’d already dealt with.”

Her voice cracked just a little.

   “Like a can of worms—but instead of worms, it’s just shadow. Dark, twisted fears trying to crawl out of my chest.”

The silence after that felt like glass.

Rumi exhaled slowly, pressing her palm over her own heart.

She had forgiven them. She had meant every word when she said it. Nightmares of them were even slowly not showing itself anymore. That night was behind them, buried beneath food, tearful apologies, and sleep-deprived hugs. But trauma wasn’t linear, Mira’s therapist was correct.

Guilt didn’t dissolve with forgiveness. It lingered, it waited for acceptance.

And Mira—Mira carried everything like a blade tucked under her tongue. She was all jagged edges and silence, but she loved with a force that could tear down cities. And right now, Rumi knew she was turning that blade inward. The thought made her chest ache.

   “I love when you two sing.”

The shift in tone caught them off guard. Zoey blinked. Rumi’s brow furrowed, confused, but neither spoke.

“When you sing,” Mira continued, her voice softer now, reverent, “it’s like everything in my head pauses. All the noise. The chaos. It just… hushes. Like your voices are the only thing the world wants me to hear. And I listen. I really listen.”

A small, wistful smile flickered on her lips. Then it faded.

   “You’ve been humming this tune for a while, Rumi. I didn’t think anything of it at first. I figured it was something for our comeback, something you were working on because of course, you can’t not work,” Mira teased lightly, earning a faint, playful scowl from Rumi. Zoey offered a gentle squeeze, grinning lightly.

   “But then I kept hearing it. Little pieces. Fragments of lyrics. It started to get under my skin. Not in a bad way, just… it got in me. Stuck.”

She inhaled deeply, then let it go.

   “Right after that modeling shoot I had, I forgot my wallet. So I doubled back with the intention to grab it and go. That’s when I heard you.”

The leader tensed.

   “First… It was on the balcony. I thought you were asleep. Zoey and I got home, and you didn’t call out, so I let myself in. I was gonna… I don’t know. Tuck you in or something, just to check on you.”

Mira went uncharacteristically shy at the admission. Rumi’s lips parted slightly into a small smile, eyes softening.

   “I heard you singing. Just a few lines. I didn’t mean to listen, but I couldn’t move. I stood there like an idiot, just… frozen.”

She shifted her weight, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

   “And then the studio,” Mira said, voice quieter now.

   “I saw the door open. I was going to shut it, not thinking anyone was in there but the playback started. And then you started singing. Just your voice. No instruments. That same tune that had been stuck in my head. And I… I just felt paralyzed like I was being forced to stay captive to hear every word.”

Her hands clenched slightly.

   “So, I listened. I really listened. And I heard the lyrics. And I knew—” her voice cracked involuntarily but it carried disdain and bitterness, “— I knew it wasn’t about us.”

Rumi couldn't help but flinched at her tone.

Mira’s face contorted, trying to hold back emotion, but it spilled through the cracks.

   “It was about Jinu.”

The name landed like a stone. Zoey looked between them, her eyes wide, searching Rumi’s expression.

Mira pushed through. “And I don’t know why, but that realization—it broke something in me. Something that had already been cracked for a long time.”


There was a stillness in the room now, Mira taking a few breaths to gather herself.

   “I heard it too.” Zoey’s voice came soft and trembling, giving the taller woman a chance to take her time.

They both turned to her. Mira and Rumi blinked in surprise.

   “I heard you that night, Rumi,” Zoey continued, eyes on the floor,

   “I couldn’t sleep as usual. I got up for snacks. I passed by your room and heard the piano. I also felt hypnotized to listen, so I did. But then the words broke through. And I—” her voice caught, “I ran.”

Rumi pulled her hand close to her chest, squeezing it tighter, a faint kiss pressed on small, delicate knuckles.

Mira swallowed hard. She looked at Zoey, something akin to guilt in her gaze. Then, without a word, she turned back to the laptop. She took the sharpest inhale and pressed play.

The melody filled the room like ghostlight. It was raw, haunting, and beautiful. The familiar chords soaked into their skin like memory. Zoey closed her eyes as images of Mira choreographing a painful rendition to it, weighed heavy in her heart as she tried to reach and comfort the Mira in her imagination. Rumi stared ahead, unmoving, her mind singing the words as if in command.

   “I made this,” Mira said, almost too softly like the admission itself was lethal proof that she was insane.

   “I didn’t know why. Maybe it was a messed-up way to process. But I couldn’t get it out of my fucking head. So I did the only thing I know.”

She let the song play.

   “Then I danced to it.”

Rumi’s assumptions were correct. And suddenly, the bloodstain in the studio made sense. The bruises. The way Mira had been moving like her limbs ached. The swollen cheek.

   “I tried to let it go,” Mira whispered, shoulders slumped, defeated, “But it didn’t work.”

The song faded. Silence swallowed the room again.

   “I know how much he meant to you, Rumi. I know .” Mira’s voice started to shake.

   “You told us. You’ve always been honest about that. And I guess I just regret—” she swallowed, her voice straining, throat clogging up with glass shards preventing her from speaking, “—that we weren’t that for you. That I wasn’t.”

Rumi’s heart clenched painfully.

   “I regret that when you needed us, when you trusted us, I was the one who made your worst fear come true.”

Mira’s eyes shimmered. Her voice wavered. “I know we talked about it. I know you said you forgave us. But I can’t stop replaying it in my head—how I failed . I know he betrayed you too but he understood, and I didn’t. I couldn’t. And instead of giving you room to breathe, I took that ability instead.”

She strained further, her voice reaching its limit. 

   “I raised it at the woman I—” she choked, stopping herself. The admission died in her throat.

Rumi’s hand trembled, heart lurched as her mind filled the gap at the end of her sentence, only hoping for it to be true.

   “I dragged Zoey with me into that choice. I brought her into that moment then I pushed her away. I put fear in your eyes. I made you feel alone. And that song… it just reminded me how badly we messed up. Because it’s a reminder that all you wanted to be is free but I- ”

Tears welled, then fell, soft and furious, like everything she couldn’t say.

   “My soul has always been tied to yours, Rumi. But that night—I cut it. I cut the thread with my own hand. I felt the honmoon wail in agony when I disconnected all three of us. And—”

   
   “I am so fucking sorry.”

Finally, Mira’s knees buckled, her voice collapsing with her.

But before she could hit the floor, Rumi and Zoey were already there.

They caught her—arms wrapping around her trembling body, pulling her close. She sobbed into them, unfiltered and full-body, her pain finally uncaged. This wasn’t like the moment in the kitchen. These weren't gentle tears held back.

This was everything .

Zoey was crying just as hard, her arms wrapped around both of them, her voice cracking through hiccupped apologies, her own guilt spilling over through hot tears as they landed heavily on skin. Rumi held them tightly, whispering nothing but forgiveness into Mira’s hair, into Zoey’s trembling shoulders. Over and over, she didn’t dare to stop.

Forgiveness. Love. Again and again.

And there they stayed—collapsed on the floor, leaning against the side of a table, tangled in limbs and tears and too many painful memories.

It wasn’t comfortable.

But it was honest .

And it was safe .

They didn’t need the perfect words.

They just needed each other.

Chapter Text

They found themselves drifting toward the bed—bodies heavy, legs wobbly from the crash of emotion, seeking comfort in instinct. The mattress gave beneath their weight as they sat on the edge, breath syncing as if pulled into the same current. Mira settled in the middle, still sniffling, her cheeks damp with the remnants of everything she finally let out.

Zoey pressed against her right side, warm and familiar. Rumi was on her left, her hand lifting with purpose and care, fingers curling gently around Mira’s jaw.

   “Is that why you were going harder in the gym than usual today?” Rumi asked carefully, voice tender.

Zoey’s frown deepened immediately. The flash of red knuckles she saw earlier. The familiar fear—of self-destructive Mira, the version they hadn’t seen in a long time—curled inside her like a cold draft. Mira’s therapy had helped so much. She was better at managing the storms now. She was healing. But today…

Mira shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling like the smallest sigh. “One of the reasons,” she admitted. “Today… I was angry. At myself. At the thought of—” Her voice hitched. She cleared her throat and tried again, quieter. “At the thought of losing you to Celine.”

The air stilled.

Zoey’s body stiffened, and in an instant, her eyes turned glassy again—too fast to hide, too full to deny.

She understood exactly what Mira meant. Her grip on Rumi’s hand tightened, fierce, trembling. Rumi let her hold on, no hesitation.

   “I kept thinking about the what ifs ,” Mira whispered, scoffing it out. “What if we didn’t get to fix things in time. What if we died before we found out you asked to be erased. What if we lost you—without ever even knowing you were already gone.”

Her face crumpled, raw.

   “I don’t ever want to lose you again.”

Rumi felt the words carve their way into her ribs, carving soft but permanent. A wound. A plea. A vow.

Zoey’s voice came out rushed, barely a breath. “I don’t want a world where you’re not in it .”

She said it to Rumi. She said it to Mira. She said it for all of them—because a world without either of them wasn’t a world she wanted to survive in.

Rumi shifted, gently sliding off the bed to kneel in front of the two. Her eyes lifted to meet theirs, glowing slightly in the soft light. Her hands reached up, patterns pulsing in a soft calming glow of yellow and light blues, her thumbs brushing along each tear-stained cheek, grounding Mira and Zoey like anchors.

   “Listen to me,” she said, and her voice was so steady, it made them both want to sob again. “I don’t want to be in a world without the two of you by my side.”

Zoey and Mira broke again—tears spilling over silently. Rumi wiped them away with the tender care of someone handling glass.

   “I honestly didn’t realize I’d been singing that song so much,” she joked with an amused chuckle, shaking her head. “But I know it’s because… it’s my way of grieving.”

Both Mira and Zoey looked pained at that, brows furrowing with the ache of it.

Rumi reached up and smoothed the worry lines between their brows with her thumbs. “But in the studio, that day… I sang because I realized something.”

She looked at them—really looked. Her gaze steady, warm and unflinching.

   “I realized that this time, the words weren’t just about him anymore.”

Zoey blinked, confused. Mira stared, unblinking.

Rumi nearly laughed at their expressions. “I know. It sounds odd. But Jinu… Jinu helped me see and accept things in myself I didn’t even know were buried and opened my mind to things beyond control. And I’m grateful for that. He sacrificed himself for me. And I’ll always be grateful.”

Her smile faltered a bit, eyes glinting with grief.

   “But as I sang those words, I wasn’t just thinking of him. I was thinking of you. Both of you. You’ve been in my life longer than anyone has. Saw every broken version of me. We fought a lot, misunderstood each other, argued but you also welcomed me, loved me, held me through everything—and I didn’t think I deserved that for a long time.”

Zoey and Mira reached for her hands at the same time, clutching them tight against their cheeks. Their touches were gentle, urgent. Reassuring.

Rumi smiled, soft and radiant—like the first break of sunlight after rain. Her patterns began to shimmer faintly, pulsing with quiet emotion. She took a breath, steadying herself.

Then she sang.

   “I tried to hide, but something broke
    I couldn’t sing, but you give me hope
   We can’t fix it if we never face it
   Let the past be the past ‘til it’s weightless”

The words filled the room like a cool breeze through an open window—gentle, aching, full of sorrow, promise and grace. Her voice, hoarse from tears, still rang so clear. So true. Even the Honmoon pulsed, rippling like it had felt something it couldn’t name.

Mira’s lip quivered. Zoey clamped her hand over her mouth. The tears were back in full force.

Mira surged forward first, pulling Rumi up and into her arms, practically dragging her into her lap on the bed. Zoey followed instantly, letting herself be pulled into the crush of limbs and sobs.

They fell together in a heap, heads buried into shoulders, cheeks pressed to damp skin, sobbing and laughing and trembling all at once. Mira on her back now, Rumi splayed over her, Zoey curled around them, her hand tangled in Mira’s shirt.

And they held, cried, giggled, hiccuped.

Felt.

Rumi was nestled between the two of them now, sandwiched between laughter-stained grief and tear-soaked love. Their tears weren’t sharp anymore. They were soft now—of gratitude, of release. Of finally breathing again.

Mira let herself fall completely into the moment, her arms curled tight around the people who meant everything to her. She stared at the ceiling, eyes blurry, chest rising and falling.

She thought about how lucky she was.

To have Zoey.

To have Rumi.

To still have them.

She would offer her entire heart and soul—completely, without hesitation, in every way that mattered.

Maybe someday, she’d tell them. Say it out loud. Not just in the quiet ways she already had—but more.

Deeper. Braver.

But for now... she simply held them closer.

And breathed.

For the first time in a long time, she felt free.

The morning light filtered in through the sheer curtains—dim and golden, the kind that didn’t demand waking, only offered warmth. Their breaths were steady, quiet. A hush had settled over the room like a blanket, one that hummed with safety and love.

Mira stirred first.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, lashes damp from dried tears, eyes swollen from non-stop crying last night. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then she felt it—the weight of Zoey curled into her right side, one leg hooked loosely over hers. Rumi nestled on her left, arm flung across Mira’s waist, under her shirt, her face tucked near Mira’s collarbone. The hoodie Zoey was wearing smelled like vanilla and Rumi. Rumi’s hair was damp, towel gone, her demon patterns faintly glowing in the low light, as if reflecting peace.

Mira didn’t move. Not really.

She only exhaled, slowly, reverently. Her arms although, dead with pins and needles threatening to take her out, shifted just enough to pull them closer—one hand stroking Zoey’s back, the other cradling the nape of Rumi’s neck. Their warmth surrounded her like armor. Her heart felt full enough to burst.

She could have gotten up. Made coffee for them. Ramyeon. More bibimbap. Maybe a feast for breakfast as an act of gratitude. 

But god, no.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

   “I’m gonna protect this,” she whispered, a silent vow to herself.

Her voice cracked just a little from sleep, but the words landed like a promise carved into stone. Into her heart.

She pressed a kiss to Zoey’s head. Then one to Rumi’s temple. They shifted in their sleep, the kind of shift that meant I hear you. I feel you. I’m here.

Mira closed her eyes again, wrapped in the safest place she’d ever known.

And drifted off.