Archive of Our Own

They’re on a break. Huntr/x is, at least. Well—Mira, Zoey, and Rumi are, too, she supposes. With no demon sightings since the Honmoon was remade after the, um, IDOL Awards—and it’s been fine, actually! It’s been—okay (not okay as in it’s been okay, but more like—ugh—No! Not ugh either! Wait—).

Mira and Zoey have talked to her about this and Rumi knows they’d scold her again in an instant for calling their Super Important And Well Deserved Rest Time fine.

It’s fun.

(There it is.)

Yes: fun.

It’s been fun not having to do any real work or fight any demons or have a reason to leave the penthouse or be in front of a camera or in the studio. It’s been fun getting to sleep in late every morning (until seven am! Almost two hours after the sun rises! And Rumi only feels a little restless being so lazy, which is a win within itself!). It’s been fun lying around on the couch and eating a bunch of food and watching whatever video playlist Zoey casts to the TV. There’s no pressure, no expectations, no demon king or whatever-his-title-was trying to kill them.

It’s been… fun… staring at her wardrobe each day, warring with herself until Rumi forces herself to grab one of three soft crop tops she has—the ones with short sleeves that still somehow fit her even years after she bought them.

Okay. Maybe that one is a little less fun. She’s up to forty-seven seconds of staring at herself in the mirror before her eyes flick away from the iridescence threaded through her skin like a livewire. Electric and deadly and exposed.

She’s up to forty-seven seconds, and for most of that time her mind is… quiet. After Jinu, Rumi understands just how lucky she had actually been not to have heard Gwi-ma’s voice. But staring at her patterns, at the way they dance and pulse in the open air, Rumi no longer hears that voice that used to plead for her to not let them see. It’s been replaced, slowly, by another—two others, actually. And their voices are… soft. Kind. Gentle.

They’re beautiful, Rumi, they promise.

Please don’t hide away, Rumi, they ask.

We love you, Rumi, they swear.

So. It hasn’t exactly been fun agonizing over a stupid shirt. But whenever Rumi walks out into the living room, or back into whoever’s room they’ve piled in for the night, or she stands in front of the stove preparing breakfast while the sounds of feet sleepily padding into the kitchen have her turning around with a fond smile and she sees a reflection of that fondness, that acceptance, that easy, genuine, and unburdened happiness… It’s worth it.

They’re always worth it. This, Rumi knows.

Has always known. She’s just… Brave enough to accept it, now. To show them in return.

She should probably buy some more shirts, though.

The penthouse is quiet when Rumi steps outside of her room. It’s not necessarily a rare thing; she just would have expected the others to be up already. They had stayed up late last night watching most of Riverdale (something Zoey insisted on as some weird rite of passage. For what, Rumi didn’t want to ask) and they had all blearily slunk off to their rooms once the movies were over; Rumi was asleep before her head had even hit the pillow.

So, yes, it’s not a rare thing for the penthouse to be quiet—but it’s late and Rumi had already done her morning yoga on her balcony, took a long, relaxing shower, and braided her hair.

But—oh, hold on. Rumi pauses halfway down the hallway. Takes a deep breath.

Smiles.

Drifting faintly from the kitchen is the smell of Rumi’s favorite tea—lavender oolong with a dash of honey.

Someone is awake.

A hint of nerves, like a glancing shock from that livewire, buzzes down to Rumi’s fingertips. Wakes her up more than a mug of tea ever could. She bites at the corner of her lip to keep the smile somewhat contained.

It is a quiet, lazy morning, and Rumi is in a short-sleeved shirt, and someone has made her her favorite tea, and no one needs to be anywhere or anyone today, and Rumi is…

(She is staring at herself longer and longer each morning, and she is being honest and open, and she is allowing herself to feel and to hope and to trust, and she feels… Feels…)

She is padding through the kitchen, grabbing the mug that is still warm and waiting for her, and heading over to the couch.

Mira sits slouched against the arm of the couch, long pink hair twisted and up in a claw clip, gold framed glasses sitting low on the bridge of her nose. She’s staring intently as she tap-taps away at her phone—but Rumi catches the quick, corner-of-the-eye look Mira drags over her as she walks around to sit beside her. She leaves about a foot worth of space, though she still feels Mira’s warmth.

(A livewire, Rumi thinks to herself as the sparks splutter and fritz.)

“Good morning,” Rumi murmurs, unwilling to hurry this peaceful moment along. She takes a tentative sip of her tea—it is the perfect temperature and Rumi sighs into her next grateful pull.

“Morning,” Mira’s voice is low and rough from the sleep that still clings to her, and Rumi sinks deeper into the couch. Mira’s eyes don’t leave her phone, but Rumi can feel the way her attention is half focused on her. Probably waiting on Rumi’s opinion of the tea.

“This is delicious. Thank you for making it for me, Mira.”

“Of course,” is the steady reply.

They steep in the quiet for a few moments; languor dripping like honey around them. Rumi sips at her tea as she stares out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprise their entire back wall. The morning sun has stretched and yawned itself higher and higher in the sky, and Rumi feels herself instinctively turning toward its light. It drapes over her skin, hugging and warming even through the glass. She closes her eyes, relaxes her shoulders; breathes in the lavender-scented moment of tranquility.

A hushed gasp has her fluttering her eyes back open. She turns to Mira on her left, but finds her already looking away. A delicate pink—the same shade as her hair—is dusted across her cheeks, over the bridge of her nose.

“You okay?” Rumi asks, head tilted slightly.

Mira jerks her head in what could be called a nod. Swallows. “Yup. All good.”

A pause.

“I, um. Just lost in my game, is all.”

Rumi feels regret, but can’t help but perk up in curiosity. “What are you playing?”

“A game.”

Rumi rolls her eyes and huffs a laugh. “Yes, thank you for that.”

Mira offers nothing else. Taps at her phone.

Rumi laughs again, light and delighted. “You’re so annoying, you know?” But she scooches over on the couch until she’s pressed into Mira’s side.

Mira drops her right knee that had been propped up—swaps so that her left is now raised—and Rumi moves closer into the open space. Cradles the warm mug of tea Mira had made her close to her chest; feels that warmth transferring within her.

Rumi squints her eyes as she stares at Mira’s phone, and then—laughs. Unabashed and fond.

“Really? Flappy Bird?”

Mira grunts. Does a series of rapid taps that has the bird on her screen rising-falling-rising-falling through the pipes. “It’s a good game.”

Rumi hasn’t seen it in literal years, but immediately she’s sucked right back in.

She watches in silence for a few moments, not wanting to mess Mira up again. She sips at her tea, unhurried and peaceful.

It’s Mira who eventually breaks the silence, not looking away from her game, voice tentative and—if Rumi didn’t know any better—shy.

(Though, Mira is one of the few things in this world she feels she truly knows, so maybe Rumi can believe it.)

“… Your patterns look pretty today.” The pink blooms once more.

Rumi feels her own blush burning.

She holds the mug tighter; brings it even closer to her heart. Her eyes dance across everything in the living room besides Mira, who she is suddenly so embarrassed to be seen by. She feels silly. She feels bashful. She feels—young, like a schoolgirl with her first—

(Hm. Perhaps not a livewire, then. Perhaps it’s more akin to something soft and fluttery and too light to ever hold in her hands. Like when Rumi was a child and she would stare up at the night sky, and she would spin and spin, until she was so dizzy that she was breathless; until everything blurred away except for the one star she had kept her eyes on.)

“Oh,” Rumi whispers. Clears her throat. “Thank you, Mira.” Rumi means it for more than just the simple compliment, but it’s probably much too much for whatever time of morning it is. She’s happy to leave it at that.

But the quick glance from Mira. The smallest lopsided smile. The way Mira settles in closer to her makes Rumi feel heard. Allows her to believe Mira understands.

Of course she does.

She nods her head back to Mira’s phone to give her pulse a chance to settle down.

“… Wasn’t that app supposed to be discontinued, or something?”

“Mhm.”

Tap-tap-tap.

Rumi leans in closer.

“For being… uh, addictive?”

A grunt.

“How do you even still have it?”

Mira doesn’t blink. Taps-taps-taps.

“Bobby.”

Rumi hums, understanding. Watches as the cartoon bird narrowly avoids the green pipes of doom.

Doesn’t realize she’s been staring so long until her eyes start to burn from her own lack of blinking.

“… How are you so good at this…?”

Mira grunts again. Apparently, the time for chit chat has gone and passed. That’s alright; if there’s anyone who can appreciate an intense, narrowed focus, it’s Rumi.

Carefully, she loops a hand around Mira’s biceps. Leans her cheek against her shoulder.

Mira’s thumb hesitates. The bird almost hits a pipe before a frantic taptap saves it. Rumi sucks in a sharp breath.

“’cuz,” Mira answers cooly. Is only sweating a little.

Rumi quirks an eyebrow, not looking away from the game.

She’s impressed. She’s never gotten this far in any video game she’s ever played. Although Zoey loves to remind her any chance she gets that solitaire—'on easy mode, no less’—doesn’t count as a video game for some reason. Even though it’s clearly a game, that’s in video form, that Rumi plays.

So. As far as Rumi is concerned, she can add that to her list of titles:

IDOL. Hunter. Part-demon. Gamer Girl.

A door creaks open from somewhere deeper in the penthouse. The sound of soft footfalls shuffling down the hallway. A loud, undignified yawn.

“I just had a dream that the two of you decided to open up a hotdog stand without me and I got so upset that I woke up. Partially because you opened it without me, I can’t believe either of you could be so rude, first of all. Absolutely no loyalty at all. What ever happened to girl code? But also, mostly because neither of you possess the innate prowess required of running a hotdog stand. I bet you don’t even know anyone named Tony, y’know? So now I’m here, awake and upset, and I think we need to have a serious talk about your entrepreneurial endeavors but also—you guys wouldn’t really leave me out of your hotdog business. Right? Right?”

“Hi Zoey,” Rumi calls out, the affection flooding through her not enough to draw her eyes away from Mira’s phone.

The shuffling gets closer until Rumi can feel a new warmth standing just behind her. She tilts her head up until it rests on the back of the couch; glances at Zoey, upside down and sleep-smudged. Her hair is half stuck up on one side, pajamas (the ones with manatees eating cabbages on them) rucked up and disheveled. A softness caresses across her face, at the corners of her sleepy eyes, the slouching of her body; the coziness so clearly lingering from a bed Zoey only just crawled out of despite it being close to noon.

Zoey scratches under her shirt at her belly, and Rumi catches sight of a scattering of freckles over tan skin.

(Okay. Maybe a livewire isn’t always inaccurate.)

“Is that Flappy Bird?” Zoey asks, blinking blearily through her pout that gives way to interest at Mira’s phone. At Rumi’s affirming hum, Zoey glances at her with a dopey smile.

Something presses out the flicker of nerves that had crept back up within Rumi. Something light, and cozy, and soft. Contentment, she thinks to herself. What else could it be, with Mira pressed against her and Zoey smiling down at her.

“How was your sleep?” Rumi’s eyes follow Zoey as she stretches—arms up and out, face adorably scrunched. “Other than rife with business betrayal.”

Zoey hums out of her stretch, going boneless. She leans down and drops a quick kiss to Rumi’s forehead. It’s—wet. She cackles at Rumi’s offended look. Reaches down and pulls the empty mug from Rumi’s hand.

Rumi smiles her thanks; Zoey shoots her a wink.

“S’good! Missed you two, though,” she pouts at Rumi, who playfully squints in return.

“Needy.”

“Yes, and I am absolutely correct in that,” Zoey grins.

“You can survive a night alone, you dork,” Rumi chides, though it is too soft to be anything other than endeared.

“Mmmh, I’m not so sure I can, Rums. I nearly wasted away with no one there to be my little spoon,” Zoey’s sigh is dramatic.

(They have taken to sleeping in the same bed most nights after the events that Shall Not Be Named. Which, okay—that sounds dramatic, and too much like they’re ignoring it. They’re not! It’s just—it’s a lot, is all. And there’s an… unspoken safety in falling into bed with her girls. They rotate who gets to sleep in the middle—but it’s almost always Rumi. Not that she’s complaining. How could she?

It’s… been a nice change, if Rumi is being honest. She’s dreamed about it, of course, of the days where she’d finally be able to be free—to be rid of her patterns thanks to the golden Honmoon, and not have to be afraid or hidden anymore. To be with her girls, as her full self.

None of this is how she’d imagine she’d get here.

But…

It’s better, Rumi thinks. More honest.

More real.)

“You cling like an octopus and you’re as warm as a furnace.”

“Aw. Did you hear that, Mira? Rumi said I’m hot,” Zoey waggles her eyebrows at Mira—who ignores her.

Rumi is still looking upside down at Zoey as her eyes roll and the motion makes her feel a little queasy. Rumi tilts her head back down, laying it once more against Mira, who has not moved, completely in the Flappy Bird zone.

Until Zoey’s entire body suddenly rolls across the back of the couch and onto them.

“Zoey!”

“I swear if you make me mess up—”

But Zoey only laughs, not caring at all as she crawls and pulls and climbs over Rumi in an effort to find a comfortable position. Mira releases more protesting noises, phone raised and elbows pointy, as she does her best to avoid the clamoring.

Rumi, to her credit, does her best to wrangle Zoey.

Eventually, they settle once more; Mira pressed even deeper into the arm of the couch, Rumi squished against her, and Zoey, laying across both of them, her head in Mira’s lap, and Mira’s arm resting over her.

“Dang,” Zoey whistles. “You’re really far into this game.”

Rumi nods, excited. “She’s been doing a great job. There have been a few close calls, but Mira’s saved it each time. She’s practically a pro.”

That something presses once more against the inside of Rumi’s ribs when she glances at Mira and notices the pink dusting across her cheeks.

Zoey squirms minutely again, wiggling until she shifts more solidly in Rumi’s lap. Rumi idly plays with the hem of her soft pajama top, knuckles occasionally brushing against even softer skin; she can feel Zoey’s stomach twitch each time, and Rumi mentally apologizes for accidentally tickling her.

“Didn’t they, like, ban this game a few years ago?”

“Apparently,” Rumi answers. Thumbs at Zoey’s hipbone.

“W-wasn’t it because it was too addicting?”

“Yup.” Gosh, Zoey really is super warm. Rumi instinctively slides her fingers under the bottom of Zoey’s shirt, wanting to feel more of her warmth.

Zoey chokes out a cough. Wheezes, “How does she even still have it?”

“Bobby.” Or maybe Rumi just runs colder? That could be why Zoey twitches each time Rumi moves her hand; she’s just got ice cube fingers. But, then again, Mira feels totally normal to Rumi, so it could just be a Zoey thing.

(She wraps her hand around Mira’s arm to double check. Squeezes her biceps: normal temperature.)

(The bird on the screen almost dies again. But, just like last time, Mira corrects course and saves it.)

“… Yeah, that tracks,” Zoey strains.

A few moments pass in silence as they stare at Mira’s progress. It’s getting—intense, is probably putting it mildly.

“… How are you so good at this, Mira?”

“Because,” her and Rumi reply at the same time.

Zoey nods.

The level counter on the screen ticks up and up as Mira taps away. 812. 875. 901. 945.

“It’s gotta be getting near the end, right?” Zoey whispers.

Rumi goes to shrug, but then stops herself. She’s afraid to jostle Mira’s arm lest it mess her up.

“Dunno,” Rumi whispers back. The air is thick, and she’s almost certain there’s sweat gathering around Mira’s temples. “I think maybe it ends at a thousand? It can’t be infinite, right?”

952. 964.

The tubes are getting harder and harder to successfully pass through—angled and moving now—and Rumi has to continue to remind herself to breathe. And then—

“Whoa, Bullet Bill crossover! And goombas!”

“—Zoey!”

“—Ah, sorry, Mira—”

“—Oh gosh why are there so MANY—MIRA—"

“LOOK OUT DUDE, OH MY GO—"

“—I GOT IT I GOT IT—”

“MIRA, MIRA!”

“NOW THE HAMMER BROS?”

“I SAID I GOT IT NOW—”

“CAREFUL—"

“PVP! THERE’S A PVP BETWEEN YOUR CUTE LITTLE BIRD AND MARIO—”

GAME OVER

The air is thick.

Rumi doesn’t dare move. Doesn’t even breathe.

Zoey also, for once, is completely still.

They stare, wide-eyed, at Mira, who stares at her phone. Face carefully blank.

She blinks. Again.

Once more.

With quick and nimble fingers, Mira swipes away the GAME OVER screen, holds down the app icon, and swiftly deletes the game.

The moment settles with the three of them looking at Mira’s phone background. The tension evaporates. A comfortable silence settles over them as they stare at the recent photo taken of Rumi and Zoey.

(It had been one of those nights after a long day full of rehearsals and interviews for their upcoming album and simply far too many responsibilities. The three of them had been tired, but not unhappy. And then, something silly and light had sneaked into them. Laughter was infectious, to the point where Rumi had sore ribs the next day. She and Zoey had clung to Mira like koala bears, even after she had stood up. Mira had to start jabbing at their ribs before Zoey and Rumi dropped to the floor.

Then Zoey decided that if they couldn’t have Mira herself, they’d steal her sweatshirt. Naturally, of course, Rumi and Zoey couldn’t decide who got to wear it first.

So, they both would. At the same time.

They ended up accidentally stretching out the neckline in order to squeeze both of their heads through, but Mira grumbled she didn’t mind.

And if the photo is any indicator—Zoey winking with her tongue sticking out, Rumi with an eye-crinkling grin and patterns glowing—she really didn’t.)

(The something presses even more insistently against Rumi’s ribs. And it feels a lot like happiness, and it feels a lot like love.)

Mira locks her phone and tosses it toward the other end of the couch. She combs her fingers through Zoey’s hair—tries again when she immediately gets stuck in a tangled bit of bedhead—and then looks to Rumi.

“Wanna go to the mall today?”

Zoey immediately shoots up, and Rumi is quick with ready hands and catches her before she can tumble to the floor.

“The mall! Yes! Oh my gosh, they just released a game I’ve been dying to pick up and try out. You get to play as a little fox who owns his own bookshop, and it’s just so cute. Rumi, can we go to the mall today? Please?”

Zoey turns her big brown eyes on her; Rumi huffs out a laugh and pretends to mull it over. She isn’t sure why she’s in charge of their schedule (they’re on a break!), but she’s okay running with it for a bit.

“We have been working pretty hard lately…”

Mira gives a small quirk of her lips. “Yeah? Is that happening in between your lounging and dramatic sighs?”

Rumi swats at her shoulder.

“I do not sigh dramatically!”

“Uh, you so do.”

“When? Name one time I’ve sighed dramatically.”

“Oh—Mira, phone a friend! I know a time! Pick me, pick me!”

“You sigh literally all the time.”

“Other than when I do those K-drama appearances.”

“Hey! That was going to be my answer. No fair.”

“Sorry, Zoey,” Rumi squeezes her arm.

“I’d call you a drama queen, but you’re more of a princess, aren’t you,” Mira drawls.

Rumi groans. “You said you’d quit it with that nickname,” and if it comes out as more of a whine, then so what?

Zoey gasps and spins to Mira. “Mira! How could you!”

But Mira only rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she drawls. “I’m a horrible monster. How ever will I live with myself.”

It’s a funny joke. Clearly. But for half a heartbeat, regret pinches at the corner of Mira’s mouth, and it’s impossible for Rumi to miss the quick, worried glance at her from Zoey.

(They had talked.

Rumi didn’t run, and Mira didn’t judge, and Zoey didn’t look at her any different.

Well. No, that wasn’t necessarily true, either.

Because Zoey and Mira did look Rumi differently. Still do.

But… It’s not a bad different. They—look; they see. When they’re piled in bed together, when they’re cooking around each other in the kitchen, when they’re in the studio rehearsing and recording and jamming. When they’re simply existing; they see Rumi. All of Rumi. Her faults, her fears, her patterns.

And it’s…

Their eyes are soft, when they look at her.

Proud.

… It’s nice.)

(Forty-seven seconds, Rumi reminds herself. Today was forty-seven seconds, and she’s able to stare a little longer each morning.)

Rumi shakes her head, clearing both her thoughts and the tension in the air.

“I’ll forgive you for your crime if you buy me boba.”

Mira’s smile is relieved and Zoey’s eyes are bright.

“A just and fair sentence, Pri—"

Zoey slams her hand over Mira’s mouth. “I’ll buy you literally as much boba as you want. Anything for you, Rumi,” she promises, moving to wrap herself around Rumi’s shoulders in an excited hug. Pulls back a little to look at Rumi’s shoulders (weird? Does Rumi have something on her shirt?) before diving back into the hug.

“Yeah,” Mira agrees softly. Her fingers slip in between Rumi’s, drawing her hand into her lap. She squeezes once. “Anything for you.”

It’s Rumi’s turn to roll her eyes, if only to cover up the blush that threatens to overwhelm her.

“Alright, alright. Zoey, go get ready and then we can head out.”

Zoey lets out a cheer before pitching herself backwards and—onto the ground. Rumi winces at the thud, but Zoey is back on her feet in no time at all.

“Mall! Mall! Mall!” She cries, marching back down the hallway toward her room.

Mira shares a glance with Rumi, mirrored smile on her face. She shrugs, before pushing herself off the couch as well. “Mall! Mall! Mall!”

And then Rumi is alone, sitting in front of windows that look out over the city, warmed beneath a bright sun. And she can hear her girls getting ready in their rooms, still chanting, and she can feel that something in her chest, and she sighs (normally! Not at all dramatically!).

Smiles.

(IDOL.

Hunter.

Loved.)

.

They decide to walk to the mall. Okay—Zoey decides that she wants to walk to the mall after spending so long sleeping, and Mira and Rumi are so wrapped around her little finger they don’t even try to argue—which is, of course, something Zoey rarely ever takes advantage of. But! The day is beautiful! And the clouds are so big and fluffy! And Zoey’s with her girls, and they’re going to the mall, and she’s going to be able to play her new game later and—

“I’m telling you, everyone has been talking about it. Like, it hasn’t even been out for a week but already it’s been nothing but ‘omg Foxxxy Stories this’ and ‘blah blah Foxxxy Stories’ that, and ‘whoa did you see the size of his—'”

“Wait,” Mira cuts in, placing a hand on Zoey’s shoulder. On the other side of her, Rumi wheezes out something that might have been a laugh, but hides it behind a cough into her hand. And… is she blushing?

Aww.

Rumi is so cute when she blushes!

“Zoey,” Mira says, calling her attention back. She wears a slightly bewildered look on her face, and Zoey scrunches her brows together and tries to run back through what she’s said recently that might have caused the look.

“What?” Zoey asks through a laugh.

“How many x’s?”

“… Is this some sort of Scott Pilgrim reference?”

“How many x’s are in the title?”

“Uh. I think three? But, Mira—”

“Three x’s. Foxxxy Stories? Really?”

Zoey glances back to Rumi, hoping she’d help a girl out with some much-needed context. But Rumi only brings her hand up further to fully cover her face. But Zoey still spots the pink that tints the tips of her ears, patches down her neck; alights the patterns that twist around her arms until they’re lambent and beautiful.

… Whoa.

Focus.

“What about it?” Zoey demands, whirling back on Mira and suddenly feeling put out. She crosses her arms in a huff. “Not all games have to be huge budget triple-A’s, you know. It wouldn’t hurt you to branch out and support smaller indie games.”

“No, Zoey—” Mira cuts herself off with a small headshake and an eye roll. “What do you think this game is about?”

“I told you—you play as a fox in your own bookstore and you interact with your regulars and—what, Mira? Why are you laughing?” Zoey whines.

“I think what Mira is trying to say is that, well… your game might be… Uh…” Rumi’s voice is placating. At first, at least. It quickly fades away into a strangled groan. The pink is a bright red now. “Mira, I tried.”

Mira places both of her hands on Zoey’s shoulders, making her freeze in anticipation. She peers down at her, and Zoey locks her knees at the sudden intensity. And height difference. But, mostly it’s to keep herself from melting into a puddle. Because—heh.

Hell-o.

“It’s a porn game, Zoey. You’re buying a porn game.”

Zoey blinks.

Blinks again.

Glances once more to Rumi who only nods through her secondhand embarrassment.

Zoey turns back to Mira and sinks back into fluidity. She ducks out from under her arms, only to grab a hand and spin herself until she’s tucked against Mira’s side.

“That’s what this is about? I mean—duh. Of course it is.” Zoey waggles her eyebrows at Rumi, throwing out an elbow to clip her on the arm. “Why do you think it’s like, super mega popular already?”

“Zo-ey.”

She lets the force of her full body laugh tilt her head back. Zoey grins at the clouds above her, feels herself coming to life under the glow of the sun.

The day is beautiful, and her girls can be so funny sometimes.

.

The mall is busy but not too crowded. Which is great because Zoey—and Mira—spent extra time and care before leaving to gently, oh so gently encourage Rumi that no, she didn’t need to pull on a hoodie, actually! Sure, they might run into some fans, and sure they might have to pose for a selfie or seven. But—

They talked, y’know? About the whole ‘Rumi’s dad was a demon and her mom was a hunter and they absolutely banged—yes, Rumi, it is, actually, super relevant and important to the story, did Celine never tell you what happens when two, cough, or three, cough, people love each other very very much, please don’t throw pillows if you don’t want to start another war—and that’s how Rumi came to be, but also growing up with your first important lesson being to cover up any and every part of yourself that wasn’t perfect maybe doesn’t make for the healthiest of coping mechanisms, and actually Zoey and Mira did love and accept Rumi so so so much and yes, actually, her patterns are very beautiful and Rumi is very beautiful but mostly no, they did not see her as a monster, and also, they were super, like super-duper mega sorry for ever thinking about—let alone actually—raising their weapons at her and it was all actually kinda sorta really messed up but they all love each other and from now on they aren’t going to lie to each other and there’s going to be trust and open communication’… thing.

(A deep breath.)

So.

Everything is totally cool now! And Rumi ended up changing into a really pretty tank top that showed off, yes, her absolutely gorgeous patterns, but also her very strong, and very broad, shoulders that Zoey is absolutely taking advantage of seeing so up close and personal today. Also, may be getting under her hands once or twice, if Rumi allows it of course. Hmm… Maybe it can be a game Zoey can play that nobody needs to know about? If so, she’s already at one point after that hug this morning.

Woof.

Anyway.

Things to think about!

And also, Mira got them all boba. So!

The mall is great! Really, they should come here more often.

“Okay, so!” Zoey turns to walk backwards, facing Mira and Rumi.

Mira answers with a loud slurp of her drink. Rumi, who had been cautiously people watching, brings her attention back to Zoey; she tilts her head, and Zoey superimposes a quick sketch of folded ears and a waggly puppy tail.

Ugh, so cute.

“Here’s what I was thinking.”

“You want to eat a bunch of snacks and then buy your game?” Mira guesses.

“I want to e…” Zoey narrows her eyes. “… Maybe. But only because—”

“—If you don’t do it in that order, you might get crumbs and grease on the case and totally ruin it?” Rumi supplies.

Zoey stops walking and places her hands on her hips in a huff.

Rumi smiles at her as she and Mira keep walking forward; they both hook one arm through each of Zoey’s, pulling her forward gently, forcing her to continue walking backwards.

She catches their reflection in a shop window, wrapped around each other like normal people in a normal mall. Zoey grins.

Something flutters in her belly, tingly and warm. Ugh—she really regrets sleeping through breakfast now.

“You only told us the plan about a hundred times on the walk over here,” says Mira.

“Besides, we think it’s a good plan.” Rumi smiles at her, so close and bright.

Zoey sighs, smitten and happy, as her feet stumble backwards. She laughs and then does a little jump, tucking her knees up and under herself.

Rumi and Mira are quick to lock their arms in place, holding her aloft. Zoey giggles, wrapping her hands around their sturdy and strong shoulders (heh, another point for Zoey). She lets them carry her like that for a few steps before dropping her feet back down.

They let her go and she skips until she’s in the middle of the pack, facing the correct direction.

“Is there any place you both want to stop at? Or anything you want to get or look at?”

Mira shrugs. “I’m cool just going wherever. Glad to be out of the house for a bit.”

Rumi hums next to her in thought. “I need some more shirts, I think. And I wouldn’t mind looking at some… makeup?”

And that’s another thing: it hasn’t just been Rumi’s every day fashion sense that has changed, but it’s the other things, too. Little things. Like her makeup. It’s almost as though Rumi is finally willing to look outside of whatever image she had been trying (needlessly!) to live up to—the one other people had made for her. It’s honestly been really cool to watch, and Zoey is super proud of her.

The small and soft smile Mira wears tells Zoey she’s not alone in that sentiment, either.

(Gosh, they’re big ol’ saps.)

“When are you going to finally let me do a makeover for you, unnie,” Mira asks through a smirk. Okay, saps and menaces.

“Ugh, never mind, I regret bringing it up at all.”

“Rumi, no! Mira—apologize!”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You are such a brat,” Zoey chides with a shove against Mira’s shoulder. Her hand lingers; gives a squeeze.

(… Three points for Zoey.)

“Oh, I’m the brat? You really want to play that game? Because I am willing to bet that you like—”

“So, Rumi makeup? Cool cool cool—I think I see a store over there!”

As Zoey drags them into a random boutique, Mira takes another loud, pointed slurp of her drink like the rude girl she is.

Zoey doesn’t end up buying anything in that specific store (listen, she understands there are benefits to it, but she still doesn’t really want to put snail secretions on her face, thank you), though Mira grabs a few things (a new lipstick, a palette of eyeshadow, yellow nail polish—specifically the shade that’s Rumi’s favorite, and also some items Rumi had been tentatively eyeing but ultimately passed over). They keep walking for a few stores, chatting about everything and nothing at all.

(It’s funny, to Zoey, when she thinks about it. Like, really thinks about it. And not even the whole supernatural demon slaying, mega worldwide popstar thing. But the… easy existence she gets to live; like walking through the mall with her two very best friends, who she loves more than anything. Because she can’t even count high enough to really describe how many times she used to want something just like this when she was growing up.

She was always… Too Much Zoey, Too Loud Zoey, Talks Too Fast Zoey. She had friends in school, sure, but… She didn’t have a Mira and Rumi. She didn’t have her people. And now, now she does, and now she gets to drag them to the pretzel stand that has the absolute best pretzels ever and they don’t even complain at all because. Well.

Because they love her.

And that’s…

It’s pretty neat, really.)

“All I’m saying is don’t knock it until you try it, okay?”

“I will absolutely be knocking it right now because I will never try it. No.”

“I… don’t know… Maybe Zoey is onto something?”

“You cannot be serious, Rumi. I mean—look at it. You’re really telling me that looks good?”

“Well…”

Zoey chews with her mouth full, cheeks puffed out, and sends a grin Rumi’s way. She waves the pretzel bag and open container of dip toward Rumi.

“’anna ‘ry i-d’?”

Rumi winces through a pained smile.

“… I am in my era of trying new things, I guess…”

Zoey nods enthusiastically while Mira screws her face up in disgust.

“I really don’t think that era should include war crimes though.”

Zoey rolls her eyes and forces a swallow. Something gets stuck somewhere. Probably not important. She winces, but pushes through. Coughs. Wipes the back of her wrist against her watering eyes and then shakes her head when crumbs from the pretzel bag she accidentally turned over while wiping at her eyes gather in her bangs.

“Mira, it’s literally just a cinnamon pretzel dipped in nacho cheese. It’s not going to kill you.”

“I rest my case.”

“But it’ll make me so happy if you give it a try, Rumi. Please.” And, look. Zoey knows what she’s doing when she makes her eyes big and wet. Even before her girls, she had years of practice on her divorced dad. No was a rare answer for Zoey.

Rumi sighs. “Okay. Fine. Just a little bite.”

“Yay! You won’t regret it, boss!” Zoey dances her feet in place as Rumi delicately tears off a piece of the pretzel before barely tapping it into the cheese. Zoey rolls her eyes and jerks her hand up, making it so that the cheese thoroughly dunks up into the pretzel.

“Ugh—Zoey! That’s too much!”

“Just trust me okay! It’s so good!”

Rumi stares at it in horror before begrudgingly popping it into her mouth. Mira stifles a small gag, and Zoey kicks at her.

Rumi chews.

Releases a questioning noise as Mira and Zoey stare at her in both horror and barely contained excitement (respectively, of course)

The face journey Rumi goes on is nothing short of impressive.

But slowly… oh so slowly… Her brows unfurl. Her mouth relaxes. Her eyes widen.

She swallows.

Looks to Zoey. “Not bad, actually.”

“Yes!” Zoey throws her hands into the air. Almost throws the half-eaten pretzel across the mall. But she doesn’t! And that’s what’s important.

“Rumi—no.”

Rumi grins—it’s beautiful, it’s bright, it’s something Zoey will never get tired of staring at—and reaches for another piece.

“Really, Mira. You should try it.”

“Oh, I could kiss you for this, Rumi.”

And—listen. Zoey knows what she’s doing with this, too, alright? She might have a million and one different things flying around in her head at any given moment, but you better believe the majority of those things are Rumi and Mira. Specifically, RumiAndMira. And also, a lil bit of RumiAndMiraAndZoey. Okay, okay, sometimes it’s also RumiAndMiraAndZoeyAndNoCloth—

(Uh. Mall. Public mall. Public mall thoughts. Like… Bobby hosting a bikini car wash.)

(Ew.)

(… Sorry, Bobby.)

Okay.

Where was she?

Right.

They’ve talked about things, yeah. But they haven’t talked about everything everything. Not yet, at least.

But they will.

Because Rumi shoves the pretzel into her mouth to hide her squeak, and Mira shoves at Zoey’s shoulder, but there’s a blush dancing across her cheeks and a look in her eye that is fond—and Zoey grins.

“What? Jealous, Mira? I could kiss you, too—but you don’t ever try my food remixes.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Mira mutters, shaking her head.

“And yet you love me,” Zoey sing-songs.

“Says who?” Mira challenges.

“Uh, you, doofus. Like, every day or else you get grumpy.”

“I do not get grumpy.”

“Yup, you sure do.”

“Do not.”

“Do, too.”

“Do not.”

“Do, too.”

“Do—”

“Mira, you do,” Rumi breaks in, verbally and physically—squeezing between the headlock Mira has somehow wrestled Zoey into.

“Et tu, Rumi?”

Zoey hides behind Rumi, tilting up on her tippy toes to stick her tongue out at Mira, hands holding onto Rumi’s strong shoulders.

(Four points!)

She feels Rumi shrugging.

“I think it’s cute,” is all she offers.

Mira crosses her arms and looks away. But Zoey swears she can see steam collecting on her glasses from how fierce she’s blushing. “Betrayal, all around me. I should hang out with Bobby; at least he’s always nice to me.”

(Oh god. Oh god. Why did she have to think of Bikini Bobby!)

(… Hm. Bikini Bobby. Bikini Bottom Bobby. SpongeBobby?)

(No, Bobby isn’t annoying enough to be SpongeBob. Plus, he knows how to drive.)

(Oh no. Is Zoey the SpongeBob of the group?!)

(… Mira is definitely Squidward though.)

“He’s only nice to you because we pay him six percent.”

Mira honest to goodness stomps her foot like the spoiled girl she is. She points with a jabbing, accusatory finger at Zoey. “And whose idea was it to give him that raise?”

Zoey and Rumi make quick eye contact, mischievous and knowing.

“Celine,” they answer in tandem, making Mira groan and cross her arms once more.

(Is Celine Mrs. Puff? It literally does not matter. For the love of the Honmoon, focus, Zoey.)

Rumi turns her head and whispers into Zoey’s ear, “watch this,” and Zoey does her best not to melt against Rumi’s back.

“Hey Mir-a,” Rumi sings. And, oh gosh, Zoey knows they literally are in a pop group together, but she doesn’t think she could ever hear enough of Rumi’s pretty singing voice.

Mira grunts; refuses to look over.

“I love you,” Rumi teases.

Zoey bites down hard on her lower lip to contain her smile, but feels a little breathless. And she’s not even the one Rumi is targeting!

(There is something about Rumi being the one to say those words first. Zoey knows that Rumi loves them, of course she does. And it’s not like they hadn’t said it before, for years. And it’s not like Zoey is suddenly doubting all the previous times during the Before—really, she’s not. Scouts honor. Even if Rumi wasn’t fully herself, not really, and even if Rumi was technically lying to her and Mira about Some Big Stuff…

Zoey doesn’t think she ever lied about loving them.

But there’s something about Rumi saying it first, now. In the After.

Zoey thinks the difference is in her smile. Or maybe it lives in her eyes. Honestly, it probably lives in Rumi’s voice, if Zoey really thinks about it (which she certainly has). There’s… It’s sort of like when Zoey takes a nap on the couch and her girls let her sleep. She’ll wake up, slowly, to the sounds of life in the penthouse; a spoon gently tinging against the inside of a mug as Rumi makes her tea, the rustle of Mira’s clothes as she breathes deep and shifts through yoga poses.

There’s a warmth that envelopes in those moments. One that nudges Zoey awake, unhurriedly. Kindly. It feels like a continuation of her dreams, it feels hazy and blurry and a little bit like she’s floating. It’s one of the only times she isn’t overthinking, and she’s just existing, and the world has been contained within their home—and everything she ever hoped for is there with her.

Not out of reach—because it had seen Zoey, and it reached back out. Held her. Wrapped her up in the best hug made of coziness and acceptance and happiness.

… There’s something about Rumi saying I love you first, and it feels a lot like that. Zoey’s not sure if it’ll ever not take her breath away. And honestly? She’s not mad about it.

She could never be mad about it.)

Mira visibly fights with herself, and Zoey sees the same signs warring on her face. The breathlessness. The barely contained adoration. The sheer fucking sense of being overwhelmed by this girl’s love. Before…

Sighing. Dramatically, Zoey might add.

“I love you, too,” she mutters, angry and pouty.

But Zoey gets it. Boy, does she get it. And as Rumi jokingly coos after Mira, as she leans more solidly against Zoey, Zoey catches Mira’s eyes. Shares a small smile with her. Catches the minute shake of Mira’s head and responds with a minute eyebrow quirk of her own.

What are we going to do with her?

The only thing we can do, doofus. Love her back.

Mira huffs a laugh. Zoey lets a smile unfurl slowly.

But she’s such a dork.

I know. She’s the best.

The fake anger that had Mira pouting melts away as she stares at Rumi and Zoey, leaning against each other, smiling back. Her eyes soften. And Zoey knows this look too.

—But it’s Rumi who voices it this time.

“I’m so lucky,” she murmurs.

And—they haven’t talked. Not yet. Not really! But Zoey refuses to allow them to finally do so next to a sunglass kiosk. So, she smashes the rest of the cinnamon pretzel in one huge bite, crinkles the bag plus nacho cheese container into a ball, and perfectly executes a three-pointer into the nearest trashcan.

“Damn,” she sucks on her teeth, shaking her head. “Curry wishes he was me.”

“I bet they do,” Rumi agrees easily.

Zoey squints as her. “Rumi, do you even know who I’m talking about?”

A weak laugh paired with Rumi’s Rumi Smile. “Oh, look—isn’t that the game store? Come on, let’s go get your porn game!”

Zoey lets herself get pulled along—only reaching out to snag Mira’s wrist as they pass by. She laughs as they walk like a bunch of monkeys in a barrel through the crowded mall; doesn’t have to try hard to notice the shimmering iridescence of a happy Honmoon dancing around them.

.

The taste of matcha melts across Mira’s tongue.

They had stopped at one of the cute little ice cream places at Zoey’s behest; Mira hadn’t packed her tummy pills (Zoey’s name for them, which has, unfortunately, stuck), but she had acquiesced (read: caved) and gotten a single scoop in a cup. The flavor was light and refreshing and hopefully won’t come back to bite her in the ass.

Rumi couldn’t decide what she wanted and ended up with a vanilla milkshake. (There’s a joke somewhere in there, but Mira isn’t too sure how true it would be. It was damn near impossible to miss the way Rumi had casually felt up Zoey (lol, lmao even) this morning without realizing. Mira absolutely would not survive thinking about it any deeper than shallower-than-her-brother surface level, but she’s pretty sure ‘Rumi’ and ‘vanilla’ might only go together for her ice cream order.)

(A lady in the streets, and a… demon…? in the…)

(Never mind.)

Zoey—somehow, though Mira feels like she shouldn’t be surprised—managed to get a scoop of every single flavor onto a waffle cone. The ice cream tower precariously leaned this way and that, so much so that Mira made them find a bench to sit at and eat until Zoey was down to only four flavors.

Mira will eat her own designer shoes if Zoey isn’t sick by the end of their mall date.

Hangout.

Mall hangout.

They haven’t talked, not—oh fuck it. They’re on a mall date, and if Mira can’t call it that out loud… She’ll just have to keep repeating it to herself every chance she gets.

She tosses her empty cup into a trash can. Blindly hands off a spare napkin to Zoey for the ice cream that’s somehow made its way all over her face. Gently guides Rumi around a slow walker she hadn’t seen yet, too caught up in Zoey’s excited chatter. Mira stuffs her hands into her jean jacket’s pockets, eyes drifting across the different store fronts.

A few mannequins catch her attention, outfits adorned modern and chic, but ultimately nothing worth stopping for. But it does remind her that she still wants to get Rumi a few new pieces that she might like, and that one ugly fish hat Zoey keeps sending them videos of (for Zoey. Not Rumi. Mira doesn’t think she’s that adventurous yet).

(And even if she does become that adventurous, Mira refuses to allow both of her girls to wear a fish hat. Absolutely not. A line must be drawn somewhere.)

Mira loses herself in the easy ambiance of the mall. The bright lights, the people milling about, her girls in front of her. It’s been a great day so far (even if she didn’t beat her game this morning. Whatever. She’s not bitter about it, obviously), and one Mira thinks they all needed. She’ll never not be grateful for being a hugely successful pop star, obviously, but damn if their schedules weren’t a bitch sometimes.

Her eyes catch on a travel agency kiosk, and Mira hums in thought. They should take a vacation soon. They haven’t had a proper one in… too fucking long. Maybe somewhere warm? They could go to the beach.

Mira glances at Rumi, nodding and laughing along with some tale that has Zoey gesturing wildly, ice cream threatening to splatter across the entire mall.

Mira sighs. And it’s wistful enough to be embarrassed about but. Whatever. They’re on a mall date. She can be wistful all she wants, alright? Fucking sue her for feeling like the luckiest girl alive.

But if they do go to a beach, Rumi will probably (hopefully) join them (finally). She’s already been doing a really great job at the bathhouse. Minimal freakouts in the beginning, notwithstanding. But Mira and Zoey have been cool about it, so she’s finally settled down. And now it’s no big deal.

(No big deal. Who is Mira trying to kid. It’s a big fucking deal, it is—but it’s because it’s Rumi, and it’s Zoey, and they’re at the bathhouse. And Mira has eyes, okay. Eyes that stay up because she’s not some perv. But.

It’s a big deal.)

They round a corner toward one end of the mall and Mira is the first to spot the claw machines and other little rides and games. She’s already digging into her wallet when Zoey gasps, reaching back to clasp onto her arm.

“Mira, oh my god, look!”

Rumi wanders ahead of them, peering into one of claw machines. It’s filled with small rubber ducks, each one with a different design. There’s an odd look on her face, and Mira follows her gaze; it lands on a duck that looks like a tiger. Yup. Tracks. Mira doesn’t look away as she hands a few bills to Zoey, who cheers and then hops over to another claw machine that has candy. Her face is pressed against the glass as she studies to find the perfect angle.

She’ll be perfectly content for a few minutes, so Mira slides up next to Rumi.

“You gonna try it?”

Rumi jumps a little. “Huh? Oh, uh. No, it’s…” Her voice falters, brows furrowing.

A dramatic groan sounds from the other side of the machine, before a solid thunk against metal. Zoey must not have gotten anything, then.

Mira pretends to focus on looking at the ducks. Because she’s been trying to be patient, alright? It’s not conducive to always try to force conversations, or whatever. But if Rumi only needs a few moments of silence in order to get her thoughts together, in order for her to come to Mira about whatever it is that’s bothering her, then it’s cool. Mira can wait for her.

She’ll always wait for her.

(Ugh; and she called Rumi dramatic.)

Mira’s trying to mentally calculate the best way to grab the duck that looks suspiciously like Bobby, when Rumi speaks up again.

“It’s weird, I guess. Thinking about how everything has changed. So much is different… But so much is still the same.”

Mira grunts. Watches Rumi from the mirror at the back of the machine. Her brows are still furrowed, corner of her mouth still pinched. Mira leans a little bit closer to her.

“Like what?” Mira guides.

Rumi shrugs. “Me? Me and—Celine. Me and… Us.”

Us.

“Which ‘us?’ You and Celine?” Because Mira cannot assume right now.

A groan. “No… Us as in…” Rumi trails off; circles her hand around her head—finger guns around the mall. “Me—and. You. Zoey.”

A rabbit-quick pulse jumping in her chest. “What about us?”

Rumi’s mouth scrunches to the side. It’s her you’re being ornery on purpose smile—and she’s not wrong. But Mira isn’t going to let her walk around this when Rumi is the one who mentioned it.

She sighs, loud and forceful. Her eyes shoot up to Mira in warning. “That was not dramatic.”

Mira smirks. “Sure,” she allows.

Rumi’s eyes squint as she continues to glare; but then she blinks and looks away again. And, god, Mira misses her eyes on her immediately. But this angle of Rumi’s head accentuates one of her patterns that has quickly become one of Mira’s favorites; it cuts and climbs down the side of her neck, brushes over her collarbone. It is sharp, but the colors that shimmer are beautiful and soft, and the way they rest over Rumi’s pulse point makes them dance.

It is vibrant, and alive, and so very Rumi.

“There’s just… We’re the same, but so different now. I’m not…” Rumi trails off, searching and frustrated.

“You’re alright,” Mira murmurs; does her best to sooth.

“I’m not hiding. You both see me and it’s… Mira, it’s terrifying, but it’s… freeing at the same time. I know you both have my back, and I have yours. So, like I said: it’s the same. But it’s different. Ugh, it doesn’t even sound like a real sentence anymore. I’ve said it too many times.”

“Is that… a good thing? Or bad?” Mira can’t help but ask. Can’t help but try to get Rumi’s eyes back to her.

Rumi tilts her head. Continues to look away.

(The blue-pink-white dances and jumps and thrums.)

“Good thing, I think.” Mira quirks a brow when Rumi finally sneaks a glance up at her. She laughs and leans fully into Mira. “It’s good,” she whispers.

Mira nods. Lets her hand drift to Rumi’s lower back; wishes, aches, for the cute little crop top she was wearing this morning because, yes it was cute, but mostly because Mira wants to have her hand on Rumi’s skin.

“For what it’s worth,” Mira whispers because her throat has closed up because she’s useless. This is why she never leads in their interviews. “I also think it’s a good thing.”

Rumi makes eye contact through the mirror. She fits so well against Mira that Mira has to physically fight back the butterflies in her belly. And—oh god, Rumi’s mouth relaxes into a slightly smug smile as she watches. She absolutely knows, and it makes a blush burn across Mira’s face.

“Hey, has anyone told you that you could absolutely make it as a visual?”

Mira rolls her eyes, hard.

“God, you’re so annoying.”

Rumi smiles—wide and genuine—at the callback to this morning.

“Oh, is it Annoy Mira Hours? I want in, I want in!” Zoey bounds into their pile, body warm and hands full of different candies. “Guys look at all that I won!” And then she—

She leans up with bright, shining eyes and presses a kiss on Mira’s cheek. Just to the side of her mouth.

The blush burns fiercer. Rumi laughs, that bitch.

“Thank you for paying for my candy, Mira. It’s almost as sweet as you are,” Zoey coos.

“Whatever,” Mira grumbles, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Are you going to win a duck or not, Ryu?”

Rumi peers up at her, and now her eyes are shining, literally what are these lights here in this stupid mall?

“Can I have some money?” Rumi asks, pretending to be saccharine and not at all the manipulator she actually is. If only her adoring fans could see her now.

“You literally have like, a billion dollars. Use your own money.”

She shrugs. “But I’m asking you?”

Mira’s proud of herself for holding out as long as she does. Really, she is. And she’s glad that Zoey’s too busy eating all of her taffy candy that it glues her mouth shut.

Rumi taps her chin as she stares at the ducks. “Which one should I get?”

“I literally could not care less. They’re all so cheap and ugly.” Rumi and Zoey blink at her. Mira groans. Points. “That one.”

Rumi nods, set on her sudden goal with a fervor that once made Mira wary back during their training days. But now it’s familiar, so painfully, earnestly Rumi—to focus on something with such an intensity, even something as silly as a claw machine with rubber ducks—that fondness floods through Mira before she can stop it.

Mira sighs.

She’s losing her street cred with these two today. How annoying. Mira needs to fix that.  

She reaches out and smooths back a piece of Rumi’s hair that had pulled free from her braid; tucks it, gently, behind her ear. She feels the girl freeze under her hand, chuckles at the red that burns up her neck, at the tips of her ears.

Rumi glances at Mira with wide eyes. Mira pulls her hand back, leans against the claw machine with crossed arms and ankles.

“Win me my duck, Ryu.”

And Rumi blinks at her—twice, three times—before swallowing roughly and moving back to the machine. Her fingers, wrapped around the joystick, tremble. But then, like magic (or, you know, years and years of intense training) she shifts into Hunter Mode.

Zoey giggles, presses a quick elbow to Mira’s arm. Funny, that she thinks she’s safe.

She turns to Zoey as Rumi grumbles under her breath after the claw comes back up empty, and Zoey is quick to stop laughing at the look on Mira’s face. Her gulp is practically audible.

Mira pushes off of the machine and into Zoey’s space. “And what are you laughing at, hmm?”

Zoey gives a nervous laugh, eyes glancing in a hundred different directions that aren’t on Mira. “Uh—nothing? Nothing! Here,” she shoves her hands full of sweets forward. “Candy?”

“No.”

Another nervous laugh. Mira tilts her head, studying Zoey.

Decides.

Digs into the small shopping bag that holds her new makeup. Pulls out the tube of lipstick, pops it open, and grabs Zoey’s chin between thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t move,” she murmurs, staring at Zoey’s mouth, her soft lips.

Feels the puffs of Zoey’s warm breath against her own cheeks. Could count the number of freckles on the other girl’s face: wants to. Wants to brush her thumb against the edge of Zoey’s jawline, if only to see how she would react.

… Mira may have not completely thought this through, actually. But she’d rather throw herself into Gwi-ma’s fires than let Zoey or Rumi see how stupefied she feels in this moment.

(That is a lie.)

(Fuck Gwi-ma and his stupid ass fire. Like—what do you mean his entire body is just a giant flame? If they—and by they, Mira does in fact mean Rumi, because she’s a badass—hadn’t already killed that stupid demon king or whatever the hell his title was, Mira would have gone into the demon realm herself with a giant hose and doused his ass into next week.)

(But—it’s whatever. She’s over it. Moved on.)

(Obviously.)

“Mira, wha—”

“Shut up,” Mira—she doesn’t croak it out, exactly.

She is not a frog, no matter what that one quiz Zoey sent her said.

But. Her voice isn’t smooth, exactly. But it’s too embarrassing for her to linger on how wrecked she sounds just being this close to Zoey, so Mira keeps going. “Don’t move, or you’ll mess it up.”

The lipstick is a beautiful shade of pink. Delicate—softer than the color of her hair, though it looks much prettier on Zoey. Mira’s got a shirt at home that has the same color in its trim that it would match amazingly against, but right now, that’s not what she’s focusing on.

The side of her palm rests against Zoey’s cheek, her jawline, as Mira pulls the lipstick against her mouth. She is careful; precise. Barely breathes as she focuses; tries to ignore the fluttering in her stomach.

Embarrassing!

But she’s sure her own cheeks match the color of Zoey’s lips once she finishes. There’s a small smudge at the corner of Zoey’s mouth, an unacceptable imperfection. Mira frowns and tilts the slightest bit closer to Zoey; traces the tip of her pinky against the edge of her lip, until the lipstick is flawless.

She hums, satisfied. Allows her eyes to drift and trace across the rest of Zoey’s face—tanned and freckled and pink and soft—so close and arched up toward her own. Mira’s thumb—traitorous and uncontrollable—brushes across Zoey’s chin. Her fingers, long and steady now, unfurl against a sharp jaw.

… But Mira refuses to let their first kiss be in the middle of some crowded mall. Gross.

One final glance at Zoey’s parted mouth. “There,” she whispers. Eyes drag up. Meet. “Perfect.”

And Zoey’s eyes are as wide as can be. Pupils blown. She blinks at Mira, once, though the look on her face remains.

Mira smirks.

“Try not to eat it off, yeah? It was expensive.”

Zoey makes a choking sound, and the smile curls more fully across Mira’s face.

“I DID IT!” Rumi turns to them in sheer fucking delight, feet shoulder-width apart, hand on hip, while the other triumphantly holds aloft the ugliest duck Mira has ever seen. “It only took me—wait. Why are you blushing so much? ... What did I miss? Guys.”

Rumi’s eyes narrow at the palpable tension thrumming between them. The Honmoon, floating gently at the corners of their world, sparkles and thumps in time to Mira’s heart. It is distressingly… fluttery.

Mira shrugs. “Fixed Zoey’s makeup.” She drops the lipstick back into her bag and holds out her hand, palm up and expectant toward Rumi.

The doubt does not leave Rumi’s face, but she slowly hands over the duck she managed to grab from the machine. Her fingers linger and trace against Mira’s palm as she pulls back.

Mira pretends to inspect the duck (small, bright yellow holding a green surfboard). Drops it into her shopping bag and looks to Rumi—who snaps her eyes away from her silent conversation with Zoey.

“I love it,” Mira states. “Thanks, Rumi.” She squeezes Rumi’s shoulder.

Zoey mutters something under her breath. It sounds something about a point for Mira, but she just grins when Mira looks at her with confusion.

“Hey—we should ride that!” Zoey points behind Mira and Rumi, who turn to look (Mira’s hand finally slides off of Rumi’s shoulder. But… she allows it to drag down, slowly over firm muscles and smooth skin. Tickles at Rumi’s palm).

(And Mira knows—through extensive studying—that they don’t, but she could swear she can actually feel Rumi’s patterns humming. They are… they are so beautiful it breaks Mira’s heart; it breaks her heart to think of how long Rumi has hated them. To think that there ever once was a time where Rumi felt like she had to hide—from her, from Zoey.)

(It breaks her heart to remember that, for a moment, they proved to Rumi that she was right in her fear.)

Zoey’s pointing at a carousel. A miniature carousel, with only four horses and is smaller than Mira can hold her arms out wide.

“Zoey, no way.”

“Aw, come on, Mira. Don’t be a spoilsport!”

“I’m not being a spoilsport. I just don’t particularly want my knees in my chest?”

“I think it looks… fun,” Rumi cuts in, voice small and faraway. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever ridden a carousel before?”

Zoey and Mira make eye contact. Both try not to immediately start crying.

A beat.

“Okay, Mira can you pay—”

“—Rumi pick this horse it’s obviously the best one—”

“—It’s simple, really, you just need to sit and enjoy—”

“—why won’t this machine take my stupid dollar—”

“—and there’s music and it’s a gentle spin and—”

“—we’re going to sit on the ones behind you so we can see if you’re enjoying—”

“—look this one even matches your hair, aww how cute—”

“—you weren’t really missing out on anything before, we swear Rumi, it’s—”

“—GUYS!”

They pause.

Zoey, who had physically picked Rumi up, gently sets her down on the horse that does, in fact, match the color of her hair. Mira swallows.

The machine rejects her crumpled bill for the seventh time.

She blinks at it.

Looks to Rumi and Zoey, who only look back, waiting.

Mira looks back at the machine.

The bill waves gently as the air conditioning blows through the space.

She turns her back to Rumi and Zoey; physically blocks their eyes from her quick fists as they punch against the stupid machine.

It makes a pitiful noise… but reluctantly accepts the cash.

Mira swivels back with a large smile.

The carousel lurches forward, carnival music playing out of tune from the shoddy speakers. Her and Zoey are quick to jump onto their own horses, and, surprise surprise, Mira was right: her knees are hitting against her chest.

It’s a simple ride, really. They go around and around in an easy, small circle. Mira can’t say she’s been on a ton of carousels, but they’re definitely not, like, an unknown to her.

But they are to Rumi. Rumi, who clutches at the pole in front of her at first. Rumi, who eventually lets go, sits more fully in the fake, plastic saddle of the fake, plastic horse. Rumi, who glances over her shoulder at Mira and Zoey, with the biggest, brightest smile Mira has ever seen.

(Her own pole is slightly tacky under her grip—it should be gross, but it ends up being one of the only things to keep Mira from physically melting at the sight of Rumi.)

(She meets eyes with Zoey once more, sitting on a horse in front of her that is made primarily of scratched away paint. It’s… reassuring… to know it’s not just Mira who feels like crying over their third.)

Mira sighs, content. Leans her head against her pole—immediately grimaces in disgust and pulls away again. Shakes her head, digs into her pocket, and pulls out her phone.

“Hey,” she calls out to her girls, who turn. They smile and—bright and beautiful and happy and Mira she… she…—she holds up her phone; snaps a quick photo. Two, three.

Tosses it to Rumi without warning. She squawks but catches it diligently, barely moving from where she sits.

“You should take a selfie of us,” Mira grunts. Scrunches her mouth to the side, before adding, “Please.”

And Rumi—ugh, she just keeps smiling at Mira. And there’s absolutely no way Mira’s face isn’t red in the photos that Rumi takes (she has to lean forward far enough to get in the shot that she feels the horse cutting into her sternum, but it’s whatever). Rumi tosses the phone back to Mira, and Mira does catch it. She does!

It doesn’t matter how much Zoey laughs or makes fun of her; Mira doesn’t drop the phone because she’s too busy mooning over Rumi.

Mira flips through the photos as the carousel continues to spin and spin and spin them around. Zoey leans backwards until she’s practically horizontal. She tugs at Mira’s wrist until the phone’s screen is angled toward her.

“Awwwww,” Zoey draws out. “We’re so cute.”

Mira agrees with her.

The carousel abruptly stops moving. Music shuts off.

Rumi barely has time to groan in disappointment before Mira kicks a foot out, knocking solidly against the money thing. The carousel boots back up, spinning around again and again.

Rumi shoots another look over her shoulder to Mira. “My hero,” she sighs, like she’s some sort of professional sigher.

(Dramatic sigher.)

“Hey, do you think we should sample this beat for one of our songs? I think it’s actually pretty fire.”

“Zoey. No.”

“What? Why not?”

“It’s literally music from a carousel?”

“Okay, but think of the untapped potential. We could be sitting on a literal gold mine.”

“Zoey.”

“Okay, fine. Not literal. Besides, the Honmoon isn’t gold either, you’re totally right. It’s all shimmery and pretty—like Rumi!”

“Whoa, like—pft—why am I getting dragged into this?”

“No one’s dragging you anywhere, silly goose: the ride is bolted to the ground. I’m just saying you and the Honmoon match, right? And the Honmoon is, like, super pretty. Ergo…”

“No way you just said ergo like some sort of nerd.”

“Hey—I am very smart, mister. God forbid a woman try to be multifaceted.”

“Whatever, nerd.”

“Hey—”

“—But you’re right about Rumi being super pretty.”

“—Wait, hey—”

“Oh my gosh, isn’t she? We have the prettiest unnie, ever.”

“Okay, listen, that’s enough you two—”

“Everyone else is super jealous that we have the prettiest unnie. Right, Rumi?”

“Mira, no, look—”

“And she’s so smart! And caring! And writes the best emails!”

“Only because you two literally deleted the email app from your phones? Someone—”

“Do you remember that time she totally called that one fan out for being rude? She was all like, this behavior will not be tolerated, apologize now. That was like, totally sick.”

“I do not sound like that—"

“Totally sick.”

“And hot.”

“—Hot?”

“Oh my gosh, so hot. Like, Rumi you just—”

“I am not—”

“—Shut up, you definitely are—”

“Yeah! Don’t be modest!”

“No, no, look I’m not—”

“And when she’s performing? Oh. Em. Gee. Rumi—”

“I’m literally doing my job?”

“Yeah, and you do it very well. Congrats.”

“Mira, you also—”

“Oh and—Oh. Timeout.”

Rumi pauses halfway off her horse, where she was poised to keep kicking at Mira (rude). They look to Zoey… who suddenly seems a little too tinted green for Mira’s liking.

“… I’m gonna be sick, I think.”

(And that’s one bet won for Mira, thank you.)

The mini carousel keeps spinning, and its tinny music keeps playing, and all Mira can think about is how her shoes absolutely would not go well with Zoey’s puke.

“Nope,” she says, gracefully stepping off her horse and picking Zoey up to deposit her on a nearby bench.

“Zoey, are you okay?”

“It’s because she ate half of the junk food in the mall.”

“I think I may be dying, actually.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t eat half of the junk food in the mall next time, stupid.”

“Don’t be mean to me,” Zoey moans. “I’m sick.”

Mira presses the back of her hand against Zoey’s slightly tacky forehead. Sucks on her teeth in disapproval.

“Rumi,” she turns to her, “would you mind getting—”

“—a water? On it,” and she is, moving swiftly through the crowd that Mira is just now becoming aware of again.

She turns back to Zoey, who sits slumped on the wooden bench, groaning. “I don’t get it… My rules are usually fool proof!”

“Rules?”

Zoey nods against Mira’s hand. “My rules, Mira,” she whines. “Pretzel before dairy to avoid things getting hairy. And candy after chips means fewer regret trips. I don’t know where I went wrong!”

Zoey groans, pitifully, and leans forward, clutching at her stomach.

“Well, obviously your sayings aren’t that fool proof if you’re now about to hurl.”

Zoey groans again, louder. “Wait…” She looks up to Mira, eyes wide and wet. “… maybe it’s pretzel after dairy… Oh, Mir-a.”

“Dude, you’re going to be fine. We’ll go home and you can take some medicine. I can make you some tea, too.”

“I won’t make it…”

“Stop being dramatic, you big baby. It’s just a stomachache.”

“Mira, I’m dying.”

“Hey, no dying allowed,” Rumi returns with a bottle of water for Zoey, who takes it gratefully. “We should get you back home and you can take some medicine.”

Mira huffs in amusement. “What a great idea, unnie.”

Rumi turns to her with narrowed eyes, but Mira just smiles.

“You always know how to take such great care of us,” Mira continues.

Has to chomp down so hard on her bottom lip she’s almost sure she splits it when Rumi just—blushes.

Blushes?

… Ha.

And Mira wasn’t even trying to be suggestive this time. Okay, maybe she was. But she’s subtle about it. Sorta.

Whatever. If it gets Rumi thinking about her taking care of Mira and Zoey…

It’s Mira’s turn to blush. And like, what is this? The tenth time today?

Ridiculous.

“Drink your water, Zoey. And then we’ll go home.”

Zoey takes a sip from the bottle, before pathetically staring up at Mira with woeful eyes. “Will you carry me?”

“What? Why would I carry you?”

“Because I don’t feel good.”

Mira rolls her eyes. “Your feet work just fine. Stop being dramatic.”

“Mira, I dunno how many times I have to say this, but I’m literally dying. I’m wasting away as we speak. Has it… always been… so… cold…”

“Mira—Zoey is literally dying, and you’re not going to carry her?”

“Wha—no. Put those eyes away, Ryu. We’ve talked about this.”

“… I think I see a light…”

“Yeah. It’s called the lights in the ceiling, dumbass.”

“… remember me…”

Mira groans.

Groans again.

Does not stomp her foot.

.

The sidewalk is warm under their feet, houses and high-rises and parks passing by as they walk home; Rumi’s eyes make shapes in the few clouds above them. The sky is tinted toward a burning orange now, the sun hovering near the horizon—not yet ready to set, but it paints the world golden.

This, Rumi thinks to herself, is what she has worked so hard for, for so very long. This, with Mira walking next to her, giving Zoey a piggyback ride, and Zoey’s warm hand in Rumi’s (so you don’t feel left out!).

This, where it feels like her feet dance just above the ground, unable to touch because of how light she feels.

It is golden.

It is real.

It is hers.

“If you throw up down my shirt I’m dropping you.”

“Mira, please. I actually feel so much better already! You’re a natural healer.” A quick squeeze to Rumi’s hand lets her in on the joke.

“So, you can walk on your own now?”

“Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

Mira grunts; adjusts her hold under Zoey’s legs so she’s more secure. Blows out a breath, and then another, as she tries to shoo away a piece of pink hair that has fallen in front of her eyes.

Rumi laughs—laughs again at the side eye Mira sends her—before reaching out and tucking back the piece of hair. Rumi’s fingers play at the piercings decorating Mira’s ear.

It brings them to a pause; Mira’s feet slowing, Rumi matching pace, and Zoey a passenger princess with no say in the matter. They are a connected and contented triangle; happy enough to linger, to draw this moment out.

“Thank you,” Mira whispers, and Rumi has to swallow at the emotion in her voice.

She smiles, though she knows it’s shaky at the corners under the weight of her girls watching her. She ducks her head down, dashes her eyes to the side. They catch and climb the cracks and lines within the concrete retaining wall next to them, up and up, over tiny pieces of grass, a random flower determined to be a spot of color in an otherwise gray landscape. Up and up, until Rumi finds the edges of a garden that grows above them. Tufts of grass peak over the lip of the wall, as well as a single, small dandelion. Its white puffball is fluffy, and the stem bends gently in the breeze; dances in miniature next to the clouds.

It looks soft. It reminds Rumi of simple times—of being a child, running through the compound barefoot and unburdened.

It makes her lips curl into a ghost of a smile. It has been years since she ran through the compound like that; it has been too long since she felt freedom under that open sky. But now, here is an echo of that happiness that surely must have existed, once upon a time.

How bittersweet it is to find such a distant thing suddenly so nearby.

“Squire, please. To the left, posthaste.” Zoey lightly taps her heels into Mira’s side, who lets out an indignant huff. “What, you don’t the title of squire? I was going to say trusty steed, but didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”

“You’d be correct,” Mira drawls. But still, she (dutifully) takes a few steps to the left.

(Rumi’s hand falls aways. She tries to not feel too sad about it.)

Zoey sits up higher on Mira’s back, stretching her hand above her. Her fingers fall just short of the top of the wall. Grunting, she uses her one hand to press against the top of Mira’s head—Zoey what the f—and finally reaches high enough.

Zoey grabs the dandelion.

She drops back down into Mira’s hold, who grunts at the sudden weight. Zoey taps her heels into Mira’s side once more. “To the right now, dear squire.”

Mira sighs. Walks to the right. Stops in front of Rumi.

Zoey leans over her shoulder and bows as much as she’s able. “A flower, for the lady.”

“Oh.”

And there’s truly no reason that Rumi should feel as nervous as she does reaching forward to wrap her hand around the flower (weed, really). The stem is soft and fragile under her fingers, and Rumi is terrified she’ll hurt it. But she holds still; doesn’t pull the flower out of Zoey’s hand, not yet. She tilts her head and stares up at Zoey—who is, for once, taller than Rumi. And then to Mira.

Zoey and Mira. Mira and Zoey.

Her girls.

Rumi looks back to the fluffy dandelion. “You know…” she begins. “I probably spent a hundred wishes on these things growing up.”

“What did you wish for?” Mira asks, without judgment.

“Mira, if she tells us, then it won’t come true. Don’t you know the rules of wishes?”

Mira rolls her eyes, and Rumi laughs. That honey feeling from this morning is back, and Rumi feels the sugar crystalizing within her.

“It’s okay, Zoey. I don’t think that can happen anyway.”

“You’re telling me we fought actual demons but you don’t believe in superstitions?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that, well,” Rumi shrugs. Pretends there aren’t butterflies in her belly right now. Pretends that she’s not trying to maybe sort of say something meaningful. “I always had the same wish, is all. And it finally came true.”

A deep breath. Presses her nerves to the back of her teeth. Wills herself to finally—finally—talk about everything.

Which is, of course, when Zoey butts in. “What, your patterns?”

Mira groans. “Don’t be stupid, Zoey. Rumi obviously wished for a better Honmoon.”

“Don’t call me stupid, stupid. No one even knew the Honmoon could be remade, so why would little tiny baby Rumi wish for that?”

“Maybe she didn’t specifically, word for word, wish for a new Honmoon, but—”

“—So, you already admit that you’re probably wrong? Wow, a lot of personal growth for you lately, Mira! I’m so proud of y—”

“That’s a lot of talk from someone who finished their personal growth at eight years old.”

“Was that a short joke? You know how I feel about short jokes.”

“Was that a short j—no, it was obviously about your bra size.”

“Whoa—okay—you’re so one to talk miss president of the itty bitty—"

“I WISHED FOR YOU BOTH.”

A beat. Rumi lets loose a peal of laughter that’s just to the left of normal. But it’s fine, because that’s usually how her girls make her feel, anyway.

“It doesn’t matter if I say the wish out loud, because what I always wished for is standing right in front of me, bickering like a pair of… whatever bickers. I don’t know. Just…”

A sigh. Admittedly a tad dramatic this time.

“It’s always been you two.”

A sniffle.

“Wah—Mira? Are you alright?”

“’m’fine.”

“You’re… crying?”

“No, I’m not. That would be super embarrassing and lame, and I’m not lame.”

“You’re such a sweetie, Mira,” Zoey coos, pinching at Mira’s cheek. And Mira is unable to swat her away lest she drop Zoey, and Rumi knows Mira would never let either of them get hurt.

“I’m cool.”

“Sure,” Rumi agrees easily. She spins the dandelion between her fingers.

“I am.” Another sniffle. Rumi smiles and wipes away a tear that slips down Mira’s cheek.

Her palm settles; fingers curl over Mira’s jawline.

“You’re so cool,” Rumi whispers through a pleased grin.

“As cool as the sun, maybe,” Zoey quips.

“Don’t be mean, Zoey,” Rumi playfully chides. “If you can be mean, you can walk.”

Zoey immediately stops laughing. It makes Rumi smirk.

“Here,” she holds the dandelion up in front of Mira. “Why don’t you make a wish this time. And you won’t have to tell us what it is.”

Mira rolls her eyes, but they’re still shiny and filled with tears, so the effect is a bit… watered down. Literally.

“I don’t believe in that superstitious crap.”

“Again. We literally fight demons and work to protect an invisible barrier that’s fueled by how much people love us. But you don’t believe in superstitions? Okay, weirdo…” Zoey hums, carding her fingers through Mira’s long hair. She sections off a small piece and starts to mindlessly braid it.

It’s one of the little secrets Rumi and Zoey have figured out. That if they play with Mira’s hair, even if it’s just brushing it out for her, the fight will leave her in an instant. It’s an apology from Zoey, Rumi knows. An accepted one, at that.

Mira sighs. “You sure you don’t want your wish, Rumi?”

Rumi nods, offers a reassuring smile—though tinted coy and bashful. “I’ve already had it come true, remember?”

Mira hums. But then seems to think seriously for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes.

The puff of the dandelion scatters on the wind, entropic and free. Rumi follows one tiny stem as it lifts up and away, drifting down the sidewalk. Growing smaller and smaller until she loses sight of it completely.

Rumi turns back to Mira and Zoey. They are already watching her. And their eyes are fond and their smiles are small but bright and they are gilded golden in this light and they are beautiful.

“I wished for this,” Mira releases like a second breath.

Rumi’s nerves that once fluttered around in her belly dissipate, like fluffy bits of a flower caught on a breeze.

“For us,” Mira continues. “I love you both. Like, a lot. So, I,” she takes a deep breath. “I wished that this would never end.”

And…

Oh.

It’s Rumi’s turn to cry, it seems. And Zoey’s. And it’s not long before Mira joins them again, too.

And it’s so very silly, so very them, to be crying over a little flower that’s technically a weed, that Rumi feels her heart overflowing. Because, yeah.

She gets it.

She really does.

“I love you guys, too,” Rumi promises. “So much that I—I don’t know what to do with it, sometimes.”

“Give it to us,” Zoey reaches out with a grabby hand and a wobbly smile. “Please. Fork it over, Rumi! We’re very strong!”

“Yeah, don’t be stingy, Ryu.”

“Okay, okay,” Rumi giggles, wiping away a tear with her knuckles.

“Look at these shoulders,” Zoey continues, squeezing Mira. “I bet Mira could totally carry us both at the same time.”

“I could. But do not test this theory right now. I will drop you both.” The threat is, once again, diminished by the tears that continue to race down Mira’s cheeks.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Zoey calls her bluff.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Because you love us,” Rumi adds. Because she can. Because it’s nice to say.

“Because I love you.”

The tears pick up once more.

“Mira, no,” Zoey cries. And because her face is right next to Mira’s she leans forward and lands a quick kiss right over a tear.

“Gah, Zoey—”

“You’re crying, baby,” Zoey whines before dropping another quick kiss to Mira’s cheek.

“It’s crybaby—but I am not a—”

“No,” Zoey cuts her off with another cheek over another tear. She turns to look at Rumi, a certain glint in her eye that has Rumi feeling nervous again. “Help a girl out? I can only get this side.”

Rumi splutters out a laugh. Can feel the way heat crawls up her neck. Which is so very funny because, hadn’t the day almost started out exactly like this? With her begging for Mira’s attention, pressed against her and boneless, and now she (well, Zoey) has got the girl trapped?

(Hadn’t she thought about this?)

(Hadn’t she also wished for this?)

Rumi steps closer to Mira. Glances up through her lashes at her, and oh, Mira looks devastating. Face so close, pupils blown wide, lips parted softly.

“Beautiful,” and Rumi hadn’t meant for it to slip out. But… she can’t really regret it. Not when it makes Mira’s cheek warm under her lingering kiss.

Not when it makes a secret smile pull across her lips. Not when it bolsters her forward, gives her the permission to stay in this quiet space with her girls. Rumi’s fingers find Zoey’s, resting just over Mira’s sternum. She can feel the strong, heavy pounding beneath her palm.

A final kiss, just to the side of Mira’s mouth.

(… They haven’t talked. Not yet. Not about everything.)

(… But…)

Rumi pulls back. Pretends to glare at Zoey. Who startles when she sees it.

“What?! What did I do?!”

“You didn’t say it back.”

“It back. Sorry, that—that was instinctive. What didn’t I… Oh! Oh… Rumi…” Zoey sighs, melting. “Of course I love you. And Mira,” she gives a tiny bonk with her head into Mira’s.

It reminds Rumi of a tiny little triceratops. It’s so cute, so very Zoey.

“You guys are the best. I don’t… I don’t think I’ll ever understand how or why the Honmoon chose me… But I’m so thankful. I’m so lucky! To have you both as my best friends! My—” A rough swallow. An embarrassed laugh.

(So cute. So Zoey.)

(Fondness floods through Rumi.)

“Yeah,” Rumi agrees.

The world around them is golden. It shimmers and shines in its warmth. The Honmoon is made of the love that Huntr/x inspires, but this? Right here? The feeling that flutters in Rumi’s chest, that makes her patterns pulse and glow in a way that soothes and reassures and warms?

This is hers. This is theirs.

“Are we done with the sentimental stuff for now? My back is going to start spasming soon if I have to carry Zoey any longer.”

Rumi laughs as Zoey flicks Mira’s ear. “Come on, you two. Let’s go home.”

The day is beautiful. Rumi is with her girls. Today, tomorrow. Forever, hopefully.

(Probably.)

Mira mumbles a joke too low for Rumi to hear, but Zoey tosses her head back in a cackle. The sun glints in her hair, across the satisfied smile on Mira’s mouth.

Rumi sighs.

(Definitely.)

.

The night is quiet. The bed is warm. Sleep has drifted into Rumi’s room, smudging the edges of the world until the only things still in focus are her girls on either side of her. The day had been a good one—but it is not yet over.

Rumi takes a slow, deep breath. Hums as she shifts and turns until she’s facing Zoey who had been keeping her in a loose hold.

She blinks slowly at Rumi; hovers just on the edge of sleep. Rumi nudges her head forward on the pillow until her forehead rests against Zoey’s. Boops her nose against the girl’s; laughs as Zoey goes slightly cross-eyed.

“What was your final score?” Rumi whispers… but the undercurrent of mirth is electric.

“Wuh? My final… I haven’t played my porn game yet,” Zoey murmurs, already drifting back off to sleep.

But Rumi doesn’t want Zoey sleeping just yet. She drifts a hand (consciously, this time; deliberately, this time) under the hem of Zoey’s pajama top.

Zoey’s eyes aren’t slow in their blinking anymore.

“No, silly,” Rumi teases—fingers tracing over skin.

She feels Mira shifting behind her; props up on an elbow to look over Rumi’s shoulder.

“The game you were playing with me and Mira. How many touches did you score today?”

Zoey lands on the floor with a solid thunk. “Uh, did you hear that?” she yells from the floor. Her head pops up and over the edge of the bed—eyes frantic and darting across the room. “I think the Honmoon is calling me kay thanks bye!”

Zoey makes a run for it, but…

Rumi knows her girls. She laughs, and with a quick hand, drags Zoey back into the bed. In the middle, this time.

After all, Rumi and Mira deserve a chance to even the score.

It’s only fair.