Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bus doors folded open with a metallic groan, letting in a slap of cold November air. Rumi stepped down to the wet pavement, boots skidding slightly on the slick curb, a sharp breath catching in her chest as she caught herself on the door. The bus hissed behind her before pulling away, leaving her in a thin spray of mist kicked up by its tires.

The city moved around her like a tide. College kids streamed in all directions — earbuds in, coffees clutched in gloved hands, voices raised to compete with the whine of scooters and the hum of idling rideshares. A longboard clattered past on the bricks, the rider hooded and hunched against the drizzle. Somewhere across the street, a café door opened in a gust of steam and cinnamon, a burst of laughter spilling out before it closed again.

Rumi kept her hood up and her hands buried deep in her coat pockets. She’d been here three weeks, and the energy still felt… relentless. This was a college city, yes, but also a city in its own right — too big to feel familiar, too fast to feel gentle. She hadn’t moved for the noise or the nightlife. She’d moved for the possibility that somewhere in this sprawl there might be a corner where she could breathe.

She’d found the library online two nights ago when sleep wouldn’t come. She’d been scrolling aimlessly through Google reviews, skimming for anything that sounded like comfort, when she saw it: “Feels like traveling back in time. Warm lamps, wood shelves, the quiet is magic.” Dozens of comments said the same. A few even mentioned a hidden reading nook upstairs with rain-streaked windows. That had been enough to decide.

When she finally reached it, she almost smiled.

The Central Branch stood like it had been dropped into the city from a quieter century — four stories of deep red brick, rain-darkened in streaks. Ivy clung in heavy ropes up the sides, curling into the stone frames of tall leaded windows. The front steps were wide and shallow, worn concave in the middle from decades of feet. A bronze plaque near the door read: Established 1911. Older than she’d expected. Older than most of this part of town.

She lingered at the bottom, letting a group of students with wet hair and heavy backpacks clatter down past her. Their laughter faded into the street. Only when the steps were empty again did she climb, each one carrying the faint grit of wet leaves underfoot.

The brass handle on the heavy front door was cold, almost slick. She pulled.

Warmth hit her first — the radiator kind, faintly metallic and edged with the smell of old paper and floor polish. The air inside had a weight to it, like it had been steeped in decades of stories. The lighting was low but golden, pooling under green-shaded desk lamps and sconces that traced arcs of soft light over carved wooden panels.

It was the kind of place that made you lower your voice without thinking.

Her smile was open, the kind that didn’t need coaxing. She wore a layered black cardigan over a cropped, fitted top, paired with sleek, high-waisted slacks—professional enough for the help desk, but with a stylish edge that felt entirely her. The sleeves were pushed to her elbows, revealing black-and-white vinework curling up her forearms, the lines weaving through Korean cherry blossoms, lilacs, and azaleas whose petals bloomed in soft blush and lavender tones. Her hair, a deep espresso black, fell in layered waves that brushed her collarbone, the front pieces tucked loosely behind one ear while a few strands slipped free to frame her face.

“First time in? Or did you sneak past me last week?” Rumi startled, surprised at how easily she was able to fall into the trance of this girl, forgetting the world around her.

Rumi hesitated, glancing past her toward the rows of shelves. “First time.” 

“Well, welcome. I’m Zoey.” The woman smiled — easy, open, the kind of smile that made you feel like you were already in on a joke. Rolled sleeves revealed a flash of colorful ink spiraling over her forearms. “Want me to set you up with a library card?” 

“Sure,” Rumi said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

Zoey slid the form and pen toward her, already uncapped. “Name, address, phone number. Email’s optional — we use it for hold reminders and overdue notices. Our main floor’s where people camp with laptops — there’s a coffee cart, but it’s a little louder. Quiet zone’s through those arches, strictly whispers. Archives are upstairs. That’s the really quiet space — perfect for escaping group projects or small talk.”

The pen felt warm from Zoey’s hand. Rumi filled in the blanks quickly, the scratch of ink loud in her ears. She could feel Zoey’s attention, not in a pressuring way, but like she was mentally sketching Rumi into the space.

New face. Definitely not a freshman — there was a guardedness in her shoulders that didn’t match the usual frantic wide-eyed energy of first-years. Maybe grad school? Or maybe just new in town.

Zoey glanced over the form as Rumi slid it back. Rumi Kang. The name had a rhythm she liked.

She ran the fresh card through the laminator, the heat making the edges curl before flattening smooth. “All yours,” she said, sliding it back across the counter. “Enjoy the magic.”

Rumi’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite not — before she turned toward the quiet zone.

Zoey watched her go until she passed under the carved arches, her dark coat disappearing into the amber light beyond.

The new footsteps were measured, almost cautious. Mira didn’t look right away, sliding a worn hardcover into its slot and resting her palm briefly on the spine before letting go.

“There,” she murmured to it. “Back in your cage — try not to traumatize anyone with chapter three this time.”

When she did glance through the shelf gap, a stranger’s eyes met hers — dark brown, curious, slightly wide. Mira held the gaze for a beat, then pulled the next book from her cart.

“Traumatize?” The word was out before she could stop it.

The woman — tall, bright pink hair pulled loosely back — looked at her evenly. Her eyes were a golden brown, her expression unreadable. “Only the catalog,” she said, sliding the next book into place. Her sweater sleeves fell low, half-covering her hands; the black polish on her nails was chipped.

Then she was gone, cart wheels whispering down the aisle.

Rumi blinked, unsure why her pulse felt a little quicker.

She found it at the far end of the second floor: a tucked-away staircase that seemed closed off to the public, spiking her curiosity. There weren’t any signs saying she couldn’t use the stairs, so after a brief glance left and right, she placed her palm on the cool wood banister and began to climb.

The steps creaked softly under her weight. At the top, an alcove with a railing trailed the edge of the entire library, revealing two worn leather armchairs angled toward each other, a small table between them stacked with recent returns. The wall was all window, glass streaked with rain.

As Rumi walked the railed walkway, she glanced down to see the entire library under her, each shelf and desk reduced to a miniature below. It felt — absurdly — like every book was her territory.

She sank into one of the chairs with a quiet sigh. Outside, the city blurred behind rivulets — neon signs bleeding into the wet dark, bike lights flaring briefly before disappearing.

From the table, she picked up The Secret History . She’d read it twice before, but familiarity was the point. The rhythm of the first page steadied her breathing.

Somewhere on the floor below, the book cart croaked as it moved again. Mira’s voice floated up — low, deliberate, the words half-swallowed by the space between them. Rumi couldn’t make them out, but the sound lingered in her chest like a line from a song.

On her way back from the copy room, Zoey spotted her from below, hood down now, purple hair in a braid running over and down her shoulder. Posture loose, book balanced lightly in her hands.

Good. 

She ducked into the staff lounge, poured chai into a paper cup, and carried it up the stairs. 

Halfway there, Rumi looked up and stiffened like she’d been caught stealing. “Oh–uh–am I… not supposed to be here?”

Zoey grinned, setting the cup on the side table. “It’s free,” gesturing to the steaming cup. “That chair charges rent otherwise.”

The tension in Rumi’s shoulders loosened by a fraction, though her eyes still flicked toward the staircase like she might bolt.

“Library law says you’re fine,” Zoey added, leaning in as if to share a secret. “We just don’t tell everyone about the good spots.”

Rumi blinked at her, startled but not bristling. Zoey counted that as a win and kept moving, stopping next at the returns bin. 

The steam curled against her face. She didn’t realize she was cold until now. Zoey was already gone, chatting with someone near the front desk below.

The chai was spiced and faintly sweet. She read until the words began to blur– not from boredom, but because her shoulders finally let go.

When she finally stepped outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. The streetlights had flicked on, painting the wet pavement gold. From the front desk, Zoey called after her: “See you around, new girl!”

Rumi hesitated at the top step, glancing back to meet Zoey’s eyes, her smile lighting a warmth in her that could almost be mistaken for the library’s heat still clinging to her hoodie. She let herself soak in that comfort for a moment… until her gaze shifted upward. From one story above, Mira was watching. The sight made the warmth in her chest drain and rush straight to her face, hot and unsteady. Mira didn’t smile. She simply held Rumi’s eyes, gaze unreadable, until Rumi looked away and stepped into the mist.

From the mezzanine above, Mira watched her disappear into the foggy glow of the streets.

“She sits like she’s bracing for impact,” she thought, sliding one last book into place.

“I wonder what she thinks is coming.”

Chapter Text

The door chime on the Central Branch is older than her–an honest-to-God brass bell that gives the little tchk when the door eases open and a full-bell clang if someone lets it slam. Zoey hears it in her dreams sometimes, the way bakers probably hear timers. It was her turn to open, so she’d been here before nine, flipping lamps, coaxing radiators, and doing the little rituals that keep the building from feeling like a museum. 

By ten, the library is a patchwork of small lives; the guy in the vintage windbreaker killing time while his laundry spins next door, the grad student moving a stack of loans in three-inch increments across a table as if rearranging the pile will rearrange her thesis, the retired teacher who treats the crossword puzzle in the newspaper like a daily mission.

And somewhere around ten-thirty, give or take a bus schedule, the bill gives its soft tchk and in comes the new girl.

Zoey doesn’t look up right away. It’s a game she plays with herself sometimes, to see how much of someone she can see without looking, trying to catch someone in the edge of her vision before giving it attention: a wet sleeve squeezed discretely over the radiator grate (don’t do that, please), boots wiping the stresses of a city-wide walking commute on the doormat, the tiny relief that loosens someone’s shoulders as the city hushes and the library takes over. The new girl–Rumi, she learned yesterday, doesn’t fidget. She’s careful. Her eyes map the room as if she’s checking if everything is where she left it, her brain writing her choices 4 steps ahead of her feet, always sure to not be in the way of those around her. 

Zoey stamps a due date on a loan card without looking, the corner stamping the cold wood desk as she watches Rumi angling for the arches that lead to the quiet zones. 

“Morning,” Zoey calls, keeping her voice just above the hum. “Chairs upstairs are available. But don’t forget, they do charge rent by the hour.”

Rumi pauses mid-stride, glancing back with a small, involuntary quirk of a smile. It flashes and is gone, but Zoey counts it anyway.

By eleven, Zoey has fed two of her own dollars into the ancient copier to save a sophomore from having a breakdown over double-sided printing, fished a very sticky lollipop from under a chair, and defused a territorial argument over the big round table (“There are literally six chairs, fellas, take a breath”). She spots Rumi again while rounding the main floor with a cart of newly unshelved books–hood down, shoulders a little looser, already headed for the tucked staircase at the back that most matrons miss the first few dozen times.

Zoey cannot resist. She detours.

The staff lounge gives up a paper cup of house blend when she coaxes the pump twice and smacks it once like an old vending machine. She scrawls the chair waived your rent on the lip with a pen that’s probably not intended for writing on cups, and climbs the stairs like she belongs there, which–occupational hazard–she does.

At the top, she slows, because startling people in a secret place makes even an extrovert uneasy. Rumi’s already in the chair by the window, not sunk so much as… braced, reading with the kind of concentration that pretends the world isn’t there while measuring it with peripheral vision.

Zoey sets the cup on the side table and steps back. “The chair collects late fees if you turn down free coffee.”

Rumi’s head snaps up. For a heartbeat, her eyes flick around, as if calculating everything around her. Then she exhales, almost a laugh as much as a sigh, “I’ll be prompt.”

“Excellent.” Zoey tips an invisible hat and retreats before she can push. She has a desk to run and a building to keep humming, and–if she’s honest with herself–a feeling to examine later. The feeling isn’t a crush, that’s not it. It’s… It’s the way music sounds when it’s on in another room, the bass traveling through the floor before your brain names the song. It’s the way the words aren’t crisp, but all encompassing as they echo through the hallways, vibrating through walls around you. She files that away and clatters back down the steps, paying no attention when the bell gives a tchk when a woman with a stroller nudges through the door. 

By noon, the world has come fully inside. A group of undergrads look like a sponsored ad for a study app; a delivery guy brings a box of donated paperbacks that smell like someone’s attic; the espresso machine at the coffee cart shrieks once like it’s dying, and half the patrons jump. Zoey doesn’t. She’s watching the mezzanine rail on instinct and sees a dark head lift–Rumi’s–and then lower slowly as if coaxing her pulse back to normal with her eyes on the page.

“Easy,” Zoey murmurs under her breath to no on in particular, and only then remembers that “no one in particular” is a lie here. There is always someone. In this case, there is always particular someones. That’s the point.

The city makes sense from above. Maybe it’s the angle. The mezzanine doesn’t just look down, it draws a thin, safe line around everything. From the railed walkway, the whole library is a miniature: the checkout desk is a diorama of motion, the tables are islands with little weather systems of laptops and pens, the stacks are neat, dark hedges, and the people… the people are contained. It’s easier to breathe when everything has a border.

She tells herself it isn’t hiding. She tells herself she found it–the tucked staircase, the third-floor balcony–by accident, which isn’t very true considering she read about it on reddit. She tells herself. She tells herself that she isn’t going out of her way to come here now, which is even less true.

Mira was shelving in the 384s when she noticed her. 

The aisle was half-shadow, the afternoon sun slanting through the high windows so the spins caught in uneven glints, the gold leaf of a title winking briefly among the muted rows. Rumi was curled up at the far end by the window, knees pulled up, a paperback balanced in her hands. Her hood was down today, purple hair loose around her face, eyes locked on the page in that way that made the rest of the world an afterthought. 

Mira slid a book into place, letting the dull thud blend into the quiet. She’d been narrating her shelving under her breath for months–tiny observations meant for no one but herself, or the books. It kept her from feeling like a ghost moving through the stacks. 

“This one’s basically foreplay disguised as character development,” she chuckled to the hardcover in her hands before pushing it into the gap. 

Rumi’s head snapped up. “Sorry–what?”

Mira froze, fingers still resting on the spine like she could pretend she hadn’t spoken at all. “Oh, I-Uh–,” silence. She points to the shelf, blinking awkwardly. “I was talking to the book.”

“Oh.” A pause, and Rumi looked back down at the page. “Right.”

But her ears were pink now, and Mira caught the faintest tug at the corner of her mouth, like she wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or amused. 

Mira pretended to scan the shelf, but her eyes kept drifting back. She watched Rumi’s thumb press into the paper as she turned a page, slow and deliberate, like she was savoring each line. She noticed the way her boot tapped lightly against the carpet–an absent, rhythmic thing that matched the occasional sway of her shoulder. 

She shelved another book, unnecessarily loud this time, to justify being there.

“What’re you reading?” The question came out more casual than she felt.

Rumi didn’t look up. “An old favorite.” She tapped the cover without showing it. “One of those you come back to when you don’t know what else to pick.”

Mira nodded, even though Rumi couldn’t see it. “Comfort read.

“That’s one way to put it.”

Mira caught herself smiling. She slid another book into place and stepped to the next gap in the shelf, which just so happened to bring her a few feet closer.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, but her tone lacked conviction.

Rumi’s gaze passed up then, quick and sharp, like she was measuring something about Mira before letting her eyes drop again.

Mira moved on to the next section, but she didn’t rush. She let her hand linger on each spine a little longer than necessary, listening to the faint sound of pages turning behind her, and wondering why she suddenly cared whether Rumi knew she was there.

Chapter Text

By late afternoon, the city had wrung itself out and started over. Rain found new angles–needling sideways, flattening into sheets that drummed against the library’s leaded windows. As it hit the front door, water pooled behind the door, resulting in Zoey building a dam of shop towels and a dusty jacket from the lost and found. From the third-floor balcony, Rumi watched the blur of umbrellas on the sidewalk fuse into an inky river. Inside, the lamps felt warmer for it, halos landing soft on wood and paper. 

She’d only meant to stay an hour.

It was easy to lie to herself here. Time thinned in the mezzanine, stretched between page turns and the slow sigh of the radiators. She re-read a paragraph without noticing it, then realized the sentence had already softened the edges of her breathing. The building’s sounds arranged themselves into a pattern: mouse clicks, a throat cleared, car wheels sliding, the espresso machine downstairs doing its death rattle and immediately apologizing with steam.

Thunder rolled low–so far away it might have been a train. It tugged gently at her attention and let it go. She thumbed the corner of the page, then stopped, conscious of the tiny habit she’d picked up when she was trying to keep her hands still. She set the book across her lap and pressed her palms to the cloth of her jeans until the impulse passed.

Below, Zoey crossed with a practiced confidence that made the building look like an extension of her arm. She bantered with a pair of absolutely drenched undergrads–pointed at the ancient radiator like it was a pet, then wagged a finger as if to say do not. The undergrads laugh, charmed, and hovered away. Zoey turned, glanced up–just once–and Rumi felt the quick click of being seen. Not inspected, not called out. Seen.

She looked away. 

On the second floor, Mira ghosted between stacks with a cart that rarely squeaked for her the way it did for everyone else. Rumi has started tracking the pattern; Mira would shelve in runs–seven or eight books while murmuring little verdicts–then pause at an aisle mouth and listen, as if calibrating herself to the room before moving again. The pauses felt like Rumi’s own, which made her feel uneasy and a little less alone at the same time.

The lights flickered.

Just once–an almost delicate flutter that skimmed her skin before steadying. Rumi’s fingers tightened against the book. Thunder answered close, heat in its throat now, and rain found a harder cadence on the glass.

A text buzzed in her pocket–an alert she’d forgotten she’d set. Severe Weather Advisory: Flash Flooding possible after 7 p.m. She glanced at the time and felt the small, predictable sting of having misjudged the day. Buses would be erratic. Side streets would swallow puddles the size of kiddie pools. She pictured herself soaked on the walk home, sleeves heavy, fabric clinging, and swallowed hard against the old, automatic panic that rose in on the image. It wasn’t the rain, it was the heat behind it, the way wet clothes remembered.

She folded the book closed and smoothed the cover. Down on the main floor, Zoey was propping up the soggy cloth dam as a couple exited the library, bearing the determined drops as it continued to pick up. Mira parked her cart and locked the wheels with a heel tap that looked like habit, not thought.

Another flicker. The lights steadied. The building briefly felt like a breath held, then released.

Rumi stood. Her body made the small complaints it made now when she’d been still too long–the tug along her right shoulder where the skin didn’t quite forgive her for asking more of it. She rolled the joint carefully, the practiced, invisible way, and tucked her sleeve closer down her wrist as she walked the railing.

From up here, the library’s geography made sense; desk, exits, aisles like lanes in a pool. She could trace a path without thinking. Avoid the bright table. Keep to the wall. Don’t sit where you can be boxed in. She had not planned those instructions; they had grown inside her like scar tissue.

Making her way down the dark staircase and over to the main one, she paused. Below, Zoey looked up again and lifted a hand in a small hello that asked nothing. “Hey storm chaser,” Zoey’s smile set itself at medium, the way you do for skittish animals and babies. “We’re staying open, but we might close right at seven if the power keeps flirting with us. You good?”

“Depends what ‘good’ means,” It came out drier than she meant, and Zoey’s grin edged wider like she appreciated the shape of the joke more than its content.

“Do you need the bus schedule?” Zoey asked. “Or a raft? I can probably make a raft out of discarded bookmarks.”

“I’ll manage,” Rumi tucked the book under her arm. “If I leave before it gets worse.”

Zoey opened her mouth, but glanced past Rumi, and Rumi felt the shift in the air before she turned. Mira had arrived beside them, a stack of returns balanced effortlessly on one forearm, the other hand already flicking through to find a misshelved outlier like a magician producing the wrong card on purpose. 

Rumi watched them in the same way you watch people who already speak a language you’re learning–catching the rhythm without the translation. Mira set the returns on the cart and finally looked back at Rumi, direct. “If you’re waiting out the worst of it, the mezzanine is safer than the windows on three." 

“I was going to try to beat it.” Rumi gestured vaguely at the door and the rain beyond, which had deepened into a moving curtain.

Mira’s gaze flicked to the storm like she was assessing an opponent. “You won’t.”

Zoey’s mouth opened again. The lights flickered a second time—longer now—then steadied with a soft electronic sigh from something behind the desk.

“Okay,” Zoey said. “Revised plan. We wait ten minutes. If it’s worse, we drive you.” She held up a hand before Rumi could protest. “I like rain. I also like my patrons not getting washed down University Ave like very stylish raccoons.”

Rumi had a hundred reasons to say no. They queued, orderly as books, behind her tongue. She looked from Zoey’s easy certainty to Mira’s quiet, sober read of the sky, and something in her—something that had been held at a tilt all afternoon—settled a degree.

“Ten minutes,” she said.

Mira nodded once, the tiniest concession to relief. Zoey tapped the counter twice like she’d just won a point no one else knew they were playing.

The storm pressed both palms to the windows. The library held.

By six-thirty, the rain was steady as a metronome. The patrons who hadn’t already fled were either too engrossed in their work to notice or resigned to staying until the bell. Zoey had started the quiet ritual of closing: gathering abandoned mugs from the café counter, returning rogue chairs to their tables, and making mental notes of whose umbrellas were so flimsy they might as well be decorative.

Mira reappeared from the stacks with her last cart of the night, the wheels ticking over the rug like punctuation. She set a few books aside in the “needs mending” bin, then gave the front door a glance that was almost imperceptible—almost.

“Still coming down?” Zoey asked, straightening a row of brochures.

“Harder now.” Mira unbuttoned her cardigan cuffs. “If she’s smart, she’s not walking in that.”

Zoey smirked. “She has a name, you know.”

“I’m aware.” Mira’s tone was level, but there was no real bite. She slid a stray bookmark back into place in the cup by the register, then turned to scan the floor.

Rumi was at a table by the mezzanine stairs, her book lying open beside an untouched paper cup of tea. She had that same half-braced posture Mira had noticed before, though it was softer now—less like she was preparing for impact, more like she was ready to stand if she needed to.

Zoey followed Mira’s gaze. “Go on,” she said under her breath. “Go talk to her.”

“I’m working.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

“Your accent is terrible,” Mira said, but she set the last book in place and walked toward Rumi anyway.

Rumi looked up as Mira approached, tucking a finger into her book to hold her place. “Is it bad?” she asked, tilting her head toward the rain beyond the window.

“Worse,” Mira said. “The drains on this block will flood first. The street will be ankle-deep in about twenty minutes.”

Rumi’s brows drew together. “That fast?”

Mira nodded. “The city built for charm, not function.” She let a beat pass, then added, “Zoey’s offering a ride.”

“I don’t want to—”

“It’s not charity.” Mira’s voice was even, but there was something quieter beneath it. “It’s keeping you from arriving home looking like you waded through a fountain.”

Rumi huffed a small laugh. “When you put it like that…”

Mira allowed the corner of her mouth to lift—barely. “She’ll be insufferable if you say yes. You know that?”

“That’s the point,” Zoey said, appearing with her keys already twirling on one finger. She dropped into the chair across from Rumi like she owned it. “Besides, I can’t have the library’s newest regular getting pneumonia. Bad for PR.”

“Your PR strategy is very… hands-on,” Rumi said.

“Thank you, I try.”

“She’s joking,” Mira said.

Zoey leaned back, grinning. “Am I?”

Rumi’s lips curved, but she ducked her head to hide it, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Mira caught the motion and felt that now-familiar tug of curiosity—a pull she wasn’t entirely ready to name.

By closing, the place had emptied down to a few diehards. Zoey did the final rounds, Mira locking up behind her with the practiced precision of someone who liked rules to be airtight. Rumi lingered by the desk, her book now in her bag, her hood pulled up but not cinched.

“You ready?” Zoey asked.

“Ready.”

Mira glanced between them. “I’ll get the door.”

“You’re coming?” Rumi asked.

Mira shrugged one shoulder. “It’s on my way. And I’d rather not wonder if Zoey drove you into a puddle the size of Lake Superior.”

Zoey gasped in mock offense. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.” Mira stepped into the vestibule and propped the door with her hip, the rain a silver sheet beyond. “Run for the car. Zoey parks badly.”

“I park creatively,” Zoey called.

“You park at angles I’m pretty sure violate physics,” Mira said, just loud enough for Rumi to hear.

The quick laugh Rumi let out surprised even her.

They made the dash to Zoey’s car—a battered hatchback that somehow still smelled faintly of coffee beans and lemon cleaner despite years of library use. Zoey started the engine and flipped the wipers on high; they worked like they were fighting for their lives.

“Where to?” Zoey asked, glancing at Rumi in the rearview.

Rumi gave her street name, and Mira hummed in acknowledgment from the passenger seat.

The drive was short but slow, the rain transforming the city’s bright, artificial lights into a vibrant blur against the glass. Zoey kept up a steady thread of chatter about the weirdest things people had tried to return in the book drop (“Once? A rotisserie chicken. In a bag. No note.”) and Mira occasionally corrected her details like it was a moral imperative.

When they pulled up in front of Rumi’s building, Zoey leaned over the seat. “Want me to walk you up?”

Rumi shook her head. “I’m good. Thanks for the rescue.”

“You’ll owe me,” Zoey said lightly.

“Careful,” Mira murmured. “She collects.”

Rumi smiled at them both, her hood already up again. “Noted.”

They watched her go—Zoey tapping the steering wheel in thought, Mira tracking her until the building door shut behind her. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“She’s interesting,” Zoey said finally.

Mira’s gaze stayed on the door. “Yes.”

It was the smallest admission, but in Mira’s voice, it was practically a confession.

Zoey didn’t put the car in gear right away. The rain softened against the roof, a muted hiss instead of a pounding, but it still blurred the edges of everything outside.

Mira adjusted the strap of her bag and glanced at her. “You’re stalling.”

Zoey grinned. “What, can’t I enjoy the ambiance? It’s very noir—lonely librarians in a rain-slick city.”

“You’re not lonely,” Mira said.

Zoey shot her a sidelong look. “You saying you are?”

Mira didn’t answer, which was as good as one in Zoey’s book. She shifted into reverse, easing away from the curb. The wipers squeaked in their rhythm, the streetlights catching the wet glass in a way that made every drop glow.

“You like her, don’t you?” Zoey said, casual but not careless.

Mira’s gaze stayed forward. “I don’t know her.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t dislike her.”

“Wow. Glowing review,” Zoey deadpanned. “Careful, you’ll scare her off with all that enthusiasm.”

Mira’s lips twitched—the smallest flicker of amusement. “You’re relentless.”

“Comes with the job. People skills.”

“Harassment,” Mira corrected, though it lacked bite.

They stopped at a red light. Zoey drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, watching the droplets race each other down the windshield. “She’s skittish,” she said finally. “But she shows up. That’s something.”

Mira hummed, low and noncommittal.

“You noticed it too,” Zoey pressed. “The way she checks her exits. Like she’s mapping the place.”

Mira’s fingers tightened slightly on her bag strap. “Everyone maps the place.”

“Not like that,” Zoey said, softer now.

Mira didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice was measured, like she was weighing each word. “She sits like she’s waiting for something to fall.”

The light changed. Zoey pulled forward, glancing at her. “And you’re wondering what it is.”

Mira didn’t confirm or deny. She didn’t need to—her silence said enough.

They rode the next few blocks in a comfortable lull, the city sliding by in muted colors. A couple darted across the street under a single umbrella, laughing. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded.

“You think she’ll keep coming back?” Zoey asked.

Mira’s answer was quiet, almost more to herself than to Zoey. “Yes.”

Zoey smiled at that—because with Mira, yes wasn’t a guess. It was a fact she’d decided to believe.

When they reached Mira’s block, Zoey pulled over, letting the engine idle. “You could’ve just said you like her, you know.”

Mira unbuckled her seat belt. “I said I don’t dislike her.”

“Same thing in Mira-speak.”

Mira gave her a look—a small, patient narrowing of the eyes that was somehow more affectionate than annoyed. “Goodnight, Zoey.”

Zoey lifted a hand in a lazy salute. “Night.”

Mira stepped out into the rain, her hood coming up in one fluid motion. She didn’t rush to her building; she never did. Zoey watched her go, the shape of her dark against the glowing street until she disappeared inside.

Only then did Zoey pull away, the car filling again with the soft percussion of rain and the faint smell of coffee from the thermos rolling in the cup holder. She thought about Rumi, about Mira, about how the night had felt just a little warmer than the weather allowed.

And maybe—just maybe—about the fact that she was already looking forward to tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The second floor always hummed with a polite level of life. Not bustling, but not the near-empty stillness of the upper levels either.

Mira had a cart half-filled with romance novels, moving through the aisle at her usual pace. Voices passed by now and then, fading into the background hum. She didn’t care much for this floor. Too many people moving in and out, too many stray noises cutting through the kind of quiet she liked best. But she could work the third and fourth floors without a single interruption, and she preferred it that way.

But the 600s lived here. And the 600s meant Austen, Brontë, Forster, Woolf… and all the messy aching paperbacks whose covers were full of longing. She’d never admit it to Zoey, never admit it to anyone, but she’d take on more second-floor shifts just to be near them. 

It was ridiculous, she knew, to feel this tethered to words on a page–but she related to these pages on a molecular level. They pressed something deep and immovable within her, something that felt like weightless feathers brushing the inside of her ribs and thousand-pound boulders anchoring her chest all at once. It was a contradiction of yearning–how it could both free you and pin you down. How it could feel like air rushing in, and still leave you breathless. 

She moved along the 600s, her cart rolled softly over the carpet, a third full with returns. She was sliding a well-worn copy of The Well of Loneliness into its slot when she caught movement through the narrow space above the spines. 

There she was. 

Rumi sat in one of the overstuffed armchairs by the window, one floor higher, just like she always did. The morning light poured through the glass of the tall windows, catching the cream of the pages in warm gold, her knees pulled up to her chest, posture soft but intent, leaning into the book like it had been written for her alone. 

She was framed perfectly in the gap in the shelving–like a scene half-hidden, meant to be found only by accident.

Mira’s hand slid the book home without looking at the title. She should keep moving. She had a cart to finish. 

She didn’t move.

Her eyes traced the bend of Rumi’s shoulder where the sunlight caught in the soft weave of her sweater. The slow rhythm of her page turns was unhurried, deliberate–like she wasn’t just reading the book, but letting it read her back.

Mira’s fingers lingered on the spine of the next book in her cart, unmoving. She told herself she was cataloging Rumi in the way she might catalog a text–examining lines, noting subtleties, committing details to memory for later reference. But it wasn’t academic, not really.

It was the way a small crease appeared between Rumi’s brows when she hit a moment worth lingering over, the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth when something amused her. The way her thumb stayed on the edge of the paper for a breath too long before turning it, like she was reluctant to let the moment pass.

Mira imagined what line could make her smile like that. She imagined being the one to write it.

Rumi felt it again– that weight, warm and deliberate, settling across her collarbones and the hollow of her chest. It was the kind of attention that made her ears warm, her chest feel just a little too tight in her shirt. She kept her eyes on the page, pretending the words were holding her there, but her pulse was already ahead of her.

It wasn’t the first time she’d caught Mira looking. 

Not staring exactly–at least not in a way that could be accused of it. It was softer than that. Measured. The way her gaze would land and linger for a beat too long, before returning to her work like nothing had happened. But the air between them seemed to catch every time, like the library itself was holding its breath. 

Rumi’s eyes flicked up in time to see Mira moving down the aisle, cart rolling slow, fingers ghosting over book spines as if they were something fragile. She had a way of handling books that was almost reverent—sliding them into place with a precision that felt personal. At one point, Rumi saw her pause at a worn hardcover, fingertips pressing against its edges before she lifted it, holding it close to her chest for a moment longer than necessary. Her eyes closed as she drew in a deep, quiet breath, as if taking something from the book into herself, before letting it out in a soft sigh and returning the volume to its spot on the shelf.

Rumi tilted her head, curious. Whatever book it was, it meant something. She told herself she’d find it later.

The library moved on around her—the muffled hiss of passing traffic slipping through the windows, the faint creak of settling beams overhead, a low murmur from the reference desk drifting up like background music. Minutes pooled and spilled away, carrying them both forward.

Her gaze drifted back to Mira just as their eyes met.

The contact was sudden–Mira bent toward the middle shelf, checking a spine, her face framed by the edges of the books. Rumi blinked, caught, and Mira’s eye widened just slightly before she jerked up too quickly.

The hollow thud of her head against the wooden shelf made Rumi flinch. A muffled curse followed, and a couple of books tumbled from the upper shelf, landing in a soft but unmistakable thump against the carpet.

Rumi’s mouth opened–half an instinct to get up and help–but she stayed rooted in her seat on the upper floor, frozen in the awkward secondhand embarrassment of it. Her cheeks burned hot. Mira was already crouching, scooping up the fallen books with fast, efficient movements, her hair curtaining her face. 

From the far end of the aisle, Zoey’s head poked around the corner, eyebrows lifted at the noise. She took in the scene, Mira gathering the books, the flush of her cheeks matching the hue of her hair, the brief glance upward that betrayed the fact that she’d been seen–and then her gaze traveled upward to Rumi.

Rumi could feel it, the way Zoey clocked her too, sitting there with the kind of wide-eyed, half-smiling look that gave her away immediately. 

Zoey’s brows drew together for a beat–like she was filing this sight away–before she ducked back out of sight. Mira, books in hand, slipped into the stacks without another word.

By the time the sun began pooling into long beams, Rumi had nearly convinced herself that she had imagined the whole thing. She was tucked into a different chair now, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders, absentmindedly thumbing over the cover of a book she had pulled earlier.

Then she looked up–and there was Mira, across the room at another shelf, straightening a row of mystery thrillers that had fallen over. 

Their eyes caught again.

This time, neither one of them looked away. The space between them folded in on itself, the thirty or forty feet shrinking to something that felt like inches. There was no surprise in Mira’s gaze this time–just a steady weight, warm and unhurried, as if she could stay there for hours. 

Rumi smiled first, small but real, and looked back down, biting the inside of her cheek to hide it. She eased the book cover open and stilled.

The spine still wore the memory of where Mira’s fingers had been, the cover holding a faint, impossible warmth, like it remembered being held. Inside, a library card was tucked into the pocket. Three dates were stamped on it, all within the last year. And the borrower’s name, written in Mira’s precise script, was there each time.

She lingered, eyes tracing each letter, her fingertips brushing lightly over the ink as if the curve of Mira’s handwriting might hold some trace of her. The sensation was nothing, and yet it felt like contact, like a thread running between them. She let her hand rest there a moment longer, as if anchoring it—like it was part of the story she held in her hands.

Chapter Text

As Zoey slides down the railing of the stairs between the first and second floor, she could be heard mumbling to herself.

“There are three rules to getting reluctant people to trivia night: ONE, don’t call it “trivia night.” Call it “low-stakes bragging with fries.” TWO, Never say “team-building.” Threaten them with it. And the THREE, arguably the most important one of them all, bribe them with the good booth.”

“I already said I’m not–,” Mira began, which is how Zoey knew she’d say yes.

“You are,” Zoey quickly replied, flipping the CLOSED sign to the door at exactly seven and shaking the rings of keys like there was a bell. “And anyways, Rumi’s coming.”

That got the smallest glint in Mira’s expression. Not quite a flinch. Not quite a smile. The rare look of someone whose inner monologue has forgotten to lock the door.

“Rumi,” she repeated, as if testing the feel of the name.

“She promised to bring her brain. You’re bringing your unflappable calm and tendency to remember useless nineteenth-century facts. I’m bringing… I don’t know, chaotic energy and a coupon.”

“A coupon,” Mira said, dry.

“For nachos. Life’s short.”

Rumi turned up five minutes later at the front steps, hood damp from mist, cheeks pink from the walk. “Is it really team-building?” she asked, suspicious.

“God, no,” Zoey chuckled. “We don’t even have a team name.”

Zoey had been plotting this for days. Trivia night at The Rusted Bell was her turf—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, a bartender who knew her drink before she asked, and the perfect setting to get Mira and Rumi out of the library and into an actual conversation that wasn’t punctuated by the hiss of the book cart brakes.

She claimed the booth near the back before the evening rush hit. Mira trailed in after Zoey and Rumi, hood up despite being indoors, a hand shoved into her pocket as if she’d been dragged here against her will.

“You look thrilled,” Zoey said.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mira deadpanned, sliding into the booth across from her.

“Look, if Rumi here can show up, you can too. And look! A miracle of miracles, not holding a book in her hand!” 

Rumi rolled her eyes but grinned. “It’s in my bag.”

“That’s growth,” Zoey said, leaning her elbow on the table. “You practically work at the library with how much time you spend there. I’m half expecting you to start shelving books for free.”

“She already reshelves things sometimes,” Mira said, a faint smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Rumi shot her a look. “Only when people put them back wrong. It’s self-defense.”

The first round started with easy questions. Capitals. Movie quotes. Zoey played quizmaster, tossing guesses back and forth with them, teasing Mira for how quickly she dismissed any answer she didn’t personally approve of, nudging Rumi when she got something right before the timer buzzed.

By the third round, the three of them had settled into a rhythm — Mira leaning forward just enough to be part of the banter, Rumi laughing more freely, Zoey letting herself enjoy the small victories of seeing them loosen up.

Then came the question.

“How many species of turtles are there in the world?” the host read.

Zoey shot up so fast the table tipped a little.

She smacked her palm against the table hard enough to send their drinks sloshing. “Clarification question!” she yelled toward the stage.

Both Mira and Rumi caught her by the sleeves before she could take down the whole table.

Zoey raised a finger like she was addressing the UN. “Does this include tortoises and freshwater turtles, or is this a specific type of Testudines?”

The room went quiet for a beat.

And then Mira snorted. Actually snorted. Rumi folded over the table, laughing so hard she had to cover her face.

Zoey sat back down, smug. “What? It’s important.”

“Sure,” Mira said, trying–and failing– to straighten her expression.

By the end of the night, they didn’t win, but Zoey called it a success anyway. Mira lingered outside the bar only long enough to say a quick goodnight before heading in the opposite direction.

“I’ll walk you home,” Zoey told Rumi, like it was already decided. 

They left The Rusted Bell with the kind of easy warmth that trivia night and too many new inside jokes could build. The streets were damp from the earlier drizzle, puddles catching the reflection of the neon signs behind them.

Zoey shoved her hands into her coat pockets and tilted her head toward the longer route. “Let’s take the scenic way. Less traffic.” 

The long way back included winding through quieter side streets strung with the last of the winter lights. The detour meant more time together, but it also meant the wind had teeth.

Rumi pulled her coat tighter, shoulders bunching against a sharp gust.

“You cold?” Zoey asked, already knowing the answer.

Rumi shot her a flat look. “You’re the one who insisted on the scenic route.”

“Guilty.” Zoey slowed her pace, then unwound her scarf from her neck. “Here. Before you start blaming me for frostbite.”

Rumi hesitated, but Zoey didn’t give her much choice. She stepped closer, looping the scarf gently around her neck, brushing stray strands of hair behind Rumi’s ear.

The wool was still warm from Zoey’s skin, and it carried her perfume–soft orange blossom layered with the faint sweetness of jasmine, brightened by a thread of citrus. Rumi inhaled before she could stop herself, the scent settling in her chest like a secret.

Zoey slung an arm around her shoulders as they started walking again, pulling her close in a way that was casual enough to be safe, but warm enough to make Rumi’s pulse skip.

They kept talking, the space between them nonexistent now. At one point, Rumi broke into a pitch-perfect impression of Zoey’s trivia outburst– “Clarification question! Does this include tortoises–”, complete with the finger in the air.

Zoey groaned. “You’re evil.”

“You’re the one who knew the number of turtle species off the top of your head.”

“Three hundred sixty-seven,” Zoey corrected under her breath, then cursed herself for proving Rumi’s point.

The rest of the walk was a slow burn she couldn’t shake. Every time their shoulders brushed, a fresh spark shot straight through her. The night air bit at her cheeks, but it only seemed to sharpen the edges of Rumi’s presence — the swing of her stride, the faint scent of her perfume when the wind shifted, the way her breath came out in little clouds she wanted to catch in her hands. It was maddening, this mix of restraint and want, each step pulling her closer to the point where she’d have to pull herself together, or leave her cravings for another night.

By the time they reached the narrow brick stairwell outside Rumi’s building, Zoey’s pulse was a mess. The cold clung to her skin, sharp and insistent, but the heat pooling low in her stomach kept her from shivering. She could have ended the night with a casual “see you,” but she hadn’t taken the scenic route for nothing.

Rumi climbed the steps ahead of her, the amber streetlight catching the line of her jaw, painting her skin in soft gold. She turned on the landing, cheeks flushed from the cold, her breath a pale ribbon in the night air.

Zoey took the steps in three long strides and continued until they were almost chest to chest.

She stopped there, close enough to feel the faint brush of Rumi’s breath against her mouth. Neither moved at first–the air between them heavy, both breathing like they’d just been running. Zoey’s eyes caught Rumi’s and held them, flicking down to her lips before returning to her gaze. Rumi mirrored her, her own focus dragging over Zoey’s freckles, across her jaw, her mouth, her eyes, her mouth again.

Zoey’s fists clenched at her sides. She thought–hoped–Rumi might close the gap. She didn’t.

So Zoey lifted a hand, slow, deliberate, her index finger under Rumi’s chin, tilting it up just enough that there was no mistaking her intent.

“I’m sorry if I’m reading this wrong,” she murmured, voice low and thick, “but if you’re okay with this… I’m gonna kiss you now.”

Rumi’s eyes widened, curiosity sparking–but she didn’t move away.

Zoey kissed her. 

It started soft, the press of lips testing the space between them, but heat bloomed fast. Rumi answered in kind, pushing forward, her hands sliding under Zoey’s coat to find the thin cotton of her shirt. Zoey whimpered, the chill of the air hitting her chest almost as hard as her heartbeat. Almost. Zoey groaned at the feeling of her own palm exploring the small of Rumi’s back, pulling her in.

The cold disappeared.

Rumi tasted like fruity chapstick warmed over with gin, a mix that made Zoey’s head light. Their bodies pressed together, Zoey’s thigh slotted between Rumi’s just enough to feel the subtle shift of her hips. Rumi’s hands wandered down Zoey’s back, gripping briefly, then back up to fist lightly in the fabric of her shoulders.

Zoey deepened the kiss, coaxing Rumi’s mouth open, catching the soft, shaky exhale that followed. She wanted more–God, she wanted more. The urge to push her against the wall and take until neither of them could think. Her hand slid lower on Rumi’s waist, her coat calling open in the movement.

Rumi pressed closer, the heat of her body bleeding through every layer, and Zoey’s knees nearly buckled.

It would be so easy to keep going.

Too easy.

Her thumb slipped just under the hem of Rumi’s hoodie–and instantly, Rumi broke the kiss, her breath catching. Zoey stilled, forehead resting against hers, the sudden cool air between their mouths feeling sharper than it should. She didn’t know what made Rumi pause, but the last thing she wanted to do was push.

Slowly, Zoey eased her hand back up, letting her thumb trace lazy, grounding circles over the fabric instead, right where she’d been moments before. Close, but with asking for more than Rumi wanted to give.

“We should…” she started, her voice rough. “We should save some of that. I want to… I want to do this right.”

Rumi’s smile was small, her lips still parted. “Then you’d better make sure there’s a next time.”

Zoey grinned, finally stepping back–but only far enough to let the cold slip in. “Count on it.”

Chapter Text

The brush of a thumb shouldn’t linger like this.

It shouldn’t still make her pulse skip hours later.

But lying in bed that night, hoodie bunched up under her chin, Rumi could still feel where Zoey’s hand had been–warm through the layers, circling her hip slow and steady. The part of her that wanted to sink into it, to just… let someone touch her like that, was louder than she’d ever admit.

And yet, when Zoey’s thumb had slipped beneath the hem–even for that half second–it had been like a trapdoor opening under her.

Her body still remembered what waited there.

It had been just over a year ago, living in a one-bedroom at the frayed edge of the city. Rent was cheap because the landlord never fixed anything unless you threatened legal action, and the building smelled faintly of mildew no matter the season. But it was hers. A little island she’d filled with wobbly stacks of secondhand books, thrift store mugs, and the light green curtains she’d sewn herself.

That night was one of the quiet ones. She’d made chamomile tea, tucked herself into the couch with a blanket, a book open in her lap. The TV played some documentary about migratory birds at a low volume–just enough to fill the silence without competing with the words on the page. The radiator hissed. Outside, traffic rolled by in waves.

The first sound didn’t register as danger. Just a muffled thump from somewhere down the hall. But then came the shouting. Urgent. Scattered footsteps pounding past her door.

She opened it halfway, already asking, “What’s going on–?” when the smell hit her. Smoke, faint but sharp, curled down the hallway like it was testing the air.

“Fire!” someone shouted from the stairwell. “Get out!”

Her brain told her to listen — to grab her keys, her wallet, get the hell out — but she froze in the doorway, listening.

That’s when she heard it.

A thin, high cry.

It was coming from two doors down. Apartment 3B. Mrs. Alvarado’s place. The older woman had a bad hip, walked slowly, even on good days. But it wasn’t her voice — it was a child’s. Mrs. Alvarado lived there with her grandson, Nico. The door was closed.

Rumi’s pulse shot sharp through her chest. She shouted, “Mrs. Alvarado?” Nothing. Just another quick, breathless cry.

She ran to the door and tried the knob — locked.

“Shit.” She pounded her fist against the wood. “It’s Rumi! Are you in there?”

No answer.

The smoke was thicker now, curling dark under the overhead lights. Heat pricked against her skin from somewhere deeper in the building.

She should leave. She should go.

Instead, she stepped back and kicked the door hard. Once. Twice. A splinter cracked near the lock. The third kick sent it swinging inward, banging the wall.

The apartment was worse.

Smoke hung low and heavy, and the heat was coming from the kitchen, a dull red glow visible through the haze. She could hear something popping, maybe glass, maybe wood, and the air tasted metallic, bitter.

“Nico?” she called, voice already rasping.

The sound came again, from the bedroom. She found him curled on the bed, still in his pajamas, clutching a blanket so tightly it looked like his knuckles might split. His eyes were wet and huge.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” she said, crouching low.

He didn’t move, so she scooped him up, blanket and all, tucking his face into her shoulder like she could shield him from everything. Her chest was already aching with the effort to breathe, but she headed for the door.

The hallway back to her apartment felt like it had doubled in length. Smoke clawed at her throat. She kept low, one arm wrapped tight around him.

Halfway down the hall, the ceiling above groaned — a long, bending sound that made her stomach drop.

Then it gave way.

A section of plaster and beam crashed down nearby, and with it came a blast of heat so intense it felt like the air itself caught fire. She turned instinctively, trying to shield Nico. Pain tore down her left side, from her ribs to her forearm, hot and sharp and absolute.

She almost stumbled, but the weight of him kept her moving. One step. Another. The stairwell was a blur of shadows and orange light.

Somebody grabbed her free arm — a firefighter, shouting something she didn’t hear. The night air outside was like a slap, cold and wet compared to the heat that clung to her.

Nico was pulled from her arms. Someone else steered her toward the back of an ambulance, talking fast. She looked down at herself — her sleeve was blackened, sticking to her skin, and under it the angry, blistering red made her stomach turn.

Then the pain hit all at once, stealing her breath.

The rest was a haze.

Someone shouted for oxygen, for a stretcher, the words jagged and sharp but somehow far away, like they were cutting through water. The edges of her vision wavered, black creeping in from the corners until the world felt like it was closing in on a pinhole. Voices overlapped and blurred, the rise and fall of them losing all shape.

Her body swayed in the EMT’s grip, weightless and heavy all at once, her knees folding without permission. Every nerve seemed to be screaming and fading at the same time. She fought to keep her eyes open, to hold onto something solid, but all she could find was the heat radiating from her burns and the dizzy pull of the smoke still trapped in her lungs.

She dragged in one last breath — thick with ash, tasting like metal and burned fabric — and felt it scrape all the way down. The noise around her thinned to a single, hollow rush in her ears. And then, as if someone had pulled a plug, everything drained away. The pain, the light, the voices. Gone.

When Rumi woke, it was to a light too bright to belong to anywhere but a hospital. Her throat was raw, every swallow thick with the taste of metal and ash. An oxygen cannula pinched her nose. Somewhere beyond the curtain, a monitor beeped in slow, steady intervals, far calmer than the way her chest rose and fell.

She tried to move, but her body resisted — not from restraint, but from pain.
A fire had been lit beneath her skin and left to burn itself out.

Her right arm was wrapped from wrist to shoulder in thick, white gauze, the bulk of it stiff where it crossed her elbow. Beneath, she could feel the pull — the tight, foreign tug of skin that wasn’t skin anymore. Her ribs were bound, too, the dressing peeking from the gap in the hospital gown, trailing up toward her collarbone. The air on that exposed inch stung in a way that made her grit her teeth.

The memories broke through in flashes: Nico’s weight in her arms, the heat closing in, the smell of melting plastic and something darker, more final.
The way the smoke had felt heavier than air.

Someone had saved her — that much was clear — but not all of her had made it out unscathed. She flexed her fingers, slow and uncertain, and even that small movement sent an ache rolling through her arm. She caught a glimpse of herself in the dark square of the TV screen above her bed — hair matted, soot streaking what skin was visible. Her right cheek was clean, scrubbed by hospital staff, but the rest of her looked… like someone she didn’t recognize.

A nurse entered quietly, glancing at the monitor before meeting her eyes. “Deep partial and full-thickness burns,” she said gently, as if Rumi might not already feel it in her bones. “You’re lucky we got to you when we did.”

Lucky.

Rumi didn’t feel lucky. She felt like someone had taken the map of her body and rewritten it in scars she would never be able to erase.

The recovery was worse than the fire.

Pain came in waves, relentless as the tide — sharper during the daily dressing changes, duller but no less present in the in-between. The smell of the ointments, antiseptic and cloying, followed her everywhere. Even when she closed her eyes, it clung to her, a reminder that her body was still a battlefield.

The nightmares began immediately. At first, they came every night, her mind replaying the moment the smoke swallowed the light. Sometimes Nico was still in her arms, his face wet with tears; other times, she turned and realized she hadn’t found him at all. She’d wake tangled in the sheets, breath locked in her chest, her skin prickling with the remembered heat. Over time, they came less often — maybe once every few weeks — but when they did, they were sharper, crueler, more real. The flames smelled real. The air burned real. They coated her in horror that lingered even after she opened her eyes.

Her shame took root slowly. At first, it was about not having done more — not having saved more. That shame hollowed her out, made her stare at the ceiling in the hospital’s dim hours, hearing phantom sirens and wondering if someone else’s story had ended because she hadn’t been fast enough. Then, as the skin grafts settled and the healing began, the shame shifted. It became about her body — the way the new skin shone in unnatural patches, the way it puckered at the edges.

She stopped wearing anything that didn’t cover her arms or collarbone. Long sleeves, hoodies, sweaters, even in the heat. She told herself it was for comfort, but really, it was armor. The idea of someone’s gaze catching on the pale, uneven lines made her throat tighten.

And with the shame came the habits — small at first, then unavoidable. She couldn’t sit in a room without knowing exactly where every exit was. In restaurants, she chose seats with a clear view of the door. In grocery stores, she mapped the quickest path to the loading dock in her head. At night, when she lay in bed, she’d imagine a fire starting in the hallway and work out exactly how she’d get out before the ceiling came down.

It made her feel crazy sometimes — but the one time she ignored it, in a crowded café where the only visible exit was behind her, she felt her pulse climb so high she had to leave before her coffee even arrived.

As the months passed, she withdrew further. She only went out when she had to — grocery runs, doctor’s appointments — and even then, the world outside felt sharp-edged. Sirens from the street below her new apartment sliced through her like they were made of glass. Shouting in the alley startled her so badly she once dropped a mug, watching it shatter on the kitchen tile with her heart racing as if she’d been back in the stairwell again.

It was lonely. Suffocatingly so. But solitude felt safer than explaining herself.

Eventually, her old city began to feel like one long shadow — the building, the people who still asked about it, the places she couldn’t walk past without tasting smoke. She found herself studying listings in other cities, picking places not for their charm but for their floor plans, their stairwell placement, the number of exits in the building.

When she saw the ad for the little apartment in a sleepy college city, something in her clicked. It had a wide fire escape right outside the bedroom window, and the street it faced was open, with no tall buildings boxing it in. A place she could breathe.

So she packed what she could carry, told the few people she still spoke to that she needed a change, and left.

Chapter Text

Zoey slid a book into place and glanced across the aisle, where Mira was kneeling to shelve the bottom row.

“You know, one of these days you’re gonna need knee pads,” Zoey called over the shelf.

Without missing a beat, Mira said, “One of these days you’re gonna learn to alphabetize.”

Zoey grinned at the top of Mira’s head, the words hitting her with that comfortable little spark they always did.

This was how it had been almost since the day she started here — trading jabs, tossing lines back and forth until their shifts were gone before she knew it. Half the time she didn’t even remember what they talked about, just the way it felt .

And lately… it felt dangerous.

The thing was, she’d liked Mira for months. Maybe longer. That dry wit, the way she could undercut Zoey with a single eyebrow raise, the quiet competence that could silence an entire chaotic workday. She’d gotten used to thinking of it as harmless — the kind of low-simmer crush you could tuck in your back pocket and take out at 2 a.m. when you couldn’t sleep.

She’d convinced herself it was better that way. If she never said anything, never tested the waters, then she couldn’t ruin what they had. Couldn’t lose the banter that sometimes felt like flirting, but maybe wasn’t.

And if it wasn’t? She didn’t want to know.

So she’d taken the safe option: keep it fun, keep it light, live in the limbo. Even if it meant the occasional pang when Mira laughed at something and Zoey had to bite back the urge to just… touch her.

It had been working. Mostly.

Until Saturday night. Until Rumi.

Now it was harder to keep her head where it needed to be.

Zoey shoved another book onto the shelf, slower than usual. She told herself if she just focused on the titles in front of her and didn’t think about the way Rumi’s hand had brushed hers more than once on the walk home, or the kiss on the steps, then nothing had to change.

They could shelve, banter, clock out, and grab food like always.

She slid a book into place, and from the next aisle Mira’s voice drifted over, dry and precise: “You’re working at a snail’s pace.”

Zoey smirked. “I’m savoring the process. You should try it sometime.”

“That explains why you’ve been on the same shelf for ten minutes,” Mira countered.

“Quality over speed,” Zoey said, leaning just far enough to catch the faint quirk at the corner of Mira’s mouth.

Mira made a soft sound — not quite a laugh, but close. “That’s a bold interpretation of a factual statement.”

Zoey smiled to herself. God, she lived for that.

The aisle went quiet again, except for the soft thunk of books finding their spots. She tried to pick up the pace, but her hands weren’t listening to her brain.

Mira straightened a moment later, a book in each hand, and caught her looking. Noticing. That subtle crease between her brows deepened, just a fraction. “You’re quiet,” she said.

Zoey reached for the next slot on the shelf. “Nah. Just… thinking about something.”

“What?” Mira’s voice was mild, but there was that low thrum under it — the one that made Zoey’s pulse pick up, even when it wasn’t aimed at her.

Zoey reached for a book on the cart — and at the same time, Mira’s hand came up automatically, her eyes still scanning spines.

Their fingers collided over the cover.

Neither pulled away right away.

It wasn’t a jolt, not exactly, but something warm fizzed through Zoey’s chest, sinking deep and slow. Mira glanced over, her expression unreadable but her eyes softer than they should’ve been. Softer than Zoey could handle right now.

And that was the problem — because a few nights ago she’d had Rumi’s breath in the cold night, the press of her mouth, the taste of gin and chapstick. And now she was here, her fingers brushing Mira’s, with the knowledge she liked them both sitting heavy in her chest.

It was dizzying.

She couldn’t tell if Mira was looking at her like that because she felt something too, or because they’d been friends long enough that this was just how it was. That uncertainty was part of why she’d never said anything. Why she’d rather ache quietly than risk what they had.

But she’d already crossed a line with Rumi, and keeping that to herself now felt wrong.

Her stomach tightened.

“Mira,” she started, and it was already too late to reel it back, “I should tell you something.”

Mira didn’t speak — just tilted her head slightly, giving Zoey the space to fill the air.

She should’ve lied. Should’ve said she was thinking about lunch, or how the guy in biographies had returned the same book three times. But instead, she hesitated, and that hesitation was all it took for Mira’s gaze to sharpen.

Zoey’s words came out clumsy, tripping over each other. “I kissed Rumi. After trivia night. It wasn’t planned, it just… happened. And I didn’t want to pretend it didn’t. I didn’t want you finding out from her, or from— I don’t know. Anyone else.”

Mira blinked once. Her expression didn’t shift much, but her eyes flickered with something sharp and unreadable.

Zoey kept talking, trying to make it better and probably making it worse. “It’s not about leaving you out, or trying to— It’s just… I like spending time with her. With both of you. And in the moment it just felt—” She cut herself off before she could say right .

Mira’s hands were steady on the book she was holding, but her knuckles were pale. “Okay,” she said finally.

“Okay?” Zoey echoed.

“Yeah. Noted.”

Her voice wasn’t cold, but it had an edge that made Zoey’s chest pinch. Zoey could see the shine of Mira’s eyes increase, the rise and fall of her chest increasing in speed. Mira turned back to the shelf, slid the book in with more force than necessary, and said, “I need to go grab something from upstairs.”

Before Zoey could say another word, she was gone, her footsteps measured but fast.

Zoey’s voice was still in the air when Mira felt it — that sudden, sharp pressure behind her eyes. She blinked once, slow, hoping it would go away, but the burn only deepened. A knot was forming in her throat, thick enough to make speaking impossible.

She didn’t want Zoey to see it.

Didn’t want her to see the way her composure had slipped, just enough for the heat in her chest to threaten spilling out in words she couldn’t take back.

So she kept her face neutral, forcing her voice into something flat, controlled. “I need to go grab something from upstairs.”

Her fingers tightened on the spine of the book she’d been holding. She slid it into place a little too hard, then turned before Zoey could say anything else — before she could see the tears starting to gloss Mira’s eyes.

Mira didn’t rush up the stairs, but every step felt sharper than it needed to be. She kept her hands at her sides, fingers flexing once, twice, like she could shake off the way Zoey’s words were still echoing.

I kissed Rumi.

It landed like a double hit, sharp in two places at once.

She was jealous — and not for just one reason.

Part of her ached because she’d been feeling this low, tentative pull toward Rumi ever since she walked in the library doors that misty day. The kind of interest she wasn’t used to, all wrapped in curiosity and those moments of unexpected softness Rumi let slip between guarded edges. She’d been thinking about her more than she cared to admit, wondering what it would be like to close the distance between them herself.

And then there was Zoey.

Zoey, with the easy grin and the quick comebacks, the one person Mira had let herself settle into without labels. They’d danced around a certain kind of closeness for more than a year — just enough to make her wonder, never enough to risk saying out loud. And now someone else had crossed a line she’d quietly kept in place, and it wasn’t her.

She pushed through the staffroom door, shut it behind her, and braced her palms on the table. The quiet here was different. No hum of patrons, no shuffling of books. Just her own breathing, too shallow.

It was ridiculous. She and Zoey had never been that , not officially, not in any way that could be called a claim. And she’d known Rumi for less than a month. But jealousy didn’t care about timelines. It burned anyway.

She let her head drop forward, pressing her fingers to her temples. The tightness in her chest refused to ease.

The truth was, she’d noticed the shift between Zoey and Rumi a few days before trivia night — the glances, the lingering tone in their conversations. She’d told herself it was nothing. But now it wasn’t hypothetical, and it made her feel like she’d been left out of some unspoken choice.

Jealous because it wasn’t her kissing Rumi.
Jealous because it wasn’t her kissing Zoey.

And maybe most of all, jealous because, in some deep and selfish corner of herself, she wanted both.

She straightened, drew in a slow breath. She could go back down there in a minute, could look Zoey in the eye and keep her voice even. Pretend this was just a blip. But the hairline fracture running through whatever they’d built wasn’t going to vanish just because she decided not to see it.

Mira came back down a few minutes later, her hair a little mussed like she’d run a hand through it, her expression smoothed into something unreadable.

Zoey was halfway through shelving a cart in the next aisle but straightened when she saw her. “Hey,” she said quietly.

Mira gave a nod, grabbed a stack of books, and stepped past her without meeting her eyes for long.

That tiny skip in their usual rhythm made Zoey’s stomach knot.

“Listen—” She followed a step, lowering her voice. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I wasn’t trying to—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “If it bothered you, it won’t happen again.”

Mira paused just long enough to slide a book into place, her hand steady. “You don’t owe me anything,” she said, voice even.

But Zoey heard it — the careful choice of words, the way “owe” landed heavier than it should.

“I just—” Zoey took a breath, frustration curling under her ribs. “I don’t want this to mess up… us. I care about you, Mira. A lot. And if I made things weird, I’m sorry. Really.” The urge to fix it buzzed under her skin, pushing her words out faster than she could edit them. “You’re important to me. I don’t want to lose what we have over… over me being impulsive.”

Mira’s mouth twitched, almost like she wanted to say something, but she only gave a small shake of her head. “You didn’t lose me,” she said. Then, quieter, “We’re fine.”

Fine.

Zoey hated that word. It sounded like a locked door.

She wanted to believe her, but the shift was there — subtle, but impossible to miss. The easy air between them was tighter now, Mira’s focus pinned on the shelves instead of Zoey’s face. She wasn’t snapping, wasn’t cold, but she was… elsewhere.

Zoey lingered for another beat, wanting to bridge the gap — to say something, anything, that would smooth it over. But Mira’s posture didn’t invite it.
So Zoey stepped back. “I’ll… go cover the desk for a bit,” she murmured.

Mira gave a short nod without turning around.

As Zoey walked away, she felt the space between them stretch and settle — not broken, but altered, and heavier than she wanted to admit.

Chapter Text

The library was warm in that late-afternoon way and Rumi had gotten used to that rhythm — the hum of the lights, the faint tap of a keyboard somewhere, the quiet rustle of Mira moving through the stacks.

Usually, it was grounding.

Today, it wasn’t.

Rumi noticed it the moment she stepped inside. The afternoon light draped itself across the carpet, catching dust motes in the air, but the usual quiet had a weight to it, as if it were pressing down on her shoulders. She spotted Mira at the circulation desk, checking in returns with her usual precision.

Usually, the sight settled something in her. Today, it just made her hesitate.

Mira’s hair was pinned up the way Rumi liked–a few loose strands framing her face in a way that made her look almost soft, except her posture was tense—shoulders slightly hunched, head bent, eyes fixed on the task in front of her. Rumi wondered if Mira had even noticed her come in.

She crossed the room anyway, adjusting the small stack of books in her arms. “Slow day?” she asked lightly, setting the top book on the counter. Her sleeve brushed Mira’s hand, just barely.

Mira didn’t look up. “Steady.” The word was flat, clipped, as if it had been trimmed of anything that could resemble warmth.

Rumi blinked, caught off guard. She tried again, searching for something familiar between them. “I was gonna raid the new poetry display before anyone else does. Pretty sure half the city’s already called dibs.”

That got her the faintest flick of Mira’s eyes — a look, but not quite a connection. “You and Zoey seem to get first pick lately,” she said, casual in a way that didn’t feel casual at all.

Rumi’s stomach tightened. The phrasing wasn’t loaded enough to accuse, but it landed with a quiet precision that made her skin prickle.

She tried to read Mira’s expression, but Mira was already sliding the book through the scanner, her movements calm and methodical.

“I—guess we’ve just been lucky,” Rumi managed. The words felt clumsy in her mouth.

Mira hummed — noncommittal, not agreeing, not disagreeing — and stacked the book aside for reshelving. She didn’t add anything else.

Rumi stayed planted for a second too long, watching Mira’s hands work, waiting for the dry, amused line that usually followed a moment like this. It didn’t come.

Her pulse was a little too quick now. She stepped back from the counter, shifting her stack against her hip. “I’ll be over in the corner,” she said, aiming for breezy but hearing the tightness in her own voice.

Mira only nodded.

It was such a small thing — an edge to a word here, a lack of one there — but it left Rumi feeling off-balance. She crossed the reading room to her usual chair, sat, and tried to focus on her book. She read the same sentence three times without processing it.

Her chest felt tight. The sunlight streaming across the carpet seemed sharper than usual, the hum of the lights too loud in her ears.

She closed the book. Maybe a quick walk would help, just a loop around the block to shake off the heaviness pressing in on her ribs. Anything to clear the buzzing from her head and the heat from her cheeks.

She stood, set the book on the arm of the chair, and headed for the door without looking back.

The air outside was cool enough to sting her lungs a little, and Rumi welcomed it. The street smelled faintly of coffee and damp pavement, and for a moment she let herself drift with the tide of passersby, pretending she wasn’t carrying the weight of Mira’s voice in her chest.

She replayed the exchange — the way Mira hadn’t looked up, the softness scraped out of her tone. That offhand comment about her and Zoey. It had been nothing, technically. Just words. But it felt like the tip of something sharper, something she didn’t know how to name.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it was ridiculous to feel bruised over one conversation, especially with someone who could be as guarded as Mira on a good day. And yet… she’d grown used to Mira’s dry banter, the unspoken ease that always seemed to hum under the surface between them. Losing even a sliver of that felt like losing oxygen.

Her steps carried her past the little florist on the corner, the one with buckets of lilies spilling onto the sidewalk. She almost kept going — almost let herself get lost in the blocks beyond — but then the thought hit her.

Her stuff.

The canvas tote she’d left tucked under her chair. The travel mug. And the stack of books waiting for her—books she’d been looking forward to all week. A couple of essay collections, a memoir, and one on the psychology of desire in non-monogamous relationships.

She stopped mid-step, exhaling sharply. If she left everything, they might disappear into someone else’s hands before she got back.

Turning on her heel, she started back toward the library, the knot in her chest tightening with every step.

Rumi wasn’t there when Mira passed the mezzanine an hour later. Her chair in the reading nook sat empty, her chipped blue mug cooling on the side table. Beside it, a neat but teetering stack of books waited—six of them, all in that same vein of human connection and identity that Rumi seemed drawn to lately. Mira glanced around the quiet floor, then bent to pick up the stack and shuffled to the cart she was working on, placing it on the bottom rack for her to get later. 

Back at the side table, the tea had gone cold, the ceramic still warm from her palm alone. The tote was heavier than it looked, the straps worn soft. She debated leaving it there—Rumi would be back, probably—but the thought of someone rifling through it made her stomach tighten. Without thinking too hard about it, she carried it to the staff room and tucked it onto the middle shelf of her locker. The mug went beside it, angled so it wouldn’t slide if the door got bumped.

She locked it, hesitated, then winced at herself. Putting Rumi’s things in her locker felt… personal. Like she’d claimed them somehow. That wasn’t the intent—she just didn’t trust leaving them out.

Still, the longer she stood there, the more it felt like she’d done something she couldn’t quite explain. Something that didn’t help the twisting in her chest since this morning, since that weird, stiff conversation they’d had in the stacks.

Mira exhaled through her nose, shaking her head at herself, and turned back toward the floor. She’d find Rumi when she came in. Let her know her things were safe. Keep it simple.

Simple didn’t feel likely.

The air inside felt heavier when she stepped back in, clinging to her skin after the crisp bite of her walk. She wove through the stacks toward the mezzanine, already picturing the comfort of her usual armchair and the slow return to her book.

Except when she reached the top of the stairs, someone else was in her spot — sprawled sideways with a laptop, iced coffee sweating on the little side table.

Her gaze darted to the floor beside the chair. Empty. No tote. No mug. No stack of books.

Rumi’s pulse skipped. She did a quick sweep of the surrounding tables just in case she’d absentmindedly left her things somewhere else, but the space was bare.

She headed back down, scanning for Zoey behind the front desk. The brunette was perched on a high stool, tapping something into the computer.

“Hey,” Rumi started, leaning against the counter, “do you know where my stuff went?”

Zoey looked up, brows pinching. “Your stuff?”

“My tote. My mug. Six books stacked on the table.”

“Oh—no, I haven’t touched it. Maybe Mira moved it? She gets… twitchy about unattended items upstairs.” Zoey offered a small shrug.

She found Mira in nonfiction, sliding a thick biography into place. “Hey,” Rumi said, keeping her voice even. “Did you happen to move my things from upstairs?”

Mira didn’t look up immediately. “Yes.” She adjusted the book until it was perfectly aligned before continuing, “They’re in the staff room. I put them in my locker so they wouldn’t get misplaced.”

“Oh.” Rumi shifted her weight, unsure if she should thank her or point out that she might’ve liked to know before she came back and thought her stuff had vanished. “Okay. Thanks.”

There was no warmth in Mira’s nod — not coldness, exactly, but a kind of measured neutrality that made the space between them feel strange.

Rumi bit back the instinct to fill it with more words. Instead, she turned and headed for the staff room, the back of her neck prickling the whole way.

She slipped into the staff room, the quiet hum of the overhead lights settling over her. Mira’s locker was easy to pick out — neat, unadorned, not a single sticker or scrap of paper taped to the door.

When she swung it open, her tote sat folded inside, the straps tucked in neatly. Beside it was her mug, the familiar one with the faded floral print and a chip along the rim.

She reached for the tote… then froze.

Hanging from the inside of the door, swaying faintly from where the metal had shifted, was Mira’s keyring. Plain silver. And dangling from it—the small brass anchor keychain Rumi had given her last week.

It was just something she’d spotted at a thrift store, a passing impulse she hadn’t thought much about at the time. But Mira had taken it, and now… it was here. Hanging among her everyday things, worn keys threaded through the ring as if the anchor had always been part of it.

She remembered the day she’d given it to her–leaning against the front desk while Mira scanned in a return. Rumi had dangled the little brass anchor between her fingers like she’d found buried treasure.

“Found this at the thrift shop down the block,” she’d said, watching Mira glance up, brows raised. “Made me think of you. Well, something about you.”

Mira had taken it carefully, her thumb brushing over the cool metal. “An anchor?”

“Persuasion,” Rumi teased, drawing out the word just enough to see Mira’s eyes narrow with that reserved, you-are-pushing-your-luck look. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you checking it out three times this year. And the pencil marks throughout the story? You’re busted, librarian.”

A flicker of pink had touched Mira’s cheeks, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she’d placed the keychain in her pocket without a word, as if it belonged there all along.

Rumi’s hand stilled on the strap of her tote. She didn’t touch the keychain, but her gaze lingered on it — on the way it caught the light, the faint scuffs along the edges, the quiet fact that Mira had kept it. Not in a drawer, not at home, but here.

She closed the locker door gently, her tote slung over one shoulder, mug in one hand. The image of the anchor stayed with her as she walked back into the hallway, every step feeling just a little less steady than the last.

Mira was mid-shelving when she noticed Rumi making her way back from the staff room, tote over her shoulder and mug in hand. She stopped a few feet away, gaze flicking to the cart.

“Those mine?” Rumi asked, her voice soft but even.

Mira glanced at the cart, then at Rumi. “Yep, I don’t think anyone else is reading relationship nonfiction in this capacity.” Her voice was level, but her hands stayed on the book she was working on prior, not offering to help Rumi with the weight.

Rumi stepped closer, eyes flicking over the titles. “Right, Thanks for keeping them here.”

“Didn’t want them to get lost,” Mira said, almost absently. 

The air between them held a quiet, unspoken tension–nothing sharp, but enough for Rumi to feel the shape of it as she reached for her stack. Mira turned back to the shelves before Rumi could say anything more.

From the end of the aisle, Mira caught sight of her again–this time with more books than before. A small but determined figure balancing a ridiculous tower of books against her chest, the stack so tall that it nearly came up to her chin. Rumi moved toward her usual spot, now vacant from the previous intruder, with careful, measured steps, each one just short of precarious.

She was almost there when the inevitable happened.

A sharp thunk echoed through the quiet as Rumi’s shin clipped the edge of the coffee table. She hissed through her teeth, wincing as the jolt made her whole frame flinch. The top few books slid sideways, tumbling to the carpet with a muted thud.

“Damn it,” Rumi muttered under her breath, squatting down to pick up the fallen pieces, resulting in even more falling. Her hair slipped forward, curtaining her face, the words she said next far too low for Mira to catch–though she could guess.

Mira’s lips curled before she could stop them, the smile small but unshakable. Her chest warmed, the edges of her frustration blurring. God, it’s so hard to stay mad at her.

She tore her gaze away, fixing it back on the spine in front of her. But the picture lingered stubbornly–Rumi waddling with her arms full, her stubbornness unbowed even when she was cursing under her breath. The flush in Mira’s cheeks betrayed her, a quiet heat she could pretend was from the overhead lights if anyone asked.

And still, even with her back turned, she kept listening–the faint rustle of pages, the careful thunk of books being set back in place.

Chapter Text

Mira spotted them before they saw her.

Rumi and Zoey sat in the library’s shared lounge area, not too close, not leaning in–just two people chatting over the low murmur of the space. There was a coffee between them on the table, a book open in front of Zoey, and Rumi’s hands loosely clasped in her lap. It didn’t look like… anything. Not the stolen-glance, knees-brushing kind of scene Mira had half-expected.

The sight should have been a relief. Instead, it left her off-balance. She slowed her steps, as if her mind needed a beat to recalibrate before she crossed the room.

She could have turned away. Pretended she had something else to do in the stacks. But hiding would only draw more lines between them, and she’d already felt enough distance creeping in these past few days.

So she made herself approach, slipping into their line of sight with a neutral, “Hey.” Her voice came out softer than she meant, and she saw Rumi glance up immediately, expression unreadable. Zoey gave her a quick smile–too quick, maybe– and gestured toward the empty chair at their table.

Mira hesitated only a second before sitting, careful not to let the chair scrape against the floor.

Rumi kept her posture easy, or at least what she hoped read as easy. Inside, her thoughts skittered like startled birds.

Mira sitting down felt… unexpected. Not bad. Just… unexpected. Rumi had been half-bracing for polite distance, for that careful edge she’d started to hear in Mira’s voice lately. Instead, here she was, close enough that Rumi could see the faint smudge of ink on her thumb.

Her gaze stayed, distracted by the way Mira’s fingers curled lightly over the spine of the book she held, the neat cut of her nails, the small, almost imperceptible movements that suggested she was restless even when she looked still.

She let herself look for a second longer than was probably polite. Mira didn’t seem tense exactly, but her eyes flicked once toward Zoey and back again, like she was checking for something. 

Rumi’s chest tightened. She’d spent so much time in her own head these past few months–moving here, trying to stitch herself into a life that didn’t feel temporary–that moments like this felt heavier. 

She curled her fingers in her lap, reminding herself not to read too much into it. 

The conversation between the three of them drifted in and out–little comments about work, about the weather, about the weird playlist Zoey had put over the library’s speakers. Rumi smiled and nodded in the right places, but her attention kept tilting toward Mira.

Things between them had been… careful lately. Not bad, just quieter, as if they were both feeling for the edges of something, waiting to be cut. Rumi hated that feeling–that faint, uncertain space where warmth used to be. The more that time went on, the more that Rumi noticed the anxiety that radiated from Mira, her eyes catching on the way a strand of hair slipped forward every time Mira looked down. It was such a small thing, but it pulled at her in a way she didn’t entirely understand.

Rumi’s chest ached. She wanted Mira to know she still felt that connection, even if she didn’t know how to say it out loud. She hesitated, fingers twitching against her thigh before she finally reached out, just brushing her hand against Mira’s where it rested on the table. Her touch was quiet… testing.

Mira’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Not a flinch, exactly, but a pause, like she wasn’t sure if this was allowed. Rumi’s stomach dipped. She pulled in a breath, ready to retreat. 

Then she caught the flicker of movement across from her–Zoey, watching with her chin propped on her hand, her eyes soft in a way Rumi hadn’t expected. There was no jealousy there, no edge. If anything, Zoey looked… pleased. Hopeful, even. 

The realization loosened something in Rumi’s chest. When she glanced back at Mira, she found her shoulders easing, her hand no longer tense beneath hers. Mira met her eyes–just for a second–and the faintest, reluctant smile curved her mouth. It was small, but real enough that Rumi returned it without thinking, her fingers giving the lightest squeeze before letting go.

Zoey’s gaze flicked between them once more before she straightened in her chair. “So,” she said, leaning forward with mock seriousness, “do either of you know if it’s bad luck to swallow a fruit fly accidentally? Because if it is, I’m doomed.”

Rumi blinked. “Why would you–”

“It was in my tea,” Zoe interrupted, grimacing. “I didn’t see it until after. And by then you know…” She mimed drinking with a dramatic shrug.

Mira made a sound–half laugh, half sigh–and shook her head. “You could’ve just… poured it out.”

“And waste a perfectly good cup? Please. I’m not made of money.” Zoey grinned, clearly pleased at the way Mira’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Besides, I’m sure it adds protein.”

Rumi rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth lifted. The tension at the table had eased, softening into something that didn’t make the air feel so heavy.

Zoey took that opening and ran with it. “Speaking of high culture and refined tastes,” she said, “we should go to open mic night at Bean & Quill later. I go because I like to pretend I’m a judge on American Idol and the people on the stage are auditioning for me. In my head, I have a big, dramatic ‘No’ button. 

Mira gave her a look. “First off, the tea and coffee here are free, so stop eating bugs. Second, you’re terrible.”

“Terrible? No. Efficient. I’m a service to the arts.” Zoey’s tone was pure mischief, but her eyes were bright in a way that told Rumi she meant the invite. “Come on. It’ll be fun. Drinks, bad poetry, and people singing like no one’s watching–except we totally are.”

Rumi glanced toward Mira, unsure if she’d shoot the idea down. But Mira only hesitated for a beat, then said, “Maybe.”

For Zoey, that was as good as a yes.

The coffee shop looked different at night.

In the daylight, it was all clean lines and warm wood, the kind of place you stopped by for a latte between errands. But now–tables pushed together, chairs mismatched and crowding–the room felt smaller in a good way, like it was holding everyone in a loose embrace. String lights looped around the rafters, soft gold against the deep green of the potted ferns that seemed to sprout from every corner. The counter hummed with low conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine; somewhere behind it, someone uncorked a bottle of wine.

She trailed just behind Zoey and Mira, letting them set the pace. The low light made Zoey’s hair look even darker, catching a warm edge every time she passed beneath one of the bulbs. Rumi tried not to notice how easily Zoey took in the scene, greeting the barista with a grin like they’d been friends for years.

She wondered if this had been a mistake. Not the coffee shop–open mic night had always sounded fun–but coming here like this, the three of them together. She kept telling herself it wasn’t weird anymore, that the knot of tension between them had finally started to loosen. But she could still feel that knot, faint but persistent, like a bruise under the skin.

A burst of applause came from the small stage at the far end of the room, where a man in a worn cardigan stepped down, clutching a guitar by the neck. The next performer–a young woman with a notebook–waited in the wings, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“Cozy, huh?” Zoey leaned back just enough to catch Rumi’s eye. 

Rumi nodded. “Yeah.”

It was cozy. Almost too much so. 

They’d been there almost an hour, nursing their drinks and picking at the plate of biscotti Zoey had insisted they order “for the table.” The stage had been busy at first–acoustic guitars, a poetry reading, even someone doing a dramatic reading from an old sci-fi paperback–which Mira made a point to say they had a copy on the second floor in the 430s. The energy of the room was slipping. 

Rumi wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the heat soak into her fingers. She glanced at Mira across the table–head slightly tilted, eyes fixed on the stage even when nothing was happening. Zoey was leaning back, sipping her drink and tapping her foot to whatever song was playing faintly through the speakers.

The manager, a tall guy in an oversized button-down, stepped onto the stage. He leaned toward the mic, his voice warm but laced with the faintest hint of pleading. “Alright, folks. I know we’ve got more talent hiding out there,” he said, scanning the room with a grin that didn’t quite hide his desperation. “Doesn’t have to be a full set–read a poem, hum a song, tell us your favorite dad joke. Anything to keep the night rolling.”

A murmur went through the crowd, but no one moved. The guy gave a small laugh into the mic, trying again. “C’mon, even just for a minute. I promise we’re all friendly. It’s all in good fun.”

Rumi’s gaze caught on a man slipping into a seat near the back, an acoustic guitar resting again his leg. She’d just seen him on stage a few minutes ago–warm applause, a gentle folk song still lingering in the air. Her chest tightened, though she couldn’t say why. It was that same quiet pull she felt when a piano sat unplayed in the corner of a room. Her pulse quickened, the urge building before she could talk herself out of it. 

Without a word to Mira or Zoey, she pushed her chair back and stood. 

Mira’s head lifted at the sound, she blinked, caught off guard. What the hell is she doing?

Beside her, Zoey straightened, eyes tracking Rumi’s sudden movement. “Rumi??” she said, low but sharp enough to carry. 

Mira’s gaze followed as Rumi threaded her way through the tables, steady and purposeful, past the tangle of trailing plants and the amber pools of light from the string lights above.

She stopped by a man in the corner– a performer from earlier in the night, his guitar propped up against the table he sat at. He looked up at her, surprise flickering across his face. 

Mira couldn’t hear the exchange over the low hum of conversation, but she caught the shape of it–the tilt of Rumi’s head, the quiet question in her eyes, the man’s small, amused smile as he offered her the guitar.

Her fingers curled around the neck like it belonged to her, her shoulders straightening in a way Mira hadn’t seen before.

Something tightened in Mira’s chest. 

Rumi said something Mira couldn’t catch, then turned toward the stage. The soft shadows from the lights brushed over her features, and for a moment she looked almost… untouchable.

And then she took a deep breath, squared herself, and walked onto the stage. 

Settling on the worn wooden stool, the guitar rested against her thigh, her movements careful but sure. She plucked a few strings, wincing when the sound came out muted and short.

She glanced down, frowning, and Mira saw the culprit–her sweater sleeve had slipped over the strings. Without hesitation, she pushed the fabric up past her elbow.

Mira’s breath caught.

The burn scar stretched over the length of her forearm, curling around the inside of her elbow. She’d seen the very start of it in flashes before–an edge peeking from under her sleeve–but never this much. Never under light that didn’t try to hide it. 

Rumi tested the strings again, adjusted the capo on the second fret, and then leaned toward the mic. 

(****) (****) (****) 

The first notes bloomed into the room, slow and deliberate, building the scene of something intimate, something that Mira knew would haunt her for the rest of her days.

And I’d give up forever to touch you, ‘cause I know that you’d feel me somehow

Head voice, airy and unguarded. The spotlight caught the edges of her hair and made them burn gold. Mira felt like she was holding her breath without meaning to

You’re the closest thing to heaven that I’ll ever be, and I don’t wanna go home right now

The higher notes weren’t cautious–they were certain. Rumi leaned into them, her brow creasing with effort, her eyes closed as if to shield her from the chance that this was truly happening.

And all I can taste is this moment, and all I can breathe is your life

She wasn’t just singing. She was offering something–quiet, but unflinching. And Mira wanted, desperately, to be the one she was offering it to.

And sooner or later it’s over, I just don’t want to miss you tonight

A lump formed in Mira’s throat. 

And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cause I don’t think that they’d understand

Her scars glowed under the light like they weren’t something to hide. Mira wanted to touch them, to touch her.

When everything’s meant to be broken, I just want you to know who I am

Rumi’s falsetto softened on the last line of the chorus, fragile in a way that made Mira’s chest ache.

The next verse came warmer, but with a crack in the middle of her voice that made it sound like it hurt to sing.

And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming, or the moment of truth in your lies

Her voice wavered on “truth,” like the word had caught somewhere deep. Mira’s nails pressed faint half moons into her palms.

When everything feels like the movies, yeah, you bleed just to know you’re alive

Mira swallowed hard. Rumi’s eyes opened as she sang, the words becoming more emotional, more raw. More her. 

Then the second chorus hit, and she dropped into her chest voice, still high in pitch but full, rich, and certain.

And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cause I don’t think that they’d understand

It filled the room. No cracks now, no wavering. It was her whole voice, her presence, reaching everyone and swimming through them.

When everything’s meant to be broken, I just want you to know who I am

The instrumental break was short, her fingers plucking like she was coaxing something out of the strings, coaxing something out of everyone in this room. Her soft hums wavering for a split second as her gaze met Mira’s, seeing the tear streaks that lined her face. She leaned into the mic again, keeping eye contact, chest voice carrying steady. 

And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cause I don’t think that they’d understand

Mira’s heart slammed against her ribs. She’d never felt this; she’s never been so certain of something. She loved Rumi, she loved every part of her.

When everything’s meant to be broken, I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am

The final repetition slowed. Rumi let her voice float back into falsetto, barely more than a breath, like she was just singing to herself.

I just want you to know who I am.

The note lingered in the air long enough after she pulled her hands from the strings. The coffee shop lay quiet, the roar of the espresso machines paused as the barista stood wide-eyed at the counter, a patron at the bar looking over, holding their card out for no one to take.

Mira sat frozen, pulse roaring, wondering if Rumi had any idea that she’d just undone her completely. 

Zoey didn’t even notice she’d been leaning forward in her chair until her elbows pressed into the edge of the table. She’d been watching Rumi the whole time–watching the way her hands moved over the strings, the way her voice shifted and swelled–but now her gaze drifted sideways.

Mira wasn’t watching the stage anymore. Not really. Her chin was tilted toward it, but her eyes were glassy, her lashes clumped with tears she didn’t seem to realize were there. One slipped free and curved down her cheek before she blinked, startled, like she’d only just remembered she had a body.

The last notes rang out, gentle and lingering, and the coffee shop erupted into applause. It was the kind of sound that didn’t match the smallness of the room–hands clapping over ceramic mugs, over soft laughter, over a few whoops from the back.

Mira flinched at the sudden noise, wiping quickly at her face, but Zoey was already there. She rested a hand on Mira’s shoulder, firm but warm.

“She’s really something, huh?” Zoey murmured, keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn’t have to fight with the clapping. 

Mira didn’t answer, just pressed her lips together and nodded once, quick. Zoey gave her shoulder a squeeze, then let her hand fall–but she stayed close, watching as Rumi stepped down from the stage.

She moved carefully, like she was afraid she might trip, but there was a looseness in her shoulders Zoey hadn’t seen before. The guy she borrowed the guitar from met her halfway; she handed it over with both hands, bowing her head slightly as they exchanged a few words.

Then she turned. 

Her eyes found Mira first. Not Zoey. Not the room still buzzing with claps and chatter. Mira.

Zoey caught the way Mira’s breath hitched, just for a second.

By the time Rumi reached the table, the noise had begun to die down. She didn’t sit right away, just hovered there for a beat, looking between them.

Then Mira moved. Not in her usual careful way, but all at once–pushing her chair back just enough to stand and close the distance. Her arms went around Rumi without warning, pulling her in tight.

It was the kind of hug that you couldn’t fake: both hands splayed across Rumi’s back, cheek pressed to her shoulder, holding on like she might vanish is she let go too soon. 

Zoey blinked. She’d never seen Mira do that. Not with anyone.

Rumi froze for a half second, then her hand came up–hesitant at first, then certain–resting against the back of Mira’s head.

From her seat, Zoey let herself lean back, watching the way the tension in both of them just… melted. For once, Mira wasn’t holding herself like she had to always be on, always be patrolling the walls. For once, Rumi didn’t look like she was bracing for the ground to shift.

Yeah, Zoey thought, a slow grin tugging at her mouth. This is exactly where we were supposed to end up.

Chapter Text

Fifteen minutes later, the coffee shop had eased into the kind of warmth that made you forget about time. The crowd had thinned, and the low hum of conversation blended with the soft thrum of whatever acoustic playlist was playing over the speakers. Zoey sat back in her chair, her mug cradled in both hands, but her attention was squarely on the two across from her.

Mira had shifted her chair at some point — just a couple of degrees, barely enough for most people to notice. But to Zoey, it was a blinking neon sign. Rumi mirrored her without even realizing it, leaning in with her elbow propped on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm. Their knees were close now, the space between them shrinking in the kind of slow, unconscious way that told Zoey exactly where this was heading.

She caught the small things first. Mira’s fingers, tapping idly against the table, drifting closer until they brushed the side of Rumi’s hand. The way Rumi didn’t flinch — didn’t even break her sentence — but instead turned her hand slightly so that Mira’s knuckles could rest against hers. The moment lingered, quiet and unhurried, until Mira’s thumb began to trace the faintest arc along Rumi’s skin.

Zoey almost laughed into her coffee.

Then there was the way Mira tilted her head when Rumi spoke, the slight smile she wore when listening — not the polite kind you give when waiting for your turn to talk, but the kind that said I could stay here forever . Rumi’s eyes crinkled when she laughed at something Mira said, and her free hand drifted forward to nudge Mira’s wrist, a soft touch that felt almost like an anchor.

If Zoey didn’t know better, she’d think the rest of the room had faded entirely for them.

She leaned back, taking a slow sip of her drink to hide the grin that was threatening to break free. 

Still, as much as she was enjoying the view, she knew when to make an exit. The vibe between them was shifting — inching toward something softer, more private. And Zoey? She wasn’t about to stick around and risk breaking it.

She set her mug down and cleared her throat. “Well,” she said lightly, “I think my cat is probably staging a mutiny by now. If I get home and he’s wearing my sweater and demanding kibble on a silver platter, I’ll only have myself to blame.”

Both Mira and Rumi looked up, almost in unison, like she’d just pulled them out of some dream they didn’t want to leave. “We can go too—” Rumi began, but Zoey waved a hand.

“No, no, no,” she interrupted with a grin. “Stay. Enjoy the night. This is a special night.”

She stood, shrugging into her coat, then stepped behind Rumi’s chair on her way to the door. Catching Mira’s gaze over the top of Rumi’s head, Zoey gave her a quick, exaggerated go on motion with her fingers before doubling down with an unashamed double thumbs-up. Mira’s eyes narrowed in mock warning, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the smallest twitch.

Pleased with herself, Zoey headed toward the exit. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped outside into the cool night air.

The big front window spilled golden light onto the sidewalk, and as she passed, she caught one last glimpse of them inside. Mira’s hand was now completely covering Rumi’s on the table, her thumb stroking in slow, absent patterns. Rumi had leaned in, smiling at something Mira had said, and Zoey could tell without hearing it that it wasn’t the joke that mattered — it was the person telling it.

Zoey paused, lifting her hands to flash them both tiny finger hearts through the glass. Rumi caught it first and laughed, Mira glancing up a second later with a shake of her head.

Grinning from ear to ear, Zoey pulled her coat tighter and turned away, her steps light as she disappeared down into the parking lot.

The coffee shop felt different once Zoey left. Without her easy laugh filling the pauses, without her elbows propped casually on the table, the space seemed to close in, narrowing until it was just the two of them.

Their knees stayed pressed together beneath the table, not in that accidental, oh, sorry way from earlier in the night — this time, it was deliberate. Neither of them moved, and neither of them wanted to.

The lamplight above their table softened everything, throwing a golden wash over Rumi’s cheekbones, deepening the warm brown of her eyes. Mira found herself watching the way her lashes caught the light, how her pupils shifted slightly when she tilted her head. Her gaze dropped without her permission, catching on Rumi’s mouth — the faint, private smile she wore like she knew something Mira didn’t.

Rumi leaned her cheek into her palm, elbow on the table, and Mira had to glance away for just a second, long enough to pull in a slow, steadying breath.

A barista wandered over, soft-footed and smiling politely. “We’re doing last call,” she said, “but you’re welcome to stay while we clean. No rush.”

“Thanks,” Rumi murmured.

“Thank you,” Mira echoed.

When the barista left, the quiet wrapped around them in earnest. It wasn’t the kind that demanded filling — it was thick, warm, expectant. Mira’s fingers brushed against Rumi’s sleeve almost without thinking, and when she didn’t pull away, Mira let her hand settle on Rumi’s forearm. Her thumb began tracing slow, gentle circles over the fabric.

Rumi’s eyes flicked down to where Mira touched her, then back up again. 

“I saw your arm tonight,” Mira said quietly.

Rumi stilled, her breath catching in her throat. “...Oh.”

Mira’s thumb didn’t stop moving. “It doesn’t change anything,” she said. “You’re just as beautiful as the first day you walked into the library.”

Her voice stayed calm, but something in her chest ached–like she’d been holding this thought for weeks, and now it was finally free. She shifted just enough to see Rumi’s face more clearly, her expression unshakably warm.

“I mean it,” Mira went on, softer now, as though worried the words might startle her. “If you think there’s anything about you that could push me away… there isn’t. Not this. Not anything. You could show me every part of yourself you think might make someone turn their head, and I’d only want to look closer.”

Rumi’s lips parted like she was about to answer, but no sound came out.

“You have to know,” Mira continued, “scars don’t make you less. They tell me you’ve survived. That you’ve lived through something and carried it forward with you. That’s not something I’d ever look away from.”

Her gaze never wavered. “They don’t make you any less soft, or any less worth touching. If anything, they make me want to be careful with you. Not because you’re fragile–I know you’re not– but because you deserve to be held like you matter. Because you do.”

The quiet between them hummed like a plucked string, steady and low. Her eyes found Rumi’s again.

“I hope you believe me, because I’ve been wanting to tell you that since the day we met.” She leaned in, closing some of that space, her voice dropping low enough to stay just theirs. 

“Can I?”

Rumi’s breath caught, but she nodded, the motion small, deliberate.

Mira closed the distance — just the faintest press of lips, soft and unsure, like testing the weight of something fragile in her hands. It lasted only a breath before she eased back, heart in her throat.

Rumi’s eyes searched hers in the space between them, wide and unguarded. Then her hands were there — warm, steady — cradling Mira’s face, fingers curling gently against her jaw. Without a word, she pulled her in again.

This kiss was deeper, not rushed, but carrying the quiet urgency of something long-wanted. A careful seal of mouths, lingering in the space where neither of them wanted to let go. The world outside the halo of their table blurred to nothing; there was only the warmth of Rumi’s hands, the taste of coffee and something sweet, the steady rhythm of their breath mingling.

When they finally parted, it was slow, like neither wanted to break whatever they’d found in those few seconds. Rumi’s thumbs brushed once against Mira’s skin before her hands slipped away, the connection still there in the press of their knees and the small, stunned smiles that followed. 

Mira glanced toward the counter, where the barista was wiping down the espresso machine, the hiss of escaping steam marking the end of the night. “Okay,” she murmured, reluctant but smiling, “we have to spare these poor workers.”

They stood, the spell between them still intact as they slipped on their coats. The chill of the glass door brushed their cheeks when they stepped outside, the night air sharp enough to steal their breath for a moment.

Mira laughed under it. “Guess Zoey really ditched us… and took the ride with her.”

Rumi grinned, shoulders lifting against the cold. She shoved her hands into her pockets—then pulled one free again, threading her fingers through Mira’s like it was the easiest decision in the world. “We can walk. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“Not at all,” Mira said, squeezing back.

The sidewalk was mostly empty, the pools of lamplight stretching long shadows ahead of them. They bounced slightly on their toes to keep warm, their joined hands icy but stubbornly tangled.

When they reached the corner where their paths split, Rumi rose onto her toes just enough to brush a soft kiss against Mira’s cheek. It lingered, quiet and sure. They stayed close afterward, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the cold.

“Text me when you get home?” Rumi asked.

“Yeah,” Mira said softly. “You too.”

They turned reluctantly, their joined hands parting only at the very last moment, fingertips skimming each other’s palms until they were forced to let go.

A few steps away, they both glanced back at the same time, laughter puffing white in the air. Mira shook her head, still smiling as she rounded the corner—but she lingered there in the shadows, watching as Rumi crossed the street.

Rumi looked over once more, catching her in the act, and shook her head with a small, dumb smile before disappearing behind the dark outline of a building.

Chapter Text

Mira didn’t so much sleep as drift. Every time she shut her eyes, the coffee shop returned in soft focus: the smell of coffee and espresso dancing in the air, the faint clink of cups being stacked, Rumi’s hands cradling her face like something delicate and worth keeping. The first kiss kept replaying, stubborn as a refrain—how simple it had been, how certain. When the alarm finally trilled, Mira lay there for a moment, smiling helplessly at her ceiling, heart doing an unfamiliar, buoyant thing in her chest.

By the time she pulled on her coat and scarf, the exhilaration had shifted into a taut thread of nerves. She’d be seeing Zoey before she saw Rumi. She didn’t quite know how to feel about that—whether she’d have to dodge questions, or if Zoey’s curiosity would somehow make the memory feel less hers.

The library was still half-asleep when she arrived. Pale light filtered through the tall windows, catching the dust in gold motes. The hum of the heaters filled the air.

Zoey was already behind the desk, leaning on her elbows like she’d been waiting for hours. When she looked up, her grin was wide enough to be illegal.

“Well,” Zoey said, drawing the word out, “morning, sunshine.”

Mira hung her coat on the hook, aiming for nonchalant. “Morning.”

“Fun night?” Zoey’s tone was light, but her eyes were laser-focused.

“What?”

“You’re glowing,” Zoey said, gesturing vaguely at Mira’s face. “Like you’ve joined a cult. A very romantic, aesthetically pleasing cult. Did you walk her home?”

Mira busied herself flipping the “Returns” placard and reaching for the first stack of books. “Maybe.”

“Did she hold your hand?”

“Possibly.”

Zoey pressed her knuckle to her mouth, failing to smother a squeal. “Oh my God. Mira.”

Mira gave her a pointed look but couldn’t quite fight the smile tugging at her mouth. “Surface-level sharing only, thank you.”

“Fine, fine,” Zoey said, mock-solemn. “But for the record, I’m excellent at reading between the lines.”

They slipped into their familiar rhythm of opening tasks—the soft thud of books being stacked, the mechanical whir of the labeler, the wheels on desk chairs echoing. Mira kept her focus on the motions, but beneath it all, her chest hummed with the warmth of last night, a secret she wasn’t ready to give away in full.

Zoey, however, looked like she’d made it her morning mission to pry it out of her.

Zoey had been holding this in since last night.

She’d sent Mira off with Rumi, fully expecting to get at least some details the next morning. Not in a sleazy way—just in a we’re friends and I root for you way. The whole point of nudging Mira toward Rumi was so they could all end up in this… thing together. This careful, tangled, maybe-stupid plan she’d been low-key building in her head for months.

But here Mira was, stacking returns like nothing seismic had happened.

Zoey propped her chin on her hand and watched her over the edge of the monitor. The air around Mira practically shimmered . She’d noticed it the second she walked in—hair a little mussed, that soft, just-got-kissed glow. Zoey recognized the signs.

She couldn’t help herself. “So… you maybe walked her home, and she possibly held your hand. Was there also a potential goodnight kiss?”

Mira shot her a look. “You’re fishing.”

“Obviously. I’m an excellent fisher.” Zoey tapped the counter. “I catch what I want.”

The corners of Mira’s mouth twitched, but she shook her head and turned toward the returns cart. “You’re not catching anything today.”

Zoey smirked, leaning back in her chair. “You’re killing me, you know. We’ve told each other so much over the years, and now you’re gonna play mysterious?”

“It’s not about being mysterious.” Mira’s voice was calm, but there was a little tension there.

Zoey rolled her chair after her, grinning. “Then what’s it about?”

Mira didn’t answer, and Zoey let it drop—for now. She turned her attention to the circulation reports, but kept sneaking glances. There was something in the way Mira’s fingers lingered on the spines of books, in the way she was clearly replaying something in her head.

It made Zoey’s own stomach twist, not out of anger, but out of something a little more dangerous—want. Not just for Rumi, but for Mira, too.

And if Mira thought Zoey was going to stop asking? Yeah, no. She’d just have to pick her moments.

By mid-morning, Mira had executed her quiet escape plan. The front desk was too exposed—too many patrons, too many interruptions, too much chance of Zoey looping back with another round of “so, tell me everything.”

So she’d retreated to the staff computer alcove under the pretense of “getting caught up” on collections emails. Not glamorous work—just sending polite but pointed reminders about overdue returns—but blissfully removed from the constant hum of the library floor. And, most importantly, Zoey hated doing collections. Which meant Mira could hide here without fear of being found.

Or so she thought.

A shadow slid into the chair beside her.

“You’re really not gonna tell me?” Zoey asked, grinning like she’d just caught Mira in the world’s least stealthy lie.

Mira didn’t look up from her monitor. “Not everything needs to be shared.”

Zoey tilted her head, her voice full of faux innocence. “We share everything . Coffee orders. Ex stories. That time you fell asleep on the circulation desk—”

“That was once,” Mira cut in, clicking send a little harder than necessary.

“And you’ve been smiling to yourself all morning, so… what gives?” Zoey’s elbows hit the table as she leaned closer.

Mira’s jaw ticked. “It’s mine. That’s what it is. Mine.” She finally glanced over, her voice even but firm. “You don’t get to have a piece of everything right away, Zoey. Not this. Not yet.”

The words landed like a pin dropping on tile — small, but impossible to ignore. Zoey’s grin faltered just enough to show she’d heard the edge in them. She raised her hands in a little surrender, backing away toward the carts like she’d been caught somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. 

Mira went back to her emails, though the easy rhythm of the morning was gone. She could feel Zoey still watching her, the air between them shifting from light to something heavier.

God, why did she have to keep pushing? Mira wasn’t trying to be cruel. She just wanted to keep one thing for herself, without Zoey digging her nails in. But Zoey had never been the type to leave something alone once she’d decided she wanted it.

And Mira could already feel herself starting to fray.

By the time they took their mid-afternoon break, the air between them had shifted. Not tense exactly, but heavier — like there was a weight on the table between them that neither wanted to acknowledge.

The staff room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and the stale sweetness of a half-empty box of doughnuts someone had left on the counter. Mira sat at the far end, scrolling her phone with that unreadable expression she always wore when she didn’t want to be bothered.

Zoey busied herself at the counter, pouring coffee she didn’t really want just to keep her hands moving. She could feel the knot tightening in her stomach, the way it always did when she was losing her grip on something. She’d been running the same loop in her head since last night — her plan, her great this could actually work idea, slowly unraveling thread by thread.

It was supposed to go like this: Mira gets the push she needs, she and Rumi kiss, things get cute and flirty, and then Zoey can start weaving herself into that space between them. A slow build toward something all three of them could have, something she was sure they’d all want if they just gave it a chance.

Instead, she’d come in this morning to Mira acting like she was guarding state secrets. Every question met with a wall, every wall making Zoey a little more frantic. What if Mira decided she wanted Rumi all to herself? What if this kiss changed everything and not in the way Zoey had been hoping? What if she’d accidentally set herself up to watch from the outside?

She grabbed her tote from the floor, digging for her lunch just to keep her hands busy. “Y’know,” she said lightly, as if making casual conversation, “I keep thinking about last night. Not in the oh-my-god-tell-me-every-detail way—” she waved a hand— “but in the I’m-glad-you-went-for-it way. You looked… happy. Really happy. And I like seeing that.”

She pulled out her sandwich, unwrapping it slowly. “And I know you’re completely ignoring me and not listening to a single word I say…” No answer. She glances over and sees no movement from Mira besides her thumb swiping through videos on her phone. “But I guess… maybe I also just thought—” She stopped, searching for the right phrasing, chewing her lip. “Well… honestly, I’m just jealous I didn’t get to kiss you too.”

It wasn’t meant to be heard — just a half-formed thought slipping out on a breath. But the sudden stillness from Mira’s end of the table made Zoey glance up.

Mira was looking at her now — not cold, exactly, but sharp, like she’d just snapped a pencil in her mind.

“What the fuck?” Mira hissed.

Zoey tried for a laugh, a quick cover. “What? You’re both gorgeous. I’m allowed to have good taste.” She waved a hand as if brushing away the tension, but her mouth kept going, unable to stop herself from digging in deeper. “I mean, I’ve known you for over a year now. You think I wouldn’t have wondered? And Rumi—god, she’s stunning, but you’re—” She caught herself, exhaling through her nose. “Never mind. I’m just saying… curiosity’s not a crime and the vibes are good.”

She bit into her sandwich before she could say anything else, chewing like the act alone could save her from whatever was brewing in Mira’s head.

Mira hadn’t planned to let it out like this. She’d planned to keep her head down, keep her voice even, stay the unshakable one — but Zoey’s offhand words had lit the fuse and now there was no stopping it.

“What the hell did you just say?” Mira asked, making sure she heard what she thought she heard.

Zoey continued looking at her with pure shock, her eyes wide, slowly chewing the bite she tried to shut herself up with. 

“You don’t fucking get it,” she said, and it came out too fast, too sharp, her pulse in her throat. “You don’t get what it’s been like—working next to you every damn day, pretending I don’t notice every stupid little thing you do, pretending I’m not—” She broke off with a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl, pacing two steps before whipping back around.

Zoey blinked, caught between defensive and curious. “Mira—”

“No.” Mira jabbed a finger at her. “You don’t get to act like this is some casual, cute little thing. I’ve been pining, Zoey. For months . For you . And then, Jesus Christ, Rumi comes along and throws me off the damn cliff. I’ve been disgustingly yearning for both of you at the same time, and it’s been—” Her hands came up, useless and shaking, before they dropped again. “It’s been hell. Trying to shove it all down so I can function without my heart clawing out of my chest every time either one of you so much as look at me.”

Zoey’s mouth opened, but Mira wasn’t done. She couldn’t stop now.

“And then you tell me you kissed her,” Mira went on, voice climbing. “Like it’s nothing. Like it’s a story you can just toss across the table. And yeah, I wanted to kiss Rumi. God, I still do. But I did . Last night.” She let out a shaky breath, her voice going taut. “And it wasn’t just a kiss, Zoey. It was—” She swallowed hard, her throat aching. “It was soft, and careful, and the kind of thing that makes you feel like the ground’s not even under you anymore. Like she was holding something fragile and didn’t want to drop it. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Her hands flexed uselessly at her sides. “And do you know what else I kept thinking while I was walking home? That you were the one who pushed me toward her. That maybe I’d come in this morning and we’d—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I don’t even know. Talk about it? Laugh about it? Pretend it didn’t happen? All I knew was that it meant something to me, and that scared me half to death because I didn’t know what it meant for us .”

Her breath hitched; the rest came out in a rush. “But instead, I couldn’t stop feeling—angry. Because yeah, I wanted Rumi, but I was just as pissed because she got to kiss you, and I didn’t. And I’ve wanted that for so damn long that I can’t even remember when it started. Do you understand that?” Her voice cracked on the last word, like she’d just torn the truth straight out of herself.

Zoey’s expression softened, but Mira barely saw it — she was pacing again, her breath coming fast.

“I wanted you,” Mira said, quieter now but no less intense. “I’ve always wanted you . And I told myself you were just naturally flirty, that I was reading into things, that I had no right to want what I wanted. But you’ve been under my skin since the day we met, and I—” She stopped, dragging a hand over her face like she could shove the rest of the words back in. But it was too late. Everything was out now, the air between them thick with it.

Zoey didn’t move for a beat. Didn’t breathe. Then her jaw tightened like she’d made a decision.

Mira’s words were still echoing — sharp, breathless, furious — when Zoey crossed the space between them. No thinking, no careful gauge of boundaries, just movement. Months and months of watching her, of playing at harmless banter while both of them knew better, slammed into her like a wave.

“Mira—” she started, but the name broke apart halfway through because she’d already closed the distance. Her hands found Mira’s face, warm and tense under her palms, and then there was no room left for talking at all.

The kiss wasn’t neat. It wasn’t careful. It was a collision — teeth and parted mouths, breath caught between them, all urgency and no restraint. Mira gasped against her, and Zoey chased that sound like it was oxygen, stumbling forward until Mira’s hips hit the edge of the staff room counter with a dull thud.

Mira kissed like she argued—focused, unyielding, lashes lowering as she chased Zoey’s mouth. Zoey met her there, opening for her, pulling at her, greedy with all the nights she’d pretended she didn’t want this, with all the mornings she’d told herself to be normal at the desk.

She kissed like she was trying to get inside every locked room Mira had ever kept shut. Zoey leaned in, half on instinct, angling her thigh between them — but Mira caught her by the hips, slow and deliberate, and shifted her exactly where she wanted her. The movement left no doubt about intent. The press of Mira’s thigh drew a sharp, muffled sound from Zoey’s throat, swallowed instantly by Mira’s mouth.

Mira’s grip tightened in answer, one hand keeping Zoey anchored, the other sliding under the hem of her crop top. Warm fingers skimmed up the front of her stomach, palm molding to the soft curve there before her thumb slipped just under the lower band of Zoey’s sports bra, brushing against the sensitive underside of her breast. The touch was maddening — not quite enough to be obvious, but far too much to be mistaken for anything casual. Zoey’s breath caught hard, her lips parting in a shiver of air against Mira’s mouth.

Zoey bit at Mira’s lower lip in retaliation, tasting the faint copper tang where teeth had caught skin. Mira only deepened the kiss, thumb stroking once under the edge of the bra as if she could draw more sound from her, keeping her locked in the steady, deliberate grind she was guiding with her thigh. Zoey couldn’t stop the ragged sound that tore from her throat, swallowed into Mira’s mouth.

A cup clattered to the floor and rolled in forlorn circles. Somewhere in the stacks, a cart squeaked. The staff room’s cheap clock ticked obscenely loud. Everything else was quiet.

Mira shifted again and Zoey felt it—how she pressed in to take up more space, how she braced one hand on the counter and used the other to keep Zoey’s jaw steady, thumb stroking once, thoughtlessly gentle in the middle of all that hunger. The tenderness made Zoey’s chest ache. She chased Mira’s mouth like it might vanish, like she could memorize it by contact alone.

They stumbled a step; Mira’s hip clipped the drawer pull. She swore into Zoey’s mouth. Zoey laughed, helpless, giddy with the unlikeliness of this moment and the rightness of it.

“You’re impossible,” she breathed, because old habits die theatrical.

Mira huffed a laugh, cheeks flushed high. “Takes one to know one.”

The world tilted a little, the kind of tilt that comes after too much adrenaline or the exact right amount of it. Eventually, necessity made itself known. Zoey eased back an inch, hands still bracketed on Mira’s waist, thumbs resting just under her ribs. Mira’s fingers had a white-knuckle grip on Zoey’s hoodie strings, like she’d forgotten how to let go. Neither of them stepped away.

“We are technically on the clock,” Zoey said, though it sounded like a rumor.

Mira considered this with great seriousness. Then she tugged, hauling Zoey back in, and kissed her like an answer.

Zoey had been right since the beginning of the day. The plan wasn’t broken. It had just needed ignition.

When they finally, actually, truly separated—hair mussed, lips pink, breaths unsteady—Zoey let her hand skate down Mira’s side, just once, because she could.

Mira looked at her like a problem solved and an essay still to be written. “Lock the door next time,” she said, matter-of-fact, which did inappropriate things to Zoey’s heart.

“Noted.” Zoey dragged a palm over her face, laughing quiet and helpless. She bent, picked up the fallen cup, and set it uselessly on the counter. “Also,” she added, tipping her head, “told you the vibes were good.”

Mira’s eyes dropped to Zoey’s mouth, then back up, the smile blooming slow and scandalous. “Shut up.”

And then, of course, they were kissing again.

Chapter Text

Rumi had been tossing for hours.
Every time her eyes slipped shut, her brain dragged her back into the same loop — Zoey’s lips, Mira’s lips, the way she hadn’t stopped to think what either kiss might mean. She rolled onto her side, then her back, then her stomach, sheets tangling around her legs like restraints. The clock glowed at her in stubborn red digits: 12:58. 1:12. 2:17.

Her body wouldn’t cooperate. Sweat dampened the pillowcase; every time she flipped it, it was too cold, then too warm again. Her calves twitched restlessly, little jolts like she was mid-run. Even her breathing fought her — shallow and uneven, every inhale catching in her throat like her own lungs were conspiring against her.

When sleep finally took her, it wasn’t gentle.
Heat dragged her down, feverish and heavy-limbed, her pulse thudding in her ears. Zoey’s laugh was close, too close, her breath brushing her ear. The citrus and vanilla of her shampoo clung to the air, wrapping around Rumi like a net. Mira’s dry smile hovered in the quiet of the stacks, lavender perfume and the faint dusty tang of old paper trailing her touch as it lingered on Rumi’s shoulder. Both of them turned toward her at once, gazes soft with something Rumi wanted to believe was affection.

Greedy, selfish, she leaned forward to take it, to take them, as if she had the right. Zoey’s lips brushed hers, or maybe Mira’s, faces blurring and reforming — warmth against her mouth, hands sliding to her waist, breath ghosting down her neck. She couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. She didn’t want to. For one reckless heartbeat, she let herself sink into it — heat, softness, the ache of belonging—

She jerked awake with a gasp.

Her shirt clung damp to her skin, heartbeat racing like she’d been sprinting. The dream clung to her in fragments —the weight of wanting both. She pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes, as if that could scrub the images away.

The clock told her it was still too early to pretend the day had started: 3:05 a.m. She rolled over. Tossed the pillow. Flipped again. The more she tried to slow her breathing, the faster it caught, until she was muttering at the ceiling, voice raw in the silence: “What the hell is wrong with me?”

By 3:19, she couldn’t stand it. Sheets suffocated, walls pressed too close. She shoved her legs out of bed, pulled a hoodie over her damp shirt, and jammed her feet into sneakers. If her head wouldn’t quiet, then she’d beat it into silence. The door clicked shut behind her, and the cold night slapped her clean across the face.

The night bit sharply against her skin, but it wasn’t enough to slow her down. She broke into a jog the second she hit the sidewalk, shoes slapping against concrete in uneven rhythm. Faster. If she ran hard enough, maybe her head would empty out. Maybe she could outrun the images clinging to her skin — Mira’s hand, Zoey’s laugh, both of them turned toward her like she was worth seeing.

Her breath hitched with each name that surfaced, syncing with her pace.
Zoey.
Mira.
What now?

Streetlamps smeared streaks of gold across wet pavement. A thin sheen of frost glittered on parked cars, catching what little light the city gave. Somewhere in the distance, a bus groaned through gears. A lone bike clattered over a manhole cover. Otherwise, the streets felt deserted, like she’d slipped into an empty version of the world.

Her lungs screamed first. Breath turned metallic, sharp, like blood on her tongue. The burn crept down her throat, spread through her chest until she thought she’d choke on it. Her leg muscles clenched in protest, each step heavy, punishing. She pushed harder. 

It wasn’t until her foot caught the curb wrong and nearly sent her sprawling that she gave up. She staggered to the nearest bench, collapsing onto the slick wood. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one tearing at her throat. She pressed her hands into her hoodie pocket, but even that small action betrayed her — her fingers shook uncontrollably.

The tears arrived without permission. First, a blur at the edges of her eyes, then streaming freely down her flushed face. Ugly, breathless sobs that made her chest hitch and her stomach clench. She doubled forward, forehead nearly pressed to her knees.

Her sobs fogged the air in front of her, white puffs dissolving into the dark. The wood dug hard into her thighs, the chill of it seeping bone-deep. A wet patch spread beneath her where her breath and tears met the frozen bench. Even the air seemed cruel — every inhale scraped, every exhale broke apart before it left her chest.

The spiral was immediate, merciless.
I can’t lose them. If they find out I kissed both, they’ll hate me. What kind of friend does that?

A harsher thought cut through: What kind of person wants them both?

She wiped at her face, but the tears kept coming, hot even in the chill air. Images wouldn’t stop rising up — Zoey leaning across the counter, the faint smell of coffee beans and vanilla clinging to the air; Mira’s dry smile in the quiet stacks, her fingers brushing against Rumi’s wrist with the barest, electric graze. Both of them looking at her with something that could almost be mistaken for affection. And then her, greedy, selfish, stealing pieces of each — Zoey’s warmth, Mira’s touch — like she had the right.

She pulled her knees up slightly on the bench, curling into herself. The wood was cold beneath her sneakers, seeping into her bones. She tried to focus on her breathing, on slowing it, but every inhale still rattled too sharp, every exhale broke.

Her gaze found the empty path ahead — wet asphalt glowing faintly under a streetlamp. Not another soul in sight. Just her, hunched small against the bench, holding herself together with nothing but trembling hands wrapped around her knees.

The world was still, but inside her chest, the storm refused to let go.

The clock read 3:47. Mira hadn’t closed her eyes once.
She lay perfectly still on her back, blanket drawn up to her collarbones, the room too quiet to bear. The city outside was muffled — the occasional car swishing through wet streets, the heater’s faint pop — but none of it muted the noise in her chest. Her body was calm, composed, but her mind was tearing itself apart.

Her brain wouldn’t let go. Memories looped in jagged sequence: Zoey pinning her against the staff room door, their mouths crashing together like they were starving, like they’d choke if they stopped; the way Zoey’s eyes had burned into hers with nothing but want. Then Rumi — steady, impossible Rumi — her hand brushing Mira’s cheek as if the world outside didn’t exist, her touch dissolving every ache Mira thought permanent. Two different kinds of love, both of them unbearable in their own right.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum, trying to quiet the thrum rattling her ribs. It didn’t work.

The anxieties fractured and doubled back, gnawing at her in shifts. What if Zoey and Rumi found each other first? What if the fire between them outshone whatever Mira had to offer? She could see it too easily: the two of them laughing together in the library, something sparking that she couldn’t touch. And then the other terror, sharper still — what if Rumi didn’t want this at all? What if she only wanted one of them, or neither, and Mira had been a fool to believe otherwise?

She sat up abruptly, the blanket sliding into her lap. The lavender-scented candle on her dresser had burned out hours ago, but the faint smell clung stubbornly, sweet in a way that only irritated her now. Mira padded to the bookshelf in the corner, dragging a fingertip along the spines. Reading had always been her escape, the only door she trusted when her head closed in on itself.

She pulled a book at random, thumbed the cover, but when she sank onto the couch and opened it, the words blurred uselessly. Her eyes tracked the letters, but all she could see was Rumi’s palm against her cheek, Zoey’s mouth on hers. She slammed the book shut and let it drop onto the cushion beside her.

Her phone screen glowed when she picked it up. She typed Zoey’s name into a message window, thumbs flying before she could stop herself: Are you awake? Delete. Start again with Rumi’s name. I can’t stop thinking about— Delete. The emptiness of the blank screen stared back at her, accusing.

She set the phone facedown on the coffee table and buried herself deeper in the blanket, jaw tight, eyes on the dark window. Outside, the streetlights bled across the damp asphalt, a dull smear of gold in the mist. She wondered if Zoey was awake, if Rumi was. She wondered if either of them were lying there, just as restless, thinking about her.

The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it cracked her open.

The keycard beeped low, the lock clicking open, and Zoey slipped into the pool deck like it was a church after hours. Two in the morning made the place hollow, fluorescent lights buzzing, the tiles gleaming sterile and pale. The water stretched before her in perfect stillness — a sheet of glass laid out in invitation, daring her to shatter it.

She shrugged out of her hoodie, tugged her sweats down, and left them in a heap on the bench. Tonight wasn’t about looking good — nobody here to look at her anyway. She wore her navy one-piece, plain and tight, straps biting into her shoulders. The suit framed the ink crawling out from her skin: vinework curling black and white up her forearms, blossoms blooming in lavender and blush, colors too soft to belong to this sterile place. Under the fluorescents, they looked unreal, almost painted on.

She sat on the edge and dipped her feet in. The water was colder than she expected, and she flinched, hissing through her teeth. The pool didn’t ripple, not really — just absorbed her like it had been waiting. She adjusted her goggles, breathed in deep, and then slid forward until the water swallowed her whole.

Silence. At last.

Chlorine bit at her nose, ears filling, hair sweeping back. Everything muffled, blurred, clean. No Mira, no Rumi, no laughter catching in her throat, no split-second glances she read too much into. Just pressure. Just breath in her chest.

She pushed off the wall.

Stroke. Arms slicing forward.
Breathe. Turn her head, drag in air, sharp and thin.

Kick. Legs driving, water splitting.
Flip. Wall, pivot, push.

But the thoughts didn’t stay drowned. They rose up behind her eyes like bubbles, bursting one by one.

They’re better without me, maybe. Mira with her knife-quick mouth, her calm fire. Rumi with her quiet touch, her storms that settle in the space between heartbeats. And me — what? Jokes. Stupid comments. Making them laugh while they look right through me. What if I’m just the distraction while they find each other? What if they already have?

Stroke. Palms burning.
Breathe. Not enough.
Kick. Push harder, keep moving.
Flip. Tiles in reverse.

But god, I want it. I want them both. Not half and half. Not sneaking around. Not something fragile that’ll break the first time somebody wants more than the other can give. I want us. Whole. Three. Is that greedy? Am I asking for too much?

She broke the surface, gasping, teeth clacking on air.

Stroke. Arms aching.
Breathe. Chlorine stinging.
Kick. Ankles cramping.
Flip. Push, again.

Her thoughts tangled faster than she could untangle them. Rumi’s smile — rare, crooked, like it had been pulled out of her reluctantly but given freely once it was there. Mira’s mouth, hot and urgent in the staff room, their bodies colliding like oxygen meeting flame. The way she wanted to bottle both feelings, drink them down until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

But what if Rumi doesn’t want it? What if she wants Mira, or me, but not both? What if she’s content with something smaller? Would I be okay with that? Could I settle for halves when my whole chest is screaming for all of it? What if I mess this up before it even starts?

Stroke. Arms heavy, muscles screaming.
Breathe. Shallow, too fast.
Kick. Quads on fire.
Flip. One more. Always one more.

She swam until her body couldn’t anymore. Every inhale was knives, every kick weaker than the last. Finally, she slammed her palms against the wall and dragged herself up, breaking the surface with a ragged cry that echoed off the tiles like a confession. She clung there, chest heaving, goggles fogged, water sheeting down her shoulders.

Her pulse thundered so loud it filled her ears. She pulled herself up onto the deck, collapsing onto the cold tile, cheek pressed flat against it. For a while, she just lay there, dripping and shaking, the pool behind her smoothing back into glass like she’d never been there.

She ripped the goggles off and let them fall. Pressed her palms hard against her eyes, chasing sparks of color across the dark. For a few seconds, she pretended the colors could drown her thoughts the way the water hadn’t. But when she pulled her hands away, everything rushed back in any way. Mira’s mouth. Rumi’s touch. The impossible equation of wanting them both, of wanting to be wanted the same.

Her phone buzzed faintly from inside her bag. She didn’t check it. Couldn’t. If she did, she’d text Mira. Or Rumi. Or both. Something stupid, something raw. Something like I can’t sleep either. Something like do you think about this as much as I do? Something like please want me too.

Instead, she closed her eyes, hyperaware of the way the chlorine stung, how her lungs burned for oxygen.

Rumi sat curled tight on a frozen bench, breath fogging in the dark. Mira leaned still as stone against her studio window, city lights flickering faintly in the glass. Zoey sprawled flat on the cold tiles, hair dripping chlorine, chest heaving. Three bodies alone in different corners of the night, each convinced their storm was theirs to weather in silence. None of them knew the others were awake. None of them knew how close their thoughts strained toward the same center, how the distance between them was only an arm’s reach, if only they dared.

Chapter Text

The fourth floor kept a different kind of quiet. The other silences in the building breathed—radiators sighing, chairs murmuring across wood, someone coughing and apologizing to the air. But up here, the hush had weight. It was the hush of vellum and leather, of pages that remembered every fingertip, of bindings that had survived generations of breathless readers. The lights ran warmer, low and careful, and the aisles were tight enough that if two passed each other, one learned to turn sideways like a page.

Mira wasn’t supposed to be shelving alone tonight, but Zoey had been roped into a last-minute front desk shift, leaving Mira with nothing but her own thoughts and the company of the meticulously labeled oak shelves. She didn’t mind. Solitude usually suited her. Usually.

Except Rumi was here.

She’d caught a glimpse of her when she came in—a soft flash of profile as she slipped upstairs. Hoodie sleeves tugged down over her wrists, hair loose around her face, eyes lowered like she didn’t want to be seen. She’d vanished into the stacks without so much as a hello, but that wasn’t unusual. Rumi liked her corners, her vantage points. Mira knew that about her now.

She told herself she’d just keep shelving.

Five minutes later, Mira found her. Nestled in the narrow aisle between two glass cases, perched on the low step stool they kept for shorter shelves, a book balanced on her knees. She was absorbed—so much so that when Mira’s shadow fell across the page, she startled.

“Sorry,” Mira said, voice pitched low. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.”

Rumi’s mouth softened into something half-formed, not quite a smile, but gentler than nothing. “You’re fine. I just didn’t hear you.”

Mira hesitated, hyper-aware of how close the shelves pressed them. The faint smell of old bindings tangled with the scent of Rumi’s shampoo, clean and floral. She should keep moving—shelve the book in her hand, get out before she made it weird.

Instead, she leaned one shoulder against the case opposite. “That one any good?”

Rumi tilted the cover so she could see. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Mira’s gaze lingered on the way her fingers held the edges of the page—gentle, reverent, as though she were afraid to bruise the ink. And God, she wanted to touch her. Not carelessly, not in passing, but with the weight of meaning.

It must have shown in her face, because when Rumi looked up, their eyes locked—and held. For a long, brittle moment, the library itself seemed to wait.

Mira stepped forward. Just one step. But in this narrow space, it erased almost all of the distance. Rumi’s breath caught, audible in the hush. Her hand slipped from the page, lowering the book. Mira plucked it from her, sliding it into it's proper place without looking, and didn’t think again.

She bent and brushed her lips against Rumi’s—barely a question. The first kiss was featherlight, the kind that could be excused later. But Rumi didn’t move away. Her eyes fluttered closed, and when Mira drew back, she leaned in again, this time sure of herself.

The second kiss burned.

Mira cupped Rumi’s jaw, her thumb grazing soft skin. Rumi answered with a hand tangled into Mira’s hair, fingers brushing her scalp and sending tremors through her knees. The kiss deepened, tongues brushing, retreating, finding each other again like they’d done this a hundred times in stolen places. Mira angled her head, swallowing the sound Rumi made when their tongues slid together—breathy, helpless, like she’d been waiting for this.

The kiss sharpened, greedy. Mira’s hand slid down Rumi’s side, hooking into the loop of her jeans and yanking her closer until there was no space left to think. She shoved her back into the shelving hard enough to make the wood creak. Rumi gasped—but didn’t push away. She tilted her chin higher, offering herself up as Mira’s mouth trailed down her jaw to the hollow beneath her ear.

Her lips lingered there, tasting skin, drinking in the way Rumi shivered. Her perfume clung bitter-sweet on Mira’s tongue. When Mira’s mouth closed over her throat, Rumi’s fingers fisted tighter in her hair, tugging in a way that stole her breath and sent molten heat down her spine. Mira answered with her tongue, slow and dragging, before pressing another kiss that lingered until Rumi’s breath hitched into a whimper.

“Mira—” The whisper was frayed, loud in the stillness.

Her palm came up, covering Rumi’s mouth, thumb resting at her chin. “Shh,” she breathed against her ear. The command wasn’t sharp—it was intimate, trembling at the edges.

Rumi stilled beneath her hand, eyes wide, but she didn’t resist. She only nodded, lashes lowering, surrendering to silence.

Mira rewarded her with another kiss. This one slow, but heavier, dragging, tongue sweeping until Rumi arched into her. Her hands slid down Mira’s arms, catching fabric, tugging her closer again. Then restless. Her palms roamed, flattening against Mira’s stomach, slipping lower until they caught the hem of her shirt. She lifted—just enough to uncover bare skin.

Her gaze betrayed her. Dipped low. She caught a glimpse of Mira’s stomach, toned and rising with uneven breath, and the faint edge of a bra. Heat pooled low in her gut. The sight was a kind of undoing.

Her own urgency startled her. Her fingers dragged higher, greedy to feel more skin, and Mira’s answering kiss turned rough, almost punishing, like she’d been waiting for that exact surrender. Mira pressed flush against her, hand slipping down the slope of her waist, over the arch of her hip, trailing heat in its wake.

The kiss grew messy. Urgent. Tongues meeting with the kind of hunger that left both of them gasping for air, only to dive back in. Rumi made another sound into Mira’s mouth—a soft, desperate thing—and Mira swallowed it, claiming it, hoarding it.

Her hand stilled on Rumi’s jaw, the other daring further—hovering at the waistband of her jeans. She tested the seam, fingertips ghosting lower, brushing the elastic of her underwear. Rumi didn’t flinch. She didn’t stop her. If anything, her breath faltered and her hips pressed forward, silent permission sparking between them.

That was all Mira needed.

She unfastened the button, slow but certain, slipping her fingers under the band, heat waiting just beneath—

The door at the end of the aisle squealed open.

Footsteps. Voices. Too close.

They froze, their breath colliding in the narrow space, mouths centimeters apart. Mira’s hand stilled, every muscle screaming against the halt. Rumi’s eyes were wide, lips swollen and kiss-bruised, and for a heartbeat it was written on both their faces: they didn’t want to stop.

Mira’s hand came up instinctively, covering Rumi’s mouth before a sound could betray them. Her thumb brushed hot against her cheek as she leaned close, foreheads nearly touching. "Quiet," she mouthed, barely a breath.

Rumi’s nod was trembling but sure.

The voices passed, fading to the muffled hum of the floor below.

Mira let her hand fall, thumb grazing Rumi’s swollen lip like an apology. The ache of almost pulsed between them, thick and unbearable. She wanted to kiss her again. Harder. Slower. Every way possible. But reason pried at her fingers.

When she finally stepped back, her voice was husky, barely above a whisper. “We’re not done here.”

Rumi’s answer was written in her eyes—dark, blown, and certain: she didn’t want them to be.

Chapter Text

The staff room still smelled faintly of burnt coffee, the pot left too long on its warmer. Mira sat on the edge of the table, arms braced, hair falling forward like a curtain she half-hid behind. Zoey leaned against the counter, still flushed from what had happened an hour earlier in the stacks — the kiss neither of them could stop replaying.

“Okay,” Zoey said finally, dragging the word out like it weighed too much. “We need to figure out what the hell we’re doing.”

Mira’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Zoey’s grin was crooked but too soft to be cocky. “I kissed you. You kissed me. And we both…” She trailed, gesturing vaguely, like the rest was obvious.

Mira crossed her arms tighter, but her voice came low, betraying more than she meant it to. “We both want her.”

The silence after was thick, humming. Neither of them had said it aloud before. Rumi. The third point of their orbit.

Zoey scrubbed a hand over her face. “So we either keep dancing around it until we combust, or we try something different. A chance. Neutral ground.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Neutral ground?”

“My place,” Zoey said simply. “Movie night. Just us three. No trivia crowds, no customers walking in, no staff shelving around the corner. If something’s gonna happen, it’ll happen there.”

Mira hesitated, fingers worrying at the hem of her sleeve. But the image rooted too easily in her chest — Rumi curled up between them, laughter spilling in a private space. Not chance. Not background noise. Something deliberate.

Finally, Mira exhaled, almost a laugh. “You’re insane.”

Zoey’s grin sharpened. “Yeah, but tell me it’s not perfect.”

Mira didn’t. Couldn’t.

Rumi hesitated at Zoey’s doorway, fingers tightening on the strap of her bag. She’d never been here before, never seen Zoey outside the safe clutter of the library, and stepping inside felt like crossing some invisible line.

The apartment was warm in a different way from the library. Not old-wood-and-paper warm, but lived-in: a soft green sofa angled toward the TV, throw pillows that didn’t match but worked anyway. Prints of Korean drinks and food, bold graphics in saturated colors, hung alongside framed sketches and photographs, a potted monstera leaned toward the light, one leaf browning at the edges like it had seen better days. A blanket was already draped across the couch back, waiting. 

“You’re not on library hours now,” Zoey teased as she tossed her jacket on a chair. “Relax. Couch is neutral territory. But please, shoes off. I’m not a heathen.”

Mira brushed past, close enough that Rumi caught her scent, and dropped onto the sofa like she’d been here a hundred times. Rumi swallowed hard and followed, tugging her shoes off clumsily before perching on the edge of the armrest. 

Zoey plopped down and gestured for Rumi to sit in between her and Mira, grabbing the blanket and draping the three of them in soft warmth. “Alright. No arguing over genres. I picked something dumb and sappy so none of us has to think.”

“Thank god,” Mira muttered, smirking. “If it had been another art film, I would’ve walked.”

Zoey snorted. “Please. You’d sit through a three-hour shot of grass swaying if it made you look cultured.”

Rumi smiled faintly, hugging her knees a little closer. The banter was sharp, easy—their rhythm. She felt like a note trying to find her place in the melody. 

By the time the opening credits rolled, she realized she’d been purposefully maneuvered into the middle seat. Mira’s thigh pressed against hers on one side, Zoey’s arm draped along the couch behind her on the other. 

Little things stacked up. Mira leaned in to make some biting comment about the lead actor’s haircut, breath warm against Rumi’s ear. Zoey stretched, her arm brushing Rumi’s shoulder before settling again. 

Rumi tried to focus on the rom-com playing out onscreen, but the flicker of dialogue blurred under the awareness of how close they all were. Every shift of weight, every graze of fabric against her arm, seemed louder than the movie’s soundtrack. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this hyperaware of her own skin.

Halfway through the movie, the inevitable happened. The heroine found herself torn between the childhood best friend and the mysterious stranger, and the script bent over backwards to make both options miserable.

Mira groaned loud enough to rattle the popcorn bowl. “Oh, come on. Just pick already!”

Zoey snorted, tipping her head back against the couch. “Pick?” These writers want her to suffer. That’s the whole point. Tragedy, but make it quirky.”

Rumi found herself laughing despite the knot in her chest. “She’s not suffering, she’s just indecisive. If it were real life, she’d be–” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Actually, no. If it were real life, she’d be miserable either way.”

The three of them dissolved into snickers, Mira tossing a pillow half-heartedly at the screen. The laughter ebbed, leaving a quiet in its place–softer, heavier than before. Rumi became sharply aware of the weight of the blanket over them, the heat of Mira’s leg still firm against hers, Zoey’s arm brushing the back of her shoulders. She swore she felt Zoey playing with her hair.

Onscreen, the heroine chose the wrong person, as everyone knew she would. The “right” one gave her a wounded stare, tragic music swelling.

Before she could stop herself, Rumi reached for the remote, paused the movie, and blurted: “This would be a lot easier if they all just got together.”

The words hung in the room like a match strike.

Mira choked on a laugh, glancing sideways. Zoey’s brows lifted, a surprised smirk tugging but never fully forming. They both went quiet at the same time–too quiet. And both of them were looking at her.

Rumi’s stomach flipped. “What?”

Zoey tilted her head, eyes never leaving her. The smirk that usually softened every word was gone; what replaced it was steady, unnerving in its sincerity. “You know…” she said slowly, deliberately, “that’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Rumi blinked. For half a second, she thought she’d misheard. Her laugh snagged in her throat, breaking into something shaky. “Don’t—don’t say stuff like that when you don’t mean it.”

Zoey didn’t look away. Neither did Mira.

The silence pressed close, heavy enough to make Rumi’s pulse stumble. She clutched at the edge of the blanket like it could hide how hard her hands trembled.

Mira leaned back, elbow on the armrest of the couch, chin in her hand, her voice dipping low and sure. “Who says we don’t?”

The words landed sharp in Rumi, like a crack splitting open the floor under her. She shook her head too quickly, eyes darting between them like she was checking for the punchline. She tried to chuckle, tried to find Zoey’s usual grin. “You’re not serious. You can’t be.”

Zoey blinked, hurt flickering across her face before it softened into something terrifyingly gentle. “It’s not a joke, Rumi.”

“Come on.” Rumi’s voice wavered. “You don’t get to just say that. Not unless you mean it. Not to me.”

Mira leaned forward, slow and steady, resting her hands on her knees. Her voice was quiet, warm, like she was handling something fragile. “Do we look like we’re joking?”

Rumi searched their faces desperately for the smirk, the wink, the crack in the façade that would let her laugh this one off. But there was only stillness. Two pairs of eyes fixed on her, soft and unwavering, like they had all the time in the world to wait.

Her heart twisted painfully. “I don’t—” She swallowed hard. “I can’t believe this.”

Zoey’s hand edged closer on the blanket until her knuckles grazed Rumi’s wrist, light enough to retreat if she bolted. Her grin softened further, almost unbearably sweet.

Rumi’s laugh burst out sharp, brittle. “Okay, no. No. You guys are fucking with me.” She jabbed a finger at them, blanket slipping from her knees. “That’s a really shitty joke, by the way. Not fair.”

For a long moment, no one moved. Then, as if guided by the same thought, Mira and Zoey both tilted their heads toward each other. The tiniest nods passed between them, barely there—but Rumi caught them.

Her breath caught, her whole body locking up.

They leaned in, slow enough for her to see every millimeter close. Rumi’s back hit the cushions, heart in her throat, unable to do anything but watch.

And then—

Their mouths met.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a show. It was gentle, holy, a kiss that said more than words ever could. Rumi saw Mira’s hand lift first, trembling once before settling against Zoey’s cheek. Saw Zoey’s lashes flutter shut, her lips parting just slightly, answering with a sweetness that made Rumi ache.

It was so close, so real, she could hear it—the faintest hitch of breath, the quiet slide of lips finding each other like they’d been meant to all along.

Her chest squeezed so tight she thought it might break. She’d fallen for each of them in different ways, different times, but seeing them together—seeing the way they fit—it was like watching two halves of the same song finally play in harmony.

By the time they pulled back, still close enough that Rumi could feel the warmth between them, her hands had curled into the blanket like she needed to hold on or float away entirely.

And for the first time, she believed them.

Rumi laughed, but it came out broken, breathless. “This—this can’t be real. Both of you? No way.”

Zoey tilted her head, a grin tugging at her mouth. “What, you think just you hallucinated that? Need us to prove it again?”

Mira’s voice slid in, steady but softer than Rumi had ever heard. “Yeah. Because I have no problem proving it again.”

Her chest squeezed too tight, tears stinging before she could stop them. “It’s not fair,” she whispered, clutching the blanket like it might hold her together. “You can’t just say you want me. Not both. I don’t—how could I—?”

Zoey’s smile softened, her hand finding Mira’s across Rumi’s lap, fingers threading together. “Dead serious, sweetheart.”

The sight of their joined hands tipped something in her. Her head spun, pulse stuttering hard enough to hurt.

“How long?” she whispered, searching their faces like the truth might undo her. “How long have you… wanted this?”

Zoey’s grin tilted crooked, a flicker of embarrassment softening it. “You remember that day it rained for, like, a week straight? And you stepped right into that lake-sized puddle outside the library?” Her laugh slipped out, quiet, almost tender. “You tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but you were limping the whole way in, pulling your shoe off to dump it out while glaring at the floor like it personally betrayed you. I don’t know why, but… that was it for me. Watching you—so stubborn, so human—I just thought, ‘Oh. Shit. I’m in trouble.’”

Rumi’s gaze snapped to Mira. “And you?”

Mira squinted, brain working faster than her heart. “Definitely longer than I let myself believe.”

“Mira…” Zoey huffed. 

Mira didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed steady, but there was a crack in her tone, gentler than Rumi had ever heard it. “Since the day you were reading Rebecca ,” she said.“You hit the plot twist, slammed the book shut so hard you nearly spilled your coffee everywhere. You were swearing under your breath, cheeks flushed, and you looked so alive in that moment. I couldn’t—” She hesitated, jaw tightening, but then let the words out anyway. “I couldn’t look away. And I remember thinking… I wanted to be someone who could light you up like that.”

The words splintered something in Rumi. Her chest tightened until she thought it might break. She let out a laugh that cracked in half, wet with tears. “God. You noticed… that?” She shook her head, pressing her sleeve to her face. “I haven’t even told you—half of me. I know I haven’t. I’ve been so scared that if I did, if you saw too much, you’d decide I wasn’t worth it.”

Her voice dropped, fragile. “And now you’re sitting here telling me you fell for me in the moments I thought no one was even looking. When I thought I wasn’t being perceived at all.”

Zoey’s hand slid to her knee under the blanket, warm and steady. “Yeah, sweetheart. Those were exactly the moments.”

Mira leaned in closer, her voice low, certain. “It’s never been about you being perfect. It’s about you being you.”

That broke her—not into pieces, but into something that felt terrifyingly like being seen.

The admission hollowed Rumi out and filled her up in the same breath. Her throat closed, a choked sound catching before she could stop it. “And the two of you—” she swallowed, voice cracking, “you’re not… together? Already?”

Zoey chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Nope. Not unless you count sharing looks across the room when you weren’t paying attention and the impromptu makeout session we had in the staffroom because someone wouldn’t stop yelling at me.”

Mira’s lips curved faintly, ignoring Zoey’s banter. “You were always the missing piece.”

The words shattered her. She covered her face with her hands, half-laughing, half-crying. “This is insane. I don’t even know why me. Why would either of you—”

Zoey nudged her wrists down gently until her hands fell away. Her gaze was warm, steady. “Because you’re you. That’s it. That’s all we’ve ever needed.”

Mira leaned closer, brushing another tear from her cheek with her thumb. “Rumi,” she murmured, her voice a tether in the storm, “we don’t want to scare you. We only want this if you do.”

The softness in her tone, the steadiness in Zoey’s hand still laced with Mira’s—it was too much, too sweet, too impossible. And God, she wanted it.

Her voice shook, but the words tumbled out anyway. “I do. I—I want this. I want you. Both of you. I have no clue what that looks like or what this means, but I can’t hold that in anymore.”

Zoey’s grin broke wide before she leaned in, kissing Rumi like she’d been waiting years for it. Not hungry, not rushed—just warm, slow, coaxing. When she pulled back, Mira was already there, sliding in to catch Rumi’s lips next. Softer, more deliberate, her hand cupped Rumi’s jaw like she was holding something fragile.

It didn’t take long for Rumi to lean forward and kiss Mira back harder, her fingers finding the hem of Mira’s shirt. Then Zoey laughed against her ear, tugging her into another kiss, messy with the way they shifted and collided. For a dizzy stretch of moments, it was just mouths and hands, the three of them trading warmth in a tangled rhythm.

The blanket, bunched around their laps, became a trap—pulling tight around Rumi’s waist when she shifted, catching under Mira’s knee, dragging Zoey forward hard enough that she nearly toppled into both of them. They broke apart laughing, breathless, tugging and fumbling to free themselves, but every time someone tried to fix it, another elbow or knee ended up caught.

“Hold still—no, wait—” Zoey hissed under her breath, jerking at the edge caught under her thigh. The tug snapped the fabric tight across Rumi’s lap, which pulled Mira forward so abruptly she nearly face-planted into Rumi’s shoulder.

“Zoey!” Mira snapped, though her laugh ruined the scold.

Rumi tried to bite back her own, uselessly clawing at the wool where it had twisted under her knees. Every move seemed to make it worse, the blanket pulling taut in new directions, like the thing had grown teeth and decided they were dinner.

“Okay, okay, don’t move.” Zoey stretched her arm, tried a strategic wiggle, and managed to drag the blanket halfway off the couch—straight onto the floor.

Which would’ve worked fine if it hadn’t looped around Rumi’s ankle in the process.

“Shit!” She lurched forward, just barely catching herself on Mira’s shoulder before she toppled over.

Mira snorted, grabbing at her wrist to steady her. “This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Zoey gave the blanket one last violent tug and nearly elbowed herself in the ribs. “This is a full-blown hazard. OSHA’s gonna come after us.”

Rumi’s laugh broke through then, a soft, breathless thing she couldn’t smother. It didn’t help when Mira tried to scoot back, only for the fabric to drag her forward again like some bad magic trick.

Zoey groaned, flopping back against the couch cushion with her arms spread wide. “Nope. Nope, I’m calling it. This blanket’s out for blood. Someone’s getting rug burn if we keep pretending this is fine.”

She gestured helplessly at the mess of limbs and fabric. “This would be a lot easier in the bedroom,” Zoey stammered. “Shit, uh—I mean, we don’t have to, like, go anywhere, I’m not—there’s no pressure or anything.” The words tumbled out of her in a rush, her ears pink. “I just don’t want one of us to, y’know, dislocate a knee every time someone breathes. Or, I don’t know, die of textile-related injuries.”

Mira tilted her head, exasperated but fond, while Rumi tried not to giggle harder at Zoey’s flailing.

Zoey’s hands came up, surrender plain on her face. “Look, I’m just saying—bedroom’s got more space. And way less homicidal furniture.”

The words hung in the air, a clumsy bridge between laughter and something warmer. Rumi’s pulse stuttered, cheeks hot with more than just the tangled mess. But when Mira glanced at her, the curve of her smile soft, it didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like permission.

The three of them grinn ed , still tangled in each other and the stubborn blanket. Mira finally pried it free with a sharp tug that nearly knocked Zoey sideways. “Fine,” she said, breathless, her hair falling forward, “maybe she’s right. This couch wasn’t designed for three people doing… this.”

Zoey’s eyes flicked from Rumi to Mira, her grin tugging shyly again. “C’mon then.” She stood, offering both hands like she was half afraid they’d refuse.

Rumi’s pulse sputtered as she slid her fingers into Zoey’s, Mira rising beside her. The three of them shuffled down the short hall, laughter and nerves tangled so tight it felt like one breathless blur.

Zoey pushed her bedroom door open with her hip. The space was instantly, undeniably hers : lived-in, eclectic, unapologetically imperfect. A stack of sketchbooks slumped against the wall beside the desk, one half-open with pencil smudges blooming across the page. The bed was half-made, sheets tucked in, but the navy blue comforter rumpled where she’d clearly pulled it up in a rush. A dark headboard anchored it against the wall, worn smooth at the edges from years of use. On the matching bedside table sat a glass of water, half-drunk, a few rings from old mugs staining the wood.

Zoey hovered in the doorway for a beat, scratching at the back of her neck. “Yeah, uh. Not exactly—y’know—magazine-worthy.” Her grin tilted. “But it’s mine. Hope that’s… okay.”

Mira brushed past her, fingers grazing her arm as she crossed to sit on the edge of the bed, her eyes sweeping over the room with something softer than judgment—acceptance. “It’s more than okay.”

Rumi lingered at the threshold, staring at the comforter, the crooked stack of books, the scuffed floorboards. All of it so personal, so Zoey . The thought of sharing this space—of being welcomed into it—sent a rush through her chest that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with wonder.

Zoey caught her hesitation, stepped close, and touched her elbow lightly. “No pressure,” she said again, quieter this time, as if trying to anchor the words into the floorboards.

Rumi swallowed, nodded, and stepped inside.

They settled awkwardly at first, knees bumping as they tried to find space on the bed. The comforter dipped beneath their weight, tugging them closer no matter how they shifted. In the end, they fell into a loose triangle—Zoey sitting with one knee pulled up, her grin a little crooked; Mira cross-legged opposite her, steady and composed; and Rumi between them at the third point, perched too neatly with her hands folded tight in her lap.

The uneven geometry of it made them laugh—soft, nervous, but real. The kind of laughter that loosened shoulders and made the air easier to breathe.

Rumi’s fingers worried at the hem of her shirt, twisting the fabric until it cut tight against her knuckles. She tugged it up just enough to flash pale skin at her waist before letting it fall again, jaw clenching hard enough to ache. The air between them thickened, heavy with her hesitation, and when her eyes darted up—catching Mira’s, then Zoey’s—she looked almost caught, like a rabbit in a snare.

Mira was the first to see it for what it was. Not refusal. Not retreat. Just the razor-thin edge between wanting and terror. Instead of speaking, she moved with the kind of instinct that had always set her apart. Her hand lifted, slow enough that Rumi could see it coming, and rested it on her knee. She used her other hand to cup Zoey’s jaw, tipping her chin up to kiss her.

The sound Zoey made was soft, surprised, then hungry in a way that melted the air. The kiss deepened, Mira’s thumb stroking once along her cheekbone, the two of them falling into rhythm without a word. Rumi sat frozen, heat rushing to her face, watching the kind of intimacy that felt too sharp to breathe through.

And then—shirts.

Zoey went first, of course. She hooked her thumbs under the hem of her tee and peeled it off in one motion, like it was nothing. The shirt hit the floor in a careless heap, leaving her in the glow of the bedside lamp, ink alive on her skin. The lines curved up her ribs, curling behind the strap of her bra, vanishing where no one could see. The tattoos pulled Rumi’s eyes without permission, her mind betraying her with questions—how far did they go, where did they end? Zoey only grinned, lopsided and unbothered, as if being half-bared in front of them was as easy as breathing.

Mira followed, slower. She leaned into Zoey’s hands as they helped tug her shirt upward, and for a second, it caught on the arm of her glasses. The fabric bunched awkwardly until Mira huffed a laugh, pulling them off with one hand to free herself. It was ridiculous and inelegant and so entirely her—gold chain glinting at her throat, hair spilling loose across her shoulders as the shirt finally came away. The laughter hung soft in the air, the imperfect moment folding into something warmer than perfection could ever be.

And then she was there in the lamplight, pale skin kissed by gold, every sharp angle of her collarbones etched in shadow. No ink, no ornament beyond the chain still resting against her sternum, delicate and understated. Where Zoey’s body was inked, alive with stories in her skin, Mira’s was clean lines and quiet strength—collarbones drawn sharp, ribs outlined beneath a lean core, steadiness written in every inch.

The contrast was dizzying. Zoey, bold and vibrant; Mira, precise and luminous. Opposites, and yet together they were unbearable in their beauty.

Rumi sat stiff between them, her breath caught like it might never come back. They hadn’t just stripped down—they’d done it first. They’d gone bare before her, showing without words that she was safe to follow.

Zoey noticed Rumi’s hesitancy. Her grin softened, gentled. She leaned in, brushing Rumi’s knuckles with her hand. “Hey,” she murmured, steady as an anchor, “only if you want to. There’s no finish line here.”

For a long moment, Rumi stayed frozen, her shirt bunched at her fists, the cotton damp where her palms had clenched too long. The room pressed close around her—the glow of the lamp, the dip of the mattress beneath three bodies, the heat of Zoey’s arm brushing her thigh, Mira’s steady presence just in front of her. She wanted to move, to act, to not keep them waiting. But her chest stuttered with the kind of fear that made even breathing feel like a risk.

“I…” Her voice broke, barely there. “Maybe I—”

She didn’t finish. Her hands moved instead, yanking her shirt upward before she could change her mind. It caught once at her shoulder, then slid free, falling in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed.

Silence.

Mira’s eyes swept over her first—sharp and searching, then softening as if something inside her had cracked. The scars Rumi had kept hidden for years, the map she never wanted anyone to see, wound so much farther than Mira had imagined. Thin lines twisting up from the inside of her forearm, webbing along the muscle, curling over the rise of her shoulder. Some faded pale as mist, others darker, thicker, puckered where the skin had been burned deep.

Mira didn’t flinch. She leaned in, closer, until the warm fog of her breath mixed with Rumi’s. Her fingers hovered just above one line, feather-light when they touched down, tracing the edge as if it were scripture. “Beautiful,” she murmured. No pity in it. Just awe, and truth.

Rumi’s stomach twisted. Her whole body was trembling—until Zoey shifted behind her, arms sliding firm and warm around her waist. Zoey’s lips brushed the curve of her shoulder. “You’re warm,” she whispered, and then, after a beat, softer still: “You survived so much, and you’re still here. Still… you.”

The words hit too deep. Rumi made a broken noise, half sigh, half sob. She would’ve curled inward if Mira’s hand hadn’t been there, holding her steady, and if Zoey’s arms hadn’t been wrapped so snug around her middle, pulling her back against the heat of her body.

Mira let her hand roam higher, thumb brushing the faint line that disappeared over Rumi’s collarbone. She pushed Rumi’s hair aside gently, tucking it behind her ear so she could follow the path of another scar. Zoey, not to be outdone, let her lips graze lower, down the slope of her arm, teeth catching lightly on unmarked skin before she softened it with a kiss.

The two of them moved around her like they’d done this a thousand times before—trading spaces, never crowding, never pressing too hard. Mira’s gaze steady, Zoey’s touch playful and grounding. Each moment stretched until Rumi wasn’t sure where her breath ended and theirs began.

For the first time in her life, her body felt held. Not examined, not questioned—held.

Mira guided her gently back until her own shoulders hit the headboard, legs stretching out to cradle Rumi between them. The shift pulled Rumi into her lap, Mira’s thighs bracketing her sides, arms wrapping firm around her waist. Rumi barely had a chance to breathe before Zoey prowled up on her knees, sliding in close, smirk sharp as her fingertips traced the inside line of Rumi’s thigh.

“Good call,” Zoey murmured, settling in with hungry ease.

Mira didn’t answer. Her mouth found the curve of Rumi’s good shoulder, lips soft at first, then teeth sinking in. The bite dragged a ragged whimper out of Rumi, one Zoey caught instantly with a grin. Mira soothed the mark with her tongue, slow circles over trembling skin, while her free hand slid higher—fingers brushing ribs, then cupping Rumi’s breast in a firm squeeze.

Rumi arched back into her with a startled moan. Mira’s thumb rolled deliberately over the peak through thin fabric, each pass rougher, until the sound broke into something raw.

Zoey leaned in, chasing it with a kiss that swallowed every noise. She kissed like she wanted to drink the sounds straight from Rumi’s lungs, pressing closer with little nips that left Rumi gasping. Her palms slid up the insides of Rumi’s thighs, stroking higher with every pass, stopping just shy of where her body ached most.

“God, you sound good,” Zoey teased, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth before letting go.

Pinned tight between them, Rumi could only squirm. Mira’s mouth moved up her throat, tongue flicking against the frantic pulse before biting again, harder. The moan it tore loose was shameless, spilling out before she could hold it back. Mira kneaded her breast in rhythm, thumb rolling with enough pressure to make her whimper and shake.

Zoey’s laugh came low, breathless now, as her hands pressed firmer to Rumi’s thighs, thumbs tracing the tender insides. “She’s shaking,” Zoey said, eyes flashing up to Mira.

“Then hold her,” Mira whispered in Rumi’s ear, voice dark but steady. Her tongue traced the edge of it, and Rumi shuddered.

Zoey obeyed without hesitation—gripping Rumi’s thighs tight, easing them apart just enough. Rumi’s breath hitched, body jerking, the sound that left her a full-bodied moan she couldn’t swallow down. Mira bit her shoulder again and caught it with a pleased growl, licking over the mark as though claiming it.

“You’re safe,” Mira murmured between bites and licks, grounding her even as her hand teased rougher. “You’re wanted.”

Zoey softened, mouth brushing Rumi’s slow now, a playful kiss breaking into a grin against her lips. She pressed her forehead to Rumi’s, steady. “Tell us if it’s too much,” she whispered. “We won’t push.”

Mira’s arms cinched tighter around her middle, protective even as her hand stilled. “We’re not here to take anything you don’t give,” she breathed into her ear, kissing her temple gently.

Rumi trembled between them, every nerve raw, every scar touched and made holy. Her own hands finally lifted—clumsy, uncertain—clutching Zoey’s shoulder, Mira’s wrist. They anchored her instantly, solid points to hold until her breath came back.

Her cries softened into breathy whimpers, Mira’s palm warm at her stomach, Zoey’s thumbs pressing circles at her thighs but never pushing higher. And somehow, that restraint undid her even more—the way they wanted her wrecked, but not lost.

By the time Zoey pulled back, lips swollen, Mira’s mouth still ghosting over her throat, the room felt thick with heat. Mira traced slow circles over her ribs to steady her, while Zoey pressed one last kiss to her jaw, grin still tilted but tender.

“You’re safe with us,” Zoey promised.

Rumi’s breath shuddered, caught between ache and warmth. She nodded once, sharp, the only answer she could manage. Mira pressed another kiss to her shoulder, Zoey brushed her temple, both of them holding steady around her.

For a while, it was only that—touch without demand, kisses without urgency. Mira’s hands roamed in slow, claiming arcs over her body, Zoey’s mouth nipping her jaw and throat, coaxing little whimpers with every pass. When Rumi’s head finally tipped back against Mira’s shoulder, the moan that slipped out was helpless, small and real. Mira tightened her arms in answer, whispering at her ear, “We’ve got you.”

And Rumi believed it. Every scar, every nerve, every tremor in her body was met and steadied until she could sink into the safety of their hands.

Chapter Text

Zoey was supposed to be working. She had the library’s spreadsheets pulled up—columns of incoming orders, projected budgets, even a tab of upcoming book releases she’d halfheartedly color-coded. Her pen spun restlessly between her fingers, clicking every now and then when she remembered she was meant to be making notes.

But every few minutes, her chin slipped back into her palm and her gaze tilted upward toward the mezzanine.

Rumi didn’t even need to look up from her book to feel it. The weight of Zoey’s attention pressed warm against her skin, steady and insistent. Like a hand she couldn’t see, brushing over her face like a painting in progress. It made the corner of her mouth twitch before she finally lifted her head, letting her eyes find Zoey’s below.

Zoey froze, caught mid-stare.

Rumi’s brows arched, slow and deliberate, the smallest oh yeah? etched into the curve of her expression. A teasing dare, all challenge and amusement.

Zoey’s grin broke wide and guilty, quick as a spark, before she ducked back toward the spreadsheet, typing furiously at nothing just to prove she was working.

Rumi shook her head, biting back her own laugh, though her chest still hummed with the afterglow of it. Because the truth was, she liked feeling Zoey’s eyes on her. She liked being noticed .

She hadn’t planned on it. The coffee run had started out simple—just for herself, something to clear the fog that still clung to her after three restless nights. She rattled off her usual order, then, almost without thinking, blurted two more.

“Uh—and one iced matcha latte with oat milk. And a… black Americano. Extra hot.”

Her cheeks burned the moment the words left her mouth. Zoey’s latte—sweet, but not too sweet, the kind she’d teased her about once for being “hipster basic.” Mira’s Americano—unadorned, efficient, exactly like the way she always finished her work before anyone else.

She tucked her hair behind her ear as she paid, muttering a thanks, pretending not to notice the barista’s raised brow. She wasn’t used to thinking of them as hers, but her heart had already decided otherwise, and apparently, so had her mouth.

While she waited, she drifted to the side table where the café kept stacks of cardboard sleeves and a cup of loaner pens. Her fingers hesitated, hovering, before she picked one up.

Zoey’s sleeve came first—chubby little turtles scribbled in the margins, one blowing bubbles, another wearing a tiny crown. She snorted softly, biting her lip as she added a cartoon speech bubble: “slow but unstoppable.”

For Mira, her pen slowed, steadier. Lavender sprigs stretched up the edge of the sleeve, vines looping together, a book cracked open at the corner with inky, fluttering pages. By the time she pulled her hand away, she realized she’d been holding her breath.

When the drinks were ready, she gathered all three into a cardboard tray, balancing it like the world’s most delicate treasure.

At the library, her pulse drummed louder than the buzz of the entrance scanner. She spotted them instantly—Zoey hunched over the printer at the front desk, Mira shelving in quiet precision between the stacks. Rumi’s grip tightened around the tray.

She approached Zoey first, her eyes glued to the floor. “Good morning. This is for you.” she mumbled, sliding the latte across the counter.

Zoey looked up, blinked, and then her grin split wide when she saw the doodles. “You serious right now?” she laughed, holding the turtles up like proof of joy. “This is the cutest shit I’ve ever seen.”

Rumi’s face burned hotter, but she smiled despite herself.

Mira was next. Rumi padded softly up behind her, heart hammering, and held the Americano out with both hands like an offering. She couldn’t quite look up when Mira turned, but she felt the shift in the air—the pause, the quiet intake of breath.

Mira’s fingers brushed hers when she accepted the cup. Her gaze lingered on the sleeve, lips parting slowly, and then she smiled. Not her polite smile. Her real one, rare and devastating.

Rumi thought she might combust right there in the stacks.

The library after hours had a way of melting in on itself. Overhead lights gone dark, only a few lamps left on, their glow pooling warm and golden across the third floor. Somewhere below, the old pipes clicked faintly, a reminder that the building still breathed even after hours.

It was in that hush that Mira found herself with Rumi pressed against her side on the couch. No audience. No noise. Just the steady turn of pages—two different books held in two pairs of hands—and the weight of another body leaning fully, trustingly, into hers.

Rumi’s shoulder rested against her side, her temple brushing close whenever she shifted to readjust. Mira could feel the slow rhythm of her breath, the little ways she softened as the minutes stretched on, until finally she’d gone slack altogether.

Mira hadn’t dared move. Not because she feared disturbing her, but because she wanted the moment to stretch forever. Even the idea of shifting her weight, even drawing too deep a breath, felt like it might risk scattering something she’d never get back.

So she stayed still. She let her chest rise shallow, let her hand hover against her own knee instead of fidgeting, let herself memorize the weight, the warmth, the scent of paper and faint perfume that clung to Rumi.

It wasn’t anything overt. It wasn’t the kind of closeness that demanded to be named. But for Mira, it was everything.

And the thought lingered long after—the golden lamplight, the hush of the stacks, the warmth of Rumi leaning without hesitation. A memory that wrapped around her ribs, tight and tender, reminding her of what she already knew: once she let someone in, she loved them with her whole, steady heart.

Zoey kept thinking back to yesterday, standing at her counter with three neat bento boxes lined up like soldiers. She’d told herself it was for convenience—everyone needed to eat, and she was already packing one for herself. But then she’d found the old cookie cutters in the drawer and, before she could talk herself out of it, was pressing carrots into lopsided stars and cucumbers into animals that barely resembled anything at all. By the time she closed the lids, she’d already decided she was going to act like it was no big deal.

But sitting around the staff room table later—Rumi tucked into one chair like she belonged there as much as any of them—Zoey felt her plan unravel. Mira’s brows had lifted at the sight of the tidy arrangement, something flickering in her usually composed face, like the smallest crack had let the warmth through. And Rumi’s laugh—soft, breathless, almost shy—had filled the little break room, curling low in Zoey’s chest until her pulse skipped.

She’d pretended not to notice, popping the lid off her own box, but Mira’s eyes had cut sideways at her across the table. Just a flicker, quick enough that Rumi might not catch it. The kind of look that carried a whole unspoken sentence: Really? You’re going to sit here acting like I didn’t drag you up against that counter a week ago?

Zoey nearly choked on a cucumber bear. Heat flushed up her neck, and she ducked her head toward her food like the bento was suddenly fascinating. When she risked another glance, Mira was already studying her book like nothing had happened, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth.

The memory had lodged deep in Zoey’s ribs, sharper than she wanted to admit. The boxes were empty now, rinsed and stacked carefully at home, waiting for her to dream up another excuse. She’d keep telling herself it was for convenience. But she already knew better.

As time went on, walking thoughts began running—darting down hallways she hadn’t meant to open, exploring parts of her mind that left her dizzy. The library was quiet, but Rumi’s body betrayed her. A flush rose high under her collar as memory bled too vividly into the present—Mira’s chest solid and steady against her back, the warmth of arms banding her in place, the faint rasp of breath at her crown. And Zoey—God, Zoey—her mouth tracing lower, lips brushing a path that left her bones humming.

Her fingers curled hard around the edge of the book she had in her hands, grounding herself in paper and leather, knuckles whitening. The ghosts of touch were too sharp—weight of hands, the whisper of lips, the way her body had arched before she’d even thought to. She swallowed against the heat rising, mortified at how quick her pulse still stuttered at the memory.

Mira hadn’t meant to think about it again, but the moment had branded itself into her. The thud of Rumi’s heartbeat against her palm, strong and frantic when she’d let her hand wander across her chest, had felt like holding something wild and alive. And then—Zoey’s gaze, cutting across Rumi’s shoulder.

Hungry. Electric. A silent challenge.
Her stomach had knotted at the sight, heat rolling through her in a way she hadn’t prepared for. Even now, the memory dragged a tremor through her fingers, her throat tight with something she couldn’t quite name—something that wasn’t just about Rumi, or Zoey, but the impossible gravity of all three colliding.

She couldn’t stop replaying it, no matter how many spreadsheets she forced herself to stare at. Mira’s pulse had been pounding in her throat, a sharp flicker just under pale skin—and Zoey had noticed it even as her mouth pressed to Rumi’s thighs.

She remembered the way Mira had looked back at her in that second. Eyelids heavy, gaze molten, like she was drunk on the moment. And then—her lips moved. Mira whispered something Zoey couldn’t make out, sound lost to the hush of Rumi’s shaky breaths.

But she didn’t need to hear it. Because Rumi had responded instantly—her breath hitching, her head tipping back with a trembling nod. A small, broken whimper slipped out, one that rattled straight through Zoey’s chest. Mira’s legs had bracketed Rumi’s, steady and protective, her hand firm around Rumi’s thigh to hold her open. Zoey still felt the way Rumi’s fingers had scrambled for hers, clutching tight until their hands pressed together against the lean muscle of Mira’s leg.

It had been almost unbearable: Rumi under her lips, pliant and trembling; Mira’s gaze tethering her in place, daring her closer; their hands knotted together like a seal.

The scene looped endlessly now, every detail sharpened with each replay. And Zoey knew, with a twist low in her gut, that she didn’t want it to stop.

The library gave them nothing but silence that day, but it was the kind that vibrated—every pause between words, every glance that lingered, felt like it could spill over if they weren’t careful. None of them dared to tip it, not yet, though the air itself seemed to press, humming with everything unsaid.

Rumi walked home alone beneath the wet glow of the streetlamps, the city’s drizzle soft against her cheeks. Her lips were pressed tight, like she could keep the ache from spilling out if she just held them still. But she could still feel it—her body remembering the weight of hands, the brush of lips, the steady heartbeat at her back. Every step home only deepened the emptiness of being without them, her arms folded tight as if she might keep the ghost of their warmth close.

Mira stayed behind a little longer, closing a book she hadn’t read a single word of. The gold of the desk lamp caught her face, but her eyes were distant, pulse still skipping with each remembered flicker of contact. She could almost feel Rumi’s weight again, the trust of her body gone slack against her, as if Mira were the only anchor she needed. The thought left her breath shallow, her hand resting against the cover of the book as though she could trap the memory under her palm.

Zoey lay awake in her bed that night, the city dark beyond her window. She chewed her lip raw, the sting sharp but grounding, as she replayed every second in relentless detail—the way Mira’s eyes had met hers like a dare, the way Rumi’s breath had hitched against her mouth, the way her own hands still twitched with the memory of where they’d been. She squeezed her pillow tighter, but it didn’t matter. The need only pulsed stronger.

Three days hadn’t cooled it. If anything, the heat was only getting harder to hold.

Chapter Text

Mira had finished her closing tasks half an hour ago, but she hadn’t left. Lately, the thought of walking back to her empty apartment felt heavier than it should. The library, even dimmed and hushed after hours, was easier to breathe in. The place carried a kind of warmth she couldn’t find anywhere else—coziness tucked between tall stacks, the faint ghost of voices from earlier in the day, the comfort of a space layered with memory.

She settled onto the deep old couch near the front windows—the same one where she and Rumi had once sat close enough to touch, where laughter and silence had braided themselves into something steady. Tonight it was just her, a blanket thrown over her legs, Persuasion open across her lap. Her eyes skimmed the familiar lines, though she wasn’t really reading. It was the ritual that soothed her: the weight of the book in her hands, the smell of paper and dust, the soft hush that only came when the doors were locked and the lights sank low.

She was halfway through turning a page when the stairs on the far side let out a long, familiar groan. Mira didn’t look up right away—she already knew who it was. The sound had become part of her evenings here, as steady and inevitable as the tick of the old wall clock or the hum of the radiators. By the time she glanced over, her smile was already forming, quiet and easy, as Zoey’s silhouette appeared at the top of the stairwell.

Zoey came up the last steps and spotted Mira tucked into the corner of the couch, book balanced in her hand, blanket draped haphazardly around her legs.
“You get cozy fast,” Zoey teased, pulling the elastic from her wrist to gather her hair back.

Mira smirked without looking up from the page. “Benefits of efficiency.”

She shifted her feet a little, like she meant to give Zoey space. But Zoey shook her head with a grin. “It’s okay.” Instead of sitting apart, she dropped down beside Mira’s folded legs and gently lifted them, settling them across her lap. She tugged the edge of the blanket so it covered both of them, tucking it in almost without thinking.

Mira narrowed her eyes, deadpan. “If you tickle me, I swear to god.”

Zoey barked out a soft laugh. “While you’re wearing your ghost cat socks I got you last Halloween? As if I’d ever disturb them.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Mira’s mouth—more than enough reward. The weight of Mira’s legs over her lap, the warmth of the blanket shared between them, pressed into Zoey like a promise the quiet library would never tell.

Mira’s toes shifted under the blanket. “Speaking of socks,” she said idly, eyes still on the page, “did you see the pair Rumi was wearing earlier this week? I swear they had turtles all over them.”

Zoey snorted, tipping her head back against the couch. “No shit I saw them. I got them for her. Found ’em in some tourist trap shop, couldn’t resist.”

That pulled Mira’s gaze from the book, a slow grin spreading. “Of course you did.”

Zoey smirked, feigning pride. “What can I say? I’ve got a gift for novelty footwear.”

Mira laughed—really laughed, the sound bubbling up until she had to set the book aside completely. “You really do. And she wears them like it’s high fashion.”

“Damn right she does.” Zoey nudged Mira’s shin. “She strutted in here that day like she was on a runway. Sock runway.”

Mira shook her head, but her smile only widened. “God, and the way she lingers at shelves. Like, I’ll catch her hovering over the same three titles for half an hour, muttering to herself about which one’s going home with her. And then she puts them all back.”

Zoey barked a laugh. “Sometimes she only checks one out of pity if it looks lonely. Remember last week? She literally whispered ‘don’t worry, I’ll take you’ to that battered paperback version of Frankenstein that we’ve been trying to retire for months.”

Mira pressed a hand over her mouth, but it didn’t muffle her laugh. “She did —oh my god. I thought I imagined that.”

“Nope. I was right there. Thought the poor person next to her was gonna lose it.”

They both dissolved for a moment, shoulders shaking, laughter echoing into the quiet library like a secret they were keeping alive between them.

When it ebbed, Mira’s smile softened, still lingering. “And the way she laughs at her own jokes before anyone else does. It… echoes here, you know? Like the building loves her.”

Zoey’s expression gentled too, though her grin never quite faded. “She makes it brighter in here. Even when the bulbs are half burnt out.”

Mira let out a small, helpless sigh. “It feels wrong without her. Like—” She paused, searching. “Like walking around missing a limb.”

Zoey’s hand stilled where it rested across Mira’s shins, fingers curling lightly against the fabric. “Yeah,” she said, voice low. “Exactly like that. Like the air doesn’t move right without her filling it.”

Mira tilted her head, studying Zoey, then gave a breathy laugh, almost disbelieving. “We sound pathetic.”

Zoey grinned crookedly. “We sound in love.”

And for a long moment, neither of them argued.

The laughter tapered into something quieter, the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward but weighted, brimming with everything neither of them had said aloud until now. The only sound left was the slow slide of Mira’s thumb between book pages she wasn’t really reading.

Zoey’s voice came softer than she meant it to, almost like a confession:
“I don’t know what to do with how much I need her.”

Mira didn’t look up, but her chest rose a little uneven. After a long beat, she whispered,
“It’s unbearable sometimes.”

The truth of it settled into the space like heat radiating off the radiator—subtle at first, but spreading, seeping into the marrow of the moment. Zoey’s eyes stayed on Mira, searching her profile, feeling her own pulse drag heavier in her chest.

Neither moved just yet, but the air between them had already shifted—fragile, waiting.

The silence stretched, taut and humming, like the whole room was waiting. Zoey shifted beneath the blanket, her thumb brushing slowly along Mira’s shin. The touch was barely there, but it was enough to draw Mira’s gaze.

Their eyes locked. Sharp, unblinking. It felt like being seen all the way through, like neither of them could move without the other noticing. Eye contact turned electric, burning hotter than the radiator, and neither of them looked away.

Zoey’s hand drifted lower, fingertips grazing the curve of Mira’s ankle. She shifted again, nudging Mira’s legs to the side so she could lean closer. The blanket slipped loose with the motion, pooling in Mira’s lap, and the air around them thinned until it felt like breathing itself was a risk.

Then Zoey bent down, close enough to feel Mira’s breath, close enough to taste the quiet. The kiss wasn’t organized—it just happened, lips brushing in a soft press that was clumsy and inevitable all at once.

Mira inhaled sharply against her mouth, the sound low and unsteady. Zoey felt it, felt how it vibrated between them, and something inside her broke open. The kiss deepened, slow but undeniable, lips parting, tongues brushing–tentative at first, then firmer, more certain. Wet sounds filled the space—small gasps, the slick slide of mouths finding rhythm, Mira’s faint hum caught in Zoey’s throat as their tongues tangled.

Mira fumbled to set her book on the table, not daring to break the kiss. It balanced halfway before slipping, tumbling to the ground with a muted thud. Neither of them looked.

Zoey pressed closer, weight sinking Mira deeper into the couch. Mira tugged the blanket free from between them and pulled it aside, until nothing separated them anymore. Her hands came up to cradle Zoey’s jaw, holding her closer, anchoring her, and the kiss only grew hungrier, more certain—like they’d been holding back a storm for weeks and it was finally breaking loose.

The kiss didn’t stop; it only grew messier, hungrier. Zoey’s hands slid under Mira’s shirt, palms skating warm against the soft plane of her stomach. Mira shivered at the contact, her breath catching hard into Zoey’s mouth.

She arched up instinctively, letting Zoey press closer, their bodies aligning through the thin barrier of cotton and denim. The sound of it—clothes rubbing, breath hitching, the faint wet pull of their lips—made the room feel smaller, as if the walls were leaning in just to listen.

Zoey’s fingers curled at the hem of Mira’s shirt, tugging gently, testing. Mira broke the kiss just long enough to nod, her eyes blown wide, chest heaving. She lifted her arms, and Zoey pulled the fabric up and over her head in one motion. The air between them shifted, heavier, humming.

Mira wasn’t passive—she immediately hooked her fingers in Zoey’s own shirt, tugging it upward with a shaky determination. The kiss returned as the fabric tangled above Zoey’s nose, their laughter caught between mouths before Zoey wrestled it off and tossed it aside.

Skin against skin now, hot and sparking. Zoey’s mouth dragged over Mira’s jaw, down her throat, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. Mira let out a sound she didn’t mean to—half laugh, half moan—and her hands found the clasp of Zoey’s bra, fumbling before it finally gave way. The straps slid off Zoey’s shoulders, goosebumps washing over as if they were poured over her.

The blanket, once meant for comfort, was now forgotten at their sides. Mira pulled Zoey fully against her until nothing remained between them but warmth, breath, and the undeniable truth of want.

Zoey shifted, sliding one leg over until she was straddling Mira on the couch, breathless, her chest rising and falling like she’d run straight into this.

Mira’s hand trailed along Zoey’s hip, fingertips grazing before slipping beneath the edge of her waistband. Just a brush, testing, her knuckles grazing skin. It wasn’t deep enough to be anything—but it was enough to make Zoey’s whole body lean into her, eyes fluttering shut like she was being pulled under.

Zoey let out a shaky laugh, fumbling down with one hand. She popped her button, tugged the zipper down; the sound of it opening was sharp in the silence, cutting through the faint hum of the library’s heaters. She spread her thighs a little, an invitation, her breath caught on the edge of a plea.

Mira swallowed hard, rotated her wrist, and slid her hand palm-up into the open heat waiting for her. The moment her fingers slipped inside, both of them gasped—Zoey’s hips jerking, Mira’s lips parting like she’d stumbled into something sacred.

Her fingers dragged over slick warmth, spreading easily, everything wet and wanting. Zoey moaned low in her throat, biting down hard on it, the sound still spilling out ragged. Mira’s breath caught, fingers brushing lower on instinct, the sensation sticking to her skin as if it belonged there.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, almost reverent, her mouth brushing Zoey’s jaw as she spoke. “You’re so wet.”

Zoey laughed—broken, breathless, hips rocking once into Mira’s palm. “All of this… just because we talked about Rumi?”

Mira’s eyes lifted to hers, pupils wide and dark, fingers pressing deeper. “Talking about her,” she admitted softly, almost like confession, “and missing her. And… wanting you.”

Zoey’s answering moan spilled into Mira’s mouth as she kissed her again—open, desperate, their tongues tangling wetly. The slick sound of it joined with the slide of Mira’s fingers, a rhythm building between them, the couch creaking under the press of Zoey’s hips as she chased it.

Mira’s fingers stroked through wetness, drawing another broken sound from Zoey’s throat. For a moment she just watched her—watched Zoey squirm, hips rocking against her hand, watched the way her lips parted around every gasp like she was trying to hold the world together and failing.

Then Mira slipped her fingers out.

Zoey whined at the sudden absence, half-protest, half-plea, but before she could form the words, Mira was moving. She sat up straighter, hooked her arm firmly around Zoey’s waist, and tugged her close until they were chest-to-chest, heat pressed tight. Their eyes locked—pupils blown, faces inches apart—and Mira raised her hand slowly, deliberately.

She licked her fingers clean.

Zoey’s breath punched out of her in a moan she didn’t mean to make, low and wrecked, like the sight alone undid her spine.

Mira’s lips curled faintly, satisfied. “God, you taste so good.”

Then she turned them, guiding Zoey flat onto her back across the cushions. The couch groaned under the shift, springs protesting, but neither of them cared. Zoey sprawled out, hair messy, lips swollen, chest rising and falling too fast. Mira leaned over her like she belonged there, hand sliding up to cup a bare breast.

Zoey gasped, the sound sharp and desperate, when Mira’s palm closed around her. She arched into it instinctively, nipples stiff against Mira’s skin.

“Oh my god,” Zoey moaned, clutching at Mira’s back with one hand.

Mira lowered her mouth, tongue circling the hardened peak before sucking it in. Zoey cried out, high and rough, her nails dragging down Mira’s spine.

“Yes, fuck—” Zoey’s voice broke as Mira switched sides, lavishing the other breast with equal attention. Every suck, every flick of tongue made her hips buck up against nothing.

“Sensitive,” Mira murmured against her skin, letting her teeth graze before soothing with her tongue. “You’re so fucking sensitive.”

Zoey could only moan, her voice tumbling loose and unrestrained. “Please—please don’t stop.”

Mira lifted her head just enough to meet Zoey’s dazed eyes. Her thumb brushed slow circles over one nipple, the other still damp from her mouth. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, her breath warm against Zoey’s lips. “I’m nowhere near done with you.”

Zoey whimpered as Mira’s mouth left her breast, the cool air prickling over wet skin. “God, you drive me insane,” she gasped.

Mira smiled against her, tongue flicking at her nipple once more before she pulled back. “You sound just like Rumi that night,” she murmured, voice low and husky.

Zoey blinked up at her, dazed. “When?”

Mira shifted, dragging her thumb slowly across Zoey’s other breast, watching it tighten. “At your place, on your bed. She was the same way — squirming, needy, like she couldn’t breathe unless you touched her.” Mira leaned down, biting lightly before soothing with her tongue. “And now you’re the one squirming.”

Zoey moaned, hips lifting helplessly. “Fuck—don’t—don’t compare me to her right now.”

Mira smirked, biting hard un the underside of Zoey’s breast until Zoey cried out. Then, softer: “Why not? You both want the same thing. Her hands were shaking when you touched her that night. Just like yours are, right now.”

Zoey swallowed hard, her chest heaving. “She… she wouldn’t stop looking at me, like she was starving.”

“Exactly.” Mira kissed a path across her chest, tongue tracing the curve of her breast. “And you’re giving me that same look now.”

Mira’s hand slipped back inside Zoey’s pants, fingertips grazing over her heat. She lingered there, circling lazily, just enough pressure to make Zoey whimper and press up into her palm.

“Mira—” Zoey’s voice cracked, a plea wrapped in breath.

Mira only hushed her with a kiss, mouth hot and sure. Every drag made Zoey’s stomach tense, her thighs shifting, hips tilting up to beg for more. The library felt too small to hold it—the sound of her gasps, the soft wet pulse beneath Mira’s hand.

“You’re trembling,” Mira murmured against her lips, dragging her fingers down again, dipping just inside before retreating. “So needy, Zo.”

Zoey choked on a laugh, desperate, broken. “Y-you’re cruel.”

“And you love it,” Mira whispered, kissing her again, teeth grazing her lip before pulling back just enough to watch Zoey fall apart. She traced her slowly, teasing at her entrance, spreading the slickness she found there until Zoey was rocking helplessly against her hand.

“Please,” Zoey begged, one hand gripping the cushion, the other clawing at Mira’s bare shoulder.

Mira gave her what she wanted. She pressed in slow, two fingers easing deep, stretching her, curling just enough to make Zoey’s whole body jolt.

“Oh—fuck,” Zoey gasped, loud, her head falling back against the couch.

Mira bit down gently on her collarbone, steadying her with the other arm wrapped tight around her waist. She started to move, not fast—deliberate, patient, letting Zoey feel every thrust, every curl of her fingers.

Mira’s fingers drove deeper, slow at first, then curling with deliberate precision, stroking the place that made Zoey’s whole body twitch and gasp.

“Fuck—Mira—” Zoey’s head fell back, voice breaking on the edge of a moan. Her thighs clamped around Mira’s wrist as her hips rolled to meet each thrust, chasing more.

“That’s it,” Mira whispered against her ear, voice low and steady. “Don’t hold back. Take it.”

Zoey’s breath came in frantic bursts, the couch creaking under her as she writhed, clutching at Mira’s shoulders for balance. Every movement grew wetter, louder, until she was moaning outright, heat pooling and breaking open inside her.

Mira kept her pace firm but unhurried, the rhythm devastating in its steadiness, coaxing her higher. She pressed kisses to Zoey’s jaw, her throat, murmuring, “Let it take you… I’ve got you… just like that.”

Zoey’s body arched, a shudder ripping through her as the orgasm hit—hard, rolling through her in fierce, unrelenting waves. Her cries filled the library, muffled only when she buried her face in Mira’s neck. Her muscles tightened and released around Mira’s hand, pulsing in rhythm with every thrust.

Mira slowed only when she felt Zoey’s body start to flutter, her hand softening to draw out every last tremor, to keep her teetering on the edge until the pleasure gave way to trembling aftershocks.

When Zoey finally sagged against her, breathless and undone, Mira eased her fingers out, smoothing her palm over Zoey’s hip as though to soothe the quake in her body. She kissed Zoey’s temple, gentle and unhurried, grounding her back into the quiet.

Zoey’s chest heaved against her, still trying to catch air, eyes half-lidded and dazed. She didn’t notice as Mira drew her damp fingers to her lips, tongue sweeping slowly over them. Mira closed her eyes, savoring the taste in secret, a shiver curling down her spine before she slipped her hand back to Zoey’s waist, holding her steady.

“Easy,” she murmured, brushing damp hair from her face. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Zoey gave a breathless laugh, head tipping back against the couch. “We just… fucked, thinking about Rumi.”

Mira huffed, half-smile tugging at her mouth. “She’s gonna kill us for not waiting.”

Their laughter tangled in the hush of the library, warm and guilty and a little giddy, as if Rumi might walk in any second and catch them red-handed.

Chapter Text

Zoey slumped into the chair behind the front desk, craning her neck up at the empty spot that should’ve been filled with Rumi in the mezzanine— curled in her sweater, little mug of tea always in arm’s reach. “It’s been four days, dude. Four . She’s officially been possessed by sleep demons.”

Mira, perched coolly beside her with a book balanced on her knee, didn’t even glance up. “Or maybe the sleep demons finally let her sleep. Took them long enough.”

Zoey huffed, thumbs already flying across her phone. rumi. report in. the library is crumbling without you. morale at an all-time low.

Mira’s eyebrow ticked upward, then she reached for the phone in her pocket and added her own message: civilization has collapsed. do you plan to return or should we build a shrine?

A few beats passed. Then Rumi’s reply blinked onto the screen:
I’ve just been really tired. Haven’t been sleeping much. Trying to get it figured out.

Zoey shoved the phone toward Mira like it had personally insulted her. “She didn’t use emojis… Not even one! This is DEFCON one.”

Mira’s expression flickered, just briefly, before she schooled it smooth again. “She’s exhausted. That’s all.”

But Zoey was already typing: have you eaten? drank water?? stepped outside??? touched at least one blade of grass???

Mira’s hand closed gently over hers, steadying. “Zo.”

Zoey looked up, wide-eyed.

“She didn’t ask for a rescue,” Mira said quietly, carefully, the words heavier than her tone. “If she wanted us there, she’d tell us. Give her the space she’s clearly carving out.”

Zoey chewed her lip, the fight bleeding out of her shoulders even though her chest still buzzed with worry. “…But what if she’s—”

“She’ll come back,” Mira interrupted, soft but certain. “She always does.”

Silence pooled between them, broken only by the rustle of pages from some stranger in non-fiction. Zoey stared at the empty mezzanine, heart twisting.

Mira squeezed her hand once, firmly. “Let her find her way to us. We’ll be here when she does.”

Heat came first. It always did.

It pressed against the windows, seeped under the door, curled in waves from the floorboards until the air itself felt molten. Smoke slid down the walls like oil, clinging heavy in her throat. She knew this smell. Knew it in her bones, in the scars that spidered her skin.

The hallway stretched ahead, impossibly long — doors rippling like mirages. Her feet dragged as if every step was through wet cement, her body refusing her urgency. Still, she staggered forward.

Mrs. Alvarado’s door loomed. It always did. Her trembling hand closed around the knob, and when she shoved it open, her heart collapsed.

Not Mrs. Alvarado.

Zoey sat on the floor, folded into herself, eyes streaming from the smoke. “Rumi!” she coughed, voice splintering, hands reaching.

Rumi lurched toward her, adrenaline punching through her chest, but her body betrayed her. Her arms lifted slow as syrup, every motion dragging against unseen chains. Zoey blurred, doubled, smoke warping her outline until she was both within reach and impossibly far.

“Hold on—” Rumi choked, forcing her legs forward. Every step landed an eternity too late. She reached, fingers brushing Zoey’s wrist—

And then the weight hit.

Zoey collapsed into her arms, but suddenly she weighed a thousand pounds. Her knees buckled. The smoke swelled darker, swallowing what little breath remained, and when Rumi gasped, all she drew in was heat. She clawed at Zoey’s shoulder, but the body in her arms shifted—lengthened—hair spilling blazened pink across her skin.

Mira now. Mira limp and unbearably heavy, her lashes dusted with ash, her mouth slack.

“No, no, no—” Panic shredded her throat. She tried to lift, to drag, but her muscles failed. She pushed against the floor and it was like sinking into tar, every movement locked in slow motion while the ceiling above groaned and split.

The fire raged louder, the walls bending inward. Rumi’s arm ached, shoulder searing with the old memory of a pain so hot it felt like ice. Mira’s hair caught sparks, flame licking the edges, and Rumi’s scream cracked the dream wide open—

She shot upright on the couch with a violent gasp.

The room spun. Sweat soaked through her shirt, plastered her hair to her face, and for a split second, she swore she still smelled smoke. Her skin screamed, the shirt clinging like it was fused to her burns again, and she tore at it with frantic hands. She scrubbed her arms raw, rubbing and clawing like she could peel the fire off her.

Air wouldn’t come. It stuck in her chest, broke jagged in her throat. Her whole body trembled, drenched and suffocating, even as the silence of her apartment pressed back around her. No fire. No Zoey. No Mira. Just the echo of their faces in the flames.

Her phone glowed faintly on the table. She fumbled for it, shaking so badly she nearly flung it across the room. Somehow her thumb found Zoey’s name.

The line barely rang once before Zoey’s voice burst through—bright, worried, alive.

Rumi’s hands shook as she pulled the door open.

Zoey was already halfway up the steps, Mira following close behind with concern plastered across her brow. The second Zoey caught sight of Rumi—hair plastered damp to her face, t-shirt clinging with sweat, voice rasping like she hadn’t slept in days—she didn’t wait.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to drag you guys out here. Just—couldn’t… be alone. I didn’t know who else to call, I’m just so tir—”

Zoey folded her in before she could finish, arms sealing tight around her shoulders, rocking her gently against her chest. “You don’t get to apologize for that,” Zoey said into her hair. “We’d come running if you sneezed weird, babe.”

Behind her, Mira exhaled hard through her nose, slipping past them with a murmur. “I’ll take care of everything.” 

The apartment was small. Smaller than she’d expected. Mira’s eyes swept over it automatically, taking in the edges, the details. There wasn’t much to take in.

The living room opened straight off the door: a low couch, a narrow table, one wall of shelves lined with books, spines stacked in neat rows. Not much else. No framed photos. No prints or posters. No mementos on the walls. 

It wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t lived-in, either. Like someone had claimed just enough space to function and stopped there.

Mira padded quietly across the floor. She opened cabinets in the kitchenette until she found mismatched mugs, setting three out on the counter like she’d done it a hundred times before. Kettle filled, burner on.

Backtracking, she slipped into the bathroom. Sparse, too: a toothbrush and toothpaste set side by side, a bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. A drawer yielded a stack of washcloths, folded with precise edges. Mira tugged one free, wet it under warm water, and wrung it carefully until it was damp but not dripping.

At the back, she hesitated before a half-open door. The bedroom. She stepped in on quiet feet.

The air was cooler here, shaded. The bed was unmade but not chaotic, covers pulled back as though abandoned mid-toss. A chair sat in the corner with a neat pile of folded clothes on the seat, a laundry basket tucked against the wall. 

Mira crouched by the chair, ran her fingers lightly across the folded stack until she found a soft, worn-in shirt that smelled faintly of clean cotton and spring showers. She pressed it to her face for half a second—heart skipping a beat with the familiar scent of Rumi–then folded it over her arm. 

She closed the bedroom door behind her as gently as she’d entered.

When she came back, Zoey had Rumi gathered close, murmuring into her hair. Steam curled from the mugs Mira carried as she set them gently on the table, the damp washcloth folded beside them. Then she eased onto the couch, the clean shirt resting carefully in her lap.

Her voice was soft, careful, coaxing. “Come here, babygirl. This shirt’s drenched. Let’s get you into something dry, hmm?”

Mira leaned closer, lowering her head until she was level with Rumi’s downcast gaze. “Hey,” she murmured, soft enough to coax rather than press. “Look at me.”

Rumi’s lashes fluttered, and when her eyes lifted, Mira met them steadily. No rush. No force. Just presence. Mira’s hands rose, gentle as they touched Rumi’s wrists, guiding her arms upward.

The damp shirt clung stubbornly, dragging slowly over Rumi’s skin, but Mira never looked away from Rumi's anxious eyes. Her breath brushed warm between them, close enough to count. Rumi’s eyes widened, glassy with the flicker of worry that Mira might let her gaze slip.

Mira only tilted her head, a small, certain smile curving her lips. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

The shirt cleared, left forgotten in Mira’s lap as she leaned forward, closing the space. Her body shielded Rumi’s bare chest, the curve of her shoulder forming a barrier while the warm washcloth swept tenderly across Rumi’s neck. Down her arms. Over her shoulders. Along the trembling lines of her back. Each touch deliberate, grounding, careful.

When she finally eased back, she found Rumi’s eyes again—wet now, shining under the weight of unshed tears. Mira reached to the side, lifting the fresh shirt, and slipped it over Rumi’s arms and head with the same care, settling it smoothly across her.

One tear escaped anyway. Mira caught it with the pad of her thumb, brushing it softly from Rumi’s cheek.

The couch dipped as Zoey rejoined them, sliding close with a blanket gathered in her arms. She draped it over Rumi’s lap, tucking it around all three of them before curling in at her side.

The couch seemed to cradle all three of them, a cocoon against the hush of the apartment. Rumi was curled between them, her head pillowed on Zoey’s chest, legs stretched across Mira’s lap like a bridge between the two. The posture carried the weight of déjà vu—something in it echoing the night Mira and Zoey had come apart on this very couch at the library, desperate and starving. Only this time, it wasn’t about hunger. It was about holding.

Zoey caught Mira’s gaze over the tumble of Rumi’s dark hair. A shared memory passed silently between them, unspoken but felt. Zoey’s grin tilted soft, almost sheepish. Mira’s lips curved faintly in answer, the smallest nod acknowledging the thought: yeah… I remember too.

Mira worked her thumbs into the arches of Rumi’s feet, steady and rhythmic, coaxing out tension. She’d never been one for idle touches, but something about this—the quiet work of her hands easing knots, of giving comfort without words—felt right. Beside her, Zoey threaded fingers gently through Rumi’s hair, combing the strands apart as if each one mattered. 

Rumi murmured now and then, the half-dreaming apologies spilling out in a slurry against Zoey’s shirt. “Sorry… for calling… sorry I’m… a mess.” Each one softer, smaller, until her voice broke into uneven breaths. The fight to stay awake was losing. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, lips parting on a sigh.

Zoey stilled her hand, palm resting warm at the crown of Rumi’s head. She looked up, found Mira’s eyes again. A tilt of her head toward the hallway—gentle but sure. Bedroom.

Mira nodded once, easing Rumi’s legs gently off her lap. She rose and stepped in front of them, pausing for just a heartbeat—long enough to take in the sight of Zoey cradling her, the kind of softness that felt almost too precious to touch. Then Mira leaned down, sliding her arms beneath Rumi like she’d always known how. One arm hooked under her knees, the other braced her back, and with one steady motion, she lifted. Rumi melted into her hold without resistance, boneless in her exhaustion, her cheek settling against Mira’s collarbone. From the couch, Zoey let out a quiet breath, as if even she needed proof that someone could carry Rumi this carefully, this securely.

Zoey darted ahead, bare feet quick across the floor as she pulled open the bedroom door. The hinges gave a soft creak, swallowed by her whisper: “In here. I’ve got the blankets.” She tugged the comforter down, smoothing the sheets with rushed, fussy hands like the bed had to be perfect.

Against Mira’s chest, Rumi stirred. A faint, clumsy movement, her hand rising only to fall and catch weakly against Mira’s shirt. Her fingers curled there, barely a grip but enough to still Mira mid-step.

“Mira…” The word was slurred, thick with sleep. Her eyes never opened, but her lips moved against Mira’s throat. “You’re so soft. And you smell nice.”

Heat struck low and sharp through Mira’s chest. She swallowed, the shyest smile and blush creeping up her face. Steadying her voice before it could betray her, “Okay, princess,” she murmured, her lips brushing the crown of Rumi’s head. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She shifted her hold slightly, drawing Rumi closer as she stepped through the doorway. The room was dim, the glow from the hall catching faintly on the walls. Zoey moved quickly, pulling the last pillow into place, then stepped aside, biting her lip as she watched.

Mira lowered her carefully onto the bed, shifting her hold until Rumi was nestled in the center of the mattress. She smoothed the pillow beneath her head, tugged the blanket up, and then stepped back only far enough for Zoey to climb in beside her.

Zoey slipped under the covers, curling onto her side so that Rumi faced her. Rumi instinctively burrowed closer, her nose brushing into the warm curve of Zoey’s neck, breath tickling against her skin. Zoey’s arm circled around her without hesitation, holding her steady, steady, steady.

Mira moved in behind them, sliding onto the mattress and tucking herself into the curve of Rumi’s spine. Her arm draped protectively across Rumi’s waist, the three of them fitting together like they were puzzle pieces.

For a few breaths, silence hung, soft and thick. Then Rumi’s voice broke through, quiet and trembling, half muffled against Zoey’s throat.
“You’re not gonna let me go, right?”

Zoey’s chest rose, and she pressed her lips to Rumi’s hair. “Not even if you tried.”

Mira tightened her arm around Rumi, voice low against her ear. “Not even in your dreams.”

Rumi exhaled, something loosening inside her, and her body sank deeper into the warmth on both sides. Little by little, her breaths slowed, smoothed, until they fell into the rhythm of real, unbroken sleep — the kind she hadn’t touched in days.

Over Rumi's shoulder, Zoey and Mira’s eyes met. Neither spoke. The glance carried everything — the memory of the library, the heat that still flickered sharp in their blood, but layered now with something heavier. Responsibility. Care. Love.

And between them, held fast in their arms, Rumi finally slept.

Rumi stirred first. For the first time in days, her body felt heavy in the right way — rested, not dragged down. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know where she was — pressed against Mira’s chest, the steady rise and fall grounding her, Mira’s warmth soaking into her skin. A leg had tangled itself with Mira’s sometime in the night, and behind her Zoey’s presence curved close, a second heartbeat against her back.

Pale light bled through the curtains, painting the walls in a softness she hadn’t noticed before. The room felt… different. Brighter, somehow. Like their presence had rewritten it overnight, chasing out the shadows that had been nesting there for days.

For once, the night had passed without fire chasing her awake. No smoke. Just heat—god, there was so much heat. But this blaze wasn’t haunting her; it was steady, alive, burning for her instead of against her.

She let her eyes slip shut again, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. 

Chapter Text

Rumi woke to warmth — but no weight.

For a disoriented second, she reached forward, expecting Mira’s steady chest under her palm, Zoey’s knee thrown somewhere over her legs. But the bed was empty. Cold on either side.

The warmth wasn’t theirs. It spilled through the window instead, a rare shaft of sunlight cutting past the curtains. The whole room seemed softer for it, painted in gold — a brightness she hadn’t seen in weeks of steady clouds and silver rain.

Her heart kicked, confusion prickling. Then her eyes caught on the jacket draped over the chair in the corner of her room. Mira’s — she recognized the cut instantly, the structured shoulders, the faint scent of her perfume clinging even from here.

Her senses sharpened. The smell of something sweet, buttery. The faint sizzle of a pan. And—
…giggles.

Rumi blinked. Slid to the edge of the bed. Pushed the door open slowly, peeking her head out.

The sight made her stop dead.

Her kitchen had been invaded. Groceries she definitely hadn’t bought were scattered across the counter—a carton of eggs, a half-open bag of flour, even a little basket of berries. Two duffel bags rested by the door, kicked off to the side in a way that said temporary but claiming nonetheless.

And then there were them.

Mira stood at the stove, spatula in hand, her dark clothes dusted white with flour. A clear handprint curved across the back of her pants. Zoey leaned against the counter near her, laughing with her whole body, flour streaked across her ribs where someone’s fingers had clearly dragged. Both of them had powder in their hair, smudged on their cheeks like accidental war paint.

They were… dancing. If it could be called that—Zoey shoving Mira’s shoulder playfully as Mira swatted her back with the spatula, both of them grinning so wide it almost looked foreign compared to how careful they usually were around Rumi.

Rumi’s chest ached at the sight.

She stepped out fully, the floor cool under her bare feet. The motion caught their attention.

Zoey froze mid-step, Mira’s spatula still raised. For a beat, both of them just… stared, caught red-handed. Then color flooded Zoey’s cheeks, Mira’s lips twitching as she turned back to the pan a little too quickly.

“Room for another pancake,” Mira said evenly, flipping one with practiced grace. “But Zoey, if you’re aiming for Mickey Mouse, you’ll need to make the ears smaller. Right now it’s Dumbo.”

Zoey sputtered. “It’s artistic license!”

Rumi leaned against the doorframe, unable to hide her smile, her heart still fluttering from the shock of it all.

Rumi tucked her arms behind her back, stepping toward the counter like she hadn’t just caught them red-handed. “You shouldn’t have,” she murmured, her voice soft, shy.

Zoey beamed, cheeks pink. “What, this? Totally normal Saturday activity. Kidnap your girlfriend’s kitchen, stock it with food, attempt artistic pancakes—”

“Fail artistic pancakes,” Mira cut in, though her lips curved as she stacked another on the plate.

Rumi hummed faintly, hiding her smile as her hand dipped back into the paper bag. Her fingers curled around the flour. She pulled it free in one quick motion—then turned and tossed a fistful right at Zoey’s chest.

The powder exploded across Zoey’s shirt in a pale cloud.

For a heartbeat, silence. Zoey blinked down at herself, floored. Then her grin went feral. “Oh, you’re dead .”

Flour flew. Mira swore, lifting the pan clear of the burner and shoving it aside before joining in, scooping flour with her free hand to lob across the room. Rumi darted around the counter, shrieking and laughing all at once, but not fast enough—Zoey cornered her, dragging a streak of white down her arm, pausing briefly to plant the world's smallest kiss on Rumi’s cheek.

“Truce!” Rumi gasped, giggling so hard her cheeks hurt. “Truce—”

“Liar,” Mira said flatly — then swooped in before Rumi could dodge. In one clean motion, she hooked an arm behind Rumi’s thighs and tipped her straight over her shoulder like she weighed nothing. Rumi yelped, legs kicking helplessly in the air, her fists thumping against Mira’s back with all the force of a pillow. Laughter tore out of her anyway, shrill and breathless, as Mira adjusted her grip and smirked, steady as stone.

“Zoey,” Mira called calmly, like she was delivering a death sentence. “Do the honors.”

Zoey’s grin turned downright wicked. She darted forward as Rumi squealed, clinging helplessly to Mira’s shoulders. “Don’t you dare —!”

Two sharp slaps landed in quick succession, flour puffing off both cheeks of Rumi’s shorts, perfect white handprints left behind.

Rumi gasped so dramatically it broke into another peal of laughter, her head dropping against Mira’s back as she shook from it. “I hate you both,” she wheezed, though her grin betrayed her.

Mira’s smirk softened as she set Rumi back on her feet, brushing a streak of flour from her hair with the gentlest touch. “You love us,” she said, not teasing, not questioning — just stating it like fact.

Rumi’s breath caught. Color bloomed high on her cheeks, and for a second, she looked like she might deny it. Instead, she tried for a glare, failed completely, and dissolved into laughter, burying her face in her hands.

“You sleep okay?” Mira murmured, quiet enough that it cut through the laughter still hanging in the air. Her gaze held steady, searching, gentle in a way that made Rumi’s throat tighten.

Rumi swallowed, nodding once. “Better than I have in a while.”

Zoey sidled in before the moment could grow too heavy, grinning like she hadn’t just smacked flour onto Rumi’s ass. She leaned down to plant a quick kiss on Rumi’s cheek, her lips leaving the faintest smudge of white behind. “Good,” she said, light and sure. “Because today’s the day. We eat, we clean up, and then we’re blowing this town for a bit.”

Rumi blinked between them, a little dazed. “...Blowing this town?”

“Quick trip,” Zoey clarified, throwing an arm dramatically toward the duffel bags by the door. “Out of town. Fresh air. Adventure. Minimal flour, maximum fun.”

Mira’s lips twitched, brushing the last bit of powder from Rumi’s hair. “She means we’re kidnapping you. Again.”

Zoey gasped, hand to her chest. “Kidnapping with consent! And pancakes!”

Rumi tried for a protest, but the way her cheeks warmed gave her away before she even spoke. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Mm,” Mira agreed easily, pressing one more soft kiss into Rumi’s temple. “But we’re yours.”

Zoey’s car rattled like it might shake apart if she pushed it over sixty, but that didn’t stop her from cranking the windows down and blasting the stereo unti the bass buzzed through the floorboards.

“One rule!” she shouted over the wind. “My car, my music, my kingdom!”

Mira, long-suffering in the passenger seat, didn’t look up from the paperback resting against her knee. “Your kingdom smells like drive-thru fries and questionable life choices.”

Zoey gasped dramatically, clutching the wheel with one hand and smacking her chest with the other. “Wow. Treason already, we’re not even out of the city. I should’ve made you sit in the back with the royal court jester.” She jabbed her thumb toward Rumi.

Rumi blinked, mid-bite of a granola bar, cheeks puffed. “... I don’t want to be the jester.”

“She’s not the jester,” Mira said flatly, still not turning a page. “She’s the princess. Which makes you…” She flicked her gaze up, eyes narrowing just slightly. “The idiot knight.”

Rumi nearly choked on her laugh, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Zoey beamed, triumphant. “Idiots make the best knights. I’m putting that on a bumper sticker.”

Traffic thinned as they got further out of the city. Zoey stuck her arm out of the window, weaving it against the wind, and started belting the chorus of the song playing–loud, wrong, and with total commitment.

“You’re embarrassing,” Mira muttered, finally closing her book.

“Embarrassing with style ,” Zoey shot back, kicking her shades down her nose to wink at Rumi in the backseat. “Right, Ru?”

Rumi flushed, caught in the crossfire, and ducked her head. “I… think it’s fun.”

Mira sighed the sigh of someone deeply outnumbered, but her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

“See?” Zoey crowed. “The princess has spoken. I am FUN.” She drummed both palms against the steering wheel to the beat of the music until the car swerved just slightly.

Mira’s hand shot out to steady the wheel. “Focus, idiot knight.”

Zoey barked out a laugh but behaved–for approximately thirty seconds.

Then she reached for the bag of chips at Mira’s feet, steering with her knee.

“Zoey.” Mira’s voice carried the weight of a thousand threats.

“What? I’m skilled, easy money.” She shoved a chip into her mouth and promptly choked on it when Mira smacked the bag out of her hands. 

From the backseat, Rumi was giggling so hard she had to clutch the headrest in front of her. “You two are… insane.”

Zoey grinned at her in the rearview mirror, crumbs still clinging to her lips. 

The highway stretched out in front of them, wide and sunlit. Their laughs mixed with the wind, tumbling with it like it belonged there.

The ocean announced itself first — that sharp salt tang cutting through the open windows, the steady hush-and-crash of waves. Rumi pressed her forehead to the glass, eyes wide as the water came into view.

Zoey caught it in the mirror and grinned like she’d won something. “Told you! Worth the drive, right?”

“It’s… beautiful,” Rumi murmured, voice soft like she didn’t want to break the spell.

Mira was less enchanted. “Sand. Sun. Screaming children. What a paradise.”

Zoey flicked her with the rolled-up parking receipt. “Admit it, you’re gonna love it.”

They tumbled out of the car in a clumsy blur — Zoey already yanking the cooler from the trunk, Mira methodically checking their duffels for towels, sunscreen, the umbrella she’d insisted they bring. Rumi lingered a moment, shoes in hand, the sea breeze tugging at her hair.

The sand was hot under their feet by the time they reached a spot close enough to hear the waves crash but far enough from the tide to keep their towels safe. Mira stabbed the umbrella into the ground with practiced efficiency, while Zoey was already shimmying out of her shorts, ready to bolt for the water.

She ripped her shirt over her head first, revealing a black two-piece that looked like it had been made to frame her tattoos. The racerback top hugged her snugly, showing off the vinework curling across her shoulder and down her ribs, the matte fabric matching the ink so cleanly it almost looked deliberate. She smirked at the way Mira’s eyes flicked once, fast but sharp, then turned toward the surf with a flex of her shoulders like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Mira was slower, more deliberate, setting the towel down before slipping out of her cover-up. And when she straightened, both Rumi and Zoey stalled. The swimsuit was red. Not muted, not burgundy, but bold, saturated, dangerous. The simple lines of the suit only made the color scream louder, pulling all the heat of the day into her skin.

“Holy shit ,” Zoey muttered before she could stop herself.

Rumi couldn’t have agreed more, though her words got stuck somewhere in her throat.

Mira only raised one brow, feigning obliviousness as she reached for the sunscreen.

Rumi tugged her hoodie off last, nerves buzzing in her fingertips. The suit beneath was simple, black like Zoey’s but cut differently—high-waisted bottoms and a top that looked almost like a sports bra. It held her steady. Safe. Still, it bore the pale lines of scar tissue that curled up her arm, catching the sunlight in uneven patterns.

For a heartbeat, she froze.

Zoey’s head whipped back toward her. Then she grinned, wide and unfiltered. “Look at you! Hot girl summer is officially on.”

Mira didn’t say a word, but when Rumi finally dared to glance her way, the soft curve of her mouth said enough. Approval. Warmth.

The hoodie stayed on the towel.

Zoey was in mid-sprint to the water when Rumi called out.

“Zoey.” Rumi’s voice cut sharply across the breeze.

Zoey froze mid-step, suspiciously guilty. “...Yeah?”

Rumi lifted the sunscreen bottle like a weapon. “Sunscreen.”

Zoey groaned, shoulders slumping. “You wound me. I was born tanned and thriving.”

“You were born freckled and sunburn-prone,” Mira deadpanned.

With much theatrical suffering, Zoey plopped down in front of Rumi, crossing her legs like she was being sentenced. “Fine. But if you miss a spot, I’m haunting you both from the afterlife.”

Rumi bit back a laugh, squeezing lotion into her hands. Her touch was gentle but firm as she rubbed it across Zoey’s shoulders, who squirmed and muttered “coldcoldcold” under her breath.

“Stay still,” Rumi scolded softly, her cheeks pink with how close they were.

The second she was released, Zoey launched up like a rocket. “Freedom!” she yelled, bolting for the waves.

They stretched out together on the big towel, the shade shifting as the umbrella flapped lazily overhead. Mira lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, her other hand idly tracing patterns over Rumi’s arm. Rumi tipped her face toward her, soft as a secret, and Mira leaned in to brush their mouths together. One kiss, then another, lingering, the taste of salt already clinging to Rumi’s lips.

That’s when Zoey reappeared—dripping wet, hair plastered, an absurd ribbon of sea grass trailing behind her like a trophy. She jogged closer, breathless, and launched right into: “Did you know turtles eat this? Turtles! Nature’s little lawnmowers—HEY I WANT IN!”

She dropped the seagrass and all but flung herself onto the towel, sprawling across them without hesitation. Mira groaned under the sudden wet weight. “You’re soaked,” she muttered, shoving at Zoey’s hip, but Zoey only laughed and stole a kiss from her mouth, then from Rumi’s, quick and giddy.

Rumi squealed against her lips, half laughing, half protesting. “You’re freezing!”

Zoey just grinned, pressing her forehead against theirs, her voice bubbling with joy. “Worth it.”

They dissolved into a tangle of kisses and complaints, Mira’s hand fisting in the towel like she was holding herself steady, Rumi’s giggles spilling between every touch. For a moment, it was just warmth and lips and the sound of the tide.

Then a gull shrieked overhead.

Zoey froze mid-kiss, glaring skyward as a bold seagull swooped toward their snack bag. She yanked it protectively to her chest with a feral noise. “Don’t even think about it, you sky rats! These chips are mine .”

The gulls circled like they were mocking her. Mira, flat on her back now, smirked up at them. “Honestly, I think they could take you.”

Zoey clutched the bag tighter. “Over my dead body.”

They tumbled into the hotel lobby still damp from the beach, hair windblown, skin sticky with salt. Zoey was the one juggling the bags — two duffels slung over her shoulders and Rumi’s tote bag dangling precariously from her elbow — while Mira handled the check-in with her usual calmness, sliding IDs and card across the counter like she owned the place. Rumi trailed after them, her arms full with a bundle of rolled towels and the canvas bag of seashells Zoey had insisted she carry. ‘Careful with that one,’ Zoey had warned earlier, pointing to a glossy speckled shell tucked safely at the top. ‘Junonia. Practically a lottery-winner rare. People spend their whole lives looking for one.’ Rumi had just rolled her eyes, but she’d held the bag carefully all the same.

Their room door clicked open — and all three froze.

One bed.
A wide, ridiculous, sprawling bed in the middle of the room, white linens turned down, decorative pillows piled like some kind of challenge.

“Oh nooo,” Zoey groaned dramatically, dropping the duffels with a thud. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead like she was about to faint. “Three girls. One bed. Whatever shall we do?” She clutched her chest dramatically, staggering toward it like a stage actor. “Guess we’ll have to—oh, I don’t know—pile in together like some scandalous romance novel.”

Normally, Rumi would’ve gone scarlet and ducked her head. This time, she just stepped inside, calm as anything, and said, “Sounds like a fantasy.”

Zoey blinked, then burst into delighted laughter. “Oh my god. Did you hear that?”

Mira’s mouth twitched, smirk threatening. “I heard.”

Rumi just slipped off her sandals, unbothered. “I can have fun, promise.”

Zoey exhaled, fanning herself with her hand. “No more, I can’t possibly survive this.”

The heat in the room shifted once the laughter died down—still playful, but threaded with something steadier, more certain.

And then Mira clapped her hands once, breaking it. “Showers. All of you. We’re not dragging half the beach into that bed.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Zoey, the sound of water rushing to life a moment later. Steam was already curling under the crack.

Rumi bent to gather the scattered towels, but something caught her eye — the edge of a sleek black heel poking out from Zoey’s half-open duffel. She paused, head tilting, curiosity knitting across her brow.

Mira followed her gaze. By the time Rumi looked up, Mira was already watching her, the faintest curve pulling at her mouth. She reached over, nudged the duffel closed with one fingertip, and leaned in just enough for her voice to settle warm in the space between them.

“Don’t worry, princess,” she murmured, eyes catching hers with deliberate weight. “That’s for later.”

Rumi’s lips parted, a quiet breath escaping before she could school it. Her heart beat a little too fast in the silence that followed. Mira only smirked faintly, turning toward her own bag as though she hadn’t just turned Rumi’s world upside down.

Chapter Text

Steam still clung faintly in the air from their showers, softening the edges of the hotel room. Clothes and makeup bags were scattered across the dresser, but the three of them were dressed now. 

Rumi was the last to step out, the little black dress hugging her frame like it had been waiting for tonight. Thin straps framed her shoulders, the hem skimming mid-thigh, the heels making her legs look longer than she’d ever dared. She shifted her weight, the faint click of them against the floor betraying how unused she was to their height.

Zoey’s reaction came first—loud, immediate. “Holy shit , Ru.” Her eyes swept her head to toe, dramatic hand pressed to her chest. “You’re—goddamn. You’re gonna kill someone tonight.”

Mira’s was slower. She set her phone down, eyes dragging upward with deliberate patience, until her mouth curved. 

Rumi’s brow furrowed, half amused, half flustered. “How did you even—”

“Buried treasure,” Mira said simply. “Back of your closet.”

Mira was already closing the distance. She reached for one of the delicate straps, smoothing it flat, then bent without hesitation. Her lips brushed Rumi’s bare shoulder, just where the strap met skin. In the reflection of the mirror, their eyes locked—Mira’s steady, loaded; Rumi’s wide but unbreaking. Mira leaned in closer, whispered something low against her ear, words lost beneath the rush of blood in Rumi’s pulse.

Whatever it was, it left her cheeks flushed, her breath short, but she didn’t look away.

Behind them, Zoey gave an exaggerated whistle, rocking back on her heels in her own outfit: skin-tight leather pants gleaming under the dim light, a sheer black top stretched over lace that left little to the imagination, oversized coat thrown over her shoulders like she was ready for a runway. “Jesus, you two. Some of us are trying to survive over here.”

Mira only smirked faintly as she stepped back, smoothing her own wide-legged white pants with practiced ease. The off-the-shoulder crop top she wore made her look deceptively effortless—clean lines, collarbones bared, every bit as commanding as it was sensual.

The three of them stood together for a beat, each distinct, each dressed to undo.

Zoey clapped her hands once. “Alright. We look hot as hell, we’ve traumatized the mirror enough, and there’s a reservation with our names on it. Let’s go ruin someone’s night by just… existing.”

Mira tilted her head, one last glance at Rumi before heading for the door.

The restaurant was all shadows and candlelight, the kind of place that felt deliberately tucked away from the rest of the world. Their booth wrapped around like a half-circle, tucking the three of them close together. A single candle flickered at the center of the table, catching on the wine glasses, painting their skin in soft gold.

Rumi smoothed her dress under the table as she slid into the curve of the booth, Mira settling on her right, Zoey sprawling to her left. The leather seat creaked faintly under Zoey’s restless shifting, her thigh brushing against Rumi’s more than once — and not by accident.

“God,” Zoey muttered as she glanced around, pouring wine with a heavy hand. “Even the waiters here look like they’d charge me rent just to exist.”

Mira arched a brow, sipping her own with unhurried ease. “That’s because you keep looking at them like you’re about to challenge them to a fight.”

Rumi hid a laugh against the rim of her glass. The wine was rich, smooth, stronger than what she was used to. It warmed her chest instantly.

It was easy, at first — playful chatter about the drive, the seagulls, Zoey’s endless war against all winged creatures. Then came the quieter undercurrent: Mira’s hand settling low on Rumi’s knee under the table. Zoey’s ankle brushing higher, deliberate, against her calf. The air thickened in increments, their laughter shading toward something else.

It was Zoey who cracked. “Okay, okay,” she blurted, already flushing. “We have to tell her.”

Rumi blinked. “Tell me what?”

Mira’s mouth curved, sharp and amused. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Wait—” Rumi leaned back, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”

Zoey groaned into her hands. “Fine. We… may have… uh…”

Mira cut in smoothly, voice like silk. “We had sex.”

For a beat, silence. Then Rumi’s jaw dropped. “You what ?”

Zoey winced. “It was… at the library.”

Rumi blinked, scandalized. “At the library????”

Mira’s smirk sharpened, eyebrows quirking playfully. “After hours.”

Rumi’s voice pitched up, though her grin betrayed her. “Don’t tell me—on my couch? ”

Zoey groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “I told you she’d freak out.”

Mira rolled her eyes, and Rumi leaned forward, delight sparking in her cheeks. “Unbelievable. Couldn’t even hold out for me? What happened to patience? To self-control?”

Zoey peeked through her fingers, mortified. “We’re terrible. We know.”

But Mira’s gaze lingered, steady and unreadable, until Rumi met it. The smirk she gave then was slower. Deliberate. “It wasn’t just us.”

Rumi’s breath hitched. “…What do you mean?”

Mira’s eyes dropped to her wine glass, then lifted again, darker now. “We spent the whole time talking about you.” Her voice was low, unshaken. “Zoey nearly fell apart with your name on her lips.”

Heat crawled up Rumi’s throat so fast she almost choked on her sip. Across the table, Zoey made a strangled noise and hid behind her hands again, muttering, “Oh my god, Mira—”

But Mira didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. She held Rumi’s gaze through the flicker of candlelight, letting the weight of it sit there between them.

Rumi’s pulse hammered so loud she swore the whole restaurant could hear it. Her laugh came out shaky, half protest, half something else entirely. “You’re both insane.”

“Maybe,” Mira said, lips curving slowly. 

Silence stretched — but this time it was thick, charged. Every brush of a knee beneath the table felt magnified. Rumi didn’t pull her legs away. Neither did they.

Then Rumi leaned back just enough to break the tension, her mouth tipping into the smallest, wickedest smile. “For the record…” She toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “I wasn’t exactly innocent either. You weren’t the only ones with wandering minds during… activities.”

Zoey choked on air, eyes going wide as plates. “Oh my god ohmygodohmygod—” She rested her head on the table, muttering through the panic, “I’m so gay, I think I need to be sedated.”

Mira froze for half a second — then cleared her throat, gaze darting toward the waiter. “...Check, please.”

That did it. All three dissolved into breathless laughter, the kind that made heads turn from other tables. The wine hit harder now, like her confession had uncorked something, leaving their cheeks hot and their bodies buzzing, every glance suddenly impossible to mistake.

The night air hit them warm and heavy, the faint salt of the ocean still threading through the breeze. The streets glowed with string lights and neon signs, buzzing with late diners and couples drifting hand in hand.

Zoey was the loudest of the three, naturally. She had already kicked off her heels two blocks in, dangling them by the straps as she strutted barefoot down the sidewalk. “Feet were not built for this medieval torture,” she announced to no one in particular. “Rumi, back me up.”

Rumi, swaying lightly with the wine still in her veins, lifted her leg just enough to show her bare feet, shoes clutched in her other hand. “Solidarity,” she declared with a sleepy smile.

Mira walked between them, the steady anchor. Every time Zoey stumbled off the curb or Rumi bumped into her, Mira’s hand found the small of their backs, grounding, a quiet chuckle slipping out at how ridiculous they both looked trying to act put-together.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Rumi accused, pointing a mock-stern finger up at her.

Mira arched a brow, amused. “Enjoying watching my drunkards try to survive a five-minute walk? Absolutely.”

Rumi laughed — an easy, loose sound she didn’t usually let out so freely — and shot back, “Careful. If we fall over, you’re the one carrying us.”

“She would,” Zoey said, grinning crookedly. “Princess carry. No hesitation.”

“Mm,” Mira hummed, lips curving. “But only one at a time.”

Zoey shot her a look, wicked as ever. “I don’t know… you picked Rumi up like she was a feather. Pretty sure you could handle both of us at once.”

The silence that followed was instant, thick. Rumi’s cheeks flared, her laugh catching in her throat.

Mira’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. She tipped her head just enough for her voice to drop low. “Oh, I can take both of you at the same time.”

Zoey nearly tripped over her own bare feet, cackling into her hand. Rumi hid her face behind her shoes, but her shoulders shook with laughter all the same.

The lobby blurred past in a haze of wine-warmth and muffled laughter, the three of them stumbling their way inside. Mira pressed the call button; the calm in her shoulders betrayed nothing of the glances Zoey and Rumi kept sneaking her way.

The doors slid open with a chime. Zoey slipped in first, dramatic as always, leaning back against the mirrored wall with her hands tucked behind her, chin tipped up like she was waiting to be worshipped.

Rumi followed slower, fingers twined with Mira’s. She tugged her in with a little grin, her cheeks still flushed pink from the walk, then let go only to step straight into Zoey’s space.

“Ru—” Zoey started, but her words cut off when Rumi’s mouth crashed into hers. It was teeth and heat and a giggle breaking loose between kisses, Zoey’s hands shooting up to catch at her waist before she toppled them both.

Mira lingered a beat at the door, watching the chaos she’d been pulled into. Then she moved in what felt like slow motion.

Sliding up behind Rumi, her palms catching low on her hips. She bent, lips dragging over the slope of Rumi’s shoulder, then higher to her neck, each kiss open-mouthed and molten.

Rumi gasped against Zoey’s mouth, knees wobbling. Zoey laughed into the kiss, muffled and breathless. “God, you’re trouble,” she murmured, stealing another kiss like she couldn’t stop herself.

Mira’s hands pressed firmer, fingers hooking in the hem of Rumi’s dress as she nipped gently at her throat. Her lipstick smeared dark along Rumi’s collarbone, small marks blooming there like secrets. “You like trouble,” she whispered, her hair falling loose from its careful style to curtain them all in. The sound of greed in Mira’s voice made Zoey’s head thunk softly back against the mirror, her laugh breaking wild.

By the time the car jolted with a floor ding, their reflection in the mirror looked ruined: Zoey’s low buns had become messy, strands sticking out wild where Rumi’s fists had tugged her closer; Rumi’s braid was coming loose, wisps falling around her flushed face, lips swollen with a red kiss-stain high on her throat; Mira’s face-framing strands sticking damp against her cheeks, a smear of red staining her mouth and chin.

Then the doors slid open—sudden, startling.

All three of them jolted like they’d been caught stealing. Mira wrenched her mouth from Rumi’s neck, nearly tripped backward into the mirrored wall, and Rumi spun in place, tugging her hem down like it might erase the evidence.

Their breaths were still ragged when a stranger stepped in, briefcase in hand, not sparing them more than a cursory glance as he pressed the button for the rooftop terrace.

Silence dropped heavy in the little space. Rumi ducked her face into Zoey’s neck to hide the flush and the laugh spilling out of her, Zoey biting her own lip raw to keep from cracking up. Mira straightened with her usual practiced composure, though her smudged lipstick and tousled hair betrayed her.

By the time the doors slid open on their floor, Zoey had to all but shove Mira out, Rumi tripping after her, all three of them a mess of giggles and frantic hands as they half-fled down the hall.

Zoey collapsed sideways against the wall, burying her face in her hands. “We are so going to hell.”

Rumi couldn’t stop laughing, breath hitching as she tried to straighten her braid and failed completely. “Did you see his face?” she gasped against Zoey’s shoulder. “He definitely knew—”

“He didn’t know,” Mira cut in firmly, though her flushed skin and smeared lipstick told another story. She smoothed her ponytail with both hands, composure wobbling but not breaking. “And even if he did, he’ll never speak of it.”

“Because he’s scarred for life,” Zoey said, dissolving into more giggles. She snagged Rumi’s hand and tugged her toward the hallway. “C’mon. Before Mira dies of embarrassment.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Mira said — which would’ve been more convincing if her voice hadn’t caught halfway through.

Their door seemed miles away, every step buzzing with leftover heat and laughter. By the time they reached it, Zoey was fumbling with the keycard, missing the slot twice. Mira plucked it from her hand with a muttered, “Useless,” and slid it through clean.

The lock clicked.

Before Mira could even turn the handle, Rumi and Zoey were already at her back, giggling, pressing close, their hands skating up her arms, her sides, urging her forward.

“Inside,” Zoey breathed against her ear, voice low and wrecked. “Now.”

Rumi’s soft laugh joined it, her fingers curling in on Mira’s pants. “Please, Mir…”

Mira exhaled once, sharp and steady, and pushed the door open.

The door slammed shut behind them, muffling the hallway.

They didn’t even make it two steps into the room before Zoey pinned Mira back against the wall, her laugh muffled into Mira’s mouth as Rumi stumbled into them both. Hands everywhere—grabbing at waists, tugging at hems, someone’s teeth catching clumsily on someone else’s lip until all three of them broke into breathless giggles before diving back in.

Rumi’s dress strap slid down her shoulder in the chaos, Zoey’s sheer top riding high to reveal a sliver of skin where Mira’s fingers had tugged. It was messy, uncoordinated, like they were drunk on each other and the night itself.

Zoey broke away first, grinning wickedly as she yanked her own top over her head and tossed it aside. “Too many layers,” she panted, fingers already working the zipper of her leather pants. “If we’re doing this—” she shimmied out of them quick and shameless, leaving the lace bra and dark underwear beneath, “—I’m not overheating alone.”

Then Rumi pulled back, flushed and panting, her hands catching at the edge of Mira’s cropped top. She hesitated only a heartbeat—then tugged it upward, baring inch after inch of smooth skin.

The top came free with a quick twist of Rumi’s wrists.

And then the breath caught in both of their throats.

No bra. Nothing but bare skin and—

“Holy fuck,” Zoey whispered, dropping back a step like she’d been hit. Her eyes widened, locked on the gleam of silver piercing Mira’s nipples, the small barbells catching the low hotel light.

Mira didn’t flinch. If anything, she smirked, smug and deliberate. “Surprised?”

Rumi couldn’t answer. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her mouth dry—but her body knew what to do. She leaned up, closing the space, kissing Mira full and steady, her palms flat against her ribs.

Her hands slid higher, tentative at first, then bolder when Mira didn’t stop her. She cupped Mira’s breasts, the weight warm in her palms, her thumbs brushing over the gleam of silver. Mira’s sharp inhale shivered through the kiss, and that was enough to send heat rushing through Rumi.

She broke the kiss only to dip lower, mouth trailing down the line of Mira’s throat, pausing at her collarbone before daring further. Her lips brushed one nipple, the cool press of the barbell against her tongue making Mira gasp, fingers twitching reflexively against Rumi’s back.

Zoey was already sinking to her knees, like gravity had yanked her down there. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, hands fumbling at Mira’s belt. The leather slipped free, her fingers popping the button and sliding the zipper down in one practiced sweep, her gaze still glued to the metal glint above.

Mira tipped her head back against the wall, lips parting on a low sound she couldn’t hold back. Rumi felt the vibration of it under her mouth, shivering as she closed her lips around the piercing, sucking just enough to draw another sharp breath out of Mira.

Zoey laughed breathlessly from below, voice ragged with awe. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

Mira glanced down at her, smirk curving sharp even as her chest heaved. “Maybe.”

Mira’s low hum still lingered in the air when Zoey finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, her palms braced against Mira’s thighs. She tipped her head up, smirking crooked through her ragged breathing. “As much as I’d happily watch this forever…” Her eyes slid sideways, finding Rumi where she hovered, braid half-loosened, lips parted. “…don’t think we’ve forgotten about you.”

Rumi froze like she’d been struck. The heat of Zoey’s gaze landed first, playful but insistent, then Mira’s hand slid down from her ribs to catch her wrist, drawing her forward. The shift was undeniable — the room still humming with adrenaline, but now the current aimed squarely at her.

Zoey rose behind her, warm and steady, brushing hair off her shoulder as Mira stepped close in front. Rumi found herself bracketed, breath trapped in her throat, her heart hammering like it wanted out of her chest. The weight of their attention was overwhelming, all-consuming.

Mira’s eyes never left hers. She lifted one strap of the cocktail dress, sliding her thumb beneath it like she was testing the fabric. “May we see you?” she murmured, low and steady, every syllable pulling the floor out from under Rumi.

Rumi nodded before she could think better of it, pulse skittering. Her jaw tensed and faltered, betraying the adrenaline rattling through her. She held still anyway. Mira tugged the strap down, slow. Zoey mirrored her at the other shoulder, both of them easing the dress down in unison.

The fabric peeled away inch by inch, dragging over her ribs, her hips. Zoey kissed the nape of her neck as the hem lowered, Mira’s hands guiding the fabric until it slipped free entirely. They set it aside together, leaving Rumi in nothing but a thin pair of black underwear and nerves that left her shaking.

Her braid was half-falling apart, strands curling loose around her flushed face. She looked undone already, though they’d barely touched her. And still, she stood there — trembling, exposed, scar tissue catching the low hotel light where it climbed her arm and shoulder.

For a second, no one breathed.

Then Zoey’s voice cracked soft, reverent. “God, Ru… look at you.”

Rumi’s throat tightened. She almost looked away, but Mira’s hand rose, firm under her chin, holding her there. “You’re safe,” Mira said, not blinking. Her voice carried something it rarely did — naked honesty, steady and low. “With us, you are safe. Every inch of you.”

Her body quaked. The need to hide crawled at her skin, but their hands erased it before it could take hold. Mira’s palms traced her ribs, her waist, smoothing reverent over scar and unscarred skin alike. Zoey’s hands mapped her hips from behind, fingers kneading, her lips brushing the side of her throat.

Rumi gasped when Zoey reached up, slow and sure, cupping her breasts from behind. Her thumbs stroked softly over her them, teasing until her breath hitched sharp. Mira followed, sliding her hands over Zoey’s — guiding them, amplifying them. Four hands together, squeezing, kneading, rolling her gently until she arched into the pressure with a broken sound.

“Feel how perfect you are,” Mira murmured, her mouth brushing the edge of a scar over Rumi’s shoulder. Her lips were hot, her words hotter. “Every shiver. Every sound. We want all of it.”

Zoey groaned softly into her ear, pinching lightly just to hear the way Rumi whimpered, then soothing the sting with a warm rub of her palms. “You’re driving me insane, Rumi. Do you even know what you’re doing to us?”

Rumi shook her head, trembling harder from the sheer force of being touched as from nerves. She pressed back into Zoey’s chest, forward into Mira’s kisses, completely surrounded. Their mouths met her skin in different rhythms — Zoey marking her throat with playful bites, Mira dragging open kisses across her open mouth, unafraid, unhesitant.

“You’re so beautiful,” Mira whispered again, but this time her hands slid up, leaving Zoey to keep teasing Rumi’s breasts. Her palms cupped Rumi’s jaw, framing her face, thumbs brushing faint over flushed cheeks. She tilted Rumi’s head just enough to catch her eyes, holding her gaze steady through the rush of sensation.

“We’re going to spend the whole night showing you.”

Rumi’s breath came ragged. Mira’s steady hold anchored her there, letting her see herself reflected in the fierce, unwavering way Mira looked at her — safe, wanted, worshipped.

They didn’t rush her.

Zoey’s hand was laced with hers, warm and grounding, while Mira’s steady palm guided the small of her back. Together, they coaxed her toward the bed like she was something precious, each step filled with too much adrenaline for her legs to carry gracefully.

“You’ve got us,” Zoey murmured, brushing Rumi’s hair back from her damp forehead. “We’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”

“Every inch of you,” Mira added, voice low, steady. Her hand lingered on Rumi, thumb stroking slow circles.

Rumi’s knees gave out the second the mattress caught them, shaking from nerves she couldn’t disguise. The pillows dipped beneath her head as she let herself be lowered, heart pounding so violently it made her chest rise and fall in shallow gasps.

Mira knelt at the foot of the bed, broad shoulders braced between Rumi’s knees, her hands already warm and firm against trembling thighs. Zoey curled up against Rumi’s side, elbow propped so she could hover close, brushing knuckles against her cheek like she was afraid Rumi might vanish.

“You’re doing so good, Ru,” Zoey whispered. Her lips brushed the corner of Rumi’s mouth, featherlight. “Look at you. Gorgeous like this.”

Rumi’s throat worked, but her voice wouldn’t come. Her body was too loud, the nerves buzzing through her limbs until all she could do was grip Zoey’s hand like it was a lifeline.

Mira leaned in, her mouth close enough to send a shiver through every nerve in her body. “Breathe for me,” she coaxed, voice like silk dragged low across the room. “If you want to stop—slow down—say the word. No ifs, no excuses. You lead us.”

The words hit harder than any kiss could have.

Zoey pressed her forehead to Rumi’s temple, lips ghosting her ear. “She’s so good with her hands,” she whispered, grinning against flushed skin. “I can’t wait ‘til you feel her mouth.”

The heat that line sent through her nearly unstrung her before anything even started.

Her breath stuttered when Mira hooked her thumbs in the thin waistband of her underwear, tugging it down inch by inch until the cool air kissed her fully. Rumi squeezed Zoey’s hand hard, nails biting into her knuckles, but Mira only kissed the inside of her thigh, then the other, her eyes never leaving Rumi’s.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Mira murmured, settling lower, her mouth so close Rumi swore she could already feel the heat of her tongue.

The first stroke of Mira’s tongue had Rumi arching clean off the bed. She gasped so sharply it rattled her teeth, her free hand fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” Zoey soothed, kissing the corner of her mouth again, catching the noise before it could break free. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Let her take care of you.”

Mira hummed against her, tongue teasing and then deeper, holding her thighs steady as they shook. Rumi’s moan tore free, raw and unguarded, muffled only by Zoey’s lips pressing to hers in a desperate kiss.

Zoey didn’t stop there. Her mouth trailed down, along the curve of Rumi’s jaw, her throat, the edge of her collarbone. She left lipstick-stained kisses like a map, pausing to suck one dark against her shoulder, murmuring praise between each breath. “God, Ru… you sound so fucking good. So perfect for us.”

Rumi’s fingers clutched Zoey’s tighter, but when Zoey shifted—one knee sliding over Rumi’s thigh, her hips pressing down—it sent a whole new wave of heat crackling through her. Zoey’s breath stuttered into her shoulder, her forehead knocking against Rumi’s skin.

Below, Mira’s gaze flicked over, sharp and knowing. Her hand slid higher, around the back curve of Rumi’s thigh, then beyond—finding Zoey’s heat even through the lace. She didn’t pause, didn’t break rhythm on Rumi; she just slipped Zoey’s underwear aside and pressed two fingers inside her in one smooth, practiced motion.

Zoey broke apart instantly, groaning into Rumi’s neck, biting down to smother the sound.

“Her hands—fuck—her hands,” she gasped, hips bucking into Mira’s touch. Her voice cracked on a laugh that turned into another moan. She turned her head just enough to mouth at Rumi’s ear, breath hot and frantic. “Does her tongue feel as good as her fingers?”

Rumi couldn’t answer—her body answered for her. She keened, high and sharp, nails digging into Zoey’s arm until red crescents bloomed. Her hips rolled helplessly against Mira’s mouth, her thighs trembling so hard Mira had to pin them down.

Zoey kissed the sound right off her lips, swallowing every moan, whispering broken encouragement between them. “That’s it, Ru. You’re so good. Let go for us.”

Mira groaned low into her, relentless now, every flick of her tongue making Rumi’s body quake harder. The mix of sensations—Zoey’s hand laced with hers, Mira’s mouth claiming her, Zoey moaning from Mira’s fingers—made the world tilt, made her dizzy with heat and love.

Her climax built fast, too fast, her hips jerking against the bed as she clawed at the sheets with one hand and Zoey with the other.

“Don’t hold back,” Zoey begged against her mouth, her own voice unraveling. “God, you sound amazing. Cum for us”

And then it hit.

The room blurred with the force of it, her body breaking apart against Mira’s mouth, every nerve alight. Her cry was swallowed by Zoey’s kiss, Mira holding her steady between them both, grounding her with praise even as she shattered.

Rumi was still trembling, her lungs fighting for air, when Zoey climbed over her. The mattress dipped with her weight, her thighs sliding to either side of Rumi’s hips.

“Fuck,” Zoey whispered, leaning down until her breath feathered over Rumi’s lips, damp curls of her low buns sticking to her temples. “You—god, Rumi, that was so fucking hot.”

Rumi blinked up at her, dazed, still trying to catch up to her own body. Zoey kissed her before she could answer—messy, open-mouthed, tasting the remnants of her moans still clinging to her lips.

When Zoey pulled back, her grin was breathless, feral. She glanced over her shoulder, toward Mira. “Don’t stop. Keep going.”

Mira’s eyes darkened. She shifted, bracing on her knees behind Zoey, her hand gliding slow down the curve of Zoey’s back before slipping lower. Two fingers slid between Zoey’s heat with ease, slick from how worked up she already was, and Zoey gasped like she’d been shocked.

“Oh—fuck—” Zoey dropped her forehead to Rumi’s shoulder, laughing breathlessly into her skin before moaning again. Her hips rolled against Mira’s hand, greedy and restless. 

Mira’s voice was low, deliberate. “Spread wider.”

Zoey obeyed instantly, thighs widening, pressing her weight into Rumi as she rocked against Mira’s thrusts. Her hand found Rumi’s face, thumb stroking over her cheekbone with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Mira hummed low, curling harder, the wet noise of it obscene in the quiet room. Zoey gasped again, teeth scraping against Rumi’s jaw. “She’s so fucking good, Ru. Tongue, fingers—doesn’t matter, she ruins us either way.”

Something shifted in Rumi’s gaze then, fogged with exhaustion but sharpened by want. She swallowed, cheeks pink, and her hand lifted almost hesitantly—then slid down, between their bodies, until her fingers brushed slick heat.

Zoey jerked, moaning loud, her nails digging into the pillow by Rumi’s head. “Oh my god—Rumi—”

“You wanted to know, didn’t you?” Mira’s voice was velvet steel, her tempo never faltering. “Now you get to feel it too.”

Rumi’s eyes fluttered as her fingers moved clumsily at first, then steadier, tracing over Zoey’s clit in messy circles while Mira drove deep from behind. Zoey all but collapsed, her forehead pressed to Rumi’s, gasps spilling between broken words.

“Yes—yes—just like that, Ru—fuck, I can’t—she’s—and you—ohhh my god, both of you—”

Mira’s hand flexed harder, relentless, and Rumi matched her rhythm without thinking, the want in her chest blazing into her fingertips. She could feel every shiver in Zoey’s body, every tremor as she trembled above her, Mira working her open from behind while she stroked her raw at the front.

Zoey’s body rocked harder between them, caught in the pull of Mira’s thrusts and Rumi’s trembling circles. Her breath broke into sharp cries, head tipping back, curls bouncing loose from what was left of her buns.

“Fucking hell—” she gasped, clinging to Rumi’s shoulders now like she might fly apart without an anchor.

Rumi’s hand never faltered, her nerves swallowed by the sound of Zoey unraveling above her. Her own thighs trembled just from watching, from feeling every quake ripple through Zoey’s body as Mira’s fingers drove her higher. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, half to herself, half to Zoey’s ear. “So perfect—”

“God—Ru—don’t stop—” Zoey choked, voice cracking on a sob of pleasure as her hips bucked helplessly.

Mira’s smirk was ragged, sweat-slick strands of hair falling loose across her face as she curled her fingers deep, relentless. “Christ,” she muttered between thrusts, her own breath catching. “If you’re gonna scream like that, we’re getting a noise complaint.”

Zoey did scream, high and broken, muffled only by the way she bit down on Rumi’s shoulder. Her whole body seized, then shook through it, grinding down against both of them as the orgasm tore out of her.

The sound filled the room—raw, wild, unrestrained. Rumi gasped with every cry, clutching her tighter, whispering shaky praises into her damp hair. Mira held steady behind her, fingers merciless until Zoey finally collapsed forward, trembling and boneless across Rumi’s chest.

For a beat, only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the room.

Then Mira slowly pulled her hand free, dragging her palm down Zoey’s thigh with deliberate gentleness. She pressed a kiss between her back dimples and chuckled low. “Told you.”

Zoey groaned into Rumi’s neck, muffled but still dramatic. “Worth it. Totally worth the complaint.”

Rumi laughed, breathless, brushing Zoey’s damp hair back from her face. Her heart thundered so hard she thought they could feel it through her ribs, but she didn’t care. Not when Zoey was still shaking on top of her, not when Mira’s eyes caught hers over Zoey’s shoulder. 

Mira shifted, careful as she leaned forward. She pressed a kiss to Zoey’s temple, then another to Rumi’s damp hairline, lingering just long enough that Rumi felt her sigh. “Both of you,” she whispered, her voice rough but unguarded. “You undo me.”

Zoey made a pleased, sleepy noise and flopped onto her side, tugging Rumi with her. Rumi ended up curled against Zoey’s front, her head tucked under Zoey’s chin. Mira shifted in close behind, sliding an arm over both of them until Zoey was wrapped up between their bodies — Rumi warm at her chest, Mira steady at her back. Rumi’s fingers sought Mira's instinctively, lacing together tight. Mira squeezed back without hesitation.

No one spoke for a long while. Their breathing evened, the only sound the faint buzz of the hotel’s air vent and Zoey’s occasional soft laugh when Rumi’s breath tickled her neck. Mira’s hand traced idle patterns down Rumi’s arm–like she couldn’t stop reminding herself that Rumi was here, that Zoey was here, that this was real.

The world could have ended outside that room, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

And for once, none of them dreamed of anything but each other.

Chapter Text

The sound of the waves washed over Rumi before she awoke. 

It took her a moment to piece together the arrangement: Zoey flat on her back, one arm crooked lazily above her head, the other draped across the sheets like she’d fallen asleep mid-dramatic gesture. Rumi was curled on top of her, cheek pressed against Zoey’s chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall. Mira’s arm wrapped around from behind, her body curved snug against Rumi’s back, her breath steady against the crown of her head. Which made no sense at all, because she could swear they’d all fallen asleep the other way around, Zoey tucked in the middle.

She should have been content to stay there. And for a while, she was. She let herself soak in the quiet — Zoey’s chest rising beneath her, Mira’s slow, even breaths behind her.

Their warmth caged her in, safe and steady. But it was too much, in the gentlest way. Her heart beat too fast for rest, her body too alive with the weight of everything she felt.

She was in love with them. Entirely, hopelessly, completely in love.

The truth pressed too heavy for sleep. She needed to move, to breathe, to let the restless tide inside her work itself out. The pull of the ocean outside felt impossible to ignore.

But there was the matter of getting free.

Carefully, she slid her palm beneath Mira’s arm, easing it away from her waist inch by inch. Mira murmured something in her sleep, nuzzling closer, and Rumi froze. When she didn’t stir again, Rumi exhaled slow, easing her way forward.

Zoey was trickier. She was sprawled loose but heavy, one leg crooked just enough to pen Rumi in. Heart in her throat, Rumi braced a hand against the mattress and slowly rolled across her, holding her breath like she was mid-heist. Zoey gave a faint sigh, chest shifting beneath her, but didn’t wake.

By the time Rumi was clear, she nearly laughed at herself — all that sneaking, as if she were a secret agent in a movie. 

She padded across the dim room, quiet as possible on bare feet, and tugged on the loose pair of pants. The cotton clung cool to her skin after the heat of the bed, grounding her. A T-shirt followed, soft and worn, and she raked her fingers once through her already-loosened hair, letting it fall where it wanted.

At the door, she glanced back just once — Zoey loose-limbed in the middle of the bed, Mira curved around the space she’d left behind. The sight almost pulled her back in. But her chest still throbbed restless, needing the salt air, the water.

She eased the door shut, the faint click loud in the hush of the hallway.

The faint click threaded through Mira’s sleep, soft enough that it could’ve been part of a dream. For a long moment she hovered in that in-between place, eyelids heavy, thoughts disjointed. Something wasn’t right. The air felt different. The space beside her was different.

She rolled slowly onto her back, blinking up at the shadowed ceiling. Her hand moved instinctively, sliding across the sheets — cool. Empty. The bed dipped unevenly, the blanket half-pulled toward Zoey’s sprawl, but the place where Rumi had been was bare.

Mira pushed herself up on one elbow, eyes flicking toward the bathroom. Dark. No golden strip of light seeping under the door, no muffled sounds of running water or movement. A frown tugged at her mouth, pulling her further awake. Rumi wasn’t there.

The unease grew sharp enough to push her all the way upright. The room was still in shadow, the faint pre-dawn glow barely outlining the edges of furniture. Zoey hadn’t stirred — she was starfished across the mattress, hair wild, lips parted in soft snores. The sight almost made Mira smile, but it faded as her gaze caught on the balcony curtains, shifting with a faint draft.

She crossed the room, silent as she could, and slid the door open just enough to look out. The ocean air rushed in, crisp and salt-heavy, raising goosebumps along bare skin — she hadn’t bothered with clothes after last night, and the cool hit of dawn felt almost shocking against her. Below, the sand stretched pale and endless under the violet-tinged sky. And there — small against the tide — walked Rumi.

Her figure looked fragile in the distance, hair tumbling loose, her steps cutting neat trails in the sand that the waves hurried to erase. The horizon was just beginning to bruise with color, the promise of sunrise lingering at the edges. Against all of it, Rumi looked both heartbreakingly small and impossibly radiant. Something twisted tight in Mira’s chest — not just protectiveness, though that was there, sharp as ever. Awe, too. That this girl, who had been through fire and shadow, could stand here at the edge of the world with her face tilted toward the wind.

The thought of watching from up here, letting the moment pass, was unbearable. Her body was already moving, even before her mind gave permission. She tugged on the soft lounge pants and tank in her bag, quick and quiet, then bent to snag the blanket that had slipped half-off the bed at some point in the night. She pulled it around her shoulders, the fabric heavy, grounding. She didn’t bother with shoes. She didn’t care about the chill biting at her bare feet.

The sand was cold, wetter near the tide line, and it clung in gritty patches to her bare feet. Rumi rolled her pants up to her calves, careless of the saltwater darkening the fabric anyway, and let the waves creep up to lap against her ankles. Each chill surge sent a shiver through her bones, but she welcomed it. It felt like something washing her clean.

Her arms stretched out at her sides, palms open, as if she could catch the wind itself. The air was sharp, briny, the kind of cold that carved into her skin and made every scar along her arms sing. She turned them toward it, deliberate, letting the morning breeze bite at what she’d kept hidden for so long. The nerves screamed at first, raw and exposed, but beneath it was something else: proof she was still here, still alive.

She hummed softly, a tune without words, barely louder than the hush and crash of the waves. The sound slipped from her like breath, something to tether her as the horizon bruised violet and blue ahead of her. Seagulls wheeled high above, their wings slicing through the dawn. 

Here, with no one watching, she let herself simply exist—unhidden, unarmored, the sea wind wrapping around her like it might carry her forward.

Mira stayed at the edge of the dunes, the blanket heavy across her shoulders, her feet already wet where the tide reached farther than expected. She should’ve called out, but her throat closed around the thought. Instead, she just… watched.

Rumi was walking slow, her steps uneven but unhurried, like the ocean itself was pacing her. The water foamed around her ankles, pants rolled to her calves, arms stretched wide into the cold air. Her hair tugged free in the wind, strands flashing violet where the first hints of dawn crept across the sky.

Mira’s chest ached. Her mind, always reaching for metaphors, for words, tried to tether this moment to something she knew — but every thought fell short. Rumi looked like a heroine pulled straight from a novel, yes, but more than that. She looked like the part of the story you couldn’t skim, the chapter you dog-eared and underlined because it told you everything you needed to know about why you kept reading.

If words could love, they’d sound like this, Mira thought. The sight of her, unguarded and unhidden, hit harder than anything she’d read on a page.

She took a step forward, then another, until she was close enough to let the surf betray her. A deliberate splash. The sound cracked against the hush of waves.

Rumi startled, her humming cutting short as she turned. Her eyes found Mira through the half-light — wide, startled, rimmed in shadow. But the tension bled out almost instantly, replaced with something softer, like recognition.

Mira didn’t give herself the chance to hesitate. She crossed the last stretch of sand, the blanket sliding from her shoulders to fall forgotten in the wet grit. She reached her, caught her, and kissed her.

The kiss slowed, softened. Their mouths brushed once, twice, then lingered, neither willing to break the thread entirely. Silence pressed close in the space between their breaths. The waves crashed, the gulls called, the sky deepened its violet — and still, they stood there, forehead to forehead, breathing like they’d just run for miles, holding each other like they’d finally arrived.

Rumi’s mouth found Mira’s like it had been waiting for this exact tide, this exact hour. The salt air clung to her lips, sharp and briny, but Mira’s warmth cut through it the second they met.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was siphoning — like Mira was pulling all the love from her chest and pouring it into Rumi in return, breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat. Every cold seam inside her softened. Every ache, every hidden scar, every restless corner of her mind that had kept her awake now burned steady, filled with something weightier than fire: love, unflinching, impossible.

Mira gathered her in like she was precious. One hand fisted lightly in the back of Rumi’s shirt, holding her close, while the other slid up her spine, steadying. The blanket slumped down in the wind, tumbling until it half-dragged in the surf around their calves, but neither of them cared. Mira pressed in harder, like she could shield her body from the chill entirely, and Rumi let herself be shielded, her fingers curling in the fabric at Mira’s sides to prove she wasn’t going anywhere.

She felt Mira’s sigh break against her lips, felt the way the kiss slowed—less frantic now, more certain. Each brush of their mouths came deeper, slower, like they were memorizing instead of chasing. Their breaths mingled, ragged at first, then easing in tandem until Rumi realized she’d found a rhythm again — not just with her lungs, but with her heart.

Her head spun, dizzy not from wine or nerves, but from how much she wanted to stay here forever. To keep breathing her in, to keep learning every way Mira’s lips could move against hers. The ocean roared, gulls wheeled, the horizon burned faintly violet — and all of it felt distant, muted compared to this closeness.

When the kiss finally thinned into silence, their mouths parted only enough to let breath slip between them. Mira rested her forehead against Rumi’s, their noses brushing, strands of pink-red hair tickling against Rumi’s cheek. Their eyes stayed closed, chests rising and falling together, like neither trusted the world to stay still if they let go too soon.

The waves crashed, the wind rushed, the first blush of dawn tugged faintly at the sky. And yet the only thing that seemed alive in that moment was the hush between them — the soft sound of breath and the shared certainty that this was real, that this was theirs.

They sank into the sand together, the blanket wrapped haphazardly around their shoulders. It didn’t keep the cold out entirely — damp grains clung to their legs, the ocean breeze knifed sharp against their skin — but Rumi barely noticed. Not when Mira’s arm curved protectively around her, anchoring her against the solid warmth of her side.

Rumi tipped her head onto Mira’s shoulder, eyes drifting toward the horizon. The sky was still bruised purple, but a thin edge of silver hinted at the sun waiting below it. The sound of the waves filled the silence, steady, endless, syncing with the slow thud of Mira’s heartbeat beneath her cheek.

She didn’t realize she’d spoken until the words were already out, raw and low, carried off by the hush of the waves.
“It’s terrifying to love you this much.”

Mira stilled. The word hit like a strike to the chest, knocking the air clean out of her. Love. It was the first time Rumi had said it, and for a moment Mira thought she’d misheard, that her desperate mind had conjured it just to torture her. But no—the sound lingered in the salt air, undeniable.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight, every instinct to answer rushing in at once. But all she could do was look at her—this girl wrapped in her blanket, leaning so close Mira could feel her heartbeat thrumming—and let herself break quietly inside.

Her voice came slower than she wanted, cracking as she forced the words past the knot in her throat.
“...Why is that?”

Rumi hesitated, the blanket slipping down her shoulder as she pressed closer. Her voice cracked when she forced the truth out.
“Because you might leave one day. Either of you.”

Mira exhaled slowly, the ache of it sinking deep. “True,” she admitted. “But it’s just as likely that we’ll stay.”

Rumi’s fingers twisted in the blanket, restless. “What if I let you down?”

“That’s normal,” Mira said gently. “You can’t be everything for us all the time. And we can’t be everything for you.”

Rumi swallowed hard, her next words fragile. “What if I hurt you?”

Mira’s hand shifted, cupping her cheek, grounding her. “Accidentally, you might. Or Zoey might. Or I might. That’s okay. Repair matters too.”

Rumi shook her head, tears welling. “I don’t think you’d hurt me. Either of you.”

“I would try not to,” Mira said firmly, her own throat tight. “But if I did, I’d do better next time. And Zoey would too. That’s what love is — learning, choosing each other again and again.”

Rumi gave a shaky laugh that wasn’t quite laughter. “This whole love thing is supposed to feel easy, right? Simple. So why do I have so much fear?”

“It’s okay to be afraid,” Mira said, her thumb brushing dampness from under Rumi’s eye. “Love is anything but simple.”

Rumi’s brow furrowed faintly. “…How so?”

“Because love means you have the power to impact me,” Mira whispered. “Me, and Zoey. And we have the power to impact you. We’ve all placed ourselves into each other’s hands, trusting we won’t be crushed. From a survival standpoint, that’s a hell of a gamble. Of course it’s scary.”

Rumi’s voice was small. “How do you live with the fear?”

Mira’s lips curved faintly, her forehead tipping against Rumi’s. “Because I know that even if you hurt me… or Zoey. Even if one day you leave us, or we break each other’s hearts… this would still be worth it. I’d take the risk with both of you, again and again.”

Rumi’s chest hitched. “Why?”

“Because at least I got to love you,” Mira said, her voice breaking on the word. “And love Zoey. Nothing can erase the moments we’ve shared, or the ways we’ll keep shaping each other. The memories alone are worth it. Not to quote Tennyson at sunrise, but… it really is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” She pulled back just enough to meet Rumi’s eyes. “Though I don’t plan on losing either of you, you know?”

Rumi’s throat worked around a lump that felt too big to swallow. She pressed her forehead to Mira’s shoulder and whispered, “I do.”

By then, dawn had fully broken. Light spilled molten gold across the waves, the dark water turning soft and alive under the sky’s slow bloom. The world felt like it was holding its breath just for them.

Mira shifted only to press a kiss to her temple, her lips lingering there. “Then that’s enough,” she murmured, barely louder than the tide.

They stayed like that, wrapped in the blanket, watching the sun climb higher. No words needed, just the hush of the waves and the warmth of each other pressed close.

For once, Rumi wasn’t afraid of the sun coming up.

Mira broke the silence at last, voice soft but threaded with amusement. “We should head back up. When I left, Zoey looked like a Victorian-era child with the plague in her sleep.”

Rumi huffed a laugh into her shoulder, clutching the blanket tighter around them both.

The sound tangled with Mira’s in the morning air, light as the tide pulling back.

Chapter Text

Mira eased the hotel door open with her shoulder, the blanket they’d borrowed from the bed still draped over her arm. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight, the only sound Zoey’s faint, uneven breathing. She was sprawled sideways across the bed, arms splayed dramatically, mouth slack.

Rumi blinked once, then huffed out a laugh. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding. She looks like she’s waiting to be painted by some sad eighteenth-century portrait artist.”

Mira’s mouth curved, soft with amusement. “Fitting.”

They both still had sand clinging to them, patches drying itchy against their calves and arms. Mira tugged at the waistband of her sweats, wincing at the grit. “Shower?”

Rumi nodded, already slipping her hand into Mira’s as they tiptoed across the carpet toward the bathroom.

The door shut with a muted click, cutting off the sound of Zoey’s snores. In the bathroom light, the sand was more obvious: salt-crusted streaks across Rumi’s shin, golden flecks glittering against Mira’s hipbone where her hoodie rode up.

Mira reached first, tugging Rumi’s T-shirt up and over her head with slow care. The fabric crackled as sand shook loose, scattering across the tile. She pushed the sweatpants down next, knuckles brushing Rumi’s hip as she eased the waistband lower until the fabric slid free. Rumi huffed a quiet laugh, stepping out of the bundle at her ankles.

Then Rumi returned the favor, hooking her fingers into the hem of Mira’s hoodie and peeling it over her shoulders. Sand clung stubbornly, streaking pale skin where the fabric lifted. She bent to catch the waistband of Mira’s sweats, tugging them down in one smooth pull until they dropped to the floor. The grains of sand glittered against her bare hip, catching in the harsh bathroom light.

She reached up on her toes, gathering Mira’s hair into a messy topknot. “Hold still,” she whispered, tongue peeking between her teeth as she wrangled the strands. Mira only arched an eyebrow but let her do it, patient, indulgent.

When she finished, Mira’s face looked sharper, neck exposed. Rumi tugged her own hair back into a loose ponytail, pulling it into place with nimble fingers.

They stepped beneath the water, the first cold rush quickly warming as it streamed over their shoulders and down their backs. Steam curled up around them, softening the harsh edges of the bathroom light.

Rumi tilted her head forward so the spray could run down her shoulders, the loose ponytail already threatening to enter the water. Mira’s hand found it, gathering the whole length into her palm. She twisted it lightly, lifting and sweeping it to one side so Rumi’s throat was bare. 

Lightly tugging her closer until her lips found the faint marks on her throat, Mira’s tongue found blurred lipstick stains and hickeys blooming from last night.

Rumi’s breath caught, but she tilted her head without hesitation, letting Mira press soft kisses over each mark, as if rewriting them with water.

They kissed lightly, nothing hungry, just steady. The press of lips was more about being near than taking. Their mouths brushed as the water poured down their spines, warm trails curving over shoulder blades, dripping from collarbones to ribs. Mira tilted her head back once, letting the stream wash over her face, and Rumi couldn’t stop herself from tracing the beads of water as they slipped down her throat with gentle fingertips.

It would have been easy to stay there, letting the warmth blur the edges of time. But the moment was always going to break — it had to.

Because in the next room, the sleepiest girl in the world was waiting for them without even knowing it.

They slipped back into the room, still damp from the shower, hair dripping onto the shoulders of their shirts. Zoey hadn’t moved an inch—still starfished across the mattress, one arm flung above her head, mouth slack.

Rumi knelt carefully onto the bed first, leaning close enough to brush her lips over Zoey’s temple. “Zo,” she whispered against her skin.

Mira followed, easing down on the other side, pressing a kiss to Zoey’s bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped. “Wake up, love.”

Zoey groaned, eyelids fluttering. Rumi kissed the corner of her mouth, Mira added another at her jaw, and slowly, reluctantly, Zoey stirred. “Five more minutes,” she mumbled, voice wrecked with sleep.

“You’ve had five hours ,” Mira whispered in her ear.

Another muffled groan. Then Zoey cracked one eye open, squinting against the dim light. She looked between them—both damp-haired, cheeks pink, hovering over her like conspirators—and blinked.

“…Did you two shower without me?” Her voice was hoarse, accusatory in the way only half-conscious Zoey could manage.

Rumi laughed, pressing her hand to Zoey’s shoulder. “You were busy auditioning for a tragic oil painting.”

“Unbelievable,” Zoey muttered, flopping onto her back with a sigh. “Betrayal from all sides. Fine. Make it up to me—don’t stop kissing me.”

Room service didn’t take long — a quiet knock, a tray of silver domes, the muted clink of dishes. They carried it out to the balcony together, the morning air brisk and salty against their damp skin.

Rumi curled into one of Zoey’s oversized shirts from her bag, the bottom brushing her upper thighs as she tugged the fabric down. She caught Zoey smirking at her and flushed. “What? It’s comfortable.”

Zoey stretched like a cat, utterly unbothered as she wrapped herself in the thick hotel blanket. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Mira snorted, setting plates onto the little balcony table. She was down to boxers and a sports bra, shoulders bare to the breeze. “Meanwhile, I’m reconsidering life choices,” she muttered, folding her arms briefly across her chest. “Cold ocean air and nipple piercings are a terrible combination.”

Rumi took a sip of coffee, then tilted her head with a slow grin. “Cold air, sure. But trust me—I’m not complaining about the view.”

Mira froze, caught between exasperation and amusement, her composure cracking just enough to betray the faint curve of a smile.

Zoey erupted from her blanket cocoon like she’d been waiting her whole life for this. “OH. MY. GOD.” She jabbed a finger between them, scandalized and thrilled. “Did you hear that? She actually said it. A boob joke, and before breakfast!”

Rumi’s cheeks flushed as she tried to hide behind her cup. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Zoey collapsed back dramatically, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Not that bad? It was revolutionary. You’re corrupted now. Our little bookworm has officially joined the dark side.”

“Careful,” Mira drawled, eyes narrowing at the restless bundle of blanket. “Keep wiggling like that and you’ll flash the entire beach.”

That made Zoey choke on her own laughter, face buried in the covers, while Rumi giggled helplessly beside her.

The three of them finally settled, tugging plates closer, the sound of silverware and soft laughter mingling with the crash of waves below. Steam curling from coffee cups, they ate together as the morning light continued to brighten over the ocean.

The plates were mostly empty now, syrup streaked across white porcelain, fruit rinds pushed to the edges. The blanket Zoey had insisted on sharing was wrapped unevenly around all three of them, her feet sticking out at odd angles no matter how many times Mira tried to tug it straight.

It should have been an ordinary breakfast. Easy. But there was something about it — the clink of silverware, the warmth of their bodies pressed close, the faint salt wind off the water — that made it feel like more. Rumi let her gaze slip out to the horizon, where the waves kept folding over themselves in endless repetition. She could still hear Mira’s voice from the beach that morning, telling her she was safe. The words hadn’t left her chest since.

Zoey broke the quiet first, propping her chin on her hand as she studied Rumi. “You know what always catches me about you?”

Rumi blinked, pulled from the horizon. “Catches you?”

“Yeah.” Zoey grinned, but there was no teasing in her tone. “It’s like… every time I look at you, you seem ready for anything. You’ve got this prepared vibe. Like you’ve thought through every possible outcome before it happens. You’re always steady. That’s so strong to me.”

Rumi stared at Zoey for a beat, struggling with the words, letting them blow in circles around her like the wind. 

Mira made a soft noise of agreement, her voice quieter. “I think it’s just… I’ve seen it as… You carry yourself like you know what’s coming. Like the world couldn’t catch you off guard if it tried.” She paused, eyes still steady on Rumi. “On the first day you came to the library, I remember telling Zo here that it seemed like you were waiting for the floor to give out beneath you. Like you knew it was going to happen.”

For once, Zoey didn’t jump in with a joke. She toyed with her fork, expression thoughtful. Her voice softened. “But the thing is… nobody’s born that way. Nobody comes into the world bracing for impact. You only get like that after you’ve already fallen once.”

Rumi’s throat worked around a lump that felt too big to swallow. She set her fork down, the scrape against porcelain small but sharp in the quiet. For a long moment, she didn’t look at either of them. Her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where the water kept folding over itself, relentless, endless.

“You’re right,” she said at last, her voice low. “Nobody starts out that way. I didn’t.”

Her fingers brushed the stitches of Zoey’s oversized shirt, tugging it tighter around her thighs like it might shield her from the words. “Before the accident, I wasn’t this person. I was… careless, in the best way. I loved not knowing what came next. The first page of a new book, the sound of rain when you didn’t check the forecast, getting lost in a city and finding some hole-in-the-wall place by accident. It made me feel alive.”

Her hand drifted up, almost without permission, pressing flat against her arm where the scars ridged. She swallowed hard. “And then the fire happened. My home, my body… they weren’t the only things that burned. It felt like my whole life was set on fire too. Every part of me that trusted the unknown, every part that loved surprise—it all turned to ash.”

She drew in a shaky breath, words tumbling faster now, like once they started she couldn’t stop. “Afterward, nothing felt safe anymore. If a house could collapse in one night, if skin could change forever in a heartbeat, what else could? I started… planning. Controlling. Counting steps, memorizing exits, rehearsing outcomes. Because being blindsided once nearly killed me. I couldn’t let it happen again.”

Her eyes flicked down, lashes wet. “So no. It isn’t strength. It’s not that I’m fearless. It’s the opposite. I’m terrified. All the time. And control is the only thing that makes the fear quiet enough to live with.”

She went silent then, the weight of it pressing into the small balcony space. The gulls called distantly over the surf, but even that seemed softer, like the world was giving her words room to land.

Silence lingered after her words, broken only by the hush of waves below. Mira’s hand was the first to move, steady and warm as it covered Rumi’s across the table. “That doesn’t sound like weakness to me,” she said softly. “It sounds like someone who survived. Someone who found a way to keep living, even when the ground did completely go out beneath her.”

Zoey freed a hand from her blanket, setting it on Rumi’s thigh, voice raw. “And you’re still that girl, Ru. The one who loves new things. You let us in, didn’t you? You risked letting us surprise you on this trip. That’s brave as hell.”

Rumi’s lips parted, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. Their words pressed into her, heavy and gentle all at once, unraveling knots she hadn’t even realized she’d tied. She blinked hard, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I miss her, sometimes. The girl I was before. But maybe… maybe she isn’t gone. Maybe I’m just trying to find her again, in a way that doesn’t burn away if things get bad again.”

Mira’s hand tightened over hers. When she spoke, her voice was softer than Rumi had ever heard it, steady as the tide.

“She isn’t gone,” Mira said firmly. “You’re her, and more. The girl who loved the unknown is still here—you prove it every time you risk letting us close. Every time you let yourself laugh, or kiss, or wander into something new. She never burned away. She’s just… reshaped herself into someone stronger.”

Rumi’s eyes shimmered, but Mira didn’t let go.

“I know what it feels like to think you’ve lost pieces of yourself,” Mira continued, her gaze steady. “For me, it wasn’t fire. It was silence. When I was younger, every time I got excited, or spoke with too much passion, I was told I was too much. Too loud. Too dramatic. So I started cutting it out of myself, piece by piece. Making myself smaller, quieter, stoic. Books became the only place I could put all that feeling—pages were safe when people weren’t.”

She exhaled, shaking her head faintly. “After a while, you start to wonder if that girl—the one who felt everything—was gone for good. Or if she’s still there, waiting for room.”

Her hand squeezed Rumi’s once more, voice lowering with deliberate weight. “But I’ve learned something, over time. Having emotions, having opinions, letting yourself be seen—that isn’t weakness. It’s strength. It takes more maturity, more courage, to feel out loud than it does to hide. Anyone can go silent. It takes someone extraordinary to speak, and to keep speaking, even when the world tries to quiet you.”

For a long moment after Mira’s words, silence held again—so heavy and tender it was almost fragile. Rumi’s thumb stroked along the back of Mira’s hand in quiet thanks, but before she could speak, Zoey shifted under the blanket. She had her chin tucked down, eyes darting between them, uncharacteristically still.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, stripped of the usual bravado.

“I still think it's so funny that I've found the two of you. We're complete opposites in so many ways. I mean, that's a HUGE difference between me and you, Mir,” she murmured. “You got told you were too much. I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I’m not enough. Like people see me as the clown, the loud one, and never past that.”

And don’t get me wrong, I love being the one who makes people laugh, the one who brings the energy. But it’s like…” She trailed off, fumbling for words before blurting them in one breath. “It’s like they think that’s all I am. That I can’t be smart or thoughtful or serious because I’m too busy being fun.”

Her hand tightened on the blanket at her chest, knuckles white. “It’s so exhausting, always trying to prove you’re more than a joke or a good time. It’s hard feeling like if you don’t crank the volume up, people will forget you’re there entirely. I’ve spent so much of my adult life trying to overcompensate—shoving my opinions in the room, smiling bigger, talking louder—because I thought if I didn’t, no one would ever actually see me.”

She ducked her head. “And sometimes… it feels like no matter how much I do, people still think I’m stupid.”

Mira and Rumi moved instinctively, both shifting their chairs closer until they bracketed Zoey on either side. The closeness itself was grounding, a wordless statement: we’re here, we’re listening.

Zoey let out a brittle laugh, shaking her head. “And yeah, I know—I spout so many random facts it probably looks like my brain should be preserved in a jar for testing when I die. And yeah, I sound like the stereotype sometimes, the bubbly Valley girl from California. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have thoughts. Doesn’t mean I don’t have a brain. I’m so tired of people thinking I’m stupid just because I… love things out loud.”

Rumi’s hand hovered before resting lightly on her knee through the blanket. Her voice was steady, but her jaw was tight. “Anyone who thinks you’re stupid doesn’t know you at all. You’re brilliant, Zoey. You see things no one else notices—and half the time, you’re the one teaching me something new.”

Zoey’s voice wavered, frustration bleeding through. “I am smart. I know I am. But it’s like the louder I laugh, the more I care, the more invisible that part of me gets to everyone else.”

Mira’s tone cut in low and fierce, the kind of steel she usually kept tucked away. “Then they’re blind. And shallow. Anyone who dismisses you for being joyful doesn’t deserve to know you deeper. But we do. And we see you, Zoey. Every sharp, clever, brilliant part of you.”

Zoey’s breath stuttered, the blanket clutched tighter to her chest. Her voice came softer now, barely above the hush of the waves. “I don’t show this part of me very often. I’d rather be the sunshine, the noise, the one who makes everything fun. But sometimes it feels like the louder I laugh, the more invisible the rest of me gets.”

Rumi’s gaze moved between them, her voice quiet but steady. “I don’t know how this is supposed to work,” she admitted. “The logistics, the day-to-day, what people would say. There are so many unknowns. But I can’t… and I don’t want to… do any version of life without you two. Not anymore. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, I want us to figure it out together.” The words left her chest lighter, as if speaking them aloud made the possibility real.

Mira leaned in first, meeting Rumi in the middle, her lips brushing Rumi’s. Zoey followed, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before stealing one from Mira too, laughter threading through the tenderness. For a moment, the three of them folded together—shoulders touching, mouths meeting softly, an exhale of affection and vulnerability woven into something solid. When they finally pulled back, the air felt changed, gentler, as if it was holding them steady.

“Alright,” Mira murmured at last, her tone lighter now. “We should get our things together, head back.”

Rumi perked up. “I’m excited about that new release event coming up at the library.”

Both Mira and Zoey groaned in unison. Zoey dragged it out, dramatic as ever: “No work tallllllk, Ruuuuuu. You don’t even work there!”

Mira smirked over the rim of her coffee. “Only you would be excited about a Regency horror-romance release.”

“I’m taking this blanket,” Zoey announced suddenly, burrowing deeper into the folds like proof. “It’s so soft and cozy.”

“…No you’re not,” Mira deadpanned.

Rumi laughed, warmth sparking in her chest at the sight of them. “I’ll be your blanket, Zo.”

Chapter Text

The library had never looked like this before. Chandeliers borrowed from the city’s event hall cast golden light across polished oak floors; glass cases gleamed with rare first editions usually hidden deep on the fourth floor. Event staff in sleek black flitted between clusters of patrons in sequins and silk, carrying champagne flutes balanced on trays.

Rumi paused just inside the doorway, taking it all in. Her library. The place she had spent more hours in than her own apartment. The place that had given her back poetry and safety, and more importantly, given her Mira and Zoey.

Now it stood swathed in velvet rope and history plaques, honored by the city like some kind of cathedral. Her throat went tight, but for once it wasn’t grief — it was awe.

And then she saw them.

Mira looked like she had stepped straight out of one of the very classics on display that night. She carried herself with the same timeless elegance as the pages behind glass, the kind of beauty that felt inevitable — like she had been written into existence by some author who knew exactly how to craft perfection.

Her gown was black, floor-length, clinging close before spilling into a flowing hem that ghosted over the polished floor. The halter neckline framed her shoulders in sleek lines, while a vertical cutout ran clean down the center of her torso, narrow but daring, a sliver of skin that made the entire silhouette feel alive. She looked carved out of midnight and lit from within, impossible not to notice.

Gold gleamed at her edges — statement earrings that swayed with the light, a cuff bracelet glinting at her wrist, the slim clasp of her black clutch catching with each subtle shift.

Her hair was pulled back into a style so neat it seemed made to highlight the sculpted lines of her face. Paired with the gown, she looked less like a woman simply attending an event and more like the heroine of a story — the kind of character you underlined passages for, the kind you never forgot once you’d met her.

Zoey was the opposite: where Mira looked sculpted, Zoey looked painted. She was radiant in a slinky black cut-out dress, the ribbed fabric clinging to her in all the right places before breaking open at her waist and thigh like a brushstroke left deliberately unfinished. Her tattoos peeked out at her arms and collarbone, ink curling and blooming across her skin as though some artist had taken her body as their canvas.

Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, glossy waves that shifted when she turned her head, catching the light like wet paint still drying. Gold hoops framed her face, wide enough to glitter whenever she laughed — and she laughed often, already magnetic, already drawing people in. She had barely made it through the check-in table before someone pressed a flute of champagne into her hand, and she looked like she had been born holding it, wrist cocked at the perfect angle, posture loose and inviting.

If Mira was timeless elegance, Zoey was vibrant immediacy — the kind of art you couldn’t walk past without stopping. Her strappy heels clicked confidently against the polished floors, her cut-out dress shifting with her movements so that she seemed always in motion, like a painting that refused to stay still.

And where Mira’s beauty was sharpened, deliberate, Zoey’s was alive. She glowed in a way that no lighting rig could replicate, warmth radiating off her in every laugh, every smile, every hand gesture mid-story. She was a mural brought to life — bright, bold, impossible to ignore.

And Rumi… Rumi tugged lightly at her cuff, steadying herself. The suit was sleek, deliberate: slim black trousers that tapered just right at the ankle, a tailored jacket cut close to her frame, and a fitted vest beneath — nothing under it, leaving the plunging V of her collarbone and the curve of her sternum bare. The suit felt polished in a way that made her stand taller just by wearing it. Gold-rimmed glasses caught the chandelier light, tying everything together, while her purple hair — usually left loose down her back — was swept into a low, slightly messy knot, a few strands tumbling forward to frame her face. She looked like confidence carved into shape.

Mira spotted her first. It hit her like a sucker punch — her composure faltered, eyes widening, lips parting in a sharp inhale before she snapped her mouth shut again. Her gaze swept Rumi from head to toe, slow and helpless, like she was trying to memorize every line of fabric, every glimpse of bare skin at the vest. Her throat bobbed with a swallow, then another, and for a moment it looked like she might actually forget herself and speak aloud. Her chest rose, shallow and uneven, betraying the battle she was losing under her skin. She tried to look away, to school her features back into something neutral, but her eyes betrayed her, snapping right back to Rumi as though magnetized. Every inch of her screamed restraint, but the tension was so sharp it might have cut her in two.

Zoey turned a beat later — and she made no attempt at restraint. She gasped so loud that three donors looked over, her jaw dropping as if she’d just witnessed a miracle. “Holy—” Her hand flailed blindly until it smacked Mira’s arm, fingers curling into the fabric of her gown like she needed proof she wasn’t hallucinating. “Mira. Mira. Mira. Are you seeing this?” Her voice pitched higher with every repetition, frantic and delighted all at once. “Mir, she’s—oh my god, she’s—” She broke off once realizing that Mira wasn’t responding. 

Only then did she glance sideways at Mira — and what she saw made her gape all over again. Mira was a wreck in slow motion, gaze dragging helplessly up and down, lips parted like she’d forgotten how to breathe, shoulders stiff with the effort of keeping still. Her pulse was visible in her throat. Zoey’s eyes widened, then her mouth curved into the most wicked grin. “Oh my god, she’s destroying you. You’re—look at you! You’re literally undressing her with your eyes!”

Her volume was not subtle, and Zoey only leaned closer to Mira, stage-whispering dramatically. “She’s literally killing you in that suit. You’re feral. You’re so feral right now. ”

Mira’s jaw clenched, her only answer a sharp inhale as her eyes flicked back to Rumi yet again, betraying her completely.

Rumi felt her pulse thrum higher, heat climbing up her neck as she caught the look in Mira’s eyes — undone, hungry, nothing like the cool detachment she wore like armor. And then Zoey made a quick little hmph, squeezing Mira’s hand like she was wrangling a startled cat.

“Alright, that’s it,” Zoey announced, looping her arm through Mira’s and tugging her forward without ceremony. “Come on. Rumi, she’s gone. We lost her.”

Zoey didn’t stop until they stood right in front of her. Without hesitation, she leaned in close, brushing a kiss against Rumi’s cheek before her lips hovered at her ear. Her voice dropped, sultry and wicked. “You have no idea how bad I want to take that suit off you.”

Rumi’s breath hitched, but before she could answer, Zoey leaned back just far enough to flash a grin, stage-whispering loud enough for Mira to hear. “But first — I need you to reboot this woman, because she’s fucked. She needs to be a human for this event.”

Zoey patted Mira’s shoulder like she was passing off responsibility, then slipped toward the champagne table with a whistle, already flagging down another guest.

That left Mira, who still hadn’t said a word. Her eyes dragged over Rumi again, slow and helpless, pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the chandelier light. Rumi bit back a laugh and stepped into her line of sight, lowering her voice so only Mira could hear.

“Look, I know you’re literally fucking me with your eyes right now — and trust me, there’s a time and place for that — but Zo needs you to pull it together.” She snapped her fingers once, sharp, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Focus.”

A passing waiter appeared like salvation, tray brimming with champagne. Rumi plucked two flutes without breaking eye contact and held one out to Mira. “Ring it in.”

Mira reached automatically — not for the glass, but for the line of Rumi’s vest, her fingers twitching forward before she caught herself, snapping her hand back like she’d touched a live wire. Color rose at her throat as she forced her hand instead toward the champagne, snatching it like a lifeline. She downed the entire flute in one go, the motion sharp and graceless, then cleared her throat as if that might erase the way she’d almost unraveled in public.

There was something grounding about watching someone in their natural habitat. Like catching sight of a deer in a sunlit clearing—still, unguarded, unaware of how holy they looked just existing. That’s what Rumi was like in the library.

Zoey leaned her hip against a table draped in velvet, champagne flute tilting idly in her hand as she watched. Rumi had gone still beneath the chandeliers, purple hair catching gold light like strands spun from dusk. Her chin lifted, eyes wide, mouth parting just barely as though she could drink in the glow pouring across the walls. For once, there was no tightness in her shoulders, no calculation in her gaze. Just awe.

The library gleamed like it had been plated in 24-karat gold, but Zoey only watched Rumi watching it, as if the glow itself had cracked her open.

Mira was across the room, a study in composure. She was poised beside one of the glass displays, voice even as she explained the rarity of the edition inside to a small group of patrons. But her eyes kept betraying her. Every few moments, they slid sideways, cutting through the crowd until they landed on Zoey.

That was when everything shifted. The sharpness drained, and her whole face softened, like someone had turned down all the noise and left only her. Mira could polish herself to diamond edges for everyone else, but for Zoey, she was something far more dangerous: warm, breakable, entirely human.

The night blurred with moments like that. Rumi by one of the display cases, leaning slightly toward an older woman with a cane. Zoey couldn’t make out the words over the din, only caught fragments — “no, I don’t work here” paired with a small gesture toward the mezzanine, then bits of “printing… unique… author’s notes…” as Rumi’s hands began to move with her words. Whatever she was saying, it made her glow. Mira brushing her hand against Zoey’s when passing her a glass, fingers lingering just a second too long. Zoey catching her breath at both of them, over and over, because how could she not?

Later, she and Mira ended up back-to-back, each cornered into separate conversations. Zoey felt Mira’s spine press against hers—solid, steady, their breathing syncing without effort. Then, without turning, Mira’s hand slid back in search. Zoey caught it, palm to palm, and held on.

The spark was instant. Lightning shooting up her arm, fizzing beneath her skin until it nearly forced a laugh out of her. She nodded along at whatever some stranger was saying, but the only thing she heard was her pulse. Mira’s thumb brushed once across her knuckles, and Zoey thought: so this is what it feels like to touch something sacred and survive.

Zoey slipped away from her half-finished conversation and climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, already knowing where she’d find her. Sure enough, Rumi was leaned against the railing, hands braced on polished wood as she looked down at the golden blur of the gala below. From up here, the chandeliers seemed closer, less intimidating, their light breaking softer across her hair.

Zoey came up beside her, their shoulders almost brushing. “Having fun?” she asked, light but steady.

Rumi startled, then let out a quiet laugh. “More than I thought I would. It feels… different, seeing this place honored. Like it matters to more people than just me.”

Zoey tipped her head, studying her profile. “It does matter to more people. But none of them love it like you do.” She said it like fact, no teasing, and the way Rumi’s lips parted — a little surprised, a little moved — made Zoey’s chest ache.

From the floor below, Mira spotted them. She should have been listening to the man beside her drone on about preservation grants, but her eyes betrayed her, drawn inexorably upward. The sight stopped her cold: Rumi leaning over the railing in her sleek black suit, Zoey beside her in all her painted warmth, the two of them caught in some private current of conversation. A vision. Mira’s throat tightened. They were radiant, both of them, and for a moment all she could think was mine.

She excused herself with a murmured apology and threaded through the crowd until she was climbing the stairs, too. When she reached them, her voice was pitched low, soft enough that only they could hear: “You two vanished on me.”

Zoey grinned without looking away from Rumi. “Couldn’t let her drift off by herself.” Then, leaning conspiratorially between them: “Though if we don’t leave soon, I swear I’m going to end up making some kind of scene. Do you have any idea how hard it is not to—” She broke off, eyes darting down the sharp lines of Rumi’s vest, biting her lip.

Rumi arched a brow. “Not to what?”

Zoey leaned in, whispering against Rumi’s ear, sultry enough to make Mira’s breath hitch behind her. “Not to drag you upstairs to the staff room and lock the door.”

Mira’s composure wavered — shoulders tense, glass stem trembling faintly in her hand. “Zoey,” she managed, the warning thinner than she intended.

Zoey only smirked, eyes gleaming. “What? You’re thinking it too. It wouldn’t be the first time…”

Rumi froze mid-breath, then scoffed, incredulous. “Of course you guys have fucked in that room. I feel so betrayed. First my couch, now the staff room?”

Mira’s mouth twitched, eyes narrowing with faux innocence. “First off, we didn’t fuck. Just… heavily made out and broke a mug. And to be fair, I did practically jump your bones in rare books.”

Zoey’s head snapped around so fast her earrings nearly hit her cheeks. “I’m sorry—WHAT THE FUCK?”

Rumi laughed so hard she had to grab the railing for balance, while Mira just sipped her champagne like she hadn’t dropped a nuclear bomb into the conversation.

The laughter ebbed, but the tension didn’t. It never did with the three of them. Rumi’s pulse thrummed high in her throat as she looked at them — Mira in her midnight gown, Zoey radiant even mid-scandal, the two of them practically vibrating against the gold-lit walls. Her mouth went dry, heat pooling low as her gaze caught on the stark line of Mira’s bare shoulders, then slid helplessly to Zoey — her dress clinging like paint, tattoos curling over her skin in strokes and blooms, a mural come alive. God, she wanted—

Before either of them could say more, Zoey shivered, goosebumps breaking across her bare arms as the draft from the mezzanine windows swept through. Without thinking, Rumi shrugged out of her jacket and swept it over Zoey’s shoulders in one fluid motion. The gesture left her in just the fitted vest, collarbones and sternum bare, skin gleaming like polished stone under chandelier light.

Zoey tugged the lapels close, eyes going wide — not just from the warmth, but from the sight of Rumi standing half-bared, hard and soft all at once. She shot Mira a grin sharp enough to wound. “Okay. People need to start going home right now. Because if this night keeps going, one of us is going to snap.”

Mira swallowed hard, ragged around the edges, her gaze dragging helplessly over Rumi’s newly bared skin before she snapped her eyes up again. Her voice was firm, but only just. “Ten minutes. That’s all I’m giving this gala.”

Chapter Text

Rumi stirred at the faintest pressure on her shoulder, but it wasn’t Mira’s steady warmth she felt first — it was Zoey. She’d draped herself across Mira’s back like an overexcited puppy, cheek squished against Mira’s shoulder blade as she stretched an arm toward Rumi.

“Up, up, up,” Zoey sing-songed, fingers poking at Rumi’s blanket.

Mira groaned into the pillow, voice muffled. “Zoey, you are crushing me.”

“You’re fine,” Zoey said breezily, wriggling higher onto Mira’s back just to prove her point. “Strongest girl in the library, right?”

Rumi blinked blearily at the sight: Mira flat on her stomach, face half-buried, Zoey sprawled over her like some chaotic blanket of her own, and both of them waiting for her to wake up. She huffed a laugh, tugging the covers higher under her chin. “You’re both insane.”

Zoey grinned, victorious. “Insane enough to have plans. You —” she jabbed a finger toward Rumi, nearly knocking the glasses off the nightstand — “need to wear something comfy today. But also something I can bundle you up in later. Hoodie. Sweater. Blanket burrito potential.”

Rumi squinted, silence blanketing them. 

Zoey’s grin only widened. “Mhm. Trust me. It’s a surprise.”

From beneath her, Mira made a faint, strangled sound. “If it involves me getting up right now, I’m vetoing.”

Zoey flopped dramatically, chin digging into Mira’s shoulder. “Boooo. You’re really gonna skip out on an adventure?”

“I,” Mira mumbled, finally dragging her face off the pillow to glare weakly at them both, “am sitting this one out. You two can have your chaos. I’ve got my own dates to plan.”

Zoey’s brows shot up. “Dates? Plural?”

Mira smirked, already rolling back into the pillow. “Rumi’s not the only one who gets surprises.”

Rumi had staked out her usual spot in the mezzanine, tucked against the railing with her notebook open across her knees. A pen dangled from the corner of her mouth, glasses slipping low on her nose — the thin, gold-rimmed kind Mira wore sometimes. She hadn’t noticed when she bought them, but Mira had, and now every time she caught the resemblance it sent her pulse skittering. Today, she was writing. Or trying to. Every few minutes she’d lift her gaze from the page, eyes tracing the carved arches of the ceiling as though the words might be written there, waiting for her to notice. The oversized crewneck swallowed her frame, pale jeans cuffed at the ankle, sneakers tapping idly as she thought. She looked less like someone visiting a public library and more like someone keeping watch over a private kingdom.

Down below, Mira was elegance in motion. Tailored slacks, silk blouse, jacket cut so sharp it could’ve drawn blood — yet softened by the way her fingers barely brushed the counter, as if she needed the touch to ground herself. Phone pressed to her ear, her voice was low and decisive, arranging some detail for an upcoming event. Authority came easy to her, but it wasn’t cold; there was intimacy in the way she bent her head, a few strands of hair slipping forward to frame her face, composure softening at the edges. From the mezzanine, Rumi could see the line of her jaw tighten, then ease again the instant someone approached the desk. She was power wrapped in warmth, command threaded with grace — like she didn’t just run the library, she lived within it, breathed with it.

And then there was Zoey. Bright and chaotic as ever, she’d gathered a flock of kids in the children’s corner, her oversized knit sweater an explosion of colors and patterns against her orange pants. She sat cross-legged on the carpet, holding up a book as if she were performing theater instead of storytime, her voice rising and falling with dramatic flourishes. The kids were eating it up, giggling, gasping, leaning forward like she was weaving actual magic between the stacks. One little boy shrieked with laughter when she acted out a dragon’s roar, and Zoey beamed like she’d just won an award. She belonged to the moment so fully it was impossible not to watch her.

From her perch above, Rumi caught herself looking between the two of them — Mira steady and sure, Zoey alight with chaos — and felt something curl warm and tight in her chest. She set her pen down, pressing the tip of her finger to the page as though to anchor herself. It was just an ordinary day. And yet, with them, it never felt ordinary at all.

By the time the last patron’s footsteps faded, the library felt almost too big for just the three of them. The hush was different after closing — less like silence and more like the building exhaling, shelves settling into stillness.

Mira hung up her phone, slipping her jacket back on as she gathered her things. Even tired, she moved with that same practiced composure, pausing at the front desk to double-check a stack of event flyers before tucking them neatly away.

Zoey bounded over first, still buzzing with leftover energy from storytime. She rose onto her toes, looping her arms around Mira’s neck. “Don’t let them work you too hard, boss,” she teased, voice half-mocking but warm as she nuzzled into Mira’s chest.

Mira’s composure melted on contact. She dipped her head without hesitation, arms coming around Zoey’s waist as her laugh vibrated low against her ear. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but the words were softened by the way she squeezed Zoey closer, pressing a kiss into her hairline like it was second nature. For all her polish, Mira never seemed to know how not to give in when Zoey leaned on her.

Rumi lingered a step behind, glasses slipping low on her nose. When Mira looked her way, she shifted forward, hesitant but sure enough to reach up and brush a stray strand of hair from Mira’s face. “Text us when you get home, okay?”

The softness in her tone did something to Mira’s carefully built walls. She bent without thinking, arms circling low around Rumi’s waist and lifting her just off the ground for a kiss — slow, grounding, as though she couldn’t leave without it. When she set her back down, she didn’t immediately let go.

“Promise,” Mira whispered, eyes lingering on both of them like she didn’t want to walk out the door. But she did, eventually, with one last glance over her shoulder.

With the click of a lock, all that was left was Rumi and Zoey.

The library felt different after hours. The hum of computers gone, the lights dimmed to slivers, every creak of the old beams suddenly louder in the quiet. Rumi lingered near the door, still warm from Mira’s kiss, when Zoey bounced back into view with a look that spelled trouble.

“Alright, Ru,” Zoey announced, hands on her hips. “Adventure time.”

Rumi arched a brow. “That’s ominous.”

Zoey grinned, already snagging her hand. “Ominous? No. Exciting? Absolutely. C’mon.”

Before Rumi could argue, she was being tugged down the stacks, their footsteps echoing off the wooden stairwell as Zoey led the way up — past the second floor, past the third.

“Zoey,” Rumi whispered, though there was no one left to overhear. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Secret mission,” Zoey stage-whispered back, eyes wide with mock seriousness. “Codename: Operation Best Night Ever.”

Rumi bit back a laugh. “That’s not even a good codename.”

“It’s a perfect codename.” Zoey shot her a look over her shoulder, hair swinging. “You’ll thank me later.”

By the time they hit the fourth floor, Rumi’s chest ached with quiet laughter. But the mood shifted as Zoey shouldered open the attic door — the air turned dry, thick with dust and old cedar beams. Shadows sprawled strange across the rafters, moonlight cutting in through cracks like pale fingers.

Rumi slowed, nose wrinkling. “Zoey…”

Zoey’s grin only widened. “What? Don’t tell me you’re scared.” She leaned closer, dropping her voice into mock-dramatic tones. “This place has been here since the early 1900s. Someone’s definitely died here. Probably a librarian. She wanders the halls at night whispering ‘shhh’ at unsuspecting—”

“Zoey.” Flat, warning, sharp enough to slice through the creaks.

Zoey wheezed out a laugh, hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, no ghosts. Damn, you’re no fun.”

“Not when you’re trying to conjure undead librarians out of thin air.”

“You gotta admit it’d be kinda hot, though.” Zoey wiggled her brows.

Rumi shot her a look so withering that Zoey almost tripped over a stray box.

They wove through the clutter until Zoey stopped at a ladder tucked against the far wall. She threw a glance back, eyes sparking with mischief. “Up we go.”

Rumi tilted her head back, staring at the square of darkness in the ceiling. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I ever kid?” Zoey was already halfway up, long legs making quick work of the rungs.

Rumi deadpanned. “Yes. Constantly.”

“Okay, fair.” Zoey shoved the hatch open with a grunt, cool night air rushing down in a star-scented gust. She leaned back down, hair falling loose over her face, hand extended. “But this time, I’m serious. Trust me.”

The attic creaked like it had secrets, each step groaning under their weight. Dust floated in the thin beam of light from Zoey’s phone, catching in the air like tiny ghosts. Perfect.

She grinned to herself, glancing back at Rumi picking her way carefully over the beams. God, she was beautiful even like this — cautious, hesitant, brows drawn together in concentration. Zoey wanted to laugh and kiss her at the same time.

“Relax, Ru,” she whispered, her voice carrying louder than she meant in the hush. “Worst case, this place collapses and we become tragic library ghosts. I’ll rattle a chain or two, make it fun.”

Rumi shot her a look sharp enough to silence her for half a second. “Zoey.”

Zoey smothered her laugh with her knuckle and padded forward, finding the ladder. She swung up first, boots on the rungs, body sliding into the narrow square of the hatch until the night air hit her face — crisp, cold, sharp with stars. She sucked in a breath, grinning like she had a secret.

Then she looked back down through the hatch. Rumi was framed in shadow, hesitant at the base of the ladder, eyes flicking upward like she wasn’t sure.

Zoey reached a hand back down toward her, dangling it into the dark between them. Her grin softened.

“C’mon,” she said, steady and low. “Trust me.”

For a second, Rumi didn’t move.

But then Rumi’s hand slid into hers, warm and sure, grounding Zoey in ways she hadn’t expected. Zoey curled her fingers tight and gave a tug.

And together, they climbed, leaving dust and creaking beams behind, stepping up into the cold night sky.

The first thing that hit her was the cold. Crisp air rushing over her skin, sharp enough to sting her cheeks after the warmth of the attic. The second thing was the view.

Rumi hauled herself up through the hatch, Zoey’s hand steady at her back from where she’d climbed up first, and froze.

The library roof stretched wide and open beneath the stars, the city a glittering sprawl on every horizon. And right there in the center — blankets layered thick across wooden pallets, lanterns flickering gold in the dark, pillows piled like a nest.

Her breath caught. “Zoey…” It was barely a whisper.

Zoey was already waiting, having hopped down from the hatch a moment earlier. She brushed her hands together with all the subtlety of a firecracker, grinning like she’d just conjured the whole scene by force of will alone. “Ta-da!” she said, beaming, spreading her arms like she could catch the entire sky in her chest.

Rumi turned, words stuck somewhere in her throat. She wanted to laugh at the audacity, wanted to scold her for hoarding every blanket in the building — but mostly, she wanted to kiss her until the grin on her face sank deep into her bones.

Instead, she just breathed, steadying herself, because her heart had gone unsteady at the sight.

Zoey, radiant under starlight, waiting for her to step forward.

And the rooftop — their rooftop now — glowing like a secret world no one else would ever find.

Zoey had spent half the gala watching Rumi look at chandeliers, light spilling gold across her hair while her mouth parted in that soft, unguarded way. Entranced. It had made Zoey’s chest ache, seeing her like that, as if she’d found something holy in plaster and glass.

So she’d wanted to give her that again — only bigger, only better. And now, watching Rumi’s eyes widen at the rooftop spread, her lips parting just the same way under starlight, Zoey thought she’d done it.

The night sky had replaced the chandeliers, but the look was the same. Rumi, entranced, caught in wonder she couldn’t disguise — and Zoey, just as undone, because somehow she’d managed to be the one to put that look on her face.

Zoey couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t breathe. Rumi was standing there with the city stretched out behind her, stars dripping like sequins overhead, and all Zoey could think was holy shit. Not in the casual way, not the throwaway she used a dozen times a day — but in the way your chest seizes when you’ve just witnessed something impossible, something you’ll never get over.

It hit her low and fast, like being punched in the ribs from the inside. Rumi, in all her quiet awe, looked less like a person and more like the universe had decided to flex, just to prove it could make something this good.

Her hands itched, useless at her sides, wanting to reach and not knowing where to start — her waist, her cheek, the loose strands of hair brushing her glasses. Every detail begged to be touched, to be memorized.

Zoey shook herself back into motion before she gave the game away completely. She jogged ahead, dropping onto the pile of blankets with a dramatic flop that sent one of the lanterns wobbling. “Well? Don’t just stand there looking like you’re about to give a TED Talk on poetry. Get over here before I freeze to death.”

Rumi’s laugh spilled out, soft and startled, but she crossed the rooftop, each step slow like she was afraid the whole thing might dissolve if she moved too fast. She lowered herself beside Zoey, tentative at first, until Zoey tugged the corner of a blanket around her shoulders and leaned in so their thighs touched.

“Better,” Zoey said with a grin, bumping her knee gently against Rumi’s. “You make a damn good space heater.”

Rumi rolled her eyes but didn’t move away. She adjusted her glasses, trying — and failing — to hide the way her mouth curved upward.

The rooftop hushed around them, the city a blur below, the stars scattered like they’d been spilled just for them. They settled deeper into the nest Zoey had built, shoulders brushing, warmth slowly knitting between them until the chill of the night air hardly mattered.

Zoey’s finger dropped back to the blanket, tracing absent shapes against the fabric near Rumi’s hip. Her voice lingered in the hush between them, quieter now, almost hesitant.

“She used to tell me the stars were reminders,” Zoey said, her throat tight. “That even if people left, or drifted, or… disappeared, the love they gave stayed. It burned up there, waiting for you to look up and remember.” She swallowed, blinking hard against the sting at the corners of her eyes. “I never really believed her. Not until you. Not until both of you.”

Rumi shifted, tilting her chin just enough to see Zoey’s face. Zoey laughed weakly at the attention, but didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Since you… god, since you crashed into my life, Ru, it’s like everything got rewired. I used to fill silence with noise because I was scared of what would sneak in otherwise. But with you and Mira? With you, the quiet feels safe. Like I don’t have to fight for space, or prove I belong. I just… do.” She exhaled shakily, her chest rising under Rumi’s cheek. “You make me feel like I’m not a punchline. Like I don’t have to be the joke just to be seen.”

Her hand flexed against Rumi’s back, restless. “You and Mira make me want things I didn’t even think I deserved. Real things. Scary things. A life where I don’t have to keep pretending I don’t care as much as I do. A life where I get to care out loud, and it’s not too much for either of you.”

Rumi’s lips parted, her breath catching, but Zoey pressed on, her voice breaking at the edges now.

Her chest hitched once, and she laughed softly, self-conscious but unable to take it back. She tightened her hold around Rumi, then tipped her head back against the blankets, eyes finding the stars overhead. For a moment she just breathed, like she was drawing strength from the constellations themselves, before the words finally broke free.

“I love you, Rumi.”

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t tossed out with a wink or a grin. It was solid, heavy, burning as true as the stars above them — and Zoey said it like she’d been carrying it for years, like it had finally found its way out and she couldn’t imagine ever shoving it back in again.

Rumi froze, the words wrapping around her chest like a fist. For a heartbeat, she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Then Zoey shifted against her, still looking skyward, and Rumi caught it — a glimmer sliding from the corner of her eye, tracing down into her hairline. One tear, unguarded, stark as a comet across her skin.

Rumi’s breath stuttered. She’d seen Zoey laugh until she cried, seen her fire off a hundred jokes in a breath, seen her fill a room with so much warmth it drowned the shadows. But she had never seen this. Never seen her cracked open by her own heart.

Her throat tightened. Slowly, gently, she reached up and brushed her thumb along Zoey’s cheek, catching the wetness before it fell again. Zoey turned then, finally meeting her eyes, and the naked honesty there made Rumi’s pulse hammer.

She didn’t answer with words at first — just leaned in, pressing her mouth to Zoey’s with a steadiness that felt like a promise. A kiss that said I hear you. I feel it too.

When she pulled back, she didn’t retreat far. Their mouths hovered apart by the smallest fraction, close enough that each breath mingled and warmed the other. Rumi’s eyes flicked down once, catching Zoey’s lips, then lifted again with something almost trembling in her expression. Her chest rose unevenly against Zoey’s, as if the words were trying to climb free before she could second-guess them.

And then, barely louder than the pulse in her throat, she whispered it.

“I love you too.”

The words landed directly on Zoey’s mouth, not spoken into the night or the stars above but breathed against her lips — warm, fragile, searing. Every syllable was a brush of air that blurred the line between whisper and kiss, so close that Zoey could taste the shape of the confession before she even moved.

Zoey’s breath stuttered. A laugh, a sob, something in between broke out of her all at once, and she surged forward, capturing the words with her mouth like she was afraid they’d vanish if she didn’t seal them there forever.

The kiss surged and stumbled all at once, laughter and breath tangling between them before it broke into something steady, deliberate. Zoey’s hands framed Rumi’s face like she was holding something irreplaceable, her thumbs trembling at the edges of her jaw.

When they finally pulled back just far enough to breathe, Zoey’s forehead dropped against hers, both of them gasping into the sliver of space between their mouths.

“See?” Zoey whispered, voice thready but trying for light. “Perfect view. Stars, city, blankets. Me. What else could you need?”

Rumi’s glasses had slipped slightly down her nose, and she pushed them up with one hand like it could distract from the pink flooding her cheeks. Her lips brushed Zoey’s when she answered, quiet, sure.

“You.”

The word landed like a match, small and soft but enough to ignite. Zoey’s breath caught sharp in her throat before she kissed her again. The kiss was slow, almost unbearably so, as if they were writing a language with their mouths, rediscovering each syllable in the press of lips. Each staggered inhale made the night air sharper, the chill seeping in only where their bodies didn’t touch. Everywhere else was warmth — Zoey’s weight against her, Zoey’s breath spilling over her cheek, the cocoon of blankets wrapped so tightly it felt like the rooftop belonged only to them.

“I love you,” Zoey murmured into the seam of Rumi’s mouth, not once but again and again, like the words were breaking loose faster than she could contain them. Each one landed differently — rough, choked, laughing, trembling. Rumi answered every time, her own whispers tumbling out between kisses, their voices tangling until I love you became indistinguishable from the way they breathed each other in. It was less conversation than litany, a thread binding them closer with every repetition.

At some point, Zoey shifted, her knee brushing against Rumi’s thigh as she gently urged her onto her back. The motion was careful, tentative, but once Rumi settled beneath her, Zoey hovered there for a beat, hair falling down around them like a curtain, starlight and lantern glow caught in each strand. Rumi reached up, brushing one lock back behind Zoey’s ear, and Zoey’s chest hitched as though that small gesture undid her more than anything else.

When Rumi’s glasses slipped askew, Zoey froze. Her hand came up slow, fingers trembling as she lifted them away. She folded them carefully, setting them on the little crate beside the lantern like they were made of crystal, then leaned back down until their foreheads touched. “Better,” she whispered, her lips brushing against Rumi’s as she said it. The lack of barrier made it unbearable, nothing but skin and starlight between them.

Rumi’s hands slid instinctively to Zoey’s waist, steadying her, grounding her. Zoey let out a shuddering laugh, then bent to kiss along her jaw, down to the hollow of her throat. She whispered it there too — I love you, I love you — until Rumi thought she might dissolve beneath the weight of it.

When Zoey reached the hem of her sweater, she hesitated. Her fingers curled into the fabric, knuckles white, as though afraid of breaking the spell. Rumi’s answer came wordlessly — hands sliding into Zoey’s hair, tugging her closer, her breath a whisper against Zoey’s ear. That was enough.

Zoey pushed the fabric upward in slow, reverent inches, her hands trembling as she bared Rumi’s skin to the night air. Goosebumps rose in the sweater’s wake, the chill of the rooftop meeting the heat of Rumi’s body. Zoey bent down, kissing the newly exposed skin as it appeared — soft, lingering presses of her mouth that left warmth wherever the cold had touched.

Finally, she bared enough to lower her mouth, kissing across the swell of Rumi’s breast until she reached her nipple. She closed her lips around it gently, no rush, no hunger — just devotion in every touch. It was soft, unhurried, but it unraveled Rumi completely. She arched against her, a broken sound catching in her throat as her hands tightened in Zoey’s hair.

Zoey lingered there, mouth worshiping softly until her own breath came ragged, her own body trembling with the weight of wanting more. She pulled back just enough to trail kisses upward, reclaiming Rumi’s mouth in a kiss that felt desperate and grounding all at once. Her hands roamed again, unable to stay still — sliding down the line of Rumi’s waist, skimming the sharp edge of denim, hesitating at the waistband like she was standing on the edge of something too big to name. Her fingers trembled there, caught between restraint and the ache to fall.

Her forehead pressed to Rumi’s, breaths tangling. “Can I?” she whispered, the words spilling warm against Rumi’s lips, a confession and a plea in one.

Rumi’s chest rose sharply beneath her, the breath caught there unraveling into a small, steady nod. Her hands curled into Zoey’s sweater, tugging her closer, voice hushed but sure. “Yes. Please. Please.”

Zoey’s fingers fumbled clumsily with the button of her jeans, a soft curse escaping her throat, half frustration, half nerves. Rumi laughed, breathless, the sound breaking into a gasp when Zoey grabbed the waistband and pulled them slightly down over Rumi’s hips—far enough to bare the slope of her hipbones. Heat punched through Zoey’s belly, simple and undeniable. Zoey groaned as her hand finally slid past denim and cotton. The first touch was too much — sharp, electric, stolen straight out of Rumi’s lungs. Her back arched instinctively, head tilting as a broken moan spilled free.

And yet, even as she was coming undone, her hands moved without thought. Zoey’s sweater bunched under her palms, then gave way as she tugged lower, needing to touch, to return, to anchor herself in this giving. Her fingers found Zoey’s waistband, mirrored her fumbling. Zoey froze above her, startled, until their eyes met — wide, wet, unguarded.

“Rumi—” she started, but Rumi silenced her with a kiss. The kind that pressed promise into skin. When she pulled back, their lips brushed with every word. Rumi’s palm slid to Zoey’s cheek, thumb smoothing once under her eye; Zoey turned into the touch like it was instinct, breath catching, shoulders loosening as though the permission landed in her bones. “I want to. Let me.”

Zoey’s laugh was shaky, breaking on a sigh as she kissed her again. “God, I love you.”

Her hand shifted lower, fingers pressing more firmly now, circling carefully until Rumi’s thighs trembled. Then, hesitant, she pushed — two fingers sliding inside with aching slowness, her breath catching as though she could feel the quake in Rumi’s body mirror in her own. Rumi gasped, eyes flying open before fluttering shut again, her moan broken and raw.

“Is that okay?” Zoey whispered, her forehead pressed tight to Rumi’s, her lips brushing with every word.

“Yes,” Rumi breathed, clutching at Zoey’s back. “Yes, Zo—please—”

Zoey moved carefully, the pace slow and deliberate, every shift of her hand guided by Rumi’s sounds. “Another?—” she breathed. Rumi tugged at her, urging her deeper, and Zoey answered, sliding in a third finger with trembling care. The stretch pulled a cry from Rumi’s throat, her head tilting back against the blankets. “Oh god—yes, just like that.”

Rumi’s hand fumbled at Zoey’s waistband, needing to give back, needing to feel her unravel too. Zoey whimpered the moment Rumi slipped inside her, the sensation so sharp and sudden she almost collapsed against her. Their hips stuttered into a rhythm, imperfect but desperate, their gasps and moans tangling in the cold night air.

“Slower,” Rumi whispered once, breath shuddering, guiding Zoey’s pace until her body shook from the inside out.
“There,” Zoey begged in return, her voice cracking as Rumi adjusted her touch, her whole body arching up helplessly.

The rooftop dissolved around them. There was only the heat of their hands slipping past fabric, the stretch, the flood of sensation, the moans that broke too loudly into the night. “Don’t stop,” Rumi begged again, voice cracking into Zoey’s mouth. “Please—don’t stop—”

Zoey’s answering cry was swallowed in another kiss, her hips rolling helplessly into Rumi’s hand. Their movements faltered, matched again, then grew faster, messier, until they were both lost, clinging to each other with desperate, shaking hands.

And when it broke, it broke together. Zoey’s fingers curling deep inside her, Rumi’s nails digging into her back, both of them gasping like prayer as their bodies clenched and collapsed in unison. They clung through the quake of it, sobbing moans pressed into mouths that couldn’t stop kissing, couldn’t stop needing.

When it finally ebbed, they stayed tangled — Zoey’s head tucked to Rumi’s shoulder, Rumi’s fingers still buried in her hair. Their bodies trembled with the aftershocks, words spilling weakly into skin.

“I love you,” Zoey whispered, broken but certain.
“I love you,” Rumi echoed, her voice steady this time, anchoring.

And under the stars, with the city humming somewhere far below, it felt like the whole world had bent inward just to hold them steady.

Chapter Text

The library was quiet enough to hear their own footsteps echo as Mira led them down the hall, a little too purposeful to be casual. Zoey trailed behind with suspicion sharp in her grin, bumping shoulders with Rumi every few steps.

“Why do I feel like we’re about to get detention?” Zoey whispered dramatically. “Study room after hours? Mira, if you’re about to pull out flashcards, I swear—”

Mira only smirked as she drew a small brass key from her pocket, the kind that looked like it had lived in the desk of head librarians for decades. The lock turned with a soft click, and with a gentle push, she revealed the room inside.

It wasn’t desks and sterile lamps anymore. The long study table had been shoved aside, replaced with a mountain of pillows and blankets, the overhead lights dimmed until the string of fairy lights along the walls set the whole space aglow. A projector hummed against the back wall, its screen waiting. On the desk near the door: two pizza boxes stacked neatly, a paper bag of desserts, and—

Rumi stopped dead in the doorway, blinking at the pile of blankets. Her voice cracked in half a laugh, half disbelief.
“Bruh, you too with the blankets? I get cold during the day, Mira.”

Zoey immediately barked out a laugh, doubling over against the doorframe. “Oh my god, called out.”

Mira’s smirk didn’t falter, though her eyes glimmered. “Exactly why I planned for it.” She swept a hand toward the nest, perfectly unbothered. “You’re welcome.”

Zoey snorted, bumping Rumi’s shoulder. “Yeah, Ru, but this is, like, next-level cozy prep. Mira knows your tragic circulation situation.”

Rumi shot them both a look but couldn’t hide the way she immediately gravitated toward the nearest blanket pile. As she brushed past, she muttered under her breath in a rough imitation of Zoey’s voice, “‘Yeah, Ru, next-level cozy, tragic circulation situation, merp merp merp.’”

Zoey burst into laughter, and Mira’s lips twitched with the effort not to smile.

Rumi dropped onto the mountain of blankets with a dramatic sigh, immediately tugging one around her shoulders like she was claiming territory. Zoey flopped down beside her, already eyeing the pizza boxes with the sharp focus of a predator.

“Hold your horses,” Mira cut in smoothly, setting her bag down on the desk. There was a quiet rustle as she drew something out — not food, not drinks, but neatly folded stacks of fabric. She crossed the room and set them down with all the ceremony of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat.

Rumi blinked. “Wait. Are those—”

“Pajamas,” Mira confirmed, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “From your apartments. Picked them up earlier.”

Zoey sat bolt upright, scandalized and delighted all at once. “ You broke into my place for pajamas? ”

Mira arched a brow. “Please. You left your spare key in the cookie jar.”

Rumi made a strangled noise. “Okay but— why? ”

“Because,” Mira said, perfectly calm, “no one should have to watch movies in jeans.”

Zoey collapsed back into the pillows with a groan of agreement. “God, she’s right. She’s so right. Ru, I take back everything I said about tragic circulation. This is elite prep.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes, but her hand was already sneaking toward the stack. “You’re both ridiculous,” she muttered, tugging her pajama top free. Then, softer, almost like she couldn’t help it: “...Thanks, Mira.”

Mira only smiled, settling down between them like she’d known they’d give in all along.

Zoey was the first to grab her set, peeling her shirt over her head without hesitation. “Alright, pajama party initiated.” She shook her hair out like she was on a shampoo commercial and promptly flung her jeans into the nearest corner, standing in the middle of the nest of blankets in mismatched socks and pajama bottoms patterned with cartoon suns.

Rumi groaned, covering her face with her blanket. “You would have suns. Of course you would.”

“Hey, sunshine is a lifestyle,” Zoey shot back, plopping down and wriggling until her pants were properly settled. “What’d Mira steal from you, Ru? Please tell me it’s the ones with cats.”

Rumi scowled, clutching her folded set like it was contraband. “They’re not cats. They’re—” She stopped, cheeks pinking. “Fine. They’re cats.”

Zoey’s grin went feral. “Knew it.”

Mira, in the meantime, was already changing with the efficiency of someone who never wasted movement — slipping out of her slacks, blouse folded in one neat motion, sliding into her silk pajama set as though this were some black-tie event rather than a nest of blankets.

Rumi’s jaw actually dropped. “Since when the fuck do you sleep in silk?”

Mira only raised a brow, buttoning her top calmly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Zoey let out a low whistle. “God, we’re dating a Bond villain.”

Mira’s composure cracked just enough for a laugh as she smoothed the hem of her pajama top. “Okay, well, it’s not my fault that every time we’re together I end up naked. I don’t exactly get to prove otherwise.”

Zoey’s grin went feral. “I mean… sometimes it is your fault.”

Rumi buried her face in her cat-print hoodie to smother a laugh, shoulders shaking, while Mira tried (and failed) to hold back another smile.

By the time they all collapsed into the nest of blankets and pillows, they looked like the strangest pajama commercial anyone had ever shot — silk, cats, and suns, sprawled together in a heap that was somehow perfect.

Zoey was the first to lunge for the pizza boxes, practically diving across the nest. “Claiming the pepperoni before either of you weirdos touches it,” she announced, already prying open the lid.

“You act like we don’t all know you’ll eat half of both anyway,” Rumi deadpanned, stretching out on her stomach as she tugged one of the blankets tighter around her arms.

“Accusations,” Zoey said through a mouthful of cheese.

Mira had already kicked off her slippers, sinking back into the mountain of pillows like she’d been planning this nap-worthy throne for weeks. Instead of playing referee, she snagged a slice for herself, leaning over to swipe a napkin before Zoey could make a mess. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you managed to wait until the door was locked.”

Zoey grinned, sauce on the corner of her mouth. “Patience is a virtue, Mira.”

Mira gave her a flat look and reached out with the napkin, dabbing the sauce away like she couldn’t help herself. “And yet somehow you’ve survived without it.”

Rumi snorted into her blanket, shaking her head. “God, you two are hopeless.”

Mira only smiled, remote in hand, the projector humming to life. “Alright,” she said, tossing her hair back with mock drama, “one movie each. And before either of you complains—”

Zoey pointed her slice like a sword. “No lectures. If you put on something in black and white, I’m rioting.”

Rumi chimed in, muffled through her blanket. “Yeah, this is strictly bad-decision cinema.”

“Relax,” Mira laughed, nudging Rumi with her knee. “I came prepared. I queued up half the streaming service earlier.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait—you pre-loaded movie night?”

Mira smirked, stealing another bite of pizza. “Would you expect anything less?”

The projector flickered to life, washing the far wall in pale light. The opening credits rolled, the sound a little tinny from the old library speakers, but it didn’t matter — the fort was warm, the pizza was hot, and the night was theirs.

Rumi tucked herself deeper into her blanket, balancing a paper plate on her knees. “This is already better than any study session I’ve ever had in here.”

Zoey leaned back against the cushions, stretching out like she owned the place. “Correction: this is better than anything I’ve ever done in here.” She wiggled her brows at Rumi, earning a half-hearted swat.

Mira had slid down beside them, silk pajamas gleaming faintly in the fairy lights. But instead of keeping her usual distance, she folded herself close — one leg tucked under, her head nudging against Rumi’s shoulder as if it belonged there. “See? I told you. No lectures. No spreadsheets. Just… this.”

Rumi stiffened for half a heartbeat, caught off guard by the sudden closeness, but Mira only sighed like she’d been waiting all day for the chance to curl into her. A tiny, content hum escaped her as she snagged a breadstick off Rumi’s plate without lifting her head.

Rumi shifted her plate out of the way as Mira swiped a breadstick straight from it. “You literally have your own breadstick, dude,” she muttered, mock-offended.

Mira only hummed contentedly against her, chewing without remorse. “Yours taste better.”

Zoey snickered from her sprawl across the cushions, eyes still on the movie screen. “That’s what she said. Pookie Mira strikes again.” She held up her hand lazily for a no-look high five.

Mira groaned, half-burying her face against Rumi’s shoulder but still reaching back to smack Zoey’s palm.

Rumi let out a helpless laugh, trying to hide the way her ears went red as both of them settled in closer.

The movie carried on, shadows flickering across their little nest while the pizza dwindled and the pile of blankets grew messier by the minute. At some point Zoey ended up upside down with her feet on the pillow, Mira had stolen Rumi’s drink without asking, and Rumi was too comfortable to do more than grumble about it. The projector hummed, the room glowed soft with fairy lights, and the outside world might as well not have existed.

By the halfway point of the second movie, Zoey was vibrating with restless energy. One too many breadsticks in, she jabbed Rumi in the side with her toe just to see what would happen.

Rumi yelped, nearly upsetting the plate balanced on her lap. “Zoey—!”

“Oops,” Zoey sing-songed, eyes glued to the screen like she hadn’t done anything.

Rumi narrowed her eyes, then lunged sideways, shoving a pillow into Zoey’s face. Zoey went down with a muffled squawk, arms flailing.

That was all it took. Suddenly, the nest of blankets turned into a battlefield — Rumi pressing down with a triumphant laugh, Zoey wheezing and grabbing at her waist, fingers finding that one ticklish spot that had Rumi shrieking.

“Traitor!” Rumi gasped, writhing.

“Survivor’s instinct,” Zoey shot back, cackling.

Through it all, Mira actually tried to keep watching the movie for all of two seconds — until Rumi’s foot caught her silk sleeve and yanked her off balance. With an exasperated little noise that was far too fond to be convincing, she tossed the remote aside and dove straight in, wrapping an arm around Rumi’s middle to hold her still.

“Unfair!” Rumi cried, twisting helplessly as Zoey laughed so hard she could barely breathe.

“Perfectly fair,” Mira said smoothly, though her composure cracked when Rumi managed to get hold of one of her own pillows and swung it up into her ribs. She broke into laughter, losing her grip, and the next thing she knew she was on her back with both of them piled on top of her.

The pile dissolved into breathless laughter, all three of them tangled in blankets and limbs. Zoey was still wheezing when Rumi twisted, using Mira’s silk sleeve for leverage, and somehow ended up flipping the momentum. In a blur of motion that felt impossible, Rumi straddled Mira’s lap, pinning her with surprising strength.

Before Zoey could regroup, Rumi’s hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-swipe with surgical precision. A second later, she had Zoey’s other wrist trapped too, holding them both steady against the blankets.

For a beat, everything froze. Mira, flat on her back, hair spilling loose across the cushions, eyes wide but burning. Zoey, caught with her wrists pinned, chest heaving, a startled laugh half-swallowed in her throat. And Rumi — sitting tall, glasses slipping low, her hoodie rumpled, but somehow looking every bit the one in control.

Silence stretched, charged and thick, the fairy lights throwing shadows across Rumi’s cheekbones.

Zoey was the first to break it, her voice gone rough around the edges. “...Okay, what the fuck, that’s so hot.”

Mira let out a low laugh under her breath, one hand testing the grip against her thigh but not actually fighting it. “Since when,” she asked, voice husky, “do you get to play conqueror?”

Rumi blinked down at them both, cheeks burning but her grip unrelenting. “Since you two wouldn’t stop ganging up on me.”

Zoey groaned, dropping her head back against the cushions, wrists still trapped. “Pookie Mira might’ve just been dethroned.”

That earned her a sharp look from Rumi, which only made her grin wider. Mira, meanwhile, had tipped her head back, breath slipping slow and shallow, her hands caught between resisting and surrendering completely under Rumi's legs.

For a moment, the world shrank to the three of them — Rumi pinning, Mira beneath her, Zoey caught in her grip. Breath and laughter lingered in the air, but the charge under it was undeniable.

Zoey’s eyes flicked sideways, locking with Mira’s. Something unspoken passed there, a dare or a spark, and then—

Mira moved. Not a buck or a shove, not an attempt to wriggle free. Just the slow, deliberate press of her hips lifting. Silk glided against cotton, the slide of her pajama bottoms meeting the soft pants stretched over the back of Rumi’s thighs.

Rumi stiffened, the playful set of her mouth breaking.

Mira did it again. A fraction slower this time, lingering, as though testing the weight of Rumi above her. The friction coaxed a small sound out of Rumi’s throat — a whimper, low and startled, the kind of noise that slipped free before her mind could catch it.

Her hands trembled where they clutched Zoey’s wrists.

Zoey froze, stunned at the noise, wide eyes darting between the two of them.

Mira’s lips curved just slightly, almost imperceptible, and she rolled her hips one more time — deliberate, unhurried, until Rumi’s breath hitched audibly. The moan that slipped out was half-formed, broken off as she clamped her teeth on it.

Her grip loosened. Just the smallest tremor, her attention splintered — but it was all Zoey needed.

“HA!” Zoey barked, wrenching her wrists free in a sudden surge of motion. “Gotcha!”

She lunged sideways with linebacker force, sending Rumi sprawling into the blanket nest with a squeak of surprise. Mira exhaled slowly, sitting up as though nothing had happened, though the faint pink at her ears betrayed her.

Rumi tried to push Zoey off, but Zoey was already laughing, relentless fingers digging into her sides. The air filled with shrieks, gasps, muffled moans disguised as laughter, and Mira only watched, smoothing her silk top, her lingering smirk betraying her attempt at stoicism. 

“God, you two are hopeless,” she muttered, but there was no heat in it, only fondness.

Rumi kicked Zoey off long enough to collapse against Mira’s side, breathless. “Traitor,” she accused, still pink-cheeked.

Mira arched a brow, slipping an arm lazily around her waist. “I didn’t do anything.”

Zoey wheezed from the floor, hair sticking up in every direction. “Yeah, that’s the problem! You set it up and then just gave up on the execution. You should be ashamed.”

Their laughter lingered anyway, spilling into the quiet room like it belonged there, softening the edges of everything else.

By the time the third movie’s credits rolled, the projector’s hum was louder than the movie itself by then. Zoey was flat on her back, one foot sticking out from under the pile, groaning dramatically like she’d just been bested in combat.

Rumi had ended up curled against Mira, her face tucked into the smooth line of silk where pajama buttons met. One hand fisted lazily at the front of Mira’s top, clinging even in half-sleep, as if letting go would mean losing her anchor. Mira didn’t seem to mind — if anything, she’d tilted her head so it rested lightly against Rumi’s hair, her arm loose around her waist in a protective half-embrace. The sight would’ve been enough to undo anyone, and Zoey, catching it through half-lidded eyes, only muttered something about how it’s “illegal to sleep at work” before drifting closer, one arm flopping across both of them.

Mira let the silence stretch for a while, content in the tangle. But when Rumi stirred faintly, clutch tightening on silk, she smoothed her hand along her side and spoke softly.

“We should get home,” she murmured. “No reason to drag ourselves home this late. Stay the night.”

Zoey cracked one eye open, grinning weakly. “...Like, to sleep? Or—”

“To sleep,” Mira said, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward. “My place is closer than yours, and I don’t feel like letting either of you walk home half-asleep.”

Zoey groaned, throwing an arm dramatically over her face. “God, she’s so practical when she’s romantic. It’s unfair.”

Rumi’s lips curved in a faint smile against Mira’s shoulder. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, almost already asleep.

And just like that, it was decided — three tangled bodies, one destination. None of them moved just yet. Not while the night still let them stay like this.

Chapter Text

The library was too quiet for Zoey’s liking, the kind of heavy hush that clung after a long afternoon. She broke it with her usual flair, leaning dramatically over the mezzanine railing. “There she is. Our little flower, soaking up the sun.”

Rumi didn’t lift her head, just twirled her pen once between her fingers.

Mira’s footsteps followed, unhurried, the clink of porcelain giving her away before she appeared with a cup of tea. She set it beside Rumi’s elbow, brushing a thumb over the crease in her sleeve. “You’ve been at this all day. Sweet baby, give your hands a rest.”

Rumi forced a smile, small and fleeting, but her shoulders tucked higher into her hoodie.

From below, Zoey crowed, “See? She’d vanish without us. Gotta protect our precious Ru.”

It wasn’t cruel, not really. Just light, habitual teasing. But the words stacked anyway, pebble on pebble, until they pressed heavy in her chest.

“Mm,” Rumi hummed, pen tapping against the page. “You two are insufferable.” She said it lightly, but her voice carried a weight that Mira caught immediately. Her brow lifted, subtle but sharp.

Zoey, grinning, tried to push it one step further. “Come on, Ru. Admit it—you’d fall apart without us hovering.”

Rumi’s pen stilled. She let the silence hang a second too long before answering, voice quiet, a little too careful. “I’m not as fragile as you think I am, Zo. I promise I’m fine.”

Zoey blinked, her grin slipping at the edges. The words hit sharper than she’d expected, a prickle beneath her ribs. “I didn’t—” She broke off, shoving her hands into her pockets, the joke dissolving before it could form.

Mira reached over, curling her fingers around Zoey’s sleeve and giving it a quiet tug. “Alright,” she said smoothly, redirecting. “Let her be. We’ve got a dinner date tonight, Rums, don’t forget.”

That pulled Rumi’s head up, cheeks coloring. “Yes, yes, I know. I’m sorry.” She forced a small laugh, pushing the tea closer to her lips as if to bury the moment. “That came out harsher than I meant. I’m just frustrated with this stupid piece. Thank you for the tea.”

Zoey looked at her for a beat longer, trying to mask the sting with a crooked smile. “Yeah. No problem, Ru.”

Mira’s gaze lingered on both of them, eyes sharp with what she wasn’t saying.

The fourth floor smelled like dust and paper pressed thin by centuries. Rumi trailed her fingers gently along the spines, whispering titles under her breath as though each one might slip away if she didn’t catch it in time. Mira walked just behind, hands folded loosely behind her back, posture relaxed in the way it only ever was when she was surrounded by books.

“This one,” Mira murmured, plucking a tome from the shelf with delicate precision. She flipped it open, smoothing the crinkled page. “Letters between two women separated by war. Their language—aching. You’d love it, Rumi.”

Rumi’s lips curved, her gaze soft. “Read me something.”

Mira obliged, her voice lowering as she traced a passage aloud, vowels lilting like silk. Rumi leaned closer, breath catching as though she could feel the weight of every word.

Zoey hovered a step back, bouncing on her heels, smile still in place but tugged at the corners. She wanted to tease, to crack a joke—but they were folded in together, heads bent over the page, their own little current she couldn’t quite step into.

When Mira paused, Rumi pressed her notebook to her chest with a small sigh. “God. That’s beautiful.”

Mira smirked softly, amused. “It’s 1800s pining at its finest.”

“Peak pining,” Rumi echoed, nudging her shoulder against Mira’s.

Zoey arched a brow. “...Peak pining, huh?”

Rumi chuckled, cheeks warm. “Yeah, it’s not really—” She hesitated, then offered gently, “—your kind of story, Zo. It’s all long-distance yearning, letters that take months. Not exactly… Zoey-coded.”

Mira huffed a laugh in agreement. “Mm. More candlelit sonnets than cartoon suns.”

Zoey froze for half a beat, the joke catching wrong in her chest. Her grin sharpened to something brittle. “Ugh, why do we have to talk about pining all the time? God forbid I don’t find interest in 1803’s Letters of Lady What’s-Her-Name , Chapter Fourteen, Line Twenty-Five, or whatever the hell. Must be above my pay grade.”

The words tumbled out like a joke, but her laugh didn’t land. Rumi blinked at her, startled, Mira’s brow ticking upward as if she’d caught the shift beneath the humor.

Zoey plastered her grin wider, retreating a step down the row. “Anyway. You two have fun with your star-crossed love notes. I’ll just, y’know, vibe with the actual living people in the room.”

She turned, shoulders loose and easy on the outside, but the hollow ache pooled fast in her chest. It was stupid. They weren’t shutting her out, not really. But watching the two of them glow at words she couldn’t feel the same way about—it twisted. Made her feel like the extra wheel on a cart already balanced fine without her.

Behind her, she heard Rumi shuffle her feet, guilt coloring the silence, but no one called her back.

Zoey shoved her hands in her pockets, kept walking, and told herself it didn’t matter.

Mira noticed it everywhere lately. The way Zoey would sling an arm around Rumi’s shoulders as they crossed the atrium, tugging her in for a quick kiss without caring who saw. Or the way Rumi would lean back into Zoey on the mezzanine bench, both of them laughing over some joke scribbled in the margins of Rumi’s notebook. None of it was meant to exclude — Mira knew that. She knew that. And yet every time, something in her chest tightened.

She wanted to give like that. To claim space with a kiss, to let her affection spill out unchecked. But years of training to hold her body taut, her voice steady, her wants hidden — they didn’t unravel easily. Watching Zoey and Rumi be unashamed in the middle of her library only made her crave it more, left her wondering if she’d ever be able to shed the weight of her restraint.

The rare books section hurt the most.

She hadn’t gone looking for them. But when she turned down the narrow aisle on the fourth floor, she caught them through the slats of the stacks — Zoey pressed back against the shelves, Rumi braced close, their mouths fused in a kiss too hungry to mistake for anything else. Glasses crooked on Rumi’s nose, Zoey’s fingers buried in her hair, both of them so lost in each other they didn’t even notice her shadow at the other end of the row.

It was a beautiful sight. It was agony.

Because that section had been hers once. The place where she and Rumi had shared their first truly heated kiss, pressed breathless against spines older than the city itself. The place where she’d watched Rumi’s eyes light up at some obscure first edition and felt, for the first time, like she wasn’t just a reader of romance but part of one. Seeing Zoey woven into that space — laughter caught in Rumi’s throat, kisses deepened between titles they used to whisper over — sparked a heat in Mira’s chest that she hated naming.

Jealousy. Possessiveness. Fear.

She told herself it wasn’t wrong. They were all together. There was no betrayal here. But the thought still burned: she wanted to be that unrestrained. She wanted to press Rumi into the stacks again, wanted Zoey’s easy affection for herself, wanted the freedom to let people see how much she loved them.

Her fingers dug crescents into the spine of the book in her hand, steadying herself before she turned on her heel. By the time they rejoined her minutes later downstairs, her smile was polished and her voice was even. But inside, the echo of their laughter still rang against her ribs, reminding her of everything she hadn’t yet learned how to give.

The restaurant was soft with low light, the kind meant to blur edges and quiet conversations. Silverware clinked, wineglasses murmured against wood. Their table looked picture-perfect — candles, shared plates, a half-devoured cake in the middle — but under the surface, tension curled like smoke.

“So,” Mira offered, “the exhibit at the museum next week—the letters from the nineteenth century? I emailed you both the—”

Rumi brightened. “The courtship letters. There’s one in the catalog where the date’s smudged and you can only tell it’s 18-something because of the flourish on the eight—”

Mira’s mouth curved. “You noticed the eight too.”

Zoey laughed, shorter than she meant to. “Of course you noticed the eight. You two and your… flourishes.”

Rumi tipped her head. “You can come be bored with us,” she teased.

“I’m not bored,” Zoey said, a little too fast. “I just—never mind.”

Zoey pulled at the loose string on her napkin, breaking the string. Then another. Then another. “It’s just—every time we talk books, I feel like there’s a velvet rope.” Her voice stayed low, steady. “I get the ‘oh, Zoey won’t care’ face. And I know it’s not on purpose. But I’m not a mascot? I’m not just crafts and crying kids and silly voices. So what if I read picture books to five-year-olds? That’s not… a ceiling. I like color. I like big feelings. That doesn’t mean I can’t talk about ink and dates and—eights.”

Rumi’s hand hovered near her glass but didn’t lift it. Mira opened her mouth, closed it again.

Zoey’s voice dipped, almost pleading under the bite. “You two get this whole world together. And me? I get picture books. Puppets. Primary colors. Like that’s all I am to you. Just the comic relief.”

Rumi frowned, heart in her throat. “Zo, we don’t see you like that—”

“You call me sunshine every other day.” Zoey’s laugh was humorless. “Do you even know how it feels, being shoved in a box like that? You two get this space for only you two, a space that feels impenetrable. I get crayons.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy.

Rumi’s shoulders stiffened. “At least you’re not treated like you’ll shatter if someone looks at you too hard.”

Zoey blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious.” Rumi’s voice trembled but didn’t waver. “Every time I breathe wrong, one of you is there calling me baby, or flower, or saying I should sit down, take it easy, be careful. Like I’m the thinnest glass in the cabinet. Yes, I’ve been through shit, but I’m not about to break every second of the day.” Her breath hitched. “Do you have any idea how exhausting that is? How patronizing it feels?”

Mira finally broke in, sharper than she meant to. “That isn’t fair. We’re careful because we care—”

“I don’t need careful, Mira.” Rumi’s voice had risen, drawing a glance from the next table. “I need equal. I need you to see me as strong, not as something you tiptoe around.”

Mira stiffened, panic flashing quick across her features. “Rumi—can you keep your voice down?”

The words hit like ice water.

Rumi stared at her, chest heaving. “Keep my voice down? So we can keep hiding? So I can play fragile doll in public while you get to decide what’s safe to show?”

Zoey shifted, caught between them, but Rumi was already on a roll, heat in her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in hiding my feelings or my relationship like you seem to be lately, Mira. I love you, but it’s exhausting feeling like you only want me—or us—when doors are closed. When it’s convenient.”

The table went deathly quiet. Mira’s lips parted, but no words came.

Zoey tried for levity, her voice cracking in the attempt. “Hey—come on, can we not—”

But Rumi’s chair scraped against the floor, the sound too loud in the hushed restaurant. She shoved back, napkin falling forgotten. “I need air.”

She was gone before either of them could answer.

Mira sat frozen, her hand still curled on the edge of the tablecloth. Zoey swallowed hard, then pushed back her own chair. “I’ll go.”

Mira didn’t stop her.

As Zoey passed, she let her hand brush Mira’s shoulder. “She’s partially right, you know.”

Mira’s jaw flexed, eyes shiny in the candlelight. “I know. I’m trying.”

Zoey squeezed once, gentle. “I know you are, It’s okay. We’ll fix it, just breathe. I love you.”

And then she slipped out into the night, leaving Mira to the candles, the empty plates, and the weight of every word left unsaid.

The night air hit sharp after the warmth of the restaurant, cool enough to raise goosebumps on Rumi’s arms. She’d braced herself against the brick wall just outside, head tipped back, breaths coming in shallow bursts.

“Hey.”

Zoey’s voice cut gently through the quiet. Not soft, exactly — but steady. She stepped close, boots scuffing against the pavement, and for a moment she just stood there, giving Rumi the space to breathe. Then, without asking, she set her hands on Rumi’s shoulders. Not delicate. Firm. Solid.

Rumi blinked at her, startled. “Zoey—”

“I’m not treating you like you’ll break,” Zoey said, blunt as a hammer. “So don’t read this as that.” Her thumbs pressed once into the fabric of Rumi’s shirt, grounding her. “But you’ve gotta ease up, Ru. I know you’re frustrated — and you’re right, we have been treating you like you’re made of glass. That’s on us. But Mira? She’s not doing what she’s doing to smother you. She’s doing it because opening up scares the absolute shit out of her.”

Rumi’s mouth opened, then closed. The heat in her chest hadn’t burned out yet, but Zoey’s tone kept it from flaring again.

“You’ve known her for what, months?” Zoey pressed, tilting her head. “I’ve known her longer. And I swear to you, that woman would rather walk barefoot over hot coals than admit to a room full of people that she wants something. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel it. It means she’s terrified of letting anyone see.”

Rumi’s gaze flicked down, lips parting like she wanted to argue, but the words never came.

Zoey’s grip softened just slightly, but her eyes stayed sharp. “She’s trying. I promise you, she’s trying. And yeah, she screws it up — tonight, big time. But if we’re gonna make this work, we don’t get to storm out every time the walls bump together. We’ve gotta talk. All of us. That means you too.”

The tension in Rumi’s shoulders loosened, just a fraction. “I… know.” Her voice cracked small, raw. “I know, I just—”

“You just feel shut down,” Zoey finished, gentler now. “And that’s fair. But hiding out here isn’t gonna fix it.”

Rumi huffed a small, shaky laugh, wiping her palm against her jeans. “God, you sound like Mira.”

Zoey smirked. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell her or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

For the first time since the fight, Rumi’s lips curved, faint but real.

Zoey gave her shoulders one last firm squeeze, then dropped her hands. “C’mon. You don’t have to grovel, but you do have to apologize. We all do. Otherwise, this is just three people eating cold cake separately instead of together.”

Rumi let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh, and finally nodded.

Zoey jerked her chin toward the door. “Atta girl. Let’s go, Pookie.”

The restaurant buzzed with low conversation and the clink of cutlery, but for Zoey and Rumi, it felt like stepping back into a storm. Mira hadn’t moved from their table. She sat with her back straight, shoulders drawn in tight, one hand cupped around the stem of her glass like it might keep her anchored.

Zoey reached her first. She laid a hand gently but firmly on Mira’s shoulder, grounding. Mira startled, the tiniest jump, before glancing back. Her eyes were glassy, rimmed red at the edges.

“Hey,” Zoey murmured. “We’re back.”

Rumi slid into her chair quickly, her movements small, almost guilty. Zoey followed, but not before giving Mira’s shoulder one more squeeze, a quiet reminder that she wasn’t alone.

Silence stretched for a beat. Rumi’s hands folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. Mira fiddled with her napkin, smoothing it flat against her knee.

“I’m sorry,” Rumi said finally, her voice quiet but steady. “That was… too much. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I just—” She exhaled hard, pressing her palms against her thighs. “I hate being treated like I’m delicate. I know you mean well. But I’m not going to shatter if someone breathes too hard near me.”

Her gaze flicked between them, searching. “Like I said, yes, I’ve been through shit. But I’m still here. I don’t want to be the glass vase you both tiptoe around. I want to be… me. All of me. Messy and loud and strong.”

Zoey bit her lip, nodding. “Okay. That’s fair. And I’ll own that I push too far sometimes in the opposite direction. The teasing, the banter. I thought it made things lighter, but it probably just made you feel like I wasn’t taking you seriously, like you couldn’t be your own person.”

Rumi’s mouth twitched, softening. “A little.”

Zoey leaned back, running both hands through her hair before letting them drop. “And for me… I feel like I get shoved into this box. Like I’m just the clown who reads picture books and can’t keep up with your world. When you and Mira dive into those novels and classics, I want to join in, but it feels like you’re already a team and I’m just—extra.”

Mira’s lips parted, her glass lowering slowly to the table. “Zoey—”

“I’m not saying you do it on purpose,” Zoey cut in, quick. “But sometimes it feels like I’m not… enough. And that scares the shit out of me, because I love you both, and I don’t want to feel like the third wheel in my own relationship.”

Rumi’s throat worked, her hand twitching as if to reach across the table but faltering. “Zo…”

Mira cleared her throat softly, drawing both sets of eyes to her. She set her hands onto the corner of the table, her fingers trembling as she smoothed the edge of the tablecloth again and again.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” she murmured, her voice fragile in a way neither of them were used to. “But it’s not just you two. It’s me. Vulnerability is hard for me. Always has been. I was raised to keep everything tidy and quiet and—private. Wanting things openly feels…” She exhaled, shoulders shuddering. “It feels dangerous.”

She finally looked at them, eyes glossy. “But watching you two—it makes me want it so badly I ache. To be that free. To laugh and kiss and not care who’s watching. And then when I can’t… it feels like I’m failing you both.”

“Mira,” Rumi whispered, eyes softening.

Mira’s hand clenched against her thigh. “And then… the other day. On the fourth floor. Rare books.” Her voice broke faintly. “I saw you. Together. Kissing.”

Rumi’s eyes went wide. Zoey flinched. Both of them flushed scarlet at once.

Mira laughed weakly, shaking her head. “I wasn’t angry. Just… jealous. That was our place. Yours and mine, Rumi. Where we had our first real moment. And seeing it—seeing you with Zoey there instead of me—it hurt. It made me feel like I was already being replaced.”

The table went quiet.

Rumi reached out first, her fingers brushing against Mira’s fingertips, tentative but sure. “I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t thinking of it that way. I’m sorry. Truly. That was thoughtless.”

Zoey added quickly, voice softer than usual. “Me too. If I’d known, I never would’ve—shit, Mira, I’m sorry.”

Mira shook her head, lips pressed thin, though the tension in her shoulders eased at their words.

Zoey leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Look. None of us are perfect. We’re gonna fuck up, and it’s not always gonna be shiny cozy pajama nights. But that doesn’t mean it’s broken. It just means we’ve got stuff to work on.”

Rumi nodded, thumb stroking absently along Mira’s wrist now, her earlier sharpness gone. “Yeah. This isn’t effortless. It never could be. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

Mira exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering free. She reached for Zoey’s hand across the table, then covered Rumi’s where it still rested near her. “I don’t want effortless. I just… don’t want to lose either of you.”

“You won’t,” Rumi whispered.

“Never,” Zoey added, squeezing her hand tight.

And in the warm glow of the restaurant, crowded voices fading into background hum, the three of them sat tangled in apologies and promises, glassy-eyed but closer for it — not perfect, but trying. Always trying.

When they finally stepped out into the night, the air was cool and sweet, carrying the hush of a city winding down. Streetlamps threw long pools of gold across the pavement, and the three of them fell into step without needing to speak. Mira’s arm slid across Rumi’s shoulders, her hand curling at the slope of her shoulder; Zoey hooked her arm through Mira’s on the other side, tugging her close until all three were pressed together in one uneven line. Their laughter carried soft down the street — tired, giddy, and a little shaky, but real. It felt like the world’s smallest victory parade: their first battle weathered, their stride found again, together. 

Chapter Text

The library was quieter than usual in the late morning, dust motes floating in the shafts of light that cut through the tall windows. Mira stood at the circulation desk, a single object gleaming against the polished wood between her hands.

A brand-new library badge.

The laminate caught the light as she slid it across the desk with deliberate care, like it wasn’t just a piece of plastic but something more ceremonial. “Your ID,” she said, voice smooth but softer than usual. “And your key. Don’t lose it.”

Rumi blinked down at the badge, lips parting just slightly. Her name was printed neat and official across the bottom, the barcode sharp and clean. She picked it up gingerly, turning it in her fingers like she was afraid it might dissolve if she held it too tightly.

From where she leaned against the end of the desk, Zoey let out a low whistle. “Well, well, well. Look at you — official staff. Our girl’s got a barcode now. Next stop: world domination.”

Rumi tried for nonchalance, but the smile broke through anyway, tugging stubbornly at the corners of her mouth. “It’s just a badge.”

“Not just a badge,” Zoey corrected, clapping her hands once like a coach hyping up the team. “That’s a golden ticket, baby. You’re part of the inner circle now. You get the secret librarian handshake .”

Mira arched a brow at her but said nothing, instead reaching across the counter to straighten the lanyard as Rumi slid it over her head. Her fingers smoothed the strap down where it caught against Rumi’s shoulder, a touch that lingered a beat too long for “professionalism.”

Rumi ducked her head, cheeks warming under the attention. “Thank you. Really.”

Mira’s mouth curved, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re on puppet duty this afternoon.”

Zoey whooped, slinging an arm around Rumi’s shoulders. “Oh, this I’ve gotta see.”

By the time the clock struck two, the children’s room hummed with restless energy. Tiny sneakers squeaked against the wood, crayons rolled under chairs, and the low murmur of parents trying to wrangle their kids filled the space. At the front, a felt curtain stretched across a low wooden frame — Zoey’s masterpiece, patched with cartoon suns and clouds she’d hand-stitched herself.

Rumi crouched behind it, her lanyard glinting as she tugged the owl puppet onto her hand. Its button eyes stared back at her, ridiculous and bright, and for a second she thought about bolting. She peeked around the edge of the curtain toward the back of the room.

Zoey stood with Mira by the doorway, both of them half-shadowed by the lamplight. Zoey gave her a double thumbs-up, face split in a grin that was so confident it almost made her believe she could pull this off. Mira didn’t move — but her gaze was steady, intent, and Rumi felt steadied by it.

She slipped the puppet up and wiggled it into view.

A chorus of squeals and giggles shot through the room.

“Whooooo’s ready for a story?” she made the owl trill, and the kids exploded into cheers. A few shouted back answers, one even trying to climb closer until Zoey leaned down with mock sternness and guided him back to the rug.

Rumi’s voice caught at first, shy around the edges, but she leaned into the character — tilting her head just so, flapping the felt wings until the kids were clapping along. The hesitation slipped away piece by piece, replaced with something more natural, more herself. The owl asked questions, the kids answered with shrieks, and laughter bubbled every time she widened its eyes or drew out its words for dramatic effect.

From the side, Mira watched without blinking, her weight leaned casually against the wall. She wasn’t trying to be composed, wasn’t trying to be anything at all. Her mouth curved in the softest smile, unguarded, her eyes drinking in every flicker of joy Rumi radiated from behind the puppet stage.

Beside her, Zoey leaned against the doorframe, shoulder brushing Mira’s. She didn’t bother hiding anything — her grin stretched wide, her eyes glossy like she was trying to memorize every second.

When Rumi transitioned seamlessly from puppet antics to a picture book, her voice shifted again — slower, warmer, carrying the kind of rhythm that made even the wiggliest kid settle into place. Her scar caught in the lamplight as she turned the page, stark against her forearm in the short-sleeve shirt she’d insisted on wearing. She didn’t tug her sleeve down. She didn’t hide.

Zoey’s throat tightened at the sight. Mira’s jaw eased, her lips parting just faintly, like it was the first time she’d allowed herself to exhale all afternoon.

By the time Rumi closed the book with a quiet, “The End,” the kids clapped like they’d just seen the finale of a Broadway show. One little voice piped up, high and insistent: “AGAIN!”

Zoey chuckled, leaning close to Mira. “We’re screwed,” she whispered, the words brushing like static against the moment.

Mira didn’t glance away from Rumi, who was carefully tucking the owl puppet back into its box as if it were made of glass. Her smile was quiet, reserved, but impossible to disguise. “Completely,” she said.

The last of the construction paper animals were being stuffed into backpacks, parents gathering up juice boxes and stray sweaters while the room slowly emptied. The chaos of storytime was winding down into its usual scatter of quiet voices and the shuffle of little shoes.

Rumi was still near the front, helping a boy peel a paper dog from where it had glued itself to his sleeve, when she felt the faintest tug at the bottom of her t-shirt. She turned.

A little girl, gap-toothed and solemn, stood there staring at her arm. The blunt honesty of children had never been softened by etiquette, and the words came out without hesitation.
“What’s that?”

Her small finger pointed at the pale scar along Rumi’s forearm.

From across the room, Zoey froze mid-laugh, a stack of folded mats wobbling in her arms. Her grin dropped, replaced with an instinctive jolt of alarm. Mira, standing at the circulation desk where she’d been tidying a pile of returned picture books, went very still — shoulders taut, eyes sharpening as though she might cut the moment down before it reached Rumi.

But Rumi didn’t flinch. She didn’t rush to cover her arm or wave the question away. Instead, she lowered herself until she was eye-level with the girl, resting her weight comfortably on her heels.

“That,” she said gently, holding out her forearm, “is a scar. I had an accident once, and my arm had to heal. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Her tone was patient, measured, but not rehearsed. Just truth. “It means my body’s been through something, and now it’s part of me.”

The girl blinked, studying it. Then — with the unfiltered boldness only kids possessed — she reached out and pressed her small finger lightly against the ridge of the scar. “Does it feel funny?”

Rumi’s smile softened. She let the girl trace it for a moment, careful and curious. “Not funny. Just… smooth. Like when skin grows back after a scrape.”

As if on cue, the child yanked up the bottom of her pant leg to show a pink scrape along her knee.
“I have one too!” she announced, proud.

Rumi’s laugh burst free, warm and bright. She bumped her fist softly against the child’s. “See? We’re matching. Yours looks like it’s healing beautifully.”

The girl beamed, satisfied, and scurried off toward her waiting parent, already talking about something else.

For a moment, Rumi stayed crouched, her hand brushing over the smooth ridge of her scar almost absently. Not regretful. Not ashamed. Just steady. When she finally pushed herself to her feet, she caught sight of Zoey and Mira watching.

Zoey still clutched the mats like she’d forgotten how to put them down, her mouth parted in wide-eyed awe. Mira was no less undone — her arms folded across her chest, but her expression soft in a way that stripped her of every wall she’d ever built. Both of them looked at Rumi like she’d just done something extraordinary, though to her, it had felt like nothing more than being honest.

Rumi tilted her head at them, cheeks warming under their gaze. “What?” she asked, a little laugh threading through the word.

Zoey shook her head quickly, finally setting the mats down before they toppled. “Nothing. Just…” Her voice cracked into a grin that was too wide to contain. “Let me have your babies, Ru.”

Rumi sputtered, cheeks going crimson. ‘Zoey—!’

Mira’s lips curved faintly, the kind of smile that reached her eyes even as her throat worked around unspoken words. “Exactly that,” she murmured.

Rumi buried her face briefly in her hands, flustered, but she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her mouth as she ducked her head.

The library was long closed, its echoing hush broken only by the hum of the old soda machine in the staff break room. The fluorescents overhead had been dimmed to half-light, throwing the row of lockers into a kind of dusky glow.

Rumi was tugging her lanyard off, fingers fumbling with the clasp, when she felt herself suddenly backed against the cool metal.

Zoey’s grin hit first, all teeth and mischief, before her mouth did. The kiss was fierce enough to knock the air from Rumi’s lungs, her head tipping back against the locker door with a soft clang. Zoey swallowed her startled laugh, her hands warm and firm at Rumi’s waist.

“God, Rumi,” Zoey breathed between kisses, “the way you handled that kid earlier—” Another kiss, sharper this time, stealing Rumi’s answer. “—you’re amazing. Just… amazing.”

Before Rumi could catch her breath, Mira was there too, stepping into her other side, smooth as a shadow. Her mouth found the curve of Rumi’s neck, lips grazing just below her jaw. The contrast made Rumi gasp, knees going weak.

“You were perfect,” Mira murmured, her voice low, deliberate, hot against Rumi’s skin. “So patient. So kind. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you.”

Rumi’s hands shot up, instinctively clutching at Zoey’s shoulders for balance, but Zoey only pressed closer, mouth moving hungrily over hers. Mira’s fingers brushed against the scar on her arm with reverence, like she was reminding her that it wasn’t just the kids who saw her strength.

“You’re so good with them,” Mira whispered, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder. “And so damn good for us.”

Rumi’s laugh came out ragged, trembling with want. “You two—” She meant for it to be scolding, but it broke into a whimper when Zoey’s teeth grazed her bottom lip, pulling another kiss deep.

Pinned between their bodies and the lockers, Rumi let herself sink into their warmth, laughter and praise blurring into kisses until the rest of the world fell quietly away.

Chapter Text

The rain had not let up all afternoon, and by the time evening came it had settled into a steady rhythm. Sheets of water traced crooked paths down the windowpanes, each drop chasing another until the glass blurred into a lattice of movement. Outside, the city was dissolving into night—streetlamps flickering on one by one, neon signs bleeding faintly through the downpour, car headlights turning into streaks across the slick pavement. Everything beyond the glass looked muted and far away, softened by storm and shadow.

Inside, the studio apartment felt like the only safe haven in the world, a pocket of warmth against the weather. The last scraps of daylight barely filtered through the heavy curtains, turning the space into a cocoon. A pair of warm-shaded lamps threw their light across the room in gentle pools, golden against the brick accent wall. Over the bed, a string of fairy lights glowed like a constellation, soft and imperfect, catching on the folds of the dark sheets and the emerald throw at the foot of the mattress. Together, they made the room feel layered and lived-in, as if the walls themselves had drawn closer to keep out the storm.

The space was open, compact, and intimate. The couch was tucked up against a low half-wall. The bed stretched across the far side of the studio, tucked neatly but softened by the spill of string light. A deep emerald throw blanket hanging half-off the foot of the bed, as if someone had just left it behind The kitchen corner was defined by a narrow island of brick and concrete, its surface cluttered with a few stray books and a vase of half-wilted flowers, their petals curling at the edges. Somewhere beyond, the faint hum of the kettle carried through the air, an undercurrent to the sound of rain.

The apartment smelled faintly of steeped tea and wet concrete carried in from the city, undercut by the slow burn of a lavender candle on the counter. The mixture lingered in the air, soothing and grounding, making the room feel both lived-in and quietly sacred. Thunder rolled in the distance now and again, low and far-off, the kind that rattled window glass but never broke the rhythm of the storm. Each flash of lightning pressed a pale outline against the curtains before being swallowed by the darker glow of lamplight.

Water tracked across the floor in crooked patches, faint marks leading in from the door. Shoes had squeaked against the wood earlier, softened now into nothing more than damp prints and the shuffle of movement. A burst of muffled giggles cut through the storm, alive and warm against the hush of weather.

The trail led to the bed, where laughter spilled into something messier—hands tugging at damp sleeves, the rustle of fabric peeled away and dropped in a heap on the floor. Skin still damp from the rain gleamed faintly in the golden lamplight. Rumi’s hair clung to her cheeks, dark strands plastered against flushed skin as she wriggled against Mira’s grip. Mira grinned, half-laughing herself, leaning in close, bare shoulders brushing against Rumi’s as their giggles overlapped—until the buzz of a phone cut sharp through the moment.

The glow pulsed from the bedside table, screen flashing with a new message.

Mira stilled, eyes flicking toward the light, then back at Rumi. The corner of her mouth curved upward, playful and slow. “Timing,” she murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from Rumi’s cheek. “She really doesn’t trust us to behave.”

Rumi flushed hotter, the sound of rain filling the silence between them, her breath catching as Mira’s thumb lingered just below her jaw. The phone buzzed again, screen lighting the edge of the bed in pale blue.

Running late.

Get the party started without me.

Mira’s smirk deepened. In one swift motion she rolled them, pressing Rumi onto her back and settling easily over her. The sudden shift drew a startled yelp from Rumi, her laugh breaking off into something breathless as her back sank into the tangle of dark sheets.

Without breaking eye contact, Mira opened up the camera, smirking as she angled the camera downward. “Perfect.”

Rumi’s eyes went wide. “Mira—no!” She squeaked, fumbling for the emerald throw and yanking it up in a desperate attempt at modesty. The blanket caught just below collarbone, enough to make her look clothed, though the blush in her cheeks betrayed everything else.

The shutter clicked anyway, Mira grinning as she framed the image: Rumi flushed and shy beneath her, Mira straddling confidently above. A wicked sort of proof.

The photo sent with a soft whoosh.

Zoey’s reply landed almost instantly—a keyboard smash, incoherent but full of energy.

You better save some for me, Mira 

Mira laughed under her breath, thumbs flying as she typed: Don’t worry. Made sure she was well fed and super hydrated. She’ll take whatever we give her ;)

A pause, then another ping.

i—

I’m quite literally sprinting. Be there soon.

Mira set the phone aside, her grin softening into something quieter as her gaze returned to Rumi. For a beat, neither of them moved. The storm pressed hard against the windows, the lavender candle flickered low on the counter, and the only sound in the room was the sound of their breathing, overlapping and uneven.

Mira dipped down, catching Rumi’s mouth in a kiss that was all heat and tenderness at once. Rumi sighed against her lips, the tension in her shoulders dissolving into the mattress beneath them. Mira’s teeth caught her bottom lip in a playful nip, soothing the sting with her tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, “You’re so damn beautiful under me.”

Rumi’s blush deepened, her hands clutching at Mira’s bare back as Mira trailed her kisses lower—over her jaw, along the line of her throat, down to the curve of her collarbone. Each bite was softened with the press of a tongue, each mark matched with a whisper meant only for her.

Her mouth wandered lower, pausing at the swell of Rumi’s breasts. Mira’s tongue flicked over one nipple, teasing, before she drew it into her mouth, her eye contact piercing as she moved.

Rumi gasped, arching up into the sensation, one hand flying instinctively to Mira’s hair. Mira shifted to the other, taking her time, giving equal attention until Rumi’s soft gasps filled the room.

From there, her kisses trailed across familiar skin, lingering at the ridges of old burn scars that marked Rumi’s side, shoulder, and arm. These weren’t the hungry kisses she’d pressed to her breasts or the playful bites she’d soothed with her tongue. Here, Mira’s mouth slowed, tender. Each press of her lips was softer, almost a vow, as though she were honoring the scars themselves—acknowledging their place on Rumi’s body, thankful for the fact that she was allowed to touch them at all. She lingered there, breathing against the uneven texture, her hand smoothing gently over Rumi’s ribs as if to remind her that all of it was wanted, all of it was beautiful. Rumi’s breath caught, her hand trembling as it brushed down Mira’s shoulder.

By the time Mira’s lips reached her stomach, her fingers were already tugging gently at the waistband of Rumi’s damp pants. Rumi lifted her hips in silent permission, and Mira peeled the fabric down and away, leaving her in nothing but black lace. The sight made Mira pause, blinking. “Holy fuck.”

Rumi smirked, the confidence behind it edged with shyness. Her hands slipped up Mira’s sides, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. “Zoey took me shopping,” she murmured, biting back her own laugh as the hook gave way.

Mira’s bra slid loose, her piercings catching the string lights overhead. “Yeah,” she said, breathless, eyes dragging over Rumi’s lingerie, “I see that.”

She leaned back down, capturing Rumi’s mouth again, their kisses slower now, heavier. Mira shifted, sliding into place between Rumi’s thighs, her body pressing close.

Their bare skin brushed, heat spreading between them, and Mira’s hands caught Rumi’s wrists, guiding them up and pinning them gently above her head. She rolled her hips down slowly, grinding against the lace, drawing out a whimper that made Mira smile.

Rumi writhed beneath her, hips lifting to chase the friction, her moans muffled against Mira’s mouth. She tried to pull her hands free, desperate to touch, but Mira’s grip only tightened, grounding her there. Mira kissed her again, deep and slow, before dragging one hand down, skimming her ribs and stomach until she reached the damp fabric of Rumi’s underwear.

Her touch hovered, teasing, pressing lightly but never enough. Rumi’s hips bucked, frustration seeping into the sweet sound of her moans. “Mira…” she whispered, voice shaking. “Please.”

Mira’s smirk softened into something more indulgent. She kissed her temple, nose brushing against damp hair. “Mhm. Keep asking, sweetheart.”

Her hand trailed lower again, fingertips gliding deliberately across the lace, pressing just enough to tease but never enough to satisfy. Each pass made Rumi shiver, her thighs trembling as she arched into the touch only for it to retreat again.

“Mira…” Rumi’s voice cracked around her plea, her hips straining against the slow grind Mira gave her. Her wrists flexed against Mira’s hold above her head, desperate to be free, desperate to pull her closer. “Please. Please, I need—”

Mira only chuckled, low and warm against her ear. “Need what, baby?” Another languid stroke across the soaked fabric, her thumb catching at the edge of the lace but never dipping beneath.

Rumi whimpered, twisting under her, her breath hot and broken. “Need your hands,” she whispered, the words tumbling out as if admitting them alone might break her. “I can’t— Mira, please.”

Mira kissed her cheek, softening the sting of denial with tenderness. “You’re so cute when you beg.” Her fingers traced over her once more, slower this time, dragging the ache out until Rumi was practically trembling beneath her.

It wasn’t until Rumi’s hips lifted in a desperate buck, a choked whimper escaping her lips, that Mira relented. Her fingers slid finally beneath the lace, and she gasped at once when the heat and wetness met her hand.

“Fuck…” The word slipped out on a hushed laugh, Mira’s forehead resting against Rumi’s as her fingers stilled, savoring the intimacy. “You’re already—god, all of this for me?”

Rumi’s breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed, shame and longing warring in the tremble of her lips. “Always for you,” she whispered, hips rolling helplessly into Mira’s touch as though the words themselves had freed her.

Mira kissed her—harder this time, a surge of heat behind the tenderness, teeth catching her bottom lip before her tongue soothed the sting. Then she pulled back, chest heaving, eyes dark with want. “I need to taste you.”

She slid down the bed, slow enough to make Rumi’s hands twitch uselessly above her head where Mira had left them. But Rumi didn’t move them—she obeyed, wrists pressing faintly into the sheets as if to remind herself to stay put. The sight of her like that made Mira’s stomach clench with something hot and primal.

Hooking her thumbs under Rumi’s underwear, Mira tugged the damp fabric down. The lace clung to slick heat, and Rumi’s breath caught audibly as Mira dragged the fabric slowly over her hips, leaving her bare and trembling.

“Beautiful,” Mira whispered, lowering herself between Rumi’s thighs, her mouth sending puffs of air against Rumi with every syllable. She lingered there for a moment, just breathing her in, watching the way Rumi’s stomach fluttered and her thighs trembled with the effort of keeping her hands obediently above her head.

Then Mira closed the distance, pressing her mouth to Rumi’s core in a slow, deliberate kiss. Her tongue swept through her with aching patience, tasting her fully, before she dragged upward in a steady line, circling over her clit with deliberate care.

Rumi gasped, the sound raw and immediate, her back arching as the heat of Mira’s mouth enveloped her. Her thighs quivered against Mira’s shoulders, her entire body straining against the restraint of her own hands while her voice broke into helpless whimpers.

Mira’s tongue worked with aching patience, slow circles over Rumi’s clit before dipping lower again, savoring, building her up inch by inch. Every pass made Rumi’s chest rise higher, her thighs trembling harder against Mira’s shoulders. The fullness of it was beginning to set in—the kind of steady climb that left her writhing, desperate for more, every nerve strung tight.

When Mira slid a single finger inside, Rumi gasped, her voice breaking into a high, pleading cry. There was no resistance, only the slick heat of her, so wet Mira almost lost herself in it. She kept the pace deliberate, tongue flicking over her clit as her finger pressed deeper, curling just so.

Rumi’s wrists twitched above her head, the effort of restraint trembling through her arms. Mira caught it, flicking her eyes upward just long enough to see the silent plea written in Rumi’s face, her fingers straining to grab anything at all. Mira’s gaze drifted from her eyes to her hands, then back again, and she gave the faintest nod without breaking rhythm.

Rumi’s whimper was almost a sob as her fingers dove into the sheets, clutching the fabric tight while her hips bucked helplessly against Mira’s mouth.

Then Mira slid in a second finger. The stretch made Rumi keen, her back arching off the bed, the sound of her moans breaking loud against the storm outside. Slickness clung to Mira’s hand, each thrust met with a wet sound that only drove her faster.

With her free hand, Mira reached up, catching one of Rumi’s wrists. She tugged gently, guiding her down, until Rumi’s trembling hand found Mira’s hair. The second her fingers tangled there, Mira felt the pull—the desperate, shaking grip that forced her closer, holding her in place.

Rumi ground down against her mouth, cries spilling unrestrained now, each one sharper than the last. “Mira—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

Mira moaned into her, the vibration rolling through Rumi’s body. Her tongue never let up, her fingers driving deeper in rhythm with every pull of Rumi’s grip.

It was too much, too fast, and exactly what she needed. Rumi’s thighs clamped tight around Mira’s head, her voice breaking apart into a string of cries as she ground harder, riding the waves until her climax crashed through her. Her entire body shook with it, loud and unrestrained, her moans carrying high above the storm until they finally broke into ragged gasps.

Rumi collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, fingers loosening in Mira’s hair until they slipped free entirely. Her thighs still quivered where they framed Mira’s shoulders, little aftershocks running through her body, soft whimpers breaking out of her like she couldn’t quite stop them.

Mira pressed a few gentle kisses to the inside of her thigh, softer now, aching where moments ago she’d been relentless. She trailed her mouth upward, pausing long enough to nuzzle into the dip of her hip, her nose brushing sweat-damp skin as she caught her breath.

Rumi stirred, reaching blindly until her hand found Mira’s shoulder. Her touch was weak, trembling, but insistent as she tugged. “Come here,” she whispered, her voice ragged and uneven. “Please.”

Mira lifted herself up at once, crawling over her until their bodies aligned again, skin against skin. She caught Rumi’s mouth in a kiss that was messy and aching, the taste of herself still lingering on Mira’s tongue. Rumi whined softly into it, her hands framing Mira’s face now, desperate to keep her close, to anchor herself in the warmth of her.

When they finally broke apart, Rumi’s forehead rested against Mira’s, her breaths short, her lips trembling with the ghost of another whimper. Mira brushed her thumb along her jaw, kissing her again, gentler this time, as if to ease her down from the high she was still riding.

The storm outside had only thickened, sheets of rain rattling against the windows hard enough to drown the usual city noise. Inside, the studio had settled into a hush—Mira stretched out against the arm of the couch, Rumi curled into her side, the both of them beneath a pile of blankets, damp hair now half-dry and curling at the ends. The TV hummed softly with the flicker of a movie neither of them were really watching, the quiet broken only by the occasional whisper of laughter.

The front door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.

“I’M HERE—”

Zoey’s voice rang through the apartment before she even looked up. She kicked the door shut with her heel, arms loaded with bags that immediately clattered to the floor in a chaotic heap. Her jacket was off before it even landed, her shirt tugged halfway over her head as she stumbled inside. Shoes squeaked wet against the floor, leaving streaks of water in her wake as she wrestled with her socks like they were mortal enemies.

“—god, the rain is fucking biblical out there,” she huffed, finally freeing her arms from the shirt and yanking it over her head with all the grace of someone losing a fight. She was halfway to her pants when she froze.

Two pairs of eyes blinked back at her from the couch, Mira and Rumi swaddled in blankets like conspirators, their faces lit up with laughter they could no longer contain. Mira had her hand clamped over her mouth to stifle a grin, while Rumi just shook her head, shoulders shaking as she tried not to laugh outright.

Zoey’s mouth fell open, her half-stripped chaos grinding to a halt. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

She threw her shirt across the room like it was the blanket’s fault. “You started without me?”

Mira scoffed, “You did say to start the party without you.”

“I meant like put a damn movie on,” Zoey huffed. “Wine and dine the girl or something, not send her to Mars!”

Rumi tucked herself deeper into the blanket, her eyes bright with mischief. “We’re far from done,” she said sweetly, her smirk hidden only halfway behind the throw.

Zoey groaned, running a hand down her face before pointing accusingly at them both. “If I don’t get my turn, I swear—”

“You’ll what?” Mira drawled, barely containing her laughter as she shifted on the couch to make more room.

Zoey’s response was a dramatic flop onto the opposite end of the couch, water still dripping from her hair as she kicked her pants the rest of the way off. “I’ll die. Instantly. And then it’ll be your fault for making me suffer.”

Rumi giggled into Mira’s shoulder, and the storm outside rattled harder, underscoring the way all three of them dissolved into warmth and laughter, the tension reset as easily as the storm could start again.

The rain had swollen into a steady roar, a velvet wall of sound beyond the windows. The kettle began to murmur again on the back burner, a bright little counterpoint to the weather, steam fogging the aluminum lid. Rumi padded into the kitchen wrapped in the emerald throw, the blanket tucked up under her arms. It trailed behind her like a train, the edge darkened where it had brushed the damp floor.

She set two mugs on the island—one already holding a tea bag, one empty—then leaned her hip to the brick and concrete as if the counter were a familiar friend. Her cheeks still wore the faint, satisfied flush Mira had put there; the kind of glow that made the string lights look like they lived under her skin.

Footsteps, quick and ungraceful, crossed the studio. Rumi felt the heat of Zoey’s body before she heard her voice; arms slipped around her from behind under the blanket, palms spreading over her stomach like they belonged there.

“Hey.” Zoey’s mouth brushed the hinge of Rumi’s jaw, a smile tucked into the word. “She took such good care of you, didn’t she?”

Rumi’s breath left her in a soft hum, her head tipping back instinctively to Zoey’s shoulder. “Mhm.”

The blanket shifted with Zoey’s hands, a subtle opening at the front as one palm slid down, just enough to reveal the line of Rumi’s hip, the curve of her thigh where the throw no longer covered her. Zoey’s thumb drew a lazy stroke along warm skin. The contact was barely there, maddening for how much it said.

“Thought so.” Zoey’s voice dropped. “You’re still shaking.”

Rumi swallowed, the sound small. “You were late.”

“Making up for lost time,” Zoey murmured, and then she turned Rumi gently, guiding her back into the edge of the island, Zoey’s hands finding Rumi’s waist through the blanket.

Her kiss wasn’t gentle—it was a claim, all heat and apology and Zoey’s stupid, indelible grin pressed into Rumi’s mouth. Rumi opened to it like breath, her fingers clutching at the blanket with one hand and at Zoey’s bare shoulder with the other. When Zoey broke away, it was only to laugh under her breath and nose at Rumi’s cheek.

“Missed you, baby.” Then she flattened her palms over the blanket and pressed, pinning Rumi to the island just enough for the stone to kiss the backs of her thighs.

Behind them, a soft sound: Mira’s socked steps over wood, the familiar tilt of her voice when she’s amused and trying to hide it. “Hey, hey, my poor island,” she called lazily, leaning one hip on the half wall to watch. “We eat there.”

Zoey didn’t look away from Rumi. “Oh, I intend to,” she said, and the smile she flashed Mira was feral and fond all at once.

The kettle clicked off. No one moved for it.

Zoey lifted the edge of the blanket with two fingers like peeling back a secret. The emerald fell open and sighed down Rumi’s sides, pooling at her waist, leaving her mostly bare and utterly breathtaking.

 Zoey’s hands bracketed her hips. She kissed Rumi again—harder now, Rumi’s body answering before thought could catch up, a tiny noise escaping her as Zoey nudged Rumi’s knees apart with her thigh. The pressure landed perfect, coaxing a shiver that traveled up Rumi’s spine and bloomed in her mouth.

“God, look at you,” Zoey whispered against her lips.

Mira drifted closer, a lazy orbit turned purposeful, palms smoothing the blanket from where it had bunched at Rumi’s waist. She pressed a kiss to Rumi’s temple, a steadying touch on her forearm, and then stepped to the side, one hand idly corralling the mugs toward safety. “I’ll rescue the tea,” she said, eyes never leaving them, voice light but threaded with heat. “And supervise.”

Rumi laughed—short, uneven—before Zoey swallowed it with another kiss. She curled her fingers over the counter lip, grounding herself in the frenzy of affection. 

Zoey’s mouth moved to Rumi’s throat, kissing slow and fierce down to her collarbone, then lower. She held Rumi’s gaze as she dragged her tongue over one nipple, before she closed her mouth around it and sucked gently.

Rumi’s inhale stuttered. “Zoey.”

“Mm?” Zoey hummed into her, then smiled when Rumi shivered in response. She gave equal attention to the other, hands never leaving Rumi’s hips, thumbs circling into the muscle there until Rumi was shifting on her feet, the edge of the counter biting sweet at her skin.

“Up,” Zoey said, breath warm against her sternum. She pushed Rumi with care, guiding until the backs of Rumi’s thighs met the island again. Then Zoey lifted. It was an easy hoist—one hand under, one pressing the small of Rumi’s back—setting her on the cool surface. Books slid toward the far side with a papery whisper. The vase bumped, caught by Mira’s quick hand.

“Told you: my poor island,” Mira said, amused, saving the flowers and sliding them beside the stove. She lingered at the corner like a sin, fingers curled over the concrete as she watched Zoey step in between Rumi’s knees.

Zoey pushed the blanket the rest of the way aside. “All right,” she breathed, looking up, smiling like she’d run three blocks for this. “Back where I belong.”

Zoey’s mouth trailed lower, tasting where Mira’s love still hummed under Rumi’s skin. She knelt only as far as she needed to—no ceremony, just urgency and focus—lifting Rumi’s hips to the edge so the angle was right. She pressed her mouth to Rumi with a kind of greedy gratitude that sounded like a pleased, wrecked sigh against her.

Rumi’s cry cracked open immediately as she let herself fall back against the cool island, shoulders meeting stone. Her legs tightened around Zoey’s shoulders, heels skidding on the cabinet door until Zoey hooked them over her back with firm hands. “There you go,” Zoey said against her. “That’s it, baby.”

The storm filled the room and so did Rumi’s voice.

Mira set the kettle aside and leaned her elbows into the far corner of the island, chin in her palm. “God, you’re pretty,” she told Rumi, tone velvet-soft. “You know that, right?” When Rumi could only whine, Mira smiled and let her gaze slide to Zoey. “And you,” she added, amused. “Eat your heart out.”

Zoey’s answer was a low, delighted sound that vibrated through Rumi’s body. She sealed her mouth where she knew it would ruin and soothed with her tongue in the next breath. Her fingers, slick from Rumi’s need, slid easily—one at first, then two when Rumi’s hips chased deeper—finding that angle she’d learned by instinct and obsession. The lack of friction only spurred her, each press and curl met with a wet, perfect give that made Zoey exhale a curse into Rumi’s skin.

“Zoey,” Rumi gasped, voice pitching high. Her fingers twitched against the countertop; she didn’t move them. She couldn’t. The restraint had become holy. “Please—please—”

“What’s wrong, princess?” Zoey said, lifting her eyes. She never stopped, never stopped anything.

“Don’t stop,” Rumi begged, wrecked and beautiful. “Please don’t stop, I—”

Mira leaned against the corner of the island, arms folded loosely, eyes locked on every twitch of Rumi’s body, every fractured sound. She didn’t move to help, didn’t move to soothe—only watched, her face unreadable but intent, as if she wanted to memorize every second of Rumi unraveling.

Zoey set a rhythm that felt like confession. Her free hand slid up, splaying over Rumi’s stomach to anchor her squirming. Every time Rumi tipped toward the edge, Zoey pulled back a fraction, letting the wind catch Rumi’s name in her mouth before giving it right back to her, harder, deeper, merciless.

“Look at me,” Zoey said, and when Rumi did, it broke something open. The sound that left her came from someplace that only existed with these two: a sob tangled with a laugh, a yes with no language for it.

Mira caught the precise second it hit, her mouth curving in a slow, quiet smile.

Rumi shattered on a wave so big it swallowed the room. Her thighs clamped around Zoey; her spine arched against the unyielding surface of the island; her voice rang out against the rain, wild and unashamed. Zoey held her through all of it, mouth relentless, fingers steady until the tremors turned to aftershocks and the aftershocks to breath.

“As much as I think Zoey would love to die between your thighs,” Mira drawled from her corner of the island, “you should probably release your death grip before she suffocates.”

But Zoey didn’t so much as glance up. She only slowed her rhythm, tongue dragging in languid strokes that turned the overstimulation sharp and unbearable.

Rumi gasped, half-whimpering. “Too much,” she managed, voice breaking. “Oh god—Zoey—it’s too much.” Her hands flexed uselessly against the countertop, body jerking with each slow lick, a mix of agony and pleasure written plain across her face.

Zoey only hummed against her, wicked and pleased, and pressed her mouth closer, holding her there until Rumi’s thighs trembled violently around her head. Finally, with a last teasing lick, Zoey pulled back, chest heaving as she gulped in air and laughed breathlessly against Rumi’s skin.

“Worth it,” she said, her grin messy and unrepentant, lips still shining as she kissed the inside of Rumi’s thigh.

Rumi sagged against the counter, boneless and overwhelmed, her chest rising in shaky bursts. “You’re insane,” she whispered, but her voice cracked into a whimper halfway through, the overstimulation still buzzing under her skin.

Mira tilted her head, watching like she was cataloguing every detail. “Insane,” she agreed, her voice mild, “but effective.”

When Zoey eased back, she pressed a kiss to the inside of Rumi’s knee like an apology and a promise.

Mira’s thumb was already pushing a stray curl from Rumi’s damp cheek, the motion so tender it almost hurt.

Rumi sagged across the island, utterly undone, her chest rising in shaky bursts. The blanket had slipped completely to the floor, leaving her bare and boneless against the cool stone, her breath broken little gasps that still couldn’t keep up with her pulse.

Mira, who hadn’t moved from her corner, finally straightened with a smirk.

“Tea?” Mira asked, like she hadn’t just watched the weather change inside the apartment.

Zoey huffed a laugh, resting her forehead against Rumi’s thigh. “God, yes.”

She slid the mugs she’d rescued earlier across the counter, their ceramic bases whispering against the surface until they came to rest beside Rumi’s sprawled arm. “Careful,” she said lightly. “Hot surface.”

Zoey leaned back on her heels, eyes raking over Rumi’s flushed, trembling form, and smirked like she’d just won a prize fight. “Oh yeah,” she murmured, wicked grin widening. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Rain hammered the glass in a steady roar, the kind that drowned the city into silence. Inside, the kitchen glowed warm and golden, lamplight and the scent of steeped tea casting the room in a gentler rhythm.

Rumi lay sprawled across the island, bare skin against cool stone, the emerald blanket forgotten on the floor. Her chest rose in shaky bursts, hair damp and clinging to her temples, while Zoey and Mira stood at either side of her sipping tea as if the sight were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Y’know,” Zoey said around the rim of her mug, “this is a crime scene. And I should probably be arrested, but—” her grin widened, smug and satisfied, “—worth it.”

Rumi groaned, dragging her arm over her face. “Stop. Talking.”

Mira sipped delicately, pinky raised like a mockery of refinement. “You heard her.” She arched a brow toward Zoey. “Cease and desist.”

Zoey leaned her elbows on the counter, deliberately letting her eyes rake down Rumi’s body before smirking into her tea. “Can’t. Burned into my brain forever.”

Mira tilted her head, unimpressed. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly talented,” Zoey shot back, then winked down at Rumi.

Rumi made a weak, high-pitched sound that might’ve been protest, might’ve been a laugh. Her legs shifted faintly, knees trying to draw in like she could shield herself, though she didn’t quite manage it. The movement pulled a small sigh from her lips, too tired to fight either of them.

Zoey’s grin faltered for the first time, her sharp edges softening. She lowered her mug to the counter and nudged Rumi’s calf gently with the back of her hand. “Hey. You good, baby?”

Rumi hummed, eyes still covered by her arm. “Mhm.” But it was the limp, fuzzy kind of answer, the kind that didn’t carry conviction.

Mira set her tea aside, reaching down to pull the blanket from the floor. She shook it out, then draped it across Rumi’s shoulders, tucking the edges lightly around her sides. “She’s clearly wrecked,” Mira said, voice gentler now. “Bed.”

Zoey blew out a breath, shaking her head but smiling. “Yeah. Bed.” She tapped Rumi’s knee softly. “C’mon, ham. Let’s go.”

Rumi peeked out from under her arm, squinting up at them with a pout. “Ham?”

Mira smirked. “Thanksgiving ham. Presentation’s about the same.”

Zoey barked a laugh, loud and delighted. “Oh my god, that’s sticking. You’re Ham forever now.”

Rumi made another groan, muffled by the blanket this time. But she let them coax her upright all the same, Mira steadying her from one side, Zoey’s arm braced at her back from the other. She wobbled once, legs shaky, but Zoey caught her easily.

“Okay, okay,” Zoey soothed, guiding her step by step. “I got you.”

The short walk across the studio felt longer, the storm still battering the windows as the three of them shuffled toward the bed. Rumi sagged into them, mumbling something incoherent that made Zoey laugh and Mira hum in acknowledgment.

They collapsed together onto the bed in a mess of limbs and blankets. Mira flopped first, tugging Rumi down beside her; Zoey landed last with a dramatic groan, throwing her arm over both of them. The dark comforter joined in a tangle, cocooning them until all that existed was warmth.

For a while, none of them spoke. The storm filled the silence, thunder rolling distant and low, the rain a steady blanket of sound. Zoey pressed her face into Rumi’s shoulder, her breathing already evening out. Mira traced idle circles along Rumi’s arm, grounding, unhurried. Rumi threaded their joined hands together, her eyes fluttering closed as the weight of the day pulled her down.

Eventually Zoey stirred, muttering into the quiet. “We’re… definitely cleaning that counter tomorrow.”

Mira snorted softly, her nose brushing Rumi’s hairline. “You’re the one who insisted on making it a battlefield.”

“Worth it,” Zoey mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Worth it,” Rumi echoed, the faintest giggle tucked into the word.

Mira kissed her temple, soft and lingering. “Absolutely worth it.”

The storm rattled the glass, relentless, but it only made the cocoon of blankets feel tighter, safer. Their warmth folded into one another, breaths syncing, laughter fading into the rhythm of half-sleep. Rumi drifted first, her lashes brushing Mira’s collarbone. Zoey’s grip loosened across their waists. Mira’s eyes slid shut last, her lips brushing Rumi’s hairline one more time.

Together, they sank into the hush of the night, the world outside nothing but rain.

The storm had thinned to a drizzle by the time night reached its quietest hours. The city outside was silent—no cars, no voices, nothing but the occasional growl of thunder rolling low across the sky. Lightning flashed behind the curtains now and then, pale outlines pressing against the fabric before sinking back into dark.

Rumi stirred first. The apartment was pitch black, Mira’s slow breathing steady at her back, warm and oblivious. But beneath the weight of sleep, something heavier tugged her awake—an ache, tender and needy, that wouldn’t let her rest.

So she turned toward Zoey.

Zoey slept flat on her back, one arm draped over the tangle of blankets, hair a damp halo across the pillow. Her face was slack with sleep, mouth parted just slightly, lashes heavy against her cheeks. She looked so unguarded like this that it made Rumi’s chest ache.

Rumi shifted closer, careful not to disturb Mira on her other side. She pressed her nose into Zoey’s jaw, brushing light and lingering until Zoey gave a faint groan in her sleep. Encouraged, Rumi nudged higher, her lips grazing the corner of Zoey’s mouth before trailing across her cheek.

Zoey stirred, brow furrowing, a low sound slipping from her throat.

Rumi’s hand slid up, tentative but hungry, tracing Zoey’s ribs through the thin cotton of her shirt. Her fingertips dragged lightly across skin until she found the edge of the hem and slipped beneath, palm spreading against the warmth there. Zoey’s stomach twitched under her touch.

Another groan, deeper this time. Zoey’s head turned toward her, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch the movement.

“Mm,” Zoey rasped, voice rough with sleep. “Can’t sleep?”

Rumi smiled against her skin, kissing her jaw once more, her hand splayed firm against Zoey’s stomach. “Not with you looking like this.”

Rumi leaned in, kissing the bridge of her nose, the corner of her slack mouth, finally brushing her lips in the softest press. Her hand curved higher under Zoey’s shirt, fingers ghosting along the underside of her breast.

That was enough to draw Zoey fully into the moment. She blinked, heavy-lidded, and let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “We gotta be quiet,” she whispered, voice low and rough. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Mira, still dead to the world, chest rising in steady rhythm. “She’s dead to the world, but still.”

“I can be quiet,” Rumi murmured, though the breathy way it left her didn’t help her case.

Their mouths met in a slow kiss, at first tentative, then deeper, messier as Zoey’s sleep-fogged brain caught up with her body. Rumi climbed over her, straddling her waist, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side.

Zoey’s hands found her thighs automatically, fingers flexing against bare skin beneath the loose blanket. Rumi leaned down, kissing her again and again, small desperate sounds slipping out with every brush of their mouths. Each whimper vibrated against Zoey’s lips, soft and needy in a way that sent heat shooting through her chest.

Zoey pulled back slightly, catching her breath, eyes darting toward Mira’s still form at their side. Mira hadn’t stirred, her breathing deep and steady. But the soft, urgent noises Rumi was making—God, they carried.

Zoey brushed her thumb over Rumi’s cheek, smiling faintly even as she whispered, “We should… maybe take this to the couch. Before you get us caught.”

Rumi shook her head instantly, hair falling into her face, voice fierce in its softness. “No. Here. Right here. I want you.”

The certainty in her tone left no room for argument.

Zoey stared up at her for a beat, chest rising fast, torn between laughter and desire. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” she murmured, before tugging her back down into another kiss.

Rumi shifted lower, settling fully over Zoey’s hips. The blanket slipped away with the movement, leaving her completely bare in the faint glow of lightning flashing behind the curtains. Zoey’s shirt was already rucked up high from Rumi’s wandering hands, the fabric twisted beneath her ribs. When Rumi lowered herself, skin met skin, the heat of her pressed flush. Slick warmth smeared instantly over Zoey’s stomach and pelvis, and her jaw dropped, eyes widening.

Her hands clamped tight around Rumi’s hips, guiding her without thought. Rumi rocked down again, and Zoey nearly cursed aloud—biting her lip hard instead, chest rising in ragged silence.

Rumi leaned over her, face twisting with pleasure, eyebrows furrowed then lifting as she ground harder. Her mouth opened, forming words without sound. Need you. The shape of it was unmistakable.

Zoey’s eyes flicked to Mira—still dead asleep—and back up to Rumi’s face. Her own lips parted, her voice swallowed, mouthing back, quiet.

Rumi’s answering whimper was caught in her throat, trembling against her teeth as she nodded, mouthing I will, though her hips betrayed her, rolling again in slick, needy rhythm.

Zoey groaned into the back of her hand, muffling everything, her eyes locking with Rumi’s like they could speak that way alone.

Zoey’s grip tightened at her hips, urging her to keep moving, but Rumi’s rhythm faltered. The tension was there—curling sharp and insistent low in her stomach—but instead of chasing it she stilled, breath catching. Her lashes fluttered, her gaze dragging over Zoey’s flushed face beneath her, the bitten knuckles pressed to her mouth, the way her chest heaved with every quiet, strangled breath.

Rumi mouthed something again, eyebrows creasing, lips forming a soundless God— before she collapsed forward, kissing Zoey with a frantic edge. Her hands braced on either side of her head, body trembling, then she pulled back just far enough to whisper in the barest breath: “I need to taste you.”

Zoey froze, the words cracking her wide awake in an instant. Her jaw dropped, eyes glassy with heat. “Rumi—” she started, the warning broken, but Rumi was already sliding lower, already kissing down her throat, her chest, tugging the bunched shirt higher with restless hands.

Zoey’s free hand fisted the sheets as the other stayed clamped over her mouth, her body shuddering beneath every kiss that trailed lower. Rumi’s hair brushed her skin, damp and wild, and then she was gone, disappearing beneath the blanket’s edge with a hunger that had no patience left.

The blanket swallowed Rumi whole, the fabric shifting as she crawled lower, and then Zoey felt it—the first wet press of her mouth. She bit down hard on her hand to catch the sound that tore through her, legs jerking against the mattress.

“Jesus,” she mouthed against her knuckles, eyes squeezing shut. Her hips lifted instinctively, chasing every flick and pull of Rumi’s tongue. Beneath the blanket, she could just make out the shape of her moving, the faint bob of her head. It was maddening, not being able to see her, only to feel.

Zoey’s free hand shot down under the blanket, fumbling until her fingers tangled in Rumi’s hair. She gripped tight, holding her there, grounding herself in the slick, desperate heat of her mouth. “God, Ru—” The whisper never made it past her teeth. It dissolved into a broken gasp, her knuckles shoved between them again to keep quiet.

Every drag of Rumi’s tongue built her higher, sharper, until her body was straining against the bed. Zoey’s thighs trembled, knees spreading wider to give her more. Her chest heaved, every breath caught in silence, the storm outside the only thing covering the frenzy inside her.

And then—midway through the climb—her hand brushed lower, over her own stomach. Her skin was slick, the unmistakable warmth of Rumi still smeared across her pelvis from before. The realization hit her in a rush: Rumi’s mouth on her now, but still painted on her everywhere else.

Zoey’s breath shuddered. She slid her fingers through it, gathering the wet that clung to her skin, and brought them up to her mouth. The taste hit her tongue, sharp and sweet, and her vision went white.

Her body convulsed, her fist yanking hard in Rumi’s hair as she came, silent but devastating. Stars burst behind her eyelids, her whole body arching and breaking against the blanket’s weight. She bit down hard on her hand, teeth sinking deep to keep herself from crying out, but her eyes watered with the effort. Every nerve burned, every muscle locked, until she shattered completely.

When it finally broke, her arm fell limp from her mouth, her body collapsing back to the mattress in shaking aftershocks. Her thighs still quivered, her breath refusing to steady, every exhale a sharp, silent hitch.

Beneath the blanket, Rumi lingered, slow, soothing, her mouth easing her down until Zoey could finally breathe again.

Zoey’s arm trembled as she lifted the blanket, tugging until Rumi crawled back up into her arms. Her face was flushed, lips swollen, hair a wild halo, but her smile was soft, almost shy.

Zoey pulled her close immediately, kissing her with the kind of desperation that felt like thanks. Rumi melted into it, whimpering softly, her hands cupping Zoey’s jaw like she could hold her there forever.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads pressed together, the storm outside filling the silence. Zoey brushed her thumb along Rumi’s cheek, whispering against her lips, “You’re insane.”

Rumi giggled faintly, still shaky. “You love it.”

Zoey laughed under her breath, wrapping the blanket tighter around them both, tucking Rumi against her chest. “Yeah,” she admitted softly. “I really do.”

The room went quiet again, only the patter of rain filling the dark. Rumi’s breathing evened out slowly, but Zoey kept holding her, grounding herself in the warmth of it all.

From across the bed, Mira shifted slightly onto her side, her back to them. Lightning flared faintly through the curtains, sketching the curve of her shoulder in pale light.

A low voice broke the silence. “You two…”

Both froze.

Mira shifted slightly on her side, eyes half-lidded in the dim flash of lightning. Her voice was hoarse with sleep, but her smirk was audible. “…are terrible at being quiet.”

Zoey groaned, dragging the blanket over her face. Rumi squeaked and buried herself deeper into Zoey’s chest. Mira just chuckled once, already drifting back under, and the storm carried the apartment back into silence.

Chapter Text

The storm had passed, leaving the city washed and silent beneath a pale morning sky. Light spilled in muted stripes through the curtains, bright enough to brush against the edges of the studio but too soft to disturb its hush.

Mira had been up long before either of them. She sat at the island, book open in her lap, tea cooling beside her elbow. A pair of glasses balanced low on her nose, and her hair — freed from its usual tie — fell in loose, natural waves that framed her face. It softened her in a way Rumi and Zoey almost never saw, a kind of calm they usually caught only in passing.

The faint rustle of sheets carried across the room. On the bed, the blanket shifted, and then Rumi sighed as Zoey stirred beside her. The two of them blinked against the light almost in unison, limbs tangling automatically until they were a heap of skin and warmth beneath the covers.

“Mm,” Rumi hummed, eyes still closed as she pressed her nose into Zoey’s throat. Her voice was thick with sleep, lazy and affectionate.

Zoey’s answering groan was muffled in Rumi’s hair. She rolled half on top of her, an arm slung heavy across her waist, dragging the blanket with her until it cocooned them both. They kissed without even thinking — clumsy, half-asleep, their mouths brushing more than meeting. The second try was deeper, slower, Zoey’s hand flexing at Rumi’s hip to draw her closer.

Rumi giggled softly against her lips, the sound muffled and sweet, until Zoey swallowed it whole in another kiss. The blanket slid lower with the movement, baring a slope of Rumi’s shoulder to the cool air.

Across the room, Mira’s page stilled. She let the book rest in her lap, watching them over the rim of her glasses as they shifted together, all sleepy mouths and tangled limbs, too wrapped up in each other to notice her yet.

Rumi finally cracked her eyes open, lashes heavy as she blinked blearily at Zoey above her. A smile tugged at her mouth, soft and a little crooked, and Zoey answered it with a lazy kiss to her cheek. She shifted higher, bracing herself on one arm as her body settled more fully over Rumi’s.

The blanket slipped further, pooling at their waists, their bare shoulders catching the faint morning light. Rumi tilted her head back, lips parting on a quiet sound as Zoey mouthed at her jaw, then her throat. The sheets rustled, giving them away in the otherwise still room.

It was Rumi who looked over first, her gaze drifting past Zoey’s shoulder toward the island. Her breath hitched faintly when she found Mira watching — glasses low, book forgotten, steam from her tea curling faintly into the air. There was no judgment there, only something steady, deliberate, the kind of gaze that made Rumi’s stomach flip.

Zoey noticed a heartbeat later, following the line of Rumi’s eyes. She smirked, unabashed, and without breaking from the kiss she was pressing to Rumi’s collarbone, she reached blindly to the side. Her palm found the blanket edge and tugged it down, pulling it off the two of them in a lazy flourish until there was nothing left to hide.

Her hand landed flat on the mattress, patting the empty space beside them without even looking away from Rumi. The invitation was obvious, wordless.

“You realize,” Mira murmured, voice carrying low across the studio, “you’ve both fucked more in the last twelve hours than most couples manage in a week.”

Zoey tipped her head back just enough to smirk, her lips still brushing Rumi’s collarbone. “Can you blame us? We’ve got the hottest girl in the world watching us.”

Rumi flushed, caught between laughter and heat, and turned her face toward Mira. Her gaze lingered on the waves of hair spilling loose over Mira’s shoulders, so different from the careful styles they were used to. The sight made something tug low in her chest.

She licked her lips, voice soft but steady. “Shut up and come join the statistic.”

Mira slid her glasses from her face, folding them neatly on the island beside her book. When she stood, the change was immediate—her hips falling into a natural sway, a smirk tugging at her lips, not sultry yet but curious, intrigued. Her hair, usually straight and tied back, hung loose in soft waves down her shoulders, rain from yesterday still leaving its memory in the curl. The faint pink-red glint in the strands caught the light as she moved, unfamiliar in its softness, and it pulled both of them into silence as she started toward the bed.

Mira pressed her palms into the mattress, slow and unhurried, crawling closer with the kind of ease that left no doubt she knew the effect she had. Her hair slipped forward as she moved, waves catching the morning light, and her smirk curved soft at the corner, not sultry so much as assured. Zoey, still stretched over Rumi, went stock-still under the weight of it. Rumi’s mouth opened like she might say something—anything—but the sound never came.

The silence thickened, wrapped tight around them, until Mira tilted her head and let her voice cut through, low and almost amused. “Is the silence a no? Because it can be a no.”

Zoey didn’t let her finish the thought. Her hand shot out, hooking two fingers in the hem of Mira’s cropped tank, and she yanked her forward, crashing their mouths together before Mira could take another breath.

From where she lay pinned beneath Zoey, Rumi couldn’t breathe. Not really. Not when Mira was crawling toward them like that — hair loose and wavy, tank top shifting with every move of her shoulders, eyes locked on them with that look. The one that made Rumi’s chest squeeze like she was about to come apart without a single touch.

Zoey yanked Mira in, their mouths colliding just above her. The sight hit Rumi low and hot. She could feel every shift of Zoey’s body against hers, every small grind of hips as the kiss deepened. Her own hands twitched uselessly against the sheets, torn between pulling Mira closer and clutching Zoey tighter.

Mira made a small sound against Zoey’s mouth, not quite a moan, not quite a laugh — and Rumi swore it branded her. She bit her lip, eyes wide, watching them so close it felt like she was part of it, like every kiss Mira gave Zoey still landed on her too.

For a second, she thought about saying something — some smart little line to break the tension — but her throat closed around it. The words wouldn’t come. All she could do was stare, pulse racing, while heat rolled through her in waves.

Rumi barely had time to process the kiss above her before Mira and Zoey broke apart, their foreheads almost touching, breaths uneven. The look they shared was brief but electric — an unspoken acknowledgment that passed between them like a spark, something Rumi wasn’t meant to understand yet. Her stomach flipped.

Then both sets of eyes shifted down to her at once. Heat shot through her chest under the weight of it. The expression they wore was devastating — like conspirators who already knew the ending to a story she hadn’t even started reading. Rumi swallowed hard, realizing too late she was trembling.

Zoey’s hands slid suddenly to her wrists, pinning her arms to the sheets with a firmness that stole her breath. Before she could make sense of it, Mira leaned in, fingers catching her jaw. She tilted Rumi’s face up until their eyes locked, the pad of her thumb brushing just beneath her lips.

“Want some attention, pretty girl?” Mira murmured, her voice a velvet thread that pulled tight around Rumi’s chest.

The question hit harder than any touch. Rumi’s lips parted, her breath faltering, eyes wide and glassy as heat surged low in her stomach. She hadn’t even realized how much she needed to hear it until the words were already sunk in.

Rumi’s breath hitched, and before she could stammer an answer, Zoey leaned in and kissed her. It started slow, messy with sleep and nerves, then sharpened into something hungrier as Rumi’s fingers curled into her shoulders. Mira stayed close, watching, her smirk deepening as their mouths opened against each other in soft, desperate sounds.

When Zoey finally pulled back, Mira guided her with a hand at her hip, pushing her forward just enough to make space. Mira slipped lower, slotting herself between Rumi’s thighs, and Zoey let the motion guide her. She shifted, swung a leg over, and straddled Rumi’s head—facing Mira now, their eyes locking over the length of Rumi’s body.

Rumi gasped, her hands twitching at her sides, but Zoey didn’t lower herself down yet. Instead, her palms wandered—cupping Rumi’s breasts, gliding down her stomach, smoothing over her hips as if to ground her. Mira bent low, lips brushing over Rumi’s inner thigh before ghosting at her center, not quite giving in. Her fingers teased too, dipping just enough to gather slick before pulling back to lick it slowly from her fingertips.

The combination left Rumi trembling, whimpering into the air beneath Zoey, her head lifting instinctively as though she could close the gap herself. Her begs came out fractured, pleading sounds breaking on her lips, her body bowing toward every fleeting touch.

Rumi was already trembling under them, every nerve strung tight from the slow, deliberate cruelty of it all. Mira’s mouth brushed just close enough to leave her slick, her tongue circling once before retreating, her fingers dipping low only to gather wetness and lift it to her own lips. She hummed at the taste, eyes dark as they held Rumi’s, then bent to do it again.

It left Rumi desperate, hips arching up, chasing every flicker of touch. Her hands flew to Zoey’s thighs where they framed her head, nails digging crescent marks into warm skin. The sounds spilling from her were broken things—half-whimpers, half-gasps, muffled as she strained toward Zoey, toward anything that might ground her in the storm Mira was drawing out.

Zoey’s palms roamed steady over her, cupping her breasts, smoothing her stomach, tracing her hips in lazy patterns that made the tension worse. She kept herself just out of reach, letting Rumi’s tongue drag against her when she lifted her head, then pulling back with a breathless laugh that vibrated low in her throat. “She’s wrecked already,” she murmured to Mira, voice thick. “Look at her.”

Mira only smirked, dipping her head once more to swipe a slow, shallow lick through Rumi’s heat before pulling back again, lips wet with proof of her restraint. The whimper it earned was raw, Rumi’s back bowing hard enough to lift her shoulders off the bed.

“Please—” The word cracked apart in her throat. Her hips bucked uselessly, searching for contact, for friction, for anything. Her nails dug deeper into Zoey’s thighs until Zoey hissed at the sting, her head tipping back as she grinned through it.

“Fuck—Mira—please—” The words tumbled out wild and incoherent now, her voice breaking with every denial. “Just—please—”

When Mira only pressed another maddening kiss to her inner thigh, Rumi’s restraint snapped. She yanked Zoey down hard, mouth opening desperate against her, and her cry fractured into Zoey’s body as she shouted, ragged and fierce, “JUST FUCK ME ALREADY!”

The sound shook through Zoey, her breath catching in a gasp, thighs trembling where Rumi clung to them. Mira froze for a beat, eyes locked on the sight of her, then her smirk curved slow and dangerous.

“Good girl,” she murmured, smoothing her hand over Rumi’s stomach. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Her fingers slipped away, replaced by the cool press of the harness she’d been palming idly at her side. She didn’t push in right away—didn’t even angle yet. Instead she rubbed it slow, up and down the slick heat of Rumi’s core, collecting wetness along the length. Each drag circled cruelly at her clit, nudging just enough to make her jolt, before sliding down again.

Rumi whimpered brokenly, her voice muffled beneath Zoey, her nails clawing at her thighs as she trembled through the tease. Mira dipped forward just enough to press at her entrance, the blunt tip stretching her barely, then pulled back before it could be more than a promise. Again, and again, until Rumi’s entire body shook with the effort of holding on.

Only then did Mira lean down, her breath hot against Rumi’s thigh as she whispered, “Breathe for me, pretty girl. I’ll give you everything. Just let me in.”

The first slow push was a test, easing past that initial resistance, the stretch making Rumi sob into Zoey. Mira paused, rubbing her stomach, her thighs, soothing her through it. Then she eased back, pushed again, just a little deeper. Each motion was deliberate, giving her time to feel every inch, every shift, until the tension in her body began to melt into something else.

Zoey reached down then, fingers trailing over Rumi’s stomach before sliding lower. She circled her clit with slow, perfect care, her voice low and reverent. “God, Ru. You’re so good. You feel so good when you eat me out like this—don’t stop, baby, don’t you dare stop.”

Mira’s hips rolled forward again, deeper this time, the praise wrapping around her as tight as the stretch. Together, they coaxed her through it, through the ache, through the fullness, until Rumi’s cries softened into moans that pulsed helplessly against Zoey’s skin.

Zoey had tried to keep some semblance of control, but there was no hope of that anymore. Rumi’s mouth worked her with frantic devotion, tongue moving like she had been starving for this, every muffled cry vibrating straight through Zoey’s core. Her thighs shook, straining against Rumi’s hold, but Rumi only pulled her closer, deeper, refusing to let her escape.

And Mira—fuck, Mira—kept her rhythm unhurried but relentless, rolling her hips into Rumi with a patience that was devastating. Each thrust was measured, dragging deep before pulling nearly out, only to sink in again. Zoey’s hand was still on Rumi’s clit, circling slow and cruel, making Rumi keen into Zoey, every vibration shattering her further. Mira’s hand cradled Zoey’s face, palm firm against her jaw, thumb stroking the edge of her cheek as though she could anchor her there.

“Look at me,” Mira coaxed, her voice steady, low. Zoey’s eyes snapped open, already wet, already wide. “Good girl. You’re so loud for us. Let it out.”

Zoey obeyed without thought, her cries spilling into the air—ragged, needy, uncontrollable. She clutched at Mira’s arm, at the sheets, at anything she could reach as the pressure coiled higher and higher, her hips bucking helplessly into Rumi’s mouth. Every lick, every thrust, every circling drag of Mira’s fingers turned the world white around the edges.

The orgasm broke fast and brutal. Her scream tore out before she could stop it, voice cracked and desperate, her body bowing forward under the weight of it. Mira held her through it, steady hand firm on her face, whispering praise that blurred into the rush in her ears. Rumi never relented, licking and sucking until Zoey was writhing, begging, overstimulated and ruined.

Finally, Mira stilled her hips and pulled out, leaving Rumi trembling beneath them. Zoey was still trembling when Mira caught her chin again, tilting her face upward. Her voice was velvet and command all at once: “Down.”

Zoey obeyed instantly, letting Mira guide her head lower. Fingers tangled into her damp hair, firm and unyielding, until her lips met the silicone strap slick with Rumi’s need. Mira held her there for a breath, letting the weight of it rest against her mouth, then pressed her forward with steady insistence.

Zoey opened for it greedily. The first pass was tentative, a slow drag of her tongue along the length, tasting every trace of Rumi still clinging to it. Then she took more, lips sealing, sucking with a hunger that made Mira’s grip tighten in her hair. A groan escaped Zoey’s throat, muffled into the silicone, her moan vibrating up through Mira’s hand.

“Good girl,” Mira whispered, low enough it was almost a growl. “God, I like seeing you like this.”

Zoey pushed harder, testing her limits, swallowing the length deeper until her throat flexed around it. She moaned into it again, deliberate this time, the sound buzzing through Mira’s body. Mira shuddered visibly, hips twitching forward, the sight and feel of it unraveling her composure.

“That’s it,” Mira murmured, voice breaking with pleasure she hadn’t meant to show. “So fucking pretty with your mouth full.”

When Zoey finally lifted her gaze, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, Mira almost lost herself completely. The look she gave her—eyes wide, locked, pupils blown with devotion and fire—lit something feral in Mira’s chest.

She eased back slowly, sliding the strap from Zoey’s mouth inch by inch, watching Zoey’s lips cling to it until the tip slipped free with a wet sound. Zoey’s chest heaved, saliva shining at the corner of her mouth, her eyes never breaking from Mira’s.

That was all it took. Mira’s composure fractured. With deliberate force, she rolled them, pushing Zoey down and swinging Rumi into place until the bed matched the geometry of a fantasy made flesh.

She rolled them with practiced ease, guiding Zoey down flat to the mattress. Rumi landed atop her, breathless and blinking, before Mira pressed forward again, slotting herself neatly between Rumi’s thighs. The new position locked them all together: Zoey stretched out on the bottom, Rumi straddling her face, and Mira hovering above, the strap angled perfectly.

Zoey’s hands curled tight around Rumi’s thighs, tugging her down until slick heat met her mouth. Rumi gasped, spine arching, one hand bracing against Zoey’s hip as the other fumbled for the sheets.

Mira steadied her, one hand smoothing over Rumi’s trembling body, the other guiding the strap down. She pressed it slow through Rumi’s wetness, dragging it up and down, teasing her clit before sliding just inside and pulling back again. Each movement coaxed a needy sound from Rumi’s throat, muffled only when Zoey’s tongue caught her.

Mira’s rhythm built slow, careful, until she felt Rumi’s body start to yield, the stretch melting into desperate need. Then she pressed deeper, hips snapping forward until the sound of Rumi’s cry broke sharp above Zoey’s muffled moans.

“Good girl,” Mira breathed, the words hot against Rumi’s ear. “Taking me so well.” Her hand cupped Rumi’s hip. Below, Zoey groaned, her mouth sealed around Rumi’s clit, the sound vibrating straight through her core.

The pace picked up. Mira drove into Rumi with sharp, steady thrusts that left her gasping, every push rocking her harder onto Zoey’s mouth. Rumi writhed, caught between them, one hand clutching Zoey's thigh, the other pushing against the headboard to keep her steady.

Then Mira changed the angle. She pulled back just enough to let the strap slide free, glistening, before tilting her hips lower.  Zoey barely had time to pull her mouth away from Rumi’s clit before Mira pressed the length past her lips, pushing deep until slick and saliva coated the silicone. Zoey sighed faintly, eyes fluttering, and Mira groaned at the sight.

“Fuck,” Mira hissed, holding her there just long enough to feel Zoey’s throat tighten around her before dragging back out. She pressed forward again into Rumi, the pace brutal, the shift making Rumi’s entire body shudder.

It became a rhythm, relentless and obscene. One thrust into Rumi, her cry tearing through the morning-muted air. The next into Zoey’s mouth, her muffled choke and hungry moan vibrating through Rumi’s clit. Back again, over and over, Mira controlling the pace like she owned them both.

Rumi was gone, her voice broken into helpless whimpers and gasps, every sound punched out of her lungs with each thrust. Zoey’s nails dug red crescents into Rumi’s thighs, her mouth a mess of slick and moans as Mira used her too. Every time Mira tilted down into Zoey’s mouth, Rumi jolted with the loss, only to keen louder when Mira slammed back into her again.

“Look at you,” Mira rasped, sweat dampening her hair where it clung loose around her face. “Both of you—fuck—you’re mine.”

Rumi couldn’t answer, too far gone, her body arching wild between the strap and Zoey’s tongue. Zoey’s muffled groans filled the space, her throat working as Mira forced her to taste everything, gagging slightly before swallowing it down with desperate greed.

Mira only growled low, rutting into Rumi hard enough to make the mattress groan, then pulling back again to bury the strap in Zoey’s mouth. One thrust here, one pump there, both girls unraveling under her as if she were the only gravity they knew.

Rumi quaked beneath them, her hands grasping the back of Zoey’s thighs, her voice broken on every thrust. Mira’s pace didn’t falter, the strap driving deep, the sound of their bodies colliding loud in the cocoon of storm and sheets.

“Please,” Rumi gasped, her head tipping back, hair clinging damp to her temples. Her voice was raw, torn from her chest. “Mira—don’t stop. Please don’t stop—”

Mira’s hand pressed flat over her back, holding her down, the force of each thrust making her spine bow against the hold. “I won’t,” she rasped, sweat shining at her temples. “Take it for me, pretty girl. Take all of it.”

Zoey slipped lower again, her mouth sealing over Rumi’s clit, sucking with sharp precision that sent sparks bursting behind her eyes. Her tongue circled, flicked, then flattened, every motion in sync with the thrust of Mira’s hips.

The world snapped into fragments.
One jolt. Mira burying herself deep, grinding hard into the spot that made Rumi cry out.
Lightning. White against her vision, thunder in her ears.
Zoey’s mouth. Wet, unrelenting, the vibration of her muffled groan making Rumi’s thighs clamp down hard.
Another jolt. Mira’s hand squeezing her thigh, coaxing, commanding, never letting up.

Rumi gritted her teeth, the sound breaking into a sob. Her whole body convulsed, the orgasm ripping through her in wave after merciless wave. It didn’t crest and fall—it just kept going, each thrust and lick dragging her higher, locking her in place. Her cry dissolved into ragged gasps, her nails leaving half-moons on Zoey’s skin, her hips jerking uncontrollably.

Mira groaned low, rutting into her harder, her eyes locked on every twitch and shudder. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Give it to me—”

Zoey hummed against her clit, sucking harder, and the vibration made Rumi scream into the storm. Her voice cracked, broke, then shattered entirely, leaving only the sound of her body thrashing against the sheets as the orgasm tore on.

By the time it finally ebbed, Rumi was wrecked. Her chest heaved, sweat beading at her collarbone, her thighs trembling violently around Zoey’s head. Every brush, every aftershock made her twitch like she’d been struck again.

Mira slowed at last, slipping free but keeping her hand soothing against Rumi’s back, rubbing gentle circles. Zoey kissed the inside of her thigh, lips swollen, breath ragged.

Rumi sagged back into Zoey, her voice reduced to a broken whimper. Overstimulated, undone, still trembling like the storm had rooted itself in her veins. Together, they eased her carefully off Zoey, laying her down against the cool sheets. Rumi’s chest still heaved, her skin damp with sweat, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

Mira pressed a kiss to her temple before stepping back, reaching for the harness buckle at her hips. The straps gave with a snap, and she started to unfasten it when Zoey’s voice cut in, low and mischievous.

“Hey now,” Zoey said, propping herself on an elbow, eyes dark and glittering. “I’m not wasting that.”

Before Mira could reply, Zoey slid off the bed and sank to her knees at the edge. She caught Mira’s hip with one hand, steadying her, and then leaned in. Her tongue dragged a slow, deliberate line along the length of the strap, tasting everything Rumi had left behind. Mira gasped, her head tipping back, one hand flying instinctively to Zoey’s hair.

“You’re absolutely killing me,” Mira breathed, voice fraying, her fingers tightening as Zoey’s lips closed around the silicone.

Zoey hummed around it, taking more, deeper, until Mira shuddered. Each wet pull echoed in the room, obscene and deliberate, as Zoey’s eyes stayed locked on hers. The sight alone made Mira’s knees nearly buckle.

Another slow suck, another flick of her tongue. Mira’s grip in her hair turned near desperate, her chest rising sharp. Zoey pulled back at last, saliva slicking her mouth, and swallowed with deliberate care.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her grin a wicked tilt before she rose to her feet and caught Mira’s mouth in a hungry kiss beside the bed. The taste of Rumi lingered between them, sharp and intimate.

On the bed, Rumi blinked up at them, dazed, her breath still uneven. Watching them made her stomach flip, but she couldn’t summon a word—only the tight coil of want and affection all mixed into one.

Mira finally broke the kiss, brushing her thumb across Zoey’s jaw. “Stay,” she murmured, then slipped away to the bathroom. A moment later, she returned with a warm, damp cloth, pressing it gently into Zoey’s waiting hands.

Zoey climbed back onto the bed without hesitation, her whole posture softening as she sat between Rumi’s trembling thighs. “Hey, baby,” she murmured, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “You did so good. Let’s get you comfy, yeah?”

The first touch of the cloth made Rumi flinch with a choked cry, her body twitching from the leftover overstimulation. Zoey shushed her gently, kissing her knee as she worked slowly, easing her through it. “I know, I know,” she whispered, her voice all velvet now. “It’s okay. Just me. Just us. You’re safe.”

By the time Zoey was done, Rumi’s eyes brimmed with quiet tears—not pain, but release. Zoey kissed each thigh before tucking the blanket over her, then slipped in beside her, wrapping her close.

Mira joined them a moment later, the strap gone, her body warm as she settled against Rumi’s other side. The three of them sank into the cocoon of blankets again, the world outside hushed and still. Soft morning light crept through the curtains, pale and gentle, spilling over them as they folded closer together, drifting into quiet.

Chapter Text

The library’s big study room looked like it had been turned inside out. The long oak tables that usually carried stacks of textbooks and laptops were pushed against the walls, replaced with a circle of pottery wheels humming faintly as the instructor tested pedals. Tarps covered the floor like a patchwork quilt, crinkling under every step, and the air already smelled of clay and damp earth. Little bowls of tools — sponges, wooden ribs, wire cutters — waited beside each stool like props from a play no one had rehearsed for.

The fluorescent lights had been dimmed, leaving the room lit mostly by amber floor lamps and the glow of strings of bulbs hung from the rafters. Instead of “study hall at midnight,” the place felt cozy, almost festive — a secret craft studio tucked into the heart of the library.

Zoey adjusted the knot of her apron with an energy that was practically vibrating, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe we actually got in,” she whispered, leaning toward Rumi with a grin that was all teeth. “The second they posted sign-ups, I was on it. Front-row clay privileges, baby.”

Rumi smirked, pulling her hair up into a bun and rolling her sleeves. “Congratulations, you survived the craft wars.”

Mira, already perched on her stool like a queen observing her domain, smoothed her apron flat against her blouse. Somehow, she managed to make the canvas bib look like couture. “Pottery,” she said, calm as ever, “is precision and patience. This will be enjoyable.”

Zoey choked on a laugh. “Enjoyable for me maybe. I get to watch you try not to combust when your cup turns out lopsided.”

Mira arched a brow, unbothered. “I don’t intend to fail.”

Rumi gave her a skeptical little side-eye as she tied her apron. “Yeah, we’ll see. I think clay might be your nemesis.”

The instructor clapped his hands, calling the circle to attention. “Alright everyone! Welcome to our pop-up pottery night for National Craft Month. Tonight we’re going to be making bowls — simple, approachable, but a great way to get your hands in the clay.”

Zoey leaned close between Mira and Rumi, stage-whispering, “Simple, approachable, and absolutely going to expose who among us has the Hand-Eye Coordination of the Gods.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward despite herself.

The instructor pressed his foot to the pedal of his own wheel, the clay spinning to life. “The most important part is centering the clay. Without that, nothing works. Watch closely.”

Zoey glanced at her girlfriends, waggled her brows, and mouthed dramatically: center yourselves.

Rumi stifled a laugh behind her hand. Mira exhaled, long-suffering already.

The wheels began to hum as everyone set their hands on the cool gray lumps before them, the room filling with the sound of water splashing and nervous chuckles.

And just like that, chaos was promised.

The wheels purred to life in unison, a soft chorus of spinning clay and splashing water. Rumi sat forward, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. The lump in the center of her wheel wobbled stubbornly, sliding each time she tried to press it down. Her shoulders twitched each time it slipped, tension building in every line of her posture.

“This is…” she muttered under her breath, “so much harder than it looks.”

Zoey glanced sideways, her own clay mound spinning lopsided, then slapped a palm against it almost instinctively. To her shock, it flattened neatly into the center of the wheel. She blinked, leaning back slightly. “Wait. Did I… do it?”

The instructor strolled by, peered down, and nodded approvingly. “Nicely centered. Keep your hands steady like that.”

Zoey blinked at her wheel, incredulous. “What? No way. I’m… good at this?” Her laugh was disbelieving, bubbling up bright. “Oh my god. I’m a prodigy. Call me Clay-Z.”

Rumi groaned, nearly collapsing sideways with the weight of her frustration. “You cannot be good at this on your first try. It’s— it’s not fair.”

Zoey grinned, water dripping down her forearms. “Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the clay.”

Across the circle, Mira’s hands were perfectly poised, her back ruler-straight, her motions deliberate. She pressed her palms against her lump of clay with all the gravity of a surgeon beginning an incision. Her wheel hummed. The clay shivered. Then it shot violently off-center, wobbling like a drunk top before smearing a fat streak of slip straight across her apron.

Zoey hunched forward, her shoulders shaking as laughter burst out of her, loud and unrestrained. Rumi turned her face into her shoulder to hide the grin she couldn’t hold back, shoulders bouncing with silent laughter.

Mira stared down at the streak across her chest like it had personally betrayed her. She inhaled slowly, reset her mound with delicate precision, and said tightly, “It was a misstep.”

“Sure,” Zoey said between breaths, still laughing. “Totally. Just a misstep.”

But when Mira leaned in again, lips pursed in steely determination, the clay lurched the opposite direction and sprayed the instructor’s shoe with a wet slap.

The instructor froze. Looked down. Looked back up at Mira. He blinked once. Twice. “…We’ll work on it.”

That was it. Rumi’s laugh burst free, bright and sharp, and Zoey nearly fell off her stool, bent double with wheezing hysterics.

Mira sat very still, jaw clenched, slip dripping off her apron — the faintest flush climbing the tips of her ears.

Rumi’s wheel spun steadily, but the clay on it refused to cooperate. Each time she tried to push down, the mound wobbled off-center, bulging to one side like it had no interest in being a bowl. Her brows knit tight, her lips pressing together in frustration.

“Why won’t you just—” She tried again, pressing harder. The mound slumped dangerously. “Ugh. Useless.”

Zoey rinsed her hands quickly in the water bucket, then rose from her stool with a lopsided grin. “Here. Let me show you.”

Before Rumi could protest, Zoey slid onto the stool with her, knees bracketing hers, arms looping around until her bigger hands covered Rumi’s.

Rumi stiffened, breath catching when she realized just how close Zoey was, her chest flush to her back, her chin nearly brushing her shoulder. The heat of her pressed in, warm and steady, grounding her more than the clay ever could.

“Relax,” Zoey murmured, her breath stirring the loose strands of Rumi’s hair. Her fingers curved over Rumi’s, guiding them gently into the clay. “Like this—don’t fight it. Let it move with you.”

Together, they pressed down, their palms sinking into the wet surface until the clay rose smooth beneath their touch. Rumi’s cheeks burned hot, her pulse a mess. Rumi’s breath hitched. The clay was no longer the problem — it was Zoey’s fingers, firm and sure around hers, sliding with easy strength as they shaped the mound back into center. Her pulse stumbled, heat rushing to her face. She couldn’t stop herself from remembering how many times she’d felt those same fingers guiding her in far more intimate ways, pulling every sound she hadn’t meant to give. Clay clung to Zoey’s tattoos, slip dripping over the vinework that climbed her wrist, staining the leaves and flowers she wore on her skin. The faint watercolor petals, usually soft bursts of color, bled beneath the gray until they looked alive, half-suffocated, half-blooming through the mess. Rumi couldn’t stop staring — not just at the clay, but at the strength of the hands guiding hers, steady and unshakable.

The mound dipped neatly under their joined touch, finally beginning to rise in something resembling symmetry. Zoey laughed softly, delighted. “See? You’ve got it. You just needed a steady hand.”

Rumi’s cheeks flushed hot. She tried to answer, but her voice came out shaky, caught between a laugh and something far more vulnerable.

Across the circle, Mira was watching. She’d meant to focus on her own wheel, but her foot had pressed harder and harder against the pedal without her noticing, tension ratcheting higher with every pass of Zoey’s hands over Rumi’s. Her clay spun faster and faster, wobbling precariously as she sat frozen, eyes fixed on them, lips parted in silence.

Without looking up, Zoey smirked, voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “Careful, Mira. We won’t need the kiln if you keep staring like that — the heat from your stare’ll fire the damn clay for us.”

Rumi let out a startled laugh, nearly losing the form again, while Mira’s ears went pink even as she snapped her attention back to her own disaster of a wheel.

The room had mellowed into something almost peaceful. Wheels hummed in unison, the instructor pacing the circle with approving nods as the students began to wrestle their clay into recognizable forms.

Zoey’s wheel bore a small but shockingly symmetrical bowl — her expression hovering between smug pride and disbelief. Rumi had managed something softer, her clay still a little uneven at the rim but undeniably bowl-shaped, and she sat back with a grin that was half shy, half triumphant.

Mira, however, had gone ambitious. Her piece towered taller than anyone else’s, walls pulled higher and higher with surgical precision, her jaw tight with concentration. For a moment, it looked perfect — startlingly elegant, smooth lines catching the low light.

But ambition has its limits.

A tiny tremor shivered through the clay, barely noticeable at first. Mira’s hands froze, her foot still pressing a little too firmly on the pedal. The wheel spun faster, centrifugal force doing what it does best. The bowl bulged at the middle, then split with a sudden, wet pop.

The top half wrenched sideways and launched like a catapulted frisbee.

Rumi barely had time to gasp before the hunk of clay smacked square against her stomach with a damp splat. She doubled forward in shock, eyes wide, as Zoey burst into laughter so hard she nearly toppled off her own stool.

Back at Mira’s wheel, the bottom half collapsed outward like a flung pancake and slapped the splash pan. The slap knocked the rim of Mira’s own water bowl, tipping it toward her. A sheet of gray water cascaded into her lap and across her apron, with a fine mist arcing just far enough to freckle Rumi’s sleeve.

Silence fell, broken only by the high-speed whir of Mira’s wheel and one traitorous drip…drip…drip from her hair.

Zoey wheezed, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, Mira—”

Even the instructor faltered, staring like he couldn’t quite process what he’d just witnessed before finally managing, “...Well. That’s one way to… deconstruct.”

Rumi peeled the dripping chunk of clay off her shirt with both hands, trying to glare through the mess, but her lips were already twitching. When she finally broke, laughter tore through her, bright and helpless.

Mira groaned, dropping her forehead against her arm. “I hate pottery.”

Zoey leaned back on her stool, still breathless from laughing, and managed to choke out: “No, babe. Pottery hates you.”

The last of the wheels slowed, the chorus of humming motors tapering into silence. Clay-splattered aprons sagged, wrists ached, and laughter still echoed faintly off the high windows. Their bowls—some lopsided, some surprisingly elegant, and one that looked suspiciously like an ashtray—sat on the instructor’s tray, destined for the kiln.

Rumi, still flushed from laughing so hard her ribs ached, reached across the narrow gap. With deliberate slowness, she lifted her clay-slick pinky and smeared a faint streak across Mira’s cheekbone.

“Hey,” she said sweetly, “missed a spot.”

Mira blinked, unimpressed, dignity hanging on by a thread.

Zoey pounced immediately. She gestured toward her own cheek with exaggerated seriousness. “Uh oh. Mira, looks like you’ve got a little something right there.”

Mira turned her head slowly toward her, deadpan, the streak of clay catching in the light.

Zoey mimed pulling out an invisible camera. “Perfect. This one’s going on the highlight reel.”

Mira exhaled through her nose, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. Rumi snickered, ducking her head to hide her grin, and Zoey’s laughter came quick and loud, bouncing off the walls.

For a moment, even with the mess and the ruined apron, it felt like the perfect ending: the three of them together, warm and tired, clay under their nails, hearts light — chaos promised, chaos delivered.

Chapter Text

The coffee shop looked different tonight. Or maybe it was just them.

The stage was the same — a little raised platform near the back wall, framed by string lights and leaning stacks of old books someone had dragged in to make the place look bohemian. The mic still tilted slightly to the left, as if it, too, was tired of holding secrets. Even the barista was the same, pulling shots with the weary rhythm of someone surviving their second double shift.

But for them, the room had shifted. The first time they’d sat here, it had been novelty — a night to test the edges of something fragile, to risk vulnerability and see what might echo back. Now it was return. A second act. The space carried their fingerprints in a way no one else could see.

Their table waited in the back by the window, half-shadowed beneath a crooked lamp. Rain painted streaks down the glass, city lights blurring to watercolor. Inside, the air smelled of espresso and wood polish, warm against the chill pressing at the panes.

Rumi sat first, cardigan drawn close, her gaze flickering from the stage to her lap as though deciding which one might betray her less. Mira followed, settling her bag neatly at her feet, her every motion deliberate — smoothing the fold of her skirt, aligning the handle of her mug until it was parallel with the table’s edge. Zoey came last, all restless energy, tipping her chair back on two legs, fingers drumming an absent rhythm that almost matched the muffled jazz on the speakers.

They didn’t ask what the others had brought. Didn’t confess what words they’d hidden away. Maybe they didn’t want to puncture the quiet between them. Maybe they didn’t want to admit how much this night mattered.

The host stepped up and tapped the mic. A squeal rang sharp before settling into silence. “Welcome back to open mic. You know the rules — listen close, clap loud, respect the stage.” The crowd’s murmur softened: students clutching notebooks, locals with mugs steaming between their hands, a teenager adjusting the strap of a battered guitar.

And at the back, three girls sat under the lamplight. Rumi tracing patterns into her sleeve. Mira’s hands folded too tightly in her lap. Zoey’s grin stretched just a little too wide, a folded page hidden in her pocket.

Same place. Same ritual. Same stage.
But tonight, they carried more than words with them.

Mira rose carefully, chair legs scraping the wood in a hush that seemed to pull every ear in the room toward her. She smoothed her shirt with both palms, glanced once over her shoulder at Rumi and Zoey by the window — her tether, her reason — and walked toward the stage.

The mic leaned slightly, like it was waiting for a secret. Mira sat on the stool, cleared her throat, unfolded a piece of paper she’d written and rewritten half a dozen times.

Her voice was soft, composed.

“Love,
a gentle tether,
a light across the water,
a vow stitched in quiet hours.
To hold is to keep,
and to keep is to honor
the moment as it was.”

The cadence was neat. Controlled. A version of herself that was safe, almost untouchable. She stopped, staring down at the paper, and shook her head. A breath escaped her — sharp, almost a laugh.

“Ahh, fuck it.”

The audience chuckled softly. Mira folded the paper and tucked it into her pocket, her bare hands left trembling against her knees. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. Lower, more open, threaded with nerves and something far more dangerous: truth.

“I could stand here all night and recite neat little lines about love. I’ve done it before — in my head, in my journals, in the quiet corners where no one could see me. But love doesn’t live in neat lines. It’s messy. It’s terrifying. And for a long time, it was something I admired from far away, like a painting you weren’t allowed to touch. Beautiful. Fragile. Breakable.”

Her gaze flicked toward the back — Zoey leaning forward in her chair, Rumi’s hands folded tight in her lap — and Mira’s voice wavered, but she pressed on.

“I used to think love meant holding still. Freezing a person in the version I first adored, trying desperately not to let them slip away. But that isn’t love. That’s fear. Love isn’t about keeping someone the same. It’s about watching them change and choosing them anyway. Falling in love again and again — with every new version, every evolution, every shift. Because people aren’t still life. They’re seasons. They’re storms and summers and quiet dawns. And love — real love — asks us to fall each time, without hesitation.”

Her lip trembled, but she didn’t look away. She leaned closer to the mic, letting the vulnerability break through her composure.

“I’ve been afraid of that, if I’m honest. Afraid I’d fail at it. Afraid I wouldn’t be enough, or that when the people I loved changed, I’d lose them. But what I’ve learned — what they’ve taught me” — her voice cracked on the word, tears brimming — “is that love is not a single choice. It’s a thousand tiny ones. Every day. It’s making tea for tired hands. It’s listening when you’re exhausted. It’s patience when the words don’t come out right. It’s letting yourself be seen, even when it feels unbearable. It’s… being brave enough to keep saying yes.”

Her throat caught, and she swallowed hard, blinking fast.

“I want all of it. The soft parts, the hard parts. The messy, the mundane, the extraordinary. I want to love in every version of them, in every version of myself. I want to fall in love with the girl who laughs at her own jokes, with the girl who gets lost in books, with the girl who’s survived fire and still shines brighter than anything I’ve ever seen. I want to fall for the wild heart that makes the world louder, and for the quiet strength that holds me steady when I can’t hold myself. I want to fall and fall and fall until there’s nothing left in me but choosing them, again and again.”

The room was silent now, completely still except for her trembling breath. She pressed her lips together, her shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping steady.

Her final words slipped out raw, tears breaking her composure.

“I used to think love was fragile. But now I know… it’s the strongest thing I’ve ever touched. And I will never, ever stop reaching for it.”

Her lip quivered. She ducked her head briefly, exhaling shaky through her nose, before stepping back from the mic.

Applause rose slowly at first, then swelled, warm and sustained, wrapping around her as she made her way carefully off the stage. Her hands still trembled, but her mouth curved with something unguarded, something more profound than a smile: freedom.

From the back table by the window, Rumi couldn’t look away.

She’d seen Mira behind glass before — perfectly composed, every gesture neat and precise, as if emotion could be tucked into a ledger and balanced. But on that stage? Mira was cracking open in front of strangers, her voice trembling, her lip quivering, tears burning in her eyes, and instead of hiding, she let them see. She let them see.

Rumi’s chest tightened until it hurt.

Beside her, Zoey had gone completely still, eyes glossy, shoulders hunched forward like she could somehow throw herself onto the stage with sheer will. When Mira’s voice cracked, Zoey’s breath hitched audibly, and Rumi reached blindly for her hand under the table. Zoey caught it instantly, their fingers locking, clutching tighter with each wavering word.

Rumi could feel Zoey’s pulse hammering against her palm. Or maybe it was her own.

God, Mira had always been beautiful — sharp and brilliant, devastating in her restraint. But this? This was different. This was her stripped of her armor, standing in the open, admitting she was afraid and choosing to love anyway.

And it wrecked Rumi.

Her throat ached as she watched, tears prickling hot at the corners of her eyes. She glanced sideways at Zoey, who was biting her lip hard, cheeks shining wet, but still grinning through it like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Rumi almost laughed through her own tears, squeezing her hand tighter.

Because Mira wasn’t just reading poetry. She wasn’t just performing. She was confessing. To them. About them. About the kind of love that wasn’t frozen in time but alive, ever-changing, terrifying in its vastness.

Rumi wiped quickly at her cheek with her free hand, though it was useless — the tears kept spilling anyway. Her heart swelled, raw and tender, as Mira’s voice broke again, softer this time, and Rumi felt like the whole world had narrowed to this: Mira on the stage, Zoey’s hand in hers, and the unbearable certainty that she would never stop falling in love with them both.

By the time Mira stepped down from the stage, Zoey was a wreck. Her cheeks were hot, her throat raw, and the tears wouldn’t stop — big, ugly, crocodile tears streaming down while she tried to laugh through them. She hadn’t cried this hard since she was a kid, and Mira had done this to her. Mira, who used to carry herself like marble and glass, had just stood up there and shattered in the most beautiful way possible.

Zoey barely had time to swipe at her face before Mira reached her.

“Zo,” Mira murmured, her voice still raw from speaking, as she cupped Zoey’s face in both hands. The touch was grounding, gentle but firm enough to hold her in place. Her thumbs brushed over damp cheeks, wiping at tears that only seemed to multiply the more she tried.

“You cry so beautifully,” Mira whispered, her own eyes glistening as she leaned in. “How could I not fall for you every time?”

And before Zoey could laugh or choke or ruin it with a joke, Mira kissed her — soft, tender, not about heat or urgency, but about presence. About love. It steadied Zoey’s shaking chest, even as her heart banged against her ribs like it wanted to climb out and join Mira on the stage.

When Mira pulled back, she didn’t let go entirely. She only shifted, reaching across to take Rumi’s hand, threading their fingers together before turning her gaze toward her.

“And you,” Mira said, quieter now, her lip trembling but her smile unwavering. “That morning on the beach will stay with me forever. It was the moment I realized I could be everything I always wanted to be. Not just for myself… but for you. For us.”

Rumi’s eyes softened, lips parting, but whatever answer she might’ve given tangled in her throat.

Zoey, sniffling hard, tried to blow out a shaky laugh. “Great. Love confessions and poetic declarations. Guess it’s my turn to follow that up.”

Both their heads snapped toward her — Mira startled, Rumi wide-eyed, curious.

Zoey smirked, swiping her sleeve across her still-damp cheeks as she pushed her stool back. “Don’t look at me like that. Somebody’s gotta keep the show rolling.”

And before she could second-guess it, Zoey was on her feet, heading toward the stage, her pulse thrumming wild in her ears.

Zoey reached the stage with her usual swagger, tugging the mic stand toward her only for it to sway right back with a squeak. She gave the hinge a narrow look.
“Well, that’s about the best it’s gonna get,” she deadpanned, earning a few scattered chuckles from the crowd.

She stood there a beat longer, the familiar spark of mischief dancing in her eyes — and then, with a small inhale, she reached into her pocket. When she pulled out a folded piece of paper, the room seemed to tilt with her.

“Okay, so… full disclosure,” Zoey began, her voice softer now, tugged clean of its usual armor. “I’m not really the poetry type. I was the kid who colored outside the lines, who turned finger-paint flowers into dinosaurs. I don’t do neat. I don’t do tidy metaphors.”

Her fingers smoothed the crease in the paper, buying herself a moment. When she looked up, her grin was gone, replaced with something rawer.
“But the thing is… somewhere along the way, I fell for two people who love words. Who breathe them. Who build worlds with them. And I thought maybe… if I tried, just once, I could show them what they gave me. How they taught me to see words differently.”

She glanced down, breath hitching, and then read.

Zoey unfolded the paper slowly, the creases soft from being thumbed too many times. Her fingers trembled, but she held it steady, lifted her chin, and started.

“I thought love was a brief thing…”
Her voice was low, uncertain at first, but it carried.
“A flare against the dark,
loud enough to startle,
bright enough to blind,
gone before the smoke clears.”

She paused, swallowing. Her eyes flicked over the crowd, then back to the page.
“But then—” Her voice softened. “The girl of glass and gravity.”

She drew a breath, the words gentler now.
“Who held her silence like scripture.
I mistook her stillness for distance,
until I saw her splinter—”
A shaky laugh slipped out, almost fond. “—into laughter, into longing,
into a thousand pieces of softness
that no one else was allowed to see.”

Her throat caught. She blinked hard, pushing forward.
“And I learned that even the sharpest edges…
can ache to be touched.”

Another pause, her chest rising with a deep inhale before she let it go.
“And the girl of fire—” her voice steadied, rich with warmth now,
“who carried her wounds like constellations.
I thought flame only destroyed,
but she showed me the blaze that warms,
the embers that endure,
the beauty of a body that refuses to hide
its proof of survival.”

Zoey glanced up from the page, eyes glimmering, lips pressed tight before she continued.
“And I—” she laughed under her breath, self-conscious, “I was noise and restless hands.
Words that tumbled too quickly,
facts no one needed,
laughter too loud for quiet rooms.”

Her voice softened, almost breaking.
“I thought myself the echo
to other people’s music.”

She gripped the paper tighter, her hands trembling, but her voice lifted again.
“But with them… I became a note in the chord,
a thread in the braid,
a keeper of silences
that no longer feel heavy.”

Her breath hitched, but she smiled through it, shaky and tender.
“So now I know—” she let the words fall slow, deliberate, “love is not a flare.
Not something that burns itself empty.”

Her voice grew stronger, the rhythm carrying her forward.
“It is clay that remembers the hands that shaped it,
sand that clings after the tide recedes,
the hum between heartbeats
when two voices fall into rhythm.”

Her eyes shone as she reached the end, her lip trembling just slightly.
“Love is what lingers.
Love is what stays.
Love is what I choose…
each time they reach for me.”

When the final line left her mouth, she stayed there for a heartbeat too long, paper trembling in her hands. Then she exhaled, a shaky laugh slipping through as she folded it closed.

“Look… I’m not good with fancy words,” she admitted, voice steady but thick with emotion. “But this? This is my version of all in. I didn’t just fall for one of them. I fell for both. Wholly. Endlessly. And I’ll keep falling, even as they change. Forever.”

Her eyes searched the back of the room, finding two faces in the crowd, her whole body softening. “That’s it. That’s me.”

From the table, Mira hadn’t breathed through most of Zoey’s poem. 

Persuasion. Mira knew it instantly. The quiet insistence of choosing again, the ache of time and distance, and the unbearable sweetness of loving someone through change. Every syllable echoed passages she’d held to her heart for years.

By the time Zoey folded her paper and came back, Mira’s hands were clenched tight in her lap, nails pressing crescents into her palms. When Zoey dropped back into her chair, Mira leaned in immediately, her voice low but charged.
“That was Persuasion,” she said, almost accusing. Her lips curved, trembling at the edges. “You knew.”

Zoey smirked, still flushed from the stage lights. “Yeah. Me and Rumi talk sometimes, you know. We trade secrets when you’re off being mysterious.”

Rumi sputtered. “Wait—How the hell did you know The Little Prince was mine?”

Zoey turned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “First time we went to your place, the night you were struggling with sleep. We walk in and what do I see? Bland-ass shelves, clean white walls, simple everything. Except for one thing. A dinosaur edition Le Petit Prince IN FRENCH, just… chilling there on the coffee table. No way that wasn’t important.”

Rumi’s jaw dropped, color flooding her cheeks. “You snooped!”

“I observed,” Zoey corrected smugly, leaning back in her chair. “Big difference.”

Mira blinked, still processing, still clutching the warmth in her chest. And then it hit her — the last voice woven through the poem. She straightened, eyes narrowing. “And also — was that Rilke?”

Zoey grinned, caught but not even slightly ashamed. “Yeah, dude. I like poetry from time to time. I can be a softie too. Don’t sound so shocked.”

Rumi groaned, half-burying her face in her hands. Mira laughed, watery and disbelieving, and Zoey sat there grinning like she’d just dropped the biggest secret of her life — and was finally proud of it.

Rumi stared at her girlfriends, then at the stage. Her lips parted, then closed again. She muttered, almost too quietly for them to hear, “Well… I guess now’s a good time to do this, huh?”

Before they could ask, she bent to her tote bag, pulled out a battered notebook, and hugged it to her chest as she stood. She walked to the stage without fanfare, no stumble, no jokes — just the kind of silence that made the room lean closer.

The mic stand swayed slightly, like it always did, but she didn’t bother fixing it. She opened her notebook with fingers that trembled faintly, inhaled once, shaky and uneven, and began.

Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

“There was once a girl who thought she’d lost everything.”
Rumi’s voice caught on the first word, shaky but determined. She steadied herself with a breath, eyes flicking down to the page before rising again.

“She ran until her lungs burned—” a pause, softer now, “until her shadow no longer followed her. Until even her name felt like it had been left behind.” Her throat worked around the words, quiet at first, then firmer: “She ran to the far edge of the world, where the ground thinned into sand, and the horizon blurred into nothing.”

Another inhale, trembling. “The past swallowed behind her like a black tide… a void she feared she could never climb out of. And she thought the only way forward… was forgetting.” The last word slipped out hushed, barely audible.

She blinked fast, regrouped, and let her voice climb again. “But then she looked up. And there were the stars.”

Her lips curved faintly, a half-smile that cracked through her nerves. “They didn’t just shine. They laughed. They tumbled across the night like sparks shaken from a fire, wild and alive, unafraid of the endless dark they lived in.” Her voice softened into something warm, almost conspiratorial. “They told her stories in constellations, drew maps with their light, teased her when she stumbled, and warmed her when she froze. They reminded her that even in the blackest sky, joy could exist.”

Rumi stopped, swallowed. Her next words trembled out slower: “The stars burned, yes… but they burned with joy.”

She glanced down at her page again, her hands gripping the notebook too tightly, then let out a shaky laugh. “And then she looked out. And there was the ocean.”

The room seemed to hush with her, the quiet rolling into her words. “The ocean didn’t laugh. It… listened.” A breath. “Its voice was the hush of waves pulling in and out, steady as breath.” Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm she spoke. “It took her secrets without flinching. Pulled her closer when she tried to run. Taught her patience in the rhythm of tides.”

Her eyes blurred for a moment, and she pressed forward, steadying herself on the beat of her words. “It was vast enough to terrify her. Yet calm enough to steady her shaking hands. When she cried, it carried her salt away. When she fell silent… it waited.”

Her next inhale shook harder, her voice barely above a whisper. “The girl didn’t know you could love two infinities at once — the sky above… and the water below.” She lingered there, long enough for the silence to ache.

“She thought love could only fit in one direction, one body, one story.” Her breath caught, but she forced the words out. “But standing there at the edge of the world, she saw how the stars leaned down into the water. How the ocean caught their light and held it close. How they touched at the horizon, mirroring each other endlessly.”

Her voice grew stronger now, rising with the swell of the story. “And she realized she hadn’t lost everything after all. She had found it.” A breath, sharp but freeing.

“Not in forgetting. Not in erasing the blaze she came from. But in learning that some fires destroy—” she stopped, swallowed—“and some fires guide.”

Her hand shook as she turned the page, though she didn’t look down. “She found it in laughter written across the heavens. In patience whispered by the tide. In the way two infinities could meet and not collapse, but expand.”

Her eyes glistened as she pushed to the end, the words a rush of air and courage. “And she understood—she hadn’t been running toward the end of the world. She had been running… toward the start of it.”

Rumi exhaled hard, closing the notebook slowly, her fingers trembling against the cover. The silence that followed was as loud as thunder.

When Rumi finally slipped back into her seat, her notebook still clutched tight in her hands, the three of them sat in a silence so full it almost hummed. Her cheeks were blotched from nerves and the high of reading, her hair loose from where she’d shoved it behind her ear one too many times. Zoey immediately reached across the table, her hand landing clumsily but firmly over Rumi’s. Mira’s followed a second later, more deliberate, her fingers threading through theirs until all three hands were tangled together on the scarred wooden tabletop.

Zoey sniffed loudly, a hiccup of a laugh breaking through. “Did we seriously all plan on doing this?”

“Yes,” Rumi said at once, breathless, like she’d been holding it back the whole time. Then, softer: “Apparently.”

Mira’s lips curved, her composure undone in the most fragile, beautiful way. “We’re ridiculous,” she murmured, and yet she was already shifting closer, her chair scraping just slightly against the floor. Rumi mirrored her, leaning until their shoulders brushed. Zoey shoved her chair in with an undignified squeak, sliding right up against them like she’d been waiting years for the permission.

For a moment, there was no crowd, no stage, no lingering smell of coffee and cinnamon. Just the three of them, pressed close, fingers locked, hearts laid bare. They’d cracked themselves wide open tonight, and instead of shattering, they’d found each other there in the middle of the mess.

From outside, the coffee shop looked like nothing special — just another corner haunt with fogged windows and the steady churn of an espresso machine. String lights glowed faintly against the glass, reflections trembling with each passing car on the street. People walked by with their collars turned up, barely glancing at the warm blur inside.

But if anyone had stopped, if they’d lingered and let their eyes adjust past the glare, they might have seen it: three figures pressed close at a back table by the window, hands knotted together in a tangle too stubborn to undo. They might have noticed how one leaned into another’s shoulder, how laughter trembled on lips still shiny with tears, how the smallest movements — a thumb brushing over knuckles, a head tilting just enough to rest against another — carried more weight than whole speeches.

The shop had seen countless nights like this. Students hunched over notes. Friends trying to mend arguments. Lovers beginning or ending with whispers no one else could hear. Tonight, though, the air held something different. Not a beginning, not an ending, but the fragile, astonishing steadiness of people choosing to stay.