Chapter Text
The strangest part of what happened with Gwi-ma wasn’t the way Mira still startled at sudden noises, or the way she could still feel the phantom pressure of fear, like a hand around her throat, whenever she let her mind wander too far at night. The strangest part was how quickly the world had gone back to normal.
Bobby, predictably, had performed his own miracle.
Mira had seen him talk them out of scandals that should have ended careers with the kind of PR sleight-of-hand that Mira could only watch in awe—but even Mira had to admit she hadn’t expected him to manage this. The Idol Awards incident, the Saja Boys, the fire and the smoke and the screaming, had all been polished into something clean and digestible.
By the time Bobby was done, the narrative was neat and shiny: a bold conceptual performance. A new era. A metaphor for overcoming the demons that whisper insecurities into your mind. Fans ate it up. Critics praised the symbolism. Comment sections filled with heart emojis and “so proud of them” and “this saved my life.” Articles were written about the album design as a visual representation of fear.
Mira watched it all unfold with a strange, detached disbelief, like she’d woken up in someone else’s life. She wasn’t sure what was worse: that no one knew the truth, or that they’d believe anything as long as it was packaged correctly.
After that, their management had done the only reasonable thing: they’d forced a hiatus.
Three months. No performances or interviews. No public appearances except the bare minimum. Rest and recover. “Recharge,” Bobby had insisted, because even if the public believed it was all stagecraft, Bobby had been told the truth.
The penthouse was the same as it had always been, sleek and expensive and too big for three people, a place they’d made into a home by sheer stubbornness over the years, filling it with the evidence of their lives. Zoey’s plushies were still stacked in corners like a small army, Rumi’s skincare products lined up in the bathroom in perfect rows, Mira’s hair ties scattered on tables, and three hand-painted pottery mugs rested proudly on their counter even though they were chipped to hell from use.
There was just a new kind of peace and familiarity in the way they moved through each other’s spaces.
Mira still remembered it clearly, the way the truth had come out in the nights following the Idol Awards. Her own fear of losing Rumi had curdled into anger because it was easier to be furious than it was to admit she’d been scared out of her mind. She remembered Zoey crying first, big ugly tears that made her face blotchy, and Mira had almost snapped at her for it until she realized Zoey wasn’t crying because she was afraid of Rumi, she was crying because she couldn’t stand the idea of having hurt her.
The three of them had collapsed onto the couch together, a tangled mess of limbs and apologies, Mira’s throat burning as she forced the words out, Zoey wiping her face on the sleeve of Rumi’s hoodie like she’d done it a hundred times before, Rumi trembling like she’d been holding herself rigid for years and finally didn’t have to anymore. There had been endless snacks and tears, Zoey’s plushies thrown around them like some ridiculous protective ward, and there had been this fragile, beautiful moment where Mira had realized that love could be an apology and a promise all at once.
Then Zoey’s dad had reached out, asking if she wanted to spend part of the summer with him. Zoey had stared at her phone for a long time before she told Mira and Rumi, her smile small and a little stunned, like she’d forgotten she was allowed to want things that had nothing to do with work.
She’d missed her family in the States more than she admitted out loud. Years of being too busy to visit, too exhausted to deal with airports and press and the inevitable headlines, too tangled up in the constant motion of their lives to stop and remember she’d once had a home that wasn’t a penthouse in Seoul. She’d asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, if Mira and Rumi wanted to come too.
Mira had almost said yes on instinct because the idea of warm beaches and the ocean stretching wide and endless sounded exactly like the kind of peace she needed.
But Rumi hadn’t said much during that conversation, just smiled and nodded and told Zoey to have fun. Mira and Zoey had known her long enough to hear what went unsaid. Rumi was comfortable now in a way she’d never been before—comfortable with them, with her skin, with her patterns, with the idea of being held and touched and wanted without having to flinch away—but that comfort still lived inside the walls of their home. It was one thing to let Mira see the patterns curling down her arms while she stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring ramen and humming softly under her breath.
It was another thing entirely to step outside and let the world see on Rumi’s own terms.
In the end, Zoey and Mira had quietly agreed, maybe next time.
So Zoey had gone to California with a suitcase and a grin and a promise to call, and Mira had watched her leave with something warm in her chest, because for once it didn’t feel like loss. It felt like relief. Like Zoey was finally getting something good, something soft, something that belonged to her.
After she left, the penthouse felt…different.
Not empty. Never empty. Mira and Rumi had lived together for years; they knew how to fill space with the kind of companionship that didn’t need Zoey’s constant noise. But there was more room now for quiet, more room for Mira to notice things she probably shouldn’t have been noticing.
Especially since something in Rumi had changed after the Idol Awards.
It wasn’t like she’d been distant before. Rumi had always been affectionate, always quick with a hand on a shoulder, a head on Zoey’s lap, a playful shove, a dramatic cling. There had always been a carefulness under it, though, a slight distance she kept even when she was close. Mira hadn’t noticed it until it was gone. Now Rumi touched them like she meant it, like she wasn’t afraid of being wanted, like she’d finally realized she didn’t have to hide herself.
She wore tank tops and flowy shifts around the penthouse. Shorts. Loose, comfortable things that put her patterns on display like she’d finally decided she didn’t have to hide the most beautiful parts of herself.
Mira had needed time, at first, to get used to seeing them so casually, because she couldn’t stop her brain from flinching at the reminder of what they meant, couldn’t stop the old instinctive fear from trying to creep in at the edges. It didn’t take long for that fear to fade into something else, something quieter, something almost tender.
Something more dangerous, too, because Mira couldn’t name it without feeling like she was doing something wrong. The patterns were beautiful, objectively, curling over Rumi’s skin like ink spilled by an artist with a steady hand, wrapping around her shoulders and down her arms, cutting across her ribs and tracing the line of her abdomen, emphasizing the strength of her body in a way that made Mira’s chest feel strangely tight if she stared too long.
Which was normal.
Obviously.
It was normal to notice your best friend looked good when she was comfortable. It was normal to have a small, stupid flutter in your chest when she threw herself onto the couch beside you and draped her legs across your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, when she leaned into Mira’s space and smelled like shampoo and warmth and something soft, when she laughed and her whole body loosened like she was finally letting herself exist without armor.
Mira wasn’t—she wasn’t doing anything weird about it.
She wasn’t.
She was just… aware.
And if she occasionally found herself staring at the way Rumi’s biceps flexed when she reached for something on the top shelf, or the way her legs looked impossibly long in those stupid shorts, or the way the patterns curved over her skin like they were part of the architecture of her, like she was a work of art someone had built with devotion and care—
Well. That was nobody’s business.
Mira could appreciate beauty without it meaning anything.
She could.
Unfortunately, the universe seemed hell-bent on proving her wrong, because one lazy afternoon when she was scrolling on her phone and lying on Rumi’s lap, enjoying the way Rumi was carding her fingers through Mira’s long pink hair with slow, absent-minded tenderness like it was the easiest thing in the world, her mother sent a message.
An invitation, to be exact, to her older brother’s wedding.
Mira stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, her chest going strangely tight in that familiar, aggravating way it always did whenever her family reached through the distance and reminded her that they still existed, still had opinions, still believed they had a right to her life even after years of treating her like she was something embarrassing to be managed.
Normally, Mira wouldn’t have hesitated to say no.
There was no lost love between her and her long-estranged family. There wasn’t even like, if she was being honest. The last time she’d seen Mincheol in person, he’d looked at her like she was a problem he was tired of solving, and her mother had smiled through it all like she could hold the whole family together with sheer force of will as long as Mira didn’t make things too difficult.
But Rumi’s fingers were still in her hair, scratching gently behind her ear in a way that made Mira’s eyes want to flutter shut, and the sun coming through the large windows felt warm on her skin, and the couch was soft, and Rumi smelled like her floral shampoo and something faintly sweet.
Mira felt… generous, all of a sudden.
Or maybe she just felt reckless.
It would be a great way to piss off her extended family, at the very least. A great way to show up in a perfectly tailored dress with her hair dyed pink and her spine straight, and remind everyone who’d ever looked down on her that she was still here, still successful, still completely out of their control.
So she clicked the RSVP link and said yes.
Because she wasn’t insane, she indicated no plus-one—because who the hell would want to spend a weekend trapped with Mira’s god-awful family, and because Mira wasn’t going to drag Zoey into that mess even if she were here, and because Rumi…
Well, Rumi was Rumi, and Mira didn’t even let herself finish that thought.
She closed the tab before she could second-guess herself, shoved the whole thing into the back of her mind, and didn’t think much about it after that.
Until a week later. Rumi was in the shower, the sound of running water muffled behind the bathroom door, and Mira was in the kitchen preparing lunch, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, trying to focus on something as normal as chopping vegetables without letting her brain spiral into all the things she’d been trying not to think about lately.
Her phone buzzed against the counter. Mira glanced down and jolted in surprise.
Mother👹😈 wants to start a FaceTime call. Accept?
For one horrible second, she considered letting it ring out.
Then she exhaled sharply, wiped her hands on a towel, and accepted the call before she could talk herself out of it.
Mira’s mother appeared on the screen in crisp lighting, her hair neatly styled, her makeup done in that understated way that still looked expensive. She was sitting somewhere Mira didn’t recognize at first, until Mira noticed the familiar framed landscape painting behind her, the one Mira had always hated as a kid because it made the living room feel like a showroom instead of a place anyone actually lived.
“Mira,” her mother said, smiling. It was the kind of smile that looked practiced in a mirror. “You picked up quickly.”
Mira stilled, forcing her expression into something neutral. Polite. Manageable. She forced herself not to apologize out of habit. “Yeah,” she said, pretending she hadn’t just had to wrestle herself into answering. “Hi, Mom.”
Her mother’s eyes flicked over Mira’s face, taking her in with the same quick, assessing scan she always did, like Mira’s appearance was a report card. “You look well,” she said, and Mira couldn’t tell if it was genuine or an accusation.
“I’m fine,” Mira replied automatically. She rested her hip against the counter, fingers tightening around her phone. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yes,” her mother said smoothly. “I just wanted to check in. It’s been a while since we talked properly.”
Mira’s mouth tightened. It had been a while because Mira had made it that way. She hummed, noncommittal, and reached for the knife again just so she’d have something to do with her hands.
Her mother’s gaze dipped briefly, as if she could see the kitchen through the screen, as if she could see the evidence of Mira’s life in the background. “Are you alone?” she asked, too casually.
Mira paused, then forced herself to keep chopping. “Yeah. Zoey’s in the States, and Rumi’s—busy.”
Her mother nodded slowly, as if she’d expected that answer. “I see.”
There was a beat of silence, the kind that always made Mira feel like she was standing on a stage with no script.
Then her mother said, carefully, “I was glad to see you RSVP’d.”
Mira’s jaw worked. “Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “I figured… why not.”
Her mother’s smile widened, just a fraction. “Your brother was surprised,” she said. “But he was pleased.”
Mira snorted before she could stop herself. “Sure.”
“Mira,” her mother warned, her tone gentle but sharp.
Mira clenched her jaw. “I’m coming,” she said, forcing the words out like a concession. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Her mother’s expression shifted, but only a little. “I want you to be part of the family,” she said, as if she hadn’t been the one who pushed Mira out in the first place.
Mira didn’t answer. She kept chopping, even though she wasn’t paying attention anymore.
Her mother sighed. “You indicated no plus-one,” she said, and Mira felt the trap closing around her.
Mira’s knife froze in mid-air.
“So?” she said, trying for casual and failing.
Her mother tilted her head. “So,” she repeated, “I just wanted to make sure you understood that this is a wedding, Mira. There will be many guests. Many families. People will ask questions.”
Mira’s grip tightened. “Let them.”
Her mother’s eyes sharpened. “They will ask about you,” she said. “And it would be… better, for everyone, if you came properly.”
Mira’s chest tightened, a familiar heat crawling up her neck. “Properly,” she echoed.
Her mother’s smile stayed in place. “With someone,” she clarified. “If you have someone.”
Mira’s pulse started to thrum.
Before she could respond, the bathroom door behind her clicked open.
Rumi stepped out, towel around her shoulders, hair damp and curling at the ends, skin still flushed from the heat of the shower. She wore one of those loose short dresses that Mira had been trying very hard not to notice lately, and her patterns were on full display along her arms and collarbone like ink caught in sunlight.
Mira’s brain short-circuited for half a second.
Rumi paused when she saw Mira on the phone, eyebrows lifting in silent question.
Mira forced herself to keep her face neutral and mouthed, my mom.
Rumi winced, and her eyes widened slightly. She moved toward the kitchen anyway, padding across the floor barefoot. Mira’s shoulders loosened as she approached.
Mira’s mother’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
Then, behind her, Mira heard a scoff.
“What?” Mira asked, snapping her gaze back to the screen, as if her glare could reach her brother through it.
He appeared a second later, leaning into the frame like he’d been waiting just out of sight for his cue, his hair styled neatly, his shirt collar crisp, the kind of effortless polish that always made Mira want to reach through the screen and wring his neck.
“Nothing,” Mincheol said, rolling his eyes, but there was a smirk on his lips that made Mira’s skin crawl. “Just… it’s funny, that’s all.”
“Mincheol,” their mother warned immediately, her tone still pleasant but edged.
Mira straightened, chin lifting. “What’s funny?”
Mincheol’s gaze flicked over her face in that quick, dismissive way he’d always looked at her, like he was assessing whether she was worth the effort of insulting today. Then his eyes shifted, and Mira realized with a jolt that he wasn’t looking at her anymore.
He was looking past her.
Looking at Rumi, barely visible on the screen, leaning on the counter behind her.
Mincheol’s smirk widened, slow and ugly. “Just another year without a plus-one,” he said lightly, like he was making conversation at a café instead of trying to humiliate his sister. “But I suppose I’m not surprised.”
Mira’s grip tightened around her phone. “I literally RSVP’d yes,” she snapped. “Isn’t that enough for you?”
Mincheol shrugged, as if she were being dramatic. “I’m just saying. It’s a wedding. People bring dates. On the rare occasions where you grace us with your presence, you always show up alone, looking like you’d rather be anywhere else, and then you spend the whole night glaring at everyone like it’s our fault you don’t know how to be normal.”
“Mincheol,” her mother repeated, soft but warning.
Mira didn’t look away from the screen. “I am normal,” she said through her teeth.
Mincheol rolled his eyes and laughed meanly. “Right.”
Rumi shuffled over beside her, so quiet that Mira almost didn’t notice, but Mira felt it anyway. Rumi’s shoulder brushed hers, staying nearby without trying to take over, like she was anchoring Mira.
Mincheol’s eyes flicked to the side again, and Mira could tell he’d clocked it.
His grin sharpened.
“You know,” he said, tilting his head, voice turning deliberately casual, “I’m starting to think you’re not actually lesbian.”
Mira’s stomach clenched.
Her mother’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Mincheol—”
He kept going, because of course he did.
“I think no guy is interested in you,” he said, as if offering a casual observation, “and you needed an excuse.”
Heat rushed up Mira’s neck so fast it made her dizzy.
She shoved down the urge to throw her phone into the sink.
“I’m way more popular with Korean citizens than you could ever imagine being,” Mira bit out, standing up straighter, shoulders squaring. This was why she hadn’t wanted to come to this stupid wedding. Mincheol never passed up an opportunity to get under her skin. “And I’m literally not lesbian. I’m bi.”
Mincheol’s eyebrows lifted, feigning surprise. “By yourself, that is.”
Mira’s fingers twitched.
He smiled, pleased with himself. “It’s not like you’ve got a girlfriend either,” he added, “so my point stands.”
Mira opened her mouth, then shut it. Her heart hammered.
Rumi glanced at her, brows knitting, as if she could sense the exact moment Mira’s brain went blank.
Mira could feel her mother watching, too—waiting, weighing.
And Mira, stupidly, recklessly, with her pride still stinging and Mincheol’s smug face in front of her and her mother’s expectations tightening like a noose, heard herself say—
“Well, actually, I do.”
The words came out sharp and immediate, like a reflex. The second they left her mouth, Mira’s entire body went cold.
Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, fucking shit.
She swallowed hard.
Next to her, Rumi’s eyes widened.
Mincheol’s smirk faltered for the first time, replaced by something skeptical, almost startled.
“Oh?” he said, coming closer into the frame. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky girl who has to put up with you?”
He sounded like he was mocking her, like he couldn’t imagine Mira being in a relationship with someone.
Mira’s throat tightened.
Her mother’s expression brightened instantly, as if a light had been switched on behind her eyes.
“Oh, Mira,” her mother said, smile turning careful again, the fragile peace reassembling itself on her face. “You’re going out?”
Mira paused, trying to tamp down the panic clawing up her ribs.
Shoot.
Think fast.
“Rumi,” she blurted.
Oh, fuck.
“It’s—it’s Rumi,” Mira repeated, because doubling down was apparently the only coping mechanism she had left.
Beside her, Rumi made a tiny sound—barely audible, half choke, half inhale.
Mira didn’t look at her. She couldn’t.
Mincheol stared at the screen, brow raised, as if he still wasn’t convinced. He looked like he was about to say something, like he was about to tear the lie apart just for fun.
But before he could, their mother spoke.
Her smile widened. Too pleased. Too bright. Like Mira had offered herself up on a golden platter for a sacrifice.
“Rumi,” she repeated, as if savoring it. “How lovely.”
Rumi went very, very still beside her.
Her mother’s eyes flicked—quick and sharp—toward the edge of Mira’s screen, toward the hint of Rumi’s shoulder, her damp hair, the patterns visible on her collarbone.
Then her mother looked back at Mira, smile still perfectly in place.
“Well,” she said smoothly, “then of course you’ll bring her to the wedding.”
Mira froze. “What?”
“To the wedding,” her mother repeated, as if Mira were being slow. “We would love to meet her.”
Mincheol’s grin returned, wider now, delighted.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Please do. Bring your girlfriend.”
Mira’s pulse slammed.
Her mother’s voice softened, still polite, still pleasant, still deadly. “And Mira,” she added, “since she’s important to you… we should include her in the family photos.”
Mira felt like she was going to pass out.
Rumi, beside her, shifted slightly, close enough that Mira’s arm brushed hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Mincheol laughed under his breath. “This is going to be fun.”
Mira’s mouth went dry.
Her mother’s smile didn’t waver. “We’re looking forward to meeting her,” she said. “Truly.”
Mira forced her lips into something that might have passed for a smile.
“Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “Sure.”
Her mother nodded, satisfied. “Good. I’ll tell your aunties.”
Mira’s soul left her body. “Aunties?” she croaked.
Mincheol cackled.
Their mother’s eyes crinkled, still too pleased. “Yes,” she said, as if this was wonderful news. “They’ll be so happy to hear you’re settled.”
Mira stared at the screen, heat crawling up her neck, panic tightening around her ribs like a band. “Okay,” she said quickly, voice strained. “I have to go.”
“Mira—” her mother started.
Mincheol inclined his head, smirking. “Tell Rumi I said hi,” he said, sweet as poison. “Your girlfriend.”
Mira ended the call before she could say something unforgivable.
The screen went black.
For a moment, Mira just stood there, phone still in her hand, staring at her own reflection like she didn’t recognize herself. Then, very slowly, she turned.
Rumi was standing right next to her, towel dropped onto the counter, eyebrows lifted so high they were nearly in her hairline.
In a small, miserable voice, Mira said, “So, I guess I may have just accidentally told my mother and brother that you’re my girlfriend?”
Rumi blinked once. Twice. Then, “Mira.”
“I panicked!”
Rumi’s eyes flicked to Mira’s phone. “You said my name.”
“I know.”
“You said it so fast.”
Mira groaned, letting her face fall into her hands. “I know.”
“It’s like you’ve been thinking about me being your girlfriend for a while,” Rumi teased.
Mira choked. “What—no! I—that’s not—what I meant was—”
“Relax, Mi,” Rumi said, laughing softly. “I’m just teasing.”
She stared at her for another long moment, then exhaled through her nose, like she was trying very hard not to laugh. “Anyway,” she said slowly. “So. When is this wedding?”
Mira tried to remember the invitation details. “Three weeks, I think.”
Rumi nodded once, like she was filing it away, like this was just another schedule detail, like Mira hadn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of their very peaceful kitchen.
“And you told them I’m your girlfriend,” Rumi repeated.
Mira grimaced. “Yes, Rumi, I don’t need another reminder of my sins.”
Rumi snickered. “You’re so dramatic.”
“For good reason!”
“There will be aunties.”
Mira closed her eyes. “So many aunties.”
Rumi hummed thoughtfully, like she was considering the logistics of a grocery list instead of the social battlefield that was Mira’s extended family. Then she shrugged.
“Okay.”
Mira’s eyes snapped open. “Okay?”
Rumi tilted her head. “Yeah. We’ll go together.”
“We don’t have to,” Mira said quickly. “Seriously. I can call them back and say we broke up or something. Or that you have a schedule. Or a cold. Or—demon flu. I don’t know.”
Rumi’s lips twitched. “Demon flu?”
“Highly contagious. Very tragic.”
Rumi laughed softly, and the sound made something warm bloom in Mira’s chest.
“I said I’d always come for you,” Rumi said. “Remember?”
Mira stilled.
Rumi leaned her hip against the counter and linked their pinkies together. “No matter what. When you need me, I’ll be there.”
Mira swallowed, suddenly very aware of the space between them. “Yeah, but this is different. This is… fake dating. That’s not nothing.”
Rumi shrugged again, easy and unbothered. “Then we’ll just treat it like a concept.”
“A concept?”
“Yeah. Like an album era,” Rumi said, grinning. “Girlfriend era. Very exclusive. Limited release. Only available for platinum members—”
Despite herself, Mira snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
Mira’s mouth opened automatically to deny it, but nothing came out.
Rumi didn’t seem to notice. She pushed away from the counter and reached for Mira’s forgotten knife next to the cutting board. “So,” she said, “what are the rules?”
“Rules?”
“If we’re fake dating,” Rumi said, matter-of-factly, “we should probably agree on some boundaries. Otherwise, we’ll just end up improvising in front of your family and that sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”
Mira hesitated. The word boundaries lodged somewhere in her chest, heavy and necessary.
“Right,” she said slowly. “Yeah. Boundaries.”
Rumi grabbed a half-cut carrot and started chopping, like this was a perfectly normal conversation to be having while making lunch. “Public affection?” she asked. “Hand holding? Arm around the waist? That kind of thing?”
Mira’s brain short-circuited at the image.
“Uh,” she said eloquently. “Probably. Yeah. That would look… convincing.”
“Okay.” Rumi nodded. “What about kissing?”
Mira nearly choked.
“Kissing?” she repeated, voice going up half an octave.
Rumi’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion at Mira’s reaction. “Well, not like, all the time. But if someone’s watching, or if your mom asks for a photo, or something.”
Mira’s ears burned. “Let’s maybe… avoid that unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Rumi tilted her head. “When would kissing be absolutely necessary?”
“You know what I mean,” Mira muttered.
Rumi’s mouth quirked. “Sure.”
Mira cleared her throat. “And we don’t have to share a room. I can just say the hotel messed up the booking or something.”
Rumi looked at her for a moment. “If you’d be more comfortable that way, that’s fine.”
The way she said it—calm, easy, no hint of disappointment—made Mira’s chest ache.
“Yeah,” Mira said, looking down at the cutting board. “Just… safer.”
“For you,” Rumi said gently.
Mira didn’t answer.
They finished making lunch in a strange, quiet truce, the air between them softer than it should have been.
❤︎❤︎❤︎
Zoey answered the video call on the second ring despite it being 11 pm in California, her face filling the screen and a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Hi, my loves—” she started, then squinted. “Why do you both look like you’ve committed a crime?”
Mira groaned. “Because I might have.”
Zoey sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god. I’ve been gone for only, like, three days. Tell me everything.”
By the time Mira finished explaining, Zoey was practically vibrating.
“You told your family that Rumi is your girlfriend?” she said, voice climbing with every word. “And now you’re going to a destination wedding together? As a couple?”
Mira buried her face in her hands. “Please stop saying it like that.”
Zoey turned to Rumi, eyes sparkling. “And you said yes?”
Rumi shrugged. “I didn’t really have much of a choice, since she never actually asked me.”
Mira whipped her head around. “Rumi!”
“What? You didn’t!” Rumi said amidst giggles as Mira launched a cushion at her.
“I literally offered you an out, like, ten minutes after! I could just say we broke up or something, it’s not like I care what they think of me—”
Rumi threw up her hands in mock surrender, then reached over to lace her fingers with Mira. Mira instantly stopped talking.
“I’m joking, Mir,” Rumi reassured. “I swear I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t want to go. I don’t want you to spend a week there by yourself.”
An alarming rush of warmth spread throughout Mira’s body, and she forced herself to stay focused before she could do something embarrassing.
“I don’t mind being with them alone. I have years of experience tuning them out,” she insisted half-heartedly, not really sure why she was still arguing.
“Yeah, well.” Rumi didn’t offer anything else. Her thumb had now started drawing circles into Mira’s hand, so Mira didn’t have the mental capabilities to push further.
Zoey made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a delighted squeal. “I love this. This is so romantic.”
“It is not romantic,” Mira snapped. “It’s a bunch of bad decisions wrapped in a very pretty bow.”
Zoey and Rumi grinned. “Same thing,” Zoey said, and at the same time, Rumi nudged Mira’s shoulder teasingly, winked, and asked, “Aw, you think I’m very pretty?”
Mira ignored them both, fighting a smile at their resulting laughs.
They talked for a while longer, Zoey recounting beach stories and complaining about sand getting everywhere, until Rumi stood up.
“I’m going to the restroom,” she said, pressing against Mira’s foot lightly with her own as she passed.
The second the bathroom door clicked shut, Zoey’s expression changed. She leaned closer to the camera, her voice softening. “Mira.”
Mira sighed. “What.”
Zoey’s eyes were gentle. “Do you know what you’re getting into?”
Mira opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it?
She didn’t know.
She had no idea what waited for her at the end of this mess she’d just dragged herself—and Rumi—into. No idea if this would end in awkward apologies, or broken hearts, or something she didn’t even have the courage to imagine.
But she did know one thing.
“I trust her,” Mira said quietly. “Not to hurt me in the end.”
Zoey watched her for a moment, then smiled, small and warm. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
❤︎❤︎❤︎
Later that night, the penthouse was quiet again.
Mira brushed her teeth, went through her usual routine, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that in three weeks, she’d be pretending to date the girl she’d been secretly in love with for longer than she wanted to admit.
Rumi hovered in the doorway of Mira’s room, leaning against the frame. “Goodnight, fake girlfriend,” she said, grinning.
Mira rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dork.”
“You love it.”
Mira snorted. “Go to bed.”
Rumi saluted lazily and turned toward her own room down the hall. “Night, Mira.”
“Night.”
Her door clicked shut.
Mira stood there for a moment, staring at the empty hallway.
Then, before she could stop herself, she walked down to Rumi’s door. She didn’t knock. She just rested her forehead against the wood, eyes closed.
God, she loved this stupid, ridiculous, beautiful girl.
And in three weeks, she was going to pretend that love was fake.