Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mira has always thought Zoey was the prettiest in Huntr/x. Not that Rumi wasn’t stunning or she herself wasn’t the “nation’s visual” for a reason—they were gorgeous too, of course. But Zoey stands out. With her huge, round eyes, blinding smile, and infectious energy and affection that made Mira (and all of their fans) want to listen to her all day—she was something special, inside and out.

Truly the perfect idol and human being in existence. Cute yet sexy. Sweet yet mischievous. Mira loved her so much.

And, as Zoey’s best friend, it’s not like Mira is blind to how pretty and funny and kind Zoey is—on the contrary, she’s hyper aware. Mira wants to celebrate Zoey’s wins, hold her when she cries, and protect her from everything that stands in her way because if anyone deserves to feel happy and loved, it’s Zoey. And even if Mira isn’t so great at expressing that to her friend, she tries her best.

Like right now, because Zoey, for all her virtues, is terrible at saying no to anyone (even if they are very creepy towards her). She needs someone to…help her out, protect her. That person is Mira, who takes her responsibly as Zoey’s protector (stop laughing, Rumi!) extremely seriously. 

The three of them had decided to work out at their local, private gym in the morning, a product of Rumi’s restlessness, Zoey’s “anything goes” attitude, and Mira’s weakness to anything Zoey asks when she turns her puppy-like begging towards her.

Zoey’s in a bright pink matching gym set that shows off her abs and leg muscles (both of which Mira is trying really hard not to stare at because damn, her best friend is hot) as she runs on one of the gym’s various treadmills. Mira, on an elliptical, has been glancing over at her periodically to make sure no creep tries to pull something on their precious maknae who is too polite for her own good while Rumi is doing pull-downs on a nearby machine. 

As Mira’s timer hits forty five minutes and the animated penguin on her screen spits out confetti and a “great job, you’re finished!!” message, Mira calms her breathing and shifts her gaze to check up on Zoey again.

That sight that greets her is…less than pleasant.

A forty-something (pushing fifty, if she’s honest) man is standing at Zoey’s treadmill. She looks intensely uncomfortable, avoiding his eyes and attempts at conversation as he blatantly leers at her chest. 

Anger, white-hot and burning, rises in Mira’s chest. No one, and she means no one, makes Zoey feel like that. 

Mira marches over, roughly, and grabs the rando’s shoulder, shoving him backwards and placing her body between the man and Zoey. She sharpens her glare like a razor, war paint primed to kill.

The man sputters in surprise, glaring at Mira.

“The fuck’s your problem?” He takes a step towards her, hands out, aggressive, before cowering back under Mira’s (perfected) stare.

“The fact that you’re bothering her is my problem, dickwad. Fuck off before I make you.” Mira pushes his chest, hard, and the guy walks off, mumbling angrily under his breath about bitches at the gym. She scoffs. Asshole.

Mira turns back to Zoey, switching to a soft, comforting tone, “Hey, Zo, you okay?”

“Y-yeah.” Zoey smiles, shakily, “He was like asking for my number and making these weird comments and I didn’t know how to make him go away cuz like I wanted him too obviously but he wasn’t getting the hint and he was making me kinda uncomfortable and—yeah, thanks unnie.”

Mira laughs softly at her rambling, kissing the top of her head. “Well I’m glad. I’m always looking out for you, ‘kay?”

Zoey’s resulting hug makes Mira’s mind (and heart) spin off its tracks. She likes when Zoey calls her that, unnie—softly, sweetly, like Mira meant the world to her. 

She’s perfect, Mira thinks, unbidden. Her face flames immediately because it’s just Zoey, and she blindly walks over to another machine, hoping it fit into her workout plan.

…

After they arrive back from the gym, the apartment becomes a war zone for the chance to wash up first.

Rumi—content to take the last shower—is lagging behind Zoey and Mira as they sprint furiously down the hallway, racing to the bathroom. Mira arrives first (long legs, hah) and wrenches open the door.  She gets one (one!) second to breathe in sweet victory before Zoey clamps down on her arm and tries to fling (keyword: tries) Mira backwards. She achieves a jerking motion that stops Mira’s first steps into steam-filled, tiled heaven.

Mira turns.

“Zoey, let go, I beat you” she says, twisting her mouth into a smug smile. “You can shower second, slowpoke.”

Zoey lets out a cute little huff of indignation. “Nuh UH I won’t, I got here first!”

“My hand is literally on the door.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“Nope.” Zoey’s face is flat, unmoving. She drags Mira’s arm further towards her side, forcing her down to Zoey’s height. 

And then she kisses Mira.

It’s a peck, really, just a simple press of lips lasting barely two seconds. But Mira freezes in shock.

She tries to speak, to say something like “Did you just kiss me?!” but nothing comes out besides an undignified squeaking noise. Her face is most definitely turning pink, because what the fuck just happened. 

Zoey simply laughs in her face, taking the opportunity to duck around Mira’s body into the open bathroom and promptly shut the door while Mira is still buffering there, stock still like an idiot. She expected a poke on the cheek, a snarky comment, a slap even, but this? Mira did not expect a kiss.

Rumi barely bats an eye as she walks past her to her room.

“She got you there. Better luck next time.” Rumi says, fucking laughing into her hands. Are you kidding?

“I—” Mira stutters (she does not stutter), “Uh…”

Her brain feels like mush, and it is definitely not focusing on the fact that this was her first kiss ever. Not even with a girl. Just, ever. And Zoey was the one who shared it with her (Mira doesn’t mind that part so much). Nope nope nope she is not thinking about that at all. 

Okay, breathe. Time to process.

Fact one: Zoey kissed her. And more importantly, she kissed Mira casually, easily, like it didn’t mean anything.

Fact two: Rumi saw, and clearly did not care or think Zoey’s actions were out of the ordinary. She laughed at Mira, for crying out loud.

Conclusion (?): This was just a part of her and Zoey’s strengthening friendship. 

It really just made sense. Zoey lives off affection like it’s a drug, spilling joy through the form of handholding, hugs, and the occasional kiss on the cheek. (Mira is genuinely afraid the girl would cease to exist without an emotional support hug-ee (read: her and Rumi) on speed dial 24/7). Whereas Mira thinks physical affection is…alright. 

Zoey has, throughout their five years of friendship, integrated her form of affection into their every interaction. It’s only natural that kissing (as friends, best friends) would come into the equation eventually. There have been head kisses, cheek kisses, and now, lip kisses. Simple.

Friendly kissing, that was all it was. Mira nods to herself and ignores the feelings bubbling up inside her chest. That makes sense.

Chapter Text

Their second kiss is a series of candid photos posted on Huntr/x’s Instagram account (officially run by Bobby, informally run by Rumi).

The group had been prepping for a live showcase of their newest single, Takedown (redone and de-demon-ized of course), and Bobby had captured some cute pictures to post as a way to “give the fans a treat” due to their upcoming hiatus. 

Now, during the beloved couch time, the three of them lay sprawled across each other in a tangle on limbs as Rumi organized their post. Zoey, sipping her 200 percent sugar bubble tea (mixed with redbull—how was she alive, is what Mira’s wondering) and sharing shrimp chips with Mira as they call out commentary on Rumi’s choices. 

The decided on photos, in order, are:

[The three of them, grinning backstage in white robes. Zoey has a towel shaped like a sheep on her head, while Mira sips an iced coffee and Rumi holds her microphone]

[Zoey’s back as she leans over Mira with a mascara wand, holding it like a dagger with Mira smiling in the makeup chair.] 

[A solo shot of Rumi in her stage outfit, sparkly sequins and all, stretching sideways in an impossible position. In the background, a blurry Mira touching a bright pink lipstick stain on the corner of her mouth]

It’s sweet, simple, and reflective of Huntr/x’s joy when preparing for a performance. 

… 

What the pictures don’t show are two simple scenes. The first is Zoey, in all her twin-bunned glory, a devilish grin on her pretty face that screamed chaos (she wasn’t their fan-dubbed chaos gremlin for nothing. That unhinged smile meant business). More often than not, this means she is about to unleash either enthusiasm or teasing onto Mira, her unfortunate (not really) target.

She smiles sweetly and leans into Mira’s space, brandishing her favorite mascara brand in one hand and a liquid eyeliner in the other.

Teasing it is.

“I think you missed a spot,” Zoey says, far too close for Mira’s weak, weak heart. She can smell Zoey’s perfume, a citrusy blend that’s unique and calming and so her.  She presses even closer. Mira can count the freckles peeking out from under her foundation (there are seven, not that she was looking) and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to think.

Zoey’s hands cup Mira’s face gently as she applies thin stripes of eyeliner and darkens her lashes with the careful swipe of her trusty mascara wand. Her tongue is poking out in concentration and it’s so damn cute that Mira can’t focus on anything but the girl pressing into her lap.

She can’t breathe.

Mira makes a quiet, choked sound, inhaling shakily as Zoey’s hand moves expertly across her face. Please let her not have noticed, she all but prays because that would be the end of her. She’d simply pass away. Mira can see the headline now: Huntr/x’s main dancer dies at 23, cause of death: Zoey.

Her heart squeezes painfully and Mira has to force her face into a flat expression lest she gives away everything right then and there. It’s her method—tried and true—to push her feelings deep deep down and deal with them later, away from prying eyes.

Her therapist says it’s a defense mechanism due to a toxic environment and emotionally unavailable familial figures growing up, but excuse her, Mira’s emotional repression has nothing to do with that, thanks very much. Pfft, what do therapists even know, anyways?

So when Zoey fucking smirks (she knows exactly what she’s doing, Mira chokes. Damn that girl and her knowledge of exactly how to fluster her usually unshakable facade), Mira, well, is turning tomato-red for one thing. Internally screaming her little bisexual heart out for another. Zoey is her bandmate and friend and Mira cannot think of her like that but dammit Zoey is making that really fucking hard. 

Especially when she presses her pretty pink lips halfway into Mira’s own (for crying out loud, it lands on the corner of her mouth—not even a real kiss—and it’s reduced her to this stuttering mess, god she’s down bad), tucks Mira’s hair behind her ears, and whispers “You’re all done” into her ear.

“You’re a menace,” Mira shoots back, but she’s blushing and trying oh-so-hard not to gay panic out of her seat. “Why are you like this?”

“You love it!~” Zoey skips away, a smug little smile on her lips. 

Mora touches the kiss print. (She’s trying to be mad, she really is) but like, it’s Zoey. Her heart pounds a little faster, cheeks heating up ever so slightly as she replays the kiss in her mind. It’s such loser-ish behavior and Mira is not a loser, but she smiles at the memory nonetheless. 

(If she skips out of her chair too, grinning wide and cupping the mark on her face, and Rumi calls her out, then shut the fuck up unnie, no she is not).

…

Rumi finalizes her photo selection, smiling softly at the candids. The caption, “A backstage mess :)” is all Zoey, naturally (who is still sipping that, frankly concerning, boba concoction. Seriously, is it even legal to consume that monstrosity?). Mira adds simple tags #HUNTR/X and #TakedownLivePerformance.

And Rumi presses the big purple POST button.

Instant pandemonium.

Photo number three goes viral because oops! fans did in fact zoom in on Mira’s face in the background, deduce that there was a lipstick-pink kiss mark on her face, successfully color match the print to Zoey’s signature lip tint, scream at the kiss’ placement, and proceed to lose their minds entirely. 

#ZoeMira is trending in thirty four countries. Ten minute YouTube videos titled “Twenty times ZoeMira were gay for each other” or “zoemira CONFIRMED” pop up in the hundreds. 

Zoey thinks it’s hilarious. Rumi is panicking, scolding her. And Mira is…confused. 

It’s just, all of this for a friendly kiss? Even if Mira wishes it was more, it’s a bit of an extreme reaction. Seems like their fans are making a big deal out of nothing, right?

(Her little gay heart attack is absolutely irrelevant to the situation, thanks very much).

Chapter Text

In December, Zoey takes her home for the holidays. 

Doesn’t ask her, “Hey, wanna get away from spending three weeks with your shitty family?” or question Mira about her holiday plans. Just. Slips a plane ticket to Burbank, California into her hands at breakfast one morning. Tells Mira that she’d love to have her, “but no pressure.”

Mira likes that. Being known. Being given an option. Likes that Zoey knows her well enough to understand why it’s important to her.

Of course she agrees. 

And Zoey’s family is so, so sweet (Mira sees where she gets it from) and kind and welcoming that it kinda makes her want to cry. Like, her mother hugged Mira—practically a stranger!—as soon as she stepped foot into the house, offering her tea and kimbap and telling her where to place her things.

“You must be Mira!” she smiles, “Oh you’re even more beautiful in person. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Mira smiles too, cheeks warm, “Thank you. It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

“And she’s well mannered! Unlike our Zoey.”

Zoey frowns, mid-chew into her kimbap roll. “Yah, Eomma! Stop making me look bad!”

She sounds so genuinely affronted, her cheeks puffing out comically as she continues to eat with an angry expression on her face. Like a bunny rabbit (the resemblance is uncanny). Mira laughs. Drops a kiss on her collarbone. Her family should know how close they were as friends.

However, the Parks’ eyebrows raise in sync (shit) and Mira’s heart drops like stone. Was that wrong? Did she mess it all up, again? God, and here she had been thinking that kissing Zoey was normal and fine and that her parents would likewise be okay with it. But apparently that was not the case. 

Mira shuffles away from Zoey awkwardly, “I-, we-, um sorry? If um, that—”

“No dear, it was perfectly alright. You two are close, yes?” Mr. Park just chuckles comfortingly and places his arm around his wife, giving Zoey a strange look that Mira couldn’t decipher. Zoey, for some reason, was turning quite red in the face. 

“Ohmygod.” she mutters, shooting out of her chair, “YES yes we are super close and I love Mira so much that we’re actually gonna leave right now because you’re making her uncomfortable. Okay nice chat love you, bye!” 

“Wait, I’m not uncomfor—” Mira protests. She’s yanked into Zoey’s room before she can finish.

This is the first time she’s seen Zoey’s childhood room, and it is so Zoey that Mira wants to laugh. It has light blue walls and white furniture crammed into every available space, and is plastered artfully with posters of Kpop bands (notably, the Sunshine Sisters’ early merch), scribbled lyrics, and drawings of various wildlife. A turtle bedspread adorns a small bed shoved in the corner. A bed.

A.

As in one.

Mira looks up, suddenly finding the ceiling to be extremely interesting. Because, what.

There’s one fucking bed??!!?

…

Okay maybe she overreacted a little, since overall, the whole bed-sharing thing goes okay. Sure they’re both a bit pink, and squished, and cuddling at night, but it’s really nothing that’s never happened before. Mira’s definitely not spooning Zoey, or kissing her goodnight and good morning every day, or thinking about any of that happening all the time. Nope. That would be silly.

She totally is. 

Zoey’s parents are also kind of…strange (like their daughter). She overhears them giggling to themselves over a “lost air mattress” (huh?) and poking fun at Zoey about something several times. They even walk in on Mira teasing Zoey about her turtle obsession spilling onto her bedsheets as Zoey kisses her to shut her up, giving their daughter a thumbs up from the adjacent hallway.

Like she said, strange.

But, as expected, the Parks exhibit wonderful homely qualities as well: Mira’s visit has been filled with nothing but bittersweet joy—homemade cookies presented to her by Zoey’s loving parents, decorating a Christmas tree for the first time, figuring out what an advent calendar is. They even include her in their family photos, hanging a snapshot of Mira placing the silver star atop the tree on the mantelpiece next to her own red stocking. 

They do all the things she’s wished (but of course, never gotten) from her own parents. Despite that, it was…nice. To be included, like that.

Today is December twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve, and (more importantly), Zoey’s birthday. And her one wish for the day is not to engage in more sugar cookie baking, gingerbread house building, or ice skating—

“That will come later, Mira!”

…but instead entails her burning desire to visit her favorite amusement park with Mira. A date, she calls it. (Mira tries so hard not to lean into the wording).

It’s a calculated attack. The day, combined with Zoey herself, is a recipe for getting Mira to do absolutely anything Zoey wants. Anything. 

So obviously Mira takes her to the park, buys her cotton candy (good lord, does she really need toe sugar?), and wins her a fluffy blue cat plush who she swears is Derpy, Rumi’s weird untrustworthy demon tiger. But she draws the line at one, particular thing.

Mira hates drop towers. Passionately. Like, dropping unpredictably at high speeds several times, not knowing if the damn machine would break and send her plummeting to certain death? Hell fucking no.

Zoey (now classified as a menace to society and hazard to Mira’s general health) knows this. She asks Mira anyways, smiling up at her like she’s innocent.

“Pleeeeeease, Mira?” Zoey begs, “Can we go on the drop tower?”

Mira shakes her head vehemently. “Absolutely not.” She says.

“PLEASEEEE. It’s my birthday! You wouldn’t deny the birthday girl her only wish, would you?”

“Too bad. I am.”

Zoey cranks it up a gear. Pulls out the pout and puppy eyes. She stares up at Mira, clasping her hands together like she’s about to pray to some deity that Mira will ride a death trap with her.

“Please unnie, for me?”

Oh she was so, so evil. 

Like clockwork. Mira’s resolve weakens, then breaks. She squeezes her eyes shut. Nods once. Waits for the reaction.

Zoey screeches (full on screeches like some demented velociraptor) in excitement, jumping up and down and pressing quick kisses to Mira’s lips. Zoey all but drags her to the death trap’s line (seriously? who would line up for this willingly?), eyes wide and sparkling with happiness and oh, it’s worth it.

If it made Zoey smile like that, she would ride the drop tower every damn day ‘til she dies.

…

They end the night at a rundown photobooth that Zoey swears has the best quality prints in the city. It’s a vintage thing, with peeling red paint and dented corners that reveal a rusty metal frame underneath. The curtains are also red—faded from their original color to a muddy brown and spattered with grease. It’s pretty damn ugly.

Mira turns, glancing skeptically at Zoey.

“This thing is ancient. Are you sure it even works anymore?”

“Only one way to find out!” she skips cheerfully into the booth, parting the curtains with one hand and ushering Mira into the surprisingly modern interior. Cushy pink seats and a large digital screen greet her, urging Mira to choose a photo package deal (“only $12.99!”). Mira squeezes into the tiny space, sitting down and patting the space between her legs for Zoey to sit down.

Zoey does, hesitantly, cheeks a little red, and reads all the English, clicking buttons like a pro until the camera flashes huge red numbers in a countdown.

3…

2…

1…

They pose, cheeks pushed together and hands making hearts on the other sides of their faces.

Click.

Pose again, with Zoey’s hands around her neck, pretending to strangle Mira. (she’s so warm in her lap)

Click.

Pose again…? But this time, Zoey’s flipped around, straddling Mira and cupping her flushed face between gentle palms. Zoey bites her lip. 

“Tell me to stop,” she whispers, leaning in, and oh! she is so close.

“I can’t.”

Mira closes her eyes. 

Click.

Zoey’s mouth on hers isn’t sweet, or soft. It’s hungry, needy, and pressing into Mira’s own.

“Zoey.” Mira whispers her name like a prayer. She can feel everything. The touch of Zoey’s hands, Zoey’s breath on her face, Zoey’s taste on her tongue. 

Mira parts her lips, letting her in—feels her lick into her mouth, tracing, teasing. Feels an unfamiliar heat build in her core because she’s kissing Zoey—kissing her for real—and it’s better than anything Mira could have imagined.

“Zoey.” she whines into her mouth, the syllables forcing their way through her lips. Her head falls backwards and now Zoey’s trailing kisses down her jaw, her neck, her collarbones, tongue circling her pulse point and sucking harshly into the smooth skin it finds there. 

“Mira.” Zoey says back, her words a whisper against Mira’s stinging skin as she kisses the bruises she’s marked on Mira’s throat (like she’s hers).

Do friends really kiss…like this? 

Mira thinks their kisses are veering dangerously close to a more romantic category, but that can’t be right because one, these were clearly only friendship-kisses between her and Zoey, and two, what did she know? 

In America, Zoey had had so many friends—she was popular, beloved, and made connections easily. She’s told Mira about all of it: her late night excursions with Jenny and amusement park runs with Hasong and Mary Jane, her favorite skatepark, bubble tea order, and library study spot. It made Mira all warm and squishy inside to know Zoey was safe and cared for and loved back in Burbank. 

Mira was never (could never be) like that. She’d always stuck to herself—rich assholes weren’t really her crowd at the boarding school her mother had forced her to attend. She was the rebellious, ostracized loner, blowing off her parents and spending every scrap of free time at her local dance studio instead of socializing.

Even as a trainee, somewhere Mira, for once, truly belonged, she was boxed in as “intimidating” and “untouchable” while Zoey shared snacks and smiles with her unnies and younger friends.

So, no, Mira’s never had a real friend, let alone two! (She wonders, sometimes, why Zoey doesn’t kiss Rumi like she kisses her. For some reason, it sets a sour feeling in her stomach). She trusts Zoey to show her how all of this works. 

The kisses, no matter how “romantic” they seemed, were normal acts of affection between friends. They had to be. 

Click.

Chapter Text

This time, Zoey is drunk (and Mira’s not doing too much better, but that’s not the point). Barely past the legal drinking age, she still hasn’t learned to handle her alcohol well and—blatantly ignoring Rumi’s warnings to three drinks only!—Mira has watched her down at least ten tequila shots. And six body shots. And a pina colada with a cute pink umbrella. 

In true Zoey fashion, she has resorted to her baseline function: affection. She is giggling and swaying at the pool table, barely hitting anything but having the time of her life nonetheless. It’s kind of hilarious.

Mira watches her, fondly, from her corner where she sits with Rumi (who, as a textbook sad drunk)  is currently crying her eyes out over who knows what. 

Shit. She should probably deal with that.

A non-alcoholic drink to sober her up should do the trick, so Mira offers to get Rumi a soda. To, you know, calm her down. 

Wait—

She immediately slaps a hand over her mouth (ouch, too hard. Maybe she had drunk too much after all) because Rumi starts sobbing twice as hard, mumbling “You’re my soda pop…my little” a hiccup, “soda pop…” in between bouts of tears. 

Double shit. 

She maybe probably totally should have seen that coming. Despite all of Rumi’s protests, it was clear that she was still hung up on Jinu who was likely not alive. She ventured out every other night to “catch some fresh air with Derpy” which—to those with working ears—meant “look for Jinu in our past meeting places.”

It would be sweet if it didn’t make Zoey nearly start crying every time Rumi walked back into their apartment, a defeated look on her face. (Mira is sad when Zoey cries). So yeah…not so sweet.

“Rumi, sorry I…” Mira trails off.

What can she even say? Sorry your boyfriend died and I just accidentally brought him up even though I know you still care about him? Yeah, right. That would just make things worse, and at this point in the night, Mira did not want to make things worse. 

“Sorry.” Is what she settles on, carefully (drunkenly) slinging her arm around Rumi’s shoulders in a pitiful attempt at soothing affection. Where was Zoey when you needed her? She was always the best at smoothing over rough edges and conflicts when they arose.

God, Zoey.

They’d gotten ready together—the three of them—and Zoey was positively glowing. She’d opted to let her hair down and straightened it until the black strands fell like a silky curtain to her mid-back. Soft pink gloss was exchanged for bloody red lipstick while puppy eyeliner became sharp—elongating her eyes to catlike shapes. Their cute, bubbly little maknae looked badass and sinfully gorgeous. Mira could barely take her eyes off of her.

So, maybe she’d stared, just a bit, at Zoey. Maybe her heart had sped up when she’d come out in a skintight, sparkly green dress. Maybe deep down Mira had felt the desire to hold her hand, touch her waist, kiss her. 

Someone yelling her name yanks Mira out of her head, and she turns to see Zoey—where did she come from?—tapping her shoulder.

“Unnie!” She laughs, eyes crinkling into crescent moons, “Come dance with me.”

She called her unnie. Mira’s head spins.

“But Rumi—”

“Rumi?” Zoey looks surprised, “She looks fine.”

“I—Huh?” Mira whips around.

Rumi has, in fact, stopped crying (when did that happen?) and is looking at Mira with a strange expression—something curious yet smug. Like she knows something that Mira doesn’t. What’s that about? She’d have to talk to her later.

Mira turns back to Zoey. Lets the corners of her mouth flick up into a smile. Allows her to take Mira’s hand.

“Sure, Zo.” She says. 

(Mira could never deny Zoey anything, not when she’s looking at her with those big, sparkling eyes).

Zoey shrieks with joy and drags Mira onto the dance floor. Rumi just smiles weirdly again, half-shouting “Have fun!” over the thump of the music as the two weave their way into the sea of idols. 

And they dance (if this can count as dancing). Mira’s movements are sharp and sensual while Zoey—so much in her space that she’s practically grinding into Mira—sways her hips and positions her arms around Mira’s neck. She breathes Zoey in. They move as one, stuck together like glue. It’s shockingly intimate and—frankly—really fucking hot. Mira’s mouth is completely dry as she looks, really looks, as Zoey. Her face, her body. Her. 

She can’t think, can barely move, her body operating on autopilot as she dances—Mira is paralyzed by this girl. Has been for a while now.

In fact, she is done pretending that Zoey’s laugh isn’t the soundtrack to her dreams, that Zoey’s smile isn’t what she thinks of to give her confidence before a performance, that her heart doesn’t beat to the rhythm of Zoey’s own.

That Zoey isn’t anything more than the best friend she’s ever had.

And she knows, she knows, that Zoey only views her as Mira—a friend—and not Mira (a potential partner), but god, why is it that she suddenly looks like everything Mira’s ever wanted? 

She wants to make Zoey breakfast every morning, stock her favorite ramyeon brand in her secret snack drawer, and kiss her sorrows better when she falls. She wants to share a toasty bed and wake up with her, be someone Zoey can rely on through thick and thin, and call her jagiya and baby just to see her blush. It’s mundane, sappy, and something Mira would kill herself before admitting, but she wants Zoey so badly sometimes it scares her. 

That’s not how friends think about each other, Mira thinks, idly, her brain betraying her. And maybe it’s just the alcohol and the feel of Zoey’s body winding around hers, but not being “just friends” doesn’t seem like such a bad thing after all. (If only Zoey felt the same).

No! Get ahold of yourself, Mira. She can’t (won’t) consider her friend like that. 

Her hands hot on Zoey’s waist, Mira forces her gaze away from the girl to a quiet corner at the edge of the room where groups of idols are sitting and nursing alcohol in peace. Wait, scratch that, some are calmly sipping their drinks, while others are kissing—slowly, languidly—on the various couches. 

She vaguely recognizes a few TWICE and Red Velvet idols—several of which (Sana and…?) are making out furiously to the amusement of their fellow members. She laughs to herself. 3rd gen truly is the gayest of the gay, especially when it comes to girl groups. 

Yet, in her warm, not-quite-drunken state, Mira’s head is fuzzy, her thoughts sloshing around in her brain like a bottle at sea. Everything is bright and loud and exciting, and all she can think is kissing like that looks fun, as she continues to stare at the older girls. 

Kissing Zoey like that looks fun.

So she does. 

Mira snaps her gaze back to Zoey, leaves one hand on her waist, raises the other to grip her jaw, and kisses her. Hard. Right there in public. 

Zoey makes a delighted noise, somewhere between a gasp and a giggle, and kisses Mira back with just as much enthusiasm, pressing into her chest and weaving her fingers through Mira’s pink ponytail. Mira deepens the kiss, parting Zoey’s mouth and slipping her tongue inside, sinking into Zoey’s now-familiar feel, her taste. Mira savors the little sounds she makes as Zoey leans further into the kiss, all but whining for more.

She doesn’t think about how this is the first time she kissed Zoey, doesn’t think about how she wishes it was more than just a friendly kiss, doesn’t think. Mira just…is.

The rest of the night is a blur.

One second they’re kissing on the dance floor, the next Zoey is pushing her into the wall, mouth hot and needy on Mira’s like it belongs there, her hand tugging upwards at the hem of her miniskirt. The next, Rumi is fake-gagging as they make out at their table, screaming at them to spare her “poor virgin eyes.”

One selfish, traitorous thought lingers in Mira’s mind: If this is the only way she can have Zoey, she doesn’t want this kind of kissing to stop. Ever.

Chapter Text

Zoey has apparently decided to torture Mira not only in public, but also directly in front of Rumi—who, for the record, was becoming even more traumatized than Mira herself. Well, perhaps “exasperated” or “infuriatingly smug” were better words to describe Rumi’s unique expression whenever Zoey teased a kiss out of Mira’s oh-so-willing mouth.

And Mira’s not complaining, not really, but it’s gotten to a point where whenever Zoey touches her, kisses her, or god damn it, comes near her, Mira feels like she’s going to combust. Or scream. Or jump Zoey. All due to the feelings spiraling out of her chest. It was ridiculous and juvenile that Mira had been reduced to this mess every time Zoey looked in her direction! 

Mira was ready to solve this, this thing—to talk about it—because one, it was about time!, and two, she was dangerously close to breaking apart from Zoey’s sunshine smile and she did not want anyone else (Bobby, or god forbid, Celine) to notice before it was too late.

Hence, the current situation. (Zoey may have taken control of it immediately, but hey, Mira’s trying).

They’re in Mira’s room, all three of them, watching the last two movies in their hiatus-driven marathon-and-sleepover rotation. Zoey is draped all over Mira. Rumi was previously enthralled with the film (a classic, American action movie) before she had fallen asleep in a pile with Derpy the freaky tiger and a disgruntled Sussie. 

Mira, well, Mira is at the complete mercy of a glitter demon and is not handling it well.

Zoey had grown brave in the past few months, increasingly eager (and willing) to shower Mira with affection when she least expects it. She’s daring now, mischievous even, as she slides her little hands under Mira’s t-shirt. Sneaky as she inches her arm around Mira’s shoulders. Bold as she shifts Mira’s weight on top of herself.

And that’s how Mira finds herself in this predicament: laying snugly on top of her beloved while attempting to continue the film Mira had picked out. (She’d wanted to watch this for so long! Seriously, Zoey?). 

A warm pressure appears on her lips and Mira’s brain goes blank—body responding instantly, as if on autopilot—before realizing, belatedly, that Zoey’s kissing her. 

Short, sweet pecks merge into longer, deeper kisses, and oh, Mira does not want to think about how Rumi is right there and, on top of that, an extremely light sleeper. (If she’s pretty sure the risk makes Zoey’s heart beat faster then it’s none of Mira’s business, thanks). What Zoey wants, Zoey gets. 

Her heart is thrumming happily because everything is so perfect—but Mira can’t help but think that there’s something she’s…forgetting.

Oh, right. Her confession.

Yikes.

It should wait—shouldn't interrupt this—but it can’t. It really, really can’t because in one more second Mira is going to snap. Snap, and spill her heart and soul out to this gorgeous, beaming girl and ruin everything. 

So she whispers, tentative, (because god her heart can’t take this anymore. She needs to know if this means as much to Zoey as it means to her. It doesn’t, it can’t, but Mira has to know), “Zoey?”

Mira gets back a mumbled “hmm?” and pushes forward.

“This…this doesn’t mean anything, right? These, you know, kisses.”

Zoey stills.

Then sits up. Roughly pushes Mira away from her.

“Doesn’t mean anything?” She spits the words out like they’re poison, speaking in a way Mira’s never heard her speak before: harsh, angry. Zoey’s eyes wide with accusation (with hurt, Mira’s brain supplies). They don’t match the rough tones of her voice, the trembling of her hands on Mira’s thighs.

In fact, Zoey lets out one, choked sound—something awful between a sob and a scream that pulls at Mira’s heartstrings—and runs out.

Mira expected anger. Expected confusion. Even frustration. But the one thing she can’t understand is why Zoey looked so…crushed. Like her whole world had just crumbled beneath her feet.

It feels bad.

She feels bad.

But what had even happened—

“Oh my god you fucking idiot,” Rumi’s voice pipes up, groggy and irritated. Rumi cursing was a rarity, and it meant she was well and truly pissed. So Mira backtracks, quick.

“Wait, I thought you were asleep.”

“Clearly not, genius.”

Mira rubs her eyes. “Okay. But what do you mean idiot what did I—”

Rumi explodes, grabbing Mira and shaking her violently as she enunciates each word. “My fucking god. Mira, Zoey’s literally been in love with you since we debuted. And you basically just rejected her despite kissing her and going on dates with her and making out in public and meeting her parents in America for the past eight months. And you! You’ve also been in love with this other idiot for forever—DON’T even try to deny it or blame it on emotional repression, you’re not that dumb, I hope—So YES, you absolute idiot, what the fuck are you doing right now pushing away Zoey when I’ve been waiting for you two to get together for five years?”

Oh.

Her head is spinning and kind of hurts from Rumi’s frantic movements, but everything seems so clear. Like the puzzle pieces are finally clicking together and the sun is peeking out from behind the storm clouds.

And damn, Mira never realized how stupid she was.

She is in love with Zoey. (She was ninety percent of the way there. Take that, Rumi).

But…Zoey loves her too???

…

Zoey is avoiding her. Blatantly. 

Mira enters a room, and Zoey sprints out. She steps into the kitchen, and Zoey zooms into her room. She tries to make eye contact from across the hall, and Zoey spins around and walks away.

It’s been like this for two weeks.

Mira is going crazy.

…

It all comes to a peak when Rumi (reliable, motherly Rumi) shoves an unsuspecting Mira into Zoey’s room as the other girl is busy picking an outfit from her astoundingly large closet. She tells them to “figure it out or so help me” and locks the door behind her, leaving Mira and Zoey staring at each other in mild shock (and horror).

They just kind of…stand there, waiting, for someone (anyone) to make a move. It’s tense. Awkward. Something she’s never felt with Zoey before, something uncomfortable.

“So, I guess we should…talk,” Mira says. An attempt at an olive branch.

It was the wrong thing to say, given Zoey’s increasing expression of fury. Words shoot out of her mouth rapid-fire:

“Talk?! Talk about how you acted like a fucking girlfriend towards me for months and stopped as soon as it felt real? Talk about what, how you used me and threw me away like I was nothing? Am I a game to you, Mira? A gay little experiment? Because I don’t know what I did to deserve that but it fucking hurt, okay?”

She’s practically vibrating with anger, her arm raised and finger pointed directly in Mira’s face.

“I kissed you because I like you, not in a best friend kind of way, and I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I was fucking terrified you didn’t feel the same, so I tried to show you how much I loved you because I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud.”

Short sobs punctuate each sentence, and fuck if it didn’t make Mira want to cry. Because Zoey, charming, cheerful, energetic Zoey who could power the sun with her smile alone, Zoey, who had a way with words that rivaled the most rendered poets—Zoey, who couldn’t for the life of her say the things that mattered the most, felt like this, because of Mira? 

Oh.

Oh, no.

No no no no.

Mira’s heart cracks, the first splinter wedging its claws into her chest like a chisel in a block of marble. Forceful. Painful. The look on Zoey’s face, the hurt radiating from her eyes—fuck. Each indication of her heartbreak stabs into Mira, fracturing the pieces of her heart even further.

“Mira if you don’t fucking want me—” Zoey’s voice breaks on the word, her breath hitching upward desperately. Her lips tremble, silently. Tears bud in the corners of her eyes—

and Mira’s heart shatters into a thousand pieces because Zoey is crying (crying!) because of her.

Fuck it. She can fix this. She has to fix this.

Right now, nothing is more important—more urgent—than letting this girl know how much Mira loves her. Adores her. She has to get it out.

The weight of holding back the confession is suddenly suffocating; it’s a rabid beast screaming to get out, prying apart her ribs, climbing up bones and ligaments, clawing its way up up up and out of her throat.

And, it’s true that Mira’s always been better at speaking through actions instead of words. It was simpler, less stressful, and a way to forgo the emotional distress and misunderstanding that her poor word choices would have earned her. She’s long learned that words—“excuses,” her mother’s voice echoes in her ear—are fickle, foolish things in the clumsy grasp of Mira’s voice.

But Zoey, her beautiful, wonderful Zoey, needed an explanation. Needed sentences, words, that only Mira would weave together.

The beast in her chest howls again, shredding her pride, her dignity, and everything else other than the path of Mira’s heart that leads to Zoey. It escapes, bloody and raw, but alive, slicing its way to existence through Mira’s vocal cords and into the waiting air. 

“Zoey,” Mira whispers her name, “Jagi, please.”

“I love you. As a friend, a companion, a member of Huntr/x. I love your support for the group, how you hold us together like glue, how I can always rely on you to be the brightest and most positive person in the room. I love your work ethic and brilliant lyrics, your willingness to learn and perfect any choreo, your undeniable love for me and Rumi.”

Zoey starts to turn away, another wrecked expression creeping onto her face. Mira grabs her gently by the wrist before she can go, continuing her speech.

“But I’m also in love with you. Romantically. And for the longest time I’ve thought those two kinds of love her the same, but now I realize they aren’t. They exist simultaneously yet different.

“I love the way you smile at me, your quick retorts, and fifty-seven ideas for anything that arises. I love your turtle video compilations and going to the bathhouse, just the two of us. I love our inside jokes and how you never fail to make me laugh. I love how I’m the only person who knows where you’re ticklish. I love kissing you for sport, before a show, while taking photos, at a club, or even during couch time with Rumi. Zoey, I love you so much that I don’t know what to do with myself when you’re gone.”

It all comes rushing out in one big breath, and Mira’s stumbling and rambling and tripping over her words, but it’s there, it’s out, and all she can do is wait for Zoey’s reaction. Wait to see if Zoey forgives her. If she still loves her.

And oh, Zoey’s really crying now, but she’s smiling too—that huge, megawatt smile as bright as the fucking sun. The smile that makes Mira want to wake up in the morning, shining on Zoey’s face like it never left. It’s watery, but there. (She’ll make sure it never leaves again, Mira promises herself).

“Mira, I love you, I love you, I love you!” Zoey squeals and hugs her, then kisses her, then buries her face in her neck like she can’t choose her mode of affection fast enough. Mira just squeezes back, reciprocating with all she has—all she wants to be, for Zoey—and beams like never before.

…

The next morning, when they arrive for breakfast (courtesy of Rumi’s miraculous pancake-flipping skills), their leader takes one look at their joined hands, matching rings of bruises around their necks, and Zoey drowning in one of Mira’s self-signed Huntr/x sleep shirts before screaming, “FUCKING FINALLY!” and claiming forty thousand won from Bobby (and Celine, seriously?) through two aggressively smug video calls for proof. 

Mira just smiles and kisses Zoey’s sleep-rumpled hair, wrapping her arms around the shorter girl’s waist.

It was going to be a good day.