Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"So," Zoey crosses her arms and looks between her captive audience. "Any questions?"

Rumi and Mira stare at the oversized TV in their living room, eyes glazed, a furrow between their brows. The little 'thank you' slide of Zoey's family PowerPoint presentation is still on screen, littered with animated butterfly GIFs. Rumi chews on her lip. "Is Uncle Greg married to Auntie Yeji or Auntie Minnie?"

Zoey shakes her head. "No, no don't worry about the uncles just yet. Let's stick to the basics. Mom and her three sisters, and my cousins. Doable, right?"

Mira leans forward. "Five cousins—"

"Six."

Rumi lazily taps Mira's shoulder with the back of her hand and mutters: "Don't forget Poco."

"Right." Mira drawls. "The dog."

"He's family," Zoey pouts. "Why do you two look like I'm asking you to do differential equations? It's just a family tree! I tell you about them all the time!"

"I mean I remember stuff like how Shawn almost threw you off a balcony?" Rumi offers.

"That was pretty funny," Mira smirks. Rumi shoots her a disapproving glare, to which she just shrugged. "I do think we would have had more takeaways if you didn't use forty-seven animations per slide, though."

Zoey narrows her eyes. "Are you insulting my PowerPoint presentation skills?"

"There's a reason you're an international songwriter," Mira grins, "And not a marketing executive."

Zoey throws the TV remote right at her face and Mira catches it with ease. Rumi plucks it away from Mira's hand to set it on the table. With a little amused smile, she offers: "I think the clipart was cute?"

Zoey sighs, forlorn. She's walking towards the couch to join them, shoulders slumped. "Was it so bad that I'm getting pity compliments from Rumi?"

"It wasn't a pity compliment!" Rumi huffs, already reaching out to hold Zoey's hand with practiced ease.

Zoey sat herself onto the armrest of their couch, next to Rumi, and threads their fingers together.

The wedding invite came through the mail weeks ago. Or, rather, invites. She wasn't that surprised that her cousin extended the invitation to Rumi and Mira, but them having their own letters was a nice gesture. Zoey's was special: it was a light green envelope instead of beige like Rumi and Mira's, and when she opened it, she laughed. Shawn asked her to be a 'groomsmaid'. She called him as soon as she finished reading the invite, telling him to stop making stupid shit up, and he laughed—just like when they were kids—and said it was their wedding and that he and his fiancee could do whatever they wanted. A fair point, she supposes.

She leans her head atop Rumi's, and feels Rumi wrap an arm around her waist to keep her close. Rumi nudges her softly, "are you nervous about your family meeting us?"

"A little," Zoey admits. It wasn't exactly nervousness, though. More like excitement—so much excitement that it made her stomach flutter. Zoey, inevitably, wanted everyone to get along. Which isn't an unrealistic want, per se, but she didn't want them to just get along: she wanted her family to like Rumi and Mira, enough so that they wouldn't feel like awkward outsiders during their four days in California. She turns and speaks against the crown of Rumi's head: "Are you?"

"A lot."

She feels Rumi tighten the arm around her waist, and immediately the flutters in her stomach are for something else entirely.

"They'll love you," Zoey reassures.

"Yeah," Mira agrees from her end of the couch, her eyes on her phone. "What was it you said again, Rumi? ‘I'm everybody's type’?"

Rumi chucks a throw pillow in her general direction, Mira gracefully deflects it.

"You two need to stop throwing things at me."

Zoey laughs, playing with the tips of Rumi's hair. "You need to stop being a smartass first!"

"Please tell me you're not working on promo logistics. We're on a break."

Rumi hears Zoey before she sees her. She's walking from the kitchen, carrying a mug in each hand, gracefully avoiding the mess of half-packed suitcases on the floor. She can smell Zoey's coffee—deep, and rich, and will probably leave her more caffeinated than Mira or Rumi would like. She also smells mild green tea, exactly how she likes it. Zoey puts both mugs onto the coffee table, plucks Rumi's computer off of her lap, and replaces it with—well, herself. Rumi flushes lightly.

"The rest of the couch not good enough for you?" Her arms automatically wrap loosely around Zoey's waist. "But, to answer your question, I'm not working."

Zoey sets her computer onto the side table and snuggles into Rumi with a little shiver. "The rest of the couch isn't as warm, and Mira has the thermostat set to Antarctica today."

Rumi laughs, shifting slightly so that Zoey can turn to look at her computer. The teal blue banner of the Korean Air website was on display at the top of the check-in confirmation page, three boarding passes displayed underneath it. Zoey tilts her head at her in question.

"The twenty-four hour check in period started," Rumi shrugs. "I wanted to make sure we didn't forget. "

Zoey gives her a look. "You're such a control freak."

"Am not," Rumi mutters with a pout. "I just wanted to make sure everything was taken care of."

Zoey hums and snuggles closer. "That's sweet of you."

Rumi plays a little with the hem of Zoey's hoodie, a small feeling of self-consciousness surfacing at the back of her mind. She wasn't kidding when she told Zoey the other day that she was nervous to meet her family. It was true. And, the thing is, she's met Zoey's parents before. They'd visit now and again or fly in and attend their events, but it was always short and polite. The longest was maybe dinner once or twice, and eventually Zoey would separate herself from their trio to spend time with her parents while they were in town. This was probably the first time in her entire life that she was going to meet a close friend's family at length—hell, stay at their house—and that isn't even considering the fact that she was meeting Zoey's other family too: aunts, and uncles, and cousins that she still has to do her best to remember the names of. Rumi nervously picks at the cloth between her fingers. She didn't want to mess it up.

"Is it really okay with them that we're crashing at your place?" Rumi asks in a small voice.

Zoey turns to look at her. "Of course. Do you not want to?"

"I'm happy to do anything you'd want," she says candidly. "I just don't want to…" she pauses, looking for a word. "Intrude? Mira and I can always get a hotel nearby and—"

Zoey's already shaking her head with a frown. "Please, Rumi. This isn't work. I'm coming home for a vacation and you two will be with me—operational word, with. You're not going to be intruding, they even sent you both your own invites!"

Rumi presses her lips together.

"Besides," Zoey continues, "I really don't want it to be like our work trips. No hotels, or chauffeurs, or rigid daily schedules." She stops, hums. "Actually, knowing my family, the next four days might be one giant rigid yet spontaneous schedule—"

Rumi laughs.

"—but at least we don't have press appearances or have to attend stuffy formal events—"

"We're attending a wedding."

"A small, private wedding that we can actually get shitfaced in."

Rumi raises an eyebrow. "Oh, is that part of the agenda?"

"Top of the list!" Zoey grins. "And I can show you where we’d shop for groceries when I was a kid. And all of my favorite restaurants. And, and maybe the skatepark I used to go to! The whole point is to unwind."

Zoey's right. She often is. Rumi allows herself a small smile and leans forward to settle her chin on her shoulder. Breaks have become more frequent for them, ever since last year's Idol Awards. It was a long and hard lesson to learn—realizing that rest was also an important part of work—but the rewards were plentiful and obvious: bigger comebacks, more polished songs, performances with more energy than they could have ever pulled back when they ran themselves ragged for months without a break. Even the fans seemed happier for it, the small blocks of absence helping them grow fonder with anticipation.

And it was more than just physical recovery, the breaks have been wonderful for their emotions. Who knew what wonders weeks to themselves could do? It gave them the space to mend trust, to grow their connection even deeper still.

Rumi breathes out slowly, close to the skin of Zoey's neck.

And sometimes, it helped them grow closer in unexpected and terrifying ways.

Her arms warp snugly around Zoey's waist, and she feels her tilt her head, bumping playfully against her own. Rumi smiles sweetly, and her eyes flutter close in contentment. Zoey's doing that thing she does again: indulging Rumi's ever-growing greed.

Rumi's self-aware enough to know that she is, for lack of a better term, clingy—and Mira and Zoey are socially aware enough not to tease her for it and simply accept every tug, and pull, and hug, and cuddle. And it was wonderful because she could feel that they wanted to, that they've just been waiting for the time to come that Rumi was open enough to let them. And she doesn't know if she'd ever find the words to describe her gratitude—so she'll just hold them just the same, just as sweetly.

But Zoey—it was almost like she took it personally. Like she had taken it upon herself to make up for the years and years of Rumi's life that no one had ever held her. Like she wanted to give twofold and make her feel her affection now, and fill the small ache in her chest from all the times she wanted to be held before.

So Rumi takes. But sometimes—and Rumi's breathing in now, her nose against the back of Zoey's shoulder—sometimes, she wants to take a bit more than she's allowed to. Rumi does her best to fight off the urge whenever she feels it. She steels her resolve and wills herself to look away, because lately she's been staring at Zoey's lips a little too often—and that's a conversation more complicated than she's ready to take on.

Especially because sometimes, Zoey stares back.

The door to their living room clicks open, and Mira walks in with a towel around her shoulders, fresh from the gym. She looks at the table with harmless judgement. "Coffee at four in the afternoon, Zoey?"

Rumi wrinkles her nose. "Yup. She’s at it again. When it's one in the morning and you inevitably can't sleep, go bother Mira, and not me."

"Nope," Mira shakes her head. "It's gonna have to be you, Rumi."

Zoey pouts. "You guys are so mean!"

"Me?"

"Yeah," Mira laughs lightly and settles down close to them, throwing her legs over Zoey's lap. "You simply, physically, lack the ability to say no to her."

Zoey turns to look at her with her eyebrow raised, looking smug like she's definitely about to use that fact against her. "Really?"

And Rumi promised she wouldn't lie to them anymore, so she doesn't say no.

"Zoey?"

Normally the beautiful voice of this particular beautiful girl saying her name doesn’t bother her, but—

"Zoey."

—it’s, what, seven in the morning? She feels like shit, and she barely had any good sleep, so Zoey pulls the covers over her head and makes like a turtle and retracts into it, and—

"Wake up, Zoey," Rumi says a little more firmly.

It was urgent enough for Zoey to push down her covers and blink up at Rumi with one, sleepy, grumpy, eye.

"What?"

"Our flight is in five hours and you haven't packed," Rumi puts a hand on her waist. She's standing in a hoodie and sweatpants and looks ready to take the day by storm. Which is ridiculous, because it’s seven in the morning.

"Our flight is in five hours and you're already dressed for it," Zoey whines. "It's just a four-day trip."

"You still need to pack something, though."

Zoey retreats into her covers, "I have clothes at my parents’ house."

She hears a small thud, like a glass had been set on her nightstand, and smells breakfast wafting in from their kitchen. Mira’s probably already up too, and Zoey will soon have to pick between the lull of sleep or the growling of her stomach.

Zoey, once more, slips out the covers to give Rumi a pitiful, pleading stare. "Five more minutes?"

She tries not to feel too good about how she can almost see Rumi crumple—but just when she thinks she’s won, Rumi shakes her head. "I'm gonna go get Mira."

Zoey grabs fistfuls of the blanket and pulls it over her head, whining out a pitiful: "No!"

"You should say it," Mira laughs beside Rumi, the both of them watching Zoey frantically stuff her suitcase with whatever she could grab. They had about thirty minutes before they needed to leave, and it took nearly a whole hour to get Zoey awake with some semblance of preparation to leave their apartment.

"Nah."

"Fine, I'll do it." Mira says pointedly, "Rumi told you so."

Rumi lightly elbows Mira, rolling her eyes in amusement, and Zoey sticks her tongue out in retaliation—but she knew it was okay. That's just how Mira was: wit and dry sarcasm—all while she quietly moves around Zoey's room, picking up little things she already knew Zoey had forgotten and dropping them neatly in a pile next to her, ready to be packed. Her bottle of antihistamine, the hair serum that she liked to use in the morning, the ten foot long charging cable she knew Zoey couldn't live without. She even left the room to grab Zoey's neck pillow—and it's endearing how she remembers exactly where Zoey had thrown it, out in a corner somewhere in the living room—because out of the three of them, it was Zoey who could sleep like a log through an entire flight.

"What about toiletries?" Rumi's checking her phone for her own packing list. "Shampoo?"

Zoey shrugs. "Mom will have some."

"Conditioner?"

"I like the one Mira's bringing."

Rumi raises an eyebrow. "Toothpaste?"

"You brought some, right?"

Mira stares at her, unimpressed. "You're going to rob us all blind."

Somehow, she manages to zip her suitcase shut. The growing sense of anticipation she's had at the prospect of flying back home—with the two most important people in her life—was temporarily muted by the rush and urgency of getting to the airport on time.

"Shit, shit, shit—" Zoey mutters, jumping over a mess of clothes and shoes on her bedroom floor while looking for her phone. She finds it under the bed, for some reason.

"Passports?" Rumi calls out, moving to pick up Zoey's suitcase.

She holds hers up for Rumi to see before shoving it back into her crossbody bag. Distantly, they hear Mira yell: "I have mine!"

"Good," Rumi nods, satisfied. "I have all our boarding passes on my phone, and if we manage to leave in the next fifteen minutes we shouldn't have any problems."

Mira's making the rounds in their apartment, checking the stove, every outlet, all the lights. "Everything's good," she calls out, pausing to grab keys from the hooks near the front door. "I'll go ahead and grab the car and come pick you both up around the front. Take my luggage for me?"

"Mmkay!" Zoey puts on her bucket hat and shrugs her loose, tropical printed jacket onto her shoulders, buzzing with excitement. She turns to Rumi as Mira leaves, and sees that she's frowning into her phone, checking and re-checking the travel time, giving all their lists one more look-over. "We'll be right there!"

"You have your wallet?" Rumi asks.

"Right here," Zoey taps her bag.

Rumi's doing that thing she does again—Zoey can see the small, anxious line between her brow and the stiffness of her shoulders. Spurred by a small and incessant need, Zoey steps forward and settles both her hands onto Rumi's shoulders, squeezing light and softly, willing away the tension. Rumi blinks up, a little startled, but eases into Zoey's touch.

The silence settles over them comfortably, a stark contrast to the almost panicked buzz their apartment had just been in.

"Relax, Rumi." Zoey giggles. She puts a little more pressure behind her thumbs, and Rumi's eyes flutter close—a soft, satisfied hum rumbling from her chest. Zoey feels Rumi pull on the front of her shirt, and she complies, stepping in nearer.

“I don’t mean to be so tense,” Rumi says lightly. “You know how I get when we travel.”

“I do,” Zoey cups her face with both hands. “S’okay.”

Rumi opens her eyes. "What are you looking forward to the most?"

Zoey bites her lip, eyes moving up towards the ceiling while she thinks. "Dad's cooking, maybe? Or maybe burgers at Bob's Big Boy."

She wasn't ready for Rumi to be looking at her lips again when she brought her eyes back. She can feel it—little butterflies in her stomach springing to life.

"Bob's Big Boy?" Rumi could barely hide the amusement in her voice.

Zoey rolls her eyes. "Won't be so funny anymore when you get to try one!"

"I wasn't laughing!"

"You didn't have to be," Zoey chides, her hands moving from Rumi's face to wrap loosely around her neck instead. The contact was grounding and comfortable—and thrilling in the sense that, sometimes, when they got like this, wrapped up in each other's space, Zoey felt like she was tiptoeing along the edge of a long, dangerous fall.

When Rumi places her hands on her sides, Zoey allows herself to entertain vague and silly thoughts about how Rumi's always been there to catch her anyway.

"It's going to be really warm, isn't it?"

"You have no idea," Zoey says around a laugh. "It'll be like, ninety degrees when we land."

"Ninety?" Rumi stares at her, appalled.

"Fahrenheit!" Zoey quickly amends, arms coiling around Rumi’s neck. "Rumi. We would literally, like, die, if I meant in Celsius—"

“Oh, thank God,” Rumi mutters, her shoulders shaking in small bubbles of laughter.

When the giggles settle into silence, Rumi looks at her with eyes so tender that it washes away any anxiety Zoey might have had about the next four days. Rumi has soft wisps of her hair at the base of her neck—Zoey can feel them on her fingertips—and she’s so pretty when she’s flushed: the the redness mild and spreading over the skin of her cheeks, sharpening the contrast of her pale and beautiful marks.

Zoey feels hands press into her sides. Rumi’s thumbs are rubbing soft and gentle circles there.

And then Rumi, bless her her soul, says the sweetest thing Zoey’s ever heard in her life:

“I’m just a bit nervous because…” she trails off, her brows furrowing, licking her lips. “How do I even express to your parents how grateful I am that you exist?”

And Rumi probably wasn’t even trying, but Zoey feels herself teeter over the edge of that very same fall.

The feeling wraps around her heart like a vice, gripping her chest until it feels tight and warm and bursting. Her breath shudders and she can feel herself smile and she can’t bring herself to stop the need to pull Rumi a little lower, so that their noses brush together—so that her lips aren’t so faraway—

Rumi holds her like she needs her.

And finally—after months and months of holding the line—Zoey kisses her. Presses her lips against Rumi’s, warm with an unrelenting tide of affection, and tightens her arms around her neck until they’re embracing each other.

Rumi kisses her back with quiet reverence. She breathlessly whispers, in between kisses, “wow.”

“Yeah,” Zoey mumbles against her lips, still pressing back, still needing a bit more. She tilts her head and pushes back in, and Rumi responds in kind, her hands now holding onto her back—and it makes Zoey a bit weak in the knees, a small pitiful sound rising from the back of her throat.

It makes Rumi’s breath hitch.

And then Zoey feels her phone ring.

They stop—and the world comes crashing back down: their luggage strewn about the living room, the buzzing in Zoey’s pocket—probably Mira—the flight in three and a half hours.

“I—” Rumi starts, stops, swallows.

“We have to,” Zoey licks her lips, dazed. “I think we have to go.”

“Shit,” Rumi steps back and checks her phone. “Right, right. Mira’s downstairs. Um, are you—” she looks at Zoey, eyes pleading and insecure. “Was that okay?”

“Yeah,” Zoey squeezes her hand in reassurance.

She sees Rumi relax, relieved.

Rumi just kissed her.

It was straight out of a dream.

And the next few days have suddenly become much more complicated than Zoey thought they were going to be.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk about it during the drive to Incheon Airport.

They didn't talk about it at the gates, while they waited for boarding. Or when they went through the port of entry once they landed at LAX.

Not even when they stood by the baggage conveyor belts, waiting for their luggage to show up. Zoey was typing into her phone to update her parents while Rumi stood beside her, shifting her weight between her feet.

But they did hold hands every time they had to walk. And Rumi definitely did give Zoey her hoodie when the warmth of one jacket just wasn't enough. And carry her bags. And keep her from getting lost when the crowds got busy. She was so sweet—so sincere that it staved off the gnawing worry that hung over Zoey's head: the uncertainty of what that kiss might have meant for them both.

When they’re almost at the terminal exit—masks and hoodies and sunglasses all pulled up—Zoey finds herself thinking again. Maybe she can let it go for now—wait it out until after they come back to Seoul? She could be chill about it. Zen. Let the feeling flow and trust in Rumi. She likes to think that she's grown more secure as a person.

But, like.

Not that much more secure.

So before they can exit the building, she stops in her tracks, spins around and asks Rumi to watch all their luggage for a minute.

"Sure thing." Rumi agrees because she's helpful like that. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah! Super! Very okay, totally fine—just a bathroom emergency!" Zoey laughs, high-pitched and nervous. She drags Mira by the wrist to the nearest restroom.

Mira, ever patient despite her continuous attempts to deny it, follows her. They weave through the crowd in a hurry, and when they finally make it through the door Mira gives a low whistle.

"Must have been a mean burrito."

Zoey turns around, and the words start tumbling out like poorly-stacked china in an opened cabinet:

"So I kissed Rumi right before we left."

Mira's eyebrows shoot up and she tilts down her sunglasses. Zoey almost gets a multi-angle view of her reaction with the way she's standing in front of the bathroom mirror, the fluorescent lights giving her perfect lighting overhead.

"In the hallway." Zoey continues in a rush. "When you left to get the car. I kissed her. And then she—she kissed me back—and it was—amazing? I've been trying really hard to be chill about it but I'm sort of losing my mind over here and she hasn't said anything?"

Mira actually seems to be taking it all pretty well. She crosses her arms. "Well neither have you, I'm guessing?"

Zoey shakes her head.

"Did you like it?"

Zoey pulls on the edges of her bucket hat, flushing red. "Yes?"

"Okay." Mira says slowly. "Did she?"

And Zoey remembers it: the way Rumi pulled her closer, the way she tilted her head. "Honestly? Probably. A lot."

"Then say 'thank you', or some shit."

Zoey groaned. "Mira!"

When Zoey comes out of the bathroom, she looks flustered and a little angry and Rumi is confused.

She stomps over and grabs her bag before walking away, but stops to turn around and very hurriedly says: "Thank you?"

Rumi rubs at the back of her neck. "You're welcome?"

Zoey moves the rearview mirror until she's got a clear view of the back. She moves it a little too sharply and instead gets a clear view of Rumi shrugging off her hoodie and oh shit, oh fuck, wrong view! She yanks it upwards so sharply she thinks she’s going to rip the thing off, but she finally gets it right and clumsily fastens her seatbelt.

"So, we're gonna take the 405 and go through Sherman Oaks to get onto the 101. With traffic, it's probably going to take upwards of an hour."

"Those are definitely numbers." Mira grumbles, flushed and fanning herself at the front passenger's seat. "Could you turn that thing up?"

"It's trying its best!" Zoey pouts, pushing the thermostat down to sixty-five and turning up the fan so high they could barely hear each other over the sound of it. The clock on the dash read 10:24AM. "Welcome to California."

"I'm—" Rumi groans, melting in the backseat, "—humid in ways I never thought possible."

She feels a little bad about it. Her initial estimate was off: it turned out to be ninety-four degrees when they landed, and her phone had helpfully added that it feels like ninety-eight, what with the recent rain and a rare bout of humidity.

"Come on," Zoey puts the car to drive. "You both survived two shows in Manila, you can survive this."

Rumi doesn't think they're gonna survive this.

"Those are really large trucks."

"Yup!" Zoey laughs. "Good old American semi-trucks."

Rumi braces herself between the two front seats and leans forward. "Plese don't tell me you're going to go in between them."

"Ok, I won't."

And then she says nothing, and steps on the gas. They accelerate with a lurch and Rumi feels the breath get knocked out her lungs. The engine groans with exertion, and they feel themselves tilt sideways when Zoey finally clears enough distance from the right-hand truck to swerve onto its lane.

Rumi shuts her eyes closed. "I'm not going to think about how you just cut in front of a forty-ton metal box on wheels."

Mira has her hands on her face, her seat almost fully reclined. "Imagine everything we went through to kill Gwi-ma only for us to die because Zoey drives like a fucking lunatic."

"What?" Zoey huffs, annoyed. "We needed to take this exit!"

"You know what I've always wanted to do?" Zoey asks off-handedly, her fingertips drumming against the steering wheel. They're playing a song—something fun and loud that makes her want to dance, and she almost has to yell over the sound to carry her voice.

"What?" Even Mira was bumping her shoulders, unable to resist the infectious thrum of the bass.

"One of those Redbull videos. I always think they're so cool!"

Rumi, who had been shamelessly belting out harmonies to the music, laughs and leans forward. "Those are not words I want to hear from the person driving our car!"

The music. Her best friends. The familiar chaos of the western interstate system. It was impossible to fight the grin Zoey could feel creeping up her mouth—the unabashed laughter and the simple sense of joy. She was just happy.

"What would you even do?" Mira drawls. "Knife target shooting while falling from a helicopter?"

Zoey blinks.

"That's actually not a bad idea!"

It hits her when she finally pulls into the street she grew up in: she hasn't driven herself home in almost six years.

Not since she was eighteen, during that terrifying and exciting week she moved to Korea. She visits every year, but all the rigorous training and back to back tours rarely gave her the chance to plan it herself. The agency usually gave her everything she needed: a car, a driver, a place to stay.

This time—for the first time in a while—she really felt like she was home.

And it was so bittersweet.

It was the same house: pale yellow paint along the front, with red shingles covering their rooftop. She could see the window on the second floor hallway, the same one she would sneak out of whenever she wanted to crawl out to the roof to look at the stars at night.

She breathes out a small laugh. The car comes to a halt, the engine quiets down. "Here's home," she nods towards the house. Their old Honda Odyssey was still parked along the driveway, and she knew it still worked perfectly, even after Zoey had gifted them something newer to drive daily. That's just how her dad was. The flowerbed along the front lawn was new, though. She likes how it seems her mother planted something pink, purple, and blue.

She doesn't know what prompts her to say it, but she points up to the same window on the second floor she was looking at. "When I was a teenager, I used to dream about a cute boy climbing up that window to steal me away with a kiss."

It makes Mira snicker. "Cute."

Rumi looks amused when she asks: "Well, did he ever?"

"Nah."

It was a whirlwind as soon as the front door opened. Auntie Eun-ju looked exactly as Rumi remembered her: just like Zoey—except with a few wrinkles by her eyes and a graceful streak of gray in her shoulder-length hair. She was a bit taller than Zoey, though. Slender and dignified in her neatly-pressed shirt and a charcoal gray cotton robe. Zoey had crashed into her arms in a tearful fit of laughter and I-miss-yous, and soon Rumi was pulled into an embrace of her own. Eun-ju wasn't even done hugging Rumi yet when she started waving her hand and beckoning Mira to come closer. Mira had obliged, awkwardly leaning down to make her easier to reach, her smile shy and grateful.

"It's good to see you again, Auntie." Rumi bows politely.

"It really is," Mira agrees.

"You two!" She laughs, brings her hands up—one on Rumi's cheek, the other gently on Mira's shoulder. "Oh, you look lovely as ever. Have you eaten? Are you hungry?"

It's silly, but Rumi's feeling a bit shy so she doesn't exactly know what to say.

"Yes they are!" Zoey's already running to the kitchen. "They've been whining about it the whole drive here!"

Rumi and Mira both flush red, and it makes Zoey’s mother laugh. "Come on, then."

They leave a mess by the foyer—all their luggage, shoes, and jackets piled up and forgotten near the stairway landing. Everything else could wait until after lunch, apparently. The walk from the front door to the kitchen isn't a very long one, but it takes them through the living room and Rumi looks around in fascination.

It's their first time in Zoey's house. Ever.

There's a beige couch at the center of the room, with a quilt thrown over one side, and three multi-colored throw pillows. A TV was mounted on the opposite wall, framed by tall and thriving plants. Distantly, Rumi recalls a memory of Zoey telling her about how her mother has a green thumb. There's a coffee table with a spread of magazines, and tucked away in the corner sat a record player. She fondly spots a few Huntrix vinyl presses on display nearby.

There are pictures upon pictures of Zoey: Zoey with missing teeth, smiling next to a small, white dog. Teenaged Zoey with a skateboard wearing a t-shirt that just said 'Jackass' (it made her laugh.) A photo of her and her dad on what looks to be a boat, holding up a fish. There's a little note in the corner, and Rumi recognizes Zoey's handwriting: 'Made for good soup.'. God. Her handwriting was even worse back then. There's another photo: Zoey and her parents on vacation, and Rumi can recognize that it's somewhere at Jeju Island—not far from the temple they trained in.

And somewhere along one of the shelves, near a small can of Tiger Balm, there's a framed picture of… them. Rumi, Mira, and Zoey—they were younger and covered in glitter. She remembers this day. It was their debut, their first big performance together.

This wasn't a professional picture from the on-site photographers, or something their management had published. It was backstage, taken from a phone. A small selfie that Zoey had taken to send to her parents. They printed it out and placed it in a beautiful frame, and seeing a picture of them together like this—in a house thousands of kilometers away—made Rumi feel a deep, soothing warmth.

When she turns to continue walking, she sees Mira looking at it too. They share a smile.

As Rumi enters the kitchen, she sees Zoey standing on her tip toes over a cooking pot, her arm linked around her father's. He spoke quietly, stirring the pot in slow and patient circles. He turns when he hears them and Rumi sees freckles along his nose, along with the thick-rimmed glasses and salt and pepper hair. He hands the ladle over to Zoey to greet them.

"Sorry," he smiles sheepishly, smoothing out his apron before holding out his hand. "I'm a bit of a mess since I was cooking. It's good to see you again."

"No worries at all," Mira takes his hand, shakes it with ease. "Thank you for having us Uncle Jeong."

Rumi's hand turns a bit clammy when he reaches forward to shake hers. "It's good to see you," she smiles, and then stutters, "s—sir."

Mira snickers, Zoey raises an eyebrow, and her father laughs with a bit of confusion. "Sir?"

"I mean, Uncle?"

"Did you have a nice flight?"

"We were all asleep." Mira answers, blowing on her soup. "Because your daughter drugged us, Auntie."

"I did not!" Zoey huffs, her mouth still full. "I just gave you Benadryl!"

Rumi nodded solemnly. "Drugged."

“You two get so whiny when you're jetlagged,” Zoey points at them with her chopsticks. “I was doing everyone a favor so we could make the most of our first day here.”

"And let me guess," Zoey's mother folds her hands together. "She didn't take one and still slept like a log."

"Yup," Mira confirms, and Rumi was too busy chewing to say anything but was nodding enthusiastically in agreement.

"Does she still snore like an engine?"

"Eomma! Dad, don't laugh—you know I get it from you!"

Rumi covers her mouth with the back of her hand, laughing gracefully at the way Zoey prickled like a hedgehog at the teasing. It's harmless, and she can tell by the small smile that hasn't left Zoey's lips that she missed it. Rumi's always enjoyed the few times she's eaten with Zoey's parents—particularly because of her mother's sharp wit and way with words, something Zoey definitely took after.

Their kitchen reminded Rumi of the one back in their apartment in Seoul. Zoey begged them to put walnut cabinets and granite countertops—and now she knows why. Some of the spices were familiar: flavors that she liked to use whenever she cooked. It was like Zoey had packed up bits and pieces of this home into her heart, and then took it along with her when she built her new home with them. And now Rumi could see where those pieces were taken from, how they all fit together.

Rumi looks around and wants to steal away details for herself: their potholders were little checkered squares that had bears embroidered at their center, there was a small fortune of magnets stuck on the side of their fridge. Maybe she could take a little more back with her too, surprise Zoey with a small piece of home she couldn’t bring the first time around.

Rumi watches as Mira takes a bottle of hot sauce and starts unloading it onto her soup. She almost laughs when she catches Uncle Jeong watching from the opposite side of her, his eyes almost popping out in concern because Mira just kept going. When she finally stops, he looks to Rumi and they catch each other’s eyes and share a small grin. Rumi just shrugs. She’s used to it. He’s probably wondering if she still has functioning tastebuds.

Lunch was easy. Peaceful, even.

Until it wasn’t.

"So, Rumi and Mira," Zoey's mother begins, so sweet and benign and unaware of the massive headache she was about to gracefully bestow upon Rumi. "Are you two seeing anyone?"

It's an innocent question. Just one of those things that parents ask their daughter's friends. She asks it while Rumi was helping herself to a delectable serving of galbi jjim, piling cuts of the meat onto her plate, and Rumi almost fumbles her chopsticks and drops a piece.

It's just a yes or no question.

Rumi, however, stops and very eloquently says: "Um."

And that was her mistake.

She should have been quick and decisive—but this small act of hesitation had now piqued an interest. Like a predator finding prey: a curious woman and her daughter's previously-single-but-might-not-be-anymore friend.

The thing is, less than twenty-four hours ago there would have been a quick and decisive answer. Now? Not so much.

"Well?" She prods lightly.

"Well, uh," Rumi pulls back her plate. She's about to say yes?, followed by, kind of?, and maybe even I think? but then that would put her in a bit of spot if she asks about who it is and Rumi suddenly needs to very awkwardly describe her daughter so, instead she starts saying: "N—"

Her eyes move to Zoey, who's watching her like a curious hawk, her eyes wide and curious and… vulnerable.

Like it might hurt if Rumi just casually said no.

Rumi doesn't even want to say no, it doesn't feel honest. But then what was she supposed to say? They kissed. Once. That wasn't exactly a relationship. Hell, relationships were built on communication—which so far there was none of!

But it wasn't nothing. Not to her.

And she knows Zoey enough to know it wouldn't be nothing to her, either. At least she hopes so.

The silence seems to be a more poignant answer than Zoey's mom was expecting, and so she backs off, offering her a bit more rice. "Whoops," she giggles a little awkwardly—just like Zoey would—and then says in a hurried ramble: "I'm going to let that one go for now. Mira?"

"Nope."

Rumi's grateful for the shift in attention, and she resolves to find some time to talk to Zoey after lunch.

"Oh," Uncle Jeong turns to look at his wife. "We need to bring them to the store for some groceries."

"We can go after lunch."

Okay. Maybe after the grocery run—

"Also, Zoey, sweetheart, I know you just arrived but you need to get fitted for your dress as soon as possible. I know you've sent your measurements but they still need you to try it on."

"Like, today?"

"Yes, today. Go after groceries."

Rumi tries not to faceplant onto her plate. At this rate maybe they'll get to talk by the end of the fiscal calendar?

At the end of their meal, once everyone was full and a little sleepy, Mira got up to look for something sweet and tart. Zoey hears her mother ask Mira a simple question:

"How do you like your apples cut?"

"Apples?" Mira blinks.

"Yeah," her mom was already rinsing one out, a small cutting board and knife readied at the edge of the counter. "I always peeled the skin off for Zoey, but I wasn't sure how you prefer yours, or if maybe your mom did it differently?"

"Um," Mira stutters. It's a small sound of uncertainty—and they almost never hear it from her. It's enough to make Rumi sit up from her slouch and share a glance with Zoey. Mira's still looking between the apple and her mother. "She never really—" She pauses. "I could just eat it as it is, thank you."

There's a little pause, and then she beckons Mira to sit on one of the barstools by the counters. "Come on, sit. I want you to have some of this."

She peels off the skin of the apple and starts asking about what Mira's been working on.

It's a little awkward at first, like Mira isn't sure what to say. But eventually she ends up talking about a new dance line she's conceptualizing for their next performance. Zoey's mother finishes peeling, and slowly starts slicing it into quarters. She asks follow-up questions: What was your favorite part about making it? How did you conceptualize the theme? When did you start learning to dance?

"You know," she's now slicing the apple into quarters. "I remember that Huntrix recently won an award for Best Dance Performance."

"Yeah," there's a bit of excitement in Mira's voice—a small dusting of pink on her cheeks. She sits up, leans a bit closer, and almost looks like she’s stopping herself from talking too loudly. "For Golden. I think a lot of people really liked the opening choreography."

"Well you did such a wonderful job with it! Jeong-hun and I watched that live."

She slides over a small saucer with a peeled apple cut into eighths.

"We're really proud of you, Mira."

"Oh," Mira says.

She carefully takes the plate. Quietly takes a bite. She smiles.

"Thank you, Auntie."

Unpacking and settling into the guestroom turned into a whole ruckus. Her mom and dad watched in blatant awe as they carried all their luggage up the stairs like it weighed nothing. Because honestly it did, but she wasn't about to drop the whole demon-slaying-training thing to her parents, so Zoey just brushed it off as 'super efficient idol training' and they were happy to nod and call it a day.

There was also the situation of the guestroom actually being downstairs.

Zoey almost gets a stomach-ache laughing at the sight of Rumi and Mira wrestling a full-sized memory foam mattress up their staircase, and the whole thing was just so… sweet. Like one floor down was too far away for them. It wasn't even a discussion—just an automatic decision between Rumi and Mira that they would rather drag a ninety-pound mattress upstairs to sleep on the floor of Zoey's room just so the three of them could be together.

She actually did laugh hard enough to get a stomach-ache when her dad finally told them that he had a vacuum-sealed mattress collapser thingymajig that would have made it so much easier to bring it up. When her mother asked why he didn't say anything, he just grinned, shrugged, and said: "It was kinda funny!"

The three of them stand at the parking lot, staring at the storefront's brick facade with its red and blue letters.

It feels like it's staring back.

"It's going to be a little crazy in there," Zoey mutters, her hand flexing by her waist like she's preparing for a quickdraw. "But we've trained for this."

"We… have?" Mira side-eyes her.

Rumi nods, her eyes narrowing. "Gotta stay sharp."

Mira just stares between them. "Are you two okay? It's a store."

Zoey spins around to face her and starts, "You wouldn't believe that amount of crazy shit that can happen inside these places, like Costo the day before Thanksgiving is a whole new circle of hell—"

Rumi tugs Mira's arm to catch her attention at almost the same time, and her words pour out too quickly: "When I was seven Celine and I had to go to Atlanta for a music thing and she brought me to a Walmart and I got lost and had to go to the intercom lady so giant stores kind of freak me out—"

"Oh my god!" Mira throws up her hands. "Okay, okay! I get it. Come on." She points towards Zoey's mother who was already halfway across the parking lot. "She's gonna leave us behind!"

The three of them catch up to her, and then waddle into the store close behind, like ducklings lost in rows upon rows of multi-pack shampoo boxes and oversized pistachio bags. Zoey isn't sure if she actually misses this place or if it’s just the rose-tinted nostalgia glasses she had on, but somehow, she's still happy they're there. It's definitely a change to not be hearing one of their own songs playing on the overhead speakers. Kind of a bummer (she lowkey loved it when that happened.)

"I'm going to go through my grocery list," her mom says while looking at her small, top-bound spiral notebook. It's still the same kind she would always buy in packs of four—and it's so familiar, Zoey’s almost seventeen again. "You three go on ahead and get a cart for yourselves and whatever you might want."

Her mother sets off on a journey towards the produce section. Zoey turns around and laughs the moment her eyes land on Rumi and Mira. Rumi had completely curled into herself, her hood pulled up so tightly around her head that Zoey could only see a little bit of her face. Mira was staring at her from behind her glasses, so helplessly intense.

"You guys are insane," Mira starts, pointing at a rack of wellness supplies by the entrance. "No one needs forty-seven different kinds of multivitamins to choose from."

"Or a twelve-pack of moisturizer," Rumi mutters.

Mira just looks at Rumi. "You do."

Zoey bites her lip and looks away to stifle her laughter, both of them immune to the glare Rumi was trying to shoot at them.

"I mean this place is just an air-conditioned warehouse," Mira says flatly, more and more agitated. "Where's the… ambiance? The tasteful lighting? The curated attempts at making it look like a local farmer's market?"

It is endlessly hilarious to Zoey that Mira was apparently crashing out over Costco's lack of interior design choice, of all things, but they venture onwards anyway. Zoey leads them through the chaos to where they could find snacks. She wanted to eat, well, everything. But it just didn't make sense to stack a cart full when they would only be there for four days.

Thankfully Zoey didn't care about things making sense.

She's just a little machine with no impulse control that turns cravings into another line on the receipt, and Mira and Rumi watch in horror as a small mountain begins to pile on their cart, the small ka-ching of the cash register playing in their head at each new addition. Mira turns to Rumi behind Zoey's back and nods her head—Rumi instantly understands.

"Hey," she says sweetly, hand on the small of Zoey's back, "What's over there?"

"Huh," Zoey squints at the direction Rumi's looking at. "I wonder what is over there?"

They manage to navigate away from the neverending row of potato chips towards the supplements section, where Rumi and Mira start picking up antacid (for when Zoey eats too many sour strips), antihistamines (for when Zoey gets even the slightest whiff of pollen), a three-pack of multivitamins (one for each of them, in case they needed thirty days worth of multivitamins in the next four days), and a box of Lactaid so big it probably had 360 tablets in it.

"What?" Rumi clutches at it defensively.

"You could just," Mira starts. "Not drink milk."

It's Zoey who comes to her rescue—thank God too, Rumi doesn't have quite as effective of a pout. "But what if she wants to have boba?"

"You say that like it's a basic necessity."

"It is! Hey, do you think it's a demon thing? Do they not drink milk?"

"I—" Rumi sputters. "Still a sensitive topic, you know! And people get lactose intolerant too!"

"I actually wondered about that," Mira admits. "But, fine." The box goes into the cart (ka-ching!).

"It's for the best," Zoey nods solemnly. "The only thing more lethal than Rumi's face card is the aftermath of her accidentally eating chee—"

"Zoey!" Rumi, red in the face, plants her entire hand onto Zoey's face to shut her up and all three of them bubble into laughter.

Snacks and a few supplies are probably all they need, really. Her mom's still somewhere in the store getting the actual groceries, and Zoey contemplates leaving the two to their own devices so she could help her out. They pass by the international food aisle, and she sees Mira looking over a shelf stacked with jarred kimchi.

"Mira," Zoey pokes her side. "I am obligated to tell you that it's not going to be as good."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do. I need you to look at me and tell me that you understand it's not going to be as good as back home, and that you're not going to be mad about it later."

Mira turns towards her just as she picks a random jar up. "I understand that it's not going to be as good as back home. And I won't get mad."

"You believe it, Rumi?" Zoey turns.

And then she laughs, because Rumi was holding up her phone. She pokes her head to the side, grinning at them both. "Got that on record, Mira!"

They manage to make it through one more aisle, and once they exit into a wider break among the shelves, Zoey begins walking to see if she can find her mom. She's stopped by the feeling of Rumi's hand brushing against hers, and their fingers catch together.

"Yes?" Zoey turns. Her hands slip into Rumi's with ease, without so much as a second thought.

Rumi pulls her a bit closer, and Zoey leans in. She sees a kind-looking lady standing behind a booth with what looks like little cubes of meat on toothpicks, and—aha. Rumi's been ensnared by the appeal of free samples. "I wanted to try some."

"Please do!" The lady holds up the tray and smiles.

Mira leans over the both of them and picks one out. "What are they?"

The lady smiles apologetically. "Honestly I have no fucking idea, I just work here."

"Fair." Mira eats it. "It's good."

Rumi pinches two sticks between her fingers. She holds one up for Zoey, who negotiates a way to eat one without accidentally eating the other and somehow manages. Rumi pops the other one in her mouth and Zoey sees a cute little fang snag the stick. She laughs and grabs a napkin from the table, leaning up to wipe away a bit of the grease at the edge of Rumi's mouth.

The lady coos. "You two are so cute together!"

Zoey flushes red, panics. "We're—"

"It's a bit—" Rumi rambles nervously.

"Kinda like a—?" Zoey starts making strange gestures with her free hand.

The lady blinks at them like they're playing charades. "Uh. One word?" She mutters. "Two syllables?"

"English?" Mira adds, happy to join in amusement.

No one really says no.

Their hands stay entangled the whole time.

Zoey feels it more than she sees it while walking to finally find her mother. A tickle up the back of her neck, almost like she knows her hairs are standing there. She looks over to her right and sees a lone shopper looking over an endless stack of canned soup. The jarring, overhead fluorescent lights flicker above her. Zoey can hear it around her—like dissonance.

He's dressed like an accountant. White shirt. Shiny shoes. Strange posture. Out of an odd sense of curiosity, she walks into the aisle with her muscles flexed and readied. She starts looking through each and every can, her eyes darting over to him now and again, her finger tips brushing over the different favors: cream of mushroom, chicken, beef noodle. Their eyes meet and he gives her a painfully forced smile. He picks up a can and then—smells it?

She tries not to laugh, grabs another can herself (clam chowder) and throws it at the man's head (thunk!) before reaching into the honmoon for her knives. He hisses—and the patterns start crawling up the length of his arms. Red and angry—almost like a growing inflammation.

They look so much like the very same ones she loves to trace along Rumi's arms, but they make her feel nothing. They weren't hers.

The disguise disappears. The man, now more evidently a demon, with his snarl and curling horns, and—checkered tie?—yelps in anger. Zoey could feel two others behind her, and quickly made a quick scan of the vicinity to see how many customers might still be nearby. It would be easy if she wasn't so concerned over CCTVs and the possibility of civilians being hurt in the crossfire.

"You guys are so annoying," she grits her teeth. "I'm trying to shop in peace!"

They seethe at the sight of her glowing knives. "She's a hunter," one of them grumbles.

"And you—" she takes another can, launches it in the air, and kicks it straight towards one of the newer arrivals. It lands square in his nose and crumples on impact. "—are going to be dead soon."

She fans out her knives between her fingers, and starts rapidly typing into her phone with her free hand.

"Alright," she hits send. "Bring it."

"I just don't get it," Mira says flatly. "Why is there a whole outdoor patio set on sale next to," she turns, "cookies?"

Rumi was looking at a pallet of grilling charcoal. They don't need to buy a pallet of grilling charcoal. Why does she want to buy this random pallet of grilling charcoal? She shrugs half-heartedly at Mira's question, distracted. "Couldn't tell you."

Their phones buzz at the same time, and Mira fishes it out of her purse to check. "Rumi."

The urgency in her voice makes Rumi straighten up and face her, eyes sharp.

Mira looks up from her phone. "She says there are demons. At soup?"

"Soup?" Rumi pursed her lips. "We have to go find her."

"Where the fuck is soup? Also relax, she's fine."

"What do you mean she's fine? She just said there are demons."

"She said, and I quote: 'Demons at soup. LOL.' Skull emoji."

Rumi facepalms, "Zoey. I'm pretty sure it's at Aisle 27."

Mira blinks. "And you just… know this?"

"Yes?" She frowns defensively. "I checked the app for the store map before we got here."

Mira raises an eyebrow. "You are such a control freak."

Rumi rolls her eyes. "Why do people keep saying that!"

Zoey finally sinks a knife in one of the demons as soon as a shopper clears the aisle. It hisses and disappears in an anguished puff of smoke, and her attention turns towards the remaining two. She can't do anything too flashy though. She scans the perimeter. There seems to be a lull in the crowd, and just maybe she can take out both in one hit if—

She drops her knives, and the demons start to crouch for an attack.

And then she grins, because Rumi and Mira are standing behind them.

Mira comes down in wide, graceful movements. Heavy and sharp—like the gok-do in her hands—an unstoppable arc cleaving through the center of the left-hand demon and leaving him disintegrating into dust.

Rumi has much less fanfare, instead stalking like a predator—and honestly, Zoey kind of loves seeing her like this: her confident grin, and the way her eyes widen ever so slightly in unabashed excitement whenever she's itching for a fight. It makes sense, she thinks. Today's been one tedious thing after another and Rumi probably wants to blow off some steam.

So she swipes at the demon's feet and misses on purpose. It makes him jump back, giving her an excuse to step forward. Mira's just leaning back now—she knows what Rumi's doing. She gets like this sometimes: like a cat pawing at a captive mouse.

She finally drives her blade through the demon's chest.

"Done playing with your food?" Zoey teases.

Rumi turns to look at her. She still has that look in her eye, and Zoey swallows.

"Alright, alright," Zoey says a little quickly, jumping up from her haunches. "Thanks for backing me up. Let's get out of here."

Everything is much less exciting after that. They eventually meet up with Zoey's mom and fall into the queue. And then Zoey's mom has to leave to grab some last-minute items. And then Zoey also needs to leave to grab a few final snacks. Rumi and Mira take one cart each, pushing it ever closer to the check-out lane as the queue begins to shorten. They're fine at the start, but then the queue's moving much faster than she thought it would—and Zoey and her mother were still nowhere in sight.

She sees Mira shift next to her. It's been five minutes.

"They'll be back soon, right?" Rumi mutters, craning her neck to look around the store. The beep—beep—beep of scanning items creates a strange harmony with the mechanical sound of receipts printing.

"Probably." Mira responds. "Hopefully."

Rumi looks at the shopping carts they had. There were probably just two people ahead of them.

"Um," she looks at Mira. "I don't know how we're going to pay for this once we get to our turn."

Mira just stares at her. "We are literally millionaires."

"Yes, but we don't have a membership card."

"Fuck. We need that to pay?"

"Apparently."

The queue moves forward. There's one person left. They share a glance—and then a relieved sigh when Zoey and her mother catch them at the perfect minute.

"Thanks for waiting for us!"

The attendant rings them up and thankfully offers no indication of judgement at the ridiculous assortment of snacks and supplies they bought. When it's finally time to pay, all hell breaks loose.

Zoey's mom motions to take out her wallet and Zoey yelps and shoves her own card towards the payment kiosk—and then Mira swats it away and tries to slam her super platinum ultrablack designer sponsored credit card onto the terminal—but Rumi elbows her to the side and brings out an honest to god wad of cash and the cashier just kind of slowly backs away as the three of them wrestle over the apparent honor of paying for the groceries.

"I can't let you pay!" Zoey yells. "You're my guests!"

"Which is why I have to pay," Mira grits her teeth, "You're already letting us stay for free!"

"Let me—" Rumi mutters, "—I like taking care of you guys—"

Zoey's mother just laughs as they bicker, and stealthily hands her card over to the attendant with a wink.

The last errand of the day is Zoey's dress fitting. They almost have to drag her kicking and screaming to the boutique, but they eventually manage to coax her behind the steering wheel to take them all to the shop. It's a relatively small shop, wedged between two other clothing boutiques in a long, flat concrete building full of storefronts. Behind the floor-to-ceiling windows up front were slender mannequins in deep hues of red and purple, the fabric flowing downwards from their shoulders like waterfalls that pooled neatly by their feet. She almost suggests to Mira that they could look around for something for themsleves—but nevermind, they already brought something to wear to the wedding.

They get ushered to the back of the store after Zoey checks in with reception. Rumi and Mira sit themselves on one of the couches, scrolling through their phones, fighting away the exhaustion creeping into their bones to show a display of camaraderie with Zoey—who was probably just as tired, if not more.

When the seamstress walks out carrying a beautiful pastel-green dress, Rumi sits up. She watches as the woman walks into the dressing room area and knocks on one of the doors. She sees Zoey open it a little and stick out her head, and then the dress disappears into the small crack of the door before it shuts completely.

Rumi leans forward, her elbows on her knees and her hands in her face—just thinking about how good Zoey probably looks in it.

She really needs to get it together.

It feels like they've managed to make it to sundown in relatively normalcy, ever since they left Seoul. Not that she really knew what 'normal' was between them, really. It isn't helping that everyone else around them seems to be asking questions she'd very much like to ask herself—but was now really the time to be bringing something like that up with Zoey? Were they just going to have to go through the whole trip without saying anything?

And even if she did eventually figure out what she wanted to tell her, it was looking close to impossible to find time alone with Zoey to talk about it. She wasn't kidding when she said it was going to be an endlessly spontaneous back-to-back schedule: this was almost just as tiring as touring. She was never going to get her alone at this rate.

Sometimes the universe likes to throw people a bone, though.

"Rumi?"

The door creaks open—Zoey's head pops out.

"Yeah?"

"Could you—" There's a pause, and it almost sounds like hesitation. "—could you help me zip up?

Rumi blinks. She looks over her shoulder and sees that Mira's actually fallen asleep, her phone having slipped out of her hand and onto her lap.

"Yeah, be there in sec."

Rumi locks Mira's phone and pulls on a small throw blanket to cover her legs. Then Rumi gets up and makes her way towards the dressing room. Zoey just watches her as she approaches, smiling apologetically, and Rumi just smiles back and waves as if to say don't worry, it's nothing.

Zoey opens the door wider for her—and then it's finally just the two of them.

Rumi looks around. A large mirror runs for the entire length of one wall, framed by a strip of lights. It's a bit larger than a standard fitting room: enough to hold a small seat in the corner, and a little table on the side to hold accessories and personal belongings. Zoey turns to face the mirror as soon as Rumi steps in. She’s watching her through the reflection, grinning up at her sheepishly, her face lit up with a pretty blush.

Her dress was undone along her back.

"I couldn't reach."

Rumi laughs and meets her eyes in the mirror as she steps in closer from behind, "that's cause you stay up all night playing video games."

"Hey," Zoey knits her brows. "This is a hundred percent a human anatomy thing and not a height thing!"

"That implies height isn't a human anatomy thing?"

"God, you're no better than Mira."

"I'll stop," Rumi concedes with a smile. "I'll stop."

She looks away from Zoey's eyes and tries to find the zipper and—

Rumi tries not to die at the sight of Zoey's bare back.

It's flawless and smooth and peppered with freckles. They run along the dip of her back: from the top of her neck—hiding behind loose curls that have come undone from Zoey's bun—to the base of her spine, and Rumi only lets herself stare for a second longer before she rips her eyes away and looks up to the ceiling. It actually makes Zoey giggle when she does—but Zoey isn't doing any better, redder than she was just moments ago, the flush reaching the tips of her ears.

They've all seen more of each other, time and time again, comfortable and open in a way Rumi had never been before. It’s different this time, though.

Zoey cuts her thinking off before she can spiral. "It's okay," she says lightly. "Help me with it?"

"Right, right." Rumi grounds herself and nods. She finally looks back so that her hand can find the tab of the zipper—and then she pulls.

It goes slowly.

She watches the teeth come together and hide away more and more of the freckled skin of Zoey's back. She almost mourns the view, and she wonders how soft it must feel, wants to touch it so she can see for herself, but she holds her wants at bay and dutifully brings the zipper up—swallows thickly through her actions—until the dress is fully closed right up to the middle of her back. The dress was cut low, leaving her shoulders exposed.

Rumi wants to—to kiss her there—

When she sees Zoey in the mirror, every other thought dies out like a candle in the wind. Even her more selfish ones.

She's so beautiful—barely any makeup on, her hair in a messy bun. It was a near-perfect fit: a pastel green halter neck dress that has a ribbon wrapped around her neck, from which the front of the dress hung and then draped down to cover her torso before it was cinched at the waist. It flowed free from the waist down, cut slim and elegantly—and it took Rumi's breath away.

She could see Zoey blush under the weight of her stare. She doesn't remember when her hands settle onto Zoey's waist, but she holds her in place when Zoey turns to face her and nervously asks:

"Does it fit okay?"

Rumi's looking at her now. Not through the mirror—just them, face to face.

Zoey's all doe-eyed and timid and impossibly pretty and Rumi's just—trying to find the words. Trying to keep it together.

"Rumi?"

"Hm?" is the only sound she manages to make.

"That's not fair," Zoey says breathlessly. "You can't look at me like that."

Well the way she looks doesn't feel very fair to Rumi either.

Rumi's hands come up to cup Zoey's face—and then she leans in and kisses her.

Zoey softly exhales into her mouth and kisses her back.

Rumi kisses her a little selfishly this time. Like it would be a crime not to commit and give her something half-hearted and dishonest. So she tilts her head and presses in a bit deeper, and Zoey makes a shuddering sound against her mouth. Rumi drinks her in. She smells like peppermint, and tastes like her afternoon coffee. She feels Zoey's hands wrap around her forearms—and Rumi drops one arm to hold Zoey around the waist to keep her steady on her feet—but she steps forward until Zoey's leaning against the fitting room wall. Rumi chases after her with another open-mouthed kiss. For the first time all day Rumi feels completely, truly at ease. Like there couldn’t have been any other way to answer all the questions in her head but this: kissing her. Zoey's hand moves to the back of her head this time, threading into her purple hair, and it makes her hum and swipe her tongue along Zoey's bottom lip.

There's a knock on the door.

"Everything okay?"

"Y—" Zoey leans back and tries to breathe out, but Rumi presses one more kiss against her lips. "Yes,” she finally manages. “We'll be out soon."

Rumi leans against Zoey's forehead, her arms lazily wrapping around her waist. Zoey's still holding her around her neck, her other hand coming up to brush Rumi's cheek affectionately.

Rumi brushes her nose against Zoey's, and her eyes flutter close. "We need to talk."

"Yeah," Zoey whispers, nods. "We do."

It feels like a dream. Rumi steps out of the dressing room, and (thankfully, or unfortunately?) Zoey doesn’t need any help unzipping the dress and manages to change back into sweats and a t-shirt just fine. They stir Mira who is now feeling the full effect of jetlag so early in the evening, and move her into the minivan and back home.

They still don't get to talk, between having to unpack all three of their suitcases and managing three nighttime routines in one small bathroom. They still don't get to talk, because Mira has a headache—and it’s always going to be more important that they make sure she’s alright, first and foremost. They make sure she has water and some aspirin by the bedside, and Zoey gives up her bed so that Mira can get a full night of rest without an ache in her back. She and Rumi curl up on either side of her because it makes her feel safe—and when she finally dozes off, they pile spare sheets onto the ninety-pound foam mattress on Zoey's bedroom floor and lay side by side.

Zoey's absolutely exhausted. Physically and mentally and emotionally. She doesn't have enough functioning brain cells for one more coherent thought. They were all out. On PTO. Which was a little funny, because technically she was too. Rumi's laying stiff as a board next to her, and she can tell that she's awake.

"I'm sorry," Zoey mutters, soft enough not to wake Mira up. She's looking up at the ceiling of her bedroom. They still have the glow in the dark stars. And glow in the dark dolphins. And glow in the dark turtles? Where did her dad even get those? "I think I'm too tired to have that conversation right now."

"It's okay," Rumi brushes her hand against Zoey. "I think we all are."

"I'm not trying to not though, you know that right?" Zoey links their pinky fingers together.

"I do," Rumi moves her entire hand to thread all their fingers together and squeeze Zoey's hand. "I know you're not."

Zoey shuffles a bit closer and leans against Rumi's shoulder.

Rumi turns, pressing her mouth softly against the crown of Zoey's head. "Do you want to cuddle?"

"Yes, please." Zoey says in a pitiful voice. She turns over to lay on her side, and throws her leg over the blanket covering Rumi's legs. Rumi laughs and Zoey finds herself at home against the rumble of it in her chest. She feels Rumi wrap an arm around her torso.

"Maybe we'll have better luck tomorrow."

"I think my aunt and all my cousins are coming over for a barbecue tomorrow."

She could almost hear the grimace on Rumi’s face. "Nevermind, then."

"You'll love them, though. I think."

Rumi's playing with her hair. And then she stops.

"Oh."

"What is it?"

"I should have bought the palette of grilling charcoal at Costco."

It makes Zoey laugh, and she buries the sound into Rumi's collarbone.

It's okay, it's okay.

They'll try again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Zoey wakes up slowly.

The first thing she feels is the warmth against her body. There are birds outside of her window, the very same ones from her childhood, but this time their song is coupled with the smell of Rumi's lavender shampoo—she breathes it in, slow and deep.

There's a soft hum, a shuffle. She feels gentle scratches at the back of her head, moving lazily downwards until they turn into circles pressed against her upper back. It's almost enough to lull her back to sleep, if not for the smell of breakfast pulling her awake: honey-cured bacon, coffee the way her mother made it, some leftover doenjang jjigae. Her parents are talking downstairs and the sound of Mira's voice fills the spaces in between.

What a wonderful mixture of everything she's ever called home.

Zoey moves closer into the warmth beside her and feels Rumi hold her by the middle, almost possessively.

When she finally opens her eyes, she sees Rumi already awake and scrolling through her phone. Zoey's still laying on her shoulder and she hopes her arm hasn't gone numb throughout the night. Zoey can't help but laugh. Rumi's feed is just one cooking reel after another.

"Algorithm's got you figured out."

Zoey wraps her arms around Rumi until she's caught her in a loose embrace.

"It's probably because I keep liking them," Rumi laughs lightly, her voice rough and heavy with sleep.

"Not using the official Huntr/x account I hope?"

There's a minute of panic—two sets of eyes looking at the profile icon on the bottom right—and yup. There it is. Rumi forgot to switch accounts again. She groans and lets her phone fall onto her stomach.

"Bobby's going to kill me."

Zoey can feel a fit of giggles start in her chest. "How long," she snickers. "How long have you been up and liking reels?"

"Maybe half an hour." Rumi sluggishly covers her eyes with her hand in frustration.

Zoey grins, giggles, and presses her face into Rumi's collarbone to hide it all away in mercy. "Never change, Rumi. All those cooking accounts are probably flipping out."

The tips of Rumi's ears—sticking out from the mess of her hair in the morning—are red, as they often are whenever she's embarrassed. Zoey finds it all so endearing that she can't help but snuggle close. She couldn't stop smiling even if she wanted to.

"You're enjoying this," Rumi nudges her.

Zoey pulls back to look at her. She bites her lip sheepishly. "A little?"

Rumi's looking at her with a lazy smile, and it's—it's doing things to Zoey's stomach. Especially when Rumi mumbles out a soft and sleepy: "G'morning."

Zoey toys with the loose cloth of Rumi's top, just so she had something to do other than try not to squirm. "Morning."

Rumi's smile falters. She's giving her that look again—the yearny one, with the small crease between her brow and flush on her cheeks. The sunlight slipping through the slats of her window falls perfectly against Rumi's features, and Zoey can see speckles of gold and brown in Rumi's half-lidded eyes. She wants to stay under the covers and look at her all day, family activities be damned.

Rumi breathes out slowly, curling into herself and closer towards Zoey. "I have a question," she asks quietly.

"Yeah?"

Rumi hesitates. Her hand moves to Zoey's side, her fingers splayed out, and Zoey can feel it on her skin—warm and heavy through her cotton pyjama top. Zoey's heart skips a beat. Maybe two.

"Is kissing something I'm allowed to do now?"

It catches Zoey off-guard and makes her laugh—a small huff through her nose. It's cute that she's asking—as if Rumi hasn't already given her a taste of something so sweet she couldn't imagine going back to life without it. But sometimes she can't help but be a smartass, so she grins up at Rumi and says: "I don't know. I think the first two times weren't enough for a thorough evaluation."

She feels Rumi's laughter more than she can hear it, a soft rumble from her chest. "Do I get a third try?"

Zoey lets her eyes drop to Rumi's lips. "Maybe. Probably." She looks back up towards her. "Definitely."

"Right."

That's all Rumi says—and then Zoey feels herself sink downward as Rumi turns to lay on her side, slowly. Deliberately. The single-minded look of determination in Rumi's eyes makes her a little nervous because Zoey knows what she's like when she's ready to commit. The arm around her waist pulls her closer, and Rumi's other hand falls gently onto her face. She can feel her thumb brushing along the ridge of her cheek. When Rumi's fingertips ghost along the underside of her ear, she shivers.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Rumi warns ever so politely.

As promised, she pushes forward and kisses her. There's no rush this time: just Rumi's lips pressed against hers and her hand on her side—and soon Zoey's floating and flying and falling all at once, and she doesn't ever want it to stop. Rumi tilts her head and Zoey learns how to kiss her deeper than she's ever gotten to. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wonders, was this something she was going to get to have now? Maybe every morning? Maybe forever? That would be nice. So very, very nice. It makes her ball her hands into fists, bunching up the cloth along Rumi's front and pulling her closer.

When Rumi's fingers thread into her hair, her lips part open in a sigh. Rumi keeps kissing her, shuffling forward, their legs tangling up despite the sheet separating them. Zoey can hardly believe the thundering in her chest—there's no way Rumi couldn't hear it too, even feel it with how close they were now.

She feels a tongue brush against her own and is helpless to stop the long whine from the back of her throat. Rumi's breathing shudders and goes ragged—and then she deepens the kiss, enough that Zoey feels like she's drowning.

Zoey can hear muffled thuds—like footsteps—just as Rumi licks along her bottom lip.

Then she hears a creak and she knows that's the second step up the staircase. Her hands come up to Rumi's shoulders—she needs to hold onto something, anything. She doesn't stop kissing her.

But the footfalls get louder. The cadence is unmistakably familiar.

"Rumi," Zoey mumbles against her lips. "That's—that's my mother."

There's a three second buffering period before the words hit the little control room up in Rumi's head—and suddenly she's an arms-length away.

Zoey blinks owlishly as Rumi stumbles from the mattress to the floor, her feet and limbs getting caught in a tangle of sheets until she's a solid six feet from her and sitting on her heels on the carpet. She's flushed and heaving and remarkably nervous.

There's a knock on her door. Zoey pulls up the sheets to hide her embarrassment. "Come in."

"You two up?" Her mother asks as she peers through the door. "Breakfast is ready."

Rumi honest to god bows and spills out comical: "Hello, auntie!"

"Uhm. Hello! Good morning?"

Zoey sees her mother turn towards her and catches the small, confused quirk in her brow.

She laughs nervously.

It's going to be a long day.

Breakfast is awkward. Not in a bad way, but in the dancing-with-two-left-feet way, where Zoey feels like she and Rumi are still learning the lengths and limits of their limbs around each other. Everything's so new—and it's such a thrill. She remembers Rumi's firm palm against her back when she helped her grab something from the cupboard, and how no more than five minutes later she had kept her hands glued on her own lap, like Rumi was too shy to even come close. It was so charming—so effortlessly endearing.

"Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can." Her mother sighs, looking around at everyone at the dining table. "The whole village is coming over this afternoon."

"Are the girls coming too?" Zoey asks between sips of her orange juice. From underneath the table, she reaches out to hold Rumi's hand. She sees her flush beside her, and fights down her own smile. She sees Mira playfully roll her eyes and it makes her smile even more.

"Of course!” Her mother replies. “Hana recently started ballet, no doubt she wants nothing more than to show everyone her pirouettes and grand battements, or so your Aunt Min-ji said over text."

Zoey nearly chokes on her bacon. She squeezes down on Rumi's hand so tightly that Rumi sideyes her. "Ballet? Already?! No way, no way! Isn't she just a little toddler? Don't tell me Yuna can crawl on her own now!"

Her father blinks at her. "Yuna can walk now."

Zoey just stares at him. "I'm aging. I'm withering away."

"How do you think I feel every time you come home?" Her father laughs it off as a joke, but it makes her chest tighten. "You're growing up faster than an old man can keep up with."

The words strike true to a tender part of her heart she didn't know was exposed.

"Dad," she whines, brows kitting together.

"Sorry, sorry." He blinks, eyes wide, bacon hanging from the pinch of his chopsticks. "Did I make it too cheesy?"

Zoey shakes her head and looks back down to her plate. She feels Rumi's thumb brushing along the back of her hand, soothing, constant. She's grateful for it.

Mira and Rumi continue to weave into the rhythm of her childhood home so easily that Zoey almost forgets they aren't at their apartment back in Seoul.

It happens after breakfast, when she spots Rumi lounging on the couch. Zoey walks across the living room while peeling an orange, and smiles at Rumi when their eyes meet.

"Good breakfast?"

"The best." Rumi sinks further into the cushions. "Can I steal some of that?"

Zoey sticks out her tongue. "Peel your own."

"So stingy."

"I think I'm pretty generous, actually." Zoey smiles at her. It flusters Rumi, and it makes Zoey feel no small amount of satisfaction to see it. Despite her words, she pulls the orange apart into halves and licks up some of the juice along her thumb.

Rumi's eyes follow the action.

Zoey sits herself down onto Rumi's lap and drapes her legs out along the length of the couch. "See?" She holds up half of the orange. "Here."

She feels Rumi's arms coil around her waist—

—and then feels a sharp flick behind her ear.

Zoey yelps and whips her head around and she sees Mira walking behind the couch, just having passed them. "Hi, Uncle!" Mira says loudly towards the kitchen—and the realization that her father did, in fact, also live in this house was enough to send Zoey jumping a solid two feet up in the air and very much away from Rumi's lap. Rumi corrects her posture so sharply she probably pulled a muscle. Mira looks at them with her arms crossed as if to say: Really?

They spend the late morning cooking.

Uncle Jeong-hun has to grill up some steak, and Auntie Eun-ju is preparing japchae. Zoey's parents try to usher them away, but Rumi and Mira are bullheaded in their insistence to be of some help—and so the both of them are given vegetable duty while Zoey prepares the backyard with her father.

Auntie Eun-ju eyes Rumi's knifework with amusement.

"I'm going to guess Mira is the vegetable-chopper of the household back in Seoul?"

Rumi flushes pink and smiles sheepishly. "Yeah."

"Rumi's better with the meat." Mira nudges her helpfully. "With a bigger knife, she can manage the short rib easily."

"Oh! Of course, of course, you wouldn't mind doing that for me, would you, dear?"

"Not at all," Rumi's already moving across the kitchen to change knives into something longer and more familiar in her grip, grateful for Mira's help in finding her something to do. The meat was thawing out in a bowl at the sink, still in its packaging, and Rumi peels back the flimsy plastic film before easing it out of the styrofoam and running it under the sink for a rinse. The slab hits the cutting board with a thud, and the longer and larger knife feels easy in her hands—it will never be as sharp as the weapon she's used to, but her method and strength compensate for it and she slices into the meat with relative ease.

Auntie Eun-ju shuffles behind her, bottles of soy sauce, rice wine, and sesame oil clinking in her arms for the marinade. She peers over Rumi's shoulders and hums approvingly at her work. "You've made it thinner."

"I remember that Zoey prefers her short rib on the thin side," Rumi's happy to see her pleased expression.

"Should I include these mushrooms, Auntie?" Mira calls from her side of the kitchen. "I know she doesn't really eat them."

"The other guests might want to though," Rumi responds before Zoey's mother can. "I can just pick them out for her like usual."

"Like usual?" Auntie Eun-ju says with a smile and curious eyes.

Mira laughs. "The mushrooms, and the bell peppers."

"And pickles." Rumi scrunches her nose, but she's smiling. "And okra, but I agree with her there."

"She gets that from me." Auntie Eun-ju shivers. "I despise okra. The texture!"

They laugh a little about it, then carry on—mixing, chopping, cutting, slicing. Auntie Eun-ju breaks the silence by asking: "Does she still get stomachaches when it's cold? It helps to get—"

"A heatpack. And hot chocolate." Rumi says fondly. She flushes once she realizes what she's done. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you—"

"It's okay," Eun-ju waves her off with a smile.

Mira's voice is light and at ease as she speaks. "She misses you a lot, auntie. Whenever she's sick, or has a headache, she says: 'Eomma would know what to do!', and she tries to pass it off as a joke but I'm pretty sure she means it, cause whenever we ask her what you would do, and then do it, she feels better every time."

"Even Mira's started using Vicks Vapor Rub when her nose is stuffy," Rumi giggles.

Auntie Eun-ju shifts a little, pausing for a second while she peels the skin off a bundle of garlic cloves. Then she continues, mincing them so finely it’s almost a paste. "When Zoey packed up and left, I was so worried."

Mira and Rumi fall quiet to listen.

"I've never let her out of my sight before, you know." She laughs, but it's thoughtful. "It must have been overbearing, in hindsight. All the rules and the hovering. But I worry, I always have, I still do. When you're on tour, I wonder: is she sleeping enough? Drinking enough water? You had a concert in Vancouver during the spring, and I just know she'd have struggled with allergies. She gets cold too quickly. I just worry all the time—and am so far away. But I guess…"

She turns to smile at them both.

"I shouldn't worry too much, after all."

A little while later, once the meat is marinating and the noodles are cooking, Rumi comes out to the back to help Zoey and her father. They've set up a few tables and are trying to assemble a collapsible canopy he just bought. They're struggling. Rumi realizes that they're struggling because they are pointedly ignoring the instruction pamphlet that's laying discarded somewhere near the back porch. Rumi sighs. So that's where Zoey gets it.

"Zoey, Uncle," she picks up the folded paper and walks towards them. "I have the manual, would you like to—"

"Nah," they say in unison. Same cadence. Same tone.

"Can't be that hard to put up a tent," Uncle Jeong had his hands on his knees, squinting. He turns to Zoey. "Hey buddy, do you think we should just use the impact and make screw holes ourselves?"

"Yeah!" Zoey grins. "I'll grab it from the shed."

"Zoey," Rumi pleads. "It already has screws."

"Well, we checked the packet and those didn't fit, so," Zoey shrugged.

"The manual tells us which one goes where." Rumi holds it up pitifully.

"It's just a tent!" Zoey pouts. "We just need to stick the legs together, pull it open, and plop the tarp on top!"

"Yes. But there's an order to doing it," Rumi crosses her arms.

"We got this, Rumi!"

"Are you going to be like this about every bit of furniture we have to build? Are you forgetting what happened when we built Derpy's bedframe?"

Zoey bounces on her feet petulantly. "The more you tell me to read the instructions the more I don't want to."

Rumi raises an eyebrow at her. It's stern enough to make Zoey nervously look away.

Uncle Jeong grins. "It encourages creative thinking!"

It might not at all be her place to do this, but Rumi really doesn't think it's a good idea to invent new joining points on the support struts of a canopy that's going to be standing on top of their guests, so she shoves the pamphlet into Zoey's sternum. "Go read this." Rumi's eyes flicker over to Uncle Jeong. "I'm going to call your mom."

The tent gets built as per manufacturer instructions.

The hours tick closer towards noon and the house grows frantic. There's panicked vacuuming, and someone needs to get the foldable chairs from the attic.

(Rumi carries down a stack of five in each arm because she wants to impress Zoey. It works. She gets a kiss on the cheek.)

Mira carefully sets flowers at the center of the coffee table, and helps Auntie Eun-ju light the chafing dish food warmer cans. Uncle Jeong is desperately mowing the front lawn.

When Rumi comes upstairs to look for something in her luggage, she sees Zoey rifling through the linen closet down the hall for a fresh couch throw blanket.

They giggle when they see each other, and huddle closer against the wall to steal a kiss.

Rumi's the nearest one to the front door when the first guest arrives. She comes up to greet them and is met by a fashionable older woman who's a bit taller than Auntie Eun-ju, but has the same slight jaw. Her hair is long, lush, and streaked with gray—it reminds Rumi of Celine's. Her expression is unreadable behind her oversized sunglasses: a pair that perfectly matched her dark shirt, plum-colored blazer, and gray, checkered scarf.

Scarf.

In this god-awful weather.

"Hi!" Rumi smiles—it probably looks painfully awkward—and steps aside to welcome her. "I'm Rumi, a friend of Zoey's, you must be one of her aunts?"

"Charmed." Her lips curl up to a smile, and it's interesting how much she looks like Auntie Eun-ju, but how different they are as well. The woman holds out her hand for Rumi to shake, and Rumi nervously takes it and hopes her hand isn't sweaty. "I'm Hye-jin. It's wonderful to finally meet you."

Rumi hears Zoey's dramatic gasp from behind her. She turns to call her over, but is surprised to see Zoey's eyes all wide and pitiful and pleading while she runs over towards the front door. There's a confusing second where she thinks Zoey's about to take her in for a hug—but then Zoey completely ignores her, drops down into a crouch, and holds out her hands towards a small creature that she hadn't noticed earlier, hiding behind Auntie Hye-jin's legs.

It's a chihuahua.

He's wearing a designer bowtie.

"Poco!" Zoey coos, and the little fellow happily runs into her arms, barking and jumping and wagging his tail. "I've missed you so much!"

Rumi is trying not to pout about it.

Everyone else starts arriving shortly after.

It's a lot.

The soft home that she and Mira had slowly grown used to in the past day and a half felt like a whole new place. It wasn't the extra tables and chairs, or the way the nice cutlery had been brought out, or the spread of food that grew large with each arrival: it was the ever-growing list of people now sharing the space with them. Rumi feels a little overwhelmed. There's just so much.

Zoey's eldest aunt—Auntie Sun-yong—arrived with her three sons: Shawn, the groom-to-be, and his brothers Liam and Owen. They crowded around Zoey and she eased into their space—like magnets pulled apart, suddenly close enough to all snap together. The three of them were all kind smiles and easy laughter when they introduced themselves to Mira and herself, and she could tell from the ease of knowing and quick banter between them and Zoey that they all grew up together. They had history. A fraternal bond built from mischief and scraped knees and playground fights that Rumi had never known or understood. The last one to arrive was Auntie Min-ji, who looked like she couldn't have been over thirty-five, with her two lovely girls and husband. Zoey took one look at the little girls and nearly cried—she scooped one of them up in her arms—Hana, the elder sister—and laughed like she was the light of Zoey's life. The younger one hid behind her mother's legs, still a little shy, but was looking on with curiousity—as if she wanted to take the kind hand that Zoey was extending out to her.

There's laughter and hugs and cheeks pressed against each other and all Rumi can do is watch, leaning on one of the kitchen counters towards the back. She realizes that this is where Zoey comes from—not just the house or the city—but these people.

She remembers Zoey's PowerPoint presentation from a few days ago, and all the anecdotes and nostalgia-filled stories she would tell them through the years.

Before demons, Zoey had barbecues. Before Huntr/x, Zoey would sneak out with her three cousins in a car they'd stolen from her aunt. Before saving the Honmoon, she would go out to the arcade with her Auntie Min-ji, just a little under fifteen years her senior, kind and fun and always willing to spoil her.

Zoey had a life before them.

Rumi hears a soft hum beside her and finds Mira there, joining her. She’s wearing an expression identical to her own, and Rumi, selfish as the thought might be, finds comfort in knowing she isn't alone in the strange, awkward feeling that's building in her chest.

"Kind of feels like Zoey hit resume in the middle of a movie, except suddenly we're in it too now, huh."

"Yeah," Rumi smiles and rubs at her arm. "But honestly, it's… lovely to see."

"It is," Mira watches on, her expression fond. "You know, I don't think I've ever really…" She pauses. "We didn't really do stuff like this, back at my home."

"Me too." Rumi mumbles. "As you know."

She could feel a shared sense of melancholy build between the two of them, thick but not oppressive. Just there: the persistent thought that all this feels distant because they had never had the pleasure of experiencing it before. A dance they hadn't gotten to practice, so they didn't know the steps—and it's scary to join the others because what if they stumble, and trip, and fall and make a fool of themselves?

But Zoey's always been good at improvising. She turns and looks at them both with a wide smile and an open hand then says: "Get over here!"

Come into my life—I want you in it.

"Everyone's excited to meet you both!"

Rumi's holding a beer in one hand and grilling tongs in the other, and maybe she’s never grilled a ribeye like this before, but she’s going to die trying.

The get-together was in full swing now, especially after Zoey’s mom and her sisters brought out the mahjong set and formed a quorum back in the living room. Uncle Jeong, so impressed by Zoey’s recounting of Rumi’s Korean barbecue skills, has since roped her into assisting him on steak duty along with Liam and Owen, the four of them standing outside under the afternoon sun. Rumi's glad for the milder weather today. The old carrotwood tree that grew in their backyard was enough shade to keep them from sweltering under the heat, and Owen’s been handing them one drink after another, non-stop, like a man on a mission to empty out the cooler. There’s music from a small speaker nearby—Uncle Jeong’s playlist—and Rumi can recognize Carry on My Wayward Son from Zoey’s favorite TV show.

There’s no time to hum and sing along though—Rumi’s eyes dutifully flit back and forth between the steak and the timer. The window of opportunity to get it perfectly done was narrow and unforgiving, but these were conditions Rumi was trained for.

Uncle Jeong laughs quietly and pops the cap off of another beer. "Ah, you're alright, kid. You're doing great! Look," he points towards the grill. "The top side is seared wonderfully, see how the fat rendered along the edge? That's going to make it taste real good. Zoey likes her steak done medium, like her mom does, and that one cooking right there has maybe a minute or a minute and half left before we put it aside. Here, why don't we—"

"Dad?" Zoey pops halfway out the screen door to their kitchen. "Eomma wants you to sub for her at the mahjong table!"

Uncle Jeong winces. "She knows she's going to lose all her money, right?"

Zoey grins. "Apparently she has faith in you!"

He slaps his knee and stands up, laughing. "Year after year, she makes that very same mistake."

Uncle Jeong finds his way back into the house, and Zoey heads out to the yard to join her cousins and Rumi, enticed by the smell of a perfectly-grilled steak. The way she finds Rumi's side is easy, like dovetail joints fitting together. Rumi's arm drapes around Zoey's shoulders while Zoey clings to her—hugging around her middle. Neither of them minds the overbearing heat of the sun or the stifling humidity.

"Everything okay in there?" Rumi asks, raising an eyebrow as Zoey steals a sip from her beer bottle.

"It still baffles me that you like that." Zoey scrunches her nose and starts swaying them both back and forth. "Shawn is getting picked on for his flower arrangement choices. I feel for the man, like, it's not even their wedding."

Owen, who’s sitting on one of the lawn chairs nearby, rolls his eyes. He’s an interesting character: he has Zoey’s eyes and impish smile, with wavy, mid-length hair that falls around his face loosely. Out of all her cousins, Rumi thinks he and Zoey are most alike: talkative, expressive, and occasionally acts like a little shit. He sighs dramatically and crosses his legs, leaning back. "I think they just like having something to argue about. Oh!" He snaps his fingers. "Let me guess, your mom wants him to put orchids everywhere."

Zoey laughs, loud and full. "You know it! Orchids everywhere—hanging along the reception hall, on the tables, at the ends of each row of seats. I'm surprised she didn't name me Orchid."

Rumi giggles. "That'd make for an awkward debut name, wouldn't it?" She pulls Zoey closer. "'Choi Orchid.'"

Zoey and Owen both make a face, and they look so much alike it's endearing. Zoey shakes her head: "So many other flower names to go with!"

"I like orchids, though." Rumi says shyly.

Zoey grins teasingly up at Rumi. “The plant mom in her is about to make an appearance!"

"They mean love," Rumi murmurs, rolling her eyes playfully at Zoey. "And beauty. They're elegant and vibrant, all at once, and have so many different hues and colors you could probably paint a picture with their petals if you had enough. I could look at them all day."

Rumi looks at Zoey.

"They remind me of you."

Zoey flushes a deep, deep red.

Owen pops another bottle cap. He points at the both of them. "So what I'm getting is no orchids for Shawn's wedding, but definitely orchids for yours, right?"

Rumi makes a strange, strangled noise and tears her eyes away from Zoey's and looks towards the grill and—oh shit, oh fuck, the steak is burning!

After an excessive amount of smoke, a fire extinguisher situation, and Rumi at the precipice of tears because she, apparently, ‘failed at steak’—they go look for Mira.

Zoey finds her on the living room floor with a children's book on her lap. She’s cross-legged on the carpet with her back against the base of the couch, rocking a pair of fuzzy bear socks after kicking off her shoes. Sitting with her on the floor—well, sitting in a very loose sense of the word—are Zoey’s two toddler cousins: Yuna is curled up at her side, staring down at the colorful picture book that Mira is reading from while clinging onto Mira’s arm, and Hana’s clambering all over Mira like she’s King Kong and Mira’s the Empire State Building.

It pulls a bubbling laugh from Zoey, who can’t help the tender lightness in her chest.

The scene is almost out of place in the middle of the loud, clattering noise of mahjong tiles hitting each other while they’re shuffled around the table, and the echoing laughter of her aunts and father nearby—boisterous and raucous and joyful.

Zoey doesn’t want to break the peaceful moment, so she hides behind the edge of the kitchen entrance, peeking outwards in small, stolen glances. She covers her mouth to hide her giggles—gosh, it’s just so cute. Rumi finds her soon after, curious about what’s got Zoey giggling like a child, but then Zoey puts her finger on her lips to say shh, beckons her to hide behind the wall too, and points towards Mira.

They stack one over the other when they peek along the edge of the entryway and into the living room.

Rumi’s hands hold her firmly along her hips, and Zoey’s back presses into Rumi’s front—her stomach flutters and twists itself into knots, but she brushes it aside when she hears the delighted gasp from Rumi.

“Oh my god,” Rumi snickers.

“I know, right!” Zoey whispers back, savoring the way Rumi’s laughter sounds when they’re close together like this.

“She’s just such a sap all the time.”

“She doesn’t even know it!” Zoey grins, leaning back into Rumi’s warmth.

Mira’s reading the two girls a story book in Korean—something about two brothers and their magic gourds. She goes slowly, careful to teach them the right way to learn the new words they’ve discovered, pointing at the picture book and encouraging them to try reading it out themselves. She corrects their enunciation, telling what shape to make to produce certain sounds, and Zoey just knows that Auntie Min-ji would be ecstatic to see this—she’s always wanted to start talking to the girls in Korean more often.

Hana climbs on Mira’s shoulder and makes a mess of her pink hair as she tries to hold herself steady with Mira’s head, and Mira doesn’t even mind—she just brings her arm up to make sure Hana doesn’t fall, and allows Yuna to turn the book over to the next page.

She starts reading again.

Rumi gains her bearings by mid-afternoon. She learns that the aunties can be kept happy with a steady supply of snacks at their table. Uncle Jeong and Auntie Min-ji’s husband (she never could remember his name—Craig? Greg?) kind of just coexisted near the grill now and again, and the two young girls have since disappeared, likey to nap somewhere. She also (very quickly) learns that Zoey’s older cousins were safety hazards to themselves and others when kept in the same room (Zoey included) for too long.

She slowly gets to know the whole family. Auntie Hye-jin is a fashion designer based somewhere in the south, Auntie Min-ji stays up in the midwest where she and her husband both work in agriculture, Auntie Sun-yong owns a store nearby in Glendale, and Zoey’s parents are both engineers.

Which makes no sense.

Because why can’t Uncle Jeong read the instructions for building a tent?

She gets to know her cousins: Liam in all his seriousness, and Shawn who just wants to get married and misses his fiancee already. She can feel herself relax more and more as the day goes by, feeling less like a stranger and more like someone who might even belong here, too.

She feels at ease sitting on the living room couch, playing Mario Kart against Mira and Owen while Zoey tiptoes towards them carrying her ‘third round of seconds’ from the kitchen.

In fact, Rumi’s having such a wonderful time with all the food and merriment that she almost forgets about any on-going anxieties plaguing her mind.

(Anxieties and excitements, really—a confusing mix of anticipation and confusion that all just curdles together into worry, deep at the pit of her stomach, a worry that only ever soothes itself when Zoey’s nearby: holding her, smiling at her, kissing her even—)

Almost.

Because these worries make themselves known and ever-present again when Auntie Hye-jin casually asks, shouting from the mahjong table: “Zoey, do you have a boyfriend yet?”

In that moment, several things happen in sequence, almost milliseconds apart:

Zoey’s eyes automatically scan the room to meet with Rumi’s and they both flush an awkward shade of red.

Mira, who’s sitting next to Rumi, doesn’t shift her gaze from the TV but instead presses her shoulder against hers—grounding, comforting.

Zoey’s mother looks between Rumi and Zoey with her mouth pressed into a thin, curious line.

Zoey recovers first, laughing lightly while brushing the question away. “No, auntie.”

“Okay,” Auntie Hye-jin says just as quickly, picking up a tile and throwing it at the center of the table. She looks at her own wall of tiles, re-arranges them this way and that, and skillfully presses at the ends of the wall to lay them all down. She smiles, satisfied. She wins the round. On that note, she turns to Zoey: “Girlfriend, then?”

Somehow Zoey turns even redder—and this time the knee-jerk reaction glance towards Rumi lasts longer than the last. She looks away, almost guiltily, and quietly mumbles: “That’s—” Zoey stops, stutters. “I mean, auntie—” she whines. “Don’t put me on the spot like that!”

Rumi realizes that the whole ordeal of having to go yes—but not really—no, I guess—maybe? gets old really, really fast.

She can’t help the set of her jaw, or the petulant way she huffs out through her nose. It’s selfish, but she wants Zoey to say yes—to put a name to this limbo they’re both standing in once and for all—but she knows better than that. Zoey just said it after all, it’s unfair to put her on the spot.

The living room erupts into a mess of mumbled questions, awkward responses, more poking and prodding and the overbearing curiosity of extended family that Zoey whines about whenever she returns from her holiday trips.

But everything quiets down when her eldest aunt, Auntie Sun-yong, asks a question. She peers at Zoey through her glasses, low on the bridge of her nose, her expression piercing: “All this hemming and hawing isn’t good for you. If you want to find someone suitable, you have to be decisive about what it is you want to begin with. What’s your type? Maybe Hye-jin and I have friends with single children your age.”

“Eomma,” Owen almost wants to bury his face in his hands in irritation, dropping his controller. “Stop being nosey, leave Zoey alone.”

“It’s good for her,” she tuts. “Look at the poor thing, she looks like she’s agonizing over this.”

“Ugh, fine.” Zoey snaps, slamming her plate down onto the nearest table, appetite apparently gone. “You guys always do this! You’re so nosey all the time! I’m so glad Shawn held out as long as he did and decided to get married when he wanted to, what with you all asking him every single year!”

Shawn, who’s leaning by the kitchen counter, holds up his hands defensively. “I’ve done my duty. Leave me out of this.”

“Since you’re all apparently dying to know, my type is…” Zoey crosses her arms and then inhales sharply. She looks red. Who wouldn’t? “Someone gentle?”

Owen squints at her. “That doesn’t really narro—”

Mira, to Rumi’s surprise, lightly smacks him on the back of his head. “Shut up, she’s having a moment.”

Zoey scratches her arm and furrows her brow. It’s like she forgot that she’s being watched by a dozen people, and has now just gone full-on ramble mode. “I don’t know, I guess it would be cool if they could cook a sick-ass ribeye?”

Rumi deflates. The room lightens up and laughs a little.

“Oh!” Zoey snaps her fingers. “Physically fit!”

“I can bench two-fifty,” Rumi mumbles to herself, almost on instinct, but Mira hears it and can’t help the small, amused laugh.

“Maybe someone a little tortured by the narrative, you know.”

One of her aunts blinks at her slowly. “What does that even mean?”

“They could also be really good at taking care of plants, likes korean barbecue, maybe have a bit of a Type-A personality, likes organizing things, can hold an absolutely insane amount of self-doubt, and also have excellent Microsoft Excel skills?”

Auntie Sun-yong stares at her with her arms crossed. “Young lady, that doesn’t help me at all.”

Mira covers her face with her hands, leaning forward onto her elbows and knees. “It helps me. I know exactly one person who matches that criteria.”

Rumi’s brows knit together in concern, turning sharply towards Mira, whispering with urgency. “You do? Who?”

Mira sighs even deeper. “You are so smart. And so stupid.”

“You know what, I think at the end of the day,” Zoey continues, “I guess I just want someone who knows me, and loves me anyway. Like—I’m a lot. I know that. I’m trying to be okay with that,” she grabs her arm. Rumi recognizes the action—Zoey’s starting to get vulnerable and self-conscious. “I want them to be okay with that. Someone who lets me be me without thinking too hard about it. And I want them to feel the same way too—” She can’t help the way she meets Rumi's eyes this time. “I want them to know that I’m someone who’d accept them no matter what, that there’s no part of them I couldn’t learn how to love, if I didn’t already, and—”

Owen leans over to Mira. “Okay, now we’re getting hyper-specific.”

“Just someone who knows me,” Zoey says with finality, and then grins, despite being put on the spot. “And willing to pick out the mushrooms from my food. I hate mushrooms.”

It shouldn’t put Rumi’s worries at ease, but it does. And she’s happy to let it. She bites back a smile and fiddles with her hands on her lap.

To everyone’s surprise, Zoey’s mother starts laughing. She leans forward on the table, her hand pressed to her chest. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

Her sisters look at her. “It is?”

“Yes,” she looks between Zoey and Rumi. “It is.”

Zoey is mercifully left alone for the rest of the day.

They run out of ice at some point in the late afternoon. Apparently all six of them, Rumi and Mira included, have to go to the store to buy it. They pile into Liam's car, some well-maintained late 90's sedan, and there aren’t enough seats so…

Zoey has to sit on Rumi's lap in the meantime. The store was just ‘round the corner anyway, driving laws be damned.

Owen turns around from the front passenger’s seat to stare at them, and then turns back to face forward and just says: "I love gay people."

It makes Rumi flush red, but there’s no denial this time. No nervous sputtering or awkward laughter or ‘no, actually, we’re not!’—just Rumi’s arms around her waist, firm and grounding as she presses her nose into Zoey’s back to hide her flush. Zoey giggles and takes Rumi’s hands in hers. She threads their fingers together. It’s such a small thing, but the way that Rumi doesn’t fight it anymore makes her giddy.

"Owen," Liam hisses from the driver’s seat. "That's rude. Don't do that!"

"What?" Owen scowls at him. "It's true. Like you, bro! I love you!"

“God, you’re annoying.”

"You’re my second favorite gay person! Next to Zoey. Rumi can be third if she’s cool, we’ll see—"

Mira cackles at that, and Liam hunches his shoulders and grips the steering wheel. He looks towards the back through the rearview mirror. "Shawn, tell him to shut up?"

"Don't pick a fight two days before my wedding," Shawn’s head is pressed against the window and he’s trying not to fall asleep.

Liam drives in silence, but he keeps glancing Zoey’s way through the rearview mirror with a small, uncertain look in his eyes.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Zoey groans. “What is it? Spit it out.”

“Sorry about mom earlier, putting you on the spot like that.” He sighs.

Owen and Shawn turn towards her too—the former grinning apologetically and the latter looking resigned. Owen shrugs. “You know how she is.”

Zoey laughs. “It’s fine. I lowkey emotionally prepared for the do-you-have-a-boyfriend question assasult. I guess I wasn’t expecting Auntie Hye-jin to throw me a do-you-have-a-girlfriend curveball.”

“She’s always been chill like that.” Liam shrugged, flicking his indicator column down. They stop at an intersection, waiting for their turn to turn left. The store is closer now. “She’s actually the first person I came out to.”

Owen gasps dramatically and turns towards him. “Not me?”

“I was eighteen.” Liam stares at him. “Do you think it would have ever crossed my mind to tell my fifteen year old idiot brother who only talked about Halo and Minecraft anything about that shit?”

“That is.” Owen blinks. “So valid, actually.”

“In any case she might actually try to set you up with some of her friends’ kids so, probably should tell her in very clear terms to not do that sooner rather than later.”

Zoey snorts in laughter. “Tough luck. They’ll have to go fight Rumi.”

She throws it out as an off-handed comment, something to test the waters. Zoey doesn’t even have the chance to feel nervous about it: soon Rumi’s arms tighten around her waist, and she settles her chin onto Zoey’s shoulder and says: “Yeah. They would.”

Shawn leans forward from Mira’s other side to look at them. “So you two are like, actually a thing?”

“That’s a work in progress,” Zoey laughs.

“Gives us two business days to figure it out.” Rumi sighs, looking forlorn.

Mira leans back against the headrest of her seat. “I live with these two. Can you imagine what I’ve had to deal with everyday?”

Owen grabs the back of the passenger’s seat to turn around and give Mira a resolute nod of sympathy. “God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers. Stay strong, Mira!”

“Mira?” Zoey glares at him. “Hey, why does Mira get your sympathy but not me or even Rumi? We’re the ones struggling here!”

“I don’t know, you two kind of deserve it,”

“What does that even mean—”

Mira grins. “They’ve kissed twice and haven’t figured out how to deal with it.”

Zoey flails around. “Why are you throwing us under the bus like this! This is a disaster! Rumi, help me!”

But all Rumi has to say is: “It’s four times now.”

“Rumi!”

It’s almost eight in the evening when Auntie Min-ji asks Mira to sub for her at the table.

Mira robs everyone blind.

It’s brutal, and Auntie Hye-jin loves her for it.

Zoey’s sitting on a small stool next to Mira, watching the game unfold while stealing her mother’s sunflower seeds. “I feel like I should get mad at you for hustling my family members, but somehow, I’m not?”

But before Mira could do even more damage to this evening’s long-running mahjong marathon, her father stumbles into the living room holding a tripod, a strangely large camera, and a beer. It’s honestly kind of impressive how he’s holding them all at once. Uncle Craig (she’ll have to remind Rumi to stop calling him Greg later) is fast asleep on the couch with both of his daughters snoozing just as soundly atop him, but Uncle Jeong’s cheerful voice shocks them awake.

“Let’s take a photo!” He grins, a crinkle in his eye—when Zoey smiles back at him, just as wide, they look almost identical. “Everyone’s in the living room and we should commemorate! Come on, come on.” He drops the tripod nearby and does exaggerated come-hither motions towards the mahjong table. “Put that down. You’ve all been going at it all day. Stop before Mira takes even the clothes on your back.”

It takes forever and a day, but they all squeeze together in the living room.

Her aunts sit together on the couch, with Zoey’s father and uncle standing at the back. The two young girls are cross legged on the floor, where Liam, Owen, and Zoey squeeze in too. Shawn is standing at the back, between his uncles, given an honorary central position in the frame to celebrate his upcoming wedding. Rumi and Mira stand a little to the side, out frame, awkward and not knowing what to do. When Rumi offers to take the photo for them, and Mira starts helping her direct the framing, everyone—literally everyone, even the two year old—scowls at them in confusion. Zoey’s about to say something but her mother beats her to it: “What do you two think you’re doing? Get in here! Look, Zoey and Owen’s already made space for you!”

“But,” Rumi blinks. “It’s your family photo.”

“Yes.” She beckons her over, her actions quickening with impatience. “It is. You’re one of us now, so get in here you two—I’m getting hungry again, I want to get more japchae before they get cold!”

It makes Rumi and Mira chuckle awkwardly, but they give in, moving into frame and sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor on either side of Zoey. Zoey grins, bright and sunny, as she hooks her arms around them both and pulls them closer. Uncle Jeong runs to the camera and tells everyone to smile.

The timer is ten seconds long and so much longer than they thought it would be.

“My mouth is getting tired from smiling,” Owen says.

They all start giggling, ruffling his hair.

“Come on come on come on,” Uncle Craig mutters, voice cracking. “I have to pee!”

That makes everyone laugh—loud and full. Rumi’s smiling so much her cheeks are a little sore, and even Mira, free from her ever-stoic expression, is grinning. At that very moment, before anyone has the chance to recover, she remembers what her mother said.

You’re one of us now.

Rumi can feel her smile soften into something genuine and soft. She catches Mira running her thumb along her eyes discreetly before smiling bright and silly. Zoey squeezes them both by the shoulder, laughing.

The camera clicks with a flash.

“I had a feeling I’d find you up there.”

Rumi pulls herself up and onto the roof of their front porch—the one just underneath Zoey’s favorite second-story window. It’s high enough that Rumi would need to maybe run up and grab either the ledge or the overhanging metal railing they would hang plants from if she wanted to climb up to the window. ‘Assassin’s Creed-style’, as Mira would say.

“Rumi?” Zoey jumps with a bit of a fright. “Jesus, I thought you were a raccoon, did you climb up the front porch?”

Rumi dusts off her hands and pants. “Yes?”

“Why?” Zoey laughs, then turns to look over her shoulder and back to the hallway. “There’s literally a staircase behind me.”

“Because I could.” Rumi shrugs. “I’m good at climbing.”

“I mean, we all know that, but, really?”

“Yeah!”

“You’re such a showoff,” Zoey grins.

Rumi crouches down, balancing on the tiles of the roof, and looks up towards Zoey above her. “What are you doing up here?”

“Just taking a break,” Zoey leans forward on her arms against the window sill. “These parties go on forever, and are kind of a lot sometimes.”

It was a nice evening to just look outside. Clear skies—cool breeze. Rumi remembers growing up away from the city, how she’d be able to see stars upon stars up in the night sky, back when she was a kid. But Seoul was its own shining star, and so was this city, so the stars tonight are few and far between. There are still a few she could see though—the North Star, Vega, Arcturus. She’s glad for them.

Rumi plays with one of her shoelaces, humming. “Yeah. I can see what you mean.”

“And what about you?” Zoey asks in turn. “Did you come up here to hide away from socialization like a stray cat?” Before Rumi could even defend herself, Zoey continues: “You know what, now that I think about it—all the balcony moping and rooftop jumping, that actually is what you do, isn’t it?”

“What?” Rumi balks, crossing her arms. “I don’t mope at rooftops.”

“You’re literally doing that right now.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay, okay, if you say so.” Zoey teases her harmlessly. She looks contemplative, though. Like she came up here not just to take a break, but to think. The nature of her thoughts makes itself known when Zoey takes a deep breath and looks at her with a serious expression. “Let’s talk, Rumi.”

“Now?”

“Yeah,” Zoey wrings her hands together. “I’ll come down and join you there. I just—I promised you that we would, and I saw how uncomfortable you were earlier. I could see how you looked when I didn’t have a straight answer to give them—”

Zoey stops and snickers, unable to help herself.

“Pun intended.”

Rumi rolls her eyes, but otherwise stays quiet.

“But yeah.” Zoey looks at her with intention. “Let’s talk.”

“No.”

“Okay,” Zoey mumbles. Then she freezes, shakes her head in surprise, and then blinks at Rumi. “Wait. What? No?”

“No,” Rumi says. She sits down onto the tiles of the roof, unbothered by their texture, and hugs her knees closer to her chest as a gust of wind blows by, still smiling up at Zoey. “We don’t have to right now.”

“But I thought—” Zoey furrows her brows, gripping onto the window sill. “I mean, I really think we should, honestly.”

She’s so pretty in the starlight—Rumi lets herself just look.

“I just don’t think it’s a good day for it. You look like your family just put you through every human emotion in existence in the span of one afternoon, and do you really want us to figure things out under pressure of being put on the spot like that?”

Zoey bites her lip. “You have a point, but…”

“I know you,” Rumi says resolutely, meeting Zoey in the eye. “And… I’d like to think, you know me too, by now. We’ll figure it out.”

Zoey just watches her quietly for a moment. All she can say after that is: “You’re too far away down there, Rumi.”

Rumi grins. “Should I climb up?”

Zoey sticks out her tongue. “If you can.”

“Steal you away with a kiss?”

Zoey honest to god blushes like a school girl. She can hardly stop her look of surprise when Rumi gets up and starts jogging up the roof to make the climb up to the window.

She launches from the rooftop, the rubber of her shoe skidding against paint as she tries to step and run up the wall. Her one hand manages to catch the plant rail jutting out from underneath the window ledge, and Rumi pulls herself with one arm and grips the metal with her other one.

“You almost didn’t make that!” Zoey, recovering from her fit of blushing, leans forward and out the window.

“But I did!” Rumi grins in self-satisfaction.

“Like I said,” Zoey shakes her head. “Show off!”

Rumi pulls herself up and closer to Zoey. “So, where’s my ki—”

Zoey grabs her by the collar of her hoodie and pulls—when their lips meet, Rumi’s insides turn into mush so quickly she almost drops herself back down onto the roof tiles below her. Still, she holds on.

Rumi swears it gets better every time.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of this.

She turns her head just so, enough to kiss Zoey even deeper, and begins to pull herself upwards so she can climb onto the ledge.

(Zoey, gripping her by the arm now, feels the flex of Rumi’s bicep as she carries herself in a pull-up with ease, and her knees almost buckle.)

Rumi climbs onto the window ledge with her knees, dipping down so she doesn’t hit her head against the window pane, and holds onto the edge to keep her balance while she continues to kiss Zoey.

They laugh as they both stumble backwards and into the house. Rumi’s feet finally hit the hallway floor and Zoey’s arms wrap around her neck and shoulders.

They kiss and laugh and hold each other close.

And it feels right.

And Rumi feels like she’s home.

And it feels better than talking about it ever could.

“Tomorrow, maybe?” Zoey asks anyway, her fingertips playing with little hairs along Rumi’s nape.

“Yeah,” Rumi mumbles against her lips, warm and steady, sealing her answer like a promise. She means it, too. “We’ll try again, tomorrow.”

When Rumi finally lets her go—smiling like a lovesick puppy, lacing their fingers together so they could walk downstairs to grab some dessert—Zoey thinks about their silly little family photo and realizes something.

She wants them both to be in their family Christmas photos, too.

And maybe in the photos of her parents' 30th anniversary party, coming up sooner than she realized.

And maybe—

It’s a ridiculous thought. Zoey tries to shut it down.

(She thinks about it anyway—thoughts of photos where she's in a white dress of her own, with Rumi matching her, with Mira crying, with everyone she loves enclosed in the four corners of a picture frame.)

Chapter Text

Rumi reaches the very end of her social battery by their third day of the trip.

Zoey can tell because she's reverting back to old anxious habits: piling on sweaters and hoodies, scratching idly at the marks along her forearms, and her smile: still genuine and sheepishly polite—but tired. Just a little more and it would start to look forced, and Zoey would hate to see that look on Rumi's face again.

She's worried Rumi isn't going to have anything left for the wedding reception itself, and Mira can tell too. She elbows Zoey lightly during breakfast, nodding towards Rumi who curls further and further into herself as she gets interrogated on almost every aspect of her life by her parents. 

Did she go to normal school or did Celine homeschool her?

Did Celine officially adopt her or was it more of a legal guardian situation?

What was her mother like?

Rumi manages to awkwardly navigate the first two questions, but completely fumbles her response to the last.

"Okay!" Zoey squeaks, pressing her palms onto the table hard enough to make the plates clatter. "I think I'm full. I think Rumi's full too."

"Full?" Her mother tuts, tapping a teaspoon along the edge of her coffee mug. "You're hardly halfway-through your plates, and don't pretend, because I've seen the kind of meals you ladies are able to demolish, you can't expect me to believe you've had nearly enough!"

"We'll just," Zoey gestures vaguely, "Come back for more later if we get hungry, okay?"

Mira throws an arm around Rumi, who's already growing visibly relaxed. "Yeah. Thank you, Auntie. We, uh, were planning on spending some time looking around the neighborhood this morning—"

Zoey does her best to pick up on Mira's improvisation. "Yeah!" She chirps up. "So we might go upstairs and try to get ready!"

"Well, if you say so," her mother looks at the three of them. "Just don't forget about the party with your cousins later—"

The mere mention of Shawn's bachelor party is enough to make Rumi's shoulders droop again—but Zoey's quick to thread their hands together, squeezing under the table in reassurance.

"We won't!" Zoey promises, already shuffling her chair back so they could get up from the dining table. She adds, more for Rumi than anyone else: "It isn't til way later in the day anyway, so we don't have to worry about that quite yet."

Her parents don't push much more than they already have, and Zoey drags Rumi back towards her bedroom after Mira's prompting that she'll stay behind to help with the dishes.

Rumi, ever-observant, already has an apology ready for Zoey as soon as they make it to the stairs.

"You didn't have to do that," Rumi says firmly. "I'm okay."

"I know you're okay, and I know you can handle people just fine, but like, you know you don't have to, right? I can tell you're getting tired. It's been a lot the past two days, even for me, and I'm one of those people who likes excessive amounts of socialization!"

Rumi smiles wryly. "I've been trained how to handle interviews my entire life, you know."

"Sure," Zoey turns the doorknob to her room and shoulders the door open. "But it isn't the same, is it?"

"Not quite," Rumi follows her inside.

Zoey maneuvers them around the mattress on the floor and lets her knees hit the edge of her bed. She turns and falls backwards, extending her arms out and up for Rumi to follow, and Rumi goes slowly, laying down gently next to Zoey. Her loose braid falls low and gracefully while she settles into Zoey's side, knees curled up to her chest. Zoey watches as Rumi closes her eyes and takes in a deep, slow, sigh of relief.

It was different.

Rumi hadn't been wearing the unassailable persona she'd spent her whole life developing for televised interviews, or the carefully practiced guardedness that she hid behind for most her life before the truth of her patterns came to the surface.

She was putting in an effort.

Into being herself.

Into being open to her mother's care, accepting of her father's spontaneity, honest with her cousins' curiosity. Rumi was letting them know her—for real.

It's sweet. It rouses the ever-present butterflies in Zoey's stomach, understanding the kind of effort and thoughtfulness that Rumi's extending to both Zoey and her family.

But at the same time Rumi looks so worn, so exposed, that it makes Zoey worry a little. She can't help but brush back the stray locks of purple from Rumi's forehead, and lay her hand on her cheek. All this is still a little new to her, after all.

Zoey tries to form a string of words together into the right thing to say, but it's hard.

Then the door opens and Mira walks into the room, already carrying the answer.

"Rumi," she calls, firm but not unkind.

Rumi shuffles a little closer towards Zoey, making space behind herself for Mira to fall into, and Mira joins their pile on Zoey's bed, throwing a leg long enough to cover both of them.

The thing about Mira is that she knows exactly what to say in exactly as many words as it needs to be said.

"Stop trying to speed-run the getting to know her family process. It's wearing you down."

Rumi buries her face into Zoey's shoulder, whining. It's cute. Unfortunately not enough to get her off the hook.

"She's right, you know." Zoey continues running her fingers through Rumi's fraying braid. "You'll have time."

"I've got two days."

"For now," Zoey laughs. "I'm already planning to have you both back here this Christmas."

It gets a little laugh out of Rumi, who finally shuffles to lie on her back, untangling her arms from Zoey's body and folding them over her own stomach. The three of them lay shoulder-to-shoulder on Zoey's childhood bed, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the pale outlines of the glow-in-the dark stars. (And dolphins. And turtles.)

"Sometimes I feel like I still need to catch up," Rumi confesses. "To the both of you. For all the years I spent shutting you out."

"Rumi," Zoey frowns, turning her head to look at her.

"I know," Rumi laughs. "It doesn't make sense. But it feels like that—and I'm scared of doing it again to the people who are important to you." She looks at Zoey, and the sentiment is so sweet that it makes Zoey's heart ache a little.

"Running full steam in the opposite direction doesn't fix that, you know." Mira says it plainly. "It's just... not you."

Zoey hooks her arm around Rumi's. "It's my job to be the group over-sharer, and it's your job to be the mysterious and guarded pretty girl who's secretly a massive dork around her two best friends and cries when she watches K-Dramas."

"And cooking documentaries about family," Mira snickers.

"And tennis matches, for some reason?"

Rumi squirms under the teasing. "You two are the worst."

"You love us. And it's okay if you need a break." Zoey squeezes Rumi's arm. Then she bolts upright, an excited gleam in her eye—they could almost hear the buzz of a lightbulb blinking to life in her head. "Why don't we do something this morning, just the three of us? Like Mira said, we could look around the neighborhood!"

"A walk sounds nice," Mira nods.

Then Zoey pauses thoughtfully, catching herself in her excitement and turning towards Rumi.

"Unless you want some alone time? We could just stay home, or you could go for a walk or—"

"I'd like to go on a walk with you both," Rumi smiles—easy, comfortable. It relieves Zoey to see it again. "It's fine if it's you."

Going for a walk turned into dusting off Zoey's old skateboard and stealing the minivan, and Rumi's convinced that Zoey brought them to the skatepark just so she could show-off.

And she laughs—because it's working.

Rumi's sitting at the lip of the park's concrete bowl, watching with no small amount of thrill as Zoey kicks her skateboard up to ollie onto the nearby railing before sliding downwards with a grind into the bowl again. The park is mostly empty, given that it's ten o'clock in the morning on a school day. Just her, Mira, and Zoey laughing and chatting inside the green-painted metal fence that surrounded it. The trees along its perimeter didn't do much in terms of providing shade, so Rumi keeps her oversized sun-glasses and baseball cap on, happy to watch Zoey successfully land another kick flip.

Zoey looks up towards her—she has a stupid, wide grin on her face and a cap on backwards—and then she winks, and it makes Rumi roll her eyes in amusement.

(She's not blushing. She's definitely not blushing. She's totally not biting her lip as she looks down onto the pavement, twiddling her thumbs like a fool.)

It's peaceful at the skatepark despite the sound of cars passing by on the nearby road. No demons, no crowded family events, no photographers—nothing. Just the sound of polyurethane wheels on smooth concrete, interspersed by Zoey and Mira's voices. It doesn’t take long for her to convince Mira to get on the skateboard, held upright by Zoey, who can barely contain the laughter in her voice as she instructs her how to balance.

"I've seen you balance on the end of your gok-do with your eyes closed. Stop being such a baby, Mira!"

"I only managed that because Celine threatened me with a sickle if I fell," Mira grumbles, and Rumi remembers the memory so clearly that she starts grinning. Mira's dealt a poor hand: if she keeps her glasses on, she might break them if she falls—if she takes them off, she wouldn't be able to see well enough to balance.

"If I start throwing knives at you, think it'll work?"

"Don't even try—"

"It could be like training!"

"I'm actually going to get your ass, don't test me—"

It's an almost physical feeling, how their banter slowly relieves the social exhaustion bearing down on Rumi's shoulders. It washes the tension away, leaves her feeling lighter—recharged, even.

Mira was right: maybe being an open book just isn't who she is.

But being on her own, without Zoey and Mira, closed off and guarded—that didn't sound truthful of herself, either.

That's the thing about the two of them, she supposes. They helped her find a happy medium: pushy enough to force the door open, patient enough not to drag her out of it. And she's learned, the past year or so, that she's happy to walk through that door herself. They're content to just let her be, and that freedom—that acceptance—is something that she wakes up grateful for every morning.

They don't even know it, the depths of her gratitude. One day she'll figure out how to tell them.

(Mira says something so stupid that it makes Zoey double over in laughter and Zoey turns towards Rumi, grinning, yelling: "Did you hear that? Holy shit—that was a good one!")

For now, she'll take the invitation—the one they never fail to extend to her, day by day.

Rumi puts her hands on her knees and stands up. 

"Alright, get off the board Mira, my turn to go eat shit."

They spend their morning out in the park until Rumi and Mira both manage to get around the bowl without falling every thirty seconds. It turns out learning how to ollie is the first great obstacle to skating, but Zoey seems happy to put in the months of work it might take to take them both there. They take Rumi’s (loudly) grumbling stomach as their cue to grab some lunch, and Zoey's happy to drag them off to their next destination—her favorite burger restaurant where they fall in line for a bit too long and people almost recognize them. 

They run away with their food as soon as the cashier hands it over, laughing while they lock themselves inside Uncle Jeong's minivan in a random mall parking lot to eat. They kept the AC blasting with a small crack in the window, jamming out to Britney Spears. 

They get ice cream, and Zoey takes them on a drive to show where she went to high school. They hit a small arcade next to a little hole in the wall that had the best Chinese takeout Rumi’s ever had, and she’ll never forget the sheer surprise and delight in Mira’s face when she actually wins playing the claw machine. 

It’s late afternoon by the time they head back home, and Rumi feels like someone new. She feels ready for the party. 

She finally feels like she could do this.

Rumi doesn’t think she can do this.

They haven’t even left yet—the three of them still squeezed into Zoey’s little bathroom, putting on makeup, buttoning up their tops, matching eyeshadow. 

(She hates to admit that it’s quite nice to have a full suite of artists do this for her while she sits on her phone and scrolls a little. Like. It’d be nice right about now.)

But it wasn’t the pre-party rush or last-minute scramble that’s getting to her. It’s not even the thought of having to sit and socialize with so many people for the hundredth time the past two days. It’s Zoey.

In her teal skirt.

And white corset top.

She could feel the sharp, sudden heat shoot through her stomach the moment Zoey stepped out of her room in her outfit. Whatever it was Rumi was in the middle of saying, well, it was gone now—left dead in a ditch with the rest of her dignity as she sputters and lets her mouth hang open.

Mira, unfazed, gently lifts up her chin to close it while grabbing her mascara. “Don’t let a fly get in.”

“I—” Rumi blushes, looking away to anywhere else but Zoey. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” Zoey grins up at her, blushing soft and prettily. 

Rumi shakes herself out of her stupor and continues to get ready, but she’ll keep remembering this moment as the beginning of the end for the rest of her night. Rumi can’t help but watch when Zoey starts putting on her lipstick.

(Can’t help but think she’d like to ruin it.)

(Can’t help but wonder if the shade she’s putting on herself would look better on Zoey’s lips, or even her exposed shoulders.)

Shawn's idea of a bachelor party is inviting his brothers and all three of the HUNTR/X girls to his favorite pub, so that he could have his favorite burger, and drink his favorite local-made draft beer.

And it's so very Shawn.

He doesn't want to get so shit-faced that he's hungover on his wedding day, and he doesn't want to bother with all the one-last-night-of-freedom-with-the-boys kind of bullshit that everyone kept telling him to do. Because apparently, to quote Shawn, he has free will and could do whatever the hell he wanted.

Which meant eating his favorite burger. At his favorite pub. With his favorite fries.

And honestly, Zoey loves that for him.

She didn't really feel like going out to do anything crazy anyway. The little pub is cramped into the second floor of an older, red brick building downtown and is a bit more run down than anywhere Zoey had ever gone to with the girls. But it’s cozy. The atmosphere is relaxing: there were enough people that it didn’t feel dead, but also lowkey enough that they didn't feel exposed being in it. There's a dance floor at the level below them, the concrete thankfully thick enough that the music wasn't overwhelming their conversation. Zoey could feel the bass thrumming through the floor, reminding her of the lingering buzz of performing on stage, almost strong enough to overcome the way her chest was hammering for an entirely different reason.

The reason, of course, being Rumi.

Rumi, who's a little flushed from her first drink, leaning with her elbow on the table as Shawn rattled on about a childhood memory that has Owen fuming and red in the ears. She has an arm wrapped around Zoey, almost possessively, her hand splayed out and loosely gripping her hip until the tips of her fingertips are grazing Zoey's thigh—and Zoey could feel it. 

All of it. 

Searing on her skin.

There's a new forwardness to the way that Rumi holds her—something that changed between yesterday and today. Evident in the way Rumi had looked at her just a few hours prior, as they were getting ready for the party. She giggles when she remembers how Rumi stopped mid-sentence, mouth hanging ajar for a few seconds too long.

(Zoey, on her part, didn't look away. Rumi looked good—in black shorts and a turtleneck crop top, with a worn leather jacket embroidered with 'Ryu' at the chest pocket. She likes how she sees her patterns shimmer in the small sliver of stomach on display, loves the way her hair looks when she lets it down like this. Zoey tries not to think about it all night, and has so far been failing.)

"Zoey!" Shawn calls over the music, pulling Zoey's mind back to here-and-now. "I just realized this is the first time you've gotten to go with us here!"

"Wait, wait." Zoey blinks, and then laughs. "Is this the same pub you'd go to every other week since you turned old enough to drink?"

"The one and the same!" He laughs. "You were just never old enough back then, I suppose."

"You mean we've never brought her here the past few years?" Liam looked between his brothers and Zoey. "You'd come back for a month at a time during the holidays!"

"That was back when I was a trainee." Zoey laughs, a bit of guilt coloring her smile. "Before we debuted as HUNTR/X. I was too young when I had the time, and when I was finally old enough—"

Well. The visits had gotten shorter, more controlled. Her family whisked away into fancier restaurants, jammed into time slots on her calendar in organized blocks. She makes a little promise to herself to do this more often, with or without weddings on the horizon. If Shawn and his wife-to-be ended up having kids she'd want to see them—she doesn't want time to slip away from her the way she had let it happen with Hana and Yuna.

Mira reads her mind. "We had a lot on her plate." She sips on the little straw of her Irish mule. "There wasn't much time for ourselves with all the, you know." She makes a vague gesture all around them, and it's loaded with meaning: the tours, the demons, the fans—hell, the world.

"I wish I hadn't pushed you both so much."

Rumi's own guilt surfaces right on cue, and Zoey can't help how sharply she turns to stare at her. Zoey's hand lands onto Rumi's knee under the table, her fingertips gently pressing into the skin as she admonishes her:  "Don't even start, you know that's not what Mira meant."

Rumi blinks, cheeks pink, mouth parted open a little. Then she smiles sheepishly and nods. "Yes ma'am."

"Oh no," Mira laughs at them, a small huff through her nose, shaking her head. "She's whipped."

Zoey bursts into delighted laughter when Rumi's brows pull together as she glares at Mira, pouting.

"I am not—"

Zoey grins, cupping Rumi's face with both of her hands affectionately, feeling a warm, light flush up to the tips of her ears. "Of course not, Ryu 'I-just-said-yes-ma'am' Rumi."

The night carries on about the same: with laughter and Rumi's lingering touch. She feels her on her back, across her shoulders, or in the gentle brush of her fingertips tucking Zoey's uncooperative hair behind her ear. There's static running under her skin, ever-present through the evening, and while the table gets louder and the empty glasses of beer pile up, her mind always floats back to Rumi—warm, smiling, laughing Rumi.

Sometimes she’ll catch her staring. Eyes lidded, breathing shallow. Zoey does her best not to melt whenever she does—even as she feels something heavy and warm flutter deep in her stomach.

Their conversation comes to a halt when they hear the pop of a microphone followed by some feedback. Shawn gasps and then starts excitedly thumping on the table with his palms.

Liam and Owen share a look, and then sigh.

Owen looks at Shawn. "This is the real reason why you wanted to drink here tonight, isn't it?"

He shrugs, trying to feign nonchalance. "Maybe."

Liam snickers. "It's okay if it is—it's your day bro, live your best life!"

There's more popping and clicking from the DJ booth, and Zoey feels the pub's atmosphere quiet down and change. The music is still thumping along from the dance floor below them, but somehow every other table around them started huddling closer together. A server comes out to give away some paper and sad looking pencils, then it clicks. She turns excitedly towards her eldest cousin. "We're playing trivia!"

As an answer to her question, the mic finally clicks open in full as someone with a passable announcer voice lets the floor know that trivia is starting in fifteen minutes. 

And then—Zoey tries not to laugh at the perfect timing of it all—they hear one more group join the pub, climbing up the metal staircase that led to their floor. The first thing she sees is a familiar woman with blonde hair, blue eyes, a flowing, floral dress and—cowboy boots. The whole look is held together by a pastel pink sash that says Bride-to-Be, and she's joined by three other women and some guy giggling in anticipation.

Zoey almost dies laughing when the recognition hits.

"Oh my god, is that—"

"Francine!" Shawn blinks.

Owen drops his face into his palms. "You two are such fucking nerds I actually cannot stand it—"

Shawn breaks into a delighted smile, and so does Francine. She looks as kind and bubbly as Zoey remembers her in all the years they've met since she started dating Shaw. For a minute it looks like the couple are about to meet halfway to hug when her eyes fall to Zoey and sparkle in delight. Her gaze briefly falls onto Rumi's arm around her waist. Zoey flushes red. Rumi blushes. Mira smirks and then shrugs.

Francine finally rushes over to Zoey, pointedly ignoring her fiancé and his brothers, and grins when Zoey gets up to meet her with a hug. "Zoey, I've missed you!"

"Me too, me too!" Zoey laughs. "You wouldn't believe how happy I was to hear that my stupid cousin finally grew a brain and proposed."

She echoes Zoey's enthusiastic laughter, tenderly holding Zoey by the forearms to look at her. "Oh my god, you're a whole adult now. That's crazy. You were just fourteen."

"Ten years ago," Zoey laughs.

"Don't do that," Francine wrinkled her face. "Don't age me."

"Unnie," Zoey beckons her over, "this is Rumi, and Mira."

"I'm not going to pretend I didn't know that already—but wow," she leans over to give them both a half-hug which they awkwardly accept. "It's great to finally meet you in the flesh! I promise I'm being normal about it!"

"Congratulations," Rumi says sweetly.

"Yeah," Mira echoes. "Thanks for having us at your wedding."

"Of course, of course!" Francine waves them away. "You're practically Zoey's family now, there's no way we're pulling the three of you apart."

Francine had said it off-handedly, but Zoey feels a deep and thorough gratitude at the comment, especially when she sees her two friends smile a little shyly at it. The two groups mingle a little to say hi and hello, with Francine finally making her rounds of greeting Zoey's cousins, leaving Shawn for last. She holds his face and squeezes it, giving him a cheeky grin and a kiss.

(Zoey bites her lip and looks at Rumi because she wants one too.)

The amicable vibe is dead and gone as soon as trivia starts.

Shawn and Francine took it seriously. Excessively so—like they weren't about to promise each other forever, til death do us part less than twenty-four hours later. After the second round the two of them had gone up to the host to argue technicalities to settle the tie between their tables. 

Zoey and Owen took great pleasure in explaining to Rumi and Mira that the pair of them met back in college. Shawn had always been good at school, but meeting Francine sparked a competitive fervor in him that never seemed to die down. They'd compare marks. Competed in test scores, or board games, or video games—always trying to get better, always pushing for the other person to get better too. 

They would hate-study together in the library in the spirit of competition so often that one day, they didn't even realize that they'd fallen in love.

"It's cute, isn't it?" Zoey giggled, threading her fingers with Rumi's under the table.

"I can't lie," Mira takes another sip of her drink. "It is. That's some Hallmark channel type shit."

They hear Shawn groan from the DJ booth, and see Francine stick her tongue out to tease him. Looks like the bride's team wins this round on a technicality, and Shawn stomps back down to the table with his shoulders hunched.

"We're getting the next one," he narrows his eyes, gesturing towards the opposite table with his hands as if to say: 'I'm watching you!"

They do, in fact, get the next one. Round three's theme is medieval weaponry, and Mira and Rumi had every other table completely destroyed. There was a whole thing of having to talk Mira down after someone said that polearms are just another kind of spear, and at some point Rumi pulled out her phone and started reading off her list of cool and interesting sword facts.

Zoey laughs and laughs away, especially when Shawn and Francine get into another debate just as the fourth round comes to a close. She can barely tell what they're arguing over this time—power distribution networks? Delta-wye load configurations? She's halfway through her second Long Island and reckons it's time for a little break.

"Hey," she calls Mira and Rumi's attention. "I'm going to go to the bathroom."

She feels a hand press against her lower back just as she moves her stool to stand up.

"I'll go with you," Rumi offers, already getting ready to stand.

"You don't have to," Zoey giggles.

"I know," Rumi shrugs. "But I want to."

The bathroom is unfortunately downstairs.

The vibe is completely different, despite just being one floor below. The music is a thick, mid-tempo beat blasting into her ears that thankfully isn't loud enough to damage anything, and when Zoey looks around she realizes there aren't really that many people. The dance floor's just so small and as dinky as the pub that the whole place feels crowded.

Rumi's craning her neck left and right to look for any sign of the bathroom and she's so—

She's so pretty.

Silhouetted under a dynamic mix of green, blue, and red lights—just like when they're on stage—flashing in and out with the flickering strobe. Zoey can't help the way she bites her lip when Rumi looks over her shoulder to make sure she's still okay, or the way she relishes the feeling of Rumi taking her hand and twining their fingers together. She spots the bathrooms, right beside the entry way of the pub, and begins moving forward to shield Zoey from the crowd. 

The thing is Rumi doesn't even need to do this. Zoey can hardly imagine that there's anyone in this pub she needs protecting from, but she can’t lie and pretend she isn’t enjoying her attentiveness, or all the lingering touches and stares.

She’s glad that there’s no line outside the bathrooms when they make it there, but then Rumi feels something buzzing in her pocket. Zoey looks up at her quizzically, and Rumi holds up her phone. It’s a picture of the three of them and Bobby—his contact photo. 

"Bobby's calling,” Rumi grins, then points over her shoulder. “I’ll step outside real quick and take it?”

“Sure thing,” Zoey squeezes her hand. “Say hi to him for me!”

The bathroom is a lot nicer than she had let herself hope it would be, which is something of a pleasant surprise.

It’s spacious and clean, with a counter that has three sinks and a long mirror. There's a woman on the far left re-applying her eyeliner, and a lady on the right who seems a little worse off than Zoey felt and is washing her face with cold water. Zoey carries on with her business and washes her hands in the middle sink once she’s done. 

She looks at herself in the mirror: she’s red, her little stray hairs stuck to her forehead and the glitter of her eyeshadow thinning out with how much she had laughed so hard that tears started falling. Her face is a bit numb, and it makes her laugh.

"Holy shit," the girl to her right snickers as soon as she turns the water off. "I'm so drunk I thought you were Zoey from HUNTR/X. Which would be crazy. LOL."

Zoey forces an awkward, strained giggle. Because that would be crazy. And this lady just said LOL out loud.

"But! I'm still sober enough that I can tell you’re absolutely winning this evening. You've got that, like, lovesick glow going on." She gestures vaguely towards Zoey, then looks at the other woman on Zoey's left. "You see what I mean?"

"Hundred percent!" The other girl nods enthusiastically, digging through a little makeup pouch. "Spill the tea! Did a long time crush finally confess? Out on a date with the person of your dreams? No pressure though—-just if you felt like sharing!"

What the hell. Why not?

Zoey tries to bite back a smile while she grips the edge of the counter and bounces up on the balls of her feet. There's an unspoken camaraderie that happens in the bathroom out in a club—a little pocket where space and time isn't real and everyone is best friends forever. The music is muffled and distant and everything else feels faraway, except for the sweet, honeyed feeling in her chest. Little explosions of pop rocks, but for the heart.

"So there's this girl—"

"Oh my god!" A mysterious third lady from one of the stalls excitedly yells. "There's this girl!"

Zoey laughs, and so do the other two women, but she carries on when Makeup Lady quickly gestures for her to continue.

"She's one of my best friends and, well, I dunno. Tonight she's just been so sweet. And the past days have definitely, irrevocably changed our relationship."

"In a good way, right?" Tipsy Lady clutched at her necklace, thoroughly invested. "In a good way, right?!"

"Yes," Zoey nods, wringing her hands together. "Yes, yes, yes, oh my god, she's so—she's just so—" She inhales. "We've already kissed a few times."

There's a round of delighted gasps and squeals, and Tipsy Lady covers her smile with her mouth. "That's so cute!"

"I don't know how to describe it." Zoey sighs. "Like. The way she looks at me, and she's so sweet with my parents, too? And—"

"Oh my god, stay winning?"

"And she remembers how I like my fried rice, and makes me smile first thing in the morning." Zoey has to hide her flush behind her hand now. "Honestly that isn't even that new, she's always been sweet. But today—"

The bathroom door swings open, and speak of the devil: Rumi walks in. The heels of her boots echo against the checkered tiles of the floor, and everyone falls quiet when they hear Zoey's small, pitiful. "Oh."

Makeup Lady and Tipsy Lady stare at Rumi, and then at her, and they just immediately know.

Rumi smiles politely at the two other women before walking up behind Zoey, pressing her hands onto either side of Zoey's hips and smiling. "Hey," Rumi whispers, her chin on Zoey's shoulder. "Sorry about that, Bobby just called to check in on us."

"Everything okay back home?" Zoey hums, shivering a little when Rumi's arms slowly move to encircle her waist, meeting in the middle so that she's hugging her from behind. So clingy. So possessive.

"Mhm," Rumi nods.

Zoey twists a little in Rumi's arms so she can face her, noticing with a little laugh that Rumi has something at the corner of her lips. Zoey doesn't even think about it when she licks her thumb and then wipes it away, even as she grins up at Rumi to say: "All better."

Rumi looks a bit dazed, her eyes still glued to Zoey's lips. She goes red in the ears and has the audacity to look shy, tucking a curl of black hair behind her ear while she smiles at her—soft and slow. "Thanks," Rumi hums. "Ready to head back up?"

"Mhm," Zoey nods. "I'll be right out. Just need one more minute."

"Mmkay," Rumi slowly unravels herself from around her and gives the two other ladies a polite wave before walking towards the door. "I'll wait right outside."

Zoey breathes out and staggers forward—she puts her hands on the counter like she needs it to keep herself upright.

Makeup Lady stares at her with her mascara half-way done. "That was definitely her."

Zoey bites her lip and nods.

"Girl."

Tipsy Lady just grins at her in unabashed delight. "Hello?" She squeals.

"Did you see all that?" Makeup Lady leans back to stare at Tipsy Lady in disbelief. "I'm swooning?" She turns to Zoey. "She is so wrapped around your finger! Oh my god!"

"She looked about two months away from buying a ring and getting down on one knee—" Tipsy Lady nods enthusiastically.

Zoey blushes, and giggles, and grins, and it's stupid but she likes that these wonderful, random women can tell from just a minute. It makes her feel like she's not crazy, that she isn't just imagining it, or something.

"Lord!" The lady from the stall yells. "I see what you've done for others! When is it my turn? When?!"

They need to cross through the small dance floor to get back to the stairs, and Rumi, once again, holds her hand through it. It's an awkward journey, and Rumi does her best to be as polite as possible, but right as they reach the middle of the dance floor, a short conga line starts passing through. Rumi shrugs at her apologetically, but Zoey just laughs and squeezes her hand.

Then someone taps her on the shoulder.

"Hey!"

Zoey turns to find a sweet-looking man smiling politely at her. "Yes?"

"Would you like to dance?"

Zoey blinks. "Oh! Not really," she holds up her hand to gesture to him that no, she doesn't really want to, but he seems to have mistaken the action for something else because he smiles and reaches out to take it, and—

"She said she doesn't," Rumi catches him by the wrist, jaw set, eyes sharp.

He blinks, confused, and pulls his hand away. "But she was reaching out?" He looks towards Zoey, who's already shaking her head.

"I don't think you could hear me," Zoey starts talking louder over the music. "I was trying to say—"

"Just give it a try?" He steps forward, trying his luck, his hands open and inviting.

But then Rumi’s arm is around her shoulder, her brows knit together as she looks down on the man. There’s overbearing tension in the way Rumi’s standing at her full height, displeasure written on her cold, hard stare. It’s enough to give him pause and swallow nervously. Zoey can almost feel a slow, billowing heat right underneath Rumi’s skin. 

“Um,” he stutters.

"Back off of my girl."

She can see the moment everything clicks into place for the man. To his credit, his puts hands up and backs away, apologizing with sincerity to both of them and scratching at the back of his head sheepishly. Rumi lets it all go, the stiffness of her shoulders dropping immediately, but Zoey—

Zoey grips onto the back of Rumi’s jacket, a little weak in the knees because, well—

She liked it. 

A little too much. 

She can feel the heat crawl up her neck and her cheeks, made worse by the way that Rumi squeezes her hand and looks back at her: all her tension gone, just worry and a bit of embarrassment left in her expression.

"I know you're okay," Rumi chews on her lip. She's breathing heavily, like she's trying to calm herself down, and is looking at Zoey with soft, searching eyes. "I—" She swallows. "Sorry. I feel like I did all that more for myself than for you."

Selfishness isn't supposed to be attractive, but the way Rumi's been acting today has Zoey hooked like a fish on the line—and she's pulling, pulling, pulling. 

Zoey dares to get up on her tiptoes to kiss Rumi on the cheek, public appearances be damned. "Thank you."

Rumi blinks. "Um." She smiles at her shyly. "You're welcome?"

The party lasted another two hours after they got back. Both Shawn and Francine's groups merged into one, large merry table and Zoey could tell that the pair of them were just happy that all their friends were sitting together in their favorite pub. After a bit too many beers for everyone all around, and more Long Islands than Zoey was planning to have, they slowly adjourned—though the saying-goodbye-stage of the party was a long, drawn out circle of hugs and laughs and 'see you tomorrow!'s.

Liam is borderline shitfaced.

"I need you to be for real right now," Owen mutters as he tries to keep Liam upright out on the street. "You're his best man, he is going to kill you if you don't wake up—"

"Why are you mad at me," Liam mumbles, glaring at him. "Mira's the one who ordered the shots."

"Owen's the one who mixed them." Mira shrugged.

"And you're the one who drank them," Zoey elbows him. "You have free will too, bro."

"I resent it when the both of you are right." He grumbles.

Shawn and Francine left together to drive Francine's bridal group to their hotel, leaving Owen in charge of driving their group home. But right now, before anything else, Liam needed some salt crackers and gatorade, so the five of them slowly walk to the 7/11 across the street, eternally grateful that the pub was tucked away into a quieter part of town. 

It's chilly at two in the morning, and Zoey shivers.

Not more than fifteen seconds later, she feels something warm and heavy settle on her shoulders, and she looks behind her in surprise to see that Rumi had shrugged off her jacket to put it on Zoey.

Rumi looks away, her hands in the pockets of her shorts. "You looked cold."

Zoey fights away the butterflies in her stomach. "But what about you?"

"I'm fine," Rumi shrugs. "I always run a bit warm anyway."

It makes Zoey smile. She reaches out her hand while they walk, curling and uncurling her fingers until Rumi gets the hint and threads their hands together.

Owen and Liam stumble into the store when they arrive, though neither Mira nor Zoey felt like standing underneath the harsh fluorescent lights inside. The three of them lean against the railing of the outdoor steps, Mira in the middle, Rumi hooking her arm on her one side, and Zoey hugging her on the other.

"Don't wanna buy anything from the store?" Zoey looks up at Mira, then at Rumi.

"None for me," Rumi shakes her head.

"I think we should get you something though, Mira. You're a little red." Zoey chuckles.

It's true. Her cheeks are flushed and warm, and her usually perfect hair is a bit frazzled. She remembers Liam and Mira both having a go at the strange, multicolored tray of shooters she ordered, but it seems like Mira emerged standing and victorious.

She has a soft, rare smile on her face while she looks up at the moon, and then at the pub across the street that they just came from. Then, much to Zoey's surprise, the first thing Mira says is:

"I can't believe you used a steak knife on the dart board."

Zoey flushes red in embarrassment. "Well Shawn was being a showoff and it was pissing me off and I totally hit the bullseye—"

Rumi starts laughing. "What was it she said again, Mira?"

"HUNTR/X don't miss!" Mira cackled, trying to mimic Zoey's intonation.

Zoey pouts at the both of them, and then Rumi continues, also in a fake-Zoey voice: "Type shit!"

Rumi and Mira break into a round of snickering laughter, and Zoey's helpless to stop her own.

"Can't be as bad as Rumi wanting to take one of the display swords to fight that one guy during trivia—"

Rumi huffs, shoulders hunched. "Everything he said about parrying was wrong!"

"So your reaction is to fight him about it?" Mira grins.

"Yes?" Rumi blinks like it's obvious. "Demonstration is better than explanation?"

"I'm sure it is," Zoey giggles as Rumi rolls her eyes.

"Besides you went into a monologue when that guy started talking about polearms and spears—"

"Well he had it backwards!" Mira grumbled. "You know I can't stand that. And it was probably a shitty explanation anyway, and I'm going to have to live the rest of my life knowing some random dude in Burbank still doesn't know that polearms are a general classification."

"I think you're great at explaining things, actually!" Zoey nudges Mira's shoulder. "You did an awesome job with my cousins and their book yesterday."

"You think?" Mira blinks.

It melts Zoey's heart, just how much of a sweetheart she actually is.

"Auntie Minnie was so happy," Zoey nods. "You have no idea."

Mira's quiet for a little bit. Zoey can't help but wonder what she's about to say next, but she wasn't expecting it to be:

"Have I ever told you guys how much I love you?"

Rumi turns towards Mira.

"Cause like," Mira mutters, and she stops and starts awkwardly, like she's trying to find a way to say it without fumbling her words. "I love you guys."

"Mira?" Zoey looks up at her and—what the hell, she's going to make her cry.

"You're my best friends. And you mean so much to me." Her words are a little slurred, but they're so sincere. "I've never experienced anything like today before. From the park, to the burgers, to ice cream and getting a little drunk with your cousins. Hell, even everything we did since we got here is a first for me."

"Me too." Rumi admits, nodding, taking Mira's hand to squeeze it.

MIra sighs. "I don't really know what I'm trying to say." Her brows furrow. "You both and Bobby are all the family I ever wanted."

Under the multicolored glow of the convenience store sign, Mira looks happy.

"Then you invite us to come here," she looks at Zoey. "And suddenly, I have even more."

Zoey slowly smiles, even as her eyes start stinging. "Dude," she sniffles. "What the fuck."

"I don't even think I've been to a wedding where the couple actually loves each other," Mira shakes her head. "Can you believe that?"

Zoey winces.

"But Shawn and Francine restore my faith in humanity," Mira laughs—and it isn't dry, or sarcastic. She looks at Rumi, and then at Zoey. So soft, and so vulnerable. "And so do the two of you."

Zoey feels her chest ache in the best way possible.

"You make me feel like I have a home." Mira caves, and covers her eyes with the back of her hand, looking away and unable to meet their gaze.

Rumi wraps her arms around Mira—and Zoey can hear Rumi stifle a little sob. Zoey doesn't even realize her tears are falling too, now.

"I don't even—" Mira sighs. "I don't even know how to say thank you for that."

"You don't have to," Rumi mumbles as Mira rests her head on top of hers. "You're our home too."

All Zoey can do is nod with her face pressed into Mira's arm.

"Anyways, this feels gross,” Mira shudders. “But yeah love you guys, or whatever."

Rumi laughs. “Sure, sure. Love you too, or whatever.”

Zoey puts on her best model face, staring at the two of them. “I’m so cool and nonchalant but also I’m a sap and I love you guys, or whatever—”

“This is what my vulnerability is met with?” Mira grumbles. 

“What did you want us to do?” Rumi elbows her. “Cry?”

“You’re already crying!”

“Exactly!”

“Group hug?” Zoey starts trying to climb up on Mira and Rumi both. “Group hug?!”

"I love you two stupid idiots so much—"

"Don't be mean when we're having a moment!"

The three of them do their best not to wake Zoey's parents as they stumble back into the house.

All Rumi wants to do is crash and fall unconscious—but she feels gross and sticky, and there's glitter all over her. The three of them jostle each other as they make their way upstairs, and it reminds her so much of when they were teenagers, still living by the shrine with Celine and training to become hunters, especially when Mira goes: "First dibs on the shower."

Zoey snickers. "Dude, there's a guest bathroom downstairs. Rumi can take mine, and I'll sneak into my parents' bathroom."

"But, like," Rumi blinks as she unlaces her boots. "What if you wake them?"

"They'll live," Zoey waves her off.

Mira's already throwing her jacket on the floor, taking an armful of whatever pajamas she could find and a towel. "Can I steal some of your makeup remover, Rumi?"

"Now you're asking permission?" Rumi laughs. "Sure. And don't forget to drink water."

Mira grins at her in thanks before she rushes downstairs. It's only after the sound of her footsteps slowly disappear does Rumi realize that she's now finally alone with Zoey—something she, admittedly, has been looking forward to all day.

Zoey's rifling through her suitcase, looking for a loose t-shirt and her favorite pajama bottoms, and when she gets up to stand again, she catches Rumi staring.

Zoey raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

She looks so… good. Even after spending hours out and about, disheveled with her hair undone, she looks amazing—and all Rumi can do is swallow, and stare, and lick her lips like she's done all evening, frozen in place despite the fact that she could now finally do what she's been wanting to all day, and—

"Rumi." Zoey smiles at her, amused. She places down her bundle of clothes to wave Rumi closer. "Come here?"

Rumi's happy to close the distance, taking both of Zoey's hands in hers as she steps closer into her space, pressing a kiss onto Zoey's forehead.

"Hi," Zoey breathes out, eyes closed, letting go of Rumi's hands to hold onto Rumi's shoulders. Rumi pulls her in by the waist again.

"Hello." Rumi says quietly. She looks at Zoey's lips, then back at her eyes, blushing. "I've been wanting to kiss you all day."

Zoey grins, red in the face. "Really? I couldn't tell."

That must have been a lie, because Rumi felt like she was slowly going crazy every hour that passed since they left the house. It was like a slow, simmering need coming up into a boil—and if she wasn't careful and didn't keep an eye on it, it would spill over and leave her burnt. Her breathing starts to shudder when she feels Zoey slowly pressing her fingertips into the muscles of her shoulders, and when Rumi pulls back to look at her—still wearing her jacket with Ryu embroidered at the front chest pocket—something snaps.

Zoey's hand comes up to hold her face when she leans in to kiss her.

Rumi turns her head and opens her mouth, and Zoey whines. There's a second where Rumi thinks her knees are about to give when she hears it, but somehow, she manages to take a step forward until Zoey's back hits the wall, and Rumi follows-through: kissing her deeper, longer, more, more, more.

It's a frightening, dizzying need. Like she can barely keep herself away from the warmth of Zoey's body. She wants to chase after the feeling of Zoey sighing into her mouth, committing to memory how warm Zoey's skin feels where her thumbs have slipped underneath the hem of her top, pressing circles into the side of her stomach. "Rumi," Zoey gasps, eyes shut, brows furrowed, her hands threading into her deep, purple hair as she pulls Rumi closer.

They kiss a little more until she feels Zoey bite her bottom lip, and it's Rumi's turn to gasp, her knee pressing forward between Zoey's, and—

"Oh fuck—" Zoey actually moans, and Rumi feels her heartbeat thundering in her ears. "Rumi—fuck."

It’s too much. The sound of Zoey’s voice and her shuddering breath, the way she’s holding onto Rumi like a lifeline, it’s too much and Rumi can feel the blood rush up her head and down her stomach, heat prickling beneath the surface of her skin—dangerous and all-consuming. Addicting, almost. 

Rumi rushes to wrap her arms around Zoey's waist when she feels her almost buckle and fall. "I've got you," Rumi whispers into her neck, “I’ve got you.”

They stay still after that, neither of them willing—or even able—to move, breathing heavy and hot. Zoey's still pressed warm against her, and Rumi feels delirious—like she's on fire where they're touching.

"Zoey," she says, dropping her forehead onto Zoey's shoulder, slowly moving her hands back to her waist once she feels Zoey able to keep herself upright. "I know we haven't had the chance to talk, but—" She swallows.

"Mhmm?" Zoey brushes her hair, eyes still closed, still audibly panting.

"I want you like this, too." Rumi bites her lip, hands shaking through sheer self-restraint. "It doesn't have to be now, I know we still need to figure this all out, but today—the way I could feel how much I needed to be touching you—" Rumi exhales, still shaking. "I've never felt like that before. It feels all-consuming. I could barely let you out of my sight," She kisses against Zoey's skin. "And I just don't know if you're—" Rumi swallows. "If you're okay with that. If you want that too."

"Yes, yes." Zoey swallows, nodding enthusiastically, pressing her nose against Rumi's temple while she shudders at every sigh, and sound, and movement from her. "I do," Zoey confesses. Then she giggles through her nose. "In case you couldn't tell."

"So many people around us," Rumi almost sounds petulant when she says it, dipping down to speak the words against Zoey's collarbone, her breath warm and inviting.

"Just one more day," Zoey kisses Rumi's earlobe. "We'll be home soon."

"It's not like I don't want to spend time with your family—" Rumi looks up at Zoey, a pitiful, guilty look on her face so cute that it makes Zoey laugh. She feels Zoey hold her tenderly, rubbing her thumbs along her cheeks with so much affection.

"I know." Zoey kisses her. "Though I guess the next time we visit you're going to want to rent an Airbnb right next door?"

"Probably," Rumi smiles against her lips.

"Sounds like a plan."

Rumi chews on her lip. There's one last thing nagging her at the back of her mind, and it feels a bit silly to be overthinking it, but the last thing she wants is to push her luck with Zoey.

"Out with it," Zoey catches her spinning in her head, her hands moving to rest on Rumi's forearms. "You're thinking about something."

"It's about earlier," Rumi pauses, her forehead against Zoey's. She launches into a ramble. "At the dance floor. When I pushed the guy away and told him to back off, I didn't mean to like, imply that you were like, mine or anything like that. I know we're not there yet, and I didn't want to overstep, so—"

"Rumi,"

Zoey smiles at her so sweetly that her words slowly unravel until she stops talking. She can feel Zoey's fingernails digging into her forearms, and it makes her swallow thickly.

"Come get your girl."

Chapter Text

Rumi realizes, with a chuckle to herself, that she's going to miss this old memory foam mattress. Even if it isn't very comfortable, laying flat on the carpeted floor of Zoey's bedroom, so old and worn that she sinks too deep into it.

It's still perfect. Their own little space for the past three days, where every morning she had woken up warm with Zoey sleeping peacefully beside her. It's a bittersweet thought—the fact that it was all coming to an end soon—but it's also a silly thought, because it isn't like Zoey can't just come over to her room back in Seoul. Still, somehow, it's different.

It's special.

At least to her.

So Rumi commits every little thing to memory: the angle of the sunlight through her window, the sound of the birds singing outside in the morning. The smell of breakfast, and Zoey's soft, even breathing as she sleeps with her cheek pressed against her collarbone. Her freckles, her messy hair, the faint wrinkles of her sleep shirt, still crumpled up because Zoey never folded her clothes after taking them out from the dryer.

Rumi just looks at her.

There's a million things she wants to say to her—but she doesn't know the words for any of them.

She curls her arm around Zoey's middle, inching forward to press her lips against her forehead. She just stays there, holding her, taking deep, slow breaths as her eyes flutter shut against the crown of her head.

Rumi thought she could be much more patient than this.

But she isn't. And that ache in her chest carries on, almost sorrowful with the weight of it, having been building day by day since that very first kiss—and yearning for some sort of relief that she can't put a name on. She runs her hand softly through Zoey's hair, shuffles even closer because maybe if she's near enough she'll find her answers.

Just one more day, and then they'll get to talk. She can manage that.

Eventually, she feels Zoey stir against her. Rumi doesn't let go. She just relishes how slowly she rouses: how easily she melts even further into Rumi's embrace, like it's instinct, first thing in the morning, before her mind even fully wakes up—Zoey's hands slipping into the hem of her hoodie, warm and welcoming against the skin of her back. It just feels right. There was nowhere else they were meant to go.

There's a minute where Rumi thinks that she's fallen asleep again, but then Zoey yawns against her chest and then turns her head up to look at her.

Zoey looks so sleepy—with her lidded eyes and tousled hair and lazy grin. Then her grin softens, just as her eyes blink fully awake. Rumi feels herself flush when Zoey's gaze starts tracing along the features of her face, just looking—but so tenderly.

It would be nice to have this every morning.

Would that be too much to ask?

Does she want that too?

Rumi lets herself stop wondering the minute she feels Zoey inch closer. She pulls herself back to here-and-now, on their thin, old, memory foam mattress, on the floor of Zoey's childhood bedroom.

The birds are still singing outside the window, blissfully unaware of everything going on in her head. And soon Rumi's blissfully unaware of it all too, the moment Zoey leans up to kiss her, the way she can feel her smile against her lips.

The whole world rights itself.

"Hi," Zoey whispers, her nose brushing against Rumi's, her smile never dropping.

"Hey," Rumi whispers back. "Good morning."

The peace doesn't last very long.

The morning rush is exactly like it sounds: a rush. A messy, almost-panicked whirlwind with Zoey rummaging through her closet while Rumi, bless her soul, packs her duffel bag for her.

They slept in so late that they missed breakfast altogether, and Zoey's probably going to have to skip brunch if she wants to make it to the little villa they've rented for the pre-wedding prep and reception. The entourage needed to get there hours before everyone else for hair and makeup.

"Are you going to use this toiletry kit?" Rumi yells from somewhere down the hall.

"The one I left by the bathroom?" Zoey calls back.

"Mhm," Rumi sounds a little closer now.

"Yes!" Zoey nods, even if Rumi probably couldn't see her. There's an ever-growing pile of clothes behind her now, and she hates the thought of leaving Mira and Rumi to deal with this mess on their own later, but Owen's already on his way to pick her up.

"I could have sworn I put them somewhere here," Zoey whines.

She feels Rumi crouch down beside her, still in her pajamas, that very same toiletry kit in hand. "What are you looking for?"

"My shoes," Zoey chews on her lip, throwing a stray sock over her shoulder. "Nude heels that I just know go perfectly with my dress if only I could find them. I already told my mom that—"

Zoey gasps and then snaps her fingers.

"It's downstairs!" She suddenly remembers, already getting up from the floor. "I left it in my parents' closet so that it wouldn't get lost in all this," she gestures vaguely towards her own closet. "Let me just—"  

"Go finish packing, I hung your dress on the hooks by the door." Rumi's up and standing beside her, and she hands Zoey her kit. She kisses the crown of Zoey's head, smoothing out her dark, frizzled hair as she does. "I'll go ask Auntie for your shoes and take care of cleaning up here, I know you have to hurry."

Zoey sighs in relief, smiling up at Rumi in genuine gratitude. She catches Rumi by the hand just before she can walk away and out of her reach. Then she pulls until Rumi's leaning down, going up to her tip toes to give her a soft, chaste kiss. "Thank you!"

It's almost funny how shy Rumi looks—sheepish and adorable, like she didn't have Zoey trapped against the wall just a few hours ago at two in the morning, whispering about how she wanted to do more than just kiss her.

Rumi just gives her a lopsided grin, scratching at her arm while she blushes. "Of course, jagi."

Then off she goes, jogging lightly down the stairs to pick up her shoes like she was asked to, leaving Zoey with a devastating blush blooming on her cheeks, feeling so lovestruck by how casually Rumi had thrown her a lover's term of endearment that there might as well be petals in the wind around her.

Zoey blinks herself back to reality, and lightly slaps her face with her palms. "Right." She sighs. "Packing."

Mira doesn't stir the entire time, still splayed out and unconscious on Zoey's bed. It's funny because she almost looks like a princess with the way her hair fans out around her, and the graceful curve of her posture as she sleeps. She feels a little bit bad to see Mira so worn down and sleeping in so late, especially because Rumi and Mira both were pretty light sleepers.

Despite her outward persona to the general public, Mira just wasn't really that much of a party girl. And, hilariously, couldn't really hold her liquor—just the tiniest bit better than Liam could.

(She's even more amused at the thought of the general public realizing how much Rumi liked her beer. If only they could see how she looked standing next to her father by the grill, clicking on the tongs over and over just to make sure it was still working right.)

Her dress was delivered to their house the day before, perfectly-tailored after the fitting she attended that first day. It's already dry-cleaned and neatly pressed, hanging on one of the hooks by her door in a protective plastic cover, just like Rumi said.

She looks at the beautiful cut of the cloth, running her fingertips along the pathway of its zipper and trying so very, very hard not to think about how Rumi had caved and kissed her in the dressing room, that night at the boutique.

She's helpless against the smile that tugs on her lips.

Zoey walks over to the duffel bag left by the foot of the mattress, almost fully packed, neater and more organized than it's probably ever been—and even there, she remembers her: in the careful arrangement of her clothes and accessories.

Again and again and again, her mind finds its way back to Rumi.  

God. They needed to talk.

Soon.

Zoey runs downstairs in an oversized t-shirt and gym shorts, her bag and dress slung over her shoulder.

She checks her phone and is relieved to see no messages from Owen yet. Her duffel bag is packed and ready except for her shoes, but Rumi never made it back upstairs and she's worried the shoes have gone missing.

Worst comes to worse she could probably find a pair nearby, or maybe call in a favor with Bobby?

She puts on her sandals and jogs to the living room, and finds Rumi in the kitchen.

Her shoebox, already retrieved as promised, sits at the corner of their dining table, temporarily forgotten as Rumi helps her mother reach for something at the second-highest level of their kitchen cabinets.

Their voices are just barely audible from where she's standing. Zoey realizes they're talking about something wonderfully mundane: their plants.

"I could never get my schefflera to propagate," Rumi says a little pitifully, handing her mother the package of rolled oats she was trying to reach. Their home smells like freshly toasted bread. There's an opened jar of jam on the counter.

"Just make sure you cut your cuttings right below the node. And have patience," her mother emphasizes. "They take a little while. You could also use a cup of perlite, keep it moist, and while it may go faster than using water, it's a bit more work."

"Thanks, Auntie. I'll give it a try when we get home," Rumi smiles softly. She opens one of their cupboards to look for a small saucepan while her mother opens a bottle of milk.

Zoey fondly realizes that they're making her favorite sandwich, and oatmeal cooked in milk: Mira's comfort food. A good thing to have on hand when she inevitably wakes up with an upset stomach.

"I do have a pothos back home that I'm quite proud of," Rumi continues. "Mira and Zoey help me take care of it. I still remember the day it got its new sprouts."

"You'll have to send me a photo!" Her mother says, delighted.

Rumi grins, "I will! I have some here, actually."

Zoey watches as Rumi awkwardly fishes out her phone, and giggles at how her mother puts on her glasses and leans away so she can see more clearly. Rumi scrolls through her camera roll, and they huddle together, shoulder-to-shoulder, to look at the screen.

She doesn't know why it makes her eyes sting—but it does.

She wants to take a picture.

Frame it and put it somewhere close to her heart.

The moment is broken by a car honking outside their front door, and she kinda, sorta wants to punch Owen in the face.

"Mira."

Rumi, crouched down at the side of the bed, tries for a small poke at her arm.

"Mira?"

There's a grunt, small proof of life, but that's not going to be enough. It's almost lunch time and they need to get ready soon. Rumi tries one more time, reaching out to shake her shoulder.

Mira actually cracks an eye open this time, grumpy and a little pitiful. "Five minutes?"

"That's Zoey's line," Rumi tuts and shakes her head in mock disappointment. "You're better than this."

Mira doesn't move. Just hums in displeasure as she closes her eyes again. She's awake though, that's what matters. 'Five more minutes' doesn't really work for Mira the way it does for Zoey—she doesn't just fall back asleep once she's up.

"You don't have a headache, do you?" Rumi brushes back some of her hair.

Mira shakes her head. "Chugged some water and electrolytes before bed, thank you for the reminder last night."

Rumi laughs. "Good. Just tired then."

"Because I had to get up and pee thirty-five times instead of getting good sleep, yes, probably."

"Better that than a hangover," Rumi grins apologetically. "Come on, up time, Auntie and I made you some oatmeal."

She's glad she took the time to clean up a little before waking Mira up, because if she didn't have a headache from the night before, she probably would have gotten one seeing the state of Zoey's closet right before she left. They make their way down to the kitchen to join Zoey's parents, coffee and oatmeal warm at the table as promised, a round of pleasant 'good mornings' exchanged all around them.

"No Zoey?" Mira looks around as she sits down to join them.

"Left early to get ready with the entourage," Uncle Jeong says around a bite of toast. "Owen picked her up."

"Second brunch?" Mira watches Rumi help herself to some fried rice left over from yesterday.

"How'd you know?"

"You never eat just once in the morning," Mira grins.

Rumi flushes at the teasing, especially when Auntie Eun-ju laughs too. They relent, however, and Mira slowly starts working at her oatmeal. Rumi can tell that she's enjoying it—eating as quickly as was polite in other people's company. (She's seen Mira shovel the stuff into her mouth on particularly hungry mornings—jumping from one kind of stomachache to another.)

"Feeling better?" Auntie Eun-ju asks from the counter. She's cutting up some fruit.

"Yes," Mira smiles gratefully. "Thank you, Auntie, it's perfect."

She sets down a plate of apple slices in front of the both of them. "Eat some. And promise me that when you come back to Seoul the three of you will eat more of it."

Rumi grins, "I think we can do that."

"And make Zoey eat vegetables," Auntie Eun-ju adds.

With a little less confidence, Mira shares a wry smile with Rumi. "For that one, we're just going to have to try."

"Emphasis on try," Rumi laughs nervously. "No promises."

"I'm going to miss the both of you," Auntie Eun-ju says, piling another serving of fried rice onto Rumi's plate. She happily eats it. "Jeong doesn't say it out loud, but he's always so happy to see his cooking enjoyed with such enthusiasm!"

Rumi and Mira share a sheepish grin, and laugh when Uncle Jeong hides behind the book he's reading as he says, "well there goes my attempt at being mysterious and hard-to-read!"

"I think it's working perfectly well, Uncle." Mira says very seriously.

Rumi nods. "I can totally see where Zoey gets all her mysteriousness from."

It's a nice feeling, knowing that they'll be missed—and that somehow, they'll miss them too. Missing people had always been such a deep and complicated feeling for her. It's nice for it to be as simple as this.

It spurs her to take a picture of her food. Maybe send it to Celine.

Maybe ask if she's doing okay so far back home, and if she's had dinner yet.

Rumi's dress is a pale, shimmering yellow.

She remembers the day she went to shop for it, how difficult it had been because the only sort of theme Shawn and Francine wanted was 'summer'—and that didn't narrow it down at all.

But then she saw this yellow dress, hidden in an unassuming corner of the store, and it jogged a memory of Zoey: 'A daisy would look nice tucked behind your ear,' she said. 'Complements your pretty purple hair!'

The next thing she knows, she's phoning Bobby to get it exactly at her size.

It's a one-shoulder dress that wraps around the shape of her body, the cloth draping around her in elegant folds that pinch along the side of her hip, where it opens up to show off one, slender leg. She's matching it with beige heels, not unlike Zoey's. She looks at herself in the full-body mirror hanging behind the bathroom door. It fits perfectly. She'll probably tie the whole look together with a few simple gold accents—a necklace, earrings, a few rings, some bracelets and—okay, maybe a lot, but all things considered, much less than they were used to.

They're expecting a lot of yellows and pinks and greens today, and she can already imagine how the photos would look: colorful and bright, like a bed of flowers.

Mira walks into the bathroom already in her dress. It's green: a dark, rich green that almost looked velvet, but the fabric is much smoother, hanging from her shoulders with a sharp neckline that runs between her collarbones, and dipping dangerously low down her back. It's cut straight down with a cut up her thigh, and she's absolutely killing it.

"You're going to break a few hearts out there tonight," Rumi grins, and Mira only smiles back, squeezing into Rumi's space so she could use the mirror too.

"Part of the job, isn't it?"

"You're not wrong," Rumi laughs. They look good—and standing side by side, even better. She can't wait to see Zoey. She still remembers how she looked trying the dress out, and she can hardly imagine how she looks with the whole outfit put together.

"Are you going to put your hair up?" Rumi asks.

"Probably not. No pig tails either though. I'll probably just part it a little different, maybe to the side."

"Classy," Rumi hums. "I like it."

"Will you?" Mira turns to look at her.

"About that," Rumi fiddles with her thumb and looks sideways at Mira. "How much do you love me right now?"

Mira just stares at her. Blank and unimpressed. "You want me to braid your hair."

"Please?"

"Seoul's very own Rapunzel."

"Pretty please?" Rumi grins.

"All sixty-nine thousand miles of your hair."

"Miles?" Rumi laughs. "America is getting to you!"

Zoey thought that after six years of being a Kpop idol she'd be used to having to sit still in a chair while someone does her hair and makeup—but nope. Still as difficult as that first day. It's easier with Rumi and Mira by her side, keeping her company, talking and laughing as much as was humanly possible while someone tried to put perfect wing-tipped eyeliner on her.

But right now she's woefully alone in the chair, forced to stare at herself in the mirror while they finished up with her hair. Maybe she should have brought her Switch, played a game or two. 

She misses them already.

And maybe she's being a little bit dramatic, because she isn't actually alone. Her cousins are nearby: the three of them sprawled across the couch and ottoman of the sitting room they're in. While Liam and Owen look bored out of their minds, Shawn is the opposite, restless with equal parts excitement and anxiety. He keeps pulling at his dress shirt's collar and Owen keeps nagging him for it, but it can't be helped, they can hardly blame a man for being fidgety on his wedding day!

The villa's pretty typical for the area: white walls and tan, tiled roofs with palm trees around the property. It sits along the edge of a cliff with a view out to the ocean, and the sitting room that they're in is wonderfully filled with sunlight, spilling into every corner and filling it in warm, yellow hues. It had two gardens—a sprawling events space where the reception would be held later that day, and a smaller, quieter one accessible from the back porch of the building. The interior wasn't anything extravagant either: just neutral tones and wooden furniture. Safe and picture perfect. She likes it, but it makes her miss the colorful mess of their penthouse—and while it might be a bit extravagant to live at the top of a hundred-story building, she's grown to love home and the sight of Seoul sprawling out and around them.

Their group is going to have to drive together to a nearby chapel after this, where the rest of the guests will arrive to attend the ceremony. Afterwards, everyone will make their way back here for the reception.

Zoey snuck out into the small back garden a few hours ago, waiting for her turn with the hair stylist. It had the most beautiful view of the ocean. She snapped a photo and sent it to Rumi and Mira.

The rest of their entourage is downstairs. She can hear Auntie Sun-yong wrangling Hana and Yuna—who are screaming for some reason—into a fruitless attempt at a flower girl rehearsal. They're probably hungry, and the whole affair is probably going to make for a lovely story to tell when they're older. There's a photographer on site documenting the moments leading up to the wedding, one of Shawn's friends and his little old school film camera. She wonders if they'll keep the photo of her flipping him off in the middle of her eyebrows getting plucked. Knowing Shawn and Francine, probably.

There's more screaming and a small, petulant whine, and Zoey giggles to herself because she bets Mira would be great with the girls right about now, or maybe even Rumi.

There they go again, the butterflies in her stomach.

They roar back to life at the mere thought of Rumi—louder though, buzzing and impatient.

"Hey Shawn,"

Zoey calls out, the words coming out faster than her mind can keep up with. She does her best to stay still because the stylist is doing her hair now. When Shawn turns to face her, she meets his eyes in the mirror and blurts out:

"How did you ask Francine out?"

Rumi sits by the small vanity in the downstairs guest room, and Mira gets to work.

They manage to negotiate a happy medium between Rumi's usual braids: a half-up dutch braid done loosely so that it still cascades down with the rest of her hair.

It's quiet as Mira works—and that's unusual for them. It isn't so much that she didn't know how to exist in comfortable silence around Mira, it's more of the fact that talking to her—about anything, about everything—is a conscious decision Rumi's been making lately.

She still remembers Mira knocking on her door, asking to be let in, asking to be confided in. She remembers throwing it all away with her hands behind her back, hiding a lie sealed inside a letter.

Never again.

It's been more than a year since everything went down, and Rumi's proud of the fact that she's stood by that.

The quiet is preparation: an inhale before everything she's feeling flows out in a single breath. She's grateful that Mira can always tell: no need for I need to talk to you, or can I say something, or I've got something on my mind, if you could listen?

Mira just starts braiding her hair, parting thin bundles of it into segments that she holds away from each other.

She barely finishes the first segment of the braid when Rumi's words stumble out:

"I can't do this anymore."

Mira stops mid-braid. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and there's an edge to her stare when she asks: "Do what, exactly?"

"This whole thing," Rumi sighs. "With Zoey, I—"

The edge sharpens to a point, along with the set of her jaw, and Rumi quickly backtracks.

"Wait no, no, no—not like that!" Rumi's hand flails around to gesture while she speaks. "The opposite of that! I can't do the whole what-are-we thing anymore is what I mean! God I'm so bad at this, can you imagine how much worse I'd be when I actually try to tell her how I feel—"

Mira almost exhales in relief, her shoulders sagging. "Rumi. You're, like, even worse than me at this communication thing."

Rumi just looks at her curiously. "But you're good at this."

"What?"

Mira looks a little embarrassed at the praise, which is endearing, but she stays quiet and lets Rumi continue on. It just proves Rumi's point, and she can't help but smile softly about it.

"I mean it," Rumi continues, just as Mira keeps going with her braid. "You are."

Mira tilts her head, hums for her to continue with what she was saying. Rumi pushes on.

"With Zoey, I can generally tell that she and I want the same thing, at least I think so—but that's the whole problem. I just think so."

"All the assumptions, all the just kind of going with it, you know? I think it's getting to my head."

Rumi presses her lips into a line—then she sighs, deep and longingly. She stays quiet for a little longer, and Mira just keeps waiting. They're halfway through her braid now. She can hear Zoey's parents exit from their room, already getting ready by the couch. Mira waits—and Rumi follows-through.

"When I woke up today," Rumi mumbles. "She was sleeping curled up next to me. Do you know the first thought I had?"

"I could guess," Mira smirks.

Rumi laughs wryly at herself. "I thought that it'd be nice to have this every morning."

Mira looks at her, and it's tender with understanding. No judgement, not even a little bit of snark as she says: "I guessed right."

"And that's," Rumi trails on, her softness building into a nervous ramble. She rubs at her arm. "That feels like a lot. A lot to start off on, when we've had so almost no opportunity to communicate about it. I have all these feelings and I don't even really know how to tell her. Or like, what to say."

She'd run her hands through her hair if Mira weren't working so hard to turn it into something presentable.

"Then start with something simple," Mira says it likes it's obvious.

Rumi fights the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I'm afraid there's nothing simple about all these feelings I have for her."

"Sure there is," Mira laughs. "You care about her."

"I do," Rumi says without missing a beat.

"You trust her," Mira keeps going.

"With everything," Rumi says softly, looking at Mira through the mirror, "not just her—but you too."

There's more. An even simpler feeling—fundamental, true. But Mira doesn't go there, seemingly happy to let Rumi arrive at the realization herself. She just keeps working until she's nearly done with Rumi's braid.

"Then trust her with how you feel," Mira smiles. "And trust me when I say that it's going to be alright."

She sits on Mira's words for a minute, lets them simmer in her mind. She feels closer to an answer now than she was back when her hair was still messy and unraveled, and she can't help the small, loving smile she sends Mira's way.

"See?" Rumi elbows her. "I told you you were good at this."

Mira just rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Come on, we're going to be late."

Zoey, still in her seat, stares at Shawn. The stylists have since packed up and left, leaving the four of them waiting for the quick photoshoot to start.

"That's kinda lame."

Shawn shrugs. "It got the job done. I'm getting married today!"

"So you just, like, asked?"

"Yup."

"And for the low cost free-ninety-nine," Owen drawls from the couches, peering at her from behind his 3DS. "You can do that too!"

Zoey flushed.

Like. Okay, yeah, she probably could! She knows that.

"It's just, with Rumi, things kind of went all sideways and over and under instead of straightforward like it usually does, you know?"

Zoey looks back towards Shawn. He looks thoughtful—sympathetic, even.

"Like. Maybe you were supposed to ask a girl out to dinner first before bringing her home to meet your parents and stealing kisses at the top of the stairway and waking up softly next to each other and—"

—getting undeniably bound together by fate, she almost adds. Before training together to save the world for the better part of ten years, learning every flaw, every fear, every secret.

Before almost losing each other, and Mira, completely.

This just feels like one last layer to shed.

A not-so-secret-secret, even more confusing because it's just under the surface of the water: visible but still distorted by the slight bending of the light so she can't quite see what it really is—not yet.

Do you want to have dinner? sounds trivial.

I care about you, an understatement.  I want to be with you, almost obvious.

Zoey furrows her brows.

What even are words!

It's funny when she remembers their wall back home in Seoul—lined with plaques and awards she'd won for the artistry and cleverness of her lyrics. She wonders where it's all gone now that she needed it the most.

How do you even woo a girl like Ryu Rumi, who has the world wrapped around her finger? Bake her a cake? Sing her a song?

"Should I ask Bobby to rent out the entirety of Universal Studios?"

Shawn shakes his head with his arms crossed. "Nope."

"What if I wrote her a letter, but it's formatted like an r/whatdoido reddit post?"

Liam, who had been quietly reading a book, opens his mouth to protest but Owen elbows him, "No, let her keep going — this is kinda funny."

"And then I could send it to her work email. No one expects a confession in their work email!"

"You should find some sort of announcement email chain and hit reply to all," Owen eggs on.

"Or maybe even put our Minecraft beds next to each other," Zoey grins.

Owen pretends to gasp. "Oh, girl, daring. Look at you!"

Zoey and Owen start snickering together, and even Shawn has an amused smile on his face, but it's Liam who puts his book down, looks Zoey in the eye, takes a shot in the dark and hits squarely center on the target.

"Are you worried that whatever you'll say won't be enough?"

Zoey turns red in the ears, suddenly they're not joking around anymore. The three of them are looking at her and she hates being put on the spot like this, but she supposes she's the one who started the conversation in the first place, so…

"Yeah. I guess?" She twiddles her thumbs, giving Liam a small, wry smile. "I know how I feel about her," she declares.

It's true. She does.

"It's a very big feeling," Zoey says around a defeated chuckle. "And I know a lot of very big words, but…"

"That's the thing though, Zo," Shawn says softly. "They're never going to be enough."

He's smiling to himself, brushing along the skin of his ring finger: empty for now, but not for much longer.

"You're just going to have to tell her what you can, and make the choice of showing her the rest of it day by day."

Zoey takes a minute to think about that. Could it really be that simple?

She takes a deep breath, shakes her head, and then looks over to Owen. "Is this how he tricked Francine into marrying him?"

"Yup," he says very seriously.

Liam cackles, and Shawn rolls his eyes. "I hate it here," he whines. "I was being vulnerable!"

Zoey's parents are in the living room when Rumi and Mira exit the guest room, mostly ready to go. They're in matching colors: a pale lilac dress for Auntie Eun-ju, and a deep, inky purple tie over Uncle Jeong's white shirt and black jacket.

They're talking about parking logistics as Auntie Eun-ju touches up on her makeup, while Uncle Jeong is hunched over on the couch, putting on his dress shoes.

"Did you two need more time?" Auntie Eun-ju snaps her mirror closed, looking up to both Rumi and Mira. She smiles in delight, her eyes lighting up in surprise at the sight of them. "You both look so lovely!"

"Thank you," Rumi smiles, and Mira mirrors the action.

There's a jewelry box opened on their coffee table with three partitions, made to hold necklaces. The middle one is empty, but the other two each have an elegant necklace in gold. Hanging from each of them is a very small pendant with a colored gemstone in the center. Purple, then pink.

"It's good that you brought accessories too," Auntie Eun-ju comments off-handedly, turning to pick up her purse then shutting the box closed."I got these for you three, they looked so lovely and came as a set. It reminded me of you two and Zoey. I brought it out in case you needed a necklace, but—"

"Auntie?"

It's Mira who calls out to her, stepping forward and lifting up her hand.

"Yes?"

Mira doesn't hesitate. "We'd love to use it."

Rumi, just as surprised, is caught off-guard for a moment. Then smiles at them softly and nods. She starts unfastening the one she's already wearing.

Auntie Eun-ju just blinks. "But, yours already fit your dresses so well—"

Mira just shakes her head and gives her a shy smile. "We would really, really love to wear the ones you got us."

The wedding's just like Zoey described: small and private.

They arrive at the chapel together with Zoey's parents and are dropped off at the entrance, though auntie Eun-ju joins her husband to look for parking. The venue is beautiful: a glass building held up by thick, wooden beams that come together in sharp, geometric angles like a folded paper church. Most of the glass panes are held up by support rods criss-crossing around their pointed, triangular surfaces.

The building is surrounded by trees, growing around and above them. Sunlight filters through their leaves and falls onto the pews in dappled specks that remind Rumi of easy afternoons back home, of being a child and getting woken up from a nap by Celine carrying a plate of watermelon slices.

The small wooden doors are wide open by the entrance and sit nestled underneath a large, pointed entryway also made of wood. It gives the illusion of there being no door at all, just a large open archway. When she and Mira step through the threshold into the chapel, they do so quietly, and it feels no different from being out under the trees. Rumi allows herself to just stop and look and wonder because it's unlike anything she's ever seen before—and she's seen a lot.

They spot Auntie Min-ji and Auntie Hye-jin, who both catch them in a hug, much to their surprise. Then there are others that they don't recognize, some of Shawn and Francine's common friends from the college where they met. There were definitely a few glances of recognition here and there, but the guests were respectful of the ceremony for the most part: no asking for selfies or autographs, just a double-take or two and some shy waving.

It's nice to attend something like this for a change. Rumi felt normal. Like she was just some girl.

Mira taps her by the arm. "Where should we sit?"

"Do you think we should wait for Uncle and Auntie?"

"Well, they told us to go ahead."

It's a small chapel housing only two columns of pews separated by an aisle in the center, and thankfully they're early enough that they can pick a nice seat. Most of the guests are still milling about near the back or at the parking lot, but it seems the front two rows were going to be filled up by family so Rumi and Mira end up walking to somewhere along the middle. Mira shuffles into one of the right-hand pews first, and Rumi decides to follow and stay next to the aisle.

The altar is even more beautiful up close, carved out of stone and covered in marble slabs, and so are the shallow steps that lead up to it. There are flowers in moderation, tucked along a tasteful spread of ferns and indoor plants that really made the forest bleed into the space with continuity.

There's a little part of her brain that starts filing away details for herself. Rumi doesn't mean to do it, but it happens anyway. She loves the sprawling multitude of plants and flowers, but maybe prefers less variation on their color. The chapel itself is nice too, though she's never really thought about whether or not she wanted a small wedding or a big one.

She never had the chance or reason to.

Her entire life was an endless marathon towards turning the Honmoon golden. It's strange to have moments like this: moments to stop and wonder if she wanted purple ribbons running along the ends of the pews, or maybe teal.

(Zoey likes teal, right? Her favorite color?)

Soon a man announces for everyone to find their seats, and the crowd's murmuring quiets down as each guest files into the open spaces left. It doesn't get very crowded, even in such a small venue. Uncle Jeong and Auntie Eun-ju wave as they pass them, moving up to sit in the second row. The front rows remain empty and reserved—probably saved for the entourage.

The whole place is small enough that they don't need any microphones. A man who looks like the officiant stands towards the side of the altar and clears his throat before greeting all attendees, and it makes Rumi's skin buzz with anticipation—like the moment before they enter the stage for a concert. The rush is different though: no techs checking their audio lines, or yelling stage manager, or last-minute light changes, just the trees waving lazily overhead.

Next thing she knows, the man invites everyone to stand and the sustained harmony of an organ echoes through the small chapel interior.

The wedding starts in earnest.

Rumi feels Mira shuffle close to her as they both turn to look back towards the entrance—and she almost laughs, because Shawn is already tearing up a little. He's standing at the very back like he'd just won the whole world with a giant grin that looks so familiar to her now, looking sharp in a white suit jacket and black pants, with a black bowtie and a boutonniere of pale flowers on his lapel. Auntie Sun-yong is standing on his right with her arm hooked around his, and her tenacity is a marvelous thing, because Rumi can feel the weight of all her emotion and yet she doesn't waver, standing straight and proud and happy—but it all softens when she turns to look at her son and sees his joy.

Liam's standing on his left in a tux that's just a sharp, and with a bittersweet ache Rumi realizes he's carrying a framed picture of their father. She feels a little closer to them right then—a grief she knows and shares.

The music swells and the three of them begin to walk, all glassy-eyed smiles as they wave and greet the guests. She can understand now why Shawn and Francine wanted a smaller wedding—it's just easier to connect. She can tell that he can see each and every one of them, can feel their well-wishes and how much they love them, how happy they are to be here for them and how grateful they are to have been asked to share in this moment.

It's something Rumi and Mira feel themselves when he turns and spots them—the moment of recognition is so special to her, with the way he beams and waves at them like they've always belonged near his family in the first place.

Rumi can't help but smile back and wish him every ounce of happiness in the world.

They make it to the altar and turn back towards the entrance. Shawn looks giddy with excitement, and Liam looks an inch away from breaking down into tears as he stands behind him.

The little girls come next, and she feels Mira move even closer when they see Hana in her flower girl's dress finally stepping into the aisle and tossing out handfuls of petals from the woven basket in her hand. The crowd can't help but coo, and what a charming girl she is, smiling right towards the photographer as she moves closer to the altar, laying down a graceful trail of petals like she was born for it. Yuna is waddling behind her—a storm in her own right—taking fistfuls of the petals and throwing it around in wild abandon and it was all so cute and funny that no one could even get mad.

The rest of the entourage follows after: Francine's group walking down by pairs, one after another, in a slow march matching the sustained chords of the organ. Rumi almost loses the fight to stay quiet when she realizes that the maid of honor is leading Poco—who is wearing a bowtie!—with a little doggy backpack that seems to be carrying the rings?

Shawn looks absolutely ecstatic to see it, and his mother almost rolls her eyes.

There's a soft lull in the music, something like a pause to breathe before the swell of the organs continue. The two front rows are slowly filling up, and the only few left in the procession should be whoever is left of Shawn's small group before Francine makes her entrance.

Rumi looks back towards the entry way, and sure enough: there stands Zoey, shifting her weight awkwardly between her feet while Owen stands beside her, fiddling with the flower pinned on his lapel. The two almost miss their cue to start walking, a pair of identical grins on their faces while they make their way down the aisle.

Rumi can feel that ache in her chest at the sight of her—the same one that's been haunting her since they woke up together that morning.

Zoey's wearing her light green dress, tailored to fit her even better than when Rumi first saw it in the dressing room. Her hair's pulled into a bun with loose curls falling down her neck, her eyes framed with elegant makeup. She's gingerly holding a bouquet that matches the ones the bridesmaids were holding, though with an extra set of pale flowers that matched the one on Shawn's boutonniere. The slope of her shoulders, the grace of her posture, everything—everything—is crashing down on Rumi like a landslide that she couldn't crawl out even if she wanted to.

"God," Rumi mutters to herself breathlessly, almost pained. "She's so beautiful."

And the thing is, Rumi isn't new to that fact. Not really. She's spent the better part of the past few years thinking about how beautiful she is, has been thinking about it at least five times a day since she they went on this trip, but the way Zoey looks right now feels like stripping the letters from the word until all that's left is what it means—something that speaks to her in a way that sound can't: otherworldly, soulful.

Zoey looks ahead and Rumi sees the moment she locks eyes with Shawn from the other end of the aisle. There's affection there, and joy. She's so happy for him, and it's so obvious on her face. It never ceases to surprise Rumi how tirelessly Zoey loves the people in her life, something she admires about her, something that makes her fall even deeper in—

In—

(And her heart starts thundering in her chest, and the blood starts rushing to her head, and her breathing quickens because it feels like the floor had disappeared from under her feet and she can't see the bottom—can't see where this fall ends.)

Zoey's gaze meets hers. Her smile, blinding and wonderful as it is, softens into something tender—something that's just for Rumi.

They continue to march down the aisle, closer with every step, and Rumi is transfixed.

It hits her like the sunlight caught in those brown eyes.

Swells in her chest like the rising music all around her.

Every minute of yearning—every ounce of want—all pooling together into the truth: simple and clear to her for the first time ever.

When Zoey walks by close enough that they're all standing next to each other, she turns to grin at Mira, and then looks back towards Rumi.

Trust her with how you feel.

Rumi can see her freckles this close. There's a little loose strand of hair that's come undone by her ear.

She's perfect—and Rumi can't help it anymore.

"Zoey,"

It comes out as a whisper. Something only Zoey can hear: a confession kept sacred in that fleeting moment they're a half-step away from each other. It's terrifying. It's the easiest thing she's ever done.

"I love you."

Zoey survives the wedding.

She doesn't know how, but she does, somehow getting through the entire ordeal having only cried thrice. Even more remarkably, she managed to get through it without passing out every time she so much as thought about Rumi.

She remembers how the little ripples of anticipation started to build again as soon as everything wrapped up. They had to stay behind with the couple for one last round of photos, and she watched all the guests file out of the chapel exit, staring longingly as purple and pink disappeared out through the doors. Everything was so busy that they didn't even get to stop and say hi to each other. 

Now even the photoshoot was done too, and all that's left is to think and stew while she sits in Owen's car—the drive back to the venue somehow too fast and too slow at the same time.

It plays again and again and again in her head: the way Rumi was looking at her, her profile framed by the flowers on the altar as though they were put there for her, the way her beautiful patterns were pale and shimmering in the sunlight like a thin veil of glitter, the sound of her voice when she told her—

When she said—

Zoey lets out a shaky exhale, her head leaning against the car's window pane.

"Zo?" Owen looked over with an eyebrow raised. "You good?"

She just laughs. Light and mirthful, a little at herself, a little at Rumi.

Mostly because she's happy.

"Never better."

Zoey's out of the car the moment Owen puts it in park, setting off to a brisk walk and only stopping to orient herself when she makes it to the entrance of the venue. She takes in the sight of the garden under the late afternoon sun, trying to find her bearings. There are all sorts of trees giving them some shade overhead, and string lights hanging above white picnic tables with floral centerpieces and tea lights. The guests are making small talk around cocktail tables while they wait for the main reception to start, the droning chatter mellowed down by the sound of jazz. There's a bit more people here compared to back in the chapel, which is the slightest bit frustrating because she really, really needs to find Rumi.

Zoey starts walking again, brisk and impatient. She finds a few of her relatives smiling at her and she politely waves back, but continues on her way. She ignores the beautifully-arranged charcuterie board, walks right past a tray of pastries.

She can't seem to find her anywhere.

She cranes her head left and right just to catch any glimpse of purple or pink, or maybe a hint of Mira's sarcasm or Rumi's laughter so she can follow the sound home, but no such luck.

Her pace quickens, heels clacking sharp against the stone pathways, weaving in between startled guests and ducking under trays of champagne, twirling around so she wouldn't hit a server bringing out a set of appetizers.

She still can't find her.

It makes her heartbeat quicken, her breathing growing shallow. She chews on her lips and furrows her brows, her eyes running another quick sweep of the venue, her hands awkward at her sides because they've grown so used to being held by another.

She misses the warmth of Rumi's fingers twined with hers, the feeling of her thumb brushing softly against the back of her hand. She feels her absence like a lead weight in her stomach and, dammit, why can't she find her?

They had to be here somewhere. There's a minute where she contemplates scaling the walls for higher ground in her tailor-made dress and all, but unfortunately, questioning and speculation from her own family was a little outside of Bobby's area of 'I-can-make-it-go-away' expertise, so maybe no parkour tonight.

She fights away the frustration, the small, petulant need to throw a fit at having to be apart for so long all day, having to hold in all these feelings that want to claw out of her chest, and she hardly knows what to do with herself.

She can see her younger cousins playing with a bunch of other kids from the bride's side of the family—but no Mira nearby. She spots her parents with her uncle and aunts at one of the tables, but Rumi isn't there to join their conversation. It's odd to see her family around her without them—like something's missing: puzzle pieces that she didn't know came with the box, but now that she's seen the full picture all together, she can't see it any other way.

She takes a deep breath, realizing that she had left her stupid phone in Owen's car in her rush to look for Rumi, and—

There's a hand on her shoulder: soothing, steady.

She already knows who it is even without looking, her body relaxing as she turns until elegant pink hair comes into view.

"Mira," Zoey sighs in relief, her voice wavering as Mira holds her by the arms. "Where were you? Where's Rumi? I need to—" Her breathing goes unsteady, her lip wobbling. "I have to talk to her, Mira, please, she—"

"I know, I know," Mira shushes, gentle and understanding. "We went to look for a place you two could talk, but you weren't picking up so I went to go find you. She's in the garden you sent us a photo of, the smaller one, behind the house."

Zoey's already nodding her head with urgency, taking Mira's hands to squeeze them in gratitude. "Thank you."

"Well?" Mira smiles, tilts her head towards the building at the other end of the property. "Go on."

Zoey wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, bundles up her dress so it doesn't drag along the ground, and starts running.

She races down the pathway that leads back to the villa, up a set of shallow stone steps streaked by long, slanted shadows as the sun starts to set.

She must have looked like a fool to everyone else with the way she took off, but she doesn't even care—spurred onward by a maddening sense of hope, of relief.

Rumi's here. She's waiting.

And Zoey's tired of thinking about everything.

Maybe the ideal confession was just that: an idea. Something that didn't belong in the real world where things liked to happen without asking for your permission. She blinked and before she knew it, her heart was someone else's—and as luck would have it, it lands in the palm of the most gentle, caring soul.

But was it even something as simple as luck? The years and years building up to this day and moment?

The steps end and turn into a pathway paved with flagstones, a patchwork of flowerbeds meandering along its side. She just keeps going—enough for it to be effort, to break a sweat—warmth from all the running mixing in with warmth caused by everything else. She's close now, the dark hardwood doors to the villa growing larger with every step.

Zoey sighs in relief when she sees it's been left unlocked, taking a minute to catch her breath while her eyes adjust to the darker interior. She sees herself in one of the foyer mirrors: flushed red, panting like she'd just run away from gym class. It makes her laugh—thrilled and delirious. It's ridiculous. This whole thing is just ridiculous and so right and, god, she misses her so much.

What is there to even confess at this point?

What's left to ask?

Zoey can't help but wonder to herself while she walks from the living room to the dining area, her fingertips brushing along the tabletop as she approaches the wooden sliding doors that led to the back porch.

Rumi already kisses her so softly in the morning, holds her close and safe, looks her in the eyes in a way that feels like she's promising her the whole world on a silver platter—and Zoey doesn't doubt her one bit.

Because it's Rumi.

It's her Rumi.

She slips her fingers around the handle and pulls the door open, sunlight spilling onto the dark kitchen tile as the garden comes into view. Beyond it, she sees the ocean—glittering in the sunset, the waves cresting with white foam as the wind ripples along its surface.

And somewhere in the middle of it all is Rumi.

She's there in her yellow dress, sitting and waiting on a rickety bench, anxiously playing with her fingers. The sunset dips lower from behind her, casting her in a backlit glow—and she looks absolutely unreal.

Zoey takes a slow step forward, out onto the back porch and into the sunset. Rumi looks up the moment that she does—and Zoey feels her breath catch.

She takes another step, then two.

She's walking faster now, just as Rumi stands up, and soon she's at the edge of the porch, stepping into the grass—the stiletto heel of her shoe sinking into the turf until it gets stuck, and Zoey curses under her breath.

Ah, fuck it.

Zoey reaches down to kick off her heels, bundles up her dress, and starts running again.

She hears the delightful sound of Rumi's laughter from the other end of the garden, walking to meet her halfway.

It's exhilarating.

She feels breathless and a little lightheaded, and can't even fight the tears that prickle at the corner of her eyes. The wind weaves into her hair, the grass soft under her feet—and Rumi is ever closer.

Shawn's right. Words were never going to be enough. She needs to hold her—to feel her arms around her again, to lean against Rumi's chest until she can hear her heartbeat, feel the rumble of her laughter.

She's only three paces away now—and she's never looked more beautiful.

Two, and even that still feels too faraway.

"Rumi," Zoey sobs, finally within arms-reach.

She grabs desperately at Rumi's dress, pulling her closer until they crash into each other.

She feels Rumi wrap an arm around her waist and cup her face softly. Zoey grabs onto whatever she can: her dress, her back, her shoulders. Their foreheads press against each other and finally finally finally—

They meet in a desperate kiss.

"I love you too," Zoey's words tumble out, pressed between their lips and a smile and a choked sob. She can't stand the thought of pulling away from her. "Did you know that? I think you should know that," she kisses her more. "I think you should get a reminder every minute, actually. I love you. I love you, Rumi. You drive me crazy. Am I talking too much? Am I going too fast?"

"Never," Rumi's grinning, and still kissing her, and smiling, shaking her head with glassy eyes. "Never too much. I can keep up, I promise."

"You have the worst timing ever," Zoey whines, kissing along her cheek and then jaw. She presses another onto the tip of Rumi's nose, another on her temple—she has to get up to her tip toes for it, her arms wrapping around Rumi's neck. It makes Rumi giggle. "Why would you do that to me right before the wedding started?!"

"I'm sorry," Rumi bites her lip.

"No you're not."

"No I'm not," she admits.

Zoey catches her by the lips again, kissing her fully, tilting her head so they could fit even closer to each other, shoulders hunched, bodies flush, her hands tangling into Rumi's purple hair and desperate to keep her there.

"You looked so beautiful," Rumi whispers. "So loved—so happy. I couldn't—I couldn't take it anymore, I had to tell you. I just needed you to know."

Zoey presses her nose against Rumi's jaw, content and at ease. She feels Rumi kiss her on her temple.

In a small, quiet voice Rumi continues: "I've loved you for a while now, I think."

At the rate things are going, Zoey's going to start crying again. She fights the urge and lets Rumi keep talking.

"I guess I just didn't know it," she chuckles.

"You do now?"

"Mhm," Rumi pulls her in for a hug. "I do now."

"What changed?"

"Aside from your amazing ability to kiss me stupid?"

Zoey laughs. That's a fair point. "Flatterer."

"Maybe I needed to go on this trip first," Rumi leans back so she could look at her. She tucks away a lock of Zoey's hair before running her thumb along her cheek. She looks awestruck. Like Zoey's the only thing she could ever need in this world—and god, the way that made her feel. "Learn how to love you better from the people who knew how to do it best."

Zoey actually does start sniffling. "Oh, you can't do this to me."

"It's true," Rumi says earnestly.

God, how did she get so lucky? All she wants to do is curl up on the bench in this garden and hold Rumi's hand while they watch the waves lap against the nearby cliffs. But there's still the rest of the world to come back to—and a very enticing spread of food waiting. At least they'll be coming back together this time.

"Rumi?" Zoey asks in a small voice, like she's a little embarrassed of what she's about to say. "Will you carry me back to the sitting room upstairs? My feet feel kind of gross, grass and all, and I'd like to wash up and change into my sandals because I am not walking back to the party on those heels."

"I like how you kicked them off," Rumi grins. "Very dramatic. Like a romance movie."

Zoey rolls her eyes. "Well why don't you try running on grass wearing stille—oh!"

Rumi picks her up from behind the knees without warning, an arm across her back, strong and steady. Zoey's arms wrap around Rumi's neck on instinct as the world suddenly goes sideways and her breath is knocked out of her lungs.

Zoey flushes red. She blinks up at Rumi—who's smiling a little too smugly, fangs and all—and swallows. Oh she's too pretty. Too pretty in the sunset, with her hair rustling in the wind, carrying her in her arms like she doesn't weigh a thing.

"Hi," Rumi hums.

"Hey," Zoey whispers out breathlessly, her fingertips brushing against the back of Rumi's neck. She pokes her on the cheek. "Warn a girl next time, why don't you?"

"You asked," Rumi shrugs.

"Still!"

Rumi adjusts her hold on Zoey, but before she starts walking back to the villa, she pauses with a little look that went 'oh!' on her face. "Zoey?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you go out with me?"

"What?"

"Like," Rumi starts to ramble, Zoey still hoisted up in her arms. "You know. I just—I know we've been meaning to talk about stuff. That's kind of why I wanted to meet up before the reception. Things just kept happening, and I panic whenever someone asks about us, or asks you if you're seeing someone, or, like, what do I even say to your other family and friends that I haven't met before—"

"Ryu Rumi," Zoey cups Rumi's face, her smile wide and sunny.

"Yes?"

"I'm in love with you."

Rumi lets out a shaky breath when she hears it.

"Oh."

"Yes, you dweeb." Zoey sighs in amusement. "Oh."

"Still. You know. I have to be sure."

"Then yes," Zoey laughs, "Yes, I'll go out with you. Yes, you are officially off the market."

Rumi actually sighs in relief. Which is ridiculous. Because what was she going to say? No?

"And, yes,"

Zoey says it a little selfishly, pulling Rumi in by the back of her neck to kiss her.

"If anyone ever asks, you're mine."

"Yours?" Rumi mumbles against her lips.

"Mine," Zoey kisses her again, nodding her approval. Rumi smiles against it. "Mine, mine, mine."