Chapter Text
The sun was a blazing monster despite the early hour. It beat down, heating the concrete and evaporating the leftover dampness from the rain that had fallen throughout the night.
Not many people were out, and yet for some reason, some stupid, flawed, unwarranted reason, Rumi Ryu found herself nearly jogging the block, already breaking a sweat. It should have been illegal, considering physically exerting yourself any time before seven was so many levels of wrong it nearly made her groan, but no.
The class started at six-thirty, because Jinu just had to book the early morning one so she would ‘be in a better mood for work’, as if a bit of music and hip swaying could fix the mere idea of having to deal with customers asking if the whole wheat bread had wheat in it.
Needless to say, she was pissed, running far too late for her liking, and wondering if she would be the only one to show up to this damned class anyway, because anyone with free will would have avoided it at all costs.
By the time she reached the street, her phone had been guiding her towards; she took a much-needed pause, gasping like she’d run a marathon and pulling the collar of her hoodie away from her damp neck. If she’d bothered to even turn on a light this morning, she would have gone with something more dance-friendly, but no, she was grumpy and in something unsuited for the heat.
The dance studio was so small that she nearly missed it when she had finally grounded herself enough to continue. It was tucked between a bookstore/coffee shop on one side (that Rumi promised herself she would head to later, considering it smelled like heaven already) and a thrift store, taller than it was wide. The first floor, she assumed, was the check-in, and the second was the actual class.
In fact, there was hardly anything that indicated it had to do with dance at all. If she hadn’t known what she was looking for, she would have assumed Huntr/x Studio was an art gallery of sorts, based on the excessive number of paintings she could already see littering the entrance.
Rumi clenched her fists, considering just turning around and heading back home before anyone inside could spot her, but she’d already dedicated enough of her morning to this stupid thing, and she wasn’t going to waste it now to go work some early, unpaid hours.
A little bell chimed as she stepped in, and a waft of lavender hit her. At least the instructor had good taste.
There were only a few people in the waiting room, though still more than Rumi would have liked. The only free chairs left her beside somebody, unless she chose to stand, which would also be awkward.
“Are you Rumi?” the woman at the desk asked, looking up from something that seemed suspiciously like a doodle in her notebook.
“Uh, yes.”
The room was silent for far longer than Rumi liked, then the woman nodded and waved her off. “You’re checked in, last one here. I’ll ask if Mira is ready to start early today. Feel free to have a seat while you wait.”
And then she was standing in the middle of a room full of strangers, who all looked at her expectantly, as if who she sat with would determine her fate for the next few weeks of these damned classes. It was like high school all over again—although Rumi had only done her last year at an actual school, people looking at you over Zoom calls was enough to give the effect.
The only person not looking at her was tucked away in the furthest corner, headphones pulled over her ears, probably too loud to have even heard anyone else come in. Thankfully, she was also the only other person in the room who seemed to be under the age of forty, and Rumi was sliding into the seat next to her within seconds.
The seat's proximity forced Rumi’s leg into her line of vision, and her vision darted from the floor. Rumi realised her fatal mistake when the girl’s eyes went wide, and she broke into a smile that implied she wasn’t nearly as antisocial as Rumi had hoped.
“I’ve never seen you before,” was the first thing she said. Straight to the point, yet curt in a way that made Rumi’s tension ease just a bit. Avoiding small talk – at least the sort that involved the weather – was always a plus.
“I don’t normally dance,” Rumi shrugged, pinching the end of her braid between her fingers and pulling at the hair binder. “A friend signed me up for this.”
The girl seemed just as jittery as her, though less so from nerves and more general demeanour. Her hands didn’t stop moving for a second, regardless of what she was doing, though they kept finding their way back to the wheels of the skateboard in her lap every few seconds.
“You let a friend put you in a morning class? Damn, it’s mostly college students and retired folk this time of day,” she laughed softly. “I’m Zoey, by the way. Nice to meet you! I hope you like the class.” Zoey leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper as if they knew each other well enough for that sort of thing. “Trust me, you will.”
Rumi nodded slowly, feeling her brows creep their way to her hairline the more Zoey spoke. She wasn’t annoying, not even remotely, but she certainly didn’t leave any silence once the headphones were off. In fact, somehow, in a matter of minutes, the conversation switched to something about turtles, and then Rumi wasn’t even sure if she was breathing between words.
And then she just stopped. Mid-sentence, her entire body froze.
“Sorry.” And the headphones were back on so fast Zoey nearly smushed one of her space buns under them.
Rumi, in her defence, was still too groggy to keep up a conversation in her own head, and as much as she had enjoyed whatever facts Zoey had been throwing at her, she didn’t have the energy to encourage them out again, nor figure out what on earth she was apologising for in the first place.
Thankfully, the desk lady saved her from any prolonged staring and came back, announcing everyone could head in early if they started their warm-ups while Mira set up the soundtrack.
Rumi and Zoey were the last two to stand, taking up the back as everyone shuffled up the stairs, a couple of older women already swinging their arms, which Rumi assumed was some estranged stretch.
“Are there specific warm-ups?” Rumi asked quietly, praying Zoey hadn’t actually turned any music on and could hear her. “I jogged here, I think I’d be considered warm.”
“Eh, stretch a bit then. Especially your legs, trust me.”
People seemed to have their places in the actual studio, too, and Rumi was left following Zoey again to yet another corner.
The lighting up there was dimmer, the smell of lavender a little stronger considering a defuser sat in the far side, and nearly the entire place was covered in mirrors, aside from the floors. Even a few sections of the roof were reflective, though for what, Rumi didn’t know. It was almost uncomfortable, considering she didn’t look at herself much. All the mirrors in her home spent most of their time under blankets and towels. Yet, for some reason, the studio made the glare of her own eyes a little less daunting.
“The hot one with pink hair is Mira,” Zoey whispered, her face so close to Rumi’s ear she was practically breathing into it.
Rumi subconsciously jumped back, steadying herself against the closest of many bars as Zoey giggled and rolled her eyes, gesturing to the coach with the thumb rather than continuing her own descriptions.
Hot was… definitely not the wrong word.
Rumi had been expecting an older woman, maybe closer to the age of the others around her, but Mira seemed to be no older than her, and looks were more than in her favour. Her features were sharp, yet she seemed to be moving around the room with feet that could raise into a point whenever she so wished, fast but delicate. Every feature countered itself just enough to make the others stand out.
If she had been into women, Rumi was sure she would have stared the same way Zoey was.
She almost considered poking the poor girl to snap her out of it, although with the quick, knowing look Mira sent Zoey’s way, she only rolled her eyes and lowered herself into the first of many stretches.
– –
When the class finally started, Mira turned on a song Rumi didn’t recognise and instructed the others to repeat the choreo they had learned last week, which sent a spike of panic her way that lasted a good ten seconds before she realised the woman was walking towards her for further instruction.
“Rumi, right?” she asked, eyes scanning her as if Rumi was some sort of puzzle.
“Yes! You must be Mira!” She wanted to smack herself, because who the hell else would it be, but refrained, even as Mira’s glare turned to an amused grin, and she nodded. “Jinu said his roommate recommended you.”
“Mmm, yes, Jinu. He was quite insistent that I let you sign up mid-year. Better impress me.”
Rumi’s heart skipped a beat, her back straightening instinctively, although Mira seemed far from actually judgmental, just…blunt. Her shoulder brushed Rumi’s as she moved behind her, still making subtle movements that implied she was studying her, and then-
“Have you ever done any sort of dance or martial art? Your posture is good, a little stiff.”
“Martial arts, yes, tons, but no dance,” she cleared her throat awkwardly, trying to ease said stiffness away as she pulled her sleeves down over her hands, curling the fabric within her fists.
“In some cases, it might as well be the same thing. Can you tell me what you know about dance?”
And so, it went on like that. Mira drilled her with questions, occasionally leaving her with movements to follow as she checked up on everyone else or started them on a new routine.
The room was growing warm, sweat plastering any flyaways from her hair to her forehead within seconds. Her braid kept hitting her back or slapping itself against her leg, which was admittedly quite funny; her hoodie was damp enough that she was surprised her fingers weren’t pruned within the sleeves, and sweat was overpowering the smell of lavender she’d found so calming only an hour ago.
It was overwhelming, unpleasant and loud.
She could see herself from every angle, the flush on her cheeks inevitable, but there was no way she could remove it. She hadn’t thought to wear a long-sleeved shirt under the hoodie, hadn’t thought much at all.
By the end, she was practically a Rumi puddle, although thankfully, everyone (aside from Mira, who hadn’t even broken a sweat) seemed to be in a similar state, and for some reason, she was looking forward to tomorrow morning. To come back.
For once, the walk to Sunlight Bakery didn’t feel like a drag. There was a gum wrapper in her pocket, Zoey’s number in big scribbly font, and the echo of Mira’s laugh when she’d tripped on her shoelaces still ringing in her ears.
She was tired, so freaking tired, yet buzzing at the same time.
She wanted to both slap and hug Jinu when he grinned at her as she walked in. Instead, she settled for flipping him off and running into the back to change into her work uniform before he could do it back.
“So,” he hummed when she finally emerged, tying an apron behind her. “How was the class?”
“Not limping yet.”
Jinu snorted, tossing a handful of flour onto the counter and starting to roll the flatbread. “If it was that bad, you would still be sulking in the bathroom and pretending to change. Just admit that I made a good choice! Romance says Mira is a great teacher!”
“I thought he was a family friend of hers?”
“Someone can be a friend and teacher. I’m pretty sure she taught him pole.”
Rumi paused on her way to the sink, leaning back with a frown. “I’m sorry, your roommate pole dances?”
“I did too in year twelve! Have you really forgotten all my performances?” he feigned a gasp, pressing a dough-covered hand to his chest and then groaning when some of it fell down his sleeve.
“Do you want the honest answer to that?”
He smirked, returning to his bread and rolling his eyes. Rumi was pretty sure she caught him saying something about her mood, but turned on the sink anyway to wash the dishes that the early morning bakers had left behind. She didn’t even have the mindset to complain about it.
“Well, if this is working, do you think you can trust me on one last thing for the ‘get Rumi out of her depression project?” Jinu asked after a couple of minutes of silence, slipping the bread into the oven and setting a timer.
Internally, Rumi groaned. “It’s a project now? What are you going to do next? Set me up with someone?”
Running water. An awkward cough. The hum of a warming oven.
“Jinu…”
“Just one date-”
“No.”
“Just give her a shot-”
“Her?” Rumi whipped around, throwing a towel over her hands and drying them as quickly as she could. “You set the straight girl up with a chick?
Jinu raised his hands above his head in surrender, backing away. “Listen, I know your type, and she fits!”
As much as she wanted to play it off, Rumi felt her stomach churn, and she gripped her arm, nails digging into the fabric of her uniform. “We dated for two years, you’re a man. Clearly, I am not into girls!”
“Oh, please, you flinched nearly every time we kissed. That chemistry was fifty per cent just us bonding over the shared trauma of control freak guardians, the rest a little bit of friendship, and you know it.”
Throwing the towel onto a nearby counter, Rumi — praying that no customers would walk in — pressed her forehead to the wall, not even bothering to look him in the eye. “I’m not gay.”
“Well, then you can fake the date and get a nice night out of it. Romantic or friends, you will like her, I know it. Actually, you do like her.”
“I already know her? Who is it?” Rumi snapped, finally dragging herself from the wall.
“That would ruin the intent of a blind date, and you don’t know her well. Can you please just go?”
Right before Rumi could answer, the door chimed, and someone walked in. She glared daggers at him, shaking her head slowly as she left the kitchen to greet whoever had walked in. Then, the breakfast rush began, and they hardly spoke for the rest of the day.
During her break, she added Zoey’s contact to her phone and sent her a quick hello, although no response came, and she assumed the girl was either at work or in a class of sorts.
When Abby came to switch out with her, she was ready to collapse. The strain of dance had fully set in, leaving an uncomfortable throb in her thighs and torso, exactly as Zoey told her it would.
Still, the bookstore by the dance studio had been calling her name since she’d first seen it, and she opted for the longer way home to browse, maybe pick something up. It was before the afternoon rush –– the only perk to starting work early — so her walk was relatively clear.
The bookstore was quaint. It was something small, local, and the attached coffee shop served primarily drip or iced coffee in simple white cups, which was still refreshing after an eight-hour shift.
Rumi swirled the cup as she browsed, the ice chilling her fingers to an irritating numbness. There wasn’t much selection, but cookbooks, whether she’d read them before or not, always caught her attention.
“Dancer, martial artist and chef? What can’t you do?”
Rumi whipped around, stumbling and nearly spilling her coffee. A steadying hand landed on her wrist before she could fall, which was completely the opposite of reassuring, and as if it were some sort of routine, she was practically spun against the bookshelf.
Mira cocked a brow, looking down at her judgmentally. “I take it back, I don’t think I’ve ever jumpscared someone that easily.”
She stepped back, allowing Rumi the space to breathe, which only let in the thoughts that informed her she’d practically just lived out a scene from some sort of K-drama.
“What are you doing here?” she managed to choke out, her face surely as flushed as it felt. She’d expected to see Mira the following morning, not nearly so soon.
“Picking up a post-work coffee. Do you know how draining dance is?”
Rumi pushed herself away from the shelf, whincing as her legs bore her weight again. “I’m starting to, I think you stuck rubber bands in all my joints with those high kicks.” Truthfully, she had no clue how someone could do it for so long each day.
Mira nodded, then reached over and, before Rumi could react, plucked her drink from her hands and took a drawn-out sip as if they hadn’t met the same very morning. What was with people in this part of town acting like they’d known her for ages?
(Somehow, Rumi only realised it had been some odd form of flirting when she got home, which was another wave of humiliation that caused her to fuss over her wardrobe for a good hour, wondering what on earth made Jinu and her dance instructor assume she swung the other way.)
(She decided the culprit was her collection of cargo pants.)
Mira handed the coffee back, her nose wrinkling. “Oat milk?”
“Uh, I’m lactose intolerant.” Why did she say that? Why on earth did she say that?
“Ah, good to know,” Mira laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll keep that in mind when I cook for you.”
And then that damned woman walked straight out of the bookshop, not even bothering to get her own coffee.