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The music thrums through Rumi like a second pulse, carrying her into the fractured light where shadows and colour blur into heat. Pressed between Mira’s steady hands and Zoey’s restless energy, she lets herself unravel, each touch and sway stripping her further of the distance she usually keeps. The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and laughter, but all she feels is the warmth of them, skin against skin, rhythm against rhythm. Every brush of lips, every guiding press of hips, winds the tension tighter, until she can hardly tell where the music ends and the three of them begin.