Chapter Text
The living room looked less like a workspace and more like a nest built out of fabric swatches, sketch pages, and Zoey’s coloured pencils. They’d spread across the coffee table and spilled onto the rug—Mira’s neat piles stacked like little towers, already precarious under Zoey’s sprawl. The place smelled faintly of chocolate and pencil‑dust. Outside, rain ticked at the balcony rail; inside, the air‑conditioning hummed like a quiet stage monitor.
Rumi curled on the couch with her mug, heat wicking into her fingers. She stayed out here more with them now—better to share the noise than argue with herself in the quiet.
“Okay,” Zoey announced, tapping her pencil on the sketchbook. “Picture this—LED’s down the sleeves. We literally glow. Like neon angels, but cooler.”
Mira lifted her head, held up a strip of lurid orange fabric, and said flatly, “That looks like a traffic cone... with sleeves.”
Zoey gasped, hand to chest. “Blasphemy. This is visionary.”
“Stage lights will wash it out,” Rumi murmured into her mug. “It’ll just look orange.”
Zoey blinked at her, then flipped her pencil in her fingers. “Okay, so less neon angel, more… subtle angel?”
“Subtlety, with us?” Mira said, pinning two pieces of fabric together. “What a concept.”
Zoey scowled, then bent back to her book. “Fine. What about... hidden pockets? Utility chic. Imagine the drama of pulling out a mic from your sleeve.”
Mira didn’t look up. “Do you think we’re magicians?”
“We could be,” Zoey insisted.
“The seam might rip,” Rumi said quietly. “Don’t want that happening on stage.” She traced the rim of her mug with a thumb and glanced at the sketch. “Or in a fight.”
Mira nodded. “She’s got a point.”
Zoey dropped her head back against the cushion with a groan loud enough to rattle the pencils. “Definitely blasphemy. Both of you.”
“Don’t ask if you can’t take the truth,” Mira said mildly, tugging a needle through her pinned swatch. The needle flashed, then hid again. Rumi watched the neat rhythm and felt herself settle.
A few minutes passed in companionable mess—the click of Mira’s pins, Zoey’s graphite scritching in fast, decisive lines, Rumi sipping hot chocolate. She hadn’t planned to say anything else, but when Zoey sketched a plunging neckline that made her shiver just looking at it, she found her voice again.
“What about trying something with raised collars?” she asked, surprising herself. “They’d frame under spotlights. Cast the shadows where you want them.”
Zoey froze, then her grin spread slow and triumphant. “Ooh. That'd work.”
Mira was already turning the fabric in her hands, adjusting the angle like she’d been waiting for someone to say it. “Good eye.”
“It’s nothing…” Heat crept up Rumi’s neck. She ducked back into her mug, mumbling, “I just noticed.”
“She’s a natural,” Zoey whispered theatrically. “You were born for this.”
“Don’t scare her off,” Mira warned, but her voice had softened.
“I’m not! I’m just... glad she’s joining in...”
“Me too.” Rumi said with a soft smile.
The piles grew taller. Sketchbook pages multiplied. The rug turned into a battlefield of thread and pencil dust. It was absurd to call any of it professional when they kept nudging each other’s knees under the table, but somehow ideas still took shape—silhouettes settling, hems deciding their own minds.
Mira finished pinning another sample, set it aside, and exhaled. A ball of leftover yarn sat at the edge of the mess. She picked it up and frowned. “Wrong colour.” Then, without ceremony, she lobbed it over her shoulder toward the open door; it bounced once and rolled to a stop in the hall.
Rumi’s gaze flicked after it. Something in her chest tugged, sharp and strange; her pupils blew wide, the demonic gold flashing thin rings in her irises for half a heartbeat. She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold.
Before she realised it, her hot chocolate was on the table and she was standing.
The yarn sat a few feet down the hall, stopped at the baseboard. Rumi padded over the cool floorboards, bent, scooped it up, and came back into the living room. Without a word, she crouched and set it neatly on the floor beside Mira’s knee—like returning a dropped pen, or passing scissors to the one who actually needed them. Then she picked up her mug again, curling back into her corner of the couch as though nothing unusual had happened. Her heart beat a touch too quick; she ignored it.
Mira’s hands slowed on the fabric. She blinked down at the ball, then up at Rumi, a faint line between her brows. “…Thanks?”
Rumi took a sip, deadpan. “Mm.” Then set the mug back on the table.
For a moment, nothing else was said. Mira went back to pinning. Zoey bent over her sketchbook again, tongue at the corner of her mouth as she scribbled new lines. The only sounds were the shuffle of fabric and pencil scratches and the tiny thud when a pin fell and Rumi reached—too fast—and caught it between two fingers.
Then Zoey shifted. One of her restless kicks under the table caught the yarn squarely, harder than she meant to. The ball shot out from beside Mira’s leg, bounced across the rug, and rolled in a wobbling arc toward the far corner.
Her pupils blew wide—the gold pulled from thin to bright thick rings—before she even thought about it. In the next second she was off the couch, body hitting the floor with a muted thump. Horns threatened to push through her forehead as she lunged forward, claws flashing as she scooped the yarn up. And then, before she could stop herself, she clamped it in her fangs, a low, instinctive growl slipping out as she turned back toward them.
The room froze.
Mira stared, needle halfway through a hem, fabric slack in her hands. “…Did you just—”
“Oh. My. God.” Zoey’s pencil clattered out of her hand. She jabbed both pointer fingers toward Rumi like she’d uncovered the mystery of the universe. “You’re a cat!”
Rumi froze with the yarn still in her mouth. Her horns twitched like they might pop fully, golden eyes glowing bright enough to catch the light. She pulled the yarn free with deliberate care, scowling. “It rolled.”
Zoey all but collapsed onto her side, laughter bubbling out of her in wheezy, uncontainable gasps. “You pounced! You growled! Oh my god, Mira, she growled!”
Mira pressed her lips together, trying and failing to keep her expression neutral. “…I saw,” she said after a beat, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Very graceful. Like a jungle cat.”
Rumi’s scowl deepened. “It was instinct.”
“Of course,” Mira said smoothly, returning to her fabric as though nothing were strange. “Next time maybe we’ll throw you a stick. See if you bring it back.”
Zoey howled, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, she would! She totally would!”
She set the yarn down like it had burned her and reached for her drink. “I am not a cat.”
Zoey mimed zipping her lips, still giggling helplessly. “I’m so buying you a scratching post.”
Mira didn’t miss a beat. “And a bell collar—kidding,” she added with a wink, expression perfectly flat otherwise.
Rumi nearly choked on her hot chocolate. “Don’t you dare.”
That only set Zoey off again, collapsing into Mira’s side with laughter while Mira smirked just enough to show she was enjoying herself. Rumi sat stiffly on the couch, horns flickering in and out, cheeks burning as she glared at the yarn.
Her jaw twitched; the gold in her eyes wouldn’t fade. She took another slow sip of hot chocolate.
Zoey peeked over the rim of her sketchbook, still grinning. “Cat.”
“Jungle cat,” Mira corrected mildly, setting another neat swatch aside.
Rumi sank deep into her blanket cocoon, horns twitching each time Zoey so much as breathed the word cat. Every muffled growl she made only seemed to encourage them more.
Zoey leaned across the table, eyes alight. “Okay. Science time—what's your thoughts on laser pointers and boxes? First instinct—go.”
The blanket rustled. “No.”
Zoey gasped. “That felt suspiciously fast. Are you sure you don’t feel the urge to chase moving lights?”
“Stop,” Rumi said, and then ruined it by almost smiling.
“Back to boxes,” Zoey’s grin went feral. “If I left a cardboard box in the hall, would you sit in it? Be honest.”
“Zoey—”
Mira didn’t look up from her swatches. Her needle paused; she met Rumi’s eyes, then went on: “She already hogs the sunny spots. Boxes are a given. Sunny spots are first‑come, first‑Rumi.”
“I do not—” Rumi’s protest died into another grumble as the blanket muffled her voice. “—hog the sunny spots...”
Zoey smacked the table, gearing up.
Her grin did not, under any circumstances, stop. “Mira. What if she sheds? Do we need lint rollers for the costumes? Oh my god, we’re gonna find purple hair everywhere.”
“We try a laser pointer first,” Mira said smoothly, dry as stone. “Then lint rollers. So many lint rollers.”
That did it.
The blanket exploded. Rumi sat up in a rush, horns fully visible, but unreasonably adorable, golden eyes blazing bright. Her fangs flashed as she growled low and sharp, the sound buzzing right out of her chest. For half a second she looked furious. “I AM NOT A CAT!”
Then her face betrayed her—cheeks flushed pink across the bridge of her nose, eyes wide more with embarrassment than anger.
Rumi’s jaw worked. With a noise halfway between a hiss and a groan, she grabbed the yarn off the table and hurled it straight at Zoey. It thudded lightly against her chest, bouncing into her lap.
Zoey caught it like a prize, dissolving into wheezy laughter.
Mira finally set her fabric aside, lips tugging into a smirk. “Careful, Rumi. She’ll mount that on the wall if you keep encouraging her.”
“I am not—” Rumi snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying her fluster. She dropped back against the cushions, clutching her blanket, and muttered, “I regret coming out here...”
“No you don't,” Mira said, voice warm despite the dryness.
The room softened. Zoey’s laughter died down to giggles, Mira’s smirk faded into something gentler. The blanket shifted as Rumi exhaled, long and low, actually getting comfortable inside it. And then—just faintly— a purr. Deep and steady, vibrating right through the blanket.
Zoey froze, eyes going starry. “Ohmygod.”
“Don’t,” Rumi said quickly, cheeks redder than ever, thankful for the blanket.
That only made Zoey grin wider. With a gleeful little squeak, she launched herself onto the couch and flopped right on top of Rumi’s blanket bundle.
Rumi wheezed under the impact. “Zoey!”
Zoey only burrowed in closer, hugging tight. “You’re so warm,” she declared, muffled against the blanket. “And you’re purring. You can’t stop me.”
Rumi wriggled uselessly, growls low but not convincing.
“Come on, Mira!” Zoey called, peeking over her shoulder with wide, pleading eyes. “Pile in! For science!”
Mira rolled her eyes, but Zoey only upped the dramatics—kicking her feet, whining her name, making exaggerated grabby hands.
“Mira—please—don’t let me be crushed by the demon kitty…” Zoey gasped, “...Rumeow. Get it? Like ‘Rumi’ but… meow…”
Mira stared for a long beat, deliberately unimpressed. Then, with a sigh that fooled no one, she set her fabric aside and crossed the room.
She eased down on the other side of the couch, sliding into the cocoon with a calmness that contrasted Zoey’s... Zoey-ness. One arm draped casually over the blanket.
Rumi froze between them, and slowly poked her eyes out, the only part still visible, darting from Zoey’s wide grin to Mira’s serene expression.
“…Traitors,” she muttered, trying to bury herself deeper in the blanket, but a soft pink threaded through her patterns. “And don’t call me ‘Rumeow.’”
Mira let her head rest where Rumi’s shoulder would be under the blanket. “We’re proud of you, you know.”
“For what?” Rumi whispered.
“Letting us see you.”
“I’m literally hiding under a blanket right now.”
“You know what I mean.”
She did. The purr kept going, low and steady, no matter how much Rumi scowled. The hum soaked into her ribs and took root.