Archive of Our Own ^beta

-

Celine is at a loss.

Treading water is not a foreign feeling to her—a bit of a default setting for every hunter in history, she has to assume—yet she rarely finds herself this submerged.

(A gaggle of girlish giggles in the garden. An overture of overtones not meant for her observation.)

Blindsided might be a magnification, too overdramatic for her tastes, but it’s been eighteen years since she last rowed with unpreparedness to this degree.

Back in the day, she hadn’t been the main strategist of the group—and for good reason. Always quick to react, to jump into a horde of demons headfirst. Always the first to strike before demons and people alike could find the cracks where faults hide and tear them into chasms. 

The headlines at the time had reveled in their dubbing of her as a ‘hothead’ and ‘troublemaker’ (rather than the more forgiving ‘passionate’ and ‘rebellious’ befit of their male counterparts) for transgressions such as publicly cussing out their own label or wearing pants where a skirt would’ve been better received. Of course, those articles and magazines never touched on why she was standing firm against a board of men whose sole jobs it was to exploit her and her girls, but she’d took it all on the chin regardless.

Every moronic demand from label suits, every broken bone courtesy of a demon; she’d stood taller and she’d hit back harder.

(“You can’t do that anymore, you know,” Mi-yeong had said a lifetime ago, tired eyes on the tiny bundle of purple hair and soft, dewy cheeks in Celine’s arms. “You have to start actually using the brain in that hard head of yours instead of just ramming it into every obstacle in your path.”

She’d dug her knuckle into Celine’s temple, fond but firm; serious in that gentle way Celine had never mastered herself.

“Someone has to take the hard hits around here,” she’d rebutted, a threadbare refrain she always sang.

“Someone has to be around to help me take care of Rumi,” Mi-yeong had reminded her lightly. There was no rebuttal to her words that could be made in good conscience.

And then Mi-yeong had laughed without the knowledge that she’d repeat those words to Celine in the very near future, tired and frail and a breath away from withering into nothing.)

No, strategist was forced upon her one death and one daughter—demon child later.

She’s had years to prepare for countless contingencies that could threaten Huntrix and their mission: career ending injuries, burnout, emotional fallouts, blackmail and extortion, pregnancy (extensively, and with demonic footnotes), the list goes on. Everything short of death had plans in place to keep the hunter legacy alive enough to fulfill their fore-hunters’ duty. Or at the very least keep it alive long enough to train the next generation.

But this?

(Hushed words she doesn’t need to hear clearly to know their flirty implication.)

She didn’t plan for this.

(Fleeting touches she can’t see but knows are there.)

To think, within the first month of Rumi, Zoey, and Mira meeting, the three of them could barely hold a conversation without Celine there to buffer. Zoey’s stubborn refusal to sit through Mira’s stoic silences combined with Rumi’s... less than stellar social skills (she’ll admit, that footnote never made it into the margins of her meticulous, decades long plans; an oversight on her part, but there’s little to be done about it now except push forward) had made for many inelegant interactions at first. A myriad of misunderstandings; fumbling foot in the mouth faux pas; they’d been downright helpless in the beginning.

But as the long months passed and strangers evolved into acquaintances into friends, it made room for some… developments. Some of which should never be seen or heard by her.

Despite the blatant staring and flirting and touching—oh god the touching, she has half a mind to start making them spar with their hands taped to their sides—they have work to do. There’s always work to do. And if she doesn’t keep them on track then it will never get done.

Which brings her to where she is now, hiding out in her own kitchen for a few minutes of reprieve after cutting a sparring session short. Their focus had been sloppy, obscured by their own amusement with each other. She’d sent them on a run as punishment so she could slip inside and stare into the kitchen sink for answers. So far, she’s come up empty.

She’s not sure how long she stays like that, head bent over the sink while her thoughts race and crash into mental walls, but it’s the sound of their inevitable return that brings her out of unproductive rumination.

Through the open window above the sink, she hears crunching gravel and harsh breathing pass by. Her grip on the edge of the counter loosens, then goes tight again when she’s reminded that she still lacks any insight on how to deal with the unfortunate situation she’s found herself in. She allows herself a minute of slow, focused breaths, then straightens her spine and walks back outside to the wide open space of their training area.

Rumi sits a few paces away, diligent in her cool-down stretches. She chatters with a cloud-gazing Zoey who quickly flips herself over into spontaneous pushups to look busy when Celine steps into view. Wouldn’t be the first time, won’t be the last.

And then there’s Mira, who has no such reservations about pretending to be diligent, she leans her weight lazily on a practice staff, hands folded over the top of it as she just stands there and watches the two of them.

Or—watches Rumi, upon closer inspection. 

Celine heaves a barely audible sigh. For her own sanity, she really needs to stop inspecting them so closely. Or at the very least, emphasize the importance of stealth in their training more often.

She rubs at her temples where the tell-tale throb of a headache begins. Maybe cutting the rest of the training day short wouldn’t be a catastrophic setback. It would certainly give her some extra time to work through possible solutions to this growing problem, with the added bonus of granting her a much needed break from their onslaught of awkward, teenage rituals.

Mira’s voice calling out for Rumi’s attention pushes through the noise in Celine’s head, then makes that noise worse when she steps closer to Rumi, eyes roving over her without an ounce of shame, and asks, “Want help?” 

Rumi leans back out of the seated toe touch she’d been in the middle of and tilts her head, confused. “With what?”

Mira inches closer. “I could stretch you out,” she says. Then quickly tacks on, “Your legs.”

Rumi eyes her for a moment, then something shifts in her expression and she gives a small nod of assent, her cheeks tinging red.

Mira kneels by her side, waits for permission to touch, then shifts into place and slowly guides Rumi into a stretch that extends her leg up and over Mira’s shoulder as Mira leans over her.

Celine turns away from the egregious display.

(The worst part of this whole thing? They really think they’re being subtle. As if teenagers have ever walked the earth with subtlety.)

Against her will, she hears Mira’s cleared throat and the low question that follows, “The other one now?”

Then, Rumi’s slightly breathless reply of, “Yeah,” that she really, really wishes she hadn’t heard.

Luckily—or unluckily, she can’t tell—Zoey is the one to chime in and bring them out of their little bubble.

“Save room for the Honmoon, you two,” she says, a laugh on the tip of her tongue.

Celine turns just enough so Zoey is the only one in her peripheral vision and purses her lips at the sight of their youngest trainee lounging on her side with her head propped up on one hand, seemingly having given up on her pushups to watch the other two… do that.

They jolt away from each other. Zoey giggles over the sound of Rumi’s flustered stuttering while Mira just stands and stiffly brushes dirt off herself.

Celine’s headache shifts from a dull throb into a hammer against her skull.

(She vaguely remembers what it was like being a teenager, but good grief was she ever this bad? Surely not.)

She makes them run again.

-

Her luck doesn’t change. As the days and weeks pass, insight still eludes her while the girls grow bolder each other.

Over exerting them during workouts seems to do very little to deter their behavior. And she can’t very well order them to stop with the passing touches under the guise of ‘correcting form’ or the little comments that flirt the line of proper decorum as much as they do with each other.

So, she suffers in silence. What else is new.

Her most recent strategy of keeping them busy between tasks has slowed their antics only marginally, but its enough of a change for her that she’s unwilling to part from that tactic at the moment.

“Rumi,” she calls out the second they break from strength training to transition into weapons. “Go around the house and get an extra target for Zoey.” Unneeded, the one they have out now is more than enough for the repetition of target practice, but separating the three of them before they can drift towards each other during any meager amount of downtime has become crucial.

Rumi acquiesces with a nod and jogs off. Celine quickly instructs Zoey toward the set of throwing knives already waiting for her on the hay bale she’ll be practicing on, then beckons Mira in the other direction to work on her jang bong forms.

When Rumi rounds the corner with two large hay bales stacked in her arms and her face hidden behind the height of them, Celine frowns. “I said one.”

Rumi sets them down and shakes out her arms, then shrugs meekly. “I brought another just in case.”

Celine hums, eyeing her, then turns back to supervise Mira. So focused on guiding Mira through the sharp transitions of her forms, Celine doesn’t immediately notice the absence of sound that should be knives thunking into hay behind her. She looks over her shoulder and sees Rumi taking her sweet time setting up a new target for Zoey.

Standing a little too close—right on the outskirts of the danger zone, as Celine has taken to calling it, seeing as it impedes on their focus and is therefore a danger to their training sessions—Zoey admires Rumi’s efforts with seemingly no hurry to get started on her weapon exercises.

“You could probably lift me up really easily,” she says, eyes wide and sparkling as Rumi manhandles a tightly compacted hay bale into place next to the other one with ease.

Rumi steps back and cocks her head like she’s confused. “I mean, yeah? You’re small.”

Mira laughs out loud. Celine glances at her, frowning at the way Mira tries to hide her amusement by following it up with more effort noises as she wields her practice staff.

Zoey sputters out her indignation. “Wha—I’m fun-sized!” She crosses her arms with a pout. “And you’re only like two inches taller than me!”

There’s a reprimand on the tip of Celine’s tongue when there shouldn’t be, because Rumi should know better than to dawdle when there’s work to do. Except she looks too preoccupied with her genuine distress at the possibility that she’s offended Zoey—not likely, that girl adores Rumi—and her bright idea to fix that instead of doing what she’s supposed to be doing and training, is to scoop Zoey up in her arms like she’d suggested.

Zoey goes still in the bridal carry, face blank and arms dangling uselessly beside her as she looks up at Rumi.

“Oh.” She blinks. “Wow.”

Rumi gives her a lopsided smile. “See? Easy.” Then, she tosses Zoey a few inches into the air as if to show how light she is.

Zoey gasps. She’s staring at Rumi like she just flew Zoey to the moon and back in her arms. 

“You’re so strong,” she says, voice breathy with awe.

“Well… we all are.” Rumi shuffles her feet. “Honmoon strength and all that.”

“Yeah, but you’re like, strong, strong.”

Rumi breathes out a nervous laugh. “I’m normal.”

(And therein lies the other reason Celine saw fit to establish a danger zone. It would be too easy for their incessant affection to accidentally tip into a career ending reveal of Rumi’s patterns. Celine doesn’t have the strength or time to start over and train another generation of hunters. She doesn’t have the strength to watch Rumi go through what she did. Go through the devastation of losing the two people fated to her.)

Zoey’s arms come up around Rumi’s neck with a giggle. She presses her red cheeks into Rumi’s shoulder and Celine watches the way she stiffens and stares wide-eyed at Zoey like she’s only now realized what they’re doing.

Celine sighs. It doesn’t matter how much space she puts between them, they always find a way.

She intervenes before things can take even more of a turn and announces her spontaneous decision that they will be breaking for lunch early today. Why waste another half hour trying to keep them on track? Maybe a balanced meal will give them the energy needed for proper focus, but that’s likely just wishful thinking on her end.

She tells Zoey and Mira to go wash up first so she can discuss something with Rumi. Celine hears them whispering to each other as they walk away.

“Real subtle, Zo’,” Mira murmurs.

“Shut up,” Zoey hisses. “You’re just jealous that I got to feel—”

Fortunately they get far enough away that she doesn’t have to hear the rest of that sentence.

Rumi stands in front of her with hunched shoulders like she’s waiting to be scolded, eyes begging the question, What did I do wrong?

Celine can think of a few answers, but none she wants to address out loud.

“Your focus has been slipping.” She doesn’t ask why because she already knows and wishes she didn’t. “You should be setting a good example for them during training instead of slacking off.”

Rumi stands up straight, expression resolute. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I’ll focus.”

Celine give a sharp nod. “Good.”

She witnesses that focus fly right out the window not thirty minutes later when they’re all sat down for lunch. Mira steals Rumi’s water glass from her hand and drinks from it like she couldn’t be bothered to reach across her plate for her own. Rumi stares at the fresh smudge on the lip of her glass for the rest of lunch, dropping food into her lap with every other bite. Celine gets up and finishes her food alone in the kitchen.

-

One of their rare free days finally rolls around on the schedule, which means Celine gets a break as much as they do.

She spends it in the garden tending to the fruits and vegetables that make up the majority of their meals, letting the smell of tender soil waft around her and settle the air with the kind of calm that comes from habitual care. 

Such is the case sporadically, but not unwelcome, Rumi has decided to join her. Usually she prefers to work alone in her own small section of the garden. A personal plot of flowers that shifts with the seasons but stays consistent in its embrace of attentive care by Rumi’s hands. 

On these rare occurrences of quality down time together, Celine doesn’t mind the quiet company. But lately, where one goes, two follow; and when one becomes two becomes three, they’re anything but quiet.

“What are these ones called again?”

So much for her getting a break.

Celine glances up from her careful pruning at Zoey’s question. It’s directed at Rumi, who lets Zoey press close to her shoulder as they water her flowers together; Zoey grips the handle with both hands as Rumi holds the can from the bottom, guiding Zoey and the gentle stream around the flowers that are so precious to her. 

“Spotted orchids,” Rumi says. “They bloom in the summer, so right now you can see the, um, patterns on the petals.” Rumi hesitates, then adds, “They’re one of my favorites.”

Zoey nods, her boundless enthusiasm shining through in the motion. “I can see why!” She lets Rumi take full control of watering so the flowers just out of her reach can be tended to as well. “I like the pretty purple spots on them.”

The watering can goes still in Rumi’s hands. “…Really?”

“Yeah, of course!” Zoey says. “Don’t you?”

When Rumi doesn’t respond right away, Zoey turns to Mira and asks, “Mira, you like Rumi’s orchids, right?” 

From her lounging spot on the other side of Zoey, Mira reaches a slow, careful hand out to gently caress the petals of the orchid nearest to her. The pad of her thumb brushes against purple patterns almost reverently. Mira hums her agreement.

The look on Rumi’s face forces Celine’s gaze back down to her work. She keeps her hands busy and tries to tune them out.

(She’s seen that tentatively hopeful look before. It almost always prefaces a hesitant request from Rumi to come clean to them about her patterns, and it always falls sadly when Celine says no.)

The summer sun beats down on them, sowing sweat on skin and sticking their shirts to their backs. Celine stretches to loosen some of the soreness from hunching over for so long and pulls off her sunhat to swipe her damp forehead. When she risks a glance at the girls, she’s unsurprised to see they’ve all orbited even closer to each other. Zoey glues herself to Rumi’s side as they carefully trim dead petals from the orchids, Rumi’s soft spoken instructions guiding their hands while Mira leans over Zoey’s shoulder and watches with rapt attention like she could be tagged in at any moment to help.

Celine doesn’t immediately look away. It’s hard to sometimes, when their merged visage takes on a shape her own soul still aches for. Even under the summer swelter, her shoulders are cold, yearning for the twin warmth of the two women she can’t blanket herself with anymore.

She shakes her momentary grief away before it blurs the edges of their image and shows her ghosts. Her idle hands find their next task as the girls chatter in the background. They’ve been surprisingly well behaved today, nothing overtly in her face that she’s felt the need to break up or quickly walk away from. It gives her the slightest hope that maybe they’ve gotten the worst of it out of their systems—

“You’re really good with your hands, Rumi,” Zoey says, a curious lilt to her voice. Celine glances up at them again with narrowed eyes that they don’t notice.

Rumi’s cheeks tinge red as she sets aside the small tool they were sharing. “Thank you.”

Zoey shakes out her hand with a wince. “I don’t know how you don’t cramp up from this.”

Rumi chuckles. “You get used to it.”

“I think my hands are too small for gardening.” Zoey gets an inquisitive look on her face. “Rumi, can I see your hand?”

Rumi hesitates, then slowly pulls one of her gloves off, finger by finger like she’s giving Zoey time to change her mind, then holds out her hand. She goes obediently still when Zoey presses their palms together and lines them up at the bottom, then scrunches her puzzled brow when Zoey inspects the scant millimeters of distance between the tips of their fingers and nods like she’s just discovered something.

“Yep, just as I suspected. Mine aren’t up to code.” Zoey shakes her head solemnly. “RIP to my aspiring gardening career.”

“Doomed before it could bloom,” Mira says. Her amused gaze shifts back and forth between the other two like she knows something they don’t.

“Wow, rhyming and a pun?” Zoey gasps, sarcastic and theatrical. “Are you in a band or something?”

“Yeah, but you’ve probably never heard of us. We’re really underground.”

Rumi giggles. Mira’s sharp eyes cut straight to her at the sound.

“Don’t get all hipster on me,” Zoey says. “Need any groupies?”

“Sorry, but,” Mira grabs Zoey’s hand and presses their palms together much like she’d just done with Rumi, “you gotta be at least this tall to ride the tour bus.” She nods at the knuckles worth of disparity between the lengths of their fingers. Zoey and Rumi stare.

Every day Celine wishes they hadn’t grown so accustomed to fading her into the background. What little hope she’d stupidly let herself have disappears.

Intentionally, she knocks over her own empty watering can so it clangs loudly against the ground. The sound brings those three out of their little bubble, they spring apart and look at her like they’d completely forgotten about her being there. 

Celine pretends not to notice, simply grabbing the can and putting it back neatly without a word. They resume their quiet afternoon of gardening, albeit with a more respectable distance between the girls now.

Zoey, always the first to break any silence, jolts from her place on the ground.

“Wait, was that another short joke?!”

-

(As the weeks go on, it gets worse.)

-

“Whoa, I never thought I would get these. Like, ever.” Zoey holds her shirt up and grins down at her stomach. She flexes again to make her abs pop, then pokes at them gleefully and exclaims, “This rules!”

Mira and Rumi seem to agree, if their dumbstruck ogling is anything to go by.

Celine rolls her eyes.

-

(And worse.)

-

“Okay I might have lost count, but keep going!”

“What? Zoey the whole point was to see how many she could do with me on top of her.”

Rumi huffs out a laugh, exertion cutting the sound short.

Pausing at the threshold to the living room, Celine takes a deep breath and debates turning back around to lock herself in her study, then ultimately decides that if something unsavory is happening in the middle of her living room, she should probably put a stop to it.

When she steps out from the hallway to the view of Zoey standing on the couch with her phone out while Rumi does pushups with Mira sitting cross legged on her back, she needs a few moments to process the absurdity of the scene and the fact that it is wildly different from what she feared.

“Oh please, like you want her to stop? You have the best seat in the house!”

“Not for long, she’s losing steam.”

Zoey gasps. “You hear that Rumi? Mira has no faith in you.” She leans over the end of the couch to poke Rumi in the side, her tone turning conspiratorial as she asks, “Should we shun her and become a dazzling duo act?”

Rumi’s rhythm stutters with another laugh, and the sharp song of it rings out like jangly chimes clashing in the wind.

(That laugh reminds Celine of when Rumi was still small enough to sit on her hip, shrill and untrained, loud and unburdened, happy in the way she’d promised to always protect.)

Mira scoffs. “You two need me. I’m the hot one.”

“Um, excuse you. From where I’m standing, Rumi is the hot one. Look at those arms go!”

Celine purses her lips, but in the end decides to quietly slip back down the hall and leave them be.

-

(And worse.)

-

Celine dries her hands after putting the last dish in the drying rack. The fading sun filters through the crack in the curtains above the sink, warm and glowing against the counter as she finishes cleaning up the kitchen.

She pulls the curtains all the way open to enjoy the last of the days warmth before it dwindles into sunset, and instantly wishes she hadn’t.

Through the window, she sees Mira sprawled out on her back in the grass. 

On top of Mira, she sees Zoey.

She straddles Mira’s lap while tossing grapes into her waiting mouth, laughing when one bounces off of Mira’s forehead instead of hitting its intended target. Mira retaliates by digging her fingers into Zoey’s sides until her laughter turns into giggly shrieks.

Though they don’t deserve it, Celine is benevolent enough to simply shut the curtains instead of going outside to sic the hose on them.

-

(And… worse.)

-

Sunhat on and empty basket in hand, Celine steps out into the afternoon heat with the intention of collecting what’s ripe in the garden, but doesn’t get far.

She stops in her tracks when she spots Rumi slicing her practice sword through the air like it stole something precious from her. When Celine moves closer to inquire, she notices a distinct lack of Mira and Zoey in the vicinity.

The question that comes out is, “Where are the other two?”

Rumi stops swinging, but keeps her back to her instead of turning around. A shrug and a grunt is all she gets as a response.

Celine’s brow furrows. She says nothing as she watches Rumi’s shoulders rise and fall with the force of her harsh breaths. Rumi takes the silence as cue to go back to practicing her forms with the same vitriolic precision as before.

Celine hesitates around her next step, then continues on her path to the garden, looking back one more time before she rounds the corner.

Her question to Rumi is answered when the garden comes into view. That’s where Zoey and Mira are. Her unasked question about why Rumi seemed vaguely troubled is also answered. 

Zoey and Mira are in the garden kissing, arms slung around each other, right next to the plot of flowers Rumi takes such devastatingly good care of.

And—for god’s sake they’re supposed to be hunters, supposed to be honing their bodies into weapons to protect immeasurable souls, not trading innocent kisses out in the open like smitten children.

(They’re not supposed to be what they are.)

Celine finally sics the hose on them.

-

After that, she comes to the conclusion that she can’t ignore this any longer. Luckily she only has to wait until the next day before she’s able to make it out to the city for the help she’ll need to take care of this little problem that has quickly spiraled into a big problem.

After the aghast screeching at being hosed down had passed, Zoey and Mira had taken one look at her and promptly bolted. She hadn’t stopped them.

If they’re already at the stage of kissing then it’s only a matter of time before they push it further. Under her roof. Where she sleeps and eats and has functioning ears and eyes.

Her quarterly meeting with label executives ends with little fanfare, and she takes her planned detour to the bookstore a few blocks down from the Sunlight Entertainment building, slinking down the sidewalk like there’s a chance she could be followed. Just in case, she pulls the brim of her hat down more over her sunglasses and face mask before she slips through the entrance of the store.

The smell of paperbacks and hardcovers permeates the air like a warm welcome. So much so that she lets some of the tension that’s been saddling her shoulders for the past few decades months momentarily slip from its perch as she inhales that comforting scent.

Reminder of why she’s hear in the first place gets her moving again. Her spine straightens of its usual accord as she waltz further into the store, avoiding the stare of the lone worker at the counter so she can scan the shelves for anything that gives any indication of what she’s looking for, until she finally happens upon an aisle labeled ‘Family and Parenting’ that she’s quick to venture down.

The section is broken down into even more categories that she merely glances over until finally landing on the one hidden at the end of the aisle, its label a more modest, lowercase display that doesn’t pop as boldly as the others. Celine skims the spines for a title that could solve all her problems in less than ten words, then pulls out a book titled ’Sex Education Essentials for Parents and Teens’.

She flips it open to the middle without thinking, then promptly snaps it shut when the first thing she sees is a very detailed diagram that takes up both pages.

“Can I help you find something?”

Celine spins on the spot at the new voice, one she doesn’t recognize, and comes face to face with the worker from the counter. They greet her with a welcoming smile, hands clasped at the front and posture at half bow, eager to assist.

There’s a no thank you on the tip of her tongue, but the worker beats her to the punch with another question after glancing at the section Celine had been browsing.

“If you would like some recommendations, I can—”

“No need,” she cuts the woman off firmly. “I found what I’m looking for. Thank you.”

The woman doesn’t take the hint. She merely takes a small step back, like Celine is some cornered animal who needs space, then says like they’re in on the same joke, “They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

The implication tightens Celine’s grip around the book in her hands. She hears a faint creak of protest from the cover.

She forces out a polite chuckle. “Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“That one you’re holding is actually part of a series. There are two more parts to it that we currently have in stock if you’re interested.”

She really, really isn’t. But the worker is already reaching out past Celine to grab at a couple more books on the shelf, and then a couple more that she claims are well worth the read and hold a lot of educational value according to the leading experts—which, those experts can crack a tooth on her ssang-geom for all she cares—until Celine finds herself with an armful of knowledge she didn’t ask for or want. She glances down at the book at the top of her unwanted pile, a rather thick selection titled ‘The Conversation Starts With You!’ that makes her look away.

She takes a deep breath to school her expression and tone, then says as evenly as she can, “Thank you for the suggestions, but I think I’ll be fine with just the one book.”

“Are you sure? I’ve worked here a long time. I know a lost parent when I see one.”

Celine bristles at the implication that she’s a mother of ineptitude, then just as quickly deflates because it’s true and—apparently obvious. Even so, that doesn’t mean she wants some stranger’s help.

“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen parents come back for more books after their first trip. Kids always ask another question that we don’t know how to answer!” The worker chuckles as if that isn’t the most terrifying thing Celine can think of.

(“Celine, do hunters kill all demons?”

“Yes.”

“So everything that has patterns?”)

“How many kids do you have?” The woman asks. Celine flounders for a proper response.

“My d—” She chokes on the word that’d almost slipped out. She clears her throat and opens her mouth to try again.

Evidently, the woman clocks what she’d been about to say, because she asks, “How old is your daughter?”

It’s like a gunshot between Celine’s ears. The breath is abruptly squeezed out of her.

“She’s not mine, I—” A whirlwind of thoughts sweeps coherency out from under her. “I’m the sole guardian but—” She sighs. “My niece. It’s for my niece.” That word doesn’t choke. As much.

The attendant apologizes, then asks again, “How old is she?”

“Eighteen.”

“Ah, bit of a late bloomer?”

Celine blinks at her.

“My son first approached me with questions about sex when he was fifteen,” she clarifies, despite the fact that Celine didn’t ask.

“How… lovely,” she replies lamely.

“It’s important to teach them from a young age not to be ashamed of their bodies, so they feel comfortable discussing related issues with you,” the woman continues. She smiles at Celine in a way that she can only assume is meant to reassure but does the exact opposite. “My advice? Don’t treat it as a ‘one and done’ type of conversation. Broach the topic with her often as new questions and experiences arise, don’t be afraid to create an open dialogue.”

She quite liked the idea of ‘one and done’. Surely it was achievable. Maybe no one else has tried hard enough.

“Oh, and of course teens should know masturbation is a completely natural urge to partake in.”

Celine may be out of her depth here.

“Great stress relief too!”

Scratch that—she’s definitely out of her depth.

She puts a hand up to signal to this woman that absolute silence would be very much appreciated at the moment, and thankfully this time she takes the hint.

“Thank you for all the… thorough advice. I’m sure I’ll put it to good use.” Her grin strains under her mask, but she still tries to convey some semblance of false satisfaction. “I’ll just be purchasing the one book today.” 

She starts slotting books back into place on the shelf, careful to take her time putting them away neatly. The worker looks at her like she’s making a mistake, like she thinks Celine will actually step foot back inside this store to scour the shelves for more info one day. Little does she know, Celine has already vowed to never even walk down the stretch of sidewalk it’s bordered by again.

When the last book is put away, she clears her throat and asks the woman to show her to the register so she can pay and get the hell out of here, though she leaves out that last part. As she’s being rung up, she can tell the worker has more to say and likely recommend to her, but Celine keeps her gaze down and pretends to be interested in the colorful buttons displayed in a small tin on the counter.

She pulls out her card before thinking better of it and pays with cash instead. Her disguise would’ve been all for naught if this random bookstore clerk recognized her name. She could already see the slanderous headline: ‘Washed Up Sunlight Sister Hopelessly Unequipped for Parenthood, Caught Purchasing Collection of Smut to Educate the Next Generation’.

A bit wordy for the tabloids perhaps, but she so rarely gave them any ammunition to profit off of these days that she’s sure they’d maximize on every expense just to mark the occasion.

Celine thanks the worker and takes her change and receipt, shoving both in her pocket as she makes for the exit at the least conspicuous speed possible.

She nearly trips herself up on the sidewalk when she realizes that all of that was the easy part.

-

She allows herself one attempt at a hands off approach. It blows up in her face.

“What is this?”

Rumi storms into her study without knocking, which is very uncustomary of her, as is her tone, and Celine has a reprimand on the tip of her tongue until she sees what Rumi is holding and—

A book gets slammed down on her desk. The same book she purchased just days ago and earlier today placed delicately on Rumi’s bed while the girls were outside. 

Celine calmly sets her paperwork down and steeples her fingers. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Rumi sputters out shocked nonsense, a musical of gibberish, as she gestures wildly at the book between them. Unfortunately, it is more specific.

Celine sighs and glances at the cover from the corner of her eye. “I thought you might benefit from reading this.” Some of it, at least.

She doesn’t expound on why, though by Rumi’s expectant look she certainly wishes Celine would. That look takes turns trying on different flavors of confusion and disbelief until finally settling on horror.

“Wha—why would you—I don’t even—why?” She grips at her hair and exclaims, “Zoey and Mira almost saw it on my pillow! I had to hide it!”

Celine’s brow furrows. “Why on earth would you do that?” She’d been hoping they would share it so she didn’t have to take turns presenting it to each of them on three separate occasions. For efficiency of course. 

One would think Rumi is on the brink of explosion what with her increasingly distraught, reddening face. “Why would I show it to them?”

“Well, you can’t very well hog it for yourself. Sharing is important, Rumi.” Celine shuffles some random papers together and hopes her voice conveys a nonchalance she herself doesn’t feel. An excerpt from the book had mentioned something about maintaining an air of calm when discussing this… subject, so as to help teens with feeling more comfortable.

Rumi looks decidedly uncomfortable. Celine doesn’t blame her for it, but she’s not sure what else she’s supposed to do. Maybe she should’ve skimmed a couple more chapters before handing that book off.

“Sharing,” Rumi says, staring over Celine’s shoulder at nothing. She sounds far away, haunted. “You want me to… share it.”

“Yes.”

“With… them.”

Especially them. “That’s correct.”

Silence fills her study for a few long, awkward moments. Then, Rumi straightens up and clasps her hands behind her back with all of the pinpoint idol poise Celine has instilled in her over the years.

Her expression shifts into something neutrally polite, as does her voice when she says, “I will not be doing that. Thank you.”

She bows respectfully, then walks out of the room.

Celine stares at the empty space she left behind, then heaves a long, suffering sigh and drags the damned book closer to her. 

Now, she actually has to follow through with the hard part.

-

Dread sits heavy in her chest as she paces her study the next morning. There’s post-it notes strewn across her desk and some tucked between specific pages of the book she’s been pouring over since the night before. A migraine pounds at her skull and makes her eyes ache, though that could also be the endless barrage of detailed diagrams she sees every time she blinks.

But she doesn’t stop. She can’t. If they’re to stay on track for debut before the end of the year, then she needs to do something about this now. Even though it goes against all of her better instincts, she’s accepted that she’ll have to address the girls openly about this.

When she walks out to the living room and calls for them to come join her, the sight that unfolds in front of her is motivation enough to follow through on what she’s prepared.

Ever prompt, Rumi finds her spot on the couch first and settles against the cushioned arm to wait for further instruction. She’s jostled in place when Zoey launches over the back and plops onto the center cushion beside her. They giggle together while Mira much more calmly takes the last spot on the other end of the couch, casually slinging an arm over the back behind Zoey, who leans into her as Mira’s stretched out arm adjusts, her hand finding the end of Rumi’s braid with a slight tug that makes her look over. They share a smile, eyes bright.

Celine tries very hard to deactivate her fight or flight response.

She’s sick of being held hostage in her own home by the debilitating fear that if she walks too suddenly, too carelessly, or too quietly into any space that they are in, she’ll be assaulted by visions she should never have to see. Hopefully the book hidden behind her back will be her salvation.

Once she has their attention, she takes a deep breath and begins. “There’s an important matter I need to discuss with you girls.”

Zoey jolts, already panicked. “Is it about debut? Did we get cancelled already? Did someone find my Soundcloud?”

“No, I—”

Mira tsks. “I told you, you should’ve deleted that account instead of just making it private. The internet probably dug up all your old experimental trap beats.”

“I didn’t wanna lose all my work!”

Rumi reaches out and pats her back. “I’m sure it’s going to be okay, Zoey. Your early stuff isn’t that bad.”

Mira laughs. “Burn.”

Zoey slides down the couch and onto the floor with a dismayed whine. “Rumiii.”

“What—no! I meant—”

“Girls,” Celine snaps.

They startle to attention at her tone. Zoey quickly finds her seat on the couch again.

A headache is already threatening to take root, Celine can feel its imminent pounce. She adjusts her mental clock on how much time she’s willing to spend on this, subtracting a few minutes.

She rubs at her temple with one hand, then says, “You don’t need to worry about your debut. This has nothing to do with that.”

They all give her an odd, trepidatious look. Rightfully so.

“It’s a sensitive subject, and I’m sure you’ll get uncomfortable at some points, but please show me you all have the maturity to handle this conversation.”

Rumi catches on first, her face dawning with horror.

Zoey chuckles. “You know, this sounds exactly like something my teacher said in my freshman year health class…”

She trails off, eyes going big and horrified when she catches a glimpse of the title of the book Celine brings out of hiding from behind her back. Zoey gapes at her, then aims her distress at Rumi like she’s looking for confirmation that this is really happening. She gets her answer when Rumi just buries her head in her hands.

“Please don’t do this,” Rumi begs miserably.

Celine flips the book open. “I fear I must.”

“Celine. Please. I’m begging you.”

She sighs. “Did you really think I was just going to drop it?”

“Drop what?” Rumi cries, throwing her arms out. “You left a sex book on my pillow and didn't tell me why!”

Mira’s arm retracts from behind Zoey at lightning speed. “A what?” Her head moves on a swivel, looking between all three of them in quick bursts.

Zoey looks haunted. She plants her hands on her knees to steady herself like she could tip over at any moment. “One of my idols is giving me the sex talk. I—I’ll never recover from this.”

Neither will Celine. But sacrifice is essential.

Celine stares down her notes, then begins haltingly, “As you… grow into yourselves, you may begin to feel certain… urges.”

Rumi pulls the strings of her sweatshirt tight until most of her face is covered by her hood. “Oh my god.”

“You don’t know shit about my urges,” Mira grumbles indignantly. 

Celine thinks of wandering hands in the garden. “I wish that were true.”

Mira appears to recall the same thing, because an embarrassed flush tints her cheeks. She shoots to her feet. “Alright, I’m done with this.”

Celine snaps her fingers once and points at the couch. “Sit.”

Mira glares at her. She’s never responded well to such directly barked orders, but in the interest of time—and so she only has to do this once—Celine needs them all seated and listening.

Celine calmly presents her with her other option. “Unless you’d rather run laps around the property until sunset.”

Mira hesitates, really thinking about it, then huffs and sits back down, arms crossed and head turned to glare at the wall. But she doesn’t cover her ears, which is all Celine needs.

Before she can find her place in her notes again, Zoey chimes in.

“Is this the part where you say if we get pregnant, we’ll die?”

A wave of nausea nearly takes Celine out at the knees. Her various post it notes blur on the page. She tries very hard not to glance at Rumi.

(It’s by design that the details surrounding Mi-yeong’s passing are hard to come by. Even for their more… devoted fans. The public had been fed an entirely different story.

The devastation of losing her to belated complications had ripped them from a false sense of security. All throughout the pregnancy they’d wondered what birthing a demon’s child would do to the human body, and later they’d found out.)

“’Cause lemme tell ya’, that didn’t go over well when my health teacher said it. Like, hello, the internet exists, we’re not clueless.” Zoey rolls her eyes, waving a flippant hand in the air.

Mira shoots her a look. “What the hell were you looking up online?”

Zoey goes red. “Just—normal stuff! Normal teenage girl curiosity questions and—and—” She jabs a finger in Mira’s direction. “Don’t shame me! I will not be shamed!”

Celine tries to shake off the shadow of grief Zoey just casually draped over her shoulders, then says, “I’d appreciate it if the maturity I requested would make an appearance now.”

She waits for a chorus of agreement, and gets it in the form of a verbal confirmation from Zoey and a grunt from Mira, whereas Rumi merely gives her a reluctant, tight nod, arms crossed as she burns her stare into the floorboards.

Celine eyes her for a moment, then moves on, reciting what she wrote in her notes. “First and foremost, no one should feel ashamed for… being curious. That’s perfectly normal. What matters is how we deal with that curiosity.”

She’d highlighted the general overarching statements of each section, not out of necessary agreement, but rather as points to touch on and then add her own viewpoint on as she saw fit.

“I don’t think its unreasonable to say self control should be a top priority for you all.”

Zoey gives her a weird look. As if Celine is asking too much of the children who keep canoodling in her home.

“But… you just said it’s perfectly normal to—”

“But you’re not just normal girls, are you?”

The fact that she even has to reiterate this pricks her fingertips with annoyance, but hormones can be blinding, she supposes.

“You’re all about to become very public figures, that kind of responsibility comes with an expected level of decorum.”

Mira snorts derisively. “Yeah, no shit. We already know—”

Celine cuts her off loudly, “For example, it would be wildly inappropriate and detrimental to the success of the group for an idol to be found kissing one of her bandmates in public.”

That shuts Mira up. Satisfied, Celine checks her notes—

“What about punching out a fan? Does that sort of thing uphold the proper level of decorum?”

Zoey and Mira both turn to gape at Rumi, who stubbornly refuses to break her petulant eye contact with the floor.

(Oh, Celine remembers that headline very well, but the last time she’d thought back on it fondly had been the morning it came out, before their manager had called to remind her that consequences exist.

An entitled fan had hopped the barricade with his sights set on Mi-yeong, and Celine had simply gotten to him first.

The press had a field day. For months her girls were asked by interviewers if they ‘felt safe’ working with ‘a person prone to such violence’. Little did they know, if Mi-yeong had gotten the chance to put her hands on him, their careers as they knew them would’ve ended that night.)

Her grip goes tight around the spine of the book. She snaps it shut and faces Rumi fully. “My recklessness in my youth often cost my team and I opportunities we would’ve benefitted from greatly, with the unwanted side effect of making our mission to seal the Honmoon that much more difficult.”

Rumi’s eye flick to her face, then back down. She sinks into herself, properly chastened.

“I remember reading about that,” Zoey says. She shifts her awed stare to Celine. “They said you punched that guy back over the barricade!”

Mira smirks. “Nice.”

(Yes. Well. Like she said, he’d been heading for one of her girls.)

“That is neither here nor there.” She opens the book back up. “Now listen up. The sooner we’re done with this, the better.” Probably not the most conducive comment to creating an ‘open dialogue’ as the bookstore clerk had put it, but she only has so much patience left. She continues with one of the items that’s been bothering her the most.

“Now,” she starts, sure to make stern eye contact with all three of them, “when sharing a space with others, you should be considerate of where is an appropriate place to… be curious. Communal spaces, as I had hoped was obvious, are off limits.”

Mira digs her fists into her forehead and sighs. As if whatever headache she’s feeling could even begin to compare to Celine’s.

Zoey raises a timid hand. “Um, so are we allowed to… be curious? Or not?”

“Zoey,” Mira hisses. “We—you don’t need to ask permission to—to—”

“Well I don’t wanna get hosed down like a dog again!” 

With an irritated sound from the back of her throat, Mira curls her fingers around Zoey’s wrist and tugs her closer to whisper harshly, “Stop talking about that in front of—”

“Can we take a break?” Rumi’s request is quick and desperate.

“No.”

A chorus of pained groans. Celine can relate.

“Okay, but, what about my question?” Zoey asks. She puts her hands up in surrender at Celine’s look. “I just need, like, a clear line. That’d be awesome sauce.”

With a sigh, Celine acquiesces with what she should say according to this stupid book, and not what she actually wants to say which is, The only thing you should be curious about is what it feels like to seal the Honmoon and save all of humanity.

“All I am asking,” she starts slowly, measuring each word twice before cutting them from her careful script, “is that you girls are more considerate going forward. We all have to share this house, and you all have to get used to sharing with each other.”

Poor choice of words. Thankfully, they don’t seem to notice.

“I’m not trying to discourage any—” She almost says exploration. Which wouldn’t be entirely truthful. She would very much like to discourage that. “—any curiosity.”

Mira scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Celine debates making her drop to the floor for fifty pushups, then thinks better of it. The other two would likely enjoy watching that a little too much. 

She ignores Mira and continues. “I’ve simply grown weary of walking on eggshells in my own home.”

Zoey opens her mouth, then hesitates. “So…?”

Celine blows out a harsh breath and spells it out plainly. “Find a private space. Where I am not there or could ever appear there. And be quiet.” Or better yet, don’t do anything at all.

Zoey perks up and throws Celine a jolly salute. “Got it!”

The other two sink a little further into the couch, faces terminally red.

“Wait, can outside count as a private space?”

“Seeing as I can very easily go outside? No.”

“But what if—”

“Save any more questions until the end.”

“I’m starting to think this’ll never end,” Mira says darkly. 

That fear is very quickly burrowing into Celine’s psyche as well. She speeds them along.

All three of them are very attentive when she broaches the topic of consent, and Celine tries not to balk at having three pairs of focused eyes on her for the first time since she started talking. They’re all quick to lose eye contact though when she then shifts into her brief—very brief—spiel on self gratification.

“—and I should hope I don’t need to remind you all of what constitutes good hygiene. Regardless: wash your hands and make sure to keep your nails trimmed and clean, for yourself and,” she pauses to glance between Zoey and Mira, “and for others.”

They go wide eyed, then try to submerge themselves in the couch cushions. When Celine flips to the next page, the rustle of paper echoes throughout the stillness of the living room like a tree crashing to the ground in an otherwise silent forest.

Her next words come out half grit between stubborn teeth unwilling to let them pass. “If you would like me to acquire various forms of protection for you—”

An agonized groan shoots out of Mira, she tilts her head back and shoves her palms into her eyes. “Fucking Christ make it stop.”

“Did I do something in a past life?” Zoey looks down at her hands like they betrayed her without her knowledge. “Why is this happening to me?”

Celine ignores Mira’s mutters of how she can pay for her own shit to risk a glance at Rumi. Unsurprisingly, her face is just as red as the other two’s, but the embarrassment is offset by her downcast eyes as she idly picks at the arm of the couch with her finger.

Celine keeps things moving. Talk gets more technical. The deeply detailed diagrams make an appearance, and they all suffer through that together. They zone out a bit during her very thorough walkthrough of contraceptives—which roils under her skin hot and blistering, so much so that she snaps at them again to pay attention—and long list of debunked forms of protection.

There’s a few surprising corrections from Zoey that she folds into her presentation with no rebuttals, hellbent on barreling through this talk with the bare minimum of specifics required as she feels her sanity slowly wane and wither away.

By the end of it, the girls are no better off than her. Rumi has her legs tucked up into her body, face hidden in her knees as she rocks back and forth. Mira sits slouched back into the other corner of the couch, pale and eyes glazed over as she stares into space. In contrast to them, Zoey sits up very straight with her hands clasped in her lap; her face is the reddest of them all but she was also the most attentive throughout that whole thing, and she’s only one willing to make eye contact at the moment, which, honestly, Celine could do without.

She snaps the book shut and tucks it under her arm. They all sit with the silence for a long, tense minute.

Zoey breaks it with an awkward laugh. “You know, music is widely considered to be one of the most potent aphrodisiacs, so if you think about it, it’s not really our fault—”

Celine is quick to cut her off. “No one is at fault here.” Not yet. Not before they do anything stupid that could jeopardize Huntrix’s career before it can really start. “You’re young. This is to be expected.” And should apparently be encouraged according to the store clerk and the book Celine studied all night. She disagrees. God forbid she hears aphrodisiac come out of Zoey’s mouth ever again.

She takes a breath to brace herself, then asks, “Are there any questions?”

There’s a moment where no one says anything. Then, Zoey’s hand slowly starts to creep up.

Without looking, Mira snatches that hand out of the air and presses it into the couch.

Zoey grins meekly. “I’ll just… try to google it. Again.”

Celine barely conceals her sigh of relief. She dismisses Zoey and Mira, and they jump up from the couch immediately, bumping into each other before breaking off to leave the room in opposite directions.

She tells Rumi to stay.

“Wasn’t that whole thing punishment enough?” Rumi asks once they’re alone.

“You’re not being punished, Rumi. I just want you to be careful.” She has no idea if Zoey and Mira shared with Rumi just why they’d been hosed down in the garden recently, but she does know—

“I know you saw them the other day.”

Rumi whips her head up, eyes big and startled. She quickly looks back down.

“As much as I would prefer their focus remain strictly on their training, whatever they decide to do together is ultimately out of my control.”

Rumi flinches. “Why are you telling me this?” 

The despondent look on her face almost pushes the sodden truth past Celine’s lips.

Because I see the way you look at them. Because you’re more like me than you should be.

Instead, what comes out is a more important truth. “Because you’re their leader, Rumi. The responsibility that our fore-hunters have passed down to the three of you will always rest heavier on your shoulders.” She kneels in front of Rumi to give her a stern look, almost pleading. “You know this. Don’t entangle yourself in something that could jeopardize that. Especially something as fleeting as youthful hormones.”

Celine hesitates around her next words, then decides they bear repeating, “If they saw your pa—”

“I get it.” Rumi cuts her off firmly, flushed and upset, like she’d been days ago before Celine stumbled upon the other two in the garden. 

She tries to find the right words to make Rumi feel better, but they don’t come. The silence presses heavy on them.

There’s a fresh ache that plants itself in the neglected, parched soil of Celine’s heart, but she ignores it, because those aches have always been easier to deal with than the ones she ever dared to let be seen.

“Can I go now?” Rumi asks eventually, low and subdued.

Celine nods. She stands with Rumi and feels something stretch taut and fragile between them with each step Rumi takes away from her. 

Rumi pauses at the threshold. She keeps her back to Celine and her face carefully hidden.

Her voice comes out quiet. Resigned. “So that whole talk wasn’t even for me, was it? It was just for them.”

There’s a hitch in Celine’s breath. She fumbles for the right answer.

Maybe one day you—

We need to seal the Honmoon first—

You shouldn’t concern yourself with frivolous things—

But she ends up saying nothing, voice caught on the jagged union of guilt and duty that’s been lodged in her chest for years.

She watches Rumi’s shoulders slump as she disappears down the hall. 

-

The effects of her talk with the girls are surprisingly fruitful. These days, she rarely walks into a space they're sharing and wishes she hadn’t.

She doesn’t know if its a product of deep embarrassment on their part, or whatever nonsense she presented actually being helpful, and she doesn’t care. 

It’s a boon to the success of their training. As she hoped it would be. Sparring sessions are productive. Rehearsals for debut sharpen in excellence each day. Their voices are polished. The tide turns so suddenly towards their success that Celine almost drowns in it. 

Before they know it, months fly by and debut is a week out.

Its impending date has her feeling nostalgic. A dangerous feeling for her that she rarely indulges in lest the demons ghosts rear their melancholy on her unsuspecting head. But the call rings stronger than her self control for once. 

With the girls in the city for some final preparations they don’t need her for, she finds herself  alone and drifting toward her closet. Amongst the organized clothes and boxes, she digs in the back for a smaller, unlabelled one. It doesn’t need a label, it never has. She knows what she’ll find if she lifts the lid and lets herself drown in memories for the day.

Handwritten letters she has memorized. Photos of faces she can’t bear to look at. A homemade bracelet belonging to a set of three that she stopped wearing years ago after Rumi asked one too many questions.

Her shaky fingers skim the top of the lid. That’s as far as they get.

There are shared hopes in that box that she never got to see to fruition. If she opens it, their expiration will feel too real.

Celine puts it back in the closet, further back this time, behind some other boxes she can’t even remember the contents of anymore. In her haste, she accidentally knocks over another one and it pops open right in front of her where she sits.

Bursts of color disorient her grief. She blinks away that doleful haze and gingerly picks up a crude crayon drawing of flowers and sunshine and forest trees. The shake in her hand steadies.

It’s from another box of keepsakes, only this one is filled with memories that are easier to touch. Rumi’s youthful scribbles scattered across numerous papers. A handful of homemade birthday cards Celine remembers receiving every year before Rumi got too old to make them anymore. And pictures. Wrapped in a soft, faded baby blanket.

She knows exactly which photo is at the top of the pile before she pulls back the light blue blanket. It’s the oldest one in the stack, faintly washed out from age though the contents could never be dull. Its of her, eighteen years younger with less grey streaks in her hair, and of Rumi, no older than a month, swaddled in that same blue blanket and sleeping soundly in Celine’s arms.

(“What do you think she’ll be like?” Celine had asked. The gentle rise and fall of Rumi’s breaths in her arms felt like cradling pieces of shifting universe.

Her eyes kept catching on jagged purple, a singular, sprouted vine in the center of Rumi’s chest.

“With us to guide her?” Mi-yeong’s warm embrace fell over her shoulders like a blanket. “She’ll be wonderful.”)

Her thumb traces over a dark smudge in the corner of the picture, a fingertip curled over the lens when it was taken. She pulls away when she remembers who was behind the camera.

She lets her gaze linger on Rumi’s image instead. She remembers how small Rumi felt in her arms like that, how fragile. Celine used to worry about taking her outside when she was this size, sure that a strong breeze would be enough to sweep Rumi up and away from her forever.

There’s plenty of photos of her in these first few months of her life, but then Celine flips to another one and suddenly Rumi is a toddler, almost twice the size she’d just been looking at. 

(She’d been too preoccupied after Mi-yeong’s passing. Pictures stopped taking priority over dirty diapers and meals and hunts and grief.)

In this one, her tiny hands are reaching up to grab at the camera, but her eyes and toothy smile are trained solely on Celine who hides behind its lens. She remembers this one clearer than them all; Rumi had just taken her first steps, and Celine had felt the need for the first time in too long to grab onto the moment and save a tangible memory of it. 

After that, she’d tried to find more moments to hold onto in picture form, but even now she feels how thin the rest of the stack is, and remembers how as those years went on her priorities changed again as Rumi got closer to training age, and the photos dwindled down to a few a year until eventually she just… stopped.

This one, though. It’s one of the few moments she recalls feeling like she’d finally played the role of parent correctly. She was there, she witnessed the milestone, she captured it, and Rumi had smiled at her all the while.

The heft of the moment was no doubt beyond her toddler comprehension at the time, but Celine had still let that smile settle in her aching bones like Rumi herself had told her she’d done a good job.

(When was the last time Rumi smiled at her like that? Or at all?)

Celine puts each item back in the box with painstaking care, reorganizing the photos by age, sorting the drawings neatly, she makes sure to put the lid on securely before storing the box of memories on the top shelf of her closet for safe keeping.

-

Huntrix’s debut is a resounding success—understatedly so. For the first time in almost twenty years, Celine feels the Honmoon’s thrumming backbeat kick in her chest with the force of thousands of cheering souls.

Thank you, they all seem to say, Thank you for coming back.

-

(Years later, when everything falls apart then stitches itself back together strand by golden strand, Celine will gaze upon the iridescent inevitability of the new Honmoon and think—

Thank you. 

To Zoey and Mira. To their adoring fans. 

Thank you for loving her louder than I ever did.)

-

Celine is at a loss.

Though treading water is no longer her baseline, she still finds herself floundering through this new life she’s been working tirelessly toward—the Honmoon glistens in the corner of her eye, bright and unbreakable—and now has no idea what to do with.

A part of her had assumed she’d die fulfilling her duty as a hunter, or die before she could. But now? Now, she has to reckon with change. And that is infinitely more difficult than dying a hunter’s death.

She tries anyways. Because the rigidity of her ways lead to her being asked to do something unthinkable. Because Rumi believed she would, believed she was willing. 

(Her hands tremble with the phantom weight of a soul bound sword she never lifted but feels the indentation of in her palms regardless.)

Change is a necessity. She never wants to make Rumi feel like that again. Never wants her to believe that, again. 

Change is difficult, but she’s been fighting one battle after another her whole life. She’ll happily fight this one. 

Change is slow going, but it is going. 

They’re back on speaking terms at least. And she’s been invited back to the penthouse a handful of times now. Not as often as she would have liked, but pushing Rumi before she’s ready wasn’t going to help with their reconciliation—she’s done enough of that over the years. In the months following that awful night, Celine has spent a good amount of her time wallowing, playing memories back behind her tired eyes in a desperate quest to find perspective.

Rumi has been helpful in that regard. She shares more with Celine now, and Celine tries to do the same. Together, understanding has begun to take root, and they share the task of tending to it’s sensitive bloom.

Today is one of those days. Last week Rumi had asked her if she wanted to come by the penthouse to catch up, and Celine had agreed without hesitation despite the tremble in her hands. 

When she pulls in to the parking garage under Huntrix Tower and the security guard waves her through, her nerves kick in to overdrive. Muscle memory does the rest of the driving for her as she mentally prepares herself for afternoon tea with Rumi and the girls. Once parked, she sits in the silence of the vast, mostly empty garage and allows herself a minute of solitude. One hand grips the steering wheel harder than necessary while the other drifts across the center console to rest on her peace offering for today.

She lifts the lid off the box and takes out the top picture. As the oldest in the stack, she’d gotten a frame for it first with the intention of gifting it to Rumi. The copy Celine made sits in another frame on her desk back home. 

She finds her calm within the photo and the next few that she pulls from the stack to gaze at. Her hands steady, her breath slows.

She packs everything back up, then tucks the box under her arm and gets out of the car. The security guard at the entrance waves at her from his post then asks, “Would you like me to call ahead and let them know you’re coming up?” 

Celine waves him off. “No need. Rumi is expecting me.”

The elevator ride up feels longer than usual, so she indulges her reignited sentimental side and digs her favorite photo from the box to pass the time to the top floor. The sight of Rumi’s youthful glow and beaming smile as she reaches for Celine on wobbly legs has become especially precious to her these past few months. She’s come back to this box and this memory many a time. 

It’s only when the elevator dings to let her know she’s reached the top floor that she puts it away, but the memory sticks with her and puts a smile on her face as she situates the box more securely in her arms. The elevator doors open and she steps over the threshold into the living room, a greeting on the tip of her tongue when she spots Zoey on the couch and—

The box hits the floor.

Celine makes the most unfortunate eye contact she has ever made with Zoey—who rolls off of Rumi’s head with a strangled yelp when she sees her—then abruptly spins on her heel to get back in the elevator. 

She hears a frantic, alarmed call of her name but doesn’t respond. Hands to temples and her back to them, Celine lets the doors close behind her. The silence is anything but bliss on the way back down.

When she reaches the parking garage again, she ignores the security guard’s questioning look at her sudden reappearance and continues her speed walk to the car. 

She fumbles her keys—

“Celine!”

—and then drops them with a shout. Hand to her racing heart, Celine throws herself against the car when Rumi materializes behind her in a cloud of smoke, looking panicked and apologetic.

She looks around to check if anyone saw Rumi’s little magic trick, sees the coast is clear, then keeps her eyes on anything but Rumi as she picks her keys up and inspects the garage like it’s never been more fascinating.

“I’m sorry!” Rumi says, her words tumbling out of her. “We were just—I didn’t know you were—I’m so sorry.“

“You’re an adult, it’s none of my—” Celine finally looks at her, then promptly looks away again when she notices the state of Rumi’s face. “For the love of—Rumi, wipe your mouth.”

Rumi curses and does as she’s told. 

A miserable whine coats her next words when she says, “We thought it was Mira coming up the elevator.”

Which—great. That’s just great. Not only has she born witness to her daughter’s Rumi’s sex life, she is now privy to its apparent voyeuristic tendencies.

Celine rubs at her eyes like that’ll make this revelation disappear. It doesn’t. She sighs. “We had a scheduled appointment. Or did you forget?”

“I didn’t forget! I just… lost track of time,” Rumi finishes lamely, sheepish shoulders coming up to her ears with a strained grin.

Losing track of time is not in Rumi’s repertoire. Never has been. A part of Celine wants to be irritated, but she pushes down the habitual scold in favor of recognizing another aspect of this new life they're all adjusting to. One where time can afford to drift by like a lazy river instead of feeling like a race against rushing rapids.

In an effort to embrace that instead of reprimand, she takes in Rumi’s vaguely disheveled appearance and spends time picking out the details—some hard on Celine’s stomach, like the bright, red marks blooming along Rumi’s neck and jaw; and some baffling, like the fact that she towers over Celine in height now, and her t-shirt stretches taut over the muscle definition in her patterned shoulders and arms in a way that she could’ve sworn wasn’t the case a few months ago.

“You’ve… grown,” she says dumbly.

Granted, they haven’t seen much of each other since the Honmoon was sealed, but the last time hadn’t been that long ago. Surely she couldn’t have shot up two inches and bulked up this much in such a short time.

Rumi shrugs and looks away, holding an arm self-consciously. “Zoey thinks I went through some demon-fueled second puberty.”

“Does she?” Celine drawls, unsurprised. No doubt Zoey noticed that first. That girl never did have a wandering eye like Mira, but rather a full frontal gawk.

Rumi nods. She shuffles meekly in place. “Something about how… not hiding anymore is bringing out all the best parts of me.”

Celine clears her throat and looks away. “I don’t need to know about—”

“That’s not what I meant!” Rumi shoves her face into her hands, cheeks ruby red. She groans. “This is worse than that time you gave us the sex talk.”

Considering what she just witnessed? Yes. Immensely worse. 

They stand in the echoing silence of the garage for a few awkward moments, nothing but the city sounds around them to disturb the peace.

“Please come back up for tea?” Rumi eventually asks, gently pleading. “Please?”

They spend the elevator ride back up side by side, avoiding eye contact and further conversation, the embarrassment still a strong linger between them that makes the light, instrumental version of How It’s Done coming out of the tinny elevator speakers hang thick in the silence.

When they get back to the top—and the living room comes into full view and her eyes remain unscathed from anything else unsightly—her dropped box of memorabilia has moved. It sits on the coffee table, open and sifted through, the two culprits sat on the couch and cooing at its contents.

Seemingly no longer affected by Celine witnessing her in such a compromising state, Zoey, thankfully clothed now, perks up at the sight of them and exclaims, “Rumi! Come look at baby you!”

Rumi’s head cocks. “Huh?” She starts to move toward Zoey and Mira on the couch, then quickly redirects toward the hall and calls over her shoulder, “Um, let me… wash up first. Be right back.”

She’s quick to clean up, thankfully sparing Celine from too long a tense interaction with the girls who have made it very clear over the past few months just how much her presence is merely tolerated as a favor to Rumi. Quick, pattering footsteps enter the living room again a minute later, and Rumi urges everyone to the kitchen so they can prepare tea and snacks together.

“What’s this about baby me?” Rumi asks, a quartet of cups steaming in front of her. Celine grabs one for herself to occupy her hands while Zoey and Mira shove various photos in Rumi’s face.

Rumi blinks at the sight of them, or the sight of herself more likely, small and happy and loved, embraced by the simple act of preserving moments in time. The wonder on her face pokes and prods at Celine’s heart.

She chokes down some tea, scalds her tongue on it, then beats her hesitation back to reach into the box of keepsakes for the framed picture she still intends to gift. Rumi takes it from her hands with a reverence that is wholly deserved in Celine’s opinion.

She stares at it for a long time while the other girls fawn over her old drawings and the other pictures. Still keeping Rumi in the corner of her eye, Celine works up the nerve to point out her favorite photo to the two of them and feels a weird inkling of pride at the way they look at her afterwards. There’s no contempt to be found in their eyes, just quiet wonder.

Finally, Rumi speaks up. Her fingers are tight around the corners of the framed photo as she sweeps her gaze over every keepsake Celine cherishes.

“You…” Her voice falters, soft and unsure. “You’ve had all of this stuff all this time?”

Something goes tight in Celine’s chest at the confusion coating Rumi’s words.

“Of course,” she says, resolute and sincere, needing Rumi to understand the full extent of what she means to her. She should have told her more, back then. 

She should tell her now. “Every piece of you is precious to me, Rumi.”

Their collective bewilderment at her words stings despite how warranted it is. Still, she’s just expressed more sentiment than she’s accustomed to in a decade and unfortunately old habits die hard, so, Celine says nothing more after that. 

They sit with the silence she’s created. There’s a host of memories scattered across the kitchen counter that she studies intensely to avoid their stares despite already having those memories committed to the long term.

Mira breaks the ice for them. Albeit with a segue that Celine has trouble stomaching. 

“What about the piece you walked in on a minute ago?” She asks with a smirk.

Celine blinks, then lets out a noise of displeasure and admits, “That one I could have done without.”

Delighting in everyone’s discomfort, Mira throws her head back and cackles at the embarrassed looks on Rumi and Zoey’s faces.

“Mira!” Zoey cries with a bright blush. “You wouldn’t be laughing if it was you she walked in on.”

That just makes her laugh harder. “That’s why it’s so funny. It happened to you instead of me.”

At Zoey’s huff, Mira adds in consolation, “At least she didn’t get you with the hose this time.”

That makes Celine chuckle. She brings her cup of tea to her lips and says, “The day is young.”

Rumi barks out a surprised laugh, and the chain reaction unfolds. The air around them brightens as they shift into a more lighthearted phase of the afternoon.

“We need to preserve these forever,” Zoey says a while later after they've sorted through every keepsake. She jolts from her seat with a gasp and takes off to her room. “I need a scrapbook, asap. Mira! Go get the laminator!”

Mira shoots to her feet. “On it.”

They disappear down the hall, and Rumi chuckles as she watches them go fondly. The rest of the afternoon is spent compiling various keepsakes into protective covers and sorting them into a book of memories. Celine offers up more details about each picture that Zoey writes into the book carefully, labelling them with dates and additional commentary of her own on just how cute baby Rumi is. Celine concurs.

Once they’ve added the majority contents of the box, Zoey closes the fresh scrapbook with a pat and then holds it out to Celine.

“Here you go,” she says. Easy and generous just like that and—really, Celine should have known.

Still, she tries to wave her off. “No, no, I brought these here to share. I have copies of everything at home.”

Zoey shrugs. “Well… they’re your memories. You should be the one to hold onto them.”

She wants to fight the generosity, but not as much as she doesn’t.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. Then, clearing her throat before her gratitude leaks with too much emotion, Celine says, “Next time, we’ll do tea at the estate. I’ll show you all her old baby clothes.” She has those stored somewhere up in the attic. 

Zoey and Mira light up at that, nodding eagerly. Rumi smiles at her, eyes shimmering with something Celine is still learning to embrace. Something she’s used to only seeing in old photographs. 

“Next time,” Rumi says softly. It sets in stone. Solid and reminiscence of first steps and arms reaching high, reaching for her. 

(It occurs to her, twenty five years too late, that all that’s ever been asked of her is to reach back.)

The elevator ride back down between them is quiet again, but without tension. The two of them bask; Celine, with a gift under her arm that she’ll cherish forever, something to store on her coffee table and flip through as she pleases instead of rummaging through a closet of memories when nostalgia overwhelms; and Rumi, arms crossed behind her back as she hums along with the elevator music and smiles a secret little smile to herself.

Celine peeks at her from the corner of her eye.

There are still words unspoken between them, and maybe there always will be. Sentiments long passed their statute of limitations. Promises she never made but should’ve kept anyways.

(“Look at me! Why can’t you look at me?”)

Celine looks at her, really takes her in, patterned cheeks and all, and doesn’t look away when Rumi turns her wary gaze on her.

Rumi’s eyes shift away and back. “What?”

The question comes out of Celine without much thought. “Are you happy?”

Rumi blinks at her, face slack. And—has she never asked Rumi that question before?

To make up for that possibility, and because she needs to know more than anything, Celine asks again. “Do they make you happy Rumi? Truly.”

Rumi is under no obligation to tell her the truth, and yet Celine can feel the honesty seeping through her words without a hint of uncertainty.

“Yes,” she breathes out, small and honest and true. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

That hits Celine exactly where it’s supposed to. Years of unspoken affections pulse in her chest and bring a smile to her lips that she’ll never let go unseen again.

“Good,” she says.

What more could a mother want?

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