Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one wants to be the first to say it is over.

The tour.

The screaming.

The blinking lights and makeup call times and bruised knees and thirty-second quick changes. 

The world is a storm of noise and color.

The stage lights blaze down like a thousand suns, washing over them in waves of white and electric blue. Their sequined costumes glitter, scattering sparks with every move, catching the eyes of thousands of fans packed shoulder to shoulder in the arena below. The air is thick with heat and sweat, charged with electricity that buzzes under their skin. 

The crowd is a living thing, a wild tide of hands raised high, phones capturing every second, voices exploding in screams and cheers so loud, they felt like thunder cracking through their chests. 

“Rumi! Mira! Zoey!” 

Their names hit them again and again, a mantra shouted by tens of thousands, shaking the very air around them. 

The beat pounds through the floor, reverberating up their legs and into their bones. Their hearts hammer in sync with the rhythm, lungs burning from the exhaustion of nonstop dancing and singing, the strain of holding energy in their bodies for the sake of the show. 

Rumi feels the sting of tears in her eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming flood of it all. The love and the pressure, the joy and the exhaustion twisting inside her like a storm. 

Mira’s hand brushes Rumi’s and Zoey’s as they stand together in perfect, practiced harmony. 

Zoey’s laugh cuts through the noise, light and wild, the briefest relief. 

They stand in their final pose. The lights flickering, confetti raining over them, and the crowd’s roar still at a peak. It’s deafening. 

It’s glorious. 

They bow. 

They wave. 

And they disappear off stage like they always did. 

The roar of the crowd still thunders in their ears as they step behind the heavy black curtain, the last glitter flakes from the confetti drifting down around them like slow falling stars, but the moment they step through the wings, the world changes.

The air backstage is just as thick as the air on stage, but this one is full of the faint scent of hairspray and expensive perfume, the sharp tang of adrenaline from people who work behind the scenes, all equally relieved and sad that it’s over. Around them is the evidence of backstage chaos: crates of equipment stacked high, half-coiled cords spilling across the floor, a runner barking into a headset as another crew member sprints past with a smoke machine still puffing. 

Their costumes now cling uncomfortably to tired skin, sticky with the heat of dozens of stage lights beating down for hours.

Mira blinks as her eyes adjust to the new lighting, just as harsh yet somehow softer. Her breath is shallow, her heart still racing from her final high note. 

Zoey leans heavily against the wall, muscles trembling, her eyes half lidded but sparkling. Always sparkling even though her ears are still ringing from the bass, and her lungs still fight to draw in air after the final chorus. 

Rumi is the last to cross the threshold, swaying slightly as her boots hit the solid and slightly slippery floor, her fingers trembling as she peels away the glitter-dusted tape from the edge of one wrist. Her throat is dry, her mouth tastes like metal, sweat clings to the nape of her neck and trickles down her spine, soaking the back of her costume. She doesn’t want to think about the dozens of fans screaming her name just moments ago, or the way her voice had cracked slightly on the last chorus. All she wants is to sit down and let the world dissolve around her. 

Every part of them buzzes with leftover adrenaline, but their bodies are past their limits. Their fingers are beginning to cramp, Zoey’s thighs burn, Mira can feel a kink forming in her back, and Rumi knows her head is going to have a heartbeat of its own tomorrow. If they had the energy, they'd all agree on where to go next: the couch.

Mira is the first to make a move. She walks past her two friends, jaw clenched, shoulders squared out of habit, and her posture still flawless even as her steps grow heavier with each stride. The slope of her spine betrays her exhaustion - only a little - and her breathing comes in tight, sharp pulls. Glitter still clings to her collarbone like stubborn dust, and one of her ponytails has come loose on one side. 

Zoey was next, pushing herself away from the wall with a heavy sigh. Both of her buns were coming undone, and the damp hair stuck to her cheek. She pushed the two strands back with mild annoyance. Years ago, she began putting her hair in buns to avoid this exact problem. Despite her exhaustion and annoyance with her hair, Zoey still smiles, maybe out of instinct, maybe out of joy. She catches Rumi’s hand for a moment, just long enough to squeeze it, then drops it again as she follows Mira around the corner.

Rumi takes another moment for herself, swallowing multiple times as her throat is still dry. Her eyes focus on the tape she’s still trying to pick off. It clings stubbornly to her wrist and Rumi think she may have to ask Zoey to cute it off, so Rumi abandons the task and follows her bandmates around the corner. 

There, standing with his arms crossed over a clipboard like it was a personal shield, and a bright smile on his face, was a familiar face. 

Bobby.

He has a pair of reading glasses resting on top of his head like he’d forgotten they were even there. 

Bobby wears a black blazer with gold markings, white pants, and a white shirt. An outfit intended to match the 3 tired women who stand before him. He shares much of the same expression as them, though he finds it easy to smile at them, as the moment he sees them, his whole face softens, and his shoulders drop. “Well?” He says, eyebrows lifting as they all approach him.

There’s a broken chorus of mumbled responses as tired feet shuffle around until the idols stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder. Zoey attempts a “hi, Bobby,” but her voice cracks on the name, and she gives up on the rest. 

“. . .” He gives them a once-over. Three sweat-drenched, dazed girls, standing under the flickering hallway light like survivors of some glittery war zone. His mouth twitches into a wry smile. “You look like you just got hit by a truck made of glitter.” 

Zoey peels off her mic pack and lets it thunk against her thigh. She coughs and clears her throat before attempting more words. This time there’s no crack. “That was the encore.”

Rumi snorts. She doesn’t have the energy to make it sound cool. Her voice comes out low and cracked, “A truck might’ve been kinder.” 

Bobby walks forward and places a firm hand on Mira’s shoulder, then Zoey’s, then Rumi’s - her markings flashing green where his hand is. It’s not enough to jostle them, just enough pressure to ground them. “You three were incredible,” he says, and his tone shifts to something gentler, lower. The praise carries the weight of weeks on weeks' worth of sleepless nights and endless travel. “Seriously. That was the best I’ve seen on the whole tour. A real hit to go out on. You held that final note like your life depended on it.” 

Mira smiles, small and tired. “Kind of felt like it did.” 

Bobby gives a soft chuckle. “Alright. No post-show dinner, no interviews, or fan interactions. Go. Hydrate. Collapse somewhere safe. If any of you pass out before you drink two bottles of water, I’m coming in there with an IV and a folding chair."

They nod in unison, exchanging weary but grateful glances and a murmuring chorus of hoarse ‘thank you’s’. Mira offers a tiny bow, still defaulting to formality. Zoey gives a tired thumbs up and Rumi manages a tilt of her head, her eyes already scanning down the hallway toward the green room door like it might sprout wings and carry her. 

Bobby steps back to let them pass, still watching them like a worried older brother who is pretending not to be. 

And as they walk away - slowly, barely lifting their feet - the screams from the arena chase them down like a ghost, the crowd still screaming their names, all wishing for one more encore, one more wave. Their names boom like thunder: one last echo from the outside world. Rumi doesn’t turn around. 

None of them do.

Their stage faces are still mostly on. Their posture is straight enough, hands relaxing at their sides instead of shaking, expressions somewhere between composed and exhausted, but every step toward the green room peels a little more off. 

The door to the green room swings open with a dull creak and shuts behind them with a soft thud, finally sealing out the last of the crowd’s roar.

Silence. 

Or near enough. 

The hum of an ancient AC unit wheezes from the corner, and the overhead lights buzz faintly like old fluorescent bees. But compared to the stadium, it is as if the world has pressed the mute button. There are no lights in their eyes or cameras in their faces. Just the dim, cool space that smells faintly of makeup remover, eucalyptus balm, and damp cloth. 

They don’t speak as they enter. Their bodies answer before their mouths can try. Zoey lets gravity carry her straight into the oversized couch in the center of the room, landing face down with a grunt, arms and legs sprawled like she was boneless. 

“I live here now,” she announces into a pillow that has definitely seen better days. “This is me. This is where I die.” 

Mira is only a second behind, letting out a low breath as she folds herself down beside Zoey. She doesn't fall, Mira never really falls or faceplants, but she lowers herself like someone admitting defeat. Her knees crack audibly when she sits. “Please don’t die,” she murmurs. “We still have that questionnaire interview in two weeks.” 

“Ugh,” Zoey groans dramatically. “Who signed us up for that?” Two pairs of eyes immediately lock onto her, and Zoey chuckles nervously. “Right . . . I did. I’m haunting that venue.” 

Rumi doesn’t say anything. She sinks into the opposite end of the couch like her bones were dissolving, one hand bracing against the armrest, the other tugging at the hem of her jacket. Her lashes are still dusted with glitter, but she doesn’t try to wipe them clean.

None of them tries to clear themselves of the thin layer of glitter.

There’s a low table in front of the couch that is cluttered with half-drunk water bottles, towels crumpled in loose piles, and someone’s backup earring glitters under a paper cup. Mira reaches for a towel without looking, taking the one closest to her, and pauses halfway through wiping her face. 

She stills. 

There’s a subtle shift in her brow, just the faintest flicker of awareness. Then she turns slightly, looks at the towel again, and realizes why it feels familiar. Rumi’s scent is faint but unmistakable - jasmine with a hint of mint, but layered underneath it is something sharper. Mira doesn’t flinch, but she stops moving. 

Quietly, carefully, she lowers the towel and extends it to Rumi. Rumi glances over, catching the motion in the corner of her eye. For a moment, she hesitates, then reaches out and takes the towel. “. . . thanks.” Her voice is low, hoarse, and not entirely steady. She doesn’t meet Mira’s eyes. 

Mira doesn’t answer. She just looks down and starts peeling the black performance tape from her fingers, slow and methodical, like she could feel every centimeter of adhesive tearing away skin. 

The room is quiet in a way only deep exhaustion can make it. No one has the energy to fill the silence. It doesn’t feel awkward - just shared. None of them stir for a while, each of their bodies reluctant to do more than peel the last of the stage tape from their skin and shrug off the heavy jackets clinging to their shoulders. 

Zoey makes a noise, something small that is ignored by her friends until she makes it again. She groans, flipping over dramatically and dragging her arm up over her eyes. “Someone get me water or I’ll shrivel like a cursed fruit.” 

“You are a cursed fruit,” Rumi murmurs from under her towel.

Mira sighs and leans forward, grabbing a bottle from the table and handing it over to Zoey, who takes it without opening her eyes. 

“Thanks, MiMi,” she says, cracking the seal with a satisfying hiss. “You’re my favorite Alpha.” 

Mira gives her a look that doesn’t quite pass for annoyed. “You only say that when you’re dying.” 

“Exactly,” Zoey says between gulps. “I get sentimental on the brink of death.”

Rumi’s mouth twitches. It’s not a full smile, she’s far too tired for that, but something close, something softer. 

Next to her, Mira’s feet reach out to the low table, but it’s not close enough for her to prop her feet up on it. Rumi watches this motion, then raises an eyebrow, “You want me to bring it closer?”

Mira nods simply. “My knees hurt.” 

Rumi pauses, then, with very slow and stiff movements, reaches over and pulls the table closer to them, stopping with a dry, unimpressed grunt. “There. I’m going to regret being nice to you,” she mutters.

“You always say that,” Mira responds, and props her feet up with a relieved sigh.

Zoey lifts her head and cracks an eye open, glancing at them sideways. “Is this some weird flirting?” 

“You always ask that,” Rumi shoots back, not mad in the slightest. 

“Just want to know what I’m rooting for,” Zoey shrugs innocently and turns her head away, pushing her face into the nearest pillow. 

None of them moved much after that. The air slowly cooled around them, and sweat dried on their skin. Every breath stretched longer, and their stage selves melted away, leaving just them no less real, but a little less composed. 

They would have dozed off, if not for the sound of shoes on the tile.

Bobby knocks once, pauses, then knocks twice. He doesn’t wait to open the door, and he appears in the doorway, walking in with the deliberate pace of someone who’d been waiting exactly long enough to let them breathe, but not quite long enough for them to fall asleep. He still holds his clipboard but now in one hand, the corner of the clipboard is bent like he’d been chewing it during the last encore - a detail the three were too tired to notice before. In his other hand is a styrofoam cup with what might’ve been coffee, motor oil, or possibly his will to live. 

He takes one look at them, a limp pile of idols on the couch, surrounded by the battlefield remains of water bottles, damp towels, and glitter, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way his lips twitch. “You need a vacation before you die on stage,” he says flatly like it was both a joke and a medical diagnosis.

Zoey lets out a muffled snort from under a pillow. Mira raises one eyebrow but doesn’t move. Rumi blinks up at him from the crook of her arm, eyes glassy with fatigue, “Are you offering or threatening?”

“Both,” he answers. “Jet leaves tomorrow. You’re going.” He takes a moment, watching their reactions, but they don’t give him any. “Place of your choosing. One week. No fans, no press, no social media. Just air conditioning. Maybe some ocean. Maybe some forests or just a small town, if you choose. Silence. I already yelled at the label and got them to agree to it. They’re calling it-” he puts up his hands “-restorative wellness time.” His fingers wiggle and the girls presume they’re supposed to be imagining the phrase with glitter around the words. “You’re welcome.”

Mira asks slowly, suspiciously, “Is this a trick?” 

“It’s a legally binding break. If I see any of you answering a single email, I will show up and throw your phones away.” 

There is a pause after Bobby’s announcement. A beat of silence that hangs heavier than it should. None of them moves. Not right away.

Because what he is offering isn’t just time off.

It is permission.

Permission to stop performing, to let the stage lights fade from behind their eyes. Permission to stop sparkling when all they want is sleep. For one week, they can be human - not idols or perfection - just sore, tired girls with voices hoarse from trying too hard. 

And that hits harder than any spotlight ever has.

Then, softly, Zoey shifts. She doesn’t sit up but so much as unspool herself from the couch like a crumpled ribbon. Her limbs wobble, but her face lights with sudden, stubborn purpose. Determination. “Couch,” she whispers with the gravity of a revelation.

Mira groans from beside Zoey, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t start.” 

Zoey grins, slapping the cushion in the small space between her and Mira like she is summoning spirits. “Couch,” she repeats, louder now. 

Rumi snorts, the sound cracked and airy, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. Her eyes are still covered by her arm and the towel is still thrown over her face and arm, but her voice floats out between breaths, “Couch.” 

Zoey looks at Mira, waiting. Mira can feel her eyes on her, burning her skin. She stares at the ceiling like it might rescue her. “Please no.”

“Come on, MiMi,” Zoey says, but it’s too late. They’re already committed. 

“Couch,” Mira whispers.

“Couch,” Zoey echoes.

“Couch,” Rumi murmurs.

“COUCH,” the three of them chant in the weakest war cry the green room has ever heard. Their fists don’t punch the air, so much as hover halfway up, wrists limp, fingers curled like kittens instead of soldiers who just finished a tour and fought off a demon. But it is synchronized, and that counts for something. 

Bobby just stands there, taking a long sip from his cup. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The look on his face is something between amusement and awe. Mostly, he looks like a man watching his stars descend into chaos, but also secretly proud of them for still having this much joy left in their bones. Happy that he could give them something. 

Zoey is the first to break again. She drops her arm dramatically, and it hangs off the edge of the couch, fingers brushing the floor, and she turns her head so she can blink up at the ceiling. “Wait . . . not couch.” Her voice is thoughtful and serious. “ Vacation .” 

Rumi doesn’t lift her head, but the edges of her towel shift when her mouth moves. Her voice comes out thick with sleep and the tiniest thread of amusement. “Vacation on couch.” 

There is a beat, and then Mira - without even opening her eyes - murmurs like it is gospel, “Vacation couch.”

“No girls,” Bobby interrupts, and they all look at him. He smiles like the Cheshire cat, “Vacation with couch.” 

That earns a low, reverent ‘oooh’ from Zoey, who immediately nods like she just heard someone say something truly wise. Then, softly: “Vacation.”

She says it again. “Vacation.” 

The others pick it up, their voice ghost-thin and dragging like they are running out of breath, but they still chant it, like it is sacred. “Vacation. Vacation. Vacation.” It isn’t loud. It isn’t strong. But it is honest. 

Rumi’s voice cracks on the third repeat. Just enough to catch and for her to stop, startled by the sound of her own unraveling. The towel slips a little as her shoulders tense.

Mira’s eyes open, just a sliver, and drift sideways. She doesn’t say anything, but her gaze lands on Rumi’s profile like a steadying hand. 

Zoey notices, too. She finds the strength to shift closer, but she doesn’t say anything.

Rumi doesn’t look at either of them, but her lips twitch. The kind of smile that doesn’t need to be seen to be understood. It’s quiet, tired, and real. And she continues the chant, the other two happily joining back in. 

Bobby makes a note on his clipboard: Yes , this is a perfectly professional environment . He then backs out of the room.

Zoey’s body slumps again with a dramatic sigh, and she rubs her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I’m so tired,” she says to no one in particular.

Mira hums. “We still have to return home.” 

“Should we find a private bathhouse first?” 

Mira doesn’t answer. She is already sliding down deeper into the couch.

Rumi nods slowly, gaze distant now, and the moment stretches soft between them. “Yeah,” she finally whispers. “Let’s find a bathhouse.” 

- - -

The mirror is fogged around the edges, but Rumi can still see herself. 

She stands in the small side room attached to the bathhouse, the glow stones overhead casting a soft amber light over the polished wood floors and stone-tiled walls. Her towel is wrapped loosely around her chest, shoulders bare. She hasn’t gotten into the water yet, but the dampness of the bathhouse has her hair already feeling wet. 

She looks . . . normal. Tired, yes. Cheeks flushed, lips slightly partly, and the faintest red along the ridge of her collarbone where her mic pack had rubbed all night. But still normal, or as normal as a half-demon can be. 

Her gaze drops slowly, warily to her wrists.

The marking pulse faintly beneath her skin, soft and silvery-blue in the low light. The curves shimmer like ink soaked into fine silk. They’re like twisting vines at her pulse points, the delicate pattern curling down along her forearms before disappearing beneath the towel. They look like jewelry, so Zoey says.

Rumi exhales.

Her fingers dip into a small side pocket in her bag and pull out a pale, translucent pill. One of the last suppressant capsules from the tiny blue case. Celine likely sent more already, and likely personally delivered them to Rumi’s desk at the penthouse. Rumi stares at this capsule for a moment, then slips it between her lips and swallows dry.

Her throat bobs once. 

She doesn’t adjust the towel to cover her marks as much as possible. She steps away from the mirror and pads barefoot into the bathhouse.

The air hits Rumi first. It’s warm and thick with steam, scented faintly of pine and crushed lavender. Light filters through the stone lattice windows, and the shadows of leaves dance across the tile. The pool in the center shimmers with heat, and there - already half submerged in the mineral blue water - sits Mira and Zoey.

Zoey is leaning back against the smooth edge of the pool, her hair pulled up in a loose bun, arms draped lazily along the rim like a cat stretched in sunlight. Mira sits close beside her, back straight, eyes half-lidded, fingers absently trailing the surface of the water in quiet circles. 

Rumi pauses. 

Neither of them has noticed her yet. Not really. Not until Rumi steps into the haze of steam and the light catches the curve of her spine and the slight silver shimmer that trails along it. 

Zoey and Mira turn, looking fully at Rumi.

Mira blinks first, her expression unreadable. It’s not startled, just caught off guard. She knew this was coming, that she would finally get to share a bathhouse with Rumi, but the nerves still sat in her stomach.

Zoey’s lips part and her brows lift as she takes her in fully, gaze tracing the faint lines that lit up along Rumi’s front and wrists like candlelight. 

Neither of them says anything.

But they look.

Rumi keeps her eyes on the water. She drops her towel and says nothing, just walks forward with deliberate ease, every step casual, unbothered. Her shoulders are relaxed, but her face is blank as she pretends not to notice the way her bandmates’ eyes follow her. It helps that they don’t look scared or disgusted or even worried . . . just taking her in. Fully. 

She descends the steps into the bath slowly, letting the warmth rise over her knees, her hips, and her ribs until it cradles her whole body. Only then does she settle between them, not quite touching, but close enough that she can feel the shift in the water when either of them moves.

Silence stretches. The only sound is the soft drip of water from the stone edge, the quiet hum of the steam stones in the corner. Somewhere nearby, a few bubbles rise and pop gently. The air is rich with heat.

And then, Zoey ducks. 

She plunges under the surface without warning, her hair vanishing in a rush of ripples. A second later, she pops back up with a sputter and a grin, blinking water from her lashes, laughter bubbling out of her as if she couldn’t help it. “It’s so hot. It’s boiling my brain, but I can feel my whole body relaxing.” 

"You always say that," Mira mumbles, "and then you complain about a sore neck the next day."

"True, but I didn't have a week of vacation lined up. This time, it's different. I refuse to be sore on vacation."

The tension cracks just a little. Rumi feels the corner of her mouth twitch, and Mira gives the faintest exhale.

Without speaking, Mira reaches behind her and adjusts the dial on the nearby temperature control, and the bath shifts ever so slightly warmer, gentler. A little more comfortable.

Zoey tilts her head toward Mira. “You read my mind.” 

Mira just shrugs.

Rumi says nothing, but her shoulders soften. She glances back at her markings once again. The light moves in pulses, slow and steady. They are still glowing, now a faint blue, but for half a second - when Zoey had laughed and Mira had moved closer - the lines around her left wrist had pulsed the tiniest flicker of green beneath the surface. It was just a moment, and no one else seemed to notice. 

Even though Rumi’s focus is on the markings, neither Mira nor Zoey says anything about them. They don’t feel the need to, as both are just happy to have Rumi with them.

“So,” Zoey says, and her voice echoes lightly in the tiled space as she stretches her arms out across the pool’s edge. “Do we want private or semi-public for this vacation of ours?” 

Rumi blinks and tips her head back slightly. The water laps lazily at her collarbones, and she can feel her hair floating along the water’s surface. “Define ‘semi-public’.”

Zoey shrugs. “Like, y’know, less than stalkers, more than monks.” 

Mira hums softly. “A private villa is safer. Fewer people. Fewer cameras.”

“But a longer flight,” Zoey counters.

No one speaks for a second, then Rumi murmurs, “Last time we went private . . .” Her voice trails off, but they all remember it. 

Zoey had wandered too far from the cabin and gotten lost in the trees chasing some deer she thought was a dog. She’d sent a panicked voice memo from the middle of the forest, babbling about a boar with glowing eyes. Mira had found her standing on a rock like a sacrificial offering, shoes muddy, hair full of pine needles.

Throughout it all, Rumi had vanished for nearly twelve hours.

They hadn’t talked about it then and didn’t ask questions when she reappeared at dawn, soaked with water and trembling, her clothes torn, and there were claw marks in the grass along the deck.

Rumi glances down at the water, watching the faint glow of her markings once again. There’s still blue, but with the slightest pulse of violet where her wrist broke the surface.

Zoey finally breaks the silence with a grimace. “Ok. So, public. Ish. Minimal forest. Maximal snack access.” 

Mira raises an eyebrow. “You just want to hit the grocery store.” 

“Exactly!” Zoey brightens instantly. “Vacation snack run! Me in a hoodie. You can wear sunglasses. Rumi is pushing the cart. It’ll be-”

Mira interrupts her. “We’re only gone for seven days.” 

Zoey gasps in mock offense. “And that is the perfect amount of time for three flavors of chips, five types of cookies, frozen mango, five packs of ramyeon-”

“ Seven days,” Mira repeats.

“So?” Zoey shoots back, turning dramatically and splashing Rumi in the process.

Rumi lets out a startled laugh and wipes her cheek. “You have a problem, Zo.” 

“And it’s a delicious problem.” 

Mira shakes her head, but there’s evidence of a smile on her face. That soft sound from Rumi, that laugh, lingers in the air like incense. Mira glances at her, just briefly, and when Rumi turns to look over her shoulder, Mira catches it: a subtle flicker of green tracing after the blue on Rumi’s spine, glowing faintly beneath the water’s surface. Mira doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she asks, “Cabin on an island or just some cabin?” 

Zoey shrugs. “An island is less likely to have a marketplace. But imagine this,” she sits up straighter, and her face glows in the way it always does when Zoey feels like she’s about to say the brightest thing ever. “A cabin by the beach. We wake up, sip coffee on the porch - for Rumi, some tea - and then walk straight into the ocean.” 

Mira looks thoughtful. “That sounds tolerable.” 

Zoey gasps, “That’s Mira for ‘blissful paradise’.” 

Rumi replies, suddenly serious. “I hate sand in bedsheets,” but she doesn’t object to the idea of a cabin by the beach.

Zoey barks a laugh but some part of her mentally files that information away. Mira glances at Rumi. “Cabin by the beach it is," Zoey declares. "We’re so rustic and aesthetic. I’ll make sure to text Bobby so he can get us all booked and ready to go. If I wasn't excited for some us time, I'd invite him to come along."

"Well invite him next time," Mira says without missing a beat. "Or maybe take him shopping when we get back."

"I'll get him a trinket at the marketplace."

Mira makes a noise. "You're just trying to ensure you get to go to the marketplace at least once."

Zoey just hums, shrugging non-committedly.

Rumi is quieter now and she says simply, “Wherever we go . . . I’m just glad we’re going together.” 

The words land with more weight than it should have. Not heavy. Just real .

There is a beat of stillness. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s dense with something unsaid. 

Zoey’s expression softens as her smile falters just a little, the edges of it turning shy. She ducks her head, suddenly fixated on the ripples in the water.

Mira exhales and looks away toward nothing in particular. 

Rumi remains seated between them, unaware of the way her markings down her back glow with a new undercurrent. Still mostly blue, but glinting with gold beneath the surface.

Just for a moment.

Steam curls between them, soft and spiraling. 

They don’t speak for a while as no one thinks they need to, until Zoey cuts back in, “Ok, but seriously, I’m buying three kinds of gummies.” 

Rumi laughs again, and Mira lets her eyes close. 

Chapter Text

Monday

Day One

The morning light begins to spill through the floor-to-ceiling windows in soft gold stripes, painting everything it could reach in the penthouse living room in a warm, lazy glow. The skyline outside is still pink from the beginning of the sunrise, and somewhere on the lowest floor of the tower, the lobby lights have only just blinked on. But higher up in the tower, in the top-floor penthouse of the building that bears the girls’ group name, the world is already stirring. 

“Ok,” Zoey announces, voice muffled as she wrestles a hoodie over her head. “We need to swim. Like a lot . I plan on turning into soup. Poolside soup.” She pauses. “I’m just gonna marinate for seven days straight.” 

Her navy duffle bag lies wide open on the plush rug, clothes and cords, as well as a suspicious-looking glitter eye mask, spill out in every direction. Zoey is kneeling by the duffle, one hand on the floor and the other trying to stuff the overflowing items into the bag.

“You know, your clothes would fit better if you took the time to fold them.” Mira, seated on the arm of one of the couches with a cup of black coffee balanced in one hand, doesn’t look up. “Also, poolside soup?” She echoes Zoey’s earlier words, amusement creeping into her voice. 

Zoey nods. “Yeah! It's like- well, it’s when you just melt into the water, float around, maybe have some snacks. Who’s joining?”

"Floating and snacks, huh?" Mira sets her coffee aside and stretches her arms overhead before shifting her weight. “I’ll join you,” she then says mildly, “but only if we run laps afterward. Four.” 

Zoey groans, flopping back dramatically onto the carpet with her arms spread out like a cartoon crime scene. “Why are you like this?” 

“Discipline,” Mira replies, taking a sip without missing a beat. “Also, muscle maintenance.” 

“But, Mi-RAH, we’re on vacation!” Zoey whines. “It’s illegal to run laps. That’s a buzzkill to vacations.” 

“Muscles don’t care.”

From the couch, Rumi makes a soft sound - maybe a breath of laughter, maybe just a hum - but doesn’t look up from her bag. She isn’t really hearing the conversation unfolding near her, especially as it changes into one about favorite soups. She is curled at one end of the velvet couch in an oversized hoodie, one leg tucked beneath her, fingers delicately sifting through the contents of a purple duffle bag that has her name on it. She moves with care, rifling through the familiar contents:

Toothbrush.

Favorite sleep shirt.

Random manga that Zoey swears is good and worth a read, but Rumi never gets around to reading, yet drags it around.

A folded hoodie.

Rumi takes the time to look at each of these items, but she moves in automatic motions like she isn’t really seeing them, like her mind is elsewhere. It’s only when her fingers touch cool metal and close around the slim metal vial at the bottom that she pauses. 

Her hand is trembling slightly, and her marks glimmer silver-white for a moment before dulling down. She stills them by pressing her thumb firmly against the lid, closing her eyes just for a second. Then she tucks it away in the bag’s inner lining and zips the bag shut with practiced care. 

Across the room, Zoey sits back up and finds a truly hideous plush-neck pillow shaped like a fish. Its big goggle eyes stare upward in silence, and she smiles. Only she can love something that ugly. “Behold,” she declares, holding it above her head like a trophy. “The ugliest creature known to mankind.”

Mira raises an eyebrow. “It looks like it wants to die.” 

“It probably does,” Zoey shrugs. “But! It’s perfect. Roonie!” She lobs the pillow gently toward the couch.

Rumi catches it midair, blinking at the floppy thing in her hands. It takes her a minute to process what exactly it is she is holding. One of Zoey's fans had given her the neck pillow after she made a side comment about loving ugly things. They now have a closet full of purposely ugly fan gifts and, truthfully, the fish is the least worst of them all.

“For your neck,” Zoey grins. “On the jet.”

“Not to sleep?”

“It won’t help you sleep. It’s shaped way too weirdly. But at least you’ll look amazing while you attempt to sleep.” 

Rumi looks at the pillow, then at Zoey, and gives the smallest smile, but with the way Zoey’s face lights up, one may assume Rumi personally hung the stars. “. . . thanks,” she says. 

“It also doubles as a weapon,” Mira adds, finally grinning. “Just in case Bobby calls us during our vacation and tries to make us rehearse.”

That got them, a ripple of laughter bursting too easily, too freely from all three of them. Zoey snorts, Mira lets out something close to a chuckle, and Rumi - unexpectedly, involuntarily - snorts. 

She blinks, startled by the sound coming out of her own mouth. Then she laughs again, quieter this time, her fingers still curled around the plush, ugly fish.

“Bobby wouldn’t dare,” Zoey says. 

“He might,” Mira responds. 

“Are you not the one wanting Zoey to run laps?” Rumi asks before she can even realize she is joining in. Neither of them answers her, but they both make an amused noise. 

Zoey flops back again, this time against her navy suitcase that is in line with Mira’s pink suitcase, which has the matching pink duffle bag on top, and Rumi’s purple suitcase.

But of course, the penthouse doesn't go quiet as Zoey gets a burst of energy and she's suddenly scrambling towards Rumi, and sits beside her, eyes already focused on Rumi's. Zoey sports a bright-eyed smile. “Ok, but seriously,” she says, hair still slightly wild from flopping around earlier, and really, it's all Rumi can focus on. It’s one of the rare times she has her hair down. “Rumi, what do you wanna do on this trip? Like if we could do anything, what’s your perfect vacation?” 

The question isn’t flippant. Not really. It has a gentleness to it, even beneath Zoey’s ever-present chaos. An honest kind of curiosity. Like maybe she noticed something in Rumi’s quietness that morning. Like maybe she wants to offer Rumi a space to want something out loud. Say something out loud. 

Rumi blinks. She shifts the plush fish in her lap, adjusting it like it gave her something to hold onto. Her lips part, but before she can say a word-

The elevator penthouse dings open.

Of course.

“Jet’s readyyy,” comes a familiar voice. Bobby’s voice, precise and clipped and unmistakably functioning on two cups of coffee and a growing headache that can only be soothed with a vacation of his own. 

He steps into the living room already in motion, his phone tucked in one hand, his clipboard in the other. It now has tape over where he chewed on it yesterday. His eyes scan a digital itinerary while the Bluetooth headset in his ear chirps faintly. He doesn’t look up until the girls' chorus - in perfect sync, no less:

“Hi, Bobby!” 

That makes him pause for a beat, and the barest flicker of something fond crosses his face. Then he sighs and finally gives them his full attention. More than glad to do so. “You three look ready for vacation. The car is downstairs, waiting to take you to the jet. The jet is on standby, the weather is clear, and the flight crew has been briefed. Try not to give them heart attacks.” He continues, pacing a little, “I found the perfect vacation spot. Took everyone’s requests into account. Well, mostly everyone’s.” He glances at Rumi. “The villa has a track to run on - Mira's request. A marketplace is within driving distance - Zoey’s request.”

Zoey fist bumps the air. “Hell yeah.” 

“But,” Bobby adds, knowing full well Zoey won’t like the next part, “it’s also within jogging distance - Mira’s request. Again.” 

“Oh, boo !”

“And for Rumi-” He stops there, eyes settling on Rumi. It becomes clear he has nothing prepared or more so, wasn’t given anything. The silence stretches until Zoey turns toward Rumi again, her voice low. 

“Rumi . . . you didn’t ask for anything?”

Rumi shrugs. “I didn’t-”

But Bobby cuts in. “For Rumi, I found a villa near the beach. Not a sandy beach, more water than shore. There’s a dock, so you can reach the ocean and-” He hesitates, tilting his head. “What was it? Avoid getting sand in your bedsheets?”

Zoey’s face lights up. “You did request something!”

“I didn’t,” Rumi says softly.

Bobby clears his throat. “As per the request of Mira,” he clarifies.

Everyone turns to Mira, except for Bobby. Mira sits still, expression blank, gaze locked somewhere above their heads, absolutely refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. 

Bobby looks at all of them in turn, his gaze pausing slightly on each. Mira, who stretches out her spine with a catlike twist of her shoulders; Zoey, who has somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on the coffee table; and finally, Rumi.

He lingers on her. 

“Try to relax, yeah?” 

Before Rumi can respond, Zoey shoots up a hand like a student in class. “We will relax so hard we forget who we are.” 

Bobby lets out a noise, something startled, maybe. “I love that, Zoey, I do, but I’m also afraid of that.” They all remember their last vacation. 

“We’ll be good,” Mira says, having removed her hoodie and now folding it with military precision. “I promise. Zoey won’t get lost in the woods, and Rumi won’t go all demon on the deck.” 

“Right,” Bobby agrees, but he doesn’t seem to believe them. “Well, don’t traumatize anyone.” 

Zoey is already halfway across the room, grabbing a notepad from the side table. “Ok. Before we go, emergency house sitter instructions.” She gives the notepad to Bobby.

Bobby looks at it, then looks at Zoey. “What house sitters-”

“Derpy and Sussie,” she says as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

Bobby blinks. “Those are not names. Those are incidents waiting to happen.” 

“They’re responsible,” Zoey insists. “They’ve been practicing adulting.” 

“Are they not thousands of years old? They are adults!”

Zoey puts up a finger, shaking it for a second. “No, they are demons. Their years work differently. Besides, they’re probably more emotionally stable than anyone else in this room.” 

Mira makes a face. “I don’t know, Zoey-”

“I said what I said.”

Rumi smiles, and Mira doesn’t even try to hide her amused exhale. 

Zoey clears her throat and adopts a faux-authoritative tone. “Rule one: Derpy is in charge. Rule two: Sussie is also in charge, but like emotionally. Rule three: Do not feed them cheese. I don’t remember why, but it was bad.”

Bobby stares at her for several seconds, then deadpans, “I’m calling security.” 

“You love them.” 

“No, I tolerate them,” he corrects, “because I love you guys.” 

Rumi watches all of this from her place on the couch, her expression softening, and for a flicker of a second, her demon marks glow faintly blue at her wrists. 

Just for now. 

Zoey doesn’t wait for further protest. She drops to her knees in the center of the living room, knocks twice, and waits, hands flat on the floor. She looks calm and not like a woman about to summon something holy - or unholy, opinions about it vary with each person in the room. “Derpy,” she calls, voice soft but sure. “Come say goodbye.” 

The lights dim, and from the polished floorboards beneath her, a ripple of shadows breaks across the room as a colorful vortex takes place. And then he rose.

A massive beast phases upward from the floor, blue fur rippling over muscle and bone. He was huge, easily twice the size of a normal tiger, though nothing about him was ‘normal’. His eyes glow a faint orange, slit and lacking intelligence, but they catch every movement, and twin plumes of steam curl faintly from his nose as he yawns, showing off massive teeth. 

On top of his head sat a bird. 

Or something like a bird.

Round with six beady eyes and feathers that shimmered, Sussie looks down at the room like she is judging everyone’s life choices. 

Bobby staggers back a full step, clipboard dropping from his hand. He’ll never get used to the two demons. 

“They are our house sitters,” Zoey said brightly, standing up and dusting off her knees like nothing had just emerged from the floor. “Derpy’s in charge. Sussie assists.” 

“You can’t keep those things here!” Bobby barks, not unkindly, just a little panicked. “They’re- that’s a demon tiger!” 

“He is very well trained,” Zoey says. “A gentleman. He ate a noise complaint once, but he didn’t even chew it. Which reminds me, Derpy will put paper in his mouth and then spit it out. Don't be alarmed if there's a pile of spit-covered papers." 

Bobby opens his mouth. Closes it again. 

Derpy blinks slowly and then pads forward, each step making the air shimmer faintly beneath his paws. He leans into Zoey’s waiting arms with a deep rumble in his chest, like a living thundercloud. She wraps her arms around his neck and gives him a firm, affectionate squeeze. 

“You watch the place, ok?” She whispers into his fur. “And don’t let Sussie sass you around.”

Sussie gives a shrill little chirp, clearly unrepentant.

Zoey pulls back just enough to look up at the bird and says, flatly, “Sussie.” 

The bird blinks.

That is it.

That is the whole exchange. 

Behind them, Mira laughs - low and amused - and Rumi’s smile appears without her realizing it, the corners of her mouth curling gently upward.

Mira crosses her arms and tilts her head, watching the scene with faint exasperation. “The warmth in your voice is overwhelming.” The words are teasing, dry, exactly Mira’s flavor of affectionate mocking. But something underneath them lingers, soft and slightly weighted.

Zoey’s cheeks flush before she can hide it, a sudden pink blooming across her skin. “Don’t start with me before 8 a.m.,” she mutters, shoving her duffel over her shoulder as it gives her an excuse to turn away. 

Mira’s smirk deepens, but she says nothing else. 

Rumi catches it all. The blush on Zoey’s face. The glances they share. The way Mira looks at Zoey a moment too long. Rumi looks down at her hands, at the deep navy that glows just barely through the skin of her inner wrists for a moment.

Bobby, still halfway to cardiac arrest, waves them toward the elevator. “I’m going to pretend this is fine. Just don’t burn the villa down.” A pause, and he watches the girls step into the elevator. “Or start the kitchen on fire. Again.” 

“Bye, Bobby!” The girls call in near unison as the elevator doors slide shut with a soft hiss, sealing the girls off.

Derpy huffs once, almost like a farewell, then turns and looks at Bobby. Sussie still sits on the tiger’s head, unamused. 

For a moment, silence.
Bobby stands by himself in the penthouse foyer, clipboard still abandoned on the floor, Zoey’s notepad in hand, and his Bluetooth still chirping faintly with unanswered updates. 

And then, with a muffled thump , something falls over. 

Bobby slowly turns. 

Near the far window, one of the tall ceramic planters lies on its side, soil spilling across the marble-like spilled coffee grounds. Hovering beside it, paw raised delicately, head tilted in deep concentration, is a massive blue demon tiger. 

Derpy blinks.

Once. 

Pause. 

Then blinks the other eye.

They then nudge the flowerpot with their nose. It rolls awkwardly. Derpy lets out a low huff and lifts one paw to try again. The planter wobbles upright halfway before toppling over again with a clatter. 

He freezes. 

Considers the pot.

Then tries again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And ag-

Sussie screeches. She now sits behind Derpy, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, tiny hat perfectly centered, six beady eyes in perfect sync as she watches the proceedings with a grim judgment of an unpaid intern. Her feathers fluff once, the only sign of interest. 

Another thud echoes as Derpy gives the pot one more nudge. It rotates. Then topples in the other direction. 

“Stop,” Bobby finally says. 

Derpy blinks again - one eye, then the other - and gives a low, confused sound somewhere between a sigh and a purr. 

Sussie gives a single, disdainful chirp like she is personally offended by the tiger’s stupidity. 

Bobby closes his eyes for a second. “I’m going on vacation,” he mutters to himself. He grabs the clipboard, slides it under one arm, and carefully tucks Zoey’s notes away, then turns on his heels. “If anything’s on fire when I get back,” he adds as he makes his way toward the front door, “it better not be anything important. Mira is seriously fond of that teddy bear.” They all look at the large teddy bear that sits at the kitchen counter. 

Behind him, Derpy looks back at the plant and tries, valiantly, to stand the planter upright again. It flops onto its side with a crunch.

Sussie chirps once more. Not helpfully. 

Bobby doesn’t turn around. He simply clears his phone of itineraries for a week and steps into the elevator.

- - -

The door to the private jet opens with a hydraulic press hiss , and Zoey is the first up the stairs, practically bouncing despite the early hour. “Snacks first,” she declares, marching into the cabin like it were her personal kingdom. 

Behind her, Mira follows with a slower pace, dragging her suitcase on by the handle and tossing her duffle somewhere on a seat. She glances up at the sleek white hull of the jet and mutters, “Let’s hope this one stays intact.” 

Zoey’s head pops out from behind a cabinet door. “That was one time .” 

“Yeah, but it was an expensive jet. I loved that jet.” A pause then, sadly yet seriously, Mira adds, “I lost my hoodie.” 

Rumi comes up the steps last, hoodie hood over her head despite the heat. Her suitcase is slung over one shoulder, and she says nothing, but the corner of her mouth tugs upward faintly. She remembers that trip, too. The large demons and the poor jet that did not make it. “It made for a cool entrance to the show,” she says, hoping to put a nice ending to the story. 

“Yeah . . . but my hoodie is still gone.” 

Zoey is still rifling through the jet, now going through a snack drawer. “Bingo!” She calls, yanking open a cabinet with a triumphant gesture. “Gummies, pretzels, and those weird almond things Mira likes.”

“They’re protein-packed,” Mira says as she passes, sliding her suitcase into a corner and tossing herself onto the couch. “And technically, I like them because you eat all the sugar snacks before I can have any, even though I usually grab them.” 

“Words, words, and more words. Besides, you know I burn through them fast.” Zoeys holds up a fistful of wrapped candy. “Metabolism is a crazy thing, and mine is a wild beast. You should be proud.” 

“I should be proud that you have a good metabolism?” 

Zoey just shrugs. 

Mira gets more comfortable. “I fought a wild beast last month,” Mira mutters. “It had better self-control.” 

Zoey makes a face and sticks out her tongue. 

Rumi has remained quiet throughout this entire interaction. She’s busy scanning the space and has to admit that Bobby set them up in a nice jet. She lets out a small breath and drops her bag next to Mira’s, choosing the seat across from her. 

The jet begins its soft pre-takeoff hum. 

Zoey drops into the space next to Mira with a thud and a mouth full of candy. “So. Vacation. Day One.” 

Mira reclines with a low sigh and closes her eyes, but doesn’t fall asleep. 

Rumi doesn’t speak, but she watches them both for a beat, the edges of her tension softening as the jet lifts, high above whatever responsibilities and stress they’re leaving behind. 

Just for a little while. 

The sunrise is in full force now. It pours through the sleek windows of the private jet, filtering light across white leather and polished wood. The cabin hums gently, the altitude cradling them in something soft and lulling. Outside, clouds drift past like scenery in a slow dream.

Inside, the girls have already picked through the snack trays. 

Crumbs litter a napkin. A half-empty soda can rolls gently across the table with the rhythm of the engines. 

Mira is stretched along the jet’s curved couch, one arm tucked under her head, the other draped across Zoey’s waist. Zoey is curled half on top of her, her knees bent, socked feet tucked against Mira’s thigh, one earbud in her right ear, the matching one nestling in Mira’s left. They don’t talk. They don’t need to. The song fills the space between them, low and slow. 

Whatever they are listening to is quiet. A soft synth or lo-fi beats, maybe, something with humming. But neither of them says anything. 

Zoey shifts sleepily, cheek pressed to Mira’s shoulder, and her eyes begin to flutter closed. Mira adjusts automatically, turning just enough to press a light kiss to Zoey’s temple, brief but deliberate. Nothing flashy or performative, just a habitual tenderness.

They don’t try to hide it. 

Rumi sees it. 

From her seat across them, she has gone still. She loosely holds a bottle of juice in both hands. The moment passes so quietly that neither Zoey nor Mira notices the way Rumi’s gaze lingers, unreadable yet calm on the surface but distant. Focused. 

She says nothing. 

Doesn’t make a sound. 

But a moment later, Rumi blinks, as if snapping herself out of some quiet thought. She slips her earbuds out, ones she wasn’t listening to anyway, and leans forward to set the bottle down gently on the table. 

Then, without a word, she stands with quiet and practiced ease. She is careful not to disturb the pile the other two have made. For a brief second, she hovers near them - half in the light, half in the shadow - like she might say something. Like she might sit down again, this time closer to them. 

But Rumi doesn’t move closer. Instead, she turns and slips down the hallway that leads to the private sleeping cabin, the plush carpet muting her steps. 

Inside, the bedroom is dim and still. The window blinds have been drawn halfway, allowing the sun’s light to spread across the sheets. 

Rumi sits on the edge of the bed without undressing into something more comfortable. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers curling lightly around themselves. Her demon marking pulse faintly now, the more present blue glows along her wrists, shoulders, below her shirt, and she’s everywhere. 

She looks at her phone’s time before reaching into her hoodie pocket and pulling out the small metal vial. The pills rattle softly.

She doesn’t hesitate this time, not when she can feel a burning beneath her marks and something heavy settling in her stomach. 

She rolls one pill between her fingers, holds it there for a second - thumb and forefinger tight around it - then pops it into her mouth and swallows it dry, not even flinching. 

The silence wraps tighter around her, and Rumi’s hands drop to her knees. 

And for a moment, Rumi just sits there, listening to the hum of the jet. To the faint echo of a song, she can’t quite hear anymore, not enough to make out the lyrics. 

Then, to nothing. 

Zoey stirs first. 

She’s still half-draped over Mira as she blinks herself awake slowly, lashes fluttering against the light. The last notes of their shared song still hum faintly in her earbud. Zoey’s mouth is dry, and her head is warm from the nap. She squints, stretches once, then freezes. 

She looks up, blinking fully now. “Hey,” she says. “Where’s Rumi?” 

Mira doesn’t open her eyes. She stretches out and shrugs, “She’ll come back,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. 

Zoey pushes herself upright fully, careful not to fully untangle from Mira. She looks across the cabin to the seat Rumi had been in when Zoey fell asleep. But the cushion is empty now. The juice bottle is still on the table, untouched since it was set down. Zoey’s brow furrows, “She didn’t say anything.” 

Mira hums. “She rarely does,” she replies, exhaling as she shifts to sit up straighter. She rubs a hand across her face, brushing stray hair back. Her ponytails are now loose, allowing for stray hairs to slip free and get tangled up. Mira is seriously considering pulling a Zoey and going for short hair. 

“Mira,” Zoey says, and Mira realizes that Zoey was talking. She looks at Zoey, who has puffed out her cheeks, clearly annoyed. 

“I don’t know when she left, Zoey,” Mira says after a moment of consideration. “You were out like a rock. I assume Rumi thought you needed the sleep and didn’t think it important to tell you she went to the bedroom. She can’t go far.” 

Zoey frowns slightly and tugs the earbud free. “Yeah, I know, but . . . she usually stays close.” 

There is something quiet in her voice, something instinctual - a thread of something more than worry. She always enjoys having Rumi close, even if Rumi physically couldn’t go far. Something about having the weight of Rumi nearby is nice, even if they don’t always talk. Even if Rumi never leans in the way Zoey sometimes hopes she would but at least she can be a quiet comfort. 

Mira tilts her head.

Zoey’s frown hasn’t eased, and her voice has gone soft towards the end. It isn't a ‘just sleepy’ soft. It is something else.

A weight that hasn't been there before.

Mira doesn’t press. She just grabs the water bottle and passes it over, wordless.

Zoey takes it without looking, still distracted - still watching the hallway - still not letting go of whatever thought just brushed past her heart. 

But before Zoey can move away, soft footsteps pad back into the cabin, and Rumi appears in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled back to the elbow, hands tucked loosely into her pockets. Her expression is as calm as ever - face smooth, eyes unreadable. Rumi pauses when she sees both of them awake, and her gaze flickers between them for a beat. 

Zoey exhales. “There you are.” 

Rumi offers a faint shrug. “I was just stretching my legs.” She crosses the room without further comment and moves to settle back into the open space across from them, but Zoey pats the spot by them, and Rumi fills it without protest. Her shoulders brush Zoey’s briefly before she shifts into a comfortable sprawl, not quite leaning, not quite distant. Just there again and neither speak when her marks flash gold at the touch.

Zoey watches her. 

Mira doesn’t. 

No one says anything for a while.

And outside, the clouds keep drifting, the world below soft and silent. 

Then, finally, Mira says, “You scared her, you know.” 

Zoey perks up immediately. “I was not scared!” She says, but Rumi knows her face to be red, even if all Rumi can see is the back of Zoey’s neck and the tip of her ears as Zoey stares at Mira. 

Mira lifts a brow. “She woke up because of it and everything.” 

“Oh,” Rumi says, and Zoey looks at her. “Then it must’ve been some serious worrying.”

“What- I’m just a light sleeper!” Her bandmates laugh, and even Zoey knows she just told a lie. “Whatever,” she mutters, falling back and crossing her arms, a pout on her face. “You can’t blame me. The last time we were on a jet, it was torn in half!” 

Mira chuckles. “I think we would know if the jet was torn in half.” 

Rumi barks a laugh, and Zoey’s pout deepens. 

Chapter Text

The jet’s wheels kiss the tarmac with a soft thud, and the engines settle into a gentle rumble. As the doors open, a warm breeze sweeps in, carrying the sharp tang of salt and ocean. The sun hangs high, bright and unyielding, casting long, clean shadows on the tarmac. 

The trio steps out and their eyes adjust to the glare.

Before them stands a villa, a sprawling masterpiece of modern luxury, perched on the edge where land surrenders to the ocean. Its walls are crafted from smooth white stone, cool and flawless under the sun’s steady gaze. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows wrap the building in transparency, reflecting the endless sky and rolling waves.

The architecture is sleek but inviting, a seamless blend of minimalist design and natural elements. Broad terraces spill out from the main living area, their polished wooden decks stretching wide enough to hold intimate gatherings or quiet moments alone. On the edge of the terrace is a glass railing that offers an uninterrupted view of the ocean. 

Tropical plants in stone planters soften the sharp lines with lush greens and vibrant blooms that sway gently in the breeze. The scene of jasmine and gardenia mix with the tang of the ocean, wrapping them in a unique fragrance. 

It’s the kind of place that seems to float above the edge of the world.

From her position at the top of the stairs, Rumi can see the deck that Bobby promised and her eyes trace, tracking it over the sand and dips into the ocean.

Zoey rubs the back of her neck and lets out a half grimace, half laugh. She stands two steps below Rumi and a single step below Mira, who carelessly leans against the stairs’ railing. “I swear, I’ve got something kinked in my neck after that flight.”

Mira catches the flicker of Rumi’s eyes, quick and almost imperceptible, darting toward Zoey’s neck as she speaks. 

Zoey walks the rest of the way down the stairs, Mira close behind. “But, yesterday in the bathhouse didn't you say you won't get a sore neck? What was it you said? No soreness on vacation.”

“Ugh,” Zoey groans. “Don't remind me.”

“I'm not surprised,” Rumi says softly, voice quiet but teasing. “You were laying all weird during the ride.”

Zoey puts on a face of mock offense. “So I like to put my head on Mira’s lap because she has soft thighs, but then your lap was right there, so yeah, I did put my legs up on you. How was I supposed to know that twisting and contorting that way would ruin my neck?” She crosses her arms.

Mira hums, “How indeed?”

Zoey shifts, nudging Mira playfully. “Hey, can you rub it out? Please?”

Mira doesn’t hesitate. She moves behind Zoey, hands sliding onto her shoulders at the invitation. Her fingers are practiced and sure, moving easily over the familiar curves and lines of Zoey's frame, moving in the same way they had done a hundred times before. She rubs slowly, easing the tension with a gentle pressure that speaks of long acquaintance . . . and maybe something more.

Zoey's cheeks flush faintly at the touch, a warm pink blooming across her skin that is equal parts warmth and mock embarrassment. The same pink Rumi's marks flash at times. She shuffles slightly on her feet, trying to hide the subtle smile tugging at her lips, but the warmth in her eyes is unmistakable.

Mira’s hands drift from Zoey’s shoulders down to her sides, fingers curling softly as she works out the stiffness lingering from the trip. Rumi watches them for a second more before looking away, leaving them to share a quiet moment. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and forces herself to focus on the ocean beyond.

The salty breeze wraps around them, and Rumi breathes in, her marks flashing a vibrant green.

Zoey’s voice cuts through the soft hum of the ocean breeze, light but tingling with a playful edge. “If I wake up with a crick in my neck tomorrow, it’s your fault, Mira.” Her eyes sparkle, half-joking, half-serious, as she shifts slightly, trying to ease the tension in her neck. 

Mira grins, clearly pleased to take the blame. “Hey, I’m a professional.” Her fingers don’t falter as they continue their steady rhythm on Zoey’s skin, confident and practiced. 

Rumi’s voice slips out quietly, almost to herself, the words barely louder than a whisper of the waves. “Better than a tour masseuse.” There is a softness in her tone.

Zoey glances over at Rumi, eyes narrowing slightly as if catching the weight behind the small comment. Rumi catches the look and quickly turns her gaze away, pretending not to notice.

But Zoey noticed.

Mira noticed.

Rumi noticed that they noticed.

Her fingers move nervously, going to tuck a stray hand of hair behind her ear, but there’s not a stray hair there, so she forces herself to focus on something else. 

The path up to the villa is made of white stone. Rumi imagines it feels cool in the morning, and her eyes trace the edges of a folded garment, then wander upward, drawn to the broad windows of the villa before she looks over at the ocean again. The ocean seems endless, the blue of it stretching out and merging with the sky at the horizon.

For a moment, Rumi lets herself be pulled away by the view - the salty air, the distant cry of seabirds that mingles with the gentle rustle of the tropical leaves in the breeze. But then Zoey makes a noise that can only be described as a moan, and Mira physically recoils. 

“Don’t make that noise!” Mira scolds, ears red. 

Zoey shrugs shamelessly, “Keep going.” 

Without looking at them, Rumi moves past Mira and Zoey, who are still caught up in their easy closeness. Her steps are quiet but deliberate as the soft scrape of her shoes on the tarmac is barely audible over the sound of the ocean. 

The villa’s doors swing open, and the three spill inside in a familiar tangle of limbs as Mira hooks her arm through Rumi’s, and Zoey holds Mira’s hand. Hoodies come off first, tossed lazily over the bench by the entryway, followed by their bags and suitcases that thump softly against the polished wood floor. They then nudge their shoes off.

Inside, the villa is a haven of calm. The main room is vast and open, its high ceilings lending a cathedral-like air of space. Natural light floods in through the large windows, bouncing off pale wood floors and creamy walls. Soft rugs dot the seating areas where plush couches and low tables invite rest and conversation. Modern art hangs thoughtfully on the walls, abstract splashes of color that spark quiet contemplation.

Zoey lets go of Mira’s hand and steps forward, lifting her arms high over her head in a stretch that turns into a full-body sigh. “If we didn’t already have a nice penthouse, I’d say we should buy this place,” she announces, nodding like she’s just made a perfectly reasonable suggestion. “We could name it something cool. Like . . . Demon Villa.” 

“Our penthouse doesn’t even have a name, but this villa gets one?” Mira casts a sidelong look at Zoey and raises a brow. “This is way too much space for three people.” She untangles her arm from Rumi’s. 

Zoey shrugs, undeterred. “Sure. But not too much for three people plus a demon tiger and a snarky bird. Sussie could do dive bombs from the ceiling, and Derpy would have a backyard to sniff.” 

Rumi, who’s been quietly observing the space from the doorway, speaks up with dry clarity: “There are too many pots. He’d knock them all over, then spend the rest of the week trying to stack them back up.” 

That gets a knowing hum from all three of them, an image too vivid not to be true.

“Crap,” Zoey mutters suddenly, snapping her fingers. “I forgot to text Bobby. I ordered those weight planters for the penthouse. They’re probably already delivered.” She frowns, eyes briefly distant, fingers twitching like she’s about to reach for her phone. But, after a beat, she lets the thought go and shakes her head. “Eh. Later problem.” Then, with a clap of her hands and a mischievous grin, “Anyway, mission one: claim your rooms.” 

Mira sighs like she’s above it, but she still contributes to the conversation. “You know how this always goes. We spend half an hour pretending to debate it.” 

Rumi chimes in, “And half of that time is spent pretending we don’t already know who’s sleeping where.” 

Zoey laughs, and she makes her way toward the sunken living room. She drops onto a plush ottoman with an exaggerated flop, her limbs splayed like she’s reclaiming the whole villa. “Yeah, like we don’t all know Mira and I are gonna end up sharing a room.” 

Mira shrugs with mock innocence. “It’s not like there’s a rule, you know. You can get your own room. If you want to break tradition.”

“Tradition,” Zoey echoes, smirking as she leans back on her hands, ankles crossing. “Like it’s written in stone or something.”

Rumi smiles faintly but doesn’t say anything. The old pattern hangs in the air. They never speak about it, as it has been in effect for a little over two years, something that formed when Rumi was still hiding her markings. When space was safer. If they ever went somewhere and there weren’t enough rooms, Mira and Zoey would bunk together, and Rumi always got her own room. Privacy. 

So when Zoey turns to her and asks, “What about you, Rumi? Solo or bunk with us?” It’s not loaded, but it’s not entirely weightless either. 

Rumi hesitates for half a beat, “I’m good either way,” eyes flicking between them before she gives a small shrug. “But, I guess, maybe a room next door?” 

They don’t press the topic further. “See, Zo?” Mira says with a small nod. “Problem solved.”  

Zoey nods and rubs her hands together with mock triumph like she’s just brokered peace between kingdoms. “We get next-door rooms. Close enough to shout if one of us gets lost or decides to throw a midnight snack party.” 

Rumi raises a brow. “Midnight snack party?” 

Mira laughs. “You know, the important stuff.” 

Zoey smirks. “If you come knocking, Glowbug, bring snacks.”

Rumi huffs a faint laugh, but as she shifts where she stands, the lunges along her wrist catch the light, glowing for a moment with a soft pulse of gold , warm and tentative beneath the surface. 

It flickers once, a quiet flash of something gentle and unspoken, then fades back into blue before stopping entirely.

They all chuckle, the easy rhythm settling around them. 

“Alright,” Zoey says, standing and stretching again. “Room selection complete. Who wants to claim first dibs on the best bed?” 

Rumi smiles, “Mira has to share someone who starfishes in their sleep, you two can have the best beds. I’m happy wherever.” 

Mira and Zoey exchange a glance and Mira tosses an arm around Rumi’s shoulders, pulling her closer. “Well, then,” she says, “looks like we’re set.” 

“Seems like it . . .” Zoey pauses for a moment, now frowning. “Ok, wait, I don’t starfish.” 

“You do,” Mira and Rumi deadpan in perfect sync.

- - -

The evening air is warm and still. Waves hush against the sand in a steady rhythm, and the breeze still carries the scent of the ocean. 

Rumi stands on the edge of the villa’s deck, barefoot, toes curling slightly against the cool wood slats. Her arms are crossed loosely over her chest, her long braid falling over one shoulder as she watches the tide ease in and out like the slow breath of something ancient. 

Below, Zoey floats in the shallows, arms spread wide like she’s surrendering to the sea. Her hair clings to her face, soaked and wild, and her eyes squint up at Rumi through the low sun’s glare. 

“I thought you said you don’t starfish,” Rumi says, voice even but lighter than it had been all day.

Zoey puffs out her cheeks, and she glances away like she’s been caught mid-crime. She’s unable to come up with a snarky remark. “Ok, rude,” she mutters. “I wasn’t starfish-ing. I was floating . . . with personality.”

When Rumi doesn’t respond and just tilts her head, eyebrows now raised, Zoey flounders. Then: a shift.

“Y’know, you could just get in , right?” She calls up instead, recovering her grin. “The water’s perfect. Not haunted. Probably.” 

Rumi’s brows stay raised. Unimpressed. 

Mira, sitting next to Rumi with her feet dangling in the water - always dancing them away when Zoey drifts too close - smirks without looking up. “You said that at the beginning, and it was freezing.” 

Zoey gasps like she’s wounded. “That was a surprise cold current , and I’ve already apologized. Like, a thousand times.”

“You mean you gave me half a cookie and changed the subject?” Mira replies, still not looking up. 

Zoey shrugs and grins without shame. “Same thing, MiMi.” 

Mira’s eyes flick toward Zoey, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. A small smile plays on her lips before she hides it with a soft sigh and leans back on her hands, focus drifting over to Rumi. 

Rumi lets out a small breath that’s not quite a laugh. Her gaze stays fixed on the ocean, still following the lazy motion of Zoey’s body as it floats along the waves, all fluid lines and glinting shoulders, when something shifts deep in Rumi’s core. 

It hits without warning. 

A sharp, low throb pulse in her lower abdomen, sudden and intrusive, like a wire, pulled too tight and starting to fray. Her breath catches mid-inhale. The ache deepens immediately, not sharp enough to double her over, but hot and blooming, like pressure curling inward. Foreign. Electric. Her muscles tighten before her thoughts can catch up.

Rumi’s markings react before she can. 

What was a dull blue flicker abruptly flares into soft pink, then it deepens fast, rushing across the backs of her hands like ink dropped into warm water. It travels upward, vein-like, spiraling faintly along her forearms and pulsing once at her throat before rapidly spreading all over, then fading into a still, glowing hush. 

Zoey notices first, eyes narrowing slightly even as she continues to float. Her body doesn’t move, but her gaze sharpens.

Mira’s head lifts a beat later, brows knitting as she follows Zoey’s line of sight until she sees the pink casting a bright shimmer across Rumi’s skin. “You okay?” Mira asks, voice casual but carrying that unmistakable undertone. The one she uses when she already knows something’s wrong. A sharp breeze carries over them, and the smell of salt settles around them. 

Rumi exhales slowly. Her arms tighten around herself, almost like she’s bracing. “Just cold,” she murmurs, the lie delivered with steady softness. It’s almost believable. Her head tilts slightly, just enough to avoid their eyes. “I think I’m going to head in.” 

Zoey is already moving. She glides toward the deck’s edge and stands in a single, practiced motion, water cascading down her arms and legs, but she acts like she doesn’t notice, or maybe she doesn’t care. “I’ll come with,” she says easily. It’s not a question. “We haven’t had dinner yet, and you know I make a mean sandwich.” 

“You do not,” Mira says behind her, deadpan. But there’s no heat in it. Just routine. 

Zoey points at her without looking. “Rude. Also wrong.”

Mira just smirks and swings her legs in the water. “I might run a lap or two first. Bobby said there was a track nearby. I have to test it out.”

“You have fun,” Zoey calls back.

“You will later,” Mira adds. “Four laps, remember.” 

Zoey does not answer.

Rumi steps away from the edge of the deck, beginning the walk back up toward the villa, but it might as well be miles. The pressure in her body hasn’t left. It’s moved lower, pooling like heat in her spine and hips. The inside of her mouth feels dry. She swallows and keeps walking. 

Behind her, there’s a wet slap of feet against wood, and within seconds, Zoey catches up, still dripping, hair clinging to her shoulders, but her steps are easy and unbothered. Zoey doesn’t say much at first, just bumps her shoulder gently into Rumi’s. “Hey,” she says finally, voice lower now. Softer. “Warm shower, cold drink, sandwich party. Sound like a plan? We can even put on some lame show. One of those trashy dating shows you and Mira pretend not to like.”

Rumi glances at her, and despite her situation, a smile tugs at her lips. Her markings flicker pink again, fainter this time, but still visible in the place Zoey’s shoulder touched her’s.

Zoey sees it. She doesn’t say anything about it, though. Doesn’t tease. Just flashes that lopsided grin like she’s proud of something. “I’m thinking turkey,” Zoey muses as they head up the steps together. “Or grilled cheese if I can find enough butter. Ooh, wait, I brought that weird jam I like- don’t look at me like that, it slaps with cheddar.”

Rumi shakes her head, her smile barely contained now. “You’re going to feed me something cursed.”

Zoey bumps her shoulder again, but the color doesn’t flare this time. It just shimmers faintly. “Absolutely. And you’re gonna love it.”

They disappear through the villa’s open doors, the scent of salt giving way to cool stone and warmth left behind by the sun. Behind them, Mira’s silhouette remains on the deck, feet still in the water, watching them quietly before her focus returns to the ocean.

- - -

The villa is quiet in the way only oceanside houses can be. The windows that they can open have been thrown open to let the late evening breeze in. The scent of sea salt drifts in alongside the warmth of a fading sun. Somewhere in the living room, the TV buzzes faintly with some movie none of them are really watching. 

In the kitchen, Zoey is making a sandwich. 

She sits on the counter’s edge, one leg folded beneath her as she balances a plate on her thigh, and a jar of mustard is gripped in one hand. Her hair is damp from an earlier dip in the ocean, the ends curling messily against her shoulders as she layers sliced meat and crisp lettuce with something close to pride as she moves with practiced ease, now in her element as she focuses on making something simple but satisfying. The hum of her voice under her breath - half singing and half distracted - is soft and aimless. 

At the table, Rumi sits with her arms resting against the cool marble, shoulders slightly hunched, and legs drawn up beneath her. She gratefully took a sandwich when Zoey offered the plate to her, but only managed a few bites. Now, the half-eaten triangle lay limp in her hand, forgotten. One hand rests lightly on the table, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm.

She isn’t hungry. 

She hasn’t really been hungry in days; the heat suppressant pills always dull that part of her. Swallowing them makes her feel like she is pressing herself down into a box that keeps shaking. Her stomach, her breath, even her voice sometimes, all quieted. 

Zoey glances up, her gaze softening as she notices the exhaustion etched into Rumi’s posture - the slump of her shoulders, the pale flush beneath her skin.

Zoey notices. She always notices.

She silently jumps down from the kitchen counter, the soft clinking of her utensils and the rustle of an empty turkey meat bag break the evening stillness. 

Her footsteps pad across the tile as she approaches, a mug of water in one hand, her other casually dropping to Rumi’s shoulder in greeting. It’s not a squeeze, not firm, just there. Familiar. Present. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep sitting up,” Zoey murmurs, her tone gentle, but not teasing. She slides the mug in front of Rumi without asking. 

Rumi blinks down at it and gives a half-hearted smile. “Thank you.” 

There is a pause. Zoey doesn’t sit down but, instead, she lingers just behind Rumi, close enough to touch her long braid. It’s coming undone, looser than it was that morning. She’s as quiet as a breeze, until, “I can brush your hair if you want,” Zoey says softly. “It’s tangled. And you look tired.” Her voice is quiet, not hesitant exactly, but . . . offering. Like she already knows the answer but wants to say it anyway.

Rumi stiffens the tiniest bit. Not because the offer isn’t tempting, but because the moment feels too delicate to risk falling into. 

Zoey’s fingers reach up before she can answer, brushing a single lock away from Rumi’s cheek. It is such a simple thing - barely a whisper of contact - but Rumi feels the heat of it ripple down her neck like fire. Her breath catches. 

The demon marks along her cheek shimmer faintly before the glow travels to Rumi’s nape. The soft, quiet blue glows before deepening suddenly into something warmer. Not bright. But unmistakable. A soft, flickering pink glow begins to curl at her nape, sitting there for a second before traveling down her spine, hidden just beneath the collar of her shirt. 

The touch was innocent, delicate, and unforced, a simple gesture. Rumi swallows, the warmth blooming beneath her skin catching her off guard. It continues to spread like a flicker of fire along her spine, and yet she remains still. 

The air suddenly feels heavier. Her pulse ticks against the base of her throat. 

“Not tonight,” Rumi says, and it comes out barely above a whisper. Not cruel, not sharp. Just closed. 

Zoey nods once, the corner of her mouth twitching in the way it always does when she is pretending not to be disappointed. “Okay,” she says simply. Not pushing. Never pushing. “I’m here when you want to,” she says, her voice chipper, but they can both hear something underneath.

Zoey steps back and returns to the living room, where she sinks into the couch, curling one leg up beneath her and resting her chin on the armrest. Her eyes stay on the window for a long time, watching the sky melt orange into lavender. 

Behind her, Rumi closes her eyes. 

The air around them shifts again. The cushions creak softly under her weight, the hum of the movie bleeds back in through the hallway, and the smell of salt and sea settles like a blanket around them. 

But the warmth Zoey has left in the space between them lingers.

And the faint blush of pink along Rumi’s marks doesn’t fully fade. Not yet.

The sliding door clicks open with a soft shhhk , and a breeze carries the now-familiar scent of salt and seaweed into the room. 

Mira steps inside, already kicking off her running shoes, a towel draped loosely around her neck. Her hair is slightly damp from sweat, and her skin glows faintly from the sun, little droplets of sweat trailing down the line of her spine where her tank top clings. She looks relaxed in that effortless way she always does, not loose, exactly, but settled , like the run had wrung out the last of the day’s weight from her shoulders. 

But as soon as she steps into the villa’s living room, she feels it.

The shift in air. 

It isn’t dramatic, not sharp or loud, just . . . off. Like a cord has been plucked and left to vibrate in silence. 

The movie still plays softly on the TV, some old comedy with a laugh track that feels too loud against the hush that fills the room. The cushions are warm with body heat, the low hum of the ceiling fan brushing overhead. 

Rumi still sits at the counter, legs pulled up, and her arms folded tightly around them. She has turned her body so she can see the large TV, but her eyes are glazed over and she’s not quite watching the screen. Her sandwich still sits mostly untouched, and she doesn’t look up when Mira enters. 

On the couch, Zoey sits curled on one end. She’s not quite slouched, but not comfortable either. One foot taps against the hardwood floor in a slow, uneven rhythm. She picks at the hem of her shirt, fingers twitching like she can’t quite sit still, and when she glances up and sees Mira, she smiles too quickly. 

It is the kind of smile that doesn’t reach all the way; it stretches thin like a band pulled just shy of snapping. “Hey,” she says, voice light, too casual. “You smell like seaweed. I prefer your usual cedar and sage smell.” 

Mira raises a brow but doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze moves across the room once again, slow and steady. She doesn’t need to say anything. She already knows. The quiet tells her everything. 

The way Zoey has sat as far as she can from Rumi. The way Rumi’s shoulders are drawn in, like armor. And a faint sour smell, not sweet, not belonging to either of her friends. Something fake. Something medical. 

Mira can’t quite name what she’s smelling, and she tries, brows furrowing, but a harsh breeze blows in through an open window, and whatever Mira is smelling is swept away. Her eyes focus on Rumi, “You didn’t eat your sandwich.”

Rumi glances at the abandoned food on her plate and shrugs, voice quiet, “Not really hungry.”

Mira hums thoughtfully. She knows Rumi gets like this now and then. Loses her appetite at random moments and trying to feed her never works. She lets the towel slide off her neck and drops it onto the back of a nearby chair. Then, without a word, she crosses over to the couch and sinks down into the space between the two. She doesn’t sit close enough to crowd, but not far enough to ignore. 

Mira doesn’t ask what happened. 

She just sits. 

And in that simple stillness, the room seems to breathe again, and the weight in the air settles. 

Mira leans her head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded. She doesn’t realize how grounding her presence even when Rumi moves to the other side of the couch, sitting in the corner. 

Zoey exhales slowly. 

Rumi doesn’t move, but her shoulders drop, maybe half an inch. Maybe less. 

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk about what movie to put on. No one had the energy to argue. 

Mira flicked through the villa’s streaming menu until something vaguely familiar started playing. The movie they settled on isn’t anything interesting. It was chosen more for noise than plot. Something old and vaguely nostalgic, the kind of film that flickers with warm lighting and lazy dialogue, a stupid, nostalgic comedy they used to watch during long tour nights in hotel rooms. It has ridiculous one-liners and canned laughter, but the sound was just loud enough to blur the edges of their silence.

The three of them sit together, but not really together .

Rumi remains curled into the far corner of the couch almost without thinking. Her knees are pulled up, arms around them, her cheek resting on the side of her folded wrist. She dragged a blanket across her at some point, more for comfort than warmth, but it is slipping off her shoulders, and she hasn’t made any move to fix it.

She barely moves except to occasionally blink. Her eyes track the movement on the screen, but nothing registers. On the kitchen table, her sandwich has long since been abandoned, its contents peeking sadly from the edge of the bread. 

It was a good sandwich, and had Rumi not been on the brink of heat and forced to take suppressants to quell that hunger, she would’ve wolfed it down and asked for a second. 

On the other end, but more towards the middle, Zoey has folded herself close beside Mira. She half-leans and half-sprawls. Their hips touch, and Zoey unfolds herself, bumping their knees together. Mira hasn’t shifted away. Instead, her posture is open and accepting, their knees brushing every so often, the contact casual and constant. Grounding. 

At one point, Zoey laughs, not loudly, just a warm breath of amusement at something the characters say, and her fingers - without thinking - find Mira’s hand. 

She doesn’t grip it. She just touches , the way one might trace a shape in the fog on a window. The pads of her fingers graze Mira’s knuckles, pause, linger - and Mira doesn’t pull away. Her palm turns subtly upward, catching Zoey’s fingertips in return. 

Their legs shift again, and Zoey’s bare calf slides briefly against Mira’s. 

Not a long touch. 

Not even a conscious one. 

But something about the way skin meets skin, the soft electric exchange of warmth and familiarity, makes Mira’s breath catch, just once. She doesn’t show it. Not on her face. But her hands curl slightly tighter around Zoey’s. 

On the other end of the couch, in her shadowed corner, Rumi doesn’t move. Her gaze remains fixed on the screen. She doesn’t react.

But the light on her skin is different now. 

There, along her wrists, and the small space just beneath her collarbone where her shirt collar dips, her markings come alive once again and pulse. They start with their usual faint blue glow before quickly changing. Slow and creeping like bruises blooming beneath her skin, the lines’ color deepens and shimmers, and for a moment - just a moment - it violently flashes a deep navy color. 

She startles, watching as the curves of those markings flare again like breath on the glass as the color moves throughout her body, spreading to the tip of her fingers and down to her toes before changing route and moving inward, settling over her heart. 

Rumi finally looks away and acts as though she didn’t notice, and refuses to acknowledge what just happened. She shifts slightly, adjusting her shirt collar as though it has become too warm, too tight, and brushes a knuckle against her throat. Her face remains impassive. Not cold, just still. Tired.

Maybe. 

But the light doesn’t lie, and her skin has already spoken. 

Mira doesn’t look, not directly anyway, but her eyes flick - once, briefly - to the shift in hue along Rumi’s collarbone. She doesn’t comment. Her thumb rubs gently against Zoey’s hand instead. 

Rumi exhales, and her markings dim again, fading themselves back into blue and then dulling entirely. It’s as if they hadn’t spoken at all.

When Zoey leans over Mira to offer Rumi some snacks, Rumi shakes her head with a slow, almost apologetic motion, “No thanks. I’m good.” Zoey just shrugs and crunches a few herself before nudging the bowl toward Mira.

Mira passes Rumi a small dish of cut fruit. They’re cold, neatly sliced, and dewy from the fridge. Rumi eats a few before setting them on the coffee table in front of the couch. She shifts deeper into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. The fabric is soft, but strangely itchy tonight, like it doesn’t know how to settle on her skin. Like she doesn’t know how to settle inside herself, not when she feels like she’s burning from the inside out. 

Her shirt clings in places it shouldn’t, the cotton somehow both too warm and too thin, as if the air around her is vibrating just enough to raise goosebumps. She tugs the collar slightly and fidgets with the hem. It doesn’t help. The space between her shoulder blades thrummed, not painful, not sharp, but wrong. So wrong. Like static waiting to cackle. 

Rumi sinks lower, tucks her legs tighter against herself, and curls in a practiced sort of way. A shape she knows well: small, silent, and unnoticeable. 

Still in the center of the couch, Mira murmurs something low and teasing to Zoey. Zoey laughs under her breath in response, soft enough that it barely covers the gentle hum of the television.

Rumi lets the sound wash over her. 

Outside, the ocean whispers.

Waves roll against the stone edge of the cliffs beyond the villa’s wide balcony, a sound steady and slow, like a heartbeat underwater. The wind makes the glass panes vibrate now and then with a soft creak as if the house itself is adjusting its bones. 

The couch groans slightly as Mira shifts, and her knee brushes Zoey’s again. 

A faint burst of static colors flickers across Rumi’s skin, and her jaw clenches slightly. She presses her cheek into the couch cushion, hoping it will cool her down. 

It doesn’t.

Her markings flare up again, but they stay hidden beneath her shirt, quiet and unrevealed, but Rumi can feel them. They buzz faintly, like coals not yet sparked. They pulse in time with her breath, and she is suddenly hyperaware of every square inch they cover. Her spine, her sternum, her ribs, along the curves of her sides, her thighs- too aware. Too warm. 

She closes her eyes. 

The movie drones on as a slow and sentimental scene plays with piano music, and distant voices exaggerate it; she couldn’t have followed the plot even if she tried, even though she has seen the movie a thousand times. 

The blanket shifts slightly with the rise and fall of her breath. Her fingers clench and unclench. She tells herself she is just tired. That this is all nothing, and it will pass in time. It always has before. 

Outside, the wind rattles a windchime softly, and it makes its way inside through an open window they didn’t close, and suddenly the scent of the ocean is prominent again. 

Inside, the couch creaks again as Zoey settles against Mira’s side, letting out a sleepy hum. 

Rumi keeps her eyes shut, face turned away, but beneath the fabric of her sleeves, her demon markings glow a hair brighter than before. 

She curls impossibly tighter in her corner of the couch. She tucks one arm under her head, presses her cheek further into the cushion. The noises are perfect, stuff she doesn’t have to strain to hear or focus on. It’s peaceful. The type of peace that should settle into her bones like sand warmed by the late sun, but Rumi can’t sink into it. 

She closes her eyes anyway and curls tighter, eyes still shut. 

And even though her breath evens out, and her body looks perfectly at peace, she doesn’t sleep. 

- - -

The villa is dark, the only source of light from the TV that now plays a different movie, some cartoon that Zoey swore was good. Mira is yet to be entertained.

Rumi sleeps in the corner of the couch, curled but no longer tightly. Her breathing is shallow and uneven, and her brow furrows faintly in the low light. Then she flares, a magnitude of colors at once: violet that twists into pink before morphing into white , then violently returning to red before settling into a black that would swallow her body whole, had it not been for the faint trace of gold . 

Mira is the first to stir as a wave of pheromones hits her, ones only she can smell, as Zoey shows no reaction. She blinks and looks at Rumi, eyes adjusting for a second. There’s a sound, not loud. A quiet whimper that is almost imperceptible. The kind of sound that slips out when someone’s dreaming too hard, a sound that Mira doesn’t like. 

Zoey leans up slowly, trying not to disturb Mira, but Rumi stirs again, a faint noise escaping her throat, and that’s all it takes. Mira moves, and Zoey can only watch. 

“Rumi,” Mira says softly, but certain.

No response. Rumi shifts slightly, her shoulders twitching like her body wants to wake but can’t. Another faint sound escapes her. 

“Hey,” Mira’s voice lowers, less clinical now. Gentle. “Rumi, wake up.” 

Rumi doesn’t respond at first. She’s deep in it, eyes twitching beneath closed lids, body tense, and markings glowing red again before settling back into black . 

“It’s just me.” Mira lays a hand carefully on Rumi’s shoulder. The contact is light, barely more than a touch, but Rumi reacts instantly. 

Her markings flare. 

First, a flash of red , then white , as if trying to orient herself, and finally, when Mira speaks again - “you’re safe. You’re just dreaming” - the markings ripple gold , pulsing once beneath her skin where Mira touches her. 

Rumi’s eyes snap open. She blinks fast, disoriented, her breath catching like she’s surfaced too fast. 

Zoey is now leaning in from her position on the couch, peering at Rumi with worry. “You okay?” She asks. “You were making noises. I thought, maybe- nightmare?” 

Rumi doesn’t speak right away. She just blinks, taking in her surroundings. The TV light, the soft hum of the ceiling fan, the familiar smell of salt and wood, and the faint traces of Mira’s smell: cedar and sage, and somewhere under it, Zoey’s: citrus and vanilla bean. Her breathing slows, and she dips her head in a small, automatic nod.  

Zoey, still seated in the middle of the couch, looks at Rumi carefully, then at Mira - confused, and back to Rumi, concern in her face.

“You sure you’re alright?” Mira asks. “You don’t have to talk about it, but . . . you can.” 

Rumi’s eyes meet Mira’s, then Zoey’s, and something flickers. Something raw. Then it’s gone. She exhales through her nose and shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says, the lie smooth but quiet. She blinks once, slowly, then presses her hands to her face. “I’m just . . . tired.” 

A familiar prickle rises along her nape, like static catching beneath the skin. Her markings shift again, and a soft pink shimmers that flashes once, then fades to blue before dulling entirely. 

“I’m going to head to bed,” Rumi says and pushes herself up with careful slowness, her voice gentler now. “Long day.” 

Neither Zoey nor Mira stops her. They just watch her go, and Mira finds herself leaning in as she catches the smell from earlier that day, a trace of it that she still can’t figure out. It’s not as strong, the medicinal undertone to it gone. 

“She’s acting weird,” Zoey says, and Mira gives her all her attention, the smell forgotten for now. 

“Weirder than usual?” Mira asks and leans back into the couch. 

“For sure.” 

The hallway is dim, lit only by soft recessed lamps along the baseboards. Their glow is a warm yellow, almost gentle, catching in the grain of the wooden floorboards as Rumi pads down the corridor in her socks.

The movie is still playing faintly in the background, the sound bleeding from the living room. It's a low swell of music, the distant murmurs and laughter she's not a part of mixing in with it. She can still hear it. Zoey's laugh. Mira's low voice. The gentle squeak of the couch shifting beneath them.

Rumi turns a corner, and the light changes. It's brighter here, the lamps now glowing a bright white as she approaches the bedroom door.

She doesn't go in. Instead, she holds her arm up and turns it slowly. The markings are less intense and they're now their usual blue , pulsing with the rhythm of her breath. It's steady, but as she looks at them, really looks , something shifts.

Her fingers tremble slightly, and her skin feels too warm in places yet cold in others. The light catches on a curve of light near the inside of her elbow, and the glow deepens, not brighter, but richer as if something just underneath is trying to rise.

There is a flicker. Barely noticeable. A pulse of warmth as pink begins to settle over her skin. 

Rumi's mind snaps back to earlier: Mira's hand on her. The heat of it. Even the color that sparked there despite Rumi not wanting it to. And it stayed for a second too long while Rumi pretended like she couldn’t feel it. 

Another flicker, a deep navy , that is colder, maybe sharper, and comes with the sting of something else entirely. With it comes a sting of something else, and she recalls the way she curled in on herself while Mira and Zoey leaned into each other. The way their legs had touched like it was nothing. Like they didn’t even notice. 

The glow fractures briefly, shifting. Always shifting and unstable, as her mind begins to fog. Emotions curl in her chest. They’re tight yet messy, quiet yet so loud, and Rumi doesn’t have a word for it. She doesn’t want one. It doesn’t matter, not right now. What matters is getting to her room and finding her suppressants. What matters is containing the heat that burns in her stomach and muddles her mind. 

She closes her fist slowly, and the colors dim, and Rumi finally walks into her bedroom. Her suitcase is still unpacked by the door and her duffel is opened on her bed. The vial should be somewhere in that duffel, Rumi remembers taking a pill before she joined Zoey downstairs so Zoey could make her a monstrosity of a-

+++

“No,” she pauses. That can’t be right. That was four hours ago. “Celine promised. She said every eight- ah!” She freezes, her breath catching as a surge of heat blooms across the veins of color at her hips and the base of her spine - a mix of violet and an angry red before settling on pink . It’s not as sharp as it was back on the deck; it doesn’t settle in her lower abdomen and wait there like a steady pulse. It disperses and dulls down, gone within seconds. 

Rumi closes her eyes and grounds her teeth. Her hands dig through the contents of her bag, and she finds the metal vial, pills rattling like some sick song. “It can’t be,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

A breath passes. 

“Not yet.” And she decides fuck it with the times and whatever Celine said. Celine was wrong. She likely misspoke, or maybe the dosage was changed, and she didn't mention it. Yeah, that had to be it. Or maybe - Rumi desperately hopes this to be true - it has been more than four hours, and the time is just slipping by.

The lid is removed from the vial, and Rumi takes one, swallowing it dry again. She then moves her duffle to the floor and lies down on the bed, trying to act like everything is fine. Like her body doesn’t hum and burn everywhere her skin touches the blankets. Like, there isn’t something building beneath the faux calm. Beneath the suppression. 

+++

“I’ll make it up to them,” she says, curling into herself. She’ll make it up to Zoey and Mira, and they’ll get to enjoy their vacation.

Tuesday

Day Two

The world is still dark when Rumi opens her eyes.

She listens to the rustle of the wind outside and the soft thump of her heartbeat. The ceiling above her is unfamiliar, white with faint shadow lines that are cast by the open slats in the window shutters. Pale gray light bleeds into the room, but the sun hasn’t risen yet. 

She lies there for a long moment, staring upward as she takes a moment to let herself feel.

There is a tightness at the base of her spine, something insistent as it’s accompanied with a low hum of discomfort that isn’t pain exactly, but not peace either. It prickles there, and she recognizes the feeling from last night. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t expect the pills to wash the feeling away. They always have before.

She exhales through her nose and rolls out of bed, then pads into the bathroom, her fingers brushing the wall to give her hand something to do. The mirror above the sink flickers on automatically with a muted glow, and Rumi holds out her arm. 

The markings shimmer. 

Not blinding or pulsing, but more vivid than they should be at this hour. The sharp curves usually sleep with her, usually dull until at least midday, even when she has to take suppressants. But now, for the first time ever, they are up and active, a lot more than they have been.

She presses two fingers gently to her wrists, and the skin is warm there. Not hot, but warmer than it should have been. Rumi frowns and tells herself it’s nothing. Maybe her body is still adjusting to the new environment, to the idea of vacation and relaxation. 

Maybe.

But the truth scratches at her from the inside: yesterday’s glow wasn’t nothing. 

Rumi rolls her sleeves down slowly. There’s no panic in her movement and no urgency. Just a kind of wary resignation, something familiar in the way she notices, notes it, and chooses to carry on anyway. 

The floor creaks once as Rumi slips through the hallway, bare feet silent against the cool stone. The villa is still. Curtains don’t move, lights are off, and doors are half-cracked like a mouth that never finished speaking. Rumi glances back over her shoulder, toward Mira and Zoey’s bedroom door. It’s wide open, allowing the warm light of a lamp to spill out. Rumi can hear gentle snoring that she knows to be Zoey, and something is grumbled - something like “get your hand off my face” - that Rumi knows to be Mira. She smiles faintly and walks down the stairs. 

Outside, the sky hasn’t yet made up its mind about dawn. It hangs in a pale gray hush, neither light nor dark.

Rumi opens the porch door with care, and the wind meets her gently, not cold, not warm. Present. It slides beneath the hem of her sleep shirt and curls around her calves like a tide returning home. She closes her eyes for a breath, letting it touch her and letting herself feel something besides the pulse under her skin and the now suppressed burn in her stomach.

She leans against the railing and watches the sky, then the faint outlines of the waves, then the horizon. The ache in her spine has now quieted a little since she took the pills last night. Four hours have passed, and Rumi is yet to feel the way she did yesterday. She wonders if the pill she took around the evening was made wrong, a misprint of sorts. But even now, there’s a hum under the skin, under her markings, and Rumi can’t quite shake it.

Rumi is still standing on the porch when she hears the porch door creak open behind her.

“. . . you’re up early,” comes Zoey’s voice, thick with sleep.

Rumi turns her head, barely. 

Zoey emerges like a creature from a nest, one of the villa’s throw blankets slung around her shoulders, oversized and trailing behind her like a cap. Her hoodie is on backward, and her hair sticks up in a half dozen directions, dark strands catching the soft gray light like feathers in disarray. Rumi struggles to figure out if Zoey is wearing any pants as the hoodie falls easily to Zoey’s knees. 

Rumi shakes her head and tells herself it doesn’t matter. 

Zoey has one sock on, one sock off, and she blinks once at Rumi, like she hasn’t fully woken up yet, and shuffles forward without waiting for permission. 

Rumi makes no move to stop her. Instead, she watches with barely contained amusement and something more. 

Zoey drops onto the porch steps with a quiet thud, and Rumi stares for a second more before joining her. Nothing is said as Zoey puts the blanket around the two of them before her limbs fold inward, toward Rumi like a sleepy cat seeking heat. Then, without ceremony and like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Zoey’s head lands on Rumi’s shoulder.

It’s a warm weight and familiar, yet the contact startles Rumi’s breath for a moment - just a soft hitch, barely audible. But it ripples through her anyway, subtle and sharp. The warmth of Zoey’s body, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and the faint trace of Zoey’s favorite shampoo - all of it wraps around Rumi like gravity. 

Rumi doesn’t lean in. Not at first. But a moment passes, and then her shoulders dip half a centimeter toward the contact, enough to return the weight. It’s enough to answer without speaking. 

Zoey is always like this. Touchy in a quiet way, sometimes touchy in a loud way. Really, she's just touchy. And she always runs cold, skin like the deepest part of a freezer, and it quietly explains why Zoey is always hugging and seeking out warmth. Rumi doesn't mind, except when she does but that's usually when Zoey uses her coldness for evil and always shoves her hands under Rumi's shirt.

Zoey exhales softly, already half asleep again. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Rumi murmurs, eyes forward again, voice barely above the wind as she finally gives Zoey an answer. 

Zoey doesn’t lift her head. “Mmm,” she hums. “Then we match.” The blanket rustles as she burrows slightly closer, cheek now pressed against the seam of Rumi’s shirt, and she makes a sound like a purring cat. Her head is a perfect fit against the curve of Rumi’s shoulder. Zoey goes quiet after that as she’s content to exist next to Rumi like that, and soon her body seems to settle, heavy and soft and grounding. Zoey’s breathing slows again, a sign she is already dozing off. 

Rumi doesn’t move, and her hand trembles faintly where it rests in her lap, and she closes it into a fist. She looks down at her wrist, just to see. The markings are glowing again, this time a quiet shimmer of green under the thin skin. It’s steady and familiar, and Rumi refuses to think about the way her marks pulse a soft gold in every place Zoey’s skin touches Rumi’s. For now, she’ll act like it means nothing.

Zoey stirs beside her, a soft exhale through her nose, and she moves closer, now pressing her cheek to Rumi’s collarbone. The gold follows Zoey, and the humming eases. 

Rumi wonders if all Betas just have that effect. If they are naturally steady and silent, a natural counterbalance to the chaos inside. But as Zoey mutters about Hotteok and makes a slurping noise, Rumi realizes it’s not a Beta thing. 

It’s a Zoey thing. 

And it’s why Rumi likes moments like these the best. Yeah, Zoey is nice to be around when she’s awake and buzzing with energy, but sometimes, when she’s quiet - doesn't have to always be asleep - Rumi can just focus on Zoey’s presence. And that is more than enough. 

So, they sit there. One of them mutters about American foods now, and the other sits wide awake, watching as the sky slowly brightens and shivers as a breeze picks up, blowing on them softly. And in the quiet between them, Rumi glances at her skin carefully and wills the gold to vanish. 

It doesn’t . . . but it doesn’t grow either. It simply settles with Zoey and lingers there, waiting.

Chapter Text

Zoey’s eyes flutter open slowly, and the gentle swell of sunlight becomes harsh on her eyes as it paints light across her face. She squints at first as her eyes adjust. For a brief moment, she doesn’t move and just breathes in the salty ocean air, her chest rising and falling in a steady, slow rhythm.

The ocean is still. It’s not silent, but it’s steady. It seems to breathe with Zoey.

It is rare to see Zoey so peaceful.

Usually, she is a whirlwind of energy and noise, lighting up any room she enters with laughter or chatter. Oftentimes, she is someone who laughs too loudly and forgets to finish sentences because her brain is three steps ahead. But right now, she sits quietly, watching the waves roll against the shore and listening to the rhythm of the water that seems to echo the calm that has settled over her. She curls closer to Rumi, blinks slowly, and yawns. 

Sometimes, the other band members joke about Zoey being a Beta and how it doesn’t quite fit with her high-octane personality. That Betas are meant to be calm people, wallflowers really, the nice in between of Alphas and Omegas - not too emotionally stiff like Alphas but not too emotional like Omegas. It even confuses her fans as Zoey is portrayed as the bright and bubbly member, the cute one, yet all that everyone knows about biology is acting against that idea.

But those who really know her, understand that underneath all the brightness, there is something else. Something more Beta. Something so naturally Zoey.

It comes from showing up.

From knowing what to say even when it’s hard.

From the way she always makes space, even when no one asks her to. 

From how she can press two fingers to someone’s pulse and match her rhythm to theirs until they forget they were ever anxious in the first place. 

She is grounding, even if she doesn’t always realize that’s what she is. 

Zoey’s gaze softens as she studies the ocean, and the sunlight catches the faintest sparkles in her eyes. She shifts slightly, a quiet smile playing at the corners of her lips when she glances up at Rumi but she doesn’t speak. Not yet. Her silence isn’t withholding; it’s reverent. As if saying anything too soon might break the hush they’ve both settled into.

Rumi can feel the movement before she hears it - the slow, almost unnoticeable shifts of Zoey’s breathing, the gentle sighs warming the hollow of her collarbone. Zoey moves like someone who is half-asleep and fully safe, and it does something strange to Rumi’s chest. A flicker of something raw and too big to name. 

Rumi’s finger twitches on her lap, and her hand hovers for a second, uncertain, before Rumi stops herself. She finally notices the way Zoey’s hair brushes against her bare arm. Her hair is not twisted into the usual two buns or in a messy short ponytail Zoey might sport to bed. Instead, it’s loose, untamed, and soft. It fans down to Zoey’s shoulder blades in gentle waves, catching the light.

It suddenly makes Rumi remember her own hair and how she hadn’t bothered to brush it this morning. It’s likely knotted and tangled from sleep. She thinks she probably looks like hell, and for some reason, that thought - that small, vain, stupid thought - makes her feel exposed. 

“I must look a mess,” Rumi mutters under her breath.

Zoey tilts her head lazily, eyes sliding toward Rumi. “Hmm?” 

Rumi shakes her head quickly, dismissing the moment and any potential conversation. She isn’t going to say anything else - truly, she wasn’t - but something pushes the words forward before she can stop them. “Do you . . .” Her throat tightens a little, lips parting around a question that feels too intimate for how simple it is. “. . . do you want to brush my hair?” 

The world seems to hold its breath.

The ocean continues its rhythm, and Rumi expects a pause, maybe a blink or a beat of hesitation, from Zoey. But, instead, the silence shatters like glass under the weight of something bright and unmistakably Zoey. 

It’s like a light switch being flicked on, and Zoey lights up. Her whole face changes as her eyes begin to sparkle with that electric kind of joy she never bothers to hide. She turns abruptly towards Rumi, limbs unfolding like she’s been hit with a jolt of adrenaline, and grins. “ Of course I want to brush your hair,” she says, voice brimming with something that sounds like glee. “Are you kidding? I love brushing your hair, Little Storm! I literally dream of every time you’ll let me.” 

Rumi blinks as she’s caught between startled and amused. “You’ve dreamt of brushing my hair?” 

Zoey is already up, feet hitting the floor as she moves toward the villa. Her steps are light and quick, like she’s afraid the moment might vanish if she doesn’t act fast. “Don’t make it weird,” she calls over her shoulder with a laugh that bounces around them. “Just let me have this.” 

Rumi watches her go, lips curling into a smile she doesn’t bother to hide this time. She shifts slightly on the cushion, wrapping her arms around her knees, and listens to the soft sounds of Zoey disappearing into the villa - the creak of the door, the soft echo of her footsteps, and the muted clatter of drawers opening and closing. 

It’s all ridiculous. 

It’s intimate. 

It’s Zoey.

And it leaves a warmth blooming quietly in Rumi’s chest. It’s the kind that lingers long after the sunlight fades.

Zoey returns a moment later, a hairbrush in hand. She holds onto it with an iron grip, a smile plastered on her face like she has been waiting all morning for Rumi to ask her to brush her hair. 

Without a word, Zoey settles herself behind Rumi on the wide porch, and her fingers first thread through the soft locks with an almost reverent tenderness. Each strand slips smoothly between her fingers, delicate and light. Zoey then parts the strands of Rumi’s hair with practiced ease. She says nothing the entire time, and a low hum escapes Zoey’s lips. It’s not quite a song, just a soft vibration that seems to blend with the rhythm of the waves. 

“You have fairy strands,” Zoey says softly, brushing through the hair slowly and gently. “Soft and floaty.” 

Rumi’s lips curve in a half-smile, and she chuckles softly. Her body feels heavy but comforted as she feels a calm that comes from knowing someone is there. “Is that a compliment . . . or an insult?” 

Zoey grins without hesitation. “Yes.” 

The brush slides through Rumi’s hair again, strands slipping between Rumi’s fingers like liquid silk. Zoey stares at the strands of hair and says nothing when Rumi leans back just slightly, head tilting to the side, and her eyes half-lidded. Her breath hitches as her heartbeat quickens with a curious flutter in her chest. Yet her body softens, heavy but comforted, and none of them says anything when Rumi’s markings go from dull to a low green .

Zoey’s humming is steady and sure, and Rumi wonders what song it is Zoey is humming. But she never gets to ask as the brushing slows, then pauses as fingers linger before Zoey gently tucks a stray strand behind Rumi’s ear. The touch is fleeting but intimate.

Rumi closes her eyes briefly and lets the moment linger, letting the softness wash over her. The marks shimmer gold and trace the same path Zoey’s finger took before it pulses once throughout Rumi’s body, then settles back to green. 

“Zoey,” Rumi breaks the quiet, her voice low and careful like it doesn’t want to disturb the calm between them. Zoey hums in response, a soft acknowledgment without stopping the slow rhythm of her fingers in Rumi’s hair. “What are fairy strands?” 

Zoey’s fingers hesitate for just a breath, the brush catching lightly before she smooths it through again. “They’re small little hairs that can’t be tucked in,” she says after a moment, her voice softened by memory. “Carefree things, as small as a fairy . . . that’s what my mom used to say, anyway.” 

Rumi tilts her head slightly, letting the words settle around them. She isn’t sure what to say in response, something about the way Zoey’s voice dips at the mention of her mom, how it goes quiet like it’s brushing too close to something private. 

But Zoey doesn’t seem to mind the silence. If anything, she leans into it. Her hands are more focused now, more deliberate, and yet there’s a kind of playfulness in the way she starts parting off sections along Rumi’s temples. She hums softly under her breath as her fingers begin forming small, intricate braids that trail down the sides of Rumi’s head and toward the nape of her neck. 

Rumi glances back, catching Zoey’s face in profile. Her brow is furrowed in intense concentration, lips pursed as if this is some wild creature she’s determined to gentle into softness. Rumi laughs under her breath. 

“What?” Zoey asks, not looking up. 

“Your face,” Rumi says. “You look like this is the hardest thing you’ve ever done.” 

“Excuse you, I’m trying to make you majestic,” Zoey replies, without missing a beat. 

Rumi shakes her head slightly but doesn’t move. The braids tug softly against her scalp. A beat of silence. Then quieter: “What did you mean by ‘Little Storm’?” 

Zoey shrugs, still working. “I mean, you get these little storms in your head when you think too hard.” 

“I wasn’t-” Rumi begins, but Zoey’s hands pause just long enough for Rumi to glance up.

One look. That’s all it takes.

Rumi stops mid-sentence. 

Zoey doesn’t say anything else, and she doesn’t have to. Her gaze softens before she returns to the braids, the thread of unspoken understanding binding the space between them. 

They don’t speak much after that. Zoey resumes her quiet humming. It’s something light and familiar, and Rumi lets her head dip forward just a little. It’s easier to let the silence stretch and to pretend her face isn’t flushed from more than the warmth of the villa. 

The obsession Zoey has with brushing Rumi’s hair is a quiet mystery to everyone. No one really talks about it, but it lingers in the air like a silent question. Mira never comments, though she must have noticed by now. Zoey never offers to brush Mira’s hair, though she does play with it now and then. She sometimes paints Mira's nails instead, or knows the exact snack Mira might need at that moment. It happened once on stage, and everyone was confused when Zoey ran off when she wasn't singing and came back with a glazed donut that Mira gladly ate. Rumi was just grateful that it all occurred during her verse of the song . . . though, she won't admit she was a little jealous, as the donut looked really good.

Rumi supposes it’s just one of those things. A silent arrangement no one names out loud. But when Zoey is behind her, hands gentle as she hums some melody, it feels like an answer Rumi’s just beginning to understand. 

As the morning light starts to spill in, Mira stirs beneath the blankets, and a faint furrow is already creasing her brow before she’s even fully awake. She reaches out instinctively, hand gliding across the sheets. 

Cold.

Her eyes open. 

The spot next to her is empty, rumpled but long vacated, and Mira slowly pushes herself upright. She sits for a moment, shoulders tense, blinking blearily around the room as if expecting Zoey to reappear from behind a chair or out of the bathroom. But the room is still. Quiet. And empty. 

Mira exhales, but it’s not quite annoyed, but not quite worried, just something in between. “Please don’t let her be sleepwalking again,” she mutters under her breath and drags a hand through her hair as she swings her legs off the bed. On the floor, there are some rubber bands, and Mira quickly smooths her hair down before pulling her hair up in its usual two small ponytails.  

Barefoot and silent, Mira walks out of the room, arms loosely folded over her chest for warmth more than modesty. The hallway is still hushed with sleep as Mira passes by Rumi’s room. The door is cracked open, and Mira hesitates mid-step. She pauses, glancing sideways at it

The room is dim but not dark, just touched by the same lazy morning light that woke Mira. From her spot, Mira can see that nothing looks particularly out of place. Not at first glance, at least. The bed is made and the curtains undisturbed, but Mira’s eyes catch on the duffle bag at the foot of the bed. Rumi’s purple duffle bag, a matching set with her suitcase. It’s been half-unzipped, and the faintest, strangest scent floats out into the hallway. Mira leans in slightly. 

“Medicinal?” 

She isn’t sure what it is exactly, only that it’s not a scent she associates with Rumi. It’s sterile and cooling, not like Rumi at all. Rumi smells of jasmine and crushed mint. Occasionally, Mira might describe Rumi’s scent as cool rain on stone. A variety of scents that are made from Rumi’s preference for shampoos, lotions, and soaps. 

Her frown deepens a touch, and her eyes narrow. But before Mira can step closer or even call out, a sound rises from the first floor.

A laugh, bright and familiar, and so Zoey . 

It cuts through the early quiet, and Mira lets out a soft breath, equal parts reluctant amusement and relief because Zoey isn’t sleepwalking. She’s awake and, apparently, she’s with Rumi. 

Mira lingers at the doorway for another second, gaze flicking again to the bag at the foot of the bed . . . but then she exhales and turns away, bare feet brushing lightly against the floor as she heads for the stairs. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even bother to knock to confirm Rumi is indeed downstairs with Zoey - and that Zoey hasn’t finally snapped and is laughing to herself. 

Instead, she makes her way downstairs and goes to the kitchen in silence, letting the clinks of cabinets and mugs give her something else to focus on. It’s always nice to focus on something simple and with a nice smell, but most importantly, something that doesn’t smell like medicine.

Mira steps out onto the porch with a tall glass of freshly squeezed juice in one hand, the condensation beading softly against her skin. Her other hand fumbles briefly with the straw, trying to poke it into the lid as her voice carries casually into the soft morning air. “There’s some juice on the counter,” she says, not looking up yet, her tone neutral. “Freshly squeezed. I’m not sure about breakfast and what everyone wants-” Her sentence cuts off mid-breath because she finally looks up.

And she sees them. 

Zoey’s legs are folded underneath her on the porch cushions, her body leaning comfortably toward Rumi, who sits between her thighs with a stillness Mira has rarely seen in her. Zoey’s fingers are weaving slowly through Rumi’s long hair as she sections off strands with delicate precision. She’s clearly no longer brushing, no longer focused on untangling Rumi’s hair, but she’s careful as she puts together intricate work. 

Rumi’s head is slightly tilted back, her eyes are half-lidded, her spine relaxed, and her shoulders lowered in a way that Mira knows only happens when Rumi feels safe. Rumi’s marks pulse green , calmly settling under her skin. 

Mira doesn’t move. She stands with the glass half-raised and her straw forgotten, along with the conversation, as her eyes lock on the sight in front of her, while the rest of her freezes. 

The porch is quiet, and it’s only then that Zoey notices her. 

“Oh, MiMi! You’re awake!” Zoey grins over her shoulder, her voice bright and warm like always. “Took you long enough. I’m almost done with Rumi’s hair. I want to try putting it in two braids rather than one. Maybe it’ll be less heavy and allow her beta brain to breathe.” There’s no malice or edge, just pure Zoey. 

Mira blinks. The moment snaps, and her lips part slowly. “. . . beta brain?” 

“Well, yeah.” Zoey’s eyes are back on Rumi’s hair, watching her fingers comb gently through another section as she speaks with total ease. “Trust me, as a fellow Beta, I understand how muddled the brain can get. So, I feel for our Pretty Ru. My mom always said tight braids stress the brain. It’s why I cut my hair short.” A pause. “I mean, obviously I won’t cut Rumi’s hair, but I can relieve the tension.” Zoey shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Rumi doesn’t speak. She doesn’t laugh at Zoey’s nonsense like she normally would. Instead, she looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers slowly around one another, like she’s trying to stay grounded. 

Mira’s gaze narrows slightly, flicking between them - Zoey, who is all smiles and sunshine, Rumi, who won’t quite meet her eyes. “. . . right,” Mira says slowly, her voice like a blade wrapped in cotton. “Beta brains. They can get so confusing sometimes.” 

“Sure can!” Zoey chirps, oblivious, and leans in to start the next braid. 

Rumi stays silent, and her fingers are still twisting. 

Mira watches them for another heartbeat, the way they curl in on themselves, and the way Rumi’s body is trying not to shrink under her gaze. When Rumi glances at Mira, Mira narrows her eyes, and Rumi suddenly finds the ocean to be the most interesting thing ever. 

There’s no crime happening. Not really. But something unsettles in Mira’s chest, quiet and sharp. 

“I’m going to check the pantry for food,” she says abruptly. Her voice isn’t cold, but it isn’t warm either. Before anyone can respond, Mira turns on her heels, retreating through the open door with a stiffness in her spine. Her gaze lingers on Rumi for a second more before the screen door clicks shut behind her with more finality than intended. 

Inside, the glass of juice is left untouched on the counter, and Mira stands with her hands braced against the counter, staring blankly at the wall in front of her as the quiet hum of the fridge fills the space. 

Outside, Zoey hums a cheerful tune and keeps braiding, and Rumi tries not to tremble under her touch. 

The abruptness of Mira’s departure sends a flicker through the quiet air. 

Rumi’s brow twitches, but she doesn’t move or look back. Instead, she lets out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding and focuses on Zoey’s fingers that are still weaving through the purple strands of hair. 

“Well, that is a weird way to start the day,” Zoey murmurs without looking up, her voice light but with an edge of bemusement. Rumi didn’t think Zoey was paying all that much attention to Mira. Really, she thought Zoey was just oblivious to any of the tension in Mira's tone.

Neither of them know - or maybe, chooses not to acknowledge - what had Mira so stiff. They have their own ideas, but they aren’t on the same page. Zoey worries that Mira is jealous, that maybe she upset her by not waking her up so the three of them could watch the sunrise. Zoey has done it before and everytime Mira would whine and complain about it being too early and that they can always look up a picture later. But Mira would always join them.

Rumi replays the scene in her head, focusing on how Mira kept looking at her like some puzzle she was close to solving. Rumi just wishes she could figure out what it was Mira was solving. 

Inside, Mira’s thoughts are just as troubled. She now stares down at the kitchen counter and curses quietly. Her senses are usually sharp and precise, but out there, they were muddled, and her usual clarity was clouded by Zoey’s calming presence, by the scent that Betas release that is faint yet so thick. Like a protective fog that can unintentionally hide things. 

The subtle scene changes in Rumi that Mira could faintly detect were buried under Zoey’s. Mira touches her head, feeling a headache forming from forcing herself to focus too hard on picking up on some scent. Any scent. 

“Ughh,” she groans, leaning further onto the cool kitchen counter and laying her head on top. “Why can’t Rumi just communicate!” She quietly yells and her gaze drifts toward the window, watching the slow sway of the trees outside. Her thoughts are a storm, and she rubs at her nose as she can’t quite shake the smell of medicine from her nose. 

Something settles in her stomach, and it’s not jealousy. Never jealous. She knows who Zoey wants, even if Zoey doesn’t. That’ll never be a problem, not when Rumi was all twisting fingers and avoided Mira’s gaze three times too many.

Mira lifts her head and lowers her focus to her glass. She traces the condensation on the side and considers reaching out, just saying something - anything - but the words get tangled and dissolve before they have a chance to form. 

A soft voice cuts through her spiraling thoughts. 

“I thought you were checking the pantry.” Zoey’s voice is light and teasing as she appears in the doorway, eyes sparkling like they always do. “Nothing good in there?” 

Mira blinks and she stares for a moment before managing a faint smile, feeling as the tension eases slightly. “Granola bars, mostly.” She lifts her glass, “But there’s some juice.” 

Zoey grins, and she steps inside. The ease in her movements is a balm to the knot in Mira’s chest, but beneath it all, Mira knows the puzzle pieces are still scattered, and she will figure it out. 

The pantry is surprisingly sparse.

Zoey crouches low as she rifles through the shelves, the wooden floor creaking faintly beneath her knees. “Dang. We really didn’t stock up before coming here, huh?” Her voice is light but drawn out like she’s trying to summon drama to mask her real dismay.

“You made sandwiches the other day. What happened to that stuff?” 

Zoey smiles sheepishly, and Mira rolls her eyes, wishing she were surprised. 

Mira leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and shoulder propped casually against the wood. Her eyes scan the contents of the shelves with a raised brow. “There’s food, technically,” she says dryly. “Just . . . a lot of raw ingredients. You’d have to actually make the food.” 

Zoey groans like she’s been personally wounded and holds up a half-empty bag of rice in both hands, letting it sag sadly between her fingers. “Cooking sounds like work.” 

“Generally, it is,” Mira replies with a faint smirk. 

Zoey sighs and squints at the rice like it might magically turn into a full-course meal if she stares hard enough. “I guess it beats starving,” she finally says. 

Mira smirks again, and her eyes narrow slightly. “Are you feeling alright, Zoey-girl?” 

Zoey blinks up at her, confused. “Huh?” 

“You were really going to cook before suggesting a snack run?” Mira raises a brow and steps closer, pressing the back of her hand to Zoey’s forehead like she’s checking for a fever. Zoey lets her, sitting still for a beat, her eyes wide looking up at Mira in confusion.

There’s a stillness that passes between them. A breath, maybe two, as Zoey focuses on the warmth of Mira’s hand before her brain finally catches up. 

Then Zoey slaps Mira’s hand away with a mock scowl. “Tsk. Life forbid a girl grow.” 

Mira laughs, low and genuine, and takes the rich from her hands. “I suppose we can have rice. I’m sure there’s something we can pair it-” 

“Nope,” Zoey interrupts immediately, straightening to her feet. “We have to buy groceries.” 

Mira doesn’t look up. “You just want to do a snack run disguised as grocery shopping.” 

Zoey flashes a grin so sunny it’s almost blinding. “Hey, there’s no shame in emergency snacks. The world is unpredictable. Rice is eternal. But fruit gummies are an immediate joy.” 

They both laugh effortlessly, but when the laughter fades, something lingers. A silence that doesn’t feel empty. It hums, low and quiet, and alive with something unspoken. 

Zoey turns to toss the bag of rice back into the pantry, her movements casual but a little too quick. Mira’s gaze follows her, quiet and observant. She looks at Zoey’s shoulders and the flick of her hair as it goes over her shoulder. Mira then focuses on the lingering scent of citrus and vanilla bean, and something fainter beneath it all is something Beta-warm that muffles the edge of Mira’s mind. 

“Besides,” Zoey adds, shutting the pantry with a little clap of finality. “We have nothing to pair the rice with. We’ll grab something during our trip.” 

Mira hums in acknowledgment, still watching Zoey. Her arms are still crossed, but her stance has softened, and she doesn’t move from the doorframe. 

For a moment, Zoey opens her mouth like she might say something else, and she takes a step closer. Mira curses the way her stomach flips. Zoey’s eyes lock onto hers, holding the gaze a second too long - curious and searching - before they flick toward the porch door, where Rumi still sits on the steps, back to them. A flicker of something - guilt, maybe some type of realization - crosses Zoey’s face. But when her gaze returns to Mira, that emotion is gone, replaced by quiet confusion, like she’s back to trying to understand something even she doesn’t fully understand yet. Her head tilts slightly. Then, with a sudden burst of brightness, she brushes past Mira and calls, “Let’s leave before I’m forced to consider cooking for real.” 

Mira hesitates before turning her head to watch Zoey. “You’d survive,” she murmurs under her breath.

“Debatable!” Zoey calls from the hall, her voice bouncing lightly against the walls. She stands by the front door, slipping on her shoes. 

Mira stays where she is for a second longer, her eyes on the closed pantry door, before she turns to follow Zoey. 

Just then, the porch door creaks open and Rumi steps in quietly, her eyes flicking between the two of them. She says nothing at first, just standing in the doorway, calm yet present. 

Mira feels the sudden shift in the room, the faintest change in the air, like a current stirring beneath still water. When Rumi was alone with Zoey, the atmosphere was steady, even soothing. But now, with the three of them here, there is an edge Mira can’t quite place as the whisper of something new settles. It was never like this before, and she wonders what’s different this time. 

Mira wonders if she’s the only one noticing this, as Zoey looks oblivious to it all as she now ties her shoes, only looking up to smile at the two of them. 

Rumi’s voice is soft. “Are you two going out for groceries?” 

Zoey nods. “Yup! We need some actual food if we’re meant to survive ‘til Sunday.” 

Rumi nods. “Well, I can help look for what we need, if you’re ok with waiting for 10 minutes for me to get dressed. Maybe we can pick something simple?” She asks, but is talking before either can answer. “Like that stew we all like, the one with the herbs and mushrooms?” 

Zoey’s face lights up. “Yes! It's been too long since we've had that.” 

Mira nods, pushing off the doorframe. “Alright. We’ll wait.” Her gaze flickers to Rumi’s, and Rumi smiles for a moment before looking to Zoey, who hasn’t stopped smiling. 

Zoey and Mira both watch as Rumi goes up the stairs, both their eyes lingering on the visible markings they can see on Rumi, and how they quietly pulse green .

Chapter Text

It's well past sunrise, and the sun has begun to sink behind a veil of slow-moving clouds by the time the group gathers itself into an open-top car. They remember Bobby telling them there’s a marketplace within walking distance from the villa, but Zoey insists on driving. Mira volunteers instead, saying her fingers are itching for something to do. Really, she doesn’t trust Zoey to drive. 

No one argues.

The wind is soft, still carrying the ocean’s salty breath, and Zoey tosses on her sunglasses as she climbs into the backseat, sprawling across the cushions with a dramatic sigh, legs crossed at the ankle like she owns the whole world. She intends to stay that way until Mira flicks her a glare over her shoulder. Zoey huffs, pouting exaggeratedly as she sits up and draws her knees up to her chest.

“That’s not much better.” 

Zoey shrugs. 

Rumi slides into the passenger seat without a word. She’s smiling at their antics, but her focus is on something ahead, and she doesn’t insert herself into the antics. She’s quiet, but the silence feels quieter than it did this morning. Not cold or tense. Just quiet. 

Mira glances at her. Just once.

And Rumi meets it. She doesn’t look away, and her smile only widens. It’s a small smile, but something about it makes Mira feel like she can breathe again, like whatever shifted between them earlier hasn’t been lost.

Zoey’s head suddenly pops into view as she puts it between the two. She looks at them, then asks, “Are you two weirdly flirting again?” 

Mira groans and pushes Zoey back by the forehead. “Get buckled,” she grumbles. 

Zoey flops back into the seat but does as instructed. “I’m just saying. I want to know what I’m rooting for.” 

Mira looks back at the road, and she starts the car up. With both hands on the wheel, she seems to settle into something easier. She still doesn’t know what’s different from before - from the moment on the porch or the unspoken questions Zoey is yet to ask - but she doesn’t need the answers right now. 

Rumi’s looking at her again. 

Zoey’s back to asking her stupid questions. 

And for now, that’s enough. 

The car ride to the store is filled with Zoey’s voice, an easy stream of commentary that flows without needing encouragement. Her tone is sunny and self-assured, the kind of enthusiasm that doesn’t need anyone else to match it. It just carries itself. 

“Ok, hear me out,” she says, legs pulled up in the backseat. “There are too many underrated ice cream flavors, BUT there are too many overrated ice cream flavors.”

“Oh, really?” Mira asks, eyes on the road as she eases them around a wide turn.

“Yeah! You have to admit that mint chip is basically just toothpaste if it doesn’t have those giant chocolate flakes,” she says. “And don’t even get me started on rocky road. Who said marshmallows belong in ice cream? Criminal behavior.” 

Mira keeps her eyes on the road, but the faint flicker of a smirk tugs at her lips. She hums, amused. “You complain about every flavor until you’re eating it.” 

“That’s not true,” Zoey replies, scandalized. “I have a very refined palate. I’ve trained it! This is years of research. I’m practically a sommelier of frozen dairy.” 

Rumi makes a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Your palate training goes through our ice cream way too fast.” 

Mira snorts under her breath. 

The sun flashes through branches of the trees as they drive along an oceanside cliff, light splintering through green. Zoey twists herself sideways in the backseat, cheek smushed lazily against the vinyl as she watches the coastline disappear behind them. “I heard that vanilla bean is back in stock at that new ice cream place,” Zoey adds dreamily. “The one with the weird hand-churned gelato. The texture is like . . . cloud foam. But edible.” 

Neither Mira nor Rumi responds, and Zoey doesn’t seem to notice as she’s already onto her next thought. 

“Oh, and we should check for cherry blossom mochi bites. Rumi says she hates them, but I swear I saw her eat, like, five at once on that one tour night.” 

Rumi’s ears tint the softest pink.

Zoey grins, victorious. “So, I feel like she’s lying.” 

Rumi says nothing, instead putting her cheek in the palm of her hand and staring at the trees as they pass by. 

Zoey stretches again. “Anyway, about underrated ice cream, I think vanilla bean doesn’t get the love it deserves.” 

“Vanilla bean?” Mira arches an eyebrow. 

“It’s elite!” Zoey insists. She unbuckles herself and slides over to the other side of the backseat so she can watch the trees on that side. “That’s why we have to stop by that one store. It just happens to be back in stock when we’re in town. It’s fate, Mira.” 

Mira taps her fingers against the steering wheel. “Maybe it is,” she says, her voice quiet but touched with humor. 

Rumi chimes back in. “Didn’t you use that fate line for that mango mochi as well?” 

“I did, and I stand by it. Mango mochi was a spiritual experience.” 

By the time they pull into the grocery store parking lot, Zoey has looped through the virtues of pistachio, the inferiority of store-brand cones, and a five-minute debate with herself over whether gelato actually counts as ice cream. 

“Alright, get out of the car,” Mira says, interrupting her newest rant and already stepping out, arms stretched out above her. 

Rumi follows suit. She walks around to Mira’s side, her hoodie in one hand. Mira looks at the clothing item, then says nothing as she reaches out, takes the hoodie, and pulls the soft fabric gently over Rumi’s head, then tugs the hood down to shield her from the hot sun. 

Zoey skips towards them with all the subtlety of a small parade, then grabs the hoodie’s drawstrings and gives them a playful tug, tightening the hood too much and making Rumi’s cheeks puff out from under the fabric. 

“Zoey-” Rumi starts, unamused. 

“I’m just helping you stay mysterious,” Zoey says innocently. 

Rumi sighs, exasperated but not truly annoyed. Mira, standing next to her, reaches out without thinking to loosen the hood slightly. And that’s when she notices it - the scent of jasmine and crushed mint, soft but distinctly present. It’s Rumi’s scent, always has been, but right now it’s stronger . More awake. It pulls at Mira’s attention, lingers in her senses like it doesn’t want to be ignored. Like it’s purposely loud and present. 

Mira doesn’t comment on it, and she lets her fingers fall away, brushes a bit of lint from Rumi’s shoulder, quietly and familiarly. 

Zoey, already halfway to the store doors, calls back, “Let’s go, weirdos! You’re flirting can wait, but fate and frozen dairy can not!” 

Rumi glances at Mira. 

Mira just sighs. “We'd better go before she buys every flavor we don’t like out of spite.” 

They follow after her.

Inside, the store is cool and brightly lit, the harsh LED lights softened only by the warm colors of polished wood shelves and pastel signage. Indie music hovers overhead, soft vocals twining with lazy guitars. A cardboard cutout of a grinning dog wearing sunglasses greets them at the door like a local mascot. 

Zoey’s narration hasn’t stopped - not for the mascot, not for the cold air, not even for the grocery cart Mira wordlessly grabs when it’s pushed toward her. “No one talks about guava,” Zoey says, hopping onto the side of the cart with practiced ease. “It’s the underdog of fruits. The silent, mysterious type.” 

Mira sighs but doesn’t argue. Rumi takes the other side of the cart and walks alongside it, scanning the shelves as they pass. Her movements are quiet, but there’s a presence to them, something calm and sharp. Her eyes flick from one label to the next, a subtle crease forming in her brow when she compares prices or ingredients. Her markings go from dull to blue for second before settling on green that pulses quietly along her entire body. 

“Ooh, canned lychee,” Zoey gasps. “We should make cocktails. Or a cursed fruit salad. Or a cursed cocktail fruit salad.” 

Rumi glances behind them as if she felt someone’s eyes just a second ago. Her posture straightens slightly. 

“You just want to say ‘cursed cocktail fruit salad’ five times fast,” Mira says flatly. 

“And I will ,” Zoey responds, grinning. 

They let her ramble, as usual. It’s easy and familiar. Zoey fills the air in a way that gives space instead of taking it. They drop vegetables into the cart without much debate, Mira carefully inspecting each item while Rumi offers practical suggestions: tofu or mushrooms, broth or coconut milk. Mira’s mind keeps slipping elsewhere, though, back to the flicker of Rumi’s over the last few days. The pulse of the green this morning and the way the air had seemed to ripple, just for a second. 

She shakes the thoughts off. 

They pass an endcap display of mismatched clearance items, and all three of them collectively wrinkle their noses. None of them says anything, but it’s clear they remember exactly what happened the last time Zoey insisted they try a boxed “spicy mushroom miso smoothie.” 

“Never again,” Rumi murmurs under her breath, and Mira nods in agreement. 

Zoey leans back on her heels, her hands gripping the rail like she’s about to trust-fall. Mira casually reaches out and steadies the cart before it tips too far. She doesn’t comment, and Zoey grins like she’d expected it. 

“Hey,” Mira says without looking at her. “Put your hat on properly.” 

Zoey whines. “But my hair’s down. People look for me with two buns, not hair down.” 

“They’ll look for you when you fall off the cart and take the ramen display with you,” Rumi mutters, squinting at a can of soup. The faintest shimmer of opal glints along her collarbone.

“Touché,” Zoey adjusts her hat, pulling it low over her forehead and tossing her hair over her shoulder like a drama queen. 

Rumi holds up two soup cans. “Chicken miso or lemongrass curry?” 

Mira glances between them. “How spicy is the curry?” 

Rumi shrugs slightly. “I don’t know . . . enough to clear your sinuses?” 

“That one,” Zoey perks up. 

They keep moving. 

There’s a pause in Zoey’s narration as they round a corner and enter the frozen section. The freezer wall stretches in front of them like a glittering cathedral. Row after row of pints, half-gallons, and single-serving cups stacked with precision. Foil lids gleam under the lights. 

Zoey stops talking entirely, which is suspicious. “Look,” she whispers, eyes wide. “Look how much ice cream there is!” She walks ahead of them in awe, dragging her fingertips across the chilled glass doors. “This . . . this is heaven. This is where I want to be buried.” 

But before Zoey can properly explore, they hear it: a quiet gasp. The kind that tries to hide itself. Mira’s gaze shifts, and she sees them, three girls entering from the other end of the aisle. One of them wears a faded hoodie from their last tour. Another’s cap has Rumi’s stylized logo stitched on the side. 

Zoey notices them as well. She turns and smiles, casual and warm, like this is nothing new. “Hi,” she offers cheerfully and looks back at the ice cream a second later. 

The girls light up but don’t squeal or rush. They linger for a second, phones still at their sides. Not recording. Not yet. One of them, maybe early college-age, steps forward slightly. “Excuse me . . . are you-?”

Zoey tilts her head. “Maybe. Depends. Are you cool?” 

The girls laugh, already nodding. 

“We just wanted to say hi. You guys are amazing,” one of them says, voice soft with awe. 

“Thank you,” Mira says with her usual calm, polite, but measured voice. 

Rumi offers a small, grateful smile.

Zoey practically beams. “We’re just grabbing essentials,” she says, holding up a pint of rocky road ice cream. “For survival.” Rumi gives her a slow side-eye. Zoey meets it without fear. 

The fans ask what they’re doing in town, nothing invasive, just curious. Mira’s about to brush it off when Zoey jumps in first. 

“Oh, we’re just laying low,” she says easily. “Sleeping, eating, trying not to get sunburned. Very glamorous stuff.” 

The girls laugh again, more relaxed now.

They pose for a quick photo, standing side by side in front of the freezer wall. Mira stands slightly behind Zoey and Rumi, her eyes flicking toward the edge of the aisle every so often, still cautious. She has a hand on Rumi’s shoulder and the other on Zoey’s lower back. Rumi’s shoulder is brushing Zoey’s, but she doesn’t move away. 

As Zoey subtly leans into Mira’s touch, there’s a faint pulse of color along Rumi’s lower spine - deep navy but it’s gone before it can fully surface as gold shimmers everywhere her friends touch her. None of them react to it, ignoring it like they always do, but they notice. 

Rumi notices. 

When the girls leave, the silence that follows is oddly comfortable. 

Zoey lets out a breath and nudges Mira with her elbow. “See? That wasn’t terrible.” 

Mira hums in agreement, already focused back on the freezer shelves. “You trashed Rocky Road earlier,” Mira points out.

Zoey freezes and looks down. In her hand is a pint of rocky road. She looks at it, then back at Mira. “Ok, first of all, betrayal. Second of all, this was a prop.” 

Rumi snorts softly, and Mira looks like she’s trying very hard not to smile. 

Zoey moves over to where Rumi is standing now, eyes narrowed at a row of pink colored pints. She picks one up, squints at the label like it has personally wronged her. Zoey sneaks into the space between the shelves and Rumi, delicately placing the rocky road on the shelves. She then turns to Rumi and takes the ice cream, reading the bright and colorful label: strawberry shortcake. Not bad.

“So, tell me the truth,” Zoey says, still holding the pint. “Are you going to judge me for choosing strawberry shortcake?” 

“Always,” Rumi says immediately. 

Zoey grins. “Good.” She slides the pint into the cart, then straightens and turns to Rumi. “You get to choose the last flavor.” 

Rumi pauses. Then, wordlessly, she points to the vanilla bean. 

Zoey’s smile lights up like a sunrise. “Finally, someone with taste.”

Mira glances at Rumi, and for a moment, her expression softens, and it stays that way when she looks at Zoey, who has now situated herself back on the cart’s side. Mira exhales, leans on the cart, and murmurs, “We should get moving before Zoey decides we need mochi in twelve different flavors.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” Zoey sings. 

And just like that, they’re moving again.

- - -

The villa door creaks open, and Mira steps in first, a paper bag in one hand and her phone tucked under her arm. Zoey follows behind, arms full of ice cream, while she hums some jingle she made up in the car. Rumi and Mira know Zoey will spend hours writing lyrics when they get back to the penthouse. They both noticed Zoey tapping her thigh in some random rhythm back in the car. 

They kick their shoes off lazily by the door, and Zoey goes to close the door, only to pause. “Where-” 

Next to the door, Rumi has perched herself on the steps. Her shoulders are hunched slightly forward, and her arms limp in her lap. The sun is on its way toward a sunset, but it still blazes hot.

Zoey frowns. “She is going to fry out there.” She pads across the kitchen, abandons the groceries, and goes back outside. “You’re gonna get sunburned, dummy,” Zoey calls as she steps toward Rumi. “Do your magic markings get burnt too, or are they SPF-rated?” 

No answer. 

Rumi doesn’t even blink. 

Zoey tilts her head, concerned now. Her voice softens, “Rumi?” She crosses over to Rumi and drops to her knees quietly. Without thinking, Zoey moves behind Rumi - arms lifting, casually, as if drawn by instinct. Like she has done this a hundred times before. 

And then she hugs her. Wraps her arms gently around Rumi’s shoulders from behind. Just like that. Simple . . . yet Rumi flinches.

She doesn’t flinch sharply or dramatically, but her whole body jolts, spine pulled taut like a struck chord. Her breath leaves her in a short, startled gasp. Zoey fails to notice the way Rumi’s body brightly flashes gold,  then simmers into pink . 

Zoey freezes, her brows knit in immediate concern. “Hey,” she murmurs, “What was-” 

Rumi’s mouth opens slightly, and her voice comes out hoarse and uneven. “Sorry,” she says and thinks of something to say. She can’t possibly say Zoey’s touch has her skin feeling on fire or that a new feeling sits in her lower abdomen, burning and churning, calling out for something Rumi can’t give it. So, she settles on this: “Your scent just . . . hit weird.” Not a complete lie. Not a nice lie. 

Zoey blinks, and she pulls back slightly. “Wait, do I smell ?!” She sniffs her hoodie, then her arm, then her underarm. “Oh my god. Is it the onion chips I ate in the car? I knew Mira was judging me.” 

Rumi shakes her head quickly. “No, no. It’s not- it’s just-” She swallows as the hum under skin becomes more aggressive and she counts how many hours it has been since she last took her pill. Two. Only two hours, they hadn’t been gone from the villa for that long. “I’m just tired,” she lies. 

Zoey frowns, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she eases back and moves to Rumi’s side, nudging her shoulder gently with her own. “You always say that when you’re being weird,” she says quietly. “And then you go upstairs and disappear for the rest of the day. You promised to play games with us tonight, remember?” 

Rumi looks at her, really looks at her, her eyes still a little glassy. Then, she nods. “I remember.” 

Zoey gives a soft hum of approval, leans in, and - before Rumi can think to move away - presses a quick, casual kiss to her cheek. Friendly, warm, and familiar. Her eyes focus on the spot for a second, and it seems Zoey may pull back, but she kisses Rumi again, lingering for a second longer than needed. 

The second Zoey’s lips make contact, the markings along Rumi’s cheek, neck, and shoulder light up. It’s a sudden pulse of color, gold that is radiant yet soft as veins of light draw under her skin. It’s not something Rumi can easily deny, and it glows with something too pure to be anything but instinctive. The color glows only where Zoey has touched Rumi, like the warmth of her presence left a trail the body can’t hide. 

Rumi’s breath catches again. 

Zoey pulls back, grinning and unaware. She then stands and goes back inside without waiting for a reply. 

Rumi stays frozen.

The gold slowly dims and sink back beneath the surface, but other shades come alive. They don’t travel her whole body or pulse with her heartbeat. A shimmer of violet beneath the curve of her ribs, a whisper of pink at her throat and along her hips, settling at her inner thighs, and a faint flicker of silver at her wrists. 

But the gold is the strongest where Zoey had touched her, it still hasn’t fully faded. 

Rumi stares down at her hands, chest tight and buzzing. Like her skin doesn’t quite belong to her anymore. Like everything inside is being lit from two directions at once. Instinct and fear. Longing and control. 

Behind her, there’s the faint sound of feet shuffling along the floor. Rumi turns in time to see Mira retreating inside, the door clicking shut softly behind her. She walks with her usual casual grace, a smile on her face as she helps Zoey put the groceries away but something eats at Rumi and Rumi wonders if Mira had been watching her, and if so, how long. 

There’s a quiet laugh as Zoey responds to something Mira said. Their voices spill out of the villa easily, traveling through the open windows. 

Rumi sits for a second more as her skin still hasn’t stopped humming.

Mira easily slips into conversation with Zoey. It’s always easy with Zoey. Her rhythm is predictable in a comforting way, like background music someone never has to think about but finds themselves humming along anyway. Somehow, the topic circles back to ice cream - again. 

Zoey leans against the fridge, one foot hooked behind the other, tossing names like she’s testing Mira’s taste buds . . . or patience. “Butter pecan.” 

“No.” 

“Cookies and cream.” 

Mira tilts her head. “Rrm, maybe.” 

“Chocolate fudge brownie?” Zoey wiggles her brows like it’s a dare. 

Mira squints. “Too much going on.” 

“I agree with you there. Huckleberry?”

Mira immediately wrinkles her nose. “Hell no.” 

Zoey laughs like she expected the answer and just wanted to hear it said out loud. The game continues. It’s easy and familiar, their banter like a language only the group has mastered. 

Mira tosses a snack wrapped in the trash, then leans against the counter, watching absently as Zoey rummages for a bowl. For a moment, the air between them quiets - not tense, but quieter. Mira’s thoughts drift, uninvited, back to the porch. To Zoey and Rumi. 

Mira had seen it. Both kisses. The first was quick and careless, a joke - or played off as one. The second was slower, a touch softer, and Mira had caught the flash of something behind Zoey’s eyes as she turned back inside. It was unguarded and unfamiliar . . . too real .

Mira hadn’t said anything then, hadn’t even made a sound, but she stayed in the doorway instead. She stood there unmoving, only stepping back to let Zoey in, and watched as Zoey disappeared into the kitchen with Zoey’s fingers brushing her own lips like she was trying to memorize the moment. She thought of the moment and how Rumi’s marks had lit up, seeming to react to something Mira didn’t know how to name. 

“-Mira.” 

Her head snaps up. “Huh?” 

Zoey’s holding her bowl of ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other, brow raised. “I asked what board game you wanted to play.” There’s a pause. Though Zoey's voice is casual, Mira catches the sliver of concern beneath it. “Are you feeling alright?” 

Mira straightens slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, I was just thinking.” Zoey narrows her eyes like she might press further, but Mira rolls a shoulder in a shrug and shifts the subject. “I don’t really care what games we play. Why don’t you grab Rumi, and we can all decide together?” She steps forward and gently takes the spoon from Zoey’s hand, dipping it into the ice cream without waiting. She takes a bite, deliberately calm. 

Zoey doesn’t move at first as she can only watch Mira. 

And Mira watches back. There’s a flash of something in Zoey’s gaze again, a heat that Mira recognizes but also curiosity and conflict, but it’s fleeting and gone by the time Mira raises a brow at the lingering.

“Right. Games,” Zoey says, voice a little too loud for the quiet room. She steps back, but it takes a moment too long for her to turn. Her expression is unreadable as there’s something Zoey’s not saying. Then Zoey leaves the kitchen.

Mira exhales slowly and takes another bite of ice cream, and this time, she’s not tasting any of it. Which is probably good, as Zoey chose the worst flavor one can - strawberry shortcake.

- - -

By late evening, the group has settled into the sunken living room. Zoey has put on a playlist, and it hums low in the background, upbeat and vaguely retro. Mira and Rumi are unfamiliar with most of the songs, and Zoey says it was something she made when she lived in the States for a while. 

On the living floor, chaos has taken root. 

“Ok, ok, hold on,” Zoey says, her hair falling over her shoulders and her cheeks flushed with laughter. “New rule: if you talk in a British accent, you gain immunity for one round.”

“That’s not a rule,” Mira says flatly from her spot on the couch, arms crossed. She called the game stupid when they started, yet she’s the most serious about it. Something both Rumi and Zoey find funny. 

“It is now!” Zoey declares and flops onto the rug, lying on her stomach, and thumps her fists once like she’s declaring war. “It’s a foundational rule. It brings class to this establishment.”

“We’re in a villa,” Rumi says from her perch on the edge of an armchair. “You spilled mango soda on the throw pillows.”

“Class,” Zoey repeats and then, in a terrible British accent, adds, “top-tier.” 

Mira shakes her head, but her lips twitch. 

Cards are scattered everywhere. There’s a half-shuffled deck near the couch’s foot, UNO cards mixed with standard playing ones that have been abandoned under the coffee table, a hand-drawn gameboard in marker that Zoey sketched on the back of a cereal box an hour ago. Then a smaller whiteboard propped on the table tracks imaginary points - Zoey: 600, Mira: 400, Rumi: ???

Zoey’s legs swing lazily in the air as she marks her own score again with a triumphant flourish. “I win. Again.” 

“You added thirty-two points for naming a dog breed,” Mira points out. 

“And it was a very specific breed,” Zoey says, smug. “Have you ever seen a Mudi? That’s worth at least thirty.” 

Rumi makes a small noise that might be a laugh. She hasn’t moved much since settling onto the armchair. Her arms are folded loosely across her stomach and her eyes are warm, watching and amused. 

The moment is light and easy. The kind of moment Mira doesn’t realize she’s breathing easier in until she catches herself leaning back into the couch, legs stretched out in front of her, and no tension in her jaw.

But then Mira catches it again - the scent. 

It’s faint. Softer than before, but insistent. There’s the usual scents - jasmine with crushed mint and citrus and vanilla bean - but present in the space between is something else. 

Rumi shifts slightly, and the scent pulses for half a second, like heat off a sun-drenched road. Mira doesn’t visibly react, but her focus sharpens instinctively, eyes glancing over to Rumi’s profile. The markings along Rumi’s throat are dim, calm blue , but there’s something under it . . . a pink .

Zoey rolls over to Mira and dramatically throws her arms across Mira’s legs. “Protect me from Rumi’s cold judgment. She’s not even trying to win!” 

“I’m winning in silence,” Rumi replies, deadpan, eyes having tracked Zoey’s movement. 

Zoey goes quiet for a second, then mutters, “Hot,” and Mira smacks her lightly with a cushion. Zoey then sits up slowly and looks between the two for a moment before announcing, “Ok. New game. Lightning questions. No thinking. Just answer.” 

“No,” Mira answers immediately.

“Yes,” Zoey insists, spinning to face Rumi. “Ready?” 

Rumi nods. “Go on.” 

“First kiss?” 

Rumi feels they should already know this stuff about one another. Surely, she has talked about it once before. She blinks, looking at Mira as Mira chokes on a sip of water. “High school,” she finally answers. “Choir girl. She tasted like cinnamon gum.” 

Zoey lets out a delighted gasp. “Mira! You’re next!” 

Mira glares. “Not happening.” 

“Cowardice!” Zoey declares and hits Mira with the same cushion from before. 

The room explodes into laughter again. It’s easy and bright, completely them, but under it, Mira’s thoughts are racing, and Zoey glances between them again as her laughter softens. 

“Ok, ok. Mira’s turn because she’s not escaping so easily. Still a lightning round. No evasion.” 

“I never agreed to play this,” Mira mutters, intending to tease more but the scent hits her again. It’s not the shampoos and lotions that she’s used to, but something else. Kind of like sugar caramelizing too fast, a kind of sweetness that curls strangely at the edge. It vanishes as quickly as it arrives.

Zoey throws a pillow. “Come on, you’re dodging! Favorite cartoon- GO!”

“Pass,” Mira says automatically, but her nose twitches and her eyes cut sideways to Rumi, who’s now leaning sideways into the armchair, still perched on the edge, ankles crossed. She wonders if she’s seeing this or if Rumi does indeed have sweat on her temples.

“Miraa,” Zoey groans. “You suck at this.” 

“I was raised without television,” Mira says smoothly, still watching Rumi. There’s something - no, someone giving off a scent in the room. 

Zoey groans. “Ugh. You’re worse than RuRu during sugar bans.”

But Mira isn’t listening. She looks at Rumi again, who is now half curled, eyes lidded, with her cheek propped in her palm. Her shoulders rise and fall too slowly. On her neck, there’s a flicker of color - pink . It’s gone in a blink. 

“Ok, Rumi,” Zoey shifts gears. “Weirdest injury you’ve had?” 

Rumi opens her mouth. Closes it. Her hand subtly presses to her stomach. “Uh. I broke a toe during a live taping. Tripped on confetti.” 

Mira blinks. She’s lying. 

The scent returns, stronger this time, and Mira feels her pulse stutter. 

“Mira,” Zoey prods again, “If you’re gonna sulk, at least do it while answering. What is your dream vacation spot? Go.” 

Mira blinks. “. . . mountains.” Her skin feels like it is getting warm, and her jaw tightens. “Rumi-” she tries, but no one hears her. 

Rumi shifts again and softly groans under her breath. 

Then it hits . 

A pulse through the room. 

Like a pressure wave. Mira feels it before she sees it: the scent thickens, heady and cloying, like steam laced with sugar and tension. 

Then- color .

Rumi’s marking flare - a split-second bloom of pink , then crimson , a deep burst of violet , gold shimmering underneath, amber trying to hold it together - and then black . Just for a second. It sears up her spine like a warning flare. 

Rumi’s body jolts forward, and she gasps, doubling slightly and clutching at her stomach like something ignited deep inside. Her face twists, not in pain exactly, but in pressure and an overwhelming feeling. Her breath hiccups, and she barely catches herself before she can fall off the armchair. Her nails bite into the fabric, and her whole body tightens.

Rumi inhales sharply, and it sounds like she’s trying not to gasp. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, hard enough that Mira hears it.

“Rumi!” Zoey shoots up, rushing toward her, pure panic in her voice. But as she does, she releases a burst of her own pheromones - a Beta’s emergency instinct to calm, to smother the air like fog.

It floods the room invisibly, and the sweetness dims. The scent dulls. Mira gasps faintly because her body was about to place it. The piece was about to click into place, and now it’s gone. But her mind seems to clear, ridding itself of whatever instinct was trying to claw its way to the top. 

Zoey isn’t aware of what she did, but she doesn’t seem to care as she crouches next to Rumi, frantic. “Hey, hey- what’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

Rumi swallows, eyes glazed. She can barely lift her head, and her markings continue to pulse, still faintly pink , but laced with violet and red , sparks of gold fighting to stay. Her breath stammers out in uneven waves. “I- I’m just tired,” she says. 

Zoey places a hand on her shoulder, and the markings flare pink , then gold . “You sure? You kinda- uh- well, you kind of folded in half, Rumi.” 

“I need to lie down.” Rumi’s voice is low and fragile. She gets to her feet with effort, legs shaky. 

Zoey starts to rise again, but Mira grabs her wrist, stopping her. “Let her,” she says. Her voice is low, but Zoey doesn’t question it. 

Zoey looks at Mira. Mira’s face is flushed , and her pupils are still wide. Her lips are parted slightly, and Zoey notices a tremor in her jaw. “Are you okay?” Zoey asks slowly, brows furrowing. How did they all go from laughing over games and snacks to Rumi looking like she might throw up and Mira like a tomato?

Mira doesn’t respond. Her brain has started to clear out, but there’s still some fog. She swallows hard and watches as Rumi disappears up the stairs. 

Silence settles. 

Zoey sits back now, still frowning. She doesn’t say anything, not yet, but the look she shoots Mira says everything:

You’re acting weird. 

Chapter Text

Zoey isn’t sure what to say. 

She’s still crouched near where Rumi had been, one hand resting on the edge of the armchair like she might need to ground herself. The living room is dim now, shadows seem to stretch longer, and the room doesn’t feel quite as warm anymore. The music keeps playing, some indie song with a hollow kind of ache in its melody, and Zoey blinks like she’s just now realizing it’s still on. 

Near her, Mira sits quietly. Her arms rest loosely in her lap, but there’s tension in her shoulders and breath held in her body. She hasn’t looked at Zoey since Rumi left the room - since telling Zoey to let Rumi leave the room. 

“. . .” Zoey slowly looks at Mira, then the stairs, then back at Mira. The look on her face is cautious, careful, with a frown creased between her brows, jaw set in thought. There’s no anger, maybe some confusion, but something sharper than concern. “I- I know you didn’t answer, but I have to ask. Are you okay?” She asks this again, quieter this time. Not teasing. Not even gently prodding for some answer to the thousands of questions in her mind. Just . . . asking. 

Mira doesn’t answer. She finally meets Zoey’s gaze, but only for a second, then looks past her, toward the stairs. Something flickers across her face, unreadable. Then she says, too calmly, “I’m going to bed,” she says, voice even and measured, not wavering, but her throat is tight around her words, like they scraped against something raw on the way out. 

Zoey straightens up slowly. “Mira-”

“I’m fine.” Mira’s voice is even. Not cold, but closed. “I’ll see you in the morning, Zoey.” Mira doesn’t offer anything else, not an explanation or a chance for Zoey to say anything more. 

Zoey doesn’t stop her. She stands up slowly and watches Mira, eyes locked on Mira’s retreating back as she walks across the room. Her steps are measured, almost too measured, like she’s trying not to trip over something invisible. Like her legs don’t quite belong to her yet. 

Mira pauses at the base of the stairs - only for a second - then she goes up them. The stairs creak once beneath her weight, then silence. 

Zoey stays frozen in the center of the living room. 

The music keeps playing, some line about ghosts and empty rooms drifts through the speakers, and Zoey swears the whole air is colder now. The music continues, and it changes to a new song as a woman’s voice, soft and lonely, sings something about time slipping through her fingers and how love doesn’t always hold. 

Zoey exhales hard through her nose, almost like a laugh, but not quite. “Okay, no,” she mutters, voice brittle, and crosses the room. She walks to the speaker where her phone sits beside it, and grabs her phone. The click as she cuts the music is sharper than it needs to be - like slamming a door just to hear it shut. 

Silence crashes into the room like a wave. Heavy and hollow. It presses into her ears, too loud in its absence, and Zoey almost turns the music back on, if only to fill the ache it left behind. 

Instead, she stands there, phone in hand, staring at her screen - a photo of the three of them crammed into frame, grinning, sunlit, and warm. Mira has her arm around Rumi’s shoulders, Rumi’s cheeks are pink from laughing, and Zoey’s eyes are squinted because of a smile too wide for her face. 

She stares until the screen dims, then fades to black. The moment disappears, swallowed by her own reflection in her phone. 

And she is alone in a room that suddenly feels too big, too empty, and too cold to belong to any of them. 

The rug is still messy, with cards and soda cans scattered around. The cereal box board game lies face down now, forgotten. The throw pillows are scattered from all the earlier laughter, proof that there was laughter, not long ago. But that’s all gone now, no longer feeling the same. 

Not after Rumi just fled up the stairs like her own body was betraying her. 

Not after Mira looked like she was on the edge of something she didn’t want anyone to name. 

Especially not with Zoey left to stand there in the silence they left behind. 

Zoey rubs her hands together, presses her thumbs to her temples like maybe she can massage out the confusion that’s starting to settle behind her eyes.  

She exhales slowly. “What is wrong with you guys?” She mutters to no one, her voice dry and cracking slightly at the edge. “Why can’t either of you just . . . talk?” 

No one answers. No one’s left. 

Zoey looks around the room once more. She looks at the armchair where Rumi curled up and at the couch where Mira sat flushed and shaking. And suddenly Zoey feels the weight of the earlier laughter fading out of the furniture like steam from a cooling bath. 

She sits on the edge of the couch and stays there, elbows on her knees, and head in her hands. She suddenly feels like a teenager again, sitting in her house that was now empty as her parents packed their stuff up to move once again. Only this time, somehow, she feels emptier and more confused than before. 

Her arms wrap around herself. Not for warmth, just for something.

A flicker of frustration nips at her ribs. Not angry, not really, just . . . sad. Hurt. Like they won’t let her carry any of it, and she would , if they’d just ask. 

She stares at the stairs again, but no one comes back down. 

“I’m right here, you know,” she whispers. “I’ve been here. Why can’t either of you just rely on me?” 

But the room doesn’t answer, and the breeze continues to blow through the open windows, soft and indifferent. 

Mira climbs the stairs slowly. Her limbs feel too heavy, her head tight like something is coiled behind her temples, waiting to snap. Every step feels a fraction too loud in the quiet. 

The hall is dim, lit only by the ambient glow of a night light left on near the stairs. The scent of saltwater clings to the walls. Mira’s feet move on instinct, right past the first two doors, down the short stretch of hallway. 

She pauses outside Rumi’s room. The door is cracked open. 

Empty. 

The bed is untouched, the blanket still half-folded the way Rumi always leaves it. A glass of water sweats quietly on the nightstand, untouched. No sign of movement, or soft breathing, or presence at all. 

Mira stares a beat longer than necessary and then pulls back. She tells herself it’s probably for the best. That if Rumi had been there, if they had seen each other again this soon, Mira doesn’t know what she would’ve done. Said. Smelled . 

If Zoey hadn’t released her Beta pheromones downstairs, Mira’s body might have reacted before her mind had the chance to catch up. 

She swallows hard. She doesn’t want to think about it. 

Her pulse is not right. It’s not exactly wild, but it’s not calm either. Her jaw is tight, and her chest is tight. And there’s a heat behind her eyes that won’t cool, along with tension that almost makes her eyes feel like they’re throbbing. Her Alpha instincts, already dulled thanks to Zoey’s unwitting calming pheromones, are not tugging at her again like a leash with too much slack. Her bones ache with restraint, and her skin still remembers that heatwave of scent, of color, that rippled off Rumi like a flare going off in a storm. 

Mira shakes her head sharply, and she heads into the room she’s sharing with Zoey. 

It’s a mess. As usual. 

One of Zoey’s sweatshirts is draped over the foot of the bed, and there’s a stray sock halfway up the wall from whatever chaos happened during the last wardrobe crisis. Mira doesn’t care. She yanks the sweatshirt off the bed and chucks it to the floor, along with a crumpled shirt, then faceplants into the mattress. 

The sheets are still warm from the earlier sun, and Mira’s nose brushes against Zoey’s pillow. Citrus and vanilla bean, and a faint trace of white tea. Mira lets her eyes close. 

Her instincts, though quieter now, still hum.

They hum in her blood, in her breath.

They hum in memory. 

Because when she closes her eyes, Mira sees Rumi - shivering, the sweat shining at her hairline, the way her breath hitched like she couldn’t find her place in her own body. The way her marking lit up like a storm system beneath her skin and the soft curve of her back as she folded in on herself - not in pain exactly, but pressure. Some overwhelming need that was overheating from the inside out. 

Mira groans softly into the mattress, then rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling like it might have answers. 

The room is too quiet. 

The air has grown thick again, and her heart taps at her ribs. Every scene replays in perfect, agonizing detail.

She replays it all.

The tension.

The smells.

The colors.

The way Rumi has been reacting to contact, how touch makes her flinch or freeze or tremble.

The way her body pulses with something she’s clearly trying to hide.

The lie about the injury and the sudden exhaustion.

The bursts of gold and violet and black . 

Something isn’t right with Rumi. No, something hasn’t been right with Rumi for days. Maybe longer. 

Her hand curls into the blanket at her side, a tension there she doesn’t know how to soothe. And then, like her brain finally dares to name the shape her instincts have been circling, Mira’s eyes narrow. “She can’t be,” she whispers into the quiet, but she’s already sitting up. A whisper of a thought forms as her gaze lands on the wall in front of her, unfocused, but sharp.

Something in Mira’s posture has shifted as she sits still. Very still. “An Omega?” 

The word tastes strange in her mouth. Like the very idea is unlikely, impossible, and yet-

Her breath comes a little faster because suddenly, things aren’t just strange anymore. They’re starting to make sense, but some part of her tells her no. That Rumi wouldn’t hide such a thing. Not after Rumi promised,  she told them the truth after she came to them shivering and sweating, smiling like she was fine, as she confirmed she was a demon. Not after Rumi stared at Zoey and Mira, like she was preparing for them to run, but Mira had reached for her then. She’d said “that doesn’t change anything,” and Rumi had looked relieved, like all of it had been said and everything out in the open. 

But now this-

“No, she promised.” Mira’s chest tightens and she feels it in her throat, in her jaw, in her heart - like betrayal, except worse. Because it’s not all anger. It’s fear. 

Fear for Rumi. 

For how long she’s been hiding this. 

For how much longer she might try. 

Mira’s hand curls in her lap. “She can’t be,” she says aloud like that might make it true. Her gaze sharpens, and she curses the way it all makes sense. “Omega.” 

The word hangs in the air, heavier than it should be, and Mira tastes it in her mouth, hating how it all fits too well.

And suddenly, every lie Rumi told, every half-smile, every shiver, every sharp inhale she tried to swallow - every color Mira saw flash beneath her skin-

It all crashes into place like puzzle pieces that have been there all along, just turned the wrong way. And Mira’s breath leaves her like a punch to the ribs, because the thing that terrifies her most isn’t that Rumi is an Omega. It’s the thought that Rumi never told her. That she might have never intended to. That she was going to face this - alone. 

“Rumi is an Omega.” 

And Mira suddenly feels sick as she realizes that Rumi had been presenting this whole time, then hiding it from not just the world, but them . From her .

Her hands curl into fists on the bed sheets, knuckles white. Mira had begged Rumi once - begged her - to stop hiding. To trust them. When the demon markings first appeared, when everything threatened to spiral, Mira had sat across from her, heart raw, and said, “You don’t have to do this alone. You have us. You have me.” 

And Rumi nodded. 

Anger flares bright and sharp under Mira’s skin, and it catches at her ribs and her throat and everything it can reach. She draws a shaky hand down her face, trying to force her breath to even out, but it doesn’t work. “What the hell is she doing?” Mira whispers. “. . . and why does it hurt this much?” 

- - -   

The kitchen is dim except for the under-cabinet lights that cast a soft, honeyed glow over the marble countertops. The villa has gone quiet for the night - or it more so went quiet in the afternoon and never came back alive - and the only noise is the sound of the fridge humming and the waves crashing along the shore. And someone is digging through the freezer, searching for a late-night snack. 

Mira stands barefoot in front of the freezer, bent slightly at the waist with her arm halfway buried inside it. The cool fog spills over her wrist as she sifts through bags of peas and half-melted popsicles, but she isn’t really looking for anything specific; she’ll just stop looking when she finds something worth her attention. 

Footsteps pad in behind her, but Mira doesn’t turn around. She knows who it is by the way her senses remain clear. Zoey watches Mira for a long beat before she speaks. “Hey,” Zoey says. She walks over to the fridge and leans on the wall next to her, arms crossed loosely. Her hoodie sleeves are pulled halfway over her hands, and her hair has been tied back into a ponytail. 

Mira doesn’t look up. “I thought you were asleep.” 

“Like you should be?” Zoey asks, and that makes Mira pause. Not the question, but the tone of it. She finally looks up, and Zoey meets her eyes the second she can. “I’m not even going to ask if you’re okay, because you’ll lie and say you are or ignore me and wander off again.” 

“Zoey-” 

“You’re acting weird.” No accusation, no edge. Just an observation. 

Mira looks back at the contents of the freezer as her mind goes over the thousand answers she could give. Finally, she looks back up. “So are you.” She pulls at something in the freezer. “Ice is stuck.” 

The freezer’s hum fills the pause as it clicks into a deeper chill, and the silence stretches into something awkward. 

Zoey shifts her weight. “I mean it, MiMi. You have been weird all day.” She tries to keep her voice gentle, but Mira can hear something underneath. Something rougher that Mira can only describe as anger and annoyance, likely from Zoey’s drive to just understand. 

Mira sighs. “Again, so have you.” 

“I mean this whole trip.”

“So do I.” 

“Mira!” She suddenly snaps and opens her mouth to say more, but whatever it was dies on her tongue. Zoey’s voice drops again. “Earlier . . . I asked if you were okay. You brushed me off. Twice.” 

“I said I was fine.” 

Zoey gives her a look, one that says: I’m not stupid. Zoey knows Mira is not fine. Mira is too still, her shoulders are too straight, and there’s something in the set of her jaw - not tension exactly, but like she’s bracing for it. 

Mira sighs again and she pulls her hand out of the freezer, slowly, fingers wrapped around an ice tray. Her knuckles are white, and she sets it on the counter, but doesn't crack the ice apart. “I don’t know,” she says, finally. “Something’s off.”

Zoey nods. “Yeah.” She crosses the tile with slow steps and stops on the other side of the kitchen counter, pressing her palms to the cool marble surface. Her fingers fidget, tracing tiny invisible shapes. 

Mira looks away and doesn’t meet Zoey’s eyes. They stand like that for a few long seconds, not quite looking at each other and not quite ready to speak about the thing that sits between them. 

Then, Zoey’s voice - quiet, almost hesitant. “You’re doing that thing, focusing on something small and trivial, when you don’t want to admit something to yourself.” She goes on, “You’re not even thirsty.” 

Mira looks at the ice tray, and sure enough, she has no need to take the ice out. She’s not thirsty, and she’s not an ice chewer. It was just the closest thing. “And what am I not admitting to?” She whispers, fearing she already knows the answer. 

“Rumi,” Zoey whispers. “Something about her.” 

They go quiet. 

The kitchen settles into that soft, late-night silence that only exists after something goes unspoken for too long. The kind that gathers in corners and clings to tile grout. And Zoey fears it’s going to stay this way, so she turns away to return to her room, but then: 

“Says you.” 

Zoey stops. “What?” 

“I said, says you.” When Zoey turns, Mira is looking at her now, sharp and unflinching. “Says the one who can’t just say her feelings outright, and instead settles on cheek kisses and brushing hair like that’s subtle. Like that’s enough.” 

Zoey blinks. “What are you-”

“Please, Zoey.” Mira’s voice isn’t cruel, just tired and knowing. “I saw it. I saw you on the porch. After kissing her. And the way you look at her like there’s only two things worth looking at in this world, and she is one of them.” 

Zoey opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Then closes it again. Her jaw tightens, and a thousand emotions shift across her face - confusion, embarrassment, a spark of anger, something softer and raw that might be fear - and then, nothing. She doesn’t retreat, though.

Zoey lifts her chin slightly, her voice quieter but no less firm. “You’re not so innocent yourself, Mira.” She raises a brow, not in a mock way but a daring way. “You want to try lying about that?” 

Mira doesn’t answer. Not right away. Her shoulders stiffen, just slightly, but not enough to say “you’re right,” but not enough to fight it either. 

They stand there again, both not saying anything. The noises continue, and they both wish they would just stop. And when a breeze blows in, Zoey shivers and Mira wraps an arm around herself, shielding herself. They could retreat, call it a night. Mira would take the couch, and Zoey would return to their shared room, but their feet are rooted to the floor, and when Zoey looks at Mira, Mira is still watching her.

Zoey sighs. “Don’t turn this around on me.” Her voice is quieter, not a retreat, a warning, quietly but also tired, like she has no fight in her. 

“I’m not.” Mira’s tone is sharp, but not loud, yet equally tired. “I’m just not letting you pretend like you’re the only one who gets to be confused.” 

Zoey scoffs, quietly and more of an exhale than a laugh. “Confused? You think that’s what this is?” 

“You kissed her.” 

“On the cheek.”

“Because you were too scared to kiss on the lips.” 

Zoey stops, and this time when she speaks, her voice is impossibly quiet - almost a whisper. “You think I like her.” But it’s not an accusation, the words don’t even seem to be addressed at Mira, but instead, at Zoey herself. Like, some realization has dawned on her, and all it took was Mira pointing it out. Whatever bitter emotions were building within her are extinguished, and she puts a hand on the counter, leaning against it like she needs the physical support. 

Mira whispers, gently, “I think you’re scared that you do.” 

That lands. 

Zoey’s jaw tightens, and she looks down at the countertop like it might give her an answer. Something ancient and sharp flickers in her chest, something with Mira’s face and Rumi’s name tangled together. “I thought . . . I thought I was in love already,” she murmurs. It comes out softer than she intended, and the confusion is clear. 

Mira doesn’t scoff, or smirk, or even smile. She just glances away, letting the moment sit for a second or two, as she recounts every past experience with Zoey. Every touch they’ve shared, every kiss, and late-night whispers. Although they’ve never said it, there was love between them, but now . . . Mira looks back at Zoey. “You are,” she says. “That doesn’t mean you’re not falling again.” 

There’s nothing left to say after that, so they don't say anything. They just sit in it and share a silence so thick it might as well be conversation. The noises continue on, the ice cubes in the tray crack faintly as it adjusts to the temperature of the room. Zoey watches as they slowly melt before she walks over to the freezer and pulls out a second tray, and holds it out without a word. 

A peace offering. 

Mira takes it, their fingers brush, and that contact seems to wrap the moment up. 

Zoey fetches a glass and gives it to Mira before she retrieves a water bottle. “Are you tired?” She asks, eyes unnecessarily focused on the bottle’s cap as she pops it off. 

Mira shrugs, now dumping cubes into the glass. “Not really.” The bottle slides across the counter and into Mira’s awaiting hand.

“Then-” Zoey hesitates. “You want to rock-paper-scissors for who gets the movie choice?” 

Mira considers it for a moment, using the excuse of dumping water into the glass to extend the moment. “Fine,” she says and abandons the now-empty bottle on the counter. She sighs, but the edge of her mouth is tugging up faintly. 

Zoey agrees, and they both lift their hands. One, two, three.

Zoey throws scissors. Mira, rock. 

Zoey grins. “Best two out of three?” She asks, already prepping her hand. 

Mira shakes her head. “You already lost.” 

“Not how I remember it.” 

And for a minute - just a minute - they’re not standing in the kitchen with too many questions and too many truths between them. They’re just two girls at the end of a long day, figuring out what comes next.

Wednesday

Day Three

The villa is quiet under the early morning light. Outside, the breeze still carries on, still carrying its usual saltiness that drifts in through the slightly cracked windows. The curtains ruffle from the breeze, and the waves continue to crash along the shore. 

Downstairs, the kitchen smells faintly of brewed coffee and fresh citrus. Morning sunlight filters onto the marble counters and the kitchen table where Mira and Zoey sit. The table is set for breakfast, the food having already been picked at, but one chair remains empty even though there’s a plate waiting for someone. Rumi hasn’t come down. 

It isn’t unusual for Rumi to skip breakfast. Sometimes her appetite disappears for hours, sometimes longer, but this morning, the air carries something different. A weight, as both her friends know, she’s skipping because something is wrong, and Mira knows why. 

Zoey is scrolling through her phone, fingers tapping absently as she scrolls through fans’ posts about the group and the many videos she has been tagged in. She hasn’t made a new post since they wrapped up their tour days ago - with the last one being Zoey, Mira, and Rumi backstage, smiling as they’re about to go on stage. Zoey intended to post something during their vacation, but the mood has never been right. Especially now. 

Mira is folding a napkin, trying to give her hands something to do and let her mind focus on something. Despite this attempt, her eyes keep glancing at what little she can see of the stairs and upstairs every so often. It's almost like she is waiting for someone, and she seems to be alone in this until Mira notices Zoey looking at the stairs as well.

Neither of them says it at first, and they try to ignore it, but the absence is loud. The empty chair feels heavier than usual. 

Zoey attempts to move on as she shows Mira her phone, displaying a fan’s post. It's a nice photo of Mira mid-song. “You look great in that photo,” Zoey says, invading Mira's space, but Mira doesn't mind as she puts an arm around the back of Zoey's chair to let Zoey get closer. “Hot, even.”

Mira taps the heart on the post. “Send that to me so I can like and comment.”

Zoey nods, already sending the post. “They'll love that.” Mira pretends not to notice Zoey saving the image to her personal photos. 

They go through a couple of more photos and even browse a profile or two, Zoey even commenting on a post. The mood seems lighter, and they almost forget that Rumi isn't with them until one too many scrolls and a photo of Rumi pops up.

Zoey glances at Mira, and they consider ignoring the sudden tension, but Zoey finally breaks the silence. “Where’s Rumi?” She whispers. 

Mira doesn't answer immediately, even as Zoey settles against her, back pressed into Mira’s side. She takes a slow sip of her coffee, and her eyes narrow just a little.

“She hasn’t come down yet. It’s her favorite, I figured she’d smell it by now.” Zoey puts her phone down and tries not to look worried. “It’s weird.” 

“It is,” Mira agrees. 

Another pause, then Zoey pushes her chair back, voice softer now. “I’m worried.” She leans over as she grabs the dirty dishes and carries them to the sink. Mira watches her, noticing how Zoey scrubs the dishes with more aggression than necessary. 

“Okay,” Mira says, standing up with the grace of a cat. “I’ll go check on her.” 

Zoey pauses and looks at Mira. “Ok,” she says, biting her lip for a moment, then: “be gentle.” 

Mira gives a small, reassuring smile and grabs a glass of water before heading toward the stairs.

Mira stands in front of Rumi’s bedroom door, barefoot, holding the glass of water with both hands. She doesn’t knock at first. Just stands there, listening. 

She leans in and presses one ear gently to the wood, careful and cautious, but hears nothing. No shifting bedsheets, no soft footsteps, not even the sound of breath. It’s too quiet. 

Her fingers tighten slightly around the glass, then Mira knocks once - a short, careful sound. 

Nothing. 

She knocks again, this time three quick raps.

Still, silence. 

Mira exhales through her nose. “Rumi,” she calls, voice low yet audible. She hesitates again, brows furrowing as she considers her next words. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re feeling exactly- I won’t pretend I do, but I assume it’s . . .” God, where is she going with this? Mira groans, and she trails off, searching for the right words. “A lot. Probably.” 

There’s still no response, not even a shuffle from the bed or a grunt that screams, “go away, Mira.” 

Mira sighs again. “Look, you’re worrying Zoey. She’s doing that thing where she tries to act chill but is scrubbing dishes like they personally insulted her. So I figured that- I don’t know- maybe cold water helps? Or at least shows that we’re not just ignoring this. Or you.” 

Still silent.

“I’m going to leave it here,” she murmurs, then hurries to correct herself. “Or, I’m going to slide it in. So, yeah.” Mira nudges the door open just enough to slip the glass through. The room is dim beyond, curtains drawn, shadows slanting across the bed. The second door opens wider, Rumi’s scent rushes out to meet Mira - no longer sharp and overwhelming like it was the day before, but now faintly laced with something sterile. Medicinal. Wrong. 

Mira flinches without meaning to. Her nose scrunches, and she sneezes once, hard, catching the edge of her sleeve against her face. “It’s there if you want it,” she says, blinking through the sting in her eyes and rubbing at her nose. 

She waits, one breath and then two, but there’s still nothing. Still no sounds of movement or any voice that yells at her to shut the door. Just that same thick, unyielding quiet. 

Mira closes the door with a soft click and steps back. Her hand lingers at the knob for a second longer than necessary, like she might change her mind. Like she might go back in and find Rumi and sit with her. But Mira doesn’t move and, instead, she walks away with the same care she approached with. Her footsteps are barely audible on the floor, and the silence from behind the door follows her back down the stairs. 

Inside the room, the quiet is suffocating, thick as wool and just as heavy. Rumi sits curled on the cool tile floor of the bathroom, her back pressed to the side of the tub, knees drawn tight to her chest. The carpet outside is just barely visible through the cracked bathroom door, but in here, everything feels smaller. More restricted.

Her palms flatten against the tile beneath her, desperate for the cold to reach deeper. Maybe dig into her skin, her bones, her blood, and silence the fire crawling under her flesh. 

Her breath comes in shallow, stuttering drags. Each inhale sounds like it’s been stolen, caught between panic she’s refusing to name and the heat building in her gut. Her pulse thrums in her ears, in her fingertips, in her thighs - all of it relentless. 

The burning has settled low in her body now, coiled and tense, like something waiting to strike. She presses her hands harder to the tile, willing herself to stay here, here , not drift into the storm her body keeps calling her toward. 

Then slowly, she curls tighter, lowering her forehead to her knees. A thin sheen of sweat clings to her temples, and she tries to count her breath. Four in, four out, four in, four out - just like Mira once showed her before they performed in front of one of their largest crowds. Back when things were quieter and safer and her body wasn’t a traitor.

Back when it used to be easier. 

A soft flicker stirs across her skin. Her demon markings glow a dim gold , faint and flickering like firelight. The color had sparked to life the second Mira’s voice slipped through the door, and for a moment, Rumi let herself hold onto that, let it fill her mind like a balm. 

But the gold doesn’t stay. 

It dies out too fast, replaced by a pulsing pink at her wrists. It creeps along her arms, up her sides, until it flashes all at once - her entire body lighting up like a warning. She gasps and folds in on herself, arms wrapping around her stomach as the ache sharpens into something clawing and deep. 

Rumi’s voice is barely audible, but steady in its desperation. “Not yet,” she whispers, trembling. “I took it an hour ago. It can’t . . . why,” she whimpers. “Why now? Please, not yet.” 

It’s a mantra, then a command, then a prayer. A bargaining chip held up to no one. There’s no one in the room, just the quiet hum of electricity in the walls and the dull pressure in her chest. But still, she says it. Maybe to the gods, maybe to herself, maybe to whatever ancient magic is burning through her veins right now. 

She just wants to hold on. Just a little longer. Just until breakfast is over, then lunch, and maybe dinner. Until the laughter is done and the ocean air is no longer appealing. Until her desire to just be around her friends and enjoy the remainder of their vacation is gone. 

The pink glow steadies, pulsing with her heartbeat. It travels down the sides of her body, wraps around like a second skin - a boa about to make its final blow - before gathering in her lower stomach, throbbing there and burning as bright as it can. 

The room holds its breath with Rumi. 

And Rumi, small and curled and trying so hard to stay quiet, squeezes her eyes shut.

She doesn’t want to need. 

Not now. Not here. 

Chapter Text

The floor is cold against her feet.

Rumi curls her toes against it, as if all she needs to do is keep applying pressure to certain parts of her body, and she will be able to ground herself that she might be able to keep still. That she might be able to keep herself here . 

But the tremble in her hand has spread. First up her forearm, then to her chest - where it lingers like a tight coil pulled one notch too far - and finally, something inside Rumi shifts. 

She moves without really thinking, only realizing she’s dragged herself back to her room when she feels the soft carpet. She hadn’t meant to stop here, not consciously anyway.

Her pulse feels too fast, and her breath starts to get too shallow, and she knows - Rumi knows - it’s coming sooner than it should. It shouldn’t come at all, the pills should be stopped it, but it’s coming. 

But it hasn’t come yet. That much Rumi is sure of. It hasn't come yet and Rumi's mind is not yet gone.

Not yet. 

Rumi’s mouth is dry, and she swallows slowly, tasting a bitterness that she is unfamiliar with, but something tells her that it has to do with the suppressant pills losing their grip. She should be surprised. She should be angry, but Rumi thinks she knew, but she never dared to admit it before. The dose wasn’t holding . . . or maybe her body had decided it was done obeying. 

She wants to blame Celine because Celine makes the pills, but the pills have worked since Rumi presented as an Omega almost nine years ago. The pills kept her hidden from Mira, from Jinu, and from every alpha Rumi came across. Her heats stayed hidden, suppressed, and never properly surfaced. There were signs, little flashes as her heat began but the pills always subdued the symptoms and stopped the heat and Rumi, she was able to live like a Beta. 

The silence presses in around her, broken only by the faintest sounds from downstairs. A laugh, a drawer closing, and then a knife clinking against a cutting board. 

“Zoey,” she whispers, her head lifting as Zoey's scent drifts in. It’s warm and sweet - citrus with something so Beta-steady underneath it - that spreads through the air, and Rumi closes her eyes as it brushes along the edge of her mind. It doesn’t spike Rumi’s heat, not yet, and instead draws her focus like a lifeline. 

And beneath it is something sharper and richer. “Mira,” she gasps, Mira’s cedar scent mixing with Zoey’s as a low thrum of Alpha calm, restrained yet watchful, settles in. Mira’s scent doesn’t press into Rumi’s thoughts like a command, and it doesn't overwhelm like most Alphas do, but it does something else entirely. It soothes. Wraps around her nerves like balm, like heat without fire. Both of their scents calming her like her suppressants were supposed to.

Rumi falls back and lets herself lean into the wall as she feels the ache deep in her bones. Her markings flicker pink before green rapidly takes over as she breathes in the scents of her friends. Her mind is quieter, and she feels like she can actually breathe.

The worst hasn't come yet, but Rumi knows it’s coming. She stares at the ceiling and she tries to think, tries to choose. She could stay here. She wants to stay here where it’s safe, cool, and hidden. It would be so easy to just lie down and bury herself under the blanket, shut her eyes, and wait until it all passes . . .

or breaks her. 

But then she breathes in again and she suddenly sees Zoey smiling at her, and Rumi swears she can hear Zoey laughing at some stupid joke before adding onto it until the three of them are piled over in laughter and Rumi is begging Zoey to stop. Zoey never stops, not even when Rumi feels like she’s going to pee her pants or when Mira is running to the bathroom so she doesn’t pee hers. Zoey just grins wider, says something even worse, and falls off the couch from laughing too much, but she smiles like it was worth it. 

Rumi exhales, her whole body trembling, and then she breathes in again. 

She sees Zoey during their first winter together, both of them bundled up in a coat five times too big, a neon orange beanie with a pom-pom top on Zoey's head. She watched as Zoey tried to catch snowflakes while yelling, “I’m a snow goblin!” at full volume in a crowded park. A family had stared, and Zoey bowed like she was accepting an award. 

Then Zoey again, crouched on the kitchen counter, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, trying to toast a marshmallow as she insisted she knew how to cook it perfectly, even though the marshmallow was burning, while Mira yelled in the background about the fire alarm and Rumi filmed the entire thing with tears in her eyes from laughing too hard. 

Then later, in the quiet after a long day, Zoey curled up against Rumi’s side, eyes soft and voice quieter than usual. “You’re safe, you know,” she whispered and fell asleep after that. After that, Rumi thought about that moment too many times to count. 

Zoey, chaotic and loud and full of light. Not a boring lull in the sea, but the spark. The firework. The sun after a storm. 

And now, downstairs, waiting. 

And when Rumi breathes in again, it changes. She sees Mira now, but not Mira onstage or Mira training or Mira with her eyes sharp and spine straight.

She sees Mira standing in the hallway of their first apartment, towel wrapped around her shoulders, hair dripping wet, eating cereal straight out of the box like it was the most normal thing in the world. Her hoodie was too big, her socks didn’t match, and when Rumi blinked at her in quiet confusion, Mira had just shrugged and said, “We ran out of bowls. Improvise.” 

Rumi had laughed so hard she choked on her toothpaste, and Zoey had to save her, though Zoey hit too hard and almost made Rumi choke on her tongue. 

Rumi exhales shakily and then breathes in again. 

She now sees Mira stretched out on the grass behind the venue of their first major concert, eyes closed, and one arm tossed lazily over her face as the sweat cooled on her skin. “Wake me in ten years,” she’d said. “Or if we win an Idol Award. Whichever happens first.”

Then she sees Mira pressed to Rumi’s side in a cramped greenroom, their knees touching, Mira’s fingers idly braiding the edge of ends of Rumi’s hair without even noticing she was doing it. 

Mira, warm and quiet and steady. Not a fire, but something deeper - the bedrock beneath it. 

And now, downstairs, waiting. 

Both of them are waiting.

And maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s reckless and doomed, and her body is already too far gone. 

But Rumi finds herself standing anyway. 

She wants Mira’s quiet steadiness and Zoey’s ridiculous optimism. The safe press of their presence, their laughter, even when it’s forced, and their worry, even when it stings. It’s both a conscious and unconscious decision, and even though her hands are still trembling and her legs ache, her scent still frays at the edges - wild and wrong - she moves toward the door. 

She thinks this is for comfort, a friend seeking out something familiar. She doesn’t let herself admit this is love. But her body knows better, because something in her says if she’s going to break, she wants to do it with them .

It’s afternoon when Zoey decides to cut up some fruits and vegetables, only slightly alarming Mira, who is surprised to see Zoey choose something healthy over the many bags of chips and pints of ice cream they have. But Mira doesn't tease and pretty soon, the scent of sliced mango and ripe peach lingers in the air, sweet and sticky, as it mingles with the ever-present scent of the ocean. 

Zoey’s knife moves in even, practiced strokes as she stands at the kitchen island, cutting fruit with rhythmic precision. The tap-thwack of a blade on board is the only sound besides the distant whisper of waves. “This blade is dull,” Zoey finally says, and Mira looks up in time to watch Zoey summon one of her daggers out of thin air. 

“Zoey-” Mira begins, but stops. They’ve had this conversation a hundred times now: weapons are weapons, not kitchen knives and pumpkin carvers. “Don’t cut yourself, Zo,” is what Mira settles on. 

“I won’t, Mom.”

Mira rolls her eyes. She’s curled on the couch nearby, phone in hand, thumb slowly scrolling, but her gaze is still looking toward the stairs now and then. Zoey’s as well, and they both act like they can’t see each other doing the same thing. 

And Zoey tries to cover it up. "Did you see the thunderclouds?" She asks, glancing up from the cutting board.

Mira nods. "I hope it's not bad. I hate thunderstorms because-"

And then, soft and almost unnoticed, Rumi appears at the top of the stairs. 

She stands at the top of the staircase, barefoot and silent, acting like the silence might shield her from being noticed. She seems to test the weight of her own body and seems confident enough in herself to not use the banister as support.

At first glance, she seems steady. Poised, even. Her shoulders are straight, and the light catches the faint shimmerings of blue along her wrists, then green in a smaller flicker of her demon markings - barely visible - as if her body is trying to lie for her. Trying to pretend everything is still under control. 

Her hair falls forward slightly, brushing her cheeks, and Rumi doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze. She doesn’t need to.

But as Rumi takes her first step down, her hand twitches in a subtle tremor. Then again, stronger this time, as a full shiver travels up her forearm. Her fingers curl and uncurl like she can’t quite remember how to use them. Regardless, Rumi takes another step, this one slowed. And the one after that is even slower. Her chest rises unevenly, breath catching high in her throat, as though the air itself is thickening with each movement. 

Zoey stops mid-slice and looks up just in time to see Rumi falter. Her brows draw together, both in concern and confusion.

Mira is already rising from the couch. 

Rumi’s markings are shifting now. The green has faded out after faltering at the base of her throat, and in its place is something soft, a pink that is gentle at first, then flashes violently. A warning. She reaches the middle step and her knees buckle, her hand shooting out to catch the banister. She grips it like it is the only thing tethering her to the moment. 

Her breath hitches - a stuttering and uneven sound. She blinks hard once, then twice as it feels like her vision is blurring. Her skin has gone pale, and her other hand moves instinctively to her stomach as her markings pulse again. The stubborn pink glows brighter now, blooming up her forearms like veins lit from beneath and shooting down to her legs. 

Zoey’s voice cuts through the stillness, alarmed yet gentle. “Rumi-”

“They’re going to hate you!”  

Rumi flinches, and the ground seems to tilt for her. Before Zoey can finish or Mira can reach her, Rumi turns sharply on her heel and flees, not fast enough as Mira and Zoey watch the markings along Rumi’s spine surge a bright pink before black overtakes it. Rumi moves too quickly, almost frantically, up the stairs and into the bathroom by her room. One hand still clutches her abdomen, and the other reaches back to slam the door shut behind her. 

Neither Zoey nor Mira says anything, both of them unable to form a word. 

Inside the bathroom, Rumi barely makes it to the sink before she grips the counter with both hands. Her forehead presses to the cool marble, and the nausea comes fast but not in the form of a twist of the gut, but a full-body lurch. Her knees nearly buckle, and she gasps, mouth open, throat dry, but she doesn’t retch. Just stays still and breathes. 

Her breath comes in short, shallow bursts as she stumbles back and falls to her butt before falling back until her back hits the base of the tub. She then curls into herself, knees to her chest, and arms locked around them like a brace. The cold tile meets her bare skin where it can with indifference, but it’s still sharp and a little grounding. But it’s not enough.

Nothing is enough. 

Rumi's pulse continues to beat in her ears like distant drums, going from steady to frantic, then steady again. Her heart isn’t racing; it is pounding , every beat vibrating behind her sternum. The heat blooms low in her stomach, coiling like smoke, not yet overtaking her but rising until it threatens to spill. 

She tries splaying her palms flat to the tile again, fingers splaying wide, and she focuses on the cold with the mindset that the contrast should help. If the coolness seeps in, then it can chase away the warmth.

It doesn’t. 

Her markings continue to shimmer, and a weak flicker of green flashes, having been called up by Zoey’s voice that still echoes from earlier, soft and unsure but present. Rumi tries to hold onto that and let it cradle her. Let it mean something. 

But the green fades too quickly, and in its place, the pink returns, but it’s no longer soft. It comes like a bloom of heat, crawling beneath her skin, lighting her ribs, her spine, and her thighs. Her back arches slightly when the heat and colors surge again, this time brighter and bolder, and a flare that’s too loud to be hidden.

And then:

“This is what happens.” 

She gasps, clutching at her stomach as the ache deepens, not just physical but soul-deep. 

“Celine was right.” 

“No,” she shakes her head once, hard, as if it might rattle the sound loose. Her hands tremble. 

“This is what happens when you stop hiding, Rumi.” 

A sound crawls up her throat, something between a sob and a snarl, but she swallows it back. “Don’t listen,” she whispers to herself. “Don’t.” But the pulse in her body matches the words now, beat for beat.

The suppressant is failing; she can feel it slipping through her system like sand through fingers. She isn’t gone yet, but the tide is turning against her. 

“You’re dangerous.” 

The colors spread farther, glowing up the curve of her throat like it intends to suffocate her, and Rumi's breath hitches, a hiccup between pain and panic and pressure.

Inside her chest, her heart pounds so violently she thinks her ribs might crack from the pressure. 

“Four in, four out,” she whispers, Mira’s voice ghosting behind the words. “Four in-”

“You always were.” 

Her body seizes in a sudden tremble. She folds forward, forehead against her knees, arms locked tight again as if she can hold herself together with force alone.

And then, softer than the rest, but sharper. Close. A whisper that is painfully familiar, one that has haunted both her dreams and reality since she was a child. A mother's whisper that curls right against the shell of her mind like it always has:

“Disgusting.” 

Rumi breaks. 

A whimper escapes her lips, and her hands claw at her thighs, not to hurt, but to anchor. Her breath comes fast and uneven, her markings burn bright pink now, steady, pulsing, and underneath it is black, as if her very skin is trying to scream. 

She wants to be anywhere else. 

She wants not to ache or feel this deep, unbearable heat carving through her body. She wants to rip it out. But, instead, she stays where she is, and the silence in the villa isn’t clueless anymore. 

Rumi barely registers the sound of the door opening and shows no sign of acknowledgement as Mira steps inside carefully, moving like she is afraid of shattering the air. The soft click of the door behind her went unnoticed by the girl on the floor. 

Mira looks down at Rumi, eyes growing wide as she stares at the curled-up figure. Rumi is now panting, hands still gripping her thighs, and all around her is a thick cloud of heat - a suffocating cloud of heat. 

Mira stops cold. 

The moment it hits her, it hits her hard . Her lungs seize, as if the air had turned to honey - a molten and rich scent with something deeper that settles itself into every nook of her lungs. Suffocating her. But deeper, underneath it is something else. Instinct . It smells of Rumi’s usual jasmine scent, but wrapped in it like silk is some ancient spice, and it has everything in Mira’s bones clawing up and whispering to her:

“Take it.” 

Her Alpha instincts almost seem to scream in their awakening. 

Mira swallows hard, and her throat burns. Her entire body is now tense, and she braces against the rush of desire, of need, of something that isn’t entirely hers - something ancient that has remained dormant in her blood. But she shuts it down, she has to. For Rumi. 

Her hand flexes at her side, and it trembles slightly before she curls it into a fist. Then, with a sudden surge of bravery, she takes a step forward. Then another and another, pushing the scent to the edges of her mind. She focuses on the girl in front of her, not the heat or the instinct that is trying to take control of them both. 

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice is soft but urgent, a tremor betraying her concern. She doesn’t try the question again in a more controlled way. She lets her fear show.

No response. Rumi doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch or seem to register the shift in pressure. She stays curled in on herself, trembling and damp with sweat. Her head is now buried between her knees, hands continuing to dig into her thighs, breath rasping in sharp, uneven bursts. 

Seconds pass by, and Mira tries again. “Hey, Rumi?” 

Still no answer.

Mira’s heart catches as she hurries over and drops to one knee next to Rumi’s form. She kneels carefully and reaches out. Her hand hovers for a heartbeat, just one second of hesitation, before gently settling on Rumi’s arm.

The moment her skin brushes Rumi’s, a spark flares between them. It isn't fire or heat, not in the way someone expects. It is something deeper, an invisible current that surges through their veins, where words can not reach. A sensation that is electric and immediate, as if instincts themselves have collided. 

A phantom burn blossoms between them and the flash of something unspoken and powerful. 

The touch wasn’t even meant to be intimate, but for some reason it is. It is a tether, a moment where her body screams “yes” and her mind whispers “not now.” Mira’s breath catches in her throat, caught somewhere between surprise and something older, something primal that she had never quite named before. Her blood runs hot for half a heartbeat before she drags it back under control. 

Rumi stirs. Her eyes flutter open, wide and unsteady, then sharpen slowly as they find Mira’s face hovering close. She blinks once, then again, like Mira is a dream she can’t believe has followed her here. 

For one long, stretched second, the air between them thickens. Something unspoken and raw settles in the space between. For a moment, there are no voices that snarl out insults or lies from Rumi’s past. Just Mira, kneeling next to Rumi. And Rumi, breathing the same air, sharing the same space.

Mira’s hand is still on Rumi’s arm, but her fingers shift slightly, tracing the markings just above her elbow without thinking. She watches as they glow pink, then flash gold, and underneath is green .

Rumi shivers under the touch, and she makes a small noise, lips parting as she looks up at Mira. Their eyes meet again, and Mira sees it, not just desperation, not just heat, but longing. Rumi exhales like she’s breaking as her chest heaves and her lips begin to tremble, and then she leans in, just barely. A small tilt. An invitation. 

Neither are sure who moves first - if it’s Mira’s body answering before her mind can, or Rumi's leaning closer to her with a soft inhale - but suddenly, they’re there. Close, then closer. 

Mira’s other hand rises and cups Rumi’s jaw, gently, like she’s holding something sacred. Her thumb brushes against the damp skin, and for a moment, Mira watches the changing of colors. Then Rumi closes her eyes, and suddenly Mira realizes just how long her lashes are, a strange thought - Mira knows that - yet she still finds herself asking how she never noticed before.

Their foreheads nearly brush, and Mira’s breath stutters at the heat rolling off Rumi in waves, and Mira feels the spike again, the snarls awakening:

“Claim her,” it says. “Touch her. Take her.” 

Mira shudders. “You’re burning up,” she whispers, voice thick with something she can’t quite name. 

Rumi swallows hard, eyes still closed. “I know,” she murmurs. “It won’t stop.” She presses into Mira’s hand, seeking comfort.

Rumi’s breath stills, and Mira doesn’t move. Their eyes lock, both of them unguarded and exhausted, yet caught in something neither of them cares to name. Rumi shifts slightly, and her lips part like she wants to say something, but nothing comes as her mouth is dry and her thoughts are too loud. 

And Mira . . . Mira is trembling. Not visibly, but inside, deep in her bone marrow. Her hand is still on Rumi’s cheek, and her thumb now rubs gently at it, eyes watching as gold chases the motion. Her other hand still rests on Rumi’s elbow, but it slides down to Rumi’s wrist, then her hand. 

And then it happens, neither graceful nor logical, a kiss that crashes somewhere between instinct and ache. It’s clumsy. It’s soft. It leaves them breathless yet wanting more, even though the fear of what happens now that they’ve crossed a line both never dared to before. A noise that Mira refuses to put a name to escapes from Rumi as her lips part, yielding in a way that breaks something inside her. 

It’s not lust, or just Rumi’s heat, even though it swarms around the two of them; it’s a cry for connection. A prayer they’ve both been whispering in silence for too long, as their dance around each other finally comes to an end. 

Rumi’s skin is still burning when Mira pulls back just slightly, not far, just enough to breathe. She can feel the tremble beneath her hand, can see the flush rising high on Rumi’s cheeks, the way her pupils are blown wide. And by some random miracle, Mira’s mind clears enough for her to realize that it’s not just the heat anymore, that the scent curling around them isn’t just pheromones. It’s not some chemical cry for relief. 

It’s part Rumi.

It’s always been part Rumi. 

Mira’s jaw clenches.

Rumi's voice is barely higher than a whisper, “Mira . . .” And then, she kisses her. 

It’s not urgent or forced. Just a press of lips like a question, or a memory, that Mira answers with a touch - her free hand rising slowly to cup Rumi’s jaw, fingers splayed. 

This time, it isn’t clumsy. It’s soft but certain. Their mouths move like they’ve been here before in another life, like they’ve waited for this. Mira leans in like she’s falling, and Rumi meets her like she’s drowning, and she never wants this moment to stop. 

And then it deepens. 

The second kiss is fuller, slower, a hunger they both manage to restrain. Rumi makes a soft, broken sound, and Mira exhales against her cheek, not really thinking anymore. Just feeling. Rumi’s hand curls tight in Mira’s shirt, and Mira’s thumb brushes her cheekbone like she’s learning the shape of something sacred. 

It’s not instinct. 

It’s not even heat. 

It’s them. It’s then wanting, choosing, and trembling under the weight of something bigger than either of them. 

And for one suspended heartbeat, everything narrows to this moment. To the heat between them that has nothing to do with biology, but just the way they fit together as a truth neither of them has dared to name, rises to the surface. They know they can’t go back, but neither of them really wants to. 

But when they move closer for a third kiss, Mira suddenly pulls back like she’s just touched something she wasn’t meant to. “No.” Her voice is raw, and she puts a hand to her mouth. “No. Not like this.” 

Rumi’s eyes open, wide and dazed, and her lips part with words forming, but nothing ever comes out. She can only watch as Mira pulls further away, scrambling back until she’s upright again, putting physical distance between them as if that could undo the moment. 

“I wasn’t-” Mira starts, but the sentence dies halfway out. She presses a palm to her forehead. “Fuck. I’m supposed to be helping you. You’re in heat and I’m-” She chokes on the rest and turns away. 

Rumi is still curled up and flushed from the moment. She whispers, “Mira.” 

Mira doesn’t answer. Instead, she just nods, once - sharp and final. “Right,” she mutters. “Right. I need to- I need to get Zoey. Someone that can- this was a mistake that-” She doesn’t finish because she doesn’t mean it. They both know this. 

“No, no. Mira, I-” Her voice falters, and she no longer knows what she was going to say. Rumi curls tighter into herself as her throat seems to tighten and her body aches. Her heart continues to thud in her chest like a warning bell as she refuses to say what she’s thinking: 

I want you to kiss me. 

I want your hands on me. 

I want your mouth. 

I want you to stay. 

I want both you and Zoey to just-

But Rumi says none of it, and they both try to pretend that it didn’t happen, but they both remember. And the moment lingers in the space between their glances and in the tremble of their breaths. Rumi thinks that maybe it was just her heat, her biology, and some desperation with need. And Mira tells herself the same, it was just instinct and a flare of her Alpha reflex. The pressure of the scent, yeah. It has to be.

But the truth, too fragile to name yet, begins to arise: maybe it wasn’t instinct. Maybe it was just them. 

Rumi slumps back against the bathtub, her breath still ragged and uneven, and her hands clutch her thighs like a lifeline. 

Mira looks away, jaw tight, and it seems like she might be holding back a scream. Her hand flies to her forehead and brushes away sweat. “You can’t even-” She swallows the rest and groans. She’s tipping her head back to look at the ceiling when suddenly there are two knocks on the bathroom door.

“MiMi? I know I said I would let you handle it, but it’s been 10 minutes.” Zoey’s voice is cautious, her hand already easing the bathroom door open. She steps in, then freezes. Whatever words that were about to leave her dies on her tongue as the air hits her like a wall. The space is heavy, charged even. Something invisible lingers, settling in a thick layer with electricity sparking between Mira and Rumi.

Zoey stays still on the threshold as she glances between the two. Rumi is slumped against the side of the tub. Her face is flushed and now pressed against the cool material of the bathtub, and she still looks fevered, skin glistening with sweat. 

Mira is tense and wide-eyed, the space between her and Rumi still buzzing with something far too recent. She turns, and her eyes land on Zoey, and for a second, Mira’s shoulders drop as she suddenly feels grounded in Zoey’s presence. Though guilt strikes her in the chest like a blade, sharp and sudden. She shifts slightly and instinctively away from Rumi, as though the distance might undo what just passed between them. 

Zoey doesn’t speak. She just watches in her quiet but perceptive way, piecing the room together like a puzzle she almost understands. The tremble in Mira’s hand and the still red face of Rumi. And most damning of all is the way Mira had looked at Rumi before she turned her gaze to Zoey. 

Zoey’s heart squeezes in her chest from confusion and an uneasy feeling. Like something has shifted beneath her feet, and she isn’t sure how or when, only that she missed the moment it all changed. “. . . um,” she clears her throat. “What’s wrong? Rumi looks like she’s burning up.” 

Mira hesitates as the words begin to form, but they falter on the way out until, finally, she says, “I think-”

But Rumi cuts her off. “Drop it.” Her voice is hoarse but firm. She moves slowly as she gathers what strength she has to stand. Her eyes stay fixed on the ground, refusing to meet Mira or Zoey’s gaze. 

Zoey steps back to give her room, watching her closely. Rumi’s steps are steady yet slow, and her breath is still coming out rough. “. . .” Only once Rumi is out of view does Zoey turn back to Mira. 

Zoey’s eyes never leave Mira’s. She doesn’t look back out the hall to see where Rumi has disappeared to, not yet. Instead, she focuses solely on Mira as the earlier moment plays on repeat in her mind, a silent loop that Zoey can’t quite untangle. 

There is weight in their silence, and Zoey’s quiet, steady presence speaks louder than words. Because, even though Zoey can't smell the pheromones and doesn't feel the pull of their second gender quite like Mira can, she understands some of the stuff. Like how Alphas are affected by Omegas - and vice versa - and how Betas are supposed to calm things. Basic stuff. But she knows enough to know that the way Mira was looking at Rumi was not all instinctual because Mira had looked at Zoey the same way, specifically after their first kiss, and Mira was unsure if she just fucked everything up. And she's suddenly sure that whatever pull Rumi may have felt during their shared moment, Zoey shared too, sometimes directed at Mira, sometimes directed at Rumi, maybe directed at both.

“You're not so innocent yourself, Mira.”

She was half serious when she said that, but also half joking, just taking a stab in the dark and thinking she was making something unnecessary out of the stuff she saw, but now-

Zoey sighs, and when she focuses back on Mira, she realizes they both feel it. The fragile balance has shifted. And no one was saying the one word that hung heavy in the air:

Love.

As the two stand in silence, one flushed and still trembling and the other tense, trying to piece together the shift none of them meant to make, thunder cracks in the distance. 

Zoey startles, not from fear but from the sudden weight of reality slamming back into the room. She turns abruptly and walks out of the bathroom, heading to the nearest window. The air smells of the usual salt but there's a faint trace of a storm even though the clouds aren’t quite overhead yet, but she watches the wind stir the trees, the sea darken, and the waves lose their rhythm. 

Zoey doesn’t look back when she hears Mira step up behind her; she doesn’t need to. She can feel the weight of Mira’s presence at her shoulder as Mira stops beside her, close but not too close. Their eyes track the same sky, and for a long moment, neither of them says anything. 

Then Mira exhales quietly and tiredly. “We should find some blankets-”

“No.” Zoey doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t even flinch, but the word cuts through the air like a clean blade. 

Mira turns toward Zoe, brow furrowed. “No?” 

“No,” Zoey repeats, firmer this time. “We’re not going to sit around and pretend this is fine. We’re not going to grab some blankets, throw on a movie, and act like nothing happened.” 

Mira blinks, surprised by the edge in Zoey’s tone. 

“We’re going to find Rumi,” Zoey says, eyes steady and still on the clouds. “We’re going to sit down, and we’re going to talk. About what this is. About us . And we’re going to talk like the twenty-something-year-olds we supposedly are. We came to this villa to enjoy a vacation and so far it has been shit! So until I'm having fun, we are going to sit in a circle of fucking trust and talk!” She huffs and turns to Mira, gazing head-on, daring her to argue.

But Mira doesn’t and she just stares back at Zoey for a long beat, then nods - silent, resigned, and maybe just a little relieved.

- - -   

The thunderstorm rolls in faster than any of them expected.

One minute it was calm, just the usual hush of twilight settling over the villa, and the next, the wind was starting to pick up and started to slam against the glass like a warning. The sky outside turned a bruised shade of black, and thick clouds swallowed the last of the light, causing Mira to turn on every light in the rooms they passed through. 

Thunder cracks, low, like something growling from a distance, and causing Mira to look over her shoulder every time, and if not over her shoulder, then at Zoey, who had a knack for disappearing. 

“We have to split up,” Zoey insisted, not caring when Mira grabbed her hand as the thunder broke the sky again. 

Still, the bad weather doesn’t deter Mira and Zoey as they search for Rumi. Voices call softly and urgently as they search room to room.  

“Rumi?” The name hangs in the air, unanswered.

Doors creak open and feet shuffle on hardwood and tile. Mira stands at the sliding doors for a moment, brows furrowed as she watches the sky somehow darken even more and the storm swallows the ocean whole. It is yet to start raining, but Mira can smell it. 

Behind her, Zoey paces. “She’s not in her room,” she says, voice sharp with the edge of rising panic. “And she’s not on the porch. I checked the pantry-”

“Weirdly so,” Mira comments, and the thunder cracks again. She steps back toward Zoey. 

“-and the bathhouse. Mira, where the hell is she?”

Mira turns now, and the thunder sounds again, and she scurries over to Zoey. “I don’t know,” she says, glancing at the sky again. Her heart pounds in her chest, jump-started by both the thunderstorm and the worry for Rumi. The living room is lit up by a sudden strike of lightning, and Mira says, “We should keep looking.” 

Zoey looks at her, then at where Mira holds her hand in a death grip, then back at Mira. “Together?” She asks, amused. 

Mira nods multiple times. “Yes.” 

Zoey laughs lightly and squeezes Mira's hand. "Alright, come on, Captain Cool."

They both move at once. They search room by room again. They continue to call out her name, check closets, corners, and behind doors that haven’t been opened all day. The villa is huge; they know that, so they stick to the side that she walked off in earlier that day. 

The wind starts to howl louder, and branches from nearby trees scrape the windows. 

“Rumi!” Zoey’s voice cracks, more desperate now. She jogs down the hall, almost tripping over her socks as she pushes a bathroom door open. “Rumi, this isn’t funny anymore!” She shouts as Mira catches up behind her. “Just come out. We just want to talk.” 

Mira watches Zoey walk away, “. . .” She looks up at the lights as they flicker, one bulb sparking before going out. “We should check her room again,” she finally says, catching up to Zoey. 

The bathroom is cold.

But it doesn’t matter, Rumi can’t feel it. Not really. Not through the burning in her blood, the static under her skin, and the trebling that’s gotten worse by the second. Her hands are shaking, almost violently, and her breathing comes too fast. Her skin feels too tight, like it wasn’t made for her body, and her mouth is so dry. 

The scattered open suppressant vials surround her, some are empty while others are full with their contents spilling out. Some pills have been crushed underfoot, and some have been kicked under the sink. But they’re all useless and a sick reminder of a battle that rages on beneath the surface, and has for years. A battle that Rumi has just lost.

The pills aren’t working, and the dam has cracked after years of holding back the flood. 

Rumi’s demon markings no longer flicker weakly. They blaze now, not steady, but unyielding, lighting her skin up with color. They race down her body, lighting up wherever they can, pulsing out pink and violet and red , all while gold fights to get to the surface but fails every time. Her wrists. Her hips. Her lower back. Her chest. Everywhere it can, and Rumi’s body is screaming and signaling, and she can’t stop it. 

And then the moment arrives. 

It doesn’t roar or crash like the thunder outside. It seeps in slowly, a searing heat that slides beneath her skin and anchors itself in the hollow of her stomach. Like something that had been tightly coiled for years has finally unspooled. 

Rumi’s not sure how she knows it, just that it has happened. That the last dam has given out and her heat, once pressed down and forced to wait, is no longer waiting. It’s sick of waiting. 

“Shit,” she whispers, weak and panicked. Her knees buckle before she realizes she’s falling. She crashes hard onto the tile, hands splayed out, trying to brace herself, but her limbs don’t work right. Her muscles shake too much, and her breathing comes out in short, rapid bursts. And in her chest, her heart pounds like it’s trying to escape whatever terror awaits her. The floor welcomes Rumi like it did earlier, but it offers the same result: no relief. It can’t, not when her body is boiling from the inside out. 

Rumi curls forward, chest to her thighs, and her cheek presses to the freezing tile. She tries to breathe, to focus, to hold onto anything but the betrayal inside her skin. Her voice breaks as it comes out in barely a breath, hardly a whisper, “Why aren’t they working?”

But the room does not answer. There’s nothing left to fight; her body has decided for her. The suppressants aren’t working, and the flood has come. 

But still, she tries to hold herself together, literally clutching her arms and digging her nails into her thighs, all while curling tighter and tighter as the burn deepens in her core, but Rumi’s control has long since slipped. 

And for the first time in her life, Rumi is in heat. Real heat, after nine years of trying to outrun it. 

Rumi tries to sit up, and something sharp stabs down her spine. Her marking pulse again, hot and wild. Her skin goes from being hot to being on fire. Her mouth falls open and she tries to swallow the cry rising in her throat, but her body betrays her. A whimper breaks free anyway - raw and unbidden. 

Then the whispers begin. They don’t come from the walls or from the thunderstorm that claws at the glass. They come from inside. Inside her head and memories she had tried to push down, but as they rise she realizes them to all be too familiar and equally terrible. 

“This is what happens.” 

The voice is hers, but at the same time, it’s not. 

“Celine was right. This is what happens when you stop hiding, Rumi.” 

She tries to shake her head but even that feels dangerous as her skin is still tight and swollen with heat. Her bones ache like they’re splintering under the weight of this shift. The air thickens around her, trying to suffocate her but she can’t suffocate on herself.

Her scent is everywhere now. It’s feral and sharp and sweet and overwhelming. Rumi wants to tear it out of the air, tear it off her skin, but she can’t. She claws at her waistband instead, pushing at the fabric like it’s choking her, but when it’s off, she doesn’t feel any better. 

“Demons in heat are dangerous,” the voice murmurs. “You don’t want to snap and melt their bones, do you?” 

“No,” Rumi gasps. “No- I-”

“You’re not safe like this.” 

Rumi blinks through the blur as her vision blurs for a moment. Her hands are now slick with sweat and her back arches involuntarily as another wave rolls through her core, almost unbearable. It feels as though she’s being turned inside out. She leans her head back and closes her eyes for a moment and suddenly, Rumi’s in her early teens again, curled in Celine’s lap, crying, with a glass vial in one hand. Celine had gone to wipe her tears but the markings on Rumi’s cheeks flared and Celine moved away. Her voice was still gentle, “It’s for the best, Rumi. You have to be a Beta if you want this to work.” 

She opens her eyes and the next breath Rumi takes is a mistake. It fills her lungs with more of herself, of her own scent that pushes her over the edge. She coughs, gags even, as her nails scrape across the tile. 

“You were supposed to be normal.”

“You promised to keep it in.”

“You’re going to ruin everything!”

“No,” she tries but it’s useless as her body no longer cares what she wants. Rumi shudders as her markings flare again, more heat and more pulsing. Her thighs tremble and the aching, empty center of her heat clenches again as it’s now greedy and Rumi, she hates it. She hates that her body wants it, that she needs it, some part of her is unwilling to admit that she wants it. And she hates it more when all she can think of is two people who can help her claw out of herself, escape this form and stop the fire.

“But you’re going to hurt them,” a voice sings. 

And the whispers start to overlap, forming a mantra and leaving Rumi feeling like she’s being cursed. And her limbs feel like they are locking up again as her childhood fears, long since buried but not forgotten, start to rise from the grave. 

“They won’t follow you if-”

“No one trusts-”

“You’re a risk- “

“If they find out-”

“-you’re weak-”

“You’ll only drag them-”

“They won’t- they won’t- THEY-”

“You always do-”

“An Omega- no one trusts-”

“You’re a risk, you’re weak-”

“Too soft!” 

“They’ll see it-”

“-drag them down-”

“-a risk-”

“-WEAK!”

The voices crash over Rumi in waves, each one louder than the rest. They cut each other off like fighting to be first to insult her very being and voice all she’s been told - all she has thought - and every voice is more than desperate to tell her-

“You’re a risk you’re a weapon you’re a warning sign-”

“No one wants you-” “No one trusts you-”

“TOO LOUD TOOMUCH TOOVISIBLE”

“They’ll never follow you-”

“You’ll destroy them-” “You-” “YOU ALWAYS-” “You always-”

“ALWAYS!”

They don’t stop. They just keep twisting tighter and tighter together around her like they’re alive. And then, Rumi can hear Celine’s voice like she’s in the room again. It’s calm, soothing, and deceptively warm.

“You’re strong, Rumi. But no one will let you be strong if they see what you are. Not the world. Not the public. Not your fans. Not even Zoey and Mira. You want Huntr/x to survive? Then be safe. Be a Beta. Be someone they can trust.”

Her whole body trembles now. Her knees press tight together, Rumi’s spine curls, and her arms shake with the effort of holding on to anything. She sees another flash, not Celine this time, but Zoey. Zoey reached for Rumi’s hand in a crowd, and she smiled, all warm and a constant source of something warm. Something safe . And behind her, Mira’s voice, “I don’t think you’re a monster.” 

But the whispers claw through it all.

“They’ll hate you.” “You’re dangerous.” “Don’t let them see what you are.” “They’ll leave.” “They always do.” “You were made wrong.” “You were born to break things. Peace isn’t made by creatures like you.” 

The storm rages outside as thunder cracks like it’s splitting the sky, but the louder sound is inside her. Her pulse thundering, her body burning, her mind fracturing under the pressure of years of suppression, collapsing in one night. She slams her fist against the tile once, then twice as she’s desperate for something real. Her hands still shake as she reaches out for something, anything - anyone - and the glass of the nearby vials catches the light from her glowing markings. It looks like starlight but drips along her skin like blood. 

Rumi lowers her forehead to the floor, sobbing now in a quiet and involuntary way. The scent is unbearable and her body is unrecognizable. She squeezes her eyes shut and pictures Zoey laughing, Mira braiding the edge of her hair. The grass behind their first venue and the snow days, and the cheap cereal. The stupid jokes-

“It’s no use-”

“NO!” The word tears from Rumi’s throat like it’s been waiting years to be screamed. Her first slam into the tile, once, then again, and something cracks beneath her palm. Wood? Tile? Her own bone? She doesn’t know, but she also doesn’t care. The pain feels real enough to hold onto.

“NO,” she howls again, louder and more raw this time, shouting not at the whispers, but at everything . The fear. The failure. Celine. Herself. 

The floor doesn’t stay quiet as her markings detonate. What was once a quiet burn becomes a wildfire. Color erupts from her skin, not in beans, but in chaotic bursts that are uncontained. A spike of red tears across her spine, followed by a flash of violet that fractures down her ribs like lightning. Silver gleams along her jaw, her fear trying to catch up with her rage. But then, black cuts through it all - deep and instinctual - like a scream that has no beginning and no end. 

And then it changes. 

The light pulses out in rings, ripples that start at her hands and race outward across the floor. The tile begins to glow, then the wall, then the air itself. Heat and color expand like a sonic boom made of light, slicing through the villa like lightning underwater. There’s no sound, but the house feels it in the form of a deep thrumming quake in its bones.

Glass rattles in the window panes, a teacup falls from the shelf, and shatters in the kitchen. Somewhere across the villa, Mira drops her phone, and Zoey watches the lights flicker and the shadows warp.  

And Rumi, panting and, trembling, and broken open, still glows at the center of it. Her markings continue to shimmer like a wildfire, licking up through the cracks in the earth, but no longer just one color. 

Gold glints at her collarbone, desperate as it battles to be seen. 

Deep navy coils at the edge of her stomach like an old wound reopening. 

Amber flashes around her arms, then fades. 

Red cuts through her thighs. 

All of it and all of her . . . exposed. And for one still second, everything seems to pause. Her sobs still and the whispers vanish. The floor vibrates with held breath, and even the storm outside holds its thunder. And then a new light. A color Rumi has never seen before.

It shimmers faint at first, appearing as a thin line pulsing down her sternum, but then it grows. It’s soft, strange, and weirdly impossible in her mind. Not pink or gold or red or green . Not blue , not white , not even black . It’s all of them, yet none of them. 

Pearl .

It’s like light through fog, like the inside of a shell and is something that shouldn’t exist, but it does anyway. And her body sits in this color for a while, but unlike most colors Rumi has experienced recently, this color doesn't demand. It doesn’t burn or beg or scream. It just exists, like it belongs. Like she finally belongs.

Rumi trembles, breath caught in her chest, as her body finally stops trying to run. The fury and the shame and the ache and the need, none of it leaves, but now it no longer fights itself. 

The storm outside still howls, but inside, it is something else that draws Mira’s attention. Her head snaps up as the walls of the villa pulse faintly, but not with the thunder. Instead, with something alive. 

The air seems to shift and the overhead lights in the hallway flicker once, twice, then make a strained bzzt before sizzling out entirely. 

“Was that-” She begins, voice low and entirely unsure. She doesn’t finish because the ripples come again. 

A wave of colorless heat presses through the walls, not enough to burn, but enough to make both Zoey and Mira take a step back and squint as they feel they’ve been blinded by the sun. The floor hums once again, then falls still, and it’s that moment that Mira realizes what they saw, and next to her, Zoey seems to have pieced it together as well. 

Zoey has gone completely still next to Mira. “Rumi,” Zoey whispers. “RuRu, she- that wasn’t nothing.” 

Mira doesn’t answer at first. She’s still staring at the hallway, or more specifically, the corner where the energy had curved. It hadn’t moved outward evenly. It flared from a direction, and Mira feels her stomach flip. “We’ve been searching the wrong side of the villa,” she says, and Zoey looks at her. “I know where Rumi is.”

Zoey hesitates as she steps toward the bathroom door. They had been searching on the wrong side of the villa and she’s still confused as Rumi managed to get over here in the time between her leaving the bathroom and Zoey going to the window. She figures that’s a mystery to be solved later as she finally pushes the bathroom door open. 

There, curled up on the cold floor, is Rumi. Her limbs are tangled awkwardly as if she tried to fold herself small enough to disappear. Her skin is covered in sweat, soaking through her shirt, and Zoey finds Rumi’s pants tossed off to the side. The markings along her skin are still glowing, and Zoey steps forward when they flash gold , only to pause when gold bleeds into red with hints of violet and pearl underneath. 

It’s a scene all too familiar. 

Mira stands frozen in the doorway with one hand raised, instinctively, to cover her mouth and nose. She can taste the storm in the room. It’s sharp and wild, and she finds it hard to breathe through. Her chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, and her throat tightens as if being clenched by invisible hands. The instincts are screaming inside her as if they are first, but Mira doesn’t move closer. She can’t risk it. 

Zoey doesn’t seem to notice the heat-slick air that wraps tight around Mira’s lungs. She even glances back at Mira, noting her flushed face, and recalls seeing a similar look earlier that day when she found Mira with Rumi before. Zoey tells herself that she knows some stuff and that whatever is happening with Rumi is affecting Mira, but she also knows that whatever it is, it's not something Zoey can feel. “. . .” She’s calm as she steps toward Rumi and gets on her knees in front of her. “Rumi,” she whispers, calm as she reaches out to cup Rumi’s face. Her skin is burning up, and as Zoey stares at Rumi, she quietly curses at herself for not paying attention in her second gender classes. “Rumi? What’s happening?” Her voice is soft yet firm. 

A low, broken whine escapes Rumi’s lips. It’s a sound far too small for the tempest that swirls inside her. 

Mira’s eyes slide away slowly as she’s no longer able to watch. 

And as Rumi whines again, a hand weakly reaching up to grab Zoey’s wrist, something inside Zoey snaps. She rises quickly, hand now clutching Rumi’s, and her voice shatters the silence like a common. “What is happening? Tell me!” She shouts, frustrated at her friends but also herself and everything else that she can possibly think of. 

The thunder sounds again, louder this time, and it rattles the windows.

Mira flinches at the force in her friend’s words, but her beta scent surges through the room like a wave of clarity and calm, yet underneath is something Mira has never smelled before from Zoey. Anger. The calm cuts through the tension, easing it, while the anger seems to add to it, and Mira sighs as she realizes they won’t get anywhere if this keeps up.

“I can’t lie,” Mira whispers, glancing at Rumi with an apologetic look. But Rumi doesn’t appear angry as her eyes find Mira’s. They’re almost relieved, but Mira never confirms it as Rumi looks away, eyes staring where Zoey still holds Rumi’s hand. “Rumi’s in heat.” 

The room seems to go still. Zoey turns to Mira slowly, confusion clear on her face, “Heat?” She asks and looks back at Rumi. Rumi expects Zoey to step away, maybe flee out of the room, but Zoey’s grip on Rumi just tightens, and she asks gently, “You’re . . . you’re an Omega?” 

Rumi doesn’t speak at first, and then she nods. “I’m sorry, Zoey,” she whispers. “I- I was going to tell you.” 

Zoey doesn’t respond. She can’t. Not as the pieces finally click and everything suddenly makes so much sense. She’s never encountered an Omega in heat, as far as she’s aware, everyone's a Beta until they tell her otherwise, but now that it’s been said- “it makes so much sense.” Her eyes widen, not from fear, but recognition, and she makes a noise, a scoff between a humorless laugh and disbelief. “I’m such a fucking idiot,” she says, shaking her head. 

“No, Zoey, I was going to-” Rumi’s voice falters as her body tenses and a surge of pink flashes violently across her skin, then flickers. “-say something. I promise.” She means it. She was going to say something, but it’s too late now.

Mira laughs. It’s short, sharp, and nothing like joy. Her voice slices through the room before Zoey can speak. “Like you told us you were a demon ?” Low. Such a low blow. The words drop like stones in water. 

Rumi physically flinches, jerking back like she’s been hit. And maybe she has, not by hands, but by one thing she hasn’t been able to withstand: the truth. 

Chapter Text

Zoey doesn’t say anything at first. She watches as Rumi gently pulls her hand away and curls tighter into herself, shoulders trembling, as if she’s trying to disappear. Then Zoey looks at Mira. Anger burns in Mira’s posture, from her clenched jaw and arms that are crossed too tightly, but it’s the hurt in her eyes that makes Zoey pause. “That’s not fair, Mi,” Zoey says quietly. 

Mira lets out a bitter noise. “I think it’s plenty fair.”

“How so?” 

“Because she’s been lying to us.” Mira’s voice is sharp. “All she’s done is hide and lie and pretend-”

“Hide?” Zoey cuts in, brows lifting. “You want to talk about hiding?” Mira’s mouth clamps shut, caught off guard by Zoey’s tone. “Fine. You’re mad at her for keeping something huge from us, and you’re right, it was a dick move,” Zoey continues, voice rising, “but by your logic, I should be mad at you too.” 

Mira blinks. “Me?” 

“Yes, you !” Zoey snaps, finally stepping away from Rumi to face Mira. “You knew she was an Omega, Mira. You knew and you didn’t tell me.” 

“Zoey-” 

“No.” Zoey raises her hand. “Don’t. You knew. I don’t know for how long, but it was long enough. You let me panic. You let me blame myself, thinking I said something wrong or pushed her too far. And instead of telling me what was going on, you two-” She gestures wildly between them. “-you vanish upstairs and then reappear all quiet and weird and then- and THEN- what? You kiss in a bathroom, and then decide I don’t need to know anything? And I know you knew before kissing her. Zoey throws her hands up, frustrated and spiraling. “And sure, okay, yes , making out in a bathroom is hot, I won’t argue there, but what the hell, Mira?” 

Mira doesn’t answer. Her jaw remains clenched, but the flush on her face deepens. 

Zoey takes a breath. “Look, I know I don’t smell pheromones. I know I don’t get the weird scent cues and biological breadcrumbs you two have. But that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to know. That doesn’t mean I’m supposed to just be left out like some clueless friend who isn’t part of this.” Her voice softens, but it’s worse. It’s calmer and heavier and laced with something broken. “And yeah . . . maybe I treat everyone like Betas unless they tell me otherwise. Maybe I don’t have much experience with Omega outside of Rumi now. My family was always packing up our lives like we were running from something, and I never stayed anywhere long enough to get that close to anyone. No sleepovers. No second gender reveals. Just goodbye after goodbye.” 

Zoey pauses, and her voice shakes as she looks between them. “But, I thought after three years of knowing each other, after everything we’ve been through, I was at least trusted enough to be told the truth. Even just the basics.” 

Rumi remains quiet, but her markings flash faintly. A flicker of violet crawls up her neck as a response to Zoey’s disappointment. 

Zoey notices this and her eyes narrow for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she just exhales. “I mean, yeah, Rumi being an Omega isn’t as world-ending as the whole demon thing, but it’s still something. And it hurts that no one thought I could handle it.” 

The two of them stare at Zoey, both of them looking equally guilty. Mira doesn't answer as the guilt has already sunk in, and she wishes she could pull the words back. Go back in time and just tell Zoey something.

“Don’t . . .” Rumi whispers, barely audible. “Don’t fight.” 

Zoey turns back. Her eyes are suddenly wet, but she doesn’t cry. She gets on her knees again, reaching out to Rumi, only to stop herself. “Why didn’t you say anything, Rumi?” Her voice cracks. “I could’ve helped you. We could’ve helped you.” 

Rumi’s lips lift in the faintest smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It is barely even real, something meant to comfort Zoey. “You’re helping,” she murmurs. “You always help. You’re a Beta and you don’t even try and . . . you calm me down. You’re calming me down.” She doesn’t say it, but Rumi’s sure the only reason she can even say anything is because of Zoey’s presence. 

Zoey blinks. She lifts her hand again, and it hovers over Rumi’s arm. A realization slowly dawns on Zoey as she thinks back to just how many times Rumi had found her in the middle of the night and asked to sit beside her, sometimes curled against her during long tour bus rides or even just when waiting to go on stage. This entire time, she thought Rumi was comfortable around her, but . . . she had been surviving. Had it all been instinct? Had Rumi been clinging to her without even meaning to? And something about that makes Zoey’s chest tighten, but it also has her expression softening.

“. . .” Zoey reaches out again, fingers gently brushing damp hair away from Rumi’s brow and forehead. Her movements are slow and delicate, and she lets her hand rest on Rumi’s cheek for a second, watching as Rumi closes her eyes. “Did you not want us to know?” Stupid question.

Rumi’s gaze flicks away. “I didn’t want to need anyone,” she whispers, soft and barely above the sound of the storm. "I couldn't need anyone."

Zoey exhales, and she almost seems amused. “That’s your problem, Rumi. If you had just taken the time to look around, you’d realize we are standing next to you. Always, and it’s ok to need us. And I hope you will rely on us in the future.”

The storm outside cracks with thunder once again, and the wind continues to howl as it passes by the window. Lightning strikes somewhere outside, and the hallway is lit by it for a brief second.

Zoey looks back at Mira for a second, then says, “Let’s just get you into bed. Then we can talk about all this later.” 

Mira, who still stands near the door, looks torn as her skin is still flushed from the heat. She wants to leave. Just leave Rumi to Zoey and go and think somewhere where her mind won’t get tangled with confusion or guilt or even be swayed by the pull of instinct. But Mira doesn’t move. She stays. Because, even now, despite the storm and the anger in her chest and the ache in places she doesn’t want to think about, Rumi is still someone she loves. And she always will be. She just wishes the girl would talk to them more.

Mira swallows nervously and then moves toward Zoey, intending to help her. 

It takes both of them to lift Rumi. Not because she is heavy, but because she’s all loose lungs and dead weight, like silk drenched in rain. She’s slippery from sweat, boneless from a lack of effort, and physically drained. 

“You could try to help,” Mira mutters, gritting her teeth as they struggle to shift Rumi upright. 

Rumi doesn’t respond. She only exhales weakly, her head lolling toward Zoey’s shoulder. Zoey stiffens slightly as warm breath ghosts across her collarbone. Her mind keeps drifting to impure thoughts, and Rumi has to keep getting it back on task. 

No one says anything as Mira kneels to guide Rumi’s legs into place so her feet are steady against the floor. 

“There you go,” Zoey says softly, trying to be light. She’s the first to stand, murmuring quiet encouragement as she adjusts her hold on Rumi. “I’ve got you. It’s ok. You’re okay.” Her hands stay gentle and grounded, pressing beneath Rumi’s shoulder blades with care, never force. 

Then Mira steps in, slipping her arms beneath Rumi’s knees. She lifts her without effort, but Rumi makes a sound - sharp and breathy from half shock and half something else. A sound that tightens Zoey’s jaw, and both Mira and Zoey pretend not to hear. 

Rumi trembles and makes a whimper-like noise. It’s not from pain, not entirely. Her whole body is overstimulated, skin raw to the air and hyper aware of every touch. From Mira’s arm brushing her thigh, causing bright flares of gold to settle at the contact site. From Zoey’s hand that is steady on her arm, and the gold flickers there before faltering once and blooming again, softening to a pink .

Another whimper escapes her lips. This time, she seeks Mira’s neck and presses her face to the curve of it, both hiding her face there and breathing in the familiar scent. Her markings react again. Rumi doesn’t seem to notice the change, but Zoey does. Zoey watches every shift in color, mentally logging the spectrum: the assumed cause, the locations, the reactions. Mira notices them too, but she doesn’t say a word. 

They think if they try to address it right now, they’ll touch upon something too delicate to say out loud. But they know that every flicker of light on Rumi’s skin says more than she ever will out loud. And maybe that’s why neither of them dares to speak just yet.

By the time they make it to Mira and Zoey’s room, Rumi’s breath has gone shallow again. Her skin is still flushed with sweat, her body still warm and loose with exhaustion. Her marking pulse in a slow, steady rhythm, still mostly gold , though now threaded with a darker pink at the ends. Hints of violet and the now ever-present pearl are visible as well. It’s all a tangled mess of instinct and . . . something else. 

“Alright,” Mira says, and promptly drops Rumi onto the bed.

Zoey spins around, scandalized. “What the hell, Mira?!” 

“What?” Mira blinks, like she genuinely doesn’t get the issue. 

“Why’d you throw her like she’s trash? You have to be gentle!” 

Mira shrugs. “She’s heavy.” 

“She’s not that heavy.” 

Rumi seems to pause. That? She's honestly more confused on who's trying to insult her more.

Zoey turns to Rumi, who hasn’t reacted beyond her small pause. “You’re not heavy,” she says, as if Rumi might be internally offended. Rumi’s not, she’s practically clocked out of the conversation, not caring much for it. Zoey whirls back around, “Apologize.”

“You want me to apologize ?” Mira scoffs. 

“Yes! You flung her like a sack of potatoes, not a delicate Omega in heat.” 

“First it was trash, now it’s potatoes?” Mira rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, but the second Zoey narrows hers and gives her that look , Mira sighs and relents. “Rumi-” She starts, begrudgingly. 

Rumi lets out a low grunt and flops sideways, nuzzling into the nearest pillow like she’s trying to escape the conversation entirely. 

Mira stares for a second, then- “What was that?!” 

Zoey gasps and shakes her head. “See? Look what you did. You hurt her feelings.” 

“I did not !” Mira says, but Zoey is already halfway to the door. 

“I’m going to get some clothes. Be nice while I’m gone.” 

Mira looks to Zoey, then back to Rumi, then to Zoey again. “I am being nice,” she grumbles, but Zoey doesn’t even respond; she just disappears down the hall. 

Left alone, Mira looks back at the bed. She finds it easier to be in the room with Rumi, especially when Zoey is around. The beta scents linger in the air, masking the overwhelming scent of heat. So, Mira stands there, and she looks at Rumi, who is lying on her back now, legs bent, breathing slowly but still uneven. Mira’s gaze drifts, first to Rumi’s face - still flushed - then down to where her fingers occasionally twitch against the blanket. There’s a faint flash of color across her markings with each subtle twitch. Then, Mira’s eyes keep going down past the sweat-damp shirt that’s ridden up, exposing a sliver of Rumi’s toned stomach . . . and then lower- she freezes. 

Rumi is not wearing pants. 

Mira knew this. She noticed it earlier in the bathroom, but now as she’s face to face with panties the color of- Mira’s face goes red instantly, and her eyes snap back up to Rumi’s face. And that’s when she sees it, a smirk. It’s subtle, barely there, but it’s definitely there. 

Before Mira can confirm anything, Rumi rolls over again, dragging the pillow with her to bury her face, and the smirk vanishes from view. 

Mira stares for a beat longer, flustered and now suspicious. “You’re doing this on purpose,” she mutters under her breath. And of course, Rumi doesn’t respond, and somehow that is worse. 

The hallway is quiet, save for the sound of wind rattling gently against the window panes. Zoey walks fast at first, still fired up from Mira’s stubbornness, but her pace slows as she reaches Rumi’s door. 

Zoey hesitates. 

The door is already open, likely having been left that way since breakfast. When Zoey walks in, she notices a glass of water still by the door, left there by Mira hours ago. It’s untouched, and the ice cubes have long since melted, and the condensation long since dried. Zoey pauses next to it, then steps further into the room. 

The room is dim, the curtains half drawn, and showing the storm that rages on outside. She flips on a nearby lamp, and the light casts a soft orange tint over everything. Zoey looks around, and the first thing she notices is the scent. It’s faint. Rumi’s, obviously, but not overwhelming. Just a nice layer of jasmine that is softened, maybe by the fact that the window has been cracked open just a bit, letting in the crisp air. 

The second thing she notices is that the room is not messy, not exactly. It’s not even lived in, which Zoey expects as they’re staying in a rental for a week. But even then, Zoey likes to unpack in her temporary rooms, usually just enough to feel safe. But Rumi hasn’t done any of that, and Zoey can’t confirm if she ever has as she’s never been in Rumi’s room before - not a rental or her personal room at the penthouse. 

She wonders if Rumi’s room at the penthouse is full of Rumi. If there are posters, favorite blankets, maybe some stacked books, or bedside clutter. She imagines it to be neat, Rumi always has been, but then again, Zoey remembers she just saw Rumi fall apart, so maybe her room is messy as well. She hopes there are Rumi-specific touches, but in the villa room, there is only a duffel bag and Rumi’s suitcase, both half-unzipped at the foot of the bed. 

Zoey moves closer and crouches by the bags. She doesn’t rifle, not really, just gently pulls back a corner of a folded hoodie to see what’s underneath. That’s when Zoey spots it: a black crop top that Zoey is sure is hers. Her brows lift, and she holds the clothing item up. Yup, it’s definitely Zoey’s. “I’ve been looking for this,” she murmurs, amused as she sets it aside. Another layer reveals a mess of soft fabrics: sweatshirts, sleep shorts, a half-unpacked toiletry bag tucked against the wall. And tucked between a shirt and a pair of worn jeans is a folded strip of photos. Zoey recognizes them immediately - polaroids from a photo booth. 

Zoey pauses before she pulls the strip free. She only needs a second to recognize the chaotic moments displayed in the pictures. They’re from last fall when the three of them found the time to visit an amusement park. Zoey is in the first frame, sticking her tongue out. Mira joins halfway through the second shot, squishing her face in. Rumi appears in the third, grinning freely, and in the final shot, Zoey’s arms are around both of them. All three of them are laughing, and their faces are slightly blurred from the motion of their joy. 

Zoey smiles, and she runs her thumb gently over the corner of her photo. “So, she kept it.” She glances around again and sees other things. There’s a single book on the pillow like Rumi attempted to read at some point, and Zoey recognizes it as the book she recommended a while ago. Zoey huffs, “She’s never going to finish that.” There’s an empty tea mug and some earplugs on the floor. Zoey makes a mental note to grab those before leaving. Not for Rumi, but for Mira, who has always hated the thunder. 

And suddenly, Zoey is hit with how little she really knows about how Rumi lives. Not the Rumi onstage, not the Rumi in rehearsals, not even the Rumi who is squeezed between security or stuck under a spotlight. Just . . . Rumi. Alone. Rumi in the privacy of her room, where she can simply be.

She’s never been allowed in Rumi’s room at the penthouse as Rumi always locked herself away and was very - very - serious about staying out of her room. About as serious as Mira is when it comes to the giant teddy bear at the kitchen counter. Zoey always thought Rumi was this way for privacy reasons, but she now realizes it was partly from shame. From a need to hide and keep secrets.

"I am so looking at her room when we get back home." Zoey forces herself to focus on the reason she came to the room. She digs gently through the bag again until she finds a pair of black shorts and a soft blue tank top. Nothing that will cling to her body or cause way too much warmth. Just enough to keep Rumi comfortable without overstimulating her senses. And to put some pants back on the girl.

Then, after one last glance around the quiet room and grabbing the earplugs, Zoey gently folds the clothing over her arm, tucks the photo strip into her pocket, and heads back down the hallway. 

Zoey returns with clothes in hand and a slight flutter in her chest. She’s not even sure why she is nervous - it’s just Mira and Rumi, her close friends. Maybe it’s because Zoey’s never had to take care of Rumi like this. Really, she’s never had to take care of Rumi at all. Or maybe it’s because she really - really - wants Rumi to like the clothing she picked out. Or , and Zoey’s certain this is just another one of her silly thoughts, it’s because Rumi had looked at her a certain way earlier, and Zoey hasn’t stopped thinking about it since. 

She pushes the door open with her hip and steps inside. “Were you nice?” She asks, pointedly looking toward Mira. 

Mira shrugs without guilt. “I was never not nice.” 

Zoey rolls her eyes but says nothing. She makes her way over to the bed, where Rumi is now curled on her side. Her skin is still damp with sweat, cheeks red, but her breathing has evened. Whatever storm was raging inside Rumi earlier, it’s now mostly passed and has left her exhausted in its wake. Zoey steps closer, “I brought you something to wear,” she says softly and kneels next to the bed, setting the clothes nearby. 

Rumi doesn’t move, and the only sign she’s even listening is the small glance in Zoey’s direction.

Zoey hesitates, then glances at Mira. They both shrug, so Zoey asks, “Do you want help?” It’s a shot in the dark, but Zoey really does think Rumi should get out of her clothing. After a moment, Rumi nods just barely, but it’s enough. “Okay.” Zoey moves with care, easing the blanket off Rumi’s shoulders. Rumi’s skin is still lit with colors, and Zoey pauses, briefly transfixed by it. She’s still unsure about them, but something about this moment - about Zoey - seems to stir the glow. She shakes her head and gets back on task, looping her arms under Rumi and helping her sit up. 

Zoey guides Rumi gently toward the folding screen in the corner of the room, offering them very little privacy, but privacy nonetheless. Rumi doesn’t protest this and doesn’t seem to care when Zoey ducks behind the screen with her. She moves with quiet purpose, deliberate and calm, like she has done this before. 

She has. Not with Rumi, though. But with Mira under a very very different situation. 

Zoey’s hands tremble slightly as they reach for the hem of Rumi’s shirt. Her fingers graze warm skin for a moment too long, and it rattles her at just how soft the skin is. She swallows hard and tries to keep her eyes respectful, but it’s difficult. Her gaze catches on the sharp lines of Rumi’s collarbone, noticing the way the heat flushes her chest. Zoey feels the temperature of the room shift, and she tells herself not to think about it. That it’s all in her head. 

Then, Rumi speaks, in a soft yet smoky and very intentional tone. “You can look.” 

It’s whispered like a secret not meant to be heard, and Zoey almost pretends she didn’t hear it, until she glances up at Rumi’s face and sees the glint in her eyes, watching her through lowered lashes. There’s heat in her eyes, even hunger, as they seem to track every one of Zoey’s movements. 

“Um-” Zoey hesitates and looks out of the partition and toward Mira, silently calling for help, but Mira is acting as though she can’t hear anything and has strategically turned her back to Zoey. “That little-” 

“Zoey,” Rumi whispers, and Zoey feels her knees going weak. 

Zoey looks back at Rumi, who has gotten closer. Zoey panics. “Arms up, please,” she blurts, and Mira snorts, having clearly caught at least that part. 

Rumi raises her arms without comment. Her body trembles just slightly, but not from weakness this time 

Zoey swallows again, and she grabs the tank top, but she makes no move to put it on. Instead, she stares at the markings again, this time focusing on how they glow on Rumi’s spine. She doesn’t stop herself as she reaches out and trails a finger along Rumi’s spine and watches the flashes of color - gold , blue , violet , and even red , but it always ends with pink . She so badly wants to ask what they mean, she wants to know if Rumi knows, but now isn’t the time, and it’s when she hears a hitch of breath and feels a soft tremor of muscles beneath her fingers, that Zoey yanks her hand back. “I’m so sorry,” she says quickly, ashamed of her own impulse. 

Rumi says nothing. She just watches Zoey, with the same look from before, but now she also studies her while trying to consume Zoey. And the look is almost too much for Zoey as she can feel herself burning beneath it. 

Zoey fumbles with the tank top and quickly slides it over Rumi’s arms and shoulders, her touch soft and grounded again. She then smooths the fabric down over Rumi’s sides and hips, careful not to linger anywhere that might make things worse. She ignores the bright colors that still trace the Omega’s skin and keeps her eyes focused on the edge of the tank top, on the motions of helping Rumi step into shorts, on anything , but the intensity in Rumi’s expression. 

And yet, when Rumi leans slightly forward - her head tilting up like she’s searching for Zoey’s eyes - Zoey looks away, fast, and her breathing only returns to normal when Rumi finally looks down. Rumi loses her balance slightly and leans into Zoey’s chest, her strength clearly fading. 

Zoey holds her steady, and for a few heartbeats, they just stay like that, and Zoey stares at the ceiling as Rumi nuzzles into her chest, clearly feeling bold.

When they emerge from behind the partition, Mira turns at the sound, and Zoey immediately narrows her eyes. “Oh, now you’re paying attention?” Mira tilts her head, unfazed, and Zoey rolls her eyes.

Zoey sighs, not in the mood. “Help me get her to the bed.” 

Without protest, Mira moves to Rumi’s other side. She slips an arm around her waist and carefully guides Rumi’s hand over her own shoulder. Rumi leans into Mira, breath warm against Mira’s neck as her friends help her to the bed. 

Mira eases her down, guiding her carefully onto the mattress. But as her fingers brush along Rumi’s bare arm, a trail of color flares in her wake - a flicker of pink - gold that curls and pulses like heat caught in skin. Both Mira and Zoey catch it. They don’t speak of it. 

Zoey shifts her focus and gently pulls the blanket up over Rumi’s hips, smoothing the fabric down in slow strokes. Her knuckles graze Rumi’s wrist as she steps back, and again a bloom of soft pink trails after the touch. Still, no one comments. Instead, Zoey leans down to adjust the pillow beneath Rumi’s head. “We’re right here,” she whispers.

Rumi doesn’t reply. Her lips part on a shallow exhale, and her fingers twitch once in a small, reaching motion like they’re searching for something familiar. Like she’s thinking of grasping Mira’s hand, or Zoey’s. Maybe even both. Her eyes flutter, and when she catches Zoey and Mira's gaze, just for a moment, something stirs behind them. It’s hard for them to name. Could be vulnerability, or fear, but there’s that telltale shimmer of gold again.

Zoey turns and looks at Mira.

Mira steps back from the bed. “I’ll get some water,” she says. “And maybe a cold cloth.” She leaves without waiting for a response. 

Mira returns a few minutes later with a glass of water in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. She kneels next to the bed without a word and slips an arm behind Rumi’s neck, carefully lifting her head. Rumi stirs faintly, eyes still half-lidded, but she doesn’t resist as Mira brings the glass to her lips. 

“Small sips,” she murmurs quietly enough that it’s unclear if she was talking to herself or Rumi. Rumi obeys, and Mira watches her for a beat, then sets the glass aside. But she doesn’t move away. She looks at the glass for a moment as she considers her next words carefully. “I’m still mad at you,” she finally says. It’s quiet but loud enough that Rumi looks at her, but doesn’t say anything. “I need you to know that or-” Mira hesitates. “Or it won’t matter.” 

Zoey shoots Mira a very pointed look from across the bed.

It’s unsure of Rumi’s standpoint as she doesn’t say anything, and her face is expressionless - outside of the obvious effects of her heat. But Rumi doesn’t shy away when Mira reaches up and gently tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. Cold fingers linger there for a second, Mira’s thumb brushing softly across Rumi’s temple before a cool cloth is pressed to her skin. 

The room quiets again. 

Outside, the rain continues its steady rhythm of taps against the window. The storm still hangs over them, but it’s softer now, like something in it has shifted. And for a moment, it feels like the worst of it has passed.

Chapter Text

Zoey perches on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, and the other dangling just above the floor. She hums a tune, something low that meanders and sounds unfamiliar to both Rumi and Mira. It’s the kind of melody that feels made up on the spot, as there are no words to it, just the rise and fall of her voice that changes rhythm now and then. It shouldn’t be comforting. But somehow, it is. Like a strange lullaby that only Zoey knows.

Her fingers move slowly through Rumi’s hair, working through the knots with a kind of quiet care, just enough to keep it from turning into a mess by morning. “I really do like your hair,” she whispers, knowing Rumi won’t respond. 

Rumi’s breath has evened out now, though her hands are still fisted in the sheets, and the blanket has been kicked down to the end of the bed. But her body has stilled, and the soft glow of her markings pulse in a steady rhythm again. She’s not fully asleep, Zoey can tell, because the moment her fingers pause, the markings flash ever so slightly brighter in protest. 

Zoey snorts softly. “So needy,” she murmurs with a grin, and resumes combing through Rumi’s hair.

Mira sits on the floor outside of the room, back pressed to the wall directly across from the open door. From where she is, she can see everything: Zoey perched on the bed, Rumi curled into herself, and the soft movements of Zoey’s fingers in her hair. She didn’t initially leave the door wide open, but Zoey opened it without explaining herself. 

Her elbows rest on her knees, head dropped onto folded arms as she stares at the floor, trying to breathe, trying to think, just trying to understand. But inside her, everything feels scrambled yet so put together. 

Her first instinct is to blame Rumi’s heat as the scent still clings to the air, warm and sweet and just as dizzying. The pheromones curl at the edges of her mind still, but it isn’t unbearable, not like it was back at the bathroom. She has a feeling it never will be, so long as Zoey is there. Zoey’s scent is steady and remains grounding as it cuts through the rest of the scents easily. Mira hadn’t realized how much she had come to rely on it until now. 

So no, she can’t blame Rumi. Not entirely, and may just have to realize that some of the blame is on herself. She finds it almost funny how she is so sensitive to Rumi’s smells now that she knows she’s an Omega, but how she picked up on nothing before. Usually, she’s perceptive and can guess Second Genders before she’s told. 

It’s all too much to think about, so Mira doesn’t. She just sits there and lets the confusion run through her chest and settle beneath her ribs. 

The thunder rumbles again, and Mira flinches. Every muscle urges her to move and go to Zoey. Maybe use the excuse of checking in, but Zoey would see through her. But Mira doesn’t move, and she presses herself further into the wall, as the hall is bathed in light as lightning flashes. Sometime after that, Rumi whimpers, and Mira looks at the bedroom. 

Her gaze shifts to Zoey, watching as she leans in close to Rumi, lips near Rumi’s ear. She’s whispering something Mira can’t hear, but she assumes it to be something comforting.

Zoey leans down, brushing a few strands of hair back from Rumi’s face. Her fingers linger near Rumi’s temple, tender in the way they tuck her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t say anything at first, just lowers her head until her nose barely grazes the edge of Rumi’s hairline.

There’s a breath, quiet and curious, and Zoey wonders - not for the first time - what it’s like to feel those subtle traces of pheromones. She knows they can be overwhelming for some; that much is evident from the last few days, but she’s more curious about the smell of them. She imagines the smell is softer when it comes to Rumi. She thinks it would smell like Rumi’s favorite soaps and shampoos, or maybe it’s like nothing at all - just either overwhelming or underwhelming. She supposes it doesn’t really matter as Zoey will never be able to understand. 

The questions drift away, and she whispers, lips not quite touching skin, “You’re okay.” There’s a flicker of gold across Rumi’s skin, and Zoey stays where she is. “I’m right here.” 

Rumi doesn’t answer, but her chest rises slowly, and when it falls again, it feels less tight. Her grip on the blanket loosens, and she turns her head just enough to meet Zoey’s eyes. There’s a moment of stillness, where her gaze focuses on Zoey’s eyes, then flickers downward to her mouth, then back to her eyes. She watches the way Zoey’s cheeks redden, but Rumi doesn’t have the energy to say anything about it.

Rumi’s eyes shift, catching on the strands of hair Zoey never bothers to tame, the ones she always lets slip free from her buns. She wants to reach for them, just to feel something soft, but her body stays still as it’s too heavy and tired. 

Zoey doesn’t move either. She just leans in the last inch, letting her forehead rest lightly on Rumi’s temple, and Rumi closes her eyes. “I’m here,” she says again, quieter now. Then, after a breath, “We’re here.” 

Rumi’s body lets out one last ripple of gold , followed by pearl , edged by pink , that pulses slowly as Rumi’s body finally stills.

Mira steps quietly into the room again, her footsteps nearly silent against the floor. She doesn’t speak right away, just pauses near the doorway with her arms folded. Her eyes fall on Rumi, whose body has finally stilled on the messy sheets. Her hands have uncurled from the tense fists they were in earlier, and her breathing is steady now, calm. Zoey still sits perched at the edge of the bed, fingers moving in slow, careful strokes through Rumi’s hair. Mira tilts her head slightly, brows drawing together with the faintest hint of amusement. “. . . huh.” 

Zoey glances over but doesn’t stop what she’s doing. 

Mira steps closer, voice lowered almost to a whisper. “I think this is the most peaceful I have ever seen her this entire vacation.” 

Zoey huffs a soft laugh. “I think this is the most relaxed I’ve seen you with her this entire vacation.” 

That earns a small side-eye. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Still petting Rumi’s hair, Zoey shrugs. “I’m just saying. Every time you’ve been around her, you end up looking like you ran a mile in a turtleneck. Red in the face, jumpy,  and vaguely offended by your own heartbeat. There’s none of that now.” 

Mira rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Wow, I’m grateful to get a medical diagnosis from Dr. Zoey.” 

“You asked.” Zoey finally pulls her hand away from Rumi’s hair and rests them in her lap. “So, what’s changed?” 

“It’s late, and I think I’m tired,” Mira shrugs. 

“You think?” Zoey glances toward her, and she seems to be searching, rather than understanding. Mira meets the look for a moment before she turns her focus to the blanket crumpled at Rumi’s feet. Zoey pauses, “. . . is it because you can’t smell whatever leaks out of you guys?” 

“Leaks?” Mira laughs, but Zoey doesn’t seem like she’s going to drop the question. Mira falls quiet as she tries to decide what answer she should give. Then she sighs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Maybe. I mean, I can still smell them but they’re not as strong as they were earlier. Maybe because she’s asleep or because your scent kind of masks it . . . I don’t know how to explain it.”

Zoey looks down at her hands, then back to Rumi. She doesn’t say anything to that, but her expression softens a little. 

Mira takes a small step back from the bed and runs a hand through her hair. For a second, she focuses on taking the elastics out of her hair, and only when done does she say more. “I’m really not sure how to explain it.” 

Zoey looks at her again. “But you know it messes with your senses?”

“Yes, because I’ve experienced it.” 

“And it, like, makes you feel things?” 

“Yes.” 

“Even anger?” 

Mira stares at Zoey, one brow raising just slightly. Between them, Rumi stirs with just the smallest twitch, but she doesn’t wake. Her markings pulse faintly under the blanket, steady but dim. “What are you trying to get at, Zo?” 

Zoey scratches lightly at her knee and keeps her tone even. “Just trying to figure out if your ‘ I’m still mad at you ’ was pheromone-Mira talking . . . or regular Mira.” 

There’s a pause in the room. 

Mira’s lips part slightly as if she might deflect, or even defend herself, but she chooses to speak plainly, “I am mad at her.” 

Zoey hums, quiet and non-judgmental, like she’s just filing that information away. She doesn’t push the conversation further and looks down at Rumi once again. She resumes patting Rumi’s hair absentmindedly, the strands slipping back through her fingers again. Rumi doesn’t stir again, and Zoey smiles faintly when the markings flicker at the renewed contact. 

Mira starts to shift toward the door again, but then she pauses. “Are you ever affected by these things?”
“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’.

“So, you being mad at me is-”

“Yep,” Zoey cuts in, popping the ‘p’. “That is just Zoey.” 

That earns a quiet laugh. “And is ‘just Zoey’ still mad?” 

Zoey shrugs with one shoulder. “You made a dick move. Both of you did. But-”

A shrill ringtone pierces the air, sharp and sudden. All three of them jolt. Zoey visibly flinches, Mira swears under her breath, and even Rumi twitches, her markings pulsing once in sleep protest before she settles again. 

Outside, the thunder growls low, like the storm is laughing at them. 

Mira drags a hand down her face with a groan. “You have got to be kidding me.” The ringtone continues to shriek, and Mira squints at the shadows of the room, now turning in a slow circle as if the phone might be floating somewhere midair. “If that’s management calling us about some ‘spontaneous feedback sessions’ or if we want to return early- I swear, Zoey, I will block every single one of them.” 

Zoey tries not to laugh. “I think your phone is downstairs,” she offers helpfully. “You dropped it and never picked it up.” 

Mira stops mid-rummage and one of Rumi’s shirts dangles from her fingers. “. . . right.” She drops the shirt like it has personally offended her. “So then, your phone?” 

Zoey lifts her phone and holds it up. “Present and accounted for.” They both glance at Rumi. “So . . . Rumi’s?”

Rumi lets out a peaceful sigh and shifts gently toward Zoey’s lap, unconcerned and unbothered. 

The phone goes silent, and there’s a long beat of silence. Mira finally exhales like it’s over, already returning to her spot by the bed, and Zoey shrugs, “We’ll just call back tomorrow-”

Brrring . The ringtone explodes back to life. 

Zoey lurches to her feet like someone yanked her by invisible strings. “Whoever this is, they are getting my last nerve.” She puts her hands on her hips, puffing her cheeks out like a furious chipmunk, and glares around the room as if the phone might materialize out of guilt. 

It doesn’t. 

Mira sighs and she starts rifling through clothes again. “Alright, Operation: Find the Phone, is a go.”

Then it’s chaos, pure chaos, as they both move at once, scrambling, tossing - and dodging the tosses of each other - and swearing under their breath. The phone is relentless, the call ends, and they think they’re in the clear, but the person immediately calls back. 

Zoey drops to her knees and checks under the wardrobe. Mira flings open the closet like she’s raiding it for contraband. Zoey belly crawls halfway under the bed and gets a dust bunny to the face, and when she sneezes, she stirs up other dust bunnies and Mira has to save her. 

“Not under there,” she sneezes again, and Mira laughs, already wiping the dust off Zoey’s face. 

She then throws open drawers with enough force to rattle the knobs, and Zoey tosses a pair of socks at the wall. Mira looks at the pathetically slumped socks, then back at Zoey. “. . . what was that?” 

Zoey shrugs. “I’m annoyed,” she mumbles. 

Rumi kicks the last of the blankets to the floor in her sleep, utterly undisturbed by the whirlwind around her. She even yawns, itching at her stomach as she rolls onto her back and for some reason, that really irks Mira and Zoey looks at Mira with that judgmental “ are you serious ” look again.

“We’re looking for her phone,” Mira defends herself, and the ringtone blares again. Muffled and echoing faintly from another room. 

They both freeze, heads turning toward the hallway like synchronized Siamese cats. “. . . Rumi’s bathroom,” they say in unison. 

Mira bolts first, skidding around the doorframe and running into the bathroom. The bathroom looks like a very polite hurricane has passed through. There’s towels on the floor, toilet paper unraveling, and a few pills scattered near the baseboard. Neither of them acknowledges it as their focus is on the glow of the phone . . . wedged behind the toilet. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mira mutters, bending down to snatch it up like it personally betrayed her. At this point, it has. “Why the hell is it in the bathroom?” 

The screen lights up: Bobby 🦭

Mira squints. “Of course.” 

Zoey materializes behind her like a ghost with opinions, peering over her shoulder. “Why is he calling her?” 

“I don’t know.” Mira stares at the screen, then, “Do we let it ring?” The phone buzzes angrily in her hand. 

Zoey’s eyes widen. “No! No, absolutely not. He’ll think something’s wrong. He already thinks something’s wrong.” 

Mira blinks. “Something is wrong-” But before she can stop her, Zoey swipes to answer the call. Mira shrieks. “He can’t see the dirty bathroom!” 

“I didn’t put him on video !” Zoey hisses, but she’s fumbling now, and Mira’s already smacking the mute button. 

“Still! Better we have Rumi in the background and he thinks she’s asleep than see-” Mira gestures vaguely at the crime scene around them. “-whatever the hell this is!”

They sprint back into the bedroom like their lives depend on it and nearly collide with each other at the doorway. Mira slides to a stop and slaps on a smile that looks like a grimace, and Zoey follows, grinning like a possessed game show host. 

“Hi, Bobby!” Mira says through gritted teeth. 

“Heyy, Bobby!” Zoey sings, way too bright, her voice an octave higher than usual. 

Rumi, somehow still asleep through it all, shifts a little and murmurs Zoey’s name under her breath. 

Behind them, lightning cracks outside the window as the storm rattles the glass as if the heavens themselves are now judging this mess. And both Mira and Zoey stand there, plastered smiles that are barely held together from nerves, and a phone between them.

And the worst part? Bobby hasn’t said anything yet. 

There’s a long pause. 

On the screen, Bobby stares at them. His expression is flat and suspicious with the kind of stare that makes you feel like you’ve already been caught doing something very dumb. His eyes narrow just slightly. Then, his voice crackles through the speaker, low and way too calm to be comforting. “Why do you both sound like you’re holding a gun to each other’s heads?”

Zoey clears her throat so hard that it sounds like she swallowed a pinecone. “What? Us? No. Pfft - we’re just . . .” Her eyes dart toward Mira in desperation.

Mira nods. “Hanging out.” 

“Yeah, super chill. Very relaxed. Good vibes. Classic vacation things. Looove a good vibe.” 

Another beat of silence. Then Bobby, slow and unimpressed, “Where’s Rumi?” 

Mira hesitates a little too long, so Zoey jumps in like a first responder at a lie emergency. “Sleeping! She’s so asleep. Like . . .” She shrugs, “Aggressively asleep?”

“Very restful,” Mira tacks on.

“She’s exhausted,” Zoey says, enthusiastic to the point of panic. “Like, dead to the world .” 

“Dead tired,” Mira says at the same time, and they both freeze for a half-second like maybe that sounded a little too literal. 

“Like, not dead dead . Just sleeping. Healthily.” 

Another pause. “I thought she was a night owl,” Bobby says slowly, suspicion mounting. 

Mira starts, “There was a-”

“Jet lag!” Zoey blurts, practically yelling it. 

“-hike,” Mira finishes. They both turn and look at each other. Mira’s eyes say, stop talking , and Zoey’s eyes say, I’m trying ! And Mira’s scream back, try better .

There’s a long sigh on Bobby’s end. “Right. So . . . how’s the trip going?”

Mira jumps in before Zoey can ruin anything else. “Great!”

“Amazing,” Zoey adds, flashing another one of those unhinged smiles. 

“We’re getting really close,” Mira says, glancing toward the bed where Rumi is somehow still dead asleep, softly glowing and peacefully unaware that her reputation is currently being destroyed in real time. 

Zoey beams. “Yeah, like really close. Super close. Closer than we’ve ever be-” Mira elbows her in the ribs so fast and sharp that Zoey audibly oofs and stumbles a little. “I mean emotionally,” Zoey coughs, hand on her side. “Emotional bonding. Emotional closeness.” 

Mira’s smile twitches at the corners, dangerously close to collapse. “So close,” she echoes. She’s not sure why Zoey keeps talking, but she knows she can’t stop her. No one can. 

Bobby is quiet for another long moment. Then, “Okay. What the hell is happening?” 

Zoey’s eyes go wide, like a kid caught with a stolen cookie halfway to her mouth. Mira gives her the sharpest do not say a single goddamn word look known to man. Zoey nods. She seems to understand the mission, but Mira doesn’t trust her at all. 

The storm outside rumbles again, and the tension between them all seems to build-

And then, from Bobby’s side of the call, there’s a sudden crash in the background. Something loud and metallic, like a pan hitting tile.

Both girls blink.

From off screen, Bobby yells, “DERPY, I SWEAR-” followed by a scuffle and the sound of something large thudding to the floor.

Zoey squints. “Wait . . . are you at the penthouse?”

Bobby returns into frame with hair slightly more chaotic than before and a thundercloud of irritation around him. “Yeah. Someone has to keep the demons in check. I am yet to see them act responsibly.” 

Zoey smiles sheepishly, and Mira raises an eyebrow. “I thought you hated them.” 

“Oh, I do,” Bobby says flatly. “But the bird has grown on me. The tiger-” He glances over his shoulder just as another crash echoes from somewhere nearby. He then shivers as the tiger slowly turns its head, smiling in its creepy way. “-not so much.” 

There’s a sound like a pot falling. Then another. 

And another. 

And another. 

Bobby flinches. “Derpy, stop knocking pots over,” he says, already tired. “That’s like the 100th one this day.” 

Zoey’s face lights up with sudden realization. “Oh! Right, I ordered weighted pots.”

There’s another long beat of silence as Bobby stares at her like she just admitted to war crimes. “You what?” He asks in that always gentle tone when talking to Zoey, but at the edge of it, there’s some strain. 

“Weighted pots,” Zoey repeats, completely missing the subtle shifts in his tone. “You know, for the tiger. So it couldn’t knock them over.” 

“You ordered weighted pots and you didn’t tell me, Zoey?”

Zoey touches her chin for a moment and then nods. “I guess so.” 

“I have been picking up pots for days. I thought I was losing my mind.”

Zoey’s shoulders inch up sheepishly. “I . . . I thought you would open the package?” She tries. 

“I never open your packages.”

“Well, you can now,” Zoey offers quickly, hands raised like she just defused a bomb and deserves a standing ovation. “I hereby give you full, legal, emotionally supportive permission to open any package addressed to me.”

Crash .

Bobby winces. “Okay, Derpy is now trying to eat a record player off the wall. I think the bird is egging him on. I can’t have him eating anything else.”

Mira’s eyes widen. “My teddy-”

“Is safe,” Bobby interrupts. “I have constant eyes on it.”

She sighs, relieved. “Good.” 

“Tell Rumi I called. And I want an actual human sentence from her next time.” 

Zoey grins, “Will do. Bye, Bobby!” 

Mira echoes, “Bye, Bobby!” 

The call ends with a faint thud and Bobby telling Derpy, “If you break one more planter, I’m binding your claws with oven mittens,” before the screen goes dark. 

Silence settles in the room like dust, and the thunder rumbles again. 

Mira slowly lowers the phone and exchanges a long look with Zoey. 

Rumi, still curled up, lets out a soft breath and murmurs something unintelligible before turning onto her side, undisturbed by any of the madness. 

Zoey finally breaks the silence with a whisper. “Do you think weighted pots will stop Derpy?” 

Mira blinks at her. “ZoZo, Derpy tried to eat a curtain rod.” Zoey nods. “More importantly-” Mira slowly turns to Zoey, crossing her arms and pinning Zoey with a mild glare. “What the hell were you doing?! That call was a disaster.” 

Zoey tilts her head, “What do you mean? I didn’t say anything wrong.” 

“You almost said everything.”

“I saved the conversation.”

“Emotional bonding,” Mira echoes Zoey’s words from earlier. 

“That was me panicking because you elbowed me.”

“To shut you up, but you just kept going. He probably thinks we murdered Rumi. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s dialing 911 right now.” They both stand there for a moment, then Mira deadpans, “We’re going to prison.” 

“He’s definitely suspicious.” Zoey looks up at the ceiling for a moment, then looks back at Mira, giving a weak little grin. “I look good in orange.” 

Mira groans and places the phone on the windowsill. “This vacation is going to give me a stress ulcer,” she mutters, and Zoey doesn’t argue, because yeah. It just might.

“In my defense, I didn’t say anything false.”

“That just might be the problem, Zoey.” Mira sits on the bed and says nothing when Zoey sits by her. “You exaggerated how close we are getting.”

“Because we are getting super close.” 

Mira doesn’t respond and, instead, looks over at Zoey with an unreadable look before she smiles and playfully pokes at one of Zoey’s buns. “Yeah, I guess so. We should've had Rumi talk to him," Mira says, leaning back on her hands.

"And then what? Watch her try to flirt the pants off Bobby?"

Mira laughs. "Flirt? Please, she'd just command he'd do it, and somehow you'd be the one taking off your pants."

"I would not-"

"You already exploded at her when she said you could look."

"She has a really good body, and you can't talk. Mrs. I-Made-Out-With-Her-In-The-Bathroom."

"Jealous?"

Zoey doesn't flinch away. "That you got to kiss her," she leans in, "or that I wasn't the one you were kissing?"

Behind them, Rumi stirs again and her body flashes pink again as she pushes her face into a nearby pillow, hiding her smirk. 

Mira looks back at Rumi as Rumi moves. "She's still glowing," she murmurs. "And she didn't wake up once. She must be exhausted."

"I bet she is," Zoey says. Then curiously, she says, "You sound concerned."

"Of course I'm concerned." Mira then glances at Zoey's lips and shrugs casually, switching the topic back to her kiss with Rumi. "The moment was a second of weakness."

"A moment of weakness that has you blushing~" Zoey sings, laughing when Mira looks away.

Thursday

Day Four

The sun drifts behind a thick sheet of cloud, casting the room in a muted gray. Zoey flips on a light as she steps into the kitchen and moves to the window, tugging open the blinds and peering outside.

The storm has passed. The world beyond the glass is slick and glistening, puddles dotting the stone path, and leaves heavy with rain. The sky, though brighter than before, still wears the aftermath of the storm.

Zoey lingers there, watching the sky a moment longer before cracking open the window, letting in the clean scent of rain-soaked earth. Then, she turns, crossing to the marble counter, fingertips tapping absently along its edge. Her gaze drifts to Mira. 

Mira sits at the table, hunched slightly with a half-peeled orange in her hands. Her fingers work slowly, more out of habit than hunger. The peel comes away in uneven strips, her movements mechanical and detached - a distraction, not a task. 

The silence between them isn’t heavy, but it isn’t light either. It’s the kind of quiet that hovers, unsure if it should settle or scatter. Neither of them wants to be the first to break it. 

Zoey thinks about grabbing her own orange and mirroring Mira’s motions and join in the unspoken ritual. Part of her considers heading back to the bedroom so she can check on Rumi. But Rumi hasn’t stirred since she fell asleep yesterday, now just a tangle of exhausted limbs.

So, with a sigh, she breaks the peace. “When did you know?” Her voice is careful as she whispers, “about me and my feelings.”

Mira doesn’t answer right away. She finishes peeling her orange and places a piece of the fruit on her tongue, chewing it slowly like it will all buy her time. Then, “before you did.” She flicks some of the pith off her fingers. “I think that’s why I didn’t say anything.” 

Zoey nods, swallowing hard as she turns back to the window. She watches a gull perch itself on a rock and listens to its sharp cry. “It’s not fair,” she says eventually. “It was one thing when it was you and me doing whatever we were doing.”

“Which part?” Mira asks, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “The kisses? The sex? The handcuffs-”

“All of it, Mira,” Zoey interrupts quickly, her cheeks flushing. She exhales, steadying herself. “Regardless of the finer details of our relationship, it’s all just confusing.”

Mira finally looks up. “It’s not about fair, Zoey. It’s about the truth.” 

Zoey doesn’t have a response to that. She lets her eyes fall to the floor, then slowly drags herself over to Mira to sit next to her. Their knees don’t touch, but Zoey reaches for Mira’s hand, and Mira takes it. “I don’t know what all of this is. I don’t even know if what I’m feeling is real or if it’s just . . .”

“Instinct,” Mira finishes for her, gently. 

Zoey nods once. “But I know it’s not,” she admits. “It can’t be because Betas don’t run on instinct, outside of comforting - I guess.” 

“That’s a good thing, then. No confusion on your behalf.” She glances down at their joined hands. 

“I guess.” Zoey tries to look at Mira’s eyes, but Mira refuses to look at her. “What about you?” Zoey asks. “Is any of it real for you, or is it just instinct?” 

Mira pauses, and her focus intensifies on Zoey’s hand. “What do you mean?” She whispers, and Zoey says nothing, both of them knowing it was a weak attempt. “I love Rumi,” she says at last. “But not like that. Not like you do. I don’t think so, anyway. Maybe it’s her heat. It could be something else, but I just-” She hesitates and her jaw flexes, like the words are suddenly stuck. “She gets under my skin. She’s still under my skin, and too many times do I want to just lock her in a room until she tells us all her secrets because-” Her hand grips Zoey’s tighter now. “She is so frustrating. And right now, that’s really all I can think about.” 

“So once you two make up-”

Mira finally looks at Zoey. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Besides, this could all be for nothing, and Rumi might be the straightest person to walk this planet. Omegas go after everyone when they’re in heat. Once she's thinking straight, we can- what did you call it? Sit in a trust circle?"

Zoey nods. “True.” She pulls her hand free from Mira’s and takes a slice of Mira’s orange. “I hope that’s not the case, though.” She pops the slice into her mouth, “But if it is, then it’ll be ok. I didn’t realize how much Rumi seeks me out on purpose, and it’s not ideal, but it’s something.” 

Mira tries not to look at Zoey with pity. She just sighs and takes a slice, offering it to Zoey. “Whatever you have to tell yourself,” she whispers, and Zoey eats the slice. 

The silence stretches long after the last slice of orange disappears. Somewhere down the hall, a gull cries again, and the rain’s scent lingers faintly through the cracked window. 

Back in the bedroom, the quiet breaks with a low rustle as Rumi stirs. 

Her brows knit as her body twists beneath the loose sheets, a quiet breath catching in her throat. The sweat that clung to her last night never really dried, not fully, and now it feels suffocating. Her shirt clings to her ribs like a second skin, damp and tight and so so wrong. 

Her eyes flutter open to the haze of gray light. 

It’s too warm. Too bright, and just too much. 

A quiet, choked sound escapes her as she tries to roll over again, but even that feels like too much effort. Her pulse drums heavily in her ears, and her skin is flushed and damp. Her legs tangle in the twisted sheets that suddenly feel like they’re trying to trap her. 

With shaking hands, Rumi peels her tank upward, over her head, and leaves it bunched beside her. The fabric had felt like it was crawling on her, and soon her bra does as well, so that’s the next thing to go. Her shorts quickly follow as the waistband was digging into her hip, and the seams were suddenly itchy. She pushes the clothing down with weak determination, only stopping once she’s down to her underwear. 

She exhales, but it’s not from relief. It’s something closer to surrender. The heat hasn’t left her, and it only seems to bloom deeper now. Rumi feels as her skin tingles, and every breath she pulls in feels too sharp in her lungs. 

Pink begins to glow again, and she watches as it moves along her body. It doesn’t hurt, not like it did yesterday, but it demands. Meanwhile, a second shimmer begins just over the heart, going from faint to right in a matter of seconds. Gold beats with her heartbeat, and Rumi suddenly feels like she’s watching someone else’s body react. It synchronizes with the deep throb in her chest while the pink continues to move down her thighs and wrap around her spine. 

And her thoughts drift to Zoey’s voice. How it was low and steady last night, and how her fingers felt in Rumi’s hair. Then to Mira, unsure of herself - unsure of Rumi - yet grounding. And suddenly, Rumi finds herself with a new surge of energy as she sits up in bed and moves like a woman on a mission. 

- - -   

From upstairs, a soft sound drifts down. 

A whimper.

It’s faint, barely there, but it drifts down the staircase like a warning. Mira and Zoey both go still, their quiet conversation breaking off mid-thought as the air sharpens around them. Zoey slowly turns her head toward the sound, brows pulling together. Mira doesn’t move, but her posture stiffens, a muscle jumping in her jaw. 

The sound comes again, softer this time, like it barely survived the journey down from the second floor.

Zoey rises slowly from her chair, eyes fixed on the stairs like something might appear there. “Was that . . .?” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. “That was Rumi. She’s probably hungry or thirsty.” 

Mira exhales through her nose, calming the concern in her chest, and sets the mangled orange peel aside on the table, her fingers brushing stray pulp from her pants. “Yeah. Or she’s possessed.”

Zoey turns, blinking. “Or she’s what?” 

“Possessed.” Mira shrugs like it’s a perfectly reasonable conclusion, but the twitch of amusement on her lips betrays her. “We can’t rule it out. Not after yesterday.” Her voice is dry, but underneath the sarcasm, there’s a tension that only settled in after hearing the whimper. 

Zoey stares at her, somewhere between baffled and exasperated. “Seriously?”

“Omegas in heat are like landmines,” Mira states matter-of-factly. “One second they’re curled up and harmless, the next you’re nose-deep in pheromones and making eye contact with a nipple.” 

Zoey doesn’t bother responding. She just sighs, grabs her phone off the counter, and starts tapping the screen.

Mira leans back in her chair and raises her hands. “I’m just saying. You’ve seen the movies. This is how hauntings start.” 

Zoey shoots her a glare as the phone begins to ring. “Don't start acting like Miss Cool all of a sudden. And you’re not helping.” 

“Didn’t say I was trying to.”

The phone rings once. Then twice. Then, with a faint click, the line connects. 

“. . . Hello?” Rumi’s voice slips through like it’s been dragged up from the bottom of a dream. It’s groggy and low with sleep and something else that clings to the edges, like her body hasn’t quite caught up to her mind. There’s a husky rasp to it, breathy and uneven, and Zoey hates the way it makes her stomach flip. 

Zoey blinks away the images in her head and she softens instantly. “Hey, sweetheart.” The word is gentle and rolls out like honey. Her tone drops without thought into something warm. 

Mira’s head jerks toward her. “ Sweetheart ?” She mouths, slightly offended. “I’ve never gotten a ‘sweetheart.’”

Zoey pretends not to hear. “You up?” She asks into the phone, still soft. 

There’s a pause. Then Rumi answers with a slow, slurred, “mm. Kinda.” The syllables melt together like she’s still wrapped in heat-haze and half-asleep. 

Zoey shares a look with Mira before refocusing. “Do you want anything? Water? Food?” 

Rumi hums. It’s thoughtful, too thoughtful. Zoey waits, and Mira listens. “A popsicle.” She pops the ‘p’ with intention, like it’s the most important word she’s ever spoken. 

Zoey’s about to nod, relieved the request is simple, until Rumi keeps going. 

“Not the gross ones, though,” she mutters. “The ones from the box. With the frog. The pink ones. Not the red. Not the green. Pink . The one with the frog. Pink frog. It has to be pink, Zee.” She says this like she’s piecing the item together as she talks. 

Zoey’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. 

Mira closes her eyes, sighs, then says as gently as she can, "We don’t have any frog popsicles." There's a quiet kind of apology in her voice, and her jaw tenses like she knows it'll sting. She says, gentler now, "Is there something else you want?” 

The silence on the other end of the line is immediate. Then, a very pitiful whimper. It’s the kind of sound that carries heartbreak in its marrow. Like someone told her the world is ending, or they are out of cake at her birthday party. 

Zoey stares at the phone like Rumi’s about to melt through it. 

Mira, seemingly less moved, raises both hands. “What? I’m not going to lie to her.” 

“Well, you didn’t have to say it like that,” Zoey snaps, eyes narrowing. “Mira, go get the damn popsicles. You broke her heart. Again.” 

“I didn't say anything wrong. Besides, if she can live through that mess yesterday, she’ll survive this,” Mira mutters, standing her ground. 

“You don’t know that. Did you hear her? She sounded like we just kicked a puppy. Her puppy.” 

“She’s in heat, Zoey. That kind of sad noise? It could mean anything, or nothing. But it doesn't mean she's broken."

“She asked for one thing. One. And you crushed her.” 

Their arguing fizzles for a moment as they both pause and glance at the phone. Rumi is quiet. Too quiet. 

Zoey lowers the phone from her ear and stares at it like it’s started ticking. “Why is she quiet? Why is that quiet? If she’s lying there too emotionally damaged to make a sound, that's on you.”

Mira rolls her eyes and grabs her jacket from the back of a chair. “We should both go.” 

Zoey blinks. “What? Why? I don’t want to leave her alone. Not like this.” 

“Then I’ll stay, you go.” 

Zoey makes a noise. “No. I’m not leaving you with her. Not unless I want to walk back in and find you two halfway through something that requires a viewer discretion warning.” Mira dares to look offended. “You know it. You know you’re the problem.” 

“Oh, please.” Mira slings her jacket on. “You act like you’re any better. I know you can’t smell the pheromones and all that, but I can. And yours is practically screaming for her hormones.”

“I am not horny!” 

“I never said you were.” 

“You implied it!”

“You assumed it!” 

Zoey squints. “You’re just as horny as I.” 

“So you do admit that you’re horny.” 

Before either of them can fire back, a loud snort crackles through the phone speaker. Both women freeze mid-bicker, eyes locked, mouths open. 

“. . . did she just snort?” Zoey squints down at the phone in disbelief. Before either of them can comment further, the screen goes black. The call drops, and a bold red message flashes up: Call Ended. Zoey blinks, “She hung up.” 

Mira groans, and she grabs the car keys off the counter. “Our conversation probably short-circuited her brain,” she says. “I’m going to the store.” She starts toward the door, waving vaguely over her shoulder. “Try not to burn down the villa," she mutters, but her eyes flick toward the stairs once more. "But-" She hesitates. "Maybe call her once or twice if she continues to whimper."

Zoey nods absentmindedly and starts drifting toward the stairs, only for Mira to appear next to her in a flash, hand shooting out to grab her wrist. “No. I’m serious, Zoey. Do not go up there.” 

Zoey halts, frowning. “Why not?” 

Mira doesn’t let go. “Because I wasn’t joking earlier. About your horniness, but she is also horny. You put that mix together and you get-” Mira stops there, figuring she doesn’t need to explain further. “I’ll be quick. Just sit down here and wait.” 

Zoey crosses her arms. “You think I’m going to, what, jump her?” 

“No,” Mira says softly. “I think she’s going to jump you. And I think you’re going to let her.”

Zoey blinks, thrown by the bluntness. Zoey doesn’t respond right away. Her arms are still crossed, but she’s no longer pretending to be annoyed. Just thoughtful, and maybe a little tempted. 

Mira releases her wrist. “Give me thirty minutes. Forty, tops. I’ll find the frog popsicles, come back to the villa, and we can go up there together. Just . . . stay down here. Please.” There’s something almost pleading in her voice now. Not just for Rumi's sake, but for Zoey as well. 

Zoey doesn’t argue. Not verbally. She just watches as Mira heads toward the front door and slips outside. The door clicks shut behind her, and a few seconds later, the engine purrs to life. 

Zoey waits and listens. 

The car pulls away down the gravel path, disappearing into the mist of post-storm quiet. And only then does Zoey move. She’s silent and careful not to let the stairs creak, as she starts up toward the second floor, telling herself she’s just checking up on a friend.

Chapter Text

Zoey stands just outside her bedroom door, frozen like she’s tiptoed into enemy territory, and suddenly remembered she forgot her armor. Everything around her is cold, from the wooden flooring to the air around her, but Zoey’s palms are hot and clammy as she holds her phone in a death grip. And she tugs at her shirt collar, suddenly feeling really hot herself.

Inside, she can hear Rumi breathing. It’s slow and uneven, but not as loud as it was yesterday in the bathroom. The kind of breathing that isn’t sleep but something sleep-adjacent, like restlessness, or too hot, or just too aware. Yet, it’s also peaceful, as if Rumi is simply existing in her current state, simply just is, and no longer fights like she did yesterday. 

Zoey reaches out, fingers brushing the doorknob, and she almost turns it. 

Almost.

But she hears Mira’s voice again, “ Stay down here ,” and Zoey looks to the stairs behind her. She gets the irrational fear that the stairs will disappear at any moment and make the decision for her. Zoey shakes her head and almost laughs at herself. It’s too late now. She’s already upstairs, already two steps over the line, but she hasn’t gone into the room. So, some weird part of her mind tries to justify that she hasn’t technically disobeyed Mira. Not completely, anyway. 

What she's doing is only partial insubordination. Barely even a misdemeanor, and Mira doesn’t have to know. She will know, though. Mira has a weird sixth sense about things.

Zoey can still turn around. She should turn around, tiptoe down the stairs, and just. Go. Back. She can put on some playlist, and look up a new dessert recipe. Zoey’s thinking that strawberry shortcake sounds good. Because, yes, her friends hate the ice cream, but Mira likes whipped cream, and Rumi, well, she doesn’t hate whipped cream, but she also doesn’t like it. But she loves strawberries, and that’s a win for Zoey.

She nods to herself as it sounds like a good idea. It’s a classic comfort dessert and doesn’t involve any heat-induced chaos. Nobody is crying over frog popsicles, and most importantly, Zoey won’t have to face Mira’s disappointment. It’ll just be flour and cream and non-horny decisions. Zoey nods again, already pulling out her phone to text Mira a grocery list when-

“Zoey.” Her name. From that voice. That sweet and soft voice. So so sweet and it makes Zoey’s knees lock. Rumi’s voice pours out like syrup over warm bread, all sing-songy and soaked in something sticky and sultry. “Zoooey,” she tries again, this time softer. Dangerous. Like a siren sitting on a rock, trying to pull Zoey in. Then - Gods help Zoey - a whimper. Or maybe it was a moan. Zoey’s brain just files it under “Dangerously Both.” Either way, it has Zoey’s ears turning pink. “Please, Zoey.” 

The word please feels like a trapdoor under her feet, and it’s about to open. Zoey swallows hard, and her phone now feels like a brick in her hand. She still holds it in a crushing panic grip, feeling like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. If she moves slowly enough, Zoey is sure she can pull a reverse heist and maybe sneak back downstairs and pretend like she had never gone up. She can leave. Rumi won’t even notice. 

One foot steps back, then another, and another until the floorboard betrays her. 

Creeakk .

Zoey freezes, wincing as her entire soul turns into a prayer. “Please no,” she mouths, but she can already feel her resolve shattering.

“Come in,” Rumi calls, breathy and sweet. “Please.” 

Zoey exhales, “The floorboard has betrayed me.” And that’s it. Game over. 

Zoey turns slightly, glancing over her shoulder like Mira might appear at the top of the stairs in full judgement. But Mira is not there, and Zoey is a sucker. She sucks in a breath and whispers an apology into the void. “Sorry, Mira.” She can practically feel Mira’s future judgmental glare beaming at her from across the county. But Zoey can’t help herself, not when someone sounds like they’re asking for help while holding their heart in their hands. She’s weak. She likes making people happy. It’s practically embedded in her DNA, like baking or oversharing when she’s nervous. It’s in her soul.

So, with one final moment of self-delusion that this is just checking on a friend, she places her hand on the doorknob. 

It’s warm. 

And turning it feels a lot like jumping off a cliff. 

Zoey pushes the door open. 

The door creaks open, and Zoey peeks inside, one hand still on the knob as her eyes survey the room. At first glance, nothing looks out of place. The folding screen is still propped in the corner, the blinds are drawn tight, and the ceiling fan spins in its usual lazy circles above. Everything feels calm, still, and very normal. 

Well, almost. 

Her gaze snags on the bed where a pile of clothes sits in the middle. Well, not a pile. More like a mound . . . maybe a mountain. Zoey’s eyes narrow as she’s 100% sure that the pile-mound-mountain wasn’t there before. 

She steps in and quietly shuts the door behind her, scanning the mass more closely now. The tangle of fabric stretches to the edges of the mattress, a chaotic sprawl of every soft thing they own: hoodies, oversized shirts, scarves, Mira’s stage blankets, socks - all clean. And in the dead center of the thing, barely visible through the haphazard folds of cloth-

“Rumi?” Zoey calls out, cautious now. 

The lump doesn’t move. 

Zoey takes another step closer, a strange sense of dread blooming in her chest. Maybe the laundry had eaten Rumi. Maybe Rumi finally snapped, lost a battle with the suitcases and duffle bags, and they consumed her as a consequence. “Okay . . .” She murmurs, stepping closer. “Are you good there?” 

Then she sees it- no, her. 

Rumi is curled into the heart of the pile like a dragon sleeping on its stolen pile of gold. Her face is flushed - a new normal, it seems - limbs tangled in the clothing, her chest rising and falling . . . and bare. Oh, so bare. Rumi is very much not wearing a shirt. Or a bra. Or pants. 

Zoey lets out a startled squeak and nearly trips backward, slapping a hand over her eyes even though she is absolutely still peeking between her fingers. “Oh my heavens! What happened to your clothes, RuRu?!”

No answer. Just a slow shift of movement as Rumi’s body arches slightly beneath the fabric. 

Zoey’s eyes dart away until something familiar catches her attention. “Hey, wait a second.” She squints and points at the mess. “That’s my hoodie!” She lunges forward, grabbing for the sleeve that sticks out near Rumi’s hip.

Big mistake. 

The sound that comes out of Rumi isn’t a word. It’s a low, guttural growl, and it vibrates through the air like a live wire. 

Zoey freezes. Her fingers brush the fabric, but her survival instincts kick in like muscle memory, and she yanks her hand back. “Okay! All right, it’s yours now.” She mutters, “Obviously. It’s fine. Totally fine.” 

The growl fades, but Rumi still doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look at Zoey. She simply shifts again, curling tighter into the makeshift nest. One hand slides beneath the collar of Mira’s old tour hoodie, gripping the fabric like a child does with a comfort blanket. Her cheek presses against it, her lips parting on a soft exhale, and her eyes - glassy and unfocused - blink slowly. Zoey thinks that’s going to be it and that Rumi will fall asleep, but then Rumi moves. She writhes, now restless, and kicks slightly at the pile around her. The mount shifts until a small hollow opens near her hips. It’s deliberate, instinctive. She was making space. 

Zoey stares, watching Rumi kick the pile around and adjust the space until two people could easily fit in the center of the pile. “. . .” She glances away and makes no move to get closer. “This isn’t too bad,” she lies to herself, quietly. “It could be worse. There could be-” Her voice dies out as Zoey realizes that she doesn’t actually know how the situation could be worse. 

There’s something cracked in Rumi’s voice when she finally speaks. “Zoey . . .” Just her name, nothing else, but it’s wrecked. A whisper torn from the throat of someone barely holding it together. It hits Zoey like a gut punch, shattering whatever lightness she was clinging to for comfort. 

She swallows hard and crouches down slowly, keeping her hands raised and open like she’s approaching a wild animal. No, not wild. Wounded. And a bit wild. “Hey,” Zoey says softly, voice dipping into something quieter. “Rumi, sweetheart, what’s wrong? What- how can I help?” 

But Rumi doesn’t answer. She just stares. Her gaze is blurry with small tears. Her bare shoulders tremble with every breath, and her lips are slightly parted, and for a second, Zoey thinks she’s about to speak again, but Rumi doesn’t. Instead, a flicker of light pulses along the curve of her markings. Not gold , not the familiar warmth, but a jagged streak of violet . Shame flashes across Rumi’s face, and she turns her head away, eyes squeezing shut. But then she looks back, and Zoey is still there. Still crouched and still concerned.

Something in Rumi shifts. Her markings flare again, but this time, it’s pearl . Soft and luminous, accepting of their current situation. Or her current state. But then pink leaks into the pearl, and Zoey is no idiot. She noticed the color has been ever present since the start of Rumi’s heat, flashing in random moments that no longer seem so random as Zoey looks at Rumi’s face and sees one clear emotion: wanting. 

Zoey blinks, heart in her throat. “. . . okay,” she whispers, more to herself than anything else. She fumbles for her phone and types fast, her thumbs moving with frantic energy as she murmurs under her breath. It takes one glance at Rumi writhing again, a low noise caught in her throat, for Zoey to really panic and search: omega peak heat symptoms, what to do, HELP.

She scrolls like her life depends on it, eyes skimming past dense paragraphs and anatomical diagrams, and scientific terms she absolutely doesn’t need right now, until she stops cold. 

One sentence.

“When an Omega steals clothing and belongings and puts them in a pile, it's called nesting. This is a common behavior during an Omega’s heat.” 

Zoey reads it again. Then again. Then a fourth time. 

She lifts her eyes, slowly, and looks at the bed, at the chaotic fortress of hoodies and blankets and t-shirts, all tangled around Rumi’s body. Zoey recalls how Rumi clung to Mira’s tour hoodie and the noise when Zoey reached for her own. The shivering. The pleading. The pile. 

“Oh my heavens,” Zoey breathes. “You’re nesting.” She tucks her phone into her pocket and stares at Rumi.

Rumi doesn’t seem to notice. She lets out a long, quiet breath and sinks deeper into the nest of clothes. Her fingers drag Mira’s hoodie up to her cheek, clutching it like it’s stitched with safety. There’s something almost reverent about it. Zoey watches in silence as Rumi’s bare arms tighten around the bundle, and for the first time, Zoey starts to understand. 

Still, she doesn’t move. But something clicks. 

“Well,” she says. “I guess that’s a thing.” There’s a weird pride in Zoey when she realizes that Rumi took the time and effort to make a nest that smelled of her and Mira. 

Zoey glances down at a pillow on the floor and picks it up. A small offering. She steps closer to the bed, knees bending as she quietly places it near Rumi’s feet, not because she expects it to help, but because she needs to do something. Even if it’s small. Her eyes then wander to a sleeve sticking out of the pile. 

Zoey knows that hoodie. She loves that hoodie, but she doesn’t reach for it this time. She just stares for a second, then exhales gently through her nose. “Ok,” she says softly, like she’s narrating to herself. “You’re ok. You’re just . . . nesting. That’s all. It’s normal. Nothing weird about it. Completely valid instinct. Happens all the time. Probably. Doesn’t make you weird.” 

Rumi lifts her head slightly, watching Zoey with heavy-lidded eyes. There’s no answer, no verbal cue, just a long, weighted silence. Not once did Rumi think herself weird, but she has to admit that the reassurance was nice. Rumi rolls onto her back with a quiet sigh, letting her arms flop to her sides like the effort has drained her. And maybe it’s Zoey’s imagination, but something in the room feels softer now. Less charged.

Zoey shifts as well, folding her legs beneath her and settling on the floor beside the bed. She sits close, but not too close. Still within reach and still offering the sense of presence without intrusion. But then her eyes widen, and she points an accusatory finger. “That’s my tour hoodie. The Osaka one!” 

Rumi doesn’t even flinch. She just lets out a soft whimper and rolls over, dragging the hoodie with her. She burrows into it, her face pressing into the neckline. The whimper morphs into something broken. Part sigh, part plea, part noise that sounds like her heart might be giving up one layer at a time. 

Zoey rises carefully, approaching the edge of the bed. “Rumi?” She tries, cautious as she peers over the mess and at Rumi.

Rumi moves fast. Her arm shoots out and catches the hem of Zoey’s crop top with surprising accuracy for someone who was just half-buried in laundry.

“Hey- whoa! Whoa!” Zoey yelps, grabbing the edge of her shirt and tugging reflexively. “That’s my shirt ! Rumi, Sweetheart, please!” 

Rumi clings harder, desperate, her knuckles white around the fabric. Her eyes are focused on Zoey, and violet shimmers along her skin. She makes another noise, a mewl this time, and Zoey lets go. The crop top slides right over her head. 

Zoey stumbles back, arms out like she’s been robbed - because she has. “What the- if you had asked, I would’ve given it to you.” She groans, glaring at the pile like it might cough her shirt back up, but Rumi just adds it to the collection of offerings to the nest gods. She takes a moment, then nods. “Cool. That’s fine. No problem. It’s not like I liked that shirt or anything.” A pause. “I should’ve made that strawberry shortcake,” she mutters, though there’s no anger in her voice. 

“Zoey,” Rumi whines again, this time quieter. 

Zoey looks up at the ceiling, then asks, voice still sweet but very done, “Do you need something else? Water? Medicine? A priest?”

Rumi offers no answer. Just another slow, full-bodied wiggle as she buries deeper into the nest.

Zoey just watches, slack-jawed, then she drops to the floor again and leans against the far wall, opposite the bed. She takes out her phone and opens the browser. “Ok, time to search some more,” she mumbles. Her fingers fly over the screen, and a few furious taps later, she finds what she needs.

“Omega Heat Symptoms: What to Know About Nesting

Omegas at the peak of heat will often nest instinctively, surrounding themselves with the scent of someone they trust or crave. Common behaviors include hoarding clothing, whining, temperature sensitivity, excessive scenting, and refusing to give back anything ever again. 

If an Omega is at this point, they’ll start craving-”

Zoey doesn’t bother reading the rest of the article, assuming it doesn’t matter. She turns her phone off and stares at her reflection in the dark screen for a moment. She tries to rationalize, because Zoey already knew this. She knew what the pile of hoodies meant, and the whining and weird stubbornness. She understood why Rumi had stolen her shirt and clung to tour hoodies. It was all normal behavior, typical of nesters, and that’s reassuring to Zoey. 

She nods to herself. “Okay,” she says to herself, but the glance she gets from Rumi tells Zoey that Rumi is listening. “Ok. So we’re just at the peak of your heat. That’s fine. That's manageable. You’ve built your nest, and you have your shirts. It’s all smooth sailing from here, and I’m sure by tomorrow, you will be wise-minded and we will all sit in our trust circle and talk.” 

Rumi’s voice comes quietly. “Trust circle?” She whispers, her voice hoarse. 

Zoey’s eyes snap to Rumi, who is watching her over her shoulder now. There’s amusement on her face, a faint smile, and Zoey is suddenly reassured as she gets glimpses of her friend. Not the horny and needy, heat-riddled one. But Rumi. And she just feels all the more sure that they’re in a nice spot of her heat where the effects will only lessen by the hour. 

But, of course, Rumi stirs again, turning her body to face Zoey fully. A sound escapes her mouth, and when she locks onto Zoey’s eyes, the look she gives is hungry. Not aggressive, not wild, but soft. A hunger with an ache. Needy in a way that shoots straight down Zoey’s spine and tangles itself into a knot behind her ribs. Rumi’s fingers twitch toward her. “Zoey,” she breathes. 

Zoey immediately flattens herself against the wall like maybe it can absorb her and keep her from doing something stupid. “Nope,” she squeaks. “I do not have the clearance to deal with whatever that look was.” Her eyes dart around the room and land on the door, but Rumi begs her not to leave, and Zoey can’t bring herself to do so. “What if I get you some frozen peas? Or some cold water? Or- oh! Mira is more qualified than me. If we just wait for her-”

“Mira’s busy,” Rumi whines. 

“She just went into town," Zoey explains, but Rumi just grunts, and something flashes in her eyes. Zoey tilts her head, watching Rumi closely now.

But Rumi just blinks, not revealing anything more. And then, she whines again. 

Zoey winces. “You can’t make sounds like that, RuRu. My brain is already leaking out of my ears.” So, Rumi does it again, and they both know Zoey is far too weak to say no. Zoey hesitates, and as much as she wants to bolt and barricade herself in the kitchen, she can’t. She moves closer. 

Step by step, Zoey inches to the edge of the bed and perches there like she might need to leap off at any moment. She’s sweating, definitely sweating, and her knees are bouncing while her jaw clenches slightly. Her brain is full of sirens and fire alarms and some voice screaming “don’t make it weird,” but it’s already weird, especially as Zoey is trying so hard not to look at Rumi’s chest. “Um,” she hesitates. “You look like death,” she finally says, very gently. 

Rumi whimpers, and she is seriously beginning to question just how many times she’s going to be insulted by her friends this vacation. 

Zoey continues, “If death was, like, sexy and needed some electrolytes.” There’s a hopeful pause, and Rumi quietly stares up at Zoey. “Like a sexy little cryptid version of the flu?” Zoey offers. 

No reaction, just a very slow blink. Then, quietly, “Don’t leave.” It’s not a plea or desperate. Just honest.

Zoey freezes before nodding. “Ok,” she says. “I’ll stay, ok? But pants are staying on. Shirt theft was one thing. Growl or bite, and I will call Bobby. He'll bring holy water and snacks. Probably both.”

Rumi doesn’t even blink. She just shifts, inching closer until she can grab Zoey’s hand. She then nods slowly. “Okay.” 

“Also,” Zoey adds, heart still thudding. “I want my hoodies back. Both of them.” 

Rumi grunts.

Zoey sighs, already knowing she’s not getting her clothing back.

Thirty minutes felt like a blink, not because it was calm or restful, or because Rumi had by some miracle slipped back into sleep and given Zoey a chance to breathe. No, it was quite the opposite.

It had been thirty minutes of Rumi moaning, squirming, and begging in that honey-laced voice of hers, every sound thick with want. And Zoey? She spent the first 10 minutes on the bed before spending the rest of the time pacing like a caged animal, avoiding eye contact and very deliberately not looking at Rumi.

Or her chest.

Or her breasts . . . her very magical, perfect, possibly spell-cursed breasts that Zoey would really, really like to- “Focus!” Zoey snaps, shaking her head hard. She checks her phone with a hiss of frustration, and her face falls. “Oh.” It’s only been 20 minutes. 

“Zoey . . . please. It hurts.” Rumi’s voice is cracked open with need, trembling with something raw. Zoey risks a glance and regrets it instantly. Rumi is still one with the pile of clothes, skin still flushed and sweat still on her, and - of course - she remains bare from the waist up, despite all the clothing options around her. And now, her thighs are pressed tight together, tense like she’s trying to ground herself with sheer force. And they move slightly, but offer no relief from the pressure that builds but never releases.

“Why are Omegas so horny?” Zoey mutters, though the hypocrisy isn't lost on her. Not even a little. She pulls out her phone, panicking, and searches: Omega in peak heat, symptoms. Her finger scrolls. “Nesting- yeah, got that. Elevated temperature, obviously. Scent-driven agitation.” Zoey glances over at Rumi. “Yeah, sure. Increased . . .” She slows. Stops and stares. Scrolls back up and reads the line again just to be sure. Then, she reads it out loud in a voice much too high to sound sane. “In the final stages of a heat cycle, many Omegas will instinctively begin soliciting physical intimacy, often through verbal begging or scent-mirroring. The safest, most effective way to ease them through this phase is-”

A beat, a breath, and a quiet breakdown. 

“SEX?!” Zoey’s voice cracks, and she lurches back. “Nope.” Her eyes widen, and her brain - ever traitorous and wild - starts painting pictures she does not need. Rumi writing beneath her, flushed and breathless, moaning her name. And then a thought enters Zoey’s mind as she really does think Rumi would be a good sub- “Stop it, Zoey," she scolds her thoughts.

Across the room, Rumi blinks up at her from the mess of hoodies and blankets. She’s still curled up, still trembling, but she seems more stable and more aware, even though her mind is still affected by the heat. And normally, she would ignore Zoey’s rants, let her rave and mutter, but now, Rumi’s watching Zoey, her gaze tracking her like prey watching a predator that keeps circling but won’t strike. She really doesn’t understand the confusion. Zoey’s smart, in many things, but especially in intimacy. Rumi has no experience in the matter, and she knows for a fact that Zoey does. Rumi’s heard it, so why is Zoey acting like sex is a new concept, and this is some shocking revelation?

Rumi quietly huffs, laying her head on her arms. She hasn’t been moaning for fun. She hasn’t kept her chest exposed for dramatic flair. There’s a very real, very urgent need burning low in her stomach and building between her thighs like gravity is pooling there. And the more Zoey stalls, the deeper the ache goes.

Zoey’s panicked voice comes through again. “There has to be a platonic version of this. I mean- yeah, I knew you were weirdly horny, but I didn’t think you needed it. I didn't think it was a necessary part of your heat. There has to be something to help you. Maybe tea. Or Omega yoga. I know you're flexible.” She curses again as the images resurface. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, and Rumi is confused about who she’s trying to justify the words to. “I meant how you fight and- ugh!” She’s spiraling.

With a huff, Rumi rolls over so she’s face down, hips in the air. She whimpers again, this time louder, as she rubs her cheeks against Zoey’s hoodie, and her hips twitch in the air. 

Zoey goes very still as she’s trying very hard not to picture another thing, but her brain betrays her with vivid clarity. Rumi curls up, breathless and arching, clutching at the sheets and gasping her name, maybe with a bite mark or two- “Nope!” She claps her hands over her ears, but she can still hear the noises. Still feels Rumi’s eyes on her. 

Rumi groans in frustration now, and she meets Zoey’s eyes with a look so wrecked it steals Zoey’s breath. “Please, I just . . . I just need you.” 

“Okay, okay. Look, Rumi, you’re gorgeous. You’re like a model with demon magic. And I get it .” She gestures widely at the mess of heat-nest and Rumi. “This is like every fanfic’s dream, but I am a Beta with a dignified resume, and I-”

Rumi snorts. “I know the things you keep in your room,” she deadpans, tilting her head slightly, and making an obscene gesture. But then she whines again, falling to her side as pink flares across her skin. She wraps her arms around herself and makes a choked sob-like noise. 

“. . .” Zoey blinks at Rumi. Her body’s so clearly suffering, and not just in the desperate, heat-fueled way. It’s almost like there’s too much heat, too much tension. And Zoey supposes that it is normal, Rumi is at the peak of her first heat, but still, Zoey can’t help but worry. 

Zoey exhales through her nose, leans back on her heels, and pulls out her phone. She scrolls through the article she was looking at before, reading little pieces that she thinks may help her, but with a decisive nod, Zoey exits the page and opens a new search tab. She hesitates for a second, then searches “how to help an Omega in heat non sexually, please.” Her fingers hover over the screen, and Zoey glances toward Rumi, then hits Enter. 

The results load in, and the first article says, “ Why You Should Never Be Alone With an Omega in Heat (Unless You’re Mated) ”. Zoey’s thumb freezes mid-scroll, “Oh, cool. Super helpful. Love that.”

Rumi grabs a hoodie, bundles it up, and lays her head on it, watching Zoey closely. 

Zoey shakes her head and tries a new search: omega heat help platonic safe no sex NO SEX . The suggestions are not great, as one mentions “safe biting,” and another recommends a “cool shower but supervised by a bonded Alpha.” Zoey groans and she tries a new search: my friend is an Omega and I think she’s dying, please help, she’s in heat this is NOT ROMANTIC please .

This search isn’t that helpful, but Zoey learns there’s such a thing as a cooling nest. She’s not sure what that is, but it’s a thing.

Zoey is about to give up as she tries another search: how to support an Omega in heat as a friend, not a mate .

The results load fast, filling the screen with dozens of forum posts, blog entries, and suspicious neon-lit pop-ups that Zoey immediately scrolls past, but she’s relieved as she feels like she just found the answer to life until she reads the first result: “ There is no truly non-sexual solution during the final stages of heat. Physical intimacy is the most natural release .”

Zoey blurts, “Absolutely not,” and scrolls faster. One link stands out: Omega Support: Comfort Care During Heat . She clicks, and her eyes skim quickly, absorbing chunks of text between glances at the bed. 

“Omegas in heat may respond positively to grounding touch. Some best non-sexual physical comfort methods may be cuddling, pressure therapy (weighted blankets, tight hugs), cool compresses, scent familiarity, and calming vocal tones.

Respect their boundaries.

A lot of Alphas overstep boundaries, and it puts them in a worse position. Nothing will be accomplished if your Omega is angry at you. 

Avoid initiating anything that feels sexual or may be taken as sexual. Doing so will activate a switch, and once turned on, it’s hard to turn them off.” 

“Cuddling,” Zoey repeats. “Ok, I can cuddle. It’s more so, can she do cuddling?” She looks at Rumi, but Rumi says nothing. Zoey scrolls a little further in the article. 

“Many Omegas experience mental fog (some for the entirety of their heat, others only for the first half) or emotional hypersensitivity during peak heat. Guilt, confusion, and vulnerability are common. Gentle reassurance and presence are often more effective than isolation.” 

The next result says “Ten Safe Ways to Soothe Your Partner (Without Going All the Way!) . She clicks it and reads the first bullet point. 

“#1: Skin-to-skin contact helps regulate their heat pattern. Try lying chest-to-chest, even fully clothed, to ground them.

Zoey snorts. “Right. Because my body heat is definitely what she needs right now.” She scrolls again. 

“#4: Offer low-stimulation tasks like brushing their hair, scenting times in the nest, or hand-feeding snacks.” 

Zoey tilts her head, narrows her eyes for a second, then shrugs. “Okay, maybe that one.” 

“#6: Let them scent you if they trust you. The more familiar, the better.” 

She stares at that one. Zoey assumes Rumi trusts her. “I guess she can keep my hoodie for a bit longer,” Zoey sighs, and she opens another tab, typing fast into the search bar: omega heat comfort platonic no sex no knots no gross touching help. She opens the first link and skims down a forum post. 

KnotsNotThoughts

My Omega’s in the middle of their heat. I know sex is the best way to handle an Omega’s heat, but how do I help without getting intimate, as well as without making it worse?

Zoey makes a face. “ My Omega?” She asks herself quietly and glances at Rumi. She’s still quiet as Zoey searches, calmly watching her. “Is that normal?” She asks, but Rumi doesn’t answer. “Right, you’re probably not even listening. Sorry.” 

Rumi speaks up. “Yes,” she whispers. “It’s normal.” 

Zoey doesn’t have an answer to that, so she redirects her attention back to the forum. There are hundreds of replies - some too clinical, some too explicit, some that make her recoil - so Zoey decides to read the top comment.

“You can’t really make heat ‘worse’. It’s always ‘worse’. You can only aid them through it. Yes, sex is the best / fastest way, but it’s not always about sex or moving through it quickly. Sometimes they just need to feel safe. Be calm. Be present. Talk to them in a steady voice. Let them know they’re not alone. Offer water, soft things, your presence.” 

Zoey’s shoulders finally - finally - drop an inch. The breath she’s been holding seeps out. Right. Okay. That Zoey can do.

She hovers her thumb over the screen, lips pressing together. It’s not a miracle answer, but it’s something solid. All she has to do is be calm, present, and soft. But, for good measure - and because her brain is like a conspiracy board made of bubblegum and panic - she opens a new tab and searches something else: do betas ever spontaneously combust from omega pheromones, asking for a friend .

The search results are mostly joke posts and fanfiction links. No hard science. No “how to survive an Omega when you’re a Beta.” So, she doesn’t get an answer, but she wasn’t really expecting one. She decides the answer must be no.

Because Betas can’t smell pheromones that strongly. 

Because Betas are immune. 

Because, surely, the universe would not allow her to explode from sheer horniness by proximity. 

Probably.

The silence from the bed behind her is suddenly loud, and Zoey glances back. Rumi is still curled up - still shirtless, and still looking at Zoey. But now her eyes are glassy, and they’re locked on Zoey like she’s the last tether holding her to reality. 

Zoey swallows as her chest squeezes. Something tender slips into her bloodstream, settling itself just beneath the chaos. “Okay,” she whispers, soft but determined. “We’re doing this. Non-sexually.” She sets the phone down and puts her hands on her hips, like she’s just given a big speech to her soldiers before battle. This is also when Zoey remembers . . . she’s not wearing a shirt. Because Rumi stole it. 

Zoey glances down at herself, mildly horrified. She contemplates getting another shirt from the hamper, but then her memory kicks in as one of the search results comes to mind. She remembers it mentioning skin-to-skin contact and something about temperature regulation. Comfort and hormones- blah blah blah, Omega biology.

“. . . yeah,” she mumbles, already halfway convincing herself. “This is for Rumi. Not because I like it. Not because I crave casual intimacy like oxygen. Just therapeutic.” Zoey rolls her neck and nods to herself. “Alright, prepare yourself, Rumi.” 

From the bed, Rumi blinks. Her markings flash pink , and her lashes flutter. Her eyes trail below Zoey's collarbone like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Zoey wavers. “Not like that,” she clarifies immediately.

Rumi pouts. “You said prepare.”

Zoey sighs, “horndog,” and moves on from the topic. “I am about to be the best emotionally grounded, online-forum-approved, heat-support-certified Beta this world has ever seen.”

“You're already the best Beta in the world.” She isn't teasing, and it's not her heat talking. Zoey blushes and Rumi looks her up and down - hands on hips, proud as hell, hair a mess, eyes too wide . . . and it's stupid. And it's sweet. And if she weren't one wrong breath away from climbing Zoey like a tree, Rumi might've actually laughed. Instead, her gaze flickers down to Zoey's hands again. Zoey's fingers aren't long, but they're not short. They're perfect, so Rumi's mind tells her.

Zoey follows Rumi's gaze to her fingers before tucking her hands behind her back. 

Then, quietly, “and the best Beta would just fuck me.”

Zoey squeaks. Actually squeaks. “No!!” She watches as Rumi closes her eyes and groans, clearly disappointed by Zoey’s refusal.

“Alright,” Zoey mutters. “Operation 'Don’t Be a Creep' begins now." The bed creaks slightly as she sits on the edge of the bed, this time closer. Rumi doesn’t open her eyes, but her breathing hitches at the shift. Zoey can see how badly she’s shaking. The muscle in Rumi’s jaw twitches, and Zoey wonders just how much Rumi is holding back. She ponders it for a moment, then decides it can’t be too much, especially when considering how Rumi has been acting recently. 

“Hey,” Zoey says softly. “I read some stuff. Online. Which, I know, is risky, but y’know-” She shrugs. “It’s better than licking you or whatever the hell your body thinks is the move.”

Rumi lets out the tiniest huff, somewhere between pained and amused, and Zoey counts that as a win. “Licking is perfect,” she mumbles, and Zoey considers that a win as well, but knows she should think of it as a loss. 

“I’m gonna lie down next to you.” She looks at the nest of clothing, then says, “Not on you. Just near you. So you’re not alone. That cool? I know it’s not what you want, but I won’t touch you in the way you want. Not when you’re not thinking straight, and when I’m not the person you’d want if you were.” 

Rumi gives the smallest shake of her head, barely a twitch. Her lips part, “I do want-”

“Shh,” Zoey interrupts. “I’m going to get into bed now, ok?” 

Rumi gives the smallest nod, and she reaches a hand out, relieved when Zoey takes it. She opens her eyes in time to watch as Zoey climbs into the nest slowly and lowers herself next to Rumi. Rumi can feel how stiff Zoey is lying, and she looks over at Zoey, making a face as Zoey lies on her back, arms crossed, and staring at the ceiling. She’s lying like a corpse. 

Then, Zoey suddenly turns onto her side, and she moves closer. 

Rumi does as well, tucking her face into the pillow. She squeezes Zoey’s hand, their fingers threading together. She can feel the tension in her shoulders loosen just a little, and her jaw unclench. Her body relaxes by degrees, and she stops fidgeting.

Zoey watches her, unable to believe she’s looking at the woman who once kicked down a dressing room door to fight someone - Mira - over a stage mic. But now, Rumi is barely able to keep her eyes open, and Zoey suddenly realizes that Rumi is relying on her to keep her together. “I got you,” Zoey whispers into the silence between them. She squeezes Rumi’s hand once, saying nothing when Rumi flashes gold . “But, if you start grinding on me, I’m pushing you off the bed.” 

Rumi does not comment, instead sliding closer to Zoey and curling into her side. She presses her forehead to Zoey’s collarbone and releases a long, contented sigh. She says nothing when Zoey rests her chin on top of Rumi’s head. 

Being in bed was fine. They did what people are supposed to do when in bed, they lay there, and Zoey thought she had everything handled. If they stayed this way, then Mira would be back soon - she’s not sure why she’s not back yet - and Rumi gets her popsicles, and she’ll be out of heat by early tomorrow, if not, then mid-afternoon. Yes, she had everything handled, and ten minutes ago, she’d call herself a genius. A hero, maybe the Beta of the year.

She figured out the formula. Platonic cuddles, gentle grounding pressure, a cool hand on the forehead now and then. She even whispered affirmations in her best soothing voice.

“You’re okay.” “It’s just your hormones.” “You’re safe and hydrated.” 

And for a while, this worked. It worked like magic, and there was a time when Zoey thought Rumi might fall asleep. Nine minutes and thirty-six glorious seconds, that’s how long Zoey’s noble, heroic plan held strong. But now? Now she realizes that it was all part of Rumi’s messed-up, heat-horny mind, especially as Rumi begins to stir. 

No, not just stir. And it’s not just a shift. Nothing like a little sleepy nudge or a toe brush or a cuddly wiggle. No. It’s a full movement, and Zoey knows this because Rumi is currently, very deliberately , straddling her thigh. 

Not moving. Not riding it . . . yet. 

But hovering.

Hovering in a way that says, “ I know exactly where I am and what I want, and I am waiting for you to lose your last ounce of restraint and give me what I want .” 

Zoey’s entire body goes stiff, and her brain short-circuits so hard she forgets how breathing works for a second. Because she does what to give Rumi what she wants, she so desperately does, but- “Ok,” she whispers under her breath, eyes locked onto the ceiling so she’s not looking at two very magical - and perfectly shaped - breasts. “This is fine. This is ok. This is a test.” And Zoey might just be failing it. 

Rumi doesn’t say anything. Her breathing is ragged again, shorter now, and her fingers are curled lightly into the blanket near Zoey’s side. She’s trembling again, too, thighs tight where they cage around Zoey’s leg. Her skin is hot, scalding, and her scent has shifted again as the calm want she’s been feeling suddenly increases to a desperate want. And she could move, she could lean down and kiss Zoey and hopefully get what she wants, but she doesn’t move. She sits back, hovers over Zoey’s thigh, and looks down at her friend, in amusement, in pity, in frustration, and quiet awe. Maybe something else. Something that warms her heat. 

Zoey stares at the ceiling like it’s her only friend. “Rumi,” she says carefully, slowly, like she’s talking to a wild animal. “You are hovering. You are- this is hovering. This is straddle-adjacent behavior. It is one step away from grinding.” 

No response. Just the sound of Rumi’s shallow breaths and the faintest, helpless whimper escaping her lips. 

Zoey groans softly, and her fingers twitch. “You were doing so well. I was doing so well.” 

One of Rumi’s hands slides a little closer, tentative, and not yet pushing boundaries. She rests it on the dip of Zoey’s waist, placing it there lightly.

“Rumi, I’m going to need you to stop hovering, or I’m going to do something really stupid.”

Zoey continues to stare at the ceiling, and Rumi watches her. “Do something stupid,” Rumi whispers. “All I want is for you to do something stupid.” Zoey swallows, and Rumi pulls back, lifting her hand from Zoey’s waist. “I’m sorry-” She starts, stopping when she feels the coolest of touches on her thigh. Her eyes drop to her thighs, and she watches as Zoey’s finger trails up her thigh, stopping a little before the curve of her underwear, and going back down. “. . .” The finger then traces her demon markings, and Rumi looks at Zoey, surprised to see Zoey looking at her. No longer with fear - well, not as much fear - but like she’s realized Rumi is something to be understood, not studied. 

Chapter Text

Rumi hovers over Zoey’s thigh, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. The air between them has grown thick, heavy with the scent of Rumi’s want, though Zoey can’t smell it, but she knows something is happening as she can feel it curling around her like smoke. It’s maddening, confusing, and slightly frustrating, and suddenly she pities Omegas and Alphas for having to deal with this on a daily basis.

Zoey keeps her eyes locked on the ceiling, forcing herself to breathe evenly and to not look, because if she does - if she so much as catches the edge of Rumi’s parted lips or the shape of her chest - she’ll lose herself. And she’s running on the assumption she hasn’t already lost herself. She fools herself into believing she’s close to losing herself. 

Her hands fist into the tangled nest of clothing beneath her, anchoring herself to something physical that isn’t Rumi. Her jaw is clenched tight, the muscles ticking as she tries not to groan, and she swallows hard, acting as though that will push the ache in her chest back down where it belongs. 

She tells herself that she’s a Beta. That she’s supposed to be the calm in the storm, the tether, the one who brings others down from this fevered, edged cliff, not the one teetering on it. Not the one who aches to reach up and drag Rumi down onto her until they both burn, until Rumi gets what she- no, until they both get what they want. And that only makes it worse, and Zoey knows this, yet she still wants to see more of Rumi, to taste every inch of Rumi’s skin and hear what she sounds like when she can only moan and what noises she makes and what breaks her. But Zoey knows she can’t. That she shouldn’t. It’s not what either of them wants. 

But then, Rumi touches her. A single hand, palm warm and steady, rests lightly on Zoey’s waist. 

Zoey jolts, not from fear, but from the electricity of the contact. Her breath hitches as every nerve in her body screams for her to move, to grab Rumi’s hips and lead her into a grind, and taste whatever sounds she’ll make if Zoey just lets go. Her muscles twitch where Rumi touches her, like Zoey’s body has recognized what she’s been trying so hard to deny and, suddenly, it doesn’t feel like Zoey’s hovering at the edge of a cliff - it feels like she already has one foot over the edge and is one breath away from saying “fuck it” and diving headfirst into everything that is Rumi. 

But Zoey doesn’t dive in. Not yet. Instead, she lies there, trembling beneath the single point of contact, feeling as every second drags her closer to the edge. Her heart’s pounding loud enough to drown out reason, and her restraint feels like it’s made of threat, pulled tight and fraying way too fast. If Rumi touches her again, if that hand goes anywhere, Zoey knows she won’t be able to stop. And worse, Zoey’s not sure she even wants to.

“Rumi,” Zoey breathes, voice trembling as her fingers flex against the sheets. “You need to stop hovering, because if you don’t, I’m going to do something really stupid.” She means it as a warning, a last-ditch anchor, but her voice doesn’t sound convincing, not even to her own ears and definitely not to Rumi’s. Her voice is too soft, too breathless, and her body’s already betraying her as Rumi moves her pointer finger, feeling the muscles twitch again. Her stomach feels too tight, her chest rises and falls far too quickly, and every nerve feels exposed.

“. . . you’re fit,” Rumi murmurs, moving her finger again.

Zoey swallows. “Thanks, it’s all the demon hunting,” she means it as a joke, something to distract Rumi, but it falls flat, yet Rumi still smiles slightly. She really did think her earlier words would be enough. That maybe, just maybe, Rumi will come to her senses, but as Rumi’s voice cuts through the tension like velvet-wrapped sin, Zoey realizes just how foolish she was.

“Do something stupid,” Rumi whispers, leaning in just enough for Zoey to feel the heat of her breath at her jaw. “Please. Just once. Be stupid with me.” Her lips ghost along Zoey’s cheek, and then, lower, and darker, she murmurs, “Ruin me a little.”

Zoey curses the skies. 

“I want your fingertips on my thighs tomorrow.” 

That’s when it happens. Not a snap, not quite, it’s softer than that. A slow, molten unraveling that starts in Zoey’s chest and pours through her limbs like heat in the bloodstream. Her resistance folds in on itself until all that’s left is the ache and the want. She wants to fall - god, she aches to fall - and worse, she wants to take Rumi with her.

Rumi begins to pull back, her voice a whisper, “I’m sorry-”

Zoey’s hand moves before she can think, and she really doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly one hand is on Rumi’s thigh, fingertips light on Rumi’s skin as they barely touch her. It’s the faintest press of skin to skin, as if asking a question with no words and testing the space between want and permission. Her mouth parts, her heart slams against her ribs, and for a heartbeat, everything is soundless. 

Rumi freezes, unable to form a sentence, but her markings answer for her. A flush of vivid pink flares across the skin beneath Zoey’s hand, and Zoey watches as the color pulses beneath her fingertips. 

Zoey feels as her heart trips over itself, and she lets her touch linger for a second before slowly dragging a single finger along the curve of Rumi’s thigh, upward and deliberate. The skin is hot to the touch, impossibly smooth, and it trembles beneath the trail she leaves behind. She stops just before the edge of Rumi’s underwear, pauses there, and for one aching second, her finger hovers in the space where fabric meets thigh. “Do you always wear lace?” She asks, eyes tracing the delicate patterns. It’s such an interesting choice, especially considering their profession. Zoey always imagined Rumi to be more of a thong girl, maybe boyshorts on calmer days. 

Rumi shrugs, “Only when I hope someone’s gonna put their mouth on me.” 

Zoey looks up, but Rumi won’t meet her eyes. Not yet. “You look good in lace,” Zoey murmurs, voice suddenly low. Her fingers drift lower, grazing the sensitive inner curve of Rumi’s thigh, and find one of the glowing, swirling marks. She circles it with maddening slowness. 

Rumi doesn’t move. She can’t, as she’s caught in the moment. Her chest rises in shallow, uneven breaths, lips parting in something between awe and surrender. When she finally lifts her gaze, their eyes lock, and everything seems to still. 

The heat between them continues to grow, and Zoey’s stomach does another flip. The air thickens, heavy with what hasn’t been said, but all Zoey can focus on is the look on Rumi’s face, and suddenly she can’t breathe. 

Rumi finally whispers, “Zoey,” like it’s the only name she remembers how to say. And that’s all it takes. 

Zoey’s grip on her thigh tightens, and her body shifts closer without thinking. Closer until her lips hover near the shell of Rumi’s ear, her breath warm, and Rumi’s skin breaks into goosebumps. “You know,” Zoey murmurs, her voice dipped in sin. “I think you’d look even better without them.” 

Rumi exhales sharply as the words hit something too deep. Her body arches ever so slightly as she wants to give her that permission, to beg for it without saying a word. 

Before she can speak, Zoey’s mouth brushes lower, just beneath Rumi’s ear, her lips feather soft. She doesn’t kiss, not right away. Instead, she breathes, letting her mouth hover, and her presence sink in for a second before she kisses once. Slowly, right where the jaw meets the neck. A touch designed to ruin someone. 

Rumi shivers as the tension that starts in her chest slips down her spine. Her head tips to the side, baring more of her skin in a quiet offering. 

Zoey’s next kiss is firmer and right over the pulse. She lingers this time, lips parted, tasting something that doesn’t belong to her yet, but will. Her fingers trail higher along Rumi’s side until they brush beneath the hem of the lace waistband, playing with it for a second before trailing back down. Her voice, when it comes again, is a rasp barely held back. “Let me take them off you,” she whispers, and it isn’t a request.

It’s a promise. 

Rumi lets out a soft, broken whimper.

Zoey stiffens, eyes snapping up to meet hers. For a moment, they just look at each other as they’re suspended in a silence so heavy it almost hums. Zoey’s hand is still resting on Rumi’s thigh, fingers slightly curled but unmoving, like her body isn’t sure what to do now that they’ve reached this spot. 

Rumi glances down at Zoey’s hand. Her lips part, as if she might voice a thought, but no words come. She closes her mouth again, swallows, and then slowly shifts forward. Wordlessly, Rumi sinks her full weight onto Zoey’s thigh. There’s no roll of her hips, and Rumi doesn’t grind or chase friction. She just rests there, hot and trembling, yes, but completely still. But, it’s more than enough as the contact is intimate in a way that strips Zoey bare, even though the movement was no more than ‘let me feel this . Let me have you like this .’ But it’s a quiet confession without a sound, and it nearly buckles Zoey’s spine. 

Zoey feels all of Rumi. Every inch of her, from the searing heat of where her body sinks into Zoey’s leg, to the way she fits against her leg, and the pulse of slick-warm fabric that barely separates them. Her breath stutters, and her thigh burns, nerves lighting up like fire beneath her skin. For a moment, her mind goes blank, not because instinct is taking over, but because her thoughts are pushing against every Beta instinct she has. Every rational part of her is spiraling, trying to figure out what to do next. How to move and not fuck this up. 

And then Zoey feels the subtle pulse of heat against her leg, the involuntary twitch of Rumi’s body, and the proof of how badly she needs this.

That’s when realization hits her: Rumi is soaked .

Emboldened, Zoey shifts her leg beneath Rumi. The motion is casual, deliberate in its disguise, like she’s just adjusting for comfort. But she’s not, she’s testing something she already knows the answer to. Her thigh presses upward, nestling more firmly between Rumi’s legs, and Rumi stills. 

A soft gasp slips from her lips, barely audible, but it ripples through the air. Her entire body tenses, thighs clenching around Zoey’s leg in a reflex so raw and involuntary that Zoey feels it pulse straight through her skin. But Rumi doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t flinch or shy from the contact. Instead, she breathes out a shaky breath and her gaze dips for half a second, not from fear, but from something that looks a lot like shame, or maybe vulnerability. Violet flickers faintly at her collarbone, the colors betraying her again, and when her eyes lift back to Zoey’s, there’s no denial in them. Only heat, and the quiet trembling truth of want. She flashes pink .

Zoey lingers for a moment more before moving again, her leg rising with a second careful press. This time, Rumi reacts, but not with motion or a gasp, but with quiet intent: both hands slide to Zoey’s waist, settling there like she’s grounding herself. Her fingers tighten, hesitant but sure, as if holding still is the only thing keeping her from shaking. Rumi then leans in, her forehead barely brushing Zoey’s. 

“Rumi-” Zoey starts, caught between warning and question. Her heart thuds loudly in her own ears. 

“I know,” Rumi whispers, so close her words touch Zoey’s lips. “I won’t move.” Her hands flex tighter on Zoey’s hips. “I just . . . I just want to feel you.” For a moment, nothing moves, then something fragile breaks loose. A soft moan slips from her throat, raw and involuntary. 

Zoey feels it. Rumi doesn’t try to hide it.

Rumi presses their forehead together more fully, and her thumbs begin to move in slow and absent strokes over the curve of Zoey’s waist, her body trying to speak what her voice won’t. 

Zoey swallows, but she still doesn’t move.

She wasn’t going to tell Rumi to stop, or stay back, or even get off her leg.

She didn’t want her to stop.

She didn’t want space.

She wanted more.

But no words are said, and they hover there for a moment, then melt away as Zoey’s gaze locks onto Rumi’s once again. Zoey bites her bottom lip, trying to connect herself to something real. Her thoughts are scrambled, not with doubt, but with want. And through the haze, one truth cuts through with aching clarity: This isn’t just some Omega in heat pressing against her . . . it’s Rumi .

Stubborn, soft-hearted, messy, infuriating Rumi, who isn’t pawing at her or begging too much or even playing some desperate, fevered game. She’s just waiting. Waiting for Zoey to decide, to give permission, or maybe pull away. To be the one to draw the line, or to let it blur. 

Zoey studies her like she’s seeing her for the first time, not the version the world expects or some sex-craved Omega the media loves to share, but the real thing.

Rumi licks her lips, and her cheeks tint a darker pink from more than just heat. Her legs bracket Zoey’s thigh, but she isn’t moving, just trembling with restraint, held in place slightly by Zoey’s hands and a threadbare sense of control. 

And Zoey could lean forward now and close the distance. She could feel the full-body press of Rumi’s skin, feel the press of her breasts against her chest, the slick heat at her thigh, and the desperate little roll of Rumi’s hips that she knows is sitting just under the surface. 

She could whisper something soft, or filthy, or nothing at all.

She could tilt her head and kiss down Rumi’s neck, bite where the markings burn brightest, and tug her closer until that maddening stillness breaks. Until Rumi moans and knows no other words than “please”.

She could do all of it. And with everything inside her, Zoey wants to.

But she doesn't. She just looks at Rumi and sees it. The tension in her jaw, the silent plea in her eyes, the way her fingers flex slightly on Zoey’s waist like she’s resisting the urge to pull Zoey closer and just take .

And suddenly, Zoey’s chest aches with how much she wants to be wanted like that, trusted like that, not just by anyone, but by Rumi. By Mira. 

So, the question isn’t whether they go for a grind, or a slow-burn cuddle, or something in between, or even go full out until Zoey finally gets the answer to what Rumi tastes like when she finally breaks. Maybe even get the answer to the lifelong question if nipple color really does match-

“Zoey?” Rumi blinks, head tilting just slightly. 

Zoey doesn’t answer as she squeezes the skin at Rumi’s thigh for a moment, grounding herself, before moving again, this time slower. She drags her fingers upward, trailing along the silken inside of Rumi’s thigh, following the heat that blooms brighter with every inch she climbs, until she reaches the edge of her underwear. She pauses there, just for a heartbeat, and glances up, and Rumi is still watching her. Then, Zoey’s fingertips slip beneath the lace, teasing the sensitive skin at the curve of Rumi’s hip.

The contact is enough to make Rumi’s breath skip, and her thighs press tighter around Zoey’s leg, as if to keep her there. But she still doesn’t stop Zoey; she continues to watch, eyes half-lidded like she’s daring her to keep going. 

Zoey exhales, bringing her touch up higher, and Rumi leans ever so slightly into the touch. Zoey dips her fingers deeper beneath the waistband, and the heat of Rumi’s skin sears against her palm. Slowly, carefully, Zoey tugs the fabric down on the side just a little, baring more of that soft, flushed skin, and the curve of her hipbone that catches the light. Her thumb brushes over it, and the sound Rumi makes punches straight through Zoey’s restraint: a moan, low and unguarded. Zoey feels it in her spine. 

It takes everything in Rumi to remain still as the tension in her body says everything her mouth won’t, and Zoey realizes that neither of them can look away.

“. . .” Zoey stares at the strip of newly exposed skin, her thumb continuing to glide across it in a stroke that’s too slow to be innocent. The skin is soft, and Zoey is realizing that to be a common feature on Rumi, but it’s not the most interesting feature. The markings are, especially as they pulse faintly beneath her touch, lighting up like something alive, and Zoey freezes over a sharp line, thumb grazing over one particular curve that flares warmer in response. Her voice dips, barely above a whisper, heavy with something dark and molten - something that makes Rumi’s stomach coil. “Are the markings everywhere?” Her thumb dips a little lower, dragging gently across the sensitive skin she shouldn’t be touching, but is. 

Rumi exhales a trembling, broken sound. Her legs twitch again where they straddle Zoey, fingers digging slightly into her sides, and her nails bite gently into Zoey’s skin. But Rumi doesn’t answer. 

Zoey leans in closer, until her lips nearly brush Rumi’s jaw and her breath ghosts over it. When she speaks again, her voice is low and sinful, matching Rumi’s tone from earlier. “Rumi . . .” She murmurs. “Are they . . .” Her hand slides to Rumi’s backside, palm skimming the curve of her hip before tracing the curve of Rumi’s ass with featherlight precision. Not squeezing it, or claiming, just touching and mapping the unfamiliar territory that she very much intends to become familiar with. “. . . under here as well?” 

Rumi shudders, and a sound escapes her, sounding like a whimper that was bitten off too late. “I . . . I don’t know,” she manages, dazed.

Zoey hums at that, a sound thick with quiet amusement and hunger. A sound, low and knowing, curling hot in Rumi’s stomach as she flashes pink again. If Zoey notices this, she doesn’t say anything. Her hand stills just beneath the swell of Rumi’s rear, holding the soft skin there. It’s just enough pressure to ground Rumi, to hold her there, and remind her who it is she’s sitting on. “You don’t know,” she echoes, half between a laugh and a growl.

Rumi’s chest brushes Zoey’s now, and she shivers with restraint when Zoey lifts her gaze, then drags her eyes down Rumi’s trembling frame, toward the lace and glowing skin below. 

She presses her hand down on Rumi, savoring the heat beneath it, and smirks, eyes dropping to the bright flash of marking coiled high on Rumi’s inner thigh. Then Zoey whispers, softer, filthier , and just for Rumi: “Guess I’ll have to find out for myself . . . see if they stop at your thighs or run all the way to where you melt.” 

Rumi gasps, visibly trembling, and her hips twitch forward instinctively before she freezes again, caught between restraint and ruin.

Zoey watches Rumi quiver and presses her hand just a breath deeper, pressing further into her. Not to calm, or help Rumi chase that feeling, but enough to say she could.

The effect is immediate as Rumi stills, breath stalling in her throat as her body tightens above Zoey’s, lips parting and eyes growing wide. Yet, Rumi still doesn’t move, even though Zoey can feel it all trembling through her.

They’re close, too close, as Zoey can see the flecks in Rumi’s eyes, believing that she could count them if she wanted to. For a suspended second, everything in her goes quiet. No shaky breath or panic, just her focus on the shape of Rumi’s mouth and the sound of her unsteady inhale.

And when Zoey leans in, Rumi doesn’t pull away. She tracks every inch of the approach, eyes glancing from Zoey’s lips to her eyes, and back again. She looks at her like she’s studying her. No, memorizing her. She’s been waiting for this to happen, and now that it’s here, she doesn’t want to miss a single frame of it. And maybe that’s why it hits like a lash when Rumi is the one who breaks the moment. 

Rumi pulls back, just a breath, but it’s enough. The absence is immediate and cruel as a rush of cold settles in where heat had pooled, and Zoey blinks, caught in the whiplash of it. For a second, she wonders if she imagined it all - the tension and nearness and the almost , but her hand moves on Rumi’s skin, and sure enough, Rumi is still on her lap, still pressing on her and reacting to the slight movement. But no, Rumi did retreat, and what stuns Zoey more is the look on Rumi’s face. It’s not rejection, or doubt, but confusion, like her body reacted before her mind could catch up. In her eyes is the barest flicker of panic as she’s just now realizing she moved and has no idea why.

The silence stretches, until the confusion in Rumi’s eyes gives way to something quieter. Violet flashes across her skin and she whispers, “You’ll regret it.” She doesn’t pull away, not yet, but her eyes lower to Zoey’s lips as she aches for something she refuses to reach for. There’s a kiss waiting there, one that could steal the breath from Zoey’s lungs, but Rumi doesn’t take it. She swallows it down instead, because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like she’s trying to have Zoey. It feels like she’s trying to protect Zoey from the weight of her need, the storm under her skin, from herself and where all of it may leave Zoey at the end. 

Zoey blinks, caught off guard by how much the words hurt. “Regret it?” She repeats, the disbelief sharp in her voice. “ You’re the one in heat. You’re the one who’s been trying to mate-press me into the mattress for the past hour.” It’s not meant to sound harsh, not really, but it hits that way anyway, clipped and defensive, born from the sting of rejection. And Rumi feels it immediately.

Rumi flinches, just slightly, as if the words struck something tender. A shimmer of violet pulses beneath her skin, her markings flashing like a flinch, too. She draws back half an inch, and Zoey instantly hates how far away that feels. Rumi looks to where her hands still rest against Zoey’s waist. Her fingers tremble, and she tries to steady them by splaying her palms wider, grounding herself in the soft give of Zoey’s skin and focusing on the way her muscles twitch beneath Rumi's touch. “I mean when it’s over,” she murmurs, voice quieter now, almost careful. “When I’m me again. And you don’t have this version of Rumi. The one who wants to jump you just because you’re in the same room.” She risks a glance up at Zoey’s face. “And all you have is just . . . me,” she finishes, with a helpless little shrug. “Or maybe it won't even take that long. Maybe it'll happen the second whatever was going to happen happens.”

And that’s the clearest Rumi has been all day. No teasing, no playfulness, no flirtation masquerading as heat-driven instinct. Just Rumi. Soft and scared and honest.

Zoey swallows, realizing the words are fair. She has spent all day setting boundaries, holding the line, and insisting on care and restraint. And now, she’s kissing Rumi and touching her and crossing the very line she tries to draw. Zoey knows she should take the opportunity and put space between them, but she doesn’t move. “I am thinking clearly,” Zoey says at last, voice quiet but sure with the kind of steadiness that only comes from certainty. “And I’m not doing this because you’re in heat.” She meets Rumi’s eyes, and this time, Rumi doesn’t look away. “Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?” She asks, lower. 

Rumi doesn't answer. She gives a small shrug that is more protective than dismissive. Her eyes stay on Zoey’s, darting between the two as she searches for something. 

Zoey nods once, not small or uncertain, but like a verdict has been reached inside her, loud and final. The tension leaves her shoulders, but her eyes sharpen and the heat blooms between them again. “I do know what I’m doing,” she says. “And I know what I want.” She leans in, slow and sure, but not to steal from Rumi. No, to claim. She kisses Rumi. 

It’s not rushed or desperate. 

The kiss starts soft, just lips barely brushing like a question is being asked. Zoey doesn’t press or take. She waits and gives Rumi the space to retreat, to pull away, to tell Zoey no, but Rumi doesn’t move. Instead, her fingers tighten at Zoey’s waist in a silent yes , and her mouth parts in answer, both inviting Zoey further in but also surrendering. The kiss deepens slowly, not with fever, but with ache, and it builds not from chaos but from the gravity between them. 

There’s hunger beneath it, Zoey can feel it coiling in her stomach and thrumming beneath Rumi’s skin, but it’s not frantic. It’s not just Rumi’s lust-drunk thoughts, and Zoey’s perverse, greedy mind egging her on. It’s them, finally crossing the line they’ve been dancing on for what feels like forever.

And when Rumi exhales a soft, broken sound that is part sigh, part whimper, and completely overwhelmed, Zoey swallows the sound without hesitation. Her hand slips around Rumi’s back, drawing her in and steadying her. 

She kisses her like she means it and knows exactly what she’s doing.

Zoey’s hand tightens at Rumi’s hip, fingers splaying wide, possessive in a way that makes Rumi tremble. Heat flares beneath her touch, blooming outward in colorful ripples, and Rumi shudders, breath stuttering as her body reacts to the quiet authority in Zoey’s grip. 

Then, Zoey moves, not in a rush, but with that same slow, devastating control that’s been unraveling Rumi all night. Her thigh shifts beneath her, dragging slightly, and guiding her into place. Rumi barely realizes what’s happening until it happens, until Zoey’s thigh slides perfectly - precisely - between her legs and settles there with enough pressure to send a jolt through her entire body. 

The contact is immediate, and Rumi gasps, but the sound barely leaves her mouth before Zoey is there, catching and claiming it. Their mouths crash together, and there’s nothing soft about this kiss. Zoey kisses her like she’s claiming something, like she’s daring her to stay still. Her tongue parts Rumi’s lips without asking, and Rumi yields with a broken, want-strangled sound that goes straight to Zoey’s gut. It’s messy, and hot, and deliberate - a rhythm of breath and pressure that feels like it’s been building since the moment Zoey walked into the room. 

Rumi melts into it, moaning softly into Zoey’s mouth, her hands fisting at Zoey’s waist, desperate for something to anchor to. Zoey’s tongue curls against her, slow and devastating, before she pulls back just enough to breathe against her lips. “You’re going to fall apart on me,” she murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”

Rumi tries to speak, not to stop anything, not even to question it - because that sounds perfect - but because something inside her is breaking open. “Zoey-” 

But Zoey swallows that too, pressing in closer, holding her tighter. Her voice is low, molten, and too calm to be kind. “I’m going to tell you exactly how you’re going to come undone,” she breathes, kissing Rumi once more, slower now with more purpose. “I’ll unravel you inch by inch, until you’re trembling and begging me to stop,” she whispers, then drags her teeth down the column of Rumi’s throat, until her mouth finds the hollow where pulse meets skin. “But I won’t.” 

Rumi’s thighs twitch around Zoey’s leg, her breath catching as the heat spikes, but still, she doesn’t move. She just feels, and that lone, the maddening press of heat against heat, the perfect aching friction of Zoey’s thigh nested right where she needs it, makes her head spin. A helpless, broken sound escapes her lips. “Zoey, please,” she gasps between kisses, voice already wrecked, but not from what’s happened. From what she hopes is about to.

Zoey pulls back just barely, their mouths still brushing, and her voice infuriatingly calm as she murmurs, “Shh.” Her thumb strokes Rumi’s hip slowly, teasing the skin there as her voice drops again. “You’re already soaking my thigh,” she whispers, simply observing, and smirking when Rumi shifts ever so slightly. “One grind and you’d come on my thigh, wouldn’t you?” 

Rumi shivers as the words hit her spine directly. Her breath catches, and she hides her face in the crook of Zoey’s neck, not to escape the moment, but because the flush of heat across her cheeks is almost too much to bear. A low, helpless moan spills out of her anyway, and her nails curl tight into Zoey’s waist. “Don’t say that,” she pleads, but she doesn’t mean it. Not really. Her thighs twitch again, squeezing Zoey’s leg. 

Zoey just exhales a soft laugh against her ear. “Why not?” She murmurs, tilting her head to press a kiss behind Rumi’s jaw. “Is that not what gets you soaked like this?”

Rumi nods before she even realizes she’s doing it, and whispers, almost inaudibly, “Yes.” 

Zoey smiles against her skin. “Yeah?” She breathes. “What exactly does it for you, then?” Her hand glides down Rumi’s side, fingers grazing the overheated skin, more focused on the motion than the answer Rumi may give, as Zoey already knows the answer. The light drag of her nails makes Rumi shiver, and Zoey says nothing when Rumi presses down or when Rumi mumbles a curse. “. . . is it the way I talk to you?” She murmurs, then, “The pressure of my thigh?” She lets her mouth brush the shell of Rumi’s ear as she presses her leg upward again, her thigh flexing beneath the slick heat gathering there. “Or is it just me holding you still, and telling you exactly how you’re going to fall apart?”

Rumi lets out a small sound and buries her face deeper into Zoey’s neck like she’s trying to disappear. But Zoey isn’t letting her go, not when she’s like this, not when she’s this close. 

“C’mon, baby,” she whispers, a grin curling into her voice. “Be honest. You’re soaking just from being told what to do, aren’t you?” Zoey presses her thigh up again, firmer, and she feels it. The slick heat, the subtle grind Rumi doesn’t even mean to do, the raw ache of someone trying so hard to hold it together. Her body jerks ever so slightly, hips twitching into the pressure, and her thighs tremble around Zoey’s. 

A breathless gasp escapes her lips, and her fingers dig into Zoey’s waist, trying so hard to ground herself to the moment. Or maybe she wants to be pinned harder, held to Zoey’s thigh. Her markings flare in a pulse of bright, searing pink , glowing through her like a live current. “Oh, god-” Rumi chokes, voice cracking as another wave rolls through her, her restraint barely hanging by a thread. 

Zoey’s grin sharpens. She leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to Rumi’s cheek. “You’re such a bottom,” she says softly, almost sweetly. Rumi moans. It slips out raw and helpless, her hips grinding once - involuntary and needy - and Zoey just hums, like that’s all the confirmation she needs. Her hand slides from Rumi’s waist to her lower back, fingers splayed as she presses Rumi down just enough to feel it. “Thought so,” she whispers. “Look at you . . . grinding like you need to beg.” 

Rumi doesn’t answer, though; she’s not sure if she can. She’s breathless, trembling, and glowing on Zoey’s lap, all while clinging to her like she’s her only lifeline. Her mouth opens like she may say something, but she curls inward, markings flaring again. 

Zoey brings her hand up, brushing along Rumi’s spine, slow and purposeful, until she reaches the nape of her neck. She lingers there, touching the soft, sweat-damp curls at the base of Rumi’s hairline, then Zoey curls her fingers gently into them. With a quiet command, she tilts Rumi’s head up, just enough to make her look at her. “God,” Zoey murmurs, voice low and warm. “You poor, sweet thing.” Zoey tilts her head and lets her tongue flick out, not for a kiss, but to taste the sweat-glow at Rumi’s pulse point. A slow lick, possessive and unrushed. “You taste like heat,” she whispers against the damp skin. “Like you’ve been thinking about this for hours.”

And Rumi melts into the touch, eyes fluttering as she leans into the touch.

Zoey chases Rumi’s mouth like she needs it to breathe, kissing her again. It starts soft, but that softness barely lasts a second before it shifts into something sharp and hungry. Their mouths crash in messy sync, lips parting wider, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that doesn’t make sense but feels right. Rumi tastes like heat and want and something sweeter underneath, and Zoey kisses like she’s trying to memorize it all before she combusts. 

Zoey’s hand stays firm at Rumi’s hip, holding her in place, while the other goes back down, fingers splaying over the curve of Rumi’s ass like she is carving the shape of her into memory. She grips there, not rough, but in a way that refuses to let Rumi move, to let Rumi grind, to even let her go. 

And Rumi is falling apart. Her legs now tremble around Zoey, her muscles flutter with restraint, and her body screams for friction - for anything, really - but Zoey keeps her still and suspended, leaving her hovering on the edge of what she wants. Rumi whimpers a wrecked sound that tears out of her like a sob. Her fingers clutch at Zoey’s waist, nails digging in as if she can hold herself together if she just grips hard enough. Or maybe Zoey will speed this up for the sake of not being left with crescent marks for the rest of their vacation. But Zoey doesn’t seem to care about the marks or the way Rumi’s breath is breaking or how her body is shaking. 

Zoey kisses her again, but only for a second, then breaks the kiss with a soft, wet sound that leaves Rumi chasing her mouth. Their foreheads press together, breathing in each other’s air, lips barely apart, and Zoey doesn’t move. Her voice is still that frustrating, calm, low, and dangerous. “Don’t,” she breathes, voice skimming the edge of a growl. “Don’t move. Not yet.” 

And Rumi doesn’t, because she can’t. Not when her body is flush to Zoey’s, not when her core is pressed tight and trembling against Zoey’s thigh, burning with the desperate ache of need. Not when Zoey is looking at her like she’s already unraveled her, and is about to do it again. Rumi whimpers again, then stammers out a mess of syllables that are breathy, broken, and desperate. “Zoey, please- I just- I need- fuck, I-” The rest slurs into a soft moan as her mouth brushes Zoey’s throat and she opens her mouth like she wants to bite down just to ground herself. 

Zoey blinks slowly, then tilts her head just enough for her lips to brush Rumi’s jaw in the ghost of a kiss. “You’re mumbling,” she murmurs. “You have to use your voice, baby.” 

Rumi exhales shakily, her legs twitching again, thighs trembling from the unbearable stillness. Her whole body aches to move, to roll, to grind, and to fuck, but she obeys. Barely. Her lips part against Zoey’s skin, breath warm and wrecked. Her tongue flicks out, tracing a slow, needy line along Zoey’s jaw. It’s not quite a kiss, not quite a lick, just the instinctive drag of hunger. She presses her mouth there again, as if she could melt into Zoey’s pulse if she stayed long enough. Then, in a voice thick with wreckage, she whispers, “Please.” A pause. “Please let me move. Let me ride you.” 

Zoey’s smile curls slowly and wickedly. She doesn't answer right away, just tilts her head slightly, as if thinking about it, like Rumi’s begging is an offer on the table and not a wildfire between her legs. “Hmm,” she muses, eyes drifting to the ceiling in faux-consideration. Her hand tightens on Rumi’s rear, pressing down just a little firmer, coaxing out a gasp, but it’s still not enough. “That is the right decision,” she drawls, pretending to weigh her options. “Very polite. Very pretty.” Her gaze flicks back to Rumi, amused now, lips twitching into a smirk. “But . . . nah. Not yet. Not until I say so.” 

Rumi makes a strangled sound, part gasp, part moan, and pure disbelief. Not just that Zoey said that, but that it’s working, that her brain is short-circuiting at the sound of that smug voice paired with the ache between her lips. Her hips twitch in protest, but Zoey’s hand stays firm, locking her in place like a goddamn promise. 

Zoey. The same girl who was freaking out at seeing Rumi’s chest. The same girl who once got all flustered about a bra ad. That Zoey, who is now talking to her like she owns every breath in Rumi’s lungs. 

And maybe she does. Maybe Zoey already owns every breath, every twitch, every ruined sound Rumi makes. And Rumi would let her, gladly, if she’d just let her move. 

Zoey hums at the sound, clearly pleased, and leans in to kiss the corner of Rumi’s mouth. It’s slow and unhurried, and  teasing. Then she kisses her cheekbone, then lower, lips trailing down like she has all the time in the world and is most definitely savoring Rumi’s unraveling second by second. 

Rumi is unraveling, and she begs. Not just in words, though those come in shaky things like please and I need to , and Zoey , please just let me - but also in the way Rumi’s body moves, in every muscle taut with restraint, in the way her hands clutch at Zoey’s waist. Soft, ruined whimpers escape her every time Zoey kisses her neck just right, and Zoey? She lets Rumi beg. 

She kisses the slope of Rumi’s jaw and every available piece of skin on her throat, humming now and then with approval, but still, she doesn’t let Rumi move. She wishes she could say it’s part of some evil plan to give Rumi the best orgasm of her life. But it’s not. Zoey simply enjoys watching Rumi fall apart in ways she’s never seen before. And the more Rumi falls apart, the more Zoey burns, and she’s not done burning yet. 

“It’s easier if you hold onto my neck.” 

Rumi blinks, caught off guard. “What?” She asks as the question itself doesn’t seem to be making sense coming from Zoey’s mouth. 

But Zoey only grins, and Rumi’s heart trips over itself because the nervous, red-faced Zoey from earlier is gone. Melted away, replaced by something darker and steadier with the kind of confidence that doesn’t ask, but knows it’ll be obeyed. “Your hands,” she whispers again, her lips brushing a feather-light trail along Rumi’s jaw. She leans in closer and plants a kiss there. Then another, a little higher. Her teeth catch gently on Rumi’s earlobe, tugging gently. “Put them around me,” Zoey says, voice soaked in want. Her next words are nothing short of a promise: “You’re gonna want to hold on tight, pretty thing.” Her hand is already in motion, sliding up the curve of Rumi’s back and slipping to the front, palm gliding over her ribs in soft, exploratory touches. Zoey pauses there, fingers tracing the bumps of each rib before moving on, brushing just beneath the swell of Rumi’s breast. Just barely. “You’re so soft,” she says quietly, and Rumi looks down at the touch. 

Zoey focuses on the touch, watching her fingers move along the bottom of Rumi’s breast. She doesn’t press further or even rush the moment. Zoey just waits, not for permission, but for Rumi to surrender. To listen and obey.

And Rumi does. Her arms wrap around Zoey’s neck, fingers threading into the soft curls at the nape, pulling herself closer in one fluid, desperate motion. Instantly, she feels the truth in Zoey’s words. It is easier this way. It’s also closer, definitely more balanced, and Rumi feels like she has finally found something solid to hold onto. Her body shifts, weight sinking fully down onto Zoey’s thigh, and the pressure has her breathless again. Every nerve lights up again with the new contact, and Rumi freezes as she resists the overwhelming urge to move. The restraint is agony, and it’s divine. 

Zoey welcomes this shift; really, she’s been waiting for it. Her hands are firmer on Rumi, guiding her, but never forcing. Her mouth brushes lower, kissing a line down the center of Rumi’s chest, and she presses one kiss to the hollow of her sternum, “Good girl.” Then another kiss, higher this time as her lip grazes the edge of Rumi’s breast. 

Rumi gasps, and anticipation starts to settle in her stomach. Her back arches, and Zoey follows this quiet urging, mouth moving inward, kissing just next to her nipple. “Zoey,” she whimpers, but Zoey doesn’t move. Frustratingly, she pulls back, mouth drifting just far enough to hover. 

Her breath fans across Rumi’s skin, warm and maddeningly close, directly over the soft peak of Rumi’s nipple that now visibly reacts under the cool air between them. But Zoey doesn’t move. Not yet. She hesitates, and that is what makes it worse. Her eyes flick up, catching the way Rumi trembles in her arms. Zoey’s eyes fall again to where her mouth hovers, one second away from contact, and her breath catches as, without warning, Mira’s voice cuts through her thoughts like a blade.

“ One second they’re curled up and harmless, the next you’re nose-deep in pheromones and making eye contact with a nipple .”

Zoey freezes, blinking. She is, in fact, nose deep in pheromones and directly eye-level with a very perky, heat tingled nipple. “Okay,” Zoey murmurs, voice low. “This is fine.” 

Rumi’s nails press into the back of her neck, just enough to sting. 

Zoey’s eyes snap open, heart hammering against her ribs like is trying to punch its way out. “Okay! Wait- time out!” She gasps, pulling back just enough to catch a full breath. She props herself up on shaky hands, nerves buzzing beneath her skin, this time not from pleasure of what’s to come. But horror from what’s happened. 

Rumi’s hands slip down from Zoey’s neck to her ribs then lower to her waist, settling there. She doesn’t say a word, just looks down at her. 

And Zoey looks back. 

Rumi’s pupils are blown wide, swallowing up all the color in her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed. She’s biting her bottom lip, not nervously or playfully, but like she is still tasting the kiss they hadn’t meant to get lost in. Yet also like she’s daring Zoey to come back for more. She doesn’t lounge or beg for Zoey to continue. She just sits there, settled against Zoey’s thigh, legs bracketing hers as she waits. There is no surprise on her face, not even anger, just heat with slight concern. “I thought you knew what you were doing,” Rumi murmurs, voice still low in that ruined way heat makes her sound. 

Zoey’s heart clenches. Of course those words would come back to haunt her. “I did,” she says, then corrects herself with a breathless laugh. “I do. Mostly.” She pauses, glancing down at Rumi’s body, eyes growing wide again when Rumi presses herself down. It’s no longer friction, Rumi’s far too wet for that, and Zoey can feel everywhere the slickness covers her thigh. “. . .” She can’t bring herself to mention Mira’s warning, or how close she had been to tearing Rumi’s underwear aside just to see what color the markings were there . Her fingers twitch with the memory, and Rumi glances down at them. 

“You regret it,” Rumi says.

“No!” Zoey says immediately. “No, I don’t regret anything. It’s just . . . well, you said I’ll regret it-” Her voice quiets, “but, what about you? What if you regret it?”

Rumi doesn’t hesitate. “I won’t.” 

It hits Zoey like a punch to the gut, because Rumi does mean it. That much is clear, no doubt, and something in her voice tells Zoey that if Rumi wasn’t in heat, she’d be saying the same thing. 

Zoey looks at Rumi’s mouth, then lower to her throat and her hands move without thinking, going to Rumi’s waist then sliding up over the curve of her back. She lets her fingers flex, just once, and feels the soft shiver it draws from Rumi’s body. She then leans in, brushing her lips along Rumi’s jaw, mouth barely grazing the shell of her ear. “You really shouldn’t say things like that,” she whispers. “You’ll make me forget I’m trying to be a good person.”

Rumi lets out the softest moan. “You already forgot,” she murmurs. 

Zoey pulls back an inch, just enough to see her face. “Maybe,” she says, smirking faintly. “But I haven’t acted on it. Yet.” That wicked glint sparks in her eyes, the one that only seems to show when she stops overthinking and wants, really wants. 

And Rumi looks like it is unraveling under it. Her fingers dig into Zoey’s waist again, but she doesn’t pull; she just breathes, “Then do it.” 

Zoey freezes for a moment, then with painstaking slowness, she brings one hand to the curve of Rumi’s thigh and drags her fingertips up through the humid space between them, not stopping until she’s touching the edge of lace again. It’s just enough to make Rumi tremble and melt into it. Zoey looks up, blinks, and pulls her hand back. “We can’t,” she whispers. “Not like this.”

Rumi tilts her head slightly. “Zoey-”

“Rumi. Listen to me, this is heat brain talking. You’re not thinking clearly, and you’re possessed right now. You are a walking hormone souffle. I’ll give you credit where it is due. You are a sexy demon, but right now you’re a sexy demon oven, full of heat. Just, gorgeous, hot, sweating sin.” 

Rumi breathes out, leaning in until her lips are right against the curve of Zoey’s neck. Her lips graze the skin there. “Then turn the oven off,” she murmurs, kissing Zoey’s neck then dragging her mouth up to Zoey’s jaw, and Zoey swears she sees heaven when Rumi’s mouth latches on, sucking on the skin there. No, she doesn’t just see heaven. She ascends, feeling like her soul leaves her body and files both a complaint and gives a 5-star review to the gods themselves. 

“Okay!” She blurts, flailing slightly and throwing her hands in the air. “Nope. Nope nope nope. Get off my leg, you demon woman!” 

Rumi gives her a look so wounded yet sultry that it should be banned. “But you said you’d help. You said you knew what you wanted.” 

“I did,” Zoey hisses, scrambling backwards and out from underneath Rumi, then across the bed. “And I know where we were headed and it was a lot like a fanfic I definitely, absolutely, shamefully read at 3 a.m. while stress eating cinnamon granola!”

Rumi blinks and tilts her head. “You’ve read fanfic about me?” 

Zoey freezes, and she realizes her mistake. “What?! NO!”

“But you said-”

“THAT IS NOT THE POINT!”

Rumi sighs and she sits back on her knees. She just sits there, smug and predatory in a soft, sleepy sort of way. Her mouth curls, and there is exactly one heartbeat of silence before she deadpans, “Was it the one with the library desk?”

Zoey lets out a strangled noise. “I AM CALLING MIRA!”

“Mira’s busy,” Rumi says, repeating her words from earlier, and Zoey stares at her, confused, until Rumi smirks. It’s not big or cocky, just the tiniest up-tilt of her lips. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing, or worse, she’s been doing it the whole time. 

Zoey’s hand trembles as she fumbles for her phone. “You’re evil,” she says, not sure of what she’s accusing Rumi of.

Rumi hums. “Only a little. Still want you to hold me though.” Zoey’s eye twitches, and she moves back on the bed, but Rumi follows like a heat-drenched menace on all fours, with mussed hair and flushed skin and half-lidded look that screams both instinctual longing and bratty intent. “Zoey,” Rumi whines, drawing out her name. “You smell good, and you’re warm, and I. Want. You.”

Zoey yelps. “I smell like citrus- gross citrus! And rotten vanilla! And shame, so much shame.” That doesn’t dissuade Rumi. “Rumi, this is not the time,” Zoey insists. 

Rumi flops down with all the grace of a sedated cat. “You said physical comfort helps,” she says innocently. 

“Yes, comfort,” Zoey nods, suddenly remembering how this all started. “Like hugs, and forehead kisses.” 

Rumi rolls onto her back with a slow stretch that turns her into the embodiment of temptation. Her chest is still in view, nipples hard peaks, and her underwear twists slightly. The view punches Zoey directly in the prefrontal cortex. Rumi purrs, “You’re imagining it, aren’t you?” 

“I AM IMAGINING NOTHING,” Zoey snaps. “I am imagining a brick wall and Grandma’s chili recipe and possibly the plague.” 

Rumi smirks without looking at her. “You’re thinking of me riding your thigh.”

Zoey short-circuits. “I- what- no!”

“Then, is what you are imagining a kink thing?” Rumi asks casually, like they’re discussing soup options.

Zoey chokes. “Oh my god, Rumi. Where do you-”

Rumi rolls back onto all fours and shrugs. 

“You’re not even- you don’t even like me like that,” Zoey insists. “This is just- this is some weird part of your nervous system doing horny gymnastics.”

Rumi stills for just a second. “Do you think I’d let you in my nest if I didn’t like you?” 

Zoey blinks. “You nested on my laundry, Rumi. You were literally rolling around on my clothing. That’s not seduction. That’s a crime scene waiting to happen.” 

“I need the clothing,” Rumi says simply. “And were you not just saying you weren’t going to stop? What happened to that?” 

Zoey feels like she’s rolling in her grave and curses again, knowing she always says too much. “That’s the heat talking. You’re gonna come out of this and be like ‘wow, remember when I tried to seduce my best friend?’”

Rumi just hums, moving closer now, and Zoey risks looking down. Mistake. Huge mistake. Rumi is glowing with sweat, and her lashes flutter, lips parting. She’s gorgeous, and Zoey knows her skin to be very soft, and Zoey’s idiot brain decides now is the time to conjure an extremely vivid image of what Rumi might look like if Zoey did give in, if Zoey hadn’t pulled back. By now, she’s sure Rumi would be moaning her name and-

Zoey flings herself off the bed, hits the floor with a dramatic thud, and scrambles backward like Rumi might lunge and bite her (which feels possible). “Nope!” She crawls across the carpet with her phone in hand. “I am not going to be the one who takes advantage of a delirious Omega in heat!”

Rumi crawls to the edge of the bed and blinks down at Zoey. “I’m not really delirious-”

“Can’t you just rub one out?!” 

Rumi looks physically taken aback, and she chooses not to answer the question.

Zoey begins frantically thumbing through her contacts. “Okay. That’s it. We’re calling Mira.”

In front of her, Rumi makes a sound. It’s not a protest or a purr, and Zoey can feel her watching in that quiet and calculating way. She says nothing as she follows, crawling forward with the terrifying grace of a jungle cat. Each movement is deliberate, shoulders rolling with sleek elegance as she slips off the bed and onto the floor.

Zoey stares, frozen. “What are you doing?” She squeaks. 

Rumi tilts her head as the faint marks at her collarbone flares pink and gold , flickering like embers. “You promised not to leave me,” she says softly.

“Yeah, well-” Zoey doesn’t have an excuse, and the words die on her tongue. She can’t blame Rumi. She did almost fuck Rumi into oblivion, so she just scoots backward across the floor on her hands and knees. “I am strong,” she says. “But, I am not heatproof.” 

Rumi advances again.

Zoey, in full crisis, throws one hand out like she’s warding off a ghost. “Do not crawl at me like a possessed Victorian orphan!” 

“A possessed Victorian orphan?”

Zoey just makes a noise and fumbles through her contacts again. She scrolls wildly and stabs at Mira’s name, but she doesn’t press “call.” Not yet, because Rumi has stopped crawling. 

She’s kneeling now, just a few feet away. Her eyes are hazy and glassy from heat, yes, but there’s a flicker there. Something aware. Something that watches Zoey closely. “You’re really going to call her?” 

Zoey falters. “If I don’t, I’ll end up doing something that voids my friendship warranty, Rumi.” 

There’s a beat of silence, then Rumi whispers, half-laughing, “I didn’t know we had a warranty.” 

Zoey stares at her for a second longer, then, “Why are you like this?” She asks, pointing her phone at Rumi, who watches the motion. “Just a day or so ago, you were curled up on the floor muttering and crying.”

Rumi blinks slowly. Her marks shimmer a flicker of pearl . “I don’t know,” she says, voice muffled. “I just . . . I just felt better when I stopped and suddenly things were clear.” 

“Stopped what?”

Rumi shrugs. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t explain the pills, or the half-empty vials that are still on the bathroom floor. Instead, she shifts slightly with a groan and changes the topic. “Don’t call Mira,” she says. “I’ll be normal. Just come back.” 

“Normal? Rumi, you sucked on my neck!”

“And you called me a good girl! Plus, that was the heat!” 

“You moaned my name like we were two lines from a fade to black!”

“We were!” Rumi then defends herself, “And that was also the heat. But, it was a good moan. You should be flattered.” 

Zoey facepalms, hard. The slap echoes, and she curses as her forehead now hurts. “I’m not doing this. I am Beta-coded. Beta-blessed. I have morals, and I will not be seduced by your breasts!” 

Rumi just sighs. “You’re so loud,” she mutters, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. 

“I’m loud?” Zoey shrieks. “You’re the one-” Rumi raises a brow, and Zoey shuts her mouth as she did do a lot of stuff with Rumi. “Whatever,” she grumbles and puts her focus back on her phone. 

“Tattle,” Rumi sighs, defeated.

Zoey doesn’t hesitate. She hits the call button. 

The phone buzzes once. Twice. And then silence.

Zoey stares at it like it has personally betrayed her, her thumb hovering mid-air like it’s forgotten how to function. “No. No, no, no - Mira, pick up the phone! You told me not to go in here, and now you’re ignoring me in my greatest hour of need?”

Rumi shifts again, and the faint drag of a whimper is heard. The kind of sound that’s not meant to seduce, but does, because it’s so raw and real.

Zoey whimpers herself, and she grasps her phone in a near-death grip. Yanking open her chat with Mira - who is appropriately titled PonytailsOfFury - she types out a message.

Zoey

SHE’S NESTING AND WRITHING AND BEGGING AND I AM 3% FROM THROWING MY LIFE INTO THE SUN AND JUST BENDING HER OVER THE CHAIR

Zoey

BRING ICE AND LAVENDER. MAYBE A PRIEST. SOMETHING HOLY!

She stares at the screen for a second more, then tries to call Mira again. Again, it rings three times, then the call ends. “Mira, I swear-”

A soft sigh pulls Zoey’s attention back to Rumi. Rumi is still sitting there, elegant as ever. Her skin continues to glow faintly, and she’s blinking at Zoey with soft eyes that speak volumes despite saying nothing at all. She looks patient, like she’s waiting for Zoey to get over her panic and get back into bed with her, but Zoey knows better. She thought Rumi was patient before. She thought Rumi was suddenly compliant. Then BAM- Zoey was about to tear the lace underwear off her friend and eat her out. 

But Zoey doesn’t move, doesn’t let herself be drawn into the perfection that Rumi. Because she’s not stable enough for this. Mira is. Mira is an Alpha, and they know how to- “Where is she?!” Zoey suddenly interrupts her thoughts, and she glances at the clock. It’s been almost 2 hours. “Mira said she’d be back. That all she needed was half an hour or so.” A pause. “But Mira also said not to make eye contact with a nipple-” Zoey’s gaze drops straight to Rumi’s breasts. “Oh gosh, I’ve made eye contact with both.” 

Rumi tilts her head and asks, almost amused. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” Zoey answers immediately. 

Rumi’s hip twitches and her thighs flex just the tiniest bit where she’s kneeling, and Zoey can’t not see it. The way her inner thighs brush, the way her hips keep subtly adjusting like she’s trying not to press herself down on any surface she can. 

Zoey scrambles for her phone again, and she types up another message. 

Zoey

Help me. She sat down, and I could hear things between her thighs. Wetness, Mira. Wetness!

“Zoey.”

Zoey startles. “Yeah?!”

Rumi studies her for a second. “You’re very flustered.” 

Zoey gives a nervous laugh. “No, I’m cool. I’m so cool.”

Rumi crawls forward.

Zoey makes a sound, somewhere between a squeak and a sob, but she doesn’t back up, not even when Rumi is at her side. Rumi doesn’t climb onto Zoey, not this time. Instead, she sits by her legs and leans in, pausing for a second, glancing up at Zoey, then lays her cheek gently against Zoey’s shoulder. She nuzzles there, softly, and turns so her body is facing the same way as Zoey and so she can curl into Zoey’s side. 

Zoey remains tense, thinking Rumi is going to try something else, but Rumi just sits there, breathing Zoey in. “Rumi,” she whispers, and Rumi hums. But Zoey doesn’t say anything else, and the two sit there, one as stiff as a board, yet relaxing as the seconds go by, and the other curled into their side, markings flashing and legs shifting to try and relieve the pressure between their legs, yet they make no move on Zoey.

Mira stares at the freezer like it just insulted her ancestors. 

Box after box of artificially colored popsicles blink at her from under fluorescent lights. There’s cheery grape, something called radical raspberry, and even unicorn bliss, but none of them is the one. None of them has the pink frog Rumi insisted on over the phone.

Mira exhales through her nose, barely holding back her frustration now. “This is store number five,” she mumbles.

The first store had frog popsicles, but they were green. 

The second had pink frogs, but they were marshmallows.

The third store employee looked at her like she was describing a fever dream.

The fourth told her the brand had been discontinued two years ago. 

She takes off her glasses, rubbing the lenses on her shirt, and puts them back on, acting like this might make the popsicles randomly appear. She may have bad vision, but she’s not blind and she knows the popsicles aren’t at this store. Still, she’s disappointed when they don’t magically appear. “Onto the next store, then.”

She runs a hand through her hair, shifting foot to foot as her legs begin to ache. She’s still in platform boots from earlier and her back’s twinging from carrying three bags of last-minute groceries. Her eyes scan the freezer again, and she reaches for a box. The box is pink, and it has a frog, but the frog isn’t pink, so it’s not the right one. That means the fifth store, this one, has this cruel imposter. A near miss that would maybe satisfy a normal Omega’s craving. But not Rumi and Mira’s not about to show up with anything but what Rumi wants.

But god, it looks close and maybe- “Maybe Rumi won’t notice.” Mira shakes her head. She already knows Rumi will, and in the back of her mind, she knows she’ll have to go to store number six. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead, which is starting to throb from the combination of too-cold air, fluorescent lights, and the existential frustration of being on a scavenger hunt for a very specific frozen treat.

With a sigh, she places the box back in the freezer and glances toward a tired-looking worker who is restocking bags of frozen peas. “Hey,” she calls softly. “Do you guys carry the uh-” She feels like a fool. “The one with the pink frog on it? I can’t remember, but I think it has like sparkles or something on the wrapper. And maybe a jingle? I don’t know. It’s for someone else.” 

The guy squints at her, blinking slowly, and then realization dawns. “Oh, my god,” he breathes. “You’re Mira. From that hunters group. My daughter loves you.”

Mira sighs internally. She’s too tired to try and run or think of some lame excuse. She shifts her weight, straightens her shoulders, and offers a thin, polite smile. “I can take a picture,” she says. “If you’ll just confirm you don’t have this frog popsicle.”

Five minutes later, Mira’s posing next to the frozen corn with a man holding a phone with a broken screen. He thanks her profusely on behalf of a six-year-old named Ellie. 

“We definitely don’t carry it anymore,” he says, still smiling. “I think a different brand beat it out. Something with a bear.” He taps his chin. “It’s a long shot, but there is a smaller store about 15 minutes from here that always carries the smaller brands that don’t make it in the bigger stores.”

“Do you know the name?” She asks.

“You’re still going to check it out?” He asks, then nods. “You must really love this person.” Mira opens her mouth, but he just shakes his head. “I get it. I’d go to the end of the earth to make my Ellie happy. I think the store is called Reminisce or something of the sort.” 

Mira nods, already pulling her coat tighter around her. “Thanks anyway,” she murmurs, already moving toward the sliding doors. She’s dreading going to store number six as she’s walked past enough crying toddlers and angry old men talking to themselves. She’s halfway out when she remembers her phone buzzing earlier. She pulls it out, staring at the missed calls and many texts from Zoey. She doesn’t call back right away, just stares at the notifications. Then, she sighs a long breath, the one someone takes before diving into something stupid. “. . . what did she do?”

But, beneath her exasperation is a simmering thread of guilt, because if the sixth store doesn’t have the damn popsicles, she’s going to have to go back to the villa empty-handed. And worse, she’s going to have to tell Rumi. 

Chapter Text

Mira’s call comes through just as Zoey’s phone buzzes against her thigh, the sharp trill slicing through the heavy silence in the dimly lit room. Zoey fumbles for the device, fingers trembling just slightly as she answers on the second ring. “Mira-” Her voice cracks, already frayed and raw around the edges.

“What happened?” Mira’s voice is sharp and urgent, caught somewhere between panic and exasperation. The kind of tone that makes Zoey’s heart seize. Mira’s hand hovers over the car door handle, then pushes it open as she braces herself for whatever news is coming. 

“Mira,” Zoey’s voice rises. It’s now edged with desperate relief. “I have never been more relieved to hear your voice in my entire life.” 

The edge in Mira’s tone softens immediately, her earlier irritation at the lack of frog popsicles fades beneath a flicker of dread. “Zoey? Are you okay?” There is the faintest catch in her breath, the wheels turning in her head. “What did you do?” The question floats out as Mira slides into the driver’s seat, the door thudding shut behind her. She glances down at the text Zoey had sent, disjointed and scrambled, half-formed thoughts. Her brain spins through the worst case scenarios at warp speed. “I saw your messages, but they don’t make a lot of sense- wait, is Rumi okay? Did something happen? Did you do something to her?” 

Zoey yelps in disbelief, cheeks puffing out as she’s more than mildly offended. “What?! Did I do something?” Her voice is incredulous, a mix of panic and bewilderment. “No, of course not! I mean- well, nothing bad. Technically nothing at all, just-”

“Zoey,” Mira cuts in again, softer this time but still firm, because she already knows how easily the other girl spirals. 

There’s a pause, a shuffle of movement, and a quiet sigh. 

Zoey’s breath hitches, and she lowers her voice to a whisper, eyes glancing toward the figure curled against her side. The low, steady rhythm of Rumi’s breathing is a fragile reminder of the moment they just shared. “Right. I need backup. Immediate backup. It’s code red over here.” 

Mira blinks. “. . . code red?”

“Yes!” 

Rumi startles from next to Zoey, eyes lifting slowly to look up at Zoey. She says nothing, and breathes out like the panic she’s seeing in Zoey is nothing of interest. A simple phase that she has to let pass. 

There is a long pause on the other end of the line. Zoey can almost picture Mira leaning back in her car seat, the weight of exhaustion pulling down her shoulders. Then comes a heavy sigh, slow and deliberate, like the kind someone gives when life has just piled on one too many little disasters. Zoey imagines Zoey reaching up, fingers brushing against her glasses as she slides them off her nose, setting them aside with a soft clink. She always does before rubbing at her temples.

“It’s code red over here too, Zo,” Mira finally says, voice tinged with dry humor. “I’ve been to five stores. Five.” She pauses for emphasis. “All because somebody wanted popsicles with a frog on the box. Seriously.” A small breathless laugh is heard. “And I’m not even sure they’re a good flavor, not with all the popsicle flavors I’ve been seeing lately. Some of them sound like experiments gone wrong.” 

Zoey lets out a short chuckle, the corners of her lips twitching despite the tension tightening in her chest. “You didn’t find them?” 

“Nope.” Mira’s reply is flat, almost a groan. “One store clerk told me they were discontinued. Some old man in a faded baseball cap said something about a lawsuit- something about the frog design infringing on some trademark or other. And honestly, I’m starting to think this popsicle brand has been banned by the entire country. Or maybe just vanished into some weird government conspiracy.” Her voice cracks at the end, a fragile break that makes Zoey want to reach through the phone and hug her. “I’m on my way to some sketchy corner mart that probably smells like mothballs and lies. And Zo? I think I will cry in that store’s parking lot if they don’t have those damn popsicles.” 

Next to Zoey, Rumi shifts, glancing down at her hands. She says nothing, not even when Zoey looks down at her. 

Zoey hums in sympathy, a warm pulse of empathy threading through her own exhaustion. “That sucks. Truly.” Her voice lowers, tinged with playful resignation. “Maybe I should’ve gone instead, then you could’ve dealt with Rumi and her full-blown Omega meltdown.” She rolls her eyes, even though Mira can’t see her. “She’s nesting in our clothes, Mira. Like, actually burrowing in our laundry piles, all serious and determined. I think she’s marking her territory.” Then, quieter in a conspiratorial whisper, “And she’s giving me the eyes. You know. Those eyes.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mira shoots back, skeptical yet amused. 

“Bedroom eyes, Mira.” Zoey’s tone is deadpan, but there’s fondness that makes the words soft. “Not even five minutes ago, she was straddling me.” She pauses, swallowing the rush of heat creeping up her neck. “I looked up . . . and boom. My soul nearly left my body.” Her breath catches again. “I think if I make eye contact again, I’m actually going to do something stupid. Like, more stupid than what I’ve already done.” 

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to wonder if the call had dropped, then Mira hears it. It’s faint and low, yet she can hear the sin soaked in it and something far too dangerous to name:

“Then be the problem.” Rumi’s voice, far too husky and wrecked. It’s more breath than sound, but every syllable is deliberate as it drips through the speaker like warm honey. The words don’t just drift through the phone; they slide, and Zoey doesn’t know how to respond. Not in words anyway.

She squeaks , a soft, high-pitched, and almost doomed squeak. The kind a squirrel makes when spotting its demise from the center of the road but still chooses to stand perfectly still anyway. Mira’s eyes go wide and she stares at the windshield, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. She considers her next words carefully. “. . . she’s right next to you, isn’t she?” 

“Hi, Mira,” Rumi sings into the phone and shrugs when Zoey sends daggers her way.

There’s another pause, then Zoey’s voice, full of guilt, “Maybe.” 

Mira nearly swerves into divine judgment. “You little- you went up there ?!”

“I thought it was obvious by now,” Zoey mutters.

“Zoey.” Mira’s voice drops like a blade. 

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing, Mira. She tried to climb me like a tree.”

“ Zoey .”

“I gave her a ten-minute cuddle, and now I’m having intrusive thoughts about lace and teeth and- Mira, my jawline was kissed.” Zoey’s voice rises on the last word, both horrified and enchanted. “My jawline. You don’t understand what that does to a person.” 

There’s a long simmering silence on the other end of the line. Mira exhales through her nose. “Did I or did I not tell you not to go into that room?” She asks, each word enunciated with the kind of clarity that makes people sign confessions. 

Zoey whisper-screams, “I thought she was dying!” The sound she makes next is somewhere between a sob and a yell. “She made this horrible little noise, Mira. Like a whimper mixed with a heartbreak. And her knees buckled, Mira! What was I supposed to do, walk away? Let her crumble to the floor like a pathetic ghost? I’m not soulless!” She barrels on, “And I know you did tell me. You told me and warned me about nipples and everything! I was ready to listen, and I was on your side, but she just kept making sounds, and then she curled up, Mira. Like a cinnamon roll of misery and pheromones!”

Rumi makes a face. She doesn’t remember it happening exactly like that.

Mira is rubbing her temples now. “You’re not soulless,” she says. “You’re just stupid.” 

“I’m just a Beta, Mi, I thought I could handle it.”

“That means nothing when the hormone blender with legs is calling your name in three octaves of seduction and purring like a panther in heat, and you chose to go and investigate!” She pinches the bridge of her nose and her head hurts all the more when she remembers they’re supposed to be on vacation. “Zoey,” she says slowly, carefully, “do you remember what I said before I left?”

“Nope,” Zoey replies immediately, and Mira can hear the guilt in her voice.

Mira doesn’t miss a beat. “I said, and I quote, ‘one second they’re curled up and harmless, the next you’re nose-deep in pheromones and making eye contact with a nipple.’ I literally said to you, Zoey, and you were looking me in the eye.”

“Well, guess what?!” Zoey shrieks. “I was ! She straddled me. Like full weight, thighs to thighs contact, I could feel her heartbeat. And then- and then-”

Rumi sighs. 

“I SAW A NIPPLE!”

Mira is silent. Not just on a surface level. But deeply. Spiritually. The kind of silence only reserved for people who knew this was going to happen and are currently mourning the betrayal of their own foresight. She knew she should’ve dragged Zoey with her to the car, and they both could’ve gone on this stupid journey together. 

“A nipple, Mira,” Zoey continues, just digging herself deeper in her hole. “A perfect, pretty, emotionally irresponsible nipple. Just out there. I blinked and suddenly it was all I could see.” 

Another sight from Mira, but it’s the long-suffering kind. The kind that comes with seeing your friend walk into traffic even after you yelled ‘watch out, there’s a car’.

And still, Zoey is still talking. “I didn’t know she would get that close. I blinked, Mira. I blinked and I was on the bed, and my hand was on her thighs. Her thighs, Mira, and they were warm and glowy and soft. I think I blacked out.” 

“I’m not even going to ask about thighs,” Mira mutters, mostly to herself as she rubs her temples with slow, agonized circles. “Look, you’re the Beta in the room. The Beta. Aren’t you supposed to be - I don’t know - the calm one? The logical one? The one with impulse control?” 

“I thought you just said that doesn’t matter?” Mira growls slowly and Zoey squeaks. “I was! I was doing great, but then I kissed her-”

Mira nearly facepalms herself. 

“-and now . . .” Zoey isn’t sure where she was going with that. She shrugs, touching her own lips. “I don’t even know anymore, Mira.” 

Mira sits in the parked car, hands loose on the steering wheel. The glow of the dashboard lights paints her knuckles in a faint blue color, and suddenly Mira is reminded of Rumi’s markings. She exhales slowly and for a full five seconds, she just stares at the ceiling like it might offer her divine guidance or mercy. Nothing comes. Just the echo of Zoey’s flustered rambling still buzzing in her ear. Then she sighs and, honestly, she can’t be mad anymore. Because if she has been in Zoey’s position, if she was the one called upstairs instead of trudging through an ice cream-themed wasteland, then yeah. Rumi wouldn’t just be making bedroom eyes and whispering random sentences into a speaker phone. If Mira had it her way, Rumi wouldn’t be able to talk, likely face down in the mattress with Mira’s fingers already buried to the knuckle and probably thanking her for it. 

Mira closes her eyes for half a beat, composes herself, and says with a sigh, “Okay. Okay. I’ll be back soon. We’ll have popsicles and good vibes. Just . . . sit tight. And don’t do anything else stupid.” 

“Too late,” Zoey mumbles. “I’m remembering lace panties.” 

“Ah,” Mira says. So that’s what the panties were earlier. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath near the receiver, followed by a slight shuffle of skin against carpet. Then, comes Rumi’s voice, “pervert.” And neither Mira nor Zoey can tell who the words are directed at. Then comes the softest, most pitiful sound: a mewl. A whimper so high and broken that Mira isn’t even sure if it came from Rumi or some ghost haunting that mansion. Rumi’s voice unfurls, “Zoeyy, let’s go back to bed.” It’s the kind of tone someone feels behind their navel. “I promise not to lick your neck this time.”

“I’m in hell,” Zoey croaks. From the other end, a shriek explodes. “SHE’S LYING! SHE LICKED MY NECK AGAIN!”

“Right,” Mira says flatly, throwing the car into drive with one hand and steering toward yet another sketchy market. “You could leave the room.”

Rumi’s voice is immediate. “No!” She whimpers. “Please. I’ll behave.” 

Mira feels a bite of guilt, and she considers just hanging up and leaving Zoey with the mess. But, she can’t bring herself to. Instead, her voice softens. “Don’t leave her, Zo.”

“Didn’t you advise against me-”

“Don’t leave her,” Mira repeats. 

Zoey looks at Rumi, who is now looking at the ground and, as promised, behaving. “I won’t,” she answers. 

Mira sits quietly in the car. Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, fingers twitching, and the ghost of frustration twitches at the corner of her eye. For a moment, she just breathes and lets the silence settle around her.

Her mind drifts back through every damned store, every frozen aisle, every store clerk who looked at her like she was asking for contraband. It had always been wrong.

Wrong box.

Wrong color.

Wrong shape.

Wrong mascot.

And now, seemingly the wrong universe .

She thinks of the fifth store and the man she had just talked to. “ We definitely don’t carry it anymore . I think a different brand beat it out .” And Mira remembers how he looked at her like she was crazy, and Mira wonders, not for the first time, if maybe she is. “. . . Zo?” She says slowly.

“Yeah?!” Zoey chirps from the end, too quickly. 

Mira doesn’t blink. “Do you think these popsicles even exist?” 

Quiet. 

Mira pinches the bridge of her nose, and the breath she exhales could fuel a small wind farm. “Put her on the phone.” 

There’s shuffling, a sigh, then a soft, unmistakably smug voice into the receiver. “. . . hey.” 

Mira doesn’t hesitate. “I can’t find the pink frog popsicles anywhere. Did you really mean frog?”

There’s a pause, and Mira immediately knows. It’s the kind of pause that means someone’s lips are twitching as they decide whether or not to ruin your entire day.

“. . . did I say frog?” Rumi asks innocently, far too innocently. 

Mira’s eyelid twitches. “Yes, Rumi. Yes, you did.” 

Another pause, then Rumi lets out a small surrendering sigh. It’s delicate and fake and too theatrical. She tries to sound like someone remembering a detail, not like someone who insisted it was a frog. “It was a bear.” 

She decides at that moment that when they return home and resume dance practices, she is giving Rumi the hardest choreography. “. . . a bear,” she repeats flatly. 

“You know, pink bear. Or bear-shaped. Something like that.” Rumi’s tone is syrupy now. “I meant bear.” 

Mira’s jaw ticks once, then twice, and she utters a string of words so vile that Rumi pulls the phone away from her, and Zoey’s eyes widen. Her grip tightens on the steering wheel for a second. “That’s-” Mira’s voice cracks as she fights for calm. “That’s the one I saw at the first store.”

From the other end, Zoey makes a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You’re kidding me,” she whispers. 

But Mira’s not. She wishes she were, but she’s not . She had been sent on a five-stop wild goose chase for a snack that not only never involved a frog but was fully stocked at the first location. Because Rumi - dear, sweet Rumi - wasn’t just in heat. She was, at her very core, a chaos agent in lace panties. 

Mira presses her forehead to the steering wheel. “Zoey,” she says, voice dangerously calm. “I am going to return to the first store. I will be at the villa in 30 minutes. Until then, keep your legs closed and for the love of every god that listens to tired bisexuals, don’t look at her again.” 

“Okay, okay,” Zoey mutters, her laugh still hiccuping around disbelief. “We’ll hang tight.” 

The call ends, and the room is quiet again. Zoey turns and finds Rumi staring at her. 

Zoey stares at Rumi for a second more before looking away. Rumi doesn’t chase eye contact, instead looking away as well. The phone slips from Zoey’s hand, and silence folds over the room again. Somewhere, the fan drones on, and Zoey just sits there, staring at the floor, then the ceiling, then her reflection in her dark phone screen. She doesn’t move, not at first as her thumb hovers uselessly over the phone before she finally drags a hand down her face. 

Rumi tilts her head. 

“I should’ve let Mira stay,” Zoey mutters. “She would’ve made love to you or something.” 

A pause stretches before Rumi speaks quietly, “And you don’t want to?” 

The question hits her like a thunderclap. Zoey’s heart flips in her chest, and her whole body snaps straight, muscles locking. And slowly, she looks back at Rumi. And Rumi is still there, reclined and motionless except for the rise and fall of her chest. Her hair is a mess, her mouth is parted, and her gaze is very direct, burning straight through Zoey like a needle. “I do,” Zoey says. “I really, really do.” She thought they already established this, but now she knows there’s no taking it back. 

But Rumi doesn’t pounce or tease or even press further. Instead, she simply shifts until one is bent, and her thighs part just enough to make Zoey’s thoughts go fuzzy at the edges. But the motion isn’t a come-on, not exactly. It’s something quieter and softer, and less of seduction and more of surrender - or Rumi surrendering what little she hasn’t. Like an if you want me , I’m yours . Rumi leans back on her hands and still, her eyes never leave Zoey’s. 

They just look at each other and, god, they’ve been doing that a lot lately. These long, aching stares that always felt like a step toward something. 

Zoey’s throat tightens, and she itches to move, but something still holds her back. 

Rumi sighs, almost pained. Her back arches just slightly, and her thighs flex as a sound spills from her mouth. Not quite a moan, not quite a plea, just want in its rawest form. But even though it, even when trembling with the weight of her remaining heat, she looks peaceful. Her eyes flutter close, and she tips her head back against the wall as she waits. Not for someone to come fix her, but for someone to come to her.

Zoey rubs the back of her neck, trying to cool the heat prickling beneath her skin. Rumi still hasn’t looked away, and the look she has could melt steel if it had the nerve to look back. Zoey drags a hand down her face, throat suddenly tight, and lets out a long, shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “Sorry for . . . pushing you to the edge and then not giving you that, um-” Zoey flounders, her voice going soft and shy as her eyes dart everywhere but at Rumi. Her cheeks flare red. “I mean. You know- that .” 

Rumi doesn’t say anything at first. She just watches the blush spread over Zoey’s face, then, deadpans: “An orgasm.” 

Zoey nods, mortified. “Yeah. That.” 

Rumi’s eyes stay on her a second longer than necessary. She’s still flushed too, skin humming, but it’s less visible now as hers is far more controlled. Rumi could tease Zoey - she should - but she doesn’t. She just blinks slowly and wonders, briefly, what happened to the version of Zoey who had once promised to ruin her with words alone. Who had looked her in the eye and said she’d make Rumi beg, and then made her beg .

Now, that Zoey is gone and this one is here instead, skittish and red-faced and clearly floundering. And it’s not a trick, Rumi realizes. It’s not some tactic to drag things out and leave her wanting in some elaborate edge-play game. No, this is just Zoey. Awkward and earnest and kind of tragically terrible at post-makeout aftermath. 

Rumi’s focus drops to Zoey’s fingers. They’re not particularly long or elegant, not the kind usually glamorized in late-night fantasies, but they’re capable. Skilled, even. Rumi’s watched those fingers before: threading a charger through a tangle without looking, spinning a pen around her knuckles with absent precision, fixing the jammed bathroom door with a single twist. Zoey always moves with quiet precision and practiced confidence. Rumi imagines what it might feel like if that control was turned inward, turned toward her. 

And then Zoey squeaks. “You should always know someone,” she blurts, voice cracking just enough to make it worse. “Like really know them before you get under the sheets.” 

Rumi lifts her eyes again. It seems like she might say some dirty line, but her voice, when it comes, is clear and startlingly soft. “We do know each other.” She says it like it’s a fact, and something about the certainty in it hits Zoey low in her stomach. Rumi looks like she might tack on a joke, maybe undercut it with something sharp or sexy, but nothing comes. Her expression shifts instead, and the haze behind her eyes dims, and what’s left is something raw and unsure. “I do know you, Zo,” she says. “We know each other pretty well.” 

The words land heavy between them, and Zoey doesn’t answer right away. She takes a second too long. And that pause changes something. 

Something in Rumi’s eyes flashes in retreat, and she feels something small within her fold in, not with anger but disappointment. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides as her body folds in too, inching back. She brings her knees to her chest in a quiet motion, arms loosely wrapping around them. It isn’t shameful exactly, and it isn’t even rejection. It’s something more like defense, and Rumi draws a line around herself because Zoey just did, and Rumi hadn’t seen it coming. 

The heat still coils beneath her skin, still pulses low and restless, but it thins now, turning into something smaller. A soft ache hangs off her voice when she finally asks, “You don’t think we do?” 

Zoey blinks, thrown by the ache in the question. She braced herself for more purring, boldness, or Rumi licking at her lips and looking at her like dessert. Not this. Not the way Rumi’s jaw ticks like she’s trying not to show how exactly the words landed. “Rumi . . .” Zoey starts, then winces. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean, like, favorites. Not colors or middle names or whatever. I mean . . . soul stuff, or not that but-” Zoey shrugs, and Rumi thinks she gets it. 

Rumi stares at her, pulse fluttering visibly in her throat. 

Zoey moves. “. . . okay,” she says, rising to her feet in one swift motion. She walks over to the bed and crouches by the nest pile. Behind her, Rumi growls and her body tenses, but Zoey moves slowly, letting Rumi watch her every move. Zoey rifles through the pile and pulls out a loose button-up. She flicks open the buttons, graceful and steady, then returns to Rumi. Nothing is said as she drapes the clothing over Rumi’s shoulders with a kind of reverence that makes Rumi’s breath hitch. Then, Zoey sits back beside her. 

Rumi’s gaze lifts, still guarded, but curious now too. 

Zoey crosses her arms, lips twitching in that particular way she gets when she’s about to do something stupid and knows it. “We’re gonna make this right,” she says, “with a game.” 

Rumi’s head tilts, when really, she wants to roll her eyes and lean in and kiss Zoey until her weird logic disappears. But she doesn’t. She just listens. 

“Ten questions each. Could be deep stuff or stupid stuff. The twist,” she points at Rumi. “You don’t answer for yourself. You answer what you think I’d say.” 

Rumi says nothing, but the beginning of a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flick to Zoey’s face, studying. 

Zoey nods once. “It’s a compatibility game. Or close to it. We’ll prove we know each other.” She shrugs, “Besides, what else do we have going on?” 

Rumi nearly laughs. Almost. She wants to drop a stupid line like “we could be fucking” or say something sharp and stupid, but she bites it back. She doesn’t have the heart, not when Zoey is like this: all fluttery adrenaline and nervous challenge, bouncing slightly with the energy of this weird little idea she’s clearly proud of. And Rumi isn’t all that interested in this game. She thinks it’s stupid, because they do know each other, but maybe it’s the weight of Zoey’s shirt on her shoulder. Or the way Zoey hasn’t walked away, even after everything. Something has her giving a tiny dazed smile.

Her markings pulse faintly again beneath her skin, soft pink light, and her scent spikes for a second, but she reins it in fast, breath hitching in her throat. The burn under her skin is still there, still alive, but she ignores it for now. “Okay,” Rumi says, smiling. There’s something sharp behind her smile, not quite teasing as there’s a watching sort of warmth, like she’s playing this game because it’s easier than saying what she’s actually thinking. 

Zoey’s heart thuds. “I’ll go first.” She doesn’t ease into it, she never does. She crosses her legs on the floor beside Rumi and angles her body just enough to see her face. Rumi’s still curled into herself, the button-up barely clings to her shoulders as it’s loose over the swell of her chest, leaving most of her skin still visible. Zoey tries not to stare. “What’s my favorite late-night snack when I’m having a breakdown?”

Rumi doesn’t blink. “Tofu nuggets with chili oil. Or, if it’s really bad, peanut butter on rice cakes. In the bathtub.” She goes on. “Crying.” 

Zoey stares, “. . . correct.” 

Rumi allows herself a small smile. She lowers one leg, stretching it out in front of her, and her heat pulses through her again, but for one, her voice is steady and her mind is present. 

“What’s the name of the stray cat I feed near the penthouse?” 

“Scarf,” Rumi says immediately. She imagines the stray cat, a jet black creature that is slender with green eyes. She’s not sure why they call it a stray. It sports a collar, and many are aware of who the cat belongs to. The fans have even started calling the cat X.

“Correct,” Zoey smiles. “Go to karaoke song?”

Rumi lifts an eyebrow. “That indie cover of Britney Spears.”

Zoey groans, “Why does everyone hate that song?” 

Rumi shrugs, but she knows why. She and Mira have discussed why in many long conversations.

More questions follow, and they come fast. 

“Dream job if I wasn’t doing music?”

“Bookstore owner who lives upstairs.”

“What did I say the first time I saw the ocean with you guys?”
“It looks like it wants to swallow me whole, and honestly, same.” 

Zoey nods. “Huh, you really do pay attention.” She means it as an offhand comment, and Rumi nods. Zoey glances at Rumi, looking at the way the loose shirt slips down one shoulder, how her legs are now stretched out, and the small layer of sweat that clings to her collarbone. She still breathes a little hard, but she no longer seems bothered by this, and Zoey is relieved as she realizes that the game is working perfectly as it seems to be distracting Rumi.

Then, it’s Rumi’s turn.

Zoey straightens, smiling. “Bring it on.” 

Rumi shifts again, a little closer to Zoey. Her leg brushes Zoey’s, and neither of them says anything about how Zoey’s breath stutters. “Favorite nap place.” 

“Keyboard bench.”

“What temperature do I consider too hot?”

“Anything about seventy-seven degrees.” Rumi nods, and Zoey leans back on her hands, smug. “I’m on a roll.” 

She nods again, not saying that they’ve only gone through 2 questions. She moves again and her smile fades. She stops mid-motion, her body tensing. 

Zoey notices immediately, brows furrowing. “Hey, Rumi?” She asks, moving closer. 

Rumi doesn’t respond. Her eyes squeeze shut and she inhales shakily. 

Zoey reaches out, hand hovering as she’s unsure if she should touch her. “Is the heat hitting again?” 

Rumi nods faintly, her fingers curling into the button-up. A flush spreads across her chest, and her legs press tighter together, the shirt now sliding slightly, but she doesn’t adjust it. She just breathes, slow and careful.

Zoey doesn’t panic. She just waits, watching Rumi closely and quietly cursing herself for not relieving Rumi of this pain. 

Quietly, Rumi breathes out. “I’m okay.” 

“You sure?”

“I’m good.” Rumi nods. “Keep going.” 

Zoey looks unsure. “You want to keep going?” 

Rumi finally looks at Zoey, and it’s a look full of fondness and tension, and something hot behind her eyes. “It’s helping to focus on something else. Please, Zoey.” 

Zoey nods once, flexing her fingers for a second. “Okay.” 

The game winds down within twenty minutes. Zoey misses a couple of questions as she’s not perfect, but she’s close. Rumi doesn’t seem offended. If anything, she seems amused, especially when Zoey gets upset about missing an answer. Throughout it all, Rumi keeps watching Zoey, eyes full of that dark promise but also something else, a steadiness that only Zoey provides. 

When it’s over, Zoey slumps back. “Okay, you win.” 

Rumi tilts her head, breath still uneven. The tension in her body hasn’t vanished completely, but her eyes are soft and she’s not shaking anymore. “You know me better than most,” she says. 

Zoey smiles a little lopsided. “Not better than you know me.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“Why?”

Rumi glances at Zoey’s lips, then her hands, then back to her eyes. “Because you’ll catch up.’

Zoey’s heart skips, just once, and she finds herself lacking the right words. 

And they sit there in the quiet, heat humming low in the room but no longer overwhelming. Zoey tries to remember what she searched up earlier, and when she looks at Rumi, she’s sure Rumi is nearing the end of her heat. She’s still needy, yes, but seems more in control of that, and she’s a far cry from the mess she was on the bathroom floor. Though Zoey’s not sure she can put the entire blame of that situation on Rumi’s heat, as some can be put on those mystery pills Zoey saw on the floor. She wants to ask Rumi about them, but as Rumi moves closer and presses her leg against Zoey’s, the words die on Zoey’s tongue, and she looks up at the ceiling. 

Rumi murmurs, “Thank you.” 

Zoey only hums in response, the sound gentle and noncommittal. 

They’re quiet for a second more, then Rumi whispers, “Can we just sit here?”

Zoey hesitates, glancing at the floor beneath them, then the bed. “I mean, we could’ve sat up there, but-”

Rumi looks up at Zoey. No words, just that look. A mix of “ really, right now ” and “ please ”.

Zoey nods slightly. “Yeah, we can just sit here.” 

Rumi leans back slowly. She can still feel the usual burn of her heat, and it’s visible through the way her markings pulse pink . And she doesn’t try to fight it, she hasn’t for hours now. She almost seems to embrace it as she draws her knees up and shows barely any reaction as another wave rolls through her. Her eyes fall closed, and Rumi lets herself sink into the silence between them.

- - -    

Mira enters the house like a woman who’s just survived a war. And she has, just a very stupid one. Five convenience stores, one accidental photo-op with a man whose daughter is apparently her number-one fan, and zero popsicles with pink frogs on the box just for the mascot to really be a bear. 

She kicks off her shoes a little too aggressively and sighs. “This stupid vacation,” she mutters, stomping to the freezer and shoving the popsicles in. “And these stupid popsicles!” The box crumples at the edges, but Mira doesn’t care as she slams the door shut. With her hand on the handle, Mira takes a calming breath then pauses. 

The house is quiet. Too quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes from one very specific and deeply cursed configuration of people: Zoey, unsupervised, with Rumi in the latter stages of heat. 

Mira closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose as she can already feel a headache. Still, she approaches the stairs and goes up with grim, slightly concerned, determination of someone who knows - not suspects, knows - she’s about to walk into a scene that’ll be burned into her retinas forever. 

The bedroom door cracks open, and Mira stops cold. Her gaze sweeps across the room, and she struggles to understand the scene in front of her:

Rumi - shirtless, sprawled belly down in the middle of a tangled nest of hoodies and clothes, and Mira is fairly sure that one of the hoodies is her favorite. Rumi looks like a heat-wrecked jungle cat, flush and glowing, limbs lazy. Her whole body hums with soft pink pulses, and Rumi shifts uncomfortably now and then, yet there’s a kind of serenity on her face, an awareness on her face as her eyes lock onto Mira. 

Zoey - across the room, curled up in the desk chair. She doesn’t look as traumatized as Mira was expecting. Though she is clutching a throw pillow now, and her eyes are slightly haunted. 

Mira doesn’t even bother trying to understand what’s happening on the bed. She’s familiar with nesting, hasn’t seen it in person though, and now that she has, she definitely has questions.

Mira blinks once, then twice. “. . . okay,” she says, voice flat with disbelief. 

Zoey lifts her head slowly from where she’s curled in the chair, her arms still locked tight around the pillow clutched to her chest. After a moment, she lowers the pillow. 

Mira’s gaze sweeps the room again. “Where is your-”

Zoey points wordlessly at the bed. “When I first came in, she took my shirt.” 

From the nest of tangled clothing, Rumi lets out a lazy, sultry noise, something between a purr and a sigh, and presses her cheek deeper into the heap like she has zero intention of ever leaving. 

Mira just stares. Her jaw works once, then she opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, only to shut it for a second time. She looks at Zoey, then at Rumi, then back to Zoey, then at the half-toppled lamp, the hoodie nest, and the faint shimmer of glowing pink and gold markings on bare skin. “Vacation,” she mutters. “This was supposed to be a vacation.” She closes her eyes, and reconsiders every life choice that has led her to this moment. 

Zoey exhales and her hands flail, gesturing wildly toward the bed. “Mira, you have to make love to her.” 

Mira, who has just finished cataloging the disaster zone that is their bedroom, turns her head slowly. One eyebrow lifts, and she folds her arms across her chest. “And you can’t because . . .?”

“ You told me not to.”

“I also said not to go into the room, but here we are.” 

“And why can’t you do it?”

Zoey throws the pillow aside like she’s flinging off the last of her dignity. “I would, believe me, I would, but . . .” She stops, mouth open with no words coming out, like the rest of her sentence got stuck halfway up her throat and refused to leap to its death. 

Mira prompts, “. . . but?”

Zoey stares at the wall. Not the floor, not Rumi, not even Mira. The wall . “Look, just because I don’t have the biology doesn’t mean I’m immune to the imagery,” she whispers finally, voice grimly heavy like someone confessing to a crime.

Mira squints. “Imagery.”

Zoey draws in a long breath. “Okay. Imagine this. Rumi. Writhing.” 

Mira blinks.

“Writhing while moaning my name.” 

Mira blinks again. 

“Writhing while-” Zoey cuts herself off with a tiny choking sound, but it’s too late. Her brain is spiraling as the dam breaks. A rush of too lustful mental imagery floods in:

Rumi gasping, skin flushed, thighs locked around her waist. Rumi’s wrists bound to the headboard, mouth open and voice hoarse from repeating her name. Rumi with an arched back in pure, unfiltered need with Zoey’s name being the only word she remembers to say.

Zoey makes a small strangled sound in her throat and curses quietly because she could’ve had that. She wanted that.

Mira narrows her eyes. “Are you . . . drooling?”

“No,” Zoey says, too quickly. She wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her hoodie like she’s been caught mid-sin. “Oh my.” 

Mira folds her arms tighter. “Your fingers are twitching.”

Zoey shoves her hands behind her back. “That’s not important.” 

“It’s deeply important.” 

Zoey groans, and she slumps back into the desk chair. “I can’t do it, Mira,” she whispers. “I’d do something stupid.” 

Mira raises a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Like crying. Or propose. Or accidentally ruin our friendship and the mattress.” She flings one arm in Rumi’s direction. “Besides, she only wanted me because she wanted a warm body. But now, she has an Alpha, and it’s like- I don’t know,” she shrugs, “her biology to want an Alpha, so logically you would please her better.” 

Mira stares at Zoey for a long, exhausted second before slowly turning to look at Rumi, who still hasn’t said a word. Both of them appear equally confused, or, at least, Mira does. Mira thinks Rumi is confused, but it’s hard to tell. She looks like she’s either in a trance, high on her own pheromones, or preparing to turn into liquid and sleep into the bed forever. And yet, behind all of it, there’s a quiet awareness. Mira doesn’t get much time to figure it out, because Rumi stretches lazily. Her spine arches and she rolls her shoulders, acting like she has nowhere to be and all the time in the world. Her arms flop loosely over a sweatshirt and a half-folded pair of pants.

Mira stiffens. Even with Zoey’s scent clouding the worst of it, she can still smell her. Not just Rumi, not just jasmine and mint, but this version of her. Heat-sweet and heady, thick enough to catch Mira’s throat. It curls into the corners of the room and makes the air feel weighted like breathing syrup. 

Rumi’s markings flicker to life along her ribs, soft veins of gold glowing beneath her skin. They pulse brighter as she shifts again, hips rolling with the kind of casual grace that feels too intentional to be unconscious. Then her eyes open, just barely, and they find Mira, rooting Mira to her spot. But Rumi doesn’t move, just watches. Her scent blooms around them, and something low and primal seems to decide now is the perfect time to test Mira’s impulse control. 

Mira swears softly. “Gods. Has she been like this all day?” 

Zoey looks between the two. “The staring?” She asks, then nods. “Yeah. A lot . . . but she’s behaving better, actually.” 

Rumi makes a face. She’s not a dog, and she now wishes she counted just how many times they have indirectly insulted her. 

Zoey continues, “I did some searching, and the internet says the first heat only lasts a few days, so she should be out of it by tomorrow, if not tomorrow, then early morning the day after. I assume her peak has passed, seeing as she’s not all bright glows and harsh whimpers. Just smaller ones.” 

Mira nods, even though only half of what Zoey is saying is making sense. Then, quietly, “You went to the internet?” 

“I’m a researcher!” Zoey scrambles for her phone and shoves the screen toward Mira. “Look! First heats usually pass in two or three days, but regular ones can last up to five, but-” She scrolls wildly, finger stabbing the screen, “-an orgasm can drastically shorten the duration. I read, like, three articles that said the same thing. It’s basically a proven fact!” 

Mira doesn’t say a word, just grabs the phone.

“Hey!” Zoey squawks, lunging half out of the chair. “Wait! Don’t close the tabs-!”

Mira holds the phone out of reach, expertly dodging the reach. “The internet also says you can cure migraines with lavender foot soaks and get rich selling healing crystals. Let me see.” She squints down at the screen, scrolling. “. . . did you read this entire thing?” A pop-up springs up like an annoying weed, and a blinking banner flashes: ‘Unlock Knotting Secrets the Alphas Don’t Want You to Know!’

Zoey visibly shrinks. “Okay, yes, I did read the whole thing. But to be fair, it started semi-medical. There were bullet points.”

Mira snorts. “‘ Ten Ways to Knot Your Omega Like a God ’?”

“It’s science!” Zoey insists, voice pitching up with defensive panic. “For educational purposes! I thought it might help you! But then I realized-” She falters, brow furrowing. “Mira, do you even have-”

“No,” Mira cuts in immediately, not in answer but in warning. “We’re not talking about that . . . and I’m deleting your browser history when this is over.” She flicks through the open tabs one by one:

How to help an Omega in heat

Platonic cuddling for Omega

Omega’s first heat dos and don’ts

Is it unethical to let your friend die of horniness

“. . . did you really search- never mind, don’t answer that.” Mira scrolls again, eyebrows lifting as she reads a line out loud. “‘ An orgasm can provide significant relief -’ gods above.” 

Zoey flails a hand toward the bed like she’s been vindicated in court. “See? See?! She mounted me. I think I know a thing or two about what it is she needs!”

From the nest, Rumi lets out a slow purr into a pillow, eyes still tracking Mira. She watches as Mira’s face tints red. “You’re picturing it~”

Mira doesn’t answer, but yes, she is, and she hates that fact. 

Rumi lifts her head. Her eyes are still glassy, cheeks still flushed, and when she speaks, her voice is a breathless confession, soft and aching. “Mira,” she exhales.

The air shifts, and both Mira and Zoey freeze. Mira’s gaze drops to the bed, and Rumi, who is still tangled in a mess of clothing. Zoey’s hoodie is draped across her shoulders, like she chose it because it means something to her. Rumi’s hands tighten on the fabrics below her, and her scent spikes again, flooding the room in a wave. Mira feels her spine lock, and she dares to look Rumi in the eyes. 

Rumi doesn’t blink, and her voice is quieter this time, but it cuts through the space easily. “I can smell you now,” she whispers. 

“See?” Zoey hisses. “I read about this on a forum. I researched for a reason, Mira. And this is why I can’t do it! Because she wants you and your Alpha-ness. Just- I don’t know! Go give her some sugar!” 

Mira rounds on her, jaw tight. “This is not about sugar, Zoey!” 

But it’s already too late. Rumi moans again, low and deliberate in a sound that is meant to pull. Not a loss of control, or even instinct, at this point. A lure. 

Zoey continues, “I think it’s a thing only you two can understand. She’s scenting you. You’ve got that Alpha vibe that I don’t have. Something that commands presence. Makes her want to be comforted and claimed and you know-” She wiggles her fingers, then makes a gesture. “Touch inappropriately and reassured romantically.” 

Mira slaps her hands away. “Stop that.” 

Zoey looks at her hands, then asks, “Too graphic?”

Rumi lets out another high-pitched and needy whine. “Please . . . just a little . . .”

Mira looks at the phone in her hand, hoping it will conjure up divine intervention if she scrolls hard enough. She then looks back at Rumi, then at the phone again. Her thumbs hover over the phone’s screen. “There has to be another way,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Pressure points? Herbal teas? I don’t know- breathing exercises-”

The rest of what she says is lost on the other occupants in the room. Zoey taps her chin once, then twice as she’s suddenly getting a heavy case of Deja Vu. She wonders if she looked this manic when she was typing for a solution. 

From the bed, Rumi releases a sound so guttural it hits low in the gut. Not just a whimper, something deeper that was dragged up from her ribs.

Zoey peeks over at Rumi, then at Mira. Yeah, she’s definitely getting deja vu, and she already knows how this ends. “You could try cuddling,” she suggests, her voice oddly calm as she’s suddenly the only steady current in the chaos. “I did.” 

Mira glances at her, unimpressed. “Did you not send me a string of messages explaining in detail why that didn’t work?” 

Zoey shrugs. “Worth a shot.” She nods toward the bed. “Would it help if I left?”

And Rumi, radiant and wrecked Rumi, is crawling toward the edge of the bed like the pull of gravity is stronger near the two. She doesn’t look frantic, she doesn’t even look lost. She just watches them. She glows a soft gold through red as she shifts so she’s hitting half-on, half-off the mattress. One knee draws up, and she rests her chin against it, and her eyes lock onto Mira. “Please,” she breathes, low and aching. There’s the usual tone of need brought on by heat, but underneath it is a steadiness. And Zoey watches as the ghost of a smile graces Rumi’s face. 

Zoey’s brows pinch. Something about Rumi’s eyes is . . . off. Not hazy exactly, or not just hazy. She’s present, choosing, and suddenly Zoey gets it. This isn’t a pheromone-driven moment, not entirely. It’s Rumi making a decision. There’s something about this realization that makes Zoey’s chest twist. She swallows it down and tries to think logically and put a nice spin on this. If Rumi’s choosing now, if she’s that aware, then maybe her heat really will break by morning, and then everything can go back to normal. Zoey nods, yeah. It sounds perfect. But still, she has that wonder if Rumi’s choosing her earlier was the same as Rumi choosing Mira, or just instinct. She has a strong feeling as to what the answer is. 

“Well,” she says softly, her voice lighter than her thoughts. “This has been fun.” She hesitates. “I’m gonna go organize . . . something.” 

Mira doesn’t answer. She’s locked onto Rumi, and Rumi’s locked on her. 

Zoey glances between them, arms folding tightly across her chest. That sour, sharp, and sudden ache flares low in her gut. She hates that it’s a familiar feeling now, and she knows this isn’t the first time she’s felt it in regards to Rumi and Mira. “Yeah,” she mutters, clearing her throat. “I’ll just- I’m gonna head out.” 

“You can’t,” Mira says, without looking at her. 

Zoey blinks. “Why not?” 

“You’re a Beta. I need your presence to balance the scent load. If you leave . . .” Mira shrugs, like the rest of it is obvious. “Things might spiral again.” 

Silence drops heavy and immediate. 

“Oh, right.” Zoey looks away. “Scent neutralizer.” She doesn’t argue or even move. Just breathes out through her nose. 

Behind them, Rumi lets out a soft whimper. Not in pain this time, in need. Her body curls deeper into the nest, her markings flickering bright as the scent thickens again, sharp and cloyingly sweet. 

Mira stiffens, and Zoey notices. “. . . fine,” Zoey says, the word half-swallowed. “I’ll stay. Since I’m convenient.” She crosses the room and sinks down by the door, sliding her back against the wall. Her knees draw up to her chest. She doesn’t speak, or slouch, or even blink much. She’s not relaxed, and definitely not okay, but Zoey’s there. Always there. Though not because she wants to be, or because she’s suddenly okay with everything that has gone down, but because someone has to be the calm in the storm. And that’s what Betas do.

Rumi trembles beneath the weight of her own skin. The nest offers no comfort, only friction and heat. She twists, slow and helpless, as if chasing relief she knows won’t come. A faint sheen of sweat clings to her, and her breath stutters in shallow bursts, each one sharper than the last. She wishes desperately that she were still lost in the thickest part of her heat, when her mind had blurred enough to shield her from clarity. When the ache was distant and dreamlike, but that veil has been lifted now. Her body is still burning, yes, but her mind is clear, and that is its own clarity. She can feel everything now, comprehend every desperate pulse and deep wave of need that curls through her without mercy. 

Rumi’s eyes shut for one suspended moment, and she tries to slip back into the fog. Into nothingness. But it’s gone, and when she opens them again, Mira is there. She stands just a few paces from the bed, and Rumi’s gaze finds her easily.

Mira lowers herself into a crouch beside the bed without a word. She doesn’t speak, not at first. Her throat is dry, her breath shaky as she steadies herself. The scent in the room hits her like a wall. Rumi’s scent clings to the air, heavy and sweet, and Mira is quietly grateful that Zoey’s scent still lingers too, a subtle grounding note against the storm of pheromones. A buffer, which was what Mira was hoping for. “You’re burning up,” she murmurs before she can stop herself.

Rumi whimpers, her body reacting to the sound of Mira’s voice, and Mira winces. That was the wrong thing to say. It wasn’t comforting, and gave Rumi no clarity. It only confirmed what Rumi already knew, as she had spent the last who knows how long trying to outrun it. 

“Shit. I didn’t mean- sorry.”

Rumi doesn’t care. She shifts closer, a slow lean rather than a lunge. She thought Mira’s presence would feel like Zoey’s calm and familiar presence. And in some ways, it is. Mira moves with the same steadiness and precision that never startles. But that’s where the resemblance ends. Zoey’s presence helps her float, while Mira’s makes Rumi sink. 

Because Mira’s scent doesn’t just soothe, it resonates with something deep in Rumi’s chest. Mira doesn’t quiet the ache or try to ignore it, she seems to understand it. So, while Zoey’s scent tries to neutralize the mess inside Rumi, Mira’s scent meets them with her own, and that is worse. Or maybe better. Rumi can’t tell. All she knows is that the air feels thinner now, and Mira hasn’t even touched her yet. 

And really, Rumi was doing fine at first. When Mira walked in, Rumi was just sitting and existing. She kept her breathing slow, her posture neutral. She came to enjoy Zoey’s neutral yet enjoyable presence and wanted to fool herself into believing she could be okay with sitting on the bed and just existing in the same room as her friends. But her need was always going to catch up to her, because, in the end, Rumi’s no better than any other Omega stuck in heat. She swallows hard. She could stay still, could try to meditate it away, but this ache isn’t leaving, not until she answers it.

Zoey’s voice echoes in her head: “ An orgasm can drastically shorten the duration .”

And Mira’s: “ An orgasm can provide significant relief .”

Somewhere in the organized chaos of her mind, a thought lodges itself. An irrational one, yes, but insistent: If I can just come , I’ll feel better . If she can find that release, maybe the pressure will break, the ache will ease, and she won’t feel so out of control. So needy, so much like a burden, and then she can just enjoy this. Enjoy being here, with the two people she loves.

Rumi freezes. Love? It isn’t a word with meaning at first, just a soft pulse behind her ribs. But soon it expands, blooms, and the weight of it steals her breath for a moment. A full body shiver has Rumi gasping as her body flashes a bright pink . “Mira,” she whimpers, leaning forward slightly. “Everything hurts.”

Mira reaches out, hesitating for a second, before she touches Rumi’s cheek. She lays her palm against it, brushing back long strands of damp hair. The heat rolls off her skin and is nearly scalding, almost too hot to touch. “. . .” She studies Rumi quietly. She thought Rumi was coming out of it. Hoped, really. She was more aware now, talking better, and wasn’t just a mess of whimpers and incoherent words. Yet, her skin is afire, her markings alight, and her scent thrums with the instinctual calling of “ fuck me .”

She touches along Rumi’s cheek, brushing the markings there, and absently she wonders if the marks have spread over the last few days, as she could’ve sworn they were farther back. She brushes along Rumi’s jaw and to her ear, touching the lobe there. Yeah, Mira could’ve sworn the markings ended at her ears, yet the jagged lines are well on her cheek.

Rumi draws in a shaky breath, fingers clutching at the clothing beneath. “Mira,” she whimpers again, leaning into the touch. 

Mira’s gaze traces every tremble, every flinch, every thread of tension stitched beneath Rumi’s skin. Then, with a steady hand, she brushes her fingers to Rumi’s hairline, smoothing the strands of purple there with slow reverence. Her voice, when it comes, is soft, but leaves no room for disobedience. “Look at me.”

Rumi does, gladly so.

“Breathe.”

Rumi doesn’t. Her gaze flickers to Mira’s mouth, lips parted.

Mira stills her hand. “Rumi,” she says, lower now in a tone that makes obedience feel inevitable. No response, and Mira withdraws her touch slowly. 

Rumi gasps a broken sound, half sob and half plea. She moves toward Mira’s hand, but Mira dances her fingers away, letting them hover just out of reach.

“I know it’s a lot,” Mira says gently, her voice still a thread of steel beneath the softness. “Start here. With me. Just one breath.” Mira watches her, bracing for rejection, or panic, or nothing at all. But Rumi listens, though shaky and uneven, and Mira lets herself breathe, too.

Behind them, Zoey - still sat on the floor, now beet red - swallows a sound, and she doesn’t dare to move. 

Mira shifts closer and lowers down to her knees. She doesn’t reach for Rumi right away. Her hand hovers between them, and she wonders if touching Rumi like this would help. It might soothe, or it could further ignite things. She has no idea, but she finds herself with a craving to touch Rumi, so she does with hesitance yet curiosity. Her fingers brush gently to the tips of Rumi’s ears, and she feels the soft skin there. And when the pads of her fingers glide across the delicate curve, the markings nearby flash gold in a quiet response. Mira says nothing about it. She simply follows the trail downward, touch still featherlight, and traces along the slope of Rumi’s jaw and down the line of her throat. 

Rumi shudders.

Mira pauses for a second, then presses her thumb down gently, watching as Rumi’s throat bobs when she swallows. Beneath her fingers, Mira can feel Rumi’s pulse, and it beats fast, almost too fast. She presses her thumb just below Rumi’s jaw, causing her to tilt her head up, exposing more of the delicate skin. 

Rumi’s jaw tightens, Mira can feel it, and for a moment, her teeth flash. They’re sharp, sharper than most normal humans would be, and her whole body pulls taut like a string about to snap. She moans quietly, and Mira presses harder for a second longer as the sound vibrates through her touch. 

Mira still says nothing, not flinching, and Rumi whimpers again. Gold ripples across her skin, then pink , and Mira eases the pressure of her thumb beneath Rumi’s jaw, but doesn’t pull away. “Good,” she whispers, her breath brushing over flushed skin. Her hand trails down Rumi’s throat, over her collarbone, slow as warmth seeping into cold water. As she moves down, she shifts her body forward, sliding one knee onto the edge of the bed - careful not to disturb the nest beneath them. Her other hand finds its place in the mess for balance, fingers brushing past Rumi’s thighs.

Rumi leans back instinctively, giving space, and Mira follows in a smooth glide of movement until she’s upright, then seated fully. 

Mira exhales slowly. Her hand rests now on Rumi’s hip, thumb stroking an idle jagged spiral against bare skin just above the lace of her panties. Mira freezes for a second. Lace. She huffs, “Of course.” Zoey really wasn’t lying about the panty material.

The scent between them thickens. Jasmine, crushed mint, and something sharper now - heady and primal. Mira exhales, steadying herself against the wave of heat and instinct that rolls through her. Her voice, low and nearly lost in the space between them, brushes against Rumi’s skin like a second touch. “Is this okay?”

Rumi nods frantically. “Please. Please, just- just hold me. Just-”

Mira lets the rest of the words wash over her, not needing them. She already knows. Her hand glides down from Rumi’s waist, fingers drifting over the soft lace at her hips, pausing there. She doesn’t linger with the intent of undressing Rumi. She lingers to feel, to anchor Rumi to a certain feeling, so her mind doesn’t slip away and get lost in the moment. Then, with the same quiet intention, Mira moves lower and to the back of Rumi’s thigh. The moment Mira touches her there, the markings beneath her touch respond again.

Mira’s gaze flicks toward Zoey, who hasn’t moved from her spot by the door. Zoey’s breath hitches, her eyes drawn involuntarily to the shimmering gold rippling across Rumi’s skin. For a heartbeat, their eyes meet. Mira’s is steady and calm, but Zoey’s hold falters. She blinks, exhales sharply through her nose, and looks down, cheeks warming as she turns away from the scene.

Mira’s focus returns to Rumi. Her fingers flex slightly, grounding her touch against the back of Rumi’s thigh. Mira opens her mouth, but no words come out at first. Then, softer than anything, “If you want . . . you can come closer.”

Rumi moves instantly. She rises onto her knees, shaky but sure, and reaches out, one hand landing on Mira’s shoulder for balance. With a breathless motion, she swings one leg over Mira’s, settling not in her lap, but just on her thigh. 

Mira doesn’t correct her. She just notices. Her hand follows the curve of Rumi’s hip, steadying her there, thumb pressing just enough to make her presence known. And then Mira waits, letting the silence stretch and letting Rumi feel it all: the weight of her need, the way her body hums and coils to restraint while also embracing recklessness and her instinct. But Mira feels it as well. The heat, wet and undeniable, soaks through the fabric between them. The press of Rumi’s slick folds against her thigh, trembling and hot. Mira’s breath stutters, but her hand never wavers as she simply feels Rumi. The corner of her mouth lifts in quiet approval. Her thumb traces slow circles into the dip of Rumi’s waist. “Like this,” Mira murmurs. Her thumb strokes slow circles into Rumi’s side. “You’ll let go like this.” Her other hand finds the small of Rumi’s back, guiding her closer with a gentle pressure on her spine. 

Rumi’s fingers twitch where they clutch Mira’s shoulder. She doesn’t speak, just breathes as her thighs twitch again with restrained movement.

Mira doesn’t push, coax, or even demand. She just waits, listening to Rumi’s breathing and feeling as her thighs clamp again, before relaxing. Then, she shifts her leg in a subtle movement, easing her thigh up between Rumi’s legs, the pressure a whisper of friction exactly where Rumi aches.

The response is instant: Rumi’s breath hitches, her lips part around a silent sound, and her hips jolt forward, the barest of friction freezing her in place, like she’s afraid to want more. Violet blooms across her skin in shimmering waves.

Mira hums, low and warm, in a sound that vibrates deep in her chest and bleeds into Rumi’s skin like molten lava. And when she leans in, her voice is no more than a small breath against Rumi’s ear, “Feel that?”

Rumi nods, barely, as if more than that might break her open. Her thighs tremble, a soft quake of need she can’t contain. Wetness pulses between her legs, slick and insistent, and it doesn’t stop - it spills, unchecked, soaking through her underwear and gliding hot over Mira’s thigh with every breathless grind. It clings to skin, seeps into fabric, and marks everything. Rumi presses closer without thinking as she chases pressure she can’t quite reach. The friction is maddening, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. And yet her body shudders like it might come undone from just that.

Mira tightens her grip just slightly at Rumi’s waist.

“I can’t-” Rumi chokes, voice splintering. She shakes her head and her lips part as if the words might still find their way out. But nothing comes, just a sound so broken and high in her throat, that it alarms Rumi for a small second. 

Mira doesn’t move away. She tilts her head back just enough to catch Rumi’s face in full, eyes catching on every subtle movement. She leans in again, nose brushing against Rumi’s, but she doesn’t close the gap between them. “Breathe for me,” she whispers.

That’s when Rumi starts to move. It’s tentative at first, the movement a slow, hesitant roll of her hips. More of an experiment than a rhythm, like she’s testing the heat of the motion. Her breath catches as she shifts, slick and aching, and Rumi glances up at Mira through her lashes. 

Mira doesn’t stop her, doesn’t even look like she wants to.

Rumi tries again, bolder this time in a sharper grind. Her hips stutter forward with something closer to desperation. There’s barely any friction now, not with how wet she is, but the glide is smooth and filthy, and it punches the air right out of her lungs. Her thighs tremble at just how messy the motion is, yet somehow it gets steadier as Rumi is now chasing something. Her breathing falters again, and a broken noise falls from her parted lips as the pressure builds. She lets out a noise caught between a gasp and a moan, startled by just how good it feels. It’s all too good, too fast, yet perfect, and her body agrees as it lights up in a harsh pink glow with pearl at the edges. 

Rumi wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t prepare for how shameless her body would feel against Mira’s thigh. For how quickly she’d unravel, and how badly she wants to keep going, to beg, to break. But she doesn’t beg. Unlike Zoey, Mira doesn’t make Rumi beg. She just lets Rumi move, allowing her hips to rock forward again with a soft, wet sound that makes Mira’s jaw tense. 

And not once does Mira consider stopping Rumi.

Mira doesn’t rush or reach for more from Rumi. She just holds her, letting Rumi find her own rhythm. She braces one arm against the small of Rumi’s back, while her other hand strokes slowly along the curve of her side, going from hip to ribcage and down again. Then, Mira flexes her thigh beneath Rumi, offering more.

Rumi chokes on a sound, and her hips falter. “Mira-” Her voice is thin now, unraveling at the edge, all breath and ache and not nearly enough. 

And Mira, steady as ever, just tightens her hold and says nothing, continuing to let Rumi fall apart at her pace. “I know,” Mira whispers, and she means it. 

Rumi grinds down harder, more frantic, with each roll of her hips becoming sharper and needier. Heat floods her limbs, coils tight in her belly, and her movements turn erratic as she fucks herself against the firm muscle of Mira’s thigh. Her head drops to Mira’s shoulder, breath hitching wet and hot into the fabric there, hands clutching at Mira’s shoulders like she’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold tight enough. She’s trembling all over, a mess of slick skin and buckling restraint. Her thighs quake, hips snapping in sharp, helpless stutters as her moans dissolve into something breathless and broken. “Mira- fuck-” She gasps, voice already unraveling.

Her body jerks, wracked by waves of aching need, and her breath is hot against Mira’s neck as she chokes on a sob. “Please- Mira, I can’t-” She cries out, desperate and wrecked, the syllables crumbling in her mouth as she starts to fall apart on Mira’s thigh.

Mira holds her, grounding her through every wave. One arm firm around her back, the other stroking up, until her fingers cup Rumi’s cheek, guiding her forehead to rest against Mira’s shoulder. And then, Mira leans in, her hand sliding from Rumi’s cheek to her throat. She finds the glow pulsing just under Rumi’s skin, curling in a spot at the base of her neck. It comes alive with pink and gold light. Mira’s thumb brushes across it. 

Rumi shudders violently, a raw moan tearing from her throat as she grinds down harder, chasing the shock. 

Mira doesn’t speak. She lowers her mouth to the pulse point, lips barely brushing the skin there. Then she opens her mouth, tongue tracing the a marking and tasting Rumi’s heat thick on her tongue. She breathes in the scent of jasmine and mint, with something sweeter underneath that feels like hers. Mira’s teeth drag across the spot next. Not hard, but enough. Enough to make her Alpha instincts howl, and her jaw tighten. Her whole body seizes with restraint as she could bite, could sink in and leave a mark that would tell anyone exactly who Rumi belongs to. The want rises sharply and suddenly, uninvited. Mira swallows it down, guilt stinging the back of her throat. This isn’t what Rumi asked for. Not yet. Not like this.

And Rumi - wrecked, whimpering, babbling nonsense into Mira’s collar - doesn’t even realize. She just breathes her name again, “Mira . . .”

And that’s what snaps Mira back. Her teeth retreat, mouth lingering at Rumi’s throat for one last second, then she pulls back and places a kiss just beside the spot instead. Not a claim. A choice. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, voice raw now. The only response she gets is a half-sob. “I know,” Mira whispers. Her voice trembles. “I know.” But inside, she’s still thinking about how close her teeth came. How good Rumi tasted, and how much she wants that taste again. 

Rumi now grinds in a series of slow, uneven rolls, like she’s barely holding herself together. Each movement is messy, trembling, a sharp gasp catching in her throat before it splinters into a moan. Her hips stutter, chasing friction with a helpless desperation that betrays just how close she is to unraveling, and her hands fumble for something solid to cling to, fingers slipping against skin before she grabs hold of Mira’s shoulders. Rumi’s nails dig in hard enough to leave a mark as her voice tries to break through in a plea that she’s far too gone to properly voice. She grinds harder, slick now and shaking, and the sound she makes is downright obscene as she’s not even trying to quiet anymore.

“. . . Rumi?” Mira whispers. Zoey glances up.

Rumi doesn’t speak as her mouth falls open around Mira’s name, lips now trembling and jaw slack. Her whole body locks up as she trembles on the edge of something she has chased for days, then-

It breaks.

A wave of color bursts across her skin, violet flooding her chest before blooming in wild, jagged streaks up her throat, down her arms, curling over her ribs like her body can’t contain it. Her breath catches high in her throat, then tears free. She comes with a shattered cry that is raw and unfiltered. It’s loud, messy, and her hips grind down hard and helplessly as all her rhythm is abandoned, succumbed to just pure need. Her body jolts again in Mira’s arms as her muscles seize before shaking apart again. Rumi’s head drops forward, and her nails claw into Mira’s shoulders, dragging just shy of breaking skin but not enough to hurt. Just enough to leave marks in a desperate little claim.

And Mira holds her through it, letting her fall apart and knowing exactly how to catch her. One hand grips the base of Rumi’s spine, while the other strokes up her back in a slow motion. Her lips brush Rumi’s temple now, breath warm, and voice even warmer. “Breathe,” she murmurs. “You’re safe.” 

Rumi lets out a broken sob that shudders through her chest. Her body slumps forward, all tension collapsing into Mira as her limbs go loose. She nuzzles into the curve of Mira’s neck like she’s trying to disappear inside her. “. . .”

Mira says nothing else, not yet. Instead, she just holds her, letting herself feel each tremble slowly fade and watching as the gold shimmer slowly fades into pearl and a light violet .

Then, quietly, Rumi whispers, “I . . . I didn’t mean to-”

Mira shakes her head, and the words die on Rumi’s tongue. 

Zoey stays by the door, eyes locked onto the floor. But even with her gaze turned down, she hears everything from the wet drag of lace, the shift of breath, and the desperate, needy sounds Rumi makes as her body chases the relief Zoey couldn’t give. 

She shouldn’t look; she knows she shouldn’t. She tells herself that she’s just here to make sure Mira and Rumi are comfortable and they don’t chase the white rabbit called instinct. She tells herself to keep her eyes on the ground and just zone out, but still her eyes lift for just a second, and immediately, it’s a mistake. 

Her gaze catches on the way Mira’s hand moves. The motions aren’t unfamiliar. Zoey has felt that same hand guide her before, steady and sure, just like it does Rumi now. She’s felt that touch at the small of her own back, but now it’s Rumi trembling beneath it, gasping as if her world is collapsing into Mira’s lap.

It’s all familiar, and yet somehow unfamiliar. Mira’s hand lingers longer this time, her voice dips softer, and maybe it’s just Zoey’s mind playing tricks - making things up - but still, she can’t help wondering “ is it ?”

It’s all a sick sense of deja vu, and Zoey is really starting to hate it. 

Her stomach twists, and she presses herself back into the wall, face burning now. She tries not to see, not to count the patterns she recognizes, or watch the way Mira’s thumb circles in that soft spiral - a motion she loves to do. It’s always at the hips, always with care. 

She covers her face with her hands and tells herself she’s trying to be polite and give them the privacy they deserve, but her fingers spread, and she peeks through the gaps like a coward. Her eyes drag across the bed again, across the flush of skin, the shimmer of marking, and the visible surrender. 

And for a moment, Zoey remembers her moment with Rumi, and she wonders if it was ever about needing Zoey and not a body.

She curses under her breath and snaps her gaze away, telling herself that everything she’s seeing is just the heat and biology finally getting what they want. That’s all it is. That has to be all it is. 

Zoey repeats the lie in her head again, focusing on it until Rumi moves again. It’s small at first, just a twitch and a shift of her hips, but then Rumi breathes out a sound that’s so soft and broken that it waves away whatever thoughts Zoey was having, and causes Mira to still. 

Mira still holds Rumi close, steadying her in the aftermath. Though “ aftermath ” might be too generous a word. Rumi’s breath still trembles against Mira’s skin, her mouth brushing softly along her collarbone, and her fingers curl weakly into Mira’s shirt like she doesn’t want to be done. Then, her hips roll again. It’s subtle yet deliberate - a movement that sends heat flaring through Mira’s body. “Rumi?” She asks, confused, until she smells it. Not the sharp, frenzied scent of Rumi’s heat. That scent has been slowly fading with each second. No, it’s something else. Something warmer: jasmine, mint, and completely Rumi. This is all Rumi. Mira registers the change a moment before Rumi breathes out a song that hits her chest: a breathy “ please .” 

“I’m sorry,” Rumi whimpers, hips twitching again. “I thought- I just-” She shifts clumsily.

Mira swallows as she tries to refocus, but her attention dips lower to the slick heat soaked into her thigh and the way Rumi moves now and then. Mira adjusts slightly, and her thigh glides between Rumi’s legs far too easily. God, there might not be any friction left to give her. 

Still, Rumi lets out another quiet, helpless whimper that ends in a shaky exhale, and she presses closer. Mira’s voice is low when she finally talks. “We’ll start again.” Mira’s hands slide down her sides and settle on her hips, grounding and gentle. “But this time, we will do it my way.” 

Rumi’s eyes close, and she sighs with both relief and want. She shifts slightly, as if uncertain. “Should I- should I switch knees?” She asks, voice crackling a little. 

Mira’s mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile. “Depends,” she says slowly. “Do you want to grind your clit raw or just stay wet and aching?” 

Rumi lets out a strangled sound, and her body jerks like Mira had touched something wired straight to her spine. Her hips lurch forward involuntarily, thighs tensing as if the words alone were a hand between her legs. 

Mira stays perfectly still. Not a twitch of muscle, or a shift of breath. Just her hands, heavy and grounding on Rumi’s hips, and her gaze unblinking. Rumi feels it like pressure, weight, and permission on the verge of command. 

She lifts herself slowly. Rumi is unsteady on her knees, trembling as she eases back down onto Mira’s thigh. The heat between her legs meets the rough press of Mira’s pants, and the sudden friction has her moaning breathlessly. Her lip catches between her teeth as she tries to find her balance, her hips twitching with the ghost of motion that betrays how much she already needs. “You and Zoey,” she manages, barely audible, “are you always this . . . vulgar?” Rumi rolls her hips once and shudders as her slick catches against the firm press of fabric. It’s all too much, yet not enough.

Mira hums thoughtfully, sparing a glance at Zoey, who is still seated on the floor, cheeks flushed, and eyes locked on the floor like it might save her. But Zoey glances up the moment she feels Mira’s gaze. Mira shrugs, and her hands shift Rumi forward with deliberate care, dragging her where it’ll ache most. “Only when we’re trying to make someone come,” she says. 

The words land like heat under Rumi’s skin, and she stiffens, her breath catching in her chest. 

“ Only when we’re trying to make someone come .” 

Mira had said it like it was nothing, like it was obvious. There was no tease in her voice or indulgent purr. Just a clinical truth delivered with soft finality, as if the outcome was already inevitable, and Rumi’s pleasure was just the next step Mira intended to execute.

It reminded Rumi of Zoey. The way Zoey whispered filth without blinking, acting like it meant nothing and everything all at once. But Mira doesn’t have Zoey’s teasing smirk or sharp tongue or movements that always left Rumi on the edge. No, Mira was quiet, still, and all too intentional.

Rumi tries to meet Mira’s gaze, but Mira is focused on guiding Rumi’s hips with slow certainty, shifting her forward until Rumi’s thighs tense and her breath falters. “You’re not fair,” Rumi manages to whisper, but it’s a useless protest. 

Mira hums, low in her throat, then flexes her thigh just once, and Rumi folds with a trembling whimper. Her hips jolt, and her eyes squeeze shut, giving Mira the exact reaction she wanted. She doesn’t say it, but her mouth twitches into a knowing curl of something cruel and earned. 

Rumi hides her face against Mira’s shoulder, pressing her forehead into the skin. Her whole body aches, not just with need, but with knowing. One day , she thinks, they’re going to ruin me . And then, heat blooms pink across her ears and down her throat as another thought curls in her mind: she’ll let them .

A quiet gasp slips from Rumi, her breath snagging in her throat as Mira refuses to move. She just holds Rumi to her thigh, offering no pressure, just stillness. Just the solid feeling of Mira’s body beneath her and the unreadable quiet of being left to want. It leaves Rumi faintly shuddering, overwhelmed by the sharp ache curling through her nerves.

Mira watches as Rumi shifts again, her thighs unsteady with denied rhythm, chasing a motion just out of reach. Through it all, Mira doesn’t speak or offer help. Her hands stay where they are, firm at Rumi’s hip in a quiet threat of command that never comes. She could guide her, could pull her closer, and drag her across the edge Rumi teeters on. But, she doesn’t. She stays motionless, eyes fixed on the uneven rise and fall of Rumi’s chest, noticing the subtle spasms of effort and want stitched into her every movement. She feels wetness coating her thigh through clothing, and listens as Rumi’s breathing comes out shaky and ruined. It’s only then that Mira speaks, “You’re not here to rut.” Her voice is all control and certainty, and it’s the most frustrating thing Rumi has heard. “You’re here to feel.”

And Rumi does. God, she feels everything. She bites down hard on her lip, suddenly desperate to keep quiet and hold herself together. To obey. Her breath hiccups in her throat, almost sobbing, as she moves to nod, only to be stopped by Mira’s fingers grounding her at the hip. 

“No nodding. Use your voice.” 

It’s the second time today she’s been told to use her voice, and the second time the command hits straight through her. The words hit low, twisting in her gut, turning need into something sharper. Rumi tries to move her hips again, instinct chasing friction, but Mira’s grip doesn’t waver. She holds her there. “I- yes. I want to. I want to feel,” Rumi manages. 

Mira leans in, her lips ghosting along the edge of Rumi’s jaw. It’s not a kiss, or even a promise of one. Just a presence. “Then listen to me,” she murmurs, voice low and steady, and her fingers loosen their grip at Rumi’s hip. 

That shift, though subtle, is permission.

Rumi moves slower and deeper this time. She grinds forward on shaking legs, the effort tearing a voiceless cry from her throat. Her wetness seeps through Mira’s pants, a quiet pulsing between her legs where it grinds against the hard line of muscle beneath. And still, Mira doesn’t move. 

Not a thrust. Not even a sound, or a shift of breath. Just heat and stillness.

Rumi claws at Mira’s shoulders now, frantic for something solid to hold onto. Her mouth parts in a silent gasp, rhythm falling into something too quick and desperate. 

Then, Mira lifts her hand. She doesn’t guide or even restrain Rumi; instead, she lays her palm at Rumi’s throat. 

Rumi jolts, and her breath catches instantly. Her whole body seizes at the contact, and she swallows hard, only to feel Mira’s thumb follow the movement. And it’s enough to make Rumi go still the moment Mira touches her throat. There’s no pressure behind the touch, just heat and certainty, but it shuts her down all the same. Like her body doesn’t know how to move unless Mira lets it. Rumi’s breath shallows out, her thighs shake, and she swallows hard, feeling as Mira follows the movement again. 

When Mira speaks, it’s quiet. “Still.” The command is soft, but it cuts through the haze like a wire drawn tight. Mira’s other hand slowly glides up Rumi’s spine until her palm rests flat between her shoulder blades. She keeps it there, not pushing back or forcing Rumi into motion. Just waits. 

Rumi can feel every beat of her heart, every pulse between her legs, and every ache wound tight in her stomach. When she shifts slightly, her mind goes straight to the wetness beneath her, then the heat of her body, and lastly the silence between them. Her mind screams at her to just move. Take what you need, but Rumi forces herself to remain still, uncertain eyes focused on Mira. 

Mira speaks again, “Now.” 

Rumi jerks, like her body had been held in suspension, waiting for that one word to unlock it.

Mira’s gaze drops to Rumi’s mouth, watching as it moves around soundless words. “. . .” They look soft, and suddenly she wants to touch them. “You feel it more,” she whispers, watching as Rumi’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Don’t you?”

Rumi nods before she even thinks to, then catches herself as she remembers Mira’s earlier words. Her voice cracks as she gasps, “Yes. Yes, Mira.” And still, she moves, dragging herself forward in a slow and ruined motion, every movement drawn from someplace too deep to name. A moan punches out of her as her clit catches on the hard muscle of Mira’s thigh. A sharp gasp follows, her breath breaking apart midair, and Rumi nearly collapses, forehead tipping forward, but Mira’s hand at her throat holds her steady and refuses Rumi even that retreat. So instead, Rumi claws at Mira’s back, fingers curling into fabric with desperate, shaking need. Her entire body tightens as it clenches around every feeling like it might tear her in half. Another sob slips loose as her hips falter, rhythm shattering, and Rumi stalls. Her thighs shake violently as the motion is stopped not by choice but because her body simply can’t. Not without help. Not without Mira.

Mira exhales slowly, gaze locked onto Rumi’s face. She sees the trembling, the rhythm that faltered before stopping, the silent plea for rescue . . . and Mira denies it. Her voice slices through the haze, quiet and merciless, “Again.” 

And Rumi listens. She moves again, slower this time. Her breath shakes as her hips rock forward, this time dragging herself at just the right angle. Her hands fist in Mira’s shirt, pulling, and her entire body feels as though it’s starting to come undone.

And Mira just watches it all. Her hand on Rumi’s hip moves to her lower back, adjusting her with the subtlest of pressure and quietly guiding the rhythm. Her other hand slides down to the side of Rumi’s jaw, thumb stroking just beneath the flushed edge of her cheekbone. “Good,” Mira hums, and the sound nearly undoes Rumi. 

Rumi moans and obeys, grinding down again. The motion is less erratic now, but no less desperate. It’s controlled, yes, but guided by instinct and the way Mira’s hands seem to map every need before Rumi can voice it. She looks up briefly, meeting Mira’s eyes for a second before her head falls forward. Her cheek presses into Mira’s shoulder, thighs still shaking with ache, thrust forward, and the friction makes her sob once. But still, she keeps moving as her body seeks out something that is finally within reach. Every part of her body is trembling now, more whimper than a woman. 

And then Mira leans in, breath hot against the shell of Rumi’s ear. Her voice is quiet, steady, and a little dangerous. “Don’t you dare come yet.” 

Rumi breaks down internally, but she doesn’t disobey. Her hips roll forward again, and the motion is devastating. The obscene wet sound of her dragging along the curve of Mira’s thigh fills the space between their bodies, each rock of her hips catching her in a way that feels too raw and too necessary. Wetness smears hot through the fabric, but Mira doesn’t budge or offer any further assistance. 

She doesn’t need to. Her thigh stays firm beneath Rumi, all muscle and tension and just enough give to keep her gasping. Her hand at Rumi’s jaw holds steady, and her thumb traces slow, maddening circles beneath her jaw, like she’s tracking every thrum of pulse and every stutter of control that slips away. 

Rumi shudders and lets out a strangled, breathless whimper. Her whole body tightens, her thighs shake worse, and she makes another quiet, sob-like noise. She tries to press harder, to take what she’s not yet been given. If she just presses a little more-

Mira moves. Her hand on Rumi’s hip grows firm, stopping all movement, and Rumi doesn’t put up a fight at the wordless command.

Rumi chokes on a cry, her mouth parting as she tries to say something, but no words are formed, only desperation. Her thighs spasm against Mira’s leg, and her body jolts once with need. “Please,” she manages, but it comes out broken and too quiet. 

And still, Mira just watches Rumi unravel and lets her come apart on her thigh, letting every breath, tremor, and ruined gasp stretch into the silence between them. Thirty seconds. That’s all Mira gives her before she makes a move. Her hand glides from Rumi’s jaw to her hair, fingers sinking deep into the sweat-damp strands, curling tight with purpose, and Mira pulls. Just enough to tilt Rumi’s head back, baring the vulnerable line of her throat like an offering. She hears Rumi whimper and feels the way she clenches down, sending a fresh rush of wetness spilling hot against her thigh. And Mira leans in, lips grazing just beneath Rumi’s ear, and her voice is nothing but ruin. “Not yet.” 

It’s a mercy and a cruelty all at once, and Rumi doesn’t know whether to sob or beg. Mira’s voice is a direct line to where she needs her most. She clenches around nothing, clit swollen to the point of pain. Her hips jerk uselessly, bucking without rhythm, and a broken whimper catches in her throat. Rumi’s whole body is flushed, the colors now changing between pink , gold , and pearl . She feels like she’s seconds from collapsing, far too sensitive now as she reacts to the ever-small shift of Mira’s thigh. But still, Rumi obeys without thinking.

Beneath her, Mira flexes, and Rumi nearly sobs from the way it scorches through her. Tears threaten to fall at the corners of her eyes, and she feels the burn of them without shame. 

Mira holds her in place, voice calm, “Again.”

And Rumi listens. Because, of course, she does. She grinds forward once more, dragging herself across Mira’s thigh with a rhythm that’s more plea than pattern. She’s shaking, too far gone to care about form or grace. The sound is soaked and obscene, heat grinding into soaked fabric, and it echoes loudly in the stillness of the room. Rumi doesn’t care, though. She can’t, not when she’s riding Mira’s thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring her, and in a way, it is. There’s nothing else in her world but this: Mira’s hands, Mira’s body, and the unbearable ache of being so close. Her mind can’t hold onto anything except that single, searing truth - so close - and yet still tethered down by Mira’s hands and the brutal calm of her stillness and the permission Rumi hasn’t yet been granted. She’s held there. Left to hover and come apart slowly as she waits. 

Rumi’s sob catches halfway out of her throat. “Mira-” Her voice is hoarse, pleading. “I- I can’t. Please, I can’t-”

But Mira’s hand holds firm at her hip, grounding her in place, while the other remains tangled in her hair, fingers twisted with quiet, patient purpose. She lets Rumi lower her head ever so slightly, but doesn’t let her bow it as Mira wants to see Rumi’s face completely. Then, without warning, her thigh flexes in a deliberate shift that drags searing friction straight over Rumi’s clit. 

Rumi moves like she’s been struck. A strangled sound bursts out of her, almost a cry, but Mira is still again before she can chase the sensation. No more friction or movement, nothing but heat and stillness and the aching knowledge of what was almost .

Mira doesn’t reward her desperation, not yet. “Use your words,” she says, voice quiet but impossible to ignore. It isn’t a suggestion.

Rumi shakes her head, the motion frantic and trembling. Her breath catches between gasps and hiccups, and her hips roll again, faster now but equally wrecked and helpless as she tries to grind harder. Tries to take what she hasn’t earned. Her markings flash bright, going from gold to pink to gold again, each color shimmering with the raw edge of need. “I can’t ,” she cries. “It’s too- I need- just please!” 

Mira’s fingers tighten in her hair, just enough to make her freeze. “Then don’t come,” Mira says. 

That stops Rumi short, not physically but deeply. Everything inside her pulls taut like a cord about to snap. Her jaw clamps shut, and her thighs seize mid-motion, trembling and slick and shaking with the denial. Her breath catches in her chest like a sob that never fully leaves. 

Mira watches all of it, from the stuttered collapse of rhythm, the pulse fluttering beneath the skin of Rumi’s throat, to the faintest twitch of her fingers where they grip Mira’s shirt like a lifeline. Her voice doesn’t rise. It sinks into something calm and sure and quiet enough to cut like a wire through flesh. “Say what you want.” 

Rumi tries. Her mouth opens, but the words falter and twist on the way out. Her chest heaves with effort, and all she can manage is: “I- fuck, Mira, please , I want- I can’t- I’ll do anything-”

“Apparently not,” Mira says, and Rumi’s shaky eyes find her. Mira doesn’t move. “Ask.” 

And something inside Rumi breaks open and shatters wide. Mira still doesn’t let her head drop forward, even though Rumi so desperately wants to curl in on herself. A sob slips out, muffled slightly, and her hands fight tighter in Mira’s shirt, clawing for purchase. She doesn’t even try to move her hips again. Not yet. Not until-

Still, Mira waits. She just takes in Rumi’s appearance. Her wrecked and ruined and oh so beautiful appearance. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes shimmering with unshed tears of frustration. And she watches as Rumi’s mouth parts again, but still nothing comes out. Then, quietly, Mira leans in. Her breath is warm against Rumi’s temple, the edge of her lips brushing skin. “Are you embarrassed?” The tone is maddening, both gentle and amused. Like she already knows the answer. 

Rumi flashes violet . It washes over her skin in a slow, shimmering wave. Cheeks first, then down her chest, her stomach, and settling around her thighs. The color is bright and impossible to hide.

Mira huffs a quiet laugh, real amusement this time, and the sound drips down Rumi’s spine like a caress. “It’s just Zoey in the room.”

That’s what shatters Rumi. Rumi’s breath catches mid-chest, as her eyes widen with something between horror and heat. She turns her head, barely, trembling as she dares a glance over her shoulder. She searches the room blindly, vision blurred and wet, until Rumi finds her. 

Zoey. Still seated by the door. Her spine is stiff, legs folded beneath her, hands knotted tight in her lap. Her face is flushed to the ears, eyes fixed low in a trembling show of respect that’s grown more impossible by the second. But she feels Rumi’s gaze, like a park, and when she lifts her head, their eyes lock. Zoey’s gaze darts from Rumi’s ruined mouth to the violet flush that spreads down her chest. Her eyes dip lower, flicking across the sweat-slick curve of her breath, the rise and fall of her breath, then jerk back up to Rumi’s eyes like she’s been burned. Zoey’s head tilts ever so slightly, and that’s all it takes. 

Rumi moans , high and wrecked, like she’s just been touched between the legs. The sound tears out of her without warning, her body jolting in response. Her hips buck without permission, and her inner muscles clench like her body’s forgotten what permission is. A full body tremble rolls through her like a quake, her hands clutching for purchase on Mira, or maybe the moment, or something real. Rumi’s not entirely sure. When her voice comes, it’s cracked and hoarse and somewhere between a plea and an apology. “M- Mir- Z- Zoey,” it’s not even a word. Just a collapse. A confession.

Mira doesn’t let go. She only smiles, “Oh.” Her lips touch Rumi’s skin again, and this time, Rumi can feel the grin. She murmurs, voice silken and unhurried, “You little perv.” The words are low, almost affectionate. “You like her watching you.” 

Rumi whimpers, body jolting again. Her head shakes, but the denial crumbles into a frantic, broken nod before she can stop it. She doesn’t know what’s true anymore. All she knows is the heat of Zoey’s eyes and the slow, ruinous way Mira’s thigh stays steady beneath her. She’s panting now, trembling as the slick pulse between her legs has her grinding down in shallow, stuttering motions. Her body is so far past ready, it hurts. Violet and gold strobe beneath her skin in flickering waves, and her thighs quake with effort, with denial, and want that keeps eating itself alive. 

The shame doesn’t break Rumi, it sharpens her. It makes her worse , and Mira sees it. Of course, she sees it. “Say it,” Mira says, voice low.

Rumi’s mouth opens, but no words come at first. Her breath snags, chest rising in uneven pulls, and her whole body coils tighter with restraint that feels like punishment and prayer in equal measure. “I-” She starts, then falters. Her lips tremble, and she tries again, the words catching against the raw ache in her throat. “I want to come.” 

Mira’s smile fades. It’s not cold now, just gone and replaced with stillness. Her touch doesn’t stop, but it changes. Her fingers press deeper, moving from Rumi’s hip to her thigh, just enough to make Rumi’s whole body twitch. She touches the wetness there, swirling her finger for a moment before whispering, “Louder.” 

Rumi gasps Mira’s name, jerking against her thigh. Her fingers dig into Mira’s shoulders, nails curling into fabric. Her face tips forward, mouth parting in a soundless cry as her breath fans hot across Mira’s lips. It’s then that Rumi realizes that it would be so easy to close the space. To give in, to fall into everything that is Mira, but Rumi doesn’t. She stops . Her body goes still, breath catching mid-chest as her mind gets snagged on a thought. Her lashes flutter, eyes wide and searching as she looks at Mira - really looks at her - and Mira sees the shift, the quiet whisper of “ this isn’t real ” bleeding into the cracks of Rumi’s gaze. And Mira realizes that Rumi is holding herself back.

“Rumi?” She whispers.

Rumi pulls back a fraction, throat bobbing as she swallows hard. Her voice comes softly, quietly ashamed. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I know you’re just helping me-”

But Mira doesn’t let her finish. She leans in and kisses her. Not rough, or even rushed, just deliberate in a slow and certain way, the kind of kiss that says that Mira’s here because she wants to be, that this moment isn’t her pity for Rumi, or some obligation. 

The moment Mira’s mouth brushes hers, Rumi completely breaks open. She melts into it like she’s been holding this tension in her for years. The kiss is wet, trembling, and achingly tender as something unnamed finally steps into the light. And when they part, Rumi looks at Mira, searching her eyes for a second, then whispers, “I want to come.” The words tremble on their way out. “Please, Mira. Please let me come.”   

There. That’s it. 

Mira hums low in her throat. “Good girl,” she murmurs, and then her fingers tighten at Rumi’s hip, before pulling her forward once, hard enough to make Rumi gasp. Then she says it in finality, finally delivering on her promise: “Then come.” 

And Rumi breaks.

It’s not graceful.

It’s not soft.

The second the words leave Mira’s mouth, Rumi’s whole body locks up, snaps, like something inside her has been waiting for that exact moment to unravel. And something has. Her hips slam forward, dragging herself hard across Mira’s thigh, and the pressure is brutal. There’s no rhythm, no control, just raw instinct. Her clit sparks like it’s been struck, and her whole body seizes. Then she’s coming, so hard it’s almost violent.

Her muscles tense, and she nearly lifts herself off Mira’s leg as it all gets to be too much, but it’s also everything she wants. A sharp, guttural moan rips out of her, and her mouth falls open with no sound behind it - just air. Slick gushes out of her, soaking Mira’s thigh in hot, wild bursts that echo in the stillness. And then comes the sound.

Not her moans. 

Not her sobs.

But something else.

Rumi’s mouth falls open again, and the words tumble out in a desperate spill of syllables, pleading and breathless. “-can’t, Mira, please. I love- can’t- you- can’t stop- love- fuck -” It doesn’t even make sense. But the word love is the only thing that stands out. Mira hears it. Zoey hears it. Rumi doesn’t even realize she said it. But her body does. Each ripple of pleasure drags her deeper, messier, more undone, and Rumi’s hips grind down again, chasing the friction, and a second wave hits her. No, wrecks her.

Her back arches sharply, fingers dig into Mira’s shoulders with frantic strength, claws now, like she’s trying to hold onto gravity itself. A strangled scream tears out of her throat, higher now and more raw, and her whole body jolts. Her breath fractures into sharp little gasps, broken sobs caught between each one, like her lungs can’t keep up with the way her body is breaking. And it hits harder than before. Sharp, wet, blinding. She presses down and her whole body seizes, convulsing once, then twice, and then gushes.

Heat and slick pulse out of her in a sudden rush, soaking Mira’s thigh in a hot, wild burst that leaves no doubt in any of their minds. The sound it makes is obscene, and it echoes in the stillness of the room like an exhale too deep to contain. Rumi’s markings blaze in streaks of gold and pink that move across her like lightning, reflecting the wild and chaotic feeling.

Mira doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. She just holds Rumi there, lets Rumi break and come and fall apart in her arms. Her thigh stays firm, soaked and unshaken beneath the wet drag, and she flexes just enough to keep her right there at the edge. One hand stays tight in Rumi’s hair, anchoring her through the spasms, while the other braces at her waist.

And somehow, Rumi still moves. Still grinds and sobs and begs for more, even when her body has nothing left to give. Every new motion sends a shiver down her spine as she’s suddenly too sensitive, but she does it anyway. Her hips stutter, and she pulses again, and more wetness spills out. Not a full wave, but a leaking tremor that makes her shake and her vision blur. Rumi moans again, though softer, but equally wrecked and ruined. 

She’s not satiated, not even close. Rumi doesn’t think she ever will be again. Not after this . Not after Mira. Not after Zoey. 

Mira finally moves. Slowly, she draws her hand up the length of Rumi’s spine, tracing the tremble still wound through her body. Her touch is steady, firm, and unhurried. When she pulls Rumi in, Rumi comes willingly and slumps forward into Mira like a spent breath. Mira feels the rapid flutter of her chest, the damp flutter of her lashes against her collarbone, but still, she doesn’t let go.

Even though her jeans are soaked.

Even though the wet cling of fabric makes her skin itch in a way she hates. 

She stays. 

Mira exhales and gently shifts their weight. One arm slips beneath Rumi’s thighs, and softly, she lays her down. Rumi goes pliantly, blinking up at Mira with eyes still unfocused and blown wide with bliss. She stays above her, not moving away. For the first time, it’s not about control or composure or even comfort. It’s about wanting. 

Rumi looks wrecked, beautifully so. Her hair is a mess of curls and damp strands. Her lips are bitten red, parted like she’s still catching her breath. Her throat glows faintly with a sheen of sweat and the soft shimmer of her markings. She’s open in a way that’s rare and honest in a way that makes Mira ache. 

Mira leans in without thinking, her body tilting forward and one knee slipping between Rumi’s thighs. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it until Rumi’s breath hitches, her hands twitching and reaching up like they’re about to pull Mira closer. 

And Mira thinks for a second that maybe Rumi has fallen back into the heat haze of her mind. That all of this is just Mira helping Rumi through, that Mira doesn’t need any of this, but then, her mind screams “ liar ” at her, and she realizes that she wants to be pulled in. She wants to fall forward, to kiss Rumi until the rest of the world fades again and taste the words she hadn’t let herself say. 

Mira blinks. No, that can’t be right. She curses quietly, accuses the overwhelming scent of Rumi and her own damn Alpha instincts. Yeah, that’s it. Mira can’t possibly lo-

A scent brushes the edges of her senses. White tea, vanilla bean, and a sharp cut of citrus. 

Mira lifts her head. “Zoey?” It doesn’t startle her. It settles Mira as her body recognizes the scent that now gently guides her down from something high. And in that moment, her heart seems to skip a beat, and Mira withdraws, retreating just enough to change the heat between her and Rumi. The hunger stays, she fears it always will, but now it’s quieter. 

Rumi mumbles a string of sounds Mira can’t quite catch. Her body rolls slightly, limbs heavy, and curls in on herself, almost like she’s trying to hold what’s left of the moment close. Her eyes flutter shut. 

Chapter Text

Cleanup is going surprisingly well, almost suspiciously so, given the wreckage of the room. Clothes strewn like confetti, half a water bottle under the bed, an overturned chair in the corner. Still, progress is progress. 

Rumi, satisfied and thoroughly spent, knocked out cold the moment she got what she wanted. She’s been asleep ever since. Mira had no trouble slipping away once Rumi burrowed herself into a nest of shirt jackets and a few other random items. All belongings of Mira and Zoeys, a few of Rumi’s. Rumi didn’t care what belonged to whom, though, as she’d flung at least 40% of the pile over her shoulder in lazy rejection before collapsing with a satisfied sigh and going down like a felled tree. 

Even now, she slips hard with her limbs draped in loose abandon. And yet, Mira and Zoey move around her like cats during a thunderstorm - cautious, coordinated, and nearly silent. 

“Do you think her room is this messy?” Zoey whispers, lifting a shirt off the doorknob like it might bite her. She holds it up and recognizes it to be one of her own. 

Mira glances over. “God, I hope not.” She carefully folds a crumpled tank top with the kind of care reserved for handling explosives. “Isn’t this kind of mess supposed to be a heat-only thing?” 

Zoey nods, folding the shirt in her hands and setting it in a growing pile by the door. “Yeah, that’s what I heard. Or what my research says.” 

“Then, if her room back home looks like this,” Mira says, voice dry, “it’s all her.”

They pause, look at each other, then look at Rumi. She’s sprawled on her back now, one leg tucked under the other, and has a hand resting over her stomach. If not for the faintly pulsing pink glow of her markings and the very specific dishevelment that clings to someone freshly ravaged, she might’ve passed for someone indulging in a midday nap. Rumi snorts in her sleep, her foot twitching. 

Zoey suppresses a smile. “Nah,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “She’s too much of a control freak. Bet she’s got a chart. Like, an actual map of where everything goes.” 

Mira huffs softly. “Absolutely. ‘ Books arranged red to green go here . . .’”

“‘ And blue to violet goes there ’,” Zoey finishes smoothly, casting Mira a sidelong glance. There’s the edge of a smile on her lips as she steps carefully to the bed, eyes flicking between Rumi and the tangle of blankets. Something white wedged between the mattress and the wall catches her eye. A charger. She gives it a slow, careful tug until it pops free, and then she freezes. No movement. No reaction, and Rumi remains blissfully unconscious. Zoey exhales through her nose, then adds casually, “You think she has books?” 

Mira snorts. “Please. Magazines. Glossy ones.”

Zoey lifts a random pair of underwear from the floor. It’s not hers. She holds it up, and Mira takes one look before shaking her head. They both glance at Rumi, who’s still snoring faintly, and the two nod in agreement: definitely hers. “Yeah, but what kind of magazines?” Zoey asks, dropping the underwear onto the ‘maybe clean’ pile. 

“I don’t know. What do people read?” 

“People don’t read magazines,” Zoey says matter-of-factly. “Old people do.” 

Mira blinks. “What?”

“It’s a thing. Trust me. Old people and men on the toilet. That group single-handedly keeps magazines alive.” She tosses the charter onto her duffel without looking. “Now, comics? Manga?” Zoey continues. “Maybe. But it’d have to be something specific. Like super specific.” 

Mira makes a face. “I think there’s too much of a selection that she’d never decide.”

Zoey agrees. “Maybe she doesn’t read. Maybe she collects stuff instead.” 

“Like what?”

“Trophies.” 

Mira squints at her. “Trophies?” It’s not like Rumi hasn’t won trophies. Mira knows she has. The group has a whole room dedicated to them. But she doubts Rumi has any personal trophies in her room.

“Y’know, the ones you get for participation or perfect attendance. I had a shelf full of them growing up.” Zoey smiles. “Thought they made me look accomplished. I think my mom still keeps them on display.”

There’s a beat.

Mira stares at her, wondering for the smallest second if Zoey is serious. “Zo . . . Rumi was homeschooled. I don’t think Celine was handing out ‘Great Job!’ ribbons.”

That stops Zoey. Her brows furrow as she sifts through what little she knows about Rumi’s personal life. Rumi had never said she went to school . . . but she never said she didn’t , either. The subject only came up once. They were lounging around and asking each other random questions, as they had only known each other for around six months at that point, and were advised by Bobby to get to know one another better. Mira answered that she attended a private all-girls academy, something her parents thought would make her behave right, but it only made her realize she likes both girls and boys. Zoey had rattled off a long list of schools she had gone through before stopping when she got to number 12. And Rumi had just stayed quiet, watching them fondly but offering no answer of her own. 

Zoey hadn’t thought much of it since then, but now, looking back and putting what she does know into factor - mostly the markings and how they respond even when Rumi doesn’t want them to - it clicks into place. School was a risk. 

“Huh.” The sound slips out. Zoey’s ears tint pink as she realized how obvious it was.

Mira notices. “It’s not something you would’ve known,” she says, gently. “She never told us.” 

Zoey shrugs, eyes on the floor. “Still.” 

Mira tilts her head, studying her for a beat, and Zoey gives a small nod, a quiet but clear: I’m okay .

They lapse into silence after that. It’s not awkward. Just thoughtful as each of them tries to picture Rumi’s actual room. 

Zoey’s certain there’s a perfectly arranged corner just for doing her hair. Mira’s betting on at least five stuffed animals piled on the bed. If not stuffed animals, then pillows. An unreasonable number of pillows. They both quietly agree that Rumi has a color scheme, and every item in the room matches somehow. 

“It’s kind of a shame,” Zoey says suddenly. “Rumi would’ve looked stupid cute in a school uniform.” 

Mira doesn’t answer right away. She just hums, neutral and noncommittal, as she’s not sure if she agrees or disagrees. Her eyes drift toward Rumi, and she tries to imagine what she looked like as a kid. What a version of Rumi who hasn’t been affected by power and spotlight would look like. It’s harder than it should be. 

Neither of them has seen baby photos, or candids, or even those sun-drenched snapshots from a childhood birthday or messy dinner. Not even the cliche mashing of a birthday cake for their first birthday. There’s only the glossy stuff: red carpet shots, press tours she’d accompany Celine on, magazine spreads that always called her “The Successor.” Just a curated girl, always composed. 

Still, Mira can imagine something , barely. A chubby-cheeked girl with a too-big head that she’d eventually grow into. A kid with a missing front tooth and a stubborn glare to accompany it. A crybaby with bandages on her knees.

Mira sighs quietly, realizing she’s gotten too deep into the visual, and she wonders why she’s even thinking about it. “Dammit, Zoey,” she huffs. 

Zoey doesn’t mind Mira’s sudden silence. When she glances over at Mira, there’s a knowing glint in her eye, like Zoey, too, has been down the same rabbit hole. Not just the rabbit hole of imagining a younger Rumi, but the rabbit hole that is thinking about Rumi at all. She steps closer to the bed, hands clasped behind her back, and leans down. “Wow,” Zoey murmurs, tilting her head. “She’s really out.” For a second, she seriously considers poking Rumi’s cheek just to see if she’ll twitch. And definitely not because she wants to see how soft they are. Zoey suddenly puffs her cheeks out in regret, clearly frustrated that she didn’t do it earlier when she had Rumi completely at her mercy. 

Mira seems to snap out of it just in time to catch Zoey’s words. She nods, a little distracted. “Yeah. I would be too if-”

Zoey shoots her a glare.

Mira stops herself. 

“I’m still not over what happened,” Zoey says, cheeks still puffed. She straightens, folding her arms. “Forcing me to witness that .” 

“Right . . .” Mira has already apologized for the situation - more than once - and she explained why Zoey needed to be there. And every time, Zoey gives the same answer: “ I know . I know .” Mira almost says it again, almost falls back on the logic, but then she pauses. She watches the way Zoey puffs her cheeks in that unintentionally comical way. It’s her tell. She does it when she’s annoyed, but also when she’s genuinely upset, making it hard to tell the difference. But, over time, Mira has come to recognize a giveaway. The eyes. 

And right now, Zoey won’t look at her, quietly confirming that she’s upset. 

Mira exhales, not annoyed, just quiet. Then, softly, “I needed you.”

“I know tha-”

“No,” Mira says, cutting her off gently. “Not for your pheromones. Not for your Beta abilities.” Her voice softens, the words almost shy. “I just . . . I feel better when you’re in the room, because you’re you and you just-” She shrugs, glancing away. “You know. Are a great person . . . or whatever.” 

Zoey goes still. Her cheeks slowly deflate, and she stares into the distance like she’s buffering. A minute passes, and finally, she turns to Mira. “Yeah, well-” She stammers out something, a mess that Mira doesn’t understand, then stops. Zoey has nothing. 

Mira just smiles and nods. She gets it. 

“I don’t know,” Zoey says at last, her face no longer red. “I guess it’s just . . . weird.” She gestures vaguely at the room, motioning to the scattered clothes, tangled blankets, and the lingering energy that’s much like static air after a storm. “I just watched the woman I love go there with the woman I wish loved me.” She huffs, almost laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s weird. And on top of it, the woman I love is walking around like none of it mattered. Acting like it was nothing and being oblivious to it all.”

Mira, who had been nodding quietly, suddenly stiffened. “Oblivious?” She repeats, sharply. 

Zoey nods once, firm, and her eyes don’t waver. 

“What do you mean?” Mira asks, cautious yet slightly defensive.

Zoey gives her a look, one that doesn’t bother dressing itself up in subtlety. It’s the kind of look that says: Come on . Don’t make me say what you already know . Zoey knows what she saw, and she’s not about to be told otherwise.

Mira frowns, brows furrowing. “What- I don’t-”

“Okay,” Zoey cuts in, exhaling. The word is heavy, tired, and like she already had this conversation in her head hundreds of times, and Mira is just now catching up. 

“I just helped a friend through her heat,” Mira says, a little too quickly. “That’s what it was. That’s all it was.”

“Okay,” Zoey says, but it’s flat now.

“It is -”

“I said okay , M,” she interrupts. It’s not loud, not yelled, but final. “I seriously don’t know which one of us you’re trying to convince.” Zoey doesn’t wait for a response. Her eyes catch on a black tank top that she immediately recognizes as her own. Finally, something she can wear. She steps forward and reaches into the chaos of the nest Rumi has made, fingers hooking around the sharp. She tugs, but the clothing item doesn’t move. “Oh, come on ,” she mutters, yanking harder. The fabric gives all at once, jerking free with a snap that throws Zoey off balance. She stumbles back with a little “oof,” catching herself before she hits the floor. “Finally-”

A rustle. 

Both girls go still, like twin deer in headlights. Their eyes snap to the bed. 

Rumi shifts. At first, it’s innocent. Just a lazy roll, her face nuzzling deeper into a pillow like she’s chasing warmth. But then, she groans, pushes herself up on her elbows, and blinks slowly and unfocused as she’s forgotten where she is for a second. Her eyes scan the room, then land on them. On Zoey. Then, lower to the blank tank top clutched in Zoey’s hands.

Zoey squeaks and hugs the item to her chest. Rumi’s gaze follows the movement, and her markings pulse pink - a soft but vivid color that blooms across her skin in quiet reaction. Her eyes lift, first to Zoey, then to Mira. There’s a second flicker, brighter this time. 

The tension thickens as they await her next move, but Rumi just grunts. Wordlessly, she flops back down, drags a pillow over her face, and sinks right back into sleep like nothing ever happened. 

The silence that follows is stunned and fragile. Neither of them moves. They just stand there, caught in a weird limbo between tension and absurdity, until finally:
“. . . was it just me, or did that feel kind of insulting?” Zoey whispers, voice thin with disbelief. 

Mira doesn’t look at her. “She didn’t even try to pounce this time,” she mutters, arms crossing lightly over her chest.

“Not even an absurd line,” Zoey adds.

That gets Mira to glance over, one brow arched. “You’re disappointed.” 

Zoey shoots back, “You’re also disappointed.” 

“Am not,” Mira snaps, too fast. Too defensive. 

Zoey doesn’t buy it for a second. “Right, she drawls, tugging the tank top over her with exaggerated calm. “Because you don’t feel anything~” The sing-song line is pure teasing, and she tops it off with a theatrical eye roll. Mira opens her mouth to protest, but Zoey’s not done. “I saw you flinch, Mi. You looked like a kicked puppy.” 

“Okay, first of all-”

“You were ready.”

“I was not.”

“You were going to roll your sleeves up and offer more than your thigh.” 

“I was-!” Mira stops herself, jaw tightening at the shit eating smile on Zoey’s face. “No, I wasn’t.”

Zoey takes a step closer. “Admit it.” 

Before Mira can fire back, there’s a muffled groan from the bed. “You’re both so loud,” Rumi mumbles into the pillow. Her hand tightens its grip on the cushion, dragging it further over her face like a curtain. “I’ll jump you next time.” 

Zoey squeaks and takes a full step back.

Mira doesn’t speak, but she flinches visibly and nearly trips over a pile of folded shirts in her rush to retreat. Both girls are red-faced now, flushed in twin shades of “oh no” and “absolutely not,” their mouths opening and closing like fish unsure how to survive on dry land.

“I’m- uh- I’m gonna go put the laundry in,” Zoey blurts, voice higher than normal. She scoops up the pile of clothes with unnecessary urgency and bolts for the door. 

Mira nods stiffly, eyes wide, yet her voice is calm. A little too calm. “I’m going to do something.”

There’s a pause, and Zoey glances over. “Like what?” 

“I’m going to go outside,” Mira says at last, unsure why that was the first thing that came to mind. 

Zoey raises a brow. “To touch grass?” 

“No,” Mira snaps, flustered. “To- I don’t know- breathe air.”

With that, they both slip out too fast and don’t look at each other or the bed or anything really. Mira leaves the door ajar behind them and follows Zoey down the stairs. 

In the room, Rumi exhales into the pillow in a pleased, yet amused sound. 

The stairwell is dim, lit only by the light that filters in through the windows. Their steps fall in sync, soft and echoing in the practiced silence between them. Zoey clutches the clothing close to her chest, while Mira moves beside her with that carefully practiced grace - the kind that betrays just how hard she’s working to keep herself together.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, both of them stop.

Zoey breaks first. “You gonna admit it now/”

Mira’s tone is cautious, “Admit what?”

Zoey doesn’t push. She just holds her gaze and waits, letting Mira decide where this goes. 

Mira crosses her arms. “That I was prepared?” She pauses. “Fine. Maybe I was prepared to . . . aid her again.” Her eyes shift to the floor for a second. 

Zoey grins. One battle won. Another battle to go. “Ok,” she says. “All I needed to hear.”

Mira nods once, then turns. Her eyes narrow in amusement. “You were twitching again.”

“I was not!” Zoey recoils, her face flushing red and giving her away immediately. 

“Oh?” Mira’s voice becomes teasing, and she steps forward. “Because I definitely saw your fingers twitch when she licked her lips.”

“That was muscle memory,” Zoey says too quickly. 

“And when she looked at you?”

“Muscle memory.”

“What about her moaning?”

Zoey shrugs, “My muscles have weird memories. Triggered easily.”

“No, Zo,” Mira smiles. “That was yearning.”

Zoey gasps. “I do not yearn!”

“You're right,” Mira nods solemnly. Then, her smile sharpens, all mischief. “You ache.” She says it like it’s a fact. 

Zoey points a single sock from the laundry pile at Mira like it’s a weapon. “I will throw this.” 

“Do it,” Mira dares, stepping closer. “I dare you.”

The air shifts suddenly. A beat of silence stretches between them, then another, and Zoey exhales. She stamps down the spark in her chest and lowers the sock, shoving it back into the pile. “This is ridiculous.”
Mira hums.

Zoey glances sideways at her. In a quieter and gentler tone, she asks, “You good?”

“I’m fine.” Her answer is immediate.

Zoey snorts quietly. “Liar.”

Mira doesn’t answer. But her jaw tenses, just enough to betray her. She's not fine. She just let her best friend ride her thigh. She felt things she wasn't ready to feel, especially in the heat pressed between Rumi's legs. The wetness. The pulsing. The movements. And her poor pants that have to be tossed. And that damn confession, not just Rumi's but the one Mira nearly let slip, is still ringing in her ears. Louder now, even in the silence.

Zoey murmurs, low and just a bit dangerous,

“. . . she really likes pressure.” A pause. “On the throat, I mean. And between the legs, but I think the throat is like . . . a zone,” she finishes quietly.

Mira's thoughts are cut off, and she turns her head slowly.

Zoey's cheeks are a bright red, but her gaze is steady. 

Mira has no words. Truly. She can only stare. 

“Not that I was taking notes or anything,” Zoey says, and Mira wonders if that was supposed to make it better. 

Mira lifts a brow. “You absolutely were taking notes. You were locked in, I saw it. You were like some pervy lab tech.” 

“Well, yeah, but that was for your safety.”

“Mmhm,” Mira’s lips twitch. “Your hands were twitching the whole time.” 

Zoey shoots her a look. “Shut up.” 

“And your eyes? Practically glued to her hips.” 

“I was observing her form and the mechanics of her movement, thank you.”

Mira’s smirk deepens. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

Zoey pauses and tilts her head. Her eyes narrow in the way they do when she’s feeling bold again. “Yeah, it is.” She lowers her voice. “Why? Jealous?” 

Mira’s smile doesn’t waver. “Have you taken notes on me?”

Zoey shrugs casually. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” It’s a question stated in a statement, but Mira does not answer. Zoey just nods, and she looks away, eyes scanning the area around them before saying, “I would’ve helped. Just saying.”

Mira tilts her head. “Oh?” 

“I could’ve handled it. If I wanted to. If she wanted me to.” 

Mira says nothing, though she quietly wonders: did Rumi not?

“I’m good with my hands.” Zoey shifts the weight of the laundry into one arm, and she wiggles her fingers. 

Mira lets out a quiet, shameless laugh. “I know.” 

Zoey blinks. “What do you mean, you know ?”

Mira gives her a knowing look, the kind that lands low in the stomach and lingers there. The kind that makes Zoey’s ears go hot. 

“. . . right. Are you complimenting my skills?” 

Mira hums, noncommittal, eyes lingering on Zoey’s red ears. Then, she turns both graceful and maddening, and walks off. The two split ways without another word, with Mira heading for the front door and Zoey ducking into the laundry room.

The hallway is still as it’s suspended in that hushed, drowsy quiet that only settles in the late afternoon. Light spills in from narrow windows, soft and golden, clinging lazily to the walls and pooling in uneven shapes across the floorboards. Everything feels warm and heavy.

Rumi walks slowly, each step barely more than a shuffle across the polished wooden floor. Her soles are sensitive to the slight chill, but she welcomes it. Anything that grounds her to the moment feels like a mercy.

She keeps one hand against the wall as she moves, her fingers brushing over the grain like it might steady her. And for the most part, it works, though her limbs still feel heavy and weighted. Her muscles ache in places she didn’t even know she had, and her balance feels just slightly off. Still, she presses forward, slow but determined. 

She’s not going far. Just to her bedroom, so, in theory, it’s a short walk, but in her current state, each step feels like a mile. Her thighs burn with effort, her hips are protesting, and she groans under her breath as she leans more fully into the wall. It’s then that Rumi makes a mental note to herself: if I ever get intimate with someone again , I am not spending that long in bed afterward .

Rumi shakes her head faintly, dazed by the memory of just how long she had spent in that bed. Her legs feel like cooked noodles, one of her joints clicks, then pops when she takes another step, and something in her spine gives a dramatic little crack . Rumi huffs out a breathless laugh. 

Was it the lack of sleep? The stretching? Maybe the fact that she didn’t stay hydrated? It could be the orgasms.

Rumi pauses, and her face burns red. She squeezes her eyes shut, lets her forehead rest against the wall for a beat. “I could just blame my heat,” she mumbles, almost embarrassed at how reasonable the words sound. Everyone is doing it lately. They’ve blamed the impulsive decisions, flushed skin, and sore muscles on heat cycles, and maybe Rumi will jump on the bandwagon.

A few more shuffling of steps, and breathless huffs, and Rumi finally reaches the midpoint of the hallway. Her body still buzzes in that drained, overworked way that feels like half indulgence and half shame. She mutters a curse under her breath and glares at the stretch of hallway still ahead. Has the hall always been this long?

She’s just about to push off the wall and take the final steps when voices drift up from downstairs. And suddenly, she’s still. 

The voices are faint, and they barely reach this high up, but she knows them instantly. She could pick them out in a crowd, in a dream, and in a room full of screaming fans. 

Rumi turns, presses her back to the wall, and her head tilts instinctively as she listens. She doesn’t mean to eavesdrop - okay, she does - but in her defense, she is taking a break. It just so happens to coincide with Mira and Zoey having a conversation. That’s all. 

Zoey’s voice comes first. It’s light, as always, but softer now as well. There’s something careful in the way she speaks. Then comes Mira’s reply, steady and low. Rumi can’t catch every word, but what she does hear is enough to keep her rooted in place. 

Relief floods into her chest. After everything - after today - just hearing them like this feels like a gift. Even if there’s still tension beneath the surface, there’s a lightness to their voices, and for a second, Rumi thinks she hasn’t ruined everything. Maybe they still have a chance at enjoying this vacation.

The ache behind her eyes eases, just a little, and she closes her eyes. The voice downstairs continues, and Rumi allows herself to stay right there as she’s suddenly okay with being caught between exhaustion and recovery. 

“ You gonna admit it now ?”

“ Admit what ?”

Rumi falters.

“ That I was prepared ? Fine . Maybe I was prepared to . . . aid her again .”

Her. 

The words hit Rumi straight in the stomach, and she immediately knows who they are talking about. Of course, they’re talking about her. She has caused a lot of trouble for them. 

Rumi can hear the guilt in Mira’s voice, along with the quiet confession that’s said with caution. She listens as Mira teases Zoey, and Zoey’s flustered defense, which is rushed and fumbling as though Zoey is trying to explain away everything her body already gave up. 

“ You ache .”

Rumi swallows hard and slips away before she hears anything else. 

Her body moves on instinct, and she makes it to her bedroom without further incident. She doesn’t bother turning on a light when she walks in, and she pauses by the door. 

The room is cold. Colder than she remembers. And it’s quiet in a way that amplifies just how empty the room feels now. The walls seem farther apart and the ceiling somehow higher. The air still carries the lingering scent of sweat and something needful, something sharp that accompanied her at the beginning of her heat.

Rumi sighs, shaking her head once, and goes straight to the bathroom. She only intends to grab a brush and calm her appearance so she doesn’t look as freshly fucked as she does. But she stops again, freezing in the doorway. 

“Oh . . . right.”

The bathroom is a mess. The counter’s cluttered with crumpled tissue, a damp towel hangs half-off the edge, and a vial has been tipped on its side. The floor is somehow worse as white pills are still scattered on the floor, and a couple of vials have been knocked over, leaving some empty.

Rumi stares, and slowly, the memory of everything that happened here trickles back in. She nods again, “Right.” She lowers herself to a crouch, fingers trembling slightly as she gathers the pills into her palm one by one. Under the sink, she finds another vial. This one is half full and the label curls at the edges. “. . .” She stands again and turns the vial between her fingers. The pills inside shift with a muted rattle, and she turns the vial again. The sound of the rattling is quiet, but something about it snags in Rumi’s chest.

She holds the vial up to the light, rotating it slowly, and her eyes go distant. The edges of the room seem to blur, then it all tilts as a memory creeps in:

She was younger. Barely fifteen.

And nothing had made sense. 

Her body had turned against her in the blink of an eye, becoming loud and frantic and impossibly foreign. It had started with the colors, those strange colorful eruptions blooming across her skin in shifting hues: gold flickering to red , then bleeding into blue , and others she couldn’t name - or didn’t possibly care to remember. She remembered staring at her arms in the low light of her childhood bedroom, both terrified and mesmerized as she watched her skin shimmer with something completely unnatural. Beautiful . . . shameful. 

Her fingers had trembled where they clutched a blanket, and her breath came out too fast. Her skin was covered in sweat, and something burned in her stomach as though her own body were punishing her for something she could not control. This burn became an ache that was low and constant. It pulsed there, and no matter how many times she twisted beneath the sheets or curled or stretched . . . it wouldn’t go away. Her voice had gone hoarse from crying. She didn’t cry for a long time. She cried in waves. Small, helpless sobs accompanied these waves, and she always muffled the noises with her pillow. 

It had all been too much. The heat, the confusion, and the isolation. The terror that she was somehow broken when just yesterday Celine had called her perfect. When just yesterday, she ran the perfect drills on the training course and hit the perfect high notes. She had been perfect, so why was she suddenly like this?

And then Celine had appeared.

No knock. She never knocked. She claimed she didn’t have to. Knocking warned someone and gave them time to appear perfect. Rumi didn’t need that. She was to be perfect at all times and never caught off guard. 

She appeared just like that. Just a silhouette framed against the yellow lantern light that spilled in from the hallway behind her. Her entrance had been sudden, but not surprising. Rumi learned a long time ago, around eight, that Celine appeared when she wanted to and left the same way. But, at that moment, Celine wasn’t scary. She was never scary. Not really. Not to Rumi. She was a constant, a woman who always seemed to know what everything meant and spoke like nothing could shake her. And to a girl who was suddenly free-falling, that certainty was magnetic. 

“Don’t cry,” Celine had said softly. Her voice was calm despite the chaos in the room. She had crossed the floor with quiet steps and stood at the edge of Rumi’s bed. Her eyes focused on the whimpering figure on the bed, but she did not appear alarmed. “You’re just changing.” 

Rumi now scoffs at those words. Changing. As if it were ever that easy. As if Rumi wasn’t unraveling, and hadn’t been until now. 

But, back then, Rumi simply swallowed her sobs and forced herself to nod, even though the lump in her throat made it hurt to move at all. Every nerve in her body was buzzing, every thought scraped along the inside of her skull, and she remembered the heat most of all. Not just the physical flush in her skin, but the awful, aching pressure beneath it. Like something deep inside her was being pulled and forced to stretch to its limit. 

And still, Celine’s presence made her feel steadier. Maybe not safe, but seen, and watched, and cared for in some weird way. Even if Rumi is just now realizing it was never care, but always fear. 

She remembers the exact moment Celine placed the vial on the desk. She can hear the glass clicking softly against the pine-carved side desk. The movement had been close enough for Rumi to see, but just out of reach, as if to make her come to it. The pills at the time were red; they didn’t become white until Rumi turned 18 and Celine decided she needed a stronger dose. 

“You’re going to take these,” Celine had said, her voice firm but not unkind. Her hand brushed over Rumi’s damp hair, fingers smoothing strands back from her clammy forehead. “What did I say about Omegas, Rumi?”

And she had answered the question easily, as the answer was engraved in her mind. “They’re dangerous because no one respects them.” 

“And?”

“That makes them a burden.” 

“You don’t want to be a burden, do you?” 

The question had landed like a stone on Rumi’s stomach. And Rumi had nodded. Too easily. She hadn’t even questioned it, even when the question made her throat go too dry to speak, and her limbs weak. But at that moment, she just wanted someone to stay, and see her like this and not recoil. And Celine had stayed. Cold, yes, but present. 

At the time, it had been enough. 

It hadn’t mattered that she didn’t understand what the pills did. It hadn’t mattered that Celine hadn’t explained them beyond that single sentence. Rumi had reached for them with shaking yet obedient hands. She was desperate, not just for the promise of relief, but for the illusion that she had control over who she was. And the stupid reassurance that someone else knew what was happening to her, when she didn’t. 

Now, years later, she stands in the bathroom with a familiar vial in her hand. Rumi can still hear that voice, feel the fingers in her hair, and taste the shame of nodding so quickly. So easily. 

The vial shifts in her palm, and the pills rattle softly. Rumi exhales in one hard breath, and then she walks to the sink where she abandons the small bottle onto the sink’s edge. The water runs cool and clean, and she watches it for a moment. She listens to the trickling sound, and finally cups her hands beneath the stream, and brings the water to her face. Then again. Again. And again, until the memory feels rinsed from her skin.

When Rumi looks up, her eyes go to the vial. Suddenly, she remembers how they were once her lifeline. A weird promise of order and control on the part she was most ashamed of. They were something she thought she needed- no, needed herself to want. But now . . . now they don’t feel like rescue anymore. And she’s starting to think they never did. They were just a surrender, something she was tricked into believing they were safety. 

“Whatever,” she huffs and picks up a brush, then drags it through her hair. The knots protest, and each one snags in a way that makes her wince. Her hair’s a mess, because of course it is. She’s spent hours in bed, twisted up in sheets and everything else. For a brief moment, Rumi considers asking Zoey to braid it or do something simple. She knows Zoey has been dying to put Rumi’s hair in a bun or some high ponytail. But the thought quickly fades. “I’ve asked enough of her already,” Rumi mutters and pulls the brush through another tangle. 

Her arms ache by the time she reaches the end of her hair. Rumi curses under her breath and is seriously considering chopping all of it off. But, she won’t. She knows she won’t. Not just because half of the fans would riot and try to burn their penthouse down, but Rumi has a weird attachment to the length.

She sighs again and looks into the mirror. Slightly wet hair clings to her cheek, and she stares at her too-pale skin and lips that are cracked from dehydration and biting. “I look like hell,” she mutters. From downstairs, she hears a voice, and she immediately recognizes it as Zoey’s. 

“ She really likes pressure .” 

Rumi’s hand freezes, and her lips press into a thin line. She brushes the ends of her hair again, though slower this time. “Pressure,” she repeats quietly. She sets the brush aside and touches her throat lightly. She can still feel the imprint of Mira’s thumb on her throat and the slight way Mira pressed down back then. Rumi sighs again and shakes her head. She supposes she does like pressure.

Her face suddenly turns red, and Rumi shakes her head again. She grabs the vial and steps back from the sink, forcing the memory of Mira’s hand on her throat and even the brush of Zoey’s lips on the skin there. “Focus, Rumi,” she scolds herself quietly and leaves the bathroom to return to the room.

Mira sits on the porch steps, with her elbows on her knees and her fingers rubbing at the heel of her palm.

The outside still smells like salt, and she wrinkles her nose slightly. By now, she assumed she’d be used to it as she was sure Zoey would have all of them swimming at least once a day, but so far, Mira has yet to step into the water. She wonders if they’ll ever get in the water, as Zoey really does love floating in water, Rumi loves swimming, and Mira likes- well, she likes watching them have fun. She was never much of a swimmer, though her parents tried to put her in lessons. 

She leans back on her hands and just listens. The ocean is louder outside. Not wild, but persistent as long waves drag themselves across the shoreline and break apart like they, too, are tired of holding themselves together. The breeze combs through her hair, and Mira has to admit that it’s nice. Calming. And she feels her shoulders begin to relax, until she hears it. 

Not in her ears exactly. Bone deep. Internally bouncing around in her head. 

“ Mira .”

The sound of her name being whispered against skin. Not just a whisper, but that whisper coming from that voice. Rumi. 

She curses under her breath, willing the sound away, but the whisper doesn’t fade. It sticks and loops, and grows into more than her name. It’s not even what Rumi said that wrecks Mira. No, it’s the way she said it. All in that soft and wrecked way like a confession and surrender. And Mira’s heard those words before, hell, she’s said them herself. 

She’s no stranger to “ I love you .” 

Mira has said it to Zoey so many times that she’s lost count. She’s said it quietly, loudly, jokingly, and even drunkenly. She’s said it in the moments that felt like they’d go on forever, in the moments that pass by so quickly that you wonder if it was real later that night, and in the ones that felt like goodbyes. Sometimes it’s said over breakfast, or after sex, or half-asleep. Sometimes in the middle of an argument, or when Mira really means it, or sometimes just to keep Zoey from spiraling.

And Zoey? Gods, Zoey. She’s said it back so, so many times in every possible form: with words, with hands, with silence, with the way she refuses to leave, no matter how badly she should. Sometimes, Zoey says it the same way Rumi did. Quiet, and broken, and like the words are too big for her throat, but she tries regardless. However Zoey says it, it matters, and Mira has taken care to count everyone.

And it’s through Zoey that Mira is able to tell the difference, because when Zoey says it, Mira’s heart stutters and her face always turns red - she knows this because Zoey teases her about it every single time. People’s hands can say they love her, their lips too, even their bodies if the timing is right. But something that matters to Mira won’t make her heart trip over itself. 

Bobby has said he loves Mira. It’s always after some major performance or practice has gone perfectly, and he’s always gone on to complement the rest of the girls.

Her parents have said it. Not too many times. She was always a straight-A student, so they never said it in praise of her grades. Just normally, when she didn’t disappear in the middle of the night for some party, or didn’t skip out on family meals.

Fans have screamed the phrase at her.

But all of them have never made Mira feel that flutter, or that reaction in that deep, aching place that makes her breath catch and her body want to move closer. They’ve never made her heart stutter. Not once.

So why the hell did it do it with Rumi?

Rumi, who has told Mira she loved her before. Rumi, who has grinned and teased and curled into her side like she belonged there. And Mira has said it back. Once. Maybe more. Just usually during those random moments after missions or during the day. 

Not until the bathhouse, and the demon markings. Not until today . 

And now?

Mira puffs out her cheeks and kicks her feet, feeling a lot like Zoey all of a sudden.

The memory of Rumi’s mouth on her skin is all wrong. Not because of how it felt, but because of how it lingers. Mira can still feel it; she still wants it in a way that has nothing to do with pheromones or instincts or heat-driven necessity. And that’s what scares her. 

And it was Zoey’s scent that brought Mira back when she felt that heartbeat trip, and she thinks she knows what it means. At least some part of her is willing to name it, and that is what’s infuriating, because Rumi lied. Because Rumi doesn’t trust her, and she kept secrets and crossed lines, and made a decision without Mira because she didn’t think she could?

“Ugh!” Mira shakes her head harder than necessary. “No,” she mutters to no one. “No. This isn’t real, and it means nothing.” But her heart doesn’t believe her. And worse, she doesn’t believe herself. “Fuck.”

“ I love -”

Mira presses her palm to her face and whispers another curse. She doesn’t know if it’s for herself, or Rumi, or Zoey. Likely all three, and maybe none. Her hands tremble, just a little, but enough for her to notice. “I shouldn’t have touched her,” she mutters, and even that sounds like a lie. 

Because she did touch Rumi. She wanted to, and worse . . . she still does. 

Zoey stands in front of the washing machine, sleeves rolled up, and hands moving in slow motions as she sorts through the pile. Her fingers tug gently at twisted hems, untangle sleeves from shirts, and smooth over soft fabric. There’s no music playing from her phone this time, and she doesn’t hum under her breath like usual. It’s just silence that is almost soothing. Almost.

The silence leaves too much room for her mind to tug her in every direction as it attempts to fill the silence with memories and thoughts. She keeps her eyes on the laundry in an attempt to ground herself in the mundane task. Zoey even names the items as she sorts through them.

“Shirt.”

“Socks.”

“Another shirt.” 

“Underwear that’s not mine.” 

It seems to go well, and works for the most part until she comes across familiar fabric, and her fingers stall. 

“Shirt,” she says. “Rumi’s.”

The material is soft, slightly worn at the collar, and stretched at the hem like it’s been tugged on in sleep or randomly during the day. It’s a little too big for Rumi, and Zoey peeks at the tag, surprised to see it labeled as XL when Rumi usually sticks to Medium and Larges. “. . .” The faintest hint of rain and ajde still cling to the fabric. 

Zoey brushes her thumb over a wrinkle near the collarbone before folding the shirt inward and dropping it into the washer. “Shirt,” she says again, then reaches for a new item. “Socks. Pants. Underwear.” One item after another, and she doesn’t let herself pause again. 

When the basket is empty, Zoey lowers the machine’s lid and presses the start button. She watches as water rushes in to fill the basin, and listens to the soft noise of fabric hitting the walls. It’s just noise. A random thing for her to try and focus on, but it’s not enough to blot out the other sound still curled in her memory. 

Rumi. 

She doesn’t hear words, exactly, just fragments. Some soft gasps, broken syllables that are wrecked and breathy, whispers Rumi probably doesn’t even remember. Or maybe she does. 

Zoey supposes that’s the trouble with Rumi. It’s hard to tell what’s real, what’s heat, what's an accident, and what’s intention. Her words for the past few days have been layered with meaning and then stripped of it the next second. All a mess of contradiction. 

She sighs, drops into a crouch, and places her hands on her knees before gently laying her head down. The clothes still move in a fast circular motion, and her eyes track them. Round, round, and round, but her attempt at moving on is foiled, and she sighs again as the memory comes back to the forefront. 

She remembers. Of course, she remembers every word and half-coherent phrases. The way Rumi’s breath would catch, especially on that one word. The single syllable that seemed to burst out of her, all soft and too raw to be performative. 

“ Love .” 

It hadn’t been meant for her. Zoey knows that, and she tells herself that so many times, like maybe if she repeats it then it’ll lose its sting. 

She saw it all. She saw Rumi’s gaze lock onto Mira, the gravity of it all, and how Mira responded. Not in words, but in the way Mira’s composure crumbled in an instant. 

That hadn’t been pheromones or biology. It was Mira melting.

And Zoey just sat by the door. 

Zoey runs a hand through her hair and sighs. This shouldn’t be getting to her like this, not when she knows how this dynamic works. She’s the Beta, the calm in the storm, and the steady pulse beneath the chaos. She’s meant to be the one who keeps things grounded when everyone else is busy going feral, all high on instinct. 

It’s a role. A job. However, she didn’t even ask for it. 

She reminds herself of that again, and again, because it’s easier than admitting the truth: that Rumi’s laughter lingers in her head like a song she can’t turn off. That her mind drifts more often than it should to a moment that didn’t occur during this vacation. No, she thinks about something that happened nearly a year ago.

It had been close to midnight when the group returned from a hunt, clothes still smelling faintly of smoke and demon ash. Mira had gone to shower, Rumi vanished into her room, and Zoey had retreated to her own bedroom. There, she scrolled halfheartedly through a playlist. It was a task meant to distract her as she waited for Mira to finish her shower so Zoey could go crash in Mira’s bed like always. But then her door opened, and Rumi walked in. She hadn’t bothered to knock, or explain, or even speak. She just rolled in and flopped onto Zoey’s mattress with a groan so dramatic that Zoey was sure she'd heard the sound in some soap opera. 

Zoey had blinked, startled, and watched her settle in like it was the most normal thing in the world. Rumi’s hair was lazily tied up, and her oversized shirt was slipping off one shoulder. She looked soft, human, and touchable. 

“Long day,” Rumi mumbled into the pillow, and Zoey didn’t know what to say, so she cracked a light joke. And Rumi laughed politely before scooting closer, eyes flicking toward Zoey’s phone. “I like that song,” she murmured, half asleep. “I knew I liked you for a reason.” Then she laid her head in Zoey’s lap like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Zoey remembers going stiff and not moving. But it didn’t matter, Rumi was asleep a second later, and Zoey focused on the soft breaths that warmed Zoey’s thigh. 

The next morning, Zoey laughed it off and told herself it hadn’t meant anything. That it couldn’t, and Rumi - like always - let her move on. 

But all that was before the nest and the way Rumi looked at her now. Before Rumi’s heat, and the way Rumi had the nerve to smirk and say: “ you’re thinking of me riding your thigh .”

Zoey had nearly combusted, and while she was still sputtering, Rumi dropped something else with no teasing or smirk:

“ Do you think I’d let you in my nest if I didn’t like you ?”

There it was again. “ Like .” That cursed word that Rumi says in a way that always sounds like “ love .” And Zoey had frozen again, unsure of what to say so once again, she didn’t. And Rumi let her. 

“ Love .” 

The word pulses again in her mind, and Zoey tries to tell herself it wasn’t meant for her. But she remembers Rumi’s wide eyes locked on her. She remembers the sound Rumi made when their gazes met, and how Rumi’s voice caught. How the words stumbled out of her mouth, and how her body arched like it was answering to something.

“. . .” Zoey supposes she wants the word to be for her. 

“ I love - M - Mir - Z - Zoey -”

She pauses and replays the words slower this time.

 “ I love - Mir - Zoey -”

Not just Mira. Not just Zoey. But both of them. Yeah, the syllables are still slurred, but they’re unmistakable. And suddenly, the idea doesn’t feel so impossible anymore. Maybe that word, “ love ,” wasn’t a misfire or something said carelessly. Maybe it meant something for both of them. 

Zoey blinks slowly, and her eyes focus on the washer again. Her heart isn’t racing anymore, but it’s not steady either. There’s still doubt, of course there is, but beneath it all, something gentler hums to life: hope. 

A small smile breaks through, and before she can even think about it, Zoey starts to hum. 

- - -

The villa is quiet, but not still. It hasn’t been this whole trip, but it has softened.

Rumi sits in the center of her nest with her knees drawn in, shoulders hunched slightly. A soft flush lingers on her cheeks, but the worst of her heat has passed, and she’s in the recovering stage. She looks human again. Tired and a little pale, but lucid. In her hands, she turns a vial over between her fingers. The last few pills inside the capsule click gently against the edges whenever she moves. “. . .” She doesn’t even realize how long she’s been staring at it until her thumb presses too hard, and the vial slips from her grip. It drops with a soft thunk onto the bed, vanishing into the folds of the clothing. Rumi sighs, but doesn’t reach for it, and her gaze drifts sideways. 

Zoey sits nearby, turned just slightly toward Rumi. A throw blanket has been thrown across her lap, and one of her legs is folded underneath her. She’s peeling an orange, moving slowly and rhythmically like the task is just something for her to do. As she works, Zoey hums a faint tune that is deliberately off-key, yet oddly soothing.

Rumi watches Zoey. She shifts closer to the warmth, pauses for a second, then her body moves before her thoughts are as the instinct within is gentle but undeniable. She moves closer and closer until her shoulder is lightly brushing Zoey’s. Rumi settles there, eyes straying down to the orange. “You always do that,” she murmurs. “Sit and peel something. Hum a little.” 

Zoey smiles faintly. “I like fruit rituals. Sue me.” 

Rumi makes a noise, halfway between a sigh and a laugh. 

Zoey stills for a second, then smiles faintly without looking up. “And you always drift toward me when you’re like this,” she murmurs. 

“Like this?” 

“Soft,” Zoey says without missing a beat. “Relaxed and enjoying the quiet.” Her voice is soft, but there’s something curious under it. She’s quiet again and appears to be considering her next words carefully. “I guess being a Beta comes in handy,” Zoey finally adds, and glances at Rumi, but Rumi just looks at her. 

Rumi stares, unable to come up with something to say. She presses forward, moving closer, and leaning her weight on Zoey before putting her cheek on her shoulder. It’s a natural movement, like she belongs there. 

Zoey manages to tear a slice of the orange off, though the orange isn’t completely peeled, and she offers it to Rumi. Rumi opens her mouth, and Zoey feeds her the slice without looking back at Rumi. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and all that can be heard is the slow sound of citrus being chewed. Finally, “Did you mean what you said earlier?” Rumi looks up at her. Zoey just glances at her, so Rumi explains, “The thing about me wanting a body, not you.” 

Zoey thinks for a moment, trying to recall the moment. She stares at the half-peeled orange in her hands for a moment, then lets her eyes drift up toward the ceiling. She seems to be searching, trying to replay the moment in her mind. It takes a second, but she finds it. 

“ Besides, she only wanted me because she wanted a warm body . But now , she has an Alpha , and it’s like - I don’t know - her biology to want an Alpha , so logically you would please her better .” 

And when Zoey speaks again, it’s softer and more deliberate. “Oh, that . . . I don’t know.” Zoey shrugs the shoulder Rumi isn’t resting on. “I guess.” Something about her words is off, like she’s purposely not saying more. 

“And what about when you said I don’t like you like that?”

“ You’re not even - you don’t even like me like that . This is just - this is some weird part of your nervous system doing horny gymnastics .” 

Zoey glances down at the orange peels in her lap, then at Rumi. “Where are you going with this, Rumi?” She whispers. 

Rumi stares at her, and for a second, it seems she’s not going to say anything, but she then mumbles, “Now you have Beta Brains.” 

“What?” Zoey blinks. 

“Beta Brains,” Rumi repeats. “You have it. A bad case. It’s not just your scent,” she continues, quieter now. “Or your Beta pheromones and all that. It’s you.” She can feel Zoey stiffening up, and she looks up in time to see it: Zoey opening her mouth, then shutting it again like she thought better of what she was about to say. 

Their eyes meet. Zoey searches Rumi’s, and Rumi lifts her head to give Zoey something to find. 

“I’ve told you before,” Rumi says gently. “Is it really that hard to believe that I like you for you?”  

Zoey doesn’t answer, and she feels her heart begin to thud against her chest. She was right. In the laundry room, she was-

“That maybe I don’t give a shit about your Beta scents,” Rumi continues, “and only care for the Zoey that doesn’t ask me things-”

And Zoey has stopped listening. Her mind is spiraling backward, all the way to Rumi’s half-coherent confession, to that night almost a year ago, and to every soft moment in between-

“-or says stupid jokes at the wrong times, yet they always-”

And suddenly, Zoey's not wondering if Rumi likes her. She’s wondering if she was also right about Mira and the way Mira looks at Rumi, and how Rumi looks at her in return. It all seems to click. 

“Zoey?” 

The room sharpens again as Rumi says her name. Zoey blinks, startled, and realizes the silence has stretched on too long. Rumi is looking at her like she’s waiting for an answer. And Zoey doesn’t have one.

Shit.

Zoey hadn’t caught the last part. Honestly, she hadn’t heard much of anything after Rumi’s little confession, but she can guess well enough. So, Zoey nods. Just that. Just a nod. And she hopes it’ll work, and it should’ve, but Rumi is still staring at her. 

Zoey hesitates. Perhaps, she was asked a question that a nod doesn’t answer. “Um . . .” She starts, unsure. The worst thing she can do is respond when she doesn’t know what she’s responding to. And she can’t ask Rumi to repeat herself, not when Rumi is staring at her the way she is. So, Zoey tries a tactic that is yet to fail her: she doesn’t say anything. And again, Rumi lets her. 

The quiet returns, interrupted only by the soft tear of orange peel. Zoey’s hands resume their slow work in her lap, and Rumi assumes that to be the end of the conversation. But then, “Oh.” It’s just a breath, a quiet murmur, and the only reply Zoey can give. Then, softly, she begins to hum again. This time, in tune. 

Rumi stays where she is, curled against Zoey, and her fingers that were once trembling are now still. 

Mira stands by the wall with her hands folded neatly behind her back. She’s been silent since returning to the room with Zoey, motionless except for the faint twitch of her jaw. Her gaze stays fixed on the floor, like she’s still processing what she just overheard. Part of her wants to acknowledge what just happened, maybe say something kind, or give Rumi credit for finally speaking plainly and easing Zoey’s mind. The conversation was long overdue, but Mira doesn’t say any of that. She lifts her head and says, “So, you’re feeling better,” instead. 

Both girls on the bed look over. Rumi nods, “Yeah.” Her voice is soft, almost cautious, as she can feel the weight of everything that’s still unsaid pressing on her chest. She’s grateful when Zoey wordlessly hands her another orange slice, giving Rumi just enough time to collect her thoughts. “I forgot to thank you,” Rumi says. 

Mira shakes her head. “It’s fine.” She has to glance away as it’s too easy for her mind to recall the image of Rumi riding her thigh. 

Zoey glances between them, saying nothing as she pops another orange slice into her mouth. She chews slowly and silently hopes this moment will go well.

Rumi meets Mira’s gaze for a moment, then she quietly shifts back to her original spot in her nest. She fishes the vial from where it had rolled into the clothing, and she turns it over in her palm. Rumi nestles back into the blankets but doesn’t look up. “I guess I should explain,” she says, mostly to herself. 

Zoey turns to face her. 

“When I was younger,” Rumi begins, “Celine told me I’d be better off quiet because that would make everything easier. Safer.” She pauses, but no one interrupts. “She said I’d always have a presence, no matter what I did. That people would feel me in a room, even if I never spoke. Or that was the goal. But, it wasn’t supposed to be because of my second gender. It was supposed to be me , and my name. That was supposed to be the loud part.” Her thumb presses into the side of the vial. “She gave me my first dose as a teenager. I was told it was mercy and that it would help.” A bitter smile ghosts the edge of her mouth. “And I believed her. I really did think quiet meant control and safety . . . but it never made anything easier.” Rumi still doesn’t look at them. “I mean, you just saw that.” 

Mira doesn’t move. Her hands remain clasped behind her back, but they tremble slightly now. She presses back into her hands harder and straightens her spine as if sheer posture could keep her composed. Her face stays still, but her silence carries weight. 

Zoey still doesn’t speak, and her eyes continue to glance between the two. In the silence, she pops another slice into her mouth and realizes just how juicy the orange is. Had the moment been right, she would’ve said something about it. 

Rumi’s voice breaks the silence, “I’m sorry.” She still refuses to look at them as her eyes stay lowered, fixed somewhere between her palms and the vial. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.” 

Neither girl reacts at first. Zoey peels off another orange alive and pops it into her mouth. Mira still stares at Rumi, and she shifts slightly on her feet, feeling like her body wants to step forward but doesn’t have permission. 

“The suppressants always worked,” Rumi continues. Her fingers find the sleeve of a nearby shirt, and she begins to twist the fabric there. “I thought staying quiet would make things safer. That if I never had a heat, I wouldn’t be a problem.” Her voice doesn’t break, but it teeters there. 

Mira shuffles again, but still doesn’t move forward. But it’s enough for Rumi to know she’s listening. 

“I thought I was doing everyone a favor by keeping it hidden,” Rumi says quietly. “I thought no one would take us seriously if they knew. If the world found out what I was, then I’d be reduced to just that. That our music, our message, and the reason we do this . . . that maybe it would all be overshadowed by biology.” She hesitates, then adds softly, “I thought I was protecting the group.” 

Mira tilts her head left, then right, and takes a small breath before she finally speaks. “Then hide that from the public. Zoey and I have hidden our second genders, and the worst they do is speculate. But don’t hide it from us , Rumi. Why hide from us ?”

Rumi flinches and grips the vial tighter. “I didn’t want you to hate me.” Her voice is small. “I wanted to tell you. I did, but then . . . time passed, and the longer I waited, the worse it felt. I told myself it was too late and if I did say something, then you would call me a liar- I mean, I am. But I’m not manipulative and I didn’t fake any of our relationship or-” Rumi stops herself as she realizes that she’s just babbling. “And you thought I was a Beta, and that label-” She swallows. “It just fit so easily. No questions or judgment, and I was safe.” She goes quiet for a moment, then says, barely above a whisper, “I just wanted you to like me. I wanted to give us a real chance to succeed.” The silence after is thick, and Rumi stares at her hands. And then that cursed word rises again, unspoken but just as loud:

“ Love .”

Rumi swallows hard, but that does little to relieve the weight in her throat that is rising. Her heart pounds, and she opens her mouth, then closes it again, and she’s suddenly second-guessing every word before it’s had a chance to be said. 

She could stay silent and let the moment pass. She could try again tomorrow, or in a week, or maybe wait until it all erupts again and she finds herself yelling at Mira before they’re set to go on stage. 

But that one word- that stupid word won’t leave her alone. It claws its way back into her mouth no matter how many times she swallows it down. 

“ I love -”

Rumi curses under her breath, eyes snapping back to Mira, who is still watching her in that quiet, observational way. There’s no judgment in her expression, but Rumi suddenly wishes for anything else. Maybe a glare so she could tell if Mira was mad, or a laugh just to lighten up the room. Just something to break the tension. And Rumi is suddenly fumbling for something - anything. “You’re an Alpha,” she blurts, and instantly hates herself for it. What a stupid place to start. 

Mira nods once, still unreadable. 

“And Zoey’s a Beta,” the words tumble out before Rumi can properly shape them. She glances at the girl near her, who is watching Rumi with wide eyes free of judgment. 

Zoey nods slowly. “And now we know you’re the secret Omega,” she says. “Our triangle is complete.” It isn’t a joke, or pity, or even reassurance. Just spoken like it is: a fact. 

Rumi nods. “We always fit. Too perfect, I think.” Her voice trembles in a soft and uncertain way. “I think I knew that, even back when Celine first introduced me to you guys years ago. Yeah, you two were among fifty other girls, but-” You stood out. She looks at them both, and there’s a flash of something raw. Perhaps hope, or fear. Rumi swallows again as the truth sits heavy in her chest. “You two . . .” Her throat tightens, and the words are suddenly refusing to line up properly. She looks away, scanning the room like the walls might offer her a way out, and suddenly her heart is thudding too loudly. “You’re everything I wanted,” she says, quietly, and both Zoey and Mira lean in to hear her better. “And nothing I deserved.” Rumi’s lip trembles, and she bites down for a moment to ground herself with dull pressure. “I tried not to love you,” she finally admits. “I really did.” 

And the silence that follows feels impossibly loud.

Zoey’s foot swings idly, like it’s keeping time for the silence in the room. She slips the last of her orange into her mouth, and her gaze drifts toward Mira. 

Rumi lowers her head, teeth catching the edge of her lip. She chews it, but not hard enough to break skin. There’s a sting behind her eyes, and she blinks quickly, trying to push it back. 

Zoey still hasn’t said a word, and her eyes keep flicking between Rumi and Mira before finally resting on Mira. Mira’s gaze has narrowed as she watches Rumi. Without a word, Zoey reaches into her pocket and pulls out a second orange and begins to peel it.

Rumi closes her eyes for a moment, then, as if the words couldn’t stand not being said any longer, “I was going to tell you!” Her markings flare a bright and violent violet . “Not the love part. The Omega part. Eventually. Well, also the love part. I didn’t want you to hate me, and I thought if I said it out loud, then you’d leave. Maybe if I kept it quiet, then you’d stay.” Her voice softens as the adrenaline in her drains. Pink pulses beneath the violet , reminding all of them there’s still some heat lingering in her, then the markings fade into violet and white . “Say something,” she whispers, desperate. “Please.” 

Mira lets out a sharp and hollow sound that lacks humor. Her voice cuts through the room before Zoey even has the chance to speak, not that she was going to say anything. “So, let me get this straight,” Mira says, “you hid it because you didn’t want things to change, yet you were going to tell us?” Her tone tightens. “Is that the same logic you used when hiding your demon side?” She steps forward, not aggressively, but just enough to close the space between them. “Is that your pattern, Rumi?” Mira asks. “Keep secrets until they explode in your face, then say the truth was just one more conversation away?” 

Rumi doesn’t answer. Her skin flashes again, and the color curls up her arms like veins. Shame doesn’t just glow, it spills across her in waves, and suddenly she finds herself unable to look at either of them. 

“Mira-” Zoey starts. 

But Mira lifts her hand, silencing her without looking away from Rumi. “No. Let her answer.” 

Rumi doesn’t. She can’t. She just lowers her head and locks her eyes onto the clothing below her. Her shoulders tremble as violet bleeds across the skin again. Weakly gold tries to break through, only to be smothered before it can take hold. 

“You let us walk around blind, Rumi,” Mira says. “You let us guess and worry until you broke down in front of thousands of people. Do you think that was easy to cover up? Bobby’s still scrambling and trying to pass it off as some kind of once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Her jaw tightens. “What if you kept this secret until your heat hit mid-performance? What then?”

Zoey swallows hard, eyes darkening for a moment as she glances at Rumi, a silent admission that the fear Mira voices isn’t far from her own.

“You made me think I was protecting you,” Mira continues. “That I was helping, when this entire time you were lying to me. I asked you, Rumi. I asked if there was anything else, and you told me no.” 

“I know,” Rumi says softly. “And I didn’t-”

“You did, though,” Mira cuts in. She crosses her arms, not to shut herself off, but to hold herself together and stop herself from reaching out. Because if she does, she knows the anger will falter, and all that will be left is the echo of Rumi’s confession, and the way it made her heart stutter. “Do you know how it felt?” Mira asks. “I knew things weren’t fine, but to find you on the bathroom floor in the state I did- I- why Rumi? What did I do to make it feel like you couldn’t just come to me?” 

Zoey watches as Rumi folds further into herself, arms locked around her ribs, and her markings flare violet once, then drain to nothing. “Mira-” Zoey starts, but Mira doesn’t let her finish. 

“I needed you to trust me,” Mira says, more quietly now. “I trusted you. Why couldn’t you just trust me back?”

For a second, it seems Rumi may not answer. Her focus stays on the clothing around her, and she tugs on the shirt’s sleeve. Finally, “I didn’t think I could.” 

The words hit harder than any lie Rumi has ever told. Mira flinches like she’s been struck. “Why?” She asks, voice breaking, but Rumi just shakes her head. “Rumi-”

“Mira,” Zoey interrupts, voice gentle but firm. She looks at Rumi, then Mira. “I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be, but this?” Her gesture is subtle, just a tilt of her head toward Rumi. “Your conversation isn’t going to go anywhere.” 

“I’m fine,” Rumi tries, but it doesn’t sound like she believes herself. Zoey doesn’t even give Rumi the pity of pretending she believes the words. 

Mira finally takes a moment to just look at Rumi, and it wrecks her. The guilt rises fast and sharp, catching in her throat, and when Rumi lifts her eyes, they’re rimmed with unshed tears. “I-” Mira’s not sure what she was going to say. Without meaning to, she steps back. 

Rumi looks back down. 

The room falls quiet again. 

Zoey resumes peeling her second orange, using the orange peeling as something for her to do. She has no intention of eating it, though, as her appetite has suddenly gone. 

Mira doesn’t move. Rumi’s words, “ I didn’t think I could ,” loop in her mind, digging deeper each time. She thought she'd made it clear that she was safe to come to, that both she and Zoey were. But if Rumi didn’t believe that . . . what had Mira missed? What did she do, or fail to do, that made Rumi think she had to hide? The ache twists, then hardens, and Mira feels the sting of guilt, but then she’s annoyed again, because why wouldn’t Rumi think she could say something? 

Rumi still hasn’t lifted her head as she refuses to look at Mira again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was an Omega,” she whispers. She stares at the space between her knees, and she flashes again, then dulls down again to a muted gray .

Mira looks like she might start to speak, but nothing comes out. Her lips part, she pauses, and closes her mouth again. Finally, she exhales quietly and whispers, “I didn’t care that you were a demon.” She turns and walks toward the door, stopping when her hand touches the knob. Her fingers flex, and for a moment it seems she may turn around. But Mira just stands with her back to them, “And I don’t care that you’re an Omega.” She then opens the door and walks out.

Chapter Text

The door closes quietly behind Mira. No slam or sharp punctuation. Just a soft click that makes Rumi wish Mira had slammed the door. She sighs and watches the markings on her skin pulse once, then twice, then three times - each pulse in sync with the sound of Mira’s retreating footsteps.

Zoey doesn’t follow Mira. She doesn’t glance at the door, or even make the slightest movement like she might walk out of the room. Instead, she stays where she is, perched at the edge of the bed with the second range cupped in her hands. Her fingers work at the peel slowly, the rind dropping into her lap piece by piece. It’s only when she has torn the last stubborn piece free that Zoey pauses. Her gaze lifts, and she looks toward Rumi, noticing how Rumi’s shoulders have curled inward, how her body seems to be trying to fold smaller so it can vanish into the nest she’s built around herself. “. . .” Zoey tears off a slice of range and bites into it, chewing slowly to give herself a moment to think. Then, a moment later, she folds up the blanket with her discarded peels and sets it aside. Zoey moves closer to Rumi without a word and reaches out, like she might tuck a strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear, but she stops just short. Her hand hovers in the air, caught in hesitation. For a moment, Zoey considers getting up and leaving, that maybe Rumi wants space, and maybe Zoey’s just in the way. She’s always been bad at taking hints - her mother loves to remind her of that fact whenever they talk on the phone.

“You lack social awareness, my dear.” 

Yeah, that exact thing could be happening right now, and the realization makes Zoey want to run. Yet, her body stays put, and she refuses to move away. The idea of leaving makes her stomach twist bitterly, even more so than her mother’s words do, so Zoey stays, and she inches closer until she’s climbing awkwardly into the nest with an orange in her mouth. Her knees knock gently against the clothes, and she finally settles in next to Rumi.

Rumi doesn’t look up, or even the smallest sign that she’s even aware of anyone else in the room. Not until cool arms slip around her, drawing her in. The touch is a little tentative, but mostly sure, and with it comes the faint tackiness of fingers still sticky from fruit, carrying the sharp, sweet scent of citrus. She’s pulled into the type of hug that asks nothing of her. 

Rumi tenses for only a second before she shifts closer, letting her resistance melt away until more of her weight sinks into Zoey’s arms. She nestles in and places her head lightly against Zoey’s collarbone. “You’re staying?” She whispers, voice small.

Zoey hums, the sound low in her throat, and with unhurried ease pulls the fruit from her mouth. She sets it in the palm of her hand, peels off a slice, and offers it without hesitation. “Of course,” Zoey finally answers. “Slice?” 

Rumi hesitates. For half a second, the old instinct to doubt Zoey flickers to life. She almost asks if Zoey is serious, but she catches herself. Rumi has since learned better than to give voice to a ‘you serious’ question. Instead, she parts her lips, and Zoey slips the slice between them. 

Before Rumi can bite down, though, Zoey’s thumb lingers and slips past her lips, catching at the edge of her teeth. She holds Rumi’s mouth open. “Whoa.” 

Rumi blinks. Her voice is muffled around Zoey’s thumb, “Zoey?”

“Your teeth are really sharp.” Zoey’s tone is somewhere between half fascination and half delight, as her fingertip brushes experimentally along a point before she finally withdraws. She studies the glint of dampness on her thumb, rubs her pointer finger and thumb together, then grins. “And here I was hoping you’d have colorful saliva.” 

Rumi’s eyes widen, and Zoey just smiles. 

“Cool,” she glances at Rumi. “Your fangs, I mean.”  

Rumi has nothing to say in response. She chews the orange slice slowly, her jaw working without much thought, though the pace falters when Zoey leans in close. Still, Rumi is quiet when Zoey touches their foreheads together, for only a second though, as Zoey shifts lower, brushing her mouth against the tender spot beneath Rumi’s ear. She then nuzzles her nose on the spot, and Rumi tilts her head to give easier access, saying nothing at the way she can feel Zoey’s smile against her skin. 

Zoey’s mouth trails down the line of her throat, unhurried, until her lips find Rumi’s neck. She leaves a faint kiss there.

Rumi stiffens at the contact, and the quick tension in her body and sharp flutter in her stomach betray what she’s feeling. 

Zoey notices, of course she notices, and she doesn’t pull away. Rather, slightly sticky fingers slide down Rumi’s arm, tracing the faint lines of her markings, and Zoey smirks when goosebumps rise where she touches. “You’ve got goosebumps,” she whispers, voice low and almost satisfied, while her eyes trace the places where gold sparks faintly under her touch. 

Rumi swallows hard and manages a small nod. She doesn’t trust her voice enough to say something out loud. 

The slight curve of Zoey’s smile deepens as she tips her head further, mouth searching out the corner of Rumi’s jaw. She kisses there lightly, lingers for a breath, then - very slowly - drags her tongue in a slick line up the glowing edge of Rumi’s pattern. 

“Ah- fuck, Zoey.” The words tear out of Rumi on a shaky breath, her voice breaking halfway through. Her chest rises unevenly, each inhale caught between a gasp and a whimper, like she can’t quite decide how to handle the heat crawling through her. 

Zoey hums like she’s savoring the noises. Her teeth graze just lightly at the end of the marking, playful yet dangerous, and her voice drops low, “nervous?” She asks, though the question is more of a taunt than an inquiry. She can feel the tension that moves through Rumi’s body, and she presses an open-mouthed kiss to Rumi’s pulse point, feeling as the beat hammers under her tongue. Zoey pulls back enough to catch Rumi’s eyes, and her smile turns wicked for the smallest second, before the sweetness returns to it. “You’d probably feel better if you put on a shirt.” The words are light, but the gleam in Zoey’s eyes makes it clear: she already knows exactly how undone Rumi is. 

Rumi swallows around the lump in her throat. “Why?” She manages, searching Zoey’s eyes. 

Zoey blinks at her. “So you’re not cold . . .?” 

Rumi just stares, and Zoey gives a small shrug. She manages a small smile, and she feeds Rumi another slice. “I don’t know, Ru,” she says, licking the juice from her thumb. “You seemed pretty down, so I thought your brain needed a restart.” 

“And licking my neck-”

“Yup.” She gives Rumi another slice, purposely keeping her mouth full. “It worked out, no?” 

Rumi nods and lowers her gaze to the bed. “I guess.” 

Zoey studies Rumi for a second. “You know,” she pauses, licking up her index finger, “Mira’s not wrong.” 

Rumi stiffens.

Zoey doesn’t pull away. “She asked if there was anything else you were hiding, and you did say no. We both asked.” She looks up at the ceiling, staring at nothing specific, and lets her eyes unfocus. “She asked you to lean on us, and you promised you would. And when she asked if you were okay, you said you were.” 

“I’m sorry-”

“I know,” Zoey says, cutting her off - not harshly, just tired. “It’s still a dick move, Ru.” She looks down at Rumi, and something in Zoey’s eyes makes Rumi go still. There’s no anger there, just a quiet verdict and a final decision. Rumi knows it’ll come with a price, that she suspects will be suffering through several of Zoey’s absurd challenges and at least one horrific convenience store food combo. But there’s forgiveness . . . even if Rumi really doesn’t think she deserves it. “You know,” Zoey murmurs, “if there is anything else, then now’s the time to say it.” 

Rumi shakes her head. “There isn’t.” 

Zoey doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she leans in and lifts her hand, brushing her fingers gently along the curve of Rumi’s jaw. Her thumb grazes beneath her cheekbone, like she’s searching, and then drifts down until it rests just over the soft flutter of Rumi’s pulse. “Promise?” She asks. 

Rumi nods, a little too fast.

Zoey feels it in Rumi’s pulse first. There’s no spike that would hint at a lie, or a stutter of doubt. It is fast, but Zoey chalks that up to honesty, and maybe a little reaction stirred from something else. “Ok,” she says, voice softening. “Ok.” Her hand lingers a second longer, and her thumb traces over a marking. Zoey grins suddenly, and she presses down gently, amazed at the way Rumi jumps. They’re sensitive, she realizes.

Before Rumi can really process what’s happening, Zoey is stuffing another slice in her mouth. “Zoey?” 

Zoey hums, experimentally pressing down again.

“How many oranges do you have?” Rumi swallows around the sudden burn where Zoey touches her.

Zoey pauses, and she pretends to think of the answer. She then taps her chin, and Rumi is genuinely concerned that Zoey may pull another from her pocket like some ridiculous magic trick. But then Zoey smiles and says, “This is my last one. I only brought two,” as she presses down on a marking on Rumi’s neck. She smiles as Rumi’s body flashes in color, and only then does she lower her hand. 

They sit quietly for another moment before Rumi’s voice breaks it. “I really- really am sorry.” 

Zoey finishes the last of her orange and spends more than enough time licking the sticky juice from her fingers. Her eyes stay locked on Rumi’s face, and she hums softly, “hmm.” Her free hand reaches up to thread through Rumi’s hair in a gentle yet absent-minded strokes that seem to soothe as much as distract. “I know.” 

Rumi hesitates, “I really did want to tell you both about everything. I just thought-”

But Zoey cuts her off with a quiet certainty, “Rumi. I know.” She plays with a loose strand and twists it around her fingers. “I love your hair.”

Rumi can tell. “Zoey?” She whispers, and Zoey just glances at her. “Are you not mad at me?” She asks quietly, unsure if she even wants the answer.

Zoey pauses and considers the question carefully. “Am I mad about you being an Omega?” She asks. “No.” She shakes her head. “Second Genders have never mattered to me.” She taps her nose with a crooked smile, then shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Now, am I mad that you hid it? Not completely. Mad enough that it hurts, but not enough to yell.” 

Rumi nods, but inside she wants to shrink into herself and scream. She thinks Zoey should be furious, should shout, storm out, or at least pull away. But instead, Zoey stays and holds her, and is very adamant about feeding her orange slices. Good orange slices, but still. “Did I ruin everything?” The words tumble out before Rumi’s mind can pull them back.

“What?” 

Rumi shifts. “Mira. You. Us. The group. Everything . . . did I ruin it?”

Zoey stares at her, tracking every flicker of doubt across her face, before she sighs, and her hand resumes its movements through Rumi’s hair. She tugs just enough to claim Rumi’s attention. “I assume you mean your confession,” she murmurs. Her fingers’ touch moves down Rumi’s neck and stops just above a marking. “No, Rumi,” she says, pressing firmly enough to make Rumi startle. “You didn’t ruin anything. You just said the obvious.” 

Rumi nods, but she still has to ask, “What does that mean-”

Zoey cuts her off. She leans in with a precision that leaves Rumi with no room to spiral. The kiss lands heavy and deliberate, not hesitant or searching, just claiming. It’s slow, but sure, and it feels like a weight being pressed into Rumi’s chest as Zoey’s tongue brushes hers, moving in a way that is both tasting and learning everything that is Rumi. The faint tang of orange lingers between them, and Zoey hums low, the sound vibrating through Rumi’s bones. 

Rumi clutches at Zoey’s shirt, desperate for some type of contact, and she feels a familiar pain in the pit of her stomach. 

“You taste sweet,” Zoey murmurs against her lips.

Rumi flashes again, and Zoey laughs. 

Her thumb presses over Rumi’s fluttering pulse, feeling it hammer beneath her touch, and then deliberately moves to press a marking along Rumi’s neck. The sharp gasp Rumi lets out is caught against Zoey’s lips, swallowed into the kiss. Zoey pulls back just enough to let her gaze roam over Rumi, from her lips that glisten to the visible pulse, and a soft smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. 

“Do you always kiss people to get them to stop talking?” Rumi asks quietly. 

“Only when they need it,” Zoey replies, and before Rumi can react, she dives back in. Her body presses against Rumi’s with deliberate weight, chasing Rumi’s lips with a new hunger. One that’s entirely focused on Rumi and getting her to just. Stop. Thinking. Her hands trace along Rumi’s sides, pulling her closer, and mapping the curves of her body. Rumi gasps against her mouth in a mix of surprise and heat. Zoey hums low, clearly pleased by the reaction. 

When they finally part, their foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, and lips barely brushing. Rumi’s inhales are sharp and uneven against Zoey’s mouth. Zoey watches her closely, and when she talks, her voice is low and teasing, “Don’t get Beta Brains on me.” There’s an edge to it, something commanding, and Rumi feels it ripple through her. Zoey’s hands shift slightly as she adjusts the weight of her body against Rumi. Heavens, she thinks, she is such a bottom. Her eyes spark. I should get her a collar.

Rumi laughs suddenly. Of course Zoey would say that. Of course, she’d hold her like this, kiss her like this, and still be entirely - and unapologetically - Zoey. 

Zoey’s finger touches the corner of Rumi’s lips and sweeps away the trace of spittle with a slow motion. She lifts her finger to her mouth and licks it clean, eyes locking on Rumi’s as she does. When Rumi’s body flares violently, the markings pulsing bright, Zoey tilts her head - curious and teasing - like she’s quietly savoring the way Rumi reacts. Another flash, and Rumi looks away, and Zoey’s gaze sharpens on her. She wonders what exactly is crossing Rumi’s mind.

Rumi doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t dare to, because the realization she’s just had - that Zoey could consume her, in every sense possible, and Rumi would let her - hits a little too close. 

“Are you being dirty-minded?” Zoey’s voice cuts through Rumi’s thoughts. “Rumi, you perv.” 

Rumi’s markings flare again, more violently this time. “No,” she mutters, and suddenly she’s remembering Mira calling her the same thing, except Mira used ‘little’ and her hands had been in a very different area. Her thoughts shift, and she looks at Zoey. “But Mira-” She stops. Rumi’s not sure what it was she was trying to say. Is she trying to explain Mira’s anger? Or even convince Zoey to be mad at her too? Rumi’s not sure, and she ends up just sighing and letting it go. She moves closer to Zoey and lets her weight sink into her.

Chapter Text

Even when Rumi looks relaxed, she rarely is.

Zoey learned this fact not long after meeting the now Omega, though at the time, she didn’t have the words to name it. She only knew what her gut told her: Rumi is the kind of person who carries a storm behind her quietly, and when she truly is at peace, she’s either drunk - this is yet to happen - or asleep. Though sometimes in her sleep, she still seems troubled. 

Either way, the lesson repeated itself more than once, but the first time had been almost a year before Zoey officially debuted. Back then, Zoey and Mira had been dropped into a pool of fifty other hopefuls, all of them clawing their way through a three-month training program. Every day was the same brutal cycle: vocal lessons until their throats burned, dancing until their legs buckled, and fighting drills until bruises bloomed in shades of green and purple - they were told the fighting was a means of self-defense, not demon fighting. At the end of the training program, only twenty-five girls would be chosen to continue on to the next stage of the program. Everyone there knew they had a 50% chance of moving on to the next step - which is good - but no one dared to stop moving. No one except Rumi, since her spot was sealed from the beginning. At least that’s the first impression Zoey got from her.

While the rest of them sweated and strained, Rumi stayed to the side. She rarely joined the group practices, and when she did, her attention seemed half there at best. Mostly, she stood to the side, arms folded, and eyes narrowed as she constantly watched the girls. The other trainees started calling her “the ghost” because of it. She didn’t argue, didn’t correct them, and didn’t seem to care if they liked her or not.

The first crack in this little facade came when Rumi walked into the dance studio one afternoon with a sharpness Zoey hadn’t seen before. Rumi’s gaze landed directly on Mira. “Show me that step you did yesterday,” she said flatly, yet everyone was surprised by just how soft her voice was. Mira had blinked, startled even, but she did as Rumi instructed. And Rumi, instead of critiquing like everyone thought she would, just stared in silent awe. Afterward, she tossed a single line to the group, “You're a fool if you don’t pay attention to Mira. Her movements are perfect.” Then she was gone, and no one saw her for the rest of the day. 

Zoey remembered taking that advice to heart. Later that night, long after the trainers had left, she crept back into the studio to practice the choreography until it seared into her body. She expected the room to be empty. Instead, she found Rumi sitting on the floor, back against the mirrored wall, and looking like she was dozing. Her posture was loose, her shoulders slouched, and her eyes half-lidded as they tracked across the empty space. At first, Zoey thought Rumi was zoning out, but when Zoey got closer, she noticed it: the subtle, restless flick of Rumi’s gaze. 

Rumi wasn’t staring at nothing. She was retracing every step Mira had taken earlier in the day. Every spin and shift of weight. Rumi’s eyes mapped them over and over like she was seeing the choreography in real time. Her body looked still, even at ease, but her mind was moving a mile a minute. 

It was unsettling. Very unsettling to Zoey in a way she couldn’t quite explain. It was like watching someone dream with their eyes open, except the dream wasn’t a fantasy. It was a calculation, and Rumi wasn’t anywhere near relaxed. 

Zoey’s throat went dry back then, and the only thing she could think to do was cough, loud and awkward, just to announce herself. Rumi snapped out of it instantly, and she stood without a word. She didn’t even glance at Zoey as she walked out the door. 

The next time Zoey noticed the quirk about Rumi was three months later. The program had just cut half the girls. It didn’t go unnoticed by anyone that a good chunk of the girls whom Rumi didn’t acknowledge got cut. Those who remained knew they were in for another three months of training, but these three months would somehow be worse. At the end of the three months, twenty girls would be cut, leaving just five. 

Zoey was in the locker room, changing, when Rumi walked in. There was something predatory in her stride, like a lion stalking something it had already decided belonged to it. Zoey felt herself dressing faster, hoping to slip out before Rumi’s attention landed on her, but she had no such luck. Rumi’s eyes cut across the room, sharp, and then locked directly onto her.

In an instant, Rumi was stomping over, and Zoey’s back was against the locker before she had time to realize she’d been retreating. Rumi was suddenly inches away. Her voice, when it came, was low but direction when she pointed out Zoey had been on top of the vocal leaderboard week after week, even though her voice wasn’t the strongest. The words stung. They were harsh, almost insulting, but Rumi didn’t sound mocking. She didn’t look like she was mocking either. She looked curious - like a puppy, Zoey remembers thinking - and calculating. 

“It’s because you sing like you believe it,” Rumi said finally. “Like you trust the lyrics.” 

Zoey blinked, not sure where the conversation could possibly be heading, until Rumi asked how. How Zoey managed to sing with such confidence, even when her voice cracked and she failed to reach the high notes. 

There was something almost desperate behind her stillness, like every nerve in Rumi’s body was stuck in a cage, simply not being able to perform the way she wanted to. Zoey realized, standing there pinned beneath her gaze, that Rumi wasn’t just restless in movement. She was restless in spirit, even when she stopped . . . she was still chasing something. This was confusing to Zoey as she remembers Rumi consistently nailing every song she ever attempted. 

So Zoey told her. She explained that she wrote her own lyrics and learned early that a song was worthless if she didn’t believe in the words she’d written. That thought process was the only thing carrying her through the cracks. Rumi listened in silence, and her eyes caught every flicker in Zoey’s expression like she was dissecting the truth in real time. 

Finally, Zoey dug out one of her battered notebooks and, with a shaky hand - Rumi was really intimidating to Zoey at the beginning - offered it. Rumi took it and read the notebook from front to back, then again. Zoey waited nervously until Rumi gave her the notebook back with a quiet, “Thank you.” She then turned to leave.

On impulse, Zoey called after her with some advice, “Sing the song you’re confident in first, before you sing the song you’re forced to.” Rumi gave no answer, and she left without looking back, so Zoey assumed the words had gone to waste.

Until weeks later, when she caught sight of Rumi slouched in the hall, head in her hands, and looking like she’d collapsed into sleep. For a moment, Zoey believed it as well. But then she heard it, under Rumi’s breath. Rumi was singing, testing, and retesting a melody. Even exhausted from a practice that Rumi perfectly nailed, Rumi was never done. 

It’s these examples, among many others, that have taught Zoey how to read Rumi, and it’s why she can tell with certainty that Rumi is not relaxed right now. On the surface, it would be easy to believe otherwise. Rumi is leaning against Zoey’s body, eyes shut, and her breathing slow and measured like someone drifting close to sleep. To anyone else, it might look like peace, but Zoey knows better. She knows Rumi too well to assume that Rumi is at ease.

All Zoey has to do is look closer - in the same way she has done so many times before - and the truth comes out in small betrayals. The tight pinch between Rumi’s brows, the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth, and the way her throat bobs around words that she refuses to speak all give Rumi away. Zoey doesn’t have to think long to know what thought has clawed its way into Rumi’s mind: Mira. Or, more specifically, Mira’s anger.

Zoey knows from experience that Mira’s anger isn’t always rooted in the surface-level problem. Sometimes, it isn’t even about the other person at all. More often than not, it turns inward onto Mira herself, and somehow that fuels her anger.

Like that one time, just after the girls debuted, when Mira had snapped at Zoey for botching a dance movement during rehearsal. The words had cut deeply, and Zoey carried the sting with her for hours. But later, once she had space to breathe in the quiet of her room, she realized the outburst hadn’t been about the missed step at all. It had been about Mira, or part of it had been. It had been about the way Mira felt she failed Zoey by not teaching her in a way that made sense. In Mira’s mind, Zoey’s mistake was her own failure reflected back at her, and that fueled the anger into something explosive. 

A few days later, Mira had surprised Zoey by bringing it up. She was hesitant as she asked if Zoey was really learning best through the methods she used. And Zoey, after some awkward fumbling, admitted that no, it was actually a bit confusing the way Mira had been breaking down the choreography. Mira got defensive at first, then calmed down as she realized it was easier to just adjust the way she explained things to Zoey. Zoey tried to reassure Mira that it wasn’t Mira’s fault. That Zoey should’ve spoken up sooner and admitted when she was lost, but Mira only shook her head and countered that the responsibility went both ways. Zoey should’ve said something, but Mira should’ve noticed - that was Mira’s point, anyway. She should’ve paid enough attention to see when Zoey was struggling, even when Zoey tried to hide it.

Zoey suddenly sits a little straighter. “Huh,” she just figured out the answer. I should find Mira, she goes to move, but Rumi’s grip on her shirt tightens, and Zoey pauses. Right, Rumi. Mira’s anger is all too confusing to explain, so Zoey doesn’t push the subject. Her eyes drift until they catch on something hidden in the clothing. “Rumi?” Zoey whispers, her fingers dancing on Rumi’s skin.

Rumi shifts, opening her eyes slightly. She makes a grunt-like noise. 

She reaches into the pile of clothing and pulls out the small vial. “What exactly do these do?” 

Rumi blinks, looking up at the small vial. Slowly, she shifts on the bed and props herself up just enough to take the item from Zoey. She moves closer to Zoey as Zoey’s thumb starts to trace small circles on her side. “They were supposed to stop my heat by targeting the demon side,” she murmurs. She taps the vial gently against her palm and listens to the soft rattle of pills inside. “Celine makes them, or she hires someone, or they work together. I don’t really know. I have never fully understood the situation behind it, let alone the science.” Zoey’s thumb traces a small marking. “It was explained once, but I wasn’t listening.” She shrugs. “Or maybe I didn’t want to.” 

Zoey watches Rumi closely. She notices the tension in Rumi’s shoulder, tracking the way her chest rises and falls in uneven rhythms. “Targeting the demon side,” Zoey prompts softly. Her fingers ghost along Rumi’s forearm in just enough contact to ground Rumi.

Rumi doesn’t look at Zoey. Not yet. “Yeah. That side amplifies everything. Strength, speed, instinct. All that stuff, as well as the more biological stuff that people don’t enjoy that much. So, Celine decided that dulling that half would quiet the rest. I got no heat, as well as any of the other symptoms . . . so, I guess she was right.” 

Zoey’s eyes narrow in thought. She leans a little closer, letting her touch drift from Rumi’s arm to her shoulder. “So, Celine was trying to silence the part of you she thought caused,” she hesitates, almost gesturing to everything around them, “all of this.” 

“Our vacation gone wrong?” Rumi whispers.

Zoey shakes her head immediately. “No,” she says, her voice steady. “Not wrong. Just . . .” She started talking without thinking. “Um, our vacation took a detour. A sharp turn, maybe, but we’re still on a road.” 

Rumi tilts her head, clearly skeptical. She lets out a small noise that could be a laugh, but it's weighed down by fatigue. “. . . sure.” Her lips quirk in the smallest half-smile - the kind of smile that disappears as quickly as it arrives. She supposes only Zoey could look at their twisted circumstances and decides it’s simply off track. “You’d call a forest fire an interesting change of scenery,” she mutters, but there’s no real bite behind it. 

Zoey just smiles, not bothering to argue. She presses on a small marking and hums quietly in response. 

“I guess that’s what Celine’s goal was. The silencing part, I mean.” She finally looks up at Zoey. “We tried to target the human side only, but my heat still broke through. She decided the demon half was the real problem. It was too volatile and desperate. I think those were the words she used.”

“And how exactly does it suppress it?” Zoey’s hand pauses at Rumi’s shoulder, thumb brushing over one of the faint, pulsing lines. The touch makes Rumi’s pulse quicken.

Rumi shrugs. “I have no clue. I told you, I don’t know the science behind it. I just-” She glances away, almost embarrassed. “I trusted that she knew what she was doing.”

Zoey’s thoughts are already racing, firing off a thousand half-formed ideas. Still, her hand seems to move on its own. Her thumb drags slowly over the lines of Rumi’s markings, pressing in at random spots, then retracing back up before starting over again. The motions are absent-minded until Rumi suddenly flinches and shifts away from the touch. Zoey startles and immediately pulls her hand back, moving over to a patch of bare skin where there are no markings. “Sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t thinking. I forgot they’re-”

Rumi swallows and cuts her off with a small nod. 

Zoey quickly moves on. “So, when did the pills stop working?” 

Rumi glances toward the ceiling. Her eyes narrow in thought as she tries to trace back the timeline. “Somewhere around the Saja Boys thing. Less than a month ago, I think.” She lays her head back down and closes her eyes.

“So, around the time you started leaning into your demon side?” Zoey asks softly. She touches lower, back to Rumi’s forearm, and lets her fingers trace over a pattern there - this time without the pressure. 

Rumi has to think. Not just about the timeline, or the events, or even the people who were present. But about how she felt back then. Did I want it? Her breath catches. “I guess,” she finally answers. The realization is yet to click into place. 

Zoey pulls Rumi closer. Her hand drops from her forearm to her thigh. She looks down at the skin there, watching as her fingers trace a marking. “Can I say something kind of weird?”

Rumi hums without opening her eyes. “Since when do you ask?”

Zoey doesn’t tease back. Not this time. She lets her touch trail higher, letting the warmth of her palm press against the heat radiating from Rumi’s demon marking. “The formula for suppressing your demon side,” she starts, “it didn’t change, because it didn’t need to. It always worked.” She moves closer, voice almost a whisper against Rumi’s ear. “What if it stopped working because - I don’t know - the formula was never compatible with the way you changed?” 

Rumi opens one eye and blinks up at Zoey. Zoey takes that as her cue to keep going. 

“It sounds like Celine could never suppress your human side because you never resisted. You wanted it. You craved it, and that made it strong. But the other side . . .” She doesn’t have to explain beyond that. “Maybe the pills weren’t just fighting that side alone. You were helping them.” Zoey watches as Rumi’s expression shifts, and a flash of understanding flickers to life in her eyes. “And now,” Zoey continues, “you’re not ashamed, so the pills are fighting alone. I bet they were working overtime to keep up with you, and that’s why we got the extreme reaction to you coming into heat.”

Rumi’s lips part slightly as she finally understands what Zoey has been explaining. “They were never meant to work on someone who isn’t ashamed,” she murmurs.

“Not alone,” Zoey whispers back. She watches Rumi for a second before looking back at the vial, carefully turning it in her palm and studying it one last time before tossing the object to the side. “Yeah, but it’s just a theory.” Her focus is back on Rumi. 

Rumi inches closer to Zoey, seeking out her warmth, even as her mind replays her new realization. She doesn’t meet Zoey’s eyes and shifts around until her head is tucked onto Zoey’s shoulder, then surrender takes over her body. “I’ll ask when we’re home,” Rumi mumbles, words slowed with drowsiness. “I owe her a visit anyway.” 

Zoey opens her mouth to say “don’t.” To tell Rumi not to bother and just forget about Celine, don’t let her near any part of you that finally feels alive. But the words get stuck in her throat, because Rumi is already slipping into sleep. It’s almost a repeat of a year ago, when Rumi fell asleep against her as if there were nowhere else safer. 

Zoey sighs quietly and folds her arms around Rumi. She doesn’t say “don’t go” or demand anything, though the words are aching to be said. Instead, she lets herself hold Rumi close, and decides that - for tonight - holding her will have to be enough. 

- - -   

Zoey eases the bedroom door shut and slips into the hall. The air outside of the room feels sharper, a little colder, and she shivers as she just now realizes how accustomed she’d grown to the steady furnace of Rumi’s body. 

Rumi always ran warm. Zoey had thought it was just her natural state, but now she knows the markings have everything to do with it. Each time they flare in color, they radiate heat, and when they dim, so does the warmth. It makes Zoey wonder how Rumi ever managed those endless hoodies, sweatpants, and long sleeves without sweating herself into dehydration. Still, despite the heat, Zoey did enjoy holding Rumi close. But, despite enjoyment, Zoey has to admit that it’s easier to breathe without Rumi clinging to her like a determined koala. 

Zoey fills her lungs, breathes out slowly, and starts down the steps. She moves lightly, as though any sound might fracture the fragile calm Rumi had finally slipped into. The last thing Zoey wants is to wake her, especially now, with the heat still simmering in Rumi’s system. Yes, Rumi had been on her best behavior - really, it was Zoey who crossed some lines earlier - but she knows better than to tempt chance. After all, Rumi did send Mira on a completely useless popsicle run in hopes Zoey would cave.

Zoey pauses in the hallway.

If Rumi wasn’t curled up in the center of the bed, fast asleep, and Mira wasn’t weighed down with all the words she refuses to spill, Zoey might have dragged them both into the living room. She’d have shoved them onto the couch by now and forced them to sit side by side. They wouldn’t have to talk - Zoey wouldn’t ask that of them yet - but they would have to exist together. And this would be accomplished by making s’mores together until the first stars forced their way through the thick leaves of the trees. She can imagine it now: the laughter, burnt marshmallows, Mira’s reluctant smile, and Rumi’s soft noises of delight. 

The idea pulls at Zoey, and she really wants to make it happen, but she forces herself to tuck the thought away. Not now, Zoey, she tells herself, not tonight. Zoey seals it in the back of her mind with the promise of making s’mores with them later, and she adds something else to it: sleeping outside, and all three of them tangled in blankets until dawn. Yes. Zoey will make it happen . . . she owes them that, and vice versa.

But first, Zoey has to get to Mira . . . which doesn’t take long. The Alpha is easy to locate. The second Zoey turns toward the beach, she spots her.

Mira’s silhouette is impossible to mistake, even with her back to the house. It’s sharp and still against the fading light. She stands at the edge of the water, exactly where the shoreline curls gently along the bench. A few feet behind Mira, her shoes lie abandoned in the sand. One sits upright, half-sunk into the grit, while the other has toppled onto its side, like it was kicked off her foot in a random burst of irritation. Mira’s arms are crossed tight over her chest, her shoulders drawn in, and it appears that Mira’s grip is the only thing keeping her stitched together. 

The wind tosses her hair in restless whips, pushing strands against her cheeks and sticking to her mouth. Mira doesn’t brush them away, though, and her gaze moves down to the water, watching as it creeps up to her ankles. 

From the porch, Zoey studies her. Her hand rests against the frame of the doorway, and something in Mira’s posture has Zoey standing a little straighter. 

Mira looks like she might just lean forward into the pull of the ocean and let it take her. Like maybe she’s thinking about walking in and floating on the ocean’s surface, allowing her thoughts to drift into nothing. 

Zoey frowns, narrowing her eyes slightly. She knows Mira is a decent swimmer; she can doggy paddle, but she’s not good enough to fight against the waves. This is enough for Zoey to push off the frame and start forward. She is in no mood to drag Rumi from her slumber just so she can save Mira from drowning. Zoey steps down onto the cool sand, and she bends briefly to take off her shoes, then lets them dangle loose from her fingers as she keeps moving toward Mira. 

Zoey doesn’t say anything when she reaches Mira. She just stops next to her and lets their arms brush in the smallest of touches. She almost reaches out to take Mira’s hand, but thinks better of it when she remembers how such an interaction went just minutes ago with Rumi. Zoey doubts Mira would like a short make-out session on the beach. 

The water rolls in again, spilling over their feet in a thin sheet of seawater. It’s cold as it lingers briefly before drawing back and leaving a tacky salt film across their skin. 

Mira’s mouth tightens, but her eyes stay fixed on some unreachable point where the gray-blue of the sea bleeds into the horizon. Really, it’s just a blurred line where the sky and water seem to dissolve into one another. She doesn’t blink or even breathe for a couple of seconds as she holds herself still. It seems the wrong motion might break something loose inside her, until finally, Mira breathes out. “Why do I feel like I’m failing her?” She asks, refusing to turn and look at Zoey. 

Another wave rushes in.

Mira drags the edge of her foot through the sand until a shallow trench is carved. A second later, she smooths it over with her heel, only to start over again. Carve, erase. Carve, erase. The rhythm builds without purpose and serves as no more than a way to keep her body moving while her thoughts coil tight inside her. Eventually, she changes the pattern, starting to lean forward until the damp sand clings to her soles. The suction holds her there until she yanks herself free, only to press down again and let it suck her back in. 

Zoey watches Mira and the weird rhythm she’s fallen into. It isn’t graceful in the way Mira usually carries herself, but clumsy, like someone trying to hold onto their own skin before it slips right off. Mira has never been the type to ground herself like this; at least Zoey hasn’t seen her like this before. Normally, Mira goes to the gym and punches things, but - then again - Zoey has also never caught Mira mid-spiral. She’s only ever watched her leave, and every time she assumed she went to the gym since that was the excuse she always gave. So maybe- Zoey looks away, the realization knotting something in her chest. Maybe Mira has always spiraled like this.

Still, Zoey doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even bother to clear her throat to show some acknowledgement of Mira’s question. Instead, she sinks onto her knees and leans forward. She reaches out to where the seafoam fades out on the shore and brushes her fingers just over the damp sand where something solid juts out. 

A shell. 

Zoey pulls it free and turns it over in her palm, then wipes it on her leg to remove any of the clinging sand. The shell is shaped like a crescent moon, worn thin on one side, and its edges are uneven with a couple of chips. She touches these imperfections, tracing the ridges. The shell isn’t the perfect kind most people collect for display. No, it’s ugly. It’s been cracked and weathered by time, but somehow that makes it beautiful. I like it, Zoey decides. 

Mira notices the movement out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head just enough to watch without seeming like she’s watching Zoey turn the shell in her hands. The way Zoey studies the small object has Mira thinking it’s almost cute. Cute just how absorbed and awed Zoey is, and normally that would be enough to make Mira smile. Her fingers twitch, and for a second, she thinks about reaching out and letting her fingers run through Zoey’s hair like she’s done so many times before. The impulse hovers, but Mira clenches her hands into tight fists at her sides and forces herself to look away. The wind stirs once more, and the strands of her hair are thrown across her face again. Like before, Mira lets the wind have its way and allows the strands to fall where they please. 

Zoey keeps her focus on the shell and turns it slowly to watch how the light plays across its surface. The iridescence folds in subtle waves of color, and Zoey watches the shifts closely. They remind her of someone, and she has to smile at that fact. Finally, Zoey finds her voice. “Maybe,” she says, voice soft like she’s almost talking to just herself, “because we’re all still trying to figure out what we are.” 

The salty air and sea spray are blown onto their skin as the wind picks up again. It moves around them, lifting their hair again, but this time, Mira brushes hers back and tucks them carefully behind her ears. 

“I thought I could handle it,” Mira says at last. Her voice is stripped bare, hollow at the edges. “I wanted to.” She swallows, and her eyes stay fixed on the water as she suddenly feels that if she looks anywhere else, the memory of recent events might pull her under. “But when I saw her on the floor . . .” Her voice catches, and the rest of the sentence dies on her lips. She shakes her head sharply, but the image clings in her mind, and she’s unable to fight away the guilt. “She hid, Zoey. She hid in that bathroom and was going to stay there. But I-” Mira stops, then barrels through, “I dragged her out, causing all that stuff in the bedroom to happen, and then- and then she told me how she felt, and I just walked away.” Her voice fractures on the last words. “Who does that?!” 

Another wave rolls in, wetting their skin, then recedes. Zoey watches the motion repeat itself, then turns her gaze sideways to where Mira stands. The wind blows again, scattering strands of Zoey’s hair across her forehead and cheeks, but she barely notices with her attention still fixed on Mira, tracing down the curve of her shoulders and the way her arms wrap around herself. 

Mira doesn’t look at Zoey. She refuses to. Her eyes stay stubbornly focused ahead, fixed on the ocean and on some distant line Zoey can’t see. Zoey is almost 100% positive that Mira can’t really see it either, since Mira isn’t wearing her glasses. Yet, Mira still stares at that distant point, and it’s almost like she’d rather focus on something hazy.

Zoey wonders if staring at something blurry is easier than focusing on what’s around them. She stares up at Mira, keeping her hands to herself even though she so desperately wants to reach out. She just waits and watches with the understanding of someone who knows a little too much. Zoey holds the shell tighter, letting the edges dig into her palm, then says, “You walked away because you care.”

Mira lets out a low, humorless sound that is both dry and bitter. It could be a laugh, but Zoey knows it’s not. “I walked away because I panicked,” Mira mutters. “That’s not the same.” 

Zoey hums quietly. She doesn’t argue and turns the shell again. A minute almost passes before she asks, “Then why panic if you didn’t care?”   

Mira doesn’t answer. Her throat rises and falls with each small swallow, her jaw clenches, and she continues to stare out at the water. Then, she tilts her chin up toward the sky for a second, before looking over at the trees, the sand, the scattered shells along the shore. At anything but Zoey. 

The corner of Zoey’s mouth twitches into an almost smile, and she sighs in quiet amusement. Mira always avoids eye contact at moments like this. Every single time. It’s predictable and cute. “I get that you’re upset, but . . .” Zoey pauses, considering her next words. “But this isn’t about Rumi hiding her heat and not telling you she was an Omega, is it?” 

“No, it’s not,” Mira’s answer comes immediately. Her hands tighten at her sides until her fingernails dig crescent marks into her palm. “It’s about her not trusting me,” she explains. “About her thinking that she had to go through it alone. That she couldn’t come to me.” 

Zoey tilts her head slightly, now studying Mira. “I thought you didn’t care.” 

Again, Mira doesn’t answer. The silence stretches between them, and normally, the conversation would end there. Any other day, Zoey would let it die, or shift the conversation, or even act like nothing happened. But, as she turns the shell over in her hand and stares up at Mira, she realizes she can’t. Not with Mira, not when they’re this close. 

“I don’t think-” Zoey begins, but her voice catches in her throat. Confrontations aren’t her thing. They never have been. She hates them, avoids slips, and lets them slip around her like cracks in the sidewalks. She prefers to just sit and listen to someone talk and hope they come to the correct conclusion themselves. If they don’t, then she’ll just leave them be, because maybe her version of the correct conclusion isn't the right conclusion. But now, she forces herself to push forward, even as her chest tightens and the shell digs into her skin. “I don’t think you’re mad that Rumi didn’t trust you.” 

Mira stiffens, and it seems she might snap at Zoey or walk away entirely. Her weight shifts like she’s ready to bolt, but then her feet dig deeper into the sand, and she doesn’t move. Mira still doesn’t look at Zoey, but she doesn’t run away either. 

“Not completely,” Zoey adds. “I think you’re mad that Rumi didn’t think she could trust you.” 

Mira inhales sharply. It feels like Zoey just cracked something open inside her chest, and she finally turns, finally meets Zoey’s eyes for the first time since she walked down to the water. “We’re supposed to be friends,” she says, voice strained with each word pulled out raw. “Close friends. I’ve asked her to come to me when something’s wrong. I’ve said it again, and again, and she- she just-” 

“Stop,” Zoey cuts in gently. “Stop. That’s not all of it. And you know it.” 

Mira blinks, caught off guard. Not just by Zoey’s words, but by the sudden nerve behind them. This is Zoey. The same girl who once downed an entire burrito that nearly burned a hole through her stomach rather than admit the waitress had messed up her order. The same Zoey who quietly jabbed herself with an EpiPen after a radio host offered her a snack that had something she was allergic to. She smiled through the entire interview, even after stabbing herself. The same Zoey who forgot her own snow boots and ended up buying a brand new, overpriced pair, even though she realized she forgot her pair of boots when they were 2 hours into the road trip. All because she didn’t want to have everyone turn around. The same Zoey who hates confrontation is standing her ground. This vacation truly is weird, Mira sighs. She scoffs, but it’s not aimed at Zoey. It’s aimed at herself. “Then what do you think it is, Zoey?” She demands. “What am I supposed to say? What is it you want me to admit?” 

Zoey doesn’t flinch. She feels like her heart is going to beat right out of her ribs, but she steadies her shoulders anyway and takes a deep breath. “The truth,” she says, and by the heavens she prays that her voice isn’t shaking, because it feels like her whole body is.

“I don’t-”

“Mira.” Zoey is pretty sure she is going to have a heart attack if Mira doesn’t just say it. If she doesn’t spit it out. To keep herself from trembling, she distracts herself by turning the shell in her palm. She traces the grooves like it’s the only thing tethering her. 

“What?” Mira snaps. The words come out sharper than she intended. “What do you want from me, Zoey?” 

“You know what.” 

Mira throws her hands up, clearly frustrated. “What truth?!”

Zoey meets her eyes, and she’s thankful that her voice doesn’t waver. “The truth that you won’t say,” she responds. Her fingers clench around the shell.

Mira shakes her head hard, acting like Zoey is just speaking nonsense. “You’re not making any sense-” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“Oh, really?” Mira bites back. “So what? What truth, Zoey? That I care? That I can’t stand it? That I-” Her breath stutters, then she explodes. “That I love her?! That the woman I love can’t even-” 

“Yes!” Zoey snaps before she can stop herself. The word echoes louder than the waves for a second. “By the heavens, yes!” She breathes in, steadies herself, then nods once. “Yes.” Her pulse is racing, but it’s not as fast as it was a second ago. She looks down and sees the marks the shell has carved into her palm. If she had gripped the shell any tighter, she might have drawn blood. “. . .” Zoey puffs out her cheeks, then she deflates them slowly. “I don’t know you had the guts to tell me I’m in love with Rumi,” Zoey says, “but you can’t even see it yourself.” The words loosen something inside her chest, and her fingers uncurl from the shell, allowing it to fall to her knees. Her palm stings, but the pressure behind her ribs begins to ease, and Zoey lets out one more breath before dropping her hand to her side and looking up at the sky. 

Mira looks down at the shell on Zoey’s lap, then at Zoey, whose focus is still on something in the sky. Cute, she lets out a soft breath, and tilts her head back to search for whatever it is that has caught Zoey’s attention. It doesn’t take Mira long to find it: a single star. The first star of the night. “Huh,” she breathes out quietly, and Zoey hums in response. Mira steps closer and lets her fingers settle on Zoey’s head, then starts to absently play with her hair. Neither of them says a word when Zoey leans over and rests her head against Mira’s leg.