Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with a voice.

“Zoey?”

They’re strolling down Garosugil, bellies full from lunch, arms weighed with shopping bags, laughing about how Mira nearly knocked over a mannequin trying to dodge a bug. It’s one of those rare days when they get to blend in, no stage makeup, no cameras—just three girls pretending, for a moment, that they’re ordinary.

Then a man’s voice cuts through the noise. American. Familiar. Confident.

Zoey freezes mid-step. “No way. Caleb?”

Rumi and Mira both glance at her, confused—until a tall figure approaches. He’s handsome in that California way: tousled hair, broad shoulders, an easy smile. His shirt is rolled at the sleeves, and he walks like he’s always had room to take up space.

When Zoey steps into his hug without hesitation, Mira stiffens. Rumi’s hand twitches near her side—not quite reaching for anything, but ready to react.

“Wow,” Zoey says as they part, her voice laced with a sort of giddy disbelief. “What are you even doing here?”

“Work trip. Seoul for a couple of months.” He gestures vaguely at the street behind him. “Completely lost. And then—bam. There you are.”

He glances toward Mira and Rumi with polite interest. “Hi.”

Zoey jumps in. “These are my friends. Mira, Rumi—Caleb. Caleb, this is Mira and Rumi.”

They both offer stiff bows.

Caleb’s Korean is broken but passable. “반갑습니다.”

Then, switching to English, he grins at Zoey. “God, I still remember your mom making me practice that over dinner. She would not let it go until I got the honorifics right.”

Zoey laughs. “You were so bad at it.”

“I tried!”

The words bounce between them easily, too fast for Rumi or Mira to follow completely. They catch scattered pieces— dinner, remember when, back in high school, crazy times . And then—

“Five years, huh?” Caleb says with a chuckle. “Still can’t believe we made it that long.”

Zoey grins, sipping her drink. “Until the time zones kicked our ass.”

Mira’s head snaps toward her. Rumi’s stomach sinks.

Zoey doesn’t seem to notice their sudden stillness.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, switching to Korean for their sake. “We dated for a while.”

Mira frowns. “How long is ‘a while’?”

Zoey hums. “Like… five years?”

Rumi stops walking. “Five?”

Zoey nods. “Yeah. Since middle school. We broke up when I moved here to train. Long-distance was just… too hard.”

She says it like it’s trivia. Something casual. Like she didn’t just drop a boulder into the quiet pond of everything Mira and Rumi thought they understood.

Caleb looks at them again. “She was the best girlfriend, by the way.”

The English is smooth. Playful.

The words hang in the air too long before Zoey chuckles awkwardly, shoving his arm. “Shut up.”

Girlfriend.

Rumi’s brain skips like a scratched record. Girlfriend. Not best friend, not partner, not some ambiguous title. Five years. Five whole years. When Zoey was barely even a teenager.

Mira, usually unreadable, looks like she’s been punched in the stomach. Her mouth opens like she wants to say something—but there’s nothing in her throat. Just static.

“We should catch up sometime,” Zoey says. “Grab dinner or something before you head back?”

“Absolutely,” Caleb says. “I’ll text you?”

They exchange numbers. Zoey gives hers with a little flourish like she’s handing over a secret.

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd with a wave. Just like that.

The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward—dangerous.

Zoey takes a sip of her drink. “Man, that was surreal.”

Rumi keeps walking.

Mira follows.

“Are you okay?” Zoey asks, noticing the tension finally. “You’re both super quiet.”

“Didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” Mira says flatly.

“Ex-boyfriend,” Zoey corrects. “Ancient history.”

“But five years?” Rumi murmurs, voice low. “That’s… a lot.”

Zoey nods. “Yeah, it was a long time. But we were kids. It was sweet, y’know? First love and all that.”

She chuckles. Like it’s funny. Like it doesn’t feel like the floor is shifting under the other two girls’ feet.

Rumi’s heart feels like it’s been hollowed out. Mira walks a little faster.

They don’t speak again until they’re back at the car. Bobby’s not here today—just the three of them and too many unspoken things.

Later, in the quiet of the penthouse, Rumi sits cross-legged on her bed, absently rubbing her thumb across the back of her hand where a faint scar still lingers from a training mishap. Mira’s pacing. The room feels colder than usual, or maybe they’re just both fraying at the edges.

“She dated a guy,” Mira says suddenly.

Rumi doesn’t look up.

“For five years.”

“I know.”

“Do you think she…” Mira stops. Tries again. “What if she’s not even into girls?”

The question lands like a knife to the ribs.

Rumi bites the inside of her cheek. Hard.

They’ve always tiptoed around this part. Around Zoey. They’ve built something quiet between themselves—something careful, slow, stitched together in shadows—but Zoey has always been the third note in their chord, even if she didn’t know it. Even if they never told her.

“She never talks about dating at all,” Mira mutters. “We assumed…”

“I know what we assumed,” Rumi whispers.

Mira stops pacing. Turns toward her. “So what now?”

Rumi finally looks up. Her voice is brittle. “I don’t know.”

Because this whole time, they thought maybe she felt it too. Maybe Zoey’s late-night cuddles and hand-holding and laughter at Rumi’s bad jokes meant something more. Maybe the way she always sought Mira’s approval meant she saw Mira the way Mira saw her.

But maybe they were wrong.

Maybe Zoey really only loved one person—and he was standing on that sidewalk today, tall and smiling and not them.

By the time the sun drops below the skyline, the day feels like it’s been folded in half.
The tension from the day is still there—threaded into every glance Mira and Rumi share, every silence they can’t quite fill—but the dorm has its own rhythm, one Zoey clings to without fail.

Movie night. Always before a heavy schedule. Always with the same comfort: blankets piled high, mismatched mugs of tea, some half-forgotten snack between them.

It’s Zoey who calls it.

“Okay, movie night. No arguments!”

She says it like a decree, already dragging a duvet from the hall closet and tossing it over the couch. Rumi and Mira answer with automatic nods, because there’s no version of this ritual where they say no.

The living room lights are low, the laptop screen casting the only glow. Rumi ends up on one end of the couch, Mira on the other, and Zoey slides into the space between like it’s always been hers. Which, in a way, it has.

She doesn’t ease in, either—she flops down with the bonelessness of someone utterly at home, head finding Rumi’s thigh without a pause, legs swinging across to drape over Mira’s lap.

“You’re warm,” she mumbles, already settling. “Perfect pillow.”

Rumi’s hand hovers in the air for a second before she lets it drop gently to Zoey’s hair. She tells herself it’s just because that’s what Zoey expects. Not because she’s craving the weight of her, the way her breath warms the fabric of her sweats.

Mira’s muscles are taut beneath Zoey’s legs, her hands frozen at her sides like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to rest them on Zoey’s shins. Eventually, Zoey solves it for her—grabbing Mira’s wrist and plopping her palm over the blanket, right above her knee.

“There,” Zoey says, eyes flicking toward the screen. “Now no one move! We’re officially locked in.”

The opening credits roll. Zoey’s happy little hum is lost beneath the soundtrack, but Rumi feels it vibrate against her thigh.

They should be watching the movie. They usually would be—snarking about bad dialogue, pointing out plot holes, and shoving the popcorn bowl at each other. But tonight, every movement is under a microscope.

When Zoey laughs at a joke, she squeezes Mira’s leg without thinking, her thumb tracing idle circles through the blanket. Mira feels the ghost of it long after her hand moves away.  When Zoey shifts to get comfortable, her hair brushes Rumi’s stomach, and it’s like someone’s plucked a string inside her ribcage.

She has no idea, Rumi thinks. None at all.

Because Zoey’s face is slack with contentment, her eyes flicking between the screen and them like she’s just happy they’re both here. She doesn’t see the way Mira’s gaze lingers on her mouth when she talks, or the way Rumi keeps her breathing steady by force of will alone.

She’s exactly where she always is: in the middle, bridging the quiet space between them. Warm. Uncomplicated.
Maybe that’s all she’s ever been doing.
And maybe—Mira thinks, her jaw tight—this is all it’s ever going to be.

They watch the movie. Or at least, Zoey does.

When it ends, she stretches with a satisfied sigh and murmurs, “Best way to end the day,” before hugging them both at once in a tangle of limbs. She doesn’t notice how stiff their arms feel, how both of them hesitate before squeezing her back.

To her, it’s just another night. 

To them, it’s the quiet confirmation of a thought they’ve been trying not to have:

She has no clue.

And maybe she never will.

The next day starts in darkness.

Bobby’s knocking on doors at 3:30 a.m., his voice soft but insistent. The penthouse hums to life in that bleary, mechanical way they’ve all mastered—makeup bags unzipped, hoodies pulled on, mugs of instant coffee clutched like lifelines.

The van ride to the music show is quiet. Normally, Zoey would fill the space with some ridiculous story, but she’s half-dozing against the window, earbuds in. Mira keeps her gaze on the lights blurring past. Rumi scrolls through her phone without absorbing anything.

On set, it’s all adrenaline and choreography. The cameras love them, the fans scream on cue, and for those few hours, nothing else exists but the sharp beat of the music and the synchrony of their bodies.

But in the gaps—when they’re waiting in a greenroom or standing in a hallway between takes—the distance shows.

Mira answers Zoey’s casual questions with one-sentence replies.

Rumi busies herself with her phone even when there’s nothing on the screen.

It’s not cold. Just… quieter than usual.

By the time they tumble into the van again at 11:20 AM, they’re on their way to the variety show taping. Lunch is eaten out of plastic containers, the girls leaning against the seatbacks as a stylist fusses with their hair.

Zoey’s phone buzzes once.

She glances at the screen, and her face changes—not dramatically, but enough. A small, startled lift of her eyebrows. A smile that’s more private than shared.

Mira sees it from the corner of her eye.

Rumi catches it in the reflection of the van window.

“Who’s that?” Mira asks, before she can stop herself.

Zoey looks up. “Hm? Oh—Caleb. Just saying it was nice running into me yesterday.”

It’s casual. Offhand. She doesn’t even notice the way both of them stiffen.

Rumi forces a small nod, turning her face back toward the passing streets. Mira busies herself with picking invisible lint from her skirt.

Just an ex.

Just an ex, they tell themselves.

But why had she never mentioned him before?

Then again, Zoey doesn’t talk much about Burbank at all. Or her old life. Or anything from before she stepped into Korea and started running toward the life they share now.

The rest of the day blurs in lights and laughter and energy they don’t actually have. They smile on cue, play along with the variety show’s scripted games, and act like nothing has shifted. By the time the cameras shut off for good at 6 p.m., they’re wrung out.

The penthouse is dark and hushed when they get back. Zoey disappears into her own room after a quick shower, humming something under her breath.

It’s almost midnight when Mira slips down the hall to Rumi’s door. She knocks once, low.

Rumi answers in sweats and a loose tee, hair still damp from her own shower. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Mira steps inside without answering. The door clicks shut.

They sit cross-legged on the bed, knees almost touching. The low light from Rumi’s desk lamp paints everything in gold and shadow.

“If they broke up because of long distance,” Mira says quietly, “that means…”

“That means she was dealing with it while we were training,” Rumi finishes.

Mira nods, frowning. “During deliberations for Huntr/x.”

Rumi thinks back—those months of sleepless nights and endless evaluations. Zoey had been a rock then. Laughing when everyone else was too tired to stand. Staying late to run formations with whoever needed it. Keeping them together.

“She never told us,” Mira says.

Rumi leans back against the headboard, arms folded. “We didn’t even notice anything was wrong.”

They let the thought hang there. Because if Zoey could carry something like that—five years with someone, and the heartbreak of losing it—and keep it locked away from them, what else was she carrying?

Mira’s voice is low, almost bitter. “And we think we’d notice if she didn’t feel the same way about us.”

Rumi meets her eyes, steady but aching. “Maybe we wouldn’t.”

They sit in silence, the hum of the dorm the only sound. In the room across the hall, Zoey’s light is still on.

Neither of them knocks.

Zoey stretches out on her bed, phone face down beside her, hair still damp from her shower. 

The dorm is quiet—too quiet for the night after a packed schedule. Usually, Mira would wander in by now, stealing her blanket and half her snacks, or Rumi would appear in the doorway with some remark before getting coaxed into sitting beside her.

Tonight… nothing.

She frowns at the ceiling. They’d been fine yesterday. Laughing in Garosugil, chasing each other through a store when Mira almost knocked over that mannequin. But today, something was off. Not hostile, just… muted.

Mira’s replies had been shorter. Rumi’s smiles a little thinner.

Zoey runs back through the day in her head, trying to catch what she missed. Did she say something weird? Step on a joke? Forget something important? Nothing comes to mind.

It doesn’t hurt—not yet. She’s just confused. Rumi and Mira are her constants. Her anchors. When everything else is chaotic, they’re the steady ground under her feet.

And lately, things have been so good.

Ever since Gwi Ma—six months ago now—it’s felt like they’ve been building something better than before. Like they’d all stepped out of a storm and could finally see the sky again. They’d gone to the bathhouse together four times since then, each visit less guarded than the last. 

Rumi’s patterns were out in the open there, iridescent and mesmerizing, like someone had poured starlight into her skin. Zoey still remembers the first time she caught Rumi looking at her, not with caution, but with ease.

She smiles to herself, remembering the day after Idol Awards—how she and Mira had apologized for raising their weapons against Rumi in the chaos. How Rumi had said she understood. That they hadn’t wanted to hurt her, even if it had still stung in ways that weren’t physical. 

They’d promised themselves, and her, that it would never happen again.

And Mira and Rumi… Zoey’s been so happy to see them grow closer. Sharing little glances during interviews, bickering over snacks, training side by side without that unspoken tension that used to hover between them. It’s been good. Solid.

So why does it feel like today, something shifted?

Her gaze flicks to the phone beside her, still face down. Caleb’s name was in the last notification she saw, and the thought makes her smile without meaning to.

He looked so at ease yesterday. Different from the awkward, lanky seventeen-year-old she’d kissed goodbye at LAX, both of them trying not to cry in front of strangers. He’s grown into himself since then—confident, relaxed, still carrying that easy warmth she used to fall asleep on the phone to. She’s glad she got to see him again. Really.

It’s not like she’s pining—those years feel like a different life. But it’s rare to get a reminder that not all good things have to end bitterly.

With a sigh, Zoey rolls onto her side, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. She tells herself it’s probably just exhaustion. Tomorrow they’ll all be back to normal, Mira teasing her, Rumi pulling her into the middle of the couch, all of them sharing snacks until the wrappers litter the floor.

She hopes so, anyway.

Because she really, really loves them.

Chapter Text

The practice room mirror reflects three figures moving in perfect sync, but the harmony stops there.

It's been four days since Garosugil, and the routine they're running feels mechanical in a way it never has before. Mira calls out corrections with her usual precision, adjusting formations and tweaking transitions, but there's something different in the spaces between—moments when she and Rumi catch each other's eyes in the reflection, sharing the weight of questions they can't ask.

"From the top," Mira says, slightly breathless. "The transition into the bridge still feels off."

They reset. The music starts. But halfway through the second verse, Zoey's phone buzzes on the floor where she left it by the speaker.

She doesn't stop dancing, but her eyes flick toward it.

It buzzes again.

"Just—one sec," she says, breaking formation to check it.

Rumi and Mira watch her face change as she reads. Not dramatic, just… softer. A small smile she tries to hide by biting her lip.

"Sorry," Zoey says, sliding the phone back down. "Where were we?"

"Who keeps texting you?" Mira asks before she can stop herself.

Zoey pauses, one hand still raised from the choreography. "Oh. Caleb."

The name lands like a stone.

"He's been asking about good places to eat," Zoey continues, oblivious to the way Mira's jaw tightens. "Poor guy's been living off convenience store food since he got here."

Rumi forces her voice to stay level. "You've been talking to him a lot?"

"Not a lot," Zoey says, but there's something in her tone that suggests otherwise. "Just... you know. Catching up."

She doesn't elaborate. Just moves back into position and waits for them to follow.

They do, because what else can they do? But every step feels heavier now.

Later, in the car on the way to their radio interview, Mira tries a different approach.

"So," she says, attempting casualness. "What's Caleb like?"

Zoey looks up from her phone—where she's been typing something with more focus than their setlist usually gets. "Hm?"

"Caleb. What's he like?"

"Oh." Zoey locks her phone, sliding it into her bag. "He's... I don't know. Sweet, I guess? Really patient. He used to help me with my English homework even though mine was already better than his."

She laughs, and it's fond in a way that makes Rumi's stomach clench.

"He was always good at making me feel better when I was frustrated," Zoey continues. "Like when I'd mess up a presentation or get stressed about my parents fighting. He'd just... listen, you know? And then distract me with something ridiculous until I forgot why I was upset."

Mira nods like this information isn't slowly crushing her ribcage. "That's... nice."

"Yeah." Zoey's voice goes quieter. "He was really good to me."

The past tense should be comforting. It's not.

Rumi stares out the window at the Seoul traffic and tries not to think about seventeen-year-old Zoey crying over her parents' divorce while some boy held her and promised to make it better. Tries not to think about how easily Zoey had fit into his arms the other day, like muscle memory.

"Did you..." Rumi starts, then stops.

"Did I what?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

But Zoey's looking at her now with that expression she gets when she knows someone's holding back. "No, what were you going to ask?"

Rumi meets her eyes in the reflection of the window. "Did you love him?"

The question hangs in the air for too long.

Zoey's face goes through several expressions—surprise, consideration, something that might be wistfulness—before settling on a small, sad smile.

"Yeah," she says simply. "I did."

Mira turns to stare out her own window, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

Rumi nods once and doesn't ask anything else.

The radio interview goes smoothly, all bright smiles and practiced answers. They talk about their upcoming single, their dream collaborations, and their favorite foods. The host asks about their friendships, and they give the expected response about being like sisters, supporting each other through everything.

"Zoey," the host says, "you moved here from America when you were quite young. Do you ever miss home?"

It's a standard question. Zoey's answered variations of it dozens of times.

"Korea is home now," she says, which is also standard. "I love it here. My members, my work, the fans—this is where I belong."

But then the host follows up: "Do you keep in touch with friends from before?"

And for just a second, Zoey hesitates.

"Some," she says. "Not as much as I'd like to."

Rumi and Mira both hear the lie in it. Or maybe not a lie, exactly, but an omission. Because apparently she's been keeping in touch with at least one person more than she's ever let on.

After they finish recording, they're walking through the station hallway when Zoey's phone rings.

She glances at the screen, and her whole posture changes. Straightens. Like she's been waiting for this call.

"I should take this," she says. "I'll meet you guys at the car?"

She doesn't wait for an answer before stepping into an empty conference room and closing the door.

Through the glass, they can see her talking. Animated in a way that's different from her usual phone manner with managers or family. She's gesturing with her free hand, head tilted like she's really listening. But what strikes them most is her voice—muffled through the door but unmistakably English. Fluid and natural in a way they rarely hear, like she's slipped into a different skin entirely.

Rumi's fingers find Mira's wrist without thinking, a gentle touch that usually grounds them both. But today, even that small comfort feels complicated.

At one point, Zoey laughs—not her public laugh, but the real one. The one that crinkles her nose. The one they thought they knew best.

"Five years," Mira says quietly, her thumb brushing against Rumi's pulse point.

Rumi doesn't respond, but her hand turns to intertwine their fingers briefly before letting go.

When Zoey emerges fifteen minutes later, she's practically glowing. There's something different about her posture, her expression—like she's been speaking her first language after months of translation.

"Sorry," she says as they walk to the parking garage, and her Korean sounds almost careful now, deliberate in a way it usually isn't. "He wanted to know about this restaurant I recommended. Had all these questions about the menu."

"He called to ask about a restaurant?" Rumi asks.

"Well, that and..." Zoey trails off, then shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."

But it clearly does matter. It matters enough that she's been smiling at her phone all week. Enough that she took a call in the middle of their workday. Enough that she's keeping the details to herself in a way that feels deliberately private.

That night, Mira finds herself in Rumi's room again. It's becoming a habit—this need to process the day's small revelations together, to confirm they're both seeing the same cracks in the foundation of everything they thought they knew.

They settle into their usual positions: Rumi cross-legged against the headboard, Mira lying sideways across the bed with her head in Rumi's lap. It's intimate in a way that three months ago would have made them both nervous, but now feels as natural as breathing. Well, usually.

Tonight, even this feels fraught.

"She loved him," Mira says without preamble, her voice muffled against Rumi's thigh.

Rumi's hand finds its way to Mira's hair, fingers combing through the pink strands in the absent way she does when she's thinking. "I know."

"Past tense."

"I know."

"But she's talking to him every day."

Mira turns onto her back, looking up at Rumi's face. "Did you hear her? Speaking English like that?"

Rumi's hand stills in Mira's hair. "What do you mean?"

"She sounded... different. Like she was more herself, somehow." Mira's jaw tightens. "I've never heard her sound that comfortable."

The observation sits heavy between them. Because they've heard Zoey speak English before—in interviews, when she's explaining Korean phrases to international fans—but never like that. Never with that easy fluidity, like she was coming home to herself.

Rumi finally looks down, meeting Mira's eyes. Her expression is carefully neutral, but Mira can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her patterns seem dimmer tonight. "What are you thinking?"

Mira sits up, crossing her legs to face Rumi directly. "I'm thinking maybe we've been kidding ourselves this whole time."

It's the thing they've both been circling around for days. The possibility that everything they've been building—the careful touches, the meaningful looks, the way Zoey fits so perfectly between them—has been entirely one-sided.

"She hugs us," Rumi says, but her voice lacks conviction.

"She hugs everyone."

"She sleeps in our beds."

"Because she has nightmares about Idol Awards. That's not... that's not romantic."

Rumi reaches for Mira's hand, interlacing their fingers in the way that's become second nature over the past three months. It should be comforting. Instead, it feels like they're holding onto something that might slip away.

"The way she looks at us sometimes..." Rumi's voice is small.

"Maybe we've been seeing what we wanted to see."

It's brutal, hearing it said out loud. But Mira has always been the one to name hard truths, even when they cut.

The silence stretches between them until Rumi speaks again, her thumb tracing patterns across Mira's knuckles. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know."

Because the alternative—backing away, trying to untangle feelings that have been growing for months, pretending they don't exist—feels impossible. They've been sharing this quiet understanding for so long that it's become part of the architecture of their relationship. Part of how they function as a unit.

And they haven't even told Zoey about them yet. About this thing they've built in the spaces between training and schedules. 

They'd planned to, eventually, when the timing felt right. But after what happened during the Idol Awards—after Mira and Zoey had raised their weapons against Rumi, even for just a moment, and cried for days apologizing to Rumi—it had felt too fragile to disturb the balance they'd fought so hard to rebuild.

Now it feels like they've waited too long. Like maybe there was never going to be a right time.

And now Caleb is here, calling Zoey during work hours and making her light up in ways they've never seen. Making her sound like herself in a language they don't fully share. Asking about restaurants like he's planning something. Like he's settling in.

"Maybe," Rumi says carefully, "we should ask her directly."

Mira looks at her like she's suggested jumping off a building. "Ask her what?"

"If she... if she's interested. In women. In us."

"And if she says no?"

Rumi's shoulders sag. "Then we know."

It should be simple. It should be as easy as any other conversation they've had. But the thought of actually doing it—of looking Zoey in the eye and asking if there's any world where she could want them the way they want her—feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.

Because if the answer is no, they'll still have to see her every day. Sleep in the same dorm, perform on the same stages, pretend their hearts aren't broken. They'll have to watch her text Caleb and take his calls and maybe, eventually, watch her fall in love with him all over again.

And if the answer is yes...

Mira doesn't let herself finish that thought.

Down the hall, Zoey is lying in bed with her phone balanced on her chest, staring at the ceiling.

Caleb's contact photo smiles up at her—a picture from their senior year, taken at some school event she can barely remember. He looks so young in it. They both were.

Their conversation tonight had been longer than usual. He'd asked about the restaurant, yes, but then they'd somehow ended up talking about high school. About the time they'd driven to Santa Monica at 2 AM because Zoey was having a panic attack about auditions. About the way he'd held her hand while she cried in his car, promising her that everything would work out.

Speaking with him had felt like putting on clothes she'd forgotten she owned. Comfortable and familiar in a way that made her remember parts of herself she'd carefully tucked away. The way she used to laugh without thinking about camera angles. The way she used to gesture wildly without worry.

"I missed talking to you," he'd said before hanging up. Simple. Honest. The way he'd always been.

And the thing is, she'd missed it too. Not him, exactly—but the ease of it. The way he'd known her before she had to be anyone in particular. Before cameras and choreography and the weight of being responsible for other people's dreams.

With Rumi and Mira, she's Zoey from Huntr/x. The maknae who keeps everyone's spirits up, who smooths over conflicts and makes sure they're all taking care of themselves. It's not a burden—she loves them, loves taking care of them—but it's still a role.

With Caleb, she's just... Zoey. The girl who used to fall asleep during movie nights and steal his hoodies, and cry over math homework.

It's nostalgic in a way that's both comforting and unsettling.

She thinks about the way Rumi and Mira have been acting lately. Not pulling away, exactly, but... careful. Like they're walking on glass around her. She'd tried to bring it up during practice yesterday, but they'd both brushed her off with excuses about being tired.

Maybe they're stressed about the comeback. Or maybe she's reading too much into it. They've all been working non-stop for months; it wouldn't be weird for them to need some space.

Still, she misses the easy dynamic they'd built after everything.

She hopes they find their way back to it soon.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Caleb—a photo of the restaurant she'd recommended, taken from outside. The caption reads: Tomorrow night. Wish me luck.

She types back: You'll love it. Get the bulgogi.

Will do. Thanks for all the recommendations, by the way. Seoul's been way less intimidating with a local guide.

Hardly local, she responds. But happy to help.

Still counts. You know this city better than I know LA now.

The observation sits strangely with her. Because it's true—Seoul has become home in a way Burbank never quite was. But talking to Caleb makes her remember what it felt like to belong somewhere without having to earn it first.

Another buzz interrupts her thoughts. This time it's Bobby, and the message makes her sit up in bed.

Solo stage opportunity for a music festival next month. Are you interested? We'd need to start preparing immediately.

Zoey stares at the text for a long moment. A solo stage—something she's been working toward for years. The chance to prove herself as more than just part of a unit, to show what she can do on her own.

She types back without hesitation: Yes. When do we start?

Monday. Extended rehearsal schedule. You'll be working with separate choreographers and vocal coaches for the next few weeks. You already have the comeback choreo down anyway.

The next few weeks. Which means even less time with Rumi and Mira, just when things between them already feel fragile. But this is too important to pass up. This is her chance.

I'm in, she responds.

She's still thinking about it when she falls asleep, phone forgotten beside her, Caleb's contact photo glowing softly in the dark.

Chapter Text

The morning briefing happens in their living room at 7 AM, all three of them still soft with sleep, cradling mugs of coffee like lifelines. Bobby sits across from them with his tablet, running through the week's schedule with his usual methodical precision.

"Mira, you have the Chanel shoot on Wednesday, and Rumi, your collaboration recording with Jiyoon is Thursday afternoon," he says, scrolling through the calendar. Then he looks up at Zoey with a grin that's barely contained. "And Zoey, I assume you've thought about my text from last night?"

Rumi and Mira both turn to look at Zoey, who's suddenly sitting straighter, her coffee mug forgotten in her hands.

"What text?" Mira asks.

Zoey's face breaks into a smile so bright it could power the building. "I got offered a solo stage. At the Seoul Music Festival."

The words hit Rumi and Mira like a physical force. Rumi's coffee mug freezes halfway to her lips, and Mira lets out a sharp intake of breath.

"A solo stage?" Rumi's voice comes out slightly strangled, but her face is already lighting up despite everything else weighing on her mind.

"Fifteen minutes. Prime time slot," Bobby explains, his professional demeanor cracking with genuine excitement. "They specifically requested you after seeing you rap at the year-end shows. It's a big deal, Zoey. Really big."

"It's about time," Mira says, and her voice carries genuine warmth even through the careful distance she's been maintaining. "You've been ready for this for ages."

And they mean it. Both of them. Despite the knot of anxiety that's been growing in their chests, despite the uncertainty about Caleb and confessions and the space that seems to be widening between the three of them—this is good news. This is Zoey finally getting the recognition she deserves.

Because the truth is, while Mira books modeling campaigns and Rumi gets collaboration offers, Zoey has always been the one waiting. The maknae who gets the cute variety show appearances but never the serious solo opportunities. The rapper who writes her own lyrics but rarely gets to showcase them outside of Huntr/x's songs.

"I already said yes," Zoey admits, bouncing slightly in her seat. "I couldn't help it!"

"What's the timeline?" Rumi asks, reaching over to squeeze Zoey's wrist. The touch is brief, automatic, but Zoey's smile in response is so radiant that for a moment, all of Rumi's doubts quiet.

"We start Monday. Extended rehearsal schedule for the next eight weeks—separate choreographers, vocal coaches, the whole thing," Bobby explains. "Long days, but this is your moment, superstar."

Zoey nods eagerly, already pulling out her phone to take notes. "I need to pick a song. And a concept. Oh god, I have so many ideas—"

"Breathe," Mira says gently, but she's watching Zoey with something that feels dangerously close to worship, taking in the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the way she bites her lip when she's thinking.

"I could remix one of the raps I've been working on," Zoey continues, practically vibrating with energy. "The one about body bags, or maybe the one about—oh, I have so many ideas."

She's talking fast now, switching between Korean and English without realizing it, gesturing with her hands in that way that only happens when she's truly excited.

More than she knows , Mira thinks, her chest tight with affection. We love you more than you could ever know.

"I'll make sure to update you guys when I'm in practice," Zoey promises, turning to face them both. "I know I'll be busy, but I don't want you to feel left out or anything. This is still our thing, you know? Even if it's just me on stage."

The earnestness in her voice makes both Rumi and Mira's hearts clench. Because of course Zoey would worry about them feeling left out. Of course she'd want to include them even in her solo moment.

"We're so proud of you," Rumi says softly, and means it completely.

"So proud," Mira echoes, her voice thick with emotion she's trying to hide.

Bobby wraps up the meeting with scheduling details and logistics, but long after he's gone, the three of them remain on the couch, Zoey still buzzing with excitement while Rumi and Mira try to process what this means.

Less time with Zoey. Just when they're already struggling with how to tell her about their relationship, how to confess their feelings, and how to navigate the growing presence of Caleb in her life. And now she'll be gone even more—early mornings, late nights, separate schedules that will pull her further into her own orbit.

But watching her face, seeing the pure joy there, neither of them can bring themselves to feel anything but happy for her. This is Zoey's dream. This is what she's worked for.

Even if the timing feels impossible.

The days pass, and they realize just how busy Zoey will be.

Sometimes she's gone before the sun is up, slipping out of the dorm at 5 AM for vocal coaching sessions that Rumi and Mira only know about because they hear the front door close. Sometimes she gets back after midnight from concept meetings and early choreography developments, stumbling into the living room where one or both of them are usually waiting up, pretending to watch late-night variety shows.

"How was practice?" Mira asks one night when Zoey finally makes it home at 12:30, her hair still damp with sweat.

"Exhausting," Zoey sighs, collapsing onto the couch between them. "But good. Really good. The choreographer has these ideas that are completely different from anything we've done before."

She leans into Rumi's side automatically, and Rumi's arm comes up to wrap around her shoulders. For a moment, it feels normal. Like the careful distance of the past week was just a bad dream.

"Tell us about it," Rumi says, and Zoey launches into an animated description of the staging concepts, the lighting design, and the way her remix is coming together.

Her enthusiasm is infectious, and for twenty minutes, they just listen to her talk, watching the way she gestures with tired hands, the way she lights up even through her exhaustion. This is their Zoey—passionate, driven, incandescent when she's pursuing something she loves.

But then her phone buzzes on the coffee table, and they all see Caleb's name on the screen.

Zoey's face changes, softening in that way it's been doing all week. "Sorry, I should—he's been asking about how the prep is going."

She answers the call, switching to English almost immediately. "Hey, you're up late... No, I just got home from the studio... Yeah, it's been crazy but amazing..."

Rumi and Mira exchange a look over Zoey's head. Because she's been updating Caleb about her rehearsals, too, apparently. Sharing her excitement with him in that fluid, comfortable English while they sit there, understanding maybe half of what she's saying.

The conversation lasts fifteen minutes. When Zoey finally hangs up, she seems almost surprised to find them still there.

"Sorry," she says again, but she doesn't elaborate on what they talked about. Just stretches and announces she needs to shower before collapsing into bed.

It becomes a pattern. On the rare evenings when Zoey is home and present, when she's curled between them on the couch or sprawled across Mira's bed while they half-watch a movie, her phone will buzz. And increasingly, it's Caleb.

Good morning texts that she reads with a small smile. Photos of his work meetings that make her laugh. Questions about Seoul that turn into longer conversations about her day, her rehearsals, her life.

Rumi and Mira try not to keep track, but it's impossible not to notice. The way Zoey's face lights up when she sees his name. The way she answers almost immediately, even when she's exhausted. The way she steps out of the room for some calls, seeking privacy in a way she never has before.

And through it all, they love her. Desperately, helplessly, more than she knows. They're proud of her solo opportunity and genuinely thrilled to see her receive the recognition she deserves. But watching her drift further into her own world—split between her intense rehearsal schedule and her rekindled connection with Caleb—feels like losing her by degrees.

They still haven't told her about their relationship. Still haven't found the right moment to confess their feelings. And with each passing day, both conversations feel more impossible.

It starts small.

The first time Zoey comes home from practice bubbling with stories about her choreographer's latest ideas, Rumi and Mira listen with genuine enthusiasm. But when Zoey's phone rings mid-conversation and she takes the call with Caleb instead of letting it go to voicemail, something shifts.

"We should let her focus," Rumi says quietly when Zoey steps into the kitchen for privacy, speaking in that fluid English that sounds like a different person entirely.

Mira nods, but her jaw is tight. "She's got a lot on her plate."

When Zoey comes back twenty minutes later, apologetic and glowing from whatever Caleb said to make her laugh, they've both retreated to their rooms. The living room feels too empty, too big without them there.

"Oh," Zoey says to the vacant couch. "I guess... I guess they went to bed."

She tells herself it makes sense. They're tired. She's been monopolizing their time with rehearsal stories anyway.

The pattern continues over the following days. Zoey notices small things—the way Rumi and Mira's conversations pause when she enters a room, how they seem to find each other's eyes across spaces in a way that feels deliberately private. She catches glimpses of them on the couch together during her brief stops home between rehearsals, Mira's head in Rumi's lap or their hands intertwined in a way that seems more intimate than their usual casual touches.

It shouldn't hurt. They're friends—of course, they're growing closer. But something about the careful way they separate when she approaches makes her chest tight with an emotion she can't name.

Meanwhile, Rumi and Mira watch Zoey throw herself into her solo preparation with a mixture of pride and growing anxiety. Every late night, every skipped meal, every exhausted stumble through the front door reinforces their certainty that this isn't the time for complications.

How can they tell her about their relationship when she's already juggling eighteen-hour rehearsal days? How can they add the weight of their feelings to shoulders that are already carrying the pressure of proving herself as a solo artist? The thought of confessing now—of potentially creating drama or confusion right when she needs to focus most—feels selfish. Cruel, even.

So they decide to wait. After the festival. After she's had her moment to shine without worrying about navigating new relationship dynamics or managing their feelings on top of everything else.

But every day they wait makes the secret feel heavier. Makes every conversation with Zoey feel like walking through a minefield of things they can't say.

"That's great, Zoey," Mira says one evening when Zoey excitedly describes finally nailing the bridge transition, and her smile is real but doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You must be exhausted."

It's dismissal wrapped in concern, and Zoey recognizes it even if she doesn't understand why. She's seen this before—the careful politeness that replaces warmth, the way people start managing their responses to her instead of just responding.

Rumi and Mira don't mean for it to happen. They're genuinely proud of Zoey's progress, genuinely happy for her success. But every conversation feels fraught with landmines. Every casual touch has to be measured against what it might reveal. Every moment of natural intimacy gets filtered through the fear that they'll slip and say too much.

And underneath it all is Caleb—his name appearing on Zoey's phone more frequently, the way her face transforms when she talks to him, the increasing privacy around their conversations. Each call feels like evidence that even if they did confess, Zoey's heart might already be moving in a different direction.

"Did I do something wrong?" Zoey asks one evening when Rumi responds to her practice stories with distracted nods, and Mira excuses herself early to work on choreography.

"What? No," Rumi says, too quickly. "Why would you think that?"

But she won't meet Zoey's eyes, and the patterns on her skin seem dimmer than usual.

Zoey wants to push. Wants to ask about the way they've been whispering in corners, the way their touches linger when they think she's not looking, the way they both seem to have developed the same careful distance from her at exactly the same time. But she's tired—bone-deep, soul-deep tired from the constant pressure to be perfect.

And she can't handle another house that goes cold on her. Can't handle another family that decides she's too much trouble, too demanding, not worth the effort of honesty.

So instead of fighting for answers she might not want to hear, Zoey starts pulling away too.

She stops offering unsolicited updates about her practice. Stops lingering in the living room hoping they'll join her for late-night talks. When her phone rings with Caleb's calls, she takes them in her room instead of the common areas, closing her door against the careful politeness that's replaced the warmth she used to count on.

And slowly, without anyone meaning for it to happen, the dorm grows cold.

Chapter Text

The alarm goes off at 5:15 AM, and Zoey's hand finds her phone before her eyes open fully. Four weeks of this schedule, and her body has learned to wake up tired.

She pads to the kitchen in socked feet, the dorm still wrapped in that heavy quiet that comes just before dawn. The leftover containers on the counter catch her attention immediately—two portions of what looks like japchae and bulgogi, carefully wrapped with a sticky note in Mira's precise handwriting: For Zoey. Heat for 90 seconds.

Her chest tightens. They'd cooked for her again. Made her a plate, left it waiting, probably hoped she'd get home in time to eat with them. But she'd stumbled through the door at 1:30 AM to find the living room dark and the kitchen cleaned, their care reduced to plastic containers and Post-it instructions.

When was the last time they'd all sat down for a meal together? Really sat down, not rushed bites between schedules or reheated leftovers eaten standing at the counter while someone explained why they had to leave again in twenty minutes.

Zoey can't remember.

Her phone buzzes against the marble countertop.

Good morning sunshine. Day 4 of meetings. Send caffeine prayers.

The text is accompanied by a photo of Caleb's hotel breakfast—eggs benedict and perfectly arranged fruit, all photographed with the kind of careful composition that makes her smile despite everything. He's already dressed for the day in a crisp button-down, tie loosened just enough to look effortlessly put-together.

She types back quickly: Jealous of your actual breakfast. I'm about to survive on convenience store coffee and whatever's in our vending machine.

The glamorous idol life, he responds almost immediately. How are rehearsals going?

Exhausting. But good. Really good.

Can't wait to see it. You're going to kill it.

The easy confidence in his words settles something in her chest that's been wound tight for weeks. She likes this—the way he believes in her without needing explanations, without her having to prove she deserves his faith.

She scrolls through her music library, settling on something soft and instrumental that won't carry through the walls. The last thing she needs is to wake Rumi and Mira when they're probably getting their first full night of sleep in days.

As she moves around the kitchen, muscle memory guiding her through the motions of making coffee, she catches herself listening for sounds from down the hall. Usually, by now, she'd hear Rumi's diffuser humming in her room—that lavender and bergamot blend that somehow always manages to drift under her door and cling to her sheets. It's become as much a part of her morning routine as her alarm: wake up, smell Rumi's calming aromatherapy, feel grounded.

But today, like the past several days, there's nothing. No gentle mechanical whir, no familiar scent threading through the air.

Which means Rumi isn't in her room.

Zoey's hands still on the coffee maker, her chest doing something complicated that she doesn't want to name. Because if Rumi isn't in her room at 5:30 AM, there's really only one other place she could be.

They're together , she thinks, and immediately feels guilty for the way the realization sits in her stomach like a stone. They're together, and that's good. That's... that's really good.

She should be happy for them. Is happy for them. Rumi and Mira have been growing closer over the past few months, sharing those quiet moments and meaningful glances that Zoey pretends not to notice. They deserve happiness. They deserve each other.

She just wishes she understood why it feels like she's watching them through glass now.

Shaking her head, Zoey forces herself back into motion. She has a recording session in two hours and a dance rehearsal immediately after. She doesn't have time to dissect the complicated knot of emotions that's been living in her chest for weeks.

Before she leaves, she makes sure there's extra coffee in the machine—enough for two cups, the way Mira likes it strong enough to wake the dead. She fills the electric kettle and plugs it in, positioning Rumi's favorite mug next to the box of chamomile tea that Rumi reaches for every morning without fail.

Small gestures. Muscle memory of care, even when everything else feels fragile.

Even when she's not sure if they'd do the same for her anymore.

Don't be dramatic , she tells herself, slinging her practice bag over her shoulder and checking her phone one more time. Another text from Caleb: Go be brilliant today.

The words carry her out the door and into the pre-dawn Seoul streets, where at least the city's indifference feels honest.

By the time Rumi emerges from Mira's room three hours later, hair mussed and wearing one of Mira's oversized hoodies, the kitchen smells like fresh coffee and the phantom warmth of someone who's already gone.

The full kettle sits waiting beside her favorite mug, steam curling from the coffee maker's carafe. Zoey's shoes are missing from the entryway, her practice bag nowhere to be seen.

"She left coffee," Mira observes, appearing behind Rumi with sleepy eyes and pink hair falling loose around her shoulders.

"And filled the kettle," Rumi adds softly, her fingers tracing the ceramic rim of the mug that's been placed exactly where she always reaches for it.

They stand in the quiet kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of Zoey's care, and neither of them knows how to name the ache in their chests.

Because this is exactly what they've been afraid of—this careful, polite distance. This reduction of intimacy to small, wordless gestures that feel more like apology than affection.

And they have no idea how to bridge the gap they've created while trying so hard not to make things worse.

In the recording studio across the city, Zoey adjusts her headphones and tries to focus on the pre-chorus that's been giving her trouble all week. But her mind keeps drifting to lavender diffusers and carefully portioned dinners, to the way Rumi and Mira's conversations pause when she enters a room.

She wonders if they know she's noticed. If they care that she has.

Her phone lights up with another message from Caleb, and for the first time in weeks, she doesn't feel guilty about being grateful for the distraction.

The practice room feels too big without Zoey.

Mira adjusts the formation for the third time, moving through the motions of their comeback choreography with mechanical precision. But every beat, every transition, every moment where Zoey's voice should layer over theirs feels like a missing puzzle piece.

"From the bridge," she calls, resetting to the center of the room.

Rumi nods, finding her position, but her eyes keep drifting to the empty space where Zoey usually stands. The harmonies sound hollow when it's just the two of them—technically correct but missing that bright, grounding presence that makes everything click into place.

They run through the routine twice more before Mira finally stops, hands on her hips, staring at their reflection in the mirror.

"It's wrong," she says simply.

"I know." Rumi's voice is quiet, her patterns dim beneath the practice room's fluorescent lights. "Everything feels off balance."

Mira moves to the sound system, pausing the track they've been rehearsing to for hours. In the sudden silence, she can hear Rumi's slightly labored breathing, can feel the weight of all the things they're not saying.

They've been here since 9 AM—three hours of running formations and vocal arrangements for a comeback that's supposed to happen in six weeks. Six weeks without their third member, who's been pulling eighteen-hour days preparing for a solo stage that might change everything.

Mira sinks to the floor, back against the mirror, and Rumi follows without hesitation. It's become routine over the past few months—this gravitational pull toward each other when the world feels unsteady. Rumi settles beside her, close enough that their shoulders touch, her hand finding Mira's with the easy intimacy of people who've learned to fit together.

"Remember when we used to complain about her always being in the middle?" Mira asks, threading their fingers together.

Rumi huffs out a laugh that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "She'd throw herself between us during formations, insist on being the bridge in every song."

"Said we needed a buffer."

"Turns out she was right."

They sit in the quiet, hands intertwined, both thinking about the same thing: how empty this feels. How wrong it is to be here without Zoey's laugh echoing off the walls, without her terrible jokes between takes, without her sprawling across the floor during water breaks and pulling them down with her.

Rumi's thumb traces patterns across Mira's knuckles—not the iridescent markings that shift across her skin, but something purely human, purely theirs. It's a gesture that still makes Mira's chest tight with wonder, even after three months of learning the landscape of each other's touches.

Three months since that night when everything changed.

It had been two weeks after Gwi Ma, when the adrenaline had finally worn off and the reality of what they'd all been through started settling in their bones. Mira had been sitting on the edge of Rumi's bed, voice raw from another round of apologies that never felt like enough.

"I pointed my woldo at you," she'd whispered for the hundredth time. "I raised my weapon against you, and I—"

"Mira."

"I could have hurt you. I could have—"

"Mira, stop."

But she couldn't stop. Couldn't stop seeing the moment when fear had overridden everything else, when she'd chosen the mission over the person she—

That's when Rumi had kissed her. Soft and desperate in the darkness of her room, tasting like tears and forgiveness and all the words they'd been too afraid to say. It had cracked everything wide open—all the careful distance they'd maintained, all the unspoken feelings that had been building for months.

"I understand why you did it," Rumi had whispered against her lips. "I would have done the same thing. But we're here now. We're okay. Can you please stop carrying this alone?"

And somehow, in the space between one breath and the next, they'd found each other.

But a month later, when they'd finally learned to sleep in the same bed without flinching, when Rumi's patterns had grown bright enough to cast shadows on the walls, Mira had ruined it all by confessing the truth that had been eating at her since the beginning.

"I love you," she'd said, face buried against Rumi's shoulder. "But I love her too."

She'd expected Rumi to pull away. Expected anger or hurt or the careful distance that had defined so much of their early relationship. Instead, Rumi had gone very still, her hand pausing in its gentle movement through Mira's hair.

"Zoey," Rumi had said. Not a question.

"I know it's complicated. I know it makes everything harder, but I couldn't—I can't lie to you. Not about this."

"Mira."

"I understand if you—"

"I love her too."

The words had hung in the air between them, simple and devastating and strangely liberating all at once. Because suddenly, they weren't carrying the weight of it separately anymore. Suddenly, they were in it together—the wanting, the uncertainty, the careful hope that maybe, somehow, there could be space for all three of them in this thing they were building.

It had simplified everything and complicated everything in the exact same moment.

Now, sitting on the practice room floor with Seoul traffic humming beyond the windows, Mira squeezes Rumi's hand and tries not to think about how far away Zoey feels these days.

"She's been staying later at the studio," Rumi says quietly, reading her thoughts the way she's learned to do.

"And coming home later."

"And talking to Caleb more."

They both let that observation sit for a moment. Because that's the other thing—the way Zoey's face lights up when her phone buzzes with his messages, the way she takes his calls in private now, the way she seems to find comfort in conversations they can only half-understand.

"Maybe we should tell her," Mira says suddenly, the words slipping out before she can stop them. "About us."

Rumi's hand stills in hers. "Mira..."

"I know, I know the timing is terrible, but keeping this secret is making everything worse. She knows something's wrong—"

"She's got four weeks until the festival." Rumi's voice is gentle but firm. "She's already carrying so much pressure. How is adding relationship drama going to help?"

"It's not drama—"

"Isn't it?" Rumi turns to face her fully, patterns shifting to that worried blue-green. "We tell her we've been dating for three months. That we've been hiding it from her. That changes everything between the three of us, and she has to process all of that while preparing for the biggest moment of her career?"

Mira's jaw tightens because she knows Rumi's right, but the weight of the secret feels heavier every day. "So what, we just keep pretending? Keep pulling away from her because we're afraid of slipping up?"

"Just until after the festival. Then we can figure out how to tell her properly. When she's not already overwhelmed."

The silence stretches between them, heavy with all the things they can't seem to get right. Mira wants to argue, wants to insist that honesty is always better than careful omissions. But looking at Rumi's worried expression, thinking about Zoey's eighteen-hour days and the dark circles under her eyes, she can't bring herself to push.

"Okay," she says finally. "After the festival."

Rumi nods, bringing their joined hands to her lips to press a soft kiss to Mira's knuckles. "After the festival, we tell her everything."

Eventually, they'll have to get up. Run the choreography again, practice harmonies that sound incomplete, pretend their trio isn't fracturing along fault lines they can't quite name.

But for now, they hold each other in the space where honesty lives, and try to believe that love—in all its complicated, terrifying forms—will be enough to bridge the distance they've created.

Zoey practically bounces through the studio doors, sweat still cooling on her skin, adrenaline singing through her veins from the best practice session she's had in weeks.

The recording session that morning had been perfect—every vocal run clean, every rap verse hitting exactly the way she'd envisioned it. Her voice coach had actually smiled, which never happened, and told her she was ready. Ready. After weeks of pushing herself to exhaustion, she was finally, actually ready.

And then choreography had been just as good. The bridge transition that had been giving her trouble for days finally clicked, her body finding the rhythm like it had been waiting there all along. She'd run through the full routine three times without a single mistake, each pass building the confidence that had been slowly leaking out of her over the past month.

She was supposed to stay until nine, run it five more times, work on facial expressions and stage presence. But then Lee sajangnim had gotten a call—his assistant choreographer was out with food poisoning, and they were short-staffed for the evening sessions.

"Go home," he'd said, actually looking pleased instead of just professionally satisfied. "Rest. You've earned it."

Home before ten PM. For the first time in almost a month.

The thought of surprising Rumi and Mira sends a spike of excitement through her chest that she hasn't felt in weeks. She can bring them dinner—not the usual rushed takeout eaten standing in the kitchen while someone explains why they have to leave in twenty minutes, but actual dinner. Together. On the couch. Like they used to do.

She makes two stops on the way back to the penthouse. First, the tteokbokki stall three blocks from the company building that Mira discovered during their trainee days and still claims has the best sauce in Seoul. The ajumma running it recognizes Zoey despite her mask and hood, and packs an extra serving with a wink.

Then, the boba place by the studio that Rumi discovered and has been quietly obsessed with ever since. Brown sugar milk tea with extra pearls, exactly the way Rumi orders it every time they sneak out for "creative meetings" that are really just excuses to walk around the neighborhood and decompress.

Bobby would have a heart attack if he knew she was bringing them bubble tea before a comeback, but one drink won't kill them. And the look on Rumi's face when she sees her favorite drink will be worth any lecture about sugar and vocal cords.

By the time she reaches their building, Zoey's practically vibrating with anticipation. The elevator ride to the penthouse feels eternal, the bags of food growing heavier in her hands with each floor. But when she finally enters the security code and steps inside, the first thing she sees is two familiar pairs of shoes by the entrance.

They're home. They're actually home, and it's not even nine-thirty.

Perfect.

Zoey toes off her own sneakers as quietly as possible, takeout bags clutched in both hands. She wants to surprise them—wants to see their faces when she appears in the living room with their favorite foods and announces that she's free for the entire evening.

She pads through the entryway in socked feet, turning the corner toward the living room with a grin already spreading across her face, and then—

Rumi and Mira are on the couch. Close together, Mira turned slightly toward Rumi, her hand cupping Rumi's jaw. And they're kissing. Not dramatically, not like something from a movie. Just soft, easy, domestic. The kind of kiss that speaks of practice, of familiarity, of something that's been happening for a while.

Oh.

Zoey's steps falter, her breath catching somewhere in her throat.

Oh.

The bags in her hands suddenly feel impossibly heavy. Her chest does something complicated—not quite pain, not quite surprise, but something that sits right between her ribs and makes it hard to breathe properly.

They look... they look perfect together. Rumi's patterns are shifting to that soft lavender that means she's content, and Mira's shoulders have that relaxed set they only get when she feels completely safe. They fit, in a way that makes perfect sense and no sense at all.

How long? How long have they been—?

Zoey steps back around the corner before they can see her, pressing her back against the wall and forcing herself to breathe. Once. Twice.

She's happy for them. She is. They deserve this—deserve each other, deserve the easy intimacy she just witnessed, deserve whatever this is that's been growing between them while she's been too busy with her own problems to notice.

But there's something else sitting in her chest too, something that feels uncomfortably like loss. Like she's been holding onto something without realizing it, and now it's slipped through her fingers.

Get it together , she tells herself firmly. They're your best friends. They're happy. You're happy for them.

She takes one more breath, adjusts her grip on the takeout bags, and then deliberately lets her shoulder thump against the wall as she walks toward the living room. Loud enough to announce her presence, to give them a moment to separate if they need to.

"I'm home!" she calls out, injecting as much excitement into her voice as she can manage. "And I brought dinner!"

When she rounds the corner this time, Rumi and Mira are sitting a careful distance apart on the couch. Mira's hand is in her lap, and Rumi's patterns have shifted to that nervous blue-green they get when she's caught off guard. But they're both smiling at her, genuine warmth in their expressions.

"You're home early," Rumi says, and there's something in her voice that might be relief.

"Practice got cut short." Zoey holds up the bags like trophies. "Thought we could finally have a real dinner together. I got tteokbokki from your place," she says to Mira, "and—" She produces the bubble tea with a flourish. "Brown sugar milk tea. Don't tell Bobby."

Rumi's face lights up in exactly the way Zoey hoped it would, and for a moment, everything feels normal. Easy. Like the careful distance of the past few weeks was just her imagination.

"You didn't have to—" Rumi starts.

"I wanted to," Zoey says, settling into the armchair across from them instead of squeezing onto the couch like she usually would. Space. She should give them space. "It's been forever since we've all been home at the same time."

"How was practice?" Mira asks, reaching for the tteokbokki containers.

And Zoey launches into the story of her day—the successful recording session, the breakthrough with the choreography, the way everything finally clicked into place. She talks with her hands, animated in a way she hasn't been in weeks, and watches Rumi and Mira's faces light up with genuine pride and excitement.

They ask questions. They celebrate her victories. They steal bites of each other's food and argue about which drama to put on in the background. For two hours, it feels like before—like the three of them against the world, like home.

But there's something different now. A new understanding sitting quietly in the room. Zoey catches the way Rumi and Mira's eyes find each other over her head, the way Mira's hand hovers near Rumi's knee before pulling back. Small gestures that speak of intimacy, carefully contained, of a relationship being consciously hidden.

And Zoey smiles through all of it, because she loves them. Because she wants them to be happy. Because the alternative—making this about her own complicated feelings—is unthinkable.

When they finally clean up and head toward their respective rooms around midnight, Zoey hugs them both goodnight. Tight, genuine hugs that last just a beat longer than usual.

"I missed this," she tells them, and means it. "Just... being together like this."

The words hang in the air for a moment. Rumi and Mira exchange a quick glance, something passing between them that Zoey can't quite read.

"Zoey—" Mira starts.

"Good night," Zoey says quickly, stepping back with another bright smile. "Thanks for staying up to eat with me."

She's already turning toward her room, already escaping before they can ask questions she doesn't know how to answer.

In the safety of her bedroom, door closed and lights off, Zoey finally lets herself feel the full weight of what she witnessed. The happiness for her friends, yes, but also the strange hollow ache that she doesn't quite know how to name.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand—a good night text from Caleb, probably. She opens it, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, hesitant, then—

Goodnight :)

Later that night, she stares at the ceiling and tries to understand why watching two of her favorite people find happiness together feels like losing something she never knew she wanted.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Zoey wakes before her alarm.

She lies in bed for several minutes, staring at the ceiling and trying to sort through the tangle of emotions from the night before. The image of Rumi and Mira on the couch keeps replaying—soft and intimate and so clearly not the first time. The easy way they'd fit together, the gentle familiarity in Mira's touch.

They looked happy. They looked...right.

And that should be enough. That should be all that matters.

Zoey rolls out of bed and pads to the kitchen in her socked feet, muscle memory guiding her through the motions of making coffee. The apartment feels different in the morning light—not empty, exactly, but sparse. It's been weeks since all three of them have been home at the same time for more than a few hours. Between her extended solo rehearsals, Mira's shoots, and Rumi's collaboration work, their lives have become a series of missed connections and reheated meals.

She can hear movement from down the hall—the quiet sounds of her roommates getting ready for the day. Soon, they'll emerge, and she'll have to act normal. Act like she doesn't know.

The thought sits strangely in her chest. Not anger, exactly, but something adjacent to hurt. Not that they're together—she's genuinely happy for them—but that they felt they couldn't tell her. That they're still keeping it secret, even from her.

Maybe they're not ready. Maybe they're still figuring things out between themselves. Maybe they don't want to complicate the group dynamic, especially with her solo stage coming up.

She can give them space. She's good at that—at reading a room, at knowing when to step back. It's what she's always done.

By the time Rumi appears in the kitchen, hair still mussed from sleep, Zoey has her smile firmly in place.

"Morning," she says, holding up the coffee pot. "Want some?"

"Please," Rumi mumbles, accepting the mug with grateful hands. Her patterns are barely visible this early, just faint traces of blue-green beneath her skin.

Mira joins them a few minutes later, already dressed and checking her phone. She glances up at Zoey, and for a moment, their eyes meet. Zoey's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers across Mira's expression—a slight furrow of her brow, like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

"Sleep well?" Mira asks.

"Like a rock," Zoey lies easily. "You?"

"Fine." But Mira's gaze lingers, studying Zoey's face with that careful attention she usually reserves for choreography.

The conversation flows normally enough—schedules and plans and the usual morning logistics. Mira has a shoot that will run until evening. Rumi's collaboration recording got moved to an earlier time slot. Zoey's own day is packed with vocal coaching and choreo review.

"Probably won't see you guys until tomorrow," Mira says, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Same," Rumi agrees. "Late night at the studio."

Zoey nods, already mentally preparing for another evening alone in the too-quiet apartment. "No worries. I'll probably crash early anyway."

When Bobby texts about an additional studio session that evening, Zoey glances at the message and tucks her phone away without comment.

"Everything okay?" Rumi asks.

"Just work stuff," Zoey says lightly. "Nothing major."

It's not exactly a lie. But it's not the whole truth either, and normally Zoey would have shared the details—complained about the long day ahead, asked for advice about which lyrics to focus on, maybe even invited them to hang out afterward if they were free.

Instead, she finishes her coffee and heads to her room to get ready, leaving Rumi and Mira at the kitchen counter with the vague sense that something has shifted.

The studio session runs longer than expected. By the time Zoey emerges, voice slightly hoarse and muscles aching from running the same choreography sequence dozens of times, it's nearly nine PM. The building is mostly empty, just a few dedicated trainees still grinding through practice rooms, their music bleeding faintly into the corridors.

She's checking her phone in the elevator when Caleb's name appears on her screen.

Caleb : How was the studio session?

She blinks at the message, surprised he remembered her mentioning it. They've been texting sporadically over the past few days—nothing heavy, just small updates and the kind of casual conversation that doesn't require much thought.

Zoey : Long but good. Finally home

Caleb : Have you eaten?

The question stops her short. She hasn't, actually. There had been plans to grab something after the session, but her usual companion for late dinners—whichever of Rumi or Mira was also working late—isn't available tonight.

Zoey : Not yet

Caleb : There’s a place in Gangnam by my hotel. Quiet, good food. Wanna grab dinner?

Zoey stares at the message for a long moment. Her first instinct is to say no—she's tired, she looks terrible, and going out feels like more effort than she can muster. But then she thinks about the empty apartment waiting for her, the reheated leftovers in the fridge, the long evening ahead with nothing but her own thoughts for company.

Something about the invitation feels significant in a way she can't quite name. Maybe it's the simple fact that someone wants to spend time with her, not because they have to be there for work or group obligations, but just because. Maybe it's the way Caleb's messages never feel like they're asking for anything other than her company.

Or maybe it's that the alternative—going home to the careful politeness she's been maintaining with Rumi and Mira, pretending she doesn't know their secret while nursing her own loneliness—feels suddenly unbearable.

Zoey : Give me 20 minutes to change?

Caleb : Take all the time you need. I'll send you the address.

She makes it to the apartment, showers quickly, and pulls on jeans and an oversized hoodie. In the mirror, she looks like any other twenty-something heading out for a casual dinner, not like someone whose face appears on billboards across the city. She adds a baseball cap and face mask—standard armor for any public outing.

The restaurant Caleb chose is exactly what he promised: quiet, dimly lit, the kind of place where conversations happen in lowered voices and no one looks twice at diners who clearly want privacy. When she arrives, he's already there, scrolling through his phone at a corner table.

He looks up when she approaches, and for a moment, she's struck by how different he is from the boy she remembers. Broader shoulders, sharper jawline, the kind of confidence that comes from years of navigating professional environments. But his smile is exactly the same—warm and slightly lopsided, the one that used to make her forget whatever she'd been worrying about.

"You look tired," he says when she sits down, and somehow it doesn't feel like criticism.

"I am tired," she admits, pulling off her mask and settling into the booth. "But hungry too, so thank you for this."

"When's the last time you had a real meal? Not just grabbed something between schedules?"

Zoey considers this, realizing she can't remember. "Honestly? Probably last week. Maybe longer."

Caleb shakes his head with fond exasperation. "Some things never change."

"Hey, I eat—"

"Convenience store kimbap and energy bars don't count as real meals, Zo."

The nickname slips out so naturally that neither of them seems to notice at first. Then Zoey's expression shifts slightly, something vulnerable flickering across her face.

"Sorry," Caleb says quickly. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's fine." She waves him off, but her voice is softer when she continues. "It's just been a while since anyone called me that."

They order without much discussion—comfort food, nothing fancy. Caleb has gotten better with chopsticks since high school, though he still holds them with the concentration of someone who learned the skill as an adult. Zoey finds herself watching his hands, remembering the way he used to gesture wildly when he got excited about something, how he'd unconsciously drum patterns on his thighs when he was thinking.

"Tell me about Seoul," she says when their food arrives. "I mean, really, tell me. Not the business trip stuff. What's it actually like living here?"

Caleb considers the question while he navigates a particularly stubborn piece of bulgogi. "Overwhelming, at first. Everything moves faster than I expected. Like everyone's always working toward something bigger."

"That sounds familiar."

"I bet." He looks at her directly then, and there's something in his expression that makes her stomach flutter. "But also beautiful. And surprising. I've been here two months and I still find something new every day."

"What's been your favorite discovery?"

"This little bookstore in Hongdae. They have this entire section of books in English, and the owner lets me sit there for hours reading without buying anything. Reminds me of that place we used to go to in Burbank, with the weird cat who would judge people from the poetry section."

Zoey laughs, the sound coming out more freely than it has in weeks. "Mr. Whiskers! God, I haven't thought about him in years. He hated everyone except you."

"He had good taste."

"He had strange taste. He also loved that weird guy who only came in to read romance novels and cry."

"That weird guy had a very sophisticated emotional palette."

They fall into the rhythm of shared memories—high school friends, terrible movies they'd watched together, the time they'd gotten lost driving to a concert and ended up at a 24-hour diner talking until sunrise. It's easy in a way that feels both foreign and familiar, like speaking a language she'd forgotten she was fluent in.

"I missed this," she says without thinking, then immediately wishes she could take it back.

"This?"

"Just... talking. Without having to think about every word."

Caleb nods slowly. "I get that. Sometimes it feels like every conversation has an agenda."

"Exactly." She picks at her noodles, surprised by how relieved she feels to be understood. "With work, everyone wants something specific from me. At home, everyone's so busy that we barely get to actually talk anymore."

She doesn't mention the new distance she's been maintaining, the secret she's carrying, the way she's been measuring her words even with the people she's closest to.

"What about tonight?" Caleb asks. "Any agenda here?"

Zoey looks up, meeting his eyes across the table. There's something gentle in his expression, something that reminds her of why she'd fallen for him in the first place—the way he'd always been able to see past her defenses without making her feel exposed.

"No agenda," she says softly. "Just dinner."

"Good," he says, and his smile is warm and uncomplicated. "I like just dinner."

They settle into the meal after that, the conversation flowing easier now that they've established the parameters. No expectations, no hidden motives—just two people who used to know each other very well, figuring out who they are now. Zoey finds herself relaxing in increments, her shoulders dropping, her responses coming more naturally.

The restaurant hums quietly around them, other diners lost in their own conversations, the clink of chopsticks against ceramic providing a gentle soundtrack. It feels separate from the rest of Seoul, from her life, from all the careful navigation she's been doing lately.

"I kept expecting to run into you," Caleb says eventually, twirling noodles around his chopsticks. "When I first got here. I'd see groups of girls with bright hair and think maybe one of them would be you."

"You never looked me up? Huntr/x isn't exactly obscure."

"I did, actually." He pauses, meeting her eyes. "After the first week. Watched some performances, read some interviews. You seemed... happy. Settled. I didn't want to complicate that."

There's something careful in the way he says it, like he's testing the waters of a conversation they've been dancing around since he texted her that first day.

"For what it's worth," Zoey says quietly, "I'm glad you did. Look me up, I mean. And that you reached out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I missed..." She struggles for the right words. "I missed being myself. The version of myself that you knew."

"You're not yourself with your group?"

"I am, but it's different. They know idol Zoey. Rapper Zoey. Zoey, who has to be responsible for other people's dreams and careers." She picks at her food, trying to articulate something she's never said out loud. "You knew me when I was just trying to figure out who I wanted to be."

"You were already pretty amazing at seventeen."

"I was a mess at seventeen."

"You were ambitious. And brave. And willing to leave everything you knew for something you believed in." Caleb's voice is warm, matter-of-fact. "That's not a mess. That's incredible."

The sincerity in his tone makes her chest tight. She looks down at her plate, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

"We never really talked about it," she says after a moment. "About how we ended."

"No, we didn't."

"I think I was afraid to. Afraid it would make it more real, or more final, or something."

Caleb nods slowly. "I get that. It felt like if we didn't acknowledge it, maybe it wasn't really happening."

"But it was."

"Yeah. It was."

They sit with that for a moment, the weight of old grief settling between them like a familiar ache. Not painful, exactly, but present. Acknowledged.

"I want you to know," Zoey continues, "that it was never about not loving you enough. Or not wanting to make it work."

"I know."

"Do you? Because I never said that, and I should have. I should have told you that choosing Korea didn't mean choosing away from you."

"Zo." Caleb's voice is gentle, understanding. "I know. I've always known that."

"Then why does it still feel like I broke something irreplaceable?"

The question hangs between them, honest and raw. Caleb is quiet for a long moment, considering his words.

"Maybe because we did," he says finally. "Maybe because some things can't be unbroken, even when breaking them was the right choice."

Zoey looks up at him then, really looks at him. At the man he's become, the way he holds himself with quiet confidence, the kindness in his eyes that's deepened rather than dimmed over the years. He's different—they both are—but there's something underneath that feels achingly familiar.

"I don't regret it," she says softly. "Korea, I mean. This life. But I do regret how much it hurt you."

"And I don't regret letting you go," Caleb replies. "But I regret that I never told you I was proud of you for choosing something so brave."

The words settle between them like a benediction. Not romance, exactly, but something else. Recognition, maybe. The acknowledgment of two people who shaped each other in important ways, who carry pieces of their shared history even as they build separate futures.

"We turned out okay, didn't we?" Zoey asks eventually.

"I think we did." Caleb's smile is soft, uncomplicated. "Different than we planned, but okay."

They talk until the restaurant starts closing around them, conversation flowing with the easy rhythm they'd once taken for granted. When Caleb walks her to the subway station, Zoey realizes it's the first time in weeks that she's felt completely like herself—not the careful, measured version she's been presenting at home, but the real, unguarded person underneath.

"Thank you," she says when they reach the station entrance. "For dinner. For... this."

"Thank you for saying yes."

"I almost didn't."

"I'm glad you did."

There's a moment where they both hesitate, caught between the impulse to hug and the awareness that they're in public, that cameras could be anywhere. In the end, Caleb just touches her shoulder briefly, a gesture that's friendly and careful and somehow perfect.

"Text me when you get home safe?" he asks.

"I will."

As the train pulls away from the station, Zoey catches her reflection in the dark window and wonders when being herself became something she had to work to remember how to do.

Her phone buzzes as she swipes her transit card.

Rumi : Got home safe?

Zoey : Just getting on the train now. See you tomorrow.

Simple. Factual. Nothing about where she's been or who she was with.

As the train pulls away from the station, Zoey catches her reflection in the dark window and wonders when keeping secrets became so easy.

Mira's feet ache by the time she finally makes it back to the apartment at nearly midnight. The Chanel shoot had run hours longer than scheduled—lighting issues, wardrobe changes, and a creative director who kept asking for "just one more setup" until the entire crew looked ready to collapse.

The apartment is dark when she keys in, just the soft glow of the kitchen under-cabinet lights that they always leave on. She toes off her heels with a quiet sigh of relief and pads toward the hallway in stocking feet.

Zoey's door is closed, no light bleeding from underneath. Which makes sense—she'd said she was planning to crash early tonight after her studio session. Probably already fast asleep.

But something feels off.

Mira pauses in the hallway, trying to place what's bothering her. Then it hits her: Zoey's shoes aren't by the entrance. Her practice bag isn't in its usual spot against the wall. The apartment has that particular emptiness that comes when no one's been home for hours.

She backtracks to the entryway, flicking on the overhead light. Zoey's sneakers—the ones she'd been wearing this morning—are definitely missing. So is the oversized hoodie she usually throws on for quick errands.

Mira pulls out her phone, scrolling back through their group chat. The last message is from this afternoon: Zoey confirming her studio session time. Nothing about going anywhere afterward.

A quick check of Zoey's location share shows it's been turned off.

Mira frowns, settling onto the couch and pulling up her private chat with Rumi.

Mira - 12:02 AM : Finally home. Zoey's not here

Rumi - 12:03 AM : What do you mean?

Mira - 12:03 AM : I mean she's not here. Her room is dark but her shoes are gone

Mira - 12:04 AM : Thought she was crashing early?

Rumi - 12:05 AM : That's what she said

Rumi - 12:06 AM : Maybe she went for a late night walk? Food run?

Mira - 12:07 AM : Without telling us?

The three dots appear and disappear several times before Rumi's response comes through.

Rumi - 12:09 AM : She doesn't have to tell us everything

Mira - 12:10 AM : She usually does though

And that's what's really bothering her. Zoey is compulsively communicative—the type to send updates about mundane grocery store trips and random thoughts at 2 AM. The type to ask if anyone wants anything when she's making a convenience store run, even when the answer is predictably no.

The radio silence feels wrong.

Mira - 12:12 AM : Check the fan cafe

Rumi - 12:13 AM : Why?

Mira - 12:14 AM : Just check

She waits, staring at the screen, until Rumi responds.

Rumi - 12:17 AM : Someone spotted her at a restaurant in Gangnam. With "a tall foreign man"

Mira - 12:18 AM : Caleb

Rumi - 12:19 AM : Probably

Mira - 12:20 AM : She's on a date and didn't tell us

The words sit there on the screen, stark and somehow more real than the thought had been in her head. Zoey is out with her ex-boyfriend—the one who'd held a piece of her heart for five years, the one who'd reappeared in Seoul like a ghost from a life they'd never really understood.

And she hadn't said a word.

Rumi - 12:23 AM : Maybe it's not a date

Mira - 12:24 AM : Then why lie about it?

Mira - 12:25 AM : Why say she's going home to sleep when she's really going out for dinner?

Rumi - 12:27 AM : I don't know

The honesty in those three words makes something twist in Mira's chest. Because Rumi always knows. Rumi is their leader, their compass, the one who can read people and situations with uncomfortable accuracy.

If Rumi doesn't know what's happening with Zoey, then they're really in uncharted territory.

Mira - 12:30 AM : She's been different lately

Mira - 12:31 AM : Polite. Careful. Like she's measuring her words

Rumi - 12:33 AM : I noticed

Mira - 12:34 AM : What if she knows?

The question hangs there between them, unspoken implications filling the space around it. What if Zoey knows about their relationship? What if she's been pulling away because she feels left out, or worse—hurt that they've been keeping it from her?

Rumi - 12:37 AM : We don't know that

Mira - 12:38 AM : We don't know anything anymore

Mira - 12:39 AM : I'm going to bed. Too tired to think straight

Rumi - 12:40 AM : Get some sleep. We'll figure this out

But as Mira turns off her phone and heads to her room, she can't shake the feeling that things are already figured out—just not in any way they'd hoped for.

Somewhere across the city, Zoey is having dinner with someone who knew her before she became the person they love. Someone who makes her smile in ways that don't require careful navigation of unspoken feelings and hidden relationships.

And for the first time since her and Rumi have started dating, Mira wonders if they've already lost something they never really had to begin with.

Rumi gets home twenty minutes before Zoey does.

The apartment is silent when she slips inside, Mira's door already closed for the night. The recording session had ended earlier than expected, but Rumi had lingered at the studio anyway, running through vocal exercises she didn't need to practice, organizing equipment that was already perfectly arranged. Anything to avoid coming home to the careful politeness that's been settling over them like dust.

She moves through the kitchen quietly, filling the electric kettle and pulling down her favorite mug—the ceramic one Zoey had bought her for her birthday, painted with tiny lavender flowers that matched her patterns. The tea steeps while she leans against the counter, still in her studio clothes, hair pulled back in the same braid she'd worn for twelve hours.

The chamomile is almost ready when she hears the front door's security code being entered.

Rumi glances at the clock—1:47 AM. Late, even for Zoey's recent standards.

Footsteps in the entryway, careful and quiet. The soft thump of shoes being removed, the rustle of fabric. Then Zoey appears in the kitchen doorway, still wearing her baseball cap and mask, oversized hoodie hanging loose around her frame.

She freezes when she sees Rumi.

"Oh." The word comes out muffled behind the mask. "I thought everyone would be asleep."

"Just got home myself," Rumi says, studying Zoey's face—what she can see of it above the black fabric. "Want some tea?"

"No, I'm—" Zoey starts, then seems to catch herself. "Actually, that sounds nice. Thank you."

She pulls off her cap and mask, and Rumi's chest does something complicated at the sight of her face. Zoey looks... relaxed. More relaxed than she's looked in weeks, actually. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her hair mussed from the hat, and there's something soft around her eyes that speaks of good conversation and genuine laughter.

Rumi turns to get another mug, mostly to have something to do with her hands. "Where were you tonight?"

The question comes out cooler than she'd intended. Not accusatory, exactly, but not warm either. She'd hoped for casual curiosity, but what emerges sounds more like the careful distance Zoey's been maintaining with them.

"I ended up grabbing dinner," Zoey says after a pause. She's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over her chest. "With Caleb."

The straightforward answer cuts deeper than Rumi expected.

She'd been hoping Zoey wouldn't lie—had been dreading the possibility of some vague excuse about late-night studio work or grocery shopping. But somehow, hearing the truth feels worse. Because it means Zoey chose to spend her evening with someone else. Someone who makes her look the way she looks right now—content and unguarded in a way she hasn't been at home in weeks.

"How was it?" Rumi asks, pouring hot water over a second tea bag. Her voice sounds normal, she thinks. Politely interested.

"Good." Zoey accepts the mug when Rumi offers it, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. "Really good, actually. It was nice to just... talk. Without thinking about every word."

The comment is innocent enough, but something in it makes Rumi's patterns flicker beneath her sleeves. Without thinking about every word. Like she has to think about her words here, with them. Like conversations at home have become something to navigate rather than something to enjoy.

"That's good," Rumi says, wrapping her hands around her own mug. The ceramic is almost too hot to touch, but she needs the grounding sensation. "I'm glad you had a nice time."

She means it. Sort of. She wants Zoey to be happy, wants her to have people in her life who make her feel comfortable and understood. But standing here in their kitchen at nearly 2 AM, watching Zoey glow with the aftermath of someone else's company, Rumi feels something desperate claw at her throat.

Tell her, a voice in her head whispers. Tell her about you and Mira. Tell her how you feel. Tell her that you want to be someone she can talk to without measuring words, someone who makes her smile like that.

The impulse is so strong it's almost physical—the need to close the distance between them, to reach for Zoey's free hand, to spill everything that's been building in her chest for months.

"Rumi?" Zoey's voice is soft, concerned. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm—" Rumi starts, then stops. Because Zoey is looking at her with those dark, gentle eyes, head tilted slightly in that way that means she's really listening. And for a moment, it feels possible. It feels like maybe this is the moment, maybe this is when everything changes.

"I'm fine," Rumi finishes instead.

Zoey studies her face for a beat longer, then nods. She takes a sip of her tea and makes a small, appreciative sound.

"Thank you for this," she says, lifting the mug slightly. "And for waiting up, even if you didn't mean to."

"Of course."

"I should shower and get some sleep," Zoey continues, already pushing off from the doorframe. "Early call time tomorrow."

She crosses the kitchen in two steps and wraps Rumi in a quick hug—the kind of casual, affectionate gesture that used to be as natural as breathing between them. But now it feels different. Careful. Like Zoey is consciously maintaining normalcy rather than simply being normal.

"Goodnight," Zoey murmurs against Rumi's shoulder, and her voice is warm and genuine and completely devastating.

"Goodnight," Rumi whispers back.

Zoey pulls away with that smile—the one that's always made Rumi forget how to breathe properly—and disappears down the hallway. A moment later, Rumi hears the shower start.

She stands alone in the kitchen, still holding her mug of chamomile tea that's gone lukewarm while she wasn't paying attention. The tea tastes bitter now, wrong, like everything else lately.

Somewhere down the hall, Zoey is washing off the evening, probably humming to herself the way she does when she's content. And in Mira's room, Mira is asleep, unaware of the conversation that just happened, unaware of how close Rumi came to changing everything without her.

Rumi pours the rest of her tea down the drain and turns off the kitchen lights.

The moment is gone, cold as chamomile left too long on the counter. And she still doesn't know when—or if—another one will come.

Chapter Text

The practice room feels hollow without Zoey's voice threading through the harmonies.

Rumi adjusts her position for the bridge transition, muscle memory guiding her through movements that feel incomplete. Sweat darkens the collar of her fitted black crop top, the long braid down her back sticking slightly against her skin with every turn.

Beside her, Mira counts under her breath, resetting to the chorus formation they've been drilling for the past hour. Her oversized white tee clings to her shoulders, damp from repetition, while the pink strands of her twin ponytails slap lightly against her chest with each pivot. The heavy lines of her cargo pants weigh her movements in a way that makes her dance look sharper, more deliberate.

The comeback choreography is solid—technically flawless, even—but every beat where Zoey should be feels like a missed step.

"From the top," Mira calls, moving back to center position. But her shoulders are tight with the kind of tension that comes from more than just physical exertion.

They run through the routine twice more before Rumi finally stops, hands on her hips, catching her breath as she stares at their reflection in the mirror.

"She had dinner with Caleb," Rumi says suddenly.

Mira's movement stutters to a halt. "When?"

"Two nights ago. I saw her when she came home." Rumi turns away from the mirror, focusing on the scuffed floor instead. "She didn't lie about it. I asked where she'd been, and she just told me."

"What did she say exactly?"

"That she grabbed dinner with him. That it was nice to talk without thinking about every word."

The comment hangs between them, sharp with implication.

Mira sinks down against the mirror, pulling her knees to her chest. "Fuck, Rumi—”

"I know." Rumi sits beside her, close enough that their shoulders touch. "I almost told her. In the kitchen. I was so close to just... spilling everything."

"Without me?"

"I know. I'm sorry. But she was standing there looking so—" Rumi struggles for words. "Content. Relaxed in a way she hasn't been with us in weeks. And I thought maybe if I could just be honest, maybe we could go back to normal."

Mira processes this, her jaw working as she thinks. "What stopped you?"

"She hugged me goodnight and went to shower. The moment just... passed."

They sit in the quiet, both thinking about missed opportunities and careful timing. The practice room's fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in harsh, unflattering angles.

"Was it a date?" Mira asks finally.

"I don't know. Maybe?"

"She turned off her location sharing."

Rumi's head snaps toward her. "What?"

"Last time I checked. Her location was off." Mira's voice is carefully neutral, but there's hurt underneath. "She's never done that before."

"Maybe she's just being careful. Paparazzi, you know."

"Or maybe she doesn't want us to know where she is."

The possibility sits heavy between them. Because Zoey has always been compulsively transparent—the type to share her location automatically, to send updates about mundane grocery runs, to include them in even the smallest decisions.

"She didn't lie though," Rumi points out. "When I asked, she told me the truth."

"So maybe—" Mira starts, then stops.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe she's straight," Mira says bluntly. "Maybe she's going on dates and she just doesn't think we'd care because why would we? We're her group members. Her best friends."

Rumi's patterns flicker along her arms, a nervous blue-green that matches the knot in her stomach. "Do you think she has no idea how we feel about her?"

"I think we've been really good at hiding it."

Mira pushes herself back to standing, moving toward the center of the room with sharp, restless energy. She resets to the formation they'd been working on, but when she hits the turn that's been giving her trouble all morning, her foot slips slightly.

"Fuck," she mutters, stopping mid-movement.

"Take a break," Rumi suggests gently.

"I don't want a break. I want to get this right." But Mira's voice is strained, frustrated with more than just choreography.

She tries the turn again, and again it's not quite clean. Her balance is off, her timing just a fraction too slow. It's the kind of technical issue that shouldn't be happening to someone of her skill level, but her head isn't fully in the routine.

There's so much she wants to say. So much she wants to just do. She wants to call Zoey right now and demand honesty about Caleb, about where this is going, about whether there's any chance Zoey might look at them the way they look at her. She wants to stop tiptoeing around feelings that have been growing for months.

But she also senses Rumi's deeper worry—the one that runs underneath all of this like a fault line. The fear that without Zoey, maybe Rumi and Mira won't survive either.

The thought should feel dramatic, overdone. But it doesn't. Because it's always been the three of them, ever since Celine took Mira in during her trainee days, since Zoey passed deliberations and worked her ass off to claim the third spot in what would become Huntr/x. Even their romantic relationship exists in the context of that trio—built on shared glances over Zoey's head, hands finding each other in the spaces she creates between them.

There is no Rumi and Mira without Zoey. There never has been.

"What if she falls in love with him?" Mira asks quietly, finally giving voice to the fear that's been growing in both their chests.

"Then we'll be happy for her," Rumi says automatically.

"Will we?"

Rumi doesn't answer immediately. When she does, her voice is smaller than usual. "I don't know."

Mira nods, returning to position for another run-through. Because what else is there to do?

The camera loves Zoey when she's alone.

That's what the PD keeps saying between takes, adjusting lighting and angles while Zoey holds poses that feel foreign without Rumi and Mira flanking her. Solo shoots require different energy—more intimate, more vulnerable. Instead of the synchronized movements and shared glances that define Huntr/x's visual identity, it's just her. Her expressions, her presence, her ability to fill the frame by herself.

She likes it, which surprises her. There's something liberating about not having to match anyone else's energy, not having to find the perfect balance between three personalities. But it's also strange, like wearing clothes that fit perfectly but in an unfamiliar style.

"Beautiful," the photographer calls out as Zoey shifts into another pose, this one more dynamic, one arm extended toward the camera. "Hold that emotion. Perfect."

What emotion? Zoey wonders, but keeps her expression steady. She's been thinking too much today, her mind wandering during what should be focused work. The solo preparation has given her more quiet time than she's had in months—time in cars between locations, time in hair and makeup chairs, time during lighting adjustments like this one.

Time to think about Rumi and Mira.

Time to replay that moment on the couch, over and over, until she can see it from every possible angle. The soft way Mira had cupped Rumi's jaw, the easy intimacy in the gesture that spoke of practice, of familiarity. How natural they'd looked together, how right.

She's not blind. They're both beautiful—the most beautiful people Zoey has ever met, each in their own unique way. Rumi with her sharp features softened by gentle eyes, the way her patterns shift like living art across her skin. Mira with her pink hair cascading down her back, her dancer's grace that makes even mundane movements look choreographed.

They're both her unnies, both people who've held her during the worst parts of trainee days. Rumi, steady and grounding when Zoey would spiral about not being good enough. Mira, fierce and protective when other trainees made comments about Zoey being half Korean. They've held her together, separately and as a unit.

People she fights with over stupid things like whose turn it is to do dishes. People she trusts with her life when demons are involved. People she loves, without question or reservation.

But seeing them kiss had reframed everything. Suddenly, all those moments of closeness took on new meaning. The way they gravitate toward each other in any room. How Mira's hand always finds Rumi's during movie nights. The soft looks they share when they think no one is watching.

Rumi and Mira. Mira and Rumi. Together. Their lips meeting, soft and certain and—

"Zoey?" Bobby's voice cuts through her thoughts. "PD wants to try the next setup."

She blinks, realizing she's been staring at nothing while the crew adjusts equipment around her. "Sorry. Just thinking about the song."

Bobby gives her a knowing look but doesn't comment.

The next setup involves more movement—walking shots, hair flowing behind her, the kind of dynamic footage that will cut well with the music. It's easier to focus when she's moving, less time for her mind to wander.

But during the ten-minute break that follows, Zoey finds herself reaching for her phone almost automatically.

The group chat has two new messages. Mira sending choreography notes—nothing personal, just technical adjustments for the bridge section they've been struggling with. Rumi's response is a simple thumbs up emoji, efficient and distant.

The conversation feels hollow, professional. Like they're colleagues rather than people who've shared everything for the past few years.

Zoey scrolls to her chat with Caleb instead.

Caleb - 7:03 AM : Good morning! Hope the shoot goes well today.

The message had come in early, when Rumi and Mira were still asleep and the apartment was quiet. He'd remembered her mentioning it in a previous conversation, and had thought to check in before what he knew would be a long day.

It was sweet. He's sweet.

Zoey - 2:47 PM : Thanks. Solo shoots are weird. Good weird, I think, but still weird.

Caleb - 2:48 PM : Different from group stuff?

Zoey - 2:49 PM : Everything's different now

She stares at the message after sending it, surprised by her own honesty. But it's true. Everything feels different since that night—since seeing Rumi and Mira together, since dinner with Caleb, since this growing sense that the life she's known for years is shifting into something new.

Caleb - 2:51 PM : Change isn't always bad

Caleb - 2:52 PM : Sometimes it just means you're growing into who you're supposed to be

The response makes something warm unfurl in her chest. Because that's what Caleb has always been good at—seeing the bigger picture when she gets lost in the details, offering perspective without judgment.

"Ready for the next round?" Bobby asks, approaching with a bottle of water.

Zoey tucks her phone away, but Caleb's words stay with her as she moves back into position. Growing into who she's supposed to be. Maybe that's what all of this is—the solo stage, the distance from Rumi and Mira, even reconnecting with Caleb. Maybe it's not about losing something, but about discovering parts of herself she didn't know were there.

The thought follows her through the rest of the shoot, a quiet possibility that feels both exciting and terrifying in equal measure.

The van is quiet except for the hum of Seoul traffic when Zoey notices it.

A ripple in the Honmoon—barely visible, like heat shimmer rising from summer pavement. Not a tear, just a wrinkle where something small has pushed through.

Zoey tilts her head slightly, watching the ripple propagate outward in slow waves only she and the other two can see. It's been weeks since the last one—most of the stragglers left over from Gwi Ma's death have been cleaned up by now, but occasionally something slips through the cracks. Usually weak, confused demons that pose more of a nuisance than a real threat.

This looks routine. A quick cleanup job, probably over in thirty minutes.

Bobby is scrolling through his tablet beside her, reviewing tomorrow's schedule. He has no clue.

"Bobby," she says, keeping her voice casual, "can you let me off at the next convenience store? I want to grab some snacks."

He looks up, mildly surprised. "We can have something delivered to the penthouse. You've had a long day."

"I know, but I want to walk a bit. Clear my head after all the shooting." She offers him a small smile. "Plus, you know how I get with convenience store ice cream. Can't trust delivery with that."

Bobby chuckles, already signaling the driver. "Fair enough. Text me when you get home safe?"

"Always do."

The van pulls over near a brightly lit Family Mart, and Zoey hops out with her bag slung over her shoulder. She waves as they drive away, maintaining her casual demeanor until the taillights disappear around a corner.

Then she moves.

The disturbance is coming from somewhere in Gangnam—not far from here, but far enough that she'll need to take the rooftop route to avoid Seoul's evening foot traffic. Zoey ducks into an alley between buildings, checking quickly for security cameras before scaling the fire escape with the efficiency of someone who's done this dozens of times.

The city spreads out below her as she reaches the rooftop, the Honmoon's iridescent threads more visible from this height. She can trace the ripple back to its source now—a small tear in the net about six blocks away, already beginning to seal itself.

Zoey checks her phone quickly as she moves from building to building, using maintenance ladders and narrow gaps between structures to travel faster than any street route would allow. No messages in their group chat yet, but Rumi and Mira have seen it too. They're probably already en route, possibly already at the site.

The thought brings its own complicated mix of emotions. Relief that she won't have to handle this alone. Anticipation at seeing them in action again—they work so well together in the field, all the personal complications falling away in favor of clean, efficient teamwork.

But also a flutter of nervousness that has nothing to do with demons and everything to do with how strange things have been between them lately. How carefully they've all been moving around each other, measuring words and maintaining distances.

At least when they're hunting, none of that matters. At least in the field, they're still perfectly, instinctively in sync.

When Zoey reaches the rooftop where the disturbance came from, Rumi and Mira are already mid-fight.

It's not the simple cleanup she'd expected. Two larger demons circle them with predatory grace, while a handful of smaller ones dart between shadows, testing for weaknesses. Rumi's saingeom cuts through the air in clean arcs, dispatching two of the smaller demons with efficient strikes that leave nothing but ash drifting in the evening breeze.

But the bigger ones are pressing their advantage. One of them has Mira cornered near the rooftop's edge, her gokdo spinning in defensive patterns as smaller demons crowd around her, limiting her movement options.

Zoey doesn't hesitate.

She launches herself from the adjacent building's fire escape, landing in a controlled roll that brings her up in throwing position. Three sinkals materialize in her hands, silver light gleaming as she lets them fly in rapid succession. Two find their marks in the smaller demons harassing Mira, their bodies crumbling to ash on impact. The third lodges deep in the shoulder of the larger demon, making it stagger.

The opening is all Mira needs. Her gokdo sweeps up in a vicious arc, finding the gap between the demon's ribs with surgical precision. It doesn't even have time to scream before it's dissolving.

But the distraction costs them.

The second large demon, seeing its companion fall, goes into a frenzy. It swings wildly as Rumi moves in for the kill, its clawed hand catching her across the torso and sending her sprawling across the concrete.

"Rumi!" Mira's voice cracks with concern even as she's yanking her weapon free from the dissolving corpse.

The demon turns toward Rumi, who's pushing herself up on her elbows, patterns flickering weakly beneath her torn shirt. It raises both claws, preparing to strike down while she’s vulnerable.

Zoey's chest constricts with panic.

She's moving before conscious thought kicks in, closing the distance in three long strides and dropping to her knees beside Rumi. Her arms come up protectively, one hand cradling the back of Rumi's head, the other angling skyward as three more sinkals materialize in her grip.

The weapons fly with devastating force—more power than she's ever put behind a throw before, driven by something primal and desperate. All three blades punch through the demon's skull with enough momentum to continue out the other side, the creature exploding into ash before its claws can complete their downward swing.

Silence falls over the rooftop, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant hum of Seoul traffic below.

Zoey realizes she's still holding Rumi, still cradling her head against her shoulder. Rumi's hair smells like vanilla and bergamot—her usual shampoo, familiar and warm. She's solid and breathing and alive, and for a moment Zoey just wants to keep holding her, make sure she's really okay.

Then the reality of the position hits her like a freight train.

Oh god. She's holding Rumi. She's holding Mira's—whatever Mira is to Rumi now—she's holding her like they're something more than bandmates, more than friends. Her arms are wrapped around Rumi like she has the right to be this protective and intimate.

"Are you guys okay?" Mira's voice cuts through Zoey's spiraling thoughts as she jogs toward them, concern etched across her features.

The question jolts Zoey into action. She carefully helps Rumi sit up, her hands probably lingering a moment too long before she pulls away entirely, heat flooding her cheeks.

"I'm fine," Rumi says, though her voice is slightly breathless. There's color high in her cheeks too—a flush that could be from the fight, but somehow seems like something else entirely.

Mira's eyes catch the pink tinge to Rumi's face, and Zoey is too busy trying to compose herself to notice the small smirk that tugs at the corner of Mira's mouth. Amusement flickers in her expression for just a moment before she schools her features back to concern.

"That was close," Mira says, kneeling on Rumi's other side to check the tears in her shirt. Her hands are gentle but efficient as she examines the claw marks—superficial, thankfully, though they'll need cleaning. "Too close."

"I'm okay," Rumi insists, but she doesn't pull away from Mira's careful inspection.

Zoey watches the interaction with new eyes, seeing the way Mira's worry manifests in practical care, the way Rumi accepts the attention. It's subtle in the way only Mira knows how to be—no dramatic declarations or obvious fussing, just steady presence and competent hands checking for injuries.

Her heart warms despite the awkwardness of her position as observer.

"Good timing," Mira says to Zoey, finally satisfied that Rumi's wounds aren't serious. "I don't think we would have managed those last two without you."

"Just happened to be in the neighborhood," Zoey replies, aiming for casual and mostly succeeding.

They gather their bearings, making sure all traces of the demons have fully dissolved before heading down from the rooftop. The Honmoon has already begun repairing the small tear, iridescent threads weaving themselves back into seamless iridescent coverage.

"Want to share a ride back?" Rumi asks as they reach street level, and something in her tone suggests the question is significant.

"If that's okay," Zoey says.

It is okay. More than okay, actually. For the first time in weeks, they're heading home together, the three of them in the back of a taxi like they used to do after late schedules. The familiar routine of it—Mira claiming the middle seat, Zoey by the window, Rumi on the other side—feels like slipping into comfortable clothes.

Even if everything else has changed, at least this works. At least when demons threaten the city, they still move together like parts of the same machine, still trusting each other with their lives without question.

The taxi hums through Seoul's evening traffic, and after a few minutes of comfortable silence, Mira turns to Zoey with genuine curiosity.

"How was your day? The solo shoot?"

The question is simple and normal in the way only Mira can be. Zoey responds with a smile.

The penthouse feels different when all three of them walk through the door together.

Not empty, for once. Not like a space where people happen to sleep between obligations, but like a home where people actually live. Their shoes line up by the entrance in the familiar pattern—Zoey's sneakers, Rumi's boots, Mira's heels from whatever schedule she'd abandoned to respond to the disturbance.

"I'm going to shower," Mira announces, already pulling her hair tie loose. "Need to get demon ash out of my hair."

"I'll make tea," Rumi says, heading toward the kitchen. "And check what we have for dinner."

"I ordered Thai," Mira calls over her shoulder. "Should be on the way."

The domestic routine settles around them like muscle memory. Mira disappears down the hallway, and soon the sound of running water echoes from the bathroom. Rumi moves through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, filling the kettle, arranging mugs on the counter.

Zoey stands in the living room for a moment, taking in the scene. The couch sits innocuously in front of the television, throw pillows arranged the way Mira always likes them, the soft blanket Rumi favors draped over the back.

The same couch where she'd seen them kiss three days ago.

Her stomach does a complicated flip.

"Tea?" Rumi's voice drifts from the kitchen.

"Please," Zoey calls back, then retreats to her room before she can overthink the domesticity of it all.

She flops onto her bed face-first, burying her groan in her pillow. This is ridiculous. She's being ridiculous. Rumi and Mira are together—good for them. They're happy—good for them. They make sense together in ways Zoey is only just beginning to understand, and she should be nothing but supportive.

She IS happy for them. That's the thing that's driving her crazy. She genuinely is. Watching Mira fuss over Rumi's injuries earlier, seeing the way Rumi had accepted the care with such trust—it had made something warm bloom in her chest. They fit together, complement each other in ways that feel inevitable now that she knows to look for it.

Her phone buzzes against the mattress. A notification from Caleb, probably responding to something she'd said earlier about the shoot. She stares at his name on the screen but doesn't open the message. Not yet. She needs to get her head straight first.

The sound of the shower cuts off down the hall, replaced by Mira's voice calling something to Rumi about which tea to use. Their conversation is muffled through the walls, but the tone is easy, familiar. Comfortable.

Zoey takes a deep breath, then another.

She can do this. She can be normal. She wants Rumi and Mira to feel comfortable enough to tell her about whatever this is between them—their relationship, their situation, their whatever-it-is. She wants them to trust her with this piece of their lives instead of feeling like they need to hide it.

Even if knowing makes her chest feel strange in ways she doesn't quite understand. Even if sitting on that couch for dinner is going to require more emotional composure than she feels capable of mustering right now.

Even if part of her—a part she's not ready to examine too closely—wishes she understood why the sight of them together makes her feel less like she's losing something and more like she's missing something.

She sits up, running her hands through her hair, and makes a decision.

She's going to have dinner with them. She's going to be the best friend they deserve. She's going to create space for them to be honest with her, whenever they're ready.

And maybe, eventually, she'll figure out why that prospect feels both entirely right and completely terrifying.

Dinner happens on the couch.

The Thai food is still warm, containers spread across the coffee table alongside mugs of chamomile tea. It should feel normal—they've eaten like this hundreds of times over the years, slouched against cushions with takeout boxes balanced on their knees, some drama playing in the background.

But everything feels carefully orchestrated now. Zoey perches on the edge of the couch, right where Mira had been sitting three nights ago when she'd leaned forward to cup Rumi's face. The memory is so vivid she can almost feel the ghost of that movement, the way Mira had shifted closer with such easy intimacy.

She tries to focus on her pad thai instead.

"How's the choreography coming together?" she asks, because talking about work is safe, neutral territory.

"Good," Rumi says, twirling noodles around her chopsticks. "The bridge section is finally clicking."

"We missed your voice in the harmonies today," Mira adds, and there's something careful in the way she says it. Like she's testing whether they're allowed to acknowledge how strange it feels to practice without their third.

"I missed it too." Zoey manages a smile. "But the solo prep is... it's good. Really good. Scary, but good."

She launches into details about the recording sessions, the choreography adjustments, the way her vocal coach has been pushing her to try new techniques. It's easier to talk when she has concrete things to focus on, when she can pretend the undercurrents in the room don't exist.

Rumi and Mira listen with the kind of attention that makes her remember why she loves them both so much. They ask thoughtful questions, celebrate her small victories, offer suggestions that show how well they understand her strengths and insecurities. For a few minutes, it almost feels like before.

But there's still something beneath the surface. The way Rumi and Mira's eyes find each other over her head. The way Mira's hand hovers near Rumi's knee before pulling back. The careful space they maintain between themselves, like they're consciously restraining impulses that have become habitual.

Zoey can see them fighting something—the urge to be honest, maybe. The desire to stop pretending that nothing has changed between them. She wants to tell them it's okay, that they don't have to hide from her, but she can't figure out how to do it without revealing that she already knows.

"The concept photos turned out really well," she continues, determinedly cheerful. "Bobby showed me some of the proofs, and I think—"

Her phone buzzes against the coffee table, loud enough to interrupt mid-sentence. Caleb's name flashes on the notification bar, bright against the black screen.

"Sorry," Zoey mutters, reaching for the phone. "I haven't checked my messages since we got back."

She scrolls up to the earlier notification she'd ignored, reading quickly. Then her eyes widen slightly.

Caleb - 6:32 PM : I know this might be forward, but would you like to go on a proper date this weekend? No pressure at all - just thought it might be nice.

Caleb - 8:47 PM : Just wanted to make sure again - no pressure about the date thing. I hope the shoot went well today. 🙂

Zoey stares at the messages, her brain taking a moment to process what she's reading. A date. Caleb is asking her on an actual, explicit date.

The silence stretches long enough that both Rumi and Mira are looking at her with concern.

"Everything okay?" Rumi asks carefully.

"Yeah, it's just—" Zoey glances up, then back at her phone. "Caleb asked me on a date."

The words drop like lead in the silent room. She can feel the shift in atmosphere immediately—the way Rumi's chopsticks pause halfway to her mouth, the way Mira's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.

"Oh," Rumi says, and her voice is very neutral. "That's... what are you going to say?"

Zoey looks at the messages again, aware of two pairs of eyes watching her reaction. She doesn't know what she's going to say. The invitation feels significant in a way that has nothing to do with Caleb specifically and everything to do with the strange new landscape her life has become.

"I don't know," she finally admits. "Maybe?"

The word hangs in the air between them, heavy with weight and confessions none of them are ready to voice. Rumi nods slowly. Mira returns her attention to her food with perhaps too much focus.

Zoey's thumb hovers over Caleb's message, cursor blinking in the empty reply box, waiting for an answer she doesn't know how to give.

Chapter Text

Three weeks until the solo stage, and Zoey can feel the timeline tightening around her like a noose.

It's Friday, which means she's been in the practice room since 8 AM, running through marking rehearsal with the choreographers—half-speed movements that let them refine positioning and transitions without burning through her energy. Every gesture has to be precise, every beat accounted for. There's no room for improvisation when you only get one shot at fifteen minutes of prime time television.

"From the bridge again," the lead choreographer calls, resetting the music. "Remember, the camera angle switches here, so your face needs to be angled toward camera two."

Zoey nods, finding her mark. Her phone sits face-down on the floor by the mirrors, notifications silenced but still visible in her peripheral. No messages from the group chat today. No messages from Rumi or Mira individually, either, for that matter.

She hasn't really spoken to them in two days. Not since—

Two nights ago. The couch. Caleb's message about a date.

"I don't know," she'd said, staring at her phone. "Maybe?"

The word left Zoey’s mouth like the crack of a gavel, and suddenly the easy warmth of sharing dinner felt forced. Rumi had gone very quiet, that careful kind of silence that meant she was thinking too hard about something. Mira had grown increasingly restless, her responses becoming shorter, more clipped.

"It's late," Mira had said finally, even though it was barely ten PM. "I should get some sleep."

"Yeah, me too," Rumi had agreed, already gathering the empty takeout containers.

They'd all cleaned up together with polite coordination—nothing like the chaotic, comfortable routine Zoey was used to. No one fought over who had to take out the trash or argued about loading the dishwasher correctly. Just quiet efficiency that left her feeling like a guest in her own home.

Later, alone in her room, Zoey had stared at Caleb's messages until the words blurred together. Why was she hesitating? He was kind, familiar, uncomplicated in ways that felt increasingly rare in her life. And Rumi and Mira clearly had their own things to figure out—things that apparently didn't include her.

She'd typed the response before she could overthink it further:

Zoey : Yes to the date. But it has to be lowkey. And this doesn't mean anything, just so we're clear!

Caleb : Of course. Whatever you're comfortable with. Looking forward to it. :) 

Simple. Easy. No hidden meanings.

Now, forty-eight hours later, Zoey throws herself into the choreography with the kind of focus that leaves no room for analyzing relationship dynamics. The solo stage demands everything she has, and she's grateful for the excuse to pour her energy into something concrete and controllable.

Tonight, she'll shower and change and go meet Caleb, and for a few hours she'll get to feel normal again. No walking on eggshells, no neutral responses to questions that feel loaded with subtext she's not supposed to acknowledge. Just dinner with someone who doesn't make her guess.

She's sick of it, honestly. Sick of the distance, sick of feeling like she's intruding on some private understanding between Rumi and Mira that they refuse to name. They're dating—fine. They've probably been dating for months, and they just never bothered to let her know. That's their choice. She's not going to keep twisting herself into knots trying to figure out how to navigate around their secret.

"Better," the choreographer says as she nails the transition that's been giving her trouble. "One more time, then we'll move on to the final chorus."

After this, she has a fitting at her stylist's studio—final adjustments to the stage outfits that will define how the world sees her first solo performance. Then home to get ready for tonight. The thought of having plans that don't involve Rumi or Mira feels like a relief she didn't know she needed.

She finds her mark again and waits for the music to start, pushing thoughts of Mira and Rumi to the background where they can't interfere. Tonight will be simple. Easy. And maybe that's exactly what she needs right now.

The penthouse is quiet when Zoey gets home from the fitting, Mira and Rumi's shoes absent from the entryway. They're probably still at the company studio, working on comeback choreography that Zoey knows she should be running through herself when she finds the time. Another item on the ever-growing list of things she needs to catch up on.

But tonight isn't about catching up. Tonight is about feeling normal.

She showers quickly, washing off the day's rehearsals and fittings, then stands in front of her closet trying to figure out what counts as appropriate date attire when you're an idol who needs to stay unrecognizable. Jeans, oversized sweater, baseball cap, face mask—the usual armor, but softer somehow. Less like hiding and more like comfort.

Caleb had suggested a small Italian place in Itaewon, the kind of restaurant that caters to expats and locals. When she arrives, he's already there, scrolling through his phone at a corner table that offers privacy from both the street and other diners.

His light brown hair catches the warm restaurant lighting, and when he looks up, that charming smile spreads across his face—the same one that used to make her stomach flip during high school lunch periods.

"You look nice," he says when she sits down, and the compliment is simple and uncomplicated.

"Thanks. This place is perfect, by the way. Very..." she gestures around the dimly lit space, "anonymous."

"I figured you'd appreciate somewhere we could actually talk without you having to worry about cameras." He closes the menu he'd been reading. "How was your day? The fitting went well?"

"Better than expected. My stylist only made me try on twelve different variations of the same outfit." She pulls off her mask now that she's seated with her back to most of the restaurant. "What about you? How's Seoul corporate life since the last time we spoke?"

"Like I'm slowly forgetting how to have conversations that don't involve quarterly projections," he says with a laugh. "This is definitely the highlight of my week."

They order—pasta for her, risotto for him—and fall into the kind of conversation that feels both new and familiar. He tells her about his colleagues, the cultural learning curve of Korean business etiquette, the way he still gets lost trying to navigate the subway system.

"Remember when we used to complain about having to drive everywhere in Burbank?" Zoey says, twirling linguine around her fork. "I'd kill for a car right now instead of trying to figure out which exit to take at Gangnam Station."

"We were so dramatic about everything back then," Caleb agrees. "I found our old text messages the other day when I was looking for something else. You sent me a 2-page complaint from your notes app about having to parallel park for your driving test."

"And you responded with a detailed parking tutorial with diagrams."

"Which you ignored completely."

"I passed on the second try!"

"Third try," he corrects, grinning. "But who's counting?"

The teasing feels natural. When Caleb asks about the solo stage, Zoey answers just enough to satisfy without giving too much away— Gotta keep you on your toes! Mhm. Sure, Zo. And when she mentions missing home sometimes, he doesn't immediately try to fix the feeling or offer platitudes. He just lets it be.

"Do you ever regret it?" he asks as they share a tiramisu that's definitely going to require extra time in the gym tomorrow. "Leaving everything behind, I mean."

"Sometimes," she admits. "Not the choice itself, but maybe the timing. I was so focused on getting here that I didn't think about what I'd be leaving behind. People I'd be leaving behind."

"Including me?"

The question isn't accusatory, just honest. She meets his eyes across the table.

"Especially you."

They sit with that acknowledgment for a moment. Not romantic, exactly, but real. The recognition of something that mattered, that still matters in different ways.

"For what it's worth," Caleb says, "I know you made the right choice. Even if it sucked at the time."

When he walks her to the subway station afterward, the brief touch of his hand on her shoulder feels comforting and uncomplicated.

"Thank you," she says. "For tonight. For being... normal."

"Normal is my specialty," he replies with that charming smile. "Text me when you get back."

For three hours, Zoey had remembered what it felt like to just exist without measuring every word, without wondering what people weren't telling her.

The feeling lasts until she opens the penthouse door at 9:30 PM.

Mira and Rumi are sitting at the kitchen island, two mugs of what looks like chamomile tea growing cold between them. They both look up when she enters, and Zoey is shocked by how miserable they appear. Mira's usual sharp composure is replaced by something that looks almost defeated. Rumi's patterns are dimmed to the faintest blue-green.

"Hey," Zoey says, hanging her jacket on the hook by the door. "How was practice?"

"Fine," Mira mutters, already sliding off the barstool. "I'm going to bed."

That's it. No "how was your night," no curiosity about where she's been, no acknowledgment that she looks happy. Just a muttered greeting and an immediate retreat.

Something hot and frustrated flares in Zoey's chest.

"Seriously?" she says, more sharply than she intends. "That's all I get?"

Mira stops, turning around slowly. "What?"

"I just got back from my first real date in years, and you can't even pretend to care how it went?"

"Of course we care—" Rumi starts.

"Do you?" Zoey's voice rises. "Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm some kind of inconvenience you have to tolerate."

"That's not true," Mira says, but her tone is defensive rather than reassuring.

"Isn't it? When's the last time we had a real conversation? When's the last time either of you seemed genuinely happy to see me?"

"We're happy to see you," Rumi says, standing up from her stool. "We're just—things have been complicated lately—"

"Everything is complicated!" Zoey throws her hands up. "But somehow I'm the only one who seems to think that's a problem. You two are perfectly content to... exist in whatever bubble you've created while I try to figure out how to fit into it."

"We haven't created a bubble," Mira snaps. "You're the one who's been pulling away."

"Me? I'm pulling away?" Zoey's voice cracks with disbelief. "I'm not the one who suddenly can't hold a conversation without acting like it’s a minefield. I'm not the one treating every moment like I’m about to fail a test!"

"Maybe because you are failing," Mira says, her composure finally cracking. "Maybe because you're so focused on your solo career and your ex-boyfriend that you don't notice what's happening with the people who actually live with you."

The words hit Zoey like a slap. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've been checked out for weeks," Mira continues, her voice getting sharper. "It means you come home, talk about your day for five minutes, and then disappear into your room or run off to have dinner with Caleb. It means you act like we're supposed to be grateful for whatever scraps of attention you throw our way."

"That's—" Zoey starts, but Mira cuts her off.

"You want us to celebrate your solo stage, but you barely acknowledge that we have a comeback to prepare for, too. You want us to be excited about your dates, but you don't seem to care about anything happening in our lives."

"Because you don't tell me anything about your lives!" Zoey shouts. "How am I supposed to care about things you refuse to share with me?"

"We share plenty—"

"You share schedules and logistics! You don't share anything that matters!"

Rumi tries to step between them. "Both of you need to calm down—"

"No," Zoey says, whirling to face her. "Don't tell me to calm down when I'm the only one being honest here. You want to know why I've been pulling away? Because I'm tired of pretending I don't see what's right in front of me."

Both Mira and Rumi go very still.

"What are you talking about?" Rumi asks carefully.

"I'm talking about the fact that you two are together and think I'm too stupid to notice. I'm talking about the fact that you've been lying to me for who knows how long while acting like I'm the problem for not reading your minds."

The silence that follows is deafening. Mira's face goes pale, and Rumi's patterns flicker once before dimming completely.

"How long have you known?" Mira asks quietly.

"Three days," Zoey admits, some of the fight going out of her voice. "I saw you. On the couch. I came home with food, and you were kissing and I—" She gestures helplessly. "I didn't mean to see it, but I did."

"Fuck," Mira says, running a hand through her hair.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Rumi asks, and there's something wounded in her voice.

"Because it wasn't my place!" Zoey's frustration bubbles back up. "Because you clearly didn't want me to know, and I was trying to give you space to figure it out. But apparently, that wasn't enough either."

"So what, you just decided to just spy on us?" Mira's voice turns sharp, defensive.

"Spy on you?" Zoey's voice rises again. "I live here! I came home to my own apartment and walked into the living room. I wasn't spying, I was existing in my own space!"

"And then you said nothing," Rumi says, her patterns flickering with agitation. "You just... watched us pretend everything was normal while you knew the truth?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Zoey throws her hands up. "Burst in and demand explanations? Congratulate you??? You clearly didn't want me to know!"

"Maybe we didn't know how to tell you," Mira snaps.

Zoey barks a frustrated laugh. "How hard is it? 'Hey Zoey, we're dating now.' Done. Instead, you made me feel like I was going crazy!"

"We weren't acting weird—"

"You were! You've been pulling away for weeks, having these private conversations, looking at each other like you share some secret I'm not allowed to know about. Which, apparently, I wasn't!"

"It's more complicated than that," Rumi says, stepping closer.

"No, it's not! You're together. Great. I'm happy for you. Why does that have to change everything between us?"

"Because—" Mira stops abruptly, jaw clenching.

"Because what, Mira? Because I might be weird about it? Because you think I can't handle my two best friends being happy?"

"Because we're in love with you too!" Mira explodes, her composure finally shattering completely. 

"Because this whole thing is fucked up and complicated and we didn't know how to tell you that we're together, but we also have feelings for you, and we've been going out of our minds trying to figure out what to do about it!"

The words hang in the air like a bomb blast, leaving ringing silence in their wake.

Zoey stares at them, mouth slightly open, processing what she just heard. Mira is breathing hard, her cheeks flushed with anger and something that looks like panic. Rumi has gone very still beside her.

"You're..." Zoey's voice comes out small, confused. "What?"

"We love you," Rumi says quietly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Both of us. We're together, but we also—we've had feelings for you for months and we didn't know how to—"

"Stop," Zoey says, and her voice is getting thicker. "Just stop."

She looks between them—at Mira's defensive stance, at Rumi's careful expression, at the two people she trusts most in the world who just turned her entire understanding of their relationship upside down.

Her brows knit together, confusion giving way to something sharper, more hurt.

"Well, you did a poor fucking job of showing it."

The words come out rough and angry, and tears start to gather in her eyes, despite her best efforts to keep them back.

"Zoey—" Rumi starts, stepping forward.

But Zoey is already backing toward the hallway, shaking her head.

"No. No, you don't get to do this. You don't get to make me feel like shit for weeks and then drop this on me like it explains everything."

"We were trying to protect—" Mira begins.

"Protect what?! Me? Yourselves? Because from where I'm standing, all you did was make me feel like I was losing my best friends while you two figured out your feelings."

She turns and storms down the hallway, tears streaming down her cheeks now, and slams her bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame.

The sound of Zoey's door slamming echoes through the apartment, followed by the devastating silence that only comes after everything has gone wrong.

Mira and Rumi stand frozen in the kitchen, staring down the hallway where Zoey disappeared. Through the walls, all they hear is silence, and it twists painfully in both their chests.

"Fuck," Mira says again, but quieter this time, like the fight has drained all the volume out of her.

Rumi sinks back onto a bar stool, head in her hands. "That was not how that was supposed to go."

"How was it supposed to go?" Mira's voice turns sharp, whirling to face Rumi with eyes that are bright with unshed tears. "Because I'd really love to know, since apparently we were just going to keep pretending forever."

"We weren't pretending forever. We agreed to wait until after her solo stage—"

"Wait for what?" Mira's hands clench into fists at her sides. "Wait until she completely gave up on us? Until she decided Caleb was better company than her own roommates?"

"You just blurted it out, Mira. Three months of feelings with no warning and no preparation. That's not how—"

"How what? How you would have done it?" Mira's voice cracks with frustration. "When, Rumi? When exactly were you planning to tell her? Because every time I brought it up, you had another reason to wait."

Rumi stands up abruptly, her stool scraping against the floor. "I was trying to protect her. She's already under so much pressure—"

"You were trying to protect yourself." The accusation flies out of Mira before she can stop it. "You were scared she'd say no, so you kept making excuses to put it off."

"That's not—" Rumi starts, but Mira cuts her off.

"It is! Every time we talked about telling her, you found another reason why the timing wasn't right. After the comeback, after the awards season, after her solo stage. There was always something!"

"Because I wanted to do it right!" Rumi's voice rises, her own frustration finally spilling over. "I wanted to find the right moment, not just explode at her in the middle of a fight!"

"And look where that got us," Mira gestures toward the hallway. "She's been carrying this secret for three days, feeling like she can't even talk to us about it. She went on a date tonight and came home happy for the first time in weeks, and we made her feel guilty about it."

"I wasn't trying to make her feel guilty—"

"We made her feel like she was failing at something she didn't even know she was being tested on." Mira's voice gets quieter but more intense. "All this waiting for the perfect moment, and she ended up thinking we didn't want her around anyway!"

The words settle between them, heavy with truth neither wants to acknowledge.

"She looked so hurt," Rumi says quietly, and there's something broken in her voice.

"I’d be hurt too. We’ve been lying to her. For months." Mira runs her hands through her hair, pink strands falling loose around her face. "Every time we pulled back, every time we stopped mid-conversation because we were afraid of saying too much. She felt all of that."

"I didn't know how else to handle it."

"You could have trusted her." The simplicity of the statement makes it sting more. "You could have trusted that maybe she deserved to know the truth, even if the timing wasn't perfect."

Rumi's patterns flicker once, then dim again. "And if she'd said no? If telling her ruined everything between all three of us?"

"Instead of just ruining everything slowly?" Mira's voice turns tired. "Look around, Rumi. This is what playing it safe got us."

They both stare down the hallway where Zoey's door remains firmly closed. The silence from her room somehow feels worse than the crying had.

"I never wanted her to get hurt," Rumi says, and her voice is small in a way that makes Mira's anger deflate slightly.

"Neither did I. But we hurt her anyway." Mira slumps against the kitchen counter. "We hurt her by trying so hard not to."

The apartment feels too quiet, too empty, despite all three of them being home. For the first time in their relationship, the space between Mira and Rumi feels uncertain—not because they don't love each other, but because they've just discovered how their different approaches to fear can work against each other.

"She said we did a poor job of showing it," Rumi says quietly. "Of showing that we love her."

"Yeah." Mira's voice is thick. "She's right."

They sit with the weight of that admission, surrounded by cold tea and the debris of good intentions gone wrong. Both of them trying to figure out how loving someone so much could result in making them feel so alone.

And down the hall, Zoey's room stays silent, leaving them to wonder if there's any way back from this.

The morning arrives gray and unwelcoming.

Mira wakes up alone in her bed—Rumi had retreated to her own room sometime after their fight in the kitchen, both of them too raw to find comfort in each other. The apartment feels different in the pale Saturday light filtering through the windows.

She pads to the kitchen in bare feet, expecting to find the familiar signs of Zoey's morning routine. The kettle filled and waiting, the coffee maker already gurgling to life, maybe a mug left warming on the counter with a sticky note about grabbing breakfast on the way to the studio.

Instead, she finds nothing.

The kettle sits cold and empty on its base. The coffee maker's digital display blinks 12:00, unprogrammed. No mugs on the counter, no notes, no evidence that anyone has been here at all.

Zoey is gone.

Mira checks her phone—7:23 AM. No messages in their group chat. No individual texts. Zoey's location sharing, which had been turned back on after the Caleb dinner incident, is off again.

Rumi emerges from her room a few minutes later, hair still messy from sleep, moving with the careful quiet of someone trying not to wake anyone up. She stops short when she sees Mira standing in the empty kitchen.

"She left early," Mira says without turning around.

Rumi nods, moving to fill the kettle herself. Her patterns are barely visible, dulled to almost nothing beneath her sleep shirt. "Saturday schedule starts at nine. She's probably—"

"She doesn't have Saturday schedules," Mira interrupts. "Today was supposed to be her first day off in weeks."

They let that sink in. Zoey left early on her first real break, chose to be anywhere but here.

The kettle takes forever to boil. Rumi makes tea while Mira stares out the window at Seoul's weekend morning—people walking dogs, couples heading to brunch, normal lives unfolding in ways that feel impossibly distant.

They don't talk. Haven't really talked since last night, when their own frustrations had spilled over into accusations and hurt feelings. The comfortable intimacy that usually defines their mornings feels fractured, replaced by careful politeness that echoes the distance they'd been maintaining around Zoey.

Rumi sets a mug of chamomile in front of Mira without asking what she wants. The gesture is automatic, born from months of learning each other's preferences, but it feels hollow now.

"Thank you," Mira says, wrapping her hands around the ceramic for warmth.

"Mm." Rumi settles onto the barstool across from her, cradling her own mug.

The silence stretches between them, filled with everything they haven't figured out how to say. How do you apologize for a fight when you're both still angry? How do you comfort each other when you're both the source of the problem?

The city continues beyond their windows, but the apartment feels suspended, caught in the aftermath of words that can't be taken back.

Mira's tea grows cold while she holds it, and Rumi stares at the empty space where Zoey usually sits, and neither of them knows how to bridge the gap between what they'd intended and what they'd actually done.

The penthouse has never felt this cold.

Chapter Text

The practice room is empty at 8 AM on a Saturday, which is exactly what Zoey needs.

She connects her phone to the sound system and scrolls to their title track—the first time she's listened to it in weeks. The opening beats fill the space, bouncing off mirrors and hardwood floors that have witnessed countless hours of rehearsal. Her body remembers the opening formation before her mind does, muscle memory guiding her to center position.

The choreography unfolds around her like a conversation she's having with ghosts. Eight counts in, she sidesteps left to make room for Mira's entrance, even though Mira isn't there. Sixteen counts later, she pivots right for the formation change that always left them breathless during practice, the one where she and Rumi switch places in a move so smooth it looks effortless on camera.

Her feet know exactly where to go for the dance break, even though Mira's sharp movements and isolations exist only in memory now. The empty spaces where Mira and Rumi should be feels vast, but at least here she can think. At least here she can move through something familiar while her world tilts off its axis.

She came here with the goal of hitting two birds with one stone: practicing the comeback choreography she's neglected for weeks and avoiding Rumi and Mira and their...confession.

She stumbles on a spin that should be automatic, catching herself with an awkward half-step that would make their choreographer wince.

Fuck.

A confession. They love her. Apparently have loved her for months while she's been completely oblivious, reading their distance as disinterest instead of restraint. Something hot and complicated rises in her chest, anger mixing with hurt mixing with something else she doesn’t want to examine too closely.

They're such idiots. Why didn't they tell her sooner? Why make her guess, make her feel like she was losing them when really they were just trying to figure out how to keep her?

But then the harder question surfaces: would she have reciprocated?

She loves them. Mira and Rumi. She's loved them for as long as she can remember knowing them—loved Rumi's quiet strength and the way her patterns shift with her moods, loved Mira's fierce protectiveness hidden behind sharp edges. But romantic love? The kind that leads to stolen kisses on couches and shared beds and all the complicated intimacy she'd witnessed?

Her mind wanders to that day in Garosugil when they'd run into Caleb. How Rumi and Mira had gone stiff and strange, how their responses had been carefully neutral in a way that felt anything but. They'd been jealous. Jealous this entire time while she'd been thinking they just didn't want to be bothered with her personal life.

And she has gotten close with Caleb these past few weeks, closer than she'd intended maybe. But it all feels so unfair—like she was supposed to just know how they felt, supposed to read between lines they never actually drew for her.

It reminds her of childhood in ways that make her skin crawl. Always having to pick up on the air in a room, always adjusting herself to fit whatever emotional temperature her parents were running that day. Being malleable and amenable and easy, the eternal people pleaser who could sense disapproval and fix problems before they were named.

She'd thought she'd left that version of herself behind when she moved to Korea. Thought she'd found people who would just tell her what they needed instead of making her guess.

The music builds toward the bridge, and she knows this part by heart—the fan service moment she and Rumi had planned together, where their hands brush during a formation change and they make eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. The fans love it, always posting screenshots and making gifs of the moment their fingers touch.

She reaches for Rumi's hand that isn't there, makes eye contact with empty air, and feels the loneliness of the movement settle in her bones.

The song continues around her, but Zoey stops dancing, standing alone in the center of the practice room while her own voice echoes back from the speakers—harmonizing with Rumi and Mira in a recording made months ago when everything felt simpler.

By 9 AM, Mira and Rumi have been awake for over an hour, both moving around the apartment with the quiet conservative movements—just two people trying not to acknowledge each other's presence while getting ready for their respective Saturday schedules.

Mira has a photo shoot for a skincare brand—something she'd normally complain about, the early call time and the way foundation sits wrong on her skin after a sleepless night. While Rumi has a recording session for her collaboration, one that requires vocals and the kind of emotional availability she's not sure she can access right now.

They'd spent the morning grappling with the same question: should they text Zoey?

The group chat has been silent in three days. No good morning messages, no schedule updates, no random observations that used to pepper their conversations throughout the day. 

Finally, around 8:30, Rumi breaks first.

[Group Chat: Huntr/x Girlz to the 🌎]

Rumi: We know you probably don't want to hear from us right now, but we want you to know we're sorry about last night. For all of it.

Mira: We should have told you everything months ago. We were scared and we handled it badly.

Rumi: Take all the time you need. We'll be here when you're ready to talk.

The messages sit unread, no indication that Zoey has even seen them. Mira sends a follow-up in their private chat, then Rumi does the same. Apologies and explanations and promises that feel inadequate but necessary anyway.

No response.

They get ready in their separate rooms after that, the apartment filled with the sounds of makeup being applied and clothes being chosen. Mira can hear Rumi moving around through the walls, the soft padding of bare feet on hardwood, the quiet closing of dresser drawers.

The tension from last night hasn't dissipated. If anything, the morning light has made their fight feel sharper. The accusations they'd thrown at each other—about control and fear and whose fault this whole mess really is—hover in the space between them.

At 8:55, they both come out from their rooms at the same time, makeup done and bags packed for their respective days. Mira in the sleek black dress their stylist had selected, Rumi in jeans and a corduroy jacket that brings out the subtle lavender in her patterns.

They move toward the front door without speaking, both checking their phones one last time for messages that haven't come.

Rumi reaches for the door handle first, but Mira's hand closes around her arm, stopping her mid-motion.

"Wait," Mira says quietly.

Rumi turns, and up close, Mira can see the exhaustion in her face. The careful way she's holding herself, like she's not sure if they're still fighting or if they've moved past it.

"I'm sorry," Mira says, and the words come out rougher than she intended. "About last night. About blaming you when we both made mistakes."

Rumi's expression softens slightly. "Mira—"

"I agreed with waiting. I could have spoken up more about how I was feeling instead of just getting frustrated." Mira's grip on Rumi's arm loosens but doesn't let go entirely. "I was scared too. I just…handle it differently than you do."

"I'm sorry too," Rumi says, turning fully to face her. "You were right about some of it. I was trying to control everything because I was terrified of losing what we have. All three of us."

The admission hangs between them, honest and raw. They're both torn open from everything that happened last night—the fight with Zoey, the fight with each other, waking up to an empty apartment and cold silence.

"We're still okay?" Mira asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question. "You and me?"

"We're okay," Rumi says, reaching up to cup Mira's face gently. "We're still okay."

When they kiss, it's soft and reassuring, a way to bridge the distance that had opened between them in the aftermath of everything going wrong. Grounding—a reminder that despite the mess they've made, they still have each other.

When they break apart, Mira rests her forehead against Rumi's for a moment.

"When she comes back," Mira says quietly, "we sit her down properly. No more waiting for the right moment."

"No more waiting," Rumi agrees. "We tell her everything."

They both know Zoey needs time to process what happened last night. The confession that came out all wrong, the way their feelings had been dumped on her in the middle of an argument instead of offered gently the way they should have been.

But when she's ready—when she comes home—they'll finally do what they should have done months ago. They'll be honest, completely honest, about everything they feel and everything they want.

Even if it's too late. Even if she can't forgive them.

They separate reluctantly, both knowing they have obligations to fulfill despite the personal chaos of their lives. The door closes behind them with a soft click, leaving the apartment empty and waiting for whenever Zoey decides to come home.

The company gym showers had been a blessing Zoey hadn't expected to need. Past Zoey had been smart enough to leave a change of clothes in her locker—jeans, a thick yellow sweater, and a jacket that smells faintly of Rumi’s favorite fabric softener. She'd taken her time getting ready, blow-drying her hair and applying just enough makeup to feel human again.

She knows Mira and Rumi are already out of the penthouse by now, both tied up with their Saturday schedules until evening. But the thought of going home, of sitting in that kitchen where everything exploded last night, makes her chest tight. 

Better to stay out, stay moving, stay distracted.

Now she's walking along the Han River, finishing off a cup of hot tteokbokki that's warming her from the inside out. The autumn air has that sharp edge that promises winter is coming, and she can already imagine snow falling by the time her solo stage arrives. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, sticking out from under her baseball cap, and despite her thick jacket, she feels cold in ways that have nothing to do with the weather.

Her phone had buzzed several times while she was practicing the comeback choreography, notifications that she'd swiped away without reading properly. Just glimpses of words—"sorry" and "explain" and "should have"—that she's not ready to deal with yet.

But there had been one message from Caleb too, received while she was getting dressed after her shower:

Caleb - 10:32 AM:  Thank you for agreeing to go out last night. I had a really good time. I know it doesn't mean anything more than dinner, but if you're free today and want to hang out (definitely not a date!), I remembered you mentioning today was a rare day off. :)))

She stops walking, looking out over the river where the current moves steadily south toward the sea. Couples are scattered along the banks—some having picnics on blankets, others just walking hand in hand. There's a group of college students taking pictures near the bike path, laughing as they pose with their arms around each other. A trio of girls, friends by the looks of it, are sharing a slice of cake while one of them snaps photos of their coordinated outfits.

The sight of the three friends makes something twist in her chest. The easy way they lean into each other, how natural their closeness looks. 

She pulls out her phone and looks at Caleb's message again. It's not a date—he made that clear, probably remembering her insistence from last night that this doesn't mean anything. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't have fun. It really had felt like hanging out with an old friend. The only thing that made it a "date" was the label. They'd had dinner, talked, walked to the subway station. No hand-holding, no romantic tension, just comfort.

And honestly, she doesn't want to spend her day off alone and angry. She doesn't want to keep walking along the river, watching other people enjoy their relationships while she replays last night's fight in her head. She doesn't want to go home to an empty apartment that will just remind her of everything that's changed.

Zoey: Are you free now? I'm by the Han River if you want to meet up! 

The response comes quickly.

Caleb: Give me 45 minutes. Send me your loc :D

She does, then finds a bench with a good view of the water and settles in to wait. The cold seeps through her jeans, but it's better than moving, better than thinking too hard about what she's doing or why.

Behind her, Seoul hums with weekend energy, but for the first time in years, she feels completely separate from it. Like she's watching her life happen to someone else, making choices that surprise even her.

When Caleb arrives, slightly out of breath from hurrying, his light brown hair mussed by the wind, his familiar smile is exactly what she needs. Warm. 

"Hey," he says, settling beside her on the bench. "Rough morning?"

"Something like that," she admits, and doesn't elaborate just yet. He doesn't push for details, just sits with her and watches the river flow past, giving her the space to be quiet if that's what she needs.

They sit in silence for a while, watching Seoul's weekend morning unfold around them. More couples appear along the riverbank, some spreading blankets for picnics despite the cold, others just walking hand in hand. A group of teenagers is taking turns on a shared skateboard, their laughter carrying over the water.

Zoey pulls her jacket tighter around herself, aware of Caleb stealing glances at her from the corner of his vision. He's gotten so much taller since high school—she has to actually look up to meet his eyes now instead of just slightly tilting her head.

"Wanna talk about it?" he says eventually, nudging her shoulder with his. "You look like that time you tried pilk."

Despite everything, Zoey huffs out a laugh. "God, don't remind me." The memory makes her giggle—fourteen-year-old her convinced that Pepsi and milk would somehow taste like a float, the absolute disgust on Caleb's face when she'd made him try it too.

But then she remembers why she's here, sitting by the river instead of at home. Her smile falters as the weight of last night settles back over her.

Caleb's expression turns serious. "Hey, really. Are you okay?"

Zoey sighs, trying to figure out how to explain without explaining everything. "I had a fight with my roommates last night. My bandmates. It's..." She pauses, searching for words that won't reveal too much. Any word about relationships or confessions getting out would be disastrous. "It's complicated. They've been acting weird around me for weeks, and I finally called them out on it, and then everything just exploded."

"Weird how?"

"Like they were walking on eggshells around me. Like they had a secret they didn't want me to know about." She picks at a loose thread on her jeans. "...Turns out they did. And when they finally told me, it was in the middle of us screaming at each other instead of just... talking to me like normal human beings."

Caleb listens without interrupting, the way he always did when they were younger and she needed to work through her thoughts out loud.

"It just feels like I'm supposed to read their minds," she continues. "Like I failed a test I didn't know I was even taking. And the thing is, I'm not even mad about the secret itself. I'm mad that they made me feel crazy for noticing something was wrong."

"Zo..." Caleb pauses, considering his words. "You know, you sound like how you did when you'd tell me about your parents."

Zoey's chest tightens. The comparison hits closer to home than she wants to admit. "I—yeah. It does kind of feel that way."

"Like you're responsible for managing everyone else's emotions while pretending you don't have any of your own?"

The accuracy of it makes her throat tight. "Something like that."

"Hey." Caleb's voice goes softer. "You know that's not your job, right? You're allowed to be upset when people you care about aren't honest with you."

He reaches over to adjust her mask, which has slipped down during their conversation, pulling it back up so it covers her nose and freckles properly. The gesture is casual but the proximity catches her off guard for a beat. His fingers brush against her cheek for just a second.

"Sorry," he says, pulling his hand back. "Didn’t want you to get recognized by that couple over there.."

She glances over to see two people stealing looks at her, clearly debating whether to approach. "Thanks."

They sit in comfortable quiet after that, both of them content to watch the river flow past while Zoey processes everything that's happened. The silence doesn't feel heavy like it does at home—it just feels like space to breathe.

Eventually, Caleb shifts beside her, rubbing his hands together. "Okay, I'm officially freezing. Want to get some hot chocolate? There's a cafe nearby with this cookie I really like too."

Zoey smiles for the first time all morning. "Only if it's your treat."

"Hey!" Caleb protests, standing up and offering her his hand. "Who's the multimillionaire idol here? I could see your freaking Avengers building penthouse from the plane!"

"That's exactly why you should pay," she says with a laugh, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet. "Character building!"

Mira gets home from her shoot at 3 PM to an apartment that feels exactly as empty as when she left it that morning.

No shoes by the entrance that weren't there before. No lingering scent of coffee or food. No sounds of movement from any of the bedrooms. The penthouse sits in the same careful silence it's held all day, waiting for someone to fill it with life again.

She checks her phone as she sets down her bag. The messages she and Rumi sent to the group chat this morning still show as unread. No response to any of their individual attempts at apology, either.

Mira: Hey. Are you okay? Just want to know you're safe.

She sends the message knowing it will probably go unanswered like all the others, but needing to try anyway. Then she texts Rumi.

Mira: Zoey's not back yet. Still no responses to any messages.

No immediate reply. Rumi's recording session probably won't wrap until evening, and studio time means phones off anyway.

Mira kicks off her boots and shrugs out of her coat, letting both fall where they land instead of hanging them up properly. She sinks onto the couch—the same couch where this whole mess started, where Zoey had seen them kissing four nights ago and chose to carry that secret alone rather than confront them about it.

God, her big mouth. The way she'd just exploded at Zoey last night, throwing months of feelings at her without warning, without care for how it would land. She'd been so frustrated, so tired of tiptoeing around the truth, that she'd just... detonated everything.

Zoey had looked shell-shocked. Then hurt. Then angry in a way that made Mira's chest ache to remember.

"Well, you did a poor fucking job of showing it."

The words echo in her head as she rubs her temples, trying to ease the tension that's been building since she woke up. Because Zoey was right. They had done a poor job. They'd treated her like she was too fragile to handle complex emotions or too naive to notice when something was wrong. They'd made her feel stupid for picking up on the exact thing they were trying to hide.

She'd accused Zoey of being checked out, of not caring about what was happening in their lives. But how could Zoey care about things they refused to tell her? How could she engage with feelings they insisted on keeping secret?

After twenty minutes of sitting in the oppressive quiet, Mira forces herself to move. She heads to her room and starts the process of shedding the day—makeup wipes, dragging foundation and concealer off her skin, bobby pins pulled from her hair one by one until pink strands fall loose around her shoulders. The stylist had used at least thirty pins to create the sleek updo the brand wanted, and each one feels like a small relief as she drops it into the dish on her dresser.

In the mirror, she looks tired. Younger without the makeup, but older around the eyes. She looks exhausted, probably because she is.

She thinks about what Rumi had said. The fear underneath all of Rumi's careful planning—that if Zoey rejected them, if she couldn't return their feelings, would it destroy everything? Not just their friendship with Zoey, but their relationship with each other, too?

The thought makes Mira's stomach clench. Because she can see how it could happen. How watching Zoey fall in love with someone else—Caleb or whoever came after him—while having to maintain their professional relationship, their living situation, and all the forced intimacy of being bandmates and roommates, could slowly poison what she and Rumi have.

How the hurt of rejection could fester into resentment. How seeing Zoey happy with someone who wasn't them could make every shared moment feel like a reminder of what they'd lost.

Mira shakes her head, trying to dislodge the spiral of worst-case scenarios. They're not there yet. Maybe they never will be. Maybe—

Her phone buzzes with a notification, and she lunges for it, hoping to see Zoey's name.

It's just a social media alert.

She deflates, tossing the phone back onto her dresser harder than necessary.

She can't wait for Rumi to get back. Can't wait for Zoey to come home, even if it means more fighting, more painful conversations, more uncertainty about where they all stand with each other.

This waiting, this not knowing if their trio can survive what happened last night—it's worse than any rejection could be.

What a fucking mess they've made of everything.

They spend the afternoon wandering through Itaewon, ducking into bookstores and small cafes, sharing hot chocolate that actually manages to warm Zoey from the inside out. Caleb keeps the conversation light, telling her stories about his coworkers and how Burbank has changed since Zoey’s been there last.

By 4 PM, they're both properly warmed up but clearly reluctant to part ways. Zoey can feel Caleb glancing at her as they walk, probably picking up on the fact that she's in no hurry to head home.

"Want to chill at my hotel for a bit?" he suggests casually. "I've got a decent view of the city, and we could order room service. Watch something terrible on Korean Netflix."

The suggestion hits Zoey wrong in a way she can't immediately articulate. Images flash through her mind—paparazzi photos of her entering a hotel with a man, the headlines that would follow, the way it would look to fans, to her company, to everyone. But deeper than that, something about being alone with Caleb in a hotel room feels like crossing a line she's not ready to cross, especially when the entire fight with Mira and Rumi had stemmed from their jealousy about him.

"Ah, probably not the best idea," she says with a light smile, trying to keep it casual. "You know how it is with paparazzi and hotels. They love that kind of story."

Caleb nods immediately, no hurt feelings visible on his face. "Right, of course! My bad, I wasn't thinking about that. What do you want to do then? It's your day off and all."

Zoey shrugs off the brief discomfort, grateful that he took the decline so well. She thinks for a moment, then gasps dramatically, turning to him with a smile.

"Actually, do you want to see the studio? Where I work, I mean. It's not glamorous, but..." She trails off, realizing she's not sure why she's offering this. Maybe because it feels safer than a hotel room—professional, neutral territory where she doesn't have to worry about appearances or implications.

"Is that okay? I don't want to get you in trouble or anything."

"It's fine. Weekend security is pretty relaxed, and at least I don't have to worry about disguises there." She adjusts her baseball cap. "Plus, you've been curious about what I do here. Might as well show you."

"I'd love that," Caleb says, and his smile is genuine. "Lead the way."

They head toward the subway, Zoey's steps feeling more purposeful now that she has a destination that isn't home. The company building feels like safe ground—somewhere she's completely herself.

At least in the studio, she knows exactly who she is and what she's supposed to be doing.

Rumi comes home at 7 PM, shrugging off her jacket and kicking off her boots at the entrance. The apartment feels exactly as still as it had when she left that morning, no signs that anyone else has been here in the intervening hours other than Mira.

She'd seen Mira's messages and replied once she parted ways with Ji-yoon at the other artist's studio, but the brief exchange had only confirmed what she'd already suspected: Zoey still wasn't home.

She finds Mira in her room, propped against her headboard with her phone balanced on her knees, some drama playing with the sound low. Rumi knocks twice before entering.

"She isn't home yet?"

Mira shakes her head without looking up from her screen. "Didn't reply to any of my messages either. You?"

"Nothing." Rumi's patterns pulse blue and purple beneath her sleeves, worry bleeding through. "She's been out since seven this morning."

"I know." Mira finally pauses her drama, setting the phone aside. "I keep checking her location, but it's still off."

"She has to come back eventually, right?" Rumi pulls Mira's desk chair toward the bed so she can sit close without getting her outside clothes on the clean sheets.

Mira's jaw tightens. "Unless she doesn't want to."

"Don't say that."

"I'm just—" Mira rubs her face with both hands. "What if she's done with us? What if last night was the last straw?"

"She's not done with us."

"How do you know?"

Rumi hesitates, because honestly, she doesn't know. "Because it's Zoey. She doesn't give up on people."

"Maybe she should. Maybe we don't deserve—"

"Stop." Rumi's voice is firmer than usual. "We messed up, but we can fix this."

Mira lets out a bitter laugh. "Can we? Because I keep thinking about the look on her face when I just... word-vomited all over her."

"You were frustrated."

"I was selfish." Mira's voice cracks slightly. "I was so tired of keeping it inside that I just exploded without thinking about how she'd feel. And now she's been out for twelve hours and won't answer our texts."

They sit in silence for a moment, both lost in their own spirals of regret.

"Do you think..." Rumi starts, then stops.

"What?"

"Do you think she's with him? Caleb?"

Mira's expression hardens. "Probably. Where else would she go?"

"That's not—we don't have a right to be upset about that."

"I know we don't have a right," Mira snaps, then immediately softens. "Sorry. I know. It's just hard not to think about."

"What is?"

"Her choosing him over us. Again."

"She didn't choose him over us. We pushed her away."

"Did we?" Mira shifts to face Rumi more directly. "Because sometimes I feel like we've been competing with a ghost this whole time. Like she was always going to pick her past over her present."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? She barely talks about home, barely mentions anything from before Korea, and then he shows up and…she's lighting up in ways she doesn't with us anymore."

Rumi's patterns flicker with something that might be hurt. "She lights up with us."

"When? When was the last time you saw her really relaxed around us? Not performing, just... herself?"

The question hangs in the air because they both know the answer. It's been weeks, maybe longer. Even before the secret-keeping started driving wedges between them.

"Her solo stage," Rumi says quietly.

"What about it?"

"She's been working so hard on it. The biggest opportunity of her career, and instead of celebrating with her, we made it about our feelings."

"We've been terrible friends," Mira says bluntly. "Like, genuinely awful. She's been killing herself preparing for this, working eighteen-hour days, and what have we been doing, Rumi? Sitting around having feelings about her dating life."

"We've been supportive—"

"Have we? Really?" Mira's voice gets sharper. "When she talks about the rehearsals, are you actually listening, or are you thinking about whether it's the right time to tell her we're dating?"

Rumi flinches because that hits too close to home.

"When she showed us those concept photos," Mira continues, "did you tell her how proud you were, or were you distracted by wondering if she'd notice us holding hands?"

"Both," Rumi admits quietly.

"That's the problem. We've been half-present for months. No wonder she feels like she can't rely on us."

They let that settle. Outside, Seoul's evening traffic hums in the distance, and somewhere in the city, Zoey is spending her first day off in weeks away from them.

"I miss her," Mira says suddenly, and her voice is smaller than usual.

"She lives with us."

"No, I miss her. The way she used to flop on my bed and steal my snacks. The way she'd make those terrible jokes during practice and laugh at herself. When's the last time she did that?"

Rumi thinks about it. "I don't remember."

"Because we made her feel like she had to be careful around us."

"We were trying to protect—"

"We were trying to protect ourselves." Mira's interruption is gentle but firm. "And in doing that, we lost her anyway."

Rumi reaches over and takes Mira's hand, threading their fingers together. "We can fix this."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But we love her too much not to try."

"Do we, though?" Mira's question comes out quieter, more vulnerable. "Love her, I mean. Or do we just love the idea of her?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... when I confessed last night, what was I confessing to? That I love how she makes me feel? That I love having her attention? Or that I actually know who she is underneath all the performing and people-pleasing?"

The question makes Rumi uncomfortable because she's not sure she knows the answer.

"She's been taking care of everyone else for so long," Mira continues. "Taking care of us. When's the last time we took care of her?"

"We take care of her all the time."

"We take care of idol Zoey. Huntr/x Zoey. But what about just... Zoey from Burbank, who misses American food and stress-eats convenience store ice cream and has nightmares sometimes that she's too embarrassed to talk about?"

"How do you know about the nightmares?"

"I pay attention. Or I try to." Mira's voice gets thick. "God, I love her so much it makes my chest hurt sometimes. But I don't think I've been loving her the right way."

Rumi's patterns dim as the weight of that admission settles over both of them. Because Mira is right. They've been so focused on their own feelings and fears about rejection that they've lost sight of what Zoey actually needs from them.

"When she comes home," Rumi says finally, "we don't ask her to forgive us."

"What do we do?"

"We show her. We be the friends she deserves instead of asking her to manage our emotions for us."

"And if she can't forgive us? If she decides this is too messy and she'd rather keep things professional?"

Rumi's chest tightens at the possibility, but she forces herself to consider it honestly. "Then we respect that. And we still try to be better."

"Even if it kills us to watch her choose someone else?"

Rumi stays silent.

They hold hands in the growing darkness of Mira's room, both of them trying to figure out how to love someone properly when they've been doing it wrong for so long.

"I just want her to come home," Mira whispers.

"She will," Rumi says, hoping it's true. "She has to."

Three hours pass without either of them really noticing.

It's 8 PM when Zoey finally glances at the clock on her computer screen, takeout containers scattered around the small studio space. Caleb is settled in her usual chair, legs stretched out comfortably, while she stands beside him with one hand resting on the back of the seat, leaning over his shoulder to adjust levels on her mixing board.

The scene feels achingly familiar—like being sixteen again, when she used to send him rough recordings made on a cheap mixer and a busted laptop that took twenty minutes to boot up. Now the equipment is professional-grade, the studio soundproofed and perfectly tuned, but the dynamic is the same. Zoey talking excitedly with her hands, Caleb listening with that patient smile, occasionally asking questions.

"So this part here," Zoey says, scrubbing through the timeline to find a particular section, "I recorded it like six different ways before I figured out the right vocal tone. Listen—"

She plays a snippet of her own voice layered over a delicate piano melody, something she'd been working on before comeback season swallowed her schedule whole.

"That's beautiful, Zo," Caleb says with a soft laugh. "The difference of this compared to those recordings you used to send me is crazy."

"God, those were terrible." She laughs, scrolling through the project files. "Remember that one where I tried to freestyle over a beat I made from like, kitchen utensils?"

"You were so proud of that spoon-snare combo."

"It was innovative!"

"It was chaotic." He grins up at her. "But hey, you sold it to me with pure confidence."

The studio feels like a bubble around them, separate from the rest of the world. Rumi's teddy bear sits on the small couch in the corner—the one she keeps here for long nights when she needs something soft to hold onto during difficult recordings. Mira's stool is tucked under the console where she left it last week, her water bottle still sitting on the shelf.

Reminders of her other life, the complicated one waiting for her at home. But for now, in this soundproof space with takeout containers and familiar conversation, everything feels simple again.

"Play that one you were working on earlier," Caleb says, pointing to a file labeled with just a date. "The one with the harmonies."

Zoey clicks it open, adjusting the levels before hitting play. Her voice fills the small space, multiple tracks of herself weaving together in \patterns she'd spent weeks perfecting.

"Jesus," Caleb says when it ends. "That's like... actual magic. How do you even hear all those parts in your head at once?"

"Practice, mostly. And a lot of trial and error." She pulls up the individual tracks to show him. "See, this part here is doing the main melody, but this one underneath is doing the bass line, and then these three are just texture—"

"What if you added a horn section?"

Zoey pauses mid-explanation, staring at him. "A horn section?"

"Yeah, like trumpets. Maybe some sax. Really make it pop."

She bursts out laughing. "It's a ballad about missing home! Where would trumpets fit?"

"I don't know, maybe like a jazz funeral vibe? Really lean into the sadness."

"A jazz funeral." She's still giggling. "For a song about homesickness. You know what, that's either the worst idea ever or secretly genius."

"I prefer to think of my suggestions as 'avant-garde.'"

"That's definitely a word for them."

They fall back into easy conversation, Zoey showing him the technical aspects of production she's learned over the years. How to layer vocals without muddying the mix, when to use reverb versus delay, the art of making digital instruments sound human. Caleb asks thoughtful questions, remembers details from earlier explanations, makes her feel like her work actually matters to someone outside the industry.

"You know," he says during a lull in the conversation, "you should think about doing more solo work after this festival thing. Like, actual album development."

"That's not really how it works here," Zoey says, pulling up another project. "Group comes first, always. Solo opportunities are more like... bonuses, if you're lucky."

"But what if you didn't have to worry about that? What if you could just focus on your music?"

Something in his tone makes her look at him more carefully. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're clearly talented enough to make it on your own. Why tie yourself to other people's schedules and creative decisions when you could have complete control?"

The suggestion hits her oddly. Not offensive, exactly, but... tone-deaf in a way that reminds her he's not part of this world, doesn't understand how it works.

"Mira and Rumi aren't holding me back," she says carefully. "We're a team."

"I'm not saying they're holding you back. I'm just saying you might be surprised what you could accomplish if you prioritized yourself first for once."

There's something in the way he says it—casual, matter-of-fact—that catches her off guard. Like her loyalty to her bandmates is some kind of self-imposed limitation rather than a choice. It's not harmful, not even wrong necessarily, but it reveals a perspective that feels foreign to everything she knows about being part of something bigger than herself.

She pushes the feeling aside. "Let me show you this other track—"

They continue working through her projects, but the moment lingers in the back of her mind. A small reminder that this is grown-up Caleb, someone who's spent years building a life and career she knows nothing about. Someone whose instincts and priorities have been shaped by experiences completely different from hers.

It doesn't change how comfortable she feels with him, but it adds a layer of awareness that wasn't there before.

Time moves differently in the studio. No windows, no external noise, just the controlled environment of creativity and focused attention. When Caleb finally checks his watch and stretches in the chair, Zoey is shocked to see how late it's gotten.

"We should probably get going," he says. "It's almost ten."

"Already?" She looks at her computer screen in disbelief. "We've been here for like five hours."

"Time flies when you're adding jazz funeral horns to everything."

"I'm never letting you live that down."

She starts saving her projects and shutting down the equipment, but the process feels oddly reluctant. Like closing the door on something she doesn't want to end yet. In here, with her music and his easy attention, everything makes sense. Outside, waiting for her, is an apartment full of complicated feelings and unresolved fights and people she loves but doesn't know how to face.

The silence that falls as she powers down the mixing board feels different from the comfortable quiet they've shared all evening. Heavier.

Caleb is still sitting in her chair, watching her move around the small space. When she turns back toward him, she realizes how close they are—him seated, her standing just a step away. Close enough that she can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough to notice that he smells like the same cologne he wore in high school.

The studio suddenly feels very small.

"Zo," he says quietly, and his voice has changed. Softer, more uncertain than she's heard it all day.

"Yeah?"

He looks at her for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Can... can I kiss you?"

The question hangs in the air between them, careful and hopeful and completely unexpected. Zoey's breath catches, her mind going blank as she tries to process what he's asking.

In the soundproof silence of the studio, with takeout containers scattered around them and her music still echoing in the air, everything feels suspended. Waiting for her answer.

Chapter Text

"Can... can I kiss you?"

The question throws Zoey completely off balance. The studio is quiet, filled with the lingering energy of easy conversation that's stretched across five hours without either of them noticing. Her heart feels full from the entire day—from hot chocolate by the river to takeout containers scattered around equipment that costs more than most people's cars. 

Caleb is looking at her with something soft and hopeful in his expression, and for a moment, the question doesn't seem outrageous. It seems... natural. Like the logical conclusion to a day that's felt suspended from reality.

He starts to lean forward, or maybe she does—it's hard to tell in the small space, with him still seated in her chair and her standing close enough to count his eyelashes. She can feel the warmth radiating from him, can smell that familiar cologne that takes her back to high school hallways and football games and a version of herself that felt simpler.

His hand closes around hers, warm and careful, and for just a second, everything feels inevitable.

Then her phone starts ringing.

The sound cuts through the studio's perfect acoustics like an alarm, loud enough to make them both jump apart like teenagers caught by parents. Zoey's heart pounds as she fumbles for the device, the moment shattering so completely it feels almost violent.

Bobby's name flashes on the screen.

"Sorry," she mutters, stepping back and putting more space between them as she swipes to answer. "Hi, Bobby!"

"Hey, superstar. Hope I'm not interrupting anything important." His voice is casual, unaware that he's just prevented something that might have changed everything. "Just wanted to give you a heads up about tomorrow—we moved your B-roll shoot up by two hours. Sunday traffic is going to be murder, and we want to make sure we have the streets to ourselves for some of those outdoor shots."

"Oh, okay." Zoey's voice sounds strangely normal considering her pulse is still racing. "What time should I be there?"

"Seven AM instead of nine. I know it's early for a Sunday, but we'll have you wrapped by noon."

"That's fine. No problem."

"Great. Get some rest tonight—you've been pushing yourself pretty hard lately."

If only he knew.

"I will. Thanks for the heads up."

"See you tomorrow, superstar."

The call drops, leaving them in awkward silence. Zoey sets her phone down carefully, hyperaware of every movement and every breath in the soundproof space. Caleb is still sitting in her chair, but the intimacy from moments before has evaporated, replaced by the self-conscious awareness of two people who almost crossed a line they hadn't fully acknowledged existed.

"So," Caleb says, and his voice is carefully light. "Early day tomorrow."

"Yeah." She focuses on shutting down the last few pieces of equipment, grateful to have something to do with her hands. "Sorry about that. Bobby's timing is... something."

"Don't apologize. Work is work."

But the atmosphere in the room has shifted completely. The moment—whatever it was or might have been—is gone, and they're both pretending it didn't happen while being hyperaware that it almost did.

"We should probably call it a day," Caleb says, standing up and stretching. He's back to his normal, easy demeanor, like what almost happened never existed. "It's getting late, and you've got that early call time."

"Right. Yeah."

They gather their things in silence, Zoey double-checking that everything is properly saved and powered down. The studio that had felt like a haven now feels small in a different way—charged with unspoken tension.

Outside the company building, Caleb flags down a taxi for her.

"I can get home fine on my own," she protests, but he's already talking to the driver, giving him the address of her building and handing over cash for the fare.

"It's late," he says simply. "Let me do this one thing right."

There's something in the way he says it that makes her chest tight. Not regret, but an acknowledgment that the evening ended differently than either of them had expected.

When the taxi pulls up, they stand facing each other on the sidewalk. Not close enough to touch, not far enough apart to feel completely safe.

"Thank you," Zoey says quietly. "For today. For all of it. I needed... I needed someone to just be normal with me."

"Anytime, Zo." His smile is genuine and lopsided, tinged with something that might be wistfulness. "Really."

He doesn't hug her goodbye—too public, too risky for her career—but he does reach out and squeeze her hand briefly. The contact is warm and over almost before it begins.

"Text me when you get home safe?"

"I will."

She settles into the backseat of the taxi, and Caleb steps back onto the sidewalk. Through the rear window, she watches him get smaller as they pull into Seoul's late-night traffic, hands in his pockets, light brown hair catching the streetlights.

The whole ride home, Zoey's mind races.

What the fuck just happened?

She presses her forehead against her phone screen, the cool surface providing minimal relief against the heat of her embarrassment. The taxi driver, to his credit, ignores her completely as she has what appears to be a silent breakdown in his backseat.

She was going to kiss Caleb. Actually going to kiss him. Her ex-boyfriend from high school who she hadn't seen in years until five weeks ago. The same Caleb who Rumi and Mira have been jealous of, the same person whose presence in her life had somehow catalyzed the implosion of her relationship with her bandmates.

She hits her forehead against her phone again with a small groan.

But that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that for a moment—just a moment—it had felt right. Natural. Like something she actually wanted rather than something she was just curious about.

Her mind starts spiraling, thoughts jumping from one thing to another without logic or control. She thinks about the way Caleb had looked at her in the studio, the warmth of his hand around hers. The way he'd asked permission, careful and respectful and completely unlike the teenage boy she used to know.

Then she thinks about Rumi and Mira on the couch four nights ago, the softness of Mira's hand on Rumi's face, the way they'd fit together like puzzle pieces. The easy familiarity that spoke of a relationship that had been hidden from her for longer than she'd realized.

And then—God, why is her brain doing this—she starts thinking about what it would feel like to be in Mira's position. To cup Rumi's face that gently, to feel the warmth of her breath, to be close enough to count the subtle patterns that shift beneath her skin when she's content.

Or what it would be like to be Rumi, looking up at Mira with that trust and vulnerability she'd witnessed. To let someone that close, to be that open with feelings she'd been carrying around like secrets.

But then her mind jumps to more dangerous territory. What would it feel like if she were the one Mira was looking at like that? If those sharp brown eyes were trained on her with that same intensity she'd seen directed at Rumi? The thought makes her face flush hot against the cool window of the taxi.

And Rumi—what would it be like to have Rumi's gentle attention focused entirely on her? To feel those careful hands against her skin, to see her patterns shift colors in response to her touch? Would she taste like the chamomile tea she's always drinking?

The thoughts make her redder than they should, more confused than they should. These are her unnies. Her friends. She's never—she's never thought of them like that. Not Mira with her hidden softness and the way she makes everyone feel safe. Not Rumi with her quiet strength and steady calm.

"Fuck," she whispers to herself, hitting her forehead against her phone one more time. "What the fuck."

Because now she's thinking about all of it—Caleb's cologne and the way he'd said her name, Rumi's gentle smile and the trust in her doe-like eyes, Mira's rare soft moments when her walls come down. She's thinking about hands and breath and the way different people make her feel different things, and none of it makes sense together.

The taxi turns onto her street, and Zoey realizes she's been holding her breath. Outside the window, Seoul slides past in streaks of neon and shadow, the city indifferent to her internal chaos.

She's about to go home to an apartment where two people who love her are probably waiting up, worried about where she's been and what she's been doing. Two people she apparently has more complicated feelings for than she'd ever allowed herself to acknowledge.

After spending the day with someone who almost kissed her in a soundproof studio, someone who makes her remember parts of herself she'd thought she'd left behind in California.

What the fuck is her life right now?

The taxi pulls up to her building, and Zoey takes a deep breath, trying to compose herself before she has to face whatever is waiting for her upstairs. But her mind is still spinning, still jumping between three different faces and three different ways of feeling confused about her own heart.

She tips the driver, thanks him quietly, and heads toward the elevator, wondering if it's possible to feel homesick for three different versions of home at the same time.

The penthouse is dimly lit when Zoey lets herself in, just the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lighting they always leave on. It's almost 11 PM—she'll need to wake up at 5:30 to make her 7 AM call time, which means she should already be asleep if she wants to look halfway human on camera tomorrow.

She sees their shoes by the entrance—Mira's boots from her photo shoot, Rumi's sneakers from her recording session. The sight of them makes something twist in her chest, a mixture of relief and guilt that's been building during the entire elevator ride up.

She kind of regrets ignoring their messages now. All those apologies and explanations sitting unread in her phone, while they've probably been worried sick about where she's been for the past sixteen hours. But talking to them tonight, having the conversation she knows they need to have—she just doesn't have the energy for it right now. Not when her mind is still spinning from everything that happened in the studio, not when she needs to be coherent for cameras in seven hours.

Zoey moves through the apartment as quietly as possible, toeing off her shoes and hanging her jacket by the door. She passes by Mira's room on the way to her own, and the hallway tells her everything she needs to know—no gentle hum from Rumi's diffuser, no lavender and bergamot scent drifting under doors. Rumi is in Mira's room tonight.

She can picture them so clearly it almost hurts. Probably changed into pajamas by now, Mira in her oversized sleep shirt and Rumi in those soft pants she likes. Maybe curled up together on Mira's bed, talking in low voices about the fight, about where Zoey might be, about whether she's okay. Still awake despite the hour, waiting for the sound of the front door, for some sign that she made it home safely.

The guilt hits her harder than she expects. They love her. They told her they love her, and instead of staying to figure out what that means, she ran away and spent the day with someone else. Someone who almost kissed her in their shared studio while they were sitting at home worrying about her.

She misses them. God, she misses them so much. She misses the easy way they used to exist together. Misses being able to walk down this hallway and knock on Mira's door and flop onto the bed between them without worrying about complicated feelings or unspoken confessions.

But she can't. Not tonight. Not when her thoughts are still tangled up in confusion about what almost happened with Caleb.

About the way her mind had spiraled in the taxi.

In her room, she sits on the edge of her bed and pulls out her phone. The screen shows all the notifications she's been avoiding—missed calls, unread messages, worried texts from people who care about her. She swipes most of them away without opening them, but finds Caleb's contact and types quickly.

Zoey: Made it home safe. Thanks for today. Get some sleep.

His response comes almost immediately.

Caleb: Glad you're home. Sweet dreams, Zo :))

She stares at the message for a moment, remembering the way he'd said her name in the studio, the way he'd asked permission before leaning closer. The almost-kiss feels like it happened to someone else, but her pulse still picks up thinking about it.

Zoey sets her phone aside and heads toward the bathroom, moving as quietly as possible. She needs a shower to wash off the day, needs to try to clear her head before tomorrow's shoot. 

The hot water helps a little, steam filling the bathroom and providing the kind of white noise that usually calms her racing thoughts. But even here, in the privacy of her own shower, she can't stop her mind from jumping between studio confessions and almost-kisses and the way Mira's hand had looked so gentle against Rumi's face.

Tomorrow she'll have to be professional, focused, ready to perform for cameras and give them exactly what they need for her solo stage promotion. Tonight, she just has to survive her own confusion long enough to get some sleep.

When she finally gets out of the shower and pads back to her room in her pajamas, the apartment has settled into deeper quiet. No sounds from down the hall, no light bleeding under Mira's door. Either they've fallen asleep or they're being as careful about noise as she is.

She sets her alarm for 5:30 AM and plugs her phone in to charge, trying not to think about the unread messages waiting for her attention. Trying not to think about anything at all except the need to get through tomorrow's schedule and somehow figure out how to exist in this new reality she's stumbled into.

But as she settles under her covers and closes her eyes, all she can think about is how quiet the apartment feels. How different everything has become in a span of weeks.

How much she wants to go knock on Mira's door and crawl into bed between them, even though she's the one who chose to stay away.

Two days pass in a blur of avoidance and professional obligations.

Sunday had been a mess of missed connections and bad timing. Zoey left for her B-roll shoot at 6:15 AM, long before Rumi or Mira stirred in their beds, and spent the morning running through outdoor shots across Seoul—rooftop scenes, street choreography, the kind of dynamic footage that would cut well with her solo track. 

Caleb had sent her a good morning text at 8 AM, sweet and uncomplicated, while the group chat remained silent since Saturday. Radio silence from the two people who'd confessed to loving her, who were apparently giving her space she'd never actually asked for.

She didn't know if she appreciated them for it or found it even more frustrating.

When she'd gotten home at noon, exhausted and running on three hours of sleep, she'd found them on the couch together. For a split second, Mira had looked like she was about to say something—her mouth opening, eyes brightening with what might have been hope or determination.

Then Rumi's phone rang with Bobby's distinctive ringtone.

"Sorry," Rumi had said, looking genuinely apologetic as she answered. "Hi, Bobby! What's—oh. Yeah, okay. How soon do you need me there?"

A scheduling crisis with Ji-yoon's collaboration. They needed to re-record several tracks immediately, something about studio availability and time constraints. Rumi was out the door within ten minutes, leaving Zoey and Mira sitting in the living room with the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them.

"How was the shoot?" Mira had asked, and even that simple question felt loaded.

"Good. Tiring. We got some really nice footage." Zoey's responses had been stilted, formal in a way that felt wrong.

"That's... that's good."

"...Yeah."

The conversation had limped along for maybe five more minutes before Zoey claimed exhaustion and escaped to her room for a nap. She'd stayed in her room until 1 AM, emerging only for a quick dinner from the fridge while the apartment slept around her.

Now it's Monday, and the countdown has become impossible to ignore: twelve days and fourteen hours until her solo stage. But who's counting?

The rehearsal studio buzzes with the specific energy that comes right before something big—dress rehearsals scheduled back-to-back, final polishing of choreography that's already been perfected six times over, stylists and coordinators appearing at random intervals to check measurements and timing. Zoey throws herself into it with the kind of focus that leaves no room for thinking about almost-kisses or complicated confessions.

During a particularly long break between run-throughs, her phone buzzes with a message from Caleb.

Caleb: What channel is your show going to be on? Want to make sure I can tune in and watch you destroy everyone.

The text makes her smile automatically. Then an idea hits her—sudden and a little giddy from the pre-show adrenaline still thrumming through her system.

She finds Bobby near the sound booth, reviewing notes with one of the backup dancers.

"Hi, Bobby," she says, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Can I ask you for something?"

"Course, kiddo. What do you need?"

"Is there any way I could get a VIP pass for the festival? Just one?"

Bobby's eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise crossing his features. "Wow, Zoey! Is your mom coming for the show?"

Zoey's smile falters for just a second—barely perceptible, but there. "Oh, no," she says with a laugh that sounds almost natural. "She's too busy with work. But I have a friend in town, and I'd love for them to get good seats."

"Of course! I'll make it happen. Anyone important to you gets the VIP treatment." Bobby's enthusiasm is warm, and he doesn't seem to notice the brief unease that had flickered across her face.

"Thanks, Bobby. You're the best!"

"Don't mention it. Now get back in there—we've got three more run-throughs before dinner break."

The rest of the day passes in a blur of final adjustments. Zoey doesn't tell Caleb about the VIP pass yet—that feels like a surprise worth saving—but she does tease him about his cable-watching plans.

Zoey: Cable? Really? You're lucky you don't have any work stuff during the day so you can watch me light the stage on fire!!

Caleb: I'm planning to take a very long lunch break and find the biggest screen possible. Can't miss watching you make history.

Caleb: Wait... you're not actually lighting the stage on fire, right????

Zoey grins at her phone, the first genuinely carefree moment she's had in days.

Zoey: 😈

The giddiness from securing Caleb's VIP pass carries Zoey through the next two run-throughs, but as the afternoon settles into its rhythm, her mind starts to wander. The adrenaline from nailing her choreography fades into something quieter and more reflective.

Even as she nails every transition, every note, every potential camera angle, her thoughts keep circling back to the same three people and the impossible tangle of feelings they represent.

Caleb and their almost-kiss in the studio. The way he'd asked permission, careful and respectful in a way that reminded her why she'd fallen for him in the first place. 

Getting back together with Caleb isn't exactly what she wants, but she's open to it. Clearly he is too. But it feels like reaching backward instead of moving forward.

And he won't be in Korea forever. He'll move back to LA eventually, probably sooner rather than later, and they'll be right back where they started five years ago. Long distance, different time zones, the slow erosion of connection that comes when your lives are happening in completely separate orbits.

And some of the things he's said lately make her realize she needs time to get to know this adult version of him. The way he'd suggested she prioritize herself over the group. He doesn't understand this world, doesn't understand that being part of something bigger than yourself isn't a sacrifice.

Then there's Rumi and Mira.

The thought of them makes her chest tight. She's been turning their confession over in her mind for days now, trying to understand what it would actually mean. Not just the romantic part—though that makes her pulse race in ways she still doesn’t quite understand—but the practical reality of it.

What would it mean to join their relationship? To wake up next to them, to share everything the way she'd shared everything with Caleb when they were teenagers? The idea makes her heart beat faster, but it also terrifies her.

Because Rumi and Mira have always had a connection she couldn't quite reach. Even during early training days, when they'd clash over leadership styles or creative differences, they'd also relied on each other in ways that left Zoey feeling like the little kid they had to take care of. Sometimes she still feels that way—like the youngest member who gets protected and coddled.

What if joining their relationship just made that dynamic worse? What if she became the third wheel in her own love life, always slightly outside their established intimacy?

But then she thinks about the Honmoon.

If she really concentrates, she can feel them both in the strands of the iridescent net that connects all three of them. Rumi's steady presence, grounding and warm. Mira's intensity, protective and fierce. They're woven into the fabric of who she is in ways that go deeper than romance, deeper than friendship even.

They share a connection no one else in the world will ever understand. They've bled together, fought together, saved each other's lives more times than she can count. They know what it feels like to summon weapons from thin air, to see the supernatural overlay that most people can't even imagine exists.

They're her family. They're her bandmates. They're Mira and Rumi.

She can't imagine a life without them.

Living with them, hunting with them, performing with them—it's been four years of shared everything. Four years of Rumi making tea when Zoey can't sleep, of Mira defending them both from pushy reporters, of the three of them moving in perfect sync.

The thought of dating them, of being with them in every possible way, doesn't feel like adding something new to their dynamic. It feels like acknowledging something that's already there, something that's been building in the spaces between their friendship for longer than she'd realized.

During a water break, Zoey catches herself watching a couple of backup dancers who are clearly together—the way they gravitate toward each other during breaks, how their eyes find each other across the room, the casual familiarity of shared space.

Is that what she wants? Not just with anyone, but specifically with Rumi and Mira?

The question makes her stomach flip.

But she's still annoyed. Still frustrated that they kept this from her for months, that they made her feel like a guest in her own home. Still hurt that their first instinct was to protect themselves instead of trusting her with the truth.

Love shouldn't feel like this. It shouldn't require this much second-guessing.

As the day winds down and the other performers start packing up, Zoey makes a decision. She needs to talk to them. Not because she has answers to offer, but because avoiding each other is only making everything worse.

She doesn't know what she's going to say, doesn't know if she's ready to forgive them, or if she can even articulate what she's feeling. But she knows that sitting in her room while they tiptoe around each other in the hallway isn't solving anything.

Maybe it's time to stop running from the conversation and actually have it.

Even if she has no idea how it's going to end.

Zoey gets home at 10 PM, grateful for tomorrow's late start. The rehearsal schedule finally gives her a break—no 7 AM call times, no rushing through breakfast in the dark.

The penthouse is warm when she enters, filled with the lingering scents of dinner and the soft sounds of cleanup. She finds Rumi and Mira in the kitchen. Rumi stands at the sink washing dishes and pans, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, while Mira organizes leftovers into containers.

Zoey watches from the doorway as Mira reaches over Rumi for a larger tupperware on the upper shelf, her hand settling naturally on Rumi's waist for balance before pulling away. The touch is brief, but speaks to months of being together. Mira writes something on a post-it note and sticks it to one of the containers—probably labeling which leftovers are set aside for Zoey.

The domesticity of it all makes something twist in her chest. This is what she's been missing, what she's been outside of.

She's changed into comfortable clothes now—cropped sweater and jeans, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Rumi and Mira are both still in their outside clothes from their respective days, Rumi in dark jeans and a soft cardigan, Mira in fitted pants and a blouse that's probably from her afternoon schedules.

Zoey clears her throat softly, making her presence known.

Both of them freeze. Rumi's hands still in the soapy water, Mira's pen hovering over another container. The easy flow of their movements stutters to a stop as they turn toward her.

"Hi," Rumi says softly, and her voice carries the weight of three days of tension and silence.

"Did you—have you had dinner?" Mira asks, and the question comes out stilted, awkward in a way that shows how much effort she's putting into sounding normal.

Both of them are clearly nervous, tension radiating off their shoulders as they stand just slightly too far apart now, like they're aware of being watched.

Zoey's eyes dart between them, taking in Rumi's worried expression and the way Mira's jaw is set. They look like they're bracing for impact.

"I'm still mad at you," she says finally.

The words hit them visibly. Rumi's shoulders drop, and Mira's expression closes off slightly, walls sliding back into place. They both look like they're deflating, like they'd been holding onto hope that maybe the distance had somehow fixed things.

But Zoey continues before they can respond.

"But I don't want things to be like this forever. So can we all... sit down and just—talk about this?"

The offer hangs in the air between them, tentative but genuine. Zoey's voice is steady despite the way her heart is racing, despite the fact that she still doesn't know exactly what she wants to say or how this conversation will go.

Rumi and Mira exchange a quick glance, and something passes between them—relief, maybe, or just gratefulness that they're finally going to address what's been festering for days.

"Yes," Mira says immediately. "Please. Yes."

"Okay," Rumi adds, turning off the water and drying her hands on a dish towel. "The living room?"

They settle into the living room with the kind of silence that feels heavy with unspoken words. Zoey chooses the armchair across from the couch, while Rumi and Mira sit on opposite ends of the sofa. Nobody seems to know how to start.

Finally, Zoey makes eye contact with Mira.

"You hurt me."

Mira's throat bobs as she swallows hard.

"You hurt me a lot," Zoey continues, her voice steady even as her hands shake in her lap. She wrings them together, trying to still the tremor. "Both of you."

She makes sure to look at Rumi too, needing them both to understand what she's saying.

"I know I've been busy," she continues. "I know the solo prep has been consuming everything, but... God, I've been so lonely. And you guys made me feel like I was doing something wrong just by existing around you."

Rumi's patterns dim beneath her sleeves. "Zoey—"

"I wanted to celebrate this stage with you. This is the biggest thing that's ever happened to me, and instead of feeling like I could share it with my best friends, it felt like I had to apologize for being excited about it."

The words come out faster now, a month of frustration finally finding voice. "Every conversation felt so fake…so strained. Every time I tried to tell you guys something good that happened, you'd get this look on your faces like you were somewhere else."

"We didn't mean to make you feel that way," Rumi says quietly. "We were trying to be supportive—"

"It felt like you were just going through the motions. Like you weren’t even actually listening to me."

Mira bites her lip, eyes bright with unshed tears. "You're right. We were. We were so wrapped up in our own drama that we stopped being present for you."

"And Caleb..." Zoey takes a shaky breath. "I understand now. Why you were being so weird about him. I get it."

She notices how both of them tense up at his name.

"But that doesn't justify how you treated me. Making me feel guilty for having a friend, for finding someone who actually seemed happy to spend time with me."

"We were jealous," Mira says bluntly, wiping her eyes. "We were so fucking jealous it made us act like idiots."

"We're sorry," Rumi adds, her voice thick. "Zoey, we're so sorry. We never wanted you to feel that way. We were trying to protect you, but we ended up hurting you instead."

"Protect me from what?"

Rumi and Mira exchange a glance, and something passes between them.

"From us," Mira says finally. "From our feelings. From the mess we made of everything."

"Tell me," Zoey says. "Tell me the truth. All of it."

So they do.

They lay out the timeline—how their relationship started three months ago after the battle with Gwi Ma, how the feelings for Zoey had been building even longer than that. How they'd planned to tell her after the comeback, then after her solo stage, always finding reasons to wait for a better moment that never came.

"We kept saying we wanted to give you time," Rumi explains, her voice getting smaller. "But really we were protecting ourselves. We were terrified of losing this—all three of us."

"So instead you almost lost it anyway," Zoey points out.

"Yeah," Mira says with a bitter laugh. "Instead we almost lost it anyway."

"We've been dating for three months," Rumi continues, her voice soft but clear. "But we've had feelings for you for... for so much longer than that."

"How long?" Zoey asks.

Mira and Rumi look at each other again.

"For me?" Rumi says slowly. "Since our first comeback, maybe? When you stayed up all night helping me with that rap verse even though you were sick."

"For me, it was earlier," Mira admits. "During trainee days. I…there wasn’t a big moment or anything. I just…fell."

"You've been in love with me for years?" Zoey's voice comes out smaller than she intended.

"We love you," Mira adds, and her voice is stronger now, more certain. "We're in love with you, Zoey. Not just as friends. We love you romantically, and we want to be with you. All of us together."

"What does that even mean?" Zoey asks. "All of us together?"

"It means exactly what it sounds like," Rumi says gently. "The three of us. As partners. As... everything."

During this confession, Zoey watches as their hands find each other across the couch cushions. Rumi's fingers threading through Mira's, both of them grounding each other through the vulnerability of laying their hearts bare.

Zoey is hyperaware of her own hands still shaking in her lap.

"I don't understand how that would work," she says honestly.

"We don't either," Mira admits. "We've never done this before. But we know we love each other, and we love you, and we want to figure it out together."

They wait for her to say something. Anything. The silence stretches until it feels like it might snap.

"You love me," she says finally.

"We do," Rumi says immediately.

"So much," Mira adds at the same time, their voices overlapping.

"Okay." Zoey wrings her hands again, trying to process what she's hearing. "Okay."

She hadn't really known what she wanted to achieve from this conversation. To hear this? To hear them say it out loud without the weight of a fight underneath it?

What does she feel? She feels... possibilities. So many possibilities swirling in her chest that she can't quite grab hold of any single one.

"I love you guys," she says, and both Mira and Rumi's eyes snap toward her with something that looks like hope. "I've loved you like family ever since I met you. You both mean so much to me."

She can see them holding their breath, waiting for more.

"And right now there's just... there's so much going on. But I miss you guys. I miss coming home and spending time with you without worrying I'm doing something wrong."

"We miss you too," Rumi says quietly. "So much."

Mira and Rumi's hands tighten around each other.

"And I don't have the words you want to hear. At least not now, not yet or…I just... I don't want to feel like the bad guy for reconnecting with Caleb. I don't want to feel bad for leaning on someone else when it's been tough being here while you guys shut me out."

For a moment, she thinks about telling them about the studio. About how close she and Caleb had come to kissing, about the way her heart had raced when he'd asked permission. About how Bobby's phone call had probably saved her from making everything infinitely more complicated.

She should tell them. They're being honest with her now—shouldn't she return the favor?

But looking at their faces, at the hope and fear in their expressions, she can't bring herself to add that complication to an already fragile moment. Not when they're all barely holding themselves together. Not tonight.

"We don't want you to feel bad about that," Mira says, though Zoey can hear the effort it takes to say it. "You're allowed to have other people in your life."

"Even if it kills us to watch," Rumi adds with a small, pained smile.

"I know this is unfair," Zoey says, her voice getting thick. "I know you want me to say something…final. To tell you yes or no and make a decision that fixes everything."

"We don't need—" Rumi starts.

"You do, though," Zoey interrupts. "You do need that, and I can't give it to you right now. I don't know what I feel about... about the romantic part. I don't know if I'm…capable of being what you want me to be."

"You don't have to be anything," Mira says fiercely. "We love you exactly as you are."

"But you want more than friendship."

"Yes," Rumi admits quietly. "We do."

"And I don't know if I can give you that. I don't know if I'm... if I'm wired that way. With you guys, I mean."

The words hang in the air, honest and painful.

"That's okay," Mira says, even though her voice wavers slightly. "That's okay. We just needed you to know. We needed to stop lying to you."

"And to ourselves," Rumi adds.

Zoey feels tears prick at her eyes. "I hate that I can't just... I hate that I can't make this easy for you."

"Love isn't supposed to be easy," Mira says softly. "If it were easy, it wouldn't mean as much."

"Can we just..." Zoey takes a shaky breath. "Can we just be normal first? I want to get through this solo stage with you guys. And then we can talk about this more. I just don't want to be frustrated forever. I don't want to be angry forever."

"Okay," Mira says immediately. "Yeah. We can do that."

"We can be normal," Rumi agrees. "Whatever you need."

"And you'll be patient with me? While I figure out... whatever this is?"

"As patient as you need us to be," Rumi promises.

Zoey looks at them—really looks at them—sitting there with their hands intertwined, hope and heartbreak clear as day on their faces. They're still here. Still looking to her, still asking for her in whatever way she can give.

The guilt about Caleb sits like a stone in her stomach. She should tell them. She should tell them about the studio, about the almost-kiss, about the VIP pass she got him for her show. She should tell them about the way her mind has been spinning for days, thinking about what it would feel like to kiss them, to be with them, to step into the space they're offering her.

"Can I have a hug?" she asks, her voice smaller than before.

Both their hearts break a little at the request, at how tentative she sounds asking for something that used to be automatic between them. But Mira is already opening her arms, and Zoey shuffles across to the couch, settling into the space between them.

Rumi joins the embrace immediately, wrapping around both of them, and for the first time in weeks, Zoey feels like she can breathe properly. She pushes her nose into Mira's collar, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo and the faint sweetness of whatever perfume she'd worn to her schedule today.

The pit in her stomach doesn't go away—the guilt about Caleb, the confusion about her own feelings, the weight of not being able to give them the resolution she knows they want. But for now, she buries herself deeper into their warmth, lets their familiar scents and the steady rhythm of their breathing make her feel at home.

Rumi's hand finds her hair, fingers threading through the strands with gentle familiarity. Mira's arm tightens around her waist, solid and grounding.

They hold each other like this, hearts breaking and mending in the same moment. It's not a resolution—not really. But it's a beginning. A way back to each other that doesn't require having all the answers right now.

For now, this is enough.

Even if Zoey knows that tomorrow, she'll still be carrying secrets that could change everything.

Chapter Text

Zoey's phone buzzes against the stage floor where she'd left it next to her water bottle, the notification cutting through the bustle of choreographers and stage hands moving behind her. She's just finished a full run-through of her opening number, sweat cooling on her skin despite the venue's air conditioning, and the brief break feels earned.

[Group Chat: Huntr/x Girlz to the 🌎]

Mira: [Image attached]

The photo loads and Zoey's face breaks into an automatic smile. It's Mira and Rumi in the company training room mirror, both of them post-workout and glowing. Rumi's in her usual crop top and sweats, the fabric riding up slightly as she poses beside Mira, who's wearing nothing but a sports bra and matching sweats. Mira's holding the phone to capture both their reflections, her free arm thrown around Rumi's shoulders.

It's the kind of goofy, post-practice photo they used to send all the time—the kind of normalcy Zoey had asked for last night. The kind that says we're still here, we're still your friends who send you random pictures because we want you to be part of our day.

But then Zoey finds herself staring. At the way Rumi's patterns spiral down from her ribs to disappear beneath the waistband of her sweats, iridescent against her skin in the training room's cool lighting. At the way Mira's hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail with strands escaping to frame her face, at the confident way she meets the camera's gaze.

Oh my god, Zoey, be normal, she tells herself firmly. You've seen them naked at the bathhouse. You've literally seen everything. What the hell is wrong with you?

But her pulse is doing something irregular anyway, and she can't quite look away from the image on her screen. From the way they look together, sweaty and completely at home in each other's space.

A wave of something that feels suspiciously like envy washes over her. Not just because of how they look—though there's definitely something there she's not ready to examine—but because of where they are. Together.

She wants to be there with them. Or she wants them here with her, watching from the empty seats, cheering her on and keeping her company during water breaks. She wants Rumi's encouragement and Mira's sharp observations about her stage presence. She wants the ease of working with people who know her body language as well as their own.

She misses them more than she thought she did. More than she'd let herself acknowledge even last night during their conversation.

Focus, she tells herself, shaking her head. She raises her phone for a selfie, making sure the angle doesn't reveal anything about the stage setup behind her. She winks at the camera, hair still damp with sweat, and sends it back without a caption.

Zoey: [Image attached]

The response comes immediately—a string of flame emojis from Mira and a heart from Rumi that makes something flutter in her chest before she can stop it.

Her phone buzzes again before she can fully process that reaction. This time it's not the group chat—it's an individual message from Caleb.

Caleb: Good luck with rehearsals today! Can't wait to see you light that stage on fire for real (?)

Her smile falters completely.

Right. Caleb. The VIP pass sitting in an envelope in her bag. The studio session four nights ago that ended with Bobby's phone call preventing what could have been a disaster. The way he'd looked at her when he asked permission to kiss her, the way her heart had raced in those few seconds.

The guilt crashes over her with renewed force. She spent an entire day with him—took him to their studio, shared her music with him, almost let him kiss her—and she didn't tell Mira and Rumi any of it. She'd sat there last night while they confessed everything, while they laid their hearts bare and apologized for keeping secrets, and she'd kept her mouth shut about the biggest secret of all.

They'd been honest with her about their relationship, about their feelings, about the months of confusion and longing they'd been carrying. And what had she done? Nodded sympathetically while hiding the fact that she'd nearly kissed someone else just a day after learning they loved her.

The worst part is that she knows she should have told them. Should have mentioned it during their conversation last night, should have been as transparent as they were being. But looking at their hopeful faces and the vulnerability in their eyes, she couldn't bring herself to ruin an already fragile moment.

Now it feels like a betrayal. Not just the almost-kiss, but the hiding of it. The way she's compartmentalizing her feelings, keeping Caleb in one box and Mira and Rumi in another like they don't affect each other.

She stares at Caleb's message without opening it, letting it join the growing pile of things she doesn't know how to navigate. The VIP pass in her bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.

"Alright, everyone, let's reset for the second number!" the stage manager calls out. "Costume change in ninety seconds, then we're running the full set!"

Zoey slides her phone into her bag without responding to Caleb's text, but the guilt follows her as she hurries toward the dressing area. Only a few more days until the festival, and instead of feeling excited about her solo debut, she feels like she's drowning in the weight of everything she's not saying.

As she changes into her second costume, she catches her reflection in the mirror and wonders when everything got so complicated. 

The irony isn't lost on her that she'd asked for normal last night, when normal might be the one thing that's completely out of reach. Not when she's hiding things. Not when she can't look at a simple photo without her heart doing things she doesn't understand.

And definitely not when part of her wishes she was brave enough to tell them the truth.

But the music is starting again, and she has a job to do, so she pushes all of it down and takes her place on stage. The performance doesn't care about her tangled feelings or her guilty conscience.

Even if she's starting to realize that maybe she does.

Across the city, Mira and Rumi pack up their things in the silent practice room, both of them moving with the satisfaction that comes after a productive training session. Neither of them has schedules for the rest of the day, which feels like a rare gift during comeback season.

Rumi pulls her sweaty crop top over her head without ceremony, standing there in just her sports bra while she rummages through her bag for a clean shirt. The practice room is empty anyway, and after years of training together, modesty has long since become irrelevant between them.

Mira watches the movement, taking in the way Rumi's patterns shimmer down her spine, the slight sheen of sweat across her shoulders.

"I think we're doing a good job," Mira says, wiping her forehead with her arm before reaching for her own change of clothes.

Rumi's head isn't through the neck hole of her fresh t-shirt yet, her long braid getting tangled in the fabric. She leans forward enough to make eye contact with Mira. "At?"

Mira grabs a wet wipe and swipes it underneath the garter of her sports bra, reaching for a clean shirt. She doesn’t miss the way Rumi's eyes follow the movement. "Being normal."

Rumi finally gets her head through the shirt, raising an eyebrow when she catches Mira shamelessly watching her get dressed. She tosses Mira a towel with a small smirk. "Are we? We just sent her a picture, Mira. Not exactly groundbreaking progress when we both had to stop ourselves from losing our minds when she sent that selfie back."

Mira laughs despite herself, pulling her shirt down. "Okay, fair point. But we didn't send her a paragraph analyzing every pixel of her cute face, so I'm calling that growth."

"The bar is on the floor," Rumi says, but she's smiling as she stuffs her dirty clothes into her bag.

They gather their things and head toward the elevators, both of them still buzzing slightly from the combination of good training and the tentative hope that things might actually be okay between the three of them.

"She didn't say she wasn't interested," Mira points out as they wait for the elevator. "Last night, I mean. She said she didn't know if she was ‘wired that way’, but that's not the same as saying no."

"It's also not the same as saying yes," Rumi replies, though there's something in her voice that suggests she's been thinking the same thing.

"But she asked what it would look like. That's not a question you ask if you're completely uninterested."

The elevator arrives and they step inside, both of them instinctively moving to opposite corners out of habit—public spaces require maintaining the illusion that they're just friends and bandmates.

"Maybe," Rumi says quietly. "Or maybe she was just trying to understand what we were asking of her."

"You don't think she's curious at all?"

Rumi's patterns flicker beneath her sleeves as she processes the complicated emotions that come from Mira’s question. "I think she's curious about a lot of things. I just don't want her to mistake curiosity for romantic interest."

They exit the building and start walking toward the subway, automatically choosing the route that takes them through quieter side streets where they're less likely to be recognized. The afternoon sun catches in Mira's pink hair, and Rumi finds herself stealing glances at her profile.

"There," Mira says suddenly, pointing to the boba shop that's become Rumi's recent obsession. "Want to get something?"

"I probably shouldn't—"

"Bobby's not going to find out about another milk tea," Hopefully. Mira thinks, already veering toward the shop. "And if he does, I'll tell him it was my idea."

They order their usual drinks—brown sugar milk tea for Rumi, taro for Mira, and something for Zoey—and Mira insists on paying despite Rumi's protests. The mundanity of this time together feels grounding after the past few days.

"So what would it actually look like?" Mira asks once they're back on the street, drinks in hand. "If she said yes, I mean."

Rumi takes a long sip of her milk tea, buying time to think. "I don't know. We've never done this before."

"Neither has she, probably."

"Definitely not. Can you imagine Zoey navigating a polyamorous relationship? She gets flustered when the stylist-unnies are too friendly with her."

Mira laughs, the sound bright in the afternoon air. "She'd probably make color-coded calendars to make sure everyone gets equal attention."

"Lists of date ideas organized by person and season."

"A spreadsheet tracking who pays for what."

They're both giggling now, the tension of the past few days finally starting to ease. But underneath the humor, there's something else—actual consideration of what their lives could look like if the impossible became possible.

"She'd want to take things slow," Rumi says eventually, more serious now. "If she decided to try it. You know how she is with big changes."

"That’s fine. We're not going anywhere."

"And we'd have to figure out logistics. Like, does she move into one of our rooms? Do we get a bigger bed? How does it work when we're on tour?"

"One step at a time," Mira says gently. "First she has to actually want to try it."

"Do you think she could? Want to try it, I mean?"

Mira considers this as they walk, taking in the way Seoul moves around them—couples holding hands, friends laughing over shared snacks, the ordinary intimacy of people living their lives without having to hide parts of themselves.

"I think she loves us," she says finally. "I know she loves us. The question is whether she can imagine loving us differently."

"And whether she wants to."

"And whether she wants to," Mira agrees.

They lapse into comfortable silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts about possibility and hope and the terrifying vulnerability of wanting something so much. The afternoon stretches ahead of them, free of obligations, and for the first time in weeks, the future feels like something they might actually get to shape rather than just survive.

Rumi's phone buzzes with a notification, and when she checks it, her face lights up.

"Zoey says she'll be home by eight tonight. She wants to know if we want to order dinner and watch something terrible."

Mira grins, reaching for Rumi’s hand. "Normal?"

"Normal," Rumi confirms, threading their fingers together.

After the final run-through, the production team huddles for their post-rehearsal breakdown. Zoey hovers at the edge of the circle, still buzzing with adrenaline from nailing the transitions that had been giving her trouble all week.

"Costume department confirms all pieces will be ready by Thursday," the set coordinator announces, checking off items on her tablet. "Props team has confirmed ingress schedule for the larger set pieces. Choreography-wise, we're solid except for the one edit to accommodate stage dimensions."

"Which we'll handle the day after tomorrow," the choreographer-nim adds. "Otherwise, it's just polishing from here on out."

Zoey nods along, but the reality of how close they are to showtime is starting to sink in. One week. Approximately seven days until she steps onto that stage alone and either proves she belongs there or spectacularly fails in front of thousands of people.

She's exiting the dressing room, costume bag slung over her shoulder, when Bobby appears at her elbow.

"Walk with me, superstar," he says, steering her toward the venue's exit. "Let me give you the breakdown for the next few days."

Zoey falls into step beside him, already knowing this is going to be a lot to process.

"Tomorrow is final fittings—we're talking three hours minimum, so clear your afternoon schedule. Day after that is the choreography edit mentioned earlier, then we're into full dress rehearsals every single day until your day off."

"My day off?"

"The day before the festival. Complete rest. No rehearsals, no fittings, no meetings. You're going to sleep in, eat something that isn't microwaveable, and show up ready to blow everyone's minds."

Zoey starts out smiling, but by the time Bobby finishes his rundown, it looks more like a grimace. The schedule is intense, and the pressure is building with each day that brings her closer to the performance.

"Bobby," she says, and her voice comes out smaller than intended. "What if I mess up? What if my voice cracks, or I trip during the set change, or—" Her mind spirals towards the worst possible thing. "What if I poop my pants on stage?"

Bobby stops walking and turns to face her. At his height, he has to reach up to put his hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her down to his eye level.

"Zoey," he says firmly. "You're going to be amazing. You've been working your butt off for weeks. This isn't luck or chance—this is skill and preparation and talent meeting an opportunity we’ve been praying for."

"But what if—"

"And," he continues, cutting off her spiral, "you won't be alone out there. The girls will be in the wings watching every move, cheering you on. That friend you mentioned will be in VIP, probably losing their mind. Everyone is in your corner. You're going to kill it, kid."

If anything, Zoey looks even more constipated at the thought of all those people watching her. Caleb in VIP, close enough for her to spot from the stage if she looks for him. Close enough to see every expression on her face, hear every thump and squeak of her shoes as she moves through the choreography, witness whatever magic or disaster unfolds in real time.

And Rumi and Mira backstage, watching the monitor feeds with the kind of attention they usually reserve for their own performances. Rumi will probably insist they give her an in-ear monitor so she can hear the metronome in Zoey's earpiece, feel the rhythm and cues along with her. Mira will watch her footwork with that proud little smile she gets when the choreography clicks perfectly.

Every movement dissected by people who know her better than she knows herself. The thought should be comforting, but instead it makes her stomach clench with a different kind of nerves.

"I'm nervous," she admits.

"Good," Bobby says, releasing her shoulders with an easy grin. "Nerves mean you care. Just don't let it paralyze you."

In the van on the way home, Zoey stares out the window at Seoul's rush-hour traffic and tries to process everything. One week. She can do this.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Caleb—the notification from earlier that she still hasn't opened, plus a new message.

Caleb: Hey, one week till the big show! Can I treat the hotshot soloist to dinner sometime before then?

The offer makes her smile despite her nerves. In spite of all the recent complications and confusing feelings, Caleb is still such a constant in her life right now. He’d followed every day of her solo prep without expectation, keeping up with her days and supplementing them with his steady presence.

And dinner gives her the perfect opportunity to tell him about the VIP pass, to see his reaction to the surprise she's planned.

Zoey: Yes, let’s!! Two nights from now after choreo day?

Caleb: Okay!!! I'll pick somewhere quiet so you can actually relax 😉

She should feel excited about seeing him. And she does, mostly. But underneath that excitement is something that feels like guilt, which makes absolutely no sense.

Why does agreeing to dinner with Caleb feel like she's cheating on Mira and Rumi? They're not dating. They told her they wanted to be, but she hadn't given them an answer. She'd asked for normal, for time to figure things out, and they'd agreed.

You're insane, she tells herself. You're having dinner with an old friend. That's it.

But the voice in her head sounds unconvinced, because it's not just dinner, is it? It's dinner with the ex-boyfriend she almost kissed. Dinner with someone who makes her heart do complicated things, planned while she's still carrying secrets from the two people who've just confessed to being in love with her.

Zoey thuds her phone against her forehead, closing her eyes.

You're having dinner with the ex you almost kissed, her internal voice continues relentlessly, and you feel like you're cheating on your friends who you've never even thought about dating. Except you have been thinking about dating them. And kissing them. And you love them so much it makes your chest hurt sometimes.

The van turns onto her street, and Zoey realizes she's been holding her breath. Seven days until her solo debut, and instead of feeling ready, she feels like she's drowning in feelings she doesn't know how to name.

But Mira and Rumi are waiting for her at home—probably with tea and terrible variety shows and the kind of comfortable evening she's been craving for weeks, 

Zoey promises herself she’ll figure this out soon, even if it kills her.

When Zoey enters the penthouse, the sight of Mira and Rumi’s matching sneakers by the entrance makes something warm unfurl in her chest. Two pairs sitting side-by-side, neatly arranged—exactly what she’d expected after a day without schedules.

Knowing those two, they probably holed up in Rumi's room watching dramas all afternoon, which sounds like the most perfect way to spend a free day.

Before heading to her room, Zoey makes her way to the kitchen for water, deliberately making enough noise with cabinets and the refrigerator to make her presence known. She was never mad about catching them kissing on the couch, but her brain definitely cannot handle the thought of catching Mira and Rumi kissing in Rumi's room. On Rumi's bed.

Okay, Zoey, let's reel that thought in. Oh my god.

She spots something that makes her pause—a boba tea sitting in the fridge, cookies and cream with that good cheese foam on top that costs extra. Her heart does a little flip because of course they thought of her while they were out. Of course they remembered her favorite flavor. Always thinking of her and always caring.

She stabs her reusable straw through the top and takes a sip, praying to god Bobby doesn’t find out about this. Then she bounds down the hallway toward Rumi's room, and for the first time in weeks, she can smell the familiar scent of Rumi's diffuser—lavender and bergamot drifting under the door.

She knocks twice.

"Come in," Rumi's voice calls.

Zoey pushes the door open to find exactly what she'd expected: Rumi already changed into soft pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, Mira sprawled across the bed in her oversized sleep shirt. Rumi's tablet is balanced between them, some drama playing with the volume low.

"Hi," Zoey says, holding up the boba. "Thanks for this. You guys are the best."

"We passed by," Mira says with a small smile. "How was the rehearsal?"

"Good! We got a lot done. I'm just gonna shower and change, then we can figure out dinner?"

"Sounds perfect," Rumi says. "We were thinking of ordering from that Japanese place with those onsen eggs Mira really likes."

"Okie dokie. I'll be quick!"

Zoey practically skips to her room, boba in hand, feeling lighter than she has in weeks. The normalcy of it all—the casual conversation, the thoughtful gesture, the assumption that they'll spend the evening together watching terrible dramas that Mira claims to hate but secretly loves—feels like coming home.

This is what she'd been missing. This warmth, this sense of belonging, this knowledge that there are people in the world who think of her when she's not around. Who buy her favorite drinks just because they can. Who save space for her on beds and couches and in conversations about nothing important.

She loves this. She loves them. And she's so grateful they're all trying so hard to get back to something that feels sustainable

After Zoey showers and they decide on food, they end up eating takeout on the floor of Rumi's room, backs against the bed while some drama plays on the tablet propped up on Rumi's desk chair. It's their usual formation—Zoey in the middle, Mira to her left, Rumi to her right—and normally this would feel completely natural.

But Zoey's mind is wandering and she genuinely thinks she's going crazy.

She's hyperaware of everything now. The warmth radiating from Rumi's body where their shoulders almost touch. The rhythm of Mira's breathing beside her. The way Mira's arm is stretched out behind them along the edge of the bed, long enough for both of them to lean back against if they want to.

These are all things she's experienced countless times before. This exact position, this exact arrangement of bodies. But knowing now that these two women love her—romantically, completely—has reframed everything.

Is she overthinking because it's something being presented to her now? Something she knows she could try if she wanted to? The thought makes her feel a little gross, like she's analyzing her friends as potential romantic partners instead of just...being with them.

But the curiosity gnaws at her anyway.

What would it really be like to be part of Rumi and Mira's relationship? To be loved the way they love each other and to give that love back? To wake up between them, to share everything, to belong to something bigger than friendship but smaller than the whole world?

She remembers how it felt to be loved by Caleb back in high school. The ease of it, the safety of knowing someone chose her every day. How that love had been an anchor during the worst parts of her parents' divorce, when everything else in her life felt unstable.

But this would be different. Her life now is so much more complex than it was when she was a nobody in Burbank. Adding romantic relationships to the mix of idol schedules and public scrutiny and the constant pressure to be perfect—it feels both impossible and inevitable at the same time.

On screen, the drama has reached its climactic love triangle moment. The female lead stands between her wealthy suitor and her childhood best friend, both men having just confessed their feelings. The rich lead takes a step closer, his voice soft but determined.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, exactly the same words that had hung in the studio air four nights ago.

Zoey's chest clenches. The guilt that's been sitting in her stomach for days suddenly feels unbearable, watching this fictional scenario play out while she sits between two real people who've laid their hearts bare to her.

She should tell them. She should, she should, she will.

The music swells as the female lead nods, and just as the characters lean toward each other on screen, just as Rumi is reaching forward to grab more sushi and Mira is lifting her tea to her lips, the words tumble out of Zoey's mouth before she can stop them.

"I almost kissed Caleb."

On screen, the romantic leads wrap their arms around each other in a passionate embrace. The camera spins, the soundtrack swells, and beside her, Zoey can feel Rumi and Mira freeze completely.

Rumi's chopsticks stop halfway to her mouth. Mira's tea cup hovers in the air. The only sound in the room is the drama's swelling violins and Zoey's heart hammering against her ribs.

Well. Zoey can’t be mad at Mira for that failed confession anymore. Ever.

Rumi clears her throat, straightening up, and Zoey can feel both of them shift slightly away from her. The space between them on the floor suddenly feels enormous, and her heart drops straight through the floor.

Mira is the one who breaks the silence. "Oh. Um... when?"

Zoey wants to die. Oh my god. Your mouth. Your big stupid mouth, Zoey. What happened to asking for normal?

"The day after the fight," she admits quietly.

The day she'd been gone and radio silent for twelve hours. When she'd ignored their messages and brought a stranger into their shared space.

"Okay."

The silence stretches. Zoey hates herself so much right now.

Rumi breaks it, her voice almost hopeful. "Why...why didn't you? Kiss him, I mean."

Well, Zoey hates herself even more now.

"Bobby called. But I don't think I was going to kiss him, I mean, he asked! But I didn't say yes, but we both leaned in! I think. And the studio was so small so—"

"The studio?" Mira's voice cuts through her rambling. "You brought him to the studio?"

Their voices are so neutral that Zoey wants to jump off Rumi's balcony or cry or laugh, and she doesn't know why she feels like this.

"Yeah, I just... needed some quiet."

"Quiet time with him?" There's something sharp underneath Mira's carefully controlled tone.

"No! Well. I don't know! It's not like I planned to kiss him. And we didn't! I just—you guys have been honest with me, and I was keeping this from you, and now you know but I feel crazy because I feel guilty but I know I shouldn't be feeling guilty—"

"Zoey." Rumi's voice is gentle but firm. "Breathe."

Zoey stops mid-sentence, realizing she's been talking faster and faster, her words tumbling over each other in a way that probably isn't helping anyone understand anything.

She takes a shaky breath, then another.

On the tablet, the drama has moved on to some other scene, but none of them are watching anymore. The takeout containers sit forgotten between them, the easy warmth of their evening completely shattered by her inability to keep her mouth shut.

"I'm sorry," she says finally, her voice small. "I should have told you. I should have—"

"You don't owe us an explanation about who you almost kiss," Mira says, but there's something hollow in the way she says it.

"But I do, though. After what you told me, after—" Zoey's hands are shaking now. "I feel like I'm going crazy. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel or how I'm supposed to act or what any of this means."

Rumi's patterns have gone very dim beneath her pajama sleeves. "What do you want it to mean?"

The question hangs in the air between them, heavier than anything that's been said so far.

"I don't know," Zoey whispers, and it's the most honest thing she's said all night.

The silence stretches, and she can feel both of them waiting, giving her space to find whatever words she’s trying to form.

"I've had thoughts," she says finally, her voice barely audible. "Since I caught you on the couch. Thoughts that I didn't think were... appropriate."

Mira and Rumi understand immediately what she means. They don't comment, don't react, just stay silent to give her room to continue.

"But I don't know if it makes sense," Zoey continues, her hands twisting in her lap. "Because sometimes I think about you guys and how we are as Huntr/x, and I feel like your little sister. Like I don't understand you the same way you understand each other, and you just guide me and tell me what to do, and—"

She takes a shaky breath.

"Ever since I saw you kiss, ever since you confessed, it feels like a door is opening and I feel gross about it. Because what if I say I want to try being with you two and it turns out I don't like it? Don't like you like that? And it implodes everything?"

Her voice gets smaller. "I don't want to use you to... to experiment or anything. And there's the whole thing with Caleb and—"

"Do you like him?" Mira asks quietly.

Zoey doesn't hesitate. "Of course I like him! But this Caleb is different, and this Caleb won't be in Korea forever, and long distance killed us last time—"

"Zoey." Rumi's voice is gentle again. "Breathe."

Zoey stops, realizing she's spiraling again, her thoughts tumbling over each other in ways that probably aren't making sense to anyone, including herself.

Looking at her—really looking at her—Mira and Rumi start to understand just how much this whole situation has been driving her crazy. The guilt and confusion and overthinking written all over her face, the way she's been carrying this alone for days while trying to be normal for their sake.

"I feel like I'm losing my mind," Zoey admits, her voice cracking slightly. "I don't know what I want or what I'm supposed to want or how to figure any of it out without hurting everyone I care about."

The drama continues playing on the tablet, forgotten, while the three of them sit in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a simple, normal evening together.

"I'm sorry," Zoey whispers. "I'm sorry I'm making this so complicated."

Rumi's hand moves toward hers, then stops, uncertain about what touch is appropriate in this moment. "You're not making anything complicated, Zoey. Feelings are complicated."

"But I asked for normal—"

"And you're allowed to change your mind about what you need," Mira says softly. "You're allowed to be confused."

Zoey looks at them through the tears that have started gathering in her eyes, these two people who love her enough to be patient with her chaos, and wonders how she got so lucky and so lost at the same time.

"I..." Zoey takes a shaky breath, forcing herself to meet their eyes. "I did want to kiss him. In the moment. It just felt right, in the moment."

The words hang in the air, and she can see something flicker across both their faces.

"But I won't lie," she continues, her voice getting smaller. "I've had thoughts about kissing you. Both of you, too. And it confuses me because this is all happening so fast, and I hate that I'm making this so confusing for you guys too."

Mira and Rumi exchange a glance, and Zoey can see the way the confession lands—not quite pain, but definitely a sting. The knowledge that she's been thinking about Caleb romantically while also maybe thinking about them romantically, that her heart is apparently scattered in multiple directions.

"I won't lie, it's a little annoying that you brought him to the studio," Mira says quietly. "Not because it's Caleb, but because that's... that's our space. Our sacred space. You should have let us know."

"You're right," Zoey says immediately. "I should have asked first. Or at least told you after. It was thoughtless."

"But we understand how much Caleb means to you," Rumi says, though her voice sounds strained. "Five years is a big deal. You guys dated longer than we've all known each other."

There's something in the way she says it—a recognition of just how deep that history runs. Caleb has met Zoey's parents, sat at their dinner table, probably bowed awkwardly to her mother while attempting broken Korean the way teenage boys do when they're trying to impress. Mira and Rumi can almost picture it: a younger version of him sitting beside what they imagine Zoey's father looks like, nervous and earnest and already woven into the fabric of her family.

What chance do they have against that? Against someone who knew Zoey before any of this, who loved her when she was still figuring out who she wanted to become?

But Zoey doesn't seem to pick up on the underlying weight of Rumi's observation. She's too caught up in her own confusion, her own guilt about having feelings that don't fit neatly into categories.

"I don't know what any of it means," Zoey says, her voice thick with frustration. "I don't know if what I'm feeling for you guys is real or if it's just because you told me you loved me. I'm not sure if my feelings for Caleb are nostalgia or genuine attraction. I don't know how to figure any of it out without potentially destroying everything."

She drops her head into her hands. Mira and Rumi don’t quite know what to say.

The drama continues playing in the background, the fictional love triangle somehow less complicated than the real one sitting on Rumi's bedroom floor.

"I just..." Zoey's voice gets smaller. "I still want normal. Whatever that means, now that all the cards are really on the table. I know that's probably impossible, but at least until the stage? Because that's a whole other can of worms that's driving me crazy, and I can't handle thinking about all of this while I'm trying not to mess up the biggest moment of my career."

Mira and Rumi's hearts soften at that, because how can they blame Zoey for any of this when she's really just trying her best? When she's carrying so much pressure already, and now they've added their feelings to the pile?

"Normal," Mira says softly. "We can do normal."

"Whatever version of normal we can manage," Rumi agrees.

Zoey reaches out suddenly, grabbing both their hands and weaving her fingers through theirs. The gesture is spontaneous, desperate, seeking comfort in the only way she knows how.

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you for being patient with me."

Mira and Rumi's hearts tighten at the contact, at the trust Zoey has in them both. But they don't pull away. They hold on too, because whatever normal looks like now, it starts with this: the three of them, connected, trying to figure out how to love each other through the mess of it all.