Chapter Text
The vast rays of sunlight pierced through the curtains, slipping through the thin fabric in harsh, golden streaks that landed far too precisely across Rumi’s face. Her brows knit together in irritation at the offending action that dared to disturb her sleep.
It’s fucking too early for this… She grumbled before sluggishly turning away, attempting to escape the light burning against her eyelids, but stopped when she found herself unable to shift due to something keeping her in place.
It wasn’t forced. Even being constrained was too much to be named that way. It was just… there.
Heavy. On top of her waist.
Rumi frowned, her mind still sluggish; thoughts moved like honey dragged too slowly from a jar. She tried to shift around, testing the resistance; her conscience told her it was the blanket tangled around her after a little tussling around the bed.
For her, the blankets weighing her down seemed rational, as she found herself getting tangled in them a few times. After a few more maneuvers, her logic turned to nonsense when they didn’t budge or move like fabric. If anything, it felt warm, less silky or fluffy, and tight around her middle. Most of which a blanket couldn’t do.
That was enough to pull her further awake.
Her lashes fluttered open and immediately shut back closed when the light hit her eyes full force. A hand came up to shield them against the offending rays as the world came into focus in fragments—blurred gold, unfamiliar ceilings, the faint rustle of the sheets, and the low, steady breath of an air conditioner.
Getting to her bearings, her eyes drifted upward toward the ceiling first—white and gold detailing curling across the surface in ornate patterns. Hanging above was an excessively large chandelier, crystal pieces catching the light and scattering faint reflections across the room like fractured stars.
She blinked once. Her brain processed the information a second too long.
This… this isn’t the hotel room.
That realization of being somewhere unfamiliar came first with a jolt of panic. Her patterns flashed in rapid jolts of purple glowing across her body.
The second came when she remembered the blanket problem and froze when grunting was heard from beside her.
Rumi stayed perfectly still for the next few minutes, scarcely daring to breathe as she lay rigid beside the sleeping figure. She didn't so much as glance in their direction, the fear of accidentally waking them creeping through her mind like a living thing and wrapping itself around every rational thought she tried to hold onto.
It wasn't until she was reasonably certain her presence hadn’t disturbed the other occupant of the bed that she finally let out a slow, careful breath. Even then, relief was fleeting. She desperately attempted to compose herself, grasping at whatever fragments of logic remained before her thoughts could descend into a full-blown spiral.
It had been one thing to realize she hadn’t slept in her hotel room last night. It was another thing entirely to wake up with a stranger in bed.
Carefully shifting to a more comfortable position, Rumi moved with all the caution of someone trying to disarm a bomb. Every tiny adjustment was thought of, measured, and deliberate. The last traces of sleep vanished from her system the moment her eyes landed on the problem.
A lithe, toned arm draped across her waist. Firm. Possessive. Like it had settled there hours ago and had no intention of leaving or letting her go.
Rumi felt dread settling in her bones.
Then, slowly—very, very slowly—her gaze followed the arm upward.
Smooth skin greeted her first, dusted with the faint shimmer of glitter that stubbornly clung to it. A loose strap had slipped from its rightful place, hanging precariously off a shoulder.
Rumi’s eyes continued their reluctant journey. It traveled further up until—
Pink. Pink locks. Very familiar, very pink hair.
Every coherent thought abandoned her, leaving behind nothing but a suffocating sense of horror as realization crashed into her with all the subtlety of a freight train. She barely noticed her jaw dropping as her eyes slowly widened till they were the size of dinner plates.
No. No, that—
Pupils traced back to the lock of pink—even more appeared as she set her gaze up to the face of the figure to confirm it, and—
Yep. Mira. In bed. With her. Blissfully asleep.
At this point, Rumi reached full-blown panic. Her chest felt constricted, her breathing shallow as she stared at the face of her bandmate.
Her face was close. Too close.
Close enough that Rumi could feel the steady rhythm of her breath against her skin. Every small detail that would have otherwise gone unnoticed—the soft curve of her lips, slightly parted in sleep, and the relaxed expression that had replaced her usual guarded composure. If she focused hard enough, she could even make out the faint sound of her breathing.
Even in sleep, Mira was beautiful.
There was something strangely unfair about that.
And her lips. Rumi's gaze lingered there for a second too long.
The lipstick Mira had worn the night before had long since lost its pristine appearance. Only faint remnants of color remained, blurred and uneven around the edges. Worn away. Not entirely gone, but enough to be noticeable.
Rumi’s stomach dropped.
Because there were only so many explanations for it to end up in that state, and every single possibility her mind offered made heat crawl up the back of her neck.
No… A hand shakily came up, her fingers hovered just an inch away from her lips. Rumi rubbed the pad of her thumb against the lower portion.
The same faint color that decorated Mira’s lips appeared.
Rumi’s soul promptly left her body, and only one thought remained in her mind.
What the hell happened?
With all the grace of a newborn fawn that’s trying to walk for the very first time, Rumi practically stumbled out of bed and clumsily disappeared into the bathroom. The door almost erupted into a slam as it clicked shut behind her.
Her hands—claws now, sharp and turning into a dark purple color—shook, slamming against the sink hard enough for the ceramic to groan in protest. Tiny cracks spidered faintly beneath her grip, barely visible unless someone looked closely.
Her patterns flared beneath her skin, burning a vivid magenta that pulsed with every frantic beat of her heart. Her left eye began to itch—first faintly, then with an almost unbearable intensity. Flecks of molten gold bled into the familiar brown of her iris as her pupil refused to settle, flickering erratically between its usual round shape and the thin, predatory slit of something far less human.
Panic seized her all at once.
Her fingers tingled before the numbness spread up her arms, swallowing the rest of her body in its wake. Each breath caught painfully in her chest, the invisible pressure tightening around her ribs until drawing air became a struggle. Somewhere deep in her stomach, dread unfurled like a living thing, cold and relentless, sinking its claws into her with terrifying certainty.
She felt like throwing up.
Focus. Focus, Rumi.
The half-demon squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to remember the grounding exercises Mira and Zoey had taught her for moments exactly like this.
Slow inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
Again.
She did it a few more times until the sharp edge of panic loosened enough for air to enter and her lungs to work properly again.
Rumi slowly opened her eyes, staring down at her clawed hands curled tightly around the edge of the sink. She forced herself to let it go and took a few steps back until her back hit the cool tiles of the wall.
Ok, think Ryu. Her mind tried to recall everything that led to this mess as her arms came to wrap around herself.
She started to recall a few.
They were at a famous nightclub, the name of which she couldn’t recall. A good chunk of the place lit itself up with the usual bright lighting that hurts to look at. Their speakers were on full blast, music blaring through them in an impressive display of remixes and heavy bass that vibrated their bones. People were scattered all over, bodies pressed too close, and the stench of flavored smoke, fading fragrances, and sweat permeated the air.
She also remembered voices she didn’t know of, laughter that didn’t sound like theirs, some very bright, suspicious drinks that burned their way down her throat, and—
Mira.
Standing too close. Practically a breath apart.
She remembered fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. Like letting go wasn’t an option. Or as if staking a claim.
Another memory came to mind. Lips hovered just shy of hers. Rumi could feel the warmth of her breath. If one leaned an inch forward—
Rumi’s thoughts stuttered.
Nope. Nope, nope, no. There was no way she and Mira…
Could they?
A hysterical laugh almost escaped her lips. Honestly, why is she still questioning when the evidence was already there?
But what if…?
Standing in front of the sink, Rumi heard the sound of running water occupy the room, steady and grounding against the chaos still reeling in her mind.
Her… kissing Mira? Her Mira? The sassy, sarcastic best friend she had been secretly in love with since she could remember?
The idea alone was absurd. No, absurd didn’t even begin to cover it. The very thought of it felt impossible.
If someone had told Rumi years ago that she and Mira would somehow end up together, she would have laughed in their face, questioned their sanity, and personally escorted them to the nearest psychiatric ward. Then, after the initial shock wore off, she would have locked herself in her room and disappeared into one of her ridiculous daydreams where such a thing was actually possible.
Because that’s all it had ever been.
A fantasy.
A hopeless, thoroughly impractical fantasy she kept tucked away in the deepest corners of her mind, safely hidden from everyone—including herself.
But seeing the proof of it just minutes ago? Whether it happened or not, it made her rethink everything.
If they were to find that something did happen between them, would it be genuine? Or did the alcohol influence their actions?
And if feelings are genuine on both ends, where could that possibly lead? Does Mira even hold the same feelings she holds for her?
The cold water hit her face like a slap—sharp, refreshing, and exactly what she needed. Rumi inhaled sharply as the chill spread across her skin, forcing her mind to focus on something other than the catastrophe waiting outside the bathroom door.
The steady rush of running water filled the room. It was the only sound amid the slow, ongoing unraveling of her sanity. She stared blankly at the water flowing into the sink and disappearing down the drain, her palms pressed firmly against the cool ceramic. Droplets trailed down her cheeks and jaw as she remained there, motionless, trying—and failing—to convince herself that everything would somehow be fine.
Rumi lifted her head. Her reflection stared back.
She looked awful.
The woman staring back at her from the mirror looked exhausted. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, still shining with lingering fear. She looked like she'd survived a natural disaster and had yet to process it.
Then her gaze wandered to her hand, and her soul was now on a one-way ticket to heaven at what she had seen.
Somehow, her face managed to turn paler, more so than a corpse as her patterns lit up beneath her skin, deep magenta racing across them in violent pulses. The tightness in her neck came back in full force as her chest basically stopped functioning in supplying her with air to live.
Because there, plain as day, was the thing she didn’t think could happen, staring right back at her as if it might bite if she acted wrong.
No. Please, no.
Slowly—too slowly—she lifted her hand close to her face.
And there, resting neatly on her left ring finger, was a wedding ring.
Rumi stared. Seconds slipped by unnoticed, stretching from five to ten, then twenty, before bleeding into something much longer. Her thoughts ground to a halt, trapped somewhere between denial and comprehension.
Then reality finally caught up.
And it took everything in Rumi not to have a complete meltdown.
“…Oh shit.”