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Bobby knew how to read a room.
That was half the job when managing a nearly world famous trio of singers. That, and keeping egos soothed, media hungry, and stylists caffeinated. You needed instincts, sharp ones, tuned to minor shifts in mood. A missed step in choreography. A smile that was a little too fixed. A pause before answering an easy question.
He could read Zoey’s fidgeting as fatigue two days before she’d admit it. Mira’s dry sarcasm sharpened when she was stressed.
And Rumi?
Rumi was quiet. Not mysterious, she had her moments of letting loose, just quiet. She said what she needed to, did her job flawlessly, and never once complained.
Which made her consistent wardrobe choices stand out more than they probably should’ve.
At first, he didn’t think much of it.
Long sleeves? Sure. Lots of idols had signature looks. Lots of idols preferred modesty. Zoey changed her hair every six weeks. Mira had a thing for combat boots in any weather. Rumi liked long sleeves.
Over time, something about it started to itch in the back of Bobby’s mind.
It wasn’t that she wore them on stage, styling was curated down to the thread, but during downtime, off camera, in the sweltering August heat of Seoul? Still in long sleeves. Hoodies. Oversized cardigans. Button downs layered under lightweight jackets. Even after dance practice, when everyone else was guzzling ice water in tank tops and compression wear, she was resting by the mirror, toweling sweat from her face with her sleeves still on.
No one else said anything. And maybe that should’ve been the end of it.
But Bobby noticed.
Because noticing things was his job.
The thought that something might be wrong didn’t really crystallize until a photoshoot when the girls were first skyrocketing in popularity.
Late June. Big sponsor. Outdoor location. Heat index at 35°C and rising.
He was running interference between the brand rep and the director when one of the stylists approached him with a nervous half smile.
“Bobby, hello,” she said, flipping through the outfit rack. “Quick question, do you know if Rumi has, like… any issues with showing skin?”
He blinked. “What kind of issues?”
“Nothing bad! It’s just, she requested full sleeves again. Like, again again. The look we pulled is sleeveless, all the others in the background are wearing sleeveless, including Zoey and Mira. We’ve got backup, but I just wondered if there’s, like, a policy? Or…”
“She just prefers it,” he said automatically, “Can you make it work?”
“We’ll adjust.” She gave a smile that tried not to say again? and disappeared with her tablet.
That night, the girls slumped into the van post shoot, borderline sun drunk and sleepy.
Zoey complained loudly about bugs. Mira dozed against the window, earbuds in. Rumi sat slightly slouched in her chair, sipping cool barley tea, her arms wrapped in loose white fabric that matched the gold-trimmed performance look.
Bobby, from the front seat, glanced at her in the mirror.
And asked, gently, “You hot in that?”
She looked up, surprised. “A little.”
“You can change if you want. Got AC cranking.”
She nodded, then returned to her tea. She didn’t change.
Later, when they reached the dorm, Bobby lingered in the entryway.
The girls filed past with muttered goodnights. Zoey peeled off her jacket immediately. Mira yawned her way toward the hallway. Rumi paused just long enough to take her shoes off and bow politely. That was the end of it.
He waited a few days.
Then he brought it up with Zoey, casually, as she wrote lazily in a notebook, a bowl of yogurt beside her while they were going over media prep in the kitchen.
“Is Rumi alright?”
Zoey looked up from her yogurt. “Why?”
“She’s just… quiet lately.”
“She’s always quieter in public.”
“Yeah, but… the long sleeves thing.”
Zoey raised an eyebrow. “You worried about it?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby admitted. “It’s been months. She never takes them off. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a comfort thing or…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Zoey leaned on the counter, thoughtful. “She’s never made a big deal about it.”
“That’s kind of the point,” Bobby said.
She scraped the last of the yogurt from the cup. “I get it. I wondered once. Back in trainee days. Brought it up, even. She just said, ‘It’s not something to worry about,’ and moved on.”
Bobby frowned. “And that was that?”
“Yeah. She’s not cagey, just… private.”
“Private about what?”
Zoey shook her head, despite looking a little like she almost wished she knew. “If she wanted us to know, she’d say.”
There was no bite to it, just a finality. Still, the concern didn’t go away. Because while Rumi wasn’t dramatic, she was deliberate. Every gesture, every outfit, every lyric, chosen, precise. Nothing about her was careless.
So Bobby watched. Like someone who cared more than he was probably supposed to.
He noticed how she layered every outfit, even on rest days. How she changed in the bathroom, never in the shared space. How her laundry always included undershirts, thermal sleeves, and lightweight knits.
And how, once, during rehearsal, when Mira jokingly tugged on her wrist to see a bracelet she’d started wearing, Rumi pulled back quickly before reaching for the bracelet underneath and tugging it off herself.
He asked, once more, quietly, just the two of them, after they’d stayed late to review the upcoming live radio schedule.
“Is it okay if I ask something personal?”
Rumi looked up from the notes. “What is it?”
“Why the long sleeves?”
She held his gaze for a moment while hesitating, like she was weighing what she was going to say out loud. Then she smiled, not fake, just… tired around the edges.
“They make me feel safer,” she said.
Bobby nodded, returning to the schedule.
He still wondered. Sometimes.
But he never asked again.
Because she was safe.
Because she smiled more easily as time passed with the girls.
So Bobby brought her green tea when she looked tired. Gave her extra rehearsal time when she needed it. Deflected stylists and producers who pushed too hard on image. Always added a note to her outfit requests before every shoot:
“Sleeves. Full-length. Non-negotiable.”
She never said thank you.
Not out loud.
But one night, weeks later, she passed by as he sat slumped on the couch, half asleep under a pile of fan mail and tour logistics.
She placed a warm mug of tea on the side table.
And said, “It’s chamomile. You looked tired.”
Then she walked away.