Work Text:
Mira's first mistake was getting complacent.
After remaking the Honmoon, a handful of demons still remained in their world: broken, brittle things too far gone, too consumed by shame to be set free.
They popped up, here and there, over the few weeks that followed Gwi-Ma's destruction, but for the most part it was simple, uncomplicated work; putting to rest the final remnants of a king long past his time.
Then, for a few months, things had gone completely quiet. They'd stayed in shape, of course — Mira wouldn't dream of letting her training fall by the wayside, even now — but more often then not, due to other… recent developments, their sparring sessions devolved into charged wrestling matches that usually ended with one or more of them pinned to the mats and kissed breathless.
So when the telltale pink ripple washed over the backstreet they were taking back to the penthouse one night after dinner, Mira, Zoey, and Rumi had exchanged first a surprised glance, then a resigned sigh, and plucked their weapons from the soft thrumming melody of their new Honmoon.
Mira loved it, the way they played off each other in battle, finding each other's rhythm in movement just as they found each other's harmonies in song. A part of her missed it, even, these last few months, a part of her that really only came alive in the breathless moments of combat, in the satisfaction of her and Zoey moving ahead of Rumi on cue, in perfect sync. It reminded her of choreography, this calculated dance of blades, a beautiful and worthy way to channel all the pent-up anger that always burst out of her at the wrong moments in her childhood.
At times, it felt as easy and second-nature as breathing.
Mira's second mistake was overconfidence.
This group of demons had been unusually and unexpectedly big, more numbers here than they'd seen combined in the few weeks after the Honmoon was first rethreaded. But they were mostly dalgyal gwishin, the small, faceless masses, easy enough to pick off three or four at a time with one wide sweep of her gok-do.
Easy, predictable, even as her chest heaved and her muscles burned with the effort of fighting a longer battle than she was used to these days.
What wasn't predictable was the giant demon that seemingly popped out of nowhere, brandishing fangs and claws nearly twice the length of Zoey's shin-kal.
The demon had roared at her. Mira had rolled one shoulder, languid, cocky, and roared back.
The demon charged. Mira twirled. She swung her gok-do, felt the satisfying connection of blade into demon flesh, and then the telltale pink poof of its destruction. She grinned. She didn't see the other one, the first big demon's uglier twin, bearing down on her from her other side, until it was too late.
A sickening tear of cloth and flesh. Her gok-do clattering to the ground, then vanishing as her connection to it dropped. The ground coming up to meet her. Zoey's terrified cry forming the syllables of her name.
From the ground, she heard Rumi scream in rage, her voice taking on that demonic timbre it did only in moments of extreme emotion. The sound rattled at the base of Mira's spine, calling out to something low and thrumming within her. She followed the sound just in time to see a puff of pink evaporating around the wide blade of Rumi's new sain-geom.
For a moment, all was quiet. That must have been the last one. Something sharp and bad was happening around Mira's midriff. She tried to push herself up, but immediately collapsed back down with a gasp of pain as soon as her core muscles engaged.
Then, Mira heard rapid footsteps, the thud-thud-thud of Zoey's chunky skate sneakers against pavement.
"Mira!" Zoey cried again, sliding to her knees beside her. Mira winced, worrying about the scrapes Zoey might've have gotten for that move. Then Zoey was behind her, gathering Mira up in her arms, and Mira finally got a look at the source of that sharp throbbing.
A big, ugly gash sliced across her abdomen, tearing skin and shirt all the same, oozing blood. A lot of blood. Mira suddenly felt very dizzy, her mouth dry.
"Oh no, oh nonono," Zoey's hands were floundering in the air around Mira's wound, and Mira could feel Zoey's rapid breathing against her own back, chest rising and falling in panic. "Rumi!" Zoey called out desperately, before choking on a sob. Mira's heart clenched at the sound.
Rumi seemed to appear instantaneously, still in her half-demon form: one eye glowing yellow, opposite arm ending in purple, long-clawed fingers. Mira loved Rumi like this, unrestrained, patterns thrumming with energy, fully herself.
Rumi's eyes widened in shock, and she dropped to her knees beside Mira. Right. The wound.
"Mira," Rumi all but whimpered, entire body radiating concern and fear. Then, like a rubber band breaking, she snapped into action.
With expert precision, Rumi cut a long, wide strip of fabric from the bottom of her shirt with the claw of her index finger, then moved forward, quickly pressing the fabric to Mira's stomach.
Black spots fuzzed at the edge of Mira's vision. She heard herself groan in pain, but the rest of her body couldn't register having made the sound.
Rumi stood back up. "Zoey, put pressure on that. I need to make sure that was the last of them."
Zoey was frozen behind Mira, hands shaking violently where they hovered. She made a small, scared sound.
"Now, Zoey. Please." Rumi's voice was urgent, but not unkind. Without another hesitation, Zoey's hands came down on the fabric. She was quiet, but Mira could tell she was crying, biting back sobs.
Rumi disappeared for a moment, and then was standing back in front of them again, in the blink of an eye. Her demonic features were starting to revert. Her patterns pulsed violet, a silent siren, a warning.
"Okay. Okay, we need to go."
"I don't think she can stand on her own," Zoey said, voice desperate. "Mira, can you—"
Before she could finish, Rumi was kneeling at Mira's side. Without hesitation, in one fell movement, Rumi hooked an arm beneath Mira's legs and the other cradled her back, lifting her up into a bridal carry with seemingly no effort at all. Mira wished she had the presence of mind to feel some type of way about that, but the stupid gut wound panged its insistence, drowning out the… appreciation she felt for Rumi and her biceps in that moment.
"Zoey, watch our exit," Rumi commanded, as she began to move towards the end of the street. Mira heard Zoey whimper lightly beside her; she craned her neck as much as she was able to catch Zoey's eye. Tear-tracks still marked her freckled cheeks, and her gaze hadn't lost even an edge of its worry.
"Hey," Mira managed, through the pain throbbing at her stomach. She looked at Zoey, the gentlest, most caring, most sensitive, sweetest girl she'd ever known, and made her hold her gaze, gave the barest tilt of her chin and quirk of her lips: I'm okay. Even though she felt anything but.
Zoey's eyes were big, black pools. She sniffled once, and finally nodded, hastily brushing at her cheeks and resummoning her shin-kal, her face hardening into a mask of hunter's fury and focus. Despite the situation, Mira couldn't help the smile that stretched across her face. That's my girl, she thought, as Zoey turned, stalking backwards as she followed them, sharp, keen eyes on the street behind them.
Once they were clear of the empty street, no other stray demons popping out from sewer grates or behind dumpsters, Rumi paused at the intersection and adjusted her grip on Mira. Suddenly, she hissed.
"Fuck," There was panic laced into Rumi's voice, and Mira could barely find the strength to tilt her head upwards to find the source of Rumi's distress. She found Rumi's gaze cast downwards, brow furrowed deeply. With another great effort, Mira let her head tilt back down.
Oh.
The entire bottom of her torn shirt was now stained red, blood blooming straight through the makeshift bandage and drenching the top of her denim shorts. Mira's first thought was: Damn it, those were a limited edition drop, the designer doesn't even make them in this style anymore — and her second thought was a perfect echo of Rumi. Fuck.
Rumi had instinctively reached the hand cradling Mira's legs upward to stem the bleeding, but she couldn't do that and keep carrying Mira at the same time, not enough hands.
"Ok, Mira, listen to me," Rumi rushed out. The panic in her voice reminded Mira of that terrible night, backstage at the Idol Awards. Don't leave. Something ached in a deep pocket of her ribcage. She lost a few moments of consciousness, until Rumi's voice brought her back. "Mira, please, I need you to listen to me."
Mira's head had lolled onto Rumi's shoulder at some point in the last few seconds. She couldn't manage to look up, but she nodded. She felt a relieved exhale of breath puff across the top of her head.
"We need to get you home as fast as possible," Rumi's words came out in a rush. Mira managed to nod again, trying to show that she was still listening. "I'm going to run. Fast."
Mira faintly comprehended the sound of a blade ripping through fabric. Zoey had caught up to them, coming around and placing a small, bloodstained hand clutching a thick bundle of cloth to Mira's stomach, the same navy blue as the hoodie Zoey had been wearing. Mira couldn't stop the cry of pain at the sudden added pressure.
"I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Zoey's whispered voice was near her ear now, and she felt Zoey's other hand carding gently through her hair. Her voice was still thick with tears.
Then Rumi again: "I'm going to run, so I really, really need you to keep pressure on that wound, okay? Can you do that for me, Mira?"
Anything for you, Mira thought faintly, her hand coming down on top of Zoey's, on top of the cloth, of its own accord.
"Good," Rumi sighed, her tone heavy with relief. "Good. Okay. I've got you, Mira. Just hold on."
And then they were flying.
Or so it felt. Well, like a really bumpy, turbulent flight. Like that one terrible landing they had in Tokyo that one time. Ok, not the best choice of metaphor, but she forgave herself for it, due to the blood loss and all. She immediately understood why Rumi had asked her to keep pressure on the wound; the jostling did not feel good, to say the least, but she also faintly understood Rumi's calculated risk was the right one — a slow walk home could mean Mira bleeding out before they got there.
The pain kept crescendoing; Mira had never been in this much pain in her life. She felt her head loll into the crook of Rumi's neck. Remembering her silent promise, all her willpower went to keeping a hand tight to the blood-soaked cloth on her stomach.
"Almost there, almost there, almost there," Rumi whispered above her, like a desperate prayer.
*
Mira lost a few longer moments, between arriving at the secret back entrance to their penthouse, and waking back up stretched out on their couch. She weakly craned her neck, vision slowly returning as she registered first a mess of purple and red — Rumi hunched over her middle — and then a soft and gentle touch at the back of her head — Zoey sitting behind her, Mira's head cradled in her lap.
"Shhh," Zoey whispered soothingly. She was still crying.
Mira let Zoey guide her back down. She felt a wave of relief wash over her that they were home, that she hadn't kicked the bucket in the time it took for Rumi to fetch the surgical kit they kept tucked in the back of the coat closet. She vaguely processed that it was sitting open on the edge of their coffee table, one corner pulled haphazardly closer to the couch.
They'd only had to use it a few times before. The nature of their professions, the double lives they led meant hospitals weren't an option. For one thing, they'd have to make up some elaborate story to the doctors as to why she had monstrous, jagged claw marks ripped across her abdomen, and then there was the PR element; the press would be swarming them like flies the minute they left the hospital for the scoop on what happened.
So they'd each learned to stitch, to clean, to cover up. To use their hands to repair, to mend, to bring each other back. None of them had ever needed to use what they learned to fix something this serious, but Mira found no hesitation whatsoever at the thought of Rumi attending to her now. She knew Rumi could do it. She'd put her life in Rumi's hands a million times over.
Mira tried to watch Rumi and those patterned hands from where she lay. She found her vision unreliable, her eyes slipping in and out of focus. She only caught glimpses: silver needle, black thread, crimson blood lining the outsides of Rumi's fingernails.
Then, suddenly, and all at once, the pain hit her in a fresh wave, and Mira's fingers curled into the plush fabric beneath her. She sobbed once, low and keening. Someone's fingers threaded into her own, squeezed hard; Zoey's. Mira knew by feel alone, the callous on Zoey's right middle finger formed by years of gripping her pencil too hard.
"Rumi?" Zoey's voice floated out somewhere above Mira, a scared plea.
"I know, I'm almost done, Mira, okay?" Rumi's voice trembled, thick with tears.
Mira felt herself nod. She could feel herself slipping towards unconsciousness again.
The next thing she saw was white gauze and surgical tape in Rumi's shaking hands. The pain had ebbed for a brief, blissful moment, and Mira had a much-belated thought.
"Gonna bleed all over the couch," She mumbled, nose crinkling in disgust.
Zoey's free hand, which had been stroking Mira's hair, stilled suddenly. Mira peered down the bridge of her nose and clocked the vague outline of Rumi's head snapping up in surprise.
Then, Zoey laughed; a sharp, tearful, barking thing. Mira watched Rumi shake her head in that scornful-but-mirthful way like she did when Mira made a dirty joke. She felt Zoey's lips press tenderly to her forehead, a stray tear leaping from the tip of Zoey's nose and splashing next to the spot she kissed.
"You're so utterly ridiculous," Zoey murmured into her hairline, but Mira could feel the smile against the crown of her head, and she smiled weakly in turn, before closing her eyes and passing back out.
The next time she woke, Mira was propped up in Rumi's bed.
Sight came back to her before sensation. She was tucked carefully into Rumi's thick comfortor, with what felt like all the pillows in the entire penthouse behind her back, keeping her at an angle. To her right, Zoey sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pulled tight to her chest, looking out towards the big windows. The half of her face that Mira could see was shrouded in shadow. To Mira's left, Rumi was pacing back and forth near the door.
Mira tried to say something. Instead, all that came out was an eloquent "nrrgh."
Zoey whipped around at the sound, her stony, worried expression immediately melting into relief and excitement.
"You're awake!" Zoey exclaimed, throwing herself across the bed and wrapping her arms around Mira's neck, tight. Mira let out a slight oof at the impact of Zoey's body against her own, but she couldn't help the smile curling on her lips as Zoey peppered excited kisses against the side of her head.
"Zo, careful of the wound. Give her some space." Mira felt the bed indent as Rumi sat down on her other side. Zoey pulled back as suddenly as she'd leapt over.
"Oh, sorry, sorry!" Her eyes were wide with worry. Mira chuckled fondly, her voice coming back to her.
"It's okay, Zo. I'm happy to see you too."
A beautiful flush spread across Zoey's freckled cheeks, as Mira reached one hand out for Zoey's, who happily threaded their fingers together.
Then, the bedcovers shifted as Rumi angled her body closer towards Mira. She reached out, a hand cradling Mira's cheek so gently, and the soft, deep look Rumi was giving her made Mira's chest ache.
"Hi," Rumi said.
"Hey," Mira replied.
"How do you feel?" Rumi asked, voice tentative, wavering, as if she were afraid of the answer.
"Never better," Mira croaked, smirking weakly.
Rumi leveled a look at her, tired, exasperated. Mira suddenly became aware of the muted sunlight filtering in through the blinds, the dark shadows beneath Rumi and Zoey's eyes, and realized they must've stayed up with her all night, waiting for her to wake. Mira felt a pang of guilt. She read Rumi's expression loud and clear. I'm serious, Mira.
How did she feel? It took her a moment to settle into a deeper awareness of her body, sensations she was feeling aside from Zoey's hand in her own and Rumi's hand on her cheek. The ache at her stomach was ever-present, but dulled. Her head felt thick, groggy. They must've given her something for the pain. Mira shrugged a shoulder.
"I… don't know. Weird. Tired." She thought for a moment. "Like a demon tried to scoop my guts out."
Rumi nodded grimly. Then her expression sank. Her lower lip wobbled.
"For a moment there, I thought we'd lost you," Rumi's eyes were deep pools of worry, brow creased and furrowed. Mira wanted to kiss it smooth again. Rumi stroked her thumb feather-light against Mira's cheekbone.
"Nah," Mira said, leaning into Rumi's touch. "Won't get rid of me that easily." The joke came out much weaker than she intended, and she knew it right away; Rumi frowned even deeper, and Zoey whimpered quietly, leaning a cheek against Mira's shoulder.
"It was… really bad, Mira. I thought —" Rumi's voice caught, suddenly thick with tears.
"Hey, hey," Mira soothed, bringing her fingers up to rest against Rumi's hand, thumb stroking against her pulse point. "I'm here."
Rumi's eyes squeezed shut at her touch, a tear trailing down her left cheek.
"I was so scared," Zoey's voice was wobbly and small. Mira turned to watch her exchange a pained glance with Rumi. "We were so scared."
"I didn't know if I could do it," Rumi continued, voice barely above a whisper, almost as if she were talking to herself. Zoey reached her free arm across Mira to take Rumi's hand in her own, squeezing once, tight, grounding, just the way Rumi liked. "The gash was so wide, and there was so much blood, and—" her voice broke in a sob, and Mira's heart broke a thousand times over.
"You did so good, Rumi," Zoey affirmed from Mira's other side. "You were perfect."
Mira nodded, removing her hand from Rumi's to gently tilt her chin up, making Rumi meet her gaze. "Yeah. You saved me," Mira turned to look at Zoey. "You both saved me."
And for some reason it was this that made Mira suddenly break. Not the pain, not the slow and sickening dawning realization that she'd come closer to death than ever before. It was this simple fact, that Rumi and Zoey had saved her, carried her home, stitched her back together and sacrificed sleep to watch over her, that made everything break over her like a wave.
"Oh fuck," Mira muttered, and her shoulders were shaking, and Zoey and Rumi were already wrapped around her, enveloping her from both sides.
*
"Where did that many demons even come from?" Mira asked, later, once she'd calmed down, and they'd extricated themselves from each other, and she'd sufficiently convinced Zoey and Rumi she wouldn't suddenly drop dead if they got up to get her a glass of water or use the bathroom.
"I have no idea. And those big ones, they — I've never seen anything like that." Zoey shuddered.
Rumi was staring at her hands, intently, focused, chewing her lip in thought.
"I don't know either," she said, sullenly. "It could've been some kind of failsafe, or a final offensive. A hidden pocket of resistance. Gwi-Ma's last gasp." Rumi paused, lost in thought, then shook her head. "I do know I think you were lucky to only get caught by one claw, Mira."
Mira swallowed. She knew Rumi was right. As bad as it was, it could've been a lot worse. More than just her blood spilled out on the street. A wave of nausea rippled over her, and she squeezed her eyes shut hard.
"Whatever they were, hopefully that was the last of them," Zoey said anxiously. Mira cracked an eye open to look at her — she was wringing her hands, gaze flickering around the room absently.
On Mira's other side, Rumi nodded.
"Hopefully. But if they weren't," Rumi's gaze turned distant and sad. "I'll — we'll deal with them."
The trio sat in tense silence for a few moments. Mira stared at her hands — they were clean, she noticed for the first time since waking. Rumi and Zoey must have wiped the blood off.
The loud blare of a phone alarm cut through the silence, making both Rumi and Zoey startle. Rumi turned towards her nightstand, turning off the alarm, and then turned back towards Mira with a pill bottle in her hand. Silently, she uncapped it and shook one tablet into her palm.
"Here," Rumi said, stretching out her hand towards Mira. "It's been four hours, you can take another one of these."
Mira took the proferred pill, peering at it skeptically while Rumi turned back towards the table and came back with a glass of water.
"For the pain," Rumi explained. Mira lifted it to her mouth, followed by the water. This, for some reason, took a tremendous amount of effort; her arms felt weak, and her hands trembled badly. Mira hated that feeling. Rumi immediately reached back out, cupping a hand under Mira's elbow to steady her arm as she barely managed to tip the glass back enough to take a drink.
Rumi grimaced. "Sorry. We should've gotten you a straw."
The weight on the other side of the bed shifted as Zoey stood up, too quick.
"I'll get one!" She announced, before hurrying out of the room.
Mira followed her with her eyes. Zoey's gait was erratic, movements jerky.
"She ok?" Mira asked Rumi, once Zoey's footsteps had stopped echoing down the hall.
Rumi was also looking out at the doorway, where Zoey had just disappeared. Her gaze was like lead. She hummed noncommitally. "She's pretty shaken up. I think… she feels bad that she froze up when you got hurt. And you know how she can get when she doesn't sleep enough."
The hint of a smile tugged at Mira's lips. She did know. Sleepless Zoey was all mania and rapid movement, until she inevitably crashed, and hard. Combined with any other strong emotion, this effect compounded.
"You guys should get some rest," Mira said, already feeling fatigue taking her back over. Her stomach ached, and she leaned back into the nest of pillows behind her, letting her eyes slide shut.
When Rumi didn't respond, Mira opened them again. Rumi had her elbows on her knees, and was staring down at her hands, zoning out.
"Rumi."
She looked up at Mira, as if remembering she were there. "Huh?"
Mira cocked an eyebrow at her. "Sleep," she said slowly. "You guys need to sleep."
"Oh, right," Rumi said, still unfocused. "Yeah. Maybe."
Mira stared at her hard, narrowing her eyes, but before she could say anything else, Zoey zipped back through the door, Mira's favorite pink bubble tea straw in hand. Wordlessly, she crossed over and dropped it into Mira's water glass with a sharp clink.
Mira looked up at her, mustering a smile. "Thanks, Zo."
Zoey hummed a quiet mhmm, then crossed over to the other side of the bed and stared out the window at the early morning Seoul skyline, shifting her weight from foot to foot anxiously. Mira could tell she was looking at the faint threads of the Honmoon superimposed across the horizon.
Mira blew out a puff of air, the uncomfortable feeling around her midsection only exacerbating her emotions. She felt a sudden strange and inexplicable surge of irritation building in her chest that burst out into words before she knew what to do with it.
"Ok, will you guys please just go get some rest? You're not doing me any favors by forcing yourselves to stay up, you know." Her voice came out strained and clipped.
There was a beat of silence. Rumi dragged her head up tiredly, but to her surprise, it was Zoey who whipped around, gaping at her for a moment before retorting shrilly: "You almost died, Mira! Can you blame us for wanting to make sure you're okay?"
Any shred of fight left in Mira instantly evaporated when she finally noticed the terror that cut through the dawn sunlight reflecting in Zoey's brown eyes. She felt her mouth go dry and drop open slightly, any reply she may have had disintegrating in the making. Next to her, Rumi was looking at the two of them with an exhausted, pleading expression.
"Don't give me that look, Rumi," Zoey frowned darkly.
"Well— fighting about it isn't going to do anyone any good either!" Rumi snapped back, voice tight and desperate.
Mira's skin crawled. She'd done it again, thrown a lit fuse into the middle of them, all because she couldn't hold her stupid, sharp tongue. A heavy, charged silence hung over them like a weighted blanket. She felt heat pricking at the corners of her eyes. She looked at her lap, vision blurring.
After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, there was a long, whistling sigh from the direction of the windows. Mira stared at Zoey's mismatched socks as she crossed back over and sat down heavily on the bed. Mira turned her head away stubbornly, but all Zoey did was wrap her arms around Mira's neck, burying her face in the crook.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, voice vibrating against Mira's rapid pulse. "I just — I can't lose you, Mira." Zoey turned her face back outwards, looking at Rumi on Mira's other side and reaching out a hand. "Either of you. Not now. Not after everything."
Rumi took Zoey's hand gratefully and exhaled heavily, like she'd been holding her breath the entire conversation and could now finally release it. She nodded. Then she looked sheepishly at Mira.
"Maybe we do need to sleep," Rumi admitted, and Mira managed to roll her eyes affectionately, hastily brushing away a tear that had escaped.
The three of them melted into each other, and the tension melted away as quickly as it had arrived.
"I'm okay," Mira said after awhile, softly, hesitantly, testing the weight of the words in her mouth, and their meaning. Zoey leaned her head against Mira's shoulder. Rumi interlaced their fingers, squeezing tight. "I'm okay," she repeated, more confidently this time.
*
The next time Mira woke, the sun was pushing its dying rays through the blinds like gentle fingers, reaching. She blinked sleep from her eyes. She was still in Rumi's bed, and she felt heaviness all around her, warm weight. Familiar weight.
On her right, Zoey was curled into her side, head resting against Mira's arm, fast asleep. Her legs were twisted in a way that did not look comfortable, but Mira knew Zoey was fine — she always fell asleep in the strangest positions, or ended up contorting in her sleep (a source of initial concern, and then great amusement to Mira and Rumi when they had all first met). Zoey's nose twitched a little, as it sometimes did while she slept, and Mira's lips twitched upwards in instinctive response.
On her left, Rumi had fallen asleep sitting up next to Mira, her head lolled down onto Mira's shoulder. She was snoring softly, as she always did, and her right arm was loosely looped into Mira's left, hand gone limp against Mira's thigh.
Finally, Mira thought, glad they had gotten some sleep. Or, more likely, sleep had gotten them, given the positions they were in.
An acute pang drew her thoughts away sharply, and Mira realized that what had woken her was the pain: sore, aching, radiating out from the locus of her wound. She shifted slightly, which was a mistake, and she couldn't stifle the groan that escaped her lips. She turned her head as far as she could manage with Rumi's head on her shoulder to peer at the pill bottle still sitting on the end table.
Rumi, who Mira often competed with for title of "lightest sleeper in the penthouse", started slightly, mid-snore. She shifted, stretching her legs out in front of her, before she sat all the way up, blinking blearily, as her gaze shifted around the room, disoriented and confused.
When she met Mira's eyes, Mira smiled apologetically.
"Sorry I woke you," Mira whispered, finding her voice even deeper and rougher than usual from lack of use.
Rumi rubbed sleep out of her eye adorably with one fist, then shook her head.
"Don't be," she whispered back, still looking slightly confused. "I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep."
Of course she hadn't. Mira gave Rumi's hand a weak tap. "I'm glad you did," she murmured.
Next to her, Zoey stirred, emitting a tiny squeak as her eyelids fluttered.
"Shhh," Mira soothed softly, running a hand through Zoey's hair, loose from its usual buns. Zoey sighed happily and snuggled in even closer.
When Mira looked back at Rumi, she found Rumi looking down at Zoey with a softness that had to be a perfect reflection of Mira's own expression. Nothing in Rumi's face changed as she looked up and met Mira's gaze, and she leaned in rather suddenly, kissing Mira tender and sweet.
"What was that for?" Mira asked after Rumi pulled away, bemused but unable to stop the blush she felt in her cheeks. Rumi turned suddenly shy, as she often did after bold expressions of affection.
"I… haven't kissed you in awhile. Since before you got hurt. I just… I wanted to." Rumi admitted, shrugging a shoulder, eyes flickering downward.
Mira could have melted, like sugar in water. She reached up, cupping the back of Rumi's neck and pulling her in for another, altogether fiercer kiss.
Until she twisted just the wrong way, and pulled back with a sharp wince, screwing her eyes shut. She leaned back into the nest of pillows until her sliced nerve endings stopped screaming at her. This sucked.
Concern was written across Rumi's face. "Can I take another one of those?" Mira asked, gesturing limply with her thumb at the pill bottle.
Rumi frowned, picking up her phone, the bright artificial light illuminating her face and reflecting off her patterns. Her brows furrowed. "Oh, yeah. It's been way longer than four hours. I must have forgotten to set a new alarm."
Rumi looked slightly distraught as she handed Mira the bottle and her glass of water. Mira gave her a look, making her eyes gentle but stern. It's not your fault. Rumi seemed to understand, nodding slightly, minute tension leaving her hunched shoulders.
Mira rotated the bottle in her hand until the label was visible. They were high-dose painkillers, the type prescribed after surgery. AKA, the good shit.
"What did you tell Bobby to get your hands on these?" Mira asked, impressed.
Rumi gave her a knowing look.
"You know Bobby. He knows better than to ask."
Mira snorted at the truth of it.
"Well," She said, raising her glass of water in a weak toast before swallowing the pill. "Here's to a quick recovery."
Recovery, as it turns out, was hell, and anything but quick.
Don't get her wrong: Mira loved spending idle hours in bed or on the couch — just, crucially, when it was her choice to do so.
Mira hated this. She'd spent most of her life ruthlessly training herself to be independent, to not need anyone's help. Now, all she could do was sit, and sleep, and wait for Zoey or Rumi to bring her things, or help her to the bathroom.
It made her feel useless. Feeling useless made her feel angry.
Despite everything about her temperament, every assumption people usually made about her, Mira hated feeling angry.
Especially because now, she knew what it was like to not be angry all the time.
For the first few days, Zoey and Rumi all but refused to leave her side, taking turns when it was absolutely necessary, never leaving Mira alone without either of them. Mira thought this was overkill, and said as much, but her partners were nothing if insistent.
She didn't hate the excuse to spend more time bundled between Zoey and Rumi, though. She loved spending long, quiet hours with them, on the couch or in one of their beds, watching TV or playing video games on one of Zoey's old consoles she brought over when she first moved. But between the painkillers, and the toll the injury was taking on her body, and the threads of anger and frustration the whole situation wove into her mind, Mira found herself only half-there much of the time, senses dulled. She wanted to enjoy this time with them, but more often than not, she'd doze off between them, mid-movie, mid-conversation.
But they stayed with her. They turned down the volume on the TV, ran soothing fingers through her hair when she woke up in one of their laps, confused and groggy and in pain. Kissed her, slow and careful and gentle. Brought her food and changed her bandages.
This cut through her anger, folding softness over it like the blanket they tucked her into on the couch, the one they knew was her favorite without even having to ask.
One early afternoon, about a week into her recovery, Mira awoke to find the penthouse empty.
It took her a couple moments to realize it — there was no music softly playing from the kitchen, no ambient TV noises from the living room, no excited chatter from the direction of Zoey's room or soft humming from Rumi's. It was strangely quiet, still.
Mira rubbed her eyes, blearily grabbing for her glasses on the table next to her bed. She groaned; even the simple act of reaching over made a wave of heavy soreness radiate out from her stomach. She shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose with some effort; luckily her phone was sitting closer beside her on the bed.
She had three unread messages in her group chat with Zoey and Rumi. She tapped the screen, expanding the notifications.
ur favorite girlfriend (Z): we're going to get groceries and pick up some other things for you mira!!!! i hope you're sleeping well!!! we love you!!! 😍✨🐢🥰✨✨✨✨✨
your OTHER favorite girlfriend (Rumi): We'll be back soon☺️❤️
ur favorite girlfriend (Z): 1 image attached.
It was a slightly blurry selfie of Zoey and Rumi, faces mostly hidden by hats and hoods and oversized sunglasses, outside their favorite supermarket. Zoey was sticking her tongue out, and Rumi held up a peace sign with her big goofy Rumi grin spread across her face. Mira chuckled fondly at the sight, heart-reacting to the messages and typing back a message of her own: ok dorks 🩷
She settled back into her pillows, and then a strange sense of… something she couldn't quite place began creeping into her consciousness, settling somewhere tight in her chest. Rumi and Zoey were out shopping for her. The thought should make Mira feel warm — and it did, it definitely did — but there was something else, too. Mira usually did the shopping for them — or at the very least, led the charge when they all went together (Rumi got easily overwhelmed in supermarkets, and Zoey easily distracted). She enjoyed shopping for them. It felt important, somehow, to be able to do that for them.
But she went and got herself hurt, and now she couldn't.
Mira let out a short puff of air through her nostrils, trying to diffuse some of the frustration already building up in her as her thoughts began to spiral. It's not that she didn't think they could handle it on their own; she knew they were more than capable, obviously. It was just that… Mira circled around the thought in her brain, not wanting to face it until it became unavoidable.
They were so much better at speaking their love. For her, for each other. Zoey had always been like that, even before the lines of their relationships had shifted. And Rumi, once the walls finally all came down, it was like a floodgate. But Mira — Mira didn't know how to do that. She hated that she didn't know how to do that, because she felt it so much. So she poured all of her big feelings into actions instead. It felt more natural, to show it this way.
And now she couldn't.
An insistent grumble in Mira's stomach interrupted her spiraling. She looked at the time: it was after noon, and she hadn't eaten since the night before. That snapped her out of it — now here was a problem she could solve.
She looked at the timestamps on Zoey and Rumi's messages; they'd been sent about an hour ago. Factoring in the added time it would take for Zoey to get sidetracked in the snacks aisle, they should be getting home soon. Mira chewed her lip, contemplating.
Something simple wouldn't be too difficult, right? Ramyeon, and she could fry up something easy to have on the side, and have food ready for Zoey and Rumi when they got back, too.
Mind made up, Mira slowly shifted herself so she was sitting on the edge of the bed, only using her arms as much as possible, just like Rumi had showed her. That soreness in her midsection twinged again; she winced and tried to ignore it. Her feet were already flat on the bedroom floor (another advantage of her height) and from there, all she had to do was push up with her arms and stand. If she moved very slowly, she found she could mitigate the pain just a bit.
She padded slowly out her bedroom door and down the hallway to the kitchen, hand braced against the wall for stability. It took awhile, and her legs felt a bit wobbly, but she chalked that up to not having left bed for a few days, and pushed through.
Mira breathed a sigh of relief when she got to the kitchen, leaning heavily against the countertop as she planned her next move. The kettle was already full, their personalized ramyeon cups within easy reaching distance on a shelf in the kitchen island. She pressed the switch on the kettle before opening up the fridge.
Scanning the shelves, Mira decided on dubu jorim, thanking her past self for always keeping a small amount of tofu and pre-chopped veggies in containers for easy meals. She pulled out the containers one-by-one, then slowly raided the pantry for the ingredients for the sauce.
She set everything on the countertop next to the stove, neat and orderly, feeling very satisfied with herself, and no small amount of relief. This was good. She could still cook, she wouldn't be completely useless for the next however long it took for her wound to heal.
All that was left was the pan. The big one would be best, Mira thought, with the wide bottom. She opened the top cupboard where they kept their pots and pans, reaching for its handle, and she didn't realize her mistake until it was too late.
As soon as she reached up and lifted the heavy pan, a lance of pain rippled through her wound, sharp and wrong. Mira thought she felt some small sickening pop somewhere along the tension of her stitches.
"Fuck!" Mira hissed. It took everything in her not to drop the pan entirely, but it still clattered to the countertop, loud and cacophanous, as she had to let go of the handle and grip the marble edge as hard as she could.
Stars danced at the edges of her vision, knuckles turning white on the counter's edge. She grit her teeth, trying to ride the wave of pain, knowing it had to subside at some point.
When it finally did, it still left behind an insistent pang, small and localized around one spot along the length of her wound. With shaking hands, Mira hesitantly pulled up the hem of her hoodie and the big t-shirt underneath, looking down.
"Fuck," she said again, though this time it came out as a whimper. A spot of fresh, dark blood had bloomed through her bandage. She felt her chest rising and falling rapidly in panic. She looked around, as if something in the kitchen would give her any sense of what to do. Her eyes landed on the ingredients still sitting on the countertop, orderly, inert, waiting; the kettle of boiling water that had long since clicked off.
She couldn't do it.
For the first time in a long, long time, Mira felt completely and utterly helpless.
Just then, the front door opened.
"So then I told him that in America, they give every teenager a gun when they graduate high school, and he believed me!" Zoey stepped in first, carrying a giant brown paper bag in her arms, looking over her shoulder at Rumi as she crossed the threshold. Rumi came in a few steps after, carrying another paper bag in one arm, a plastic bag hanging from her other hand. She was laughing at Zoey's story, shaking her head in disbelief.
Mira should have dropped her hands from her midriff, leaned against the counter, and pretended nothing was wrong. Instead, she felt frozen, rooted to the spot where she stood, hands bunched in the fabric of her hoodie, shoulders hunched over in pain.
"Did he really —" Rumi had started replying to Zoey, but stopped mid-sentence when she looked up and followed Zoey's gaze. Zoey's eyes had found Mira, and all the mirth of the previous moment had dropped away in an instant.
"Mira?" Zoey asked, voice thick with surprise and concern. Mira could barely meet her eye.
Two bags, one paper and one plastic, fell to the floor as Rumi rushed into the kitchen.
"What are you doing up?" Rumi asked, eyes looking Mira up and down, frantically looking for some understanding of the situation, some clue as to what was going on.
"Are you ok? You look really pale," Zoey had joined them, setting her paper bag down more ceremoniously on the opposite countertop and peering up at Mira's face worriedly.
Mira looked past them. Dully, she processed that the plastic bag Rumi had been carrying was takeout. Mira felt so, so stupid.
"I wanted to make lunch, I —" Mira could barely make herself speak around the lump in her throat. She hated how small her voice sounded. How small she felt. "I tried to — I couldn't —"
Hot tears of pain and frustration pricked at the corners of her eyes, and the embarrassment at herself for crying in the first place just made the tears fall faster. Her throat closed up. Wordlessly, she lifted the hem of her hoodie up for Zoey and Rumi to see.
"Oh, Mira," Rumi breathed out, a deep furrow in her brow, the picture of concern. Zoey made a small, sharp sound of worry.
"You shouldn't have — you shouldn't push yourself so much yet, you need to let it heal —" Rumi said, fumbling over her words as she reached up towards Mira's stomach, then dropped her hands back down as if she thought better of it.
Zoey, on the other hand, was already reaching out to put a gentle hand on Mira's bare waist, beside the bandage, bending down a bit to frown at the red spot. "That really doesn't look good, Mir, we should take a look at it —"
Rumi's hand was on her shoulder now, firm, sure. "Zoey's right, let's go to the bathroom and I'll see what happened —"
"I'm sure it'll be okay though!" Zoey cut in again, her nervous one-note bark of laughter betraying her. She moved her hand to curl around Mira's forearm, as if to start leading her away.
Suddenly, it was all too much. Their hands on her, their nervous energies bouncing off each other, feeding into each other like atoms fusing. They should've been able to leave and not have to worry about her. They shouldn't need to have to look after her like this, not when it was her fault for pushing herself, for being stupid and careless enough to get this hurt in the first place. That horrible, familiar tension snapped inside her.
"Just — just back off, okay?!" Mira exploded, already regretting the words before they even finished leaving her mouth as Zoey recoiled back, flinching, and Rumi froze, wide-eyed. Mira stepped back, brought her arms up around her sides protectively, suddenly unable to meet her partners' eyes as she shrunk into herself.
Memories passed in rapid flashes, the feeling of being a child again, when comfort and soothing was only offered in exchange for being "good", when they wanted something, some measure of conformity from her, and immediately withdrawn when she inevitably had an outburst like she'd just had towards Zoey and Rumi. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath and trying not to let the flame of anger licking in her chest catch the tinder of the rest of her body, coiled and tight.
She pressed a hand to her face. "I'm — I —" She couldn't get the words past her mouth.
A hand was already settling back on her shoulder, soft, tentative. Another on the small of her back. She felt the fire cooling, doused by the gentle presences on either side of her. She shuddered again, melting into touch, despite all those old ghosts in her body desperately telling her to keep the rigid walls up.
"I'm sorry," she finally whispered.
"It's okay, Mira," Rumi said back softly, without hesitation.
Then Zoey: "That was really — we were overwhelming you. I'm sorry too."
Mira's brain screamed at her, all the familiar insults. Look what you did. They're trying to help, and here you go making it difficult for no reason. Nothing but a liability.
Mira felt her nostrils flare, and then she took a deep, grounding breath. She focused on the hand at her back: small, gentle, thumb rubbing in endearingly erratic circles — Zoey. And Rumi's hand on her shoulder: steady, warm, solid, surer than anything else in the world.
"Can we go check on it? We'll walk slow," Rumi asked gently, reassuringly.
Mira took another breath. She nodded. She opened her eyes, and let herself be led.
*
There was no admonishment, no judgement whatsoever as Rumi gently peeled off the old bandage, cleaning off the fresh blood, and applying a new layer of antibiotic. Mira hadn't torn any stitches, Rumi reported — she'd just reopened a small section of the gash that had started to close up as it healed. Zoey sat on the counter as Rumi worked, swinging her legs back and forth and humming a cheerful tune. When Rumi was done, Zoey brought over a new bandage, peeling the back paper off and applying it ever-so-gently, tongue stuck out in concentration as she made sure to align the soft pad perfectly over Mira's stitches.
Mira watched them both as they worked, feeling both warm and guilty. They were working so hard to take care of her, and she'd gone and fucked it up, for what? Some stupid, stubborn sense of pride? She pressed her teeth into her tongue, to ground herself, to keep herself from crying again.
"Thank you," Mira murmured, when they'd finished, Rumi gently tugging her shirt and hoodie back down over her stomach. Zoey pressed a gentle, smiling kiss to her temple; Rumi reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Mira's ear, looking at her fondly.
"Of course, Mira." She replied, sincerely.
"Anytime," Zoey chimed in.
"And sorry again for bombarding you," Rumi continued sheepishly. "That's not at all what you needed to hear."
Mira shifted, uncomfortable at the acknowledgment. She shrugged a shoulder. "It's okay," she mumbled.
Zoey twined her fingers with Mira's; Rumi rubbed slow circles into Mira's back. Mira stared at the white tiled floor for a few long seconds.
"I'm sorry for acting stupid. And being an ass." She blurted, bluntly. (Zoey giggled; Rumi elbowed her, but poorly stifled an endeared chuckle herself.) "I just…" Mira chewed the inside of her lip, suddenly feeling deeply self-conscious. Zoey and Rumi waited patiently, like saints, watching her. "I really like taking care of you two, okay?" she mumbled, blushing. "And I guess I'm just not used to not being able to. Or letting myself… be cared for. In this way."
Her sentences came out fragmented, dragged from the back of her brain kicking and screaming to be forced out into the open. She had no idea why this felt so hard to admit, but she wanted to shrink away into the recesses of her hood, hide her burning face forever and never return.
When she managed to meet her partners' eyes, they were both looking at her with a deep and gentle fondness that made Mira want to recede even further, collapse in on herself like a black hole.
"We know," Rumi said gently, placing a soft hand on Mira's thigh. "We love that about you."
"So much!" Zoey affirmed, looping an arm through Mira's and pressing her face to Mira's shoulder affectionately.
"You take such good care of us, Mira," Rumi continued. "And it's okay if this is hard for you," Rumi looked to Zoey, who finished her sentence in stride.
"But we'd love it if you let us take care of you, too. We want to take care of you." Mira looked deep into Zoey's wide brown eyes, and then looked back to Rumi, who nodded, smiling eagerly.
Well. That settled it, then. Because Mira would do anything these two wanted of her. Even if it was scary. Even if it was vulnerable.
They wanted to take care of her.
So she would let them.
Mira wanted to say something cheeky, or smooth, but what ended up tumbling from her lips was, "I love you," and her eyes were already blurred with tears in the time it took for Zoey and Rumi to slot into her outstretched arms, holding her tight, like it was the only place in the universe they were meant to be.
Mira wasn't perfect at it.
Which made sense, given the everything about her upbringing, but it was still frustrating, and confusing, and sometimes made her want to scream into a pillow.
There was the time she was bundled on the couch, long legs reclined out in front of her, barely watching the ocean documentary Zoey had put on in favor of watching Zoey. She was on one of her tri-weekly cleaning sprees (it wasn't exact, but it was cyclical enough that it often followed this pattern), buzzing around the living room almost faster than Mira's eyes could follow. So far, Zoey had scrubbed the surface of the coffee table for an almost medically-concerning amount of time, alternating between half-humming, half-singing a song Mira didn't recognize and chattering to Mira about the documentary ("The first coral reefs are estimated to have formed a whopping 485 million years ago," the stuffy British man narrated on the TV. "Isn't that cool?!" Zoey exclaimed, mid-song). Then, she went into the kitchen for more cleaning cloths, only to get distracted by the overfull garbage can, and disappeared for way longer than it normally took to take out the trash, to the point where Mira had to call her to make sure everything was okay. As it turned out, she'd gotten a sudden inspiration for new lyrics down by the dumpster, and had to write it all down in her pocket notebook before she forgot.
(Mira loved her so, so much.)
When Zoey came back, cleaning cloths long forgotten, she decided to finally change the lightbulb that had gone out in one of their pendant lights hanging over the dining table. They'd first noticed it sometime shortly before the Golden release, but still hadn't gotten around to it, months later — there were a handful of more important things going on, after all.
Mira watched Zoey clamber up onto a dining chair, and then up onto the table, extending up as far onto the tips of her toes as she could go, tongue stuck out in concentration as she grabbed for the lightbulb. Even at her full extension, her fingers barely brushed the bottom of the glass, and the pendant light swang even further out of reach at the contact.
Zoey let out a grunt of frustration and a loud huff before letting herself fall back onto her heels. "Ughhhh." She complained. "I'll have to go get the ladder." She began clambering back down.
Watching her struggle, Mira thought this was ridiculous. Adorable, but ridiculous. Mira would be able to reach the bulb with her feet flat on the table, no problem.
"Jagiya, let me —" Mira started, moving to push herself up off the couch. She got halfway to standing before the alarmed look Zoey levelled at her, combined with the residual twinge of soreness in her midsection, flattened her right back into her nest of pillows with a soft oof.
Right.
She drew a knee up as far as she could without hurting herself, wrapping her arms around it and turning her head towards the big glass windows and the balcony beyond, pointedly avoiding Zoey's gaze as she heard her climb off the table and pad over to her.
She felt the couch indent as Zoey sat beside her. Something ancient and instinctive in Mira waited for the chiding words, the reprimand for her stubbornness. Nothing came, because it was Zoey beside her, her real family, and all she did was cup a hand under Mira's chin and gently tilt her face back towards her.
"Hey," Zoey said, and she was smiling, wide and fond and tender. "Let's just leave it for next time. When you're better."
For some reason, this concession, this compromise made Mira's face burn in embarrassment, even more so because it worked. The thought of having something as simple and rudimentary as changing a lightbulb for her girls to look forward to when she was better helped. She grumbled something unintelligible.
Zoey giggled. "What was that?" She teased lightly.
"I said fine," Mira grumbled again, utterly failing to maintain her grumpiness in the face of Zoey's musical laughter. A small smile wrested itself away from her control. Zoey leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose.
Mira glanced up at Zoey as her laughter faded into a soft, contemplative smile. Her head was cocked to the side slightly, and she was looking at Mira in that way that made Mira feel completely naked, transparent, like Zoey knew things about her that even she didn't know. That way only Zoey could make her feel.
"You're so wonderful, Mira. You know that, right?"
Something warm and and tingling jolted through her chest. She blinked at Zoey, who just smiled at her even wider, who melted in towards Mira and pressed another kiss to her cheek and stroked a hand through her hair, her body language and touch utterly dripping with affection.
Just then, the front door opened, and Rumi walked in, takeout bags in hand. Zoey turned towards the sound, smile turning bright and cheery, turning away from Mira casually as if she hadn't just set Mira's mind and heart completely reeling.
"Hi Rumi!" Zoey called out. Rumi gave them both a warm smile.
"Hi guys," Rumi replied. "Sorry I was out so long, the crowds were crazy today. What'd I miss?" she asked, crossing over to the dining table to put the takeout next to the forgotten box of lightbulbs.
"Oh, not too much. Just making plans for our next hot date once Mira's better," Zoey said nonchalantly. Mira swivelled her head to look at her, recovering from the conversational whiplash and squinting in confusion.
"Oh?" Rumi said, with no small degree of interest.
"Yeah," Zoey replied, mischief creeping into the edges of her tone. "Mira's gonna change the lightbulb… while we watch."
"Wh— oh, shut up!" Mira burst out, jabbing an elbow into Zoey's ribs, who had started cackling.
Rumi blinked at the two of them. "I feel like I'm missing some context," she started, beginning to take containers out of the bags she'd just set down before suddenly freezing mid-movement, staring off into the middle distance for a moment before looking back at her partners on the couch. The patterns peeking out from the collar of her loose shirt had started glowing blush-pink. "But that does sound hot."
"Right? Our chivalrous handyman," Zoey swooned, dramatically putting the back of her hand to her forehead.
"Shut up," Mira groaned again, burying her face in Zoey's shoulder as the smaller girl gently fell into her, to hide the smile stretching across her burning face, as warm as the feeling taking root in her chest, blooming deep and ubiquitous.
The first thing Mira did after her wound fully healed was cook them dinner.
She pulled out all the stops. She ran their grocery outing like a well-oiled machine, sending Zoey and Rumi off to different aisles with shopping lists while she worked through a list of her own, sneaking ingredients for each of their favorite desserts into the bottom of the cart as she went. Back at home, she put Zoey in charge of the music and Rumi on sit-at-the-kitchen-island-and-look-cute duty, reveling in the sound of their idle chatter as she chopped vegetables and mixed sauces.
When it was all done, a spread fit for twice the number of people, they'd sat at the dinner table for an hour, talking loudly with their mouths full and teasing Rumi for her spice (in)tolerance and passing each other kimbap, and Mira felt the life returning to the very core of her, a glowing happiness thrumming under her skin and through every part of her being.
When the conversation had died down and their plates and bowls were clear, Zoey retreated to her room to call her family, during the small window of opportunity she had when the time zones lined up. Rumi had long since finished her yukgaejang, but as they sat at the table in comfortable quiet, Mira could tell Rumi was obviously still hungry, by the way she idly scraped her spoon around in the dregs of her meal, how her eyes occasionally flickered over to one of the empty plates sitting on the table between them.
Mira chuckled lightly. "Here," she said, standing up and picking up Rumi's empty bowl. Rumi's eyes trailed up from the bowl to Mira, and Mira could still feel her eyes tracking her movement as she walked over to the kitchen.
She ladelled Rumi another full bowl, still steaming from the pot she left simmering for this very reason, and brought it back, placing it before Rumi with a smile. When she met Rumi's eyes, she faltered.
Rumi was looking up at her like she hung the moon. She was beaming.
For a moment, she said nothing. Mira recovered, quirking an eyebrow at her, a silent question. She moved to pull her chair out to sit back down.
"I love you too, Mira," Rumi said, finally, softly, proudly.
Mira froze, hands braced against the smooth wood of the chair. She searched Rumi's face and found nothing but the truth.
A soft glowing drew her gaze slightly downwards. Rumi's patterns weren't pink, or their new default pearl, but shining and multicolored and iridescent as the night they remade the Honmoon.
Mira felt her face do something complicated, and a thousand unnamable emotions flowed through her at once, all fractal variations of known and loved.
She didn't say anything. She knew she didn't have to. She just followed the current of feeling rushing through every vein and artery in her body and she stepped forward, cupping the back of Rumi's head gently and pulling her in. Rumi twined her arms tight around Mira's waist, burying her face (gently, ever so gently) against Mira's stomach, lips pressing soft against the place her new scar lived beneath the thin layer of her shirt.
Warmth radiated off Rumi, tingling and sweet, and one feeling stood out amongst all the rest Mira felt in that moment: home.
*
The second thing Mira did after her wound healed was change that damn lightbulb.
And she did it in nothing but a sports bra and short athletic shorts. Just to be cheeky. And because she liked the way it made Rumi's patterns flush blush-pink from head to toe, the way it lit those twin flames of desire in Zoey's sparkling eyes as she watched, gaze never leaving Mira for even a second.
(Later, in bed, Rumi had gasped out, "Mira, wait, wait," and Mira had looked up from Rumi's neck, where she'd been giving her a pretty purple bruise on her collarbone to go with her glowing rose-pink patterns.
"Maybe… we should… you should… still be careful," Rumi managed distractedly between breaths, chest heaving. Mira narrowed her eyes questioningly, interrupting her hand's downward path towards Rumi's lower abdomen. Rumi ran a hand through her long, mussed hair, free from its usual braid and splayed out on the pillow behind her.
"I just mean — I know you're mostly healed, but too much… exertion could still be bad…" Rumi trailed off as Mira exchanged a look with Zoey, who had popped up from her place between Rumi's legs, where she'd been decorating her thighs with markings of her own.
Mira raised one eyebrow. Zoey smirked. Mira shrugged.
"Yeah, sure," she said nonchalantly, before languidly rolling onto her back beside Rumi. Rumi looked at her questioningly. Mira grinned at her. "I can think of a few ways we can…adapt."
Zoey patted the tops of Rumi's thighs with a bright grin.
"C'mon, up!"
Rumi blinked in confusion but immediately obeyed, sitting up and then shifting onto her knees. Zoey took the opportunity to swoop in for a kiss, hungry and deep. Mira watched the two of them intently, stoking the irresistible fire already burning low in her stomach.
When they broke apart, Rumi reluctantly dragged her half-lidded gaze away from Zoey, catching Mira's eye as she propped up a pillow behind her neck. As Mira settled back in, she watched realization dawn on Rumi's face like the rising sun.
"Oh," Rumi said breathlessly. Mira laughed, low and warm and fond. Zoey was already guiding Rumi forward towards Mira, hands on the divots of Rumi's waist, lips pressed to Rumi's shoulder. Mira stretched out her arms, meeting them halfway, her hands covering Zoey's for a moment before she slid them downward — slow, appreciative — and cupped the backs of Rumi's thighs, bringing her the rest of the way forward.
"Yeah," Mira replied, smirking, before putting her mouth to better use.)
And things changed, every so slightly. The barest shift. Mira still cooked them dinner most evenings, bought them treats when they ventured out for late-night walks around the city, brought home fresh flower bouquets for both of them every Sunday morning. She talked Zoey down from her anxious, overthinking spirals (and sometimes kissed her down from them, when necessary), and wrapped her arms around Rumi's waist, steady and grounding, when she caught her staring at her patterns in the mirror for too long.
But more and more often, Zoey would gently guide Mira's head down into her lap when she could tell Mira was getting tired during brainstorming sessions in the recording studio, running her fingers through Mira's hair, and she'd let her, let herself doze off under Zoey's touch. And at other times Rumi would come up and join Mira on the couch after a hard workout, lifting up Mira's legs to rest in her lap and gently kneading her fingers against Mira's tight calves, the inside of her thighs, and Mira would let her, watching Rumi all the while with her head tilted in wonder. Rumi did this almost absentmindedly, as if it were instinct, and not something so profound and unfamiliar to Mira that she could barely believe it was Rumi doing it.
And they were both so, so gentle with her. Even when she still occasionally snapped at them over stupid things. Even when she didn't have the words for how she felt.
And something in her cracked open. Old, brittle walls punctured, flaking away like ash on the wind, burned off by a bright, iridescent light emanating out from the core of her whenever she let them hold her. Glowing.