Chapter Text
Rumi slid onto her usual stool at the end of the bar, shrugging out of her damp coat and hooking it beneath the counter. Her fingers ran through wet hair, sweeping it back over her shoulders before she checked her phone. Two minutes early… her eyes scanned the crowd, it wasn’t like Zoey to be late.
Ji-hoon, the local bartender, set her usual down without asking: gin and tonic, extra lime, no ice. Rumi curled her fingers around the cold glass, letting the condensation cool against her skin.
Her phone buzzed on the bar top.
Zoey:Babe, I’m so sorry. Client crisis. Can’t get out. Rain check? I’ll make it up to you x100.
Rumi exhaled slowly, lowering the glass from her lips.
Rumi: You’re kidding.
Zoey: Believe me when I say I’d rather be anywhere else than with all these oap men in suits.
Rumi: I was actually excited for tonight, you absolute traitor.
Zoey: I swear I’ll make it up to you! And don’t sulk, Ru. Nobody’s gonna wanna talk to you if you’re sulking. And you’re way too hot to be sitting there alone.
Rumi: Grovelling and complimenting. You really are sorry.
Zoey: I am! And I gotta go. Love you. Stay. Have fun for me. 💋
Rumi set the phone face down with a soft click. She wasn’t going to spiral into more texts. The drink was already in her hand; she might as well finish it.
She took a slow sip, lime cutting sharp through the gin and let her eyes drift over the room.
She watched the couples tucked close in booths. A group of friends laughing too loudly over fried snacks and bottles. The usual Friday mix: locals, expats, people pretending the night still had plans for them.
And she felt that small, familiar awareness of being the only one sitting alone. Not tragic, honestly. Just… noticeable.
She was halfway through the drink, debating whether to order another or call it a night, when someone claimed the stool beside her.
The movement was smooth. And this person was close enough that Rumi caught the scent immediately. A warm amber, a hint of citrus, layered with rain-damp leather.
She didn’t look right away but kept her gaze on the lime wedge bobbing in her glass.
Then a low, amused voice slipped through the noise. “Please tell me someone like you wasn’t stood up?”
Rumi turned.
Her cheeks immediately burned at the tall, pink-haired woman who slipped next to her. She couldn’t help but stare. At cheekbones that could slice light. At the mouth that curved in a slow, confident smile that said she knew exactly how good she looked and didn’t mind being noticed.
Holy shit.
Rumi blinked once, shaking her head. “That obvious?”
“You sighed like the night personally let you down,” the woman said, raising two fingers to Ji-hoon without breaking eye contact. “And you’ve been staring at your phone like it owed you something.”
Heat crept up Rumi’s neck. “You were watching me?”
“Technically? I was waiting for the seat next to the most interesting person here to open.” She turned fully towards Rumi now, elbow resting on the bar, body angled as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist. “I’m Mira.”
The name settled warm in Rumi’s chest. “Rumi.”
“Rumi,” Mira repeated, drawing it out slowly, as though she were tasting the sound. Her gaze flicked down to Rumi’s mouth for half a second, then back up. “Pretty. It suits you.”
Rumi raised an eyebrow, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “Do you say that to everyone you sit next to?”
“Only the ones who look like they’re deciding whether to bolt.” Mira’s smile tilted sharper. “And you were thinking about it.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t.” Mira leaned in just enough that the space between them felt electric. “I’d hate to lose the view.”
Rumi laughed and her cheeks prickled. “You don’t hold back at all.”
“Why would I?” Mira’s voice dropped lower, intimate despite the crowd. She shifted enough that Rumi could see her exposed collarbones. “You’re sitting here alone, looking like that, drinking as though you’re trying to talk yourself into staying. I’d be an idiot not to try.”
Ji-hoon slid Mira’s drink over, a fruity cherry blossom soju cocktail that didn’t fit her personality at all before setting down another gin in front of Rumi. Mira thanked him with a small nod, then lifted the glass towards Rumi in a quiet toast.
“To friends who cancel,” she said, “and the much better company that shows up instead.”
Rumi clinked her glass against Mira’s. The sound vanished into the music. “Big assumption that you’re better company.”
Mira’s eyes roamed and she tilted her head. “I’m very good company. Especially when I want something.”
Rumi felt the words land low and warm. She took a sip to steady the sudden dryness in her throat. “And you want something?”
“Right now?” Mira’s knee brushed hers under the bar, lingering. She lifted the cherry garnish to her lips and sucked it into her mouth. “Desperately.”
The bass shifted heavier; the room pulsed with it. Mira didn’t pull away.
Rumi felt a smile creep across her lips and she lifted her drink, eyes watching Mira over the rim of the glass. “You’re trouble.”
“You have no idea.” Mira leaned closer, her voice velvet against the noise. “But I’m hoping you’ll let me prove it.”
Rumi held her gaze and felt something click into place inside her. She didn’t look away. Instead she lifted her chin, mirroring Mira’s posture, letting her own smile sharpen just a fraction.
“You’ll have to work for it.”
Mira’s eyes darkened at the challenge, the slow curl of her smile turning almost predatory. She set her glass down with deliberate care, fingers lingering on the stem. “I like that.”
Rumi’s pulse kicked harder. Under the bar, Mira’s knee stayed pressed lightly against hers, a steady point of contact that felt louder than the music. “You talk a big game.”
“And it’s working. You’re blushing. It’s very cute.”
Rumi huffed a laugh, trying to play it off even as the warmth spread to her ears. “It’s the gin.”
“Sure it is.”
With a roll of her eyes, Rumi leaned against the bar, swirling her drink as she kept her gaze firmly on this stranger in front of her. Her head shifted and an amused smile touched her lips. “What makes you think I’m interested?”
Mira leaned in until her lips were dangerously close to Rumi’s ear, voice dropping to a private rasp that cut straight through the bar noise. “Because you haven’t moved your leg away. And because every time I get closer, your pupils get bigger.”
Rumi swallowed. She could feel Mira’s breath against the shell of her ear and it sent a shiver racing down her spine.
“Observant,” she managed.
“Very.” Mira pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, but the space between them felt smaller now, charged. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Rumi let the silence stretch just long enough to make it mean something.
“You’re not wrong,” she said finally, voice quieter than she intended, almost lost under the bass. But Mira heard it. The corner of her mouth lifted in quiet triumph.
“Good.” Mira’s thumb brushed once, along the edge of Rumi’s wrist where it rested on the bar. The touch was gone almost before Rumi could register it, but it left a trail of heat. “Because I’d hate to waste a night this promising on bad assumptions.”
Rumi exhaled a small laugh through her nose. “Smooth.”
“I try.” Mira picked up her soju cocktail again, twirling the stem between long fingers. “So tell me, Rumi, who cancels on someone who looks like they stepped out of a dream and then leaves them sitting here alone?”
“Work emergency.” Rumi shrugged one shoulder, the movement small but enough to draw Mira’s eyes to the line of her collarbone where her damp shirt clung slightly. “She’s my best friend. She’ll grovel tomorrow. Probably with coffee and apologies. She told me to have fun tonight.”
“Smart friend. Giving you explicit permission to misbehave.”
Rumi’s laugh came out softer this time, almost private. “She knows me too well. Probably figured I’d sit here brooding until last call if left to my own devices.”
“And instead you’re letting a stranger with pink hair talk you into trouble.” Mira cocked her head, studying Rumi like she was trying to decide which part of her to unravel first. “I like being the plot twist.”
“You’re definitely that.” Rumi took the last slow sip of her gin, letting the ice clink against her teeth before setting the empty glass down. The lime bitterness lingered on her tongue, grounding her just enough to keep her voice steady. “So what happens now, plot twist?”
Mira didn’t answer right away. She finished her own drink in one smooth pull then set the glass beside Rumi’s with a quiet clink that felt louder than it should.
“Now,” she said, leaning in until their shoulders nearly brushed, “I ask if you want another round here… or if you’d rather see what the rest of the night looks like somewhere the music isn’t trying to drown us out.”
Rumi felt the question settle low in her stomach, warm and insistent. She turned her head just enough that their faces were inches apart, close enough to notice the way Mira’s pupils had swallowed most of the iris.
She could have fun, she could live a little. And who was she to reject this literal goddess sitting in front of her. “I’m not really in the mood for another drink.”
Mira’s smile was slow, victorious. “Hm. Neither am I. So let’s not waste any more time pretending we’re staying for another drink.”
~
Rumi fumbled with the key at the front door, mostly because Mira was pressed up behind her, lips brushing the back of her neck.
“You’re killing me with how slow you’re going.”
“You’re not exactly making it easy to concentrate,” Rumi whispered back, fingers shaking as Mira pressed another kiss to her skin. She sighed and leaned back into her before she shook her head and laughed. Finally, she got the door open. They tumbled inside, and the second it clicked shut behind them, Mira had her pinned gently against it.
Their mouths met and Rumi smiled into it, arms lifting to wrap around Mira’s neck. Their tongues slid together mixing the delicate balance of cherry soju and gin.
Mira’s hands slid under Rumi’s damp shirt, palms warm against cool skin; Rumi arched into the touch, fingers twisting in pink hair, tugging just hard enough to make Mira groan low against her lips.
“Shh,” Rumi whispered, breaking the kiss with a breathless laugh. “Roommate’s definitely home. She’s probably asleep by now, but-“
Mira grinned against her mouth, already kissing her again. “Then be quiet.”
“Me? You’re the one making noises.”
Mira nipped at her bottom lip in playful retaliation. “Can’t help it. You taste so good.”
Rumi stifled another laugh, pushing gently at Mira’s shoulders until they both stumbled away from the door. She pulled her along the hallway, stealing quick kisses every few steps. She twisted her bedroom doorknob slowly, then tugged Mira inside. The door behind them shut with the quietest click she could manage.
The second the latch caught, Mira was on her again, backing her toward the bed, hands already working the buttons of Rumi’s shirt open. It hit the floor with a soft, damp thud.
Across Rumi’s shoulders and spilling down the tops of her arms like living artwork were delicate ink vines, thin, twisting stems in deep black, dotted with tiny serrated leaves. A few stray tendrils even crept toward her collarbones, as if the tattoo itself was still growing.
Mira’s mouth parted. “Holy shit.”
Rumi tilted her head, one brow lifting in faint amusement. “You’re staring.”
“I’m… yeah. I’m staring.” Mira stepped closer, hands hovering for a second like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch something this beautiful. Then her fingertips brushed the edge of a leaf just below Rumi’s collarbone. The ink looked almost three-dimensional in the low light, shadows pooling in the fine lines.
Then Mira’s gaze dropped lower, taking in the smooth planes of Rumi’s stomach. The tight definition of her abs that flexed slightly under the low light of her bedside table.
“What the fuck? And you were hiding an entire gym membership under there this whole time? You’re so hot.” She reached out, fingertips tracing one sharp ridge, then another. “These are ridiculous. I’m actually mad at how perfect you are right now.”
Rumi caught Mira’s wrist mid-trace, her grip firm but playful, guiding those wandering fingers lower until Mira’s palm flattened against the warm plane of her stomach.
“Keep staring at me like that and I’ll have to show you just how unfair I can be.”
“Be my guest.”
Rumi took her shirt off with ease, eyes tracing Mira’s now exposed chest. Her breath grew a little shallow. She stepped in, crowding her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. Mira dropped onto the bed with a small bounce, pink hair fanning out across the sheets. Rumi climbed over her immediately, knees bracketing her hips, pinning her with body weight and intent.
She leaned down, mouth hovering just above Mira’s. “You’re really pretty.”
Mira’s nose brushed hers, the contact soft and electric at once. Her breath came out in a quiet, shaky laugh, eyes half-lidded and dark. “You’re really pretty too,” she whispered back, the words almost swallowed by the space between their mouths. “Like stupidly pretty.”
Rumi’s grin was predatory. She closed the last millimetre of distance and kissed her, tongue sliding in with deliberate claim. Mira opened for her instantly, a low sound vibrating in her throat as she arched up, trying to press closer.
Rumi broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against her lips, “Hands above your head.”
Mira obeyed without hesitation, stretching her arms up, wrists crossing loosely on the pillow. The position arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts up toward Rumi’s mouth.
Rumi rewarded her with a slow drag of tongue across one nipple, then the other, while her free hand slid down Mira’s side, tracing ribs. Mira’s breathing turned ragged, hips shifting restlessly beneath Rumi’s weight.
“Stay still,” Rumi huffed with a smile. She nipped the underside of Mira’s breast lightly, enough to make her gasp, then soothed it with her tongue.
Mira bit her lip hard, trying to obey, but her thighs still parted wider, inviting. Rumi’s hand drifted lower, popping the button on her pants with practised ease. She moved to pull off Mira’s jeans and underwear before her fingers settled between her legs.
Her eyes grew dark as she watched Mira’s body squirm against her.
“Look at me,” Rumi said quietly, her free hand moving to run through Mira’s hair.
Mira’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and dark, pupils blown wide. The second their gazes locked, Rumi pressed down with slow circles that made Mira’s thighs tense and her back arch off the bed.
“Fuck.” Mira breathed, voice cracking.
Rumi kept the rhythm steady, watching every flicker across Mira’s expression: the way her mouth fell open on silent gasps, the way her hips rolled up to chase the pressure. She slid two fingers inside, curling them while Mira’s whole body clenched around her. She moaned.
Rumi’s hand immediately found her lips and she smiled, “hey, think you can be a little quieter?”
Her fingers kept moving, building Mira higher. The pink haired woman nodded, eyes practically black as she stared at Rumi above her.
“Good,” Rumi replied, soft smile still settled across her features. She lifted her hand and moved to kiss Mira again, working a little faster. A whine passed from Mira’s lips to her own. “Fuck,” she whispered, “you feel really good.”
Mira’s breathing turned ragged, chest heaving. One hand flew to Rumi’s shoulder, nails digging in just enough to leave faint crescents. Her hips ground down harder, thighs shaking, body tightening around Rumi’s fingers like a vice.
Rumi lifted the hand and pressed it back above Mira’s head, shaking her head and smiling into another kiss. Then she felt the shift.
“Fuck,” Mira whispered as her whole body locked. Rumi kept the exact same pace: deep, slow strokes, thumb never letting up.
Mira came quietly, back arching off the mattress, thighs clamping tight around Rumi’s wrist, a choked, shuddering breath the only sound she let out. Her walls pulsed hard around Rumi’s fingers, fresh wetness coating them as her hips jerked in tiny, involuntary spasms.
Rumi eased her through it, gentle now, slower curls until the tremors faded and Mira collapsed back against the sheets, trembling, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts.
Only then did she carefully withdraw her fingers, kissing Mira’s temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth while Mira came back to herself in soft, shaky exhales.
Her eyes opened slowly and she reached up with trembling hands, cupping Rumi’s face, pulling her down into a messy, grateful kiss. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?”
Rumi laughed softly against her lips, shifting so her thigh pressed firmly between Mira’s still-trembling legs. “I think you like it.”
Mira’s grin turned lazy and dangerous. She rolled them in one smooth motion, suddenly on top, pinning Rumi beneath her. “Oh I do,” she whispered, dipping to kiss the corner of her mouth, then her throat. “But now it’s my turn to see how quiet you can be, pretty girl.”
~
Sunlight poured through the half-open blinds in lazy golden bands, warming the bare skin of Rumi’s back. She lay flat on her stomach, face half-sunk into the pillow, sheets twisted low around her hips. Her body felt heavy and blissfully used. Thighs tender, faint red marks on her hips and collarbone. The faint scent of amber and citrus lingered on the sheets, mixing with the musk of last night. She was deeply asleep.
Until…
“Rumi. Rumi?”
The mattress dipped. Someone sat on the edge of the bed. Rumi groaned, brain slow and foggy. “Mm.”
“Ruuuuumi.”
Her eyes cracked open. Recognition hit.
Zoey.
Rumi jerked awake, yanking the sheet up to her chest in a frantic scramble, rolling onto her side. Hair fell messily across her face. “Zoey? What the hell?”
Zoey was perched there in an oversized hoodie and yesterday’s smudged eyeliner. “Good morning, Sunshine.”
Rumi dropped her face back into the pillow with a muffled groan. “No.”
The mattress shifted again as Zoey moved closer, Rumi’s grip on the sheet tightened. “So… can we talk about the model you brought home last night? I mean, she is a model right? There’s no way she’s that tall and that hot and not a model.”
“What? How do you- you saw her?”
“Oh yeah, when she was leaving this morning. Almost gave her a heart attack when she saw me in the kitchen. Phew, honestly, she almost gave me one too. That girl was like an eleven out of ten.”
Rumi lifted her head slowly, eyes narrowing at Zoey through a curtain of tangled hair. “Please tell me you did not ambush her in the kitchen?”
Zoey gasped, hand to chest. “Ambush is such an aggressive word. I was making coffee. In my own apartment. If anyone was ambushed it was me. Again, not that I’m complaining. Phew.” She scooted closer on the bed. “So, last night was fun?”
Rumi immediately tightened her grip on the sheet, hauling it higher up her chest like she was defending state secrets. “Can you give me space?”
“Relax.”
“Zo, I’m naked.”
Zoey leaned in anyway, peering at her with exaggerated suspicion. “It’s not like I haven’t seen them before.”
Rumi’s cheeks burned and she flopped onto the bed. “This isn’t the bathhouse, this is my bedroom. At least pass me a shirt.”
Zoey rolled her eyes and reached over to grab a tee from Rumi’s second drawer. “So dramatic. You have life changing sex and this what you’re being prudish about?”
Rumi snatched the shirt from Zoey’s hand and wrestled it on under the sheet with all the grace of someone whose limbs had not yet agreed to participate this morning. There was a brief, muffled struggle and a very ungraceful shuffle.
“Need assistance?” Zoey asked sweetly.
“Say one more word,” Rumi warned from somewhere inside the fabric. “Also life-changing is a strong word.”
Once decent(ish), she sat up properly, knees drawn to her chest, hair still a glorious lavender disaster.
“Strong? Babe. There were marks on your collarbones that looked like they were applied with artistic intent. And don’t think I didn’t notice the way you’re sitting, like every muscle from the waist down is politely reminding you what happened. Do you need to ice your thighs?”
“Zoey!” Rumi squeaked, cheeks burning. She lifted a pillow and threw it at her. “Stop.”
Zoey grabbed it and folded it across her chest before she crossed her legs like she was settling in for storytime. “Details. Start with how she got from barstool to your bed in less than an hour. Because in Rumi time that’s like seconds.”
Rumi rubbed her face with both hands, trying to scrub away the last of the sleep and the embarrassment. It didn’t work.
“It wasn’t even an hour,” she muttered. “Maybe forty-five minutes from first knee-brush to front door. I’m still not sure how she pulled that off.”
“Your brain went “hot” and didn’t shut off. I feel so proud right now.” She lunged forward and Rumi immediately gripped the sheet around her waist as to not expose any lower. “My unnie is all grown up. Bringing home hot strangers. I could cry.”
Rumi rolled her eyes and threw her arm around her shoulder, “you’re so dramatic.”
~
Rumi stepped off the lift onto the twelfth floor and knew instantly this Monday morning had veered off-script.
The usual low hum of productive chaos, keyboards clacking in staggered rhythm and the distant grind of the espresso machine, was gone. Replaced by something sharper: clusters of people standing instead of sitting, bodies angled toward one another, phones held low like contraband. Whispers rose and fell in pockets, eyes darting to newcomers for fresh reactions.
Hana materialised from the kitchenette before Rumi reached her desk, blocking the path with wide eyes and a half-finished cup of tea. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?”
Rumi set down her bag and looked around the room, brow arching. “What is? Are we about to get laid off?”
A hand immediately came up to Hana’s mouth and she shook her head, “shut up! You don’t know? Mr Song got fired!”
Rumi blinked, looking around the room, “what do you mean he got fired, what for?”
“He was sleeping with a client.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Rumi’s bag came down with a clink and she sat in her chair. “You’re serious? Zoey never said.”
“Deadly.” Hana’s voice dropped further, though half the floor was already pretending not to listen while hanging on every syllable. “One of the big luxury hotel chains. Months-long thing. Her husband found the messages. Apparently he went nuclear and threatened to yank the whole account if the agency didn’t handle it. Contract is worth billions of won. He had to go.”
A designer drifted past, coffee in hand, muttering just loud enough to be overheard, “I always knew he was sloppy.”
Sloppy was charitable.
“What happens now?” Rumi asked, looking around the floor again and taking in the buzz. She combed her fingers through her hair and pulled it into a loose, messy bun. “We’re left to our own devices?”
“No. New Interim Associate Creative Director is coming in.” Hana leaned closer again, conspiratorial. “New transfer. Director Kang. A woman.”
“A woman? You’re kidding. From where?”
“Busan, I think. Word is she’s intense.”
“Oh. Great.”
“We have a mandatory meeting at 10am for introductions and a new game plan going forward.” Hana shrugged her shoulder and pushed off of Rumi’s desk. Leaving her alone.
Rumi pulled out her phone.
Rumi: Why didn’t you tell me Mr Song was fired??
Zoey: Company policy, Ru. Besides, thought you would appreciate the Monday morning scandal. He left with his tail between his legs and the last fifteen years of his life in a box, I can tell you that.
Rumi: What an idiot.
Zoey: Your department was due a shake up anyway. Word on the street is this Director Kang will do just that.
Rumi: Yeah, what’s her deal? Should I be worried?
Zoey: You’re the most competent person I know, so no. Worried maybe because word on the street is that she’s also a hottie.
Rumi: Can HR talk about people like that?
Zoey: Just because you got some at the weekend doesn’t mean I can’t fantasise.
Rumi: Annnnd this conversation’s over.
Zoey: :(
~
By 9:58 the conference room was full.
Nobody wanted to be late. And nobody wanted to miss a glimpse of the new boss.
Rumi sat close to the back, her laptop open in front of her, a pen rolling between her fingers. Despite the morning’s gossip about a stricter regime, a quiet excitement hummed under her skin. A woman in charge.
Mr Song had been… fine, if you looked past his lingering stares and the length of time his hands spent on your shoulders. No, Director Kang, whoever she was, had to be an improvement. A reset. A breath of fresh air.
By 10am, the door had finally opened and the click of heels silenced the room.
Rumi’s gaze lifted automatically. And the world tilted.
Because there, standing in the doorway in a charcoal suit cut like a blade was Mira. She was radiating the kind of calm authority that made the entire room sit up straighter without being asked.
Rumi’s breath caught hard enough to hurt.
No. No, no, no.
Mira walked to the head of the table with measured, unhurried steps. Set a slim laptop down. Connected it to the projector in three precise motions. “Good morning. I’m Kang Mira, interim Associate Creative Director, effective today. We’ve got one big account hanging by a thread, and I’m not letting it go. That means clearer roles, tighter work, and no room for screw-ups.”
She clicked to the first slide: a simple 72-hour plan, clean and colour-coded. She was good. Really good. Confident without showing off. Firm without being mean.
Rumi stared at the screen, heart slamming against her ribs.
This cannot be happening.
Mira didn’t look at her. Not once.
“First thing,” she said, voice even as she scanned the room, “I want a quick sense of current ownership across active projects. No deep dives, just names and leads for now.”
Chairs creaked and postures straightened. A few people exchanged glances and cleared their throats.
“I’ll schedule short one-on-ones right after this,” she continued, tapping her laptop once. “Fifteen minutes each. Enough to get oriented without derailing the day.”
She scrolled down the screen, eyes flicking over projects. “Let’s start with the Noeul Gallery rebrand, the full visual identity and exhibition campaign. Ryu… Rumi?”
Rumi’s head came up automatically. She tried not to let her cheek burn. “Yes?”
The moment their eyes met, time stuttered.
But Mira’s expression didn’t crack, not publicly at least. All Rumi could think of was cherry soju and sliding tongues. She wondered if her new boss did too.
But Mira only straightened, just a fraction. “You’re first.”
Well. Fuck.