Chapter Text
Rumi stands at the head of the path, acutely aware of the cameras rolling and the crew bustling about. Apprehension gnaws at her insides like a snake worming its way up from the pit of her stomach to seize her throat between its fangs. She resists the urge to chew on the inside of her cheek, wiping any hints of anxiety from her expression. She’s opted for wearing a suit for this first day, but now she’s regretting it since she has to withstand the temptation of her blazer pockets.
The cameramen will eat her alive. Of this fact, she’s sure.
She goes for a grin over a grimace, swallowing back the urge to vomit all over the floor right now. That’d certainly be an interesting first impression for the contestants.
She spares one final glance to the side, where she knows Bobby and Celine are watching her. Bobby gives her an enthusiastic double thumbs-up, his grin huge. Celine is hard to read, as per usual; a brick wall of emotions.
Rumi had to learn to control her feelings from somewhere , after all.
Bobby’s a producer for the show and a friend-slash-mentor to Rumi growing up, picking up on the emotional support side where Celine would lack. Celine is… a lot of things. She was the runner-up for the very first season of The Bachelor, second only to Rumi’s mother— which means that yes, Rumi’s father was the first ever Bachelor. After her parents passed, Rumi was adopted by Celine and practically bred for a life in the limelight. Since then, Celine has become the host and showrunner for The Bachelorette .
And now here they are, twenty-five years after the first season.
Celine subtly indicates to Rumi to turn her head back around, so she does.
A limousine pulls around the bend, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the wheel as it slows to a stop right by the path leading up to her.
Rumi inhales deeply, her final breath before the course of her entire future changes.
And, okay— so she’s being a bit dramatic about this. But hey, she’s on reality TV. Everything’s dramatic.
The limousine door opens, and a shiny dress shoe appears. Rumi can surmise just how the editors will handle this. First a long shot of this guy’s foot, up his leg. Tense music. A shot of Rumi looking on in anticipation. Another long shot of this guy’s clothes. More tense music… until finally, his face. Then, of course, Rumi’s reaction to his face.
Rumi smiles easily when the first man steps out. He has black hair, dark eyes, and piercings in his ears. He’s tall, she notes, with absurdly long limbs. He’s cute, she’ll admit, though most of the contestants are likely to be in a similar realm of attractiveness.
He messes with the sleeves of his suit for no apparent reason, probably just to have something to do with his hands. He strides up to her confidently, then drops into a low bow.
She stares at him in bewilderment, swallowing back a guffaw. Still, her amusement cannot be masked, and he seems to notice it, because he grins.
“You know what they say. Save the best for first.”
It’s such a bad line, Rumi has no other choice but to laugh. She tries to keep it elegant, though, because she’s on camera, and she’s supposed to look at least a little bit normal.
“I’m fairly certain that’s not how that goes,” she says.
He furrows his brows and tilts his head. “You sure? Sounds right to me.”
She just shakes her head, then decides to humor him with a bow of her own.
He looks pleased at the gesture. “I’m Jinu, by the way. Can’t wait to talk more soon.”
She waves him off politely. “Nice meeting you, Jinu.”
Surprisingly, she’s off to a good start. Jinu’s cheesy for sure, but he’s handsome, didn’t cross any strange boundaries right off the bat, and seems oddly earnest.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
But then, two dozen more contestants go by, and not a single one reinforces that thought.
One of the men, Abby, wrapped her into a tight hug, winked, and said something bizarre about letting her feel his abs later. Another man, Baby, had actually written a rap about her and performed it to her.
There were two others, Mystery and Romance, that stuck out to her. Mystery’s hair covered his eyes, and the only words he said to her was an introduction. She’s not sure if lack of personality worked for him in the past, but she isn’t convinced by it. Romance had kissed her knuckles and left it at that. Rumi waved him goodbye on his way into the house, and he’d only responded by blowing her a million more kisses on his way in.
The rest of the contestants were just a blur of conventionally attractive faces— to the point of just being plain. There were a few women here and there who caught her eye, but then she’d catch them posing for the cameras almost intentionally, and she’d have to mask her grimace. They all had about as much authenticity as a politician; Rumi’s not sure if they were trying to charm her or the audience.
There are only two people left, and her spirits are fairly dispelled by this point. It’s all Rumi can do to keep herself from swaying too much or fiddling with her fingers. She just wants to fast forward to two months from now, with the finale done, and a public breakup announcement imminently following.
And then— Rumi licks her lips unintentionally— that sweet, sweet two hundred thousand dollars, and Celine off her back for good. That’s all she’s here for.
She’s snapped out of her thoughts when a leg appears from the limo door, and a woman steps out.
Rumi’s smile slackens for the first time that night. Weirdos, she can maintain a cool facade in front of. She’s trained for that. But this? She’s not sure she can handle this.
She’s tall, not just in stature, but in presence. Even if she were shorter than Rumi, there’s something about her that looms. At least, that’s the first thing Rumi notices, but then there are so many things to notice. Every feature is striking. Her pink hair falls far below her waist, styled to perfection. She’s all sharp lines and edges— her cheekbones, her jawline, her legs. Even her eyes are sharp, filled with a depth that Rumi didn’t expect to see on this show.
“Hi. I’m Mira,” the woman says, voice deep, but not unnaturally so.
Rumi deliberately keeps her jaw from hanging open, but she can’t stop herself from staring at her openly. To her credit, Mira doesn’t seem to be able to stop staring either, an intense… something sparking between them.
Rumi reaches a hand out, mostly acting on muscle memory for the last twenty-something people she offered her hand out to.
Mira catches her hand with her own, sending a tingle up Rumi’s arm and down her spine.
“Hi,” Rumi manages. Mira waits a beat, so she tries to continue. “Um… Hi.”
Mira’s lips curve upward, and holy shit , she is so pretty. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Rumi repeats stupidly. She snaps herself out of it. She’s on camera. “It’s nice to meet you. You look…” She wants to say something stupid like enchanting or enthralling , and, like— is it really all that stupid if it is so impossibly true? “You look beautiful,” she settles.
Mira just smiles on. “Thank you. Means a lot coming from someone as stunning as you.”
Rumi can feel the heat rising from her ears and her neck. She’s never felt so spellbound just from looking at a person, and for a strange second, she even considers that this stupid show might actually work for her.
She shakes herself from her thoughts and goes on with the usual procedure.
“You’re very sweet,” she says genuinely. “I look forward to seeing you inside.”
Mira takes the cue and makes her way inside. She brushes her fingers against Rumi’s as she passes her, forming goosebumps up her arm. Rumi can’t help a final glance behind her, almost unable to tear her eyes from her.
She definitely knows who she’ll be giving her First Impression Rose to.
Except, scratch that thought, the final woman is stepping out from the limousine, and Rumi is completely floored yet again.
She’s the exact opposite of Mira, who exuded cool confidence and had a quiet intensity about her. This woman is all boundless energy and excitement, like she genuinely believes this show will lead her to find her soulmate. The sincerity flows out of her in waves, to the point that Rumi thinks maybe she is about to find her soulmate here.
And it’s not just her infectious energy, but she’s hot . Her eyes are big and brown, her nose littered with freckles, and her skin is flawless. Rumi definitely looks at her for far longer than is respectable, surveying the way her dress hugs her hips, the way her rings glint from her fingers, the way she walks effortlessly in her heels.
The woman before her smiles bright. “Hi, I’m Zoey! Wow , you are gorgeous in person. Like, unbelievably breathtaking. You look super hot in a suit. I’ve been waiting really patiently for my turn, and I’m just so thrilled to meet you!”
Rumi laughs, her heart light. “It’s wonderful to meet you, too. I can’t wait to talk more with you inside.”
It’s only twice now that she finds that she means those words.
Zoey doesn’t follow that cue like everyone else, though. She pouts animatedly, looking up at Rumi from behind her lashes.
“Aw… you sure we can’t just bail together? I could totally try stealing some kid’s bike so we can get the heck out of here.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m not tempted.” Rumi giggles— fucking giggles. She didn’t know she could find talking to a stranger so easy. “But if you want to whisk me away, you’ll have to win this thing.”
Zoey nods exaggeratedly, like she’s taking a solemn mental note. “Ah. I’ve gotta sweep you off your feet and earn it, then. I respect that. Plus, if I win this, I won’t have to steal someone’s property for our epic getaway. Saves me from committing larceny on television.”
“And we can’t have that, of course,” Rumi says, going along with the faux-seriousness. “I don’t marry criminals.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Zoey winks and taps the side of her head. “I’ll see you inside, then, gorgeous.”
Rumi wants nothing more than to continue their banter, but tragically, Zoey walks past her, in the direction of the house. Rumi shuts her eyes for a moment, catching a whiff of Zoey’s perfume as she passes. It’s all she can do to keep herself from following it, like one of those old-timey cartoon characters who floats toward the smell of food.
But the show must go on.
Once the crew is sure that all of the contestants have settled inside, Bobby applauds her as he approaches.
“That’s everyone! How’re you feeling, Rumi? Need to take a breather?”
“I’m okay, Bobby.” She smiles gratefully. “Thank you. Just a bit overwhelmed.”
“It’s definitely a lot. Have a seat for a bit,” he says, snapping his fingers at one of the crew members for a chair. “Let me get you some water.”
Rumi chuckles at his usual anxious presence. It oddly makes her feel better, knowing that her nerves are shared by others.
“She’s okay. She’s strong,” Celine says, placing a hand on her shoulder, not unkindly, but not affectionately either. Rumi’s grown used to this by now, though. Celine initiates physical touch stiffly, like she’s going through the motions but doesn’t necessarily feel them. A hand on the shoulder is intended to be reassuring, so Rumi takes it that way, even if she doesn’t particularly feel reassured.
Still, Rumi knows that Celine tries, and she’s thankful for it, stilted as it may be.
“Thank you.” She places a hand atop Celine’s. “I think I’m good to go now.”
***
When Rumi steps inside, her gaze falls immediately onto Mira and Zoey, who are sitting side-by-side and whispering something to each other. They both look up at her simultaneously and grin blindingly. She tries to keep herself from looking at them both for too long, but then she feels her eyes wandering right back to them repeatedly.
She raises her glass and sputters out a toast, something she rehearsed a few times to herself. She jokes about being nervous to be in a room full of so many attractive people, and that she’s excited to find her future partner here, and then she finishes it off with, “And I apologize in advance if I mess up at any point. I’ve never dated twenty-six people at once before.”
Everyone laughs politely, and they all clink their glasses together.
Abby reaches Rumi first. He’s definitely not shy, so she’ll give him points for that.
They move aside to a “private” space (because how can it really be private if there are a million cameras pointing at her face?), which is really just a room off to the side that is blocked from the other contestants by nothing but a curtain.
The conversation isn’t bad, if a bit bland at times. Rumi’s focus keeps drifting to the hideous patterns on the pillows of the couch. He reintroduces himself, partly for formalities and partly because his name blended in with the other dozen men that were here.
When he catches her glancing down at his partially unbuttoned shirt (which was definitely buttoned when she met him), he grins.
“You interested?” he asks, grinning.
She resists rolling her eyes, and instead opts for a tilted head. “Interested?”
He answers with a gesture toward his body, to which she just laughs politely.
“Maybe later. I’m sure you’ll have an excuse to get your shirt off at the pool, or something.”
He grins, unbothered by the dismissal. “Yeah, or maybe I’ll just stretch and the buttons’ll fly off.”
“ That, I’ll have to see at some point.” She isn’t actually eager for it, but again, it’s reality TV. The audience wants flirty banter, so they’ll get flirty banter.
One of the men (whose name Rumi has completely forgotten) appears past the curtain. “Hey, hope you don’t mind if I try to steal Rumi away?”
Abby raises his hands in surrender. He stands from his seat and opens his mouth, likely to say a farewell to Rumi, but the man sits down and places an arm around Rumi’s shoulders immediately, throwing him a dirty look. Abby lingers for a moment more, furrowing his brows a bit at the sharp interruption.
Rumi’s unsure on how to feel about it, too. As strange as Abby has been, he hasn’t exactly done anything wrong or rude. Besides, none of the other contestants has tried to butt in on their conversation. If this guy wanted to assert himself, he should have gotten to her before Abby.
“Do you always get every guy to take his shirt off when he meets you?” he asks, angling it like it’s a joke, but it only succeeds in making her feel more put off.
She screws her face up, cameras be damned. She pulls herself out from his arm. “I’m sorry?”
“I just mean, like, you barely know him. Thought you’d be a little harder to get than that.” He laughs, but neither Rumi nor Abby join him.
“Woah, man,” Abby says, trying to lighten the mood by pointing to his open shirt and shifting the attention from her. “If you’re gonna slut-shame anyone, it should definitely be me.”
Rumi blinks, surprised at how Abby steadily redirects the interaction. He catches her eye and winks.
She feels strangely at ease by the motion. She doesn’t like him now, by any means, but… she doesn’t dislike him either.
“I-I’m not slut-shaming,” the guy says, clearly scrambling for a way to not get sent home on his first day. “I was just messing around. Rumi doesn’t mind, right?”
Oh, Rumi does mind. In fact, the more he talks, the more she minds.
She schools her expression, smiling sweetly. “I didn’t appreciate you interrupting our conversation, actually. You can wait your turn.”
His eyes widen, and when he doesn’t get up, she does. There are other couches for her to sit at.
She tugs Abby by his sleeve and pulls him away to another part of the house. He raises his brows but follows her anyway.
“Sorry about that,” she says when they sit back down. “I don’t think he’ll be trying something like that again, though.”
“Hey, you were pretty badass,” he compliments. “But I’ve got a feeling all the others are gonna be feeling antsy right about now. It’s been great talking to you, though!”
She bids a goodbye to Abby, stiffly accepting a hug from him and letting him know she’ll see him at the Rose Ceremony. The moment one of the women spots that she’s open, she makes a beeline for the couch and plops beside her, all smiles and charm.
“Hi, I hope you remember my name,” she says. Rumi makes a mental note to ask Bobby for a list of all of their names before the Rose Ceremony.
She racks her brain for a moment, and then it comes to her. This was the woman who’d pressed a kiss to her cheek, and unbeknownst to Rumi, she’d had a lipstick stain on her face when she’d greeted the next three contestants. It was only until another woman, Hana, grabbed a handkerchief from her bra and wiped it off that Rumi found out what’d happened. “How could I forget you, Soomin?”
Soomin’s smile widens. “Seems I made an impression, then.”
Literally, Rumi thinks.
She glances at a clock on the wall. It reads half past midnight. Based on past seasons, she knows the Rose Ceremony is supposed to start at five in the morning, and it can very well stretch for another two or three hours after.
She’s in for a long night.
***
Two hours into her first interactions with everyone, Rumi manages to catch Bobby in between contestants so she can have some coffee. She doesn’t feel like touching the alcohol tonight for fear of losing her head. Although, some of the others don’t seem as wary of the cameras as she is, if Romance and Mystery’s drunken stumbling about is anything to go by.
She makes a mental list of all the people so far that she’s willing to keep. She’ll need to eliminate a chunk of the contestants by the end of the night, so she has to be strategic about it. She’s decided to keep Abby, Baby, Mystery, and Romance along, though it’s less out of any real interest and more for the entertainment value.
Her conversation with Jinu had gone well. He’s charismatic, if a bit too overconfident at times. Still, he makes up for it by not being as obnoxious or touchy as the others. He may be her favorite contestant so far.
But then— her eyes draw gradually away from the person in front of her— she thinks their name is Ji-soo, but she can’t be sure, their words muffled to her ears. She nods along absent-mindedly, and her gaze falls on the two people she’s been hoping to talk to the most.
Zoey and Mira, she’s observed, have been chatting with each other the entire night. A prick of envy shoots through her veins, making her fingers twitch. She watches the way they talk, the lack of distance between them. Mira sits against the arm of the couch so she can face Zoey fully, her arm slung casually against the back so her fingers can tangle lazily in Zoey’s hair. Zoey has also twisted completely so she can look at Mira, a hand on Mira’s knee and a glint in her eye.
Rumi envisions, for a moment, that she’s between them. Mira’s fingers are in her hair, and Zoey’s hand is on her knee, and she’s close enough to count Mira’s eyelashes and Zoey’s freckles, and she can feel their shallow breaths on her skin, and their lips on either side of her jaw, her neck, her shoulders, and—
“What about you?” Ji-soo asks, and she snaps her eyes back to their face. They look back expectantly, and she feels a small stab of guilt at the fact that she hasn’t listened to a single word they said.
“Oh, I… um…” She takes a sip of her coffee, trying to retrace their conversation back to when she was actually paying attention. “Well, I’m…”
Celine magically appears beside her with that signature hand on her shoulder. Rumi feels her body slump almost immediately, and she looks up at her.
“I apologize, but I just need to grab Rumi for a moment. You understand,” she says, the unquestionable authority never withering for even a moment.
Ji-soo nods a few times and leaves them alone.
Rumi turns to her curiously. It isn’t like Celine to interrupt a Bachelorette from one of the contestants if it can be helped.
Celine reads the inquisitive look and pulls her aside, waving the cameras off. It’s more than likely that this small interlude wouldn’t make it into the final cut for the show, anyway, but Rumi appreciates the gesture of actual privacy.
“I just thought you may want a breather,” Celine says. “You seem distracted. Uninterested.”
Fuck. “No, no,” Rumi insists. “No, I do want this. It’s just a lot of people and talking and it’s just, like, pretty late right now. I probably just need another coffee to carry me through.”
“Coffee isn’t going to carry you through,” Celine says, tutting. “Your genuine passion for this process is supposed to do that for you.”
And there it is, again and again with Celine. Rumi has been exercising passion for this show ever since she was conceived because of it. Celine is convinced that this nonsense actually works, despite all of the overwhelming evidence that it doesn’t. There hasn’t been a single successful couple to come from a season of The Bachelor or The Bachelorette ; the viewers only eat it up for the drama and the attractive casts. Reality television is the most unrealistic form of television there is, ironically enough. And Celine might be the only person in the entire world who believes otherwise.
“It doesn’t work for everyone,” Rumi reminds her.
“It did for your parents,” Celine says, with that unreadable expression she always maintains. Rumi has no clue how she’s supposed to argue with that since she never actually got to see her own parents up close, not the way Celine did.
She knows the story, though. Rumi’s parents were in love right from the start. He’d given his First Impression Rose to her. Celine and her mother were best friends, and Rumi’s father only let Celine stay along to be runner-up just so the two women could spend more time together on the show. Otherwise, his mind was basically made up on his decision for who he’d wanted to marry from the very start. It was all very touching and romantic.
“Right,” she says, not agreeing or disagreeing.
She reminds herself yet again what she’s here for: two hundred grand and Celine to finally get the season of The Bachelorette that she’s been raising Rumi for.
Rumi’s mind wanders, desperate for a change of subject. Her gaze lands on the two women who’ve been repeatedly plaguing her mind ever since she saw them step out of the limousine. Mira grins and sips on her drink, listening intently to whatever Zoey’s saying, the shorter girl gesticulating her hands wildly in the air. An ache settles in Rumi’s sternum, and that thought, that possibility—the possibility that this show can actually work—rattles through her skull.
“Hey, Celine?” she starts, not looking away from the view ahead of her. “I know it’s unconventional, but can I give out two First Impression Roses?”
Celine considers her words and follows her gaze. She presses her lips into a thin line, then she shrugs in acceptance. “Sure. After all, you’re the Bachelorette.”
***
Zoey and Mira are cutting it close, Rumi thinks, as she glances at the time. There’s only an hour left before the Rose Ceremony, and they haven’t made many attempts at reaching her.
She understands why, though. Many of the candidates have practically been monopolizing her. After that man who’d cut off Abby blabbered on to the other contestants that Rumi doesn’t take well to interruptions, they’ve been waiting around patiently and taking all the time in the world with their conversations. As though she’d be more interested in them, the more she talked to them, as opposed to how she actually feels. Her intrigue only seems to dwindle as the interactions go by— not that there was much intrigue to begin with.
She watches the minute hand tick by slowly, until it’s half past four, and she finally decides to take matters into her own hands.
“Sorry,” she says, cutting off whatever speech the man in front of her has been spouting out. “There are still a couple of people I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to yet, and I really wanna get to everyone before the Ceremony. It’s been wonderful getting to know you, though.”
“Seriously?” He huffs, crosses his arms like a child, and just looks away all emo-like. “I’ve barely gotten the chance to talk to you, not like some of the others.”
She looks back at the clock. It looks like he’s gotten a little over ten minutes of just straight monologuing, which is a generous amount of her patience spent, in Rumi’s opinion.
“I love the enthusiasm,” she lies, hoping to quell his agitation before it turns into something worse, “and I’m sure we’ll get to talk more soon.”
But they won’t, since she’s already decided she won’t be presenting him with a rose. He doesn’t need to know that, yet, though.
He grumbles a farewell, and she practically bolts up from her seat and marches over to Zoey and Mira.
“Hi,” she greets when she reaches them.
They look up at her from where they’re sitting. Mira stares back with an expression that could be read as nonchalant, if Rumi didn’t catch her eyeing her up and down appreciatively. Rumi’s skin buzzes with anticipation. Zoey beams back up at her, sitting up expectantly and looking at her with those eyes of hers. Rumi almost glances away; looking at Zoey’s smile feels like she’s looking at the sun.
“I’ve been hoping to talk to you both all night,” Rumi says, allowing her palms to brace on the warm coffee mug as a source of comfort.
“You looked pretty busy. We didn’t want to add to your stress,” Zoey says.
Rumi releases a breathy laugh. “Honestly, it only stressed me out more. You know that you guys are the only ones I’ve had to chase tonight? Everyone else came to me.”
Mira smirks and shifts over, making room for Rumi to sit between the two. “Well, I hope we were worth the wait, then.”
Every second of agonized waiting was worth it, Rumi thinks, her throat dry. I’d bear through this night all over again just to have five minutes with you.
“So,” she says, situating herself in the middle of the couch. A tingling sensation seeps into her from either side, despite the layers of clothing separating Rumi’s skin from theirs. Suddenly feeling like she’s about to boil right over, she shrugs her blazer off, leaving her in just a sleeveless button-up. She sighs in relief, the open air hitting her arms and making her feel less like she wants to itch at her skin. “Tell me about yourselves.”
Zoey draws in a breath to begin talking, but then she glances at Rumi’s arms, and her mouth just hangs open. She gawks blatantly, eyes blazing a trail across the tattoos swirling up her arms.
Mira presses closer against her, her hand hovering almost questioningly above one of her arms. Rumi offers her arm silently, lips curled up in amusement at the sudden rapt interest. It’s not like it’ll feel any different than an arm that isn’t marked in ink.
But then— fuck, if she thought Zoey’s unrelenting stare would twist her stomach right over, she isn’t prepared at all for the way it feels when Mira traces along the jagged patterns. Rumi swallows dryly, hyperfocused on the feeling of Mira’s skin on her own. The tips of Mira’s fingers are slightly calloused, but not rough— light and teasing as they venture down from her bicep to her forearm.
Rumi shuffles in her seat. The way they observe her— like she’s been placed in a petri dish, and Mira’s poking and prodding, and Zoey’s watching her from a microscope and mentally filing away all of her reactions for later. Not a single word has passed between the three of them, but Rumi feels strangely like she’s laying herself bare in front of them and spilling her secrets.
Then Mira looks her in the eye, lifts her arm toward her mouth, and kisses the inside of her wrist, right against her pulse point. Rumi chokes on nothing, a small noise erupting from deep within her chest.
She clears her throat awkwardly. There’s no way she’s going to be able to concentrate or act normal at all if she doesn’t cut the tension now. “So, uh,” she tries, sorting her mind back together and pulling her arm away. Her voice is higher than it ordinarily is, so she takes a few more seconds to pause and get her bearings. “I thought I asked you guys to tell me about yourselves.”
Mira smirks at Rumi’s poor attempt at transitioning the subject away from… whatever all that just was.
“You first,” Zoey says, her voice coming out just a bit strained. She reaches for a glass of water on the table in front of them and takes a sip.
Rumi looks at her, mildly surprised. Not too many people have urged her to tell them about herself first, more concerned with getting their stories out to the cameras, in case this is their only chance in the limelight. Besides, everyone kind of already knows who Rumi is. She doesn’t get to share the story of her parents’ passing or how she was raised by Celine since it isn’t exactly private information.
“Oh.” She thinks about what to say. “Well, my name is Rumi. I’m twenty-four years old. I’m from Seoul,” she says a bit cheesily. They already know all of that going into this. “I like to read, and I sing sometimes. I’m a pretty normal person, if you look past my three celebrity parents.” She gets a giggle from Zoey at that, and if Rumi could capture the sound and grasp it within her eardrums so she can listen to it forever, she would. “What about you guys? And don’t hold off on me, either.”
Zoey grins. “You’ll have to work your way up to unlock my tragic backstory, but I’ll go for some of the low hanging fruit.”
Rumi chuckles and makes a movement with her hands to tell her to go on.
“I was raised in Burbank, California with my dad before eventually moving to Korea with my mom. Um…” She gnaws at the bottom of her lip with her teeth.
Rumi watches the movement, a dangerous array of images flashing through her mind. Images of her leaning toward Zoey, capturing her bottom lip between her own teeth, one hand on her thigh, the other hand tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She wonders how Zoey would sound if Rumi—
Zoey continues talking, completely unaware of the filth that’s started playing inside Rumi’s head. “I like turtles? And I’m kind of a history geek.” A pause. “Damn, I wonder if I should’ve practiced talking about myself or something before going into this.”
“I think the candidness is refreshing,” Rumi says. “I’d rather talk to you just as you are, not some rehearsed version of you.”
“Oh,” Zoey squeaks. “Well, in that case I’ll throw away my victory speech I had prepared for the end of this. Guess I was jumping the gun a bit on that anyway.”
“Woah, don’t go packing your bags just yet,” Rumi says, her eyes darting toward the two roses that Celine had brought out for her when she requested them. They sit innocuously on the table, taunting her. She’ll get to them in a moment.
“I haven’t even unpacked my bags yet.” Zoey giggles, and Rumi feels a surge of triumph at drawing that sound from her again. “Anyway, enough about me.”
Rumi and Zoey turn to Mira next, both raising their brows expectantly.
“Oh. My turn, then?” Mira seems to deliberate over her next words carefully. “I’m also from Seoul, but I’m sure my upbringing was way different than yours, Rumi.” Then she smiles at her teasingly. “Not sure we’re at the stage for me to tell you my tragic backstory, either, though.”
Rumi shrugs, understanding. “It’s the first night. We don’t have to trauma dump right off the bat.”
“So, tell us,” Zoey starts, leaning forward and propping her chin on her palms, elbows on her knees. “How do we woo you?”
“Is the key to your heart through your stomach?” Mira guesses. “Because I’m at, like, Gordon Ramsay levels good at cooking. When I want to be.”
Rumi raises her eyebrows, impressed. “I’ll be the judge of that, but I should warn you. My palette is very refined.”
Mira hums, clearly not believing it. “Hm. Something tells me you’re not too picky, actually. But I’ll still do my best to impress you, I promise you that much.”
God, there’s something about Mira’s smugness that’s so charming to Rumi. She’s been flirted with and complimented by over twenty other people all night, and yet this small declaration by Mira is enough to flip her stomach pleasantly.
“Does your offer to cook for me also involve you wearing an apron of my choosing?” Rumi asks.
Mira raises a brow, smirks like she knows exactly how hot she looks when she does that, then gives her a one-armed shrug. “I’ll wear whatever you want.”
Rumi licks her lips, mouth suddenly dry. She tries not to linger on the mental image that Mira’s just conjured up in her brain, and she just shakes her head. “Enticing. Very, very enticing. But as nice as cooking skills are in a partner, it’s not the key to my heart.”
Zoey perks up at the chance to guess again, tilting her head thoughtfully. “If it’s not food, then is it music? If you can sing, I could totally write your lyrics for you. And I’ve been told my rapping skills are preeetty good,” she brags.
“I can dance,” Mira adds on. “Took lessons when I was a kid. We could totally make something here.”
“Are you guys trying to get married or start a music career on this show?” Rumi asks, laughing.
“Who says that we can’t do both?” Zoey suggests, unserious. “I think we’d kill it as a girl group.”
“Cool, let’s keep it as a backup if this show doesn’t work out then,” Rumi plays along. A breath. She looks at the two roses. The perfect segue. “But… something tells me that it will. Work out, I mean.”
She swallows, then reaches for the flowers. “I actually have been meaning to give these to you both since you first stepped out of that limo.” She pauses, suddenly feeling unsure of herself. But it’s too late now to go back on it, so she just barrels on ahead. “I know it isn’t customary to give out more than one before the first Rose Ceremony, but you’ve both grabbed my attention in different ways. And I definitely want to keep you around for longer. So…”
Rumi turns to Mira first, who looks bewildered at the prospect of being chosen for the First Impression Rose. She’s not sure why someone as self-assured as Mira wouldn’t expect it, but she supposes there’s more to her that Rumi has yet to discover.
“Mira, there is something that is so… captivating and interesting about you. I feel oddly… ensnared by you. I would love to get to know you better.” Then she laughs a bit. “Not to mention, you’re just, like— hot as hell. So…” She inhales. “Will you accept this rose?”
Mira blinks rapidly, and then she nods a few times before finding her voice. She plucks the flower from her hand and brings it to her nose. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”
Rumi just smiles, her stomach still twisting around nervously. “I should be thanking you. I can’t wait to talk to you more in these coming weeks.”
Then she turns her attention to Zoey, who looks like she may start bouncing off the walls any second now. Rumi’s lips quirk up, warmth blossoming in her chest. She takes a breath, orienting herself.
“Zoey, you are just— so endearing and sincere. You make me laugh to the point I feel giddy, and every time you smile at me, I swear I get a million butterflies in my stomach.” She raises the flower in her direction. “Will you accept this rose?”
Zoey hardly waits for her to finish the question before she bursts out an enthused, “ Yes! ” and practically snatching the item from her hand. She opens her arms out invitingly, and Rumi allows herself to be pulled into a tight embrace. “Thank you!”
Rumi grins. “Of course.”
The moment is splintered when she notices Bobby approaching from the side. “Hi, Rumi, sorry to interrupt.”
She checks the time on the clock overhead and waves away the apology. “No worries. Is it time, then?”
He nods. “Yeah, the Rose Ceremony will be starting shortly, and all the contestants and cameras need to be lined up. Do you need anything before we get started?”
“No, I’m all set.” Rumi stands and stretches her arms above her head. She shrugs her blazer back on. She looks at the other two women, who’ve both stood up as well, seemingly understanding their cue to get going. They allow Bobby to lead the way to the stage area.
Zoey gives Rumi a final, purposeful squeeze of her hand, allowing herself to linger for as long as she can. Mira looks back at her meaningfully, twirling the rose in between her fingers. Then she shoots her a wink.
Rumi can’t bring herself to care too much about the upcoming Ceremony. The two people she wants to keep along the most are already safe from elimination. There’s no use overthinking any of it— the excitement at seeing the upward curve of Zoey’s lips or the fluttering in her chest at the smoldering of Mira’s eyes— those feelings are all real for her.
Rumi finds that she doesn’t mind it all.