Archive of Our Own

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. 

Chapter Text

Zoey can sense the proverbial target appearing on her back when she and Mira walk into the room with roses clutched in their hands. She shies away from the dirty looks, subconsciously taking a step closer to Mira. Mira, for her part, seems to take it all in stride, chin raised as she uses her body to shield Zoey from the other contestants’ glares.

Zoey blinks, and her eyes lift up to look at the back of Mira’s head. An unending gratitude sweeps through her, and she thinks, not for the first time that night, that if she doesn’t win this thing, she’d be more than happy to see Mira win it. In all honesty, she’s not really sure what Rumi sees in Zoey, to the point of even putting her as an equal to someone like Mira. Tall, beautiful, honest, attentive Mira. Rumi would be crazy not to pick her.

She tries to invent a rational explanation for it all— maybe Rumi only wanted to give Mira a rose but would have felt bad doing it in front of Zoey— but that doesn’t make sense since Rumi was well within her rights to just pull Mira away privately. Maybe Rumi noticed that she and Mira were talking the entire night and didn’t want to breed any jealousy behind two potential friends— but that doesn’t make sense because that’s kind of the entire point of the show. Any reasoning she attempts to conjure up has a logic that directly contradicts it.

Mira seems to notice there’s something off about Zoey because she looks over her shoulder at her and throws a soft, reassuring half-smile at her. Zoey returns the look, and— just because she loves the light in Mira’s eyes when she laughs— she takes her rose and sticks it between her teeth. She waggles her brows, and the taller woman breathes out a chuckle from her nose. She mirrors the action to Zoey with her own rose, and Zoey poorly disguises her snort-laugh with a cough.

Someone clears their throat, and Zoey practically spits the rose out of her mouth. She sees Celine approaching them; her back straightens automatically.

Admittedly, Zoey can get a little bit stir-crazy about The Bachelor. It’s one of the reasons why she was so eager to come onto the show, especially when she found out that it’d feature Rumi as the Bachelorette. She’s still not too sure what she said in her interview that landed her as a contestant— maybe it was the fact that she said she’s watched every season three times and the first season at least seven. She’d even been responsible for the viral subreddit thread that theorized Celine harbored hidden feelings for Rumi’s mother, Mi-yeong Ryu, during her time on the show, but Zoey had wisely kept that fun fact to herself.

“I wanted to extend my congratulations to you both,” Celine says. “I admit, I didn’t think anyone would catch Rumi’s eye so quickly. She’s always been a bit… slower to warm to people than most. Imagine my surprise when she asked if she could give out two roses for her first impressions.”

Zoey’s eyebrows rocket upward into her bangs. So Rumi really did want to give her a rose from the start. 

“Oh, wow,” she says, mouth moving before her mind can stop it. “Thank you! I know I haven’t gotten to know Rumi much yet, but I really like her already. And I love you, Celine. Sorry, not— not in a weird way. I just… I just— watched the first season a million times, and you’re just, like, really cool. And plus, with what you’ve done with the show, creating The Bachelorette, and implementing the first ever bisexual season just for your adopted daughter… that’s really…” Zoey trails off, belatedly realizing that maybe she’s been going on about this for way too long. Heat pools in her cheeks, and she kind of wishes that the ground would just swallow her up from under her. “Yeah.”

Mira’s grinning from next to her, obviously amused by her word vomit. “What she said.”

Celine, to her credit, seems unperturbed by the ramble. In fact, she even graces Zoey with a smile. “I appreciate you saying all of that. After the Ceremony, I wanted to ask you both to join me for a confessional— an interview of sorts, so you can tell me how you felt when Rumi presented you with the roses.”

“Sure,” Mira says, and Zoey agrees with an enthusiastic nod. Celine leaves them, gesturing to Bobby to lead them onto the risers with all of the other contestants.

The Rose Ceremony starts off rather ordinarily. Rumi looks amazing as always; there’s a certain steadiness to her that Zoey can’t help but feel drawn to, comforted by. That soothing cadence to her voice, that charming smile accented by her dimples, that warmth behind her eyes, even the squareness of her shoulders, like she’s more than capable to take on the world if it’s required of her. She's the picture of casual professionalism as she lists the names of the contestants one-by-one, offering rose after rose. Zoey’s glad she isn’t one of them right now, but still—

She twirls the flower in her hand absent-mindedly, allowing the movement to soothe her racing mind. Mira stands behind her on the riser above and places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Soon, they’re joined by Jinu, then Abby, then Hana, then Baby, Romance, Mystery, Soomin, Ji-soo, Sayoung, Ye-jun— the names and faces start to blur together, and then suddenly, there are eighteen people holding roses, and the remaining eight are left high and dry.

One of the rejected men clenches his teeth angrily— Zoey recognizes him as the guy who tried to interrupt Rumi’s one-on-one conversation with Abby right at the start.

“You didn’t even give me a chance!” he protests, beginning to march up to Rumi in fury. He balls his fists, resembling Zoey when she was five-years-old, standing in the candy aisle of a grocery store and demanding that her dad let her at least pick the Skittles.

Zoey feels her body tense as he gets closer to Rumi. Her legs itch to run up to him, her hands fidgeting with the desire to punch him clear in the jaw. She senses that Mira might be feeling the same way, if the rigidity of her posture and the straightening of her back is anything to go by.

“You should have considered that before you spoke to me the way that you did,” Rumi replies, tone unwavering. She rolls her blazer sleeves up, and there are those fucking tattoos again, peeking out. (Zoey can’t help but preen at the thought that Rumi only fully revealed them to her and Mira, which is probably not appropriate to be deliberating over right now.) And god, she looks and sounds hot like this— cool and unbothered. “I’d suggest you take whatever dignity you have left and go. Unless, of course, you’d like to have security escort you out.”

Just as she says it, two men in security uniforms appear in the doorway. Zoey thinks they look just about as menacing as the guard in Subway Surfers, but maybe that’s just her. But hey, appearances can be misleading. After all, the Subway Surfers cop had some wheels on him. 

The man takes the hint and just grumbles under his breath, shouldering past the guards and leaving of his own accord.

All the contestants, save for Zoey, Mira, and Jinu, rush up to Rumi, almost mob-like in their concern, a chorus of are you okay and that was so scary. Zoey’s worried too, obviously (and a little turned on, if she’s being honest), but she doesn’t see how joining a fifteen-person crowd is going to help Rumi at all.

Bobby shoves through all of them, and they disperse like flies under his swatting hands. He takes Rumi by the arms and ushers her out of the room, whispering something to the younger woman. Rumi just nods, brows furrowed, but just before she and Bobby disappear out of the room, her eyes meet Zoey’s, and the crease between her eyebrows softens.

Zoey glances to the side and notices Celine glaring at the doorway where the man left, her jaw set tight. Zoey’s a bit surprised that Celine wasn’t the one to grab Rumi out of there, but she guesses that it has something to do with production that’s outside of her control. Celine uncrosses her arms and makes her way over to Zoey and Mira. 

“Zoey,” she says when she reaches them. “It’s time for your confessional.”

***

“How did you feel, Zoey, when you stepped out of the limousine?” Celine asks. 

“I felt—” 

Before Zoey can even get more than two words out, though, Celine cuts her off. “I apologize. Try to speak in the present tense, if you don’t mind. These are going to be edited and segmented throughout the episode, so it should feel more like you’re narrating it while you’re in the moment.”

Zoey chews on the inside of her mouth, nodding along with her words. “Right. Okay. Makes sense.”

Celine just smiles politely, then waves an arm as though to tell her to continue. 

“I stepped— Sorry, let me try again.” Zoey pauses to take a breath. “I step out of the car, and I honestly feel like I’m about to throw up,” she says, laughing a bit at herself. “I tend to talk a lot, and really fast when I’m nervous. And Rumi’s just so…” She bites her tongue, reminding herself that she’s literally in front of Rumi’s adopted mom right now, so she can’t very well call her daughter one of the sexiest women alive. “Pretty,” she settles with. “She’s pretty in a heart-fluttering way, and I’m stepping out of the door, and I just panic. I honestly don’t even know what I’m saying, I’m just really eager to impress her.” She tilts her head. “Sorry, am I saying enough or too much?”

“You’re doing perfect, Zoey,” Celine says, and a thrill runs up Zoey’s spine at the praise. Oh, if she was about twenty-five years older…

“Right, so. Then she tells me that she can’t wait to talk to me more inside, but I just wanna keep talking to her outside, you know? So I try to keep it light and flirty, and I think we’re getting along pretty well!”

“What was it like, waiting inside for her to be available to talk to?”

“Agonizing,” Zoey admits. “I did get to talk to Mira—“

Celine clears her throat. “Present tense, please.”

“Right, sorry.” Zoey ducks her head, embarrassed. Celine waves it off dismissively, so she continues. “I don’t like waiting very much. I keep looking over to see if Rumi’s free, and the moment she is, someone else just comes up. I don’t want her to feel overwhelmed, so I just kind of hang back and give her some space. I spend the majority of the night with Mira, which is great, since she’s so cool.”

“Any feelings of jealousy between you two?” Celine asks, and Zoey just looks at her, curious. Is she… fishing for something? 

Zoey straightens her back and clears her throat. “There’s no jealousy at all between me and her. I like Mira a lot, and if I don’t manage to win Rumi’s heart, I’d be more than happy if Mira gets that chance. And I really mean that.”

Celine stiffens— Zoey knows exactly why.

She’s repeated, almost verbatim, what Celine said all those years ago in her own confessional when she’d been asked about Mi-yeong. 

Zoey’s not stupid. She didn’t come onto this show, naive and blindly hopeful. She knows exactly what reality television is like, so she’s intentional with her words. She doesn’t give the editors a single line that can be turned into some fabricated lie just to feed the audience with drama. And if Celine’s fishing for that, then Zoey’s only going to make it harder for her.

Celine narrows her eyes, but if she has an issue, she doesn’t voice it. “How did you feel when Rumi presented you with the First Impression Rose?”

“I was—“ Zoey catches herself. Present tense. “I’m ecstatic! At first, I’m thinking it must be some kind of mistake. Everyone here, especially Mira, is exceptional and gorgeous and completely deserving of the rose. But then, Rumi’s telling me that she gets butterflies in her stomach when I smile at her, and I’m just…” Zoey’s cheeks hurt from grinning at the memory. “I feel the exact same way. So I really, really think we’re gonna lead to something great.”

She punctuates her sentence with a wink and clasps her fingers together. Celine appears pleased enough with that answer and continues on with the interview, asking her about her thoughts on the Rose Ceremony, the other contestants, and what she’s looking forward to the most. Zoey readily responds to each inquiry, sincere in her responses.

They finish up the confessional, and Zoey is instructed to follow behind another producer over to the room she’ll be staying in.

The Bachelor Mansion is huge, no doubt, but it’s cramped with eighteen contestants and the Bachelorette herself. There are seven bedrooms total, one reserved for Rumi— so really there are six bedrooms. That means they’ll all need to triple up.

Zoey claims a bedroom with Mira almost immediately, and eventually, Soomin turns up at their door to be their third roommate.

Bobby let them all know that there wouldn’t be anything strenuous for the next day, so they could take a moment to breathe and unwind before all the dating truly starts.

Zoey can’t wait for it to begin.

***

Zoey hops in place excitedly, both at the prospect of getting to wear her swimsuit this early on in the show, and also at the chance of getting to see everyone else in theirs as well. Namely Rumi, but— she spares a wayward glance at Mira, model-like in face and stature, wearing a wicked, red two-piece like she knows exactly how hot she is— and, like, come on, Zoey can appreciate art when she sees it.

The contestants all gather around Bobby, who has led them all to a tall net at the beach, close enough to the ocean that they can taste the salt in the air, but far enough that the water won’t even come close to them. 

“The folks that get to go on the group date are being decided by a beach volleyball game!” Bobby explains to everyone, rubbing his hands excitedly. “You’ve been split into two teams, where you’ll be competing in three games of triples. Whichever of the two teams wins the best of three gets to go on the group date. Any questions?”

Soomin raises her hand almost immediately, lips curled downward as she surveys everyone around her with distaste. “Yeah, uh, where’s Rumi?”

“She’ll be here soon,” Bobby reassures. “I think you’ll all be pretty thrilled to see her outfit for today.”

Zoey’s stomach swoops, and she begins to conjure up an image in her head— Rumi in a swimsuit, arms out, hair up, revealing the gorgeous slope of her neck, sweat racing down her collarbones, right onto her— 

But just as the excitement begins to course through her, she frowns slightly and tilts her head. 

As far as Zoey knows, Bobby’s been involved in Rumi’s life since she was a kid. So unless he’s some freak (which she highly doubts), there’s no way he’d say something about her outfit if it was going to be a sexy one. So that means—

Rumi steps out, clad in a black-and-white striped jersey, a whistle perched between her teeth, lips pulled up in a grin. She puckers her mouth over the whistle, and— holy fuck, Zoey has never wanted to be an inanimate object so bad— she blows.

A piercing sound erupts into the air, forcing everyone’s attention to Rumi.

Zoey notices quite a few of the contestants visibly deflate, but she honestly can’t bring herself to feel much disappointment about it. Rumi looks good— and most importantly, she looks completely at-ease, so it’s not like Zoey’s about to complain about something as trivial as Rumi’s lack of beachware.

Abby laughs heartily from where he’s standing. To everyone’s surprise, he hasn’t unbuttoned his shirt yet, but Zoey can bet he’s waiting for the prime time to show off in front of Rumi. “Nice jailer outfit.”

Jinu elbows him. “The lines are horizontal on a prison outfit, you ding-dong.”

“Either way, you look totally smoking, Rumi,” Romance chimes in, winking.

Rumi smiles easily and waves off the compliment. Zoey would like to think that the sweep of Rumi’s hand is a dismissal of his affections, but she knows she’s probably being a bit delusional about that. Rumi’s dating all of them, Zoey has to remind herself, not for the first time since she’s been on the show.

Rumi puts her hands on her hips, like she means business. It’s so fucking cute. “So, if you haven’t guessed by the outfit yet, I’ll be the referee for the game!”

A collective whooping glides through the crowd at the announcement. They’re all fully aware that they have a one-in-eighteen chance of making it in the end, so no one would dare to miss out on an opportunity to hype Rumi up.

“And how do we know you’ll remain unbiased?” Mira smirks, a perfunctory movement, yet dripping with danger. 

Scratch that then— one would dare, it seems. 

Rumi rests her gaze on Mira. She cocks her head, face impassive. Zoey’s stomach twists at the silent showdown, several long moments stretching between them. The coastal air thickens, not a single sound passing besides the gentle waves against the beachy shore.

Rumi’s mouth curls— a silent defiance to Mira’s provocation. “You’ll just have to believe that I’m gonna play fair. Can you do that for me, Mira? Can you trust me?”

Zoey would have fallen onto her hands and knees in an instant if Rumi asked her that, while looking at her like that. Anyone would, she thinks.

But Mira’s proven that she’s not anyone. She maintains eye contact and gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Only if you give me a reason to.”

“You’re not easily pleased, are you?” Rumi asks, eyes glimmering.

Mira leans forward, grinning, wolfish. “Not at all.”

Zoey whimpers. God. What the hell kind of foreplay is this? Do these two even know there are other people still here?

Just as she thinks it, though, Rumi’s eyes snap onto hers, that same heat she had with Mira now trained on Zoey. 

And it’s intense. Intense in a way that makes Zoey’s legs buckle a bit just from the sight of it. She wants to dig herself into the sand, overwhelmed by the odd feeling seeping into her skin. But then, at the same time— Zoey wants nothing less than for Rumi to stop looking at her, to consume her completely in her gaze, more, more, more. She wants Rumi to take her by the hand, strip her bare, and look at her with those eyes, passionate and hot.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Rumi asks, and Zoey nearly forgets that they’re talking about refereeing a fucking volleyball game, of all things.

I think I’d trust you with anything, Zoey almost says, but she bites her tongue, and just nods mutely. It takes her several seconds to find her voice, going for something lighthearted that’ll distract her from the way Rumi’s looking at her with those eyes. 

“I think you’re smart enough to not try and rig a game on camera,” Zoey says casually, “but if you wanna throw a few extra points my way, I definitely wouldn’t mind.”

That gains a few chuckles from around her. Rumi blinks, and the tension dissipates almost immediately. She tears her gaze from Zoey to look at the rest of the crowd, as though she’s surprised to see they’re all still there. 

She laughs, cheeks dimpling. “And to think that my debut as a ref would go smoothly. We haven’t even started the game, and my integrity is already being brought into question.”

“I wouldn’t question your integrity, Rumi,” Romance says, batting his lashes. “I trust you.”

Rumi's smile remains plastered on her face. “Thanks, Romance. That means a lot.”

Bobby clears his throat and claps his hands once, a clear attempt at getting them all to follow along with today’s schedule. “All right. Let’s get this game started, shall we?”

***

Zoey bends her knees, crouching low, watching intently as the ball sails overhead. In the corner of her eye, she notices Abby and Mira tensing, both looking like they’re about to spring right into each other to get it.

“Got it!” she calls out to them, and they freeze. She dives to the left, fingers braced together, and successfully bumps the ball back into the air with her wrists. “Mira!”

Zoey practically has to climb out of the sand— beach volleyball is way more difficult than she thought it’d be. The terrain leaves her with very little mobility, and it’s all she can do to stay with the ball at this pace.

Mira takes Zoey’s cue and backs up a few steps, setting it gracefully to Abby. He leaps, kicking up a gust of sand in the process, and aims a devastating strike on the opponent’s side. 

The three of them whoop, victorious. 

They’re just a point away from winning the first of the triples matches for Team B. After this round, Jinu, Baby, and Romance from Team A will face off against Ji-soo, Hana, and Ye-jun from Zoey’s team. If Team B can pull off a win in the second round, then they won’t even have to play the third, which consists of Mystery, Sayoung, and Soomin.

Zoey has faith in them. They can totally do this.

Zoey glances at Rumi from the referee stand, and even like this— in her cute little jersey, and her eyes trained intently on the game, like she’s taking it very seriously— she looks absolutely majestic.

Rumi’s gaze falls back onto her. Zoey waves her hand pathetically, a giddy, fuzzy feeling climbing up from her stomach to her throat. She has such a fucking crush on this girl, she might actually throw up about it. 

Rumi grins warmly and waves back. Zoey’s head spins.

One more point. Zoey just needs one more point. If Rumi just keeps looking at her like that, she may very well win.

Mira starts up the serve, and it flies right over the net. A player on the other team receives it, but it’s a bit sloppy. They rush to carry through, but eventually they hit it back to Team B’s side of the court. 

Zoey inhales, preparing to dive once more for it, and she’ll probably eat another mouthful of sand, but it’s a bit far, and she’s not sure if she can get to it in time, and if they don’t get this point, then Team A will tie with them, and they’ll have to work for two more points just to win, and honestly, she’s not sure if she has it in her to go with two more rallies, because it’s hot out, and there’s sand in her hair and in her clothes, and she just really wants to be done by now, but Rumi’s watching and scrutinizing, and Zoey can’t disappoint her, and she’s definitely spiraling— 

And then—

And then, there’s Mira. Strong, sure, reliable. Attentive to the way Zoey’s mind coils in panic. Her voice rings out, interrupting Zoey from her frozen state.

“Zoey!”

Hearing her own name come from Mira’s mouth jolts her, and she suddenly feels as though someone has dropped a bucket of water over her head. 

Mira plunges downward for the ball and bumps it up towards her. Time slows, and for a second, all Zoey looks at is Mira, whose eyebrows are knit with determination, her jaw clenched, her long arms reaching for the ball that would have been so much easier for Zoey to bump up herself. But Mira reads her, and she knows. She knows Zoey’s mind was racing and her feet were glued down, so she buys her time.

Mira’s receive was perfect; it arches in the air momentarily, giving Zoey the chance to slow down, breathe, and stop thinking so many things at once.

Zoey assumes control of her mind and the match with her next move, exhaling as she bounces the ball from her fingers, right toward Abby.

He takes his cue and leaps. The ball arrives right where he needs it to go, and he slams it down into the opponent’s side.

Rumi, standing from her elevated post by the net, gestures that the point is for Team B. She beams against her whistle, looking right back down at Zoey, almost like she’d hoped they’d win.

Zoey grins back, heart hammering, and for a moment, all of that running and sweating and diving and panicking was all worth getting to see Rumi look at her like that, filled with pride. She never wants to let her down.

“Congrats to Team B on your win!” Rumi announces. She looks over at the other team consolingly. “You’ve still got a chance, Team A!”

With the win officially announced, Zoey springs into the air, rushes up to Mira, and throws her arms around her. “You were amazing out there!”

Mira startles for a moment, almost dragged down by the sudden force, but she adjusts quickly and catches Zoey around the waist. “Are you kidding? You did all the work. We’d be nothing without your crazy hopping around.”

Zoey just laughs off the compliment and squeezes tight, standing on her toes so she can plant her nose into Mira’s neck. She smells like a mixture of salt and sunscreen.

It takes Zoey a moment to realize just how much of her skin is touching Mira’s, and she leaps away, chuckling awkwardly to herself. She tries not to dive too deep into the fact that Mira’s chest was pressed up against her. Or that her hands splayed against Zoey’s back. Or that her mouth was so close to her ear. Zoey’s spine tingles, the sensation of Mira’s touch lingering, etched into her skin and into her mind. 

She thinks her body might spontaneously combust.

She mentally slaps herself. She’s definitely not going to think about this later tonight, and especially not in the shower or in their shared bedroom.

Luckily, Abby saves her from feeling too embarrassed, because he points up at Rumi, and calls, “This one’s for you!”

He stretches his arms all the way back, his shoulder blades practically touching each other, until there’s a small ripping sound, and one of the buttons of his shirt comes flying clean off.

It smacks Zoey in the face at a surprisingly high velocity. 

“Big win for Team B!” Abby whoops out, winking animatedly as Rumi claps politely for his little performance. “B for Badass Bitches, am I right?”

He turns to Zoey and Mira, raising his hands for two high fives. Zoey laughs and jumps to offer one, while Mira just taps his hand lightly with her own, grinning a bit to herself.

“Ooh, can we be Team B for Box Turtles?” Zoey requests, bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

Abby halts, eyebrows furrowing. “Box Turtles?”

Zoey falters. Right. She’s gotten so carried away with the adrenaline of winning the first match, she’s forgotten that it isn’t exactly common for a person to bring up turtles at every given moment.

“Or— we could do, like, Beach Bums or something,” Zoey suggests, backtracking before things get weird. Before she gets weird.

“I like Box Turtles,” Mira says— and it’s such a simple statement that it makes her pause.

Zoey’s heart leaps. She looks up at the other woman. A grin touches her lips again. “You do?”

Mira shrugs, looking Zoey in the eye confidently. “Sure. You’d have to tell me more about them, but it seems like a fun team name. Way less basic than Badass Bitches.” Mira says that last part pointedly, snorting.

Abby, to his credit, is unperturbed. “Looks like I’m outvoted. Team Box Turtles it is.”

“Damn,” Zoey can hear Jinu saying from the other side of the net. “We’ve gotta think of a name for our team now.”

“How about Assholes?” Mira suggests. 

“Or Airheads!” Zoey adds in.

“Anal Fissures,” Mystery says, so sudden and quiet, that Zoey isn’t sure she heard him properly until Abby bursts out into laughter. 

“Perfect!” Abby says. “Team Anal Fissures versus Team Box Turtles.”

“Do the rest of us not get a vote in this?” Baby asks, frowning. 

“Hear that?” Mira snorts, jabbing her thumb in his direction, as though to say, Get a load of this guy. “Twinkerbell over here thinks he gets a say in things.”

“Twink—?“ Baby sputters, face reddening. “Twinkerbell? That’s not—“

 While Baby fumes in place, the rest of Team B cackles at his expense. Even Rumi seems to be having a hard time containing her laughter— she presses her lips inward, a smile tugging at the corners, and she scratches her cheek nonchalantly, like she’s trying to play off her amusement.

Zoey wishes she would laugh aloud, if only so she could bottle up the sound and memorize it until it’s imprinted into her own soul. 

And like, yeah— that’s a bit of a grandiose statement, but Zoey’s nothing if not dramatic.

“Oh-kay!” Bobby cuts in, dutiful to the production schedule. “I love me some healthy trash-talking sessions, but it’s high time we move onto the next match.”

Zoey salutes him as they shuffle off the court and allow Ji-soo, Hana, and Ye-jun to take over from there. “Sir, yes, sir!”

Her cheesiness is intentional— Zoey chances a glance at Rumi, and sees, with a jubilant swoop in her chest, that she’s managed to make her smile yet again. 

Then, unwittingly, her gaze falls next onto Mira, who grins down at her fondly. That same triumph blossoms in her rib cage, like thorns on a rose stem creeping into her sternum and choking her. 

Oh. Zoey swallows back the urge to cough out rose petals. She snaps her gaze away from Mira. So that’s what this feeling is.

***

Zoey doesn’t get to spend much time mulling over her revelation— because hello? What the hell is she doing, catching feelings for another contestant? Who is she, Celine?

Team B loses the second round to Jinu, Baby, and Romance.

(“How’s that for Twinkerbell?” Baby boasts, jabbing a finger at Mira. Zoey fights back the urge to bite him.

Mira turns to her, a teasing lilt in her voice, completely oblivious to Zoey’s inner turmoil. “This dumbass is about five seconds away from eating a fistful of sand.”)

It’s not looking great for Team B in the third round either. Mystery and Sayoung perform well enough, but Soomin moves with all the grace of a flamingo on rollerskates, lagging further and further behind the ball with every new rally.

It’s not until Team A has gotten a four-point lead on them that she suddenly cries out and collapses straight into the sand.

“Ah, shit,” Mira murmurs under her breath as Mystery and Sayoung rush over to Soomin’s side to see what the problem is.

Soomin clutches her ankle, then looks up, straight past everyone else’s concern, and right at Rumi. “I hurt my ankle,” Soomin whines out.

Zoey bites the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing out loud, especially at the befuddled look on Rumi’s face, as though she wants to ask, What the hell am I supposed to do about that?

“Can we get some first aid for her, please?” Rumi calls out, looking around at the already-moving crew. She looks back down at Soomin, but she hasn’t moved from her post. “You’re gonna be okay, Soomin. You’re strong.”

It’s obviously not the response Soomin was hoping for, but Rumi doesn’t seem to understand the ploy. With Soomin now being ushered away, the remaining contestants look at each other in a tense confusion.

“I… guess someone’ll have to volunteer to sub in for Soomin, then?” Rumi looks at Zoey’s team. “What do you say, Box Turtles? Want another go at the game?”

Zoey wants nothing less than to stress herself out again on the court, but there’s something so irresistible about Rumi. Maybe it’s the way she said the team name, or the way she looked at Zoey when she did it, eyes bright and expectant.

Zoey doesn’t ever want Rumi to look away. She’d exhaust herself all over again if it means keeping Rumi’s eyes on her.

She’s about to raise an aching arm to volunteer, when a hand appears on her shoulder, forcing her to halt her movements.

“I can,” Mira says, cutting Zoey off before she’s even begun. She turns back to face her, a furrow in her brows. She lowers her voice, so quiet that Zoey thinks even the mics won’t pick up on it. “I know you think you’ve got boundless energy, but you don’t.”

Zoey blinks, feeling a bit like she just got slapped. A frown paints her face. “What?”

But Mira’s already being called onto the court, so with a final, unreadable look toward Zoey, she heads up to the net.

And then— a pit of dread in Zoey’s gut. Rumi’s eyes drift away from her, right to Mira. “You sure you’re up for it?” Rumi asks, tone inscribed with concern.

“How else am I supposed to impress you?” Mira shoots back, smug. 

Zoey’s not sure how to feel about that. The rest of the game goes on in a blur; now that Mira’s playing, the point gap vanishes within just a few rallies, and Team B begins to gain momentum. But it remains there— that nagging feeling in the back of Zoey’s mind, the lodge in her throat, the cavity in her stomach. 

Mira is everything Zoey isn’t: effortlessly suave, looming in both height and demeanor, silent with her intensity. Eye-catching. Confident. Solid. Useful. Where Zoey has to try being all of those things, Mira captures it all with ease. 

And no— Zoey’s not jealous. Not exactly. Mira’s just more… capable than her. There’s no way Rumi wouldn’t choose her, and she can’t exactly blame her for that because if Zoey had a choice between someone like herself or Mira, she’d go for Mira any day of the week. Someone who always seems to know what someone needs or wants, someone who doesn’t get exhausted.

Someone who doesn’t care whether she’s liked or not.

God. They’re not even four days into production, and this show is putting her through the wringer. 

Mira scores yet another point for their team, bringing them into the lead. Her chest rises and falls unevenly, but she keeps her head high. She’s breathtaking. Zoey catches Rumi looking at her, fingers clasped on her lap and her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. 

Rumi wants Mira. That much is clear. Zoey wants them both. That much is also clear to her. 

She has no idea what to do with that.

***

Team Box Turtles win— but they aren’t spared much time for celebration. Bobby ushers them out for the next part of the day almost as soon as the ball lands on Team A’s side of the net.

(“Right!” Bobby says, abandoning Team A to lick their own wounds. “Sorry to move us right on along, but I’ll let Rumi explain what the group date activity will be when we get there. For now, you’re gonna want to change into something you’re comfortable with getting a bit messy.”

Which could mean anything. Zoey’s guess is a pottery class. Maybe she could convince Rumi to recreate that scene from the one Patrick Swayze movie with her.)

“Hey,” Mira says when they get back to the privacy of their room in the mansion. With Soomin injured, it’s just them, and the rare opportunity to have a moment without a camera or microphone shoved into their faces.

“Hi,” Zoey says back, keeping her eyes trained on her bag, still unpacked. She starts picking through her shirts for something casual— anything to keep her from looking at Mira and then being completely unable to keep her eyes away.

“I hope you know that I didn’t mean to, like, undermine you today,” Mira says. “That’s not how I wanted to come off, and I’m sorry if I did.”

Zoey raises her eyebrows so high that they disappear behind her bangs. She has no choice but to turn towards her now. “Sorry, what?”

Mira tilts her head. “That’s why you’re upset with me, right? Because I didn’t let you play the third round?”

“I’m not—“ Zoey sputters and laughs. Holy fucking airball. If only she knew how to verbalize how she’s feeling. She’ll have to disguise her uneasiness better if Mira’s able to read her so well. She decides to go for a good old-fashioned diversion tactic. “Oh, you’re so sweet. I can’t believe I thought you were so intimidating when I first met you.”

Mira blinks owlishly, visibly jarred by the statement. “You’re… not upset, then?”

Zoey stands from where she was crouched over her bag, holding an old t-shirt that she brought with her from Burbank. She makes her way over to Mira and pinches her cheek affectionately. “Of course not. You big softie. I’m gonna go get changed now.”

“Hold on.” Mira doesn’t let it go as easily as that, catching her wrist gently to stop her in her place. Zoey’s pulse stammers against her grip. “Even if you aren’t upset, I’m still sorry about how I said that earlier. I don’t want you to think I was trying to call you incapable or that I wanted to get Rumi’s attention from you.”

“Seriously, it’s fine.” Zoey tries to dissolve the conversation. This much proximity to Mira can’t be good for her heart. She tries to tug her hands away, but Mira tightens her hold.

“I was just worried,” Mira continues on, not allowing the dismissal.

“Nothing to worry about!” Zoey chirps.

“Don’t get me wrong, you were killing it out there in that first round,” Mira says, shaking her head in a mixture of awe and disbelief. She’s completely ignoring everything that Zoey’s trying to say! “Like, seriously. You had some crazy moves out there. Running and diving in the sand isn’t easy. You barely let the ball drop the entire game. You were easily the best player out there.”

“Then why didn’t you let me go?” Zoey bursts out. “If you thought I was so capable, I could’ve—“

“Exhausted yourself more?” Mira cuts in, voice gratingly patient. “I only noticed since I was so close to you that entire time, but you were getting tired. And that’s fine, really. But when you’re constantly giving more than a hundred percent of yourself, you’re bound to get hurt in the end.”

Zoey grinds her teeth stubbornly, then goes for a smile that probably looks way more like a grimace. “Right. Um, thanks.” A long pause stretches between them, and Zoey pulls her hands away. “Really, I appreciate it. Am I dismissed now?”

Mira just looks at her further, like she wants to press, but she must recognize the desperate avoidance in Zoey’s eyes because she just takes a step back from her personal space.

“Right. We should probably get ready, then.”

***

Zoey huffs to herself as she follows the crowd, Rumi leading the way. She sticks close to Mystery, mostly because he doesn’t say much, so he’s not going to read her to filth for no reason.

Unlike someone.

Stupid Mira and her stupid face.

Zoey’s eyes flit away from the back of Mira’s head onto Rumi.

Wonderful beautiful Rumi and her wonderful beautiful face.

Rumi, whose gaze catches hers repeatedly and brightens every time their eyes meet, finally stops. She gestures to the giant double doors ahead of them.

“Voila!” she announces cheesily, arms outstretched. “Our group date is going to be— drum roll, please…”

Zoey enthusiastically pats her thighs. Abby lifts his shirt and taps along his six-pack like he’s playing the xylophone. 

“A bake-off!” Rumi declares as the doors swing open, and a giant, MasterChef-level kitchen reveals itself to them.

Zoey’s mind returns to their first night, when she and Mira grilled Rumi about what the key to her heart is, and Mira mentioned being an excellent cook.

As if on cue, Mira smirks. “You chose this for me, didn’t you?”

“No, actually,” Rumi says, but she reddens considerably. “I had this planned before I even met you all.”

Mira just chuckles, a rumbling sound from deep within her chest. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Wh— It’s true!” Rumi insists, cheeks puffing in frustration as her bottom lip juts out, in a way that makes her look like she’s practically begging to be kissed. 

Zoey’s got to get a hold of herself. 

“Hey, don’t count the rest of us out,” Sayoung says, grinning and rolling up her sleeves. “I make a mean scone.”

“What’s the reward for the winner?” Ye-jun asks. “And are you the judge again?”

“The reward is getting to go on the first one-on-one date with me,” Rumi replies. She wrings her wrists. “And… no. Celine will be the judge.”

Zoey gulps. Rumi, she thinks she could handle. She’d be sweet about it, even if Zoey accidentally bakes a pile of ashes with whipped cream and a cherry on top. But Celine? With the unyielding frown line between her brows? She imagines her face contorting in disgust when she sees what Zoey presents to her, and then— and then, what if she chokes on it and dies? Rumi’s going to hate her forever!

Zoey shudders and forces herself to plant her feet in place. 

“And what if you win?” Hana asks Rumi. “I mean, you’ll be baking with us, won’t you?”

“I’ll be baking, but I won’t be judged,” Rumi explains. “Besides, my baking skills leave a lot to be desired, so I doubt I’d win anyway. I don’t have a ton of experience in the kitchen.”

Mira coughs and mutters, “Nepo baby.”

Rumi shoots her a warning look. “Don’t want to hear that from you, Kang Mira.”

Mira’s grin slips right off her face. Zoey would feel a bit bad if it wasn’t so hilarious. 

“Enough foreplay,” Mira says, as though she’s readjusting her footing in the conversation so she doesn’t remain on the losing side of it. “The rest of you losers are going down.”

***

Zoey stares ahead of her, right at the contraption that she dares to call a brownie. It sort of… resembles a brownie, if she just tilts her head and looks at it with her eyes closed. 

She’s definitely not going to win this thing, but she’s also definitely not going down without a fight.

She turns to Rumi, who has donned a corny ass apron that says, Don’t be afraid to take whisks, with an illustration of a whisk. The real star of her outfit, however, is the giant chef’s hat sitting atop her head. 

(“You got Remy and his whole family in there?” Zoey teases.

“Who’s that?” Rumi asks. 

Zoey whips her head over, devastation decorated all over her face. “You’ve never seen Ratatouille?"

“Like… the dish?”

Zoey searches her face for any sign of deception, any sign of playing dumb. Any second now, Rumi’s going to laugh and say, “Sike!”

It doesn’t happen.

“Oh my god.” Zoey shakes her head vehemently. “Nope. No way. We are amending this as soon as possible.”

“I am so confused right now.”)

“You know,” Zoey starts conversationally, grabbing Rumi’s attention from the dough ahead of her. “I’m having a lot of fun right now.”

“Even though you’ve got a pile of horse manure on your plate right now?” Rumi prods at Zoey’s dish with her dough roller.

Zoey laughs and smacks her roller away with a spoon. “Shut up!”

“Sorry.” Rumi giggles, then turns back to her bowl so she can crack an egg into it. Just as she is about to deposit the yolk, however, half of the shell slips from her hand and falls unceremoniously onto the ground, leaving a trail of egg innards right down Rumi’s calf. 

Zoey is overcome by a strange, overwhelming urge to lick a line of the yolk right up her leg. 

“Damn,” Mira whispers from somewhere behind her. “I never thought I could be jealous of egg yolk before, but here we are.”

Zoey, despite her mixed feelings for Mira, snickers at the comment. 

“That’s just splendid,” Rumi snarks to herself, tearing off a paper towel from a nearby roll and crouching down to wipe her leg off.

Zoey resists the temptation to offer her help. Instead, another idea pings in her mind. 

“You know what would make it even more splendid?” she asks mischievously.

Rumi eyes her warily and stands up slowly, like if she makes any sudden movements, then Zoey’s going to lunge at her.

“Everyone taking their shirts off,” Abby suggests.

“No!” Zoey exclaims, then pauses in consideration. “Well… yes. But not what I was leading up to.”

“And what were you leading up to?” Ji-soo asks curiously. 

Zoey breaks out into a grin, rushes to her workstation, grabs a fistful of flour, and catapults it into Rumi’s face.

Rumi reacts shockingly well, both her hands coming up to block the ranged assault. Her hat slants on her head, but she is quick to adjust it. She grins right back at Zoey, grabs the dough she’d been rolling, and flinging the entire glob right onto her. 

Abby joins in on the fun immediately, grabbing Mystery and forming a team with him to assault Zoey. Mira comes to her defense, followed by Hana. Ji-soo and Ye-jun hang back for a moment longer, but it isn’t until Sayoung tosses a few chocolate chips from her perfect scones that they eventually join the fray.

The entire kitchen quickly becomes a warzone of haphazardly thrown ingredients, shrieks of horror and delight protruding the air. Zoey dodges and weaves all of the eggs and corn starch hurled at her, giggling madly at the mess she’s making. 

Mira chucks something weird and brown directly at Rumi’s face, and it isn’t for another few seconds that Zoey registers that it was her brownie that she’d so painstakingly baked for the competition.

“Hey!” she protests.

She reaches for Mira’s own creation— the beginnings of a pie— and makes a motion to propel it straight for her.

Mira practically tackles her before it can even leave her hand, snatching her dish away and sticking her tongue out childishly. 

“Don’t touch,” she warns, lifting her plate up outside of Zoey’s reach and using her other hand to keep Zoey back. 

“You threw mine first!” Zoey blusters.

“It was a lost cause anyway,” Mira argues back. 

“You’re a lost—” Zoey’s scathing reply dies in her throat when another voice pierces through the moment, halting any and all activity.

“That’s enough,” Celine says, volume barely elevating, but still booming. The words are so few and so simple, but they practically drip with authority. Zoey nearly salutes and begins reciting the pledge of allegiance. 

“Celine,” Rumi says a bit breathlessly, and even when she’s completely covered in flour and eggshells and icing and Zoey’s weird brownie shit, she still looks gorgeous. Her hat has somehow maintained its position securely on her head. It’s honestly impressive.

“Rumi,” Celine replies curtly, looking her adoptive daughter up and down once. “You should go get cleaned up.” Then her gaze roams away, scanning until it lands on Zoey.

She tries not to flinch.

“You started this,” Celine says simply, less as an accusation and more as a fact. Zoey just nods numbly, too terrified to say anything. “You can help Rumi clean herself up, then.”

Oh. That isn’t nearly as horrifying as Zoey thought it was going to be. Conversely, it’s actually more of a reward than anything. Alone time with Rumi on a group date? Helping her clean up? Whether it’s intentional or not, Celine’s definitely helping Zoey score some more brownie points (pun intended).

“Right on,” Zoey says, bowing her head slightly to Celine and following Rumi into one of the private bathrooms. She’s acutely aware of the camera crew following behind them, so maybe private isn’t quite the right word for it.

She tries not to let the intrusiveness bother her. It’s reality television, after all. She’s got to be prepared to have an audience up her ass for everything.

A long silence stretches between them. Rumi turns to the sink, removes her chef hat, and twists the dial. Water streams out of the faucet, and she begins washing up, starting with the baking powder in between her fingers, then moving onto the flour and sugar all over her face.

Zoey stands awkwardly behind her, twiddling her fingers, unsure of how exactly she’s supposed to help her. 

And then she notices it in the mirror. The sliver of her weird brownie experiment splattered across Rumi’s neck. She laughs, the sound attracting Rumi’s attention.

Rumi raises a brow and smiles carefully, looking slightly unsure. “What?”

“You’ve got some of my… um, well. My horse manure, as you had so kindly put it,” Zoey replies, gesturing to her neck. “I can, uh, help you out, if you want.”

Rumi rotates around, squeaking the sink shut and facing her completely. She grins invitingly. “Be my guest.”

Fingers quivering slightly, Zoey reaches for the brownie bits on her neck. She thumbs it off, forcing herself not to linger for too long at the juncture where Rumi’s shoulder curves up.

Not thinking for a moment, she sticks her thumb into her mouth. 

Rumi’s breath hitches, and it only takes Zoey a second to realize just what she was doing. Before she can apologize, however, Rumi beats her to the punch.

“How’s it taste?” she murmurs, voice dropping an octave.

The brownie? Like shit. But Zoey’s not gonna say that right now. Not when Rumi’s looking at her with those eyes, attention completely on her.

“Divine,” Zoey whispers back. 

Rumi’s throat bobs; Zoey tracks the movement hungrily, licking her lips absentmindedly, imagining, for a moment, her mouth against Rumi’s neck, her jaw, her collarbones.

She snaps herself out of it immediately. She’s got a face full of eggs right now. If she tries to kiss Rumi right now, maybe she’ll accidentally give her salmonella or something.

Zoey steps back and instead moves for the sink, running the water and splashing it onto her face. Maybe it’ll cleanse her soul, too, while she’s at it.

“You know,” Rumi starts, timbre still pitched low and suggestive, “as glad as I am that we got to see Mira play volleyball twice, I was equally hopeful that I’d get to see you go.”

Zoey whips her head around sharply at the words, practically slamming the sink knob off. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Rumi nods, biting her lip and glancing down from Zoey’s eyes for a moment before bringing her gaze back up. “I really liked watching you.”

Zoey’s heart thuds so loud in her chest, she’s honestly not sure how Rumi hasn’t heard it by now. Or maybe she has, and she’s just politely ignoring it. Either way.

Zoey parts her lips, voice soft as she admits, “I wanted you to watch me.”

Rumi’s eyes dart down once more, right over Zoey’s mouth, but they remain glued there this time. “I’m watching now.”

(The first time Zoey kissed someone, she’d broken his nose. it was an accident, of course— she’d gone in way too quickly and missed so phenomenally that her forehead came crashing right down on his schnozz, but like— come on. She was thirteen. She's way better at kissing now.

She thinks. 

She hopes.)

The bundle of nerves that have taken her hostage only seem to exacerbate the more she thinks about this. Rumi's about to kiss her. What if she accidentally breaks her nose, too? Zoey certainly wouldn’t put it past herself. It's already happened once. She’s got a record for it.

Rumi, oblivious to the turn her mind has made, brushes a strand of hair away from Zoey’s face. Her fingers linger on her cheek, leaving a tingle on her skin.

Zoey’s eyes flutter shut as she tries to calm her racing mind. Okay— there’s no way she’s going to break Rumi’s nose if she just lets Rumi come to her instead.

But wait. What if Rumi accidentally breaks her nose?

She waves the thought away as soon as it comes. If it’s Rumi, anything’s forgivable.

She can sense Rumi leaning closer now, and her breath stutters in anticipation. 

Rumi’s lips ghost over hers, not even a quarter inch away, when the door swings open. 

And there, in the entrance, stands the one person capable of distracting Zoey from Rumi.

Chapter Text

Mira knows she’s not an easy person to be around. 

She doesn’t mean to say it in a pitying way, either. She knows that she’s brash, and she’s pushy, and she’s quick to anger, and she can be mean when she wants to be, and—

…And despite how much she tries to cover it up under a facade of self-assuredness, deep down, she will always remain that insecure little girl who lashes out as a desperate vie for attention. Her parents know it, her brother knows it, and she definitely knows it.

Maybe that’s what draws her to Zoey. Zoey, with her seemingly fathomless pool of enthusiasm and kindness. Zoey, who’s only twenty-three and already has smile lines. Zoey, who looks tantalizing on the beach, revealing enough skin that it keeps Mira hoping for a glimpse of more— leaves her curious to know just how far her freckles go. Like Mira, she’s passionate and impulsive, but in a softer way, less suffocating and disparaging about it. 

Zoey, who is not the Bachelorette. 

Not that Mira dislikes Rumi, or anything. In truth, she likes her far more than she thought she would. Rumi, with her awkward grins and even more awkward way of talking— to the point that it’s endearing. Rumi, who switches right out of her stiltedness when she stops trying to perform so perfectly in front of the cameras, and allows her shoulders to slump and for her back to curve, sincerity leaking through her in a way that is captivating to watch. Rumi, who seems to not just tolerate Mira’s cockiness, but complements it.

Rumi, who is currently about to kiss Zoey.

Mira has no idea why none of the crew tried to stop her from opening the bathroom door if they knew that Rumi and Zoey were in there, but her best guess is that they’re just sowing whatever drama they can. 

Mira doesn’t give them the satisfaction. Reality television editors are cutthroat and brutal in their scrutiny.

Zoey yelps and springs away sharply when she sees Mira, back hitting the edge of the sink behind her. Rumi just blinks hazily, like she’s trying to remember where she is. 

“Sorry,” Mira murmurs out, heart falling straight out of her ribcage, mind swirling. “I was just trying to find somewhere to clean up.”

Rumi recovers quickly, the fog dispersing from her eyes. She glances at Zoey, then turns back to Mira. “It’s okay,” she says, voice surprisingly even, despite the flush in her face. “You can use this one.”

Mira just nods numbly, stepping aside so Rumi and Zoey can move past her. Zoey stares straight at the ground as she walks, a pretty pink splattering across her freckles. She spares Mira a wayward glance; held within her gaze is… something resembling regret? Something apologetic? Pity, maybe? But then she passes by, and whatever nebulous thing Mira thinks she’s seen is gone. 

Rumi, on the other hand, lingers for a moment longer, mouth pressed in an apologetic line. Then, surreptitiously enough so that the cameras can’t see her, she reaches out and squeezes Mira’s hand. Mira’s skin prickles from the warmth of her touch, and she fights the urge to follow Rumi as she shuffles out of the doorway. 

Soon, all that’s left around her is the scent of baking ingredients.

She huffs out a breath from her nose, shaking her head, thoughts jostling. She approaches the sink and throws some water onto her face, less for the actual clean-up and more to get herself back in the zone. She glances at the mirror and notices the crew still behind her. She tosses a sharp glare over her shoulder.

“Can I please get a moment of privacy to wash up?” she demands. Her words are polite but her tone is sharp, like daggers hidden under her tongue. She’s honestly not sure they’ll even listen to her, considering that capturing the aftermath of her reaction to walking into the Bachelorette about to kiss another contestant would be perfect footage for the show.

Thankfully, they seem to get the hint that she’s not playing around, and they fuck off.

She works the dough out from under her fingernails, grimacing to herself. She doesn’t know how she should feel about what she just witnessed.

Mira does next what she does best. She compartmentalizes. 

She needs to look at this logically. She’s on a show where she’s dating a woman who is currently dating seventeen other people. It’s reasonable for there to be a bit of jealousy. In fact, provoking those kinds of feelings is the goal for the producers. But Mira hadn’t come onto this show to find her soulmate, or whatever other cheesy line they expect her to spout out for her confessionals. So she hasn’t the faintest clue why an ache inhabits her chests, phantom fingers grasping over her lungs and slowly squeezing, until she has no choice but to beg for some reprieve.

It wasn’t just the way Rumi looked at Zoey, eyes hooded and hungry. But the way Zoey looked back, awed and starstruck.

They deserve each other. Mira should feel happy for them. She likes them both enough (as friends, obviously), and they both definitely like each other.

So why does she feel this way?

A deep sigh passes through her entire body, settling in her taut shoulders. She’s going to need a deep tissue massage after this.

***

Since the winner couldn’t be decided through the baking competition (thank you, Zoey), Rumi picks Mira for the first one-on-one date.

Mira stood numb with shock when it was announced, and even now, sitting in the backseat of the limo with Rumi planted right beside her on the way to a floating lantern boat ride, she has no idea what to even say.

“Have you ever been on a boat?” Rumi asks conversationally.

Mira tries not to stutter too much in her response, brain lagging just a bit. She’s still not even sure if she’s actually sitting here, or if she’s just disassociating. “...Yeah. Yes. I’ve been on plenty. My family owns, like, fifty yachts.”

Rumi giggles. A wave of fury washes over Mira as she is reminded yet again that she can’t just whip her phone out and record the sound so she can listen to it seventy-nine thousand times a day. Stupid reality TV and its stupid reality TV rules.

“Guess this won’t be anything new for you then,” Rumi says.

“Of course it will,” Mira replies, knitting her eyebrows together. “You weren’t there before. That changes everything.”

Rumi blinks once. Twice. Thrice. A few more times in rapid succession. Mira’s a little worried she’s about to have a seizure, but then Rumi breaks out into a grin.

“You’re always playing things so cool, but you’re really a huge romantic, aren’t you?” Rumi nudges her shoulder with her own.

Mira is hopeless against Rumi’s smile, her cheeks dented with dimples, eyes glowing. 

“Maybe you just bring that side out of me,” Mira comments, shrugging.

Rumi softens, looking at her for a period longer. She opens her mouth to reply, but then the limo comes to a complete stop and their driver rolls down the divider between them.

“We have arrived,” he says.

He comes around to open up their door. Mira slides out first, then turns to offer her hand to Rumi.

She takes the offer, and just like before, when she’d squeezed Mira’s hand— her hand is warm, and soft, unblemished. Unlike before, however, it isn’t fleeting or apologetic.

Rumi doesn’t make any motion to remove her hand, even after she has fully stepped out of the car. Mira doesn’t bother moving away either— instead, she intertwines their fingers carefully, questioningly. Rumi responds with a gentle brush of her thumb against the back of Mira’s hand

Mira releases an unsteady breath— she’s never been so flustered before— but Rumi stands before her, adorned in a long, shimmering black dress, long-sleeved, yet tight enough that the muscles of her arms bulge through the fabric. And Rumi looks— She looks so—

“You look beautiful,” Mira says as they begin to walk down the dock towards the boats. The sun hasn’t quite set yet, orange rays sweeping through the water and the sky in wisps. The view is, objectively, gorgeous.

And yet, her gaze returns to Rumi.

Rumi peeks up at her from behind her long lashes, smiling shyly. “You’re telling me. I mean, you’re…”

She uses her free hand to gesture at Mira’s own outfit, a semi-formal all-black suit. Rumi just sputters more nonsense out, puffing her cheeks adorably, in a way that reminds Mira of Zoey.

Zoey. 

(When Zoey heard about Mira’s one-on-one, she actually didn't look too upset by the prospect. She even helped Mira pick her outfit, sorting through her shirts and dresses. She ooh-ed and ahh-ed animatedly, saying things like, “You’d look really hot in this one.” or “Rumi won’t be able to keep her eyes off you. I know I wouldn’t.”

Mira was not sure what to say to that, but at least Zoey didn’t seem to be upset with her anymore.)

Mira shakes the thoughts of the other woman out of her mind. This is supposed to be just the two of them. 

“Seems I’ve got you speechless,” Mira replies, her words a cheeky facade masking the foreign butterflies flapping around desperately in the confines of her stomach.

Rumi rolls her eyes, whatever softness from earlier waning into a fond exasperation. “We’ve got to do something about that ego of yours.”

“Hey,” Mira starts, tone innocuous, while her words are anything but. “Just tell me to behave and I’ll behave.”

Rumi levels her with a hard look. Mira isn’t positive she’s going to say anything, even as her lips part. But then— she tugs Mira down by their interlocked hands until they’re eye-level. Her fingers smooth down the collar of Mira’s suit jacket. Voice pitching low: “Behave.”

A thrill races up her spine. Oh. 

By all means then, she has no choice but to oblige. Not when Rumi’s staring her down like this, intense and demanding, brown eyes momentarily shining gold.

Mira grins back at her, teeth flashing, completely and utterly wrapped around Rumi’s finger. “Yes ma’am.”

Rumi just tilts her head, smirking; Mira’s gaze traces over the curve of her neck, hungrily taking in every bit of exposed skin ahead of her while she gets the chance. A jagged line of her tattoos peeks out from under her dress.

Mira’s hand moves with a mind of its own, her fingers scraping gently across Rumi’s shoulder. She doesn’t dare break eye contact before leaning her head down slowly, painstakingly.

Rumi’s body goes completely still, but she makes no indication of retreating, eyes trained right back at Mira, burning into her. Mira hovers her lips right above her shoulder, inhaling— simultaneously flooding her mind and emptying it. 

She hears Rumi’s breath catch, and it only spurs her on more. Mira’s lips press into her skin, almost feverish. Desire numbs her; it takes every last bit of Mira’s self-control to stop her from biting right down on her.

She really needs to get a grip.

But Rumi’s not helping— She pulls Mira’s face up gently, index finger under her chin, thumb grazing the bottom of her lip.

Mira exhales— shudders, really— chest heavy with want. She sees her own desire reflected in Rumi’s expression, her eyes hooded and lips parted, the same look on her face when she’d almost kissed Zoey—

Zoey.

A bucket of ice water deposits itself right onto her head.

She recoils, mind screeching to a stop.

Zoey.

She can’t do this to her. Zoey’s obsessed with Rumi, and from what Mira had seen before, Rumi’s equally as enthralled. Mira can’t— she can’t get between something like that. She has no right to. That’s not even what she came onto this show for.

And besides, even if Rumi or Zoey are into her, there’s no telling how long. Mira knows— she knows what she’s like. She’s too wild, too loud, too rude. She may seem fun at the beginning, the way those high school bad boys always appear in the movies, but nobody’s really interested for that long.

Her own parents reject her, everything about her. Her personality, her appearance, her hobbies, her passions, her interests… her sexuality.

(What if they see her? What if they see her kissing another girl on TV?

Good, she thinks. Let them see.

But she’s still scared.)

As sweet and open and accepting as Rumi and Zoey are, Mira knows by now that it’s safer to lower her expectations and keep them at arms length.

And so, she pulls away, hand on Rumi’s shoulder— an arm length away.

“We should get on the boat,” Mira says, voice thick with tension. She fixes Rumi’s dress on her shoulder, pulling it back up into place. “Seems like it’s starting.”

Rumi blinks, dazed. Her mouth opens, shuts, then opens again. “Wh… What…?”

Mira lets go of Rumi, separating completely from her, shoving her hands into her pockets. She’s freezing all of a sudden, as though letting go of Rumi sapped the warmth right out of her.

“The boat?” Mira repeats, raising a brow. 

Rumi continues to stare at her for just a moment longer, then shakes her head. “Right. Yeah. Sorry if I…”

Mira stops her by placing her hands back over hers briefly. She can’t have that. Mira can’t have Rumi blaming herself for something out of her control.

“No, don’t apologize,” she says quickly. “You didn’t… overstep, or mess up, or anything. I’m just not, like, in a place to—“

“It’s okay,” Rumi whispers, bringing Mira’s fingers to her lips and kissing her knuckles gently. “You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Oh, how Mira aches. She wants nothing more than to pull Rumi close, flush to her chest, and kiss her bruisingly. But Zoey’s image rings in her mind— her adoring gaze emblazoned on Rumi.

(Somewhere, deep within the crevices of her mind, Mira wants nothing more than to kiss Zoey too, in every way. Fervent or soft or starving or slow. She doesn’t care how. She just wants her. Her and Rumi.

And that’s the crux of the problem, really.)

Mira swallows dryly, but she takes Rumi’s opening with a small nod, grateful for the lack of pressure. 

They board the boat— Mira goes first, gradually and cautiously. Once she’s seated, she helps Rumi situate herself right across from her, their knees bumping together.

Rumi gazes at her, warm, as Mira grabs the paddles of the boat.

“Shall we take off, my lady?” Mira asks, teasing.

Rumi smiles back, the lantern in her hand still unlit. “We shall.”

***

The rest of the date goes by without a hitch. Rumi lights the lantern, then releases it into the night sky, eyes glittering in wonder as it floats above them to join the other hundreds.

Mira isn’t able to take her eyes off Rumi for a second, heart swelling fondly. She’d stare at her forever, if she could.

(“It’s like Tangled!” Zoey squeals later, when she forces the details out of Mira. “You’re Flynn Rider, and Rumi’s Rapunzel. You’re literally them!”

Mira has no idea why she’s so excited by that, but she smiles along anyway. “Guess that makes you the lizard guy, then.”

Zoey just giggles. “Only if you let me stick my tongue in your ear.”

Mira freezes. She must have heard her wrong. “What?”

Zoey just looks at her, bewildered. “No, no, I mean— I mean, in the movie! Pascal puts his tongue in Flynn Rider’s ear. He’s a freaking chameleon, Mira, you don’t have to make things weird!”

“You’re the one who—! Ugh, whatever.”)

When they reach back onto shore, legs wobbling from being on the boat for so long, they decide to elongate the date, taking a stroll along the boardwalk to peruse all the shops and food stalls. Mira removes her blazer, using her left hand to hold it over her shoulder. She raises her right hand to hold Rumi’s ice cream cup up for her.

“You know,” Rumi says, tongue wrapping around the ice cream in her spoon. Mira tries not to stare too long— it’s almost cruel for Rumi to taunt her like this. “The reason I didn’t ask you on a dinner date was because they won’t actually let us eat. Doesn’t match the aesthetic of the show. So they’ll just have us eat separately beforehand, off-camera, and then for the date, they put some fancy looking food that we just sit in front of while we chat.”

“That’s…” Mira can’t think of a single nice word to say about this show. “That’s certainly something.”

Rumi throws her head back and laughs. “You can say it’s stupid, Mira. I doubt the editors will put this part of the date in the final cut anyway. Anything to do with production is swept under the rug so they can memorialize the reality television version of how everything goes down.”

“So much for reality TV,” Mira says, chuckling. “And yet the phoniness is not at all surprising.”

Rumi just hums in agreement, scooping another bite out and holding it up to Mira’s lips to share. Mira looks Rumi in the eye before dropping her jaw obediently, allowing Rumi to place the spoon in her mouth.

Rumi stares back up at her heatedly, her tongue flicking out to wet her bottom lip. Mira tracks the movement, a sudden weight in her ribs, heat pooling in her stomach.

The moment Mira finishes licking the spoon clean, Rumi practically stumbles over herself to dig out another chunk, presenting it to her hungrily.

Mira grins. “The ice cream isn’t for me, pumpkin.”

Rumi has the gall to look ashamed.

The remainder of the night goes by in a blur— Mira, shockingly, manages to win a turtle plushie from a claw machine that she swore up and down was rigged.

She tries to insist on giving it to Rumi, but then the other woman just shakes her head and says, “I think Zoey would appreciate it more.”

Mira doesn’t try to argue with that. When she grabbed it from the machine, she secretly hoped she could give it to Zoey. 

(Her eyes light up when Mira presents it to her later, fingers flexing as she tries to grab it from her. Mira holds it up, out of reach, laughing at Zoey’s plight.

Her mouth downturns adorably, nose screwed up and brows furrowed. She looks like a disgruntled hamster. Mira wants to kiss the pout right off her.)

They end the night at the doors of the Bachelor Mansion. Rumi leans in, and Mira honestly doesn’t think she has the self-restraint to stop Rumi from kissing her a second time, especially not when she stands before her in her suit jacket, stars in her eyes.

But Rumi doesn’t press their mouths together, instead aiming for the corner of her lips.

Mira can’t bring herself to be too disappointed by that.

“Thank you for a wonderful night. I’m glad you were my first date.” Rumi squeezes her hand once, but then lets go to reveal a rose from behind her back. “Will you accept this rose?”

Mira sleeps with her cheek still tingling, light and floaty, rose tucked under her nose.

***

A week slogs by. Rumi goes on three more one-on-ones, with Mystery, Hana, and Baby. They all return with roses, much to Mira’s surprise.

(“Even Santa’s Little Helper over there?” she asks Zoey as an aside, jabbing a thumb in Baby’s direction. Zoey snickers.

“I heard that!” he shouts.)

At the Rose Ceremony, Rumi calls Zoey’s name first. She hops up to accept her rose, grinning madly. Rumi opens her arms for a hug. Zoey leaps into the embrace, nose buried in Rumi’s shoulder.

How could Mira possibly get between them?

The Rose Ceremony ends with just a pinch of drama, which is probably the exact thing the producers are hoping for.

Soomin bursts into tears when the final rose goes to Romance, though Ye-jun takes his loss with a bit more dignity than that. There’s another rejected contestant, but Mira hadn’t even bothered to learn his name.

Soomin looks as though she wants to mouth off at Rumi, but she just storms away, mascara tracking down her face. Ye-jun follows her out, offering a meak wave to Rumi as he goes, mouth pressed into a thin line. Rumi nods at him once, and then he and the third eliminated contestant are gone, too.

Mira feels kind of bad for them, but then, she has to remind herself that most of them aren’t even here to find love. They’re probably more upset that they won’t be on camera for longer than they were hoping.

Not much time is spared for the eliminated members, as the rest of contestants are all pulled aside for their respective confessionals. As Celine leads Mira off, she catches Rumi whispering something to Bobby, glancing at her surreptitiously.

Bobby looks over his shoulder at Mira, eyebrows knitted, then turns back to Rumi and nods, chin set determinedly.

Mira looks on curiously, but she doesn’t get much of a chance to ponder on it— Celine tugs her away by the crook of her elbow. 

Oh, well. She’s sure if it’s important, it’ll come up.

***

“Mira,” a whisper prods through her dreams, barging in on her slumber. When she doesn’t immediately stir, she feels a sharp poke against her cheek.

Mira grumbles, and— with little consideration to what’s happening— she bites. Her teeth sink into a finger, and she hears a startled yelp. The finger disappears from her mouth abruptly. Mira peeks open an eye to see a blurry Zoey cradling her hand to her chest while she glares down at her.

“Mira!” she complains. “You jerk! I was just waking you up because someone’s knocking on the door!”

As if on cue, she hears two consecutive thunks against their door. Their heads whip to the sound, then they look back at each other. 

Mira groans, reaching blindly for her glasses. She sticks them on her nose and groggily makes her way over to the door, flicking on the lights. Whoever’s trying to rouse her from her sleep after something as exhausting as a Rose Ceremony, for fuck’s sake, is really asking too much from her. 

She swings the door open, Zoey clinging to the back of her shirt and peeking out from behind her.

Bobby stands in the opening of the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Mira finds that she can’t stay too angry when it comes to him, though the clear annoyance doesn’t slip from her face.

“Sorry to wake you,” he says sincerely. “Rumi had a request for me, and I… Well, I can’t say no to her.”

From behind her, Zoey lets go of Mira’s shirt and straightens up. “What was her request?”

Then he steps aside, revealing Rumi standing behind him, her hair out, face bare of makeup, clad in a long gray sweater and pajama pants with teddy bears printed on it. She fiddles with her sleeve, smiling at them nervously.

Mira blinks the rest of the sleep from her eyes rapidly. She sticks her head out of the hallway, looking left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of a camera or a microphone.

Nothing.

She looks back at Rumi, and from her nod, she realizes that this is a completely undocumented interaction between the Bachelorette and two of the contestants.

That’s… not allowed. Rumi’s breaking the rules. Celine’s rules. She didn’t think she was capable of doing that.

“No cameras?” she asks, a small grin twitching the corners of her lips. “Not even hidden ones?”

Rumi and Bobby shake their heads. “No mics, either,” Rumi assures. “We have complete privacy.”

“Well,” Bobby says, “complete privacy once I leave.”

Mira’s eyes widen as she appraises him. “Really? You’re not gonna, like, supervise us?”

“Like I said, I can’t say no to Rumi.”

Zoey laughs, then slaps her hand over her mouth when she realizes it’s a bit too loud. There are still people sleeping in the other rooms. “Holy shit. Rumi, you little rebel.”

Rumi has the audacity to look a bit embarrassed. “Can I… come in?”

“Um, duh,” Zoey answers, grasping Mira’s hand and yanking her backwards so Rumi has space to walk through. “Our casa is su casa. Well, it’s actually already su casa, but… whatever. You get it. I’m sleepy and speaking nonsense.”

Mira looks down at her smugly. “I don’t think that sleepiness is a requirement, considering half the things that come out of your mouth is nonsense already.”

Zoey slaps her arm. “You’re a meanie head. You’re lucky you’re hot, or I wouldn’t put up with your bullying.” She sighs wistfully. “Pretty privilege at its finest.”

Mira’s smile freezes on her face. It’s Zoey, she reminds herself. She thinks everyone’s hot. You’re not special.

Rumi giggles, gives Bobby a grateful hug, and steps in, shutting the door behind her. Silence pierces through the air, a thick tension clouding between the three of them. 

“I like your pajamas,” Mira comments, permeating through the stillness.

Rumi’s neck reddens, and she looks down at her pajamas. She reaches for a few strands sitting atop her shoulder and begins to braid and unbraid them absentmindedly. “It’s… silly, I know.”

“No way,” Mira says at the same time Zoey chirps, “I love them!”

Rumi’s lips press into a line, like she’s trying not to smile too big. Mira wishes she wouldn’t resist expressing herself completely.

“Do you wanna take a seat?” Mira offers, gesturing to her bed. 

Rumi just nods mutely, sitting on the edge. She fidgets a bit with her fingers. Zoey and Mira both take Zoey’s bed so they can sit across from her.

“Sooo…” Zoey says, stretching the word out and trailing off. “What brings you to our side of the swamp?”

“I just wanted to say…” Rumi trails off, looking around, like she’d be able to find her words somewhere in their room. “I wanted to tell someone— I wanted to tell you guys that— well, you see…”

She hesitates for several long beats.

“Take your time,” Mira says patiently. She won’t lie and say that she doesn’t find Rumi’s stuttering adorably amusing, but she doesn’t think that making fun of her would help much in this specific instance.

Rumi stops looking everywhere else and meets her gaze.

“I didn’t come onto this show for love,” Rumi blurts out, as though Mira’s comment was all the urging she’d need to just come out with it. “I didn’t come for the love, or the fame, or— or even the money. And I just really needed to tell someone. People that I can… trust.”

She says it all so quickly, so breathlessly, that Mira almost has a hard time understanding. Like a horse with blinders, she focuses on just a single part of Rumi’s declaration.

Rumi said she trusts them. No cameras, no microphones, no performances, no ulterior motives. She came to them. She didn’t tell Celine or Bobby or one of the other contestants or anyone else on the production team. She chose to tell them. Mira and Zoey. Because she trusts them.

“Then… why?” Zoey asks, following along with Rumi’s admission just a beat faster than Mira manages to. “I mean, that’s kind of the big three motives for anyone.”

Mira has a good idea why. And, despite the puzzled expression on Zoey’s face, she’s willing to bet that she could probably guess it, too. 

It’s Celine, the way she hovers, the way she places her hand on Rumi’s shoulder, the way she whispers to her, the way she lovingly braids Rumi’s hair. Mira doesn’t know exactly, but she can sense it. That strange way Celine looks at her, as though she’s a reminder of everything she’s loved and lost. 

Rumi exhales, rubbing her hands like she is collecting her thoughts. Her brows knit together. Mira wants to press her thumb to the area, wants to gently work the wrinkles and stress out of her.

“Celine…”—Bingo—“has practically raised me to be the Bachelorette. She thinks that it can actually work. That you can bring twenty-five random people together, have them date one person, have it all broadcasted to the public, and nothing can possibly go wrong.”

“Why?” Zoey asks. “I mean, I love the Bachelor-verse, and I came onto this show because I thought it’d be fun to travel around for free and maybe get to kiss Rumi,” — Rumi blushes hard at that — “but even I know it’s fake. So why is Celine so convinced? She’s seen twenty-five seasons of this show, and not a single one of them has worked out besides the first one.”

“I think it has to do with my mom,” Rumi says quietly, vocalizing yet another one of Mira’s theories. “Not that I’ve actually talked to her about this, but I think that this is Celine’s way of immortalizing my mother, and it forced her to, like, adopt a weird, unhealthy attachment to this show. This is where they met, and this is where they bonded. Celine didn’t even like my dad, and he didn’t really like her, either. But my mom asked him to keep her around, and he listened. They were closer to each other than anyone else in the entire show, even more than my own parents were.”

“I knew it!” Zoey exclaims, standing up and pointing at Rumi accusingly. “Celine was totally in love with your mom!”

“What?” Rumi asks, incredulous.

“What?” Mira echoes.

They stare at her blankly for several long seconds. Rumi exchanges a glance with Mira and presses her lips together to keep from laughing. Mira bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from doing the same.

Zoey sits back down, sheepish. “Sorry, I guess I got a bit overexcited.”

Rumi just blinks at her, then snorts. “That’s okay. I think Celine would have a heart attack if she heard you say that, though.”

“Because it’s true, right?”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“That’s not a no!”

“I will neither confirm nor deny.” Rumi grins, obviously twisting Zoey’s arm about it at this point.

Zoey leaps in place, practically springing back up to her feet in her excitement. “That’s basically a yes!” 

“Or,” Mira says, rolling her eyes fondly, “she’s just fucking with you.”

“Oh.” Zoey blinks, fidgets a few times, then stills. “So you’re doing this for Celine?” she asks, like she’s trying to play it off by getting them back on track.

“Celine wants me to find someone I actually like,” Rumi explains, allowing the rough transition away from Celine’s unconfirmed feelings for Mi-yeong. “I just did this to humor her. I thought I’d— I don’t know— pick someone, break things off after a month or two, and then leave this all behind.”

“But you like us,” Zoey says, overjoyed.

Rumi matches her energy, beaming right back. “Yeah. I guess Celine was right about the process working.”

But… Mira looks up at her, frowning slightly. She stares at the ground, feeling herself fall deep into thought. She doesn’t want to say it, but someone will have to eventually. She deliberates her words, trying to think of the best way to confront it. 

Rumi will have to choose in the end.

And though Rumi may like them both now, the obvious answer is Zoey. She’s the kind of person anyone can fall in love with. Rumi will love her, the audience will love her. Hell, even Celine seems to like her. 

“Why did you come onto this show?” Rumi asks suddenly, cutting Mira from her thoughts.

Mira looks up from the floor, losing her chance to bring up the topic of Rumi choosing between them. “Huh?”

“It can’t be money,” Rumi continues, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Contestants don’t get paid. And you don’t seem like the type to chase fame.”

“Is it for all the free traveling?” Zoey asks. “I mean, that’s what I just said I’m here for, so there’s no shame in it if that’s the reason.”

Mira shakes her head. “No, nothing like that. My reasons are my own.”

“There are no cameras on us,” Rumi reminds her gently. “This is a safe space.”

“I know, I just… I don’t know.” Mira grimaces. 

A question looms over her. How is she supposed to verbalize the reasons she’s here? But then— She looks at Rumi, then Zoey. 

Then, a larger inquiry: How is she supposed to resist opening up to them?

First, there’s Rumi, who continues to commit to this— this absolute shattering of Mira’s standards. Every time Mira sets a bar, Rumi hurdles it with ease, and then Mira raises the bar, and Rumi leaps clear over that one, as well. No matter the height of the wall, Rumi climbs it like it’s nothing, presses closer.

Zoey, too. In Mira’s short time here, Zoey’s endless pit of acceptance of Mira’s short-fuse and difficult personality has been nothing short of disarming. Despite how much Mira’s family made her feel like a liability, Zoey has made her feel like it’s okay to be like this. Reassures her that she won’t think any worse of Mira for just being herself.

“It’s dumb,” Mira says simply. 

And then— innocently, devastatingly, Zoey pouts. She rounds her dark eyes and looks up at her through her lashes. She scoots closer, until her knee brushes against Mira’s.

“You’re not gonna tell us?” 

Mira’s breath catches in her throat, eyes darting down to Zoey’s lips. It takes all of her willpower to look away, anywhere else. She opts for the view of the desk behind Zoey’s left shoulder, but that turns out to be an awful decision because now she’s distracted by the flawless skin leading up to her neck and—

And Mira stands no chance.

“Fine. Fine. Just put that away,” she acquiesces, gesturing to Zoey’s… entire face.

Her sad puppy-eye expression transforms, lips brightening up into a huge grin. “Great!”

“I…” Mira hesitates, but even that split-second pause has Zoey frowning again. She continues quickly, desperate to not be bewitched like that again. “I joined because I’m proving a point to my family.”

Rumi tilts her head curiously. “How so?”

She inhales. She’s already started, so she might as well elaborate. “My family isn’t very accepting of me,” she says slowly. “I’m a bit aggressive, and I can’t fake it away. And for the Kang family, that’s all we are. I was supposed to play the role of a phony, picture-perfect daughter, and it’s— it’s stupid, but they never paid attention to me. Not until I started bringing girls over.” She laughs bitterly at the memory— 

(It was twelve years ago, and she was crushing hard on a girl from her private school. 

“I wish you were a boy,” the girl had said, unshed tears in her eyelashes, sitting with her on the floor of Mira’s bedroom. “Then we could be together.”

Mira had kissed her, soft, desperate. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she could feel the tears welling up in her own eyes. How could something so wrong feel so right?

Her brother walked in, yelled out.

Her parents barged in next, yanked her away by the elbow, twisted her ear so hard she cried.

But just then, her mother and her father looked at her. Both of them, simultaneously. She couldn’t remember the last time that happened.

She never saw that girl again.)

“That’s not stupid,” Rumi says, brows furrowed, lips downturned. “That’s…”

“Fucked up,” Zoey breathes out.

“Yeah.” Mira huffs a chuckle out from her nose. “Anyway, I just thought maybe they’d pay attention, just for a second— see me on the first ever queer season of The Bachelorette, and then they’d die of shock, or something. I fucking hope.”

“Interesting assassination tactic,” Zoey comments, nodding approvingly.

It’s so… simple, and it’s silly, and it makes Mira laugh. And not one of her breathy chuckles, but a full guffaw from deep within her chest. She’s never been able to talk about her parents before without downplaying it, and then awkwardly transitioning away from the topic altogether. But Zoey doesn’t allow her to shy away, and yet, she keeps it light. So Mira laughs hard, alleviating the tension in her shoulders and in the air.

“Hey,” Rumi tacks on, a flirtatious edge to her tone, “if kissing me helps shorten your parents’ lifespans, I’m happy to contribute.”

Mira eyes her, amused, containing her giggles to reply. “Wow. Coming in hot. You sure that’s not just for your gain?”

“I’d call it mutually beneficial.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

***

“Rumi’s so hot,” Mira murmurs aloud, voice quiet enough that it carries only to Zoey. Mira should probably go to sleep, considering the long night they just had, but she feels too keyed up from the… everything of it all. And besides, Zoey doesn’t seem like she’s going to sleep just yet, even if she’s tired.

Her suspicion is proven correct when Zoey hums in agreement, voice thick with exhaustion— why’s she kind of…? (Mira slaps the thought right out of herself). “Her face looks like it was sculpted to be an angel’s but then there was a mix-up, and now she’s just a human with an angel’s face.”

“Sure, yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” Mira says, feeling a smile twitch onto her lips. She loves the way Zoey talks. She thinks she could listen to her ramblings for hours if she got the chance. Maybe after the show, she can convince Zoey to start a podcast and yap to her heart’s content. Mira will always be there to tune in.

“And her voice,” Zoey practically swoons.

Mira feels herself nodding along with Zoey’s words. Rumi’s voice is addicting, timbre smooth and tone warm. “And her eyes,” she throws back, thinking about Rumi’s gaze, a dark brown that looks almost golden in certain lights. 

“Her arms,” Zoey says, sighing. And she’s right again. Even looking past how hot the tattoos are, there’s a clear definition in Rumi’s biceps. She envisions, for a moment, Rumi’s arms around her neck, Mira held helplessly hostage in a headlock by her— she shakes the notion almost immediately. Jesus fucking Christ, calm yourself.

Mira clears her throat. “Her hands.”

Zoey’s just a dim silhouette in the dark, but Mira can still see the way she bobs her head enthusiastically. “Ooh, and her hair.”

Mira grins. “Her shoulder blades.”

“Her legs— wait, her shoulder blades?” Zoey echoes.

“What? I can appreciate a nice shoulder blade when I see one.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never seen them,” Zoey says. “Her clothes cover them.”

“Well, in my imagination she’s got sexy shoulder blades.” Mira shrugs.

“If we’re talking about our imaginations, then mine is running wild right now.”

Mira snickers. Guess she’s not the only freak around. “I bet mine’s worse.”

She hears Zoey shuffle around in her bed, and she glances over to see the outline of her body turn sideways to face her. Mira imagines how Zoey’d look like right now if the lights weren’t off and the blackout curtains weren’t drawn; her hair out, her round eyes tired and yet still bright. Her lips curved upward in that goofy, endearing grin she wears.

She’s wonderful. If anyone deserves to be with Rumi, it’s Zoey. 

Something tugs at Mira’s chest— not exactly envy, but it isn’t not that, either. She shoves the feeling aside for when she’s awake and functional enough to actually confront it.

“Okay, then,” Zoey starts, voice lilting with a teasing challenge. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“That your imagination is worse.”

Mira tightens her lips. Her imagination is worse. Because not only is Rumi in the picture, with her hands on her neck, in her hair, on her waist, on her hips, but Zoey’s there too. Lips on her jaw, on her collarbone, on her legs. She highly doubts Zoey can match that.

“You don’t want me to do that,” Mira answers, voice taut. 

She isn’t sure what to expect from her next, but it certainly isn’t Zoey rising from her bed, footsteps muffled by her socks as she approaches Mira’s bed. The mattress dips as the shorter woman sits down tentatively, silently asking permission.

Mira’s brain and her body are on two different wavelengths, because while her mind swims in alarm, her muscles twitch, and she scoots over to make space for her.

Zoey lies down beside her, her face close enough that Mira no longer needs to imagine her expressions when she makes them.

“And what if I do want you to?” Zoey whispers, breath warm against her face. It smells like mint toothpaste. Mira resists the urge to shuffle any closer. Because if she does—

Mira swallows, and she watches as Zoey’s eyes dart down to her throat to track the movement, then flick back up to her eyes. This is… This is wrong.

But no— it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like she is exactly where she’s supposed to be. It’s more that it feels… incomplete. 

Her mind flashes back to Rumi, to the way she’d stammered in front of her when Mira’d first stepped out of that limousine. The way her pupils seemed to dilate when Mira kissed her wrist, or the way their fingers brushed when she gave her that rose, or the downward curve of her mouth when she dismissed that rejected contestant. The way she looked in that referee outfit, slicked in sweat. Or while she donned that horrendous chef hat, too large and obnoxious for her head (But it’s Rumi, so of course she made it look good). Or that adorable, befuddled expression she wore when she was covered in flour. Or the dress from their date, long, black, wicked. Or earlier that night, in her teddy bear pajamas and her face bare from any makeup and her hair loose. She looked the most beautiful then.

And so, no, the moment isn’t wrong. It just isn’t quite right, either.

“I never want to take my eyes off of Rumi,” Mira confesses softly. It’s a small admission, innocuous, but so severely understated that she knows Zoey won’t be satisfied with it. Then, even quieter, she says, “I never want to take my hands off her.”

“Where do you want to touch her?” Zoey asks, voice thickening.

Mira’s heart pounds as her hands reach toward Zoey’s. Her skin buzzes, the blood in her veins burns. She’s tired. That’s what she tries to tell herself as she presses closer to Zoey. They still aren’t touching, save for the contact of their hands. The near-lack of proximity between their faces chokes her.

“I want to touch her here,” Mira says, demonstrating as her fingers venture up from Zoey’s hand, to her forearm, then her bicep, and then her shoulder.

Zoey breathes out, and it’s unsteady. Her body trembles as Mira continues up, faintly against her neck, the underside of her jaw, and then onto her collarbone. She rests her hand there momentarily. She can barely make out the way Zoey’s pulse thuds thunderously, to the point she’s almost afraid that the younger girl is going to explode.

Mira lifts her hand away from her. Zoey exhales, audible enough that Mira wonders if she was holding her breath. And then, instead of pulling away completely like she should, she skips past her chest (because that’s an entirely other boundary that she definitely shouldn’t be crossing) and lays her hand against her waist. 

It wouldn’t be hard to just lean forward an inch and press her mouth against hers. To feel the softness of her lips, to run her tongue along her bottom lip, to hear all of Zoey’s gasps and moans.

She tightens her grip, containing herself. She’s just about to move her hand further, press onto the small of Zoey’s back, shatter the distance between their lips, when—

Zoey’s whimper splinters the silence, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, Mira.”

It’s the sound of her own name on Zoey’s lips that snaps Mira out of it. She flinches her hand away from her waist and twists around so she’s facing the ceiling, forcibly tearing herself from the sight beside her. It’s terrifying how quickly it became so addicting to touch Zoey, marveling at how she responded, how she looked and sounded. Imagining Rumi— not as a replacement for Zoey, but as an addition.

Mira’s heart pounds, blood rushing, roaring in her head. “We shouldn’t…” she manages to croak out.

“Right,” Zoey breathes out. The tone of her voice is unreadable, clouded with desire and… something else? Rejection? “Sorry. I crossed way too many lines.”

Mira tightens her jaw. That’s not it. Zoey has to know that isn’t at all what Mira thinks. She licks her lips, her mouth and throat dry. She parts her lips to say something, anything, but then Zoey beats her to the punch.

“Not without Rumi.”

Zoey says it quietly, almost unconfident. But she still articulates it clearly, ensuring that Mira can’t possibly misunderstand what she’s trying to say.

A breath.

“Exactly,” Mira whispers, dares to turn her head back to face Zoey. She’s staring back steadily. “Not without Rumi.”

Chapter Text

Rumi should eliminate either Mira or Zoey now while she can. 

She hasn’t fallen into an inescapable pit yet, but she senses that impending moment at the top of the rollercoaster, that moment when she’ll have no choice but to allow the gravity of every moment to sweep her downhill, careless excitement and wind in her hair.

She should eliminate one of them now, so she won’t have to do it later, when it’ll be much harder. Because at the end of all of this, she can only choose one.

She stares at them from across the mansion, chatting with each other by the kitchen counter. Mira offers Zoey a bite of her chips, but just as Zoey parts her lips to be fed, Mira tosses it into her own mouth, laughing heartily at the way Zoey clutches her chest in betrayal and pretends to fall backward.

Just then— Zoey loses her balance, and actually begins to topple over. Mira moves quickly, maneuvering a hand to catch her by the waist, all while keeping the bag of chips steady. Zoey stares up at Mira for a beat too long, then straightens up, pulling away from her arms.

Rumi aches.

How in the flying fuck is she supposed to choose?

They’ve officially gotten to the third week of the show, a third Rose Ceremony coming and going rather uneventfully. She could have done it then— ripped the bandaid off, refused to call one of their names. But every time the possibility arises, she twists on her heel and presents both of them a rose, utterly unable to look them in the eye and reject them.

“You ready?” Jinu’s voice cuts into her thoughts, tearing her from the sight before her.

Good. That’s good. She should probably look away.

She chose Jinu to be her next date for a one-on-one. The obvious answer would be to take Zoey, but she has far better plans for her once the international traveling segment begins— which means she just needs to go through two more Rose Ceremonies to narrow the contestants down to ten people.

And, like— yes, she has been considering eliminating one of the two early on, but Zoey did mention that she’s on the show for traveling, (and maybe getting a chance to kiss Rumi) so she can’t very well deny her that opportunity. Which would leave Mira as the better option for elimination, except that Rumi hasn’t granted her the promise of kissing her so hard that her parents die about it.

God. Even in her mind, her excuses for keeping them along sound flimsy and desperate. She’ll grasp for anything at this point.

“Rumi?” Jinu calls, snapping her back to attention.

Right. They’re leaving for their date.

“Yeah,” Rumi replies to Jinu, nodding absentmindedly. She looks him over, raising her eyebrows approvingly. He looks fairly cleaned up, like he’d put in some effort to look nice today. “You look nice.”

“And you look beautiful as always,” he replies smoothly, offering his elbow.

“Thank you.” It doesn’t bring the same thrill that a compliment from Mira or Zoey brings, but she smiles appreciatively nonetheless. She has no desire to linger on that. “Let’s get going, then.”

Just as she extends her hand to grab his elbow and leave, however, Celine cuts Rumi off at the door. She smiles politely at Jinu, then waves the cameras and microphones away.

“Sorry to interrupt. Rumi, I just need to steal you for a moment.”

Rumi blinks, then offers Jinu an apologetic shrug. She allows Celine to tug her away, her gaze falling back at Mira and Zoey once more, just to catch another glimpse of them.

They’re cleaning up in the kitchen now, Zoey wiping down the counter with a rag while Mira sweeps the floor with a broom. Zoey grins up at her mischievously, then swipes a collection of crumbs onto the floor. Mira responds with a scowl, bopping Zoey on the head with the top of the broom. Zoey pauses, waiting for Mira to turn around, before retaliating with a snap of her rag against Mira’s butt.

Rumi’s eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t get the chance to see whatever war is about to play out— Celine leads her outside, away from prying ears and eyes. 

“Rumi…” Celine starts. She rubs Rumi’s arm slowly. “How are you feeling?”

Rumi gazes at her, baffled. She tilts her head, trying to read what exactly Celine is asking her for. 

Not that Celine hasn’t been expressing her concern, or anything. It’s just that— she seems to assume that Rumi is perfectly fine most days, or she’ll send Bobby to do her routine check-ups on Rumi’s wellbeing. The last time she pulled her aside, off-camera, just to see how Rumi is was during that first night of the show.

“I’m good. Like I told you at our last confessional,” Rumi replies, unsure. 

“I’m not asking you as the showrunner, Rumi,” Celine says, thinning her lips into a line. “I’m asking as your… guardian.”

“My guardian,” Rumi echoes. Always the hesitation, never her mother. Never even her parent. Like the words are far too intimate to describe what Celine is to her; like Celine prefers to be impersonal when it comes to raising her deceased best friend’s child. 

“Then, answering as your ward, I am doing fine.” Her tone comes out sharper than it ever has, almost Mira-like. Maybe spending time with her is changing the way Rumi speaks.

Celine’s face falls, momentarily. A flash of something, too quick for Rumi to even properly recognize what exactly it is, but then— Her expression hardens. She works her jaw. “Rumi, I know that you don’t need to be reminded, but I have been through this before. I know that the process can be emotionally taxing. So, if you ever want to…” Celine pauses, tongue poking the inside of her cheek as she chooses her words. “...air out your grievances. This is the time to.”

“What makes you think that I have any grievances?” Rumi asks haughtily. She cranks up the dial of her newfound Mira attitude. “I’m doing everything that’s expected of me for this show.”

“It’s not—” Celine’s eye twitches. “It’s not about meeting expectations. There’s no rubric on how to be a Bachelorette.” She pinches the bridge of her nose— something she’s always done when she starts getting a migraine. “I don’t understand why you’re deliberately being difficult when I’m just trying to see how you’re feeling.”

A twinge of guilt blossoms in Rumi’s chest. Why is she being difficult? Sure, Celine’s outward concern for her wellbeing is unexpected, but shouldn’t that mean she should be more grateful when she does receive it? Celine’s trying. The least Rumi could do is meet her halfway.

Rumi’s shoulders tighten, and she swallows down the words that she truly wants to say. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I guess I’m still just a bit unnerved by everything. It’s a lot.”

That seems to be the answer Celine’s looking for.

She squeezes Rumi’s arm. “I understand. Please, feel free to pull me aside if you want a break. But…”

Because of course there’s a “but”. Rumi is allowed to feel overwhelmed and upset, but… Celine worries for her and cares about her but…

Rumi was stupid to think for a second that Celine’s concern is unconditional.

“But…?” Rumi urges, wishing suddenly that this conversation would end already. 

“Look, I’m not trying to pressure you into anything you wouldn’t want to do,” Celine starts, speaking slowly as though she’s trying to be mindful of her words.

Then don’t, Rumi wants to reply. But she swallows it back because despite how bitter she feels, Celine has been trying. And Rumi owes her that chance.

“Okay…” Rumi responds instead, tentative.

“But you are on a show dating fourteen different people. All I’m saying is, you could try to show a bit more interest in the other contestants.”

Rumi furrows her brows. “I am showing my interest in them. I’m taking them on dates, I’m holding their hands, and I’m hugging them, and I tell them that they’re interesting, even if I don’t particularly think they are.” She pauses, realizing where Celine is trying to go with all of this. “You can’t possibly be asking me to— You told me I wouldn’t have to kiss anyone I didn’t want to—”

“I’m not asking that,” Celine says quickly, catching Rumi’s hands between her own like she’s trying to freeze her in place. “Seriously. Is it customary for a Bachelor to kiss the contestants? Yes. That’s just for good television. But I’m not trying to use you for good television.”

Celine had meant for her statement to be consoling, but all it does is make Rumi bristle more.

Then what are you using me for? A stand-in for my mother? Rumi bites the question back, swallows it, chokes on it. 

Celine hadn’t meant to say she was using Rumi for anything, and for Rumi to think so poorly of Celine after everything she’d done for her would just be ungrateful. The sacrifices made. The fact that Rumi is a living, breathing reminder to Celine of who she’s lost, whose kid she is.

She can only imagine it feels like a slap in the face just to look at Rumi.

So Rumi just nods along with Celine’s words, the bitterness dying down to acceptance. “Okay. I’ll try to… show my interest more.”

Celine doesn’t try to ask her how she plans to do that, but she just gives a short nod, dimpling her chin. “Right, then. Don’t let me keep you from this date.”

***

They arrive in a retro arcade, the neon lights flickering from each of the game machines, washing Rumi and Jinu in electric blue, green, and pink hues. The place smells of stale soda and popcorn, music blaring so loud that Rumi swears the soundwaves skipped going through her ears and teleported directly into her skull.

“Man, it’s loud,” she comments to Jinu.

He leans in, cupping a hand behind his ear. “What was that?”

She laughs. “Exactly.”

It only gives him an excuse to step toward her, though he seems to be considerate about leaving an inch of space between their bodies, allowing her the choice to press closer instead of making the decision for her.

Rumi appreciates the gesture— but still. She’s on a dating show. She doesn’t really have a choice.

She closes the distance, her arm pressing against his so she can speak to him. “Do you like video games?”

“Yeah,” he responds, “I love them. But sometimes, I feel like I was forced to.”

Rumi looks at him oddly. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that, like, I’m an older brother, you know? Anytime my sister needs help with defeating a boss in her video games, she runs the controller over to me.”

Rumi chuckles at that. “That’s cute. I guess you might actually have a chance at beating me, but I should warn you, I’m very competitive.” She tries to make it sound way more flirtatious than she feels, and if the way he grins back at her is any indication, he takes it.

He flourishes a gold coin in his finger, stepping up to the Pac-Man machine. “Hope you’re ready to lose, champ.”

The date goes well. Jinu is good company, with his charming, terrible sense of humor. Rumi finds that she doesn’t quite mind spending time with him, the cameras and microphones an afterthought to the way they laugh together easily. 

But there’s something about him that’s just… missing.

Rumi searches for it, digs deep as soon as she can catch him in a moment of silence. “I’ve noticed you bring up your family a lot with me. You’re close with them, then?”

“Oh, hell yeah.” Jinu nods enthusiastically, a hand coming up suddenly to a locket around his neck, hidden in his shirt in a way that Rumi didn’t notice until now. “It was just my mom, my sister, and me growing up. It was tough, but… we didn’t need anyone else. They’re my best friends.”

Rumi smiles, endeared. “That’s really nice. I’m glad you all had each other growing up.”

He pulls the locket out then, unclasping it to reveal three small pictures: one of an older woman, one of a young girl, and one of a—

“Is that cat blue?” Rumi asks, incredulous, an unexpected laugh bubbling from her mouth.

Jinu grins lopsidedly. “Yeah, that’s Derpy. He’s… a bit derpy.”

“No kidding,” Rumi says, still giggling as she cradles the locket carefully between her fingers to get a closer look. “Your family is adorable.”

She looks up at him, her amusement slipping when she realizes how close they’re standing. 

“You’re adorable,” Jinu replies. He looks down at her steadily, his eyes searching hers, like he’s trying to read her.

Rumi spirals. Jinu definitely wants to kiss her right now, if the way he darts his eyes downward is any indication. She’s been flirting and touching his arm and laughing with him all night, and now that they’ve gotten to a quieter, deeper part of the night, he’ll expect a kiss from her.

He doesn’t seem like the type to force her, by any means, but she should be realistic here. She’s on a show all about dating people. She hasn’t kissed anyone once. And she supposes that Jinu wouldn’t be a particularly bad first time. 

But— a flash of pink hair, then a flash of round brown eyes.

Celine’s words echo within her skull. Show a bit more interest in the other contestants.

So Rumi swallows back her nerves, face impassive, and kisses him.

The moment she does it, she wants to pull right back away. Instead, she keeps her eyes squeezed shut, counts to three in her head for the cameras, then leans back.

That was the least exciting experience of her life. 

(Celine pulls Rumi aside the next morning, searching her eyes, eyebrows furrowed with such a deep concern that it nearly knocks Rumi right off of her feet.

“Did you want to do that, Rumi?” Celine demands, hands on her shoulders, fingers digging into her arms. 

The truth sits heavily on her tongue, but Rumi swallows it back.

“Yes.”

Celine’s gaze bears into hers, disbelieving, crushing Rumi under its weight.

Then, slowly, Rumi amends it. “...No.”)

Rumi feels suddenly robbed of her first ever kiss.

She should’ve done it back then with Zoey, when they’d cleaned up after the food fight. Or at the boats, with Mira. At least then, it would’ve… it would’ve been something. It would’ve been electric and maybe there would be explosions inside her head, and her lips and her body would tingle, and she’d feel instantly addicted, caught in the web of their hands and mouths.

Zoey would kiss her eagerly— maybe she’d cup her face and grin and giggle against her mouth. Mira would probably be slower, but no less passionate, like a gradual fire— maybe she’d grab Rumi by the waist and slip her tongue between her lips. And Rumi would let her. She’d part her lips for her, and maybe Zoey would kiss along her jaw and moan against her skin, and maybe Mira would lift Zoey’s face with a hand to her chin, and—

What the hell is she doing? 

Both? Both at the same time?

Her eyes fly open.

Jinu looks down at her oddly, unblinking.

It’s… unnerving and weird, but then he grabs her by the wrist and hastily leads her away. She allows herself to be dragged, stunned by the sudden movement. He glances back, but not at her. She peeks back over her shoulder to see what he’s looking at, and then she realizes that he’s hurrying away the cameramen and the microphones.

Panic seizes her by the throat. Oh no. Rumi kissed him once, and now Jinu wants privacy so they can continue. He’s dragging her back here to escape from the cameras. That has to be the only explanation.

But before she can dig her heels into the ground and begin resisting, he lets go of her. He says something to her, but if the music was blaring before, it’s absolutely thundering now. Whatever he says falls onto deaf ears, but by the movement of his lips, she thinks he’s saying sorry. 

“What?” she shouts back at him. 

He brings his face closer, and it takes everything in Rumi not to flinch away. 

He doesn’t go for another kiss, though. Instead, he brings his mouth to her ear and says, “I think this area’s loud enough that the mics won’t pick up on what we say. So I want you to be completely honest with me.”

Now that she’s cleared her head of whatever odd post-kiss Zoey and Mira brain fog she was in, she notices that Jinu has brought her directly next to three huge, booming speakers that blast straight through her eardrums. She’s genuinely concerned by the potential damage these decibels are committing to her long-term ability to hear.

She just looks at him, still befuddled. “Um… Okay.”

“That kiss felt totally wrong, didn’t it?”

Rumi continues to stare, relief pouring through her now in droves. If she didn’t already know that she doesn’t like it, she could probably kiss Jinu right now for saying that.

She nods vehemently. “God, yeah. I mean, you’re a great guy, but that was weird.”

Jinu, despite it all, just laughs. “Look, I’m… I’m not gonna lie to you here. I do really like you. I think you’re cool, and maybe if we spent more time together, I’d want to be something outside of this show. But it’s pretty clear that you’re not really into that.”

Rumi opens her mouth to apologize. She feels bad, really. Jinu’s nice, and he’s attractive, and he’s a perfect contestant on paper. But—

She thinks of sharp cheekbones, a wicked smirk. She thinks of a beaming smile, a spatter of freckles.

He’s not them.

“I do like you,” she says honestly. “I think you’re easy to talk to, and you don’t care about who my family is, and you don’t pander to me just to get in my good graces. But there’s just… something missing.”

“Or someone,” he says knowingly. 

Rumi looks down at her shoes, suddenly unable to make any more eye contact with him. She wants to ask what he knows. If he can tell her what she should do. If he can help her slog through all the desire and all the guilt that bubbles in the pit of her gut, like a festering, gaping wound that only grows the longer it’s left unattended to.

“I do like you,” she repeats quietly enough that she worries he might not be able to hear her over to music. “But not like that.”

Jinu just smiles sadly, understanding. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Rumi breathes out.

“It’s okay.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all gonna be okay. No matter what you do, or who you end up choosing, I’ll be there for you.”

When the night ends, Rumi gives him a rose.

***

The next week drags on slowly. Rumi takes a handful of them on another group date. She brings the group— consisting of Mira, Abby, Hana, and Baby— bowling.

(Mira bickers with the men the entire time. Now— Rumi should probably intervene to keep from being too biased, but hearing the things that Mira has to say is too good to pass up.

“You think you’re all that,” Mira says, glaring daggers at Baby’s side profile when he tosses the ball straight into the gutter, “but you’ve got all the talent of a cum stain.”

“What is your problem with me?” he demands, crossing his arm and raising his chin. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

Mira gestures at him, incredulous. “It’s shit like that, man! You are singlehandedly the most bullyable person I have ever met.” She laughs to herself. “You probably think that women can’t have orgasms.”

Baby’s face pinkens. He sets his jaw before drawling sarcastically, “Right, because the female orgasm is a conspiracy theory invented by Big Clit to make men think they’re bad at sex.”

Rumi gives Baby a rose, just for that.)

Another Rose Ceremony passes quietly, until they’re just one more week away from the international travel portion of the show. She takes Sayoung and Ji-soo on their one-on-ones, ending each night with a rose.

Her next group date is made up of Zoey, Mystery, Jinu, and Romance, where Rumi tests out their horseback riding skills.

(Zoey— who seems to be naturally good at everything, even horseback riding— trots up to her steadily, taking the lead of the group to make conversation with Rumi at the front.

“So, what do you say we revisit our very first conversation from that first night?” Zoey suggests.

Rumi tilts her head, smiling. “What, the one where you said you’d commit larceny, and we’d run off together?”

Zoey beams, and Rumi’s heart flips. “You remembered!”

“I remember everything you tell me,” Rumi replies, far too easily for it to be a performance for the cameras. Because it’s true. The moment Zoey opens her mouth to begin another one of her rambles, Rumi finds herself hanging onto every word, storing them in her mind for later use so she can impress Zoey with all of the information she’s learned from her.

Zoey’s neck flushes a pretty shade of red. “Well, that’s— I mean—” She clears her throat, awkwardly playing off her flusteredness. “Anyway, what do you say we take these horses and make our grand escape now?”

Rumi knows that Zoey’s just joking. She knows, and yet— and yet, she’s so tempted by the offer.

“I thought we’d decided you would have to win this thing first,” Rumi replies. “Now go get in the back with the rest of the group before they start suspecting favoritism.”

Zoey giggles. “Maybe they’re suspecting it because it’s true.”

Rumi just shrugs, playing coy. She presses a finger to her lips and winks. “I’ll never tell.”)

Eventually, the week comes to an end, and Rumi has to narrow the contestants down to just ten. She stands in front of the rapidly dwindling group, everyone standing patiently to find out their fate on the show— aside from Sayoung and Ji-soo, who’ve already received their roses after their dates that week.

“Zoey,” Rumi calls first. She’s been securely keeping her for every Rose Ceremony; the one-on-one date that she has planned next week for Zoey is constantly at the forefront of her mind. 

Zoey skips down to take the rose and embraces her tight, warm and bright in Rumi’s arms. She reluctantly peels away when it’s been long enough to be just appropriate for the cameras. 

Rumi goes down the rest of the list as quickly as she can. First, she calls up Jinu, who offers her a small peck on the cheek when he accepts it. Next is Abby, who lifts his shirt up and waggles his brows, then says, “I guess you just can’t get enough.” After that, she picks Romance, who kisses her knuckles, then Mystery, who throws her a rare smile. She gives another to Hana, who does nothing untoward— to which Rumi is grateful. Finally, there’s Baby, who spins on his heel and drops to his knees to accept it from her.

(Rumi can practically feel Mira’s glare on him.)

Which leaves just one spot left for the final ten.

Rumi looks at Mira, heart thudding in her chest. 

Every week at the end of a Rose Ceremony since that night she came by Mira and Zoey’s room, she has stared one of them down like this, completely and utterly prepared to say someone else’s name.

She should eliminate one of them now before it gets too difficult. Before she has to choose between them in the finale, when she’s already fallen further and further.

But Mira looks at her with those eyes, captivating, enrapturing. Luring Rumi like a siren song. Urging her, begging her.

Rumi falls, and falls, and falls.

“Mira,” she calls out. Choking. Inevitable. No matter how much she tries to resist, the name bubbles out from her, unable to fight against the logical thing to do. The thing she should have done this time, or last time, or the time before that.

Rumi falls, and falls, and falls. Deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

Mira approaches, her fingers brushing against Rumi’s as she accepts the rose, never breaking eye contact. Rumi’s fingers tingle at the lost contact, mind kicking and struggling as she tries not to drown in her.

Rumi falls, and falls, and falls. She doesn’t get back up.

***

“I cannot believe we’re in Monaco!” Zoey squeals. She bounces on the balls of her feet as Rumi carefully leads her to their destination for their date. She’s blindfolded under Rumi’s insistence. The cliffside location would immediately give away Rumi’s plans, especially considering just how knowledgeable Zoey is.

Finally. The day Rumi has been waiting for for weeks. She’d planned and researched (well— made Bobby do the research) meticulously for this, and she studied up, just so she’d be completely prepared to give Zoey the greatest date of her life. It had been a bit exhausting, and the wait was agonizing.

But it’s all worth it when she sees how Zoey lights up the moment she removes her blindfold, a huge grin frozen on her face. She turns away from the building in front of them to look at Rumi in disbelief. 

“Are you for real?” she asks breathlessly.

Rumi nods and smiles so hard she can feel her face splitting a little. She’s never felt this much joy for someone else’s happiness, but there’s something about Zoey that’s just infectious. 

“You brought me to the Oceanographic Museum?” Zoey exclaims. “The Oceanographic Museum?”

“Well,” Rumi starts, rubbing her neck modestly even though she feels nothing but triumph settling into her chest. “It’s not the oldest aquarium in the world. That’s—“

“Brighton,” Zoey interjects. “But this is— this is so much more than just an aquarium. This is a museum of—“ She begins to tremble in place, a frantic leaf in the wind— legs shaking and hands flexing, as though she wants to grab the building ahead of her and place it directly into her mind.

She turns back to Rumi, stars in her eyes. “You are the most— the most incredible, wonderful… And this is just— awesome. I mean, it’s so awesome, and cool, and you’re so cool, and I love— Oh, I just adore you—“

Zoey continues to stutter along, though none of her half-sentences make much sense to Rumi. She grabs her by the shoulders and squeezes the fabric of her shirt in her fists. “Do you even understand just how much this means to me? God, I just want to— I could just—“ She interrupts herself with a strangled sound in the back of her throat, staring up at Rumi with a wild intensity.

Rumi laughs, cutting Zoey’s rambles off by pulling both of her hands within her own. She brushes her thumbs against Zoey’s knuckles. “As much as I’d love to hear you sing my praises, I don’t think we should keep waiting out here. Don’t you wanna go inside?”

Zoey snaps her jaw shut and nods vehemently, tightening her grip on Rumi’s fingers as Rumi tugs her toward the entrance. 

The moment they step inside, Rumi notices Zoey’s eyes immediately shooting to the side, to the doorway labeled Aquarium.

Rumi doesn’t even wait for her to open her mouth and ask, silently drawing them both closer to the doorway and moving forward with her quest of giving Zoey the greatest date ever.

They travel down a set of stairs, and directly to the left of them is a tank full of fish. Within seconds, Zoey takes complete control of their date, now being the one to pull Rumi around. 

Zoey chats animatedly, pointing at the species of fish and diving into a deep explanation of each. Rumi follows along weakly, nodding her head at every bit of information thrown at her. 

The time spent at each tank draws on for a lengthy period, but Rumi’d anticipated that when she was planning for the day, so she keeps an eye on her watch, just to keep them on schedule and to ensure that Zoey gets to experience every bit of the museum before the day ends.

They venture along. Rumi tries her best to engage with Zoey by reading aloud the fun facts written on the side panels of the tanks. Zoey would listen aptly, then respond with something like, “Oh, wow, I didn’t know that! I learned something new today!” or “I actually did know about that! Plus…” and then would continue with an extended tangent on whatever topic they’d landed on.

“That one kind of looks like you,” Rumi comments, finger outstretched at a striped yellow and blue fish. 

Zoey giggles— a melody to Rumi’s ears— and singles out a purple fish. “That one’s you, then.”

“That one looks like Mira,” Rumi tacks on, pointing at a rather sour-faced fish. 

She pauses.

Why, during a date with Zoey, does Rumi feel the need to bring up Mira? It’s one of the most well-known unspoken rules about being a Bachelorette— conversations regarding other contestants on a one-on-one is taboo.

Zoey, to her credit, only smiles larger at the mention of Mira’s name. “You’re so right. She looks just like that little guy.”

Rumi chuckles, suddenly feeling warm and achy. As content as she is spending time with Zoey, a part of her chest feels like it’s pulling to another force, splitting her straight in half. 

She shakes off the sensation. Zoey deserves her complete focus right now. 

But then— for the rest of their date, Zoey continuously finds ways to bring Mira back up, as though she’s subtly trying to push Rumi into indulging her with more conversation about the other woman.

By a certain point, Rumi feels completely unsteady, thoughts swarmed by someone besides Zoey. She starts wishing for Mira, the way she’d keep a hand on Rumi’s waist, her eyes sharp, and yet everything about the way she treats Rumi would be soft.

Rumi stands in front of a tank, overwhelmed by the vast array of colors and beauty in front of her. She imagines Mira’s nose in her hair, lips by her ear, a whisper, “The view’s nice, but it’s got nothing on you.”

“Rumi?” Zoey calls, breaking her from her stupor. 

“Yes?” Rumi calls back softly, turning to the shorter woman. For a moment, she forgets to breathe, caught completely in Zoey’s web.

“Thank you for bringing me here. I’m glad I’m with you.”

Rumi smiles, dizzy with adoration. “I’m glad I’m with you, too.”

She suddenly feels selfish and greedy for wanting more. Zoey is enough— that much, Rumi believes wholly. She is everything and more. Rumi can’t possibly imagine wanting to replace her with anyone else.

But that’s the catch. Rumi isn’t imagining a scenario with Zoey gone. Where she imagines Mira’s hand on her waist, she imagines Zoey right there with them, her fingers interlaced with Mira’s. Or when Mira whispers in Rumi’s ear, Zoey’s on her other side, telling her that she adores her. 

Rumi pulls her lips into a tight line, grounding herself back into reality. 

Mira’s not here. Zoey is. 

“Come on,” she murmurs to Zoey, catching her hand and interlocking their fingers tenderly. “I’ve got one more thing I want to show you.”

***

The Turtle Odyssey is an outdoor space on the top floor. If Zoey wasn’t bouncing along the walls before, she certainly is now, an extra skip in her steps as she bounds toward the exhibition. She pauses every now and then to glance behind her, looking at Rumi with a deep set awe.

“I know you’re the one who’s gonna propose at the end of this thing, but are you sure there isn’t some way for me to just drop down on one knee right now?” Zoey asks, and by the tremble in her voice, Rumi half believes that Zoey might be serious.

Rumi laughs, though it lodges halfway up her throat. “You could technically propose now, but I can’t promise you I’ll say yes.”

Zoey juts her bottom lip out adorably, but it doesn’t stay for long. “Man, I can’t even be upset about that because— I mean— just look at this place!” She raises her arms above her head and gestures to the area. “This is my own personal heaven!”

Rumi’s cheeks ache the more she grins, an overwhelming feeling of endearment washing over her as Zoey hops her way over to each of the turtles, spouting off bits of trivia.

“Did you know turtles can mostly only hear low-frequency music?” Zoey asks. 

“No, I didn’t know that,” Rumi replies for the millionth time that night, though she never tires from it. “So does that mean if you play the cello, it’d hear it?”

Zoey beams. “Exactly! But if you play something with a higher frequency, like the violin, it probably wouldn’t be able to pick up on it.”

“Like the opposite of dog whistles,” Rumi says, that triumph from earlier only returning tenfold. She’s keeping up great, in her humble opinion. She’s totally acing this first date thing. 

Zoey looks equally as proud of her. “I know I keep saying it, but you’re so great.”

Rumi pinches her lips and looks away, suddenly bashful. “I just… really wanted you to have this experience. It seemed important.”

“It is, but not because of where we are.” Zoey hesitates, tone softening in a way that gives Rumi pause. “It’s because of who I’m with.”

Rumi’s throat dries. “O-Oh. Well, I’m sure that’s—”

“It’s true,” she says, catching Rumi’s hands between her own. Zoey glances down at their interlocked hands, grazing her knuckles softly with her fingertips, causing a pleasant tingle against her skin. “This date has been perfect.” She looks back up, then, her eyes wide and beautiful. “You’ve been perfect.”

Rumi hasn’t been, though. At least, not mentally. 

Sure, she’s following along with all of Zoey’s wants, but Mira remains in the forefront of her mind. She pictures her constantly, standing with them, steadfast in her humor and in her kindness. Balancing making snarky quips and being delicately considerate, all within the same minute, a duality that only Mira seems to be able to achieve.

How could Zoey possibly call Rumi perfect when she’s been thinking of someone else?

“Zoey, I’m—” She looks away, completely unable to maintain eye contact without feeling a swarm of guilt overcome her. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Zoey insists, her warm hand coming up to cradle Rumi’s cold cheek. 

Rumi leans into instinctively, selfishly. Because even with all this deep fucking guilt, she wants nothing more than to press closer to Zoey. Even with Mira in her mind, she wants Zoey completely. 

She’s insatiable. Even when she has the world in front of her, she’s unsatisfied. She wants two worlds in front of her, holding her, touching her, kissing her. As much as it thrills her to hear Zoey say that she’s perfect, she wants to hear it come from Mira, too. 

“Rumi,” Zoey repeats, firm. Her eyes bear into Rumi’s, deep pools of brown. Knowing.

Zoey knows. Rumi doesn’t know how she’s able to recognize it within her, but Zoey seems to understand everything going on in her mind. 

Or maybe Rumi’s delusional, and she just wishes Zoey would understand. She thinks she would. Zoey— open-minded and open-hearted Zoey— would get it.

Maybe Rumi’s delusional.

“You’re perfect,” Zoey whispers.

Maybe it’s Rumi’s delusion that drags her forward, hands fisted into Zoey’s collar, desperate with the desire to be seen and understood the way Zoey makes her feel seen and understood.

She kisses her.

Chapter Text

When Zoey first laid eyes on Rumi, she was sure that there could be nothing more bewitching than the color of her eyes— a startling brown bordering on burnished gold. Then had come the sound of Rumi’s voice— and that same feeling of being enchanted had punched her straight in the gut. Then her touch— soft and hesitant. Her laugh— warm and breathy. Zoey thought that she couldn’t possibly become more enraptured with Rumi than she already was.

Rumi proves her wrong, time and time again.

What a day. What a day. First, Rumi takes her on the greatest date known to humankind, catering to every single one of Zoey’s interests. And now this?

Zoey squeaks against Rumi’s lips, her eyes fluttering shut. A bolt of electricity shoots through her, all the way down to her toes. It only takes her a moment to catch her footing before pressing back just as fervently.

Zoey tugs Rumi’s bottom lip between her own and sucks gently, mind swirling, desire pooling in the base of her stomach. 

Rumi’s knees buckle, and she gasps against her mouth, her hands so tight around the collar of Zoey’s shirt that she chokes her a bit. Zoey finds that she doesn’t quite mind that.

Zoey shudders, stars appearing on the inside of her eyelids. Clouds begin to construct within her mind, blocking her from any thoughts outside of Rumi, with her mouth on hers— Rumi, who holds her so very close— Rumi, whose breaths are erratic— Rumi, whose touch is desperate.

A thought floats between the clouds, dispelling them just enough for her to part from Rumi and stutter out, “Is this ok—“

Rumi pushes her lips back onto hers, hungry.

Zoey doesn’t bother trying to voice her concern again.

Rumi loosens her death grip on Zoey’s collar in favor of moving her hands downward, scraping gently as they descend onto her waist, fingers squeezing and urging her even closer. Zoey responds by looping her arms around Rumi’s neck, swiping her tongue against Rumi’s lips.

Just as she’s about to deepen the kiss, Rumi breaks it. “Do you mean it?” she demands suddenly, breathily.

Zoey blinks hard, light-headed. She has no clue what she’s asking her right now. Not when her body and mind are so inescapably tangled by Rumi. “Do I— what?”

“Do you—” Rumi uses a finger to gesture at the space between them. “—mean it?”

Zoey just stares.

And then she laughs, exasperated and fond.

“Are you—” She interrupts herself with another bubbling chuckle. “Are you serious?”

Rumi puffs her cheeks adorably. Like she hadn’t just kissed the living daylights out of Zoey. The duality of this woman is insane.

“Yes,” Rumi huffs out. “I’m very serious.”

“Me too,” Zoey responds, lips curled upwards at the sides, trying to flow the sincerity off of herself in waves. “Very serious. About you. About everything I’ve said to you.”

Rumi stares at her with the grin of a champion and kisses her again, so bruising that Zoey almost loses all feeling in her legs for a second time. 

“We should…” Zoey tries to murmur against her lips, but Rumi is so fucking eager, that she has a hard time saying anything. 

(The eagerness throws her back, back, to weeks ago. To that singular, charged instance with Mira on her bed. 

“I want to touch her here,” Mira had murmured. Her hands had come up along her arm, down to her waist.

“Not without Rumi,” Zoey had insisted. And Mira had agreed.

They never revisited that moment again.)

Zoey had shuddered then; she shudders now. She needs to stop this. It isn’t fair to Mira to be going against their vague promise, and it certainly isn’t fair to Rumi for her to think of Mira in a time like this.

So she forces a giggle out against Rumi’s lips and detaches herself. She allows herself a moment to rest her forehead against Rumi’s shoulder, catching her breath.

“So impatient,” she teases.

“Sorry,” Rumi whispers back, not sounding the tiniest bit apologetic. 

“As I was saying,” Zoey continues, trying to sound firm, but it honestly just comes out weak and pathetic. Her brain scrambles for an excuse to cut off their kiss. “We should probably keep this PG. You know, ‘cause…”

She waves at the camera crew absentmindedly. Rumi just looks befuddled, like she forgot entirely where they were. 

“Right,” Rumi says, clearing her throat and standing up straight. She smooths Zoey’s collar down, staring at it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Guess I got a bit swept up in the moment.”

Zoey curls a strand of Rumi’s hair around her finger. She’s so beautiful, Zoey marvels, studying her face. The curve of her lips. The length of her lashes. The point of her chin. The slope of her nose. The dent of her dimples. The warmth of her eyes.

Then Zoey opens her big dumb mouth. “Not to be the most dramatic person in the world, but if I had to fight all the stars in the sky just to look at you like this, I would.”

Rumi blinks owlishly. “Oh.”

Zoey’s face heats up, and she bites her tongue hard to keep herself from saying something doubly stupid.

But she’s Zoey, and when Zoey panics, she opens her big dumb mouth again and spouts out some more dumb things.

“When was your first kiss?” she asks. It’s the first thing that pops in her mind, and she can’t deny that she’s a little curious about all that.

If Rumi was raised to be a contestant on this show, was she allowed to have any relationships before filming? She’s twenty-four, which means there was plenty of time for her to have at least kissed someone. On the other hand, though, Zoey’s pretty sure that Rumi’s home-schooled, and Celine kept her fairly sheltered. Maybe the opportunity just never arose…

The idea that she may have been Rumi’s first kiss excites Zoey, but then—

(Sharp eyes in the dark, trained on her lips. Mira’s name whined from Zoey’s lips. An agreement.

“Not without Rumi.”)

Guilt stabs through her gut, cutting and cruel. Zoey tries not to let her smile falter.

It’s not fair to Rumi, it’s not fair to Mira, it’s not fair to Rumi, it’s not fair to Mira. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. I can’t please them both. I’m not being fair, I’m not making things easy. I should just make things easier. 

How can I make things easier?

“My first kiss?” Rumi asks incredulously, her voice acting as a dagger protruding through her thoughts, likely befuddled by Zoey’s desperate veer in subject. 

“Yup!” Zoey says, popping the P with as much cheer as she can muster. Then, just to help ease Rumi into the conversation more, she elaborates, “It can’t have been worse than mine. I was thirteen, and I broke his nose.”

Rumi releases a startled chuckle, her shoulders visibly loosening. “Well, I can’t say there was much nose-breaking for my first kiss.”

Zoey exaggeratedly puts her fist under her chin and pretends to listen closely. “Do go on.” A beat. She just has to ask. “This wasn’t your first kiss, was it?”

“No,” Rumi denies, laughing again. But this time, it’s laced with something apprehensive; Zoey catches Rumi’s gaze flickering to the side, then back to her face.

Zoey’s grin broadens. “It so was!”

“No,” Rumi denies, firmer. But her cheeks go pink, and her bottom lip sticks out slightly. Zoey wonders if it’d be inappropriate to kiss Rumi again.

(If it weren’t for the debilitating, crushing shame she feels every time an image of Mira’s half-lidded gaze flashes through her skull. If it weren’t for that deep-set desire she’d felt for Mira in that moment— still feels now, even as she stands in front of Rumi like this.)

Zoey resists that urge, but she certainly doesn’t withstand the opportunity to tease Rumi further. “You can tell me,” she sing-songs. “I wouldn’t judge you. In fact, it’d be an honor—“

“It wasn’t you,” Rumi says. She looks down at the floor. “But my first kiss was… recent.”

Zoey’s smile stays etched on her face, but her mind becomes swirled with a hurricane of thoughts. Recent means… Well, it could mean anything. Could mean this week, could mean this month, could even mean this year.

But Zoey is willing to bet that it happened sometime in the past weeks they’ve been on this show— if Rumi’s enigmatic embarrassment is anything to go by.

Zoey racks her brain for an answer. Rumi’s gone on several one-on-one dates, all ripe with the perfect opportunities for a first kiss. 

But only one person comes to mind as the obvious culprit. Towering in both stature and demeanor, hair long and pink, eyes sharp, jawline sharper still. It has to be her.

Plus, Rumi had told Mira that night in their bedroom that she’d be more than willing to kiss her on camera if it meant giving her parents a heart attack. And while Zoey is aware it’d been a joke, they were still flirting hard.

It had to be Mira, then. 

(“Not without Rumi,” they’d promised. Both of them.)

Zoey hadn’t meant for her moment with Rumi to be without Mira, but she wouldn’t blame Mira if she wanted a moment with Rumi herself. They are technically competing against each other. There isn’t supposed to be a camaraderie between them, and there’s certainly not supposed to be feelings and tension-filled almost-kisses between them.

And yet here they are.

It’s not fair. I’m not being fair. I need to make things easier. How do I make things easier?

***

The next week rushes by in a fast-paced blur, leaving Zoey with barely a moment to breathe— let alone talk privately with Mira, despite them still sharing rooms during their international travel.

Most days, their packed production schedule wrings every ounce of energy from her, and Zoey ends up collapsing straight into bed the moment she returns to the hotel. Each night, she can barely manage a drowsy “Good night” before drifting straight off into Snoozetown. By morning, she’s already on autopilot— straight to the shower, then off to start the whirlwind all over again.

Their last night before the Rose Ceremony in Monaco is somehow both slow and fleeting, like candlelight flickering, wax melting. Even as it unfolds, Zoey knows she’ll look back on this night fondly when all is said and done.

Inside of their private hotel lounge, the air hums with low laughter and the faint notes of a piano drifting from the lobby below. Half-finished drinks and crumbs of dessert linger on the tables, but no one seems to be in a rush to clean up after themselves.

Rumi sits curled into an armchair, her laugh bright and unguarded as Sayoung, Ji-soo, and Hana bicker playfully over who can land a bullseye at the dartboard across the room from them. 

(“Your elbow’s too stiff,” Sayoung taunts Hana, grinning cheekily. “You’re totally gonna miss.”

“Nuh-uh,” Hana denies. The shot misses wildly. She cringes, then sputters out, “That was— Ji-soo was blowing in my ear!”

Ji-soo looks at her, affronted and betrayed. “No, I wasn’t!”

The candlelight flickers. The wax melts.)

Baby, Jinu, Romance, Mystery, and Abby stage a song-and-dance performance, their over-the-top dramatics pulling delighted groans from everyone.

(“This has to be some form of torture,” Mira grumbles, as all the men stumble through choreographing a strange shoulder-bouncing dance move, making up some borderline freaky lyrics about drinking someone up like a soda pop.

Zoey dances along with them in her seat, jubilant. “You guys would totally kill it as a boy band!”

The candlelight flickers. The wax melts.)

Once that horrendous display is over, Zoey sits beside Mira, close enough that their knees brush every so often. It’s nothing, really. A casual touch. A pleasant tingle on her skin. But in the quiet rhythm of it, Zoey feels something soft and certain pulsing beneath the noise— something that hasn't been reached yet by words.

Mira’s smile is tired at the edges, but her eyes catch Zoey’s every few moments, and each time, Zoey feels the night deepen around them, tender and electric.

She really needs a moment alone to talk to Mira.

(The candlelight flickers. The wax melts. Zoey wishes she could look at her forever. She settles for a faint brush of her knuckles running against the length of Mira’s arm.)

There’s no envy tonight, no competition, no edge of tension that always lingers before a Rose Ceremony. Just eleven tired people, tipsy and glowing, teasing one another and trying to pretend that in a few hours, some of them won’t be chosen to move forward. A fragile illusion that the night is endless. 

For one suspended moment, it’s easy to believe that this time between strangers— acquaintances— friends?— isn’t going to be scrutinized and edited and broadcasted to a worldwide audience later.

“I thought ratatouille would taste better,” Zoey recalls their dinner, frowning disappointedly. “The movie really misled me into thinking it was the most delicious dish ever created.”

“Hey,” Mira says, nudging her like she’s trying to console her. “At least you still get to show Rumi the movie.”

Because of course Mira remembered something that Zoey said their first week of filming. Try as she might, Mira is the furthest thing from nonchalance.

“Right!” Zoey perks up, making eye contact with someone in the production crew. She jerks a finger toward him. “Excuse me, sir! Can I get access to the TV? I wanna put on Ratatouille for Rumi.”

He just looks back at her, bewildered, then turns a desperate look to the person beside him. The other crew member just shrugs and murmurs something that sounds like, “I don’t see why not.”

Zoey pumps a fist in triumph. Just as she hops over to the TV screen, a dart whizzes past her and lodges into the board— not quite at bullseye, but not too far off, either.

“Close!” she says encouragingly. Her grin turns lopsided as she snarks, “But I think you’re supposed to be aiming for the red spot in the middle.”

Sayoung crosses her arms, a challenge in her raised eyebrow. “You wanna have a go at it, then?”

Zoey smirks, the movie temporarily forgotten in favor of the opportunity to show off her skills. “You’re gonna be eating your words very soon.”

Sayoung takes the provocation on her chin. “Let’s see you try, then.”

The chatter quiets— even the guys pause their silly dance moves to watch as Zoey rises to the occasion, fingers curling around one of the darts laid in Hana’s hand. 

“You sure you don’t wanna back down? Don’t wanna humiliate you on reality television,” Zoey teases, unnecessarily cocksure about the entire thing. It’ll be really embarrassing if she talks all this game without any followthrough, but Zoey’s confident in her abilities.

“You’re saying that as though being on reality television isn’t already inherently humiliating,” Mystery pipes in, earning a chorus of chuckles.

“Let’s see if you can even hit the board,” Baby dares. 

“Hey,” Mira says, expression flashing dangerous as she comes to Zoey’s defense. “Watch it, or I’ll hit you between the eyes.”

“Mira, down.” Zoey chuckles. Mira’s jaw snaps shut. “Let my skills do the talking.” 

She rolls her shoulders and winds her arm back like she’s an old-timey cartoon character about to throw a punch.

“You can’t possibly—”

Whatever Romance is about to say is cut off by a resounding thunk, the dart sinking a hair’s breadth away from the dead center.

Zoey turns to him, grinning lazily. “You were saying?”

“You’re kidding,” Ji-soo says in disbelief. “Gotta be some kind of beginner’s luck.”

“Beginner’s—?” Zoey cuts herself off. She snaps her fingers at Hana. “Okay, okay. Give me another one.”

Hana hands her a second dart silently, lips quirked in amusement. “You’re way too easy to bait.”

Zoey puffs out her cheeks with faux-offense. This time, she doesn’t allow herself to indulge in the theatrics. The dart flies— another reverberant thunk— and lands snugly next to the first one.

She turns back to them expectantly, awaiting a shower of praise.

Instead, Jinu rests his chin under his knuckles, stepping closer to the board and inspecting it. He hums his disapproval. “Mm. Not the best work I’ve seen. You could do better.”

Zoey throws her hands up in outrage. “You people are impossible to please!”

But still— she snatches the final dart from Hana’s palm, spinning it once in her hand. Then, taking proper aim this time, she flicks it effortlessly into the red center.

A beat.

“Bullseye!” Zoey exclaims, arms above her head.

Abby and Rumi erupt in cheers, clearly her only allies besides Mira, who’s watching with a barely-there smile.

Zoey grins brazenly, dropping low into a bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night.”

She catches Mira rolling her eyes in the corner of her vision. The tiny upturn of her lips is enough to send Zoey’s stomach into a spiral of flip-flopping butterflies.

“Well that was fun,” she says, patting her hands together like this is just another day in her life. “Onto more important things.” She swings her finger so it’s pointed at Rumi. “You are about to witness cinema.”

Rumi’s expression mirrors the earlier crew member’s bewildered one, but she wipes the look away quickly and grins. “Great. But if I end up hating it, I’ll never trust another one of your recommendations again.”

“I’m not worried one bit.” Zoey scoffs, but when she queues the movie up, she mutters, “Come on, Ratatouille, you’ve never failed me before, so don’t fail me now…”

As the movie flickers on, Zoey cheers and skips back to her seat by Mira’s side, curling in closer to her side than they’d been before she left her seat. 

Mira doesn’t make a point to move away, so Zoey doesn’t either.

***

Rumi eliminates three more people that morning, dwindling their group down to just seven. Ji-soo, Hana, and Sayoung bid the remaining contestants wistful goodbyes. Their farewells are short-lived though— the producers whisk them all away to start their packing for the next destination.

“Off to Cancun we go!” Bobby says, and despite Zoey’s exhaustion, his announcement is enough to give her an extra pep in her step.

If Zoey thought Monaco’s schedule was busy, she wasn’t prepared whatsoever for the breakneck pace that the producers have in store for them in Cancun. As each night ends, she blearily wonders if this is their plan— make her far too fatigued to do anything but sleep by the time she’s off-camera so there aren’t any interactions between the contestants that can slip through the cracks.

(“I’m surprised Baby’s made it this far,” Mira snarks one day, near the tail-end of the week. 

“I’m surprised you made it this far,” Baby shoots back, indignant.

Rumi frowns.

Baby doesn’t make it past the next Rose Ceremony.)

With Cancun long behind them (and Baby, Romance, and Mystery along with it), the producers decide to smoothly transition their final week of the international traveling segment to the first week of the hometown visitations. 

As soon as the plane lands in Burbank, Zoey feels herself being choked by the air around her. Before she’d signed up for the show, she never thought she’d come back here— not for a while, at least, and certainly not with a camera crew following her around. Maybe once the sting of the past finally subsided, and she’d finally be ready to confront all the things that seemed so largely terrifying to her growing up.

But this is the hometown segment, and this is where she’s from. She doesn’t really have much of a choice but to speed up the process of her grand homecoming.

“Your father’s been informed that we’ll be coming around his place by the end of this week,” Bobby updates her as he leads her to her hotel room. “You’re not expected to feature much in this segment, so try to get some rest now.”

“Thank you, Bobby,” she says, smiling weakly. 

He pats her arm reassuringly. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Zoey nods gratefully, and he leaves. She remains standing outside her door for a beat longer, then pushes it open.

When she sees the bed, she almost wants to sob in relief, but her anxiety gnaws at her from the inside. The relieved sob transforms into an apprehensive one, a rock lodging itself halfway up her throat. 

God, she feels sick. There are very few good memories attached to this place, and she really thought she could stomach it, but she feels her earlier meal is beginning to regurgitate.

She’s not sharing a room anymore— there aren’t enough contestants left to necessitate that. She should be ecstatic. She got to experience an amazing date with Rumi in Monaco, danced until dawn in Cancun, and now she gets to take it slow down and breathe for the first time in weeks. Until she has to introduce Rumi to him. 

Zoey doesn’t have a bad relationship with her father, but she certainly can’t say she has a particularly good one with him, either. She’d go as far as to say she hardly has one with him at all anymore.

When she was little, she thought she’d be able to fix everything if she just— smiled wider, made less noise, mediated conflict better. If she was just more useful. But the arguments only grew louder, until eventually, she had to pick a side.

She chose her mother, packed her bags, and followed her to Korea. An action that fractured whatever relationship she had left with her father. Daily calls and messages turned weekly, then monthly. Until she only reached out to him once every few months to give him the rundown on everything in her life, a sanitized, procedural thing.

But it wasn’t just her parents that brought back the bad memories of Burbank. High school was a blur of harsh whispers and lonely lunches. A shove into the lockers here, a ripping of her notebooks there. The kind of bullying that left Zoey feeling small and shriveled, where the only way to be liked was by pleasing everyone. She needed to make herself easier to want to be around; using her excitability to be charming, not bothersome and irritating.

She’s spent years trying to claw her way out of being that version of herself. She’s tried to stand taller, speak her mind out, stand her ground on the things she actually wants.

But now, surrounded by the familiar streets and smells of Burbank, it’s hard not to feel that choking uneasiness creep back up her spine. And soon Rumi— Rumi, who’s only seen the best versions of Zoey, who’s only learned to like this side of her, instead of the complicated jumble borne of her complicated beginnings— will see everything that Zoey has wanted to leave behind.

Zoey sinks her face into her pillow, and with a shuddering breath, she cries. 

***

“You don’t seem too happy to be here,” Rumi comments offhandedly in the back seat of the car. Their week in Burbank is already reaching its end. This meeting with Zoey’s father is the final order of business to attend to before they return to Seoul for the other hometown visits.

Zoey’s jaw slackens, a mock-cheerful denial resting on the tip of her tongue. But Rumi just looks back at her evenly, openly. Like she wants Zoey to let her in. 

Zoey surprises even herself when she finds that she does want to.

“I just don’t have a lot of good memories attached to this place,” Zoey says, letting out a wobbly breath. “And I barely talk to my dad. I don’t know what he’s gonna say to you, and I—” Her voice cracks. She swallows dryly. “I don’t want you to think—”

Rumi places a comforting hand over hers, voice low and soothing as she says, “Don’t worry about me. We can turn this entire car around right now if that’s what you want.”

Zoey glances back at her then, eyes widening, heart thudding. 

She wants so badly to say yes. To have Rumi whisk her away from this place and never interact with her father again. But they have to be here for the show, and despite being the lead, Rumi’s sway can only extend so far.

“No, it’s okay,” Zoey laments. “Just… please don’t—” 

She has no idea what she’s asking for. Maybe she doesn’t want Rumi to think less of her or her family. Maybe she doesn’t want Rumi to leave her behind if Zoey isn’t… enough for her. Or if she’s too much. She doesn’t know how to make people like her, how to make people stay. Every performance she pulls takes just a little bit more out of her, weaning her of her energy, until all that’s left of her is a husk.

Rumi’s steady hand atop her own is the only grounding force that keeps her from spiraling too much.

“It’s okay,” Rumi murmurs, like she knows. Like she understands. “I’ll be there the whole time.”

Zoey pulls closer instinctively, shoving all of her gratitude into a desperately tender kiss. Rumi’s hand comes up to cup her face, thumb stroking her cheek to wipe at a stray tear.

“Sorry,” Zoey whispers, pulling away and curling as far into the corner of the car as she can. She scrubs her face with the back of her hand roughly, sniffling like a child. “Sorry, I don’t… um, I don’t want you to—”

“It’s okay,” Rumi insists, scooting closer to pull Zoey’s hands away from her face. “Can you look at me, please?”

And because Zoey’s nothing if not subservient— she blinks hard, until the tears disappear and Rumi’s honey eyes come into clear view. 

“I’m not going anywhere. You say the word, and we leave.”

Zoey releases a heavy, shuddering breath, thinning her lips and nodding gratefully. “Okay. Thank you.”

She’s glad she doesn’t have to face this reunion with her father alone, Rumi’s firmness acting as an emotional anchor for her, cutting through her jumble of thoughts.

(She wishes she could have Mira’s bravery with her too. Her cutting, protective glares, the edge to her tone whenever Zoey is made to be even slightly uncomfortable.

“Not without Rumi,” Mira’s voice echoes in her skull. Zoey feels another nauseous wave of guilt wash over her.

She tries to shove it aside. One thing at a time, she pleads her mind. I’ll get to the Mira stuff later.)

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Rumi says after a long pause. She waits another beat, as though waiting for Zoey to give her permission to ask her question.

“Hm?”

“Why not just introduce me to some childhood friends? You weren’t obligated to introduce me to your father.”

Zoey tries not to laugh too self-pityingly. Because how the hell is she supposed to tell Rumi that she had virtually no friends growing up?

“I didn’t really stay in touch with many of the people I knew here,” Zoey admits, staring down at her hands and picking absentmindedly at the skin near her cuticles. “I was… a bit of a weirdo. And not in a haha, so quirky, so random way. Like— actually weird.”

To her surprise, Rumi just throws her head back and laughs. “I’m a nepotism baby for the Bachelor,” she says between giggles. “I was practically raised to be a reality TV lead. I think I’m the ultimate weirdo. Try me.”

The declaration oddly puts Zoey at ease, a tentative smile touching her lips. “Well, when you put it like that, I guess I was a pretty normal kid with nerdy interests.”

Rumi nudges her affectionately. “Please. You still have nerdy interests.”

“Got me there.” Zoey giggles. “But really. I was the kid who played around alone in the dirt with sticks during recess because I couldn’t convince my friends to pretend playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with me. I’d be Mikey, of course, since he’s the goofy one, and everyone wants to be the goofy one. Plus, he uses nunchucks, which I think are pretty cool, but—”

She catches herself suddenly, wincing. She’s about to go on another long-winded ramble. Nobody wants to hear that shit.

But Rumi just gazes on attentively, a hint of a smile on the edges of her lips. “I’d have loved playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with you,” she says so sincerely that it swipes Zoey straight off her feet. “But I think you’d be a good mix of Donnie and Mikey. Smart and funny.”

Zoey stares at her, slightly awed. “You know TMNT?”

Rumi looks at her oddly, missing the point of Zoey’s shock. She knows Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but never even heard of Ratatouille? It’s like she was selectively sheltered, or something. “Yeah? I loved those cartoons growing up. Leo always resonated with me a lot.”

Zoey nods along enthusiastically, an intense excitement beginning to bubble up in her chest. “Yes, I can see that totally! And Mira would be Raph.”

Rumi’s eyes flicker at the mention of Mira’s name, so small that Zoey barely notices it— a flit of her gaze to the left, then trained right back on Zoey’s face. “Right, exactly.”

Zoey recognizes her own blunder— she’s never fully able to stop mentioning Mira at any given opportunity.

“And naturally,” Zoey continues, trying to smoothly transition away, “Celine would be Splinter.”

Rumi guffaws, then slaps her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing too hard. “Oh, you really nailed that.”

Zoey wants nothing more than to continue speculating; she’ll never turn down the chance to talk about this show. But just then, the car pulls into a familiar, narrow driveway.

Zoey’s stomach twists so tightly, she’s not unconvinced that someone just kicked her in the gut.

They enter her dad’s small, modest house. When her father opens the door, he smiles politely, his gaze cutting to the cameras behind them, then back to Zoey.

“Zoey,” he says. His voice sounds the same as it did all those years ago, if a little weary on the edges. He steps aside to let them in. “It’s been a while.”

The inside looks just as Zoey remembers it, if a bit neater than usual. Still, the cleanliness looks hurried, like he’d just shoved his clutter under his couch or into the closets and then called it a day. The stench of cigarettes and cheap whiskey cling to the curtains— yet another thing that seems to have remained the same since she’s been gone.

She takes in the interior decor— or lack thereof. He seems to carry out the life of a minimalist, just two couches, a coffee table, and a TV in the living room. A calendar hangs on the wall, still stuck on the page from three months ago. She notices two framed photos total: one of when Zoey was eight, grinning with half her teeth missing, and another of her high school graduation, her smile stiff and faded.

She turns her attention back to her father, clearing her throat.

“Dad, this is Rumi,” Zoey says, voice uncharacteristically formal.

He shakes Rumi’s hand. “The famous Rumi. Nice to meet you.”

Rumi gives him an award-winning smile. “It’s really nice to meet you too, Mr. Choi.”

They sit in the living room, the silence stretching too long between small talk about the weather and travel. It’s all so pointless and sanitized; it’s like he doesn’t want to touch on anything actually important or relevant to them.

Zoey keeps smoothing her shirt, nails worrying at a loose thread. Rumi continuously glances over at her, as though she can sense the tension coming off her shoulders.

Then her father chuckles, almost absently, and says, “I’m sure Zoey’s shown you her drawings by now. She used to pester everyone to look at them.”

Zoey’s head snaps up, a flush creeping up her neck. She’s suddenly regretting thinking about the small talk so bitterly. She’d rather have any conversation besides this. “Oh, uh, no. We haven’t really—”

Rumi tilts her head, genuinely curious. “No, actually, she hasn’t shown me any.” She turns to Zoey, intrigue blooming from her eyes. “You draw?”

Her father hums, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe she’s finally over her childish fascinations. Certainly not something I’d ever expect, but I guess you’ve got to grow up eventually.”

Rumi’s brow furrows, a frown painting her lips. “I don’t think that sounds childish at all.”

Zoey forces a laugh, but it sounds unnaturally brittle, even to her own ears. “No, yeah, it kind of was. I used to be obsessed, like, annoyingly so.” She waves a hand like she can swat away the discomfort settling thick in her sternum. “It’s not that big a deal.”

But Rumi doesn’t let it go. Her voice softens, earnest. “It is a big deal. I’d love to see your drawings one day.”

Zoey’s laugh falters, caught somewhere between gratitude and panic. Her throat tightens; she can’t look at either of them.

Her father clears his throat, dismissive. “Well, everyone needs a hobby, I suppose.”

Zoey swallows, trying to smile. “Yup.”

Rumi turns toward her, clearly not willing to just drop it, like Zoey so desperately wishes she would. She lowers her voice, expression stern. “Don’t talk down about your interests like that.”

Her father doesn’t seem to catch it— or maybe he just chooses not to. He’s already shifting topics, asking about Seoul, about work, about the show. But Zoey barely hears him. She feels twelve years old again, shrinking into the couch, every instinct screaming to smooth things over, to keep the peace.

And then Rumi’s hand finds hers.

The static in her mind halts and begins to untwist itself.

For the first time since walking through that door, Zoey looks up and meets her father’s eyes fully, unwavering.

***

The rest of the visit had been nebulous, and largely unproblematic. It wasn’t nearly as intimidating as she’d hyped it up to be inside her mind, but it stills weighs on her chest heavily.

Zoey is silent, a small, sad smile on her lips as Rumi opens her car door for her. She just sits, glancing out the rearview window for a small stretch of time, just to see her old house grow smaller the further they drive away.

“You did really well,” Rumi says, soft and hesitant.

Usually, that kind of praise gets her going, but Zoey just releases a short, sob-like laugh. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Rumi’s brow creases, and she shifts her torso to look at her fully. “He shouldn’t have talked to you that way.”

Grief seizes her throat, and she swallows it down, shaking her head. “No, it’s fine. He’s just kind of like that sometimes. I expected it.” Her throat clogs with another sob. “I just— feel like a child again. But it’s… whatever. Seriously. Not a big deal.”

Rumi takes a hold of her fingers, bringing each knuckle to her lips slowly, achingly. Almost as though she’s worshipping her.

Zoey’s pulse thuds, and she feels a strange urge to yank her arms back and retreat further into herself. She hasn’t done anything to deserve this level of adoration. Her problems are— they’re too much. Rumi shouldn’t have to feel like she has to stay here and comfort her.

“I think you’re incredible,” Rumi says simply. “And your passion is incredible. And the way you care for people is incredible.”

“You’re—“

“And I want to see your drawings,” Rumi cuts in, bulldozing through Zoey’s protests like she isn’t even making them.

“They’re not—“

“I’m the Bachelorette,” Rumi declares snootily, interrupting her yet again. “And what I say goes.”

Zoey stares at her for several beats— and something cracks open from inside her. Something she’d buried deep into the crevices of her chest long ago and never tended to again.

And then a burst of giggles erupt from that cavity in her ribs.

“Okay,” Zoey says, tension uncoiling. “You win. I’ll show you my stupid little doodles.”

Rumi grins back, beautiful and triumphant.

***

They fly back to Seoul for the last three hometown visits.

Zoey sits with Mira on the hotel lobby couch, legs crossed, the distant whir of the cameras making her acutely aware of their presence. She keeps the conversation light and animated— the kind of conversation that’s meant to be digestible for the audience. The mics hover ominously over their heads, as though it’s just waiting to be told something scandalous. 

She can’t tell her about the kiss yet, not like this.

She needs to know if Mira had been Rumi’s first kiss. If it’d happened before her whispered promise that night. Not without Rumi. If Mira even meant it the same way she did.

The problem is, they never talked about what it actually meant. That night on the bed had been a blur of touches, almost-kisses, and almost-confessions. Mira had pulled back before it went too far, and Zoey had muttered the quiet part aloud— that they shouldn’t do anything without Rumi.

Because in Zoey’s mind, she meant that she didn’t want to choose. It didn’t mean that she wanted one of them over the other. For once in her life, she didn’t want to choose between two people— didn’t want to cause a division within her own heart just to appease every side.

And now, after Rumi’s kiss, that promise feels like it’s starting to unravel.

Zoey hadn’t planned it— she was defenseless against the gravity of her own desire, like the inevitable closing of distance. She couldn’t have stopped it even if she’d tried. In the same vein, Zoey probably wouldn’t have stopped herself from kissing Mira that night if Mira hadn’t drawn the boundary for them both in the first place.

With Rumi gone with Jinu to visit his family, the lobby seems so large and empty. Abby left some time ago to the hotel’s gym (“Gotta keep in shape to keep Rumi interested,” he’d said with a saucy wink), but he should be on his way back by now.

It’s… strange, and a little bit lonely now that the majority of the contestants have gone, even with the entire production crew constantly up their asses. It’s still surreal to Zoey that she made it this far, surpassing over twenty other people just because she’s managed to fall into Rumi’s favor.

She’s mid-thought when Abby strolls back into the lobby, towel slung over his neck, hair damp with sweat.

“You know,” he starts conversationally, dropping onto the couch opposite her and Mira, “I was just thinking about how I made it to the final four, and Rumi and I still haven’t kissed.”

Mira screws up her face at the statement, but Zoey just blinks. “Oh. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Abby says with an easy shrug. “Not that I have a problem with it or anything. I just figured she didn’t really want to kiss anyone yet, you know? She’s been dating like twenty people at once, trying to find someone she actually likes in what— six weeks?”

Zoey just nods along, laughing politely. Still, she has no idea where he’s trying to go with this. “Yeah. It’s… a lot.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s what I thought too. But then—” He pauses, almost theatrically, glancing around as if making sure no one’s listening. Even though there are literally cameras and mics all around them. “—I overheard the camera crew talking earlier.”

Zoey’s heart stutters, a small pit of dread forming in the base of her stomach. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Abby’s smile is thin, curious. “Apparently Rumi’s only kissed two people so far—Jinu and you.”

The words hit like a quick punch to the gut. Zoey’s breath catches, her mouth suddenly dry. At the edge of her vision, she can see Mira’s neck snapping to look at her. So Mira wasn’t Rumi’s first kiss. She didn’t kiss Rumi at all. Zoey’s the only one who went against their word to each other.

She forces a laugh that sounds pitchy and wrong, an octave too high. “Oh. I didn’t—” She swallows, then says quickly, “I didn’t know that. I mean— well, it’s not like she’d tell me, right? Why would she? It’s a dating show.” 

He chuckles, oblivious. “Yeah, guess that’s true. Still— wild, right? Only two kisses in the whole season. Must’ve been pretty special.”

Zoey wishes he would just stop talking already. She strangely misses Baby’s irritating gremlin energy. At least he wouldn’t pry like this. Or Mystery, who spoke maybe three whole sentences for the entirety of the time that Zoey knew him. He definitely wouldn’t have gone on the way Abby is now.

Zoey takes a long, suffering breath, then braves a glance at Mira, pulse racing and stumbling over itself. 

Mira’s eyes don’t meet hers, though. Instead, they drift lower, down the slope of Zoey’s nose, and land on her lips.

“You kissed Rumi?” she rasps.

Zoey’s stomach flips when she sees Mira’s tongue flick out to wet her lips. “Um…”

Mira’s gaze snaps back up to meet her eyes, demanding now. “Did you?”

Zoey nods mutely, wishing the ground (or— maybe Mira) would just swallow her up right now. 

Mira just responds with a hum.

And then she stands up and walks away.

Chapter Text

“Mira,” Zoey pleads, knocking on her door insistently. “Mira, please.”

Mira’s mind drifts to an image uninvited— Zoey and Rumi in some quiet version of a future that doesn’t have camera crews and microphones. A future that doesn’t have her.

She sees them in a small kitchen, heads tilted back as they laugh over something trivial. Rumi standing behind Zoey, arms looped loosely around her waist as she stirs a pot on the stove. Zoey leans back just enough to rest her head on Rumi’s shoulder, easy and natural, like she’s done it a hundred times before. Maybe she burns the food, too distracted by Rumi’s body against hers. Maybe there’s music playing— something peaceful and soothing— and Rumi hums along with that melodic voice of hers.

In another flicker of thought, they’re outside under a night sky. Rumi has planned it all: the picnic blanket, the string lights, the wine. Rumi’s eyes shine in the glow. Mira can almost hear her laugh, that bright, unguarded one. Zoey would make her laugh like that.

Then she sees Zoey showing Rumi her favorite movies, quoting every line, making commentary over the dialogue. Rumi watching along eagerly, taking diligent notes to the film and to Zoey’s rambles, eyebrows scrunched in that way she does when she’s focusing on something important to her. The two of them pressed together on the couch, warm and content.

Mira stands on the edges of every image, a ghost at the doorway, unchosen. She doesn’t belong in the soft light of those scenes. 

When Mira was eleven-years-old, her parents signed her up for ballet lessons. Long before that, her brother— their prodigal son, had already been taking piano, lining their shelves with trophies and awards for his talent.

The day of her first recital, Mira hadn’t been able to sleep, and she woke long before the sun rose. Her skin had buzzed with nerves, her toes blistered with the hours of practice that she’d put in. She thought this was it. The thing that would make her family look at her. She could see it now: her parents in the audience, her father with his camera, her mother with a bouquet, ready to give to her.

She stood on that stage, back straight, chin held high. The curtain lifted, and—

Her parents weren’t there.

They’d chosen to go to her brother’s piano concert instead.

Mira learned very early on in her life that she would never be anyone’s first pick. Some people are just easier to love.

***

“Mira,” Zoey repeats for the tenth— hundredth— millionth— time, knuckles rapping against her hotel room door. “Please open up.”

Mira doesn’t respond, jaw clenched as she stares back at her faint reflection on the window, trying to block out the sound of Zoey’s voice. Her room is the only place she has some privacy from the cameras. She deserves a small reprieve from this all, but Zoey won’t fucking leave.

“There aren’t any cameras around right now,” Zoey says, voice muffled by the physical barrier between them. “So, we can— we can talk freely. Please, Mira, I’m just—”

Her voice breaks, and Mira can feel her heart clenching at the sound. 

She curses herself for feeling bad; it’s not fair that she feels bad. She wants to be angry. She should be. Not— Not soft. 

Anger would be easier. It would give her something to hold on to, a weapon or a shield, an offense or a defense against this gnawing in her chest. Instead, she feels the edges of her fury blur into remorse, and remorse into sorrow; Mira hates that too.

Why can’t she just stay angry, like she always is? Why is it that— the moment she hears Zoey’s voice crack like this, everything melts into something gentler?

She clenches her fists and digs her teeth into the inside of her cheek, biting down hard, as if pain could stave off the tenderness. But all it does is serve as a reminder that she cares— and that’s the worst part.

“I’m sorry,” Zoey babbles out, unaware of the internal turmoil in Mira’s mind. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I never meant to— I don’t want to— I’m sorry. I messed up, and I know I did, and I hurt you, and I’m sorry, and I just want to talk—”

Mira swings the door open before her mind catches up with her body.

Zoey looks up at her, unshed tears glistening in her lashes. Her bottom lip wobbles, but the moment Mira makes eye contact with her, relief pours through her expression.

Mira stares back blankly. She throws a glance at either end of the hallway— no cameras, no crew. When the coast is clear, she grabs Zoey by the front of her shirt and yanks her into her room, shutting the door behind her.

“What,” Mira snaps, voice low. 

Zoey’s gaze flickers at the edge in her tone, but she raises her chin anyway to meet her gaze. “I want you to talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Mira says dismissively.

“I kissed Rumi,” Zoey says, blunt, eyes searching Mira’s face. 

Mira tries not to react, but her body has a visceral reaction to the words, eyes flicking down to Zoey’s mouth. She kissed Rumi with those lips. She wonders if—

She forces her eyes back up.

“I shouldn’t have done it without you,” Zoey continues, and an image of Rumi and Zoey— both of them— flashes through her mind, unbidden. Both of them on either side of her. Both of them touching her. Both of them kissing her.

Mira’s gaze drifts back downward traitorously, scanning the curve of Zoey’s mouth, and she wonders. She wonders how Rumi’s lips must have felt against them; how Zoey’s must have felt. Did their lips slot together perfectly? Pieces of a puzzle, inevitable in their collision?

Does Mira even fit in that puzzle?

“We agreed,” Mira says, voice coming out smaller and more pathetic than she thought it ever could. She hates the way she sounds. Like she’s eleven again, standing backstage of her recital, donned in her tutu while her classmates were showered with flowers. Like she’s asking, Why not me? Why don’t I get chosen? What do I need to do to be chosen?

Her throat tightens. “We agreed,” she repeats, but it sounds more like a desperate call than a firm statement.

Zoey’s eyes soften, guilt painted across on her face. “I know,” she whispers. “And I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… didn’t know what to do when she kissed me.”

“You didn’t know what to do,” Mira repeats slowly, testing the words on her tongue. Anger squeezes through her ribcage, hands digging into her heart until it aches. It’s hot and piercing, and she feels her vulnerabilities splintering. “You couldn’t have stopped her? I stopped her on my one-on-one with her. I stopped you, too, that night on the bed.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop her.” Zoey flares up, mouth twisting down in a frown, though her voice stays low. “And I didn’t ask you to stop me either.”

“You agreed,” Mira seethes, furious and frustrated— and if she could stop looking at Zoey’s lips for five fucking seconds, that’d be great. “You said we wouldn’t do anything without Rumi. Then you went ahead and kissed her without me.”

“I thought we were just bringing her on board,” Zoey says, tone wobbling, gradually intensifying. “I didn’t think that—“

“You chose her—“

“It’s not a fucking choice!” Zoey shouts then, eyes dark and intense, face red. 

Mira clamps her jaw shut at the outburst, stunned to silence. 

“I wasn’t choosing her over you— Did you— Do you really think I’m capable of going more than five minutes without thinking about you? That I wasn’t— kissing Rumi and imagining you were there, too?”

Zoey looks at the ground and scrubs at her face. It’s as though her anger bounced up once, then took an immediate nosedive, like an anvil weighing her back down to the bottom of the ocean. Mira thinks for a second that Zoey’s about to apologize, but then—

“If Rumi tried to kiss me again, I wouldn’t stop her,” Zoey says softly. Then she looks up and stares back at her evenly, any evidence of her tears gone, clarity in her face and her tone. “And if you tried to kiss me right now, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Zoey’s words echo within her skull, reverberating.

Mira stares. The room feels too small now; the air too thick. Her anger, so sawlike at its edges, dulls and fizzles out with nowhere left to go. She swallows hard and dry, feeling slightly off-balance from the… everything of it all.

Mira’s heartbeat stutters and stumbles, her palms clamming.

The anger had been easier— natural for her. But this—? Zoey in front of her, daring her with her words and with the shape of her lips. It’s something else entirely, sweeping her off her feet.

“You kissed Rumi,” Mira just repeats, dizzy.

The distance between them shortens imperceptibly as Zoey takes a slow step forward.

“I did.” Zoey’s voice doesn’t waver. “And I thought about you. With her— With us.”

The words feel like Mira’s just been caressed with a slap; sharp and gentle at the same time. Mira’s breath catches, and she wants to move— forward, backward, she has no idea which— but her feet stay rooted in its spot.

She pictures Rumi again. Her hand cradling Zoey’s jaw, the way Zoey would have had to tilt her head up to kiss her. Rumi’s honey eyes fluttering shut, Zoey’s freckled cheeks turning pink. 

“I don’t… know what—” Mira whispers, stomach twisting. She tries to start again, "Rumi—"

Zoey only steps closer, her perfume wafting, sweet and suffocating. It makes Mira’s head spin.

“Are you thinking about her?” Zoey asks, voice pitching low. “I am.”

Mira feels her restraint slipping with every sentence that comes out of Zoey’s pretty mouth.

Silence presses down on them heavily, buzzing around her. Mira pinches her fingers into the back of her hand, trying to spark herself back into reality. Her anger has long since burned out, leaving a wisp of something smoky and warm in her lungs.

Mira risks another glance up at her. Zoey’s eyes are wide and urging, her defiance softened. 

Mira can’t help it. Her gaze drops, to the curve of the mouth she’s spent this whole conversation failing to look away from. Her pulse jumps. Her throat dries.

She can almost see it— Rumi’s lipstick smudged on Zoey’s lips, invisible now, but burning in Mira’s imagination.

And she wonders—

“If I taste you, will I taste her?”

Zoey’s lips part, gaze dark, taunting. “Taste me and find out.”

For a moment, neither of them moves. The words sizzle in the air between them, irreversible. Mira’s breath shudders out of her as her body— starving— leans forward.

Zoey stands, unblinking, waiting, anticipating. Like she knows what Mira’s going to do before Mira even knows. 

Taste me, Zoey’s words loop in her mind, a broken record. Taste me. Taste me. Taste me.

And Mira does.

Whatever control Mira thought she had over herself snaps. She surges forward and catches Zoey’s mouth with hers. It lands messy, slightly off-kilter; she’s not soft about it. It’s a collision, everything left unsaid between them dissipating into certainty.

Zoey breathes against her, hot and restless as her hands reach for Mira’s waist and drag her closer, pressing their hips flush together.

Mira threads her fingers into her hair, slowing down just enough to tug Zoey’s bottom lip between her teeth, swiping her tongue against it. It’s desperate and rushed. The image of Rumi still lingers behind her eyelids.

For a fleeting second, she imagines that she does taste Rumi on her tongue— something sweet and sharp. The thought punches through the clouds within her mind, and Mira releases a small sound against Zoey’s mouth.

Zoey pulls back just slightly, face flushed, eyes searching. “Mira—”

But Mira kisses her again before she can finish, punishing and forgiving all at once.

“Mira,” Zoey murmurs again, voice coming out through a whine between their mouths. “Mira.”

The way she says her name— like a plea, like it’s something sacred— makes Mira’s heart lurch. She can’t help but wonder if Zoey said Rumi’s name like this too. If her breath hitched the same way, if her voice cracked at the end. If she pulled away only to lean back in again, unable to help herself.

The image forms unbidden: Zoey tilting her head, Rumi’s hand cupping her jaw, that same tremor in Zoey’s voice when she whispers her name.

The thought burns.

Mira kisses her harder, trying to make Zoey say her name again, to make it sound different this time. Like it belongs to her.

Zoey gasps, her fingers clutching at the front of Mira’s shirt. “Mira,” she says once more, barely a breath.

Zoey’s hands brush lower, wrapping around her and digging into Mira’s back pockets. Zoey squeezes her closer.

“Zoey,” Mira breathes into her, but Zoey swallows it with a kiss. She groans, mind swimming with want. Did Zoey do this to Rumi, too? And is this how Zoey felt when Rumi kissed her? Completely and utterly undone? She thinks of Rumi’s lips, a phantom touch in this moment between her and Zoey. “Ru…”

She cuts herself off before she can say anything further, the name lodging halfway up her throat. She tries to snap away, shame creeping up her neck.

Zoey pulls her in further, but she doesn’t kiss her this time. Her mouth brushes against her cheek, nose to Mira’s ear. And then she whispers, knowingly, “You don’t have to choose. Say her name.”

Mira hesitates, the gravity of the moment falling onto her shoulders. Then—

“Rumi,” she chants, mouth catching along Zoey’s cheek, her jaw. “Rumi. Zoey.” She nips at the skin of her neck, feeling Zoey’s quick, shallow breaths against her. “Zoey— fuck, I want—”

“Fuck, Mira.” Zoey pants erratically; every rise of her chest has her body brushing against Mira’s own. “I want— you.”

She shoves the collar of Zoey’s shirt down, exposing the scatter of freckles against her clavicle. She thinks she blacks out for a second, all logic thrown out of the window the moment she sees her skin bare in front of her.

“Mira— Rumi,” Zoey gasps out.

If she keeps this up, Mira’s going to lose her mind.

“Rumi,” Mira says, almost as a response. Rumi is with them, a lingering presence designed to drive both of them mad. 

Zoey echoes the name back to her, a mantra for them both. With every kiss, it’s a vision of Rumi’s touch. With every touch, there’s the sensation of Rumi’s kiss. 

Mira’s teeth scratch along her collarbone, earning a low, guttural moan. She revels in the feeling of her heartbeat racing under her tongue, and she sucks hard on her skin.

A hazy, possessive thought crosses her mind as she watches a mark bloom on the top of her chest. Good. Mine.

"Rumi," Zoey exhales.

Mira thinks of purple hair and honey brown eyes and jagged edges of tattoos lining strong arms.

Ours.

***

There’s nothing quite like resolving your issues by making out heavily about it, Mira thinks to herself as she shuffles into the backseat of the limousine with Rumi.

The memory of Zoey from the day before— her lips, her hands, her breaths— tingles under Mira’s skin. Even with the impending dread over facing her family again, now with the special features of a camera and audience, she can’t bring herself to care all that much. She refuses to let this show humiliate and torture her further.

The car ride to Mira’s childhood home is quiet. Rumi sits beside her with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture calm but alert, as if trying not to disturb the air between them. The cameras are tucked into the corners of the car, and even when she looks away, she can feel them buzzing, scrutinizing her.

Outside the window, her hometown rolls by in faded colors. The streets look smaller than she remembers, the trees thinner, the houses closer together— as if the world itself has shrunk since she last saw it. Even the mansion up ahead, once enormous and looming, now looks like a hollow stage set. A perfect replica of her childhood home, stripped of warmth. She supposes that’s what it’s always been like. She was just too young and naive to see it for what it really was.

Though she was not expecting to feel something as foolish as nostalgia, she’d at least expected a hint of dread. Instead, she feels nothing but distance— like she’s driving through a diorama of her own past, sealed behind glass. A visitor now, rather than a resident, watching from the outside, never to belong here again. 

When they finally pull into the long, curved driveway, Mira already knows something’s wrong.

The front gate groans open on its rusted hinges. No one waits on the porch, just a heavy silence. And then—

“Mira,” her brother says, opening the door. Seong-jae’s voice still carries that dry scrape of disinterest, as if her name itself is a burden. “Welcome.”

Mira doesn’t bother to fake enthusiasm. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

He shrugs, stepping aside to let them in. “Couldn’t make it.”

“Couldn’t,” she repeats flatly. “Or wouldn’t?”

His smirk twitches, small but sharp. He glances at the camera crew filing in behind them, then at Rumi, who offers a polite, careful smile. “You know how they feel about… all this.” He gestures vaguely toward the cameras, toward Rumi, toward her. “They said it’s not really their kind of thing.”

Of course not, Mira thinks. I’m never their kind of thing.

Rumi lays a gentle hand on her back, her voice soft enough to barely reach her. “It’s okay. We don’t have to—”

But Mira cuts her off with a tight smile. “It’s fine.” She turns back to Seong-jae. “You can start the tour, or whatever. Make it quick.”

He leads them down the wide hallway, the air cold and faintly dusty. The marble floors echo under their feet, every step too loud in the expansive space. The house feels enormous— imposing, yet strangely empty. The walls are lined with family portraits and glass display cases, but it’s all for appearances. No warmth or vitality. Like a curated museum built to display a family she was never even a part of.

Her gaze skims past the display of her old ballet trophies. She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even let herself blink at them. They’re meaningless now. They always were. She remembers the hours of training, the aching feet, the desperate hunger for approval that never came. Her parents never showed up to a single recital. Not because they didn’t have time— but because they never thought her worthy of it.

If she’s the black sheep now, it’s because they made her that way. Every time they dismissed her, every time they turned away, she pushed harder, rebelled louder. Until there was no way back.

Seong-jae narrates the tour for the cameras, his voice smooth and practiced. He tosses out old family anecdotes like confetti— each one carefully chosen to make her the punchline. Mira, do you remember when you fell off your bike in the driveway? Or that time you almost burned the kitchen down trying to bake cookies? He laughs, haughty and rich.

Rumi chuckles politely, though Mira can see the strain in her smile. It's like she’s trying to keep whatever civility she can. Mira feels almost sorry for bringing her into this.

But then, a darker, sharper thought slides in. What would her parents think if they saw Rumi standing in their home now? Are they going to sanitize the entire place, burn the furniture, repaint the walls— just to erase any trace of them here?

The idea almost makes her smile. Not warmly, but with a bitter sort of triumph. She wants them to watch this episode when it releases, she wants them to squirm when they see her.

She wants them to see exactly who she’s become.

Her brother’s voice pulls her back, not because of what he’s saying, but because she notices Rumi’s expression harden. That soft, polite smile has vanished, replaced by a small, acute frown.

“—and Mira was always a troublemaker for our parents,” Seong-jae is telling her, leaning casually against the arm of the couch as if he’s performing. “They’re hard people to impress— what with our family’s status and all— and, well… there wasn’t ever anything particularly impressive about Mira.”

Mira blinks. For a moment, all she can hear is the low hum of the cameras, likely zooming in on her face, seeking any glimpse of a break or reaction.

Rumi’s eyes narrow, the space around them suddenly tightening, like the air itself is bracing for impact. Her voice is low, calm, but dangerous, a gunshot with a silencer. “Choose your next words very carefully.”

Seong-jae hesitates— just for a beat. His mouth opens, closes, then his features settle into that familiar, smug shape. He sits back, forces a chuckle, trying to regain control.

“So, this is the Bachelorette, huh?” he says, his grin widening to something almost feral. “Even with that attitude, I guess it’s not too hard to get on TV if you’re willing to kiss enough people for it.”

The words hit the room like a dropped glass— shattering and irreversible.

Rumi freezes. Her composure flickers out, leaving only stunned quiet. Mira feels the slow rise of heat crawl up her neck before her mind even catches up. For a second, it’s just white noise— her pulse, her breath, the sting of old belittlement colliding with new fury.

“What did you just say?” Mira demands.

He raises a brow, still pretending it’s a joke. “Come on, don’t be like that. It’s just—”

“Say it again,” Mira cuts in, her voice biting and cold. “Go on. Say it again. I fucking dare you.”

Seong-jae laughs, stiffer now. “Relax, I’m just saying she’s kind of— what? A flirt? It’s a dating show, Mira. Don’t get all—”

“Shut your mouth.” The words tear out of her before she can stop them. Her voice cracks— not from weakness, but from the sheer pressure of everything she’s swallowed for years. The dam inside her splinters, her jaw working indignantly. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

Rumi looks stricken, her hand hovering near Mira’s arm, hesitant, like she doesn’t know whether the gesture would be comforting or would only prove to worsen the situation.

Mira pushes back, the legs of her chair scraping harshly against the tile. “We’re done here.”

Seong-jae’s smirk twitches, uncertain now. “Mira, come on— don’t be dramatic.”

She turns on him, eyes blazing. “You think you can humiliate her the way Mom and Dad humiliated me my whole life? You think I’ll just sit here and let you?” Her voice wavers, but it doesn’t break. “Not a fucking chance.”

Rumi’s fingers finally find her wrist— warm, grounding. Mira exhales, the rage still simmering in her chest, but steadied now by that touch.

“Let’s go,” she says, turning to Rumi, her tone low, final. 

She twists her wrist to capture Rumi’s hand, interlacing their fingers and walks out without another glance back.

The cameras follow, of course— but for once, Mira doesn’t give a shit. She doesn’t care about the way this will be edited or how the audience will interpret her anger.

She squeezes Rumi’s hand once, pouring all the angry, desperate affection she can into the motion. Rumi squeezes back, allowing herself to be pulled along in Mira’s wild haze of emotions.

“Mira,” Rumi says once, softly.

Mira just barrels on, throwing open the doors and stepping out of the entranceway. She doesn’t want to stay here any longer.

Her chest lightens the instant her foot touches the gravel of the driveway, feeling like someone has just released their harsh fingers around her throat, offering her a reprieve of fresh air.

“Mira,” Rumi repeats, firmer this time. Her heels dig against the ground to halt Mira’s defiant stride.

“I can’t believe he’d—“

Mira’s words dissipate when she turns back to look at her, suddenly assaulted with the most dizzying smile she’s ever been lucky enough to witness. 

Rumi untwists their fingers, but only so she can hold Mira’s hand within both of hers, thumbs grazing the back of her knuckles methodically, as though every swipe of her fingers are an attempt to ease the tension from Mira.

(Scarily, it works.)

“Don’t you think…” she starts, slow and teasing, gazing up at her and taking a step closer, “it’d be funny to give one final fuck you to your parents right now?”

Mira stares back at Rumi, entranced. Whatever rampage she’d been ready to set out on has screeched to a stop, her focus completely taken by Rumi— her words, her actions, her touches. The way she looks at Mira like she belongs by her side.

“What’d you—“ Mira clears her throat to unclog the lump beginning to form there. Her eyes drift downward to Rumi’s lips. The same lips that kissed Zoey, the same lips that seem to be luring Mira in now.  Mira finds her voice again. “What’d you have in mind?”

Rumi answers with a hand against her jaw, her thumb gliding across her cheek to land on Mira’s mouth.

Mira’s body stiffens at the contact immediately, muscles seizing before she can do something completely untoward in front of all these cameras.

Rumi’s smile morphs from dazzling to coy, like she’s about to share an inside joke that only they’d get. “A heart attack.”

It’s like Rumi’s toying with her self-control, much like Zoey’d done when she’d whispered into her ear yesterday. It’d taken all of Mira’s willpower to stop the moment at just those heated kisses.

Mira thinks she deserves an award for everything she’s managed to keep herself from doing on this show.

Rumi grants her that award instantly, replacing the thumb on Mira’s bottom lip with her own mouth.

The kiss is fervent and hot, and Mira meets it without hesitation, already starving for more before they’ve even broken apart. 

God, she understands Zoey now. She understands the giddy, reckless desire that comes with kissing Rumi— the kind of desire that makes her forget the rest of the world. She isn’t sure she’d be able to stop now if she tried.

There’s something addicting to the way Rumi kisses— unsure, yet eager. Delicate in her touches, but hungry in her pace, like she’s been presented with a feast after going years without a single meal. 

Mira projects that energy right back, savoring every sensation, every noise, every graze. She commits it all to memory, intoxicated— Rumi's hand sliding down to rest upon her collarbone, the way Rumi’s body trembles when Mira’s fingers splay out against her back.

Mira coaxes Rumi’s lips apart tenderly, slipping her tongue in. She feels the vibrations of Rumi’s whimper— needy, desperate— reverberate from her sternum.

It only spurs Mira on more, the sound overpowering any senses she has left. 

They part for a moment, their breaths coated in want, foreheads touching.

Rumi presses forward once more, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. She whispers, “I did owe you a kiss in front of the cameras.” She hesitates, sucks in a breath, and continues, “But I’d kiss you like this without the cameras, too.”

Mira’s mind whirls at the words. Her words come out low and rough. “Me too.”

Then Rumi kisses her once more, passionate and adoring— a heart attack-inducing performance in front of Mira’s parents’ house.

And Mira feels like she’s floating.

***

The feeling doesn’t last long.

The moment they step back into the hotel lobby, everything moves too fast.

Mira’s still half-dazed from the day’s events— her lips still tingling, her head still full of Rumi— and then Bobby appears, all frantic energy and apologetic smiles.

“Rumi,” he says briskly, waving her over from across the lobby. “Change of plans. We’re moving Abby’s hometown visit up. The next limo’s already waiting.”

Rumi blinks. “Wait, what? We’re not supposed to leave until—”

“Schedule shifted,” he interrupts, glancing toward his tablet, already typing something, suspiciously avoiding their gazes. “You know how production gets. Gotta keep things rolling.”

It all happens in a blur. Crew members moving around them, luggage wheels clicking across the tile, someone calling for sound check. Rumi looks back at Mira, confusion flickering across her face.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” she says, voice soft but rushed. Her thumb brushes Mira’s wrist before she lets go.

Mira just offers a bewildered smile. “No, yeah. Go do your thing. I’ll be here when you get back.”

And then Rumi’s gone, swept away in the usual chaos of cameras and logistics.

It’s only when Jinu finds her— face drawn tight with worry— that the floating stops completely.

He pulls her aside, lowers his voice. “There’s been a... situation.”

Mira frowns. “What kind of situation?”

He glances around, then shrugs. “Well, I suppose you're gonna hear about it anyway."

"Out with it."

"Celine caught Zoey with a hickey," Jinu tells her. "She’s losing it, trying to figure out who gave it to her. Thinks it’s one of the crew.”

The words hit Mira like a bucket of ice dumped over her head. Her stomach swoops.

Mira stares at him, the world around her beginning to blur again, a disarming kind of dizziness that comes right before panic.

“What?” she mutters, voice catching.

A hickey. Her hickey. The one she’d left on Zoey’s collarbone the day before, carelessly, impulsively, Rumi's name on both of their mouths.

“I know, I was surprised too,” Jinu says grimly, scratching the top of his head like he’s trying to make sense of the whole thing. “It’s so weird. I always thought Zoey was so smitten with Rumi. But…”

“But…?” Mira presses, fighting off the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

“Celine’s kicking her off the show,” Jinu says quietly. “Today.”

Chapter Text

The hotel conference room smells faintly of coffee and wilted flowers. The blinds are half-drawn, sunlight striping across the polished table where Zoey sits, posture small and face drained of color. Celine stands opposite her, hands folded neatly, expression inscrutable.

The camera crew waits outside. This conversation isn’t for them.

“You understand why we’re here,” Celine says, voice even. 

Zoey nods imperceptibly, her throat bobbing and her eyes trained downward.

“Who was it, Zoey?” she prods, approaching the younger woman slowly and standing right beside her. She leans back on the table and crosses her arms, scrutinizing her. “I know it couldn’t have been Rumi.”

Zoey glances up at her, brown eyes wide and round and pleading, then snaps her gaze away, face reddening. She clamps her eyes shut, shaking her head. “It isn’t—”

A clamor erupts outside the room, interrupting them.

“You can’t go in there—!”

The door swings open, and Mira barges in, chest heaving like she’s run the entire way there, furious and frantic.

“What are you doing?” Mira demands, gaze landing first on Zoey then swiveling to meet Celine’s. 

Celine appraises her, realization dawning on her almost immediately. Everything clicks with a sickening clarity. “It was you.”

“Yeah,” Mira says unflinchingly. “But you have to—”

“I don’t have to do anything you ask me to,” Celine snaps, anger flickering hot under her ribs.

How dare they do this to Rumi? 

(“Did you want to do that, Rumi?” Celine demands Rumi after she sees her kiss Jinu.

“Yes,” Rumi answers, but Celine has always been able to look through her. Always.

She bears her gaze into Rumi’s, willing the truth from her.

Then, slowly, Rumi amends it. “...No.”

Celine feels something inside her break, and she swears to herself. She fucked up. She keeps fucking up. She doesn’t know what to do with Rumi. She’s not— for fuck’s sake— she’s not the girl’s mother. She doesn’t know how to be. This girl isn’t hers, but she is. Rumi’s hers, in every way that matters. Her burden and her blessing. The constant contradiction leaves her reeling. She doesn’t know what to do.

She wishes Mi-yeong was here to tell her what to do. She wishes she hadn’t been left with this responsibility, this choking guilt, this fierce affection.

She wishes Mi-yeong had never cursed her with a gift like Rumi. 

“Look at me, Rumi,” Celine says, setting her jaw. “I don’t want you to kiss someone unless you want to kiss them. I never asked you to do that.”

Rumi’s bottom lip wobbles, her eyes growing big and watery. Celine’s heart wrenches painfully at the sight before her. She still pouts the same way she did when she was three-years-old and Celine raised her voice at her over a broken vase.

“Okay.”)

How fucking dare they do this to Rumi?

(Celine asks her again, after her date with Zoey. There’d been a clear difference in the way Rumi’d pressed for more with her, eager and— happy.

Rumi was happy when she kissed Zoey. Celine’s heart flutters at the sight before her. She still smiles the same way she did when she was three-years-old and Celine dug out her misplaced teddy bear from under her bed.

“Did you want to do that, Rumi?” she inquires, just to confirm.

“Yes,” Rumi replies breathlessly, lips curving upward. “God, yes.”

A smile paints across Celine’s features. “Good.”)

She had a feeling about them. Something about the scene ahead of her— Mira’s panicked protectiveness, Zoey’s frozen state— it all feels so nauseatingly familiar.

The tension. The secrecy. The threat of elimination symbolizing more than just being kicked off a reality television show.

The thought chokes itself off.

The anger is too familiar. Too old and aching.

Time peels backward on itself.

And just like that, she’s twenty-five again.

***

The first season had been shot in a borrowed villa outside Busan. Everything smelled like sea salt and roses, a strange, jarring combination.

Celine remembers feeling nervous, her lipstick too red, too bold. And Mi-yeong— beautiful and kind, too earnest for a show like this— taking her hand when the cameras weren’t looking.

“Gosh,” Mi-yeong said, throwing her head back and laughing. Celine tracked the movement with her eyes, stomach flipping. “I don’t think I stand a chance on this show if I’m against someone as gorgeous as you.”

And she was so… sincere with her words. There was no edge of envy in the way her tongue wrapped around the word gorgeous, there was no performance to make it seem like she felt truly insecure from Celine’s presence. There was a pureness in her adoration, a deep-set reverence for her, even.

Celine didn’t think she could be so taken by someone so quickly. 

That night, Gwi-ma, the original showrunner, sat her down for a confessional, his fingers laced and his face screwed into a sleazy smile. 

Celine hated him from the very first night, but that day, weeks into filming, he’d cemented himself as the kind of man she had a profound, deep-seated hatred for.

“I noticed you’ve spent quite some time with Mi-yeong through the filming of this show,” he started, eyes searching her face. “Any feelings of jealousy between you two?”

(“Any feelings of jealousy between you two?” Celine asks Zoey that first night of filming.)

Celine didn’t quite understand what he was fishing for, so she just tilted her head, puzzled. “There’s no jealousy at all between me and Mi-yeong. I like her a lot, and if I don’t manage to win Dae-hyun’s heart, I’d be more than happy if she gets that chance. And I really mean that.”

(Zoey straightens her back and clears her throat. “There’s no jealousy at all between me and her. I like Mira a lot, and if I don’t manage to win Rumi’s heart, I’d be more than happy if Mira gets that chance. And I really mean that.”

Celine stiffens and narrows her eyes. Zoey only looks back evenly.

She changes the subject.)

His lips twitched downward at the response, but he wiped it away quickly. “Well, I noticed that she said that she didn’t think she’d stand a chance on this show if she’s facing you. Do you think she feels intimidated by you?”

She furrowed her eyebrows. What the hell was he getting at? “No? Mi-yeong seems very secure in herself. I don’t think she’s actually intimidated. She was just paying me a compliment.”

His frown deepened, the disappointment written so clearly that Celine felt, for the first time, like she’d answered a question wrong on a test she didn’t know she was taking.

Gwi-ma tapped his pen against his clipboard, slow and deliberate, before leaning back in his chair. “Celine,” he said, voice slipping into something falsely patient, condescending, like he was talking to a child who’d forgotten her lines, “this show thrives on honesty.”

“I was honest,” she replied slowly, shoulders tensing.

“And vulnerability.” His smile sharpened. “You can be vulnerable with us, you know. It’s safe here.”

The lie was so blatant it took everything in her not to scoff.

Gwi-ma steepled his fingers. “Let me ask again. When Mi-yeong compliments you, when she says she doesn’t stand a chance next to you… doesn’t that bother you? Even a little?”

“No,” Celine said, firmer now. “Why would it?”

His expression twitched. “Because it should.”

He flicked a hand at the crew absentmindedly, and the red light and hums of the cameras shut off. The mics lowered, and the people around the room dispersed away, giving them some privacy.

The room felt suddenly smaller. Warmer. Predatory. Celine suddenly wished for the first time on the set that the crew would return. That someone could bear witness to whatever was about to happen.

Gwi-ma leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “This is television. Viewers want tension. Rivalry. They want to see women fighting for the same man. That’s what makes a story.” He paused, gaze resting uncomfortably on her. “And right now, your story is boring.”

Heat crawled up Celine’s neck, humiliation followed by anger so sharp she had to clench her fists in her lap. “I’m not going to pretend to be jealous of my friend.”

He gave her a thin, humorless smile. “Everyone here pretends, dear. That’s the job.”

“Well,” Celine said carefully, “then maybe I’m not very good at it.”

Gwi-ma’s smile widened like she’d just confirmed something for him. “I’ll make you better.”

Her skin crawled. She opened her mouth to tell him that was the absolute last thing she wanted, but he continued, cutting her off before she could speak.

“Here’s what I want.” He shifted forward, lowering his voice like he was offering a secret. “Next time you’re with Dae-hyun, mention a little something about Mi-yeong. Something that shows you feel threatened.” He paused. “If you don’t, we’ll… help you along in the edit.”

The implication climbed up her throat like bile.

Help you along. Cut you into the villain. Paint Mi-yeong as a rival whether she was or not.

“I’m not doing that,” she said quietly.

Gwi-ma’s smile finally dropped altogether. “Then don’t expect much screen time.”

Celine felt her stomach twist. Not because she needed fame, but because she suddenly understood the kind of man she was dealing with. The kind of machine she’d stepped into. One that would chew up sincerity and spit out whatever caricature drew the best ratings.

She lifted her chin. “Eliminate me, then. I’m not going to start a feud with someone I care about.”

Gwi-ma stared at her for a long, icy moment, then just sighed. “I won’t be eliminating you,” he said. “No promises on your girl.”

A beat. Her girl. What plans did he have for Mi-yeong?

“What?” she demanded.

He clicked his pen, wrote something down, and waved her toward the door. “That’ll be all.”

“Wait,” she said, fingers curling along the edge of the table in front of her. She hated the way he looked back at her, bored and triumphant at the same time. Like he knew he had her. “What are you gonna do with Mi-yeong?”

What could he do? It was just a reality television show. If Celine just left, deprived him of the drama he so clearly sought from her, what could he possibly have on her? It wasn’t like Celine was particularly interested in Dae-hyun anyway. 

He clasped his hands on his lap. “Mi-yeong has a certain… history of romantic partners,” he said. She looked at him oddly but kept her mouth clamped shut, waiting for him to continue. “Women.”

Besides an instinctive flex in her jaw, Celine was careful to keep her face completely still. “So?”

If Gwi-ma’s expression wasn’t sinister before, it certainly was now. “So, you should consider how her reputation may suffer if that little fact were to be revealed. If I were to instruct my camera crew to talk about it just a tad too loud in front of the other contestants.”

Her gaze hardened. “Why are you doing this to her?”

“Dae-hyun loves her. Genuinely,” Gwi-ma said, rolling his eyes like that wasn’t the whole point of the show in the first place. “But she seems to be torn between the two of you.”

(She thought of Mi-yeong’s hands on her in the quiet of their shared room the night before. Fingers tugging her clothes off, kisses running up the length of her body.

Mi-yeong sucked a mark into her skin, right under her collarbone where her shirt could cover it.

“Mi-yeong,” Celine said in a breath, throat catching on her words.

“Shh.” Mi-yeong covered her mouth with her hand, a smirk on her lips, dimples creased in her cheeks. “We wouldn’t want to get caught like this now, would we?”) 

“I’m just helping her make the right choice.”

***

Mi-yeong had chosen Dae-hyun in the end.

Of course she had. He was charming and sure of himself, and when he looked at her, it was like the world bent to make space for them both. Just the two of them.

Celine had smiled for the cameras, clapped at their engagement, told herself it didn’t matter. She’d asked for this. She’d told Mi-yeong to choose him.

(“You’ll need to choose, in the end,” Celine told her the night after her confessional with Gwi-ma.

Mi-yeong cried and shook her head, and Celine’s sternum shuddered at the sight.

She continued anyway. “We’re not supposed to be together anyway, and you know it.” A beat. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then choose him.”)

Then Dae-hyun’s accident, so sudden and violent, it seemed to shake the world.

Then the funeral, a pregnant Mi-yeong clinging to Celine for support as she mourned her husband.

Then the baby— Rumi— who arrived too soon and cried like she was apologizing for existing. 

Celine had held her anyway, because she was the only piece of Mi-yeong left in the world.

(“Make sure she’s loved,” Mi-yeong begged her, a hitch in her breath. “She deserves a big love. A love that chooses loudly. A love that isn’t afraid. A love like… mine. Promise me she’ll get that.”

Celine didn’t want to. She wanted to scream. Don’t make me raise the part of you that loved him.

Instead, Celine sobbed the promise into Mi-yeong’s palm.)

A love like Mi-yeong’s. 

Celine agonized over how she was supposed to find something like that.

As soon as Gwi-ma retired from The Bachelor, Celine took up the mantle, and she tried. She tried to recreate it. She scrutinized the couples, told them to try harder, love harder. But they weren’t real. They weren’t Mi-yeong and Dae-hyun.

Rumi would get a love like Mi-yeong’s. She promised it.

***

(Celine thought of her at night. She tried to retrace the memories of her. The memories of her touch. Her mouth on her neck. Her fingers working deep into her.

If she shut her eyes and tried hard enough, she could almost see her, could almost hear her.

“Celine,” she’d murmur, sucking on the spot where her shoulder met her neck. “Celine. I’m yours. I’m yours.”

Celine came with her name on her lips. 

And she cried, heart hollow and empty, the guilt and remorse consuming her wholly. She told herself she’d never do it again. Would never picture her again like this.

She lied to herself.)

***

Rumi was barely speaking yet, chubby fingers gripping the edge of Celine’s shirt, drooling on her shoulder as babies do.

Celine lifted her, kissed her cheek, swayed gently just to keep her asleep.

Rumi blinked awake and mumbled, soft and instinctive, “Mama.”

The world stopped.

For a moment— just one, self-serving, devastating moment— Celine felt the universe twist, as if it was trying to give her something she’s never been allowed to have.

Mi-yeong’s child, reaching for her. Claiming her.

Her throat closed, heart stuttering painfully.

She almost let it happen.

Almost.

But then she glimpsed the baby’s hair in the light— the deep purple, just like Dae-hyun’s had been.

Mi-yeong chose him. Rumi was the living proof of it.

Celine stiffened.

“No,” she said quickly, too sharply. “No, sweetheart. I’m not— I’m not Mama. It’s just Celine. Only Celine for you.”

***

Celine’s fingers moved deftly, braiding with a practiced precision, muscle memory borrowed from another lifetime. 

Rumi, twelve, sat on the living room floor between her knees. Mi-yeong used to sit in front of her like this, singing contentedly under her breath. Her hair is softer than Mi-yeong’s was, harder to keep from slipping through her fingers.

“Your mother used to wear her hair in a braid,” Celine murmured.

Rumi’s singing halted. She hummed noncommittally, almost uninterested. Like the comment is about a stranger. “Is that so?”

Celine swallowed. She hated herself for the selfish, foolish wish that Rumi might turn and ask something— anything— about Mi-yeong. So Celine could have an excuse to open the drawer of memories she kept locked within her ribcage.

She tied the ribbon gently at the end of the braid, and for a moment— the shape of it was so exactly Mi-yeong it ached.

Then Rumi turned her head, and for just a moment— the sideview of her face looked wrong. The shape of her eyes, the slope of her nose, even the arch of her brow.

She was undeniably his.

***

Rumi, sixteen, with her phone tucked between her shoulder and cheek, was hearing Bobby tell her some news about one of the contestants of the latest Bachelor season. She laughed, loud and free, harder than Celine had heard her laugh in some time.

Then she smiled. That smile.

The smile that had dimples creasing high in her cheeks, her whole face brightening, that same warmth Mi-yeong used to carry like sunlight.

For a split second, she saw Mi-yeong, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket, biting into a strawberry and grinning at her like she hung the moon.

Her breath hitched, and she looked away swiftly, blinking hard.

But when she looked back, Rumi’s eyes— those golden-brown eyes, too light, too burning, too familiar—

The reminder landed like a blade sliding straight into her throat.

Celine choked, feeling twenty-five and foolish again as she stared into Dae-hyun’s eyes.

Rumi ended the call and beamed at her. 

Celine forced her mouth into a smile that felt like pressing glass to her teeth.

***

And now— watching Rumi on camera, all brightness and hope— Celine sees Mi-yeong again.

The tilt of her head. The gentle way she listens. The disarming smile.

And behind that, always behind it— she sees Dae-hyun.

(And then— in the shadows beneath her eyes, the quiet fear of not being enough— Celine sees herself.)

It is a constant, aching tug-of-war inside her:

She loves her. She resents the reminder. She needs to protect her. She needs to punish the ghost of a choice made decades ago. She adores her. She fears losing her. She fears she’ll leave. She fears that she’ll love wrong. 

Rumi doesn’t know any of this.

She just sees her guardian, smiling tightly from off-camera.

Celine sees a lifetime of ghosts layered over the girl she raised.

***

The hotel conference room snaps back into focus around her.

Mira stands rigid in the doorway, chest still rising and falling from her sprint. Zoey looks like she wants to fold herself into the seams of the carpet.

Celine inhales once— slow, deliberate— and the past quiets enough for her to think.

“Zoey,” she says, her tone clipped. “Give us a moment.”

Zoey jerks like she’s been struck, then scrambles to her feet, shooting a frantic look toward Mira. “But—”

“It’s okay,” Mira assures her gently. “Go.”

Zoey hesitates, glancing between them, but Mira’s nod is steady. She slips out and closes the door behind her.

Celine allows the silence to settle before crossing her arms and turning her attention fully to her.

Mira squares her shoulders, though her voice trembles with something fierce and earnest. “Zoey shouldn’t be eliminated. If anyone goes home, it should be me.”

Celine studies her with cool, assessing eyes. “And why is that?”

Mira swallows. “Because Zoey is in love with Rumi. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

Celine had always thought Zoey was like herself. From the way she’d repeated exactly what Celine said in her first confessional, to the incriminating mark along her collarbone. Zoey was in love with the wrong person. The way that… Celine had been with Mi-yeong.

It seems she may have misunderstood the shape of this story.

She appraises Mira ahead of her. “And you? You don’t love Rumi?”

Mira goes still, unbreathing and unblinking.

It’s tiny. Almost nothing.

But Celine sees it.

Her jaw tightens. “I thought so.”

The realization lands bitterly: It isn’t Zoey who takes after her. It’s Mira.

Zoey is the Mi-yeong in this equation— earnest, loyal, trembling with devotion but unable to choose the path that won’t destroy her. Mira, with her quiet self-sacrifice, with her attempt to control the narrative, to save the woman she loves by damning herself instead—

Mira is the one repeating Celine’s mistakes.

Celine decides to help her along the way.

“Celine, it’s not about choosing—”

“I was mistaken,” Celine says, stepping back. She does to Mira what should have been done to her that very first season of the show. “You’re dismissed. Zoey stays.”

Mira’s hands curl at her sides, then loosen suddenly, her shoulders slumping. “Celine,” she tries again, but the ferocity that Celine expects from Mira isn’t there— only an understanding too deep for this room. She looks at Celine with a sadness that’s too careful to be pity. “We aren’t stuck with the choices we make on this show.”

Celine narrows her eyes and thins her lips. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not the end-all, be-all of love,” Mira says quietly. “Nothing changes for any of us if I’m eliminated. If the show is about choosing one person, then that’s fine. I’ll find my way back to Zoey and Rumi, in the end. And something tells me they’ll choose me, too. Because our lives will continue after filming.”

Celine says nothing.

Because life hadn’t continued after filming. Not for her. 

Chapter Text

Rumi smooths her shirt as she climbs into the limousine, one foot after the other, trying to ignore the way her stomach is tied into knots. Abby sits stiffly across from her, pale in a way that has nothing to do with the lighting. He fumbles with the seatbelt twice before managing to clip it into place.

“Are you good?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “You look like you’re going to puke on me.”

He lets out a strangled noise— half laugh, half groan. “Rumi?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I fucked up.”

She blinks. “Okay? I’m listening…”

He drags a hand down his face, looking anywhere but directly at her. “I’m telling you this because—” His knee begins to bounce in a jittery, anxious rhythm. “Well, I know I don’t really stand a chance with you. And that’s okay! I mean— it’s been amazing traveling with you and everything, but… I’m not delusional.”

“Abby,” Rumi says slowly. “What’s going on?”

“Um…” He winces. “Okay. So. Yesterday, while you were off on your hometown visit with my main man Jinu, I talked to Zoey and Mira.”

“Mhm,” Rumi says, trying to hide the tiny grin that comes with the flutter in her chest at their names. She shouldn’t react this strongly to both of them, but she still does.

“And,” Abby continues, “I kind of… said something.”

Rumi stares at him. “Define ‘something.’”

“I mentioned I overheard the crew talking about, uh…” He swallows. “About your kiss with Zoey.”

Rumi’s breath catches, still tingling with the phantom of Zoey’s mouth on hers. She can still feel the warmth of Zoey’s body from when it’d pressed against her, sparks blooming all over her skin.

She tries to keep her voice steady, but her fingers twitch from where they rest on her knee. “Okay… what about it?”

“Well, Zoey got really red. Like, full tomato level. And Mira— well.” He scrunches his face. “Mira did not look happy.”

Rumi feels a pulse shoot through her chest— surprise, then guilt, then something dangerous and hot.

“Mira… wasn’t happy?”

“I mean, she wasn’t lashing out at Zoey or anything. It was just, like— tense. Weird.” Abby gestures vaguely. “She walked off to her room. Zoey followed her.”

She can see it playing out— Mira walking away, jaw tight, shoulders rigid with something she doesn’t let many others see. Zoey trailing behind her, hands wringing, soft where Mira is sharp, worried where Mira is guarded. The two of them in Mira’s room; a world without cameras.

An image, unbidden, crosses her mind. Zoey’s arms looped around Mira’s shoulders as they had wrapped around Rumi. Mira tugging Zoey’s bottom lip gently between her teeth, as she’d done to Rumi.

Rumi swallows, feeling suddenly as though her entire mouth has gone dry.

“What happened after that?” she asks, wetting her lips and trying to snap herself back to attention.

Abby’s expression turns sheepish, and he hesitates before speaking, as though he doesn’t want to break this part of the news with her. “Uh… I’m pretty sure Zoey got caught with a hickey this morning.”

Rumi’s mouth falls open, and the image returns with a newfound ferocity. Mira’s head ducked down as she sucked a mark into Zoey’s skin. Did she have Zoey pinned to a wall when she did it, or were they in Mira’s bed? Was this the first time they’ve done something like this? Does Mira have a mark, too— better hidden from the world? How far did they take it? Did Zoey whisper Mira’s name? Did Mira whisper Zoey’s name? Did they—

(Did they think of Rumi—?)

Her face flushes, and she squirms in her seat, pressing her legs together to stop the heat from building. There’s no way she heard Abby correctly. She had to have conjured up some insane fiction in her head, fueled by her unflinching desire for both of them.

“A what?”

“A hickey,” he confirms, then taps at his collarbone. “Like, right here.”

Her pulse thunders, erratic. It’s a wonder how Abby can’t hear it right now.

The limo feels smaller, narrower, tighter, like the air itself has thickened.

And somewhere inside her, something begins to click— slowly, delicately. Like the final piece of a puzzle sliding into place.

She feels the world shift, tilt, rearrange itself around a truth she wasn’t ready for but should have known:

She doesn’t want to choose.

And maybe— Rumi feels an ounce of hope in her chest— maybe she doesn’t have to.

Maybe the three of them are already orbiting each other, pulling inward. Maybe love doesn’t have to be a single point. Maybe it can be a constellation, three stars pulled inward, brighter together than alone.

“Anyway,” Abby says, not noticing the hurricane inside her. “Since they saw Zoey’s hickey, I think Celine’s kicking her off the show.”

Her thoughts screech to a halt.

A long pause.

All Rumi can hear is her own heartbeat— loud, furious, primal.

“Celine’s doing what?” Her voice lowers into a growl.

“I— I think she’s gonna kick Zoey off—“

“Turn this car around,” she demands.

“Rumi—”

“Turn this fucking car around!”

***

The second the door shuts behind her, Mira feels its finality down to her bones.

It’s a quiet click— nothing dramatic or resounding, despite the thudding Mira feels in her heart. Inside the conference room, Celine will already be composing herself, smoothing out the wrinkles in the moment, reshaping the narrative the way she always does— tidy, controlled, familiar.

But Mira stands still for a moment, hand still on the doorknob, as if letting go of it too quickly might shatter something.

Then she hears Zoey inhale.

She’s standing right outside the office, exactly where Mira asked her to wait, big brown eyes widened in hope and fear and something brighter than both. The hallway feels too silent. Too bright. Too full of cameras pretending to be invisible.

Zoey takes one tentative step toward her. “Mira? What happened? What did she say?”

Mira feels her heart fold in on itself.

Oh. She should’ve known this would be the hardest part.

The cameras hover behind the partitions, pretending to capture B-roll, pretending not to angle toward them. Producers hover like vultures donning all-black outfits and quiet sneakers. The red light isn’t blinking, but Mira knows better— it’s always blinking for someone.

Zoey doesn’t notice any of it. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She’s all Mira sees with her flushed cheeks, trembling hands, the way she nearly bounces on her toes with her anxious energy.

They’ll eat this alive, Mira thinks. If she hesitates, if she stumbles. They’ll tear her apart.

Mira takes a grounding breath and steps forward.

Zoey’s eyes widen slightly as Mira lifts her hand, her fingers trembling only once before she schools them still. She cups Zoey’s chin— so gently at first that Zoey leans into it like instinct, like Mira is gravity in disguise.

“Mira…?” Zoey whispers.

She’s so soft. Soft, despite her impulsivity. Loving, despite the way she’d been constantly talked down to her whole life.

And Mira has never been good at being gentle, but she tries. For her. 

She leans in and kisses her.

It’s nothing like their hidden, rushed kiss from the day before, all frantic hands and breathy moans. It’s tender, deeper, something low and desperate and reverent all at once. Her thumb brushes Zoey’s cheek. Zoey gasps— quietly, helplessly— and Mira swallows the sound.

Zoey melts, hands curling into the front of Mira’s shirt. She kisses back with that startled, earnest intensity that has undone Mira from the very beginning.

When Mira pulls away, Zoey blinks up at her— dazed, flushed, hopeful. “Mira,” she says. “What—?”

“It’s going to be okay,” Mira assures.

Zoey smiles, small but brilliant— not quite understanding. Not yet.

Mira’s chest twists, and she steps back.

And she watches Zoey’s face fall as the meaning settles.

The cameras catch everything— the widening eyes, the way her lips part, confusion crashing into realization like a tidal wave.

“Wait— what?” Zoey says, voice cracking. “Mira… what are you doing?”

Mira exhales slowly. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Zoey steps forward rapidly, grabbing Mira’s wrist. “Just wait. I’ll talk to Celine. I’ll make her—”

Another kiss.

This one is quick, urgent— Mira’s mouth claiming hers to stop the words before they unravel everything. Zoey stiffens for half a second, then melts again, hands gripping Mira like she’s afraid she’ll disappear between breaths.

“I’ll come find you when it’s over,” she murmurs when they part. “I’m not choosing for you. Or for Rumi.” Her voice softens even further. “I’m choosing us.”

Zoey shakes her head, exhaling unsteadily. “But— you don’t need to leave—”

“I do.” Mira pulls back enough to look her in the eyes, her thumb brushing along Zoey’s jaw. “Life isn’t going to stop when the show ends. You and I both know that.”

Zoey opens her mouth, but she says nothing. Mira swallows the ache rising in her chest.

Celine thinks she understands her. Thinks she’s watching a younger version of herself. Thinks Mira is another example of a tragic tale of unrequited feelings; hopelessly in love with someone who will never fully choose her.

But Celine is wrong.

Mira doesn’t love in halves. She loves wholly. In layers. In the spaces between two heartbeats— two people— one future together. 

But the truth had whispered itself to her over and over in the quiet moments: Love is bigger than choosing.

She can love Rumi— steadily, breathlessly. She can love Zoey— profoundly, terrifyingly fast.

Celine seems to think that love exists as two doors leading to two separate rooms. But Mira refuses to live there. Not when she sees the connecting door between the rooms, turning it into a wide open space.

She lifts Zoey’s chin again, brushing her lips gently against hers— a softer kiss this time, filled with apology and promise all at once.

Zoey whispers, “I can still talk to her.”

Mira smiles sadly. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Zoey pleads. “We can show her that there doesn’t have to be one choice.”

“Because this isn’t where we end,” Mira says. “Not here, in front of these cameras. Let Rumi choose you without pressure. Let the show get its stupid, neat little narrative. Let Celine think she’s stopped us from ruining everything.”

Zoey shakes her head, opening her mouth to protest.

Mira beats her to the punch. “I’ll find you when it’s over,” she promises. “I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving the show. Those aren’t the same thing.”

Zoey’s gaze searches Mira’s face, frantic and tender. Then, suddenly—

“Wait.” Zoey grabs her wrist firmly. “Wait— you don’t have anything else to say?”

Her voice trembles, and— Mira hears it. The thing Zoey’s asking for. The words she’s asking for.

She can feel the cameras lean in. The hallway breathes around them.

She could say it. God, she could. The words burn behind her teeth. They’d be true and deep and real.

But she can’t give Zoey half of something that also belongs to Rumi. Her heart isn’t a divide— it’s a shared space.

So Mira just smiles, small and warm, and leans in close enough that Zoey feels her breath.

“Not without Rumi.”

***

The limousine screeches to a halt at the hotel doors. She’s already unbuckling, already pushing past the startled producer stationed outside the car. She doesn’t wait for permission— she storms through the service entrance, down the hall that leads to the conference room.

Her pulse still hasn’t stabilized, drowning in a haze of fury as she rushes forward. The corridor is long— longer than she remembers— and narrow in that way hotel hallways always are, where sound has nowhere to go but forward. Her footsteps echo sharply off the tile, and before she has even rounded the corner, she can hear them.

“...Because this isn’t where we end,” Rumi can barely make out Mira’s words. “Not here, in front of these cameras. Let Rumi choose you without pressure. Let the show get its stupid, neat little narrative. Let Celine think she’s stopped us from ruining everything.”

What? Rumi’s steps stutter. She slows her stride without meaning to— just enough that the next line drifts toward her quietly: “I’ll find you when it’s over. I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving the show. Those aren’t the same thing.”

Rumi’s feet remain glued to the floor, almost too terrified to turn the corner and bear witness to whatever scene may play out ahead of her. 

“Wait.” Zoey says firmly. “Wait— you don’t have anything else to say?”

Another pause. Another breath.

“Not without Rumi.”

Rumi turns the corner just as Zoey rises onto her toes, fisting her hands in Mira’s shirt, pulling her down— and Mira goes willingly.

Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s desperate and soft all at once, the kind that asks a question and answers itself in the same breath. Rumi can see the tremor in Zoey’s fingers. The way Mira holds her so carefully, as if she might break.

It hits Rumi like a gut punch.

Not jealousy or anger. Something deeper— something that drags breath from her lungs and leaves her rooted to the tile.

Want.

Deep fucking want.

Want for Mira, who folds the moment Zoey touches her; want for Zoey, whose whole body seems to shake with emotion. Want for them both. Together. With her.

But then Zoey pulls back, just enough to whisper, “Mira, we— Rumi and I— We’ll—”

Mira looks undone. Her eyes shine in a way Rumi’s never seen, wide and pleading, hands cupping Zoey’s jaw. “I’ll come find you,” she murmurs.

“Wait,” Rumi blurts out, the words ripping out on pure instinct; both heads snap toward her. Rumi steps forward, chest heaving. “Wait,” she repeats, steadier. “I’ll find you.”

Mira blinks, breath catching. “Rumi—”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to be doing the choosing, right? Isn’t that the whole point of this stupid show?” Rumi huffs out a shaky laugh, fury simmering beneath every word. “If you walk away, I’ll go after you. So don’t act like you’re doing everyone some kind of favor.”

An aching silence falls, drowning them in its weight.

Then Mira lets out the smallest, saddest chuckle. A sound that vibrates right into Rumi’s bones.

“Either way,” Mira says, stepping toward them both, “I guess we’re both pretty stubborn.”

Her gaze flicks to Zoey— gentle, tender. Then to Rumi— softened in a way she never lets the cameras see.

“Finish the show,” Mira says. “Make your decision”— she looks meaningfully toward Zoey, then back to Rumi— “and I’ll be there by the end of it.”

“Oh.” Zoey looks between them, understanding dawning over her expression. “But I don’t want to be chosen over you.”

“And I don’t want to be chosen over you,” Mira finishes immediately, without hesitation.

The words slice straight through Rumi, and her lungs constrict. And— before she can lose her nerve— she confesses, “And I don’t want to choose between you.”

They both swivel toward her, eyes shining. 

Emboldened, Rumi continues, chest tight with relief and terror all at once. “I want— I want both of you. Together. If… If that’s even possible.”

Zoey’s lips pull up into a lopsided grin despite herself. “Hell yeah, it’s possible.”

Mira laughs weakly, a broken and hopeful sound. “God, yeah, Rumi. It’s definitely possible.”

“Then wait for me,” she says, heart swelling. She pulls Mira’s hand into her own and presses a kiss into her knuckles. “There’s only one week left of filming.”

Mira tugs Rumi forward by her hand, and Rumi whimpers the moment she feels Mira’s lips press gently against hers. Mind clouding, Rumi automatically pulls her closer, hand creeping up to lay against her neck.

Mira sighs against her mouth, pulling back to rest their foreheads together. “One week,” she murmurs, breath hot.

Rumi’s lips tingle, and she kisses her once more— because she can.

“I’ll see you then,” Rumi says. 

Mira smiles once more, and Zoey wraps her arms around her waist for a long, tight embrace. “We’ll see you,” she tells her.

Mira turns to leave. Rumi frowns when she sees the cameras following her. She wonders, briefly, how they’ll edit this moment for the show, but she doesn’t linger on it.

She doesn’t care about the damn show. She cares about her girls.

“Guess you should’ve run away with me when I suggested it at the start of all this,” Zoey jokes. 

Rumi turns to look at her, and she takes her hand, and says hopefully— stupidly, “We still could.”

Zoey shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. She gestures to the conference room door behind her. “You’ve still got unfinished business.”

Right. Celine. In all the blur of emotions that Rumi’s lost herself in the past hour, she’d almost allowed her rage to slip away. 

She can’t just run away. Not with the contracts she’d signed at the start of all this, the ironclad clauses she barely understood at the time. In the beginning, she’d been more than willing to let this all play out however Celine’d desired it to go. But since she’s met Zoey and Mira, things are different now. 

And maybe that’s what stings the most.

That she never truly had the option to walk away. That Celine had pushed her into the show with soft words and expectations— Become the person I promised your mother you’d become. Find the love she found— until Rumi couldn’t tell where duty ended and control began.

She watches Mira’s retreating figure turn the corner, and the rage returns tenfold—sharper now, more focused. Not just anger at what Celine tried to do to Zoey. Not just anger at the way she keeps tightening strings Rumi never agreed to be tied with.

Anger at the years of distance. Of being treated like an heir or a legacy or a copycat— anything but a daughter.

She wants to quit. She wants to take Zoey’s hand and sprint out to meet Mira at the nearest exit, legal consequences be damned.

But she can’t.

So she turns the knob of the door and bursts into the conference room, Zoey still lingering in the hallway outside.

The room is cold.

Not physically— temperature-wise it’s fine— but the moment Rumi steps inside, the air freezes, choking any warmth out.  Celine stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, posture composed.

“Rumi,” she says slowly. “We can talk once you’ve calmed—”

Rumi shuts her up with a look. “Why did you try to kick Zoey off the show?”

Celine blinks. “It was not a decision that you—”

“Tell me,” Rumi demands.

A thick silence settles.

Finally, Celine releases a drawn-out exhale. “Zoey compromised the integrity of the season. Her relationship with Mira—”

“Cut the shit,” Rumi snaps. “There’s no integrity on this show.”

Celine stiffens. “Watch your tone.”

“No.”

Rumi steps forward, eyes sharp enough to carve through steel. “I know you want to recreate the success of the first season on this show. Like this is something my mother would have wanted.”

“You—” Celine tries to interject, but Rumi’s not done.

“When I came onto this show,” Rumi says, voice trembling with fury, “I never— never— thought I’d find anything real here. I came on because you pushed me to. Because you insisted this would be good for me, finding the same big love that my mother did. But you know what I thought of this show when I started? I thought it was just going to be a few months of misery, and then it’d be over. I’d marry someone for a while, take the money, and be off. Nothing was real here. There was no love to be found.”

Her voice cracks—soft, but lethal. “And somehow, despite everything, I found it. Twice. I found two people who make me feel more seen, more alive, more… me— than I’ve felt in my life. And you still tried to take that away from me.”

Celine opens her mouth, but Rumi barrels through.

“You’ve spent this whole season acting like if you control every moment, you can force a fairy tale. Like if you push hard enough, I’ll have the same perfect arc my mom did. But I’m not her. Whatever I’ve become couldn’t have been what she wanted.”

Celine’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no idea what your mother would have wanted.”

“Exactly! I don’t have any idea!” Rumi practically shouts. “You treat me like I’m my mother’s daughter, and sometimes— sometimes even like I’m my father’s daughter.”

She inhales sharply through her nose and takes a step forward.

“But I’m your daughter.”

Celine recoils, as though Rumi had meant it as an insult. And she had— partially. She’s become exactly what Celine molded her to be, but in all the wrong ways. But she’d also meant it as more than just a slight against Celine’s character.

Rumi is her daughter. Celine raised her, loves her deeply, suffocatingly. And Rumi loves her the same.

But fuck, she’s tired.

Rumi’s voice darkens. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll finish your damn season for you. I’ll say the lines you need, smile for the cameras, play the part.”

Celine’s chin lifts a fraction. “Rumi—”

“And since you’re giving me no other choice,” Rumi continues, each word a knife, “I’ll get engaged to Zoey by the finale. But the moment those cameras go off?” She pauses, her rage spurring her words on, “We’re going to find Mira. Me and Zoey both. We’re all picking each other.”

Celine’s breath stutters.

“And you and I?” Rumi finishes, voice soft in the way lightning is soft before it hits a tree, “We’re done.”

Celine’s mask finally breaks— pain flashes openly across her face. Not theatrical. Not controlled. Real.

But it’s too late for authenticity. And she is so fucking tired.

Rumi doesn’t give her a chance to respond. She leaves.

***

Mira wakes to the soft hum of the hotel air conditioning and the unfamiliar weight of silence.

Three days. Three full days since she walked out of the conference room and out of whatever the hell the producers decided the narrative should be. Three days since Zoey’s hands had trembled against her cheeks, since Rumi’s voice had cracked open something Mira still doesn’t have a name for.

Three days of thinking. Too much of it, maybe.

Thinking about how Zoey kissed like she was trying to memorize Mira’s bones; how Rumi looked at her like she was more than her short-fuse. Mira never expected to feel wanted like that by anyone on this show, and now she was wanted twice over, and maybe— maybe— not just by them.

Maybe by herself.

She’s not sure how Celine will edit the show to portray her elimination, especially when it happened just the day before the Rose Ceremony, but it’s nothing that Mira has to worry about, so she doesn’t. She guesses that Zoey and Jinu will be the ones to move on to the final two. And, if she remembers correctly from the production schedule, that means it’s time for the fantasy suite segment, where Rumi will have an overnight, private date with each of the contestants.

Mira may have spent her time thinking about everything these past three days, but she’s been pointedly ignoring that bit.

Three days. It’s not long, but it goes by slowly for her. She’s spent most of that time in hiding— which is to say, she’s spent it in a hotel room two floors down from production, living off vending-machine pretzels and the small groceries Bobby managed to sneak to her when the hallways were empty.

So when someone knocks this morning— not a quick, secretive knock like Bobby’s, but a crisp, authoritative rap— Mira already has a feeling that she knows who it is.

She pulls on a sweatshirt and opens the door.

Celine stands in her hallway, expression neither angry nor neutral. It’s worse— it’s desperate despite the obvious attempt at composure.

A tiny, instinctive part of Mira— some bruised childhood version of herself— imagines the satisfaction she should feel. The woman who has controlled every breath of the season is finally losing her grip. But the larger part of Mira is just tired. Tired of the emotional wringer that the show has put her through. Tired of hating someone she doesn’t fully understand. Tired of realizing that if she squints, she can see the outline of who Mira might turn into, someday, if she’s not careful.

“Mira,” she says. “May we speak?”

Mira steps aside stiffly. “...Sure.”

Celine takes a seat at the tiny table by the window. She folds her hands. “Sit. Please. I don’t mean to make you uneasy in your own room.”

Mira hesitates but eventually acquiesces. “Let’s skip the part where you pretend this is a courtesy visit,” she says.

For a heartbeat, Celine’s expression twitches. “Very well. I want you back on the show.”

Mira laughs. A sharp, incredulous bark that feels like it cracks her ribs on the way out. “Are you serious? You just kicked me out three days ago, and now you want me back? And Rumi—”

“She is precisely why I’m here,” Celine says. Her voice is steady— but not cold. Not quite. “The narrative has… shifted.”

“Oh, has it?” Mira snaps. “You’ve found a way to manipulate the way the story’s gonna go?”

Celine’s gaze flickers. “I’m not here to manipulate. I’m here because Rumi’s decision altered the structure of the finale. If you choose to return, we can salvage the season. If you don’t—”

Mira exhales hard and pushes a hand through her hair. “Look. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust production. Why the hell would you want me back on the show three days later? It makes no sense. I’m not stepping back in front of those cameras to be paraded around like a prop.”

A long moment passes. Celine’s jaw works once, as if she’s forcing words through tightly locked teeth.

“You’re not a prop,” she finally says— and it’s so unexpected Mira actually stills. “I know it may not seem like it, but you— and Zoey— matter to the show. And it’s… taken me far too long to understand this, but…” Her gaze drifts toward the window, away from Mira. “You both matter to Rumi.”

Heat punches Mira’s chest, bright and painful. Rumi matters to her too— even more so now after she saw her walk into that hallway like she was ready to burn the building down for them.

She looks at Mira again, and the next words come out strangely unguarded. “Rumi is committed to finishing the season. She made that abundantly clear. But she wants you there,” Celine pauses. “She wants both of you there. That hasn’t changed.”

Mira’s fingers curl into her palms, but she tilts her head. What exactly provoked this complete alteration in decision? “You can’t use her against me.”

“I’m not.” Celine’s voice softens by degrees. “Mira… Rumi told me she’s done with me. After the finale, she’s done.” A beat. “I can’t change her mind. I’m not even trying to.”

The admission lands heavy, unexpected. A strange, uncomfortable empathy flickers in Mira’s sternum. She doesn’t want to imagine losing Rumi after knowing her now. It seems Celine’s losing her before she even learns to hold her properly.

Celine looks— not broken or defeated, but human. Exhausted. “What I am trying to do is give her the ending she deserves. And if that means adjusting the structure of the finale, reshaping the story, letting the truth be the truth, then so be it.”

The room goes very quiet.

Mira thinks of Rumi— her steadiness, the way she’d kissed her like it was the first moment she’d been allowed to breathe. She thinks of Zoey— wild, furious, trembling with certainty as she declared, I want both of you.

“Fine,” Mira murmurs. “I’ll come back.”

Celine exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

“But…” Mira raises a hand. “If you try anything— and I mean anything— I walk. And I take Zoey and Rumi with me.”

Something flickers in Celine’s eyes. Not a challenge or fear. Understanding. “I won’t try anything.”

Mira watches her carefully—and for the first time sees not a producer, not a tyrant, not a threat. Just a woman who loves Rumi in a way that’s been twisted by grief, pressure, and fear.

A woman Mira refuses to become.

“Good,” she says firmly. Another breath. “Is… that all?”

Celine bites the inside of her cheek, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Tonight is Zoey’s turn with Rumi in the fantasy suite.”

Oh. Mira shuffles uneasily. “Well, when… would my turn be, then?”

Celine meets her gaze. “Tonight.”

Oh.

***

Zoey joins Rumi outside the secluded villa, pulling at the tie around her neck. She adjusts her suit sleeve, less out of necessity and more for an excuse to do something with her hands.

Rumi’s eyes dart to hers, then down to her hands, seeming to understand. She grabs Zoey’s hand and interlaces their fingers, pulling them into the room.

The world outside is distant, softened into murmurs: the hush of the ocean, the occasional sigh of wind through linen curtains. Everything inside glows. Not brightly— not enough to break the spell— but with that warm, golden light that hides flaws and heightens every small breath.

There’s a table already set for two, waiting like it’s been holding its breath all day. A bottle of champagne on ice. Plates arranged with food that Zoey doubts she’ll eat, her nerves turning the dinner into decoration. Roses— not scattered, but strategically forgotten, as if romance has grown wild and natural in the corners of the room.

The bed is enormous, dominating the space. There are white sheets and a mountain of pillows. Drapery flows down like a private canopy. It looks less like a bed and more like an invitation— to talk openly, as though the cameras haven’t been following them around this entire night.

But here, finally, there are no cameras.

Standing here with Rumi ahead of her, Zoey has no right to say that any of it feels wrong. But it does feel incomplete, a looming, loving presence achingly missing from where it belongs.

“She should be here,” Rumi voices her thoughts.

The mark on Zoey’s collarbone, faded but still there, burns at the reference to Mira. She scratches at it absent-mindedly, murmuring her assent. 

Rumi follows the motion of her fingers, tongue darting out to lick her lips almost hungrily.

“Can I… see?” she asks slowly, unsure.

Zoey swallows dryly, then nods once, small and sure. Mindful in keeping her fingers steady, Zoey tries to reach for her tie and loosen it, but Rumi beats her to the punch, eager as she pushes Zoey’s suit jacket aside, not quite taking it completely off, and yanks at the tie so hard that Zoey’s breath staggers.

Heat pools mortifyingly quickly at the base of her stomach, and Zoey has to fight the urge to squeeze her legs together. Rumi doesn’t seem to notice in her journey to see the stupid hickey that catalyzed the beginning of the end for them. 

Rumi unbuttons the first three buttons of her shirt and pulls her collar aside. Zoey just stands still, too afraid to breathe wrong and ruin the moment as the mark comes into view.

Rumi’s lips part, eyes darkening. She breathes, hot against her skin, “Fuck, Zoey.”

Zoey whimpers, her hands falling to Rumi’s hips and pulling her forward until their waists are flush together. Rumi responds with a bite, right where Mira had left the mark. The noise that escapes her would be embarrassing if Rumi didn’t seem so receptive to it. 

Zoey’s back hits the solid door behind her, willfully trapped between Rumi’s arms as she presses long, heated kisses against her skin, traveling up her neck, under her jaw, then swallowing Zoey’s gasp with her mouth. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Rumi’s knee presses between Zoey’s legs, and fuck— 

Zoey’s fingers dig tighter into Rumi’s hips, trying to pull her impossibly closer. Rumi ducks her head back down, nibbling at the same fucking spot on her collarbone, like she’s almost fixated with it.

“Rumi, the—”

“Her name,” Rumi demands, breath tickling her skin. “Her name.”

“Mira.” A moan rips out of her throat.

Then, the thought from before manages to protrude through the haze in her mind. As right as it feels, it’s still not whole.

“Wait,” Rumi says, echoing the exact thing that Zoey’s thinking, the same sentiment as before. “Mira should be here—“

A knock on the door shatters the moment, and though they both freeze.

Zoey blinks, still dazed, and struggles to find her voice. “Uh…” She clears her throat. “Who is it?”

“You were just moaning my name, Zoey,” the person on the other side responds, amusement obvious in her tone despite the door between them muffling her voice.

Zoey and Rumi scramble back to fling the door open, and— right before them, stands Mira, a smug smirk on her lips. A hundred questions crash into each other, all noise and static— but under it all, steady as a drumbeat: Mira. Mira. Mira.

“Hey—” Mira starts, but Zoey cuts straight past the greeting and kisses her bruisingly because— god, being deprived of Mira for only three days felt like she’d been deprived of oxygen. Mira laughs against her mouth, but kisses her back just as eagerly, one of her hands resting between Zoey’s shoulder blades while the other brings Rumi closer.

Mira parts from Zoey’s lips to meet Rumi’s, equally urgent and needy. Zoey watches, enamored, as Rumi parts her lips and allows Mira to slip her tongue into her mouth. Strangely enough, she feels even more into it from watching than participating.

Rumi pulls away with a startled breath. “What are you doing here? Actually— nope. Don’t care. Kiss me again,” and she crashes forward, mouth already finding theirs.

Mira actually does break away then, and Rumi lets out a whine that Zoey would consider pathetic if she didn’t also make the same exact noise. Mira grins wide, and Zoey thinks this must be doing wonders for her ego. 

“Missed me that much? It’s only been three days,” she says, smug, and yeah, she’s gone and grown a huge head about this. Not that Zoey’s complaining. Mira’s hot when she’s cocky. Mira’s hot all the time. Zoey never wants to stop looking at her.

“How are you here?” Rumi repeats her previous question.

Mira shrugs. “Celine showed up in my room today. Practically begged me to come back.”

Rumi blinks once, twice. Then about twenty more times in quick succession. “Celine did?”

“Yeah. She promised she wouldn’t interfere with us.” Mira gestures to the space between the three of them. “And I believed her. She seemed… I don’t know. Genuine? And—”

Mira pauses, but Rumi grabs her arm and squeezes. “And?”

“And scared,” Mira continues, “of losing you.”

“Oh.” Rumi’s face becomes inscrutable. She waits several long seconds before speaking again, “Then I guess we shouldn’t let this opportunity go to waste.”

Zoey and Mira exchange a glance, nonverbally confirming whether they want to check in and see how Rumi’s feeling about Celine. They come to a silent agreement not to press Rumi further and allow her the jagged transition away from any topics surrounding adoptive mothers.

Rumi tugs Zoey in by the tie, and Zoey— helpless in her hands, eager to give— follows her straight to the bed. Mira trails after them, lingering just far enough away that she can't hear Rumi’s breath as it ghosts over Zoey’s ear when she whispers, “I want to make Mira feel good. Can you… show me how?”

Zoey’s face splits into a grin. She grasps Rumi by the jaw and kisses her. “Yeah, I can show you. But first we need to get her onto the bed.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Mira asks.

Zoey and Rumi look back at her with two perfectly mirrored, unmistakably sinful smiles. “You,” they whisper together.

“Well, duh,” Mira says, mouth quirked on one side. “You’re obsessed with…“

Her voice dies down when Zoey approaches her, pulling at her shirt from the front. Rumi stalks up to her from behind, hands tugging at the belt loops at her hips.

Mira glances over her shoulder at Rumi, who responds to the look with a kiss to her shoulder. When Mira turns her head back to Zoey, she takes the opportunity to kiss her, shirt still bunched in her fingers.

“Can we take this off?” Zoey asks, pulling it up just enough to expose her waist. Rumi’s thumbs gravitate toward her skin like a magnet, rubbing slow, almost torturous circles on her.

Mira’s throat bobs. Zoey’s eyes drop to the movement, and she leans in to suck on the base of her neck. Mira gasps, the sound reverberating as Zoey kisses up the length of her neck, to the underside of her jaw.

“Answer me, baby,” she whispers when she reaches her ear.

“Yes,” Mira responds immediately.

Zoey presses a long kiss against Mira’s cheek, then one more against her mouth, and grins. “Off it goes.”

Rumi’s thumbs halt their movements. She pulls the shirt upward, and for a long, glorious moment, they both freeze to bask in the view. Zoey’s seen Mira half-naked before— at the beach, sometimes in their room. But never like this. Never this close. Never this intimate.

And she’s so…

“Beautiful,” Rumi murmurs, hands already wandering Mira’s body, lips traveling from Mira’s shoulder, across her back, like she’s trying to kiss every inch of skin available to her.

Zoey’s eyes fall to Mira’s bra-clad chest, and her fingers twitch once. She opens her mouth to ask permission again, but Mira beats her to the punch. She grasps Rumi’s hand from behind her and urges it to her chest.

Zoey sees Rumi almost go stiff, hands frozen for just a moment before she squeezes the soft flesh under her hand, almost like she’s testing it.

Mira snorts. “It’s like you’ve never touched someone’s tits before.”

“Because I haven’t,” Rumi shoots back, shy despite the bite in her voice. “Never even kissed anyone before this show.”

“And now you’re about to bang the two hottest contestants at once,” Zoey says, giggling. “They grow up so fast.”

“Shut up,” Rumi grumbles, hands still squeezing gently. “This is…”

“So awesome, right?” Zoey grins. “You look exactly how I felt when I touched another girl’s boobs for the first time. Just wait ‘til the bra comes off.”

The moment she says it, Rumi’s hands whip to the clasp of her bra. Mira’s sternum rumbles with laughter, but the amusement doesn’t last for long— not when Rumi’s yanking the offending piece of clothing straight off and tossing it to the floor carelessly, hands returning to their place on Mira’s chest.

Zoey stares, enamored by the view ahead of her: Mira completely topless, head falling backward against Rumi’s shoulder as Rumi’s fingers tease at her stiff nipples. She can see a sheen of sweat begin to formulate on the sweep of Mira’s collarbones. Her lips part, and she releases a long, low groan, guttural as it erupts from her throat.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Zoey clenches her legs tight, craving some sort of friction. She loosens the belt buckle around her waist, having half a mind to just shove her hand down her pants and fuck herself silly while she watches them both.

But Mira seems to sense her antsiness because she raises her head back up to look at her and smirks. 

Zoey squeaks when Mira reaches for her roughly, pulling at the fabric of her suit jacket and nearly ripping it as she tears it off her. Zoey pushes into her, pressing their mouths together desperately. Her underwear is likely soaked by now.

Mira’s fingers fiddle with her belt, then the button, then the zipper, and then suddenly her pants fall to her feet. Zoey stumbles forward in her attempt to step out of the bundle of clothes on the floor, forcing Mira and Rumi backward onto the bed.

Rumi scoots all the way back until she’s propped up by the cushiony headboard. Mira lands on Rumi’s lap, but her hands remain on Zoey, fingers working her panties off her thighs.

Zoey feels her entire body buzzing as she returns the favor, tugging both Mira’s pants and underwear off at once in her delirious haste. She needs to see her completely, needs to touch her, needs to taste her.

Zoey looks at Rumi from over Mira’s shoulder as she straddles Mira’s leg, coating her thigh in her own wetness. Rumi looks back at her, eyes filled with desire, and a small, almost insecure hint of confusion.

Right. Rumi wanted Zoey to show her how to make Mira feel good. 

“Touch her,” she orders gently, guiding one of Rumi’s hands away from Mira’s breast and toward her folds. “Touch her like you’d touch yourself.”

Zoey leans closer, kisses Mira once on her way to kissing Rumi. She can feel Mira’s entire bare body stiffen against hers, a moan racking through her as Rumi slowly, tentatively, experimentally dips her finger into her entrance.

“She can take more than that,” Zoey assures her quietly, voice husking. “Can’t you feel how wet she is? I can tell just from the sound.” She kisses Mira again. “So wet and desperate for us.”

Mira pants against Zoey’s mouth. “Fuck— more. Rumi, I need— fuck me, I need more.”

Rumi follows Mira’s moaned out instructions intently, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, like she’s taking an exam and she’ll die if she fails. She inserts a second finger and quickens her movements.

Mira bucks against her fingers, matching her pace, jaw completely unclenched. Zoey can feel Mira twitching erratically underneath her, and Zoey can’t help it— she rubs her clit against Mira’s thigh in tandem, chasing her own reprieve. 

“Don’t stop,” Mira pleads, voice thick with want and impatience, her hips thrusting rapidly, as though she’s trying to dig Rumi’s fingers in deeper than they can go. “Fuck me— Rumi— You— Fuck.”

“Curl your fingers, Rumi,” Zoey mumbles her order from where her mouth has found purchase against Mira’s shoulder. 

Rumi follows her instructions, and Mira jolts, a cry ripping out of her. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes— Rumi, that’s so—”

“Is that good?” Rumi asks, adding a third finger in her next thrust, and Mira’s body shakes again.

“So good,” Mira babbles out, words hardly comprehensible. “So good.”

“You’re so good,” Zoey says, moving away from Mira’s shoulder to kiss Rumi once more, tongue slipping into her mouth, prodding gently. “You’re doing so good.”

Rumi whimpers against her and drives in faster, as though the words were all she needed to hear to commit fully. Mira trembles from beneath Zoey, her breaths growing increasingly jagged and loud. The bed creaks under their movements, Rumi’s fingers setting a relentless pace that Mira matches with her hips, all while Zoey rubs herself off on Mira’s thigh.

Rumi curls her fingers once more and flicks Mira’s clit with her thumb repeatedly, fucks her fast and hard, pulling Mira closer and closer until—

Mira is loud when she cums. Zoey hadn’t expected it, but Mira’s voice pitches high as she cries, one of her hands coming up to wrap around Zoey and the other reaching behind her so she can tangle her fingers into Rumi’s hair. 

Zoey holds her steadily as her body spasms. She presses small, adoring kisses along the length of her body.

Rumi pumps her fingers slower, dragging her gradually from her orgasm. She slips her fingers out, and Mira shudders once more before slumping down completely.

Rumi stares down at her cum-slicked fingers curiously. She blinks, slow, hazy, almost unaware of what she’s doing. Then she sticks her fingers into her own mouth and sucks.

Zoey thinks she could cum just from that. Her lips part, and she releases a small groan.

“How’s she taste?” Zoey asks, eyes sparking in interest. Maybe she’ll climb off Mira’s lap, drag her to the edge of the bed, drop to her knees, and get a taste for herself.

But then Rumi— without warning— plunges a finger right back into Mira’s cunt.

“Ah!” Mira jerks, but just as quickly as Rumi’d put her finger in, she drags it back out.

And then she brings her finger up to Zoey’s parted lips. Zoey’s jaw drops further, almost instinctive, and Rumi pushes the digit further in, the taste of Mira’s slick dripping onto her tongue. Zoey closes her lips around Rumi’s finger and sucks. She swirls her tongue around it, and a low groan comes from either Mira or Rumi— or maybe both, she honestly can’t tell.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Rumi,” Mira says, apparently having regained the ability to form sentences again.

Rumi yanks her hand out from Zoey’s mouth, a string of saliva following it. “Sorry! Was that— Was that not—?”

“No, it was hot,” Mira assures, shifting in her seat between Rumi’s legs. Zoey takes it as a cue to move off her thigh and onto the side, allowing Mira some room to breathe. “You are so unbelievably hot.”

Mira turns around and kisses Rumi, soft smiles on both their lips, tender and lazy. Zoey watches on eagerly as Mira breaks away for a moment to gently tug Rumi’s shirt off, then reaches around her to unclasp her bra. She kisses Rumi’s jaw, then her neck, then travels downward, sucking and biting as she goes. 

Mira wraps her lips around her nipple, and Rumi’s head knocks back against the headboard with a loud thunk. Zoey watches as she squirms under Mira’s touch and tongue, the noises coming from her mouth obscene and shattered. And fuck, Zoey knows she sounds like a broken record, but it’s so hot.

Mira continues further south, tongue against the contour of Rumi’s abs, then to the base of her stomach, hindered by the very unfortunate fact that Rumi’s still wearing pants. They remedy that quickly, and Rumi’s final piece of clothing drops unceremoniously to the ground.

Then— Mira pulls away from Rumi and looks at Zoey. She smirks. “You just gonna sit there and watch, or do you wanna participate?”

Zoey seriously considers the question, rhetorical or not. Because hot fucking damn, is it nice to watch. 

But then she looks back at Rumi, laid bare, so wet and delectable.

Zoey’s throat dries, and she brings herself closer, ignoring the smug way Mira’s smirk grows, like she knew exactly what Zoey wanted before even she did. 

Mira moves aside to allow Zoey the space between Rumi’s legs, but Zoey has another idea. Wrapping her fingers on either side of Rumi’s hips, she drops to her knees on the floor and drags Rumi to the edge of the bed.

Rumi whimpers from above her, clutching the bedsheets so tight her knuckles have completely paled. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, baby,” Zoey whispers against her skin, then presses an adoring kiss on the inside of her thigh. She feels Rumi’s legs shake under her touch, but whatever moan comes from her is swallowed by a kiss from Mira.

She keeps her right hand on Rumi’s waist, then uses her left hand to push her leg away, spreading her out in front of her. She takes a moment to appreciate the sight ahead of her; Rumi laid out on the bed, Mira kissing along her body, all flushed folds and wetness. 

Zoey slides her tongue through her entrance, impatient and starving, fast and hard and relentless. She’s not sure who moans louder between the two of them. Rumi’s legs quake around her as she pushes just a bit deeper, sucks just a bit harder. 

“Holy fuck, Zoey— Fuck—”

Zoey basks in the sound of her own name sinfully called from her pretty little mouth.

She chances a glance up to watch as Mira flattens her tongue on Rumi’s nipple. Zoey wraps her lips around her clit and sucks. 

Suddenly— without a single sign or warning, Rumi’s jaw slackens, and she gasps, her back arching and her body seizing.

Rumi’s legs clench so hard on either side of Zoey’s head that she can feel her scream vibrate through better than she can hear it.

“Did you just—?” Zoey can barely hear Mira saying, but she doesn’t give Rumi the chance to feel too embarrassed about it. She’s too busy lapping at Rumi’s slit to pay much attention to the way Rumi covers her face or the amusement in Mira’s voice. Because fuck— Rumi tastes so good and she looks so hot.

She slows her pace down just a fraction, easing Rumi down from her orgasm, reveling in the way Rumi’s body twitches. Her legs slump from Zoey’s shoulders, but Zoey wraps her fingers around her thighs to keep her upright; she’s not quite finished with Rumi yet.

Because she tastes so fucking good and that ended far too quickly for her liking. Zoey slides her tongue back under her folds, feels the way Rumi gushes into her mouth, and she’s— fuck, fuck, fuck.

Zoey can’t help herself. She presses her tongue into her entrance, mind clouded and hungry with want, pushing deeper, sucking harder.

“Z-Zoey, I—“ Rumi stammers out, only spurring her on more. “I need— Zoey— I—“

Zoey presses on, dragging her tongue out and flicking at her clit over and over, blood roaring in her ears, muffling all the sounds around her, undone with the desire to make Rumi cum again and again and again and—

Suddenly, Zoey feels Mira’s fingers curl into her bangs as she gently pulls her face from Rumi’s cunt. Zoey looks up at her hazily, pupils so blown out that the browns of her eyes are completely black.

“Easy, there. Give her a break,” Mira says with a chuckle, and it’s only then that Zoey notices Rumi’s panting as she lies on top of the bed, bare chest rising and falling unevenly, fingers twisted in the bedsheets.

Fuck. She looks so hot like this.

Zoey grins lazily at Mira, mouth covered in Rumi’s slick. “Your turn?”

Mira’s eyebrow shoots up, a wicked smirk playing on her lips, almost predatory in the way it curls. “Already had mine, babe. It’s your turn.”

Zoey rises from the foot of the bed embarrassingly quickly at the words. Mira takes her chin within her pointer finger and her thumb, heated in the way she stares at her.

“If I taste you,” Mira asks, voice lowering, echoing those words from before, “will I taste her?”

Zoey’s breaths grow ragged. “Taste me and find out.”

Mira drags her closer by the open collar of her shirt, unbuttoning the rest of it deftly but leaving the shirt and tie on. She kisses her roughly, and Zoey opens her mouth immediately for her, a rush of warmth pooling between her legs when she feels Mira’s tongue slip along hers.

Mira groans against her mouth. “God, Rumi, you taste so good.”

Zoey pushes Mira backward onto the bed and climbs into her lap. Her fingers snake into Mira’s hair from the back, tightening against the strands just enough to have Mira gasping against her. Zoey swallows the sound hungrily, wants to swallow her.

She feels a growl lodge halfway up her throat, but a sound from beside her halts her movements. Not breaking apart from Mira’s mouth, she peeks an eye open and sees Rumi gaping at them. She’s propped herself up now on the mountain of pillows behind her, one of her fingers circling her own clit as she watches.

Insatiable, Zoey thinks, amused and unbelievably horny. She chuckles darkly against Mira’s mouth, detaching herself so she can look at Rumi dead-on.

“You can touch yourself all you want,” Zoey says. “But if you cum, I won’t finish what I started before.”

Rumi nods wordlessly, and— to Zoey’s immense pleasure, she keeps her fingers against her clit, slow and torturous. 

Zoey pushes Mira back until she’s completely horizontal, grinding her hips against the lines of her stomach, then shifts higher, until Mira releases a battered moan, understanding her intention.

“Fucking hell, Zoey,” she mutters as Zoey hovers her cunt above her mouth.

Then Mira flattens her palms against her ass, holding her steady, and Zoey lowers herself against her tongue. 

Mira licks up the length of her folds in earnest, wraps her lips around Zoey’s clit and sucks, digs her nails into her ass as Zoey grinds into her. Sparks of pleasure race up and down her body, culminating in her center as she chases her own orgasm against Mira’s mouth.

Zoey tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down hard. Foggily, barely comprehending it as it happens, she watches Rumi dig her own fingers into herself, staring at Zoey riding Mira’s face, smearing her own desire against her mouth. Rumi quivers, and Zoey thinks she might cum, but then—

Rumi groans out and tears her fingers out of her own pussy, on the precipice of a climax, but teetering herself away from the edge. Close, but not quite there.

Just as Zoey’d told her to.

“Good girl,” Zoey pants out, and Rumi whimpers.

Zoey shuts her eyes and throws her head back, hands clutching the headboard as she thrusts hot and wet in Mira’s mouth.

And fuck— Mira’s jaw must hurt by now, but she’s persistent, tongue working into her folds, against her clit, again, again, again.

“Fuck— Mira, don’t stop—“ Zoey gasps out as she cums, stars appearing on the inside of her eyelids. “Fuck, shit, fuck— yes—“

Zoey’s body convulses as she rides out the rest of her high. She’s careful to slump over to the side, spent, heart still pounding in her ears. Mira pants beside her and wipes her chin with the back of her hand, an arrogant smirk on her lips.

“Holy shit,” Zoey whispers to the ceiling, head in the clouds. She isn’t sure she’s felt anything as good as Mira’s mouth against her cunt before.

“Zoey,” Rumi whines. “I didn’t cum when I touched myself. And you said—“

Zoey grins wolfishly, turning onto her side to look at Rumi. “So needy.”

Still, she sits herself up, never too wired to make Rumi feel good, especially not when she asks Zoey with those eyes of hers, and that mouth of hers, and that body of hers.

“You did so good, baby,” Zoey says with a low hum, and with the way Rumi’s expression shatters with want, she’s half-convinced she made her cum with those words alone. “We’ll reward that, won’t we, Mira?”

Mira sits up too, eyes dangerous and dark. She stares at Rumi like she’s a meal, mouthwatering and tempting: tattoos on full display against toned arms, her abs clenched, her hair unruly, her mouth swollen and smudged with three different lipsticks, her chest littered in marks, nipples erect, cunt glistening.

She’s sex personified.

Zoey crawls between Rumi’s legs mercifully, while Mira settles beside her and presses their lips together, hot and rushed. With Rumi’s mouth preoccupied, Zoey starts kissing along each crevice of her abdomen, dragging her tongue slowly against the hard ridges. She ventures higher, nibbles another hickey against her ribs, then traces a line up Rumi’s chest, pausing at the peak.

She swirls her tongue over Rumi’s nipple and uses her thumb to tease the other. Rumi’s groans are drowned under Mira’s kiss, but it doesn’t stop her from arching into Zoey’s mouth. Rumi’s hand flattens against the back of Zoey’s head, fingers threading through her hair.

Then— against Mira’s lips— Rumi demands, “Fuck me already.”

Zoey does as she’s told. She releases her fixation on Rumi’s chest, eyes glinting and mouth curling up at the edges. She tosses a leg over her shoulder and scoots closer before plunging her tongue into Rumi’s entrance.

Rumi moans against Mira’s mouth, hand still placed on Zoey’s head, forcing her to stay between her legs. As if Zoey could even imagine being anywhere else right now.

She works Rumi over the edge fairly quickly, sucks and laps at her with absolutely zero plans of stopping anytime soon. Rumi doesn’t let her stop this time anyway— grinding her hips into Zoey’s mouth sloppily, chasing the next high as soon as she descends from the first.

Zoey’s tongue has lost all feeling by this point, but she’d rather die than stop now, not when Rumi’s so desperate for her. She can feel the telltale sign of her next climax in the trembling of her legs, so she pushes deeper, harder, longer, faster, until finally—

A gush of wetness releases from Rumi’s center, smearing itself all over Zoey’s face. She licks at the sweet, tangy taste eagerly, takes as much as she can, and at last, Rumi releases the death grip on Zoey’s head. 

Mira looks at Zoey with hooded eyes, tongue running across her lips. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Zoey just grins back, finally satiated in her desire to please.

Rumi giggles, sounding almost delirious. “Fuck. I’m so hungry.”

Chapter Text

Mira wakes in slow pieces, each of her senses taking their time to wake with her.

The first thing she feels is a heavy, enveloping warmth. Then the softness of skin, the sensation of a thigh hooked over hers, and the faint smell of vanilla from the hotel’s diffusers clinging to sheets that definitely were far neater before the three of them had collapsed into them last night.

She feels the arm around her waist— firm, steady, and unmistakably Rumi’s. Soft hair tickles her collarbone— light and teasing, like Zoey.

Mira doesn’t move yet. She lets herself sit in it, in the quiet hum under her ribs, the fullness of being held from both sides.

She feels like she’s floating. Light in a way she hasn’t felt in months.

When she finally peels open her eyes, she sees Zoey’s freckles first. They’re scattered across her bare shoulder in constellations, dozens of tiny copper specks splashed over slightly tanned skin. Mira lifts a lazy hand and traces the curve of Zoey’s upper arm with a fingertip, half to confirm she’s not dreaming and half because she simply can’t resist.

Zoey makes a small, pleased sound. “Staring?” she mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Maybe,” Mira whispers, fighting the urge to lick a line across the freckles in front of her.

On Mira’s other side, Rumi shifts, her grip around Mira’s waist tightening possessively. “She’s always staring at you,” Rumi says, voice thick with sleep and accusation in the fondest possible way. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Mira laughs softly. “You’re saying that like I don’t also stare at you.”

Rumi just chuckles against her skin, deep and so fucking sexy. Mira feels a surge of triumph in her chest at the fact that only she and Zoey get to hear Rumi in the morning like this, only they get to touch her and love her like this.

Zoey finally cracks one eye open and gives Mira a lazy grin, the kind that makes Mira feel like she’s being worshipped for simply existing. “You’re clingy,” Zoey murmurs. “Like, aggressively clingy. You know that?”

“Wow,” Mira says. “Is that what we’re doing this morning? Personal attacks on my character?”

Zoey snorts. Rumi lifts her head from where it was nestled against the back of Mira’s shoulder blade and makes a sleepy noise that is somehow both judgmental and affectionate. “You are clingy,” she says. “You latched onto Zoey’s arm last night like you thought she was gonna float away.”

“You both kept moving further apart!” Mira protests, even though that may not be entirely accurate and she knows it. “I was maintaining structural integrity.”

Rumi presses a kiss against Mira’s spine, slow and sensual, like she doesn’t want to commit to waking up fully. “You were hoarding us,” she says, lips brushing Mira’s skin with every syllable.

Mira turns fully red. “Okay,” she mutters, “well, it worked. You’re both here.”

“Mm-hmm,” Zoey hums, lifting her head just long enough to kiss Mira’s shoulder. “And you’re not getting rid of us for a while. Sorry to disappoint.”

Mira’s heart does something painful and wonderful at the same time.

“I like you clingy,” Zoey murmurs, quiet enough that it feels like a secret. She looks at Mira like she’s a sunrise, blinking slow and content, hair mussed, freckles glowing. “Just don’t tell Rumi that.”

“I heard that,” Rumi says, voice muffled against Mira’s back.

Mira turns enough to look at her too. Rumi’s hair is a gorgeous disaster. She looks softer in the morning than Mira has ever seen her— eyes rounded, tattoos exposed, vulnerability unhidden. Mira’s fingers hover over the ink on Rumi’s bicep, the smooth lines disappearing into the sheets. She touches it lightly, tracing the jagged edges like she had that very first night.

It feels like it was ages ago.

Rumi shivers.

“You cold?” Mira whispers.

“No,” Rumi answers, voice a hum. She looks up at Mira through her lashes, lips pulled upward in a crooked smile, almost smug, like she knows about Mira’s fixation with her arms.

Zoey notices Mira’s wandering hands and barks out a laugh. “Look at her. She’s obsessed with your tattoos.”

“I am not obsessed,” Mira protests weakly, even as she continues to press her fingers into Rumi’s bicep.

“She is,” Zoey disagrees. “She looks like she’s decrypting an ancient map.”

Mira lifts her head, ready to fire back something mildly threatening, but the sight of Zoey’s damn freckles derails her. The freckles win. Every time.

She leans forward and presses her lips to Zoey’s shoulder, right where the freckles cluster like spilled cinnamon. Zoey exhales sharply.

“See?” Rumi says behind her. “Clingy.”

Mira twists just enough to reach back and grab Rumi’s arm, tugging it more firmly around her waist. “You’re one to talk. You’re glued to me.”

“I’m comfortable,” Rumi says simply.

“You’re clingy,” Zoey echoes, amusement creeping into her voice. “And don’t even get me started on how you were acting last night.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rumi huffs out, and Mira smiles broadly when she realizes the direction this is going.

“I didn’t think you’d be so whiny, Rumi,” Zoey says, grinning.

“I’m not!” Rumi whines, like a whiner. 

Mira pitches her voice up to imitate Rumi, “‘Ugh, Zoey, I haven’t cum yet, and you promised—‘“

Rumi hits her with a pillow, face red. “I don’t sound like that!”

Mira turns enough to kiss Rumi’s jaw gently, and Rumi’s breath stutters. Zoey watches with an expression halfway between fond and smug.

“You know,” Zoey says, stretching her legs under the blankets like a cat, “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever woken up on this show.”

Mira meets her eyes. “Yeah?”

Zoey nods. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Rumi doesn’t say anything, but her arm tightens around Mira, and she slips her hand under the hem of the sheet, palm pressing lightly to Mira’s stomach. Not sexual exactly—it’s more like she’s tethering her. As if she’s afraid Mira might evaporate.

Mira puts her hand over Rumi’s. “Are you okay?” Mira asks softly.

Rumi pauses. Her breath goes still in her chest. “I’m… here.” She says it like she’s testing the truth of it. “And you’re here. Both of you.”

Zoey shifts close again, her forehead resting against Mira’s shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Rumi closes her eyes. “I know. I just… didn’t expect to feel like this.”

“Like what?” Zoey asks.

Rumi searches for the word. “Happy? To be on the show, I mean.”

It cracks something gentle and fragile open inside Mira. She twists in the sheets until she’s facing Rumi fully; Zoey adjusts so her chin rests on Mira’s upper arm, gazing at Rumi tenderly. Mira cups Rumi’s cheek, thumb brushing the faint shadow of sleep still clinging to her.

“You deserve to feel happy,” Mira says. “With us.”

Rumi swallows, then kisses her gently. She leans up to do the same to Zoey over Mira’s shoulder. “I am.”

For a while, the room is quiet in that perfect way mornings can be— breaths syncing, sheets rustling softly, the weight of being together settling around them like a protective little cocoon.

Eventually, Mira shifts, sitting up to prop herself up against the headboard behind her. Zoey groans in protest at the loss of warmth and drapes herself over Mira’s lap. Rumi sits up more reluctantly, hair sticking up in places Mira is too endeared to point out.

Zoey pokes Mira’s side. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Nowhere,” Mira promises. “Just adjusting.”

“Adjust on top of me,” Zoey grumbles.

Rumi snorts, then tugs Mira closer to herself. “She’s the clingiest one here.”

“Takes one to know one,” Zoey fires back, pulling Mira back.

“Ladies, ladies…” Mira lifts both hands haughtily. “There’s enough of me to go around.”

Zoey tightens her grip. “No there isn’t. I did the math.”

Rumi raises an eyebrow, then echoes slowly, “You did the math?”

“I’m committed,” Zoey says. “To Mira. And to winning.”

“This isn’t a competition,” Mira says.

Rumi hooks a finger under Mira’s chin, slow enough that Mira feels every millimeter of the way she tilts her face closer, lips barely brushing against each other. Her touch is warm, confident, claiming without needing to press. 

“It is,” Rumi murmurs, her voice dipped in a velvet cadence. “You’re the prize.”

Mira swallows hard, breath catching, then she surges forward, unable to stand the quarter-inch of distance for another heartbeat. Their lips meet in a kiss that starts soft and immediately turns hungry, Mira leaning into that rush she feels every time she’s around Rumi, the rush that’s grown familiar without ever losing its edge of excitement.

Zoey makes a scandalized noise behind them, though her gaze sharpens as she watches them attentively. “Unfair advantage,” she says, crossing her arms dramatically. “Rumi used her siren voice. That’s cheating.”

Rumi pulls back just an inch, her breath warm on Mira’s lips, and smirks without taking her eyes off her. Mira’s whole body buzzes.

“You’re both insufferable,” Mira manages, though the words dissolve into something nowhere near annoyed. It’s hard to sound exasperated when her cheeks are burning and her heartbeat feels like it’s trying to write poetry on the inside of her chest.

Zoey’s pout deepens adorably, and Mira turns toward her as if tugged by invisible thread. She cups Zoey’s cheek and leans in, brushing a tender kiss over that exaggerated little frown. Zoey melts instantly, lashes fluttering, hands curling possessively around Mira’s waist.

“Better,” Zoey whispers, nose brushing Mira’s in a way that sparks a smile she can’t control.

Rumi slides a hand along Mira’s side, slow and sure, and suddenly Mira is held between them— warmth at her front, warmth at her back, affection circling her like gravity from two suns. She feels weightless. Wanted. Claimed and cherished in the same breath.

“Love you guys,” Zoey says absentmindedly, a goofy grin on her face. Her words float so casually in the air that for a second, Mira thinks she imagines them.

Then the silence hits, heavy and warm. Mira can feel Rumi stiffen beside her, and Mira’s breaths come to a screeching halt.

“What?” Zoey asks, looking between them. But just as she asks it, she freezes, then blinks, slow and dawning. “Oh— shit. I meant—” She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Ugh, that’s not how I wanted to say that.”

“Zoey,” Rumi says quietly, voice stripped of its teasing lilt. Just her, bare and soft. “Look at us.”

Zoey peeks through her fingers, shoulders hunched, eyes wide and terrified in a way Mira has never seen on her.

Mira’s heart thuds, loud enough she swears both of them can feel it through the slender space between their bodies. She turns fully toward Zoey, hand reaching— before Zoey grabs it and squeezes like she’s afraid Mira might disappear if she lets go.

“It just slipped out,” Zoey whispers, then she starts speaking so quickly that Mira has a tough time keeping up. “But it’s not wrong. It’s just— scary to say out loud. And also, like— it was way too easy to confess. Like, it was second nature for me. Sorry.”

“Zoey—” Mira tries to interrupt, but Zoey steamrolls right past her.

“But I get it, if it’s way too soon. Everything about us— all three of us, on this show— is so unorthodox. You don’t have to— you know, reciprocate right now. Or ever, if you don’t want to. Sorry.”

“Zoey…” Rumi attempts, but the other girl is fully not listening by that point, eyes wide and desperate as she word-vomits.

“I know I can… be a lot sometimes. Or all the time, really. Sorry, I just don’t want you to regret any of this, and— and— and I’d get it, if I exhaust you. Please tell me if you get tired of me. And I just realized I interrupted both of you, so I’m gonna shut up now. Sorry.”

When she’s finally done speaking, there’s a long breath that passes between the three of them. Rumi pulls her legs over Mira’s to scoot closer to Zoey, eyebrows scrunched in concern. “There is so much to unpack there.”

“I’m—”

“If you say sorry again, I’m gonna flick you on the forehead,” Mira says.

Zoey clamps her mouth shut, eyes round and vulnerable. Her jaw flexes repeatedly, like she’s physically chewing her words back down.

“Zo…” Rumi says, cupping her face with both hands— slow, deliberate, as if handling something fragile and precious. Her thumbs trace lightly along Zoey’s cheekbones, grounding her, steadying her breath. “You’re not too much for us. You will never be too much.”

“But I know I can be—”

“I don’t regret a single second I’ve spent with you,” Rumi continues. “Not the chaos or the drama, not the moments where you talk so fast I need subtitles. None of it. You haven’t scared me away once.”

Zoey exhales shakily, her fingers tightening around Mira’s hand like she’s clinging to a lifeline.

Mira shifts closer too, sliding an arm around Zoey’s waist. “And yeah,” she says softly, with a tiny exhale of laughter, “we’re unorthodox. None of us expected to be here like this.” She nudges Zoey’s shoulder with hers. “But unorthodox doesn’t make our feelings any less real.”

Zoey blinks, lashes trembling. “Our… feelings?” she repeats in a tiny voice, as if she’s afraid to believe the words.

Mira meets her gaze with a softness that feels like it’s been waiting weeks to surface. A softness she can’t swallow anymore. “Yeah,” she says, brushing a curl behind Zoey’s ear. “I can’t speak for Rumi, but… I love you, too. Both of you.”

Zoey makes a sound— small and cracked— and her eyes shine so wide it’s almost luminous.

Rumi expels a long breath, like Mira’s words knocked something loose in her sternum. She shifts to sit directly in front of them, knees brushing theirs.

“I didn’t think I’d be ready to say it now,” Rumi admits, voice unsteady. She takes Zoey’s free hand in hers, then Mira’s, linking all three of them together. Her gaze moves between them with startling vulnerability. “But I love you, too. And I want to choose you both, loudly, every single day.”

Zoey giggles suddenly, voice pitching up almost deliriously, then pinches Mira under her arm.

“Ow! What the fuck was that for?”

“Sorry,” Zoey says foggily, a huge smile splitting her face. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”

Mira’s eyes squint in amusement, and she snorts. “You’re supposed to pinch yourself for something like that.”

“Oh yeah.” Zoey digs her index finger and thumb into her own cheek and pulls. “Real, alright. I don’t think my dreams can even amount to the real thing.”

“What a line.” Rumi lets out a low, warm laugh— that laugh, the one that sounds like she’s stirring sunlight into honey.

Zoey sniffles, then laughs again, cheeks still flushed. “Great. Amazing. So we’re all in love. Cool, cool, cool.”

The room goes soft with their laughter, warmth winding itself around all of them again. For a moment, nothing else exists but the cradle of blankets, the lingering pressure of their hands clutched together, the gentle rise and fall of breath.

Then another sensation stirs in Mira’s chest— unexpected and heavy. 

She looks at Rumi, at the faint shadows under her eyes, at the way she keeps one hand curled in the sheets like she’s holding onto something invisible.

“Hey,” Mira says gently.

Rumi looks up, eyebrows arching in question.

Mira hesitates, but only for a second. “I think…” She exhales. “I think you should talk to Celine.”

Zoey stills behind her.

Rumi’s expression doesn’t change at first. Then her jaw tenses, almost imperceptibly.

Mira takes her hand. “Not for her,” she says. “For you.”

Rumi looks down at their joined hands, thumb brushing Mira’s knuckles. For a moment, she’s quiet. Thinking. Feeling. Wanting to run but choosing not to.

Finally, she nods. Slowly. “Okay.”

Mira squeezes her hand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Rumi’s voice is soft but steady. “I’ll talk to her.”

***

Later that day, Rumi finds her in the small rose garden tucked behind the hotel— somewhere no cameras will follow her. The late afternoon sun filters through trellised vines, scattering warm gold over the petal-soft reds and whites lining the path.

Celine is sitting on a stone bench beneath an archway of roses, tablet in her lap, stylus unmoving. She’s staring at the frozen frame on-screen— Rumi’s face, mid-laugh— but she isn’t really seeing it.

Rumi steps onto the gravel, and the quiet crunch makes Celine blink, shoulders tightening before she slowly turns. Her back straightens with a breath, then slumps. When she finally looks over, her lips are pressed into a thin, resigned line.

“Hey,” Rumi says, breath catching a little on the word.

Celine assesses her carefully. “Hi, Rumi.”

She closes the tablet without looking down, as if bracing herself for something she’s already decided she deserves.

Rumi isn’t sure where to begin. She doesn’t know if she should thank Celine for bringing Mira back, or if she should carry on the rage pent up from the weeks— no, years— that Celine has impressed her own narrative onto her. She doesn’t know what to think, or how to feel, or whether she’s valid for thinking or feeling any way about it all.

So she stares down at her shoes and says, “Sorry you won’t get a villain for this season.”

Celine blinks, tugs the inside of her cheek between her teeth, and says mildly, “I fear that I was the villain of the season.”

Rumi’s head snaps. “Celine—”

“I’m not afraid to paint myself in the true light that I was,” Celine interrupts, not unkindly. “Some conversations went unrecorded— I know. But I can film a confessional to fill in the gaps. And I’ll tell the truth.”

Rumi opens her mouth, finds no words, and closes it again. She stands there in the dim glow, breathing through the thick knot in her chest. After several seconds, she says quietly, “You know… if you broadcast this season— everything it represents— a lot of people probably won’t like how it ends. If this impacts viewership or ratings—”

“I don’t care about that.” Celine cuts in immediately, voice firmer than anything she’s said yet. She turns fully this time, meeting Rumi’s eyes head-on. For a moment, Rumi expects the sentence to end there — just another implication left hovering between them, familiar as breathing. Another almost.

But Celine doesn’t look away this time.

“I care about you.”

Rumi blinks, once, slowly— like her brain needs time to buffer the words. Something inside her tilts, off-balance with the force of them.

Celine doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t step closer. She just stands there, hands folded in front of her like she’s trying to keep them still, like she’s trying not to hope too loudly.

“I know I’ve made things harder than they needed to be,” she continues, quieter. “For you. And for them. But I won’t let this story hurt you. And I’m… sorry… that I hurt you.”

The garden hums with the unspoken things between them— the past, the misread signals, the choices too complicated for easy forgiveness but too important for silence. The undertones of love without the clear proclamations of it.

Celine breathes out. “So… yes. I’ll tell the truth. Even if it makes me look bad. Even if I become the villain in everyone else’s eyes. I don’t care if I lose the viewers or the show.” Her voice dips, low and honest. “But I don’t want to lose you. I was trying to follow what your mother wanted, and I just wound up making every wrong decision because of it.”

Celine’s words settle between them, warm and heavy and unmistakably real. Rumi’s throat tightens. She doesn’t look away— can’t, really— but she also doesn’t know what to say to something that naked.

It’s about her mother again. It all comes back to her, always.

Then Rumi blurts the only thing that rises through the emotional static in her brain. “God, I’m starting to wonder if Zoey was right and you really were in love with my mom.”

Silence.

Not a quick silence either. A silence that stretches. A silence that becomes a character in the room. A silence that makes Rumi’s pulse tick upward with every passing second.

Rumi swivels her head toward Celine, eyes wide. “Celine?”

Celine still says nothing.

Rumi’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. She looks like a fish gasping for existential clarity.

A question rockets through her mind, unbidden and explosive. Did you fuck my mom, Celine?! 

Thankfully, it does not exit her mouth.

Celine finally inhales. “Rumi,” she says, voice strangled. “It wasn’t— I mean— It wasn’t not like that.”

“And what does that mean?” Rumi whispers.

Celine grimaces, rubbing her forehead like she’s in physical pain. “Okay. Let me— can I just— start over? Please?”

Rumi gesticulates wildly. “By all means.”

Celine clears her throat, sits up straighter, and looks every bit like a woman about to deliver a quarterly report. “I did… have a surreptitious relationship with Mi-yeong during the filming of the show.”

Rumi’s soul briefly leaves her body.

Celine continues quickly, tripping over her words, “She loved your father. And she loved— well— me, too. In her way. She was capable of more than one love at a time. I just… didn’t understand that back then.”

Rumi blinks. Hard.

Celine barrels on, hands now gesturing animatedly, like they’d be able to explain the situation better than her mouth. “Your mother told me— before she passed— that she hoped you’d find a love like hers. A love that was big. A love that chose loudly, whatever that was supposed to mean. And she made me promise I’d look out for you.”

Rumi’s eyebrows shoot up. “So your idea of ‘looking out for me’ was putting me on a dating show?”

“Yes, and I see now that it was foolish,” Celine says earnestly. Rumi doesn’t think she’s ever seen Celine this worked up before. “But you have to understand. It worked for her.”

“My mom was on The Bachelor for one season and somehow left with a husband after having a secret girlfriend. How could that possibly be—”

“Efficient?” Celine offers weakly.

“— what she wanted for me!” Rumi finishes, incredulous at the absurdity of it all. “I mean, who wants that for their child as their dying wish?”

Celine sighs, rubbing her temples. “I truly believed you’d find what she had. I thought the show might… open the door in the same way it did for her.”

Rumi stares. “So you threw me into chaos because you thought that’s what my mom told you to do?”

“Yes,” Celine says again. “Well— also because I thought I knew what was best for you. Which I now realize was very presumptuous and also, in hindsight, deeply stupid.”

Rumi pinches the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable.”

Celine nods sympathetically. “I know.”

There’s another beat of silence— less tense this time, more exhausted, the edges of the moment dipped in ludicrosity.

Then Celine’s expression softens. “But when I saw the three of you together… Mira, Zoey, you… choosing each other, not one or the other… I finally understood.”

Rumi lifts her gaze. Celine’s eyes are gentle, glowing with something like awe.

“You didn’t need to pick,” Celine says. “Your mother didn’t, either. I just thought she had to.” Her voice wavers. “And I wish I had understood sooner that loving more than one person doesn’t make the love any less real.”

Rumi swallows. The garden feels warmer suddenly. Softer.

Celine exhales shakily. “You found what Mi-yeong wanted for you. What I—” She hesitates, voice hitching. “— what I wanted for you. Despite my valiant efforts to ruin that for you.”

Rumi goes quiet for a long moment, eyes drifting toward the rose bushes swaying behind Celine— lush reds and soft pinks, the exact palette of her mother’s wedding bouquet. She wonders if Celine chose this spot on purpose. She wonders if she always chooses things on purpose.

“I…” Rumi starts, then stops. Her throat feels tight in a way she isn’t used to. She’s good at letting things go, brushing her issues under a rug until they pile up. But forgiveness— this brand of proper forgiveness— is a different kind of heat. A version of letting go that she’s not sure she can commit to. “I don’t know if I can just let everything go. Not yet.”

Celine’s shoulders pull back, just slightly, as if bracing for impact. “I understand.”

Rumi shakes her head. “No. I don’t think you do. Because part of me wants to be furious forever. And another part of me—” She exhales, frustrated with herself. “— another part of me still loves you. You were important to me. You are important to me. And that doesn’t switch off just because I’m angry.”

Celine’s expression wobbles— barely, but enough.

Rumi continues, softer, “So I’d like to try. To forgive you. Just… not now.” She folds her arms loosely, not defensive— just holding herself steady. “I need space when the show ends. I need to figure out where I end and where everything you arranged for me begins.”

The disappointment flickers across Celine’s face, but she nods anyway. “You deserve that. Truly.” She glances down at the roses, then back at Rumi with something close to resolve. “Whatever you need, I’ll give it. And I’ll… do what I can to make up for the mistakes I’ve made.” A rueful smile touches her mouth. “God knows there are plenty of them.”

Rumi huffs a laugh despite herself. “Yeah. A few.”

They stand in silence for a long beat, ruminating in their conversation.

Celine gestures toward the path back to the villa. “Do you want to walk back together?”

Rumi hesitates. Then nods once. “Yeah. We can walk.”

***

Rumi and Celine really are more similar than they think, Zoey notes, as she watches them wander down the garden path.

The matching posture— hands clasped behind their backs as if trying to appear calmer than they are. The identical tilt of their heads when they assess something, sharp-eyed and quietly scrutinize. The little pinch of their mouths when they’re displeased but don’t want to say it out loud.

Zoey’s lips twitch as she begins to notice the resemblances she hadn’t considered before. Resemblances wrought by temperament, not biology. A mother and a daughter. 

And as she watches the two of them talk— still awkward, but no longer brittle— Zoey lets herself breathe a little easier.

Because everything is shifting now.

Jinu’s elimination is graceful and unproblematic, his smile soft and knowing. He shakes Mira and Zoey’s hands afterward, muttering something about rooting for “whatever this triangle thing is.” Mira snorts, and Zoey giggles.

Then he turns to Rumi and wraps her into a tight hug, telling her he’s had an amazing time knowing her and hoping they could stay friends after this is over.

Rumi agrees, a bright, wobbly grin on her face. She watches him leave, and only once he’s out of sight, gate shutting behind him, does she turn back.

It’s just Zoey and Mira left.

The final ceremony is held on the balcony garden overlooking the cliffs— string lights, roses, the kind of romantic setting producers drool over. A small crowd gathers: Mystery, Romance, Baby, Abby, and Jinu. Bobby stands to the side, hands clasped, beaming and proud. Zoey’s mom waves enthusiastically the moment she spots her. Celine stands ahead of them, smiling so wide that her eyes squint.

And then Rumi steps out.

She looks unreal— soft makeup glowing under the lights, a flowing dress catching the wind just right, eyes bright but steady. But Zoey’s breath catches just as hard when she glances at Mira beside her. Mira looks stunning— jaw set with determination, cheeks flushed, hair braided with tiny sprigs of daisies.

Zoey’s not sure she knows which one she wants to look at more. 

Mira moves toward Rumi first. Zoey follows a heartbeat later, her heart thudding high in her throat.

The audience murmurs, confused, as the three of them converge. Mira reaches Rumi. Zoey reaches Mira. The three of them form a small, tight triangle at the center of the world.

Rumi takes a breath. “I’m supposed to pick one person today,” she begins, voice carrying over the crowd, “but that’s never been the truth of my story. Or ours.”

Mira slides her fingers into Zoey’s hand. Zoey squeezes back.

“You two,” Rumi says, looking between them, “have shown me what love can look like when it’s not confined. When it’s chosen, deliberately, over and over.”

Zoey’s mom audibly sniffles. Romance is already in tears.

Rumi’s breath shakes. “But before anything else… I need you both to know something.”

Zoey feels Mira tense beside her. All three of them hold their breath.

Rumi continues, voice trembling around its edges. “This has been the craziest, most terrifying, most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. And I still don’t understand how it happened. I wasn’t supposed to fall for two people. You weren’t supposed to fall for each other. And we definitely weren’t supposed to end up here.”

Mira lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, the network is probably distributing blood pressure medication backstage as we speak.”

Zoey snorts, then covers her mouth with her free hand when the audience laughs.

Rumi’s smile softens. “But somehow… in the middle of all of that chaos, I fell in love. With both of you. And watching you fall in love with each other—”

Zoey beams instinctively. Mira tightens her grip on Zoey’s hand.

Rumi swallows. “That was the craziest thing of all. And the most beautiful.”

Mira steps forward, pulling Zoey gently with her until they’re both standing close enough to feel Rumi’s breath. “I didn’t think this was possible,” she says quietly. “I didn’t think I was possible in this. But being with you…” Her voice wavers. “With both of you… I’ve never felt more myself.”

Zoey’s throat burns. “Growing up, I always felt like I’d have to choose between people my whole life. In fights and in love,” she whispers. “But then you two happened. And suddenly I felt a bit less crazy for not wanting to choose. I don’t ever want us to stop.”

Rumi blinks rapidly, her eyes gleaming in the light.

Zoey continues, voice cracking, “I want to keep choosing you. Both of you. Every day.”

Mira adds, soft but certain, “I want to keep falling in love.”

Something in Rumi’s expression melts— fear, hope, disbelief— all tangled together.

And then—

She reaches into the folds of her dress and pulls out two roses, deep red and trembling just a little in her hands.

“Mira. Zoey.” Her voice breaks beautifully. “Will you accept my final roses?”

Zoey’s breath stutters. Mira’s lips part.

And then—

Rumi drops to one knee.

Two roses. Two rings. One impossible, perfect moment.

Zoey’s vision goes blurry at the edges. Mira goes very still beside her.

(They’d talked about this, the morning after that night.

“It’s customary for me to propose,” Rumi had said, pulling her clothes back on, hair tousled, cheeks still pink. She paused, turning toward them with a shy, almost sheepish look. “But as much as I love you… I think it’s too early to get married.”

Zoey and Mira shared a glance filled with too many emotions to name.

“We’re already shattering the entire concept of the show by being together,” Zoey said. “Maybe we should let this tradition be the one normal thing.”

Mira grinned. “I don’t mind a long engagement.”

Rumi blinked at them, stunned. Then a laugh spilled out of her, bright and uncontrollable. “Okay. Okay— yeah. Let’s do it then.”)

Rumi looks up at them, terrified and radiant all at once. “Will you— both of you— say yes to me?”

Mira nods first, tears spilling over. “Yes. God, yes.”

Zoey laughs— half-sob, half-disbelieving joy— and throws her hands over her face before pulling them down again. “Obviously yes!”

The crowd erupts. Roses fall from above. Romance is crying harder than Zoey’s mom. Abby shakes Baby by the front of his shirt. Mystery nods, like he’d known exactly how this was all going to play out from the start. Jinu grins and cups his hands around his mouth, hooting in pure delight. Celine looks away quickly, but Zoey doesn’t miss the way she wipes at her eyes.

Rumi slips a ring onto each of their fingers— hands trembling and breath shaking.

The show is finally over.

***

The finale has been out for all of twenty minutes, and the internet has collectively lost its goddamn mind.

Mira sits cross-legged on her couch— Rumi’s hoodie draped over her shoulders, Zoey’s shampoo still clinging faintly to her hair— and refreshes the trending page with the mild emotional detachment of someone rubbernecking a highway disaster they accidentally caused.

1. Trending in Korea: BACHELORETTE 
2. Trending in Korea: #RUMIZOEYMIRA
3. Trending in Korea : POLY

She exhales. “Oh good,” she mutters. “We’re a hashtag now.”

The loading icon spins. Then—

1. Trending in Korea: GAY RIGHTS (REAL)

She snorts.

The first article pops up, bolded at the top of her feed:

“THE MOST SHOCKING, GROUNDBREAKING FINALE IN BACHELORETTE HISTORY: Rumi Chooses Two— And Korea Is Screaming.”

“Oh my god,” Mira groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Please. Please calm down.”

Her phone rings.

She doesn’t even need to check the caller ID; the ringtone is identical to the one her mother forces on every family member “for consistency.”

She answers anyway.

“Mira.” Her brother’s voice is grave. Like a doctor delivering bad news grave. “You need to stop.”

Mira blinks. “Stop… what?”

“This show,” Seong-jae hisses. “Or at least stop doing… what you did on it.”

“I have no power over what they show on that screen.”

She can practically hear him waving his hands around like her relationship status is a fire he’s trying to smother. “Mom’s blood pressure is through the roof. Dad refuses to turn off the TV. He keeps rewinding the proposal scene like he’s studying game film.”

Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. “So?”

“So it’s bad, Mira! They were already stressed. Now they’re— they’re—”

“Feral?” she offers.

“Yes!” he nearly yelps. “Feral! They're feral!”

Mira laughs— quiet, helpless. “They’ll survive.” Unfortunately, she mentally tacks on.

“I just—” he sighs, long-suffering. “I don’t know why you couldn’t just keep that shit to yourself.”

“Fuck you,” she says and hangs up before he can continue to yell at her.

She blocks his number and opens Twitter.

The mentions are a swamp she refuses to touch. But the general feed? That’s another story.

She chuckles the moment she reads the first tweet.

yeahnoyeah @yeahcherry_

noo mira don’t quit the show you’re too sexy aha

youngchopsticks @edgylactose

honestly idk what’s going on but seeing rumi pissed off is doing things to me

Soda @Frenchsoda

I would do unspeakable things just to make Celine look at me I’m just saying

Mira pauses at that. Did Zoey ghostwrite it?

She shakes the thought from her head and thumbs through some more.

andy @andyippee

no fair rumi why do you get to bag TWO contestants?

Confused cait @Confuzzed_chaos

Why are we surprised that the show about one woman dating twenty-five people at once ended in a poly relationship? I’m honestly shocked it doesn’t happen more often

Mira finds herself nodding along to that one when she reads it. She hits the like and repost button. Finally, someone with common sense.

unit 3113 @unitNo3113

ZOEY IN A SUIT?????? IM GONNA HGHNNHNHGHGHHHH OHHH SHE LOOKS TOO GOOD

Mira smiles at her phone, warmth rushing up her throat. Yeah. Zoey in a suit. That did something to her too.

Hezza @Hezza8720

This is the only time I have ever been interested in a reality TV show. That Rumi and Zoey kiss and then the Mira and Rumi kiss AND THEN THE MIRA AND ZOEY KISS? Sooo hot. This is the greed they warned us about in the bible!!

Mira barks a laugh.

She doesn’t even bother scrolling further. The negative tweets are there— she knows they are— but she lets them blur into irrelevance. They don’t matter, not compared to the flood of unhinged compliments and memes.

Not compared to the fact that Rumi and Zoey are on their way over with takeout and an insistence on watching the episode together despite all of them knowing they’ll be screaming into pillows.

Not compared to the fact that the world is watching them— but they chose each other long before this.

Mira sits back, pulls Rumi’s hoodie tighter around her, snuggles Zoey’s turtle plushie to her chest, and refreshes the feed again.

***

Zoey is not proud of the noise she makes when she tries to step out of their bedroom and sees the spider.

It’s somewhere between a yelp and a dying accordion, and she scrambles backward so fast she accidentally kicks the dresser.

“Nope. Nope. Absolutely not—” she wheezes, slamming the bedroom door shut and locking it.

The spider remains on the ceiling outside.

She remains inside.

This is, as far as Zoey is concerned, a perfect solution.

A beat passes. Footsteps approach down the hallway.

Mira’s voice floats through the door. “Why’s the door locked?”

“There was a spider!”

There is a full second of baffled silence, like Mira is truly, deeply processing this. Finally: “What the fuck is locking the door gonna do?”

Zoey stares blankly at the doorknob. “…oh.”

The lock clicks open. Zoey pushes the door a few inches, peering outside carefully.

“Where is it?” Mira asks, hands on her hips as she surveys the hallway.

Zoey points at the ceiling with the trembling hand of someone who has seen death.

Mira squints. “That’s tiny.”

“That’s Godzilla.”

Mira rolls her eyes affectionately and walks past Zoey, reaching for a cup and a piece of paper like she’s handling something mildly annoying, rather than terrifying and life-threatening. Zoey presses herself against the far wall, hands clasped as she prays for Mira’s survival.

Thirty seconds later, Mira holds up the cup triumphantly. “See? It’s fine. I’m relocating him.”

Zoey exhales dramatically, slumping to the floor. “Thank you for your service.”

“I’m not accepting tips,” Mira deadpans as she slides the window open and ushers the spider out. The moment it scrambles away, she promptly shuts the window.

“You will accept my gratitude,” Zoey says, “in the form of making out later.”

Mira’s mouth twitches. “We’ll negotiate.”

Zoey beams.

By the afternoon, the house has settled into its usual quiet post-lunch hum— sunlight through the curtains, someone’s playlist drifting from the kitchen, Rumi curled up beside Mira on the couch, eyes lulling as she drifts off to sleep. Zoey sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth while she prepares the most delicious rice cakes known to humankind.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

Zoey removes her apron and makes her way to the door. She peeks through the peephole, then calls, “Rumi, we got trouble.”

A dry voice answers from the other side, “I can hear you.”

Zoey blushes instantly, then clears her throat. “Oops. Hi. Didn’t think you’d hear me. Come in.”

She opens the door to find Celine standing there, carrying a small tablet under one arm and wearing sunglasses too expensive for a casual daytime visit. But then again— this is Celine.

Rumi stands from where she’d been lounging on the couch, blinking the sleep from her eyes groggily.

Celine steps inside with the delicacy of someone entering a church, eyes falling on Rumi. “I brought you something.”

Zoey plops herself onto the couch, replacing where Rumi’d been tucked into Mira’s side. She grabs Mira’s drink from her hand. “Is it trauma? Because she already has some.”

“Zoey,” Mira murmurs in warning, though from the rumble in her chest, she seems to be laughing.

Celine hesitates— then gives Rumi a small smile. A real one. Gentle. Quiet.

“I was looking through old records,” Celine explains, holding out the tablet. “And I thought you might want to see this.”

Rumi takes it, eyebrows raised. “What is it?”

“Well…” Celine taps the screen. “Do you remember a Reddit theory thread about me and Mi-yeong? From years ago?”

Zoey freezes.

Rumi’s eyes widen. “Wait— the viral one?”

Celine nods. “Yes. It was… remarkably accurate. Scarily so.” She clears her throat. “The user is anonymous, but the username was… ah…”

Zoey’s stomach plummets, and she needs to take another sip before she says something incriminating.

Celine squints at the screen. “How do you say this— zozozoyourboat?”

Zoey chokes. Like— full body, catastrophic choke. Her drink sprays out from her mouth in an arc.

“OH MY GOD,” Zoey sputters. “Please, please delete that. Burn it to the ground.”

Mira is laughing so hard she has to bend away from Zoey.

Rumi’s jaw drops. She turns slowly. “…Zoey.”

Zoey hides behind a pillow. “I was fifteen and thought I was a detective! Ugh, please, let me just sink into this couch and die!”

Celine, who has seen unimaginable drama in her lifetime, simply nods once and says, “To be fair, it was exceptionally well-researched.”

“Did you really make a conspiracy board for my mom?” Rumi asks, genuinely curious.

Zoey pulls the pillow tighter as she recounts the red strings spanning across her entire bedroom wall. “…Define ‘board.’”

Rumi climbs onto the couch beside her, peeling the pillow away enough to kiss Zoey’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I KNOW,” Zoey groans. 

Mira loops her arms around both of them. “At least your detective skills were spot-on.”

Zoey grumbles, mortified.

Celine watches them— this ridiculous, affectionate tangle of limbs— and her smile warms. “Mi-yeong would’ve loved this,” she says softly.

Zoey, cheeks still flaming, peeks over the pillow. “If I knew you’d become my mother-in-law, I wouldn’t have—” She stops herself and considers very carefully what she is about to say. “No— scratch that. I still probably would have made the post.”

***

They’re all crammed around Rumi’s laptop at the kitchen table, half a dozen tabs open and counting. Mira has her chin propped on Rumi’s shoulder; Zoey has her chair tilted back at a dangerous angle that makes Rumi’s eye twitch every thirty seconds.

On-screen is yet another elegant, cream-colored invitation template with embossed borders and gold cursive lettering.

Rumi gestures at it weakly. “This one’s… nice?”

Mira hums noncommittally. “It’s pretty.”

Zoey snorts. “It’s boring.”

Rumi sighs and clicks to the next file.

And then— the screen fills with… a spreadsheet. A literal screenshot of a spreadsheet. Rows. Columns. Barebones formatting. A cell highlighted in neon green for no reason.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then Zoey absolutely loses it. Her chair slams forward as she doubles over, wheezing. “Oh my God— I’ve got it. We should send out our wedding invitations in EXCEL.”

Rumi stares. “No. Absolutely not.”

Mira gives Zoey the most judgmental side-eye imaginable. “You can do that for your wedding.”

Zoey presses a hand to her chest as if mortally wounded. “Wow. So hostile. Just because I have vision.”

“You have audacity,” Mira corrects.

Rumi clicks past the spreadsheet before Zoey can take a screenshot to threaten them with later. “Anyway. We should pick something elegant. Not… data-entry chic.”

Zoey scoffs. “Yeah? Well, my wedding’s gonna be better than yours.”

Rumi turns slowly, dramatically. “Oh? Your wedding?”

Zoey lifts her chin with chaotic pride. “Yeah. And my wives are gonna be way hotter.”

Mira deadpans. “We’re gonna be your wives.”

“Exactly,” Zoey says smugly, winking.

Rumi throws her hands in the air. “Well my wives are gonna be even hotter.”

“That’s not how that works,” Mira mutters through a laugh, nudging Rumi’s knee with hers.

Zoey leans forward and flicks Rumi’s forehead. “Really, babe? Competitive polyamory?”

“Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t watch that show,” Rumi fires back.

“I’d binge it in one night,” Zoey confirms immediately.

Mira pinches the bridge of her nose like she regrets every decision that has ever led her to this moment. “We’re supposed to be planning our wedding. Our actual wedding.”

“Right,” Rumi says, refocusing with the determination of a general preparing for battle. “Okay. Invitations. Something elegant, minimal, tasteful—”

“You’re tasteful—”

Rumi clamps a hand over Zoey’s mouth. “Zoey.”

“Mmph,” she replies, then licks Rumi’s hand. Rumi doesn’t flinch.

Mira bites back a smile. “We’ll keep looking. We’ll find something that fits us.”

Rumi exhales, tension melting out of her shoulders. “Yeah. We will.”

Zoey grins, smug even with Rumi’s hand still on her face.

Eventually, they give up on invitations and decide to go for a walk instead, needing air and sunlight and an escape from the horrors of bridal templates. They stroll down a street lined with cafés and open windows, Mira’s arm looped through Rumi’s, Zoey’s hand twined with Mira’s.

It’s peaceful. Domestic. Their whole future feels close enough to touch.

Then they pass a flower cart— roses spilling over the edges in every shade of red, pink, and white.

Rumi stops.

Zoey nearly trips into her. “What— did you see another spreadsheet invitation?”

Ignoring her, Rumi plucks two deep red roses from the bucket and turns to them with exaggerated ceremony.

She presents one to each of them, expression mischievous.

“Will you accept this rose?”

Mira covers her face with her free hand. “Don’t say that shit to me. It’s triggering.”

Zoey, however, takes the rose with both hands and kisses it dramatically. “I accept,” she declares.

Rumi and Mira laugh, warm and affectionate, and the three of them walk on— hands full of roses.