Archive of Our Own

Even from a distance, Rumi could tell this house was dead. Not in the way it's empty of people, more that whoever lived here was dead long before the fire that took their lives.

A two-story single-family French-style home with a garden in the front and a patio in the back, and a garage to boot. The still in-tact yellow crime scene tapes stuck to the door only serves to make the place feel all the more unsettling. 

Rumi can't wait to get started.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?”

The sigh that leaves her lips is suffered. “Detective, I fear you're slowly starting to sound like a broken record.” 

The detective, more a private inspector if you ask him, chortles at the playful nickname. His blue eyes almost look silver in this light. 

Jamie’s been with her for less than a year, naturally proven by the uptick in efficiency and, occasionally, regional expansion, so perhaps it’s understandable he still can’t wrap his head around the most important part of her work.

“For a good reason, Rumi. Have you seen the state of this place?”

Aka the location. 

Rumi discreetly rolls her eyes, glancing at the stoic figure on her other side. 

Her assistant isn’t so expressive when on the clock, the only thing giving away his reaction is the subtle flare of his nostrils, like he smelled death and blood all the way from here, but because they’re the closest thing to a family, Jesse gives Rumi a singular eyebrow quirk.

“Your paperwork is filed and on route as we speak.” He taps the spine of his black-rimmed round glasses, the unruly curls of his hair swaying gently with the motion. It’s the only lawless thing about him, his finely-pressed slacks and button-up without a wrinkle. “The permit is going to take a bit longer than we hoped for, typical bureaucratic bullshit, but I’ll be in the mayor’s office to work this out today.”

That doesn’t seem atypical. 

“Very well. Jamie and I will be scoping the property.”

Jesse nods, looking over Rumi’s shoulder at his other partner, who looks dashing with the wind in his hair, gold-tinted silver IEMs in his ears, and his tattoos peeking out from under his black turtle neck. 

The classic Converse on his feet and the ripped jeans encasing his strong thighs only makes him look further out of place.

“You still have the case file with you?”

“Yeah,” Jamie drawls, patting his messenger bag like a dog. “Don’t look so constipated. I’ve been briefing Rumi on my own for several missions by now.”

Jesse raises his eyebrow so high it literally touches his hairline.

“Yeah, and the last time I let you go in there alone with her, somehow the both of you ended up having a Jenga contest next to a pile of human gunks. Needless to say, neither of you really have a healthy boundary with all things dead.”

“Now why am I caught in the crossfire?” Rumi grumbles, the beginning of a pout forming. It’s always so easy with them, to be the child she never got to be.

“It’s not my fault that I like to have fun.” Jamie shrugs, tall, bright-eyed, and entirely shameless. 

Rumi can’t help but grin, and it’s infectious, because both her boys are smiling with her. 

“Time to lock in,” Jesse concludes their little banter with a quip he knows will only make them laugh at him once he leaves. They’re all around the same age, but Jesse does move around a little more rigidly than the two of them. “I’ll text you. Dinner is on me.”

“I’m getting the lobster!” Jamie hollers even after Jesse’s left, his laugh spreading to Rumi.

“You’re allergic to seafood.”

“What Jesse doesn't know won't hurt him.”

“It’ll hurt you, you blithering idiot.”

Rumi’s turtle neck, a contrasting white layered under a long, black coat, hides the bob of her throat as they approach the house. She’s been doing this job for a long time, with Celine, without Celine, but her pulses always seem to jump preemptively every time, as if preparing her for what’s to come.

Next to her, Jamie has also fallen quiet. He’s fidgeting with the in-ear monitors, a deep grimace abruptly appearing and getting Rumi’s attention. 

“What do you hear?”

“Shouting.” He bends his neck left and right, as if getting rid of a crick. “Lots of shouting, but not the screaming kind. The family that lived here, they didn't get along.”

The slap his palm makes colliding with his forehead makes Rumi jump, then rolls her eyes. 

“You forgot the case files.”

“I forgot the case files.” Jamie muffles his pitiful moaning in his hand, looking up at the sun as if asking God herself for forgiveness. Rumi has half the mind to be offended, technically she is his superior. “Not to worry, I took pictures and drank enough water to read all of them out loud to you.”

Before that, they must first enter the property Rumi had bought.

Rumi stays behind while Jamie rips off the crime scene tape and unlocks the door, absentmindedly rubbing her right thumb and index finger together and finding comfort in the leathery texture of her glove.

“So the family that owned the property before you was the Kangs.” Jamie talks as he leaves the door open for her, Rumi nods at him in thanks. “The house itself was registered to a Kang Suho, a relatively well-known businessmonger who dabbled in real estate, medicine, and the occasional arts. Suho had a wife, Nam Hyunju, and two children, Minho and Mira.”

Mira. 

Something in her chest stirs. “What did Hyunju do for work?”

“Nothing. She was a stay-at-home wife. You don't need a dual income when one of you inherits more money than an average man can make in his whole lifetime. Plus, they lived around fifty years ago? Back then, you could buy a bowl of kalguksoo for the price of an eomuktang.”

Rumi doesn't respond to Jamie’s unsubtle jab at nepotism and the abhorrent capitalistic byproduct that is inflation, focusing on taking in the house for the first time with her own eyes.

Having already gotten on the phone with Zoey multiple times to go over the blueprint, Rumi can immediately pinpoint the main areas: the common room to the right, the pedestal to the left of the stairs going up, and a little beyond that is the kitchen slash dining room. 

“So there was an arson.”

Evident by the blackened wooden walls, melted biohazards scattered sporadically on the charred wooden floors, and the faintest smell of smoke still clinging. 

Rumi jabs Jamie hard in the shoulder regardless.

“Go back to the beginning, pretty boy.”

“I was getting there,” He rolls his eyes, sass reincarnated. “Okay, so. On paper, the Kangs were a perfect family. Stern but charming father, warm and hospitable mother, valedictorian eldest son. Can't get any better than that.”

“You mentioned a daughter.” Mira. Mira. Mira. 

If he hears the interest in her voice, Jamie is kind enough to not mention it.

“Not much is known about her. I tried looking, but the family was really adamant about not letting her be in the spotlight as much as her twin brother was for whatever reason.”

Rumi nods, thinking of bright pink hair and the second floor where all the bedrooms are.

“How did you even know about this place? Was it by word of mouth like when you and Jesse were still working alone?”

Figuring that either one of her boys would ask her sooner or later, Rumi has an answer prepared.

“I saw her in my dream.” The resulting silence is loaded, especially coming from someone who almost always has something lighthearted to say. “Mira. She had these amber eyes and her hair was like strawberry. She didn't say anything, didn't even tell me her name, but showed me the address and the next day I had you come down here.”

Jamie nods, one of his eyes does flash silver this time. Rumi doesn't understand what he is, not really, but she supposes between the three of them and in this line of work, a little secretive supernatural here and there won’t hurt. 

“I’ve never dreamed of another dead person before. That was always Celine's area of expertise.”

“Your adopted mother.” Jamie notes, Rumi nods. The hole in her heart tears just a little more, making the wound bleed. “Jesse told me she passed in her sleep.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that was the only time she didn't see anything at all.” Rumi lets out a sigh. “Your report?”

Jamie clears his throat, his lightheartedness coming back like the first sunlight after a rainy day. Rumi is especially grateful he allows the subject change without dramatics. 

“According to the mortician reports, the fire department received an emergency call almost immediately after the neighbors spotted smoke in the sky, but because of the traffic, they got here after almost ten minutes. By then this entire ground floor was covered in flames and every single member of the family was flesh melting off bones.”

At Jamie’s telling pause, Rumi steps further into the house. She makes for the living room and beelines for the torched couch, one glove coming off as Jamie delivers the last lines of his report. 

“The on-scene paramedics confirmed all but Mira was found tied up to the chairs. She was standing over there just in front of the TV, like a kid holding a talent show for their family every New Year. The investigation yielded inconclusive results because of the fire damage and was classified as a cold case less than a month later.”

Rumi nods to Jamie, then to herself, and puts her hand on the couch.

The first thing she feels is dust. The second is coal. Heat is the third, blood is fourth, and fear marks the magical, even number five. 

Rumi opens her eyes and sees only fire; in her lungs, in her eyes, in the screams and the laughs that make her ears ring. 

There they are. Suho, Hyunju, Minho, Mira. 

In a different world, they would look like a happier family. But not in this one.

In this one, Suho is screaming. Hyunju is sobbing. Minho is begging. And Mira… Mira is laughing. 

(She’s laughing the most beautiful thing Rumi’s ever seen.)

Rumi tries to concentrate, but there is just too much yelling for her to make out anything. The only one she can see is Mira, who despite the joy is crying too. 

The tears don’t help put out the fire whatsoever, but it’s something. 

It has to mean something.

“Why?” Rumi asks the burning house and the melting corpses. “Why do you want me here? What do I need to see?”

Mira is the only one who answers.

It’s small, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but Rumi catches the golden glint amidst all the embers and sees it.

A singular lighter at Mira’s feet.

The realization hits Rumi like a truck. “You did this.”

Mira’s smile as the fire swallows her whole is hauntingly beautiful. Rumi feels her breath catch, the oxygen leaving her lungs and filling her with smoke. 

Mira is still smiling, the glint in her eyes ever unchanging, and Rumi goes lightheaded.

Rumi tries to stand, tries to hold herself up, but whatever pull that is here between them is strong, much stronger than anything Celine has taught her, and the last coherent thought Rumi had before she goes completely under is that she could’ve sworn Mira smiled at her.

And she was ravishing.

—

Rumi comes back to herself on a hotel bed with a massive headache. 

There’s an iced cup of water already pressed into her hand and some medicines she knows will help. Not even opening her eyes, Rumi chugs them all dry before soothing her poor throat with water.

Rumi can tell Jesse is looking at her disapprovingly without looking as well. 

“What the hell happened?”

Groaning, because of course he’d corner her when she’s down, Rumi runs a hand through her short hair, the ends now reaching the bottom of her neck. She’s been so busy hunting ghosts, chasing shadows, that even for a simple haircut she couldn’t find the time. 

“I’m fine.” Jesse scoffs, offense clearly taken. He hates being talked down to. “Really, I am. It was just, I didn’t expect the vision to be so strong.”

“Jamie had to pry your hand out of that bloody couch. He carried you in his arms as he ran the whole way to the mayor’s office where I was. That’s twenty miles, Rumi. Do you have any idea how worried the both of us were?”

“Look, I get it, okay? You don’t need to guilt trip me.” Rumi snaps, the migraine only getting worse with the hostility she can feel seeping into her bones. Jesse has the courtesy to at least look chastised. “I saw it. I saw the day the house burned down, and I know exactly who did it too. But there’s more to it, I just know there is, so we need to go back as soon as we can.” 

On a chair by her bedside, Jesse reclines back with a heavy sigh.

“Rumi, we talked about this.”

“Don’t patronize me about the one thing I have left of my moms.” He raises both hands in surrender, but it doesn’t help her one bit. “I know I can’t save everyone. I know I can’t save every damned soul, but this one is special, I know she is.” 

Their mission was always simple, but that doesn’t mean it always worked. 

House flipping is easy, with her degree in Business Management and a lifetime of shadowing one of the most iconic house flippers in the country. The same cannot be said about this.

“Celine always made it clear that our job was to help spirits, not hunt them. We unveil the mysteries behind those unexplainable deaths because the only way for them to move on is to let the light in. But the Kangs, there is more to it. There’s something else Mira wants me to see, a darkness inside the light, a stain in an otherwise picture-perfect painting, and I cannot leave before I find that broken pixel. If I do, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.” 

The silence that follows isn’t exactly unusual, but Rumi’s chest still heaves with every second that passes without Jesse saying anything. They’re a team, they’ve always been, but sometimes Rumi can’t help but feel like she’s too much.

Jesse’s slowly growing smile helps with that.

“When we first met, you told me that everyone was worth saving.” They haven’t talked about that in so long, Rumi almost thought Jesse didn’t think of that day too fondly. “I was running away from a life I never wanted, and you sat down next to me, offering me company like you somehow knew. You didn’t know a thing about what I did, and yet you still consider me someone worth saving. And for that, I’ll follow you until the end of your ropes. Wherever it may lead us to.”

Whether it’s the gratitude that binds him to her or whatever else, Jesse is much easier to persuade compared to Jamie.

Who returns from getting dinner, a bunch of Thai food that he thinks they’d like, and just about balks with a string of pad thai dangling from his teeth when Rumi says she wants to continue working on the Kang House.

“Are you guys fucking insane?”

Jesse sighs, his green milk tea evidently not up to his impossible standards. Seriously, this boy has a sweet tooth that rivals even the Sugar Fairy.

“Jamie, if you will just calm down—“

“Rumi almost died!” In all honesty, Rumi is touched that Jamie is so pressed about this. In a way that must mean he cares. “You didn’t see how bad it was, JJ. Rumi was convulsing.” 

“Surely that didn’t happen—“ “Yeah, she does that sometimes.”

Freshly showered purple hair whips around like a tail, Rumi is halfway through forming a defense for her reputation when Jesse abruptly puts down his food carton. 

Jamie, who has been sitting criss-cross-applesauce the entire time, gets to his feet immediately after, confusion obvious despite his readiness to match his partner’s energy.

“Rumi, finish your food. Jay, you come with me.”

Resigned to her fate and the soft thud of the door closing, Rumi polishes off the rest of her dinner. The orange milk tea here is delicious.

Her phone chimes less than five minutes after Rumi’s decided her boys have taken themselves on a joy ride and disappeared together into the moonlight, the contact name flashing on her phone screen brings an automatic grin to her face.

“Hello?” Rumi replies as soon as the line connects, opening up Facetime and almost squeals in delight when the offer is immediately accepted.

“Hey, Ru. How did it go today?”

On paper, Zoey is their architect. In Rumi’s heart, Zoey is the closest thing she’ll ever have to a soulmate.

Jamie and Jess are wonderful and they’re the sort of family you make when you spend ninety percent of your time traveling the world together. But in another life, Zoey has Rumi’s heart and vice versa.

In this life, they’re each other’s in a way no one’s come close to defining, and that’s perfectly fine. Not everything needs a label to be beautiful.

“Disastrous.” Rumi groans, lying so far back she almost melts into the hotel bed. “I fainted in the middle of a vision.”

“What? Are you okay?”

Rumi huffs, thinking about lying. “I’m fine.” Jesse’s wounded face and Jamie’s unconditional kindness pop into her head, and Rumi sighs. “Well, no. I’m not fine, I have a headache that’s slowly going away.”

Zoey knows her better than anyone, so she presses where it’s most important.

“What happened?”

Rumi starts from the beginning, the three of them arriving at the house a day before Zoey is scheduled to come in from another architecture project on the other side of the country. She doesn’t hold back either, telling Zoey about how Jesse smelled blood before they even set foot inside, how Jamie could hear shouting but not the screaming kind, how Rumi put one hand on a torched couch and felt her own skin burning inside out. 

By the end of it, Rumi is back right where she started.

With Mira.

“It’s so crazy, Zo. I don’t know how to explain any of this.”

“In your defense, it’s not like Celine taught you everything she knew. Hell, she only started mentoring you after you solved that case with the murdered housewife in our hometown.”

“Everyone knows you should always suspect the spouse.” Rumi grumbles, the medicine-induced drowsiness now creeping in. She blinks rapidly to prevent falling asleep. “My point stands. Who is Kang Mira, and what does she want from me?”

Zoey hums, her pursed lips hanging precariously on the edge of her ramyeon cup. Rumi’s heart aches a little, Zoey often doesn’t take care of herself when they’re not there to remind her.

“Better question, why is it only her that’s in your head?”

Rumi tilts her head. “Come again?”

“I mean, think about it.” Zoey finishes slurping a huge gulp of noodles before she starts again, though very much under duress by Rumi’s stern glare. “Four people died in that fire and from what you’ve been saying, Mira was the perpetrator. Arguably, wouldn’t it make more sense for one of the victims to desperately want to unveil the truth about what happened?”

“Zoey’s got a point.” Rumi jumps about two meters high at the sudden voice, Jamie grinning sheepishly over her shoulder. “Hi. Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt, we just wanted to tell you we’re back.”

“Hi, Jay!” Jamie reciprocates Zoey’s wave eagerly. “Is Jesse back too? Ru said you guys went out together.”

Rumi muffles her laughter with a pillow, almost failing when she catches Jamie’s teasing eyes at the foot of her bed. The two of them have to look away when Jesse calls in from the door in a pitch so high it’s almost a squeak.

“I’m here!”

It’s like watching two awkward teenagers dance around each other. 

Rumi rolls her eyes, Jamie copies her, and after Jesse and Zoey exchange a greeting so adorably cringe, together they all settle down on Rumi’s bed with Zoey now on her Macbook’s Facetime instead.

“You were saying, Jay?”

“Yeah. So about Mira having the hots for Rumi,” The whole room groans, Jamie barrels on without a care about the flames he put in Rumi’s cheeks nor the butterflies in her chest. “It makes no sense that she’s the only spirit Rumi’s been seeing. I mean, she’s the most powerful among the four of us, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen more ghosts in that house than she had.”

“Same.” Jesse supplies, now sitting criss-cross-applesauce and looking down at Jamie who is sprawled out over half the bed like a mermaid. “I wasn’t even inside the house and I could smell Kang Suho’s favorite cologne. It’s obnoxious and pretentious, just like him.”

“I know the sounds of all their voices.” Jamie chimes in. 

“I saw all of them too.” Rumi says, then pauses. “But it didn’t feel like I was seeing them. More like Mira was showing them to me.”

“Why you? Why her?” Zoey asks, now sipping on a bottle of yakult.

“Mira even came to Rumi first in her dreams.” Jesse adds, his thumb and index finger absentmindedly rubbing his mouth. A thinking habit. “Beyond the fact that Mira obviously wants her here to uncover the mystery of her death, there must be something special about Rumi.”

Jamie huffs out an almost mocking laughter if you didn’t know him. 

“It’s Rumi. What isn’t special about her?”

“Easy, lover boy. She already rejected you once.” While Rumi laughs and Jamie cries out in defiance, because yeah she really did, Zoey continues. “What do we know about Kang Mira anyway? Sans the obvious arsonist-shaped elephant.”

Jesse, ever stoic and reliable, pulls out a binder from a briefcase. Jamie’s briefcase, Rumi recognizes by the multiple non-binary and lesbian pins stuck under the lapel. 

“Kang Mira. A Scorpio if that’s something you’re interested in learning. Graduated from Chaehwa Girls’ High School with slightly above average grades. Went to Seoul University and majored in Business Administration. Passed away in her sophomore year, when she was 21.”

“Even that much felt like pulling teeth.” Jamie grumbles, all the while preening at his hard work. “No one wants to talk about her. Not even the people that for sure knew her. Everything I found out about her was something related to her family name.”

Rumi perks up. “You said the house was always shouting, but not the screaming kind.”

“Have you seen rich people? They don’t know how to talk at a decibel louder than 55. 60, if they’re mad.”

“They use words that twist like knives and make you bleed on the inside, so the carpet wouldn’t stain.” 

“The lovebirds are right.” Jesse and Zoey sputter nonsense in response, cheeks all pink. Jamie grins and continues like he didn’t just embarrass them both. “And yes, I did say that. You’re thinking they hid her on purpose.”

Rumi nods, fiddling with the string of her pajama pants. “I know that feeling best. I would recognize it anywhere.” 

A brief moment of silence, because for all the varying relationships they have with death, none of them likes to speak ill of the deceased. Call it respect, call it fear. Whatever it is, it’s helped them live this long. 

Rumi can only hope that’ll be enough. 

—

Unlike the torched ground floor, the second floor of the Kangs’ Family Home is relatively untouched. It’s where the bedrooms are, and while Jamie and Jesse are downstairs cleaning up in hazmat suits and collecting anything they think Rumi could take a closer look using her special power, Rumi and Zoey are upstairs trying to hit two birds with one stone.

“The master bedroom is red. Almost dark crimson, blood-curling red.”

Whereas Jamie can hear ghosts, Jesse can smell death and Rumi can see into people’s heads, Zoey is colors. 

Whether it’s feeling them or seeing them, Zoey’s way of navigating a world that doesn’t always try its hardest to accommodate her is by using colors. Specifically, for this job, Zoey decides which one should stay and which must go.

“This entire area should be demolished.” Zoey once again gestures at the master bedroom, mouth curling in clear distaste even as she feverishly scribbles in her little notebook. “It’s the stomach of the house. Any soul who steps foot in here is as good as devoured and spat back out, torn limbs to limbs.”

“Duly noted.” Rumi nods in agreement, still reeling from the flashes she got having barely grazed the wooden double-doors. 

Let’s just say Kang Suho and Nam Hyunju were not married out of love and leave it at that. 

“I have about 32 ideas for what we can do with the huge open space, if you decide you want to keep it.”

“Food for thought.” Rumi squeezes Zoey’s shoulder, then steers her towards the left. “Come on, let's go see Minho’s room.”

Within the first ten seconds, Zoey decides Minho’s room is white.

“A blank canvas. A new beginning.” Zoey gestures ambiguously in the direction of an actual white board, on which there are timetables and schedules still written. “This room has no personality whatsoever and clearly neither did its owner.”

Rumi tugs one of her gloves off and puts her hand on the full-sized mirror stuck to the wall by the wardrobe. 

Again, they're only flashes, Rumi is ever a secret voyeur with an almost violating access to people’s memories, glimpses of Minho trying out his father’s clothes and mimicking his father’s speech.

“I’m gonna make him proud,” The boy, no less than fifteen, sounds very much like he’s in his thirties. A soul worn out not by age but expectations. “He’s going to love me.”

Little did he know, a man like Kang Suho couldn't love even if he tried. Some souls are just rotten from birth.

“We keep this room.” Rumi determines, Zoey hurries to write it down. “Like you said, a blank slate.”

Zoey hums, then non-too-gently kicks the mirror where it sits. “Okay, but I’m getting rid of this thing and putting it in the bathroom. Seriously, for all their wealth, they couldn’t find someone who could tell them mirrors anywhere facing the bed is bad feng shui?”

Rumi laughs, shaking off the lingering familiarity. It’s been a while since she’s seen herself in a tormented spirit, and she finds it’s not at all a peaceful reunion like what her subconscious keeps telling her it’d be.

Rumi isn’t a monster. She’s not kin.

She’s just… not.

“I can only imagine how Minho walked like a man possessed. It’s hard to sleep when the worst version of yourself keeps staring back at you.”

“And people call me vanity for taking my sweet time applying my foundations.” Zoey chuckles, but there’s a sympathetic undertone she doesn’t try to hide as much as she once did. 

They all know their demons, after all. 

“In your defense, your foundation game is always solid.”

“Thank you!” Rumi is rewarded by a kiss on her cheek, her chest warmed by the casual affection. “Okay, to Mira’s room we go.”

The first thing Rumi thinks upon opening the door is blue.

Coincidentally, “Oh, I knew she was blue.” 

Mira’s room is smaller compared to Minho’s, a reward for him being good and for her being born. There’s a queen’s size bed tucked into a corner by the window where there’s a patio, and the study desk that’s directly across it is a level of organization even Rumi is impressed by.

On the other side is a giant wardrobe, with designer clothes still hanging and collecting expensive dust. The en-suite bathroom is probably behind that closed door next to it, if Rumi recalls the original blueprint correctly.

It’s a beautiful room, the blue paint and complimentary white makes it even more so. Like being at the bottom of the ocean but you’re not cold, like being abandoned by the world but you’re not lonely. 

For someone so hellbent on not leaving a mark in history, this room has Mira all over.

A wall of skateboards and teenage dirtbag. A corkboard of posters and polaroids. An empty vase where there once was a living organism. A feeling of belonging.

Rumi blinks, almost staggers on her feet. Who are you to me?

“We’re definitely keeping this room.” Oblivious to Rumi’s sudden interest in interior design and gay panic disguised as normal panic, Zoey whoops as she gleefully looks around. “It’s blue, there’s so much blue. Reliable like the sky, protective like the moon, and as deadly as the ocean.”

A brief pause that’s eventually broken by Rumi huffing out a laugh and Zoey rolling her eyes at herself.

“Okay, I walked into that with my eyes wide open.” 

“And a grinning mouth at that.” Rumi’s teasing trails off with Zoey’s expectant gaze. “What?”

Eyebrows flying near her microbangs, Zoey gestures at the space they’re in.

“You wanna do your magic or what?”

“Oh,” Right. They’re here to work. Not for Rumi to wax poetry about someone who, all things considered, might not even know her name. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

The glove comes off again, and for whatever reason that her mind had unconsciously latched onto, Rumi goes for Mira’s bed. 

Immediately she is drenched.

Whereas the others were flashes, sometimes barely moving pictures, Mira is flatscreen with the highest resolution.

Rumi struggles to adjust at first, yet another thing she’s freshly introduced to, and it takes her much longer than it should for the scene in front of her to truly register.

“Fuck— fuck, yes— fuck me just like that—”

The singular picture in her file and the brief visions Rumi has had doesn’t at all do Mira’s beauty justice.

Bright pink hair sticking to her temple with some wayward strands falling into her hooded eyes, perfect cupid’s lips hanging open in silent, breathless gasps, slick-wet collarbones carved out of marble stained with teeth marks, and a pair of gorgeous, muscular legs bouncing rhythmically off the mattress with every deep thrust, Kang Mira looks downright ravishing when she’s being fucked.

“Right there, oh, oh. Fuck, you’re fucking me so good.”

For better or worse, Rumi isn’t just watching.

If she was, she wouldn’t have a harness strapped to her hips. If she was, her arms wouldn’t be trembling with the effort to keep herself up. If she was, her hips wouldn’t be slapping against Mira’s thighs as she pounded the plastic dildo into her wet, gushing heat. 

Goodness, this was not on Rumi’s bingo card.

“It didn’t feel like I was seeing them. More like Mira was showing them to me.”

Wait a damn minute.

“Oh! Fuck, baby, you feel so good inside me.”

Mira wants her to see this.

“Harder! Fuck me harder!”

Why would Mira want her to see this?

“God, you’re so fucking good. I can feel you— so deep, so deep inside me— fuck!”

But it’s not like Rumi can stop watching. 

Not even when Mira reaches her orgasm with a sickeningly sweet moan that somehow goes unheard, not even when Mira is flipped over on her stomach and she’s screaming into her pillows, dripping cum onto her bedsheets and spilling loving names from her gaping mouth.

Rumi sits through it, watches all of it— Mira on her stomach, Mira on her side, Mira bouncing and arching towards heaven while they fuck like sin, and when Mira is finally satisfied, Rumi is yanked back to reality by panicked shouts.

Mira’s blissed out smile haunts her the whole way back. 

“Rumi, you’re bleeding.”

Mira’s blissful, beautiful face as she comes still fresh in her mind, Rumi has to take a few more seconds to register what Zoey is talking about.

“Oh.” 

As if this can't get anymore embarrassing, Rumi puts her fingers under her nose and finds blood. 

Zoey only needs to look at the bright pink spots on her cheeks and the shallow rising of her chest to know exactly what happened, and right then and there, Rumi wants nothing more than to be dead.

Later that night, when her boys have gone to bed still snickering and Zoey playfully reminding her that the walls are thinner than desired, Rumi goes to sleep and hopes she sees Mira again, purely so she can pummel the girl to a pulp.

In the end, Rumi only finds herself seduced.

Not in the lewd way or even intentionally sensual, surely Mira couldn't have known Rumi could get turned on by a well-played musical note. But that’s exactly what she’s doing, swooning over a figure in black as she cradles a cello just as dark to her chest.

The music Mira makes is just as sad as she is, every arch of her bow a plea for something real. 

Rumi understands that feeling better than anyone, the strings of her guitar snapping against her skin is sometimes the only thing grounding her to reality, reminding her she’s just as human as the people she saves.

It’s a beautiful song, most likely original since Rumi can’t place it. Mira is beautiful too, her bright pink hair flowing freely down her back, a direct contrast to the white shirt hanging on her small frame, top button haphazardly undone like she just got back from a party and couldn't wait to rip her tie off.

She looks so young like this. 

It’s entirely unlike any other time she has seen her, vulnerable and small, and briefly Rumi suspects Mira isn’t even aware she has an audience, doesn’t even know she’s showing Rumi this. 

The connection between them grows stranger by the day. 

Rumi sits through the whole performance with that same feeling from days ago stirring in her chest, a beginning of something she doesn’t quite recognize yet. 

And if she dreams of Mira every day afterwards, then it's their business and theirs alone. 

—

They settle into a pattern, so to speak, and Rumi still doesn’t tell anyone about her dreams. Not even Mira herself.

It doesn’t matter, as now that Zoey has arrived on scene to supervise and Jesse acquired all the paperwork they needed, the house flipping can officially commence.

They work as a team of four and between Rumi who is essentially a house flipping prodigy, Zoey who can design the next CN Tower blindfolded, Jamie who is suspiciously strong under his black long sleeves, and Jesse whose past life commandeered the Vietnamese troops into winning against three separate colonizing foreign entities, the mission is a guaranteed success.

Just like every day since they started, Rumi finds herself in Mira’s room, specifically at Mira’s old study desk. 

Rumi hadn’t explicitly said this out loud, but if the master bedroom is the stomach of the house, then Mira’s feels like the heart, or at least the thing that pumps blood and life through its veins. 

Rumi feels the safest here, an odd thing to say considering the proximity between Rumi and the primary ghost, but if any of her teammates has anything to say about it, they’re too tired of her stubbornness to mention it.

“While Lovebird 1 and Lovebird 2 are canoodling downstairs,” Rumi snorts, as if either Jesse and Zoey aren’t the most useless queers they know. “I’ve been tasked with giving you an overview of everything of interest that we collected so far in the house.”

The briefing takes about an hour and soon Jamie leaves with the promise of coming back with more iced tea, that is if he hasn’t gone blind from walking in on something he shouldn’t. 

Left alone to her peace and quiet, Rumi lets out an exhale and starts rummaging through the box herself. 

Over the past few days, Rumi likes to think she’s getting to know Mira. Not as a murderer or a scorned child, but a person. 

For every memory she sees by putting a hand on a broken or forgotten thing, there’s a secondary glimpse of Mira being broken or forgotten. By now Rumi is one hundred percent sure Mira isn’t aware she’s showing Rumi those particular visions, spills of Mira’s subconscious that leaks into Rumi’s own dreams. 

(Mira sobbing quietly into her arms, shamed for wearing the clothes she liked and not the ones they already picked out. Mira sulkingly held a stinging, bleeding cheek, punished for embarrassing her parents in front of an important business partner. Mira dunking her head into the water of her bathtub and trying to drown herself, grief-stricken after the death of her grandmother, the only person who she loved and who loved her.)

Their connection grows stronger with every accidental dream, and so does Rumi’s affection for the girl who had everything but what she truly wanted.

If it sounds familiar, then Rumi is all the more smitten and relieved at finding a kindred spirit. 

Regardless of intention, Rumi is grateful either way, because without them, she wouldn’t know Mira was such a darling. An infuriatingly smug darling with a penchant for flustering Rumi to the point of nosebleeds, but a darling no less.

(Her boys have made a list compiling every dirty vision that Mira showed Rumi and when pressed for a reason, Zoey had chimed it on their behalf, saying it’s for research purposes. Rumi fears they might make her birthday this year a living hell, and that’s saying a lot considering Rumi’s line of work.)

As much as she likes to indulge the beautifully mischievous spirit, Rumi would also like to uncover the truth about the fire that killed her. 

“The fire is hypothesized to have originated from the living room, spreading through the ground floor and leaving the second only mildly torched.” Rumi reads from Jamie’s investigative journal, gentle finger slowly scanning his hurried scribbles. “See A2 for evidence, A3 for a wide view of the area, A4 for the whole view of the living room, A5 for the smoke darkening the ceiling, A6 for the trail leading up the stairs, A7 for the most damage on the second floor being the master bedroom, and A8 for the lack of fire damage on the hallways leading to the smaller bedrooms.”

Rumi fishes out the aforementioned pictures from the big binder, her gloves slightly slippery upon making contact. Evidently Jamie has forgotten to print these out in papers and not plastic. 

“The darkest patch of the torched wood marks the spot.” Rumi reads out loud as she holds up A2 and A3, taking in all the details. “Empty cans of gasoline can be found next to the TV. No fingerprints can be recovered due to the damage of the fire.” 

Rumi finds no trace of gasoline in A6 and A7, the fire clearly spreading because of the wooden floors and nothing else. A4 is a different story, showing the floor significantly darker compared to the rest of the house, meaning it’s not only the starting point but also the primary target.

But why?

What tipped off Mira to do such a drastic thing?

Of course, Rumi is aware of Mira’s home life and how unpleasant it all was, and she completely understands the gigantic breakdown. 

Yesterday, Jesse smelled copper in one of Mira’s clothes and Rumi had a very unpleasant view of Suho hitting Mira with a cloth hanger after not getting the top spot of her class.

Last week, Jamie found a heritage ring that shrieked shrilly and Rumi was forced to watch Hyunju criticize every inch of Mira’s body in the middle of a formal fitting. 

On the same day she arrived in town, Zoey saw red in the parking garage and Rumi couldn’t hold back tears as Minho and Mira fought and the former had slammed his little sister’s head into the nearest flat surface, their family car, and had the audacity to make her clean the blood off by herself, because their father would do so much worse to her if he found out.

Rumi understands Mira’s anger, but the person maniacally cackling as she tied her family to their chairs as she condemned them all to one of the most painful ways to die didn’t feel like Mira.

Because even at her angriest, Mira had loved her family more than anything. 

Waiting up for her dad whenever he worked late— Jamie had heard a father’s warm greeting, a child’s squealing laughter, and clanging of pots. When Rumi looked away, he cried silent tears that wet his own sleeve.

Getting ingredients to make her mom’s favorites whenever it was her turn to do the groceries— Jesse had smelled homemade seollangtang and had to excuse himself for five minutes. When he came back, he looked like the same kid that Celine found left to die on the highway.  

Making small trinkets at her desk and gifting them to her big brother so he could have a lucky charm on particularly harsh exams— Zoey had seen a bunch of pink spots in the far back of Minho’s closet and let Rumi examine everything without even a lighthearted commentary. Rumi reached her hand back without saying anything, and wondered if Zoey’s own father was allowed homemade trinkets in maximum security prison. 

Despite everything, Mira had loved them more than anything. More than herself. And it had hurt her, deeply, to be thrown away and forgotten in the shadows, just like everything else in this house. 

But it didn’t change anything. The love was always there amidst the violence. All that blood didn’t change a thing. 

Combined with all the dreams Rumi has had in the privacy of her hotel room, it just proves everything they’ve seen so far is only the tip of the iceberg that was Mira’s golden heart.

Something is missing, a lost piece of the puzzle, and Rumi is determined to find out what. 

—

It takes the four of them, one of which is even a licensed detective, an embarrassing amount of time before they realize what they’ve forgotten. 

Specifically, whom they’ve forgotten.

“The help.” Jamie’s abrupt declaration gives them all a pause, Rumi slowly putting down her power drill as soon as she hears the manic excitement in Jamie’s voice. “We forgot to look into the help.”

Zoey, a pencil tucked behind her ear and another ensnared in her teeth, makes a questioning hum. Jesse gently pries the pencil off her mouth, an uncharacteristically soft smile curling his lips when Zoey squeaks in surprise.

Ignoring the lovefest, Jamie exclaims louder. “The help! The staff! Why the hell haven’t we seen any vision of them yet?”

“Wait,” Hold on, he might be onto something. “Jamie’s right. A family this rich, surely they must’ve had at least a chauffeur.”

Jesse fumbles through their case binder, always ready on hand. “There’s nothing in the files about other casualties. Not even a live-in chef. No employment records, no nothing. It’s like someone deleted them by hand.”

“Which is odd, considering Mira set out to torch the entire house without caring for any collateral.” Zoey taps her lips with the other pencil, wearing a pensive pout. “Unless she didn’t.”

Rumi waves a dismissal. “We already concluded that everything was premeditated to an extent. I saw her wrap the ropes around them and everything.”

“What we don’t know,” Jesse reigns them back in, fingers flying across his thigh moving in a rhythm no one else can hear. “Is why Mira decided to pull the rug on them once and for all.”

“And if the help was suspiciously gone on the very day, then surely they must have known something.”

Like one synchronized body, all four of them abandon their current projects. Jesse starts sniffing things like a dog in heat, Jamie is doing that thing where he moves his ears like an elephant, Zoey is roleplaying Spider-Man, and Rumi is waiting patiently for her team to bring their findings back to her a neat, coherent pile.

What?

She isn’t going to take off her gloves and start touching random things barehanded. That’s just waiting for an aneurysm to happen.

By the end of a search party that lasts approximately thirty minutes, Rumi has what looks like the oddest spread of household objects known to man.

Jesse brings a kitchen knife (“I smelled butter and sunshine.”). Jamie brings a radio (“I hear music and laughter. From a voice I’ve never heard before.”). Zoey comes back emptyhanded, face sullen, but it honestly is more of a relief to Rumi than anything. 

Briefly comforting her best friend with a side hug, Rumi then goes to start with the radio, both gloves coming off. 

Only for Jesse to interrupt her flow with a panicked shout. 

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?”

It’s the most manic he’s sounded in a while. Despite it all, Rumi’s heart warms at the act of care. 

“We need answers.” Rumi replies succinctly, unfazed by the looks of trepidation she gets back. “This will help make the visions last longer.”

“Rumi, we have time.” Zoey points out. “The house flipping won't be done for months. Even then we have to wait at least a bit longer to sell the place.”

Jamie doesn't say anything, but his worried eyes are incredibly telling. Rumi tries not to look at him for too long.

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” Knowing her own track record, Rumi adds. “If I start trembling even just a bit, you have full permission to yank me out.”

Eyebrow raised all the way to his hairline, Jamie asks, fully expecting the answer to be ‘no’.

“By touching you?”

Rumi gives a resounding ‘yes’. “By touching me.” 

It’s obvious they’re nervous, even Jesse who once tackled a ghost with nothing but sheer willpower because he thought it was going to harm Zoey, but at the end of the day, Rumi isn’t just the one with the most experience, but also their fearless leader.

Rumi never takes that title, that responsibility for granted, and if she ever does, she’ll put a gun to her head the same way Celine did. 

Zoey is the first to signal her consent, followed by Jesse. Jamie takes a few more seconds, his worry slowly seeping into paranoia before eventually folding under Rumi’s stern gaze. They’re equal partners, but he knows better than to fight his leader on something she won’t budge about.

“Good luck.” Jamie says, offering a fist bump.

Rumi laughs and returns it. “I don’t need luck. I have you guys.”

With the full support of her found family, Rumi gets right to it.

Starting with Jesse’s kitchen knife, Rumi wraps her hands around the hilt and finds herself transported into a kitchen.

The knife previously held in her palms like a stick is now being wielded by a clear professional. Rumi stands a little to the side, shamelessly watching the way Mira skillfully dices whatever it is on the chopping board with the same grace she uses to play her cello.

Wearing a white shirt under a cute apron, it has a cartoon cat on the front wearing a chef’s hat, Mira looks in her element, and she’s not alone. There's a woman next to her, who looks about five decades older and has the smile of a mother. 

Rumi aches for it, until she remembers this isn’t for her.

A glitch in the vision, Rumi barely catches onto the end of Mira’s question, something about an offer to take her on vacation. The older woman says something that makes Mira groan in lighthearted exasperation. 

There’s a twinkle in her eyes, almost hidden under her glasses, and it makes Mira look impossibly soft.

This must be what she looks like when she feels safe around someone. Rumi doesn’t know why she also aches to be on the receiving end. 

“All the more reason why you should take a break. And I know just the perfect place.”

Rumi doesn’t need to watch the rest to know the woman accepts Mira’s offer, the last thing she sees before resurfacing, so to speak, back to reality is Mira’s hidden tears as she waves the woman goodbye as a taxi drives her to the airport.

The first thing Rumi says upon finding her team is, “Mira was with her chef. An elderly woman roughly from 60 to 70 years old. Has gray hair and amber eyes. She doesn’t speak Korean, her accent is somewhere around South East Asia. I need to find her or any of her living family.” 

A weight presses down on her shoulders before it immediately disappears, like a grateful hug. Rumi pretends it didn’t just send shivers down her spine, putting her gloves back on for a brief reorientation. 

“Noted.” Jesse taps his pen against his notebook with a loud thud. 

Jamie is similarly taking notes. “What else did you find?” 

“That Mira made sure she wouldn’t be in the country on the day of the fire.” Rumi accepts a glass of water from Zoey, who gently dabs her sweaty forehead with a towel and concern in her eyes. “I’m okay. Just winded is all.”

Rumi finishes drinking and wipes the water off her mouth, grimacing at the taste of leather slipping past and landing on her tongue.

Someone laughs, but they're all stoic when Rumi turns around. She huffs, giving them a warning glare before returning to her task.

Her now bare hand hovers over the next object, Jamie’s radio, and right before she touches it, she sends an elbow straight to Jamie’s ribs.

That’ll teach him to behave while she's gone. 

The next time Rumi opens her eyes, she’s in the living room. It’s strange seeing everything not torched to oblivion, but even stranger to see Mira and another woman, who must be one of the maids judging by her outfit, dancing around the space where her life later ended and throwing their heads back laughing.

Rumi’s first thought is they appear to be the same age. Rumi’s second thought is it should’ve been me.

Rumi’s third thought is, what the fuck?

“You’ve improved.” The girl’s voice is pitchy and happy, clear remnants from being twirled around the room by Mira’s expert hands and graceful feet. 

“I had a good teacher.” 

Mira is practically prince charming, draped in that same white shirt Rumi saw her wear when she played the cello, and Rumi is left burning in a hell of her own making. There’s affection softening her facial features, a sparkle in her eyes that lights up her whole face as she and the unnamed maid spin around the living room. 

Rumi doesn’t dance. Has never taken interest in it outside of appreciating Jamie’s self-proclaimed sick moves and laughing at Zoey’s attempts to teach Jesse how to do Tiktok trends, but right now she wants nothing more than to be the Morticia to Mira’s Gomez.

If Rumi thought Mira was beautiful before, she looks like the word handsome was made just for her. 

Shirt tucked neatly into her well-tailored trousers highlighting her long legs and firm behind, bright pink hair tied up in a high ponytail that reveals her equally salacious neck, Mira can step onto a runway and no one would blink an eye. 

The maid is beautiful in her own rights, if Rumi has to admit. 

Stardust freckles on her nose, jet black hair as dark as the midnight sky, and a deep dimple that only puts starlights in her eyes. Her hair is much shorter, only reaching her broad shoulders that only look more defined in her form-hugging maid uniform, and she dances like she was born with tap shoes on her feet. 

Mira is taller and much more handsome, but the girl is the one leading them now, whizzing Mira from one corner to the next with her hands on Mira’s hips and Mira’s arms around her shoulders, pulling out laughter after laughter from Mira’s beautiful, smiling mouth. 

Mira wants me to see this, Rumi realizes with gritted teeth. 

Thankfully the torture doesn’t last long, Mira and her dance partner growing tired and relocating to the smaller couches, while Rumi releases a huge sigh of relief that she thanks God no one else can hear. 

The maid is saying something about learning how to do the Tango when Mira gently interrupts her with a question about her family.

The speed in which her smile drops almost makes Rumi feel bad for her. Almost.

“My father just got his diagnosis.” She says. “It’s bad, really bad. He’s going to need to undergo treatment.”

But money is a problem, and distance is a mountain. It only took Mira’s singular question for the girl to spill everything, from her feelings of helplessness to her growing frustration at the healthcare system both here and back home, and Rumi sorta gets it. 

Mira has the kind of face you’d want to tell your whole life story to, when she isn’t scowling or frowning at least.

Rumi also knows where this is going before it does, looking away when Mira offers an amount of money she can’t make in her three life times, a plane ticket flying that very night, and the maid returns her kindness by pulling her in for a kiss.

The white, hot flash of pure jealousy hits her from out of nowhere.

Rumi clutches her chest, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. It translates into her grip on her powers, slowly loosening. 

Flash. They’re in Mira’s bedroom. Flash. They’re both naked. Flash. They’re smiling, sweat soaked and happiness glinting. Flash. Mira is playing the cello naked. Flash. Mira is smiling like she’s found safety in purgatory. 

“Will you miss me after I’m gone?”

That’s enough.

“I’ll miss you today, tomorrow, and the day after.”

Let me go.

“Rumi?”

“Rumi, are you okay?”

“Jesus, fuck, I told you guys this was a bad idea. I fucking told you.”

Returning to reality trembling, Rumi begs Mira to at least have the decency to let her breathe. The brief shimmer in the air almost smells like mishaps and remorse. 

You didn’t mean it?

Guess what, I’m hurt anyway. 

“Rumi? Rumi, can you hear me?”

“I’m fine,” She barely gets out, blinking the tears that are hopefully mistaken as sweats out of her eyes. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fucking fine.” Something cold slaps her forehead, the resounding smack more startling than the actual impact of the cloth. “Thanks, Zo. Some water, JJ?”

Less than two seconds later, a cup of water materializes in her hand. Rumi doesn’t hesitate before she gulps all of it down, Zoey’s tutting about how she spills be damned.

“One more person.” Rumi again wipes the water off her chin, remembering to put on the gloves afterwards. “Early twenties, maybe even younger. Dark hair, freckles on her nose, a documented immigrant with a working VISA. Has a father that was recently diagnosed with stage four cancer. Most likely had a theater background or took dance classes growing up.”

Jesse’s scribbling tells Rumi he has this handled, and judging by the twin breaths she can feel warming her skin, Zoey and Jamie are not leaving until they're sure she’s fine.

Rumi hates being fussed over, isn't used to it, so she says the one thing she knows will diffuse all of this.

“Let's take a break.”

Jesse stops writing, Zoey stops pampering, and Jamie might as well have stopped breathing with how quiet he goes.

Rumi opens one eye previously closed for Zoey and suppresses the urge to scowl. She’s too pissed off to be amused, when usually she would be whenever her teammates poke fun at her for being a workaholic. 

They don’t know that Rumi has no other choice, and the one person who did put a gun to their head. But that’s a story for another day. 

“You're… Rumi, right?” Five fingers wave rapidly in front of her face, Jamie’s face contorted in half concern, half skepticism. “Mira? Minho? I swear to fucking god, if you’re Suho—”

“I’m not Kang Suho.” 

If Rumi growls a little at the awful insinuation, then Jamie is wise enough to take two steps back and raises his hands in surrender. 

Her conscious twinging in guilt, she never wants to raise her voice at her friends ever, Rumi resorts to just leaving before she inflicts anymore damage. 

Zoey and Jesse part ways for her when she stands up from the desk, but the worry on their faces doesn't disappear, only deepening.

Rumi makes a promise to make it up to them, all of them, before storming out of the house through the front door, the fresh air doing absolutely nothing to soothe the fire burning in her chest.

All this over a girl, just what the fuck has gotten into her?

— 

the amazing zozo 🐢

hey ru

just wanted to check in

u doing okay over there?

jj (not jessica jung) 

if you need a ride back, please don’t hesitate to call me.

death 

bro’s been clutching his car keys for the past thirty minutes

jj (not jessica jung) 

you’ve been checking the group chat every thirty seconds.

death 

i’m watching for our delivery, dumbass

jj (not jessica jung) 

liar.

death

stfu 

princess 👑

Boys.

jj (not jessica jung)

sorry.

death

sorry, rumi

the amazing zozo 🐢

lol

princess 👑

Like I said before, I’m fine. 

I just have a theory I want to fact check.

jj (not jessica jung)

isn't that dangerous?

death

shouldn't we be with you?

princess 👑

You’re 10 minutes away.

5 if Jesse’s driving.

jj (not jessica jung)

need i remind you, i'm the only one with a license.

makes sense considering i’m the only adult in this place.

death

watch it

the amazing zozo 🐢

guys, come on

anyway we trust you, rumi

if you need anything at all, let us know

we love you 🫶

jj (not jessica jung)

same.

death

same 🫡

princess 👑

I love you guys too.

Sleep well, I’ll see you in the morning. 

[this message is read and liked by the amazing zoro 🐢, jj (not jessica jung) and death

Rumi turns off her phone, sighs, and wonders if she’s made a terrible mistake.

“I don’t know why I’m so mad at you.”

The blues and whites of Mira’s room stare back at her, all without answers. Rumi is beating herself up for even expecting one, sinking into the pillow that she made sure to bring with her from the hotel. 

Determined and unusually smitten as she is, Rumi is not willing to get an infection from 20-year-old bed bugs.  

"I don't even know if I should be here. My friends are worried about me." Rumi tries again, the words slowly coming to her. "And I get it. They love me, they want to protect me. I’ve been nothing but weird about you since the moment we got here. But for some reason I can't explain, I knew I had to be here tonight."

As if I could feel you wanted me here. 

Here, being Mira's bedroom long after the sun went down. 

Here, being Mira's bedroom, without any sort of protection from wayward spirits and tormented souls looking for revenge on the only person they could touch.

Rumi isn't afraid of them, no longer the little girl that startles at shadows but tentatively befriends them. Still, the eery quiet of the Kangs' House at night unnerves her, mostly because Rumi has no idea what to expect and is incredibly out of her depth.

"Damn it, Celine." 

It's not the first and Rumi doubts it will be the last time she speaks of her adopted mother in such a way. She's careful to do it only when her team isn't around, knowing the amount of questions she'd have to fend is relentless, no matter how well intentioned.

Celine taught Rumi everything she knew, and for that Rumi will always be grateful. 

The rest is a different story for a different day. 

Shaking her head to dispel those thoughts away, Rumi shifts her focus back to where it's most needed.

Mira.

"Look," Rumi starts, licking her chaps and swallowing. "I want to help you. It's why I'm here, why we're here, but I can't help you find peace and move on without knowing your full story."

On a whim, Rumi had pulled open the curtains leading to Mira's patio. 

The autumn breeze should at least raise some shivers along the lengths of Rumi's arms and legs, but she's warm, has always felt so since the moment she set foot inside this room for the very first time.

Just another one of those things that brings their connection to question. 

Wrapped up in a baggy hoodie and shorts, Rumi threads her bare hands together in search of friction, of touch. 

She hasn't gotten nearly enough since the day she decided to wear those gloves for her own protection, a special kind of torture for someone touch-starved, and selfishly Rumi loathes the universe a little more than she already did for condemning her to such a lonely fate.

"Who are you?" Rumi asks, trying not to cringe at herself. "I want to get to know you, I really do. Even if you're a jerk for trying to make me jealous."

A subtle shiver runs down her spine, making Rumi perk up. 

Finally, she's getting somewhere. All along and turns out, Rumi just needed to find the right ice breaker.

“That’s what you were doing, isn’t it?” A scoff breaks free, half incredulous and half petty. “Was it fun? Watching me practically seethe as she twirled you around like the princess I knew you were? Awfully presumptuous of you, by the way.”

From her position on the bed and on her back, Rumi sees the curtains fly. It feels like amusement.

“You get off on it, don’t you?” A beat passes. “You like that I find you attractive and interesting. Have been since the very beginning. Does it turn you on when you make it literally impossible for me to stop thinking about you?”

Like a school girl, Rumi’s cheeks flare a significant amount of heat. The wind stutters like a chuckle, a bubble of warmth gently laying on her like a blanket. 

“Fuck you.” Rumi grumbles, almost burying her head inside her hoodie and that warmth. The subtle tug at her feet, teasing and playful, makes her squeak like a pig. “Stop that!”

Rumi doesn’t realize she’s grinning until she sags further into the mattress, the sheets obviously having been changed, and physically feels the corners of her lips dropping. 

Not out of dismay or distress, but surprise, at the small, invisible pressure at the foot of her bed. 

Mira is here. 

Mira is here, right next to Rumi, on the same bed.

The gulp Rumi makes is audible even from outer space. “You're… here.”

There's no movement, no gentle shimmers of light nor soft rustling of the sheets. Just quiet. Contemplative, considerate, quiet. 

It’s Mira at her core. 

The Mira that waited for her dad to come home every night, cooked for her mom to see her smile, and made little gifts for her big brother because she cared. 

The Mira that cooked alongside her chef and smiled at her maid like they’re the family she should’ve had. 

Damn it all, Rumi is so smitten.

“I’m okay. You’re okay. I was just surprised.” A nudge at the back of her head. “Good surprise, I promise. I want you here. I mean, I called you here, remember?”

The bed frame creaks in response, a nervous squirm. Rumi feels a sudden burst of courage filling her chest, lifting her from her laidback position into sitting with her forearms resting on her knees, effectively closing their distance. 

A small gasp slips inside her eardrums, as if Mira is taken aback, filling Rumi’s blood with an adrenaline rush that is indescribable. 

“I don’t know how to do this either,” Rumi confesses, her voice much softer than it was before. Almost a loving whisper, should Mira be so lucky. “But I’m here now. I’m right where you wanted me to be. Whatever happened, I won't just leave you.”

The tension between them pulls taut like one of Mira’s cello strings. Rumi feels it sink into her skin, lighting a fire under her ribs, and even without seeing her, Rumi knows Mira is staring her down.

Assessing. Searching. Looking for the glint they always had before they lied to her face. 

Rumi would never. Taking a deep breath, Rumi summons all the courage she has and opens her hand.

“I want to see you. Will you let me?”

The silence persists, brimming with things have yet been said and words that can shatter their world as they knew it. But Rumi’s faith holds strong, in both herself and in Mira, and it may have only been weeks, but Rumi feels like she’s been waiting for this her whole life.

Rumi.

Rumi gasps a toothy grin, tears pooling at the warm pressure on her hand, like holding a sunlight in your palm. It’s barely there, gone if you look away quick enough, but it’s undoubtedly there.

Mira is here.

Come.

Hand in hand, Rumi goes willingly. Almost giddily, she must admit, but that's to be expected since no one’s held her bare hand since she was five.

“Where are you taking me?” Rumi asks, footsteps slow and cautious as she tries to figure out where Mira’s sense of direction is supposed to be.

There's no answer, not even a low hum indicating acknowledgment. Rumi pouts at being ignored, only to squeal at the soft pressure on her hip. 

A squeeze, most certainly. The vivid image of those hands on her body, even if it’s hidden under another layer of clothes, makes Rumi blush madly. 

Mira’s only response is to squeeze her tighter, and the invisibility but scorching feeling of it all makes this a very disorienting experience for Rumi.

That doesn’t mean she is shaking Mira off. Does she look dumb?

Here.

Rumi blinks, registering that they’re standing in front of the elusive en suite bathroom. She had Jesse and Jamie come in to grab anything they might have thought were useful, but Rumi never set a foot inside.

No better time than the present.

“Do you want me to go in?” Rumi clarifies, barely holding back a shiver from Mira’s second squeeze, this time lower on her hips, almost at the small of her back. “Quit that. I’m trying to concentrate.”

The air ripples with happiness, before Rumi watches the door open by itself. 

Acknowledging, Rumi steps inside. 

Coming from a well-off family herself, Rumi isn’t exactly surprised at the unusual size of the en suite bathroom nor the odd choice of having the bathtub directly in the middle instead of somewhere less hazardous. 

There’s also no mold or any concerning substance, what with Jesse and Jamie having done a brilliant job of cleaning up every room in the house to a state where it’s moderately presentable and, for some, ready for demolition, so Rumi isn’t quite sure what Mira wants her to find here. 

Thankfully Mira doesn’t leave her in the dark for long, gently tugging Rumi to the gigantic bathtub. 

Rumi lets the warmth of her body, the softness of her touch, push her down on her knees, hand directed to a random piece of brick on the floor. 

Only, it’s not a random brick she finds, but a secret latch. 

“Did you build a secret villain lair inside your bathroom?” Rumi asks half jokingly, fingers prodding under the faux floor to reveal a hidden compartment underneath. “I’m not going to find something lewd like your stash of sex toys, am I?”

It’s meant to be teasing and mocking Rumi’s vision where Mira was being fucked six ways to Sunday, but the solid, damn near physical pressure on her back and weighing on her shoulder flushes her red from head to toe. 

Mira is hugging her. Mira is hugging her and her head is on Rumi’s shoulder and her arm is wrapped around Rumi’s waist and she’s warm and happy and nowhere has Rumi felt safer and—

Cute.

“Ughhhhh,” Rumi groans, one hand face palming and one hand on her hips. If she closes her eyes and concentrates real hard, Rumi can almost pretend like she can feel Mira for real. “You’re such a jerk.”

Mira doesn’t say anything, but the brief puff against her cheek feels like a kiss. Rumi wisely shuts up before all that comes out is the squealing of kettles. 

“Can I open it now?”

When no objection comes, Rumi pries the lock open with a bit of strength and takes the lid off. The gasp she makes upon recognizing what’s inside echoes so loudly it bounces off the walls.

“Your cello,” Rumi had wondered why they have yet to find the instrument even after weeks of working on every nook and cranny of the house, and now she has her answer. Mira deliberately hid it away, and did an incredible job at that. “Is it still…”

Careful to not to make too much contact and activate a vision yet, Rumi gently pries the once velvety cello case open, not bothering to suppress a mournful cry at the state of the beautiful instrument inside, was once precious but left forgotten, rusting in the shadows.

Beautiful, clearly well-made and beloved, Mira’s cello has her name written all over, even as it’s destroyed to almost beyond recognition compared to the majestic instrument Rumi saw in her dreams. 

“It's broken,” Rumi’s observation is moot and mostly for herself to process this loss. The warmth of Mira’s presence seeps past the fabric of her hoodie, as if she can hear the raw grief in Rumi’s voice and wants to do everything she can to make her feel better. “What happened?”

Show.

“Oh, okay.” Rumi takes a deep breath, willing the magic she knows is sleeping inside her to stir, and wraps her fingers around the cello’s neck.

When she opens her eyes, Rumi finds herself in the Kangs’ living room again. 

“What was so urgent? I was in the middle of something.” 

Rumi understands the situation quickly, deja vu lingering as she takes in Mira standing at one end of the living room and her family on the other.

Just like before, Suho and Minho are sitting on the lone couches while Hyunju decorates the long one. Mira, wearing sweatpants and a tank top clinging to her torso, is clearly just returning from a dance practice of some kind.

Rumi swallows and forces herself to look away, no matter how damn attractive and lickable Mira’s abs glisten when she's all sweaty. 

It helps that Rumi can smell the danger in the water, coming off in waves. It's one thing to sit in companionable silence, but this is the calm before the storm, tides rippling loud in every word held back.

Mira senses it too, evident by the tension pulling her muscles taut. Rumi itches to approach, to soothe the predator salivating to escape with a comforting touch. 

Maybe that’s just her yearning talking. 

“Come sit down, Mira.” Hyunju says with a faint smile, her pretense maintained even in the safety of her home. 

Though, Rumi spares a glance at the ever stoic Suho, and thinks, maybe safe is the last word to describe this household.  

“I’m good with standing. Make it quick so I can get back to what I was doing.”

Minho, with the rigid posture and vicious snarl Rumi’s seen so many times in her visions, chuckles without humor. “Always in such a hurry, it’s not like there’s ever anything important on your schedule.”

Wearing the same scowl as her twin, Mira fights back. 

“Says the pretentious asshole that likes to reserve 30 minutes before and after every one of his class. Tell me, was it really necessary to compliment Professor Han’s pet bunny’s new enclosure?” 

“I was making connections and preparing for my future.”

“Looks to me like you wanted your ass ate—”

“That’s enough.”

It’s almost comical how both twins promptly shut up at just the mere sound of their father, Minho with a carefully sculpted mask while Mira continues to scowl, only more petulantly than before. 

Suho, whose eyes stay glued to the TV, beckons at his wife with a wordless nod. Receiving her cue, Hyunju slides what Rumi recognizes to be the morning newspaper across the coffee table, which is already opened to a specific page.

Mira’s brows furrow in confusion but bends over to retrieve the paper. 

Her eyes look more hazel than brown in the dimming sunlight, reflected beautifully by the round panes of her glasses. Rumi would’ve missed it had she not been intensely looking, the brief but devastating pang of shock that flashes through Mira’s face.

Clearly Suho notices it as well, finally tearing his gaze away from the black and white TV.

“Isn’t it tragic? How accidents can happen in the blink of an eye, without any way to foresee it or stop it.”

The words sound pitiful and, if you’re in a complimentary mood, sympathetic. 

But Rumi knows this man, knows him by the red palm of his hand and the scorching marks of his words on unblemished skin, and so does his daughter, even better by obvious means of growing up in his house and out of the skin he put on her. 

Mira has never looked younger than she does now, face as blanched as paper and eyes brimming with tears.

“No,” She murmurs, her grip on the newspaper trembling like mad. “No, no, no, this is a prank. You’re not… this isn’t…”

Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Rumi finally rushes over. If she had more than one heart, they both would’ve cracked to pieces. 

KOREAN AIR BOEING 737 PLANE CRASH: Hundreds dead, dozens injured including runway workers, technicians suspect foul play, South Korea’s Aviation and Railway Accident Investigation Board (ARAIB) refused to comment.

The maid.

Mira’s girlfriend.

That’s the flight Mira set her up with to go home to her sick dad. 

Jesus fuck— “Did you do this?”

“Mira,” Hyunju practically hisses, ever the loyal and protective. One might even say, defensive. “How can you accuse your father of such a thing?”

Whether out of sheer disrespect or tunnel-visioned fury, Mira only has her eyes on Suho.

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A complete contrast to his daughter, Suho is the epitome of calm and composure. He even sips a cup of tea as he talks to her. “I mean, I had only just received her letter of resignation. It’s still in the fax machine on my desk. I had no idea she was flying out today, tomorrow, or the day after.”

It takes a second for the silence in the pause to breathe, for the words to process, and for the implication to sink in. 

“I’ll miss you today, tomorrow, and the day after.”

By then, Mira looks like her heart was straight-up ripped out of her chest. Rumi can’t feel her, not really, but the world seemingly cracks asunder when Mira practically explodes. 

The vision cuts off before Mira’s fist meets Suho’s cheek, as if Mira’s embarrassed about essentially crashing out on her dad killing her girlfriend, no matter how indirect. 

Rumi watches, tears streaming down her own cheeks, as Mira directs all her well-taught violence onto her dad, her brother, and finally her cello.

The last piece of connection Mira had with her now dead love.

It’s been over two decades since Celine had sat Rumi down and taught her how to control the flashes she keeps seeing every time she touches someone or vice versa. It’s been over ten years since Rumi learned to keep her own feelings separated from what is transferring over to her in a vision.

It’s been five seconds since Rumi felt Mira’s heart physically ripped to pieces, and there’s nothing she can do.

Rumi’s return to reality leaves her trembling, sobbing, and grappling for someone who isn't there. Not really.

There's no one here, no Mira, and Rumi is so fucking tired of wanting people who aren't here.

“I’m sorry,” She tries to speak through the helpless anger, the borderline painful desire, and so many other things Mira has made her feel since she set foot inside this house. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You deserve better than this.”

It’s okay.

Rumi chokes on her own sobs, her arms wrapped around herself, desperate for any warmth she can find. 

Mira is trying, Rumi can feel it, the barely-there nuzzle at her temple, the subtle squeeze of her clothes, the puff of something almost, almost, humanlike, but it’s not enough. 

It’s nowhere near enough.

“I want you here,” Rumi tearfully confesses, sounding smaller than she’d ever been allowed to be. “I want you…”

Here.

“You’re not here.” Rumi’s nails dig into her skin, a poor imitation at best and self-mutilation at worst. Anything to feel, anything to not let Mira be eaten by that awful, awful emptiness in her chest. “I can’t have you the way I want you.”

That's the core of the problem, isn't it? 

Mira can go now. 

With the true reason behind everything exposed, Mira can move on.

She can leave Rumi behind, just like how everyone else did. 

Sorry. 

What have I done for the world to keep giving me people I can’t keep? 

“You’re sorry. You're fucking sorry.” The laugh comes out of nowhere, but the numbing surrender isn't. Rumi’s been prepared, has been very well aware this would happen, therefore in her logical mind, it makes absolutely no sense for her to be sad. “You’re sorry for being free. You’re sorry for getting what we both wanted.”

It’s true, even if it takes Rumi an absurdly long time to come to that realization.

“I see you.” The whole room lights up and for a brief moment, Rumi could’ve sworn she saw Mira smiling. It’s all the encouragement she needed. “I see your pain, your anger. I see the hurt underlying every curse that comes out of your mouth, and I see the bleeding heart behind those walls you worked so hard to keep up. I see the way they beat you behind closed doors and parade you around like trophies. I see that despite everything they did, you still love them, because that’s just who you are. I see you, and you’re beautiful.”

A brief pause. Rumi’s whole body practically thrums with nerves.

Thanks.

Well that was anticlimactic. 

“You’re such a jerk.” A second, helpless laugh leaves her entirely exhausted. “And I’m the idiot stupidly in love with you.”

There’s nothing after but silence.

There’s no one here, no Mira, and Rumi tries, gosh she tries, to not break down into jagged, bleeding edges.

It’s not working.

“Can you just… hold me? Before you have to go?”

Swollen and hurting, Rumi’s eyes slowly droop. The last thing she remembers before exhaustion takes over is the tender ache in her heart, wanting who she can’t ever have.

Here’s a fact, Rumi’s done this before.

Here’s another fact, it never stopped hurting. 

When comes the morning light, Rumi will lose Mira forever. 

Until then, Rumi will pretend like her heart isn’t sitting outside her chest, stomped on and bleeding. Until then, Rumi will pretend like she isn't losing the second person who felt like forever to her. 

Until then, Rumi will pretend. 

It has to be enough. 

—

Rumi comes back to herself on a hotel bed with a massive headache. 

There’s an iced cup of water already pressed into her hand and some medicines she knows will help. Not even opening her eyes, Rumi chugs them all dry before soothing her poor throat with water.

Rumi can tell Jesse is looking at her disapprovingly without looking as well. Perhaps out of sheer kindness, he doesn’t say anything reprimanding or scolding.

Might as well try to salvage the situation as best she can.

“Before you go on with one of your infamous I told you so speeches, I just want to put out a disclaimer that what I did worked. Our mission is a success. Mira… Mira is gone now.”

And I’m without half my soul again. 

“How rude. I’m literally right next to you.”

That's not Jesse.

The speed in which Rumi surges upright will break anyone’s spine, but Rumi is simply built different.

“You’re… you’re here.”

Amber eyes and strawberry hair, a white shirt draped over broad shoulders and wearingroughishly handsome smirk, taking up half of Rumi's bed in a position that screams paint me like one of your French girls, Mira looks like prince charming, and she's all Rumi's.

"So we finally meet."

Torn between laughing and crying, Rumi can only say one thing.

"You're here. You're really here."

Cheek squished against a curled fist and eyes warmly gazing down at Rumi, Mira is the personification of affectionate amusement.

"Are you feeling okay? You didn't hit your head that hard, did you?"

Rumi doesn't even remember colliding face-first with any hard surface, but that'd explain the abrupt blackout. She just thought it was simple exhaustion.

"I'm fine," Rumi's hand is shaking as she raises it, the reality of the situation hitting Rumi even harder once she registers Mira's brown eyes following her movement. "Can I… can I, please?"

Mira's beautiful face, often stoic in rest, softens so much at Rumi's request that she turns into a different person. Rumi recognizes her too, has fallen in love with this same person who suffered so much pain, who paid the price for loving by having that same love stolen from her.

Receiving no objection, Rumi summons the last shred of her bravery, of her hope, and pushes herself forward.

Soft is her first thought. Warm is her second. Alive is her third, her fourth, and here is her fifth.

Mira is alive, and she's here.

"Mira—"

It's the first time Rumi has uttered Mira's name to her face, and had she known that would've made Mira kiss her like she's the only reason why Mira came back to life, then Rumi would've done it long ago.

Rumi's eyes are already fluttering close at the first graze of Mira's long eyelashes on her cheeks, instinctively parting her mouth to welcome the insistent press of Mira's lips. Keeping a hand on Mira's jaw, Rumi curls the other around the back of her neck, pulling her closer, close enough to touch.

Oh gosh, someone is touching her. After so long, someone is finally touching her, 

There's a brief spark of panic when Rumi remembers she isn't wearing her gloves, filling her with an age-old fear of a vision attack, a constant reminder of how abnormal she is and how unlovable she is at her core.

But a second passes. Then another, another, and another. Rumi is waiting for it, bracing for it, but the world hasn’t shifted more than the fact that Rumi currently has Kang Mira’s tongue gently prying her mouth open. 

They continue to kiss without Rumi being sent into a brain-splitting vision, without Mira disappearing back into the ether when they found her, and Rumi is so relieved she can cry.

"You're crying." Mira's voice is soft and teasing, but there's no mistaking the care wrapped around her every word, wrapped around Rumi.

"I'm sorry," Rumi sniffles, her turn to lean into Mira's touch as she gently wipes Rumi's tears away. "I'm just, I'm just so happy."

Mira's returning laugh is soft and small, pressed into the soft skin of Rumi's still tear-stained cheek. Rumi loves being under her, being surrounded by her, so much so that she uses both hands to wrap around Mira's back and pulls her flushed down, for maximum exposure.

Eyelashes flutter in pleasure at the fingers gently carding through her hair, scratching her scalp, Rumi copies what Mira did last night and nuzzles into a vanilla-scented shoulder. The low chuckle that vibrates through her cheek and the gentle kiss on her crown makes the needy and pathetic display rather worth it.

"I'm not crushing you?"

"I'm fine." Rumi squeezes Mira tighter, as if proving a point. "Are you? Are you feeling okay?"

Bedsheets rustling as Mira moves them both into a more comfortable position, with Mira now at the bottom and Rumi lying on her chest. Rumi presses her ear against Mira's chest and nearly sobs out loud at the vivid heartbeats ricocheting like a drum.

"I'm alive." Mira laughs like she knows this is crazy, like she knows something has changed and they can't ever go back from here. Rumi hopes neither of them would want to. "I'm alive, Rumi. I’m alive.”

Clambering so her chin is properly cushioned on Mira’s chest, Rumi blinks up at the girl who, in such a short time, has become her everything.

“How did this happen? Why did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” Mira shrugs, still smiling. Rumi wants to kiss that smile, so she leans in and kisses that smile. “I knew something was up since the day I dreamed of you for the first time, but not once did I think we would get here.”

Rumi blinks once. Twice. A third time for good measure, and to make sure she just heard what she heard.

“You… dreamed about me?”

“Yeah,” Mira sinks into the hotel mattress like the confession took a lot out of her. Rumi spies pink spots matching her hair on her cheeks, and refuses to acknowledge the butterflies also swarming her stomach. “It doesn’t make sense, you weren’t even born yet, but nothing felt more right. You were the ghost that haunted me my entire childhood.”

The wheels in Rumi’s brain grind to a complete halt because what the fuck?

“What the fuck?”

Whether it’s her tone or her face or anything else, Rumi is simply glad she can make Mira laugh like this. 

And it's not like she has forgotten, but here Rumi is once again reminded of how beautiful Mira is.

Amber eyes with a golden sparkle Rumi’s seen on rare occasions where she's truly happy, long hair sprawled all over Rumi’s pillow like an angel’s halo, and the sweetness just dripping from her as she gazes up at Rumi, as if Rumi is something she can't look away from.

“They say that most times, a ghost is a wish.” Mira’s voice dips, a whisper on Rumi’s lips. “I might have just been wishing for you my whole life.”

What else is Rumi supposed to do here other than kiss Mira senseless? 

It's not like Mira is complaining, tilting her head back so Rumi can slot their lips closer against each other, every push and pull of tongue and teeth more intense than the last.

The room temperature surges in record speed, Rumi sweating from not just her hoodie but also the warmth of Mira’s hands creeping up the small of her back, groping and squeezing. 

“Yesterday you told me you love me,” Mira comes out of their passionate kiss panting, the infuriating smirk painting her lips only growing more smug when Rumi kisses down her jaw before latching onto her neck. “Was that true?”

Rumi boldly licks a line across Mira’s skin, wearing a confident smile of her own when she hears Mira moans sweetly above her. 

It backfires terribly when Mira slots a thigh in between Rumi’s legs and just the smallest pressure of a solid surface against her core is enough to make Rumi whine like a dog.

“Mira, please—”

“Answer me first, gorgeous.” Goosebumps explode across Rumi’s entire body, a reaction Rumi knows Mira takes note with glee even as she can't see her face, too busy kissing her neck. 

“Yes,” Rumi introduces her teeth for the first time when Mira lifts her leg again, and now they're both moaning. “You know it. I told you.”

Slim fingers curl through her hair before they yank.

Rumi reels back with a squeal, sitting on her hinges fully in Mira’s lap. She doesn't have time to prepare herself before Mira’s muscular thigh thrusts up against her clothed core once again, the half mewl half moan Rumi makes almost borderlines pathetic.

Mira is into it, made obvious by her pleased smile, and Rumi decides she’s going to take what she wants before the universe decides to steal Mira away from her.

Without a warning, Rumi slides a hand under her hoodie and whips it off her torso. The thud of it colliding with the floor is in sync with Mira’s jaw, who can't hide her fluster at the sight of Rumi’s exposed chest.

Who knew going to bed braless was such a good thing?

Rumi allows herself a moment to gloat, before leaning down and slithering across the length of Mira’s gorgeous body, smiling at the hitch in her breath and the goosebumps exploding under her fingertips.

Her hands stop at the top button of Mira’s shirt, hovering and waiting.

“May I?” Rumi asks, now close enough to grind her hips down on Mira’s abs. The full-body shudder she earns back is worth every pain and heartbreak that got her here today.

Mira grants her permission with a wordless nod, and slowly, painstakingly slow, Rumi starts undoing all the buttons, all the while never breaking eye contact with Mira as she goes.

When pale skin and well-defined abs are revealed to her mortal eyes, Rumi sends a quick thank you to whoever upstairs for making her attracted to women, especially this woman whose chest heaves as Rumi palms those gorgeous abs with the interest of someone who appreciates the finest of arts. 

“You're stunning,” Rumi practically gushes, both hands sprawled out on those abs and clutching slim waist. Mira squirms at the praise, and just like that, Rumi has successfully turned the tables in her favor. “I’m so in love with you, Mira. So much that I don't even know what to do with myself.”

Gently, keeping Mira’s face in her sight the whole time, Rumi bends and places a kiss on those beautiful abs. Mira shivers, something akin to a moan but not quite escapes her, and Rumi keeps on going until she reaches the waistband of Mira’s pants.

A quick check and, after Mira nods, Rumi unbuttons that too. Neither of them are breathing as more and more of Mira’s majestic legs are revealed, Rumi especially combusting on the inside at the sight of stickiness clinging to Mira’s inner thighs.

Mira spots her fixation, that smug smirk from earlier coming back with a vengeance.

“That's all because of you.”

Rumi swallows, the sound echoing much louder than it should.

“Mira…”

“I’m in love with you too.” Goodness gracious— “Do you know what I was thinking about when I died?”

It's not a mood killer or anything, but a part of Rumi still twists in gut-wrenching pain at the reminder, at the miserable memory of Mira’s previous lifetime. 

Rumi remembers the day Mira ended it too, how she went out laughing and smiling like she got everything she ever wanted, when both of them knew it was the opposite.

A tear slips past her defense, and Mira wipes it away as if she's been waiting, been ready to see Rumi’s sadness on her behalf, yet still has the audacity to be baffled how someone can care about her to this degree.

Rumi promises to be the first but not the last. Mira is a creature of love, she deserves to be adored, and Rumi will be the creature of duty sworn to give that to her for eternity.

“I’ve been told I belonged in hell for as long as I can remember, and in the flames I thought I finally found somewhere I belonged. But then I met you, the personification of the sun, and I realized it wasn't fire that brought me peace. It was warmth, it was home. It's you.”

Rumi’s breath is shaky at best and broken at worst, but her hands are steady as she lowers herself and stops when her mouth hovers over soaked folds.

There are hands in her hair keeping her there, pushing her towards the hellfire in between Mira’s legs. It's an intoxicating smell, but less overwhelming than the thighs immediately coming to clamp down on her head, practically holding her captive there.

Rumi teases the swollen nub with a gentle flick of her tongue, and the sweet taste of something distinctively Mira sets all her neurons on fire. 

Fuck, she’d burn the whole world to the ground if it means she gets to keep her. 

“I love you,” Rumi does it again, and again, and again. Until someone starts the drums and Mira lays down the bass. Rumi lets the beat flow, lets her tongue carry Mira to her peak, and says. “Welcome home, Mira.”

Later, when they’re both sated and exhausted, Rumi will gently nudge Mira into the bathroom for a shower and proposes finding food while she fingers Mira against the transparent glass of the cubicle.

To no one's surprise, Rumi doesn't get an answer that isn't fuck me, oh fuck me or baby, god baby, you feel so good inside me or even I need you to fuck a baby in me.

Shelving that for when she has more than one functional brain cells and it isn't going Mira Mira Mira Mira Mira every five seconds, Rumi lends Mira some of her clothes, resists the urge to fuck Mira in said clothes fully standing up, and holds out her hand in offering.

“Shall we?”

“What a gentleman,” Mira purrs, Rumi giggles. 

This is already shaping up to be an amazing relationship. 

Hand in hand, they exit the hotel room and make way for the common area of the apartment. 

Rumi knew this was going to be a huge adjustment for Mira, who had indeed balked in shock upon finding out the world calendar has flipped over onto a new century altogether, but watching Mira be so amazed by the little things she has taken for granted like smartphones and bar codes is downright endearing and, secretly, will be Rumi’s source of entertainment for years to come.

The mere concept of having a future with Mira almost reduces Rumi to tears again. 

“So you just scan these shapes and they take you to a, uh, web?”

“A website,” Rumi patiently explains, demonstrating on her phone for Mira to see. She can barely walk straight with Mira glued to her side for a better view, but you won't hear Rumi complaining. “See? The barcodes say free wifi, so if I scan it with the camera in my portable smartphone, it will connect me to the Internet.”

A brief and altogether ineffective lesson on the world wide web that leaves them both confused later, Rumi resorts to making a PowerPoint, which she will have to explain as well, and places a placating kiss on Mira’s cheek, whose shoulders hunch all the way up her ears in classic defensiveness and embarrassment. 

Seeing her walls coming down in real time and for her makes Rumi feel on cloud nine.

“What's that for?” 

“Nothing,” Rumi shrugs at Mira’s disbelieving eyebrow raise. “Really, I’m just… I’m sorry everything is too much right now.”

Mira’s eyebrow only rises higher. “And is that something you can control?”

More than anything, it’s how effortlessly attractive Mira is without trying that gets Rumi, turning her into a blushing, stuttering mess. 

"I— I guess n— not?"

"Then no apologies necessary." Mira leans down and presses a kiss against Rumi's temple, who promptly melts into a puddle. "I quite literally just came back from the death, Rumi. I'm not going to let myself be deterred from enjoying my second chance at life because the world has seemingly moved on without me."

"I didn't move on. I was waiting for you to catch up."

The words come without thinking and shame, yet Rumi can’t help but blush like a peach. Mira softens, tugging Rumi close. Their mouths meet in a gentle kiss, certainly softer than any they’ve shared in the past hour, but Rumi comes out of it breathless and dazed all the same.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

"Practice makes perfect." Mira purrs, frying the one braincell left running Rumi's operating system. "You're cute when you blush."

"And you're a jerk who keeps making me blush for your own enjoyment." Rumi can't hide the fondness in her eyes, the love curling her mouth, even if she tries. She's simply too smitten. "I still don't understand how this happened. Just what changed between last night and this morning to have you here with me?"

Mira shrugs, her hair blowing back with the motion and making Rumi swoon.

“You’re literally buddies buddies with Death. You tell me.”

Rumi blinks once, twice, thrice for good measures.

That doesn't sound right.

“I’m sorry, I'm buddies buddies with who now?”

Whatever Mira plans to say is promptly cut off by a, frankly, frightening and pterodactyle-like shriek. Rumi feels a strong arm tugging at her waist and curling, the blush from earlier having no chance of dying down upon realizing Mira is essentially shoving Rumi behind her to protect her.

Prince charming indeed.

Identifying the familiar sound from a mile away, Rumi can only laugh in helpless amusement.

"It's okay," Rumi chuckles, grabbing Mira's hand and taking the lead again. "Come. Let me introduce you to my family."

Said family is, predictably, huddled around the kitchen and living room hybrid space of the rental apartment. 

Rumi spots Zoey right away, not at all a hard feat considering Zoey's vigilantly guarding the entrance like she's expecting someone.

Rumi supposes that someone would be them.

"Hot damn. You do look more attractive in colors."

Unbridled joy bubbling in her chest, Rumi gently tugs Mira forward, all the while quietly delighting in the subtle pink blooming on her cheeks.

"Mira, this is Zoey. She's our lead architect."

"And Rumi's certified best friend." Zoey thrusts out a hand that Mira readily accepts, her face covered in stardust freckles and a sunbeam grin. "You've probably seen me around, since we've been digging up your house and all."

"I think you've done a good job turning it into something people would want to live in." Mira takes Rumi's hand again as soon as she moves away from Zoey, and the sly look Rumi gets from her best friend nearly makes her want to faint.

"We try." Zoey shrugs, pivoting on her heels like a ballerina on wheels. "Jesse, say hi to Mira!"

Slaving away at the stove, Jesse tosses a wave and a smile over his shoulder, before promptly locking in on making breakfast. That's good, Rumi is absolutely starving.

"Jesse is Rumi's assistant," Zoey introduces, shoulders drooping in a perpetual swoon. "He takes care of all the administrative stuff so we can do our job without worries."

Even all the way across the room, Rumi can see the tips of Jesse’s ears turning red. Zoey evidently does too, her smitten smile turning a little smug. Rumi rolls her eyes, determined to lock them both in a closet one of these days so they can get all the unresolved sexual tension out.

Speaking of which. “Hey, where’s Jamie?”

“I’m right here.”

Rumi turns in the direction of the sound and has to slap a hand on her mouth to suppress the truly unlady-like snort threatening to escape. 

To say Jamie looks sleep-deprived would be a huge understatement. 

While his black turtle neck and tailored dress pants make him look as dashing as ever, the effect is slightly ruined thanks to the messy mop of curls on top of Jamie’s head and the dark circles decorating his eyes.

“Did you get into a fight with a raccoon for its eyeliners or something?” Rumi jokes, pleased with herself when Mira makes a quiet noise she understands as laughter. 

In response, Jamie scowls. “I told you the walls here were thin.”

“Oh.” Rumi goes from laughing to squeaking, mortified and beet red. “Oh.”

Jesse and Zoey laugh boisterously without a care, further dunking Rumi into a hole of shame. 

Until she spies Mira with a carefully crafted mask and her grip on Rumi’s hand tightens like she expects to be let go of, to be thrown away, and suddenly being proud becomes the easiest thing in the world to Rumi.

“Haven't you all been telling me I should get laid and relax? Well, here I am.”

Mira’s little, grateful smile in return means everything to Rumi. 

A chime brings Rumi’s attention to her phone, fishing it out of her pocket. She raises an eyebrow when realizing it's from their group chat, tapping the notification with clear trepidation.

jj (not jessica jung) 

[gif of a woman in a t-shirt and white panties being air humped by an invisible ghost, her hips thrusting manically as she is pressed up against the wall and floating, her feet bouncing rhythmically with every deep, invisible thrust]

Rumi explodes like a kettle.

“JESSE!”

Zoey cackling serving as the backdrop, Rumi vaults over the coffee table and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Jesse, who stupidly hangs back to fawn over a hysterical giggling Zoey, mouths something along the lines of oh shit before booking it out of there.

His luck runs out before his feet even lift off the ground, because for all the surreal feats of strength Jamie has, Rumi is the fastest between the four of them. 

The skill has come very handy in chasing after shadows, and it does again now, Rumi using the couch as a momentum to soar over Jesse’s head and landing right in front of him.  

Jesse’s momentum is his death sentence, and a tirade of please don't hurt me is his last words. 

Rumi comes out of the fight on top and incredibly smug, all the while Jesse remains a puddle on the floor, face down and groaning miserably about his various injuries.

He’ll be fine. Rumi even made sure not to hit him in the face and everything.

“First day having a girlfriend and you're already picking sides. Tsk tsk.”

Rumi hip-checks Zoey ruthlessly, not at all sorry for nearly sending her flying across the kitchen counter. Zoey glares back halfheartedly, but she must've seen something in Rumi’s smile that makes her soften.

They huddle closer without hesitation, Zoey taking Rumi’s hands and squeezing.

“You know this is completely crazy, right?”

“You're telling me,” Rumi laughs, disbelief and joy in equal measures. “Mira said she’s been dreaming of me since she was a kid.”

Zoey’s boba eyes damn near bulge out of their sockets, pushing Rumi into a giggling fit.

“I’m going to need all the details later.” 

Rumi nods, almost buzzing at the opportunity to gush about her new girlfriend. They should probably talk about that at some point, but after everything they went through, it's hard to think of Mira as anything else. 

Communication is scary, but it is undoubtedly important. Rumi will just try to make it as least frightening as possible for Mira, who already has so much on her plates.

Surely nothing can go wrong. They love each other, enough to bring one another back from the dead, so that has to be enough.

Rumi will make sure it is.

“Not to alarm you or anything, but why does it look like Jamie is teaching Mira ways to conquer the tri-state area?”

Bewildered, Rumi’s head whips around and, sure enough, finds her girlfriend and partner in heated discussion. Mira looks as composed as Rumi has always known her, but Jamie’s hands are waving as he talks and that, above all else, is a red flag.

Rumi doesn't exactly run over, but the speed in which she crosses the room would attract just about anyone else’s attention. 

Mira spots her first, the subtle smile of interest she had melting into something that wraps up Rumi’s heart in a warm hug.

Falling into Mira’s open embrace feels more right than anything she had ever done in her life, and Rumi just barely resists the urge to nuzzle in the collar of Mira’s shirt, where her scent is the strongest.

Like forest fire and happiness.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything is fantastic,” Jamie replies, eyes shining. Rumi could've sworn they flash a real shade of silver. She's probably just seeing things again. “Was just getting to know your girl in technicolors.”

They’re going to milk that thing dry, Rumi already knows it. “Right,” Leaning closer with a palm on Mira’s chest, Rumi gestures. “Mira, this is Jamie. He's our private investigator who tracks down locations and persons of interest."

"So I've been told." Mira nods, an odd note to herself that Rumi can't figure out.

Come to think of it, Jamie is smiling all weird too. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Mira. I'll leave you guys to it while I get some caffeine in me."

Jamie bids them goodbye, already running his mouth about how Jesse is clearly being dramatic and exaggerating his wounds so Zoey would keep pampering him. Rumi lets them fight amongst themselves for once, her attention fully captured by Mira's beautiful face gazing sweetly at her.

"You have a good team going on here."

Rumi preens, cheek squished against the fabric of her own shirt. It smells like Mira now, so Rumi is going to want it back some time. 

"We do good work." Or so she likes to think anyway. "I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for them."

Mira hums, not asking for more than what Rumi's offered. Whether it's kindness or Mira's usual brand of attention to detail, Rumi will be grateful anyway.

"I love you, Mira."

A sigh, followed by a kiss on her temple. "I love you so much, Rumi. Thank you for all you've done for me."

Rumi looks up and catches Mira's lips on the way.

Death will have to walk over her cold, rotting body if he wants to get his hands on Mira ever again. 

—

Less than five feet away, Jamie sneezes.