Chapter Text
The small cafe just off the Seoul college campus smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and baked bread, the warm scent mingling with the crisp air from the street. Mira slid into a chair by the window, bag heavy on her shoulder, boots scuffed from a long day of walking across campus. She let out a quiet sigh, scanning the room lazily. Most of the tables were empty, save for a few students hunched over laptops or scribbling in notebooks.
Her eyes caught the sunlight glinting off the counter as the barista called out orders. Mira’s attention drifted to the door, almost without realizing it. And then she saw her.
Rumi.
The girl had just stepped in, purple hair catching the light in subtle waves, bangs brushing her eyes as she glanced at the menu. There was something in the way she moved—easy, deliberate, like she didn’t feel rushed by the world outside the cafe. Mira felt her chest tighten just slightly, awareness sharpening. She tried to look away, but she couldn’t. Not yet.
Rumi approached the counter, her cardigan sliding slightly off one shoulder, loose cropped t-shirt tucked just enough into her pants to look effortless. Mira noticed the over-the-shoulder bag, the sneakers barely making a sound on the floor. Every small motion seemed careful, precise, like she had her own rhythm the world hadn’t forced her to change.
When Rumi finally ordered and stepped aside, Mira quickly dropped her gaze, shoving her hands into her pockets and pretending to check her phone. But she kept stealing glances, noticing the little things—the soft hum of her melodic voice, the way she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the thoughtful pause before she picked up her cup.
Rumi didn’t look around the room for a place to sit. Instead, she moved toward the farthest corner of the cafe, one of the most secluded tables tucked against the wall. Mira watched her pull out a sketchbook from her bag, flipping it open with care. The way her fingers lingered over the pages made Mira’s chest tighten again, a curiosity she didn’t want to admit yet.
She stayed there, hidden in her own corner of the cafe, trying not to stare too obviously, but every line of Rumi’s movements kept drawing her in. There was something quiet and contained about her presence—like a private world Mira wasn’t invited into yet, but desperately wanted a glimpse of.
Mira pretended to scroll her phone, but the screen blurred in her vision. She glanced up again—just for a second, she told herself—and found Rumi leaning over her sketchbook, cardigan sleeve falling down her wrist as her pencil moved across the page.
Her brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressed softly together, and for a fleeting moment Mira wondered what the lines on that page looked like.
Then it happened.
Rumi shifted, tucking her hair behind her ear, and her gaze lifted ever so slightly—right across the cafe.
Their eyes met.
It wasn’t long. A second, maybe two. But it felt like longer. Mira froze, heat prickling at the back of her neck, like she’d been caught staring too openly. She quickly shifted in her seat, clearing her throat as if she’d just remembered her drink sitting untouched in front of her.
Still, she couldn’t resist. She let her eyes flicker back up, cautious, testing the moment. Rumi was already looking back down at her sketchbook, but there had been something in that glance—soft, curious, not dismissive.
Mira leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. The husky edge of her breath caught in her chest, part nerves, part something else. It wasn’t much. Just a glance. But it was enough to plant a spark she couldn’t shake.
Mira kept her gaze low, fingers drumming against the side of her cup. The coffee had gone lukewarm, but she wasn’t about to get up and leave now. Not when that spark was still tugging at the corner of her mind.
She risked another glance. Rumi had shifted again, one knee tucked beneath the table, her sketchbook angled so the page was hidden from view. Her pencil hovered for a moment before pressing down again, strokes confident but unhurried. Mira wondered if she was drawing the cafe—or if she ever drew people.
Another second passed, and as if sensing the weight of Mira’s eyes, Rumi glanced up again. This time, Mira didn’t look away fast enough. Their gazes locked for a heartbeat longer, and Mira swore she saw the tiniest quirk at the corner of Rumi’s lips. Not a smile, not quite. Just an acknowledgment.
Mira leaned back in her chair, arms folding across her chest, trying to look casual. Her throat felt dry, though her voice—if she dared to speak—would probably still carry that rough, steady tone she always had. But she didn’t speak. Neither of them did.
Minutes passed like that. Mira pretending to be lost in her phone, stealing looks when she thought she could get away with it. Rumi bent over her sketchbook, occasionally sipping her drink, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. The rhythm of it all—the quiet pencil on paper, the soft hiss of the espresso machine, the muted clink of mugs—settled into something almost comfortable.
When Rumi finally closed her sketchbook and slid it back into her bag, Mira felt a strange disappointment. She watched as Rumi stood, adjusted her cardigan, and slung her bag across her shoulder.
At the door, Rumi hesitated just slightly, eyes sweeping the cafe once more. And for the briefest moment, she looked toward Mira’s table. Their eyes met a third time.
It was quick. A flicker. But enough.
And then she was gone, the soft chime of the doorbell fading into the hum of the street outside.
Mira sat back, fingers tightening around her cup. Her chest was steady, but her mind wasn’t. She didn’t know who Rumi was—not yet. But she knew she wanted to.
The next afternoon, Mira found herself back at the same cafe. She told herself it was for the coffee, maybe the quiet. But when she slid into the same chair by the window, boots propped against the floor tiles in the same rhythm as yesterday, she knew she was waiting.
Her husky sigh fogged the edge of her cup as she leaned back, gaze drifting lazily to the door.
And there she was.
Rumi. Same purple waves, bangs nearly shadowing her eyes, cardigan slipping off one shoulder like yesterday hadn’t ended at all. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.
A boy trailed beside her—short teal hair falling into bangs, tight ripped jeans hugging his legs in a way that looked more deliberate than casual. He had a baby face that could’ve belonged to a freshman, but when he spoke, his voice came out deep, smooth, unexpected. The kind of tone that drew attention whether he wanted it or not.
Mira watched as the two of them laughed at something, Rumi’s melodic voice wrapping around his deeper one like they’d been doing this forever. They ordered together, easy and familiar, and Mira’s chest tightened before she could stop it.
She dropped her eyes to her phone, pretending disinterest. But when they moved to sit, she couldn’t help but glance up again. Rumi headed straight for the same secluded corner table, Baby trailing after her with a bounce in his step. She dropped her bag, sketchbook already sliding out, while Baby sprawled across the opposite chair like he owned the space.
Mira’s gaze lingered too long this time. Rumi looked up, catching her in the act. For a second, their eyes locked—longer than yesterday, longer than she thought she could stand—and something passed between them. Not just curiosity. Recognition.
Baby noticed, of course. Mira saw the way his eyes flicked toward her, then back to Rumi, the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned in to whisper something, and Rumi swatted at him lightly, cheeks tinting before she turned back to her sketchbook.
Mira shifted in her seat, pulse steady but her jaw tense. She took a sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground her. Still, she couldn’t ignore the way Rumi kept stealing glances back—quick, subtle, but there. Always there.
For the first time, Mira didn’t look away.
Rumi set her sketchbook down, the weight of Baby’s voice still in her ear. He always had this way of saying things like they were obvious, even when they weren’t.
“Okay,” Baby muttered, leaning across the table as soon as he caught her glance flickering toward the window seat again. “Who is she?”
Rumi blinked, heat rising in her cheeks. “Who?” she asked, pretending to busy herself with flipping open her sketchbook.
Baby snorted, tossing his teal bangs out of his eyes. “Don’t ‘who’ me. Purple-hair bestie, you’ve been looking over there since we sat down. Don’t even try to act casual, you’re not slick.”
“I wasn’t—” Rumi’s voice caught, softer than she meant, melodic but shaky. She glanced down, pencil rolling between her fingers. “I was just… looking around.”
“Looking around at her,” Baby pressed, grinning now. His baby face gave the words a teasing lightness, but his deep voice made it impossible to ignore. “Tall, boots, phone in her hand, trying way too hard not to stare back at you. Oh yeah, she’s into it.”
Rumi froze. The pencil stilled. “She’s not,” she whispered, though her stomach betrayed her with that fluttery weightlessness.
Baby leaned back, crossing one ripped-knee leg over the other, smirk widening. “She is. Trust me, I know when someone’s checking someone out. And she’s checking you out.”
Rumi finally risked another glance. Across the cafe, Mira’s eyes flicked up at the same time, and this time neither of them looked away right away. Just long enough for her heart to stutter.
Rumi dropped her gaze to her sketchbook again, heat pooling in her cheeks.
Baby clapped his hands together softly. “Ohhh, she’s got you blushing. I’m obsessed already. This is gonna be fun.”
Rumi groaned, shoving at his arm. “Please stop.”
“Not a chance,” Baby said, voice smug. “I’m your wingman now. Consider it official.”
From her spot by the window, Mira took another slow sip of her coffee, eyes pretending to stay fixed on the street outside. But her ears, her attention—those were firmly on the corner table.
The teal-haired boy leaned in toward Rumi, voice low but edged with a laugh that carried just enough for Mira to catch the tone, if not the words. Rumi swatted at him almost instantly, her cheeks coloring as she tried to duck her head into her sketchbook.
Mira’s brow arched. She couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but she didn’t need to. She knew teasing when she saw it. The boy’s grin was sharp, too playful to be subtle, and Rumi’s reaction—hushed protests, pink cheeks, hiding behind her cardigan sleeve—was too telling to ignore.
She caught herself leaning forward slightly, chin resting on her hand, husky breath pressing out through her nose as she tried to make sense of it.
Were they talking about her?
Her gut said yes. The timing, the way Rumi had glanced across the cafe right before the boy’s words set her blushing—it all lined up. Mira could feel it in the way Baby’s eyes flicked her way once, brief but deliberate, like he was confirming a guess.
Mira sat back again, jaw tightening, lips tugging at the edge of a smirk she didn’t let fully form. She wasn’t sure if she liked the attention or if it made her chest clench with something sharper. Maybe both.
Rumi’s gaze lifted again, just for a second, as if testing the waters. Their eyes met. And this time, Mira didn’t look away at all.
Rumi’s pencil hovered over the page, but she wasn’t sketching anymore. She could feel Baby’s presence behind her like a storm, teasing grin fixed in place.
“Alright,” he said, voice sharp but playful. “Enough hiding. Go. Talk. To. Her.”
“I’m not—” Rumi started, but Baby cut her off with a dramatic shove to her chair.
“Not arguing!” he said, hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle but firm push. “You already started a sketch of her! You’re literally drawing her. That’s basically a love letter in pencil, Rumi!”
She froze, heat flooding her chest. Her sketchbook was tucked under her arm, pages hiding the incomplete drawing of Mira’s sharp cheekbones and long legs folded under the table. “I… I wasn’t—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stop talking. MOVE.” Baby shoved again. “Your blushing is giving me life, and I am not letting you chicken out.”
Rumi opened her mouth, then closed it. She tried to tug her sketchbook closer to hide it, but Baby had already gripped her arm. With one last roll of his eyes, he practically dragged her out of the corner.
Her heart was pounding, adrenaline prickling across her skin. She could hear Mira’s husky inhale, and then she saw her—the same intense, curious eyes—looking straight at her as Baby practically dumped her beside the table.
Rumi’s legs felt like lead, but she managed a small, awkward nod. “Hi,” she said, voice soft, melodic, almost swallowed by nerves.
Mira blinked, expression neutral for a second, then something flickered—recognition, amusement, curiosity. “Hi,” she replied, and Rumi felt that tiny spark again, the one from their glances yesterday, only hotter this time.
Baby leaned back in his chair across from her, smirking widely, satisfied. “Go on, you two. I’ll… observe,” he said, gesturing like a self-appointed referee before leaning in to whisper, “You’re welcome, world.”
Rumi sank slightly into the chair, sketchbook resting in her lap, trying to steady her racing heart. Across from her, Mira’s gaze softened, lingering just long enough to make Rumi’s chest twist with something entirely new.
Rumi’s hands rested lightly on her sketchbook, though she wasn’t drawing anymore. The heat in her cheeks refused to fade. She glanced up at Mira, who was still sitting tall, eyes curious but calm, like she was assessing her.
“I—I’m Rumi,” she said, voice soft, melodic, like the edges of it barely reached the air.
Mira tilted her head slightly, long pink strands brushing her face. “Mira,” she replied, husky and low. Her eyes lingered on Rumi just a little longer than necessary, and Rumi felt it like a gentle nudge to her chest.
There was a pause, filled only by the faint hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clink of cups from nearby tables. Baby leaned back, smirking at the two of them from across the corner. “Good. Look at you, conversation in progress,” he whispered under his breath, though loud enough for Rumi to hear, and she groaned.
Mira’s lips tugged slightly into the hint of a smile. “You’re… sketching?” she asked, nodding toward the sketchbook Rumi had instinctively pulled closer.
Rumi’s fingers tightened on the cover. “Uh… yeah. Just… some stuff. Nothing serious,” she said, trying to sound casual, though her voice wavered a little.
Mira leaned back slightly, studying her with the same calm curiosity. “Looks… detailed,” she said finally. “You’ve got a good eye.”
Rumi’s heart thumped so hard she almost laughed nervously. “Thanks,” she said, eyes darting down to the table, then back up. “I… I noticed you here yesterday. You—uh—you caught my attention.”
Mira blinked, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “I noticed you too,” she admitted, voice low, steady. “Thought you looked… focused.”
Rumi blinked, startled at how honest that sounded, and a small, shy smile crept onto her face. “Focused… yeah. That’s me,” she said, laughing lightly at herself.
A brief silence followed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a rhythm to it—two people circling closer with words, hesitant, careful, but undeniable.
Baby, sensing the magic, let out a quiet whistle. “Wow. Look at this. First conversation and already cute energy. I am living,” he muttered under his breath.
Rumi swatted at him again, whispering, “Shut up.”
Mira’s husky laugh rippled softly across the table. “Your friend is… loud,” she said, eyes glinting.
“Yeah,” Rumi said, exhaling with a mix of amusement and embarrassment. “He… makes things happen.”
Mira tilted her head, studying her again, curiosity softening into something warmer. “Well, I’m glad he did today,” she said quietly.
Rumi’s chest tightened, smile spreading slowly. “Me too,” she murmured.
And for the first time, the glances weren’t fleeting—they were shared, anchored in the moment, fragile but entirely real.
Baby stretched exaggeratedly, smirking at them both. “Alright, lovebirds, I’ve done my job. Time for you two to… figure it out,” he said, winking before standing. “Don’t mess it up. Or do. Either way, I’m watching.”
Rumi groaned, tugging her cardigan tighter around herself, cheeks flaming. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though a small smile broke through.
Mira’s husky laugh filled the space again, soft and teasing. “He seems… fun,” she said, eyes still glancing at Rumi, lingering in that way that made Rumi’s stomach twist pleasantly.
Baby slung his bag over his shoulder. “Fun is one word for me. Icon is another,” he said with a dramatic flourish, then finally pivoted toward the door. “You’re on your own now. Good luck, kiddos!”
Once the door closed behind him, the cafe felt suddenly quieter, warmer, smaller. Rumi’s hands hovered over her sketchbook again, but this time she didn’t hide it. She let the pencil rest lightly in her fingers, still alive with the drawing she’d been starting yesterday.
Mira leaned back in her chair, eyes soft, curious, and unflinching. “So,” she said finally, voice low, husky, teasing just enough, “what were you sketching yesterday? Or… am I supposed to guess?”
Rumi felt her chest tighten. “Uh… maybe… you?” she murmured, voice barely above the hum of the cafe. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the sketchbook, then she dared to glance up.
Mira’s eyebrows lifted, lips quirking into a teasing smirk. “Me?” she asked, leaning forward slightly. “You… drew me?”
Rumi’s cheeks flamed. “I—uh… just… noticed… details. Lines. Shapes. Thought… I’d try,” she said, voice trailing, awkward but honest.
Mira’s smirk softened into something warmer, almost shy. “I’m… flattered,” she said, eyes glimmering as she watched Rumi’s nervous energy. “I didn’t expect that.”
Rumi’s chest fluttered. “Neither did I,” she admitted softly, and for a moment, the world outside the cafe didn’t exist. Just the soft light, the quiet hum of the espresso machine, and Mira’s eyes holding hers in a way that made every nerve in her body alive.
Rumi’s fingers tapped nervously on the edge of her sketchbook. “So… you really want to see it?” she asked, voice tentative.
Mira leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, chin tilted slightly. “I mean… yes. But only if you promise it’s not… weird,” she said, tone teasing but soft, eyes glimmering with curiosity.
Rumi swallowed, cheeks warming. “Weird? No. I don’t think it’s weird. Just… a sketch,” she said, opening the book slowly, revealing a careful, detailed line drawing of Mira sitting across the cafe yesterday—the faint shadow of her pink hair, the curve of her boots tucked under her chair.
Mira’s husky laugh rippled through the space again. “Oh wow,” she said, eyes tracing the lines, a mixture of amusement and genuine admiration. “You… really noticed me.”
Rumi’s heart skipped. “I… uh… yeah. I guess I did,” she admitted softly, looking down at her hands. “I just… I liked noticing.”
Mira tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips. “Noticed enough to sketch me,” she said teasingly. “That’s… bold.”
Rumi’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Bold? I… I don’t know about that,” she murmured, still fluttering under Mira’s gaze.
“Bold is good,” Mira said, leaning back slightly, still watching her. “It’s… honest.”
Rumi let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You make it sound easy,” she said. “It’s… not.”
Mira’s smirk softened into a small, knowing smile. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be,” she said, voice husky, teasing, and somehow gentle all at once.
Rumi’s chest fluttered at that, the room around them shrinking until it felt like only the two of them existed. She glanced down at the sketchbook again, then back at Mira. “I… I like talking to you,” she admitted quietly, almost to herself.
Mira’s eyes softened further, warmth pooling in them. “I like talking to you too,” she said, voice low, husky, teasing in the way that made Rumi’s heart twist. “You’re… different. In a good way.”
Rumi smiled shyly, biting her lip, then glanced at the time on her phone. “I… should probably go. Homework… still exists,” she murmured, feeling the weight of the outside world pressing back in.
Mira tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “Yeah, but… I hope you come back,” she said, soft but teasing. “Tomorrow?”
Rumi’s chest warmed at the small question. “Yeah,” she said, smiling gently, voice melodic. “I’ll… come back.”
She tucked the sketchbook carefully into her bag, stood slowly, and gave Mira a small, shy nod. Mira returned it, her eyes holding Rumi’s just a moment longer before Rumi turned and walked toward the door.
Outside, the crisp Seoul air hit her cheeks, and she couldn’t help the small, quiet smile tugging at her lips. Baby, waiting just beyond the door, smirked knowingly. “Finally,” he whispered, nudging her.
Rumi shook her head, laughing softly under her breath. “Shut up,” she said, but her heart was still warm, and her mind was already drifting back to tomorrow.
The walk home was quiet, the soft hum of Seoul’s streets fading behind them as they turned into their neighborhood. Baby’s bag swung lightly on his shoulder, hands stuffed into the pockets of his ripped jeans. Rumi trailed slightly behind, sketchbook tucked under her arm, still thinking about the cafe and Mira.
When they stepped into their apartment, the familiar warmth and faint smell of vanilla from Baby’s grandmother’s candles greeted them. The small two-bedroom space had a lived-in comfort, a mix of Baby’s vibrant touches and Rumi’s softer, quieter presence.
“Coffee?” Baby asked, tossing his bag onto the couch. “Or tea? Or nothing? Because I’m about to interrogate you either way.”
Rumi shook her head, dropping her bag by the door. “Nothing right now,” she said softly, moving toward the kitchen counter to set down her sketchbook.
Baby flopped onto the couch, legs stretched out, teal bangs falling into his eyes. “So… tell me everything,” he said, voice playful but insistent. “About the girl.”
Rumi froze for a moment, then sighed. “Her name’s… Mira,” she admitted, voice soft, almost hesitant.
Baby’s grin widened. “Mira,” he repeated, testing it on his tongue. “Cute. I like it. So… what happened? Did you talk to her? Did you draw her? Did you flirt? Don’t leave me hanging, Rumi.”
Rumi’s cheeks warmed. “I… I talked to her. Just a little,” she said, voice melodic but careful. “And… yes, I started a sketch yesterday. But it’s not… that much yet.”
Baby sat up slightly, eyes gleaming. “Not that much? Rumi, you’re basically writing love letters in pencil. I saw the way you looked at her today. Don’t even try to deny it.”
Rumi shook her head, laughing softly, though her chest felt light. “I… I don’t know. She’s… different. I don’t know her very well yet,” she admitted.
Baby leaned back, folding his arms with a satisfied smirk. “Well, that’s okay. You’re going to get to know her. And I’m going to make sure of it. Trust me, I’ve got the best radar for… this stuff.”
Rumi laughed again, shaking her head. “You really are… something else,” she said, voice soft, melodic, eyes rolling slightly.
Baby shrugged, grinning. “Yep. That’s me. But seriously, Rumi—don’t mess this up. I’ve seen it before—people chicken out. You’re not gonna chicken out, right?”
Rumi looked down at her sketchbook, then back at him, cheeks still warm. “I… I won’t,” she said quietly, but firmly. “I… like her.”
Baby let out a satisfied hum, leaning back into the couch. “Finally. Progress,” he said, waving a hand dramatically. “You’re welcome, world.”
Rumi rolled her eyes, laughing softly again, but her heart was still fluttering. Mira. She kept repeating the name quietly in her head, letting it settle like something precious she’d just discovered.
Rumi closed the apartment door softly behind her, sliding into the quiet of her bedroom. Her sketchbook sat on the desk, still warm with yesterday’s lines, but homework lay open in front of her. Textbooks, notes, and pens sprawled across the surface, but as soon as she picked up her pencil, her mind betrayed her.
Mira… Mira… The name kept spinning in her head like a soft echo.
She tapped her pencil against the page, trying to focus. Focus. Algebra first. You can do this.
But her chest kept tightening, a fluttery pull that made her heart stutter every time she remembered the way Mira’s eyes had met hers today. That soft, husky laugh. The curious tilt of her head. The teasing smirk when she’d noticed Rumi staring.
Rumi bit her lip, glancing down at the equations she’d written, only to erase them immediately. Why do I keep thinking about her? It’s… just a conversation. Just a glance. Nothing else.
Her pencil hovered again, this time hovering uselessly. No. I need to get this done. Homework before… before the cafe tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. I have to go back tomorrow.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, groaning softly, leaning back in her chair. Okay, Rumi, deep breaths. You’re being ridiculous. Focus. You’ve got assignments to finish. Mira isn’t… she isn’t a distraction. She’s… interesting. That’s all. Right?
The memory of Mira’s voice, low and husky, teasing, lingered like a soft warmth against her thoughts. Rumi closed her eyes for a moment, letting the image fill her mind despite herself.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll see her again. Just… sit at my corner, watch her… maybe… talk to her again. Yeah. I can do that. I’ll do that.
Her pencil finally moved across the page, but only slowly, distractedly, lines shaky and uneven. Homework was happening, technically. But Rumi knew she wasn’t really there—her mind was already wandering to the corner table in the cafe, to Mira’s curious eyes, and the faint, soft pull she couldn’t ignore.
Tomorrow can’t come fast enough, she admitted quietly to herself, letting the thought settle like a warm, quiet promise.
Homework was finally finished. Rumi let out a long, quiet sigh, stretching her arms above her head as she pushed back from her desk. The cramped apartment felt warmer, cozier, and yet her chest still felt tight with anticipation. She grabbed her towel and headed toward the bathroom, letting her mind wander as the water began to warm.
As the hot water ran over her, steam curling around the small bathroom, her thoughts slipped again to Mira. Why do I keep thinking about her? Her mind was insistent, tugging at her chest like it wouldn’t let her focus on anything else.
Rumi shut her eyes, remembering the way Mira’s gaze had held her today. That soft, husky voice. The curve of her lips when she’d teased. The way her eyes seemed to notice… everything. Everything about her is perfect, Rumi admitted quietly to herself, heart beating faster under the shower’s warmth.
And then… something darker, more heated, slipped into her thoughts. She imagined Mira’s hand brushing hers, tentative at first, then more confident, exploring. Rumi’s chest tightened, warmth pooling low in her stomach, and she quickly shook her head, trying to force her mind elsewhere. Stop it. Stop it, Rumi.
But her brain wouldn’t. Mira’s voice echoed in her ears again, husky, teasing, and she imagined that soft laugh while her hand lingered a little too long…
Rumi groaned quietly, pressing her face to the wall of the shower. Why can’t I just shut it off? The longing was maddening, sweet and sharp all at once. Her sketchbook, her homework, even the apartment itself faded into the background. All that existed was Mira: her voice, her eyes, that teasing curiosity that made Rumi’s chest flutter—and something deeper, hotter, that made her heart race and her stomach twist.
The water continued to run over her, and she let herself breathe, letting the heat wash over her skin while her thoughts remained stubbornly consumed by Mira.
Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll see her again, Rumi murmured under the shower’s steady hum, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to stop thinking about her.
Rumi stepped out of the bathroom, towel-dried hair still damp, and changed into her pajamas. Loose, soft clothes that felt comfortable against her skin. She was just brushing a stray strand of purple hair behind her ear when Baby’s voice called from the kitchen.
“Dinner’s ready!” he shouted cheerfully, grinning around the corner of the doorway.
Rumi smiled softly. “Coming,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest as she made her way to the small kitchen.
The table was already set, steam curling from simple bowls and plates. Nothing fancy—but Rumi knew better. Baby always managed to turn a handful of ingredients into something that felt warm, filling, and satisfying. Tonight it was a basic Korean meal: rice, kimchi, a simple stir-fry of vegetables with egg, and a small soup. But somehow, with his touch, it looked and smelled like more than enough.
“You didn’t burn anything this time?” Rumi teased lightly, sliding into her seat.
Baby laughed, shaking his teal bangs out of his eyes. “Ha! Very funny. I call this my masterpiece,” he said, handing her a bowl of rice. “Simple, but nourishing. You need fuel to keep that brain of yours running.”
Rumi nodded, smiling as she picked up her chopsticks. “Thanks,” she said softly, taking a bite. The flavors were warm and comforting, the familiar rhythm of their little routine easing some of the tension from her day.
As they ate, the apartment felt cozy and small in that perfect way it always did after a long day. Homework, college stress, and even thoughts of Mira softened into the background as the warmth of Baby’s cooking and their quiet camaraderie filled the space.
Rumi realized she liked this normalcy—the predictability of it, the little comforts. And yet, even here, her thoughts kept wandering to Mira, just under the surface, warming her chest with the same quiet pull they had all afternoon.
Rumi pushed back her chair after finishing the last bite of rice, sighing softly. “Thanks, Baby. That was really good,” she said, voice melodic, warm with genuine appreciation.
Baby grinned, stretching his arms above his head. “Of course! You’re welcome, as always. Honestly, Rumi, you need to appreciate my culinary genius more. You’re way too chill about it.”
Rumi rolled her eyes, laughing softly. “I appreciate it enough, trust me. But don’t let it go to your head.”
“Never,” he said dramatically, grabbing a bottle of nail polish from the small shelf near the couch. “Now, speaking of appreciation… your nails. They’re tragic. Absolutely tragic. Let’s fix that.”
Rumi groaned, sliding onto the couch beside him. “You really don’t give me a choice, do you?”
“Not a chance. Trust me, you’ll thank me later,” Baby said, opening the bottle and carefully starting with her nails. “So… tell me everything. About Mira. Who is she? Why can’t you stop thinking about her? Don’t tell me you’re pretending this is all casual because it’s not. I see the way you’re looking at her.”
Rumi felt her cheeks warm again, curling her fingers instinctively under his brush. “I… I don’t know why I keep thinking about her. She’s… just… perfect, I guess,” she admitted softly. “Her eyes, the way she looks at me… her voice… god, her voice. I can’t get it out of my head.”
Baby hummed knowingly, careful strokes painting each nail neatly. “Mhm, mhm. Classic. She’s got you wrapped around her finger already, isn’t she?”
Rumi pressed her lips together, trying not to nod too obviously. “Maybe. I… I don’t even know her very well yet,” she said, eyes downcast, voice quiet but earnest.
“And yet,” Baby said, smirking as he picked up another nail to paint, “you’ve been thinking about her nonstop since yesterday. Admit it, Rumi. You’re hooked.”
Rumi let out a small laugh, the sound soft and melodic, almost shy. “I… maybe am,” she murmured, finally looking up at him. “It’s… confusing. I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a long time.”
Baby’s grin softened a little, brushing the last stroke carefully. “Good. Confusing is good. Means it’s real. And trust me, you don’t want it easy. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be interesting.”
Rumi leaned back on the couch, letting herself relax despite the fluttery feeling in her chest. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” Baby said firmly, leaning back beside her. “And tomorrow… you’re going back to that cafe, and you’re going to see her again. And I better hear all about it when you get home.”
Rumi couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips, brushing her damp purple hair behind her ear. “You’re impossible,” she said, but there was warmth in her voice, and a small smile tugged at her lips.
Baby leaned back, hands folded behind his head. “Yep. And you love it. Now, go. Think about her, dream about her, obsess about her—just don’t fall asleep before I finish the last nail.”
Rumi grinned softly, shaking her head. “I guess I’ll try not to,” she murmured, letting herself sink further into the warmth of the couch, her mind already wandering to Mira, to tomorrow, and the soft, teasing pull she couldn’t resist.
By the time Baby finished the last nail, Rumi’s fingers looked polished and perfect, the soft glow of the polish catching the warm apartment light. She flexed them lightly, smiling despite the fluttering in her chest.
“There. See? Told you you’d thank me,” Baby said, leaning back with a triumphant grin. “Now go. Get some sleep. You’ve got… important things to think about tomorrow.”
Rumi chuckled softly, sliding off the couch and heading toward her bedroom. “Important things, huh?” she murmured, voice melodic and quiet. “Like… Mira.”
“Exactly like Mira,” Baby called from the living room, voice teasing even from afar. “And don’t you dare chicken out tomorrow. I’ll know.”
Rumi shook her head, brushing a stray lock of purple hair behind her ear as she closed the bedroom door. She climbed into bed, curling under the soft covers, sketchbook set aside on the desk. Her homework was done. Dinner was eaten. Everything was quiet. And yet… her mind refused to settle.
Mira… The name rolled through her thoughts, soft and insistent. She saw her face, the way her pink hair framed her features, the curve of her lips when she’d smirked today. Her eyes. God, those eyes.
Rumi bit her lip, pressing the blanket a little tighter around herself. And her voice… her voice… That low, husky tone kept echoing through her mind, soft teasing words she replayed again and again.
Her chest fluttered when she remembered the glances, the subtle teasing, the way Mira had held her gaze longer than she should have. Everything about her is perfect, Rumi admitted softly, almost to herself.
And then, as the room darkened and the apartment settled into stillness, her thoughts slipped further—imagining Mira closer, brushing against her, soft touches, soft warmth. Heat pooled low in her stomach, her breath catching slightly, and she pressed her hand to her chest, trying to ground herself.
Stop it, Rumi… she whispered into the quiet. You need sleep. Homework is done. Tomorrow… tomorrow you’ll see her again. Calm down.
But even as her eyelids grew heavy, even as the comfort of her blankets surrounded her, Rumi couldn’t shut it off. Her mind kept circling Mira—her face, her voice, her presence. Every detail replayed like a soft, tantalizing melody.
Tomorrow can’t come fast enough, she murmured as she drifted toward sleep, heart fluttering and chest warm, a quiet smile tugging at her lips despite the ache of anticipation.
Mira sat on the edge of her couch, legs tucked beneath her, blanket loosely draped over her shoulders. The apartment was quiet, the soft hum of the city beyond the windows barely reaching her ears. Her mind, however, refused to settle.
She’d been trying to sleep for hours, tossing and turning in her bedroom, but thoughts of Rumi kept surfacing with relentless persistence. That melodic voice, the soft curve of her lips when she’d smiled, the way her purple hair framed her face…
Mira, focus. Sleep, she muttered to herself, but the words felt hollow.
She rubbed her eyes, sitting up straighter. The living room was dark except for the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. Usually, she could fall asleep easily in this apartment, her roommates quietly in their own rooms. But tonight… tonight was different.
“Mir?” Abby’s voice came first, gentle but concerned, followed by the sound of Zoey bouncing into the room like a bundle of energy, despite the late hour. “You okay? You’ve been up forever. Something wrong?”
Mira shook her head quickly. “I’m fine. Just… couldn’t sleep,” she mumbled, voice low, distracted.
Zoey plopped down beside her, arms crossed, energy still crackling. “Come on, Mira. You’ve been staring at that ceiling for hours. Something’s bothering you. Spill it.”
Abby leaned against the doorframe, brow furrowed in that sweet, concerned way he always had. “Yeah… you’re acting weird. Not like you.”
Mira sighed, running a hand through her long hot pink hair. She glanced at both of them, seeing genuine concern. She’d been trying to ignore it all night, trying to shove her thoughts back down, but… she couldn’t. Not if she wanted any hope of sleep.
“It’s… fine. Really,” she started, then hesitated, jaw tightening. “Okay… not fine. I… I met someone today.”
Zoey’s eyes lit up immediately, curiosity buzzing. “Ooooh, someone? Spill it, Mira!”
Abby straightened, muscles tensing a little, but with that soft, kind expression of his, waiting patiently.
Mira took a deep breath. “Her name’s Rumi. She… she’s at this cafe I always go to. And I—” She paused, heart hammering, voice softening. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Zoey squealed softly, bouncing slightly. “Ohhh! Finally! Mira, you’re… smitten!”
Abby chuckled softly, walking over to sit across from Mira on the couch. “She must be pretty special if she’s keeping your thoughts like this.”
Mira’s cheeks flushed, but she nodded, voice quiet but honest. “Yeah… she is. I don’t even really know her yet. We just… talked a little. But… I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Zoey leaned closer, grinning like she already knew the answer. “You’re into her, aren’t you? That’s why you’re lying awake! Admit it!”
Mira let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah… maybe,” she murmured, hiding her face slightly in her hands.
Abby smiled, soft and encouraging. “Sounds like someone’s found someone worth thinking about.”
Zoey leaned back dramatically, clearly satisfied with the revelation. “Finally! I thought you’d never tell us. Mira, I swear, you’re way too good at keeping secrets.”
Mira leaned back into the couch cushions, letting herself relax a little. “I guess… I just didn’t want to jinx it,” she admitted softly. “But… she’s different. And I… I really want to see her again.”
Abby gave her a reassuring smile. “Then you will. You’ll figure it out. Just… take it slow, yeah?”
Zoey clapped her hands softly. “And meanwhile, you’ll tell us everything! I wanna hear every detail about this Rumi girl!”
Mira let out a small laugh, warmth spreading through her chest despite the late hour. “Okay,” she said quietly, smiling. “I will.”
And for the first time since she’d left the cafe today, Mira felt a little more at ease, letting herself lean back on the couch, thoughts still buzzing with Rumi—but now with a comforting weight of friends who cared.
Finally, after a few more minutes of banter with Zoey and Abby, Mira’s roommates retreated to their own rooms, leaving her alone in the soft glow of the living room. She curled up on the couch, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to sleep.
But sleep refused her.
Rumi… The name floated through her mind, soft and insistent. Mira’s chest tightened just thinking about the girl—the curve of her purple hair, the way it framed her face, and those gentle, melodic eyes that had caught hers so easily in the cafe.
Her fingers twitched slightly, and her lips pressed together as her thoughts kept circling back. Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
She imagined Rumi’s voice again, soft, melodic, warm. The way it had carried over the hum of the cafe, teasing, curious, playful just enough to make Mira’s heart flutter. God, her voice… Mira buried her face into the blanket, trying to hold herself back from letting the thought wander too far.
But of course, it didn’t. The memory of Rumi’s eyes—how they had looked at her with a soft curiosity, a quiet pull—made her stomach twist in that familiar, impossible way. She felt the warmth pool low, chest tightening, heart fluttering, all at once.
She’s… perfect, Mira admitted softly into the quiet room. Every little thing about her is… perfect.
Her mind, stubborn and relentless, began drifting further. The soft pull in her chest became sharper as she imagined Rumi close, brushing against her, tentative touches that made her pulse spike. She pressed her hands into the blanket, trying to ground herself. Stop it. Sleep. You need sleep.
But the images persisted—Rumi’s soft smile, the curve of her lips, her melodic laugh, even the quiet intensity of her gaze. Mira hugged her knees to her chest, heart hammering. Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll see her again. I hope… I hope I can calm down until then.
She let out a long breath, shaking her head slightly, curling tighter into the blanket. Sleep still wouldn’t come, but the warmth of anticipation, the soft ache of longing, settled into her chest, persistent and bright.
Tomorrow… I’ll see her again, she whispered to herself, letting the thought echo like a quiet, unspoken promise as her eyelids grew heavier. And I won’t stop thinking about her, no matter how hard I try.
Finally, after a few more minutes of banter with Zoey and Abby, Mira’s roommates retreated to their own rooms, leaving her alone in the soft glow of the living room. She curled up on the couch, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to sleep.
But sleep refused her.
Rumi… The name floated through her mind, soft and insistent. Mira’s chest tightened just thinking about the girl—the curve of her purple hair, the way it framed her face, and those gentle, melodic eyes that had caught hers so easily in the cafe.
Her fingers twitched slightly, and her lips pressed together as her thoughts kept circling back. Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
She imagined Rumi’s voice again, soft, melodic, warm. The way it had carried over the hum of the cafe, teasing, curious, playful just enough to make Mira’s heart flutter. God, her voice… Mira buried her face into the blanket, trying to hold herself back from letting the thought wander too far.
But of course, it didn’t. The memory of Rumi’s eyes—how they had looked at her with a soft curiosity, a quiet pull—made her stomach twist in that familiar, impossible way. She felt the warmth pool low, chest tightening, heart fluttering, all at once.
She’s… perfect, Mira admitted softly into the quiet room. Every little thing about her is… perfect.
Her mind, stubborn and relentless, began drifting further. The soft pull in her chest became sharper as she imagined Rumi close, brushing against her, tentative touches that made her pulse spike. She pressed her hands into the blanket, trying to ground herself. Stop it. Sleep. You need sleep.
But the images persisted—Rumi’s soft smile, the curve of her lips, her melodic laugh, even the quiet intensity of her gaze. Mira hugged her knees to her chest, heart hammering. Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll see her again. I hope… I hope I can calm down until then.
She let out a long breath, shaking her head slightly, curling tighter into the blanket. Sleep still wouldn’t come, but the warmth of anticipation, the soft ache of longing, settled into her chest, persistent and bright.
Tomorrow… I’ll see her again, she whispered to herself, letting the thought echo like a quiet, unspoken promise as her eyelids grew heavier. And I won’t stop thinking about her, no matter how hard I try.