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The sheets smelled like her.
That was the problem. That was always the problem. The cheap lavender detergent Mira used, the one Rumi had pretended to hate for months before she started buying it for her own apartment, not that she would ever admit that, clung to the pillows, the blanket, the skin Rumi was still trying to catch her breath on.
The room was dark save for the thin strip of streetlight bleeding through the blinds, casting everything in shades of blue and grey. It painted Mira's bare shoulder in cool light, traced the curve of her spine where the sheet had slipped, made the dark mess of her hair look almost black against the white pillowcase.
Rumi was still on her back, one arm thrown over her forehead, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was finally, finally slowing down. Her whole body hummed, a low, satisfied thrum that was already starting to curdle into something else. Something that felt like the moment right before a drop on a roller coaster. That weightless, terrifying second when you knew you were about to fall but hadn't hit the bottom yet.
Beside her, Mira stirred.
The movement was small, just a shift of weight, the soft whisper of skin against sheets, but Rumi felt it everywhere. Her body was still keyed to Mira's, still tracking her like a satellite, still waiting for the next signal even though the encounter was over. That was the downside of this arrangement. The whole point was supposed to be no strings, no attachments, no lying awake afterward analyzing every breath and touch. But Rumi's body hadn't gotten the memo. Her body was still lit up, still humming with the memory of Mira's hands, Mira's mouth, Mira's thighs trembling against hers.
She should say something. That was the rule. They didn't do the quiet aftermath, the sticky, intimate silence that felt too much like something real. They talked, or they left, or they made a joke and laughed it off and pretended the whole thing was just scratching an itch.
But Rumi's throat was dry, and her brain was still static, and the only thing she could think was don't go yet, which was exactly the kind of thought she wasn't supposed to have.
Mira moved again. This time, she sat up.
The sheet pooled around her waist, leaving her back bare to the blue light. Rumi watched the muscles shift under her skin, the elegant line of her spine, the small beauty mark just below her left shoulder blade, the way her hair fell forward as she reached for something on the floor. Her own shirt, probably. Or her underwear. Something to put between her skin and the cold air and the weight of whatever was building in the space between them.
Rumi's hand twitched. She wanted to reach out. Touch the dip of Mira's lower back. Pull her back down into the tangled sheets and keep her there until morning, consequences be damned.
She didn't.
"I should go," Mira said.
Her voice was casual. Light. The same tone she used when she was leaving a coffee shop or ending a phone call. It was a performance, and it was flawless, and Rumi hated it almost as much as she admired it.
"Probably," Rumi agreed, because that was her line. That was the script. Probably. Yeah. You're right. It's late.
Mira stood. The sheet fell away completely, and Rumi let herself look, just for a second, just to catalog the long lines of her legs, the sharp angles of her hip bones, the dark silhouette of her against the window. She would never admit to looking. But she always looked. Every time.
Mira dressed quickly, efficiently, the way she did everything. Underwear. Jeans. That soft grey t-shirt that Rumi had once borrowed and never given back, not because she forgot but because she liked the way it smelled when she was alone. Mira fastened her watch, a habit, probably, because it wasn't like she needed to know the time at, Rumi glanced at her phone on the nightstand, 1:47 AM.
The silence stretched. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't uncomfortable either. It was something in between, a held breath, a question no one was brave enough to ask.
Rumi stayed in bed. Naked, still, the sheet pulled up to her hips because even after everything, she had some boundaries. She watched Mira tuck her phone into her back pocket, run her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to tame it, check her reflection in the dark glass of the window.
Say something, Rumi thought. Say stay. Say this doesn't have to be weird. Say you felt it too, that thing that happened when you came apart under my hands, when you said my name like it meant something.
She didn't say any of it.
Mira walked toward the door. Her bare feet were silent on the hardwood. She paused with her hand on the knob, just for a second, just long enough for Rumi to notice.
The hesitation was small. Almost imperceptible. A micro-pause, the kind most people would miss. But Rumi had been cataloging Mira's micro-expressions for six years. She knew the difference between leaving and considering staying.
Mira was considering.
The realization hit Rumi in the chest, sharp and sudden. Her pulse, which had finally settled, kicked up again. She held her breath, waiting, not even sure what she was waiting for, a word, a glance, a change of heart.
Mira's hand tightened on the knob. Then relaxed.
"Same time next week?" she said, and her voice was light again, teasing, the mask firmly back in place. She glanced over her shoulder, and in the dim light, Rumi could see the curve of her smile, familiar, easy, the smile of someone who hadn't just been wrecked thirty minutes ago.
Rumi forced herself to smile back. "You know where to find me."
Mira laughed, a small, soft sound that did something complicated to Rumi's insides. "Tempting fate."
"Always."
Mira opened the door. The hallway light spilled in, harsh and yellow, bleaching the warmth from the room. For a moment, she was silhouetted there, half in, half out, and Rumi thought this is the part where she leaves and I pretend I don't care and we do this all over again next week like two people who definitely have their emotions under control.
Then Mira was gone. The door clicked shut. The apartment settled into silence, the kind that felt louder than any sound.
Rumi stared at the ceiling.
The sheets still smelled like lavender. Her thighs were still sore. Her lips were still tingling from the last kiss, the one that had started soft and ended desperate, the one that had felt less like a goodbye and more like a don't stop.
She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes.
"Same time next week," she muttered to the empty room. "Yeah. Sure. Fine."
The words tasted like ash.
She didn't move for a long time. The streetlight shifted as clouds passed. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, and Rumi imagined it was Mira getting into her own car, driving home to her own apartment, slipping into her own bed that probably smelled like nothing at all.
Rumi turned her head on the pillow. Her hand drifted to the empty space beside her. The sheets were still warm.
She pulled her hand back.
No attachments, she reminded herself. That was the deal.
But her body remembered. Her body always remembered. And as she lay there in the dark, tracing the path of the streetlight across the ceiling, she realized something she had been trying very hard not to realize for weeks now.
The deal was already broken.
She just hadn't admitted it yet.
The bar was too loud.
That was Rumi's first thought, and it was also her second, and by the time she'd worked through to a third, why do people willingly pay money to stand in a room this crowded, she had lost track of the conversation entirely.
Someone was talking at her. A guy she'd met once before, maybe, or someone's cousin, or a figment of her imagination. He had a beard and a craft beer and opinions about the local sports team that he seemed to think she cared about. She didn't. She was nodding in all the right places, making the appropriate sounds of acknowledgment, but her attention was elsewhere.
It had been elsewhere all night.
Mira was across the room.
She was leaning against the bar, one elbow propped on the sticky surface, a glass of something amber in her hand. Her hair, that pin-red that caught the light like a warning sign, was loose tonight, falling over her shoulders in waves that looked effortless and probably weren't. She was wearing that cream top again, the one from the night of the party that had started everything, and Rumi hated how well she remembered it. The way the fabric had felt under her fingers. The way it had tangled in her grip when she pulled Mira closer. The way it had ended up on the floor, discarded and forgotten, because neither of them had been thinking about clothes.
Rumi took a sip of her drink. It was warm. She'd been holding it for twenty minutes.
The guy with the beard was still talking. She caught the tail end of something about defensive line recruitment and made a sound that could have been agreement or confusion or a small animal dying. He didn't seem to notice the difference.
Across the room, someone approached Mira.
Rumi's attention sharpened.
It was a woman. Tall, maybe, though it was hard to tell from this angle. Dark hair pulled back in a way that suggested she'd put in effort but wanted to look like she hadn't. She was wearing a fitted blazer over something low-cut, the kind of outfit that said I'm here to network and I'm here to flirt in equal measure.
She leaned into Mira's space. Not aggressively, just enough to be noticed. Her hand landed on the bar near Mira's elbow, a casual claim of territory. She was smiling, saying something that made Mira's eyebrows lift in that particular way that meant I'm listening, but I'm not impressed yet.
Rumi's jaw tightened.
She didn't even realize it until the guy with the beard paused, waiting for a response she hadn't heard.
"Sorry," she said, forcing a smile. "What?"
He repeated himself. Something about the playoffs. She nodded. Her eyes drifted back across the room.
The woman in the blazer had shifted closer. She was laughing now, a bright, musical sound that carried even over the noise of the bar. Mira's mouth curved in response, not quite a smile, but not not a smile. Her posture had changed too, subtle and infuriating. She was leaning in slightly, her weight shifted onto her back foot, her body angled toward the other woman in a way that suggested openness. Interest.
She's just being polite, Rumi told herself. Mira is always polite. It doesn't mean anything.
The woman touched Mira's arm.
It was just a brush, fingertips grazing the bare skin below her sleeve, light and fleeting. The kind of touch that could have been accidental. Probably was accidental. Definitely, absolutely, statistically likely to be nothing.
Rumi's grip on her glass tightened until her knuckles went white.
"What's wrong?" the guy with the beard asked.
Rumi blinked. She'd forgotten he was there.
"Nothing," she said. Her voice came out flatter than she intended. "I just, excuse me for a second."
She didn't wait for a response. She set her glass down on the nearest surface, somebody's table, somebody's drink, and walked across the room. Her path was indirect, casual, the pace of someone who just happened to be going in that direction. Not a bee-line. Not a territorial march. Just a coincidence, a natural drift, a woman getting another drink from the bar.
You're not jealous, she told herself. You're not jealous. You're not,
"Hey," she said, sliding up to the bar on Mira's other side.
Mira turned. Her eyes flickered with recognition, then something else, surprise, maybe, or amusement, or a knowing glint that made Rumi's stomach flip.
"Hey yourself," Mira said. Her voice was light, easy. "I didn't know you were here."
"I've been here."
"For how long?"
"Long enough."
The woman in the blazer was still there, still standing too close, still looking at Mira like she was a puzzle she wanted to solve. Her gaze shifted to Rumi, assessing, calculating. She smiled, a tight, polite thing that didn't reach her eyes.
"Friend of yours?" she asked Mira.
Rumi answered before Mira could. "Something like that."
The words came out sharper than she intended. She saw Mira's eyebrow twitch, the micro-expression she'd learned to read years ago, the one that meant interesting.
The woman in the blazer didn't seem fazed. She extended a hand toward Rumi. "I'm Jess."
Rumi looked at the hand. Didn't take it. "Rumi."
The pause stretched just long enough to be awkward. Jess let her hand drop, her smile tightening further. She turned back to Mira, dismissing Rumi with the ease of someone who'd been doing this a long time.
"So," Jess said, leaning in again, her attention laser-focused on Mira, "you were telling me about that competition in Montréal. The one with the, "
"The fall," Mira supplied. "Yeah. It was bad. I still have the scar."
"Can I see it?"
The question was flirty, loaded, the kind of thing that was supposed to create intimacy. Let me touch you. Let me see something no one else sees.
Rumi's chest went hot.
"It's on her thigh," Rumi said. "You're not seeing it tonight."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jess blinked, her composure cracking for just a second. Mira turned her head slowly, her eyes finding Rumi's with an expression that was impossible to read. Her lips parted slightly, surprise, or warning, or something else entirely.
Rumi realized, belatedly, what she'd just done. What she'd just implied. The territoriality of it, the ownership. The way she'd staked a claim she had no right to stake, not with their arrangement, not with the careful distance they'd constructed.
Shit.
Jess recovered quickly. Her smile returned, but it had sharpened into something colder. "Right," she said, glancing between them. "Well. I should, " She gestured vaguely toward the other side of the bar. "Nice meeting you, Mira."
She left. Didn't say goodbye to Rumi.
The space she vacated felt suddenly, dangerously intimate.
Mira turned fully toward Rumi, her hip against the bar, her glass dangling from her fingers. The amber liquid caught the light. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something flickering beneath the surface, something that looked a lot like satisfaction.
"Well," Mira said, drawing the word out. "That was interesting."
Rumi's jaw was still tight. "What was?"
"You, staking your territory."
"I wasn't, "
"You told her she couldn't see my scar." Mira's voice was low, amused, dragging over each word like she was savoring them. "My scar, Rumi. On my thigh. What exactly did you think she was going to do with that information?"
Rumi's face heated. "I was just, she was being pushy. Someone had to shut her down."
"Mm-hmm."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." Mira took a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving Rumi's face over the rim of the glass. She swallowed, set the glass down, and crossed her arms over her chest. The movement made the fabric of her top shift, drawing Rumi's gaze for a split second before she forced it back up.
"You were jealous," Mira said.
The word landed like a grenade.
"I was not."
"You called her annoying."
"I didn't say that."
"You were thinking it."
Rumi opened her mouth. Closed it. Because, okay, she had been thinking it. The woman's laugh had been annoying, too loud, too performative, the kind of laugh that was designed to make the person telling the joke feel funnier than they actually were. And her blazer was ugly. And her hair was trying too hard. And the way she'd touched Mira's arm had been,
"It was not that funny," Rumi said finally.
Mira's eyebrows lifted. "What?"
"Her laugh. Your joke. Whatever she was laughing at." Rumi was digging herself deeper, and she knew it, and she couldn't seem to stop. "It wasn't that funny."
Mira stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, her mouth curved into a smile that was nothing like the polite one she'd given Jess. This smile was slow, deliberate, devastating.
"You're jealous," Mira said again. This time, it wasn't a question.
Rumi's heart was pounding. She could feel it in her throat, in her temples, in the place between her ribs where something hot and dangerous was coiling.
"I'm not jealous," she said, and her voice came out rougher than she intended, almost a rasp. "I just don't like watching some stranger put her hands on you."
"Her hands?" Mira's smile widened. "She touched my arm, Rumi. Once."
"It's the principle."
"What principle?"
Rumi didn't have an answer for that.
The bar was still loud around them, music thumping, glasses clinking, voices overlapping in a constant, meaningless roar. But in the small space between Rumi and Mira, everything had gone quiet. Charged. The air felt thick, electric, the way it did right before a storm broke.
Mira stepped closer.
Her chest was inches from Rumi's now, close enough that Rumi could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, could smell the faint, familiar scent of her perfume layered underneath the bar's cheap air freshener and spilled beer.
"You know," Mira said quietly, "for someone who's not jealous, you're acting a lot like someone who's jealous."
"I'm acting like someone who doesn't appreciate bad manners."
"Bad manners."
"Pushy strangers. Overly familiar touching. Annoying laughs."
Mira laughed, a real laugh this time, soft and surprised, the one that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made Rumi's chest ache. "You're impossible."
"I'm right."
"You're ridiculous."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
They stood there for a moment, staring at each other, the noise of the party fading into background static. Rumi was acutely aware of every inch of space between them, the way her own hands were clenched at her sides, the way Mira's arms were still crossed over her chest, the way the light from the bar caught the gold chain at Mira's throat and made it glint.
Mira's expression shifted. The teasing softened into something else, something more serious, more searching. She tilted her head, studying Rumi's face like she was looking for something.
"You really didn't like her," Mira said. Not a question.
Rumi held her gaze. "No."
"Because she was flirting with me."
Rumi didn't answer. She didn't have to. The silence was answer enough.
Mira's arms uncrossed. She reached out and straightened the collar of Rumi's jacket, a small, unnecessary gesture that made Rumi's breath catch. Her fingers lingered for a moment on the fabric, brushing against the skin of Rumi's neck.
"You're cute when you're jealous," Mira murmured.
Rumi's pulse tripped. "I'm not, "
"Shut up," Mira said. And then, softer: "Come home with me."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a statement, low and certain, the kind that made Rumi's knees feel unsteady.
She should say no. She should create distance, reassert the boundaries, remind Mira that they had rules for a reason. That the whole point of this arrangement was to avoid exactly this kind of complicated, possessive, feeling thing.
But Mira was looking at her with those dark eyes, and her fingers were still resting against Rumi's collar, and the bar was too loud and too hot and too full of people Rumi didn't care about.
"Fine," Rumi said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
Mira's smile returned, slow, satisfied, dangerous. "Fine," she repeated.
She turned and walked toward the exit, not waiting to see if Rumi would follow.
Rumi followed.
The walk to Mira's apartment was silent.
Not the comfortable silence of two people who knew each other well, the kind they used to have before they started sleeping together, before everything got complicated and charged and impossible. This was a different silence. The kind that crackled. The kind that felt like a held breath, like a rubber band stretched to its limit, like something was about to snap.
Rumi walked half a step behind Mira, close enough to smell her perfume, far enough to pretend she wasn't watching the way Mira's hips moved under her jeans. Her hands were shoved deep in her jacket pockets, her jaw still tight from the bar, her blood still hot from the way Mira had looked at her when she said come home with me.
Come home with me.
The words had been low, certain, heavy with something that wasn't quite an invitation and wasn't quite a demand. Rumi had heard them and thought, finally. Finally they could stop pretending. Finally they could skip the talking and go straight to the part where clothes came off and words became unnecessary.
That was what this was, right? That was what they did. That was the arrangement.
No strings. No attachments. Just bodies and heat and the particular relief of being touched by someone who already knew all your tells.
Rumi's skin prickled with anticipation. She was already cataloging the distance to Mira's bedroom, the location of the couch, the convenient flat surface of the kitchen counter if they didn't make it that far.
Mira unlocked the door without a word.
The apartment was dark. Mira didn't turn on the lights. She walked inside, kicked off her shoes, and kept walking, not toward the bedroom, but toward the living room. The couch.
Rumi followed, closing the door behind her. The lock clicked into place, loud in the silence.
She expected Mira to turn. To reach for her. To push her against the wall or pull her onto the couch or do any of the things she usually did when they ended up alone together.
Instead, Mira sat down. On the far end of the couch. And gestured to the seat across from her.
"Sit."
Rumi blinked. "What?"
"Sit down, Rumi."
The tone was different. Not the low, heated invitation from the bar. This was cooler. Measured. The tone Mira used when she was about to have a conversation she'd already rehearsed in her head.
Rumi's anticipation curdled into something else, confusion, then irritation, then a low, defensive wariness.
She didn't sit. She stayed standing, her arms crossed over her chest, her weight shifted onto her back foot.
"I thought we came here to, "
"I know what you thought." Mira's voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that preceded an explosion. "We're not doing that."
Rumi's jaw tightened. "Then why am I here?"
"Because you followed me."
"Because you asked me to."
"I asked you to come home with me. I didn't say anything about, " Mira gestured vaguely toward the bedroom. "That."
The silence that followed was sharp, jagged. Rumi could feel her pulse in her throat, her temples, the place behind her eyes where a headache was starting to bloom.
"So what," she said, her voice coming out harder than she intended, "you just wanted to talk?"
"Yes."
"About what?"
Mira looked at her. Really looked at her, the way she did when she was dissecting something, turning it over in her mind, deciding how much to say.
"The bar," Mira said. "Jess. The way you acted."
Rumi's stomach dropped. She forced herself to stay still, to keep her expression neutral, to not give anything away.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit."
The word landed like a slap. Rumi flinched, just a fraction, just a flicker, but Mira saw it. Mira always saw everything.
"You were jealous," Mira said. "Not a little jealous. Really jealous. The kind of jealous where you can't control your face, your voice, your hands. You told a stranger she couldn't see my scar, Rumi. My thigh. What exactly did you think was going to happen?"
Rumi's face heated. "I told you. She was pushy."
"Jess wasn't pushy. She was flirting. There's a difference."
"Same energy."
"No." Mira's voice was sharp now, cutting. "There isn't. And you know there isn't. You just don't want to admit why it bothered you."
Rumi's hands clenched at her sides. "Why do you care? Since when do you care who flirts with me?"
"I don't."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
"Because you care." Mira stood up. The movement was sudden, fluid, and suddenly she was closer, close enough that Rumi could see the flush on her cheeks, the rapid pulse in her throat. "You cared so much you couldn't even pretend to be normal about it. You followed me across the bar. You inserted yourself into my conversation. You", she pointed a finger at Rumi's chest, not quite touching, "told another woman she couldn't see a part of my body because you didn't want her to."
Rumi's heart was hammering. "So what if I did?"
"So admit it."
"Admit what?"
"That you were jealous. That you are jealous. That this, " Mira gestured between them, sharp and frustrated. "This whole arrangement, this 'no attachments' bullshit, it's not working. It was never working. And you know it."
Rumi's throat went tight. "That's not, "
"Don't." Mira's voice cracked, just slightly, the first sign that her composure was fraying. "Don't stand there and lie to me. Not tonight. I'm so tired of the lies, Rumi. I'm tired of pretending I don't notice the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. I'm tired of the way you leave before sunrise like you're running from something. I'm tired of waking up in a bed that smells like you and pretending I don't care that you're gone."
Rumi's chest was burning. "That was the deal."
"Fuck the deal."
The words echoed in the dark apartment, raw and final.
Rumi stared at her. Mira was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling under that stupid cream top, her eyes bright with something that looked like anger and felt like heartbreak.
"You don't get to do this," Rumi said, her voice low, shaking. "You don't get to stand there and act like I'm the only one who's been hiding. You chose this arrangement too. You agreed to it. You, "
"Because I thought it was better than nothing." Mira's voice broke again, and this time she didn't hide it. "Because I thought if I couldn't have all of you, I could at least have some of you. Because I'm an idiot who'd rather be wrecked by you on a regular basis than not have you at all."
The confession hung in the air, devastating and undeniable.
Rumi's hands were shaking. She wanted to look away. She couldn't.
"Mira, "
"Don't." Mira's voice was rough now, scraped raw. "Don't say my name like that. Not unless you're going to say something real."
Rumi's throat worked. The words were there, pressed against the back of her teeth, burning on her tongue. She could feel them, three small words that would change everything. That would end the arrangement and start something new and terrifying and probably doomed.
But she was scared. She was so fucking scared.
So she did what she always did. She deflected.
"You're being dramatic," Rumi said, and even she could hear how hollow it sounded.
Mira's expression shuttered. The anger didn't disappear, it went cold, frozen, her face becoming the kind of mask Rumi hadn't seen since those first months of knowing her, before they'd learned how to be soft with each other.
"Get out," Mira said.
"What?"
"Get out, Rumi. I'm not doing this. I'm not going to stand here and beg you to feel something you're too scared to admit."
"I never asked you to beg."
"You didn't have to." Mira turned away, her back to Rumi, her shoulders rigid. "Just go. We can pretend this conversation never happened. We can go back to the arrangement. We can pretend everything is fine until one of us finally cracks completely."
Rumi stared at her back. At the line of her spine, the curl of her hair, the way her hands were clenched at her sides.
She should leave.
That was the smart thing. The safe thing. The thing that preserved the fragile, broken thing they'd been pretending was sustainable.
Instead, she crossed the room.
She didn't think about it. Her body moved before her brain caught up, closing the distance between them, and then her hand was on Mira's shoulder, turning her, pulling her, and Rumi was kissing her.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't asking.
It was frustrated, hungry, desperate. The kind of kiss that said I can't say it but maybe I can show you. Rumi's hands were in Mira's hair, pulling, and Mira made a sound against her mouth, not a moan, something closer to a sob, and then Mira was kissing her back just as hard, her fingers digging into Rumi's hips, pulling her closer, closer, like she wanted to crawl inside her skin.
They stumbled. The back of Rumi's knees hit the arm of the couch, and she fell backward, pulling Mira with her. They landed in a tangle of limbs, the cushions shifting beneath them, and Rumi's hands were under Mira's shirt now, desperate for skin, for heat, for anything that wasn't words.
Mira broke the kiss. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes dark and wild.
"Tell me," she said, her voice wrecked. "Tell me why you couldn't stand watching her touch me."
Rumi's chest heaved. Her hands were still on Mira's bare skin, her fingers pressed against the warm curve of her ribs.
"I don't, "
"Tell me."
"I didn't like it." The words tore out of her, raw and ragged. "Okay? I didn't like it. I didn't like the way she looked at you. I didn't like the way she laughed at your jokes like she knew you. I didn't like the way she touched your arm like she had the right."
Mira's breath hitched. "Why?"
Rumi's eyes burned. "You know why."
"Say it."
"Mira, "
"Say it."
Rumi's voice cracked. "Because you're mine."
The words hung in the air, impossible to take back.
Mira stared at her. Her eyes were bright, glistening, her lips parted. For a moment, she didn't move, didn't breathe, and Rumi thought she'd ruined everything. That Mira would pull away, would tell her to leave, would end this for good.
Then Mira kissed her again.
Softer this time. Slower. Her hands cupped Rumi's face, her thum
bs brushing away tears Rumi hadn't realized she'd shed.
"Took you long enough," Mira whispered against her mouth.
Rumi laughed, a broken, wet sound. "Shut up."
"Make me."
So she did.