Archive of Our Own ^beta

I hate New Year's Eve.

Not in the cute, "Lol, near year, new me, resolutions are fake" way. I hate it in the way old scars hate sudden weather changes, quietly, automatically, under the skin.

Which is deeply ironic, because I'm currently standing under a massive digital countdown clock in Madison Square Garden while ten thousand people scream like the year is a piñata and they're all holding bats.

The last notes of our encore still buzz through the air. My lungs are burning, my throat is raw in that satisfying way, and the stage floor is slick under my boots from a cocktail of sweat, fog machine juice, and the confetti that rained down during the final chorus.

"New York!" Rumi yells, breathless into her mic, voice echoing around the arena. "You were insane tonight!"

The roar that comes back is ridiculous. It rolls over us in waves, lightsticks waving like neon seaweed, handmade banners bobbing in the crowd. Phones held up like stars. Someone in the front row has a Mira as a doll, wearing a sleeping bag that I'm pretty sure is technically not licensed merch, but if the lawyers ask, I saw nothing.

Heat from the stage lights beats down, making the glitter glued to my collarbones itch and the small of my back feel like a sauna. My in-ears are half out now, hanging around my neck, so I can actually hear the crowd properly. It's a wall of sound, screams, chant loops, somebody sobbing loudly enough near the barricade that I can hear them between beats.

I should be riding this high like I always do.

Most nights, I am.

But tonight, something about that clock above us makes my skin crawl.

Dec 30 – Countdown to New Years: 2 Days

It's so bright it could burn straight through my skull if I let it.

"Say something, American holiday princess. This is literally your crowd," Mira pants in Korean, slinging an arm around my shoulders from behind.

She's grinning so hard her eyes are half-moons, face flushed, loose longer strands plastered to her forehead with sweat. There's a rhinestone stuck to her collarbone in the wrong place and I'm weirdly fixated on it.

I stick my tongue out at her, because that's safer than acknowledging the little spike of warmth that shoots through my chest at the "princess."

Then I force my attention back to the ocean of faces and flip to English. "New York!" My voice comes out hoarse but strong. "Thank you for sharing your energy with us tonight!"

The scream that answers me is unhinged.

New York loves a compliment. New York loves being told it's special. New York loves you acting like you're the one honored to be here, and honestly, we are. Growing up, I watched concerts here on bootleg clips and crappy streams. Now I'm standing on this stage, and there are fans who crossed states and countries and probably questionable budget lines just to scream at us.

I paste on my brightest grin and let their roar wash over me, let it vibrate through my ribs and soak into my skin. I push my hand out toward them and they scream louder, like I've just thrown them a rope.

I don't let myself look at the countdown again.

If I pretend hard enough, maybe tonight is just… a concert. Not the last stop before a date my brain still associates with walking away in the cold.

"Huntrix!" someone near the front screams. "We love you!"

"We love you too!" I shout back without thinking.

It's not a lie. I do love them. It just feels like that love is pressing into a part of me that's already overfull tonight.

"Last bow!" Rumi calls in Korean, lifting her mic so the crowd sees and understands even if they don't catch the words. "Let's do it right."

We fall automatically into formation, our hands finding each other, Rumi in the center, Mira on one side, me on the other. Our fingers squeeze once, twice, a little ritual that started back in a tiny practice room and somehow survived all the stages after.

"One, two, three," Mira whispers.

We bow. Deep. The way our company drilled into us. The crowd screams like they're trying to physically lift us back up.

"Thank you!" Rumi says again in English. "Get home safe, okay? Eat and rest!"

"Dress warm!" Mira adds, gesturing big like a mom. "It's so cold!"

"Dream of us!" I finish, because someone has to be the menace. "Or we'll be sad!"

They shriek. A chant starts,

HUN-TRIX! HUN-TRIX! HUN-TRIX!

And my chest does that annoying tight-loose thing. This is the part where I usually want to live forever.

Tonight, some traitorous part of me is counting exit routes.

We do one last wave, one last heart, one last group pose for the cameras. Then the house lights start to rise, and the stage lights begin their slow fade. The curtain starts to draw closed with a familiar metallic sigh, swallowing up the ocean of faces until all we see are each other and the backs of set pieces.

The noise drops from hurricane to muffled thunder in a heartbeat.

My smile slides off my face like someone hit a kill switch.

I sag backward, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders all at once. My twin space buns, which started the night sleek, now feels like a small exhausted animal attached to my head.

"Zo, your hair," Mira says immediately behind me, already fussing, fingers raking lightly through the sweat-clumped strands. "You look like a fried poodle."

"Authentic post-concert aesthetic," I mumble, but I lean into her touch anyway, the way a cat leans into a hand even while pretending it doesn't care.

The stupidest things ground me, the weight of her arm, the gentle tug as she tries to free my hair from a mic wire, the soft click of Rumi popping out her in-ears nearby.

"Good job," Rumi says, clapping me once on the shoulder as she passes. "Your ad-libs almost gave our vocal coach a heart attack. In a good way."

"Almost?" I gasp. "I need to try harder."

"You will not," a staff member scolds, appearing out of nowhere to shove a towel into my hands. "Wipe your sweat, Zoey. But don't touch your lashes, don't you dare touch your lashes, I mean it"

"Yes, mother," I groan, obediently patting my forehead and carefully orbiting my eyes.

Backstage is instant chaos in the best way. The crew is already moving set pieces, routers and amps being unplugged, someone arguing about who moved their labeled crate. Our security guys hover discreetly at the edges. There's that familiar smell of hot electronics, spilled water, hairspray, stage fog, and too many bodies in one space.

Someone shoves a cold water bottle into my free hand. I gulp half of it in one go, the plastic crinkling under my grip. My throat thanks me and simultaneously sends me a little warning ping that I'm going to feel this tomorrow.

"Zo," Mira says again, digging her fingers into my hairline with a little massage now. "You spaced out for a second."

"I'm fine," I say too quickly.

She hums, like she doesn't quite buy it, but drops her hands, fingers trailing over the back of my neck in a way that leaves a ghost of warmth behind.

My unofficial assistant pushes a robe at me. "Put this on before you catch pneumonia and ruin my styling."

I let the robe swallow the sparkly stage outfit, the plush fabric soft against my overheated skin. There's something weirdly vulnerable about walking around in a tiny glitter dress with nothing between it and the freezing loading dock air; the robe feels like armor.

We keep moving, off the stage area, down the corridor we came in through hours ago, past racks of clothes and coiled cables and the catering table where someone's kid is trying to steal a cookie.

Crew and dancers call out "Great show!" as we pass. I smile and bow and thank them, my responses on autopilot now. I've said these exact things a hundred times. My mouth knows the shapes even if my brain is busy replaying the words on that giant LED screen.

Countdown to New Year's: 2 Days.

It sits there in my head in bright, unreadable font.

We hit the exit to the underground loading bay. Cold air creeps in around the metal door, licking at my damp neck and ankles. The sound of the crowd outside the building is a distant rumble now, fans still gathered hoping to catch a glimpse of us getting into vans.

"Okay, okay, we are moving," a random floor manager says, clapping briskly. "Van assignments are the usual. Hoods up. Don't trip on anything, I don't want you explaining to the company that you broke your ankle on a cable."

Mira pulls her hood up over her still-damp hair, cheeks rosy from the temperature change. She glances sideways at me, eyes flicking briefly to my face like she's looking for cracks.

"You did great," she says, softer now that the staff noise is a little farther away. "The crowd loved you. That bridge before the last chorus? They were losing it."

"Crowd has excellent taste," I say, trying for flippant.

The van doors slide open. We climb in, ducking our heads, piling bags and coats and water bottles into the empty spaces.

I end up on the bench seat against the window, Mira in the middle, Rumi by the door. The interior lights click off once the doors shut, leaving us in that weird dimness lit mostly by dashboard glow and whatever manages to seep in from the streetlights outside.

As the driver pulls out, Madison Square Garden recedes in the side window, a massive glowing spaceship on the side of the road. Through a gap in the curtains, I see fans still clustered behind barricades, bundled in coats and scarves, some holding signs, some just waving wildly at every dark window, hoping it's us.

It is us.

Guilt and gratitude mix in my gut.

"Wave," Rumi murmurs.

I lift my hand and press it to the cool glass for a second, a small, invisible acknowledgment.

Then the arena slips out of sight as we merge into the icy river of city traffic.

Outside, New York looks like a postcard someone shook too hard. Headlights smear across wet asphalt. Steam curls out of manholes in white clouds. Snow is piled in grayish mounds along the sidewalks, pushed aside by plows earlier in the day. Neon signs flicker above bars and bodegas, little pockets of color against the dark.

Inside the van, it's warm, the heater quietly doing overtime. The windows fog a little at the edges, making the city blur even more.

My body is buzzing in that post-concert way, tiny tremors in my legs, a phantom echo of choreography still firing in my muscles, my heart not quite ready to come down.

It would be perfect, if not for the stupid date looming like a migraine.

My phone, on the seat between Mira and me, lights up with a buzz. Then another. Then another.

All three of ours do.

We all look down at the same time.

Bobby ( Manager-Nim):

Video call in 20. Don't fall asleep yet.

"Too late," I mumble, letting my head loll sideways until it lands on Mira's shoulder.

She oofs dramatically. "Not that one," she complains, nudging my cheek with her own. "This shoulder is for emotional support. Use the other one for neck support."

"That's a lot of rules for shoulders," I say, voice muffled against her.

"Everything about me has rules," she says loftily. "I'm complex."

"You're loud," Rumi says.

"And yet you love me," Mira shoots back.

Rumi doesn't deny it.

I snort but make an effort to reposition, tucking myself into the space between Mira and the van door instead, head resting more on the padded seat back and less directly on her.

It doesn't help. We're still pressed together along our sides, thighs touching, knees bumping with every turn. I can feel the warmth of her even through our layers.

Without saying anything, she reaches up and grabs the hood of my robe, lifting it and flipping it forward over my head. Her fingers brush the back of my neck as she does, just a gentle little drag of knuckles over skin.

Goosebumps explode there instantly.

"Your hair's damp, idiot," she mutters. "You're going to get sick if you press your head against the glass."

"I'm resilient," I say. "Like mold."

"You're annoying," she corrects, but there's a tiny smile in her voice.

Stop noticing that, I tell my heart. Stop cataloguing every casual touch, every tiny softness like it's evidence.

It ignores me.

As usual.

Our New York hotel suite is big enough that my sixteen-year-old self would've assumed it was some kind of scam.

There's a little hallway just to get into it, polished wood, a discreet console table with a glass bowl full of fake orchids, before it opens up into the main room. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the far corner, showing off the city like it's a screensaver somebody set to buildings outside are all lit up, some windows glowing warm gold, others black, the whole skyline cut by slow-moving snow and the occasional streak of headlights far below.

Inside, fancy couches in a pale gray fabric that probably cost as much as my mom's old car. A low marble coffee table that looks like it would be mad if you put anything as common as a pizza box on it. Lamps that are more sculpture than light source. A massive TV mounted on the wall, quietly judging us.

Someone, Bobby or the company or a bored manager, left a fruit plate and a little card that says Welcome, Huntrix in looping calligraphy. The fruit is arranged in a way that feels aggressive.

There is absolutely an unspoken rule in rooms like this that no one is supposed to put their feet on the furniture.

So obviously, the first thing I do is fling myself onto the nearest couch and plant my socked heels right on the armrest.

The cushions are so soft I sink down a good six inches and briefly consider never moving again.

Mira does a running flop onto the giant rug instead, starfish-ing out with a satisfied groan. "I'm dead," she announces. "Bury me with my lightstick."

Rumi, ever the responsible one, checks the locks on the door, sets our keycards on the console in an exact little row, and only then allows herself to cross to the windows, gaze drinking in the city.

We've barely gotten into position when all three of our phones buzz at once.

"Bobby time," Rumi says, glancing at her screen.

I thumb mine open and jab the video call before he can call again.

Bobby's face fills my screen and then, a second later, the TV, because I cast it up there without thinking. He's mid-yawn, hair slightly flattened on one side like he lost a fight with a pillow. Behind him is his tiny home office in Seoul, the same ugly beige curtains, the same overcrowded bookshelf, a mug with the company logo.

"You're alive," he says, blinking at us. "Good. I'd hate to have to debut a hologram group."

"Don't give the company ideas," Rumi says, deadpan.

"Too late," I add. "You know they're probably writing that into a PowerPoint right now. 'Post-human idol synergy.'"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do not put that phrase into the universe, Zoey. Someone will hear it."

Mira rolls onto her stomach, scooting closer to the TV, chin in her hands, feet kicking idly in the air like a kid. "We survived the show," she says. "The real question is, how did we do?"

"You were great," he says, and the way his voice softens makes something uncoil in my chest. "You all looked incredible. The live mix sounded good, the cameras loved you. The executives are thrilled, the fans are feral…"

"The best kind of fans," I interject, raising a limp arm from the couch.

"… The ratings are through the roof and my inbox is full of brand people wanting you to endorse their ridiculous sneakers," he finishes, ignoring me with the weary grace of someone who's had a lot of practice.

"Cha-ching," Mira sings into the rug.

I grab a throw pillow and hug it to my chest, peeking at the TV over the edge. "How ridiculous are we talking?" I ask. "Like 'shoes with wings' ridiculous or 'LED soles that light up with our faces' ridiculous?"

He gives me a look. "Both. And worse. I'm saving the emails for when I need leverage."

Rumi snorts softly. "Weaponized sponsors," she says. "Love that for us."

"However," Bobby adds, and it's the way he glances off-screen that makes me tense up instinctively. That tone always means a schedule change, an emergency meeting, or a surprise from the company that is never actually a surprise in a good way.

He taps something, and the TV screen splits. His sleepy face shrinks to one side. On the other, a weather map of the northeast pops up, swirls of white and blue, little icons that scream you're not going anywhere.

"Your flight for tomorrow is canceled," he says.

Mira pushes herself up onto her elbows. "What?"

"Snowstorm," he explains. "Big one. Airports are a mess. Your flight to Seoul isn't going to happen, and there's no point trying to reroute through somewhere else. Agency moved your rehearsal block back three days. You're in New York until at least January second."

Rumi's eyes widen behind her glasses. "So… we're stuck here for New Year's Eve?"

"Stuck is a strong word," Bobby says. "Let's say… unexpectedly vacationing. In a five-star hotel. With room service. On the company card. And, if you want it, a reservation at a very fancy club with a VIP section that the owner begged me to use."

Mira gasps so dramatically you'd think he just told her she booked the lead in a drama. "A club, club?" she says, pushing herself fully upright now. "Not like a weird broadcast event with a stage and an unexpected performance we're supposed to do?"

"An actual club," Bobby confirms. "No cameras. Private table. Security at the door. You can just exist. Like normal young adults, instead of award-winning idol entities."

"Lies," I say. "We're never normal."

"But we could pretend," Mira says, eyes already gleaming with fantasies of dresses and drinks and bad decisions.

Rumi glances over at me, the city lights haloing her from behind so she looks like some sort of stylish guardian angel. "New Year's Eve," she says slowly. "In New York. That's, like, your brand. You always explain holidays to us."

"Yeah," I say, finding a loose thread on my sweatpants and worrying it between my fingers. "I'm very educational. I'm going to start charging tuition."

"You don't sound excited," Mira notes, head tilting.

I plaster on a lopsided grin. "I just got off stage," I deflect. "Adrenaline crash. Ask me again after carbs. My excitement battery is low."

It comes out light. It doesn't feel light.

Bobby watches me from the screen for a second longer than he should. He knows me too well for his own good and mine.

He sighs. "You don't have to go," he says. "If you'd rather stay in, that's fine. I'm not going to force you into a club while there's a blizzard and you're barely held together with eyeliner and caffeine."

Mira opens her mouth, then shuts it again, eyes flicking between me and the TV.

"But," he continues, "and I mean this very sincerely, you three survived a world tour and an almost group breakup on stage this year. I would like you to have at least one night where the only thing you're fighting is the urge to order a fourth round."

Memories flicker, blood tears, demon screams, the shattered Honmoon barrier, Rumi's cracked voice, Mira's shaking hands gripping mine, somewhere that feels like another lifetime and also yesterday.

I swallow.

"We can watch the ball drop on TV," I blurt. "That's an American tradition too. Staying inside and mocking people freezing in Times Square. Very culturally authentic experience."

"Zoey," Mira groans, flopping back onto the rug. "We can do both. Honestly. We have a fancy VIP thing and a giant TV. We can go out, come back before midnight, or watch it from the club, or watch it from here. We have options."

"I hate options," I mutter.

Rumi slides down from her window-lean into a neat sit on the arm of the couch nearest me. "We can decide tomorrow," she says, voice calm in that leader way she has. "You're half-dead right now. If we talk about it when you're this exhausted, you're going to say no to everything."

"That's profiling," I say.

"Accurate profiling," she replies.

Bobby nods along. "Right," he says. "Sleep. Hydrate. Don't doomscroll. And if you do go out tomorrow, remember, this is a gift, not a schedule. If anyone starts panicking about fanservice or fancams or whatever, I will revoke your club privileges from another continent."

"Yes, Dad," I say automatically.

He gives me that fond, exasperated look that lives somewhere between "I'm used to your mouth" and "I can't believe I care about you this much." It's his I heard that but I'm choosing peace face.

"Goodnight, Huntrix," he says. "Try not to break New York in half."

"No promises," Mira sings.

The call cuts. The TV screen goes black, turning into a dark mirror that shows us instead, three tired girls sprawled across expensive furniture, the city glittering outside like a bowl of shattered glass.

For a moment, there's just the hum of the heater and the faint muffled honks from far below.

Then Mira makes a noise like a dying animal, something between a groan and a dramatic opera note, and rolls herself off the rug like gravity personally offended her. She flops onto the couch next to me with zero regard for physics or my personal space. Her arm lands across my thighs first, then the rest of her sprawls over me like she's auditioning to be a weighted blanket with attachment issues.

Her cheek ends up pressed against my knee. She wiggles until she finds a "comfortable" position that is absolutely not comfortable for me, but Mira has always believed my legs are public property.

"Zoey," she whines, dragging out the vowels until she sounds like a sad ghost haunting a Hot Topic. "Tell me we're going."

I lift my foot and poke her shoulder with my toe. "You just heard Rumi. We're deciding tomorrow."

Mira immediately twists her entire upper body to look at Rumi, neck craning like an owl. "Rumi," she pleads, "back me up. You know you want to go. You love judging other people's dancing in the wild."

Rumi, framed in the window like a dramatic K-drama poster, doesn't move from her station as the resident Responsible Adult. She's leaning one shoulder against the floor-to-ceiling glass, arms folded, the city glittering behind her like she's about to drop an introspective monologue about destiny.

"I want to go," she admits, tone perfectly controlled. "I'm not going to lie." She shifts her gaze to me with pointed calm. "But not if she's going to spend the whole night vibrating out of her skin."

"I don't vibrate," I protest, which is a bold lie because my emotional default setting is excited chihuahua.

"Zoey," they say together in synchronized pleading, a rare but devastating move.

It hits me right in the sternum.

I hate how soft that makes me feel, how they can do that, how two syllables from their mouths can fold me faster than laundry on comeback week. I hate how badly I want to be the cool, aloof one… and instead I'm a marshmallow with eyeliner and questionable coping mechanisms.

I shrug, trying to look careless instead of unspooling. "We're in New York," I say. "I guess it would be criminal not to at least go see this VIP section. I'm not promising to stay long. And I will absolutely draw the line at being there for the ball drop."

Mira beams instantly, an explosion of joy, like I just told her she could adopt three more cats and also name a planet.

She pushes herself up onto her elbows on my legs, eyes sparkling. "I can work with that," she says. "Arrive fashionably late, leave before it gets crazy. Or something."

"Or something," Rumi echoes, a faint smile tugging at her mouth, her version of unhinged enthusiasm.

They really have no idea, I think as I look at them.

Mira is sprawled over me like she's claimed the couch territory and I'm the furniture she's refusing to move from. Rumi stands by the window, watching us with that steady, quiet concern she masks with sarcasm. Two people who can slay demons at my side and still be clueless about the landmine inside my skull labeled December 31st.

Good.

If they don't know how much New Year's Eve feels like someone pointing a loaded gun at the memories I try very hard not to replay, they can't worry about it. They deserve their excitement, their glitter, their fantasies of dancing in a VIP booth like normal girls with normal problems.

I can fake it for one night.

Probably.

Normally, I'm the one hyping every holiday. Halloween? I drag out three boxes of costumes and threaten to haunt anyone who doesn't participate. Thanksgiving? I inflict my cursed mashed potatoes on everyone within reach. Valentine's Day? I buy absurd heart-shaped candy and distribute it like magical girl power-ups just to see staff blush.

But New Year's Eve…

Yeah. No.

My chest tightens just thinking about it. The countdown. The way people scream like beginnings are automatically good things. The way midnight feels like a cliff edge everyone jumps from whether they're ready or not.

I stand abruptly. "I'm gonna shower," I lie. "I still feel like there's confetti in my soul."

"I thought you liked confetti in your soul," Mira calls after me, half sitting up, hair mussed from rolling around on the carpet.

"Not the existential kind," I say, forcing a grin over my shoulder.

I slip into one of the bathrooms before they can push, or worse, follow.

The door clicks shut behind me. I lean back against it hard.

And I finally exhale and allowed myself to go down memory lane.

When I was sixteen, New Year's Eve felt like a fairy tale.

Not the sparkly Disney kind. Not the princess dress, carriage, glass slipper thing. My entire wardrobe budget back then was basically whatever I could find in the Target clearance section and the thrift store that smelled like someone's attic.

But that year, I had Jace.

Jace Carter.

The All-American golden boy in an edgy wrapper.

Light tan skin.

Short black hair that always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after doing something he shouldn't.

Gauges.

Snakebite piercing.
A tattoo peeking out from his collar even though he definitely wasn't old enough to have gotten it legally.

And those ice-blue eyes, sharp and bright, like a winter sunrise. The kind you could mistake for warmth if you didn't look long enough to realize how cold they could get.

Everyone at school warned me.

"He's fun, not serious."

"He'll break your heart without even realizing he's holding it."

"He loves everyone. That's the problem."

I ignored every single one of them.

Because he'd laugh, easy, bright, charming, and wrap an arm around my shoulders like I was the only person keeping him tethered.

"They're just jealous," he'd murmur against my ear. "They don't get our thing, Zo."

Our thing.

God, I clung to that like it meant something real.

It had been six months of hallway hand-holding and late-night texting, of him sneaking in through my bedroom window when my mom worked late shifts, of him playing with my fingers under blankets and whispering things that sixteen-year-old me mistook for depth.

"You're it for me."

"I see you, really see you."

And the fatal one.

"You're my whole world."

So, when he asked me to go with him to his friend's New Year's Eve party, it felt like being invited into that whole world he kept promising me. Like I was stepping into the version of my life where things finally made sense.

"Zoey, come on," Jace said, tugging me through the house that night. The music was loud enough to bruise. The bass rattled the floors and probably the foundation. Teens and college kids were everywhere, on couches, across laps, dancing in the hallway, yelling over each other.

"You said you wanted to see a real party," he added, grin sharp and bright. "This is it."

"I said I wanted to see what the big deal was," I corrected, cheeks burning. "This feels illegal."

"It's not illegal," he said, leaning down so I could see the glint in his piercings. "They're all just… free."

His friend's house was huge. His friend's parents were out of town. His friend's idea of supervision was leaving a bowl of chips out and hoping for the best.

There were red cups everywhere. A beer pong table balanced on textbooks. A smell in the hallway that I am still not convinced was human-safe.

My mom thought I was at a "small get-together." If she saw this, she would've driven over, dragged me outside by the wrist, and grounded me until college.

Jace stopped near the kitchen and turned back to me, sliding his hands to my waist like he was claiming territory. The world around us blurred into color and noise, flashing lights, laughter, someone shrieking as beer spilled down their shirt.

"You okay?" he murmured into my ear.

My heart stuttered. He had this way of looking at me, like the entire room dropped into grayscale and I was the only thing he could see. Like I was the lyric stuck in his head and everything else was just the background beat.

"I'm fine," I lied.

He grinned, tapped the tip of my nose with one finger. "You're adorable when you're lying."

"And you're obnoxious when you're breathing," I shot back automatically, because flirting was easier than dealing with how much I adored him.

He laughed, a warm, infectious sound and kissed me.

It was quick. Tasting like cheap beer and mint gum.

But my stomach still swooped hard enough that I had to grab the counter behind me.

He had been my first everything.

First crush. First hand I held just because. First kiss that made my brain shut down. First boy to make me rewrite my playlists around his name. First heartbreak I didn't see coming.

"I wanna kiss you at midnight," he whispered, lips brushing my ear. "Very important. Tradition."

My stomach swooped again. I believed him.

Of course I did.

But, we got separated in the crowd after that. Someone spilled something sticky on my shoes. I ducked into the hallway to wipe it off, weaving between bodies and half-drunken conversations.

The music throbbed through the walls, bass, laughter, shouting. Someone was already screaming "shots!" in the kitchen.

I moved past a half-open bathroom door and froze.

Jace.

Jace's hands on someone else's waist, a blonde girl I'd never seen before, pressed against the sink. Her lipstick smeared. His mouth on hers. His fingers sliding under her shirt like he'd done it a thousand times. Her high-pitched laugh, sharp, delighted, colliding against his lips.

For one stupid second, my brain tried to protect me.

Maybe it's not him.

Maybe it's the lighting.

Maybe it's someone who looks like...

Then he broke the kiss long enough to say something, laughing, that laugh I knew so well. The one that used to flip my world upright. The one he had given me. The one he was giving her.

And then I heard the words.

"Nah, Zoey's cool. She's sweet, but she's not my wife or anything. It's not that serious."

It hit like a punch straight through my ribs.

My world didn't shatter dramatically or loudly. There wasn't a gasp or a sob or a scream.

Something in my chest just… cracked.

Quiet. Clean. Catastrophic.

In the living room, someone started shouting the countdown:

"Ten!"

"Nine!"

"Eight!"

I didn't stay to hear the rest.

My feet were moving before I realized it.

Out the hallway.

Past the kitchen.

Past the bodies and the noise and the smell of cheap alcohol.

Through the front door that slammed too hard behind me.

Outside, the cold hit me so violently I almost slipped on the frosted lawn. I didn't have my jacket. My phone was in my back pocket but who was there to call?

My hands were shaking.

I didn't even feel the snow starting to fall, just the raw, hollow ache blooming inside my chest.

Inside, the countdown hit zero.

The neighborhood erupted in cheers and fireworks.

The night sky flashed in bursts of color.

But I was already halfway down the sidewalk, breath steaming in front of me, arms wrapped around myself, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

And in that moment, I had realized that people promise things they don't mean.

Endings come whether you're ready or not.

New beginnings don't bring joy, they bring loss.

I didn't watch a New Year's Eve countdown again after that.

Not once.

"Zoey."

Mira's knocking cuts through the memory like a blade. I jolt, realizing I'm still standing in front of the bathroom sink exactly where I froze ten minutes ago.

The shower is off. The lights are too bright. My mascara is halfway down my face.

I look at my reflection, eyes wet, lashes smudged, lips pressed tight.

Great.

Real "totally fine" energy.

"Zoey," Mira calls again, softer this time but with that pushy undertone she gets when she senses emotional rot. "If you died, I'm taking your hoodie collection."

I clear my throat. "I'm alive."

"You sure? Because it's been forever and there's no water running. And I know what your version of showering sounds like. It's straight chaos and your shampoo bottle always falls over."

Damn her pattern recognition.

I grab a tissue and swipe at my eyeliner, making the smudge slightly less tragic. I need a reason, something that explains why I was in here without showering but doesn't lead into the Pit of Trauma.

Deep breath.

Then I open the door.

Mira stands there in pajamas, oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, soft shorts, braid over one shoulder. Her legs are bare, and she smells like shampoo and warmth.

She squints at me immediately.

"You didn't shower."

"I was going to," I say, lifting the towel in my hand like it's Exhibit A. "But the water pressure is garbage right now, probably because you were using the other bathroom. I turned it on and it sputtered three times like it was coughing up dust."

Rumi appears from behind Mira, arms folded. "Did you call the front desk?"

"No," I say smoothly. "Because I realized that I didn't want to shower. I realized my back hurts from the harness, we did that aerial lift in the encore, so I was trying to stretch it out first. But then the stupid vanity light flickered and gave me a headache."

I gesture toward the bathroom dramatically.

"And then Mira started knocking like a debt collector, so thank you, actually, for saving me from death-by-bathroom-light."

Mira blinks.

Rumi blinks.

I keep going, because the best defense is confusion.

"And also? I got distracted trying to remove my lashes without ripping my eyelid off. It's a process."

Mira looks at my bare lash line. "Okay, but..."

"And I noticed I have a pimple forming," I add quickly, tapping my cheek. "So then I went through all my skincare. Serum, toner, moisturizer. Priorities."

"You never do skincare before showering," Rumi says.

"I'm evolving," I reply.

Mira crosses her arms. "And what about the water not even being on?"

I shrug, casual. "I told you, the pressure was shit. And also, because once I decided not to shower, why would I waste whatever water was coming out?"

Rumi tilts her head slightly, analyzing me like I'm a suspect in an interrogation room. "So you stretched, tried to shower, didn't shower, removed your lashes, did skincare, and battled a lightbulb… all in total silence?"

"Yes," I say confidently. "I'm a multi-talented woman."

Mira narrows her eyes.

Then, slowly, she nods. "Actually… that tracks. That's the kind of chaos you commit. Unstructured, mildly concerning, and dramatic."

Rumi sighs. "It does track."

God bless their low expectations for my normal decision-making.

But then Mira steps closer, her hand brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, her brows knitting slightly. She's still reading me. Still seeing too much.

"You sure you're okay?" she asks. "You've been… quiet. And quiet-Zoey is never good."

"I'm fine," I say, light as air. "Just tired. This schedule's been murder."

She doesn't buy it, not fully but she lets it go for now.

She shifts back, sighing dramatically. "Fine. But if you're lying and you collapse later, I'm telling people it was because of improper skincare order."

"That is the worst insult you've ever given me. People already think I'm the weird one for being half American, half Korean. Imagine if they realized I couldn't even get basic Koran skincare process right!" I gasp.

She smirks and bumps my shoulder. "Come on. Rumi ordered room service before she chews through the furniture."

Rumi calls from the couch, "I only threatened to chew through the furniture."

Together they drag me out.

And thank God, food arrives at that exact moment, saving me from further interrogation.

We end up sprawled on the couch with fries, sliders, mozzarella sticks, and two desserts that taste like childhood joy and early heart disease.

Mira claims the middle cushion and immediately flops into me, her head dropping onto my shoulder, then sliding to my thigh when she gets "too tired to vertical."

Rumi flips on a random old music show replay, balancing a slider in one hand and the remote in the other like a queen surveying her domain.

We watch our own stage replay. I sing along poorly until Rumi throws a pillow at my head without looking.

Mira cackles into my leg.

We eat enough food to shame our nutritionist.

We talk about everything except the one thing that matters.

We don't mention New Year's Eve again.

They let me dodge it.

They let me breathe.

And for tonight, that's enough.

The next morning, New York is white.

Not "light dusting" white. Not "pretty postcard" white.

Blanketed. Quieted. Transformed.

The kind of white that makes sound feel muted and makes buildings look softer, like someone softened the whole skyline with a blur filter.

"Zo," Rumi nudges my foot. "Look."

I groan, squinting at the massive windows across from the same shared bed we collapsed on at some point. The city is barely visible, rooftops, cars, branches coated in thick snow. Big, lazy flakes drift past the glass, drifting more than falling, like even gravity can't be bothered today.

Mira is already fully committed to the moment, she's pressed up against the glass with her palms flat, nose practically smushed against her reflection. She's wrapped in a fluffy blanket she has draped over her shoulders like a dramatic cape.

"It's so dramatic," she sighs, her breath fogging the glass. "Snow in New York on New Year's Eve. This is a fanfic."

"You're in a fanfic," I mumble into the pillow.

"Obviously," she says without missing a beat.

Rumi sits on the end of my bed, scrolling. "Bobby says flights are still canceled. The club reservation is confirmed. Driver and security at seven."

My stomach flips, tiny, sharp, unwelcome.

"VIP or bust," Mira declares, spinning around with the blanket swishing dramatically. "We're dressing up, right? Like full drama. Gowns. Eyeliner. Highlighter so reflective air traffic control can see us."

"I don't think planes are flying tonight," I say.

"All the more reason to blind the snow," she counters, throwing her arms up.

She looks like a chaotic winter princess.

I should say no.

I should tell them.

I should explain the dread curling in my chest like smoke.

But instead my tongue stays glued to the roof of my mouth.

Rumi looks at me, really looks. Her shoulders soften. "What do you want, really?" she asks gently.

My heart stutters.

Tell them.

Just breathe and say it.

New Year's Eve makes me feel like the universe is holding a knife to my memories.

Just tell them.

Instead, I swallow the truth and shrug, wiggling my toes under the blanket like I'm just lazy, not terrified.

"If you two are this excited," I say lightly, "I'm not gonna be the fun police. We go. We look hot. We drink something ridiculously overpriced. We judge people from our nice safe booth. How bad can it be?"

They exchange a look.

Rumi's is cautious.

Mira's is sunshine.

"VIP vantage point," I add, waving a hand. "Perfect for judging everyone without being bumped by drunk strangers. That's my love language."

Mira's face lights up. "Ah! There she is! My gremlin."

Rumi tries not to smile, but her mouth betrays her. "Okay," she says, softer. "We'll keep it low-pressure. If you want to leave early, we leave. No questions asked."

The kindness in her voice hits somewhere deep and sore.

"Deal," I say, trying to sound breezy.

The dreaded conversation, the truth I should've said, slides away again like water slipping down a drain.

Coward, my brain hisses.

Not today, I tell it.

Not yet.

Maybe not at all.

But definitely… not today.

The dress Mira forces me into that night should come with a warning label.

Not even a small warning label.

I'm talking hazard symbol, blinking lights, and maybe a pamphlet titled "So You've Chosen Violence."

It's black and sleek, the fabric soft and cool as it slides over my skin. The deep V-neck is one thing, but the slit.

Oh God, the slit.

It goes from "fashionably daring" straight into "are you allowed outside like that?" territory. My entire left leg has joint custody with the air. If I breathe wrong, someone's grandfather might pass out.

It hugs my waist and hips like it was tailored to me personally, like Mira bribed the designer or the universe.

"Mira," I say, horrified, staring at myself in the mirror. "This is illegal."

She appears behind me in the reflection, zipping up her own midnight blue gown. Hers is off-the-shoulder, clingy in a way that should be illegal in several countries, with a slit just as high as mine. Her pink hair falls in loose, effortless waves. Her makeup is smoky and sharp enough to commit crimes.

"Exactly," she says smugly. "We're international criminals now. Don't worry, Rumi will do all the paperwork."

"She already does," I say.

Mira smirks. "Then she can file our sins alphabetically."

Rumi enters at that exact moment, fastening an earring, her gown a deep forest green that flows around her like she just stepped out of a fantasy novel. She looks regal, calm, powerful, the kind of woman who could command armies or scold a toddler with equal efficiency.

She stops dead.

"Wow," she says. "You two are… a lot."

"Mira's decision making is a lot," I say. "This is premeditated. Talk to her if you have a problem with this assemble."

Rumi gives me a look like she's about to add this moment to a secret file titled Mira Crimes. But Mira steps closer before she can, lifting her hands to adjust the necklace at my collarbone.

Her fingers skim the chain… and then my skin.

Her knuckles brush the top of my sternum.

Heat shoots everywhere.

A shiver runs down my spine so violently I have to pretend it's the draft from the AC.

"Relax," she murmurs, her breath ghosting against the side of my neck. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, dark and focused and too much. "You look incredible."

Her voice does that soft thing, the one she only ever uses with me. It's warm and intimate and dangerous.

I swallow. Hard.

"You," I manage, "Make me look like I'm going to make bad choices."

Her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. "That's the idea."

My pulse goes feral.

Her hand stays at the base of my neck, warm and steady, fingers just barely curled. Close enough to feel like possession. Close enough to ruin me.

We stare at each other in the mirror.

The air thickens.

Something inside me leans toward her.

Her breath brushes my cheek.

My gaze drop, just for a second, to her mouth.

Her lips part the tiniest bit, and then, Rumi clears her throat like a disappointed chaperone.

"If you two start making out now," she says calmly, "we'll never leave."

Mira and I spring apart like magnets forced to the wrong poles.

"What, no, gross! Why would..." I sputter, waving my hands in a gesture that would convince no one with working eyes.

Mira's face goes cherry-red as she straightens her necklace. "Rumi, please. We do not..."

"...Swing like that," I finish quickly, pointing between us. "There is no swinging. Zero swinging. All swingless behavior happening here."

"Completely swingless," Mira echoes, nodding emphatically.

Rumi lifts one eyebrow. "You two were standing nose-to-nose touching necks."

"That's fashion assistance!" Mira blurts.

Rumi stares at us.

We stare back.

Too synchronized. Too defensive. Too much.

Rumi exhales slowly, like she's been dealing with children who lied about eating the cookies while still holding the empty box.

"Right," she says. "Not swinging. Of course."

"We're not!" I insist, hands on my hips.

Mira crosses her arms. "There is nothing going on."

"Absolutely nothing," I say, refusing to look at Mira's lips again.

"Good," Rumi says, grabbing her clutch. "Then I won't have to separate you on the dance floor."

"We don't need separation," Mira protests.

"No separation necessary," I echo.

"Great," Rumi says dryly. "Now can we leave before one of you accidentally confesses?"

Mira chokes.

I almost drop my clutch.

"Rumi!" we say at the exact same time.

She walks out of the suite like a queen who has declared the conversation over.

And we, two extremely not-swinging, definitely-not-flirting, absolutely-normal friends, scramble to follow her with the guilty energy of puppies who knocked over a lamp.

My heart is still pounding as the door clicks shut behind us.

And judging from the way Mira avoids my eyes…

So is hers.

The club is tucked on a side street, marked by a dark awning with a minimalist logo so understated it practically dares you to know what it means. People line the block beneath it, coats thrown hastily over tiny sparkly outfits, bare legs already turning pink in the cold. Snow still drifts from the sky, slow and soft, the kind that settles into hair and lashes and makes everyone look a little cinematic if they stand still long enough.

New York feels suspended tonight. Like the city itself is holding its breath.

Our security team meets us outside of our suite. Two guards. One driver. All booked by the company, all very serious-looking in black coats and earpieces.

Mira leans into my side and whispers, "They look like secret agents. Should we give them code names?"

"Please don't," Rumi says, stepping neatly between us as the elevator doors close. She smooths the front of my coat without asking, fingers precise, grounding. "Let them do their jobs."

But there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The small one. The one she only lets out when she's amused but pretending she isn't.

She positions herself between us in the elevator like a referee who secretly loves her job.

I stare at the glowing floor numbers as they tick down, my stomach doing that tight, anticipatory flip it's been doing all day. Mira catches my reflection in the mirrored wall.

"You're awfully quiet for someone who usually narrates American traditions like a documentary," she says lightly. "Are you nervous?"

"Me?" I scoff. "Never. I'm famously chill."

Rumi hums. "You just answered too fast."

I open my mouth, then close it again. Mira's eyes soften, not suspicious, just curious.

"Hey," she says gently. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"I do," I say, and it's mostly true. "I just… want it to be low-key."

Rumi watches me for a beat longer than necessary, then nods. "Okay," she says. "Low-key. We'll make it low-key."

The doors open. The cold rushes in.

By the time we slide into the car, the city outside the windows has blurred into a half-frozen watercolor, lights smeared by slush and falling snow. The driver inches through traffic while the radio murmurs quietly under the thunder of my heartbeat.

"You sure about this?" Rumi asks again as we pull up to the curb.

Her voice is gentle, but her hand finds my knee in the dark, steady, warm, anchoring. Not questioning. Checking in.

I nod quickly. "I like watching people do stupid things," I say, defaulting to humor. "It makes me feel noble."

Rumi snorts. "Your definition of nobility concerns me."

Mira squeezes my other hand where it rests between us, quick, warm, reassuring, then lets go before I can read into it too much.

"You know," she says, casual but thoughtful, "you don't usually joke like that when you're excited. You joke like that when you're bracing."

I swallow. "Wow. Did you major in psychology behind my back?"

"No," she says. "I majored in You."

Rumi makes a small, noncommittal sound that somehow manages to say same.

Inside, the club is heat and bass and diamond-cut light. Perfume and sugar and money. Bodies moving in waves, everyone pretending they're living their best life, even the ones who were shivering on the sidewalk two minutes ago.

We don't touch the main floor.

A hostess leads us up a staircase lit from underneath, neon pulsing through the glass steps. The VIP area sits above the crowd like a balcony, curved booths, a glass railing, soft lighting. Enough distance to breathe. Enough proximity to watch.

Our section is tucked into a corner with plush couches and a round table already set with sparkling glasses.

"Perfect," Mira says, leaning over the railing. "We can see everyone and no one can get to us."

Rumi immediately does a slow scan, entry points, exits, sightlines. Her leader brain never clocks out. "Good vantage. Easy access to security. No choke points unless someone is actively trying something." She nods once. "Acceptable."

"Acceptable?" Mira gasps. "This is the hottest I've ever felt without being judged."

"You're welcome," Rumi says evenly.

I drop onto the couch with a louder exhale than I meant to let out.

Up here, the chaos below looks almost beautiful. A churning sea of bodies, shimmering under colored light.

Contained.

Far enough away that the noise can't quite reach the part of my chest that stays tense in crowds.

A server arrives with a chilled bottle of champagne. "From the owner," she says shyly. "Happy New Year's Eve."

"Happy almost," I say, accepting the glass.

Mira raises hers. "To the view."

"To surviving," Rumi adds.

They both look at me.

Really look.

I hesitate, my glass hovering midair. There's a moment, small but heavy, where I consider telling them everything. Dropping the truth right here in the warm lamplight with their eyes on me.

Instead, I go crooked.

"To… plotting," I say. "New year, same gremlin."

They snort. We clink.

Champagne bubbles across my tongue, crisp and a little dangerous.

Mira watches me over the rim of her glass. "You know," she says softly, "we don't actually care about New Year's. Not really. We care about you having a good night."

Rumi nods. "If something about this is hard, you don't have to carry it alone."

Their concern isn't heavy. It doesn't press. It just… offers.

I take another sip, buying myself time.

"I know," I say finally. And I mean it. "I just… want tonight to be normal. Fun. No ghosts."

Mira smiles. "Then we'll make new memories loud enough to drown them out."

Rumi lifts her glass again. "We're very good at that."

I clink mine to theirs.

For now, it's enough.

The DJ shifts tracks, the sound smoothing out into something tighter and more deliberate. Less chaotic drop, more pulse. The bass hums through the floor and into my legs, a steady thrum that feels suspiciously like a heartbeat I didn't consent to sharing with the room. Lights sweep over the crowd below in wide arcs, sequins flaring like sparks, velvet catching shadow, bare skin gleaming, arms lifted, laughter flung upward like confetti that refuses to settle.

Mira drapes herself over the railing, elbows planted, chin resting in her hands. The club lights paint her cheekbones in gold and violet as she watches the floor like it's a performance curated specifically for her.

"I love watching people dance when they think no one is watching," she says, voice warm, fond. "They move differently."

"You mean worse," Rumi says dryly, lifting her glass.

Mira doesn't even look back. "Honestly."

Rumi's mouth twitches. "Fine. Honestly worse."

I watch too.

The dance floor is a living thing, limbs tangling, couples clinging to each other like gravity suddenly got personal. A cluster of friends scream-singing lyrics at each other. A girl dances alone in sparkly boots, hair flying everywhere, spinning and jumping with reckless joy, like the music exists solely for her.

Sixteen-year-old me would've wanted that.

That kind of freedom.

That ability to take up space without apologizing for it.

To move like the world couldn't touch you.

Now?

I'm okay up here. Watching from the edge. Contained. Safe. At least for a little while.

"So," Mira says, abandoning the railing and sliding back onto the couch, right into my side, like there was never any other option. She tucks herself against me, shoulder fitting neatly under my arm, thigh pressed to mine. Comfortable. Familiar. Intimate in a way she doesn't seem to question. "Tell us more about American New Year's traditions."

Before I can answer, Rumi settles on my other side, hip bumping mine lightly as she crosses her legs. The move is casual, but intentional, boxing me in without making it feel like a trap. An anchor point on both sides.

"Yes," she says. "Educate us. You're our resident holiday encyclopedia."

"I take offense at that," I say.

Rumi arches an eyebrow. "Because it's inaccurate?"

"Because you said encyclopedia like you're about to file me alphabetically," I huff.

"You are very shelve-able," Mira says solemnly. "Compact. Informative. Slightly chaotic."

"Rude," I mutter. "Anyway, American New Year's is basically alcohol poisoning, glitter casualties, and regret."

"What was that?" Mira asks, leaning closer, eyes bright.

"Confetti and kissing," I amend. "There's the Times Square ball drop, obviously. And tradition says you're supposed to kiss someone at midnight for good luck."

Rumi tilts her head, studying me. "You said you don't like luck."

"I said I don't trust it," I correct. "Still like the kissing part."

Mira's lips curve slowly. Not teasing. Curious. "Yeah?"

"Scientifically," I say too fast, "it's good for the immune system."

"Zoey," Rumi says gently, amusement threading her voice, "you're rambling."

"I'm calibrating," I mutter.

Mira's fingers start to toy with my dress, absent, gentle. She brushes my wrist, then lets her thumb linger there, tracing the edge of my pulse like she's checking it without meaning to. I'm suddenly very aware of my heartbeat. Of how easily she can find it.

"Have you ever had a good New Year's kiss?" she asks.

Too casual.

Too innocent.

Rumi tries, and fails, to hide her smile behind her glass. Her eyes soften, flicking to me in that steady, grounding way that says I'm here. Breathe.

A ghost flickers through my mind.

A doorway.

A bathroom light.

A countdown I didn't stay to finish.

A promise that evaporated the moment it was tested.

"Nope," I say, popping the p. "Clearly I'm overdue."

Mira watches me for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The lights catch her eyes, and there's something there, warm, dangerous, unreadable. A story I'm not ready to open, even if part of me wants to.

Then she smiles, light and easy, like she didn't just tilt the axis of my universe.

"Maybe we should fix that," she says.

My heart freezes and sprints at the same time.

Is she serious?

Teasing?

Flirting?

Probably all three.

"Later," Rumi says smoothly, merciful saint that she is, steering us away from the cliff with practiced ease. "Right now you two need to look at that guy." She points down toward the floor. "He's either summoning spirits or attempting to abandon his mortal form."

We walk over and lean over the railing together.

Below, a guy dances with such passionate confusion that none of us can hold it in. Mira collapses into my shoulder laughing, her hair brushing my neck. Rumi laughs too, quiet, genuine. One of those rare sounds she only gives us, unguarded and warm.

The tension doesn't disappear.

It just settles, lower. Deeper. A quiet current beneath everything.

The warmth of Mira pressed into my side.

Rumi's arm stretched behind my shoulders, casual but unmistakably protective.

Their bodies bracketing mine like two steady pillars holding up whatever mess I am.

I keep my mouth shut.

My heart keeps making resolutions I didn't authorize.

I spot him by accident.

I'm halfway through my second martini, Mira insisted, "It's New Year's, hydration is illegal", when my gaze drifts lazily over the edge of our VIP balcony, unfocused, just people-watching the way I promised myself I would.

Bodies blur together below us. Sequins. Bare shoulders. Movement without meaning.

And then, my vision snags.

Freezes.

There he is.

Not like a jump scare.

Not sudden.

Just… there, existing in the world again, like he never stopped.

Lightly tanned skin.

Short black hair, still a little messy, like flirting and bad decisions have been running their hands through it all night.

New tattoos crawling up one arm, layered over the old ones I used to trace absentmindedly while he talked about nothing.

A white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

A black tie loosened like he thinks rules are optional.

The snakebite piercing catching the strobe lights every time he laughs.

He laughs.

Head tipped back. Easy. Unburdened.

The way he always laughed, like consequences were theoretical.

And then the lights flash.

Ice-blue eyes.

The world doesn't tilt.

It drops.

Like someone kicked the legs out from under it and forgot to warn me.

My fingers tighten around the martini glass, knuckles whitening. Cold liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim, splashing against the side.

I don't realize I've stopped breathing until a hand closes around my arm.

Warm. Familiar. Anchoring.

"Zo?" Mira's voice is right there, low and careful, threaded with concern she doesn't try to hide. "You okay? You look like you saw a demon."

Close.

On my other side, Rumi shifts instantly. Not dramatically. Not visibly.

Just… Present.

Her knee angles toward mine. Her shoulder lines up with my back. Her presence locks into place like a brace.

"Your breathing changed," she murmurs, barely audible over the music. "Talk to us."

Both of them move in without discussion, without eye contact, subtle, practiced, forming a quiet wall around me. Not boxing me in. Shielding.

A formation of concern built over years of stages and threats and reading each other in half-seconds.

I swallow.

Once.

Twice.

"Just… recognized someone," I manage.

My throat feels glued shut, words scraping their way out like they're being rationed.

"Someone from the industry?" Rumi asks quietly.

Her voice loses its leader-edge. The crisp authority melts into something friend-shaped. Soft. Gentle. The tone she uses when she knows pain is nearby and doesn't want to spook it.

"Someone from before," I say.

Mira's brows knit. "Before what?"

Before I learned that you're my whole world can be revoked without notice.

Before loving someone meant bracing for detonation.

"Mmm," I hum noncommittally, because if I open that door right now, I won't be able to close it again.

They don't push.

They don't demand details.

They just… stay.

Close enough that I could lean into either of them and be caught without even asking.

Below us, Jace's attention shifts.

His laughter falters, like a skipped beat. His eyes start scanning the balcony levels, one section, then another, methodical, searching.

For one stupid, fragile second, I think I'm safe.

Distance. Height. Crowds. Odds.

Then our gazes lock.

Recognition hits his face like a sunrise.

His brows shoot up.

His mouth falls open in a delighted, disbelieving grin.

Shit.

He elbows his friend hard, says something I can't hear, then immediately starts moving, cutting through the crowd with purpose, no hesitation, angling straight toward the staircase that leads up.

Rumi straightens subtly.

Not alarmed.

Prepared.

Her spine aligns. Shoulders settle. Her weight shifts into a stance I know too well, neutral, alert, already calculating angles and exits.

"He's coming up," she says under her breath.

Calm.

But edged with steel.

Mira stiffens beside me. Her hand brushes mine, hesitant, then curls lightly around my fingers.

"Zoey," she says quietly. "Is this bad?"

The way she asks matters.

Not accusatory. Not panicked.

Just checking in.

They're ready to step in. They're waiting for me.

My heart kicks into a wild, panicked rhythm, beating so hard it feels like it might bruise.

But I don't answer. I just move to sit down on the couch, both of them mirroring me. 

Jace hits the base of the stairs.

And stops.

Our security intercepts him immediately.

Two men step into his path, smooth, practiced, bodies angled just enough to block without touching. Polite faces. Unyielding posture.

One hand lifts slightly, palm out.

"VIP only," one of them says, voice even, professional, impossible to argue with.

Jace laughs like it's a misunderstanding. "Yeah, I know. I'm with..." He points vaguely upward. "Her."

The guard doesn't move.

"Do you have clearance?"

Jace's smile falters. Just a flicker.

"I just need a second," he says, already irritated. "I know her."

The second guard steps half a pace closer. Not threatening. Just… there. A wall.

"You'll need to be invited up."

Jace's frustration leaks out. He gestures sharply, running a hand through his hair, then points again, this time directly at me.

"That's Zoey," he says, louder now. "She knows me."

Both guards glance up.

At the balcony.

At me.

Time stretches.

I feel Mira's fingers tighten. Feel Rumi's presence sharpen next to me.

My body lights up with three reactions at once. 

Fear, bright and sharp.

Rage, heavy, molten, coiling low in my gut.

Vindictive curiosity, cool and dangerous, sliding down my spine like a dare.

The last one wins.

"Let him through," I call out.

The words echo louder than I expect, cutting through the music.

Both guards turn fully now, checking with me. Not challenging. Just confirming.

Are you sure?

I nod.

Reluctantly, they step aside.

Mira snaps her head toward me. "Zoey..."

"It's fine," I lie smoothly.

It isn't.

But it's something I suddenly want control over.

Jace climbs the last few steps and enters our VIP space like he still belongs here. Like the past didn't gut me open on a bathroom floor once.

He looks good. Older. Sharper around the edges.

But still that same boy-shaped wrecking ball.

Seeing him is like a ghost punching me straight in the lungs.

"Holy shit," he breathes, eyes dragging over me, my dress, my hair, my heels. "Zoey?"

Hearing my name in his voice feels like chewing glass.

He flashes the grin I once thought could save me. "I knew it was you. I saw you on TV a while back, but now... Now you're here. You're really here."

"Perceptive as ever," I say flatly.

He laughs, missing the blade under my tone. His gaze flicks briefly to Mira and Rumi, two immovable statues flanking me, then snaps back to me.

"Hi," he says to them with a half nod. "Sorry to interrupt your… thing. I just, I had to come up. I haven't seen her in, what, six years?"

"Who are you?" Rumi asks.

Polite. Cool. Guarded.

"Jace," he says. "Old friend."

Friend.

I almost laugh.

Mira's eyes narrow with deadly sweetness. "Funny," she says. "She's never mentioned you."

He blinks, thrown for half a second, then shrugs. "We were kids. Long time ago."

"And yet," Rumi says calmly, "you're here."

He rushes on, sensing resistance. "I don't want to kill your vibe. I just, you know when you see someone from your past and it feels like fate?"

He laughs nervously. "I thought maybe we could have one dance. For old times' sake."

His eyes never leave mine.

Sixteen-year-old me would've melted. Would've thought this was the universe apologizing.

Twenty-two-year-old me sees the truth.

He thinks I'm the same girl.

He thinks I'll bend.

Because I used to.

Because I loved him more than myself.

I knock back the rest of my martini in one swallow.

The warmth hits fast, alcohol, adrenaline, vindication.

Mira's hand clamps around my knee, tight. Anchoring.

Rumi's posture sharpens, ready.

"Zo..." Mira starts.

But I'm already standing.

Glass down.

Heartbeat roaring.

I step toward him.

His face brightens with relief. Of course it does. He thinks this is working.

I stop close, close enough to smell the cologne he upgraded from cheap body spray. Sharp. Expensive. Wrong.

"Zoey," he says softly.

"Jace," I reply, voice low, dangerous. "You want a dance?"

He grins, victory flashing. "Yeah. Yeah, I..."

I reach up.

Grab his loosened tie.

Wrap it around my fist.

Pull him down until our faces are level.

His breath catches.

Behind me, I feel Mira and Rumi go utterly still, like the room itself inhales.

I smile.

Slow.

Wicked.

"Then come show me that you deserve it," I purr.

He inhales sharply, dizzy. "You always knew how to make an entrance."

"You have no idea," I say.

I turn, still gripping his tie, and lead him toward the stairs like a leash.

Before I descend, I glance back.

Mira is frozen, eyes wide, jealousy and fear flickering like stormlight.

Rumi stands behind her, jaw tight, gaze razor-sharp, not jealous. Protective. Calculating exits.

Two anchors.

Two constants.

Two people who would burn the world down before letting me fall again.

I flash them a smile full of teeth.

This may not be healthy.

But for once, it's on my terms.

The dance floor swallows us whole.

Down here, the bass isn't just heard, it invades.

It climbs up through the soles of my shoes, rattles my calves, coils tight in my spine, vibrates behind my teeth like it's trying to sync my bones to its tempo. The lights strobe in violent, disorienting bursts, slicing the room into snapshots that don't linger long enough to make sense of:

A girl throwing her head back in laughter.

A guy spinning too fast, almost losing balance.

Mouths shouting lyrics no one can hear.

Hands wandering.

Bodies everywhere.

Here and gone.

Jace moves in behind me automatically, like muscle memory he never bothered to unlearn.

His hands land on my waist with the confidence of someone who used to be allowed there. Like time folded itself neatly for his convenience.

They don't belong there anymore.

But I let them stay.

For now.

I lift one of my hands and place it over his, not gently, not hesitantly. I press his palm into place, flattening it against my waist, directing it like a piece of set dressing. Pinning him exactly where I want him.

Then I start to move.

This isn't stage choreography. There's no precision, no sharp lines or practiced angles. This is slower. Looser. The kind of movement that looks lazy but is anything but. Every shift intentional. Every pause deliberate.

I roll my hips into the beat, back brushing his chest just enough to remind him I'm there. The slit in my dress swings open with every step, fabric whispering against my thigh like a secret.

He inhales sharply behind me.

"Damn, Zo," he murmurs, voice low, warm, trying to slide into familiarity. "You really grew up."

"Yeah," I say, calm. Certain. "I did."

I reach back, fingers sliding up behind his neck, scratching lightly at his hairline, the exact spot that used to undo him. Not enough to be kind. Just enough to short-circuit his brain.

My other hand stays clasped over his at my waist, keeping him anchored exactly where I decide.

He thinks he's guiding me.

He isn't.

Around us, dancers press close but don't quite touch. There's a subtle radius of space, like something about me is making people instinctively give ground. Maybe it's the way I move. Maybe it's the look on my face. Maybe it's the energy that says do not misread this.

Or maybe I'm just radiating danger.

Either way, there's room to move.

Above us, the VIP ring glows dimly, a dark halo hovering over the chaos.

I don't need light to know Mira is leaning over the railing, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between worry and disbelief.

I don't need sound to know Rumi is standing beside her, arms crossed, jaw tight, cataloging every possible outcome.

I can feel them.

Their attention presses against my back like a spotlight.

Good.

Let them see.

I twist suddenly in Jace's arms, one smooth, practiced turn that brings me face-to-face with him. I use his tie, looped loosely around my fist, to guide the motion, turning him like he's part of the choreography.

Our bodies end up close.

Too close.

His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing the blue. His breath stutters when he realizes how little space there is between us now.

He looks overwhelmed.

"Still think it's not serious?" I ask lightly, like we're joking.

He blinks. "What?"

"Nothing," I say, smiling sharp enough to draw blood. "Dance."

I move against him, not grinding, not clinging but with intention. Predatory in its restraint. My hands slide down the front of his shirt, tracing the lines of muscle beneath, never lingering long enough to satisfy.

I lean in, turning my head so my lips hover near his ear. My breath ghosts over the cold metal of his lip piercing.

He shivers.

His grip tightens on my hips, reflexively trying to pull me closer, to reclaim control. I let him think he's succeeding, let him feel the illusion for half a second, then shift my weight just enough that he has to adjust.

Follow.

React.

Adapt.

I am not the girl who followed him anymore.

I am writing every step, just like Mira taught me how to do as part of Huntrix.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me properly under the slicing lights. His chest rises fast. His smile is crooked, hungry, convinced.

"This is… wow," he breathes. "I always knew you'd be something, but this... You're so..."

"In control?" I offer.

"Hot," he says bluntly. "You're turning me on like crazy right now."

I grin.

"Good."

And then I see it.

The exact moment his ego clicks back into place.

The moment he decides this is familiar.

That we're slipping into old rhythms.

That I want what I used to want.

He leans in.

His hands slide up my sides, thumbs grazing my ribs, up my sides, until they cradle my face. To tilt my head. To kiss me like one of those stupid teen movies where the boy always gets the girl back because he showed up with confidence and nostalgia.

I let him get close.

Close enough to feel his breath warm against my cheek.

Close enough to smell the alcohol on it.

Close enough that sixteen-year-old me would've shattered.

And that's exactly when my hand shoots out.

Not to his chest.

Not to his tie.

To a drink on a passing tray, held by a frantic server weaving through the chaos.

"Sorry," I say lightly, plucking the glass off with perfect timing. "Emergency."

Before Jace can register what's happening, before his brain can catch up, before the universe can write the wrong ending, I throw the cold, full drink straight into his face.

Ice hits first.

Then liquid.

Freezing. Sticky. Shocking.

He reels back with a strangled gasp.

The music keeps pounding, but the dancers around us pause just long enough to take it in. A small circle clears. Someone yelps. A few people laugh in delighted disbelief. The server makes a horrified noise but catches the empty glass before it hits the floor.

Jace stands there dripping, hair plastered, shirt soaked, liquid streaming down his jaw. Eyes squeezed shut. Completely stunned.

It's beautiful.

A perfect mental photograph.

"You're right," I say brightly, sugar coating steel. "This isn't that serious."

His eyes snap open, furious, confused, humiliated. "Zo."

I'm already turning.

Already walking away.

Already leaving him soaked and sputtering, swallowed back into the flashing lights he thought he still controlled.

I don't look back.

I don't need to.

I can already feel the electricity from the VIP balcony above.

Mira's breath caught sharp in her throat.

Rumi's pulse spiking into protective fury.

Both of them leaning forward as if the axis of the night just shifted.

I leave the dance floor the way I should've left that bathroom all those years ago, on my own terms.

The air outside hits me like a slap.

Again.

It's colder than before, meaner. Wind slices between the buildings like it has a personal grudge, riding the leftover snow in sharp, needling gusts. I step out of the club and the door slams shut behind me, sealing the heat and bass and chaos inside like it never existed.

I don't have my coat.

Of course I don't.

It's upstairs, hanging neatly over the back of our couch, where a responsible adult, or at least a semi-functioning goblin with survival instincts, would have remembered to grab it.

I am not responsible.

I am standing on a New York sidewalk in a black gown with a slit that felt powerful thirty minutes ago and now feels like a direct attack on my circulatory system. Thin straps. Bare arms. Bare legs. Heels sinking into slush as I move forward, breath fogging out in frantic, uneven bursts.

I look like a woman fleeing the scene of a crime.

Because I am.

Not the fun, cinematic kind.

The messy kind.

The kind with consequences.

The adrenaline burns off fast. Brutally fast.

Within thirty seconds, maybe less, the cold claws its way through my skin and straight into my bones. My shoulders tense. My fingers ache. My toes start sending up frantic little warning flares that I ignore out of spite.

Reality rushes in where the bass used to be.

Loud.

Messy.

Unkind.

I keep going anyway.

Taxi headlights smear past in long golden streaks, cutting through the falling snow. Someone shouts across the street, words lost to the wind. Sirens wail faintly, ricocheting between buildings. A bus hisses to a stop, doors coughing open.

New York doesn't sleep. It just rotates responsibility.

It isn't as quiet as it was that night when I was sixteen.

But the feeling is the same.

Me, outside.

Everyone else, inside.

Warm. Loud. Alive.

The year changing whether I'm ready or not.

Another New Year's.

Another door closing behind me.

Another moment where staying meant explaining, justifying, unraveling in front of people who might look at me differently afterward.

So instead, I walk.

When I was sixteen, I walked because I had nowhere else to go but home. Because there was no one waiting for me who would hold my hurt, or even recognize it as something real.

Now…

Now I walk with two faces burned into the backs of my eyelids.

Mira's eyes, wide with shock, confusion sharp enough to cut. That flicker of fear that I wasn't just being dramatic, that I was slipping out of her reach in real time.

Rumi's brows, drawn tight, calculating, protective even without full context. The look she gets when she's already planning damage control, already bracing to shield something precious.

And both of them watching me.

Watching me grab my ex by the tie.

Watching me turn the floor into a stage.

Watching me throw a drink in his face and walk out like the story exploded behind me.

This wasn't subtle.

This wasn't quiet.

This wasn't safe.

And I'm not stupid.

I know exactly what it looked like.

Performative. Messy. Public.

I threw a drink in a man's face on a packed dance floor under strobe lights that might as well have been camera flashes.

And I'm Zoey.

Zoey of Huntrix.

My stomach drops.

How many phones were out?

How many eyes clocked my face, my hair, my dress, me, even half-lit and moving?

How many people recognized me and didn't say anything until they could say it online?

How many clips will surface with captions like Huntrix member causes scene at NYC club or Idol meltdown caught on camera or Trouble in paradise?

"This is going to be everywhere," I mutter aloud, breath shaking. "Great job, Zoey. Incredible impulse control."

And it's not just about me.

That's the part that really guts me.

It's about us.

About Huntrix.

Scandal. Drama. Speculation.

People guessing at fights that never happened.

At relationships that don't exist.

At abuse. At breakdowns. At things that will take weeks to smother once they catch fire.

Bobby is going to have a stroke.

Rumi will be disappointed.

That thought hurts worse than the cold.

And Mira—

God, Mira.

What will Mira think?

I replay her face in my mind, cruel and vivid. The jolt of shock. The flash of something else underneath, hurt? Anger? Fear?

Something sharp.

Something I caused.

They'll follow.

Both of them.

That's the difference from sixteen.

Back then, I walked alone because I was alone.

Now, even as my toes go numb, even as my teeth chatter so hard my jaw aches, I know they're coming.

I know they won't let me disappear into the city.

But that knowledge doesn't calm me.

It makes me walk faster.

Because how do I even begin to explain what I just did?

How do I say sorry for causing a scene when the scene felt necessary just to breathe again?

How do I admit I panicked without sounding small?

How do I explain Jace without bleeding all over the sidewalk and the people I love most?

How do I face Mira and Rumi after letting myself crack in the loudest, most public way possible?

I don't know.

So, I keep walking.

Into the cold.

Into the noise.

Into the part of the night where there's no music to hide behind, only the sound of my own footsteps and the consequences catching up to me.

By the time I reach the hotel, my legs burn like they're full of ground glass, my fingers have curled into stiff, useless claws, and my thighs are an alarming shade of freezer-burn I'm pretty sure wasn't covered in training.

The doorman's eyes bug out when I sweep through the revolving doors, dress damp and clinging, makeup smeared, hair wild like I wrestled a snowstorm and lost.

"Miss, are you..."

"I'm fine," I croak, my voice scraping out of my throat like gravel. "If anyone asks, you didn't see me."

He doesn't hesitate. Just nods once, sharp and wise, already filing me under celebrity emergency protocol.

The elevator mirrors are merciless.

Smudged lipstick.

Eyeliner melted into bruised shadows at the corners of my eyes.

Straps uneven from where hands had been.

Snowwater darkening the hem of my dress, clinging to my legs.

I look like a nightmare and a music video at the same time.

The doors slide open to our floor. The hallway is hushed, carpet swallowing the sound of my heels as I stumble toward the suite.

When I unlock the door, the quiet inside hits harder than the cold.

Too quiet.

City lights spill across the floor in fractured gold. Somewhere outside, firework tests crackle faintly, premature celebration. On a muted TV down the hall, a host is probably shouting about how this year is going to be the one.

I shut the door behind me.

Lean my back against it.

Slide down half an inch as the silence rushes in like a held breath finally released.

The club's chaos echoes in my ears even after it's gone. My body hums, residual bass, adrenaline, confrontation, escape. My heart is still trying to claw its way out of my ribs.

The world didn't end.

He sputtered.

People stared.

I left before he could spin it into a story where he was misunderstood and charming and forgiven.

"Oh," I whisper to the empty room, staring at nothing. "So that's what power feels like."

It lasts exactly two seconds.

Then the adrenaline dump hits like a trapdoor opening beneath me.

My knees go watery.

My teeth start chattering so hard my jaw aches.

My eyes sting, hot, prickling, warning.

I stumble toward the couch, peel my shoes off with numb fingers, and drop them where they land. They hit the floor with dull little thuds. Dead birds.

My toes are red. Numb. Angry.

I don't cry.

Not yet.

Instead, I wrap my arms around myself, hugging my own ribs like that might hold everything in place. Trying to make my body smaller. Less exposed. Less visible.

Because I have no idea how I'm going to face Rumi.

Or Mira.

Or the version of myself who just detonated on a dance floor and ran.

The deadbolt clicks.

Not loud.

Not forced.

Not frantic.

Decisive.

They have their own keys.

Of course they do.

We're Huntrix. We don't just share schedules, we share lives.

The door opens and I hear fast footsteps, then.

"Zoey?" Rumi's voice cuts through the suite, controlled but strained. "Zoey, where are you?"

That tone hits me straight in the chest.

Battlefield-tight.

The voice she uses when something precious has gone missing and she's already bracing to fix it.

Another voice overlaps, closer and sharper.

"Zo!" Mira snaps. "If you don't answer, I'm kicking down every door in this suite..."

"I'm in the living room," I croak.

There's a beat of silence.

One second.

Two.

Then hurried footsteps, careless of rugs, furniture, expensive hotel decor.

They round the corner almost together.

Mira looks like she ran the whole way back.

Cheeks flushed from cold and fury.

Hair wind-tangled.

Our coats bundled messily over one arm.

My clutch dangling from her wrist like an afterthought she refused to drop.

Rumi is right beside her, breath coming fast, gloves half-off, jaw set in that way that means she's deciding whether yelling or hugging will be more effective.

They take one look at me and both stop dead.

"What the hell," Mira explodes in rapid-fire Korean, eyes widening as she takes me in. "Zoey, did you walk? All the way here? In that... That strip of fabric you're calling a dress? Without a coat? In this weather?!"

"I'm fine," I say automatically.

It sounds pathetic even to me.

"You're blue," she snaps. "You look like a corpse."

Rumi doesn't say anything at first.

She moves closer, gaze sharp and thorough, taking inventory like she's assessing damage after a hit.

Bare feet.

Numb toes.

Goosebumps up my legs.

Soaked hem.

Shaking shoulders.

Then she straightens.

She steps in front of me, lifts my coat from Mira's arms, and wraps it around my shoulders without asking. Pulls it closed. Tucks it tight. Her hands linger at my collar, shielding me from air that isn't even touching me anymore.

Then she grabs a blanket from the couch, snaps it open with practiced ease, and drapes it around me like armor.

Only then does Mira drop to her knees in front of me, actually kneels, hands brisk and warm as she rubs heat back into my frozen ankles.

"Rumi wanted to burn the club down," she mutters. "I said we should rescue you first and then commit arson."

Rumi exhales sharply, peeling off the rest of her gloves. "She's lying. I said we have to rescue Zoey so she can appreciate the arson."

A laugh tears out of me, brittle and broken and tangled with something wet in my throat.

I blink.

My vision blurs.

"Oh," I whisper. "There it is."

Mira looks up instantly. "What?"

"The crying," I say.

And then it hits.

Not the soft kind.

Not the graceful kind.

The kind where my face crumples and my breath stutters and my chest caves in like something finally gave up pretending it was fine.

Mira's on her feet immediately, hands steady on my arms, guiding me backward until the couch catches my spine.

Rumi sits beside me at the same time, no space, no hesitation, pressing shoulder to shoulder like she's plugging a breach.

Mira curls in on my other side, tugging the blanket tighter around all of us.

Between them, I'm sealed in.

Warmth.

Weight.

Familiarity.

The tears come harder.

"Hey," Mira murmurs, brushing hair back from my face. "You're okay. You got out. You're here."

"I'm so stupid," I choke. "That was... I shouldn't have..."

"Thrown a drink in his face?" Mira interrupts. "That was art."

Rumi huffs a quiet laugh despite herself. "I've never been more proud and terrified at the same time," she says gently. "Zoey… who was he?"

I breathe in, shaky.

The words sit heavy. Years of dodging them. Joking around them. Pretending they didn't matter.

But I can't un-throw the drink.

I can't un-run.

I can't undo the fear I put in their eyes.

"He's why I hate New Year's," I whisper.

The room goes still.

Mira's fingers lace with mine under the blanket.

Rumi inches closer, her hand warm and steady on my knee.

"Okay," Mira says softly. "Start there."

Rumi nods once. "We're here," she murmurs. "We're listening."

So I do.

I tell them about sixteen-year-old me and Jace the way you dismantle a bomb.

Carefully.

Piece by piece.

With long pauses where my breath shakes and my chest tightens like it's bracing for impact.

The hallway, narrow, beige, smelling like cheap cologne and spilled beer.

The bathroom door half open.

The girl pressed against the sink, lipstick smeared, laughing like she belonged there.

The way my brain tried to lie to me for one stupid second... maybe it's not him, maybe you're wrong, maybe...

The sentence that detonated everything.

She's sweet, but it's not that serious.

I tell them about the way the words didn't sound cruel when he said them.

That's what hurt the most.

They were casual. Thoughtless. Tossed out like trivia.

I tell them about walking home in the cold without my coat.

About my hands shaking so hard I couldn't text anyone even if I'd wanted to.

About fireworks going off somewhere in the distance, echoing between houses like applause meant for someone else.

"Every year after," I say quietly, "the phrase New Year's stopped sounding like a celebration and started sounding like a warning label slapped on a bottle of poison."

I don't look at them while I talk.

I stare at the coffee table.

At the way city lights smear across the glass.

At a wrinkle in the blanket pooled over my lap.

If I see pity, just one flicker of it, I might shut down completely.

But there isn't pity.

There are hands.

Mira's thumb tracing slow, steady circles over the back of mine, like she's grounding me through skin-to-skin contact. Rumi's palm moving up and down my arm with a rhythm so even it feels like a heartbeat she's lending me.

"And then tonight," I whisper, my voice thinning, "there he is. Like the universe went, Hey, remember that thing you never really processed? Surprise rerun."

I swallow.

"He acts like we're old friends. Like he can just stroll up to our table and ask for a dance like it's a rom-com reunion scene where I'm supposed to laugh and forgive him."

"And you said yes," Rumi says quietly.

Not accusation. Not judgment. Just… checking the facts.

"I said yes because I wanted to prove something," I admit. "To him. To myself. To the stupid version of me who walked away without saying a word." My voice wobbles. "I wanted to be the one walking into the story this time. Not out of it."

Mira squeezes my hand. "So," she says gently, "you weaponized hotness."

A broken laugh punches out of me, half-sob, half-snort. "Kind of. I wanted him to want me. And I wanted to be the one who said no."

"You did more than say no," Rumi points out softly.

"Yeah." I wipe at my cheek, annoyed by the tears. "I wanted a new picture in my head. Something louder than the old one. Not just him in a bathroom with someone else. Him dripping on a dance floor because I told him it wasn't serious."

Mira turns toward me fully now, her knee angling closer, her attention absolute. "That's not stupid," she says. "Messy? Dramatic? Reckless? Sure. But stupid? No."

My fingers curl tighter around hers. "I didn't want you to see me like that," I whisper. "Like I was performing. Like I still cared."

"We saw you take control," Rumi says. "We saw his face."

Mira nods. "I thought I was going to throw up when you walked away," she admits. "But then you kept going. No hesitation. No looking back." Her voice cracks. "You looked so strong. And so alone. I hated that part."

"I didn't want it to be your problem," I murmur. "You were excited about tonight. I didn't want to dump high school trauma all over it."

Mira scoffs. "Zoey, we fight demons and secret horrors."

"When you put it like that..."

"Pain is pain," Rumi interrupts gently. "It doesn't have to be catastrophic to count. If it still hurts, it matters."

Something loosens in my chest.

"Every time someone said new year, new me after that night," I say softly, "it felt like a threat. Like people could just… change their minds. Decide they were done. Leave."

I inhale, shaky.

"I didn't want a new year. I wanted stability. The same people. Promises that didn't expire at midnight."

"And the kiss you never got," Mira says quietly.

My head snaps up.

Our eyes lock.

The air between us tightens, electric and fragile.

My face burns. "You remember everything."

"You admitted it in the car," she says gently. "That you've never had a real New Year's kiss."

Rumi stands, stretching, cracking her back like she's resetting herself. "Okay," she says. "It's still New Year's Eve. We can't rewrite what happened. But we can decide how this one ends."

She turns on the TV. Times Square erupts into noise and color. Hosts in ridiculous coats shout over fireworks.

"Do we have to watch?" I ask, nerves crawling up my spine.

"No," Rumi says. "But I think it's time you watched one without bracing for impact. With us."

Mira bumps her shoulder into mine. "We're your human weighted blankets."

"And your security system," Rumi adds. "If anyone tries to hurt you again, I'll handle it."

"Violently?" I mumble.

"Efficiently."

Mira gently removes my coat and pulls me next to her on purpose this time.

I don't resist.

The TV flashes: 20 MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT.

My chest tightens but not like before.

Not sharp.

Not choking.

More like a knot that might actually loosen if I let it.

Rumi returns with mugs. "Honey and lemon," she says, handing me one. "The whiskey is for me."

We sip.

We heckle the hosts.

We throw pillows whenever someone says new year, new you.

At some point, Mira's head finds my shoulder. Her warmth sinks into me like it's always belonged there.

"Their cheeks must be frozen," she murmurs at the screen.

"Yours is warm," I say before thinking.

She smiles against my skin. "Yours is prickly from dried tears."

"Hot," I reply, because I'm clearly malfunctioning.

Rumi snorts. "You two flirt like twelve-year-olds."

"We are not flirting," I protest.

She gives me a look, not teasing. Not judging.

Understanding.

"So," she says gently. "When are you going to be honest?"

My stomach flips.

I know exactly what she means.

"I've been hiding so long," I say weakly, "it feels like a personality trait."

Mira's fingers lace with mine under the blanket. "Maybe it's time to retire that trait."

"I don't do resolutions."

"Patch update," Rumi suggests. "Zoey 2.0. Fewer self-sabotage features."

"That's optimistic."

"It's allowed," Mira whispers.

The ball gleams on-screen.

Ten minutes.

And suddenly the truth lands, clear, unignorable.

I will never know what I feel for Mira.

What this could be.

What we could be.

If I keep running.

Not again. Not this year. Not now.

I look at her hand in mine.

And I know, if I don't try, if I don't take even one step, if I let another year pass without asking the question that's been carving into my ribs... I'll regret it longer than a year.

This time, I want something real.

This time, I want to try.

"Mira," I say.

Her thumb is still brushing lazy, unconscious circles over my knuckles, like she's been doing it so long her body doesn't even ask permission anymore. Like touching me is muscle memory. Like comfort.

"Yeah?" she answers.

Her voice is soft in a way that makes my lungs forget what their job is.

"You know how you said my first New Year's kiss should be good enough to overwrite the one I never got?"

Her thumb stills.

Not freezes, stillness implies choice. This is instinctive. Her body reacting before her mind catches up.

She doesn't pull away. Doesn't tighten her grip. Doesn't pretend she didn't hear me.

She just… breathes.

"Yeah," she says finally.

Careful. Measured. Like she's stepping onto ice she knows might crack but she steps anyway.

The room feels suddenly too warm. Or too small. Or like time has slowed just enough to make every sound too loud.

"I…" I swallow. "I had a specific person in mind for that."

For half a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then Rumi rises.

Not abruptly. Not stiffly. Just smoothly, like she's been anticipating this exact moment since the first time Mira's fingers brushed my wrist weeks ago.

"I'm going to adjust the curtains," she murmurs.

It's a lie.

A gentle one.

The kind of lie you tell when love needs privacy but safety still matters.

She moves away, not far. Never far.

Close enough to re-enter if things splinter.

Far enough to give us air.

That's Rumi.

Always knowing exactly how much space care requires.

Mira shifts slowly, lifting her cheek from my shoulder, turning her whole body toward me until we're fully facing each other. Knees almost touching. Breath close enough that I can feel it change.

Her eyes search mine, not hunting, not demanding. Just… asking.

"Do you?" she whispers.

"Have," I correct. "For a while."

"How long is a while?" she asks.

Her voice is barely there. Like she's afraid volume might break something fragile.

I laugh softly, shaky, fond, terrified.

"Maybe since you fell asleep on my lap during trainee days and drooled on my leggings."

Her mouth opens in startled protest. "I was exhausted."

"Or the first time you dragged me onto the practice room floor at three in the morning because you were convinced dancing was a 'midnight spiritual reset.'"

She smiles despite herself.

"Or the time you held my hand so hard before debut that I thought it would bruise."

Her fingers tighten now, confirmation, not denial.

"Or," I finish quietly, "all of it. All at once."

Her eyes shine.

"Zo."

"And I didn't say anything," I rush, the words tumbling over each other, "because it felt selfish. And dangerous. And unprofessional. And because you deserve someone whose brain doesn't short-circuit every December."

"Hey." Her hand squeezes mine, firm, grounding. "Don't do that. Don't decide what I deserve without asking me."

My throat closes.

"Okay," I whisper. "What do you deserve?"

Her smile is small, but it's fierce. Certain in a way I've never trusted myself to be.

"You," she says. "If you want me too."

The world doesn't shatter.

It tilts.

Like gravity re-calibrating.

"You... what? You want me?" I croak.

She laughs softly, tears collecting in her lashes. "Of course I do, you idiot. Do you think I share blankets and skincare routines and my worst insecurities with everyone? I've been in love with you through at least three hair-color eras."

My brain simply… stops.

Flatlines.

Attempts reboot.

Fails spectacularly.

"You never said anything," I whisper.

"Neither did you," she says. "We're both cowards. Rumi's been suffering watching us orbit each other like broken satellites."

"I really have," Rumi calls gently, still facing the window like a dignified chaperone.

Mira exhales, shaking her head. "She told me to confess ages ago. I chickened out. You always seemed so… untouchable. Like if I made it weird, I'd lose you."

"I thought you'd laugh," I admit. "Tell me I was dramatic again. And I'd have to pretend my heart wasn't on fire every time you touched me."

Her expression softens, devastatingly.

"Zoey," she murmurs, brushing hair from my face with reverence. "You're not a joke. You're the whole punchline."

"That doesn't make sense," I say, laughing through tears.

"It does to me."

On the TV, the banner flashes:

3 MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT

The old panic flares but it's muffled now, like a fire behind glass.

Hope presses back.

Rumi drifts toward the kitchenette, pretending to inspect a mug. Giving us the illusion of more privacy while still being exactly where she needs to be.

"Okay," I exhale. "New plan."

Mira's eyes widen. "Tell me."

"This night isn't about him anymore," I say. "It's about us. Staying."

Her breath shudders. "We can do that."

"Can I kiss you at midnight?" I ask, suddenly shy. "As a reboot."

Her smile is slow. Warm. Unmistakably yes.

"Only if I can kiss you back."

"Consent is sexy," Rumi announces.

"Stop listening," I mutter.

"One-room suite," she replies serenely.

The countdown begins.

Mira inches closer. Knees touch. Breath mingles.

"You okay?" she whispers.

"Ask me in thirty-one seconds."

She laughs, soft, gravitational.

"Ten."

My chest tightens.

"You're here," she whispers. "With us."

"Nine."

"I see you."

"Eight."

"You're not disposable."

"Seven."

"If people leave..."

"Then I won't."

"Six."

Tears spill, warm, relieved.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says. "Not at midnight. Not ever."

"Five."

"You sure?"

"Four."

Her smile is absolute.

"I'm very stubborn."

"Three."

We lean in.

"Two."

Noses brush.

"One."

"Happy New Year."

Zero.

The kiss is not explosive.

It's electric.

A current, low, steady, unmistakable, traveling down my spine and settling somewhere deep and safe.

Mira kisses carefully at first, like she's giving me time to change my mind.

I don't.

I lean in and she melts into me, mouth warm, sure, moving with a confidence born of patience rather than urgency. Her hand slides into my hair, anchoring me there, holding me just close enough to feel her breath hitch.

I fist the fabric of her dress, pulling her closer until our bodies line up naturally, like they were always meant to.

Fireworks explode on TV.

The city roars.

But all I hear is her.

The tiny sound she makes when I deepen the kiss.

The soft breath when my hand cups her jaw.

The way her mouth opens under mine, tentative, then certain.

She tastes like champagne and honey and beginning.

We kiss slowly. Deliberately.

A kiss built to last.

For the first time in my life, midnight doesn't feel like a threat.

It feels like a doorway.

When we finally pull back, it's only because breathing is necessary.

Foreheads pressed together. Lips still brushing.

"Happy New Year, Zoey," she whispers.

"Happy new checkpoint," I laugh.

Her smile blooms.

Rumi clears her throat loudly and plops down between us, throwing an arm around both our shoulders.

"Okay, lovers," she announces, "I would like to celebrate platonically with my best friends before you forget I exist."

Mira snorts. I sputter.

Rumi squeezes us tight.

"I love you two disasters," she declares.

And for the first time, New Year's Eve doesn't feel like something I survived.

It feels like something I chose.