Archive of Our Own ^beta

February 14th, 2016.

Mira was still getting used to the quiet.

Jeju was never silent, not really—there was always something happening on the compound or in the farm. The steady breath of the ocean carried through the open windows, and salt clung to the air, to her clothes, to her skin and hair…as if the island itself insisted on being felt. It was nothing like Seoul, nothing like the boarding schools with their immaculate halls and watchful eyes. Nothing like the tight, reproachful looks her parents had perfected over the years.

Here, she had space. Space to simply be Mira.

Life in Jeju had been different in ways she hadn’t known how to anticipate. Disorienting, even.

Not even for the obvious reasons.

Her mind, apparently, had very little trouble accepting the existence of demons and demon hunters. That part had slotted neatly into place. Strangely, it had been the easiest thing to process. All Celine had to do was materialize her twin swords when Mira was skeptical, iridiscent steel flashing out of thin air, and something inside Mira had simply gone: Yes. That tracks.

What was hard to understand was this newfound calm: having her own place, her own rhythm, a life where the expectations placed on her were not meant to tame her, but to use what made her sharp for something that mattered.

Purpose was a word that still felt new in her mouth.

Her days were simple, structured around training, studying, and the small domestic rituals she was teaching herself out of necessity. Learning the island’s geography on foot, mapping it into her body step by step. Learning herself, too, in the negative space left behind after everything she had walked away from.

She hadn’t expected to feel so… unguarded.

And she definitely had not expected someone like Rumi.

Rumi had entered her life without ceremony, without warning—Mira came to Jeju and Rumi was simply there, as if she had always been part of the landscape, like something inevitable Mira had not been told to prepare for.

The first thing she registered was the color of her hair, catching the sunlight in faint lavender glints that looked almost unreal against the cerulean color of the sea.

After that first meeting, she couldn’t help but notice Rumi everywhere.

They weren’t close, barely more than acquaintances sharing proximity inside the same four walls, learning how to live alongside each other in a fate that demanded they trust their lives to one another. Yet Rumi moved through Jeju like someone who had always belonged there, like someone who understood exactly where she fit in the world without ever having to question it.

While Mira stumbled through the shape of herself without the long shadow of her family trying to polish her edges, Rumi seemed to know what was expected of her with every breath she took.

And for some reason, that drove Mira a little insane.

It had been a day after training—another day of Mira eating dust while Rumi swung her sword as if she had been born with it, like the blade had simply been waiting for her hand all these years. After rolling her eyes for the umpteenth time, Mira had stood up without a word and not even waited for Rumi to finish. Gok-do disappearing in a faint shimmer of light, she had marched off toward the showers, determined to sulk in peace.

After thirty minutes of icy water prickling down her skin and rinsing the grit from her hair, Mira felt cooled enough to face the rest of her day. Changing into a worn band T-shirt and joggers, she grabbed her training clothes—sweaty, dusty, proof of her irritation and failure—and stuffed them into the hamper.

Might as well do laundry while she was at it. Sulk productively.

As she made her way toward the washing room, rolling her shoulders and still replaying the way Rumi had pivoted too cleanly during sparring, she nearly walked straight past the doorway.

Something made her stop dead in her tracks. She had not noticed at first—the low mechanical hum of the washer lulling her into a false sense of calm. But there was a shape there, huddled and too still to be incidental.

Rumi stood by the washer, unmoving.

At first glance, Mira almost turned around and left. Her wounds still carried salt from getting her ass handed to her and her pride would probably bark at Rumi. She was still new enough to this place, still cautious about stepping into spaces that weren’t explicitly hers, exploding, and getting her big mouth shipped back to Seoul.

Curiosity, however, had always been her weakness. It crept in, insistent, until she stepped forward and glanced over Rumi's shoulder.

That was when she saw what Rumi was holding.

A teddy bear.

It was old—the fur was worn smooth in places, the color softened with time and washing. One of its seams had split near the arm, stuffing peeking out in a way that made Mira wince instinctively. Rumi’s hands were tight around it, thumbs pressed into the fabric as if she were afraid it might come apart entirely if she let go.

For a second, Mira considered turning around. Leaving Rumi to her own devices. Pretending she had not seen the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were clenched too tightly around something soft and worn. It wasn’t her business. They weren’t friends or anything.

This new life Mira was building was planned around the idea of not intruding where she was not invited.

Yet life was one sneaky bitch, and as she shifted her weight to turn on her heels, a small sound escaped—barely more than the scrape of her sneaker against the floor.

With a yelp, Rumi startled visibly, breath catching as she turned too quickly. The teddy bear was pulled instinctively to her chest like something that needed shielding. For a split second, her expression was unguarded—wide-eyed, almost guilty at being caught in a moment of weakness—and the sight of it struck Mira as something almost impossible.

A crack never seen in Rumi's cool composure before. But the moment vanished as quickly as it appeared, discipline sliding back over her features like a well-worn mask.

“I—” she began, then faltered, recalibrating in real time. “Sorry. I’ll go.”

“Uh—it's fine. You don’t have to,” Mira mumbled, automatically. Silence stretched between them, awkward but not sharp.

The hum of the washer filled the space, steady and indifferent. Rumi hesitated, then exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging just a fraction, as though the air had been pressed out of her.

Stupidly, Mira stayed where she was.

Which only made things more awkward, standing there with the hamper digging into her hip. Uh—She should probably leave. Say nothing. Pretend she hadn’t noticed the way Rumi’s grip tightened around the bear.

Instead, she cleared her throat. “…Are you okay?”

Taken aback, Rumi’s mouth parted like she meant to say something, then closed it again. Her gaze dropped back to the torn seam, thumb brushing once over the frayed edge as if testing how much damage was there.

For a moment, Mira thought she wouldn’t answer. That she would shrug it off, retreat into whatever polished composure she wore so easily, and shut Mira out.

All bets were off when Rumi sighed, “It was my mom’s. The bear.” Her eyes flicking down again, her jaw tightened faintly as if she regretted saying anything at all. “She gave it to me when I was little. I… must have caught it on something while cleaning up my room. I didn’t notice until now.”

There was a subtle shift in her posture then, like she was bracing for dismissal. Or for Mira to decide it was childish. Or sentimental. Or foolish.

Yet Mira didn’t.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t offer a careless it’s just a toy. Didn’t look away from the weight of what Rumi had just handed her.

Nothing of the sort came.

If anything, the words assembled pieces of a map she hadn’t known she was building in her head.

The farmhouse had always carried an air of nostalgia, thick and settled into the wood and the floorboards. Walls in which memories lingered in every corner and doorway. Mira had noticed the way Rumi moved through it sometimes, softer than usual. Like she was walking alongside someone unseen.

She had wondered, once or twice, why Rumi lived there with Celine instead of somewhere closer to the city. Why did she spend so much time standing in front of one particular grave in the quiet ocean of tombstones behind the house.

Mira had never asked. It hadn’t felt like her place.

But now, watching the way Rumi’s fingers traced the torn seam like it was something fragile and sacred, Mira understood that this wasn’t about stuffing spilling out. It was about what remained when someone didn’t.

And suddenly, the idea of walking away felt impossible.

“I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not,” Mira argued before she could stop herself.

Surprised, Rumi looked up at her.

For her part, Mira tried not to cringe. She hadn’t meant to speak up so firmly. She hadn’t even noticed she had taken a step closer, closing the distance between them, her face angled down just enough to catch Rumi’s gaze head-on.

Had her eyes always been this deep?

“I mean—" With her free hand, Mira rubbed the back of her neck. What was she supposed to say? "If…it's important to you, then it's not stupid.”

For a moment, Rumi remained silent, staring at Mira as if she had just revealed one of the universe’s greatest secrets instead of saying the lamest thing imaginable.

Then her gaze dropped again, and Mira could finally breathe again.

Rumi's thumbs moved over the open seam, slow and repetitive, tracing the frayed thread like she was memorizing the damage. “I don’t know how to fix it,” she admitted quietly.

With a curl on her lip, Mira looked at the tear again. It was a clean split—the kind that came from tension on old stitching rather than damage to the fabric itself. The material still seemed sturdy. The stuffing was still there.

Overall, it should be fixable.

She swallowed.

This was the moment to walk away. To offer some vague reassurance and leave Rumi to her own devices to figure it out. Mira didn’t owe her anything. That had been the rule she had set for herself the day she arrived in Jeju—show up when required, nothing more. No unnecessary entanglements. No caring for people who would never care back for her.

She had done enough of that already.

But something in Rumi’s expression—careful, and quietly distressed in a way that clearly cost her something to reveal—made Mira’s chest tighten.

“I can fix it,” Mira regretted every word out of her mouth.

“You can?”

“Yeah.”

Setting the hamper down by her feet, Mira stepped closer…Then paused, hand hovering in the space between them, giving Rumi the chance to pull back if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

So Mira took the teddy gently, turning it over in her hands. Her touch was attentive as she examined the seam. “It’s an easy stitch. The fabric is still strong.”

“You know how to sew?” The wonder in Rumi’s voice felt disproportionate to something as simple as sewing.

“I had to learn. Got into more fistfights than I cared to admit growing up. Clothes didn’t survive that. And… nobody liked things looking unpresentable.”

Prestige mattered in her family. Appearances mattered more.

Mira had learned early that sharpness left marks. On fabric. On skin. On expectations. Clothes, at least, could be mended—if she stitched carefully enough, if she was precise enough, the damage didn’t have to be visible to her parents.

So she became meticulous. Expert in erasing evidence.

She glanced up at Rumi. “If you’re okay with it, I can help.”

Rumi nodded immediately. “Yes. Please.”

Somehow, that simple offer turned Mira’s afternoon from one of sulking and quiet self-deprecation into being followed down the hallway by Rumi like a lost puppy on her way to Mira’s room.

Initially, the idea had been simple—fix it properly, return it later. No audience. No pressure. Yet here she was, with Rumi trailing behind her without hesitation, stepping into a space Mira had only just begun to consider her own.

Without asking, Rumi slipped into the room the moment Mira opened the door, and Mira nearly choked on her own disbelief at the boldness of it. Couldn’t she at least pretend to care if Mira allowed it or not?

Not for the first time, Mira found herself noticing Rumi’s odd quirks—little social missteps that didn’t quite fit the composed, disciplined swordswoman she presented during training. Almost as if she wasn’t entirely used to interacting with people in ordinary ways. Mira exhaled, surrendering to it.

She moved toward her desk instead, pulling out the chair and dropping into it while rummaging through the top drawer for thread and needle. The familiarity of the small sewing kit grounded her. Behind her, Rumi perched at the edge of the bed with her knees to her chest, close enough that Mira could feel her presence at her side.

Too close, perhaps—but Rumi looked intent, almost stubbornly so, as if she were observing something delicate and important rather than a simple seam about to be stitched shut.

Ignoring the invasive attention—or at least attempting to—she threaded the needle in one smooth motion, barely glancing down before testing the tension between her fingers, tugging the thread just enough to feel its give. The teddy lay on its side beneath the desk lamp, one small arm extended outward like a patient prepped for a careful procedure, fabric parted but not yet beyond saving. The room fell quiet except for the soft scrape of thread slipping through old cotton.

Rumi watched, utterly still.

Up close, Mira could feel it—Rumi’s gaze tracked every movement of her hands, every careful stitch, as if she were afraid to blink and miss something crucial. Mira was used to eyes on her in combat, in training, measuring her strength, waiting for her to slip. This was different. This felt… private. Intimate in a way that made her shoulders tighten.

“It’s okay if the stitches show,” Almost apologetic, Rumi mumbled as though Mira might feel judged if the seam wasn’t invisible. “I don’t mind.”

“They won’t.”

She worked slowly and deliberately, each stitch mirroring the last, neat and even, pulling the seam back together with quiet precision until the tear all but disappeared beneath her hands.

Without seeming to realize it, Rumi leaned closer, knees brushing faintly against the side of the desk, chin nearly in level with Mira’s hands. Mira caught the shift in her peripheral vision and almost faltered, her fingers tightening briefly around the teddy’s arm before she forced herself to relax.

“You’re really good at this,” Rumi mentioned, maybe a little breathless.

“I had practice.”

She didn’t look up. But she could feel Rumi smiling.

The last stitch came easily. Mira knotted the thread with practiced efficiency, trimmed it clean, then sat back, surveying her work. The seam was nearly invisible, the bear whole again. She turned it gently, checking for missed stress points, smoothing the fur where her fingers had pressed.

“There,” she said.

For a moment, Mira held it in place, the teddy still warm from her hands and the low glow of the desk lamp. The seam was invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look. Rumi was already reaching out before Mira could conjure another thought to anchor herself.

Her fingers brushed the bear first, tentative and almost reverent, as if testing whether it was truly whole again, before closing around it fully. Mira felt the exact second their hands overlapped, the warmth of Rumi’s skin lingering against her knuckles, and then she let go.

“It looks…” Rumi drew the teddy to her chest, shoulders loosening in a slow, involuntary release that felt dangerously close to a confession. “It looks like nothing ever happened.”

Mira watched her, something unsteady blooming low in her chest. “That’s the point.”

Eyes bright and unreadable, Rumi looked up at her. “Thank you.”

The words were simple. The way she said them was not.

Suddenly aware of how close Rumi still was—how she had leaned in without either of them noticing, Mira looked away first, retreating into the familiar precision of movement as she returned the needle to its place in the drawer. Their bodies separated by only a handful of careless inches...Mira realized the room felt smaller with Rumi in it. 

She told herself it was nothing. Just a teddy bear. Just a favor for a… colleague?

But as Rumi lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, clutching the repaired bear against her chest like something irreplaceable, Mira felt the quiet, unsettling certainty that she had crossed some invisible line—and that walking back across it would not be as simple as pretending she hadn’t.

—

February 14th, 2020

The city looked wrong at this hour.

Seoul always had light—neon and headlights and the constant pulse of screens—but at two in the morning the brightness felt less attractive, the glow of it washing over empty sidewalks and shuttered storefronts as if the streets were trying to pretend they were still awake. The air was cold enough to sting the back of Mira’s throat when she breathed in, and the wind off the Han carried a wet bite that slid under her sweatshirt and found every place sweat hadn’t dried yet.

They had been about to wrap up a late rehearsal when the pulse of the Honmoon came.

Their first international tour was close enough to taste, the kind of milestone that came with cameras and speeches and choreo drilled into muscle memory until dreams started counting in eight. They had been halfway through the last run, Zoey already complaining about her knees, Rumi’s ponytail damp at the nape of her neck, when the air shifted and every complaint died at the tip of their tongues.

They were hunters before they were idols. They always had been, even when they were teenagers trying to survive training that asked too much of their bodies and too much of their souls. The stage could wait. The world rarely did.

Moving through back streets and service alleys to avoid attention, face masks up and caps pulled low, they stalked like a pack ready to strike. Mira’s heart beat in her ears as they climbed to the rooftop near where the Honmoon had torn, where the smell of sulfur was enough to make eyes water.

The first demon came at them without theatrics—Mira didn’t think.

Her Gok-do materialized in her hand with a familiar pull, the weight of it settling into her grip as naturally as a microphone. The blade caught the rooftop’s neon spill and bounced back the light with iridescent shimmer. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, a pivot on the ball of her foot, a slash that cut through the demon’s form like slicing water.

Rumi and Zoey were already there, flanking, covering her blind spots the way they always did now. The way they had learned to do with bruises and near misses and the slow, hard trust built over years. Rumi’s sword flashed in precise arcs, clean and economical, no wasted motion, every strike landing deadly and powerful. Zoey’s Shin kals were explosive in comparison—fast, aggressive—and the demons that tried to slip past her learned quickly what it meant to underestimate the smallest one.

They were tired. Mira could feel it in the heaviness of her shoulders, in the slight delay between thought and movement after hours and hours of drills and fan cams and Rumi requesting every bit of perfection their bodies had to give.

But tired didn’t mean weak.

The demons came in waves—five, then eight, then something larger that forced Mira to duck as claws raked the air where her head had been. The rooftop shook under their feet. Somewhere below, the city kept living—cars moving, signs blinking, someone laughing too loudly outside a convenience store—unaware that above them, three women were keeping the night from consuming every soul available.

Mira’s Gok-do vibrated as it moved. She felt the impact of every cut in her wrist, in her elbow, in the muscles of her back. She slashed through one demon’s torso, spun, drove the edge into another, and then stepped back just as Rumi’s sword came down right in front of her eyes.

“Left,” Zoey called, voice sharp.

Blade describing a wide arc, Mira vanished the demon that tried to flank Rumi, cutting it apart before it could touch her. Rumi didn’t look at her. She didn’t need to. Their rhythm held.

It always held.

That was the strange thing, sometimes—that they could be this. That they were this. They had grown from teenagers stumbling through training halls into something that saved lives. They were famous now, faces on billboards, names trending on global charts, their bodies trained to move under spotlights and their minds trained to kill in the dark.

The last demon went down with a shriek of dissolving shadow. Its remnants scattered like ash on the wind, and then there was nothing but the hum of the city, the harsh rasp of their breathing, and the ache that settled into Mira’s bones the second the adrenaline began to drain.

“I swear,” Zoey bent over, hands braced on her knees, “if the Honmoon keeps throwing tantrums every time we’re about to go international, I’m going to start charging someone per demon defeated.”

Mira gave a short, breathless snort and wiped the back of her wrist across her mouth. Sweat and city grime mixed on her skin.

Rumi didn’t respond.

She stood a few steps away, sword lowered but not dismissed, shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths that looked practiced. Her face was calm, but her eyes were… not. Eyes glued to her, Mira watched her, unable to decipher what was running through Rumi's mind. For a moment, she considered letting it be. Letting the night swallow the mood the way it swallowed everything else.

Of course, Zoey did not believe in silence.

“Okay,” Zoey announced, straightening with a wince. “We deserve ramyeon. I'm starving after that."

Stretching her arms over her head, Zoey let out a deep sigh like she had just finished a casual workout instead of slicing through manifestations of evil. The city wind tugged at the ends of her bangs, and for a moment she looked almost normal. Almost just nineteen and reckless and hungry.

“You’re always starving.” Mira wiped her blade clean against the hem of her sleeve before dismissing her Gok-do in a shimmer of light.

“That’s because I burn twice as many calories as both of you combined,” Zoey shot back without missing a beat. “I have absolutely no proof of that, but I also have no doubt that it’s true.”

For a second, the wind was the only thing moving.

Then Rumi huffed—a real one this time, not the quiet, distant exhale she had been carrying since the first demon fell. The sound cut through the tension like something clean. She dismissed her sword with a flick of her wrist, iridescent steel dissolving into light, and finally turned toward them instead of toward the city skyline.

"Someone said ramyeon?"

“If Rumi’s on board, we must go!" Zoey clapped her hands together once, already moving as if the vote had been unanimous. Catching Rumi by her wrist, her grin widened when she caught the faint smile on Rumi's lips. "And Mira’s buying.”

“Why am I buying?”

“Because,” Zoey stared at her as if she had just asked why gravity existed, “you’re the rich trust fund baby.”

“I am not—”

Rumi met Zoey’s eyes, and for a split second something unspoken passed between them—a shared amusement, a conspiratorial understanding that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with Mira being easy to tease. They dissolved into quiet laughter again, the sound echoing faintly against the stairwell walls.

Half-heartedly defeated, Mira rolled her eyes. For some reason, paying the bill had become a game she kept losing.

And for reasons she refused to analyze, she didn’t mind losing quite as much when it made Rumi laugh like that.

They moved off the rooftop in silence. The city didn’t look at them; it never did, not when they did not want the attention. They slipped into a side street where a ramyeon place stayed open for the late-night workers, the drunk students and the people who didn’t have anywhere else to go.

The sign out front buzzed, half its letters flickering. Inside, it was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions. The kind that served broth so hot it made your eyes water and didn’t mind if you sat there in the corner without meeting anyone's eyes.

Always the chatterbox, Zoey immediately started talking, as if her voice could fill every empty space. Mira listened enough to follow along, her attention snagging, again and again, on Rumi.

Across from her, Rumi sat with her hood still up, lavender hair hidden from prying eyes, hands wrapped around a cup of water as if she needed something cold to anchor her. Her lips curled and she nodded when Zoey made dramatic points. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Mira could see it because Mira had learned Rumi’s rhythms the way she had learned how to dance.

It was new.

Not Rumi being moody—Rumi had always carried a quiet gravity—but Mira being able to read it.

Over the years, Rumi had changed. The unreachable teenager who had once seemed carved from ice had softened at the edges, warmed into someone attentive and present, someone who remembered Zoey’s favorite snacks and made sure Mira ate after missions even when Mira pretended she wasn’t hungry. Rumi laughed more now. Looked people in the eye like she wanted them to stay.

And still there were places in her that didn’t open.

There was a barrier Zoey and Mira couldn’t cross, no matter how long they stood on the other side and knocked.

It drove Mira mad, sometimes, in a way she refused to examine too closely.

Because what was she supposed to do with the fact that she noticed the way Rumi’s mouth tightened when she thought no one was watching? Or the way she pulled her sleeves down over her hands when she got quiet, like she was trying to hide something as small as skin?

Only in the privacy of her own thoughts, Mira could admit that she had a teeny tiny crush.

It wasn’t like she would ever do anything about it. They were idols. They were hunters. They were bound to a world that punished softness and monitored desire with the same ruthless intensity. Some things were simply not meant to be. Mira knew that. She’d always known that.

That did not mean that she would stop noticing Rumi, and how the sparkle of her eyes was lost today.

The ramyeon arrived steaming, the broth rich and dangerously red, noodles piled high. Zoey dug in like she had not eaten in a week. Mira took a bite and felt warmth spread through her chest, the kind that made the night almost bearable.

Rumi ate slowly.

“Okay, what’s wrong with you?” Zoey, mouth full, squinted at her.

“Nothing.”

"Come on, Rumi. Share with the class.”

Fingers tightened around her chopsticks, and Rumi set them down neatly. “It’s… annoying,” she sighed after a pause, as if the word had to be forced out. “The timing. We are about to fortify the Honmoon internationally. We can’t afford disruptions.”

“Girl, we literally practiced until one of us drops. The tour will be fine.”

“It’s too important for us to get sidetracked by weaklings,” Rumi snapped, and then she stopped.

Her hand went to her sleeve without thinking, tugging the cuff down over her palm.

The small, unconscious movement. The way Rumi’s gaze slid away, as if the rest of the sentence was something she didn’t want to place on the table in front of them. Mira saw it.

Something did not feel right about it.

Zoey didn’t push—rare for Zoey, but not unheard of. She glanced between them, then shoved another mouthful of noodles in as if she had decided to let it go for now. The meal ended the way their nights often ended—Zoey talking, Mira listening, Rumi present but not fully.

By the time Mira had stood up to pay, the place had emptied. The cashier looked bored, not even curious about three women with caps pulled low and hands that wore fingerless gloves.

After getting the check, Mira finally noticed the display by the register. A small rotating stand of keychains, the kind of cheap impulse buys that existed solely to guilt people into spending an extra few won. Tiny plush animals dangled from metal rings, their faces bright and stupid for the grime of the city, and—Mira’s brain supplied with unwanted clarity—cute.

She stared at them longer than necessary, turning the display as she handed her credit card. Her eye caught on one keychain in particular—a small teddy bear: simple, soft, its fur a pale color that reminded Mira of something older and worn.

It wasn’t the same, obviously. But it almost matched the teddy bear Rumi kept back in Jeju, the one Mira had stitched years ago and pretended it didn’t matter even as she had watched Rumi carry it all the way to Seoul.

A foolish thought occurred to her: this might make her feel better.

Trying not to think too much about it, Mira reached for the keychain and asked for it to be added to the bill. She shoved it into her hoodie pocket before Zoey could see, as she came skipping towards her, hiding it for some reason.

They walked home through back streets, the night colder now that the soup's heat had left their bodies. Their apartment—more luxurious than any starting idol dorm had a right to—loomed quiet when they arrived. They did not bother to flicker the lights on, moving around the space with earned familiarity.

“I’m dead,” Zoey yawned, rubbing her eyes with her fists. “If anyone tries to make me rehearse tomorrow, tell them to fuck off.”

She disappeared down the hall toward her room, leaving Mira and Rumi in the living area with the soft glow of a single lamp.

The silence that fell between them was thick.

For a minute, Rumi stood there, hands buried deep in the pockets of her hoodie, eyes cast toward the floor as if the grain of the wood required intense study. She didn’t move. Didn’t fidget. Just existed in that stillness that had once felt untouchable and now felt deliberate.

Helplessly, Mira watched her. Watched the line of her back beneath the fabric. The careful control of her posture. The way she stood unmoving like someone holding something too heavy inside her chest and refusing to let it spill.

The same irrational annoyance flared again—the same frustration that had simmered for years at the fact that Rumi could be right there, within arm’s reach, and still somehow be unreachable.

They had grown up together, had learned each other’s timing down to the breath before a blade swung or a note rose. Mira could predict the angle of Rumi’s sword in a fight, the cadence of her voice in interviews, the exact second she would laugh at Zoey’s worst jokes.

And yet this—this quiet retreat behind her own ribs—remained far away from Mira's fingertips.

It taunted her. “What’s going on?” she asked, keeping her voice casual with effort that felt ridiculous. “You’ve been… off.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Mira countered, and then immediately regretted how hard the words came out.

“I said I’m fine.” Rumi’s gaze flicked to her, sharp for half a heartbeat.

It was this kind of pointless back-and-forth that sometimes made Mira want to argue.

Not because she was angry—not really—but because anger was easier than silence. Because picking a fight, even a small one, felt like a way to pry something open. To spark a crack. To force Rumi out of that composed shell she wore every single.

But Mira knew that wasn’t how you reached someone like Rumi.

She knew pushing would only make the barrier thicker, the walls higher, the distance sharper. Rumi didn’t respond to force. She retreated from it. She would simply fold inward, tuck whatever she was feeling further away, and Mira would be left standing outside again—angrier than before, and no closer than when she started.

So she did the only thing she could do without making it worse. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the keychain.

It looked even cheaper under the lamplight. A small teddy bear with stitched eyes, its little body covered in an itchy material. Mira held it out anyway, arm extended like she was offering something fragile.

“I… saw this,” she offered, and suddenly her mouth was dry, and she hated herself for caring. “At the rameyon place. It reminded me of—” she cut herself off before she said you, because that felt like too much. “It reminded me of that bear you have.”

Rumi stared at it.

Her entire self stopped, as if her body had forgotten how to move. Her gaze flicked down to the little trinket in Mira’s hand—just once, quick and almost defensive. And something changed. Mira saw it—the tightness in Rumi’s jaw eased. The tension in her shoulders loosened by a fraction. The careful, distant ice she had been holding onto all night cracked.

“It’s stupid,” Mira’s ears heated. “It’s cheap. You don’t have to—”

Before Mira could feel any more embarrassed, Rumi’s hand closed around the keychain.

Her fingers were careful, like she was afraid it might dissolve if she touched it too hard. She turned it once, metal ring catching the light, plush fur brushing her thumb.

Mira watched her throat bob as she swallowed.

And when Rumi looked up, her eyes were bright in a way that made Mira’s chest ache. “You… bought this for me.”

“Don’t make it weird.” Mira scoffed, trying for lightness and landing somewhere near defensive.

Rumi’s mouth twitched, the hint of a real smile appearing and then faltering, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep it. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

She expected that to be the end of it. Expected Rumi to retreat again, keychain in hand, barrier intact.

Instead, Rumi stepped forward.

It was a small movement, but it closed the distance between them in a way that made Mira’s breath catch. Before Mira could think of a reason to step back, Rumi’s arms wrapped around her. The hug was brief, careful, warm. Rumi held her as if she needed proof that Mira was real and standing here, as if she needed to anchor herself in something solid before she could let go.

Mira froze for half a second, then, slowly, let her own hand come up to rest against Rumi’s shoulder.

Neither of them spoke.

When Rumi pulled back, her expression had returned to composed, but something softer lingered around her eyes, like the night had loosened its grip on her just enough to let her breathe.

“Good night, Mira,” Rumi did not meet her eyes as she turned around and left.

Mira nodded, unable to find words. She stood there in the quiet living area, heart beating too fast for someone who had just been hugged and told herself—firmly—that the keychain meant nothing.

It was a cheap little thing. An impulse buy. A distraction.

But the next morning, when they met at rehearsal again—much to Zoey's dismay—Rumi’s training bag swung at her side as she walked.

And there it was.

The teddy bear keychain clipped to the zipper pull, bobbing with each step, catching the light like it belonged there. Mira stared at it longer than she meant to. Rumi didn’t look at her. Didn’t say anything. Yet when she adjusted the strap of her bag, her fingers brushed the keychain once, absent-minded and careful.

After that, it never left her. Mira caught glimpses of it everywhere—in dressing rooms, in airport terminals, backstage in bags beneath harsh lights. And more than once, she caught Rumi’s fingers wrapped loosely around it, thumb rubbing over the plush fabric like she was checking that it was still there.

Like she was checking that Mira was still there.

—

February 14th, 2026

Mira had always been cynical in the way people were when they learned too early that wanting things was the fastest way to get hurt.

As a teenager, she hadn’t thought about romance at all—not about the dramatic kiss at the end of a movie, not about the slow-burn confession in the rain, not about the K-drama nonsense where everything was solved by a perfectly timed string quartet and a man with good hair.

Love was not something she wanted. Caring for people was far too problematic—people left scars, people took and never gave back—and Mira had never understood the appeal of building your life around something so fragile, so easily broken by timing and fear and the simple fact that humans were, at their core, unreliable.

Logically, Mira had never considered that she would ever fall in love. Never dreamed about a big white wedding with a three-tier cake and a list of guests smiling. Never thought about walking down an aisle. Never imagined the kiss at the altar because she had never been able to imagine anyone looking at her and deciding, with certainty, that she was worth staying for.

Life had sardonic ways with her, though, and painfully, she had discovered that she was—regrettably—an embarrassing amount of romantic when it came to Rumi.

It was humiliating in a very specific way. It wasn’t even that Mira did grand gestures on principle; it was that her heart simply behaved like a traitor in Rumi’s presence, fluttering around her with obnoxious intensity, turning Mira into someone who wanted to give and give and give until there was nothing left of her but empty hands and devotion. Mira resented how easy it was for Rumi to make her soft, hated how the mere thought of Rumi’s smile could unravel her resolve like a badly tied knot.

She was down bad. Catastrophically so. Down in a way that made her want to hide under a table and never make eye contact with herself again.

It was the only reason why she had this plan, honestly.

Valentine’s Day had always been a date Mira detested. She had mocked it, rolled her eyes at it, made cruel jokes about the way people bought love in heart-shaped boxes and then acted surprised when it expired by March.

And yet here she was, somehow, falling for the paraphernalia and the ridiculous hearts and the stupid chocolates arranged like promises.

She blamed Rumi for that, too, of course. Mira blamed Rumi for everything these days.

She blamed Rumi for the teddy bear in her hands that weighed a ton.

It was objectively not heavy—just plush and soft, tan fur with stitched black eyes, a little bow at its neck, something charming and harmless that would have been sold in a display case with a tiny tag that said Perfect for Her! Yet Mira had attached a black velvet ring box to one of its arms, a small square of expensive terror, and now it felt like she was carrying a live grenade that could either detonate into joy or scatter her into a million humiliating pieces.

Sleepless nights she had spent curled up beside Rumi, the box hidden in every place she could think of, moved from drawer to suitcase to the back of a sock pile like a paranoid gremlin. The idea of Rumi accidentally finding it had been unbearable, and Mira didn’t trust herself not to blurt it out at random if she kept it too close to her own hands.

It had been enough time.

They had spent years together in a relationship Mira could only define as magical, not because it was perfect—nothing ever was—but because it was the one thing in Mira’s life that consistently felt like it had chosen her back. Every single kiss and caress had Mira wanting—aching—for the next step.

It was a primal need to put a ring on Rumi’s finger and capture that same sparkle Rumi carried in the patterns on her skin into a stone that Rumi could look at and remember, on bad days, that she was not alone.

Mira had waited, pathetically so, until the perfect date, and something in her heart—traitor, melodramatic, ridiculous—had insisted that it had to be Valentine’s Day.

She cringed so hard about it she nearly dislocated her soul.

For years, she had talked ill about the couples that got engaged on corny dates like this one. Laughed at the desperation of asking someone to marry you on a commercial holiday that existed to sell restaurants and roses; convinced that anyone who did it must be compensating for something, trying to fix their relationship with a gimmick.

And now here she was, praying to any god that might hear her, praying they wouldn’t be part of those odds, praying the night would go perfectly and Rumi would say yes to the question Mira had been holding in her chest for years.

Apparently, it was inevitable to go all out. She had booked Rumi’s favorite restaurant—the one hidden behind a nondescript door in a quiet street, where the lighting was low and the tables were spaced far enough apart to pretend you were alone in the world.

Being regulars, Mira had requested the secluded corner table, the one near the window where you could see the city lights without being seen too clearly yourself. She had gone as far as to work with the chef to arrange a menu that was basically a greatest-hits compilation of Rumi’s comfort foods, all the dishes she always asked for again and again, like her palate had its own stubborn loyalties.

Mira had even made sure the staff wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. No loud announcements. No violinist showing up out of nowhere. No cake arriving with sparklers like a warning flare.

This was supposed to be private.

This was supposed to be theirs.

Still, the entire evening felt like Mira was walking a tightrope while holding a glass of water, one wrong step away from disaster. Rumi looked devastating, of course she did, because Rumi could show up in a plain black coat and still look like gold. Her hair was lose, falling around her shoulders in soft waves that made Mira’s throat go dry, and her eyes were warm in a way that made Mira want to lie down on the floor and never get up again.

Zoey had texted Mira earlier: DON’T CHOKE. ALSO IF YOU FUMBLE THIS ONE I’M CHANGING MY NAME AND MOVING COUNTRIES.

Mira had ignored it because thinking about failure was not helping, except it was all she could think about anyway, because Mira’s brain had always been excellent at catastrophizing.

Dinner was…Perfect.

Dangerously perfect.

Rumi laughed. Rumi ate. Rumi leaned forward across the table at one point, elbows on the linen, and looked at Mira with that soft expression that made Mira feel like she had been chosen. The words almost came tumbling out of her mouth right then and there, a rush of wouldyoumarryme.

Instead, she had gripped her glass of rosé until the condensation slicked her fingers and told herself to breathe.

The restaurant was dim and warm, candlelight glinting off cutlery, the low murmur of other diners creating a blanket of sound that made Mira feel protected from the world. Outside, Seoul was a blur of winter light and distant traffic, the city doing what it always did, existing relentlessly, indifferent to the fact that Mira’s entire future might change in the next five minutes.

By the time dessert came—something delicate and sweet that Rumi liked, something Mira had ordered without asking because she knew—Mira could barely taste anything.

Her mouth was dry.

Her palms were damp.

Her heart was beating like it wanted to escape her ribs.

She waited until the waiter cleared the table and the last interruption was gone, until there was only them and the candle between them and the soft reflection of the city in the window.

“You’ve been quiet,” Rumi lifted her glass and took a small sip, then set it down, eyes on Mira. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah. I’m—” Mira let out a laugh that came out wrong, too fluttery and choked. Running a hand through her hair, she tried to breathe. Pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth, she tried again. “I’m nervous.”

“Why?” Rumi’s brows knit slightly, the smallest frown of concern.

Because I’m about to hand you my heart in a teddy bear’s arms, and if you drop it, I will simply evaporate into shame.

Instead, she said, “Because I have something for you.”

Rumi blinked once, surprised, and the concern softened into warmth. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Mira cut in, too fast, too firm, and immediately regretted how desperate it sounded. She forced herself to slow down, to breathe. “I mean. I wanted to.”

The smile on Rumi's lips reminded Mira that all of this was worth it.

Mira reached down beside her chair, fingers closing around the gift bag she had kept hidden like contraband. The teddy bear was inside, wrapped in tissue paper that crinkled too loudly in the quiet, and Mira hated how obvious it made everything feel, hated how her hands shook slightly as she pulled it out.

It was ridiculous, seeing it in this environment, something soft and plush in a place that served expensive wine, but Mira had chosen it deliberately. Because Rumi loved teddy bears in a way she tried to pretend she didn’t, because Mira had seen the way Rumi’s fingers found the keychain that dangled from her bag when she was anxious, because Mira had stitched the first bear back together years ago and had never stopped thinking about what it meant.

Only the booming of her heart registered as Mira set the teddy on the table between them, carefully, as if placing it too roughly might startle Rumi into running away.

“Mira…” Rumi’s expression went soft immediately, like it always did with these small things, the ones that touched her history. She reached out, fingertips brushing the teddy’s ear.

“It’s not just—” Mira started, then stopped because her voice was doing that thing where it threatened to betray her. She cleared her throat. “It’s for… us. For you.”

Rumi looked up at her. “It’s cute.”

The velvet box was stitched to the teddy’s arm in a neat little harness that Mira had spent an hour adjusting because the idea of it sliding off had been unbearable. It sat like a little dark secret against the bear’s chest.

One that Rumi was quick to find.

For half a second, she didn’t react—like her brain had to catch up, like she had to translate what she was seeing into meaning. Then her eyes widened just slightly, the warmth in them shifting into something startled, something open.

Mira’s hands clenched under the table so hard her knuckles ached.

“Is that—” Rumi’s fingers hovered over the box, not touching it yet. Her voice caught, because even Rumi could be thrown off her center sometimes, apparently, and the sight of it made Mira want to cry in relief and terror at the same time.

Mira forced herself to speak before she lost her nerve, because if she waited another second she would run out of oxygen and pass away on this chair like an idiot.

“It’s not—” Mira started, then realized she was doing it again, trying to minimize, trying to make it smaller so it couldn’t hurt her as much if the answer was no. But she knew Rumi, and she knew Rumi wanted this as badly as her. “It is. Yes.”

Rumi’s eyes flicked up to Mira’s, wide and luminous in the candlelight.

Closing the distance between them because Mira had always been terrible at staying far away from what she wanted, she leaned forward, elbows sliding onto the table.

“I know this is corny,” Mira admitted, because of course, that was what she decided to confess first, because cynicism was the last shield she had. “And I know I’ve made fun of people who do this on Valentine’s Day, and I’m going to hate myself for this forever, and—” She stopped, because Rumi’s face had gone so tender it physically hurt to look at her.

Hand still hovering above the box like she was afraid to touch it and make it real, Rumi’s lips parted slightly.

“I don’t want to be cynical with you,” she said, and the words felt like stepping off a cliff. “I don’t want to spend my life pretending I don’t want things just because wanting them is scary. I want… you. I want us. I want whatever comes after this.”

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned. Mira blinked hard, furious at herself for being emotional, for being this much of a sap, for being helplessly in love.

And then she did the thing she had rehearsed in her head a thousand times and still felt unprepared for.

She reached across the table, took Rumi’s hand—warm, small, familiar—and held it like an anchor. “Marry me. Please. Marry me.”

For a moment, Rumi didn’t move.

Her eyes stayed locked on Mira’s, unblinking, and Mira felt her entire world narrow into that gaze, into the space between their hands, into the candle flame that flickered and refused to go out.

Then Rumi’s breath shuddered out.

Her fingers tightened around Mira’s hand.

And something in her face cracked—not in a broken way, but in a way that let light through, like ice melting from the inside. Her eyes filled too quickly, lashes catching the moisture as if even her tears were trying to be disciplined.

“Mira—” Rumi whispered, and Mira’s name sounded like something sacred in her mouth. “Yes. Mira, yes.”

“Okay,” Mira’s vision blurred instantly, relief slamming into her so hard it made her dizzy. “Okay.”

"Okay? That's what you are saying after I said I will marry you?" Rumi laughed again, wetter this time, and squeezed Mira’s hand like she was making sure she didn’t disappear. “You—you proposed with a teddy bear.”

“I told you it was corny.”

“It’s…” Rumi’s voice softened into something so warm that Mira thought she might melt into the table. “It’s perfect.”

Mira’s hands trembled as she opened the velvet box, fingers clumsy with emotion. Inside, the ring caught the candlelight and threw it back in tiny sparks, a stone that wasn’t the stars or the moon but was, Mira hoped, close enough to make Rumi smile.

Rumi held her hand out without being asked, palm up, fingers slightly curled, the gesture so trusting it made Mira’s throat tighten again.

Mira slid the ring onto her finger.

It fit perfectly.

Breathing shallowly, as if she was afraid to blink and lose it, Rumi stared at it for a moment. Then she looked up at Mira and smiled—a full smile, the kind that reached her eyes and made them shine, the kind that made Mira’s chest ache with the sheer unfairness of being loved back.

“You’re going to have to brag about it,” Mira’s laugh came out shaky, because that was the only way she knew how to survive tenderness. “You’re not allowed to hide it.”

“Oh, I’m going to brag.”

“Good.”

Rumi leaned forward across the table and Mira met her halfway, because of course she did, because if she didn’t, she might explode. Their foreheads touched first, a soft bump, and Mira felt Rumi’s breath against her mouth.

“You’re such a romantic,” Rumi whispered, affectionate, amused, devastated in the same breath.

“Yeah,” Mira admitted, because denying it was pointless now. “Only for you.”

Warm and steady, Rumi’s hands rose to cup her face, thumbs brushing Mira’s cheekbones as if memorizing her. And then Rumi kissed her.

Slow and certain and so tender Mira felt it in her bones, felt years of fear and loneliness loosen their grip, felt something in her finally believe, fully, that this could be her life. When they broke apart, Mira’s forehead still pressed to Rumi’s, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for half her existence.

Finger delicate to trace the ring once, Rumi reached down and picked up the teddy bear to hold it to her chest, as if it had always belonged to her.

Mira watched her, heart pounding, cheeks damp, and had the sudden, ridiculous thought that she would do this again and again if it meant seeing Rumi look like that.

And as the candle flickered between them, the city still moving outside, indifferent and alive, Mira realized—with a stunned, quiet wonder—that wanting things hadn’t killed her.

It had brought her here.

To Rumi.

To a teddy bear with a velvet box stitched to its arms.

To a yes.

—

February 15th, 2029

“What are you doing up? You should be resting.”

There is something almost comical about the way Rumi flinches, caught in the simple act of standing beside the bed as if she’s been discovered committing a crime. Her eyes go wide—mimicking those of a doe—clearly not expecting Mira back this quickly.

Mira leans against the doorframe, a small gift bag dangling from her fingers. Her entire side presses against the threshold of the room, arms coming to rest crossed against her hoodie. Lips a thin line, fighting off the urge to smile, one eyebrow climbs nearly into her hairline as she gives Rumi a look from above her glasses.

“I have rested,” Rumi turns toward her, slow and careful, the sheepish curl of her mouth betraying her long before she speaks. “For multiple hours. I was getting fidgety.”

Her voice is calm and steady, if a little hoarse, but one hand remains braced against the bassinet rail, securing her balance. The other is busy smoothing soft fabric over their sleeping baby—tiny limbs bundled in something unmistakably plush.

The picture in front of Mira does something warm and almost painful to her chest.

Even now—only hours after a delivery that had stretched long and relentlessly, after watching Rumi grit her teeth through wave after wave of pain—Mira can still see it. That same strength. That same refusal to bend.

Pale and exhausted, moving carefully as if her body no longer quite belongs to her, Rumi stands beside the hospital bassinet, fingers never straying far from their daughter. As if she would dare anything to come close.

“Rumi,” Mira calls, gentler now as she steps fully into the room. “You just gave birth. You shouldn’t be standing up on your own.”

“If I can go toe-to-toe with the King of the Demon Realm,” Rumi rolls her eyes faintly, though the motion is softer than usual, the effort visible in the way she steadies herself before shifting her weight. And yet, she lifts her chin with quiet defiance, “I think I can manage standing up by myself to see my baby.”

“That was before you pushed an entire human being out of your body.” Mira huffs despite herself.

Rumi rolls her eyes again, affectionately this time, like she’s trying not to give Mira the satisfaction of being right.

And Mira—smitten, helpless Mira—feels her mouth do that thing it always does around Rumi now, the soft curve that happens before she can stop it. Even after three years of marriage, she still hasn’t learned how to exist near this woman without looking like she’s been handed a private miracle.

She was still living on cloud nine.

Three years married, and Mira still caught herself staring at the ring on Rumi’s finger like it might vanish if she blinked too hard. Still caught herself half expecting to wake up back in Jeju with sore muscles and too many rules, only to open her eyes and find Rumi there—warm, real, hair a mess against the pillow, breathing slow in the quiet as if she had always belonged in Mira’s life.

And now there was a baby.

A tiny little human, swaddled and sleeping and impossibly new, the soft punctuation at the end of a sentence Mira never thought she’d be allowed to finish.

Ever since the moment the stick read pregnant, Mira’s life had felt like it couldn’t possibly tilt any brighter without breaking the laws of physics. She was married to the love of her life. They had saved the world. They had left the idol machine behind for projects that felt like theirs—work that didn’t require bending over backwards for someone else’s schedule, work that belonged to them the way this child would belong to them.

Nothing could be better.

It was why Mira was standing here now, pretending to scold, pretending to be stern, when really she was vibrating with a happiness so intense it felt embarrassing, like she should apologize to the universe for being this lucky.

Rumi’s gaze flicks down, then back up, and only then does she seem to register the gift bag dangling from Mira’s fingers like a tell.

Her eyes narrow.

It is, in any other context, a terrifying look. The kind that used to make demons hesitate. The kind that used to make directors and managers backtrack mid-sentence. But right now it’s just suspicious, soft around the edges with exhaustion.

“What’s that?” Rumi asks.

Mira blinks, as if she hasn’t been holding it in plain sight. As if she hadn’t planned this exact moment in her head for months. “What’s what?” Mira tries.

“Mira.” Rumi’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, it becomes more unimpressed.

Without a doubt, Rumi already has the mom tone down.

“It’s nothing,” Mira defends automatically, which is exactly the kind of thing a person says when it is very much something.

Rumi’s brow lifts. “Mira.”

There is no escaping that tone, not even now, not even married, not even with their child asleep between them like a tiny peace treaty. “Okay,” Mira concedes, voice dropping as if confession requires reverence. She holds the bag a little higher. “It’s… a thing.”

“A thing.” Rumi’s mouth twitches, tired amusement fighting to win.

“A thing,” Mira repeats stubbornly, because if she says gift she might burst into tears and that would be humiliating.

Rumi waits, patient in the way she has learned to be with Mira’s ridiculousness, one hand still braced on the bassinet rail, the other smoothing the baby’s blanket in slow strokes like she is memorizing the sensation of fabric over tiny ribs.

"I got something for her," Mira takes a breath that feels too big for her lungs. Still a little away from the bassinet, her hand digs into the bag and pulls out the contents.

“It’s a teddy bear,” Rumi notices, and the words come out both proud and breathy, which feels like her brand at this point. “For her.”

“For our baby.” She gestures vaguely at the sleeping bundle as if clarifying is necessary. “I got it earlier, and I left it in the car because I didn’t want you to see it until— until now. And also because I didn’t want it in the room while you were laboring because that felt like jinxing it…and I’m not superstitious but I am a little bit superstitious when it comes to you, and—”

“Mira,” Rumi interrupts gently, but she’s smiling now, and the smile is tired and warm and so fond Mira feels her bones soften.

“It’s small. Like, baby-sized.” Mira stops rambling, cheeks burning. She pauses, then adds, “I wanted her to have one. Her own. Something that reminds her of us.”

Instinctively, Rumi’s eyes flick down to their baby. She looks like she might cry, which would be unfair because Mira is already dangerously close to crying and they can’t both cry—someone has to be a functional adult here.

“You got our baby a teddy bear.” These days, the hormones have made Rumi unbearably wistful—so open, so full of wonder that everything seems to move her.

It makes Mira want to wrap her in bubble wrap and keep the world at arm’s length. “Yes.”

“I got you something too.”

Her brain stutters like an old computer, catching on the words and refusing to process them because that is not part of the plan. Mira had a plan. Mira’s plan involved her being the one who does the soft thing. Mira’s plan did not include Rumi having a counterplan.

“What?” Mira says ineloquently.

“I got you something too,” Rumi repeats, and now the amusement is unmistakable. Her eyes lift to Mira’s face, and there is something quietly victorious there, something that makes Mira’s stomach flip. “For Valentine’s Day. Well, a day off.”

“Rumi, you just—”

“Gave birth,” Rumi finishes, like she’s humoring Mira. “Yes. I know.”

“How did you have time?” Mira whispers, scandalized. “When did you have time?”

"Actually, I kinda needed her here for it." Rumi’s eyes flick toward the bassinet. Mira follows the look.

And only then does Mira really see it—the soft fabric Rumi has been smoothing over their daughter is pulled away, the baby is bundled in something plush that is not the standard striped hospital blanket, the way the tiny hood, folded back for now, has the faintest rounded shape at the top.

Ears.

Mira’s breath catches.

Rumi’s hand moves again, gentle, tugging the blanket down completely to reveal the onesie properly, as if unveiling a secret she has been waiting to share.

It’s a teddy bear onesie.

Brown and soft, with a stitched little bear face on the chest and tiny ears on the hood, absurdly cute in a way that feels like violence. Mira stares at it as if she has been struck.

“I thought…” Rumi watches her, eyes bright, the tiredness still there but softened by something else—by satisfaction, by tenderness. By the quiet joy of having surprised Mira for once. “I thought you should have one too. Since it’s Valentine’s Day. And since—” She stops, and Mira can see the hesitation, the small vulnerability. “Since you always give the teddy bears.”

Well.

Fuck the not-crying plan. Rumi looks down at their baby, sleeping peacefully in the teddy bear onesie, tiny fist tucked up near her cheek, mouth slightly open as she breathes, unaware that she is already being wrapped in the language of her mothers’ love. Mira's lower lip trembles.

Just a little.

“You gave me a teddy bear,” Mira whispers, voice breaking on the words like an idiot.

“I did.” Rumi’s mouth curves, small and proud.

Mira lets out a shaky laugh that is dangerously close to a sob. She steps forward without thinking, closing the space between them, and before she can talk herself out of it, she presses her forehead to Rumi’s temple, careful, gentle, as if she is afraid Rumi will vanish.

Then Rumi murmurs, so quietly Mira almost misses it, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“I can’t believe we did it,” Mira’s fingers find the baby’s mittened hand, just a brush, just enough to feel that warm, impossibly small presence. "We got here."

And Mira thinks, with a quiet, overwhelming certainty, that this is what forever has always meant for her—not grand promises, not perfect days, but the simple, stubborn act of staying close, of mending and gifting and returning again and again to the people who reach back.

Beside her, Rumi’s hand slides into hers.

Their daughter sleeps on, wrapped in bears and Valentine’s softness, while outside the hospital window, the city keeps glowing, indifferent and alive, never knowing how hard-won this peace is. Never knowing how fiercely it is being guarded right now by two women who have always been strongest when they are together.

—