[kpdh, rumira, i screamed at @princington over a vision, and then they made art, and then i crashed out & made words, now here we are, thank you prince full credit to them for the amazing art!]
Mira, flustered and defeated by the evils of a complicated spreadsheet, chews on her lip and stands by Rumi's cracked doorway.
She'd hardly call herself shy—but Rumi looks busy, wearing a pair of gardening gloves and an old tank top, her hair up in a loose ponytail. She's moving her plants all over the place again: rotating which ones go out to the balcony and which ones stay indoors, and all the while she looks happy and so, so pretty.
But the spreadsheets. Mira awkwardly leans against the doorway, rubbing at her arm before softly calling:
Rumi turns mid-step, a houseplant nestled in her arms. "Yes?"
She feels silly but she powers through.
"Can I—" Actually, nevermind. "Sorry, you were in the middle of something—"
But then the plant's already on the floor, and Rumi's gloves have been peeled off, and Rumi honest to god teleports right in front of her—smiling fondly as she insists: "No, no. I'm here, whatever you need."
Mira wants to laugh, but instead she smiles all soft and tender and red in the cheeks because just like that, everything's better already.
What a feeling. What wonderful ache it is that blooms around her chest—like her flowers out in the balcony—knowing that Rumi means every bit of it and more.
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