Welcome to My Story Vault
I’m a long-time writer with ink-stained fingers and hundreds of notebooks filled with characters, worlds, and what-ifs. Over the years, I’ve discovered that writing fanfiction alongside my original stories keeps my creativity alive—and honestly, makes me better. This blog is my little corner of the internet where I’ll be sharing both: fanfiction inspired by the stories I love, and original works that have lived in my head (and on paper) for far too long.
My writing style is unique—at least, that’s what I’ve been told. It might not be for everyone, and that’s okay. But I’ve reached a point where I’d rather put my stories out into the world than let them gather dust in silence. Some people might love them. Some might not. But I’ll never know unless I share.
So if you’re into emotional arcs, character-driven storytelling, and a blend of the familiar and the fantastical, stick around. Feedback is always welcome—I’m here to grow, connect, and tell the stories that won’t leave me alone.
https://www.fanfiction.net/~mcwildmoor
https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_C_Wildmoor93/pseuds/M_C_Wildmoor93
Full Piece Here! A little something spicy to start your week. 🔥
Happy Pride to all you beautiful beings out there! Be bold, be joyful, be unapologetically yourself, and never let anyone dim your light.
Take a page from Polytrix—own your queerness, embrace every part of who you are, and never be afraid to love openly and authentically. The things that make you different are often the things that make you shine the brightest.
And remember: Pride is more than a month on the calendar. Your identity, your story, your love, and your place in this world matter every single day of the year. You are special, valued, and worthy of celebration—not just in June, but always.
Also, a special thank you to @princington for being out here spreading queer visibility, creating characters and stories that so many people connect with, and somehow managing to make an entire fandom collectively pine for Polytrix. Truly a public service.
And listen—I’m straight… or at least I thought I was until I saw some of Prince’s work. Seriously, damn. Some of their art makes me weak in the knees.
Wishing you a week filled with love, laughter, confidence, and maybe just a little bit of mischief.
Full Piece Here! A little something spicy to start your week. 🔥
Happy Pride to all you beautiful beings out there! Be bold, be joyful, be unapologetically yourself, and never let anyone dim your light.
Take a page from Polytrix—own your queerness, embrace every part of who you are, and never be afraid to love openly and authentically. The things that make you different are often the things that make you shine the brightest.
And remember: Pride is more than a month on the calendar. Your identity, your story, your love, and your place in this world matter every single day of the year. You are special, valued, and worthy of celebration—not just in June, but always.
Also, a special thank you to @princington for being out here spreading queer visibility, creating characters and stories that so many people connect with, and somehow managing to make an entire fandom collectively pine for Polytrix. Truly a public service.
And listen—I’m straight… or at least I thought I was until I saw some of Prince’s work. Seriously, damn. Some of their art makes me weak in the knees.
Wishing you a week filled with love, laughter, confidence, and maybe just a little bit of mischief.
I've had a few people ask why I color Mira's eyes green in @princington artwork, so I thought I'd explain my reasoning.
Green eyes are incredibly rare worldwide, and among Koreans, they're even rarer—well under 1% of the population. Because of that, I always felt green eyes suited Mira perfectly.
To me, Mira has always been a one-in-a-million kind of person. She's intelligent, determined, compassionate, and quietly extraordinary. Giving her green eyes felt like a visual reflection of that uniqueness.
For Mira, those rare green eyes became a small reminder that she stands out, not because she tries to, but because she simply is different in the best possible way.
That being said, at the end of the day, this is Prince's art and Prince's character. I want to be respectful of that and do justice to the character they created. So if people feel brown eyes would be more fitting or accurate for Mira, I’m more than willing to make that change.
Well we didn't quite hit 1000 likes, but i couldn't wait. So here's some more coloring of @princington artwork. I would give anything to spend the day at the pool with these lovelies. 😍
Now what do I color next? I have a 5 hour plane ride tomorrow and will need something to do. So do I start from the beginning and work my way through chronologically, or do I do something spice and potentially scar whoever I sit next to on the plane. Thoughts?
This chapter closes out Tokyo with applause still ringing—but not everything beneath the surface is steady.
There are old wounds, familiar enemies, quiet conversations, and the kind of trust that forms in small, unspoken ways. The show may be flawless, but the cracks are still there—hidden under lights, smiles, and the hum of a plane carrying them toward whatever comes next.
It had been ten days since they had arrived in Tokyo, and the final night of the tour stop carried a bittersweet edge.
Ten days of neon streets and late-night rehearsals.
Ten days of crowded arenas and still moments between flights.
Ten days where the city had wrapped itself around them like something bright and endless.
And now it was ending.
The last show felt different.
Not in the music.
Not in the lights.
Those were perfect.
If anything, they were better than the nights before. The choreography was sharper, the harmonies cleaner, the rhythm of the set so deeply embedded in their bodies that they moved through it without thinking. Every cue landed exactly where it should. Every transition flowed like breath.
But there was a tension beneath it now—a subtle awareness that something had shifted in the days since the attack.
The Honmoon still shimmered above the stadium like a living constellation, vast and silent and radiant to the few who could see it. Every note Rumi sang seemed to feed it, the light threading through the air like silver-violet fire. The crowd answered every lyric as if it belonged to them, voices rising in waves that rolled through the arena.
To most people in the stands, it felt like magic.
To the people backstage, it felt like something else entirely.
Because the air carried something new.
Watchfulness.
Backstage, security moved tighter than before. Routes were checked twice. Doors were watched constantly. Lee's team had turned the venue into a discreet fortress without most of the public ever realizing it.
Headsets murmured with constant updates.
Guards shifted positions between every song.
Every shadow was noticed.
The crowd never saw it.
They only saw the show.
And the show itself was flawless.
Rumi felt stronger tonight. The wound in her shoulder had tightened into something manageable, the sharpest edge of pain dulled by adrenaline and the way the Honmoon seemed to surge whenever she stepped into the light.
It moved with her now.
Every time she lifted her voice, the air seemed to respond.
Beside her, Mira's voice anchored every harmony, steady and unwavering, grounding the soaring edges of the music. Zoey danced like gravity had forgotten her entirely, every movement sharp and electric, her grin bright enough to light half the stadium.
They moved together the way they always had—three points of the same constellation.
And the crowd gave everything back.
Lightsticks shimmered in endless waves.
Phones lifted like a sea of tiny stars.
Thousands of voices rose with the chorus until the arena itself seemed to vibrate.
For a moment, it was only music.
And when the final song ended, the roar of the stadium rose so loud it felt like it might shake the lights from the rafters.
Confetti burst overhead, drifting down like silver snow.
The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the stage, hands clasped as they bowed together.
The sound followed them all the way backstage.
Even after the lights dimmed.
Even after the curtains closed.
The roar of Tokyo stayed with them.
The signing was smaller than the concerts—controlled, limited, carefully managed.
A long table.
Bright lights.
Fans filing through in orderly rows.
Security ringed the room unobtrusively.
Rumi smiled for photos, signed albums, thanked fans in three languages without thinking about it anymore.
For a while, it was easy.
Then the line paused.
Zoey's pen stopped moving.
Across the table, Olivia Queen stood smiling.
The smile did not reach her eyes.
"Well," Olivia said lightly. "Look at you."
No one spoke.
Mira's back straightened.
"You've really outdone yourselves," Olivia continued, her voice carrying just enough sweetness to hide the poison beneath it. "Stadium tours. Millions of fans."
Her gaze swept over them slowly.
"And all it took was stealing everything I built."
Zoey leaned back in her chair.
"You didn't build anything," she said flatly. "You stole it from us."
Olivia's smile sharpened.
"You ruined me."
Fans nearby shifted uncomfortably. Security straightened along the walls.
At the edge of the room, Yelena was already moving.
Rumi lifted one hand slightly—barely more than a flick of her fingers.
Stop.
Yelena caught the signal and stilled, though her eyes never left Olivia.
Olivia leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice just enough that only the girls and the guards closest to them could hear.
"You think this lasts forever?" she said softly. "You think people like you get to stay on top?"
Her eyes moved across the three of them with open contempt.
"You're trash," she said softly.
The room went still.
Before Mira could respond, a hand closed around Olivia's arm.
Zemo.
His expression was calm. Almost polite.
"Miss Queen," he said gently. "I think your visit is over."
Olivia twisted toward him, fury blazing now that the mask had slipped.
"They destroyed everything I had," she snapped.
Zemo's grip tightened just slightly.
"They corrected a mistake," he replied evenly.
Her eyes flashed.
"You think you're clever," she said. "You think putting on a suit and standing behind them makes you important."
Zemo regarded her calmly.
"I think," he said, "that screaming in a room full of fans makes you look desperate."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the line.
Olivia leaned closer to him, her voice dropping to a hiss.
"You have no idea who you're protecting."
Zemo's expression didn't change.
"Oh," he said mildly. "On the contrary."
For a moment something flickered behind Olivia's anger—uncertainty, sharp and brief.
Then the rage returned.
"You think this is over?" she said. "You think I'm done?"
Her gaze snapped back to the girls.
"I will destroy you," she said. "Every last one of you."
Zoey rolled her eyes.
"Get in line."
Olivia's smile turned vicious.
"I don't care what it costs me."
Zemo stepped slightly between her and the table.
"That," he said quietly, "is exactly the kind of thinking that ends badly."
She tried to pull her arm free.
Zemo didn't let go.
"Let go of me."
"Gladly," he said, "once you leave."
Security was already moving.
Marcus stepped closer.
Olivia let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
"This isn't over," she said.
Zemo inclined his head slightly.
"It rarely is."
He guided her away from the table, calm and unhurried, his grip firm enough that she couldn't twist free without causing a scene.
Security closed around them, escorting her out of the room.
The silence she left behind lingered.
Zoey exhaled slowly.
"Well," she muttered. "That was dramatic."
Mira didn't smile.
Rumi watched the doorway a moment longer before turning back to the waiting fans.
"Next?" she said gently.
And the line began moving again.
The private jet lifted into the night hours later.
Through the cabin windows, Tokyo spread beneath them in a vast sweep of gold and neon, the city glowing like something alive. Highways curved through the darkness in slow rivers of light. Towering buildings shimmered against the black sky, their windows burning bright long after midnight.
For ten days the city had surrounded them—loud and endless and impossible to ignore.
Now it slowly fell away beneath the wings.
Inside the cabin, exhaustion softened everyone.
The adrenaline of the show had finally drained out of their bodies, leaving behind the heavy stillness that followed long nights and louder crowds.
Not everyone was on the flight.
John and Alexei had already gone ahead earlier that evening with Bobby and Lee, traveling with the first wave of what Mira liked to call the monster—the sprawling infrastructure that kept the tour moving.
Equipment trucks.
Lighting rigs.
Security teams.
Stage crews.
Local staff.
The machinery of a world tour moved like a small migrating city.
By the time the girls stepped off the plane in China, the venue would already be mapped, the security perimeter reinforced, the residency secured and vetted down to the smallest hallway camera. Bobby and Lee would have the next arena locked down hours before the first rehearsal even began.
John and Alexei would be waiting.
That was the system now.
Nothing left to chance.
Inside the jet, however, things were hushed.
Zoey had fallen asleep almost immediately, curled sideways in her seat with headphones slipping off one ear. One arm dangled toward the aisle, fingers still loosely wrapped around her phone.
Mira sat beside her with a book open across her lap. She had turned the same page three times without reading it, her eyes drifting occasionally to Zoey to make sure she hadn't slid completely out of the seat.
Across the aisle, Bucky sat beside Rumi.
For a while they didn't speak. The steady hum of the engines filled the silence, a low vibration running through the cabin floor.
At some point during the flight, their hands found each other.
It wasn't dramatic.
Not a gesture meant to be seen.
Just a small movement between breaths—her fingers brushing against his on the armrest, his hand turning slightly to meet hers.
Their hands settled together between the seats.
Neither of them commented on it.
They didn't need to.
Across the cabin, Yelena noticed.
She didn't say anything.
She simply leaned back in her seat, arms folded loosely, and watched the way Bucky's expression changed whenever Rumi laughed at something Mira said. The shift was subtle—something most people might have missed.
But Yelena had spent years watching soldiers read battlefields.
This was easier.
The tension that usually lived in Bucky's shoulders had softened. The sharp vigilance in his eyes had eased into something warmer, something more subdued.
Something human.
For a moment, Yelena studied him in silence.
It had been a long time since she had seen him look like that—less like a weapon waiting for the next fight and more like someone who remembered what it meant to breathe.
Her mouth tilted slightly at the corner.
Good, she thought.
He deserved that.
Across the cabin, Ava glanced up from her laptop.
Her eyes flicked across the room once, quick and efficient.
She had already seen the two of them holding hands once earlier that night—backstage, just before they boarded.
Now her gaze lingered for half a second on the place where their fingers were still intertwined.
Then she returned to her screen.
The soft tapping of keys resumed.
No one said anything.
No teasing.
No questions.
No pointed looks.
But the awareness moved through the cabin anyway, unspoken and unmistakable.
Something between them had changed.
And everyone had noticed.
Later, when most of the cabin had gone still, Zemo crossed the aisle and settled into the empty seat beside Rumi.
The lights had been dimmed for the flight. Mira and Zoey slept across the cabin, and the low hum of the engines filled the long stretches of silence between thoughts.
"You handled Olivia well," Zemo said.
Rumi shrugged slightly.
"She always hated us."
"Yes," Zemo said mildly. "But hatred tends to grow teeth when it feels cornered."
Rumi studied him.
"You think she'll try something."
"I think," Zemo said, "that desperation makes people unpredictable."
There was a pause.
Rumi leaned back slightly in her seat, her gaze drifting toward the dark window beside her.
"I was surprised to see her there," she admitted.
Zemo's mouth curved faintly.
"You shouldn't have."
Rumi glanced at him.
"We expected her to try something eventually," he continued calmly. "Though none of us believed she would be foolish enough to attempt it in a room full of witnesses."
Rumi let out a small breath.
"So that was her big plan?"
"I doubt it was a plan at all," Zemo said. "More likely wounded pride and poor judgment."
He folded his hands loosely in his lap.
"But it will not happen again."
Rumi tilted her head slightly.
"Oh?"
"She has been served with a restraining order," Zemo said. "She is not permitted anywhere near you, Mira, or Zoey."
Rumi blinked, a little surprised.
"You move fast."
Zemo allowed the faintest hint of amusement to touch his expression.
"I prefer problems that resolve themselves before they grow teeth."
Rumi was quiet for a moment, turning that over in her mind.
Then she nodded once.
"Well," she said softly, "that's reassuring."
Zemo inclined his head slightly.
"That was the intention."
Silence settled between them again, comfortable this time, the hum of the aircraft filling the space where words were no longer needed.
Then he added quietly,
"How is your shoulder?"
Rumi blinked.
"Better," she said carefully.
Zemo nodded.
His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, leaving her with the uncomfortable sense that he knew more than he ever said out loud.
Then he shifted the conversation easily.
"Have you spoken to Celine recently?"
"I talked to Celine on my birthday," she said quietly. "She sent me a birthday gift, but I haven't spoken to her since."
Zemo waited.
Rumi looked down at her hands. "Every time I try to start the message, I can't finish it."
Zemo nodded slowly.
"She would listen," he said.
"I know."
Rumi was silent for a moment, watching the faint reflections of cabin lights in the window beside her.
"I think," she said slowly, "I'm starting to understand who I am without the weight of her expectations."
Zemo tilted his head slightly, listening.
"For so long everything I did was about what she wanted," Rumi continued. "What she trained me to be. What she thought I should become."
Her fingers twisted together in her lap.
"And now," she said, her voice softer, "I don't even know if the person she wanted me to be was ever really me."
Zemo regarded her carefully.
"You are stronger than you think," he said.
Rumi let out a small, humorless breath.
"Celine and Duncan were the only family I ever knew," she said. "And they both lied to me about too much."
Her voice wavered slightly.
"I'm not even sure they loved me."
The words hung in the air between them.
For a moment Zemo didn't answer.
Then he spoke quietly.
"What they did does not mean they did not love you."
Rumi looked at him.
"Love," Zemo said, "has a way of convincing people that the wrong choices are the only ones left."
He folded his hands loosely together.
"Sometimes people do terrible things for reasons they believe are right."
Rumi didn't respond right away.
Outside the window, the sky was an endless dark ocean, the wing light blinking steadily against it.
"You are not alone in this," Zemo added gently.
Rumi frowned slightly.
Zemo gestured subtly toward the dim cabin behind them.
"You have Mira. Zoey. The others."
His voice softened.
"And whether you believe it yet or not, they see you as family."
Rumi followed his gaze.
Across the cabin, Zoey shifted slightly in her sleep. Mira had fallen asleep with her book still open in her lap.
For the first time since the conversation began, Rumi's shoulders eased.
"You too?" she asked quietly.
Zemo allowed himself the faintest smile.
"Yes," he said.
"We are all your family now."
Rumi looked back out the window, the faint reflection of her own face staring back at her in the glass.
"Thank you," she said.
Most of the cabin lights had dimmed when Zemo's phone vibrated.
The others had settled into the muted rhythms of a long flight—soft breathing, the low hum of engines, the occasional rustle of someone shifting in their seat.
Most of the cabin had fallen asleep.
Zoey was stretched across two seats with her head resting in Mira's lap, one arm draped loosely across her stomach. Mira had long since given up on reading and now sat quietly with her fingers absently combing through Zoey's hair, her own eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
Across the aisle, Rumi had drifted asleep as well, curled slightly toward Bucky with her head resting against his shoulder. His arm lay loosely around her, steady and protective without seeming to notice it.
He hadn't moved in nearly twenty minutes.
The low cabin lights cast everything in soft shadows, the intimate hush of people who had spent too many days together to need words anymore.
Zemo glanced once across the cabin, taking in the scene before looking back down at the glowing screen of his phone.
Then he stood.
He stepped into the rear galley before answering.
"Celine."
Her voice came through immediately, tight with the kind of restraint that only barely hid worry.
"How is she?"
"Fine," Zemo replied.
A pause followed.
"And the wound?" she asked.
Zemo leaned back against the narrow counter, the faint glow from the galley lights reflecting against the metal cabinets.
"Healing."
Another silence stretched across the line.
"I wish I could be there," Celine murmured.
For a moment Zemo didn't answer.
Through the small window beside him, the sky was endless black, the faint wing light blinking steadily against the darkness.
"You need to focus on the Keepers," he said at last. "The threats against them are not limited to demons."
Celine exhaled slowly.
"I know."
Her voice softened.
"Still… she shouldn't have to carry this alone."
Zemo's gaze drifted briefly toward the dim cabin beyond the galley door.
Through the gap he could see Rumi still asleep against Bucky's shoulder, the soldier sitting perfectly still so he wouldn't wake her.
Zoey hadn't moved either, still asleep in Mira's lap.
The entire cabin had settled into an unguarded kind of trust.
"She isn't," Zemo said quietly.
Celine was silent for a moment.
Then she asked, almost cautiously,
"How is she really?"
Zemo considered the question carefully.
"Stronger than she realizes," he said.
"But she is not invincible."
He paused before continuing.
"She is beginning to understand herself beyond what you and Duncan asked her to be."
Another soft breath came from the other end of the line.
"That was always the fear," Celine said softly.
"That she would carry too much of it."
Zemo's voice remained calm.
"She carries less than she thinks."
He glanced once more toward the cabin.
"And when she is ready," he added, "she will reach out to you."
Celine didn't respond immediately.
When she spoke again, her voice was steadier.
"I hope so."
Another pause settled between them.
Then she said quietly,
"Keep me informed."
"I will."
"Thank you."
The call ended.
Zemo lowered the phone slowly, the silence of the aircraft settling back around him.
For a moment he remained where he was, looking through the small cabin window at the darkness outside.
Far below, somewhere beyond the clouds, an entire world slept unaware.
Somewhere ahead of them, China waited.
And with it—
the next movement of a war most of the world didn't even know existed.
This chapter feels like an ending and a transition at the same time.
Tokyo closes with a beautiful final show, but the tension underneath never fully goes away. Olivia reappearing reminded me that not every threat is supernatural—sometimes danger comes from old bitterness, wounded pride, and people who can't stand seeing you thrive without them.
I also loved writing the quieter moments on the plane: Bucky and Rumi holding hands without needing to announce anything, Yelena and Ava noticing without making it a spectacle, and Zemo stepping into that strange, gentle almost-family role with Rumi. His conversation with her felt important, especially when he reminds her that family isn't only the people who raised you—it can also be the people who choose to stay.
And then that final call with Celine… she's still there, still worried, still waiting for the door Rumi isn't ready to open yet.
I'd love to know what stood out most to you—Olivia's confrontation, the plane scene, Zemo and Rumi's talk, or the quiet reminder that the next part of the road is already waiting?
What are the pros and cons of having a beta reader?
I’ve never had one before, and I’m honestly curious what other writers think about them. Part of me likes the idea of having someone catch plot holes, pacing issues, or moments that don’t land the way I intended. But another part of me worries it might make me second-guess my own writing or lose confidence in my instincts.
For those of you who use beta readers: • What’s been the biggest benefit? • Have there been any downsides? • Did it help your story grow, or did it make writing more stressful? • How do you find someone who actually understands the kind of story you’re trying to tell?
I’d love to hear other writers’ experiences with it.
How do you feel about a time jump within a chapter? Where the beginning stays in the present, and then it quietly moves forward a few months. I’m trying to decide if it would feel natural or if it might pull the reader out of the moment.
How do you feel about a time jump within a chapter? Where the beginning stays in the present, and then it quietly moves forward a few months. I’m trying to decide if it would feel natural or if it might pull the reader out of the moment.
Due to its surprising popularity on the many places it's been posted and reposted to, I decided to finally complete this little wlw sketch that I had kind of given up on. I'm hoping to have it riso printed soon !
For a story I’m writing: what rumors could spread through the fandom that would make fans feel betrayed—enough to turn on Huntrix despite everything they’ve meant to them?
For a story I’m writing: what rumors could spread through the fandom that would make fans feel betrayed—enough to turn on Huntrix despite everything they’ve meant to them?
Collision of Worlds Chapter 49: The Shape of Trust
This chapter is about trust—and what it costs to offer someone the truth.
After so much hiding, hurting, and holding things back, Rumi finally reaches a point where silence feels heavier than honesty. Some secrets are not easy to speak aloud. Some truths feel like they might change everything.
But sometimes love is not proven by having all the answers.
Sometimes it is proven by staying.
Rumi sat on her bed brushing out her hair, still warm from the shower, the room softened by lamplight and the last quiet of the evening.
Her birthday gifts were scattered across the bed beside her in a way she had not yet brought herself to tidy. A set of journals from Mira, bound in soft leather and chosen with the kind of care that said Mira had noticed more than she ever put into words. A hoodie from Zoey, oversized and soft, one she had immediately declared was "for emotional support and dramatic airport exits." Other gifts from the rest of them sat in small, uneven clusters—things practical, thoughtful, absurd, affectionate. Little proof, laid out in fabric and paper and ribbon, that she was known here. Wanted here.
She had just reached for one of the journals when her phone lit up on the nightstand.
Celine.
For a moment she only looked at it.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Then, before she could change her mind, she answered.
There was a pause on the other end. Not long. Just long enough for Rumi to feel the weight of the choice in both directions.
"Happy birthday," Celine said softly.
Rumi closed her eyes for a moment. "Thanks."
Her own voice came out quieter than she meant it to.
For a second, neither of them said anything. The silence between them was not empty. It never was. It carried too much history for that.
"I've been thinking about you all day," Celine said.
Rumi looked down at the blanket pooled over her lap, fingers gathering a fold of it without realizing. She didn't answer.
Celine let out a breath, and Rumi could hear her fighting back tears.
"I got you something," she said quietly. "I'll have it sent to Tokyo."
Rumi still didn't answer. She didn't know what to say.
On the other end of the line, the silence shifted. Rumi could picture her without wanting to—somewhere alone, shoulders too straight, holding herself together with the same discipline she had once taught Rumi to call strength.
"I know you're not ready," Celine said at last. "To let me back in. I know that."
Rumi's throat tightened.
She stared at nothing.
"But I need you to hear me anyway," Celine continued, and now there was something rougher in her voice, something less guarded. "I love you."
The words landed harder than they should have.
Not because Rumi had never heard them.
Because she had.
Because once, she had built her whole life around believing them without question.
Rumi swallowed.
"I do," Celine said again, more quietly now. "And I know that may not be enough. I know it may not even mean much right now. But it's true."
Rumi looked toward the window, where the city beyond the glass still shimmered with life that had nothing to do with either of them.
"You don't have to do this alone," Celine said.
Something in Rumi's face changed then, not visibly enough for anyone else to name, but enough that she felt it.
"I'm not alone," she said.
There was a pause.
And in it, Celine understood more than Rumi had intended to reveal.
"No," Celine said gently. "Maybe not. And I'm grateful for that, whatever it means." Another breath. "But that doesn't change what I'm saying."
Rumi's grip tightened on the blanket.
"I know you're not ready to let me back into your life the way I want to be," Celine said. "I know I don't get to ask that yet. Maybe I never do." Her voice dipped lower. "But you still need someone, Rumi. You cannot carry everything by yourself forever. You need someone to help you carry it all. I thought that was me." She faltered. "I was wrong."
Rumi bowed her head.
For one terrible second, she was too young again—too tired, too uncertain, too desperately trying to be whatever everyone needed her to be.
Then the moment passed.
When she spoke, her voice was steady, but there was no softness left in it.
"What hurt the most," she said, "wasn't just that you kept things from me. It was how much you lied."
Celine went silent.
Rumi kept her eyes on the dark window.
"You lied about my parents," she said quietly. "About who they were. You lied about the Severants. About things I should have known." Her fingers curled tighter into the blanket. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to believe anymore."
The silence on the other end deepened.
When Celine finally spoke, her voice was small in a way Rumi had almost never heard from her.
"I know."
Rumi shut her eyes.
"I thought I was protecting you," Celine said. "I know that doesn't fix anything. I know it may not even matter now. But I need you to know that none of it was because I wanted to hurt you."
Rumi's throat worked once, but she didn't answer.
Because that was the worst part.
Some part of her believed Celine meant it.
And it still didn't make the damage smaller.
Celine was quiet for a long time after that.
When she finally spoke again, the sharpness had gone out of her completely.
"I hope you had a good birthday."
Rumi let out a small breath. "I did."
And that, at least, was true.
Another silence.
Not healed.
Not whole.
But no longer as jagged as it had once been.
"I won't keep you," Celine said.
Rumi nodded, though Celine couldn't see it. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
The line went dead.
Rumi sat there for a while after the phone had gone dark, staring at her reflection in the blackened screen.
Then, quietly, she set it aside.
Later, the house quieted.
One by one the lights went dark. Doors closed softly. Footsteps faded. The city outside continued its endless movement, but inside the house everything settled into the gentle stillness of people finally sleeping.
Bucky waited until the last voice downstairs disappeared before he moved.
He walked the hallway quietly and knocked once at Rumi's door.
"Come in," her voice murmured from inside.
She was sitting up in bed when he entered, the room lit only by the lamp on the nightstand. Her hair was still damp from the shower, falling loose around her shoulders. The blankets were gathered around her waist, and a few of her birthday gifts still sat on the bed beside her, not yet put away.
"You're still awake," he said.
"Barely."
There was something in his hand, half-hidden behind his back.
Rumi noticed immediately. "What's that?"
Bucky's mouth shifted, not quite a smile. He stepped farther into the room and held it out.
"A birthday present."
Rumi blinked, surprised. "You already gave me one."
"No," he said quietly. "I gave you dinner and bad singing. This is different."
That pulled the faintest laugh from her.
She took the small wrapped box from him carefully, like she wasn't entirely sure she deserved another soft thing tonight. Her fingers worked at the paper, slower than usual from tiredness, until she finally opened it.
Inside was a silver charm for her bracelet—a datura blossom, delicate and finely made, each petal d with quiet care. It rested in her palm with a soft, cool weight, beautiful without trying too hard to be. Her birthflower. A symbol of love and respect, chosen with more thought than flash.
For a moment she just looked at it.
Then she lifted her eyes to his. "Bucky…"
He shrugged once, almost awkwardly. "Saw it a few weeks ago. Thought of you."
That undid her a little more than she wanted it to.
"It's beautiful," she said softly.
He sat down beside her then, closer now, and for a moment Rumi could only stare at the charm resting in her palm. The silver datura caught the lamplight in soft, quiet glints, each petal shaped with such care that it almost didn't feel real. Not just because it was beautiful, but because he had seen her closely enough to choose something that meant something. Something that belonged to her.
Her throat tightened.
"Thank you," she whispered, and the words came out smaller than what she felt, too fragile to carry all of it.
Bucky's expression softened, and that was almost her undoing.
So instead of trying to say more and failing, she leaned in and kissed him.
It was not rushed. Not playful. It was the kind of kiss that trembled a little at the edges because there was too much in it—gratitude, affection, the ache of being known, the quiet wonder of being cared for so gently. Bucky kissed her back with that same steady tenderness he always seemed to give her, one hand lifting to cradle the side of her face, the other resting lightly at her waist as though he understood exactly how carefully this moment needed to be held.
When they pulled apart, neither of them moved far.
His forehead rested against hers for a beat, their breaths mingling in the warm hush of the room, and Rumi had the strange, overwhelming thought that no one had ever made being loved feel this safe.
She looked down once more at the charm in her hand, then set the box carefully on the nightstand as if it were something precious enough to deserve its own kind of reverence.
When she slipped back beneath the covers, Bucky lay down beside her, and she went to him without hesitation, drawn by instinct now more than thought. She tucked herself into his side, into the space his body had already learned to make for hers, and his arm came around her at once, certain and protective.
Rumi rested her head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.
For a while they didn't speak.
He only held her, and she let him.
Slowly, her breathing began to even out, the tightness in her chest loosening little by little beneath the warmth of his body and the quiet certainty of his hand at her back. Outside, the city kept moving, bright and distant and untouchable. But here, under the covers, with the lamp burning low and his heart steady beneath her cheek, the world felt smaller.
Kinder.
Later, with the house gone quiet around them, Bucky listened to the slow, even rhythm of her breathing against his chest and let himself believe, for a few precious moments, that this was enough. That being here, being trusted with this much of her, was enough.
Then she shifted.
Not out of sleep. Out of thought.
He felt it before he saw it, the way her body tightened almost imperceptibly, the way her breathing changed, losing its easy rhythm. He looked down at once.
"You okay?"
Rumi didn't answer right away. She pushed herself up slowly and drew back just far enough to look at him. Something in her face had changed. There was resolve there, but it was fragile, the kind that looked as though it had only just been gathered together and might splinter if touched too hard.
"Bucky."
The way she said his name made him sit straighter.
"What is it?"
For a moment she only looked at him, as if measuring the distance between what she had and what she might lose the second she opened her mouth.
Then she drew in a breath.
"You said you'd wait until I was ready."
He nodded once. "I meant it."
"I know."
Her hands twisted once in the blanket, then stilled.
"I think…" She stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "I think I'm ready now."
He didn't interrupt. Didn't push. Didn't try to help her find words that were clearly costing her enough already.
Rumi slipped out from beneath the covers and stood beside the bed. For one suspended moment she only stood there with her back to him, shoulders tight, head bowed slightly, like someone bracing for an impact only she could feel coming.
Then, with movements more careful than hesitant, she pulled her shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor.
Bucky's breath caught.
The markings were no longer faint.
Not fully.
Not here.
Not like this.
They spread across her chest and shoulders in pale violet lines, curling and branching over her skin like something half-written in light and half-buried beneath it. They were beautiful at first glance and unsettling the longer the eye tried to follow them, too deliberate to be random, too old somehow to be only decorative. They clung to her like inheritance.
Rumi folded her arms loosely over herself, not enough to hide, but enough to show him how difficult this was.
"I was born with them," she said quietly.
His eyes lifted to her face.
She still wasn't looking at him.
"My father was a demon."
The words fell between them and stayed there.
Rumi stared somewhere over his shoulder, jaw tight, her voice flattening the way it always did when she was forcing herself through pain she had already decided she could survive.
She told him then.
Not all at once, not cleanly, but enough. About the half-truths she had grown up with. About always knowing she was different before she had understood why. About her mother, and the fear and silence wrapped around that part of her life. About death coming too soon and answers coming too late. About the things she had been told, and the things she had only recently begun to understand. About how long she had lived with the quiet terror that if anyone ever knew what she really was, they would look at her and see only the thing that should be feared.
"I didn't know all of it when I was little," she said at last, her voice rougher now. "Not really. Just pieces. Half-truths. Enough to know I was different." She swallowed. "Enough to know it was something to hide."
Still Bucky said nothing.
He was listening.
And somehow that, more than anything, almost undid her.
Her laugh came out thin and humorless. "So there it is."
Now she looked at him.
And in her eyes was the thing she had been carrying all this time—not just fear, but expectation. The old certainty that once the truth was spoken aloud, love would recoil from it. That he would go still. Pull away. Look at her differently. Look at her like something dangerous, something wrong.
She had expected fear.
Expected distance.
Expected the moment she would see him regret ever touching her.
Instead, Bucky rose from the bed and crossed the space between them slowly enough that she could have stepped away if she wanted to.
She didn't.
He stopped in front of her, his face unreadable only because what he felt had gone quieter, not colder.
Then, with all the care in the world, he lifted one hand and touched the marking that curved beneath her collarbone.
Rumi flinched—not from pain, but from shock.
His fingers were warm.
His gaze stayed on the violet line beneath his hand, not with revulsion or confusion, but with a steadiness that made it harder for her to breathe.
When he looked back up at her, his voice was low.
"You don't have to be afraid of who you are."
Something in her broke open then. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just enough that her breath caught and her eyes burned before she could stop them.
"You don't understand," she whispered. "What if this changes things?"
His hand stayed where it was, resting lightly against her skin, grounding rather than claiming.
"It does," he said.
Her face went still, and for one terrible second she thought,There it is.
But then he shook his head, small and certain, and the look in his eyes did not change.
"It changes that now I know," he said quietly. "That's all."
Rumi just stared at him.
He stepped closer, his thumb brushing once along the curve of the marking with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"You're still you," he said. "You're still the woman I love."
The words landed softly, but there was nothing uncertain in them.
Rumi went completely still.
Bucky's gaze never left hers. "Nothing about this changes that. Nothing." His voice dropped lower, steadier than ever. "Whatever your father was, whatever any of this means, it doesn't make me afraid of you." He paused only long enough for the truth of it to settle between them. "I love you more than anything, Rumi. And I will do everything I can to keep you safe."
Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.
All her life she had expected truth to cost her something. She had expected it to strip love away, or poison it, or twist it into fear. She had prepared herself for distance, for hesitation, for the moment someone she cared about would finally see all of her and recoil.
Instead he was still here.
Still close.
Still steady.
Still looking at her as though she had handed him something fragile and precious and he intended to hold it with care.
"I thought…" Her voice faltered. "I thought once you knew, you'd see me differently."
A faint, sad understanding touched his face. "I do," he said.
That hurt. It hurt so fast and so sharply that for half a second she almost stepped back.
But then he said, "I see how much this has been hurting you."
And somehow that was worse.
Worse because it was kind.
Rumi bowed her head, one hand rising to cover her eyes as if that might hold the tears back. Bucky didn't rush to fill the silence. He only waited until she let him, and then he drew her into him carefully, mindful of where his hands landed, mindful of the tenderness still threaded through every part of this moment.
She went into his arms like she had been holding herself upright for too long.
"I'm sorry," she whispered against his chest.
He frowned slightly and tipped his head down. "For what?"
"For not telling you sooner."
Bucky held her a little tighter. "You told me when you were ready."
Rumi closed her eyes, but after a moment she drew in a shaky breath and said, quieter still, "I don't want anyone else to know. Not yet."
He stayed still, letting her say it in her own time.
"Not the others," she whispered. "Not even Mira and Zoey. They don't know this part. I… I can't." Her fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt. "I'm not ready for anyone else to look at me and see it too."
Bucky's hand moved slowly at her back, steady and grounding.
"Okay," he said.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, needing to be sure he understood the weight of what she was asking.
"I mean it."
"I know," he said softly. "And I won't tell anyone."
Something in her face loosened then—not all at once, but enough.
For a long moment neither of them moved. The lamp still burned softly beside the bed, and the city beyond the windows kept shimmering with a life too distant to touch them here. In the quiet of that room, with his arms around her and the truth finally standing in the open between them, something in Rumi that had been braced for years began, at last, to loosen.
When Bucky finally pulled back, it was only far enough to look at her. Then, with the same quiet care he had shown every step of the way, he reached down, picked up her shirt from the floor, and helped her back into it as if even that small act could be its own kind of tenderness.
Once she was covered again, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
There was no fear in him. No hesitation. No distance.
Only him.
Rumi let out a breath that felt older than the room, older than the city, older even than the secret she had finally given away. When they lay down again, she tucked herself against him without thinking, and this time when sleep came for her, it came easier.
Bucky stayed awake a little longer, one hand resting lightly at her back. He knew more now—not everything, not yet, but enough to understand how much courage it had taken for her to tell him, and enough to begin grasping the weight of what she had been carrying all her life.
Not just the truth of what she was.
The burden of hiding it.
The constant instinct to guard it, bury it, shape herself around other people's fear before they ever had the chance to name it aloud.
She had learned to live with that kind of vigilance so young it had become part of her breathing. To conceal. To deflect. To carry something that had never been her fault as though it were hers to atone for.
And now he knew.
He also knew she was not ready to share it with the others—not this part, not yet—and he could not honestly say how they would react if she did. They loved her. He believed that. But love did not erase history, and there were too many old traditions steeped in fear where the Honmoon was concerned, too many beliefs rotted by generations of warnings and half-truths. He had seen enough of the world to know that people could call something sacred and still fear it enough to destroy it.
The thought settled dark and heavy in him.
He could not help wondering whether the only way to keep her truly safe would be to seal it for good. To end whatever hold the Honmoon still had on her before someone else decided what her blood, her markings, or her father made her worth.
He did not know yet what that would cost.
Or whether she would ever choose it.
Or whether the choice would remain hers if too many people learned the truth.
But holding her there in the dim, breathing quiet, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Whatever darkness had touched her life before him, she would never have to face it alone again.
This chapter was deeply emotional for me to write.
Rumi finally tells Bucky the truth about her heritage, her markings, and the part of herself she has spent her whole life hiding. This moment felt so important because it is not just about the secret itself—it is about trust. About letting someone see the thing you fear will make them leave, and finding out they stay anyway.
I loved writing Bucky's response here. He does not fix it. He does not make it smaller. He just sees her, loves her, and refuses to let her believe she is something to fear.
And that ending… Bucky now knows the truth, but he also understands why Rumi is not ready for anyone else to know. The question is no longer just whether the truth will come out, but what it might cost when it does.
I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter—especially Rumi finally telling Bucky, his reaction, and whether you think she should tell Mira and Zoey next.
I'm sorry it's taken me a bit to post. I've been struggling with posting lately. First, my laptop bit the dust and I lost all the files I had on it, so I had to rewrite a lot, which was really discouraging. Then we found out my dad might have leukemia, so I've been taking him to a lot of appointments. Work has also been really busy lately. I wish writing could be my only job and I could just spend my days doing this, but sadly, bills have to be paid.
Thank you for being patient with me.
As for the chapter itself—this one is about carrying pain under bright lights.
The tour keeps moving, the stage keeps calling, and Rumi tries to do what she always does: hold herself together where everyone can see. But some wounds can't stay hidden forever, and sometimes trust means letting someone close enough to notice what you refuse to say.
Rumi did not open the door that night.
Not for Mira.
Not for Zoey.
Not even when Bucky knocked.
She stayed in the quiet of her room with the city glowing beyond the glass and the wound burning under her hand, breath measured, movements careful. By the time sleep came, it came hard and thin, dragged over her like a blanket she didn't entirely trust.
When morning arrived, Tokyo was pale and silver.
The house woke in layers—footsteps below, a kettle starting up in the kitchen, the faint slide of doors opening and closing. Somewhere down the hall, Zoey laughed at something Alexei said loud enough for half the house to hear. The sound should have made the place feel normal.
It almost did.
Rumi stood in front of the mirror fastening the last button of a high-collared blouse. The cut across her shoulder had scabbed badly, still angry, still deep enough to throb when she moved wrong. She'd cleaned it again before sunrise, wrapped it carefully, and then spent too long staring at the markings around it.
They were still faint.
Not gone.
Just lighter than they should have been.
She touched them once with her fingertips and told herself the same lie she'd told herself the night before: it was the lighting. The adrenaline. The strain. Nothing more.
Then she turned away from the mirror and went downstairs.
The room quieted when she entered—not dramatically, not enough for anyone to call attention to it, but enough that she felt it anyway.
Zoey looked up first.
Mira looked second.
Bucky looked last, and longest.
Rumi kept her expression even. "Morning."
"Morning," Yelena said, watching her over the rim of a coffee mug.
Zoey was already halfway out of her chair. "How's your shoulder?"
Rumi reached for tea before answering. "Fine."
Mira didn't call her on the lie. She only studied the line of Rumi's collar, the careful way she held her left arm, and filed it away for later.
Bucky said nothing.
That worried her more than if he had.
Lee arrived not long after with a tablet in hand and the look of someone who had not slept enough but had worked anyway.
"We've adjusted the route to the venue," she said without preamble. "Double escort. No public exit after the show. House perimeter's been tightened. No one moves alone."
Bucky nodded from the counter. "Good."
Lee continued scrolling through the tablet. "Tokyo security flagged the incident outside the gala last night. They're treating it as a fan disturbance—four individuals, aggressive behavior, then they ran when security moved in."
Her eyes lifted briefly. "They got away."
No one in the room corrected her.
Ava glanced up from the dining table, fingers still resting on her keyboard. "Crowd projections are higher than expected tonight."
"Exactly," Lee said. "Which means we tighten the inner ring. Tokyo security is cooperating, but we're not relying on anyone else to keep this controlled."
Her gaze moved across the room, measuring the quiet but not questioning it.
"I want eyes everywhere tonight," she said. "No assumptions."
"Understood," Yelena replied.
Rumi sat at the edge of the breakfast table, tea warming her hands, and tried not to think about claws slicing through silk. Tried not to think about how fast the demons had found them. Tried not to think about what they had smelled on her—or sensed—or wanted.
Across from her, Mira met Zoey's eyes.
"They were waiting," Mira said quietly.
Zoey nodded once. "Yeah."
Bucky's jaw tightened.
Lee glanced between them, clearly aware something sat beneath the words—but she didn't press. Not here. Not now.
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was crowded with too many conclusions no one wanted to say out loud.
Rumi broke it.
"We still have a show tonight."
Every eye turned to her.
Yelena's gaze sharpened. "Rumi—"
"We still have a show," she repeated, softer this time. "And hiding isn't going to fix anything."
Zoey looked at Mira.
Mira looked down.
Lee let out a slow breath through her nose.
"The show is happening," she said. "But security runs tighter. No improvising. No disappearing. Understood?"
Rumi nodded.
That was enough for now.
The day moved around her.
Hair.
Makeup.
Soundcheck.
Wardrobe.
Last-minute notes.
It should have been routine. A month into the tour, most of it was muscle memory by now. But pain changed the of small things. The cut in her shoulder dragged every time she lifted her arm too quickly. Costuming had to be adjusted to hide the injury without drawing attention to it.
She refused help twice before Mira silently took over and adjusted the fabric at her shoulder, gentler than anyone else would have known to be.
"You should tell someone," Mira murmured.
"I know."
"You're not going to."
"No."
Mira paused, fingers still for a moment against the back of Rumi's dress. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
"I know you don't like people looking at your chest," she said carefully. "You've always been modest about it. But Celine isn't here to check your wounds anymore."
Rumi didn't answer.
Mira finished fastening the clasp and stepped around so she could see her face.
"That cut is deep," she continued gently. "And if it gets worse, someone else needs to look at it. You can't just pretend it's not there."
"I'm managing it," Rumi said.
"That's not the same thing."
Rumi held her gaze for a moment, then looked away.
Mira's mouth pressed into a thin line. "You're impossible."
Rumi gave her the ghost of a smile. "You love me anyway."
"Unfortunately."
Zoey arrived with one boot half-zipped and a cluster of earrings in her fist.
"Okay," she said, slightly out of breath. "I've decided my gift to you is not losing my mind tonight."
"That's very generous," Rumi said.
"I know."
Zoey crouched in front of her for a second, bright eyes narrowing as she took in Rumi's face.
"You sure you're good?"
Rumi nodded.
Zoey held the look a beat longer—just enough to make it clear she didn't believe her, just enough to let her know she was loved anyway—then stood.
Backstage, the stadium roared.
Tokyo had held its stillness the day before. Tonight it surrendered it completely. The crowd was immense, a living pulse of light and noise that seemed to shake the structure from the inside out.
And before Rumi even stepped into the light, she felt the Honmoon rising.
It thrummed beneath her skin now, strong and bright and almost eager.
Bucky found her in the wing just before places were called.
He didn't say her name immediately. He just stopped beside her, close enough that she could feel him there without turning.
"You don't have to push tonight," he said quietly.
Rumi looked up at him. "I'm not pushing."
His eyes flicked once to the line of her collar, to the place where the fabric had been adjusted just a little too carefully earlier.
"Rumi."
There was a weight behind the way he said her name now. Not a question—an opening.
He wanted to talk about it.
She knew he did.
Rumi held his gaze for a moment, then shook her head slightly.
"Not now," she said softly. "Please."
The noise of the stadium pulsed around them, bass thudding through the walls, stagehands calling cues over headsets. There was no privacy here. No quiet.
"We'll talk tonight," she added. "I promise."
Bucky studied her for a long second, the worry still there, tight behind his eyes.
Then he nodded.
"Okay," he said.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then he lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles once, barely, against the back of hers.
"You ready?" he asked.
Something in her chest steadied.
Rumi nodded.
The lights dropped.
The crowd screamed.
And Huntrix walked into the storm.
The show was massive.
Not just in scale, though the scale was dizzying—lights layered in impossible arcs, screens stretching into the rafters, the stage wider than some arenas they'd played just months ago. It was massive in the way the energy moved. The way the audience gave itself over without hesitation. The way every note came back louder.
Rumi felt it from the first song.
The Honmoon responded like it had been starving.
Silver-violet light moved through the edges of her awareness, threading itself beneath the set, under the crowd, through the bones of the venue itself. Every chorus strengthened it. Every scream fed it. Every hand raised in devotion turned something fragile into something living again.
By the midpoint of the show, even Zoey felt it enough to laugh between songs.
"Oh, she's awake tonight," she murmured into her mic, grinning at the crowd like the secret belonged only half to them.
Mira's harmonies came in strong and clean, anchoring every soaring line with precision. Zoey hit her marks like she'd been born under stage lights. Rumi gave herself to the set entirely, pain forgotten whenever the music rose enough to carry her past it.
Only once did she falter.
A sharp turn. A reach too high. The cut in her shoulder tore open just enough to send white pain flashing behind her eyes.
She covered it. Kept moving. Kept singing.
No one in the crowd noticed.
Bucky did.
From the wing, he saw the hitch in her breath—the tiny fracture in movement that only someone watching too closely would catch. Her hand drifted for half a second toward the wrong place before discipline pulled it back into choreography.
His whole body tensed.
Beside him, Lee kept her eyes on the wider floor, scanning the crowd, the aisles, the exits. But Bucky's focus stayed locked on the stage.
On her.
Every time she spun into the lights, every time she stepped into a formation, every time the music demanded something from that injured shoulder, he felt it like a pulled wire inside his chest.
He knew the choreography by now. Knew where the lifts were. Knew where the turns would stretch the injury again. Knew exactly how much pain she had to be carrying to keep moving the way she was.
And still she didn't break.
The crowd roared louder with every song, the stadium rising like a living thing around them. Phones lifted. Lightsticks shimmered in waves of color that rolled through the audience like tides.
And scattered among them were signs.
Bright cardboard held above heads, painted in hurried glitter and careful ink.
Happy Birthday Rumi.
Some in Korean.
Some in Japanese.
Some in English.
The letters weren't perfect. The drawings were crooked hearts and stars and tiny crowns.
But there were dozens of them.
Rumi saw one near the front row and almost missed her next breath.
She found the note again.
Then the rhythm.
Then the light.
Rumi stood at the center of it all, hair catching the light, voice steady, presence unshakable.
To the thousands watching, she looked unstoppable.
To Bucky, she looked brave in a way that scared him more than any fight ever had.
He watched the way the Honmoon shimmered above the stage, faint and radiant to the few who could see it. Watched how the light seemed to gather around her voice, around the music, around the way the crowd gave themselves over to it completely.
And he realized something that settled heavy in his chest.
They weren't just protecting three singers on a tour anymore.
They were guarding something the world didn't even understand.
And at the center of it—bleeding quietly under silk and stage lights—was the girl he couldn't seem to stop watching.
By the time the final chorus hit, the stadium was singing so loudly the floor itself seemed to vibrate.
At the end, the lights dimmed to silver. Confetti fell like blown starlight. The girls stood shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped, bows taken in one shared breath.
Rumi looked out at the sea of lightsticks and screaming faces and felt, for one impossible instant, wholly held.
The Honmoon shimmered high above the crowd—unseen by most, radiant to her.
For the first time in days, she let herself believe it might be enough.
They got home just before midnight.
Security swept first. Doors locked behind them. The house settled around exhausted bodies and adrenaline still trying to pretend it wasn't done.
Zoey was the first to kick off her shoes.
"I need food," she declared. "And then I need to not be conscious."
Mira laughed quietly, already reaching up to unpin the earrings from her ears. "That sounds like the most responsible plan anyone's had all day."
Rumi leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment, letting the quiet of the house sink in. The show still rang faintly in her ears, the echo of thousands of voices lingering like a distant tide.
"I think I'm going to take a shower and go to bed," she said, rubbing the back of her neck.
Zoey blinked at her. "Already?"
Rumi nodded, tired but smiling. "If I don't go now, I'm going to fall asleep standing up."
Mira studied her for a moment—the slight stiffness in her shoulder, the careful way she held herself—but didn't argue.
"Go," she said gently. "We'll still be here when you wake up."
Rumi gave them both a grateful look.
"Goodnight," she said.
"Night," Zoey replied, already opening the refrigerator.
"Sleep," Mira added. "Preferably for more than four hours."
Rumi laughed softly and slipped out of the kitchen.
The house grew quieter the farther she walked down the hall. Upstairs, the lights were dim and the city beyond the windows glowed in steady ribbons of neon and gold.
She closed her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, letting the silence settle around her.
Then she pushed herself upright and headed for the bathroom.
Rumi stood alone in her bathroom under soft yellow light and peeled the fabric away from her shoulder.
The bandage had bled through.
She peeled it back carefully.
The cut was still deep. Still raw. But it wasn't worse.
And the markings around it—
She frowned.
They were fainter still.
Not gone. Not healed. Just… receding. As if the line between wound and symbol had blurred and chosen retreat.
Her fingers hovered over them.
This time, she didn't call it exhaustion.
Didn't call it bad lighting.
Didn't lie to herself.
Something was changing.
She stood there a moment longer, staring at the fading violet lines, the faint pulse of something older than the wound itself.
Outside the bathroom window, Tokyo glowed endlessly alive.
Downstairs, laughter drifted faintly through the house.
Midnight hadn't come yet.
But the world, quietly and without asking permission, was already beginning to shift.
A knock sounded softly at her bedroom door.
"Rumi?" Bucky's voice.
She looked at her reflection one last time in the bathroom mirror, the bandage already hidden again beneath clean fabric. The markings had faded back into secrecy, the wound wrapped tight enough that no one would see it unless she let them.
She drew in a steady breath and stepped back into the bedroom.
When she opened the door, Bucky was standing in the hallway with his hands braced lightly on the frame, like he'd been trying not to knock again.
He took one look at her face and knew enough not to ask the wrong question first.
"How are you?" he asked quietly.
Rumi leaned against the doorframe, the warm hallway light spilling across the room behind her.
"Good," she said.
Bucky went still.
It wasn't the word that gave her away. It was the way she said it—too calm, too careful, the way someone spoke when they were holding something fragile together by sheer will.
His eyes searched hers.
"Can we talk?" he asked softly.
For a moment she didn't answer.
Downstairs, faint laughter drifted through the house. Someone—probably Alexei—was arguing about food again. The sound made the quiet between them feel even sharper.
Rumi looked past him down the hallway, then back at him.
"Yeah," she said finally.
She stepped aside.
Bucky hesitated only long enough to make sure she meant it, then crossed the threshold.
She closed the door behind him.
For a second neither of them spoke. The room felt smaller with him in it, the quiet deeper.
He took in the details automatically—the way she was holding her shoulder a little too carefully, the damp ends of her hair, the faint tightness around her eyes.
"You're hurt," he said.
It wasn't an accusation. Just a fact.
Rumi leaned back against the door again, arms folding loosely across her stomach.
"It's not bad."
Bucky's jaw shifted.
"That's not what it looked like out there."
Silence stretched between them.
He took a slow breath, forcing the edge out of his voice.
"Let me help," he said.
Rumi closed her eyes for a brief moment.
Tonight had been too long. Too loud. Too full of things she couldn't say in front of everyone else.
And for once, she was too tired to carry all of it alone.
When she opened her eyes again, the fight had softened.
So she stepped away from the door and let him further into the room.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Bucky stepped closer.
She turned slightly and pulled the fabric of her shirt away from her shoulder. The material slipped down carefully, revealing the bandage beneath.
His expression didn't change, but his movements slowed.
"You should've told someone," he murmured.
"You sound like Mira," she said.
"She's right."
"I know," she agreed softly.
He glanced at the wound again, then back up at her.
"Sit," he said gently, nodding toward the bed.
Rumi hesitated for half a second, then shifted and sat on the edge of the mattress, turning slightly so he could reach her shoulder more easily.
Bucky crouched in front of her, careful, deliberate. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside and the faint sounds of life still lingering somewhere downstairs.
"May I?" he asked.
Rumi nodded.
He peeled back the bandage gently, hands steady in the way of someone used to injuries far worse than this. The cut was deep, still angry along the edges, but clean. Healing.
And the markings around it—
If they had once been there, they were almost gone now.
Just the faintest ghost of violet beneath her skin, so subtle it could have been imagination.
Bucky saw them.
But he didn't say anything.
Instead he reached for the clean cloth and antiseptic she had set aside, working with quiet care as he cleaned the wound and rewrapped it. His touch was careful without being hesitant, respectful of the pain without making a spectacle of it.
Rumi watched him for a moment.
Then she looked away.
Silence settled again once he finished, his hands lingering lightly against the bandage as if checking the tension of it.
She broke first.
"There are things about me you don't know," she said quietly.
Bucky looked up.
Rumi's gaze stayed on the floor.
"Things I haven't told anyone," she continued. "Not even Mira and Zoey."
The words hung there.
"I'm not ready to share them," she said after a moment. "Not yet."
She finally looked at him.
"But I'm asking you to trust me anyway."
Bucky studied her face for a long second. Not searching for lies—just weighing the weight of what she was asking.
Then he nodded once.
"Okay."
Relief flickered across her features, small but real.
"But," he added gently, "you can't push me away either."
Rumi's breath caught.
"I won't," she said.
The promise was quiet, but it was real.
Bucky reached up then, brushing a loose strand of damp hair back from her face, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Midnight clicked over somewhere unseen.
He leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't rushed. Not desperate. Just warm and certain and steady in the quiet of the room.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
"Happy birthday," he murmured.
Rumi smiled—soft, surprised, and tired all at once.
For the first time all day, the tension in her shoulders eased.
Morning came slowly.
Not with alarms or schedules or the hurried rhythm of a tour day, but with soft light pushing through the curtains and the distant hum of Tokyo waking beyond the glass.
Rumi was still half asleep when the bedroom door creaked open.
"Do not move," Zoey whispered loudly.
Rumi blinked against the light.
Zoey stood in the doorway carefully balancing a tray that looked far more organized than anything she usually carried. Steam curled gently upward from a small bowl, and the scent of rice and broth drifted into the room.
"Breakfast delivery," Zoey announced proudly as she stepped inside.
Rumi pushed herself up on one elbow, hair still tangled from sleep.
"You made breakfast?" she asked.
Zoey snorted.
"Let's not say things that aren't true on your birthday."
She set the tray carefully across Rumi's lap.
"I acquired breakfast," she corrected.
It was a traditional Japanese breakfast, neatly arranged with surprising care.
A bowl of freshly steamed rice.
Grilled salmon glazed lightly with soy.
A small bowl of miso soup.
Pickled vegetables arranged in careful colors.
Tamago slices folded into perfect golden layers.
And a cup of hot green tea.
Rumi stared at it.
Zoey folded her arms, pleased with herself.
"The chef downstairs helped me," she admitted. "But I supervised."
Rumi laughed softly, the sound still rough with sleep.
"You didn't have to."
"Yes I did," Zoey said simply. "It's your birthday."
She perched on the edge of the bed and produced a tiny candle from her pocket, sticking it into a small mochi she had clearly added to the tray as an afterthought.
"Make a wish."
The candle flickered gently in the quiet room.
Rumi leaned forward and blew it out in one breath.
Zoey nodded, satisfied.
"So," she said. "Birthday plan. You said sleep and sushi."
Rumi picked up a piece of grilled salmon and nodded.
"I stand by that."
"Perfect," Zoey said. "Because we've committed fully to the bit."
The day unfolded exactly the way Rumi had asked for.
Slow.
Uncomplicated.
After breakfast, she fell back asleep with the curtains half open and sunlight warming the room. When she woke again, Mira was there, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed with her laptop and an expression that suggested she had been waiting quietly rather than interrupt.
"Happy birthday," Mira said without looking up.
Rumi smiled.
By midday they had migrated downstairs in comfortable clothes and socks, the kitchen counter slowly filling with takeout containers.
Sushi.
More sushi.
Even more sushi.
Zoey declared it "a responsible cultural decision."
They ate on the living room floor, leaning against the couch, laughing when Zoey tried to explain reality TV plotlines that made absolutely no sense when summarized out loud.
At some point Mira disappeared and came back with a bag.
Face masks.
"Absolutely not," Rumi said immediately.
"Too late," Zoey replied.
Twenty minutes later the three of them sat on the couch with glowing green masks drying across their faces while an aggressively dramatic reality show played on the television.
Zoey pointed at the screen.
"He is absolutely lying."
"He's not even trying," Mira said calmly.
Rumi laughed so hard her face mask cracked.
The house was quiet around them.
Down the hall, someone—probably Alexei—was arguing with Yelena about coffee strength. Ava's keyboard clicked faintly from another room. Somewhere upstairs a door opened and closed.
But for most of the afternoon, the world shrank down to three girls on a couch, sushi containers scattered across the table, and terrible television they pretended to care about.
No crowds.
No demons.
No stage lights.
Just laughter and sleep and the strange, rare luxury of a day that belonged only to her.
And for once, Rumi let herself keep it.
Evening gathered slowly around the house.
By the time dinner was ready, the windows had gone dark with Tokyo's night lights glittering beyond them. The quiet day had softened everyone, the kind of rest that only came when no one expected anything from you.
The table filled without ceremony.
Rice bowls. Grilled vegetables. Fresh sushi. Soup warming the air with quiet steam. Nothing elaborate—just good food and the comfort of people who had learned how to share space without needing to fill every silence.
Alexei declared the miso "suspiciously small for a soup," which Mira ignored entirely.
Zoey sat cross-legged in her chair, explaining—very confidently and very incorrectly—the plot of the reality show they had watched earlier.
Ava corrected her from across the table without looking up from her tablet.
"You're mixing up three different seasons."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
Rumi listened to them with a tired smile, the warmth of the room settling somewhere deep in her chest.
Across the table, Bucky watched her the way he had all day—not obvious, not hovering, just aware. Making sure she was eating. Making sure she wasn't favoring the injured shoulder too much.
At some point Yelena disappeared into the kitchen.
When she came back, she carried a cake.
Not large.
But real.
Zoey lit the candles immediately.
"There were supposed to be more," she said. "But Alexei tried to eat one."
"It looked like candy," Alexei defended.
"Candles are not candy," Ava said flatly.
"Everything is candy if you are brave enough."
Rumi laughed again, covering her mouth as the others groaned.
They sang badly.
Deliberately badly.
Even Yelena joined in with visible reluctance, and Zemo added a soft, perfectly pitched harmony that made the entire thing worse in the best possible way.
When they finished, Rumi leaned forward and blew out the candles in one breath.
Applause broke out around the table.
For a moment, the world felt small and safe.
It has danger and pain in it, but at its heart, it's about being seen—Rumi trying to hide the hurt, Bucky noticing anyway, and both of them choosing trust in the quiet afterward. I loved writing that moment between them, where she doesn't tell him everything, but she lets him stay. That felt important.
And then Rumi's birthday was such a soft little breath after everything: breakfast in bed, sushi, face masks, bad reality TV, cake, and people singing terribly because they love her. After all the darkness, I wanted her to have one day that felt gentle.
I'd love to know what stood out most—Bucky helping with her wound, the promise between them, or Rumi finally getting the peaceful birthday she asked for?
Do you ever have one chapter that is just kicking your butt writing? Like it's not even super hard or long your just having a hard time getting it together. I have been working on the same one for almost 2 weeks.
