“So,” Zoey begins, eyes darting between her and Mira, “what exactly are you saying yes to?”
Rumi blinks, brow knitting. “What? What do you mean? I said yes to— well, you know.”
Zoey shrugs, glancing up at the ceiling like she’s trying to find the right words. “You haven’t dated before, so…” Zoey’s eyes flick back down. “Have you ever, you know, been with anyone before?” She pauses a beat, watching Rumi’s confusion deepen before she adds, ever so helpfully, “sex, Rumi. I mean sex.”
“I—” The word catches halfway out of Rumi’s throat and heat rushes to Rumi’s cheeks before she can even form a coherent thought. Her markings flare in betraying ripples of soft pink light, spreading down her neck and vanishing beneath her collar. “I, no, I— I haven’t. I thought— isn’t that what—” she gestures helplessly between the three of them, “isn’t that what this is about?”
Mira snorts quietly, amused warmth threading through the sound, and Zoey barely manages to stifle a laugh, pressing her lips together like it’ll help.
“I was just making sure,” Zoey reassures — or tries to — but the sparks in her eyes give her away, amusement flickering behind every word. “What about second base? Making out?” She tilts her head, expression thoughtful, almost scholarly, and the sheer genuine curiosity in her tone somehow makes it worse.
Rumi presses her lips together, the movement small and tight, and shakes her head. Her fingers curl into the hem of her sleeve, trying to ground herself as the nerves flutter low in her stomach.
Mira’s voice cuts through the quiet, steady but laced with something gentler. “Have you kissed anyone before?”
Rumi frowns, glancing between them. “Is there a difference between kissing and making out?”
“Yeah,” Mira breathes — soft, amused — the word curling at the edge of a laugh.
“Okay, well then, no to both?” Rumi exhales, gesturing vaguely, as if that might make the conversation less mortifying. “I haven’t—” she pauses, groans, pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’ve never… anything. With anyone.” The admission leaves her on a sigh, quiet but certain. The air feels a little too still afterwards, heavy with something unspoken. Her skin cools, patterns dim slowly, colour draining from the soft pink glow until only the faintest shimmer remains.
Across from her, Zoey and Mira exchange a glance. Not one of pity, but something softer, curiosity tempered with care, understanding, maybe even a hint of awe. And that alone is enough to make Rumi’s pulse start climbing again.
“That’s okay,” Mira says after a beat and Zoey nods.
“Yeah, totally!” Zoey nods quickly, the motion a little too enthusiastic, a little too Zoey. She reaches out to poke Rumi’s leg, just enough to draw her out of the spiral she’s slipping into, and when Rumi glances down, Zoey beams up at her. Bright, unfiltered, and impossibly warm.
It’s the kind of smile that seems to pour light into all the quiet corners of a room. A smile that feels like it was made for breaking tension, for coaxing laughter out of people who’ve forgotten how. Rumi’s always thought Zoey’s brightness was a kind of magic, not loud, not forced, but something that hums beneath her skin like a melody she doesn’t know the words to. Zoey doesn’t know how to smile any other way, and Rumi’s grateful for it.
Something in her chest softens, loosens, as the tension in her shoulders slides down and away. Loosens by degrees, slipping down her spine until she’s breathing a little easier again.
“But,” Zoey continues, tone softening, “I wouldn’t go straight to having sex then, yeah? It would probably get overwhelming.”
Mira hums in quiet agreement beside her, the sound low and thoughtful, like she’s grounding the air between them, making sure it stays safe.
Rumi nods slowly, the logic of it settling somewhere deep. She can’t argue with that. If she can’t even talk about it without feeling her skin heat and her markings flare, then maybe diving in headfirst isn’t the best idea. She lets the thought breathe for a moment before murmuring, “so…?”
“So,” Zoey says, drumming her fingertips lightly against the tops of Rumi’s feet, a rhythm that feels both playful and reassuring, “we ease into it? See what you like, what feels good, see if you even enjoy being intimate like that and go from there?”
Rumi looks between them, a faint crease forming between her brows. “Alright? And that means?”
Zoey chuckles under her breath, but before Rumi can bristle, Mira’s voice cuts in — smooth, calm, and steady. “It means anything you want it to. We start where you’re comfortable. You get to decide what that looks like.”
Rumi groans softly, the sound muffled as she buries her face into her knees. “Don’t make me decide this,” she mutters. “You two are supposed to be the ex— uh, you’re supposed to know more here.” Her voice comes out half-whine, half-plea, but it earns a laugh from both of them — not mocking, just warm. The kind of laughter that fills the space with something safe and shimmering, a quiet reassurance that she’s not alone in this.
“Alright,” Mira huffs a quiet laugh and leans in just enough to bump Rumi’s shoulder with her own. The touch is casual, easy but the warmth it leaves behind is anything but. “How about we start with a kiss?”
It’s said simply, gently, the words slipping from Mira’s lips less a question than an offering laid at the edge of a quiet path. But it still hangs in the air like static, soft and shimmering, and Rumi feels the words catch somewhere deep inside her chest.
A kiss.
Her breath stutters. Heat rises before she can think to fight it, blooming from her neck to her cheeks in a rush. Her patterns flare in soft pink waves, flickering beneath her skin like the echo of a heartbeat.
She doesn’t mean to imagine it, but her mind fills in the details before she can stop it. The warmth of Mira’s breath close to hers, the faint taste of mint tea she always drinks before bed, the way her lips might feel — steady, sure but unhurried, the kind of kiss that holds both edges and tenderness. Mira could be fierce when she wanted to be, there’s always something sharp, deliberate and alive in the way she moves, but Rumi knows she’d temper that for her, would cradle the moment in gentleness.
Mira always moves like she has all the time in the world, like she’s memorising the moment before it even happens. A kiss from Mira would burn slow and deep, but it would never scorch. It would linger, leave her wanting to chase it all over again.
Rumi’s fingers tighten around the fabric of her sleeves, grounding herself in something real. But her thoughts keep spiralling. What it would be like to lean in, to close that distance, to feel Mira’s smile against her mouth when she laughs softly through the kiss. The idea is dizzying and tender all at once, and it terrifies her.
Her breath catches again. Distantly, Rumi thinks she must look completely ridiculous — blushing, glowing, fidgeting.
And when Zoey finally laughs, it isn’t cruel. It’s light, soft, filled with fondness. She reaches up from where she’s sitting on the floor, fingertips brushing Rumi’s knee in reassurance.
“Hey,” Zoey says, her voice gentler than it’s been all evening. “You know you can back out anytime, yeah? Even now. Even if you just want to stop and pretend this conversation never happened.”
Rumi’s eyes flicker down to her, meeting that same impossibly warm gaze — a steady, supporting force in the haze of her panic.
Zoey’s thumb draws a slow arc against her knee, a quiet rhythm that pulls Rumi back from the brink. “We’ll be here,” she says. “Every step of the way. You just tell us how far you want that road to go, okay? We’ll follow your pace.”
Mira hums beside her, an agreement that sounds awfully close to a promise. And in the soft light of the room, with the city murmuring below them, Rumi feels something in her chest loosen — not fear, not quite desire, but something that feels a lot like trust blooming slow and sure, like the first glow of dawn beneath her skin.
Rumi takes a breath that feels too big for her chest, tries to steady the tremor in her hands. The air feels thick, slow. “Okay,” she murmurs, barely more than a whisper. Then again, a little firmer, “okay.” She glances at Zoey first, as if for permission, for reassurance, and Zoey gives her a small nod — all warmth and steady light.
Something in Rumi’s shoulders eases. She turns then, looks at Mira. “Okay,” she says again, this time quiet but sure. The word lingers between them, fragile and trembling, as if afraid to be understood, yet it slips into the space between them all the same. Tender and bright, a truth her heart recognises long before her mind can catch up.
The corner of Mira’s mouth tugs upward, a half-grin that’s more felt than seen. “Yeah?” she asks, her voice low, roughened by something Rumi can’t catch.
Rumi nods.
Mira’s gaze flicks toward Zoey, something unspoken passing between them — a pulse, a shared thought — before her attention returns to Rumi. She shifts closer, the space between them thinning until her knee bumps softly against Rumi’s thigh. The touch is small, but it lights something bright and restless under Rumi’s skin.
Mira tilts her head, her eyes tracing over Rumi’s face with a careful, unhurried intent. The kind of languid curiosity that feels like she’s memorising her, each glance a touch she hasn’t yet dared to give, before her hand rises to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear. The touch is impossibly gentle, her fingertips graze the edge of Rumi’s jaw, linger for a heartbeat too long.
Rumi’s breath catches. Her pulse stumbles.
She bites her lip before she can stop herself, and Mira’s gaze follows the motion, her eyes flicking down — just for half a heartbeat — before she looks back up. The air between them shifts, goes warm and heavy.
“Then… can I kiss you?” Mira asks, and her voice has softened, stripped of all its teasing.
Rumi nods a small, quick and unsure gesture.
“Use your words, princess.” Mira’s voice dips lower, smooth and molten, a soft rumble that seems to settle somewhere beneath Rumi’s ribs. The shift in tone ripples through her — something in it dark and tender all at once — and the flutter in her chest turns wild, untamed, like wings beating against her sternum.
The nickname hits her like a spark to dry kindling. Rumi’s breath stutters, her heart feels like it’s beating somewhere in her throat. Her skin prickles, a slow fire blooming along her neck and cheeks, pooling in the hollow of her stomach and settling heavy, insistent, between her thighs. She swallows once, twice, and somehow finds her voice. “Yes,” she manages, her voice trembling. Then, after a pause that feels both endless and fleeting, softer, “please… kiss me.”
For a heartbeat, stillness blooms, not empty, but dense and alive. Time doesn’t stop, it stretches — thin and trembling — every second drawn out until even the quiet feels like touch. The air tastes different now, charged with something fragile and inevitable, and Rumi swears she can feel the shape of anticipation against her skin.
Mira’s eyes search hers, and something deep and quiet and dangerous stirs in Rumi’s chest, something she doesn’t yet have a name for, only the aching knowledge that she wants this, wants her, wants to know what it feels like to be wanted back.
Cheers to the brainrot once again :D this was more of this if you would like to read some more. Or yk check out the tag. I will eventually throw this on ao3 and it will most likely end up being way longer than I expect it to be:DD anyway enjoyyyy as this rots my brain and I chip away at it along with all the other fics sitting in my wips folder :DDD
