someday, together...

‘do you want to come home with me?’ rumi had asked, and her heart leapt into the cage of her teeth, fluttering—half panic, half desire—at her own forthrightness.

but she’d liked it.

she had, and so had her beautiful stranger.

‘i’m not looking to date,’ she’d told rumi, blunt but not unkind. ‘i like to dance and i like to have sex.’

‘okay.’

‘we can just dance. if you don’t want to.’

‘i don’t think i can dance any more tonight.’ rumi stretched carefully, considering. ‘actually, i could. if you want to. but. i’d like to take you home.’

relief. amusement. renewed interest. or, revealed, really. the woman wears it all on her body. she leads with her hips. rumi wonders if she’s ever managed to have a secret in her whole life or if she is always this wonderfully, stunningly up front with everything.

she wonders if she’d have danced with her or agreed to go home with her if she knew rumi hoarded secrets like a dragon with gold.

but she did.

and she was frank about everything else. what she liked and didn’t, how rumi should touch her or not, when she wanted to stop, when she wanted rumi to keep going please please please—well. anyway. she was completely forthright with all of it. including that she wasn’t going to sleep over.

rumi had offered, that first night, to change the sheets. to make up the guest room, or the couch. in the end, she managed to get her beautiful stranger—m, she let rumi have—to let her pay for her ride home. and only after a quick glance around rumi’s apartment, like she was checking she could afford it.

rumi had been a tiny bit forthright herself, much to her delight. and why not? it had been a night of firsts.

‘i could buy you a round the world ticket first class and it wouldn’t make me blink. please let me be selfish one last time. please let me pay for a ride home, or a hotel, or a friends—i don’t need to know where,’ rumi had muttered to make herself stop talking. the thrum of the club music was still jumping in her pulse, making her do exciteable things. ‘and—asking for your number—‘

‘i don’t date.’

‘—so i know you got home safe,’ rumi had insisted.

m agreed to the ride. in the time it took for the car to arrive, she’d wiped the last of her makeup off her face; she looked different in the glow of a lamp than under the sharp club lights. she’d brought the sharpness with her. set it down in the doorway of rumi’s bedroom and touched her gently. sweetly, really. (not that rumi had noticed then, too caught up in the nights events.)

‘if you text me about anything that’s not when you’re free to do this again next, i’ll block you.’

‘how do you know you won’t want to text me?’ rumi had challenged, taking m’s phone with both hands; it was a complete surprise that her robe fell open a tantalising inch, and not perfectly considered gesture.

m had been late getting down to the car. she’d texted forty minutes later that she was home.

it happened again a fortnight later. the dancing, the sex, letting rumi pay for her car. then ten days after that. it stalled for a few weeks—no one’s fault, simply life or, more accurately, work—and then twice in one week when they were finally free.

all of this to say, they’ve not spoken about the specifics of what they were doing because there hasn’t been any need. not really. and rumi has been fine with that, really, because m doesn’t ask for anything and she doesn’t give rumi anything, either, or make demands. so it’s good. they’re good.

all of this is to say, rumi asks m for a night following a heavy month of work and nearly cries when she texts back that she’s looking forward to it. they spend barely any time dancing. m names a new spot and, when she’s had enough, wraps an impatient hand around rumi’s wrist and drags her out of the club and down the street. a block from the club—a journey interspersed by unanswered questions and much kissing in alleyways—m lets her into a nice building and takes her up the stairs.

‘your place?’

‘for now,’ m says. ‘wanna talk about it or—‘

‘no. i don’t.’

rumi finds the bed and pushes m down onto it. it’s been so long since they’ve been together like this that rumi spends so much time that night chasing the teasing flicker of familiarity—night after night in foreign cities stirs a different kind of hunger in rumi, a fierce ache to belong somewhere, to someone. she feeds it with a vibrant hickey on m’s collarbone—earning her its stinging match on her own—and m must feel how badly she needs the connection because when she turns rumi onto her back and tells her she’ll take care of everything, take care of her, she laces their fingers together when she holds her down.

rumi slips out of her bed. she doesn’t look at m’s photos on her wall or even the number on the door.

‘see you soon?’

m leans against the doorframe. twists pink hair around her finger.

‘i have work every night this week. monday?’

‘mondays not great for me. unless—‘ rumi grimaces. ‘you come straight to mine? i’ll be too tired to go anywhere. i’m leaving town on tuesday for another few weeks.’

‘busy girl,’ m rasps. ‘monday, then. i’ll bring the music.’

//

m brings the music. rumi laughs until it hurts as she flicks through what seems like a playlist specifically designed to annoy her. m has filled it with a cacophony—has surely spent hours selecting music she knows will irritate rumi, and lounges comfortably on rumi’s couch, wine glass in hand and smirk on lips as tears genuinely fill rumi’s eyes.

‘the effort—‘ she chokes. ‘you’re such a fucking bitch, you’re so mean to me.’

‘mean to you? i went down on you three times last week. and you? not once.’

‘i didn’t realise you were keeping score.’

something goes through m at that. her fingers clench on the wine glass. shoulders shift. rumi wonders, not for the first time but for the first time as something more than idle curiosity, who m is. what that comment—throwaway joke as it was—means to her.

this isn’t what they are.

panic flutters in her throat. she drops to her knees and pushes m’s open.

‘let me make it up to you,’ she suggests, and does. extremely well.

//

m is in rumi’s bed when her alarm goes off. she doesn’t seem to have noticed the alarm—rumi is a light sleeper, or tends to be. it’s funny, actually. she’s never liked sleeping in a bed with anyone before—jinu’s snoring had always woken her up, and how he was always so restless getting up to pee or make a random call in the middle of the night or whatever. maybe rumi just hadn’t liked sleeping with jinu. regardless, sleeping with m had been painless. but rumi isn’t quite sure what to do with her now because it kind of seems like maybe the rules they set up at the start weren’t as foolproof as she had assumed. because m keeps count, she thinks about what they do together, what she does to rumi. she makes a playlist full of songs rumi will hate. she brought her back to her apartment. she fell asleep in her bed.

rumi thinks about this for the whole time it takes her to dress, clean out her fridge in anticipation of being gone the rest of the month, and change for the plane. her bag is already packed by the door.

she pokes m in the shoulder.

‘hey.’

‘hgrmph,’ m says, or something like it.

rumi laughs. ‘m, i’m sorry, you need to wake up. i can’t be late.’

it takes a little more effort but finally m lifts her head. bleary eyed, pillow striped. she squints at rumi, who hands over m’s glasses, and takes the chilled water she is offered. when she has drained the glass she sighs and scratches her hair and says,

‘what?’

‘i have to go. i’m going to be late for the plane.’ then, ‘you’ve never stayed before.’

m yawns. it must not be very important to her. rumi is certainly overthinking this. but.

‘why did you stay?’

‘dunno. you make me feel safe.’

safe.

her apartment has high end security. locks, alarms, cameras in the public facing areas like the hall and garage. rumi knows it’s not what she means. she doesn’t know how to tell her that the warmth in her bed is a relatively new addition.

‘i see.’

rumi wants to tell her she’s always welcome. that she doesn’t mind if what they have becomes more than dancing and sex. but m was very clear. she’s not looking for anything more. and rumi—she doesn’t have anything to offer her.

‘i’m very glad to hear that,’ she murmurs. ‘now i don’t want to be rude—‘

‘yeah, yeah, late for the plane. you seen my pants anywhere?’

‘they can’t have disappeared,’ rumi shrugs, and goes to look.

//

it turns out that pants can and do disappear. it turns out that m is something of a clothing snob but she takes what rumi offers her and slips out into the early morning.

it turns out her name is mira, rumi learns as she is nearly in london to start the european leg of her tour, and bobby wordlessly slides his phone in front of her to show the pictures and headlines splashed across the screen.