Lost In A World That Never Existed

She lets herself go with it, lets herself be taken. Because this isn’t a stage, and it isn’t a fight, and tonight she doesn’t want to keep her guard up. Doesn’t need to. The bass moves through her, humming along her spine, loosening something at her centre. Heat thickens the space between her and the press of strangers—sweat, perfume, the faint tang of spilt liquor clinging to the floor. Every breath tastes of it. Somewhere behind the music, she hears the low rumble of voices, laughter bright and sudden, the shatter of a glass punctuating the rhythm.

Bodies are everywhere. Brushing past. Leaning in. Hands at her hips that aren’t hers. Someone’s hair brushes her shoulder, light as a whisper. The room feels alive like it’s breathing with them, pulling them closer, folding them into its heat and noise until there’s no edge to hold on to.

Heat clings to the air, thick with the mingled scents of alcohol and perfume. The whole is a blur, too new to name, but within it are notes she knows as if they’ve always been hers. Mira’s scent— bold, deliberate, a spice undercut by something green and sharp. Zoey’s— softer, warmer, the faint sweetness of flowers caught on the skin. The familiarity of them is enough to ground her, even as the rest of the room spins.

They’re warm against her—heat she can feel through the thin cling of her clothes, through the hum still moving in her bones. Mira is behind her, grounding, steady, her palms a sure weight on Rumi’s hips. She sways with the beat, the roll of her body unhurried but sure, guiding Rumi into the motion. Leading. And Rumi lets herself be led. There’s no resistance in her, only the way she leans into it, the way she unspools in the rhythm Mira sets.

Zoey is in front, bright and restless, her movements all energy and spark. She bounces in time with the music, not so much following the beat as pulling it into herself. Her hands start over Mira’s, pressing over them on Rumi’s hips, firm enough to keep her there, but her gaze—steady, intent—never leaves Rumi’s.

Her cheeks are flushed, colour rising high across her skin, freckles shifting with each breath. She smiles up at her, a smile that catches Rumi off guard in its softness. Rumi’s hands find Zoey’s bare shoulders, fingers curving to fit against the warm line of muscle and skin. She hooks her arms there, pulling Zoey closer without thinking.

Zoey follows the pull, raising her own arms until her wrists brush Rumi’s. She catches one in a gentle grip, turns it just enough to press her lips to the inside. Heat blooms there, a quick rush under Rumi’s skin. She can feel the smile in Zoey’s mouth before she sees it, and when she does, she can’t help but return it—wide and unguarded.

It’s soft. Or it would be. Except they’ve been dancing too long for anything to be gentle now. Heat and motion have stripped away the edges, left everything bare and immediate. Mira catches the exchange, the smile Rumi can’t quite hide, and leans in. Her lips brush the side of Rumi’s jaw, a touch that sparks down her neck. For a flicker, Rumi thinks it was meant for her cheek. friendly, safe, but the thought slides away, replaced by another, heavier one, it could just as easily have been meant for her neck.

Her breath catches. Mira’s fingers tighten slightly at her hips, as if she’s felt the shift, as if she knows the air between them has changed. And Rumi—caught between them, swaying in their heat—doesn’t want it to change back.

The song shifts, the beat dropping lower, thicker, the kind that seeps into the body before the mind can name it. Mira moves with it without pause, her rhythm bleeding into the new tempo as if it had always been there. Rumi falls into step without thinking, her body already tuned to Mira’s. The bass is heavier now, the melody darker, pulling at something low in her chest.

There’s a sultry edge to it, and Mira’s body catches it instantly—her weight tilts, her hips finding a slower, deeper roll. This time she doesn’t just sway with Rumi, she moves into her, the press deliberate, claiming. Her hands tighten at Rumi’s hips, holding her there, keeping the space between them non-existent. Each shift of movement sends heat curling low in Rumi’s stomach.

Her breath catches again, eyes closing for a beat longer than she means to. When she opens them, Zoey is watching. That smile—half mischief, half certainty—hooks into her. Zoey steps in, unhurried, her body slotting into the space between Rumi’s and the air. Her arms slide along Rumi’s sides, the whisper of skin on fabric leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Her hands stop at Rumi’s collarbone, fingers spread wide, thumbs brushing the edges of her throat, where her pulse flutters against warm skin. The touch is light but steady, a quiet claim, and Rumi can feel her heartbeat answering to it.

Rumi’s head tips back, the lights catching across her closed lids in flashes of colour. Now that they’re this close, every movement—Mira’s slow insistence, Zoey’s playful press—means contact. A hip sliding along hers, a thigh brushing her own, the press and release of legs tangling briefly in the sway. The heat of them is constant, a living thing between the three of them.

Her arms rise—one lifted into the air, moving lazily with the beat, fingers trailing through nothing. The other finds its way back, curling around the nape of Mira’s neck. The skin there is warm, damp from the heat of the room, and when Rumi pulls her in, she feels the shift of Mira’s breath against her skin.

Mira laughs—low and close—and Rumi feels it more than she hears it, the vibration spilling into her neck, down her collarbone. The music drowns out everything else, but that sensation cuts through, sharp and intimate. It’s a private sound in a room full of noise.

Rumi feels Mira’s lips again, a soft press that lingers just long enough for heat to pool in her lap, her hips slotting firmly against Rumi’s own. The closeness steals her breath before she can catch it back. Then Zoey’s touch shifts. Her hands slide from Rumi’s throat, trailing upward, fingertips skimming along her jaw before lifting entirely. Rumi hadn’t realised how uneven her breathing had become under that hold, how ragged, how each beat of her pulse had seemed to match Zoey’s fingers, until they’re gone.

Zoey’s arms reach past her now, threading behind her to find Mira, brushing against Rumi’s sides on the way. Zoey moves in closer against her front. Reaches further back, leaving Rumi caught in the press their bodies and the slow drag of Mira’s breath against her ear—ragged, stuttering, almost like she’s been holding it in.

Rumi turns her head slightly, meaning to glance over her shoulder, but hands close around her hips and keep her there. Smaller. Zoey’s. Her thumbs make slow, deliberate circles at the dip of Rumi’s waist. There’s a chuckle against her throat—low, breathless—and Rumi doesn’t need to hear it clearly to know Zoey’s smiling, lips just a fraction away from her skin.

Behind her, Mira’s touch shifts, fingertips tracing slow lines up Rumi’s sides, over the curve of her ribs, drawing the fabric taut as they travel. They curve around to the front, grazing across her stomach, the path deliberate, unhurried. When they stop, it’s high enough to set every nerve on alert, dangerously close enough to where Rumi wants her that she feels her pulse jump beneath the skin.

The sound that rises in her throat is small, needy, and she’s grateful for the thrum of bass swallowing it whole.

Mira moves again, nails dragging lightly over Rumi’s ribs on the way down, the scrape a sharp contrast to the heat of her palms. The shiver that follows is instant, impossible to hide. And then Zoey is there, rolling into her from the front, hips pressing in, fitting snug against her. The motion forces a soft gasp from Rumi’s lips before she can stop it.

Zoey leans in closer still, the warmth of her breath brushing across Rumi’s skin a heartbeat before her lips touch just above her collarbone. It’s quick, almost nothing, but she lingers, close enough for Rumi to feel the shape of her mouth against her. When Zoey finally looks up, her eyes are dark, intent, the wanting in them so naked it sends a shudder through Rumi that she can’t disguise.

Rumi shifts, letting her body respond without thinking. One arm stays draped over the back of Mira’s neck, fingers pressing into the curve of her shoulder, memorizing the warmth, the tension beneath the skin. The other slides down, finding Zoey’s waist, curling around it as if to anchor herself. When Zoey hesitates, subtly trying to create the smallest space between them, Rumi pulls her back gently, insistently. Closer. No room for distance, no time for hesitation.

Zoey laughs softly, the sound low, playful, and entirely approving. She doesn’t move away. Instead, she presses fully against Rumi’s front, hips moulding against her, chest brushing hers, the heat between them rising with every beat. Their bodies fit together as if they were built for this—every line, every curve, every inch of skin a response, a push, a claim.

Rumi feels the friction of the three of them as a tangible pulse, as if the music has concentrated into the weight and press of bodies, the soft scrape of hands, the warmth of breath against skin. She arches slightly, letting the press of Zoey and the grounded hold of Mira surround her completely, surrendering to the sensation. Every nerve is alive, hips brushing, thighs pressing, arms winding and holding, lips and jawbones and pulse points all catching fire under their touch.

Her back curves into Mira’s chest, fingers trailing down the taut planes of muscle at Zoey’s waist, while Zoey’s hands roam over Rumi’s sides, teasing the curve of her ribs, fingertips brushing just enough to make her gasp. And once again too dangerously close to where she wants them.

The warmth of them presses into her from both directions, weight and heat and motion that leaves her dizzy, all caught in the gravity of the three bodies entwined.

Zoey tilts her head, eyes tracing Rumi’s arching form with something raw and laced with desire, lips brushing against the soft skin near her shoulder, then drifting toward her neck. The light catches on her lashes, the line of her jaw, the heat of her breath on Rumi’s skin, and the sensation makes Rumi shiver, pulse quickening. She can’t think—only feel, only respond.

Mira’s hands tighten, back at her hips, guiding the sway, tracing along her sides with a deliberate, languid pressure that mirrors the pull of the music. Every press, every drag, every soft scrape of nails is magnified, amplified by the proximity of Zoey, whose warmth and weight press insistently against Rumi’s front.

It’s a slow, torturous burn, a dance turned intimate ritual. Each movement is both gentle and claiming, teasing and precise. Rumi feels every inch of skin against skin, every pulse, every heartbeat, every whisper of touch, as if the music itself had condensed into the press of them, as if the world had shrunk to the space the three of them occupy.

And in that heat, in that tight, pressing, rolling motion, Rumi arches again, rolls into them, letting herself sink fully into the rhythm, into the want, into the impossible gravity of their shared closeness. The small, sharp gasp that escapes her is drowned by the music, but felt in every nerve ending. It draws a low, approving hum from Mira, a teasing, breathless chuckle from Zoey.

Rumi’s hands tighten at the small of Zoey’s back and curl into Mira’s neck, into her hair. Every motion—every roll of the hips, every slight tilt of the head, every press of lips or brush of a shoulder—sends a jolt of heat through her, leaving her dizzy and burning and completely, achingly, unsteady in the delicious tension between them.

The heat clings to her like a second skin, and for a moment, Rumi feels as if she’s burning from the inside out. Every press of Mira’s hips behind her, every brush of Zoey’s hands across her front, every whisper of breath and feather-light touch sends tiny, delicious shocks through her body. She sways, almost unaware, lost in the rhythm, the movement, the closeness… until a flicker of awareness cuts through.

The lights flash across the crowded floor, glinting off glasses, catching on strangers moving nearby. She’s aware of the press of bodies that aren’t theirs, the occasional glance brushing against them, the way the club itself seems to pulse and watch. Her pulse races—not just from them, from herself. From the intensity of what’s happening in the open, the fire of desire now too obvious, too consuming to ignore.

Rumi’s chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, a heady mixture of want and awareness, and she realises—this is public. Entirely too public for where they’re headed at this rate. The ache in her core, the heat pooling in her lap, the lust flashing too clearly in her eyes… it would be too easy for anyone else to read it. And while she doesn’t want it to end, she knows they need a breath, a pause, a slowdown. Not because she wants distance from them, but because the club isn’t the place for this to unfold further.

Her body stiffens slightly, shivering in both need and the sudden clarity. She shifts her weight, stepping lightly to the side. Hands that had been curled into Zoey’s waist and pressed along Mira’s neck loosen, just enough to create a small gap, a momentary space charged with tension and want.

Rumi half-shouts, half-mouths over the music, waving a hand as her lips part in a desperate, playful plea, “I need a drink.”

Mira and Zoey exchange a glance, subtle but loaded. They nod. Unspoken understanding. Mira tilts her head slightly, a silent question of whether Rumi wants company, but Rumi shakes her head. She needs to breathe.

Rumi makes a small motion for ‘five minutes,’ and turns before either of them can protest. She brushes past the crowd, the press of bodies a dull echo of what she’s left behind. The music vibrates through her, but the heat that had been crawling along her skin begins to dull, replaced by a racing pulse and the faint memory of lips, hands, and warmth.

The bar appears ahead, bright and steady in comparison to the fractured light of the dance floor. She points at the first drink on the menu, not even reading it. It doesn’t matter what it is. It just needs to be cold. Liquid. Something to wash down the fire burning through her veins.

A minty sweetness meets her lips, sharp and cooling against her tongue, chasing some of the fever from her chest. She sips slowly, letting it slide down her throat, a small comfort as her breathing evens out and her pulse steadies. She lets her shoulders drop, shakes her arms lightly, and closes her eyes for a single, shaky moment.

But even as she breathes, even as she thinks she’s caught herself, the memory of their warmth lingers—soft traces of skin against skin, the brush of their hips, the weight of hands that knew her curves too well. A smile tugs at her lips despite herself.

When she finally steps back into the press of the crowd, drink in hand, scanning for them… her heart stutters.

Her eyes find them. And just like that, every inch of space she had claimed as her own evaporates.

The heat returns, rolling up her spine and pooling low, like it had never left.

Mira and Zoey. Zoey and Mira. They move as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of them. Mira leans in, tipping forward slightly, and Zoey rises on her tiptoes to meet her, lips parting, tongues brushing in a teasing, urgent rhythm. The kiss isn’t hurried, but every second is charged, deliberate, pressing heat into the space between them.

Zoey’s arms tighten around Mira’s shoulders, one hand cupping the back of her neck, urging, coaxing, desperate for every inch of closeness she can claim. Mira responds in kind, fingers slipping along Zoey’s waist, dipping teasingly lower, drawing her impossibly near, every movement slow but heavy with want.

Their lips part and meet again, soft then insistent, a push and pull that leaves no room for hesitation. Breath mingles, skin brushing, and Rumi can feel the heat from their bodies radiating across the few feet that separate them. She stops dead, mesmerized, frozen by the sight, the intimacy, the raw need laid bare before her.

Her own pulse hammers in response, every nerve alight as desire coils tighter inside her. She can’t look away—the sight of them so consumed, so unguarded, ignites something deep and urgent in her chest. Every motion, every tilt of their heads, every press of skin to skin sends sparks she feels along her spine, into her stomach, and down low where heat pools and demands attention.

They shift, hips brushing, bodies pressing closer, and Rumi’s hands curl around the edges of her own drink, fingers tight, knuckles whitening, as though the liquid could anchor her while her mind and body ache to step into the heat of their closeness. Their kiss—slow, needy, desperate—is a slow burn that Rumi can feel through every fibre of herself, igniting a fire that makes it impossible to forget, impossible to resist.

And then Mira’s eyes open. As if she’d known. As if she could feel Rumi’s gaze, could sense her from across the room. She finds her, locks on her, and in the same motion parts her lips, licking into Zoey’s mouth with slow, deliberate hunger. Rumi doesn’t need to hear it—can’t—but she knows. She knows the moan Zoey lets slip, muffled yet full of want, the soft, gasping sound of need and relief pressed into a kiss.

Mira’s eyes linger on Rumi for a heartbeat longer. It’s not just a look, it’s an invitation as much as it is a challenge wrapped in a daring promise. The air between them vibrates with it, thick, magnetic.

The glass is left behind on the nearest surface. It becomes irrelevant as Rumi moves, each step measured yet urgent. She reaches them just as Mira bites gently at Zoey’s lips, tugging, teasing, letting her go only for Zoey to chase that next kiss, a desperate, searching motion, until Rumi’s hands settle on their shoulders.

Mira smirks at her, lips curving with mischief as Zoey opens her eyes, cheeks rising in flush, somewhere between flustered and exhilarated, as if seeing Rumi there makes everything sharper, hotter. When Zoey’s pink spreads across her skin, Rumi feels her own warmth spike in response, a reflection of desire mirrored in her chest. Mira laughs low and soft at her side, a teasing reminder of just how exposed they all are.