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He doesn't have time to respond, not when he shouldn't even be looking at his phone in the first place with the way he's driving recklessly as if he doesn't fear anything. Except he does, doesn't he? He fears wasting time by not getting to her fast enough. He fears that he'll wake up and this will just have been a dream.

And yet ⸺ foolish and reckless as he is he steps on the gas, speeds up even more. It should be an hour, but with the way he's going the drive itself is a little over twenty minutes. Good. If he could he'd be faster, but he can't do that with a normal car. So when he finally pulls over he barely manages to park somewhat decently ⸺ if he gets towed he doesn't care, honestly.

He's breathless with the way he runs, the jacket he'd haphazardly thrown on sliding off his shoulder without his notice. No, all that matters is responding right now and then getting there. And then he finally ⸺ FINALLY ⸺ stands in front of that damned door. One hand still texting her, the other practically crushes the doorbell.

"It's me. I'm here⸺ I'm here. Give me a second to catch my breath. But also open the door, please??"

T-minus 15 minutes.

The words impulsivity and Rumi were never meant to be in the same sentence. She had always been too fearful of going against the golden path paved her for — too worry that one slip would unweave the whole fabric of her existence.

She was forged in the very hellfire she fought against and made into the blade that protected the Honmoon from calamity. As such, Rumi was without question, intensely loyal to the cause, not just for the world, but for herself. Stuck in an endless cycle of needing to prove she wasn't a mistake.

Or more importantly, a liability.

But lately? Lately, it seems Rumi was made to be the very definition of impulsivity.

T-minus 10 minutes.

It wasn't like she had plan to confess tonight — at least definitely not by text (how lame is that?) but the words were typed and entered before she even finish her first thought... And then they continued, not exactly backtracking but certainly offering him an out if she'd... misread the last few months of texting and misinterpreted the gentle grip of his hands on her hips as he pushed it in.

The first time... you could argue it had been a spur of the moment. sure. Fingers gently tracing scars, stories whispered against the background noise of a television screen neither of them were paying attention to. One scar in particular, hidden underneath her borrowed shirt, slowly being exposed as the hem kept being pulled higher and higher still.

Eventually, it would be pulled over her head. Eventually Rumi would be pressed against his matress, teeth sinking into his shoulder as he made her his. And she had been his since then... every moment after. Every kiss that followed was just strengthening that feeling.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

His. His. His.

T-minus 05 minutes.

Her mouth presses together in a thin line, the water slowly filling the tub as she adds lavender scented soap to the bath with one hand as the other answers his text messages. Rumi couldn't wait to be near him. To hold him. To touch him.

To kiss him.

To recreate all those lazy early morning makeouts that were barely illuminated by the bands of light that cut through the blinds. Small yawns peppered by pecks across the eyes, the cheeks, the neck. Trailing lower, hands following the path they left behind.

Princess. Sunshine. Sweetheart. Darlin'. My Love. My Light. Ήλιε μου...

Pet names slowly becoming more possessive. His gentle voice praising the very ground she walked on... over and over again. As if afraid he didn't have enough time left in the world to express his adoration for her.

His reverence.

And everything— everything — he said to her was laced with an ache she knew all too well. A longing for more. A fear of what shouldn't be.

How could she not love him when all he ever did was sing her praises? When all he ever did was see her: Rumi without the glitter of idol life or the calluses of wielding her blade?

Of course she loved him. Of course she needed him.

T-minus 00 minutes.

The phone on the bathroom counter vibrates with a familiar jingle and the hand that was just testing the temperature of the water swipes the phone closer to read. Not a second passes before she's crossing the length of her private condo — fixing the strap of her tank top with one hand as the other swings the door open.

One second is spent taking the sight of him in. Another is spent noticing he wasn't dressed as usual. Odd. Sort of. If Rumi didn't know any better, she'd say he'd been getting ready for bed right before showing up at her door. He probably was by the looks of it, he rarely slept clothed and she remembered the shorts.

Her heart skips in her chest, fluttering rapidly as she closes the space between them. The third second is spent throwing her arms around his neck and a fourth? That one mixes with the rest and everything else after happens in a blur.

"Finally," she breathes the word like the relief of a prayer finally being answered. Her fluid movements honed by years of choreographed dance routines and stylized fighting aid her in bring him down to her level.

And God, does he bend (because of course he does), because Rumi is all soft edges as her mouth crashes against his in a heated kiss — the tension of the last 20 or so minutes finally reaching that boiling point. Teeth scrape against his bottom lip followed by her tongue gently parting and finding his own.

Arms tighten around his neck as she pours herself empty into him — passion and lust, and love all rolled into one — Rumi's fingers dig into his hair pulling him closer as if she means to devour him (soul and all) through the kiss.

"I missed you, My Moon," she gasps between kisses, catching her breath before going in for more. Rumi can barely keep standing but she manages, miraculously, to kick the door behind him close and proceeds to drags him by the lips towards the opened bathroom door.

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