#owell

Zoey hums thoughtfully like she’s genuinely considering it, leaning over Rumi with a playful squint and the whole room feels a little softer for it, warm and close and easy. It’s the kind of warmth that feels like stepping into sunlight after too many hours in the cold.

Then Zoey snorts and flops onto her back beside her, the mattress dipping with the movement. "Yeah, maybe." She turns to her side, propping her head on her arm, and Rumi can feel Zoey’s gaze settle on her again — gentle, steady, almost reverent in its quiet focus.

Rumi pretends to read the papers for another moment, but the weight of that gaze is impossible to ignore. “You’re staring,” she says softly.

Zoey hums, unbothered. “You’re nice to stare at.”

Heat blooms instantly across Rumi’s cheeks, warm and startled and a little helpless. She rolls onto her side, facing Zoey fully now, her eyes flicking between Zoey’s — bright and impossibly open, like she never learned how to hide anything that mattered.

“You’re one to talk,” Rumi murmurs back.

Zoey’s lips curve into something radiant, not just a smile, but something that glows from the inside out. That effortless, sun-bright warmth Rumi has never been immune to. Zoey shuffles closer without hesitation, like being near Rumi is the most natural thing in the world. Like gravity, or breath, or coming home.

And in moments like this, Rumi can’t help but see every beautiful angle of her. The wild, loose fall of Zoey’s hair, the freckles scattered across her nose like soft constellations, the way her eyes soften when she looks at Rumi, as if she’s seeing something precious, the warmth she carries effortlessly, like she’s her own small sun.

Zoey looks at her like that warmth is meant for her and her alone. Open. Gentle. Loving in a way that feels unguarded, impossibly tender. And Rumi feels her chest tighten — in the sweetest, most devastating way.

And then Zoey’s smile begins to slowly shift. What starts as a soft, thoughtful curl at the corner of her mouth begins to fade, her expression turning contemplative, almost searching. Rumi watches the change with a faint prickle of worry, her pulse snagging as Zoey’s brows draw together, the warmth in her eyes sharpening into something she can’t read.

For a breath, Rumi wonders if she’s said something wrong. If something’s changed. If Zoey’s about to pull away. But then the frown softens… melts… reshapes itself into the unmistakable rise of a pout. And Rumi feels her body betray her — the impulse to lean over and kiss her rising unbidden.

The thought startles her, sharp and sudden. How easily it comes, how her chest tightens, how a tiny shiver travels down her spine. She has to consciously halt herself, remind herself that this isn’t what they are.

Rumi bites her lip, eyes flicking up at Zoey with a raised eyebrow. “You’re making a face.”

“No, I’m not,” Zoey mumbles, but her voice lacks conviction, soft around the edges, and Rumi feels the weight of it in her chest.

Rumi chuckles, even as something unsettles in her ribcage, something that both burns and coils tight. “What is it?”