#who know

“O-kay,” Zoey sings lightly into the tension, sliding into the space between them like warm air. She rolls her chair closer, gentle in the way Rumi is not. “It’s still raining though.” She pushes off the bedframe with her feet, letting the chair glide backwards until it bumps into the door with a soft, startled squeak. The sound is small enough to break the heaviness.

Rumi’s eyes snap to her. Zoey isn’t blocking the door completely. She could leave. She knows she could. The door swings outward, all it would take is a nudge, a little pressure, a firm hand on the chair’s armrest. Rumi could slide her aside with ease and slip out.

But Zoey looks up at her with that soft, open expression — hopeful, almost shy — and the room shifts around them. Just slightly.

“You could wait till the rain stops?” Zoey asks, voice low, coaxing. There’s a tremor of vulnerability wrapped around the suggestion, as if she’s offering something delicate and personal without fully meaning to. It’s careful, too, gentle in the way someone might speak to a frightened, wounded animal. Call it closer, palm outstretched, teeth tucked behind a soft smile.

“Corner.” Rumi’s tone is sharper this time, warning crackling through the air like static.

“Rumi.” The way Zoey says her name isn’t loud. It isn’t forceful. But it lands with weight — a thread pulled taut.

Rumi’s eyes widen slightly. It’s the first time she’s has ever heard that particular note in Zoey’s voice. Commanding. Careful. Intentional.

Zoey holds her gaze without flinching. That alone knocks something loose in Rumi’s chest. She clicks it back. Crosses her arms, armour sliding into place. But she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t bolt. Doesn’t breathe quite right.

She just stands there, jacket half-zipped, rain tapping against the window like a second heartbeat, and meets Zoey’s eyes head-on. Caught in that thin, tremulous line between staying and running, between wanting and refusing to admit she does.

Zoey’s eyes search hers, thoughts shifting like shadows just out of reach — soft, restless, and dangerously wanting. She’s looking for something in Rumi’s face, something Rumi doesn’t dare offer. A warning curls low in Rumi’s chest, tight and familiar. She should go. She really should.

“Can we drive you at least?” Zoey asks gently.

Rumi presses her lips into a thin line. Her gaze slides to Mira. Mira’s sat up again, tugged a sweater over her frame, one leg dangling over the edge of the bed. She leans back on her hands, eyebrow arched in that infuriating your call way that gives nothing and everything at once.

Rumi looks back to Zoey.

“Rumi, it’s pouring outside,” Zoey tries again, softer this time. Somehow.

“It’s not that bad.” But the rain is a drumbeat against the window — hard and insistent.

“You’ll drown in it.”

The corner of Rumi’s mouth twitches upward. “I can swim.”

“Funny,” Mira drawls from the bed without lifting her head.

Zoey pulls her attention back with a quiet and earnest, “why won’t you let us help you?” And there’s something entirely too genuine in her eyes. Warm and unguarded in a way that makes Rumi’s breath snag.

Rumi looks away. Swallows. “Corner.” Her throat feels dry, scraped raw from words she won’t let out.

“Rumi.” Zoey sighs her name — half exasperation, half plea.

“What?” Rumi snaps before she can stop herself, the sharpness of it cutting through the room. She flinches at the sound, clicks her tongue in annoyance, rakes a hand through her hair as if she could comb the tension out. “You wanted me to stop picking fights, so I’m warning you— this is about to turn into one.”

Her eyes lock back on Zoey. Zoey’s never left hers.

Whatever Zoey is searching for in Rumi’s expression, she evidently doesn’t find it. Her voice is steady when she says, “You’re not going out in that.”

Rumi scoffs, already closing her fingers around the door handle. “I’m not staying in here either.”

Zoey’s eyes drop to Rumi’s hand on the door, lingering on the tension in her fingers before she exhales through her nose. “Fine.” She rolls her eyes — not unkindly — and pushes herself to her feet. Without another word, she crosses the room to the row of hangers and starts pulling on layers, movements deliberate, almost stubborn in their softness.

Rumi blinks at her, watching the way Zoey shrugs into a jumper, the way her hair lifts with the motion. “What? What are you—?”

“There’s a café downstairs, next door,” Zoey says, matter-of-fact, as she grabs a jacket and tosses it toward Mira.

Mira catches it mid-air without looking surprised, sliding off the bed and tugging it on with efficient movements.

Rumi’s gaze flicks between them, disbelief dragging her eyebrows up. “You’re kidding.”

Mira snorts as she crosses the room, reaching under a coat to retrieve an umbrella with a smug little flourish. “You know she’s not.”

Rumi groans, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly sees stars. “I can go sit there by myself. There’s no need—”

Zoey turns sharply, pointing an accusatory finger at her, eyes narrowing in mock warning — though the lightness in her voice gives her away. “I’m not trusting you to not just walk off, Miss I can swim.”

Rumi lets her head fall back with a dramatic groan before staring at them both. Mira steady and unimpressed, Zoey warm and immovable. Neither woman shifts. Neither gives her an inch.

She throws her hands up. “Fine. Whatever.”

They head downstairs together, the three of them falling into a loose formation. Zoey at Rumi’s shoulder, Mira trailing just a pace behind, umbrella in hand like a half-hearted shield against the weather.

The moment they push through the building’s front doors, the rain greets them sideways. The wind snaps at their clothes, tugs at Mira’s umbrella until she gives up trying to angle it properly.

“Brilliant,” Mira mutters as a gust drives the rain straight into their faces anyway.

Zoey’s already laughing as they make the three-metre dash beneath the awning of the small café. But by the time they tumble inside, they look as though someone has emptied a bucket over all three of them.

Warmth hits them immediately — coffee, toasted sugar, the low hum of indie music. The windows are fogged, rain streaking down the glass like melted silver. They order without thinking about it. Mira points at the sweetest thing on the menu. Zoey asks for something black and unforgiving. Rumi lands somewhere in the middle, a compromise between the two of them she’d never think to look at.

When they finally sink into a booth, each cupping their drinks between chilled fingers, a shiver runs straight through Rumi’s shoulders. The heat of the mug bites pleasantly at her palms. She claps her hands around it, chasing warmth.